phosfate

I have figured out that Mechanic Matt, God bless him, just isn't a people person. So I rang him at 3:00 to ask if there was any progress on whether he could FIX MY GODDAMN CAR EVER? (I didn't say that.) Apparently when the timing belt snapped, it dented a...tube thing. Valve? Valve. I think. So it's fixable.

Which is good, because I was actually quite close to losing my shit at the thought of having to shop for a car.

Where's my car, Matt? I want my car, Matt. Car. Car. Car. CAR! CAR! CAR! CAR!

Called Mechanic Matt. They found my car parts. "We're gonna start on it this afternoon. So in the next day or so..."

Mechanic Matt, in the grand Midwestern tradition, does not finish sentences. I'm hoping this means it's because his brain is all full up with car knowledgement. So in the next day or so, elephants will be in the park across the street. In the next day or so, I'm leaving for Arizona. In the next day or so, the saucers are landing.

(One of my co-workers somehow speaks without beginning sentences. "...in the storeroom." Asking for clarification does not help. "I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you over the thing I'm making up as an excuse. Could you repeat that?" gets you a slightly louder "...in the storeroom." "Oh.")

The local busses, by the way, now have a vending system that gives paper change. You give the busbot two singles, and it ejects a paper card good for 25 cents on your next ride. It also has a Suicide Booth computer voice that announces when the bus passes a time point: "Thirty-third and L streets. You are now dead. Printing receipt."

Crown for broken tooth = $700
Plane ticket for mediaWest = $350
Timing belt, etc. for car after it suddenly expired in the middle of 48th Street = $500

I'll be under my desk.



Also happy late birthday Dr Tectonic.