I was robbed. It was a gentle robbery. First they asked me to give them $5 to park my motorcycle. I whipped out the wallet and handed them a single bill. In return I received a little green ticket with instructions to place the piece of paper in my windshield. Uh, yeah. At the door they told me that if I wanted to go inside I had to give them $15. Since this is what I came to do, I again unleashed the leather and slipped the elderly gentleman a single bill. I was rewarded with another ticket which would permit me entrance and another single bill similar to the one I had to relinquish for parking. In total they took $20 from me. In return I got two thin pieces of paper and the privilege of entering the 2nd Annual Portland Bike Fest.
Upon arrival I should have realized that something was amiss. After all, this was supposed to be a show dedicated to bikers and their lifestyle. The bike parking area had a few motorcycles parked there. I slid my road worn 1973 Harley Sportster between a shiny Honda Shadow and a pimped out Goldwing. Was this the crowd that I would find waiting for me inside? No, it was a far worse thing than that. The parking lot was a sea of suburban monstrosities. Mini vans, SUVs, and family sedans were packed near capacity into the lot. A few old timers sat out front, road worn faces sucking back cigarettes and telling tales of their travels. I walked up to the turn style, handed another elderly gentleman my ticket, and entered purgatory.
This was the new American motorcycle scene. What greeted my senses shared more in common with the old starving artist fairs than what I had known to be a bike show. Technical proficiency of the craft of motorcycle building was apparent, but the soul had been stashed away in some forgotten shed along side the classics that used to dominate such events. The first bike I saw had a placard next to it, declaring that this was a custom chopper. To its credit, the bike was based on a rigid frame, open belt primary, and had radically long front forks. Did this make it a chopper? The inverted telescopic forks were massive. They were so large that I doubt most women could fit a single hand around one tube. The frame, while forgoing the added mass of a suspension system, seemed to be designed for use by a pair of over weight, middle aged polar bears. One look at the expanse of the seat confirmed this intended use. The mass of the plate covering the outer portion of the open belt primary drive showed that while polar bears me be an endangered species, they wanted something capable of withstanding a direct hit from a high powered rifle. I glanced around the auditorium, spotting several likely candidates of big, white furriness. Which ones had ridden this bike here? I looked again at the motorcycle. Apparently the bears opted for something with more protection, like a Hummer or maybe an armored personnel carrier. The bike had no stone bruises, heat marks, oil stains, or other signs of actual road use.
After passing by several examples of the expanding back sides of the American biker, I came upon something that seemed to tell a different tale. It too bore the description of chopper on its tag, but the builder had the common decency of tacking on the words 'pro-street' before hand. At last, a sign of someone not afraid of revealing that their design was actually a hybrid of styles. The message of the bike was powerful. It was done up with the long, low, pro-street style but opted for a long, thin springer up front like a chopper. They had painted it a dazzling burnt orange with a Confederate flag on the tank and the numbers '01' in dark blue on the sides. Having grown up watching a pair of hillbillies outrun dim witted law enforcement every weekend, the General Lee reference was stark. The devil is in the details, or so they say. Iron Cross valve stem caps and the lightning bolt 'SS' insignia on the points cover clearly eluded to Germany's World War 2 era. By comparing the ideals of the Confederate South and Hitler's Germany the common theme emerged. This was a bike for people who hated Jews and Coloreds. While I could not approve of the sentiment, I appreciated the honesty in this ocean of ambiguity.
While navigating the displays of thick, glossy paint jobs, wide rear ends, and obvious over use of chrome trinkets (Am I talking about the bikes or the people, here? The lines seem to blur.), I spotted a group of young gals. It was obvious that they belonged to some sort of bizarre gang or strange sex cult as they all looked and dressed alike. Each was a blonde anorexic in black vinyl hot pants. below the waist were fishnet stockings at black high heeled platforms. Up top were form fitting micro t-shirts declaring them as 'Bad Ass'. The situation became clearer when I spotted the heavy set, grey haired man with a much larger shirt featuring the same words. Apparently this was some sort of family business, a man pimping his wares. This is Portland, after all, home to what is the third largest legal American sex industry after Nevada and California. I only hoped, for the old man's sake, that this was the colloquial use of 'bad'. Honesty is never the best policy in advertising.
While still searching, hoping to find a Picaso amongst the velvet Elvises, the first act of the day's musical entertainment took to the stage. Tribute bands, by nature, are a curse of the blind masses on those with the sensibilities of a mouse. Once, during a financially difficult time, I purchased a case of ramen noodles. The mice found them, recognized that they were not food, and started to build a nest in the box. I took a cue from the mice and tossed the entire case, vowing to never again indulge in such cheap mockeries. So when a band announced as a tribute to Guns and Roses were brought on stage, my stomach was already turning. To my surprise, they went above and beyond what any normal cover band does when pissing all over songs that some people may have actually enjoyed at one time. They did an acoustic set. No, don't run. Whatever does not kill you surely makes you stronger. Breath in. Breath out. Turn off the sound inputs and focus on the visual. Something here has to be worth the admission price.
There, a few feet from the forty-something tattoo artist with pink dreads and years of living the lifestyle engraved in the folds around her eyes, there was that one thing I had come for. It was a beautiful garbage heap. Low slung rigid early 60's Sportster, magneto ignition, steel plate seat, single rear disc brake, and not a speck of paint anywhere. It was a masterpiece of function and art. In defiance of convention, black exhaust taped pipes were routed to the left side of the bike. A pair of velocity stacked carbs jutted out to the right, feeding into a single pipe before splitting into the heads. The oil drip off of the generator was cleverly disguised as a garden hose faucet. An extremely utilitarian oil cooler was hidden in the shape of a hip flask. Strangely twisting copper tubes fed fluids from their various storage containers to where they would be used. In order to ride this bike someone would have to remove their lower legs and reattach their feet at the knees. It was street performance art for the brave. Polar bears need not apply.
Before total nausea set in I managed to find a couple of other rough gems. One came in the form of a simple bar hopper that borrowed heavily from the stylings of the late, great East Coast outlaw Indian Larry. While a bit over done, one could appreciate that the old school influence had not completely died off. Another was a memorial to the fallen brothers of Oregon's motorcycle clubs. It was assembled using parts from the motorcycles of dead patch holders. The result was a clean suicide clutched rigid framed pan/shovel. It was obvious that this was something greater than the sum of its parts.
When I could no longer handle being crowded by polar bears and families who tuned in to watch Jesse James or Orange County Choppers every week, I stepped back outside to the clouds of cigarette smoke hovering around the door. Only a few years ago when I went to such events, the bikers would light up inside with blatant disregard for posted signs prohibiting such behavior. I couldn't help but think, 'No! Not yet. I am far too young to be talking about the good old days.' Striding through the parking lot, I passed a D.A.R.E. search and rescue vehicle. A woman who had been passed out in the front seat wearing her fishnet stockings and black leather bikini top quickly opened the door. Her head barely cleared the vehicle before she vomited up a chunky mixture of what was mostly beer and some remnants of a meal that never should have happened. She glanced in my direction, mascara smeared around her eyes, and quickly retreated back into the refuge of her vehicular fortress of solitude.
Back in the motorcycle parking area my bike still stood out as a blight in the sea of bolt on customization. The Shadow was now gone. In its place was a simple, low slung Ironhead Sportster. Somewhere in that accumulation of bastardized bike styles and commercialized creations was a kindred spirit. We were a pair of suckers, willingly handing over $20 for the privilege of partaking in the dance of the dead. While one polar bear made grunts and groans at another, attempting to show off the various gadgets and googaws on his giant Japanese sled, a lone wolf howled. All attempts at any other communication were futile. The wolf howled and leapt, running off into the distance. Somewhere back there was another lone wolf. Rather than tracking him down, it was best to leave him as a mystery, more perfect than what I would probably encounter. That way this lone wolf can continue to think that while the pack is busy in-breeding and feeding off of dead carcasses, there are a few out there that still dare to howl at the moon. And maybe that thought is worth $20.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
Friday, May 19, 2006
Racial Identity
When my great grandparents (dad's mother's side) came to the US, they left a country known as Germany. They identified themselves as Germans. They had the surname LaRue. To visit where they came from, I would have to go to France.
When my grandfather was brought to America, he came from a country known as Germany and was identified as German. If I were to visit where he originated from, I would have to travel to Poland. Also, my dad swears that his father's story of his kidnapping from an estabilshed and respected German family and subsequently being brought across the Atlantic to be held for ransom is probably phony. He seems to think that his father was actually a Jew escaping German persecution, probably a Rothchild or a Rothman who shortened it to the Germanic Roth.
My mother's father is Norwegian for several generations. We'll just leave that one as is.
Her mother is a completely different story. My maternal grandmother would claim to be part just about every single European ethnicity except English or Irish. So that side could be anything, but I'd put my money on English with a surname like Pierce. Probably some Irish in there too.
I grew up being told I was a Norwegian/German. I could be a French/Polish/Norwegian/English/Jew. Some might consider me a European mutt. To trace it all back with any certainty, I should probably call myself African. Or maybe it is safest just to consider myself a modern American. I can state with very little doubt that I am human. Everything else is just lines on a map.
When my grandfather was brought to America, he came from a country known as Germany and was identified as German. If I were to visit where he originated from, I would have to travel to Poland. Also, my dad swears that his father's story of his kidnapping from an estabilshed and respected German family and subsequently being brought across the Atlantic to be held for ransom is probably phony. He seems to think that his father was actually a Jew escaping German persecution, probably a Rothchild or a Rothman who shortened it to the Germanic Roth.
My mother's father is Norwegian for several generations. We'll just leave that one as is.
Her mother is a completely different story. My maternal grandmother would claim to be part just about every single European ethnicity except English or Irish. So that side could be anything, but I'd put my money on English with a surname like Pierce. Probably some Irish in there too.
I grew up being told I was a Norwegian/German. I could be a French/Polish/Norwegian/English/Jew. Some might consider me a European mutt. To trace it all back with any certainty, I should probably call myself African. Or maybe it is safest just to consider myself a modern American. I can state with very little doubt that I am human. Everything else is just lines on a map.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Capitalist Pig Dog Hating Short
Go watch HA HA HA AMERICA. I get sick of trying to preach this shit to people. You enjoy fragrant monkey tail!
Money, Money, Money. Ain't it Funny?
When reading House FY07 budget sees $348 bln deficit, the eyes gloss over and the brain shuts down. How can one even begin to fathom money in sums that large? That is just the deficit! The actual budget is $2.7 trillion with some more almost assuredly to be tacked on at a later date to cover things they forgot about.
I hate the way they write out things like that in the news. It makes the difference between million and billion look like a single step. Same with billion to trillion. Let's write it out in full.
Deficit= $348,000,000,000
Budget= $2,700,000,000,000
Gotta love those zeros. But let's put it into a more human perspective. If every person in the United States, regardless of age, had a full time job earning minimum wage, we'd have to give it all to the government just to cover the budget. That's over $10,000 per person. Don't forget that this has nothing to do with the already existent national debt or Social Security, which is figured separately.
See, not real money at all. So don't worry about it.
I hate the way they write out things like that in the news. It makes the difference between million and billion look like a single step. Same with billion to trillion. Let's write it out in full.
Deficit= $348,000,000,000
Budget= $2,700,000,000,000
Gotta love those zeros. But let's put it into a more human perspective. If every person in the United States, regardless of age, had a full time job earning minimum wage, we'd have to give it all to the government just to cover the budget. That's over $10,000 per person. Don't forget that this has nothing to do with the already existent national debt or Social Security, which is figured separately.
See, not real money at all. So don't worry about it.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Campaign Stuff
I haven't really been doing much campaign stuff since I don't want to win. Still, what is the fun of a political campaign if I don't do a little mud slinging. Since the supposed front runner right now is Hillary Clinton...
Someone told me that Hillary has cooties.
Someone told me that Hillary has cooties.
Quick Run Down
Using the National Guard to patrol the border is a legitimate use of these citizen soldiers. They are the NATIONAL GUARD. I just find the very notion that we could even attempt to lock down our Southern border laughable. Then again, I find the whole idea of political borders kind of funny. As history has shown, walls eventually fail.
Much ado about nothing. The Da Vinci Code premiered at Cannes and canned. But for some reason fundies everywhere are pissed that a book from the fiction shelves was made into a fictitious film. BAN THE UNREAL! Nevermind that the critics have declared it a piece of shit. Come on Christians, this isn't like your protests of The Last Temptation of Christ. That film was GOOD. Can't you just get all high and mighty and claim that your God made this film suck to punish the infidels?
Tony Blair is suggesting the UK automatically deport foreign prisoners. Why doesn't he just show up in public wearing a rubber suit and ball gag with Bush behind him, riding crop in hand? At least when Reagan and Thatcher were swapping saliva they were both conservatives.
Lastly, The United States has banned the sale of arms to Venezuela. President Chavez doesn't care. Here's an idea. Bush and Blair versus Chavez and Castro in a tag team cage match. I'd put my money on the Southerners. Oh wait, I can't. They're Socialists.
Much ado about nothing. The Da Vinci Code premiered at Cannes and canned. But for some reason fundies everywhere are pissed that a book from the fiction shelves was made into a fictitious film. BAN THE UNREAL! Nevermind that the critics have declared it a piece of shit. Come on Christians, this isn't like your protests of The Last Temptation of Christ. That film was GOOD. Can't you just get all high and mighty and claim that your God made this film suck to punish the infidels?
Tony Blair is suggesting the UK automatically deport foreign prisoners. Why doesn't he just show up in public wearing a rubber suit and ball gag with Bush behind him, riding crop in hand? At least when Reagan and Thatcher were swapping saliva they were both conservatives.
Lastly, The United States has banned the sale of arms to Venezuela. President Chavez doesn't care. Here's an idea. Bush and Blair versus Chavez and Castro in a tag team cage match. I'd put my money on the Southerners. Oh wait, I can't. They're Socialists.
Getting Ahead of Itself By Going Backwards
Scientists at the University of Rochester have observed light going faster than the speed of light by going backwards.
My brain is starting to make noises something like those old percolator coffee pots. Somethin's a-brewin'.
"It's weird stuff," says Boyd. "We sent a pulse through an optical fiber, and before its peak even entered the fiber, it was exiting the other end. Through experiments we were able to see that the pulse inside the fiber was actually moving backward, linking the input and output pulses."This is one of those strange pieces of information that is going to stick with me and forever change my view of the universe. I keep trying to picture myself about to enter a tunnel only to see myself already exiting the other end and achieving this miracle by going in reverse.
My brain is starting to make noises something like those old percolator coffee pots. Somethin's a-brewin'.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
The Big Maybe
US releases 9/11 Pentagon video. Does this put to rest the conspiracies that say the plane was most likely shot down by a missile and yet another missile hit the Pentagon? Go ahead, watch this video footage for yourself and draw your own conclusions.
Have you gone and watched the footage for yourself? I highly suggest you do it before continuing on. So, that was the recently released footage of what was reportedly American Airlines flight 77 hitting the Pentagon. It very well could have been exactly that. From what I saw, it could also have been a missile. Again, from what I saw, it could have been an alien space craft crashing into the Pentagon. From that same footage I could also see this being something put together by a special effects studio to be intentionally vague. It also fits the desciption of Zeus hurling a lightning bolt at a bunch of humans who have displeased him. I can almost rule out that this was a silver explosive carrot being thrown by a giant rabbit. Almost.
I love it when news services have to tell you what you are seeing in the video.
Have you gone and watched the footage for yourself? I highly suggest you do it before continuing on. So, that was the recently released footage of what was reportedly American Airlines flight 77 hitting the Pentagon. It very well could have been exactly that. From what I saw, it could also have been a missile. Again, from what I saw, it could have been an alien space craft crashing into the Pentagon. From that same footage I could also see this being something put together by a special effects studio to be intentionally vague. It also fits the desciption of Zeus hurling a lightning bolt at a bunch of humans who have displeased him. I can almost rule out that this was a silver explosive carrot being thrown by a giant rabbit. Almost.
I love it when news services have to tell you what you are seeing in the video.
Captain Capitalism!
Are you a Piggy Bank Pinko? Watch this animated short to find out the truth about how the economy works. Then go buy stuff.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Consumption Junction
McDonalds got hit really freakin' hard by the whole Super Size Me
business. They had to start down playing the huge soda and giant fries while trying to offer 'healthy' alternatives. So did the other fast food chains. The gig was up.But in the last couple of weeks I've seen the new push. Both Taco Bell and Jack in the Box are urging people to add a fourth meal to their day.
My message to all the fast food chains. Spend massive amounts of money lobbying for the legalization of pot. That way you are doing somethng useful AND boosting your late nite sales.
AWPC: The Rebel Rouser
Guy: The oil companies are making record profits and we're paying record prices for gas. It's pretty bad when you have to plan your vacation around how much gas you can afford.
Me: But people are still lining up at the pump.
Guy: But how much longer can we afford to? There ought to be some heavy regulation.
Me: Here's an idea. Why don't we do what Bolivia did? We forcibly take the assets of the oil companies, tell them, "You've made your profits. Get lost," and let Americans share in the wealth of the resources that belong to them as Americans.
Guy: Yeah. That'd show 'em.
I don't really want such a thing to happen. I am not a fan of Socialism, even if it is Democratic Socialism. But it was great to hear Americans agreeing with a Communist ideal. I got a good laugh out of that.
Me: But people are still lining up at the pump.
Guy: But how much longer can we afford to? There ought to be some heavy regulation.
Me: Here's an idea. Why don't we do what Bolivia did? We forcibly take the assets of the oil companies, tell them, "You've made your profits. Get lost," and let Americans share in the wealth of the resources that belong to them as Americans.
Guy: Yeah. That'd show 'em.
I don't really want such a thing to happen. I am not a fan of Socialism, even if it is Democratic Socialism. But it was great to hear Americans agreeing with a Communist ideal. I got a good laugh out of that.
Indifference
I whole heartedly encourage people to buy American products, especially union made American goods. I also have no problem with buying British, German, Swedish, Venezuelan, Bolivian, and other non-exploitive products. So I should be happy to hear that Big Three auto retirees launch buy-US campaign, right?
I could care less. Why would former CEO's exercising their stock options want you to buy goods from the companies they formerly worked for? How would that benefit them? Maybe it's because they didn't get to cash in on the huge salaries current CEO's get. But my mind wanders.
So yes, by all means give preferential treatment to American goods. Then kick out the CEO's and let the employees run things. After all, Ford was established on the ideas of a guy named Henry, built on the sweat and labor of hard working unions, and made rich via the wallets of the consumers. As far as vehicles go, I would suggest a pre-1980 American model, you know, from when CEO's only made 10 times as much as their employees and workers received a decent wage and benefits package. They rock.
I could care less. Why would former CEO's exercising their stock options want you to buy goods from the companies they formerly worked for? How would that benefit them? Maybe it's because they didn't get to cash in on the huge salaries current CEO's get. But my mind wanders.
So yes, by all means give preferential treatment to American goods. Then kick out the CEO's and let the employees run things. After all, Ford was established on the ideas of a guy named Henry, built on the sweat and labor of hard working unions, and made rich via the wallets of the consumers. As far as vehicles go, I would suggest a pre-1980 American model, you know, from when CEO's only made 10 times as much as their employees and workers received a decent wage and benefits package. They rock.
Friday, May 12, 2006
Shop Safety
X was quoting Norm Abram and the suggestion, "there is no more important safety rule than to wear these— safety glasses."
Last night while trying to watch a machine's part depositor, instead of placing the part down on the track, it shot it straight out at me. The tiny part headed directly for my left eye, and was deflected by my safety glasses.
I've heard so many tiny things ricochet off my glasses, I can't figure out those folks who choose to wear their glasses on top of their heads. I still wouldn't force safety glasses on people. And sometimes eye patches can be sexy.
Last night while trying to watch a machine's part depositor, instead of placing the part down on the track, it shot it straight out at me. The tiny part headed directly for my left eye, and was deflected by my safety glasses.
I've heard so many tiny things ricochet off my glasses, I can't figure out those folks who choose to wear their glasses on top of their heads. I still wouldn't force safety glasses on people. And sometimes eye patches can be sexy.
NSFW?
Let's make all of this indecency business nice and sparkling clear.
This is art.
At one time this was porn, but it's old enough now that it is art.
This is porn.
Hope that clears things up for everyone.
This is art.
At one time this was porn, but it's old enough now that it is art.
This is porn.
Hope that clears things up for everyone.
Bye-Bye Boobies
Video game "booth babes" forced to cover up.
The only obscene displays of flesh I've seen were flapping off the sides of Minnesota State Fair goers with a corn dog in one hand and a Republican party baloon in the other.
The video game industry's annual trade show in Los Angeles opened its doors to its exhibitors on Wednesday with organizers ordering women staffing the booths to cover up or face a $5,000 fine.Because as anyone in the labor force knows, you don't have to wear skimpy outfits to be a whore.
The only obscene displays of flesh I've seen were flapping off the sides of Minnesota State Fair goers with a corn dog in one hand and a Republican party baloon in the other.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
The Practical Side
My dad had a dresser in the basement, next to the old claw foot tub and shower. That's where he kept his barn clothes and work clothes from his days at the foundry.
It has taken me a while to catch on to the true practicality of that. This week I moved my dresser into the bathroom downstairs. My smelly work clothes from the factory always come off in there when I come home and take a shower. That means the laundry basket always needs to end up there. Why not centralize it?
What would make even more sense is putting the washer and dryer in there as well. Rental property so that won't happen. Space would also be a concern. But it is something I will keep in mind if I ever decide to build a house. A 'personal cleaning center' makes practical sense. Clothes and towels make up the majority of the laundry. Sheets, table clothes, and rugs are occasional wash items. Why not put the laundry facility where most dirty laundry is generated?
Hmm... suddenly naming the capital WASHington makes more sense.
It has taken me a while to catch on to the true practicality of that. This week I moved my dresser into the bathroom downstairs. My smelly work clothes from the factory always come off in there when I come home and take a shower. That means the laundry basket always needs to end up there. Why not centralize it?
What would make even more sense is putting the washer and dryer in there as well. Rental property so that won't happen. Space would also be a concern. But it is something I will keep in mind if I ever decide to build a house. A 'personal cleaning center' makes practical sense. Clothes and towels make up the majority of the laundry. Sheets, table clothes, and rugs are occasional wash items. Why not put the laundry facility where most dirty laundry is generated?
Hmm... suddenly naming the capital WASHington makes more sense.
Know Blue Axes!
Taxes are bad. Unless you think the government should be buying you shit, then taxes are good as long as they aren't taxing you.So the government is trying to pass yet another supposed tax cut. Fine. Whatever. The national debt is currently so outrageous I can't even think of it in real terms anyway. Any politician who tried to cut programs, cut government jobs, and raise taxes to actually pay off that damn debt would be tarred and feathered. I'm with Bush on this one. Let's just pretend it doesn't exist. After all, in many ways it doesn't actually exist.
I still love this photo of the folks in business attire with the balloons and anti-taxation signs.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Random
I had a dream in which hordes of people left a Mormon gathering in laughter after a black woman read a tract describing the Mormon view of Whites and Blacks. I then had to walk across that field, stepping carefully to avoid the huge piles of elephant shit. Where did I end up? In a huge auditorium full of naked Thelemites. Not perfect, but much more pleasant.
The Swede Transvestite is coming for a visit. I'm going to make him ride bitch, reliving our days as room mates when we would disco to The Village People while wearing boots and hats. Yes, boots AND hats.
The Swede Transvestite is coming for a visit. I'm going to make him ride bitch, reliving our days as room mates when we would disco to The Village People while wearing boots and hats. Yes, boots AND hats.
WOOT!!!
I don't know how I do this. I really don't. Check out this graph.
Just like I had purchased my house right before the housing boom, I sold my house in Minneapolis at the very best possible time. It will be a while before I can afford to buy another one, but that's fine. What did I do with my earnings? Not what I had planned, but it was a hell of a good time.
Full article on the housing market slow down found in The New York Times.
Just like I had purchased my house right before the housing boom, I sold my house in Minneapolis at the very best possible time. It will be a while before I can afford to buy another one, but that's fine. What did I do with my earnings? Not what I had planned, but it was a hell of a good time.Full article on the housing market slow down found in The New York Times.
AWPC
Monday I was sent down to the other plant to cover for a missing maintenance guy. Supposedly everyone in my usual plant was asking where I was. This conversation occurred last night when I returned to my usual haunt.
Tim: Everyone was asking where you were last night. I told 'em, "What? I'm not good enough for you?"
Pete: Well Jake is the better looking one.
Tim: Pete! I feel so insulted.
Jake: It wasn't an insult, Tim. He's just making an observation.
Tim: Everyone was asking where you were last night. I told 'em, "What? I'm not good enough for you?"
Pete: Well Jake is the better looking one.
Tim: Pete! I feel so insulted.
Jake: It wasn't an insult, Tim. He's just making an observation.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
The Art of Customization
At my last gas stop on Saturday a 40ish gal approached me.
Lady: What's that you're riding?
Jake: 1973 Sportster.
Lady (looking stunned): I used to have one of them, but it didn't look anything like THAT!
That is the power of custimization. Stock is for suckers. If you think buying officially licensed bolt on crap from Harley is customization, you'll get the bland bike you deserve. If you purchase one of those 'production customs' from the likes of Big Dog, BMC, or any of the other V-twin shops, prepare to eventually be ignored as people grow tired of seeing the same 'chopper' over and over.
TAZ isn't even that radical. Ape hangers, 6 inch over forks, a tear drop tank, and an after-market seat. It's nothing compared to my other Sportster, Sera.
I'm a really lucky guy to have two incredible bikes. Anybody willing to save their money can get away with having one.
Monday, May 08, 2006
Environmental Poser
I figured out my mileage from my motorcycle excursion this weekend. While I normally get about 35 mpg around town, on the open road I was getting over 40 mpg. The downside is that I have to purchase high octane fuel, premium. I also use a lead substitute because of the old engine. That costs about $10 a bottle and I have been using the same bottle for over five years and still have over half the bottle. Sometimes I also purchase some octane booster to get the fuel mixture closer to the 100+ octane the thing was meant to run on, but I didn't do that this weekend. When I purchase that it costs about $5 a bottle and will last me about 20 fill ups. Regardless, I was experiencing some decent gas mileage while getting to keep my tough as nails image.
UFO's Natural
UK says UFOs caused by natural forces, not aliens.
This is an artistic rendition of something very similar to what I saw cruising along at a snails pace nearly silently. It was quite the natural phenomenon.
"No evidence exists to suggest that the phenomena seen are hostile or under any type of control, other than that of natural physical forces," the report said, according to extracts quoted by the BBC.Well what a relief. I'm glad to know that when I saw that incredibly huge triangular shape flying directly over my farm and blocking out entire star systems it was just a natural phenomenon. This huge object, impossible to say how large but certainly bigger than several football fields, passed directly overhead at an incredibly slow crawl of a pace with only a whisper of a sound, with several solid lights seemingly attached as though to some sort of impossible aircraft was really just due to unusual atmospheric conditions. It is so comforting to have somebody who wasn't there and didn't see it explain away the mysteries of the experience.
This is an artistic rendition of something very similar to what I saw cruising along at a snails pace nearly silently. It was quite the natural phenomenon.
Nostra-Dumbass
Folks, mark your calendars and let's test the accuracy of the little man in my head.
May 2012 will mark the begining of time travel. By the end of the year, time as we know it will cease to exist.
Shit, can you imagine the effect time travel would have on the stock market? Speaking outside of the dream now, money as we know it would have no purpose. Why save up for a rainy day when you know that next Tuesday there will be showers for 12.7 minutes starting at 2:34pm?
May 2012 will mark the begining of time travel. By the end of the year, time as we know it will cease to exist.
Shit, can you imagine the effect time travel would have on the stock market? Speaking outside of the dream now, money as we know it would have no purpose. Why save up for a rainy day when you know that next Tuesday there will be showers for 12.7 minutes starting at 2:34pm?
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Sweet, sweet lovin.
From Flintlocke's Guide to Azeroth (World of Warcraft for those who don't know). Go read it now. Seriously. Even if you don't play and might not get some of the references, you will still laugh your ass off by the end.
Meat Grinder
All day ride the '73.
Go out for a meal of fried chicken strips, beer battered fries, fried mozzarella sticks, and deep fried mushrooms.
All night drink gin and tonic.
The possibility of physical and mental collapse is now very real. No sympathy for the Devil, keep that in mind. Buy the ticket, take the ride.
Go out for a meal of fried chicken strips, beer battered fries, fried mozzarella sticks, and deep fried mushrooms.
All night drink gin and tonic.
The possibility of physical and mental collapse is now very real. No sympathy for the Devil, keep that in mind. Buy the ticket, take the ride.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Numb-de-dumb
All week I had been craving it and today I finally made it happen. I needed to go for a real motorcycle ride. Not this bang around town shit. The plan was to ride up to Mt. St. Helens, cruise around their for a bit, then ride back. The plan was quickly scrapped as I discovered that signs in Portland that tell you which road to take to get to St. Helens actually point you to the town of St. Helens, Oregon. Live and learn never to trust signs posted by the man.
So instead of 100 miles to Mt. St. Helens and back, I decided to continue along this trail to Astoria, then down to Cannon Beach, and back to Portland for a trip of well over 200 miles. While my body had lost nearly all sensation due to the notorious Sportster buzz, the ride was superb. There were lots of great parts, but one thing stood far and above the rest. Perhaps even a once in a lifetime experience.
As I rode from Seaside to Cannon Beach, I passed a Ferari. I've only ever seen a Ferari on the road once before. They are truly marvelous sports cars. An engineering marvel of high power in a light frame that hugs the road so closely you can hardly tell where one ends and the other begins. Standing still these things looks like they are going fast. And today I learned they sound fast, even if they are only going 20 mph. Have you ever watched one of those films that shows a high speed European grand prix? Ferari's in real life make a sound similar to that in a way that a photo of a steak is similar to having a perfectly cut and cooked t-bone on a plate in front of you.
Then I passed another Ferari. This one was newer, but had the same red paint job, the same fast look, and a nearly identical fast sound. Then there were three more in a group, one of which was silver, all different models and years.
As I pulled into Cannon Beach to grab some lunch, there were Feraris everywhere. A tent downtown welcomed the Northwest Regional Ferari Club Gathering. Porches are junk. I have an affinity for older Corvettes. But these are clearly superior machines. I have seen how Corvettes handle the road. I've driven a big block Vette down a desolate stretch of highway. A Vette is a car. It may be a very fast one, but it is a car. A Ferari is a work of engineering art. There is no road fast enough, none twisty enough, to unleash the demon within these things. If a Corvette is champion warrior, a Ferari is a master assassin.
Up until today, I wasn't a big fan of Feraris. I know I'll never own one no matter how much disposable income I have, but it sure would be fun to drive, just once, preferably some place that has no speed limit or very few cops.
So instead of 100 miles to Mt. St. Helens and back, I decided to continue along this trail to Astoria, then down to Cannon Beach, and back to Portland for a trip of well over 200 miles. While my body had lost nearly all sensation due to the notorious Sportster buzz, the ride was superb. There were lots of great parts, but one thing stood far and above the rest. Perhaps even a once in a lifetime experience.
As I rode from Seaside to Cannon Beach, I passed a Ferari. I've only ever seen a Ferari on the road once before. They are truly marvelous sports cars. An engineering marvel of high power in a light frame that hugs the road so closely you can hardly tell where one ends and the other begins. Standing still these things looks like they are going fast. And today I learned they sound fast, even if they are only going 20 mph. Have you ever watched one of those films that shows a high speed European grand prix? Ferari's in real life make a sound similar to that in a way that a photo of a steak is similar to having a perfectly cut and cooked t-bone on a plate in front of you.
Then I passed another Ferari. This one was newer, but had the same red paint job, the same fast look, and a nearly identical fast sound. Then there were three more in a group, one of which was silver, all different models and years.
As I pulled into Cannon Beach to grab some lunch, there were Feraris everywhere. A tent downtown welcomed the Northwest Regional Ferari Club Gathering. Porches are junk. I have an affinity for older Corvettes. But these are clearly superior machines. I have seen how Corvettes handle the road. I've driven a big block Vette down a desolate stretch of highway. A Vette is a car. It may be a very fast one, but it is a car. A Ferari is a work of engineering art. There is no road fast enough, none twisty enough, to unleash the demon within these things. If a Corvette is champion warrior, a Ferari is a master assassin.
Up until today, I wasn't a big fan of Feraris. I know I'll never own one no matter how much disposable income I have, but it sure would be fun to drive, just once, preferably some place that has no speed limit or very few cops.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Chapel of Sacred Mirrors
The first time I viewed any of Alex Grey's art, I can remember thinking, "I've been there! I've seen that!" I have tried over and over to reproduce those space/time events in some of my own art. I hope that some day my work can be as succesful at it as his.
Dangerous Freedom
The ride into work today cinched it. The weather was beautiful, temps in the 70's and the sun shining down from a clear sky. And there I am having to wear that stupid fucking helmet. So this June I am loading up one of the bikes in the back of the truck when I head out to Idaho to pick up the VW Bug over the Car d'Lane weekend. Idaho doesn't have a helmet law. I'm going to let my scalp soak up some rays and feel the wind in my 'hawk. Dangerous personal freedom is what I crave. No helmet, no matter how small, can allow me to feel that. And I miss it a LOT!
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Working to the Music
The factory doesn't allow radios. For someone like me, this is a blessing. It also means that I hum, whistle, and sing while working. What I have discovered;
When I whistle, there is a 90 percent chance that it will be 99 Red Balloons.
When I whistle, there is a 90 percent chance that it will be 99 Red Balloons.
Hast Du etwas Zeit für michWhen I hum it will usually be Beethoven's 9th. Lovely lovely Ludwig Van.
Dann singe ich ein Lied fuer Dich
Freude! Froh Freude!Singing is far more frightening as I break into Hanks Williams' Honky Tonk Girls.
Freude, schöner Götterfunken
Tochter aus Elysium!
Honky tonk girls, honky tonk girls,When I was a grinder operator I used to sing the entire Rocky Horror Picture Show soundtrack. Glad those days are behind me.
With their big hair and their rhinestones and their pearls.
Honky tonk girls, honky tonk girls,
Well it's Saturday night and I'm gettin' tight with my honky tonk girl.
Pro-Life Hypocrits
As someone who hates kids I am appaled by what some pro-lifers are saying about a 63 year old woman who has decided to have a baby.
Personally, anyone who wants to have a kid can go right ahead and do so. I don't care if you do it the old fashioned way, go to a sperm bank, try to clone one in the bath tub, or sit in a seedy hotel room with a turkey baster full of hobo juice. Just have the common sense to leave when the damn thing starts screaming in the movie theater.
Those who know me will confirm that I do not actually hate children and will often be quite nice to them. I just prefer that they belong to someone else and spend as little time around me as possible. At least until they are smarter than me. Then they can hang out for several hours. This usually happens around age 5 and lasts until puberty.
The reports of Dr Rashbrook's pregnancy have sparked an outcry from pro-life groups.So having a baby between the ages of 13 and 40 is God's plan. After that you are evil. Got it.
Josephine Quintavalle, from Comment on Reproductive Ethics (Core), accused Dr Rashbrook of selfishness and said it would be extremely difficult for a child to have a mother who is as old as a grandmother.
Personally, anyone who wants to have a kid can go right ahead and do so. I don't care if you do it the old fashioned way, go to a sperm bank, try to clone one in the bath tub, or sit in a seedy hotel room with a turkey baster full of hobo juice. Just have the common sense to leave when the damn thing starts screaming in the movie theater.
Those who know me will confirm that I do not actually hate children and will often be quite nice to them. I just prefer that they belong to someone else and spend as little time around me as possible. At least until they are smarter than me. Then they can hang out for several hours. This usually happens around age 5 and lasts until puberty.
Automatic Teller
After work I decided to stop by Taco Bell. Sometimes it helps to have the whole drive through process so mechanical that you don't even have to hear the person on the other end. If I could have gone inside to order I would have. Drive through service only by the time I get off of work. With engine roaring I pulled up to the speaker.
TB: Wah wah wah Bell. Wah wah wah order wah.
Me: I WOULD LIKE A GRANDE MEAL! FOUR BURITTOS! SIX SOFT TACOS!
TB: Wah wah wah wah grande wah wah wah wah. Wah thing wah?
Me: THAT'S ALL!
TB: Wah wah wah wah wah wah.
I pulled ahead and took out my wallet. The boy at the window said something to me. I looked at the electronic sign and pulled out a ten dollar bill. When he gave me back my change he said something else which was completely lost to my ears.
Me: I'D LIKE SOME FIRE AND SOME HOT!
A few moments later he handed me a bag with some other unintelligible phrase to which I simply nodded. I slipped the tacos into my saddle bag and had an absolutely gorgeous ride home.
Is this like the opposite of my news rant where I bitch about people saying, "You know what I mean"?
TB: Wah wah wah Bell. Wah wah wah order wah.
Me: I WOULD LIKE A GRANDE MEAL! FOUR BURITTOS! SIX SOFT TACOS!
TB: Wah wah wah wah grande wah wah wah wah. Wah thing wah?
Me: THAT'S ALL!
TB: Wah wah wah wah wah wah.
I pulled ahead and took out my wallet. The boy at the window said something to me. I looked at the electronic sign and pulled out a ten dollar bill. When he gave me back my change he said something else which was completely lost to my ears.
Me: I'D LIKE SOME FIRE AND SOME HOT!
A few moments later he handed me a bag with some other unintelligible phrase to which I simply nodded. I slipped the tacos into my saddle bag and had an absolutely gorgeous ride home.
Is this like the opposite of my news rant where I bitch about people saying, "You know what I mean"?
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
History Repeating Itself
Bomb, Bomb, Bomb, Bomb, Bomb Iran!
I seem to remember a nearly identical tune blaring over the radio in the barn while my dad milked the cows way back when. Only then everyone I knew thought we really should blow the hell out of them. Seems some Iranians nabbed a bunch of Americans for hostages, made Ronald Reagan look like a hero for getting them released, and ended with something commonly remembered (or mentally blocked) as the Iran-Contra Scandal.
Bomb, Bomb, Bomb, Bomb, Bomb Iran!
I seem to remember a nearly identical tune blaring over the radio in the barn while my dad milked the cows way back when. Only then everyone I knew thought we really should blow the hell out of them. Seems some Iranians nabbed a bunch of Americans for hostages, made Ronald Reagan look like a hero for getting them released, and ended with something commonly remembered (or mentally blocked) as the Iran-Contra Scandal.
Bomb, Bomb, Bomb, Bomb, Bomb Iran!
Fox?
At first I was in shock. Fox, BBC, Al Jazeera most trusted: poll
Fox? I shouldn't have been too shocked since I know a lot of people at work watch Fox News. They say it's the most accurate but if you pry into their heads you soon discover that they watch it because it's more entertaining. They obviously don't know the C-Span drinking game.
But don't worry folks. Here's the catch.
Fox? I shouldn't have been too shocked since I know a lot of people at work watch Fox News. They say it's the most accurate but if you pry into their heads you soon discover that they watch it because it's more entertaining. They obviously don't know the C-Span drinking game.
But don't worry folks. Here's the catch.
Asked to name the news source they most trusted, without any prompting, 59 percent of Egyptians said Al Jazeera, 52 percent of Brazilians said Rede Globo, 32 percent of Britons said the BBC, 22 percent of Germans said ARD and 11 percent of Americans said Fox News, each leading their respective nations.Yeah. Quite a bit of a drop off there for Fox. I wonder how many people answered, "I don't trust any of those bastards!"
News Lesson
I am not so interested in this actual news article (Russia will deliver air defense systems to Iran) as I am with one sentence from it.
When I get on people's cases about wisely choosing how to say things, so often I get, "You know what I meant." Do I? How can you be sure? That line may just be a mistranslation or some semantic sloppiness, but it leapt from the page for me. Compare these two lines.
The systems could be used only to protect.
The systems could only be used to protect.
Exact same words in each of those.
Rant time! This is why I hated the timed reading tests in grade school. I knew it even back then. Speed reading requires you to view a sentence as a whole and not take the time to see the pieces that make it what it is. You gloss over things. You let your brain assemble what it thinks it just saw. Speed reading has no place in legitimate study. Why would a public school want me to speed read? Why would they want me to train my brain to assemble things as I thought they were rather than seeing what was actually there? If you don't see the fnords they can't hurt you.
Despite strong criticism from the United States, Russia has maintained that the systems could be used only to protect Iran's air space.Did you read that? Read it again. What does this sentence actually say?
When I get on people's cases about wisely choosing how to say things, so often I get, "You know what I meant." Do I? How can you be sure? That line may just be a mistranslation or some semantic sloppiness, but it leapt from the page for me. Compare these two lines.
The systems could be used only to protect.
The systems could only be used to protect.
Exact same words in each of those.
Rant time! This is why I hated the timed reading tests in grade school. I knew it even back then. Speed reading requires you to view a sentence as a whole and not take the time to see the pieces that make it what it is. You gloss over things. You let your brain assemble what it thinks it just saw. Speed reading has no place in legitimate study. Why would a public school want me to speed read? Why would they want me to train my brain to assemble things as I thought they were rather than seeing what was actually there? If you don't see the fnords they can't hurt you.
Luciferian
Let's talk about Satan.
I've known quite a few decent Christians. They exist. Some of them are really nice people. But a good number of them are right bastards. I have been yelled at, threatened, and harassed by Christians. There is no end to the number of lies Christians have told me. Maybe they do this because they will be forgiven for such acts. I don't know.
While I haven't met nearly as many Satanists, either self-professed or actual members of one of the many Satanic churches, I have liked every one I have met. Not a one of them ever threatened me in any way shape or form. They stood by their word and to the best of my knowledge never lied to me. Perhaps it's because they believe they alone are responsible for what they do and say. I don't know.
I've known quite a few decent Christians. They exist. Some of them are really nice people. But a good number of them are right bastards. I have been yelled at, threatened, and harassed by Christians. There is no end to the number of lies Christians have told me. Maybe they do this because they will be forgiven for such acts. I don't know.
While I haven't met nearly as many Satanists, either self-professed or actual members of one of the many Satanic churches, I have liked every one I have met. Not a one of them ever threatened me in any way shape or form. They stood by their word and to the best of my knowledge never lied to me. Perhaps it's because they believe they alone are responsible for what they do and say. I don't know.
Abolish the Minimum Wage!
I picked up a lot of supporters at work by telling them my (stolen) idea. Abolish the minimum wage and replace it with a maximum wage. No individual can make more than ten times (x10) what the lowest paid employee makes. If some guy wants to make a million bucks, then everybody under him has to be making at least $100k. If you don't like caps on your income, become self employed and do all the damn work yourself. Technically if you opened a cafe and weren't making any money, you wouldn't have to pay any of your employees. And technically, they wouldn't have to work for your bum ass.
Of course I don't believe that this would solve many corruption issues. No matter how air tight you tried to make it, clever fookers would figure out a way to exploit it. It's just the kind of thing the people want to hear.
Of course I don't believe that this would solve many corruption issues. No matter how air tight you tried to make it, clever fookers would figure out a way to exploit it. It's just the kind of thing the people want to hear.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Mahamut's story
A BBC article about Life in Somalia had this excerpt from an interview with a Somali. He is currently a scrap metal worker who hammers out the rebar from the cement walls of the former US embassy.
Better? Absolutely. They call this anarchy. It isn't so. Anarchy is the absence of law. In Somalia, law is decided by clan warlords. The laws change as you exit one territory and enter another, much like as a motorcyclist has to put on a helmet when they cross from Idaho into Washington. Only the biker probably won't get shot for non-compliance.
If there is a new government, I would like to go to school and learn something.Correct. He would only have to give a third of the rods to the government for taxes. In exchange for that he would get a tetanus shot and his kids would receive a sixth grade level of indoctrination.
But if I could not go to school and had to carry on doing this, at least if there were a government, I would not have to give half the rods to the gunman.
Better? Absolutely. They call this anarchy. It isn't so. Anarchy is the absence of law. In Somalia, law is decided by clan warlords. The laws change as you exit one territory and enter another, much like as a motorcyclist has to put on a helmet when they cross from Idaho into Washington. Only the biker probably won't get shot for non-compliance.
Monday, May 01, 2006
PSA:NSFW
For all you wanna-be amateur porn stars back in the homelands, this announcement is a bit late but not too late for you to still get invoved. Shayla La Veaux Takes Her Fan Sexxx Audition Tour To Minnesota. Don't forget your hat.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Coffee Culture
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.
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.
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
Friday, March 31, 2006
Smokin'
We all know that Budweiser, Winston, Playboy, and many other 'sin' brands sponsor music and sporting events. Here's one that took me by surprise. Check out Zig Zag Live! That's right, a company known for premium rolling papers (for tobacco use only) is sponsoring a small tour. It may be a club tour and it may be dominated by emo/indie college rock crap, but it still impresses me.
There are a lot of different rolling papers out there. Only Zig Zag has real brand recognition. People who have never inhaled a single puff recognize Zig Zag. Most afficianados I have met prefer Zig Zags with the orange pack 1 1/4's tops on the list.
But if you are trying to tell me that Zig Zag has reached a high enough level of consumer loyalty that it can sponsor a club tour because of tobacco products... what have you been smoking?
There are a lot of different rolling papers out there. Only Zig Zag has real brand recognition. People who have never inhaled a single puff recognize Zig Zag. Most afficianados I have met prefer Zig Zags with the orange pack 1 1/4's tops on the list.
But if you are trying to tell me that Zig Zag has reached a high enough level of consumer loyalty that it can sponsor a club tour because of tobacco products... what have you been smoking?
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