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45554_aafd8ed98befa3d1ec68fc8a4ba7efa6_0504103a098d70298fa7446ce398b2a0Armenian Hostage Crisis (Part 4)

My money-sucking car issues have landed me, in a circuitous sort of way, on Skid Row.

Literally “on” Skid Row.

Turns out Skid Row and the Los Angeles Greyhound Bus Station share the same zip code and, unfortunately, I’m becoming all too familiar with the Greyhound bus station these days.

This time, my second sortie there in six weeks involved an unplanned stroll through the aforementioned world-renowned homeless enclave.

To back up a moment: after 81 days at my mechanic’s auto shop waiting for a new engine, my Volvo was up and running again, bestowed a second lease on life.

Or so it seemed. That lease turned out to be short term–a total of four days to be exact.
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Broken_CarPart 1
“God save the queen,” my friend shouts, driving off in his Jaguar, leaving me at the Greyhound Bus station in a rather seedy part of downtown Los Angeles.

Very funny. I get the joke. I won a costume contest 20 years ago dressed as Queen Elizabeth, a fact my Jag-driving friend finds extraordinarily funny, and references frequently.

But there’s a double meaning to his queen quip. He’s known me a long time, since the days when I had some money and spent like I had a lot of money. The days when I wouldn’t have dreamed of going the cheapest route, unless it was also the fastest and sexiest route.

And now, in a very different time and place, he was dropping me off at a Greyhound Bus Terminal. Why? Because it was the cheaper of my two options. It was by no means the sexiest option. In fact, “Greyhound Bus Terminal” and “sexy” may be the most polar opposite concepts known to man.

The reason I’m at this Greyhound station epitomizes my riches-to-rags story . Thank you in advance for allowing me to stretch way beyond the definition of both “riches” and “rags”. I’m trying to illustrate a point here.

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A Honey Pot Runneth Over

Posted: February 14, 2014 in McTrip posts, Uncategorized

pooh_pot
Part 2
When I agreed to a long weekend of ice fishing in Northern Minnesota, at a remote cabin with no running water or electricity, I anticipated peculiar things might happen. A urine shower while I slept was not one of them.

Thankfully, that only almost happened. My suitcase was the nearest potential victim, about five feet away from the drip site, but even it made it out, um, undrenched. Still, that’s a little too close for comfort, for both my head and my suitcase.

And now, I suppose you want to know why this near-miss happened in the first place. Demanding reader, you!

Three of the seven of us on this ice fishing trip slept in the cabin’s loft. Because there was no electricity and therefore no lighting, navigating a ladder in the middle of the night to go outside and urinate is rather tricky.

So, seasoned woodsmen (which apparently I am now one) resort to using large urns as urinals. My sophisticated and debonair host refers to them as honey pots, I suppose as an attempt to juxtapose something nice sounding with something really disgusting.

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