Not All That Interesting

2011 Chicago Auto Show: Wrap II

2011-02-14T21:42:00.000-06:00

As I mentioned, GM took up a huge chunk of real estate, but with nothing particularly exciting to show for it. And that mirrored the tone for most of the automakers--lots of showroom cars, a concept here and there, but very little that caused me to stop in my tracks and involuntarily gawk.

I did stop and look at a Cadillac CTS for a second, though I don't think it was the much ballyhooed CTS-V--just the bread-and-butter variety. I wanted to see firsthand how it measured up to its accolades.

First, it's come a long way since its debut. I saw quite a few when I worked in the car business, and they were far from impressive: low-rent GM hide covering seats that quickly showed signs of wear, cheap, clunky buttons making their way up a particularly awkward center stack, and a shifter that easily could've been plucked from a Chevy Impala.

But that "come a long way" story rings true for almost every American car over the last five years--save Ford's Ranger, of course. Keeping up does not a leader make. Cadillac's clearly opted for higher-quality grain in their vastly improved seats and some richer plastics, but the console still screams GM. There's just an underlying cheapness to it that I just can't hurdle. For all their efforts to reshape their image as a legit luxury-sport provider, there's simply something insincere--something that tells you you're going to be driving a rattle-trap in about four short years.

Audi: It's Audi

If sales of a vehicle rested solely on its aesthetic and tactile qualities, Audi would be the world's largest manufacturer. Nothing drives like an Audi and nothing feels as good as an Audi. Their ability to seduce their suitors beyond concerns of brutal repair bills is evidence of the brand's successful siren song.

As I mentioned in the previous post, Audi did not bring the new Quattro concept car. See it here. They did bring the new TT, but, at least from the exterior, the TT of today is largely the same TT of 2000. There are a few expected tweaks like cleaner, more aggressive lines, but if you were to pass one on the highway, you probably wouldn't know new from old.

All new Audis continue to sport those weird, largely pointless LEDs running along the bottom if the headlamp assembly.

The new A7 has gorgeously aggressively lines, and a pricetag that's largely beyond the grasp of most people who make their paycheck honestly. I really dig the oversized snout and the scowly-headlamps. They blend beautifully into the car's overall low-slung stance. It's powered by a supercharged 3.0L fast-winding chunk of Kraut aluminum that produces 305hp and an impressive 325lb-ft of torque.

*Sigh*

Lexus: LFA

What a sinister little badass.

An old friend of mine once accused Japanese automakers of being very good at perfecting the American car, but utterly incapable of coming up with an original car idea.

And then the LFA was born.

Yes, this car is stupid-expensive, clocking in at $375,000. Yes, it looks like it's waiting to be beamed back to the mothership. And absolutely yes, this car is completely impractical.

But it excites the hell out of me. It's little 4.8L V10 is a real marvel, capable of winding up to its 9,000-rpm redline in under a second. Once in the sweetspot, it cranks out 552hp, but a slightly watery 354lb-ft of torque.

Why on God's green earth they painted it yellow is completely beyond me.

Since we're on the absurd...

Mercedes: The Gullwing Returns

The Mercedes camp was about what you would expect from Mercedes--beautifully chiseled, immaculately assembled, and all at a price that assures I will not be owning one for the foreseeable future.

The new little SLK and SL (small and not-as-small) both look fast standing still. They're clearly the next evolution of the little CLKs from about a decade ago. The boxy GLK SUV looks like it would be just as at-home fording jungle streams as it does sitting comfortably outside a Whole Foods--take that for what you will.

While all these cars were nice specimens of German uber-engineering, the show-stopper was the SLS AMG--the long awaited modern interpretation of the 300SL. While it's precursor sported a groundbreaking-for-its-time all-aluminum inline six, the snarly SLS AMG gets its power from a 6.2L 563hp V8.

And it's truly a breathtaking car--hands-down the most inspiring of the show--all for a mere $183,000.

2011 Chicago Auto Show: Wrap

2011-02-12T23:48:00.001-06:00

One of the interesting aspects of working in downtown Chicago is the sprinkling of insanely exotic or otherwise unattainable cars amongst the cabs, beaters, and everyday drivers. More interesting than their semi-regular emergence from hi-rent parking garages is their owners' utter absence of discretion or sanity, choosing to drive $200k vehicles amongst the fearlessly aggressive cabbies and lumbering, unwieldy delivery trucks.

When I do drive into the office, an act borne purely of necessity and riddled with abject frustration, I park in a garage that sits underneath a genuine Class-A office building. Compared to our Soviet-era apartment-inspired building, Franklin Center is a taste of how the other side lives. It's a beautiful pink granite 60-story hi-rise full of lawyers, accountants, and AT&T execs.

It's not at all uncommon to weave through a Bavarian smorgasbord full of Porsches, AMGs, and Bimmer Ms on the way to elevators. The poorman's Boxster is the exception here. A 911 Turbo S is as common as a Camry back in the Western Burbs.

And it's because of this, I have high expectations when I attend the nation's largest auto show. I expect to see jaw-dropping prototypes and concepts--not just some waxed up flavor of what's already available in showrooms. Throwing a handful of blondes in tight skirts at a Camry still does not erase the fact it's a Camry.

We live about two miles from some of the most high-end dealerships in Chicago. I can see Bentleys, Maseratis, Porshes, and Ferraris on the way to Trader Joe's. I want to see those cars normally reserved for editors of the international auto mag scene. I want to see the breathtakingly cool forms that overlay Star Wars-inspired mechanics normally hidden from the public's eye. I don't want to see the same cars I see on the way to buy a $4 bottle of Trader Joe's Table Red.

Right, so let's talk about the show.

Hyundai: Yes, Hyundai.

There's no telling how much Hyundai forked out for its boothspace, but I feel safe placing my bet somewhere between "astronomical" and "stunning." Theirs occupied the first spot. So, if you wanted to see Audi, BMW, or that Lexus LFA (more on that later) you had to make your way through Hyundai-town.

First of all, if you still associate Hyundai with that boxy, almost cartoonily awfully uninspired heap from the early 1990s, it's time to update your perceptions. The brand is for-real. I think it's safe to say Hyundai has caught up with Toyota and Ford, and is now seriously making a play for Lexus dollars.

The Genesis 5.0 is stylish with very cleanly stamped metal. I think they were going for a more aggressive aesthetic, but were only willing to venture marginally beyond their perceptions of what Lexus might do with a sporty midsize sedan.

The new flagship model, the Equus, is pretty. The trouble is, like the Genesis, it seems to do everything in its power not to offend. The metal is layered and flowy--but only just so--and nicely dignifies a car roughly the size of a 7-series BMW. The cockpit is very comely. Truth be told, the Equus is the automotive embodiment of a key demographic--that being the stereotypical WASP.

Frankly, every Hyundai they rolled out is pretty. And that's the problem. They all appear to be designed by an engineer, not an artist. For as good looking as their new lineup is, and it truly is good looking, there's nothing uniquely memorable about any of the cars--collectively or individually. "Uninspired" isn't the word, too harsh, but they're just not memorable.

The great thing about this brand going forward is they stand to keep a lot of car companies honest. They clearly understand value. As soon as they figure out how to mix some emotion in their design aesthetic, Hyundai will be poised to pass up some deeply established brands in the US market.

Jaguar: It lives

After draining Ford resources for years, Jaguar was sold off to India's Tata Motors back during the arms-flailing panic stage of the recession. Somehow, the British luxo-rocket maker has actually been turning profits for its new adoptive parents.

It seems hard to believe people are still purchasing $74k British sports cars with sub-awful maintenance reputations, but evidently, they still are.

It's easy to suspend the natural incredulousness of Tata's profitability claims when you see firsthand what Jaguar designers do with metal, leather, and glass. You might argue Jaguar does almost perfectly what Hyundai fails at so woefully. Jag knows how to shape stunning, inspired cars. Period.

While the Brits didn't ship over anything exotic, their core product was still enough to keep their corner of the floor packed with dreamers and droolers alike.

Porsche: Kraut perfection

Go ahead and name a car that's existed for almost 50 years and continues to inspire--especially one that still bears a near-identical appearance to the original. Take your time. I'll wait.

If your list is longer than one, pat yourself on the back. Because the Porsche 911 is pretty much it.

Porsche's booth was fairly small this year. The awesome Aqua Blue Metallic 911 Speedster sat on the spinning display and was accompanied by a white Panamera and a Boxster.

The only surprise was the amount of rear legroom in the Panamera. It's unreal. A 5'10" adult male, or very leggy female for that matter, can easily sit in the backseat and not be reminded of cramming into a the backseat of a friend's brother's VW Beatle.

GM: Who cares?

Big booth, lots of cars, and a Volt test track that let people drive the $40k turd in a circle at about 3mph.

Oh, there was also a DJ to gin up excitement around the Aveo replacement--the... the.. Sonic? Yes. Sonic. I'm not sure why they renamed it. Even if it is completely different underneath, it still looks like an Aveo. It's not a car you're going to catch somebody lovingly staring at in their garage.

There were some trucks there, too. But again. It's GM. Non-story.

Ford, Chrysler, VW, Toyota, Audi and more tomorrow.

Nontendo Wii

2009-11-06T16:36:00.001-06:00

I don't always make smart shopping decisions. Fortunately I have Jen around to gently clue me in when I'm about to buy something impulsive or stupid. Impulsive and stupid, I've found, are the peanut butter and chocolate of vices.

So when I saw the "Zone 40" gaming system at CVS for $30 and suggested we get one (it's $30 for a gaming system--even if it sucks, we can still pay rent) I fully expected a slapdown of sensibility. But, she's been Wii-captivated ever since last Christmas and the Zone 40 is a Wii knock-off (and it's $30--C'mon already!!), so she came on-board with my dumbass idea to buy one.

The box was surprisingly light--so light that I had the cashier guy open it up to make sure there was actually something in the box. Indeed, the box contained two controllers and our soon-to-be Nontendo Wii game system thing. The reason the box was so light, I discovered when we got home, is that it doesn't come with an AC adapter. So, already the $30 investment now has recurring battery costs. Value diminishing.

There's no HDMI output on the Zone 40. No composite. Just RCA. But so what? It's $30 plus the cost of batteries. After stuffing our little white box with AA batteries, I plugged everything in, and prepared to be dazzled by real-motion gaming, all thanks to some handy reverse engineering and Chinese slave labor.

Here's the thing about the Zone 40. Yes, it's sort of a real-motion game--assuming you're very generous in your use of language. But the games--all 40 of them--are knock-offs from early 16-bit arcade days. "Bee Fighter," for example, is Galaga. But instead of shooting the alien ships in space, you shoot the exact same alien ships, which coincidentally were insect-themed, against a pastoral grassy barnyard setting. There's no getting around it--this is Galaga with a slightly modified cheesy MIDI soundtrack.

And then there's the fishing game. The only bigger waste of time apart from actual fishing is the Zone 40 fishing game. Beer is mandatory. In sufficient quantities, it will dumb you down enough to figure out what the fuck it is you're supposed to do. But, after all, it's only $30 plus the cost of batteries plus sufficient enough quantities of alcohol to muddle through the 40 shitty games.

It gets worse, amazingly. The racing game is a slightly polished version of ActiVision's Enduro. We're talking 8-bit games. Think Atari 2600, but positioned as a modern-day contender. Seriously.

So. If you hate your kids, buy them a Zone 40 gaming system. It sends a very clear message. It lets them know that you will not be paying for college, cars, and have no real interest in their development or happiness. Yeah, it's $30 bucks. But the recurring costs that follow in its wake far, far exceed the price. Should you get one for yourself? Meh. It's $30.

Saturday in Jail

2009-05-23T16:44:00.010-05:00

Clairemont is a tiny, fly-blown spec of a town located in Kent County. Not that you have any idea where the hell Kent County is, but nevertheless, that's where it's located. If you're really curious, here's a map. Anyway, Clairemont was once the county seat of Kent County and, as such, built a jail to keep drunken ranchhands from doing whatever drunken ranchhands do.

This is not an nice jail--certainly not a place anybody would want to call "home" for an extended period of time.

Enjoy.

Mesa Verde

2008-07-21T16:27:00.001-05:00

Mesa Verde II

2008-07-21T16:25:00.001-05:00

Chicago Basin XI

2008-07-21T16:24:00.000-05:00

Chicago Basin X

2008-07-21T16:23:00.001-05:00

Chicago Basin IX

2008-07-21T16:23:00.000-05:00

Chicago Basin VIII

2008-07-21T16:20:00.002-05:00

Chicago Basin VI

2008-07-21T16:20:00.001-05:00

Chicago Basin V

2008-07-21T16:19:00.000-05:00

Chicago Basin IV

2008-07-21T16:18:00.000-05:00

Chicago Basin III

2008-07-21T16:17:00.000-05:00

Chicago Basin II

2008-07-21T16:16:00.000-05:00

Chicago Basin

2008-07-21T16:06:00.000-05:00

An Unsubstantiated Connection Between Witches and Beer

2008-04-14T19:18:00.002-05:00

If necessity is the mother of invention, then boredom is the fertile belly of all useless trivia. Mass communications law, shocking as it may sound, is incredibly boring. And dry.

So, useless trivia: Witches and Beer.

It turns out that the popular image of witches--pointy hat, large nose, and broomstick in tow--has its origins in beer. Yes, when you dress your little rugrat up as a witch this Halloween, you're dressing her up to maximize her beer sales at the local market. Or so the story goes.

Step back a few hundred years to an age that Renaissance festival dorks like to recreate today. Beer was far more than a means of getting white guys to dance and sorority girls naked. It was a dietary staple. For one, sanitation was lost on the peasant class, so water sources resembled both a figurative and literal crap shoot. Livestock intermingled with people, as did their droppings. The brewing process greatly cut down the likelihood of resulting intestinal parasites. Second, beer provided a sizable chunk of one's daily nutrition. Turnips taste like asshole left in the sun, and beer provided a respite from turnips' peppery bite while getting one pleasantly crocked WITH the added benefit of a shittonne of calories.

Right, so the hat. The hat was a means of advertising. It was a medieval precursor of the Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man, except worn by the proprietor of the beer stand. Beer brewing was big business and dominated by women. The large, pointy hat was simply a means of drawing more and more attention to your particular hut. As competition stiffened, so too did the conical hats in order to rise above one another.

Ok, the broom. The broom so often associated with with the witch generally adorned the top of her hut, or whatever the hell you want to call the little hut-like place where she brewed her beer. It stayed on the outside of the hut so as to project an image of cleanliness while avoiding dropping ensnared goose shit into the brewing mead. Why the caution? Because of the witch accusation: if a beerbitch brewed a tainted batch of beer and the village's inhabitants were simultaneously struck with a case of the shits, or worse, fell tits-up, the brewstress invariably faced accusations of witchcraft. If you recall your history or your Monty Python, you'll remember that to stand accused of witchcraft seldom resulted in fair trials and vindication of one's good name. It generally was a death sentence, so of course they were going to exercise care when making their beers.

Likewise, the familiar images of witches surrounded by bubbling cauldrons also stem directly from beer brewing.

Lastly, the big nose. Simply put: Antisemitism. That's it. If people died from a batch of bad beer, it was believed the devil was at work through his agents, the Jews. Yeah, crazy shit. Also, the whole thing about witches floating in a river? The reason a witch floats is because the devil is holding her up. Oh religion. Good times.

There. Now you know some utterly useless stuff about witches and beer that I heard on NPR about a year ago, but can't relocate.

Hell's Waiting Room Strikes Again

2008-03-07T08:52:00.008-06:00

Dear Florida,

You have once again risen to national prominence for a feat that really only you could pull off. I speak, of course, about the situation you have on your hands concerning the Democratic delegates and your botched primary.

About the best I can do to help you understand the absurdity of the whole fiasco is to place it in an analogy: your Democratic party higher-ups behaved like impudent children hellbent on getting their way all the while contemptuous of the consequences of their actions. But--but--when they got sent to the corner for timeout, they once again stomped their feet, threw themselves on the ground, and began another temper tantrum, screaming, "it's not fair, it's not fair!" No. Bad. Quit doing this.

Don't hide behind "Democracy." The president your state put in to office has worn the badge of democracy threadbare. It no longer means anything when it comes out of his mouth and, by association, yours either.

Your Republican governor is jostling for the DNC to foot the $25M cost for a primary mulligan. Bullshit, I say. Crist is a McCain shill, and the Republicans know their best chances fall with a McCain-Clinton general election, so please don't conflate "democracy" with "rigging." Likewise, you effectively disenfranchised Obama supporters. That's a level of sleaze we haven't seen since Katherine Harris skulked back to her Stepford McMansion.

If you want your delegates to count, don't commit the one action that automatically negates them. You confuse me, Florida. I'm starting to wonder if you even deserve a vote any longer.

Here's Dean:

Dem Debate 13: Snoozer in Austin

2008-02-21T20:48:00.008-06:00

Updated 2/22 9:35: Now with video goodness

Barring a multi-round health care policy exchange, the 13th (I think) meeting between Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton was relatively calm. Obama's opening remarks hinted at the possibility of a revealing debate. He levied a brief but biting criticism against NAFTA's disastrous impact on US jobs, however he neglected to take the conversation much further than a cursory critique.

Meanwhile, in her opening remarks, Clinton made it a point to dredge up the bones of Barbara Jordan and Ann Richards as well as her previous experiences registering voters in South Texas (ahem, Mexicans--looking at you). In all fairness, they both played the Barbara Jordan ticket, however Clinton spent a bit longer on the pander train.

So, health care. Big issue. Clinton dominated the exchange, although substantively speaking, the devil was in the details. Both want universal coverage for Americans using the Congressional health care plan as the model. This is good. The argument centered around Obama's mandate for children's coverage--that parents must provide coverage for children. Hillary claimed it missed a few million folks, Obama claimed it didn't. She really delivered her case well. Obama failed to defend himself as thoroughly as Clinton deconstructed his program. See vid.

On Health Care:

Any headway Clinton may have garnered from the health care debate quickly retreated with a shiteating remark about the much-commented Deval Patrick's "Just Words" speech. The Clinton camp has been hammering hard the plagiarism accusation. She charged that Obama's pledge is "not change you can believe in, it's change you can Xerox." The remark drew very clear, very loud jeers.

Clinton's zinger:

Clinton ended up closing very strong with some predictable rhetoric about the Creator, her upbringing, and a call to duty. It was trite, but well-assembled. All in all, Clinton stood taller than Obama this evening. She simply delivered her message more effectively than Obama.

Ah, one last thing--her closing speech? Ripped off from Edwards. Go figure.

Closing Remarks a la John Edwards:

Sanity Settles Over the Delegate Counts

2008-02-13T09:32:00.005-06:00

After yesterday's Potomac Primaries, the majority of news outlets are reporting a similar theme--Obama has clearly edged a narrow lead over Clinton. Most news orgs are inline with the AP's delegate count of 1223 for Obama and 1198 for Clinton.

Don't be surprised if the Texas and Ohio primaries produce a similarly marginal flip-flop in favor of Clinton.

Raw Data:

Mercury Rising.

2008-02-09T11:57:00.000-06:00

The Bush Administration's disdain for environmental regulations received a hardy UFIA from an appeals court Friday. The three judge panel struck down another of a long succession of schemes aimed at undermining policy the Bush Administration found too restrictive.

In the latest thump to the administration's nuts, the EPA was found in violation of the Clean Air Act for its "market-based" approach to mercury emissions from coal-burning power plants. Under the market-based guise, dirty power plants are able to skirt mercury emission regulations by "buying" credits from cleaner plants. In effect, they buy the right to wantonly pollute.

Tennessee Valley Authority: Mercury Contributors

Mercury fallout generally localizes around the offending plants. When mercury meets water, it forms methylmercury. The problem with methylmercury is that its readily absorbed in the gastrointestinal tract. Developing fetuses are the most susceptible to mercury's less-than-desirable effects. The list includes mental retardation and congenital health defects. In adults, mercury poisoning is linked to cardiovascular disease as well as heart attacks. Mercury is bad shit. You do not want it in your backyard. Or in your coffee. And especially in your fetus.

How the bad takes place:

The market-based ploy is little more than a subterfuge to the fact that, under Bush, the EPA has become a captive agency. Bush took the same policy of self-regulation that undermined the Texas Natural Resource Conservation Commission (now the Texas Commission on Environment Quality) to Washington, DC.

Stephen L. Johnson, EPA boss, recently overruled his staff regarding California's attempts to enforce even stricter laws as outlined in the Clean Air Act. The overrule was controversial in light of the compelling evidence presented. Ironically, Johnson's EPA bio paints him as quite the environmental champion--specifically regarding mercury regulation:

"Under Administrator Johnson’s leadership, the Agency has implemented a number of significant environmental programs. The United States became the first nation in the world to regulate mercury emissions from coal-fired electric utilities through the Clean Air Mercury Rule."

The policy of acting in exact contradiction to the stated claims of your organization has become unfortunately common under Bush. Fortunately, the fat lady's begun her warm-up. The tactic of hiding behind the "market" has been worn threadbare by its repeated misuse.

Source: LA Times
Source: Agency for Toxic Substances & Disease Registry
Source: Think Progress

Not-so-Super Delegates

2008-02-08T09:00:00.000-06:00

DNC bosses went in the super delegate direction following George McGovern’s brutal shellacking by Nixon in 1972, Reagan's steamrolling of Carter and Mondale, and the pussification of the Democratic Party as a whole by 1984.

Super delegates have no obligation to vote inline with their county, district, or state constituents--hence the controversy.

The super delegate system gave the Democratic aparatchik oversight of the selection process so they could insulate the party from future Mondale-esque lameduck contenders--that, and the country as a whole from future Nixons. The theory holds that higher-ups have a clearer vision of what is best for the party than those interested enough to actually vote in the primaries. It's tenuous, but that's the logic.

The 1984 Reagan v. Mondale Election:

As for membership to the Super Club, the requirements are hazy. In most cases, super delegates are members of Congress, former or current governors, DNC committee members and other garden-variety elected Democratic officials. Ok, well that kind of makes sense. But bloggers, powerbrokers, and special interest group leaders? No. Bad. No super delegates for you.

Today, roughly 20% of the total Democratic delegates are super delegates.

Here's how it breaks out:
Total Democratic Delegates: 4,049 (including the super delegates)
Total Super Delegates: 842 (20.8%)
Delegates Needed to Win: 2,025
Weighted Impact of Delegates to Victory: 41.6%

That means that each super delegate vote is worth roughly 10,000 of your votes. That doesn't seem particularly equitable.

It runs against the grain of “democracy” for a handful of party bosses to dictate the direction of a nomination. 10,000:1 yields a false representation. It gives way to cronyism and pandering.

Moreover, those who vote in primaries are at-stake voters. By that, primary voters are voting with conviction. Unlike the main election, primary voters aren't simply casting a ballot against the other guy. They are voting for the candidate who they believe best represents their political and social philosophies. The super delegate system comes as close to disenfranchising Democratic voters as one could get.

Times have changed. Voter sophistication has increased, candidate awareness has increased, and news literally travels at the speed of light. The time for party paternalism has come to an end.

Source: CNN
Source: MSNBC
Source: NYT

Happy Mardis Gras. Please check your weapons.

2008-02-04T14:39:00.000-06:00

Not satisfied with the usual beads, six people took home souvenir bullet wounds from a Mardi Gras parade over the weekend. UPI reports:

NEW ORLEANS, Feb. 3 (UPI) -- The ongoing Mardi Gras celebration in New Orleans has been marred by a pair of shootings that left six people wounded.

Police said one shooting Saturday occurred along a major Mardi Gras parade route despite a major police presence, The (New Orleans) Times-Picayune reported Sunday.

Police investigators said the shooting, which resulted in five people being shot, was precipitated by a verbal altercation following the Endymion parade.

Investigators said it appeared the two teenage suspects in custody became embroiled in a verbal dispute, possibly with two of the shooting victims, directly before the gunfire began.

Three males in their late teens were injured, as were two women ages 22 and 24. All of the victims suffered non-life threatening injuries and were treated at a local hospital.

The Times-Picayune said another shooting Friday took place during the annual Krewe d'Etat parade with one man being shot in the arm.

New Orleans, you're doing it wrong.

I'm not judging you, but merely passing along some helpful advice--don't shoot one another at parades. It doesn't look good on the travel brochure.

Right. Let's put that behind us.

In celebration of Mardi Gras, you will watch this Justin Wilson clip. Justin Wilson, if you don't know, was one of the true pioneers of food TV. Not the Food Network--but lowercase "f"ood TV. Wilson was on PBS, usually Saturday afternoons, with his special flavor of Coonass fare.

There's a stark contrast between the likes of Justin Wilson and the mushbrained zombies on Food Network. Whereas Zoloft-and-vodka-addled Sandra Lee thinks adding dry basil to a jar of Prego makes for great sauce, Wilson labored over a huge, steamy pot full fresh crawfish, okra, and tomatoes that he personally stewed. He southernness was absent the nasaly phoniness of Paula Dean. And rather than pass along the directions to make decorative doilies that match your sherbet-flavored sparkling pansy-drink, he took the time to wind his recipes around endearing allegory--admittedly, cleverly concealed through his infectious patois. Not only did you learn how to cook, you came away a better person.

Here's Justin Wilson and a story about a mule.

Click the embedded video for more.

He's 62. That doesn't even make sense.

2008-01-28T18:20:00.000-06:00

Rambo is the second highest-grossing "film" as of January 28th. Rambo. What the hell is wrong with you people? Do you understand the Rambo premise? Here it is--this is what Rambo's all about and why it's absurd in 2008:

Back in 1982, the US had been out of Vietnam "officially" for about seven years, which was an admittedly short period of time given the fact that we had a presence since 1959. As of 1991, the US still had approximately 2000 servicemen classified as unaccounted in Southeast Asia. In addition, Ronald Reagan had whipped the public into an anticommunism frenzy. Communism was his personal bogeyman. Well, communism and aliens. Reagan had an infectious personality, among republicans at least, and a good chunk of the country bought in to a threat that had been largely exaggerated. The Cuban missile crisis was scary shit--it was as real as a threat could get. On the contrary, the communist threat of the 1980s was manufactured by Reagan and his cronies.

Enter Rambo.

The POW/MIA movement found its voice in Rocky. Granted, it sounded like the voice of a stroke victim, but it was a famous voice nonetheless. Many vets felt that the government failed to act when it came to bringing home prisoners of war and in its efforts to locate those classified as missing in action. And they were right to an extent.

So Rambo goes back into Vietnam covertly in order to locate his buddies and rescue them from the evil little yellow communists. He snaps some necks, blows some huts up, and pumps a few dozen VC full of bullet holes. Typical action movie pablum that capitalized on socially relevant themes.

That's the thing--relevance. Well, relevance and timing. 26 years ago, it made sense. America needed a victory in a time of a lagging economy and low morale. Rambo was the continuation of the war many Americans believed we could have won if weren't for that meddling press. And the cast was still in fighting shape--mid to late 30s. Rambo not only offered up a bullshit revisionist victory, it offered hope in a very weird, very degenerate 1980s sort of way.

Fast forward to today. Vietnam has opened itself to the West under a quasi-socialist quasi-democratic government. The likelihood of any surviving unaccounted soldiers is paper-thin. It's a sad reality, but that doesn't negate the fact that it is reality. Culturally, the movie is absolutely lost, flawed, and pointless.

Now John Rambo's 62 and sounds not only like a stroke victim, but a retarded, hungover stroke victim. His speech is even less intelligible. And really, a 62 year-old action hero? No, that's just stupid. I refuse to buy it. Lastly, if you're going to castigate Barry Bonds for pumping himself up with all sorts of illegal muscle concoctions, you can't give Sly a pass for what is clearly some unnatural beefcake. The IMDB listing needs to have an asterisk next to it.

If you were wavering in your suspicions that Hollywood hates you, let Rambo be your proof.

There's New Mexico, and then there's Gallup, New Mexico

2008-01-23T16:50:00.000-06:00

New Mexico is a beautiful state. It really is. With the possible exception of southeastern Utah, New Mexico is probably my favorite place in the country--scenically speaking, of course. There's something indescribably unique that results when red desert clay backs up to snow-capped mountains. It throws the mind just enough to make you question if you're really seeing what lies on the horizon.

The 1950s saw consumerism soar to new heights, which was great for Chevrolet, Ford, and Chrysler. The Big Three cranked out millions of huge, lumbering bullets of steel and glass that streamed from the Midwest, Northeast, and all points in between through the American West. The trajectory cut through Tulsa, Oklahoma City, Amarillo, Albuquerque, Flagstaff, and fell in to the ocean just west of Los Angeles.

This was Route 66.

Route 66 spawned a cottage industry comprised of cheap motels and absurd roadside attractions. "World's Largest XYZ" dominated the billboards. Small towns held a desperate jones to draw in road-weary travelers, and nothing proved more effective than targeting the imagination of big city-folk. If it weren't for Route 66, Gallup, New Mexico, would have likely dried up and blown across the Arizona desert. This would not be a bad thing.

Gallup is a shithole. Its primary attraction is the El Rancho Hotel. There's no need to go into the details of El Rancho, but suffice it to say its website is based more on fantasy than reality. Actually, this is true of the entire town. Its campy "historic" Route 66 appeal wears thin in light of the bleak, crumbling reality of Gallup's streets. If it wasn't for the simple fact that Gallup is the only thing resembling civilization between Albuquerque and Flagstaff it would cease to exist. There is not enough neon lighting and cheap liquor in the state to make Gallup interesting in the slightest. Shithole. Don't waste your time.

Quite the opposite of Gallup is the Acoma pueblo called Sky City. It's survived almost a millennium of constant inhabitation. Sky City sits atop a 370-foot outcropping, has no electricity, no running water, features homes made of mud, clay and straw and yet it's remarkably more civilized than Gallup. In spite of the Acoma finding new and innovative ways to bilk visitors ($10 for a photography pass, $10 per person, and shitloads for little pieces of pottery made from local clay) I still recommend it. Highly recommend it. It's encouraging to see an ancient culture maintain a traditional lifestyle when there's a Wal-Mart 20 minutes away.

All of the new pics were taken with a Nikon N50 and shot on Fujichrome Sensia 100. I used a 28-300mm zoom. This is the first time I've shot film in about eight years, so I was somewhat concerned as to what I would get. Everything worked out nicely. All the images are raw--no cropping, no zooming, no digital cheating. Well, except for one. I had to brighten the mission building due to some funky exposure readings. I used a Nikon CoolScan 9000 to convert to digital. Neat toy. I want one. Instead, I saved about $1850 and bought an old Kodak Ektachrome slide projector on ebay.

Anyway, please don't steal my shit. Not cool. Please DO enjoy the pics.

At least they got back to me

2008-01-15T12:42:00.000-06:00

Periodically I take the time to scan through the detritus that settles in my spam folder. Dick pills, dick cremes, dick hardeners, dick lengtheners, dick wideners, and dick lastlongerers constitute about 80% of a usual harvest. Then there are credit card offers, Nigerian prince scams, real estate scams, online degree scams, and replica watch scams that make up about 19.99999999%. That last .000000001% is shit that I was genuinely supposed to receive but thanks to Google's spamicidal algorithms ended up in my spam folder. It doesn't happen very often, but gmail does on occasion get a little overzealous in its bid to protect me from the nefarious bottomfeeders of the Internet.

After combing through my various dick-improvement offers today, I stumbled across an email from the IRS. Receiving an email from the IRS is about as exciting as receiving a certified letter from the IRS--only slightly less so. In Fall 2005 I submitted a couple online applications as an auditor for the Austin branch office. It was a weird time for me in terms of gainful employment, so I figured a government gig might be a good way to go. Temporarily, anyway. Time passed as did my tenuous employment situation, and as expected, so too did any and all interest in working for the IRS. Back to today. I received this gem:

Talent Hiring and Recruitment
PO BOX 149049
MS 1541AUSC
Austin, TX 78714
EMAIL: Austin.Recruitment@irs.gov

Temporary Clerk GS-0303,0305,0503,0530 - 3/4
06-AU2-WIE012-0303-04

********* DO NOT REPLY TO THIS EMAIL **** INFORMATION ONLY *******

The Vacancy Announcement listed above has been closed. The positions/vacancies were filled. These announcements were for the 2006 hiring season, we apologize for the delay in this notification.

Two years to tell me a position was filled. I can only imagine some poor guy who's spent the last two years of his life bearded and filthy all the while hunkered down in front of his laptop waiting--just waiting--for that damned email to arrive with news of his IRS application--growing ever more insane with each dick spam message. Good times, IRS. But hey, at least they got back to me. Even apologized. I wonder if I do the same thing with this year's income taxes if I can expect to get by with an email and a "sorry."

In other news, I finally quit the dealership yesterday. Strangely, I kind of miss it.

The Hunter S. Thompson Stories

2007-10-16T19:55:00.001-05:00

Note: This a re-post on account of the fact that Sitemeter has gone apeshit nuts over the last two days. So. Here.

I received a copy of Ralph Steadman’s “The Joke’s Over” for Christmas. On account of a myriad of excuses, some real and some utter bullshit, I’ve only recently begun reading it. The book is a collection of experiences Steadman shared with Hunter. The majority seem to speak to his famous quote, “He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.” Without going into too much unnecessary detail, Thompson was wracked with personal demons that fueled his preternatural excesses. He was a self-destructive monster, tempered only by his ability to capture a moment in time with visceral impact greater than that of anybody before him. Thompson beat journalism’s status quo like a rented mule.

When I first read “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” I was in eighth grade. By no small coincidence, that was the same year I first ate LSD. F&L is a good starter-book. Any idiot can pick it up and, at a minimum, get a few cheap laughs. I probably read that book 100 times between eighth grade and the end high school. I tried to base my senior English composition on a loose comparison between Thompson and Melville. Unfortunately, procrastination and a general uneasiness about Melville led me to write about JP Dunleavy’s “Gingerman.”

Thompson’s writing had a very formative effect on me—as it did countless others. Not so much his shop-worn hyperbole, but the manner in which he became the story while writing about a story. This isn’t about the birth of Gonzo Journalism, but simply a few run-ins with the man.

Tulane University, Mardi Gras, 1994: Did You Understand That?

My first opportunity to meet Hunter S. Thompson was in the spring of 1994. My friend Christine Pollard had left for Tulane that summer and was in her second semester. She called me with the news that Hunter was set to give a lecture at Tulane right around Mardi Gras. To this day, I don’t fully understand how I managed to convince my parents that it was a good idea to send their 17 year-old son to New Orleans—to the gaping, sweaty maw of Mardi Gras in order to attend a lecture by a drunken degenerate. I think it boiled down to my ability to pay for the ticket. That and the fact that I think they secretly wanted me to marry Christine. So I saved and bought the ticket—and took the ride. I still remember flying past the refineries outside Galveston, over the Gulf and the oily Louisiana Delta, and touching down at the New Orleans airport. I was trying to re-read “Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail of ’72,” but I was too excited.

Predictably, Thompson was about three hours late that evening. And shitfaced. The auditorium stage was a simple arrangement: a desk draped with a cheap table cloth and a chair that probably came from a classroom. On the desk sat a fifth of Chivas, a tumbler, and a bucket of ice. When he finally arrived, he was in trademark uniform—Ray Ban Shooters, khaki convertible jungle pants, vertical striped shirt—untucked, and the safari hat. It was almost as if he had become a caricature of himself. If you’ve never heard him speak, it’s almost impossible to understand him. His voice was gravelly and guttural, and he spoke in a peculiar meter, almost his own redneck patois. His opening:

“I would have been here sooner, but I’ve been rebuffed and humiliated by pigs at the Miami airport.”

The energy of the crowd was palpable. About the best way to describe it is akin to a Thursday flight into Las Vegas—like looking forward to a long weekend of reckless abandon. It was truly electrifying. He was, in his own right, bigger than any rock star. And just like a rock star, he had the Tulane University cops and the NOPD on edge. Thompson was as unpredictable as an injured lion, and this unpredictability was infectious. People in the crowd had a sort of batshit-crazy intensity about them—like gatherers at a Baptist church with a weeping Virgin Mary statue. It was a strange sort of reverence understood only by supporters of the Freak ticket.

The most pressing concern the cops held was the inevitability of drugs being tossed onstage. The audience was quick not to disappoint. Joints flew from the auditorium seats like a sideways rain. One female cop, a black NOPD officer, was quick to gather up the contraband and make it clear that they were fully hip on the idea of shutting the lecture down early if the joint-rain continued.

The scene settled somewhat. Somewhat. Everything he said was met with applause, laughter, and the occasional pill thrown on stage.

He took questions for about two hours. It turns out that Thompson was deaf as a damned post. In any normal forum, the manner in which the questions were asked would have been considered heckling. But they had to be shouted to him. Once the questions made their way past his ear and into the pointy bamboo of his mind, they were met with terse quips. When he concluded, he remained on stage to sign a few autographs and take a few pictures. Fortunately, I had my new copy of “Better than Sex” with me in addition to a copy of F&L that belonged to my best friend Tony. I had a short exchange with him. When I told him I came all the way from Lubbock, he replied, “Christ, really? Horrible. Horrible place.”

I left with my signed copies and a couple poorly composed pictures. Christine was a little confused by the whole affair. She knew who he was primarily through me, but had no real understanding of the man or what he stood for. For the most part, she was on the opposite end of the social paradigm. But, if nothing else, her horizons were broadened a little that evening. As were mine. To me, Thompson was larger than life. And he was. That night, I bought a pack of red Dunhills and made my around the French Quarter. It was an incredible moment in time for me.

From Fear and Loathing:

“San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run, but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant. There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda. You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. And that, I think, was the handle - that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn't need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting - on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark - the place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.”

Somewhere outside Aspen, Summer 1994:
Holy Shit, We’re Going to Die

Tony and I planned a backpacking trip to Ice Lake that summer. Ice Lake is outside Silverton, Colorado. It’s beautiful. And a hell of a hike. I still recall one of the most fucked up dreams I’ve ever had while on that trip. Altitude has a strange effect on me like that. I dreamt that I was inside a jewelry store. Behind the waist-high counters, a dog I couldn’t see was barking and thrashing wildly. Nobody was in the store besides me. Suddenly the gate between the showroom and the counter swung open. The dog turned out to be a girl I went to high school with. Kristen Holwerda, a six-foot plus behemoth of a girl, was on all fours barking and growling at me as if she planned on eating me. I ran out of the store laughing my ass off. My laughter woke me up around 6am. I couldn’t go back to sleep.

This was a special trip. We were 17 and loose on the highway. For the first time, we were truly on our own, free to make decisions without permission. The invincibility that comes with age 17 is a powerful force. It leads people to push the boundaries of childhood, often extending into the realities of adulthood, but still under invincibility’s protective gaze. Beyond that, the trip was special because it had purpose. It was more than a couple teenagers in a big truck and a tank full of gas. We were chasing down Thompson’s mythology, and in the process, creating our own. Thompson was more than a lunatic redneck with a penchant for guns and drugs to us. His was a singular voice of reason among a forest of shouting halfwits. We were going to hunker down in Aspen’s decadence, unshaven and rotten with roadtrip stink, and wait for our chance at Hunter.

We spent four days in the mountains around Silverton. The night we came off the mountain, we ate at Handlebars Saloon. Full of bbq and whiskey, we solidified our plan to track down Hunter S. Thompson. And like most ideas of this nature, it seemed like a good one at the time.

The drive from Silverton to Aspen is long. It cuts along the western edge of the state to the north, then heads east towards the Continental Divide, and finally back south towards Aspen. It gives plenty of time to chicken out. But that wasn’t for us.
It was late afternoon by the time we reached the Woody Creek Tavern. Only a handful of locals were there—just enough to give the stinkeye to a couple Texans in need of a shave. The table below the stuffed bison head was empty. This was unfortunate. That table was where we hoped to find the Doctor. Of course his absence proved only a minor setback. The plan changed. We would go in to town and take in Aspen. Kill a few hours among the uber rich. Maybe buy some art.

But first, first we had to find the Old Man’s house. In the daylight. We followed the road behind the tavern. In the middle of a clearing, we passed a sign marked “Polo X.” Polo. It was a sign. A sign from God. Thompson had been working on “Polo is My Life” around that time, so it was a remarkable turn of events that this sign sat opposite the road leading to his house. We headed up the hill a couple miles, past a couple properties that clearly were not the Doctor’s compound. Then, the vultures. Mounted on two wooden polls were ominous metal vultures keeping watch over the road. A red car sat in the driveway of a modest cabin. And there were peacocks. We were at the doorstep of Valhalla. But, we chickened out. This time. On into Aspen…

For the record, Aspen is a terrible place. It’s outward beauty masks the cretinous nature of its residents. Aspen is not for the poor. It’s not even for the wealthy. It’s for people who have sold their souls to the devil in exchange for $100 nightclub covers, new age therapy, and an excuse to get a little extra wear out of their winter wardrobes. The cops drive Saabs, for chrissake. Saabs. The cops drive Saabs.

I managed to strike up a conversation with a local art dealer. She had a few of the Thompson/Steadman shotgun paintings in her gallery. She was pleasant, to a degree. But her tone made it clear that we should probably get our glimpses in and be gone. My asking meant that I couldn’t afford. After a beer in the crappy Hard Rock Café, I had to get the fuck out of Aspen. The walls were closing in. It was time to leave—before they stuck the dogs on us.

The mountains drowned out the last rays of sun by the time we got back to the tavern. The crowd had picked up as the night fell. The parking lot was full of Range Rovers, Land Rovers, Audi Quattros, BMWs, and a few H1 Hummers—they were still novel back then. A rich woman stood in the door way wearing fur-lined boots oblivious to the fact that her children were running around the parking lot like retards at Disney Land. If anything happened to them, she could simply buy more. We made our way in. The table under the buffalo head was full, but not with anybody we cared about. The bar was full, too. But still no Thompson. The fucker wasn’t there again. Goddammit, where the fuck was this asshole??

We spent the next two hours sucking down steak and beer and whiskey. Smoking in the tavern was ok back then. It was a feast of food and chemical. By the end of the evening, it became clear that we had to take action into our own hands. If we were going to meet the bastard, we would have to go to him. Recall the bit about this sounding like a good idea? Yeah. It really wasn’t.

Buy the ticket, take the ride.. The fat was in the fire… There are many one-liners that fit the mindset at that time. We hadn’t come this far only to turn tail and leave disappointed. We made the drive from the tavern back up to the iron vultures. Our plan was simple—drive back to his house and assess our nuts. See if we have the stones to knock once we get there. Well, we didn’t.

But some petty theft was right in-line.

Down where his driveway met the road was a State of Colorado highway sign. The sign was rigged to a tripod through a mangled mess of weather-worn bungee cords—clearly the result of redneck engineering. And the sign was shot to hell. It had large caliber holes, small caliber holes, and everything in between. The level of destruction the sign endured was almost admirable. It was unmistakably a means of target practice for the gun freak up the driveway.

And it was going to be ours.

Well, or so it seemed. I sent Tony out to cut the cords and toss the sign in the truck while I kept the truck running. It was supposed to be a simple cut-&-grab job. No noise, no commotion. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out as planned. Things very quickly went horribly fucking wrong. The shitstorm of our fumbling around broke the silence of the night with a violent crash. Tony had no luck getting the sign off the tripod on account of the seemingly indestructible rat’s nest of bungee cords so I told him to throw the whole fucking thing into thing into the truck bed.

It went something to the effect of, “THROW THE MOTHERFUCKER IN THE TRUCK NOW!!!!!” The sign, the tripod and all the bungees smashed the truck bed with a sort of cacophonous “TWAAAANG!!!”

Our cover was fucked.

I threw the truck in gear, Tony hopped in the passenger side and we began the trip back to the main highway. We started laughing at what had just happened, thinking that we had pulled off our new prize. Then the lights appeared in my rearview mirror. A vehicle that looked like it drove right off the set of the Thunderdome lit the night sky brighter than the second coming. It had a light rack on top and at least a dozen lights along the bottom. It seemingly flew out of his driveway and around curves.

“HOLY SHIT, WE’RE GOING TO DIE! WHOSE DUMB FUCKING IDEA WAS THIS?!?!?”

It was utter panic in the truck. The apocalypse 4x4 quickly caught up to us. He rode our asses clear to the highway and gave pursuit until we were well past civilization. I had the Ford at 90mph, which was about 30mph faster than it was ever intended to go. Some of our camping gear began flying out of the bed. To this day, I don’t know what we lost in that exchange. We drove clear to the outskirts of Aspen before making our sheepish return. Afterall, we had to find a hotel for the evening.

At the hotel that evening, we killed a six pack of Miller High Life. We didn’t say a fucking word for the rest of the night.

Divergence--Now with Color

2007-04-12T13:04:00.000-05:00

Slate.com performed a very fascinating survey of 609 voters spanning both parties as well as independents. The goal was to gauge voters' reaction to Bush's latest tough guy antics. Specifically, they viewed his April 3rd challenge to the Dems regarding the Iraq funding bill. You know--the bill that hinges war funding on a specified pull-out deadline and reflects the majority opinion of Americans which Bush is jonesing to veto? Yeah. That one.

Watch the pretty lines crawl away from each other.

There comes a point when, after six years of watching this administration display utter ineptitude in every facet of leadership, that any sane person thinks to himself, "there is absolutely no way that these guys can bungle things any worse than they already have." But with the precision of a Swiss watch, these guys find new and exciting ways of pissing off not only Amurrica, but the entire world through ham-handed, thick-skulled, dimestore cowboy antics. It's almost admirable the way in which they're so dismissive of reality. Shit. I wish I could make all my problems go away by flying in the face of reason and simply denying their existence.

Here's the stats regarding support for a pull-out deadline courtesy of the best site on the tubes, Pew Research.

The Mexico Incident

2007-04-03T18:56:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine recently returned from a trip to Mexico. He mentioned that taking a bus from Somewhere, Mexico to Tuscon then flying back to Portland was significantly cheaper than flying directly into Whereeverthehell, Baja Mexico. Having driven through interior Mexico myself, I was quick to mention that a trip through the various villas is really more than enough to make a person--an American--appreciate more fully all the creature comforts we frequently take for granted. This reality rings especially true after you spend an afternoon begging tour buses for money at a toll booth on account of shitty Spanish, a retarded girlfriend, and a surly, armed Mexican cop.

While the future Ex-Mrs. Jefe Gonzo was recuperating from an unholy bout of the green apple quickstep, I went to go pick up the rental car which we had arranged the night before. In reality, any excuse to get out of the hotel room was a welcome reprieve from the cacophonous symphony of greasy farts punctuated by splurting, splatting, and the occasional moan. The car was a Geo Tracker. A convertible, economical, overpriced piece of shit apparently seemed more appealing than a hardtop, economical, overpriced piece of shit at the time. It was blue. No radio. And had a fourspeed standard--this will prove critical later in the story.

I got back to the room to find numerous packets of Immodium AD ripped apart and strewn all over the bed. It was vaguely reminiscent of the rose petals in American Beauty, but rather than red rose petals covering the bed, they were sharp, empty, little packets made of plastic, paper and metal. I'm not exactly sure how many pills she ate, but I'm fairly confident she wasn't able to shit--at least not comfortably--for a week or so. And when she finally did achieve success, it must been blacker than a Weber grill at midnight. It took some guilt and goading to coax her out of her fetal position and get her in the Tracker, but after about 20 minutes she agreed to continue with the plans we made the night before.

When I travel, I can't stick to the resort. That's bullshit in my view. If you want to sit next to a pool and get shitfaced on daiquiris, do so, but don't drop $1500 in airfare and accommodations in the process. In a moment of utter stupidity, the idea to rent a car and drive to the Mayan ruins at Chichen Itza seemed brilliant. Take an air conditioned tour bus full of goddamn Germans? Never. We're here in a foreign country, and dammit, we're going to experience it. Franz and Inger can have the relative safety of the tour, we'll make our own trail--that's my general resolve in those instances. This can be stupid. I will demonstrate.

First, gasoline is not sold in gallons in Mexico. Being the stupid American I can sometimes be, my eyes read the price in "peso/litro" and, through some complex mechanism of doom located somewhere in my brain I've yet to understand, I equated "litros" not with "liters," but with gallons. For the record, one liter does not equal one gallon. No, it's significantly different. And not to the benefit of somebody mistaking liters for gallons. On the way out of Playa Del Carmen, I stopped to gas up the piece of shit given that the bastards at the rental place siphoned the tank until it was almost dry. I figured 10 gallons would have been more than enough to get us there and back. And I'm probably right about that. But I asked the attendant for "diez litros." 10 liters. 2.64 gallons. I was amazed at how cheap 10 gallons of gas cost. For the record, the ruins are give-or-take 150 miles away from Playa del Carmen. Do the math. If you drive a vehicle that can take you 150 miles on 2.64 gallons of gas, I ask you kindly blow it out your ass.

After about 30 minutes of passing the slow tour buses full of the obnoxious Germans, I was puzzled why the gas needle never rose above the quarter-tank indicator. Not only had it not risen past the quarter-tank mark, but it was falling. Quickly. Enter lightbulb above my head. It was here that I realized my mistake--that I had only bought 10 motherfucking liters of gas. Suddenly my great gasoline bargain turned into a lesson in pulling my head out of my own ass. We slowed from 120km/hr down to about 60km/hr. That's roughly 35mph. Those tour buses we passed? You could almost hear the belly laugh of the fat German guy in his Speedo as they blew passed us.

Rather than turn back and re-fuel, we pushed on. It was agreed--a mutual decision. Just beyond the first toll booth, there was a small village that, according to the highway sign, had gasoline. For the record, THERE ARE NO GAS STATIONS ALONG THE ROAD TO THE RUINS. Not a fucking one. Well, there was a store situated in the middle of the highway, but it was out of gas. Typical. After paying the $14 or $15USD toll, we managed to find the little village--two hours after we began. Just outside the main village, there was a gated, guarded community. I assume it's full of wanker, artsy American ex-pats who find the indigenous people ever-so charming. Outside the walls of the gated community stood a scene of poverty so abject and eye-popping that I expected to Sally Struthers to ooze out of one the lean-to shacks the locals called home with a dirty, Mayan girl in one arm and a gigantic turkey leg in the other. You know those dogs that always seem to find their way into feed-the-children commercials? The ones that have a pedigree longer than the list of ingredients found in low-fat dressing? This place was full of them. And the dirty-faced Mayan kids--babies really--flocked to us when we accidentally turned down a "residential" road.

Once the Tracker's gas needle bumped up against the "full" indicator (the gas was no bargain after all) I found a local bank with an ATM. ATMs in the US are everywhere. You can detour off a highway through a town of 100 people and it's guaranteed to have three things: a gas station, Subway sandwich shop, and a FUCKING ATM. There are millions. Everywhere. Mexico? Yeah, not so much. So finding one was really exciting. I didn't anticipate dropping $15USD on toll roads, almost $60 on gas, plus ruin fees, more tolls, lunch at the ruins, more tolls, and the various other things eager to suck money away. I think I pulled another $150USD out of the ATM on top of what I had taken out the night before.

We hit another toll booth a stone's throw away from the ruin entrance. It was even more. If memory serves me correctly, and it doesn't that often, it was outrageous--over $20. And that did not include entry fees. Those were another $60 or $80 bucks. Our burn rate was high, but we planned on leaving the park before the bank down the road closed in order to pull out more cash. That was the plan. What was not in the plan was the medium-format camera I was using had a bad battery contact, which caused it to gobble batteries. The park had a touristy shop with everything of necessity running at a 400% markup. Water. Sandwiches. Camera batteries. Oooo, they fuck you but good on the camera batteries.

When we left the park later that day, between us we had enough money to cover both tolls. And that was all we had--enough to get back to the resort and wash off the road grime and precipitous bad vibes the day had produced. We paid the first toll. As I mentioned earlier, the plan was to hit the same ATM on the way back. As luck would have it, Villa Dolio (I think that translates into something having to do with "pain"--no shit) was in the throes of some sort of seasonal celebration. It was a real barnburner. Matter of fact, it was so exciting that everything shut down early in order to join the party. Including the bank--the bank that housed the only ATM between the ruins and our resort. But no worries. We had just enough money. A little in US greenbacks and the rest--the majority--in Mexican coins.

Remember when I told you the fact that the Tracker was a standard was important? Well, this will help you understand why I said that. The rubber shiftboot--the thing that covers the bottom of a shifter in order to prevent, oh say a $20 coin from being eaten by the Tracker and forever lost--was gone. The hole was small and led directly down to the transmission and from the transmission to me begging for money. The future ex was admiring the coin in the same way a retard might get lost in the complexities of a coloring book. If you've ever seen "Dumb & Dumber," it was almost exactly like the blind kid admiring the dead bird: "Pretty bird... Pretty bird.." Just replace "bird" with "coin" and you have a pretty clear idea as to what was going on. Then, in a ham-handed move I'll never forget, the coin slipped out of her fingers. Things went into slow motion at this point. With each rotation the coin made in its epic journey down to the hole in the missing shiftboot, I could see the sun glimmer off each of the individual serrations along its edge as it rose in the air only to be called back down by gravity. It was a dark bronze, large coin whose beauty I had heretofore failed to notice as it, along with my hopes of getting back to the resort, went fumblingly down the shiftboot hole.

I didn't yell. I didn't talk.

I drove. I was trying to remain calm in light of the fact that we were broke, in a foreign country with no known whereabouts and no money and facing a $15 toll booth. When we reached the booth, I tried explaining to the teenage kid working the booth what had happened--that our last $20 coin was eaten by this horrible, little shitbox car. I tried to bribe him with a pair of Revo sunglasses. Didn't work. That, or he simply had no fucking idea what I was trying to tell him. I was directed over to the police station that oversaw the toll booth. It is worth pointing out that I am being very generous in calling it a "police station." It was an abandoned roadside restaurant that had been loosely converted into a makeshift police headquarters. In addition to the toll workers, it was also used by the Mexican highway patrol--again, loosely defined. Next to the restaurant building was a little two-story house. Judging from the number of heads that poked out the windows when the ensuing commotion broke when we were pulled over, I'd say there must have been 10-15 people in that house. What they were doing there or why they were there, I will never know.

The Tracker was immediately surrounded by curious hands. The little bastards were all too eager to get their hands on whatever we had. I had a couple thousand dollars in camera gear on me. At one point, we had seemingly reached a compromise over a trade of some sort--a cheap-ass 35mm that I hadn't used in ages, but that fell apart. The gentleman with whom I had been pleading my case was straight out of a bad movie. He was about 5'8", pot-bellied, skin that resembled an orange peel under 10x magnification, had a bushy, dirty mustache that covered, and I'm not making this shit up, a gold tooth. He was dressed in a dirty uniform that looked like a hand-me-down form a paramilitary soldier of days gone by. Over his shoulder was an M-16. Again, no shit. I will never forget that motherfucker's face. Or his shitbreath, short temper, and pushiness. I was quick--very quick--to ensure that the conversation never became too hostile. I made sure future ex was safe by periodically glancing over his shoulder at the Tracker. That made him nervous, but I was concerned about the little bastards encircling the car. After the barter fell apart, he made it as clear as day, despite the language barrier, that we would not be passing through his toll until we had the required fee. This meant begging tour buses for money. Ah, good times I tells ya.

Now, I had not showered or shaved that morning. The grime I woke up with combined with a day's worth of sun, sweat, heat, road gunk, dirt, bugs, and a sad, old white t-shirt left me looking like somebody who would be asking for money. I stood alongside my teenage buddy--the one who had to be an asskisser and fuck over the broke American and his butterfingered girlfriend. When a van or bus full of tourists would open its door or window to pay, I would immediately hop aboard, generally much to the shock of those fat-tongued German weasels, and begin my pitch. If a bus wasn't full of Krauts, it was full of Midwesterners. For the record, a retiree from Green Bay makes the Germans look like lovely people. My first question was, "DO ANY OF YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?" Most didn't. Or pretended like they didn't. On about the sixth or seventh try, a white bus full of Yanks pulled up. As soon as I tried my pitch by sticking my head in the open window, the driver recoiled with shock and almost drove off without paying the toll. This would have also included my head. Fortunately, he stopped long enough for me to get my entire pitch in. Jim. Jim and his wife told their driver to pull over just past the police station, much to the chagrin of the paranoid whitehairs aboard. He handed me a twenty. I made it a point to get his address in Fenton, Missouri.

We paid the toll with the $20 bill Jim gave me.

The sun was going down. The temperature was perfect for a ride in a convertible. I made that little hunk of shit go as fast as it could from that point on. A few fireflies splattered on the windshield. About 15 minutes after we left the toll booth, we both started laughing hysterically. What else was there to do? Not many people have experienced as much shit in a single day. It was dark when we returned the Tracker. The room had been restored to the image in the brochure by the time we got back to the room. WAIT, I forgot. When we got back to the room after dropping off the hunk of shit with the missing shiftboot, the magnetic room keys no longer worked. Somehow or another, they had mistakenly deactivated them because they, or someone, was under the impression we had left that afternoon. When the little green light on the doorlock didn't turn green after speaking with the front desk people, it could only be dismissed with a laugh of disbelief. It took three trips to the front desk to get a working keycard.

Never has a beer tasted so good as it did that night. Tequila? Oh yeah.

When I was back in Austin, back in my shitty cubicle, the first thing I did was send Jim and his wife $70 worth of steaks and a bottle of wine. Jim was kind enough to send a thank you note for the steaks.

The lesson? Well, it depends on how philosophical you wish to get. I could say that if your ass is in a sling, you best hope a German isn't your only option. Or, a bit deeper, if you can't laugh at shitty times, you will almost certainly go nuts.

Walt Disney Hated Lemmings

2007-03-18T13:27:00.000-05:00

As a way of shirking off the responsibility of studying some painfully dry material for an upcoming exam, I decided to hunker down with the Best of Wild Kingdom Sunday afternoon. It's educational. Studying for an exam is educational. Using the commutuative property, watching Wild Kingdom is the same as studying for an exam. Don't question my logic. It's spot on.

Shortly after the segment about elephants--the one where Jim Fowler explains that if you're charged by an elephant the best thing to do is sit still for a second, then throw a stick at it (yeah, a stick--at an elephant) in order to buy some escape time--I found myself looking up Marlon Perkins on the Wiki (told you it was educational). Marlon, if you recall, was the ivory-haired old fart with balls big as Volkswagen Beetles. There was a line in his Wiki blurb that struck me: Although Walt Disney had fabricated footage of a mass suicide of lemmings on Wild Kingdom,[1] Marlin Perkins punched a reporter, Bob McKeown, who asked questions about whether wildlife films were inaccurately staged.[2].

I had completely forgotten about Walt Disney's lemming footage (although it did appear in the comments here). If you haven't seen the video, it's priceless in a sick sort of way. Apparently Walt had the director round up some lemmings from Inuit school children in Alberta as Alberta has no wild lemming population. Then the crew herded the little buggers off a cliff into the Arctic Ocean. Of course, this was also problematic as Alberta is not bordered by the Arctic Ocean. Albertan lemmings offing themselves in the Arctic Ocean is about as likely as catching an Australian reef shark in Omaha. But it was 1958 and the viewing public was as credulous as Walt could've hoped. He ended up winning an Academy Award for White Wilderness.

For your viewing pleasure/horror, the movie:

Marlon's Wiki

No good deed goes unpunished

2006-12-29T14:40:00.000-06:00

My parents' house was built in 1986. Upon stepping into their home, it is immediately apparent that the decor hasn't exactly kept up with the times. What you will notice is the abundance of blue. Goddamn country blue. It hits you in the face the same way the odor of a dog turd caught up in a lawn mower hits you. It's like that.

I don't know or understand what runs in Midwestern waters that causes its women to have an unhealthy predilection for all things country blue, but it annoys the creeping shit out of me.

My parents' home decor can be generously described as the unholy offspring of a Cracker Barrel restaurant and a JC Penney's Outlet catalog.

The folks decided they would spend Christmas with my 87 year-old grandfather up in Wisconsin. This meant that I could secretly surprise them with a brand new bathroom upon their return. Given that I'm not sure I still have a job, this offered a handy way to kill some time and do a nice thing for the folks. That was the plan.

As the project developed it became an exercise in the adage "the road to failure is paved with good intentions." It started with the Rug Depot. See, I hate Home Depot. I hate it with a passion. I resent being told by a half-retarded high school kid that the part I need and know exists doesn't exist. Consequently, I will gladly patronize local hardware merchants whenever possible. I ordered the tile back on the 17th with the guarantee that my tile would be in on or before the 22nd. Now Jerry at Rug Depot is a nice enough guy. I'm sure he'd be great to grab a beer, but he's not worth a puddle of piss when it comes to getting an order in by a particular deadline. My tile first arrived late on the 27th. The folks were returning on the 29th.

What follows is a picture journey of the little bathroom that could. By "that could," I mean that could find every conceivable way to piss me off and slow me down.

The Implements of My Destruction

As with any demolition job, you'll need beer, a hammer, a pry bar, some WD-40, a tile knife, and a phone to dial 911. I like to have "911" already dialed so I only have to hit "send" when the time arrives.

The Wallpaper

Admittedly, this was not the worst experience I've had removing wallpaper. I'm more apt to attribute this to the fact that this wallpaper's spent the last 20 years trapped in a damp bathroom rather than my skillful hands. Regardless, there were a few spots which incited evident anger.

"Eat my ass, wallpaper." Damn right.

A Mess Ensues

There comes a point in every job such as this--somewhere around the fourth beer usually--where you stop, survey your mess, and scratch your head pondering, "What the FUCK was I thinking?!" This was my moment. As they say, though, when you find yourself in hell, the only thing to do is keep going. Soldier on, lil' buddy.

Fuck the Vanity, and Fuck Jerry the Tile Guy

In a couple of the pics above there is a vanity. It's a simple vanity. It's never hurt anybody. It's served its purpose well--holding deodorant, and combs, and Goldbond Powder. I asked Jerry the Tile Guy if he had any suggestions for cutting the tiles that fit around the base of the vanity. His advice? Remove the vanity. I figured if it meant making fewer tile cuts it would be worth the effort. Removing the vanity first meant removing the marble top.

This is where things go crossways. The U-shaped pea trap under the sink is original. Never been changed. PVC gets a little brittle after 20 years. It also collects a lot of shit. A lot of hair. A lot of toothpaste. A lot of whatever the fuck my dad has been flushing down the drain for the past 20 years. In the process of removing the marble sink top, the trap broke thereby unleashing a stench of hellish proportions.

I found myself sopping up a black, soupy mix of unidentifiable compost with anything I could get my hands on. The soup had backed up into the drain tube coming out of the wall, which meant I had to get a screwdriver and scrape the remaining slop out of the wall. Unpleasant. Jerry, for this, I will someday kick you in your advice-giving scrotum.

.

A Close-Up

This is what I scraped out of the drain pipe. The picture absolutely does the reality of the situation no justice. If Satan wore corduroy pants for a week straight and worked in a slurry factory, this is what his crotch would smell like.

The Linoleum

This marks my second experience with linoleum removal. It was not any more fun than my first foray. Linoleum is comprised of two layers: the top plasticky shit you see and then a second paper-glue layer that is designed to drive man insane. And it is very effective. Invariably the two layers separate leaving an impervious paper-glue layer on the slab. This layer is so strong that it mocks the 8" steel scraping blade. Unfortunately tile requires that the slab be pretty much free of all remnants before it can be laid down, which means lots of scraping.

If I can impart any lasting advice on you, it's this: AVOID LINOLEUM AT ALL COSTS. It's a cheap, shitty, ugly product.

Pop Quiz Time: What product do you not want to install in your home?

If you answered "Linoleum" give yourself 10 points. If you answered anything other than "linoleum," punch yourself in the face.

The Tile

Tiling has gone surprisingly smoothly now that I've actually received the tile. Much of that is due largely to my new Makita 4.5" 7.5amp 11,000rpm grinder. I originally bought a DeWalt, but DeWalt eats proprietary ass so I returned it and am planning an "eat my ass" letter to the good people at Black and Decker Corp responsible for DeWalt. Never, ever buy DeWalt.

Since resolving the grinder issue, the only problem as a result of the tiling isn't so much a result of the tiling. It's the weather. It's 40 degrees and raining. Without a workshop, I had to cut the tiles inside. When cut, porcelain tile sends up a dust finer than flour or powdered sugar, and it also magically defies all attempts to contain it. I doubt there's a square inch in my parents' home absent of a thin layer of porcelain dust. It's visible in the above pic--on the walls, in the air, and you can't see it up my nose, but trust me, it was and is there too.

Meanwhile

With the damp weather, the thinset needs at least 24 hours to cure under the tiles. The last thing I want to do is weaken the new tiles by walking on them too soon. More fun in a day or so.

Frank, the Jeep

2006-05-29T22:02:00.000-05:00

I chose "Frank" because my Jeep is a twisted assemblage of various parts from various donors, most dead, that came together to keep him alive--like Frankenstein. Frank is a 1976 CJ-5 and is an absolute nightmarish albatross around my neck. In addition, he's a constant source of amusement for a handful of friends who shall remain unnamed.

I bought Frank from a weasely old man in Denver who was selling the Jeep on behalf of his weasely son. The guy's name was Dick, and I'm hardpressed to think of anything more apropos. Dick.

Let's just say that on the outset of my divorce, I wanted a new toy and I wasn't going to be kept from buying one--even if it was the single stupidest impulse item I've ever purchased.

All total, it took me around 36 hours to drive from Denver back to Austin. The guy I bought Frank from fancied himself as something of a shadetree mechanic, however his skill level became evident about 45 minutes south of Denver. That's when I burned up what would be the first of seven alternators. Turns out he had wired the voltage regulator incorrectly, which would prove the be the culprit behind the six alternators that followed. I would eventually go on to uncover numerous fuck-ups that were the result of his garagely confidence. (He seemed to believe that Bondo is a structural element, not a body patch. Yes, under what little paint still remains on Frank, there's Bondo. It's everywhere. I don't think there's any metal left.)

In spite of all the hellish shit I've been through with Frank, including a handful of near-death incidents, untold dollars pissed away in mechanic and parts fees, and the scorn of evey neighbor forced to share the same zip code as me, I still hold a certain affection for him. The drive from Denver to Austin was actually fantastic. No roof. No doors. Just wind and sun. Driving at night was beautiful, but due to the non-functioning alternators, the headlights would kill the battery in no time at all, and that makes for a bit of a safety issue when driving at night. I've got to get rid of him, though. It's not worth the time and money. I'm hoping to unload him on a buddy's deer lease. Discussions continue.

I took these pics when I replaced the carburetor. I only intended them to serve as a reference in case I fucked something up in the process, but afer playing with some of the images, I thought they were kinda cool. Enjoy.

No harm, No fowl.

2006-05-26T12:00:00.000-05:00

See that winged dinosaur? That's a wild turkey. If you're really ambitious, you can go back to one of my first posts where I initially mentioned them. Wild turkeys are Big Fucking Birds. They're about 2.5-3' tall and if I had to guess, weigh about 12-20lbs. Although I'm no ornithologist, I can say with unequivocal authority that if you should happen to hit one of these shitbag birds while traveling about 80mph, the results will not be beneficial to your vehicle.

I was heading west along highway 82 around 7pm when it happened. Traveling west in the early evening means that you're basically staring directly at the sun. The sun is bad in its own right, but it was made worse by the fact that I tried to use my wipers to remove 2000 miles worth of bug guts. The net result was the creation of a cataract across my windshield. Bug guts tend to cure fairly quickly in 100-degree heat. All the wipers did was loosen the goop just enough to spread it evenly from side of the glass to the other. My attention was further distracted by the Bush/Blair press conference on the radio. I was trying to suppress my urge to rip out the Accord's radio on account of Bush's forced schmaltziness. Dickweeed.

I didn't even see the fucker on the roadside. It must have been hunkered down in some brush. Apparently I startled it when I came up on him, which caused him to leap DIRECTLY into my passenger-side mirror. *BOOM* In my rearview mirror, all I could see were bits of plastic and glass tumbling behind the car and a SHITLOAD of feathers. It looked like a feather-bomb had gone off. The noise the bird made when it struck the mirror was startling to say the least. When I came upon the bird, it was in its half-tragic, half-hilarious death throws. The head was nowhere to be found, but the the legs were twitching like mad causing it to spin around on the side of the road like Curly from the Three Stooges. Guess you had to be there.

I called my friend Matt about the incident shortly after it happened. The call did not go well:
Matt: You hit a turkey? Did you pick 'im up?
Me: What? No I didn't pick that fucking bird up!
Matt: Pussy. You should go back and get him. Take him home and fry him up.
Me: Look, I'm driving the Honda. I'm not going to throw a tick-infested, flea-ridden, stank-ass, half-dead wild bird in the trunk of my work car. Fuck you, dude.
Matt: Pussy. Hey, what's the difference between that bird and your crotch?
Me: Feathers?
Matt: Heh. Funny thing is that turkey's still smarter than you are.
Me: You're a dick, dude. Your wife is lame in the sack and your dogs are stupid.
Matt: I can't believe you're not going to go back and get that bird.
Me: My battery's going dead. I've gotta go.

Here's my favorite Bush picture. It sums up nicely my feelings towards the turkey.

UPDATE, BITCHES!!! You need to add this song to your library. Why? Because it makes me horny, and frankly, you don't need any other reason. Now, download it before I tell your mother about that thing you do. You know the thing I'm talking about. And you don't want her to know about that....

The Knife, Heartbeats

There are no jokes about armadillos.

2006-05-24T18:25:00.000-05:00

If Oklahoma highways are any indication, armadillos are the more-retarded less-evolved cousin of the lemming. The highway is the aramdillo's ocean. Lemmings toss themselves off a cliff and armadillos fancy the look of treadmarks across their backs. I plan on counting them just to get a sense of armadillo-per-mile carnage. My guess is that it will average around 1-1.3 per mile. I've racked up a hair over 9,000 miles in Oklahoma over the last two months, so I feel fairly comfortable with that estimate. I'm guessing it varies by geographic region. I seem to notice them with greater frequency as I go from west to east, with Highway 69 having the greatest concentration.

As I was driving from the north side of Middle of Nowhere down to Brotheruncle today, I began to notice that most armadillos literally die tits-up. This is an animal with a very curvy, exoskeleton-like "shell" so their ability to face the stars as they take their last breath is actually interesting. They should keel over on their sides. Of course, it may be just be the result of other armadillos looking for the dead guy's wallet--gotta roll 'em over and all to get to his pocket. Look out for roving bands of thug armadillos.

In related news, I ran over my first turtle today. I really tried to avoid him. I did. Unfortunately, he decided to pick up the pace as I was almost on top of him. And that increase in turtle-power placed him directly beneath the passenger-side front wheel. It sounded like I ran over a full can of Pringles. The turtles are even more prolific than armadillos on Oklahoma highways. Maybe he was just chasing the proverbial chicken. And lost.

Here's something educational: