I swapped new rotors, pads, and hardware onto the 244 this weekend, replacing the old stuff which was pretty well frozen. This is actually a common problem with the 240 and 740 series cars, due to the exposed slider pins that Volvo saw fit to design into the calipers. Over time, the pins get bombarded by road debris and moisture, they rust, and then the tops of the brake pads are stuck.
For those of you who drive these cars, you’ll notice (aside from a gradual inability to stop) that the shiny swept area on the rotors gets progressively skinnier. Because the brake pistons are still shoving on the backs of the pads, the frozen pins act like hinges and force the pads to swing slightly when you apply the brakes, moving the swept area farther and farther down the rotor towards the center of the hub.
Catch it quickly enough, and you can probably get away with just yanking out the old pins (hammer, vice grips, and drifts) and putting in new hardware. They come as kits, four pins and four retaining clips, which is enough for both front brakes. I ordered mine from FCP Groton for about $7.
On a related note, the overwhelming majority of 240s have Girling brakes. The ATE systems were mainly for the diesel models.
Hardware replacement is easy, and changing pads is fairly simple if they’re not rusted in place (whistling…). But if you want to put on new rotors, there’s a catch: you need to disconnect the calipers from the HARD LINES that plug into them. Volvo, seriously, WTF?
Most manufacturers have flexible lines running from the body of the car to the brake calipers. This allows you to unbolt the calipers and hang them up out of the way while you change to new rotors. Volvo, however, has flexible lines running from the body to the suspension, then hard lines from the strut to the caliper. All of a sudden, a rotor change means that you unhook the brake lines, which means you have to bleed them. That’s a two-person job.
Oi. If anybody has a logical reason for doing that, I would love to hear it.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Monday, November 10, 2008
California Alignment Shops Report Increased Business
…After the Democratic party throws civil rights under the bus.
Oh, the irony! A group of people who, only 40 years ago, worked and sweated and fought for equal legal recognition (that would be “civil rights”) come to deny those same rights to another group.
Seriously? Is some bigotry less despicable than others?
I’m floored by the CNN exit polls which show that, in regards to the California proposition that would take away the equal rights of gays/homosexuals/queers, black voters overwhelmingly supported the summary pilfering of other people’s rights.
In case the link above goes dead, the notable racial and age data is such:
(A vote for prop 8 is against civil rights for gays/homosexuals/queers)
I know that exit polls are not the most accurate data sets in the world, and if you want to dismiss the numbers on that basis, I can’t blame you too much.
Still, 70% of black voters chose to throw out the gays? The white, asian, and latino votes were split close to 50/50. The youth vote was definitely for making gays equal to straights, with the numbers predictably decreasing with increasing age. But the young ones couldn’t cancel the black ones.
This breakdown of choices on the proposition was predicted long before the election. Why would the predictions be important? Because it means that the Democratic party and its presidential candidate, both of which court the youth and minority voting blocks, decided that winning the presidency was more important than civil rights for everyone.
I should make it abundantly clear, before any leftists decide that I’m set on burning them at the stake, and before any rightists decided that they should burn leftists at the stake, that I can’t condemn all Democrats. The only thing that anyone can say for certain about all registered Democrats is that they are all… registered Democrats. That’s it.
Sigh.
So the fight goes on for the civil rights movement. I wonder if the fighters will be pissed at the party and the candidate that used them, then abandoned them? I am.
Oh, the irony! A group of people who, only 40 years ago, worked and sweated and fought for equal legal recognition (that would be “civil rights”) come to deny those same rights to another group.
Seriously? Is some bigotry less despicable than others?
I’m floored by the CNN exit polls which show that, in regards to the California proposition that would take away the equal rights of gays/homosexuals/queers, black voters overwhelmingly supported the summary pilfering of other people’s rights.
In case the link above goes dead, the notable racial and age data is such:
(A vote for prop 8 is against civil rights for gays/homosexuals/queers)
Black voters for/against prop 8 – 70/30
Voters aged 18-29 for/against prop 8 – 39/61
I know that exit polls are not the most accurate data sets in the world, and if you want to dismiss the numbers on that basis, I can’t blame you too much.
Still, 70% of black voters chose to throw out the gays? The white, asian, and latino votes were split close to 50/50. The youth vote was definitely for making gays equal to straights, with the numbers predictably decreasing with increasing age. But the young ones couldn’t cancel the black ones.
This breakdown of choices on the proposition was predicted long before the election. Why would the predictions be important? Because it means that the Democratic party and its presidential candidate, both of which court the youth and minority voting blocks, decided that winning the presidency was more important than civil rights for everyone.
I should make it abundantly clear, before any leftists decide that I’m set on burning them at the stake, and before any rightists decided that they should burn leftists at the stake, that I can’t condemn all Democrats. The only thing that anyone can say for certain about all registered Democrats is that they are all… registered Democrats. That’s it.
Sigh.
So the fight goes on for the civil rights movement. I wonder if the fighters will be pissed at the party and the candidate that used them, then abandoned them? I am.
Working Stiff - Hard Cider
For you weightlifters: a case of 12 bottles of hard cider, 750ml each, weighs in at around 40lbs. Today we bottled a hair over 200 cases, and I packed and stacked about half of those, so let’s call it a 4,000lb day of lifting. Should I be proud?
No, I didn’t think so. I guess I won’t be winning any bodybuilding contests anytime soon…
This, in essence, is the life of small business. The great deciders and conceptualizers, the people with the great ideas and the business plan (you do have a plan, right?), also happen to be the ones who pull off 16 hour days of lifting and carrying and stacking, while soaked to the skin in a 40F bottling room. Since I’m neither a great decider nor a business planner, I get to do the same physical labor without the same reward. And by reward, I mean the threat of knowing that your personal life’s savings and second mortgage are tied into the business, and if one little thing goes wrong you’ll end up homeless.
Good lord, I sound like I’m trying to kill off entrepreneurship.
In any case, I’ve been working at Bellwether Hard Cider Co. for several years now, and I’m getting awfully involved in the business. Surprising? Yeah, it was to me. But there is something uniquely invigorating about being part of a tiny team of people, all working their butts off to scratch out a piece of the market. No slackers, no drones, and certainly no boredom. I would never call it a high-speed low-drag operation, but it’s a fucking blast.
Of course, it helps that I’m making a product that I actually believe in. It’s hard to be motivated when your job is to make and sell crap. Cider, though… damn I love that stuff. It’s good booze, and it’s an old American tradition.
Hard cider making in the US was demolished during Prohibition, which makes it a long time in coming back. Incidentally, the economy went biblically pear-shaped less than ten years after the feds banned alcohol… coincidence? In the New England/Northeast states, hard cider was particularly targeted by law enforcement, probably because it was so easy to make that everyone could (and did) ferment a few barrels every year. So, the fed.gov did what any moralizing government entity would do: deceive and destroy.
The destruction side was fairly simple. Booze was confiscated and poured out, cider presses and fermentation tanks were smashed, and apple orchards were razed. Wait, WTF? Orchards, those tree-fields that supply edible fruit to the people? Yep. In order to keep people from drinking (prohibition = bad idea), the feds sent in crews to cut down the apple trees (destroying food crops = fucking terrible idea). In the years I’ve worked at Bellwether, I’ve had a handful of people who remember watching the destruction with their own eyes.
One old man was part of the logging crews. He told me of his part in the destruction, still ashamed after all these years, especially once the Depression was in full swing and he realized that those old apple trees he had chopped down could have fed a lot of people…
The deception side of the war on hard cider was equally cruel. In the years before the ban on alcohol was enacted, newspapers started running stories about the health problems associated with drinking hard cider. The source of those stories? Not doctors, but temperance believers and their supporters in government. After hundreds of years of making and drinking cider, the feds had apparently discovered that cider would make a man blind, lazy, and impotent. I thought the impotence was a nice touch (oh noes, not the testicles!). There was also an apparent outbreak of a disease known as “cider palsy”, in which cider drinkers would develop brain damage and tremors. Blame it on their alcoholism? Naw, it must be the apples.
Hence prohibition, and the clear-cutting of the orchards.
The rural people in the Finger Lakes, of course, told the feds to get off their lawns, after which they continued to make cider. But the urban markets had dried up, mainly due to the supposed medical problems from cider drinking. So the farmers and the folk had a look-around, decided that they had an abundance of fruit, hills, rainfall, and bodies of water. You know what goes well with all of those? Distilling!
Oddly enough, the land and climate haven’t changed much in the last hundred years. So, even though the ban on making your own distilled spirits is still in place, you can sometimes hear of the pot stills hidden in the hills and woods, passed down through the generations since prohibition.
Good job, feddies. You cocked it up, as usual.
Hard cider is still easy to make, of course. And it’s legal. So now I make a ton of the stuff (yes, I know, many tons), along with the business owners and a couple other hardcore cider lovers. It’s hard work and long hours, just like any other small business. But everybody gets to do a bit of everything, and I’m part of that everybody, so I’m learning a hell of a lot. It’s fun, I get paid, and I bust my ass to make the business grow.
I also get free booze. You can be jealous now.
No, I didn’t think so. I guess I won’t be winning any bodybuilding contests anytime soon…
This, in essence, is the life of small business. The great deciders and conceptualizers, the people with the great ideas and the business plan (you do have a plan, right?), also happen to be the ones who pull off 16 hour days of lifting and carrying and stacking, while soaked to the skin in a 40F bottling room. Since I’m neither a great decider nor a business planner, I get to do the same physical labor without the same reward. And by reward, I mean the threat of knowing that your personal life’s savings and second mortgage are tied into the business, and if one little thing goes wrong you’ll end up homeless.
Good lord, I sound like I’m trying to kill off entrepreneurship.
In any case, I’ve been working at Bellwether Hard Cider Co. for several years now, and I’m getting awfully involved in the business. Surprising? Yeah, it was to me. But there is something uniquely invigorating about being part of a tiny team of people, all working their butts off to scratch out a piece of the market. No slackers, no drones, and certainly no boredom. I would never call it a high-speed low-drag operation, but it’s a fucking blast.
Of course, it helps that I’m making a product that I actually believe in. It’s hard to be motivated when your job is to make and sell crap. Cider, though… damn I love that stuff. It’s good booze, and it’s an old American tradition.
Hard cider making in the US was demolished during Prohibition, which makes it a long time in coming back. Incidentally, the economy went biblically pear-shaped less than ten years after the feds banned alcohol… coincidence? In the New England/Northeast states, hard cider was particularly targeted by law enforcement, probably because it was so easy to make that everyone could (and did) ferment a few barrels every year. So, the fed.gov did what any moralizing government entity would do: deceive and destroy.
The destruction side was fairly simple. Booze was confiscated and poured out, cider presses and fermentation tanks were smashed, and apple orchards were razed. Wait, WTF? Orchards, those tree-fields that supply edible fruit to the people? Yep. In order to keep people from drinking (prohibition = bad idea), the feds sent in crews to cut down the apple trees (destroying food crops = fucking terrible idea). In the years I’ve worked at Bellwether, I’ve had a handful of people who remember watching the destruction with their own eyes.
One old man was part of the logging crews. He told me of his part in the destruction, still ashamed after all these years, especially once the Depression was in full swing and he realized that those old apple trees he had chopped down could have fed a lot of people…
The deception side of the war on hard cider was equally cruel. In the years before the ban on alcohol was enacted, newspapers started running stories about the health problems associated with drinking hard cider. The source of those stories? Not doctors, but temperance believers and their supporters in government. After hundreds of years of making and drinking cider, the feds had apparently discovered that cider would make a man blind, lazy, and impotent. I thought the impotence was a nice touch (oh noes, not the testicles!). There was also an apparent outbreak of a disease known as “cider palsy”, in which cider drinkers would develop brain damage and tremors. Blame it on their alcoholism? Naw, it must be the apples.
Hence prohibition, and the clear-cutting of the orchards.
The rural people in the Finger Lakes, of course, told the feds to get off their lawns, after which they continued to make cider. But the urban markets had dried up, mainly due to the supposed medical problems from cider drinking. So the farmers and the folk had a look-around, decided that they had an abundance of fruit, hills, rainfall, and bodies of water. You know what goes well with all of those? Distilling!
Oddly enough, the land and climate haven’t changed much in the last hundred years. So, even though the ban on making your own distilled spirits is still in place, you can sometimes hear of the pot stills hidden in the hills and woods, passed down through the generations since prohibition.
Good job, feddies. You cocked it up, as usual.
Hard cider is still easy to make, of course. And it’s legal. So now I make a ton of the stuff (yes, I know, many tons), along with the business owners and a couple other hardcore cider lovers. It’s hard work and long hours, just like any other small business. But everybody gets to do a bit of everything, and I’m part of that everybody, so I’m learning a hell of a lot. It’s fun, I get paid, and I bust my ass to make the business grow.
I also get free booze. You can be jealous now.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
High School Civics
In the middle of dinner, during a discussion of the house Ways and Means committee, it occurred to me that I know jack and shit about how my government works. And jack left town. Now, I know the basic structure of the .gov, and I paid a fair amount of attention during Government and Economics class during high school (although I’ll blame my imperfect grade on the combination of Bethany’s thin tank top and my hormones) so I know how everything is supposed to work.
But honestly, I haven’t the foggiest idea of what the Ways and Means committee does. For the purposes of dinnertime debate, I made an educated guess and came within grenade distance, but I didn’t know precisely what the committee was for, who serves on it, when it was formed, or what it’s not allowed to do. I can go look it up online (and, yep, I did), but there are a lot of committees.
So, essentially, I know the concept of my government, but not the details. I’m not sure anybody does. It’s just too damn big. I wonder if that’s the point…
Damnitalltohell, I'm growing more and more convinced that the federal government is just the greedy leading the blind.
But honestly, I haven’t the foggiest idea of what the Ways and Means committee does. For the purposes of dinnertime debate, I made an educated guess and came within grenade distance, but I didn’t know precisely what the committee was for, who serves on it, when it was formed, or what it’s not allowed to do. I can go look it up online (and, yep, I did), but there are a lot of committees.
So, essentially, I know the concept of my government, but not the details. I’m not sure anybody does. It’s just too damn big. I wonder if that’s the point…
Damnitalltohell, I'm growing more and more convinced that the federal government is just the greedy leading the blind.
Amateur Lumberjack
I woke up stiff and sore today. Yesterday, incidentally, I spent several hours breaking up the apple tree that was cut down in this post. I have a sneaking suspicion that the one led to the other…
Ibuprofen it is, then.
This old apple tree wasn’t huge, but it was vaguely tree-like, with the size that implies. So it was with some dismay that I observed my father returning from renting a chainsaw having found a tiny electric Husquevarna that seemed more appropriate for slicing bushes than full-on trees. Four hours later, we were left with this:
And an impressive pile of sawdust and shavings which smelled great, but managed to get under every layer of clothing that I had on.
My father, after the first hour of running that little Husky at full chat through hardwood, gamely brought out the splitting axe and took a whack at one of the quarters that I had sawn down. No joy, the wood was too hard and too wet to do anything other than bounce the axe straight back into the air. He set it aside for later.
We went out in the afternoon to stack the apple wood and bring in some of last year’s maple to make room for it. I touched off a fire in the fireplace tonight for the first time this winter, so the house smells a bit smoky and very rich. I can’t wait for the apple to be dry enough to get thrown in.
In any case, I was happily splitting the larger chunks of maple when the neighbor kids came home. With the maple as dry as it was, I was taking huge swings and sending the splits flying across the yard with the most perfectly sharp CRACK you could ever wish to hear. Inefficient, I know, because then you have walk farther to pick up the splits, but I was having fun. I don’t get to chop wood very often.
The neighbor kids, apparently, had never even seen it. Well then. If there’s one thing that twelve year old boys should learn and love, it’s the experience of splitting logs. It’s just a big manly thing to do, and the neighbor’s two boys seemed to really enjoy it. Suburban kids don’t get to play with axes often, if at all, but they figured out darn quickly that it’s fun to watch the wood go walking end-over-end across the lawn, and that children are particularly good at picking up the kindling around the chopping block.
While both boys are a little small now, it won’t be too many years before they’ll get their chance to hit things with an axe.
Ibuprofen it is, then.
This old apple tree wasn’t huge, but it was vaguely tree-like, with the size that implies. So it was with some dismay that I observed my father returning from renting a chainsaw having found a tiny electric Husquevarna that seemed more appropriate for slicing bushes than full-on trees. Four hours later, we were left with this:
And an impressive pile of sawdust and shavings which smelled great, but managed to get under every layer of clothing that I had on.
My father, after the first hour of running that little Husky at full chat through hardwood, gamely brought out the splitting axe and took a whack at one of the quarters that I had sawn down. No joy, the wood was too hard and too wet to do anything other than bounce the axe straight back into the air. He set it aside for later.
We went out in the afternoon to stack the apple wood and bring in some of last year’s maple to make room for it. I touched off a fire in the fireplace tonight for the first time this winter, so the house smells a bit smoky and very rich. I can’t wait for the apple to be dry enough to get thrown in.
In any case, I was happily splitting the larger chunks of maple when the neighbor kids came home. With the maple as dry as it was, I was taking huge swings and sending the splits flying across the yard with the most perfectly sharp CRACK you could ever wish to hear. Inefficient, I know, because then you have walk farther to pick up the splits, but I was having fun. I don’t get to chop wood very often.
The neighbor kids, apparently, had never even seen it. Well then. If there’s one thing that twelve year old boys should learn and love, it’s the experience of splitting logs. It’s just a big manly thing to do, and the neighbor’s two boys seemed to really enjoy it. Suburban kids don’t get to play with axes often, if at all, but they figured out darn quickly that it’s fun to watch the wood go walking end-over-end across the lawn, and that children are particularly good at picking up the kindling around the chopping block.
While both boys are a little small now, it won’t be too many years before they’ll get their chance to hit things with an axe.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Warning: Rum and Coke
Yep, unsatisfactory cheap rum and gen-you-wine Coke bring you this important message from our sponsors.
EXPRESS TELEGRAM
FROM: RETAXIS
TO: THE MINISTRY OF TRUTH
MESSAGE BEGINS
REGARDS TO OBAMA FROM THE PRINCE OF EARTH STOP RETAXIS WELCOMES HIS NEW SOCIALIST OVERLORD STOP WE HAVE ALWAYS BEEN AT WAR WITH EASTASIA STOP RUNNING OUT OF COKE BEFORE RUM IS A BAD SIGN STOP ESPECIALLY WHEN I HAD A LOT OF COKE STOP
MESSAGE ENDS
Seriously, though, Orwell's "1984" was not an instruction manual. There are a lot of people who seem willing enough to trade freedom for safety, and then trade both for bread and circuses. In my experience, most of those people have simply never been taught about freedom and responsibility in a sense greater than their grinding daily lives.
My freedom has no price. I will not trade it.
Fuck you. Stay off my lawn.
EXPRESS TELEGRAM
FROM: RETAXIS
TO: THE MINISTRY OF TRUTH
MESSAGE BEGINS
REGARDS TO OBAMA FROM THE PRINCE OF EARTH STOP RETAXIS WELCOMES HIS NEW SOCIALIST OVERLORD STOP WE HAVE ALWAYS BEEN AT WAR WITH EASTASIA STOP RUNNING OUT OF COKE BEFORE RUM IS A BAD SIGN STOP ESPECIALLY WHEN I HAD A LOT OF COKE STOP
MESSAGE ENDS
Seriously, though, Orwell's "1984" was not an instruction manual. There are a lot of people who seem willing enough to trade freedom for safety, and then trade both for bread and circuses. In my experience, most of those people have simply never been taught about freedom and responsibility in a sense greater than their grinding daily lives.
My freedom has no price. I will not trade it.
Fuck you. Stay off my lawn.
I done gone and voted
A few minutes ago I walked two minutes up to my polling place, signed my name, and cranked a lever for my particular choices of politicians. There was no problem, no wait (it took me longer to tie my shoes to walk up than it did to vote), and I used what must be one of the last mechanical voting machines in this country. As much as I distrust the no-paper-trail electronic machines, I especially love the big old mechanical contraptions where I get to flip down little paddles with arrows on them to choose the candidates, and then grab the big red handle and sweep it left, listening to the ratchets and cogs click my vote.
It’s a solid, manly feeling, like shucking a well-worn shotgun or running the bolt on a long-action rifle. And that, I think, is a good thing to be reminded of when voting. I know that when I step into that polling station in an elementary school gym that I’m doing my civic duty, I’m exercising my right as an American, and I’m lending credence to this republic. I know this because I’ve been told by many people, usually using those same clichéd phrases or barely rehashed versions.
For me, though, it’s a little bit different. I don’t get a sense of belonging, nor do I feel like a part of something bigger than me. It’s just my voice, my own little piece of political power. And, to be honest, it’s my nice voice, where I state my opinion and hope that the people in power play by the rules and listen to me. If they don’t, then I have to use my angry voice.
That's where the disenfranchised man says, “I am not happy with you” as he chambers another round.
So that big lever with the bright red handle… that’s really the hope that everyone will play nice, and that none of us will have to take up arms to vote from the rooftops.
And, of course, they gave me a sticker
Which I stuck onto my Nalgene because I am just too darn trendy for my own good.
It’s a solid, manly feeling, like shucking a well-worn shotgun or running the bolt on a long-action rifle. And that, I think, is a good thing to be reminded of when voting. I know that when I step into that polling station in an elementary school gym that I’m doing my civic duty, I’m exercising my right as an American, and I’m lending credence to this republic. I know this because I’ve been told by many people, usually using those same clichéd phrases or barely rehashed versions.
For me, though, it’s a little bit different. I don’t get a sense of belonging, nor do I feel like a part of something bigger than me. It’s just my voice, my own little piece of political power. And, to be honest, it’s my nice voice, where I state my opinion and hope that the people in power play by the rules and listen to me. If they don’t, then I have to use my angry voice.
That's where the disenfranchised man says, “I am not happy with you” as he chambers another round.
So that big lever with the bright red handle… that’s really the hope that everyone will play nice, and that none of us will have to take up arms to vote from the rooftops.
And, of course, they gave me a sticker
Which I stuck onto my Nalgene because I am just too darn trendy for my own good.
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