Auto de Fe

It was a lazy Thursday morning at the auto repair shop. (For details on why I was even at the shop, check here, here, here, or here.) I hadn't slept the night before so everything was a fog. I had a pounding headache, my sinuses felt tortured and my body's "check engine" light had been on for over a week. For some reason I was taking care of my car parts before my human parts.

In the corner of the room, a collection of "readables" littered a two-foot-high table. A few advertisements, mostly unopened, topped it like a cherry on the mulch pile. Our city's most reputable rag, a rapidly declining publication that only publishes a new edition four times a week and gets most of its content by regurgitating Reuters articles, shouted a headline about a local boy who did well in collegiate basketball. He was making someone somewhere very proud, but in this auto shop, his picture had been defaced by a coffee stain and his photo caption was obscured by a three-year-old copy of Redbook. Brightly colored chairs lined the room, exuding a cheeriness that seemed more at place in a Kindergarten classroom than beside posted warnings about wheel alignment and air filters.

Behind the desk, a tired looking woman prepared invoices. I knew this was her task because I recognized the dire boredom that covered her face like a henna tattoo at a theme park. At one point she stopped working for fifteen seconds and stared blankly at her keyboard. I know because I watched and counted. Cut her some slack, I thought, it's Thursday.

Invoice Woman needed some sugar. She left her post at the terminal and marched into a back room that I hadn't noticed before. She returned with a juice beverage, which she opened slowly and sipped with a deliberateness that suggested she had nothing else to enjoy. I was thirsty all of a sudden. At one point Invoice Woman glanced down at the cap. Either she hadn't won ("Try Again Next Time"), or Snapple wasn't running a bottle-cap promotion ("Best By 4/23/10"), but still she looked. I wondered how many hundreds of thousands of employees were checking bottle caps at work that very morning. I wonder what kind of noisy cacophony would be created if they all opened their bottles at the same time in a small room. Would the noise be soft and delicious or would it be deafening? Would it make you want to drink Snapple? Would a human being be able to survive the blast of that prodigious noise? That might actually be a really good way to go...

The mechanic behind the counter motioned for me and I trudged toward him with all the energy of a man who knew his fate. I was the defendant and the mechanic was my judge: I was rising to hear my sentence.

Car repairs are the least satisfying of all expenses. You can buy a lunch and feel the effect of your purchase immediately as the warm food assuages your hunger. You can buy a gift for a friend and see her the joyful sparkle in her eyes and hear her thanks. You can even give your money to a bum with some satisfaction. But repairing what you thought wasn't broken to get what you figured you always had is frustrating, especially when the price tag is six times your weekly income.

The mechanic announced the prognosis with the stoic nonchalance of Dr. House. He didn't even try to sell his services or distinguish Pepboys from Harney's down the road or Aamco (honk honk) up the hill. His sad eyes provoked a modicum of pity, but then I caught a glance between him and Invoice Woman. I was the victim of an auto de fe and they were the benificiaries.

That's when I decided to have some fun. I was halfway though this FCN post, after all, and it was pretty dry. I started crying. Tears filled my eyes and flooded down my cheeks like so much mug root beer. (The tears were contrived, I promise. They were not, by any means, a natural reaction to the tension of the situation. I felt bad about what was happening, sure, but the tears were all for FCN. Please believe me, my dignity is on the line.)

Mechanic rolled his eyes and turned away, as if some space would help me recover. Invoice Woman reacted more positively. I felt her arm around my shoulder and she pushed an unopened Snapple my way. She understood the difficulty of these Harsh Economic Times and she understood how a car repair for a reckless driver could magnify the harshness. A few sips of Snapple helped push back the edge of my emotion and I looked up with a sniff to see the mechanic, his sad eyes unperturbed, standing at attention.

"I'll talk with my manager and see what we can do," he said simply. I nodded, having absolutely no idea what he meant. Mechanic left for a few minutes. When he returned, my Snapple was empty.

"All right, uh, Mr. C., here's what we can do. We'll cut $300 off parts and services and give you all the work for the charitable price of..." Mechanic went on for a few minutes droning about where the discount originated and how generous Pepboys was being. When he was done, I shrugged and nodded. I had never experienced such an easy Auto de Fe.

When you are feeling down
When things are falling all around
Let the tears flow thickly
Things will improve quickly

Beware of Shiny Objects

As much as I hate to admit it, I am very much a woman, especially when it comes to shiny objects. I'm drawn to sparkle, no matter where it occurs. Diamond rings, sapphire necklaces, crystal-clean shop windows, metal signs, even the garish, reflective sequins on your grandmother's Christmas sweater. The more eye-catching and shiny the better, in my opinion.

Now, this love for shiny objects may be fine under normal circumstances (although my brothers may argue that point), but when I get behind the wheel of my car, shiny objects become a downright hazard. It's quite obvious that men designed roadways, because a woman would know better than to put light reflecting objects down the center of the pavement, like a beautiful necklace laying on the black velvet lining of a jewelry box.

I love lane-dividing reflectors.

Unfortunately, between juggling my cell phone, coffee, makeup, planner, and pen when I drive, I am unable to avoid damaging those lovely, sparkly bumps on the road. To remedy this, I've taken to straddling them when I drive. After all, who would want to cover the shine with yucky tire rubber? For some reason, the last three policemen to give me tickets didn't care for my logic.

But it's not just reflectors that form a hazard; more often than not, it is other vehicles that drive me to distraction (haha! drive, get it?). Just this morning on my way to work, I saw an Alhambra water delivery truck. It was so pretty! Bright green and on the back - you'll never guess! - they had a shiny, sparkly, reflective sequin sign that was blue and had their name written on it. I stared at the sign, trying to resist its pull, but blue is my favorite color and between that and the sequins, I just had to give in. I slowly began drifting across the lanes so I could be right behind the truck.

Bang! Screech! Crash! Yeah, I forgot to check before changing lanes. Now I'd crashed into three other cars and the sparkly truck was disappearing down the highway. If only I hadn't been so intent on reaching the sparkly sequins! But it isn't my fault; shiny objects really shouldn't be allowed on vehicles.

Does anyone know a good lawyer?

A Swingin' Mood

Lately, my moods have been changing more often than a neat-freak's bedsheets. They've been like a ship without an anchor, tossed about on the waves of circumstance. This past week in particular has been a roller coaster ride.

---

With gas prices once again climbing past the 2 dollar mark here in happy NorCal, I was hoping that my transportation's mechanical troubles were over. But as I drove towards school one day this week, I knew that it was not to be. Pulling out of my driveway, I pressed the gas pedal, began accelerating to 55, and realized that my transmission was not shifting.

Instantly, my mood changed. From looking forward to a half hour of listening to country hits and pushing my car to its limits, I was thrown into the deepest doldrums of dollar deduction. I began mentally ticking off the greenbacks. Visions of $500, $1000, and then $1500 repairs began marching through my mind.

Sadly, I turned my car back toward home. I would just have to miss school today; hopefully the prof would understand, but I doubted it.

When I walked through the door, I was greeted with a big smile from my mom. "Class got out early? Wonderful! You can clean your room today."

Still wallowing in a slough of self-pity, I slowly dragged my feet down the hallway to my bedroom. There's a reason we don't allow guests back there. I was accustomed, comfortable even, with the sight that greeted me, but it only served to further my depression. Books and papers were piled high on a desk and dressers, clothes were scattered across the floor and bed, candy wrappers leftover from last year's Valentine's day lay heaped in one corner, and cobwebs hung from every cranny of the ceiling.

I sat down on my bed, instantly exhausted by the sight. For a good 10 minutes, all I could do was look around and stare at the mess. Finally, some resolve began to form in my little finger, and I slowly moved my hand to pick up a t-shirt that lay on the floor. I folded it and set it next to me. I repeated these actions until all the clothes had been folded and then put them away in my dresser. Turning around, I noticed something shiny lying just under my bed. I stooped down and picked it up.

Instantly, I became elated. It was my John Williams' Greatest Hits CD! I thought we had lost it in our last move, but here it was, in all of its shiny wonderfulness. Freshly energized with renewed energy, I popped the disc in my stereo and set about sorting the papers that lay scattered around.

As the glorious notes of Schindler's List and Home Alone soared through the air and reverberated against my ear drums, I mechanically shuffled the various documents...trash, school stuff, trash, bank statement, school, trash, paystub, trash, trash...wait, what's this? My hand closed around an envelope that I'd never opened. The return address said "California DMV." Uh-oh.

I quickly tore it open and began scanning the pages. "Registration overdue. Must pay $300.00 by February 2, 2009." Oh dear, that was yesterday! "Or car will be seized and impounded." OH NO! Even though my car wasn't operating properly, it was still my only means of transportation. Losing it meant being grounded 40 miles from the nearest major city. Frantic, I ran outside, only to see a tow truck leaving our driveway, my car trundling along behind it.

The notes of John Williams' music forgotten, I dejectedly sat down on our front step and cried. How could my day have gone so horribly wrong? I decided I was in need of a nap, but as I got up and turned my feet toward the front door, I remembered the mess that awaited me in my room. Granted, it wasn't as bad as before, but it was hardly conducive to rest.

Emotionally and physically drained, I decided to sleep on our trampoline. And that's what I did. Until my younger brothers came and started bouncing, ruthlessly returning me to reality.

How to Play Traffic

REQUIRED TO PLAY: One serviceable automobile, one valid driver's license. Paranoid friends and relatives add to the fun.

OBJECT OF THE GAME: To obtain the highest possible number of points over a set period of time by completing certain objectives, usually involving tacky violations of road law and/or etiquette, written and unwritten.

HOW TO PLAY: This game is as much a pastime as a sport. You can play anywhere, any time: driving to work, dropping the kids off at soccer, going on a joy ride with friends, moving your father-in-law's jaguar around the block for him. Try to complete as many objectives as possible in the shortest possible time. Style points figure big in this game, as do making up your own objectives on the spur of the moment. Success requires quick thinking, situational awareness, and the sort of mind that brings you to FCN in the first place.

Scoring and objective verification is based on the honor system.

OBJECTIVES (An incomplete list):

Fake forward. While stopped at a red light, edge forward a few inches, then stop.

2 points: Make the car behind you edge forward as well.
4 points: Make the car next to you edge forward.
6 points: Make the car next to you run the light.
9 points: Make the car next to you drive into oncoming traffic.
13 points: Make the car behind you rear-end you. Sue the driver out of house and home.

Zone of Control. Throw a left turn signal indicating a merge into the fast lane, but stay in your current lane indefinitely.

1 point: Make a passing car fall back.
2 points: Make a passing hummer fall back.
4 points: Make a sports car follow behind you indefinitely.
13 points: Make a police car follow behind you indefinitely.

I'm from Europe. Drive a donut in the middle of an intersection.

2 points: Learn a new word from a fellow motorist.
7 points: Learn a new word from a nun.

Litter bug. While stopped at a red light, exit the car to collect a piece of trash lying on the side of the road, then return to the vehicle before the light turns green.

3 points: Get a Spock eyebrow from the driver behind you.
5 points: Collect the litter that the driver behind you just tossed out his window.
9 points: Sell the litter on eBay.
11 points: Catch the litter before it hits the ground.
14 points: Appear on the Village Roadshow with the litter.

Chicken Little. Roll down your window and gesture emphatically skyward.

1 point: Make someone look.
2 points: Catch them looking and laugh at them.
4 points: Make someone leap from their car and run for cover.
8 points: Make everyone in sight leap from their car and run for cover.
15 points: Reverse the flow of traffic.

My favorite song. Roll down your window and sing along with the radio of an adjacent motorist who also has his/her windows down.

2 points: Make the fellow motorist turn his music up.
3 points: Make the fellow motorist turn his music down.
5 points: The song is "Riding Dirty."

Actually, it can be done. Parallel park from across the street by sawing a hard left and closing the hand brake.

2 points: Complete this stunt without damaging anything.
3 points: Complete this stunt and damage a jaguar.
5 points: Complete this stunt and damage your father-in-law's jaguar.
8 points: Complete this stunt in your father-in-law's jaguar.
10 points: Complete this stunt in your prospective father-in-law's jaguar with your sweetheart in the passenger seat.
16 points: Complete this stunt in your prospective father-in-law's jaguar with your prospective mother-in-law in the passenger seat.

Gotcha Going. Rev your engine as a pedestrian passes in front of you on a crosswalk.

-1 point: Get a Spock eyebrow from said pedestrian.
3 points: Get a scream.
5 points: Make said pedestrian break and run.
7 points: Make said pedestrian break and run into oncoming traffic.
12 points: Make an adjacent motorist drive into oncoming traffic.
15 points: The pedestrian is wearing an orange vest and holding a KIDS XING sign.

Cut! Drive off a cliff just before something explodes.

40 points.

Prius. No.

If you're like me, you watch television whenever one of your close friends is being arraigned or when a significant sporting event demands attention. A couple weekends ago, I managed to watch all three Final Four games, including the requisite advertisements which were, I must admit, almost as entertaining as the spectacle itself. Almost.

Besides the "Dude" ad from Budweiser, which I hope doesn't catch on more than it already has (do we really need more reasons to say "dude?") and the "number one cheers" commercial (also from Budweiser), the funniest ad was for a car.

I know, a digitally enhanced jumble of carefully engineered steel and rubber gliding through a closed course under the controlled guidance of a professional driver could be described by many adjectives, but "funny" isn't one of them. Most car ads are designed to appeal to women, so the 30-second spots may show safety features or the on-board computer, but they are unlikely to make the viewer laugh out loud, to spell out a common internet acronym.

One car ad broke the female appeal mold and, in the process, invited a good natured ribbing.

Toyota had the most unintentionally hilarious sales pitch for its Prius, the most fuel efficient car on the road, according to heavily suspect EPA mileage figures. Yes, FCN did just link to Mother Jones. That's not an endorsement; you'll get over it.

If you haven't seen the "Yes" ad for Prius, you need to. A grainy YouTube copy (vaguely reminiscent of a pirated camcorder capture) is embedded below:



On it's face not that funny, right?

Pictures of smiling upper middle class Americans hopping out of or into their new hybrids with the word "yes" emblazoned on a convenient sheet of bright white cardboard. Only one of the happy owners (we assume they are owners and not starving actors willing to sellout for the commercial interests of the bourgeois) holds up a sign that says "si." We can tell from the man's complection that he is French, where the word "si" means "if." This man is undecided and is raising a sign that says "if my wife agrees to the exorbitant monthly fees we will owe Toyota for the next three years and if I can convince my engineering buddy that battery disposal is not that big a deal, I will consider purchasing this vehicle."

And all along you thought "SI" stood for Smithsonian Institute.

The ad played several times; Toyota has to spend that energy conservation grant money somehow. On the third time through, I noticed how little is said about the product itself. The fuel efficiency, safety and crash test ratings, dealership locations, onboard features and legroom dimensions are all omitted in favor of the not so subtle admonition to say "yes."

It's like the DEA's "Say 'NO' to drugs" campaign, except the key word is changed to "yes." And we aren't talking about drugs. And that PSA isn't run anymore. Now we are counseled to talk with our parents about drugs, so they can tell us if we should use them experimentally or not. Come to think of it, the Prius ad is nothing like the drug commercials.

If you look carefully, you might be able to see some information about the Prius in the fine print at the bottom of your screen and at the end of the spot. It doesn't come through legibly in the YouTube copy I've embedded, so you can take my word for it or start watching a lot of TV.

In sum, Toyota is trying to sell women cars by omitting important information and just raising a white sign emblazoned with the desired response. Here at FCN we think that's sexist, childish and pretty doggone funny.

So funny, in fact, that we have made our own ad for Prius. It uses a little reverse psychology to sell the cars. Ever been told you can't step on the grass? What did you do? Ever been told you can't spend twenty grand on a new car that has a hard time going faster than 70 MPH (unless being driven by Al Gore's son)? What would you do?

That's what I thought. Anyway, here's the image. Hopefully Toyota will use it in its next campaign. Who knows, it might actually help sales.

Runaway Car

On my way to school the other morning, I swung by the gas station to fill up the seemingly bottomless tank on my car. If you think this post is going to about the high price of gasoline, you read way too much FCN. For once, we are deviating from this popular and very relevant theme to discuss another pressing issue at the pump.

But, as long as we are on the subject - and I am already prejudged a oil price junkie - my latest fill up was ridiculously expensive. I would write the total price down, but most of the faithful FCN few would find it too fantastic to believe. So, I scanned my receipt, blotted out a few private and unimportant details and posted it to the right for you to enjoy and be amazed at (click to enlarge).

A little topography before we continue: My filling station of choice is situated at the top of a small rise. It isn't any great hill or imposing mountain (I live in the central valley for Quetzalcoatl's sake), but it is enough of an elevation increase to deserve a mention.

So back to the story: I pulled in front of the pump (#5, as the receipt will testify) and hopped out of my car, locking the door behind me. I was careful to bring my keys with me. I waltzed (1,2,3-1,2,3) over to the pump and began fiddling with the "easy to use" pay-at-the-pump feature. The screen was asking me to enter something, but the morning sun behind me created a glare that rendered the request incomprehensible. I put my keys on top of the pump and used my hand to shield the sun. After I punched in my zip code, I selected my grade and turned around to begin pumping.

That's when I noticed that my car was nowhere to be seen. I'd heard about people stealing vehicles while their owners where purchasing gasoline, but I'd never been a victim of such a brazen crime. Still, I hadn't heard the car start and it was possible...

There, not fifteen feet from where I had parked it, my car was creeping forward and no one was sitting behind the wheel. My car was stealing itself!

Quickly, I replaced the nozzle in the guzzle and sprinted to the door. Locked! And in my haste to get over I had forgotten my keys! I ran over to the other side of the car and tried the passenger side door, to no avail. I tried the trunk, irrationally thinking that it might be unlocked. It wasn't. Had it been unlocked, I have no idea what I would have done, although the idea of me riding in the trunk of my unmanned car does have a flippant nonchalance, like something Charlie Chaplin might do (WWCCD?).

I looked up at the rest of the parking lot and mentally projected a trajectory for my uncontrolled vehicle. It was headed right for the road. While traffic was lazy, it was present and images of my car looking like bad coleslaw flashed through my mind.

Maybe, I thought, I could run to the front of the car and push it to a halt. I started moving away from the trunk when I remembered the gentleman in Tiananemen Square who held back the Chinese army by prancing in front of a column of tanks, but figured my car might not be as considerate as the red commies. Standing in front of an unmanned mobile vehicle is not my idea of a fun school commute.

The consternation and requisite sweat were building when I remembered my keys sitting atop the pump. By the time I retrieved them, my car had merged into traffic.

I wish they put as much emphasis on teaching cars to drive as they do their drivers, because my car didn't know the first thing about the rules of the road: It didn't stop at a stop sign and merged without signaling. People sometimes say I drive dangerously. I say my car drives dangerously - I just go along for the ride.

There had to have been some kind of providential intervention on the scale of Moses and the Red Sea or at least "No Country For Old Men" for my car to have escaped unscathed. My keys and I arrived before the police or a human carjacker and I was able to safely navigate back to the pump.

Of course, as crazy an adrenaline rush as I got from that experience, it didn't come close to the buzz I got when I paid for the gas.

Tire Rotation

Like women, cars need maintenance. That's a fact that found its place firmly ensconced in the back of my mind when I first took up driving, but it moved to the front like a bad headache when I first had to change the oil. Or rather, had to pay to change the oil. Greasy hands and the smell of a car's underbelly are deemed too pedestrian for starving college students who work at General Mills, so we hire that sort of thing out to uniformed professionals who can afford to eat.

If changing the oil was a headache, tire rotation was Gusii Trepanation. For those of you who are deathly curious, but for some reason don't want to click on the link (get DSL, you dial-up Baby Boomer), a Gusii Trepanation is a surgery designed to relieve cranial stress wherein (and this is where it gets gross) a hole is drilled in the skull. The practice is based on the same ideology as the blood leeches that killed our first president, except that it is still used today.

So maybe tire rotation isn't Gusii Trepanation, but it isn't Office Supplies either.

Please tell me that one doesn't need any explanation. Thank you.

I found myself at my local mechanics shop, watching as my precious wheels were lifted slowly above an oily cement surface and as several young men looking like the bumpkins in a Rodney Atkins music video (minus the Skoal cans) scrambled around like a pitt stop in slow motion. Very slow motion. I sat in the establishment's under-furnished waiting room for just under an hour, occupied only by a game show so stupid it was picked up by the Discovery Channel and some car magazines that depress readers with all the horsepower they don't and never will have.

When an front desk attendant finally mispronounced my name, I got up with a relieved sigh and extended my had to a young man who looked too young to support the hair on his chin but compensated for his youth with a very earnest demeanor. The complimentary tire rotation was complete, but the mechanics had discovered a number of problems with my car in the process of moving the rubber. Apparently my brakes were worn down almost to nothing, my alignment more crooked than Jessica Simpson's pre-surgery nose (my words, not the attendant's) and my shocks were, well, shot. The entire situation could be resolved for the whopping sum of five hundred bucks.

Deep breath. A pain that was almost physical started tingling in my toes, exactly the way Colbie Caillat didn't intend. The car had run so well on the way in. The rotation was supposed to be routine. I hadn't felt anything wrong with the alignment and my shocks had given me no static when I took the hill where Peltier meets the train tracks at eighty. I had the funds, but the money, in my mind, was already spent elsewhere. Why did cars have to be so expensive? First the Saudis and their gas gouging and now mechanic's mania.

"Would you like to take care of this now?"

I turned to Goatee Boy with a tight smile, glancing down at his nametag in the same motion.

"Actually...Tony...I think I'll shop this around. Thanks for the rotation."

I walked out of the building and to my waiting car with all the confidence I didn't have. On my way home I noticed my car had a new rattle, I could feel an alignment error and my brakes were not as responsive as they used to be - all problems I hadn't noticed an hour and a half earlier. Sigh. "Free" tire rotation, indeed.

Or maybe it's all in my head and these problems were there all along and only now has my attention been drawn to it. Maybe the mechanic had altruistically pointed out a flaw in my car that, if unattended, would have been a danger to me or others on the road. But I think not. Something about Tony's goatee shouted "hood tinkerer" and I don't mean that as a compliment.

That can't be good

My car needed an oil change. Well, that's a bit of an understatement. My car needed an oil change before I drove to San Diego and back and then took a series of jumps off a rise in the road by the railroad tracks a few miles from my house. Now it's a miracle my car even responds to the key in the ignition or my foot on the pedal. I had to do something before my only means of transportation turned into a yellow metal box with sweat-smelling upholstery and a radio.

Last Saturday, I set out to remedy the situation. I hopped into my car (using the passenger side door and sliding over to the left since the lock on the driver's door was jammed), turned on the engine and eased out onto the main road.

In case you've never driven a four-cylinder two-door before, something about the open road demands more pressure on the accelerator. Even treacherous driving environments don't take away from the car's desire to be driven - and to be driven recklessly. In retrospect, I probably should have considered the oil situation and kept my speed within the legal limit, but at that moment I didn't have any retrospect. All I had was the wind in my face (the window control was not jammed) and the wind was whispering sweet nothings of dangerous velocity. It said some other things too, that I won't share here.

The railroad tracks were a few hundred feet ahead and I sped up to take the jump. I think I actually got some air on the attempt, but the return-to-earth impact caused such a jostle that I can't be sure. I tapped the breaks for a known speed trap and kept going toward the service stop.

As I pulled into the parking lot and waived to Cindy the clipboard-clad attendant, I heard the most obnoxious noise imaginable. It was a scraping sound combined with a whirring whine that, if heard on a car lot, would just shout "discount." I stopped and looked around. Nothing unusual. Then I checked my radio. The new CD from Whiskey Falls was in the drive, but the noise was like nothing I'd ever heard from Seven Williams, even in his darker moments. As I budged forward the scraping continued. Bracing, I turned up the music, gunned the engine and let out the clutch just enough to overpower the resistance and move over the sidewalk. I couldn't hear the noise anymore, but I wasn't completely comforted either.

Cindy marched to my window and went through her scripted customer service routine. I interrupted her with a hand, walked around to the front of my car and looked underneath, half expecting to see an alien or the Loch Ness monster. What I saw was less glamorous but similarly enigmatic.

Protruding from beneath my engine, lying there in all its indignity, was a car part. I really can't describe it any more accurately than that. It had all the telltale markings: it looked greasy and dangerous and was beneath a car. It was the kind of thing Billy Bob Thornton might put on his Christmas tree as an ornament. I told Cindy to come take a look.

She was appropriately impressed but had no idea what to do with it. I told her it wasn't there this morning and that I really didn't think it liked being on the underbelly of my vehicle, given its regular complaining. Cindy concurred.

The kind folks at the oil change sent me over to a mechanics shop with the encouraging words "they might be able to help you." I repeated the cringe inducing grating noise as I entered the mechanics parking lot and, as if called by my car's underside, Jose came sprinting from the store to help.

It took Jose all of three minutes to identify the problem. If only Guinness had been there to record the attempt, I might have had my name on the record too. Apparently my fan had fallen off its hinges during some kind of "jostling" and was now hanging by its air ducts, suspended beneath the engine. I assured Jose I could think of "no single incident" in my driving that could have caused such a problem and it was true because I didn't know for sure which railroad jump had disrupted the fan. But my mouth kept talking and I added that I knew "hardly anything about cars," a mistake I paid for at the checkout. Ouch.

Cars can be really expensive. After changing the oil (ouch), I drove over to a local filling station and spent some more Christmas money (ouch), the light on my dashboard reminded me of an outstanding problem with my breaks (future ouch) and the post office box had a letter from my car insurance company and they weren't just checking in to say "hi" (big ouch). And that's just transportation; think about all the other things needed to go on a date.

In other news, I'll be asking my boss at General Mills for some more hours and I'll be eating Cup A Noodles and green beans until future notice. Not that that's much of a change, but as long as I am suffering I may as well have your pity.

Twenty foot Screeeeeeeeech mark

Me alone. An empty car and an open road. Me and God in a three door. No police cars or emergency vehicles behind. Only traffic ahead. Blake Shelton in the speakers. New shopping mall on the left, older shopping mall on the right. Thinking about elasticity of demand for lead-based Chinese toys. Trying not to think about a test I just took on the same subject. Worried about the upcoming workday at General Mills. Wondering whether my mother will notice my unfinished chores. Watching the traffic. Glazing just a bit.

The track on the stereo changed. Ain't Easy Bein' Me, also by Blake Shelton. Shelton has the same initials as Britney Spears. I wonder if he gets that a lot. I wonder if he's ever made the connection. Would Britney Spears have made it in country music? Maybe she should try that genre as a comeback strategy. She could be the un-Dixie Chicks.

Traffic in my lane is slowing. It's faster in the left lane. I am in the left lane. The car ahead of me has a "Baby on Board" bumper sticker. Is that supposed to keep you safe from the unsafe driver? I tap my breaks. Maybe I should get a sticker like that. Might keep me safer. I wonder how many people lie on their bumper stickers. Statement not a question.

Red light. Durn. Baby on Board made it through. I'm the first car in my lane. I like the feeling of control. Dominance. I can set my own takeoff. I can test my car's zero to sixty. I smile then think. Who is in the first car in my lane in my life? Is my life at a stoplight? I frown. Green light. Ten seconds. Dang. Should have wrapped it up more in third gear. Maybe I shouldn't be pushing my car like this.

Back under the speed limit. Sure a pretty sky this time of year. Eyes back to road. Green light turns to yellow. Ain't Easy Bein' Me. I calculate quickly. I can't make it. I shift down and floor the accelerator pedal. Jump ahead. 50,55,60 miles per hour. I'm within fifty feet. I'll make it. Yellow turns red.

Right foot leaves the gas. Left foot engages clutch. Right hand disengages and leaves shift. Left hand clenches. Right foot smashes brakes hard. Left foot braces against clutch. Right hand pulls on parking brake. Hard. Left hand is strained.

Tires lose traction. I feel the drift before I hear it. SCREEECH. I fishtale some but retain control. SCREEECH. The stop is sudden and, legally, just before the write line. Lady in car to my right looks at me. Scared and surprised. More surprised. Very motherly. I look sheepish. I feel sheepish. She admonishes with only her face. Nobody else seems to notice.

A screech mark stretches twenty feet behind my car. A long screech mark. Maybe you will see it the next time you go to the intersection. When the light turns green, I look around at the other traffic to gage their reaction. No other cars are in sight. I am all alone. I drive on, with more caution and less rubber. Me alone. An empty car and an open road. Me and God in a three door.

Green SUV

Environmentalist extremists are hypocrites. It seems that that's the message sent by every major "green" political figure from Al Gore III to Paris Hilton. I don't want to believe that, though; I want to think that every conservationist who puts plants and animals before human beings has the purist of intentions and a consistent heart. I want to believe that environmentalist extremists put the same fervor behind their convictions as Tookie Williams. I really really do.

In fact, I put myself to sleep every night not by counting sheep, but by saying over and over again "Greens are people too, Greens are people too, Greens are people too..." My room mate says he wants me to find help.

Anyway, that's the overly elaborate setup for my trip to work from school the other day that had me zipping (siren sounds) along the interstate listening to Emerson Drive's rendition of Devil Went Down to Georgia. I really think the Campbell Creek Gang has a better version, but regardless the devil was just getting his fiddle licks in when I noticed a Chevrolet Suburban up ahead of me. The Suburban was guzzling along at the speed limit so I quickly gained the distance to its bumper and had to tap the brakes to keep from tailgating.

That's when I noticed that the car was adorned with several bumper stickers. Seven to be exact. They covered the back window and bumper like a poorly applied wallpaper and left small gaps where I could see the car's original color.

The bumper stickers were, as you may have anticipated, strongly from a Green persuasion. "Vote Green," "TREEHUGGER," "Treehugging Dirt Worshipper," "Plant Seeds and Sing Songs," and "Love Your MOTHER" with a small avatar of the globe are the only five I remember, but you get the idea. The driver of the car had obviously bought out the campaign offices of Ralph Nader and done a number on her vehicle immediately thereafter. I didn't even want to think about resale value.

The obvious question in my mind is why in the wold a Greenie would be driving a Guzzler. A little research reveals that the 2006 Suburban gets a meager 15 miles per gallon in the city. Each additional gallon burned, according to the propagandists who write those bumper stickers, is more environmental pollution and further propels our nation toward global warming or cooling, whichever doomsday scenario is in vogue.

It was plain hypocrisy and a laughable inconsistency to see an environmentally unfriendly vehicle with Greenie stickers.

But FCN isn't a blog that just sit backs and snipes. No! We offer solutions and find ways around hypocrisy. What the driver of this vehicle (a female, in case you just had to know) should do is purchase a bike or SMART car (0 to 60 in sixty seconds!) and paste all her messages onto this green form of transportation. Or, if she were really environmentally conscious, she could just walk everywhere and save the manufacturers of the bike the pollution of corrugating the steel and place her favorite bumpersticker on her back. (Notice I didn't say backside, because that would have been inappropriate).

I consulted a friend in search of the reasons that might drive (note the pun!) a young woman to such ironic hypocrisy, and my friend pointed out that maybe she is a new driver, put-putting around in her parent's vehicle. If so, maybe she felt the need to express her individuality without shelling out the big bucks for a ride of her own. Or, and this is my idea, someone vandalized her vehicle with the stickers and she has yet to notice.

This episode does present a rule of thumb that you, the faithful FCN few, can draw from: whatever you are driving, make sure your bumper stickers match the make and model. If you are driving a hybrid (Prius, Camry), you can roll with the greenie tags. If your whip is a slick sports car (Porsche, Mustang), you can ride with an arogant and speedster sticker. If you ride around in a truck or beater sedan (S-10, F-150), a military pride message or something having to do with beers after work works well. Expensive cars that send a message on their own (Beamers, Escalades) should generally leave their bumpers with their factory installed shine; they should be clear of anything that would block the natural beauty of the car.

And, as always, FCN readers should consider the FCN bumpersticker collection for their cars. OK, terribly sorry for ending an otherwise solid post with a shameless stub, but, well, that's the kind of car I drive.

"And the fear of you and the dread of you shall be on every beast of the earth, on every bird of the air, on all that move on the earth, and on all the fish of the sea. They are given into your hand. Every moving thing that lives shall be food for you. I have given you all things, even as the green herbs."
~ Genesis 9:4

HotWire

SAN JOSE, CA (FCN) -- A new technological innovation, the first major advance in recent memory not discovered in the FCN Lab, promises to raise new channels for global product delivery and make car buying a lot easier.

Samuel Cooke, a computer programmer with Lucent Technologies and freelance software developer, just released the beta version of a Physical Deanimation Cyber Copier called HotWire that he says can send copies of physical objects like cars and trucks over the internet.

“The vehicles are scanned into a computer and then broken down digitally into super small fragments, even smaller than an atom,” Cooke told a collection of technology enthusiasts and journalists at Google headquarters in Mountain View. “Computers act as storage hubs, holding bits of many different cars at a time. Whenever you download a vehicle, you facilitate other’s transfers.”

HotWire is not exclusively for those in the know. “Anyone can have access,” says Sergey Wagoner, head developer on Cooke’s research team. “These tiny CarBits are made available online to any user with the right software and a fast internet connection. It can take a few days of downloading, but end users are able to download complete copies of current model vehicles for free.”

And the vehicles are fully functional.

Todd Weston, a test driver for Ford, recently took a copied Land Rover LR3 on the highway. Weston, who has driven several thousand cars during his testing career, reported no difference between the cyber car and the real one. “It handled beautifully, cornered like a dream and accelerated about as poorly as the normal Rover,” Weston said with a smile in a post drive interview. “Next time I want to get the fully equipped version with a built in DVD player and TomTom.

Unlike Star Trek’s “beaming,” a HotWired car remains on the lot and can be purchased by a user. But paying money for cars may not be necessary in the near future as software developers create user-friendly programs that can search for and download cars.

“The market is already saturated with free programs car download programs,” explained ScuttleMonkey on Slashdot. “Besides Cooke’s HotWire, you’ve got CarDonkey, OverCar, Careaza, CarMX, CarTorrent, CarPheus, eCar, CarNucleus, CarShare and Karzaa. Some of these programs have model specific filters and you can copy from a specific lot if you know of a car you really want.”

Car manufacturers, already struggling from declining revenues and increasing labor costs, are feeling threatened by the new technology. Detroit native and General Motors CFO Fritz Henderson issued a press statement last week, expressing some of his company’s concerns. “Real people work real hours in real plants to bring home real food to their real families. With HotWire, consumers will have access to our products and we won’t see any of the advantages of our work. If this continues for very long, there won’t be any cars to copy and thousands of hard working Americans will be out of a job.”

Asked if he sees HotWire as facilitating theft, Cooke answered that he is just trying to make information more available to the world. “I’ve heard the ‘piracy’ allegations and quite frankly I think they’re a load of blue collar crock. A car is nothing more than a organized collection of quarks and leptons – albeit a couple novemdecillion quarks and a few centillion leptons,” he said. “We’re not robbing any pensions here; just facilitating communication.”

Attack of the Sheiks

I had a traumatizing experience the other day. I know we say that a lot here at FCN (and it's true that trauma is attracted to us), but this experience was find- a- beetle- in- your- sealed- water- bottle- type trauma. It was learn- your- Grandma- is- remarrying- your- Grandpa trauma. It was paint- your- toenails trauma. It was the kind of thing you don't forget until another traumatizing thing takes its place on the memory hot seat.

In case you haven't figured it out right now, the horrid thing that happened to me was that I filled my car's gas tank

The actual filling really wasn't that bad; modern pump technology makes the passage of gasoline fuel quite pain-free. What really got me was paying the clerk after the fact.

As background, I usually do the pumping while my father handles the paying. The system works out quite nicely; whenever we carpool into town or drive together recreationally, I'll glance discreetly at the gage and, if the dial is anywhere below half-way, comment on the low level and swing the car toward the nearest station. The system had, until last Saturday, worked out quite dandily and I had yet to pay for the miles I drove.

Maybe my dad figured out my strategy or maybe he wanted to teach me a lesson in economics or maybe he just forget to fill-up, but whatever the reason, when I got into the car early last Saturday to drive into town, the gas light was on and my car was in need of fuel.

Half of me (well, more than half, really) wanted to drive the car to town, return with a dangerously depleted automobile and hope that my father would accompany me on my next excursion. A small fraction of me spoke against such pragmatic vehicular abuse warning that I might run out of gas on the highway and that it really wasn't a very nice thing to do.

Nice. It's the four-letter word that drives more indignities than any other except “love.”

Since when was I a “nice” person?

It was the above question that landed me at the gas station, pump in hand, paying my dues to the Sand Sheiks of the Middle East.

I watched the digital readout carefully, knowing that as a poor college student, I really shouldn't be splurging on a full tank. The numbers went by very quickly. The tank was barely half full when I reached my limit. With a cry, I removed the nozzle from the guzzle and replaced it in the swizzle.

Then I went to see the clerk.

I payed my bill slowly, placing every precious dollar bill on the counter with calm that belied my raging heart. I was being mugged, robbed of scarce funds that should have purchased an entire tank – would have a few short years ago – but were now worth half their previous value. The price of a movie, gallon of milk and egg had changed little in that time, but gas was a different story.

I was in Europe being extorted by ridiculously high gas taxes. I was in Yosemite subsidizing the gift shop with inflated park prices. I was in Texas at the Last Chance Gas where they could charge you anything.

That's when I realized, I was being attacked. My car, my person, my pocketbook were all taken hostage by the Sheik. I had no power over the price but the price had power over me.

I shook off my trauma long enough to thank the clerk, whose name was Shirley, and return to my car. Inwardly I cursed it for not being a hybrid.

When all was said and done, when I'd wiped the last restrained tear from my cheek, I learned one thing through last Saturday's experience: The next time my tank gets low, I am going to carpool with my father.

We passed...

Made with the loving assistance of several FCN readers.

On the long road trip my family and I took the other day (between northern and southern Cali), we had the opportunity to pass all sorts of fun things. We passed...

...A farmer, his chickens, his tractor and his illegal immigrant.

...Harry Reid, coming back from safari.

...Ewan Mcgregor. Yuck.

...A genocide in progress. At least we think it was a genocide; it may have just been Lindsay Lohan driving to work.

...A nuclear reactor. At least we think it was a nuclear reactor; it may have just been DNC headquarters.

...Thousands of “endangered” species, all alive and well, thank you.

...A tractor-disc rig doing doughnuts in an open field. Either the farmer was celebrating his subsidy check or he was trying to bug his neighbor.

...A lot of real American industry and a little American frivolity.

...A couch, some lawn furniture and a bundle of coiled springs and moist faded fabric that vaguely resembled a mattress.

...Adam Sandler as he was getting a traffic citation.

...A pink Ford F-150 that was towing a manly trailer rig.

...The day two days before the day after the day three days after the day before Tuesday (which is, of course, Wednesday).

...The same redneck five times.

...Sam?

The road was so long...

Made with the loving assistance of several FCN readers.

The other day my family and I went on a day long road trip to southern California. If any of you have ever been to the southern part of the state, you know that interstate five is a long highway. That road is long. It was so long that...

...Donald Trump carpooled with Rosie O'Donnell.

...The hybrid used an entire tank of gas.

...Willie Nelson wanted to know if we were there yet.

...My back fused at a 90 degree angle.

...I gained three pounds.

...John Edwards got tired of smiling.

...We went through two spare tires and a hitchhiker.

...Chevron-Texaco gave us an award for Outstanding Company Service.

...Exxon-Mobile gave us a coupon for a dollar off our next purchase of $1,000 or more.

...Prince Abdul threw a party as oil prices rose 30 cents.

...President Bush invaded Iran.

...The remainder of the Strategic Petroleum Reserve was donated to Pam.

...The armadillos joined the anti-global warming campaign.

...The state prison litter removal workers were employed for an extra two weeks picking up our trash.

...They resigned.

...Everyone in the car was common-law married.