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A Pandora's Box, lurking in the underpinnings of the sickly Swede. Friday's labours only served to break open the seal. A simple Saturday morning spin to town became a hair-raising, red-lining snarl back home. I guess I know what that disconnected cable was for, now. Ah, the kickdown gear. Grrrr. And there is no such thing as locating any Volvo parts on a Saturday afternoon. Not in the Land of the N*SCAR Cult. Any other day, I would've lanuched a triade to be heard miles away. Instead, to F'bg instead for a tool run, and picking up some spicy items at the funky Arabic food store. A much better choice, since it turned out to be one of those rare days where silly things came of rubbing elbows with people in the mood to talk. Like the tobacconist shop... when the manager must've been discussing holiday gifts, but all I heard was "...and I'm going to give Frank a gift certificate for Dicks." And I replied, "well, what did he do to deserve THAT?" A pause later, she returned, "...maybe that would be a better idea for my Ex-Husband." Sometimes, the crap just pops out. Another antidote... diner food. Flickering neon, boomerang Formica and Tsatsiki sauce on the fries melt my blues away. Saturday night... Sopranos and dark brown suds. Status Quo. Again. Bright and early, today, the second assault on the Tomb of Sighs. The gearbox thing, that is. And what an unholy battle it was. If I'd stuck by the manual, every tool I own was doomed to be flung, at great length. Ass-backwards, and full of unnecessary tasks. Two baptisms in transmission fluid later, cursing the workbook phrase that preached "utmost cleanliness," darkness fell. Buttoning up everything by flashlight, lodged in the armpit. Motion Restored. And It Was Good. Though the spot vacated by the vehicle appears to be the scene of a particularly grisly gangland slaying, Old School Style. There's something to be thankful for. I dread another car payment... and if forced, the next one wasn't going to be boring. Maybe I bought some time. Much to do... damned Responsibility. But I'm tired of looking at dirty Volvo knickers. |
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