My ride isn’t as sweet as a hooptie. Nope. Mine is simply a 2005 F-150 4×4. I got it last February, and I love it. But just like women, trucks require upkeep, and upkeep requires money. Ya know, I got a new truck because my old truck was starting to cost me a lot in repairs. First it was tires, then then a tune-up, distributor cap, and serpentine belt, followed by transmission work. So instead of throwing good money after bad in maintaining an old truck, I made the decision to get a newer truck with less problems. And my 2005 has been problem free… until recently.

Actually it’s still trouble free, but it’s been expensive. Part of keeping a warranty valid involves scheduled maintenance, and my truck was due for it’s 90,000-mile maintenance. Let me deviate a little here and talk about my mileage. By the weekend before Christmas, I knew I had about 800 miles left before the odometer rolled to 90,000 and asked The Company if I could sell some vacation time back in order to afford it and get it done before I went over 90k. They agreed, but it took a while to process, and delayed scheduling an appointment. On top of that, I had to drive to Seattle three times right after Christmas, and various other chores chewed away over 650 miles. Four days before my appointment, my odometer was sitting at 89,910 miles. But working from home two days saved me some mileage, and I was able to drive to my appointment with one mile to spare, as evidenced by the picture above and this one. (Wafwot’s note: without a tenths indicator on the odometer, the invoice shows “in” mileage at 89,998, and my photo was taken at the dealership before driving away. Since the dealership only drove the truck into the service bay and back, my “in” mileage must have been 89,998.9 and it rolled to 89,999 during the trip to the bay)

The laundry list of shit they needed to do to my truck told me it was going to be expensive… Change automatic transmission fluid; change engine oil and replace oil filter; inspect and lubricate all non-sealed steering linkage, ball joints, suspension joints, half and drive-shafts and u-joints; inspect brake pads and rotors, brake lines and hoses, and parking brake system; inspect complete exhaust system and heat shields; inspect engine cooling system and hoses; perform multi-point inspection; replace engine air filter; replace fuel filter; rotate and inspect tires; check wheel end play and turning noise. Tina called around to all the Ford dealers within reasonable driving distance for price quotes, and I was right… it was expensive. The prices ranged from almost $1500 in Marysville to $450 in Snohomish. After several emails with Becky in the service department about my rechargeable K&N air filter and Mobil 1 synthetic oil, I scheduled my maintenance for January 17 at Bickford Ford in Snohomish. They did a great job and got me out the door in 5 hours.

A couple things burnt my ass, though. Once of my questions to Becky concerned the transmission fluid. The Ford schedule says “change automatic transmission fluid.” I asked her if that included a flush of all 14 quarts, or just a replacement of the 5.5 quarts of that drain out when the filters are replaced. Her reply back was “the service DOES include the trans flush and it is a total flush, it is the best way.” When I got home and looked at the invoice, the part about the tranny read, “AUTO TRANS SERVICE PERFORMED. NEW FILTER INSTALLED. 5.5 QUARTS OF MERCON V ADDED.” They didn’t flush the transmission at all. Nice. Real fucking nice.

They also told me the front brake pads needed replacing. That surprised me. The dealer said the rear brake pads were at 7mm, and the front pads were at 2mm. Not wanting to just have the service done just because I was at the service shop, I declined. But I asked for a quote. When I paid for the service, the quote on the brakes was $375 for new pads and calipers up front. They also said that after resurfacing the rotors, they may need to be replaced as well at a cost of $135 each. Jesus! Six hundred and forty five dollars for front brakes?!

On the way home that afternoon, I drove by the local Les Schwab Tire Center with a large banner draped across the front that read, “FREE BRAKE CHECK.” There could be no better sign. It was like ol’ Les himself was telling me to c’mon in, have some popcorn. I’ve been buying tires at Les Schwab for years, and their great work and customer service always keeps me coming back. But I’ve never used them for brakes. When I was driving the Mustang, I always did the drums and shoes myself. It was a ball-busting job, but once I did it the first time, it was pretty easy each consecutive time. Anyway, I walked in and asked for their free brake check. One of the Les Schwab techs ran out to my truck with a red blanket on his back, like a retarded tire jockey with a Superman complex. He pulled my truck into a bay, and fifteen minutes later he’s got the wheels back on. He said I was in need of front brakes. Crap. The quote was considerably less, though. They only want $272 for the pads and calipers, and didn’t mention a damn thing about rotors. I would have had them do the work right then and there… if they didn’t need to place an order for the calipers. More than 939,000 F-150s sold in 2005, and Les Schwab didn’t have the parts? Okay. See ya next Saturday.

Next Saturday was yesterday. I walked in promptly at my appointed time, and began firing questions at them. Why did they need to replace the calipers? The truck is less than 4 years, for crying out loud. The reason? Warranty. Les Schwab warrants the brakes for 25,000 miles or 36 months, and they want to make sure the parts they put on check out okay. I also asked about ceramic pads, and again they said they put OEM-specification replacements on for warranty purposes. That’s pretty gay, but I gave them my key and took my seat amongst the soccer moms and their screaming axe wound escapees.

An hour later, the tech came out to the waiting area and told me that after resurfacing, there wasn’t enough material left on the rotors and needed to be replaced. Bickford Ford said this could be a possibility, but Les Schwab broadsided me with it. Knowing I had about $605 in my bank account, I asked how much new rotors would cost. The tech ran a new quote which came out to $515. I wasn’t looking forward to scrimping on $90 for the next week, and tried to get the tech to forgo the calipers, or delay replacing the rotors. No go. In fact, I got the impression they wouldn’t let me drive the vehicle off the property without the work being preformed and the new parts installed… for safety reasons or some shit. Reluctantly, I gave the go-ahead, and within another hour, I was on my way home, sans grocery money.

My truck is running great. It better for the more than $970 I spent on brakes and its 90k mile service. I didn’t think there was anything wrong before the service, but I noticed the transmission shifts much smoother now and the wheel alignment and tire rotation gave me a straighter hands-off-wheel drive. New brake fluid, new synthetic 5W-20, and about 40% new transmission fluid add to the good feeling that my truck is in top condition now.

Bellevue, yes. When I bought my new truck., the dealer didn’t have two ignition keys, the 5-digit code to the keyless entry pad on the driver’s door, the remote key fobs, or an owners’ manual. In fact, all they seemed to have was the truck itself and nothing that went with it. Anyway, after emailing the dealer they said they couldn’t find any additional items for my truck. To hell with them. They’re a nice bunch of car salesmen, for what that’s worth, but I can find the shit I need/want for my truck on the Internets. For about $65 total, I bought a manual from helminc.com, two PATS keys from some entrepreneurial locksmith on eBay, a 34-page 2005 F-150 dealer brochure from some entrepreneurial brochure collector on eBay, and five remote key fobs from another entrepreneurial alarm installer on eBay. If you’re wondering, five fobs were cheaper than two — I just have three extras now. The 5-digit code was found on the VSM behind the rear seat, mounted on the back wall of the cab. I found that small tidbit on the forums at F150online.com. It was a 90 minute project to recover that code.

The only thing I still needed the dealer for was my license plates and programming the PATS keys. PATS keys are special keys that have a transponder chip molded into the head of the key. If the truck doesn’t recognize the key, it disables the fuel pump preventing the vehicle from starting. Normally, I would have been able to program my own keys IF I had two working keys. But, since my truck must have been repossessed by the bank, or traded in by a crack whore, I only had the one key and lacked the ability to program my own keys. This is where the dealer comes in.

I drove my truck to Seattle last Thursday, and during lunch drove to the dealer in Bellevue. I picked up my license plates, and asked if they could program the keys so I could save a trip. Some old grizzled salesman overheard my conversation with the kid that sold me the truck. He told us it takes about 45 minutes to download the data in order to program keys. Forty five minutes? Damn! I asked about their Internet connection speed, joking that I could download the entire ECU with a 28.8 kbps modem faster than that. They either didn’t like my humor, or didn’t understand it. Either way, it meant I still had to make the nearly hundred mile drive to Bellevue on Saturday. Excellent.

So, on Saturday, I left the house around 10:30am. I had several errands around town to complete before I could head south, including going to the locksmith to get my PATS keys cut, going to the bank to make my first payment on this truck, and making a deposit at another bank. Finally heading south, I stopped to get the truck washed at the Blue Cow and a tank of gas at the Indian Chevron station — casino Indians, not Slurpee Indians.

Oh my god, something I learned about this truck a few days after I bought it… The first time I filled it up, I had $100 on me. I knew gas was $3.299 a gallon and figured the tank was the standard 27 gallon variety available in 2005. A bit of quick math in my head said no more than $80 in gas (since I was just under a quarter tank) and I could use the change to get the truck washed. Well, I watched as the pump went past $80… then past $90… and I had to stop at $100! What the fuck? How does 30.3 gallons of gas fit into a 27 gallon tank? Remember that 34-page brochure I bought on eBay? It told me there was an optional gas tank available. My truck has that optional 37.5 gallon tank. Sonofabitch! Fill-ups cost me over $120 at today’s gas prices. Back in the days B.A. (Before Asthma), $120 was enough to keep me high at nights for six weeks. Now it only takes me approximately 575 miles. Oh, how being a responsible adult sucks the balls of so many goats.

Anyway, back to my trip to Bellevue. I got the to dealer around 2:00pm. They had me pull into the service bay, and told me it would take 90 minutes. What?! I thought it was 45 minutes! So much that old salesman knows. Fucker. I had a seat in the “lounge.” It consisted of a TV with the channel selector glued to CNN, a coffee maker, a leather couch with a mother and her kid seated on it, a leather chair, and leather love seat. The chair and love seat had been turned into some foreigner’s mobile office. He had his laptop and papers all over the love seat as he was sitting in the chair, talking to someone on a cell phone in some foreign terrorist language. My first thought: “Someone who thinks he’s this important drives a Ford?”

My bladder said, “hey, you haven’t pissed since 9am, empty me!” Being here for hours on end when I bought the truck in February, I knew the toilets were just through a doorway in the lounge. When I returned, the Sultan of Couchoffice was gone, and Mom was going through the motions of gathering her shit. I didn’t get the impression they were together, but maybe. I took a seat in the Sultan’s throne, and read the news via my phone.

Just then, some older gentleman came in from the service bay and took a seat on the couch. He was on the phone, talking to his wife, I’m guessing. He told her they were able to fix the “flasher lights.” It appears he had his vehicle in for repair because his hazard blinkers were broken. Whenever he pressed the hazard button in, the lights came on, but didn’t stay on. Ford “fixed” his problem by showing the old codger that you pull UP on the button to engage the hazard lights. Apparently, this poor bastard didn’t get a manual with his vehicle either. I couldn’t help but laugh! How much did that cost him? When the old man looked at me, I turned my phone to him and pretended that a bus load of kids tipping over on I-94 in Minnesota was something to laugh at. What does he know? He can’t even operate hazard lights! Ha ha!

By 2:50pm, they were done programming my keys and kicked me free. It actually did take them 45 minutes to program those keys. I guess that old salesman did know what he was talking about. Will wonders ever cease? I was northbound on I-405 by 3, and home with dinner in hand before 5. In all, programmed PATS keys was so anti-climatic, and hardly worth all the blog space I’m giving it here.

And if you’re wondering about the title of this update, it a reference to NASCAR. Apparently, when these hillbillies crash their cars into walls or other drivers, and some retired hillbilly racer in a cowboy hat shoves a microphone in their face to find out what happened, their response is, “I ran out of talent.” So, when you wonder why ol’ Jim hasn’t updated his blog in 6 weeks, that’ll be my answer. “I ran out of talent.” Ya’ll come back now, ya hear?

One thing I learned this time about the process of car shopping — never ever give your phone number to a salesman. Jesus Christ. Every other day I got a phone call from some “saresman dat coudn’t speak goodly engrish.” I was (and probably still will be) getting emails from aggressive salesman that couldn’t wait to get me to commit to a test drive. Time to set up a message filter, I reckon. Damn, that kind of behavior drives me fucking crazy, man. I don’t need you hounding me, like some screaming four year old whining at his mommy for some toy at Wal-Mart. When I worked sales at Radio Shack in a former life back east, I was attentive, but never pressured people.

So, with all the crap cleaned out of my old truck and my three choices in hand, I headed out of town on Saturday. I stopped by Blue Cow car wash in Anacortes and spent twelve dollars to wash my trade in. I was totally amazed at Blue Cow. They gave me a wet paper towel for wiping down the dashboard, and an air freshener to mask the smell of feet and ass funk. When it was my time to go through the wash tunnel, they took the radio antenna off, pre-soaked and brushed the truck with sudsy water. In the tunnel, they used all Rain-X products. I was soaped up twice as brushes and hangy-raggy things danced over the vehicle. Then my undercarriage was washed, I was rinsed, clear-coated, and made spot-free. Near the end, I was blown like I was never blown before. When I exited the other end, a couple of Blue Cow employees wiped me down, removing what little moisture was left… on my truck. I pulled over to the vacuum cleaners, and when I got out, I wondered why I was getting rid of the truck. It looked fantastic! I put the radio antenna back on and vacuumed out all the grass blades and pebbles from the carpet. Simply beautiful. The truck looked better than the day I bought it.

Back in the truck, I fired up TomTom on my phone and headed south. I drove down I-5 to I-405 to Bellevue to look at my first choice. I had my three choices prioritized. I was going to make a “loop” around Lake Washington — down I-405 to Bellevue for my first choice, further down I-405 to Burien for my second choice, then up I-5 to Everett for the final choice. But when I got to Bellevue, my plan didn’t work out.

I got to the Ford dealership in Bellevue at 2:30pm. They were busy as hell there. It was like they were giving away free handjobs with every test drive, or something. Normally when you walk onto a car lot, you’re accosted by salesmen before you can pull your foot back to kick a tire. But the weather was fantastic — sunny and warm — which made for a great day to go car shopping.

After about 10 minutes of walking around, I finally met the salesman I talked to via email. He showed me the truck which was parked at the back of their lot, past all the employee cars and the vehicles in for repair. It hadn’t been washed or detailed, and had a thin layer of dust and dirt on it. You’d think a big time dealership could wash a truck before they toss it online. I think the salesman was a bit embarrassed. But, he gave me the keys and a voucher for $20 worth of gasoline. “You know where the ARCO station is up the street?” I told him, “No. but I’ll find it.” After signing a copy of my driver’s license, he sent me on my way and didn’t expect me back for an hour. I was surprised they would let me take the truck for so long.

I made my way up the street to the ARCO station, but pulled in with the fuel door on the wrong side. I tried turning around, but some snatch in a U-Haul truck pulled up behind me and left no room for me to back up. “Thanks, honey. You bitch.” The place was a tiny inner-city gas station, so I bolted from the ARCO station to make a u-turn somewhere up the street. Heading back, I couldn’t make a left turn back into the gas station (thanks to a median curb) and had to turn around again. This time I was in a Lexus dealership, and I literally laughed at two different salesmen that headed my direction but stopped when they realized I wasn’t slowing down. Like I would ever buy a luxury Toyota. Please!

Anyway, I finally got my twenty bucks worth of gas (at $3.329 a gallon!) and took the truck for a real spin. I drove it up and down the major arteries of Bellevue, romping on the gas when I could and braking quickly. The truck seemed responsive and had a nice, smooth ride. After ten or fifteen minutes of that, I ended up in an empty parking lot of a Banner Bank. I got out and looked at the engine, checked the tires, looked underneath, and made sure the truck looked straight. I got back in, called Tina, and starting playing with all the bells and whistles. I already knew the power seats and power mirrors work before I left the lot. It has a power rear sliding window that I was fucking with that knocked the dealer license plate down. Oops. The heated leather seats work great, and will probably give me a fantastic case of swamp-ass on those really cold mornings. All four power windows roll up and down, and the power locks work, too. I played with the steering wheel controls and fiddled with the radio and climate control. Fantastic! Everything works. I really liked this truck. It was first on my list for a reason; the price was low for a 2005 Lariat trim package, and has less miles than other, older Lariats I saw and was “scheduled” to see that afternoon.

Here’s a long list of cool features this truck has: a 5.4 liter 3v Triton V8 engine, four speed automatic transmission with overdrive, on-the-fly four-wheel drive, four wheel anti-lock power disc brakes, power steering, adjustable pedals, eighteen-inch alloy wheels, two rear suicide doors, AM/FM/CD changer that plays CD-Rs of MP3s, Rhino Linings spray on bed liner, hard tonneau cover, leather power bucket seats with two memory settings, electronic climate control, cruise control, digital compass, mini message center that displays all kinds of cool shit about the truck, tachometer, dual air bags, fog lights, turn signals indicators on the side mirrors, intermittent wipers, electrochromatic rear view mirror, power mirrors, power locks, power windows, power rear slider window, remote keyless entry, tilt steering wheel with radio and climate control buttons, towing package, ultrasonic parking assist so I know when to accelerate over the neighbor’s cat, faux wood trim like an old man’s luxury car, 12V power points, HomeLink which is like a universal remote for garage door openers and RF light switches, and probably a few cool things I know I can’t remember.

I don’t know Bellevue. It was my second time ever in the town, and only had a vague idea where I was after spending time circling the parking lot of that bank. TomTom to the rescue, and in no time I was back on the main road to the dealership. I pulled in and parked in that rear lot where we found the truck. I played around more with the message center — the computer that maintains fuel economy, miles to empty, the trip odometer, the compass, vehicle status, etc. — until the salesman came over.

“So, you like the truck?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“You want to write it up?”
“Yeah, I do.”

Yep. I made him work for that commission. I already had my mind made up on an eleventh generation F-150, and I already decided I wanted a Lariat first, or an XLT second. When I found several candidates online, it was just a matter of making sure the truck was worthy. The other two trucks I was going to see didn’t have a chance when it came time to pull the trigger. There wasn’t any coaxing to be done by the salesman, I was sold.

I had my financing lined up before I left the house, but the salesman gave me some bullshit line about filling out some form that was mandated by the Patriot Act… because we all know that terrorists are financing Ford Focuses, stuffing them full of diesel fuel and fertilizer, and driving them into government buildings. [Ding] “Play artist: ‘Soldiers of Allah‘”

So, I filled out his form and he ran my credit. They didn’t want to use the financing I already had set up, even though all but $699 of the final price after tax, licensing, registration, and documentation would have been paid for. After an hour, the salesman comes over, extends his hand to shake mine, congratulating me on my new truck purchase. When he showed me the offer, I literally laughed. He wanted two grand down, and the monthly payments were almost $600. I told him no fucking way. The financing I brought with me didn’t require any down payment as I would write a check for nearly the entire final price of the truck, and my monthly payments would only be just over $350 a month. The salesman wanted to see this fantastic financing I had, so I showed him. He took the paperwork to his finance manager, and they came back with an offer that exactly matched my pre-approved financing. That’s better! We shook on the deal, and we started the process of filling out all the paperwork.

By this time, I’d been at the dealership for four hours. I sat in the 2008 Shelby and looked at a 2008 F-250 Super Duty that was in the showroom. I went down stairs to their “lounge,” which consisted of a coffeemaker, a bench seat, and a TV tuned to CNN. There was a much-needed restroom in the lounge, too, but watching a repeat of Billary and Osama’s last debate was about as much fun as sticking my cock in a brake disc turning lathe.

Finally I was called into the finance manager’s office. I felt like a rock star, signing my name on every sheet of paper thrown in front of me. There had to be a forest, an entire goddamn forest of old growth trees used to make all the forms I had to sign. Jesus, why is there so much paperwork? What the fuck was it like before 1980? Damn!

When I was done, I had to wait for my new truck to leave the detail bay (they wanted to make it pretty for me to drive home). As I was waiting, talking Seahawks with the salesman, the finance manager came out and asked if I wanted lower monthly payments. What a stupid question. That’s like some hot blonde chick asking, “May I please suck your dick?” What am I going to say, “no?” C’mon! I went back inside, and they were able to lower my interest rate by one and a half percent. Six more signatures later, I was out the door again and into my freshly washed new truck.

Before I left the lot, I loaded a couple MP3 discs that I removed from the old truck into the changer, adjusted the seats and mirrors again, and plugged in my phone charger. The cockpit of my new truck is pretty fucking sweet; there seems to be more little green lights than a Christmas tree. After a few right turns, I was finally headed north on I-405. The clock on the radio said 8:10. No way! I checked my phone and sure enough, the clock of the truck was wrong. It was 10 minutes slow. It was 8:20pm. Sonofadryhumper! Nearly six hours at the dealership. The trip home was nice, though I had the music turned up, and I got a chance to really open things up. Trying to create separation from “pacers“, I got the truck up to 95 miles an hour on I-5 between Mount Vernon and Burlington. It didn’t even feel like I was going that fast. It’s going to take a while to acclimate myself to the feel of this new truck.

I haven’t had a chance to take any of my own pictures, but here’s the images from the dealer’s web site: front view, rear view, driver seat, rear seats, dashboard, gauges, radio, grille. I’ll get some nicer pictures on Whidbey Island‘s next sunny weekend.

Some people really don’t like the holidays, and I’m one of them. No, I’m not Jewish, or Arab, or part of any other non-Christmas celebrating sect. As a child, I loved Christmas. The anticipation, the excitement, the lights, the tree, the music, family, not going to school for two weeks. It was fanfuckingtastic! More stimulation than a child should have. Maybe that’s why I’ve grown to despise late December. I totally understand why my paternal grandfather always called it “Kissmyass.”

Everyone and their goddamn great uncle’s cousin twice removed is in your pocket. Food banks are begging for food for the throngs of hungry homeless; the Salvation Army of bellringers clanging at every department store, grocery store and post office in an eight thousand mile radius; Christmas Seals apparently needs money for more cigarettes; it’s an interminable stream of pleading for money. Here’s an idea: Give the gift of get off my fucking back. Everywhere you go, it’s “save the starving, feed the dying, make the guy with a credit card feel guilty.” I’m just tired of it all.

And while I’m in a pissy, bitching mood, what the fuck is up with the stores? Jesus H. McChristmas, people! I went to Wal-Marché last weekend to get my inhaler prescriptions filled and pick up a few things we needed at the house. I think every fat Navy wife with their waterhead kids in the entire Pacific Fleet was in that store… and they’re rude as fuck! I’m going to write a book. “Wafwot’s Rules for Shopping in Modern Civilization.”

Rule #1: When pushing your shopping cart, move to the side of the goddamn aisle! I don’t know how many times I’ve headed down an aisle only to be aisle-blocked by some elderly Flip comparison shopping, trying to save that one tenth of a penny per pound of rice. It’s rice! You need to buy a ton to save a nickel. Pick up a box and move the fuck out of my way! Nothing pisses me off more than using another aisle to bypass a ailse-blocker, only to discover they’re now blocking the other end of the aisle!

Rule #2: Don’t talk to your friends in the middle of a high-traffic aisle. Yeah, yeah. We get it. You haven’t seen Steve since 1982, when you stole a bottle of Bacardi 151 from your daddy, got drunk, and sodomized the barnyard animals of old man Kotter’s farm. Catch up on your own fucking time, or take the conversation to Arts and Crafts, or Women’s Underwear. You’re creating a cart traffic jam for the entire store with all that jaw-jacking!

Rule #3: The rules of the highway pertain to shopping carts, too! If you’re in a store in the United States, and you’re pushing a cart down an aisle, keep right motherfucker! The only time you should be on the left side of the aisle is if you’re heading the other direction, or you’re passing some inconsiderate shit-eater who’s breaking Rule 2. I can’t count how many times I’ve got stuck between end caps, waiting for some supersize black woman trailing a bus load of crying children, like Mother Goose with a gaggle of goslings… one after another.

Rule #4: Pick up the pace! How many times have you been stuck being some crippled old fuck that’s shopping as they walk? They’re moving at the speed of smell, molesting every product they pass. If you’re 65 years old or older, this rule states that you’re only allowed to shop Monday through Friday between 10:00am and 4:00pm. Us faster moving folks will be at work, so slap on that wig and push that walker all you want during those 30 hours.

Rule #5: If you can’t control your kid, or your kid is acting like the spawn of Satan, screaming and crying to beat the band, then we as a shopping public have the inalienable right to bitch slap the fuck out of you and your misbehaving uterine litter. Congress should pass a law giving the public the ability to legally punch spoiled little brats in the throat as to crush the larynx, preventing further noise from their chocolate-coated faces.

It’s a short book, but I’ll leave it open-ended so we can add amendments to it. It’ll be a living document. If you have any additions, add ‘em to the comments below.

Okay, enough Kissmyass for now.

With all the money I sunk into my truck in November, you’d think it was in tip-top condition. However, you’d be wrong. It’s not a major tragedy, but I was sitting in a fast-food drive-through Tuesday night, and I heard what sounded like pouring water. It sounded very much like a circus animal urinating on pavement. Possibly a lengthy emesis of an intoxicated teenager splashing on linoleum of a high school hallway. Since it was raining out, I didn’t think much of it. However, I kept an eye on my dashboard gauges just in case.

I got my food and the temperature looked okay. About a mile from the Jack in the Box, the temperature was climbing, and I knew something happened to my damned cooling system. Sonofabitch! I was only about a mile from home, but I wasn’t going to make it that far. The gauge got to “H” at the top of a hill, and luckily, I was able to coast down the other side and let the December night air cool the engine down enough for me to make the final hundred yards of my trip home. The engine got as hot and steamy as Tommy and Pamela, but never went above the “H.”

The next morning, Tina and I went out and looked at the damage. We found a long messy gash on the underside of the lower radiator hose. Just as with women, long messy gashes are not good. I wasn’t taking the truck anywhere without replacing that hose, and I had an 11:00am doctor’s appointment. LDriver came and gave me a lift to the doctor’s, then we hit the auto parts store where I picked up a hose and a new thermostat. When I got home, I realized I asked for and bought an upper radiator hose, when I needed to replace the lower hose. Goddammit. Three hours would pass before I could get another ride to the auto parts store for the correct hose.

Once I had the correct hose, LDriver and I worked on taking the blown hose off my truck. I swear to fuck, there’s hardly any room to work in that engine compartment. It’s nothing at all like my old Mustang. You’d have more room to work if you were fingering a nun. No shit! On top of that, the hose just didn’t want to come off. We worked on prying that bitch off the water pump for more than an hour! It finally popped off with the help of a broom stick. The right tool for the… job. What the shit, man? Putting the new hose on was a bit easier, but not much. I coated the inside of the hose ends with oil, and LDriver and I tried to shove that hose onto the water pump. Only a priest raping a fourth grader would have a tighter fit. After another 30 minutes, it was finally good to go! I tightened down the clamps with a socket wrench, and filled that bitch with water.

My ass is fucking beat! I look like I was beat up by twenty three 5-year olds; scrapes and knicks on my knuckles, bruises on my arms, a deep fat bruise on my leg. Fuck, the hood latch left about seven bruises on my stomach. I look like I was caught in the crossfire of rubber bullets. I ache all over and feel like I was rolled by a ‘ho and her pimp, left for dead in a Motel 6. This getting old shit sucks ass.

All’s well now… or is it? I didn’t have a chance to replace the antifreeze in the system, and the temperatures are going to drop below freezing tonight. It fucking figures. Since I have to drive to Seattle on Friday, I’m going to have to go out tonight and get some antifreeze. Shit! It’s 10:00pm as I’m typing this.

I need to trade my truck in for a new(er) truck…

The image here is a screen capture from a new page on wafwot.com. My new cell phone has a GPS chipset in it, and I’m running a cool little program that automatically uploads my current position to a database on my web server. The web page then plots the points using Google Maps or Google Earth. It so totally kicks ass! You can view my latest trip, or previous trips, or even see my current location! I don’t always have the program running on the phone, however, so the web page may not always show my latest position. The program is called TrackMe, and was written by Luis Espinosa. The web interface was written by jcleek/Slacker, also of the xda-developers forums, and I’ve even contributed a tiny bit to the web code. Check out my GPS tracking at gps.wafwot.com. If you have Google Earth installed, load up my KML file at http://www.wafwot.com/gps/routes/wafwot.kml. It’s pretty damn cool.

As I mentioned, I got a new phone. I’m such a technology whore when it comes to phones. My last new phone was only April of this year, but I was using it for so much, I was getting frustrated at the slow speed of the phone and the Int0rn3ts.

My new phone is an AT&T Tilt. Here’s another picture. This bitch smokes! It’s got more gadgets than Sean Connery and Roger Moore combined! Windows Mobile 6 Professional powered by a 400 MHz Qualcomm processor, a 65k-color tilting TFT touchscreen, a slide-out QWERTY keyboard, 802.11b and 802.11g Wi-Fi, stereo Bluetooth 2.0 with support of up to 6 simultaneous pairings, a 3 megapixel camera with 10x zoom and autofocus, built-in GPS, quad band GSM/GPRS/EDGE, 3.6 Mbps tri band UMTS/HSDPA (that’s right, 3.6 megabits per second, baby), 256 MB of flash ROM, 128 MB SRAM, and a microSD expansion slot with support for 32 GB memory cards. I currently have a 4 GB card in the phone, because they don’t make 32 giggers yet. (My god, look at all them Wikipedia links!)

Oh, and it’s a phone, too! Imagine that.

The GPS chipset and large microSD card lets me run TomTom Navigator on the phone for voice-guided turn-by-turn navigation. I was amazed at how accurate TomTom is, at least on roads that have existed for more than a few years. It’s the dog’s bollocks, man! Of course, we drive the same route day after day after day after day after… but it’s nice to have for those trips around accidents, or the rare time I get lost. I’ll be fucked by starving Pygmies before I’ll stop and ask for directions! I’m a guy, damn it! We’re not supposed to ask for directions or the monkeys will fly out our asses, and we can’t have that.

It’s a beautiful thing when I can be secure shelled into work via VPN, chatting on a jabber server, live tracking my journey on Google Maps for the world to see, and surfing the web at DSL speeds — in the palm of my hand — while doing 75 miles an hour northbound on I-5. Don’t get your panties in a knot, I’m a passenger at those times. If I was driving, I’d be text messaging, too! Ha ha!

Okay, enough about my geek toys. What else has happened? I had some work done on my truck. Early in November, I had Les Schwab put on four new Wild Country tires. I bought the truck with the old tires on it, and they were getting a little thin in the tread department. The new tires are nice and quiet, and with winter on the way, it feels good to know my ass (and LDriver’s ass) will safer… because we all know how I worry about LDriver’s ass.

Just before Thanksgiving, I took the truck to Hilltop Texaco here in Oak Harbor. The soul-crushing commutes to Seattle on Fridays were taking their toll on my engine. After doing a hundred miles — forty of which are at 70+ miles per hour — the truck was running rough and felt like it needed a good tune-up. So, during lunch on one of the three days of the holiday-shortened week I worked from home, I took my F-150 to Hilltop. I sat in their waiting room for nearly four freaking hours, tortured by FOX News and watching people shovel popcorn down their esophagus like their name was Moses and they just got back from his little pow-wow with God in the mountains.

Anyway, the mechanics at Hilltop put in new spark plugs, new wires, a new distributor cap, a new rotor, a new serpentine belt, and tuned and scoped the engine. They also checked the electrical system and the brakes. The truck passed all it’s tests, but still runs rough at idle once it’s up to running temperature. Damn it all to hell, I hate vehicles, sometimes. Nearly five hundred dollars, and I still have the “trouble” I took the truck in for. It rides much nicer, sounds better, and even shifts gears smoother… but what the fuck, man?

Speaking of Thanksgiving, Tina and I had a nice holiday. We didn’t go anywhere, or do anything special. We’re boring like that. But, I had a nice nine-day span of being at home, coupled with turkey, stuffing, cranberries, and football. It was a relaxing weekend work-from-home four-day weekend string of days. I wish I could do that more often! Like once a month! Fuck, think of the gas (and money) I’d save. As it is, I spend more than $90 a week in gas.

Okay, there ya go. Not so great, but it catches you up a bit and prevents me from going the whole month of November without an update. December should be a little chattier.

I drove my truck to Seattle on Monday because our regular carpool driver was working in the Oak Harbor office. So, like any other day, I was up before the rooster across the street. Since I’m still coughing due to pneumonia, I didn’t get much sleep Sunday night/Monday morning, and I was dog-ass tired. I jumped in the shower to wash hair, face, pits, crotch, and ass… in that order… hoping that the shower would wake me up more. By the way, have you ever noticed how mighty a fart sounds through wet ass cheeks in the shower? It brings a smile to my face, no matter how tired I am.

By 4:55am, I was out the door and picked up one other commuter and headed south to Seattle. It was an easy trip, and we pulled into the Westin parking garage before 7am. I parked on the 5th level — like we do every day — put the borrowed keycard (that gets me in the garage for free) in my sun visor and hopped out of the truck. I locked it and headed to the elevators to get into the building.

Monday was a busy day at work, but whenever you’re busy, time seems to fly by quickly. However, by 5pm, I was ready to get the fuck out of Dodge.

As I was riding the elevator back to the 5th level, I was searching, in vain, for my keys. They weren’t in my pocket. Before heading back into the building to check if I left my keys on my desk, I checked the ignition. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck! There’s my motherfucking keys! It the ignition! Fuck!

I could have sworn I had an extra key at my desk, but I checked all the drawers and cabinets of my desk, and there was no key to be found. The CTO of our company gave me a wire clothes hanger, but after 30 minutes of fucking with it, I realized the hanger was too flexible. I called Tina to have her find a locksmith in Seattle for me. Tina called me back at 5:45pm, and gave me the number of Abel Locksmith & Road Service on 12th Avenue South. I called them and they said they’d be “right over.”

I learned a couple things that day; always have a spare key in my wallet, and in the native tongue of locksmiths, “right over” means about an hour. Shit. By 6:45pm, I met the locksmith outside the parking garage… because his truck height is 6-feet 10-inches, and the parking garage height is 6-feet 8-inches. Simply excellent.

Johnny McBreak-in shoved a wedge between the glass and door skin in order to get various wires and rods shoved into the door. He spent 15 minutes wailing and yanking on his tool before he gave up on the driver’s side door. I mean, he was pulling with so much force, he bent his tool. And yes, I know I just used “yanking,” “pulling,” and “tool” in the past two sentences. What of it?

This “professional” locksmith had much better luck opening the passenger side door in only two minutes. He reached in and grabbed the keys from the ignition. I tried opening the driver’s door with the key, but couldn’t turn the key to the unlock position. What the fuck now? After dicking with it from the passenger side, we realized that all that zealous yanking pulled the plastic door panel over the lock pin… uh, lock knob? What in the sweet and sour hell are those manual locking knob thingies called? Anyway, once the “manual lock plunger knob doohickey” (technical term) was back in the hole it’s supposed to be in, the door unlocked properly.

The whole ordeal cost eighty fucking dollars — eight zero period zero zero — and two hours of time. I wasn’t even kissed as he was fucking me. Wotta rip off! No matter… we were heading out by 7:00pm and all my windows were intact. One good thing about leaving Seattle at 7:00pm is there’s no traffic. I was back in Oak Harbor by 8:35pm (average speed of 60 mph) and there wasn’t a slowdowns to be seen in that shithole called Everett.

Two items of note: I’ll probably get reimbursed by my insurance company since I have emergency road service coverage on my policy… and I now have a spare key in my wallet, at my desk at work, and at home. Monday was the first and last time I will ever be locked out of my vehicle.

Fucking Wal-Mart… I went there on Wednesday for bird seed, cough medicine, milk, cereal, pop, and a few other items we needed at the house, including cigarettes (not for me, I don’t smoke). I did my shopping and got in a line with a cashier.

Normally I use the cool self checkout at the Wal-Marché, because I’m all about self gratification. But since I needed cigarettes, I hit a line with a cashier. She scanned all my items like a good smiley-faced monkey, but couldn’t seem to get the cash register to by-pass the age check on the cough medicine. Fucking safety checks. God forbid a teenager puts down their heroin needle for a bottle of Delsym. On top of that, the chick wouldn’t sell me cigarettes at that register, giving me an excuse of company policy. I had to use lane one where the tobacco products are sold. I complained that I would have gotten in that line if I had 10 items or less, but I had about 16 items. I’ll be damned if I’ll violate the sacred Item Limit at the Wal-Mart and have some hoarse-voiced, yellow-fingered little old lady holler at me because she couldn’t buy a new pack of Benson & Hedges menthols before she slipped into another nicotine fit.

So how fucked up is that? Wal-Mart puts the cigarettes behind one register with a 10 items or less limit, then forces customers to buy cigarettes at that register only. Fuckers. I had to pay for my 15 items at Register Three (with a credit card), then take my “must be older than 18 to purchase” cough syrup to Register One and make another credit card transaction. Dicks.

There ya have it, another quality update. I don’t want to hear any more bitching… ’til next time.

When we left work yesterday evening, the start of the soul-crushing love-fest that is our nightly drive home was like any other. The roads were dry, the surface streets were clogged (like they ate too much cheese… draw your own conclusions), and all appeared normal. But then we tuned in KOMO AM 1000 and heard about severe winter conditions in Everett and Marysville. Our cell phones began to ring. Worried loved ones were concerned that we might be stuck behind a recent 50 vehicle pile up (story – crash pictures) on I-90 near Snoqualmie Pass. Our commute doesn’t take us anywhere near I-90, thankfully, but the weather on north I-5 had us worried. By the time we made it to the northbound express lanes, the traffic slowdowns had already begun. Every day, we drive past a digital road sign that reports travel times to Lynnwood and South Everett. Normally that sign reads 30 to 45 minutes to South Everett. Tonight, it read 65 minutes. Fuck. As we got closer to the sign, we realized we misread an “8″ as a “6.” Eighty five minutes to make a 20 mile trip. Do the math, people… that’s 4¼ miles per hour. Four and a quarter! Jesus fucking cajun-style Christ! To be fair, that electronic sign is for the main line, not the express lanes. But considering the express lanes weren’t going any faster than the main line, it’s close enough for government tolerances. We tired quickly of the traffic radio, and switched to a CD of The Crystal Method.

It was slow going. After the express lanes ended, it was snowing quite heavily. We were driving in and out of snowsqualls up to Lynnwood, where it was snowing continuously. It wasn’t sticking, just making the roadway wet. Traffic flow sucked. The HOV lane was moving at about 20 miles per hour, where the regular lanes were stop and go. We finally made it to South Everett a full two hours late. The snow was coming down solid, and made for some pretty cool pictures with our shitty camera phones. Here’s a photo, and another, and another, and another, and another, and another, and another, and another, and even a short movie in MP4 format. Pretty cool new image viewer, eh? If you’re JavaScript-phobic, you probably just saw those images open in your browser. Yawn. People with JavaScript enabled saw the web page dim, and the images appear on a new layer, resized to fit your screen resolution. It’s fucking amazing. You know how I know? Because it’s fucking amazing!

Enough cock waving. By the time we got through Everett and Marysville, we were in a full-on blizzard. I’m not sure, but think we may have been experiencing whiteout conditions… but what the fuck do I know? The snow was coming down so fast and heavy, the headlights were reflecting off it, making it near impossible to see the roadway. The snow was also starting to collect on the slush between the lanes, which meant it was getting colder outside. Our speed wasn’t very fast. This picture of the car radio shows the average miles per hour we were traveling from downtown Seattle to Marysville, and the outside temperature. Pretty fucking swift, eh? I think we broke 25 miles an hour once or twice before things got worse, and they did get worse.

There’s a point where there so much snow that the highway eventually gets completely covered. We reached that point around Smokey Point, and it was not fun. The road was eerily free of traffic. It was us, a Subaru about 200 feet in front of us and a pack of other slow moving vehicles a mile behind us. Previous knowledge told us there was a highway under the car, but we couldn’t see it. “Where’s the lane? Shit!” We were literally driving by braille! As soon as we’d drive over those little bumps or reflectors on the center lines, we’d steer back into the lane until we hit the rumble strip. It’s funny now.

Several dickholes in 4×4 SUVs thought they were impervious to bad weather. Many were wrong. There were vehicles galore that had slid off the Interstate and were now stuck. One Dodge Durango driven by some old fuck sped by us faster than a priest leaving Chuck E. Cheese's with an 8 year old in a duffel bag. A couple minutes later, a cop pulled onto the highway, and his lights came on. Tardboy had spun out, and was now on the side of the road pointing the wrong direction. It appeared that there was a tow truck pulling a station wagon out of a ditch, and the Durango had to avoid the obstacle, and over corrected, spinning himself around.

A couple miles after that spinout, the highway was just wet, and we were back up to 70 miles an hour through the Skagit Valley. All that fucking snow was caused by the Puget Sound Convergence Zone, which we drive through twice a day. By the time we got back to Oak Harbor, it was 9:30pm. Ninety seven miles in 4½ hours. That’s an average of 21½ miles an hour. Fucking snow! We were home just in time to grab a bite to eat and go to sleep to do the whole goddamned thing over again in 6½ hours. Pass the melatonin… and the antacid.

Today was the day we picked up a former co-worker for a trip to the Westin. He had a convention to go to in the hotel. Yesterday’s wintry boot to the coin purse almost put a damper on things, but the powers that know nothing north of Everett forced us to make the 97-mile trip anyway, in the face of sure death on icy highways… and they were icy until Lynnwood, where they were just wet. It was good to see Jake/Di-Tech again, even though we suffered partial hearing loss from his maniacal, Ed McMahon-esque laugh. Good times, though. Made the commute seem shorter, and that’s always a good thing.

This is a picture of a Washington State Ferry underway. I shot this on the 7:00pm sailing of the westbound Mukilteo-to-Clinton run. We were on a detour from our normal commute route due to a fiery fatality accident that closed all lanes of northbound I-5 during our normal nightly soul-crushing ass pain. The accident occurred around quarter after three in the afternoon just north of Marysville. A southbound driver of an SUV apparently broke through the controversial cable barriers in the median and entered oncoming northbound traffic, colliding with an empty motorcoach bus. The SUV burst into flames, killing the driver and burning the vehicle to a charred metal shell that only slightly resembled an SUV. The driver of the bus was airlifted to Harborview Medical Center in serious condition. Since someone died in the accident, the Washington State Patrol and WSDOT conducted a lengthy investigation, and didn’t have all northbound lanes of the Interstate opened again until roughly eight in the evening.

Of course, all this death and destruction makes the commute about as painful as how your perineum repeatedly snapped with a large rubber band might feel… which is why we opted to for the ferry route. Am I an insensitive dick for thinking someone else’s tragedy is fucking up my evening? I think not. That just makes me an ugly American. God bless the USA.

I’m usually home by 7:30pm on a normal day. Tonight, I was home by 8:15pm. The ferry added forty five minutes to our typical time, but people who didn’t take the ferry didn’t get home until after 9:00pm. Is a boat ride that saves almost an hour of driving time worth fifteen dollars? I say yes it is. When you only have two and a half hours of free time before going to bed, those 150 minutes are very valuable. Fifteen dollars was a blue light fucking special!

The weather lately has been quite mild. We’ve had several days where the high temperatures have been in the mid-fifties. It feels like we’re on the back side of winter, and it’s warming up to spring. Not a day too soon, either. I like winter and all, but freezing my ass off in the cold and suffering with the typical colds and flu bug is no fun. I welcome warmer weather, and always look forward to spring. The trees start to leaf up again, flowers start to bloom, birds are chirping… who am I kidding? I’ll be in a climate controlled skyscraper all day, living off the recycled air conditioned stench of swamp foot and crotch rot, soaking up the greenish glow of fluorescent lighting. Welcome to corporate America, motherfucker. Pass the bourbon.

Things are getting busier at work. We just rolled out new virtual private server plans, and so far, I feel like a retarded orangutan fucking a chihuahua. The salespeople are selling this shit, and I’m not fully trained in it. It’s enough to shrink my balloon knot so tight, only dogs could hear me fart. I guess I’ll learn it when I need to. Trial and error, baby! The only way to learn. Not that I need much training — there’s not much support that goes into VPS. The customer’s supposed to know what the fuck they’re doing.

On top of the new VPS service, we’re also becoming a domain name registry. Not a reseller for some other registrar, but we’re becoming a registrar ourselves, selling domain names like Go Daddy. This is yet one more thing that the company is throwing at my department, and I haven’t a clue how it works yet. I was told we start doing the registrar dance sometime next week. Fucking excellent.

On top of all that (do you see a pattern here?), I still have my normal “hey-change-this” and “oh-setup-that” hosting duties. Shit, man, I still have the migration of sites from an old retired server to a new server left to finish. Fuck! I’m going to be busier than a set of jumper cables at an Indian wedding. Not Slurpee Indians, but casino Indians. Was that too mean? Okay, here’s a nicer simile: busier than a one-legged man playing Dance Dance Revolution (yes, it's possible). I wonder if I can talk the company into a comical Super Bowl ad with half-naked women? Maybe? What? Stop laughing! A man can dream, can’t he?

Okay, that’s enough of that. I’ll Wikify this bitch tomorrow at lunch and publish from there.

Yesterday and today, the carpoolers and I worked in the Oak Harbor office. The last time we worked at the Oak Harbor office, the Island was sans electricity. It was a nice change of pace. No need to wake up at 4am. That’s fucking earlier than dairy farmers, dammit, and it’s simply not human. I was able to “sleep in” until 7am, shower, dress, drive to my manager’s house and pick him up, and be at a keyboard before 8am. It’s a beautiful thing. If we had to drive to Seattle, that same process takes three and a half hours.

I really miss working close to home. The commute home (including “stop and go” traffic near Wal-Mart) took me a whopping six minutes. Can you believe that shit? It was still light outside! There’s also the benefit of being so close to a 7-Eleven, and all the fast food joints. Hopping in my truck, driving to 7-Eleven for a Snapple and cigarettes took all of five minutes. In Seattle, it also takes five minutes for a Snapple and cigarettes. Oh yeah, there’s an Asian taking my money as there is in Oak Harbor, but there’s no motor vehicle involved. Hell, I’m not even leaving the building! The store is only a two-story elevator ride away.

But with all the pros, there’s always some cons. The “better half” (and I use that term loosely) of the two previous owners of Galaxynet operates from that building — from that office — and I got to enjoy avoiding his bald ass today. He was there to meet with the president of the company. It’s probably some long, drawn out saga that’s really not worth the time to type about, but I got the impression he was whining about not having actual office space in the Oak Harbor office. Boo hoo. I so wish someone would have asked me my opinion before we jumped into bed with these two questionable individuals. Oh well, you know what they say about opinions. I knew my ass was fat, but had no idea my asshole was so big.

There’s also the people that probably figured I dropped off the face of earth. When I used to work in the Oak Harbor office, I worked upstairs which was not an area that the public was permitted. That sheltered me from all the Galaxynet customers that thought I was their friend. I still talk to a select few former Galaxynet customers, but when I run into the others at Albertsons, I simply offer a cordial “hello” and go about the grocery shopping task at hand. Why is it people feel the need to chat you up in the store? Can’t they see I have coffee, milk, and shit wipe to buy? Leave me alone! Anyway, as I said, I used to work on the second floor. During the past two days, I was working on the first floor and in clear view of every swinging dick that came in the door. Twice I had to glad hand someone who was happy to see me. I shook their hands, but gave them my “go away, I have work to do” vibe in order to reduce the typical questions regarding Tina, Christmas, and the new year.

I’ll bet you were wondering what the hell the picture of the dog had to do with working in a different office. Well, let me tell you. One of the carpoolers brought his dog to the office on today. His name is Trip, and he’s a great dog! If you know me, you know I think small yapping dogs are no better than rodents. Unless the dog has enough strength to pull you when you go for a walk, it can’t be called a dog. Trip has enough power to do that! He’s really friendly and loves everyone. I remember when Trip didn’t even have a name. This picture and this picture show Trip as a puppy in August 2006. As you can see by the picture above, he’s much bigger now… but he’s still a puppy! All these were taken with my cell phone, so the quality isn’t that great. Here’s another picture of Trip that really shows how big he’s gotten.

One final thing. I removed the captcha code for posting to the comments section. I upgraded the WordPress software to a brand new version (2.1), and the captcha code no longer worked. I had to modify the WordPress code after each upgrade, and I was getting tired of that bullshit. I also received complaints from folks with color blindness who couldn’t read the captcha image very well. At first, I had no sympathy. But, with the addition of several spam filtering plugins, I no longer need the captcha. So, without the extra hoop to jump through, I expect more comments, motherfuckers!

Okay. That’s enough for now. See ya next time.

Since it snowed, we didn’t head into the office. Although we made a valiant effort trying. It was 35°F when I woke up at 4:00am. The first thing I did was check the traffic cameras on the state’s transportation site from Mount Vernon to Everett. No snow. Doppler radar showed precipitation over head, but there was nothing falling. I got ready to go and met up with the car pool… Aw, fuck the long story. I’m too tired and too old to type it all out. Let’s fast-forward to crossing Deception Pass Bridge. It was just starting to flurry, and the highway was only damp. The further east we drove, the heavier the snow was falling. We didn’t even make it past the Swinomish reservation before the highway was so slippery, the car’s traction control was kicking in trying to save our fat asses. We turned around and headed home to .

Oh Jebus H. McChrist! Tina’s watching the premier of American Idol 6 as I type this. What in the southern fried fuck makes these people believe they can sing? Goddamn! Some of these people sound like a pygmy goat trying to queef out a Whitney Houston song. I think I’m getting a headache.

Well, crap. I’ve completely lost the desire to write more. I have to pee, and I’m tired of looking at a computer. I have a few more topics to cover… including one that might even get me into some trouble. I’ll Wikipediafy this update and call it a done deal. Sorry for the shortness. I’ll try to do better next time.