Category: Men

Posted on

An impromptu Ode to cars…

I leased my vehicle 3 years ago. At the time I treated the car like a long term rental. I knew I loved the car, but was always worried that it would be taken from me.

I wasn’t really aware I was doing this, but I didn’t customize anything about it. The one thing I did was have the typical BMW chrome grill swapped out for a blackout version. It was cheap to do and I’d simply mentioned it during the leasing process. While we were wrangling with the finances, the service folks just did it.

Other than that, I didn’t really do much else. I barely customized the dashboard and didn’t program the seat position. The car remained exactly as it was delivered. (Necessary repairs even returned the car to delivered condition.) I didn’t even load any music onto the internal hard drive built into the car.

On HWY 2 near Llano, CA. It’s a nice drive if you’ve got the time.

I know all of these little things are fully programmable, and easily changeable but there was something about it.

In the back of my mind I was always thinking, “This isn’t really my car. I don’t want to get too attached or invested in customizing stuff because at the end of the lease I’ll just have to do let it all go anyway.“

I’ve never understood why, when I get into a loaner car or a rental car there’s always a long list of other people’s phones programmed into the cars electronics. Why would you do that? Why take the time and then leave traces of your phone and/or call log in a car that’s not yours?

In my case I’d programmed my phone into my leased vehicle but there was only my phone and I always figured I’d wipe it when the lease ended. I even made myself a checklist in the “Reminders” app on my phone.

That checklist was to pop up on the day before the lease ended so that I’d have the time to systematically walk through all the things I needed to do and check them off, one by one. The thought at the time was, “I’ll do it all before I’m at the dealership and then it’ll just be handing them the keys, heartbroken.“

The checklist listed things like;

Unpair the phone
Delete all call logs
Delete all Navigation records
Delete “Home” location. (As an aside the location was never set to my address, just the town. If you can’t find your way home in your own town, you should hand the keys to the nearest bartender!)
Remove anything of a personal nature, check glove compartment, under seats, map pockets, trunk, etc.
And on & on.

I deleted that checklist today.

I went to the store yesterday in my car. On the way home it occurred to me that now, it really was my car. After unloading the grocery items, I walked over to the CD shelf and grabbed a bunch of my favorites. (Yes, most of my music is digital and exists on my phone, but I’ve been loading CDs into the 20GB hard drive for music built into the car. )

Now that it’s mine, I’m not hesitant to start making it mine.

I removed the satellite radio option from the display (Sirius Satellite can kiss my ass!) $23 a month for what? They are out of their damn minds! Introductory offers be damned, If you can provide an intro offer for $5 a month, you can damn well offer the service for $5 a month. Frankly, that may be too high a price because you have to deal with Sirius Corporation and that is a freaking nightmare at any time.

If you assume from that statement that I don’t like Sirius corporate practices, You’d be right. It was a nice idea and worked well for a time. At the point that I terminated my subscription, I hadn’t spoken to anyone on this continent for years. Each time I had to speak to a representative, they inevitably screwed something up. Honestly, it got tiresome to have to spend hours on the phone over multiple calls to accomplish what should have been a straight forward task.

Besides, CarPlay works much better.

I’ve reconfigured almost all of the menus, and displays. I’ve programmed the seat settings. I’ve even started programming favorites into the radio buttons. (Although there isn’t much worth listening to on local radio stations. On a lot of the stations, I’m not even sure what language is being spoken. Maybe English?) I’ve set up the master key, and I’m considering other little things to add that fit me.

Generally speaking BMW fits me right out of the box, but there are always little things that make the vehicle feel more like home.

Now, I’m not worried about miles driven on the odometer. When looking at tires I’m thinking best value for the dollar, not just the cheapest Chinese brand that will fit. I am just as worried about rocks flying on the freeway, dents, and dings. That will probably never change!

I get in and really smile. I smiled before but it was always reserved because I didn’t know if I was going to have my heart broken when the lease ended.

I drove my 1 series for almost 10 years. It was in excellent condition right up to the day it was totaled, it made me smile every time I got into it. My heart was broken when it was killed by a stupid bitch running a red light. The only gratification was the stupid bitch didn’t get away with what she was trying to get away with.

There were a lot of witnesses that told the cops, She ran the light, not me. Once she heard what the witnesses were telling the cops, she stopped limping around and holding her neck.

Miraculously, she also started speaking and understanding English. Can you say insurance scam? She thought she’d blame me and get a big settlement, (after all I drove a nice car… Right?) That’s a laugh! She still tried to rake my insurance company over the coals and cause trouble for me. That fell apart pretty fast when the police report made it to my insurance company’s lawyers.

When I looked at turning the tables on her, I found out she was an illegal, had no drivers license, and had been involved in 5 other accidents in the last 2 years, all of which she got large settlements out of.

I remember asking the police several weeks later how it was possible that she was allowed to remain in the country when it was pretty obvious that she was committing crimes for her income. They just shrugged.

I’m glad I leased this car. I’m equally glad that the lesson I learned is that I don’t like leasing. I got lucky that this lease worked out to my advantage and I’m thankful that some higher power pulled a string or two for me. Otherwise, things could have gone very differently.

I had a 3 series for a while. It was a good car, it just wasn’t me. It’s odd, that car and I never bonded. According the the mapping and phone data that was still in the navigation system, it had been preowned by a Chinese person in Wisconsin. The voice actuation never worked right. I guess maybe the first language it learned was Chinese, and it didn’t do very well with English as a second language.

When I got the 4 series, I remember handing the 3 series keys to the dealership and felt nothing at all. I never looked back at the 3. That was weird for me. Once I bond with a car, it’s really hard for me to let it go. Usually, we’ve been through a lot together and the adventures are good memories tied to the car itself. It’s easy for me to forget about the 3 because we made no memories together. It almost felt like the car and I tolerated each other but I had no desire to cruise up the coast in it.

The 3 would often do something weird and fail with no warning at all. Invariably when it was most inconvenient (on the way to work at 4am, instead of on the way home from work at 2pm.) Maybe that’s why we never cruised the coast or anything other than drove to work and home. I never had confidence in the car.

My current car, on the other hand, we’ve been coast to coast. We’ve seen sights and cruised areas in this country that I’d never seen before.

We stopped in Amarillo, TX because it told me something wasn’t quite right 120 miles outside the city. We didn’t limp in to town, we drove in under full power. My car did me proud and I didn’t mind stopping to investigate the issue. As it turned out the repair was minor, the TX dealership didn’t have the part. Fortunately it was something that could be documented, and reset. The car was fine to continue the trip back to California, a permanent fix could be made once we got home.

I’d have happily hung out in Amarillo waiting for parts if it had been necessary and not grumbled about it at all.

I suppose the difference is that the 3 had been preowned. The 4 had been driven, but I was its first owner. We bonded at about 100 miles an hour on the 52 in San Diego. It was instant, and we were communicating with each other intuitively, and have ever since.

It’s strange but I remember looking out the big windows of the dealership in San Diego and of all the cars out there, the 4 felt like it was looking back at me. As if it was alive and wanted me to take it home.

The car looked like all the others but I could feel something else. I didn’t know it was a manual transmission until I sat down in the driver’s seat. It was sitting in a line of other 4’s they looked indifferent and cold, but my 4 looked warm, inviting, a bit cocky, and forlorn.

As I walked out the double doors I knew I should just wait for the loaner car so the 3 could be fixed again and shouldn’t be looking at another vehicle.

I went to my 4 and knew it was built for me, it had been waiting patiently for someone like me to find it. It was the only manual transmission in the row. When I got in and fired it up, the display showed it had been driven about 2500 miles. When I pulled out onto the road, I knew they’d been a rough 2500 miles. Probably some dealership salesman or various people who thought they’d like to try a manual transmission.

Either way, those miles had been rough, the good news was, they were few in number. When we hit the freeway I could feel the engine blowing out the bad shifts and the clutch opening up for me. When we hit 90, the salesman got nervous but kept his mouth shut. At 100 mph he started shifting around uncomfortably.

I wasn’t meaning to scare him. The car and I were talking to each other. I could feel the machine singing with joy at actually being driven the way it was supposed to be, by feel, not by someone watching a shift indicator on the dashboard.

We leveled the acceleration at somewhere over 100 mph, dropped speed, and turned around to head back to the deanship. I knew as I made the turnaround to get back on the freeway heading the direction we’d come, that neither I or the car could be separated. I hadn’t felt that good about driving since I’d lost the 1 series.

The lease was an option that worked for the moment and within a month I knew I’d found a worthy replacement for the 1 series. During the lease, I worried that something would happen that would make me have to give up the 4 but I promised it, and myself, that I’d do my best to keep it happily in my garage.

It wasn’t until yesterday that the reality hit me. I’d kept my promise, (some might say it was a selfish promise…)

I’ve always had a “feel” for machines. While most machines and I get along great, there are some machines that feel special, they feel like they have a soul. I’ve repaired machines that I swore were messing with me just for kicks and a little kind attention. Those machines became my favorites to service and repair. They usually made me smile with their improbable antics or malfunctions. Often, they just needed some tender loving care and I’d see them again in 6 months or a year.

I know a few folks who believe some machines have souls, so it’s not as weird as it might seem. We’ve all been in offices where one person couldn’t get a specific machine to work properly no matter what. The machine works fine for everyone else, just not that one person.

That’s a machine soul trying to tell everyone something. I noted years ago that machines with souls seem to know who the jackasses in a business are, and they’re not shy about broadcasting it to the rest of the company.

My 1 had a good soul and we went through a lot of crap together. No matter how bad my 1 was feeling it never left me stranded. It would get me someplace safe limping all the way if it had to.

The 3 was indifferent and cold, it was a common car just like a thousand others on the road. The 3 had no problems at all just stopping wherever it was.

The 4 wanted to be loved and driven. It wanted to have someone who appreciated it in the drivers seat. It has a good soul. I’m confident that it will always do its best to get me where I’m going, or warn me ahead of time that something is wrong. Even with its nose smashed up and a puncture to the floor pan caused by a semi tire retread in the lanes, my 4 yelped but kept on going. It got me home safe that night, and the next day we were at the repair shop.

I’m lucky the 4 picked me, (or caught my eye,) that sunny day in San Diego.

Maybe, depending on the cost of the registration, for Christmas I’ll give the 4 a proper name printed on a classic black & yellow California plate.

For the time being, I’m letting it know that now it is truly mine and we’ll take care of each other and be just fine.

I wonder if this is how people felt about horses?

Later in the day…

While loading CDs, I plugged one in from Rush. I couldn’t help but laugh when Red Barchetta, started playing. It reminded me that in California by 2035 all new vehicle sales are mandated to be electric only.

Just 13 years from now, unless Gov. Newsom decides to speed up the timetable. It will take some time for California to make all gas vehicles illegal to own, or operate. The legislature will probably get around to it by 2045.

It’s funny to think that I might live long enough to watch a song play out in in real life. I could survive into my 80s and watch high speed chases where the perpetrator is only guilty of joyriding in a gas powered automobile.

I hope that I’m watching it from an old folks home located in another state. The only problem I might have, is pissing off the other old folks by rooting for the gas powered vehicle to outwit and outrun the electric police cars.

What are they gonna do about it? Deny me my pudding?

Posted on

Yet more home repairs

I’m sharing this for no other reason than to remind all Men,

“You’re not alone brother!”

My morning started out pretty normal. I got up, had a cup of coffee or two. Looked at my ToDO list and started working.

First up, was completion of some edits on and troubleshooting a website. Problems with this site had befuddled me for a couple of days, and this morning I decided to hit it like Spartacus!

Magically, the problems I’d been having melted before my awesomeness! “That was easy,” I said. Then moved onto the next thing on the list with confidence.

Perhaps I was too cocky.

The rest of the morning unfolded as follows;

I began by cleaning the gutters, The back gutter was a solid mess. Pine needles and about a quarter of an inch of dirt filled the entire 40 foot length of the rear gutter.

I was amazed that it wasn’t simply over-flowing when it rained. Using a ladder on the deck, I was able to remove the pile of pine needles. This process was annoyingly slow but simple manual labor. Grab the pine needles by hand toss them into the yard, move ladder to the next section. Repeat as needed. I finished by flushing the dirt out with a high pressure spray of water from the hose and bingo, the rear gutter was clean.

With even more self assuredness I moved to the front gutter. Oddly, it wasn’t nearly as blocked up as the rear, and it is overflowing when it rains. The front gutter is problematic to clean because unlike the back one, there is only a short deck to work from in the front of the house.

Using my handy dandy fiberglass poles and a little creativity with a bit of metal I fashioned a two bladed hook that allowed me to hook the pine needles and other plant debris raking it toward me. I didn’t have to move the ladder which was a good thing because there’s no place to move it to.

Due to the slope of the yard, one end of the front gutter is 20 feet off the ground and I don’t have a 25 foot ladder. After all, I’d only use it once a year.

Debris removed, I grabbed the hose attached to the front hose bib. The intention was to rinse the dirt and small bits of loose debris from the gutter, as I had done in back. Hose deployed and unkinked, I walk down stairs to turn the water on full blast. I run back upstairs climb the ladder and direct the spray nozzle into the gutter rinsing the detritus from the bottom.

It is approximately at this point that two problems become apparent.

Problem 1 is that the water is not exiting the gutter as anticipated.

Problem 2 is that I hear water running even when the spray nozzle is in the off position. I’d noticed that the water pressure wasn’t quite as high as I’d experienced in the back but thought little of this rather obvious clue.

I’m curious why I still hear water running.

I head down stairs and had 2 inches of one stair break off as I stepped on it, and damn near sent me down the rest of the flight, face first.

Priorities dictated that I find the source of the water sound, before dealing with the broken stair, other than swearing loudly, and profusely, as I caught myself.

Ladies, we guys don’t always get hurt doing something stupid. Sometimes we get hurt because we’re trying to make sure that things are maintained and safe for our families. It just happens that in that process we’re the ones who find cleverly covered up broken, or ignored things. My Dad had a knack for finding the one live wire in a bundle of “rat fucked” wires that one of us kids had tried to fix before being distracted by something shiny in the yard. It was a miracle that nothing caught fire, and my Dad wasn’t electrocuted during my childhood.

Once safely down the stairs, I notice that the sound of running water is louder, but it is not coming as expected from the hose fitting. I head into the basement to discover a quarter to half an inch of water pooled directly under the pipe leading to the hose bib on the exterior wall.

Being thankful for my foresight 8 years ago, I grabbed the nifty ball valve on the water line to the hose bib that I usually only use in preparation for Winter, and shut off the water to the bib without having to kill the water to the entire house.

Okay, now the water problem is managed.

I head back up to the deck pausing to check that the offending stair will not crumble under my weight and back up the ladder to see what’s going on with the gutter. It is still full of water. Great! My front gutter downspout is clogged and I don’t have a ladder tall enough to allow me direct access.

In an attempt to remedy the clog, I began disassembling the segments of the downspout hoping to be able to snake the clog with what I had on hand. A.K.A. my handy dandy fiberglass poles.

Unfortunately, during this process I discover another problem. The clutch on my drill is broken and I can barely unscrew the screws holding the downspout in place without the drill slipping. I question if I can drive a sheet metal screw back through the retaining straps when I’m done clearing the drain spout. However, I’m in it now, and going for the gold, I will finish this one task!

(You know, some days you get the bull and other days you get the horn. You can surmise which I got.)

The fiberglass poles are not able to make the sharp turns leading to the clog, (which appears to be, in or beyond the last “S” leading to the short straight section connected to the gutter itself. Of Course! The clog couldn’t be in any of the sections that I can access, it’s just out of reach, (kinda like my dating life!)

I’m able to reassemble the gutter and get it strapped back to the side of the house. Broken drill notwithstanding.

I am curious about why the drill is broken, and why there is a suspicious big white scuff mark on one side of it indicating that it may have been dropped from a height.

I briefly think about beginning a grand inquisition as to who was using my drill, and how it came to be damaged since the last time I had need of it. I do not recall dropping the machine, but it was at least put back in it’s case where it belonged so that is progress in the right direction.

Nah, there shall be no inquisition today. I just have a great excuse to go pick up that sweet Ryobi set I’ve been wanting. I’ll count it as a win!

With the drill broken, I can’t repair the stairs. The plumber will be here in an hour or so, to replace the broken section of pipe.

In the mean time I’m having a coke. I’ve been at my home repair follies for over 3 hours. I’ll have another shower, then go to Home-Depot to see if I can get a suitable drain snake and a new drill / impact driver set.

Other that that Mrs. Lincoln… How was the Play?

See? Now you can laugh your ass off! Misery loves company doesn’t it?

Posted on

The End of an Era…

For many years, I’ve maintained a VIP membership at a gym in Orange County.

As part of that membership I had access to the VIP locker room. This was not the locker room you’d be familiar with if you attend a “normal” gym.

This locker room was all wood. It had a private Jacuzzi, wet & dry saunas, private access to the pool, and ample sinks and mirrors, where it was not uncommon to see 8 to 10 men shaving in the morning and often in the evenings if they were going out on a date.

We all had private lockers, towel service, the gym would wash our dirty workout clothes and leave them in our lockers when finished. There was fresh coffee, and fresh fruit available in a lounge area that seated 10 around a big screen TV usually tuned to the financial news or on weekends to one of the various games. They even had a place where you could drop off your laundry and pick it up a couple days later all conveniently billed to your Gym account with a monthly itemized statement delivered to your locker.

Occasionally one of the guys would bring his son or sons into the gym and the locker room to change clothes, or shower after father and son(s) worked out or used the pool. No-one paid any mind as long as the youngster wasn’t misbehaving. It was a place of Men.

In a time when places for Men were disappearing and feminism was taking it’s toll on even Barber Shops, it was a place that was a welcome sanctuary from the hubbub of the business day. I can’t count how many business deals I heard being closed in the lounge chairs over coffee or a cool post workout smoothie.

I spent many happy hours in that locker room. Sometimes finishing a report for work, but more often just starting my day there.

I’d drive to the gym, workout, shower, shave, have breakfast, then walk across the street to work. Sometimes I’d start and end my day at the gym, using cardio to burn the frustrations of the day away waiting for traffic to die down.

The gym had regular locker-rooms for men and women too. But I was worth the added expense and really enjoyed the VIP locker room because it was always quiet and comfortable. I guess you could call it a “Safe Space”.

The Gym itself had a pro shop, dining area, the usual array of weight machines, free weight areas, racquet ball and basketball courts, spin classes, yoga, aerobic studios, conference rooms (that you could reserve a month in advance), a hair salon, child care for the kids who were too young or not interested in working out with Dad or Mom. It was a big place and for a time, only the best of the best trainers got to work there.

While trying to figure out when the Gym would re-open due to COVID I discovered that my gym would never re-open.

24 Hour Fitness is in bankruptcy and apparently my gym was one of the casualties of their default, 130 gyms in all.

There’d been no notice, no email, no letter… nothing. This left me wondering where, when, and how I’d get my things from my locker. I tried calling corporate and all I got was a recording telling me that due to COVID there was no one to talk to. I wrote a strongly worded letter to corporate and heard nothing.

Last Friday, I got an email from 24 Hour Fitness telling me that I needed to call the number provided as soon as possible, to collect my things. I called the number Monday and made arrangements to drive down to grab my gear.

It almost wasn’t worth it. One shoe, my workout clothes, racquet balls, and all my toiletries were missing. They did manage to get my shower shoes, my racquet ball racquet, and my favorite yoga mat into a big plastic trash bag. They had no idea about the other items or why they’d not made it into the bag. Except for the racquet, the drive to OC was almost not worth making.

24 Hour Fitness, is giving me a great rate on their All Gym package in consideration of the closure. I can literally go to any of their gyms which is no different than what my membership always provided.

It won’t be the same. I’ll have to hump my shit to and from the gym, fiddle with a padlock and remember what locker I put my shit in when I’m done with my workout. I know this is the normal way gyms work but I’ve tasted better, and I liked it. I liked walking into the gym like a zombie, getting my stuff out of my locker dressing to work out and actually waking up at some point during my workout. I liked going to the locker room and having a cup of coffee before I showered and got on with my day.

That’s all a thing of the past now. I haven’t made any decision yet about the membership. I think it’s best to let the wound scab over a bit.

The gym where I picked up my stuff was strange. No music, no TVs. It’s a nice place, but felt strange. People on cardio machines with their masks on, their earbuds in their ears listening to their own groove from phones or pads in front of them. Few people were using the weights, and those who’d completed their workouts left the gym sweaty and disheveled. The locker room was empty as I made my way through to the bathroom. It was like a weird movie. Everyone silent and isolated, even in a crowd.

I’m not sure that I’ll be maintaining the membership. I don’t like this version of “Normal”

It occurred to me that I have no ties left with OC other than one remaining friend there.

OC used to be a big part of my world. I worked there, my doctor was there, I drank there, and played there. Now OC is just another place that I used to know, but don’t goto anymore. Los Angeles, Hollywood, and The Valley all have this same feeling. Places I used to goto but don’t anymore. Palm Springs is starting to feel like this too. Distant, broken, alien.

I’m beginning to think, for me, this is more than COVID fatigue. It’s something deeper.