When your Lower Control Arm snaps...

... when you're driving on a highway, it isn't a good thing. So for those of you who don't know, the lower control arm in your car is basically the thing that connects your wheel to your car frame, axle and steering link, so that the weight is held up by the frame, while the the steering wheel and the axle control turning and thrust. All in all, an important part of the car, unlike, say, the temperature control on the passenger side seat, or the light that turns on when you flip down the mirror in the sun visor...

So here is how a lower control arm should look:

And this is how my lower control arm looked at the local AAMCO in bumfuck Pennsylvania.

See that giant crack? Yeah, that happened to me when I was driving in PA in the middle of nowhere, at 50 mph or so. When your front passenger side just crumples, you know you're in trouble. Fortunately, yogi is endowed with pretty good driving skills, so apart from the slightly soiled pants, nothing else was damaged. Another stroke of luck: the car gave out right in front of a 7-11/gas station. Hello Indian people... (the dude was from Punjab, and was cool enough to let me abandon the car there - the tow truck didn't show until two days later).

It cost me a solid 800 bucks (a bit more) and a week to replace the control arm and the axle (bent out of shape), plus labor and towing. But on the other hand, I'm alive, so it's good. Phew.

Iceland Air - my personal saga

So last week's little trans-Atlantic trip reminded me of a very different, but almost equally memorable trip that I made when I was a bit younger; the background is that I'm this young, broke student, and I'm trying to visit this lady-friend of mine back in England. The whole romantic affair was a waste of time, but the actual flight there turned out to be rather eventful. Here's an email I shot off after I got back, with some edits (the writing was horrendously tacky - I was a young and jilted lover who had just had a bad flight experience...)

With all the money I had made, the only airline I could afford was Iceland-air. Now if there's one thing I learned after this trip (and you should learn after reading this), it's never to fly Iceland-air. First of all, they buy all their 737s second-hand from Ryanair (which buys all their aircraft from the worn-out Ghana-air fleet, which in turn buys Kyrghyz-air rejects, which are basically the planes that the pilots of Air India have reduced to wrecks after 20 years of semi-drunk flying). So we get into this shell of a plane which looks like its just been in a demolition derby and spray painted by Andy Warhol off his meds. The insides are worse - bad karma all around. It looks (and smells) like the last trip involved horses, alcohol, frayed tempers and many, many upset stomachs. I say so to the old lady who sits to my left; she nods somewhat dreamily; I look to my right, and there's this cute thing (the one bright spot in the trip) that sits next to me, and we look at each other nervously as the plane shudders down the runway and eventually decides to heave itself into the air inches before we all get dumped into Chesapeake bay.

I look at the in-flight mag. Eidur Gudjohnssen is the first Icelander to play footie in England. You get good fish in Iceland. Icelandic water is clean. Icelanders bathe in open air pools and hot streams. Iceland has good fish. Icelandic water is healthy. Eidur Gudjohnssen has a wart on his left toe. Hm.

I turn talk to the babe, but the old woman on my left gets to me first; turns out she's on her way to meet her girl-friend. I make the mistake of looking at her quizzically, because she enthusiastically tells me that they indeed are dating. I also learn in quick succession, that
a. she was married,
b. her husband beat her every night,
c. she had kids (many),
d. her husband beat her every night,
e. her many kids had kids,
f. her husband beat her every night,
g. she eloped with her grandkid's governess.
Also jokingly, she adds that septuagenarian lesbians are, sadly, hard to come by. I laugh uneasily, and decide the only way to shut out the visual images that keep popping up in my head is to focus on the in-flight magazine (the TV closest to me was 12" across and a good 20 feet away, and they were showing Icelandic 70s pop). The two women on either side of me continue to have a spirited conversation about woman power.


Before long (I had time to read about Eidur Gudjohnssen's up-to-date love life twice over) we reach some stable altitude and wobble there. This is when Icelandic airhostesses appear with food. Each one of these ladies look like they can smother Hulk Hogan between their ample bicep and forearm fat pads. And they wear lipstick like it's been painted on by a 12" brush. As I quiver in fright as their body looms in front blocking all cabin light, they ask "VOT DO YOU VANT" in a decidedly you-better-tell-me-quick-you-dipshit-i-need-to-go-put-my-lipstick-on-again kind of
tone. So I ask for the pasta and get some glop that looks like its left over from the last ice age. Plus it has bits of what looks suspiciously like walrus meat, but I don't want to antagonize my friendly Icelandic airhostess. So I let Ms Hagar go bleach her bushy mustache and apply more green/orange eyeshadow, and I swallow the glop (carefully avoiding the meat - it has bristles on it that look just like walrus whiskers. I'm sure it was walrus meat). Fortunately they follow it up with alcohol (aqvavit - Iceland's national drink. Of course). I decide I need a stiff one, so does Etta (the pretty thing - we were close pals by then). So we down a couple, and then the ageing beast (the plane, not the airhostess) decides to do an all out death dance in the middle of the atlantic. Lights go out, alarms go off (REALLY loud sirens), and we all panic a bit. I decide to cash in, and turn towards Etta to comfort her, but glop + aqvavit was too much for her delicate tummy. She turns green, and before I can whip out the barf bag, she shoots out projectiles of half eaten walrus meat (though her nose too, I swear I saw it) all over a radius of six feet.

I turn green now, and turn away (hey, there's only so much I can do ok? besides I had a girlfriend back then - or so I thought - and judging from this babe's pro-lesbian tilt, I could be heading for a big letdown). Meanwhile Ms Hagar comes around, yells in Icelandic to her minions (I could see a vein throb in her temple); they wipe up the mess hurriedly and squirt some airfreshner that smells like a horses backside pretty much in our faces. As I clear my throat to let out a whimper of protest I get the eye from the lady, so I swallow the rising bile and shut up. It suddenly dawns on me about how it all makes sense. The horseshit, the vomit and the bad karma; it all fitted in... Feeling enlightened, I fall into dreamless sleep for about 30 seconds when the bloody sirens go off again. We're landing this time.

We land in Iceland (its quite brown and barren) on a rutted landing strip, we all shuffle into a lounge as big as my uncle's bathroom. exactly 17 minutes later (I understand that this is the minimum time gap between 2 legs of a flight in the same carrier) we shuffle out of the lounge and back into our seats. They shuffle seats though, so this time I get empty seats on either side. They shuffle airhostesses too, so this time I get a brunette Ms Hagar. But I've had enough of all this shuffling, and my enlightened mood manages to linger on so I just squeeze my eyes shut and dream of anatomically inaccurate viking babes till we get to Heathrow...

Top Ten List -Sailing trip

No, this isn't one of those informative Top Ten lists; just a few things I feel compelled to write about. Sailing in the Solent was freaking awesome, so why not round it off with some blather. It's more like a list of highlights. Whatever.

10. Top one liner of the trip (from Paul, the skipper, upon sighting a somewhat less than ravishingly beautiful lady at the marina): "You know, I understand all women have the right to ugliness, but really, some of them do abuse the privilege."

9. Top Medicine I took along: No, not Stugeron for sea-sickness (well, maybe if you have a really quick gag reflex it might be what you need). Pepto Bismol. Two days of rice and beans + lots of milk in my many cups of tea = case of shits at sea. It could have been very very unpleasant, except for Pepto, which made it only marginally unpleasant.

8. Top accessory that was of no use: Waterproof Silicone ear plugs. The wind and water on deck wasn't crazy, so I didn't need it for that. However, I had to break them out at night, but to no avail. Turns out Silicone ear plugs are no match for pushupdad's window-rattling, tide-turning, eardrum-tearing snoring.

7. Top icky moment: During a somewhat choppy run, I had to go below deck to empty a kidney (see what those endless cups of tea do to you?), and I was told not to be a hero, but sit and pee instead. Not willing to clean up urine from the floor and possibly walls, I sat. Except we turned tack and simultaneously hit a giant wave, and the contents of the toilet bowl (fortunately devoid of any input from yogi) went WHOOSH, right up my ass-crack. We didn't hit a shower until two days later.

6. Top Unfortunate Visual: Speaking of ass-cracks, the skipper has THE hairiest I have had the misfortune of having to inadvertently lay my eyes on. Being the skipper, he was also the plumber on the boat, and he wore his pants low. Bad combination. Great guy otherwise.

5. Top Limerick (from a watch mate):
"There was a lady who begat
Three kids - Pat, Matt, and Tat,
The fun was in making 'em,
Not so much in nursing 'em -
There was no tit for Tat."

4. Top new skill: Tying knots. I had a phobia of knots (I knew the reef knot, and that was it. I have never been able to tie anything in my life. Honest); that has now been downgraded to just a deep ineptitude at tying knots. I still completely screw stuff up - it took me 4 days to get the most basic of them, the clove hitch - but at least now I know how to tie a few knots with fancy names: The double clove hitch, the bowline, the sheepshank... which I will now proceed to forget, I'm sure

3. Top reason to hate technology: A guy in my cabin had his iPhone alarm go off at 4:00 am, and then at 4:10, and then at 4:20... I had to hit him each time to wake him up because he could sleep right through it, and he'd hit snooze instead of off, and it would go off again. After a rough day's physical work and pushupdad's thunderous snoring, it was enough to make me want to throw it overboard.

2. Top reason to go back ashore: The beer. The food's alright, but the beer... mmh. Of course, too much beer will give you a case of the shits at sea, but as long as you have pepto, you'll be fine. As far as the whole prostitutes at ports theory goes, I didn't see any. Maybe they were there but just avoided the Indian guy chugging beer like a maniac. Maybe it's just a thing of the past. Or I don't know where to look. Either way, I didn't get acquainted with any, Oh and also, you get to eat desserts with names like Spotted Dick. Presumably named after what you get if you do get acquainted with prostitutes at ports.

1. Top reason to do all this is the first place: Because you can. It's that simple. If you can, do it. The Solent is beautiful, the Isle of Wight is beautiful, but even if you don't get to go all the way there, sail somewhere else. If you want to have an ocean adventure, don't go on a cruise and sit on a deck chair to get a tan, go sail to wherever you want to go. It is truly enjoyable (even if it's hard work), and time, energy and money well spent.

Aggravating Travel Notes - Skyline Drive

And as promised, here are the couple of things you should know about the Chevy Aveo:

1. It has ONE cup holder. Slap bang in the middle of the car, which means that its a good two feet behind you, which means that if you're in front, you have to execute a complex variation of Vakrasana to get to the damn coffee cup. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Oh, here's what Vakrasana looks like.



2. The lever to open the fuel flap is buried under the seat. Plus out lever had its markings worn out, so it took me a good three minutes to locate it when I needed to refuel, much to the amusement of the lady in the big pickup at pump #3.

3. The thing sounded like it was stuck in 2nd gear. So each time we'd top 60 mph, the whole thing would sound like we were trying to get it to 120 mph, and it would start vibrating (at a high frequency - almost like a buzzing).

4. The cruise control wouldn't work. Which is painful when you've escaped a high-beam tailgating maniac, and want to relax on a highway.

So Chevy Aveo, you get a 2 on 10. you deserve a 1, but you didn't break in the middle of the drive, so you get a point for that.


Two other aggravating notes from the drive: We met up with these really nice people on the way, and we ate some great food at their home (oh, the advantages of being Indian). Since they lived way out in the countryside, one of their other guests was determined to see us off till we hit the highway to get back home. This would have been nice gesture, except that the guy drove literally 6 feet behind me all the way. With. His. High. Beams. On. The faster I got, the more determined the guy was to keep up with me. I mean, I was totally blind and hurtling through these country roads at a suicidal 70 miles an hour, but there was no shaking the guy. There he was, with those big ol' high beams in my rear view mirror. I think we finally lost him when we hit the highway. I bet he thinks I drive like a jackass; I also bet he doesn't know how close he was to killing us.

Plus my friend Geetu tried killing us and people around us on at least 5 different occasions on the road. Now, Geetu is an awesome person, but the one thing she does do quite often is gesticulate like someone is repeatedly jabbing at her with a cattle prod. Which is only funny when you're not at the wheel of a car with surprisingly sensitive handling. I had to start playing Vivaldi in the car and close my eyes and visualize meadows in the spring to help me stop hyperventilating (really.) The big advantage of course was that there was no one within a good 300 feet of the crazy swerving Chevy Aveo on the highway - them drivers knew who not to mess with...