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The time has come for me to replace the Almighty Honda. This is not something I want to do. I dread all aspects of it. Even as I write this, I’m doing so in darkness and out of earshot of my car (ya know, just in case it overhears). I think it would be easier to replace The Wife than replace the car, but then again I’ve had the car longer than The Wife (it has seniority). Despite my reservations, the truth is I’m driving a car that’s twice as old as my students and it’s just time for a change.
Reasons for change? Well, did I mention I’m driving a car twice as old as my students? This would be fine if my students were younger than five or older than 25. Anything else in-between means I’m driving an old car. Not a classic. Just old. Kind of like that lame age for Grownups between 35 and 55 when you’re expected to behave responsibly (reckless fun by youngsters is considered “youthful indiscretion;” reckless fun by seniors is “too old to know any better”).
I’ve also noticed I’ve been getting pulled over more often. Not for moving violations–just “checking . . . . .
Sunday night around ten o’clock, I received a call from a guy who is interested in buying our used Ford. He wanted to come see it that night –an idea I wasn’t too enthusiastic about. I had class early the following morning and was hoping to be in bed before midnight.
“I’ll be free to show it anytime tomorrow after two,” I told him. Despite my offer, he wanted to see the car immediately. Ten o’clock at night meant nothing to him because he worked nights and would much rather see the car now than in the daytime.
I contemplated my options. The first rule in buying a used car is to never look at it at night–it’s a no-brainer in my book. When the sun’s down it’s a lot harder to see and you might miss something that would otherwise be obvious during the daytime. If this guy wanted to look at the car three hours after sunset, that’s his business. If anything, he would make life easier for me because I wouldn’t hafta wash it.
“I can be there 20 minutes,” he assured me.
Against my better judgment, I relented. I knew I shouldn’t be picky because . . . . .
Now that our car quest is over and The Wife has a suitable vehicle, I am in the process of trying to unload her car on some poor, unsuspecting sucker. Not that I’m trying to scam anyone–I’m very clear about the process and have no intention of hiding the blown head gasket (it’s not like you can hide a blown head gasket anyway–the car shakes like a earthquake when you drive it).
In the past, I’ve always used Autotrader to buy and sell cars. But about a dozen years ago something called the internet got invented (by Al Gore) and launched all sorts of wonderful free services–most notably, Craigslist. Craigslist has been in the news an awful lot lately. For those unfamiliar with the service, Craigslist offers more than overweight strippers and dirt cheap hookers–you can also buy and sell goods. So instead of plopping down 50 bucks on Autotrader, I opted to try posting a free ad on Craigslist.
They say in life you get what you pay for. Perhaps that’s the attitude of Craigslist shoppers: they figure since the ad is free, the product should also be available at a significant discount. I can’t believe the riffraff I’ve . . . . .
The concept of appraisal values is as confusing to me as slurred Spanish spoken by a stuttering drunk. My brother majored in business so maybe he might be able to grasp the concept better than me (then again, he turned that business degree into a lucrative career of waiting tables for a chain restaurant that promotes “flair”). To me, an item is only worth what people are willing to pay for it. If a rare, 16th century gold coin is worth $2 million that means there’s some bonehead out there with too much money willing to pay $2 million for it. If a painting is worth a hundred grand it’s because someone will pay $100,000 to get it. Guides, catalogs, and estimates mean nothing because I believe market determines price–not some ‘expert’ in an expensive suit with bifocals.
When I was a kid, I use to collect baseball cards and the baseball card collector’s bible was a monthly magazine called “Beckett.” Not only did it provide interesting articles, it also listed the price of every baseball card known to man. This was useful when trading cards with your buddies so nobody got ripped off (“I’ll trade your Carl Yastrzemski baseball . . . . .
Even though I have no job nor any prospects of finding a job, The Wife and I are in the midst of buying a car (and if CNN is right, we might be the only two car-buyers in America). The world economy is falling apart; everyone is scrimping and saving; I have no job–we’re a single-income family…and we still want to buy a car (which says a lot about the state of her current vehicle). This is something we talked about long before stock market Armageddon came. This was a decision we made before I lost my job. The point I’m trying to make is that we’ve need a car for a while now and is not a decision made lightly.
I’ve noticed an interesting phenomenon during our hunt–a plethora of incompetent sellers. Since we’re in the market for a used car and I think dealers are the scum of the earth (although slightly better than politicians and insurance executives), we’ve contacted quite a few private parties. I’m not expecting to meet J. Paul Getty when buying a ten-year old used car–but I’d like to meet someone who could at least put a little bit of effort and enthusiasm into . . . . .
It’s official: The Wife is legally mine (I initially penned that line “The Girlfriend”–old habit do die hard). She received her new social security card this week with her new last name–mine. And since she has my name on her that makes her my property. That’s not chauvinistic–it’s life. Kinda like when you’re a kid and you write your name on your football. You do it so everyone knows it’s yours. I’m not going to take a Sharpie and write on The Wife’s forehead, but that doesn’t change the fact she has my name and is now my property.
I’m hardly an expert and there’s a good chance I don’t even know what I’m talking about–but that’s never stopped me from giving my opinion. With that in mind, I think I’m opposed to a potential government bailout of US automakers. It’s my taxes and I don’t wanna see it wasted. I know we’re talking about putting a lot of people out of work–but I don’t see why the US government has to save a company that pushes products no one wants. That’s all it really comes down to. Isn’t the whole point of capitalism and free markets about letting the . . . . .
I was listening to the Raider game over the weekend. During the broadcast, I heard a promo encouraging fans to vote. Yeah, that’s what American needs: Raider fans determining how the country is run. Not every uneducated illiterate with a criminal record deserves a voice. It’s this sorta propaganda that pisses me off. I hate voting season.
I’ve been so busy with other things I haven’t spent much time writing lately. There are so many things I wanted to share. Like last month when I went to get gas for the company Tahoe. Fueling that beast is a concrete reminder why I drive the Almighty Honda: it cost more to fill-up than the gross domestic product of Paraguay. If it wasn’t for the company credit card, I wouldn’t be able to fill it up because no one cares around that much cash.
I think the worst part of having to fill up a 26-gallon tank is the time it takes to do so. My car has a tiny tank–I’m rarely at a gas station long enough to squeegee off the front windshield. The Tahoe is always below E (’cause no one ever wants to take the time to get gas) . . . . .
When life gets too busy or I have nothing to complain about, I just reach back and find something I wrote earlier but never posted (usually because it was uninteresting or poorly written…or maybe even both). This is one of those stories.
Over the weekend I had a particularly embarrassing incident. I woke up in the middle of the night to take a tinkle. I’ve been living in this house for three years; peeing in the same bathroom for three years. I haven’t moved any furniture since the day I got here and am pretty capable of wandering around in the dark. I made my way to the bathroom and started to go…only to discover the toilet seat cover was down. Call me unsivilzed if you want, but I live alone so I never bother putting the cover down. That’s why I didn’t bother to check before I went. In retrospect, I probably should’ve–but it was dark, I was tired, and we’re talking about three years of conditioning here. The sound immediately told me something was wrong so I put the brakes on and assessed the situation. The toilet seat cover was down and I missed like no man had . . . . .
During a baseball broadcast, I heard a promo specifically encouraging Dodger fans to vote. Yeah, that’s what American needs: Dodger fans determining how the country is run. Not every uneducated literate with a criminal record deserves a voice. It’s this sorta propaganda that pisses me off. I hate voting season.
I’m not completely helpless. The Girlfriend might think I am, but there are plenty of things I can do on my own–one of which is basic car maintenance. I took a year of auto shop in high school. I like working with tools. I wouldn’t call myself a man’s man–but I can perform rudimentary vehicle maintenance like replacing air filters, changing spark plugs, and jump-starting a battery.
One of the things I won’t do is change my own oil. Sure, I could do it–but it’s just too darn messy…especially when I can take my car somewhere and get the oil changed by a professional for 20 bucks. It seems like money well-spent.
I needed an oil change and opted to go to Jip-U-Lube. It’s right near work and I had a coupon for a $20 oil change. It was for the deluxe package that includes the 14-point inspection. Personally, I . . . . .
The Olympics start this week…but does anyone really care? Do you know anybody who actually gets excited about the Olympics? I don’t know anyone who watches. Outside the big-name events (men’s basketball and Michael Phelps) I don’t know anyone who cares. I certainly don’t care. There’s no fun in watching someone run around a track. There’s only so many times I can watch a person swim in a pool (zero). There are very few mainstream events in our society that are as past their prime as the Olympics. I truly believe no one gives a crud…other than the athletes involved. If the world were to somehow skip an Olympics, do you think anyone would even notice? I don’t.
Recently I was sitting outside a very rich and classy hotel. It was one of those expensive joints–the kinda place where two nights cost more than I pay in month for rent. Normally I wouldn’t be caught dead near such an establishment, but an assignment for work put me at the hotel’s entrance for a few hours. Since my job isn’t challenging, I had little to do other than watch numerous cars come to the valet and wait to get parked. It . . . . .
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