isn't it amazing that something as mundane as the inner door latch mechanism of a '92 honda prelude driver's-side door could even warrant a saga?
maybe only in my tiny universe, where the the very miniscule globber of leftover conditioner caught in the tub drain gets noticed, but hey, what else do i have?
i loaned my car to a mate to use whilst hers was in the shop one night. upon returning it, she texted me: "your door is weird", and with these four boring words, i launched on what has become a now-6 day adventure i could've completely done without.
my friend couldn't get the door open. she tried unlocking it, inside and out, but it still acted like it was locked tight. the next morning, i managed, completely by accident, to get it open and pulled the panel off. i tinkered with things until i had it fixed.
i thought. i spent the better half of a day fucking around with that, and comme ce comme ca
, killed the battery and quit in frustration.
so that night we took it over to my pal g's, and he and i dicked around with it in his crowded garage, to no avail.
so i call around to salvage yards to locate myself a cheap replacement, and find one that might have what i need. that night, i sleep extremely poorly, haunted by nightmares of never getting the door to shut right, or if i do, never getting it open again.
so tired, and loopy, i venture out into the driving rain on my own in 20 acres of wrecked vehicles, armed only with a soggy piece of paper delineating in cyrilic (apparently) where to find the cars that might bear the part i need, a screwdriver, and a can of wd-40. about a half-hour into it, and soaked to the skin, i find what i need. pleased as punch, i pull the part and dance my way back to the car and call g and say i am on my way.
the part is not an exact fit, but g and i push and pull and dent and ding and get it in and working. except the striker bar is now too wide for the latch mechanism. i sigh one of those sighs.
i am now completely beat to hell, coughing, aching in absolutely every spot on my body, exhausted, and my right hand is a network of angry red cuts, and i now have to venture back into the wreckage to pull the striker post off of the car from which i lifted the latch.
but the next morning, the screws are immobile. i sweat, curse, and end up damn near stripping them out. frustrated, and with throbbing hands, i stand upright and look around me.
"hey!" i think, "there is a prelude right there." i walk over to inspect it, and turn around to glance back at the vehicle i have been working on.
"fuck me gently with a chainsaw, it's an acura!" apparently, i am unable to tell an acura from a honda when they have no front end. which would explain why the part is not an exact fit.
now i am simply waiting for the part to arrive from a seller on ebay, and healing, and hopefully i will be rid of this whole pain-in-the-ass door latch problem for good.
but by christ, these past several days have been a colossul fezzle for me.
can any of you non-existant readers remember when music was dangerous? yeah, me neither. we all think
the new stuff we listen to is dangerous and pushing the envelope, but really it is just doing the same thing music has done since the dawn of time: entrance and sometimes engender feelings of fear.