'Bred Crumbs

Finally, Some Worthwhile Media Attention

I started off the day in a grim mood – why is it that I start my morning by reading the news? What made me think that's a good idea? – and then I remembered that it was Wednesday, and a new Onion should be online. And thus:

Woman At Farscape Convention Has Dangerously Inflated Self-Image

Funny as hell, and the detail is impressive, except for the "23 women at ScaperCon" bit. In real life, Farscape cons are the most female-filled sci-fi/fantasy events since the glory days of Xena.

And is there really a Perkins in Burbank? I don't think so.

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Memories of Nashville III: I, Impala

Keith the Rental Car Guy was excited for us.

"You signed up for a Compact," he reminded me by pointing at the representative car on a diagram on the counter, "but we're out of them."

He shifted his finger over, to a bigger and usually higher-priced model. "And we're out of that," he said, grinning.

He shifted his finger over one car more. "And we're out of that!" he said, giddily. And the finger traveled farther, larger, upscaler, at no extra cost to me.

And that's how I, Mr. '92 Saturn, wound up driving an Impala around Nashville. At first, some of Keith's vicarious excitement spilled back on to me. But it wasn't long before it was crushed by the wheels of progress.

It's only partly that I'm a small-car person, and in the Impala, I felt like I was lugging a cruise ship around town. It's more that I'm an old-car person.

One of the reasons I sprung for the Saturn back in '92 was that it was the last year before airbags would be forced on me. And I was easily able to avoid numerous other "conveniences" by not paying for them. The only thing power in my car is the moonroof, and I'm happy that way.

Now here I was in the Impala, with more airbags than Sunday morning TV, and power-effing-everything. And I'm sorry, but it doesn't strike me as helpful that you have to have the car on to roll the window down (or up). Nor did I care for the Mighty Key Fob of Control. Particularly when it has no instructions. It took me two whole days to figure out that you have to double-click the fob to open all the doors.

Why can't I just put the key in the door? Why is that so hard? Why did that need "upgrading" exactly?

More quickly I learned that my operation of the Lights knob had no bearing on whether the lights were on. Which they always were. Even after I left the car. The Impala would decide when to turn the lights off, not me. It had similar ideas about when to turn the radio on.

The Impala's supremacy didn't stop with the lights. If I put the car in Drive, it locked the doors. Shift into Park, and freedom was granted.

Why are we giving our cars this power over us? We haven't even enacted the damn Robot Rules yet, and I'm sure later this summer Will Smith will try to convince us they won't work anyway. Yet the same people who are afraid of computers are happy to let cars command them.

Not me. I alone shall stand against the dire tide of these rubber-footed machines. And all those airbags won't save you when you're holed up in Zion, awaiting your inevitable, dreary end.

But hey, that trunk was nice. In San Francisco, I could put a couch in it and get $1500 a month renting it out.

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