We've been rolling on a "Religions and absence thereof" thread over on one of the Costa Rica blog sites (until the site owner snaps to the fact that we're discussing nothing about CR and shuts us down) and I thought that it might be an agitation (one of my favorite games) to reproduce that thread over here, plus add some other dreck. So grab onto you cajones, god-squad ... here we go --
--- In CRRealists@yahoogroups.com, Carole Saylor <carolesaylor@...> wrote:
>
> About time we had something to discuss. :-)
> I have a question for everyone. How did you decide on which religion (or nothing) to believe in? Is it because of how you were raised? Is it because you had an epiphany? Did you arrive at it scientifically? Did you construct your own belief system? Or what?
>
Then another frequent contributor added:
--- In CRRealists@yahoogroups.com, "lenpetry" <lenpetry@...> wrote:
>
>
> I get to my belief system in a backward way.
>
> Science seems so far incapable of answering the most important questions about existence: why are we here, how did we come to be here?
>
> To be sure, science has made progress, but when we think of the simplistic science that existed before Copernicus, Newton, Einstein etc, it seems likely that the current state of science will appear equally inadequate to future generations. This is not to dismiss science, but rather to acknowledge that if science is capable of understanding the universe, that day is a long way off in the future.
>
> I also wonder in quiet moments whether science will ever completely understand the mysteries of existence. The ant cannot understand a human being, so perhaps we human beings don't have the mental apparatus required to understand a supreme power so complex as to be capable of creating the human body, and the universe.
>
> This is at least a possibility to consider.
>
> Nor do I think that formal religions have the answer. They all strike me as woefully inadequate human attempts to put the universe into some sort of order, any kind of order, as if any order is better than mystery. But the believers of one religion pick at the others, hoping to make their own religion more valid than the others. So, with so many reasoned criticisms levelled against each religion by informed others, which one to favour? None of them is my answer.
>
> This line of reasoning could lead one to agnosticism, or atheism, or mysticism (the latter being a belief in the possibility of a supreme being, but not going as far as to ascribe thoughts, intentions, etc to that being).
>
> Yet atheism won't do. If we can't understand the universe, we are in no position to make assertions about it. If we are in no position to assert that a supreme being exists, nor are we in a position to assert that such a being does NOT exist.
>
> This leads me by elimination to mysticism and agnosticism, but the more I learn of the mysteries of the universe, how incomprehensibly complex it is, the more I believe in the possibility that it was all created and organized by a supreme being.
> No proofs, of course. No firm declarations. Only an admission of the possibility of a supreme being. And that's as far as my limited human intelligence could ever be expected to take me.
>
Pretty well thought out. Then, I replied:
Carole --
As a "hard scrabble" (love that terminology) person of naturalistic views, as
opposed to a person with super-naturalistic views of "why are we here," etc.,
from what I have learned, the most reasonable answer to your question about how
people chose one religion over another is that for the vast majority of
religious people, they are born into it.
If you're born in the USA, there's a very high probability that you'll be
Christian. Which flavor of Christian has everything to do with parents and
friends. Not intellect.
If you're born in Saudi Arabia, there's a stupendously high probability that
you'll be a follower of Islam.
India = Hindu
Israel = Jewish
Tibet = Buddhism etc., etc.
Then, the naturalistic argument becomes, "So, if you're Christian, only because
your parents and friends are Christian, what's the basis of your rock solid
belief that people born Muslim are so wrong?" And, "If there are so many
'right' opinions (from the points of view of the many religions) then,
therefore, they must all be called into question."
Len --
Fantastic post. Really well thought out. My only deviation of opinion is that
I have no problem with science continuously updating and improving itself (i.e.,
"being wrong" at first) because that's what real science is about. Looking.
Seeing. Observing. Collecting evidence and then making a reasoned effort to
explain why something is the way it is. And NOT taking into account any myths
or unsubstantiated fairy tales because some barbarian in a tent wrote it down
after drinking too much mead, thousands of years ago.
Regarding religions explanations: I love the argument that in religion (e.g.,
the Bible) vs., science -- religion has been proven wrong 100% of the time with
respect to explaining any aspect of our physical universe; whereas, science has
been correct many times and partially correct (and then updated or corrected)
countless more times. What is the basis for an argument that, "Well, THOSE were
just stories and parables but THESE paragraphs are absolutely true and correct."
For both of you, one of the newest and deeply naturalistic books written in a
long time is by a respected theologian, who's brain finally snapped out of it so
that he could shake off the programming of his life and write, "Why I Became An
Atheist," by John W. Loftus, which is available in hard and Kindle versions.
Some portions are slap-in-the-face clear, yet some are deep philosophical
screeds which I have to read several times to grasp. I have to hand it to him
-- he leaves no stone unturned and might be the new Most Dangerous Man for
Religions of the 21st century.
Keep thinking, y'all.
JW
But I dashed back and had to drop in one more remark --
Ooops. I forgot something ...
Len said:
>
> Yet atheism won't do. If we can't understand the universe, we are in no
position to make assertions about it. If we are in no position to assert that a
supreme being exists, nor are we in a position to assert that such a being does
NOT exist.
>
By my definition, atheism is not a belief system and does not attempt to "prove"
anything. It is the lack of a belief system. Simple absence. And, since one
can never prove a negative, there wouldn't be anything to prove, anyway. Some
people don't want to leave the black hole of "I don't know," in their lives and
I guess that's why agnosticism exists. ¿No es así?
Then, shock of shocks, the forum owner jumps in ...
--- In CRRealists@yahoogroups.com, "John Dungan" <grumblesfmarenal@...> wrote:
>
> I was born to parents who practiced no religion. My mother seemed to lean towards a vague Christian belief, but was pretty turned off to organized religion due to what her mother put her through growing up. My old man's major devotion was to the bottle, so he didn't have room for much else.
> I converted to Catholicism in order to marry my wife (we've now been married over 44 years). I did little more than pay it lip service for many years, but have gradually become a for real 'practicing' Catholic, attending Mass regularly, going to Confession, etc.
>
> Over the years I have found a certain amount of fellowship in seeing the same familiar faces week after week, and take a measure of comfort in the sharing of the repetitious celebration of the various Church functions.
>
> I was fortunate to have one-on-one education prior to my conversion from a Priest who taught me that we can and do exercise free will, and we are each responsible for our own actions. I strive to leave my religion out of my political beliefs, and do not pick candidates based on any religious positions they might espouse. (We all need to remember that a politician will say any damn thing to get elected, and then do whatever the hell their backers want them to do once elected; so, never, ever believe what they say).
>
> So, I guess I'm an exception to the previously stated idea that your birth usually determines your religion, although, having been born in the U. S. A., I would have to say that if one is going to have a religion, odds are very strongly in favor of that religion being Christian.
>
>
I think this post elucidates one of the greatest strengths -- and weaknesses -- of Christianity (and Islam, to a lesser extent ... see the end of this mess.)
People are not adhering to Christianity and going to church for intellectual reasons -- They're going because IT MAKES THEM FEEL GOOD. Seeing the people of "their tribe" makes them feel good. Praying makes them feel good. The songs make them feel good. The security of a routine makes them feel good. Joel Osteen makes them feel good. Not very many people give a shit about whether or not there was ever a virgin birth and the philosophical ramifications thereof. Nobody gives a shit about whether or not there was ever really a flood that covered the whole earth. For all except a tiny few it's all about feeling good.
I responded to Mr. John:
>
> --- In CRRealists@yahoogroups.com, "John Dungan" <grumblesfmarenal@> wrote:
> >
> > Over the years I have found a certain amount of fellowship in seeing the same familiar faces week after week, and take a measure of comfort in the sharing of the repetitious celebration of the various Church functions.
>
>
What amazingly parallel lives we've led, John. I too "went Catholic" for marriage and also had the marvelously intelligent Priest, one-on-one. My only difference was that I came into it with a strong formal education in world religions and already knew a fair amount about the non-Christian groups and their beliefs. If anything, this made me more strongly able to support the Catholics in their programs. I am even the co-founder of two highly successful Catholic education programs -- one in TX and one in CA.
Your point, reproduced above, is exactly why I endorsed religious participation for my kids while growing up. It is wonderful and warming to see the same circle of families week after week. (When we "sucked" them into joining in as CCD teachers, we would see them night after night!) All of the kids went through the entire Catholic education, baptism, 1st Communion, Confirmation regimen.
But I also made sure that the kids knew more than most about the other religions out there and I also made sure that they were circumspect, independent thinkers. Scorecard: 2 Full Atheists; 2 Closet Atheists; 1 Born Again Christian (who will drop it like a hot potato if her husband ever does, I think.)
Here, now, in the twilight of my years (no ... I will NOT sing it) I have friends who are "churched," friends who are atheists and me, Mr. Stirs-The-Pot. I'm totally good with that.
This all went on and on. It was probably he longest running thread with the greatest number of written words, ever, for the group. Finally, everyone kind of petered out. They'd all blown their wad and nobody actually went away angry. Pretty rare in this day and age.
So, maybe it's time for me to go off on Islam. Not that this specific religion deserves special scorn for any reason. It's just time. I'm actually a little bit in awe of it. I'm not all that much of an expert on the history of Islam's religious development, such as, "Who thought this or that up?" although it would be interesting to know because some of this stuff is just damn genius. One of the up sides, for the supporters of Islam, is that with their system, I'll bet only a tiny handful have been raised inside the system and have gone on to awaken and become atheists. Here's why:
I've lived among the real Muslims (as opposed to the recently invented Afro-American Muslims) through work and play. I've lived through an entire Ramadan and I've been allowed to stand quietly among them during prayers. Islam is brilliantly unparalleled by any religion at any time in history by its super-clever and all-pervasive methods of ensuring that their faithful remain faithful and that those "faithful" partake of religion so constantly that there isn't much time to sit around and cogitate on "why the hell did I just do that?"
First, unless one has an agenda (e.g., the Afro-Americans) or unless one is under threat of death, there ain't going to be many willing converts stepping forward to join the Muslim flock. It is just too hard and takes up too much time. Any outsider who has experienced any of the other world religions, which are generally (way) less demanding, isn't going to be easily "awakened" by Islam and go running to its bosom. So, my earlier noted principle of "you're born into it," pretty much says it all. And a LOT of people have been born into it. A lot more will be.
Second, the religion's adherents are probably the least philosophically circumspect and open thinkers on the planet. That means that none of the usual intellectual arguments will work on them, so don't bother. That, and there's the "you renounce Islam and we'll kill you" thingy. That might give one pause. The following are the clever methods by which the people are kept from thinking anything but Islam.
The trappings: People have to carry around their prayer rugs or have them stashed, everywhere they'll be (requires thinking about religion.) They have to plan ahead, where they're going to be throughout the day, so that they can perform their purification (i.e., where can I find a spot to wash my damn feet,) know ahead of time (think about) which direction to face, identify a place (think about) to spread out the prayer rug, etc. Also, an amazing number of them physically carry a copy of the Koran, everywhere -- work, play, no matter. Walking around in public, prayers commence, in public, at the appointed times. Therefore, there have to be provisions for people to wash (purify) in the public sphere. So, even if it ain't prayer time, you'll probably be passing washing stations which are another means of reminding adherents, constantly, of their religion. In short, the trappings keep the faithful thinking about the mechanics of Islam worship even more frequently than one would suppose.
The Shouter: National Geographic films, etc., don't do The Shouter (actually called The Muezzin) any justice because the impact of his "call to prayer" just doesn't come across the tiny, tinny speakers of your TV. This is kind of like hearing an AK47 shot in the movies and firing one in your own two hands. Yowzer! There's no comparison. The Shouter is using a PA system the likes of which you've probably never seen or heard. It is so loud that it is guaranteed you ain't going to sleep through it or miss it over the noise of your job during the day. For non-Muslims, I'm willing to bet we all have the same reaction every time he goes off, calling the faithful to prayer ... and that is, "Fucking Shouter!") But no Muslim can say, "I didn't hear it," which brings me to the next point.
Public Prayer: I haven't known Muslims to quietly do a solitary, quiet little prayer to The Big A, such as, "I promise to be really good if you'll just let me pass this test." Nope. (Although, see The Talk, below.) In the Muslim countries it's ALL your neighbors and ALL your coworkers dropping whatever they were doing and getting together as a group to pray five times a day. If someone doesn't show up, it's pretty obvious to a lot of people. You SHALL show up -- and that leaves very little time in between moments of each reminder of Islam during which a Muslim mind might wander.
This isn't just "if it's convenient." Even offshore, on the oil rigs in the Red Sea, the world stops at prayer time, upon the notice of The Shouter, everyone drops everything (there are emergency or safety exceptions) troops to some pre-ordained space on some deck where they can roll out the AstroTurf "prayer rug" wash their feet in the provided ritual ablution facility and get busy with the prayin'. No kidding.
In addition to this public prayer, the faithful seem to be taught to do little recitations and readings of the Koran during any idle time. (Idle minds might be the devil's playground. Better keep them occupied.)
Peer Pressure: If you don't show up to pray or go to the mosque when you're supposed to, first you'll get the evil eye and questions from your family, friends & neighbors. (This can be defended as being a "good" aspect of Islam. Everybody is "concerned" about everyone else. If Little Hesham doesn't show up for afternoon prayers, he might be sick or in trouble. People will know to go check up on him.) But, that checking up is the real point. You don't pray and you'll be checked up upon, pronto. And it won't be just mommie checking. It always seemed to me that the oldest, nastiest, brutish looking beast-of-a-being was the dude who walked around giving the "official" evil eye to any strays or infidels. Big time "shudder" when they came around. Must be like it was when the Gestapo or the KGB operatives walked into a room -- except, of course, Brutus is a "good" guy.
The Mark: At first I couldn't figure out why so many of the faithful, even top business executives, had these patches of dark marking, about the size of a U.S. quarter, right in the center of their foreheads. Makeup? Hereditary?!? After enough time, you see why. The true faithful touch that spot on their forehead fully down onto their prayer rug, several times per prayer, and the prayers are five times per day, every day, forever. It's a freakin rug burn. Avoidable, but obviously not avoided. I've concluded that it is a mark of the pious, i.e., "See ... I ain't just going through the motions ... I'm actually banging my damn head down on the ground to The Big A!" Brilliant! Here's a religion which has pervaded the culture so totally that the men go to great lengths to bash the shit out of themselves, for god, many times a day.
The Talk: Unlike the Western habit of saying, "Bless you," when somebody sneezes or even Western extremes like the Christian nut-job few who will say, "Go with God," or such when you part their company, etc., in the sphere of Islam I think it is imposible to have a one minute conversation with anybody about anything without some Islamic religious saying being tossed into the transcript. I didn't have a long enough immersion in the culture to know for sure if this is true everywhere; or, if maybe they were piously posturing for the "infidel" but there are more than 30 derivations of common language greetings or wishes which employ the name of Allah and/or Mohammed (none of which are swearing, as a Westerner might say "God damn it" or similar.) For details, see http://arabic.speak7.com/islamic_expressions.htm
Special Times: This ain't just like a few extra trips to church around Easter or Christmas. For instance, Ramadan is an entire freaking month wherein the faithful "fast," every day, from sunrise until after sunset, and cannot eat, drink, smoke, screw or swear -- at all. Lucky-me got to the Red Sea station on the first day of Ramadan (oh, goodie!) . Supposedly, non-Muslims don't have to play by these rules, but, a). see above about Brutus; b). where do you think you're going to get food or drink when all such sources are closed up tight from sunrise to sunset; c). how much shit that you've squirreled off the tables in the mess hall can you carry in your backpack, into the helicopter, out to the platform, before even you're desperate for sundown (and where do you think you can "partake" that is totally out of site of Brutus?) Thus, for an entire month, everybody is up to their who-ha's in religion as they're getting ready, eating like maniacs before The Shouter lets them know, officially, the sun is up, DIEING of thirst and stomach growling all day after about 10am, praying five times (nope, ya don't get to quit doing that) and then sitting around the table, in front of gobs of food and pitchers of drink "praying" for the fucking sun to set (again, announced by The Shouter.)
On top of the actual time of Ramadan, when there are long-into-the-night celebrations (resplendent with food and drink), at the official end of Ramadan there is a huge celebration to end the fast. This party is such a big deal that it requires a lot of planning -- more time to think about things to do with Islam.
There are a whole pot full of other special days and events in Islam, beyond Ramadan, which all work to keep the faith in front of the faithful. If interested, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muslim_holidays
Now, looking back at all of the above, isn't this a brilliantly planned out religious system? There ain't no stopping these guys. They have it all together. My only regret is that I never figured out how to make big money off of their crazy system. Oh well.
That's it for today, friends. Please save your IED's and fatwas for somebody who is really worth it. I'm just one crazy old loon living and loving real paradise.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Wake Up
I'm reading quite a few posts and news items about the "bad, evil" people in the USA Congress or the "bad, evil" in the Presidential Administration who are doing "everything" wrong because it doesn't agree with the writer's political point of view.
Then, this is usually ended with some polemic or another of "throw the bums out" or "vote, vote, vote."
Wake the hell up.
The USA is NOT a country of the people, by the people and for the people unless "people" is defined as The Club of ultra-rich powerful folk that are really running things -- and you ain't one of them, Mr/Ms Voter.
Obama's 50th birthday is being marked by an "intimate" little gathering of 1100 people who are each paying between $50 and $3000 to attend. (How many $50 tickets do you think there are?) You got $3000 to toss his way? How about $3000 to toss his way several times before the 2012 election; and, several $3000 gifts to plop into the coffers of your favorite senators and representatives? Oh, and don't forget that you can "encourage" all of the corporations, for which you are a Director, or political action committees, for which you are a Director, to do the same.
You in that Club? I didn't think so.
But wait ... there's more!
The little get together for 1100 is only for the riff raff. The VIP's (?!?) are attending a different "special" party where the entrance fee is $5000 to $15,000 per.
I wonder why The Club can afford to spend so much money? All told, most people are estimating that the 2012 election will run in the neighborhood of $8 billion. Yes ... billion, with a B.
Do the "people" have that kind of money to donate? The Club does.
I often use the following "great revelation" to make people think about the futility of fighting this monster. Obama is expected to top the $1 billion mark for his re-election campaign of 2012. Obviously, whomever is his Republican opponent will have to match that (and they will.) Quite certainly Mr's Obama and Whomever don't have that kind of money to personally spend, so almost all of it will come from donations from The Club.
All to land a job which pays only $400,000 per year? For a job that is so tough that the "winner" is certainly going to age 10 years for every 4 he spends in office. Oh ... do the damn math.
And, do you think the poor dumb sap that gets that Oval Office REALLY runs things? Come on -- even a dumb monkey like "W" was in that office and The Club just grew richer and richer. [Bet you were thinking I wasn't going to get in another shot at Dubya. Ha ha. I'm very resourceful.]
During “that other damn Democrat’s administration,” prior to Dubya, The Club was losing a little wealth and power in the world because the US cut back and back on military projects, canceling them right and left. Then came 9/11.
Yay! We got ourselves a jenyouwine war!
But, shit, we can kick that little despot's ass in Iraq in a week. We gotta have a Real War so that our (The Club's) companies can sell We The People lots and lots of munitions and equipment and food and medical supplies and fuel and, oh, just tons of stuff.
Oh, yeah ... Afghanistan! The country that either hasn't been conquerable, or has bankrupted the conqueror, for the last 2,000 years. Sounds good to The Club.
Now, TEN YEARS later, have YOU made any money off of the war, other than maybe a salary? Nah. (You’ve just made all of the sacrifices.)
Did The Club make any money?
Why, yes they have, thank you very much. By the time you read this, the number will be $1.3 TRILLION. Kind of makes a stinking $8 billion look like a damn good investment, doesn't it.
So, yell and scream. Write lots of political screeds damning those damn Democrats/Republicans. Get out the vote. Send in your pissant little $100 donation to the Party of your choice.
But just keep the noise down a little. The Club has to get some sleep so that they can wake up in time to control whomever you elect.
Comes the revolution ... don't call me. I'm too old and I'm retired. Let somebody else get killed fighting the military might controlled by The Club. I’ll be watching from here in paradise and I’ll be sure to write and tell you what I think.
You’re welcome.
Then, this is usually ended with some polemic or another of "throw the bums out" or "vote, vote, vote."
Wake the hell up.
The USA is NOT a country of the people, by the people and for the people unless "people" is defined as The Club of ultra-rich powerful folk that are really running things -- and you ain't one of them, Mr/Ms Voter.
Obama's 50th birthday is being marked by an "intimate" little gathering of 1100 people who are each paying between $50 and $3000 to attend. (How many $50 tickets do you think there are?) You got $3000 to toss his way? How about $3000 to toss his way several times before the 2012 election; and, several $3000 gifts to plop into the coffers of your favorite senators and representatives? Oh, and don't forget that you can "encourage" all of the corporations, for which you are a Director, or political action committees, for which you are a Director, to do the same.
You in that Club? I didn't think so.
But wait ... there's more!
The little get together for 1100 is only for the riff raff. The VIP's (?!?) are attending a different "special" party where the entrance fee is $5000 to $15,000 per.
I wonder why The Club can afford to spend so much money? All told, most people are estimating that the 2012 election will run in the neighborhood of $8 billion. Yes ... billion, with a B.
Do the "people" have that kind of money to donate? The Club does.
I often use the following "great revelation" to make people think about the futility of fighting this monster. Obama is expected to top the $1 billion mark for his re-election campaign of 2012. Obviously, whomever is his Republican opponent will have to match that (and they will.) Quite certainly Mr's Obama and Whomever don't have that kind of money to personally spend, so almost all of it will come from donations from The Club.
All to land a job which pays only $400,000 per year? For a job that is so tough that the "winner" is certainly going to age 10 years for every 4 he spends in office. Oh ... do the damn math.
And, do you think the poor dumb sap that gets that Oval Office REALLY runs things? Come on -- even a dumb monkey like "W" was in that office and The Club just grew richer and richer. [Bet you were thinking I wasn't going to get in another shot at Dubya. Ha ha. I'm very resourceful.]
During “that other damn Democrat’s administration,” prior to Dubya, The Club was losing a little wealth and power in the world because the US cut back and back on military projects, canceling them right and left. Then came 9/11.
Yay! We got ourselves a jenyouwine war!
But, shit, we can kick that little despot's ass in Iraq in a week. We gotta have a Real War so that our (The Club's) companies can sell We The People lots and lots of munitions and equipment and food and medical supplies and fuel and, oh, just tons of stuff.
Oh, yeah ... Afghanistan! The country that either hasn't been conquerable, or has bankrupted the conqueror, for the last 2,000 years. Sounds good to The Club.
Now, TEN YEARS later, have YOU made any money off of the war, other than maybe a salary? Nah. (You’ve just made all of the sacrifices.)
Did The Club make any money?
Why, yes they have, thank you very much. By the time you read this, the number will be $1.3 TRILLION. Kind of makes a stinking $8 billion look like a damn good investment, doesn't it.
So, yell and scream. Write lots of political screeds damning those damn Democrats/Republicans. Get out the vote. Send in your pissant little $100 donation to the Party of your choice.
But just keep the noise down a little. The Club has to get some sleep so that they can wake up in time to control whomever you elect.
Comes the revolution ... don't call me. I'm too old and I'm retired. Let somebody else get killed fighting the military might controlled by The Club. I’ll be watching from here in paradise and I’ll be sure to write and tell you what I think.
You’re welcome.
Monday, July 18, 2011
You'll Die!
Recently, I overheard a lady on a cellphone telling someone, "No, don't use Splenda! It causes Alzheimer's Disease."
Sure it does, and breathing air apparently (in your case, lady) gives a person a mega-case of the screaming yellow stupids. You're the living proof.
A few years ago it was Equal. A few decades ago it was saccharine, which absolutely positively caused cancer in millions of people ... oops ... they were wrong. Remember cyclamates? Cyclamates ... we're all going to die!
Coffee's good for you. Coffee's bad for you.
Red wine makes you live longer. Red wine kills you.
Sure it does, and breathing air apparently (in your case, lady) gives a person a mega-case of the screaming yellow stupids. You're the living proof.
A few years ago it was Equal. A few decades ago it was saccharine, which absolutely positively caused cancer in millions of people ... oops ... they were wrong. Remember cyclamates? Cyclamates ... we're all going to die!
Coffee's good for you. Coffee's bad for you.
Red wine makes you live longer. Red wine kills you.
Water becomes a magical medicine because it "remembers" having some poison or chemical in it, even after it has been diluted down to the equivalent of a thimble-full of that chemical dumped onto the Pacific (homeopathy ... don't get me started.)
Where on Earth do so many people get so many ignorant urban legends and false "scientific" information? The Internet, of course; or, their best friend's aunt's boyfriend's boss. Therefore, it HAS to be true.
News Flash, sheeple: Just because YOU or your buddy reads something, it probably means that it is NOT true if it's on the Internet as a "new scientific discovery" or the latest easy way to do something hard. It is highly UN-likely that you would be reading or hearing about anything which has been newly scientifically proven because those results are only published in peer reviewed professional journals -- and you don't subscribe to any of those, do you, Big Dog.
Where on Earth do so many people get so many ignorant urban legends and false "scientific" information? The Internet, of course; or, their best friend's aunt's boyfriend's boss. Therefore, it HAS to be true.
News Flash, sheeple: Just because YOU or your buddy reads something, it probably means that it is NOT true if it's on the Internet as a "new scientific discovery" or the latest easy way to do something hard. It is highly UN-likely that you would be reading or hearing about anything which has been newly scientifically proven because those results are only published in peer reviewed professional journals -- and you don't subscribe to any of those, do you, Big Dog.
Even worse, Stud Master, is if you hear something startling or controversial reported by broadcast news. Broadcast "journalists" have degenerated from the likes of Murrow and Cronkite to a collection of some of the most shockingly ignorant buffoons ever to grace any "profession." Nowadays, their only purpose is to look pretty/handsome, act like they're your best friend and confidant while they read fluffy, entertaining dreck, written by some 1st year J-school intern who is barely literate.
Finally, P-L-E-A-S-E stop forwarding emails to me about dangers and discoveries or for that matter, any damn thing -- especially if it's about Obama or politics or ...
Oh. Wait. I'm saving that for another screed.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
J'ever notice how like-minded humans seem to be drawn to nest together? We were in a fringe neighborhood of Houston yesterday, to purchase new weapons and it dawned on me that everyone around me at the strip-mall was anglo and mean looking. Kind of like we'd driven into the private digs of the local Hells Angels chapter. Very weird.
Since we were there, we decided to go hopping around from geocache to geocache in the vicinity. We drove to several more spots in the area and the people-scenery didn't change much. REALLY nice homes ... but everyone looked like they were hiding from Da Law or were in the witness protection program. Eeek. Think I'll stay away from that area from now on.
Anyhowski, I have two new toys to report on. First, the Trimble software for cell phones called Geocache Navigator. http://www.geocachenavigator.com/ Darn near free, this stuff loaded painlessly onto my Blackberry and suddenly I have a GPS geocache locater that's as good as many dedicated geocache units. Some of the really cool features are that you can plot out a selected cache on a map that can be switched among blank background or overlays of a street map or a satellite view (ala Google Earth) or a topographic map mode -- all while your real-time position and that of the cache are shown. On top of these features, there are tabs to select which show: the cache's detailed description at www.geocaching.com; the direction to the cache using an electronic compass needle; or, "radar mode" (my favorite) which looks like, um, a radar screen, showing you and the cache positioned relative to your direction of motion. This radar screen automatically updates and zooms scale, as you get closer and closer to the cache, until every step you take shows up as a significant pixel shift on the screen. The radar screen is particularly excellent in forested or otherwise GPS hindered areas because you can walk to a clear spot, get a good satellite fix, then take a visual of the x-axis to the cache (including the distance in feet) then move to a perpendicular clear area to shoot the y-axis and distance. So, even when the cache is beneath a dense cluster or beneath a bridge you can still nail that puppy. Ultra handy.
Admittedly, the GPS engine on our Garmin is more sensitive and accurate but I was still able to have the Blackberry guide me to within a yard of a cache in the open.
Next new toy: I was surfing the Kimber America site (manufacturer of my hip cannon) when I noticed a tab for "Less Lethal." Uhhrrrru?!? Had to look. Zounds!
Kimber, in association with a Swiss company, is selling a device that looks like one of those electric self-defense zappers, but these fire (yes, fire) a loogie of dense oleo capsicum, accurately, at 90 miles per hour, for 13 to 25 feet (depending on which unit you buy.) The 13 foot units are up on You Tube titled Guardian Angel. These things each carry two shots and hit with a bang. Kimber claims there is virtually no blow-back and that a shot will blast right through a stocking mask or defensive fingers, etc., and that it travels so quickly to the target that it is impossible for the bad guy to duck out of the way. No more pissed off big bad guys whom you just shot at with a cloud of pepper spray ... but he started weaving n bobbing when you pulled out the canister and all you managed to do was make him cough once before he beats the crap out of you.
Are these critters a substitute for Kimmie on my hip? Nah. There's always still the chance that you'll miss with both OC shots and, well, see above. Or, you might be "taking a knife to a gun fight." But, these little toys are so non-threatening looking that I'm pretty sure that you can open carry and nobody will think anything of it. So, at bars, the beach, school campuses, hospital grounds and other places where Kimmie can't be carried, these "pain launchers" are way way better than conventional less-lethals and infinitely better than nothing. Check 'em out. We bought two.
Since we were there, we decided to go hopping around from geocache to geocache in the vicinity. We drove to several more spots in the area and the people-scenery didn't change much. REALLY nice homes ... but everyone looked like they were hiding from Da Law or were in the witness protection program. Eeek. Think I'll stay away from that area from now on.
Anyhowski, I have two new toys to report on. First, the Trimble software for cell phones called Geocache Navigator. http://www.geocachenavigator.com/ Darn near free, this stuff loaded painlessly onto my Blackberry and suddenly I have a GPS geocache locater that's as good as many dedicated geocache units. Some of the really cool features are that you can plot out a selected cache on a map that can be switched among blank background or overlays of a street map or a satellite view (ala Google Earth) or a topographic map mode -- all while your real-time position and that of the cache are shown. On top of these features, there are tabs to select which show: the cache's detailed description at www.geocaching.com; the direction to the cache using an electronic compass needle; or, "radar mode" (my favorite) which looks like, um, a radar screen, showing you and the cache positioned relative to your direction of motion. This radar screen automatically updates and zooms scale, as you get closer and closer to the cache, until every step you take shows up as a significant pixel shift on the screen. The radar screen is particularly excellent in forested or otherwise GPS hindered areas because you can walk to a clear spot, get a good satellite fix, then take a visual of the x-axis to the cache (including the distance in feet) then move to a perpendicular clear area to shoot the y-axis and distance. So, even when the cache is beneath a dense cluster or beneath a bridge you can still nail that puppy. Ultra handy.
Admittedly, the GPS engine on our Garmin is more sensitive and accurate but I was still able to have the Blackberry guide me to within a yard of a cache in the open.
Next new toy: I was surfing the Kimber America site (manufacturer of my hip cannon) when I noticed a tab for "Less Lethal." Uhhrrrru?!? Had to look. Zounds!
Kimber, in association with a Swiss company, is selling a device that looks like one of those electric self-defense zappers, but these fire (yes, fire) a loogie of dense oleo capsicum, accurately, at 90 miles per hour, for 13 to 25 feet (depending on which unit you buy.) The 13 foot units are up on You Tube titled Guardian Angel. These things each carry two shots and hit with a bang. Kimber claims there is virtually no blow-back and that a shot will blast right through a stocking mask or defensive fingers, etc., and that it travels so quickly to the target that it is impossible for the bad guy to duck out of the way. No more pissed off big bad guys whom you just shot at with a cloud of pepper spray ... but he started weaving n bobbing when you pulled out the canister and all you managed to do was make him cough once before he beats the crap out of you.
Are these critters a substitute for Kimmie on my hip? Nah. There's always still the chance that you'll miss with both OC shots and, well, see above. Or, you might be "taking a knife to a gun fight." But, these little toys are so non-threatening looking that I'm pretty sure that you can open carry and nobody will think anything of it. So, at bars, the beach, school campuses, hospital grounds and other places where Kimmie can't be carried, these "pain launchers" are way way better than conventional less-lethals and infinitely better than nothing. Check 'em out. We bought two.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
How quickly we forget
I am shocked at how long it has been since I've goobled the gobbus. Shame shame. I need to get back with it. I have many curmudgeonly and downright contrary things to say. What better place to rant than a blog site that nobody ever sees. I resolve to reform.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Toll Road Followup
Award: 
She's out there. La gran estúpida.
This really happened, this week:
Coming south, through the West Little York Toll Plaza, I'm in the Easy Tag Only lane and the usual morons are tying up traffic as they get into the Tag Only lane and then discover (or is it "discover" since I suspect that a lot of this is intentional) that they are in the wrong lane ... and they have to then block everyone while they try to nudge their way into one of the adjacent cash lanes.
So this woman in front of me, with an Easy Tag plainly visible on her windshield, begins to roll smartly along with the traffic as the morons clear away from in front of us.
She gets up to the Easy Tag reader and STOPS!?! (whereupon, I almost rear-ended her; and the guy behind me almost rear-ended me; and the guy behind him ... ad infinitum)
No horn from me, because I'm a REFORMED Road Rage Psychopath and every person has the right to drive safely and with the level of conservatism to which they are comfortable (gack! I want to retch every time I parrot those "good driver" platitudes.)
Away she crept from her stop at the reader. The toll gate went up (don't get me started -- yes, the damn things are back) she rolled up even with the gate and SHE STOPPED AGAIN.!! That ripped it.
She got the horn. I almost got rear-ended, again, and the other good drivers went wild with their horns.
She got moving, so out we all roll. I passed her and looked over to lay my most evil, rotten, "You're sooooo stupid!" dirty look on her but she won't look my direction. Ms. Gotta-stop has the pedal to the metal and is going to break the speed laws. On a mission.
Yeah, genius, stop twice in the toll gate but then get out there and drive 80 miles an hour while everyone else is doing 65-75. Makes perfect sense -- NOT.
That's O.K., I'll probably pass her in the next tool plaza after she stops suddenly, again, and causes a 37 car pileup. I'll save my "look" for then.
She's out there. La gran estúpida.
This really happened, this week:
Coming south, through the West Little York Toll Plaza, I'm in the Easy Tag Only lane and the usual morons are tying up traffic as they get into the Tag Only lane and then discover (or is it "discover" since I suspect that a lot of this is intentional) that they are in the wrong lane ... and they have to then block everyone while they try to nudge their way into one of the adjacent cash lanes.
So this woman in front of me, with an Easy Tag plainly visible on her windshield, begins to roll smartly along with the traffic as the morons clear away from in front of us.
She gets up to the Easy Tag reader and STOPS!?! (whereupon, I almost rear-ended her; and the guy behind me almost rear-ended me; and the guy behind him ... ad infinitum)
No horn from me, because I'm a REFORMED Road Rage Psychopath and every person has the right to drive safely and with the level of conservatism to which they are comfortable (gack! I want to retch every time I parrot those "good driver" platitudes.)
Away she crept from her stop at the reader. The toll gate went up (don't get me started -- yes, the damn things are back) she rolled up even with the gate and SHE STOPPED AGAIN.!! That ripped it.
She got the horn. I almost got rear-ended, again, and the other good drivers went wild with their horns.
She got moving, so out we all roll. I passed her and looked over to lay my most evil, rotten, "You're sooooo stupid!" dirty look on her but she won't look my direction. Ms. Gotta-stop has the pedal to the metal and is going to break the speed laws. On a mission.
Yeah, genius, stop twice in the toll gate but then get out there and drive 80 miles an hour while everyone else is doing 65-75. Makes perfect sense -- NOT.
That's O.K., I'll probably pass her in the next tool plaza after she stops suddenly, again, and causes a 37 car pileup. I'll save my "look" for then.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
I Was Right All Along
I just knew that our old truck, Suzie Isuzu and I would get crosswise sooner than later.
O.K. Yeah, I’m spoiled. I’ve driven new cars for decades. After I’ve driven them awhile, they start to break, and I go get a new one. So, shoot me.
Regardless, there didn’t seem to be any sense in getting a new or near-new car for Costa Rica, driving it for a couple of weeks, then parking it in the garage for months, until our next trip to CR. Logically, we bought a 1994 ol’ beater. Dependable enough, but not breaking the bank. And NO PAYMENTS.
But then I started driving her and my love affair with Suzie started to sour:
• She burns oil.
• The rear doors are sticky and won’t always unlatch, without a jiggling and banging session. (And if somebody KEEPS slamming her seatbelt buckle in the door, they’re really hard to open.)
• The outside spare tire rack rattles and squeaks.
• THERE ARE NO CUP HOLDERS. ZERO! NADA. NONE!
• The driver’s window sometimes won’t go all the way up, leaving a tiny crack that whistles air and dribbles rain.
• Radio? There’s a radio?
• The front windshield washer doesn’t work.
• She stalls a lot when she’s cold.
• She burns a lot of that $6.00 per gallon gas.
• The hatch window lift gas struts are worn out. They won’t lift all the way by themselves and they leak down, slowly letting the window close on your noggin while you’re loading groceries.
• She smells like an old truck that has been used to haul everything except (maybe) dead bodies.
Waaah.
Then I remembered, “No whiners allowed in CR.” So I sucked it up and we started to get along.
Things were going pretty well one Monday, considering that I’d received 2nd degree burns across the top of my left leg that morning.
That afternoon, we had driven to Alajuela to see Maritza and Venicio and to introduce them to our daughter, Jenny, who had arrived from the States for a visit.
Time kind of slipped away during our visit and before you know it we were saying our goodbyes in the dusk. A short stop at a roadside restaurant put us out on the road home even later -- well into the darkness.
THUNK! Clang-ity-clang-cling-dinkle-dinkle-dinkle.
“What was that? Did you see anything in the road? We hit something,” I said to co-pilot, Pat.
“Didn’t see a thing, but yeah, I think we must have hit something,” she responded.
We drove for about 10 more minutes, putting us well up into the mountains, on the winding stretch with no shoulder and no pull-offs.
PHWUMP PHWUMP PHWUMP. I knew the sound and feel of a flat tire.
Absolutely no place to pull off. No way to stop on these blind curves … in the dark … with the pavement wet from the evening rains. Cripes.
Then a couple of those Pura Vida drivers started flashing their lights and honking their horns because: a)., I had a flat and was driving on it (duh); and, b)., I’d slowed down to below the speed of sound on these curves because, I brilliantly reasoned, a flat tire probably doesn’t get as much traction on wet pavement curves as does a fully functioning tire.
Tensions went up inside the cockpit as the girls tersely informed me that I shouldn’t be driving on a flat tire and that I needed to … well … uh … do something! Okey dokey.
It was probably at least a half mile before there was even the hint of a semi-flat spot along the shoulder of the road. I started in towards one and then saw that it was probably soft mud. Bailing back out onto the road irritated yet another Tico and earned me his ire, manifest by a little ol’ blast on his horn.
Thankfully somebody lives somewhere back in them thar hills as a driveway entrance suddenly loomed in the headlights. Driveway = flat (ish) and driveway probably = gravel. I pulled right in.
We’re parked at the top of a hill, at the end of a blind curve, about a foot off the road’s pavement. I hit the 4-way flashers. Yee-hah, they work. Score 1 for the home team!
O.K., we might as well get on with it. I knew the location of the jack due to an accidental discovery of its little hiding cubby while poking around inside one afternoon. That much we had going for us. And, oh yeah, we knew where the spare tire was … right there on the back hatch, always in the way. Two things going for us!
In very short order, the jack was out of its storage, and yippee, the lug wrench was in there too. Three things to the plus column!
You just know there are going to be some inhabitants of the minus column, don’t you. Bingo. You’re right.
First, pop that spare tire/wheel off the carrier on the back hatch. Slip the lug wrench onto the first bolt … skreeeek … it squeals loose and backs out; do the second one … ooof! … tighter but out it came … the third one should be easy because it’s on the bottom and I can put all 300 pounds down onto it. Nope.
By the time I was finished jumping up and down (painfully) on the lug wrench, the head of the bolt was starting to round off and there hadn’t been so much as a little “click” of promise out of the stubborn fastener. A couple of times I just let my arms drop to my sides, figuring that the game was over. That 3rd bolt was not coming out.
We momentarily discussed locking up the mess, calling a taxi and getting a wrecker to take care of the problem in the morning. That didn’t sound fun. One last go at it. The hell with how my leg was feeling, lean into the bolt head with everything I’ve got and then kind of fall down against the lug wrench. It squeaked a little! Re-purchase the bite on the bolt head … and pound down on it once again and it turned. That pig was completely cross-threaded – who knows how many years ago – and was probably hammered home with an impact wrench. It ground out of its hole by hand, but not willingly.
Pat started to cram the jack under the side of the car. But I knew that there must be some exact spot for this jack to go and that just anywhere wouldn’t work. What I didn’t know was that the inscrutable engineers at Isuzu had thought long and hard about how to set up their jack/vehicle “exact spot” in a location most likely to cause pain, anguish and suffering for any stupid old gringo loony enough to get a flat tire in the dark and then park over sloshy-wet mud/gravel. Oh, yeah. Let me.
I found the old owner’s manual in the glove box (amazing!) and dug into the “Changing A Tire” page. Oh, lord. The jack must be positioned directly under the rear axle, immediately next to the inside of the leaf spring bracket. In other words, WAAAAY the hell up under the stinking car.
Great. I’m dressed in cut-off jeans – cut off so that my bandaged leg didn’t have the pain of anything pressing against the burns – a brand new shirt and Crocs. Pura Vida. No whining.
Under the truck you go, boy. Not that hard. Just skud the jack through the mud and feel around in the dark (I had brilliantly taken our flashlight out of the truck the day before and forgotten to put it back.) The jack nested right up under the axle tube. The jack actuator wheel turned easily as the jack rose up and made contact. The actuator wheel stopped turning. That thing was going no further without a serious handle.
“Anybody see a jack handle?” No answer.
Dragged my bod up off the mud pan and started through every nook and cranny of that *&%$ truck. Nothing. Yikes.
Oooo. Oooo. The owner’s manual.
Remember those inscrutable Isuzu engineers that designed the lift point for the jack in an impossible place? Well, the same guys were on the team to find a place to put the jack handle. Without the owner’s manual, nobody would ever find it. Ever.
Here’s the trick. The rear seat and seat back fold down to give extra load space. While folding the seat forward, the very underside of the seat becomes visible. It is completely covered with the same carpet/fabric as are the floors. That (I guess) is supposed to be a clue. “Why would anybody upholster the underside of the seat?” you’re supposed to ask yourself. As you may have guessed, with a clever array of Velcro closures, the underside upholstery peels away. And, there, amid the springs and foam rubber, are little clips holding the two long jack handle pieces.
Oh, uh, but they are just straight bars. No handle off to one side so that you can crank the durn things.
Owner’s manual is no help on this one.
Search, search, search. The girls looked everywhere while I lay on my back underneath Suzie trying as best I could to turn the jack’s wheel with no crank.
“Are you SURE that there isn’t a handle under the seat somewhere?”
Jenny is standing near my feet, holding the lug wrench. “What does this little slot do?” She asked, examining the lug wrench handle.
Sure enough, punched through the middle of the lug wrench handle was a little slot that I guess we were supposed to simply know was the exact size of the flats machined on the end of the jack handle. What a leap of logic.
O.K., now I bet you’re thinking that all I had to do was to just slide that handle in place and spin the jack up.
Nah. Isuzu has engineers.
Some feces-face little geek in god-knows-where, Japan, designed this jack’s gearing so that the jack handle, which is already too long to rotate a reasonable arc beneath the truck, can’t possibly exert enough force to lift the truck smoothly, given the normal strength of a regular person. You get to lay on your back, way under the truck, let out a karate shout, while simultaneously pushing with all your might on the jack handle. It moves a quarter turn and then clangs into the truck’s undercarriage. (If you pull on the handle, you just lift yourself up out of the mud.) Re-set the handle for another push and repeat.
So with way more effort than I EVER expected to put forth while on vacation, I grunted and groaned the damn truck up a good two inches.
I was resetting the wrench/handle when I perceived the truck moving. I shouted something to the girls and did a twisting roll out from under the truck as it slid in the mud and fell off the jack.
Hey, this is getting fun. Now the gauze on my legs is fully saturated with mud – it feels really good – and we get to start all over again.
The girls went on a rock hunt and somehow came back with several stones big enough to wedge under the tires, ensuring that Suzie wouldn’t take any more unplanned strolls.
I went back at it and finally got the beast up high enough to remove the flat.
But not high enough get the new tire onto the lug studs.
Crank; clang. Crank; clang. Crank; clang. And then the engineers struck one final time. Ya see … they didn’t want to waste all of that money designing and building those fine jacks with ¼” of extra, useless lift capability … so they didn’t. The ol’ jack ran out of travel and quit with, oh, maybe 1/16 of an inch of clearance under the spare as it finally slid onto the studs.
But it went on and the girls took over the final installation and tightening of the lug nuts. And the jack cranked right down, with ease, so long as the weight of a whole damn truck was pressing it down.
Within 15 minutes we were home, covered in mud and grit (all 3 of us). Those on-demand water heaters proved to be up to the task because we all wanted and took some really long showers.
I love this car.
O.K. Yeah, I’m spoiled. I’ve driven new cars for decades. After I’ve driven them awhile, they start to break, and I go get a new one. So, shoot me.
Regardless, there didn’t seem to be any sense in getting a new or near-new car for Costa Rica, driving it for a couple of weeks, then parking it in the garage for months, until our next trip to CR. Logically, we bought a 1994 ol’ beater. Dependable enough, but not breaking the bank. And NO PAYMENTS.
But then I started driving her and my love affair with Suzie started to sour:
• She burns oil.
• The rear doors are sticky and won’t always unlatch, without a jiggling and banging session. (And if somebody KEEPS slamming her seatbelt buckle in the door, they’re really hard to open.)
• The outside spare tire rack rattles and squeaks.
• THERE ARE NO CUP HOLDERS. ZERO! NADA. NONE!
• The driver’s window sometimes won’t go all the way up, leaving a tiny crack that whistles air and dribbles rain.
• Radio? There’s a radio?
• The front windshield washer doesn’t work.
• She stalls a lot when she’s cold.
• She burns a lot of that $6.00 per gallon gas.
• The hatch window lift gas struts are worn out. They won’t lift all the way by themselves and they leak down, slowly letting the window close on your noggin while you’re loading groceries.
• She smells like an old truck that has been used to haul everything except (maybe) dead bodies.
Waaah.
Then I remembered, “No whiners allowed in CR.” So I sucked it up and we started to get along.
Things were going pretty well one Monday, considering that I’d received 2nd degree burns across the top of my left leg that morning.
That afternoon, we had driven to Alajuela to see Maritza and Venicio and to introduce them to our daughter, Jenny, who had arrived from the States for a visit.
Time kind of slipped away during our visit and before you know it we were saying our goodbyes in the dusk. A short stop at a roadside restaurant put us out on the road home even later -- well into the darkness.
THUNK! Clang-ity-clang-cling-dinkle-dinkle-dinkle.
“What was that? Did you see anything in the road? We hit something,” I said to co-pilot, Pat.
“Didn’t see a thing, but yeah, I think we must have hit something,” she responded.
We drove for about 10 more minutes, putting us well up into the mountains, on the winding stretch with no shoulder and no pull-offs.
PHWUMP PHWUMP PHWUMP. I knew the sound and feel of a flat tire.
Absolutely no place to pull off. No way to stop on these blind curves … in the dark … with the pavement wet from the evening rains. Cripes.
Then a couple of those Pura Vida drivers started flashing their lights and honking their horns because: a)., I had a flat and was driving on it (duh); and, b)., I’d slowed down to below the speed of sound on these curves because, I brilliantly reasoned, a flat tire probably doesn’t get as much traction on wet pavement curves as does a fully functioning tire.
Tensions went up inside the cockpit as the girls tersely informed me that I shouldn’t be driving on a flat tire and that I needed to … well … uh … do something! Okey dokey.
It was probably at least a half mile before there was even the hint of a semi-flat spot along the shoulder of the road. I started in towards one and then saw that it was probably soft mud. Bailing back out onto the road irritated yet another Tico and earned me his ire, manifest by a little ol’ blast on his horn.
Thankfully somebody lives somewhere back in them thar hills as a driveway entrance suddenly loomed in the headlights. Driveway = flat (ish) and driveway probably = gravel. I pulled right in.
We’re parked at the top of a hill, at the end of a blind curve, about a foot off the road’s pavement. I hit the 4-way flashers. Yee-hah, they work. Score 1 for the home team!
O.K., we might as well get on with it. I knew the location of the jack due to an accidental discovery of its little hiding cubby while poking around inside one afternoon. That much we had going for us. And, oh yeah, we knew where the spare tire was … right there on the back hatch, always in the way. Two things going for us!
In very short order, the jack was out of its storage, and yippee, the lug wrench was in there too. Three things to the plus column!
You just know there are going to be some inhabitants of the minus column, don’t you. Bingo. You’re right.
First, pop that spare tire/wheel off the carrier on the back hatch. Slip the lug wrench onto the first bolt … skreeeek … it squeals loose and backs out; do the second one … ooof! … tighter but out it came … the third one should be easy because it’s on the bottom and I can put all 300 pounds down onto it. Nope.
By the time I was finished jumping up and down (painfully) on the lug wrench, the head of the bolt was starting to round off and there hadn’t been so much as a little “click” of promise out of the stubborn fastener. A couple of times I just let my arms drop to my sides, figuring that the game was over. That 3rd bolt was not coming out.
We momentarily discussed locking up the mess, calling a taxi and getting a wrecker to take care of the problem in the morning. That didn’t sound fun. One last go at it. The hell with how my leg was feeling, lean into the bolt head with everything I’ve got and then kind of fall down against the lug wrench. It squeaked a little! Re-purchase the bite on the bolt head … and pound down on it once again and it turned. That pig was completely cross-threaded – who knows how many years ago – and was probably hammered home with an impact wrench. It ground out of its hole by hand, but not willingly.
Pat started to cram the jack under the side of the car. But I knew that there must be some exact spot for this jack to go and that just anywhere wouldn’t work. What I didn’t know was that the inscrutable engineers at Isuzu had thought long and hard about how to set up their jack/vehicle “exact spot” in a location most likely to cause pain, anguish and suffering for any stupid old gringo loony enough to get a flat tire in the dark and then park over sloshy-wet mud/gravel. Oh, yeah. Let me.
I found the old owner’s manual in the glove box (amazing!) and dug into the “Changing A Tire” page. Oh, lord. The jack must be positioned directly under the rear axle, immediately next to the inside of the leaf spring bracket. In other words, WAAAAY the hell up under the stinking car.
Great. I’m dressed in cut-off jeans – cut off so that my bandaged leg didn’t have the pain of anything pressing against the burns – a brand new shirt and Crocs. Pura Vida. No whining.
Under the truck you go, boy. Not that hard. Just skud the jack through the mud and feel around in the dark (I had brilliantly taken our flashlight out of the truck the day before and forgotten to put it back.) The jack nested right up under the axle tube. The jack actuator wheel turned easily as the jack rose up and made contact. The actuator wheel stopped turning. That thing was going no further without a serious handle.
“Anybody see a jack handle?” No answer.
Dragged my bod up off the mud pan and started through every nook and cranny of that *&%$ truck. Nothing. Yikes.
Oooo. Oooo. The owner’s manual.
Remember those inscrutable Isuzu engineers that designed the lift point for the jack in an impossible place? Well, the same guys were on the team to find a place to put the jack handle. Without the owner’s manual, nobody would ever find it. Ever.
Here’s the trick. The rear seat and seat back fold down to give extra load space. While folding the seat forward, the very underside of the seat becomes visible. It is completely covered with the same carpet/fabric as are the floors. That (I guess) is supposed to be a clue. “Why would anybody upholster the underside of the seat?” you’re supposed to ask yourself. As you may have guessed, with a clever array of Velcro closures, the underside upholstery peels away. And, there, amid the springs and foam rubber, are little clips holding the two long jack handle pieces.
Oh, uh, but they are just straight bars. No handle off to one side so that you can crank the durn things.
Owner’s manual is no help on this one.
Search, search, search. The girls looked everywhere while I lay on my back underneath Suzie trying as best I could to turn the jack’s wheel with no crank.
“Are you SURE that there isn’t a handle under the seat somewhere?”
Jenny is standing near my feet, holding the lug wrench. “What does this little slot do?” She asked, examining the lug wrench handle.
Sure enough, punched through the middle of the lug wrench handle was a little slot that I guess we were supposed to simply know was the exact size of the flats machined on the end of the jack handle. What a leap of logic.
O.K., now I bet you’re thinking that all I had to do was to just slide that handle in place and spin the jack up.
Nah. Isuzu has engineers.
Some feces-face little geek in god-knows-where, Japan, designed this jack’s gearing so that the jack handle, which is already too long to rotate a reasonable arc beneath the truck, can’t possibly exert enough force to lift the truck smoothly, given the normal strength of a regular person. You get to lay on your back, way under the truck, let out a karate shout, while simultaneously pushing with all your might on the jack handle. It moves a quarter turn and then clangs into the truck’s undercarriage. (If you pull on the handle, you just lift yourself up out of the mud.) Re-set the handle for another push and repeat.
So with way more effort than I EVER expected to put forth while on vacation, I grunted and groaned the damn truck up a good two inches.
I was resetting the wrench/handle when I perceived the truck moving. I shouted something to the girls and did a twisting roll out from under the truck as it slid in the mud and fell off the jack.
Hey, this is getting fun. Now the gauze on my legs is fully saturated with mud – it feels really good – and we get to start all over again.
The girls went on a rock hunt and somehow came back with several stones big enough to wedge under the tires, ensuring that Suzie wouldn’t take any more unplanned strolls.
I went back at it and finally got the beast up high enough to remove the flat.
But not high enough get the new tire onto the lug studs.
Crank; clang. Crank; clang. Crank; clang. And then the engineers struck one final time. Ya see … they didn’t want to waste all of that money designing and building those fine jacks with ¼” of extra, useless lift capability … so they didn’t. The ol’ jack ran out of travel and quit with, oh, maybe 1/16 of an inch of clearance under the spare as it finally slid onto the studs.
But it went on and the girls took over the final installation and tightening of the lug nuts. And the jack cranked right down, with ease, so long as the weight of a whole damn truck was pressing it down.
Within 15 minutes we were home, covered in mud and grit (all 3 of us). Those on-demand water heaters proved to be up to the task because we all wanted and took some really long showers.
I love this car.
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