I am a proud (relatively new) owner of a secondhand white Beetle. How proud? I love it so much, I break out in song whenever I see a black Beetle. Ebony and Ivory. Seriously.
One of the first things I had to learn was that the car needed to be fed. Find out how to open the gas tank, find out where the oil dip stick goes, and find out the names of the liquids that go into the car.
Apparently, the liquids are something called coolent and windshield wiper fluid, which I’ve now coded as Orange Liquid and Blue Liquid. Someone mentioned once the colors depended on the brand of said coolent, so I’m pretty screwed there.
I didn’t quite realize you also needed to “change the oil” every three months or 3,000 miles. The last time I did that I was driven to some garage and someone changed the oil in my Beetle. So naturally it took six months for me to remember I needed to “change the oil.”
Jiffy Lube, 3 p.m., hot Friday afternoon. I’m sitting in what looks like a doctor’s office, with magazines in the corner, a coffee maker with dubious brown liquids, and generic plastic chairs. The car owners are all sitting around avoiding eye contact while their cars are outside.
The mechanics take turns to come in and shout out the car’s names. “Mitsubishi!” A guy walks out with the mechanic. “Chevy!” Another man walks out. “Volkswagen! Volkswagen! Volkswagen?”
“Miss, don’t you own the Volkswagen?”
Yes, I do. I stand up and walk out with him.
“Sorry about that,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting ‘Volkswagen.’ I thought you’d say ‘Beetle.’”
There’s something about too much testosterone, talent and tools in a greasy garage. Too many mechanics, make the car. It’s great drama though. I can’t say I’ve ever seen men have hissy fits.
It was cold, sunny, windy, warm, hailing and drizzling today. And it’s only 4:30 p.m. in Seattle.
Dude, so have you heard about Crime II Christ? Never did I, until two days ago, when there in front of me, on a makeshift stage with disco lights raging and speakers larger than most humans, bopped three or four men to the lyrics “Get on the Bus With Me.”
I assumed the Bus was the ticket to Heaven. The group in the room raised their hands, jiggled their butts, and occasionally shouted “Yeah!” or “Amen!”
There were T-shirts, CDs, posters and jewelry on sale too. Crime II Christ. Hallelujah.
The last of the Star Wars trilogy in triplicate is finally out. Personally I don’t see the urgency to watch George Lucas’ latest creation. I chuckled when I read about people who got in line two months before the film’s opening. We passed a couple of them in Seattle last weekend, camped out in front of the Cinerama. We stared; they stared back.
During dinner tonight, we talked about the best time to watch the movie. I suggested we give it a few weeks, after all the fans have had a chance to watch it at least twice. But Luke said he couldn’t wait that long. “Dot, it’s my Hello Kitty,” he said, immediately putting it into perspective for me.
Star Wars is to Luke what Hello Kitty is to Dot. It’s the same Force that so inclines me to buy any product with Hello Kitty stamped on it, including gardening gloves and a packet of tissue.
I feel the sudden urge to put on my Hello Kitty hair clips, put some cash in my Hello Kitty purse, grab my Hello Kitty keychain and head for the movies.
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