Tag Archives: cars

Of Karma, Mr. Know-It-All, and My Chevy Lumina

15 Nov

from May 18, 2008

Karma is the Eastern philosophy of good and bad revisiting the individual in a future life, or in a later era of the present life, based upon the deeds of the individual. In our Western culture, it is often expressed as “what goes around comes around.”

On Saturday night, Mr. Know-It-All posted an “advice” column on my account. How he gets my password is beyond me. I’ve tried all I could to stop him. I’ve changed my password on a rotating basis and changed my email, so how he hacks into my account is a mystery. And since he is posting under my account, I can only assume that all of his bad energy is, in a karmic sense, mine as well for failing to stop him. How else to explain what happened to me last week?

Mr. Know-It-All must have the bad karma of a fleet of convicts. I’ve never read anything remotely helpful in his columns. He is not always evil, but never can you put him in the good side of the ledger. So on Saturday night I read with disgust his latest repulsive blog. I have to admit, though, I laughed too. That more than anything is probably what doomed me. This particular blog was about car repair (so to speak) and the irony was not lost on me as the days dragged on. Karma had a field day with me.

Sunday was Mother’s Day and my brother and I were not doing to do too much for Mom because she was working that night. She’s always worked on Mother’s Day and we celebrate around it on the day before or after, and do some little things that day. One of the little things I was to do was drive her to work. We got into the car, buckled up, and nothing happened. The car didn’t turn over. It whined, made a whirring sound, and nothing. I assumed it was a dead battery. Mom took car service to work and I went back upstairs. It was a Sunday, and Mother’s Day, and late in the afternoon, so I decided to wait until the next day to fix it.

Monday morning I took the bus to work. It was a meeting day at work so when I returned him, walking home from work, it was almost too late in the day to do anything about the car. Around 4:30 I tried to turn it over. Nothing. Click. Whir. Cough cough whir. It sounded like it was about to start but never did. I was sure it was a dead battery. It was too late for a boost to do any good because my mechanic closed at five and I needed an oil change and an inspection too. I could change the battery myself but since my first stop would be my mechanic anyway I would just do it all at once. I locked the car and went upstairs.

Tuesday was another day of taking the bus to work. It isn’t too bad taking the bus. The stop is right across the street, the ride is less than ten minutes, and I listen to my iPod. Coming home, if the day is nice, I walk. This day I had to cover Liz and run chorus. This meant that I wouldn’t get home until almost six and thus wouldn’t be able, again, to take the car to the mechanic. Luckily, I called up and found out that he’d be there until six, not five, that day, and if I ended chorus a half an hour early I’d  be out of work at five and home in time to get to the mechanic, if only I could get a boost.

(Chorus, by the way, was attended by nearly no one, and the two who showed up did little while I played the songs. One of the kids was new to the club and the other was busy with something else until after 4:30. It was easy money, sure, but I was losing time to get the car fixed. I was only doing this for Liz. I wouldn’t have said yes for anyone else.)

When I got home I got in the car and while I wondered who the heck was going to give me a boost I tried the car and it started the second I turned the key. It was a very warm day, the warmest of the week, and I figured that the battery was just a hair shy of having enough power to start, but the heat gave it a bit of a boost and it hit right. I revved the engine for almost ten minutes and planned to get straight to the mechanic. I turned on my phone, which was unsurprisingly off, and had three messages waiting for me. My mom was very sick and I needed to get there ASAP. I hated to do it, it killed me, but I shut the car off and left it for one more day. I hoped and prayed that it would start the next morning. I’d drop it off at the mechanic right before work and hoof it to work. I shut it down and, as a test, tried to start it again. Click whir whine. Nothing. I turned the key again and it roared right up. Strange, but it started two out of three times and I had high hopes.

Wednesday came and I reluctantly cancelled chorus. The car had not started that morning. I hated to give up very easy money and I didn’t want to leave Kathy in a lurch but I had to get this car running. I’d been giving a lot of thought to the battery, in particular who to get to boost it. There’s no one in my building that I know well enough to ask for a boost. I know some people who have lived there longer than my mother but they don’t drive. The ones who do I don’t know. As for friends, I don’t have a whole of drivers, or friends for that matter. From work, I could have asked Liz, and she probably would have said yes, but she was out of the country (and that was why I was doing chorus) and maybe I could have asked Kathy but she was still at work, was always busy, and I wouldn’t have felt comfortable asking her anyway.

I got to the car around 3:15 and it didn’t start but I didn’t expect it to. At any rate, I had a plan: I’d take out the battery, take the bus to Strauss and get a new battery, bus it back, put the battery in, and drive to the mechanic. Easy.

But it wasn’t. I’ve changed batteries before and it was never a problem. On my Chevy Lumina, the battery is below the reservoir for the windshield washer, so I’d have to remove that first. I brought my tools, popped the hood, and got to work. There is a strut that goes across the engine block, over the reservoir, held on with three hex bolts. I got out my socket wrench and tried to remove the first one. These bolts may never have been removed. They were rusted and didn’t want to move. They were so stiff that I actually broke my ratchet. Seriously, a tool snapped because of the bolt. Plan B meant I took out my crescent wrenches, found the right size, and after loosening the bolts by banging them with a hammer, took off all three by hand. It was hard and took awhile but I finally did it. Next stop was the reservoir. It was held in by two plastic tacks and a screw. The tacks had to pried off with a flathead screwdriver and it was harder than it sounds because they were on the verge of snapping and I had to be gentle. Then I had to get the screw. It was small but in a very tight spot. If I had the socket wrench it would have been a piece of cake, but without it I needed to turn the wrench an eight of a turn at a time and it took a very long time. This process was taking much longer than I thought. Eventually the screw came out. I tried to lift off the reservoir but it was partially wedged below a fuse box. As I tried to twist it out, I saw that a battery terminal was threaded through the reservoir. The more I looked the less likely it seemed I’d be changing the battery. I wasn’t going to start removing a fuse box and I didn’t want to try to fool around with the battery post. I hated to do it, but at almost 5 o’clock I called it quits and put the pieces back together. Again, it was too late to get to the mechanic.

I was physically and mentally beat. I was sure I could do the battery myself so it was a real come-down to discover that I couldn’t. Unable to change the battery, and having no chance of getting a boost, I did something that, honestly, I had wanted to do for months anyway. I got on the computer and joined AAA.

Thursday morning I took the bus again. I wished I could get a Metrocard like the kids. I cancelled the easy money chorus again and went home and called for a boost. AAA came by 3:30 and checked the battery. It was fine. Fully charged. I tried to turn it over and nothing. The AAA guy listened and told me it was not the battery, it was the starter.

So if I had managed to get the battery out, bought a new one, and replaced it, it would have done no good anyway.

The AAA guy did an old trick to start the car- he got a wrench and banged on the starter. It fired up and I drove to a new garage (not where I was planning to go) because the one he recommended was AAA authorized and I’d get a warranty and a price break. Amazing luck held sway, as the place was totally empty and I was in and out in under 45 minutes.

Bad karma had cost me $195 for the starter, six hours of easy pay at a good rate, and $12 in bus fare. All because of a stupid blog.

But it was not over. Karma was not satisfied.

Friday was the first day I drove to work that week. I was happy as I drove. I was parked a block from my house and had to pass it to get to work. As I passed, the road was clear in both directions. I had a solid green and the intersection was clear. There was a bus in the stop on my right and I kept an eye on it as I passed to make sure that it didn’t pull out. As I did this, a blur shot into the street on my left and hit me.

A teenager, maybe a high school freshman, ran out between two parked cars and she ran right into my driver-side door. Horrified, I looked back as I stopped and pulled over. She had bounced off the car, fell backwards onto her back and rolled onto the double yellow line. She only avoided being killed because she didn’t bounce into any traffic and she didn’t run in front of me. I would never have been able to stop.

When I got out of the car she had gotten up and ran to the bus and was about to get on when I stopped her. I made sure that she was OK and then made sure she knew how close she came to getting killed, that  a bus was not worth dying over, etc etc, and she was scared, shaken, and most of all wanted to get on the bus. She was OK, the car was OK, I let her go.

But the car wasn’t OK. When I walked back to the car I saw that she had elbowed the mirror during the impact. The housing was fine, and that was good because the housing is the pricey part, but the glass had shattered.

After work I went to R and S Strauss on Bay Parkway. They had a slew of replacement mirrors but not one that even came close to fitting my mirror. They offered to order it but it wouldn’t arrive for 5 to 10 days. I needed one right away because not having a mirror means getting a ticket so I went down 86th Street to Auto Zone. They had nearly nothing on the shelves and the guy behind the counter was worse than useless. He didn’t even know how to use his own computer. Repeatedly he showed me a mirror and asked me if that was it. Repeatedly I told him no, that was a mirror for a van, and he showed it to me four times, always asking me if I was sure. I told him I knew the difference between a car and a van and if he’d like, I’d taker him to my car and show him. He declined. I very loudly said that “you don’t have a clue what you’re doing” and left. From there I went to the Strauss a couple of blocks away and they had a guy there who, to be nice, didn’t wan to work too hard. After way too long he told me he could order it, 5 to 10 days. I said no but I did buy a universal replacement mirror.

My next stop was my new mechanic, who advised me to go to the Chevy dealer down the block. I did. He also had to order it, but he guaranteed it to be there Monday afternoon. I bought it and it cost me $65 dollars. I put on the replacement mirror. It is a mirrored sheet of vinyl that I had to cut myself. It didn’t cut easily and it came out with very jagged edges and looks like it belongs on a Bedrock car. It is ugly and warped, the reflection is distorted, but it is only for a day more and it will keep me from getting a ticket.

Final tally:
Starter, $195.
Mirror, $65.
Temporary mirror, $15.
Bus fare, $12.
Lost pay, about $240 (pre-tax).

 Total: $527, plus very nearly the loss of a child’s life.

Karma is a bitch.

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Mr. Know-It-All Answers Your Car Repair Questions

15 Nov

from May 10, 2008

Hey, Mr. Know-It-All, back again to answer your questions about cars. Cars? I’m answering car questions? Hella yes. Let me tell you a story.

I got a call from my editor just the other day asking why I haven’t written a column in a while. OK, it wasn’t a phone call, it was a sharp kick in the ribs. For some reason I was passed out under his desk. I was curled up in the fetal alcohol position, cradling an empty bottle of Grey Goose Vodka that I had been using to piss in. It was bone dry. Not only was I so shitfaced that I was going to piss in a bottle, I was too shitfaced to piss straight. Even worse, I was too shitfaced to remember to unzip my fly before pissing. My pants were so friggin’ soaked with piss. Gotta tell ya, that brought back some good memories.

Anyway, he said that if I didn’t come up with something, like right now, I’m fired. So I did what I always do, and that’s steal things off the internet. I pounded the keyboard with my face and a cartalk.com came up. So what the fuck? I’ll answer car questions. What do I know about cars? I know that in Afghanistan you can trade one for two Asian babies and a goat.

I also know that if you jerk off in the passenger seat and stick your cock in the window and raise it before you come you can get a pretty bitchin’ backwash. But you can only do it once a month. That’s how long it takes to heal.

Tom and Ray are two guys who answer car questions. Like you needed me to tell you that, geniuses. But their answers suck and mine are better.

Dear Tom and Ray:
For years, I have been a field-mouse-poor college student, sleeping in my (crappy, leaky, rusty) Jeep on trips, such as snowboarding, to save money (yes, it gets nippy — hence the zero-degree sleeping bag). Now, with a job, I bought a “new to me” 2006 Subaru Outback that has similar sleeping capacity in the back (yes, I can now afford a car, just not the crazy hotel prices at the ski resorts). My fear is that this “new” car has far fewer rattles and doesn’t leak air like my Hindenburg/Jeep did. So I fear if I sleep in it, I may run out of air and just die in my sleep. Can I die in my car if it is NOT running and I sleep in it? – Jonathan

Yeah Jonathan, I’ll answer your question, but first you answer mine- what the hell is wrong with you? Your name is spelled with an ‘h,” tool, didn’t anyone ever tell you? J-O-H-N-A-T-H-A-N. Your parents must have been real shits. Anyway, here’s my answer to your shitty and stupid car question: Stop being such a drain on society and get an apartment, pay taxes, and join society. You sleep in your car so you can snowboard all the time. What a dick! You stoner ratbag, you, you, whatever, hard to think when your eyes feel like all the whiskey in the world is trying to get out through your tear ducts. Sleeping in your car is only acceptable when you’re with a whore or your fourth wife just kicked you out of the house because you spent the paycheck on date rape drugs again and your daughter caught you masturbating to East German Nazi rape porn for the ninth time that week. (Yes, that’s a true story. I’m not proud of it but sharing embarrassing facts like that is what makes Mr. Know-It-All a well-respected advice columnist.)

Here’s another question that proves that people who ask me for advice get what they deserve.

Dear Tom and Ray:
I have a 2001 Chrysler Town & Country with a 3.3-liter V-6 engine and 134,000 miles on it. I use it to deliver mail for the U.S. Postal Service. One day I refilled my antifreeze, and a week later, it was empty. This past week I put in two gallons and now it’s empty again. There’s nothing on my driveway, so the car’s not leaking. So, where is all of that antifreeze going? Please help. – James

Anyone who read that letter knows that James is an idiot. A friggin’ jerkhole anal asshole idiot. I don’t give a shit about his leaky radiator; I’ve got enough trouble with my leaky cock with the bad prostate the size of a grapefruit and the pus-filled sores on my ass. But back to the subject, which is why James is an asshole- he’s a federal employee who uses his own car to deliver the mail. Now I know that federal employees, and especially postal workers, are the laziest turds in the bowl, but this guy is also the most dumb- he’s using his own car! Unless this guy has worked out a way to bill the feds for gas and oil and vodka, what the hell is he doing? Why doesn’t he just steal the keys to one of those white vans they ride around in and use that? Or steal someone else’s car. He’s a postman for god’s sake- he’s already on the brink of suicide, why not start stealing too? Don’t stop there, have sex with AIDS patients, shoot up like Rick James, snort arsenic, do it all! YOU’RE A POSTAL WORKER! YOUR LIFE ALREADY SUCKS! KILL YOURSELF! Want to know where the antifreeze is going? Mr. Know-It-All is stealing it. You think I’m paying for my own drinks? Cut it with enough apple juice and you’ve got a drink that’ll straighten the hair on your balls, if it doesn’t kill you first.

The next two letters are about the manliest thing that you can possibly do- farting.

Dear Tom and Ray:
Back in the 1960s, when I was an adolescent male, one of my friends told me that he could get his old car (late-1940s- or early-1950s-era) to “fart” whenever he liked. When I expressed skepticism about this claim, he demonstrated the phenomenon several times. By switching the ignition on and off while manipulating the foot pedals, he could make the car backfire with a spectacular farting sound that attracted the awe and admiration of any adolescents in the vicinity. I still don’t understand how he accomplished this impressive feat, however. Can you explain the mechanics of “car farting” for arrested adolescents like me? – Bill

Dear Tom and Ray:
I own a 2001 Jaguar Silverstone XKR. When I use the windshield washers, the smell is a cross between very bad breath and cow manure. I’ve emptied the tank several times and flushed it with Clorox, but it still puts out such an odor that if I’m at a stoplight and use the washers, the guy behind me passes me and gives me a look like I ate a gallon of beans and couldn’t make it to the toilet. My mechanic is befuddled. He told me to take it to a gastro doctor. What to do, short of replacing the whole system at a very expensive cost? – Max

Look, let me say it, FARTS ROCK! And they are funny! If my car could fart I’d never leave the driver’s seat. I’d drive around making it fart all day. Fart fart fart. Now I just walk around farting out of my ass. Any guy who doesn’t like farts is a pussy. Farting is what separates us from animals. Sure I know animals fart, I’ve owned dogs. But animals don’t make you pull their finger first. And animals don’t laugh when they do it. Except hyenas. If the Three Stooges had one flaw, it was the fact that Moe never dropped his pants and farted in Curley’s face. That would have been hysterical! And can you imagine it Moe farted in Larry’s face? He’d never get the stink out of his kinky hair. He’d walk around all day smelling like Moe’s ass! Yeah, the Three Stooges should have gone further. Like Laurel and Hardy. My favorite show is the one where Oliver Hardy shits in Stan Laurel’s dinner and makes him eat it. Huh? Yeah, I’m pretty sure that happened. Didn’t they show that on channel 11 last week?

Dear Tom and Ray:
What are shop supplies? I always thought it was old rags and sprays to clean or lube. My recent visit to a dealer’s garage cost me $22.56 for shop supplies. My total bill was $297.81. If I take my car to the dealer for repairs three times in a month, that will cost me a lot for supplies. Do I have to pay it? Is it a tip? – Carol

Hey dickstream, you’ve been ripped off. “Shop supplies.” You fell for that? You paid that? Listen Carol, you’re a woman so I’ll go easy on you. Come over and slip into something leather and pointy and I’ll explain. When a mechanic charges you for shop supplies, he’s really laughing in your face. It’s his way of charging you for booze, or maybe hookers, or whatever else he’s got going on in the shop. If he needs some fast cash to pay his pimp or his bookie, he just puts “shop supplies” on his bill and slips it to silly broads like you. “Shop supplies” is like when the government taxes you and on your paycheck it just says “misc.” and there’s like $55 taken out of your check for no good reason. Where does it go? Probably in the pants of some Senator’s young trick.

But I guess I should talk a little bit about cars, this being a car column and all. Well, cars need gas, so put gas in the tank. Filling it with beans doesn’t work. You need three or four tires and if you don’t have a windshield you’ll have to do some pretty dirty stuff to a cop behind a rosebush to keep from getting a fat ticket.

And remember teens, Mr. Know-It-All never drinks and drives. He drinks, snorts, injects, rubs, vomits and drives. A DUI? Mr. Know-It-All invented the DUIBBAKLP.

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