29

Nov

Moron Mechanic

scooter

Rather trying to “walk off” Thanksgiving turkey and wine, I chose to spend what little is left of the holiday drinking coffee, watching sports, and working on the various motorized vehicles that litter the general environs of my home.

And I really attempted to tackle the sorts of mechanical jobs at the end of which I could hang a “Mission Accomplished” banner across the garage threshold.  You know the kinds of things I’m focused on here:  tightening a few bolts, inflating tires, and wiping off the greasy detritus of many, many months of mechanical non-intervention. 

True story:  I was recently engaged in the semi-annual washing of my much beloved but very “beaterish” Miata (“You know that’s a girl’s car, Dad.”), when I heard a hissing sound from one of the wheels.  Fearing the worst — that my car was either haunted (which would have required an immediate call to Zak Bagans) or was harboring a snake — I soon discovered that I had damaged one of the valve stems when I cleaned the wheel. 

(Note to self:  Don’t clean the wheels.  They just get dirty again anyway.)

Upon closer inspection, I discovered all four valve stems were damaged and ready to crack, and for once in my long-suffering lifetime of automotive woes, I actually had a workable backup plan already in place, as I had picked up a used set of wheels and tires several months ago.  They had been rotting on the side of the house since purchase, of course, but they held air. 

Ready, set, swap-o-matic, and I was back in business. 

It only took me two months to get around to fixing the valve stems on the original wheels, but I had a great time doing it this week.  I got to use an industrial, real-world tire changer.  And the guy at the hobby shop only had to explain to me five times how to use it. 

I’ve got new respect for the knuckle-draggers at Discount Tire now, believe you me.

So the tire mounting deal turned out not to be enough of a challenge, and I ramped it up a notch:  Clean the carburetor on a friend’s scooter. 

Now I had already cleaned and serviced this scooter for the same guy ab0ut a year ago, and though I returned a perfectly functioning, driveable piece of crap Chinese motorbike to him, he promptly let it sit for a year and finally returned it to me, head hung in shame, asking me to repeat the favor. 

I agreed to work on the bike on one condition.  I told him he had to sell it if I fixed it. 

That might sound harsh but:  1)  I was sick of this particular piece of machinery, and 2)  I feared for his safety riding it.  It truly is a junker and is truly better off being donated to some high school automotive shop class to demonstrate how not to build quality machinery. 

Long story short.  I’d done this particular job before and could do it again, probably in under an hour — especially if I didn’t replace all the bolts and screws (or simply dropped some of them, never to be seen again).

So I dutifully pulled everything apart and got most of it back together correctly, and then tried to fire it up. 

And tried again. 

And again.

Oh, it cranked.  It cranked until I killed the battery two or three times.  This is how I know having a battery charger comes in handy — another purchase made because of idiotic decisions I’ve made in the past.

But no matter what I did, I could not get the stupid thing to start. 

Surely I had made some stupidly simple mistake in reassembling the carb, I thought. 

I probably tore it down and rebuilt it at least three times, since I was absolutely, positively sure it had a carb problem.

Nada. 

Time to retreat to the Internet.  And I quote, “In general, a scooter needs three things to start:  fuel, spark, and the left handbrake engaged.  And remember to ensure the kill switch is not on.”

Snap! 

Kill switch.  This bike has a kill switch?  No way.

I went back outside to determine whether this stupid scooter had a kill switch.

Yes way.

Was it pressed in?

Yes way.

If I disengaged it, would the scooter immediately start?

Yes way.

By the way, even though the engine started on the first crank, because I had screwed around with the carburetor so much, I am fairly confident I damaged some of the internals. 

Why do I think this?  Well, though the bike runs, it runs and drives like crap which, I suppose, is appropriate, given that the entire thing is a piece of crap (or carp, depending on how tired my typing is, and that’s kind of a Chinese analogy, too). 

Now I sit here in a pool of shame and need to go out and buy a carb rebuild kit, to fix something that I should never have broken in the first place.

On this Thanksgiving, then, I have confirmed that I am both a moron and an idiotic mechanic. 

If you haven’t figured out something to give thanks for this year, count your lucky stars I’m not the guy working on your car, or motorcycle, or scooter, or bicycle.

Did I mention I’m a pretty awful carpenter, too? 

Happy Thanksgiving, then.

– Dad

 

10 years ago Short URL Comments

Embarrassing Stories/Humor/Laugh at My Expense/The Daily Trip

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28

Sep

Moron Etiquette

moron1

In a flurry of pre-Halloween activity, the morons were out in force today.

Typically they clog up the roads and by-ways where I live, but they can be found scurrying around retail establishments, as well.

Now what I consider moronic behavior might differ somewhat from others, of course, but let me provide a typical example.

Depending on the amount of foot traffic involved, entering and exiting the double-glass doors featured at the entrance of many stores can be challenging, especially if you’ve got your hands full of crap junk.

I always try to defer to that little old lady making her way outside, even if it’s not completely clear who really has the right of way.  It’s the gentlemanly, proper thing to do, after all.  I don’t really expect any sort of thank you, but a nod or a quick smile is appreciated.

What I don’t understand is when I’m met with complete and utter obliviousness when I clearly am helping one of these morons folks out.

Of course, that happened today.  Though I had the right of way and was holding some stuff, I duly made way for an older lady and graciously held the door for her.

Nothing.  Nada.

In fact, I thought I whiffed the ever-so-faint sense of entitlement as she walked by.

If I cared any more about it, I might have gotten a tad mad.  But I really didn’t, cause I see it so often.

Thus, she qualifies as a moron in my book.  Maybe not a full-blown Class A Moron, but she’s not that far down the classification list.

Then we have the example of the driving morons.

You’ve seen them.  They’re the ones cutting in and out of traffic, and even though you happen to be exceeding the speed limit by at least ten miles per hour, it’s not good enough for them.  They tail-gate you, try to stare you down, and ultimately zip out and floor it around you for at least fifteen yards until they ride the next guy’s bumper.

My reaction?

It’s probably not the right or righteous thing to do, but if I see this kind of thing going on behind me via my rear view mirror, I will sometimes try to accelerate just enough to make it impossible for them to keep doing the same thing when they pull level with me.

The key to this particular strategy is to feign distraction or at least indifference.  Glance out the side window.  Adjust the radio.

Just never make eye contact and speed up ever so slightly so that it’s practically imperceptible.

Of course, this type of thing is only effective for a few seconds before the pace of the cars around me opens gaps and the guy can pick up again where he left off previously.

And it’s always guys.  Never any women.

I’ll have to think about that some more, I suppose.

Anyway, this delaying tactic provides only momentary mental relief for me, and I have to be sure it doesn’t transition into some kind of road rage affair, for either him or me.

The fact of the matter is that I’m so worn out from commuting these days, I rarely get upset at anything or anyone anymore on the roads.

So as the moron guns his ride off into the horizon, I typically try to busy myself finding some tunes on the radio that are vaguely familiar.  It’s a life.

Finally, I was confronted with a different type of entitled moronic behavior late this afternoon, but with an altogether different result.

As I approached a traffic light just a few blocks from my house, the light turned green and I had no need to brake.  I simply continued to accelerate through the intersection, and not particularly fast, at that.

I could see on my right that someone in a Lexus SUV did not appear to be slowing down for their red light.  This vehicle had all the earmarks of rolling through the light in order to make a right turn immediately in front of me.

Sure enough, that’s exactly what happened.  Though I was already in the intersection, she (yes, it was a she) ran the light to make her turn.

But there was a difference with this moron.

She knew she had committed a moving violation sin, and she waved to me and made motions of apology.

What a bummer!  I had already begun concocting a string of vitriol, which was to be accompanied by vigorous hand and arm gestures.

Her demeanor completely threw me off my intended diatribe course.

Instead, I simply shrugged my shoulders, nodded, and carried on my merry way.

If you’re going to be a moron, I suppose that’s the best way to carry it off.

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL Comments

Family/Humor/The Daily Trip

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09

Feb

Well, It Happened Again….

seatbelt

Exactly how does this thing work?

 I don’t go lurching into each and every day desperately seeking out new experiences.  They are out there, all right, but I ain’t really looking for them.  Most of the time I’m perfectly happy having a cup of coffee in the morning while scanning the Cars For Sale By Owner (yeah, right) listings on Craigslist. 

That may be a sad standard of satisfaction for most people some people a few people, but I’ve reached the stage where I really don’t give a sh care much what other folks think anymore about it. 

And you think Daughter is a cynic?  I’ve got her beat most of the time, but I prefer to think of it as “being realistic.” 

Yep.  That’s sounds plausible. 

Well, with that lead in, you might be wondering what happened to me today.  The answer to that drama is I witnessed something I have never, ever seen before in my life.

And the implications were frightening.

It all started innocently enough as I headed to the airport this morning for yet another cross-country flight.  All this travel is really, really starting to get old, but at least I was flying in the right direction this time.  That is, I was going home. 

Mild “Yay” for me.

Because I have accumulated so many miles with one particular airline, I try to fly with Southwe them exclusively.   

I’ve described my travails with passengers previously, and once again, we were jammed together in the cabin, much too close for personal comfort, if you ask me. 

By the way, what’s the deal with “one carry-on and one personal item”?  I might have been bad at math in school, but the universally loose interpretation of that luggage restriction harkens back to Bill Clinton’s famous retort of, “it depends on what the meaning of ‘is’ is.” 

For the love of God, folks, leave the Sbarro boxes back in the terminal!  And for context, you better believe I’m stashing both my laptop and my jacket in the overhead.  It’s either that or someone’s Urban Sombrero up there. 

I’m sorry, since I know that’s not how Zen-me usually acts, but, after all, it’s a five-hour flight, and it’s dog-eat-dog in the air these days. 

Okay.  I’m better now.

So I decided to score an aisle location for this journey, mainly because I knew that huge cup of foo-foo coffee I already downed was going to hit me about two hours in, and I didn’t want to wake up/step on/climb over my fellow inmates travellers to get to the lavatory.

As is was sitting in my seat watching the mostly forlorn Muggles file past me, I gave a little bit of thought to why we have bathrooms and not lavatories in our homes, but I quickly tired of that rumination and I busied myself with a two-day-old copy of USA Today.  I just couldn’t handle the Wall Street Journal because my brains was so fried from the last two weeks of work. 

Then a little old lady sat down next to me in the middle seat.  To be honest, she didn’t look that much older than me, but I don’t know how else to describe her.  She was a tiny thing, seemed nice enough, and was apparently going to Colorado on a ski trip.  I picked up all this travel information, by the way, from sneaking glances over at her reading materials.  Sadly, I did not engage in any actual conversation.

And then it happened. 

The flight attendant began reviewing all the safety features of the Boeing 737, including a lengthy description of the location of the lavatory paper towels (“they are for your hands”) as opposed to the tissues (“they are for your noses”).  When she got to the seat belt part, my Fellow Passenger in the middle seat was completely flummoxed. 

She didn’t know how to use the seatbelt. 

Seriously.

Since I was paralyzed by shock and awe, she turned to the dozing seatmate at the window, who graciously demonstrated for her how the clasp worked. 

I’d never seen this before. 

Heck, with enough time and canine treats, I figure even Dandy-Dog could figure this one out on his own. 

But not this nice little lady (and to re-emphasize, she did seem really nice). 

It gets better.

Turns out she’s a nurse, and a senior one, at that. 

“Nurse, please start the patient on 10cc’s of Alblutify, stat!”

“Sure, doctor, but how does this IV thing work?  And these syringes.  What are they for again?”

And several hours later, I observed at least two passengers in a state of complete befuddlement trying to figure out where the forward lavatory was located.  And they were young, like in their twenties! 

I mean, come on, there’s a cockpit, a kitchen, a hatch, and a bathroom, folks.  How hard can this be, for crying out loud?

But just to be certain that you don’t leave with the impression I’m judging my fellow man too harshly, I did pick up the airline magazine and spend about twenty minutes on the “Warm-up” Sudoku puzzle.  After guessing at figuring out about seven numbers, I cheated and looked at the answer key, which revealed I’d gotten most of them wrong.

Yes.  I am a moron, too. 

– Dad

 

 

11 years ago Short URL Comments

Family/Humor

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11

Jan

White Line Fever. . . .

White line

“If I do this right, I will scare the bejesus out of that old dude in the Miata up ahead.”

Last year Jere an unnamed family member shared with me a theory of his regarding his take on a particular behavior he observed at stop lights.  When he was buried ten or twelve cars deep in an intersection queue, he reckoned if everyone waiting in line collectively agreed to let off the brake and accelerate at the same time, then he wouldn’t then waste the odd 12.735 seconds sitting there until he could go.

Of course, the idea was that it made a difference anyway and would somehow improve all of our lots in life.

I didn’t want to spoil his originality of thought at the time, but I had been playing around with that same stupid brilliant arcane worthless idea myself for years, and had simply discarded it as unworkable within the current Muggle Conscript.

My God Jeepers, if the Dog Scientists could not figure out the Perplexing Doorknob Principle, then how could we Muggles even hope to begin with this one?

Sorry, unnamed family member.  I got there first, and it’s a freaking dead end!

Anyway, I bring this issue up since Daughter and I will embark upon our much-anticipated (for us), cross-country road trip in a couple of days, and I have noticed a disturbing up-tick in moronic driving activity over the past week or so that gives me pause that, perhaps, we may be destined to suffer together in the miles looming ahead of us as we traverse this great country of ours.

Or maybe not.

For example, please ‘splain to me, Lucy (note obscure, ancient TV reference, Daughter), the point in accelerating madly, in concert with darting in and out of traffic, in the midst of a standard SoCal rush hour commute when we are all advancing at the heady rate of approximately 7 miles per hour?

What’s the deal, man?

Fortunately (or not, depending on your perspective), Zen-me is in control most of the time these days, and I usually just turn up the radio a bit louder trying to figure out the lyrics to whatever song I happens to be playing.

I have found it to be a solid coping mechanism.

Zen-me, however, has a tendency to get pi upset, if startled.  And to make matters worse, Zen-me currently drives one of the lowest visibility, low-profile vehicles currently on the road in Southern California — a very faded silver 92 Miata.

I simply do not possess enough fingers and toes to count the number of times I’ve almost been merged into, run over, or rear-ended by the scores of SUV Uberleuten patrolling our local freeways (using that term extraordinarily loosely, BTW).

It’s an E-Ticket Ride, all right (google it, youngsters), driving my car.

So, to compound the plethora of mindless extra short distance speed-demoning (MESDSD-ing) going on lately, I also have to deal with motorcycle “lane-splitting,” which requires a bravery all on its own (for the motorcyclist) and an acute perceptive awareness (for the automobile driver) in order to safely and sanely drive our roads.

Just google “motorcycle lane splitting” as I’m too lazy to explain it here.

To compound matters, over the years I have lulled myself into the delusion that, should an expected situation arise on the road while driving, I will have both the experience and adequate notice to deal with it.

Of course, that’s a complete crock of sh crapola.

And as if you couldn’t predict it, on the way home tonight some daring cycle rider split lanes in the middle of a steeply banked turn that requires many cars to dramatically slow to navigate.  The guy was crazy.

And I was completely unprepared when this biker made his move, and Zen-me let loose a torrent of language that would make a sailor cringe (and I’m a sailor).

All from a guy who is currently reading The Dalai Lama’s Cat, no less!

Many apologies, Your Holiness.

Soon, however, Zen-me recovered, and continued the long trek home.

Surely, our 2800-mile journey next week will be one of enlightenment and contentment, with the sharing of ideas, hopes, and dreams.

Nah.  There are morons everywhere.  Let’s Motor!

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL 1 Comment

Humor

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