Q2 2002 GeekLog Archives
Does anyone else ever think back to when they were younger, remember conversations past, and feel shame at the ignorant, inane, and otherwise embarrassingly retarded things that they felt just had to interjected? Do the sudden breaks in the flow of discussion those IQ bombs resulted in just seem to have been eternal, or did everyone else really stop to exchange a look before continuing as if nothing was said?
...and by "younger" I of course mean "weeks younger"...
One of the online message boards I frequent has a thread started as a blatant flame troll, entitled Topic: Democraps: How do we prevent subsequent terror attacks?. You can imagine the ensuing discussion. My contribution is below...
Read a dictionary: there's a differrence between Isolationism and Imperialism.
Case in point: Canada. They have a standing army, participate in the usual UN Peacekeeping cluster-fucks, and maintain their own way of life- all without fucking everyone else over. Sure, they're also a glaring example of why Socialism sucks, and that you can't give the Frenchies an inch, but...
When savvy Americans travel abroad, they take backpacks and clothing with Canadian flags on them, because the rest of the world knows that the vast majority of Cannuks are not assholes (only the border checkpoint workers, and anyone from Quebec) and thus do not feel compelled to fuck with them.
Canada's population enjoys nearly the same standard of living that we do, and in some respects even more freedom, yet no-one bombs them. No one hates them. No one burns their flag (except maybe a hockey team or two). No one considers Canada to be such a nest of Evil that if they give their life to kill as many Canadians as possible they will go directly to heaven.
Our government is run by business interrests that want one thing: to make money. To do so they will overthrow governments, prop up dictatorships, start wars, and sacrifice the lives of US citizens, never-mind those of other countries. The rest of the world knows this. We delude ourselves into thinking this is not the case, and a good chunk of the global population is willing to die trying to snap us out of our fantasy world.
When a bear sticks it's paw into a bee hive to steal their honey, destroying their home and their way of life, does it not deserve to be stung? The stingings will stop some time after the bees are left alone.
I say the question is not, 'how do we stop the terrorists,' I say the question is, 'should we?' If all we can do as a nation is react to the stings of our attackers, and disdainfully ignore our own part in the current state of affairs, I say tear it all down and start over.
...but then, I haven't had any coffee today.
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-joshy
What may sound to some like anger is really nothing more than sympathetic contempt.
- George Carlin
Actually, I have pocket doors, Alexis' side just has pockets- hopefully the doors are still stached somewhere in the house. How can we not know if the doors are in there? Let's just say that it's so cluttered with the owner's stuff, Alexis won't let me post the pictures.
For Immediate Release:
May 1, 2002
MARRYSVILLE, OHIO -- Team RallyVW is heading West this week to compete in the Rim of the World ProRally in Palmdale, California- just North of Hollywood. This will be the team's first time at the event, which originated in the 1970s and is in its 19th consecutive running. Rim is run primarily in the Angeles National Forest, which is known for its rough, twisty roads and ample "exposures" (otherwise known as cliffs).
John Hamilton, driver and team owner, is currently tied for first place in Production class with Jeff Field and his Celica GTS. Field is also expected to compete at Rim, ensuring an exciting event as the two duke it out for top honors. Both drivers must fight for points, yet preserve their cars for the next event, STPR, which is four weeks and 2500 miles away.
Josh W will be taking a turn in the co-driver's seat of RallyVW's Volkswagen Golf TDI. This will be his first competitive ride in the Golf, which was formerly his daily driver. Ken Sabo will be back for STPR. The service crew for this event will include Mike Jackson, Ann Froschauer, Patrick Jackson and Eric Smith.
The MotorsportVortex liveried Golf TDI, which is the only diesel currently competing in the SCCA ProRally series, runs on an environmentally friendly Soylect Biodiesel blend supplied by McWherter Petroleum. Made from domestically grown soybeans that reduce both harmful emissions and dependency on foreign oil, biodiesel also fuels RallyVW's new service truck. The team is also receiving support from two new sponsors for Rim of the World, AV Lubricants and WaterWagens.com.
Performance Rally takes place on real roads, usually dirt, gravel, or two-tracks in forested areas. The terrain can change quickly. The winding roads are peppered with washouts, large rocks, tight turns, and jumps. The driver relies heavily on the co-driver, who reads instructions and maintains mileage calculations while the driver is pushing the car to impossibly fast speeds through the woods and fields.
For more information, check the teams website at www.rallyvw.com.
| Well, this is the house. Alexis doesn't even like to talk about it, as we don't have it all locked up yet, but what the heck. Check out the lovely aluminum awnings and 1970s metal railings - Gots to GO! Ou real estate lawyer is from the neighborhood, and says the place used to have a huge porch out front. So... | 
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| Out comes PaintShop Pro, and off come the nasty awnings, slab porchletts; and overgown shrubs. I thew a coat of white primer over the woodwork while I was at it, and srcubbed the rust-stains off the roof. If only I could do all that on the real house in under an hour... |  |
| Alexis and I had aggreed... -ok, Alexis coerced me into aggreeing- on a single large porch for the house. And I like the little wrought-iron fences on top. I'm not ready to even think about paint colors yet, so we'll stick to white primer for now. Copy and paste sections from the box gutters, extend the foundadtion to make it look like it's protruding under the porch, cast a little shadow under the new roof, and BAM! ready for columns and railings. |  |
| Version 1: My first attempt, and perhapse my favorite. My pimay goal was to not block those big windows. I think that 5 is the ight number of columns for that width. |  |
| Version 2: ...But Alexis would prefer a central staircase, to make it look more like a single-family home. Hee's my First attempt- a little busy, with all of those columns. |  |
| Version 3: This one we aggree on- so far. A little more open - maybe too open. I guess if the columns are thick enough, it would be ok. |  |
Was just thinking about the extraordinary number of cars I've had since I turned 16 in 1988, and started making a list, to see if i could remember them all. Check out the over-lap. I'm trying to put together a graphical time-line...
| 1976 Mercury Monarch | 1988-1989 | Bought for $230. Received $500 from insurance when a friend ran into it, of which I spent $15 on a used tire to repair. Sold for $100. That was the last time I didn't loose my ass on a car. |
| 1976 Chevy Malibu | 1989 | Bought it with the $500 from the Monarch. Pulled out in front of a car going about 70 in a 35. |
| 1976 Chevy Malibu | 1989-1990 | Picked this up the last day of my remedial driving course (see above) with $1000 I got for sculpting a face for one of those foam pumpkins. Silver, maroon landau and interior. 2-door, air-shocks in the back. 15x60 front / 16x50 rear Corvette wheels. Sold to help pay for college the next year. |
| 1986 Honda Nighthawk 650 | 1991-1992 | All my friends from High School got bikes, so I got one too. Very scary. |
| 1986 Chevy S-10 | 1992-1996 | A great tuck, but it developed an intermittent starting problem that no mechanic could seem to diagnose. Sold it to buy more pats for the Jeep. |
| 1978 Jeep CJ-5 | 1995-1998 | I wanted something simple and convertible. I got the worst money pit to date. I think I poured $9000 into the thing before I gave up. |
| 1997 VW Jetta GLX | 1997-1998 | This was actually the x-wife's car, but since I paid half the down-payment, and a good chunk of the monthlies... |
| 1983 VW GTI | 1997-1999 | Bought this right after the GLX. Served me well until it's untimely death. |
| 1986 VW GTI | 1998 | My brother needed to unload this when he moved to RI. Just not me. I unloaded it ASAP to a friend. |
| 1981 VW Rabbit Pickup | 1998 | Ran great, looked great (well, as great as beige can look) had bad strut tower rust. |
| 1982 VW Rabbit Pickup | 1998-2000 | No strut tower rust. Drove it home, where it became the eternal project. Sold non-running. |
| 1984 VW Rabbit Convertible | 1999-2000 | Great car, fun project, a few too many cosmetic issues and too much strut tower rust to keep. |
| 1987 VW Cabriolet | 2000-pesent | My baby. |
| 1983 VW GTI | 2000-2001, 2002-pesent | Brother bought it, sold to me when he moved back to RI. I drove it for a month before the clutch blew, parked it for a year, fixed it, and drove it out to him again. Then he decided he wanted the '00 Jetta back, so I got the GTI again. I'm just fixing up the car while I wait for him to change his mind again. |
| 1982 VW Rabbit Pickup | 2000-2001 | Ran great, was nearly perfect, but baby blue, and slow. Sold to buy the TDI. |
| 2000 VW Golf TDI | 2001 | My (then) dream car. Then I wrecked it. Didn't hold hockey gear well, either. Sold it into service as a rally car. |
| 2000 VW Jetta GLS VR6 | 2001-2002 | Brother wanted GTI back, and wanted out of his lease and monster insurance on this car for a while. Hopefully my last car with a trunk - hatchbacks rule. |
| 1988 VW Fox GL Wagon | 2002-pesent | This would be my ideal (non-warm, sunny day) car - if it ran. Might end up a TDI recipient- or it might end up sold. |
Alexis, Jon and I now all have nasty cases of poison ivy/sumac (I believe we encountered BOTH) from cleaning up around the house. I'm voting for a dusting of Agent Orange and a complete replant. You should see all the mulberry stumps. The neighbors have a beautiful 100+year-old oak; we have a dozen mulberry stumps and a grove of poison sumac.
Well, it's almost official: I'm getting a house. We get keys Wednesday, and should be signing a purchase contract at about the same time. It's a brick townhouse duplex, right around the corner from where we live now, on 1st. Alexis & Jon will be taking one half, and I'll get the other. The place needs a ton of paint work, but is structurally very sound, and weather-tight (not bad, for a place that hasn't been occupied in 10 years or so).
Anyhow, I need cash. Cash for down payment, lawyer's fees, paint, brushes, scrapers, ladders, stylish white painter's pants, drywall, appliances, furniture, garden gnomes, and 220v in the garage. What I DON'T need right now are non-house-related projects. So...
For Sale:
Big Bumpers (A2-style) and Cabby Side Trim for A1 (need some work to install): $400
Yaeso dual-band HT (Ham Radio): $150
Tippmann ProLite Paintball Gun (fully modded) : $110
5-speed tranny from an A2 Jetta : $200
4 15" 4x100 ET33 BBS Wheels & lugs (some mild lip scuffage) $200
5 15" 4x100 ET33 BBS Wheels & lugs w/ newer Kumhos $450
1988 Fox Wagon : $800
Brazilian H4 Headlights and Grill for Fox Wagon : $300
Brazilian Bumpers w/ driving lights for Fox Wagon : $400
Tinted Tail-lights for Fox Wagon : $100
Clear Front Signals for Fox Wagon : $100
1987 Cabriolet : $3500 The weather's way too nice to be selling my baby!
2.0 3A complete bubble-block + GTI head : $300
Man, I have a lot of money tied-up in toys!
Best act fast, as I will only be selling whichever car goes first- IF that (I would really rather keep both). Will consider trades involving single-cab Transporters and non-project vanagans or rabbit pickups.
3/12/02 Almost famous...
Guess who got their name in Sport Compact Car. Jon Hamilton called me with the word, but it wasn't until I'd run to Kroger to pick up two copies (one for my folks) that I noticed the "Bulldog" thing. Someday I'll have my glorious revenge for that, but right now I guess I have to explain...
Last summer my team competed in the Maine Forrest Rally. Ken, the team's other co-driver, took the passenger's seat, and I worked in the service crew (it costs a crap-load of money to compete, so Ken and I alternate events).
How I got out there is a story unto itself. I drove an '83 GTI, which I then delivered to my brother in Rhode Island after the rally. The car had been sitting in my garage for well over a year before I got around to replacing the clutch, repacking the CV joints, replacing the interior, and changing all the fluids. I finished all of this the week before the rally, and took it on a single 25 mile round-trip to work as a shakedown run before leaving.
Once on the highway, the car quickly revealed a bad steering rack and control arm bushings by way of suddenly lurching in one direction or the other whenever the car's speed hit a certain point- both when accelerating and decelerating. This made for a rather... exciting... 14-hour drive. I arrived exhausted and tense.
Those who know me know that I tend to redefine the word "grumpy" under those circumstances. I was also fast approaching my 30th birthday- sans wife, kids, house, or any of the other indications that someone has done something worthwhile with their life. Things at work had been hectic, it was really a bad time for me to be taking off for five days, and I was dreading how things would be by the time I returned. All in all, I was wound pretty tight, so perhaps what came later should be slightly less surprising.
Maine Forrest takes place in Midlobumfuk, a bodaciously small town on the way to a ski slope that is mostly dead in the summer. Taking advantage of that, our team, and a large number of others, had rented rooms in a large condo complex at the ski resort. The place was pretty much deserted except for rally folks- and one asshole.
The dude had Domestic Violence written all over him: 6'4", 220 lbs., puffed-out chest, military/cop/child molester-spec mustache, and a gift for bellowing at the wife and kids so loudly it shook the building. My guess is that he was one of New York's Finest, taking advantage of "administrative leave" for assraping some Haitian with a stun-gun to take the family to a secluded, deserted resort where he could beat them all senseless on a daily basis with nobody to hear- but he hadn't counted on the Rally.
Anyhow, it was a two-day event, with racing on Friday and Saturday. By the time they were done running Friday evening, the car had taken some fairly serious damage, and needed a lot of work before the event resumed on Saturday. The main problem was an exhaust leak, which we had been warned by the officials to have fixed by morning if we wanted to run.
So after a long day in the hot sun, we were out there at 6 or 7, working on the car. Around 8:00, Mr. Mustache starts hollering down at us from his window to turn our shit off and go inside. Quiet hours don't start there until 9, so we told him we would be done soon, and turned off the generator to be nice.
By 9 we had finished the repairs. As we were wrapping up, another competitor pulled into the parking lot. For whatever reason, they decided to rev the heck out of the engine before shutting it off and going into the building.
Immediately Mr. Moustache was screaming at us from his window again. You could see his eyes bulging and the cords standing out on his neck from 200 feet away, in the dark. We tried to explain that it hadn't been us, but he kept on shouting over top of everything we said, threatening our equipment and us.
While this was going on, two others of our group arrived with pizzas, so we gave up arguing with the guy and went in to eat- keeping a careful watch out the window on our gear, which we had left laying around the rally car.
We took about a half-hour to eat (and let Mr. Moustache calm down), then went out to put everything away. As I was laying in the dirt, clearing tools out from under the car, Hamilton started the car to make sure the exhaust was fixed and to take it out for a test-drive.
The fix was good, but even with it, the Rally Rabbit is not quiet. It's no-where near as loud as that other revving car had been, but Mr. Moustache was still spewing profanities at us in an instant. Hamilton hurriedly shut the car off, and we got busy stuffing tools into the service truck and cleaning up the work area. About that time, the building entrance nearest to us burst open, and out came Mr. Mustache, bellowing and leading some little pit bull-looking mutt on a leash.
I snapped.
That's all there is to it. I was short on sleep, anxious about how the GTI would serve my brother, dirty and aching from working on the car. All I wanted was to finish up so I could take a shower and get to sleep for a few hours before I had to wake for another day of racing. And this huge wife-beating piece of shit pushed all of that over the edge, into some scary place I hadn't visited before.
Suddenly I was on my feet, throwing whatever tool I had in my hands down so hard it bounced off the dirt, and advancing on him, over-matching him in volume. I don't really remember what was spewing out of my mouth, but it had to do with how unreasonable it was for him to be concerned about noise at 9pm on a weekend at a party resort, how we had to get this work done, how we'd had to listen to the noise of him screaming at his wife all weekend, and how he might want to consider going back inside so we could finish putting things away. I'm pretty sure every other word was either "fucking" or "bullshit". Onlookers probably expected us to start slamming our chests together like bull walruses in rut.
I think he took a step or two backwards. I know that his eyes got wide, and his dog got behind him. He blurted out something lame, like "don't you fucking walk up to me!"
Now, I'm not exactly small, at 6'2" and 185 lbs., but this guy had me by at least an inch in height and 30 pounds of muscle. For an instant, it flashed though my mind what he could do to me, but that was immediately dissolved in testosterone.
"You're the fucking one who fucking walked up to us!" was my highly intellectual reply. "If you're going to fucking keep fucking screaming at us and come the fuck out here with your little fucking dog, I'm going to fucking get in your face!" (Note the subtle use of repetition to interject additional emphasis- Mr. Neuenschwander from AP English Composition class would no doubt be proud)
And the whole time I'm thinking, 'Please, PLEASE hit me."
That's the part that keeps me awake some nights. I wanted him to make it physical. I wanted to be provoked. If his first blow didn't knock me cold, I was going to jump on him like lion on a cape buffalo, grab hold for all I was worth, and do my best to rip out his throat with my teeth. I judged him unworthy of continuing to draw breath, and yearned to be his executioner. If I'd had a knife or gun, I would have thrown it away: too impersonal; too easy; too quick. 
I had gone completely over to the Dark Side of The Force, given in to my anger, and felt the rush of incalculable primal power pouring into me. I felt enormous. I felt invincible. This was going to be fun-
...and then security arrived.
Mr. Moustache had called the front desk on us before he came out. Now, thwarted, he decided that the lone guard was a weaker and easier target than I. He redirected and laid a scorching diatribe upon the clueless rent-a-cop; we were all to be thrown out, or he would call the real police have us arrested, and then have the guard's ass fired.
The guard proved to have a great deal more tact and skill than I expected, and managed to coax Mr. Moustache back in his room. We could hear from outside the verbal abuse that the poor guy took as he escorted Gigantor up the stairs; apparently Mr. Moustache was a condo owner, so the he had to suck it up. The guard then returned, and asked us to finish up quickly and do any future work in one of their other lots, as he never wanted to go through that again. We were happy to comply.
The team loved my performance, and Hamilton immediately started calling me "Bulldog" and telling everyone about it. The next morning, when some other rally folks were playing their radio while sitting on their deck, Mr. Moustache came out to yell at them, and they just laughed at him. We didn't see or hear much from him after that.
So now I get called Bulldog at rallies, and Hamilton puts it in my name when he fills out the registration forms, which is what goes into the scoring computers, which is how I ended up as Josh "Bulldog" W... in a nationwide publication.