I got a kick out of the people you decribe as driving short distances they could (and probably should) walk. I used to live on the side of a bluff overlooking the Missouri River. Our best friends built their house downslope next door to us on our left; we were close enough we shared an entrance to our driveways. They then built a new house behind us on top of the bluff. Our backyards joined and the houses were only 270 feet apart but it was a steep climb through heavy brush in my upper backyard. Because their house now faced a different street, we drove the equivalent of nine city blocks to visit “next door”.

I can imagine your nerves, driving Mary Anne to the dealer. I have a phobia about stalling in heavy traffic — based on experiences. When I was a kid I went with my mother to pick up our brand new 1959 Plymouth Fury. One mile from the dealership, with just nine miles on the speedometer, the car broke down in front of the driveway of Omaha’s main fire station. A couple of years later I was driving a dear friend’s year-old Rolls Royce. While running an errand in a store, a snall crowd of admirers gathered around the jet black RR in the parking lot. I was very smug as I walked up, unlocked the door and got in. The damn thing wouldn’t start. (In those days, a very polite and proper Brit in a black suit and black derby arrived from England 30 hours later to make the repairs.) A few years later, when I was fortunate to be able to trade cars every fall, I biught my second-straight big, comfortable Buick Electra. A week later we drove from Omaha to Los Angeles for a college football game and back without a bit of trouble. Back in Omaha, however, whenever it was driven for 20-30 minutes it would not start again for anywhere from 30 minutes to several hours. It took the dealer months of fixes to finally find the real problem.

The worse experience happened one December, when Omaha went 20 some days when the high temperature never got above 20 below. I don’t know whether the cold was a factor or whether it was just a lemon part. I had a six-month-old Cadillac Seville (and I mention that only because it added so much to my embarrassment). Anyway, my generator went bad and I was enroute to my regular mechanic when I started losing power to accessories. I shut down everything but it was too late and the car stopped cold on a main drag, right in the middle of the turn lane into a busy McDonald’s. It was 5 p.m., just as working moms started heading to the McDonald’s drive-thru to pick-up “dinner”. People don’t expect to see a new Caddy break down and other drivers were honking like hell. I got out and hid in a nearby donut shop until a friend could pick me up.

Everyone of those mishaps took place in a fairly new car and you can imagine my phobia now that I’ve fallen on “less fortunate” times and am driving a car nearing “antique” status.

Well, I’m sure all of this has been totally boring for all of you, but it sure felt good to talk trivia instead of bitching about James Earl Carter’s latest treasonous ego trip at the U.N.

I never really listened to the words of that song before (DYK The Way To SJ) but did recently. It is such a slam on LA! It’s topical and dated, at the same time. I love the reference to getting a car for $100 (it was the 1960s, remember). I also love the reference to San Jose having “lots of space” – hah hah, were things different back then

And by the way, Dan…

“my car, Mary Anne II (named for the great George Eliot)”

That is the gayest thing I’ve ever heard.

Eric in Hollywood