Have you ever had a car that you thought would live forever? Let's say you never even named it because you were sure that you had plenty of time to bond in the future and on some cross-country drive it would speak to you at 2am and say "Call me Lucinda" or "Cheever" or "Mr. Mustache"? That was the relationship I had with our Volvo. !80K miles, no accidents, stints in California, Texas, Vermont, Washington and all points in between. I can't take credit for our Volvo - my wife brought it into our relationship. However, now I'll always be a Volvo guy. Yet as of yesterday, I've been told that we need to start seeing other people. See, our Volvo has a blown head gasket. The water and oil and the dairy and the meat or something are combining and we're done. A new engine would be throwing away money. Lots of money. Thankfully, I've got the most honest mechanic I'd ever imagined breaking the news to our shell-shocked family. I'd love to honor it by driving our Volvo off a cliff into the Columbia River or send it out to sea on an ice flow. But apparently that's not legal now that Obama's in control.
Sarah was out of town with Maya for a long weekend, during which I caught a few flicks. I can't say that I was blown away by anything I saw. "The Wrestler" is barely a B-plus, largely thanks to Marisa Tomei (rawr!). "Frost/Nixon" is a weak B, mainly due to overeager expectations on my part. "Milk" was a reluctant B, because I found myself fondly remembering Gus Van Sant's much better "My Own Private Idaho" at a number of times during the film. All in all, any of the trio is a million times better than last summer's "Indiana Jones". Then again, flat beer and stale pretzels served in a shoe are also exponentially better than that turkey.
Hope your own car earns a tender hug and an oil change today. Rock on.
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