*The views expressed in Truesday are those of the author and do not represent Austinist as a whole. Thank heavens.* -The Editors

What more could one expect from the majesty of birth than the birth itself, right? After all, we’re talking about the introduction and ushering-in of new life, and that’s some heady shit right there. I mean, what else could there possibly be?

I’m at the age where all my contemporaries are beginning to split like cells and multiply our collective population. It’s quite amazing, in a Nature Channel sort of way. Like a hopeful fungus. Like a beautiful rash. Like a destiny-embracing fever.

In line with that analogy and in typical fever fashion, it goes in waves. And it’s very strange, considering these people (to any of my three friends who read this, I am not talking about any of you specifically here, it's all blanket generalizations - you know how I do) who are about to care for the future generations of America are the exact same people I’ve seen passed-out in public in my recent memory. I mean full-on, line of spittle connecting the bottom lip to the chest, one-shoe-lost, using-a-curb-as-a-pillow drunk, hoping for a cab to magically stop.

It’s amazing that I have real faith in these people, too. Deep faith. My expectations aren’t specific for the outcome, but I’m confident that I’ll be inspired by the results*.

I guess there’s a switch somewhere. A lever. Perhaps a button that’s pressed after years of exposure to the obligatory Thanksgiving haranguing:

"So, Anastasia. You and Wadsworth have been together for a while now. Shacked up, then married. Such a sweet ceremony."

[plates and fork tines tink off one another]

"Yup, mom. That’s right. A sweet wedding."

[more tinking, Mother takes a swig of red wine and then sends the stemware shattering against the wall, wielding her butter knife like a shank]

"SO WHERE MY GRANBABIES AT YOU SELFISH WHORE?!!!!"

And so the fairy tale goes.

But like I said before, I don’t think the birth of anything has ever followed a particular plan, no matter how painstakingly laid. It simply isn’t a reasonable request, to require that your offspring do something specific. These things tend to have a mind of their own.

And it's not just children that follow their own path of self-serving chaos. Everything tends to do so, or so my experience tells me.

Many moons prior, a friend of mine and I flew out to Sacramento, CA, and then took a bus north of there to a town where a certain ’65 Lincoln Continental convertible was to be purchased, sight unseen, and driven back to Austin. Our plane tickets were one-way, so there was no intention of turning back.

This car was the literal dreamboat. My friend had imagined himself owning and driving this exact make and model of car for almost a decade, and its purchase would be no small victory in the name of all who dare to dream fantastic.

Dude aimed high.

Getting that car back to Austin was far from smooth. It turned into an existential quest that has made much of my life since feel bland, rote, and well-rehearsed. There were engine fires, some hitchhiking in front of a prison, homeless-led street choirs, racing against a wall of snow in the Grand Canyon, and lots of time spent in the desert where we just wandered around and peed on things while waiting for that Beast of an automobile to cool down enough to start moving again.

But the real twist of purpose occurred long after The Lincoln made it to Austin. You see, cars of that age have birthed whole industries of auto-care-givers. And there used to be this shop off Lamar near 37th, where a Boston Market now sits, which specialized in "classic" American automobile service and restoration.

That’s where The Lincoln went to live for several months upon its arrival here in Austin. Instead of spending its time as a sweet vessel of awesomeness to tote our cooler-than-thou selves about town, it went into rehab. The mechanics were impressed that it made it all the way here to Austin, considering it had a cracked head and every main system (transmission, electrical, fuel, hydraulic trunk lid) was "shot" for one reason or another.

So it lived there at the shop, in pieces, for many months (if not years) waiting for various parts to arrive from specialty shops around the country.

Then the mechanics decided to move their location to somewhere on north Lamar, presumably to make room for that Boston Market (though I’m not entirely sure). So they packed up all their tools and equipment, shipped that off, and started moving all the cars they had on site to the new shop.

In moving The Lincoln, they apparently forgot that the brake system had been disassembled (or thought they didn’t need it?), and as they were loading it onto a trailer, it literally rolled off and out of control through their parking lot, parallel to Lamar. The driver did what he could to keep that Beast from killing anyone or plowing into any other vehicles by steering it through that lot, and then bailing out before it crossed 37th.

Unmanned, limping and in pieces, that Lincoln with all its suicide-door’d glory, launched over a small cliff on the edge of the parking lot, crossed 37th, and took out the Northeast corner of La Madeleine’s outdoor patio. Destroyed it. Mowed over a dressed cement wall, and violently through some fancy bistro sets.

Luckily, no one was hurt.

But the will of that Beast was done. And I could not have imagined it better than it turned out, since I've no soft spot for French faux-brow dining.

The Lincoln never made it back out of rehab after that. Not that it was damaged, really. There were some scratches and a slightly dented front quarter panel (not even a busted headlamp). But it just couldn't quite recover emotionally, I think. Or, perhaps, that was all it really wanted to do. Maybe that was its chosen mission, and once complete, there was no need to linger. The Beast had to move on, and so it did.

The only legacy it left was forged during its storied journey here.

So much for expectations.

-------------------

For those still curious about my mental meandering from last week, I’ve chosen to do a two-step detox in my charge for clarity. First, I’ll cleanse my liver (big ups to Sarah, who entertained and somewhat informed me on that route). That should teach it a lesson. Perhaps it won’t cry so much the next time it thinks I’m unduly putting the vodka screws to it.

Then, I’ll work in my own variety of juice/broth/anti-solids menu. There are a billion quacktastic fasts out there, and I just don’t trust the lot of them. Some claim the benefit of weight loss. Seriously? Starvation causes weight loss?

No shit?

Honestly, the more I read about these things, the less interested I become. Losing all my stomach flora and fauna does not appeal to me in any way. And the possibility that my stomach will simply stop processing food due to forgetfulness from lack of use, well, that’s pretty shitty. Or non-shitty. However you’d like to consider that one.

I’m just in it for the clarity.

*not “inspired” to procreate. Don’t fuss or fear. Inspired in a more general sense of the word.