Go Tigers Go!

When it comes to football, I bleed crimson (Roll Tide!), but it's pretty fun cheering on my adopted Memphis Tigers basketball team. Seeing them dismantle Texas to the tune of 85-67 (in Houston, no less) made quite a statement and was totally worth sacrificing my usual Sunday afternoon nap. Now the Tigers are set for a Final Four showdown with UCLA in San Antonio, and all that stands between them and a national championship is 80 minutes.

Go Tigers Go!

Oh by the way - 83.3% from the free-throw line for the game. I'd say that's a statement in and of itself.

The joy of automobile ownership

What can I say? Anyone that knows me knows that my relationships with cars has always been slightly abusive. Going through high-school, I totaled more than my or my entire family combined's fair share of cars. I especially had a penchant for hitting non-moving objects. You know, parked cars, mailboxes, trash-cans and the like. As long as it was moving, though, no object would suffer the wrath of my front (or rear) bumper.

Then marriage happened. Something about that whole process of being responsible for another human being brought an epiphany to me - maybe I should stop trying to wreck everything in sight and just settle for lower car insurance premiums, and would you know it? I've gone the past three years without incident (no wrecks, no tickets, not even a warning)!

Until yesterday.

Liss and I were in Stella (all my cars have old lady names - except for the Explorer who is known simply as the Exploder), and we had just finished filling her up at the Shell station on Dexter and Germantown Parkway. The Dexter exit of the Shell was really backed up, so I was pulling around to the Germantown exit when we hit a bump, came down and heard a big cracking sound. Immediately Liss and I looked at each other - she was worried about the car, I was worried about my pristine driving record. I pulled the car to a parking spot to get out and check her over, and let's just say that as soon as I looked under the car, there was no question as to whether we were driving home. 

The car had come down on one of the tank caps that you see tankers using to fill up the large underground gasoline tanks, and the cap punched a hole the size of my fist in (what I'm hoping is) the Stratus' oil pan. 

So there I am, standing in the Shell parking lot watching my poor Stella bleed to death, and I'm furious. We were just driving around the bloody parking lot for crying out loud!

I go talk to the attendant in the station and she puts me on the phone with the station manager ("I'm sorry Mr. Roberts but there's nothing I can do 'til Monday"). After that, there's nothing really except to call a wrecker to haul Stella off to a shop a couple of miles away and wait on Matt May (has God ever made a kinder soul than Matt May?) to ruin his evening plans and pick us up and take us back to our house.

You'd think Murphy's Law had played its little game with us and would leave us alone for a little while, but you'd be wrong....

Less than 24 hours later, I left the lights on in the Exploder and killed her battery.

Oh well - this should mean car troubles are far behind for the next five years or so, or it could mean I'll be updating this entry tomorrow with yet another incident.