bytex64.net/blog

I woke up at noon today... then hit the snooze button for another hour and a half. After packing up my things, I got a $3 Wal-Mart sandwich and a sprite and headed out on the road again. *hums Willie Nelson*

The trip was windy, but boring. That's a good thing, folks, I don't want to tell you how I hit a patch of ice and flew off the road into a buffalo. :) Due to my late start, I got as far as Rawlins before the sun set. I called Super 8's number for reservations, and there was nothing available down the road, so I decided to stay the night in Rawlins. If it sounds like I'm becoming a Super 8 fanboy, it's probably because I am. They've got that sweet spot between dirty hovel and luxury that includes wifi without breaking my budget.

Rawlins is a smallish town, six thousand and some. It doesn't even have a Wal-Mart. After I got settled into the hotel, I decided it would be a good idea to check the car. I popped the hood, pulled dipsticks and such, and found myself to be half a quart down. "WTF!?" I exclaimed, and made for the local Pamida.

"Pawhutuh?" Pamida. A general store, somewhere in scale between a Wal-Mart and a Dollar General, with the organization of a Big Lots. There used to be one in Rantoul a long time ago.

$2.50 poorer and a quart of oil richer, I got back to the hotel and began explaining my predicament to Erickson when I realized that I wasn't in the flatlands anymore. My car was parked on what was probably a 10° upslope. "Duh," I thought, "Of course it looks like it's half a quart low. All the oil's in the back of the drainpan." Huh durrr...

Yeah, that's a poor story, but at least my car's OK. Oh, Yan got a DS. Here's the Nintendo viral mindshare scorecard:

• Jen: White DS Lite
• Kan Kan: White DS Lite
• Nancy: Onyx DS Lite
• Yan: Onyx DS Lite
• Me: Electric Blue DS Phat

Yeah, I had to be the oddball. :) Anyway, I've got to make it to SLC tomorrow, so I'd better get some sleep. 'night.

And the award for "Cutest Rendition of an American Tragedy" goes to:

You can see the whole thing over here. It's cute and educational. I've learned more about Afghanistan from this than I ever learned in school.

The plan was, that after waking up today and eating breakfast, I'd head north to Cheyenne, WY, and then head west on I-80. It didn't quite work out like that.

I ate breakfast at the local Waffle House (known to some as WAHO, isn't it weird how these things come full circle?), and in a conversation with the cook, my waitress spun a yarn about how she was from South Park, and went to school with Trey Parker. (Ashley informs me that the real South Park is a ghost town) Engorged on waffle, egg, and hash browns, I made a quick stop at Wal-Mart for some food and new wiper blades (Everything that has failed on this car is not made by Honda, I might add, except maybe for that poorly designed oil pan), and headed north on I-25 to Cheyenne.

It was a bit windy, but the trip was relatively uneventful. Saw some buffalo, marveled at the snow-capped rockies, and changed over to I-80. Hold on, what's this? A line, backed up on the interstate. Flashing lights by signs, and police enforcement waving people onto an onramp? The venerable Wyoming Department of Transportation hath raised its mighty hands and said,

"YOU SHALL NOT PASS!"

Apparently I-80 had not yet recovered from the blizzard the night before (of which Fort Collins only recieved a soggy two inches). A RPG-like turn of events, to be sure.

NPC: You can't go this way.
Hero: Why not?
NPC: You must first slay the dragon!

Somewhere in the universe, a group of cosmic superbeings are snickering. A helpful elderly man at the visitor's information center advised me that it would be better to stay put than try to find a way around, so I headed into Cheyenne for some sightseeing. Driving through Cheyenne, I'd forgotten that it's the state capital. For one, it's practically on the border. State capitals are not usually placed on the doorstep of the next state. Furthermore, the town's only about 55,000 large. That puts it at a little smaller than Champaign, and about half the size of Fort Collins.

After fueling up (44MPG!), I stopped by Holliday Park to visit a figment from my childhood: The 4004, one of Union Pacific's series of "Big Boy" steam locomotives. It's billed as the biggest steam locomotive in the world, and seeing it up close, I'm not going to argue. This thing is 540 tons of pure American coal-fired awesome — the kind of overengineering that makes Americans proud and everyone else disgusted. (To clarify, the Big Boys were in no way operational in my childhood, I was simply a train geek back then.) I've got some pictures I'll put up later, but I doubt they'll do it justice. Actually, now that I think of it, when I saw 4004, what I was really thinking of was the Intel 4004, also historical, but for wholly different reasons.

I headed downtown to the visitor's center, opted not to pay $4 to enter their museum, and picked up a guide to downtown. Two stores looked interesting, and conveniently enough, they were only a block away. The first store was Phoenix Books, a used book and music store. Have I mentioned I love used bookstores? I found that they even had a very small manga section that read like a playlist from a "Best Anime Hits of the 90's (in America)" compilation. Translated: FLCL, Cowboy Bebop, Lupin III, Battle Royale. Original Japanese: Evangelion, Inuyasha, Ah! My Goddess, and none other than a still-shrinkwrapped edition of Yokohama Kaidashi Kikou. I was severly tempted to get that last one, but not for $20! I got the FLCL and a copy of Isaac Asimov's Foundation Trilogy. Wait, Battle Royale isn't an anime, is it... *shrug*.

The other shop, coincidentally called "The Other Shop," was a hobby shop specializing in models and automotive memorabilia. I intended to simply window shop, but a particular item caught my eye: A 1/5 scale model of a rotary engine. The store was run by an elderly couple, and while fishing the box out from the display, the lady explained that she used to work at a Mazda dealer back in '79 when the first RX-7 came out. I talked with them a little about my RX-7, engines, and cars in general before buying the kit. I'm not sure when I'll get the chance to build it, or if buying a model of the world's simplest internal combustion engine was even a good idea (by rights, it should only have three moving parts), but I couldn't turn down their enthusiasm.

I drove by the capitol building, took the long way back to I-25, and I'm back in Fort Collins. Wyoroad.info says I-80 is still slick in spots, but not closed anymore, so it should be good tomorrow. Unless I have to slay a dragon or something...

OH SHI-. Break out the psychobabble and dig deep into the past, it's Introspection Time! Those who do not care may safely skip this entry.

I was thinking last night, as I often do when my body is tired but my mind hasn't yet had time to spin down, about my self-centered rants on fashion and being a geek. I am what I like to think of as a "hardcore geek," one who has found a niche that they feel that they belong to, and who stubbornly refuses any attempts to "fix" this, well-intentioned though those attempts may be. I dress unfashionably, groom myself poorly, speak my mind to the detriment of others, and well, I'll admit it, I don't smell too pretty most of the time. I am offensive, especially to those who don't know me. This is partly by design — being rough with those close to me allows me to easily tell who my friends are — but also stems from my chronic apathy and misanthropy. Most of the time, I just don't give a fuck.

Of course, when there is a girl involved, I do give a fuck. I fall for some pretty thing with a smile, and I start trying. Poorly. I don't change myself into something worthy of this girl. Rather, I stall, I stutter, I pour my heart out, and sure as clockwork, I get rejected. Any fool looking at this from the outside could see it coming. Hell, I see it coming every single time, but still I try, meekly, feebly, without a snowball's chance in hell. It could be foolish pride — the arrogant idea that I don't have to change to be loved — but since I'm telling you that, I'm obviously aware of it. And then, last night, something popped into my head that had me wide-eyed in the dark, an idea so paradoxical that it had to be considered:

Maybe I enjoy being unhappy.

Indeed, upon further inspection, it seems that if I were at all successful with a woman, my world as it exists would fall apart. I would stop playing video games. I would stop spending a solid week coding up something inspired by two seconds of brilliance. I would stop going for a drive in the middle of the night simply because I like to drive when no one else is around. There would be no brilliant hacks: no custom ITG songs, no Atari 800 clouds, no robot control system. And there would certainly be no madcap roadtrip to the west coast by myself (though the viability of that idea is still up for debate).

I think that I know, somewhere in the back of my mind, that there is no possible way I can have both a girlfriend and all the personal freedom I currently have. And more to the point, I'm not yet willing to give all that up. Contrary to my desires, being in a relationship might just be the worst thing in the world for my peace of mind. And so I've been sabotaging myself this entire time, setting myself up for the fall, so that I can stay who I am — a hardcore geek. The idea's so delightfully schizoid, isn't it? My mind, trying to save itself against the tide of change. Maybe I should stop reading Deadpool so late at night.

And so, as is usually the result of my introspective ramblings, I'm no closer to a solution, and one step closer to waking up in a padded cell. Time for sleep.

Sorry for lazing out on the journal. Fact is, not much interesting has been happening except for Saturday, and I've been distracted by something awesome... but that will have to wait for later. I've been reading Textual Confusion, which some may recognize as the sometimes disturbingly pensive blog written by the lovely and talented Julie, and realized that if she can spout such verbiage on a regular basis, then hell, so should I. About Saturday...

On Friday I was invited to come out and party with Ashley in Old Town, but I decided that I'd rather chat and watch Full House. Yep, I'm a dork. About Saturday...

Oh, I forgot one part about my trip to Colorado Springs. On the trip back, I'm following a car carrier, and out of nowhere, sparks start flying out from under the trailer. A spinning, sparking hubcap flies out, and "OH SHIT BLINKING DRONE" mode kicks in. I was far back enough that I had time to dodge, but not without making an unchecked and unsignaled maneuver into the fast lane. This, kids, is why you should check your mirrors continuously so that you know what's around you in case you need to make a panic maneuver like this. Anyway, Saturday...

Oh, man, this frozen chimichanga tastes so good. On a related note, the New Belgium Brewery has this beer called 1554, apparently brewed from an old, faded Belgian recipe. It's a dark, chocolatey black ale that just melts in your mouth. I beg you to try the stuff, it's got ten times the character of any mass-produced American pilsner. So, Saturday...

I'll bet you're wondering what happened on Saturday, huh? Well, PREPARE TO BE DISAPPOINTED.

Ashley and I left the house and made a quick run to the local liquor store to restock her fridge with alcohol, then made a Taco Bell run to give a little buffer for the impending alcohol. We walked around Old Town a bit before entering what was quite possibly the smallest bar in existence. It was, and I say this with very little embellishment, about the size of two dorm rooms. There was one bartender and seating for about 25. I had a pint of their house brew (which was OK), a couple of jello shots, and a "toxic cherry," which was a cherry that tasted like it was soaked in turpentine. (Which means it was probably soaked in off-brand Everclear) Ashley's friend called, so we made a hasty exit to another place practically next door.

I met a few friends of Ashley's, Nick and Matt. Nick was an Irish guy who apparently actually has family on the Isle. He regaled us with stories about visiting his family, to which Ashley replied with tales from her visit. Matt was wearing a bandana and had a Hulk Hogan moustache, but he was a pretty cool guy. A couple of their female friends, whose names I forget, joined us, and we all talked for a bit. The veranda we were on allowed smoking (indoor smoking is prohibited here, just like C-U, with local legislation that went into effect just this month, apparently), but it was getting crowded and cold, so we left for the third bar, the StakeOut.

The StakeOut was just another collegetown bar. Carved up seats and tables, sports games on the televisions, $1 PBR and Old Style during Cubs games... wait, hold on, Cubs games? What are Cubs fans doing in Colorado? I still don't know, but the more I look around, the more it seems like Fort Collins has a large population of former Illinois residents. After getting drinks and sitting down, Ashley says to me, "Hey, if you see a hottie, go for it." Thanks, but the absence of your blessing wasn't the reason for my inaction.

We left shortly before closing time, and grabbed a gyro from a street stand. It was good, I'll bet those guys make a killing. After heading home, I slept.

And that was Saturday. :-P

I found a little "bug" in Gran Turismo 4, where picking the Dodge Ram 1500 in an arcade race lumps you in with some very small, sub-800kg Japanese cars. I put "bug" in quotes because this placement seems deliberate. A quick back-of-the-python-interpreter calculation will show that the Ram is over twice as fast as the rest of the pack. To me, it seems more like an easter egg, since the Ram is like a bowling ball in an arena full of billiard balls. When you hit them, they go flying. Making this even more fun is an actual bug in GT4 where momentum in the z-axis is not conserved in a collision, and hitting a car that is going uphill will cause it to continue traveling upwards as it travels backwards from the impact. As a result, you can get cars flying in quite an impressive arc. I've got a set of pictures that shows some of the results of my experimentation. (GT4 can save pictures from replays onto USB storage devices, isn't that neat? I always knew there was some reason they put those two USB ports on there.)

1. GooTube. Haha.
2. The more I think about it, dj TAKA's Rainbow Flyer seems like the kind of song one would make while high on psychedelic substances.
3. Apparently there was a Harry Potter character named Sirius Black. No relation. I guess he's dead now, anyway. *shrug*.
4. Tangentially related to #3, I've been hesitating to read the Harry Potter series on the reasoning that anything that popular with such a wide audience can't be that good. Then again, I've been known to read Mercedes Lackey, who is a rather mediocre storyteller. I wonder... Am I missing out on anything other than rabid screaming fandom?
5. Hans Reiser has been charged with the murder of his wife. OMG WIFE HAX.

I feel that I must apologize for that last one, even I thought it was pretty tasteless (but note carefully that it didn't stop me).

I took a trip down to Colorado Springs today to a Mr. Biggs Family Fun Center. Despite looking like a date rapist, Mr. Biggs promises fun for the whole family. I went there to play one of the very few IIDX machines in the country, this one being an 8th style. The place is also host to a plethora of Bemani and other dance/rhythm games: Drummania, Pop'n Music, Keyboardmania, Guitar Freaks, Beatmania The Final, DDR Extreme, Pump it Up Zero, and Pump It Up Exceed 2.

Suffice it to say that I played IIDX 'till my hands hurt... and then played for another hour. Some day, when I look back and wonder why I can no longer type or grip things without excruciating pain, this may be the day that stands out as the turning point. :-/

All of the games were relatively cheap. IIDX was three tokens, most other games were four, and DDR was five. $10 gets you 56 tokens on a game card, so that turns out to be $0.55, $0.71, and $0.89 per play. Pop'n and IIDX were set to four songs per play, so $10 took me about an hour and a half to get through. If this place is on your way anywhere, I'd recommend stopping there. They also had Battletech, but the place was so empty, I didn't bother trying it out, since I'd probably have no opponents.

Perhaps most importantly, the car was a champ, surviving the entire 220 mile trip with nothing more than an intermittent belt squeak. It's a new belt, so some adjustment should clear it right up. Also, it seems that I used somewhere between a third and a half of a tank of gas, putting my mileage somewhere between 36 and 40 miles per gallon.

I'm both mentally and physically exhausted, so I'm going to turn in. 'night, everyone.

It's a well-known fact among veteran 'net users that there are no girls on the internet. One popular version states that "On IRC, the Men are Men, the Women are Men, and the children are FBI agents." This assertion may seem a little bit strange to those of you, so allow me to explain in a little more detail.

Proof by contradiction: Suppose for a moment that there exists a girl on the internet. When she logs on and explains that she is a girl, immediately the existing users challenge the assertion. Often, a call will be made to post a picture, but even if she complies, further accusations will be made that it is not her, but rather a sister, or an image copied off from some other portion of the internet. No matter how hard she tries, she cannot prove that she is, in fact, female. Therefore, "she" is actually a 48 year old furnace inspector named Ralph. QED.

Trivia tidbit: QED is Latin for "so what?"

Note that this maxim doesn't preclude the existence of women using the internet, it merely shows that it is impossible to prove their existence. Attempts have been made at female verification, most notably on 4chan, where claims of femininity are met with their rallying cry, "TITS OR GTFO." The verification process usually involves the supposed female writing a passphrase somewhere on their naughty bits and taking a picture, but even this cannot constitute solid proof, as these pictures could still be created by a skilled photomanipulator. Much like the inability of matter to ever reach the speed of light, females can never be proven to exist on the internet.

While discussing this dilemma with Erickson, he suggested that this carries with it more profound implications, namely that it is not merely impossible to prove that there are females on the internet, but that it is impossible to prove the existence of any gender. Taking this to its limit, it seems that it is impossible to prove anything on the internet.

Indeed, it seems that this is one of the very fundamental properties of the internet, as evidenced by such sites as Slashdot and Wikipedia. The internet's existence as an entity of pure bullshit leads us to a very interesting theory, which I have called the Internet Proof Paradox.

The Internet Proof Paradox

The moment it becomes possible to prove something on the internet, the internet will cease to exist.

It is interesting to note that this theorem cannot be proven, by virtue of its very existence! If one could prove the Internet Proof Paradox, then according to the paradox, the internet would cease to exist, leaving the paradox without any proof. What does this mean, then?

It means that there are no girls on the internet, and you can't prove otherwise. :-P

I was a bit premature in supposing that that neoprene washer would be a permanent solution. Not finding any more information online, I figured I'd just be daring and try it out. Good news, the washer is holding fine. Now the bad news:

I had just turned around on I-25, nearly reaching the redline in second gear whilst hurtling down the on-ramp, when I hear a little snap. Half a second later, the orange battery idiot light turns on. It takes me a further ten seconds after dodging a semi to realize what happened. My high-RPM antics caused the worn-out alternator belt to snap, leaving me doing 75 on the interstate, running entirely on batteries.

Aside: 75MPH is the legal speed limit, at least on that section of I-25.

Another aside: "alternator belt" above was not simply a shortcut for "serpentine belt." As on the RX-7, the CRX (and quite likely the Civic) has one belt and a set of pulleys dedicated to running the alternator only. On cars that have it, another belt and pulley system runs the air conditioning, and probably the optional power steering on the CRX SiR. Since this CRX has neither A/C or power steering, the alternator belt is the only belt in the entire engine bay.

Realizing that I was probably a good eight or ten miles from home at that point, I went into "Apollo 13" mode, shutting down all the electric items I could. Blower: off. Instrument lights: turned down as far as they'd go. ... Well, the car doesn't really have many accessories. I'd have to leave the lights on, and from there I'd just have to pray that the battery held out 'till I got home.

Perhaps another aside is necessary: For those who don't study internal combustion engines in as much detail as I do, electricity is required to fire the spark plugs. Modern engines also require electricity to run the engine computer and fuel injectors, but the spark plugs are the most energy intensive by far. Ordinarily, the alternator provides the necessary juice, but when the alternator fails, as it did for me, the spark plugs must run off of battery power. And as anyone who has played with a R/C car can tell you, batteries run down at the most inopportune times.

Well, I did make it home, and confirmed that I was indeed missing an alternator belt. Hopefully I can charge the battery to some extent with the self-jump start thing I bought before I left. If I drive in daylight, I should be able to get to a parts store without a problem.