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In my city, you could find yourself situated on a residential street in a fairly trendy neighbourhood, caught between two neon signs.
On one side of the street, there's a neon sign in the second floor window. It sports a halo in gold, with blue letters that spell out "HOMO". It's been there for a very long time, this sign. I've passed by it more than once over the years, and always found it funny.
I can only surmise that their across-the-street-neighbours found it funny, too. I noticed a few weeks ago that there is another neon sign on this residential street - directly across from the halo homo. It's virulent red and sports a horn and tail. Ensconced in these accessories is the word "SKIM".
I sincerely hope they did this tongue in cheek, because I'd hate to admit to admiring the humour of some backwater redneck with more dollars (to spend on neon signs) than sense.
Buddy parks his car on this street every day, before walking the rest of the way into work. Once in a while, I go with him, rather than taking my own "planes, trains and automobiles" route.
Last Friday was such a day. It was the tail end of a very long week, fraught with work stress. All I really wanted to do was finally start my weekend. To that end, we'd picked up a nice bottle of red wine and were carting it, and my backpack, the seven or eight blocks from work.
We arrived there, cold, windblown and sick of carrying things. I pulled out my trusty auto door keyring thing and pressed the "unlock" button. Nothing happened.
I press it again. Still nothing.
So I decide to open the door manually. With the key. They way they used to do things, back in the old days.
Apparently, Vaughn is not interested in retro, classic, or traditional anything, because she WAS NOT AMUSED.
In fact, she treated me to the vehicular equivalent of a southern belle pulling aside her skirts and shrieking madly.
(Translation: she alarmed.)
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
Moving frantically, as any person with a sense of the community (did I mention this is a residential street?) would, I tried to lock and unlock the doors from inside, which generally does the trick.
Nothing. I tried starting Vaugh, which I really should've thought better of, because all that results in is total failure to go, thanks to the aforementioned alarm.
Once it stopped (after two of the longest minutes ever pieced together by the Fates), I decided to try and unlock the door manually again.
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
The comedy gold continued to roll as we alternately tried to get into and out of Vaughn, thinking there must be some way to get her to go without this stupid little piece of machinery.
So there I was, attempting to read the dawgforsaken owner's manual in the midst of the beeping when my real estate agent wheeled up RIGHT BESIDE US.
We suddenly ended up in a beep interlude, but she rolled down the window and waved. What could I do? I opened the damned door.
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP . . . . well, let's assume you've got a notion of exactly how excruciating it was, and exactly how garbled and half-arsed my explanation was.
There I was, sitting between The Angel HOMO and The Demon SKIM, a shrieking Vaughn, caught between the end of a bad week and the beginning of my birthday weekend, trying to make nice with my real estate agent and her client (in the passenger seat), when all I really wanted was a nice glass of wine.
Cue a frantic rush back to the main street to catch a bus, followed by a rushed hoofing back to the house where Buddy's car was resting comfortably (and quietly, I might add), only to rush back out to pick up Rosebud (for whom we were already late), then a hare across town to pick up Juniper.
I have only one question: HOW CAN AN ENTIRE VEHICLE'S OPERATION DEPEND EXCLUSIVELY ON A BATTERY THE SIZE OF MY THUMBNAIL? ONE, I MIGHT ADD, THAT IS NOT EVEN ATTACHED TO THE CAR ITSELF?!?
Sometimes, I hates me some technology.
