It's back home, after 43 days in the body shop
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It's back home, after 43 days in the body shop
Don Hewett Chevrolet in Georgetown, TX did a really good job.
My three-week old SS was parked way too close to the terrorist attack at Fort Hood on 5 November. The SWAT guys and K-9 teams unloaded all around it. Didn't even get a scratch, but on the way home, late that night (the post was locked down until long after dinner time,) I hit a deer. After all that other people went through that day, it didn't seem like that big of a deal. Still, the wait for parts has been excruciating!
I drove it to and from work today, about 65 miles each way, and it beats the *heck* out of Debbie's '06 Mustang GT Convertible. Some soccer mom on the phone in her Volvo noticed her exit was coming and swerved from the left lane across the center lane and into the right lane to make it, missing me by inches. If she's smacked me just from being stone-stupid, I swear my reaction would have made the national news. My Brambos worked great and I'd bet a big pile of money that she never even noticed me.
I finally got the nerve to try connecting the car to my phone, a Blackberry Tour. The car's manual has nine pages on using a phone with it, hands-free, the Blackberry manual has six pages on how to make it work; how hard could it be? Easy, it turns out. Took almost a minute-and-a-half to set it up, following the directions. The only poorly documented weirdness was how to tell the phone that the "General Motors" device was to be "trusted," at connection time. I called Debbie about what to get at the grocery store, had the whole conversation, and then told her that I was chatting at the steering wheel the whole time. She had no idea, I sounded very clear. My first and only incoming call was a Spanish-language telemarketer. The IPod paused, there was a telephone-ringing noise out of the speakers, I pushed the telephone button on the wheel, listened a little, and pushed the "End Call" button. Easy. Eyes never left the road, great feature.
So, if my Camaro plays tunes from my IPod, sends my tire pressures to the OnStar satellite in the sky, and links to my phone while it's still on my belt, is it a car? Is it a Mother-Ship? My first for-sure-it's-a-car was a '68 Corvair Monza. You'd get the timing on a new set of points about right with a dwell meter (who even knows that that is?) and then tweak it by ear. The four single-barrel carburetors were a booger to get syncronized, but they were sweet once you got 'em right. If the shift linkage came loose, you reached under the car from the driver's side and hooked it back up. Now, some bubba talking through a satellite calls the cops for me when I hit something hard enough to set off a shot gun shell in my face (and that's a good thing!)
I love this car! Or, whatever it is.
My three-week old SS was parked way too close to the terrorist attack at Fort Hood on 5 November. The SWAT guys and K-9 teams unloaded all around it. Didn't even get a scratch, but on the way home, late that night (the post was locked down until long after dinner time,) I hit a deer. After all that other people went through that day, it didn't seem like that big of a deal. Still, the wait for parts has been excruciating!
I drove it to and from work today, about 65 miles each way, and it beats the *heck* out of Debbie's '06 Mustang GT Convertible. Some soccer mom on the phone in her Volvo noticed her exit was coming and swerved from the left lane across the center lane and into the right lane to make it, missing me by inches. If she's smacked me just from being stone-stupid, I swear my reaction would have made the national news. My Brambos worked great and I'd bet a big pile of money that she never even noticed me.
I finally got the nerve to try connecting the car to my phone, a Blackberry Tour. The car's manual has nine pages on using a phone with it, hands-free, the Blackberry manual has six pages on how to make it work; how hard could it be? Easy, it turns out. Took almost a minute-and-a-half to set it up, following the directions. The only poorly documented weirdness was how to tell the phone that the "General Motors" device was to be "trusted," at connection time. I called Debbie about what to get at the grocery store, had the whole conversation, and then told her that I was chatting at the steering wheel the whole time. She had no idea, I sounded very clear. My first and only incoming call was a Spanish-language telemarketer. The IPod paused, there was a telephone-ringing noise out of the speakers, I pushed the telephone button on the wheel, listened a little, and pushed the "End Call" button. Easy. Eyes never left the road, great feature.
So, if my Camaro plays tunes from my IPod, sends my tire pressures to the OnStar satellite in the sky, and links to my phone while it's still on my belt, is it a car? Is it a Mother-Ship? My first for-sure-it's-a-car was a '68 Corvair Monza. You'd get the timing on a new set of points about right with a dwell meter (who even knows that that is?) and then tweak it by ear. The four single-barrel carburetors were a booger to get syncronized, but they were sweet once you got 'em right. If the shift linkage came loose, you reached under the car from the driver's side and hooked it back up. Now, some bubba talking through a satellite calls the cops for me when I hit something hard enough to set off a shot gun shell in my face (and that's a good thing!)
I love this car! Or, whatever it is.
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