*day of the “hell”, in Latin American translation (apologies if this is incorrect)
That is what I should have done Saturday. Slept in, and stayed home on the rarest of occasions in my current life that is a day-off from work on a Saturday. But I’m not programmed to stay home on a Saturday. All those Saturdays I’ve worked and/or traveled for fun (after work) over the years have me in this natural cycle to do something on the funnest day of the week.
I had intentions for this day. The Giants Fanfest was happening, as was an event I’ve been itching to attend for months: a BDSM party at an actual BDSM club. Nice as well was that I got to drive my dad’s nice Camaro for this–the same one I took to LA a few months ago (remember this for later). And while I didn’t get that much sleep the night before, I was eager to wake up early for it all. To go back to the ballpark of baseball’s world champions, and to go to a BDSM club for the first time ever. (This particular club has a special gathering for newbies before the party, which I also planned on attending. These were all plans made well over a month ago, and you’d think that plans made in advance would go smoothly.
There are times, not often but on occasions, where I wake up and get the immediate sense that something interesting will happen that day. Interesting in either a good or bad way. That Saturday was one of those days. For one, I woke up a little later than I intended to–like an hour later. It wasn’t a biggie at first, until when I was prepping all my food to bring for the day did I realize I was taking my sweet-ass time. I left my hometown a little after 12 noon. So much for wanting to spend three, or at least, 2 1/2 full hours at AT&T Park for Fanfest. And then I forgot about the noon-time traffic that occurs in the el Cerrito/Berkeley area. And it was there that I noticed some shit with the car. A bit of smoke coming from the hood. The smoke was light and it’s done that a few times before (this is an old car, mind you), but every time I see it happen, it gets me nervous. I made a quick exit to stop and check on it. Nothing seemed or sounded out of place, but the pit stop delayed me. By the time I got to the ballpark, after encountering more traffic, it was almost 2PM. And Fanfest ends at 3PM. Hahahahaha to me, but whatever, I was going to make the most of my short time. Hell, admission was free to the thing, and if you know where to park, you can park for free as well. I don’t miss an opportunity to get those now-$8 (!) garlic fries (it used to be $7 last year) and see our World Champs in person.
(By the way, there were times when it was pouring out there. Thus the raindrops.)
I gotta say, this is third year in a row that I got to see Jeremy Affeldt and Buster Posey in person. The first time, in 2013, was really unexpected. I was walking at the bottom floor of the ballpark–in the hallway where all the players and personnel go through to get to the clubhouse and offices. I got to say hi to Affeldt and saw Posey in the flesh. I swear on everything that’s holy in this world, I told Posey to “shake it.” I don’t think he heard me, or ignored my trolling fangirl ass, but I could not forget hearing the squeals of other girls in the hallway that saw Posey as well. Maaaaaannnn, they were loud. (That 2013, I also got to meet Bruce Bochy. As I saw him walking, I said hi to him, and he asked me “hi, how are you?”/”Doing fine,” I said, “how about you?”/”Doing well, thank you,” he replied. Remember, this was a manager that just won another World Series, that would win another one the next year, and his name now being considered as Hall of Fame-worthy.)
Despite all this baseball fun, I thought the highlight of my day would come a little later, with my plans to go to that BDSM club. Turns out, Fanfest ended up being the best moment of my day. Because from then on out, my day would get a little more interesting. In a really shitty way.
So you know you wanna get to the next page to see how miserable life got for me.
Remember the car that I was driving? Well, nothing was wrong with the Camaro. At least it seemed like it after I left Fanfest to go to the beach. During the drive, I noticed it wasn’t speeding up as fast as I wanted it to. I was on the left lane of the freeway, and tried to go fast, but oddly could not. The dashboard had the “check gages” light on, but my dad said it was “normal” for it to flash every now and then. That prompt stayed on. When I finally arrived at the beaches in Pacifica, I thought that a rest for the car would help it out. So after hanging out at Linda Mar State Beach for a half-hour or so, I wanted to drive down highway 1, even if the scenery was a little foggy and overcast. I haven’t been to a beach in months, and was eager for a seaside drive. So when I started up the car, it wouldn’t budge.
I’ll admit: I’m somewhat brainless with the technical side of a car. It’s like pre-calculus: I can barely get through a problem, as long as I have a calculator. (In this case, I had my phone. You know, to Google up shit.) Don’t bother asking me where the water for the car goes, how to change a tire, or the difference between radiator fluid and coolant and all that stuff. It’s sad because I love to drive, and I should know a thing or twenty about what to do when my car goes haywire. But I don’t. And on the one day I should fucking know my cars just happened to be this day.
So what did brainless me do? Call up a tow truck. I figured the guy driving it would see what’s wrong with my car. And, yes, he’s not an actual mechanic, but where can I find an actual one on a Saturday? The tow truck guy said I needed some water and oil in my car to get it going again. He pointed out the gas station nearby that had water for cars. Luckily, my car wasn’t entirely dead, as I got it started again. (And thanks to the tow truck guy for not charging me a penny for playing car mechanic for a hot minute.) And when I got to this gas station, I got a little more lucky, as they had two mechanics on staff. They said I needed some oil and water. So they took care of that; well, actually, they took care of the oil and the water. It looked like things worked out, as I drove off with a restored peace-of-mind. At least, I thought things worked out.
Since I don’t want to look like too much of a fool on my blog, I shall spare you most of what was becoming an embarrassing and frustrating incident. I ended up having speeding issues again on the freeway, and I had to make another stop, this time in Daly City. I parked right by a gas station. Couldn’t get help. The car also could not run again. I finally called my dad about my situation. Turns out he was way out in Antioch at a party. He wasn’t too happy about what was happening with the car, and I thought my only option was to get my car towed. Back home–60-something miles away from where I was. I didn’t know what was the better option at this point: pay $540 from there to home (and that was the lowest price I got when I called up towing services; when I called the company of the tow truck that helped me out at the beach, they were charging over $600!!!), or get ass-fucked by a random stranger. I decided to let the engine cool while I finally got to my lunch. Afterwards, I tried to start it…and it worked this time. But because I wanted to play it safe, I made some stops to check on the hood. I then reached a gas station in downtown SF, but not before seeing crazy smoke come out of the hood. The cashier, as well as this stranger I met at the parking lot of this gas station (yes, I turned to a stranger for help, because, at this moment, I’d turn to anyone that seemingly knew their cars), helped me out, pointing out I needed not just more water, but coolant. After all this, I still had fucking car issues.
In the end, I ended up getting my car towed. Thank goodness the insurance on the car covered roadside assistance, albeit partially (I should have kept this in mind when I was originally looking for towing services earlier). I had to pay $147 to get it out and take it home. Oh, and I also had to wait almost two hours from when I called the insurance company for the tow truck to get to me. This being Saturday night and being in the city, of course it would take longer than usual. Now keep all this in mind: just three months ago, I drove that car to LA. Spent a full week there, and then drove back up home, without a single problem. I drive to SF, and this shit goes down. Fuck, I drove the car just two days before, and nothing happened! And as I left SF, albeit really early for a Saturday night, I saw what could be the cherry on top of my otherwise day of fuckery: a large billboard, visible to drivers on northbound 101, promoting that goddamned “Fifty Shades of Garbage” movie. (This being SF, a city that actually knows its BDSM, that’s like putting a Wal-Mart in the city, isn’t it?)
The other really shitty part about my car woes? I didn’t get to go to the BDSM club. I was really itching to go this time, to, among other things, inquire actual people involved in the lifestyle on what they think about that one movie and that so-called book, considering that the movie was going to open in less than a week. I got a feeling some 50 Shades fan read my piece on that shit, and picked the right day to hex me, simply because my opinion and stating some facts made them butthurt. I swear, if everything went according to plan Saturday, you would have instead been reading my fun day spent at a ballpark, and my fun night at a BDSM club, and this post would have been titled “Of Baseball And BDSM.” Blame it on the idiot 50 Shades fan for not giving me that opportunity.
Dia de la Carajo ended when I finally arrived home in the final minutes of that Saturday. A Saturday so shitty it should be flushed down the toilet and then burned when it hits the landfill. Never had a Saturday as bad as the one I just experienced. You may think the silver lining in all this is that my life was, at least, not boring, and that I had a story to tell. Maybe not the one I originally wanted to tell, but a story, nonetheless. But just for once, I wanted to be boring, or at least, for things to go as originally planned.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to vent on another missed opportunity in my life.