Always, always, my next car is my last.

You know, lately we've been toying with the idea of trading off our small SUV since losing two of our three greyhounds in the past ten months. They're the reason we got this "truck". We needed a way to transport all of them at once. But now that we've only one dog to transport, the wife and I went looking for a smaller vehicle, one that will get much better mileage. On Tuesday, I told a dealership if they got a red one in they could call us.

Well, they got a truckload in the very next day, so I ran over Wednesday afternoon to take a look and, as luck would have it, there was a red one among them.

And so, while contemplating trading vehicles, I'm also in the process of reading "The Party's Over" about peak oil and the collapse of civilization. To say it's impacting me deeply is understatement. It's down right depressing in fact. And no one knowing exactly when we reach peak oil, if in fact we haven't already, makes me pretty edgy.

It is estimated by a number of experts peak oil will occur within this decade. One of the reasons it's impossible to predict for sure is peak oil is based on oil reserves which determine the amount of oil an OPEC country can export, so they overestimate, they lie.

So I venture over to the Honda dealer in a depressed state thinking about this. When peak oil occurs I've learned, when supply will no longer meet demand, the price of gas will begin to increase dramatically and continue to do so. Only an occasional economic recession/depression will temporarily ease the price pressures on declining supplies. As I was driving over there, I noticed the price of gas the past week of two has begun to increase dramatically. (Last night on the news, they said it was up 12-13 cents in the past week alone!)

Maybe I shouldn't even be thinking about a new car? If peak oil is near or has begun, maybe I should be shopping bikes! Anyway, in paging through the annual Consumer Reports auto edition, I note they couldn't recommend our present SUV because, in their testing, they experienced a "tipping" problem. Upon that revelation, my wife wanted to be rid of that vehicle, the sooner the better.

I arrived at the car lot. I swear part of their training includes watching videos of vultures circling over lame and struggling animals and vultures sitting in the dead yet lone standing desert tree's branches over a carcass they've stuck their claim to. I'm sure because I drive past a small flock of them before parking. As soon I step from the truck, a voice jolts me from behind, "Is someone helping you?" I can feel his talons clenching on. I've been "claimed".

I explain to the salesman my mood. I try to impart my sense of urgency to him about this end of the age of oil; the irony of what he's peddling to we unsuspecting patrons who will have to wait in long lines for gas (if we can afford it), sometimes killing each other in the process.

Perhaps it was some defense mechanism, but my wife gasped when I told her I even went so far as to say to the salesman, "Why, you'll have to find a new job." I've usually more social grace than this, even with a car salesman. But like I say, I was depressed from my reading and I was only inviting him to share in my urgency. Or maybe it was his talons digging in. Whatever, maybe I shouldn't have gone car shopping this day.

I noticed as I looked around, the huge, huge investment this dealership has made in a new storefront, not just for their Hondas, but another adjacent one for their Chevy's and yet another huge lot/facility for their used cars! I begin to imagine what will become of all this paved Earth when we dismantle this multi-million dollar complex after the oil runs out. It won't matter. Billions of us will die. Estimates run as high as 90% of all human life. I wondered if maybe that might not be optimistic.

Inside the dealership, I hand over the keys to our Tribute and take a seat as they appraise it. I'm looking out at the beautiful view thru these new huge glass panes. Well, actually, I'm staring directly at the freeway embankment that was built up immediately in front of us. It blocks the view of the mountains you would otherwise see. And I wonder what we'll do with all these 100's of 1000's of miles of pavement when we've nothing to drive on 'em?

In explaining to the salesman my angst over the future, I had joked with him, telling of my wife's suggestion that, should we be unable to procure gas for the new Civic, "We could always use it as a mini-greehouse for the vegetables we'll need to try to grow to survive." I followed that by saying, "So this may be the most expensive planter-box-on-wheels I'll ever buy!" My humor seems lost on him.

But back in the showroom, I watch as the salesman goes around our truck appraising its trade-in value. It's then I remembered, "Oh shit, the anti-Bush stickers I'd intended to remove are still there! That'll probably cost us at least $500," I moan to myself.

Waiting, staring at the freeway traffic, I notice it's slowed to a crawl. I look at my watch. Five-thirty. "Probably rush hour traffic," I tell myself. (I was later to learn after asking the salesman, "No, it's not commute traffic, it's an accident a mile or two down the interstate," he assured me.) I realize, of course, at this time of day there would be no logjam heading into town. Everyone's on their way home, to the 'burbs." Cars sucking gas like there's no tomorrow.

You ever stop at a busy intersection in the front row and watch the hundreds of vehicles and the people inside--most of them single occupant--as they cross in front of you? They're all busily headed somewhere else applying eye make-up, talking on their cell phones or sipping their Starbuck's. And it hits you how gluttonous these materialists look.

And then it hits you. You're sitting there alone in your own gas guzzler, but immediately dismiss that thought because you're different. Your circumstances are different. You think up some excuse that warrants your separation from the herd. That's what I found myself doing on the way home during an inordinately long redlight at an intersection where three police cars and two tow trucks were busy cleaning up the remnants of yet another accident.

But before I left the car dealership, I got an idea of what they think a new car should cost me. High-balling the value of their car, and low-balling mine, we were at least a couple thousand dollars apart. I learn they think it should cost me dearly.

Then begins the haggling. I hate the back and forth negotiating with people that do this for a living, because no matter how great a deal you ultimately negotiate, my cynical nature feels screwed so long as they shake hands and draw up the papers. So I say to my salesman, "Let me talk with my wife and I'll call you tomorrow." I don't let on how disappointed I am at their math.

Maybe they think I'm easy. Maybe I am. But the truth is I don't feel like haggling over a price this particular day. I'd read enough to depress me before going there and I'd seen enough of their multi-million dollar facilitities, their three car lots with rows upon rows of guzzlers, of the freeway built up blocking the view of the mountains out their 20 foot "picture windows". Of the miles of backed upped traffic crawling to somewhere. Of the vehicles at the front of this log jam whose occupants itineries were unexpectedly diverted by rides to a hospital in the back of an ambulance as crews busied themselves towing away and sweeping up all signs of their crash so angry and impatient drivers could get on down the road.

My salesman, assuring he'll be there when I return the next day, gives me his cell number and asks I call before coming over. As a parting gesture, probably to separate him from the flock of vultures circling outside, he pulls out an envelope from Arizona. Removing its contents, he separates a small picture from the letter therein. It's of his fourth and latest grandchild. She's only 9 weeks old. She's very pretty. What ugly future awaits her in the impending oilless age, I wonder.

"Nice touch," I think. Maybe my salesman carries this picture with him every day. Maybe he shows it to all his serious customers. To cement in their minds he's one of us. The next morning, I called him early. I didn't want him waiting around for my return.

I hate buying a car. I stayed home instead and read some more about why "The Party's Over"; to help me decide if we really need an expensive planter box on wheels. Oh, and by the way? I didn't like it in red.