Accents Abound (Part 2)

[Author’s Note - I’m sorry about the delay in my writing. I have been sickly for the last couple of weeks. I am sure it is the giving up of the cigs as well as catching some bug that was floating about.]


With the given information in Part 1, it is my belief (and rightly so) that once I have an auto accident I was going to be ‘truly ass invaded’ - as Meatloaf succinctly stated when he was blown to hell in the movie Formula 51 (or The 51st State if you are in the UK / Australia).

The day came upon me as surely as a Christian and the Day of Judgment.

I don’t know if you are aware of the fact that I am the world’s worst when it comes to finding my away about geographically. I need a map, a compass, and specific directions as to how to arrive at any particular destination that I have never been to before. Well on this particularly fine day, I was going to the store to get some chain, and latches so that I could chain my dog if the need arose. The store that has these supplies is called Magnet Mart.

Magnet Mart is to this area is like a Lowes, or some similar home repair shop in the States. Most of the stores are decked out with fluorescent orange paint, and are quite easy to see from the roadside as you drive past. The one here in Goulburn is a pain in the ass to find. It is out of the way, and is set behind a huge fence. There is a nice big sign planted out front that should make it easy to see, but due to me being who that I am (cranky, irritable, and quite annoyed at having to find a shop I have never been to before), I failed to see the building, and drove past it. I turned on the first left, and decided to go on to my lady’s work - which is only a block away - and started down the road.

Being the brilliant Seeker that I am my mind over rode the existing plans and decided to go back for one more search of the area before admitting defeat to a woman. I’m a man damn it and we can find anything without directions!, the new captain yelled from somewhere in deep my subconscious.

My mind spies a parking area in front of a store on my right.

[Author’s note - There are few places in this town that have parking. In effect, you generally have to find a spot and walk to wherever you wish to shop. The block that I currently am on is odd in that there is street parking on the side of the road I was on, and on the other side there is no street parking only a couple of shops that have small areas that will hold 2-3 cars. This is important for the story. Imagine my side of the road with enough space to be two lanes wide, and the other side of the road to be one lane wide.]

Without thinking, I signal to make a turn into this parking area. I had past the entrance by a few feet, so that mean that this turn was going to be of the “U” variety (this is legal in Australia - unless specifically marked otherwise).

Signaling, I start my turn.


Let us digress for a few moments, though. I assure you we will be back to the story in a few moments, but I need you - my audience - to understand the car that I drive. It is a Mazda 121. It is purple, and it is smaller in stature than a Geo Metro. This is even made funnier by the fact that I am 6 foot, 3 inches, in height and weigh in at roughly 222 pounds. I am, by no means, a small man.

Here, you can see for yourself:



(Stupid Blogger picture tools aint working I'll add it later - to find a picture until then just do a google image search for Mazda 121)





Yes, it does compliment my red hair.


As I turn into the direction I wish the car to go a noise comes from behind that (I personally believe) no driver wants to hear. The noise was the screech of tires biting into asphalt as they try to slow the forward motion of they vehicle that they carry.

Due to the time it took for my mind to process this sound as some thing evil I had continued into the apex of my turn. I was now in the part of the turn that had my boot end in the previously lane and my front end in the lane of oncoming traffic. I was at a perfect ninety-degree slant from the curb in front and behind me. The noise was finally processed for the horror it was, and I look out my driver side window.

Coming towards me was a station wagon with an old bastard driving - his face frozen in the agony of a man trying to take a shit that says, “Fuck you mate, eat more fibre”.

Now, I refer you to the picture of the automobile I am driving once more so that you can picture me hunched over in the driver’s side (The right side of the vehicle). Don’t forget to imagine my spiked red hair, dark sunglasses, fiery red goatee, and a snarl that says, “Ah hell, when this is over I am going to have to pull my testicles out of my stomach!”

I watch as the idiot turns to the right - not the left where there is plenty of space due to the empty parking slots - and hits my front driver’s side fender. The car slides a few feet from the impact, and the engine stalls because I took my foot off the clutch. He then proceeds to pump his brakes for some insane reason, and his car slides forward yet again - this time scraping the bumper.

At this point in the drama, I am stuck inside my vehicle with his car pinned against mine. I am in two lanes of traffic, and can feel my heart beating out that boom, boom, boom that says, “Holy shit, you could a’ died, motherfucker!” I was stuck. All I could do was wait while the old man backed away - allowing me to exit my vehicle.

I fumbled for the door release, and for some odd reason could not get the door to open. My window was rolled down and while I was trying to open it I could hear the bastard walking towards me screaming, “What are you doing? Don’t you know how to signal?”

This got me going. Usually I am all about verifying that people are okay, and that its al good. This son of a bitch didn’t even check to see that I was not hurt before he started in. He was acting tough - like he wanted to do the fisticuff tango. I was down with that, and the door was almost ripped from its hinge, as shoved it open. I was in offence mode, and was not going to be taking any shit - from anyone full stop.

Stepping from my car, the mood changed drastically - the old fella seemed to reconsider acting violently towards my self as he assessed my size (perhaps he had thought I would be the average short, Aussie bloke). He stopped pumping his fist and screaming at me, and almost tripped himself as the back peddling started.

It didn’t matter, because I was on him like a virgin in a strip club.

“What the hell are you talking about? Do you know what the fuck the three-second rule is? Let me show you! One, Two, Three, that’s how far you are supposed to stay away from the driver in front of you! “, I was not giving him time to respond, and by now I was up in his face standing head, and shoulders, over him.

By now, I am shaking, and he is shaking. You could have given either one of us a glass of milk to hold, and when we returned it, you would have had a milk shake.

He ignores me and walks over to my car, and says “Aw, it’s not damaged let’s forget it.”

Looking at the deep gouge in the metal and the bright red paint that has now magically adhered itself to the paintwork I reply, “Get fucked! Look at that the metal and red paint that came from your red station wagon. Do you have your information? I want to see your driver’s licence, and details”.

As he walks back to where his car is sitting, I could see that we were blocking traffic, and people were pulling around us from both sides. There was no way I was going to move anything until I had this man’s information.

As he begins to fumble in his pockets for his details - it hits me. This geezer is talking to me with an Aussie accent, as well as a Greek one! I had never heard anything like it, and my conclusion was confirmed when he handed me his driver’s licence. The first name, as well as the surname, was Greek. I gave him my Oklahoma Driver’s licence, and we exchanged details, phone numbers, you get the idea. I did ask if he had insurance, and who his carrier was - he told me and I wrote it down, but that turned out to be false.

[Author’s note - They do not carry insurance verification papers in their cars as is done in the States - more on the specifics later on.]

As we start to leave, he cannot help but to add a parting shot, “It’s no big deal, there isn’t much damage done.”

“Yeah, whatever you think. I’m turning this in and you’ll be paying whatever it doesn’t cost to not fix the dent, and paint on my car okay?”

I get into my car (ignoring any further comments), and cannot contain myself. The shaking is so bad now I feel like I am in the middle of an epileptic fit. Thankfully, I had only a block to drive to get to my woman’s job.

Making my way there, I find that I had to park at the end of the block and walk back to where she works. I go in and see that she is busy with someone. I don’t care, and silently I mouth, “I was in a wreck”.

She doesn’t seem to understand the silent American accent, “What?”

Again, no words just lip movement, “I - WAS - IN - A WRECK”,

She starts to smile, at me - perhaps because she is happy to see me, or perhaps because she thinks I am playing a game with her - I frown and walk outside to smoke a cigarette and calm my ass down.

She follows after, “What’s wrong?”
“I was in a car wreck.”
“OH NO! Are you okay?”
“Yeah, but the car is wrecked.”
“Where is the car? Can you drive it?”
“Yeah, it is just down the block.”

We make our way down to the car, and she looks at the damage, “That’s it? I thought that when you said a car wreck you meant the car was ‘Wrecked’ this isn’t anything.”

“Okay, whatever, a wreck, an accident, it’s all the same - the car has damage.”
“No it’s not, we don’t call them ‘car wrecks’ - here they are called ‘accidents’”.

Shaking like a leaf, and a headache to boot, I cannot find the energy to argue, “Yeah, an accident.”




Stay tuned for Part 3 the exciting conclusion!

Retraction

It seems my lady read, and took offence, at my previous post in that it puts her in a (seemingly) poor light. I now am supposed to retract the previous statement as follows:

The previous post was true on one account, that of me asking her about what to do in the event of an automobile accident. The rest of the conversation was pure invention, and totally imagined by myself. Nord is a very intelligent lady, and I was in the wrong for portraying her in such a way.


LMFAO! I still think that is exactly how it happened - even with a few liberties taken.

Accents Abound (Part I)

A little over a month ago I was involved in a collision. I had a feeling this would happen to me, and as I have been in far too many auto accidents during my lifetime, I had already questioned my lady on protocol. The problem with her response was its ambiguous nature.

Here is a little rundown of how most Aussies respond when you broach them for information.

“Hey babes, if I were to get into a car wreck what do you do here?”

Giving me the look that calls me a complete moron without a word uttered she says, “You exchange information.”

“Yeah, I assume that, but what do your insurance verification cards looks like, and where is yours kept?”

“No, you just exchange your personal details.”

“God damn it, I know this. Look, let’s start over, and pretend that you and I were just in a car accident - what happens next?”

“Well, okay, so who did we hit?”

By now the frustration level is high, because she has no idea what I am talking about and I am trying to explain it in simple parlance. Now I am at the part of the conversation where my voice elicits exasperation, and consternation, as well as a little ‘taking the piss’ for flavour.

“You were in your car, and I was in my car, and we smacked into each other -thereby causing a bit of damage to our vehicles. What would happen next?”

“Well, if it was just me and you hitting each other we wouldn’t have to exchange information because I already know your details. We would just have to call the insurance and sort it.”

“No, no, no! Pretend we don’t know each other. What would happen then?”

“Honey, you’re being silly of course we know each other!”

If looks could kill, I swear she would have been dead on the spot, “Can we start over, here?”

“Yes, but I have no idea what you are wanting.”

“I know you don’t. I think some of the daft leaked out onto my shirt.”

Apparently, this last bit offended her, and this conversation was finished.

After waiting the allotted period of time that a man can reckon will let him keep his head (kind of hard to have a conversation without one, don’t ya think?) - During this discourse, I started to ask my question with explicit attention to detail, “Babes, you remember the talk we were having earlier?”

She raises an eyebrow giving me the go ahead to proceed, but ready to sling back any mud that I might put into her yard, “Yes, the one about the accident?”

“Yeah, well, let’s try that again. Let’s pretend you were in a car wreck with another person. Someone you didn’t know, and for the sake of argument, they hit you - causing your car to be damaged. What happens next?”

“Well we would exchange information.”

“And, what happens after you exchange personal information?”

“I go home, and call my insurance company.”

“That’s it? You’re telling me that someone bangs your car, and all you do is to write down the information off their driver’s licence, and then you go your separate ways? What about calling the cops, and getting a report?”

“No, you don’t need to contact the police unless someone is injured.”

Sitting back into my chair, I mull over what she has told me, and it seems to be lacking vital bits of information. I prod further, “Are you sure that is all you need to do? In the States it is a bit different based on where the accident takes place (private, or public property), and what the road conditions are (When it is raining or snowing, the police wont come unless there is an injury), and we have little insurance cards that we must carry with us as proof of insurance. You don’t have anything like that here?”

“Insurance is mandatory to be allowed the privilege of driving. You cannot get your car registered without insurance.”

“Okay, Hun, but for the sake of the conversation what if the other person does not have their car registered properly…”

Here she cuts in with the cutest little look, and says, “Oh no! You have to be registered to drive; it’s the law.”

“Yes, I understand that (I so badly wanted to add a ‘my child’ in here, but due to health reasons - mainly I want to maintain my health - don’t), but what if the other person does not follow the law, and drives with out being rego’d”

“That won’t happen.”

“What if it did?”

“Well then I’d call my insurance, and have them sort it out. Why do you want to know all of this, anyways?”

“Because, I am a foreigner, and I want to be aware of what to do when something happens.”

“Oh, well nothing will happen to you. You won’t have an accident or anything. Besides, I really am not sure what to tell you because I have never been in an auto accident, nor had to deal with anything like that.”

What the love of my life is telling me, here, is that she has no idea of what actually happens when you have an auto accident, and that she could not be bothered to tell me this from the get go. Instead of answers, I received dalliance.

How exciting for me, yes.

Stay tuned for Part II where I actually try to use the information I was given!

My World for a Toke of that Beautiful Blue Smoke

I am 33 years old. This month I will hit 34, and this isn’t a big deal. There are very few constants in life, and aging is one of them. The issue that has come about is that I finally decided to quit smoking. I picked up the habit when I was 17, and put it down once for about 5 weeks. So almost 17 years of inhaling tar, smoke, carcinogens, and lots of nasty shit. They say there are over 4000 different chemicals inhaled in one cigarette. This includes pesticides, and no telling what else.

To be honest, I just don’t care. I love smoking. The feeling of the paper as you pull it from the pack, and put it to your lips, the taste of the tobacco when you inhale as you bring the flame to the unfiltered end - it is magical. The heat hits the tobacco, and you take a true puff, the nicotine rushing from your lungs to your brain at the speed of light. Nerves, and synapses, fire like artillery in Vietnam. BAM, BAM, Boom.

So what if each puff takes a bit of my life? Something this good cannot be that bad.

Why the hell did I quit then?

I am getting older, and starting to see the dollar signs of how much they cost me (14-17.00 a pack here in Oz). I can feel the lack of oxygen hitting my blood stream. The short-breathed exertions are making me feel old; the smell of a flower is gone to me. The world without the smell of ash is foreign to my adult life. I have no taste buds… everything in my palate has a bland, cardboard, additive.

This loss of the love of my life has been on going for three days - cold mother fucking turkey, Bitch!

Even though she’s the devil - I fucking miss her. The quiet moments, in the yard, the cold wind snapping at my neck as I puff upon her papered goodness, the hit of her nicotine causing a gentle relaxation in my over-active mind - she is beauty incarnate.

Nevertheless, I have cast her into the void, and I am left with this empty feeling. A hollow shell of who I once was, looming in the forefront of my mind at all times.


Fuck, I’m on the jones!