Three-Wheeled Thunder

Most people have never been inside of a Boeing factory.  In the buildings inhabited by Boeing employees you will hardly ever see anything that even remotely looks like a part of an airplane.  Why?  Because they are just tiny parts of the total picture that makes up the final product.  Yeah, there are some weird-looking parts and things out there in the aircraft manufacturing world.

But never mind that--that's not what this blog is about.  It's about the ubiquitous Boeing tricycle.

If you've ever been around a retirement community you've probably seen them before in the 'non-Boeing' version. The Boeing variety is virtually identical to the trikes that I used to occasionally see seniors struggling to pedal. The difference is that the yellow ones that Boeing buys are all 'heavy-duty' tricycles. They're manly, macho, and beefy tricycles.  Don't try to pigeonhole these trikes in with the garden variety ones that the oldsters ride. These babies have heavy-duty axles and hubs. Even their spokes are heavy duty--I'd say twice the thickness of the spokes found on a typical AARP-approved civilian tricycle. These babies are made to haul airplane parts.  Those childhood years of riding plastic Big Wheel trikes was in preparation of riding a real tricycle in adulthood.  A Boeing factory tricycle.

First of all, you can tell by watching them that they are not easy to ride.  I first noticed that years and years ago when I first saw senior citizens pedaling them.  They apparently only come in one gear: Too high.  Maybe it's for simplicity (less things to go wrong and less potential confusion from shifting).  All I know is that when you watch someone start to pedal away on one they really have to lean into it.  It takes a lot of power to get anything rolling when it's geared too high.  I don't know why they are geared that way to begin with.  Old people don't want to ride fast, and industrial plant workers can't ride fast.  It's against the rules.

I'm pretty sure I saw my first Boeing factory cruiser well before I ever went to work in the Everett plant back in 1998. I was a regular shopper at the now-defunct Boeing Surplus store.  Boeing Surplus had a long-running history in our area and had achieved a somewhat 'cult status' as a place you just had to visit if you're ever in the Pacific Northwest.  I don't recall ever seeing a trike for sale in there but I do remember these kind of bicycles for sale from time to time when they had exceeded their useful life.  They all had the same extra-heavy spokes, they were all yellow (with various custom tidbits like tape, stickers, and gadgetry brackets added), and they all had that gaudy, heavy steel plate attached in the center.  The plate had the organization or 'owner' welded onto it.  Yes, welded wording.  How macho is that?

What made me think about writing about the Boeing tricycle are my observations of the riders while I'm at work.  If it were legal to take pictures inside of a Boeing plant I would have some video or snaps of them, but that sort of thing is strictly verboten.  I'm not about to jeopardize my job over something stupid like taking pictures when I'm not supposed to.  (The pictures in this blog post were gleaned from the internet.)

There's probably a rule somewhere about people painting them because I only see them in yellow as I've said already.  One area I do see a lot of variation is in the cargo area of the trike.  Some have baskets on the front, some on the rear, and some have both.  Some have platforms, some have a mounted large, wooden box resembling a pickup truck.  I think they all have thumb bells (you know, the 'ching-ching' kind) on the handlebars.  There is one of them here that has a flashlight mounted on the handlebars.  I've seen them with number plates on the front--apparently pretending they are riding their racing motorcycle.

How cool can a full-grown person look while riding a tricycle?  The riders come in all sizes, shapes, and manner of dress.  After all, take a large assortment of people, each with their own 'brand' of fashion, their own unique body shape, or their own individual 'look' and put them on a Boeing tricycle.  They all look the same: Out of place.  Picture a guy with a gray ponytail, Harley-Davidson t-shirt (also ubiquitous at Boeing), and work boots struggling to pedal one of those bright yellow babies.  Then you have the opposite end of the spectrum.  I little-bitty lady sitting astride one and trying to get it moving.

What really clinched me wanting to pen this phenomenon was watching what they do while riding them.  Their body language.  Their interactions with their fellow workers.

The other day I watched, amused, as a couple of trikers going opposite directions stopped next to each other.  You could tell they were trying to 'work' it.  In their minds they were astride rumbling Harleys or sitting in bright, shiny, classic convertibles talking to each other.  Their body language had that cocky one-handed lean on the handlebars with the body shrug going on.  I wasn't close enough to hear what they were saying, but they had that, "Whassup  Howzit goin' Yo" thing going on.  I could tell.  It was an interaction of vehicle cool.  It was like a Fonzie thing.  You could see them change modes as soon as they were within eyesight of each other.  Another time I watched a guy do a cool U-turn maneuver   While there is really nothing cool about making a U-turn in general, the way he coolly whipped his body and leaned in while he did it portrayed a very high level of 'check me out' cool.  I was instantly jealous.  It was masterful.

Culinary Abstract

Here in the US we lead a sheltered life.  We don't seem to care where our food comes from.  We only care that it's in a nice, clean, see-through package with nutritional information on it.  We don't stray too far off the beaten path when it comes to our ingredients either.  We like our predictable, ordinary vegetables, our ordinary meats, and everything else that same way:  Ordinary.

What about what's ordinary for other people that live in the US?  People that came from somewhere else?  If you want to experience such a thing, just take a leisurely stroll through an Asian food store.  Pick any of them:  Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Vietnamese--it doesn't matter.  They are an adventure.

I recently spent some time in a market in Kent, called the Hong Kong Market.

You can find a lot of cool stuff, interesting stuff, weird stuff, even good deals.  For example, if you use a lot of crushed red peppers (the kind you sprinkle on your pizza for all you ordinary people) you can buy a huge bag the size of a small pillow for only $3.99.  If you thought you knew about seafood--think again.  There had to be 30+ varieties of fish and other seafood there--many of them still alive and swimming in big tanks.  I recognized maybe 3 or 4 of them.  What's impressive is that they don't come from anywhere near here and yet here they are, all gathered together for your shopping enjoyment.

Want a snack?  How about lobster-flavored chips, or shrimp chips?  No?  Maybe octopus instead?

Have you ever wondered if you're getting enough protein in your diet?  Maybe you need some insect supplements.  Cooked to keep them from running off your plate.



The produce section held some real wonders of the vegetation world.  Actually, they looked more like arts than eats.  Some of the shapes, sizes, textures, and coverings that I found were very confusing to me.  Do you eat the outside?  The inside?  Do you bake it?  Blanche it?  Skin it?  Maybe you dice or julienne pieces of it to put in your bug stew.  I dunno.  I only know that they were pretty interesting-looking.

The variation and complexity of those plant products will keep you puzzled.  I admire the people that first learned of such products.  Can you imagine?  You're walking through the woods or whatever--and you find the weirdest-looking thing you've ever seen growing on a tree or a vine.  What's the first thing you're going to think?

"Hmm... I wonder what this tastes like."

Maybe it was a dare between two guys.

"I'll give you two muskrat skins and a half a coconut if you eat this."

Then if the guy didn't die it was probably okay.  If he did die, you learned what not to eat, and you got to keep your muskrat skins and coconut.  Win-win!

I'm not sure if this "seaweed salad" is something that I'd ever even try.  Something about the color and translucency of it remind me of something that should be in a fish tank at the pet store.  It does not look like salad to me:

And now, if all of the weird stuff you found in the store weren't enough, and you still wanted that perfect "something" to go with your fermented snail nectar, how about this?  At least it's truthful labeling!

Bon Appetit!

That Travelin' Bone

Sue saw this past weekend as sort of a 'last gasp' opportunity, so we just had to take it.

I'll be starting work this Friday, so who knows how my scheduling will go?  Plus, she had a green light to take Friday off.  Those two things together are a perfect excuse for a photography excursion.  The topic?  Fall colors.

The famous North Cascades Highway was our destination.  For traffic reasons (and the fact that I'm a contrarian) I opted to do the loop kind of backwards.  Most everyone (for whatever reason) always seems to do the loop clockwise.  Maybe it's because everyone seems to live along the I-5 corridor and they figure it's the logical choice.  Trouble is, for us to go up the freeways to our starting point on a Friday morning would have put us in pretty heavy traffic all the way up.  Instead we opted to go over Snoqualmie Pass and turn north.  In retrospect, it was a pretty good choice.  We had zero traffic issues at all anywhere we went.

The fall colors were rampant.  Our state isn't heavily into the red spectrum as far as tree varieties go but there were still quite a few of them among the yellow-colored ones that made up the majority.

Our 600+ mile trip took us on some pretty nice roads as well as some that were more suitable for a 4x4 truck.  It's not the first time and it won't be the last.  Some of the best photography roads are the least traveled ones after all.  We seemed a little more in tune this time than some during some of our other road trips.  Lots of times I get the "Never mind--it's too late now... You passed it" remark as as far as the repeated stopping for pictures.  This time we were both zeroing in on the same things for the most part.  Lots of stopping is our M.O. when we're out on these junkets.

Its kinda funny the things you see when you're out driving.  Like a giant, hand-scrawled sign next to the road inviting hunters to stop and remove the clothing from their deer.  Then, when you look down the road there's a nice vintage Ford truck repeating the message.

As per our usual experience when we're out on one of these photo trips, the "I wonder what's up this way?" roads we wander down turn out to be our favorites.  We find some of the most scenic stuff that way.  If nothing else, the roads are usually way less traveled, and in many cases, pristine.  This trip was no exception.  We really enjoy the "road less traveled" and we also look forward to those kind of pathways.

Sue always loves to make fun of me when we're in stores about how easily distracted I am.  "Ooo... Shiny things!" I'll say and wander off.  During one of our photo stops this weekend she wandered up the highway a little ways taking pictures.  I put on my long lens and managed to catch her having a 'shiny things' moment when she was on her way back.  Ha!

"Dum de dum..."

"Ooo... a piece of firewood!!"

"Oh shoot--he caught me."

Besides traveling well together, we also give each other the utmost respect when it comes to shooting.  I always give her lots of time to make the shot she's after, and if I see her shooting something really interesting, a lot of times I'll leave it be--sort of giving her an "exclusive" on the picture.  Likewise, she always gives me plenty of respect when I'm shooting too:

Party Jello... With a Kick!

I had a great idea for a party item the other day at work.

Marc and I were talking. The whole thing started off with him trying to find someone to get him some more Dixie cups that he needed to mix up some paint or glue in. Somehow, the conversation immediately evolved in the topic of Jello shots. Everyone knows that Jello shots and Dixie cups go hand in hand, right? Well, we went from just general talk about jello shots to the trouble with jello shots coming out of the cup. I related an anecdote about someone that made a bunch of jello shots in cups that were just a little too deep for someone with an average length tongue to be able to cleanly remove from the cup.

Then it hit me.

What if someone combined one of those party poppers that you pull with a string with a jello shot? You would up-end the shot into your mouth, pull the string, and *POP* Instantly, a wad of tangy, booze-laden jello bounces off the back of your throat!

Imagine the party possibilities! Imagine the possible lawsuits! No wait...

I think all you'd have to do is a little unauthorized surgery and you'd e good to go. Open em up, remove the little wheels of colored paper (they'd get stuck in your throat most likely), and do a 'cookie cutter' thing with it in a pan of pre-made jello.

I think I'm onto something here... With a disclaimer and release if liabilty included on every package of course.

 

Time Spackle

Where do you start when you haven't blogged in a long time and so many things have happened?  It's been so busy around here that it seems like the days have run into weeks and now they're well on their way of running into months since I have blogged last.

The activity level has been strange.  The times when I haven't been just busy with regular (I'm beginning to wonder what 'regular' is anymore) stuff it seems there was always something of some kind cropping up unexpectedly.  Something to do, someone coming over, or somewhere to go seemed to always be happening.  Obviously, it started with the previously-mentioned water heater fiasco.  Having just arrived back from Kauai and expecting a week away from obligations of any kind, I was greeted instead with solid work.  That was, of course, on top of the frantic pace of things at work.  During that week, the water heater job used all my spare time.  While I wish I was blessed with lots of gaps in my time, I was instead cursed with spackle.  I'm going to call it Time Spackle.  It filled in any and all gaps I may have had in my day.

When that job was completed I expected that I would be able to catch up at work but that hasn't happened very quickly.  There was always something unexpected filling in my workday time and keeping me from focusing on catching up on my material receiving job.  During much of the previous weeks, my job was spackled together with unusual levels of kitting up assembly jobs, preparing items for UPS shipment, and even doing some delivery/pickup tasks in the work truck.  For three solid weeks the level of paperwork in my inbox rose.  Once a week I would get a fairly substantial delivery from our main supplier, to which I would quip, "Damn--I still haven't touched what you brought me last week!"  I feel that I am just now (finally) catching up from what I came back to after taking two weeks off for vacation.  My definition of vacation: Taking time to stop working so your workload can accumulate and cause you even more anguish.  It has definitely been that.  On top of that, my usual work has been punctuated with checking and repairing things that were done in my absence.

We went to Ocean Shores a couple weekends ago.  That was the first example of a prearranged weekend event being Time Spackle to my preferred gappy weekend.  I had no warm fuzzies going into that weekend.  I'll put it bluntly:  I didn't want to go.  I had been working hard and the last thing I felt like doing was cramming into a dormitory situation with a house full of people for a weekend.  Luckily it ended up being a good time.  The rented house was huge and nobody got in anybody's way.  In a previous incarnation it was apparently a corner store so it had plenty of bedrooms, bathrooms, and floor space.  For example, it had three tables we could sit at to eat or play games--either separated or pushed together banquet-style.  Because JW's don't celebrate birthdays, Christmas, or other mainstream obligatory gift-giving days, Sue likes to use the annual family chaos weekend at Ocean Shores as her gift-giving time.  It was during that weekend that Sue gave me an advance anniversary gift:  A new iPad 3 tablet!  That was totally unexpected and I was blown away.  I brought nothing for her and felt bad.  It was not actually our anniversary yet, so it didn't occur to me to have anything ready.  My head is very thick bone.

For the next several days, investigating and shopping were my Time Spackle.  I should have been working overtime but instead was hitting stores on the way home--looking for an elusive item on my shopping list that Sue wanted.  Again I felt like such a bonehead--because the first item I had ordered for her was coming from Hong Kong, and I failed to order it in time for it to arrive by the proper date.  When it was finally our anniversary (June 6th) I presented her with her main gift:  A box of computer parts.  For for our 3rd anniversary I gave her a brand new computer.  Why didn't I put it together and give it to her?  Because I needed to use two parts out of her current computer in it.  I also thought the box full of smaller flashy boxes looked more exciting.  In retrospect, I should have probably just built what I could and given it to her.  Oh well.  We celebrated that evening with a great dinner at Mizu, personally cooked and served with flourish before our very eyes by a talented food and cutlery juggler.  I caught the piece of flying scrambled egg in my mouth like I had been doing it all my life.

Last weekend could have been relaxing.  Saturday was a big JW event in Puyallup which of course Sue was attending.  I could have had all day to do nothing.  Instead, her new computer was the Time   Spackle of that day.  After spending the whole day with it (formatting a new drive and installing Windoze XP takes a lot of time), I had to face the realization that the new motherboard was no good.  What should have taken half the day, tops, took all day because I didn't give up on it.  I tried everything.  Because the computer store wasn't open on Sunday, it gave us some time to ponder things.  We decided that we would make the jump to Windows 7 during the upgrade.  I didn't know it at the time, but I found that Windoze XP had a RAM limit of 4 gigs, and I had bought 8 gigs for her new machine.  To maximize the performance of her new machine we had to face the fact that it was time to retire the pirated version of Windoze XP that I had been using since 2001.  Monday after work I exchanged the bad motherboard.  When I got home and started to put it all back together I realized I had mistakenly put all the packets of screws and mounts into the box with the bad motherboard I had exchanged.  (Like I said: Thick bone.)  I hurriedly sped back to Federal Way in yet another example of filling the chinks in my day with Time  Spackle--This time self-inflicted.  When I got home I contacted someone on Craigslist that was selling Windows 7 for $50 and arranged to meet her the following day.  After waiting for her to show up at the prearranged location (yep, more Time Spackle) I called her.  She apologized and actually delivered it to our house a couple hours later.  That was good.  The speed in which Windows 7 installed on her new computer was so fast it actually chipped away at some of my Time  Spackle.  I may have actually regained half a day it was so fast.  That was also good.

It's not over yet.  Upcoming weekends are still mapped.  Time  Spackle apparently must be used before it expires.

I sometimes long for the days when my life was so full of holes that I didn't even know what Time  Spackle was.

The Space/Time Continuum of Air Travel

It's amazing how much of an impact something can have on air travel.  During this trip over here to Sue's parents' house on the island of Kauai, I studied things that had a major impact on the space/time continuum of air travel.

I know there's a rule for bladder function as it relates to air travel.  Like the fact that buttered bread always seems to fall buttered side down, similarly, you always have to pee as soon as the wheels leave the runway.  The feeling that you have to pee increases exponentially as you climb in altitude.  Maybe it's an air pressure thing.  Most times Sue and I choose window seats, and this year was no exception.  That means there is a stranger occupying the aisle seat next to us.  I call him the gatekeeper.  Just the very presence of a human sitting there that you don't know keeps you from getting up to pee.  Just so I don't appear to be a pain in the ass, I always try to talk my bladder out of it.

"You can't be serious... We can't pee now--we're climbing."

"Are you sure?  You can't really under that much pressure--you just peed a few minutes ago in the terminal, remember?"

"Come on--it's going to be at least fifteen more minutes before they even turn the seat belt sign off, and when they do half the airplane is going to want to pee at the same time."

"It's embarrassing standing up and having the whole plane looking at you when you get up."

The flight attendants don't help things either.  They block the aisle with a beverage cart.  Yes, the beverage cart that gives you more things to make you have to pee.

Yes, I have observed that the very fact that you have to pee can double or even triple the duration of your flight.  If you don't want your 6-hour flight to feel like ten or twelve, you need to pee as soon as the urge hits you.

An uncomfortable seat can also be a contributor to doubling the length of your flight.  Just having a seat that feels like it's leaning the wrong way is all it takes.  I need to consider a memory foam cushion that conforms to my aging buttocks.  Yeah... That's what I need.

Conversely to the above items, I have found that watching a movie is a sure-fire way to shorten a plane flight.  Sue and I both went out of our way to put multiple full-length movies on our iPhones.  That way we would have choices.  Everybody loves choices.  I ended up watching a whole movie... Listening to a few songs, then watching another movie.  I actually almost got annoyed when we got to a point in our descent when they made us turn off all our personal electronic devices.

What?  We're here already?

Espionage

You know what you just never hear these day? The word espionage. It used to be something that was almost always in the news or in novels.  It never failed to add an element of mystique and danger to a seemingly ordinary detective story.  Nowadays, you never hear about espionage, nor do you ever hear the word used in conversation.

Espionage.

It has a dangerous sound to it, doesn't it?

Espionage.

Yesterday morning at work espionage came up. Marc, our assembly lead, was lurking around a corner, pretending to sneak up on my inbox and plant more work in it for me. He's a funny guy--always putting a little lighthearted weirdness into an otherwise mundane workplace. I looked at him with my head turned slightly away from him--eyes mere slits.

"What are you doing, you sneaky man?" I asked, with a Rick version of a French accent.
"I am a master of espionage." he answered, peeking from around the corner.
"Espionage. Now that is a word of danger... Of spies... A word to impress women with." I continued as he came forth from his pretend hiding place.  "Women melt at the mere mention of the word espionage."

Just then, Elaine walked up.  I turned my head slightly, narrowed my eyes, cocked an eyebrow, and spoke one word.

"Espionage." I said, throwing a little extra French accent into it.
"Espionage." Marc repeated, watching her reaction.

Elaine laughed as she continued walking. I looked at Marc.

"You zee?" I said, while Elaine was still within earshot, "Women love zis word espionage. It is both dangerous and romantic. Zey cannot resist ze lure and power of espionage."

"Espionage." Marc added.

She stopped and looked back at us, laughing.

It's a fun word to say. That's why I'm repeating it over and over. It has a mysterious, romantic flair to it--no doubt because it's a French word.

Espionage. I think most French words are that way. They add a passion to an otherwise ordinary spoken word.

And they make your ordinary work day a little less ordinary.

Rick the Car

I have never been a Corvette.

There has never been anything even remotely racy about my design.  I have never been fast, powerful, or particularly notable in any category.  I'm not a durable 4x4 because I can't take much abuse. I'm not a station wagon or a pickup truck because I can't carry much.  I don't know what model I am but being American-made I'm sure I was assembled from a mishmash of stuff that originated in many other countries.   It's a wonder I work at all sometimes.  Many of my individual parts are pretty substandard.  As a whole I seem to function without too much maintenance.  I go in for a tuneup once a year or so.

I am, however, starting to wear out.

My windshield is distorted and hard to see through without squinting.  There are bugs all over it, and it seems like they move around on it all by themselves... Like they're alive.  The wipers don't help.

My engine is not very powerful.  It doesn't seem to leak anywhere, but that's about its only positive point.  It has multiple issues, but at least it's still running.  The accelerator seems to have a mind of its own: Sometimes it idles when it should be racing, and other times I can't even get it started.  Every now and then it misses badly and other times it purrs.  I can't trust my sensors any longer.  They are giving me all kinds of erratic readings.  I hope it keeps working for a while longer because I can't afford a mechanic to fix it, and that's assuming I can even find replacement parts.

I'm a little worried about my cooling system.  Usually I have no issues with overheating, but sometimes I can jump to the boiling point instantly.  I usually have no warning that it's about to happen.  Oddly enough it usually happens when I'm asleep in the garage.  All I can do is flip my doors open to let some fresh air in until I cool back down.

I don't run too well in cold weather.   If it's cold out I prefer to stay inside a nice heated garage instead of venturing out.  Yes, I prefer hot weather.   I like the top down, my windows down--Heck, I'd even take my doors and everything else off if I could.

My alignment has been out of whack since I can remember.   I seem to track fairly straight down the road though considering that my front wheels are toed-out way out of allowable specifications.

My suspension is pretty tired.  It can't take the heavy-duty bumps and jostling like it could when I was newer.  There are lots of squeaks and pops--especially when I start moving in the morning.  Sometimes I bend a spring or something doing something I shouldn't be doing.  That hurts.  I think all my joints are badly in need of grease, but the fittings have long since stopped taking grease.  The only option is replacement and I don't feel like going through that.  I'm not worth the expense.

My finish is pretty bad.  I'm covered with dents and dings pretty much everywhere you look, and I'm nowhere near as smooth as I used to be.  My top is much, much lighter than the brown color it was when I was new.  Apparently it has been bleached by the sun.

Sometimes a strange sound comes out of my tailpipe, followed by a lot of horn-honking from people behind me.  They scream of smoke and a foul odor but I don't notice anything.  It smells fine to me.

When I was newer I was bad and I breathed smoke all the time. Since that doesn't happen any more I've found I don't have to worry so much about my air filter. I can breathe much easier than I used to.

Apparently I have a variable-size gas tank.   Either that or it occasionally leaks.  Sometimes I can take in and inordinate amount of fuel, and other times not so much.  The leak would explain why I run out of gas so quickly sometimes.  I think I get better mileage when I use good fuel, but I don't always like the taste of good fuel.  Sometimes the crappy fuel is just easier to deal with and more convenient.  Besides my regular fuel I like to use additives.  I've heard that some of the additives I drink are bad for my sensors and filters, but I like the added pep it gives me.  It makes me feel young and perky again--if only for a short while.

I think I'm doing pretty good for my age but I shouldn't take it for granted.  I need to start increasing the frequency of tuneups.  I guess that means I'll have to suffer the indignity of having someone look at my underside once again.

Sigh.

The Walking Dead

I have a pet name for my coworkers that smoke:  I call them The Walking Dead.

The only times of day that I see The Walking Dead are in the morning before work, break times, and lunch time.  The time when they most look like Walking Dead is in the morning.  Work hasn't started yet, and they move in a slow, shuffling gait--Some staring forward, but most staring down toward the ground.  They see nothing around them.  If you're waiting to turn into a parking spot and they're in your way you have to be patient.  They won't know you're there.  The break time crowd of Walking Dead is a little more lively and focused.  From my vantage point at work near the door, they come my right--From various places in the shop, all moving toward the shop door on my left.  It's a wave of Dead--All seeing only one thing:  The door.  They all have a glazed look in their blank, staring eyes, and they have but one focus:  Smoking a cigarette.  When break is over and they come back in they are much more lethargic than when they left.  I guess it's from having feasted on their dose of nicotine.  You can always tell when they come in though, by their coughing.  The Walking Dead almost always cough when the they start breathing the air in the factory again.

The Walking Dead have a sort of bond that seems to be shared among them.  They don't even know it's there.  It's invisible.  It is an unspoken, unconscious thing that they all have in common.  To be a smoker is a badge of honor among the Walking Dead.  It cements their standing among the others of their kind.  They are too stupid to realize how pathetic they look standing outside in the driving rain and shivering in a futile attempt at keeping their smoldering cigarettes dry.  I'm pretty sure that smoking is mandatory to be a member of the Walking Dead.  After all, what else would the Walking Dead do on their breaks?

The lack of brain activity is of course a given within The Walking Dead.  That is why they don't worry about potential health issues from their smoking. The Walking Dead are pretty much devoid of any brain activity that would lean toward self-preservation.  Without that ability they can't think ahead enough to understand that they should wear ear protection when they operate loud saws or machinery.  It takes a supervisor telling them each time it occurs.  Why should they worry?  They're already Dead.  I think The Walking Dead can only obey one variety of regular human:  A supervisor.  I don't think they can hear any words from any other normal human.  Because its against their nature to look forward they won't invest in any sort of thing that might enhance their workday experience.  Simple things like comfort work footwear--Out of the question.  Most of them are wearing old, nasty athletic shoes.  I'm sure the soles are worn out from dragging their feet all day.  They don't dare bring their own tools to work.  Tools cost money!  Why should they spend their hard-earned money to buy something when they can just borrow and lose someone elses tools instead?  That also takes away from the cash required to buy cigarettes.

None of The Walking Dead are smart enough to bring food to work to eat at lunchtime.  They seem to operate totally without foresight it would take to get out of bed early enough to make a sandwich.  They, instead, use up at least half of their lunch time driving to and from Wendy's or 7-Eleven.  I'm sure those places are filled with Walking Dead from other shops and factories during that small window of the day.  A scary thought indeed.

The Walking Dead don't worry about anything.  They don't worry that they don't have a car, or that they can barely afford the payments they are making on the car they do have.  They don't worry that the price of cigarettes would move them securely into the black financially if they didn't have to pay it.  They don't worry about doing anything during their workday that might move them up in the ranks.  They only want their paycheck and their cigarettes.  I think the only reason The Walking Dead even try to make it to work on time is because if they don't put in a full two hours they will not be allowed to take a break.  That would be tough to take--Watching the other Walking Dead outside the shop inhaling that sweet, life-depleting smoke.  Watching that kind of activity and not being able to partake in it would cause them gut-wrenching pain.  If a waft of smoke would find its way into the shop when the big doors are open it would surely cause their eyes to roll back in their head.  No, they must smoke, and must not do anything that could jeopardize their chance of smoking.

Quitting time is different.  When it's quitting time The Walking Dead almost resemble humans.  They move without much of their usual zombie-like foot dragging. They don't worry about their jobs at all when it's quitting time.  Not only are they not forward-thinking, they don't look behind them either.  When work is over they only see the door to freedom and nicotine.  If they drop something on the way to the exit door they won't pick it up.  Doing so could slow them down as well as potentially placing them in danger of being asked to work a little overtime.  I'm sure that's why The Walking Dead turn almost into The Running Dead at quitting time.

The Chickens of Kauai

Apparently it all started back with the Polynesians that came to the island.

(I'm basing it on stuff I found on the web.)

Because of the lack of natural predators, the chickens have proliferated over the years.  Now there are chickens that inhabit practically every square foot of Kauai.  We've personally witnessed them on most of the beaches we've visited, so I wouldn't be the least surprised if they inhabited the mountains too.  I can see it now:  Chickens and mountain goats...

No matter where we've been there are chickens.  The other day we were at Costco and there were chickens milling around.  Walmart?  Yep, chickens.  They are everywhere.  We stopped at a beach parking lot the other day.  We were only there for a couple minutes and took a few pictures.  When I turned to go there were chickens milling around the car.

Perhaps chickens are the Kauai version of the pigeon?

We've figured out the answer to the eternal question:  Why did the chicken cross the road?  A lot of of people think it's just a hypothetical question that's posed with the sole intention of sparking a spirited debate and discussion.  We found the real answer the other day when we saw a hen running across the road going gangbusters, followed closely by an amorous rooster flapping his wings.

There are a lot of interesting things going on around here at Sue's mom's house in the chicken category.  The first thing I have to mention is the level of collectible chickens that have taken over her house.  There are chickens everywhere--Both decorative and functional.  My first impression when I saw them all here (which was after I had seen that they are walking everywhere on the island) was that she had started collecting them after she moved here several years ago.  I was wrong.  She started collecting them in the 70's or so back when she lived on the mainland.  When you see them all here it just seems natural to assume that they would have started their accumulation since arrival on Kauai.  Here are a couple of the unusual poultry posings:

It's funny when you watch the antics of these guys that wander around the outside of the house.  There are several spoiled chickens that we routinely see parked in the branches of a tree outside the dining room (the house is slightly elevated).  This morning I was sitting here and at least three times witnessed one of them casually walking on by the open, screened door.  They would pause for a second and look over, then resume their leisurely stroll along the deck.

The chickens of Kauai are both colorful and interesting to watch.  You just have to be able to deal with the fact that the roosters don't know (or care) what time you want to wake up in the morning.

The Three Amigos: Trail Riders

I miss dirt bike riding.  I'm not talking about bicycles either--I'm talking motorcycles.  I used to go dirt bike riding a lot.  A lot.  Why don't I any more? Well, it's not something that you should do alone--Especially the way I used to do it.  I was a very aggressive trail rider, and in addition there would be no telling where I might end up when I left my truck behind and hit the boonies on two wheels.  The further out, the better.

There was a time when I think we went riding every other weekend.  I say "we" because it was almost always the three of us: Myself, Denis, and Dan. Denis is my youngest brother, and Dan was my best friend from high school.  We were a team.  Many times we even looked alike--All wearing identical dark green Air Force field jackets (compliments of me).  Occasionally, we would have guest riders with us, and it was always fun to see if they could keep up when we were playing cat & mouse at high speed on twisty trails through the trees.

Our favorite times were the weekends with rain in the forecast.  Rain = mud.  We didn't like to ride in the rain, but we sure liked riding right after the rain.  The soupier (is that a word?) the better in our eyes.  I remember one Saturday morning I called Dan at his house:
"You ready to go?" I asked.
"You wanna go in this? It's pouring down!" he countered, hoping I would say no.
"Sure--It'll stop by the time we get way out there." I said.

I was right.  It was a great day of riding.

Here's a shot of Dan trying out the track at the Thurston County ORV park near Olympia before we headed for the trails:

Denis always had a knack of having a seemingly endless supply of munchies in his pockets.  One time we were taking a break under a tree on a particularly cold, rainy day.  While we were huddled under the tree we all had our gloves parked atop our exhaust pipes.  Even though they would still be soaking wet when we put them back on, at least they'd be warm.  Anyway, we were sitting there listening to the rain, wishing we were warm and dry.  We were hungry too.
"Candy bar?" Denis asked, holding a fistful of candy bars out.
Talk about perfect timing!  We could have kissed him.

We enjoyed challenging terrain.  Hills were especially fun.  We were trail riders, not track racers/motocross wannabe's.  I remember more than once slamming on the brakes when we passed a trail that had a "TRAIL CLOSED" sign on it.  To us that meant a challenge.  Trees down? No problem.  Trail washed out? Yeah, okay, that could be a problem. It was not unusual for us to have to literally drag our bikes over obstacles like trees or logs.  Yes, we also had to turn around and go back a lot of times too.

I heard it said one time by a guy I used to work with that kinda summed up dirt biking:
"If a ride doesn't cost you a 30-dollar bill every time you go out, it'll cost you a 60 the time after that."
He was not too far off.  All it took was a broken lever on the handlebars to set you back.  A crash via missing a turn was not uncommon (those hurt), but the costly ones where when you were climbing a steep hill and the front end would come up on you.  If you weren't able to hold on, swing it around, and ride it back down you might have to watch helplessly as your baby tumbled end over end down the hill.  Like I said, those were bad on the pocketbook--And worse on the poor bike.  Add to that the fact that you may have some serious trouble getting back to the sanctuary of the transport truck.  We tried to never let go of the bike on those circumstances.

There were lots of close calls.  There always is if you do a lot of dirt bike riding and ride the way we did.  One particular "close call" had nothing to do with our riding style though.  We went out to a semi-famous place among riders one morning--The Crater near Orting, Washington.  Before leaving home, Dan neglected to turn the fuel petcock off on his bike, so by the time we go there the whole cylinder of the engine was swimming in raw fuel.  He pulled the spark plug out and kicked it over a few times to blow the excess fuel out, but wasn't getting good results.  In a moment of rare brilliance (I'm not sure which of us geniuses came up with it) we decided to hook a tie-down strap to him and, with the spark plug still out, I would pull him around with his bike in gear to get all the fuel blown out of the engine.  The problem: We forgot to ground the spark plug wire.  I just got going pulling him and heard a FOOP sound behind me.  I quickly spun around in time to see Dan and his bike in the midst of a small fireball.  We both bailed off and luckily got it put out quickly. He wasn't hurt and just had to repair a few melted wires and a fuel hose before having a good day of riding.  Whew!  Here is a shot of us at The Crater, getting ready in the morning sun (before the fireball I think), and a shot of The Crater (notice I capitalized it out of reverence? R.I.P. Crater... It's all houses now):

Me and Dan knew to never let Denis get far enough in front of us that he was out of our sight.  To do so might find either of us screaming around a corner only to find him sitting right in the middle of a mud hole waiting for us.  Slamming on the brakes never seemed to be "in time".  We'd come sliding up behind him with a tiny voice screaming in our mind, "Oh ----, not again!"  Just as we got within range he hammered the gas wide open and did a mud-filled rooster tail right in front of us.  All we could do is make sure to keep our mouth shut.

Not too many pictures were ever taken of us riding.  It was before the age of digital cameras after all...  Occasionally I did take my trusty Nikon SLR along and managed to snap a few shots, and I'm grateful for those few memories.  Here's another Crater shot, this one of Denis blasting his way up out of it.

Denis was always hard to keep up with.  He's not a big guy at all, and when he was astride a powerful bike he was practically unstoppable.  When he bought the bike in this picture he couldn't quite handle the tall suspension when we were trail riding (and it had a lot of suspension!).  When we would be in a tough spot on a trail and he would try to get off the bike without losing his balance, the suspension would "follow" his butt upward as he tried to dismount.  To gain a little fit, he took his seat apart and, using a hacksaw blade, literally filleted about a 2-inch layer of the seat off and put the cover back on.  We determined after he bought it that the bike was apparently some sort of dealer-prepped race bike because it had a bit of engine work done inside.  It was some kind of "handful" when you twisted the throttle.

One time we went on a poker run down near the little town of Rainier, Washington.  (For those of you that don't know, a poker run consists of a marked course with checkpoints.  At each checkpoint you draw a card.  At the end of the run, prizes are handed out after the hands are verified.) It was a pretty rainy day, and as with most events of this nature, most of the people went as fast as they possibly could.  We were in no hurry, because winning was strictly a game of chance anyway.  Because we were so far back in the pack, the course was extremely bad by the time we got to it and very muddy. At one point we were riding along and I seemed to be losing power.  I had to keep increasing the gas and couldn't figure out what was going on. I happened to glance down at my front wheel at one point and noticed it wasn't turning!  Because of the muddiness of the course, we were riding in grooves much like a slot car. Because my bike at that time had a front fender that was mounted very close to the tire, it had packed up with mud and locked it up tight.  I had to lay the bike down and dig all the mud out of the front fender with a stick so I could resume.

That wasn't all that happened during the event that day.  The previous problem put us even farther back in the pack. We saw fewer and fewer other riders.  We started to wonder why we hadn't seen a checkpoint in a while. Our gas cans were at the mid point of the course and we began to wonder if we were going to even make it before running out of gas.  Then it happened--Dan had the bike with the biggest engine and his ran out. I took my gas tank off (it had a quick-release feature to aid in maintenance) and poured some into his.  A little further, Denis' bike ran out. Again, I took my tank off, surrendering a bit of fuel.  After a while we were all dead in the water and all we could do it wait for one of the course officials to find us and pick us up. They were "sweeping" the course on a regular basis for riders with problems and would radio for a truck to pick them up. It took a while, but we finally got scooped up by the sweep team and were riding back to the starting point in the truck.  It was then I noticed that my wallet was gone.
"Great," I thought, "what else is going to go wrong?"
It turns out that someone during the race had switched a bunch of the trail markers ahead of us. We weren't the only ones foiled by it, but were apparently the worst affected.  When we got back to the starting/finish point everyone else had gone, but because of all the trouble they let us do all the card draws for the checkpoints we missed.  None of us got diddly.  There was a bright spot in the story though: At some time during the day someone had found my wallet and turned it in!  It was complete and only a little muddy.  What a day.

One thing Denis and some of his work cohorts used to do was go on a special ride the day before Christmas every year.  I usually didn't get to partake of it because of my work schedule back then, but one time it worked for me and I was able to go.  The night before the ride, Denis and I partied in my garage as we readied our bikes for the next-day ride.  The preparation:  We each used our cordless drills and carefully screwed a hex-head screw into each knob of our knobby tires.  That was over 100 screws per tire!  Why did we do it?  Because the area we ride in is frozen by December 24th!  You know what?  It's amazing what kind of traction you can get on glare ice when your knobby tires are full of hex-head sheet metal screws. We had a great day out there in the cold.  There was one fool riding with us that was on a Honda Trail 90, which is an underpowered, little-or-no suspension, grandpa-style hunting bikes usually seen on motorhome bumpers (like the picture on the right). As I recall, he came with no gloves, no helmet, and only a thin jacket.  By the end of the day he was a human popsicle. Not smart.  Oh, and he was the only one without studs in his tires too, and I know he fell at least twice.

See?  With times like those, is it any wonder that I miss it so much?

Guys and Restrooms

People have funny little things they do in public bathrooms. Okay, I should say men do--It's not like I go into women's restrooms all that often. I'm sure men are the worst though. We're such an insecure bunch.

I'm not without bathroom faults myself. Sometimes I'm stricken with the "shy bladder" phenomenon at a moment's notice. See, some urinals have no privacy separation of any kind between them, and I guess subconsciously it's like being under a magnifying glass. It's not like the person next to me actually has his head turned toward me (bad male etiquette), but who's to say he doesn't have his eyeballs cranked or have above average peripheral vision? In any event, the result is the same: It takes me longer than normal to get started. If I'm the first one finished then I'm overly conscious of how I finish up--Making sure I don't overdo anything.  When I was in the Air Force, there was one building that I remember being in where they had a long row of toilets all out in the open.  I think there were like 8 or ten of them lined up like this (it was the only picture I could find on the web--I guess it's a thing of the past):

How's that for lack of personal space?

At work we have little walls between the urinals.  Even though you can see the person next to you, you can't "see" the person next to you (you know what I mean) unless you want to lean over (again, bad male etiquette).  Apparently, that's not enough for some of my coworkers, because if there's someone at one of our two urinals, they'll opt for a toilet instead.  One guy at work will actually turn away slightly if he's already at a urinal when I walk up.  Funny.

Then there are antics of the guys who want to go sit in a stall.

I've witnessed this several times: I'm washing my hands at the sink (which is located outside the restroom).  I've just come out and know there is one person inhabiting one of the two stalls.  Someone comes up and opens the door, stops, and turns around and leaves.  I don't know--Maybe they don't want to subject anyone else to something potentially horrible.  Maybe they just can't bear the possibility of someone hearing grunts or other noises.

Along those same lines, there are guys that go into a stall and the first thing they do is flush the toilet--whether it needs it or not.  I figure there are two reasons: Either they're expecting to make a lot of noise right off the bat and are trying to mask them, or they can't bear the thought of potentially contaminated water possibly splashing their exposed nether regions.

Okay, let's talk about hand washing (or lack thereof) for a minute.

Although we do have a small sink inside the restroom, most everyone uses the same big, round, handwashing sink that's located outside the restroom.  It's actuated by stepping on a ring that runs all the way around it just above the floor, see?

It makes a  squeak noise when it's stepped on that's very easily heard.  When I go into the bathroom to do my business at the urinal I notice when someone is in one of the stalls. I don't know why, but I do. So, when that person is finished and walks out of the room behind me, I listen for the squeak of the sink actuator.  If I don't hear it, it bothers me.  I think to myself, "Which disgusting animal was it this time?  Will I end up touching something after he did and not know it?"  If it was someone that was standing next to me at the urinal and leaves without hitting the squeaky alarm ring at the sink, it's more of a, "Aha! So you're another one of those are you?"  I try to make it a point to know who they are.  It's kind of a thing I can mentally hold above them: ("I know all about YOU.  You're disgusting.")

There are always the guys that will go into a stall several times a day.  Whether they have IBS or are just wasting time I don't want to know. There was one time a few years back when the shop foreman went into the bathroom and heard snoring. It turns out that a new employee was asleep inside the stall (basically sawing logs instead of pinching em).  Whether he was actually doing his business when he fell asleep is unclear.  Needless to say, he was gone within the week.

I pulled a sort of funny prank a number of years ago when I worked at Valley Pontiac in Auburn.  Through a door from the shop We had a small stairway that led to a small area that was our lunch room and locker room.  Off that was a teeny bathroom, only having a small trough and a single stall with a toilet in it. There was one guy that worked right next to me that had a daily routine.  Instead of eating his lunch upstairs he ate in his work area with his nephew that also worked there. Directly after lunch he would go upstairs to use the the toilet.  Because we wore uniforms (like all new car dealership personnel do) there was always an abundance of dirty ones for the uniform company to pick up sitting in the locker room. On this particular day, I put a pair of someone's used uniform pants over a pair of someone's boots that were also up there and scrunched them down around them, placing them directly in front of the toilet and closed the stall door.  I let several of the guys in on it, and sure enough, he went upstairs right after lunch ended. Seconds later he reappeared.  A few minutes went by and he went back upstairs--Only to again come back out the door a few seconds later.  After a little time went by he attempted it again.  This time he stayed a little while, and when he came out the door he had a little smile on his face.  I'm glad he got a little chuckle out of it because the joke would have backfired considerably if he actually had some sort of bowel issue.

That concludes my attempt at potty humor.

Ranting, but no Raving: The Sequel

I have so many of these that pop-up from time to time. If only I had thought about Craigslist last night when I made my first post! I had forgotten how flagrant some of the "bad ads" that appear on there are.

Here's an example of something that's pretty common (before I start picking at it, you can go ahead and click it to view it full size):


First of all, so many people can't even get the title of the ad right. What's the point of placing an ad? What is a Honda aout? I don't recall seeing that model on any new car ads anywhere. If it doesn't exist, why would I think I needed parts for it?

Secondly, I don't understand why the truck pictures are even there. There is no mention of a truck or parts thereof anywhere in the ad. I guess he considered himself lucky to have successfully negotiated all the traps and pitfalls involved with uploading pictures (let's see--Point & click?) and thought he might as well use one set of pictures for two ads--I dunno. At least he knows someone with a camera...

Now here's another point I want to make about this ad, and this kind of thing really gets me. His whole ad contains ONE item of punctuation. Actually, this is better than some I've seen. There have been multiple ads I've seen over the years where there is a huge paragraph of description text and no punctuation. You know what that looks like? It's like the guy is terminal on speed/caffeine and is literally spewing words so fast he's not even stopping for a breath. Whew. That must be what it is about those ads--They wear me out reading them. I feel like I have to lie down and take a nap.

Here's another ad I spotted this morning. I found it funny. Maybe you will, maybe you won't:

I guess this person is repeating what someone else told them. They don't know what a gasket is or they would know there are hundreds of different ones in any given car.

Another thing that is irritating is when someone uses all capitals. In the computer world, that means SOMEONE IS SHOUTING AT YOU. I read those ads and I instinctively reach for my speaker volume.

The misspellings will never end. Some of them are pretty funny, like this one: ARMAROL (Armor-All), and AWSOME (awesome). They were even in the same ad.

Yep, Craigslist is an endless supply of stuff to laugh or wince about. Free entertainment!

Ranting, but no Raving

I feel that it's time for a rant. People that have read my blog know how much I love to rant about things on occasion. Actually, I would really like it if I could rave just as wildly, but for some reason I'm better suited for ranting than raving. The subject of my rant? Ignorance in Language Arts.

Actually, it's almost more of a case of disbelief.

I don't think I ever really fit the mold of someone that got straight A's in English and spelling back in school--I was mostly into motorcycles and cars--But the truth is: I did. Maybe I didn't feel that I could make any money at it--I dunno. The fact is, I pretty much abandoned it after high school. Maybe I was cocky and felt that I was finished with it. Maybe it just didn't seem cool. Without thinking about it, it has become fairly clear that parts of my studies in those areas never went away. In fact, they may have just been hiding and festering.

I have determined that there is one thing that has bothered me as long as I can remember, and probably will until I can't read or hear any longer. The offense? Failure to understand (or care) about the difference between YOUR and YOU'RE. I'm sure some folks reading this will look at it and say, "Hmm... You know, I never did get how those worked..." and others that will say, "Yeah man, you tell em! I hate that!" I'm not going to explain the difference... I just want to rant about the misuse of it.

Another thing is spelling. Sometimes it's not what was misspelled, but who misspelled it. In this case, it was more of a context thing. I found this on Google News last weekend. I loved it so much I took a screenshot of it. Click the picture below to view the section I saved. I looked at this with disbelief when I saw it. In a roundabout way, it reminded me of the time I was in a local Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant and was informed that they were out of chicken (seriously). You be the judge:

You get the idea.

Then there is this instance of misspelling at work that has been eating away at me. This is more of a case of people that just flat didn't learn anything in school. The person that labeled these scrap cans probably felt pretty proud of their work, but when I saw the "twin" misspellings I winced:

Maybe not everyone knows what Inconel or Titanium are or how to spell them but I do. Because of my anal nature, spelling abuse that I see on a daily basis eats at me. I have to chuckle every time I see these two bins though, so maybe I should find out who did it and congratulate them on giving me yet another prime example of blog fodder.