Friday, May 23, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Monday, May 12, 2008
The Facebook
I do not understand the Facebook. When I log in to the Facebook I am besieged by notices of what my Facebook friends are up to. There is Jennifer. Jennifer has compared me to a beagle, her grandmother and a guy named Trevor. I am in the middle. The beagle is slightly ahead. Trevor is shit, apparently. Poor Trevor.
Then there is Sara. Sara did not feel the earthquake in China. I did not know Sara was in China, but am glad she did not feel the rubbing of the plates.
Lauren wants you to know she is a fan of Shane's Rib Shack, an asshat company told to advertise on Facebook by an asshattier marketing company and their asshattiest mobile partner (mine). "Facebook is how you market online to your sweet spot," is how the conversation probably went. And by probably I mean actually.
Beck's Beer is offering a chance to win a BecksBeer.com speaker tower. It will go nicely with my Budweiser inflatable chair, Labatt's Blue reading lamp, and Corona cooler. Yay. Yay for beer stuff.
Someone I barely know is now friends with someone I do not know at all. This is supposed to mean something to me, apparently, except all it means to me is that I still do not have donuts. Which sucks.
Jennifer wrote "yes" on someone else's wall. Writing on walls got me into trouble in 2nd grade once. Now I do not write on them.
And I was poked some way. Not in a good way.
The Facebook is for shit.
Then there is Sara. Sara did not feel the earthquake in China. I did not know Sara was in China, but am glad she did not feel the rubbing of the plates.
Lauren wants you to know she is a fan of Shane's Rib Shack, an asshat company told to advertise on Facebook by an asshattier marketing company and their asshattiest mobile partner (mine). "Facebook is how you market online to your sweet spot," is how the conversation probably went. And by probably I mean actually.
Beck's Beer is offering a chance to win a BecksBeer.com speaker tower. It will go nicely with my Budweiser inflatable chair, Labatt's Blue reading lamp, and Corona cooler. Yay. Yay for beer stuff.
Someone I barely know is now friends with someone I do not know at all. This is supposed to mean something to me, apparently, except all it means to me is that I still do not have donuts. Which sucks.
Jennifer wrote "yes" on someone else's wall. Writing on walls got me into trouble in 2nd grade once. Now I do not write on them.
And I was poked some way. Not in a good way.
The Facebook is for shit.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Exit Plane Left
AS: Yes, I am aware I am seated in an exit row.
Flight attendant not paying attention: Are you okay with that?
AS: Hmmm an extra foot of leg room or a single degree of seat lean. Yep.
Flight attendant not paying attention: Thank you, have a nice flight.
Flight attendant not paying attention: Are you okay with that?
AS: Hmmm an extra foot of leg room or a single degree of seat lean. Yep.
Flight attendant not paying attention: Thank you, have a nice flight.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
More Thoughts on Driving in Atlanta
Road rage is plentiful here. While I confess to having a fairly low tolerance for poor driving, I attribute most of it to the fact that I've nearly been run over more than a handful of times on lesser vehicles. Failing to illuminate a blinker may be annoying to the car behind you, but I can assure you it can be terrifying to the bike behind you.
I wonder if people with more acute road rage get angry at other people driving cars of the same make. I usually look at other people driving Volkswagen Passats (my car) with a certain amount of fondness; *generally* I think other VW drivers are somewhat like me: perhaps they care about the environment, probably a little crunchy, maybe veer toward the liberal side. At the very least they are kin in being duped into buying a piece of shit. I'm more apt to chalk up their poor driving as an anomaly, and shrug it off. If that's true for others, perhaps we should require people convicted of traffic incidents involving road rage to purchase the same car.
Something practical, slow, and ubiquitous - maybe a Honda Civic.
I wonder if people with more acute road rage get angry at other people driving cars of the same make. I usually look at other people driving Volkswagen Passats (my car) with a certain amount of fondness; *generally* I think other VW drivers are somewhat like me: perhaps they care about the environment, probably a little crunchy, maybe veer toward the liberal side. At the very least they are kin in being duped into buying a piece of shit. I'm more apt to chalk up their poor driving as an anomaly, and shrug it off. If that's true for others, perhaps we should require people convicted of traffic incidents involving road rage to purchase the same car.
Something practical, slow, and ubiquitous - maybe a Honda Civic.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Commuting by Bike
One of the few benefits of living amongst the drug-addled vagabonds of the Old Fourth Ward neighborhood of Atlanta is proximity to work. As the crow flies, my house is just over 3.5 miles from the office. I have experimented with a variety of commuting options - riding a bicycle, driving a car, taking MARTA, and now motorcycling.
I found bicycling in Atlanta rush hour to be a harrowing experience. To maintain any semblance of safety on a bicycle requires fearless aggression - from commandeering an entire lane to pumping your legs furiously to allay the rage of car followers itching for a chance to pass. Over the course of 3 months commuting by bicycle I was cursed at, spit at, ashed on (intentionally), and nearly hit several times (once successfully).
I picked up a new motorcycle a few months back after trading in one that was too big and powerful for mundane activities like inner-city commuting and general urban putzing. The bike I have now is a Ducati Monster 695. It is deliciously Italian, which means the joy you get from its quirky engine and pretty lines is mitigated to an extent by rather costly service requirements.
Motorcycle commuting is an adventure. From jarring potholes (more easily avoided on a much slower vehicle like a bicycle) to cars that seem startlingly oblivious to other kinds of vehicles, commuting by motorcycle is fraught with peril. I've mounted a cheap video camera to the top of the front right turn signal in the hopes of capturing some of the fun.
Today's commute to work (at 10x speed):
Yesterday's commute home (at 5x speed):
I found bicycling in Atlanta rush hour to be a harrowing experience. To maintain any semblance of safety on a bicycle requires fearless aggression - from commandeering an entire lane to pumping your legs furiously to allay the rage of car followers itching for a chance to pass. Over the course of 3 months commuting by bicycle I was cursed at, spit at, ashed on (intentionally), and nearly hit several times (once successfully).
I picked up a new motorcycle a few months back after trading in one that was too big and powerful for mundane activities like inner-city commuting and general urban putzing. The bike I have now is a Ducati Monster 695. It is deliciously Italian, which means the joy you get from its quirky engine and pretty lines is mitigated to an extent by rather costly service requirements.
Motorcycle commuting is an adventure. From jarring potholes (more easily avoided on a much slower vehicle like a bicycle) to cars that seem startlingly oblivious to other kinds of vehicles, commuting by motorcycle is fraught with peril. I've mounted a cheap video camera to the top of the front right turn signal in the hopes of capturing some of the fun.
Today's commute to work (at 10x speed):
Yesterday's commute home (at 5x speed):
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