I HATE LOSING!! F[iddlesticks]!!!

(edited)

A friend at work introduced me to the sport of Googlewhacking. Basically, the idea is to search for two words that produce a search result count of one (1). Try it and you’ll find that it’s not as easy as it sounds. For one thing, the words have to exist; specifically, they need to show up underlined in the search result header (thus indicating Google found a definition). I found a googlewhack; can you?

I’m also going to use this opportunity to plug my photoblog. Plug! Plug! Plug!

Three for the price of one tonight:

Story the First

For reasons unknown, I’ve recently developed a desire to start bicycling on a regular basis. I like riding a bike, and I could certainly use the exercise. One small problem: I don’t own a bike. Naturally, the solution to this predicament is to exchange currency for an acceptable machine.

I did some research on the web and decided to check out some bikes in person. I hopped in the Bimmer, turned the key, modulated the gear lever, and was off.

It was night by the time I left the condo. I chose to take I-35E south to Erik’s Bike Shop in Bloomington, not far from the Mall of America. The 5’s xenon torches lit up the surprisingly desolate road in front of me as the ink of darkness slipped past.

I wasn’t really paying attention to driving. My nearest automobile neighbor was a solid 1/8^th mile behind me. By this time, I was leisurely cruising west on I-494, gradually approaching a bridge over the Minnesota River. My radio was off. The engine was purring. There was no wind noise, and I had eliminated the only annoying rattle. Everything was peaceful.

Then, all of a sudden, I notice a pair of blacked-out state patrol squad cars sitting on the shoulder no more than 200 yards in front of me. Crap! I glanced down at the speedometer. 75. In a 60. Crap! I reflexively hit the brakes, which slowed me to a more acceptable speed, and watched the rear-view mirror for signs that I would be plucked from the herd.

But that never happened. The cherries stayed dark, and the squads stayed parked. Passed up for a bigger fish, I guess.

With the topic fresh in my mind, I started thinking about recent traffic stops that I had witnessed. I noted an odd trend: in my memory, it seemed like the vast majority of the stopped cars were POS beaters with one working headlight and excessive amounts of an adornment called “rust.” I figured that the cops were doing some sort of socioeconomic profiling. I even had the vanity to think that, thanks to my lack of rust and working headlamps, I was perhaps immune to being pulled over.

As if on cue, as soon as I had that last thought, I noticed a car that was part of an active traffic stop. One stopped car, one trooper cruiser, lights flashing. I rubber-necked to see what type of poor soul was getting acquainted with John Q. Law. I expected to see some mid-Seventies Nova with the bumper falling off the back.

No, I saw a late-model, shiny, fully-operational, silver BMW.

Providence smiled.

——

At risk of opening a can of worms, I’m going to bring up (very briefly) the case of Terri Schiavo. I’ll assume that you haven’t been living in a cave and have a general idea of the case. I have three comments:

• I’m disappointed that Congress voted to transfer jurisdiction to the federal courts. It was a state matter, and numerous Florida state courts had already handled it. Plus, as numerous pundits have already pointed out (but I repeat here because I agree), such a move sets a dangerous precedent against states’ rights.
• If I were a vegetable for more than a decade, I’d want somebody to pull the plug. In fact, if I were reduced to the mental capacity of a young child, and had no hope of recovery, I wouldn’t want to stick around. There would be no chance that I could make a productive contribution to society, so I would just be wasting space and energy. One of my greatest fears is losing my mental acuity.
• After watching some videos of Terri in her current condition, I can honestly say that I understand why her parents are reluctant to give up. The stricken woman is not comatose; rather, she blinks, she moves, she seems to make what look like facial expressions. Yeah, the videos are undoubtedly edited to be propaganda. Yes, even my simple-minded dog can follow directions better than Terri. For that matter, the dog can even make what I perceive as facial expressions. Nonetheless, I now have a better appreciation for the other side of the debate.

——

Thinking about buying a house in the relatively near future? I’ve been thinking about it, trying to weigh the benefits of low interest rates against the possibility of significantly slowed housing appreciation (or even depreciation).

In my research, I stumbled upon an interesting report. The report, produced by The PMI Group (a major private mortgage insurer), focuses on the risk of interest-only mortgages. However, the part I found really interesting was the two-page chart showing housing appreciation rates in major U.S. cities. More than that, it compares the home price changes with the labor market and draws conclusions about affordability and (this is the kicker) the probability of a decline in housing prices. Topping the list is Boston, which PMI pegs at a 53% chance of seeing depreciation in the next two years. Other notable locales: San Francisco at 48%, the Twin Cities at 26%, and Indianapolis at 6%. The reason this is notable is because highly leveraged home buyers are dependent on housing prices to continue their rapid ascent, and big problems can emerge when that doesn’t hold true.

A bit unnerving, yes, but not a certainty. If history has taught us anything, it’s that soothsayers are seldom correct.

This past Saturday, I met up with Woodcox, Steph, and some members of the local 3000GT club. Destination? The Minneapolis auto show.

All manner of car manufacturers were in attendance, from Ford to Maserati, GM to Lotus. By good fortune, my favorite car marque was also represented: Porsche.

Most of the car manufacturers kept their high-end cars locked and/or on pedestals, forcing passers-by to sit and touch only the lesser models. Not so with Porsche. All of their cars were unlocked and easily accessible. All, save for one, but I’ll mention that later. People from all walks of life, of all ages, but almost entirely of the male gender, were sitting in and faux-driving the show cars. Regardless of the person, each had a similar reaction when he slipped into a 911: he gripped the steering wheel, modulated the shift lever, and looked out at his compatriots with a smile of bliss.

The only Porsche that was locked was, in my opinion, the darling of the show. It was a bright yellow specimen of the world’s fastest production car — the Carrera GT.

Its combination of beauty, power, and agility give it a certain je ne sais quois; perhaps it’s best described as a trifecta of perfection. I love that car. It’s my dream car. Someday, I hope to find myself in the driver’s seat, tearing down the open road, with my name on the title.

Even though it was locked, we all got as close as we pleased. We could have touched the car, had we been so inclined. Well, okay, I admit it: I caressed the car for a few seconds, as if to prove to myself that the experience was real. Despite the lack of velvet ropes, raised platforms, or ornery guards, every spectator, from the kids to the pensioners, treated the half-million-dollar beauty with reverent respect. We all studied its lines and features, soaking in the experience, trying to burn the image into our permanent memories.

It was a zen experience for Porschephiles.

Last week, I spent several days snowboarding at Whistler-Blackcomb in British Columbia, Canada. Despite the absolutely horrendous conditions (they hadn’t had fresh snow in weeks and didn’t get any while we were there), I had a good time. But this isn’t a post about Whistler; no, that won’t happen for a while (if ever). This is a post about Halls cough drops.

While I was at Whistler, I picked up some sort of illness that brought extreme lethargy and a nasty cough. After returning to Minnesota (which took a day longer than expected; once again, a different story), I decided to heed one of the countless messages from advertising and “enter the Halls of medicine.” My goal was relief from the pain of the cough. A slightly more honorable sub-goal was to spare my cube neighbors the periodic sound of respiratory agony.

I made my way to the local Walgreens and plunked down $2 for a bag of 30. I chose “Lemon Honey” flavor, not because I have a penchant for lemons and honey but because I was feeling indifferent and the bag was convenient.

A couple minutes later, I rolled into my office and popped one of the lozenges into my mouth. It turns out that menthol is one of the active ingredients, and boy, could I taste it. In fact, I’m not sure why they bothered with the lemon honey flavor at all; the minty taste of the menthol was absolutely dominant. It wasn’t even a good taste, but I tolerated it in the hope that my cough would abate.

After sucking on the cough drop until it dissinigrated, I expected that I would be cough-free for at least a little while. No such luck. The drop was gone, my coughs remained, and that horrid menthol-lemon-honey taste lingered on my palate.

Maybe my coughs would have eventually been suppressed if I had kept consuming more of the lozenges. Maybe, but I wasn’t going to find out. The taste was simply too revolting.

The next morning, I got up, took a shower, and made breakfast as usual. However, I noticed that my orange juice didn’t taste right. The taste was familiar… what was it? Oh no — I knew what it was. It was the taste of those cough drops! I brushed my teeth, gargled water, and went to work. The taste was still there! For the record, so was my cough. For the complete record, so was my backache. For the REALLY complete record, so wasn’t Moss with the Vikings.

I wasn’t sure what to do. For a brief while, I contemplated eating another Halls drop, just in case a new drop would somehow suppress the taste of the old one. Fortunately, I relized the logical fallacy and saved myself the amplified agony.

Days have gone by with no relief. Whenever I eat or drink anything, and often while I’m simply sitting, I taste that awful flavor in my mouth. It doesn’t make sense, and it doesn’t get better. There are no instructions on the label for removing the hideous aftertaste; I checked. All I can do is wait for time to run its course. I hope it’s a fast runner.