It broke. My car just stopped working. It might sound normal but this has been happening since I bought that same car when I was fifteen years old. It was old then and it is ancient now. It's a 1991 Honda Civic. LX I might add. That stands for Luxury... xylophone.
I was so excited when, at that ripe age of 15, amongst hundreds of other beaters that were on sale at the glamorous dog racing track, we found it. It wasn't really shining, it didn't look flashy, it didn't have low mileage, but somehow I knew it would be mine. It would have to be mine because we could only afford something for $3k or less. I had no idea that I would come to still rely on its feeble abilities some eleven years later.
My high school years were sprinkled with little shitty moments in my go-kart. In the summer time I would drive around with friends fill the car with the delightful odors of feet, beer, and pot. As winter rolled along I turned on the half-assed heater that would then pump the combined smells right into the faces of those same friends. It felt like a humid locker room confined to a tiny little machine.
I got a lot of much needed exercise during the winter months. My car putted along pumping out a hot garbage smell for about a mile before it decided it could no longer take the stress of working. School was only about two miles away and yet I had to start my mornings earlier so I could anticipate my car breaking down half-way to school. It would chug, chug, chug and stop. I would recklessly roll, unaided by power steering, into whatever nearby neighborhood I could make it to. I then cursed the car several times, kicked it and walked the rest of the way to school in the cold. At the end of the day I always had to find someone to hitch with so I could find my car that would miraculously start after a few hours of rest.
It did this for several years and that was just how I lived. I became accustomed to driving as far as I could before my car simply stopped and I had to walk the rest of the way. The smartest thing I ever did was realizing that it was best to drive through neighborhoods because they had an abundance of parking for those who needed to end up on some random street corner.
The car hit its peak the summer of my senior year of high school when I was driving it to my work in the middle of nowhere. It was 6 am, cold and right before I started to nod off at the wheel I noticed a plume of black smoke pouring out of the hood and through the floor boards. I managed to reach a randomly placed shooting range where I parked in the gravel lot. The range was closed at the time so I had resort to fists and kicks to show my disapproval of my poorly functioning shit-box as I was by this time calling it. I had to walk the rest of the way to work until a hippy in a windowless pervert van picked me up and talked to me about how his favorite fruit was bananas. Thankfully it was a short ride. I left my car at the range for two weeks before they finally called me. These kind gentlemen went to the effort of finding my information from the license plate and calling me to come retrieve it. It was going to be difficult to rid myself of this cursed automobile.
I left for college and then was gone two years more and I was free of my car. In place of the old Honda I recieved constant insults about how I never drove and how I had no right to call shot gun when I was never able to offer shot gun to others. I was content to take this criticism because I knew that had my car been with me it would have only suffered further from the weight of my beer bellied friends. (Myself included.)
So instead it was to my sister that this heap of metal went. She was perhaps not the greatest caretaker for this car, but it seemed to work in the same off and on manner for her. The new symptom that developed during these years was that the key would become frozen in the ignition in the winter and so my sister would leave there all day. It was never once stolen.
It seemed that despite all the invitations no one wanted this car and so it was once bequeathed to me when I arrived home again. And so I still drive this Honda and it still continues to be a piece of crap. The fact is I need that little thing to keep working. While it may not look good and it certainly doesn't help with the ladies, it does, from time to time, get me places.
It is now sitting outside my apartment, broken, dirty and with a flat tire. It looks sadder than those commercials where Sarah Mclachlan sings about dogs getting beat up. I haven't taken it to the shop yet because I'm afraid that it is gone forever. At least when it's rotting outside of my apartment there's still some mystery as to if it will continue to piss me off for another eleven years. Otherwise, I might just have to grow up and make enough money to buy a real car. We shall see.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Marco Polo
I think I'm beginning to grow weary of my apartment building. I've been here for about two years and while I've certainly enjoyed some great times within these walls, I've come to find the oddities of the other residents quite unpalatable.
Recently, I've changed careers and I've found myself working in the evenings rather than the more typical 9-5 schedule. My mornings are spent doing what most in my position would do; I run errands, work out, paint pictures, trade stocks, and many other stimulating activities.
Sometimes, however, I will skip these activities, which often take me out of the house, and sleep in until 11 only to sluggishly mosey over to my couch to watch crappy movies on the netflix account I should have cancelled months ago. Quite honestly I've been doing that a lot more than the activities afore mentioned.
The life of a loafer can be truly wonderful if one is alone in his loafing. However, my apartment seems to be filled with weirdoes whose daily doings are something more than unusual.
Let's begin with the land lady. Her name is Andrea and she calls me Drew. Whenever I talk to Andrea she seems utterly busy. She always has some sort of major apartment project in the works.
This summer I woke up every day at 7 am to the pounding cacophony of the Mexican workers drilling holes into every single balcony in the building. On the first day I was excited to practice a bit of Spanish and I even thought about offering them beers, but after two weeks of the horrendous drilling noises I began to consider how easy it might be to simply push each one off the balcony in the hopes that at least he might be able to claim worker's comp.
This project then facilitated the painting of the newly drilled balconies by Driller Jorge's cousin Gustavo y los Amigos. These guys took even longer and for another two weeks I awoke to ranchero tunes only to stumble into the patio furniture inconveniently scattered around my kitchen and living room. It was a feng shui nightmare.
Her new kick has been remodeling the "lobby" of the "elegant" Marco Polo Apartments. The new floor tiles have a New Mexican orange rust look that contrasts delightfully with the black and white Swiss-villa-inspired walls. It looks terrible.
Her husband/boy friend/concubine/dude is an odd ball too. He's got long dirty hair, loves him some sweat pants, and he thoroughly enjoys reminding my roommate that his truck is, "the fucking tits man." Aside from that I don't know what he does except have crude conversations with people on a walkie talkie. No joke. A walkie talkie.
There's one guy who I always see throughout the day. It used to freak me out because I would sometimes see him in the laundry room and then only moments later he would be walking down the stairs towards said laundry room. These kind of things happened quite frequently and it wasn't until I was told of the existence of his twin brother that I was able relax and stop carrying my air soft gun with me to the laundry room.
These twins are really twiny. You can't tell them apart. I assume they are from some eastern European country because...well I have no justification, but they certainly have weird accents. All winter one of these guys, or both, who the hell knows, will do "spa" treatments where he sits in the sauna for an ungodly amount of time only to then run outside and sit in the snow. We're talking ass on the ground in the snow. I'm sure this contrast of temperatures is nice for the blood flow, but as a resident this guy or guys or whatever need name tags.
The crème de la crème though is the butt hole who lives right above me. I have never seen this dude, but I have to imagine that he is indeed fat. Probably the kind of jellyfish fat that will shudder on its own under the force of a strong breeze. He most certainly has thinning greasy hair and I can guarantee that his “around the house” outfit of a two sizes too short burgundy bathrobe and white motel slippers. As he strolls around the apartment I imagine that he ties the bathrobe but his gut is too rotund for the full coverage so he has about six inches of belly exposed down the center of his figure.
Now with that image in mind you might be wondering, "What are you talking about if you've never actually seen this guy? How do you even know of his existence?" Excellent question. It is not his appearance that bothers me but rather the noises he makes from above.
It is more infrequent now, but in the heat of the summer this guy would spend at least two hours each day just belting opera tunes. I mean, he really thinks he could be the next tenor. The best part is that he'll often accompany himself by playing a little piano. I don't know if he's just never learned to play or if his fingers are too fat to only push one key, but Pavarotti loves to play simple one handed piano tunes while he literally shouts out the lyrics to some of his favorite operas. I personally think he's a bit too liberal with his use of vibrato because almost every word sounds like he’s singing while falling down staires in a sleeping bag. This guy's talent from drawing out syllables would make a catholic priest sound like a fast talker. Sometimes it will take him more than a whole minute to belt out one sentence.
One time he invited some friends over and "performed" for them and I can only imagine that they were all sitting on his several items of mismatched furniture trying to point their eyes at anything but this guys exposed belly button just bursting from the crack in his robe. I imagine that he probably offered them some slices of white sandwich bread and perhaps some chocolate milk to accompany.
There are many more residents of the illustrious Marco Polo Apartments who freak me out but there simply isn't enough time. The only one I'll quickly mention is this dick who always seems to be in the elevator when I take it. I guess he maybe wants to be young again and he thinks that all guys my age talk like out of work porn directors. He'll say things like, "What the fuck man? How the fuck are ya? You see those fucking chicks outside? Shit man, those asses were ripe for the picking." To this I simply reply, "Maaa." I really don’t even know what to say. I like to think of myself as a pretty vulgar person, but when faced with an actual sleaze ball like this guy I rarely know how to retort to his explicit blabberings.
Now don't think I consider myself perfect. I'm sure people don't like the amount of parties and drinking that goes on in my place. I can guarantee that no one enjoys the volume at which I choose to watch my movies. And I'm fucking positive that everyone hates how I don't have a buzzer so my friends just scream at all the balconies until I come out and throw down my keys. But that's another story and this blog is about making fun of other people. Not me. You take care world.
Recently, I've changed careers and I've found myself working in the evenings rather than the more typical 9-5 schedule. My mornings are spent doing what most in my position would do; I run errands, work out, paint pictures, trade stocks, and many other stimulating activities.
Sometimes, however, I will skip these activities, which often take me out of the house, and sleep in until 11 only to sluggishly mosey over to my couch to watch crappy movies on the netflix account I should have cancelled months ago. Quite honestly I've been doing that a lot more than the activities afore mentioned.
The life of a loafer can be truly wonderful if one is alone in his loafing. However, my apartment seems to be filled with weirdoes whose daily doings are something more than unusual.
Let's begin with the land lady. Her name is Andrea and she calls me Drew. Whenever I talk to Andrea she seems utterly busy. She always has some sort of major apartment project in the works.
This summer I woke up every day at 7 am to the pounding cacophony of the Mexican workers drilling holes into every single balcony in the building. On the first day I was excited to practice a bit of Spanish and I even thought about offering them beers, but after two weeks of the horrendous drilling noises I began to consider how easy it might be to simply push each one off the balcony in the hopes that at least he might be able to claim worker's comp.
This project then facilitated the painting of the newly drilled balconies by Driller Jorge's cousin Gustavo y los Amigos. These guys took even longer and for another two weeks I awoke to ranchero tunes only to stumble into the patio furniture inconveniently scattered around my kitchen and living room. It was a feng shui nightmare.
Her new kick has been remodeling the "lobby" of the "elegant" Marco Polo Apartments. The new floor tiles have a New Mexican orange rust look that contrasts delightfully with the black and white Swiss-villa-inspired walls. It looks terrible.
Her husband/boy friend/concubine/dude is an odd ball too. He's got long dirty hair, loves him some sweat pants, and he thoroughly enjoys reminding my roommate that his truck is, "the fucking tits man." Aside from that I don't know what he does except have crude conversations with people on a walkie talkie. No joke. A walkie talkie.
There's one guy who I always see throughout the day. It used to freak me out because I would sometimes see him in the laundry room and then only moments later he would be walking down the stairs towards said laundry room. These kind of things happened quite frequently and it wasn't until I was told of the existence of his twin brother that I was able relax and stop carrying my air soft gun with me to the laundry room.
These twins are really twiny. You can't tell them apart. I assume they are from some eastern European country because...well I have no justification, but they certainly have weird accents. All winter one of these guys, or both, who the hell knows, will do "spa" treatments where he sits in the sauna for an ungodly amount of time only to then run outside and sit in the snow. We're talking ass on the ground in the snow. I'm sure this contrast of temperatures is nice for the blood flow, but as a resident this guy or guys or whatever need name tags.
The crème de la crème though is the butt hole who lives right above me. I have never seen this dude, but I have to imagine that he is indeed fat. Probably the kind of jellyfish fat that will shudder on its own under the force of a strong breeze. He most certainly has thinning greasy hair and I can guarantee that his “around the house” outfit of a two sizes too short burgundy bathrobe and white motel slippers. As he strolls around the apartment I imagine that he ties the bathrobe but his gut is too rotund for the full coverage so he has about six inches of belly exposed down the center of his figure.
Now with that image in mind you might be wondering, "What are you talking about if you've never actually seen this guy? How do you even know of his existence?" Excellent question. It is not his appearance that bothers me but rather the noises he makes from above.
It is more infrequent now, but in the heat of the summer this guy would spend at least two hours each day just belting opera tunes. I mean, he really thinks he could be the next tenor. The best part is that he'll often accompany himself by playing a little piano. I don't know if he's just never learned to play or if his fingers are too fat to only push one key, but Pavarotti loves to play simple one handed piano tunes while he literally shouts out the lyrics to some of his favorite operas. I personally think he's a bit too liberal with his use of vibrato because almost every word sounds like he’s singing while falling down staires in a sleeping bag. This guy's talent from drawing out syllables would make a catholic priest sound like a fast talker. Sometimes it will take him more than a whole minute to belt out one sentence.
One time he invited some friends over and "performed" for them and I can only imagine that they were all sitting on his several items of mismatched furniture trying to point their eyes at anything but this guys exposed belly button just bursting from the crack in his robe. I imagine that he probably offered them some slices of white sandwich bread and perhaps some chocolate milk to accompany.
There are many more residents of the illustrious Marco Polo Apartments who freak me out but there simply isn't enough time. The only one I'll quickly mention is this dick who always seems to be in the elevator when I take it. I guess he maybe wants to be young again and he thinks that all guys my age talk like out of work porn directors. He'll say things like, "What the fuck man? How the fuck are ya? You see those fucking chicks outside? Shit man, those asses were ripe for the picking." To this I simply reply, "Maaa." I really don’t even know what to say. I like to think of myself as a pretty vulgar person, but when faced with an actual sleaze ball like this guy I rarely know how to retort to his explicit blabberings.
Now don't think I consider myself perfect. I'm sure people don't like the amount of parties and drinking that goes on in my place. I can guarantee that no one enjoys the volume at which I choose to watch my movies. And I'm fucking positive that everyone hates how I don't have a buzzer so my friends just scream at all the balconies until I come out and throw down my keys. But that's another story and this blog is about making fun of other people. Not me. You take care world.
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