One Full Plate

 
 

Bungee!

As it turns out, they sell bulk bungee cord at places like REI.  You can buy it, cut it, and use it to hold together extension cords, power tool cords, umbilical cords (I think) and other stuff.  I used it on top of the Bronco's center console to hold my snack items, cell phone, weapons and other items that you would (and should) like to keep at the ready.  Do this.  It's cheap and clever, like me.

 

So Jerry Brown or his folks called Meg Whitman a Whooo-ore on tape. Nice. Makes the race more interesting.

Quick Fist!

Don't google that at work.  Or ever.  Seriously, you don't want that in your cache.

So it you're not a total degenerate, you know that Quick Fist clamps are awesome little devices that hold all sorts of things securely in your truck.  Go to www.expeditionexchange.com for a great description of uses.

But in my case, I wanted to hold a shovel onto the tire rack of the Bronco.  Problem is, if the shovel rotated even a little, it would contact the tailgate. 

 
The answer was two quick fists with an integral pin to keep the shovel from rotating.  A 1/4x20 stainless bolt, with the head cut off and rounded over, did the trick.  As a bonus, it's the same bolt used to hold the Quick Fist in place.

 
Then drill a hole in the shovel handle and it won't rotate or slide side-to-side.  Boom, done, bring on the next project.

 

 

 

Back Again

And ready for another go.  Inspired by my good buddy Jim, I've decided to revive a bit.  I've discovered that I'm a bit of an expert in being a cheapskate, and have decided to share some of my knowledge with the world.  That, and a dose of my own sense of superiority.  Enjoy.

So, Cheapskatedness, you ask?  Here's the back story, I'm a Scot.  The Scots are renowned cheapskates.  Have some Scotch tape lying around?  That's because we're too cheap to buy new- just mend the old.  Here, let me illustrate:

An Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman walk into a bar.  They each order a beer.  Through some confluence of aerodynamics and entomology, at the moment their beers are delivered, three flies collide in mid-air, and each falls into one of the three pint glasses.

The Englishman (of course) turns up his nose, pushes aside his glass, and orders another beer.

The Irishman fishes the poor fly out of the suds, and lays him gently on a coaster, and says "There, there ya wee thing."

The Scot picks out the fly, holds him over his glass, and screams "spit it out, ya litt'l bugger!"

One Glorious Day in April

I got a phone call in early April 2007 from my brother in law, let's just call him Andrew.  Andrew said: "Hey, can you make it out to Houston this weekend?  Because if you can, you can drive a Ferrari, a Lamborghini, an Aston Martin, a Porsche and a Corvette Z06."  Cut to a spinning desk chair in an empty office, the sound of crickets.

So this was the scene when I arrived:

This was a tour.  The owner of the cars rented them for day-long escorted driving tours that included lunch and a lot of seat time.  The rules were simple: 1) Stay in line with each other; 2) you break it you bought it; and 3) have fun. 

The lead vehicle was a Porsche Cayenne S with a radar detector, a GPS, and a guy who knew exactly why we were there.  Off to the hill country northwest of Houston we went.  With 5 cars and 10 drivers, each driver drove for 30 minutes, switched with his passenger, and rode for 30 minutes.  Then we switched cars.

There were a few rather pointless stops at points of historical and cultural interest along the way, but no matter. 

Do you want to know what I thought of these cars?  Of course you do, and I thought you'd never ask:

Aston Martin V8 Vantage:

A marvelous car.  Elegant, powerful, beautiful.  It's made for a fast but comfortable drive to the country club, perhaps in casual dress.  Your date: some member of royalty.  Because the mood wasn't right for the Bentley.

The interior is as gorgeous as the exterior, with a piano black dash panel and suede headliner.  This was probably my favorite car because it was so understated and elegant, but still a very fast and stylish ride.  Nobody styles them like the English.

 

Porsche 911 Twin-Turbo

Holy cow, this car is practical!  It's got a back seat!  I can take my kids to school in this car!  It's quiet enough to use for daily commuting, somewhat understated, and it has an automatic transmission.  Not like those garish Italians.  Your date for this car: Your wife and kids. 

To paraphrase Jeremy Clarkson on the backseat in a 911:  "Of course, your children will have to be rather slender to fit back there.  But they will be slender, because if you have a Porsche, you've got a slender wife.  It looks like I'm all set but for the car.

Corvette Z06

Oh, how cute:  GM wants to play with the big boys, so it took its little plastic sports car and tried to make it a Ferrari.  GM tries so hard.  You just can't be mad at it!

At the risk of pulling the automotive equivalent of booing at the special olympics, here's a reality check:  This is a $70,000 car in the company of $170,000 cars.  It was loud, it felt cheap and it didn't work very well.  If that wasn't enough, it wanted to kill you.

It all comes down to the tires.  It's like this:  Along the line somewhere, GM realized that if they equipped their Corvette with run-flat tires (tires that maintain a weight rating even if punctured) they could delete the spare tire.  That's cheaper, it frees up some space in the back of the car and saves a bit of weight.  The only problem is this: run flat tires don't grip.  And when you're managing 505hp, its All About Grip.  So when you put this car in first gear and let the clutch out, the tremendous torque of the engine just causes the rear wheels to spin freely.  It happens less so in 2nd gear, so I ended up starting out in 2nd all the time.  But every time gave this car the business, at any speed up to and including 70 mph (!), the rear end tried to swap with the front, wrap me around a tree, and force-donate my liver to an alcoholic in Wichita.  This car is simply terrifying to drive.  Why the traction control system didn't correct this, I have no idea.  Why they put such junk tires on it, I don't know.  A fellow autocrosser later confirmed my observations.  "Yeah, they're like that when they're stock" said he.  Holy cow.  Holy Crap.  Holy Garbage.  Drive this car to Hooters with either the fat Brittany Spears or Lennie from Of Mice And Men- the gentle giant who's going to kill you one day without even meaning to.

Lamborghini Gallardo

Of all the cars, this one was the hot slutty one.  People slowed down, hung out their windows on the highway and snapped cell phone photos.  Tangerine pearl paint, orange top stitching on black leather, this thing screamed Tony Montana, coke mustache and all.  The performance was nice, what with the V10 and paddle shifters.  It was a little quirky in an Italian sort of way; the paddle shifter system would automatically shift into neutral on you if you sat idle for too long, leaving you to figure out how to get first gear back.  WTF?  It was a red light Waluigi, gimmie a second!

The car has all wheel drive, and was tremendously stable at high speed.  If one had complete and utter disregard for one's safety, and that of his passenger, one could theoretically hit 140mph on a quiet little country road northwest of Houston (Andrew).  Okay, so maybe both drivers of such a car could do it, hypothetically speaking, of course, because I wouldn't know otherwise :-).  Your date for this car: a coked up supermodel who can't keep her top on.

Ferrari F430

Watch this:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FAIGp_prsWU

It's exactly like that:  Epic.  Magic.  Nothing less than spectacular.  It dances in your hands at any speed.  It was light years ahead of the other 4.  The engine makes a sound that is physically pleasurable.  The steering wheel is physically pleasurable to grip and turn.  How do they build a car that?  This car is touched by the Hand Of God, or else some engineer in Modena sold his soul to the devil.  I'm not exaggerating, it was so bloody brilliant both Andrew and I giggled uncontrollably while driving it.  We sat over BBQ that night trying to figure out how we would raise $170,000 in order to buy one.  Your date for this car:  Anyone, or no one.  They will just be talking ballast anyway.

We pulled up in a little Texas town and these two kids ran out.  It was the kind of town that probably didn't have too many Toyotas or Hondas, and nothing Eye-talian save the odd jar of spaghetti sauce.  This gave me the chance to speak the finest words I've ever uttered: "Hey kid, have you ever sat behind the wheel of a Ferrari?"

If they're anything like I was at that age, they'll remember it for a long, long time.  

 

 

No Caffeine, No pain.

No wait, I mean "No Caffeine, Lots Of Pain."  Yes, I'm sure that's correct.  Positive.

I gave up caffeine for lent, and it's day 2.  I don't feel good.  Get the eff away from me.

My name is Kevin, I am a flashaholic. "Hi, Kevin!"

Get your mind out of the gutter you ignorant fool.  I'm talking about flashlights.

Flashlights separate us from the apes.  Seriously.  You might have thought it was Cabernet, or a few crucial strands of DNA, or simply the bars in the zoo, but it's really flashlights.  When the apes sleep, we roam, looking at things in the dark. . .

This isn't just me justifying ownership of many, many flashlights, but I suppose there's that too.  Yes, I have a lot of flashlights.  I collected a few of them for a family photo, and I left some out.  I have not too many, perhaps enough, but yeah, a few. (I dunno, 25?)

So here it is, my confession: I collect flashlights.  Some people (I love you, honey) find this amusing.  Those people can stuff it.  :)  After all, it's not guns, or comic books, or Barbie dolls (which would be weird), but flashlights. Get over it. 

The big ticket items are the two Surefire lights.  The black plastic one in the middle-front was my first, and it now has a turbo head bulb (120 lumens) to light up things that go bump in the night.  The other on the right is an L2 Lumamax LED model that has a low beam that will run for 25 hours or so, and a high beam that will sear your retinas, or illuminate that bush across the street, or down the block.  Just the thing to take to walk the dog.  (I bag no poo by feel.)

The old black 3D maglight in the upper left was a present from my dad when I was around 12 years old.  Now it has a 140 lumen LED bulb and it rocks like the day it was new, back when I first realized that maglights are good lights and great clubs.  The rest (save one) are less notable.  One lives in the first aid kit, another in the kitchen. The battered up blue angle-head lantern is the go-to workhorse, powered by the same rechargeable 12v batteries that my cordless drill uses- it will throw a bright beam for hours and hours, and stands up by itself.  Its low-tech, but it keeps on truckin.  Definitely the first choice if I'm doing work in the attic or crawlspace, or on a car at night.  It's so big that its impossible to lose. 

So you get an idea of horsepower, the 120 and 140 lumen lights are very, very bright.  Much brighter than the standard Eveready flashlight that your dad kept in the bedside drawer- they will fully illuminate a dark room, or a bush or tree on the far side of the backyard. They will temporarily blind someone whose eyes are adjusted to the dark.  Cuz you care, I'll now explain that until recently, flashlights above 60 lumens or so were rare, used mostly by cops and as weapons lights by SWAT teams or troops searching caves in Afghanistan.  Now that prices have dropped from several hundred dollars to 50 or so, well, you know.

Which brings us to the big shiny blue guy in the middle.  Its a 4D Maglight, sort of.  "Sort of," because the real feature isn't the pretty blue, but rather the bulb.  Or diodes actually, three of them, none of them installed or intended by its makers at Mag Instruments.  See, the geeks amongst flashlight geeks are flashlight hackers, for whom standard lights are not interesting enough.  And they (we?) get their giggles by seeing how bright they can make thems lights be. 

Big Blue (named by D's 1-3) has a Terralux LED array that throws, get ready for this, 600 lumens.  This thing will light up a house a block away, wake everyone up, and make them wonder if Tuesdays are alien abduction day.  That, in a handheld flashlight that costs well under $100, is pretty incredible (take my word for it).  There's other lights that will do this, like a Borealis or one of the bigger Surefires.  But this one is comparatively cheap, and uses LEDs, so its shock proof and will last practically forever.  And because LED's are more efficient than filament bulbs, it doesn't generate the heat that a regular bulb will, so it won't cause a fire if you accidently turn it on in your backpack.  Yeah, I told you this was serious.

So what am I going to do with this?  Lots.  While it's too big to walk around with or stick in your pocket, it will definitely go on trips like my recent ones to Anza Borrego or the Inyos, where it would be a real alternative to a vehicle mounted spotlight.  In between trips it will knock around for a while until it finds its rightful place in the household.  Someplace dark.  Where there apes fear to go.

As my child, you too will grow to love flashlights.  You too will . . . Hey, give that back!

They Asked For it, They Did.

There is a special place in hell for lawyers.  But the ones who get their gen-u-wine 7th layer ticket punched are those who litigate for the sheer fun of it.  Every once in a while you read about one of them, a lawyer who is a way too zealous or a judge who doesn't know how to leave it at the office.  Those folks need to take up golf or fencing or dog fighting.  Anything that doesn't involve a filing fee.

That said, for the first time ever, I sued someone on my own behalf.  Rant, the hell, On:

A few years ago we remodeled our kitchen- all new appliances, the works.  When the warranties lapsed, we bought extended warranties from a company called Warrantech.  Good thing, we thought, because the money you seem to save on "energy efficient" appliances gets siphoned directly back out of your checking account in the form of repairs.  But that's another rant.

Last summer, the dishwasher broke (again) and so we called Warrantech for service.  Warrantech sent a repairman from "Cris & Sons" out to make repairs.  On his first visit, the repairman diagnosed a faulty pump, and had to order a replacement.  He promised to schedule a return visit in a week or so.   Two weeks later, there was no reply, so we called Warrantech again.  Finally the repairman came back and changed the pump.  I wasn't there when he did the work, but my lovely wife was.  She watched, aghast, as the repairman wrenched and ripped the dishwasher from the cabinet.  Rather than unscrewing the mounting brackets, he basically tore the dishwasher out of the nearly-new cabinetry.  Maple, thanks for asking.

The pump was replaced, but the cabinets bore the scars of the crowbar.  What's more, the tile floor was scratched, and the dishwasher, its mounting brackets now torn free and gone, was simply sitting in its hole in the cabinet.  Every time you opened the door, it tipped forward like it was trying to escape its own little hell.  You want more?  Here's more:  the door now leaked into a sad little puddle on the floor, and made an awful noise when you opened it.

Of course we called Warrantech back, and of course Cris & Son returned (third visit) to fix the awful noise, but didn't fix the cabinet or tile damage or reinstall the dishwasher.  We again complained, and they returned again to look at the damage, but did nothing.  They promised to come back a fifth time, but stood us up.  Finally, I went out and bought $30 worth of new brackets and reinstalled the dishwasher myself.  Didn't want the kids getting squished and such.

A few words about Warrantech:  When you buy extended warranties, you are promised professional repairmen, no repair bills and an extension of the same factory warranty that came with your appliances from the factory.  Sounds worthwhile.  Here's the reality:  Warrantech's sole employee base is a bank of telephone people, perhaps ten, perhaps a thousand, whose job description is to talk and talk and talk until you go away.  That, and make you wait on hold.  No call I made to these people took less than 45 minutes.  A few took longer.  No call I made to these people got results, unless you count further damage to our kitchen.  So after the 5th call, after 45 minutes of blahblahblahblahblah, after being promised (in the past couple of calls) that all would be made right, because we were The Customer and all, the supervisor admitted that he really couldn't help me at all, that I should probably call back the next day and talk to a different supervisor.  Seriously: 45 minutes, then "would you just call back and talk to someone else?"  Are you effing kidding me?!?!

No matter.  After that call, after the red mist cleared, after the clouds parted, I had a moment of clarity:  Warrantech, and Cris & Sons, really, truly and desperately, more than anyone else I had ever met, needed to get sued.  Really and truly, hire a lawyer and pay the retainer, preserve the file for evidence and circle the wagons, Sued. 

For the first time ever in my private life, I was about to go all crazy-lawyer-ape-shit on somebody.  Its kinda like the nice quiet guy in the bar who just snaps and shanks some jerk with a broken bottle.  Only different. 

So anyway, we're in the midst of a limited jurisdiction lawsuit against two companies, one in Texas, one in California.  For some strange reason, both have let the complaint go into default (meaning that they never filed an answer, which is strange because one of them has an attorney who understands what's going on), and I'm about to convert the defaults into judgments against them both.  We just might get our pound of flesh after all.  If I do, I'll scan the check and post it on every freeeeking website I can find.  I may even dance. 

Details to follow. . .

Nazis- Real Ones- In Pacific Palisades

On Saturday, December 27, 2008, we explored Rustic Canyon Near Will Rogers State Park in Pacific Palisades.  The hike began at Sullivan Fire Road.

The destination was Murphy Ranch a plot of land in the Santa Monica Mountains surrounded in history and intrigue.  It was purchased in the 1930s under a false name, and then developed into a self sufficient and relatively defensible military style compound.  The first improvements made were a tall barbed-wire fence, a power generating station, a 20,000 gallon diesel fuel tank, a 375,000 gallon cistern, a barn, a garage/utility building and terraced hillside gardens used to cultivate fruit and nut trees. 

An network of concrete stairways was built around the hillsides and terraces and was used by “silver shirt” armed guards who patrolled around the clock.  Sounds of gunfire, attributed to nighttime target practice, routinely echoed through the canyon.  Plans were drawn up for a 22 room manor house by a noted architect, but world events precluded its construction. 

Sometime around 1940, the authorities intercepted shortwave radio transmissions from the ranch to Nazi Germany.  As it turns out, the ranch was intended to be the nerve center for the Nazi party after it conquered the United States- a foregone conclusion to its organizer, a shadowy figure known as “Herr Schmidt.” 

On December 8, 1941, the day after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, authorities raided the ranch, arrested its occupants, and deported them to relocation camps far from America’s coastlines.  Murphy ranch fell into disrepair, though it has been sporadically occupied over the years by artists.  It is currently property of the City of Los Angeles and abandoned, but with many artifacts remaining intact.

The main gate.  Your first clue that this is something interesting.

 

The dreaded silvershirts patrolling the stairs.

 

 

 

 

One half of our raiding party.

 

 

Cistern, now empty.

 

 

This was a stable at one point, but may have had living quarters as well.

 

 

 

Manson era split windshield VW microbus, minor body damage, surface rust. 

 

 

 

 

Here's a clue of its vintage.

 

 

 

This was a weird structure.  It was made out of corrugated metal which was stuccoed and tiled on the inside.  There were the remains of a whole slew of bathtubs, kitchen appliances, and more plumbing and wiring than anyone would ever need in a regular house.

 

Its since burned and partially collapsed.

We spent quite a while trying to date the place from what remained.

 

This was the power generating station, given over to the graffiti artists.

Inside.  You can't see the extensive basement from here, but its weird.  Heck, the whole place was weird.  In good way.