The Rutabaga Speculation

It’s a drowsy day. Overcast. Cool. Quiet. During the night, around 2 AM, as I lay semi-asleep in my bed, I hear screaming outside. It sounds like a woman is screaming “Owwww” repeatedly. After several screams my drowsy brain clicks into gear and hands me a thought: “Is that a woman screaming?” I arise and look through a window. A dark figure wearing a hoodie, apparently a man, is strolling past my house and under a nearby street light. Even under the street light the figure remains completely dark. Then he turns and strolls back down the street in the direction from whence he had come, back into the darkness. I see no one else, nor do I hear more screams. “Probably teenagers up to no good,” I decide, and I return to bed.

(As I type this, locomotive air horns bellow in the distance. Trains come through my city every day.)

Today my thoughts are of the lazy variety. I ponder what I can eat. I can’t keep anything tasty in the house. No sweets. No crackers stuffed with cheese or peanut butter. No flavored nuts. (I could live on wasabi and soy sauce almonds.) No big jar of trail mix. If it tastes good I can’t keep it in the house because I’ll eat it—all of it. Resistance is futile.

During the recent hurricane event, I bought a few tasty items to have on hand. I wanted non-perishable foods in case there there was a power failure. But the hurricane didn’t hit my city and as a result I snacked on those tasty foods to the tune of three additional pounds of body fat. And I won’t work it off because, as we all know, exercise sucks.

Instead of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough bars and Captain’s Wafers Variety Packs, I should keep rutabagas on hand. I would never have to worry about snacking on rutabagas. Even the name is a turn-off. Rutabaga. It’s a cross between a cabbage and a turnip. I’ve never cooked one and I know I never will. The name comes from the Swedish word rotabagge, which roughly translates as yuck. I’m kidding; I have no idea what rotabagge means. I could google it but I already know more than I want to know about rutabagas. I suggest that my readers eat some rutabagas and let me know how that goes. And bon appétit.

Florence and the Jeep

In a previous post (Waiting for Florence) I said, “If I prepare for the coming storm, it will miss me. If I don’t prepare, it will hit.” At the time, Florence was on a track that would take it through Virginia. So I prepared, and the magic worked. Immediately after I finished my storm preparations, Florence steered herself onto a new course, away from Virginia and into North Carolina. I’m not saying I made Florence change course. No, that’s for the weather boffins to decide. Maybe, it’s just a coincidence.

My city has been smacked by enough hurricanes: six since 2003, the year I moved back here. In 2011 we were visited by Irene, as documented in After Irene, which is now my generic post for visiting hurricanes. I could copy that post, change the name of the hurricane, and publish it after any hurricane and it would still be accurate.

Two days before Florence was due here, as I made storm preparations, there was an incident with my Jeep. A strange sound began coming from under the hood. It was kind of a whining, whirring sound. I was mystified. The car drove just as well as always. What was making the noise?

The Jeep was stopped at a red light and I noticed that when the steering wheel was positioned to straight-ahead, the noise went away. If I moved the steering wheel to the left or to the right, the noise returned. I knew I had a power steering problem.

I stopped at the next parking lot to look at the power steering pump. From the outside, it looked okay. I removed the filler cap and looked into the pump to see if the hydraulic fluid was low. I couldn’t see any fluid. I put the cap back on and drove off to get my Jeep fixed.

I drove to an auto repair shop. Cutting a long story short, a high-pressure power steering hose had developed a small hole. That’s how the fluid escaped. The shop could replace the hose. The cost: $205.

I decided to also get the oil changed, which had not been done for three years. The oil change cost was $30.

Then the mechanic told me that the right front axle CV joint had a torn boot. He took me to the bay and showed me. Yup, it was flinging grease everywhere. It had to be fixed. “Replace the axle,” I told him. Cost: $250. I could almost hear the register go cha-ching!

Next I learned that the Jeep’s sway bar bushings were almost completely worn out. Sway bar bushings are kind of important if you don’t want to roll  your vehicle. I said, “Replace ‘em.” Cost: $136. There goes that cha-ching sound again.

I was in a repair frame of mind. In for a dime, in for a dollar. I told the mechanic to replace the rear hatch gas springs. The old springs had been defunct for several years. New springs: $160. This time I definitely heard a cha-ching.

I said I was going to cut this story short, so suffice to say that my pain added up to $860. Now, I’m not blaming Florence for having to spend this money. It’s just a law of Nature at work: Sometimes you’re the windshield, and sometimes you’re the bug.

Midland

The song of the day is Drinkin' Problem from the 2017 album On The Rocks by country music group Midland.

Waiting for Florence

A hurricane is aiming for the Carolinas and Virginia. It’s a big one and its predicted course, especially after it comes ashore, is not certain. Still, I have a feeling this might be one of those storms that people remember for a long time.

I know how the universe works. If I prepare for the coming storm, it will miss me. If I don’t prepare, it will hit.

So I’m preparing.  If electricity fails, I’ll be unable to cook or keep food refrigerated. So I need non-perishable foods that don’t require cooking, and I need flashlight batteries, and I need—oh heck, I made a list and went shopping.

First, food. I bought two boxes of candy bars: chocolate chip cookie dough bars and lemon bars. I bought a jar of trail mix. I bought canned beans and franks. I have two sweet potatoes that I’ll cook before the storm arrives. All in all, it feels like a reasonable food supply.

Batteries. I need D cells for my flashlights and my radio. Walmart is sold out. So is Food Lion. So is Home Depot. I decided I don’t need batteries. I have a small radio that runs on AA cells but I don’t know where it is. It’s in the house somewhere. I just have to look for it. Plenty of time, I tell myself.

Water. This one is kind of important so bought a case of bottled water. I also have a few large bottles that I’ll fill with water. I’ll fill the bathtub with water and keep a bucket handy for flushing the toilet.

Car. I filled the gas tank and added a half quart of motor oil. Then, the power steering high pressure hose failed and I had to take it to a garage for repairs. One thing led to another, and that entire incident deserves its own blog post. Suffice to say, $860 later it’s ready to roll again.

After all my preparation, I have a good feeling that Florence is not going to come near my central Virginia city. That is the reason for preparation: it’s a ritual to keep away the storm. The more money you spend, the less likely you’ll get hit by the storm. It’s the way the universe works. The Aztecs and Mayans sacrificed humans. Now it’s modern times and I have only to sacrifice dollars to keep the badness away.

Now I’m waiting, as are millions of others.

Musings

Scientists at Yale University say we—by which they mean they—can now teleport a quantum gate. That’s great news. You’re probably wondering, “What’s a quantum gate? And does it mean I can get free cable TV?” Those would be the natural questions to ask. Answers: no one knows, and no. But if you teleport a quantum gate before midnight tonight, you may qualify for lifetime free antenna TV and a set of Ginsu knives.

Scientists at Tel Aviv University have created a robot bat. They call it robat. This is not a joke. Robat is like a bat except instead of flying through the air it trundles along the ground on 4 large wheels. It uses echolocation to navigate. Robat “pings” out ultrasonic sound and listens for the echo to detect objects around it. I hate to spoil their party, but I worked for a company which made and sold wheeled robots from the mid ‘80s until year 2000. Our robots used ultrasonic sound for navigation and obstacle avoidance. (Some models also incorporated LIDAR—pulsed beams of laser light.) But good luck, university guys, and don’t get discouraged just because decades ago someone else was doing what you’re trying to do. Better late than never.

Scientists at the University of Connecticut have created a cyborg cockroach. The hybrid “creature” is constructed by melding the creepily but probably aptly named Madagascar Hissing Cockroach with a microchip neuro-controller that sits atop the bug. The purpose of the cyborg cockroach will be to find you if there’s an earthquake and a building falls on you. Yes, as you lie buried and dying in the rubble, the last thing you can expect to see will be dozens of Madagascar hissing cockroaches approaching you … a comforting mental picture, I’m sure.

And finally there’s this: scientists from Cardiff University and MIT asked the question, “Could artificially intelligent robots develop prejudice on their own?” Their answer: not unless they interact with people. Just kidding! The actual answer is yes they could. In fact, the article says,

“… some types of computer algorithms have already exhibited prejudice, such as racism and sexism, based on learning from public records and other data generated by humans …”

But this new study says AI robots could develop prejudice without human help, just by interacting with other AI robots. Oh great. Now I get to be looked down on by machines. Wait till the Department of Motor Vehicles gets their robots. “Attention stupid human. You passed your driver’s test but I don’t like your looks so I’m flunking you. If you don’t like it you can go suck it. Have a nice day.”

Yeah, the future is going to be interesting. And weird.

Chicago News

This week, a young man went to Chicago to pursue a doctoral degree at Northwestern University, and after being there only three hours he was shot dead. He was waiting at a bus stop and got caught in a crossfire. (Source)

Here are some other Chicago headlines from recent days:

• In less than 7 hours, 41 shot, 5 fatally as violence rips Chicago (Source)
• 14 hours in Chicago: 25 people shot, including 3-year-old boy (Source)
• 30 shot over 3-hour span in Chicago, including 11-year-old and at least 11 teens (Source)

There are many headlines like these. I’m beginning to think if certain parts of Chicago don’t get rained on with fire and brimstone soon, the Lord owes Sodom and Gomorrah an apology.

• Teen gun violence activist Delmonte Johnson fatally shot on South Side (Source)
• 27 year old woman shot and killed while sitting in car (Source)
• 2 killed, 6 wounded Saturday in city shootings (Source)

This is ordinary, everyday stuff in south Chicago. To be fair, you can read headlines like this in many American cities. There are simply more of them in Chicago newspapers. It seems like for south Chicago youth, life is the law of the jungle: kill or be killed. For many, it’s the only life they know.

Wednesday Morning Observations

Insomnia. It’s dark outside. I arise. I sit at the computer. What’s in the news at this time of the morning?

First headline: Demi Lovato selling home where she overdosed. Oh sure, blame the house. Look what you made me do, stupid house! You’re a bad house! I don’t want to live in you anymore.

The article says it’s a four bedroom, five bathroom house. Why is it rich people need to live in a house where they can be within 10 feet of a bathroom no matter where in the house they go? Do rich people have tiny bladders? Or is having a lot of bathrooms a peculiar sign of prestige?

“My house has 4 bathrooms.”

“You poor thing. Mine has 5 bathrooms. Next month I’m moving into a house with 6 bathrooms. I’m moving up.”

There should be a TV series: Lives of the Rich and Very Disturbed.

Second headline: Former 'ER' actress Vanessa Marquez fatally shot by police doing wellness check. What is there to say? Never call the police unless you want somebody shot. And that somebody might be you. Anyone who reads the news regularly should know this.

Third headline: 'Good Morning America' Star Lara Spencer's Wedding to Rick McVey Was Magical. Okay. But who the hell is Lara Spencer? Who the hell is Rick McVey? And what the hell is a ‘Good Morning America’? And why am I supposed to care?

Fourth headline: A quantum gate between atoms and photons may help in scaling up quantum computers. Huh? I mean, HUH?

Fifth headline: Dog apparently killed owner outside Md. home, police say.  Guess what kind of dog it was. Go ahead. Guess. It was one of those breeds that people are always calling sweet and gentle and loving and wouldn’t hurt a fly. Yeah, right. It was a pit bull.

Here’s the thing about pit bulls: they might be sweet and gentle and loving and docile and all the other nice words you can come up with for a pet. But IF they go rogue, which does happen very occasionally, they’re the breed that can kill you. Maybe a poodle is more likely to bite you than a pit bull—I really don’t know. But a poodle won’t kill you. I don’t have an agenda against pit bulls. They can make great pets. But buying a pit bull is like buying a loaded pistol. Treat it properly and you’ll be fine and have no regrets. Mishandle it and you might end up dead. As some people, to their regret, have discovered.

It’s One of Those Nights

It’s 1 AM—time for bed. So I go to bed and wait for sleep.

I awaken in darkness. I look at the clock beside my bed. It reads 2 AM. That’s a little disappointing. Eventually I fall asleep again.

I awaken in darkness. I look at the clock beside my bed. It reads 3 AM. This is going to be one of those nights. But I get back to sleep.

I awaken in darkness. I look at the clock beside my bed. It reads 4 AM. Well, this sucks. I get up and go to the kitchen.

The house is utterly quiet. I don’t even hear the whine of my tinnitus—the constant B₇ note that seems ever present in my head. The battery-powered clock on the wall makes a soft click every second. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed that before.

It’s too damn quiet. I open the refrigerator door and close it. A half minute passes and then the refrigerator turns on.

There’s probably a place I could go on the Internet and meet up with other people having insomnia, but I have nothing to say. “Couldn’t sleep,” isn’t much of a conversation starter.

So what am I doing about it? I’m sipping a rocks glass full of vodka, lemon-lime soda, and ice. After a sufficient number of shots I’ll get back to sleep, I bloody well hope. Till next time.