N. Ortolano

If you're happy and you know it, you probably drive a green car

Meaning a car with a green paint job, and not, say, a Prius. That’s the news according to CNW Marketing Research, who just released a survey about how choice of car color reflects drivers’ attitudes toward life. Turns out the Batmobile’s hue isn’t a coincidence—sad sacks like Bruce Wayne are most likely to drive something noir. Full results are below:

-Emerald green: Drivers have 5.5 percent above average confidence
-Dark blue: 3.2 percent above average confidence
-Silver: 1.2 percent above average confidence
-White: average confidence
-Sunny yellow: 3.7 percent below average confidence
-Orange: 4.1 percent below average confidence
-Bright blue: 5.5 percent below average confidence
-Bright yellow: 8.3 percent below average confidence
-Red: 8.8 percent below average confidence
-Black: 14.6 percent below average confidence

via GQ

This is idiotic. I drive a bright blue car because it’s the Subaru WRT color. I had a black Cadillac because black cars look fantastic and mean. My old wagon is painted flat black for the same reason—it looks vicious. I had a red Mazda MX-5, and that should speak volumes towards my self confidence. Miatas are great drivers’ cars but you have to constantly tell people why they aren’t “gay cars.”

As a general rule, I think cars look best in either white, silver, gunmetal, or black. Once you start getting into actual colors, it just depends on the car. Burgundy looks fantastic on a Porsche but burgundy Chevrolets make me nauseous. Yellow looks fine on an Integra Type-R but I wouldn’t want a yellow Maserati. Et cetera, et cetera. 

Initiative

My grandfather is always walking a narrow line between being the world’s laziest Italian and being the world’s hardest worker. Having not been unemployed since he was a teenager—not even for a week—he’s worked a lot of great jobs. Crab fishing in Alaska (he hates the cold and at the time, had something of a seafood allergy), a weatherman in the Navy, and now he works a few hours a day at the local commissary as a bagger.

He doesn’t get paid by the commissary and relies on tips. I use the term ‘relies’ very loosely, as he really doesn’t need the job at all. And he blows the money every night at one restaurant or another.He does it for the same reason he does anything: to be doing something.

I always ask how his day went, and he usually tells me how much money he made. $40 in three hours, for example, and he assures me that the other guys made plenty more. The younger guys are steadily running back and forth from the market to the parking lot and back, to try and earn as much as possible while they’re there. He bags a load, walks them out, smokes a cigarette, chats with friends, and heads back in when he wants.

Tonight he’s proud of himself because, knowing it’s going to rain all day tomorrow, he’s fashioned a buggy cover out of a tarp, some bungee cords, and some D-clips. He’ll be able to keep everyone’s groceries dry. He’s excited to be able to offer something else with his service, even if he’ll most likely work at his own pace, and not really worry about how much money he’s bringing in.