By Jamie Gabrini, Special Columnist If my car (named Nicole, by the way) could talk, she’d curse like a drunken sailor. Poor Nic has been the victim of my schnooker lifestyle. She’s taken me across this grand state of ours many times over, often for little reward. She’s listened to enough NPR political analyses to allow her to be a pundit; she’s heard me rant and rave at uber-high speed on my cell phone; she’s put up with all the top-of-the lungs incarnations of “Big Girls Don’t Cry” and other such gems (myself and I, we got some figuring out…