Mom's truck
So a couple of you had asked for pictures of Mom's new truck. She's obliged.
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So a couple of you had asked for pictures of Mom's new truck. She's obliged.
So this morning I was thumbing through the weekly new releases on iTunes when I came across The Warrior's Code from Dropkick Murphys -- one of Boston's most popular punk rock bands.
The kids were in the living room so I fired up The Walking Dead and asked, "James, what do you think of this?"
"It's a fighting song!" James shouted, and started a mosh pit in the living room with Robert and Emmeline. Bob and Emme weren't exactly willing participants, but the mosh pit formed regardless. Within a new moments, James was crowd-surfing over the fallen bodies of his brother and sister.
Robert's last day of school is Monday. He came home with lots of schoolwork he'd been collecting, as the teacher asked the kids to clean out their desks. He got an A- on this assignment, poetry-writing. Robert's subject of choice was Max, our beloved cat.
Maximum Cat
Max is the maximum cat
He is extremely big and fat
When he says 'mrr-yo-yo'
He seems fatter than 50 yo-yos
He is not flat, but fat.
Fat
Max is my cat
He acted so big when he sat
Whe he lets out a wail
He flings up his tail
And acts unlike any other cat.
Pig
Max is so big,
he's fatter than a pig
if he ate a fly
he wouldn't die
but he certainly wouldn't eat a fig.
So the fridge went on the blink again the other night -- same problem as before. The bottom part wasn't getting cold, while the freezer was working fine. The freezer has been uncharacteristically covered in a thick layer of frost lately. I checked the gasket around the freezer door to make sure that humidity and air wasn't venting in from the outside, to no avail.
The basic principle employed by this fridge seems to be convection. The freezer gets cold, and a circulating fan in its rear blows air downward through a piece of venting into the refrigerator proper. Two returns vent warmer air from the ceiling of the refrigerator area into a passage underneath the food storage area in the freezer, back to the refrigeration coils. The cycle repeats itself.
When I defrosted it before, I noticed that that area where the returns are was pretty heavily frozen in, so giving another go at defrosting seemed like a capital idea. This would take a while longer, though.
This time I noticed that the coils behind the freezer's back panel were frozen solid in a block of ice. I suspect my beloved ice maker -- still my number one best home improvement after three years in this house -- may have developed some sort of leak that might be contributing to this, as the water stays liquid until it's actually in the ice-making reservoir that's inside the freezer. There's no obvious external leak, so it's not exactly easy to check into -- especially since looking at that connection would have required me to disassemble the back of the freezer using tools I don't have. So I shut off the water to the ice-maker instead, deciding that we'll live without if we have to, at least for now.
Anyway, I waited a couple of hours for as much of that coil-ice to melt as possible (emptying out the heretofore unused drip tray several times, and making a general mess of the floor underneath the refrigerator) and things seem to be better now. I'll keep an eye on it and see if the frost reappears -- if it doesn't, it may be time to call the professionals...
It's not surprising that each of my kids has really different taste in music, but it is interesting to see where Bonnie's and my tastes have influenced them, because we have very eclectic tastes in music. I admit to having favorites, but any given day of the week, you're as likely to hear me playing 80's new wave or synth-pop as you are to hear hip-hop, jazz, metal, chill-out electronica, R&B or what-have-you.
Bob likes music from video game soundtracks -- given his interest, that's no surprise. Though he also likes some of the J-pop music we've picked up from anime soundtracks over the years, too. Yesterday at a talent show at his school, he and three friends (whom he taught the song) did a rendition of "Violin" by They Might Be Giants. TMBG is a constant favorite around the house -- the kids like it because it's silly and fun to sing along to. Actually, that's kinda why Bonnie and I like it too.
Emmeline likes Carole King (especially the Really Rosie soundtrack) and the theme to Sailor Moon -- her favorite anime of all time -- but doesn't seem all that into music, to be honest.
James is a straight up punk rocker/metalhead.
Yesterday I was listening to iTunes while I was working in the living room, and I was playing "Dance Hall Days" by Wang Chung -- an old favorite of mine. James was looking glum and bored with his head in his hands, singing along to the music going "blah blah blah."
For a change of pace I put on "Peace Sells" by Megadeth.
James jumps up, looks at me eyes ablaze, makes the goat sign (does it upside down and backwards likes Spider-Man) and shouts, "Daddy, ME-TALLLLLL!"
Fast forward a few hours to a talent show at Robert's school. I asked one of Robert's classmates where she got her Ramones t-shirt and James again suddenly animates, and shouts, "RAMONES!"
Then James starts dancing around, singing, "Hey ho, let's go, hey ho, let's go" (the opening line from Blitzkrieg Bop).
Also, James is really into those fake water-transfer tattoos. I have little doubt that some real ones -- along with a few piercings and maybe a dog collar or two -- are in his future.
Yesterday was a really bittersweet day -- a milestone in the life of the Cohen family. It was James' last day of preschool.
We've used the same preschool for all three kids -- a local cooperative called the Waquoit Nursery School. They're in Falmouth, and we're in Mashpee. Both of us have moved farther away from each other since we first met, to the other sides of Falmouth and Mashpee respectively, but we've still stayed connected. They're good folks, and our kids have learned and grown a lot under their care.
So we have a combined six academic years (and seven calendar years, since there was a one-year gap between Emmeline and James) of involvement with the folks at Waquoit. As a co-op, the school is much more dependent on parental involvement than many schools are, so I guess it's no wonder that we have such a strong emotional attachment to them.
It's also a bit sad knowing that this is the final kid we'll put through the school -- James is the last Cohen kid. Next year, he starts public school at the same elementary school that his brother and sister have gone to.
So I'll miss the regular interaction with those folks, and I'm sure that James will miss some of his friends who he's grown so much with over the past two years. What I won't miss is the monthly tuition bill.
I've been drinking it since I was a kid. Well, teenager anyway. It's like mother's milk.
It wakes me up.
I like the aroma, and I like the taste.
They sell it by the pound. Not the 12 oz. bag, or the 10 oz. can. An honest-to-god 16 oz. pound.
I am not the handiest guy in the world. I can replace a sink fixture reasonably well, and I can break a computer apart and put it back together again in minutes, but there's a lot of stuff that I'd just as soon pay a trained professional to handle as do it myself. So when I got my wife's e-card for Father's Day, I laughed out loud -- it's an interactive one that shows a bunch of tools, and when you roll your mouse over any of the tools, you hear a guy screaming in pain and cursing in different and unusual ways.
Anyway, apropos of Father's Day, I had two incidents today that reminded me that I can fix things when I need to and am motivated.
I discovered mid-afternoon that it was almost as warm in the fridge as it was in the kitchen. The freezer was working fine, but the thermometer in the fridge was in the 50's -- well into "spoilage" range, according to the little chart imprinted on the thermometer's face.
The fridge has two dials inside of it that control temperature and air flow exchange between the refrigerator and the freezer. I cranked both of them to their maximum settings and watched ... and waited ... as nothing happened.
Well, the air exchange happens through three different vents between the freezer and the refrigerator. The central vent is connected to the fan that circulates cold air through the freezer, and the two others are returns, near as I can tell. And it was pretty clear that all three were plugged solid with ice.
So out came all the frozen goods, and the storage tray, and the ice cube tray. In went a rachet with a special attachment I had to pull two screws out of the bottom panel of the freezer. And lo and behold, a solid wall of frost and ice in the back of the freezer, right where the vents are.
I didn't want to let any of the food spoil, so I grabbed Bonnie's hair dryer and blasted it on full until the ice and frost melted away enough for me to jiggle the vent covers loose and clear them myself. The fridge is working fine right now, and I must say that I'm inordinately pleased with myself for figuring it out, even if it was just common sense.
Problem #2 was potentially more serious, but just as easy to fix. I went to the grocery store at dusk and figured out in fairly short order that the headlights on Mom's new pickup weren't working. All the other lights were working, just not the ones that actually let me see the road in the dark.
I checked the fuse panel under the dash -- nothing. I checked the fuse panel under the hood -- all's quiet on the western front. Then I traced the wires to the headlamps.
Some friggin' numbnuts at the dealership pulled the wires off the back of the lamps and didn't bother -- or forgot -- to put them back on.
I can only presume that this happened after the state inspection was done, because that obviously wouldn't have passed. Wink wink, nudge nudge.
So Mom bought herself a killer Father's Day gift this year -- a moderately used Toyota Tacoma 4x4 (that's a compact pickup, in case you're unfamiliar with Toyota's product line). She's wanted a pickup for a while, in fact, back in the mid-80's, she had one. She went on a business trip today so she's lending it to me for the week, so I drove her to the airport this morning and had an opportunity to drive about 140 miles round trip in the process.
I'll be perfectly honest that my desire to see her get the truck was less than altruistic -- though I'm glad she's happy with it, I'm equally glad that Bonnie and I now have easy access to a vehicle that we can use to haul bulky material to the dump, like our past-its-prime sofa that's not even fit for donation to some needy cause. Since Mom lives on the other side of town, it'll be easier to coordinate with her than it would be with my father in law, the only other relatively close family member who has a truck. He lives about half an hour away.
Interestingly, it's the exact same color combination as the 12 year old Subaru Impreza it replaces -- a forest green exterior with a beige cloth interior. Unlike the Sube, though, the Toyota has working AC and a decent stereo.
As I said, this is Mom's second go-round with a Toyota pickup, although it's been more than 15 years since she last had one. That one, like this, was an Xtracab model, but these days the Xtracab means real seats in the back, while back then there was only a shelf that was moderately suited for our dog, but little more. This one's a 4x4, though, which should be better in the bad weather. Mom even wants to take it to the beach and go on the dunes with it.
Toyota pickups certainly built better with higher-quality components than they used to be, but what I'm amazed by is how similar they are, as well. Just like the last one, this thing has an inline 4-cylinder engine that looks remarkably similar to the same one in the '85 model she had -- relatively simple setup, unadorned with a lot of horrendously complex gadgetry and machinery under the hood. If it ain't broke, don't fix it, as the saying goes.
I told Corey about Mom's truck last night. It went down like this:
Peter Cohen: so my mom just bought a pickup truck.
Corey Tamas: and she has an electric guitar
Corey Tamas: Wasn't that right?
Corey Tamas: Your mom is more metal than you are, Peter.
Peter Cohen: what's more, it's a 4x4
Corey Tamas: Wow.
Corey Tamas: How does it feel to be out-metaled by your mom?
A lot of people -- and I mean a lot of people -- are wondering just what the hell is going on with Nintendo right now. They won't talk about the specifications of their new Revolution console, and speak in broad strokes about the future of gaming that makes it sound like they're heading in a very different direction from either Microsoft or Sony.
A piece I ready today in GameDaily gives some insight about what one influential figure at Nintendo -- Shigeru Miyamoto, creator of Nintendo's best-loved properties -- thinks about the current state of gaming and what has to happen to change. I'm delighted to read him articulate some of the same things I've been hearing from others in the business, and some things that I believe myself. God only knows he's in a better position to influence this than a lot of other people are.
The video game industry has become "something exclusive to the people who've stuck with it for a long time," said Miyamoto, suggesting that it's become too insulated and too dependent on a closed ecology of "hardcore" gamers. The difference Nintendo brings to the table is that they're willing to innovate and try new things with broad appeal -- he points to Nintendogs as an example. That's a Nintendo DS game that has you interacting with a virtual dog, and it's already sold more than 400,000 units in Japan -- what's more, it's pushing sales of the DS hardware, according to reports.
I'm not holding Nintendo, or even Miyamoto-san, up as paragons of virtue in the video game market. Not everything they do is perfect. But they do a lot of stuff right. And it's a good message to read as Microsoft and Sony seem content to slug out a specification fight, and fanboys mount ever more strident arguments about who has the best next-gen console. Nintendo, on the other hand, seems genuinely more interested in making games that are fun to play.
Geez, what a concept.
So I took off this week, partly just to burn some vacation time off the books but partly because I'm way past burnout myself and needed some time to recharge, especially right before Macworld Expo Boston. Expo won't be busy as San Francisco or even E3, but expos are expos, and the time always finds a way to get filled up with activity.
I've spent blessedly little time on iChat this week, but that doesn't mean I haven't been busy -- alas, my own procrastination and poor planning made me have to spend some time writing Game Room reviews for Macworld, and there have been a few news items here and there that I wanted to make sure got posted.
Outside of the few hours I've spent doing work-related stuff, it's actually been really busy. Twice this week I've had to bring in the van for repairs; then we had to go to Robert's school to discuss his latest disciplinary infraction with his school's vice principal; James graduated from pre-school; and today we have to go to Emme's school to wrap up the last of what they'll need to develop an Individualized Educational Plan (IEP) for her as she transitions to the school where Robert goes, next year.
This weekend will give me a chance to catch up on some of the chores I've let slip through my fingers, such as mowing the lawn. Then it's back to work on Monday.
Darn near 90 degrees F yesterday, today it's in the 50s and cool enough to wear a sweater.
WTF.
We live in a two-story house, and we have forced hot water for heat. That means that central air conditioning would be a very expensive refit for us. A contractor a while back suggested in an informal bid that it'd cost more than $8,000 to install.
Summers in New England can be quite oppressive, however, which makes A/C more of a necessity than an option. So our solution is to have three window units in place, which, while inefficient, do the job.
Up to now I haven't been able to install them, though. They each go in a window in both rooms upstairs -- our bedroom, the boys' room, and one goes downstairs in Emmeline's room. Between the three of them, it's enough to cool down the entire house, even if it does make the electricity meter spin like a top.
Emmeline has been holding up the show. Her room is a pigsty and I couldn't walk in there, let alone carry in a heavy window air conditioner. I probably just should have stuck it in a window of another room, but it became a battle of wills. Especially since that particular unit was a gift from Emme's grandmother, as the young lass once complained, "It never gets cool in my room. Ever."
This morning, as she was sweating her way to get ready for school, Emmeline was finally convinced of the error of her ways. She cleared a path for me -- short of cleaning up her room it's a viable solution. I installed the unit and cranked them up.
By the time I got back from the mechanic's the temperature in the house had easily dropped five or ten degrees. It was the same effect as when you open the fridge door on a hot day.
Relief.
...at least for now.
Fate smiled upon me -- it turned out to be the drain plug on the oil pan that was the problem (I suspected as much, but was bracing for worse). A free fix. Yay, Midas of Falmouth!
So the torrent of orange antifreeze urination has ceased, but this has uncovered another problem - the steady drip drip drip of motor oil coming off the bottom of the engine. I lost about a quarter to a third of a cup parked for about an hour after running the van for a while.
For cryin' out loud. It's times like this I wish I could get a new car.
Near as I can tell, it's localized near the oil pan, which is at the bottom of the engine, almost between the two front wheels. Looks like it's dripping from the driver's side, so if I'm lucky, it's simply the drain plug or the gasket around the oil pan. If God really hates me, it's something north of there, and will cost even more to fix.
So I had to drive up to Marlborough -- about 90 miles away -- on Friday to meet with a client. On the way back, the van started to heat up. It never actually overheated, but it got close. The temperature gauge in the van spans from 100 to 260 degrees Fahrenheit. Usually the gauge stays glued at around 150 or 160 degrees, but rarely does it get any higher. During that drive, it regularly spiked up to almost 250, and never dropped below 200.
Chevy vans like this one use "Dex-Cool," and they advise you against mixing it with conventional "green" antifreeze (Dex-Cool is orange) -- it's tough to find the special stuff at filling stations. I kept my eye out for an auto parts place but never found one.
Anyway, I limped home. The next morning I bought a gallon of Dex-Cool and cut it 50/50 with water. The van drank a gallon and a half. No wonder it was running hot.
The bigger problem, though: The antifreeze was pouring out almost as fast as I was pouring it in. I lost another half-gallon in the next day.
This morning my mechanic worked on it, and replaced the water pump. Almost $400 worth of work, but the van's not peeing everywhere now.
*sigh.*
I guess it's a regional thing. I mean, you can get an iced Americano at any Starbucks in the land, but requesting an iced coffee at a run-of-the-mill donut shop outside of the Northeast can get you weird looks.
I confirmed this recently with my mother-in-law, who spends her winter months in Florida. She went into a local breakfast place at one point on a warm day and asked for an iced coffee.
"Iced...what?"
"Iced coffee."
"Darlin' we don't have iced coffee. We have hot coffee. I can getcha an iced tea, sweet or unsweet. But we don't have no iced coffee," said the waitron with a confused look.
A few years back on a hot July day during Macworld Expo, I mentioned to my boss and his wife that I'd like to go get an iced coffee. They're both from Nova Scotia. They looked at me like I was crazy. Neither of them had ever heard of such a thing. Apparently Tim Horton's doesn't serve its coffee iced. Only hot. Then again, their summers are only about six days long, so I guess I'm not all together surprised.
That mirrors my experience flying through Chicago's O'Hare airport. At one of the terminals there's a Dunkin' Donuts kiosk. Dunkin' Donuts. Purveyors of coffee, iced or hot, throughout New England. I ordered a medium iced coffee, milk, dark, no sugar.
"You want a ... what?" the girl asked.
"Iced coffee."
"We don't have iced coffee," she said, casting me a baleful look and propping one arm on her hip for emphasis, long, manicured dagger-like nails curling underneath her hand like the talons of a bird of prey. "Only hot."
My flight was boarding in five minutes, and I needed a massive caffeine injection to make to San Francisco awake. I had work to do, dammit -- I wasn't going to waste that exit row seat by not using my laptop during the flight.
I noticed there was a little soda fountain in one side of the kiosk, dispensing popular soft drinks. "Do you sell soft drinks?" I asked. "Soda?"
"Yeah," she said.
"Do they have ice in them?"
"Sure."
"Well, do you think you could fill up one of those medium soft drink cups with ice, then pour some coffee over it, and maybe leave a little room at the top for milk?"
There was a long pause as she stared at me, working her disbelieving eyes from head to my feet. Apparently for this woman, my request had passed this interaction from the realm of "simple transaction" into the domain of "arcane ritual." And as is sometimes the case with simple minds, the unknown brings with it fear and doubt.
"I wouldn't even know how to ring that up on the register," she said, leaving her lips pursed after the last syllable of register just for emphasis. Daring me to make the next move. Taunting me.
And all I could think of was that scene from Five Easy Pieces when Bobby (Jack Nicholson) asks the diner waitress for toast, which he's told isn't on the menu. Eventually he haggles with her for a chicken salad sandwich on toasted bread, hold the chicken salad.
"You want me to hold the chicken, huh?" says the waitress.
"I want you to hold it between your knees," says Bobby.
"Honey, I've got to be on a plane in a few minutes and I really, really want some iced coffee. I don't care what you charge me for it, I'll pay it and I'll tip you. Just fill up the cup with ice, pour some coffee over it and put some milk on top so I don't get an ulcer," I said.
The desperation of a harried traveler who simply wants a bit of comfort before once again locking himself in a too-small space for several hours as he hurtles through the rarified air of the upper atmosphere. Something she was apparently used to. That seemed to break the logjam. I did get my iced coffee.
My kids were watching TV news with me tonight when the announcer ended his voice-over with a reference to "... the Jackson camp." Referring, of course, to Michael Jackson's court troubles.
"The Jackson Camp? That's weird," said James.
"Oh yeah? What do you think happens at the Jackson Camp?" I asked.
Bob and James looked at me solemnly, and Bob glanced at the TV, seeing Michael Jackson's ghoulish visage behind mirrorshades on the TV. Then Bob started to giggle. "Let's just say that we wouldn't want to go there," he said.
I think it's every parent's dream that their children will exceed their own abilities and station in life. We all want a better life for our kids, right?
My oldest child, Robert, is definitely doing that in spades. Unfortunately, his biggest skill seems to be in anti-authoritarian behavior.
The boy was suspended for a day on Tuesday after poking another boy in the schoolyard with a pointed stick. He was sent to the vice principal's office and reprimanded. That's when Robert called the vice principal a bastard, and got suspended.
So we made him write an apology letter after he got home on Monday.
"Dear Mr. Dees: I'm sorry I was disrespectful and called you a bad name (if you recall, I said you were a bastard)."
I didn't have the heart to change it. He just had to get one last dig in...
So the unthinkable is true: Apple will use Intel-made CPUs in future Mac designs. The resulting gnashing of teeth and tearing of clothing and hair among the Mac-Macs of the world is, sadly, predictable and not very surprising.
It's still way too early for anyone to make an accurate assessment of how this is going to change things, but I have a few early thoughts I want to get out while they're still fresh.
On armchair quarterbacking
A lot of folks wonder why Apple didn't go with AMD over Intel, etc. I don't think they're really looking at the long view on this, and seeing what Intel's processor roadmap holds for the next couple of years. Let me emphasize that: for the next couple of years. It'll be 2007 by the time Apple switches to an all-Intel architecture, and by then, Intel's CPU offerings are going to look very different than they do now.
On strident reactions
I've read more than one comment in various online forums from dyed-in-the-wool Mac heads who shriek, "An Intel-based Macintosh shall not sully my desk, now or ever!" Good riddance to bad rubbish. If they're that hardcore, chances are that they're probably still using a Quadra with Mac OS 9.2 on it because they didn't like Mac OS X either -- which means they're not helping anyone's bottom line, who's trying to make a business out of this. Even if they're up to date, damn it, we as an industry have to grow out of fanboyish behavior sooner or later. That sort of attitude is downright creepy and it's done as much to make us pariahs as it has to thrill researchers who do business studies about the phenomenal loyalty of Mac users.
Developers, developers, developers
I think Steve put a good spin on how easy it is to develop universal binaries, but a quick check of the docs put up on Apple's Web site show that this won't be an easy row to hoe for many Mac developers. Bigendian/littlendian issues, AltiVec optimizations and more are likely to cause some real pains for developers who want to support the new hardware.
Speaking of which, the reports I've seen suggest that Rosetta basically doesn't do anything for AltiVec enhanced apps. PowerPC-binary game performance would have already gotten screwed having to run in emulation on the new iron, and now it's doubly-screwed. That's not good news. But you know what? A lot can change in a year or two. So I'm not putting all my eggs in one basket just quite yet.
Ultimately, my point is this: Who really cares what's under the hood, as long as the user experience is as good or better? Or am I just being naive?
Today's Boston Globe Magazine has an article about the treatment of BLT's by restaurants in the Boston area. (It's not yet online as I write this.)
BLTs are very close to my heart. I grew up with them as a comfort food. I like bacon on things, as my friends will attest. Often, in my darkest moments, the thought of the gustatory pleasures of bacon-enhanced cuisine has sustained my soul and kept me from utter despair.
There are a million different ways to make a good BLT. You can use rye bread. Pumpernickel. Bulkie rolls. Challah. You can use Boston lettuce. Bib lettuce. Romaine. Iceberg. You can use plum tomatoes, beefsteaks, hell, you can even experiment with cherry tomatoes if you wish. You can slather it with mayo. You can use other condiments if that's your desire.
But you just don't fuck with the basic constituents of a BLT. It's a Bacon, Lettuce and Tomato sandwich. Bee. El. Tee. There are four basic components, if you include the bread. That's it.
And indeed, the beauty of the BLT is in its simplicity.
In how elegantly the individual flavors of the bacon, lettuce and tomato swirl together.
The crunch. The sweetness. The tanginess.
A well-made BLT is a gift from the gods, and it is not to be taken lightly. Much like a good cup of coffee. A bacon cheeseburger. New york cheesecake. A frosty mug of lager. These are simple pleasures, but they make life worth living. And that is why I take umbrage with the focus of the Boston Globe Magazine article, entitled Pimp My BLT.
One restaurant offers the BLT as an appetizer served as a disc of tomato, a wedge of iceberg lettuce, a tiny strip of bacon and a fried oyster (OYSTER, WTF) held together with a "dot of herb aioli" and "a minute amount of fried jasmine rice."
Another place serves a "PLT," substituting bacon with pancetta and serving arugula in place of lettuce, adding in a soft-shelled crab as well.
And yet another place offers lobster BLTs.
For the love of God, leave my poor BLT alone. Your nouvelle cuisine is not welcome here!
So I'm not as dumb as I thought I was -- the secondary hood latch was indeed in need of a good greasing. And the oil has been changed as well. Now I just have to pick up some coolant, since it's a bit low, and this van uses special stuff (Dex-Cool) instead of the regular green crap you can pick up at the hardware store.
It's sunny and 80 degrees outside. I just made a fresh pitcher of iced tea. Right now, I really don't give a damn about Apple and Intel. I'm gonna go sit in the backyard and listen to the birds.
My universe is made up of three kinds of people: Those who like Coke, those who like Pepsi, and those who don't like either Coke or Pepsi. Most of the time I only concern myself with the first two.
Me, I'm a Coke guy. Can't tell you why. Maybe Coke was disproportionately available in the areas I grew up. But I can tell you this: When I taste it now, I think Pepsi is hideous. Diet Pepsi is moderately better. I don't even mind Pepsi One.
Ever since I was diagnosed with diabetes, I've made a conscious effort to exorcise sugary drinks from my diet. But I still like the occasional soda. So I switched some time ago to Diet Coke.
Diet Coke is okay, but it's a pale shadow of Coke. The taste and texture is entirely different. Sure, it's still dark brown. Sure, it's still bubbly. Sure, it's still refreshing. But Diet Coke has a harsh bitterness to it that regular Coke doesn't have. Undoubtedly the result of the aspartame used to sweeten it. Unfortunately, that bitterness also changes completely the Coke tasting experience.
So it was with some interest that I tried Diet Coke with Splenda last week. We had a coupon for it so I figured I'd pick up a 2-liter bottle. I was amazed. Gone is the bite of Diet Coke. It tastes just like Coke. Only it's low-calorie. It is truly a miracle of modern science and food chemistry.
Splenda tastes much like sugar but without the calories -- it's based on a chemical called acesulfame potassium, as I understand it, and I have no doubt that an arcane chemical process is used to refine the product that would terrify me to the very depths of my soul if i understood it. It is with calm awareness that I suspect this product will give me cancer of the urethra, advanced Parkinson's-like symptoms and erectile dysfunction within a couple of decades since it's been approved by the FDA, and we all know what their track record is like.
In the interim, I remain blissfully ignorant. It's almost like drinking The Real Thing(tm) again.
I can reduce a $3000 desktop computer to its constituent components and reassemble them in a matter of minutes without any fear whatsoever that I'll break something. For that gift, I'll thank a pair of tech savvy adult role models my mom hooked me up with through the Jewish Big Brother/Big Sister program when I was a kid, and a friend or two along the way that exhibited no fear around electronics. But get me around a car, and I'm a frickin' gimp.
The van is acting up -- temperature is climbing a bit and the oil pressure is low. I know enough to check the oil, but I can't get the damn hood open.
That's right, I'm too retarded to even get the van's hood open.
In all fairness, I don't think it's my fault. The hood release works well enough, but the secondary hood release -- that latch you have to fiddle with under the hood after you spring the initial release -- seems welded shut.
I noticed the last time I checked the oil, more than a month ago now, that the secondary release was getting stiff, but didn't have any grease to lube it with. Because I'm not exactly mechanically inclined. Now it's either rusted in place, or there's just too much tension on the spring to let me open it.
Anti-static wrist straps, soldering irons and cans of compressed air I have in abundance. But grease and motor oil? That's what Midas is for. Speaking of which, I have an appointment this afternoon with my mechanic, hopefully to get this fixed.
We're just now coming out of a period of sucktastic weather -- we've finally had a few days of unbroken decent sunny days, albeit a bit cooler than we generally expect this time of year. But all that cold, wet weather has caused us to gain some unwanted tenants. Namely, arachnids. Loads of them.
Spiders and I get along. Spiders eat insects, and I hate insects. I also think spiders are just kind of neat. The whole eight legs and web-spinning thing is cool. But spiders and I get along for some solid reasons. Number one on the list is because I outmass them by several orders of magnitude. If it was more of a one to one ratio, I'd fear them. So when the spiders find their way into the house, for the most part, I don't mind. They're about the size of my pinky fingernail. That's not threatening, even if they are a bit alien.
But some of these spiders that I've seen in the house recently -- man, they're rejects from World of Warcraft. These Volkswagen-sized monstrosities are big enough to carry away goats and other small livestock in their mandibles. They're terrifying.
I'd take pictures, but I'm usually too busy holding my crotch to keep from peeing myself to bother.
Mass. governor Mitt Romney wants to see auto insurance reformed.
"'You can expect to see a huge donnybrook over this effort, because some companies are going to do very, very well if we keep a Soviet-style regulated system,' Romney said."
I don't much like Romney, but kudos to him for this effort. And double kudos for using the word "donnybrook."
I wonder, is a donnybrook worse than a brouhaha? Or a hullabaloo?
Dubya: "But the stem cell issue is really one of federal funding, that's the issue before us, and that is whether or not we use taxpayers' money to destroy life. ... I don't believe we should."
Then what the hell are we doing in Iraq?