The Car

Well, it happened. I got a new car. It's been over 10 years since I bought a car, so quit looking at me like that. It's not like I'm one of those lease it and leave it hipsters that swaps out his Hummer after it gets hit with a single sparrow turd while running over baby fur seals on his drive home from a game of super-tanker bumper tag in the ocean sanctuary where Jacques Cousteau had his ashes scattered.

I was driving a perfectly good but aging '97 Maxima that I had purchased new, but it just didn't have that "I'm so ready for my mid-life crisis now" appeal. In a nod to practicality, I tried to put myself in a nice little Jetta or possibly a used Civic. It just wasn't going to happen. Long story short, I ended up buying a Mazadaspeed 6 after having it recommended to me by my good friend Tom.

Now, most people have no idea what this is. Everybody knows how to react when they find out your car is a BMW 335xi or an Audi S4 as if it should be assumed that your daily commute consists of a ride into orbit. Telling these same people that you drive a Mazda, let alone a Mazdaspeed 6 gets you one of those, "That's nice. Now take off the silly hat and go eat the paste" patronizing smiles.

At one point I came pretty close to pulling the trigger on an Infiniti G35x. Great car, except that you can't get the AWD version with a stick and that the dealer I was working with felt that there was either some kind of quality lacking in my portfolio or that my dress casual clothing wasn't of sufficient grade to warrant the major investment involved in calling me back with model information following a test drive. Plus, the car looks like a shoe. However, I had a hard time getting myself to believe that Mazda had anything in a sedan that could be considered a standout alongside of a Beemer and its ilk.

As if.

The Mazdaspeed 6 is a freaking monster. It was built at the same factory that spawned Christine, except that all the nice assembly demons were on strike that day. They installed an intercooled, turbocharged motor putting out the kind of horsepower that you'd normally only find in a Vin Diesel movie. 0-60 times are in the Oh My God's. They added extra steel to the body to increase rigidity enabling lane changes that happen telepathically. It also has an all wheel drive system that moves the power around to all four wheels allowing the 6 to hold on in the corners so well that it gives you the high G-force giggles for the rest of the day. The more gas you give it in a corner, the more you want to turn into the corner until you run out of "right" (or "left" if you live in the UK). Also, it's as smooth at 140 as it is at 60. You can't tell the difference unless you look at the speedo or measure the frequency at which the telephone poles are going by.

And, it only comes with a stick.

That particular feature pretty much sold the car to me on its own; no triptronics or slush-boxes here. I know I'm a bit of a throwback, but I'm into that. There are just not that many people out there that will voluntarily drive a stick anymore. However, all of the guys I know give me that conspiratorial raised eyebrow expression and nod knowingly when I point out the stick-only feature to them, as if they've spent years on the circuit with Michael Schumacher. What is it about the male of the species that requires us to assume that driving a manual transmission is an innate skill on par with grilling meat? Take notice, Medium Rare is RED in the middle, not pink, and I'm going to need a down payment for synchro repair before you get to drive.

One of the best parts is that you have no idea what it's all about by looking at it. It is a good looking car. With German body design and great paint options, it looks like a small, sporty sedan set up for comfortable commuting. By avoiding the silly hood scoops, spoiler wings and bolted on plastic "ground effects" that are standard in comparable Japanese sedans such as the WRX, Mazda created a total sleeper that surprises would-be highway assassins with gobs of instant on acceleration. Gas mileage suffers as your right foot gets heavier. In a giving gesture to my inner Civic driver, I promise myself every morning in the bathroom mirror that I will stay off the turbo.

Yeah, right. My thinning hair, enlarging waistline and increasing dissatisfaction with my direction in life will see YOU on the highway.

The Gallbladder

The Gallbladder.



Ok, here are the facts from wikipedia on your gallbladder, as paraphrased by me:

• It's 10-12 cm long,


• It's green due to it's bile content,


• It's located near your liver,


• It has a "duct",


• It injects the bile into your duodenum when you eat something fatty,


• The bile helps digest the fat.

Here's what wikipedia _doesn't_ tell you about the gallbladder: IT WILL KICK YOUR GODDAMN ASS.

Not kidding. I know this first hand. I had a bit of Gastroenteritis going. Which, in my case, means that my colon had decided to do an impression of a tributary flowing out of Newark, NJ after a 20" downpour in the middle of August. The entire cast of the Sopranos came flying out. At least we know what happened to them following the blackout at the end of the series finale.

As a result of my illness, I hadn't eaten for a few days. Feeling a little better for the moment, I tried to get a few bites of chicken noodle soup down in order to prevent myself from looking like one of the Olsen twins, slouching around in an anorexic haze in a made for TV after school schlock flick.

That's when it attacked me. I wasn't aware that the gallbladder could attack. Like a small green rotting prune with rabies, it came for me after my third bite, foamy bile spraying out of its duct. In the next minute, I was on floor in a fetal position trying to pull out the six foot long glowing hot iron spear that some mystery person had just shoved through me.

I'm not sure what part of me it was attacking, but it hurt like hell. The little bastard probably got right through the duodenum, chewed up a bit of liver and then went sick-house on my pancreas. This went on for the better part on an hour which ended up getting me a ride to the emergency room. As quickly as it started, it stopped. I don't know if it passed something, or if it ran out of steam or just got tired of being angry at the soup. Either way, it was the best not-feeling I've ever had.

In the ER, Doctor "I'm not sure what's going on here" performed an ultra-sound scan and concluded that I had a stone. This was a very expensive test that I'm sure won't be paid for by my insurance. This was immediately refuted by a technician who assured me that there was nothing in there other than an angry gallbladder, after using an even bigger and more expensive machine that won't be covered by my insurance either. Dr. Inswgoh (think about it) was, at this point, not sure if he was going to recommend, or not, to have my gallbladder removed, or maybe just left alone. I told them to think about it and left, thanking the nice emt guy on the way out who missed my vein like six times while trying to install the IV that I didn't need and will be paying for as a result of my insurance eventually not paying. The reason I brought that up is due to the fact than my veins are approximately the size of the lincoln tunnel and missing them requires the skills of an untrained, thumbless leper with cataracts. I pointed this out to emt guy and additionally thanked him for my growing hematoma.

The upside of this whole experience is, well, nothing. I still have my gallbladder. I can feel it in there, a little green green bag of bile filled hate, waiting to go for round two with my digestive tract. Waiting.

The Couch

The Couch.

Yeah, it's a fixture in every household across the entire country. Everyone has one, but I dare you to look through, or even under it. If you're not afraid of looking under the couch, then you're probably one of those freaks that has their life in perfect harmony, shops at Pottery Barn and doesn't have a closet full of unpaid bills and unopened credit card applications that are going to chew up a Saturday afternoon to shred. Or perhaps you're homeless. Sorry.

An interesting drinking game that I wish I'd come up with 20 years ago would be called "Drink or Couch". The rules would be simple. On each player's turn, they either drink a shot of Jager or they have to eat one thing found randomly from, in or under the couch. The outcome would be apocalyptic, but generally amusing for the bystanders. Plus, you'd probably find your long lost remote control, or a dead hooker. Either way, you have a story for the water cooler on Monday.

All of this came up due to my recent quest for a missing part to one of my oldest son's toys. The toy and the massive waste of time created searching for it are material for another post. All in good time. I swear to God, I could cure cancer if I only had the time back I've spent looking for toys. I'm digressing but I just can't let it go.

Anyway, back to the couch. On a hunch that the missing part might be under the couch, I moved it only to wish that I had chosen to go fishing for the mystery wad that was clogging up the upstairs bathroom sink instead. There were at least 50 different pieces of toys interspersed with all types of left over trash, food bits and, I believe, at least one cat turd. Don't believe me? Look at the picture. I swear to God, the kids are saving this stuff for the winter or some toyless time in the future that is surely going to come after I stroke out following a peek under the fridge.

I moved the couch back. All of that is still there. Wanna see it first hand? The price of admission is a sixpack.

Next: The Gallbladder.