Today is my last day off here in Vegas. Tomorrow is technically a day off, though I have to sneak into the bakeshop to prep for Saturday's tasting. Chef didn't give me time to work on my tasting menu, but he also said he didn't want me to come in on my day off (ze French... zey are so, how you say, impossible...), so I'm going to sneak in and, if he confronts me, try pulling a Jedi mind trick and telling him "this is not the pastry pirate you are looking for."
Anyway...
Today I took my car in, finally, to the garage, to have a professional determine how to keep it in one piece on the trip back East. Some of you may recall that, on the drive out here, I hit a tumbleweed in Colby, KS (which sounds like a line from a country song to me). The villianous shrubbery ripped out the bolts in my catalytic converter heat shield, which I then dragged along the asphalt for several hours until, in a moment of silence between William Shatner and Bright Eyes on my mix tape, I noticed a Horrible Screeching, Scraping Sound.
A truck stop mechanic in Denver was able to jerry-rig the shield to the frame of my car with a wire hanger (really), which has held in the four months that I've spent looking for a mechanic interested in repairing it properly.
The mechanic that one of the bakers put me in touch with seemed unnaturally sincere and helpful for a car mechanic, so I asked him to give the car a lookover in general while he was repairing the shield and putting in a new turn signal switch (for the past week, my left turn signal will not shut off. While I'm sure it has irritated many a Vegas driver behind me, nothing can describe the heights (depths?) of vexation I have had over it, as I am one of those obsessive signal-using types).
He pronounced my car in excellent shape and expressed amazement over the terrific condition my brakes are in, with less than 50% wear after 77,000 miles. He said most people here in Vegas have to replace their brakes after 20-30,000 miles (though I believe that says more about the idiot Vegas driving conditions than anything else).
He said I must be a very good driver. I admitted that I do have a lead foot, and it's not unusual for me to take my Focus into the triple-digit mph range, especially out here on these deserted, perfectly flat, perfectly straight Western highways.
"Oh, that don't do nothing bad to the car. In fact, it's good for it to let it run like that," he said. "But your brakes are really in beautiful shape. I can't believe it, with 77,000 miles on the car. You must be an excellent driver."
Yes, yes I am. Me and Rainman.
Anyway...
Today I took my car in, finally, to the garage, to have a professional determine how to keep it in one piece on the trip back East. Some of you may recall that, on the drive out here, I hit a tumbleweed in Colby, KS (which sounds like a line from a country song to me). The villianous shrubbery ripped out the bolts in my catalytic converter heat shield, which I then dragged along the asphalt for several hours until, in a moment of silence between William Shatner and Bright Eyes on my mix tape, I noticed a Horrible Screeching, Scraping Sound.
A truck stop mechanic in Denver was able to jerry-rig the shield to the frame of my car with a wire hanger (really), which has held in the four months that I've spent looking for a mechanic interested in repairing it properly.
The mechanic that one of the bakers put me in touch with seemed unnaturally sincere and helpful for a car mechanic, so I asked him to give the car a lookover in general while he was repairing the shield and putting in a new turn signal switch (for the past week, my left turn signal will not shut off. While I'm sure it has irritated many a Vegas driver behind me, nothing can describe the heights (depths?) of vexation I have had over it, as I am one of those obsessive signal-using types).
He pronounced my car in excellent shape and expressed amazement over the terrific condition my brakes are in, with less than 50% wear after 77,000 miles. He said most people here in Vegas have to replace their brakes after 20-30,000 miles (though I believe that says more about the idiot Vegas driving conditions than anything else).
He said I must be a very good driver. I admitted that I do have a lead foot, and it's not unusual for me to take my Focus into the triple-digit mph range, especially out here on these deserted, perfectly flat, perfectly straight Western highways.
"Oh, that don't do nothing bad to the car. In fact, it's good for it to let it run like that," he said. "But your brakes are really in beautiful shape. I can't believe it, with 77,000 miles on the car. You must be an excellent driver."
Yes, yes I am. Me and Rainman.
My long-suffering car Kali, in a rare moment of motionlessness (near Bryce Canyon, Utah):
No comments:
Post a Comment