My aunt and uncle in Pleasant Hill held a garage sale today, and I was allowed the privilege of selling some of my own stuff. They are moving, so they had tons of stuff, from dishes to records, rugs to large furniture, jewelry to tools. It was one of those neighborhood deals so there were lots of other sales around us.
I started with a good vibe when the second customer of the day purchased my half-tacky, half-beautiful painting inherited from a relative. The traffic was slow at first, but by 9 or so picked up and picked up fast. The rest of the morning we were wheeling and dealing. My aunt and uncle sold a bunch of stuff, my mother unloaded her antique gumball machine (read: wooden box) with no key.
Lots of people seemed fascinated by my pair of 5 lb. weights and also rifled through my stack of (reject) license plates. Everything I sold was $10 or less. It included a stuffed dolphin and stuffed baboon for a quarter apiece, a few books, "The Office" on DVD seasons 2-4, a broken tripod, a piece of luggage, a horseracing game which originally cost $60, several books, three puzzles, two old aquarium decorations (tiki heads and Spongebob's pineapple), a magnet board for state magnets, a used basketball, and a box of tea candles. In sum I collected about $125, and $40 of that was for my best item, my bike.
I had taken the 1997 Corsa Novara overseas the summer I turned 22. I had ridden, along with a different aunt and uncle, through rural France. It also saw a bit of Paris and part of England. Since the trip, I had used it just a handful of times. Otherwise, it sat in the garage collecting cobwebs and dust. And yet it proved difficult to part with. When we pumped up its tires right after the purchase, my heart skipped a beat. "Ride me," the bike seemed to say. "I can still be your friend." But I knew that in reality I would never ride it as much to justify the space it took up in the garage, and I'd continue to feel guilty for both not riding it and not giving it to a better owner. Two guys had offered $20 for it, but this man was different. He seemed to study it and appreciate it as soon as he padded the seat and rang the bell. And when he rode off with it, his wife walking along, I felt I had done the right thing. Perhaps he could give it just the little bit of love it needed.
By the early afternoon, traffic had died down considerably and the group of us (my aunt's friend sat in with us and helped out the whole day) were content to sit in lawn chairs and wear off the Kinders lunch. When we closed up shop, there was still lots to go. For my part, I had reduced approximately five large storage bins to three. Later in the day, I dropped off a bunch of books (not just mine, but my aunt's and mother's as well) and got a measly $10 for them. There were lots of people doing the same thing. Thankfully, they donate or recycle any ones they don't accept. Which is better than saving them another 6 months to a year until the next sale.
Awards
*The "Most Interesting Sale" award goes to the coin collector who handed us his business card, then gave my aunt a crisp $100 bill for just a few silver dollars and a couple of other coins.
*The "Coolest Sale" award for me goes to the man who bought the Popeye lunch box. He was truly excited to find this item, disgusting as it was.
*The "Sweetest Story" award goes to the gentleman who had survived cancer ("scars like I've been bit by a shark" he said) who had local area connections to my aunt's friend, and chatted with us, along with his wife, for 20 minutes or so.
*The "Most Disappointing Near-Sale" goes to the family who wanted my aunt's doghouse. They couldn't fit in their car, so they said they'd come back with a bigger car. They never came back. Said doghouse is currently sitting on the curb with a "FREE" sign attached.
*The "Strangest Moment" goes to the woman in the black sedan who honked for about 5 seconds, then drove up in front of a pickup truck going the other direction. Apparently, she felt he was blocking the road, even though there was plenty of space for the woman to go around. She attracted a small crowd, with myself, my uncle, and my aunt's friend, as well as two teenage boys and another neighbor. "I know what I'm doing!" she railed, and one of us said "Go back to Dublin, you bitch!" ("Funniest Line" award, by the way).
Tips:
*Sell during block/neighborhood sales, if they exist, or try to organize one. You'll get a lot of foot traffic of people wandering sale to sale, who otherwise might not feel like driving around for sites.
*Offer hot dogs and drinks. We did not do this, but my aunt's friend suggested it around lunchtime. People will refuel at your sale and feel obligated to take a closer look at your crap.
*Put a dog on the front lawn. Even if it's not your own. Dogs and cute children are historically ways to increase customers.
*Have a large, unique item on the street. This will attract customers from afar who can't see your crap due to bushes and cars and such, will lead to potential customers asking you questions, and I've seen this work personally in Niles, where a guy parks his rare automobile outside his shop.
*Signage, signage, signage. We didn't have to do quite so much of this because of the multi-yard factor, but a couple of years ago when we had one at my mom's we had little signage and barely any customers. However, don't say it's "huge" or "awesome" if it's small or sucks. 'Cuz that pisses me off.
*Have a plan for the leftovers. Don't make the mistake of saving it for the next big one. It will just sit in the garage and collect dust and continue to irritate you (along with spouse or landlord or parent) that it's sitting in the garage and collecting dust. Donate the crap, take it to consignment, recycle it, trash it, or sell it to relatives who feel sorry for you. You'll be glad you did.
*Keep a bottom line. Yes, you want that crap gone, and that means selling stuff for way less than you want.
But you got to have morals. Don't sell that cool Hollywood Nudes in 3-D book for 50 cents when it cost 20-something at the bookstore. That perfectly good bike deserves a $40 minimum because, damnit, it has a compelling history.
*Separate the memory from the item. I have read this lately in a book (It's All Too Much by Peter Walsh) and watched it on "Hoarders" once upon a time. Admittedly, it's the most difficult thing for me. It's why the bike hurt so much to let go. It's why people hang on to stuff their parents gave to them when they moved to the retirement community or passed on. It's why a piece of clothing or a set of dinner plates or a memento or souvenir can be so hard to say goodbye to. But you have to remember, that thing is only that--a thing, not the actual event it represents. For people with poor memory like me, however, you need the item to spark the memory.
*Champion the tack. Okay, there's no way I can put out the small purple Christmas tree with lights and glitter that constantly sheds that glitter and say "this is a quality item" or "yes, I purchased this with my own memory in sound mind and body." So you put it out with the antique bike (your bait, see fourth asterisk) and hope that no one laughs at you.
Garage sales are a labor of love, a means of reliving and letting go of memories, and a portal for peering into human nature. Its a way of connecting with complete strangers, of discovering how much crap you have ended up buying over the years, and of bonding with family and friends. So pick a nice day, notify me on Facebook, and I'll come on over. In fact, I have a great item for trade. It's this little purple Christmas tree...
Trail Kid
1979 and age 4, give or take a year
Saturday, May 31, 2014
Saturday, November 16, 2013
That's a Pizza!
An issue has been grumbling in my tummy for some time now and I must finally weigh in: pizza. Yes, pizza. One of the most glorious foods ever produced by mankind. I, being Italian, have a special affinity for the stuff. But here in the Bay Area, great (and affordable) pizza is not easy to find. The best of the bunch I've experienced is PanCoast Pizza. Located in Walnut Creek on South Main, it advertises as "A slice of the East Coast." I guess I have a prejudice for New York style pizza, but PanCoast does offer an authentic version. The owner is from back east, and it shows. Everything about this pizza, from the complexion of the crust, to the tasty sauce to the perfectly-melted cheese, sings. In other matters, the restaurant has equal things in favor and against. The decor includes a beautiful large photo of the Brooklyn Bridge along with one of the Golden Gate Bridge to symbolize the connection. The tables are quality wood, chairs (wooden with leather seats) comfortable, and large windows let the light in but shaded areas are always available. The staff is friendly. And the soda is always "fresh." I know that sounds strange, but just go to any Subway and you'll understand what not-fresh soda tastes like. Then come here or Fat Maddie's Grill in San Ramon and you'll taste the difference.
The list of needed improvements is short but significant: the parking. The lot is shared with other businesses, and each spot is reserved for a business. PanCoast gets just two spots, and sometimes one of their delivery cars assumes a position. On weekends, you can get away with parking in Las Lomas next door, but otherwise you might end up parking on the street (the lot is small, not much space to wait, turn around, etc.). Second, the view. Sure it's Walnut Creek. It's also a part of Main Street inhabited by a few, nondescript businesses or the backs of homes. Finally, Sirius radio or a CD is always playing and the type and volume varies. Sometimes it's the Grateful Dead, one time I heard Frank Sinatra, but usually it's some form of classic rock or hard rock. Not terrible music, but it's all up to the staff on hand and what time of day/night it is.
Nearby is Pizza Guys. Every Italian bone in my body says, "resist, resist" but I end up there more often than I think. It's not exceptional pizza by any means, but it's become a kind of comfort food. The people are nice, the pizza good enough for most nights, and it's easy in and out.
Recently, I went to the much-ballyhooed Zachary's in Pleasant Hill. This is the chain that began in Berkeley. They have one in San Ramon as well. I did not try their famous Chicago style because I don't care for Chicago style, and in both trips (one was to the SR location), I just got a slice of pepperoni and a side Caesar. Therefore, it's too early to make a true call on it, but overall I would rate the pizza good to very good. Since freshly-made is always better than slices, the jury is most definitely still out.
After PanCoast, though, I really love Round Table Pizza. There is something a little different with their pizza that to this day I cannot put a finger on. I just know I love the taste. I also dig their atmosphere, furniture, etc. I'd be a regular customer if it weren't for the price. The last time I almost caved in was during the World Series. It was late, I was hungry, the game was on. A small two-topping pizza and a soda was going to be $17.50. Just couldn't open the wallet on that. That price is downright highway robbery for a chain as big as Round Table. There used to be one in Berkeley on University that had substantially lower prices, perhaps to cater to college students, and I'd go there (back in the day) on my independent movie sojourns (before Century 5 became CineArts) and on therapy nights (as I saw a psychologist nearby).
The one I cannot figure out why it's popular is Rocco's. The decorations are impressive. And...that's it. The pizza always comes out of the oven looking great but tastes crappy. You can literally taste the staleness or after-frozen stigma in each part of the pizza. Additionally, the service is horrible. Want a refill on that drink? Easier to stand up, go in the little alleyway the servers use, and refill it yourself. And they always look like they're hardly trying, like inside their minds they're already dreaming about what they're going to do after work.
When it comes to "the best pizza I ever had," the answer is easy: Italy. In 2009 my father and stepmother took a bunch of us on a Mediterranean cruise. We departed from Venice but had a day and a half to get acclimated and sight-see. That first day my father and I stopped at a pizza place. Much like the ones in New York, there wasn't much seating in it, and you ordered from the counter. Seeing all those pizzas there, steaming and ready to eat, is an image I hope I never forget. I settled on a ham and mushroom slice and also a cheese slice if memory serves. I will not ever be able to rightly describe the taste and consistency, but it was beyond great. It was magical, as if a bunch of Italian fairies circled around my head, cascading red, green, and white pixie dust. I knew at that exact moment that I would never, ever experience that taste in America, so enjoy each and every delicious bite. The freshness just exploded in my mouth. And sure enough, before and since, I have never tasted anything like it.
In 2007, and also in 2009, I visited my brother in New York City. I had some great pizza there as well. The first time around, my brother made a list of about five places I had to try to get the authentic experience. One was Joe's, where a scene from Spider-Man was filmed. Very good, but did not knock my socks off. I think I made it to 3 of them, and my favorite was Lombardi's. It is a very unusual restaurant. It claims fame as the first pizzeria established in the United States. The restaurant has a couple of floors and a maze-like configuration, and there were many decorations of Italian theme plastered everywhere. I was so overwhelmed (in a good way), that I can't recall exactly what we had. I believe we had some kind of half-and-half going. I just remember it being so satisfying. Right after I got back from that trip, I went on a license plate trip in Scottsdale, Arizona. Driving through, I noticed a Gilardino's restaurant. This was one of the ones I didn't visit in New York. The pizza was definitely New York style and very, very delicious. I asked about the origin and it was certified legit by the server. I don't remember how, exactly. I believe it was a relative of the New York Gilardino family. I could not convince my brother, however. He insisted there was no way it was the same and that even if it looked like a duck, walked like a duck, and talked like a duck, it couldn't be a duck (so to speak). I would have to research my journals and photo books to see exactly how many of those 5 and which ones I ended up visiting between the two New York trips.
Outside of all that, it's tapping my inadequate memory. I remember one on a So-Cal boardwalk that was pretty much other-worldly. In Tennessee where my father lived for three years there was a hole-in-the-wall place that served delicious pizza cut into squares. When I was a boy, Freddie's, in downtown Lafayette, was wildly popular. The place was canvassed in napkins with drawings on them, it had pinball, it was crowded and had red brick walls. Eventually they moved down to the street to a bigger, nicer, but much less memorable building and their customer base seemed dwindle. Could have been the building. Could have been the pizza (the original Freddie retired in the day-to-day sense, if memory serves). Could have just been growing up, but soon it lost its magic. Eventually it closed and the location is now a Mountain Mike's.
Having no means to Italy for the foreseeable future, and less reason and resources to go to New York, I'm resigned to trying to find the next great pizza joint close to home. For awhile there was a spot in Pleasant Hill called NYPD Pizza (a chain based primarily in the east). They were excellent, but the first pizza I had there after the cruise made all my previous engagements with the place seem like an illusion. PanCoast is definitely my first choice, but such is the expensive nature of pizza that I have to limit myself.
I love pizza, but I am sad that most Americans experience it via Pizza Hut and Domino's. Those places do not serve pizza. They are like McDonald's of the hamburger world: a cheap imitation, nothing else. There's all kinds of variations. There's the fancily-named or fancily-priced Italian restaurants that offer a decent product, "artsy-fartsy" places like California Pizza Kitchen (oh, don't get me started), individual ones with an Italian first name which are passed on for a known entity in whatever cuisine.
So until I return to my grandmother's homeland or "The City That Never Sleeps," it's a whole lot of gambling without much payoff. So I stick to a small satellite of restaurants, still hoping for the diamond in the rough.
The list of needed improvements is short but significant: the parking. The lot is shared with other businesses, and each spot is reserved for a business. PanCoast gets just two spots, and sometimes one of their delivery cars assumes a position. On weekends, you can get away with parking in Las Lomas next door, but otherwise you might end up parking on the street (the lot is small, not much space to wait, turn around, etc.). Second, the view. Sure it's Walnut Creek. It's also a part of Main Street inhabited by a few, nondescript businesses or the backs of homes. Finally, Sirius radio or a CD is always playing and the type and volume varies. Sometimes it's the Grateful Dead, one time I heard Frank Sinatra, but usually it's some form of classic rock or hard rock. Not terrible music, but it's all up to the staff on hand and what time of day/night it is.
Nearby is Pizza Guys. Every Italian bone in my body says, "resist, resist" but I end up there more often than I think. It's not exceptional pizza by any means, but it's become a kind of comfort food. The people are nice, the pizza good enough for most nights, and it's easy in and out.
Recently, I went to the much-ballyhooed Zachary's in Pleasant Hill. This is the chain that began in Berkeley. They have one in San Ramon as well. I did not try their famous Chicago style because I don't care for Chicago style, and in both trips (one was to the SR location), I just got a slice of pepperoni and a side Caesar. Therefore, it's too early to make a true call on it, but overall I would rate the pizza good to very good. Since freshly-made is always better than slices, the jury is most definitely still out.
After PanCoast, though, I really love Round Table Pizza. There is something a little different with their pizza that to this day I cannot put a finger on. I just know I love the taste. I also dig their atmosphere, furniture, etc. I'd be a regular customer if it weren't for the price. The last time I almost caved in was during the World Series. It was late, I was hungry, the game was on. A small two-topping pizza and a soda was going to be $17.50. Just couldn't open the wallet on that. That price is downright highway robbery for a chain as big as Round Table. There used to be one in Berkeley on University that had substantially lower prices, perhaps to cater to college students, and I'd go there (back in the day) on my independent movie sojourns (before Century 5 became CineArts) and on therapy nights (as I saw a psychologist nearby).
The one I cannot figure out why it's popular is Rocco's. The decorations are impressive. And...that's it. The pizza always comes out of the oven looking great but tastes crappy. You can literally taste the staleness or after-frozen stigma in each part of the pizza. Additionally, the service is horrible. Want a refill on that drink? Easier to stand up, go in the little alleyway the servers use, and refill it yourself. And they always look like they're hardly trying, like inside their minds they're already dreaming about what they're going to do after work.
When it comes to "the best pizza I ever had," the answer is easy: Italy. In 2009 my father and stepmother took a bunch of us on a Mediterranean cruise. We departed from Venice but had a day and a half to get acclimated and sight-see. That first day my father and I stopped at a pizza place. Much like the ones in New York, there wasn't much seating in it, and you ordered from the counter. Seeing all those pizzas there, steaming and ready to eat, is an image I hope I never forget. I settled on a ham and mushroom slice and also a cheese slice if memory serves. I will not ever be able to rightly describe the taste and consistency, but it was beyond great. It was magical, as if a bunch of Italian fairies circled around my head, cascading red, green, and white pixie dust. I knew at that exact moment that I would never, ever experience that taste in America, so enjoy each and every delicious bite. The freshness just exploded in my mouth. And sure enough, before and since, I have never tasted anything like it.
In 2007, and also in 2009, I visited my brother in New York City. I had some great pizza there as well. The first time around, my brother made a list of about five places I had to try to get the authentic experience. One was Joe's, where a scene from Spider-Man was filmed. Very good, but did not knock my socks off. I think I made it to 3 of them, and my favorite was Lombardi's. It is a very unusual restaurant. It claims fame as the first pizzeria established in the United States. The restaurant has a couple of floors and a maze-like configuration, and there were many decorations of Italian theme plastered everywhere. I was so overwhelmed (in a good way), that I can't recall exactly what we had. I believe we had some kind of half-and-half going. I just remember it being so satisfying. Right after I got back from that trip, I went on a license plate trip in Scottsdale, Arizona. Driving through, I noticed a Gilardino's restaurant. This was one of the ones I didn't visit in New York. The pizza was definitely New York style and very, very delicious. I asked about the origin and it was certified legit by the server. I don't remember how, exactly. I believe it was a relative of the New York Gilardino family. I could not convince my brother, however. He insisted there was no way it was the same and that even if it looked like a duck, walked like a duck, and talked like a duck, it couldn't be a duck (so to speak). I would have to research my journals and photo books to see exactly how many of those 5 and which ones I ended up visiting between the two New York trips.
Outside of all that, it's tapping my inadequate memory. I remember one on a So-Cal boardwalk that was pretty much other-worldly. In Tennessee where my father lived for three years there was a hole-in-the-wall place that served delicious pizza cut into squares. When I was a boy, Freddie's, in downtown Lafayette, was wildly popular. The place was canvassed in napkins with drawings on them, it had pinball, it was crowded and had red brick walls. Eventually they moved down to the street to a bigger, nicer, but much less memorable building and their customer base seemed dwindle. Could have been the building. Could have been the pizza (the original Freddie retired in the day-to-day sense, if memory serves). Could have just been growing up, but soon it lost its magic. Eventually it closed and the location is now a Mountain Mike's.
Having no means to Italy for the foreseeable future, and less reason and resources to go to New York, I'm resigned to trying to find the next great pizza joint close to home. For awhile there was a spot in Pleasant Hill called NYPD Pizza (a chain based primarily in the east). They were excellent, but the first pizza I had there after the cruise made all my previous engagements with the place seem like an illusion. PanCoast is definitely my first choice, but such is the expensive nature of pizza that I have to limit myself.
I love pizza, but I am sad that most Americans experience it via Pizza Hut and Domino's. Those places do not serve pizza. They are like McDonald's of the hamburger world: a cheap imitation, nothing else. There's all kinds of variations. There's the fancily-named or fancily-priced Italian restaurants that offer a decent product, "artsy-fartsy" places like California Pizza Kitchen (oh, don't get me started), individual ones with an Italian first name which are passed on for a known entity in whatever cuisine.
So until I return to my grandmother's homeland or "The City That Never Sleeps," it's a whole lot of gambling without much payoff. So I stick to a small satellite of restaurants, still hoping for the diamond in the rough.
Saturday, September 21, 2013
Night Crawlers
"Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise." -Ben Franklin
"Night, the beloved. Night, when words fade and things come alive. When the destructive analysis of day is done, and all that is truly important becomes whole and sound again. When man reassembles his fragmentary self and grows with the calm of a tree." -Antione de Saint Exupery, Flight to Arras
In recent years I have been thinking about night. I used to pride myself on being "a morning person" and surmised that before long I'd become like my father, arousing happily at 4, 5, or 6 in the morning, chipping away at chores, catching up on work, or churning the wells of creativity. And while some of that is true to a degree--I am generally quite productive between 7 and 9 a.m.--I have found that night has more and more become a friend.
Though many nights these days are spent watching TV or Netflix discs, that in itself is enjoyable. And it usually comes after a satisfying day of work, when the sense of accomplishment is at its best. Night is also a time for basketball. There may be no activity I enjoy more than playing basketball (more on that in a future blog), especially in pleasant Bay Area evenings when the sun is beginning its descent behind trees or hills, and there's just enough of a lilting breeze to provide good aeration.
As my aversion to harsh sun has grown (spurned largely by an episode of basal cell carcinoma), my affinity for night has increased. No need for sunscreen, sun hat, sunglasses. In the cool evening air I move faster, focus better, worry less. Night is a time for sweatpants and comfortable old shirts, for hot showers and slippers and couches.
It is night, not day, that has cloaked me in true and rich emotion, has more often than not doused me with a creative spark. Recently in Martinez I bought two new rats at Petco, then dined at Mountain Mike's Pizza. I don't even really like Mountain Mike's Pizza. But at that time, it hit the spot. There were two cops also dining there, and we all stayed past closing. One of the cops was contemplating taking a new job. The other advised him that it would be hard to leave the department, but a solid opportunity. I made another late night run to Rite Aid. On other nights, a stop at Lunardi's is routine. Both stores, in the Palos Verdes Mall just a minute's drive from my home, have been saviors and spots of comfort. When one of the clerks at Lunardi's sees me at 6 or 7 instead of 7:30-9, she says "You're early." The other day I stopped in minutes before the 9:00 closing time to get my usual two mild Italian sausages without fennel, and the guy picked them out and wrapped them before I even got to the counter.
If I've babysat, or attended a pleasant work party at some restaurant, or seen a performance of some kind, I emerge into the night emotionally satisfied, and that satisfaction seems to drape over everything, to cast even the mundane in a slight glow. I have spent some nights at Starbucks, doing homework along with other students, but it only feels authentic if it's at night.
And finally night is a time to also feel somber or sad. It is closer to sleep, where feelings are channeled into dreams or forgotten, and to a new day, when we can begin all over again.
"Night, the beloved. Night, when words fade and things come alive. When the destructive analysis of day is done, and all that is truly important becomes whole and sound again. When man reassembles his fragmentary self and grows with the calm of a tree." -Antione de Saint Exupery, Flight to Arras
In recent years I have been thinking about night. I used to pride myself on being "a morning person" and surmised that before long I'd become like my father, arousing happily at 4, 5, or 6 in the morning, chipping away at chores, catching up on work, or churning the wells of creativity. And while some of that is true to a degree--I am generally quite productive between 7 and 9 a.m.--I have found that night has more and more become a friend.
Though many nights these days are spent watching TV or Netflix discs, that in itself is enjoyable. And it usually comes after a satisfying day of work, when the sense of accomplishment is at its best. Night is also a time for basketball. There may be no activity I enjoy more than playing basketball (more on that in a future blog), especially in pleasant Bay Area evenings when the sun is beginning its descent behind trees or hills, and there's just enough of a lilting breeze to provide good aeration.
As my aversion to harsh sun has grown (spurned largely by an episode of basal cell carcinoma), my affinity for night has increased. No need for sunscreen, sun hat, sunglasses. In the cool evening air I move faster, focus better, worry less. Night is a time for sweatpants and comfortable old shirts, for hot showers and slippers and couches.
It is night, not day, that has cloaked me in true and rich emotion, has more often than not doused me with a creative spark. Recently in Martinez I bought two new rats at Petco, then dined at Mountain Mike's Pizza. I don't even really like Mountain Mike's Pizza. But at that time, it hit the spot. There were two cops also dining there, and we all stayed past closing. One of the cops was contemplating taking a new job. The other advised him that it would be hard to leave the department, but a solid opportunity. I made another late night run to Rite Aid. On other nights, a stop at Lunardi's is routine. Both stores, in the Palos Verdes Mall just a minute's drive from my home, have been saviors and spots of comfort. When one of the clerks at Lunardi's sees me at 6 or 7 instead of 7:30-9, she says "You're early." The other day I stopped in minutes before the 9:00 closing time to get my usual two mild Italian sausages without fennel, and the guy picked them out and wrapped them before I even got to the counter.
If I've babysat, or attended a pleasant work party at some restaurant, or seen a performance of some kind, I emerge into the night emotionally satisfied, and that satisfaction seems to drape over everything, to cast even the mundane in a slight glow. I have spent some nights at Starbucks, doing homework along with other students, but it only feels authentic if it's at night.
And finally night is a time to also feel somber or sad. It is closer to sleep, where feelings are channeled into dreams or forgotten, and to a new day, when we can begin all over again.
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Glamping
This weekend I went "Glamping." That is a made-up term by my best friend that translates as "glorified camping." She discovered the KOA (Kampgrounds of America) site in Petaluma. For those unfamiliar, it offers all the conveniences of a hotel - showers, a pool, general store, laundry room, playground - along with a couple of rustic touches (a petting zoo and a mining structure) all on a flat campground. Targeted towards families and very RV-friendly, it is situated next to a cow pasture just beyond Highway 37 and modern shopping centers.
So, probably against her better judgment, she invited me to accompany her and her family (husband and two children, the latter of which I have babysat and known for years), their still-new white chihuahua, and her co-worker who we've known since she was a teen and is now an adult in her late 20's on this promising adventure.
On the way in, we stopped at Sonic in American Canyon. I hadn't been here before, but to the rest of my travel-mates it was a mecca of epic proportions, with mouth-watering burgers and hot dogs and milkshakes crowned best in the land. I was not so impressed, especially after stuffing myself way too much far to fast, then boarding the gray mini-van where I couldn't see out the front window during the somewhat-curvy remainder to the site.
After setting up, we played Farkle and I won rather handily besides a respectable second place by Joanna. Somewhere in there Arjun, age 12 in one month, went with me in search of a vending machine at the Rec Hall. No machine, but we played a round of billiards. I was very much in control until that nasty old 8-ball, and he ended up winning on a scratch.
The next morning, I dined on bacon, grapes, and a cup of hot chocolate which burned the taste buds right off my tongue on the first sip. My travel-mates also had a breakfast sandwich involving Hawaiian bread, but I declined. We dropped a couple pieces of bacon, to become a running joke, but Churro the dog got the last laugh as the discarded meat slipped into his stomach.
We made late afternoon plans based on KOA program offerings, but with nothing in between and no laptop the day seemed a long haul. How have we become slaves to our electronic devices! We went on an official tour which included a stop at the Bocce ball court. I gladly explained the game to all and Joanna and Arjun faced off against Perry and I while 10-year-old Sariana watched and Garnet watched Churro in the neighboring dog park. Perry soon decided sitting in the shade was preferable and played only on one end. I fell behind 2-0, went on a 5-0 run, then watched in horror as the opposition stormed back and came away with the 7-5 win.
Then we stopped by the Rec Hall and got a share of Arcade Games. I got revenge on Arjun at billiards, Joanna set records at Carnival King, and I had an unexpected thrill with Crusader such-and-such driving game. Sariana got the pants beat off her by her mom at air hockey and Perry fell to Joanna in the same.
Upon returning to base camp we played Bang!, an ingenious card game in which six characters--three outlaws, one renegade, a deputy, and a sheriff--try to outwit each other. The outlaws win by gunning down the sheriff, the renegade wins by being the last one standing (killing in order the outlaws, deputy, and sheriff), while the sheriff and deputy are victors by vanquishing the outlaws and renegade. In play you can shoot, put up a protection, or throw everything in to happy or unhappy chaos. It is one of the most interactive and enjoyable games I have ever played. Joanna brought it, and she has a history now of finding such games (usually at Black Diamond Games in Concord), sharing them successfully at her job in school-age daycare, and then at occasions where we are together like this.
After a two-hour stint at the pool, we visited the petting zoo, went on a Scavenger Hunt which earned us a chocolate Kiss, and took a hay ride around the camp. During the ride I mostly looked for non-CA license plates, and found quite a few, endeavoring me later to make a list.
Our dinner consisted of hot dogs, asparagus, watermelon, and corn on the cob, all except the melon roasted on the KOA's little grill. We headed to the pool deck to watch Life of Pi on a large screen. They show a movie every night, and the new The Muppets had been playing the night before. Now Life of Pi was my top film of 2012 and no one else had seen it. I happen to be reading the novel right now and am in the latter third of the book. I was so excited for my friend and the kids to see it.
I gave them some prep (no, it's just about a tiger on the boat, that's what I thought, too, before seeing it the first time). The weather was perfect. We had good seats. But alas, even a glorified home movie simulation cannot even remotely capture the magic of the big screen, there were the interruptions of the pool in the background and several kids up front who popped in and out of their seats throughout the movie, and poolside lights wiped away some of the visual magnificence of the film.
In the end Garnet liked it "better than I thought I would" but wasn't blown away, Arjun surmised it was "depressing," and Sariana decided it was "weird." To their credit, they watched the whole thing, genuinely were impressed by parts, and much of the layered meaning of the film I would not expect kids of their age to understand. Meanwhile, Joanna left for a key portion and Churro--well, he just slept under the blanket.
When we got back the kids voluntarily went to bed and the adults played a game called "Cards Against Humanity." Another Joanna discovery, this game is somewhat like Apples To Apples, but involves filling in blanks and lots of adult humor. Some of it is very crass or offensive. At first I was being a stick-in-the-mud and discarding many cards which I felt were unfit. However, as the game wore on I loosened up considerably, and by the end of the night - 12:30 - we all had laughed to the point of tears. I even won the game, an irony which was not lost on my teammates. Really, I cannot even describe some of the things which befell us with hysteria. But let's just say that among many others, a sentence involving Bill Clinton, nakedness, and a bearskin rug could not have been more hilarious.
Shortly after retiring, having been amazed we hadn't been run out of town (we were gently shushed by the staff during Farkle the previous night), we were treated to some early morning fireworks when an argument ensued a few spots over. It began with a man telling a group to keep it down and stop using profanity because it was keeping his wife and kids awake. Things erupted shortly with a woman shouting "you head-butted me, I'm bleeding! I'm a mother, I have children!" and wailing on and on. Let's just say she did not sound like Betty Crocker, to say the least, and the bruhaha elicited gawking long before sympathy. Staff were called, and then police, but none of us actually saw how it ended. At any rate, the next morning the only sign of trouble was a sorry-looking Cadillac and a bevy of beer bottles around the area where it had occurred. Apparently, the initial mixing which caused the elevated noise in the first place was a guy hitting on another's wife.
I was the first awake on Sunday, arising at 7:00. I read from Life of Pi, then visited the cows and the three tan donkeys in the nearby field. I had seen them the day earlier and found the donkeys to be quite friendly. Today they were somewhat hesitant until I decided to feed them. One snatched up a leaf off the ground which had fallen from a tree just overhead. I took off a branch and the donkey gobbled it up straightaway. I fed all three but before long a few cows sauntered over for a helping.
By this time a girl and her mother had come to the fence and were already doing the same. We fed them for awhile but the mother was worried about being "caught." Perhaps it was the nice cool morning and my already high spirits and energy combined with Life of Pi (in Hindu religion, which is referenced in the material, cows are sacred), but when I saw those cows stick out their bluish tongues and swallow the leaves, and felt the breath shooting through their nostrils, I felt in some small way, for a brief moment, I had touched God.
I tried to rouse the kids to go with Churro and I on walk looking for out-of-state license plates, talked about mining coming up, and just generally annoyed both them and Joanna. At last they let the poor pooch out (a sacrifice), and the dog and I canvassed pretty much the entire campground. I added eight more states to the list for 28, as far-reaching as Maine and Vermont in the north, and Florida in the south. Utah seemed to be the most popular, although British Columbia took the Canadian crown and made a nice run.
Breakfast consisted of bagels, cinnamon rolls, and bacon, as well as hot chocolate and fruit. Perry made a Starbucks run. I went with grapes and the roll, which was delicious.
There wasn't much left of the morning. We had to pack, I took a shower, and eventually we all convened by the "Miner's Camp." Water comes down a chute into two gutters in a row arranged in a perpendicular fashion. In the wire-bottomed panning trays you dump in a bagful of coarse sand. After sifting it in the water below, you come out with gems, emeralds, fossils, and other such goodies. There's different packages you can buy, and the kids had done one bag the day earlier while I was getting a sandwich. While in a long line, I decided to get a couple of bags for us to share (it's $1 off during the 4-5 hour, though we thought it'd be a more substantial discount). One was a kind of mega-pack which included special components, in a designer drawstring bag. All told I spent $30 on rocks. Hmm.
The kids and I mined and the very special surprise was a large quartz rocks glittering clear and purple. It started out as a hunk of gray matter so I was very impressed. The kids and I split the loot to our liking. The extras were donated back into the mining trays.
As we pulled away, the van was packed to the gills and the kids happily occupied themselves with electronic gadgets and headphones. Having no other task to really occupy me - reading would make me carsick, the scenery was familiar and boring, and I wasn't driving - I resorted to chatting with the adults. Jo drifted off and Garnet tuned me out in parts, so the conversation focused between man and wife, which was probably how it should be, and I was carsick anyway but very pleased. Though we'd only gone an hour's drive away and been gone less than 48 hours, we may as well have been away for five days. It was odd, but even in the midst of all that civilization, I felt I had just been on vacation.
So, probably against her better judgment, she invited me to accompany her and her family (husband and two children, the latter of which I have babysat and known for years), their still-new white chihuahua, and her co-worker who we've known since she was a teen and is now an adult in her late 20's on this promising adventure.
On the way in, we stopped at Sonic in American Canyon. I hadn't been here before, but to the rest of my travel-mates it was a mecca of epic proportions, with mouth-watering burgers and hot dogs and milkshakes crowned best in the land. I was not so impressed, especially after stuffing myself way too much far to fast, then boarding the gray mini-van where I couldn't see out the front window during the somewhat-curvy remainder to the site.
After setting up, we played Farkle and I won rather handily besides a respectable second place by Joanna. Somewhere in there Arjun, age 12 in one month, went with me in search of a vending machine at the Rec Hall. No machine, but we played a round of billiards. I was very much in control until that nasty old 8-ball, and he ended up winning on a scratch.
The next morning, I dined on bacon, grapes, and a cup of hot chocolate which burned the taste buds right off my tongue on the first sip. My travel-mates also had a breakfast sandwich involving Hawaiian bread, but I declined. We dropped a couple pieces of bacon, to become a running joke, but Churro the dog got the last laugh as the discarded meat slipped into his stomach.
We made late afternoon plans based on KOA program offerings, but with nothing in between and no laptop the day seemed a long haul. How have we become slaves to our electronic devices! We went on an official tour which included a stop at the Bocce ball court. I gladly explained the game to all and Joanna and Arjun faced off against Perry and I while 10-year-old Sariana watched and Garnet watched Churro in the neighboring dog park. Perry soon decided sitting in the shade was preferable and played only on one end. I fell behind 2-0, went on a 5-0 run, then watched in horror as the opposition stormed back and came away with the 7-5 win.
Then we stopped by the Rec Hall and got a share of Arcade Games. I got revenge on Arjun at billiards, Joanna set records at Carnival King, and I had an unexpected thrill with Crusader such-and-such driving game. Sariana got the pants beat off her by her mom at air hockey and Perry fell to Joanna in the same.
Upon returning to base camp we played Bang!, an ingenious card game in which six characters--three outlaws, one renegade, a deputy, and a sheriff--try to outwit each other. The outlaws win by gunning down the sheriff, the renegade wins by being the last one standing (killing in order the outlaws, deputy, and sheriff), while the sheriff and deputy are victors by vanquishing the outlaws and renegade. In play you can shoot, put up a protection, or throw everything in to happy or unhappy chaos. It is one of the most interactive and enjoyable games I have ever played. Joanna brought it, and she has a history now of finding such games (usually at Black Diamond Games in Concord), sharing them successfully at her job in school-age daycare, and then at occasions where we are together like this.
After a two-hour stint at the pool, we visited the petting zoo, went on a Scavenger Hunt which earned us a chocolate Kiss, and took a hay ride around the camp. During the ride I mostly looked for non-CA license plates, and found quite a few, endeavoring me later to make a list.
Our dinner consisted of hot dogs, asparagus, watermelon, and corn on the cob, all except the melon roasted on the KOA's little grill. We headed to the pool deck to watch Life of Pi on a large screen. They show a movie every night, and the new The Muppets had been playing the night before. Now Life of Pi was my top film of 2012 and no one else had seen it. I happen to be reading the novel right now and am in the latter third of the book. I was so excited for my friend and the kids to see it.
I gave them some prep (no, it's just about a tiger on the boat, that's what I thought, too, before seeing it the first time). The weather was perfect. We had good seats. But alas, even a glorified home movie simulation cannot even remotely capture the magic of the big screen, there were the interruptions of the pool in the background and several kids up front who popped in and out of their seats throughout the movie, and poolside lights wiped away some of the visual magnificence of the film.
In the end Garnet liked it "better than I thought I would" but wasn't blown away, Arjun surmised it was "depressing," and Sariana decided it was "weird." To their credit, they watched the whole thing, genuinely were impressed by parts, and much of the layered meaning of the film I would not expect kids of their age to understand. Meanwhile, Joanna left for a key portion and Churro--well, he just slept under the blanket.
When we got back the kids voluntarily went to bed and the adults played a game called "Cards Against Humanity." Another Joanna discovery, this game is somewhat like Apples To Apples, but involves filling in blanks and lots of adult humor. Some of it is very crass or offensive. At first I was being a stick-in-the-mud and discarding many cards which I felt were unfit. However, as the game wore on I loosened up considerably, and by the end of the night - 12:30 - we all had laughed to the point of tears. I even won the game, an irony which was not lost on my teammates. Really, I cannot even describe some of the things which befell us with hysteria. But let's just say that among many others, a sentence involving Bill Clinton, nakedness, and a bearskin rug could not have been more hilarious.
Shortly after retiring, having been amazed we hadn't been run out of town (we were gently shushed by the staff during Farkle the previous night), we were treated to some early morning fireworks when an argument ensued a few spots over. It began with a man telling a group to keep it down and stop using profanity because it was keeping his wife and kids awake. Things erupted shortly with a woman shouting "you head-butted me, I'm bleeding! I'm a mother, I have children!" and wailing on and on. Let's just say she did not sound like Betty Crocker, to say the least, and the bruhaha elicited gawking long before sympathy. Staff were called, and then police, but none of us actually saw how it ended. At any rate, the next morning the only sign of trouble was a sorry-looking Cadillac and a bevy of beer bottles around the area where it had occurred. Apparently, the initial mixing which caused the elevated noise in the first place was a guy hitting on another's wife.
I was the first awake on Sunday, arising at 7:00. I read from Life of Pi, then visited the cows and the three tan donkeys in the nearby field. I had seen them the day earlier and found the donkeys to be quite friendly. Today they were somewhat hesitant until I decided to feed them. One snatched up a leaf off the ground which had fallen from a tree just overhead. I took off a branch and the donkey gobbled it up straightaway. I fed all three but before long a few cows sauntered over for a helping.
By this time a girl and her mother had come to the fence and were already doing the same. We fed them for awhile but the mother was worried about being "caught." Perhaps it was the nice cool morning and my already high spirits and energy combined with Life of Pi (in Hindu religion, which is referenced in the material, cows are sacred), but when I saw those cows stick out their bluish tongues and swallow the leaves, and felt the breath shooting through their nostrils, I felt in some small way, for a brief moment, I had touched God.
I tried to rouse the kids to go with Churro and I on walk looking for out-of-state license plates, talked about mining coming up, and just generally annoyed both them and Joanna. At last they let the poor pooch out (a sacrifice), and the dog and I canvassed pretty much the entire campground. I added eight more states to the list for 28, as far-reaching as Maine and Vermont in the north, and Florida in the south. Utah seemed to be the most popular, although British Columbia took the Canadian crown and made a nice run.
Breakfast consisted of bagels, cinnamon rolls, and bacon, as well as hot chocolate and fruit. Perry made a Starbucks run. I went with grapes and the roll, which was delicious.
There wasn't much left of the morning. We had to pack, I took a shower, and eventually we all convened by the "Miner's Camp." Water comes down a chute into two gutters in a row arranged in a perpendicular fashion. In the wire-bottomed panning trays you dump in a bagful of coarse sand. After sifting it in the water below, you come out with gems, emeralds, fossils, and other such goodies. There's different packages you can buy, and the kids had done one bag the day earlier while I was getting a sandwich. While in a long line, I decided to get a couple of bags for us to share (it's $1 off during the 4-5 hour, though we thought it'd be a more substantial discount). One was a kind of mega-pack which included special components, in a designer drawstring bag. All told I spent $30 on rocks. Hmm.
The kids and I mined and the very special surprise was a large quartz rocks glittering clear and purple. It started out as a hunk of gray matter so I was very impressed. The kids and I split the loot to our liking. The extras were donated back into the mining trays.
As we pulled away, the van was packed to the gills and the kids happily occupied themselves with electronic gadgets and headphones. Having no other task to really occupy me - reading would make me carsick, the scenery was familiar and boring, and I wasn't driving - I resorted to chatting with the adults. Jo drifted off and Garnet tuned me out in parts, so the conversation focused between man and wife, which was probably how it should be, and I was carsick anyway but very pleased. Though we'd only gone an hour's drive away and been gone less than 48 hours, we may as well have been away for five days. It was odd, but even in the midst of all that civilization, I felt I had just been on vacation.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Growing Up Plating
This month I was published in PLATES, the magazine of the Automobile License Plate Collectors Association. It is my 5th article for the publication. I started my collection in the mid-80s, at about age 9. I got into them because I just liked them, and they were part of a broader interest in the different states of the US.
Back then I did not keep any records. When I got a plate, I proudly attached it to my bedroom wall. I had a few hundred by 1988. I joined ALPCA in '86, and ended my membership in '92, as I was ending high school. The collection went dormant until 2006, when I joined back in with gusto and quickly added onto my collection.
From those early days, I thankfully did keep letters from other collectors and correspondence with those who I bought plates from via the classified ads in the newsletter (not yet called PLATES, and all black and white, in contrast to the glossy, full color majesty of today). This was an era before electronic correspondence, of course, so established collectors actually contacted new collectors by snail mail. I had people from all over the country write to me, and even some from overseas. Many of them were interested to find out my young age; then (as is now), collectors who are children are quite rare. Some had amusing stories, and some passed on some free plates to me to help me jump start my collection. I never forgot this kindness.
For the article "A Boy in ALPCA," subsequently titled "Paying It Forward" by the editor, I pulled together this
correspondence and a few pictures. The biggest picture used is myself on my 10th birthday, blowing out the candles on my license plate birthday cake (the sun graphic design, still one of my all-time favorites). My mother made the cake. Another picture has me and my brother Matt in front of the Washington Monument in '87, with me wearing an ALPCA t-shirt, and my brother an entertaining grin on his face.
This summer in Charleston, West Virginia, I met 2 collectors on the Riverboat Cruise whose letters from long ago are featured in the article. One is a gentleman from Vermont who wrote me a refund check for $1 which I never cashed. The other man is from Iowa; we completed some kind of trade which landed me an Iowa plate from my birth year. It was an honor to meet both of them.
If not for the great hospitality shown to me in the early days by such collectors, I might never have pursued the hobby further. For that I am very grateful, and the article is a tender tribute to them and to family or anyone else who helped me get started.
Back then I did not keep any records. When I got a plate, I proudly attached it to my bedroom wall. I had a few hundred by 1988. I joined ALPCA in '86, and ended my membership in '92, as I was ending high school. The collection went dormant until 2006, when I joined back in with gusto and quickly added onto my collection.
From those early days, I thankfully did keep letters from other collectors and correspondence with those who I bought plates from via the classified ads in the newsletter (not yet called PLATES, and all black and white, in contrast to the glossy, full color majesty of today). This was an era before electronic correspondence, of course, so established collectors actually contacted new collectors by snail mail. I had people from all over the country write to me, and even some from overseas. Many of them were interested to find out my young age; then (as is now), collectors who are children are quite rare. Some had amusing stories, and some passed on some free plates to me to help me jump start my collection. I never forgot this kindness.
For the article "A Boy in ALPCA," subsequently titled "Paying It Forward" by the editor, I pulled together this
correspondence and a few pictures. The biggest picture used is myself on my 10th birthday, blowing out the candles on my license plate birthday cake (the sun graphic design, still one of my all-time favorites). My mother made the cake. Another picture has me and my brother Matt in front of the Washington Monument in '87, with me wearing an ALPCA t-shirt, and my brother an entertaining grin on his face.
This summer in Charleston, West Virginia, I met 2 collectors on the Riverboat Cruise whose letters from long ago are featured in the article. One is a gentleman from Vermont who wrote me a refund check for $1 which I never cashed. The other man is from Iowa; we completed some kind of trade which landed me an Iowa plate from my birth year. It was an honor to meet both of them.
If not for the great hospitality shown to me in the early days by such collectors, I might never have pursued the hobby further. For that I am very grateful, and the article is a tender tribute to them and to family or anyone else who helped me get started.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Out with the old, in with the new
Today I bought a new (used) car.
R.I.P., '97 Ford Escort.
My friends on Facebook probably know what I'm talking about, as I've turned the saga into a recurring soap opera. I bought it used in 2002 for $5,500 in full straight out the lot. (Ah, those were the days. I actually had MORE money). Had 75K on it when I bought it, and now it has about 192K. No one thought it'd last even this long. Even my mechanic said he'd never seen one go so high, so were in "uncharted territory."
I had normal maintenance and repairs on it until this summer, when the check engine light came on, disappeared and reappeared between repairs. New spark plugs didn't fix it. Nor the thingy the spark plugs plug into. Nor the alternator, which was in need of replacing anyway. Just for fun, the battery also began dying during this time. In one month's time I poured in nearly a grand, all for about 3-4 weeks worth of driving. Because it came back, and then it was finally diagnosed as a sticking valve. Read: a rather simple-looking problem that is in fact a nightmare to fix and not at worth a fix on a car such as that one.
I wanted it to hold out to 200K, or at least Christmas, but the chocking engine which had previously reared its ugly head primarily during startup began happening at other, random times.
When the 9-year-old said "it's time to let it go," I knew there was some wisdom in that small body. And of course, every adult I talked to agreed. No one could believe I made it as far as I did.
So it was this weekend that, spurred on by an email from Patelco Credit Union, I attended a used car shindig in Pleasanton. I was disappointed quickly--there were no cars under 13 grand. It was windy and lurking with young men who just as easily looked the part of a fundraising car wash team. I left.
On North Main St., close to my work and my home, there are a number of used car lots, so I just started going to them one by one. At Michael Stead Jeep/Dodge/Chrysler, I stopped in expecting to find nothing since none of those models were on my list. Lo and behold, there was a pretty little 2007 Honda Civic Hybrid in teal (though to me it appears more like a "frosty blue") at a fair price.
About 3 hours later, I was the new owner.
This is somewhat an act of faith. I realize that sounds like a horrible thing to say when buying any car, let alone one that's above your price range, but here I am.
Its a beautiful car. Clean as a whistle. 44K miles. And so quiet I can't get over it.
The hard part, of course, is paying for it. There's going to have to be sacrifices on my part (no more eating out everyday for lunch, for starters), and I might have to re-broach the idea of a parental loan. But the monthly payment seems doable, and I am willing to sacrifice for this sweet gem. I feel as if I'm entering a marriage: "for better or worse, 'til death do us part..." Among the more obvious sacrifices is to go a year without buying license plates. Well, almost. Late June is the annual convention in Des Moines, IA.
This was the year of spending. New furniture, new rat cage, a dental something-or-other, a laptop, 2 extra vacations, a silly toy, and now a car. Please let 2012 be the year of saving.
I feel so happy about this new car. But I also feel very sad about the Escort. I feel bad that it's just sitting there in the dark, wondering why the hell I stripped it of its plates and left it there. I think it wanted to go further for me. It served me well for 8 years, even if the dome light wouldn't work, even if it had crank windows, even if it had this engine trouble at the most inopportune time (a month after I paid for a smog check and registration and the battery--really??). It put up with some rough treatment (sweaty after basketball games, kids, food/drink spills, a doxie, etc.).
So, Honda (I refuse to name my cars, sorry), I do pledge to take great care of you, to be gentle with you, and
give you regular baths. In return, please last for many Christmases to follow...
R.I.P., '97 Ford Escort.
My friends on Facebook probably know what I'm talking about, as I've turned the saga into a recurring soap opera. I bought it used in 2002 for $5,500 in full straight out the lot. (Ah, those were the days. I actually had MORE money). Had 75K on it when I bought it, and now it has about 192K. No one thought it'd last even this long. Even my mechanic said he'd never seen one go so high, so were in "uncharted territory."
I had normal maintenance and repairs on it until this summer, when the check engine light came on, disappeared and reappeared between repairs. New spark plugs didn't fix it. Nor the thingy the spark plugs plug into. Nor the alternator, which was in need of replacing anyway. Just for fun, the battery also began dying during this time. In one month's time I poured in nearly a grand, all for about 3-4 weeks worth of driving. Because it came back, and then it was finally diagnosed as a sticking valve. Read: a rather simple-looking problem that is in fact a nightmare to fix and not at worth a fix on a car such as that one.
I wanted it to hold out to 200K, or at least Christmas, but the chocking engine which had previously reared its ugly head primarily during startup began happening at other, random times.
When the 9-year-old said "it's time to let it go," I knew there was some wisdom in that small body. And of course, every adult I talked to agreed. No one could believe I made it as far as I did.
So it was this weekend that, spurred on by an email from Patelco Credit Union, I attended a used car shindig in Pleasanton. I was disappointed quickly--there were no cars under 13 grand. It was windy and lurking with young men who just as easily looked the part of a fundraising car wash team. I left.
On North Main St., close to my work and my home, there are a number of used car lots, so I just started going to them one by one. At Michael Stead Jeep/Dodge/Chrysler, I stopped in expecting to find nothing since none of those models were on my list. Lo and behold, there was a pretty little 2007 Honda Civic Hybrid in teal (though to me it appears more like a "frosty blue") at a fair price.
About 3 hours later, I was the new owner.
This is somewhat an act of faith. I realize that sounds like a horrible thing to say when buying any car, let alone one that's above your price range, but here I am.
Its a beautiful car. Clean as a whistle. 44K miles. And so quiet I can't get over it.
The hard part, of course, is paying for it. There's going to have to be sacrifices on my part (no more eating out everyday for lunch, for starters), and I might have to re-broach the idea of a parental loan. But the monthly payment seems doable, and I am willing to sacrifice for this sweet gem. I feel as if I'm entering a marriage: "for better or worse, 'til death do us part..." Among the more obvious sacrifices is to go a year without buying license plates. Well, almost. Late June is the annual convention in Des Moines, IA.
This was the year of spending. New furniture, new rat cage, a dental something-or-other, a laptop, 2 extra vacations, a silly toy, and now a car. Please let 2012 be the year of saving.
I feel so happy about this new car. But I also feel very sad about the Escort. I feel bad that it's just sitting there in the dark, wondering why the hell I stripped it of its plates and left it there. I think it wanted to go further for me. It served me well for 8 years, even if the dome light wouldn't work, even if it had crank windows, even if it had this engine trouble at the most inopportune time (a month after I paid for a smog check and registration and the battery--really??). It put up with some rough treatment (sweaty after basketball games, kids, food/drink spills, a doxie, etc.).
So, Honda (I refuse to name my cars, sorry), I do pledge to take great care of you, to be gentle with you, and
give you regular baths. In return, please last for many Christmases to follow...
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