And then I'll buy a house there like Diane Lane did

So this is a picture of me and some of the members of my scooter gang cruising through Napa Valley last weekend. Too bad you weren’t there—it was a madcap good time, especially that one part where Squiggy bet Fat Max that he couldn’t pop a wheelie while balancing a plate of baked brie and apples on the, uh...

Okay, so it’s not. The scooter gang remains a mere pipedream, although I think the “homeless” woman working the corner of Sepulveda and Wilshire this afternoon was ready to join. When I got stopped at her intersection today, she was really chatting me up about the scooter. She knew her stuff, too; the way she was talking, I’m pretty sure she has a couple of dirt bikes and some ATVs back at her 5-acre ranch in San Bernadino. You should have seen her shudder when an actual homeless man (i.e., no teeth, talking to himself, dragging two baby strollers full of crap around) crossed her path. By the way, the light at Sepulveda and Wilshire takes forever to change if you’re headed north on Sepulveda.

Back to the picture, I'm not in it and I don’t even know any of these people. And they aren’t in Napa Valley, they’re in TUSCANY. As in Italy. As in, they took the Scooter Bella Tuscany by Vespa tour. That’s right—we can take a tour of the Italian countryside by Vespa, and knowing that, why wouldn’t we?! Has anyone out there in the whole world wide web actually been on this? Some of us would appreciate your input before we carelessly quit our jobs and dump our life’s savings into this trip.

In addition to their gracing us with the greatest idea on earth, I am also grateful to the Scooter Bella folks for boosting my fragile ego with their fine print. You see, after a lot of advertising razzle-dazzle about how fun and easy the Vespas are to ride, their website cautions that you should only sign up “if you are a good driver, athletic and coordinated, and you are used to riding a bicycle.” Some other favorite lines:

• You must be able to control the Vespa and drive it competently. If we feel your driving skills put you and others at risk we reserve the right to take the Vespa away from you.

• [W]e are amazed that some people sign up for a trip of this type with no experience and poor coordination or athletic ability, and then expect to drive a motorized vehicle on public roads in a foreign country. Please do not be one of these people.

I really appreciate their constant comparison of scootering ability to athleticism. More specifically, I really appreciate it today, where for some reason I have been completely worn out by a little furniture refinishing and Christmas shopping. Furniture refinishing and shopping are two of my favorite activities and I have been doing both my entire life (much to Dave and Mary’s chagrin)—so the fact that I am so unexpectedly exhausted thereby has made me worry that I am either getting (a) old, (b) out of shape, or (c) both of the above, each of which is exacerbating the other. Yet I did ride the Vespa for about 30 minutes today without even breaking a sweat, so the answer MUST be (d) none of the above, right?

Who’s up for the Tuscany tour?

It would be easier to summarize the topics NOT covered in this post

Aaah, Christmastime. That's what I think every time I go to the mall these days. Personally, I've never put up a Christmas tree and I don't even own a single ornament. Such is the life of an apartment dweller who can't bear the thought of giving up at least four square feet of precious storage space eleven months of the year for something to be enjoyed only during the remaining month. (Unless, of course, the person reading this is a former VT-er or friend who has given me an ornament in the past, in which case, I have boxes of ornaments, and oh, how I treasure each one.)

But today I was reading Mary's blog, and Mary (my mom) is a big fan of Christmastime. Lately, almost all of her posts have been about it. I'm a little sad that she hasn't yet mentioned my personal favorite Christmas tradition--one that involves just the two of us and, occassionally, lil' bro. Pboy as an accomplice. At Mary's house they have an "attic." Okay, as all of their ceilings are vaulted, they don't have an actual attic; however, they do have a very small, enclosed space on the second floor that the home's architect didn't know what to do with. This space is only accessible through one of those fold-down, attic stairwell hatches in a closet on the first floor, so the Ess fam has always called it "the attic."

Mary keeps her ample supply of Christmas decorations in the attic. I have absolutely no idea how she gets them down each year, but without fail, she will decide to pack them up when I'm still around and I will be enlisted to assist her. As soon as she asks me, she will run into her closet, up the attic stairs, and claim her position as "box arranger" in the attic--which means I'm stuck with the job of climbing that ladderish set of stairs 500 times with an array of heavy yet fragile boxes. Sometimes I will huff my way to the top of the stairs with a box only to have Mary tell me, "No, I don't want that one yet," and so I'll have to take it back down. (And I think I just figured out the childhood trauma that has caused me to shun ownership of Christmas decorations as an adult. Blogging is good for the soul, I tell you.)

But here's where the tradition kicks in--every year, when I've only got one or two boxes left, I hand Mary a box, wait until I see her legs disappear from the hatch (which means she's off "arranging"), fold up the stairs, close the door to the attic, and turn off the attic light--the switch for which is conveniently located in the closet as opposed to the attic itself. Then I go off and do something for three to five minutes, giving the entrapped Mary time to contemplate the true meaning of Christmas in the dark while she carelessly yells her way through her limited air supply. Then I let her out and we go get lunch or something--her treat.

Lately, Mary has been featuring some of the contents of those many boxes on her blog. Her recent post about her Santa collection included a Santa figurine she got at the dollar store. This got me thinking about dollar stores. In the 2.5 years I've been back in LA, I haven't been to a single regular dollar store (although I am always inspired driving by the Warholian window displays of the 99 cents store). Why would anyone go to a regular dollar store when, instead, they could go to a Japanese dollar store? I frequent two Japanese dollar stores in the Los Angeles area; both of them are Marukai 98 stores and are related to the Marukai asian groceries. There is a tiny one downtown in Little Tokyo and a huge one in Gardena. I prefer the one in Gardena because it's bigger, the parking is free, and they play some lovely gangster rap over the PA system.

If you've never been to a Japanese dollar store, then you'll just have to trust me: everything, I mean ziploc bags and post-its and cheap batteries full of everything, looks way cooler in Japanese packaging. But the best part of the store, hands-down, is the kitchen section, where I bought all of this:

These are bento-making supplies. There are the bento boxes themselves, chopsticks and skewers, colorful cupcake-liner things to separate your food with, little bottles shaped like pigs and fishies for holding soy sauce, and rice molds. My friend Wingonwing, purveyor of evil obsessions, first told me about the bento-making craze sweeping American hipsters a few years ago. With the tools above, and about two hours of free time every morning before work, you can make yourself a colorful and healthy lunch that looks something like this:

Or, if drama's your thing:

There are a million bento blogs out there, but these pictures are from the BEST one ever: e-obento.com. It is proof that even blogs look better in Japanese. And no, I have no idea what she's saying.

Unfortunately for me, my bento obsession was short-lived as I don't have two hours every morning to make my lunch and I don't really like fish cakes, and you really need to implement fish cakes to make a good bento. Also, I am sad to report that you need about four bento box lunches to equal the caloric satisfaction of one American fast food meal. So for now, my Japanese dollar store souvenirs are simply consuming closet space that could be used for Christmas decorations. If I ever get a Christmas tree, maybe I'll just hang my little soy sauce bottles all over it.

(Oh, and if you're monitor's resolution is good enough to enable you to read the price tags, you will see that most things at the Japanese dollar store actually cost $1.50. I researched this, and it turns out that the phrase "Japanese dollar store" is the English translation of the 100-yen store that has become so popular in Japan. The exchange rate, however, will not be bound by such semantics.)

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year...

The time of year when they reveal the new HGTV DreamHome, that is. In case you haven't heard, this year it's in the Florida Keys.

So do we like it or not?

And the winner is...

Me. And everyone else who typed 50,000 words this past month. But what use is a blog if you can't have a "Hooray Me!" moment every now and again?

Game on, Gap. Game. On.

So it turns out that in addition to (1) putting that crazy striped sweater print on everything, (2) taking all sorts of cutesy couple photos of Amy Poehler and G.O.B. (can't you just hear him saying "I've made a terrible mistake" after putting on that pom-pom scarf?), and (3) hawking their overpriced yet adorable Vespa, Gap is also celebrating the holiday shopping season with GapTidings – i.e., 60-second video greeting cards you make and send to those who love you (and advertise Gap and Yahoo! in the process). But wait—if yours is one of the three best GapTidings uploaded by Dec. 12th, you will win your very own Gap Vespa!

For about five minutes this morning, I thought this was my big chance to redeem my now useless film degree—but then I remembered how I don't have anywhere to park the striped Vespa, and how I'm not financially eager to license and insure a third vehicle. Plus, sometimes ignorance really is bliss. I'm sure the winning entries will all be very simple and comical, whereas the noirish GapTiding I had in mind will take no less than three weeks to produce and a budget of about $2000. So I stopped storyboarding and decided to forget the whole GapTidings thing and go with Plan B: dropping by a Gap outlet around President's Day in hopes of locating a Vespa tucked away in the clearance rack. If I find one, it was meant to be…

That said, I know there are future scooter gang members out there with a good GapTiding in them. Let me know if you enter one, and I will vote for you.

One final thing—when did "the Gap" become just "Gap"? Does that mean Yahoo! will one day be Yahoo. (?) Just curious.

Stripes!

So, my month in NaNoWriMo exile is nearing a close, and despite the fact that I lost much time in the early part of November in Vegas and the later part of November in Scottsdale, I think I am going to make it! Hopefully once I submit my 50,000 word crapsterpiece on Friday they will provide me with a cool widget or the like that I can post on my dear neglected blog.

Speaking of the dear neglected blog, I’ve got a new game plan: shorter, sweeter, yet more frequent posts. And with that, I will shut down my natural tendency to make a wordy and tangent-filled intro and just say…

Breaking Vespa news in from the Roommate. Gap is pairing with Vespa for the holidays and you can get this:


Which just so happens to match this:

But if you wear the latter while riding the former, I might just have to kill you. That is, if you don't die first by suffocating on your own shame.

Incidentally, that lil’ Gap number is only an LX 50 and costs $6,000. Needless to say, a regular LX 50 costs about half that amount and my LX 150 was also significantly cheaper. In addition, when your ride is based on a sweater, you risk driving around next Christmas and having everyone look at you and snark, “That’s so last season.”

Still, the Gap Vespa is pretty dang cute and makes a great stocking stuffer. I certainly wouldn’t trade it for movie tickets at a White Elephant party. Who had my name in the family gift exchange again?

Good Intentions

Well, I have been back in Los Angeles for a week now and am only barely getting around to things like cleaning out my refrigerator and/or blogging. As promised, my heavily-backordered new helmet finally arrived in the mail while I was gone. I keep meaning to take pictures of it but, alas, have resorted to stealing the same from the Internet.
The one on the left is an approximation of what my old black helmet looks like; the one on the right is the very new and improved new helmet, courtesy of my sister-in-law as a thank-you for sewing her wedding dress.

I know it seems unbelievable, but I actually think the new helmet is bigger than my old Spaceballs-sized one. This matter was made painfully clear to me last Saturday morning, which began innocently enough when I went down to the parking garage in my apartment and proceeded to painstakingly dust away all the California wildfire ash that had settled on the Vespa during my prolonged absence. Since the Vespa had sat for over a month, I figured I would have to kick-start the thing for the first time and, like most new things in life, I viewed this with simultaneous excitement and trepidation. Alas, it started the normal way—pretty amazing since the thing is running off what appears to be a laptop battery. I was on the Vespa and headed out the garage door for a much-anticipated reunion ride when I remembered the complexities of something that only Angeleno apartment-dwellers can relate to:

Tandem parking.

That’s right—in order to conserve space, our apartment complex has given the Roommate and I one very long parking space to share and we have to park one behind the other. As a result, we are constantly doing the car-switching dance, which sounds similar to the “Neutron Dance,” I know, but is far less energizing. Bless her heart, the Roommate bears the tandem brunt far more than I do—although she either works from home or works late, she still manages a groggy smile at 7:15 every morning when I wake her up to move her car so I can go to work. Yet despite her unending car-switching charity, I was about to thoughtlessly drive off on the Vespa and leave her car parked in by the Jeep on a Saturday morning.

Did I mention how early it was for a Saturday? Sadly, I was still on “trial hours,” and therefore had undertaken the whole Vespa-dusting exercise at around 6:30 a.m., having run out of things to do in my apartment. Rather than wake the Roommate up to switch spots with me just in case she needed to go somewhere very early on a Saturday morning, I decided to just move the Jeep into a spot on the street.

And that’s right about the time when I tried to get into the Jeep while still wearing my new helmet. It didn’t fit.

The good news—the new helmet took a huge hit against the Jeep’s black door frame and walked away without a mark. The even better news—the new helmet apparently prevented the concussion I surely would have experienced had I hit my bare head against the car that hard; I think this bodes well for similar protection in the event that my head ever makes contact with another vehicle and/or asphalt. The best news of all—it was so crazy early on a Saturday morning that nobody was around to witness the sheer “America’s Funniest Home Videos” idiocy of it all.

So, despite the fact that my Vegas trial has put me behind, I am participating in NaNoWriMo 2007 through the end of November. I always intended to do a late-October post encouraging any interested writers out there to join me, but said post never came to fruition. Still, check it out and consider doing it next year. Once it’s over, I’ll rejoin the living and kindly post on all your blogs again, which I have been reading.

Out of the Office (Automated Reply)

For what it's worth, I'm sorry I haven't posted in a fortnight or so. Blogging just isn't the same when you're in the Caesar's Palace Business Center and you're worried the guy next to you is going to read your entry. It's funny how I'm willing to post online for all the world to see, yet I feel like my Business Center neighbor here is completely violating my privacy every time he turns his head. I keep wishing I had an old school Trapper Keeper to wrap around this monitor a la third grade test-taking so he couldn't read over my shoulder. But I'm getting ahead of myself...

So I've been in Vegas for the past week+, and will be for many weeks more, for the Trial of the Millenium. Alright, only a handful of people really care about this trial, but I happen to be one of them and let's just say it hasn't been a cake walk so far. The greuling sixteen-hour workdays and workweekends have been further complicated by a myriad of technical difficulties, including a general lack of internet and remote desktop access, but I'll spare you the boring details. Just forgive me if I haven't returned your last 20 emails or missed your daughter's birthday or if you live in Vegas but I don't get a chance to see or talk to you.

When I was little, I always wanted to live at Disneyland. More specifically, I wanted to rent a little studio apartment above one of the shops on Main Street, although New Orleans Square would have been acceptable as well. Main Street seemed like a nice neighborhood with lots of conveniences: good public transportation (via trolley or horse-drawn carriage), ample ice cream and candy supply, ability to watch nightly parades from one's own home, Space Mountain adjacent, etc.

I thought living in a Vegas hotel-casino for a month would sort of be like living at Disneyland. In a way, it is--both venues are evidence that mankind knows no bounds when it comes to building with Plaster of Paris. When you're working long days like I am, it's also nice to be in a place that refuses to recognize what the rest of the world knows as "time"--even if you get off work at 10:00 p.m. you can do a little shopping and people-watching. Even in the middle of the night there is quite the selection of overpriced food available. I'm not the gambling type, but if I were, I think I would never sleep.

But after a week of both witnessing and indulging in such excesses, I am ready to sue the Vegas Tourism Bureau for false advertising. I seriously doubt the 200 lbs. I have put on already are going to "stay in Vegas" when I leave. I'm afraid I'm also back on the Diet Coke wagon after some 415 days of caffeinated beverage sobriety. At the end of the day, the Strip is like Disneyland, but only one part: the Island of Lost Boys on the Pinnochio ride. I'm growing donkey ears already.

Vegas has also turned me into a bigger liar than usual. For instance, my boss, who is an accomplished and respectable older man, has never really come terms with the electronic age. One time, I heard him offer a file clerk at our office an "old computer" that he found. He said the clerk could have it because he bought a new one. Both the clerk and I were suspicious of this offer, as neither of us has known our boss to own or use a computer. Sure enough, the boss produced a classic '82 HP leather-bound calculator and gave it to the clerk, who had to feign great appreciation for the gifted "computer" before sneaking it into the trash.

Of late, I have been exploiting this generational gap, and I believe it's all Vegas's fault. Last night we finished work and the boss asked me and the paralegal to joint him for yet another gluttonous and lengthy sit-down dinner. The paralegal bowed out because her brother was going to be in town for one night only, which put me on the spot. I was tired and wasn't in the mood for another Mt. Everest heaping of crab legs. I wanted to have a simple food court meal where the "crab" is shelled and made of liquid cod parts poured into a mould. Suffice it to say, the rest of the conversation went like this:

Me: I'm sorry, I can't go. I have to go down to the Business Center and send this urgent email to So and So back at the office.

Boss: I can wait for you. How long does it take to send an email?

Me: Well, since it has to go clear to Los Angeles, it will probably take about an hour and a half.

Boss: In that case, I'll just go eat alone.

I'm not kidding. Vegas made me do it. That said, I don't want to offend any of my five-odd friends who live in Vegas. I realize the rest of the place is much different than the Strip.

So, the point of all of this was to say that I won't be posting for awhile. And I'm sad to say I won't be riding my Vespa either, which is (hopefully) parked back at my apartment in Los Angeles. But I did finally get word that my much anticipated yet heavily back-ordered new helmet will be waiting for me when I get back!

In my absence, I would suggest visiting one of the blogs linked on the right, or one of the following, which I keep meaning to add links to but haven't gotten around to it:

Simple Happy Home (Mary Ess's blog)
Steffarocks in Spain (SIL's blog)
Tammy Faye Fan Club
Glamma Fabulous
Flowerchain

And if you're still with me, I just want to apologize and say that the Caesar's Palace Business Center is not very conducive to blog editing, what with the NOSY neighbors and all. So apologies for all the randomness above.

The Elusive Fee Simple

Do you know who Andy Rooney is? If not, the only thing you really need to know is that he is cranky and opinionated—about everything, that is. Then again, he gets paid to express one cranky opinion per week, a job he has held since the middle ages. I guess if I were in Andy’s shoes, I, too, would have quickly run out of rants to rave about the big ticket items like taxes and world peace and would have had to move on to yelling about things like the state slogans on license plates.

That said, I am about to get all Andy Rooney on you about none other than the atrocity that is the Southern California real estate market. I know, I know—this topic is seriously lacking originality and chances are that half of you have already clicked over to that Rooney license plate article for more enlightening fare. It’s just that I’ve had some personal experience with this lately….

A few days ago, my sister, the notorious Mrs. Dub, posted on her blog about her desire for a house. This is a desire Mrs. Dub and I have had in common for some time—in fact, in the weeks prior to the HGTV Dream Home giveaway every April, nearly all of our telephone or email conversations with each other have to do with what we do and don’t like about that year’s Dream Home and which of the two of us is more likely to win it. (And then every year they give it to some Midwestern retiree who has already owned four homes in his life and swears he just entered the sweepstakes one day on a whim, but I digress).

Anyhow, Mrs. Dub’s post was timely as lately my house-lust has been out of control. You see, last Saturday afternoon I was at work when I realized that if I left right then, I would have time to drive up and tour the Martha Stewart designed KB Home models in Lancaster, California, which is locally known as St. Nowheresville. I must admit to being a bit of a Martha groupie (getting her to join my scooter gang would be a major coup, no?) and this is something I’ve been wanting to do for a LONG time. You know, just to see them.

Getting to St. Nowheresville from Los Angeles took a LOT longer than I thought. Google Maps estimated it as 60 miles one-way, but it was closer to 75. I was also surprised at how different things looked from the parts of California I’m familiar with. The terrain was eerily similar to those pictures taken by the Mars rovers, only with a few Joshua Trees and Super Walmarts photoshopped in. Yet the houses there are CHEAP as free for Southern California—as in the high $300Ks / low $400Ks, so I guess a lot of people are willing to live on Mars and commute to LA every day because it is the only option for non-Compton homeownership.

As I got closer to the Martha homes, I seriously began to question Lancaster’s non-ghetto reputation, as the Semiannual Antelope Valley Street Gang Convention appeared to be converging in a vacant lot only blocks from the Martha Models. Luckily, I’ve lived in LA long enough to know how to give a pretty convincing “I didn’t see anything, I swear,” look. Once, the Roommate and I were walking in West LA and had to whip out this look twice within thirty seconds—the first time when we inadvertently saw a drug deal go down, and the second time when the dealer crossed the street towards us and accidentally dropped a packet of crack on the ground, then fumbled around all bug-eyed as he tried to quickly pick it up. It was one of those treasured LA moments that is simultaneously comical and life-threatening, but again, I digress…

At this point I was expecting to be underwhelmed by the Martha models, which, quite frankly, would have been a good thing (Martha groupie bad pun intended). To my utter dismay, the houses were the perfect size and simply amazing. The drive alone was worth it to see all the cool little knick-knacks and decoration. It was like a Martha museum, and the price of admission is simply 20 minutes of your time listening to the sales person’s pitch.

In my particular instance, the sales person had me at “Martha.” She also told me that most of the people who come to see the models work in Los Angeles and plan to make the daily 150-mile commute. When I told her I worked downtown, she said, “Well that’s easy. You can take the Metrolink [train] to Union Station in downtown. Most people have to have a second car on the LA end to drive from the train station to work.”

I left the models with a folder of materials and a song in my heart. I stopped at a Super Walmart on my way home—a rare opportunity for any Angeleno, but the whole time I was shopping all I could think about was what kind of kitchen countertops I would get and how much work I would get done on the train every day. But then my bubble burst when I got home and did some old-fashioned internet research. The Metrolink ride from St. Nowheresville to downtown is 2 hours one-way!! Getting to the St. Nowheresville station would take about 15 minutes, as would the bus ride from Union Station to my office. So I was looking at over a five-hour daily commute. The last train leaves downtown at 7 p.m., but I’m not always off work by then. What’s more, I ran the numbers and I couldn’t afford even the smallest house anyway—at least not without living at the very edge of my means and going sans furniture for several years.

Suddenly, I was struck by the absurdity of the whole idea and, I’m warning you, this is the point at which I got very cranky. Just to provide some context to any non-Angelenos out there, I want to point out that right now I live in West LA about 3 blocks from the always-noisy 405 freeway. Across the street from my apartment, there is a building of newly-renovated condos for sale. This is common in West LA right now—they take old apartment buildings, slap a coat of paint on them, and convert them to condos. This particular building looks like a newly painted 1970s Motel 6 (i.e., not attractive). The condos have one bedroom, one parking space in a communal garage, and no in-unit laundry. They are under 1000 square feet and are priced in the $900Ks. The HOA fee is several hundred a month. Over by my old apartment there is a high-rise of luxury condos going up. Regardless of how luxurious they are, they are still condos. They have a sign advertising “From the $4,000,000s.” That’s right—apparently a luxury 1900 square foot condo for four million is considered a deal.

And I know these are not Manhattan prices, Honolulu prices, or San Francisco prices, but you have to admit—they’re still pretty bad. Indeed, my cranky mood was exacerbated by reading some of the comments on Mrs. Dub’s post, where areas such as Northern Virginia (median housing price = $450K) were touted as “expensive.” They seem like such a deal to me by comparison to SoCal. Homeownership is simply not an option in the greater LA area anymore for the first-time buyer who is not a member of the upper-class. It is why large cities with soaring real estate prices are losing their middle classes to the Phoenixes, Vegases, Portlands, Atlantas, and Houstons of the country (where, in turn, their influx and collective warped financial perspective are driving up real estate prices in those areas).

As for me, I have already started my campaign to get Mrs. Dub and the rest of the Ess clan to migrate to St. Nowheresville, Georgia, where the same Martha homes are going for over $100K less on larger lots with a much shorter commute to downtown Atlanta. So far, I have received a lot of complaints about the weather. I think those are strong words coming from people who brave blinding sunlight and 118-degree weather every summer. I can point to a couple of instances in Ess family history where I successfully wore everyone down, so I think I could still make it work.

With that, I’d like to invite all of you to join us. (Except, of course, for my surprising number of Singaporean readers, because Atlanta’s crime rate may be a bit of a shock to their systems. I think the Singaporeans only read this blog for the scooter stuff anyway, and they probably didn’t get this far on such a non-scooter post. I will make it up to you soon, Singapore.) We can form a commune full of Martha homes and scooter riders. It will be a veritable Utopia—at least in my book.

The Brightside

I have been known to complain a LOT about the many downsides of living in Los Angeles. I’m not going to apologize for this as there are MANY such downsides (i.e., overpopulation, housing prices, poor urban planning, contagious materialism, etc.). But I have to give credit where it is due and state that Los Angeles has near perfect weather.

What I look at ALL day: the view from my downtown office.

And if the general weather in LA is perfect then there are no words to describe the weather this past weekend, so I will have to settle for “better than perfect” or “Perfect+.” I took full advantage of it by Vespaing far more than usual. On Saturday I rode the Vespa to work, sans parking garage catastrophes this time around. On the way home it was quite windy (which causes some balance issues), but by the time I noticed this I was cutting through the Golden Triangle of Beverly Hills, where the streets were full of smiling Angelenos and tourists walking around and dining al fresco at the faux-euro eateries and otherwise enjoying the Perfect+ weather. I like to think that by buzzing past them mid-meal on my Vespa, I contributed to the faux-euro nature of their faux-euro lunch. That’s me—always thinking of others.

Note her clutched knees
On Sunday I rode the Vespa to church in a big accordion-pleated skirt and platform heels. As I was commenting to notmymomMary, these particular heels actually made the Vespa easier to ride by virtue of making my legs a whole four inches longer. I still had to work hard to keep the skirt anchored between my knees (as opposed to billowing about my head), but it’s the closest I’ve gotten to my Hepburnesque fantasy Vespa outfit to date.

On Sunday afternoon, I woke from my traditional Sunday afternoon nap a bit early and decided that the Perfect+ weather warranted yet another ride. When I was little (and a teenager… and a college student home for the summer), Dave of Dave and Mary fame would curb my cabin fever on Sundays by taking me on “drives” through the desert and around to the then far-reaching suburbs of Phoenix, like East Phoenix. It was great. Except for that one time he ran out of gas and didn’t bring his wallet, but I digress. Since I’m weird (and by “weird” I mean “religious”) and worry about things like “Sabbath-appropriate activities,” I decided that the Sunday drives of my youth meant a leisurely Vespa ride to the beach and back met the Sabbath-appropriate test—especially considering that the Vespa had sufficient gas for the trip and that I always carry my wallet with me in case of emergency.

And indeed, it proved to be a Perfect+ Sunday:

Weird Valerie Appreciation Day

This blog has been all about the scooters lately. And that's not necessarily bad, as Vespatherapy is the theme and all, but like the small-print readers at the end of pharmaceutical ads, I realize the same prescription "is not for everybody."

And so forgive me, but this post will be less about Vespas and more about Valeries—Weird Valeries, in fact. My astute friend and former law school classmate Wingonwing is the brainchild behind the "Weird Valerie" moniker. Like me, Wing switched schools every so often as she was growing up, an experience that made her realize that there is one girl at every school who's really eager to befriend the new students—too eager, in fact. That girl is Weird Valerie.

On your first day of school, you're really grateful for Weird Valerie's hospitality and willingness to show you around, eat with you in the cafeteria, etc. By your third day you've nailed your schedule and met a few people you think you might have more in common with than WV, who simply won't stop repeating recent conversations she's had with her pet gerbils (both sides). By the fifth day you realize it's not socially possible to incorporate WV into your new group of friends, especially when mom always said that "beggars can't be choosers," and as a new student, you are definitely begging for acceptance. During the second week you have an awkward exchange with WV in the lunch line, when she turns to go to her regular spot and you say "Actually, I was going to go eat with Other Person today." You feel terrible, but WV shrugs her shoulders and doesn't even ask to come with you. By your second month, you no longer say "hi" to her when she passes in the hall.

And, mind you, Wing and I are not sexist. Weird Valerie definitely has a male counterpart, and his name is Weird Sheldon. As Wing has observed, WS spends most of his time on first dates "at that burger place on . . . university avenue? remember that place? with the shakes?" If you are a single girl, do not talk to WS unless you want to end up on just such a first date. Be further forewarned that WS keeps a diamond ring handy in the event there is ever a second date.

While her actions are predictable, Weird Valerie is a bit of an enigma. First, does she recognize what an important and selfless role she serves as the designated transitional friend to new students, neighbors, coworkers, etc.? She's like a person standing along a fence, cupping her hands so she can give everyone a lift up, only there's nobody left to give her a lift when she needs it.

Second, what would Weird Valerie say if she truly spoke her mind? Is there more to her than mothballs? Does she realize that her timid preference for light-hearted and completely unrelatable topics such as gerbils and her desire to learn Gaelic is, perhaps, the very source of her pariah status? Because when you take a step back, you realize that Weird Valerie is perfectly capable of faking normal—it's why you were friends with her in the first place.

And haven't we all felt like Weird Valerie at certain times and places in our lives? For example, Wing started a new job a month or two ago, and she's convinced that she's the Weird Valerie at her workplace. I am convinced Wing is full of it and is just frustrated that she hasn't yet made 50 new BFFs, as she is prone to doing—but I'll save that debate for our lengthy email exchange on the topic. As evidence of her Weird Valerie status, Wing offers that she is "becoming a nervous unnecessary storyteller, like, that person who is all, OH that happened to me once, blah blah unnecessary poorly told storycakes that no one cares about . . .when did i turn in to this person? no seriously. when?"

So I have to admit that sometimes when I am driving around on my Vespa, I fear I'm the Weird Valerie of the road. The reason is that I feel like with my jeans, hoodie, and rubber motorcycle gloves, I look like a girl with "something to prove." But the reality is that I'm just a girl who likes red and shiny things, who wanted to learn something new, and who is trying very, very hard not to die in the process. When I look at Wing's situation and my own, I realize that we get Weird Valerie paranoia when we believe others have an untrue or unfair perception of us. Truth be told, they probably haven't had the time to form such a perception—like us, they were too busy faking normal.

So, given all my recent thoughts towards and sympathy for the Weird Valeries of the world, I thought I would nominate today as WEIRD VALERIE APPRECIATION DAY. I feel safe declaring this here, as I don't consider any of this blog's readers to be Weirds of the Valerie or Sheldon type. I think we should all take a minute to call, email, or text a Weird Valerie in our life and let her know how much we appreciate her friendship and willingness to help others. Feel free to report back in the comments section, if you feel so inclined.

(But whatever you do, please, PLEASE do not call me today. It would seriously take me 50 Vespa rides to get over it.)

Postscript on the Green Thing

Thanks for all the awesome comments regarding your personal proclivity for scooter-riding, which reminded me about a few more shareable scooter tidbits.

So, I don't know how many of you are already familiar with the Piaggio MP3, pictured below:


As you can see, it's a three-wheeled scooter. As you can also see, it is a little strange-looking because those crazy Italians put the third wheel in the front, while we Americans generally prefer our third wheels in the back. I don't know if it's fair to say the MP3 "took the scooter world by storm," since the scooter world seems impervious to storming because it is both cool as a cucumber and incredibly factionalized by brand loyalties--but the MP3 WAS the most-anticipated innovation in a long time in an industry that has remained relatively stagnant for 50 or so years.

Apparently, Piaggio spent a great deal of time and effort engineering the MP3 so that the two "independent" front wheels were capable of tilting up to 40 degrees, like so:

The advertised result is that the "MP3 provides safety, road grip and stability levels that no two-wheeler can match. Its power, performance and ease of use make for a very entertaining ride." No doubt the MP3 would be easier to learn to ride than a standard scooter in the same way that training wheels make it easier to learn to ride a bicycle. It would also be way more convenient in parking and other situations, where I often find myself frustrated while trying to do one thing with my left hand while supporting the entire weight of the Vespa with my right hand--like take off my gloves, pull out a parking ticket, etc. Usually, my teeth have to get involved at some point. (Of course, this wouldn't be so much of a problem if my legs were of average length and could both reach the ground at the same time while I was on the Vespa to hold it steady.)

And next year, the MP3 (along with a wimpy Vespa LX 50) will be available in a HYBRID version. You sacrifice your entire cargo space under the seat for the battery, but isn't helping the environment and saving on gas worth wearing a gigantic and unattractive backpack everywhere you go?

Unfortunately, the cost of all that engineering has been passed on to the consumer. The scooter world (specifically, the scooter blogging world) has lauded the "fun" factor of the MP3, but railed against its $7000+ price tag. Indeed, the dealership where I bought my Vespa had several MP3s in stock and almost every shopper paused to look at them and sit on them, but I didn't see anyone buy one. I also haven't seen any on the streets of West LA, where I regularly see Bentleys, Lotuses and other vehicles that appeal to the "Look at me! I'm driving something expensive and different!" motorist.

Come to think of it, maybe if Piaggio raised the MP3 price to $170,000, they would sell a few more around here...

It's Not Easy Being Green

Life with Vespa continues, but I’m always beating myself up about not driving the Vespa more than I do. A while ago I made a goal to start driving it to work one day a week, and I have yet to fulfill that goal. Part of it is a snoozing issue, part of it is a wardrobe issue, and part of it is a fear issue. Still, I feel guilty.

But consider this, which I pulled off the Vespanomics Fact Sheet:

If Americans were to switch just 10% of their total mileage to scooters, they would consume 14 - 18 million gallons less fuel per day and carbon dioxide emissions could be reduced by 324 million
pounds per day as well. (Source ICR survey, May 2006).

On a personal level, they could also reduce fuel consumption by approximately 58%, carbon dioxide emissions by 80%, and significantly reduce traffic congestion.

By my calculations, I have switched 20% of my total mileage from the Jeep to the Vespa. This is based on nothing more than the fact that the Jeep used to go through at least 4 tanks of gas per month, but now goes through 3-ish. Indeed, I do almost all my weekend driving on the Vespa. Last Sunday I even rode it to church and learned a valuable lesson in the process: do not ride the Vespa while wearing a pencil skirt.

Still, that’s a personal savings of about $50 a month without even trying. Also, I have to admit that while I’m no environmental activist, it feels good to know I’m doing my part, even if there’s room for improvement.

But Piaggio (which manufactures the Vespa) is taking it further:

In an effort to position motor scooters and motorcycles as a viable solution for America's oil dependency problems, Piaggio Group Americas is encouraging local and federal government agencies to consider adopting parking and traffic reforms that facilitate the use of two-wheel vehicles as a transportation alternative available to the general public.

This got me thinking about the lousy parking available for two-wheeled vehicles. Let’s face it: everyone gets mad when they see a scooter taking up a whole, real parking space. And while it’s true that I’ve generally found great “alternative” parking for the Vespa, to date I think I’ve only legally parked the thing once. Most of the time I park in those spaces with lines painted through them and miraculously get away with it. I stopped parking in the blue ones once I realized they were there to enable disabled persons to exit their vehicle. So the yellow ones are all I’ve got left. And as I’ve mentioned before, most LA parking garages are not scooter-friendly because entrance requires setting off a weight sensor in addition to taking one’s ticket.

I realize scooters are not a solution for everyone or practical for every trip. Obviously, I don’t begrudge moms (or dads) for driving cars big enough to hold multiple little people when required. And even on the weekends I take the Jeep to places like Costco or Home Depot. But I’m curious:

• If the purchase price, gear, and insurance were not an issue, would you consider getting a scooter (or smaller motorcycle)?
  


• If so, what would you use it for—commute, pleasure, or both?
  


• If not, what are your reasons (family’s too big, safety concerns, etc.)?

Happy Days Are Here Again

So, here it is, MY dragon red Vespa, on Ocean Boulevard in Santa Monica, overlooking the Pacific Ocean (which you can’t see in the picture, but trust me, it’s below those cars and trees in the background and it’s beautiful).

Today is Labor Day and my labor of choice was driving my Vespa down to the beach and back, thus breaking my three-week Vespa hiatus. I have to admit, I was a little nervous, feeling as though everything I learned in my long months of Vespa practice would have been forgotten in the intervening downtime and this would be like that first ride all over again. In fact, I was downright cranky at the notion of even having to leave my house today. I suffer from what we call “the Sunday Night Blues” in the Ess family—you know, that sad feeling you get on Sunday night when the pressures of the coming workweek begin to take mental shape. This Sunday night was blissfully blues-free due to the three-day weekend, but for some reason I’ve spent all Monday with a Sunday Night Blues-type feeling rather than cavorting about and enjoying the holiday as I should.

The Roommate saw me stomping out the door this afternoon and predicted that once I actually got on the Vespa, I would remember how fun it was. I hate to say it, but…

She was right.

This ride was just what I needed to lift my spirits—a phenomenon that supports this blog’s underlying theme of Vespatherapy. First, not only had I not forgotten how to drive it, but it seemed like I had almost gotten better. I think I’ve finally learned to relax a little when I’m riding the Vespa—today I drove about four miles before I realized that I hadn’t thought about my feet even once. By “my feet,” I mean the timing of when to pick up my right foot when taking off after a stop and, similarly, when to set it down once I’ve come to a stop. It’s not the biggest deal in my Vespacades, but it’s something that heretofore I’ve been really aware of. The fact that I made several stops today without even thinking about it means everything is coming a little more naturally, no?

Second, I got this awesome Vespa Wave and honk from a fellow rider today. Those of you who ride motorcycles are doubtlessly familiar with the Biker Wave that you are required to give to all passing bikers under threat of death by the Hell’s Angels, or whoever the biker gang du jour is (clearly I haven’t paid attention in decades). As everyone knows, motorcyclists do not consider scooters real “bikes,” and so I’ve only been the recipient of a few courtesy biker waves to date (picture a helmeted guy rolling his eyes while half-heartedly raising a few fingers of one hand as he passes in the opposite direction). This is fine by me as I am still loathe to raise either of my hands while driving for fear of spinning wildly out of control. In fact, when I do get a wave, all I can muster is a nod of my head and a smile that says “I would wave back, but I’m probably going to crash at any minute as it is. And yes, I could drive this thing with my legs crossed if I wanted to. Deal with it.”

For the record, I have never gotten a wave from a non-Vespa scooterist (and on that topic, I seriously question the name Kymco Peoples, as those who drive them don’t seem like “people” people to me). But the Vespa-Vespa passing rules are carved in fine Italian marble: you MUST wave and cheering or whistling, while optional, is encouraged. As you might have guessed, the Vespa Wave is somewhat more eager than the Biker Wave: the elbow is fully raised and the hand is whisked briskly from side to side. While the casual Biker Wave seems to state “Hey,” the Vespa Wave says “Oh my gosh! Hi! Hi There!! We both like Vespas—isn’t that cool?!!”

Again, due to my poor motoring confidence, the most I have been able offer in response to a Vespa Wave is a raised shaking of a couple of fingers with a nod of the head. Until today. Today I approached a particular intersection and, as I did so, I could see a guy on a Vespa stopped in the cross traffic. He didn’t see me, and I realized that it was my duty to instigate the Vespa Wave. I was really apprehensive as I am semi-allergic to public displays of enthusiasm and I generally don’t like to instigate anything. Still, I took a deep breath and, as I drove through the intersection and passed him, I full-on took my right hand off the throttle and waved vigorously for 1.5 seconds. My efforts paid off when he waved just as vigorously back at me and followed it with a few cheerful honks. I don’t know why, but it just made my day.

La triste Vespa

Poor Vespa. It has been so neglected lately.

There are a couple of reasons for this. The first is that I went on a short vacation two weeks ago, but the "planning for" and "recovery from" periods extended the impact said short vacation had on my available Vespa riding time, which is low to begin with. Being a grown-up sucks, because unlike the cashier or data-entry or call center jobs of yore, the work that arose during the vacation was still waiting for me when I got back. There was no “other” person on a nameless team of people to do it in my absence. It makes a vacation almost not worth it, no?

The second is that The Roommate dared me to break one of my all-time cardinal rules, and I regretfully accepted. You know how when you go to the zoo to visit the baby pandas, there are little signs around that say DO NOT FEED THE ANIMALS along with some fine print about how the zoo isn’t trying to be mean, it’s just that human food is not good for them? I seriously think there should be a sign posted within ten feet of me at all times that says DO NOT GIVE GINNY FICTION with some fine print about how it’s for my own good and some bold print especially warning against serial young adult fiction. Cause honestly people, it is like crack to me—once I start, I cannot put it down, no matter how mediocre the writing.

Unfortunately, I have no such sign and so The Roommate didn’t know what damage she was doing when she offered me her copy of Twilight, the first book in Stephenie Meyer’s young adult series about hot teen vampire romance (words I never expected to type). It’s fiction, by the way, and in case you’re like me and you never heard of it, it is somewhat of a cultural phenomenon and a major bestseller—or so the tweens whose online Twilight forums I’ve been stalking have informed me. Incidentally, it is also written by an LDS girl who grew up in Scottsdale, Arizona (and although I am also an LDS girl who grew up in Scottsdale and there aren’t that many of us, I don’t know her. But the books are not LDS-themed*). Thank goodness the Roommate did this on a Friday night instead of like a Wednesday night or something, because it only resulted in a Lost Weekend instead of a Lost Workweek Replete With Lost Job. I read Twilight on Friday night after work, made my way through the second book, New Moon, on Saturday and Sunday, and finished the third, Eclipse, by Tuesday. I’m not saying these books are the best thing since Ulysses, but they are definite page-turners. Needless to say, reading approximately 1800 pages and discussing them with The Roommate and the sisters and the mom and lurking on tween online forums and feeling shame for lurking on tween online forums and wondering why I don’t have the html skills of the average 11-year old and sleeping and working and attending church over a four-day period does not leave much time to take the Vespa out for a spin. In fact, it doesn’t leave much time for grocery shopping or laundry washing or any number of things that should be done on the average weekend and should especially be done on a weekend following a short vacation.

The third reason is that I recently ordered a snappy new baby blue and white helmet, which has not yet arrived. But just knowing that it exists and is on its way makes me all the more saddened at the thought of riding with my current gargantuan black helmet. I promise to post pics comparing the two once the new one finally gets here. In fact, I promise to ride the Vespa somewhere dreamy in the coming week and post pics of that as well.

In other news, Vespa is holding an amateur video contest to promote their new “Vespanomics” campaign. The winning auteur will receive a new Vespa GTS, which puts my lil’ LX-150 to shame. More importantly, if I already know the winning auteur, he or she can be in my scooter gang. I have seen some of the entries and I know you can do better, people. Get on it!

Apologies for yet another self-obsessed, pic-less post. I have every intention of mending my ways shortly.

* And for you non-Morms out there, I just want to assure you that Vampire mythology and other elements of the occult are not a part of our religious beliefs, no matter what your neighbor who “knew a guy” told you.

The Bug Chronicles: Chapter 5

Previously on The Bug Chronicles: Girl buys Bug. Girl drives Bug—sometimes, when it’s working, which isn’t often. Girl paints Bug (many times). Girl sells Bug. Girl misses Bug.

Chapter Five: Junior Year

• Carless once again, I find myself pining away for my dearest Bug. I look for the Bug in every parking lot in Provo. I still have a set of keys and wonder if I would have the nerve to steal it if I saw it. I also wonder if I would have the willpower not to steal it if I saw it. In short bursts of insanity, I consider dedicating songs to the Bug on easy-listening radio stations in hopes the Bug will return to me.
  


• On the first Ladies’ Night of the school year, former roommate and I arrange to meet up with a group of boys we palled around with as freshman (i.e., CB and CF and maybe JR, but I can’t remember), as they have all just returned from two-year church missions. The reunion destination is Club Omni (formerly The Edge), and as this is taking place so long ago that clubbing is still cool in Happy Valley, half the universe has shown up for the event. Due to post-traumatic stress disorder, I can’t remember the exact sequence of events, but I believe I am in the club’s basement when I run into Mrs. Gee and her friends and Mrs. Gee looks concerned and asks me if I’ve seen it. Seen what? She takes me up to the main dance floor and there it is: MY BUG, mounted to the ceiling, flashing its headlights to the peppy beat of the main floor music I so despise. The Bug is still red and white, but a layer of reflective glitter has been added and the windows have a mirror-like film on them, turning the Bug into a true disco ball as it bounces light across the room. Just to confirm its identity, I go and stand directly beneath it and look up. Sure enough, there is a telltale welded patch over the former hole in the floor. What was okay for me to drive cross-country with has now been fixed to spare the heads of any wallflowers below.
  


• It is 11:30 p.m., but I call Mary at home collect and, although I’m not a crier, I burst into tears. At this point in the story, everyone always asks why I was upset instead of amused—I can’t explain it, I just was. Mary can barely hear me through the crying and the club noise, but I explain to her that I’m at Club Omni and the Bug is there too. Mary keeps thinking I mean I saw the Bug in the parking lot, but I finally convey that no, it is inside, and it is hanging from the ceiling. She first bursts out laughing, but then manages to calm me down. I go back down to the basement for some “Everyday is Halloween” or whatever it is they’re playing and put on my best “I didn’t just have a nervous breakdown--I swear!” face.
  


• When former roommate and I are exiting the club, we see the manager. I stop and ask him where he got the Bug, and he tells me that some fishy consignment car dealer behind Deseret Industries parted the whole car out and he bought the body for $300. I'm not going to say what the fishy consignment car dealer paid me for the entire Bug, but suffice it to say that I got ripped off after all. After proving that the car was once mine (by confirming that, when he got it, it had a sticker on it with a picture of Elvis that said “I’m dead.” Heh. That still kills me), he parades former roommate and I around to all the employees and gives us some free passes. One of them produces a shoe I left in the trunk. It’s a cool shoe, but I’ve already tossed out its mate because I couldn’t find the missing one. I plan on keeping the free pass forever as a souvenir, but during a cash-strapped part of the semester I cave and use it.
  


• Months later, I am watching television when I see a commercial for Club Omni. It includes a cartoon version of the Bug flying through outer space. By now, I have visited the Bug numerous times and have made peace with its alternative lifestyle. I am even happy for the Bug—not every old car gets to live a second life as a disco ball with its own cartoon.

Epilogue

• At the end of junior year, I am walking across campus after my late night shift in KBYU’s master control when I cross paths with a clean-cut guy wearing a trench coat and sneakers and nothing else. Needless to say, the trench isn’t buttoned. I don’t feel scared and just keep on walking, but when I recount the story to Dave and Mary, they talk Mrs. Dub into letting me have the “kids’ car” Honda Civic in Provo so I don’t have to walk home late at night. (Mrs. Dub pays them back several months later when, as a freshman, she borrows the Civic to drive to Springville and get her tongue pierced. She also racks up several BYU parking tickets, which the school claims are mine. I have to pay them to get my diploma. But I digress…)
  


• When I return to BYU in 2002 for law school, it is to a changed, post-Olympics Provo. Los Hermanos is no longer the only restaurant in town. Private room is the new shared room. The University Mall has finally been remodeled. The heathen UVSC kids have taken over the world. Most notably, though, the club era has long since passed. I occasionally consider suffering a few minutes of salsa dancing (the only thing going on at Club Omni anymore) in order to see and take pics of the Bug, provided it’s still there. But law school is crazy and before I know it, I have graduated and left Provo again without ever visiting the Bug. Since the Bug, I’ve had two Hondas, one Jeep and a Vespa, and I can barely remember the time when I had to pray my car would start whenever I put the key in the ignition. But now that it’s over, I have to say I’m grateful that such a time existed.

The Bug Chronicles: Chapter 4

Previously on The Bug Chronicles: On our trip to Arizona for the summer, the Bug freaks out near the Utah border and nearly refuses to go. Once there, the arid climate and a rim makeover do the Bug good. Although it’s cliché, I can’t help but say “I told you so.”

Chapter Four: Second Sophomore Year
(Some of us were on the five-year plan. Deal with it.)

• The Bug runs considerably better this year than the one before. Hooray!
  


• During finals week for fall semester, I paint flames on the hood of the Bug using a stencil devised from contact paper and seven cans of Krylon spray paint. It is a definite eyesore, yet still an improvement on the old rusted hood.
  

Flamer

• At the beginning of winter semester, I volunteer to work at the Sundance Film Festival. Due to concerns that the Bug can't make the trek from Provo to Park City and back every night, I specifically volunteer to work at the screening room at the Sundance Resort, located 15 minutes up Provo Canyon. One night halfway through the Festival, there is a heavy snowfall. By the time my shift ends, the Bug is buried under a foot of the white stuff. It takes some time to brush it off, and when I finally do, I am the last to leave the parking lot. As an AZ girl, I am ill-equipped for snow driving, as is the ultralight, rear-wheel drive Bug. Within minutes of leaving the resort, we are spinning donuts like crazy. I purposely crash the Bug into a bank of snow to avoid driving into the Provo River. As I prepare to spend the night in the car, I wish I had a blanket and/or a flashlight and/or food and/or a floor without holes in it. I don't yet know about cell phones, but if I did, I would wish for one of those, too. After a few minutes, a large truck pulls up and three guys hop out. They are local "ski bums"—they work minimum wage jobs at Sundance in order to ski for free all winter long. Unlike a lot of Utahns, they are not LDS. They tell me the road is closed, but that they will use chains to tow the Bug back up to the parking lot and then they will take me to their mountain cabin until the roads are plowed in the morning. I thank them profusely for rescuing me; at the same time, I mentally prepare to die young at their hands. The road to the mountain cabin is long and dark and totally disconcerting, but the cabin itself is quite warm and cheery and I am given a tour and fed Lucky Charms by a few of the many male ski bums who apparently reside there. I feel a little like Snow White only, as usual, everyone is taller than me. The bums lend me some sweats and a room of my own for the night. The next morning, I am awakened at 5 a.m. by one of the bums who says "I can hear the plow!" Following directly behind the plow, he wonderfully drives me all the way down the Canyon to my Provo apartment. On the way, we see many cars in the Provo River. I promise to go watch the bums' band play at Pier 54, but never do. A week later, Leslie wonderfully drives me all over tarnation in an attempt to retrieve the Bug, which has now been impounded.
  


• Although things are going well mechanically, by February, I realize I have fallen out of love with the Bug. My roommate has the coolest car of the moment—a Dodge neon—and it is so nice ride in it, what with the armrests and cupholders and trunk space and lack of burning oil smell and all. As sad as it makes me, I promise Dave and Mary that I will not attempt to bring the Bug to Phoenix again, and that I will sell it before the summer.
  


• Bored, I paint the entire Bug with a red and white two-tone scheme using 72 cans of Krylon spray paint. Coincidentally, it is Utah’s last really snowy winter. (Sorry, ozone. Sorry, Al Gore. You're welcome, Krylon.)
  
• The Bug stars in every single one of my film school projects this semester. Much to her consternation, camera-shy Mrs. Gee also stars in most of my film school projects this semester. McCauley Culkin has a few cameos. Mrs. Gee is given the stressful onscreen task of driving the Bug all over Provo despite her lack of manual transmission experience. I pay her back by honoring her wish to never show the films to anyone outside of class, especially Mr. Gee. (And by the way, this was written before any reminders from Mrs. Gee.)
  


• In late April, it hits me that Dave is picking Mrs. Gee and me up from school in two days and I have completely forgotten to sell the Bug. After my Wilk board postings fail to generate leads, I ask my dearest friend, the VW mechanic, if he knows anyone who would want to buy a spray-painted, holey, “air-cooled” car within twenty-four hours. He does not, but suggests I check in with a fishy consignment car dealer located behind Deseret Industries. I do and they agree to take the Bug on consignment. They have me sign over the title and give them my keys for absolutely nothing in exchange. Not even a post-it that says "we have your car." I bid a melancholy adieu to my beloved Bug.
  


• Summer is harsher than I expected without the Bug. especially for Dave and Mary (and occasionally Mrs. Dub). I get a call center job for the summer; my shift starts at 4 a.m. Because I have no car, Dave and Mary have to drive me to work.
  


• About two months into the summer, just when I'm convinced I've been ripped off, I receive a check in the mail for the Bug with no explanation.

Will I ever receive even a post-it explaining the terms of the sale? When is CB going to make his much anticipated appearance in this story? Tune in next time for the exciting conclusion…

The Bug Chronicles: Chapter 3

Previously on The Bug Chronicles:
To Dave and Mary’s dismay, I buy a 1975 VW Bug my sophomore year of college. The Bug is transportationally challenged, to say the least.

Chapter Three: Sophomore Summer

• I decide to drive the Bug from Provo to Phoenix for the summer. Dave and Mary decide that Aunt CC, who has a Bug of her own, should drive with me. It is smooth sailing until Aunt CC and I approach the burgeoning metropolis of Panguitch, Utah, where the oil light goes on for the first time ever, confirming that it actually works. We pull over and realize the car is hemorrhaging black gold—a huge problem as hot oil is the only thing close to a coolant in an old Bug (although VW continues to insist that "air" counts--since when has air counted as anything?!). We make it into Panguitch where the local tow truck owner offers to take us 150 miles out of our way to St. George for the low price of 5 million dollars to have the Bug repaired. The stated need for the trip: no self-respecting Panguitch mechanic would bother learning how to fix anything other than an American car. The stated need is stated with much seriousness. At this precise moment I see an emerald green old Bug with California plates and a BYU sticker pull into a nearby gas station. I jaywalk across the highway, approach my fellow nazimobiler, explain the problem and solicit suggestions. After unsuccessfully rummaging through the ample supply of spare VW parts he keeps in his car, my new friend suggests buying a case of oil and refilling every 50 miles until I get to Phoenix. The gas station owner overhears and offers to sell me the oil at cost in order to stoke a longstanding feud between him and the tow truck owner. I hail Aunt CC over and propose the plan to her, which she wonderfully accepts. At this point I am very grateful I am traveling with Aunt CC instead of her younger sis Mary, as Mary would never go for it. Aunt CC and I arrive in Phoenix 15 hours later, with 20 empty quarts of oil in the back of the car. The next day a mechanic fixes the problem for 25 bucks.
  


• I spend the summer cross-dressing and sweating to death in the non-air-conditioned Bug. The cross-dressing is due to my summer employment at Kinko’s, where I have to wear a Kinko’s dress shirt and one of Dave’s old ties to work every day. The ties make the 133-degree heat inside the Bug unbearable. I am sure the furry seat covers I bought aren’t helping the situation, but I refuse to sacrifice style for comfort and, by “style,” I apparently mean “cross-dressing, sweat-drenched 19-year old driving a beat up car with a plywood floor and Chia seats.” On the bright side, I get to reuse the twelve pairs of khaki pants I bought for the Best Buy gig last year.
  


• I spend days removing the rust from the Bug's rims and paint them white using three cans of Krylon spray paint. They look fabulous. And so begins my Krylon addiction.
  



Better than Trimspa: The Unbelievable Before and After Pics
(Note how careful I was not to get paint on Dave and Mary's driveway)



• At the end of the summer, it is decided that the best way to return the Bug to Provo is to take the trip in two days, driving only in the cooler wee morning hours. 13-year old Archie rides with me while Mary follows behind in her minivan. Archie is, as always, a good sport, but on the second day he opts for the A/C comfort of the minivan, even though it means listening to Billy Joel's "Downeaster Alexa" on repeat the entire time. The Bug survives without incident; the most difficult part of the trip is figuring out how to spend twelve hours in Kanab.
  
  Will Archie write a best-selling nonfiction novelette documenting his stay in the one stop sign town that is Kanab? How much of it will be devoted to watching an “All That” marathon at the Holiday Inn? Were Keenan and Kel EVER funny? Find out next time…