Obviously I’ve not written anything in awhile. I guess I’ve not had much important to say, but what else is new. Between my hamster-on-meth level of perpetual twitchery, legitimate business, and the current complete clusterfuck that is the world, it’s really been hard to formalize any thoughts so far as to put them into a permanent format.
However, for the first time in awhile, I find myself alone in the mountains and with the technology to bore/offend/encourage you (depends on the reader, I guess), so here goes. In no particular order.
Easing into it – personal news. I sold my ‘vette, which I thought would hurt me infinitely more than it did. Honestly, it needed to happen – you can only stare at twenty-odd thousand dollars under a cover, not driven, for so long, before you start to think: hey, it’d be pretty fucking sweet to pay off my truck, clear out any other debt, cover a week of surfing in Costa Rica, and still have some savings, wouldn’t it? Yes, it would, other Jack. Yes it would. You’ll see me shed no tears over that breakup.
Yeah, there’ll be another Corvette in my future, but it’ll be nothing bland – either a mid-year (C2) or late 60’s (C3) of the right ilk, a C6 ZR1, or just go for broke and get a C7 Z06. It will come to me, whatever it may be. I’m leaning towards the classics.
Speaking of classics, I picked up a 1958 Smith and Wesson M10 snubnose .38 today for essentially a song. It’s one of those perfect useable classics – you can tell someone carried it once in awhile, when they felt they needed a gun, but I’d be willing to bet that it has fewer than 50 rounds through it. That’ll change, don’t worry. I can say with complete confidence that the action and trigger feel like nothing you can buy new today from a factory… just a buttery smooth double-action pull, no snags or imperfections while the cylinder rotates. Single action (hammer cocked, for you non-gun types) is the equivalent of an actual custom 1911 or a well-built precision rifle. It must be felt to be appreciated.
Ahem.
Got a proper knife today as well, a Benchmade Infidel, which replaces my Kershaw Ken Onion… something? Can’t remember the model, it’s irrelevant though. Said Kershaw has been on 5 continents, through some real shit, and has survived 13 years of my kind and gentle attention. (Read: I beat the piss out of the thing, and it shows.) It was expensive in its day at around $195 on sale, but fuck, it’s been good to me. New Benchmade is the heat, though. Out-the-fronts are really what’s up.
Other happy stuff… let’s see. Hans is looking lean and handsome, at what I imagine will be his peak weight of 103 lbs. Fucking giant goober. He is the best dog, period. I can’t begin to express how awesome he is if you’ve never met him.
Aight. Out of fun stuff to talk about, and I am honestly trying to shut down my political intake and discourse for at least a week, so we’ll have none of that here. Suffice it to say that I welcome all reasonable political opinions, even if they differ significantly from my own, and that I think more discussion over beers (on a national level) will prove that most of us have more in common than we think.
That said, some people are just assholes, but what can you do. Fuck it.
Love,
Jack
Thursday, August 17, 2017
Wednesday, April 19, 2017
10 Car Commandments
Since it seems as if most of your parents have failed you in this regard, I feel obligated to write this (notably because of all the goddamn fingerprints on my 'vette, which are tellingly ONLY on the passenger side). Here's how not to be a dick regarding someone else's car, truck, or motorcycle.
1. Don't touch the paint (or glass) if you can avoid it. This is what door handles are for, so put your greasy dickbeaters on those instead like God intended. There is no faster way to piss off a car guy than to get finger or palm prints all over his freshly washed sports car - especially if it's black. It's a surefire recipe for not getting invited back (unless you're a total babe, in which case I'll forgive a few transgressions... you get off with a verbal warning, this time).
2. Don't lean on, draw on, or otherwise fuck with a dirty car - every time you rub that dirt across the surface of the paint, it creates a billion little scratches. This is because some of the minerals that are in that dirt are harder than the paint itself - imagine drawing a sharp diamond across a glass window, and you'll have a very good idea of what's happening on a microscopic level. You might not notice it, but the guy or girl who spends hours at a time painstakingly detailing their most prized possession surely will. Again, the importance of this is increased tenfold if the vehicle is black or another very dark color, as these show everything.
3. No drinking or eating unless given explicit permission from the owner. And if you spill or drop something, clean it the fuck up.
4. No smoking. This is subject to waiver.
5. Clean out any trash you create.
6. Knock, brush, or otherwise clean off your dirty-ass boots. Yeah, I know my truck has all-weather floor mats, but that doesn't mean I want ten pounds of snow, mud, and gravel sloshing around in them. (Note: if you are elk hunting, this becomes less important.)
7. If not driving, the owner of the vehicle gets shotgun by default, and assumes first mate/copilot responsibilities of both navigation and DJing. This is also subject to waiver, and conditional on said owner not falling asleep on the job.
8. As a corollary to # 7, sitting in shotgun comes with navigational responsibilities in addition to DJing, unless the owner refuses to acquiesce control of the music. If you are not willing to adopt these responsibilities, or if you are going to fall asleep, sit your ass in the rear and let someone else be copilot.
9. Don't immediately demand control of the music. Ask for things, like an adult... and yeah, I'm sure that new song you heard is really fuckin' rad, but I'm sure it can wait until we reach our destination.
10. My dog is free to break all of these rules, simply because he is my dog. You are not. I don't care how good of friends we are, these rules still apply to you.
Learn it, love it, live it. Go forth and be a better person.
Sincerely,
A compulsive automotive enthusiast.
1. Don't touch the paint (or glass) if you can avoid it. This is what door handles are for, so put your greasy dickbeaters on those instead like God intended. There is no faster way to piss off a car guy than to get finger or palm prints all over his freshly washed sports car - especially if it's black. It's a surefire recipe for not getting invited back (unless you're a total babe, in which case I'll forgive a few transgressions... you get off with a verbal warning, this time).
2. Don't lean on, draw on, or otherwise fuck with a dirty car - every time you rub that dirt across the surface of the paint, it creates a billion little scratches. This is because some of the minerals that are in that dirt are harder than the paint itself - imagine drawing a sharp diamond across a glass window, and you'll have a very good idea of what's happening on a microscopic level. You might not notice it, but the guy or girl who spends hours at a time painstakingly detailing their most prized possession surely will. Again, the importance of this is increased tenfold if the vehicle is black or another very dark color, as these show everything.
3. No drinking or eating unless given explicit permission from the owner. And if you spill or drop something, clean it the fuck up.
4. No smoking. This is subject to waiver.
5. Clean out any trash you create.
6. Knock, brush, or otherwise clean off your dirty-ass boots. Yeah, I know my truck has all-weather floor mats, but that doesn't mean I want ten pounds of snow, mud, and gravel sloshing around in them. (Note: if you are elk hunting, this becomes less important.)
7. If not driving, the owner of the vehicle gets shotgun by default, and assumes first mate/copilot responsibilities of both navigation and DJing. This is also subject to waiver, and conditional on said owner not falling asleep on the job.
8. As a corollary to # 7, sitting in shotgun comes with navigational responsibilities in addition to DJing, unless the owner refuses to acquiesce control of the music. If you are not willing to adopt these responsibilities, or if you are going to fall asleep, sit your ass in the rear and let someone else be copilot.
9. Don't immediately demand control of the music. Ask for things, like an adult... and yeah, I'm sure that new song you heard is really fuckin' rad, but I'm sure it can wait until we reach our destination.
10. My dog is free to break all of these rules, simply because he is my dog. You are not. I don't care how good of friends we are, these rules still apply to you.
Learn it, love it, live it. Go forth and be a better person.
Sincerely,
A compulsive automotive enthusiast.
Thursday, March 30, 2017
The Double Standard of Violence
One of my rare forays into politics on here - I much prefer to keep these discussions to in-person with a select few people and generally over a few beers, but I honestly cannot keep my mouth shut about this anymore.
I've noticed a disturbing trend among the more hardcore left in recent months, what with the election of President Trump (or Satan, depending on who you ask). Now let's get one thing straight - I'm not a Trump fan any more than I was an Obama fan. One of the benefits of being an American (and one that many don't take advantage of) is theability freedom to think critically and independently; I was always quick to criticize the last president, but also freely admitted when he did something I thought was beneficial to this great nation we live in. Trump is no different. But I digress.
This disturbing trend is the overt threatening of violence - against Trump supporters, against the White House (ahem, Madonna), and against the president himself... and people are cheering it on.
Three days ago, in Phoenix, AZ (look it up, I can't get links to work right, it's in smaller news outlets though), around 40 members of various left-wing political groups showed up to protest a pro-Trump rally in some just adorable matching red neckerchiefs (OMG!)... oh yeah, and a bunch of "tactical gear," armed with various semi-automatic rifles and wearing some holstered sidearms, chest rigs, plate carriers, etc. etc.
Oh, so now you remember what the second amendment is all about... interesting. So am I still a racist/bigot/Nazi for owning guns, or how does that work, exactly?
Anyway, various members of this ragtag band of self-proclaimed Reds voiced their concerns about an impending civil war, making various ominously open-ended claims about their readiness and willingness. (To clarify - I'm not against them exercising their rights or protesting, this is America, after all. If you want my thoughts on open carry of rifles, look in the July, 2014 section over there. ==>)
Quick tangent - I don't think these guys have thought this through. From their budget-ass gear to their perfect hair, I don't think most of these guys (and girls) could fight their way out of a hair salon with an M240. A lot of those same people that they're advocating or threatening violence against have spent at least one enlistment swapping rounds with much scarier people than these - combat experience (however limited) is a hell of a thing, something that I suspect remains lodged in one's subconscious, hiding in there with all the preconditioned responses to getting shot at. I'd bet good money that the first couple rounds cracking overhead would result in sheer panic - whereas if by some miracle they got the first round off at a fireteam of experienced infantry dudes, the response would be a wall of gunfire and the violence of action that will win a firefight every time.
My question is this: at what point did advocating (or perpetrating) violence against those with differing views become acceptable? When right-wing nutjobs did the same thing during the last presidency, it was a complete outrage, all over the news, and the response was overwhelming disgust (and for good reason). But now, it's okay, because it's not your candidate in office? No. That's not how this works... that's not how any of this works. Madonna gives a speech to thousands during a worldwide broadcast saying she wants to bomb the White House, and she gets FUCKING APPLAUDED for it?
You either respect the rule of law, or you don't. It's become clear to me that this element of society does not.
More double standards from the Tolerant Far Left.
Rant off.
I've noticed a disturbing trend among the more hardcore left in recent months, what with the election of President Trump (or Satan, depending on who you ask). Now let's get one thing straight - I'm not a Trump fan any more than I was an Obama fan. One of the benefits of being an American (and one that many don't take advantage of) is the
This disturbing trend is the overt threatening of violence - against Trump supporters, against the White House (ahem, Madonna), and against the president himself... and people are cheering it on.
Three days ago, in Phoenix, AZ (look it up, I can't get links to work right, it's in smaller news outlets though), around 40 members of various left-wing political groups showed up to protest a pro-Trump rally in some just adorable matching red neckerchiefs (OMG!)... oh yeah, and a bunch of "tactical gear," armed with various semi-automatic rifles and wearing some holstered sidearms, chest rigs, plate carriers, etc. etc.
Oh, so now you remember what the second amendment is all about... interesting. So am I still a racist/bigot/Nazi for owning guns, or how does that work, exactly?
Anyway, various members of this ragtag band of self-proclaimed Reds voiced their concerns about an impending civil war, making various ominously open-ended claims about their readiness and willingness. (To clarify - I'm not against them exercising their rights or protesting, this is America, after all. If you want my thoughts on open carry of rifles, look in the July, 2014 section over there. ==>)
Quick tangent - I don't think these guys have thought this through. From their budget-ass gear to their perfect hair, I don't think most of these guys (and girls) could fight their way out of a hair salon with an M240. A lot of those same people that they're advocating or threatening violence against have spent at least one enlistment swapping rounds with much scarier people than these - combat experience (however limited) is a hell of a thing, something that I suspect remains lodged in one's subconscious, hiding in there with all the preconditioned responses to getting shot at. I'd bet good money that the first couple rounds cracking overhead would result in sheer panic - whereas if by some miracle they got the first round off at a fireteam of experienced infantry dudes, the response would be a wall of gunfire and the violence of action that will win a firefight every time.
My question is this: at what point did advocating (or perpetrating) violence against those with differing views become acceptable? When right-wing nutjobs did the same thing during the last presidency, it was a complete outrage, all over the news, and the response was overwhelming disgust (and for good reason). But now, it's okay, because it's not your candidate in office? No. That's not how this works... that's not how any of this works. Madonna gives a speech to thousands during a worldwide broadcast saying she wants to bomb the White House, and she gets FUCKING APPLAUDED for it?
You either respect the rule of law, or you don't. It's become clear to me that this element of society does not.
More double standards from the Tolerant Far Left.
Rant off.
Tuesday, March 21, 2017
My dog is right, as usual
Becoming less jet lagged, thank the gods.
I had a thought this morning that is more or less the conclusion of an idea I've had for awhile - that while you don't get to pick your family, you do (at least in my case) get to choose which of them you spend time with, and you also get to choose your friends. I'm also fortunate in the regard that I actually want to spend time with my immediate family members, which is a huge plus for a variety of reasons. Moving on.
Hans, and all good dogs, have their own familiar behavior... while he didn't really choose me so much as I chose him, he has picked the rest of you people and decided that he loves you (or doesn't).
A lot of people forget that dogs are pack animals in the wild, and their family loyalties lie therein; there's none of this mandatory family love that seems to be a more or less human social construct - wolves have more of a mutual contract of defense and protection, with a genetic predisposition towards the well-being of the pack and the understanding that the weak will be sacrificed should push and shove come together. To be fair, some dogs have been so domesticated and removed from that element that this is no longer a part of their functionality. If you've ever seen a retriever hide behind its human and bark at the door, you know exactly what I'm talking about (it's not restricted to certain breeds, but some do show it more than others, in my experience). This is why there are different breeds - there are as many kinds of hounds as there are beers and individual tastes.
That said, having a Doberman has taught me a fair amount about the importance of loyalty. While he may be a complete fucking goober the majority of the time, Hans is also a killer, which is a quality I've also encountered in a few humans in the Army - fun, mellow, entertaining, but let someone shoot at or otherwise threaten their people and watch 'em go. (Side note - I'd actually say this applies to most of the paratroopers I've met, and probably the infantry community as a whole. Of course, some are scarier than others, as with canines.) This is when humanity is at its finest and when dogs are, well, just being dogs.
The point I'm rambling towards here is that while the civilized community can lead to "hive mind", the savage origins we all have in our ancestry give us quite the opposite. Hans still has it, and I can think of several of my close friends that wear that shit on their sleeves, while many others keep it hidden until necessary (and some don't have it at all, but that's not the point). Personally, I think camouflage is a useful thing, but I'll trade loyalty for subtlety any day.
The difference between us and our noble four-legged servants is that we get the luxury of picking our pack.
I know who's in mine, and I'm proud to say that we'd all shed blood for one another if we haven't already.
Much love. Off to human, be good.
I had a thought this morning that is more or less the conclusion of an idea I've had for awhile - that while you don't get to pick your family, you do (at least in my case) get to choose which of them you spend time with, and you also get to choose your friends. I'm also fortunate in the regard that I actually want to spend time with my immediate family members, which is a huge plus for a variety of reasons. Moving on.
Hans, and all good dogs, have their own familiar behavior... while he didn't really choose me so much as I chose him, he has picked the rest of you people and decided that he loves you (or doesn't).
A lot of people forget that dogs are pack animals in the wild, and their family loyalties lie therein; there's none of this mandatory family love that seems to be a more or less human social construct - wolves have more of a mutual contract of defense and protection, with a genetic predisposition towards the well-being of the pack and the understanding that the weak will be sacrificed should push and shove come together. To be fair, some dogs have been so domesticated and removed from that element that this is no longer a part of their functionality. If you've ever seen a retriever hide behind its human and bark at the door, you know exactly what I'm talking about (it's not restricted to certain breeds, but some do show it more than others, in my experience). This is why there are different breeds - there are as many kinds of hounds as there are beers and individual tastes.
That said, having a Doberman has taught me a fair amount about the importance of loyalty. While he may be a complete fucking goober the majority of the time, Hans is also a killer, which is a quality I've also encountered in a few humans in the Army - fun, mellow, entertaining, but let someone shoot at or otherwise threaten their people and watch 'em go. (Side note - I'd actually say this applies to most of the paratroopers I've met, and probably the infantry community as a whole. Of course, some are scarier than others, as with canines.) This is when humanity is at its finest and when dogs are, well, just being dogs.
The point I'm rambling towards here is that while the civilized community can lead to "hive mind", the savage origins we all have in our ancestry give us quite the opposite. Hans still has it, and I can think of several of my close friends that wear that shit on their sleeves, while many others keep it hidden until necessary (and some don't have it at all, but that's not the point). Personally, I think camouflage is a useful thing, but I'll trade loyalty for subtlety any day.
The difference between us and our noble four-legged servants is that we get the luxury of picking our pack.
I know who's in mine, and I'm proud to say that we'd all shed blood for one another if we haven't already.
Much love. Off to human, be good.
Friday, March 17, 2017
South of France, Pt 6
Happy St. Paddy's day, friends!
I'm savegely hammered as I write this, as I had to be.
Dropping the Harley off today at the rental place (MotorbikeTrip, highly recommended) was one of the more depressing things I've done in awhile. It was the end of my independence, and also of the south of France's liberation tours (I hope everyone reading this knows it's an endeavor in humor).
I celebrated this holiday (Saint Patrick's Day, for the weak among you) properly, by being the first person at the only right Irish pub in old town Nice - which is of course staffed by proper ex-pat Irish types, good people all around, who were sufficiently receptive to wild asshole Americans such as myself - drinking Guinness and Jameson in large, perhaps even horrifying, quantities. Given my sadness at leaving and at returning the Harley, walking down the Promenade des Anglais a couple miles on a beautiful Côte d'Azur day to the right bar was the only thing I could really do.
Leaving tomorrow is going to be completely miserable, primarily because it involves 20 hours of travel and that extremely rare experience of traveling backwards in time. Honestly, the only good aspects of this that I can find are that I'll get to see Hans and my own bed again. Seeing my good friends also won't suck... you know who you are.
I'm going to be in a shit mood for at least a couple of days.
Love, the American,
Jack.
I'm savegely hammered as I write this, as I had to be.
Dropping the Harley off today at the rental place (MotorbikeTrip, highly recommended) was one of the more depressing things I've done in awhile. It was the end of my independence, and also of the south of France's liberation tours (I hope everyone reading this knows it's an endeavor in humor).
I celebrated this holiday (Saint Patrick's Day, for the weak among you) properly, by being the first person at the only right Irish pub in old town Nice - which is of course staffed by proper ex-pat Irish types, good people all around, who were sufficiently receptive to wild asshole Americans such as myself - drinking Guinness and Jameson in large, perhaps even horrifying, quantities. Given my sadness at leaving and at returning the Harley, walking down the Promenade des Anglais a couple miles on a beautiful Côte d'Azur day to the right bar was the only thing I could really do.
Leaving tomorrow is going to be completely miserable, primarily because it involves 20 hours of travel and that extremely rare experience of traveling backwards in time. Honestly, the only good aspects of this that I can find are that I'll get to see Hans and my own bed again. Seeing my good friends also won't suck... you know who you are.
I'm going to be in a shit mood for at least a couple of days.
Love, the American,
Jack.
Thursday, March 16, 2017
South of France, Pt 5
Today was dedicated to the motorcycle. I grew surprisingly fond of the Harley today, but more on that in a minute.
I knew I wanted to go to Antibes and possibly Cannes, but from there, I essentially just picked points on a map that looked like they had fun roads and nice countryside, connected the dots from there, and went about my merry way. Riding straight up (down? west, anyway) the coast, as close to the beach as possible, takes you through Nice along the Promenade des Anglais, through several indistinguishable and easily forgettable resort towns and to Antibes. Antibes is supposed to be beautiful, which it is, but I didn't explore it much. While I do like rolling solo, exploration of cities is much more fun with a travel companion.
I got to play a new game today I like to call, "Where in the absolute fuck am I?" I enjoyed the game so thoroughly that I played it several times, each time in a different location. Cities are kind of a foreign concept to me navigation wise - even in the US - and Cannes was no exception. Nevertheless, I found my way out and to the countryside, where everything makes much more sense and one feels less like a rat in a maze.
This is where the Harley and I really bonded. I was given ample opportunity to really wind it out, and I did, and I enjoyed it. I enjoyed it to the point that I'd now say that I "get" the Harley thing, to a large degree, even if it's not where I hang my hat. Blasting through small villages with the pipes rumbling, bobbing through gentle turns with one hand on the tiller, waving back at the pretty French girls, it is impossible not to feel astoundingly alive. There were several points during my ride today where I realized that I was grinning like Lenny with his stupid rabbit. No fucks given, screw on the speed, both hands, drag that foot peg around the turns, passing truck after truck after truck.
The Ducatis and the real sport bike guys had no problem getting around me, of course, as is their right - I would do the exact same thing. I'm still very much a sport bike enthusiast. However, while I may have gone faster and hit those apexes just right on my Fireblade, I'm here to tell you that it wouldn't have been nearly as visceral and thoroughly fun an experience as I had today.
Valbonne, Roquefort-les-pins, La Colle-sur-Loup - these are among the towns I passed through. They're all charming little places loaded with history and ancient churches, the very picture of the French country village. Of course, some have been scarred with hideous new additions, but that is life. The essence remains.
I return the bike tomorrow morning, and then I'll be on a plane around dawn on Saturday. No St. Paddy's day celebrations for me.
I made some new friends last night whom I will be going out with again this evening... rowdiness level: last real night in France. Shit's gonna get weird, fam.
I knew I wanted to go to Antibes and possibly Cannes, but from there, I essentially just picked points on a map that looked like they had fun roads and nice countryside, connected the dots from there, and went about my merry way. Riding straight up (down? west, anyway) the coast, as close to the beach as possible, takes you through Nice along the Promenade des Anglais, through several indistinguishable and easily forgettable resort towns and to Antibes. Antibes is supposed to be beautiful, which it is, but I didn't explore it much. While I do like rolling solo, exploration of cities is much more fun with a travel companion.
I got to play a new game today I like to call, "Where in the absolute fuck am I?" I enjoyed the game so thoroughly that I played it several times, each time in a different location. Cities are kind of a foreign concept to me navigation wise - even in the US - and Cannes was no exception. Nevertheless, I found my way out and to the countryside, where everything makes much more sense and one feels less like a rat in a maze.
This is where the Harley and I really bonded. I was given ample opportunity to really wind it out, and I did, and I enjoyed it. I enjoyed it to the point that I'd now say that I "get" the Harley thing, to a large degree, even if it's not where I hang my hat. Blasting through small villages with the pipes rumbling, bobbing through gentle turns with one hand on the tiller, waving back at the pretty French girls, it is impossible not to feel astoundingly alive. There were several points during my ride today where I realized that I was grinning like Lenny with his stupid rabbit. No fucks given, screw on the speed, both hands, drag that foot peg around the turns, passing truck after truck after truck.
The Ducatis and the real sport bike guys had no problem getting around me, of course, as is their right - I would do the exact same thing. I'm still very much a sport bike enthusiast. However, while I may have gone faster and hit those apexes just right on my Fireblade, I'm here to tell you that it wouldn't have been nearly as visceral and thoroughly fun an experience as I had today.
Valbonne, Roquefort-les-pins, La Colle-sur-Loup - these are among the towns I passed through. They're all charming little places loaded with history and ancient churches, the very picture of the French country village. Of course, some have been scarred with hideous new additions, but that is life. The essence remains.
I return the bike tomorrow morning, and then I'll be on a plane around dawn on Saturday. No St. Paddy's day celebrations for me.
I made some new friends last night whom I will be going out with again this evening... rowdiness level: last real night in France. Shit's gonna get weird, fam.
Wednesday, March 15, 2017
South of France, Pt 4
Today was a pretty mellow day. This morning's ride took me up Mont Boron, between Villefranche and Nice, to the historic fort located at the summit, which provides a commanding view of the surrounding terrain. It was quite spectacular (peep that shit on Instagram @flyfishnaked, if you don't know). I was then planning on riding to the Musée Matisse in Nice, but I was sweating so badly in my gear by the time I reached the apartment that I elected instead to park the bike and take an Uber.
The Matisse Museum was nice and had a few gems, but I guess every other museum is impossibly underwhelming when compared to the Louvre, the Monet Museum, or my personal favorite, the D'Orsay... the curse of being exposed to the finer things in life at a young age is that your bar will be set unreasonably high for the remainder of your existence. Ignorance is bliss. And talk is cheap, motherfucker. What?
One perk was that a single 10 Euro admission fee gets you into a variety of local museums and other exhibits, so I checked out the slightly more impressive Museum of Archaeology, the grounds of which border those of the Musée Matisse. Nice and the surrounding area, being European and specifically Mediterranean, is littered with history dating to the Romans and before. There's actually a rather well-preserved ruin outside the museum itself, which was an unexpected treat to tour. Combined with a decent collection of artifacts and a pretty odd death-obsessed exhibit in the lower level, it was overall a wildly acceptable experience - particularly since I didn't know I'd already paid admission. (Edit: I just found out that admission is free for both veterans and students, and I had my IDs verifying both - although I doubt they'd credit my American service. Doublefuck.)
Other than that, I've been eating myself sick on charcuterie and seafood. It's actually a little disgusting.
My knees hurt like a bitch. Fuck you hills, fuck you Army, and fuck you, weak knee genetics. Hopefully this bottle of Bordeaux I just drank will provide some measure of relief.
More rides on the Harley tomorrow... Antibes? Je pense que c'est necessaire!
The Matisse Museum was nice and had a few gems, but I guess every other museum is impossibly underwhelming when compared to the Louvre, the Monet Museum, or my personal favorite, the D'Orsay... the curse of being exposed to the finer things in life at a young age is that your bar will be set unreasonably high for the remainder of your existence. Ignorance is bliss. And talk is cheap, motherfucker. What?
One perk was that a single 10 Euro admission fee gets you into a variety of local museums and other exhibits, so I checked out the slightly more impressive Museum of Archaeology, the grounds of which border those of the Musée Matisse. Nice and the surrounding area, being European and specifically Mediterranean, is littered with history dating to the Romans and before. There's actually a rather well-preserved ruin outside the museum itself, which was an unexpected treat to tour. Combined with a decent collection of artifacts and a pretty odd death-obsessed exhibit in the lower level, it was overall a wildly acceptable experience - particularly since I didn't know I'd already paid admission. (Edit: I just found out that admission is free for both veterans and students, and I had my IDs verifying both - although I doubt they'd credit my American service. Doublefuck.)
Other than that, I've been eating myself sick on charcuterie and seafood. It's actually a little disgusting.
My knees hurt like a bitch. Fuck you hills, fuck you Army, and fuck you, weak knee genetics. Hopefully this bottle of Bordeaux I just drank will provide some measure of relief.
More rides on the Harley tomorrow... Antibes? Je pense que c'est necessaire!
Tuesday, March 14, 2017
South of France, Pt 3
(Or, "How to get completely fucking lost on your motorcycle in the French Riviera.")
Well, the Musée Matisse is evidently closed on Tuesdays - I should know to check these things, as I had the same goddamn thing happen on a Tuesday a couple visits ago to Paris with the Monet Museum. Apparently some lessons need to be learned twice. Long story short, that will be tomorrow's adventure.
As such, I decided to venture northeast along the coast through Monaco, to Menton, and then across the border to Ventimiglia, Italy, before heading inland and returning home by a different route. Three of those things happened... I skipped Italy because, honestly, I got bored as hell by the time I hit Menton and couldn't imagine there'd be a significant difference with a border crossing.
Monte Carlo was excellent for two reasons: I got to see the marina where the 0.0000001% dock their megayachts, and I got to ride down a stretch of the Monte Carlo Grand Prix track on (what the hell? where am I?) John F. Kennedy Boulevard. Also, the local gendarmes were very courteous and had a good sense of humor when I was attempting some mild-mannered fuckery to correct a missed turn, which brings me to my next point:
It is extremely easy to get lost in the French Riviera.
I managed to get lost as FUCK on my way back from Menton, as I wasn't exactly sure where to turn off the A8 to get back to Villefranche, so I made an entertaining detour all the way through Nice to get back. It wasn't all bad, but I was more than a little frustrated and pretty exhausted when I finally got back here.
Anyway. The Mother is pestering the shit out of me because she's bored, so off to dinner and more than one cocktail. Stay weird.
Well, the Musée Matisse is evidently closed on Tuesdays - I should know to check these things, as I had the same goddamn thing happen on a Tuesday a couple visits ago to Paris with the Monet Museum. Apparently some lessons need to be learned twice. Long story short, that will be tomorrow's adventure.
As such, I decided to venture northeast along the coast through Monaco, to Menton, and then across the border to Ventimiglia, Italy, before heading inland and returning home by a different route. Three of those things happened... I skipped Italy because, honestly, I got bored as hell by the time I hit Menton and couldn't imagine there'd be a significant difference with a border crossing.
Monte Carlo was excellent for two reasons: I got to see the marina where the 0.0000001% dock their megayachts, and I got to ride down a stretch of the Monte Carlo Grand Prix track on (what the hell? where am I?) John F. Kennedy Boulevard. Also, the local gendarmes were very courteous and had a good sense of humor when I was attempting some mild-mannered fuckery to correct a missed turn, which brings me to my next point:
It is extremely easy to get lost in the French Riviera.
I managed to get lost as FUCK on my way back from Menton, as I wasn't exactly sure where to turn off the A8 to get back to Villefranche, so I made an entertaining detour all the way through Nice to get back. It wasn't all bad, but I was more than a little frustrated and pretty exhausted when I finally got back here.
Anyway. The Mother is pestering the shit out of me because she's bored, so off to dinner and more than one cocktail. Stay weird.
Monday, March 13, 2017
South of France, Pt 2
Great success! I have acquired a motorcycle, a Harley Davidson Sportster 48 - it just seemed right, and neither the BMW 1200 nor the Ducati Monster were available, and neither was a Road King, so it's just me and 1200 cubic centimeters of Milwaukee steel out here to liberate Southern France, one kilometer at a time. We won't discuss the price of the rental.
It's pretty safe to say that I've exited my comfort zone mid-flight with something like a handheld tent fly as a parachute. This is where fun is found and where life gets interesting. I'm no longer terrified of speaking French because I might fuck it up; I'm going to fuck it up, but improvement is born from failure. My Harley is still something of a mystery, as it is not built for tiny little hairpins that would honestly test my skills on anything other than a dirt bike. We are bonding, though, and I'm starting to figure this little beast out. The roads here are an absolute, unbridled terror with shit for signage, often no way to tell directional flow of traffic, steep climbs in many places, and narrow mountain canyons that are unlike anything I've seen in the Rocky Mountains.
There is something supremely satisfying about the sound of the big V-twin rattling through these tight limestone cliffs and off the walls of several millennia of architecture, dragging the pegs as I try to avoid impending death either at the hands of a local nutcase or the concrete wall to my right. Tomorrow will be my first real ride, beginning in Villefranche, stopping at the Musée Matisse in Nice, to La Trinité for lunch, then through Monaco/Monte Carlo up to Menton for fuel and probably a beer. I'll loop back inland for the first half of the longest leg - to Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat to see the Villa Ephrussi de Rothschild. Finally, I'll cruise back to Villefranche for either dinner or a nap (likely both).
My sleep schedule is still, as they say, "le fucked." Jet lag can suck it, but I really can't complain other than that.
I miss my dog. He's in good hands.
More wine, and then a plan for Wednesday. À demain!
It's pretty safe to say that I've exited my comfort zone mid-flight with something like a handheld tent fly as a parachute. This is where fun is found and where life gets interesting. I'm no longer terrified of speaking French because I might fuck it up; I'm going to fuck it up, but improvement is born from failure. My Harley is still something of a mystery, as it is not built for tiny little hairpins that would honestly test my skills on anything other than a dirt bike. We are bonding, though, and I'm starting to figure this little beast out. The roads here are an absolute, unbridled terror with shit for signage, often no way to tell directional flow of traffic, steep climbs in many places, and narrow mountain canyons that are unlike anything I've seen in the Rocky Mountains.
There is something supremely satisfying about the sound of the big V-twin rattling through these tight limestone cliffs and off the walls of several millennia of architecture, dragging the pegs as I try to avoid impending death either at the hands of a local nutcase or the concrete wall to my right. Tomorrow will be my first real ride, beginning in Villefranche, stopping at the Musée Matisse in Nice, to La Trinité for lunch, then through Monaco/Monte Carlo up to Menton for fuel and probably a beer. I'll loop back inland for the first half of the longest leg - to Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat to see the Villa Ephrussi de Rothschild. Finally, I'll cruise back to Villefranche for either dinner or a nap (likely both).
My sleep schedule is still, as they say, "le fucked." Jet lag can suck it, but I really can't complain other than that.
I miss my dog. He's in good hands.
More wine, and then a plan for Wednesday. À demain!
Sunday, March 12, 2017
South of France, Pt 1
I'm out here in Villefranche-sur-mer, which is about 20 minutes east of Nice on the French Riviera. My mom got an apartment here for a month as part of her month-long French immersion course, which is apparently what you do when you're retired and bored with too much money. I'm about it.
Naturally, I'm only here for the week, as I have to return and finish the semester. Fuck. Also, fishing season doesn't start here until about mid-April. Double fuck. One of my grail fish is a white marlin, which they have here, as well as swordfish, mahi-mahi, tuna etc.
Ah well. I've already seen several 9-figure megayachts heading towards Monaco and/or Italy from the west (Saint Tropez is around the corner, as are Cannes and Antibes). Our little port here is supposedly the fifth most beautiful bay in the world, according to the people who know these things. It's a quiet town primarily for lame old folks with too much money, but it really is beautiful and friendly. It's a totally different culture than in Paris, where the locals are often curt or outright rude if you have the nerve to butcher their precious language, or even just the audacity to not be un Parisien. Côte d'Azur is a different vibe - think Los Angeles versus Manhattan, but different.
Jet lag is still kicking my ass, and I'm wide awake at 2:30 AM here. Not ideal. I didn't drink anything but water and coffee yesterday in an attempt to keep it reasonable; I suspect that the collective system shock has contributed to my misery. I'll be fine, but I'm definitely going to be putting some of their glorious wine in my body later, ideally over a feast of various creatures that were swimming a day or two ago.
Before that, however, I'm going to go rent a motorcycle and explore the area. They're very strict about drinking and driving (riding, whatever) here, so mixing of the two, even on the scale of a beer or two that would be completely acceptable in the US, is highly discouraged. Additionally, the traffic system here could be accurately described as terrifying. Every near miss attacks my nervous system ever so slightly, to the point that I'm now even a little jumpy (I'm never jumpy). The bike will be interesting in this environment.
I think I've got my rental narrowed down to one of the BMW 1200 throwback café racer-style bikes, specifically the 1200 R Nine T Racer, because I'll probably not have the opportunity to ride one again. My other options were various - I rejected the Harley Road King and Sportster 48s in the interest of avoiding being too American, the Ducati Monster 821 for not being interesting enough, and the GSXR 750 because I've ridden one and it's too similar to the Fireblade I ride daily at home. I guess my decision will be determined by what they have on hand when I get to Nice.
That's assuming, of course, that I can figure out the fucking buses here. Cabs are absurdly expensive, much like everything else.
I'm yawning again, thank fuck. Back to sleep for a few hours. Stay weird.
Naturally, I'm only here for the week, as I have to return and finish the semester. Fuck. Also, fishing season doesn't start here until about mid-April. Double fuck. One of my grail fish is a white marlin, which they have here, as well as swordfish, mahi-mahi, tuna etc.
Ah well. I've already seen several 9-figure megayachts heading towards Monaco and/or Italy from the west (Saint Tropez is around the corner, as are Cannes and Antibes). Our little port here is supposedly the fifth most beautiful bay in the world, according to the people who know these things. It's a quiet town primarily for lame old folks with too much money, but it really is beautiful and friendly. It's a totally different culture than in Paris, where the locals are often curt or outright rude if you have the nerve to butcher their precious language, or even just the audacity to not be un Parisien. Côte d'Azur is a different vibe - think Los Angeles versus Manhattan, but different.
Jet lag is still kicking my ass, and I'm wide awake at 2:30 AM here. Not ideal. I didn't drink anything but water and coffee yesterday in an attempt to keep it reasonable; I suspect that the collective system shock has contributed to my misery. I'll be fine, but I'm definitely going to be putting some of their glorious wine in my body later, ideally over a feast of various creatures that were swimming a day or two ago.
Before that, however, I'm going to go rent a motorcycle and explore the area. They're very strict about drinking and driving (riding, whatever) here, so mixing of the two, even on the scale of a beer or two that would be completely acceptable in the US, is highly discouraged. Additionally, the traffic system here could be accurately described as terrifying. Every near miss attacks my nervous system ever so slightly, to the point that I'm now even a little jumpy (I'm never jumpy). The bike will be interesting in this environment.
I think I've got my rental narrowed down to one of the BMW 1200 throwback café racer-style bikes, specifically the 1200 R Nine T Racer, because I'll probably not have the opportunity to ride one again. My other options were various - I rejected the Harley Road King and Sportster 48s in the interest of avoiding being too American, the Ducati Monster 821 for not being interesting enough, and the GSXR 750 because I've ridden one and it's too similar to the Fireblade I ride daily at home. I guess my decision will be determined by what they have on hand when I get to Nice.
That's assuming, of course, that I can figure out the fucking buses here. Cabs are absurdly expensive, much like everything else.
I'm yawning again, thank fuck. Back to sleep for a few hours. Stay weird.
Wednesday, March 1, 2017
Bachelorism
Bachelorism: [let's just say I find Urban Dictionary's definition a little too marriage-focused and from a guy's perspective. This applies to ladies as well. Hell, in the spirit of equality, let's say that this applies to all thirty billion genders that currently exist.]
Being single is for some people is a sad state of affairs, a reason to go drink and make a fool out of yourself, something to be pitied and talked about by others - "Oh, that [guy/girl] is single at this age, there must be something really wrong with them. Observe, but keep your distance, dear." Been on both sides.
I can see that, on some level. You get into a serious relationship and you get dependent on each other for a variety of things. You see your friends get into relationships, for better or for worse - "Oh, they were never going to work together," or "Oh my god! I can't wait until they have kids!" and everything in between. (Let this not sound like I'm downplaying the true happiness that some achieve in relationships, as that is a beautiful thing. Go you.)
Bachelorism is my counterpoint to the aforementioned sort of codependency. Bachelorism is not only being single and owning it, but being good at it. Great even.
I've been actually single now for long enough to get really fucking good at it. Several years go past after a real relationship, and you either figure shit out, or you melt down, or you try again, or you do all three. That's life, you suck it the fuck up, you get over it, and then you improvise, adapt, and overcome until it's not just you pretending you're not broken anymore - your projected strength and faked qualities become your own.
Bachelorism is the comfort and realization that being without a significant other is not only not a bad thing, it's something to be treasured. Your time and space is your own. Whatever realm of independence you have, whether it's your own house or just a room in your house, you are free to do as you please. Don't want to watch something? Don't. Want to eat what you want to eat? Make it without concern for anyone else, and then smash it with reckless abandon. Drink your preferred brand of booze, or don't. Have dogs. Have cats. Have a fucking ferret/goldfish/tiger hybrid. The point is - do you. Period.
That, however, is just being single.
Bachelorism is like all of that, but excelling at it. Cook what you want to eat. Make the drinks you want to drink. And don't fucking suck at it.
If you're a phillistine like many of the single guys I know, QUIT THAT SHIT. Explore new foods and figure out what you enjoy eating, then figure out how to cook that, and fuck it up enough times that you know how not to do it - so that when that pretty girl from your class (or work, or the streets, or the crack den you frequent) you asked out actually decides that her girlish figure is worthy of your encumbrance, you can do it fucking perfectly. Drink drinks and enjoy variety, until you can make at least three good cocktails, every time, all the time. Pick your favorites. Fuck, learn what you think her favorites will be. Starting tips - learn how to make yourself a good Manhattan, and how to make a proper margarita or Cosmopolitan for her.
Final advice: get a dog. Not only is your personal space completely devoid of love, acceptance, and confirmation without a good dog, but a good dog will be the best wingman you've ever had. (Thanks, Hans.)
Alright, the advice portion of this lesson is over.
You will know you've achieved True Bachelorism when you have to clean up and reassemble the torn-apart water pump from your CBR1000RR off of a kitchen surface in order to prepare the multi-course seafood and/or game feast you're about to prepare for yourself with the assistance of an alarming amount of your favorite cocktails.
Sincerely yours,
Jack
Being single is for some people is a sad state of affairs, a reason to go drink and make a fool out of yourself, something to be pitied and talked about by others - "Oh, that [guy/girl] is single at this age, there must be something really wrong with them. Observe, but keep your distance, dear." Been on both sides.
I can see that, on some level. You get into a serious relationship and you get dependent on each other for a variety of things. You see your friends get into relationships, for better or for worse - "Oh, they were never going to work together," or "Oh my god! I can't wait until they have kids!" and everything in between. (Let this not sound like I'm downplaying the true happiness that some achieve in relationships, as that is a beautiful thing. Go you.)
Bachelorism is my counterpoint to the aforementioned sort of codependency. Bachelorism is not only being single and owning it, but being good at it. Great even.
I've been actually single now for long enough to get really fucking good at it. Several years go past after a real relationship, and you either figure shit out, or you melt down, or you try again, or you do all three. That's life, you suck it the fuck up, you get over it, and then you improvise, adapt, and overcome until it's not just you pretending you're not broken anymore - your projected strength and faked qualities become your own.
Bachelorism is the comfort and realization that being without a significant other is not only not a bad thing, it's something to be treasured. Your time and space is your own. Whatever realm of independence you have, whether it's your own house or just a room in your house, you are free to do as you please. Don't want to watch something? Don't. Want to eat what you want to eat? Make it without concern for anyone else, and then smash it with reckless abandon. Drink your preferred brand of booze, or don't. Have dogs. Have cats. Have a fucking ferret/goldfish/tiger hybrid. The point is - do you. Period.
That, however, is just being single.
Bachelorism is like all of that, but excelling at it. Cook what you want to eat. Make the drinks you want to drink. And don't fucking suck at it.
If you're a phillistine like many of the single guys I know, QUIT THAT SHIT. Explore new foods and figure out what you enjoy eating, then figure out how to cook that, and fuck it up enough times that you know how not to do it - so that when that pretty girl from your class (or work, or the streets, or the crack den you frequent) you asked out actually decides that her girlish figure is worthy of your encumbrance, you can do it fucking perfectly. Drink drinks and enjoy variety, until you can make at least three good cocktails, every time, all the time. Pick your favorites. Fuck, learn what you think her favorites will be. Starting tips - learn how to make yourself a good Manhattan, and how to make a proper margarita or Cosmopolitan for her.
Final advice: get a dog. Not only is your personal space completely devoid of love, acceptance, and confirmation without a good dog, but a good dog will be the best wingman you've ever had. (Thanks, Hans.)
Alright, the advice portion of this lesson is over.
You will know you've achieved True Bachelorism when you have to clean up and reassemble the torn-apart water pump from your CBR1000RR off of a kitchen surface in order to prepare the multi-course seafood and/or game feast you're about to prepare for yourself with the assistance of an alarming amount of your favorite cocktails.
Sincerely yours,
Jack
Wednesday, February 22, 2017
4 years ago today
22 FEB 2013 - I separated from the US Army and began the process of becoming a lazy fucking civilian productive member of society in the conventional sense instead of as a trigger puller. I maintain that my time in service was one of the best things that ever happened to me - I made some lifelong homies, got to jump out of planes and blow shit up, and had the opportunity to travel to a very strange and beautiful part of the world, meet interesting people from a fascinating ancient culture, and exchange gunfire with them. Pretty much an ideal enlistment for an infantry dude.
Since then, I've nearly completed a degree in a major that greatly interests me and provides real job opportunities, which is something. I've made a lot of new friends that have become family (ya fucking weirdos), continued to develop friendships I've had for a decade or more (ya fucking weirdos), and excised the toxic and useless people from my life (cunts). I've got the best dog, a great family, a beautiful house, and a bunch of cool shit that I don't need but certainly enjoy.
No, I'm not going to say what everyone thinks I'm gonna say, because I'm a rabid atheist and I'm trying to minimize my hypocrisy when given the option. I am not #blessed. I am lucky as fuck, and there is no way around that except to confront it, own it, and be grateful for it, because there's no human quality I loathe more than entitlement.
So to everyone who has been helpful and supportive of me, been a friend to me when I need it, and continues to put up with my incessant bullshit, you have my undying gratitude. I won't lie - Hans (my dog) is the real reason I get up every morning, but you people make life way more fucking tolerable on a daily basis.
Much love, you animals.
Have an airborne day.
Since then, I've nearly completed a degree in a major that greatly interests me and provides real job opportunities, which is something. I've made a lot of new friends that have become family (ya fucking weirdos), continued to develop friendships I've had for a decade or more (ya fucking weirdos), and excised the toxic and useless people from my life (cunts). I've got the best dog, a great family, a beautiful house, and a bunch of cool shit that I don't need but certainly enjoy.
No, I'm not going to say what everyone thinks I'm gonna say, because I'm a rabid atheist and I'm trying to minimize my hypocrisy when given the option. I am not #blessed. I am lucky as fuck, and there is no way around that except to confront it, own it, and be grateful for it, because there's no human quality I loathe more than entitlement.
So to everyone who has been helpful and supportive of me, been a friend to me when I need it, and continues to put up with my incessant bullshit, you have my undying gratitude. I won't lie - Hans (my dog) is the real reason I get up every morning, but you people make life way more fucking tolerable on a daily basis.
Much love, you animals.
Have an airborne day.
Saturday, February 18, 2017
The Five Percent
There's one in every group.
There's always that asshole that starts shit for no reason, the guy you don't want to take to the bars. The guy that gets in trouble. He's the guy that ruins the night.
I started thinking about this the other day, when I was needlessly harassed for riding a sport bike by a couple of dudes on Harleys. I let it go because a: I'm an adult, and b: it's easier to just drown them out with the exhaust note from my Yoshimura RS5 exhaust, which I did. My first response, of course, was "fucking Harley riding dickheads, they're all the same." Fueled by anger and adrenaline, that was what crossed my mind.
Riding home, I had ample time to rethink my position, and as usual, I conducted an internal debrief. I have a lot of friends with Harleys, and though we playfully talk shit to each other, we all understand that the point is to get out there and ride, have fun, and hit the twisties, while keeping the rubber side to the ground. Common ground on two wheels.
My estimate (based on purely my own observations) is that 95% of Harley riders, give or take, are just your average dude out for a ride on a motorcycle. I'm not talking about the so-called "one percenters" here, the various criminal enterprises that choose bikes for transportation, so disregard them for now. Once that number popped into my head, it stuck with me for awhile, and I finally figured out why - it's not 5% of people on hogs that are douchebags, it's 5% of people in every walk of life. Think about the following groups:
Motorcyclists/bikers. Road bikers. Guys with diesel trucks, ladies driving a Prius, 'pit bull' owners, fitness nuts... you name it, unfailingly, about 1 in 20 of those people is seemingly incapable of dealing with humanity in a civilized way. I'm not saying that every other one of those people is a saint, however, most at least keep their bullshit to themselves 99% of the time. And then there is that one guy, the loud mouth, the proverbial Reason We Can't Have Nice Things.
No one likes that guy.
Don't be that guy.
There's always that asshole that starts shit for no reason, the guy you don't want to take to the bars. The guy that gets in trouble. He's the guy that ruins the night.
I started thinking about this the other day, when I was needlessly harassed for riding a sport bike by a couple of dudes on Harleys. I let it go because a: I'm an adult, and b: it's easier to just drown them out with the exhaust note from my Yoshimura RS5 exhaust, which I did. My first response, of course, was "fucking Harley riding dickheads, they're all the same." Fueled by anger and adrenaline, that was what crossed my mind.
Riding home, I had ample time to rethink my position, and as usual, I conducted an internal debrief. I have a lot of friends with Harleys, and though we playfully talk shit to each other, we all understand that the point is to get out there and ride, have fun, and hit the twisties, while keeping the rubber side to the ground. Common ground on two wheels.
My estimate (based on purely my own observations) is that 95% of Harley riders, give or take, are just your average dude out for a ride on a motorcycle. I'm not talking about the so-called "one percenters" here, the various criminal enterprises that choose bikes for transportation, so disregard them for now. Once that number popped into my head, it stuck with me for awhile, and I finally figured out why - it's not 5% of people on hogs that are douchebags, it's 5% of people in every walk of life. Think about the following groups:
Motorcyclists/bikers. Road bikers. Guys with diesel trucks, ladies driving a Prius, 'pit bull' owners, fitness nuts... you name it, unfailingly, about 1 in 20 of those people is seemingly incapable of dealing with humanity in a civilized way. I'm not saying that every other one of those people is a saint, however, most at least keep their bullshit to themselves 99% of the time. And then there is that one guy, the loud mouth, the proverbial Reason We Can't Have Nice Things.
No one likes that guy.
Don't be that guy.
Thursday, February 16, 2017
Windshield Banners
I noticed something today that many of you will find trivial. However, most of you gearheads out there will either relate to this or curse me for it, so that is relevant enough for me to comment. Today is another unseasonably warm day, so everyone (including me) has their bikes or hot rods out and washed. I picked the 'vette today.
Have you ever noticed that every "factory aftermarket" Mustang has one of those big, douchey windshield banners - ROUSH or SALEEN or what have you? I see a lot of CAMARO, FORD, and giant Chevy bowties as well, usually on semi shitty 80s and 90 muscle cars or lowered trucks. What you don't see is CORVETTE ZO6, FERRARI 599, 911TURBO... see what I'm getting at here?
You know how I know the guy in the Z06 or the Porsche owns a Z06 or a Porsche? He's fucking driving one! Mind = blown. This therefore leads me to the conclusion that our friend in the Roush feels the need to differentiate himself from the rest of the Mustang crowd... further following this train of thought, he understands that the basic car his is built on is such a screaming shit heap, and so unworthy of respect, that even he is embarrassed to be associated with them. Thus, he puts a giant dickhead windshield banner on the thing to advertise "Look! I'm not like the rest of those twats in Mustangs, mine is different!"
Yeah, whatever guy, you can supercharge a piece of shit and what do you get? A supercharged piece of shit.
Fuck Mustangs, get money.
Oh, and fuck basically everyone in a new Camaro that isn't a ZL1 or a Z/28. Don't wave at me, we're not buddies just because we share a motor. And your giant Camaro banner makes you look like a snatch napkin.
With love,
Jack
Have you ever noticed that every "factory aftermarket" Mustang has one of those big, douchey windshield banners - ROUSH or SALEEN or what have you? I see a lot of CAMARO, FORD, and giant Chevy bowties as well, usually on semi shitty 80s and 90 muscle cars or lowered trucks. What you don't see is CORVETTE ZO6, FERRARI 599, 911TURBO... see what I'm getting at here?
You know how I know the guy in the Z06 or the Porsche owns a Z06 or a Porsche? He's fucking driving one! Mind = blown. This therefore leads me to the conclusion that our friend in the Roush feels the need to differentiate himself from the rest of the Mustang crowd... further following this train of thought, he understands that the basic car his is built on is such a screaming shit heap, and so unworthy of respect, that even he is embarrassed to be associated with them. Thus, he puts a giant dickhead windshield banner on the thing to advertise "Look! I'm not like the rest of those twats in Mustangs, mine is different!"
Yeah, whatever guy, you can supercharge a piece of shit and what do you get? A supercharged piece of shit.
Fuck Mustangs, get money.
Oh, and fuck basically everyone in a new Camaro that isn't a ZL1 or a Z/28. Don't wave at me, we're not buddies just because we share a motor. And your giant Camaro banner makes you look like a snatch napkin.
With love,
Jack
Wednesday, January 25, 2017
Jack Thoughts
Sup y'all.
I'm trying to get back into writing, so I think I'll start doing a little every day. Not necessarily published, mind you, but just the scribbles of a madman in a mad land. Forgive me if shit gets a little weird tonight... I had a few hot tub beers and just knocked back some lunatic-strength Theraflu to fight this fucking head cold I've had all day.
America is losing its collective mind in one way or the other pretty much across the board. Certainly some of it is justified. I won't get into the filthy specifics here, but I will say that America as a whole has got to figure out a way to balance its energy needs and its need to not totally and catastrophically fuck up the planet. Also, science is good, I hear. And why the fuck is Rick Perry our new Secretary of Energy? Ahem. I digress.
Sticking up for myself here for a minute. I know some of you think I'm somewhere to the right of Hitler when it comes to social issues, because I often say things that are considered quite politically incorrect, generally or specifically insensitive, or just downright offensive to everything that is good (probably more often than not, in fact). People who actually know me understand that this is not the case, it is merely how I am - it's not that I'm intentionally abrasive, it's simply that I don't give a single running fuck about your feelings, and I think the world would be a better place if everyone hardened the fuck up a little and realized that life is not perfect and, as drill sergeants are so fond of reminding new Privates, that you are not a unique and delicate snowflake. Also, the world doesn't owe you shit - not consideration, not respect, not a friendship BJ, nothing. Fight for your oxygen. Earn it.
Fuck, I'm rambling again.
Anyway - social issues, thoughts, yes - government has no place telling you what to do in your bedroom, who to marry, what gender you feel like being, what you put in your body, etc. Gay marriage, drugs, whatever. As long as everyone's a consenting adult, you do you, buddy, and don't let any high-horsing clown dick tell you otherwise. That said, don't get on my ass for being a straight white guy... not my fault, to borrow a talking point of various advocacy groups. I was born like this. Tolerance is a two-way street.
There. See? I'm not a Nazi, I'm just an asshole. That, my friends, is an extremely important distinction.
Off to sleep before I say one of those offensive things again. Stay freaky.
I'm trying to get back into writing, so I think I'll start doing a little every day. Not necessarily published, mind you, but just the scribbles of a madman in a mad land. Forgive me if shit gets a little weird tonight... I had a few hot tub beers and just knocked back some lunatic-strength Theraflu to fight this fucking head cold I've had all day.
America is losing its collective mind in one way or the other pretty much across the board. Certainly some of it is justified. I won't get into the filthy specifics here, but I will say that America as a whole has got to figure out a way to balance its energy needs and its need to not totally and catastrophically fuck up the planet. Also, science is good, I hear. And why the fuck is Rick Perry our new Secretary of Energy? Ahem. I digress.
Sticking up for myself here for a minute. I know some of you think I'm somewhere to the right of Hitler when it comes to social issues, because I often say things that are considered quite politically incorrect, generally or specifically insensitive, or just downright offensive to everything that is good (probably more often than not, in fact). People who actually know me understand that this is not the case, it is merely how I am - it's not that I'm intentionally abrasive, it's simply that I don't give a single running fuck about your feelings, and I think the world would be a better place if everyone hardened the fuck up a little and realized that life is not perfect and, as drill sergeants are so fond of reminding new Privates, that you are not a unique and delicate snowflake. Also, the world doesn't owe you shit - not consideration, not respect, not a friendship BJ, nothing. Fight for your oxygen. Earn it.
Fuck, I'm rambling again.
Anyway - social issues, thoughts, yes - government has no place telling you what to do in your bedroom, who to marry, what gender you feel like being, what you put in your body, etc. Gay marriage, drugs, whatever. As long as everyone's a consenting adult, you do you, buddy, and don't let any high-horsing clown dick tell you otherwise. That said, don't get on my ass for being a straight white guy... not my fault, to borrow a talking point of various advocacy groups. I was born like this. Tolerance is a two-way street.
There. See? I'm not a Nazi, I'm just an asshole. That, my friends, is an extremely important distinction.
Off to sleep before I say one of those offensive things again. Stay freaky.
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