Black Gold: Free!

For whatever reason, my life revolves around oil changes and errand running at times. I do not know why this is.

This past Sunday, however, I experienced a marvelous piece of irony. While driving to see Fahrenheit 9/11, I stopped to get an oil change. My car doesn’t take kindly to running even one mile past 3,000 (miles) in between changes, so the time was then.

Another thing that’s become abundantly clear is that I’m unable to have a linear experience at Jiffy Lube. That is, I’m unable to bring my car to their shop for an oil and filter change, and leave a satisfied customer after having an oil and filter change. This visit was no expection.

Within a few moments of arriving at Jiffy Lube, I was informed that they were out of oil filters. Umm, how is that even possible? “Fine, then”, I declared. “Then, I’ll just have an oil change.”

“But you don’t want a filter, sir?”

“No. I’ll have another change next month, and I’ll get one then.”

- blank stare from Jiffy Lube guy -

“Seriously. I will.”

- blank stare from Jiffy Lube guy -

So, I tried to say things differently. “I will. Seriously.”

“Well, sir, there’s another Jiffy Lube store about 8 miles up the road. I think that they may have filters there.”

“That’s OK. I’ll just have the oil.”

“Well, you know that it would be best for your car to have a filter as well as an oil change.”

Remembering that the same Jiffy Lube guy had also tried to sell me wiper blades and a tire rotation, I said, “Please, just the oil. I’ll get everything next month as I always do.”

About 10 minutes past, and another Jiffy Lube guy appeared.

“Sir, is this your car?”

“Yes it is.”

“You’re all set.”

“OK”

“Have you paid, sir?”

“Not yet.”

“Uh, okay. Hang on.”

The Jiffy Lube guy disappeared for a few moments, and returned, looking somewhat perplexed.

“Sir, you’re all set.”

“But don’t I pay?”

“No, you’re all set. Just the oil.”

Suddenly, I was the confused one. Did I not just pay $2.09/gallon for gas? So, how is it that oil has suddenly become free in some way? Maybe we’re actually fighting wars over filters?

Fahrenheit Now

Those of you who know me in real life are aware of my enigmatic tendencies (you’re the ones who came up with the label “enigmatic” ). That is, I will see a Michael Moore film even though I find him thoroughly disagreeable and boorish at times.

The thing that gets my goat about Michael Moore is how his films are summarily described as documentaries. While the subject of Moore’s work is based on real-life events, his end products are position pieces, which in my mind does not a documentary make. On top of his position pieces, Moore has the tendency to narrate, grandstand, and exploit: three things that you don’t see (or are much more subtly delivered) in well-crafted documentaries like Startup Dot Com.

I wasn’t sure what to expect with Fahrenheit 9/11. That is, I wasn’t sure if I was going to see a total rehash of newsreel from the past four years. I wasn’t sure if I was going to see more post-9/11 devastation of NYC. I wasn’t sure if I was going to see Michael Moore hounding people in the streets. The answer is that this movie had a little bit of everything noted above. But strangely, even with Moore’s narrative, and very minimal face time, this movie was largely comprised of seen and unseen television footage of people like Condoleeeza Rice, John Ashcroft, Colin Powell, GW Bush, and the Saudi royal family, among others. This movie also featured new and violent footage of American soldiers abusing Iraqi prisoners — in plain sight, and some very interesting footage (filmed in February and March 2001) where both Condoleeza Rice and Colin Powell insisted that Iraq did not have weapons of mass destruction, claiming that the threat had been neutralized long ago.

There are other details, but I won’t give them away. You should really see this film, even if you don’t buy it entirely (and no, I didn’t buy every bit that Michael Moore threw my way).

Here’s some interesting stuff that I noticed while viewing the movie:

1. I saw the movie in a sub-sub-suburb of Boston called Framingham. There was a strong police presence at the theater, including two officers stationed at the door of the actual cinema.
2. There were no empty seats in the theater. I mean, literally none.
3. There was not a single demographic of people who’d come to view the movie: senior citizens, guys my age, black, white, yellow, couples, teenagers, even kids. I was SHOCKED at the variety of people there, pleased, actually.
4. It’s been quite some time since I’ve seen a movie where there’s mass audience response. When’s the last time you’ve seen a movie where the audience cheered or laughed so loud that you could feel the room vibrating? When did they last yell and applaud at the end of a movie? Unbelievable to see the response of people in the room. NOTE; The Rock did not appear in this movie at any time; nor did Indy Jones discover The Ark. It’s because — and I truly believe this — Moore let the people in power speak for themselves; the result was this hilarious and bitter irony. And strangely, you get the feeling that the neocons are playing the fiddle as Rome burns.

Smart People and Mobile Food

I really like working in Cambridge, Massachusetts. It’s much more laid back than what I’d found with our counterparts across the river in Boston. And being just a few blocks away from M.I.T., I feel that my IQ has been incremented — if only by a single point — merely by proximity.

Aside from admiring humans who’ve been graced with abnormally spectacular brain power (and surpisingly non-offensive fashion sense!), I really like the cheap lunches that you can score at the M.I.T. campus.

A few short blocks away from my office are the M.I.T. food trucks. Food “trucks”, you ask? Yes! There are several mobile vehicles, powered by propane, in which there are miniature kitchens in the back. At this specific location, you can get Italian, Mexican, Middle Eastern, or Asian cuisine. And better yet? A good meal costs you $3!

My personal favorite is the Viet Tofu Curry with white rice ($3), and a mini fruit salad ($1). Cost? $4. $4.60 with a can of Diet Coke.

Supergeniuses, it seems, don’t make loads of money by recognizing the results of their pre-IPO statuses alone! A $3 meal, that’s actually better than half of the eat-in restaurants around here, gets you pretty far.

The Scarecrow -or- Leave Me Hangin’

As I’ve been feeling “up” again, I’ve decided to venture back into the world of dating — albeit slowly. Since my last foray into dating and relationships, a lot has changed: in my life, my feelings about certain things, and my approach to dating on the whole.

I’ve stopped imploding on first dates, but I’m still pretty clueless about what to do on the second date and beyond. And, of course, I still get blindsided by strange break-ups and LJBF.

(Yes, I’ve also been a dumbass dumper, but this entry is about stepping in, not out.)

Last Friday, I had a date with a woman that I’d known for a couple of years. My sister had introduced us about 3 years ago, with the intention of setting us up. I’ve never been one to “Mack” on my sister’s friends (or at least not without her telling me to quit it), so this was an interesting proposal on her part. I didn’t know a lot about my sister’s friend, but I thought that she was a good egg, and was bound to be a fun date.

A fun date, she was. I admit it, I was “taken” with her, most definitely by the end of the night. For those of you who know me on a dating level, you know that this is just not the case with me. I don’t know how to explain my being “taken” with her so quickly.

Something odd happened between taken and took, however. While we’d had great and fun conversation, there hadn’t been any touching or cues that would’ve suggested contact was possible at the end of the evening. In fact, we constantly had a 4-foot “Afghanistan-Pakistan” border between us. You’d think that the border would be informal, so perhaps a hand or other body part may have crossed it. Apparently, the Af-Pak border was more solid than I’d thought.

I wondered if a hug would result after we’d exchanged numbers. So, I stood there, arms extended like a scarecrow, goofy smile on my face, waiting for her to join the hug-fest. And she waved goodnight and shut the door behind her, while I crossed my arms, my goofy smile replaced with a grimace.

“Huh, this is new”, I said to myself. And it was.

Gendar Crisis -or- Did it Suck this Bad Before?

As a techie-type or “nerd”, if you will, there are certain aspects of behavior, culture, lifestyle choices, and manner of dress that I’ve come to expect — when dealing with other techies. This isn’t really a rant that’s based in contempt. I find the whole thing kind of funny, actually.

For instance, I’ve met a number of guys (and, well, “ladies”) who sport pony tails and beards. Seemingly everybody owns or wears those unattractive Tiva sandals, some even worn with socks underneath. It’s not uncommon for techies to be interested in science fiction, re-enactments of historical events (read: Ren Fairs), polyamorous relationships, or all of the above.

In comparison, I’m pretty vanilla. I find almost all science fiction and anime to be tiresome. I don’t have enough hair to have a pony-anything. I’m foot-averse. I can barely deal with one girlfriend at a time, and I think that sword or lance-play is dangerous, regardless of the fact that most of the weapons have been constructed out of PVC pipe. Most importantly, I refuse to refer to adults by nicknames like “Gendar”, or “Apollo”.

“Have you seen Gendar? Not today. I think that he went to the Ren Fair with Apollo.”

See what I mean? Sillyness!

But, let’s say that I have these tendencies. No, I’m not a closet sandal-wearer. No, I don’t have a powdered wig or musket. No, my nicknames have nothing to do with assembly language, Lord of the Rings, or Battlestar freakin’ Galactica.

My tendencies are to dabble in geek culture, or at least in the form of things that aren’t too sexually promiscuous, chivalrous, or boring. One of these things was an animated series called Battle of the Planets, or G-Force if you’re a slave to syndication. I guess that in Japan, it’s been running for more than a decade, and is called Gatchaman. Imagine my surprise when during a recent trip to Newbury Comics, I managed to find an all-inclusive Battle of the Planets DVD set. I could practically feel my pony-thingy coming alive, and no, it wasn’t because of the racks upon racks of Playboy underwear that Newbury Comics inexplicably sells at its record stores.

I bought some CDs (the newest disc by “the Church” is sublime!) and this DVD collection, and headed on home. After some listens to the new CDs, I decided to watch the DVD. Childhood glee was overcoming my normally stoic face. The credits rolled. I saw fancy rocketships that turned into firey birds. I saw cool costumes and real weapons. And then I saw the robot.

Strangely, during battle sequences on Battle of the Planets, a cartoonish R2-D2 knock-off breaks into the scenes and offers a pithy narrative about his role in the events. It’s not the fact that the robot bore a pathetic resemblance to R2-D2, or was overly cheery. It was the fact that the robot was there at all. Nothing, I’ve concluded, ruins a perfectly engaging anime battle sequence like a robot and its narrative. In fact, the robot was so irritating that I concluded my DVD purchase was the suckiest that I’ve made in some time.

I thought about it some more. You know, I can’t even figure how the Japanese could find context robot-san. Did something get lost in the translation? Sure, robot-san was cheery, but could you really call him super-happy-fun, reader-san?

Wow-D-40

I’ve been a slacker with the blog lately. Lots of things going on, and mostly positive, which is a welcome change!

The thing that I’ve been trying to catch up on is working in my house. There are so many things to do, mainly things that have been allowed to fall behind for way too long. One of these tasks was fixing the infernal garage door.

My house was built two years ago. I’m aware that builders have a profit motive — seeing that they don’t directly make money through, say, outsourcing their work — so they don’t always put the best furnishings in your home when they build it. Having noted that, it’s irksome that my garage door began to derail about 6 months ago, most badly when it was cold and/or rainy out. I gave up hope of coercing the lower panel back into the track about 2 months ago. I called a professional for a quote.

Why give up, you ask?

As a male, a homeowner, and a klutz, I’ve learned not to delve into the world of electricity or high tension springs. Death by shock or spring doesn’t seem like the way to go.

On the other hand, there’s pride. There’s keeping my wallet in check, too. And paying nearly a thousand dollars to fix a garage door is just plain insane.

Like a Jacques Cousteau expedition, I took a trip to my garage, and eyeballed the derailed garage door while spouting four-letter narratives, albeit in a slightly indiscernable way. (Maybe I was more like Burgess Meredith sponging down an open wound?)

The first course of action was to get the garage door back in the track. Since it’s been warmer out, things garage door track eased up a bit, and with a little bit of whacking with hammer and screwdriver, I was able to get the roller back in the track. Then, I had to figure why the door was prone to derail.

Duh, the door was derailing because the roller on the bottom most panel wasn’t rolling once it hit the uppermost part of the rail. Should I replace the roller? Well, the roller on the other side was sure rolling. I did what instinct told me. I grabbed my hammer again.

And then I put it down, and went looking for a lubricant.

Oil? I didn’t have any.

Vaseline? Smells bad. And applying it to this surface seemed incredibly goopy and hackish.

Vegetable oil? No.

WD-40? I have WD-40? I do! After spraying it on the left and right bottom rollers, the I rocked the door up and down by a foot or so. Strangely, the roller on the left hand side started rolling again. I door has stayed smooth and on the tracks for the last week.

And to think that I’d only paid a couple of bucks for this lubricant, a lifetime’s supply having costed the same amount it would to have fixed this mess.