Category: cars

Thursday’s Theme Music

This is a twofer Thursday post, featuring a dream and a song, because this song started in my dreamstream.

It was a turbulent stream, with multiple vignettes and one-act plays. I think the music made this one memorable.

“Conquistador” began playing in the dream. Hearing it, I said, “Hey, I know this song. “Conquistador”. Procol Harum.” After remembering hearing the song’s live version in high school in the early seventies, and talking to my friend, Bob, about it (in the hall in front of the art classroom, by my locker, where he was talking overly loudly and enthusiastic, trying to catch some girl’s attention), I thought about other Procol Harum music I know and wondered where the music was coming from. I couldn’t identify its source.

All that was backdream. I was in my most recurring dreamscape, which is dark green, slightly rolling hills. I seem to know or I remember such hills most often out of dreams. Accompanied by several friends, we were admiring two exotic hyper cars, a Lamborghini and Ferrari, that belonged to others, and discussing their styling, price, and performance capabilities.

My friends were envious, but I said, “Yes, but my car is faster than either of them, and costs more.”

They were skeptical. So was I. I thought my ride would be there by now. As it wasn’t, I didn’t think my ride was going to arrive, and was becoming anxious.

“Conquistador” ended, and my ride arrived, a stunning silver Aston Martin. “Wow,” I said, along with my friends. “Wow.” I never believed it would arrive.

Then, it was just there.

 

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Brace Yourself

Brace yourself. It’s time for another first world rant. This time it’s about my car.

It’s a lovely SUV, a Mazda CX-5 that I’ve had three plus years. One of its many features is that it reminds me when maintenance is required. This vehicle requires more maintenance than any car I’ve ever owned, which includes Porsches, BMWs, Audis, Mercedes, Chevys, Nissan, other Mazdas, and Fords. Although the car is comfortable and reliable, this constant maintenance thing pisses me off.

So that’s number one. But here comes the reminder. Once it decides that maintenance is required, the message in orange is displayed whenever the car is started.

Here is what pisses me off. That thing is so inaccurate. The good Mazda people put a little sticker on the windshield, too, so I know exactly when it’s supposed to be returned for maintenance. According to it, my car should go back for maintenance by January 10, 2019, or by 33,000 miles, whichever is comes first.

My car has 30,000 miles. According to MY calendar, it’s not yet December, let alone January of 2019.

Yeah, it’s a nice feature. Too bad it doesn’t work. Makes you wonder about the rest, doesn’t it?

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A Weird Dream

My wife didn’t act like herself in this dream last night. Two things were most odd.

We were traveling and in a huge building. I wasn’t certain what the building was. Sometimes in the dream, I thought it was an airport terminal, but other times, I believed it was a mall, or an indoor military base. There were signs that it could have been any of those.

Whatever it was, the place was well-lit, clean, and modern. Wide halls with thick, white pillars dominated, with alcoves and shorter, narrower hallways off to either side. Wanting something to eat, my wife and I found some fake chicken (my wife is a vegetarian). It was in a green box. Acquiring it was only half of the problem, because we needed somewhere to cook it. We needed a microwave. I thought we could find one in a break room or snack bar, so we began searching.

But, for some reason, I opened the green box, laid out the fake chicken nuggets, and then attempted to eat one of the frozen, uncooked pieces. Repulsed, I spat it out in my hand and put it back on the back plate (where there were two rows of six pieces).

While that was going on, my wife took off. I didn’t know where she was, requiring me to look for her. I was carrying around the tray of fake chicken parts while I looked for her. There weren’t many other people in this dream, so I found it quickly and hastened to catch up. I reminded her that  we needed to cook the fake chicken parts. She seemed distracted, and after some back-and-forth, she told me she was looking for a car so we could drive somewhere.

We found a car and a microwave at the same time, but she went for the car. While she drives, when we’re together, I’m the primary driver. In this dream, though, she jumped in the driver’s seat. I think the car was a newer silver American sedan, like a Ford Fusion. We drove a short distance through the building, and then she stopped the car and left it.

Confused, I was asking her, “What are you doing? We can’t just leave the car here.”

She ignored me, proceeding to ramble around the aisles and alcoves. I followed, trying to make sense of what she was doing.

Dream ended.

I’m just not in control, am I?

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Another Car Dream

It was the second part of the dream, begun as I was exiting the first part. Walking across rich, deep green grass of a valley floor, with roads on the hillside above me, I met an elderly white woman. She said, “I have an opportunity for you.”

“Hang on,” I said. I briefly returned to the first part of my dream to tie up some loose ends, telling people, “This woman says she has an opportunity, so I need to go on,” and then resumed the second part.

The dream’s first part had left me satisfied and triumphant with the outcome. I had the sense that I’d made progress, and was continuing to progress, setting the stage for the second part. I was in a confident mood, meeting this woman. She said, “I’d like you to buy and drive exotic cars for me.”

I briefly thought she meant that she wanted me to be her driver, but she said, “I want you to thrash the cars, trash them. I want you to drive them without care and wreck them.”

I said, “You want me to wreck cars?”

“Yes, I want you to buy expensive cars like Ferraris and Aston Martins and drive them like you’re an average driver in an average car.” When she said this, I saw a red Ferrari go by on a hillside road above me. It was like she’d summoned the car.

Her suggestion that I was an average driver and that I’d wreck these cars when I drove them irritated me. “Why do you want me to do this?” I said.

“As a show.” While I thought, television, she said, “No, not like that dreadful Top Gear or those other ones. Buy these cars and live them in the real world and drive them hard. I’ll give you the money. You buy the cars and drive them.”

“And wreck them.”

“If that happens. I want to show what it’s really like having these cars and driving them.”

It was weird to me. I said, “I can imagine my friends’ reaction to this, when I say some lady wants me to buy expensive cars and drive them, and don’t worry about wrecking them.”

“What do you say?” she said.

“I have to think about it,” I said.

“Why? You’ll be paid to drive wonderful cars, without any concerns about what happens to them.”

“I know,” I said, “but it seems wrong.”

The dream ended.

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Priusville

It was like Priusville stopped at the traffic light today. Between the intersecting roads, almost every generation, model, and variation of Prius was represented, that I could see. I counted twelve, included a dark green first gen Prius that a local real estate agent uses.

Sprinkled among the Priuses in our little town were also a dark blue Tesla Model S and a silver Tesla 3, a Chevy Volt, and, directly beside me to my right, a bright blue Kia Soul plug in.

My Mazda CX-5 felt like a dinosaur.

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The Collusion of Confusion Dream

It was such a muddle, with an interesting cast of my wife and her family, including her late parents. One of her brothers-in-law were present, and a niece and nephew. Three dream aspects were most prominent.

  1. The dream took place in a huge rambling home cluttered with junk.
  2. I wanted to use the toilet but the filth, clutter, and lack of privacy prevented me.
  3. My deceased father-in-law made a startling confession.

Other things that were included is that it was on a place called the property (which was weedy and brown, with a few green bushes), and a young naked man had a cameo appearance, along with car salesmen, and a seven-year-old brat.

I’m in the middle of this, of course, but that’s the dream’s essence. I was in the middle of everything, and sought privacy to use a toilet. This house, never seen before in life, was an old place, circa 1940s, painted pale yellow and brown, with multiple floors. While I don’t recognize it, a tenet of the dream was that I was returning to the house to check its condition. My sister-in-law and her hubby were supposed to be taking care of it, but it was a disaster. They obliviously cackled and laughed when it was mentioned to them.

The house was well-lit with sunlight coming through multiple windows. Trying to get through the rooms was like walking in a junk yard. Old furniture, books, catalogs, tools, and appliances cluttered every available space, including the bathrooms and commodes.

My wife’s parents, sisters, brother-in-law, and I tiptoed about, looking and talking. We tiptoed because it was hard to get around things. We all appeared to be in our forties, including my wife’s parents. After some time, I needed to use a toilet. Finding the bottom floors useless, I went upstairs. Everyone followed me. I figured that if I could find a reasonably clean commode, I’d tidy it and use that. I found a bucket of water to help me flush. I considered using the bucket for my toilet if I couldn’t find one that would do the job.

The problem was, everyone kept following me. I couldn’t get the desired privacy.  As several simultaneous conversations went on, mostly about buying cars, and mostly about buying a BMW, I went up another flight, and perhaps one more, to the top floor. It was just as cluttered as the rest. A young naked white man and young woman (white, with brown hair, dressed in blue) were on the top floor. Appearing about twenty years old, they were strangers. I didn’t care; I only wanted a toilet.

Not to be. It was now, too, that the seven-year-old brat appeared. I have no idea who this white, bespectacled child was, but he was more of a nuisance than the rest.

My father-in-law, hands in pocket, made his confession. He said, roughly, “You need to be careful, or you’ll be swindled. I know, because it happened to me.” It was longer than that but that’s the gist. His confession embarrassed him, and we were struck by his honesty. After making his speech, he walked away, going back down the stairs. The naked man said, “That took a lot for him to say. If I were you, I’d never talk about it to anyone, out of respect for him.” We all agreed that was the case even as I wondered, who the hell is this guy? I questioned him, and he didn’t know my father-in-law. The young woman acted like a cheerleader for the man, laughing at everything he said. I wanted to know why they were there. Without giving reasons, he and the young woman left.

I resumed my toilet search. Finally locating one that might do, except it had only half walls, I told everyone, “You need to leave so I can use the toilet.” Some joking was made of this. My wife and the seven-year-old didn’t go, though. The child thought it was funny to pester me.

I grabbed him by the throat and told him, “I’m serious. If you don’t leave, I’ll kill you.”

He left.

My wife came in. I told her what I’d done. She thought it humorous but I was troubled. I asked her to leave so I could use the toilet. She told me that she wanted to use it after I finished, and urged me to hurry. She would stand outside the room with her back to it and keep everyone back so I’d have “privacy”.

Experimentally flushing the toilet, I found it worked. It flushed all manner of red, yellow, white, green, and blue beads and pebbles away. But the water, which was clear, kept running. I worried the toilet would overflow, and started to panic.

It didn’t overflow.

Relief flooded me. I completed my business and went downstairs. Someone asked me a question, roughly, about how to do locate a car and know its condition. I replied with a brief explanation about a device that could be used. A used car salesman stuck his head out a room and verified what I said, elaborating on it. I thought the elaboration was unnecessary.

My wife and I walked to the front door to leave. The dream ended.

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The Miracle Focus

Cars can surprise me. The Miracle Focus did. Gather ’round, o’ peers of the ‘net, and let me share the short tale.

We have two cars. One car ‘belongs’ to my wife, with the connotations attached that this is the car that she primary drives, and that I slip behind the wheel once in a while. This is a 2003 Ford Focus that we bought new that year. It was replacing the Nissan 200 that was my wife’s car then. Rear-ended, they declared the Nissan totaled.

Saying the Focus is my wife’s car implies the other car, the 2015 Mazda CX-5, is my car. That’s not true. My car was a 1993 Mazda RX-7 R1. I traded it in on the CX-5 at her behest in 2014. The Focus was then going to be traded in on a new sports car for me.

She reneged on the deal.

All that is beside the point, and just lengthens the story without adding to the plot, as did this sentence. The Focus has 105,000 miles on it, not bad for a fifteen-year-old vehicle. My wife drives it around town.

I take care of the maintenance.

I don’t do a good job.

Trying to make up for that, I took the Focus to an Oil Stop to have it’s oil changed, its fluids checked, air put in the tires, and so on. I did that last year, too, actually in January of 2017. It was supposed to be returned for maintenance somewhere in May of 2017.

That didn’t happen.

The maintenance this year, August, 2018, was well-overdue. I wasn’t too worried because no warning lights had come on, and only twenty-five hundred miles had been added since the last oil change.

When I took it into the same Oil-Stop as last year, they wiped out the dipstick and showed it to me. “It’s a little overfull,” the tech said.

That was surprising. I didn’t add oil to the car. No one else had, either. Oil Stop was the last place where anyone had added oil. As is their custom, once they changed the oil filter and put new oil in last year, they’d showed the dipstick to me to prove it was full. Now, a year later, it was overfull.

I was impressed. This car not only wasn’t using oil, but was apparently creating it.

That’s why it’s the miracle Focus.

That, plus I think it’ll be a miracle if my wife ever really does let me get rid of it.

Not that I’m bitter or anything. That would be petty. I’m just saying…

You know.

 

 

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A Soul-sucking Dream

I thought I’d made it through the dark tunnel once again. I endure the dark tunnel every month, a cycle of conspiracy between hormones, energy, genetics, and whatever else is in my frothy concoction of life. Last night’s dreams proved some tunnel remained to be traversed.

Bottom-lining one of the dreams without dwelling on details, I dreamed a younger self was being given an opportunity by a man named Rob. Just as he was celebrating that, another person came up with a better opportunity. That involved three positions (unspecified in the dream) but the potential was so exciting. I was pleased to be offered such an opportunity. The man offering it told me he had to make some calls, but that was just a formality. He’d get back to me, he said, and went off.

Meanwhile, I was working a job and doing a damn fine job of it – cleaning and detailing cars, a job I didn’t hate, but I was ready to move on. Off on the sidelines of my dream-life, I coped with a validation process. All males were required to be validated. We were given one inch cubes. They were different colors. A raised number signified the top. My number was four. My cube was green.

I stepped into line behind a few young boys. Another young boy was there. He didn’t know what to do. I told him I’d help him.

The process began. As we moved forward, a longer line formed behind us. The process involved us taking our cube up to a man in a lab coat. He put the cube on a reader, then he peered at something, made some annotations, and handed the cube back. He never said a word.

My turn arrived. Another man stepped out from the line’s middle, walked up to the lab man, and gave him his cube. “No,” I said. Marching up, I removed his cube and handed it to him. I pointed to the front of the line, and said, “That’s the order. We’ve all been waiting. It was my turn. You have to wait like the rest of us.”

I was seething, partly because the lab idiot running it hadn’t noticed or done anything about it.

Afterward, validated by lab-coat idiot, I took the boy out with me after he’d been validated, too. I told him, “We’re validated.” He didn’t understand what that meant, so I explained the word’s definition while admitting that I didn’t understand what it meant in this context. Then I found where he was to go and sent him on his way.

Afterward, I returned to another job I had. This was in a chaotic place. I decided to organize the processes. Part of this involved men pissing. They were pissing everywhere. I determined that if we pissed in one place, that piss could be collected and dumped, and everything would be a lot better. To that end, I found a small, square metal receptacle to be a pee-holder. Setting it up in a specific spot, I spread the word, piss here. As I caught others pissing elsewhere, I’d re-direct them to piss at the place I’d established.

When it was time for the piss receptor to be emptied, I discovered it’d been leaking. Piss was all over the dark carpet. This upset me, but I thought, I need to find a better location and receptacle. I was about to do so when the man who’d offered me the great position arrived.

“Walk with me,” he told me. “This way. Let’s get something to eat.” I told him that I’d just eaten but I agreed to walk with him.

We passed under an arch and arrived at an avenue. There he said, “I have some news for you.” I was optimistic and expecting to hear that I was due to start the new position, but hearing his tone and reading his face, I knew otherwise.

“It’s not happening, is it?” I said.

“No,” he said.

“Well, I guess I’ll go with the job Rob offered.”

The man gave me a silent look.

“What?” I said, but I knew the look.

“That dried up, too,” he said.

Heavy disappointment beset me. “I can’t believe this,” I said. “I don’t mind what I’m doing, but I was looking forward to doing more, to being more.”

“I know,” he said. “Sorry.”

He departed. I returned to polishing a car. I realized it was my father’s red 1969 Thunderbird. I’m not going anywhere, I thought.

The dream ended.

The dream depressed me (as all of last night’s dreams did). I woke up thinking, for whom does the bell tolls? It tolls for me, followed by a rant about facing facts about not having writing talent, being a miserable writer, etc., to the point that I encouraged myself to give up.

I know though, that I’m not the best judge of myself. I know that I can’t predict the fickle future. This is just some feeling sorry for myself bottom of the trash can crap. I can indulge in it, but I can’t let it guide me.

1

The Car Colors

Walking today, I passed a red car. My thoughts were drifting, and seeing the red car, I thought, I’ve never owned a red car.

Dad had owned a red Thunderbird. That began a stream of recollections about Dad’s cars. He’d owned a turquoise Thunderbird (with matching interior), a maroon Monte Carlo (also with matching interior), beige Corvette and a blue Corvette (guess what color their interiors were?), and a white Chevy Impala, along with a white Thunderbird. Both of the white cars had red interiors.

I thought, what an eclectic mix. But then I reviewed some of my car colors. I’d had a copper Camaro (black interior) and brown Firebird (with a tan interior), a green Mercedes (with matching interior), a white BMW (blue interior), silver Audi (gray interior), orange Porsche (brown and black interior), a silver RX-7 with a red interior, a blue RX-7 with a brown interior, and a black RX-7 with a black interior.

In each case, I’d not consciously decided on a color. It was more of a decision, this is the car for me.

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