I was moving down to Los Angeles when I got Ray's call. "Hey Mike, want to work for Yahoo?"
I rolled up my window. "What? Did you say Yahoo?" The flat plains of Central California blurred past me as I sped down the I-5.
"Yea. We're looking to hire some developers. Can you come in for an interview?"
A woman that drives a Mustang convertible is very different from a woman that drives a Civic hybrid. You know it's true. You've no doubt met both kinds of women before. And I'm sure you'll agree: there's a world of difference.
So what does a car say about a woman? How are they different? Let's find out.
She was stubborn and slow, but reliable like a workhorse. Not too pretty, but nice and faithful. My old 1991 Honda Accord, I mean.
A boxy four-door with automatic seat belts and chipped paint, she was as fast as a tortoise. Except she wasn't about to win any races. She was so slow that if I didn't put my foot all the way down on the gas pedal, I'd wind up back in 1881.
In other words, she wasn't that impressive. And the girls I dated while I had her weren't impressed either.
So you've decided you want a convertible. Good for you! It's the perfect car for bathing in the sun's warm vibrancy and rinsing with a cool, crisp draft. Each drive will leave you refreshed and reborn.
Owning a convertible automobile comes with a different set of responsibilities, concerns, and features though. For the uninitiated, it's not like a traditional car. To help with your buying decision, here are some tips.
I did it; I sold my baby. She's gone now, gone forever. Sniff.
It's a very emotional decision, you know, to sell one's baby. There are attachment issues, breaking that bond of love, saying goodbye. Not to mention accurate pricing and market demand.
Every Hong Kong street has walking signals. Just like any big city. Unlike New York City though, the pedestrians wait until the signal is green to cross.
This I didn't expect. I thought Hong Kong would be more like New York City — and that pedestrians wouldn't wait for no stupid signal and just walk whenever they wanted to.
"So you must be single?" asked the dealer with a grin.
I chuckled. "Yea. Is it that obvious?"
He patted the dashboard. "Yup. Married guys don't usually buy convertibles."
I admit it: I'm a car singer. I'll bellow out songs up the 101 until my throat is soar.
And yet, put me in front of a karaoke machine, and I'll freeze up like a popsicle. Karaoke, I don't do. But Caraoke, sure.
Unfortunately, other drivers don't always expect someone to be Caraoking, I guess. I say that because of the funny looks.
"White meat only."
- L. Spencer
"I'm trying to get with a white chick right now," Tim declared.
"Oh yea?" I raised an eyebrow. "How's that going?" I leaned back in my seat while keeping one hand on the steering wheel.
It was like my car was taking a golden shower on my finger. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
The day was crisp. Birds were announcing the arrival of the sun. Early morning joggers were taking to the streets. I awoke from some surreal dream and looked at the clock.
"It's Sunday," I thought to myself. "Sweet."
Weekly random rambles, musings & writings of Mike Lee in San Francisco, CA