Alternating Between Love and Hate

Sorry about yesterday's little rant. I don’t think Grûndir realized that many of you are newer readers, and therefore are not familiar with his terrifying visage. For those who don’t know, Grûndir the Implacable is one of the nine Nazgûl, or ring-wraiths, who once served the dark lord Sauron. Grûndir fell on hard times after Sauron’s fall, taking on various odd jobs until eventually being hired by the Mattress Police to dispatch troublesome memes that I don’t feel like dealing with. He’s also good at rooting out the gophers and hobbits that continuously tear up my lawn.

(See, so now that I’ve explained it, it’s really quite funny, isn’t it? I mean, scrap-booking? Come on!)

And if dealing with the inconsolable Grûndir wasn’t enough, I woke up this morning feeling as if I were in a thick fog. I think it’s because of the translucent plastic sheets that the painters put over the windows yesterday. Still, it’s kind of creepy. I feel like I’m on the wrong side of a Camus novel.

On top of all that, I continue to have car troubles. I picked up my car from the shop yesterday, drove a mile and a half in the direction of Mountain View, and then stalled by the side of the road. Evidently my alternator is bad – which is precisely what, despite having the mechanical aptitude of a seven year old girl, I suspected the last time my car stalled, on the way to work last Thursday. The mechanic supposedly checked the alternator when I brought it in before, but it tested ok. So it works fine as long as the car is in the shop, but quits as soon as I get on the road. I guess that’s why they call it an alternator.

As a result, I haven’t actually been to work since last Thursday, which is pushing it (ha!) even for me. Thankfully my boss is very understanding, and is also quite aware that I’m a complete idiot as far as doing anything concrete and practical like fixing a car or getting somewhere on time. I’m trying to cultivate a sort of rock star image at work, so that people assume that I must be the most phenomenal programmer ever, since I sure as hell can’t do anything else right. Phase one of that plan is right on track.

Did I mention how cool my boss is? She's so cool that she even reads this blog sometimes. Isn't that awesome? I just sent her an email telling her that I won't be in until after 1pm today, because my alternator is in the process of being fixed, and I bet she won't even fire me. Isn't she the coolest?

Okay, so this ended up being kind of a pointless post, but I'll make it up to you tomorrow. In the past I've regaled you with stories of the second and third worst bosses ever, His Excellency Lord Monkeyhands and Human Inertia. And now that I've told you about the best boss ever, I think you're finally ready to hear the story of the worst boss I've ever had.

I'll see you tomorrow, if I'm not stuck on the side of I-580 in Livermore.

If you enjoyed this post, may I also recommend: You Shall Tremble Before the Meme-Wraith! | Human Inertia | Hasta La Vista, Monkeyhands! Humor-blogs.com thinks that thing on top of the hill in the picture looks like some kind of creepy ghost-cow, but it's probably just a bush.

Trying to Keep My Cool (Part 2)

When we left our intrepid and mechanically challenged hero, he was stranded in the foothills 60 miles from home with an overheated car and a completely dry radiator. The sun was going down, coyotes were howling in the distance, and he began to inexplicably talk about himself in the third person.

Pulling myself together, I noticed an assortment of small trees growing in pots across the road. Some kind of nursery, out here in the middle of nowhere, I thought. I left my hood up and walked across the road. The gate was chained shut, but there was a good ten inch gap in the middle. I glanced around, then stepped over the chain, sliding through the gap. I walked past the little trees for a few yards until I found the end of a garden hose. I followed the hose, which was, as hoses tend to be, attached to a spigot. Unfortunately the spigot was two feet behind another chain link fence. I’m skinny, but I can’t reach two feet through a chain link fence.

I walked around until I found a five foot length of rebar (you know, that reinforcing bar that they use to strengthen concrete). I poked the rebar through the fence and managed shove the valve open. I went back to the car fetch the empty water bottles. I didn’t want anybody to see me sneaking out of the nursery, so I hid amongst the saplings until the coast was clear, feeling very much the complete idiot. After a couple of trips, my radiator was full, and I’m proud to say that I risked detection to go back and shut off the water so that some poor Mexican wouldn’t get chewed out for leaving the spigot open all night.

I got back on 680, but knowing what awaited me at the 580/680 interchange on a Friday night, I quickly exited and took the surface streets through Pleasanton and Livermore. In Pleasanton, I overheated again and managed to coast into a Raley’s parking lot. I went and had a beer at Round Table, then bought a 24 pack of bottled water, a gallon of antifreeze, a bottle of Dr. Pepper and a copy of The Atlantic. The cashier rang me up as if this was the third time somebody had bought that combination of items that evening. “Have a nice evening,” she said. Like maybe I was planning a party or something.

The next challenge was the Altamont Pass. Another big hill with a name. It’s a name that you may know, in fact. The Altamont is known for two things, besides being a godawful big hill: First, it’s so windy that they’ve lined it with giant windmills for generating power. The wind, of course, heads inland from the Pacific, so if you were driving east at sixty miles an hour and the wind was blowing twenty miles an hour, your car would cool much slower than if the wind were blowing the opposite direction. Theoretically. Second, the Altamont Raceway was the site of the ill-starred Rolling Stones concert in 1969 where four people were killed – one of them knifed, two of them hit by a car, and one drowned. Less famously, the Altamont Pass is the site of thousands of automotive breakdowns a year.

I refilled my radiator before beginning the climb, and amazingly I made it up the Altamont without redlining, then coasted to the bottom. I had to pull over two more times to refill with bottled water, wait for the engine to cool, drink some Dr. Pepper and catch up on what was going on in Afghanistan.

In this manner, I drove the rest of the way to Ripon. I coasted into my driveway with the last of the water hissing out of my radiator at 11:30pm. I had driven 70 miles in six hours. It’s strange how something like that can feel like a significant accomplishment. On top of that, it was nice to have a reminder of why I don’t commute any more. And it was nice to be home.

Happy Independence Day!


Humor-blogs.com has all the antifreeze, Dr. Pepper and snooty magazines you could ever want.

Trying to Keep My Cool (Part 1)

Sorry to split this into two parts, but I couldn't cram all the excitement of this story into a single post. Well, I could, but then y'all would bitch about it. You'll bitch about me splitting it up into two posts too, but this way at least I get two posts out of it.

I theoretically know a lot about cars.

I know, in theory, how an internal combustion engine works. I know in essence how a cooling system transfers heat from such an engine to the atmosphere. I know that there are a lot of things that can go wrong with this system, and that the little needle creeping up toward the top of the temperature gauge is a pretty good indication that one of these things has happened. I also know that the first thing to do when that happens is to turn off the A/C, open the windows, and crank up the heat – because the more you can disperse that heat, the better. None of that theoretical knowledge helps you much, however, when you are halfway up the Sunol Grade in the blistering California sun, and the ventilation system stubbornly refuses to output any hot air.

It’s bad news when you are driving up a grade that has a name. Nobody ever named a grade because they were just so thrilled to be driving up it that they wanted to make sure to send a postcard to all their friends from the top. People name grades so that they can say, “Man, I didn’t think I was going to make it up Godforsaken Grade,” or “Hello, Triple A? I’m halfway up Gehenna Grade and my car has exploded.”

So there I was, the unwilling spectator in a race between my 300ZX’s journey to the top of the hill and my temperature needle’s trip to the top of the gauge. It was neck and neck, and I weighed my chances of making it to the downslope before my engine caught fire against the prospect of sitting for half an hour on the shoulder of 680 in ninety degree heat with no air conditioning – not to mention missing my meeting regarding a lucrative potential programming job in Fremont (yes, I’m retired, but there’s retired and then there’s retired, and I’m about five lucrative programming jobs away from being the italic kind of retired. With the italic variety, you get to vacation in Italy). All these thoughts bounced around in my head as the needle flirted with the top of the gauge. I could see the crest of the hill just ahead. I decided to go for it.

The race was a tie. Just as the Z crested the hill, beginning its descent, it stalled. The Z sailed down the slope, the 6% grade more than enough to keep it at sixty-five. There’s an odd feeling of satisfaction that comes with piloting a completely unpowered vehicle three miles down a steep slope. Rather like running the luge, I imagine. Eventually the grade ended and I coasted through an exit to a stop light. Several cars were stopped ahead of me; I had no choice but to slow to a stop. Fortunately the trip down the hill had dropped the needle just barely back into the safe range. The light turned green and I cranked the ignition. It started. Thank God.

I pulled into a gas station, looking for a water hose. In California, gas stations are required to proved air and water to their customers, so I knew there would be one, but I couldn’t find it. I found a shady spot to park, and popped the hood. There was no steam: I had already vaporized every ounce of coolant in the vehicle. Not good.

I called the woman I was meeting and told her I’d be a little late. She’s a former co-worker of mine, so I knew she’d understand. I went inside and asked where I could get some water for my radiator. The cashier pointed across the parking lot and then said, in a slightly hushed tone, “You’ll need a code.”

A code. For water. Of course. God forbid they give away a few gallons of water for free. I stood there dumbly, wondering if she was going to give me the code. I mean, of course she was, she had as much admitted she was going to give it to me. But she wanted me to work for it. I was supposed to ask for the code, so it would be clear that she was doing me a favor, since technically using the restroom didn’t qualify me as a customer. I refused to ask, and after three seconds of uncomfortable silence, she whispered “Two six five.”

Got that? 2-6-5. That’s all you need to get all the free air and water you want at the 76 station on Auto Mall Parkway in Fremont. You’re welcome.

I got back in my car, started it up, and drove to the water hose. I filled it up, waited a few more minutes, then turned the key. Nothing happened. Dead battery? I thought dimly. Maybe I had boiled all the liquid in the battery as well. Still, it was strange that it had started twice since stalling, and now it wouldn’t even turn over. For all I knew, I had burned out the starter, the alternator and the flux capacitor.

Fortunately, I was just down the road from my meeting, so my ex-coworker picked me up and brought me there. The meeting went fine, and afterwards we tried to jump start the car. Click-click-click went the ignition. I was pretty sure that at the very least I had fried my battery, so it wouldn’t hurt to run across the street and get a new battery. After that I would have exhausted my mechanical know-how, and would have to figure out (1) where to get my car towed and (2) how to get back home to the Central Valley, about 70 miles away.

I fiddled with the battery terminals for ten minutes or so using the cute little baby crescent wrench I had purchased from Wal-Mart, and managed to get the new battery installed. Amazingly, the Z started right up. I topped off the radiator with magical 2-6-5 water and was on my way home.

I was about halfway up Satan’s Grade when I saw that the needle was pointing to ten o’clock again. Shit. I had figured the Z was just a little low on coolant, but now it appeared something more serious was going on. This time I pulled over, steam hissing from the radiator. When it had subsided, I grabbed the single one liter bottle of water I had in the car and took off my shoes and socks. No, really. Stay with me.

I wrapped one of my socks around the radiator cap and twisted it off. I poured the water in, and there was more bubbling and hissing. I put the cap back on and sat and waited for the needle to slowly drop. When it was level with the horizon, I started up again. As I picked up speed, the needle began its rapid climb, and I barely made it to the top. I coasted to the bottom and drove for another mile or so. It was Friday at rush hour, so the traffic was stop-and-go. Every time I hit the brake I was wasting valuable momentum. The needle went higher and higher, and when I saw a sign for highway 84 east, I got off the interstate.

I drove for a few miles on a windy, two lane road through the foothills before pulling over again in a cloud of steam. After a while, a guy in a Porsche stopped and asked if I needed help. “Do you have any water?” I asked. Of course he did. Everybody in California carries bottled water. He gave me a couple of bottles and I poured it in. By this time I had noticed that the traffic on highway 84 was pretty light for a Friday evening. “Is this 84?” I asked.

“Uh, no. This is Calaveras Road. 84 is back that way,” he said, pointing the direction I had come. Fantastic. It had just spent half an hour going five miles in the wrong direction.

The Z limped back to 680, boiling off what little water was in its radiator. I pulled over a few yards from the onramp. I could get on the highway, but I wasn’t going to make it far without any water. There were few cars around, and probably no houses or businesses for miles. It would be dark soon. Now what?



Read the exciting conclusion on Wednesday. And make sure to submit your captions for the caption contest by tonight, and come back tomorrow to vote!

Humor-blogs.com is self-cooling.

Appearing to Succeed

Note: This is the conclusion of the Saga of the Missing Front License Plate. You can read the first part here, but to be honest it's not like this is going to make any more sense if you do.

At the end of the first part of this story, I had decided to go to court to clear up the charge of Aggravated Procrastination. To do this, I needed to go to the court office first thing in the morning and get my name on the list. So I showed up that Wednesday at 8:30 am, went home for 4 hours (during which time I admirably remained almost completely sober), then turned around and drove back to the courthouse. As I entered, I was promptly examined by a swarthy security guard with a thick accent who was wearing a turban and had a beard down to his waist. I decided, in a remarkable display of high-mindedness, not to find this the least bit ironic.

While I waited in line I noticed a sign that had been pasted to the wall. It read:

No Shoes
No Shirt
No Tanktops
No Court

I considered asking how many tank tops I was expected to bring into court; whether I was supposed to wear them or carry them in a bag; if the judge had a color preference; etc., but decided against it. Again, do not aggravate people who know a lot of people who carry guns, no matter how confused their signs are.

The actual court proceedings were rather uninteresting. It was an awful lot like Night Court, actually, except that it wasn't night, and the judge didn't do any magic tricks. Surprisingly, though, Mel Torme did show up for a cameo.

The judge eventually called my name, and I pretended I didn't know English. "Nolo contendre," I said, and the judge smiled and told me that he would knock the fine down to $110 bucks. I could hardly believe my ruse had worked. Silly judge, I thought. I've got this guy wrapped around my habeas corpus.

It turns out that $110 actually means $130 in government dollars. Seriously. California passed a law after 9/11 legislating that any fine is actually $20 more than it is. They didn't actually increase the fines; they just said, "Whatever your fine is, it's still that same amount. Oh, and give us another $20 for, um, security." Because when you steal $20 from millions of Californians, you need a lot of security.

So then I got to wait in line again, this time to hand them my check for One Hundred Ten Dollars and 2000/100ths. While I waited at the Traffic Offenses window, various low-lifes and victims of low-lifes came and went at the Miscellaneous Grievances window (It may not actually have been called that). One guy seemed to be tagging along with a friend of his, who was involved in some kind of domestic dispute. Either he had requested a restraining order against someone, or someone had requested a restraining order against him, or he and someone had filed a mutual restraining order against each other, or something along those lines. Anyway, when the guy was done, his friend walked up to the window and said, "Can I get one of those?"

This surprised me, as I had never thought of a restraining order as an impulse purchase. Apparently the clerk had made it sound so appealing that this guy had been sold on the concept. Well, almost sold. "Do I have to fill out all those papers?" he said. Rule of thumb: If ten minutes of paperwork is too much of a hurdle for you to get a restraining order, you may want to reconsider whether a restraining order is really the right choice for you. Maybe you'd be interested in our Change Your Phone Number and Stop Wasting Tax Dollars on Your Domestic Squabbles program?

Anyway, I paid my fines, so I'm back in the good graces of the state of California. I'm sure they're happy, because now that I have both license plates on my car, they can literally get me coming and going. Actually, now that I think about it, if I had had both license plates when the cop pulled me over, I probably would have gotten a huge speeding ticket, since he wouldn't have had the option of giving me the license plate ticket instead. I should probably take that front one off again, just in case. Maybe I'll get to it tomorrow.

All in all, it wasn't such a bad experience, although it did take up a few hours of my day. I drove like a madman all the way home. Places to go, things to do.


At humor-blogs.com, you may not know how fast you're going, but at least you'll know where you are.

Failure to Appear

As a person who has no job, no schedule, and very few commitments of any kind, it's essential that I drive ridiculously fast so as not to waste any of the 11 waking hours at my disposal on any given day. I average around 40 miles per hour, but that number goes up considerably if I'm out for more than 20 minutes.

I live on a dead end road, so to go anywhere I have to first get on a road charmingly called I-99 Frontage. The speed limit on this road is 40 miles per hour, which I take to mean that I should drive no more than 40 miles per hour faster than the traffic on the highway next to me. After all, Einstein proved that all motion is relative, so who's to say how fast I'm "really" driving? And of course Heisenberg demonstrated that you can't know where you are and how fast you're traveling at the same time, which means that any cop who has pinpointed my velocity doesn't have a chance in hell of catching me.

I tried to explain this to the cop who pulled me over a few months ago. "Do you know how fast you were driving?" he asked. "No," I said cheerfully, "But I know exactly where I am!"*

He was kind enough not to ticket me for speeding, letting me off with a stern lecture about blind corners, stopping distances, and -- I think -- something about the Romulan neutral zone. Thank God they don't test you for ADD when they give you your driver's license. Anyway, he did that cop thing where they find some innocuous offense to give you a ticket for that you didn't even know was illegal, because they feel sorry for you and don't really feel like hauling your ass to jail for attempting to outrace the earth's rotation. They might, for example, give you a ticket for driving under the influence of 18th century romantic poetry, or having one eyelash too few. In my case, I got a "repair and report" ticket for not having a front license plate.

(Aside: Who knew you even needed a front license plate? I thought the front license plate was an optional thing, like voting or registering for Selective Service.)

In point of fact, I did have a front license plate. It was in the back of my car, under the carpet and a pile of 4" ABS pipe fittings, where admittedly it would be difficult to see from a distance. I didn't tell the nice cop about this because (1) I didn't want him to have to ticket me for something more egregious, such as Misuse of General Relativity for Personal Gain (I believe that's a "one-eight-niner" in police lingo); and (2) I had forgotten it was there.

I was given 30 days to "repair" the problem and "report" to the proper authorities. It took me roughly 29 days to repair the problem, the "repair" process consisting of the following steps:

Days 1-21 Denial
Day 22 "Where the hell is that license plate? Hey, I bet it's still in the back of my car!"
Days 23-25 Procrastination
Day 26 Attach license plate
Day 27-28 Procrastination
Day 29 Go to police station to have a cop sign the ticket

So you can see, I just made it under the wire. Then, unfortunately, I spent another 68 days in denial about the "report" part, which would have consisted of simply showing up at the court office to display the newly autographed ticket. During this period various "courtesy" notices began arriving in the mail, courteously informing me of the myriad fees, fines, levies and dams (as in, "dam, that's a big levy") that had been added to the original ticket amount of $10. Warren Buffet couldn't have turned $10 into $425 that fast. The main thing that had been added was a "Failure to Appear" charge, which makes it sound like there was a courtroom full of people with nothing to do but twiddle their thumbs while they anxiously awaited for me to show up. "What time did he say he would be here?" they fret. "Should we call?"

So finally I went to the court office to pay the fines. A lady in a forest green blouse sat behind the window. As I began to explain my situation, she stood up and another woman in what appeared to be exactly the same blouse took her place. "We're switching," said the second woman.

"Ok, well you're wearing the same shirt, so this should be an easy transition," I said.

I got the feeling that I wasn't the first one to point this out to them that day. Note to self: Do not immediately alienate someone who may have discretion over whether you have to pay several hundred dollars in fines.

Anyway, I showed them my "courtesy notice" and there was some discussion about whether they could reduce the amount or not. It turned out that they could not, but I had the option of going to court to get the amount reduced. It sounded like all you had to do was show up and you were pretty much guaranteed to get the amount knocked down quite a bit. Evidently Woody Allen was right: 90% of life is just showing up. I thought for a moment. "How long does that usually take?" I asked. Because again, I'm a busy, busy man. Places to go, things to do. I can't be sitting around for 2 hours just to save a few hundred bucks.

I was assured that it usually went quite fast. So I said ok, and they said that I needed to show up at 8:30 next Wednesday to put my name on the list for the afternoon. I didn't ask why I couldn't just put my name on the list now, as it presumably had something to do with the fact that persons of my unsavory character couldn't be trusted to keep an appointment without being forced to physically drag our asses down there first thing in the morning to demonstrate that we were still alive and reasonably sober.

"At the very least, you should be able to clear up that Failure to Appear," said Ms. Greenshirt. Yes, I thought. One might think I had cleared it up already by in fact appearing. Whatever. I didn't mind appearing again. I'm pretty good at appearing. Sometimes I appear seven or eight times a day without even knowing it. I can even appear drunk or hungover if I need to. I believe that sort of thing is generally frowned upon in the courtroom, though, so I resolved to appear sober.

I went home and worked on my legal strategy. This consisted of falling on the mercy of the court, invoking the fifth commandment, and something about the Romulan neutral zone, I think. I was pretty hammered.

Wow, this is a long story. I've decided to grant your request for a continuation. See you on Friday.



I always appear sober on humor-blogs.com.


*I didn't actually say this. In fact, I didn't even make up this joke. It may seem odd to steal a joke that virtually no one will get, but isn't that the kind of shiftless irrationality that makes one truly original?

Just Zipping Through Town

Sometimes I'll be driving through a strange town and need to stop for gas. I put my credit card in the pump and it says "ENTER ZIP CODE." This irritates me. How would I know the freaking zip code? I'm new in town.

The locals always look at me funny when I ask them to tell me the zip code, because they're not big on cheating or whatever. Get off your high horses, people, I just need some petrol for the old coche. Usually they give me some bogus zip code that doesn't work, so I'm like "Thanks for NOTHING, jerkwad!" I hate townspeople.

Occasionally they'll give me a zip code that's like 9 digits long, and I'll be like, "NOT! Zip codes have 5 digits, smartass." A nine digit zip code, I'm sure. I was born in the early evening, but not last early evening, pal.

What really worries me is that pretty soon they might start asking what the state bird is, or the name of the local high school football mascot. I'll guess "PANTHERS" or something, and the gas pump will shoot flames at my head and townspeople with pitchforks will appear and poke me to death. Time to steal some more of those AAA guidebooks. Do AAA guidebooks list the local high school mascots? Maybe I'll write a series of guidebooks called Zipping Thru: What You Need to Know to Get Gas in Local Towns Across the U.S. and the Habitated Parts of Canada. A sample entry:

South Egypt, Kansas
ZIP Code: 62323
High school mascot: The Caustic Sphynxes
Sister City: Akimbo, Thailand
Mayor: His Hon. Skip "Skippy" Clinkenbeard
Best Place for an omelette: Denny's
Turn-Ons: Sherman Parkway
Turn-Offs: McKinley Ave & 4th St.

Man, I am going to make millions on this idea. What? Oh, my zip code. Yeah, that makes more sense. Nevermind.

Saturday Quiz: The California Driver Test

1. When moving to the left lane from the center lane on an interstate highway, you should:

a) Match the speed of the traffic in the left lane and then move over when you see an opening.
b) Turn on your left turn signal and wait for the drivers to your left to make room for you.
c) Try to make eye contact with a driver in the left lane and communicate using crude sign language that you want to get over.
d) Tap your brakes and turn on your right turn signal. Drift slightly to the right and then veer sharply to the left while gunning the gas and honking your horn. Assume other drivers will move.

2. The use of exit numbers on interstate highways became mandatory in 1971. When did California begin implementing exit numbers interstates?

a) 1968
b) 1971
c) 2002
d) 1973

3. A 4 lane highway where traffic slows to a crawl every weekday at 3:30 in the afternoon:
a) Should be widened as soon as possible.
b) Is a good rationale for more public transportation.
c) Is a good argument for a coordinated plan to prevent sprawl.
d) Is a good place for an exit for a new housing development.

4. The phrase "RIGHT LANE EXIT ONLY" means:
a) If you are in the right lane, you must exit the freeway.
b) If you are in the right lane and do not want to exit the freeway, you must merge left as soon as possible.
c) If you are exiting the freeway, you must be in the right lane.
d) If you want to zip past 200 pathetic rule-obeying saps, here's your chance.

5. A stretch of asphalt that has massive potholes about every 100 feet:
a) Should be closed for repairs immediately.
b) Is justification for another 11/32 of a cent sales tax.
c) Is an indication that the state is squandering its federal highway funds.
d) Must be some sort of runway.

6. Draw a line indicating the best driving route between point A and point B:




7. If the roadway is wet, you should:
a) Drive slightly slower and more carefully than usual, because water can make the road slippery.
b) Drive the same speed as usual, because your boss doesn't care that the road is wet, you still have to be at work by 8.
c) Drive WAY slower than normal, because water falling out of the sky is an omen of some kind of impeding disaster.
d) Drive WAY faster than normal, because hydroplaning is the most fun you can have with your clothes on.
e) Any of the above except (a).

8. In 2004 California voters passed a $3 Billion bond proposition to:
a) Retrofit bridges and tunnels for earthquake protection.
b) Fund public transportation projects.
c) Build several new state highways.
d) Research ways to clone more people.



ANSWERS:

1. d
2. c
3. d
4. d
5. d
6. (See below)



7. e
8. d



SCORING

0-1 Don't move. We'll come get you.
2-3 You should probably stick to side streets. And don't leave Nebraska.
4-5 You may be able to drive on California's highways for short periods of time without experiencing any severe trauma.
6-7 You are a born California commuter! Your cell phone and handgun are on the way.
8 I hear Cal Trans is looking for a new director.

WTF?

I can't prove it, but I swear I drove by a truck this morning that had the letters WTF plastered along its side. There was some more lettering about whatever business the truck was in, and maybe a phone number, but all I had time to make out was WTF. Which is, coincidentally, what I was thinking when I saw it.

I mean, WTF? What kind of name is that? I spent most of the day wondering what kind of business WTF might be in. I imagined that maybe they deliver expensive and bizarre novelty gifts, like a grand piano made entirely out of cheese ("this C sharp cheddar is delicious!") or dead farm animals stuffed with poutpourri. I can see the commercials now: A woman looks out the kitchen window to see two men unloading a large stuffed goat, and says, "Honey, WTF is in the driveway?" And her husband says, "Yes they are! Happy anniversary, dear. And thanks, WTF!"

I tried to take a picture of the WTF truck with my camera phone, but my timing was a bit off so I ended up with a picture of my dashboard and part of my steering wheel, which actually isn't as interesting as it sounds. Come to think of it, this raises an intriguing question. In California they are making it illegal to use a cell phone while driving. But does that mean it's going to be illegal to take pictures with your cell phone camera while driving as well? I hope not. I rely on my camera phone to document all the interesting stuff I see while I'm driving, like my dashboard and part of my steering wheel.

I'd like to be the test case for that no-cell-phone-while-driving law. I imagine the courtroom exchange going something like this:

Diesel: Your honor, I wasn't using my phone while driving, and I can prove it. These pictures clearly demonstrate that I could not possibly have been talking on the phone when Officer Fredericks pulled me over, because I was too busy taking pictures with it.
Judge: Well, let's see them.
Diesel: Ok, this is a hot jogger chick I drove past shortly before Officer Fredericks pulled me over. See, she's giving me the finger.
Judge: Uh huh.
Diesel: And this is Officer Frederick's flashers in my rear view mirror.
Judge: Ok...
Diesel: And here's Officer Fredericks, walking up to my car. See how mean he looks?
Judge: Hmm...
Diesel: Here he is again, closer up. See?
Judge: He does look kind of mean.
Diesel: That's what I'm saying. This is his hand, trying to grab my cell phone.
Judge: What's this next one?
Diesel: That's my dashboard, and part of my steering wheel.
Judge: Nice composition.
Diesel: Thanks.
Judge: What about this one?
Diesel: Oh, that's a couple of guys unloading a Virgin Mary shrine made from pancakes and old Spice Girls CDs.
Judge: WTF?
Diesel: Of course!
Judge: Well, I have no choice but to find you not guilty.
Diesel: Hey, that's great! And thanks, WTF!

Don't Try This When Not at Home

The other day as I was driving to work I happened to look over at the guy driving in the lane next to me and noticed that he was reading a magazine. Not checking a map, not glancing at an ad for male enhancement products, actually reading a magazine while he was driving. He had it it propped up on his steering wheel as if the manufacturer had intended it to be used as a handy reading stand. It makes you wonder why they don't put a little clip on the top of the steering wheel for holding your reading material, and maybe a little lamp in case it gets too dark to see clearly. I guess carmakers figure there's enough interesting stuff going on in the windshield and mirrors to keep your attention. It must take a serious case of ADD to be so bored with the imminent possibility of a ten car pile-up that you have to spice things up by perusing a magazine while hurtling down I-5. I hope it was Dismemberment and Disfigurement Monthly, because otherwise he's going to have some catching up to do when he gets out of the coma.

Despite the fact that everybody knows how stupid it is to drink and drive or to grab a downed power line with your bare hands, they still have public service announcements telling you not to do those things. Yet there are no PSAs warning against reading and driving. This prompts the question: How reckless and dangerous does something have to be for no one to have even thought of warning you not to do it? Congratulations, Bob, you've just vaulted into a completely new demographic of stupidity! It never even occurred to us to warn people not to do that. We'll add it to the list of future PSAs, right under "Don't stick Legos up your nose" and "Don't throw rocks at mountain lions."

I've even heard of people getting ticketed for watching TV while driving. I bet this happens more than you might think. And given all the niche cable networks that exist today, I imagine that the TV-watching driver demographic is probably large enough to support their own network. The Driver Network would be a big hit. They could play The Cannonball Run, Knight Rider, and all the latest police chases. And every once in a while they'd break in with a public service announcement that says, "Watch the road, you idiot!"

The State I'm In

A few weeks ago my family took a road trip from our home in northern California to a resort in Colorado for a family reunion for my mom's side of the family (count the prepositional phrases in that sentence and win a puppy!). I informed a friend about the upcoming trip, adding that my mom's family was "crazy big." She responded, "You mean they're crazy? Or they're really tall? Or the family is really big?"

I replied, "Yes."

She thought for a second, and then said, "So it's like a Special Olympics basketball camp?"

Which is an uncanny description of what these reunions are actually like. Except there's no basketball.

To get to Colorado from northern California you have to go through Nevada, Utah, and Wyoming. The kids loved the scenery: the cacti, the rocky cliffs, the desert plateaus.... And that crazy coyote! Man, they must have watched that DVD like 16 times.

Look, I'm sorry. California is beautiful, and Colorado is pretty cool, but I can't figure out why God stuck all that dirt in between them. Nevada has its attractions, but they're mostly immoral, and frankly too expensive. Utah is what Nevada would be if it were run by Mormons. And Wyoming is what Utah would be if all the Mormons left.

I have to say, though, that they all have better roads than California. If you've ever driven into California on I-80 you know what I'm talking about. You'll be zipping along toward Tahoe, exhilarating in the sight of mountains and redwoods after 16 hours of scrub-covered sand, and it occurs to you that you should slow down and get into the right lane so you can take it all in. But then you realize that there's like an 18 inch altitude differential between lanes, and that it's going to take every ounce of skill and concentration that you possess not to end up in the Truckee River. Potholes start flying at you like asteroids at the Milennium Falcon, and woodland creatures dart in front of you like furry little suicide bombers. All the while, insane California drivers are flying past at ridiculous speeds, usually while talking on a cell phone, drinking a latte, and knitting a poncho from hemp fibers. By the time you get to Sacramento, you need to check yourself into a facility to be treated for PTSD.

Utah, on the other hand, has fantastic roads. There were crews of Mormons resurfacing highways in Utah that looked like they were still wet from the last time they were resurfaced. (The highways, that is, not the Mormons.) The roads had so many layers of fresh asphalt that the locals gave directions by saying, "First, get on top of the road...." And these are highways that are built over the salt flats, which are used for by auto manufacturers to test cars. That's right, they are resurfacing roads that are built on top of the world's largest parking lot. I don't know why they don't just send a guy out to run across the desert with a can of spray paint so they can spend their highway funds on booze and cigarettes.

Oh well, I guess we all have our own vices. I wish California's biggest fault was asphalt.

Just Give Me a Sign

I have a confession to make. Most of the stuff on my MySpace profile is lies. I wasn't really born on another planet, those aren't my favorite TV shows, and the movies I listed were selected purely for their metallurgical properties. I really am a Taurus, though, which explains all the bull****.

I debated whether I should display my zodiacal sign, because I don't really buy into that stuff (Tauruses as a rule are skeptical about astrology). In my case the profile does fit, though: I'm stubborn and opinionated, and I spend a lot of time charging full speed at colorful objects that are dangled in front of me only to be jerked away at the last second. I don't make a lot of make a lot of major decisions based on my horoscope, although I did buy a Ford Taurus once, which turned out to be a big mistake. So was my Ford Bronco II. Ford loves naming vehicles after temperamental animals. Maybe if they came out with the Ford Labrador, people would start buying their cars again.

There definitely should be more cars named after signs of the zodiac. (There was the Dodge Aries, of course, but that name was wasted on a car that Chrysler, in a moment of marketing genius, had already named after the letter K.) I know I would jump at the chance to own a Toyota Saggitarius or an Oldsmobile Cancer. Actually, GM doesn't make Oldsmobiles any more, do they? I wonder why not. Most companies would kill for a brand that suggests the product is outdated as soon as it's rolled off the assembly line. As if to indicate that the division was in on its last legs, in the mid-80s GM came out with the Oldsmobile Omega, the most ominous sounding car name since the AMC Death Knell.

I don't actually know anything about cars, of course, and like most people I fill the gap in my knowledge with fear and superstition. This is why automobiles and astrology are such a perfect fit. Why stand on the side of the road with your hood up acting like you're trying to figure out if the fetzer valve is properly connected to the flux capacitor, when you could just blame the problem on the alignment of the planets and wait for a towtruck? Speaking of which, I should go call my mechanic, because my Saturn is in retrograde again.


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