Electric Sheep Shaver

Many years ago (if 15 is "many" to you), in high school, I once gave someone a handful of change more or less on demand, yet in passing. It's hard to describe the situation:  an odd exchange that took place without the slightest hint of analysis or care. Like passing the salt at dinner, without knowing who you gave it too, or even talking to them. I was walking somewhere in a crowded school hall, in a daydream most likely, and someone asked me for money, so I gave them the contents of my pocket without question, and kept going without comment. It wasn't for a moment or two that I realized what had happened. So much for presents of mind.

I had a dream that I had found the money in my backpack. After all these years, I hadn't given it away, it was right there in that one pocket. You know, that pocket that your backpack has that you find in your dream, the one you've not opened in years. In the dream, the money was there. A big handful of it. I mildly happy. There was no point in caring about the mysterious deposit of a few dollars in coinage, but at the same time, there it was. Something to keep the change jar from blowing away. I like the way coins feel in the hand. Slightly heavy, like they could do something.

When I woke up, I decided to go looking for the missing pocket. Of course, it wasn't there. But I opened that other pocket. The pocket I never open because nothing of interest ever fits in there. What did I find?

 Of course, it's not the same money. It's been squirreled away as a product of eating out on business trips, and not wanting to be burdened with a jingly pocketload that would barely added up to a cheeseburger.

¡Es yo si que es!

I have a theory. The dog can only quantify things into three values.

In dog land, there can be:
-No things (A)
-A thing (B)

-Many things (C)

 

In this photo, the dog is wearing many socks.


Socks only make him look more strange and awkward.

Leaves

Hibiscus

The richest reds in the morning sun.

The Rumble in the Jungle

Another Oldsmobile Cutlass Cierra muffler job.

While there is a lot of disparagement of the accumulation of stuff that happens over time and accrued age, there are some advantages, namely, the possibility of having the thing you need in the house to do whatever it is you want to do is much, much greater.

For instance, I have now pealed 3 different mufflers off the ChevOldsmobuiac. I mean this quite literally: to get the muffler off, the muffler inlet is split in a couple of places and rolled back with a pair of vice grips until it can be pulled free. Over time, I have accumulated a large number of screw-posts for my dremel. The upshot of this is that you can load up four posts and thus spend more time cutting, and less time swearing, since it lets one avoid the frustration felt when a brand new cutting wheel explodes when it touches the piece being cut. Totally useful, though not something I would have thought to purchase on dremel day one, when I was intent on cutting air holes in the side of my mac.

The departing muffler has been unpleasant since day 1. There's always been some exhaust rumble from some where or another, and I've never band able to totally abolish it. Then, in july, the rear hangar ripped off the muffler, and I had to buttress the system with coat hanger wire. A somewhat sturdy fix (compared to the torn hangar) but not quite and certainly not likely to pass virginia state inspection.

Halfway through muffler cutting and pealing. You can also see how close the exhaust pipe rides to the rear axle, which hides the parking brake cable. Remember that little disaster?

Once removed, I discovered that the old muffler was about 10% smaller than the new one. Smaller on every axis!

I reinforced the hangar on the new muffler with a bit of JB weld, figuring that if it would hang on the car for longer. When the two mufflers were side by side, the difference in the hangar quality became apparent too. The old muffler hangar was smaller, lacked guides, and only had two welds, while the new one had three.

The new muffler, by virtue of size along, fits all the hangars in the car better, and so the exhaust noise we've been hearing for years is now gone. I am mystified by the apparent difference in quality between the mufflers. As a normal person, I have trouble distinguishing muffler and intrinsic autopart quality when I buy online or in store. Often, there is no selection to even compare with. I wonder how many other parts I've bought over the years have inferior or superior craftsmanship.

Are Volvos Dorky?

I'm so glad you asked.

I know you asked because you typed it into google, and it showed up on one of todays search terms that led to my blog. (For a long time "Dating a Chemist" was a popular term, but now I'm married, so I imagine "Marrying a Chemist" should be the correct search term, for those of you who know who you are.)

The short answer to your question is "maybe".

To people who own Volvos because they are safe, refined, sensible cars, they are not dorky. For late model Volvos, these people tend to be high income families. Volvos aren't dorky if they are owned by these people. They're the sensible European alternative to a market that is otherwise dominated by nazi sleds.

There is another group of people, almost completely isolated in the pacific northwest and new england, who drive old volvos because they are safe, repairable, and have somehow survived 25-35 years wihout rusting (much). These people are almost certainly driving Volvos with model numbers that end in a "-40". These people tend to be credit card hippies who inherited the family station wagon from the first group, or high income wanna-be hippies (like college professors) who bought one to celebrate getting tenure and never thought about it again. Either group has the financial wherewithal to take their car to Sven the Volvo Stooge for the twice annual 1000$ repair job without pause, and even walk away from such experiences feeling righteously smug, having certainly done some good for the world by keeping their car running. Hippies and professors tend to be dorks. QED.

The last group of people who own Volvos have a strange obsession with driving a boxcar. More than that, they probably want to drive a box car like a sports car. They spend a lot of time ordering obscure parts from europe and obsessing about how gases flow through their "flame trap". They might have any of a sequence of Volvos, but that's hardly matters, because there is always some components from some related model that they wish they had in the car they actually own. These poor saps spend more time under their "reliable, easy to fix" rustbuckets than they do with human beings, which is sad, because real car people usually have an really awesome car to show for their effort. Thus, their obsession with a car with industrial aerodynamics, bus-like acceleration, a design cues only a soccer mom could love, makes them hipsters who believe that they have something cool that was never actually cool, and therefore dorks.

So, there you have it. If you make six figures, don't want seem stuck up, likely have two kids (you should check just in case), and are the first owner of a late model Volvo, you're free and clear and not a dork, just reserved and refined.

Otherwise, if you own a Volvo, you're probably a dork.

Mystery

I finally replaced the brake master cylinder in the Volvo. I have a 740 that does not have ABS, but in ordering parts online, I found that some places don't distinguish. That's bad.

Sadly, I can't tell what was wrong with the old one. The fluid in the cylinder was full of fine metal filings (grey brake fluid instead of clear). The seals all looked fine and were not torn. By rights it should have worked. The only clue I was left with is the body of the piston has substantial wear marks. Perhaps 360,000 miles worth of stopping just caused the cylinder bore to widen enough that the seals didn't flare enough to seal against the sides.

Life is full of mysteries.

Regardless, the pedal is firm now, so I can approach traffic lights without a heightened fear of deploying the airbag.