From Die Hard to Rancho Cucamonga

This one's a USC story. Not South Carolina, I'm talking about what "clever" people call the University of Spoiled Children, and still cleverer people call the University of South Central.

To put this in a time-frame, this was back in the days before almighty Trojan football. Back then, USC's strategy was to lose every stinkin' game. And those players were really good at losing. All except Keyshawn Johnson. I mention Keyshawn, because it represents the sum total of my football knowledge. That's right, I don't know shit about football. To USC alumni, this is far more difficult to come to terms with than, for example, the fact that I can't taste or smell. It's much more disturbing. Heck, I was even in a fraternity. It just doesn't make sense. And I figure, it's not worth ruining their universe, so I just pretend to like football, and I can do that, thanks to Keyshawn. Here's how it works: On learning that I went to USC, a stranger will say something really specific about some recent game that I know nothing about. (Are we in football season now? Fuck if I know.) I'll agree, but soon it will be expected for me to say something about football. At that point, I'll make a joke about how bad SC was back when I was there, and then I'll say, "except for Keyshawn." Then I'll make a face like I'm remembering how great it was to watch Keyshawn, maybe I'll whistle or something, and suddenly I'm friends with the stranger, and not expected to discuss football anymore, having passed the football test. So thank you Keyshawn for your help fitting in to society. Anyway, that's all just background. What I really wanted to talk about was the parking situation at USC and an incident that involved my car. Here goes. Back then, even though it was a different millennium, USC was very progressive with the price of parking passes, charging 21st century rates. I don't remember the specifics, but I think it was something like fifty bucks a month (yikes!). I conducted a study (not an intentional one) on how frequently the on-campus parking enforcement people actually ticketed cars, and discovered that paying in advance for parking was almost (though not quite) more expensive than paying after-the-fact. So what I needed was a place I could park legally when I wasn't in a hurry, to offset the frequent illegal parking. Enter my "Super Secret Amazingly Close To Campus and Yet Still Nobody Knows About It" parking spot. That's a long name though, so for reasons we'll get to, let's call it Die Hard. Die Hard had several advantages and disadvantages, some of which I've hinted at already. Here are the pros and cons of the parking spot: Advantages:

• No tickets
• Close to campus
• Always a parking spot available

Disadvantages

• Car gets broken into, without fail, every single time you park there

The disadvantage was admittedly annoying. Each time I'd park there, someone would come and smash the passenger side window. Then the thief would open the glove compartment, looking for a gun or drugs, but finding only the owner's manual to a '93 Honda, various maps of California, and a few four-colored pens. These items the thief would leave scattered on the floor, atop the glass, presumably disheartened by the experience. When I would return to the car, I too would be disappointed. And when I'd bring it to my window-replacement guy, he would roll his eyes and ask why I keep breaking my window. This is all entirely true. And I know you might think me an idiot to keep returning to this parking spot where the same thing kept happening. President Bush once said, "fool me once, shame on -- shame on you. Fool me -- you can't get fooled again." No but seriously, it was hard to believe that this would keep happening! I assumed the thief would learn I have nothing of interest in the glove compartment. And if there were more than one of them, hanging around the same spot (the Die Hard), they'd communicate. Apparently, it never hurts to smash a window and check, just to be sure, so they kept doing it. This brings us to why I'm calling it the Die Hard. This isn't the kind of street that street cleaners clean. If you dropped trash there, it would stay exactly where you left it until it appreciated in value to the point that someone would pick it up and ebay it. If you left, say, shattered glass, it would simply become part of the landscape, so the ground was pretty much covered in it. (Remember, that scene in the first Die Hard where Karl shoots all the windows out and John McClane has to run around barefoot in the shattered glass, but he still kills all the terrorists, cause he's such a badass?) In time, I learned that I was being silly to keep the window closed, so when I parked there, I would roll the window all the way down, open the glove compartment, and empty the contents onto the seat. With all the shattered glass on the street, it would look as if someone else had already taken the gun and/or drugs. For a time, it worked brilliantly. Then one day I returned to the Die Hard, only to find the car nowhere to be found. If you've ever had your car stolen, you know how weird it is. Initially you think, "Wait, did I really park here?" Then you walk around to all the other places you might've parked instead. Then you come back to where your car should be and wonder again, "did I really park here?" Then you check the parking signs to see if it could have been towed, and decide it couldn't have been. Then you decide that indeed, you really parked here and this sucks. Only I soon learned that it doesn't suck as much as I first thought. It took a police report and a discussion with my insurance company to discover that it didn't suck. What sucked was my beat-up 1993 tan-colored Honda. It being stolen meant the insurance would write me a check and it was time to go buy a new car. That was exciting news, and I started to fantasize about shopping. Could it come with unbreakable plexi-glass? (Or would that just anger them?) I was excited, and I only had to wait a few days for the insurance money to arrive. Then I got the call. The police. They found my car. It was in Rancho Cucamonga. They wanted me to come pick it up. This would mean there would be no insurance money. I said earlier that my not being into football can be totally unimaginable to USC alumni, and I know that to people not from Southern California's Inland Empire, the notion that a place named "Rancho Cucamonga" exists (and that it's not, like, a play-area at Knotts Berry Farm or something) must seem pretty unimaginable. But yes, Rancho Cucamonga is all too real, and it's the place the thieves abandoned my shitty '93 Honda, the place where my dream of replacing said Honda died. When I got to the car, I inspected it for clues. The thieves had taken a crowbar and attempted to pry open the front hood. This produced the opposite of the intended effect, wedging the front hood permanently shut. A better strategy for getting at the engine would have been to enter the car (unlocking the door from the open window) and pop the hood using the lever. What could it mean? Inside the car, there were Taco Bell wrappers, not just in the front seat, but in the back too. It had been several thieves. There was evidence of a failed attempt at removing the radio: someone had made some screwdriver punctures above it and pried off a piece of the non-removable faceplate. I was seeing a pattern that could only mean one thing. These guys were idiots. Idiots from Rancho Cucamonga. The cops called them joyriders, not car thieves, and refused to investigate a clearly visible thumb-print on the rear-view mirror, since I had already recovered the car.

On the way home, I pulled into a mechanic to investigate why the temperature gauge was running so high and why the car was making such strange noises. Turns out, it had something to do with a blown head gasket. So maybe these guys weren't joyriders from Rancho Cucamonga after all, maybe the car had overheated and had the last laugh.