On the Road Again

"To attract men, I wear a perfume called "New Car Interior."
~ Rita Rudner

So Dear Wife’s truck broke down again the weekend before last. I say ‘again’, because this is becoming an all too common experience. It’s not a new truck and it’s racked up a fair few miles. Not as many as Angus the 4Runner mind you, but a hefty number all the same. Which means that it’s reached the stage where bits are starting to need replacing. Not just fan belts and hoses but expensive parts like the transmission for instance.

We’ve been nursing that particular piece of technology along for over a year now and when the truck left her stranded by the roadside about a month ago, the symptoms seemed to fit. Turned out to be the alternator instead which meant a repair in the hundreds of dollars instead of the thousands, which was all well and good but we know we can only dodge that bullet for so long.

However, common occurrence or not, this last breakdown was particularly unfortunate in that not only was I elsewhere for the day, I had committed the unforgivable sin of not having my cell phone on. Or at least it was switched on, but it wasn’t on my person. When I changed into my kilt for the band performance at the Polo Club, I forgot to transfer the phone to my sporran. Instead I left it in the pocket of my shorts, which I left in the back of the car. Which meant that Dear Wife was stranded in a supermarket parking lot for over three hours before she tracked down a friend to come and pick her up. Meanwhile, I was unreachable.

In a beer tent.

Having fun.

When she originally bought the truck, Dear Wife had a horse and needed something which could haul a trailer, along with bails of hay, saddles and other equine accessories. That hasn’t been necessary in a long time and for all that we love the truck, it isn’t an ideal vehicle for our lifestyle. The gas mileage isn’t that great, it’s a bugger to park and the air-conditioning died some time ago which makes things unpleasant in the summer, particularly with highs above 100 degrees like we had this week. Winter driving is even worse. It handles poorly on ice and snow, even with bags of sand in the bed and being only 2-wheel drive, requires snow tires to get any form of traction on the hills.

So, this week found us only semi-reluctantly, in the market for a new car. Travel anywhere in the 285 corridor and you’re going to see plenty of Subarus. (Generally from behind as they crawl up the hills blocking the left lane. Ha Ha!) No, that’s not entirely true although a large number of older models are still on the road and they don’t seem to have the same oomph as the newer ones. But there’s no denying they’re popular. They appear to be an ideal fit for those who don’t want to go the big truck/SUV route, but want something that can handle Colorado’s mountain winters better than a regular sedan. And they look kinda cool too.

A couple of friends own them, as does Dear Wife’s dad and we’d enjoyed driving his during our visit last month. We were sold on the manufacturer, so no problem there. The only challenge now was to decide whether to go with the Forester or the Outback. I’ve always been a fan of the Outback so it was with a sinking heart I discovered Dear Wife leaning towards the Forester. I don’t often win these arguments, but fortunately, once we’d had a chance to play in them both, she for once, agreed I was right.

I’ve never bought a new car in my life and have only spent a limited amount of time in car dealerships. I don’t mind looking at shiny new cars, but don’t really have much of a clue why this one is so much further out of my price range than that one. I’ve also heard horror stories of endless negotiation battles with tough as nails salesmen. Some people have told me they’ve sat in the dealer’s offices until the wee hours of the morning to see who would crack first. I don’t have that kind of time, and I certainly don’t have that kind of energy.

Fortunately, these days we have easier options. One of the best investments we ever made was membership in AAA. Not only does a helpful phone operator send a tow truck to pick us up whenever we ask, they also offer a car purchasing program whereby they pretty much do everything for you. You tell them the type of vehicle you’re looking for, the bits and bobs you’d like it to have and your choice of colors. They then scour the local dealers to see if what you want is available and (hopefully) call to say when you can pick it up. Not only that, but after using all kinds of complicated arithmetic they determined we could actually afford it.

AAA lent us one in attractive shade of metallic urine and more or less gave us permission to see what it could do. We put it through its paces in the Rocky Mountain foothills where it passed with flying colors so somewhat predictably, we were sold. Which meant that after a whirlwind of phone calls over an astonishingly short period of time; we were handing over the largest check we’ve ever written in exchange for a set of three (comically large) keys. Moments later, we were pulling out of AAA’s parking lot at the wheel of a very shiny and new smelling Subaru Outback. Well actually, it was quite a few moments later because it took some time for us to get acquainted with all those buttons, lights, levers and switches.

I’m old enough to remember when owner’s manuals were about 20 pages long and that included directions for rebuilding the gear box. This one’s thicker than the last Harry Potter book and takes 59 pages just to explain the function of the seat belts. We’ve owned the car for five days now and I’m still only about a third of the way through the darn book. I’ve figured out the CD player, the sunroof and how to make heated seats work – you know; the important stuff. But the boring bits like how to change a tire, or check the steering fluid, well that’s just going to have to wait.

Right now, I’m just having too much fun driving the thing.

Sport of Kings and Warriors

"On the polo field, where else."

British gold-digger Sarah Ferguson, when asked where she met her temporary husband, Prince Andrew.

True confession: I own a couple of Ralph Lauren shirts, complete with wee polo player logo. They both came from Costco and so, cost about 1/10th of their normal retail price but what the hey, I look pretty darn stylish when wearing them, if I say so myself. Not only that, I spent this weekend at the Columbine Polo Club, rubbin’ shoulders with the cream of Denver society. It’s true; I was there in my capacity as sort-of-a-drummer for the Colorado Isle of Mull St Andrew Pipes & Drums. And I was simply providing entertainment for the rich folk, but I was there all the same.

Other than the occasional rain storm, my car Angus hasn’t had a decent wash since my parents came to visit almost two years ago. With his numerous rust spots, dents and bits hanging off, he didn’t exactly blend in with the gleaming Jaguars, BMWs and Lexuses (Lexii?) already filling up the grass parking lot. But to the credit of the parking attendants, they didn’t bat an eyelid, simply directed me to the closest available spot. A few other band members were already there and it didn’t take me too long to swap the sandals, shorts and t-shirt for kilt and full highland rig ready for a pleasant afternoon in the sunshine.

And dearie me, did we get sunshine. It was a record breaking 102 degrees in Denver on Saturday apparently, and the only way to fully appreciate just how toasty that is, is to wrap yourself in eight yards of wool and go and stand in the sun for a couple of hours. Like any true Scot, all I wear under my kilt is shoes and socks so I had my own little personal sauna going on down there. Oh dear doG, it was hot! Fortunately, the organizers had found the perfect spot for us to perform. On a patch of baking blacktop, right in front of the already aromatic port-a-potties and miles from the sanctuary of the beer tent. Somebody eventually took pity on us and brought water but mine evaporated with a hiss on the way down my throat.

Fortunately, Saturday’s gig was mercifully short and we were soon inside the tent, which frankly, wasn’t that much cooler. There were large electric fans but none pointing in our direction so we had no choice but to replenish our lost fluids by making frequent trips for free beer. There was free food too although it wasn’t until we’d each laden our plates that one of the organizers pointed out we weren’t supposed to be helping ourselves; it was reserved for the paying guests. "You can eat as much as you like tomorrow," they said, "but not today." Having been firmly reminded that we were merely the 'help', we settled in to an afternoon of people watching.

Now I’m well aware that when it’s over 100 degrees in the shade and you’re dressed in the aforementioned eight yards of wool, with a black hat, tie and vest, and effeminate little bobbly covers on the top of your socks, you aren’t really in a position to critique other peoples’ clothing choices. But that didn’t stop us. Because oh boy, there were some doozies here to choose from.

I’ll never be mistaken for a GQ model, but I have at least seen enough episodes of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy to know there are certain combinations which aren’t done. Lime green pants with canary yellow shirts, tailored shorts with black socks and lace up dress shoes, competing stripes, the works. For the most part, the women were dressed sort of tastefully but then, their outfits were often overshadowed by the feats of engineering which had gone into creating their physiques. So impressed were we guys by the plastic surgeon’s art that the girls in the band had occasion more than once to reprimand us for staring. I suppose we were lucky none of us got our tongues trodden on. Joking apart, I’m really not a fan of false boobs but some of these were truly uhm, eye-catching.

Sunday dawned with the promise of slightly cooler temperature and while the clouds kept the mercury down, it was still plenty steamy out there. We had a bit more work to do this time in that they wanted us to march from behind the goals, out to the center of the field, then turn and head towards the main stand where we could cook a little longer during the singing of the national anthem. Polo fields are pretty big so this involved quite a hike but at least they didn’t make us stand out there while somebody prayed, as they do at most of the Highland Games. A few more tunes up by the entrance and we were done for the day.

Remember how they told us "You can eat as much as you want tomorrow." Well, we should have remembered the adage "Tomorrow never comes" because by the time we hit the buffet line, the wait staff were clearing things away. Yep, the food was all gone and while a couple of folk managed to snag a wee prawn salad thing in a wine glass, the rest of us went hungry. Personally, I hadn’t felt the slightest bit guilty about snagging a plateful the day before but I know it was preying on the consciences of one or two band-members. Not any more it wasn’t and suitably chagrined, we fell like a plague of locusts on the beer tent, ready to make up the missing calories.

As I said, we weren’t the only ones in strange attire but perhaps because we were all dressed alike, and possibly because at least two of us had funny accents, we attracted a certain amount of attention. In the same way anthropologists might be attracted to a new and hitherto undiscovered tribe of jungle savages. I didn’t receive any dinner invitations but I did talk to some very charming people including one young lady called Danell (sp?) who endeared herself to me by constantly replenishing my beer supply, bringing me a fresh glass as soon as the level in my current one neared the bottom.

Mind you, even she put her foot in it as we packed up after our final performance. She asked me when we were due to play again.

"That’s it; we’re finished." I told her.

"Oh," she replied "but weren’t you just warming up?"

Ouch.

Saturday Night at the Movies - Redux

There are many things I haven’t done although I wish I had. I haven’t stood on the summit of Everest. I haven’t played football for Scotland (although if I had, I don’t think I would have been any worse than some of their current representatives), I haven’t seen the Great Wall of China and I haven’t ridden a Harley across the United States. And that’s just off the top of my head – there are many more things I’d like to do but still haven’t managed. However, this weekend I did manage to mark one more item off my "things to do list".

I finally made it to my first drive-in movie.

Generally when I tell people that I’ve yet to undergo this life experience the response is one of incredulity. How could I not have been to a drive-in movie? It is after all, I rite of passage for most Americans and almost everyone I know has fond memories of teen weekends spent in the front seat of a car watching the legends of the silver screen in all their 50ft high glory. But the crucial word in that sentence is "Americans". I of course, grew up on that sceptred isle across the pond where drive-ins never really caught on.

There are a number of reasons for this. Britain doesn’t share America’s obsession with the motor car for one. This is partly because the enduring image of motoring in Britain is not freedom and the open road, but gridlock and congestion. British cars are generally much smaller too so snuggling with your honey takes a lot more dexterity than on the bench seat of a Detroit land ship. Then of course, there’s the weather. The whole concept of outdoor movie-going more or less demands that the weather be warm and the sky above filled with stars. It’s hard to fully appreciate the nuances of the filmmakers’ craft when you’re freezing cold and watching through a windshield streaked with rain.

"Ahah!" I hear you say. "But you’ve lived in the US for over 12 years now – there’s no excuse for you still not to have been to a drive-in." Yes but you see, most of those 12 years were spent in Phoenix where the opposite is true when it comes to the weather. The idea of sitting in a car with the engine (and therefore the air-conditioning) turned off while the ambient temperatures hover around the 100 degree mark holds little appeal for me. There was a drive-in there, not too far from my house but I believe the majority of the patrons were teenagers whose rampant hormonal drives overrode any discomfort from the heat. Even so, after three years in Colorado, where the summertime temperatures are far more conducive to motorized movie-going, and despite passing a drive-in almost every day, I still haven’t made it down there.

The challenge recently has been that they never seem to show films I want to see. I’m not really that big on brainless action movies and those seemed to be the staple fare of the drive-in. However, a friend recently put this in perspective for me when she patiently explained "It’s a drive-in, it’s not a frickin’ art-house. If you’re waiting for 'Sideways' to show up, you’re going to be disappointed". This logic was inescapable so I decided that the next time they showed a movie that didn’t actually promise to kill off my brain cells in measurable amounts, I would go.

I still had to wait a while, but this week the main feature turned out to be 'War of the Worlds', a Tom Cruise flick which has received mixed reviews. I’ve never been a huge fan of Cruise’s; either as an actor or a human being but some of his stuff has been passable. There are other places on the web where you can find reviews of the movie if you’re interested; suffice to say, it wasn’t as cheesy as I expected and Cruise played his part very well. The effects weren’t bad and Dakota Fanning is rapidly becoming my favorite actress.

But you see; that’s not really point. The movie itself is secondary to the experience; the novelty of watching a film in a setting that was totally new to me. That’s what made it such a fun night. Spoiled as I’ve been by multiplexes, it’s a few years since I’ve waited in line to see a movie. However, that’s what we did here. Not shuffling along the sidewalk like in the old days, but in one, then two and finally three lines of idling cars, inching our way along the street. Little cars park at the front, bigger ones behind and the biggest of all at the back. Just like in school photos.

I was familiar with the concept of the speaker hooked onto the car door (I have after all, seen the opening credits of 'The Flintstones' many times) but what I was totally unprepared for was the option of listening to the movie via FM radio. I had never heard of this although I later learned it was introduced in the 1960’s as a way to reduce costs incurred by boneheads driving away with the speaker still attached to the door. Our truck has a factory issue, but quite acceptable sound system so the audio quality was way better than the crackly resonance I expected from the speaker.

A number of folks had brought along lounge chairs, others parked backwards so they could sit in the bed of their trucks or tailgates. I saw two small girls in sleeping bags on the roof of a Ford Explorer and one enterprising couple had brought along a couch which they set up to watch in style. I was more than happy to sit in the cab and watch the show from there although I did wish I’d thought to bring along a bottle of Windex and some paper towels like the folks two cars down from us. Our insect graveyard of a windshield didn’t exactly enhance the viewing experience.

All too soon the film was over and as nobody else seemed to be in a hurry to leave, we were out of the parking lot and on our way home while most people were still packing up. It was kind of hot and rather sweaty, and I didn’t get as completely absorbed in the movie as I normally do in a theater. It was also somewhat alarming to have people walking by your head every few minutes so I doubt I’ll be seeing too many movies in this format.

Mind you; if I ever invent my time machine and get to become a teenager again...

Sick Note

We had a wonderful vacation, thanks for asking. Dear Wife’s folks recently moved from the Bay Area to Ventura, further down the California coast and we hadn’t seen their new house before. Their garden is a paradise for bird lovers like them and I spent a lot of time simply sitting outdoors reading. We still found time to explore some of the small towns nearby, sample numerous restaurants and take some long walks on the beach so it even felt like a real vacation.

Coming home, with all the real world entrapments such as bills, laundry and work is never much fun but at least the dogsters were pleased to see us. (Although not quite as pleased as we’d assumed – it seems we’d made a good choice of boarding kennels.) Still, by Sunday night my shoes were polished, my lunch was made up and my laptop was sitting by the door, ready for another week in the salt mines. I was feeling rather tired so headed off to bed early, ready to be bright and cheery come Monday morning. Well OK, that was never going to happen, but you know what I mean.

By 2am I was awake again and paying a visit to the bathroom. No biggie, I’m sliding kicking and screaming towards middle age and they tell me this is the sort of thing I can expect. Most nights I can get up, take care of business and be back in bed without really waking so I didn’t give it a whole lot of thought. Until around 4am, when I thought about it a lot. Not only was I now wide awake, it was becoming increasingly obvious I was going to be spending a lot more time in the smallest room in the house.

Even at that point however, it didn’t occur to me there was anything majorly wrong. I figured there was just some kind of icky stomach bug in there and all I needed to do was ride things out until it passed, then head into work, perhaps an hour or two later than normal. By 6am I was aware that whatever else the day might have in store for me, sitting at my desk and catching up on e-mail wasn’t going to be it. Shivering and aching, I was huddled beneath the covers wondering if I was going to live through this. By 7am I was wondering if I really wanted to.

Remember the chariot scene in Ben Hur? Remember the bit where the bad guy falls out and gets trampled by the horses as they drag him around the Circus Maximus. Well, I could empathize with him. (If you don’t remember that bit of the movie don’t bother renting it just for the refresher – those few minutes don’t justify the tediousness of the rest.) My whole body, head to toe felt as if it had received a good kicking, while my stomach and intestines appeared to be full of break-dancing flamingoes.

Thinking it might settle my innards and replace some lost fluids, Dear Wife made me a cup of mint tea. It tasted quite refreshing but I managed only a few mouthfuls before heading straight back to the throne room. I’ve never really looked that closely at the inside of our toilet before; it’s really quite unattractive although I did send up a silent prayer of thanks that I’d cleaned it just before we left for vacation.

Fortunately, by midday I was pretty well hollow so was able to devote my energies to squirming around the bed in discomfort. Whatever kind of cooties I had inside me, they were certainly having one big old party and were presumably enjoying the day a lot more than I was. Weak and trembling I may have been, but they were full of energy and ready to play.

By day 2 the pain and discomfort had subsided somewhat and while I still felt as though I’d been put through a wringer, I had at least regained enough strength to work the remote control on the TV. However, I’m not sure if that did anything to aid my recovery. There really is an astonishing amount of dreck on American television. The programming itself is bad enough but every five or six minutes each channel takes a commercial break, the sole purpose of which (as far as I could tell) was to promote the other garbage the channel shows. Mind you, I finally learned just who the hell Nick and Jessica are, although I’m still unclear as to why I should care. If nothing else, that was an incentive to stay employed.

That afternoon I was able to eat a slice of dry toast and miraculously it stayed down. Later still I managed a few chunks of melon. Maybe I was going to survive this after all. The biggest challenge by this time was that even though I felt completely exhausted, my total lack of physical exertion during the day meant that when night finally came, sleep was impossible and I spent the next few hours, flipping and flopping trying to get comfortable while I waited for morning.

On day 3, propped in a cocoon of pillows, I was able to sit with my laptop on my lap (has anyone ever done that before I wonder?) and take a look at some of my work e-mail. It wasn’t as bad as I’d feared and I was pleased to receive a number of solicitous enquiries after my health. A fair number of those were along the lines of "Oh, you’re back. Good. Can you do this for me?" but on the whole, it seemed as though I’d genuinely been missed. I didn’t last the whole day of course, there’s no point in being home on the sick if you’re just going to work but I did make significant headway. At least until 'Dr. Phil' came on and I had to go to sleep.

Thursday morning found me back in the office. Early Thursday afternoon found me heading home feeling like a wet dishrag and wondering if Angus’ steering wheel has always been so heavy. It didn’t help that the entire population of Colorado had decided to take off early for the 4th of July and were sitting in front of me. But I slept the sleep of the innocent (a refreshing experience) on Thursday night and by Friday I was up and ready to take on the world.

A good job too. If there’s one thing worse than being sick, it’s being sick on a holiday weekend.