While running errands this afternoon, I saw two things that gave me a strong urge to drink. First there was a salt truck, lights flashing and spitting salt all over the road (yes, I know it’s supposed to do that). A few hundred yards behind was a Chevy 1500 with about two inches of snow layered over the top of the cab and the tonneau cover.
The first inch of snow for Tinytown is supposed to come tonight. Pictures will be posted if I am awake and sober and if I remember to take them.
EXPRESS TELEGRAM
FROM: RETAXIS
TO: WINTER
MESSAGE BEGINS
DEAR WINTER STOP FUCK YOU STOP STAY OFF MY LAWN STOP
MESSAGE ENDS
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
Tree Down!
The apple tree in the backyard came down this afternoon. I understand the need to have it cut, because it was old and sick and the rot was slowly making its way down through the trunk. But I have a lot of memories of climbing that tree when I was little, or swinging on the tire swing hung from the strongest branch, and losing a fair number of balls and Frisbees and badminton shuttlecocks into the leaves.
This is what’s left of the tree:
The apples were generic New England glorified crabapples. Small, tart, kind of bitter, and usually with a worm or two wending its way through the interior. Which means, of course, that they were perfect for sauces and pies. Generally speaking, the best cooking apples are the ones that are almost too strong to eat raw. Something very tart (like a Tompkins King or a Northern Spy) and bitter (like a Brown Snout or a Sheepsnose variety) holds it flavor well when cooked up, leaving a pie that you know was made from apples. The complex sugars in the fruit are broken down, and the simple sugars gently caramelize, helping to balance out the acid content of those older varieties.
Of course, sometimes you want an apple that will hold its shape as much as you want the best flavor. Maybe you’re making a tart, or coring the fruit and stuffing them with nuts and bread and raisins and maple syrup before slowly cooking them in a 300 degree oven. I’m hungry right now, in case you couldn’t tell. For those duties, find yourself a nice bushel of Macs or Cortlands. They’ll hold their shape when they’re heated, and they’re not shabby in the taste department either.
Even the much-maligned Red Delicious has a role in the kitchen. No, seriously. That same apple that everyone loves to hate because it’s mealy and bred for perfection and has an insipid flavor… it’s a useful critter. Yes, I know it’s the apple equivalent of the bleach-blonde model with an IQ approaching her bra size. Any self-respecting pie maker must turn his nose up and snort derisively when somebody mentions the name “Red Delicious”. Right?
Nope.
There are two reasons to legitimately have Red Delicious (RD) in the kitchen. The pomologists in the audience already know the first one: The RD was not always grown in its current form. Originally, of course, it lived up to its name by being a damn good eating apple. Those original strains of RD can be found all over the East Coast, and probably elsewhere also, and they’re really worth trying if you find them somewhere.
The second reason applies to the modern “Baywatch” variety of RD. As crappy an eating apple as it is (and yep, it’s still crappy), the modern RD has replaced the traditional apple acids and tannins with sugars and aromatics. So the savvy pie baker (ask your great-great-grandmother at your next séance) will always cut in a couple of RDs, chopped into tiny bits, to sweeten the pie and make it smell fantastic, which is smart considering how closely our sense of taste is related to our sense of smell. No need for sugar in the filling, and certainly no vanilla, but a pair of Red Delicious instead.
Damn, I think I’ve developed a craving.
This is what’s left of the tree:
The apples were generic New England glorified crabapples. Small, tart, kind of bitter, and usually with a worm or two wending its way through the interior. Which means, of course, that they were perfect for sauces and pies. Generally speaking, the best cooking apples are the ones that are almost too strong to eat raw. Something very tart (like a Tompkins King or a Northern Spy) and bitter (like a Brown Snout or a Sheepsnose variety) holds it flavor well when cooked up, leaving a pie that you know was made from apples. The complex sugars in the fruit are broken down, and the simple sugars gently caramelize, helping to balance out the acid content of those older varieties.
Of course, sometimes you want an apple that will hold its shape as much as you want the best flavor. Maybe you’re making a tart, or coring the fruit and stuffing them with nuts and bread and raisins and maple syrup before slowly cooking them in a 300 degree oven. I’m hungry right now, in case you couldn’t tell. For those duties, find yourself a nice bushel of Macs or Cortlands. They’ll hold their shape when they’re heated, and they’re not shabby in the taste department either.
Even the much-maligned Red Delicious has a role in the kitchen. No, seriously. That same apple that everyone loves to hate because it’s mealy and bred for perfection and has an insipid flavor… it’s a useful critter. Yes, I know it’s the apple equivalent of the bleach-blonde model with an IQ approaching her bra size. Any self-respecting pie maker must turn his nose up and snort derisively when somebody mentions the name “Red Delicious”. Right?
Nope.
There are two reasons to legitimately have Red Delicious (RD) in the kitchen. The pomologists in the audience already know the first one: The RD was not always grown in its current form. Originally, of course, it lived up to its name by being a damn good eating apple. Those original strains of RD can be found all over the East Coast, and probably elsewhere also, and they’re really worth trying if you find them somewhere.
The second reason applies to the modern “Baywatch” variety of RD. As crappy an eating apple as it is (and yep, it’s still crappy), the modern RD has replaced the traditional apple acids and tannins with sugars and aromatics. So the savvy pie baker (ask your great-great-grandmother at your next séance) will always cut in a couple of RDs, chopped into tiny bits, to sweeten the pie and make it smell fantastic, which is smart considering how closely our sense of taste is related to our sense of smell. No need for sugar in the filling, and certainly no vanilla, but a pair of Red Delicious instead.
Damn, I think I’ve developed a craving.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Things Your Child Will Do.
One of my co-workers in the cider making business was questioned by a group of mothers today. Specifically, they wanted to know why the Cayuga Wine Trail, as a rule, does not allow bus tours of college students into the various wineries and the solo cidery. Those perfectly raised, Ivy-League educated young ladies and gentlemen? Ahem. Surely, they can’t be the same as those students who show up on the buses at noon having brought a keg aboard at 10am with two hours of steady drinking under their belts. Or those smartly dressed young men who casually urinate onto the wheel of a family’s minivan in the parking lot. Or those charming young women who rut like animals in the unmown grass on the north side of the building, assuming that nobody can see them.
No, surely those can’t be your children.
Oi.
Here, then, is my short list garnered from my extensive experience on the (relatively) sober side of the bar, holding the attention and the confidence of innumerable students, of The Things Your Child Will Do:
You child will drink in college. And like it.
Your daughter will lie underneath some immature jerk-ass and have sex with him. And she will like it.
Your son will weigh down on top of some slut and have sex with her. And he will like it.
You child will have friends who casually use drugs that would land them in prison for years. Your kid will try some. And like it.
Your child will see somebody on a motorcycle and feel jealous.
Your child will listen to somebody whose political or social views you find repulsive. And they will think, “Huh, that makes sense”.
Your child will have several friends who drive drunk on a weekly basis. And your kid will stay friends with those people.
Your child will drive drunk. And do it again a week later.
Your child will go into a tattoo shop with a friend and feel jealous.
Your child will decide to become tattooed. And like it.
Your child will switch majors. Their new major will likely make them very, very poor.
You child will drink cheap beer.
Your child will have sexual fantasies about someone of another race.
Your child will have sexual fantasies in class.
Your child will listen to rap music. And like it.
Your child will listen to classical music. And like it.
Your child will consider, somberly and seriously, joining the military. And maybe join.
Your child will listen to the same music you listened to when you were their age.
Your child will fall in love. And love it.
Your son will find several people for whom he would proudly die.
Your daughter will find several men who would proudly die for her.
Your son will contemplate murder. And be okay with it.
Your daughter will contemplate murder to save her children. And be okay with it.
Your child, son or daughter, will seriously consider having children.
Your child will consider suicide. And not tell anyone.
Your child’s friend will commit suicide. And your child will think, “if only they had told me…”.
Your child, if in college, will look at somebody who did not go to college and feel jealous.
Your child, if not in college, will look at somebody who did go and feel jealous.
Your child will make bad decisions. And regret them.
Your child will make hard decisions. And stand by them.
Your child will come home on break and realize that you, too, have sex.
Your child will say something and think, “I sound like my parents…”.
Your child will say something and you will think, “they sound like me…”.
Your child will put on weight.
Your child will fail a test. And maybe a class.
Your child will ask you for advice. And follow it.
Your child will understand some hard decision you have made. And brutally defend you for it.
Your child will learn to respect some of your hard choices. And not tell you.
Your child will learn to despise some of your hard choices. And not tell you.
Your child will despise some of you. And respect you.
Your child will grow up. And realize it.
Your child will support you.
Your child will become an adult. And you will be rightfully proud.
Your child will become an adult. And they will rightfully thank you.
Thank you, mom.
Thank you, dad.
No, surely those can’t be your children.
Oi.
Here, then, is my short list garnered from my extensive experience on the (relatively) sober side of the bar, holding the attention and the confidence of innumerable students, of The Things Your Child Will Do:
You child will drink in college. And like it.
Your daughter will lie underneath some immature jerk-ass and have sex with him. And she will like it.
Your son will weigh down on top of some slut and have sex with her. And he will like it.
You child will have friends who casually use drugs that would land them in prison for years. Your kid will try some. And like it.
Your child will see somebody on a motorcycle and feel jealous.
Your child will listen to somebody whose political or social views you find repulsive. And they will think, “Huh, that makes sense”.
Your child will have several friends who drive drunk on a weekly basis. And your kid will stay friends with those people.
Your child will drive drunk. And do it again a week later.
Your child will go into a tattoo shop with a friend and feel jealous.
Your child will decide to become tattooed. And like it.
Your child will switch majors. Their new major will likely make them very, very poor.
You child will drink cheap beer.
Your child will have sexual fantasies about someone of another race.
Your child will have sexual fantasies in class.
Your child will listen to rap music. And like it.
Your child will listen to classical music. And like it.
Your child will consider, somberly and seriously, joining the military. And maybe join.
Your child will listen to the same music you listened to when you were their age.
Your child will fall in love. And love it.
Your son will find several people for whom he would proudly die.
Your daughter will find several men who would proudly die for her.
Your son will contemplate murder. And be okay with it.
Your daughter will contemplate murder to save her children. And be okay with it.
Your child, son or daughter, will seriously consider having children.
Your child will consider suicide. And not tell anyone.
Your child’s friend will commit suicide. And your child will think, “if only they had told me…”.
Your child, if in college, will look at somebody who did not go to college and feel jealous.
Your child, if not in college, will look at somebody who did go and feel jealous.
Your child will make bad decisions. And regret them.
Your child will make hard decisions. And stand by them.
Your child will come home on break and realize that you, too, have sex.
Your child will say something and think, “I sound like my parents…”.
Your child will say something and you will think, “they sound like me…”.
Your child will put on weight.
Your child will fail a test. And maybe a class.
Your child will ask you for advice. And follow it.
Your child will understand some hard decision you have made. And brutally defend you for it.
Your child will learn to respect some of your hard choices. And not tell you.
Your child will learn to despise some of your hard choices. And not tell you.
Your child will despise some of you. And respect you.
Your child will grow up. And realize it.
Your child will support you.
Your child will become an adult. And you will be rightfully proud.
Your child will become an adult. And they will rightfully thank you.
Thank you, mom.
Thank you, dad.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Making Madeleines
Prep time: 15 minutes
Cook time: 12-20 minutes
Madeleine Recipe For Four Molds
Sugar – 1.333 cup
Orange extract - 2tsp
Eggs - 6
Melted Butter - 2.5 sticks
Flour - 2 cups
Preheat oven to 400F
Throw the sugar, orange extract, and eggs into a bowl and beat them. A Kitchenaid or other stand mixer with a whisk or beater attachment is a 1:72 scale version of god when it comes to this recipe. With the beating started, melt the butter, probably in the microwave.
By the time the butter is melted, the egg mix should look like this:
And the butter should look like this:
Chunks in the butter are okay, but they shouldn’t be too big. In this case, another ten seconds in the microwave should fix it.
Pour the butter slowly into the eggs and sugar, whisking the whole time. Once the butter is mixed, slowly add the flour. If you’re whisking by hand, this is where your daily weight training happens. With the flour all added in, the batter should look creamy, with little peaks. Kind of like this:
Now you get your Madeleine molds out. No molds? No problem. Pretty much any mold will work, including muffin (or mini muffin) pans. If you want the actual seashell molds, you can find them online or at cooking stores fairly easily. Nonstick is nice, but not necessary, because you’re going to butter the shit out of the pan before dumping the batter in.
As for the seashell shape, I have no idea. Maybe they were originally baked in seashells? Honestly, to me, the strakes on the bottom of the finished Madeleine look like the bottom of a jetski. Seriously, go find a picture. It’s eerily close.
Speaking of butter, you should now melt a little more into a small bowl. Grab a pastry or basting brush, and slather the butter into each of the molds, making sure to get some up and over the edge of each indentation. You don’t need to be careful, especially since rushing the job and laying it on thick works best. In the photo, the molds to the left are buttered, and the ones on the right are dry. Get them all!
Scoop some of the batter into the molds. It expands, so anywhere from half to two-thirds full is plenty. Yeah, like this:
They go into the oven for anywhere from 12-20 minutes, depending on the usual variables of size and pan material and actual oven temperature, so keep an eye on them. They should look like this when they come out.
Tip them out onto cooling rack and you’re done!
In case you didn’t catch the recipe, these are basically carbs and butter fat, so they’re properly appalling to the dieting types. They’re French, too, so remember to drink plenty of wine to stave off heart disease. I obviously eat these things whenever I can get my hands on them, and I’ve had no heart attacks so far. But I think that if my arteries ever unionize I might be in trouble.
Cook time: 12-20 minutes
Madeleine Recipe For Four Molds
Sugar – 1.333 cup
Orange extract - 2tsp
Eggs - 6
Melted Butter - 2.5 sticks
Flour - 2 cups
Preheat oven to 400F
Throw the sugar, orange extract, and eggs into a bowl and beat them. A Kitchenaid or other stand mixer with a whisk or beater attachment is a 1:72 scale version of god when it comes to this recipe. With the beating started, melt the butter, probably in the microwave.
By the time the butter is melted, the egg mix should look like this:
And the butter should look like this:
Chunks in the butter are okay, but they shouldn’t be too big. In this case, another ten seconds in the microwave should fix it.
Pour the butter slowly into the eggs and sugar, whisking the whole time. Once the butter is mixed, slowly add the flour. If you’re whisking by hand, this is where your daily weight training happens. With the flour all added in, the batter should look creamy, with little peaks. Kind of like this:
Now you get your Madeleine molds out. No molds? No problem. Pretty much any mold will work, including muffin (or mini muffin) pans. If you want the actual seashell molds, you can find them online or at cooking stores fairly easily. Nonstick is nice, but not necessary, because you’re going to butter the shit out of the pan before dumping the batter in.
As for the seashell shape, I have no idea. Maybe they were originally baked in seashells? Honestly, to me, the strakes on the bottom of the finished Madeleine look like the bottom of a jetski. Seriously, go find a picture. It’s eerily close.
Speaking of butter, you should now melt a little more into a small bowl. Grab a pastry or basting brush, and slather the butter into each of the molds, making sure to get some up and over the edge of each indentation. You don’t need to be careful, especially since rushing the job and laying it on thick works best. In the photo, the molds to the left are buttered, and the ones on the right are dry. Get them all!
Scoop some of the batter into the molds. It expands, so anywhere from half to two-thirds full is plenty. Yeah, like this:
They go into the oven for anywhere from 12-20 minutes, depending on the usual variables of size and pan material and actual oven temperature, so keep an eye on them. They should look like this when they come out.
Tip them out onto cooling rack and you’re done!
In case you didn’t catch the recipe, these are basically carbs and butter fat, so they’re properly appalling to the dieting types. They’re French, too, so remember to drink plenty of wine to stave off heart disease. I obviously eat these things whenever I can get my hands on them, and I’ve had no heart attacks so far. But I think that if my arteries ever unionize I might be in trouble.
Tinytown Traffic Ticket
A couple of months ago I was pulled over for the first time (I know, I’m such a sheltered kid) and was cited for the despicable crime of having a non-functioning taillight. To be fair, I did know that something in the taillight assembly was a bit cocked, and I was putting off fixing the problem because of, well, laziness, and the fact that Volvo parts are expensive. What I didn’t expect was to be pulled over by a kid I’ve known since middle school, who now looks like your average 12 year old police officer. The conversation went something like this:
It was, to be honest, a little surreal. A kid who probably gets carded at R-rated movies, wearing a Glock 17 and chunky Kevlar vest, and giving me a $50 ticket.
In any case, going to see the DA during his office hours was educational. The cops running security for the building were genuinely helpful, sending me off with a “third floor, turn right, second office down the corridor. Hope you get the ticket dismissed!” That was a touch that I didn’t expect. Even on duty, cops are human.
I had to wait in line for a half hour, behind a frat brother holding a noise violation, and a lawyer for three others who had received the same citation. See, a few months ago the Tinytown city council decided that they wanted to start enforcing the city noise ordinances for everybody, instead of letting the Ivy Leaguers have their fun and only getting involved for the more serious transgressions. As a result, the city and college police forces have been writing tickets by the hundreds, thoroughly clogging the city court system. This, of course, is a pain in the ass for everyone else, and it generates a ton of revenue.
Going before a judge, as I learned from the lawyer with whom I chatted, would invariably net you the maximum fine, which is $500 for a first offense and $750 for a second. That’s rent money by college kid standards. Going to the DA or the Assistant DA will probably get you down to the $200 to $350 range, unless the officer who wrote you the ticket says something nice. That will get you the minimum $100 fine.
The officers who show up at parties and write the piss-ant tickets have to write reports on everything that happened during the incident, which gets files into the city database and is accessible by the DA staff. The cops have to write up a narrative of the incident, including all sorts of minor details about the people at the party and their behavior. So here’s where the advice comes in:
If a cop shows up on your doorstep with a noise complaint, be very nice to him. Tell everyone to shut up, and keep the belligerent drunks away from the guys in uniform. Then cooperate, which means following the cops’ directions as if you were sober and in a good mood.
That’s it.
Can you figure out why this works? Because virtually every time the police show up, somebody does something stupid. Either somebody starts making fun of them, or somebody pees on the cruiser, or your stumpy wrestling buddy you call “Bucket” decides that he’s going to fight that sonofabitchholdmybeer. So, when you walk out onto the porch to meet them (you do know better than to invite them inside, right?) and nobody loses their head, the cops put that into the report.
No matter how you cut it, ten minutes of being civil to a pair of cops will save you $200 to $500. You know it’s a BS citation, and so do they.
That’s my legal advice for the day.
Oh, and the Tinytown ADA is a man who takes himself entirely too seriously. I had college professors like that, and it drove me nuts. The DA, on the other hand, is an actually living human with a working brain and heart. Seriously. Talk to him if you can.
In case you were wondering, the ticket was dismissed by the DA. I’m going to have a celebratory drink.
Officer Middle School: “Can I see your license and regist… oh, hi!”
Retaxis: “Holy crap! You’re a cop?”
Officer MS: “I get that a lot.”
It was, to be honest, a little surreal. A kid who probably gets carded at R-rated movies, wearing a Glock 17 and chunky Kevlar vest, and giving me a $50 ticket.
In any case, going to see the DA during his office hours was educational. The cops running security for the building were genuinely helpful, sending me off with a “third floor, turn right, second office down the corridor. Hope you get the ticket dismissed!” That was a touch that I didn’t expect. Even on duty, cops are human.
I had to wait in line for a half hour, behind a frat brother holding a noise violation, and a lawyer for three others who had received the same citation. See, a few months ago the Tinytown city council decided that they wanted to start enforcing the city noise ordinances for everybody, instead of letting the Ivy Leaguers have their fun and only getting involved for the more serious transgressions. As a result, the city and college police forces have been writing tickets by the hundreds, thoroughly clogging the city court system. This, of course, is a pain in the ass for everyone else, and it generates a ton of revenue.
Going before a judge, as I learned from the lawyer with whom I chatted, would invariably net you the maximum fine, which is $500 for a first offense and $750 for a second. That’s rent money by college kid standards. Going to the DA or the Assistant DA will probably get you down to the $200 to $350 range, unless the officer who wrote you the ticket says something nice. That will get you the minimum $100 fine.
The officers who show up at parties and write the piss-ant tickets have to write reports on everything that happened during the incident, which gets files into the city database and is accessible by the DA staff. The cops have to write up a narrative of the incident, including all sorts of minor details about the people at the party and their behavior. So here’s where the advice comes in:
If a cop shows up on your doorstep with a noise complaint, be very nice to him. Tell everyone to shut up, and keep the belligerent drunks away from the guys in uniform. Then cooperate, which means following the cops’ directions as if you were sober and in a good mood.
That’s it.
Can you figure out why this works? Because virtually every time the police show up, somebody does something stupid. Either somebody starts making fun of them, or somebody pees on the cruiser, or your stumpy wrestling buddy you call “Bucket” decides that he’s going to fight that sonofabitchholdmybeer. So, when you walk out onto the porch to meet them (you do know better than to invite them inside, right?) and nobody loses their head, the cops put that into the report.
No matter how you cut it, ten minutes of being civil to a pair of cops will save you $200 to $500. You know it’s a BS citation, and so do they.
That’s my legal advice for the day.
Oh, and the Tinytown ADA is a man who takes himself entirely too seriously. I had college professors like that, and it drove me nuts. The DA, on the other hand, is an actually living human with a working brain and heart. Seriously. Talk to him if you can.
In case you were wondering, the ticket was dismissed by the DA. I’m going to have a celebratory drink.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Retail Hell: Car Parts
In two sentences:
“No, the rear discs from your ’87 Firebird won’t bolt onto the hubs of your CJ-5.”
“Take the neon tubes out of your pant leg and stop trying to steal stuff!”
Oh, the seventh circle of hell is truly found within the doors of Autoplace (name changed to protect my sorry butt). This store, plunked as it was on the outskirts of Tinytown, served a population of two tribes: the white trash and the British car enthusiasts. The worst part about the Brit-car drivers was that they would 1) need the most obscure parts for their restorations, such as a 7mm hard brake line that gently flares out to fit a 9mm union at one end (and yes, we carried it), and 2) were perpetually lounging in the store with their elbows on the counter, telling the least probable stories that I’ve ever heard.
For instance, I once heard two tales of heroic driving and near-death experiences involving a Triumph TR-3 and a Corvette C5 Z-06 dueling on a twisty local road, with the Triumph taking the lead at the end by the tightest margin. While I don’t doubt the ability of a well driven TR-3 to beat a C5 around a tight course, I do doubt the ability of that particular TR-3, namely because I saw it barely run once, and it was in no shape to race a Huffy, much less a C5. That, and the second time I heard the story, the owner claimed to have lost to the Corvette because of a school bus coming up with road in the opposite lane and cutting off his last passing opportunity. Can’t splatter the kiddies over the countryside, don’tcha know.
Well, you can. But you probably shouldn’t.
The worst part about our white trash customers, on the other hand, was that they existed at all. These folks ranged from the merely stupid (which is aggravating but understandable) to the downright abusive. My first day on the job, actually, involved one fat old bastard buying new chrome lug nuts for his Pontiac Bonneville, cross-threading them, and then coming back into the store to holler at everyone working there for ruining his wheel studs.
And then there was the man who, having discovered a pinhole leak in his forward brake lines, pinched them off and drove eight miles to the Autoplace with only the rear drums on his pickup truck working.
Or the man who, as mentioned above, wanted to swap the rear discs from his Firebird to the front hubs of his CJ-5. When I looked up the parts (not that I needed to) and informed him that they wouldn't fit, he then inquired as to whether he could drill new holes in the discs to fit the bolt pattern on the Jeep, to which I replied that no, it would be dangerous without the proper tools. He showed up the following Monday evening with a need for a new rear disc, because he tried drilling anyway and ruined the disc and bored through the meat of his thumb. Which he showed us.
Other people were far more entertaining, the college students especially. Parents, if you’re going to go to the trouble of getting your kid into a premier Ivy League school, and the expense of buying them a brand new car, puh-leeeese spend five minutes teaching them how to take care of their machine. Or your son or daughter might end up being the source of limitless blogging material.
For instance: One Saturday morning we heard a Civic with the most awful rod knock come banging into the parking lot. I went out to investigate, being the helpful sort (she was cute). Our conversation went something like this.
Folks, welcome to my world. This one event stuck in my memory because (she was cute) Eric and I got chewed out by the manager for laughing so hard in the parking lot that we cried, and Eric sat down in a puddle of antifreeze. Poor Civic Driver got an education on engine lubrication, after which she called her father and asked him to pay $4000 for a new engine.
Teach your kids. You get to spend time with them, and it’s cheaper in the end.
It wasn’t just the lady students who caught severe cases of ignorance from their parents. We had our fair share of entitled young turks come through to display their various boneheaded moments in the parking lot.
One Ivy League freshman in his brand new M3 showed up asking for “performance” spark plugs. Which I sold him, for $8.99 each. I figured (wrongly) that he would be happy with his newly released fifty horses, and that there was no way to screw up a spark plug change. Thirty seconds after returning the spark plug wrench, though, this freshman got in his brand new, gift-from-daddy-for-quitting-cocaine BMW M3, started the car, and immediately revved it to the redline. At which point the number 2 cylinder spark plug, which he had neglected to tighten, divorced itself from the cylinder head at high speed and artfully dented the lovely aluminum hood.
I recommended a good BMW repair shop, and found him the number in the phone book.
The more observant employees of Autoplace also caught shoplifters from time to time. While baggy pants are great for holding all your loot, I do tend to notice if you walk into the store without a problem, and then walk out again dragging your pin-straight leg. Yes, those neon tubes that you can stick under your car are cool, and if you really want to you can shove them down your pant leg. But I would appreciate it if you paid for them
“No, the rear discs from your ’87 Firebird won’t bolt onto the hubs of your CJ-5.”
“Take the neon tubes out of your pant leg and stop trying to steal stuff!”
Oh, the seventh circle of hell is truly found within the doors of Autoplace (name changed to protect my sorry butt). This store, plunked as it was on the outskirts of Tinytown, served a population of two tribes: the white trash and the British car enthusiasts. The worst part about the Brit-car drivers was that they would 1) need the most obscure parts for their restorations, such as a 7mm hard brake line that gently flares out to fit a 9mm union at one end (and yes, we carried it), and 2) were perpetually lounging in the store with their elbows on the counter, telling the least probable stories that I’ve ever heard.
For instance, I once heard two tales of heroic driving and near-death experiences involving a Triumph TR-3 and a Corvette C5 Z-06 dueling on a twisty local road, with the Triumph taking the lead at the end by the tightest margin. While I don’t doubt the ability of a well driven TR-3 to beat a C5 around a tight course, I do doubt the ability of that particular TR-3, namely because I saw it barely run once, and it was in no shape to race a Huffy, much less a C5. That, and the second time I heard the story, the owner claimed to have lost to the Corvette because of a school bus coming up with road in the opposite lane and cutting off his last passing opportunity. Can’t splatter the kiddies over the countryside, don’tcha know.
Well, you can. But you probably shouldn’t.
The worst part about our white trash customers, on the other hand, was that they existed at all. These folks ranged from the merely stupid (which is aggravating but understandable) to the downright abusive. My first day on the job, actually, involved one fat old bastard buying new chrome lug nuts for his Pontiac Bonneville, cross-threading them, and then coming back into the store to holler at everyone working there for ruining his wheel studs.
And then there was the man who, having discovered a pinhole leak in his forward brake lines, pinched them off and drove eight miles to the Autoplace with only the rear drums on his pickup truck working.
Or the man who, as mentioned above, wanted to swap the rear discs from his Firebird to the front hubs of his CJ-5. When I looked up the parts (not that I needed to) and informed him that they wouldn't fit, he then inquired as to whether he could drill new holes in the discs to fit the bolt pattern on the Jeep, to which I replied that no, it would be dangerous without the proper tools. He showed up the following Monday evening with a need for a new rear disc, because he tried drilling anyway and ruined the disc and bored through the meat of his thumb. Which he showed us.
Other people were far more entertaining, the college students especially. Parents, if you’re going to go to the trouble of getting your kid into a premier Ivy League school, and the expense of buying them a brand new car, puh-leeeese spend five minutes teaching them how to take care of their machine. Or your son or daughter might end up being the source of limitless blogging material.
For instance: One Saturday morning we heard a Civic with the most awful rod knock come banging into the parking lot. I went out to investigate, being the helpful sort (she was cute). Our conversation went something like this.
Civic Driver: “I think there’s something wrong with my car.”
Retaxis: “Yeah, I could tell. Has it been making that noise for long?”
CD: “A couple of days.”
R: “When was the last time you had the oil changed?”
CD: (Shrugs) “The light on the dashboard has been on for a while. My boyfriend says it’s the oil light.”
R: “And how long has the idiot light been on?”
CD: “Four weeks.”
Folks, welcome to my world. This one event stuck in my memory because (she was cute) Eric and I got chewed out by the manager for laughing so hard in the parking lot that we cried, and Eric sat down in a puddle of antifreeze. Poor Civic Driver got an education on engine lubrication, after which she called her father and asked him to pay $4000 for a new engine.
Teach your kids. You get to spend time with them, and it’s cheaper in the end.
It wasn’t just the lady students who caught severe cases of ignorance from their parents. We had our fair share of entitled young turks come through to display their various boneheaded moments in the parking lot.
One Ivy League freshman in his brand new M3 showed up asking for “performance” spark plugs. Which I sold him, for $8.99 each. I figured (wrongly) that he would be happy with his newly released fifty horses, and that there was no way to screw up a spark plug change. Thirty seconds after returning the spark plug wrench, though, this freshman got in his brand new, gift-from-daddy-for-quitting-cocaine BMW M3, started the car, and immediately revved it to the redline. At which point the number 2 cylinder spark plug, which he had neglected to tighten, divorced itself from the cylinder head at high speed and artfully dented the lovely aluminum hood.
I recommended a good BMW repair shop, and found him the number in the phone book.
The more observant employees of Autoplace also caught shoplifters from time to time. While baggy pants are great for holding all your loot, I do tend to notice if you walk into the store without a problem, and then walk out again dragging your pin-straight leg. Yes, those neon tubes that you can stick under your car are cool, and if you really want to you can shove them down your pant leg. But I would appreciate it if you paid for them
Working Stiff
I have had several jobs since I turned 16 and discovered that cars and girlfriends cost more money than an allowance can afford. Some of these were good, fun, rewarding jobs: Coach, Cider Maker, Engineering Intern. Others, which some of you will nod at knowingly, were essentially unholy hell: Day Camp Counselor, Clothes Salesman, and Car Parts Salesman.
I don’t really count my translation and editing work as a job, because I do it more on a “oh, hey, I need cash” basis than on anything approaching a regular schedule.
As for the trio of jobs that I generously label as “not so good”, let me first say this: I am glad that I had those jobs, and I am equally glad that they are over. I don’t mean to insult anybody who does any of those for a living and loves it. In fact, I’m eternally grateful to you all for doing those jobs so that I don’t have to. I learned a lot selling car parts to rednecks and shirts to women of a certain age, and I can’t bring myself to be a jerk to any sales associate, cashier, or waiter because I’ve been there and dealt with the bullshit. But, damn, I was a horrible salesman.
The sales gigs came about because I needed something part-time while I was in school and I was singularly unqualified to do anything more interesting than minimum wage retail work. Most of you are familiar with this situation. It’s what my grandparents would have described as a “character building experience”.
And they would have been right, too, so far that as soon as I built up enough character to quit, I did.
I don’t really count my translation and editing work as a job, because I do it more on a “oh, hey, I need cash” basis than on anything approaching a regular schedule.
As for the trio of jobs that I generously label as “not so good”, let me first say this: I am glad that I had those jobs, and I am equally glad that they are over. I don’t mean to insult anybody who does any of those for a living and loves it. In fact, I’m eternally grateful to you all for doing those jobs so that I don’t have to. I learned a lot selling car parts to rednecks and shirts to women of a certain age, and I can’t bring myself to be a jerk to any sales associate, cashier, or waiter because I’ve been there and dealt with the bullshit. But, damn, I was a horrible salesman.
The sales gigs came about because I needed something part-time while I was in school and I was singularly unqualified to do anything more interesting than minimum wage retail work. Most of you are familiar with this situation. It’s what my grandparents would have described as a “character building experience”.
And they would have been right, too, so far that as soon as I built up enough character to quit, I did.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Rattlecans
The new dining room chandelier arrived today, and I quickly set about finding an eye-bolt with which to hang the chandelier chain from a ceiling joist. The chain, though, is painted a matte black, which makes a zinc-plated steel eye-bolt stand out rather harshly. Being frugal, I decided that it wouldn't be a bad idea to see if the finely aged cans of spray paint in the basement would camouflage the steel.
Rooting around in the coffee cans that hold all the spare fasteners quickly turned up a suitably long eye-bolt and a dirty glare from the cat, who resented my stumping around her litter box while she does her dainty business. Some vigorous scrubbing with steel wool removed the corrosion from the loop, although I left the threads cruddy because I didn't intend to paint them anyway. I managed to turn up (oh, what bounty!) both black paint and primer from the shoebox that held the paints from my model rocketry days.
Come on, you know touching off miniature missiles is fun...
With the eye-bolt firmly screwed into a stiff piece of cardboard to serve as my backing, I set off into the backyard. The primer went on smooth, if a little thick, and with no ill effects from its advanced age as far as I could tell. When I returned with the actual paint 30 minutes later, though, I discovered that hadn't cleaned the spray top as well as I should have when I put the can into storage five years earlier.
At this point, in the interest of explaining my logic, I should introduce a rule often heard in engineering: If it won't work, hit it. If it breaks, it needed replacing anyway.
Ahem. This, in case you missed middle school English classes, is known as foreshadowing.
Naturally, then, faced with a spray nozzle that wouldn't depress properly, I inverted the can and gave it a firm whack on the nearest stone. No effect, which didn't dissuade me. Obviously the nozzle just needed a proper smack to free it up. Make it so!
The can of paint, at this point, didn't seem to appreciate being woken from its extended nap, and promptly puked up some gobbets of sticky material before going full-auto. I waved it in the general direction of the eye-bolt (remember the eye-bolt? this story is about the eye-bolt), ensured that there was full coverage, and then set about trying to stop the rattlecan. My first attempt was to grasp the top of the spray nozzle and pull up, which resulted in well-coated fingers and no appreciable reduction in the flow. Well, if that didn't do it, maybe I should just let the can empty itself over the lawn. Eh, no, lawns don't look nearly as good in Rustoleum satin black.
Nothing to it, then, but another hearty crack with a stone! And, wouldn't you know it, it worked. The rattlecan spat once and expired, and I was left with an eye-bolt that matches the chandelier very nicely.
I am so smart. And covered in paint.
Rooting around in the coffee cans that hold all the spare fasteners quickly turned up a suitably long eye-bolt and a dirty glare from the cat, who resented my stumping around her litter box while she does her dainty business. Some vigorous scrubbing with steel wool removed the corrosion from the loop, although I left the threads cruddy because I didn't intend to paint them anyway. I managed to turn up (oh, what bounty!) both black paint and primer from the shoebox that held the paints from my model rocketry days.
Come on, you know touching off miniature missiles is fun...
With the eye-bolt firmly screwed into a stiff piece of cardboard to serve as my backing, I set off into the backyard. The primer went on smooth, if a little thick, and with no ill effects from its advanced age as far as I could tell. When I returned with the actual paint 30 minutes later, though, I discovered that hadn't cleaned the spray top as well as I should have when I put the can into storage five years earlier.
At this point, in the interest of explaining my logic, I should introduce a rule often heard in engineering: If it won't work, hit it. If it breaks, it needed replacing anyway.
Ahem. This, in case you missed middle school English classes, is known as foreshadowing.
Naturally, then, faced with a spray nozzle that wouldn't depress properly, I inverted the can and gave it a firm whack on the nearest stone. No effect, which didn't dissuade me. Obviously the nozzle just needed a proper smack to free it up. Make it so!
The can of paint, at this point, didn't seem to appreciate being woken from its extended nap, and promptly puked up some gobbets of sticky material before going full-auto. I waved it in the general direction of the eye-bolt (remember the eye-bolt? this story is about the eye-bolt), ensured that there was full coverage, and then set about trying to stop the rattlecan. My first attempt was to grasp the top of the spray nozzle and pull up, which resulted in well-coated fingers and no appreciable reduction in the flow. Well, if that didn't do it, maybe I should just let the can empty itself over the lawn. Eh, no, lawns don't look nearly as good in Rustoleum satin black.
Nothing to it, then, but another hearty crack with a stone! And, wouldn't you know it, it worked. The rattlecan spat once and expired, and I was left with an eye-bolt that matches the chandelier very nicely.
I am so smart. And covered in paint.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Tragicomedy
As if we didn't have enough to worry about, what with certain streets we mustn't walk alone after dark, hurricanes doing their best "Shiva, destroyer of worlds" impression, and Wall Street going somewhat pear-shaped...
...Add rogue barbell weights to the list.
The gist of the article, in case the link shuffles off this mortal coil:
A 45-pound wheel-shaped weight being carried up Cornell University's Libe Slope during a drill by a member of the wrestling team got loose, rolled down the hill and hit a woman, knocking her down a flight of steps and causing serious injuries.
Now, this is going to be one of the few times in my life when knowing the person to whom this happened is actually going to make things funnier. No, seriously.
The article fails to capture exactly how unlikely this was. For those of you who don't know Libe Slope, it is a great green expanse, approximately a quarter mile long, below which sits the gothic dormitories that I always wanted to live in when I was little. Libe Slope is also the location of Slope Day, which you can Google yourself and which has no bearing on the accident.
So the 45lb round barbell weight is dropped and begins to roll downhill, as round things tend to do on hills. Not so strange. But the weight managed to roll clear to the bottom without hitting trees or students, cross the road between two moving cars, jump a curb, and then make a quick right-left-right dodge around the flagpole, through a gap in the stone wall behind the flagpole, and then make a flying leap onto the back of the person who happened to be at the top of the stairs at the time.
Unbelievable.
My first reaction (and likely hers) was a firm "WTF?", followed by skepticism, followed by laughter. Er, I doubt she managed the laughter part.
She is supposed to recover fully, though, so she'll probably have a chuckle over her mugging by a York barbell weight soon enough.
...Add rogue barbell weights to the list.
The gist of the article, in case the link shuffles off this mortal coil:
A 45-pound wheel-shaped weight being carried up Cornell University's Libe Slope during a drill by a member of the wrestling team got loose, rolled down the hill and hit a woman, knocking her down a flight of steps and causing serious injuries.
Now, this is going to be one of the few times in my life when knowing the person to whom this happened is actually going to make things funnier. No, seriously.
The article fails to capture exactly how unlikely this was. For those of you who don't know Libe Slope, it is a great green expanse, approximately a quarter mile long, below which sits the gothic dormitories that I always wanted to live in when I was little. Libe Slope is also the location of Slope Day, which you can Google yourself and which has no bearing on the accident.
So the 45lb round barbell weight is dropped and begins to roll downhill, as round things tend to do on hills. Not so strange. But the weight managed to roll clear to the bottom without hitting trees or students, cross the road between two moving cars, jump a curb, and then make a quick right-left-right dodge around the flagpole, through a gap in the stone wall behind the flagpole, and then make a flying leap onto the back of the person who happened to be at the top of the stairs at the time.
Unbelievable.
My first reaction (and likely hers) was a firm "WTF?", followed by skepticism, followed by laughter. Er, I doubt she managed the laughter part.
She is supposed to recover fully, though, so she'll probably have a chuckle over her mugging by a York barbell weight soon enough.
Welcome
To those of you who will be reading, whether regularly or occasionally, welcome!
Pour a drink, grab a notepad, read...
We'll see how this all works out.
Pour a drink, grab a notepad, read...
We'll see how this all works out.
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