best...

I drove by an auto shop the other; a shop I drive by often and always think about giving my custom. The Versa that I use for commuting needs a tune-up,  just a run-of-the-mill tune-up that will probably sort a few little things that bother me. The shop, Japanese Auto Repair Specialists, was at one point named the “Best in Arlington,” so that’s promising. What I wonder is this: are Japanese cars any different these days? There must have been a time where Japanese cars were built with square screws and trapezoidal axels because ever since I was young there have been Japanese auto specialists. I don’t actually understand how the original Honda Civics and Datsun B210s differed, but I am willing to bank that there’s precious little separating the mechanical needs of a Camry and a Lumina (do they still make those?). On the other hand, there is clearly something different in working on a Mercedes, primarily what appears to be a massively inflated exchange rate.

We are in the dead zone run-up to the summer’s vacation in Vermont. Not quite close enough to do serious menu and packing planning just yet. I think the three-week mark is when it all starts coming together. The plan is up through eastern NY start – the Binghamton/Schenectady route – and then ferrying over to South Hero. Return will be via Vermont so that I can bowl. We do have to sort which kids are flying up and back since Galactica can’t comfortably carry what are now five adults.

Last night, as you do, we gathered the gang and went to pick up a pile of rock out in Vienna. Someone was feeling a bit lost at the cube of bricks have gradually disappeared from the driveway. There was a deal on hundreds of pounds of stones that seem to be destined for a corner rock border. This was a perfect scenario for having three teenagers accessible. Didn’t take long, and we all got ice cream afterwards...

truth in a bag

A few notes from a shopping venture. On the way to TJs I stopped at a light behind an Isuzu Axiom; my first thought was that if you could Scrabble© an Isuzu Axiom it’d be worth 27 points with no bonus squares included. (Actually, I just thought about the Scrabble© playing portion, I had to look up the values later on.) My second thought was, Axiom? Per Webster’s, here’s the primary definition:

(noun) a self-evident truth that requires no proof.

I guess we could just call it “Car” since that too would be a self-evident truth. I’ve been torn over the last decade or so between hating either stupid names for vehicles or hating stupid alphanumeric sequences as names for vehicles. You might consider this parallel to whether you like how Chicago titled their albums or how The Flaming Lips managed to come up with demented titles. Considering that the Isuzu Axiom looks exactly like every other mini-SUV/suburban mother vehicle it isn’t really self-evident at all. I think I’d just prefer the car companies, or what’s left of them, to simply put the company name on the car and do away with the model. Just choose your model by the look and nix the name; I don’t think you’ll end up with the wrong shape by accident. "I'll have the 1963 Lincoln." It’s sort of the same with what Apple is doing with its operating systems. They’ve latched, inexplicably, onto the family Felinae: cheetah/puma, jaguar, panther, tiger, leopard, snow leopard. Those descriptions also equate to versions 10.1 through 10.6. There doesn’t appear to be any rhyme or reason to the cat name or an actual zoological classification of the greatness of each cat. (Obviously, the leopard v. snow leopard idea is pure lunacy.) If I can’t remember in what order they arrived, by name, I can certainly remember that I have 10.4. There’s little need to look at me and say, “Oh, you have Tiger”, because I have no feline idea. It’s just 10.4; we all learned to count and we can keep up with numbers. And, if you’ll indulge me, I would much prefer to be a cheetah or puma than a tiger so I don’t see how tiger is better, in the end. Maybe we can start a betting line and choose what we think will be the next four versions. Here’s my fortune from the crystal ball:

10.7   Caracal
10.8   Pumpkin (“somewhat strong, round, and sloth-like”)
10.9   Colocolo
10.10 Oncilla

If I’m going to have to figure out how to equate a version number with a genus then we might as well make it fun.

I ended up forgetting to pick up some shredded mozzarella for the boys’ pizza (on said shopping trip) so I had to make an extra stop at the nearest grocery. I bought only the bag of shredded cheese; the cashier scanned it and began putting it into a plastic bag – as they are wont to do. I told him I’d just carry it with the hands provided. I know…I’ve brought this up before but really, a bag to carry a small bag? It wasn’t too far from me going into a hardware store to buy a single, spare drawer handle and having an employee put my handle into a bag for ease of carrying.

Maybe I'll just let it go for today.

t

i’m made of rubber, you’re made of glue

I’ll do my utmost to maintain some sense of proportion, and levity, throughout this tale.

The Saturday venture that landed the Mercedes-Benz in our driveway led directly to a butterfly effect felt across northern Virginia. As quickly as it was bought it was apparently sold to those we’ll call the Prince and Princess of Rivendell who inhabit the hills and valleys across the hall; something or other about dreams, nightmares, peasants, and whatnot. There was a good deal of back-and-forth between The Shire and Rivendell concerning the final destination of what I’m now calling The Ring, the beautiful golden chariot. Dreams were to be fulfilled, the ostentatiousness of the massive and powerful thing conquered, and desires to make everything right for the time of man. After the give-and-take (literally) betwixt the two small empires was finally resolved, by X deciding against forces to keep The Ring, there was peace in our time. The folk of Rivendell were happy enough to consider waiting and pondering what was so closely held for those mere seconds, and deciding to look about to see what else might be conquered. What was available for those means this morning was to be an exact copy of The Ring, one year older, that has now found a place in the parking lot of golden cars. As if one t’wernt enough, there are now two – one for each Kingdom. Priceless.

It reminds one of a silly story about a couple of chairs. Think about that, and stones, and castings.

pony up

Here’s a bit of a review on the day’s affairs.

I cleaned most of the house, as I’m wont to do.

I planned menus for the week.

I cooked.

X bought a Mercedes-Benz.

Do not question the machine.

I came home from the market with my nine cups of arugula for tomorrow morning’s breakfast (don’t ask). I also needed some parmesan aged 24 months (she loves that), some Greek yoghurt, a bit of bread, and a few lemons. The lovely had departed for chiropractor at about 10am and returned about 2:30pm with a well-straightened back and a golden car – as if that’s normal. Actually, my story of heading to Reno for a queen mattress and coming home with my Prius probably ranks in the same category. I never in my life imagined I’d drive a Merc…never. It’s a six-year old car with low mileage, plenty of safety, and piles of extra junk. She honestly stumbled on a gem; that doesn’t mean I won’t give her endless doses of big law firm, Northern Virginia suburbs, and private school harassment. My only stance is this: I will not drive into a Whole Foods parking lot in an E-class Mercedes. No fucking way. Not ever.

I know it’s a lame stance…but it’s a stance nonetheless. I'm going hip-hop and all...

t.

more car ding-a-lings

I heard the ad on radio today advertising Lexus’s voice-activated navigation system on some or the other model. The first thing that comes to mind involves something about a significant other ‘inadvertently’ blurting out, “Do you know where you’re going? Are we lost?” My normal response is a measured “Sure baby, I just got turned around.” All of a sudden the dashboard lights, and a disembodied voice replies, “No, he doesn’t know where you are and he won’t ask for directions.”

[dashboard light dims and system shuts down]

That doesn’t seem so helpful in the end – a smartass navigation system that always takes her side. Maybe I choose not to use the so-called navigation system. All works out fine in the end because after a few miles I recognize where we’re at and I know exactly how to get where we’re going. I turn and say, lovingly, “Right. Now I know where we are, I recognize that building [squinting and pointing]. We’ll turn right at the next block and swing around to the Interstate.”

[light on dashboard fires up...]

“As if turning right there will get you to the Interstate. He recognizes that building? That phrase has never before been uttered…”

[dashboard light extinguishes with a chuckle]

I don’t need that kind of heartache…I can read a map.

While I was waiting for the plane out of Reno on Friday afternoon, sitting at an empty gate down the terminal from my packed departure gate, a young girl pulled out her violin and gave it a good practice. Her mother was either her teacher or simply a talented parent; she had her run through her scales followed by a couple of lovely tunes. The most natural musical instrument demonstration that would happen in an airport, while you’re traveling and miserable, is more likely to be some yob yanking out a trumpet, kazoo, or snare drum just to further irritate people. Maybe it would be a guy busting out his guitar and practicing his version of Good Riddance – that would be so painful. This was beautiful to hear as I struggled through the crossword puzzle…I’m not always horrible; good things can happen in airports.

Corey and I attacked X’s bike last night in a miserable attempt to mount her rack and fenders. How hard can a few nuts and bolt be? Yep. Great.

T.