It is a common sighting to see people in Montecito go about their business as if everyone within their general vicinity were on their payroll, and all the roads were merely an extension of their private driveway.
A lady was driving her brand new, 745i BMW along Coast Village Road. Her car was in the middle of the intersection near Bank of America and Chevron; already she was exhibiting symptoms that indicated her complete lack of regard for anybody but herself.
Coincidentally, we both pulled into the Montecito Von's parking lot at the same time. I parked, and as I was walking to the mailbox near the pharmacy (which does not carry condoms, by the way) I overheard her say, "I'll just be a minute. Why don't you drive around the parking lot a time or two while you're waiting for the spot?"
The situation was this: she had parked in one of the two handicapped spots, and an old man in his Chevy Tahoe, with his blue handicapped rearview mirror placard displayed for all to see was genially trying to get the clearly non-handicapped lady to get out of his spot.
She ambled in to the pharmacy, her back turned to the man.
He parked in a regular spot, across the lot, and walked over to stand in front of her BMW. He was livid, and visibly shaking, staring at her license plate. Obviously, he was running the situation through his mind of calling the cops to report this rude lady to the sheriffs. In the end his sense of decency prevailed. I watched as he walked over to his car, opened up the back, and gingerly placed the bouquet of flowers he'd just purchased on what must have been his wife's wheelchair. It was obvious he was making a point to anybody watching that he did, in fact, have a legitimate excuse for parking in the handicapped zone.
He finally got in to the truck, his back hunched with age and tension, shaking his head. I believe that confrontation will last him a week's worth of griping. Had he waited for the lady to exit the store, it would have taken much longer than a minute. While she left him hanging, I'm willing to bet he had her minute hanging.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Monday, April 25, 2005
Dreams of Nightmare Jobs
I've been broke for most of my life. Ten years ago it was a chore to dredge up enough money to go out for a decent meal. Nothing's changed. I think I might be the problem. Then again, I've also been told I don't fit in. Not fitting in means I've got to somehow come up with my own means of success. Somehow I don't think this success will arrive in my lap by sitting around on my unfinished patio reading pithy books about traveling families: The Laments.
My stepdad bought me a wrought iron table for my patio recently, because the winds took my plastic table and completely demolished it. The new one's nice. Anyway, I had to pick it up from the neighbors, who then mentioned a job as a book keeper for a local tile company. That night I had a dream about the job.
It started by walking in to the dark, air-conditioned building. The wife of the owner was a good-looking curly blonde of average height, with a perfectly proportioned nose. She took me in to the office, which was a converted closet, where the computer sat underneath some overhanging clothes.
The computer was small, like an original MacII, the kind where the screen is about the size of a modern-day in-dash GPS. The brain was sluggish, and they were still operating with floppy discs. The screen was blurry, and the program was nothing I'd ever heard of. She mentioned that the dress-code was from some obscure clothing line that fit, fashion-wise, somewhere between the Gap and Old Navy.
I sat down to punch in a few numbers, staring at the minute, glacoma-inducing screen with dread that hung over my shoulders like the dark rack of clothing just over my head. Within minutes I stood up and told her I couldn't do this unless they purchased at least a new screen. She said it wasn't in the budget. I told her the job wasn't in my budget. Which is why I'm still broke.
My stepdad bought me a wrought iron table for my patio recently, because the winds took my plastic table and completely demolished it. The new one's nice. Anyway, I had to pick it up from the neighbors, who then mentioned a job as a book keeper for a local tile company. That night I had a dream about the job.
It started by walking in to the dark, air-conditioned building. The wife of the owner was a good-looking curly blonde of average height, with a perfectly proportioned nose. She took me in to the office, which was a converted closet, where the computer sat underneath some overhanging clothes.
The computer was small, like an original MacII, the kind where the screen is about the size of a modern-day in-dash GPS. The brain was sluggish, and they were still operating with floppy discs. The screen was blurry, and the program was nothing I'd ever heard of. She mentioned that the dress-code was from some obscure clothing line that fit, fashion-wise, somewhere between the Gap and Old Navy.
I sat down to punch in a few numbers, staring at the minute, glacoma-inducing screen with dread that hung over my shoulders like the dark rack of clothing just over my head. Within minutes I stood up and told her I couldn't do this unless they purchased at least a new screen. She said it wasn't in the budget. I told her the job wasn't in my budget. Which is why I'm still broke.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Biodiesel Follies
So Zac found this guy Matt who apparently is the nephew of oil moguls.
This guy Matt claims he read a bunch of public domain government funded concepts for creating biodiesel, then patented the idea. He also trademarked "biofuel". Now, he says, he's waiting for this one company to check on his formula for beef tallow biodiesel, and if the company likes it, they're going to buy his filtration plant for half a million dollars.
Meanwhile, Zac spent $3000 on some fuel-fibrilator out of the back of a Real Goods catalog; the same catalog that sells recycling toilets, where the picture depicts a guy with a big shit-eating grin on his face as he sticks his hand in the manured waste--mere inches beneath the toilet.
Zac somehow talked Rivers into setting up this biodiesel cooking operation in Rivers' driveway. "Just so long as you don't get grease all over my driveway," Rivers warned. " I don't want to smell a bunch of cooking oil all over my driveway."
Zac's machine is apparently rather clap-trap. A conglomeration of pipes barely tightened, and put together with teflon tape. As they were cooking the first batch, with lye and methanol, the lye was a bad mixture, and one of the hoses popped due to pressure. Matt got oil blown all over his head and shoulders (a commercial?), and Rivers pointed out there was a kink in the hose. "A kink?" they asked. "What's a kink?"
The next batch went much smoother, with a better mixture of lye, and after they spliced one of the hoses from a different part of the fuel-fibrilator, which "wasn't really doing anything."
Matt also recently claimed he wanted to run for mayor of Santa Barbara.
My question is if this guy has venture capitalists behind him to help him build his filtration plant, and is in the running to get half a million dollars from this as yet unnamed company, why didn't he know how to work the fuel-fibrilator? Shouldn't someone in the running for half a million dollars be able to avoid the calamity of having biofuel explode in your face?
Zac came over last night, apparently needing a truck to move his fibrilator, which still has 17 gallons of liquid fuel sloshing around in it. I told him my truck wasn't going to be the answer. I also couldn't figure out why he needed to manually extract his finished fuel out of the $3000 fibrilator with mason jars, rather than having some clever spigot dispense the "liquid gold" as easily as maple syrup.
With all due respect to Zac, who's definitely on the right track with this alternative fuel thing, the process of getting to the finished fuel is downright calamitous.
1. Obtain vegetable oil. In this case, Santa Barbara City College cooking oil from the culinary department.
2. Procure enough space to cook your fuel. This requires:
A. A fifty gallon drum for the oil, which must be boiled at 120 degrees to purify the leftover coagulants.
B. A fire pit big enough to rig a fifty gallon drum over, preferably with enough wood to cook the oil for several hours.
C. A fuel-fibrilator. Which, ironically, will need a generator or an electrical outlet to run. (This might cut into your "alternative, off-the-grid" status.)
3. Get some methanol. In Zac's case, a fifty gallon drum's worth, and hope to store it somewhere relatively close to your operation.
4. A batch of lye.
5. A big, hearty dose of unbridled enthusiasm.
Good luck.
This guy Matt claims he read a bunch of public domain government funded concepts for creating biodiesel, then patented the idea. He also trademarked "biofuel". Now, he says, he's waiting for this one company to check on his formula for beef tallow biodiesel, and if the company likes it, they're going to buy his filtration plant for half a million dollars.
Meanwhile, Zac spent $3000 on some fuel-fibrilator out of the back of a Real Goods catalog; the same catalog that sells recycling toilets, where the picture depicts a guy with a big shit-eating grin on his face as he sticks his hand in the manured waste--mere inches beneath the toilet.
Zac somehow talked Rivers into setting up this biodiesel cooking operation in Rivers' driveway. "Just so long as you don't get grease all over my driveway," Rivers warned. " I don't want to smell a bunch of cooking oil all over my driveway."
Zac's machine is apparently rather clap-trap. A conglomeration of pipes barely tightened, and put together with teflon tape. As they were cooking the first batch, with lye and methanol, the lye was a bad mixture, and one of the hoses popped due to pressure. Matt got oil blown all over his head and shoulders (a commercial?), and Rivers pointed out there was a kink in the hose. "A kink?" they asked. "What's a kink?"
The next batch went much smoother, with a better mixture of lye, and after they spliced one of the hoses from a different part of the fuel-fibrilator, which "wasn't really doing anything."
Matt also recently claimed he wanted to run for mayor of Santa Barbara.
My question is if this guy has venture capitalists behind him to help him build his filtration plant, and is in the running to get half a million dollars from this as yet unnamed company, why didn't he know how to work the fuel-fibrilator? Shouldn't someone in the running for half a million dollars be able to avoid the calamity of having biofuel explode in your face?
Zac came over last night, apparently needing a truck to move his fibrilator, which still has 17 gallons of liquid fuel sloshing around in it. I told him my truck wasn't going to be the answer. I also couldn't figure out why he needed to manually extract his finished fuel out of the $3000 fibrilator with mason jars, rather than having some clever spigot dispense the "liquid gold" as easily as maple syrup.
With all due respect to Zac, who's definitely on the right track with this alternative fuel thing, the process of getting to the finished fuel is downright calamitous.
1. Obtain vegetable oil. In this case, Santa Barbara City College cooking oil from the culinary department.
2. Procure enough space to cook your fuel. This requires:
A. A fifty gallon drum for the oil, which must be boiled at 120 degrees to purify the leftover coagulants.
B. A fire pit big enough to rig a fifty gallon drum over, preferably with enough wood to cook the oil for several hours.
C. A fuel-fibrilator. Which, ironically, will need a generator or an electrical outlet to run. (This might cut into your "alternative, off-the-grid" status.)
3. Get some methanol. In Zac's case, a fifty gallon drum's worth, and hope to store it somewhere relatively close to your operation.
4. A batch of lye.
5. A big, hearty dose of unbridled enthusiasm.
Good luck.
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