When we moved back downtown, we got rid of Gordo the tweed Tercel and joined an auto cooperative. It has been fabulous; we reserve a car when we need one, drive it, fill it with gas if necessary (the cost of the gas comes off your monthly bill) and put it back where we found it. Then we brush our hands off on our pants and smirk. With the exception of our trip to America, where we ended up with a car so filthy I couldn’t see out the back window and which housed a CD player so evil that it ate our copy of The Darkness: Permission to Land, (I risk redundancy when I mention that said consumption is beyond travesty) our experience with car sharing has been very good. Go. Join a co-op today!
Most of the vehicles in the co-op are mid-size, 4-door, gas-efficient beasties. I only joke about the beige Mazda Protege being my limousine because I LOVE the beige Mazda Protege. All of them! I LOVE them! All the knobs are where you expect them to be, the windows go down when you turn the handle, the gas costs very little. But a few months ago, the co-op acquired a “Vanilla Mini Cooper” (note how “beige” has been re-framed here) and it has been booked solid like a rock up in your living room window ever since. I never expected to drive it. I was OK with that. Then, this morning, I did an early shift at my volunteer job and the closest car available was the Mini.
Exciting, right? Sexy little car. The Italian Job. Vroom. Vrooooom. I will heist things! And be windblown! And maybe Marky Mark will be there when I get there!
Major Malfunctionitis of the Mini: A list.
1. It’s shorter than me. I don’t like this quality in men and I don’t like it in cars. (meOW!) I was missing a good 2 inches of windshield. Sure, adjust the seat, you say. I’ll get to that.
1a. It looks like an M&M and this just reminded me of how disappointed I am in M&Ms.
1b. Marky Mark wasn’t there when I got there.
2. Directly above the steering wheel is a small, round display. About the size of a small pie. The pie tells you two things: how many RevsPerMinute you’re getting and the temperature inside the car. Fascinating stuff for right in front of your face while you drive, no?
3. Now above the stereo, (which is where it’s supposed to be: in the middle of the dashboard) there is another pie-sized display. This one is large. County-fair sized pie. And this useful pie tells you how fast you’re going (to my mind, more important information than the RsPM. I speed. Don’t you speed? Don’t you look at the speedometer every 2 seconds to make sure you’re not super-speeding? Isn’t that why it’s called a speedometer?) and, if you look real close it also tells you the engine’s temperature and how much gas you’ve got. Don’t try to look while you’re driving, though, har dee har, because then you will have to turn your head and you will drive into something. And then you will die because the car is not big enough to protect you. (see 1.)
3a. From this information I surmise that the experience of the driver is more important than the performance of the vehicle. Your temperature, as a driver, is front and centre to you. The car’s temperature is over there. Your Revs (a sure sign of virility) are displayed for you like a peacock’s plumage. The car’s speed is over there. Who cares. As long as you’re comfortable.
4. The window control is on the console in front of the gear shift. The seat adjustment knobby is where you (OK – I) would expect the window control to be. Surprise! And – Ow!
5. The gear shift looks like a traditional stick, with a dumb button to depress on the front of the stick to switch gears, but of course it only does “park,” “drive,” “reverse” and “neutral.” Which is LAME. I knew before I got in the car that it had an automatic transmission but I still had a gut-reaction to the fakey automatic stick shift. I think this is a waste of energy. (the automatic; not my gut-reaction. my gut reaction is warranted and valid.) If you’re going to make people drive automatic cars, stick with the Vanilla Mazda Protege.
6. They appear to have forgotten to put shocks in the vehicle. I hope those boys and girls in The Italian Job were fairly compensated for all that speedy driving because I felt every cigarette butt and dead squirrel on the Cambie St. bridge and I was only going 80 km/h.
I think. I couldn’t really see the numbers so well.
To sum up: It was like being inside one of those stereos, the very shiny and fleh kind that costs $99.99 and you just know is going to devour your favourite Bon Jovi tape and short circuit if you put the volume up past 7. You know, the ones with the blue lights that light up with the bass and the red lights that blinker with the treble and the clear front on the CD player so you can get real stoned and stare at it spinning and go “whoah” a lot? There’s your Mini Fucking Cooper for $35K. Enjoy.
On the bright side, the car AND a street kid sleeping on a mattress both fit in the parking stall at the same time. Bet you can’t do that with any other car. (don’t get me started on that Smart Car. Does that thing wind up or what?)
I got a new lipgloss today. It’s called “Sizzle.” And speaking of sizzle:
Me: Hey, Toronto has declared an Extreme Heat Emergency. Where’s Mel Lastman? Is Evan Solomon okay?
SA: Whoah. Let’s not go to Toronto.
beat
SA: Damn.
Me: Mm hm.
Yes, boys and girls, next week we will again away to the wilds of SOONT. Today I purchased the shirt that will go with the skirt that goes with the shoes that are yellow and such a pain in the ass to accompany. Winners has been torturing me with their, “can’t wait in our 18 hour line-up for fitting rooms? Take the merchandise HOME and try it on!” policy. I’ve been to Winners twice in the past week. I don’t feel like a winner. On the hanger: cute! On me: cutting-room-floor-footage from the Canadian version of Desperate Housewives. Yessir. Lots of floral out there, mind the pollen.
Peace Out.
Read about Pat O’Brien.