Why do my halls echo with the sounds of my crazy, maniacal laughter? Because i've (nearly) finished the bike rebuild!
See, at first it was like this:
And it was fine but then i made a few changes... subtle like. But then this winter i got the inspiration and for a few months it looked like this:
And those were sad times but i did not lose faith... Now I have this:
Holy shit!
Though i'm still missing a front brake line, it feels like i took the chains off an angry dog. The engine is alive now that I've added the lightness and removed the stupid air box. Plus i sprinkled the carb with magic fingers.
(Eyeball those K&N intakes!) But best of all it looks like it's gonna push you down and take your lunch money! It makes me want to put on my leather and go start bar fights!
Today I had to meet with some corporate stooges about some corporate clown-shoing, so it seemed like a rare situation where i should style my hair. My hair, you see, is approaching shaggy because, well, I'm a poor college student and it's how we do.
However, today is also a March day, which means it falls in Mustache March, and certain people insist that i grow a mustache. Of course to let only a mustache grow in would be peder-ast of one, meaning I start rocking the whole beard.
Now my hair is styled and my 5 days worth of George Michael facial hair is kicking. But alas, it's sunny and warm for the firs time in 2010, thus i would be a fool to leave the house without the convertible!
(Here it is, surrounded by the still melting snow)
Top down in a Miata, with a George Michael beard and gelled hair. Suspicious? Yes, but given the benefit of the doubter, one might say, "My, that dapper sports car enthusiast must have a job interview today," and actually believe it... Until the radio started playing Hall and Oats "Man Eater."
And i turned it up.
(Dammit, if Hall and Oats is wrong then i don't want to be right.)
What say you, Mega Shark?
In other news...
Here is a preview of the soon to be released (from the basement) motorcycle, with mad rebuild.
That is all.
(It could have been worse... it could have been this version. I still wouldn't have changed the station.)
It's fun when an artist shocks you with their prescience. I believe it was you that Henry David Thoreau foresaw when he said that "the mass of men live lives of quiet desperation." I used to tell myself that I would never live a life of quiet desperation; I would scream my desperation for everyone to hear. But you've tamed me. When I'm with you my pupils dilate, my breath falls into calm repetition and my spirit bleeds.
There is not one thing about you that I like. Your steel drawers are joyless, your calendar taunts me and your walls are shabby. Could there be a lazier expression of light than the harsh glow from that buzzing fluorescent tube you keep encased in a plastic grate? I'm Irish for crying out loud. My skin reflects light poorly enough under soft conditions, beneath you I look like a milk-filled jellyfish.
The decorum that my co-workers have hung about your entrance is misguided and cruel. That picture of San Antonio Spurs guard Manu Ginobli doesn't look anything like me. While I do have dark hair, dark eyebrows and perennial two day stubble, I had hoped that this made me look more like Matthew Fox from Lost than a balding Argentinean. And I'm sure it was good fun for them to pin my quote from last week's happy hour on your outside wall, but when I said that "the decade since I graduated college has been nothing but bad news and depressing life lessons," it was uttered in a state of honest sadness, it was not meant to be ironic, hyperbolic or funny in any way.
There are a couple of small comforts that have made short clips of my time with you at least tolerable. I enjoy reading my page-a-day Onion desk calendar, although it was such a crutch against your dogged grind that I burned through the full year's worth of entries in early March. I'm thankful that a cleaning crew comes by dark of night to empty my rubber trash can and sweep up all the crumbs and hairs that accumulate in my keyboard, although I'm certain that they're stealing my mints.
If I hate you so much, why do I spend the waking hours of my prime locked in this terrible relationship? Nobody is forcing me to return to you everyday, it's become a conditioned response to waking up. What if I stopped going? What if I up and left? I could become a Park Ranger and spend my time in the outdoors. Surely I'm qualified to be a Park Ranger, with minimal training I could become quite skilled at telling people to ask their dogs to quiet down. Or I could double-down and dig my way out. If I spent my nights and weekends with you they'd move me into that office with the blinds and the fake plant. I bet I could be happy in that office, gazing upon the landscape print that hangs above my desk and doesn't offend anyone. From there I could look out at you through my glass wall. I could take your new prisoner out to lunch and tell them everything. I'd tell them about how you are, and I'd tell them about what you do.
BY REBECCA COFFEY - - - - 1. Allow the angel to reach room temperature. Then kill it.
2. Kill God. Set Him aside.
3. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.
4. Ecstatically whip, as if possessed by a storm-wind of freedom, 1-1/2 cups of excellent egg whites with 1/4 tsp. salt and 1-1/2 tsp. cream of tartar. Continue until peaks are as if raised to their own heights and given wings in a fine air, a robust air.
5. Gradually add 3/4 cup sugar, about 3 tbsp. at a time.
6. You are brilliant.
7. Now, add 1 tsp. vanilla and 1/4 tsp. almond extract, and then sift together 1-1/4 cups flour and 3/4 cup sugar.
8. Blend in God and the angel. Emboldened, add the egg mixture.
9. Gaze into the überbatter. The überbatter will gaze into you.
10. While prancing about in a frenzy of self-satisfaction and anticipation, use a rubber scraper to push the überbatter into an ungreased 10" tube pan, for it is destined to be there.
11. Bake on a lower rack until done, usually 35-40 minutes, while reciting to the upper rack a long, convoluted anecdote about your childhood.
12. Invert the tube pan over a bottle for a few hours. Then impetuously rap the pan. Shout, "Aha!" and slide a knife along the pan's insides.
13. Call what tumbles out a cake if you dare. Call it miraculous even.
14. Eat it. It is delicate, morbid, loveable, and you will die depressed, delirious, and overweight.
I know how this story ends....I'll even update it for 2010 Ferris has a three way with sloan and his sister, the grease ball gets to thrash a ferrari with a head full of coke he found in the ferrari, and in a strange twist of copycat-ism, Cameron dragged out into the field naked, and shot execution style by his iraq war vetern father - pissed not so much about the ferrari but with the cocaine he stashed in it to keep his mind numb to his deranged wife and the shadows that he thinks is hiding the enemy.....
Speaking of awesome vehicles, this carbon fiber super boat got owned. It makes me sad.
Though i have no misconceptions that i will or even could return to posting with the regularity that i once knew, here's an attempt at something with content:
But first, the WHORES!
I've been thinking about turning 30. It's about 8 months away and i'm starting a mental checklist/reflecting pond so i can sort out what (if anything) it all means. Incidentally it may correspond with the completion of the master's degree (what, you think you my MASTA now?), so i'm thinking "Toga Senior Barrel pt II: Son of Toga Senior Barrel"
Physicist: But who would come? AS: Yo Momma! AS: {weeping inside, knowing that her mother *would* come and probably bring a very nice bottle of wine, but people like Yooper Dave, Drunk Roland and Random Slutty Girl #3 would in fact, not be there,)
let's talk about breast cancer awareness. First, let is be known, i love boobs. No, it's true- Love 'em. And even as a lover and occasional manic for breasts, i'm a little uncomfortable by the "tits all out there" direction that breast cancer awareness is taking. See, the bumper sticker said "save the ta tas." At that moment i remember all the weird breast cancer awareness stuff i've seen, like the "i <3 boobs" t-shirts and the facebook bra-color status updates and odd bumper stickers and stuff that tries to draw on some combination of shock and primal love of tits. (The over exposure is probably from all the half-marathons; those things tend to attract people that run "for causes" like jesus and boobs or both , though running for a cause and thinking people should give money to your preferred cause because you did something that makes your life better... that's a whole other rant)
Anyway- what you've got now are excuses for frat guys to where I <3 BOOBS tshits and hot girls to draw attention to their own chests and, well, doesn't it make you feel dirty all over? Not, like, morally dirty- I wouldn't know that feeling, but like used-by-corporate-PR-dirty? Maybe it's because i love breasts so much... it's like a member of my family is being exploited to fund-raise! And if you really belived in the cause, isn't there a level of objectification happening, and are you willing to trade that to sell some T-shirts with your slogan? then again, i could be way off... It's been a while since i've rapped at ya'll and maybe i'm losing my edge.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/
Finally (the Whores?) and as usual, a recap of last year:
Learned to ski Visited Vermont Was tossed out of 7 bars in one night Ruined my favorite boots Ran a trail half marathon with a (self diagnosed) broken toe Learned to weld Built a race car Planted a garden Visited Georgia Bought a Miata Drove the tail of the dragon Learned to Heal-Toe shift Went to Berlin (2x +good) Stood up in a wedding Motorbiked to Montreal (3x +wet) Visited NY (several times) Moved to Ohio Invaded the home of the Physicist Started grad school Grew some grey hair Raced a race car Rode a Ducati Visited North Carolina Rode two mechanical bulls Visited the UP
Plus some other stuff
As the scorpion said to the frog, "it is my nature"
-paraphrased, not original- We frequently hear the complaint that slutty men are applauded and slutty women are disdained. Let me explain why. If you have a key that can open many locks, its the master key, and generally very useful and good. If you had a lock that could be opened by any key, we would consider that a pretty shitty lock, right?
The link below is a little crazy-liberal-picket-sign-swinging, but the person did a good job of collecting the advertisements i wish to showcase, as well as providing some amusing re-dubs.
Remember the god old days when i would update bi-weekly and provide insights into the world as well as hilarious links and life-inspiring anecdotes? Me neither.
I'm actually anxious to return to my scholastic pursuits. How lame is that? I guess the internet can't offer the hours of mind-stealing entertainment that it once did.
I love technology and even in the hands of the bad guys it warms my techno-heart to see simply solutions used for what must ave seemed like insurmountably complicated problems. (HTF are we gonna escape the drones?) This sadly was not one of my winter projects but the motorcycle is...
The W650 sits in wait in the basement. Just before retiring it i ran some Seafoam through it like everyone has been raving about and it immediately killed one of the cylinders from firing. My instinct tells me its just a fouled plug. I hope my instinct is right. To do list includes rebuilding the clutch, replacing the plugs, mild tear down and cleaning of the carbs and general cleaning of the 8k miles worth of grime is has accumulated in the short year I've owned it.
Finally, I've been heavily researching suspensions upgrades for the Miata. To give you an idea of how bad things are, this guy made a video of the stock set-up.
The problem is, like everything else in the modern world, the new Miata has been pussi-fied into a bland, all-appealing former shell of it's self. The good news is, by simply adding stiffer anti-sway bars i can turn this day-time housewife into full-fledged stripper-wife! From there a set of coil-over shocks and raspy exhaust would be almost sinful to postpone.
It seems through Facebook's allowance of a quick and dirty thought cleansing combined with a busy schedule, the days of consistent and reliable blog updates are dead.
The world is spinning in my direction on the vehicular front. The Grand Am's wheels were so corroded that they required a major overhaul. So i pulled of the tires and went to town with a grinder and some brass wheels. 10 man-hours later, they're corrosion free, holding air, wrapped with new rubber and painted black! I always knew that car would look boss with black rims and turns out, it does. During the two weeks it was up on stilts, i took the opportunity to add the Sat. radio and replaced the blown speakers in the back. Unfortunately, the cool kids on the internet were wrong and it's actually the Amp causing the popping noise in the rears.
Svetlana has her cold air intake, a fresh batch of Mobile-1 synthetic and a nice warm cover to keep her warm all winter. And when the weather breaks, a fine set of 8" wide Turbo RX-7 wheels/tires await her in the basement.
The motorcycle will be heading into the basement as well for a mild overhaul. A new clutch pack is in order as well as a solid cleaning top to bottom. I'd like to replace the brake line with something shorter, to match the lower bars, and preferably braided steal. I'll also be wrapping the pipes to give a topping off of badd-ass-ness.
Lastly, the race car will be under the knife all winter. The fuel system and brake lines will receive a general application of un-fucking and the engine is going to be wrung out for all she's got (left).
How so, you ask?
I'll give you a hint: It starts with
And rhymes with "forced induction." (but how would you force induction with a non-turbo header and no super charger... ?)
"I certainly had an appreciation of the danger which to me was part of the pleasure of racing. To me now racing is - the dangers are taken away: if it's difficult, they put in a chicane. So really now the danger is minimal - which is good, because people aren't hurt. But for me the fact that I had danger on my shoulder made it much more exciting. It's rather like if you flirt with a girl, it's more exciting than paying for a prostitute, because while you know you're gonna get it, the other one you don't. And I think with driving a motor car, the danger is a very necessary ingredient. Like if you're cooking, you need salt. You can cook without salt, but it doesn't have the flavor. It's the same with motor racing without danger. For me."
Imagine a world where businessmen- No, car makers; CEOs, are over-the-top cartoonish figures. Characters issuing outlandish, turn-of-the-(20th)-century-esq challenges: "Come one, come all! Who can defeat me and my machine in the five-sided-fistagon?
I think it means that the European high-performance sedans are excellent, even superb cars, but quite possibly not ready for racing laps right out of the show-room. The CTS-V is not only quicker, but will, in totally untweaked, stock form, run hot laps at any race track until it runs out of fuel. Transmission oil and diff oil temps are stable, engine oil temp doesn't go up, brakes get a bit more pedal travel, but don't fade. The street tires get a tad greasy, but handling and control remain excellent. "May the best car win"! (It wins automatically if the competitors won't show up!)
Here's a guy that would seem to have a pretty good understanding of 1) what it takes to fight a war and 2) what it is exactly the states have found themselves in the middle of. What did he do with all that vast and first hand knowledge? HE RAN THE FUCK AWAY because he didn't see any other options. (I know, i know, its left-biased news but the accounts of WTF is going on are pretty eye opening)
Also, in case you missed it, someone drove 15 tons of explosives up to a government building in Iraq this week. 15 tons! Try to wrap you brain around where and how a guy in a dessert with supposedly only a skeleton network of support pulls this shit off?
this reminds me of my old roommate Rob. I miss that guy.
I've been thinking a lot about cars. Even more so than usual. Also, considering I haven't reduced the amount I've been thinking about women, it must mean that my brain is working more than usual.
I almost had an opportunity to buy the Fiat back this week. By some freak stroke of non-luck, i found it posted on Craigslist, but about a week too late. I probably would have pulled the trigger on it and later dealt with the ramification of personal and financial matter.
What would i do with my perfectly set-up Fiat? Something awesome... If i had more moeny, something like this. Or maybe not. I could try this trick, but diesel really deserves a bigger home than a fiat. Maybe a nice Caddy diesel? We all know the fiat really deserves a turbo solstice engine... And i even know someone looking to unload one!
Also, let me drop you some knowledge: If you're going to build an electric car, be smart about it. This guy did it all wrong, even with the stupid money that was thrown at the project. really? An alternator?
I believe in Horsepower, the Father almighty, creator of fun and excitement.
I believe in Rear Wheel Drive, his only Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Manual Transmission and born of the Frenchman Panhard. He suffered under Jean-Louis Périn, invented, died, and was buried; thankfully before the CVT. The third day he was still dead but his transmission lives on in Heaven and is seated at the right hand of Horsepower the Father almighty. From there he will come to judge the living and the dead.
I believe in the Manual Transmission, the holy WRC races, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of speeding tickets, the resurrection of the classics, and the hoon everlasting. Amen.
Finally... You want the action? Here's the god damned action right here. It makes my man pieces tingle just thinking about another go at it. Like Joey talking to an underage girl, "i'll see YOU in 2010."
Now i can focus all my energy on landing that threesome with a pornstar and a US Senator. (Non-devil's variety, and i'd settle for a Canadian cabinet member in a pinch)
First, a retelling of the great race week. There was simply too much data to both communicate and comment on it, so I'll use the simplest, chronological method
Friday Sep 25: completely remove myself from the insanity of daily life, pack, drive to MI, work on car, arriving at Drunk Mike's house sometime near sunset. Though I've spent many days with the car, this is my first time meeting the Race Car, as it now has a full fledged racing roll cage. Spend the rest of the evening building a game plan. Agenda: turn a Celica with a roll cage into a proper race car, and power it all with beer. Sat Sep 26: Work on car, but fist, shopping. Have tires mounted, buy parts, pick up tires, buy more parts and then the car. 10 hours worth of the car. All culminating with trying to install a set of tires on newly mounted wheels that do not fit the car. And then I drive home to Ohio. Sun Sep 27: something happened here.. I can’t remember what but I was too busy to study, which is what i really needed to be doing. Mon Sep 28: Work ½ day, Class ½ day, lab and chores. (that's right mutherfuckers, i have chores. Fuck you. Tue Sep 29: Work all day and finally get some futile Study time. Listen to "Sweating Bullets" for old time sake. Wed Sep 30: Take the exam and walk away convinced i have achieved total failure. Not in a dramatic "oh gosh, i did so Terrible," way, but in a literal "i didn't know what to do with those problems" way. This is sickening, considering how much I'm paying for grad school (perfectly good race-car money), but these thoughts are replaced by images of race-car glory. Thur Oct 1: Pack an SUV to the roof, Drive, Arrive, meet Drunk Mike and the Physicist's Dad who has already set up camp. Mike presents us with our team t-shirts. Fri Oct 2: RAIN! Terrible, terrible rain. And we're camping in the grass. Everything is wet. Buy canopies, paint the car, install padding, go through tech inspect and BS inspect, install some more lights and take some shake-down laps at night in the rain, which is a good way to make yourself comfortable with wheel to wheel racing in a real quick manner. In my spare time (20ish minutes) tape hood, draw chicken, cut It out, paint chicken, remove rest of tape. Sat Oct 3: wake up to cold wetness and warm gruel. More painting, dash lights, trip to the parts store for misc and just before the race... DISASTER (#1) main disconnect switch feels like there’s gravel inside it. Cut it apart and find its internals in pieces. Drive to get a new piece, come back and install it just in time to make it to the green flag... Unfortunately at that point someone (who was obviously not there during tech) realizes our harness is installed wrong-ish. DISASTER (#2) Some people at this point curl up in the fetal position and wait sobbing for death. Realizing that righting this will require fabricating new harness brackets, that’s what I did. With a DeWalt grinder named Christina, my favorite 18V cordless drill and some scrap heavy-guage steal I just happen to pack with me, i decide to win one for the Gip'er. For a few moments it looked like the game was over before it had even began but we were running with the pack between 1 and 2 hours after the official 12-noon start. The car was tight and brakes were way oversized for the job. The cornering was impressive for all-season tires and it turns out tire-wear was absolute minimum. Stos and Johnny moto show up and high fives are exchanged, mostly to appease the mustache. Around 6pm, DISASTER (#3) Mike comes in and we notice the brake reservoir is empty. Turns out the brakes lines under body are rusted and decided to brake. We go to store, we patch, we brake another line, we patch again. 3 hours lost but return to the track by 9, never to break again. Sun Oct 4:I am elected to pilot the car for the final laps and 4 aps into the final stint, I go off the track but keep it under control after losing it at 60. this is an immediate black flag typically punished by 30 minutes in the corner but I talk my way out of it, but i think the mustache did most of the talking. Celebratory beers are handed out and one set of brand new all season tires were only ~50% used up. Mon Oct 5: Exam Back, 100%. Turns out I am good at everything.
A lot of people have been asking me "Hey Mr. Reynolds, what's it like to be in a 24 Hours of Lemons race?" I say "well young lady, it's a lot like this:"
Sid: You want subversion on a massive level. You know what one of the greatest fucking scripts ever written in the history of Hollywood is? Top Gun.
Duane: Oh, come on.
Sid: Top Gun is fucking great. What is Top Gun? You think it's a story about a bunch of fighter pilots.
Duane: It's about a bunch of guys waving their dicks around.
Sid: It is a story about a man's struggle with his own homosexuality. It is! That is what Top Gun is about, man. You've got Maverick, all right? He's on the edge, man. He's right on the fucking line, all right? And you've got Iceman, and all his crew. They're gay, they represent the gay man, all right? And they're saying, go, go the gay way, go the gay way. He could go both ways.
Duane: What about Kelly McGillis?
Sid: Kelly McGillis, she's heterosexuality. She's saying: no, no, no, no, no, no, go the normal way, play by the rules, go the normal way. They're saying no, go the gay way, be the gay way, go for the gay way, all right? That is what's going on throughout that whole movie... He goes to her house, all right? It looks like they're going to have sex, you know, they're just kind of sitting back, he's takin' a shower and everything. They don't have sex. He gets on the motorcycle, drives away. She's like, "What the fuck, what the fuck is going on here?" Next scene, next scene you see her, she's in the elevator, she is dressed like a guy. She's got the cap on, she's got the aviator glasses, she's wearing the same jacket that the Iceman wears. She is, okay, this is how I gotta get this guy, this guy's going towards the gay way, I gotta bring him back, I gotta bring him back from the gay way, so I'll do that through subterfuge, I'm gonna dress like a man. All right? That is how she approaches it. Okay, now let me just ask you - I'm gonna digress for two seconds here. I met this girl Amy here, she's like floating around here and everything. Now, she just got divorced, right? All right, but the REAL ending of the movie is when they fight the MIGs at the end, all right? Because he has passed over into the gay way. They are this gay fighting fucking force, all right? And they're beating the Russians, the gays are beating the Russians. And it's over, and they fucking land, and Iceman's been trying to get Maverick the entire time, and finally, he's got him, all right? And what is the last fucking line that they have together? They're all hugging and kissing and happy with each other, and Ice comes up to Maverick, and he says, "Man, you can ride my tail, anytime!" And what does Maverick say? "You can ride mine!" Swordfight! Swordfight! Fuckin' A, man!
I hope this counts as a valid update. Stay tuned for pictures from the event, but be warned, other than some facial hair there's nothing too spectacular.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
First, a joke, compliments of my mom:
What is the difference between girls/women aged: 8, 18, 28, 38, 48, 58, 68, and 78 ?
At 8 -- You take her to bed and tell her a story.
At 18 -- You tell her a story and take her to bed.
At 28 -- You don't need to tell her a story to take her to bed.
At 38 -- She tells you a story and takes you to bed.
At 48 -- She tells you a story to avoid going to bed.
At 58 -- You stay in bed to avoid her story.
At 68 -- If you take her to bed, that'll be a story!
At 78 -- What story??? What bed??? Who the hell are you???
Thanks mom!
In other news, i swear, every time i see one of these self-righteous fucks fall it makes my day. Really its the little things in life that make it fun.
This old man gets it: He says crazy stuff because he's old. Sometimes i wish i was old and it was more acceptable for me spout crazy shit.
And in urban news, It seems the national media has finally picked up on the fact that one of the nation's largest cities is a fucking modern post-apocalyptic waste land. But do i miss Detroit? A little
It's been a while I've rapped at yall. And that's because I'm busy with the school an' beard and the work an' roadster and the midwest an' garden and the moving an' cleaning and i could continue this for awhile.
We were smiled upon by the gods of interstate travel when the Physicist and i were able to visit Chest Rockwell and Notorious at his most excellent ocean-front resort house. in response to Chesto's version of what happened that weekend on the beach, i would add only this:
I can surf but only when no one is watching Sand boobs are just like real boobs, but sandier Someone needs to run a wobbly H on that bartender Now one more person understands how awesome a midnight summer ride in a convertible can be. Especially in Mountains.
In the end, much science was debated, much booze was consumed and all the old jokes were told and told again: A complete success.
--pause--
in science news, you'll see that anyone who is anyone got money for batteries: warning: this is a PDF. Basically, if you and i had incorporated and then I'd have shown them my tattoos, we'd have gotten 10 million. American dollars. To keep. Alternatively, the company *I* work for, which has made batteries for hybrids for, oh, 15 years, IS NOT ON THAT LIST AND INSTEAD THEY'RE FIRING EVERYONE AND WE'RE ALL BROKE AND IT'S FUCKED WHAT HAPPENED HERE OMGWTFBBQ
I'm not sure why but i really enjoy going to the theater... sometimes even when I'm not terribly interested in the movie. In the last year I've started going by myself and discovered it was just a fun, and hey, fuck it if it is revealing of some other social short-comings. What's the point of all this? See the movie Inglourious Basterds. Don't fuck google it, dammit- you're going to ruin it. I recommend knowing nothing about the plot and it will be brilliant. Just go. It made me happy, during an event that normally makes me happy, and that made me super happy.
Also, District 9 was good.
Also, i saw a preview for this movie, where some guy's family was killed and he had to kill everyone and then someone said "he's in jail and he's still killing people!?" (see because he was in jail and was still killing people from there)
You probably just have to see it; Something about burning. Or fire.
(like the one above? this one is better. Seriously, naked girls with machine guns? i LOVE animated .gifs so much i think i'll fill a digital picture frame with them.)
It has occurred to me that I've let the blog fall to the wayside. I think this is a direct result of Facebook. Look: If i have a random idea, thought or stroke of brilliance, i'm not required or inspired to flesh it out into a coherent and hilarious paragraph. Instead i can just throw up a random sentence or two on the status update and BLAM, artificial sense of accomplishment; back to the internet.
Example: Today's status was (Sophist real name): Frustrated his body will not Frisbee as spectacularly as his mind wants it to. Also, how am i the only one on the skins team with chest hair?
This single thought could easily fill pages of reflection and speculation, most of it worth its weight in gold. Plus, given more space i could also add that those chumps didn't have any tats, scars, hair, piercings or chronic skin diseases at all! It was like playing disc in the white bread factory! Not to mention i could regale my readers with my inspired and tear-jerking story of how i'm desperately struggling to rebuild my college-frisbee-body of yore... But instead everyone will simply assume i've become a cake-based organism, soft and delicious with frosting.
Also, i find the feedback on Facebook to be poor at best. Sure there will a hand full of yocals that will "like" my status and then surely go on to "poke" half the people in their contact list, but will any bother to ask the hard hitting and accusational questions, like what was i doing playing with a bunch of little boys or inquire how i manged to get an entire team of women to play skins? (tequila in the Gatorade)
Ths time will be different! And to make up for my absence, i will leave you with this absurd image:
this is a great article about enthusiast's cars. Cars that car people buy. It's fairly short.
"And the same kinds of fat, annoying, self-satisfied, middle-class faces that stared out the windshields of Malibus and Zephyrs back in 1983 now gaze lifelessly from Camrys and Accords."
It seems, just months after receiving bail money on the magnitude of, lets say, three-death-stars-worth, our American Banking Institutions are now in an excess of cash. Like infinity of it. And, like a dead beat cousin that still had the paint residue under his nose, we have no hope of getting any back.
This reminds me a moment in my life a couple months back. I was sitting with my brother, the Hulkster, while his little Hulkamanics ran wild in the backyard. The Hulkster turned to me, after one of our frequent and predictable conversations on the state of the economy, middle class and our respective outlooks, and asked "why can't people just do what everyone knows is the right thing to do?"
Why indeed Hulkster, why indeed.
- le sigh -
It seems, that "makes up his own rules and doesn't even follow those" McCain and "you elected me because you secretly wish you WERE me" Obama have flexed their cross-isle collective muscle and managed to eliminate 2 billion dollars worth of f-22 fighters from the upcoming government trip to Costco. That's about 7 planes worth. It feels like a step in the right direction until you realize California alone is shy about 16 billion for the up coming year. Keep saving your pennies, boys.
- le sigh -
It seems, the sophist managed to best a bunch of young punks in the game of disc this evening, finally no longer a shell of my previous self. Perhaps, i would say, I have returned to 50% capacity. Just wait until they have to cover 80% of Disco Stu. (Knees, ankles, hips, wrist, back, janky pinkie and shoddy shoulder, don't fail me now!)
If you were wondering, the race car is coming along nicely. Recent achievements include Wheels, Driving, a Front End and now featuring... Seats!
By my standards, I've been busy. Partially because of the absurd amount of traveling/adventuring i've been doing. The most recent was this 2500mile motorcycle trip:
let me just tell you... it rained. A lot. Typically, at this point, I'd tell you all about the exciting things that happened to us and then elude to having to tell the best ones over beers and lies. But, well, there really weren't any very exciting things that happened. It was good. Here are some pictures.
I've also found myself playing Ultimate frisbee again. I've been burning for a competitive sport and though ultimate isn't the most competitive sport around, at least i'm still pretty good at it. Turns out the guy that organizes this pick up league started playing cir. 2007 when he graduated high school. I'm pretty sure ,my most recent retirement started BEFORE that guy was introduced to the sport.
hmmm.
Either way, in my glorious-return-to-glory game, I received the first two points of the game and threw for a bunch more. I also took more subs than anyone on the field and spent the next two days with a soreness that prevented me from being able to put on my own shoes.
As a result of this first day's performance (combined with a desperation for ANYONE that would play) i've found myself in a team for this weekend's local tournament. Hopefully i'll be un-hobbled by then.
Links: Proof that Detroit is still raw. proof and proof
In life, it seems, I keep bumping up against the idea of goals and achievements... the kind of re-occuring theme that comes up every once in a while and is futile to ignore. So i've been working on a list of each for myself (that I surely will not publish here, but assume there will be an entire paragraph entitles "tequila"). In the mean time and in the same line of thought, I'm working on a full-life move. Though it IS the kind where you quit your job, leave town and give away half your stuff, it surprisingly doesn't involve a wife or a baby. I guess it's kind of like when someone goes away to jail for 18months, but in this case I could keep the Miata. Maybe. I'll let you know how it works out.
Speaking of goals... ...where do i get a water cannon and motorcycle like that?
The Michael Jackson we all loved is the Michael Jackson we remember. He died a long time ago.
Now, I'll never forget listening to JLB's top 10 MJ songs, turning on the radio after hearing he was DOA. I was driving in what must have been record setting heat and humidity for this place. As such i had the AC on and windows up but when that #2 song came on those windows came down because god dammit it is summer time and in the summer you roll down your windows and turn up your music when you're listening to Rock With Me. in your car. in GOD DAMN DE-TROIT.
88888•88888•88888•88888•88888•88888
I've found myself with some free time and some new riding boots so I'm going to go away for awhile. I'll be leaving solid plans, reliable lodging and your American television behind. It might look something like this...
...but if the weather lets go or the money runs short or my left ear starts itching, well, i might just head the other direction. If you live near these lines consider yourself warned.
∞000∞000∞000∞000∞000∞000∞000∞000∞000∞
Along the way i'll be looking for inspiration; Sort of like walking out into the woods for a few hours to smoke a cigar and reboot the brain, except time 100. Upon return i will have a better understanding. And probably some interesting pictures.
And though i hoped beyond hope that you were a robot or a sorority house (or a robot-sorority house), it turns out that you are me.
That is correct.
For reasons hidden deep in the tubes of the super web machine, when i access this site from my home computer, a Dallas Texas ip is recorded.
How can that be?
It doesn't matter.
How did i figure it out?
That also does not matter.
What does matter is i've been silently lurking on myself, and in return, sending myself idle threats (married with suggestive flirtation) all the while wondering why i wouldn't respond. To myself.
Our President: Just kicking it with the homies. I'm cool with that. (I'm from the STREETS!)
Mickey Rourke: His life is different than yours (and also not safe for the work place)
Here's an article i found a long time ago: It's about professional football players in a capsized boat completing flipping out and trying to swim the ocean. (They died). It seems appropriate today when a woman by my work drove (drunk) into a shallow lake and refused to get out of the car for fear of the police repercussion. (She died). I continue to be fascinated by the absence of self preservation, be it obvious or subtle.
Early Friday afternoon, I'm sitting in the back of an all staff meeting at work and it is hot; stuffy as hell. We've just gone through two days of lay offs and i've survived, once again (how many rounds of lay offs has that been in the last 5 years? I'm not really sure anymore, but somehow i always survive) and i'm listening to a freakish, bordering on insanely-optimistic account of our corporate future, with no new, pertinent information. I get a text message from a man who was two weeks previous in Afghanistan, telling me he's standing in my apartment parking lot. I return my attention to the dribble-spout at the front of the room but somewhere in the base of my spine the drum part from Van Halen's Hot for Teacher is coming on like a mountainous wall of water. It sounds like a dozen restless souls sitting on open exhaust engines tear-assing through hell at 100mph towards eternal damnation and a damn fine good time. At that moment i stand up and walk out the door. Not just the conference room door but the front door. Leave the computer on the dock, the engineering change reports on the desk and I make sure everyone in that room can see me when i drive away. With the top down.
Part I: The Machines
By the time i've tamed the mild afternoon traffic and scoot into my complex, my brain has forgotten where we've been and can focus now only on possibilities ahead. The first thing i notice is the 27 foot long sky-blue 1976 Buick Electra in the parking lot. I notice this not so much because it's a thing that's easy to notice, but because it's a object so grand that it blocks out the world around it. I scope the lot and head inside, knowing that there will be a pilot waiting in my living room and there will be no use in asking how he got there.
Exchange of greetings is brief and mostly composed of variations on the phrase "you son of a bitch." After all, we both knew the other was alive, so the only difference now is we have to deal with our combined drinking habits. Besides, there's no time to waste as Notorious needs to find a motorcycle which means we need to go test drive some motorcycles. We've declared this the week of machines and the first stop is the BMW dealership.
We climb into Svetlana and make our way to the BMW shop where after 45 minutes and quick ride, The Pilot and I are both convinced he's going to take this bike home, right up until we meet the 2008 Ducati Monster.
Try to understand the depths of the parallelism between cars/bikes and women. They're limitless, bottomless and essentially dead-on in every instance. In short, the BMW is perfect because it loves you without ever needing anything in return, but the Ducati doesn't care about you, is probably going to show up two hours late (after hanging out with some guy) and wants you to meet her hot friend that works at the strip club. The BMW happily picks you and your friends up from the bar at 2am when you're too drunk to function but the Ducati is drunk with you and starting a fight with the bouncer that you're going to have to clean up with your fists or outrun with your feet. But perhaps the most noticeable discrepancy lies in the looks of the two machines. The German looks like your best friend from 2nd grade's mom. Not even the hot one. While the Italian, well, is like a red headed swede with an ass so perfect and tight it makes you want to build something epic in a weak attempt to please it. And you know it will not be pleased.
Johnny Motto, wisely, has one of each.
Editors note: What surprises me is that the pilot couldn't admit to himself which one he was obviously going to get until hours later when we had a meeting of the brains at Hooters. I can see now, that places can clear your thoughts.
On the way home from the dealerships we stopped off to introduce Notorious to the race car. Sadly an absence of driver-side hubs kept us from test driving it but i think the greatness of the vehicle was obvious, even while up on blocks and with it's front end bits hanging all over the place. Regardless, at that point there was no reason to maintain sobriety so we dropped of the miata and picked up Johnny Motto with the Buick, where we discussed philosophy at hooters and waited for Stos the Greek to join us. from there it was straight to Hamtramck where we would polish off bottles of Polish cherry brandy and impose our will on the bar via the juke box. Insert here our first collective good idea moment: As last call found us, it occurred to some bright soul, "why drive all the way back to my pad to pack, when we have the three cowboys that are headed to Ohio and we're already 40 miles towards our destination?" 20 minutes of arm-twisting later, the three of us were on our way, Notorious passed out in the back, Johnny Motto spitting chew in shotgun and I, the standing captain of the vessel. We reeked of smoke and carried with us only the clothes on our backs and the good ideas tucked in our socks. Also, a box of 8-track tapes.
We arrived at our destination just as the sun was coming up, but stopped to pick up three toothbrushes and a bouquet of flowers because sometimes a birthday is more important than a bachelor party (apologies to Notorious but we would have just over-shadowed the groom anyway). We woke up The Physicist, threw on some women's clothes, put our smelly garbs in the washer and retired for the rest of the morning.
Listen: Waking up to fresh scones and pretty girls and good friends is really the best way to run a life- Miss one component and you're doing it wrong. Sometimes you don't appreciate it because you're so tired you can't figure out how to operate a pillow. And sometimes you're distracted from it all because you're wearing girl's gym shorts. Either way, try to focus on what's important.
With our gullets full and the the remainder of the party intact (3 dragons & 3 damsels) it was off to the colossal motorcycle accessories store that turned out to be a colossal disappointment. Not because it wasn't big, but because it actually just had a bunch of motorcycles, which though fun to ogle, they were not the accessories we were seeking. So instead we drank. And drank. And failing to arrive at any spectacular alternative idea, we decided to drink in public, with the common folk. So, we went clubbing. This went as most clubbing experiences tend to go: Long island ice teas for inspiring new dance moves, bachelorette parties for harassing and subsequently WASTING long island ice teas on, girls on the dance floor that for some reason do not want to dance with you and girls on the dance floor that REALLY want to dance with you (if you can call it dancing). It was the kind of night that makes you lose your hoodie (and at this point, fabric that represents 30% of your possessions in that state of Ohio) and not even care that you did; The kind of night, like so many others, that is loud and colorful and shaky and slowly closes in from the sides with the fuzziness and darkness until your entire range of perception is reduced to a perfect, noiseless singularity...
And then you awake. And life is good. It's Sunday and you're on temporary lay off and work meetings and the general grind-of-life distractions are so far away that you can't imagine a world where you'd sit in an office building for 9 or 10 hours straight, day after day. No, instead you focus on the real parts of life. You better yourself with experience and understanding. You come up with crazy ideas. You go to the creation science museum in northern Kentucky. (wait- what?)
I recommend the back seat.
If you know my history with creation science you probably also know i went mad years ago. I'm not really sure where to start with this place... I was expecting something less spectacular with better arguments. Listening to Kent Hovind speak really set the bar high on crack-pot theories, as his were the best developed. This place... it was a monument to madness! They didn't even bother coming up with any crack pot theories and instead played the fucking god card every time! Can't you just lie to me and yourselves and SAY they had the technology to seal that giant water tight arc door rather than jumping RIGHT to the god trump?
If i look funny it's because my hoodie is lost and I've been wearing these clothes for three days. Almost never sober while in them. (To be fair, I guess that's especially true of when i wasn't in them, as well)
"When you understand why you dismiss all the other gods you will understand why I dismiss yours."
Listen: These fuckers are well funded and well visited. It never even occurred to me that the others wouldn't be there for the same reasons we were... but NO. They were nodding and self-affirming each other!
Fuck it, let's go pet the goats.
Did i mention the petting zoo? They have a petting zoo. I want a goat.
science fail
On the ride back The Physicist wanted to debate nature v. nurture in terms of what it is that determines the make up of one's personalty. It was good to clear our brains with sound, logical debate and complete, complex thoughts, though in the end we agreed to disagree. (it's FINE. I'm fine.) Though it did seem the men landed mostly on nurture and the women mostly on nature... They probably just wanna have a bunch of babies.
Back at the house there was no time to twiddle our dinks because there was a birthday/bbq/bonfire to be had which meant more guests, more debating the nature v nurture, cheap cigar smoking, exploding beer bottle/fire combinations, flesh wounds, put-off women, feeling old and feeling young, propositions of a devil's threesome, and stories! Telling new stories, retelling old stories, debating the old stories and clarifying the new stories... and a lot of peeing on trees. And then, at some point, notorious tells me I'm the only person he can drink around without feeling like an alcoholic and for the first time this week, i consider hugging him. (Dammit, Nick, we agreed NO MORE DEVIL'S THREESOMES!)
Monday morning it was time to live the American Dream; Three men past their prime (speak for yourselves asshats!) driving a full size 70's Buick through the straight and flats of a mid-west afternoon, listening to old music on the radio. Unfortunately i embraced the dream a bit too much and opted for a McDonalds lunch, which in line with Notorious' warning, shut-down my digestive system for 24 hours. That made Monday evening a write-off... but alas, Tuesday brought breakfast with mom, a picking up of a new Ducati, some group motorcycle cruising and a round of go-kart action that left the pilot pwned. (Sorry dude- you need to practice). By Wednesday night my stomach and i were back on the horse, ever so delicately, drinking at the corner pub, where it finally set in that maybe we shouldn't refer to girls as floozies and we should certainly walk home. This was the perfect set-up for a Thursday trip to the airport, for i had a date in Berlin.
Part II: Invasion!
It's Thursday morning and time to leave for Berlin. This trip has about a solid week of planning behind it and we could have just as easily ended up in Dublin or Geneva, until i remembered i know a guy, Sneak, who lives in Berlin and he offered to let us use his pad in his absence. (turns out he was going to be in Detroit for the electronic music festival... I-rony!) Step 1, fly to Toronto. Step 2, Fly to Amsterdam. Step 3, lose $17 bottle of hair gel to security because it's 9oz and 8oz is the limit. (i didn't know if was $17 dollars until i purchased it- but it was a damn fine product) and finally, step 4, fly to Berlin. The Physicist and i find ourselves in the Berlin airport, sluggish but excited, standing in a foreign country with no idea what to do next. In relative time it's been about 24 hours since I left my house but we've really only been traveling for about 16. At that moment a bubbly blond 19 yr old comes around the corner and hands us a set of keys to an apartment. "Have a great weekend," she says, and runs off to where ever it is bubbly 18yr old Americans living in Berlin run off to on a friday morning. We are the rock n roll lifestyle.
Day one was a lot of "what do we do now" followed by "this place sells beer." We walked the area and discovered the neighborhood, exploring the parks, gazing into the canals and giving our brain time to wrap itself around being in Germany. Bed came early. By day two we'd figured out the public transportation and had an agenda: lets see what's going on downtown. Short answer: the biggest fuckin festival your puny American minds have ever experienced. I have seriously never seen this many people in one place. And when there's people, there's beer and food and culture! Of course, once we started drinking it seemed like a perfectly good idea to visit the tent promoting local German politician old-whats-his-name, or take part in some trivia... in German, or perhaps pick up some literature on the crop-thing-farming... are we drunk in a park, again?
Shit. Maybe we should just make out.
Did i mention that the whole fucking city is covered in paint, ranging from street graffiti to A+ mural work? Because it is.
The three key fabrics that wove together the comforting quilt of this trip took the form of food, the public transportation and the apartment:
The food is amazing if you know where to go. As Sneak pointed out, there's plenty of shitty food in this country, but he and I recommend the good donner stands that sell something like a Greek gyro, except the tzatziki sauce is replaced by this crazy garlic-chili paste and then they added Turkish feta! Also, if you can get your hands on the schnitzel we ate you'd probably pee yourself... Butterflied pork with swiss and ham, DEEP FRIED? Is it perhaps the culmination of Germans and Russians food technologies? We may never know because we can't read a technical German textbok. Secondly, public transportation, well, imagine being able to go anywhere, anytime, by just getting on a bus or a train, and having one ticket that pays for it all. It's called Berlin. Finally, the apartment is sparse, minimalistic, fully furnished, tiny as hell and utterly perfect.
Anyway, back to the story. The problem with getting drunk in a park on Saturday afternoon is it leads to going home and falling asleep, which is what we did. And the woke up. At 1am. Of course, in 'Merica, that means you better start cruisin' skinamax for some softcore because there's no point in leaving the house at that hour. But in Europe, where freedom is free, the bars at 1am have not yet begun to defile themselves. And we knew just the place for defilement. (That's right: a solviet-fucking-power-plant-turned-techno-club, bitches!)
How does one get to a soviet fucking power plant turned techno club? Well it's not exactly in the heart of the city, so you walk. For about an hour. In some dark-ass neighborhoods. (of course they don't have power for street lights, they turned the damn power plant into a discotheque!) Finding the place wasn't easy but we happened upon some poor lost German kids (19yr olds? maybe in a few months...) and together, the 6 of us found this blue, pulsing, thumping monster in the blackness of the night.
it. was. beautiful.
Obstacle two was the line. Chalked full of dudes and moving slow but steady. At the front were two blokes: the stout guy in the leather and tattoo face; Also in leather. The first thing i notice is stout guy is only letting in about 50% of the men. No debate: he says something (in German) and they walk away. This is bad, and i've never even BEEN to a club with a door policy like this but we have an ace: our new, young German friends are 3 (very cute) girls and 1 (well dressed) guy. Taken as a whole, we're still a beneficial guy/girl ratio. I consider this plan and before i can act, our new friends are up to leather-man and wha...?
Our new friends have been rejected. Again, 2 or 3 words, the group looks at each other and away they go, into the industrial darkness. 3 girls + 1 guy = no entrance?
Us? We totally did NOT know those losers.
Our turn at the door and leather guy waves us in! No German speaking necessary. But wait- Tattoo face, he doesn't like the look on my face. He waves us off towards the darkness of industrial fail... !!!! There's no point explaining the rest of the story because i myself don't really know what happened. There was some German, some English, some Germish and then we were inside the club.
Listen: I spent the first 60 minutes asking myself how this place could exist, the next 7 hours taking advantage of it, and all the time since wondering when I’ll be able to go back. International laws, both published and street, prevent me from telling you what i saw or what i did. Yet had i fully been prepared mentally for this hole in the fabric of sanity, the debauchery could have possibly been stretched even further. I will tell you there was more than enough dance floor, bar space, sound system, muscular shirtless men (massaging and making out with each other), goth girls (doing the same), couch space and dark cuby space for you to re-enact every scene from Requiem for a Dream, but with a more upbeat demeanor.
By 8am we (In my case, that includes, mind, body AND soul) had had enough and it was time to retire. Christ on a bike, it's bright outside. And i have to pee. Right there on that Wall.
Next step, figure out how to get home... Luckily the trains and buses work on the honor system because i had left my pass at home and walking was not in the cards. As we neared the apartment we had to 1) pick up some fresh baked goods so not to die and 2) pass by the two old guys that seem to be eternally sitting outside the corner cafe. Now, you don't need to speak the language to know when two old guys sitting outside a cafe are busting your balls. You just know. And they were. But in fairness, we looked probably rough and they were very jealous.
Sunday was a failed attempt at the zoo, an institution that simply does not keep the hours i keep. So instead we explored some of the northern side, including what was left of the wall and a bit of the history. Short version: Berlin has history. Look it up. We were tired.
Monday morning we returned the keys, packed our shit, cleaned the joint and did a little cross-atlantic hopping. Ever tried explaining on Monday when you're unshaven and wrecked at work, what kind of person goes to Berlin for the weekend? If they have to ask they will not understand. You better off spending your time looking for cheap airfare to Dublin.
Epilogue
Yet again, against all odds, we survived. The retelling here has been no small task and I planned to start and finish some time last week, but as always, life got in the way. Why did I write this damn thing? It might appear like a wordy attempt to pat myself on the back for a job well done but is actually a log to review in the future. In 2 or 22 years; days when my sharpnesses has left and my memory is dull around the edges and I've almost convinced myself that such adventures could never have happened, I might be inspired to adventure.
I'm going away for a while; There's going to be a lot of vehicle driving, booze drinking, (attempted) womanizing and most importantly, head clearing.
Before my absence, i'd like to expand on an idea that's been rolling around in my brain for awhile. There's a lot of shake-up happing in the automotive market and GM, for one, is cancelling most of their lower production, higher performance vehicle lines and options. It's occurred to me that historically, there is a distinct group of vehicles that have retained their worth- cars that people love to own and collect and restore and covet. This trend is easier to identify in older cars, because they're the ones that are still around, but there's new cars like this too- Not necessarily, "the next classics," but more like cars that will still be maintain their value after the first few years of hard depreciation, because people will always want them, or parts from/for them. These are the kind of cars i picture:
(keep in mind, this list excludes sports cars which will always have enthusiast followings)
300C (Hemi version) Jeep Wrangler (w/ manual trans) Jeep Charokee (w/ manual trans) 04 - 06 Pontiac GTO (w/ manual trans) G8 GXP (w/ manual trans) First Gen Cadillac CTS-V (w/ manual trans) I'd like to mention one sports car: 04 to 06 pontiac GTO. I LOVE this car and am torn about not having bought it new... it was a great deal then, but now i can get a three year old 400HP V8, rear wheel drive coupe with a 6spd for $15K-ish, depending on the mileage.
There seems to be a pattern... It has to be something people love, a manual transmission is key, if it's available, because it adds mechanical reliability and reduces maintenance cost, while adding appeal to enthusiasts. Speaking of which, being easy to work on is also important, so that normally lends itself to a font engine, rear wheel drive. surprisingly, AND THIS IS KEY, the domestics have a distinct advantage here in that replacement parts are WAY cheaper compared to foreign cars and typically feature an overall reduced complexity compared to your BMWs and Mercedes and Audis. Also, there had to be enough production that spare and aftermarket parts will be available but ideally not so many copies built that every street has one. Hot-engined, RWD American sedans and coupes.... These seem to be the key here.
On the other hand, it seems everyone wants to build more "disposable" models... the (dare i say) Grand Ams, and PT cruisers and Ford Focuses... No one really loves those cars (unless they think their PT cruiser is cute and they like to put wood paneling decals on it...)
Of course there are compacts that i love and desire... Scion tC (W/ manual trans) Jetta GLI Mini Cooper S First Gen SRT-4
These are great! But they don't feel like the kind of car you would want to own 15 years later with their high-strung engines and over worked gear boxes. They're fast and efficient, like Tupperware crates, where the GXP would be a fine wooden chest, ya know?
It seems the days of monthly, mandatory, un-paid, week-long lay-offs are upon me, but i'm not complaining. trade 1/4 salary => 1/4 more free time? Sure, fuck it. I think a road trip is in order. In fact, make it two. After all, man cannot live off race car builds and motorcycle mishaps (it's fine- i'm fine), alone.
I'm now taking suggestions for May 18th -> May 20th. -ish.
Also, try to step it up, mates; The billionaires are making us look bad.
(for those requesting:)
I cannot recommend enough a well fitted pair of Red Wings. Steal toe? Even better.
