It wouldn't be appropriate to change lifestyles dramatically without some sort of harrowing quest. Fortunately, getting a car from a guy in California turned out to be a lot more exciting and time-consuming than I had planned.

On monday, I took an Amtrak train headed towards San Francisco. It took 23 hours to get there. On the way down, I sat next to a Japanese guy who kept falling asleep and snuggling up to me. We passed through snowy mountains and sprawling wheat-coated plains. I ran out of CD batteries twice.

When you eat on the train, you eat with four people at the table. It doesn't matter if you're traveling alone, you get three dinner companions whether you wanted them or not. My meal companions were a very young Filipino boy and his elderly caretaker, and one of those guys that look like Kenny Rogers. They were pleasant enough, even attempting to include me in their small talk/conversation. They discussed other train rides they've had. It seems to be a hobby among the elderly.

Kids on trains like running up and down the aisle at full speed, shrieking. Especially when I appear to be sleeping! I am being unfairly critical of their intentions, though. Kids probably like running and shrieking at all times.

Tuesday morning I arrived in San Francisco and was late meeting the car seller. He's a busy guy, restaurant manager for Teatro Zinzanni. I checked out the car, rode around in it a little, and made the guy an offer of $1000 less than the asking price (which was quite high, for a private seller). He accepted it on the spot. Then I spent a lot of time hanging around the Teatro Zinzanni business offices while we tried to get our banks to talk to each other (and the other parties apparently involved). It turned out I would NOT be able to drive the car away that afternoon as previously planned by me. I would have to find shelter for the night. Fortunately, Ed has a house sort of nearby, so I stayed there, watched Ed get speeding tickets, and watched "The Croupier".

Wednesday, I took Caltrain up to San Francisco from San Jose. I wandered around the ghetto-y place it drops you off, encountering lots of IBM Linux Graffiti on the street corners. I made my way up to Market St. and the F-train. (Along the way, I discovered that you can not buy a cell phone charger at the Metreon, despite it being the most fucking futuristic mall on earth.) Then I was at Teatro Zinzanni again, and suddenly I had a car. I immediately got lost in SF's twisty maze of roads.

The car is awesome. Well, perhaps "awesome" isn't the right word (it rarely is). The car is very appropriate for me. If I were a car, I would probably be something like it. Practical, but impractical. It's a station wagon, but it's got 17" alloy wheels with Pirelli P-Zero racing tires. It has a huge cargo bay, and you can fold the rear seats down flat, to fit an entire futon frame in it, intact. It has a high-pressure turbo and advanced engine controller which will allow 7 second bursts of 240 HP (not coincidentally, it goes from 0-60 in about 7 seconds). It is rev. limited to 150 mph, though I only had the courage to take it up to around 125 on a long, empty straightaway somewhere in the desert. It's one of those black 1997 Volvo 850 R wagons.

Thursday, I started the drive back up. I stopped in Chico, California, which is a tiny little place apparently composed of a burger king, a chevron, and a subway sandwich place. It made me wonder if the people working at the subway lived nearby, and if their entire existence consisted of eating burgers and subs and hanging out at the gas station. The sub was the blandest thing I had eaten in weeks.

Drove and drove. Next stop, a couple hundred miles down the road: "Weed". Weed was a bunch of gas stations and burger king type food places. An interesting thing about long road trips up a large interstate: You keep seeing the same cars, and eventually start recognizing them. One of the cars stopped at the Weed Chevron was the huge SUV with Alaska plates which seemed to be going to Seattle with me, if not farther. Incidentally, SUV owners seem to be unusually selfish drivers.

2 hours later, I stopped in Grants Pass, Oregon. By now it was dark, and I was starting to get stupider. I ate at a Denny's, which seemed to be completely filled with people traveling from SF (and my server made a remark to this effect). Grants Pass is one of the places where my car changed hands in the past, so I thought I'd check it out. It's a medium city, with lots of truck traffic.

Speaking of truck traffic, around now is when I started driving through winding mountain roads with huge semis all around me. This wasn't so bad during the day, but at night, in heavy rainstorms, on winding cliff side roads, getting caught in the splash-wake of 18-wheelers, hydroplaning at 80 miles an hour, it was the worst and most scary part of my trip. I also discover, around now, that my anti lock brakes are indeed functioning correctly.

Semi drivers are pretty polite, and they do things methodically and unsurprisingly. This is good, because they'd be extremely hazardous otherwise. For instance, when they change lanes, they put on their blinkers, do their lane changing, and when they're done maneuvering, they blink all their lights once. Every single one had this routine.

After grants pass, I tell myself I'm not stopping until Portland. It will be close, gas-wise. My trip computer says I have 100 miles more gas than required to get there. That's 4 gallons. I start worrying that my steering is going, and my brakes start feeling mushy and weird. I become paranoid that my car is falling apart. Then I tell myself that I've been driving for 11 hours and I'm probably just tired and stupid.

When I get to Portland, I get totally lost right away. I wander around parts of the city I'd never seen during my brief tenancy, finally directed to the downtown area by a midnight flag-waving lady with one arm. I pull into the gas station just as the fuel light comes on. The attendant comes out (it's full-serve) and I become paranoid that he's not an employee of the station, but an impersonator who will steal my car. I remind myself once again that I am stupid, open the gas cap, and run for the restroom.

Final 200 mile run to Seattle: fairly boring. I'm convinced that I'm hallucinating the steering mushiness and wobbling, and trying very hard to keep my speed under 80. It is around 4 am and I'm starting to run into a little bit more traffic. Finally I round the bend and see the Seattle skyline. It is beautiful.

As I pull into my driveway, the trip computer mile counter clicks over to 850 (cute!). I've made it from San Jose to Seattle without a scratch on the car. I have to enter the garage by key and open it manually, since I've never had a remote. I spend 20 minutes trying to maneuver into the tiny parking space I've been allocated. At maddeningly low speed, I knock against a metal pole next to my parking space, doing $1200 of damage to the left side of my car. I stop the car and go into the house, trying to compose a note to explain to my neighbors why I left my car in the middle of the garage.

TO MAKE CAR MOVE NOW: CALL APT. 1A - TOO PISSED OFF TO THINK

I take my backpack and other things out of the car, up to my apartment, then I go back down into the garage to get the computer I brought up for my boss' boss. As the door closes behind me, I realize that I have locked myself out of my house without my wallet. I haven't washed my hair or slept in a bed since Sunday night. It's 5 am on Friday. If it were possible to give up, I would have at this point.

I decide to get in my car and leave the garage. After slowly driving around my block twice, I realize that I have an enormous amount of money in my coat pocket, in the form of Susan B Anthony and Sacajawea dollars (change from a $20 bill in the caltrain ticket machine). I park in the pay lot across the street from my house and take the computer with me to my front door. I put it down on the stone bench and dial the manager's house. Fast busy, meaning improperly programmed door thing. I happen to know the next door building has the same manager, so I walk over and dial him there. His answering machine picks up, and I leave a message:

"Hello Dave - this is Andrew. I locked myself out of my house, and I guess I'm supposed to call you when that happens. You're not there, so I guess I'm sleeping outside. See you tomorrow!"

I walk back to my front door and the computer is gone.

I notice a man wearing a backpack and carrying something walking briskly away, he is the only person close enough to have acted on the machine. I follow. At this point, I don't know what I'm going to do when I catch up to this guy, because I'm really not thinking at all.

I get close enough to see that he is holding the arm part of a swing arm lamp, and his backpack is not big enough to hold a sparcstation2. I stop following him and run back to my apartment. Since I've got nothing better to do for several hours, I search the area. I find the computer and external drive hidden in the bushes. I guess he hid them there for later retrieval.

"If only I were in my house," I thought, "I could sleep in a bed and become levelheaded and probably deal with this shit."

I made the decision to punch random keys on the door computer until a neighbor answered. I finally got a tired sounding fellow in 2A.

"Hello, this is your next door neighbor. I have foolishly locked myself out of my house. Will you please buzz me in?"

"Sure!" said the suddenly cheerful voice on the other end. Bzzt. I'm back home. I had left unit's door open because I was carrying stuff. I fall into bed and into the sleep of the used-up. It is 6 am.

At 7:30am I wake up because my loan officer at the credit union needs a signature from me, as soon as possible. I am a little bit out of it during whatever I did there. Then I travel to Ravenna Volvo for damage assessment and scheduling service. $1200. Some people make $5 mistakes when they're tired. The key mark on the back? $1200 to fix. Scratched front spoiler? $1200. I don't think it matters what you get fixed, it seems to always be $1200. Oh yeah, and I need 3 new tires. One reason why the steering might have been a little funny.

I discover that I haven't budgeted for sales tax on the car.

I know where my tax return is going now!

Puh Time for some aimless guitar wanking god dammit (502K mp3)