scooters, vacation, fall

Though my persona here revolves around a scrupulous ambivlaence, there are a few verities even I can assent to without hedging. One of these is: never, ever ship your car. Here's what the dude who picked mine up in L.A. (to take it to the multicar carrier that would bring it cross country) did about 45 seconds after I handed him the keys. It then took this driver (who was, in every way, bad as his job), a much more able co-worker whose day off it was but who lived in the area, this second guy's brother, and three buddies they happened to bring along over three hours to get the thing back in position: You will have gather that I retained these pictures less for your amusement than for my own protection. The NY end of the story involves meeting another (entirely blameless) driver in the parking lot of a Staples in Kingston (which I'm already beginning to think of as the Rancho Cucamonga of the Hudson Valley) with a wad of cash like my car was contraband, driving it around the lot once before signing off, I'm not sure how bindingly, on its condition, because that was the only way it was going to be handed over, and having the transmission fail suddenly, noisily and completely while rounding a turn three days later. This is all very ordinary (is that a solecism, like "most unique"?), but it feels good to get it down, and it may serve as a partial explanation -- if you take as described various auxiliary inconveniences -- of why I haven't been bantering with you all about the arts so much lately, much less responding thoughtfully. This crap (and the insurance stage hasn't even begun) has taken nearly as much time as prepping my first week of classes.