Re: My Baby

[Alex Kowalski (audial@aol.com) (Law Guest Account) <lawguest@wppost.depaul.edu>]

Sometimes I'm so paranoid about parking my car in my building's
(unassigned spaces) parking garage that I think about keeping a vial of
Xanax in the glove compartment.  Picture this:  tight, confined garage,
inadequately lit.  Oversold spaces.  Lots of upper-middle class, ahem,
kinesthetically-challenged folks driving large, cumbersome $40k
sport-utes (apparently now a necessity in urban areas)  or
septugenarian retirees with honkin' huge Lincolns and Caddys that have
too much tip-in throttle linked to nervous systems with progressively
lengthening delay lines ("...really gets off the mark, eh Martha?").  Not
really worried if they put a miniature crater in your fender maneuvering
their behemoths because they have places to go.  Not really aware if
they do, so maybe not even an apology note.  And don't forget about the
kids swinging open those doors so they can get to the pool!!!  Half-life of a
pristine car body parked willy-nilly is approximately 1 week. 

Don't want to risk it?  Park on the street and take your chances with the
buses and cabs, not to mention the roving cadres of cheerful
property-redistribution agents.  

I'm only being a little melodramatic.

I usually bury my 5KTQ waaaaaay back in the far corner, as close to the
wall as I can get it, and climb over the passenger seat to get out.  I started
doing this when I watched a nice older lady attempting to back her 
Roadmaster into a spot haplessly wrinkle the fender and passenger door 
of a <gorgeous> red Jag XJ12.  She didn't even realize she was hitting it
until she had ruined 2 linear feet of sheetmetal with her bumper.  The
Roadmaster is so big that the rear end is in another zip-code.  

Ouch.

Best Wishes,

Alex
'86 5KCSTQ