New Car Hint

Sun, 7 Nov 2010 17:08:42 -0600

This is a hint to the car we’re picking up on Wednesday. Any guesses?

Save Money. Live Better.

Sat, 23 Oct 2010 09:01:06 -0500

Driving to the local Wal-Mart, I find that it appears to be the same as all the other Wal-Marts I’ve ever visited. A Vietnam Vet, who is doubling as a self-proclaimed homeless man, stands with his dog and his bicycle at the street corner as he peddles away his dignity. He is clean-shaven and holds a hand-written sign that reads, “Homeless Vet. Anything Helps. God Bless.” Rusted cars litter the parking lot amidst all the other disease-stricken mini-vans and half-dead pickup trucks. Across the parking lot, one can hear the storefront beckoning to its hopeful patrons. It appears that today’s visit to Wal-Mart will be especially entertaining.
The first stop of the day is the foyer. Electronic sounds from the armada of video games and vending machines bombard the ears. Immediately, one’s nose detects the dry, ashy smell of cigarette smoke from the outside overpowering the alluring smell of popcorn from the inside. An old man, appearing to be waiting for his wife, sits restfully on one of the benches inside the foyer. He stares indifferently at the children across the way tugging at their mother’s pant legs for some change to play the motorcycle video game. The mother, oblivious to the pleadings of her children, is browsing the DVD selection at the RedBox vending machine. A not-so-subtle twist of irony rides a motorized scooter past the old man on the bench. The driver of the motorized cart weighs an estimated 500 pounds, and is transporting a basketful of high-calorie, high-sodium, over-processed, pre-packaged assortment of snack foods. He nearly runs over the other shoppers departing the store and gives a huff of discontent when the automatic door fails to open quickly enough. Through the foyer, the Wal-Mart Greeter—in a tone that implies she is happy to be here today—says, “Welcome to Wal-Mart.”
Four express lanes are open, each with no less than five or six people in line. A woman and, presumably, her husband are purchasing two cases of beer, a box of tampons, and a carton of cigarettes. The family behind them in line is waiting impatiently as the cashier attempts to explain to the woman buying the beer that her credit card is declined. This woman offers a rebuttal, stating that she drove straight to Wal-Mart from the bank where she deposited her paycheck so there was no possible way the card could be declined. Meanwhile, the express lane has come to a halt. Other shoppers stand in line with exhausted, impatient looks on their faces that say perhaps they chose the wrong line.
The produce section and deli area host a variety of actions. People are pressing indentations into avocados, thumping the sides of melons, sniffing a variety of pineapple, poking tomatoes, and comparing banana coloring. Scents of rotisserie chicken, potato wedges, and macaroni & cheese fill the nostrils. The savory smell of obesity is interrupted by the sound of the intercom system as it breaks from its broad, neutral selection of music to play, of all things, an advertisement for shopping at Wal-Mart.
The frozen foods section is equally eventful. A little girl, pointing at the ice cream bars in the cabinet, jumps up and down trying to gain her mother’s attention. The girl is incessant. The mother casually acknowledges the request with a shake of her head to indicate the disapproval of her daughter’s request. Small clouds of fog eerily roll out from the top of the frozen foods bins as if belonging to a scene from a science fiction movie. A spilled mystery liquid adheres to the shoes of passers-by. Shopping carts make blackened tracks through the spill that extend for a few feet in various directions from the sticky substance.
It is time to leave. One notices a man, wearing a blue tank top and stonewashed jeans, entering the building. With a smile on his face he shouts, “Welcome to Wal-Mart,” before the designated greeter can open her mouth. This unexpected shift in roles puts a smile upon everyone around him, including the greeter. Immediately outside, a couple of teenagers, dressed in matching outfits, make an effort to rid the surrounding patrons of spare change. The teens hold a sign with an obfuscated title of a charity written upon it. Just beyond the gathering of people, two cars fill stalls clearly designated as motorcycle parking only. Today’s visit to Wal-Mart has been more entertaining than anticipated.

Lessons from the Throttle

Sat, 18 Sep 2010 10:50:06 -0500

Ever since I was a child, I have had a fascination with being on two wheels. There is something to be said about being able to feel the wind rushing past one’s entire body versus the windless captivity of a car. After years of driving cars and riding bicycles, I purchased my first motorcycle at the age of twenty-one, and fell in love with two wheels all over again. Straight roads became twisty. Twisty roads became euphoric. And, on occasion, the speed limit was disregarded. One particular instance of speeding at 165 miles per hour came with consequences that changed the course of my life.

One of those consequences was jail time. One might think that the lesson to be learned by going to jail would be to never again do whatever act earned the sentence to begin with. However, during the course of the thirty days for which I was sentenced, the lesson I learned was neither one of coerced obedience nor a negative lesson born of consequence, but rather a positive one of appreciation for the corrections system. Prior to going to jail, I was of the mind frame that prisoners should be stripped of certain rights and luxuries upon violation of the law. I thought that prisoners should not be entitled to watch television, play board games, lift weights, have jobs, or enjoy other activities engaged in by law-abiding citizens. Thirty days would have been a long time for me to spend alone were it not for those same, mentioned opportunities. Those activities, I feel, helped to preserve the dignity and the sense of human worth of each inmate—an ideology to which I would not have prescribed prior to going to jail.

Another consequence of choosing to speed that day was having my driver’s license revoked. A person does not quite realize how much he or she depends upon a vehicle until the privilege to drive is taken away. My realization came when I thought about the twelve-mile distance between my house and my work. I have heard it said that creativity is often born of necessity. Necessity, in this case it seemed, happened to give birth to a bicycle. Over the course of the next year, that bicycle would transport me more than ten thousand miles through various mountain trails, city streets, and desert highways. Life has a way of reminding me, that sometimes, the lesson to be learned is one of simplicity. Simplify. Breathe. Slow down. Enjoy the ride.

Perhaps the most significant consequence of the decision to speed that day was the financial impact to my life. Specifically, I learned very quickly that a speeding ticket of that magnitude was not simply cured or smoothed over by a relatively painless visit to a traffic court. I learned that speeding at 165 miles per hour was more serious than it was whimsical. All the money I had saved for college had somehow disappeared into a garbage disposal of travel expenses to attend several trials in another state. Upon conclusion of the trials seven months later, I had also incurred close to five thousand dollars in fines alone; the court fees and lawyer fees were considered an extra cost. Additionally, if I were to keep my motorcycle, my insurance demanded that the cost of insurance would increase from $2,500 per year to a staggering $7,900 per year. I sold my motorcycle, delayed school, and spent three years working to pay off my fines.

Looking back on it all, I can see how all of the events helped to shape my life. Because of that choice to speed, I now have empathy for those who are in jail, I enjoy riding bikes more than I ever had in the past, and I know that speeding is expensive. After all those actions taken to correct what I had done, I thought about my life and the direction in which it was headed. I thought about my job and joined the navy. I thought about my habits. I needed a change and conclude that if I had not have made the decision to speed that day, I would not be in the navy today. Had I not joined the navy, I would not have met my wife. Had I not met my wife, I would not be as happy as I am today.

Vroom-less

Sat, 21 Aug 2010 19:38:57 -0500

I should really start another website dedicated to the follies of driving an old british car... namely, one 1964 Austin Mini. What follows would most certainly be included therein:

Recently, there have been a few occasions where the carburetor had been running roughly. So roughly, in fact that the car would start long enough to turn over several times and then just stop as if the last possible gas fumes had been sucked from the tank. I suspected a gas problem, and then thought that I would try something simpler by replacing the air filter. Shazaam, it started this time, and her problems were over. Until the next time I took her out- she would lurch not a block away from the house. Luckily, I had the sense to leave for work early and promptly turn around and park it in front of the house.

Thursday night (nearly a month or so later) I dumped some carb cleaner into the gas tank and ran the engine for several minutes. I drove around the block a couple times to provide more of a demand for gas than simple idling can provide. I even drove it to work the next day without a hitch. I mean, there were a couple times when I thought it might have been a little less than optimal, but I attributed it to the final bits of gunk (scientific term for debris) being beaten into submission by the anti-carbon-buildup gods.

Today we decided to go out to Home Depot, and other various stores, in hopes that all the walking around would inspire our incubating child to want to come out of her fortress of solitude. Oh and we drove the Mini. On our way to the post office (our last stop of the day), the car died at a stop sign less than a hundred yards from the post office. It stalled a couple times earlier in the day too, but started right back up again.

So, there we are at the stop sign trying (failing) to get the car started and it begins to rain. Hoping nobody comes up behind us, I get out of the car to check the carb. Sure enough. Totally flooded. We (I) pushed the car to the side of the road and waited a few minutes to try again. This time it ran long enough to get the car a couple hundred feet to the post office to drop off a package and stall at the stop sign on the way out. This time, it wasn’t going to start for want of a good rest.

Knowing that the car would require an hour-long nap, Laura and I (and Jack) headed off to lunch at Arby’s (a ten minute - fifteen minute walk from the post office... again, good for agitating the yet-to-be born Ginger). After a mediocre lunch from Arby’s, we made our way back to the car- all the while admiring the buildings along the way. When we got back, the mini still wouldn’t start fully. it would run for a few seconds, and then die.... and then not start at all.

Why do I tell such long stories? Where’s the punch line, you ask? Right here: The accelerator cable (the long thing that connects the gas pedal to the vroomy thing under the hood) stretched out just enough to make a couple strands of wire to fray from the cable. This had been happening over time, as I imagine the cable is (insert large number here) decades old. Frayed so much, in fact, that it had come loose from the carburetor itself. and was not allowing the gas pedal to return when pressed to the floor. Consequently, the car would start just fine now albeit at a constant redline.

Several thoughts ran through my mind at this point:
1) Call work and ask one of the guys on duty to come get me in the duty truck so I can go get our other car from home.
2) Jog home and go get our other car.
3) Call the tow truck guy that has rescued us twice in the past.
4) Call my trusty friend Jared to bail me out a third time. (see previous posts about the mini)

All those ideas were not something I wanted to do. I was hoping I could fix the cable enough to drive home. I couldn’t. No tools in the car. I didn’t even have my leatherman in my pocket. Otherwise, we’d have been back on the road already. Luckily, the choke still worked. (I can hear my friend David Miesel laughing- correction- chuckling right now with a little grin on his face... not an ‘I told you so’ grin... but the kind of grin that can detect ingenuity born of frustration)

Ok, ok, I know what you’re all thinking... “What’s a choke?” Am I right? Well, back in the days before fuel injection, there was something called a choke that introduced a slightly higher volume of gasoline to a cold engine to allow things to warm up, or more appropriately, be primed. Anyway, it’s a little knob you can pull out that allows the engine to idle faster. Yes, I drove home without the use of a gas pedal. Yes, I used the choke in lieu of a gas pedal. Yes, we made it home safely. Yes, I fixed it promptly upon my arrival at home. Yes, I did a good job.

My salvation was that I had spare brake cables for my bicycle that are a little thicker and significantly longer than the accelerator cable for the Mini. Also, I had a spare (new) cable housing for it to replace the ratty housing for the accelerator cable. I had to engineer it a little, but it works better, more smoothly, and more safely than the old cable. The old cable is pictured at the top of the page. Please note: the end of the cable in the picture is NOT the end I cut... it was the end that had been stretched and frayed apart by the chassis of the car...

The End.

Waiting for Ginger

Thu, 19 Aug 2010 23:23:24 -0500

We’ve been waiting for about nine months now. 40 weeks to be exact. Ginger, if you can read this, we’re ready for you to come in to this world. Perhaps, though, you’re just waiting for us to come up with a middle name. Maybe you don’t like the names we’ve concocted so far and you’re waiting for one that will be worthy of you. Maybe we’re not supposed to name you Ginger. Maybe we’re supposed to name you Veronica. Maybe you need to be named after a song. Except- please don’t let it be Veronica- Any Elvis Costello fans out there will know what I’m talking about.

Maybe you’re supposed to be named Sunshine- you’d be competing with your cousin though whose name is Miriam Sunrise. How about Claire, or Theresa, or Janice, or Sarah, or Sara, or 7arah? Whatever it is, Ginger... we’re hoping you’ll like the name Ginger. Please state your objections prior to your arrival, as we will be submitting your name to the social security office upon filling out the paperwork in the hospital.

Everyone keeps asking us what your middle name is going to be. It has to rival “Jack Danger” so you don’t feel left out as though your name wasn’t as cool as your older brother’s name.

Here are some more middle names, including the names we’ve already come up with:

Gigi
Darling
Ginger
Grey
Eliza
August
Fare
Vaara
Veszély
Briesmas
Hatari
Fara
Perygl
Peligra

Tell me what you think.