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.

Today was a good day. 🙂

(and by today I mean Friday, though Saturday might also be good)

Your taillight is burned out.

Such a simple thing to fix, really. Two dollars and ninety-five cents at the local NAPA, and your problem is solved.

I guess that I should be thankful that so many criminals overlook this very simple resolution. It seems like several times a week I read about a criminal who was captured due to a broken taillight. I think that it would be interesting to see what percentage of wanted people are captured after taillight-related traffic stops; my guess is that it’s a high number.

A quick search of Google News turns up a bunch of such stories. The folly isn’t limited to cars; just ask the kids who got busted for having a party in the back of a U-Haul truck thanks to a burned-out light.

On a almost totally unrelated note, did you know that, thanks to something called the Dimler amendment, you can do 65 mph in a 55 mph zone in Minnesota and not have the infraction appear on your driver’s license? It’s true. The state house of representatives even passed an amendment to the amendment that would exempt 70 mph in a 60 mph zone in the same manner, but the bill died before it could become law.

Sadly, I know of no such law in Wisconsin.

This morning, it snowed.

As I walked out the door, the world greeted me with a gentle blanket of white. The heavens continued to slowly drift to the ground, one delicate crystal at a time, slowly bolstering the scene. Around me, the air was filled with the peaceful stillness that only fresh snow can bring. It was beautiful. I didn’t recognize the omen, but that peaceful morning was to be a harbinger for a great day.

Work went well. Things just seemed to fall into place. I felt refreshed. I felt excited. I felt intrigued. Why? I think that I might have finally grasped the core — the very essence — of what I’m good at, and the prospect enlivens my soul.

I’ll give it some time to make sure that the theory accurately portrays reality, but I think it has a good chance.

So far, it’s survived the drive home, a brief trip to Target, several chapters of The Smartest Guys in the Room, and a snifter of Delord hors d’age armagnac. Prospects are looking decent that it will last through the night as well.

Should my hypothesis stand the test of time, the question will become: how do I best exploit it?