Writing about America - slightly preferable to cleaning the toilet
I'm even less sure than usual that I know what day it is, so much of the following is probably just me making stuff up.
I can be reasonably sure however, that Chevrolet won't be getting any of my money for the rest of my natural. With sitcom timing, the horrible lardmobile expired properly when called upon to transport us back to the airport. I said some jolly rude words, called the help-desk and firmly suggested that Alamo might like to pay for a taxi. Things got worse after that. In the future, if I'm given the choice between an Alamo car and walking, you may rest assured that Shanks' Pony will win.
Or perhaps one of these. I'll leave it to mr_tom to perform the 'Dude. Dope frames.' joke.
See, the thing is that I like to potter through life in a cheery bubble of Dawkinsian altrusim and naivete[1]. People are basically good and only the sort of tiresome right-wing fuckheads who still believe that game theory maps well onto the human experience should be avoided. Thus I've never bothered with traveller's cheques, money belts and getting several quotes from taxi firms before setting out on an important journey.
(Well, ok. There was this one time where I was to be found at silly-AM, haggling very loudly with Nigerian cab drivers. However, I was somewhat drunk and wearing a miniskirt[2])
Anyway. Shitbag cabs of (I dunno. Lake-something?) are big on all that game theory rubbish and can't drive. The Iranian rally-champions that drive for Eurocars in London are much better value and probably much more use should the balloon go up. Better English, too.
It only struck me after I'd taken the 9k for a bit of a thrash just how crap that Moskvitch was. For instance, should I want to go around a corner in the Saab, I point the steering wheel in the relevant direction and the vehicle goes where I want. Should I be going too quickly, the understeer is progressive and there's none of that feeling you get in a wanker-sportscar that unless you prove your manliness by getting your cock out and jamming it in the lighter socket, the sodding car's going to exit the corner arse-first and upside down.
The Moskvitch, by contrast, cornered like you'd a load of cannonballs rattling around in the boot: move the wheel, wait for an indeterminate amount of time, then the car would make a sickening lurch sideways as the alleged suspension reacted to whatever it thought was going on. The linkage between the loud pedal and the (Bloody GM Ecotec, according to wikkidywikkidywack. I hope that's not the same six-pot that's in the bigger 9Ks. That would be shit.) engine-bit was similarly tenuous. I mean, I've driven rubber cars before, and I've driven actually dangerous MOT-failures, but that was easily the least rewarding driving experience I've encountered thus far.
Anyway.
Southern Wisconsin is quite startlingly picturesque when the sun's out. What I'd wanted from this particular trip was a quantity of two-lane blacktop, strange motel archictecture and enough cultural disconnects to make me lie awake at night and wonder how much of anything was real.
Job done, by and large. Met some lovely people, too. It's just...
... Maybe it's because I'm older and/or more self-aware than the last time I did anything like this, but there were one too many times when I wanted to stand up (or stop the car), walk out of shot and berate the scriptwriter for the terrible cliche I was having to deal with. Bleach-blonde single parent waitress, both types of music, you guys are from ing-er-lund, notch in the horizon where the road went, Fox 'news', cheese, Denny's, Applebee's... I know that stereotypes exist for a reason, but...
... On the other hand, our plumbing is much better than yours.
Final jet-lag scores:
Wednesday: Fine.
Thursday: Fine.
Friday: Bugger. Awake at 4AM.
Saturday: Bugger. Akip 'til 1PM.
Sunday: Thrice bugger. Pass out at 6AM.
[1] I seem to have an utter blind-spot regarding the spelling. It still looks wrong.
[2] I think. I was drunk.
I can be reasonably sure however, that Chevrolet won't be getting any of my money for the rest of my natural. With sitcom timing, the horrible lardmobile expired properly when called upon to transport us back to the airport. I said some jolly rude words, called the help-desk and firmly suggested that Alamo might like to pay for a taxi. Things got worse after that. In the future, if I'm given the choice between an Alamo car and walking, you may rest assured that Shanks' Pony will win.
Or perhaps one of these. I'll leave it to mr_tom to perform the 'Dude. Dope frames.' joke.
See, the thing is that I like to potter through life in a cheery bubble of Dawkinsian altrusim and naivete[1]. People are basically good and only the sort of tiresome right-wing fuckheads who still believe that game theory maps well onto the human experience should be avoided. Thus I've never bothered with traveller's cheques, money belts and getting several quotes from taxi firms before setting out on an important journey.
(Well, ok. There was this one time where I was to be found at silly-AM, haggling very loudly with Nigerian cab drivers. However, I was somewhat drunk and wearing a miniskirt[2])
Anyway. Shitbag cabs of (I dunno. Lake-something?) are big on all that game theory rubbish and can't drive. The Iranian rally-champions that drive for Eurocars in London are much better value and probably much more use should the balloon go up. Better English, too.
It only struck me after I'd taken the 9k for a bit of a thrash just how crap that Moskvitch was. For instance, should I want to go around a corner in the Saab, I point the steering wheel in the relevant direction and the vehicle goes where I want. Should I be going too quickly, the understeer is progressive and there's none of that feeling you get in a wanker-sportscar that unless you prove your manliness by getting your cock out and jamming it in the lighter socket, the sodding car's going to exit the corner arse-first and upside down.
The Moskvitch, by contrast, cornered like you'd a load of cannonballs rattling around in the boot: move the wheel, wait for an indeterminate amount of time, then the car would make a sickening lurch sideways as the alleged suspension reacted to whatever it thought was going on. The linkage between the loud pedal and the (Bloody GM Ecotec, according to wikkidywikkidywack. I hope that's not the same six-pot that's in the bigger 9Ks. That would be shit.) engine-bit was similarly tenuous. I mean, I've driven rubber cars before, and I've driven actually dangerous MOT-failures, but that was easily the least rewarding driving experience I've encountered thus far.
Anyway.
Southern Wisconsin is quite startlingly picturesque when the sun's out. What I'd wanted from this particular trip was a quantity of two-lane blacktop, strange motel archictecture and enough cultural disconnects to make me lie awake at night and wonder how much of anything was real.
Job done, by and large. Met some lovely people, too. It's just...
... Maybe it's because I'm older and/or more self-aware than the last time I did anything like this, but there were one too many times when I wanted to stand up (or stop the car), walk out of shot and berate the scriptwriter for the terrible cliche I was having to deal with. Bleach-blonde single parent waitress, both types of music, you guys are from ing-er-lund, notch in the horizon where the road went, Fox 'news', cheese, Denny's, Applebee's... I know that stereotypes exist for a reason, but...
... On the other hand, our plumbing is much better than yours.
Final jet-lag scores:
Wednesday: Fine.
Thursday: Fine.
Friday: Bugger. Awake at 4AM.
Saturday: Bugger. Akip 'til 1PM.
Sunday: Thrice bugger. Pass out at 6AM.
[1] I seem to have an utter blind-spot regarding the spelling. It still looks wrong.
[2] I think. I was drunk.