Smog Test Equals Fail

            The long and short of it is the car didn’t pass smog. After running every errand I could think of and driving through neighborhoods I’d never been in to get rid of the gas, the car just didn’t perform. The cars condition was beyond additives. I got a bad feeling when it started to idle funny while it was on the rack.

            The smog test administrator gave me a detailed explanation for the cars failure and he suggested a couple of mechanics in the neighborhood to take it to. After the test I drove to one of the mechanics he suggested. The mechanic was a shifty eyed character. I didn’t trust him at all. He said it would cost three to four hundred dollars to fix, that it was an all day repair. I said no thank you and walked out.

            I drove to the other mechanic the smog man referred me to but he had moved his business to Van Nuys. I noticed there was another smog tester on the same property. I walked over to his place and I got a good feeling about him. He had grey hair and looked like an ex-hippy who made the conversion to smog test respectability. I wanted to ask him a few questions but he was engaged in a conversation with a young a couple.

            “Have a seat. There’s some bottled water in the refrigerator,” the man said.

            I grabbed the water and sat down in a fancy tropical patio area offset from the garage. There were magazines and comfortable patio chairs and foliage from the plants. It was shady and cool, very respectable.

            I grabbed a magazine and waited.

            The man finally came over and sat down.

            “So your car failed the smog check.”

            “Yes,” I handed him the printed report.

            He looked at the report and asked a whole bunch of questions to which I answered. There was an air of calm and confidence to the man. He handed me a couple brochures and explained to me that California had a number of programs to help people like me. He meandered into a story about oilmen playing golf with the state of California and how the oilmen had to make a deal with the state of California to offset their greed and that’s how the programs came into place. The story was hard to follow but I got the jest of it.

            As luck had it, I stumbled into the guru of smog testing. His name is Bill. He said I could fix the car for free or retire it for fifteen hundred dollars.

            He handed me an application and said, “Think about it and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Gas

      I took a drive to my brother’s house in the suburbs. It was another gas wasting mission. I thought I could pick up a sink for my cabin and waste gas at the same time. I went there and back and the needle barely budged. It seems the solution I added for the smog check has improved my gas economy tremendously. Normally, I’d be very happy about that, but I’m under the gun. I need to get rid of the gas by tomorrow.

            I’d like to apologize to the environmentalist in the crowd. I honestly and truly have deep concerns when it comes to the environment. I didn’t take care of business and now I find myself in this unusual predicament of hoping the needle goes down. It could happen to anyone with an old car, really.

            I have an itinerary for tonight. It includes some driving and more driving and maybe an open mic. I’ll keep you posted. That's blog humor, get it? Posted. 

Smog Check

            Every two years I have to get a smog check and every two years I start to worry. I have an older model Honda Accord LX. It’s a real gold digger deterrent, no looks, no glory, which is okay by me.

            I’m not sure why I worry. I think it has to do with dealing with the government. At worst it will cost me time, energy and money. But I still worry.

            I’ve waited to the last minute to take care of it this year. I bought a cleansing additive to insure my every chance of passing. The additive requires that you fill your tank up with gas before you add the solution. The solution is supposed to clean your engine of smut while you drive, which in theory gives you a better chance of passing the test. My deadline for the test is Wednesday. Today is Sunday. I’m driving more than usual to use up the gas so I can refill the tank and take the test. It’s very logical I can assure you.

            I offered to drive to a fundraiser last night and I offered to drive my lady friend to the gym this morning. I drove to a restaurant for lunch. I can’t get rid of the gas fast enough. I’m not sure I can use it all by Wednesday. The gas needle has barely budged. It’s an odd set of circumstances, I know, especially because I’m use to driving on empty.

The Clingers

I’ve been thinking about “Clingers,” people who cling onto you like black tar on the soles of your feet. I went out last night and I was introduced to a clinger first thing upon walking into my favorite bar. Because I’ve been thinking about it, I didn’t let the clinger get to me. I shook his hand and said hello but quickly moved away. I know a clinger when I see one.

             I think we’ve all been a clinger at one time or another. I found myself acting like a clinger at a party the other night. There’s a man named George who I like to talk to. We’ve talked before. He’s very creative. We've had good times together. We talked about interesting concepts and ideas and made things up on the fly. We'd ask stupid questions about the ordinary. It was a lot of fun.

The other night when I saw George, I thought we could continue with the same funny banter, but no, George was snubbing me. 

There was something about the snub that turned me into a clinger. I wanted it to be the way it was, fun and interesting. I found myself standing near George waiting for a chance to talk to him. The snub had consumed me. I wasn’t thinking straight. I lost myself for a moment. I fought through it and finally came to my senses. You can’t force things. When you're clinging, you ain’t swinging, so stop your clinging and move away.  

               

Busting

I went to Martin’s house yesterday to lay down bass lines for the cover band. We’re making a demo so we can get some paying gigs.

            It’s taking longer than I expected to record the bass parts. I thought I’d go in and play the songs a few times and that would be that. Oh no, not with Martin. He’s a perfectionist. I found myself pushed to the brink. I was playing the same part over and over and making up new parts on the fly. I was working hard. I felt like we were making an album for Capital Records. My resolve was being tested. I started to feel insecure with my playing, as if I wasn’t good enough.

            “You can do it tighter, “ Martin said.

            I wasn’t sure if I could. Martin has a way of pushing me. I went along with the drill sergeant’s request, but deep down inside I wanted to give up. I battled through it. My personality is more about pleasure than pain and to Martin’s credit the music does sound tighter.

            I wrote an email to my band mates. They have to record their parts when I'm finished. I said beware! Martin is busting my balls.  

Hemmingway’s

Last night I went to a place called Hemmingway’s in Hollywood. My friend Lou’s nephew was playing bass in a band called Kiev. I’ve known Derrick the bass playing nephew since he was a kid.

I liked Hemmingway’s. The walls were lined with vintage books and typewriters, there were stacks of papers lining another wall above the bar. I felt at home there. I’ll have to go back sometime. The typewriters were amazing. 

I wrote a book once (currently unpublished) where I used vintage typewriters as an element to the story. I love old typewriters. There was a time in my life when I was considering starting a typewriter museum. People laughed at me when I told them my idea,  but I was serious. Now all I have to do is go to Hemmingway’s to get my feel.

You never know what kids are going to be when they grow up. I have a secret hope that they’ll pursue physics, or computers. Last night as I was watching Derrick play bass, I knew he made the right choice in life. He’s in the right place, with the right people, and as far as I’m concerned, that makes him a huge success. 

Dog Specific

I spent the night at Lon’s house last night. I don’t know Lon. I’ve never met him, but I must say he has a nice house. Lon asked my lady friend to take care of his wiener dogs while he visited his dying father in Seattle. The wiener dogs were lovable but kind of on the spooky side. First of all, they’re pretty small, almost delicate. Their heads are tiny, and they have a hard time backing up.

Part of the deal was that my lady friend had to spend the night with the dogs. She was doing Lon a favor and asked me if I’d come along with her. I didn’t mind but the dogs seemed to be staring at me constantly. It makes me insecure when dogs or cats stare at me. I can’t tell if they’re judging my spirit, as if they have a greater understanding of universal properties, or if they’re just needy. It’s almost too much when they just sit there and stare at you.

We took the dogs for a walk last night. I wasn’t into it all that much. I had fun but there was something about it that made me feel ordinary. I was holding one of those push button leashes that’s designed in an inferior manner. You have to push down and hold the button to lock the dog in. It should be the other way around. You should have to push down on the button to let the dog out.

            I like dogs. I like big dogs with a nice coat. I want a dog I can let run wild, a dog I can use as pillow, a fluffy dog. I guess you might say, I’m dog specific.