The Dying Car Orchestra

I just finished perhaps the most stressful Friday in memory (the fact that so many of my college-era Friday's are mostly blackouts notwithstanding).

My car, you see, has been slowly falling apart this last year. While the engine has been hearty, everything else was being held together by (I'm convinced) the prayers I'd been offering up regularly to the automotive gods. Sometime last week, I angered those gods and they smote my car. Not all at once, mind you. This was a good old fashioned drawn-out and lengthy smiting.

It started with a grinding noise when I turned my steering wheel on Wednesday morning. By Wed. evening it had matured to a grinding and a barely audible whine. On Thursday morning the treble whine on the left side was trying to harmonize with a baritone moan on the right side. I called my bank and they approved me for a car loan at the best rate I could find...and promised to Fed Ex a blank check to me on Friday.

On the ride into work on Friday morning, a contrapuntal rhythm section began to warm up somewhere under my hood, and together with the high-pitched whining and the low undulating moaning, my car was a veritable orchestra of woe. I was the conductor of this hellish cacophony, modulating the melody and tempo with precise fluctuations of the gas pedal and flamboyant jogs of the steering wheel. I cruised into the parking lot at work and coasted into a parking space, unsure of whether the car would ever move another inch. Fortunately I knew that my financing check was coming by Fed Ex in a few hours and I'd be able to buy a car that afternoon.

Well, when I got around to checking the Fed Ex tracking information, to my horror I saw the message "Delivery failed, business closed or resident not home." Irate, I called Fed Ex and exclaimed that our business was open all day and demanded that the driver return here post haste. When they verified the address I found out that the sender had shipped my financing to my HOME address rather than my WORK address. My fury turned to pleading in the blink of an eye, and after first insisting that only the sender could change a delivery address, they told me that they'll send a message to the driver to redeliver to the business address if s/he was still in the area. If s/he was, I would get the package within 45 minutes. This was at 11:00 am.

By 2:30 I had come to terms with a few things: 1) that I was not going to get my Fed Ex check and 2) that I would be walking home. Oh well, such is life. I was just bummed because that meant I'd be without wheels for the holiday weekend and I'd have much less of a chance to negotiate at the beginning of the month than I would at the end of the month.

On a whim I called the local Nissan dealer to see if they had any of the vehicles I wanted in stock. Come on down! He said. We've got one just like what you want!" (I should add that I'd been doing my vehicle research for the past month and have known what I wanted to replace my car with if for a couple weeks).

I told the dealer that I was waiting for my finance check to arrive...but it might not come today. He told me to come down anyways and see if they can't beat the finance rate I was offered.

So I hopped into my car one last time and drove up Highway 6. My god. If you could have heard that car you would swear it had become sentient and capable of feeling pain. Lots of pain. It was loud. It was scary. It was not melodious. It was the sound of rending metal.

The dealer I was driving to has building for VW, a another couple buildings, and then at the far end of the lot, a building for Nissan. There were a lot of customers milling about (something about the long weekend makes people want to buy cars I guess). Well, as I drove into the lot all heads were turned in my direction to see what the racket was. I made sure to park right in front of the VW dealer, locked my car (for show), and walked over to the Nissan building.

I introduced myself to the salesman I spoke with on the phone, who quickly asked me if I'd move my car. "That depends on whether or not we can come to an agreement on price." I kept my keys in my pocket, and he pulled me in to the office.

"You know," he said, "if you don't move that we'll have it towed." I told him that I was more than happy to let all the VW shoppers watch a VW get towed from right in front of the VW showroom.

Well, to make a loooooooooooooooooong story short. I got the price I wanted ($$$ over dealer invoice) before he got the keys to my VW. As soon as he had them, he had it moved out behind the building and out of view.

I'd like to say I made it out of there with everything I wanted at the price I wanted, but alas, they got the keys before we had agreed on a price for an extended warranty. I can't feel too bad though, as I got to drive home the proud owner of a brand new car payment.

Best Buy Bullshit?

Last night I had the experience of shopping for a PC at Best Buy. I know, I know… but I had no other alternatives (time was of the essence, and I needed something pronto). The eMachines T6212 looked OK for a disposable computer, and the BB website showed it in stock at my local store. So I pack myself into Hitler’s Revenge and mosey on over to the local Best Buy.

I know what I want. I want the PC, and since they had a nice sale on compatible RAM for my particular model, I decided to increase the RAM to 2GB (total cost for this was less than $150). The sales monkey asks me if I want them to install the RAM for me. Since I know they are going to check it for DOA anyways, I figure I’ll let them slap in the RAM while they are at it. “Sure,” I say, figuring that probably saved me a few minutes.

So I’m standing in line there with my credit card in hand watching the sales monkey type in all the SKUs so we can complete the transaction. Suddenly I see a couple entries for $29.00 appear. “Hey,” I interject. “What are those for?”

“Oh,” he said, “That’s the installation cost for the RAM. I was flabbergasted. “You actually charge to install RAM?”

“Yeah. But I’m only charging you for two of them,” he said, as if he were doing me a favor.

“But $29.00 each?”

“Yeah, that’s what it costs. But Phil said to only charge you for two of them.”

“Doesn’t that seem a little expensive to you?”

“Well you know, if you install it yourself, you void the warranty.”

I had never heard this before. Granted, I’ve never read the Terms and Conditions or Warranty that comes with RAM I’ve purchased in the past. But still, $29.00 for something that takes a couple seconds to do seems rather excessive. “So, tell me,” I asked my salesman, “Have you ever paid $29.00 to have RAM installed?”

“I’ve had them install RAM before. It voids the warranty if you do it yourself.”

“But have you ever PAID $29 to have someone install RAM?”

He understood what I was getting at, and answered evasively. “I’ve had them install RAM before. It voids the warranty if you do it yourself.”

In general, I notice that when it comes to computers, Best Buy relies heavily on fear as a motivator for getting people to buy all sorts of things. But this particular attempt was new to me (granted, I try not to shop there…so my exposure is limited.)

So can anyone confirm that your RAM warranty will be deemed void if you install it yourself? I’ve never heard of such a thing before. I’ve installed RAM a number of times, and have never run into a problem. I just want to find out if this is legitimate or just another case of Best Buy reps saying anything to pad a sale.

21 Things I Learned About Russian Culture

1. They really like Scotch
2. By virtue of me being of Irish descent, I am considered a Scotch expert.
3. They have no qualms about borrowing the boss' car to go on a liquor run.
4. They have no qualms about drinking at the office.
5. A proper night of drinking cannot be properly started with fewer than three bottles of Scotch on deck.
6. At 1 bottle, they loosen up.
7. At 2 bottles, they enjoy my company.
8. At 2.5 bottles the Siberian Russians start to talk about their belief in Jesus Christ as a historical figure and the son of God.
9. At 2.5 bottles the Russian Jews start to tell the Christian Russians to "shut the hell up."
10. At 2.75 bottles the dancing begins.
11. At 2.75 bottles none of the office furniture is left standing, except for that which is currently being sat in or otherwise occupied/used by Russians.
12. At 3 bottles, 2 more bottles magically appear.
13. At 4 bottles, people's shirts start getting ripped off by Siberian Russians.
14. At 4 bottles, the ex-army Russians show up at the behest of the engineering manager to "spot" the shirt-ripping dancing and wrestling Siberian God-fearing Russians.
15. At 4 bottles most of the Russians are on the floor, or in the process of falling to the floor. I am considered a guru, a sage, and a role-model for not falling to the floor.
16. At 4 bottles, I am told that for my own safety, I must leave the office lest I get hurt. I take the advice. Before I can leave, I am given the fifth bottle to take with me, lest THEY get hurt.
17. The next day, the boss comes early to the office to clean up after the Russians.
18. The boss is not allowed to ask "What went on last night?"
19. Amongst the Russians, everything after (and including) 2.5 bottles is not spoken of or is conveniently forgotten.
20. Anyone who shows up for work the next day, is a hero worthy of a parade.
21. Anyone who can think of a suitable excuse that will explain to their wives/girlfriends the ripped shirts and bruises is a hero for the cause. (Apparently, this is a perpetual quest.)