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Good morning and welcome to Summit Up, the world’s only daily column thankful for fleeting beauty and dry gin.
We really appreciate the fall of autumn’s leaves, the scent of a turkey and the hum of our Jeep Liberty on a leisurely, windows-down drive.
But the Byrds were right; things turn, $#!* happens.
Our windows are rolled up all the time. The turkey has perished. The leaves have gone, and our Liberty needs surgery. We’ve fallen into a harrowing, droopy-eyed daze — be it from fate’s dark twist or a bitter case of anxiety set off by a white ribbon of death.
Limited terrain aside, we’ve been hurt.
Topping off two years of conscientious maintenance and personal joy, our Liberty has sustained severe damage to its right-side hindquarter.
The valet, a forlorn young man with frivolous facial hair and a distracted gaze, happens to be one of a privileged handful we’ve allowed behind the wheel, ever.
We didn’t know him from Adam, but figured the task of a quick park to be menial enough for this strange, clearly unhappy man. We surrendered the keys and strolled upstairs to a fancy christening event, where folks prostrated at our commanding presence.
We schmoozed. We smiled and stood but didn’t snack.
After a brief foray at the forefront of luxurious living, we turned toward home for some dry gin and a few microwaved taquitos.
Waiting on the curb, we failed to notice the valet’s consternation.
He came out with the truth after some small talk. Nah, we figured, it couldn’t be as bad as he made it sound.
Wrong.
The smashed three-way light fixture, the inverted bumper and the chipping, dented-up paint were too much. We kept our cool, sucking our emotions into a tense, shaky vacuum.
The well-warranted apologies didn’t much help the situation. But that valet, he must have had it in for us.
The wound in our Liberty was too deep for the haphazardly sideswipe, tap or clipping. This damage was sustained through acceleration — driven by fury. But, why us?
Couldn’t this incident have been avoided through a personal diary, a stress ball, T’ai Chi or ballet?
Hindsight is 20/20, even for a nitwit who doesn’t watch the rearview mirror. We hope this man has learned something of the consequences of carelessness.
We sure have.
We’re calling for a boycott.
We hereby relinquish every right to valet service — and you can, too. From here on, anyone approaching our door, looking to hop on board for a joy ride will be refused entry.
Hiking from the back 40 is a small price to pay for peace of mind. And most events requiring valet services are too highbrow for our palate anyway.
So long, ignoble equerries.
It’s Friday and we’re out on our bicycle in 30-degree weather, buckling up for the apocalypse.
We really appreciate the fall of autumn’s leaves, the scent of a turkey and the hum of our Jeep Liberty on a leisurely, windows-down drive.
But the Byrds were right; things turn, $#!* happens.
Our windows are rolled up all the time. The turkey has perished. The leaves have gone, and our Liberty needs surgery. We’ve fallen into a harrowing, droopy-eyed daze — be it from fate’s dark twist or a bitter case of anxiety set off by a white ribbon of death.
Limited terrain aside, we’ve been hurt.
Topping off two years of conscientious maintenance and personal joy, our Liberty has sustained severe damage to its right-side hindquarter.
The valet, a forlorn young man with frivolous facial hair and a distracted gaze, happens to be one of a privileged handful we’ve allowed behind the wheel, ever.
We didn’t know him from Adam, but figured the task of a quick park to be menial enough for this strange, clearly unhappy man. We surrendered the keys and strolled upstairs to a fancy christening event, where folks prostrated at our commanding presence.
We schmoozed. We smiled and stood but didn’t snack.
After a brief foray at the forefront of luxurious living, we turned toward home for some dry gin and a few microwaved taquitos.
Waiting on the curb, we failed to notice the valet’s consternation.
He came out with the truth after some small talk. Nah, we figured, it couldn’t be as bad as he made it sound.
Wrong.
The smashed three-way light fixture, the inverted bumper and the chipping, dented-up paint were too much. We kept our cool, sucking our emotions into a tense, shaky vacuum.
The well-warranted apologies didn’t much help the situation. But that valet, he must have had it in for us.
The wound in our Liberty was too deep for the haphazardly sideswipe, tap or clipping. This damage was sustained through acceleration — driven by fury. But, why us?
Couldn’t this incident have been avoided through a personal diary, a stress ball, T’ai Chi or ballet?
Hindsight is 20/20, even for a nitwit who doesn’t watch the rearview mirror. We hope this man has learned something of the consequences of carelessness.
We sure have.
We’re calling for a boycott.
We hereby relinquish every right to valet service — and you can, too. From here on, anyone approaching our door, looking to hop on board for a joy ride will be refused entry.
Hiking from the back 40 is a small price to pay for peace of mind. And most events requiring valet services are too highbrow for our palate anyway.
So long, ignoble equerries.
It’s Friday and we’re out on our bicycle in 30-degree weather, buckling up for the apocalypse.
