Tuesday, November 30, 2004

I’ll talk about my fun meeting with fellow bloggers Leese and Stanks soon, but lately I’ve been busy with a different kind of lease.

As in, I leased a new car last weekend. Good reliable ride, nothing fancy, but it looks great and is reasonably priced. I’d be thrilled about the new wheels... if I didn’t still have this nightmare with the old one:

Driving home last week from the gym, deciding if my workout earned me an outing with friends at the Mexican joint for burritos and margaritas -- no, no, I’m gonna be stuffin’ and cranberryin’ and scarfin’ my homemade chocolate pecan pie all week… a big black Jeep SUV cut from the left lane into mine -- abruptly, slamming on his brakes. I did the same. My life didn’t flash in front of my eyes, but I could see the near future: I would slam into his rear-end, no one would get hurt, except the hood of my car. Oh, and the hassles with insurance and my lease company would begin to commencify and commence to beginulate.

The guy got out and once I confirmed he wasn’t injured, I asked him politely what motherfucking Braille driving school did his sorry ass flunk out of? He said he was swerving to avoid hitting a dog. While I pondered the moral question of choosing to endanger two human beings in order to save a mangy mutt, a woman came up and said she saw the whole thing. I got her name and number and then got the scoop:

Some dog ran into the road, then some dude -- on the island separating opposing traffic on Olympic Blvd. -- called after him, and as the pooch doubled back, the SUV guy had to go NASCAR pile-up on us. The dog ran off, and his master chased after him. The woman showed us: he left his knapsack.

Then while I was moving my burnt-rubber-smellin’ vehicle off the road, the dog dude came back and snatched his knapsack from the woman.

“You’re welcome,” she said. He muttered a thank you.

The SUV guy said, “Y’know, you and your dog nearly caused a serious accident here,”

“Fuck off.” And then he left in a flash.

I came back and heard about this, but wasn’t about to waste energy hating that flea-bitten asshole. I had enough problems.

See, my lease on the old car is up next week. And I already have a bad scrape I did myself months ago. So I knew I’d be in red-tape hell, bickering with these auto bureaucrats, trying to get everything fixed quickly at minimal cost. Can’t figure out what's best: to make both claims, risk my rates going up, pay for it all myself at a cheap mechanic, wait for all the inspections, have the lease company duke it out with the insurance... it’s complicated.

Back to the SUV guy. I took down his plate number, but he himself didn’t have his license or insurance info or anything. Great. He wasn’t some deadbeat -- not with that hoopty and the fancy suit and tie -- maybe just some all-too-important-for-paperwork scofflaw. I asked him if he had any ID. He showed me his business card. Guy’s a big-shot talent agent at International Creative Management.

“I know you,” I told him. And I related some mutual people we knew in the business. So I can track him down if I need to. Or if my insurance needs to.

“Either that,” I told him, “Or you broker me a first-look deal at Paramount.”

No dice.

Talent agents, insurance agents: they all suck ass.


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