The blog environment is, fundamentally, still superior to facebook. The blog allows the telling of story with incorporated props like website links and photos. This is the evolving story of the 1988 S10 pickup.
The truck came with a terrible plastic be liner that was warped and generally tacky in all ways. I immediately removed it from my truck and my life, to the good will of my sensibilities.
Underneith, it looked like this:
That's actually not true... At first it was dirty but then i washed and lightly sanded it. The sanding was in preparation for a home-application spray in bed liner. See, the fancy spray in bed liners cost like $400 - $600 dollars, which is damn near as much as i paid for the truck. Your typical DIY kit is something of a roll-on job that's not much more than a thick paint with some rubber chunks, known to easily peel up and fade in the sun. Then i found Raptor Liner (RAWR!)
The Raptor kit is a two-part with a proper hardener, meaning it will cure like the paint on a car. Plus it comes with a little spray gun to hook up to your compressor.
Applying it could make for a whole sub-story, but just know it involved much tape and a lot of black speckles covering the items in the garage. Once applied it took a few days to fully set up and then it seemed to be champion.
I only applied to liner to the gate and floor and forward wall, while using a semi-gloss paint on the side walls. The Raptor Liner seemed to be tough as nails until today when I loaded into the truck a heavy box with screws sticking out of the bottom. This may be an unfair test but the material seemed to chip off in larger than necessary pieces. The freezing temperature may have had an adverse effect but i also suspect poor surface-prep. (could have used a heavier sanding and maybe a primer?) Either way, for the price, it would make a good material to spray, for example, inside a race car or on the bottom of an off-roader.
An besides, it still looks better than the rest of the truck. Plus, i picked up a VERY green steel box with a locking lid for storage. Added benefit: its heavy as hell (making it hard to steal and adding traction in the snow) The next step will be to weld up those holes in the box, ensuring something that resembles weather-resistance.
travel the world with beasts in your trunk: buy a wagon.
(I've been listening to MUCH James Harriet, often while sleeping, so my inner monologue features constant mention of silliness like pouring one’s self a measure and dapper dreadful and champion splendor, all delivered in a perfect english metronome. It's annoying, really.)
fff is something my family invented in the late 80's and stands for "Forced Family Fun."
(one of those three f's is meant to be ironic, James.)
Arc welding machines are large, heavy devices that transform an alternating current (AC) input into a high-current, low-voltage, direct current (DC) output. These machines traditionally require electromagnetic transformers that account for the large size and weight. While the cost of high power silicon devices has been decreasing, the cost of steal and copper required for electromagnetic components has been increasing. This parity has created an opportunity for a cost effective DC switching welder to be introduced to the consumer market. Under the commission of a local welding equipment manufacturer, this study sets out to develop and prototype the electronics necessary for an affordable, portable battery-powered welding machine. The design is implemented with a high current buck switching circuit as well as an assortment of feedback, control and safety circuitry necessary to complete the product. Using simulation, bench validation and the bounds of real world cost limitations, this project will develop a market-ready welder.
Though undocumented, i have been putting a tiny amount of time and money into the ratty rat truck. (Or as some call her, "El Burrito.") It doesn't have much interior, which is how i like it, but I did miss having a light in the cab. So i decided to build a rat rod appropriate LED light using the rear dome from an old bicycle light.
Departing from the norm, I decided to use small, low power LEDs rather than the usual face-melting monster lights that would require fans and heat management and all that noise. Simple components with a nice cap on to add the fancy "Dimming" effect that seems to be all the rage in them cars from this generation.
Then i built a bend arm using a ball-and-lock jiggy from one of those "helping hands" project holders. And because the truck has no head liner, I'm an aspiring weld-master and this is a rat truck, i done welded the mount in place.
And then i gave it a switch.
And now it works like a champ. Sturdy, metal, bright and Low power with 360 degrees of rotation. Made with parts from the basement. Biggity.
Why are fractions of 7 so much harder than the other 8 digits?
1/1 = 1. This gets better, I swear. 1/2 = Half. Its a half. See my point yet? 1/3 = A Third. .3333 forever. Well known. 1/4 = A Quarter. Half a Half. Also Currency. 1/5 = 20% -> 0.20 1/6 = Probably second place to the Stupid 7, but just half a third. 0.17ish 1/7 = WHO THE FUCK KNOWS? 1/8 = Half a quarter. Mental math. 0.125 1/9 = Anything over 9 is that anything repeating. 2/9? 0.22222. Also, a third of a third.
Fortunately I'm here to read between the lines for you baby birds. Unlike most robot uprisings, this is a good thing for men.
(Let me roll up my sleeves here and put on my "World's Greatest Chauvinist Pig" trucker cap)
See, once sex bots become as realistic as a flesh and blood woman, it will completely change the man/female sexual dynamic. Hot chick's social value will sink like when one of these damned robots falls into the deep end of the pool, This will be particularly true for annoying and/or stupid girls. Overnight there will be a whole population of women that are no longer subjected to the non-stop, slobbering advances of your average male slob. It will be like Every woman is shifted down two spots on the 10-scale.
But that's not all!
The sociological landscape will thrown into complete disarray in (almost) all the best ways. If they can build a robot that recreates the female body in every way, perfectly (or more likely, better than perfect) Pollution, war, douche-baggery, violence, religious tom-foolery... it will all fall off when your average middle-class a-hole can save his pennies for a few years and by himself a virgin that doesn't require him to don a dynamite vest. What the government SHOULD be doing is subsidizing this research to undercut the market cost of these things and prevent the possible (likely?) riots when that same middle-class A-hole can't afford the thing.
Given a half a generation or so of acquaintance and refinement, and us old guys will become the minority, a rare breed that prefers sex "the old fashioned way" and as such highly saught after in a world gone crazy with sex deprived Alpha females fighting for attention in a sea of sex-bots.
...
what just happened? I think i blacked out for a few minutes.
Editor's Note: I wrote this last week after returning from a weekend of awesome to a the familiar world of bullshit life maintenance. I'm not sure why i didn't hit "publish" then, but i suspect it had something to do with lack of sleep and grad school stress. I eventually finished the labs but didn't do very well on the quiz, but it was well worth the triumphs on the track.
I'm having a hard time focusing my brain back to the mundane day to day activities of the real world. To my brain, I'm still driving; racing a weekend's worth of endurance race. Still wearing a fire proof suit, strapped tightly into a metal box built by the team and I. Driving into corners at maximum speed knowing the brakes that I rebuilt along with the suspension that I installed would probably hold THIS car faster around the corner than any other vehicle around me. This is important information, especially at turn 11 because I also know that this motor is mostly untouched since that day back around the winter of 1993 when some Asian man (or lady) compiled its economy parts and as such, it cannot be relied upon for any manner of acceleration once we hit the front straight. But again, I'll be okay if I just brake later into this turn and carry more speed than everyone else. This late-braking, high speed plan does not of course account for a pink Camaro spinning out deep in the turn I was entering. I don't realize this until I'm approaching 80mph, trying to brake later than an MR-2, and the car a few yards in front of me locked up his brakes. Only slightly panicked, I too stand on my own tired, hot, over sized brakes, immediately seizing the front tires, stalling the engine and wearing two perfectly flat bald spots into the front tires. Turns out I was too busy minding the large, panoramic rear-view mirror for impending rear-end collisions and as such, failed to mind the clutch.
A 10th of a moment later I was coasting past the backwards-facing Camaro, noting it's orientation as the cause of my grief, and restarting the engine so as to take back lost positions.
You see, this story really starts Friday morning, when we leave the house and drive a normal car- a station wagon- 6 hours to the race track. Or maybe it starts thursday night when we pack that station wagon full of gear and tools. Possibly even the summer spent rebuilding the car or the summer before that, but its hard to say for sure. Regardless, the weekend it turns out, encompasses the lion's share of the story and it tells of the technical inspections and the building up of campsites; Cooking food, building fires, meeting up with friends and setting to rotating tires and making last minute repairs. But they are the hours spent in the car that my brain can't undock from; instances Like the one above when the system became overwhelmed by sensory data and in trying to control a world of entropy with shear willpower alone, achieved a meditative state of instantanious decision making. One void of conjecture or even the always present internal dialogue. At what point did my status quo become an impossibly small envelope inches from junk-racecars, throwing myself into squeeling turns two and three cars wide at the very real and very physical edge of grip? And that's the problem, really (if you can call it that): A series of timeless moments on a looped replay fighting for my attention.
We didn't win, per say, but we were the best loser. There was an award and a brief meeting but we were too busy to celebrate. We all had a beer because it seemed like the right thing to do but before I could finish I think it was lost in the confusion of packing up tools and loading a race car. We said goodbye and we drove home, exhausted. I returned to past due lab reports and quiz material that had not been studied. Real life moved in from all directions but the loops in my brain remain. I see them when i'm driving to work in the slow lane and when i'm sitting in a computer lab. And this is why I can't make my brain summarize and report an electronics lab from last week, detailing intricacies I can't quite recall. This is why the work world and the school world have no volume left.
If you're interested you can see the action here, from inside the car that caused the madness. The first paragraph above takes place between the 31 second mark where I can be seen coming into the frame and the 39 second mark where I coast away trying to restart the engine.
As you all know I am a practicing Quiver Full. And as such, once the means were available, i was obligated to increase my vehicle count by one.
His name is El Burrito. (I know, its stupid, but this is what happens when someone watches "Machete" and then strolls up when you're flexing your new wheels. I wanted to call it "old reliable and easy to work on" but it didn't have the staying power of "El Burrito.")
4 cylinders, 5 speeds, 2 wheeldrive and built in 1988. (Though the engine is from 90, allegedly). Counting the Caddy and the Dynasty, this is the 3rd American car I've owned from 1988, meaning that must have been a hell of a year.
Of course the nay-sayers will ask "why would you buy such an absurd vehicle to drive in the snowy winters of OH?" to which i would respond "come closer so i can spit on you."
This weekend Panera bread will be donating 100% of their profits to some tit-centric organization. Or so I hear. If you're the kind of person that cares about this type of thing, you probably got an email, but i was unaware of this fact before heading out for lunch today.
- Pink Balloons tied to cash registers obstruct menu. - Cups for water too small. - Slow service due to abnormally high number of middle aged female customers. - Pink Strawberry smoothie carries unintended political message. - A lot of breast awareness talk. No breast awareness walk.
Remember when everyday was spent with your best friends? When did life become devoid of significant human interaction?
...
Wake up alone, have brief words with an animal that behaves like a toddler on Red Bull, exchange mutual looks of confusion. Drive to work, listen to voices from machine. Check emails, read internet, stare at wall.
Idle chatter with coworkers about coworker things; That is, sometimes the things that conservative, engineering-minded, middle-age, middle-class white guys from small towns like to talk about... but most of the time about work. Read internet
Go to lunch, eat alone, read internet.
Go to school, listen to professor, sit silently with a group of soon to be conservative, engineering-minded, middle-age, middle-class brown guys from small towns.
Go home, eat alone, read internet.
Go to coffee shop, exchange hollow pleasantries with barista, do homework alone, read internet.
"Sleep! that's where I'm a viking"
...
My average daily net time in a real-life conversational exchange is surely less than 1 hour, but more importantly, average net SIGNIFICANT real-life exchange is less than 5min, with most days being zero.
I grow tired of the endless cycle of facebook, text messages and email.
Perhaps a crime spree involving a stolen El Camino and a pair of baristas!
So you've been burdened with an arbitrary assessment of your oldness, namely, a three in the tens-digit of your age. At times like these its good to take stock and tally the score.
The age test: 1) Hair: Longer than ever 2) Sex: Doing better than highschool 3) Fast cars: Check 4) Rock 'n Roll: Not a Katie Perry fan but Ke$ha's cool... 5) Acting a fool: At least once a week 6) Physical fitness: Why am i always sore when i wake up? (see 2?) 7) Relationship with food: WHY AM I SO SOFT IN THE MIDDLE PARTS? 8) Freedom to run off into the woods: Sure, but it sounds like too much work. Can't I just watch Cougar Town and go to sleep in my comfy OH GOD I'M 30!
Well, there you have it; science, folks and it don't lie. You're acting like a 30 year old. The only solution is a party. Something epic that forever cast a likeness of your youth in the minds of generations to come. It won't be easy but being awesome never is.
First, you're going to need a destination. I choose DC because it was centrally located, offered excellent surroundings and featured access to a luxury apartment. Second and more importantly, you need a crack team of experts to help revisit your youth. This is not about reliving your 20's (remember when you gave hand jobs for grocery money and often spent the night studying in the library?) but instead fiercely focusing on the best parts of life. Rather than blindly carpet bombing and hoping to get luckily, you'll use the wings of experience to carry out a precision strike, hitting only the very best life has to offer. And for this, you'll need people with age and experience but also a flair for crazy.
Our core team consisted of Chesto the Ninja, Stos the Greek, The Physicist, Gay Andrew, C-5 Sally and me, Sophist. This core team was then able to integrate their own, respective peoples, once we were on the ground in DC. The weekend went something like this:
Chesto arrives in Ohio Wednesday night and we immediately start telling lies and drinking beers. We meet up with some locals and entertain them by send a few items into a parallel dimension. Thursday morning we drive east, stopping only in a Pennsylvania J.C. Penny to buy button up shirts so we'll blend in with the DC natives. We arrive just in time to meet the others + extras at a semi-posh DC restaurant. We drink, we eat, we refresh and we retire after a long day of travel, ready to start the weekend.
Friday Chesto, myself and Gay Andrew set off to explore. (Editors Note: As far as i know, Gay Andrew doesn't have an actual alias and is in fact married to a woman. But once a man has grabbed at my crotch more than twice my brains goes about automatically filing him in the following format: {name}, Gay) Are travels would take us to the White House, Lincoln Memorial, various war monuments and most importantly, the Washington Monument, where we would meet The Greek.
Stos the Greek is a mountain of a man: Larger than life and twice as hairy. He lives vicariously through himself, his beard alone has experienced more than lesser men's entire body and he knows this town inside out. Now that the crew was falling into place it seemed obvious that we would strike right for the heart of the city. We made our way to the Pentagon.
HOLY SHIT THEY LET US INSIDE THE PENTAGON. I could tell you about it, but they'd cut my thumbs off. lets just say we lounged in the middle part.
Having penetrated the government's 5-sided center, we rallied and caught up with C-5 Sally (who isn't a figurative Sally but is a literal Sally). The core group was together at last so we grabbed the bag of fancy cigars that someone had gifted us (surely after hearing about our awesome) and made haste for the wood-lined, leather bound cigar bar called Kelly's Back Room. There we drank stiff drink and smoked full bodied cigars. It was Friday night and the weekend was in full effect. A warming happiness swept over us as we lounged, puffed and marveled at how far we'd come. And we still had Saturday ahead of us!
I can't really describe Saturday. It warrants a book. I choose to fall back on lists:
Boob Cup Cakes: I think this will be a yearly birthday tradition now. I. LOVE. CUP CAKES. also, i love boobs. There it is. I'm an adult, and i want a delicious cake product that reminds me of breasts. you know what else? Other people love boob cup cakes too. it's true, even girls. It makes them think about all the great times they've had with their own boobs, i think. Plus, it's a cup cake. Are you writing this down?
The metro: It's awesome until it breaks
Pre-partying: This is where the size of our party became obvious. 12 people? 16? I don't even know but there was more girls than guys and that makes both sexes happy. More importantly, every single person in our group was a rock star. I'm talking above average, good looking, funny, smart and probably trained to kill. Editors Note to the Physicist: In the future, please refrain from offering viewing of my tattoos to anymore strange women. I have a very specific and proven technique that needs to be followed, thus allowing me to negotiate a beneficial arrangement. You can find my work in the "I'll show you mine if you show me yours" section of the library.
Kelly's Irish Pub: They get good you drunk. Also find cell phone morning.
If i had to sum up Saturday, it would look something like this:
Sunday we ate at the Capital City Cafe and revisited the events of the weekend. "Did that really happen?" "Yes."
So there ya go. 30 ain't so bad when you and your friends are awesome.
Fortunately, the madness didn't end there. Following the weekend above was the actual observance of my First Annual 29th Birthday, which happened mid-week. Then there was picking up of the Physicist's new-used car. (I'll give you a hint: its turbo, its a wagon, its got a 5spd, its Swedish and its mine by proxy.) And the week following will find us exploring Oregon and winning at weddings.
After all that I've got that college thing I do.
Editor's Final Note: Since free time is so precious and scattered, i typically write these lengthier posts over a long period, revisiting them until the product is saleable. I was looking back through the archives and realized a few drafts existed that never made it to print. Here's one from the first half of 2009 that I titled "Trying to remember"
Friday Sending out work reports at 8pm Live music at bar number 1 Dancing at bar number 2 Arrival of physics consultant Drinking beer of the month Going to bed at 4 waking up at 10 Zehnders of Frankenmuth chicken dinner
I'm pretty sure i remember this weekend; Not a bad life. It probably never made it off the drawing board because the stories weren't particularly noteworthy in anyway other than an attempt to document an average good weekend. I Also have one from even further back called "online dating profile" where i constructed an online dating profile that would represent what i WANTED to say about myself, but it was a little too dark for prime time. Maybe someday I'll publish that too.
"You can't stop the signal Mal." Wikileaks wins again.
In other news, WTF is going on in Winona? Wildman, Timbo, I'm looking in your directions.
Here's a story. I was cleaning out the garage the other day because I'm all domestic and shit now. (also, she beats me) Basically the final step is using the BFGlf (BIG FUCKING GAS leaf blower). It was supposed to be used to supercharge a ghetto race car, but in the mean time there's no reason it can't be blowing dust off the work bench. Anyway, i came across these:
Apparently this garage is where beautiful things come to die. This explains the 1986 Supra slowly rotting in the driveway.
{single tear}
That's all for this week. Remember kids, the slow sword penetrates the shield
Saturday, July 24, 2010
This is good information to have re: Mexican Gov. and my plan to build a sail boat on their beaches.
I was on the Playstaion Network (Yes, i play playstation it helps clear my brain STOP JUDGING ME!) and within certain games, people are able to put "tags" in front of their names, limited to 4 characters. You see a lot of interesting stuff ,like the lawnmower
\.=.
The pistol
%"""
all manner of middle finger (which look better in font-type other than this)
o0oo n0nn
an assortment of male genitalia and female frontal parts
{use imagination}
this week i saw one that didn't immediately make sense. And like a vanity license plate with no vowels, it sent my brain spiraling into a vortex of analysis... I believe it looked somethingng like this:
-32=
I'm quite certain of the lat three characters but the first is a little fuzzy. Something like that, however. After several zetaflops of calculation, a couple beers of lubrication and an hour or so of eliminating digital terrorists, my brain was only able arrive at one conclusion:
Its a transvestite.
I mean look at it. The parts are all there. They're blown out of proportion, not unlike a caricature, but that's what these preteen n00bs are going for, right? And the limit on characters meant the head had to be cut off, but it's all there, man, in black and white, OPEN YOUR EYES.
Of course, in the light of day and away from the passion of the moment, i can see it is also, perhaps, construed as a face.
Here i have redrawn it to include a hat.
<32=
I don't know, maybe identifying patterns in these things is like looking for shapes in clouds.
I have this friend, let's call him Jennifer. (protect the innocent and all that)
This guy has a lot of random stories but i like the one of the crazy voicemail girl the best. I'm not exactly clear on the details surrounding how it all started but many years ago he got a call on his cell from a number he didn't know. It went to voicemail and this random caller, a girl, proceeded to leave him a voice message as if they were long lost friends catching up and had known each other for ages. Except he doesn't know her. He's sure of it. He doesn't recognize the name, voice, back story or know anyone from that area code.
This continues for years. Like 10 of them, maybe? every so often she calls, often in the middle of the night, he doesn't answer and she leaves a rambling, update of a voicemail. As such, time marches on, he gets married, has kids, he tells everyone about this random woman because its a great story but the phone calls eventually die off. (Did she die of crazy disease? Eaten by lions? run over while hopping on a west-bound trian? who knows) Then, a couple months ago, another phone call. For some reason he decides to answer this time, leading with the quite obvious: "WTF mate?"
Turns out she dialed the wrong number that first time so long ago and at the sound of his voicemail voice, decided to just start talking. From then on she used his inbox as something of a non-permanent diary; A way to unburden herself and recount the ups and downs of the years and whatnots.
We should all be so lucky to have a crazy cell-phone stalker.
I spent the weekend of the 4th in America's most underrated city, Detroit. I managed to check almost all the boxes necessary for a successful Detroit visit:
Sleep at Stos' house: Check Harassed by the suburban police: Check Illegal Fireworks: Check Royal Oak: Check Cruise Woodward: Check Harassed by homeless guy for driving a Miata: Check Challenged to a stoplight race by pick-up truck: Check Freeways of construction: Check Both sides of family: Check Seedy Strip Club: N/A due to funding Vehicular maintenance: Check 5am at an all night, private downtown bar: Check Hanging out with Greeks: Check
Events of the past three weeks have left me struggling to sort out the details of my reality. Did all those things just happen? Did two Yoopers (and their respective lovers) visit Ohio in back-to-back weeks? Was I really at an underground Detroit after hours bar at 5am? Do I spend my day's toiling in a dim lab tucked away in a half-abandoned 80yr old building, tweaking circuits... or did i imagine that part?
Look, there was like TENS of THOUSANDS of motorcycles there. Wait, I have a motorcycle and a convertible but nothing big enough to transport a lawn mower?
How did I break the lawn mower?
When did i get a lawn?
...
I'm almost 100% sure i Kareoked Big Balls by AC/DC.
(Who in an S-10 would try to drag race a Miata? Oh Detroit, I've missed your crazy ways)
There's too much uncertainty in the world these days, too many things we can't count on anymore. That's why I think you'll be happy to hear there's a 100% chance that I'll be taking my clothes off tonight.
We're in the midst of a classic tale, you and I. Boy meets girl. Boy and girl go to Applebee's. Boy exposes himself to girl. Sorry if that's not how dates end in your prudish ivory tower, but this isn't about you, it's about trying to get this night back on track and make things right.
You want to see what thirty-five minutes of elliptical machine a month can do to a man's body? You're about to. You want to cradle me in your capable arms and tell me everything's going to be okay? That can also be arranged.
It's called spontaneity if you're not familiar with the term. Another term you should familiarize yourself with is psoriasis. My inner thighs look like relief maps of South America. Sorry if that makes you uneasy, but life isn't always neatly wrapped up in a little box with a pretty bow. Sometimes that little box has a patchy skin disease that flares up without any goddamned warning.
Fact: you are throwing me more signals than a third base coach who's trying to have sex with me. Fact: I am reading you loud and clear and I'm heading straight for home, unencumbered by garments. Don't let playful euphemisms like that lull you into thinking I'm keeping my clothes on, because that's not an option at this point. Mentally, I'm already very naked. It's just a baby step from here.
Look, no one said dating was going to be easy. The sooner you come to grips with that, the sooner you can let your guard down and start exploring my body like a budding archeologist who just unearthed a terra cotta warrior. A warrior whose armor and undergarments appear to have eroded over time. Whoopsy-daisy.
Enough talk. It's time to check your inbox because there's an invitation to an epidermis party. It's from me. No need to RSVP, you're already here. And so's my body. If you need to brush up on some old biology curriculum, now's your chance because it's about to get anatomical up in here, and I don't have time to explain to you how my body works.
We're moments away from doing the kinds of things we couldn't have done if I kept my clothes on. It's like those final seconds of anticipation before a thunderstorm. But no slicker's going to protect you from this nasty forecast. It's about to rain three to four inches of me. Possibly five, but I can't promise anything.
from Eric Walkinshaw date Fri, Jun 4, 2010 at 10:15 AM subject Fwd: Ohio needs your help...
Mike is right about this one. This is America and if you want to live here, learn English. And the Mexican already know that drunk driving is a crime. The police don't need to advertise it!
An America Patriot
---------- Forwarded message ---------- From: Mike Jordan Date: Thu, Jun 3, 2010 at 10:49 PM Subject: Ohio needs your help... To: Mike Jordan
If this doesn’t offend you, you are NOT a true AMERICAN!
This is the only one left up as of this evening that I know of...someone tore down the one that was posted across the street from PNC on 741. I’m guessing it will only be a matter of time before someone tears this one down, I hope so anyway.
This is CRAZY! The last time I looked this was STILL AMERICA! I was SO furious, I stopped into the Miami Township Police Department and let them know as an American I was totally offended by this and this was unacceptable. Anyway, I let them no with out any doubt that I was going to posts this and any other images they put up like this on the internet, send it to Congressman Mike Turner and anyone else that will listen. Also that I was going to get together a group of people an protest the Miami Township Police Department until they took these signs down.
So PLEASE send this to any and everyone you know of that is proud to be an American... Are you ready for this???? Check out the officers they told me to contact to complain to...kinda ironic huh?
CALL THIS OFFICER AND LET HIM KNOW THIS IS NOT ACCEPTABLE IN OHIO! Major Di Piezero 937-433-2418.
If you are offended by this as much as I am, please make your voice heard, call and let them know!
Also, it wouldn’t hurt to write Mike Turner as well. http://www.turner.house.gov/Contact/
As I’ve always said...if no one speaks up, it will only get worse because if you don’t speak up now, one day you’ll wake up and wonder what happened. By that time it will be too late to have your voice heard.
Wake up people...not only did we get the health care shoved down out throats, they will enforce this on us as well unless we stop it!
Thanks Mike
This photo was taken at the Miami Township Police Department this evening 6-3-2010.
(Sophist says: Imagine a photo here of an ANTI Drunk Driving banner written in Spanish)
****************************************************************** Today i sent this
from Sophist@sophist.address to Eric Walkinshaw date Sat, Jun 5, 2010 at 8:24 PM subject Re: Ohio needs your help... mailed-by gmail.com
Patriot Eric,
I don't know you and you don't know me, but it seems we've exchanged emails in the past. I've read what you forwarded me here, considered the call to action and would like to offer a counter proposal. Instead of everyone going batshit crazy over a poster, why don't you open your eyes to the shit that matters in Ohio and champion something worthwhile?
Here's a good one: http://www.dispatch.com/live/content/local_news/stories/2010/06/02/ohio-supreme-court-speed-estimate-valid.html?sid=101
I guess I'm too simple to understand why i should care about a banner on a fence when everyday I'm inundated with examples of stupid and pointless laws born of this mentality; Imagined security from a piece of paper, created because someone's delicate sensibilities were offended. More fuel for a painful bureaucracy and, in other cases, the eroding away of my freedom to be left alone. Or like the two examples above, another nail in the coffin of "Innocent until proven guilty." You know, the stuff that *should* have people rioting in the streets.
Anyway, having found Mike's work insightful and inspiring, I've taken a cue from its originality and decided to forward your email to everyone in my contact list. I've described how you're out of control and need to be stopped and encouraged them to contact you directly so we can put a stop to the madness. I mean, last time i checked, I thought this was 'Merica?
-Patriot (Sophist's real name)
P.S. My $125 offer for the muffler still stands.
*************************************************
UPDATE!
From: Eric Walkinshaw Date: Sat, 5 Jun 2010 20:52:20 -0400 To: Curt Zackiewicz Subject: Re: Ohio needs your help...
Well I'm not surprised that a motorhead like you would be offended by the idea that a police officer can judge the speed of a car by sight. In fact, I agree that the speed of a car can be determined reasonably accurately by a trained observer. Of course, guys like you want to go speeding around in your cars. BTW, I sold the muffer to another clown. Did I mention that I considered most of the MX-5 crowd a bunch of fags?
Ciao
Editor's note: i think i understand now the enjoyment trolls get out of being internet trolls.
When i first dropped pictures of the reworked bike it was, as it turns out, mostly show and very little go. The carb tuning was a train wreck and required some fiddling that i didn't have the time for. Today i finally stole away enough ticks to put the last couple hours in to get it sorted (turns out the key is ZERO washer spacers). With the insights of people from around the Midwest, it now pulls hard, runs a little less "smooth," often smells of hydrocarbons and in general wreaks of badass-ary.
Here it is without the side cover reinstalled and sporting the tank bag that doubles as a high-speed chest cushion.
It's not exactly where i'd like it to be and at WOT still has the slightest hint of hesitation in the 5 to 6k range but i think i've tuned the carbs as close as these factory parts will allow. In other words, the resolution of the problem is too fine to eliminate. In other, other words, its good enough.
Also, the breather is spewing a bit of oil, the paint on the tank peeled off where it was touching the tank bag (after leaving it out in the sun one day) and the air filters seem awfully loose, though I've yet to lose one with 200 miles of riding. In short: it's completely awesome, full of character and far exceeds my expectations for this project.
My associate (that is, one of my many, many (and often anonymous) lovers) has left on business for the summer and as a going away present gave me her virus-born cold. (Kisses!)
Without drugs or food supplies, step one was to go out into the world and restock the wolf den. (I am a wolf pack of one now. HOOOWWWLLL!)
I've experienced this intriguing scenario before so I'm not sure why it always surprises me but when I'm stocking up on drugs my ability to make wise money decisions is completely felled. I start by pouring myself into the car and driving through the summer rain to Kroger, because i know if has a Starbucks kiosk and that's the only way I'm going to shake off the NyQuil fog long enough to operate the shopping cart. First (post Bucks) stop: the medicine isles. Immediately my weakened mental state comes into play; Sweet, enjoyable and laughable Ricola cough drops or dirty-deeds-done-dirt-cheap Halls? I take both. Also some pills to loosen phlegm. Then more NyQuil, enough to host a party of Bird Flu patients and also some Advil. Burt's Bees, mouth wash, toe of newt, ankle sling, wart remover, eye drops, what is this... pregnancy test? better throw it in... I'm like the fat man running the bonus round on 80's games show Super Market Spree.
Next the fruit, bananas and strawberries, everything else takes too much preparation. This is when i start making "outside the box" purchases. Freshly baked blueberry muffins? Lady if you take that last package i will LICK YOUR FACE TWO TIMES. I think she can see the virus coursing through the veins in my eyes.
Cereal: Two boxes in case it gets worse and i can't drive myself around later.
Oreos: these are always a 50/50 chance of finding their way into my cart based on an intricate algorithm that considers worldly pulses such as how i've felt the week previous, whether i'm up or down in the fitness battle and how the Asian stock market is responding to the tech sector. Today the tech sector is doing well. Two packs.
Cat food: Do i have a cat or really know anyone that does? No, but it's raining and maybe i'll pass on a stray on the way home... Better get two cans.
Yogurt, ice cream, 300 lunchables, a king's assortment of cheeses, fancy juices, canned soup, sewing needles for acupuncture, leaches, crackers, tissues, and... Potato chips. Never, since college, have i bought potato chips when shopping solely for myself. I'm now acting like a pregnant drug addict and what? they sell ping pong balls in the beer section now? I'm going to have to entertain myself for the next few months.
...
How did i spend $115 on groceries that fail to fill 1/3 of a Miata trunk?
BONUS SAVINGS TIME: There are ants coming out of my laptop. Is this really happening or did I mix NyQuil with DayQuil again?
For lunch today I was seeking a peaceful, reflective setting with some soul and something captivating to gaze upon. As i work in the Xurbia of the midwest, this is almost unobtainable so I opted for the deli down the street.
I sat in the corner of the corner table with 3 other tables in my section. Slowly, each filled with a couple. The first was two business men wearing loafers and khakis, with blue button up shirts. The noisy one was spouting on about the bad business decisions that someone in the company by the name of Curt had made. Or maybe it was Curt that was going to finally straighten things out. Either way, this conversation continued to catch my attention even when i tried to focus away, due to the audio que. The 30-something noisy one was opinionated seemed to enjoy his own voice and I immediately labeled him as someone i would avoid in the office; weasely. He was speaking to a peer of equal rank but slightly older. He looked more distinguished, with some grey hair, and seemed more reflective and objective, but agreeable enough to keep the conversation moving. I had seen this situation play out in my own life too many times to be interested.
At the second table was a man and a woman, early to mid 30's, with sexual tension. She was a natural red-head with long, slightly curly hair wearing jeans and red flannel. She was naturally good looking but gave the impression of having been raised on a farm or maybe was a tom boy growing up, since her looks were almost entirely a result of good luck and he was way out of his league. He looked and sounded generic; khakis and tennis shoes, a zip up fleece and cookie-cutter haircut. He was slim and unathletic and mostly quiet while she was an engaging, full-bodied speaker. I'm pretty sure he knew he was out-classes too, as he spent the lunch with one hand on his drink and one hand in his pocket (while sitting down!) perhaps constantly searching for his next sentence fragment. They spoke of the other night in the bar, perhaps when the met? I think friends of friends. In the light of day he seemed to offer little, mostly sitting back, staring straight ahead while she was leaning forward and swaying in her chair with the inflection in her stories.
The third table was an older man with an early middle-aged woman. A father and Daughter, I think, or maybe even Grandfather. The old man looked old, weathered, grey and wrinkled. She was considerably younger, but still had his resemblance. They were catching up, but for maybe just a week's time; maybe this was a weekly lunch date? He was intriguingly vibrant for what appeared to be his age. It seems like most people (sometimes myself included, though not on purpose) talk to seniors with a slow and slightly condescending voice but she was almost absent of that (though she did speak a *little* slower and more staccato than seemed natural, she didn't have to dumb-down her vocabulary). They talked about so-and-so's new job and the overtime she wasn't receiving and what's-her-name's failed search through the obituaries for a lost friend. Throughout the conversation I was intrigued by how quickly his mind worked and hoped the same for myself in 60 years.
Monday, May 03, 2010
Last weekend i attended another wedding. Mostly it was like the others: fancy shoes -> god -> drinks -> food -> drinks -> dancing -> drinks -> {memory not found} -> how did i end up back at my hotel room?
I love weddings.
One noteworthy part was when the non-denominational Christian preacher started quoting the move Rocky, setting the scene up and describing the conversation from each character's point:
Paulie: [talking about Adrian, his sister] You like her? Rocky: Sure, I like her. Paulie: What's the attraction? Rocky: I dunno... she fills gaps. Paulie: What's 'gaps'? Rocky: I dunno, she's got gaps, I got gaps, together we fill gaps.
Of course the movie, being more true to life than his sermon, has three additional lines that were left un-said:
Paulie: Are you ballin' her? Rocky: Hey! [punches Paulie in the shoulder] Rocky: You don't talk dirty about your sister!
Last week i found the most awesomest car for sale at a super low price and then the guy decided he wanted to keep it.
...sigh...
Arizona: I'm strangely in love with the idea of states making their own crazy laws about issues that they find regionally important. Maybe i WANT a state in the union where it's legal to walk around with no pants. Just sayin'. For every Arizona there will probably be a "live free or die" state and the pendulum always swings. I'm more concerned about this idea of a homogeneous country the man keeps peddling.
these are not my works of poetry. They are a product of your turn of the (last) century American slavery. My failure to cite is a direct result of my, well, failing to cite.
WE wear the mask that grins and lies, It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,— This debt we pay to human guile; With torn and bleeding hearts we smile, And mouth with myriad subtleties.
Why should the world be over-wise, In counting all our tears and sighs? Nay, let them only see us, while We wear the mask.
We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries To thee from tortured souls arise. We sing, but oh the clay is vile Beneath our feet, and long the mile; But let the world dream otherwise, We wear the mask!
Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore-- And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet?
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 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
