I cannot get this image out of my head. Of course, it doesn’t help that it’s all over the web, but, even with that, I suspect the image will stick with me for a long time. The spectacle of the President of the United States of America bowing to the Saudi King Abdullah is simultaneously sickening and enraging.

Call me old fashioned, but I believe that the President of the United States, in his role as President, should bow to no mortal. None. Ever.

If being a member-in-good-standing of the world community means that the President must behave as a supplicant to anyone, let alone a monarch of a repressive country and a country, which, but for sitting atop of sea of oil, would be little more than a collection of desert nomads stuck in the seventh century, we shouldn’t join the club.

I have written here, here and here about the horrors of taking the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car to the dealer for service. I should note that the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car is decidedly American, and the dealership runs by what I can only assume to be American standards.

I recently took Mrs. Parkway’s car to the selling dealership for service. The car is a bit more than one-year old and still doesn’t have 5,000 miles on it, but it was definitely time for an oil change and whatever else is regularly done, service-wise, at 5,000 miles. I should note here that Mrs. Parkway’s car is of the Japanese persuasion.

I was somewhat nervous with the prospect of becoming a supplicant to yet another Service Area of a dealership. As it turns out, there was quite a difference between this Service Area and that I have become accustomed to.

When I called for an appointment, I was not told, “Bring it in any time on X day.” Instead, after being asked what time of day I would like to come in for service and having indicated a preference for mornings, I was told, “Our next opening is for June X, at 7:45 a.m. Will that be OK?”

I thought, Holy crap! This is like making a Doctor’s appointment.

I was told that I had been assigned to “Joe on the Blue Team.” This too was strange to me, having been accustomed to standing with the other supplicants at the Service Area counter, waiting for someone to pay attention to me.

I made it to the dealership exactly at the appointed time. When getting service on the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car, I would have to spend several minutes trying to find a parking space in the lot, which has more craters in it than did the Battlefield of Verdun. By contrast, when I pulled up to the Japanese persuasion dealership, I saw that there was “valet parking.” (Holy Crap!)

The valet guy said, “Do you have an appointment sir?” When I answered that I did have an appointment, he placed a paper mat on the car’s floor and handed me a slip of paper that contained my plate number and mileage. He wished me a nice day and took the car away. I was getting lightheaded by this time.

I walked into the “Reception Area,” a nicely appointed room with several people, organized by their team colors, sitting at the ready to do the necessary intake. I proceeded to the “Blue” guy who verified my appointment and took down my information, including my desire to wait while the car was being serviced.

He pointed me to the stairs, which led to the upstairs waiting room. I had visions of the cramped waiting room at the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car dealership, and I prepared myself for the worst.

I was pleasantly surprised to see that the room was large and well lit. It contained a coffee machine (one that grinds the beans before it makes the coffee), which offered a wide array of coffee choices – free, of course. There were also an ample supply of Dunkin’ Donuts on hand. The room contained numerous copies of the latest newspapers and a slew of recent magazines.

There was, of course, the obligatory television, but it was an impressive large, wall-mounted flat screen number. What really slayed me was the “Children’s Corner.” The Children’s Corner is a separate small room (separated from the Waiting Room by a door) full of things for children to play with to keep them from becoming fidgety from just sitting around.

The best thing was the “Quiet Room.” Yes, a “Quiet Room.” You could have knocked me over with a feather. I hope that when the person who had the “Quiet Room” idea finally throws the sixes, he or she will rocket directly to Heaven at warp speed. The Quiet Room contained a couple easy chairs and about a half-dozen carrels, much like one sees in libraries, each equipped with internet connections. Genius, I tell you. Pure genius.

I think it fair to say that the Dealership did everything reasonably possible to make waiting for one’s car as painless as possible.

Of course, there was some bad news.

For example, like the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car Dealership , the Japanese Persuasion Dealership has its share of cell-phone blabbing morons. One woman took off her shoes, tucked her bare feet under her ass on the couch in the Waiting Room and loudly talked and giggled non-stop on her goddamned cell phone, and she did it in a foreign language (It sounded like a dialect spoken somewhere near Calcutta).

In addition, as I mentioned, there is also a television, which almost certainly guarantees an earful of annoying nonsense. On the day in question, the Morning Show featured some nineteen-year old woman dressed something like the people that the Starship Enterprise might encounter might wear “singing” her shit, which included what she indicated was the “Number One song in America today.” It had something to do with an Umbrella. On the Auditory Assault Scale, this piece of shit scored a solid TEN.

Between the Calcutta Phone Talker and the horrendous television spacewoman’s “singing,” I retreated to the Quiet Room.

There was about a half dozen people in the Quiet Room, including one woman working on her laptop in the carrel opposite mine. We were isolated from the Calcutta Phone Talker and the screeching spacewoman – it was sweet.

But then, just when I thought I had arrived in Dealership Heaven, the woman on the computer must have called her company Help Desk on her cell phone. I couldn’t believe it. In an otherwise dead-silent room, I was treated to something like the following:

Would that be under “Tools?”

It says, “Temporary Files,” and it is asking me if I want to delete them? Should I click “yes?”

It says, Internet Explorer, but it asks for my password.

Yes, I entered my password, but it wouldn’t work.

Yes, I entered [the woman shared her password with everyone in the Quiet Room!], and it still didn’t work. Should I try a new password? How about [Now, we all knew her new password!]?

OK, I see it now. Should I click “OK”?

This went on for ten minutes or so. I was hoping she would not treat us to a download of a new goddamned operating system.

After about another 15 minutes a voice came over the intercom informing me to return to the Service Desk as Mrs. Parkway’s car was done.

All this proved to me that, despite best efforts to make waiting for car to be serviced as comfortable as possible, one can always rely on douche bags showing up to shit things up.

Perhaps the Japanese Persuasion Dealership needs a Harakiri Room.

Dear Oberhaupt MuNuvian,

Permit me a wee grouse.

First, let me express my admiration for anyone who understands cyber things well enough to pilot contraptions like servers and such. I wouldn’t know an SQL from a style sheet. Still, I, like many, if not most, of us techno-stoopids, can’t understand why computers can’t do exactly what we want when we want. This is why many Geeks lose patience with us and why many tech support peeps run high bar tabs.

Here is my wee grouse.

Many of my pals are MuNuvians. Because they are such good writers, they often inspire me to leave a comment. You know how that works. You read a good post, and instantly a witty, interesting and engaging comment comes to mind. You write the comment and sometimes even buff it up a bit to get a nice gloss on it. When you think you’ve got it right, you click “submit” or “post” (whatever). Only THEN, do you learn that Mu.Nu is being spammed and comments are not being accepted, and, what’s worse, your comment is forever lost.

Believe you me, I understand the evil that is spam, and I understand that sometimes you just must shut stuff down in order to deal with it. However, it sure would make me a much happier camper to know that comments are shut down before I take the time to compose a Pulitzer Prize caliber comment. Or, tell me that comments are not being accepted but not vaporize my comment, thereby permitting me to save my unquestionable work of literary art for later transmission. Know what I mean?

Then again, I realize that, in the big picture, a lost comment is about as important as a pimple on a flea’s heiney, and that what I would like might be instantly recognized by the cyber-cognoscenti as impossible, but thanks anyway for listening.

Sincerely,
Jimbo, the Techno-Humble Cyber Supplicant

I thought, “I’m so screwed.”

I had just turned over my keys to one of the Masters of the Automotive Universe Service Representatives at the Altar of the Masters of the Automotive Universe Service Desk and headed for my spot in the waiting room, which has been the source of blogfodder on a couple previous occasions. I opened the door to see that all the seats were taken, meaning I would be relegated to the “lower” waiting room, which really isn’t a room at all. Rather, it is a concrete-floored area in the vicinity of the Altar of the Masters of the Automotive Universe Service Desk, where spill-over supplicants to the Masters of the Automotive Universe Service Representatives are sent.

In the “lower” waiting room, there are no donuts (OK – I have never eaten dealer donuts in the past) and no coffee (OK – I brought my own, thank you). I have always suspected that the dealer-donuts and coffee contain a psychoactive drug that makes supplicants even more compliant. There was, however, an omni-annoying television blaring ESPN (not OK, but I figure that some crap like “Regis” must be blaring from the omni-annoying television in the “upper” waiting room.)

What really frosted my stindeens was that I forgot to bring a book to read (all the dealer-supplied reading material being in the “upper” waiting room). So, I pulled a mini-legal pad from my briefcase and decided to jot down potential bits of blogfodder. Strange thing is that the woman sitting next to me was doing exactly the same thing on exactly the same kind of mini-legal pad. I wondered if she might be a blogger. Perhaps she was taking notes about the sorry ass who just sat down next to her and who is doing exactly the same thing that she was doing and wondering if I was a blogger.

Of course, I did not ask her, because one supplicant to Masters of the Automotive Universe Service Representatives does not speak with other supplicants. Maybe it’s a fear that speaking with another supplicant will transfer the automotive maladies of that supplicant to your car – automotive cooties, if you will.

Anyway, for better or for worse, the “lower” waiting room is within sight and earshot of the mini dramas that unfold as the supplicants are provided with the diagnoses of their vehicles’ condition. Supplicants are not afforded the luxury of privacy in these matters. One’s car’s diagnosis, prognosis and the cost of remediation is for all to hear.

As such, we in the “lower” waiting room witnessed one of the Masters of the Automotive Universe Service Representatives explain to a very old couple that the problem for which they had sought service had been repaired, but that a “safety check” revealed that the tires on their car were “dry-rotted”.

I thought, “Dry-rotted? How old could the farookin’ car be? Did they go ‘halvsies’ on it when they began dating, which probably was some time around 1925?

The Master of the Automotive Universe Service Representative explained, “You should think about replacing them, because it is a safety issue. I’m not saying that you have to do it now, but you should think about it.

After the Master of the Automotive Universe Service Representative returned to the Altar of the Automotive Masters of the Universe Service Desk, the two old people must have thought about it as well as the flaming, painful death that can result from riding around on dry-rotted tires, because the lady walked over to the Altar of the Masters of the Automotive Universe Service Desk, and after a few minutes returned to give the old man the story.

“That’s an awful lot for tires,” said the old guy.

The lady responded, “They’re Michelins”.

The old guy thought a minute and said, “Michelins? Those are Goodyears on there now. They were on there when we got the car.”

“But these are Michelins”

Shortly after that, they (the owners of new “Michelins”) were told they were free to leave.

As they walked past me, I could not help but think that they too looked just a little dry-rotted.

***

Next, I saw a different Master of the Automotive Universe Service Representative tell a supplicant, who had a Blue Tooth thing plugged into his ear all the while he was in the waiting room (and therefore deserving of scorn), “The problem is that one of your hoses is dry-rotted”.

I figure that the dealer must have been running a special on dry-rot.

***

A few minutes later, one of the Masters of the Automotive Universe Service Representatives gave one of the supplicants, who had been summoned from the “upper” waiting room, some bad news:

Service Rep: “Sir, that problem you have where the windshield wipers won’t ‘park’ after you turn them off?”

Supplicant: “Yes?”

Service Rep: “Well that position on your wiper motor is shot. There are four positions in that motor, and the other three positions may go at any time. Parts and labor for that comes to $385.00”.

Supplicant: “Did you say $385.00?”

Service Rep: “Yeah, and your front brakes are just about shot too. Parts and labor for that will run you $250.00 [I’m not sure of this number, but I think it was something like $250.00]. Your trans fluid is also burned. It’s supposed to be cherry red, but yours is burned black. That’s gotta be drained and replaced with new fluid, or you could wind up with a trans problem. The cost on that is $160.00.

Supplicant: (reeling from the financial flaying he was experiencing) “Jeez, money is a little tight right now. I think you should fix the brakes and change the trans fluid.”

Service Rep: “OK, but you don’t want us to replace the wiper motor?”

Supplicant: “Well, they’re still working; they just don’t park when I shut them off. I’ll have to get that fixed another time.”

Service Rep: “I don’t know. Like I said, one position on the motor is shot and the others could go at any time. If the motor completely goes and you’re driving in the rain, you have a real problem. We are supposed to get heavy rain this weekend. [The remnants of hurricane Ernesto are supposed to arrive this weekend], and, you know, it’s really a safety issue. I’m not saying you have to replace it today, but you should think about it.” [I figure he must have studied under the Service Guy who sold the old people the “Michelins”.]

Supplicant: (looking like a beaten man) “OK. Replace the wiper motor too”

I was quietly wondering if the guy’s wiper blades were dry-rotted.

The guy retreated to the “upper” waiting room, presumably to call home with the bad news, or to slash his wrists.

Next thing I knew, I was released! My oil had been changed, and I was free to go. The Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car is still under warranty, so everything was found to be just fine. I guess the dry-rot and the burned out fluids and motors begin the day after the warranty expires.

Honestly.  Another day, another asshole.

I suppose that, in a perverse sort of way, this is the stuff that makes life an adventure.  The thing is, who needs an “adventure” on a weekday morning?

Here’s the story.

This morning, I showed up at the appointed time to have the 5,000-mile service done on my big, fat, black, capitalist car.  Like all Service Area Supplicants, I turned in my keys and headed into the dreaded “Customer Waiting Room”.  I was quite certain that it would be a short stay, as the only thing that was scheduled for the big, fat. black, capitalist car was an oil change.

Not surprisingly, when I climbed the three steps into the waiting room, I saw five or six people already seated, all staring at the television in the corner that was blaring Katie and Matt spewing their morning sugary bilge.  I found a seat as far away from the television as possible and immediately took out a pad and pen (you remember those things) and began outlining something I wanted to write for work.

It’s not easy filtering out Katie and Matt, but I was doing OK.

After a few minutes, a woman walked into the room, and, after surveying the assemblage, said, “Is anyone watching this?”

Mind you, she asked this question after seeing a half dozen people staring into the television screen.

I can only assume that the six people staring into the television screen were too busy breathing through their mouths to answer the woman’s stupid question, because no one said a word.

For a brief and shining moment, I thought she might — just might, suggest that the morning blather be turned off.  However, as often happens, what I perceived to be a  “brief and shining moment” turned out to have been a pathetic brain fart.

The woman followed the silence of the mouth breathers with, “I want to turn on Regis”, which she promptly did.

The change of stations didn’t seem to bother the hominids in the waiting room as they continued to stare at the television, now being treated to Kelly Whatshername’s version of the likelihood of extraterrestrial beings having visited earth.

I thought to myself, “What kind of person walks into a room relatively full of people watching a television program and asks whether anyone is watching the television?  And, what kind of person finds the thought of missing one minute of Regis to be worth the trouble of asking?”

It didn’t take but about three minutes for me to learn what kind of person would do such a thing.

It was the kind of person who would pluck a booger from her nose, then spend a half-minute rolling it.  Having satisfied herself that she turned the piece of nasal sludge into something resembling a sphere, she examined it as if she were appraising a fine diamond.  Once she was done admiring her work, she pretended to fold her arms, thereby permitting her to wipe the booger from her finger into her left armpit, and resume giving her full attention to Regis and Kelly.

My oil change was finished shortly after the booger appraisal, and I promptly left the mouth breathers and the nose-picker behind.

I spent the next several hours hoping that the booger-rolling woman is not someone’s mother.

This morning I had to take my car to the dealer for an oil change and its
15, 000 mile service. I truly like the quality of service at this dealership (I’m on my second car from there), but there is only so much an organization can do to make a visit to the Service Department a tolerable experience.

Here’s a bit of stream of consciousness about the experience:

I reported to the service counter with keys in my hand and my current mileage written on a slip of paper. As always, I was prepared to be exceedingly polite to the guy behind the service desk. In fact, I was fully prepared to be an unabashed, obsequious toady, for there are few people who have more raw power than the guy behind the service desk – The Service Guy.

One can only hope that the Service Guy remains patient while one describes the rattles and hums that often bring people before them to grovel. If the Service Guy appears to be listening, one fervently hopes that he really is listening and that he’s not thinking, “Hmmm, get a load of Putz Boy here telling me how his car is making a noise that sounds like ‘wala wala wala WHEEEEEEEEZ.’ Where’s the coffee guy, anyway?”

In this particular dealership, the Service Guys are good. Either that, or they are well trained to look like they really give a shit about what you have to say. However, today I got a new guy, who, although good, obviously did not finish the orientation course.

Service Guy: “Good morning, sir. What can we do for you today?”

Me: “Good morning. My name is James So and So, and I have an appointment to have my car serviced.”

Service Guy: “What did you say your name was, sir?”

Me: “My name is James So and So.” I spelled “So and So” for him.

Service Guy: “I’ll be with you in a second, sir.” He apparently realized that he hadn’t finished the “paperwork” on the previous customer, which required some writing and lots of stapling.

Service Guy: Having finished the stapling said, “So, that was James So and So?”

Me: “Yes. James So and So.” I spelled “So and So” again.

Service Guy: Clicking away on the computer. It had to be a thousand keystrokes. “Would that be James ‘A,’ So and So, or James ‘T.’ So and So?”

Me: “James ‘A.’ So and So.”

Service Guy: A thousand more keystrokes as he stared into the computer screen, then, the Service Guy asked, “Is this your first time here, Mr. So and So?”

Me: This is trouble. I replied, “No, it’s about my third time here with this car, and this is the second car I got from this dealer.”

Service Guy: Frowning.

Me: Thinking, “Oh my God. He’s frowning.” Things can turn to shit when a Service Guy frowns.

The Service Guy did a couple more thousand keystrokes, and he was still frowning. I was beginning to think that all is lost.

Me: “I can tell you what kind of car it is, and I can give you the plate number. Will that help?”

Service Guy: “Do you have your registration with you?”

Me: There is now a tiny stirring of anger beneath my veil of supplication. “My registration is out in the car. If you absolutely need it, I can go outside across the lot and get it, but I never needed it on the previous dozen or so occasions that I have been here.”

Service Guy: Apparently remembering one of the lessons in the orientation course, said, “That won’t be necessary. I can get the necessary information.”

I had thought that he meant that with a couple thousand more keystrokes he would be able to locate me and my car (He had already found me, James “A”) in the dealer database. No, what he meant was that he was going to out in the lot and take down the vehicle identification number from my car.

He reappeared a few minutes later and entered my vehicle identification number into the computer. At least another 750 keystrokes later, the Service Guy says, “OK, I’ve found it. What seems to be the problem?”

Me: “I’m mainly here for an oil change and the 15,000 mile thing, whatever that entails, but please have them take a look at the driver’s side exterior door handle. It is sticking.”

Service Guy: “Sticking? What do you mean ‘sticking’?”

Me: Back into supplication mode, hoping he’s still with me on this one, “Well, when I open the car door, the handle sort of stays ‘out’ a little bit. Maybe it just needs oil.” Why I felt compelled to suggest a possible fix, I have no idea. One often runs off at the mouth when in supplication mode.

Service Guy: Another thousand keystrokes, this time resulting in a document that contains all my previously inaccessible information and also describes what is to be done. It probably contains 3,000 words in varying degrees of fine print. He proffers the document and says, “I just need you to sign here, Mr. So and So.”

It is noteworthy that I spend a good deal of my professional life drafting and reviewing contracts of all kinds, and I often scold people for signing things without reading them. I confess to sometimes even being downright uppity in saying, “How can you sign something that you have not read?”

Of course, I immediately signed the document without reading it, which, for all I know, created a mortgage on my home, or willed all my possessions to my “Beloved Service Guy.” Lawyer-Schmawyer. One does not make a Service Guy wait while one reads a long document. It’s just not done.

Service Guy: “Will you be waiting for this, sir?”

Me: “Yes, I will.”

At that point I was relegated to the Service Area Waiting Room, a smallish room containing nine chairs, a coffee maker (with coffee) and even some donuts. There was a pile of magazines and a couple newspapers on the table. The room also contained a television for those supplicants who are not interested in the printed word.

I poured myself a cup of black coffee and avoided even looking at the donuts, particularly that delicious-looking chocolate one. I sat in one of the three open seats. I put my mondo farookin’ cold weather, down parka (which is about the size of a St. Bernard dog) on the seat next to mine, being prepared to remove it if another person entered the room. I put my briefcase on the floor and decided to read the copy of the New York Times that was on the table, even though I had brought a book along in anticipation of having to wait for the car to be serviced.

It was difficult to concentrate, because the television was blaring daytime talk shows, which, as far as I am concerned are slightly only less painful than stabbing yourself in the eyes with knitting needles. On the TV were two guys before a studio audience going on and on about the value of some Barbie dolls. The audience was ooohing and aaahing and applauding enthusiastically. It was awful.

The guy four seats away was reading the Bible and highlighting certain passages when he wasn’t talking on his cell phone. I wondered if he was talking to God on the phone to see if was highlighting the right stuff.

I was still trying to read, when another talk show came on, this one hosted by a guy named “Wayne” Something-or-other. This one was worse than the gushing Barbie doll guys. The audience (or laugh machine) was howling with laughter at stuff that wasn’t even remotely funny. At this point, I begin wondering how long does it really take to change oil and do a 15,000-mile check up. I was ready to tell the Service Guy to forget about the sticky door handle.

Just then, a man and lady walked in the room. They were considerably older than I (therefore, pretty farookin’ old). He was walking with a cane. I immediately removed my St. Bernard-sized parka from the seat next to mine and held it on my lap. It was like wrestling with a large, green marshmallow with arms. Managing the New York Times was not longer possible, which was OK, because after reading three John Kerry Puff Pieces and two articles referring negatively to the President’s appearance at the Daytona 500 and a local factory, I had had enough of the New York Times.

I wrestled with the green marshmallow in order to get my book from my briefcase. It would be easier to manage the book.

The lady spent a good deal of time adding all sorts of adulterants to a cup of coffee for her husband and lovingly delivered it to him. I thought that was nice – the gesture, not the milk and sugar-laden slop in the cup. The lady took the seat next to mine.

I finally got the book positioned over the green marshmallow, when Wayne Whatshisname, the talk show guy, introduced Betty White (of Mary Tyler Moor and The Golden Girls fame). It was difficult to block it out, and what made it worse is that the lady decided to repeat every friggin’ thing that Wayne Whatshisname and Betty White said. Everything.

Finally, after a dozen or so lines, she stopped repeating what was said, and I thought, “Finally, she shut up.”

Wrong.

As soon as she stopped repeating every farookin’ thing that Wayne and Betty said, she began humming. Yes, humming! She didn’t hum a particular tune, which would have been bad enough. Rather, her humming sounded like a random tone generator set at a volume just loud enough to be perceptible but impossible to ignore.

While she was humming, her husband began repeating what Wayne Whatshisname and Betty White were saying and following some of the repitition with “wry” commentary like, “Yep. The Golden Girls. That was some show.”

She hummed and he commented. Then she stopped humming and began repeating shit again. I figured that they were a tag team, and I ccould not even begin to imagine what a day in that house must be like. After about a half hour of this (forget about trying to read), I was ready to go stand outside in the freezing cold to wait for my damned car.

Finally, FINALLY, the Service Guy appeared in the door to the waiting room and announced, “Mr. So and So?”

I got up from my seat juggling the book, the green marshmallow with arms, and my briefcase as I walked across the room to meet him outside the door of the waiting room. It was not unlike a scene in a hospital when the surgeon appears in the waiting room to give the family the lowdown on the surgery of a family member. I recall hoping that he was not about to tell me that they discovered a bad fraznotwidget in my car, which would require their keeping the car for a few days.

Luckily, everything was OK, although the Service Guy told me that they would be ordering a new door handle to replace my “sticky” one. Although I felt door-handle-story vindicated, I really didn’t pay much attention to the Service Guy, as I just wanted out of there. By comparison, continuing on to work would be like a walk in the park.

I hopped into my big, fat, capitalist car and savored the comfortable seat and the solitude. The newly oiled engine purred, and off to work I went.

Oh, yeah. I forgot something. The lady who sat next to me? You know, the repeater and hummer? She smelled like pee.

I really don’t want to think about that.