Confessions of a Commuter

[Z (fka Sweet Tooth)]

The funny part of the McDonnald's Coffee Fiasco was the reason *why* the coffee was so hot.

They hired a consultant.

That's a great tidbit I've never come across. Thanks!

To bad the consultant didn't take into consideration that the reason most people go to drive thrus in the first place is because the don't want to wait till they get to the office to have thier coffee.

[CNF2002]

Monday
Miles: 8,376
Mood:

Confession #37- I hate the Salvation Army.

A Salvation Army truck was travelling through my neighborhood this morning. It was one of those big ones, not quite an 18-wheeler and in need of a hinged trailer, but not as small as the biggest U-Haul you can buy. I didn't measure it, so let's just say it was really big.

We came to a four-way stop at a fairly busy intersection that, for the moment, was empty (despite a few cars behind me and one that casually drifted a right turn to my left). So I stop, put my foot down, and head out into the intersection because the Salvation Army truck is still about 20 yards away. However I was watching it and, to my horror, realized it wasn't slowing down.

A few images flashed through my mind. The first was a picture of me, arms flailing, stuck under the Salvation Army truck yelling for help. Then me in the courtroom, being awarded a big settlement by the judge while I sat there helpless with broken legs and a big white neck collar that I didn't really need. Then of course the Salvation Army couldn't pay me in cash because, well, its the Salvation Army. So instead they pay me with old women's clothing and broken laminated furniture. This would be fine except there is not a single men's t-shirt to be found, and I have no intention of wearing a dress. Because folks, lets face it, by the time a man is ready to get rid of any piece of clothing, it has 30 holes, is torn in half, and has been used as an oil rag for 2 months. It goes in the trash; no one donates men's clothes (much to my disappointment upon a recent trip there).

No more will I go to the Salvation Army. I boycott them. How dare they nearly kill me and leave me with a garage stuffed with garbage and a mounting medical bill I can't pay.

Needless to say, the Salvation Army driver ran the stopsign without so much as a touch to the brake. I was in the middle of the intersection, honked my pathetic little horn, and watched them drive by. I looked up into that big safe cab of theirs and they didn't even look at me, but they sure were laughing!

To get my mind off the trauma, I decided (as I do often on my commute) to study traffic patterns. I have a new entry for the DSM, which brings me to 13 total new entries they have yet to officially publish (no doubt they are spending many years verifying my studious experiments - my journals are quite complex).

Friends and family are often impressed that I have added so much knowledge to the DSM, when I show them my home copy and point out my contributions. They are a bit confused as to why my entries are hand-written in the back pages or in the white margins and do not appear in other copies. I tell them this is a special copy distributed only Nobel Prize nominees...the room gets quiet and someone finally says "So...moving on..." Lets.

This one is filed as a compulsive disorder and I have a fancy name for it, "Excessive Lane-Changer Type Personality". There are some people who just change lanes obsessively. Constantly. Is there no relief?

These people are sick, they need help, they need to be cured. Here's how I see it. By changing lanes a small portion of your forward velocity is transferred to lateral velocity (assuming they do not accelerate to compensate, but of course that burns more fuel which is equally disasterous). Conservatively, lets say 1% of your forward speed is lost in every lane change. At 60mph for 60 minutes that's .6 mph that you have lost (or 21.6 seconds). It takes about 3 seconds to make a safe lane change, so we find that for each change you lose .006 seconds. Now on the average 30 minute commute a person may make 10 lane changes, losing .06 seconds. The Excessive Lane-Changer Type Personality changes 50 times, so they lose .3 seconds. Then they go home and lose another, that's .6 seconds. Now they drive 5 days a week, 52 weeks a year, for 40 years...thats 6,240 seconds that they have lose due to changing lanes, a good 4,992 seconds above that of a normal, healthy, non-insane person.

Should we help these people who are losing over an hour of their life due to this disease? Of course we should...they need to be locked up under constant supervision. And just think how nicer traffic will be.

Just something to think about.

[Sev]

I like the way you think.

And I'm glad you dodged the Salvation Army, lol avoid the draft, come to Canada.

[CNF2002]

Tuesday
Miles: 8,398
Mood:

Confession #38- ...and I was more concerned about my visor.

It was a fairly typical day. The sun was shining, not a rain cloud in sight. Birds were chirping in the tall branches of the tree and I was slowly waking up from a good slumber.

As always in the morning it was time to head off to work. I'm a very hard worker mind you, even though I really didn't get a choice in the matter. You are born, you grow up, you go to work. Not all that interesting, I admit, but I happen to find alot of pleasure in my work. My brothers may find it tedious or monotonous, but I find there are little pleasures in life that make it all worth while.

Anyway, I was heading off to work on the normal commute route. This particular route was carved ahead of me long before I ever came around. No one questions it, and it always seems to lead to the office. Little did I know that today would be different.

I was minding my own business when suddenly I lost track of everyone else on the commute. Perhaps I was daydreaming, perhaps I just wasn't paying attention. Needless to say; I was lost. I flew around for a bit, trying to find the other workers, but none were to be found. Shortly I arrived upon this great big black track that stretched out as far as my eyes could see. I hovered around a bit, and then inexplicably began along the track.

Thats when I saw him. I don't know how he didn't see me, or why he didn't get out of the way, but there was a moment that stood still where I saw him coming at me, roaring, with a big black round head. I couldn't move, frozen in fright. And then...SPLAT.

Poor little guy, they'll all say. But in the end he was more concerned with my bee guts all over his visor. How cruel these motorcyclists are.

[KarateChick]

BEE happy cause sometimes guts do FLY so don't let your poor messed visor BUG you.... (alright, I'll quit now)

[Mr_Salad]

I can't believe it. I have just spent the last 2 hours and 15 minutes reading this entire thread. I just couldn't stop reading it. I really like your sarcasm and the way you put a spin on everyday life. Keep it up, I love actually being entertained at work.

[CNF2002]

Thursday
Miles: 8,412
Mood:

Confession #39- I don't know what a artofigerdebigulator is.

Greenpeace took away my medal today. I drove to work so that I could take a small-sized plant to my office. It wouldn't fit comfortably in my backpack and my saddlebags are off the bike, so I had little choice. Herein lies the irony. I took the plant to work to save it. It wasn't getting watered enough at home, and the leaves were beginning to brown. I could tell it was going to die soon, so I needed to place it in an environment where I had enough free time to care for it and nurse it back to health. What better place than the office! The miniature zen garden company doesn't want anyone to know this, but taking care of plants is very relaxing.

The problem is, I also chopped down the rain forest and killed an innocent family of spider monkeys this morning. Remember in third grade when they finally told us the horrors of pollution? I can't remember all the details because honestly we young ones tend to distort just about everything so that by the time we've grown up, our childhood is a 60's-ish mind trip. Anyway, I know from early childhood that everything to do with pollution leads back to the rainforests. Car fumes? Killing the rainforest. McDonalds making hamburgers? Killing the rainforest. I recall my teacher (probably a member of the ELF) putting up photos of pretty trees and cute baby monkeys and screaming "Your mommy and daddy killed them to go to work today so you could have some toys!" I didn't touch my Transformers for a week.

Anyway, the point is that I drove to work instead of taking the bike...thereby using far more gas, and killing a portion of the rainforest (3-4 whole trees at least) in order to save this one little plant. See what happens when you don't pay attention to the big picture?

I had a nightmare last night. I was riding on a feeder road and getting ready to turn into the u-turn lane that goes underneath the freeway overpass. Suddenly, the guy to my right slams into the side of me and pins me against the concrete barrier. I don't fall over, I'm still on my bike, and our vehicle slowly seperate. Then the guy takes off! A car pulls up behind me, two guys get out with a pad and paper and one of them starts writing down the plate number. The other guy and I are trying to tell him what the number is as the plate gets smaller and smaller, and we're shouting letters and numbers at the same time "B-0-2-4..." When we look at the pad, the license number is 16 digits long.

A cop arrives while I am examining my bike. There's no damage, except I suddenly notice the shift cable is broken. The cop takes the number on the pad, tells me he'll look it up on the computer, goes back to his car, and takes off! So now I'm alone. The shift cable has some slack, so I just tie it back together like a bread twisty tie.

Now I drive to the place where I bought the bike, which apparently is now a custom chopper shop in a big metal building. A few big guys with tatoos are there, along with my insurance company. They hand me a form and tell me that they can't authorize any repairs until I satisfactorily complete the form.

The form went something like this:

1) Name: _____________

2) Which is better, a 599 or a VStrom?: ______________

3) What is the function and purpose of the artofigerdebigulator on your bike?: ______________________

This one stumped me. I had no idea what an artofigerdebigulator was. It sounded kind of like alternator or a regulator...so I made my best guess. I penciled in: "Kermit the Frog is Green"

This obviously was the wrong answer, because when I gave it back to the insurance agent, he tore it up, told me I failed, and my bike would not be repaired.

Before I could tell them that there was nothing wrong with the bike, the big tatooed guys picked it up and threw it into a wood chipper.

I may have had a little too much wine over dinner last night.

[khad]

Funny dream CNF I'm also reading your blog religiously now. Keep up the good work.

[skoebl]

I don't mean to hijack the thread...But here's the first place I found when I searched for coffee brewing temperatures. I initially got my information from numerous cooking shows and books. Coffee is to be brewed at temps between 88 and 95*C; which is between 190 and 204*F.
http://hypertextbook.com/facts/2003/DianaGendler.shtml

Then again, I'm not sure if McD's even uses grounds. They may be like Burger King and use "coffee concentrate".

[CNF2002]

Monday
Miles: 8,481
Mood:

Confession #40- I'm a procrastinator.

I procrastinate. When was I supposed to change my transmission fluid? Ah well, I'll do it next weekend. Fine, the problem is that I'm also a mechanochondriac. So with every clunk I hear, I am convinced that my transmission is tearing itself to pieces. Why? Because I procrastinate and I haven't changed my fluid yet. Now I think to myself, "I have to change my transmission fluid...I have to!" I repeated it over and over. Torturing myself. That also makes me a crazy. So I'm going to change my transmission fluid. I have to.

I'll get to it this weekend.

How many billboards are there between my home and my work? How many street signs, telephone pole pin-ups, grass posted signs, all trying to get me to spend, spend, spend?

I don't know. I'm so desensitized to it that I don't notice them. But they are there, eating away my brain until I suddenly inexplicably crave a Mocha Laptoccino while wearing a $500 watch that I think makes me look like Peirce Brosnan in James Bond 26. I await the day where I find a pair of glasses and discover that all the billboards are actually white and say "OBEY" and "BUY" in big black letters and half the population are aliens in disguise. No wonder I can't understand the guy on the line of the Compaq tech support.

Consume, spend, waste...messages that bombard us every day and we don't even take notice. Then we get on the Internet and 60% of the screen real estate on CNN.com has been bought off by some company that thinks it can make me sign up for a Mortgage Loan by entertaining me with a chance to shoot a jumping monkey with a slingshot.

I can't call the electric company to report a power outage without inevitably getting a technical rep who doubles in sales and offers me a new structured rate plan after going through 10 minutes of menu prompts directing my call, asking me questions like "Is the power outage in your whole house or one outlet?", "Have you checked that your eyes are not closed?".

With cellphones becoming tied to the Internet, how long will it be until that monkey appears on my handheld every time I try to place a call? When will my car start offering me extended warranties and Jiffy Lube coupons every time I start it up?

Everything is becoming connected to a vast network of information...from our phones to our autos to the billboards that we all see on our commute, to the radio that we play. And it all comes with ads...nonstop, invasive ads that we've been trained by birth not to question.

If there is any reason to ride a bare-bone motorcycle, this is it. Before you are sucked into the information age that glosses over its consumer manipulation with the seductive temptation of instant information and entertainment. Keep your old bike. Maintain it. Soon it will be a welcome relief from opening you car door and it suggesting you drive to the nearest Walgreens to buy the latest skin cream, and it has already plotted the route for you on the GPS for your convenience.

Note to readers and Webster: I officially invented the word: Mechanochondriac. A google search of this term leads to 1 result, this blog!