I love coffee. I love coffee shops. Especially the ones with the beat up miss matched furniture and the amateur art on the walls. Unfortunately these kinds of places tend to be dens for two activities that drive me nuts.
I can't stand open mic poetry. Drives me batty listening to whiny suburban escapees wax on about the evils of US foreign policies, pastey white kids lecturing on discrimination, and traumatized teens crying about their failures in love. These are all fine topics for discussion with your circle of friends. I just don't want to be bothered by it while I am trying to read or journal or carry on a conversation of my own.
The coffee house music scene falls just short of making me homicidal. I know that people like Arlo Guthrie and Bob Dylan got started playing cafes. To all you people playing these gigs, those guys were one in a million. Dylan had talent and Guthrie had a famous dad. I've met some real hard working musicians. Sitting around smoking weed and covering folk tunes won't get you very far. Your music only sounds good if the audience is as stoned as you are. Coffee is the opposite of that and I can hear every lazy chord and cracked vocal. It hurts me.
Unfortunately, most decent coffee shops like to support this kind of culture. The places that don't allow this assault to the senses are stripped down and polished shiny affairs full of Third Reich refugees. The weather is relatively nice, so I sit outside and try to ignore the tragedy that is taking place on the other side of the glass. But when some Indigo Girl wanna-be vegetarian peace and love hippy chick starts slaughtering a cover of the Folsom Prison Blues, it's too much for me. I did the exceptionally rude thing of starting my bike, pipes blasting back at the window, and tearing out of there. You shot a man in Reno just to watch him die? You, with your whisper soft voice and gentle strumming, haven't even shot a squirrel. Not even a beer can because then you couldn't bring it back for recycling. When Johnny Cash sang it I could believe it.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Saturday, April 29, 2006
It's Only Spitting Out
The Negative: Going for a motorcycle ride in the cold Portland rain and coming home to a couple of wet dogs.
The Positive: Grabbing some new clothes fresh from the dryer. Cozy. Nothing I can do about the dogs.
The Positive: Grabbing some new clothes fresh from the dryer. Cozy. Nothing I can do about the dogs.
3 Guys Walk Into a Strip Club...
...a Fijian, a Japanese, and a Minnesotan.
It's not a joke. That's what I did after work tonight. This was one of Portland's juice bars, so the dancers were at least 18, but not quite 21. Scary. Even scarier, they were out of Mt. Dew so I was forced to drink Pepsi.
I walk in and immediately five girls are next to me saying, "Hi!", "Oh My God!", and "What kind of bike do you have?" Nowmally I tell people I've got a '73 Ironhead, because I am quite proud of riding the smaller but faster American bike. I knew these girls wouldn't understand. "'73 Harley."
"Where is it?"
"Last stall."
"Oh my God! I have to peak." And then three of the girls rush to the door to break the club rules and look at my bike. This made my companions quite happy. We were already getting more attention than any of the boys inside.
I really didn't want that much attention from these girls, myself. There are reputable and fun strip clubs where you can go and have a good time while observing the female form sensually in motion. For these dancers, it was business. They were selling flesh for a dollar a dance and would probably sell you a hell of a lot more if you shelled out the cash for a private session in a side room, which I was assured had no video cameras in it.
As an avid people watcher, this was the saving grace of the place. I was the life of the party. I was the one making noise, smiling, and talking to the girls. A strip club is only as lively as the patrons. The patrons here were dead. I swear they were all trying as hard as they could to look like they weren't enjoying themselves. Yet they were laying out singles like nobody's business. Go figure.
Oh, and I finally got to see the flaming nipple trick performed. That's a real crowd pleaser.
It's not a joke. That's what I did after work tonight. This was one of Portland's juice bars, so the dancers were at least 18, but not quite 21. Scary. Even scarier, they were out of Mt. Dew so I was forced to drink Pepsi.
I walk in and immediately five girls are next to me saying, "Hi!", "Oh My God!", and "What kind of bike do you have?" Nowmally I tell people I've got a '73 Ironhead, because I am quite proud of riding the smaller but faster American bike. I knew these girls wouldn't understand. "'73 Harley."
"Where is it?"
"Last stall."
"Oh my God! I have to peak." And then three of the girls rush to the door to break the club rules and look at my bike. This made my companions quite happy. We were already getting more attention than any of the boys inside.
I really didn't want that much attention from these girls, myself. There are reputable and fun strip clubs where you can go and have a good time while observing the female form sensually in motion. For these dancers, it was business. They were selling flesh for a dollar a dance and would probably sell you a hell of a lot more if you shelled out the cash for a private session in a side room, which I was assured had no video cameras in it.
As an avid people watcher, this was the saving grace of the place. I was the life of the party. I was the one making noise, smiling, and talking to the girls. A strip club is only as lively as the patrons. The patrons here were dead. I swear they were all trying as hard as they could to look like they weren't enjoying themselves. Yet they were laying out singles like nobody's business. Go figure.
Oh, and I finally got to see the flaming nipple trick performed. That's a real crowd pleaser.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Dream Report
I was floating around a populated area when I remembered that I am NOT like other people. I can fly.
Big Red Rocket of Love
In Rattling the Cage, an Easy Rider documentary, Peter Fonda talks about riding down the road on a giant phallus.
From Wikipedia: Any object that visually resembles a penis or acts as a symbol for it may also be referred to as a "phallus"; however, such objects are more correctly referred to as being "phallic". Such symbols often represent the fertility and cultural implications that are associated with the male sexual organ.
It is absolutely true. Especially for Harleys and choppers. The 45 degree V-twin engine produces a rhythm similar to that of a human heart beat, albeit quit a bit faster. So a Harley can actually pulse like a throbbing cock. Another thing about the Harley motors is the resonancy at which they vibrate. Just so happens that car stereo aficionados will install very fancy sub-woofers to reach the low resonancies that can physically drive women wild. But a Harley already resonates in that prime range women love. Some women have orgasms just going for a ride.
So yeah, I ride a big, loud, 100 hp vibrator to work. Maybe that's why I'm smiling when I get there.
From Wikipedia: Any object that visually resembles a penis or acts as a symbol for it may also be referred to as a "phallus"; however, such objects are more correctly referred to as being "phallic". Such symbols often represent the fertility and cultural implications that are associated with the male sexual organ.
It is absolutely true. Especially for Harleys and choppers. The 45 degree V-twin engine produces a rhythm similar to that of a human heart beat, albeit quit a bit faster. So a Harley can actually pulse like a throbbing cock. Another thing about the Harley motors is the resonancy at which they vibrate. Just so happens that car stereo aficionados will install very fancy sub-woofers to reach the low resonancies that can physically drive women wild. But a Harley already resonates in that prime range women love. Some women have orgasms just going for a ride.
So yeah, I ride a big, loud, 100 hp vibrator to work. Maybe that's why I'm smiling when I get there.
Motorcycling Trendspotting
I am an unrepentant old school chopper fiend. As anyone who talks bikes with me will know, given the opportunity I would chop anything and everything. From a classic Indian to a brand new Ducati, I see bikes as chopper material. Every now and again I think of getting a tourer for the long haul, but these urges pass. The desire to chop is a constant.
When I started building my first chopper, I found myself scrounging for parts, scouring swap meets, and ending up in old barns and garages in pursuit of what I needed. The American custom motorcycle scene was nearing the end of what was the pro-street era that culminated with Harley manufacturing the V-rod. While the young bikers were flocking to the sport bikes and doing front-end wheelies on the highways, the rice side was starting to produce cruisers that looked suspiciously like the American ones.
Starting in 1984 Harley-Davidson introduced the Evo engine. The engine was a departure from their previous designs in that it was a tight unit that tended not to leak and was quite reliable. Each year more people were buying into their old fantasies of being a biker. As the 1990's kicked off, their were waiting lists. Depending on the model desired, you would have to wait six months to two years to get your new motorcycle. People were actually selling their brand new bikes for almost twice the list price to those with the cash who just couldn't wait. By the mid 90's, the streets were flooded with Harley riders trying to capture some of that poser outlaw freedom and Harley was feeding their desires with official riding gear, an officially endorsed 'gang' called HOG (Harley Owners Group), and official bolt on customization gear so you could look just as unique and individual as everybody else down at the shop.
I admit that at one point I caved to the hype. I also wanted a Harley and even gave a dealer my $500 deposit to wait a year for a brand new Sportster. My senses kicked in, I got my deposit back, and started looking for an older bike. When I handed over $1000 cash for a bunch of boxes full of parts and a clear title, I had no idea what I was in for. I had been reading Easy Riders, Hot Bike, and even Ironhorse. During that process I had become enamored with the idea of building a bike. I didn't start out to build a chopper, that just happened. Many choices had to be made along the way. Every time I chose on the side of chopper.
A few months after my chopper hit the streets, Hot Bike magazine released a special edition of the best of Street Chopper. It was a collection of the pictures and articles from their old 60's-70's magazine. I still have that tucked away in my filing cabinet. I have read through it so many times that I had to tape the spine with packing tape. It wasn't too long before they announced the return of Street Chopper. Choppers were starting to pop up everywhere. It was inevitable, really. The first chopper wave was fueled first by a need for speed and later as an artistic expression. With every rally filled to capacity with Harley's decked out with Harley gear and ridden by people who were walking advertisements for Harley-Davidson, the old crew was bound to rebel. Choppers were synonymous with rebellion. They were big, bold attention grabbers. I was certainly tapping into that first wave of what would become a national obsession.
And what do we have now? People watching shows like American Chopper and Monster Garage. Every major bike shop has a line of 'production model choppers'. California Motorcycle Company, Paughco, and Panzer cashed in by making replicas of the bikes in Easy Rider. While I am the only person at work that actually owns a chopper, it seems like half the folks at work have a shirt that says "Choppers for Life!" I don't.
While I hate this new breed of so-called choppers with their fat front forks, fat tanks, and softail style frames, the chopper resurgence has been very good for me. I can now get new just about every single part on either one of my bikes. I no longer need to drive to a barn in bum-fuck-nowhere with a wad of bills trying to buy the last known clutch basket in existence. It's nice to be able to look up a model number and find the part you need rather than finding something close enough you can modify it to your needs. While that is a fun endeavor, it drives you nuts when you just want to ride.
And what about "Choppers for Life"? Hardly. The chopper is on it's way out. Too much too fast. The next craze is going to be the side car. Already two guys at work have purchase Ural's with side cars. Two more guys are looking into buying Vespas with side cars. It makes sense. Those middle aged folks who made Harley-Davidson rich in the 80's and 90's are retiring, slowing down, wanting an easier lifestyle. A long rigid vibrator no longer sounds appealing. There is safety and comfort in a third wheel. Sidecars have that nostalgic appeal as well. And you don't see a whole lot of them around... yet. And if anyone is interested, one of the guys who joined the sidecar club is selling his rigid BMC Bobber real cheap, only $15,000. Hardly used. Too rough on his back.
So farewell chopper scene. Thanks for everything. I'll still be here when you come back 'round again.
When I started building my first chopper, I found myself scrounging for parts, scouring swap meets, and ending up in old barns and garages in pursuit of what I needed. The American custom motorcycle scene was nearing the end of what was the pro-street era that culminated with Harley manufacturing the V-rod. While the young bikers were flocking to the sport bikes and doing front-end wheelies on the highways, the rice side was starting to produce cruisers that looked suspiciously like the American ones.
Starting in 1984 Harley-Davidson introduced the Evo engine. The engine was a departure from their previous designs in that it was a tight unit that tended not to leak and was quite reliable. Each year more people were buying into their old fantasies of being a biker. As the 1990's kicked off, their were waiting lists. Depending on the model desired, you would have to wait six months to two years to get your new motorcycle. People were actually selling their brand new bikes for almost twice the list price to those with the cash who just couldn't wait. By the mid 90's, the streets were flooded with Harley riders trying to capture some of that poser outlaw freedom and Harley was feeding their desires with official riding gear, an officially endorsed 'gang' called HOG (Harley Owners Group), and official bolt on customization gear so you could look just as unique and individual as everybody else down at the shop.
I admit that at one point I caved to the hype. I also wanted a Harley and even gave a dealer my $500 deposit to wait a year for a brand new Sportster. My senses kicked in, I got my deposit back, and started looking for an older bike. When I handed over $1000 cash for a bunch of boxes full of parts and a clear title, I had no idea what I was in for. I had been reading Easy Riders, Hot Bike, and even Ironhorse. During that process I had become enamored with the idea of building a bike. I didn't start out to build a chopper, that just happened. Many choices had to be made along the way. Every time I chose on the side of chopper.
A few months after my chopper hit the streets, Hot Bike magazine released a special edition of the best of Street Chopper. It was a collection of the pictures and articles from their old 60's-70's magazine. I still have that tucked away in my filing cabinet. I have read through it so many times that I had to tape the spine with packing tape. It wasn't too long before they announced the return of Street Chopper. Choppers were starting to pop up everywhere. It was inevitable, really. The first chopper wave was fueled first by a need for speed and later as an artistic expression. With every rally filled to capacity with Harley's decked out with Harley gear and ridden by people who were walking advertisements for Harley-Davidson, the old crew was bound to rebel. Choppers were synonymous with rebellion. They were big, bold attention grabbers. I was certainly tapping into that first wave of what would become a national obsession.
And what do we have now? People watching shows like American Chopper and Monster Garage. Every major bike shop has a line of 'production model choppers'. California Motorcycle Company, Paughco, and Panzer cashed in by making replicas of the bikes in Easy Rider. While I am the only person at work that actually owns a chopper, it seems like half the folks at work have a shirt that says "Choppers for Life!" I don't.
While I hate this new breed of so-called choppers with their fat front forks, fat tanks, and softail style frames, the chopper resurgence has been very good for me. I can now get new just about every single part on either one of my bikes. I no longer need to drive to a barn in bum-fuck-nowhere with a wad of bills trying to buy the last known clutch basket in existence. It's nice to be able to look up a model number and find the part you need rather than finding something close enough you can modify it to your needs. While that is a fun endeavor, it drives you nuts when you just want to ride.
And what about "Choppers for Life"? Hardly. The chopper is on it's way out. Too much too fast. The next craze is going to be the side car. Already two guys at work have purchase Ural's with side cars. Two more guys are looking into buying Vespas with side cars. It makes sense. Those middle aged folks who made Harley-Davidson rich in the 80's and 90's are retiring, slowing down, wanting an easier lifestyle. A long rigid vibrator no longer sounds appealing. There is safety and comfort in a third wheel. Sidecars have that nostalgic appeal as well. And you don't see a whole lot of them around... yet. And if anyone is interested, one of the guys who joined the sidecar club is selling his rigid BMC Bobber real cheap, only $15,000. Hardly used. Too rough on his back.
So farewell chopper scene. Thanks for everything. I'll still be here when you come back 'round again.
And the award goes to...
Much to the chagrin of the other Harley riders at work, everyone agreed that I have the loudest bike. By a long shot.
Pete: I was down by GI Joe's when I heard you take the corner.
That's about an 1/8 of a mile.
Pete: I was down by GI Joe's when I heard you take the corner.
That's about an 1/8 of a mile.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Everyone Konws it's a Dildo!
The very notion of making the sale of sex toys illegal boggles my mind. But the accompanying video ad is really funny. Video NSFW, kind of.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Motorcycles Make Me Stupid Happy
"DOOM! Chaka-laka! All your base are belong to us Mutha-Fucka!" Those were the first words out of my mouth when the 73 finally lit up and roared.
A guy at work who was trained at MMI for sport bike mechanics gave me a few hints and a couple of his specialty tools for tracking down ignition trouble. He used to be called Sport Bike Mike, he prefers to be called Michael, but when I learned his initials were M.D. I started calling him Mad Dog of course. And while his tools weren't key to my success, they got me pokin' around in the right area to discover the real problem.
TAZ worked when I parked him this winter, didn't when I rolled him out this spring. Under that scenario, Mad Dog suggested that it was either corrosion of the points or a shorted condenser since I wasn't getting any spark. I had supposed lack of spark when I could kick and kick without so much as a sputter. The FAB (Fucking Anarchist Bitch) helped me out by holding the plug out of the cylinder and against the head as I kicked TAZ over, looking for a spark. Just to double check that, Mad Dog gave me a couple of nifty spark testers. I might have to pick one up since the FAB isn't always around to help. It confirmed that I had no spark.
So it was time to poke around the points. To do this, the ignition needs to be on. Unfortunately my voltmeter only has the spikes on the ends, no alligator clips. That's something else I should pick up for working alone. It made testing the points a challenge, especially since I'm not overly fond of electrical shock so tend to be cautious. At first the voltage read 11.5 volts (battery charge and normal for points open). I was afraid the points were shorted. Then while poking around, the voltage kept fluctuating between 11.5 volts and .7 volts (points closed normal). Interesting. So I took my screwdriver and manually opened the points. A spark leapt across the gap and a cylinder fired, causing a small chug to come out a pipe. Hot DAMN! First sign of spark. I got a piece of fine sand paper and cleaned the contacts on the points. Five kicks later came the magic words printed above.
It was supposed to be sunny and warmish today. Instead it's drizzling. Who cares! I'm ridin' to work!
He may be a sport bike rider who doesn't drink alcohol and continually misquotes Monty Python lines in a horrid British accent. He may be a real half-assed machine maintenance man at work with a short fuse for the elusive problems. For today, Mad Dog is the man.
A guy at work who was trained at MMI for sport bike mechanics gave me a few hints and a couple of his specialty tools for tracking down ignition trouble. He used to be called Sport Bike Mike, he prefers to be called Michael, but when I learned his initials were M.D. I started calling him Mad Dog of course. And while his tools weren't key to my success, they got me pokin' around in the right area to discover the real problem.
TAZ worked when I parked him this winter, didn't when I rolled him out this spring. Under that scenario, Mad Dog suggested that it was either corrosion of the points or a shorted condenser since I wasn't getting any spark. I had supposed lack of spark when I could kick and kick without so much as a sputter. The FAB (Fucking Anarchist Bitch) helped me out by holding the plug out of the cylinder and against the head as I kicked TAZ over, looking for a spark. Just to double check that, Mad Dog gave me a couple of nifty spark testers. I might have to pick one up since the FAB isn't always around to help. It confirmed that I had no spark.
So it was time to poke around the points. To do this, the ignition needs to be on. Unfortunately my voltmeter only has the spikes on the ends, no alligator clips. That's something else I should pick up for working alone. It made testing the points a challenge, especially since I'm not overly fond of electrical shock so tend to be cautious. At first the voltage read 11.5 volts (battery charge and normal for points open). I was afraid the points were shorted. Then while poking around, the voltage kept fluctuating between 11.5 volts and .7 volts (points closed normal). Interesting. So I took my screwdriver and manually opened the points. A spark leapt across the gap and a cylinder fired, causing a small chug to come out a pipe. Hot DAMN! First sign of spark. I got a piece of fine sand paper and cleaned the contacts on the points. Five kicks later came the magic words printed above.
It was supposed to be sunny and warmish today. Instead it's drizzling. Who cares! I'm ridin' to work!
He may be a sport bike rider who doesn't drink alcohol and continually misquotes Monty Python lines in a horrid British accent. He may be a real half-assed machine maintenance man at work with a short fuse for the elusive problems. For today, Mad Dog is the man.
Stupid Like a Fox
Bush names Fox News Radio's Snow press secretary. Finally we'll be getting our info from a professional media man. Fox news will no longer have to reword press statements to make them sound right for the American ear. Snow is exactly the kind of guy this administration needed in that position. He understands that to not be a Republican or to not support the President makes you a devil worshipping, baby raping, al-Qaeda terrorist with cooties... but in a fair and balanced kind of way.
NSFW: An AWPC
An operator was recently switched from day shift to swing shift where I work. This kid is a real piece of work. He was talking to me about the 1964 Ford Falcon he is restoring.
A: You ever beat off while thinkin' about your bike?
Me: Can't say that I have.
A: Sometimes I'll be jackin' off with some porno mag and I look up at a picture of my car and I bust a nut right there thinkin' about all that sweet pussy I'm gonna get when I get my license back.
Me: Okay.
A: You ever beat off while thinkin' about your bike?
Me: Can't say that I have.
A: Sometimes I'll be jackin' off with some porno mag and I look up at a picture of my car and I bust a nut right there thinkin' about all that sweet pussy I'm gonna get when I get my license back.
Me: Okay.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Why Are You Poor?
In 1980 the average CEO made $10 for every $1 earned by the average worker.
In 2006 the average CEO makes $430 for every $1 earned by the average worker.
In case anybody needed a reminder as to which heads needed to be put on spikes, they are pictured here. Topping the list are the health care industry, gas companies, and the tech sector.
In unrelated news, I worked some overtime this weekend to pay for some needed bike parts. I'll probably do the same next weekend. My wife is still holding down her full-time job while struggling to pay for her full-time college courses. My dad is working two full-time jobs to keep on top of payments for the farm. But I wouldn't dare suggest class warfare.
In 2006 the average CEO makes $430 for every $1 earned by the average worker.
In case anybody needed a reminder as to which heads needed to be put on spikes, they are pictured here. Topping the list are the health care industry, gas companies, and the tech sector.
In unrelated news, I worked some overtime this weekend to pay for some needed bike parts. I'll probably do the same next weekend. My wife is still holding down her full-time job while struggling to pay for her full-time college courses. My dad is working two full-time jobs to keep on top of payments for the farm. But I wouldn't dare suggest class warfare.
Slacker Extreme
I salute this man. He is a true American hero.
After 12 years of college, (Johnny Lechner) is primed to graduate from the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater this semester —with three majors and three minors under his belt. “What’s not to like about college?” he asked. “The schedule’s laid back, you’re around all kinds of educated people. And we’re all just broke college kids, too. It’s not like the real world... I’m 29, but I’m lucky enough that I look young, feel young and have a young personality. I can definitely keep up here. In fact, I’m usually the one throwing the party.”
Men Everywhere Celebrate
Reuters- Bra producers have been forced to offer bigger cup-sizes in China because improved nutrition is busting all previous chest measurement records.
The report, seen on the daily's Web site Tuesday, said that the Hong Kong-based lingerie firm Embry Group no longer produces A-cups for larger chest circumferences and has increased production of C-, D- and E-cup bras to meet pressing demand.
Pressing demand indeed.
The report, seen on the daily's Web site Tuesday, said that the Hong Kong-based lingerie firm Embry Group no longer produces A-cups for larger chest circumferences and has increased production of C-, D- and E-cup bras to meet pressing demand.
Pressing demand indeed.
They Are NOT Spying On Me
After last night's fuel related mind spew, I wake up to "Under pressure, Bush takes aim at gasoline prices."
I still can't figure out if that man is an evil genius the likes of which makes Hitler look like a petty thief or if he's dumber than my yellow dog. I'm pretty certain he's the alpha yellow dog, an idiot ruling over idiots.
George W. Bush pressured profit-rich oil companies to invest in new refineries on Tuesday and announced steps against any price gouging to contain gas prices that have soared while his popularity plummets.Remember when Republicans got all pissed at Clinton for releasing the strategic reserves to curb gas prices? I'm sure that was different somehow.
He directed the Environmental Protection Agency to suspend federal clean-burning gasoline rules this summer that are forcing consumers to buy expensive new gasoline blends.
Bush temporarily halted shipments to the Strategic Petroleum Reserve as a way to get more oil on the market and try to combat prices that have soared above $3 a gallon.
I still can't figure out if that man is an evil genius the likes of which makes Hitler look like a petty thief or if he's dumber than my yellow dog. I'm pretty certain he's the alpha yellow dog, an idiot ruling over idiots.
Monday, April 24, 2006
The Future of Fuel
Someone at work was trying to explain to me how it was a good idea to drill for oil in Alaska. The whole of his argument was, "Something has to be done about these gas prices and nobody lives there." Ooo, very compelling.
Almost everyone has come to accept that petrol power is going to be replaced. The questions are when and with what. Nobody knows when. All we know is that the oil companies are going to go down kicking and screaming like rich spoiled brats. With what, then? It won't be electric, solar, or natural gas. Ethanol and bio-diesel will become 'collector' fuels for those hanging on to that vintage Corvette, classic Harley, or restored Volkswagen bus. They are a dedicated lot who are just as addicted to the site and sound of the mechanical workings as they are to the shell in which it sits. These people threw a fit when they had to give up leaded. Whatever fuel replaces gasoline will have to be able to go at least 300 miles at 120 mph. It also has to be able to haul 2 adults, 4 kids, and 10 bags of groceries while towing a fishing boat or a couple of quads. Never mind that people spend most of their driving time alone while stuck in stop and go commuter traffic traveling less than 30 miles at an average speed under 20 mph. We are addicted to the ideas of space, speed, and range. The first companies that can provide that kind of performance at the same or lower price of current petrochemical burning models will dominate the new market. The new fuel may or may not be 'clean' but the average consumer really doesn't give a damn.
Personally I hope we all get jet packs or matter transfer devices. But those are just old grade school dreams. Genetically engineered giant eagles or flying dragons are probably also out of the question. As I have learned from working in maintenance, there is probably something really simple that we're overlooking.
Almost everyone has come to accept that petrol power is going to be replaced. The questions are when and with what. Nobody knows when. All we know is that the oil companies are going to go down kicking and screaming like rich spoiled brats. With what, then? It won't be electric, solar, or natural gas. Ethanol and bio-diesel will become 'collector' fuels for those hanging on to that vintage Corvette, classic Harley, or restored Volkswagen bus. They are a dedicated lot who are just as addicted to the site and sound of the mechanical workings as they are to the shell in which it sits. These people threw a fit when they had to give up leaded. Whatever fuel replaces gasoline will have to be able to go at least 300 miles at 120 mph. It also has to be able to haul 2 adults, 4 kids, and 10 bags of groceries while towing a fishing boat or a couple of quads. Never mind that people spend most of their driving time alone while stuck in stop and go commuter traffic traveling less than 30 miles at an average speed under 20 mph. We are addicted to the ideas of space, speed, and range. The first companies that can provide that kind of performance at the same or lower price of current petrochemical burning models will dominate the new market. The new fuel may or may not be 'clean' but the average consumer really doesn't give a damn.
Personally I hope we all get jet packs or matter transfer devices. But those are just old grade school dreams. Genetically engineered giant eagles or flying dragons are probably also out of the question. As I have learned from working in maintenance, there is probably something really simple that we're overlooking.
Spin Off!
Following the success of the return of Doctor Who, the BBC has announced Torchwood.
Funny how the only current production TV show I am really interested in doesn't even air new episodes in the US. People can watch season one on the Sci-Fi Channel.
"Torchwood is a British sci-fi paranoid thriller, a cop show with a sense of humour," says Russell T Davies. "It's dark, wild and sexy, it's the X Files meets This Life. It's a stand-alone series for adult audiences which will have its own unique identity."Except for the cross-over of the first season Dr. Who characters Captain Jack (John Barrowman) and Toshiko Sato (Naoko Mori).
Funny how the only current production TV show I am really interested in doesn't even air new episodes in the US. People can watch season one on the Sci-Fi Channel.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Rooster Asks Fox To Guard Hen House
In other news, US looks to private sector to fix greenhouse pollution.
The Bush administration is promoting this voluntary effort as a practical way to develop clean-energy technology to tackle climate change. But an environmental expert dismissed it as busy-work that would not be as effective as the requirements imposed by the international Kyoto Protocol on global warming.
Friday, April 21, 2006
The Dark Arts
While grinding a set of spin plates at work, I realized that I was indulging in the dark arts at work. While making my final pass across the plates as they revolved on the turntable of the specially modified surface grinder, I advanced the diamond grinding wheel .020 each revolution. A full turn of the wheel that controls this is .100 inch. By turning the handle two the imagined points of an inverted hexagram, I could visualize my progress points without watching the exact meter readings. It's not rocket science, just saw chain. When I did look at the readings, I discovered that the downward point of the inverted pentagram was at .0666 inch. It takes 66.6 passes to make enough step increases to get across the entire spin plate.
I also happen to know that the motors for our rotary parts washers weigh 666 lbs.
I also happen to know that the motors for our rotary parts washers weigh 666 lbs.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
TAZ (Temporary Autonamous Zone)
When I parked TAZ, the 1973 Ironhead ('old Harley' to the uninitiated), he ran. I took the cover off of him this spring, and he didn't. I hate that. The old battery wasn't taking a charge, so I bought a new one and charged it up. Nope, that didn't work. Oh, I forgot to polarize the generator after having the battery disconnected for an extended period. Nope, not that either. I'm getting gas, but I'm not getting spark. Well, let's check the coils. Input resistence is low at 3 ohms instead of 4.5 to 5 ohms. Maybe. No continuity between the inputs and the high voltage outputs. Everything is normal there. Resistence between the two high voltage outputs should be 11,000 ohms. This thing is reading 20 ohms. WTF? But I'm using a crappy little radio shack ohm meter. Let's get out the back-up one.
Yes, I'm one of those guys who not only has one of those esoteric devices for taking all manner of electrical readings but actually has a back-up one. I don't normally keep a battery in it because I generally don't need to use it. I hunt down a battery, do a quick test, yep, it's all good. Let's try those readings again. My back-up model has one of those nifty digital displays. It takes several readings over a few seconds, numbers changing dramatically, and then gives you an idea of 'normal' if the situation is considered in a normal range. First test, inputs, 2.83 ohms. Ouch. Second test, input to output, no continuity. As it should be. Finally the high voltage outputs, 18.437 ohms when it should be 11k. Yeah, I think I found the problem. Time to order up a new ignition coil.
Yes, I'm one of those guys who not only has one of those esoteric devices for taking all manner of electrical readings but actually has a back-up one. I don't normally keep a battery in it because I generally don't need to use it. I hunt down a battery, do a quick test, yep, it's all good. Let's try those readings again. My back-up model has one of those nifty digital displays. It takes several readings over a few seconds, numbers changing dramatically, and then gives you an idea of 'normal' if the situation is considered in a normal range. First test, inputs, 2.83 ohms. Ouch. Second test, input to output, no continuity. As it should be. Finally the high voltage outputs, 18.437 ohms when it should be 11k. Yeah, I think I found the problem. Time to order up a new ignition coil.
Where is Who?
In an effort to hunt down early episodes of Doctor Who, a bounty is being offered. Find a missing episode and win a replica Dalek! Not some little toy thing. No, this is a life sized, ready to take over the universe Dalek.
For information on which episodes are missing, you can find a list here. Unfortunately, I have no film cans lying around so I can't even get the giddy high of expectation.
Musik der Maschinerie
The machines at work sing to me. I often find myself nodding along to the rythm. And my job is to help them keep the beat. When you get them all wound up and running well, with the right ears it sounds like a symphony.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Business as Usual
Keeping with his long tradition of blind ignorance, the Bush administration is experiencing yet another shake-up. Press secretary Scott McClellan is quitting. Senior adviser Karl Rove is giving up policy-development.
The moves were part of an effort by new White House Chief of Staff Josh Bolten... to help Bush rebound from sagging polls and bolster American confidence in his leadership.Because as any business man knows, if your company is failing, blame the advertising department. A good advertising department can sell pig shit to a hog farmer. Whatever you do, don't admit that your product is shit. And a look at the top tier will remind us all, shit floats.
Video: For the Ladies
Ladies, just try to tell me you can resist this? Mr. Switzerland hand milking a cow with the voiceover, "Where men spend...more time on you." It's from a Swiss tourism ad campaign targeting so called 'soccer widows' while the World Cup takes place in Germany.
Because as I learned from my farm days, milking cows makes you irresistible to the women.
Because as I learned from my farm days, milking cows makes you irresistible to the women.
Working as Intended: Some AWPCs
Guy: Blacks bitch about how hard it is to be black. Mexicans bitch about how hard it is to be Mexican...
Me: Whites bitch about how hard it is to be white.
Guy: Yeah, I suppose we do. But I've never heard the Chinese or Japanese complain.
Me: I've always figured that the government likes to pump up the race card to keep workers from realizing we're all getting screwed. That way we never band together to focus on our common enemy.
Guy: Hey! I bet you're right! I hadn't thought of it that way.
Anonymous: With our military all tied up in Iraq and Afghanistan, if Americans were to all rise up against these bastards, by the time the troops got back here there would just be a bunch of bodies to clean up.
Guy: Bikers don't hang out at dive bars because they're poor. They hang out there because they know where to get the best burgers.
Me: Whites bitch about how hard it is to be white.
Guy: Yeah, I suppose we do. But I've never heard the Chinese or Japanese complain.
Me: I've always figured that the government likes to pump up the race card to keep workers from realizing we're all getting screwed. That way we never band together to focus on our common enemy.
Guy: Hey! I bet you're right! I hadn't thought of it that way.
Anonymous: With our military all tied up in Iraq and Afghanistan, if Americans were to all rise up against these bastards, by the time the troops got back here there would just be a bunch of bodies to clean up.
Guy: Bikers don't hang out at dive bars because they're poor. They hang out there because they know where to get the best burgers.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
From My Pineal Gland
There has been a death of some distant relative and I show up at some luxurious lodge for the wake. I press the doorbell and it both chimes and screams. An older woman in a long black dress, black hair, and sensible flat toed mid-heel shoes answers the door. She looks like someone who spent years as a Madame before turning the lodge into a legit business, a decision that put more strain on her than dodging the law ever did. She gives me a weak smile and leads me up a flight of stairs behind us. This isn't the way she normally shows me in. It's the service stairs as I can see pipes and ducts down crawl spaces off of the stairwell. The woman is limping as though her left foot has been injured. Something is wrong here. At the top of those stairs are three large men in black suits waiting to jump me. I can't see them, but I know they are there. So I make a break for it down the stairs. I glance back to see the woman smiling with relief. I jump out an open window into the parking lot. Trucks fill most of the stalls and I need to find the one a friend loaned me. Was it green or grey? I'm pretty sure it was a Dodge but the key in my hand has the embossed letters of GM on it. Screw it. I hop in a dark red Firebird and take off.
At some other point in the dream I give someone a five dollar bill to cover laundry expenses. In last night's I gave someone a five dollar bill for a haircut.
At some other point in the dream I give someone a five dollar bill to cover laundry expenses. In last night's I gave someone a five dollar bill for a haircut.
Step Inside
In jr. high and my freshman and sophomore years of high school I kept a dream journal. Each morning I would wake up and record the twisted screenplays of adolescence. Those journals were sacrificed by fire. No great loss. Page after page of lurid sex dreams.
I've decided to try the experiment again. I'll probably share bits and pieces. Who wouldn't want to hear all about my dreams of Hells Angels kicking each other in the nuts, punky girls writing their names backwards next to esoteric numeric codes, and men with heads covered in boils who can't tell the difference between a Mormon Tabernacle and a Jehovah's Witness Kingdom Hall? What about me searching for a door, putting my leather jacket in the fridge, and the door suddenly appearing? Or vacant streets lined with multi-story buildings with hippies dressed like Uncle Sam taking hits from their pot pipes while standing on the roof tops? And that was all just one night!
Yes, I'm sure there'll be sex as well.
I've decided to try the experiment again. I'll probably share bits and pieces. Who wouldn't want to hear all about my dreams of Hells Angels kicking each other in the nuts, punky girls writing their names backwards next to esoteric numeric codes, and men with heads covered in boils who can't tell the difference between a Mormon Tabernacle and a Jehovah's Witness Kingdom Hall? What about me searching for a door, putting my leather jacket in the fridge, and the door suddenly appearing? Or vacant streets lined with multi-story buildings with hippies dressed like Uncle Sam taking hits from their pot pipes while standing on the roof tops? And that was all just one night!
Yes, I'm sure there'll be sex as well.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Virus With Shoes
For the last week I've been wandering around this existence of mine thinking that some vital piece of information was slipping me by. A notion was floating through the aethyr and I had yet to grab onto it and add it to my internal library. Where was it? Was I just imagining this thing? Then tonight it popped out of the aethyr and into my lap. It wasn't new information for me, but it came from a very unexpected source and spoke with a very clear and accessible tongue. Call it a much needed reminder.
Unless you are at work, go and listen to how Joe Rogan explains life. NOW!
Unless you are at work, go and listen to how Joe Rogan explains life. NOW!
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Kingdom of Hors
hortatory \HOR-tuh-tor-ee\, adjective:
marked by strong urging; serving to encourage or incite
marked by strong urging; serving to encourage or incite
Friday, April 14, 2006
Weirdo in a Weird Land
With the closing of the Portland branch of my credit union, I had to venture into suburbia to make a deposit of large, unmarked, non-sequential bills.
A city is a small and compact thing. While to some it feels crowded, it is merely a jungle. In your travels you learn to discern landmarks, visual cues, that guide you. Suburbia is a vast and sprawling land. Signs indicate that you have left one locale and are entering another, but the landscape never changes. In my travels across these United States I have seen this same town over and over again. The same shops, the same parking lots, the same houses. Where am I? The sign says Beaverton but it is virtually indecipherable from neighboring Hillsboro or far away Brooklyn Park.
The suburbs are not meant for people. This is a land of mobile steel, rubber, and specially formulated dent resistant polymers. Drive up this and drive through that. With a watchful eye you can sometimes spot one of these behemoths launching a fleshy little satellite that will dash, braving exposure to the elements, to retrieve some unknown necessity that a proprietor has thoughtlessly made inaccessible by any other means.
There, at the bus stop, stands a lone figure. He is a tall, awkward figure with his dyed black hair, wire rimmed glasses, and dark trench coat. You can see him pressed in upon himself, hands in pockets, elbows tucked in, feet together, head bowed down, the pressure of some demonic nightmare trying to squeeze this blight into oblivion.
A fleshy guidance system for one of these roaming lords of suburbia has it's ear pressed to some sort of communications device as it absent mindedly cuts off my path of travel. I roll down the window and shout, "You dirty animal! You filthy pig fucker! You shot Kennedy!" Perhaps coffee is the wrong drug for this place. Everyone else looks like they've been speed balling for years, constantly switching gears between intense, undirected bursts and frantic mother's milk relaxation.
Dear lord, get me out of this hell. Deliver me from this nightmare before I decide to follow through on the impulse to ram the next vehicle with a "W 04" sticker in the window. Carry me back over that ridge and down into the valley of the weird. Take me back to the stench of BC bud, french fry bio-diesel, and patchouli. Lead me to a land where one can actually see people, where I don't have to look at the numbers to tell the difference between houses, where I can walk into a store and smile at the owner who smiles back at me.
While I now sit safe in the valley, it is only a matter of time before I'll have to run that gauntlet of pig fuckers again. They have the city surrounded and have claimed it as their own. But we'll fight them, to the death if necessary. Every last freaky one of us.
A city is a small and compact thing. While to some it feels crowded, it is merely a jungle. In your travels you learn to discern landmarks, visual cues, that guide you. Suburbia is a vast and sprawling land. Signs indicate that you have left one locale and are entering another, but the landscape never changes. In my travels across these United States I have seen this same town over and over again. The same shops, the same parking lots, the same houses. Where am I? The sign says Beaverton but it is virtually indecipherable from neighboring Hillsboro or far away Brooklyn Park.
The suburbs are not meant for people. This is a land of mobile steel, rubber, and specially formulated dent resistant polymers. Drive up this and drive through that. With a watchful eye you can sometimes spot one of these behemoths launching a fleshy little satellite that will dash, braving exposure to the elements, to retrieve some unknown necessity that a proprietor has thoughtlessly made inaccessible by any other means.
There, at the bus stop, stands a lone figure. He is a tall, awkward figure with his dyed black hair, wire rimmed glasses, and dark trench coat. You can see him pressed in upon himself, hands in pockets, elbows tucked in, feet together, head bowed down, the pressure of some demonic nightmare trying to squeeze this blight into oblivion.
A fleshy guidance system for one of these roaming lords of suburbia has it's ear pressed to some sort of communications device as it absent mindedly cuts off my path of travel. I roll down the window and shout, "You dirty animal! You filthy pig fucker! You shot Kennedy!" Perhaps coffee is the wrong drug for this place. Everyone else looks like they've been speed balling for years, constantly switching gears between intense, undirected bursts and frantic mother's milk relaxation.
Dear lord, get me out of this hell. Deliver me from this nightmare before I decide to follow through on the impulse to ram the next vehicle with a "W 04" sticker in the window. Carry me back over that ridge and down into the valley of the weird. Take me back to the stench of BC bud, french fry bio-diesel, and patchouli. Lead me to a land where one can actually see people, where I don't have to look at the numbers to tell the difference between houses, where I can walk into a store and smile at the owner who smiles back at me.
While I now sit safe in the valley, it is only a matter of time before I'll have to run that gauntlet of pig fuckers again. They have the city surrounded and have claimed it as their own. But we'll fight them, to the death if necessary. Every last freaky one of us.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Sprint unveils mobile child locator service
Reuters
Suggestions for teens:
"I left it in my locker."
"It must have fallen out of my bag."
"I guess it just slipped out of my pocket."
"Our phones got swapped. That was (sibling) at the head shop."
"(Friend)'s parents don't make her carry a phone."
"WHY DO YOU HATE ME?"
The service lets parents look at maps on their cellphones or computers to locate their children who also carry mobile phones. Parents can also program the service to automatically send them text messages at specific times each day to confirm that their children have arrived at home or in school.
Suggestions for teens:
"I left it in my locker."
"It must have fallen out of my bag."
"I guess it just slipped out of my pocket."
"Our phones got swapped. That was (sibling) at the head shop."
"(Friend)'s parents don't make her carry a phone."
"WHY DO YOU HATE ME?"
Information as Self
Today's Lesson: Language as Information
As a fan of the non-fiction works of Robert Anton Wilson, it often perplexed me that he would put forward the same, seemingly simple ideas, over and over again. Why did he need to do this? Didn't people 'get it' the first time around? I certainly felt like I got it. Then I would meet other Wilson fans and discover that while they clearly shared my love for the author, they just didn't seem to 'get it'. Years later I would read works read previously. There he had those same ideas in the exact same language (same book, after all) but I viewed them differently. It felt as though I had missed some portion the first time around. Apparently I didn't get it. Then I viewed his works chronologically, discovering that he often had to change his opinions on things. Damn if he wasn't just as confused about all this mess as I was. But the underlying themes remain constant. The uncertainty principle just seems to proliferate and infect. Tao-Teh. Run away from people with answers.
For examples, let's do this in 2 parts.
1. In the last presidential election there was some business surrounding Kerry's involvement in Vietnam as a soldier. One side tried to tell you that John Kerry is a war hero. The other side tried to tell you that John Kerry is not a war hero. The problem with either of those statements? Both of them contain subjective information. Attempts at labeling him as a hero or not require a person to make value judgments and argue over false absolutes. As such only one of the following statements contains information.
2. People in general transmit a hell of a lot of static. Pay attention to what individuals say to you and see if you can discern actual information from the static. I fail at this one all the time. I will automatically tune in what I want to hear, "Oh. Yes. Quite right. What a bright lad you are." I will summarily tune out or attack that which I don't agree with, "As long as you are shopping at Walmart you can shut the fuck up about your tiny pay check!" Spend a day listening and see if you can notice filters and auto-response mechanisms kicking in.
Our public face consists of what others perceive about us. Physical appearance contains some fairly concrete information at the moment perceived. Much of how we process that information we could classify as value judgments. For instance, my mohawk makes for a very strong information signal when people see me. Their brains will immediately run that information through the usual routines and filters and categorize and label me based on that piece of information. Much of that process will be illogical programs. After all, it's just a haircut.
As a fan of the non-fiction works of Robert Anton Wilson, it often perplexed me that he would put forward the same, seemingly simple ideas, over and over again. Why did he need to do this? Didn't people 'get it' the first time around? I certainly felt like I got it. Then I would meet other Wilson fans and discover that while they clearly shared my love for the author, they just didn't seem to 'get it'. Years later I would read works read previously. There he had those same ideas in the exact same language (same book, after all) but I viewed them differently. It felt as though I had missed some portion the first time around. Apparently I didn't get it. Then I viewed his works chronologically, discovering that he often had to change his opinions on things. Damn if he wasn't just as confused about all this mess as I was. But the underlying themes remain constant. The uncertainty principle just seems to proliferate and infect. Tao-Teh. Run away from people with answers.
For examples, let's do this in 2 parts.
1. In the last presidential election there was some business surrounding Kerry's involvement in Vietnam as a soldier. One side tried to tell you that John Kerry is a war hero. The other side tried to tell you that John Kerry is not a war hero. The problem with either of those statements? Both of them contain subjective information. Attempts at labeling him as a hero or not require a person to make value judgments and argue over false absolutes. As such only one of the following statements contains information.
a. John Kerry was a cowardSo I started to listen to politicians and pundits with a filter to separate out information from non-information. I found myself playing with the dials, trying to tune in some signal. They all say a hell of a lot. On a few, rare occasions information gets transmitted.
b. John Kerry was a hero
c. John Kerry received three Purple Hearts
2. People in general transmit a hell of a lot of static. Pay attention to what individuals say to you and see if you can discern actual information from the static. I fail at this one all the time. I will automatically tune in what I want to hear, "Oh. Yes. Quite right. What a bright lad you are." I will summarily tune out or attack that which I don't agree with, "As long as you are shopping at Walmart you can shut the fuck up about your tiny pay check!" Spend a day listening and see if you can notice filters and auto-response mechanisms kicking in.
Our public face consists of what others perceive about us. Physical appearance contains some fairly concrete information at the moment perceived. Much of how we process that information we could classify as value judgments. For instance, my mohawk makes for a very strong information signal when people see me. Their brains will immediately run that information through the usual routines and filters and categorize and label me based on that piece of information. Much of that process will be illogical programs. After all, it's just a haircut.
Unpopular
Nobody at work wants to hear me rant about what a bastard Reagan was. And none of them believe he had anything to do with the Iran-Contra affair. Carter was an idiot, Reagan a god, and Clinton got all the credit. And these people call themselves Democrats!
This is what I'm up against. But at least I try.
This is what I'm up against. But at least I try.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Simple Pleasures
When I lived in Albert Lea and was a freelance graphic artist, I would have a professional prepare my tax return. When I came to pick up my prepared paper work she would go over them all with me and have me write out the checks for each. She would then say, "and the government specifically requests that you not staple your forms and check." With a smile on her face she would then pound a staple through all of the federal's, then another through all of the state's. She would then seal them up in envelopes for me to take to the post office.
This year I used a model 545 Swingline. Simple, but effective.
This year I used a model 545 Swingline. Simple, but effective.
Solidarity
During a break, a machinist and I were talking about how we missed working for union shops. (He was a Teamster, I was AFSCME.) We also complained about the state of unions in this country. The biggest complaint of his was that union leadership amongst the AFL-CIO clan seemed more interested in lining their pockets, supporting the status quo, and keeping workers at work then actually fighting for those people that make up the union.
I agree with him. The AFL-CIO has become a business entity modeled after the same kind of businesses the unions have to do battle with. There is a hierarchy with the top dogs getting considerably more benefit than the workers.
But there is an alternative. It's called the Industrial Workers of the World. From their site:
A local hotspot for the IWW is the Red & Black Cafe of Portland, a worker owned coffee shop and one of my favorite haunts.
I agree with him. The AFL-CIO has become a business entity modeled after the same kind of businesses the unions have to do battle with. There is a hierarchy with the top dogs getting considerably more benefit than the workers.
But there is an alternative. It's called the Industrial Workers of the World. From their site:
It is the historic mission of the working class to do away with capitalism. The army of production must be organized, not only for everyday struggle with capitalists, but also to carry on production when capitalism shall have been overthrown. By organizing industrially we are forming the structure of the new society within the shell of the old.
A local hotspot for the IWW is the Red & Black Cafe of Portland, a worker owned coffee shop and one of my favorite haunts.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
SFW: Puritanical Culture
Sex shop deal rocks cricket club.
Nice'n'Naughty had agreed to back Southport Trinity Cricket Club, with their logo already printed on shirts. But the deal was scrapped after the team were threatened with being axed from the Liverpool and District Competition of the ECB Premier League.
NSFW: Masturbate-A-Thon
FYI for those living in or near Portland. Darklady's 5th Annual Portland Masturbate-A-Thon. Insert one of 10,000,000+ sexual innuendos or double entendres here. Say no more.
Bound to Happen
US occupied Afghanistan on one border. US occupied Iraq on the other. How is an Islamic state supposed to keep America off it's soil?
Iran says it joins nuclear technology club.
Iran says it joins nuclear technology club.
Biker Blues
Throughout the 1960's and 1970's, biker gangs frightened the bejesus out of a lot of people. Hardly anyone is frightened by them these days. Most people think of bikers as those nice yuppies on new Harleys going on toy runs and poker runs.
In some parts of the world, outlaw bikers are still large and in charge and not a force you want to mess around with.
Read the news from Canada.
In some parts of the world, outlaw bikers are still large and in charge and not a force you want to mess around with.
"...six members, a prospective member and an associate of the Bandidos No Surrender Crew are dead, shot and dumped in a farm field, as part of "internal cleansing" within the gang,"
Read the news from Canada.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Anarchism in Mythology
Once Cronus had castrated Uranus, he and his wife Rhea took the throne. Under their power a time of harmony and prosperity began, which became known as the "Golden Age"; a time when it was said that people lived without greed or violence, and without toil or the need for laws.
See full text here.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Vasectomy
Here is the run down on my procedure.
I might be the only guy on the planet who thought my vasectomy was FUN! Before the procedure I was talkin' with the doc and telling him how excited I was. So he offered to get me a mirror with a long handle so I could watch. That was so cool. He also asked if a student in residency could observe. I was happy to oblige.
While laying back on the operating slab, legs up in stirrups like women have to do for the OB/GYN, he started with an injection of local anesthetic on both sides of my pelvis at about the level of the top of my penis and midway between that and my thighs. While this settled in he gave me a shave and a hair cut followed by an iodine wash. Typical surgery prep stuff. Then he taped my penis to my belly so it wouldn't get in the way.
We started with my right testicle. Here he injected a VERY local anesthetic directly at the right vas deferens. He made certain it was the right one by tugging on it and asking if I felt it on my right side. This is of course after the first shot of anesthetic so I don't scream out in agony, "YES!" Instead it felt like a gentle little tug, no pain at all. With the vas deferens located, he made a puncture in the center of my scrotum using a tool that was similar to a forceps but had a very sharp tip and no locking mechanism on the handle. With his hand still holding the vas, he reached in and got hold of it with the tool. Pulling the vas out through the puncture, he clamped onto it with another tool that DID have a locking mechanism on the handle. Now he began to strip away layers of blood vessels surrounding the vas. Each time he would strip a layer off he made certain to have the vas secure before removing the clamp and reclamping. You don't want a slip up have to start all over. After three or four levels were stripped away, he had nothing but the vas deferens.
This was quite possibly the coolest part. He used a device that cut through the vas deferens via an arc of electricity. When I called it a miniature arc welder he said, "Yeah, only I don't have to wear the helmet." He cut off a section of the vas deferens about 1-2 cm long. With the vas snipped and sealed by the arc tool, he could now release that but kept hold of the system of blood vessels that had surrounded it. With the two ends of my now severed tube retreated up the network, he did a clover leaf stitch through the network of blood vessels and between the severed ends. He drew this up like a draw string on a bag to provide some additional blockage. This was in case my body put up a fight and tried to reconnect the damn things. He released the tension, still holding onto the thread, to see if I there was any bleeding. After a minute, seeing no bleeding, he snipped the extra thread and fed the works back in through the puncture hole.
The left side went pretty much the same way. There was the injection of the local anesthetic and the tugging to make sure we were getting the left one and not double cutting the right. The left vas deferens was brought out through the same puncture hole that the right one had been pulled through in the center of the scrotum. As he again worked down the outer network I was informed that the left side almost always had more blood vessels than the right. I couldn't watch as closely on this one. The resident was observing from my left and I didn't want the mirror to get in the way of his view. Observing with the mirror on my right side meant that the doctor's hand was sometimes blocking my view. As he finished up with the draw string stitch and let it slack for a bit, there was a bit of bleeding. He stitched a figure eight around the trouble area and let it go slack again. All was fine this time. He snipped the extra thread and stuffed me back inside.
"Hopefully you tell me that this is the most painful part." The doctor then quickly removed the tape that had help my penis to my belly. Yeah, that's the worst part. He cleaned up the area, placed a tiny piece of surgical tape over the puncture spot, and placed a piece of gauze between my penis and scrotum. No tape on that, just gravity keeping it pressed between my penis and scrotum.
The doctor who gave me my initial consultation had forgotten to tell me one thing in preparation for the vasectomy. Wear tight underwear! If you need to, buy a pair or two for the day of and the day after. This was really the only thing that didn't go right for me. The doctor offered to let me take home the two pieces he cut out. I considered it for two seconds and replied, "No thanks."
Recovery has been pretty easy. The day of I spent reclined in an easy chair watching TV. Watching television is far more painful than getting a vasectomy. Most guys will spend the rest of the day sitting on an ice pack or (a favorite from what I hear) a bag of frozen peas. I didn't feel the need to ice so I didn't. As the doc said, "Listen to your nuts." Standing for more than a couple of minutes was a bit uncomfortable as the blood would flow to that area. I had two Vicadin before going to bed that night. I will admit that it felt as though someone had kicked me in the balls. Luckily I was numbed for the actual kicking. As a side effect, I seemed to have the endorphin giggles most of the night.
Day two I woke up and felt a hell of a lot better already. I could walk normally when I woke up and went downstairs to the bathroom. The day was spent between periods of sitting upright and reclining in the chair. Standing for brief periods didn't bother me at all. Ten or more minutes on my feet and the boys would start complaining, but nothing like the previous night. Early in the day I had 2 Vicadin and then in the evening I took 2 more with a couple glasses of red wine.
As I write this I am on the evening of day three. I went out and ran a few errands today. Stood around the kitchen to do dishes. I've done a couple loads of laundry which involves me going down a flight of stairs with a basket full of clothes. Nothing major. There have been some minor moments when I "listened to my nuts" and sat down for a few minutes. A few minutes ago I popped 3 Vicadin with my Guinness. I think doctors really need to take into effect the size and constitution of an individual when writing prescriptions. I can just barely feel the 3 pills working on me.
Tomorrow I return to work. I might have to sit down now and again. Luckily I am on maintenance now, which will make this easier than if I was still operating a machine. I can always pull a bucket up to the machine and have a sit while tinkering with the bits. Not those bits, the bits on the machines!
In four to six weeks I will drop off a sperm sample at the clinic so they can see if there are any survivors. I already have the jar. Seems a lot of guys can't handle the pressure of masturbating in a clinic bathroom. Given all the nurse porn out there I would have figured guys would jump at the chance to jack-off in a hospital. Nothing stopping me though. I mean, I just want them to have the freshest possible sample. Anyway, the doctor said that sperm can show up between two weeks and three months depending on level of sexual activity, "Cleaning the pipes, so to speak." Knowing me, these pipes will be clean in a few days.
And that is the story of my vasectomy. A couple days of discomfort is a small price to pay for a lifetime of sterility. Thanks Doc!
I might be the only guy on the planet who thought my vasectomy was FUN! Before the procedure I was talkin' with the doc and telling him how excited I was. So he offered to get me a mirror with a long handle so I could watch. That was so cool. He also asked if a student in residency could observe. I was happy to oblige.
While laying back on the operating slab, legs up in stirrups like women have to do for the OB/GYN, he started with an injection of local anesthetic on both sides of my pelvis at about the level of the top of my penis and midway between that and my thighs. While this settled in he gave me a shave and a hair cut followed by an iodine wash. Typical surgery prep stuff. Then he taped my penis to my belly so it wouldn't get in the way.
We started with my right testicle. Here he injected a VERY local anesthetic directly at the right vas deferens. He made certain it was the right one by tugging on it and asking if I felt it on my right side. This is of course after the first shot of anesthetic so I don't scream out in agony, "YES!" Instead it felt like a gentle little tug, no pain at all. With the vas deferens located, he made a puncture in the center of my scrotum using a tool that was similar to a forceps but had a very sharp tip and no locking mechanism on the handle. With his hand still holding the vas, he reached in and got hold of it with the tool. Pulling the vas out through the puncture, he clamped onto it with another tool that DID have a locking mechanism on the handle. Now he began to strip away layers of blood vessels surrounding the vas. Each time he would strip a layer off he made certain to have the vas secure before removing the clamp and reclamping. You don't want a slip up have to start all over. After three or four levels were stripped away, he had nothing but the vas deferens.
This was quite possibly the coolest part. He used a device that cut through the vas deferens via an arc of electricity. When I called it a miniature arc welder he said, "Yeah, only I don't have to wear the helmet." He cut off a section of the vas deferens about 1-2 cm long. With the vas snipped and sealed by the arc tool, he could now release that but kept hold of the system of blood vessels that had surrounded it. With the two ends of my now severed tube retreated up the network, he did a clover leaf stitch through the network of blood vessels and between the severed ends. He drew this up like a draw string on a bag to provide some additional blockage. This was in case my body put up a fight and tried to reconnect the damn things. He released the tension, still holding onto the thread, to see if I there was any bleeding. After a minute, seeing no bleeding, he snipped the extra thread and fed the works back in through the puncture hole.
The left side went pretty much the same way. There was the injection of the local anesthetic and the tugging to make sure we were getting the left one and not double cutting the right. The left vas deferens was brought out through the same puncture hole that the right one had been pulled through in the center of the scrotum. As he again worked down the outer network I was informed that the left side almost always had more blood vessels than the right. I couldn't watch as closely on this one. The resident was observing from my left and I didn't want the mirror to get in the way of his view. Observing with the mirror on my right side meant that the doctor's hand was sometimes blocking my view. As he finished up with the draw string stitch and let it slack for a bit, there was a bit of bleeding. He stitched a figure eight around the trouble area and let it go slack again. All was fine this time. He snipped the extra thread and stuffed me back inside.
"Hopefully you tell me that this is the most painful part." The doctor then quickly removed the tape that had help my penis to my belly. Yeah, that's the worst part. He cleaned up the area, placed a tiny piece of surgical tape over the puncture spot, and placed a piece of gauze between my penis and scrotum. No tape on that, just gravity keeping it pressed between my penis and scrotum.
The doctor who gave me my initial consultation had forgotten to tell me one thing in preparation for the vasectomy. Wear tight underwear! If you need to, buy a pair or two for the day of and the day after. This was really the only thing that didn't go right for me. The doctor offered to let me take home the two pieces he cut out. I considered it for two seconds and replied, "No thanks."
Recovery has been pretty easy. The day of I spent reclined in an easy chair watching TV. Watching television is far more painful than getting a vasectomy. Most guys will spend the rest of the day sitting on an ice pack or (a favorite from what I hear) a bag of frozen peas. I didn't feel the need to ice so I didn't. As the doc said, "Listen to your nuts." Standing for more than a couple of minutes was a bit uncomfortable as the blood would flow to that area. I had two Vicadin before going to bed that night. I will admit that it felt as though someone had kicked me in the balls. Luckily I was numbed for the actual kicking. As a side effect, I seemed to have the endorphin giggles most of the night.
Day two I woke up and felt a hell of a lot better already. I could walk normally when I woke up and went downstairs to the bathroom. The day was spent between periods of sitting upright and reclining in the chair. Standing for brief periods didn't bother me at all. Ten or more minutes on my feet and the boys would start complaining, but nothing like the previous night. Early in the day I had 2 Vicadin and then in the evening I took 2 more with a couple glasses of red wine.
As I write this I am on the evening of day three. I went out and ran a few errands today. Stood around the kitchen to do dishes. I've done a couple loads of laundry which involves me going down a flight of stairs with a basket full of clothes. Nothing major. There have been some minor moments when I "listened to my nuts" and sat down for a few minutes. A few minutes ago I popped 3 Vicadin with my Guinness. I think doctors really need to take into effect the size and constitution of an individual when writing prescriptions. I can just barely feel the 3 pills working on me.
Tomorrow I return to work. I might have to sit down now and again. Luckily I am on maintenance now, which will make this easier than if I was still operating a machine. I can always pull a bucket up to the machine and have a sit while tinkering with the bits. Not those bits, the bits on the machines!
In four to six weeks I will drop off a sperm sample at the clinic so they can see if there are any survivors. I already have the jar. Seems a lot of guys can't handle the pressure of masturbating in a clinic bathroom. Given all the nurse porn out there I would have figured guys would jump at the chance to jack-off in a hospital. Nothing stopping me though. I mean, I just want them to have the freshest possible sample. Anyway, the doctor said that sperm can show up between two weeks and three months depending on level of sexual activity, "Cleaning the pipes, so to speak." Knowing me, these pipes will be clean in a few days.
And that is the story of my vasectomy. A couple days of discomfort is a small price to pay for a lifetime of sterility. Thanks Doc!
On Anarchism and Voting (yes, again)
In 1987 I watched a documentary in which Abbie Hoffman stated that the 1960's counter-culture was born out of the idea that, "there must be something better and if there isn't anything, we'll take that. Anything is better than this garbage." He also once stated that, "The only way to support a revolution is to make your own." Granted, Hoffman wasn't the best role model. My freshman year he committed suicide out of depression for a society and a generation that had lost its vision. I remember sitting in homeroom expressing my depression over his passing. Everybody said the same thing. "Abbie Who?"
"To steal from a brother or sister is evil. To not steal from the institutions that are the pillars of the Pig Empire is equally immoral."
Voting is a sacred act in America. I will admit to having more distaste for people who don't bother to vote than for those who do vote. But to actively say, "this game is rigged and I'm not going to play it anymore," is a supreme blasphemy. To say you don't believe in participating in voting in the US is equivalent to saying you don't believe in participating in Salat (the daily prayers) in Afghanistan or Iran. Just as Christians are continually encouraging me to pray to a God that is supposedly wiser and more powerful than myself, so do those in favor of representational democracy constantly try to get me to vote for someone supposedly wiser and more powerful than myself. Since I feel certain that no person is better fit to represent me than me and likewise that I should have no say in how others choose to live their lives, if I did vote, wouldn't I be a blaspheming hypocrite?
I might be the only person running for office that is actively encouraging people to vote for me by not voting for me.
"To steal from a brother or sister is evil. To not steal from the institutions that are the pillars of the Pig Empire is equally immoral."
Voting is a sacred act in America. I will admit to having more distaste for people who don't bother to vote than for those who do vote. But to actively say, "this game is rigged and I'm not going to play it anymore," is a supreme blasphemy. To say you don't believe in participating in voting in the US is equivalent to saying you don't believe in participating in Salat (the daily prayers) in Afghanistan or Iran. Just as Christians are continually encouraging me to pray to a God that is supposedly wiser and more powerful than myself, so do those in favor of representational democracy constantly try to get me to vote for someone supposedly wiser and more powerful than myself. Since I feel certain that no person is better fit to represent me than me and likewise that I should have no say in how others choose to live their lives, if I did vote, wouldn't I be a blaspheming hypocrite?
I might be the only person running for office that is actively encouraging people to vote for me by not voting for me.
Another Point of View
If you accept and consent to the right of another individual to make decisions for you, vote for them.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Real Courage
Nothing like saying "Don't Vote" to stir up people's emotions.
This country was founded by the upper 10% of colonialists. Look through the signers of the Declaration of Independence and you'll see for yourself. The American Revolution was a war started by the new colonial elite made rich off the land and labor (tenants, servants, and slaves) of the new country. They were rebelling against the old aristocratic elite of Britain. Look at the early form of this government. In order to vote you had to be a land owner. As it became easier to control the outcome of votes, voting rights were reluctantly given up to more unsavory types like the landless, non-whites, and women.
Flash forward to 2000. That was the year I learned that a person does not have to win an election to win an election. That was the year I learned about 'voting discrepancies' and the unregistering of voters.
Last time I voted was 2004. That was the year that I learned about voting machine allocation, computer glitches, untrackable voting, provisional ballots, and voter harassment by law enforcement agencies.
If voting could make a difference, it would be outlawed. Unfortunately, if not voting could make a difference it would be outlawed. The curses of the damned.
So what is one to do if they don't want to legitamize the circus side show? Do I just sit back, point my finger at the mess, and sigh? Hardly. You may not realize this, but most people have no clue about the real history of these United States. So I educate them. I try to peel back those layers of propaganda laid on about the super-hero status of super wealthy land owners like George Washington and Thomas Jefferson. I give them history as I see it, massive struggles between elite classes in which the workers get sent off to die over and over again. The powerful can build a revolution that way. When the workers revolt, it is generally a case of a situation reaching critical mass. I feed the flames.
This country was founded by the upper 10% of colonialists. Look through the signers of the Declaration of Independence and you'll see for yourself. The American Revolution was a war started by the new colonial elite made rich off the land and labor (tenants, servants, and slaves) of the new country. They were rebelling against the old aristocratic elite of Britain. Look at the early form of this government. In order to vote you had to be a land owner. As it became easier to control the outcome of votes, voting rights were reluctantly given up to more unsavory types like the landless, non-whites, and women.
Flash forward to 2000. That was the year I learned that a person does not have to win an election to win an election. That was the year I learned about 'voting discrepancies' and the unregistering of voters.
Last time I voted was 2004. That was the year that I learned about voting machine allocation, computer glitches, untrackable voting, provisional ballots, and voter harassment by law enforcement agencies.
If voting could make a difference, it would be outlawed. Unfortunately, if not voting could make a difference it would be outlawed. The curses of the damned.
So what is one to do if they don't want to legitamize the circus side show? Do I just sit back, point my finger at the mess, and sigh? Hardly. You may not realize this, but most people have no clue about the real history of these United States. So I educate them. I try to peel back those layers of propaganda laid on about the super-hero status of super wealthy land owners like George Washington and Thomas Jefferson. I give them history as I see it, massive struggles between elite classes in which the workers get sent off to die over and over again. The powerful can build a revolution that way. When the workers revolt, it is generally a case of a situation reaching critical mass. I feed the flames.
Friday, April 07, 2006
Too Much of an Anarchist
At a young age I started to consider myself an anarchist. Like a lot of things, people just assumed I'd grow out of it. I haven't. And like many other things people thought I'd grow out of, I've just gotten worse. For example, I used to be a voting anarchist. I figured until we got it all worked out and people decided they no longer needed leaders telling them what to do, I might as well have a say.
Fuck that!
Republican or Democrat?
Bloods or Crips?
Atilla the Hun or Genghis Khan?
Government exists to uphold rights. What rights? Property rights. Who has the most to gain from government? Those with the most property. The so called 'founding fathers' were mostly rich or land owners from the upper crust of society. We have today a government which they created out of a desire to stop the taxation of the rich and to protect the property rights of those powerful elite who already held it. Societies that have a concept of personal wealth have strong central governments. Even communists and socialists need a strong central government because they view wealth accumulation as the goal of the state for the good of the people they supposedly serve/rule over. Societies that have had no concept of personal wealth have no need for a strong central government, just 'ambassadors' to go and talk things over with the neighbors.
Founding fathers aside, what did the common laborer think of the war between the colonies and Britain? What did these people who were faced with a choice of either joining the revolutionary army or going to jail think of what was taking place? "Tyranny is tyranny let it come from whom it may."
Don't vote! It only encourages the bastards.
Fuck that!
Republican or Democrat?
Bloods or Crips?
Atilla the Hun or Genghis Khan?
Government exists to uphold rights. What rights? Property rights. Who has the most to gain from government? Those with the most property. The so called 'founding fathers' were mostly rich or land owners from the upper crust of society. We have today a government which they created out of a desire to stop the taxation of the rich and to protect the property rights of those powerful elite who already held it. Societies that have a concept of personal wealth have strong central governments. Even communists and socialists need a strong central government because they view wealth accumulation as the goal of the state for the good of the people they supposedly serve/rule over. Societies that have had no concept of personal wealth have no need for a strong central government, just 'ambassadors' to go and talk things over with the neighbors.
Founding fathers aside, what did the common laborer think of the war between the colonies and Britain? What did these people who were faced with a choice of either joining the revolutionary army or going to jail think of what was taking place? "Tyranny is tyranny let it come from whom it may."
Don't vote! It only encourages the bastards.
AWPC
Biker Tim: Even though you don't work tomorrow, I bet I'll be having more fun.
Me: Are you kidding? I've been waiting 20 years for this. As soon as I found out about vasectomies I thought, 'I gotta get me one of those'.
Me: Are you kidding? I've been waiting 20 years for this. As soon as I found out about vasectomies I thought, 'I gotta get me one of those'.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Bondage
From the 16th and into the 19th centuries there is documentation that slaves would sometimes kill their offspring rather than have them born into servitude.
Friday I am getting a vasectomy. Ain't progress grand?
Friday I am getting a vasectomy. Ain't progress grand?
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Mmmm, Feature Film
Just as I am losing interest in The Simpsons they announce a feature film. Coincidence? Watch the teaser here.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Burning It Up
Most of Saturday I kept wondering where this irritating rash on my arms came from. And why did it have a straight line across the top of it?
Sunday morning in the shower I look at it again and it all became clear.
Friday at work I was welding a new tip on a pick up rail. I cranked the welder up, grabbed some stoody, and let fly. I had gloves on but was wearing a t-shirt. When I used the arc welder back on the farm I always wore a long sleeved shirt. True, it was polyester and riddled with burn holes, but it HAD sleeves. So I'm building this fantastic tip out of the stoody and all I need to do is get the steel to flow so I can mix it up for a strong weld. The heat was getting real intense but the bead was just starting to flow. When you get a good bead going, you have to keep it flowing.
The end result was a rail tip that was passed around the shop for admiration Friday night and me finally realizing on Sunday that I have what is basically a sun burn on my upper arms. I think all the hair shielded my forearms.
Sunday morning in the shower I look at it again and it all became clear.
Friday at work I was welding a new tip on a pick up rail. I cranked the welder up, grabbed some stoody, and let fly. I had gloves on but was wearing a t-shirt. When I used the arc welder back on the farm I always wore a long sleeved shirt. True, it was polyester and riddled with burn holes, but it HAD sleeves. So I'm building this fantastic tip out of the stoody and all I need to do is get the steel to flow so I can mix it up for a strong weld. The heat was getting real intense but the bead was just starting to flow. When you get a good bead going, you have to keep it flowing.
The end result was a rail tip that was passed around the shop for admiration Friday night and me finally realizing on Sunday that I have what is basically a sun burn on my upper arms. I think all the hair shielded my forearms.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
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