I'm sure that 99% of you out there don't give a damn about this, but when one of your friends owns a comic shop, it can spell disaster for them. This sort of move, especially during the pre-holiday season, is the sort of thing that could put many independent comic/game shops out of business.

I found this news out from Chris, a friend that owns the comic shop that Janet and I frequent. It was in the same breath (ok, virtual breath because it was all done online) that he mentioned that he could use a beer. So, we decided to meet up at The Spigot at 8:30pm so we could drown our collective sorrows in pints of Spaten Oktoberfest beer.

Within minutes of arrival at the Spigot, Chris stopped licking his wounds and the conversation moved quickly into ribald stories of drinking, traveling and eating. As the conversation progressed, Janet mentioned that we had just come back from Boston, and I asked Chris if he had ever been to the Sunset Grill and Tap in Allston (a district of Boston) before.

Chris' friends who lived in Boston informed him that due to the way he carried on that night, the Sunset imposed a two yard per person limit.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: what a small freaking world.

I really didn't want a Scotch Ale, what I really wanted was a good Octoberfest Märzenbier, but since I didn't expect to see a Märzenbier on tap until late September, I made due with the Belhaven. Scotch Ales and Märzenbiers share a similar maltiness, but Scotch Ales are… well… ales, while Märzenbiers are lagers… and that difference meant everything to me that night.

I was two sips into my Belhaven when Janet pointed at the newly revised tap list… and there it was: Spaten Octoberfest. Aah, Spaten! The true king of beers and the master of the Märzenbier style! How could I have missed you on the list? I quickly downed the Scotch Ale in front of me and immediately moved onto the Spaten. From the first caramely sip, I knew that I was not only in heaven, but also in extreme danger that I would not be able to leave the bar seat by the time I had my fill.

But three pints of Märzen later, I was not only able to get up, but I was able to walk home and order delivery Mexican food from Coyote Flaco as well… now if I can only get them to start serving Bratwurst and Weisswurst, I'll never have to leave the bar again.

The Spigot has re-opened and is back in business. The reason cited for the closure? Vacation.

Of course, most businesses would tend to post signs or some other form of notification to passersby that the bar was closing for two full weeks, but the owner of The Spigot decided that it would simply make more sense to hide a 3×5 notecard on the mantle of the bar (in between the knicknacks and other miscellaneous crap) for a few days before they closed shop. Whatever… I'm in no mood to complain…. The Spigot is open again and I'm absolutely thrilled. Seriously.

So, the question is: why am I at home telling you about this instead of going back to the bar for another beer?

We pulled up to the bar a little before five and noticed that the parking lot was empty. Ok, it wasn't empty, there were three large trucks in the lot… and their signs stated that they were with a paving and driveway resurfacing company. I thought that it was a little odd, but paid it no attention. We pulled in, got out of the car and headed towards the front door.

Jim grabbed the handle to the outer glass door and attempted to open the door. Nope. It was locked. Then we noticed: the neon signs were all off and there was mail piled between the outer glass door and the inner door. This was not good.

Anyway, we went back to the apartment, I grabbed some beer from the fridge and we went outside to smoke some cigars and have a beer or two. At this point, I'm ready to write up a elegy for the Spigot, because in my mind, something major must be wrong… because bars just don't close without warning.

Jim, as he usually does, tried to be a voice of reason… but for every good explanation, I had a logical retort. If they had been closed by the Board of Health, Alcohol Board of Control or had been foreclosed upon, there would be visible legal notification. If the place had been a scene of a crime, there would have been police tape. Jim thought that maybe the owner went on vacation, but they have a staff of close to 10 people, so the owner being away shouldn't have stopped operations.

Regardless of the reason, the bar was closed… and there was no sign posted… nothing to let us regulars know what happened to the place, or when it would re-open. I consoled myself by thinking that maybe the afternoon bartender was sick and they couldn't find someone to fill in for him. Since Mondays are historically slow days for bars, this made sense, and I was sure that the bar would be open if I drove by after work on Tuesday.

Tuesday, 5pm: Closed. No sign posted.

Wednesday, 6:30pm: Closed. No sign posted, and a stack of Hartford Advocates (our weekly free newspaper) stacked at the door.

Thursday, 5pm: Closed. No sign posted but the newspapers removed.

Friday, 4:45pm: Closed. No sign in the window, no signs of life on the premises. I decide to call… no answer.

Saturday, 10pm: Closed. No sign posted.

It's now 5:30 on Sunday afternoon, and there was still no sign of life at The Spigot. The bar is dark, the phone goes unanswered and there is nothing letting passers-by know when it's going to reopen.

To quote Dr. McCoy from Star Trek: I think it's dead, Jim.

Ok… where to go for a drink after work. The Hartford Brewery? No… we would be too overdressed. The Bar With No Name? No… too empty (and even if it was full, it would be crowded with the sort of just-out-of-college-frat-boys that would just piss us off). Where is there a nice bar where we can have a drink before dinner?

We decided to go to the Civic Cafe. If you haven't read my Observation about the Civic Cafe, I'll summarize: Great food, interesting looking bar and horrible service. However, since we were only going there for a quick drink, we figured that it would be a safe bet.

We entered the empty restaurant (ok, there were three other patrons there) and seated ourselves at the bar. The bartender quickly came over and asked what we wanted to drink. Since we were in a high-class establishment, I figured that they would have well trained bartenders… so I asked what kind of rye whisky they had. I didn't ask this to be obnoxious or snobbish, it's just that the brand of rye would dictate the specific drink I would order. If they had Old Overholt, then I would get an Old Fashioned, as Old Overholt has a nice strong flavor that could cut through the sweetness of the muddled fruit. If they had Jim Beam Yellow Label, I would go for a Bittered Manhattan (that's a proper Manhattan with a few drops of Angotsura Bitters). Wild Turkey Rye would have gone fine with a splash of soda and a couple cubes of ice. If all else failed and the only rye they had available was Canadian (Canadian Whisky is made with a moderate amount of rye), I would simply order something else as I don't really like Canadian Whisky.

The bartender scratched his head and said "What's Rye Whisky? We have Jack Daniels…" Ok. This is a $25-30 per entree type of restaurant and the bartender doesn't even know what Rye Whisky is? I mean, come on here… it's one of the two liquors indigenous to America (the other being bourbon/sour mash whisky). Hell, lie to me and say that you just don't have any Rye… but please don't tell me you don't know what Rye Whisky is.

We decided to order two pints of Murphys Stout.

Well, we ordered pints, but what we got were these fru-fru 13oz pilsner glasses filled with Murphys. You know what kind of glasses I'm talking about… they're about a foot tall, skinny, and completely inappropriate for a stout, because of the head that develops when you pour the beer. The end result is that I got three or four mouthfuls of beer and two mouthfuls of foam. I downed mine and ordered another while Janet worked on her first one.

As we finished our beers (her first and my second), we started to discuss if we should get another round. We were on the fence when I decided to look at the bill. Holy crap! Four dollars each! Forget it, we were out of there. I extracted my credit card and put it down in front of my empty glass.

Time passes.

Time passes.

More time passes.

Five full minutes later, I ask the bartender at the other side of the bar if he could settle up the check. He slowly comes over, gets the credit card and goes to run it through the machine.

There are a number of morals to this story, but two come to mind:

1 – I will never wait more than 3 minutes for service at a bar. Ok, that's not completely true… I mean, if the bar is packed, I'll wait… but if it is empty, I expect attentive service. If I finish my drink and you haven't taken the order for my next round, I'm out of there.

2 – If a bar invests in getting good chefs, spend some money for a bartender who knows how to make more than martinis and vodka & tonics… and if you can attract a good bartender, make sure that you stock the bar with good liquor.

Second strike Civic, one more to go before you're on my gastronomic blacklist.

Oh, and if the maitre'd from the Civic ever reads this: listen, honey, there's a difference between wearing a slip-dress and just wearing a slip. You didn't look trendy, you looked trashy. If you can't afford to pull the look off, don't even try.

Pattaconk 1850 has legendary status at The Toronado, our old bar in San Francisco. One day, a person came into the bar with a Pattaconk shirt, which has the exact same logo as the Toronado. Ian, the bartender, immediately bought the shirt right off the back of the patron so he could further scrutinize the logo. Somehow, a bar in rural Connecticut had the same logo as one of the best beer bars in the country… and we all wanted to know what the hell was going on. Since we would be passing within a few miles of Pattaconk, we decided to stop in and scope this place out so we could make a report back to the bartenders at the Toronado.

Chester, CT is a small village in the middle nowhere, and is the exact definition of the word "quaint".. small little restaurants, well manicured lawns, and a pub (Pattaconk) in the middle of downtown. We found parking and walked in. The bar was a definite beer bar, with twenty taps and a number of bottled beers. We sat down, ordered up a couple of pints and looked the place over. It was a good looking place, lots of wood… a beautiful bar, and many regulars (or at least they seemed like regulars) milling around. We struck up a conversation with one of the bartenders and asked if they sold t-shirts. They did sell shirts, and the bartender escorted me to the dining room where there was a shirt display so I could choose the color. I picked a forest green shirt and proceeded to ask him about the logo. He told me that a friend of the owner was a graphic designer in San Diego and had done that logo originally for another bar in San Francisco and let him use it too. The mystery was finally solved. I told the bartender the name of the other bar that used the logo and went back to tell Janet that I had finally found the ending to the story of the duplicate logo.

We stayed long enough for me to have a second pint (Janet only had one because she was driving) and to ask the bartender about their Mug Club. Mug Clubs seem to be popular in Connecticut: you pay $25 a year or so, and "lease" a numbered beer stein. When you buy a beer, you get it in your own mug for a discount. Pattaconk's waiting list was over a year long, and if it was closer to Hartford, I would have put down a deposit for the next available glass.

After we left, we decided to go home, drop off our new t-shirts and head to The Spigot, since it was Jim's turn to be on this Saturday. We made it there a little after 10pm and proceeded to look for Jim. He wasn't behind the bar. Since we were there, we decided to grab a couple of beers. When the bartender (a nice guy whose name we eventually found out was TJ) brought the beers, we asked where Jim was.

The news wasn't good. Jim had been in a major car accident and broken his pelvis… then he started bleeding internally. Long story short, Jim is going to be out of commission for 10-12 weeks while he recovers. It was his second accident in less than a month… and now he is going to be bed-ridden for practically three months. The last time we talked to him, he was getting ready to go to his brother's wedding, and now he is recovering from surgery.

But now that I work in an area where there are no bars within walking distance, I figured that it just wouldn't happen now that I'm working in a more suburban environment.

But luckily, I was mistaken.

There is a core group of people at my office who understand that it's important to get out of the office on a regular basis to blow off steam, and the bar of choice is a local tavern called J. Timothy's. J. Timothy's is about 8 miles from the office (in the direction of my house), and every Wednesday for the last few weeks, we have made a point to get out there for Rocks and Wings night. The basic concept is for $16.95, you get 50 wings and five 7oz bottles of Rolling Rock in an ice-filled bucket.

Rolling Rock. Ick.

The last thing that I wanted to to was be a beer geek, but Rolling Rock and I don't get along very well… actually, the corn in the wort (that's the grains they make the beer out of) gives me a nasty hangover, so I would have to find something else. I was sure that they'd at least have Sam Adams or a local beer available at the bar, so I wasn't too concerned. However, when I walked in for the first time, I was in for a surprise.

Heaven. I was in beer heaven. J. Timothy's had three or four craft beers on tap (including Magic Hat #9) and a bottled beer selection that sent me into shock: Aventinus Doppelbock, one of my all time favorite beers; Anderson Valley Hop Ottin IPA and Poleeko Gold, my regular beers from San Francisco; Lindemans Peche, a fantastic peach beer from Belgium; Franziskaner Hefeweisen and Dunkel Hefeweisen, the best wheat beers ever made; the venerable Hoegaarden White, one of the two best Belgian White beers being made, as well as a number of other great domestic craft beers and hard to find imports. Great wings, fantastic company and a beer selection that rivals the best beer bars in San Francisco. The only drawback is that since I still have to drive another 12 miles to get home, I have to practice extreme temperance in my drinking… so I can only go through a couple of beers every time I go there.

Damn. I guess this means that I'll just have to become a regular there as well.

Welcome to Commuter Hell

We are not what you would call car people. The last time we owned a car was back in Slippery Rock, PA in the winter of 1991. It was a junker that we picked up for $500 to get us back and forth to school in the winter. By the early spring, we found out that the car's transmission was being held in by a block of wood. In the late spring, we sold the car to a used car dealer, made a couple of hundred dollars and decided that we got the better end of the deal.

I didn't even get my license until 1993.

Now, we live in a city where every family owns at least one car… and since most Hartford residents work in the surrounding towns, it's necessary. So, in preparation to moving to Hartford, Janet and I tasked my mother with the search for a car.

A few days after calling her, she had found us what seemed to be a perfect car, being sold by an upstanding car dealer with a good reputation in the community. $1500 later ($1000 for the car, $500 for needed body work), we were the proud owners of a 1993 Honda Civic DX.

That was early May. Fast forward to May 27, the day we picked the car up from the body shop… and the first time we ever saw the car.

First off, the car is a bit dented… which we found out is because it was stolen and found abandoned on the street by the police. It's missing the passenger side mirror… which isn't the biggest problem, because the passenger side door isn't the same color as the rest of the car (the car is navy, yet the door is charcoal). It's dirty, smelly, and the radio doesn't work. We were quite unhappy.

The 10 mile drive from the shop to the house was a nightmare. The car rattled, creaked and started to overheat. Janet (who was driving at the time) said that it felt like the car was going to stall at any moment. We made it back to the apartment and just sort of shook our heads in disbelief: we owned yet another junker.

It's now three weeks later and our perception of this plucky little Honda has changed. A fill-up with premium and some dry gas took care of the stalling and rattling problem… and a good dose of water and coolant took care of the overheating. Heck, even the door color isn't a problem because it helps me find the car in the parking lot to my office. Sure, the wheels need to be aligned and the radio needs to be replaced, but all in all, it's mechanically sound… and that's all that matters to me. Every day I put almost 50 miles on my Civic, and isn't really giving me any significant trouble… I just need to give it high-test and a give the radiator its weekly refill (no, it doesn't leak… we're still trying to figure this one out), and it rewards me by getting me to work on time.

I think I like owning a car.

But as essentially a first time driver, dealing with the other thousands of cars on the street is an interesting challenge. This chronicle will tell the story of the people, places and general annoyances involved with my time behind the wheel.

— Avery

7/4/99

Friday didn't start out being a bad day. The morning traffic into the office was light and I was able to accomplish a ton of stuff at work. So, when the option of leaving the office a little early was brought to my attention, I really felt like I had earned an early reprieve. All I had to do is stop off in Farmington for a quick meeting at 1:30 and then I was off to start my three-day weekend.

The drive from my office in Southington to the office in Farmington is a straight shot on I-84. It's about nine miles there, and then another seven miles from the Farmington office to home. I left Southington at 1:00 and made it to Farmington at about 1:15. The meeting ran until 3:00pm and I figured that I could be home by 3:30, all goes well.

I came out of the office driveway and headed towards the I-84 on ramp. One traffic light, a quick left turn and boom, I would be on the highway.

Well, the boom was right.

As I turned onto the on-ramp, I started to accelerate to highway speed. The Finneman Road on ramp is deceptive, because you start building up speed on a straightaway, but then there is a tight-radius turn to the right to actually get on the highway. It had just started drizzling a few minutes before I got into the car.

When I started to approach the turn, I noticed how sharp it was… so I took my foot off of the gas pedal in order to slow down. By the time I had to start turning the wheel for the turn, I felt like I needed to slow down even more, so I gently eased onto the brake and started the turn.

It was at that exact moment that the car decided to misbehave for the first time. The back of the car started to spin out. Damn that centrifugal force! I was heading towards the embankment.

Boom.

That boom was the sound of my 10-day-old car hitting a yellow and black right hand turn warning signs as I headed into a small, grassy ditch at the side of the on ramp. I checked myself… I was fine. I checked the situation… I was out of the line of traffic. I grabbed the cellphone and took a look at the car.

All the wheels seemed inflated, and there was nothing pressing into the tire wells, so I figured that the car was probably still driveable. Then I assessed the damage. The sign had slammed into the passenger side door, about 5 inches from my head, broke off and smacked the hood. The door was totalled and there was a nasty dent in the hood. Someone came by and asked if I was OK. I said that I was fine and that I thought the car was driveable.

I immediately got back into the car and turned the engine on. It turned over and the CD that was in the player came on. At least the car seemed to be in order. Then I called *SP for the state police to see if there was anything I needed to do. The officer asked if anyone was hurt, to which I responded that I had knocked over a sign. He asked for the location of the accident and told me to call the non-emergency number once I got home.

Then I called GEICO. After ten minutes of waiting on hold, they took my information and told me to go home and call from there. I put down the phone, took a deep breath, put the car in reverse to get out of the holes the wheels made in the dirt, turned the steering wheel to the left and threw it into 1st gear. I was back on the road and heading onto the highway.

By the time I got home, it was near 4pm. I called Janet to tell her that I was in an accident and that I was fine. Then I called the state police, where a sympathetic Officer Foley told me to come to the Hartford Barracks to file a report. Another call to GEICO to file the formal claim and get an appointment with the claims assessor and I was done with the critical worries. It was now time to take a look at the damage again.

The rear door was crushed. It still opened and shut, but it would have to be replaced. The bottom rocker panel was shot, and there would be some dents that would need to be pulled out. The car only had 400 miles on it and now it looked like it had gone through hell. I spent the next half-hour sitting on the porch trying to compose myself.

Janet made it home around 5pm and then we were off to meet with Officer Foley. We got in, waited in the waiting area for a few minutes, and an officer came out to talk to us. He presented me with two options:

1. He could issue me a ticket, start a formal investigation and charge me for the damaged sign
2. Since nobody was hurt, I could leave and the DOT would fix the sign

The officer explained that people take those signs out all of the time. I asked him if there would be anything wrong with taking option #2, and he told me that there is no problem. We left, figuring that we have just saved him an hour's worth of paperwork.

We meet with the adjustor on Saturday, and he estimated that we did about $2500 worth of damage to the car. When I explained what had happened, he told me that what probably happened is that the drizzling rain made the seeped-in oils on the highway leech out, making it like black ice. It was a freak convergence of a number of factors that caused the accident. I left feeling a little better, but still nervous to be in the car.

It's now Sunday afternoon. I'm still kicking myself in the ass for getting into the accident, but I'm happy that nobody was hurt and that the damage was relatively minimal. Still, my perfect little virginal car has been deflowered… and it will never be the same again.

At least I don't have to worry about the first scratch anymore.

6/23/99
If you haven't read yesterday's entry yet, let me summarize: the car is dead. On the way to work on Monday, it overheated. That afternoon, when I tried to turn on the car so I could drive it to the repair shop, it wouldn't even turn over. The alternator/generator light was on and the oil light was an angry red. It was done for. Kaput.

Ricky at Eddie's Evergreen had assured me that someone would look at the car Monday night, and would get back to me with a status of what was wrong with the car and how much it would cost to fix it. For some reason, I had a gnawing feeling that this was going to be yet another debacle… where the car would be in the shop for weeks and that even if the repairs went well, that the car was going to become a regular customer at Eddie's.

So, when I got home Monday afternoon, I started calling around to car dealerships to see what sort of financing I could get on a new car. The numbers looked good, so I knew that if the Civic was destined to be a problem child, we had options. Monday night came and I called Ricky. His response was that he was busy and wouldn't have a chance to look at it until Tuesday morning. I made a decision that if I didn't hear from Ricky by noon, that I would hit the car dealership on the way home.

Tuesday. Noon. No call from Ricky. A call to the service station gets me the following response from the maintainance desk: "We're swamped, but we'll get to it this afternoon" Ok. Does Avery smell the bullshit here? They sold me the car less than a month ago and now they're balking on fixing the car which is still under warranty? Something was seriously wrong with both the car and the people at Eddie's who sold it to me. No more negotiation… time to get a new car.

I had been researching cars on the internet, and decided to look at a Kia Sephia. The Sephia is a Korean interpretation of the Honda Civic, but with a larger engine, better warranty and a lower price tag… almost $4000 less than a similarly-equipped Civic (power steering, AC, automatic transmission, extended warranty, etc). The local Kia dealer was less than 10 miles from my office, so I called Joe, the salesman at Crowley Auto and made a 4:30 appointment.

3:30pm: Called Ricky, he said that he was busy and that he would call me back in five minutes.

3:55pm: Called Ricky again, asked why he didn't call me back. He informs me that Mike is working on the car and will have some information for me soon.

4:00pm: I'm in the car and on my way to Crowley. Enough is enough.

I arrived at the dealership on time, and Joe (the salesman) immediately had me in the driver seat of a Garnet Red 1999 Sephia. It felt just like the Civic, except for the fact that this car had its tires aligned and didn't smell like burning anti-freeze. A 5 mile test drive later, and I decided that I could see myself driving this car. For the heck of it, I also test drove the Kia Sportage, their entry level SUV, but the gas mileage and handling weren't what I was looking for.

5:30pm: While the paperwork was being processed, and I was on the way home to pick up Janet so she could test drive the car. But first, I needed to make one quick stop.

6:00pm: I arrive at Eddie's so I can get the registration and front plate off of the Civic. I pull in, expecting to see the car in one of the service bays. It isn't. It's still sitting where the tow truck had left it at 2pm on Monday. Fuming, I get the paperwork and spare plate out of the glove compartment (which is still sitting on the passenger side floor) and ask for Mike. Mike tells me that he's been busy and will get to it Wednesday morning.

7:00pm: Janet and I are back at Crowley, and Janet gets behind the wheel. No problems (though she has a little concern with the acceleration from a full stop when the A/C is on), and we tell Joe to finalize the credit application.

7:40pm: We're at the desk of Barry Savage, the credit officer to sign our life away and get our temporary registration.

8:00pm: With the paperwork complete, Joe takes us to see our brand new car… a 1999 Sport Blue/Grey Kia Sephia.

17 miles later, I'm pulling into the driveway, smiling. It was the right choice for the right price, and I couldn't be happier.

6/22/99
Car fall down, go boom.

When we last left off, I was quite content with both the explanation of why the car had been overheating. The car was running fine, and everything was good. At least, everything seemed to be going well.

On Saturday (6/19), we decided to make a trip up to the Great North Eastern Brewers Festival in Northampton, MA… which is about 48 miles North of Hartford. During the hour-long trip there, the car was running perfectly… the engine hummed and the thermostat needle never went above the mid-point. Everything seemed fine.

Fast forward three hours. Janet and I return to the car and start it up. The needle rises to the mid-point, but stays level. Since the needle tends to drop when it hits highway speeds, we weren't concerned and started off towards home. Somewhere near Springfield, a full 35 miles away from home, the needle rockets towards H. Oy. Either we pull off and let the bugger cool down, which will take a couple of hours… or we could keep on driving and risk damaging the car. We decided to take the third (and most uncomfortable) option: we cranked the heat so we could siphon some of the heat off of the engine and cool it down to a driveable level. The combination of driving at 65 MPH and blasting the heat was enough to keep the needle from hitting the H… though it did little to cool our tempers. We pulled into the house, killed the engine and popped the hood. Steam and hissing: the signs of general unhappiness eminated from the radiator, Janet and me.

Sunday morning we woke up and I puttered around with the radiator: I flushed the radiator, bled the air bubbles from the line and refilled the tank with the proper mix of coolant and water… and everything seemed to work fine. Janet piled into the car and we were off to run our weekend errands. By the time we made it two miles to the intersection of New Britain Ave and South Quaker, the needle was reaching for the H and white wisps of smoke started appearing from under the hood. We pulled into the parking lot behind Omni Comics and popped the hood. This was not good at all.

I decided to run into Omni to see if we had anything in our subscription box and while I was there, the store manager told me that the service shop at Pep Boys might be open. He gave me directions and I went back to the car to see if it would even start. It did, even though the engine was hot. Luck was with us and the needle stayed barely out of the red for the half-mile trek to Pep Boys. Their service station wasn't staffed for repair work since it was a Sunday, but I was able to pick up a Honda Civic repair guide… and we left for home to start diagnosing the problem.

With the help of the garden hose, the car cooled down quickly, and I was able to start going through the trouble-shooting checklist. I checked the fuses, and watched the car idle to see if the cooling fan kicked in. I pushed where I was supposed to push and I prodded where I was supposed to prod. The end result was that for a half of an hour, I waited for the car to start to overheat so I could figure out if it was the water pump or the thermostat, but the needle never rose beyond the midpoint. I decided to call Eddie's Evergreen Mobil Monday morning to get the car looked at.

When I left for work on Monday morning, the car was fine for the first 15 miles of the 17 mile drive. The needle hovered in the safe range, and all seemed fine. However, when I slowed down for some traffic, the needle went right into the red. I pulled in to witness steam pouring horribly out of the hood. Five minutes later, I was on the phone with Ricky at the service station, discussing the situation. He recommended that I get the car in as soon as possible, and that he would put in a new thermostat. I agreed that this was a prudent course of action and scheduled a 1:30 appointment.

At 1pm, I left the office and went down to the car. Time for the post over-heat check… check the pressure cap, add more water, look for any obvious cracks or leaks in the radiator. Everything looked fine. I sat down, inserted the key and turned the ignition.

Nothing happened.

Ok, something happened: the oil light (I checked the oil Sunday and it was fine), alternator light and the battery light all came on… which was interesting, as they had never come on before. The car wouldn't even turn over. It was dead. One quick call to GEICO insurance, and a tow truck was sent out to drag the car (and me) to Eddie's. Ricky had no idea what was wrong, but promised that he would call with an update Tuesday morning. In the meantime, he suggested that I get a rental car. So, I dialed 800-RENTACAR (Enterprise) and picked up a Dodge Neon for the duration of the repair time.

When I got home, I started to think about it. The overheating probably did some serious damage to the head gasket… and the car needed some pre-winter body work, a new paint job, new tires and a paint job. The Civic would cost me about $1500 in work over the next six months. So I started calculating the cost of a new car. Janet arrived home while I was looking through the phone book for new car dealers. I called one dealer near my office and talked to a sales rep. Within a few minutes, I was pre-approved for either a lease or a low-interest rate financing for a new car. It's now lunchtime on Tuesday… the Civic is still DOA and I have an appointment with the salesman at 4:30pm. Maybe by this time tomorrow, I'll be in in my own brand new car.

6/14/99

I really don't think that it should smoke like that.

Though the Civic has been a real trooper for the last few weeks, it has developed a bad habit of overheating. So, every day I would add in a few liters of water/coolant into the radiator… and the car would be fine… unless I got stuck in rush hour traffic on the way home, in which case the car would invariably overheat and would be well over the H by the time I pulled into the driveway.

But yesterday as we drove back from furniture shopping in Manchester, CT, it pinned at the H almost immediately as we pulled out of the parking lot. That, and the car started stalling. We knew that there was a problem. That was confirmed as soon as we pulled into the driveway and saw steam pouring out of the hood. Now, I'll be the first to tell you that I am not a gearhead, but even I knew that something was wrong.

Needless to say, I was disturbed. I was pacing around what was about to become a half-ton paperweight wondering how I was going to get into work today. However, after a quick refill with coolant, the temperature dropped to a normal level and I was relieved. I also decided to take the car into the dealership for a check.

Now, I'm a cynic (like you don't know that by now). I believe that everyone is out to screw you… and that if they're extending a hand in friendship, they probably have a knife in the other hand, just waiting to stab you. Add to that my normal fear of mechanics, and you have a potentially nervewracking experience.

Ok… let me clarify. I'm not scared of mechanics like some people are scared of clowns. It's just that I feel so helpless around them. I know nothing about the workings of my engine, and they can essentially tell me that it needs $1000 worth of work, when in reality it only needs a $10 piece of wire or something. So this time I decided to do some research on the internet to see what was causing these mysterious problems.

I came up with three possibilities:

1. The thermostat is shot. Internet price for a thermostat: $40
2. The fan motor is shot. Internet price for a cooling fan: $160
3. The wiring is shot. Internet price for that: a whole heckuva lot

Plus, none of those solutions even came close to explain why the car is stalling. Oy.

4pm. I arrive at Eddie's Evergreen Mobil on Farmington Ave, ready for what was sure to be the reaming of a lifetime. I pull in and ask for Ricky, the mechanic who certified the car before purchase. I explain the problem.

To make a long story short, within a half of an hour, he finds the primary problem: an air bubble in the radiator kept the water from flowing between the radiator and the engine. He bled the air out, and the car immediately sounded better.

Then he broke the bad news.

When the car overheated, the head gasket tore, allowing water to leak into the cylinder. That's what caused all of the water to evaporate, which made the car overheat even more, and it also made the car stall at low speeds. He poured in a can of sealant, waited another 15 minutes and turned the motor on again. Better.

Ricky told me that the tear might have been small, and that the sealant would be enough to fix it… but unfortunately, only time will tell. However, if the head gasket needs to be replaced, his exact words were: Don't worry about it, I'll take care of you.

Suddenly, I'm not so afraid of mechanics anymore.