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.
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