Dustin' crops where there ain't no crops

We recently bought a new car, which actually means that we bought a newer used car than the one we had before. We actually like the 92 Honda LX that we inherited from my mother-in-law: it ran well, we knew it had been kept up well, it was a standard, and it had a horrible blue paint job that ensured that no one would ever think of stealing it. It had been having more problems of late, however, so we started thinking about getting a new car; when our last visit to the mechanic required yet another $400 fix, we decided to actually purchase a new car.

Our new car is a mossy green 98 Mazda 626 that we purchased off of a former UMD grad student. I won't go into the full details, because they're depressing and because I'm likely in anger to put the per's real name for everyone to see, but suffice to say that we learned our lesson to never purchase a car unless your mechanic checks it out first -- that to not wait for him to come back from vacation first may be a mistake. Lesson learned.

In any case, over a grand later, we have a car in good condition -- with one exception: replacing the bad clunking is a cute little hum, like a mechanized bumblebee. I now have identified the sound as more akin to what a Vespa sounds like or, as a colleague here said where I described it, like a cartoon car.

I must admit, however, that my first thought was North by Northwest.

For some reason, I originally thought the hum sounded like one of those propeller crop-duster planes. Being a kid from either the subrubs or the city, I have never actually seen one of these, but I have seen Hitchcock's film, which is good enough for me.

What really amuses me is that I now think of myself as driving that crop-duster. This also means that I'm looking out for Cary Grant. Because if I see him, I'm going to have to try to machine-gun him down. In case you think I'm kidding, I actually am looking out for Cary Grant. Me and my malevolent mossy green Mazda. Hee hee.

Suffice to say that I shouldn't take this too far: if, indeed, I do encounter Roger Thornhill, the movie also tells me that this story does not end well for either the plane or the pilot. Nevertheless, I would warn all Cary Grant lookalikes living in Takoma Park, Tenleytown and the area around Walter Reade to stay at home.