i ordered this year’s licence plate sticker on line today (note day above) which reminded me of days of yore when you lined up, outside, in 40 below (either scale) temperatures, along with 10,000 other unfortunate souls, during the week no less, to get a new piece of metal.
There were some pluses: you got a new plate with a new number which meant you could proudly nail the old plate to the inside wall of your garage to cover up the gaps in the wall and you got to wait expectantly to see if your new plate were unique like 000 001. And the wait expectantly continued with how the new colour combination would clash with your car’s paid-extra-for paint. Then some bitter soul, doubtless cold from waiting in line mentioned above, pointed out that those special numbers were reserved for special people and they didn’t have to line up to get them.
The cynic in me suspects that one of those special people ran the licence bureau.
My hope is that since the computer and I are doing all the work to get my ‘sticker’ that the number of employees to handle the processing has dropped from several hundred to two: somebody to mail me my sticker while the other’s on break.
Speaking of expired license plates, I had let it slip one year so, when this happens, you can’t do it via the computer but must show up at the license bureau. I believe it’s so they can give you a ‘naughty boy’ lecture-and-look and probably take an extra dollar from you. In any case, I was assuming my ‘What are the odds?’ fear that I’d be stopped driving to the bureau with expired plates. At the next stop sign, I checked my rear view mirror to see if the constabulary were lurking and the older driver behind me, not of the police persuasion thankfully, was focused on my car and was definitely and defiantly pointing at my expired sticker. I swear that had he gone for his phone I would have caused a commotion.
(Lead article in tomorrow’s Daily Drivel) “Talk about road rage; old person in car with expired plates, stumbles out of his car and shuffles menacingly towards older person in car behind who was wagging a pointing finger at old person’s expired sticker. Old person menacingly taps on older person’s window and older person wisely turns off his phone. It was that close to becoming a fuss.” – editor
Why are older men allowed to drive? Have they nothing better to do than look for things that nobody with an ounce of testosterone would be interested in? There are drop dead gorgeous females wearing nothing at all out there walking the streets, look for them and at them! Leave my plates alone!
This story had a happy ending and since then I’ve been diligent in renewing my plates ahead of time. But check with me in a year’s time.
took in my car for its first time servicing the other day. Always a scary event; they find so much that’s wrong and expensive to fix with the car. How do they do that? How could I be the cause of that? I just drive the darn thing.
“Looks like you’ve been making an awful lot of left turns, Mr. Legon.”
“How if I turn right into my neighbour’s driveway then back up onto my driveway; would that balance things out?”
One thing the modern car dealership does in a neat way is have you drive over a sensing board embedded in the floor that tells you about your car’s alignment and tire wear. The information is immediately displayed on TV monitors by the service reps’ desks. You can tell that your alignment and tire wear are OK by the disappointed looks on their faces.
While I’m on about the service department, with all this technology, what’s with all the people? You drive up to the service door that automatically opens to let you be greeted by the aforesaid automated tire assessors which doubtless have also read your licence plate which automatically knows the car’s VIN which stores every last thing about your car. “When did you start parking on curbs?”
You have the feeling that if you stayed in the car you’d never need to see anyone: your car would automatically get washed and the oil changed somehow. At the end of this automated service assembly line you’d just insert your credit card to cover the amount flashing at the exit barrier and up goes the arm.
But no, once you’re through the service door that automatically opens, you’re greeted by an individual with an iPad that has all your information. This same bunch of data is immediately available to the service reps’ desk who eagerly awaits your presence. So far, you’ve done all the work and yet the system has decided two people must accompany the process. You mentally add several dollars to your bill under the section ‘family retainers’.
To officially get the car service process moving, however, you have to put your signature to paper. It’s the year 2020, what’s with all the paper? Up to now, in the car servicing process, everything’s been digital but somehow that’s not good enough. If McDonald’s can show your order on a TV monitor for the retirée to fill, then a car dealership can do the same thing for the junior trainee mechanic considering your car.
Your wonder of wonders, your smartphone, the whiz bang gadget that can get you into the theatre without producing paper; that can pay for your parking without producing paper; that can prove to anyone who your are without producing paper cannot get your car serviced without producing paper. Remind me to buy stock in Montreal based Abitibi Bowater, the eighth largest pulp and paper company in the world.
But all this automated sensory sensing got me to thinking; couldn’t a doctor’s office get on this bandwagon?
“Mr. Legon, I’m Gisele, your service representative. We’ve introduced some new technology to both help us be as knowledgeable about you as we can and service your needs as quickly as possible – another gold star for socialized medicine. Would you please step on that sensing board embedded in the floor that you can’t avoid? Thank you.”
“Oh …. I notice you pronate. The doctor will certainly want to have a look at that.”
(doctorial sound from down the hall) “Oh ….”
“Oh oh …and the wear on your left foot is more than on your right foot.”
(doctorial sound from down the hall) “Oh oh …”
And why not have doctors’ offices install the body scan that embarrasses you at the airport?
“Good looking liver Mrs. Gowski, seems to be handling your bottle-a-day chardonnay nicely.”
And wouldn’t that also speed up the parts delivery?
“Thanks to your body scan, Mrs. Feldstein, while you were waiting absorbed in the picture magazine, ‘What the Royals do to work up a sweat,’’ we were able to order you a reconditioned spleen.“
Can’t leave the dealership without a word about the sales department.
I’ll call him Donald, which is what his mother calls him even though his friends know him as ‘Tub’.
Donald is pushing early sixties, grey hair, paunch, suit, somewhat off-white shirt but no tie and wearing what we politely call in the fashion world, doesn’t-go-with-anything deck shoes. And his feet have got the senior shuffle down pat. You can’t greet Donald with a non-car topic without a rejoinder that somehow embeds some unrelated feature of a car you’re not interested in on which you suspect he gets his biggest margin.
“Nice day.”
“Nice day for air-conditioned seats made of faux-corinthian leather only available on this week’s hybrid special.”
Donald makes no effort to prospect. You suspect that if someone didn’t walk into the showroom, plop down at his desk and sign a blank cheque, Donald would miss his sale-a-month quota.
“How was your day, dear?”
“Busy, busy, busy; you can’t imagine what today’s car buyer wants?”
“Understanding their needs and value?”
“All they want is a discount.”
“What about understanding their needs and value?”
“I know what they want. And you can’t sell them value, value doesn’t get the old pulse pumping and, anyway, you wouldn’t understand the subtleties of selling.”
“You know that table saw that you never use? Mr. Caruthers, next door, wanted to build a fence and when I found out he didn’t have a table saw and explained how much you got out of one, he expressed an interest and I said he could have it ….”
“What?”
“… for $400. You paid what? $600 a few years back? I also threw in a weekend of your time to explain its dated features.”
the car saga continues. Made the big decision to buy a certified car part. You know the dilemma: do I spend $150 for something that fits and bears the car’s brand name or 2. Do I spend $19.95 for something that should fit and has ‘Tom’s Garage’ prominently displayed.
We’ve all been through the exercise, rationalizing the ‘el cheapo’ purchase and not sleeping at night.
So, I bit the bullet and got the over-priced-brand-product (OPBP to save going mad retyping this descriptive phrase). The OPBP includes instructions, crude instructions that don’t begin to match the accompanying bag of parts. You conclude that this is an OPBP one-size-fits-all-models (No, I’m not going to use OPBPOSFAM) and hence comes with a bag of bits and pieces to cover every known model most of which your model doesn’t need.
But I’m on top of it. Rather than drive from the dealership and realize something’s just not right and having to return, I decide to install the cargo net, yes, a cargo net in the dealership’s parking lot. What could go wrong? We’re not talking fluid mechanics here with the required years of education and experience.
The object is to install four hooks to hold the cargo net and bless me if two hooks aren’t already there. Sure pays to buy the deluxe model. This further confirms my suspicions that this OPBP is truly OPBPOSFM (Sorry, I lied, you’ll have to go back.)
What could be simpler, only two hooks to install but the limited instructions suggest that they be installed in some unimaginable spot.
The following had to have made someone’s day. I get in the trunk, turn around so now I’m lying on my back in the trunk with my feet dangling outside. This is the only way I can see inside the trunk where the limited instructions say the cargo net is to be attached.
Someone has to be watching me when I decide to try to get out of the trunk. We’re I younger, I could probably slide out and laugh this off. In my present state, I’m faced with the strong possibility of not getting out of my trunk. I figure the odds are 50 -50 that getting back out the way I came in will be just as painful and awkward as releasing the back seats and exiting through the back door mens sana in corpore sano.
“Hey, Rosy, come at look at this idiot stuck in his trunk feet flailing away.”
I get out the way I came in, leg cramps and all, barely landing on my two feet.
I look around, do a little dusting to give me time to regain consciousness, admit failure, humble myself and return to the dealership. The following conversation is verbatim.
(speaking to service rep) “I need help installing the cargo net, it looks like it needs a special tool.” (can’t believe I’m saying this … a cargo net needs a special tool? Really? Then installing a turbo charger would need NASA.
(service rep) Totally stunned, I would have had more success asking him to decline a Latin verb of his choice. He’s saved by a passing overalls-with-name-tag that hints at working in another department. Service rep explains, overalls-with-name-tag says you need a special tool to install a cargo net (I’m partially chuffed; hey, I know what I’m not doing.)
I politely wait for the expected answer but instead get, “Fred has the special tool.” (Pause) “Fred’s in quarantine.” (Pause) “The special tool’s in Fred’s toolbox. (Pause) “Only Fred has the key.” (Pause) “Fred has the keys with him.”
I’m home now. I’m starting to act sensibly (there’s nobody around). It can’t be this hard so I search the internet. Of course there’s no video that exactly matches my car but the first video that qualifies in theory says it takes 48 minutes to install a cargo net in my make (not necessarily year or model) of car. I start to watch. Here’s this seasoned pro ripping apart the trunk and using tools that need a compressor to get up to high speed.
I go back to the car. It can’t be this hard and I think I’ve figured it out. To test my theory, I take out the cargo net and hook it onto one ring and then stretch it to hook it onto the ring across the way and …
… the cargo net is 30 cm short.
Epilogue
Well, it’s eat crow time for me. Found detailed, illustrated instructions on the internet provided by a US Honda dealer, not corporate Honda. And, it turns out, you do need a special tool to affix the rivets to the trunk door frame. I’ve a call into the local dealership to see if they’ll let me borrow this precious item because I don’t want to pay them to do it. (Because I’ve already paid for the cargo net; how much? I don’t want to tell you how much I paid for this woven wonder obviously hand made by Chinese maidens.) And the already-installed hooks are not for this item; they’re just hooks. So I have to install the supplied hooks and that involves drilling holes into the trunk liner. They cautiously advise you to make sure to mark the depth of the drill bit otherwise you could add vent holes to your trunk … Stay tuned.
