The Ferrum Project

It’s been said often enough to wear a groove into the collective psyche that we lovingly call pop culture.  “Nice guys finish last”.  This phrase has become threadbare from use, theoretically and empirically proven, and could even be considered a basic law of social interaction.  Yet finishing last seems to be no deterrent – nice guys fail to disappear.  It seems there’s always a nice guy or good samaritan left to come along and be placed squarely at the short end of whatever stick needs holding.  But why?

For some time now, I have possessed a burgeoning interest in the “Dark Triad“.  These three personality traits tend to be found to varying degrees in all of the most successful people on the planet.  You wouldn’t consider them outright malignant: Narcissism, Machiavellian thinking, and Psychopathy – hmm…well maybe that last one skews more than a bit negative.  However, I can’t think of anyone successful I’ve met or researched recently who didn’t have a little psycho in them. Yet for some reason, these personality traits are clearly frowned upon by society when held outside of the context of a whole personality.   It seems that – paradoxically – the very tools the enable some to succeed are considered “negative” when examined outside of the tool bag.  Aggression, ego, scheming – the results of such traits have built empires. They are the reason that society is where it is today.  So why do we attempt to bury them beneath the thin veneer of civilization society clings to, like a cellophane wrapper spread lightly over day old cupcakes?

This leads me to the even deeper question – why do nice people exist?  How have they managed to survive within a species which requires brutality for success?  If the strong survive, and the weak perish, where do more weak keep coming from?  You would expect there to be no kind fathers – cause they would never find anyone to have kids with.  Or maybe that’s just Klingon society.

Clearly this argument lacks balance, and there is more to society than “the nice one’s get the boot”.  But what is the purpose of mercy?  Why has it continued to propogate in our species, and why are some genetically predisposed to be more merciful than others?  I would claim that the Judeo Christian Muslim ethic is responsible, but I would have to ignore the pained silent screams of the millions of souls that have been brutally claimed in the names of these religions.  Within the church, just as without, the kind don’t always last very long.

My guess is that success comes from focus, and single minded determination is much easier to muster when you aren’t concerned about other people.  Possessing the traits of the dark triad allows one to apply a laser like sense of purpose to their actions, disregarding consequences for others.  Yet that still doesn’t explain why mercy hasn’t been weeded out of the gene pool.  What do you think?  Will the meek inherit the earth, or will they be the next casualty of a mass extinction?

-Ironman out

[Angst alert]

The shakes usually start the second day.  Sometimes the third.  When exactly doesn’t matter, but it’s usually long enough after your last dose that you have time…time to think you’ll be ok.   You think that maybe the cravings won’t set in.   Maybe it’s not going to feel like a ball peen hammer to the nasal cavity. Perhaps the sun will continue shining.  Maybe you’ll be a little worse for wear, a little cranky.  People will probably give you a wide berth for an hour or two.  “Looks like he woke up on the wrong side of the bed” they’ll say.  But you’ll be fine by lunch time and no one will suspect that your a recovering addict – a junkie missing a fix.  And you go on thinking it will be ok.  You have to – that’s how you got yourself to give it up in the first place.  It’s not going to hurt that bad – that’s what you told yourself when you took that last drag of bliss and swore that you didn’t need it to live.  You could quit anytime you wanted to – and just to prove it, you’re going to now.  You’re strong. See – it didn’t hurt that bad, right? You smile with the raised eyebrows of  the nervously optimistic.  You throw your shoulder back as you walk, knowing that you’ve taken a step towards…something.  You’re making progress!  Progress is good…right?  Confidence swells within you like it did when that guiding hand first let go of your bicycle seat.  No training wheels…you’re all grown up.  Then the shakes begin.  “Oh…that’s odd” you muse scientifically.  “My hands are doing something strange…and I can’t seem to stop them”.  But it isn’t just your hands for long.  Your chest is acting weird now too.  You gasp for air in short soundless sobs, as it tightens.  It’s like you’ve been transported to somewhere high above the clouds, and you just can’t get enough oxygen, no manner how much hyperventilating you do.  The worst is the dull ache emanating from directly beneath your sternum.  It grows, a paradoxical feeling of absence that slowly serves to block out all other sound and sense vying for your attention.  “Hmm, these are interesting physiological phenomena” you’re inner dialogue observes.  At that moment, your inner dialogue stands, back pressed against a door marked “Id”, arms splayed against the door jams while dark tentacles of something you’d rather not know about probe energetically around the doors edges.  Your ever loyal, ever hopeful inner monologue wears a garish mask of smiling terror, with wide eyes silently screaming “GET-YOUR-ASS-OUT-OF-HERE-I-DON’T-KNOW-HOW-LONG-I-CAN-HOLD-THIS-SHIT-IN”.  It’s then than the reasoning begins.  “Why did I give it up in the first place” is always the first question.  “I mean, couldn’t you call ‘water’ a habit forming substance?  And I do need oxygen to live.  Not everything that’s addictive is necessarily bad…”

And your inner monologue let’s out a long sigh.  No…it’s not going to be ok.

-Ironman out

If you’ve ever played any team sport with two halves, you’ve been there. The end of the second quarter/first half buzzes on the clock, and your team limps, hustles, struts or jogs off the field.  The looks on everyone’s faces reflects how they feel about the game.  This is made up of two things – how they feel their team is doing, and how they feel they are doing.  Sometimes fingers are pointed.  Sometimes only the eyes sling accusations.  Some times praise is offered, and the coach and team leader give admonitions to keep up the good play.  The game isn’t over yet.  The game isn’t over.

That’s the crazy thing about half time.  All that has happened up until this point hardly matters.  A commanding lead can still be lost.  A seemingly insurmountable deficit can still be overcome. The game is still up for grabs, and the team that’s leading isn’t the winner quite yet.  All that matters is the halftime locker room talk.

In tennis, the match isn’t timed, or separated into halves.  The dynamic is different.  In a singles game, it’s a pure internal monologue of mental stamina that gets one through the game.  Constant focus, expulsion of self-doubt, quick forgiveness of mistakes, and vows to not repeat them are a mainstay of a tennis players routine.  There’s no stopping point halfway through – the game could end after any of several sets.  Football, basketball, soccer – these sports are different.  These sports are about the team.  Sure, mental toughness is necessary, but the internal dialogue must be turned outward.  The team as a whole must communicate, whether it be through body language, signs or talking.  And in the locker room, this shows even more.

So what do winners say at half time?  How do teams keep themselves in the game when their score is down?  What about the winners?  How do they make sure they don’t give away their lead.  What do you say to yourself and your team at halftime?

And yes…this is all a metaphor for life. Duh.

-Ironman out

P.S. – Never search for “Locker Room” on google images with Safe Search turned off.  Great googly moogly…my eyes…

It’s a little late for a New Year’s post. Technically, anyone who says “Happy New Year” after January 10th has opened themselves to public flogging.  That’s fine.  It’s grown apparent to me that New Years aren’t much more than a chance for marketers everywhere to switch up their message for a week or two.  Like Christmas or Valentines day.  Well, maybe not just like them – New Year’s Day comes with it’s own special brand of motivation to buy: guilt.  The advertisers are counting on the fact that you spent New Years Eve drinking away just how shitty you felt about yourself last year.  You’ll wake up on New Years Day, ready to make yourself better, stronger, faster. Well this year, I’ve had enough.  I’m going to show those guys that they don’t own me. I’m going to make my resolutions (ready for it?) two weeks late!

That felt good.  So what do I resolve to do?  Well, shorter posts for one.  Writing a book every time I get the urge to blog doesn’t really set me up for winning the “Most Succinct Blogger” award.  Granted, I’d probably have to be tweeting to even be in the running for that, but I digress.  Shorter posts will mean more of them. Time to make that happen.

Of course, I hate starting things that I’m not sure I can finish.  Time to get over that. I figure I’m not the best closer because I have the least amount of practice with it.  The more practice starting, the better. Next up is doing more and thinking it through less. I already mentioned something like this in the last post.  I’ve yet to go to prison, but I’ve yet to actually, you know, do anything  My goal is to do at least one out of character thing every month.   This month it’ll be snowboarding.  Who knows what it’ll be next month! Maybe it’ll be stock option back dating! You never know! That’s the beauty of it.

Another thing – making age truly a number.  I’m relatively young, but at the end of the day, it’s not about how much time you’ve spent or got left.  It’s about what you’re doing with your time right now.  I’m going to give up my obsession with age and stop thinking about what my experience and age suggest is appropriate and just do what I want to do.  I’ve got a ton of respect for people with experience, but at the end of the day, an old fool is still a fold, and a wise child is worth listening to.  Kids tend to be pretty wise in that obvious way too.  And creepy.  Why are kids so creepy?

I think that’s enough resolving n stuff for now.  It will be back to scheduled programming soon.  Unless I get locked up.

-Ironman out

That's a sack of pain right there...

So the quarter life crisis hit.  Holy shit…it hit hard.  On a balmy early fall/late summer day in September, the odometer on yours truly rolled over from 24, that heady age of self discovery, giddiness and youth to 25, that serious time of lowered insurance premiums (because obviously, your adult enough to quit recklessly cutting off nuns and school buses), careers (as opposed to “jobs”) and constant marital plan inquiries (does “we’re cool” mean nothing to you people!?).  It was as if at midnight, the DJ suddenly scratched the record and the music to a halt, said “Ironman, your old enough to still know what a vinyl record is and understand what that sound means, which means your old enough to have figured shit out.  What are you doing with your life?  And before you answer, remember “I wanna rock” is no longer an acceptable response. Go!” and then flipped on the lights.  As I stand there in the sudden glare, trying to force a response out of my esophagus, it dawns on me that my mind is blank.  If “I wanna rock” won’t fly, imagine how “I don’t fucking know!” goes over.

So what exactly is a quarter life crisis?  Why I’m glad you asked way fairer!  I’m sure it’s different for everyone, but for me its been an intensified questioning of everything in this ole’ cracker jack box of existence I’ve got going on here.  I’ve spent the last few months digging around in the caramel pops looking for the prize, and I can’t even find anymore peanuts much less a temporary tattoo.  I’ve been asking myself what is the sound of one hand clapping, and what does it all mean so often that I swear Siddhārtha Gautama himself is a question away from telling me to shut the hell up and go get laid. The problem is Mark Zuckerberg.

I hate Mark Zuckerberg.  With the fury of ten thousand suns doth burn my hatred for the rosy cheeked founder of that internet narcotic lovingly known as facebook.  I’ve never met the guy, so I can’t say whether or not he’s a good person.  In fact, what I know about him can probably  be fit into two or three sentences.  Here goes: Mark Zuckerberg is a self made billionaire at the age of 24.  He made his money by inventing facebook, the worlds most popular shared delusion. He currently spends his time riding unicorns through the streets of silicon valley with his friend Larry Ellison, and buying small countries in order to make them declare war on each other for the purpose of gambling on the outcome.  The fact that the guy is self-made is what kills me.  It underscores the fact that I haven’t done it.  I wanna be the guy riding the unicorn damnit!  I want to drop a milli on the outcome of Transylvania vs. Mynmar like money ain’t a thing.  Is that so wrong? I guess truthfully, I can’t say I hate Mark Zuckerberg.  I mean, without him, I would actually have to spend time hiding in bushes and wearing dark sweat suits if I wanted to stalk people.  I have bad knees…all that crouching just doesn’t fly with me.  But what does get to me is my overwhelming desire to do Something Great™.  Every year that slips by without giving something extraordinary to the world is one year less to do it. Zuckerberg has already done Something Great™.  He’s under 30.  There goes that excuse.

I once read a line in a poem about not comparing yourself to others.  You’ll get vain or bitter, or something like that.  Well I’m both.  This whole crisis thing has underscored for me the necessity of knowing yourself.  I guess at the end of the day, yourself is the only person you’ve always got with you.  Unless you tend to step out on yourself from time to time.  I’ve known a few people like that – it’s always fun to mess with them the next day and tell them all the random (and slutty) stuff they have no recollection of doing.  And embellish a little bit. Sheer comedy.  So I guess throughout these past few months I’ve learned a thing or two from my angsty musings:

• Don’t wait to know the end to make a beginning  – I’m what you would call a risk averse person.  Besides my driving and my sex life (kidding!) I try to avoid uncertain situations.  I’ve always done this by trying to know exactly where I wanted to wind up before I started.  Apparently there are some things that are too big to see the end of from the beginning however.  Like an ocean.  Or my ego (what did you think I was gonna say?!).  Sometimes, you’ve just gotta get started and figure it out as you go along.  I’m not sure I can do that, so I welcome any tips anyone has on playing it by ear…
• Forgive everything – Forgive yourself for not being perfect.  Forgive other people for being dumbshits.  Let things slide a bit…don’t let an exacting attitude make you a bitter, constipated person.
• Forget nothing – You can forgive a dog for biting you…but you still gotta put it down old yeller style.  Same way, you should forgive yourself and other people for dumb stuff, but you’ve still take steps to keep it from happening again.  Try to avoid shooting people though – apparently it’s frowned upon.
• Be impulsive – Passion is the fuel that runs human advancement.  Nothing happens socially without a passionate set of individuals behind it.  And passion reveals itself only by impulse.  So go with them.  What’s the worst that can happen?
• Learn to take a punch – So if you act on your impulses, you’re probably going to get punched. Repeatedly.  What I hadn’t figure out up to this point was that even if you never act on your impulses, life will still take a swing at you for no good reason.  Life is kind of a jerk. So I guess you’ve gotta learn how to roll with it.

That’s it for now.  Well will you look at that, a bunch of cliched advice that gets you nowhere closer to doing Something Great™!  I should be a motivational speaker…or a life coach.  Yeah…I wonder if you get a whistle when your a life coach?  Anyways, I’m off to go take my own advice.  Most likely, it will land me in jail.  A black man in jail in America…now there’s something you don’t see every day…

-Ironman out

You’ve probably noticed that my post speed has slowed to a trickle. Heh. Trickle.  Trickle is a funny word…like ointment.  But anyways, I haven’t been posting too much lately.  I’m not making excuses for this – my excuses are far to valuable to give away freely.  I know of a set of indigenous people who inhabit a particular forest locale in the south of Borneo who, in fact, use my excuses as their sole form of currency.  Explaining in full why I can’t give you details on the origination and location of this tribe would plunge their small society into a bout of hyperinflation the likes of which the world has yet to see. So you’ll just have to trust that the less you hear of my excuses, the better.

As I have been examining my life lately, however, I have found some interesting patterns emerging.  Perhaps sharing them with you, enlightened reader, will suffice to break up some entrenched behavior.  This is not to say that I am expecting those who happen upon this page to motivate me to do more with my already overachieving life.  I mean, I got out of bed this morning AND made a sandwich – what more do you want from me?  And if anyone tries to take my newsfeeds and “happy videos” from me, I will cut them.  No ifs, ands, or butts (excluding the happy video ones of course). However, I’m hoping that as I constantly look for ways to improve my productivity, I can align my search with ways to improve the quality of what I do.  It’s great to do alot of shit, but ultimately, what does it all mean?

One thing I have noticed in particular is my affinity for linking unrelated activities in my head, and making them dependent on each other.  I usually consider myself a fairly rational person, so it’s maddening to witness this type of cognitive canoodling going on in hindsight.  For example, on a typical Sunday when I am not traipsing about the country like a pitchman for Southwest Airlines, I will awake in my suburban batpad (still saving for a batcave – don’t judge me), and blink the sand from my eyes.  Assuming that work-work hasn’t spilled over from it’s Monday through Friday holding pen once again, I will commence with deciding on what play-work should be dispatched.  Let’s see – perhaps I should tackle learning this electric guitar that has been functioning as a great dust magnet in the corner these past two years.  But wait, I can’t do that – I haven’t found a way to connect it to my computer so I can record it yet.  And by “found a way” I mean “found a way that doesn’t cost an arm and a toenail and doesn’t involve burglary or sexual favors”. At this point, I move on to another task on the days psudo checklist while a struggling South Bornean drops his wheelbarrow of currency, straightens his back, panting, and then slowly raises a middle finger to the sky.

It’s a particularly insidious form of procrastination.  I can’t do something I want/need to do, because something I want/need to do considerably less is blocking the way.  Yet the blockage is purely mental.  I’m sure Les Paul hadn’t thought much about computers and midi interfaces when he came up with eletric guitars – why do I absolutely NEED one to play the damn thing? A rational explanation escapes me.  The same goes for the reason why I need a million dollars in the bank before I can finish writing my great science fiction epic, or why I need a license before I can finally take that 9mm Browning to the bank with me. Wait, scratch that last one…guns are bad. And stuff.  This impacts far smaller things though.  For instance, even day to day work tasks pile up on each other in such a manner. I’ll know I need to write a few e-mails.  As I begin to write the first, it occurs to me that there’s  another task that I probably should be doing instead, what with my time being so valuable. There’s no clear relation between the tasks of course, but who has time to think things through?  I could really go for a Checkers Burger right now…I should go get one. SEE!  That’s what happens.  Random tasks pop up and link themselves to the stream of work, demanding attention without showing their relevance card at the door.  It’s a good thing there isn’t a Checkers for a couple hundred miles, or this post would probably take another two weeks.

I’ve been reading a few interesting thoughts on the subject of procrastination lately.  None of it has been particularly encouraging.  Sure, much of it comes down to recognizing the problem.  But even more of it comes down to sheer willpower.  Of course, you can imagine that since I possess copious quantities of tons of stuff, willpower would be no exception.  And you would be right.  It just so happens that I spend my willpower on other things, like walking past donut shops without a detour, and staring down panthers at the big cat exhibit at the Stoneham Zoo.  They always blink first.  So when it comes down to deconstructing my mental linking of activities that need to be done to blocking activities that don’t need to be done, I can sometimes take a raincheck without even thinking about it.

So there you have it.  They say confession is good for the soul.  I say that “they” probably saw a firing squad eventually with talk like that.  However, I can’t deny that thinking about this problem has made solutions more readily apparent.  I would jot some down, but I really should be sleeping at the moment…

What are some of your blocking activities?  Do you ever link things you have to do in your mind to stop yourself from doing things you want to do?  Are you an angry Bornean who wants to discuss interest rates and fiscal policy?  Hit me up in the comments and give me an earful…pause.

-Ironman out

One would think that irony is something that I would be used to by this point.  One would be right.  What with it being in my name and all, I’m rarely ever surprised by the ironic events that come my way.  So I definitely wasn’t surprised when my hubris (displayed in Part 1 and Part 2 of the How to Avoid Speeding Tickets posts) was rewarded by not one, but two traffic tickets in the span of two weeks.  I must admit, for a time I was discouraged. I considered not continuing the series on ticket avoidance. It was a strange, alien emotion.  Didn’t enjoy it at all for the approximately 30 seconds it lasted.  Yet as I saw the trooper pop a U-Turn on the highway to go in search of fresh victims, I resolved that I would complete my goal – of making sure that you, dear reader, know that getting a ticket and signing your name on the dotted line doesn’t mean that all is lost.  First though, I had to make sure I actually could slither my way out of the randomly administered road tax.

So now, its three months later and I’m in the clear.  One ticket I fought and had reduced.  The other ticket I fought and won.  Neither ticket will be going onto my insurance.  How did I pull this off?  Science! The science of the law actually.  Its actually much easier than those $200k law schools and Snidely Whiplash mustachioed attorney’s that say they can get you money for eating bad sushi would have you believe. Not to say that there isn’t a component of work to it – but you’re an overachiever, you can handle it.  Besides, after you’ve seen the hike in your insurance that one ticket can cause, you’ll want to wrestle every ticket to the ground like Jessica Simpson trying to get back into her Daisy Dukes.  So without further preamble, lets get down to the Science(!) of beating tickets.

Gathering Evidence

The best way to get out of a ticket is to never get one.  Duh.  I would hate myself for writing such a hackneyed line if I wasn’t so in love with hearing myself type.  Besides, sometimes the obvious needs to be stated.  The second best way to get out of a ticket, however, is to start preparing your defense while you get the ticket.  In this day and age of modern electronic wizardry, when man has harnessed the lightning and all that jazz, you have to be pretty lazy to not get intel on your situation as soon as you see the gumballs ablaze in the rear view.  After you’ve pulled over safely and run down your checklist of being meek and non-threatening, you should still have anywhere from 30 seconds to 5 minutes before the officer approaches.  Use this time to snap some pictures of the scene. Make sure to get a picture of the patrol car through the back window, along with other distinguishing road marks in front and to your sides.  If you can get a clear picture of a mile marker or a highway sign of some sort, you’re in great shape.  If you saw where the cop was parked when they nabbed you, get a picture of that as well.  Depending on where you are (how far from home, how busy you are, etc.) it  might be a good idea to get off at the next exit, turn around, and make another pass to get a picture of exactly where the officer was.   If you REALLY want to get fancy with it, and you happen to have a GPS device, try and grab coordinates of where you’ve been stopped.  You’ll see how this can be helpful in a second. But first, you actually have to talk to the officer, and if your unlucky,  give him your autograph.

Saying Sweet Nothings

Like I mentioned  in Part 2, what you say can often make a difference in whether or not you get a ticket.  It can also make a huge difference in whether or not that ticket sticks.  Remember, admitting guilt of any sort is a no- no. You may have been told that the truth would set you free. I’m here to tell you that unless you can sing or run with a ball of some sort, that is not the case.  Or if you have tremendous boobs.  Boobs heal a multitude of sins.  But I digress.  Admitting to speeding does you no favors, unless you are attempting the risky stratagem of throwing yourself on the mercy and good nature of Johnny Law.  If mercy isn’t in the cards, however, now is the time when you must fight the advance of age and too many wild nights of binge drinking in your college years. You must engage your memory.  I would say you must engage some sort of recording device, but laws regarding recording traffic stops vary by location as far as I know, and I’m too lazy to try digging them up.  I don’t feel like being sued because someone caught a Rodney King style “cease and desist” for attempting to commit their traffic stop to cellophane for posterity.  What I would suggest, however, is to take note of every part of the traffic stop.  As soon as you can, write down all the details of what was said.  Note how long the officer took, what you were cited for, the weather and road conditions, traffic volume, time of day, phase of the moon; every single detail is important.   If you have a sob story of some sort (I had to speed up to get around the car that has been slamming on its brakes every 15 seconds to avoid an invisible hobbit that keeps darting across its path) be sure to write it down as you told it to the officer.  Also, its good to keep in mind that the officer will likely take some note of the stop as well.  Make sure to give her as little to remember as possible.  Be non-descript. Be polite.  Don’t let on that you will be doing your best Perry Mason impression in a few months.  Phrases like “I’m going to fight this” probably won’t help to make you forgettable, so try to avoid them.

The Waiting Game

The state (or sometimes county)  you received your ticket in will play a large part in determining the procedure used for the forcible extraction of your money.  Some states drop the pretense.  They write a number on your ticket.  You send them a check for that number. Boom, no muss, no fuss, the tickets gone and your insurance goes up. Other states attempt to draw some sort of analogy to the gathering of revenue and the workings of the judicial system. You will have a hearing date.  You’ll have a chance to plead guilty, not guilty or no contest.  Then they will set a date for your trial. Then there is the happy medium.  Some states allow you to plead guilty or not guilty when you mail in the ticket.  They mail you back a court date to appear for trial, and some will even allow you to defend yourself by mail. Pretty much all states, however, will offer you deals.  A few less points here, a few less mph there and soon your fine is half of what it was.  In New York , Virgina, Pennsylvania, North Carolina and Florida, most of the time, a reduced fine with less points is the best outcome you’re going to get.  Sometimes, the charge will be reduced to a non-moving violation.   Other times, if you agree to traffic school, the charge may be dropped all together. Depending on your insurance companies level of blood suckingness (an actual word. Check the OED) this may or may not increase your rates.  It’s better than pleading guilty to the initial charge and definitely having a rate increase. The important lesson here is to not plead guilty just to get it over with. The trick to it, however, is to take as long as possible in every step of the process. Once you’ve assembled your evidence, time is on your side.  Make the molasses-on-a-January-day slow pace of bureaucracy work for you.  I don’t usually go in for all that legal mumbo jumbo, but if there’s any word I’ve learned to love, it’s “continuance”.  It means you get more time. Learn it well and use it often.  Once you have recieved your first hearing date, that happens to fall on the same day as the weekly status meeting that you just CAN’T afford to miss, be sure to write a letter to the clerk of the court requesting a new date due to scheduling issues.  Keep in mind, you want this letter to reach the court at least two weeks in advance of your hearing date – if for whatever reason, your extension isn’t granted, you don’t want to be found guilty in absentia. Or even worse, you don’t want the local guvner to decide to suspend your license without telling you about his merry little scheme, and then to contact your home state and fill them in on his license snatching escapades.  Then, you wouldn’t want your state of liscensing to jump in on the action with a jaunty chortle and say “hey! why don’t we suspend his license too! And while we’re at it, let’s not tell him a thing!” Then you wouldn’t want to be trundling around the fair land, completely unawares of all the fun being had in DMV’s nationwide, only to be flagged down by a friendly peace officer desiring nothing but mid-day tea, a few scones and a speeding ticket or two, only to find that to the shock and amazement of both you and the officer that you haven’t had a valid license for several months. Nope, wouldn’t want that.  So yeah, make sure to leave enough time for your requests for extension to be denied. But still request it.  The longer you drag out the process, the less likely that your accusing officer will show face at your trial.  And if she does happen to show, the bionic memory of hers may have been overwritten by the beating of a wallet wielding perp or some other such friendly brutality.  She’ll be less likely to remember exactly what happened on your stop. Also, in the event that you’re eventually found guilty, the longer you have the ticket off your record, the longer before the insurance hike sinks it’s nasty claws into your glutes.

Building A Case (A Case Study…of a unique case…or something)

So how did I walk free from my latest ticket?  I’ll tell you. The story starts on a long drive from upstate NY.  Crossing the border into Mass, I was all I could do to avoid the Massholes littering the highway (not a euphimism for potholes by the way).  In the distance, as I rounded a bend, I noticed a big orange highway sign.  Pretty standard cop jack-in-the-box.  I checked my speed.  Hmm…that’s odd.  I was actually going the speed limit.  I must’ve been tired.  I decided to make it obvious and slow down even further.  My eye sight isn’t what it once was, but soon, the cop car tucked behind the sign like an elephant trying to hide behind a sofa came into view. I continued along my merry way with my usual self-satisfied grin on my face, right up until I saw the flashing blue lights in the rear view.  What. The. Fonzie Bear.  As you can imagine, I was not happy.  The officer approached my window with an accusation that I slowed down when my radar detector went off, but he had visually estimated me doing 93 mph.  I thought that strange, seeing as my radar detector was stolen two years ago, and I had checked my speed at a distance where I would’ve needed a stronger telescope than the one I have for checking out the neighbors in order to see him.  I vowed, silently of course, to fight the ticket.  After a few camera phone snaps of the scene of injustice, on my (not so merry anymore) way I went.  Fast forward to the weekend before the court date.  I had been busy with living fly and forgot to request more time.  “Oh well” I thought.  “I’m ready for this”.  And I was.  I had used Science(!) and I was sure the cop didn’t stand a chance.  First, I turned to my notes and pictures of the incident.  I identified the mile marker of where the stop had taken place.  From there, it was off to Google Maps.  Google Streetview is a wonderful thing.  I used it to match up my pictures of where I had been pulled over.  I also found exactly where the cop had been perched, and obtained the GPS coordinates of that spot.  From there, I turned to Google Earth.  It was no trouble at all to draw a line of sight plot to determine the earliest the officer could have seen my dark chariot of fury due to the hills and the bend in the road.  I then found the distance between his hiding spot and the various places he could have “visually estimated” my speed.  Unless he was half eagle, I highly doubt he was able to tell how fast I was going from 800 feet away.   It was pretty clear that the brush cover didn’t give him a good window for visual estimation either.  I did a few more calculations of the time it would take for him to first estimate my speed visually, and then estimate it with Lidar, threw in some common range estimates for lidar guns for good measure and wrapped it all up into a illustrated word document.  I was pumped.  I walked into the court room with the theme from Rocky playing, and approached the defendants desk hopping from foot to foot and popping the joints in my neck.  It was all I could do to keep from saying “bring it!”.  So what happened?  The cop didn’t show.  The judge threw out the case.  I walked away with a completely unnecessary file of evidence, a much better understanding of longitude and latitude and an even larger sense of self satisfaction.

Obviously, if you’ve gotten this far, you will have realized I’m not a lawyer.  I don’t even play one on TV. If you’re looking for people with more solid legal advice on the whole “not paying for speeding” thing, you may want to try these guys out.  I’ve heard good things.  However, at the end of the day, the basics are simple.  Always make sure to gather evidence if your given a ticket.  Make sure to fight it in court.  And if all else fails, make sure to say “Objection Your Honor!” as loud as possible at least one time during your hearing.  It’ll make a great story for the kids.  Unless you get found in contempt of court and held indefinately, in which case, your family will most likely forget you ever exsisted.  Fight the power!

Got any good ticket beating strategies?  Fought the law and the law won?  Let me know in the comments.

-Ironman out

It’s a little obvious that I’m out of practice with my witty title making.  Hopefully you got the reference.  If you didn’t, you probably went to public school.  Don’t feel bad…so did I for most of my life.  For a nation that swears that children are our hope for the future, we sure give the little sumbitches horrible food and even worse mental training don’t we?  Who thought it was a good idea to put jello and half frozen corndogs in the gullets of the yet-to-be full grown? Someone very special that’s close to me is going to start teaching soon, so perhaps there is hope.  More likely than not, it’ll just make me bitter that I didn’t get a teacher like her though.

Bah…well, aside from that tangent, the reference I’m talking about is an age old logic problem.  You’ve got a guy.  Dude has a sheep/goat/what have you, a wolf and a sack of grain.  He’s taking them all to the market.  Apparently this guy doesn’t know anything about real estate, because there happens to be a river between him and the market.  He’s got a boat somehow  so he’s not totally clueless.  The boat can fit only two items at a time though.  I guess its more like a kayak.  Point is, dude has to make some decisions when it gets time to cross the river.  If he leaves the veggie eating farm animal with the grain, it’s going to plunder that sack like that skinny asian cat that keeps winning eating contests. If he leaves the wolf with the sheep, it’ll be a natural geographic special. You know the type.  So what’s the guy to do? He’s gotta figure out his priorities and do a balancing act.  That and make multiple trips of course.

The last few months have been an eye-opener for me – even more so than usual.  It seems I keep playing out that logic problem again and again in my professional, personal, social and inner lives.  As the four overlap, the externalities of interaction between the pieces of my life reveal themselves…both positive and negative.  The goals I have for the various pieces of living begin to arch thier backs, hiss and scratch at each other.   How do I keep all the plates spinning?  What plates won’t shatter if they fall?  The answers to these questions can make the difference between losing an opportunity, losing a friend, or losing a beer belly.  I think I’ve gained a small bit of insight though, something that I am hoping will make the second have of 2009 a little more productive than the first.

Prioritization of goals is nothing new.  Being aware of your goal priority is though…to me anyways.  I hate writing things down – ironic, I know.  Yet as I have taken time to write down my goals lately, I’ve noticed that conflicting goals become easier to rationalize.  Assigning a priority to being happy in your own skin makes integrity so much easier to maintain.  Knowing exactly what you won’t do for money can be just as valuable as knowing what you can do.  Maybe even more so.  And as I have defined my goals, one main goal (to rule them all and in the darkness bind them) has begun to emerge.  Though it’s still not clearly defined, the ability to point to a mission statement for life can only make decision making easier.

So what do you think?  Is it easy to make one overarching goal for your life?  Does writing down “Cheetos vs hard rock abs”  do anything to keep you from having orange sticky smudges on your keyboard?  How do you handle dealing with the various conflicting outcomes you see on a daily basis – unless you’re one of those people who only see one right way for doing anything.  Yeah, if you’re one of those people, you’re wrong.

-Ironman out

Yet. Just thought I would make a quick post to let all my glorious readers (all six of you…yeah, i see you on google analytics, I know whats up) know that I’m still alive and kicking up my heels (somewhat). I vowed to stay away from making this a blog about the mundane grind of life – that’s what Twitter is for. I want to keep posts to thought provoking ideas and 100% accurate advice from yours truly.

The past few weeks, I’ve been way too busy livin’ to analyze my life. Not necessarily a bad thing, but it’s a good idea to revisit one’s goals every so often. Look for some updates in the near future that will take all that livin’ and pick the fleshy bits off the bone for your voracious consumption. Or something like that. Don’t worry, I didn’t forget Part III of the “Avoiding Speeding Tickets” series. The “Art of Cookery” will also be explored, I promise. Look for some other completely new topics. Here’s a hint – Neckties are what’s poppin in the streets. As always, if you’re reading this and you have a topic for discussion, drop me a comment and let me know.
-Ironman out

Something has gone seriously wrong in the past 5 years or so.  I remember as a young gangster growing up in the hood…ah, you got me! Gotta get up real early in the morning to get one by you!  But really, I remember as a young scholar, coming of age in my suburban bungalow,  few things could get me as excited as the thought of fast food. A bag  inscribed with golden arches was a gateway to a paradise of flavor.  A pizza box contained the ultimate gastronomic ecstasy…pause.  A can of Mountain Dew was the nectar of the gods, and don’t even get me started on Taco Bell.  As a young buck, fast food was the ultimate form of nourishment. A few things contributed to this mindset.  Coming from a household where the Third World style of cooking was in full effect, I had been conditioned to believe that a home cooked meal could not be had without rice.  Then, there was the assortment of twigs that my grandmother (bless her heart) insisted on throwing into my food.  She said they were spices.  I said “what the hell?!” Only in my mind though…and only after years of careful experimentation had revealed that my elders couldn’t actually hear my thoughts.  Yeah…respect was big in my house.  Anyways, there was one other thing, and this was key.  Home cooked food needed at least half a day to make.  Grandmomma would set the pot out around noon.  Dinner wasn’t going to be ready before 5, and that’s only if she was being rushed.  And believe me, you didn’t want to try rushing Grandmomma.

All these factors contributed to me loving the thought of a drive through window.  Yet something funny has happened since college came and went, and Grandmommas table receded into memory.  I’ve come to loath fast food.  Mickey D’s is a minefield of saturated fat and tums filled nights. Most take out pizza has the consistency of cardboard and the taste to match (with the exception of Papa Johns…gotta love the garlic sauce).  In fact, even my love affair with Taco Bell is on the decline.  After finding the 12th hair in your nachos supreme, you start to reconsider your options.

It’s not just the sanitation though.  So many things are making eating outside of the casa less desirable.  I’m starting to get bored for one.  Eating the same spectrum of fried this and grilled that from the monotonous fast food choices of our fair land has made the act of fooding a chore.  “I have to eat dinner” becomes an exasperated question rather than a bold, masculine assertion – and remains a whiny query until my stomach starts its bitching at 2 in the morning, venting its frustration at “the management”.    Of course, truth be told, I raised my sights from fast food some time ago, up to a higher scale of “quick food”.  These places still tend to taste the same though, and as far as health – well, lets just say that the way the people around here use mayo, I’m not surprised that I don’t see too many of the cool and elderly sort.  Finally, but far from last is the hit to the wallet that eating out all the time delivers.  When I hit up mint to see what I was spending on restaurants monthly, lets just say I started thinking reaaaly hard about quitting this whole eating thing and buying a Lexus instead.  Getting tired of eating out has really made me appreciate the value of a home cooked meal.

It has always been my opinion that there are two ways to a mans heart – through his stomach and through his rib cage.  One of those methods happens to be considered murder.  Ladies, please don’t do that.  To speak plainly, every woman that has effectively seduced me has made use of a culinary skillset in her onslaught.  One young lady in particular started off with the strategic application of skittles and sweet tarts, and built up to a rather complex contraption utilizing chicken breasts, toothpicks and cream cheese.  It was like something straight out of top chef, made by that guy who looked like he had a bird on his head.  You know the guy I’m talking about. I was left defenseless.

Even if you’re in a relationship, having no idea how to cook your own food is probably not a good idea, as the poor guy married to this winner can probably attest to.  I have come to recognize that being able to throw down in the kitchen is necessary for everyone.  Man can not live on five dollar foot longs alone…pause.  You know what? No…don’t pause.  I think its time for me to take a stand against the sophomoric nature of our culture.  Why is it that the first picture I see on Google Image search when I look for “meat tenderizer” is a lithe, ghostly pale, scarlet haired woman interacting with a burly black man in a way that has NOTHING to do with food or, in fact,  tenderness of any sort?  Why must I continuously stop myself from typing “that’s what she said” when discussing beef, steak, salami, bannanas and anything else that’s long, thick and….ok that rant sounded far less questionable in my head.   I’ll get back to the food and leave you with a few links to chew on. Ugh….no pun intended.

Search for Recipes by Ingredient – Recipe Puppy.  This site is pretty useful if you’ve recently gone grocery shop without a list.  Bad idea by the way, but that’s for a different post.

Cooking for Noobs – Kathy Maisters Start Cooking. I don’t know where she came from or who she is, but Kathy has hooked me up more than once.  She has videos on everything.  I’m pretty sure she has a video on how to boil water.  Sometimes, you really DO need the basics.

So you’re probably thinking to yourself “Ironman, you’re so cool, I want to be like you when I grow up”.  Then after you finish thinking that, you’re probably thinking “wait a second…I know where to get recipes now…but how do I cook?!”  Very astute…I’ve got bright readers.  Don’t worry, I wouldn’t let you down.  I’ll be bringing you the goods on a few things I’ve found when it comes to the art of burning meat. First of all, it doesn’t have to take all day to make a meal.  It also doesn’t have to take crazy amounts of prep.  Knowing how to grocery shop is a pretty key skill.  I refused to learn until once, I returned from a business trip to find that my fridge was stocked with 10 different flavors of bbq sauce, a bottle of seltzer, a box of crackers and…thats it.  Yes…that was all that was in my fridge.  Learning to shop so that you can actually make a meal is easier than you would think though.  The other thing to think about is how you’re going to turn all that beef you buy into food.  And what do you eat your beef with?  I’m assuming you eat beef of course – vegetarians tend to fall outside of my target demographic.  In any case, I’ll be serving up your answers piping hot – wow…ok, I promise to never use such an aggressively corny phrase again. Ever.  If I was the apologizing sort, I would say I’m sorry. Instead, I’ll just say Ironman’s about to bring the cookery…with intensity!

-Ironman out