Flamin' Falcon

Do you know what a Ford Falcon looks like?  Don't ask me what year... how should I know?  I am not one of those car people who can identify the difference between a BMW and a Honda Civic, let alone know the year.  In fact, a Lexus looks just like a Kia to me, which works really well for my pocketbook and insurance rates.

But below is a picture of a Falcon with flames on it.  Not THEE Falcon with Flames, but a generic one I found online.

THEE Falcon with flames belonged to Elena.  The license plate frame read "Who Said Girls Can't Drive Hot Rods?"

I met Elena in my early 20's and she and I, along with Ebony, Sarah and a slew of others were regulars together on the Inland Empire Circuit.  The IE Circuit, which we referred to as "Tour De I.E." included such dive bars and clubs as: Margaritaville, Twins, Godfather's and "'The 'Brow". 

Elena could have easily been labeled as a bit scary.  Covered in tattoos, piercings and with long purple-dyed hair, I have to say we never met a group of chicks who thought they could take us on.  Elena wore crop tops just about everywhere, and creeping up her backside where blondes keep their "Tramp Stamp", Lanie had a large tattoo of flames in orange and fire-red hues creeping on all sides and fronts.

With her back in flames, her sleeve of tats, nose ring and thick purple hair, it might come as a shock to know she was a total tree hugger on the inside.

She was a vegetarian before I ever even fathomed the idea, and one night as we drove home in the wee hours of dawn from some long-forgotten club, it was with Elena that we sat in the middle of Haven Avenue crying over a dying dog.   Some asswipe had hit said pooch and left it for dead and he could only lift his head as cars swerved past. 

That is what I remember about Lanie.

That and the Falcon with flames.  Oh, and the night when Elena lost a shoe at "Off Campus" in Fullerton.  I think she lost a shoe at 2 separate clubs on 2 seperate occasions- how does that happen?

But here is why I distinctly remember the Falcon-

Because I had to drive the damn thing.

Can anyone picture me driving a loud, vicious hot rod? 

It wasn't by choice, I assure you.  A night out on the circuit and I somehow ended up being the designated driver.  Elena was trashed.  And Lanie wasn't going to let her ride sit overnight at a dodgy bar.  I was petrified, but drunk Lanie was very persistent.  We piled into the bench seats, the ones without seatbelts, and headed toward Ebony's apartment- that apartment which was always home after a night out.

My eyes were wide as the Falcon blasted through the parking lot, its fuming exhaust leaving drunk spectators in dust.  As we headed up the avenue away from our seedy night haunt Elena crept ever so closely to me on the bench seat.  In her state of irrationality she somehow thought that 2 feet on the gas pedal was a more efficient way to get home.

I pleaded with her to back the eff up but it didn't seem to make much difference.  This is the problem with bench seats.  That and the no seatbelts thing.  People just creep too damn close to the driver's side.  It's un-natural.

So as I proceeded down the street, on the lookout for the PO'lice, gripping the steering wheel, Elena gripped alongside me, practically sitting on my lap, repeatedly kicking my feet with her own toward the "Go" pedal. 

It was an interesting experience.  We survived.  Here I am writing about it.

But despite her love for the booze on our wild nights out, I love Lanie.  She is the kind of friend everyone needs.  A bit tempestuous, for sure, but awesome none-the-less.

(Come back later and I'll have a picture of my beloved Elena  for you...)