While I know that the Kevin Smith/Southwest debacle happened a few months ago, I still think about it often. If you have no idea what I am talking about, read about it here: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/02/14/director-kevin-smith-too_n_461803.html
No matter how you feel about fat people (over 1/3 of Americans are "overweight"), whether you think they need to "slim down" or you think they are disgusting, or you think they are jolly because they jiggle when they laugh, the fact remains: we all need to be nicer to each other. No matter if you are skinny or ugly or nerdy or tattooed or scarred because a fucking chimpanzee ripped off your face in a horrible accident, we all deserve to be treated like human beings.
I just saw an interview with Marilyn Wann--fat activist--from a morning show a year ago where she addresses the airline issue. She basically says that she wants to spill into your seat about as much as you want her to. She thinks that everybody should have seats they are comfortable in--which I think is fair. Because, no matter how much you complain, fat people are still going up into the air whether you like it or not. And so are the skinny ones and the ugly ones and the disabled ones and the ones with kids that vomit who stink up the whole plane.
And it isn't just the size of the seat that appalls me about airlines. It's that now you can't travel with checked luggage without paying, you are charged in some cases for "stretch-seats" in which you can pay $15.00 per segment for an extra inch of leg room (thank you Frontier Airlines what a fucking bargain), you pay for T.V., you pay for pillows, you pay for blankets, and I wouldn't be surprised that if you take a shit in the fancy airtoilet, soon, you will be charged for that, too.
The last time I flew, I flew with my roommate, and I didn't need a second seat. While we were snuggled up close because we are both fat chicks, it was fine. As Kevin Smith says, "I am not that fat, yet." But you know what? What if I was? What if I was the friend that you all know and love, and I was that fat? And what if I was the one that an airline was intentionally trying to humiliate on that Southwest flight like the girl who was sitting next to Kevin Smith who was from Boise, ID (in case you didn't know)?
I love me the way I am, as those that know me recognize, and I am not going to apologize for me. I have bad days, like everyone, but I love me.
So, my quandary is this: which airline do I fly? Because if I get to the airport and am told I am too fat for the plane (much like Kevin Smith), I am not taking the attempted humiliation with tears, and you all are going to have to bond together, scrape up some pennies, and bail my ass out of the TSA jail. Part of the quandary is this: I hate flying anyway. I hate being that close to other people for an extended length of time without an exit (that won't kill me). Flying is like being in a tin can with wings. And I always end up next to the drunk business guy, which is nice when they buy you a drink, but not so nice when they fall asleep in your seat. Why don't they charge those guys extra, and profile them at the airport? Hey, you look like you are going to hit the sauce pretty hard and pass out on your fellow passenger...you need to buy an extra seat and pay for a pillow.
So, since I am in this kind of "letter writing mood" lately, I wrote this letter to Southwest today, just to remind them, that the fatties are still here, we're scary, and we're lurking.
I am avoiding flying your airline because I am a fat person. After the whole Kevin Smith debacle, I really don't want to to do business with you. Usually, you have the cheapest flights, but they are actually more expensive than anything out there right now. Maybe you are suffering from fat people avoiding your airlines? Seeing as how the girl you tried to kick off the flight that was riding near Kevin Smith was from Boise, Idaho, I am even more reluctant to do business with you, as I feel I should stand with her in solidarity.
You require fat people to purchase two tickets. I don't need two seats, but how am I to know that you won't decide I am too fat to fly once I get to the airport? You might decide I am, just like you decided both Kevin Smith and the poor young lady you humiliated in front of everyone were.
Do you discount the second ticket as I have heard before, or do you charge fat people for two (which in my case would be nearly $1,000 dollars) and treat them like cargo instead of human beings?
Just thought I would ask.
Sincerely,
Andrea Oyarzabal
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Dear David Shields (the not-so-friendly author)
Recently, I read Reality Hunger: A Manifesto by David Shields as part of a project I am working on. Instead of trying to describe the book in my own words, here is an editorial review from Amazon.com:
"'I doubt very much that I’m the only person who’s finding it more and more difficult to want to read or write novels,' David Shields acknowledges in Reality Hunger, then seeks to understand how the conventional literary novel has become as lifeless a form as the mass market bodice-ripper. Shields provides an ars poetica for writers and other artists who, exhausted by the artificiality of our culture, 'obsessed by real events because we experience hardly any,' are taking larger and larger pieces of the real world and using them in their work. Reality Hunger is made of 600-odd numbered fragments, many of them quotations from other sources, some from Shields’s own books, but none properly sourced--the project being not a treasure hunt or a con but a good-faith presentation of what literature might look like if it caught up to contemporary strategies and devices used in the other arts, and allowed for samples (that is, quotation from art and from the world) to revivify existing forms. Shields challenges the perceived superiority of the imagination and exposes conventional literary pieties as imitation writing, the textual equivalent of artificial flavoring, sleepwalking, and small talk. I can’t name a more necessary or a more thrilling book. "--Sarah Manguso
If you need more information about the book to illuminate the following, please feel free to do some research. Shields is on YouTube in a number of videos giving readings. One thing Shields maintains is that "Art is theft." The notion of plagiarism and lack of attribution in this book still makes me uncomfortable. I appreciate what Shields is trying to do with this book (and yes, I understand the book's purpose), but I feel like he missed the mark by going too far without giving enough explanation of his own in some aspects. I also feel like the book may have been more interesting written from his perspective exclusively. I will save you from my findings which were my task at hand, as I more interested here in sharing the experience.
The one aspect of the book that I kept coming back to was if Shields believes this much in plagiarism(the majority of the book is plagiarized), what would he think if someone stole his ideas. Seemed a reasonable question to me.
I have written a lot of authors over the years: out of curiosity, for projects, and simply to let them know that I truly appreciated the effort they were putting forth. Two authors in particular gave me incredibly gracious responses: Sarah Vowell and Thomas Lynch, both of whom I respect even more for their kindnesses in spite of their fame--they recognized that without an audience, while the authors themselves would exist still, their writings might not mean anything.
Shields was not so gracious. Here is my email and his response. I didn't think his response deserved a response, but I got worked up, as I do, and responded anyway--which I feel good about now.
The Original Email
Hi, David.
I am reading your book Reality Hunger: A Manifesto as part of a project in which I am helping one of my professors finish his textbook. Another professor I have has added your book as a requirement for a class next semester. I am not finished with the novel, yet, but I keep coming back to one question: how would you feel if I put my name on this book, changed the picture, so your picture became mine, and called the book my own?
I am sure you have had this question before, but I am really curious as to what your answer will be.
Sincerely,
Andrea Oyarzabal
David's Reply-Exactly 7 minutes later
1) It’s not a novel.
2) The book argues that quotation can be a transformative, crreative** act. Putting your name on my book would make about as much sense as putting your name on The Waste Land.
My Response
Dear David,
1.) I purposefully called it a novel because it has been described as the "anti-novel." Part of what I got from your book is that lines are very much blurred when it comes to genre. With genre comes labeling, which I did purposefully, and long ago, Capote coined the term nonfiction novel, so it seemed fitting to me to label it as such. Part of what you argue is that nonfiction and fiction, in a sense, do not exist. In my reading of the book, I use the term novel in a sense from the Italian origin novella, meaning "new story," because your book is something new--and it's aphoristic quality, while using the words of others, seemed something new in respect to a book--as you point out it's done elsewhere in culture all the time. Your book is art, and it is up to me to interpret it as I will. While I don't always agree with the book, something I learned long ago is to always respect the work that is put behind an idea to form a book, and it is the hard work that I respect.
2.) The question was a serious one, and one I felt needed to be asked, but I will be sure to share with my classmates and professors that I got such a thoughtful, non-terse response from a fellow professor in the Northwest. Thanks for your time.
Sincerely,
Andrea Oyarzabal
David's Reply-an hour and fifty minutes later
Ok;thanks.
How do I feel about this? A little sad that someone that is a thinking human would give such a condescending response. While I understand that as my question is written--the notion of plagiarism becomes really literal. It's not as if I asked, if I were to take your work and re-render it into something, then would it be okay if I put my name on it? Yet, my original question is not a lot different than what he did in this book. He cut and pasted the writings of other authors, which he did not want to cite, but his publisher made him, arranged them in an aphoristic way, and put his name on it. It is only logical to ask such a question: "how do you feel when people steal your work; does it bother you?"
In comparing my question to the notion of me putting my name on an enigmatic piece of literature, Shields is implying I am a huge, dumb asshole. That doesn't bode well with me. I'm not the smartest person in the world, but that's for me to decide, not him. Am I surprised? Not entirely. Did I want to remind him I was lining his pockets by reading the book? You bet I did. Would it bother him if someone plagiarized his work? I think the succinct, straightforward, and cordial response is, yes.
And only to make myself feel much better, here is a clip from the Colbert Report in which Stephen Colbert does the only thing that makes sense:
http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/270740/april-14-2010/david-shields
"'I doubt very much that I’m the only person who’s finding it more and more difficult to want to read or write novels,' David Shields acknowledges in Reality Hunger, then seeks to understand how the conventional literary novel has become as lifeless a form as the mass market bodice-ripper. Shields provides an ars poetica for writers and other artists who, exhausted by the artificiality of our culture, 'obsessed by real events because we experience hardly any,' are taking larger and larger pieces of the real world and using them in their work. Reality Hunger is made of 600-odd numbered fragments, many of them quotations from other sources, some from Shields’s own books, but none properly sourced--the project being not a treasure hunt or a con but a good-faith presentation of what literature might look like if it caught up to contemporary strategies and devices used in the other arts, and allowed for samples (that is, quotation from art and from the world) to revivify existing forms. Shields challenges the perceived superiority of the imagination and exposes conventional literary pieties as imitation writing, the textual equivalent of artificial flavoring, sleepwalking, and small talk. I can’t name a more necessary or a more thrilling book. "--Sarah Manguso
If you need more information about the book to illuminate the following, please feel free to do some research. Shields is on YouTube in a number of videos giving readings. One thing Shields maintains is that "Art is theft." The notion of plagiarism and lack of attribution in this book still makes me uncomfortable. I appreciate what Shields is trying to do with this book (and yes, I understand the book's purpose), but I feel like he missed the mark by going too far without giving enough explanation of his own in some aspects. I also feel like the book may have been more interesting written from his perspective exclusively. I will save you from my findings which were my task at hand, as I more interested here in sharing the experience.
The one aspect of the book that I kept coming back to was if Shields believes this much in plagiarism(the majority of the book is plagiarized), what would he think if someone stole his ideas. Seemed a reasonable question to me.
I have written a lot of authors over the years: out of curiosity, for projects, and simply to let them know that I truly appreciated the effort they were putting forth. Two authors in particular gave me incredibly gracious responses: Sarah Vowell and Thomas Lynch, both of whom I respect even more for their kindnesses in spite of their fame--they recognized that without an audience, while the authors themselves would exist still, their writings might not mean anything.
Shields was not so gracious. Here is my email and his response. I didn't think his response deserved a response, but I got worked up, as I do, and responded anyway--which I feel good about now.
The Original Email
Hi, David.
I am reading your book Reality Hunger: A Manifesto as part of a project in which I am helping one of my professors finish his textbook. Another professor I have has added your book as a requirement for a class next semester. I am not finished with the novel, yet, but I keep coming back to one question: how would you feel if I put my name on this book, changed the picture, so your picture became mine, and called the book my own?
I am sure you have had this question before, but I am really curious as to what your answer will be.
Sincerely,
Andrea Oyarzabal
David's Reply-Exactly 7 minutes later
1) It’s not a novel.
2) The book argues that quotation can be a transformative, crreative** act. Putting your name on my book would make about as much sense as putting your name on The Waste Land.
My Response
Dear David,
1.) I purposefully called it a novel because it has been described as the "anti-novel." Part of what I got from your book is that lines are very much blurred when it comes to genre. With genre comes labeling, which I did purposefully, and long ago, Capote coined the term nonfiction novel, so it seemed fitting to me to label it as such. Part of what you argue is that nonfiction and fiction, in a sense, do not exist. In my reading of the book, I use the term novel in a sense from the Italian origin novella, meaning "new story," because your book is something new--and it's aphoristic quality, while using the words of others, seemed something new in respect to a book--as you point out it's done elsewhere in culture all the time. Your book is art, and it is up to me to interpret it as I will. While I don't always agree with the book, something I learned long ago is to always respect the work that is put behind an idea to form a book, and it is the hard work that I respect.
2.) The question was a serious one, and one I felt needed to be asked, but I will be sure to share with my classmates and professors that I got such a thoughtful, non-terse response from a fellow professor in the Northwest. Thanks for your time.
Sincerely,
Andrea Oyarzabal
David's Reply-an hour and fifty minutes later
Ok;thanks.
How do I feel about this? A little sad that someone that is a thinking human would give such a condescending response. While I understand that as my question is written--the notion of plagiarism becomes really literal. It's not as if I asked, if I were to take your work and re-render it into something, then would it be okay if I put my name on it? Yet, my original question is not a lot different than what he did in this book. He cut and pasted the writings of other authors, which he did not want to cite, but his publisher made him, arranged them in an aphoristic way, and put his name on it. It is only logical to ask such a question: "how do you feel when people steal your work; does it bother you?"
In comparing my question to the notion of me putting my name on an enigmatic piece of literature, Shields is implying I am a huge, dumb asshole. That doesn't bode well with me. I'm not the smartest person in the world, but that's for me to decide, not him. Am I surprised? Not entirely. Did I want to remind him I was lining his pockets by reading the book? You bet I did. Would it bother him if someone plagiarized his work? I think the succinct, straightforward, and cordial response is, yes.
And only to make myself feel much better, here is a clip from the Colbert Report in which Stephen Colbert does the only thing that makes sense:
http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/270740/april-14-2010/david-shields
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Reformed
Reformed fat people really bother me. Guess what, former fatty? No one gives a fuck, and chances are, you are going to get fat again. The statistics aren't in your favor. Also, I hate reformed smokers, too. Fuckers. Reformed drinkers (i.e. recovering alcoholics) don't bother me as much. I wonder what it is that prevents them from touting their way of life.
Friday, June 4, 2010
*****faces and ****heads
I don't think I ever sucked at customer service. People, for the most part, liked me. Other than the time J.O. told me some woman complained about me at the record store because I was impatient with her because she paid for her purchase with all coins, people were generally satisfied with their service. And J.O., as I recall, was mistaken, because the problem was, the coin lady wasn't complaining about me. She described me as the "heavy set" black-haired girl which I was, but I wasn't the right one. She meant the other black-haired girl with a big butt--Lauren Tweedy. I would relish in any person paying in all coins; it might even make me laugh.
And realistically, I probably didn't make people as happy as I thought I did, but I did make a lot of money in tips when I made coffee. Maybe it was because most of my customers that tipped well were lawyers (shocker--that is, that they tipped well), but maybe it was because said customers were masochists, and they liked the abuse I doled out, what with my witticisms and denigrations. But maybe it was my commiseration during complaint sessions about their overbearing wives.
I remember the only time I was publicly lambasted, and not to my face, but loud enough for me to hear. There was a girl, we'll call her bitchface. Bitchface always got a dry cappuccino with whipped cream on the top. For anyone that works in coffee or drinks coffee regularly, you know how ridiculous this sounds. The whole point of a cappuccino is a bit of foam on your espresso, to enjoy, a lavish treat. Putting whipped cream on top of it all defeats the purpose, and is JUST PLAIN STUPID.
In all the time Bitchface came in, she was never happy with her drink. So, one day, seeing her disgust and frustration with her ridiculous concoction, I took it back, and said, "Tell me exactly what it is that you want." And she couldn't. I tried putting words in her mouth, and I tried coaxing her, but she JUST DIDN'T KNOW. And how can you make someone happy if they don't even know what it is what they want?
After Bitchface took her fresh drink I made her, that she was equally as unhappy about, she walked to the end of the counter, turned to my coworker and said, "That girl is a dickhead." I was shocked, but I didn't want to come to blows, and if I remember correctly, my coworker defended me, and I walked into the backroom, to sulk. I wasn't sulking over the fact that I had been insulted. Oh, no. I know I tried my hardest with Bitchface. I was sulking over the term dickhead. Why not bitch or cunt or twat or even asshole? At least asshole is gender neutral--everyone's got one. But dickhead?
So, I saw Bitchface yesterday, while eating lunch. She spotted me, and I snapped a photo of her, which she may have noticed. I wasn't brave enough to get close, but she knew. I wanted to walk up and ask, "Why dickhead?" It seems the furthest from the truth. But maybe it's not.
And realistically, I probably didn't make people as happy as I thought I did, but I did make a lot of money in tips when I made coffee. Maybe it was because most of my customers that tipped well were lawyers (shocker--that is, that they tipped well), but maybe it was because said customers were masochists, and they liked the abuse I doled out, what with my witticisms and denigrations. But maybe it was my commiseration during complaint sessions about their overbearing wives.
I remember the only time I was publicly lambasted, and not to my face, but loud enough for me to hear. There was a girl, we'll call her bitchface. Bitchface always got a dry cappuccino with whipped cream on the top. For anyone that works in coffee or drinks coffee regularly, you know how ridiculous this sounds. The whole point of a cappuccino is a bit of foam on your espresso, to enjoy, a lavish treat. Putting whipped cream on top of it all defeats the purpose, and is JUST PLAIN STUPID.
In all the time Bitchface came in, she was never happy with her drink. So, one day, seeing her disgust and frustration with her ridiculous concoction, I took it back, and said, "Tell me exactly what it is that you want." And she couldn't. I tried putting words in her mouth, and I tried coaxing her, but she JUST DIDN'T KNOW. And how can you make someone happy if they don't even know what it is what they want?
After Bitchface took her fresh drink I made her, that she was equally as unhappy about, she walked to the end of the counter, turned to my coworker and said, "That girl is a dickhead." I was shocked, but I didn't want to come to blows, and if I remember correctly, my coworker defended me, and I walked into the backroom, to sulk. I wasn't sulking over the fact that I had been insulted. Oh, no. I know I tried my hardest with Bitchface. I was sulking over the term dickhead. Why not bitch or cunt or twat or even asshole? At least asshole is gender neutral--everyone's got one. But dickhead?
So, I saw Bitchface yesterday, while eating lunch. She spotted me, and I snapped a photo of her, which she may have noticed. I wasn't brave enough to get close, but she knew. I wanted to walk up and ask, "Why dickhead?" It seems the furthest from the truth. But maybe it's not.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Hey, Sprinkler Guy!
Today, I am working at my desk by the window. The sprinkler guy has shown up to do some maintenance. I don't think he realizes I am on the other side of this window--which is open; however, when I thought I heard a gurgling that seemed as though a sound of potential distress (i.e. he is stroking out or having a heart attack), I peeked out to see if he was face down in the lawn. He's wearing headphones.
So far I have heard a lot of mouth-guitar noises, some melodic, "Whooooooaaaa's" and a lot of "Hi-Ya!" Also, he busted out "I've gotta a hold on you!"
Get down with your bad self, sprinkler guy. Your passion for singing out loud with no care for those around you enthuses me.
So far I have heard a lot of mouth-guitar noises, some melodic, "Whooooooaaaa's" and a lot of "Hi-Ya!" Also, he busted out "I've gotta a hold on you!"
Get down with your bad self, sprinkler guy. Your passion for singing out loud with no care for those around you enthuses me.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Hard Jocks
I wonder how much porno gets left behind when people move. I know that my roommate and I left behind a big stack of different pornographic magazines (featuring men and women respectively)in a move from my first apartment when I was 18.
My sister's boyfriend, while hunting in my mom's attic one day for presumably other treasures, found a large stack of videos and magazines. He's one of those guys that knows where to find money in old houses, but I think pulling that out was even more than he bargained for. **Disclaimer** The porno was not my mother's--it had been left behind by the previous tenant.
Today, someone told me they donated some porn videos to The Salvation Army--funny considering The Salvation Army is an organization based on an evangelical branch of Christianity. His reason: "Poor people need porn, too!" Look for a copy of Hard Jocks at The Salvation Army near you! Although, it might be in a sleeve for The Hunt For Red October.
From The Salvation Army's mission statement: "Its mission is to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ and to meet human needs in His name without discrimination."
My guess is that porno isn't a human need, necessarily, but I am sure some would argue with me.
My sister's boyfriend, while hunting in my mom's attic one day for presumably other treasures, found a large stack of videos and magazines. He's one of those guys that knows where to find money in old houses, but I think pulling that out was even more than he bargained for. **Disclaimer** The porno was not my mother's--it had been left behind by the previous tenant.
Today, someone told me they donated some porn videos to The Salvation Army--funny considering The Salvation Army is an organization based on an evangelical branch of Christianity. His reason: "Poor people need porn, too!" Look for a copy of Hard Jocks at The Salvation Army near you! Although, it might be in a sleeve for The Hunt For Red October.
From The Salvation Army's mission statement: "Its mission is to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ and to meet human needs in His name without discrimination."
My guess is that porno isn't a human need, necessarily, but I am sure some would argue with me.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Splatter: a Story About Friends
When I was 16 years old, I bought my first car. This was after the destruction of the first car I drove in high school, my mom's red 1986 Hyundai Excel. I planned for the Hyundai to be my car forever and always, that is, until I got creamed by a woman in front of Hawks stadium.
The car I bought for a cool $800 dollars later that year was similar to the Hyundai--a red, 1987 Chevy Sprint. It had a 3-cylinder engine, got 50 miles to the gallon, and was once picked up by four boys and moved a few feet, all while I sat in it. It survived being plowed into by Justin's big 1970's Dodge pickup, when Justin was driving like a maniac in the school parking lot. We both went home, lied, and said someone had hit-and-run our cars at school. We confessed years later. The Sprint had a serious vapor-lock issue during the summer, and it looked as though I was drunk-driving from about June through the end of August because on any given summer day, suddenly, the car would die, hitting a spot of air in the engine, then sputter along, and then suddenly take off like a bat out of hell.
I got pulled over once on the way home from Moscow where I was visiting a friend at college. The Sprint did not make it up hills well, so every time I found a hill to go down, I floored it, all the way through the subsequent valley, and up the next hill. The cop outside of Moscow caught me on the way down the hill. After he gave me the ticket, and followed me up the next hill, I think he understood my raging speed (which was probably about 80mph tops--that car shook so much, I am surprised we didn't lose the wheels), and regretted ever pulling me over. I like to believe that he considered pulling me back over to take back the ticket, but he was afraid he would have to push me with his crash bar the rest of the way up the hill because I wouldn't make it otherwise.
When I turned eighteen, I bought a new car. I reluctantly parked the Sprint in front of our house and removed the license plates. I wanted to keep it and maybe give it to my nephew when he was of driving age (he was five at the time). My mom wouldn't hear of it: she made me sell my poor car.
I sold it to a friend's brother-in-law and the brother-in-law's business partner. They owned a construction business and drove big diesel trucks; so, they thought the Sprint would be a good vehicle for driving between construction sites. I wanted to sell it for $500.00: my mom thought that was way too much. I sold the Sprint for $300.00. I owned it for a little over two years; when I sold it, my heart broke, and my heart breaks to tell you this story now. I asked my friend for months after the sale how my car was doing, and I have discovered as the years have passed that this is something I do: I get attached to inanimate objects, mainly my old beater cars, until they are personified in my mind. My dad, before he died, had a penchant for old junker cars, and people rarely understand my passion. Some say it's genetic, I think it is a genetic disorder. The friend always said things like "it's great," "it's running well!" It turns out, he was lying.
Shortly after I sold the car, the business partner of the brother-in-law shot himself in the Sprint. The brother-in-law and sister of my friend called the junkyard, only to hear that it was best for them not to come pick the Sprint up, as it was covered in blood and skull fragments. Now, let that sink in. What I'm saying is, my friend was gone, destroyed. For a long time after I found out, I tried to find the car--not because I wanted it back, but just because I felt like I needed to wish it goodbye and praise it for its years of hard work and early retirement at the hands of someone--I don't want to say selfish--but someone not worthy of owning the car that had become my friend that did me right for so many years.
I tell this story now because I have found another love ( a few have come and gone since then, and I even bumped into one of them on a dead-end street last month), my Saab. I bought the Saab in 2007, and I love it. Recently, it had to have major work, and I considered finding a new car because the work was more than the car is worth. But as I found myself crying at work over it one day, my co-worker said, "If you are crying over it, you might as well fix it." He was right. So, I did.
Now, though, it's getting to the point where little things are going wrong sporadically, and recently, I had to replace the instrument cluster after it had been ailing for about a year (the whole dash had come to complete stop), which I thought involved replacing some wiring behind the dash. It turns out it is the whole instrument panel and everything that goes along with it. I didn't discover this until the morning after I had picked up my car. The shop had it for a couple days because they were looking for a used part because inexpensive new instrument clusters are hard to come by.
When I turned it on the first morning I had it back in my possession, I noticed the warning lights were designed differently, and that is when I discovered some hard water spots on the plastic cover of the panel. On closer inspection, I saw a splatter, a smattering if you will, of rust colored spots. As I scraped one of the spots with my fingernail, and held it closer to my eyes, that's when I discovered it--blood. Little flecks of dried blood. From an accident? Maybe. From a suicide? Possible. I haven't called the shop to tell them, and I don't know that I will. I cleaned the blood off, and while I was disturbed at first, I know I have a piece of someone's friend (the car, not a human--though maybe that, too), and I am going to treat it right.
The car I bought for a cool $800 dollars later that year was similar to the Hyundai--a red, 1987 Chevy Sprint. It had a 3-cylinder engine, got 50 miles to the gallon, and was once picked up by four boys and moved a few feet, all while I sat in it. It survived being plowed into by Justin's big 1970's Dodge pickup, when Justin was driving like a maniac in the school parking lot. We both went home, lied, and said someone had hit-and-run our cars at school. We confessed years later. The Sprint had a serious vapor-lock issue during the summer, and it looked as though I was drunk-driving from about June through the end of August because on any given summer day, suddenly, the car would die, hitting a spot of air in the engine, then sputter along, and then suddenly take off like a bat out of hell.
I got pulled over once on the way home from Moscow where I was visiting a friend at college. The Sprint did not make it up hills well, so every time I found a hill to go down, I floored it, all the way through the subsequent valley, and up the next hill. The cop outside of Moscow caught me on the way down the hill. After he gave me the ticket, and followed me up the next hill, I think he understood my raging speed (which was probably about 80mph tops--that car shook so much, I am surprised we didn't lose the wheels), and regretted ever pulling me over. I like to believe that he considered pulling me back over to take back the ticket, but he was afraid he would have to push me with his crash bar the rest of the way up the hill because I wouldn't make it otherwise.
When I turned eighteen, I bought a new car. I reluctantly parked the Sprint in front of our house and removed the license plates. I wanted to keep it and maybe give it to my nephew when he was of driving age (he was five at the time). My mom wouldn't hear of it: she made me sell my poor car.
I sold it to a friend's brother-in-law and the brother-in-law's business partner. They owned a construction business and drove big diesel trucks; so, they thought the Sprint would be a good vehicle for driving between construction sites. I wanted to sell it for $500.00: my mom thought that was way too much. I sold the Sprint for $300.00. I owned it for a little over two years; when I sold it, my heart broke, and my heart breaks to tell you this story now. I asked my friend for months after the sale how my car was doing, and I have discovered as the years have passed that this is something I do: I get attached to inanimate objects, mainly my old beater cars, until they are personified in my mind. My dad, before he died, had a penchant for old junker cars, and people rarely understand my passion. Some say it's genetic, I think it is a genetic disorder. The friend always said things like "it's great," "it's running well!" It turns out, he was lying.
Shortly after I sold the car, the business partner of the brother-in-law shot himself in the Sprint. The brother-in-law and sister of my friend called the junkyard, only to hear that it was best for them not to come pick the Sprint up, as it was covered in blood and skull fragments. Now, let that sink in. What I'm saying is, my friend was gone, destroyed. For a long time after I found out, I tried to find the car--not because I wanted it back, but just because I felt like I needed to wish it goodbye and praise it for its years of hard work and early retirement at the hands of someone--I don't want to say selfish--but someone not worthy of owning the car that had become my friend that did me right for so many years.
I tell this story now because I have found another love ( a few have come and gone since then, and I even bumped into one of them on a dead-end street last month), my Saab. I bought the Saab in 2007, and I love it. Recently, it had to have major work, and I considered finding a new car because the work was more than the car is worth. But as I found myself crying at work over it one day, my co-worker said, "If you are crying over it, you might as well fix it." He was right. So, I did.
Now, though, it's getting to the point where little things are going wrong sporadically, and recently, I had to replace the instrument cluster after it had been ailing for about a year (the whole dash had come to complete stop), which I thought involved replacing some wiring behind the dash. It turns out it is the whole instrument panel and everything that goes along with it. I didn't discover this until the morning after I had picked up my car. The shop had it for a couple days because they were looking for a used part because inexpensive new instrument clusters are hard to come by.
When I turned it on the first morning I had it back in my possession, I noticed the warning lights were designed differently, and that is when I discovered some hard water spots on the plastic cover of the panel. On closer inspection, I saw a splatter, a smattering if you will, of rust colored spots. As I scraped one of the spots with my fingernail, and held it closer to my eyes, that's when I discovered it--blood. Little flecks of dried blood. From an accident? Maybe. From a suicide? Possible. I haven't called the shop to tell them, and I don't know that I will. I cleaned the blood off, and while I was disturbed at first, I know I have a piece of someone's friend (the car, not a human--though maybe that, too), and I am going to treat it right.
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