the art of removing an abandoned car warning

Perhaps the policeman thought it was funny, the bright orange sticker that clashed horribly with the bad paint job. It certainly couldn’t be overlooked. Or ignored. We had to get the Little Ole Lady legal again or be embarrassingly impounded. I limped the car to the courthouse, my dad supervising because I had no idea what to do.

I remember last winter—I paced my kitchen, repeatedly looking out the window waiting for my car to revive from its coma, much like a relative on hospital vigil. It was buried under 6 feet of snow for almost two years straight while I was on my mission, and no one knew if it would ever run again.

Eureka! Two days later my brother-in-law, B, took a look, and it was (amazingly) alive. It was freezer burnt looking, the tires were split open (not flat, split), the tank still had the same gas that it had for two years, and it was alive.

And now, I had to give it some mandatory TLC—and renew registration.

Driving it today brought back some memories--like how my brother refused to drive it for fear of an explosion on the freeway. Or how it never had shocks, struts, or a muffler (floats like a butterfly, buzzes like a bee). Or how someone skinned a grey teddy bear and pinned the fur to its ceiling.

Or how I could never officially decide what name to call it--Mongoose Molly? Or The Little Old Lady from Pasadena?

I must declare: my car does not embarrass me. I can drive these mountain roads alongside the new Corvettes and Cameros, Dodge Hemys and Yukons, and I just don't care. Even with the offensive orange sticker, my granny car has a bit of coolness that comes from time. And now it's legally not an abandoned vehicle. (Thanks to my dad, of course, who taught me how to attempt haggling with the courthouse car lady. P. S. I don't think they haggle.)

Of course, I'm giving the car to my parents (for my brother when he returns home) and trading up for a '91 Buick, but I think I might have just given my heart away...

the art of smash brothers

“Glub. Glub. Glub,” says Kirby as he defies gravity to the platform. As I walk past a Smash Brothers competition between K, S and B, one hands me the controller.

“How do I do this?!?” I ask, feeling slightly alarmed. I’m not one to play video games. I crouch down on the floor.

Final countdown, three, two…

“Ready? Start!” S shouts. “You guys are dead…” He expertly moves his character to a position with better advantage.

“What do I do? What do I do?” I try to grab K’s attention by waving my controller in her face. I do NOT know how to do this.

“Hit up; Kirby goes up.”

So, I hit up. Glub, glub, glub. It was like magic. Laborious, slow magic. “What next?” I ask. I start to feel pitiful and desperate.

“Button A punches. B eats people,” she’s concentrating on the t.v. screen as S attacks her.

Why do I get the fat, pudgy ball that doesn’t float? I wonder. Characters jump from one platform to another shooting and kicking each other. I start feverishly hitting A and B.

“Ahh!!” K screams at me. “You ate me!”
“How did I do that?!” I shout back.

ABBABBABBBBAB

“You pushed B!”
“He now has blue hair…” I notice.
“You took my power!” K accuses.
“So what? What does blue hair do?”

She doesn’t answer.

I notice she is occupied again as S tries to kill her. Suddenly someone else is upon me. I freak out, laughing, and glub glub my way up to the next platform. I discover I’m left alone as I wait for someone to attack me. I fall off the platform and arduously float to a hiding place. I notice I’m ranked the highest at the same time everyone else does.

“GET HER!!” someone screeches.
“Oh, no! I can’t do this!” I frantically hit buttons. I’m filled with dread, even as I laugh hysterically. What if they get me?

“I can’t believe she’s winning! I’m already dead…” B says behind my back.
The door bell rings, and in walks visitors. Saved by the door bell! I hand my controller to B.
“She kicked our butts!” K calls as I walk out.

Good luck, Pink Thingy.
ABBABBABAB
and out.

art of buried treasure

Low tide.
I met the ocean in a brief hello,
as the water washed my feet cold.

Behind me,
black shell fragments and broken glass littered the sand.
"The trick is to look at the shapes," she said.

We wandered
through waiting pools that high tide left
and in the rivulets
running to reunite with the rising surf,
to pour into their lover's arms.

Sea glass,
rolled between sand and water,
edges rubbed smooth...
cracked bottles into glass-
and glass, to treasure
offered on ocean's alter.