BLAT BLAT BLAT BLAT BLAT BLAT BLAT.
A Harley just smaller than my first apartment has pulled up in front of the house.
Mary and Jon, having heard my plaintive cries for help, have made a house call.
And they brought Dean with them, a wild-eyed handsome man who rides with a Miniature Pinscher named Baby Girl balanced on his gas tank…
I'm sorry. Where was I?
Oh yes. The call for help.
That’s right. My car, sometimes referred to as The Pedicure (based on its recent Flintstone-like braking system) and sometimes called the “Beeg Piece of Sheet” (according to my quaintly honest friend Maryna), is back to making ghastly metal-on-metal noises.
The back brakes? Oh, that was so last month.
This month? Why, the front brakes, of course!
This is what comes with a 20-year-old one-payment car.
Truth be told, it was a small payment. And it was three years ago.
So what’s my problem, huh? Why don’t I just get another car?
Because I hate payments.
“Ees problem, no? You’re not ashamed?” Maryna said Saturday night. “Beautiful woman in piece of sheet car. Ees not right. Mike, geev to Pearl our keys. We haff beautiful car. You take. You drive.”
I laughed her off. “If I cared about what the car looked like, then it would matter to me and I would get a new car,” I said. “But I don’t care about what it looks like. It just has to get me from Point A to Point B.”
Apparently, however, I forgot to include, in the getting-me-from-here-to-there speech, that the ability to brake properly should figure in to the equation.
And so here we are again: rotors and pads and line-bleeding and blinker fluid and such.
I really need to learn more about cars.
Two Songs On The Trainride To Peace
1 hour ago