My New Beetle is named Rudolf, in honor of his inventor. A few people have been surprised because they conclude therefore that I think of my car as male. I do not; cars are genderless.
Cars have no need for gender; they are asexual parasites of the human social organism. Like a virus, cars trick their hosts not only into making copies, but also into mutating the basic form for greater strength, speed, and desirability within the host. Thus, cars ensure that they will be individually long-enduring, wide-spread, and numerous.
In the past, driving a new car has been a fun occasion. A new car responds differently to the accelerator, the brake. It has different gearing, different steering. Its mechanical sounds are new. But over time, I become accustomed to all of the nuances and cease to notice them.
Regularly driving two cars seems to negate that effect. I think it is a matter of contrast. The differences are enough that after driving a Miata for a few days, going back to my Beetle feels like getting a new car. I can’t just rely on motor memory to operate the car for me; I have to be conscious of the controls and what I want the car to do, and that makes driving—which I usually enjoy anyway—more fun.
I wasn’t sure how I’d feel about owning more than one car, but I think it’ll work out just fine.
For the last two months, I’ve been walking to work three or four days a week. Every such day, four or five drivers make right turns in front of me, without stopping, not only after their signals are red, but also after my walk signal is lit.
I’m particularly incensed by such behavior because the signals in Eden Prairie are noticeably hostile to pedestrians. Of the six streets I cross in a typical day, one has a broken button (and so never changes its pedestrian signal), three always make me wait until the beginning of the next cycle (I’m made to wait even if I’m so tardy as to press the button while the cross-street light is yellow), and two will signal for walking only if the parallel street will have a green signal for at least another thirty seconds—about three times longer than it takes me to cross.
So I’d appreciate it if drivers would have the courtesy to yield. I’m considering two remedies (for my irritation, at least):
Note the license plates of all the offensive drivers, and list them on the internet. No utility, really, other than catharsis.
It’s after ten o’clock at night and I still hear a continuous hum of traffic and machinery from my open window. It’s not yet even air-conditioner season. I miss silence.
Changing a light bulb should not make one’s fingertips sore.
Changing a light bulb should not take two hours.
One of my car’s low-beam headlights failed last Thursday while I was on vacation. We were still in Tennessee at the time, and since we were only going to be driving during the day—and since I didn’t know how to change the bulb—I decided to let it be until I got home. The other low-beam lamp failed Saturday night at seven, just as I was nearing home, just as night was falling.
I had fun telling people at Easter that I had to be home before dark.
After work this afternoon I bought a pair of new bulbs. The passenger side took about fifteen minutes to change, and that long only because I had to figure out how it’s done.
To change a headlight on a New Beetle, one must:
Open the hood,
On the appropriate side of the engine compartment, locate the small plastic locking lever on the headlight assembly, free its catch and lift it upward,
Wiggle and slide the headlight assembly out the front of the fender,
Release two catches to remove the back cover of the assembly,
Unplug a wire from the back of the old bulb,
Release a clip that holds the bulb in place,
Slide the old bulb out, and
Reverse the process to install the new lamp.
On the driver’s side, the process is complicated because the lever is mostly hidden behind part of the battery cover which, although I lack documentation to back up this assertion, apparently cannot be removed without taking out the battery itself. Making matters worse, the lever on the driver’s side of my car was sticky and after an hour of trying to get it to re-lock, I had to walk to Home Depot down the street and buy silicone lubricant spray to loosen the mechanism.
I’m not convinced the lubricant helped, but after another hour of trying different ways to get more leverage from my thumbs, I got it back in place. I pity the fool who will have to change that lamp next time—especially since he will almost certainly be me.
I saw Juno with a few friends tonight; I liked it. After we had left the theater, it was pointed out that every character spoke a witty line at some point. I hadn’t noticed. I replied that those of us who appreciate good wit secretly believe that everyone is witty. Or at least, that’s true of me.
Balancing national security with the public’s fundamental right to know what the government is doing in its name is a difficult challenge, but no challenge should necessitate abdication of essential checks and balances.
Ryan Paul (the author of the article) is wrong. Balancing national security with the public’s right to know what the government is doing is easy. There is no legitimate business of the republic that cannot be conducted in full view of the public. For example, if the FBI needs to use quiet, possibly questionable methods so as not to spook a suspect before he can be arrested, fine. But once he’s arrested, all the methods and all the reasons for their use must be published. It’s the only way we can ensure that positions of personal power are also positions of personal responsibility. If actions made in the people’s name can be kept secret at will, then “national security” is just a clever euphemism for job security.
