Damocles Birthday

I WISH IT WOULD rain. No. Sleet. Sleet would finish the scene nicely. Rain is God’s mop. It washes away the dirt and corruption. I’ve got no use for snow, either; the fat flakes are too jolly. Snow makes a fire hydrant into a wedding cake. I want sleet.

I’d rather pull my collar up and hunch my shoulders as if blows from an unseen and merciless boxer were raining down on me. I don’t want a Christmas card. I want the Old Testament.

Old or new – I knew it. Father and mother would open the Bible to a random page and place an unseeing finger anywhere and use it for their answer to whatever question was at hand. They’d torture the found scripture to fit the problem a lot, but it was uncanny how often that old musty book would burp out something at least fit for a double-take. But any Ouija board does that, doesn’t it?

It was just cold and bracing. No sleet. I didn’t need to be clear-minded right now. Paul’s tip of the hat to the season, a sort of syphilitic looking tree, hung over your head as you entered the bar like it was Damocle’s birthday, not the Redeemer’s. It was kinda funny to see it out there, because inside it was always the same day and always the same time. Open is a time.

People yield without thinking in these situations. It had been years since I had found anyone sitting on that stool, my place. It was just understood, like the needle in the compass always pointing the same way for everyone. Paul never even greeted me anymore, just put it wordlessly down in front of me as I hit the seat. Some men understand other men.

It was already kind of late. My foreman said for all he cared, I could bang on those machines until Satan showed up in the Ice Capades, but I didn’t feel like working on Christmas Eve until the clock struck midnight. That’s a bad time to be alone and sober.

“I’m closing early tonight,” Paul said, and he didn’t go back to his paper or his taps. He just stood there eying me. I took the drink.

“You’ve made a mess of this, Paul,” I stammered out, coughing a bit, “What the hell is this?”

“It’s ginger ale. You’re coming with me tonight.”

I could see it all rolled out in front of me. Pity. Kindness. Friendship.

“No.” I rose to leave.

“You’ll come, or you’ll never darken the doorstep here again.”

Now a man finds himself in these spots from time to time. There are altogether too many kind souls in the world. They think they understand you. They want to help you. But what Paul will never understand is that he was helping me by taking my money and filling the glass and minding his own. It was the only help there was. A man standing in the broken shards of his life doesn’t have any use for people picking up each piece and wondering aloud if this bit wasn’t so bad. They never understand that the whole thing was worth something once but the pieces are nothing and you can never reassemble them again into anything.

I went. Worse than I imagined, really. Wife. Kids. Home. Happy. I sat in the corner chair, rock-hard sober, and then masticated like a farm animal at the table.

Paul was smarter, perhaps, than I gave him credit for. He said nothing to me, or about me. His children nattered and his wife placed the food in front of me and they talked of everything and nothing as if I wasn’t there – no, as if I had always been there. As if the man with every bit of his life written right on his face had always sat in that seat.

I wasn’t prepared for it when he took out the Bible. Is he a madman like my own father was? It’s too much. The children sat by the tree, and he opened the Bible and placed his finger in there. I wanted to run screaming into the street. I wanted to murder them all and wait for the police. I wanted to lay down on the carpet and die.

“Ye are the salt of the earth; but if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it be salted? It is thenceforth good for nothing, but to be cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men. Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on an hill cannot be hid. Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick, and it giveth light unto all that are in the house. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.”

He put the children to bed, to dream of the morning. His wife kissed him, said only “good night” to me, and went upstairs. We sat for a long moment by the fire, the soft gentle sucking sound of the logs being consumed audible now that the children were gone. The fire was reflected in the ornaments on the tree. The mantel clock banged through the seconds.

“Do you want something?” he asked.

“Ginger ale.”

(From my collection of flash fiction, The Devil’s In The Cows Merry Christmas to all that visit here, and all that don’t)

[Many thanks to an anonymous donor for their generous hit on our tip jar. It’s greatly appreciated]

[Update: Many thanks to reader and commenter Emil Turner for his generous donation to our tip jar. It’s greatly appreciated]

We’ll See if Anyone Gets the Joke This Time Around

Holy cow, that was eleven years ago. Man, the kids were young. Their cherubic faces belie the facetious nature of the song. It just might be the most subversive Christmas song ever written, accomplished without ever laying a finger on the real Christmas. Enjoy, and Merry Christmas from the Cottage!

Have an Unorganized Christmas

Nine years ago, my kids made a Christmas record. It was back when they were few in number, few indeed, and strangers in the land. It turned out to be the Number One selling Christmas album on Bandcamp that year, for a while, at least. That’s a bit like saying you’re the tallest midget in the circus, but it was plenty amusing enough for us at the time.

You can listen to the whole thing for free in your browser by hitting the play button below, or download the whole thing for a few bucks if you’re inebriated and your credit card and your hard drive aren’t maxed out yet.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good grief Charlie Brown.

I Want

[Editor’s Note: Originally offered in 2008. Apparently I’ve been blogging a long time. The magnificent mundane pictures were from Square America, which has been taken over by pron site.]

I want to participate unreservedly in American life.

I want to say hello to my neighbors. I want to send my children to school on a bus with their brethren to read of George Washington and Abe Lincoln. I want them to eat a peanut butter sandwich from a paper sack with a waxy box of whole milk to wash it down.

I want to watch the news and not think it’s an assault on my worldview. I want to watch the news and not think it’s an assault on the worldview of people with whom I disagree.

I want to read a newspaper. I want to listen to the radio. I wouldn’t mind constructing my own radio with a soldering iron and a few parts that came mail order, but I’d rather not construct the playlist of songs. How would I know what I liked if I had never heard it?

I want to order a drink from the well. I want to sit on naugahyde. I want someone to smoke. I don’t want to smoke. I want people to make music right there in front of me. I want everybody to know the words.

I want everyone to dress as well as they can for a social occasion and still be dressed badly. I want to see dress shoes and white socks.

I want to see old people. I want to see babies. I want to tell people their ugly children are beautiful. I want the ballgame to be on TV. I want the TV to be on a shelf over a bar.

I want to go to church on Sunday. I want to go to a bar on Friday night. I want to go dancing with my wife of many years on Saturday. I want to be buried in the same suit I was married in. I want people to stand there and look at my cold face and say I was no great shakes but I was alright.

I want someone to put flowers on my grave after everyone else has forgotten I was alive.

24 Blogs Guaranteed to Make You Smarter

Well, Cultural Offering has named Sippican Cottage to their list of 25 Blogs Guaranteed to Make You Smarter. I hate taking umbrage, because even though you can easily fit plenty of umbrage under a winter coat, if I get caught taking anything again they’ll slap the beeping anklet on me, and it itches. But I feel I must become umbrageous. I can’t make you smarter.

There’s no use arguing about this. My opinion is dispositive. It’s downright decretive. I’ve been trying to make myself smarter ever since the nuns stopped drilling times tables into my head, with little success. How in the hell can you expect me to make you smarter if I can’t manage it myself?

Of course I do know things, several of them useful. I know how to hit my thumb with a hammer. The same thumb I hit three minutes before, generally. I know how to climb up to the top of a twelve-pitch roof in a gale to wonder where I left my hammer. I can count to eleven if my fly is down, which it generally is. I can teach a teenager how to tie a Half-Windsor knot if they don’t mind the skinny end dangling down to their dangly bits, and the wide part up under their chin. I can balance a checkbook, but only on the end of my nose.

I do know more than just old stuff. I pick up on changes in the zeitgeist daily. For instance, because I’ve been riding around in a car a lot since I sold my home without a Plan B in place, I know that the new Volvo wagons have the parentheses taillights, while Hyundais have sort of angry furrowed brows. I’m not sure of what make and model look like Cylons, but they’re out there. None of them vex me, as I’ve already survived driving behind 1970 Ford Thunderbird taillights.

If you’re a Zoomer and encounter these, I assume you assume the old-ass car in front of you is loading something from the operating system. We elders of the internet know it’s just an old fogey turning right. Forevermore, most likely. So maybe I just told you something you didn’t know. I still wouldn’t assess the outcome as “making you smarter,” unless you were pretty dumb from the get-go.

So I beg you. Visit the other 24 blogs guaranteed to make you smarter. Some of them feature writers smart enough to buy furniture from me, back before I moved three counties away from my table saw. And if you need any additional proof why all my advice is free, and worth it, I’ll admit something to my readers that I’ve always been too sheepish to reveal even to my confessor. You know, the one with the liquor license, not the one with the swinging thurible: I once accidentally put premium gas in a rental car. If that doesn’t scream caveat emptor for anyone looking for an information gooroo, I don’t know what does.

By the way, the Swinging Thuribles is the name of my Creed tribute band. But I digress.

Tuesday on Tuesday for a Change

My wife announced that it’s Tuesday.

This sort of information is always news to me. I don’t know what day it is, generally, or care what time it is, for the most part. I can occasionally be relied upon to identify the current month, if you put three or four months into a police lineup and let me choose. Other than that, I’m blissfully unaware of much of anything. My stomach is my sundial, and the cat can always be relied on to tell me it’s AM-ish with a swat on my nose. What else can a man need?

But you fine folks deserve a trash day roundup on trash day for a change. Here’s one now:

Making a mechanical watch

Greetings from Canada, self taught watchmaker here. Just finished making my first watch and wanted to share. An original design, made from scratch, by one person. The jewels, sapphire crystals, hairspring, mainspring and the strap were all that were purchased. Everything else was hand made.

I used to consider myself a fairly handy person. I’ve made lots of stuff. Holey moley I’ve never made anything like that.

MIT study explains why laws are written in an incomprehensible style

“We thought it was plausible that what happens is you start with an initial draft that’s simple, and then later you think of all these other conditions that you want to include. And the idea is that once you’ve started, it’s much easier to center-embed that into the existing provision,” says Martinez, who is now a fellow and instructor at the University of Chicago Law School. However, the findings ended up pointing toward a different hypothesis, the so-called “magic spell hypothesis.” Just as magic spells are written with a distinctive style that sets them apart from everyday language, the convoluted style of legal language appears to signal a special kind of authority, the researchers say.

Lawyers write laws that require lawyers to interpret them for you. It’s a pothole industry. If you’ve ever seen four guys leaning on shovels while a fifth slowly dumps crumbly asphalt into a hole in the road, you’ll understand how it works. “Don’t kill the job.”

LFGSS and Microcosm shutting down 16th March 2025 (the day before the Online Safety Act is enforced)

I can’t afford what is likely tens of thousand to go through all the legal and technical hoops over a prolonged period of time, the site itself barely gets a few hundred in donations each month and costs a little more to run… this is not a venture that can afford compliance costs… and if we did, what remains is a disproportionately high personal liability for me, and one that could easily be weaponised by disgruntled people (trolls) who are banned for their egregious behaviour (in the years running fora I’ve been signed up to porn sites, stalked IRL and online, subject to death threats, had fake copyright takedown notices, an attempt to delete the domain name with ICANN… all from those whom I’ve moderated to protect community members)… I do not see an alternative to shuttering it.

It’s a bulletin board site. The fellow that runs it is in No-Longer-Merry-Olde, so he’s understandably wary about the potential liability that would be heaped on his shoulders if he continued. You might wonder if LFGSS is some sort of sketchy site that allows people to upload bomb recipes or directions to CEO’s shoulder blades and so forth, and so make sense of the law’s effect on guys like this. I looked up the acronym LFGSS: London Fixed Gear and Single Speed. People post pictures of their fixie bicycles. Paging Eric Blair. Eric Blair to the white phone!

World’s oldest mammalian ancestor discovered in Mallorca

They were warm-blooded animals like modern mammals, but, unlike most of them, they laid eggs. They were carnivorous and were the first animals to develop the characteristic saber teeth. They were often the superpredators of the ecosystems in which they lived, and their appearance would be similar to a dog, but without ears or fur.

When I read the headline ancient mammals, and saw Mallorca mentioned, I must admit I expected to find a terrifying picture of Cher in a bathing suit when I clicked through.

Argentina exited recession as Milei eyes growth before midterms

Signs of recovery are underway heading into 2025. Beyond the third-quarter growth, wages have surpassed inflation since April, job growth is slowly picking up and private estimates indicated poverty is gradually declining after spiking once Milei took office. Argentines also deposited over US$20 billion in the financial system this year as part of Milei’s tax amnesty programme, a robust sign of confidence in the libertarian president.

Another successful politician with hair that looks like it was rescued from the shower drain.

Factory Farming is Better Than Organic Farming

Another narrative that is based entirely on propaganda meant to favor one industry and demonize its competition is the notion that organic farming is better for health and better for the environment. Actually, there is no evidence of any nutritional or health advantage from consuming organic produce. Further – and most people I talk to find this claim shocking – organic farming is worse for the environment than conventional or even “factory” farming.

A category error in the headline. All farms are factory farms. Some are just smaller than others. Otherwise, you’re just gardening, and trying to give away twenty pounds of zucchini in October.

Why Dumb TVs Deserve a Comeback

One major area for improvement is display quality. If you’re shopping for a dumb TV, you may have noticed that many dumb TVs are limited to older resolutions like 720p, which can’t compete with the 4K and even 8K displays offered by smart TVs. For a comeback to succeed, dumb TVs need crisp, vibrant visuals that cater to today’s high-definition content standards.

Um, you’re describing monitors, which cost way more, but are plenty dumb. The real problem is that you “want to watch tv.” I’ve heard tales of people with large hard drives that hold thousands of movies and tv shows that can be watched on a monitor, or even a smart tv that’s never hooked up to the internet. I’ve heard these tales, because I tell them, and my ear is right next door to my mouth.

The Famous Bering Land Bridge Was More Like a Swamp, Geologists Say

Geologists suggest that between 36,000 and 11,000 years ago, the Bering Land Bridge may have been less an arid steppe grassland and more a boggy ecosystem crisscrossed by rivers. This complicates scientists’ understanding of the iconic landmass and how its landscape would have facilitated or impeded the spread of different species. The scientists presented their work at the American Geophysical Union (AGU) Annual Meeting last week.

Well, some of my ancestors used to burn mud for heat. I won’t cast aspersions on the real estate value of the Bering land bridge.

The Unsure of Trash Day Trash Day Roundup

I’m not stateless. I’m sorta homeless, though. On the loose. We are sleeping indoors, however, which is nice, because it was 15 this morning when I woke up. I don’t miss my old house all that much, but I’m starting to miss trash day.

The town we lived in had something you could call a dump. They didn’t call it that, of course, because calling anything or anybody something straightforward instead of a euphemism is verboten these days. Man, we put that dump through its paces before we moved. They picked up the trash on the curb once a week, so you didn’t need to visit their mother ship if you didn’t want to. You could put as many bags of trash out as you cared to, and cardboard and other stuff. Once a year, you could even plop a big pile of most anything out there, and they come around with a dump truck and a loader and take that, too.

The dump itself was open six days a week, for long hours, too. You could dump wood, or metal, or plastic, or electronics, or whatever into designated spots, or anything random into a big pit with a rail car in the bottom of it. It was glorious, but it’s over. I can’t nail Tuesday morning on the calendar anymore, to measure the passage of time in trash-weeks any longer. My trash sun sets in the east or north or south or wherever now. I’m still a raccoon at heart, but the world has strapped bungie cords over the lid of my galvanized life.

So let’s clean out the bookmarks sidebar, and pour one out for trash day.

How the 1955 Le Mans disaster changed motorsport forever

Levegh’s Mercedes collided with the sloping rear of the Austin-Healey at 150 mph and launched into the air. Macklin remembered feeling the “searing heat” of its exhaust on his face as it sailed over him, and seeing Levegh hunched over the wheel as his Mercedes flew off the track. It landed on an earth embankment, crashed into a concrete stairwell, and exploded like a grenade, sending shards of hot metal hurtling into an open public enclosure next to the grandstand.

The internet used to be full of interesting, good writing like this. Antisocial media killed it dead, dead, dead.

18th-century dentist Thomas Berdmore revealed the agonies his patients endured before, during and after treatment.

He fixed his instrument, and with a sudden exertion of all his strength, he brought away the affected Tooth, together with a piece of the jaw-bone, as big as a walnut, and three neighbouring Molares.

A dentist is a prestidigitator who puts metal in your mouth and pulls coins from your pocket.

Nearly half of US teens are online ‘constantly,’ Pew report finds

There was a slight downward trend in several popular apps teens used. For instance, 63% of teens said they used TikTok, down from 67% and Snapchat slipped to 55% from 59%. This small decline could be due to pandemic-era restrictions easing up and kids having more time to see friends in person, but it’s not enough to be truly meaningful.

Half were online constantly, the other half were too busy texting to answer the question.

Are Social Media Platforms the Next Dying Malls?

My home town is just one example of many. And there are also many “dying malls”—defined as enclosed shopping centers with less than 40% occupancy.

Not long ago, we hoped that these artificial gathering places could be robust, vital replacements for the neighborhoods we tore down. But what I’ve learned is that you pay a heavy price for replacing a real community with a fake one.

And that brings me to the subject of social media platforms—which increasingly resemble these old, decrepit malls.

They are the ultimate fake community centers. This makes them vulnerable, despite all the current visitors and lurkers and noise.

Sure. I guess no one goes there anymore because they’re too crowded.

Why conversations are better with four people

“You very rarely get more than four people in a conversation. In the normal run of things, when a fifth person joins a group, it’ll become two conversations within about 20 seconds.” Alternatively, a “lecture” situation develops in which one person holds court and the others act as an audience.

I’ll make small talk with three people, I guess, but I dispute only with God. I require a worthy adversary.

Mysterious tablet with unknown language unearthed in Georgia

The symbols, created using a conical drill and smoothed with rounded tools, reflect a high degree of craftsmanship. Archaeologists have speculated that the writing may have recorded military spoils, construction projects, or offerings to deities, though definitive interpretations remain elusive. “Generally, the Bashplemi inscription does not repeat any script known to us; however, most of the symbols used therein resemble ones found in the scripts of the Middle East, as well as those of geographically remote countries such as India, Egypt, and West Iberia,” noted researchers in the Journal of Ancient History and Archaeology.

I imagine thousands of researchers will spend ages analyzing them and eventually find out it’s a lost dry cleaning ticket.

A room temperature rechargeable Li2O-based lithium-air battery enabled by a solid electrolyte

A lithium-air battery based on lithium oxide (Li2O) formation can theoretically deliver an energy density that is comparable to that of gasoline. Lithium oxide formation involves a four-electron reaction that is more difficult to achieve than the one- and two-electron reaction processes that result in lithium superoxide (LiO2) and lithium peroxide (Li2O2), respectively. By using a composite polymer electrolyte based on Li10GeP2S12 nanoparticles embedded in a modified polyethylene oxide polymer matrix, we found that Li2O is the main product in a room temperature solid-state lithium-air battery. The battery is rechargeable for 1000 cycles with a low polarization gap and can operate at high rates.

When big batteries morph into big capacitors with slow discharge rates, electric cars will make a lot of sense.

Sionic Energy Unveils 100-Percent Silicon Anode Battery

Group14 plans to open a factory in Moses Lake, Wash. in the first quarter of 2025 with annual capacity for 4,000 tons of its nanostructured silicon-carbon material, called SCC55. That black powder could supply 20 gigawatt hours of cells, enough to power 100,000 to 200,000 EVs, or millions of consumer devices like phones. The two companies say silicon anodes can boost energy density by up to 50 percent versus today’s best nickel-rich batteries, and reduce EV charging times to 10 minutes or less.

Baby steps, I guess. But I don’t know why people think electric cars aren’t reliable. I heard that 95 percent of all the electric cars sold in America are still on the road. The other 5 percent made it home.

Well, that cleared up the bookmarks a bit. Enjoy. And if you see a forlorn man wandering the streets aimlessly, toting a half-full Hefty bag, make sure you wave. I promise I’ll wave back.

CEO Snuff Merchants, and Other Discontents

You’re not going to understand CEO snuff merchants and their ilk unless you understand TPOT. TPOT stands for “this part of twitter.” The acronym really doesn’t fit anymore, because its devotees have moved to Yells at Clouds.com after Obergruppenfuhrer Musk bought Twitter. They’re all PostRats. That’s means they’re post rationalists. I don’t have the time, the familiarity, or the energy to explain the post rationalist worldview. It’s not really coherent, so any analysis quickly leads to a popsicle headache for anyone with a library card instead of a Twitter account. Their worldview is that they’re smart and you’re not, so there. Okey dokey, then.

What you’re seeing is the logical extension of internauts who have been wearing trilbys and neckbeards on both their chins in their online icon photos, deriding people for believing in invisible sky wizards, and similar infantile glosses on many profound metaphysical thoughts. They, as they say in the local parlance, fucking love science, because they’ve mistaken a potty mouth for edginess, among other silliness. They became so open minded that their brains fell out. They started out by rejecting any form of religion because it wasn’t rational. They thought they could figure out the world like a million Mr. Spocks. They slowly learned they were wrong. Bill Nye is not a scientician, no matter how many times he appears on the teevee, and he’s certainly not an appropriate stand-in for John the Baptist.

So they all decided to believe in an incredibly silly and diverse stew of foolishness that couldn’t be proven rationally, but appealed to the very large rational vacuum between their ears. Space aliens, witchcraft, invisible cabals, the wonders of pornography, that sort of thing. You could boil it down to changing out Thomas Aquinas for Steven King. We recently had a neighbor whose wifi name, visible on our router, was !!HAILSATAN666!!. They have a pet sematary in their front yard. My wife and I used to joke that those weren’t their Halloween plastic skeletons hanging in the trees. Those were their everyday skeletons. The woman of the house dressed all in black and was convinced that her devil worship was somehow anti-war, and had flags displayed to that effect. In reality, she is as edgy as a marble, but all the flummery makes her feel interesting, I gather. The ridiculous elephantine year-long fascination with Halloween is a tell for the mindset.

Any religion, even primitive ones, basically boils down to an arbitrary set of rules that everyone agrees to follow, or get a smack on the nose if they don’t. PostRats think they’re very wise, but vocabulary isn’t their strong suit. They think “arbitrary’ can only mean “bad.” The original Latin means “relating to or depending on the discretion of an arbiter.” So if you’re religious, the arbiter is that invisible sky wizard I mentioned. If you’re not, you’re your own invisible sky wizard, and the rules are decided daily online.

Say what you want about the Ten Commandments, but as the wag once noted, at least there’s only ten of them. Keeping up with the rules in the PostRat world must be exhausting. Because it’s just claiming your rationality entitles you to dream up a voodoo religion on the spot for any occasion, based solely on your feelz. Of course your feelz are delivered to you via a social media drip, and the adumbration of them is obscure.

So I’m sure the CEO snuff merchant thought we was the love child of Jacques Derrida and Jason Bourne, but in reality, I’ve seen his ilk before. And remember, don’t call him stupid. PostRats hate that.

Welcome To the Byzantine Empire

My wife and are are currently dabbling in the Byzantine Empire. We understand that everyone else has been living in it for some time, but bear with us. Perhaps our experiences will ring some distant bell in your memory of the beforetimes, when people dealt with people, and liked it. I’ll explain.

We sold our house. We are out on the loose, darkening unfamiliar doorsteps and towels. We’re renting things. We’re paying for things we normally don’t encounter, like bad meals, which seem to be the only kind available at any price in any restaurant we can find. We’ve discovered that nothing is straightforward anymore. Everything we remember is the same thing with extra steps. Exasperating, hinky, cellphone steps.

To rent a house, we dealt with an online service that sent us to a pair of invisible overlords who first decided in some opaque fashion if they wanted our money. They eventually relented and said it had the correct, more obscure presidents on it. Then they dutifully emailed us the wrong combination to the front door. Well, not right away. The first time they sent us a link that opened their online insurance policy instead of the front door. When we inquired whether they were expecting more trouble from us than we were planning on delivering, they apologized, in please don’t knock off a star language, and then sent us the wrong keycode.

So 20 hours after starting our day at 1AM, and moving the last of all our possessions, we were standing in the sleet in front of a strange, dark door that told me over and over with angry beeps that I hadn’t said the magic word, and we couldn’t come in. We texted the mystery overlords and waited, too tired to be angry, really. They eventually got back to us, and pleaded that they had caught some form of dyslexia from a public toilet seat or something, and gave us what they hoped was the correct, descrambled version of the code. Or, they said, we could knock on the downstairs door. The actual owner of the house lives there, and could let us in. They lived in another state and had never been there. Byzantium.

A day later, we wanted to meet some relatives at a central gathering spot a few towns over from where we’re staying. It was a prominent watering hole that’s part of a converted mill building in a suddenly hip Maine suburb. We were instructed to forget about parking on the street, because the area would be jammed, and pay for parking in a garage across the street. I knew, without knowing, that this would be impossible, but I played along for comity’s sake. We pulled up to the garage with pockets full of money. There was no way to give money to a person or a machine to park there. Not even a credit or debit card. You were supposed to scan a QR code and pay using one of two execrable apps we don’t have on our phones. I know the moderne person thinks this makes things yet more moderne, but it really just makes a simple process into a Byzantine exercise.

I know you’re just supposed to immediately surrender whatever vestigal autonomy you might have left, and immediately give St. Jobs Pocket Pandora whatever it asks for, but I refused. We banged a youie and parked ten blocks away and hoofed it through a below-freezing early winter howler. Our companions wondered why we were later than expected, and filed our experience under “Our retard relatives are Amish,” like they usually do. They file their completely passive surrender to whatever their phone demands of them as being cutting edge tech savvy. I run a little web hosting business that spans two continents, and manipulate Google like it’s a toddler, but I’m an tech idiot, I gather.

But the real reason I didn’t sit in the parking garage with my teeth chattering and my fingers trembling on the phone’s keypad to download their junk apps was because I knew in my heart that no matter how much autonomy I was willing to surrender, the app wouldn’t end up working anyway. I’d be bombarded with spam forevermore, but I wouldn’t be able to park in that garage. That’s because Byzantium is never a one-step process. If you think your problems are going to be solved by just chaining yourself to their oar, you’re bound to be disappointed when the guy yells ramming speed and you’re whipped until you start rowing fast enough to suit the captain.

In our new, Byzantine world, he’s probably in another state, and has dyslexia, too. And you don’t know just how fast marring speed is.

If You Fix Things, You Are My Brother: The 240Z

The 240z was an interesting car. Nissans were still called Datsuns back then, and along with Toyotas and Hondas, the badges were making inroads into the American market. American cars had gotten elephantine. Little Japanese cars got good gas mileage, were more fun to drive (a floor shift beats three on the tree anyday), and were cheap to buy. But it took a lot for American buyers to get over their aversion to Japanese cars. Some of it was patriotism. But mostly, it was simply inertia. People need a big nudge to change their long-held opinions.

The 240z was just that kind of nudge. It came out in 1969, and it changed American attitudes towards Japanese cars overall. Lots of people started driving pokey B210s and Honda Civics because the 240z made Japanese cars finally seem cool. The car looked like an Asian Jag, or any number of other European long-hood roadsters.

It’s not surprising to see someone restoring a 240z. It’s basically always been the kind of car worth a makeover. Fifty years on, it still seems as cool as it ever was, or even moreso. What is surprising to me is to see how good this panel beater is at his job. He lives in a land beyond meticulous.

More or less the first job I ever had was doing the needful in a body shop. We did quick and dirty repairs, using much more bondo than ingenuity. We sprayed paint like vandals. The fellow that ran it, whose lungs are probably long since an exhibit in some Don’t Do That Museum, made most of his money by pinstriping cars. He left work to me he probably shouldn’t have. If you’re currently driving a Vista Cruiser and the rear fixed windows fall into the rotted fenders when you go over a speed bump, I apologize unreservedly.  So I know bad well enough to know good when I see it.

I watched a bunch of related videos for this restoration. They’re delightfully free of sleeve tattoos and thrash metal soundtracks. There are lots of people banging on old cars on YouTube. This fellow stands out.

Month: December 2024

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