Montgomery Blows

The initial title for this post, or at least what I thought was going to be this post until this afternoon, was:  Montgomery v The Jonas Brothers.  And yes, whilst it sounds like the gayest prize fight in the Village (chances of upping readership:  large), it was actually supposed to be about my finally manning up and getting title to a vehicle rather than eternally tooling around in Wanda the Honda (no, she does not charge by the hour...).

In fact, this post will now be about the fact that I managed to get Montgomery the Mazda, 1993 vintage, mere months younger than The Jonas Brothers (ah ha...) a mere four miles up the road to Westwood before the radiator fluid boiled over and someone kindly pointed out that there was smoke coming out of my engine.  Of course, this shit never goes down on Rodeo Drive, where I imagine the man from Gucci would run to my aid monogrammed handkerchief in hand to pour Fiji water into my empty radiator tank, and so I found myself ruining my manicure next to a Seven 11 (how do you write that brand name, no really?) and a Baskin' Robbins. 

And not just any 711 (oh, whatever) / Baskin Robbins combo, but the one that's conveniently located next to the Los Angeles National Veterans Park, which, alas, meant that not only was I man-handling radiator fluid in these:

I was simultaneously tweaking the engine and crowd-controlling able or not so-bodied men away from my vehicle like it was a happy-hour at a Ruby Tuesday's (I would have said Hooters but that would be false advertising).  Which Biblical ass-hole said that these things were meant to try us?  Hold on, I'll check with The Jonas Brothers...