I may have mentioned in the past that I'm sick of talking about the weather. Living in Southern California (So-Cal to the locals) and having moved from Chicago, everyone here wants to talk about how cold it is back home and how I must be loving this mild weather. Meanwhile, back home in the windy city, all my friends and family talk about how they are sick of the cold and how jealous they are of my new, more mild climate. Therefore, I'm sick of talking about the weather. It may come as a surprise to you then that this blog entry is about just that.
Two weeks ago, it was sunny and 70 in Los Angeles, just like it is most days it seems, and I was on my way to the airport (LAX to be exact). It was from this international hub that I departed on my journey to the far off land of India. Turns out, however, that I needed to stop off in London for a bit (7 hours to be exact) and wait for a different plane to complete my journey. No worries, I have a friend in London and perhaps he'd like to grab a bite to eat and have a couple pints. He agreed. So I left London Heathrow airport to meet my friend and was greeting by a dreary overcast day with temperatures hovering around the mid-40's. I hadn't considered that I was going to be in cold weather and I was hardly dressed for the occasion. It was quite uncomfortable.
A couple of pints and a lot of chicken later, I was back on a plane towards the mystical land of tigers, elephants, and cobras. A couple of movies and a few naps after that the plane was in its final descent into Bombay (now called its original name of Mumbai) where we landed and exited the aircraft.
Now, having boarded the plane from a quite chilly 45 degrees, my mind wasn't ready for what happened next. I took one step out of the plane and the hot stale air of India hit me like a sock full of quarters to the face. From there it only took 10 steps for me to start pouring sweat (for those of you that know me well enough, you understand that the use of the word "pouring" in this context is quite an understatement). 10 minutes later, I was still walking through the terminal trying to reach the baggage claim while fighting off dehydration. This was not a good first impression of India. Don't these people know of the 8th wonder of the world called "air conditioning?"
My point is this: I hate talking about the weather, but it's a pretty hard topic to avoid when you are quite visibly the sweatiest man on the continent.
Now, given this experience, when someone wants to chat about the weather, I can always say, "Sure is hot, but at least it's not 'India hot'. Have you ever been to India?" The weather can now be my segue into bragging about world traveling. Perhaps there are worse things to talk about.
Til Next Time.
States: 24
Countries: 5
P.S. If jet lag is the term used to describe the difficulty your body has adjusting your sleep schedule to a new time zone, is there a term for the difficulty of adjusting to a new meal schedule? I seem to be hungry at the most peculiar times. I wish I knew how to describe what I'm going through accurately and with the utmost brevity, but I know of no such word or phrase. Sigh. I'm hungry.
This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
Chicago is cold.
London is dreary.
India makes me sweat.
Let's stop talking about the weather.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
And I'm Back...But What About My Luggage?
I am now back in Sunny Southern California (Sunny So Cal to the locals) and it feels great. I've already eaten a big fat greasy hamburger for dinner last night and an even greasier burrito for lunch this afternoon.
You see, it seems the only food you can get in India (or perhaps just the only food I was given) is Indian food. I enjoyed the local cuisine just fine and I even occasionally venture out to an Indian restaurant at home (if for nothing else to act more cultured at dinner parties...which reminds me, I need to attend more dinner parties), but I can only take so much.
It was because of this that it dawned on me that we, as Americans, are amazingly spoiled with the immense variety of food available due to our "melting pot" culture. It's a luxury few realize.
But let's get to the really exciting part of my trip.
Some of you may have heard that wonderful Heathrow Airport in beautiful London, England opened its long anticipated Terminal 5 (T5 to the locals). Some of you may have heard this because of the mass chaos, delays, and baggage problems that were inevitable on T5's first day. I heard about it because I was part of the mass chaos, delays, and baggage problems.
When I first checked in at the Bombay airport for my long venture home, the British Airways representative was very excited to inform me that I would be one of the lucky passengers to pass through the new terminal on its inaugural day. His excitement rubbed off on me and I was ready to brag to all my friends about this historic event.
Turns out, though, it wasn't such a good thing. Sure, we boarded our plane on time (actually 5 minutes late, but who's counting) and yes, I was sitting in an empty row, so I was happy so far. 25 minutes later, however, the captain announces that there has been a mix up with the luggage and they are re-consolidating on the tarmac and we'll be moving shortly. 20 minutes after that, he again announced a mix up with the baggage (apparently the computers thought our plane had already left and it sent the baggage back to the airport...stupid computers) and we'll be moving shortly. 15 minutes later, we're finally on our way, but you can feel the tension on the plane. There wasn't a single passenger on the plane that felt their luggage would make it safely (except maybe the crying baby, but he/she openly admitted to being an uncompromising optimist).
Sure enough, when we land at LAX, our friendly captain announces that only half of the baggage has made the journey with us and to find a British Airways representative to see if your name is on the list of missing bags. So I did. I was lucky enough to have one of my bags arrive and also unlucky enough to have one of my bags missing. This is a first for me. I've never had baggage problems before (except in my personal life but that's neither here nor there) so I'm not exactly sure how it all works. Apparently I'm going to be contacted shortly, so that's nice. They seem to have it under control, I trust them. T5 is exciting.
Til Next Time.
States: 24
Countries: 5
P.S. Someone (they didn't leave their name) posted a comment on my last post complaining that my writings are too wordy and to add more pictures. While I have no intention to add pictures, I will humor their request from now on. Please see below for the most recent feature or my blog.
This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I like Indian food, but come on.
I flew out of the new Terminal 5 at London Heathrow and they lost one of my bags. I also met the youngest optimist in the world.
T5 is exciting.
You see, it seems the only food you can get in India (or perhaps just the only food I was given) is Indian food. I enjoyed the local cuisine just fine and I even occasionally venture out to an Indian restaurant at home (if for nothing else to act more cultured at dinner parties...which reminds me, I need to attend more dinner parties), but I can only take so much.
It was because of this that it dawned on me that we, as Americans, are amazingly spoiled with the immense variety of food available due to our "melting pot" culture. It's a luxury few realize.
But let's get to the really exciting part of my trip.
Some of you may have heard that wonderful Heathrow Airport in beautiful London, England opened its long anticipated Terminal 5 (T5 to the locals). Some of you may have heard this because of the mass chaos, delays, and baggage problems that were inevitable on T5's first day. I heard about it because I was part of the mass chaos, delays, and baggage problems.
When I first checked in at the Bombay airport for my long venture home, the British Airways representative was very excited to inform me that I would be one of the lucky passengers to pass through the new terminal on its inaugural day. His excitement rubbed off on me and I was ready to brag to all my friends about this historic event.
Turns out, though, it wasn't such a good thing. Sure, we boarded our plane on time (actually 5 minutes late, but who's counting) and yes, I was sitting in an empty row, so I was happy so far. 25 minutes later, however, the captain announces that there has been a mix up with the luggage and they are re-consolidating on the tarmac and we'll be moving shortly. 20 minutes after that, he again announced a mix up with the baggage (apparently the computers thought our plane had already left and it sent the baggage back to the airport...stupid computers) and we'll be moving shortly. 15 minutes later, we're finally on our way, but you can feel the tension on the plane. There wasn't a single passenger on the plane that felt their luggage would make it safely (except maybe the crying baby, but he/she openly admitted to being an uncompromising optimist).
Sure enough, when we land at LAX, our friendly captain announces that only half of the baggage has made the journey with us and to find a British Airways representative to see if your name is on the list of missing bags. So I did. I was lucky enough to have one of my bags arrive and also unlucky enough to have one of my bags missing. This is a first for me. I've never had baggage problems before (except in my personal life but that's neither here nor there) so I'm not exactly sure how it all works. Apparently I'm going to be contacted shortly, so that's nice. They seem to have it under control, I trust them. T5 is exciting.
Til Next Time.
States: 24
Countries: 5
P.S. Someone (they didn't leave their name) posted a comment on my last post complaining that my writings are too wordy and to add more pictures. While I have no intention to add pictures, I will humor their request from now on. Please see below for the most recent feature or my blog.
This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I like Indian food, but come on.
I flew out of the new Terminal 5 at London Heathrow and they lost one of my bags. I also met the youngest optimist in the world.
T5 is exciting.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
If Jet Lag is Wrong...I don't Want to Be Right
The time has come for me to say goodbye, but not for long. I have a long journey ahead of me to the distant land of India. My old college roommate is getting hitched and I'll be there to make sure it goes off without a...hitch. So, check back in 11 days for I will surely have lots of tales to tell and lots of pictures to share.
Til Next Time
States: 19
Countries: 5
P.S. I know the burning question on everyones mind is, "Did you get drunk this past weekend therefore fulfilling your half plans?" The burning answer is, "Yes. Yes I did."
Til Next Time
States: 19
Countries: 5
P.S. I know the burning question on everyones mind is, "Did you get drunk this past weekend therefore fulfilling your half plans?" The burning answer is, "Yes. Yes I did."
Thursday, March 13, 2008
"What are you doing this weekend?"...And I Don't Want You to Recipricate That Question.
It's Thursday night. The weekend is upon us and it's that point in the week when I consider possible activities for the days ahead. Normally I promise myself to do something outdoors...hiking perhaps. I may consider hitting up a tourist attraction (I am, for all intents and purposes, a tourist) or I always have my backup plan to attend a screening of a classic film at The Old Music Hall in nearby El Segundo. This weekend, however, feels different. For some reason I don't feel like doing anything. That puzzles me since every weekend I plan on doing something and then don't end up doing anything anyways. Maybe, if I don't plan on doing anything it'll work out so I actually end up doing something. However, this is an interesting weekend to choose not to do anything, for it is the celebration weekend of St. Patrick's day. This weekend is normally reserved for green beer and drunken shenanigans (a weekend I always look forward to).
So, I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to half plan my weekend (as opposed to fully plan half of my weekend): I plan on getting drunk. That's all I plan on doing. Then we'll see where that takes me. I've got $10 that says it doesn't take me very far and I've got another $25 that says I don't follow through with my half plan and end up doing nothing again. Although there is that parade down the street and they do throw candy out into the street. I do like candy, so we'll see.
Til Next Time
States 18
Countries 5
P.S. You know that bulldog I had previously mentioned? The one in the stroller? I saw him again. I swear that guy is pushing 75 lbs. He is a massive bulldog.
So, I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to half plan my weekend (as opposed to fully plan half of my weekend): I plan on getting drunk. That's all I plan on doing. Then we'll see where that takes me. I've got $10 that says it doesn't take me very far and I've got another $25 that says I don't follow through with my half plan and end up doing nothing again. Although there is that parade down the street and they do throw candy out into the street. I do like candy, so we'll see.
Til Next Time
States 18
Countries 5
P.S. You know that bulldog I had previously mentioned? The one in the stroller? I saw him again. I swear that guy is pushing 75 lbs. He is a massive bulldog.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Give Money to the Old Music Hall...and Become an Organ Donor
Last week I went about my usual business doing my usual routine. Come Friday afternoon, the usual laundry had piled up into the usual pile. So, I gathered my supplies and headed over to the friendly neighborhood laundry matte. I stepped through the usual steps and paid the usual amount to get the machines running. I then walked over to the community benches and picked up a community magazine. This particular magazine highlights events in the beach communities (3 others besides my town of Hermosa Beach) and is some pretty awful reading if you're new to the area or if you happen to be under the age of 45. Regardless, I pressed on through the nonsensical headlines as I had nothing else to occupy my time. Then, as I was flipping the pages, I happened upon an advertisement that would forever change my life. It was an advertisement for The Old Music Hall in neighboring El Segundo and it was glorious.
This old theater, as the magazine informed me, had regular screenings of classic films from the silent era with live organ accompaniment. Now, I like to watch movies. I particularly like watching old movies just so I can sound more cultured and intelligent at dinner parties (which reminds me, I need to go to some dinner parties), and I especially wanted to watch an old movie that had live music accompaniment. So, my Saturday night was planned.
Come 8:00pm on Saturday I was walking to the ATM around the corner from the theater. Turns out this theater wants to remain as historically accurate as possible by limiting the admission currency to cash. When I returned I purchased a ticket and a historically accurate Snickers bar (which tasted more like the 1970's but I didn't want to say anything). I then took my seat towards the back of the 200 seat theater. Up front, on the slightly elevated stage, I saw the beast, The Mighty Wurlitzer.
Up until show time, I thought I new enough about organs. I thought, yes they are big, yes some can be bigger, yes they have a lot of knobs, and yes some can have more, but I guess I didn't have a grasp of the versatility of a theater organ.
So, they old man that took my money in the beginning of the evening strutted up the aisle and sat down on the console. He turned to the audience, rattled off a bunch of titles of things, and then began playing. As he started, the curtains opened and unveiled a magnificent sight. Only now could I understand what a big deal The Mighty Wurlitzer actually was. Sure, the normal pipe organ sounds emanated from the normal pipes, but did you know that this thing has a xylophone? Did you know it plays wooden blocks? What about a series of drums? And how about all those things that I saw moving and couldn't distinguish what they were(neither by sight nor by sound)? Did you know about all of this? Car horn? Yep, it had one. Lightning and thunder effects? You bet! This thing was incredible. Why did I not know this about organs?
So, the old man finished the overture as the movie screen came down. A few slides showed what was to be expected at The Old Music Hall in the upcoming weeks. I was also informed that the theater is a non-profit organization which is in need of financial assistance (totally tax deductible). Then something extraordinary happened. We had a sing-a-long. There were about 5 songs that were played with accompanied vintage slides displaying the words so everyone could sing. I figured that everyone would be ho-hum about the singing thing, but to my surprise everyone was really singing. The audience was really into it. The only song I recognized was "You're a Grand Old Flag," but the others were easy to pick up. It's also pretty easy to sing when you're the youngest in the room by about 25 years.
After the sing-a-long we were shown a Laurel and Hardy comedy short entitled "Another Fine Mess," which was a talkie so the old man got to take a break. Then we took a break with an intermission.
The movie that followed was Buster Keaton's "7 Chances," which was remade in the 90's as "The Bachelor" starring Chris O'Donnell. I've never seen "The Bachelor," but I'll tell you that it has a lot to live up to. "7 Chances" was awesome. Dare I say it was hilarious? I think I dare.
As you can probably tell I was really excited about this experience. I already plan on taking anybody who visits to The Old Music Hall. So, if you visit and I say, "I've got a great idea for an activity on Saturday night," be prepared to battle The Mighty Wurlitzer.
Til Next Time
States: 18
Countries: 5
P.S. The Old Music Hall will be closed March 21, 22, and 23 in observance of Easter. FYI
This old theater, as the magazine informed me, had regular screenings of classic films from the silent era with live organ accompaniment. Now, I like to watch movies. I particularly like watching old movies just so I can sound more cultured and intelligent at dinner parties (which reminds me, I need to go to some dinner parties), and I especially wanted to watch an old movie that had live music accompaniment. So, my Saturday night was planned.
Come 8:00pm on Saturday I was walking to the ATM around the corner from the theater. Turns out this theater wants to remain as historically accurate as possible by limiting the admission currency to cash. When I returned I purchased a ticket and a historically accurate Snickers bar (which tasted more like the 1970's but I didn't want to say anything). I then took my seat towards the back of the 200 seat theater. Up front, on the slightly elevated stage, I saw the beast, The Mighty Wurlitzer.
Up until show time, I thought I new enough about organs. I thought, yes they are big, yes some can be bigger, yes they have a lot of knobs, and yes some can have more, but I guess I didn't have a grasp of the versatility of a theater organ.
So, they old man that took my money in the beginning of the evening strutted up the aisle and sat down on the console. He turned to the audience, rattled off a bunch of titles of things, and then began playing. As he started, the curtains opened and unveiled a magnificent sight. Only now could I understand what a big deal The Mighty Wurlitzer actually was. Sure, the normal pipe organ sounds emanated from the normal pipes, but did you know that this thing has a xylophone? Did you know it plays wooden blocks? What about a series of drums? And how about all those things that I saw moving and couldn't distinguish what they were(neither by sight nor by sound)? Did you know about all of this? Car horn? Yep, it had one. Lightning and thunder effects? You bet! This thing was incredible. Why did I not know this about organs?
So, the old man finished the overture as the movie screen came down. A few slides showed what was to be expected at The Old Music Hall in the upcoming weeks. I was also informed that the theater is a non-profit organization which is in need of financial assistance (totally tax deductible). Then something extraordinary happened. We had a sing-a-long. There were about 5 songs that were played with accompanied vintage slides displaying the words so everyone could sing. I figured that everyone would be ho-hum about the singing thing, but to my surprise everyone was really singing. The audience was really into it. The only song I recognized was "You're a Grand Old Flag," but the others were easy to pick up. It's also pretty easy to sing when you're the youngest in the room by about 25 years.
After the sing-a-long we were shown a Laurel and Hardy comedy short entitled "Another Fine Mess," which was a talkie so the old man got to take a break. Then we took a break with an intermission.
The movie that followed was Buster Keaton's "7 Chances," which was remade in the 90's as "The Bachelor" starring Chris O'Donnell. I've never seen "The Bachelor," but I'll tell you that it has a lot to live up to. "7 Chances" was awesome. Dare I say it was hilarious? I think I dare.
As you can probably tell I was really excited about this experience. I already plan on taking anybody who visits to The Old Music Hall. So, if you visit and I say, "I've got a great idea for an activity on Saturday night," be prepared to battle The Mighty Wurlitzer.
Til Next Time
States: 18
Countries: 5
P.S. The Old Music Hall will be closed March 21, 22, and 23 in observance of Easter. FYI
Friday, March 7, 2008
I Haven't Been Sleeping Well...I Think It's the Sparks
I have been having a little trouble falling asleep as of late. I don't know why. Nothing has changed in my life. I still work my job. I still watch movies. I still have my hobbies. I still think my bed is really comfortable (it is after all a bed). What then could it be? Oh, it must be the Sparks.
Let me take you back to the not so distant past, a simpler time when I had roommates and friends. A time when these friends would ask, "Hey, you want to go get drunk?" And I'd say, "Yep," and we'd go to the neighborhood bar and drink Old Style or Pabst until we ran out of singles. Ah yes, those were some simple times.
One night, a night just like the one mentioned above, started a bit differently, however. My friend asked, "Hey, you want to have a Sparks party?" I responded with a curious tone, "I don't know what that is." He then explained, "Sparks is an alcoholic energy drink that supposedly tastes like smarties." I excitedly replied, "I like smarties." So the Sparks party was on. Three of us agreed to partake...and partake we did.
A few Sparks (and beers) later, our bodies didn't know whether to pass out or to run a marathon. Every time I closed my eyes to relax, the rapid, seemingly unnatural beating of my heart would keep me awake. So, we had no choice be to play video games until 4:30am. Even then, after I choose to hit the proverbial hay, I ended up staring at the ceiling until I could see the sun starting to color the sky. That night, I did not sleep well, but I think the Sparks party itself could still be considered a success. We did, after all, drink Sparks.
Now, flash forward to last night (a Thursday night). I live in an apartment that is basically in the parking lot of a church. I also happen to live in close proximity of the local nightlife. So, when the bars get crowded and parking becomes more difficult, it is only natural for the traffic to spill into the parking lot right outside my bedroom window. It happens every weekend. Last night, I was laying in bed, drifting in and out of sleep. I was in that sort of half dreaming and half awake mode (one of my favorites). I was laying there in the wonderful silence anticipating the next morning. Then, there were faint female voices. Laughing was the first thing I heard (could also be classified as cackling). Then I heard someone talking really loudly (borderline yelling, but not in an angry tone) followed by more outrageous laughter. It was then I knew they were coming into my parking lot for this behavior is typical of someone coming from the bars. The talking and laughter got louder until it sounded like it was right outside my window (which is a very accurate description because they actually were right outside my window). The talking/yelling/laughing/cackling continued as one of them (I think there were 4 in total) tried to wrangle them into the car. This was followed by the sound of someone dumping a bucket of water onto the sidewalk. I too, thought that was strange and wondered what they were doing. Surely they didn't actually have a bucket that they just dumped into the parking lot. An answer was quickly provided to me as I heard one of them say, "Oh my god. I totally just yakked everywhere." Everyone then laughed (including yours truly) outrageously hard and when they finally caught their breath, one of them said, "It was probably all that damn Sparks you drank." Then they drove away and I was left with two empty Sparks cans and a buckets worth of yak on my sidewalk. A charming way for Sparks to sneak back into my life and keep my heart racing.
Til next time.
States: 18
Countries: 5
P.S. Barbie turns 49 this weekend. I know this because today was "Wear Pink to Work Day." I was complimented on my subtle use of the color. Nobody has ever complimented me for my fashion sense before. Leave it to Barbie.
Let me take you back to the not so distant past, a simpler time when I had roommates and friends. A time when these friends would ask, "Hey, you want to go get drunk?" And I'd say, "Yep," and we'd go to the neighborhood bar and drink Old Style or Pabst until we ran out of singles. Ah yes, those were some simple times.
One night, a night just like the one mentioned above, started a bit differently, however. My friend asked, "Hey, you want to have a Sparks party?" I responded with a curious tone, "I don't know what that is." He then explained, "Sparks is an alcoholic energy drink that supposedly tastes like smarties." I excitedly replied, "I like smarties." So the Sparks party was on. Three of us agreed to partake...and partake we did.
A few Sparks (and beers) later, our bodies didn't know whether to pass out or to run a marathon. Every time I closed my eyes to relax, the rapid, seemingly unnatural beating of my heart would keep me awake. So, we had no choice be to play video games until 4:30am. Even then, after I choose to hit the proverbial hay, I ended up staring at the ceiling until I could see the sun starting to color the sky. That night, I did not sleep well, but I think the Sparks party itself could still be considered a success. We did, after all, drink Sparks.
Now, flash forward to last night (a Thursday night). I live in an apartment that is basically in the parking lot of a church. I also happen to live in close proximity of the local nightlife. So, when the bars get crowded and parking becomes more difficult, it is only natural for the traffic to spill into the parking lot right outside my bedroom window. It happens every weekend. Last night, I was laying in bed, drifting in and out of sleep. I was in that sort of half dreaming and half awake mode (one of my favorites). I was laying there in the wonderful silence anticipating the next morning. Then, there were faint female voices. Laughing was the first thing I heard (could also be classified as cackling). Then I heard someone talking really loudly (borderline yelling, but not in an angry tone) followed by more outrageous laughter. It was then I knew they were coming into my parking lot for this behavior is typical of someone coming from the bars. The talking and laughter got louder until it sounded like it was right outside my window (which is a very accurate description because they actually were right outside my window). The talking/yelling/laughing/cackling continued as one of them (I think there were 4 in total) tried to wrangle them into the car. This was followed by the sound of someone dumping a bucket of water onto the sidewalk. I too, thought that was strange and wondered what they were doing. Surely they didn't actually have a bucket that they just dumped into the parking lot. An answer was quickly provided to me as I heard one of them say, "Oh my god. I totally just yakked everywhere." Everyone then laughed (including yours truly) outrageously hard and when they finally caught their breath, one of them said, "It was probably all that damn Sparks you drank." Then they drove away and I was left with two empty Sparks cans and a buckets worth of yak on my sidewalk. A charming way for Sparks to sneak back into my life and keep my heart racing.
Til next time.
States: 18
Countries: 5
P.S. Barbie turns 49 this weekend. I know this because today was "Wear Pink to Work Day." I was complimented on my subtle use of the color. Nobody has ever complimented me for my fashion sense before. Leave it to Barbie.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
A Place to Hang My Hat...And Unpack My Stuff
For the last month and a half I've had three boxes full of unpacked goods sitting on my floor. Let me tell you this...those boxes are on my floor no more. I can officially say that I am unpacked and it feels awesome. I can look around and say, "Everything seems to be in order here," with a reassuring nod (arms crossed of course). Or I can sit back, watch a movie without having to say, "I wonder when I'm going to unpack the rest of my stuff." And when I go to the store I can finally start buying the "non-essentials" in life, like compact discs, adhesive bandages, and toilet paper. Oh, it is a good day. A good day indeed. Perhaps tomorrow I'll splurge and buy some condiments.
Til Next Time.
States: 17
Countries: 5
P.S. I was sitting at a stop light the other night and a man ran across the street pushing a stroller. Not an uncommon sight except the stroller was not for a child but for the biggest, baddest, most awesome looking bulldog I've ever seen. I looked around and every other driver at the stoplight was equally awestruck, but I seemed to be the only one laughing hysterically.
Til Next Time.
States: 17
Countries: 5
P.S. I was sitting at a stop light the other night and a man ran across the street pushing a stroller. Not an uncommon sight except the stroller was not for a child but for the biggest, baddest, most awesome looking bulldog I've ever seen. I looked around and every other driver at the stoplight was equally awestruck, but I seemed to be the only one laughing hysterically.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Burning Rubber...Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Change My Tire
Many people name their vehicles. Why? I don't know. Usually, these names are of the female persuasion. In April of last year, I bought a car. The burning question now of course is, "What did you name it?" I named her Chastity.
I named my ride Chastity because of it's irony. An irony shared with so many women across this fine nation who earn their living one dollar at a time (if you catch my meaning). I named my car Chastity because when I look at her, I see an ironic stripper.
Now, to let you in on my weekend, I did a little rearranging. This meant buying some new furniture and since I can never find anything I really like, I purchased some "it'll do for now because it's amazingly cheap" furniture from Ikea. On my way back from the big blue amusement park for consumers I was greeted with a rattling sensation and the smell of burning rubber on the expressway (the freeway to the locals). Yes, that's right, I'm sorry to report that Chastity lost one of her greatest assets. One that really earns her the money...her front tire (many "deflated," "popped," "flat," jokes can be made here...but I'm above that).
So, I pull over, empty the cheap furniture from my trunk onto the side of the road and get to work. I pull out the spare. I drag the "tire change tool kit" into action and I start to loosen the...wait a sec. It seems that these lug nuts are of a certain "theft proof" design. No worries, I dig around in the "tire change tool kit" for a while...no "theft proof wrench." I stand there staring at Chastity in disbelief. I dig through my trunk some more hoping the elusive tool will present itself...nothing. I stare at Chastity some more hoping she will puke it out and say, "Ha, you should have seen your face!" I understand, though, that automobiles do not talk nor do they puke essential tools for those in dire need. So I move on and consult the owners manual (very emasculating to have to look up how to change a tire) and confirm that there should indeed be a tool in my "tire change tool kit" to aid in this exercise. What am I going to do? I start assigning blame. I blame my car for being different (or special depending on your outlook), I blame German engineering (she's a VW), I blame myself for not checking the tools prior to this, I then blame Carmax (the bigbox car superstore from which she came who should have made sure the tools were present at point of purchase). I then remember that I paid a sum of extra money for some service warranty thing from Carmax. Perhaps they could be of service.
I find my "service protection plan" card and give them a call hoping they have roadside assistance...they don't. I further explain my situation and I get transferred to a manager. Perhaps my desperation is vocally transparent. The manager is kind enough to investigate the problem from his end. "If I have that tool," he says, "I'll try to get it out to you. Give me a minute. I'll call you back." Ok. Sounds good.
I wait for not one minute, but twenty until he calls me back. Twenty minutes on the side of the expressway with my car being shaken with every truck that passes. Twenty minutes just knowing that every car that passes knows that I've been there for twenty minutes unable to change my own tire (emasculating comes to mind again). Then I get the call.
The manager from Carmax was unable to locate said tool. He was, however, able to obtain a nugget of information much more valuable. It turns out that this "theft proof" design is only a facade...literally. The tool in question is used only to remove pieces of plastic that then reveal your standard lug nut to be removed with your normal tire iron. These pieces of plastic can easily be removed with a screwdriver, a car key, or anything else that can be wedged in there. These "theft proof nuts," the bane of my existence for the past twenty minutes, don't need a special tool after all. I am in shock. I told the manager that I'm a moron (he assured me that I'm merely stupid and to not be so hard on myself) and, as I was advised, I used a screwdriver to remove the plastic and change my tire as anyone would normally do. I loaded my cheap furnishings back into my car and was on my merry way. At least I got to take in the wonderment of the Los Angeles freeway system...it's quite impressive.
Turns out that "theft proof" actually means, you guessed it...emasculating. Good to know.
Til Next Time.
States: 15
Countries: 5
P.S. On a positive note, I got a free toy from work on Friday. Some rad car that turns into a menacing robot. No, it's not a transformer. No, it's not a GoBot. It just acts like one.
I named my ride Chastity because of it's irony. An irony shared with so many women across this fine nation who earn their living one dollar at a time (if you catch my meaning). I named my car Chastity because when I look at her, I see an ironic stripper.
Now, to let you in on my weekend, I did a little rearranging. This meant buying some new furniture and since I can never find anything I really like, I purchased some "it'll do for now because it's amazingly cheap" furniture from Ikea. On my way back from the big blue amusement park for consumers I was greeted with a rattling sensation and the smell of burning rubber on the expressway (the freeway to the locals). Yes, that's right, I'm sorry to report that Chastity lost one of her greatest assets. One that really earns her the money...her front tire (many "deflated," "popped," "flat," jokes can be made here...but I'm above that).
So, I pull over, empty the cheap furniture from my trunk onto the side of the road and get to work. I pull out the spare. I drag the "tire change tool kit" into action and I start to loosen the...wait a sec. It seems that these lug nuts are of a certain "theft proof" design. No worries, I dig around in the "tire change tool kit" for a while...no "theft proof wrench." I stand there staring at Chastity in disbelief. I dig through my trunk some more hoping the elusive tool will present itself...nothing. I stare at Chastity some more hoping she will puke it out and say, "Ha, you should have seen your face!" I understand, though, that automobiles do not talk nor do they puke essential tools for those in dire need. So I move on and consult the owners manual (very emasculating to have to look up how to change a tire) and confirm that there should indeed be a tool in my "tire change tool kit" to aid in this exercise. What am I going to do? I start assigning blame. I blame my car for being different (or special depending on your outlook), I blame German engineering (she's a VW), I blame myself for not checking the tools prior to this, I then blame Carmax (the bigbox car superstore from which she came who should have made sure the tools were present at point of purchase). I then remember that I paid a sum of extra money for some service warranty thing from Carmax. Perhaps they could be of service.
I find my "service protection plan" card and give them a call hoping they have roadside assistance...they don't. I further explain my situation and I get transferred to a manager. Perhaps my desperation is vocally transparent. The manager is kind enough to investigate the problem from his end. "If I have that tool," he says, "I'll try to get it out to you. Give me a minute. I'll call you back." Ok. Sounds good.
I wait for not one minute, but twenty until he calls me back. Twenty minutes on the side of the expressway with my car being shaken with every truck that passes. Twenty minutes just knowing that every car that passes knows that I've been there for twenty minutes unable to change my own tire (emasculating comes to mind again). Then I get the call.
The manager from Carmax was unable to locate said tool. He was, however, able to obtain a nugget of information much more valuable. It turns out that this "theft proof" design is only a facade...literally. The tool in question is used only to remove pieces of plastic that then reveal your standard lug nut to be removed with your normal tire iron. These pieces of plastic can easily be removed with a screwdriver, a car key, or anything else that can be wedged in there. These "theft proof nuts," the bane of my existence for the past twenty minutes, don't need a special tool after all. I am in shock. I told the manager that I'm a moron (he assured me that I'm merely stupid and to not be so hard on myself) and, as I was advised, I used a screwdriver to remove the plastic and change my tire as anyone would normally do. I loaded my cheap furnishings back into my car and was on my merry way. At least I got to take in the wonderment of the Los Angeles freeway system...it's quite impressive.
Turns out that "theft proof" actually means, you guessed it...emasculating. Good to know.
Til Next Time.
States: 15
Countries: 5
P.S. On a positive note, I got a free toy from work on Friday. Some rad car that turns into a menacing robot. No, it's not a transformer. No, it's not a GoBot. It just acts like one.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
