I know Sienfeld covered the issue, but when a rental car company takes a reservation and doesn’t have a car when you arrive, you should know they are quite willing to part with some pretty high-priced vouchers if you use phrases like “Guarantee is a legal term, right?” and “Does your manager know you charged my card already but now you don’t have my car?”
Advice to Norcal rental car drivers: Accept the GPS. Yes, it is overpriced, but then you won’t have to ask the vindictive bitch, in the blue Explorer next to you, how to get to the Richmond Bridge and end up with directions into San Francisco and spend an hour weaving your pissed and dejected ass down Lombard street to get to the Golden Gate bridge where you can putt-putt at snail-on-valium speed before you find the damn 101 North again.
Most of the area North of San Francisco can be summed up as follows:
Boots (pointy and shit-kicking), trucks – American and often toting bumperstickers that say things like Ron Paul rules cuz he has none, cows lazing around like day laborers at lunch, highly visible vineyards which sell enough monogrammed paraphernalia to make Donald Trump blush, small towns with sheriffs named Slim or Jim-Bob and who actually let pieces of hay dangle from their lip, forests of trees blessed with enough girth to humble your most well-endowed porn star, enough roadside roadkill that suggests the whole thing may not be accidental, roaming rivers with old men in waders who drink light beer and throw flylines with the sort of limp wrists one expects of urban San Franciscans and say things like “Sumbitch life doesn’t git much better’n ‘nis.”
FYI – I made it to the Redwoods today. Drove through a tree for absolutely no reason other than to say I drove through a tree. Had dinner at the Eel Lodge. For those whose gastrointestinal interests incline toward thick slabs of red meat and potatoes large enough to dunk at Staples center and things fried twice, this is your spot. The average weight of the clientele was somewhere North of Sumo-ish, and there was an omnipresent habit of both elbows on the table to fight the barbecue sauce apparently attacking their faces.
Alas, I hear a cricket chirping. Perhaps it is time to retire.