DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

If you’ve lived long at all, you know about inertia. Or maybe, if you don’t remember physics class, you think of it as momentum. Either way, the concept I’m referring to is that it’s easier to keep something moving than to start it again after it stops.

I consider this when I’m packing my gym bag. You see, I don’t very much enjoy going to the gym. I’ve been doing it three times a week for 17 months, and I readily admit exercise has changed my life. I don’t dread going, but it’s not something I particularly look forward to. It’s sort of like brushing my teeth — mostly I’m afraid of what would happen if I stopped.

Still, with all the post-move craziness around here lately, I’ve missed a few workouts. Thanks to inertia, the missing gets easier with each miss (or, more accurately, the restarting gets harder). And so lately I’ve been pushing myself to get back onto a regular gym schedule, before I end up guilty and corpulent, with a 3/4-lb burger in one hand, a greasy smear on the chin, and a thought balloon reading, “You shouldn’t have missed that first workout,” and another thought balloon reading, “Could you pass me a Soytzel?”

I was relieved to learn that my brief neglect did not have an immediate impact on my weight: I’d taken a week off, ostensibly to unpack but really to mope around the new house, lamenting my dial-up connection and sensing the entire digital world flowing by, just beyond the reach of my pitiful 28.8k analog connection… and when I went back to the gym the next week I found I’d somehow lost three pounds, leaving me at a 20-year low, at which point a stiff wind threatened to blow me off my deck and I scurried inside and quickly baked up a batch of focaccia for 40.

How did I lose weight after I stopped exercising? Perhaps I’ve reset my metabolism. Or perhaps it’s that box of Dexa-Trim I choke down at breakfast every day*.

Anyway, I’m back into a sort of transient workout schedule again, while I cope with some high-pressure work projects and a body full of toxins left by the season’s harvest parties. (I actually ingested goat, which — I checked — is not a vegan dish, I regret to say. Don’t tell my colon.)

*A note for the sarcasm-impaired: I don’t really eat speed for breakfast, unless Trader Joe’s puts in it the granola. No, fructose doesn’t count.

Griping about analog modem speed seems quaint in the era of DSL and cable modems, except of course for those of us who live out of range of DSL and cable. Nevertheless, this article is fascinating: It’s the Latency, Stupid.

On the matter of line speed vs. capacity — the distinction that is rarely made or understood — Cheshire writes:

Would you say that a Boeing 747 is three times “faster” than a Boeing 737? Of course not. They both cruise at around 500 miles per hour. The difference is that the 747 carries 500 passengers where as the 737 only carries 150. The Boeing 747 is three times bigger than the Boeing 737, not faster.

Now, if you wanted to go from New York to London, the Boeing 747 is not going to get you there three times faster. It will take just as long as the 737.

In fact, if you were really in a hurry to get to London quickly, you’d take Concorde, which cruises around 1350 miles per hour. It only seats 100 passengers though, so it’s actually the smallest of the three. Size and speed are not the same thing.

On the other hand, If you had to transport 1500 people and you only had one aeroplane to do it, the 747 could do it in three trips where the 737 would take ten, so you might say the Boeing 747 can transport large numbers of people three times faster than a Boeing 737, but you would never say that a Boeing 747 is three times faster than a Boeing 737.

Here’s the thing about being first-time homeowners: you don’t really know how to do anything. You don’t even know who to call. At least, I didn’t, so we suffered with ill-fitting doors, and gross shag carpet, and bathrooms “decorated” in realistic splash patterns in every shade of iron (because that’s what was in the water). But over time we built a team of remodeling and construction experts: electrician, carpenter, painter, landscaper, tiler, etc… even a guy named Vern whose specialty is creating gravel driveways without ever getting out of the dumptruck.

This is only our second time in a used house, but previous experience makes a huge difference. We don’t have the patience, or the zero-balance checking account of first-timers. And now, we know who to call.

So, this time, the faded shag carpet only lasted two weeks. The broken irrigation system was immediately repaired and expanded (you didn’t think I was going to spend an hour a day watering the garden?). The water softener will be installed next Thursday.

None of this frantic activity leaves a lot of time for writing, of course. I haven’t set my drums up yet either, or, I hate to admit, even begun to finish unpacking. On the bright side, I don’t seriously expect I’ll ever finish unpacking — so that’s at least one thing scratched off the list.

Kevin Smith is directing Fletch Won?!

With Jason Lee as a young Irwin Fletcher, paying homage to Chevy Chase?!

Here’s the book: Fletch Won.

More: Fletch Won news from Ain’t It Cool News.

(By popular demand, I’ve fashioned another story out of our recent septic tank pumping, an experience rich enough in sensation to spawn entire philosophies. Coming up with a measly journal entry was, you could say, a piece of cake.)

As soon as the “wastewater removal” guy opened the tank, a cloud of foul-smelling air rose up to envelop us both, and indeed all of West Sonoma County. I wanted to ask, “do you ever get used to the smell?” (a Fletch reference, I just realized) but I was too horrified to speak, as the guy had dipped down into the tank with his “stir stick” to break up the floating mass of, err, byproducts. Immediately I realized that Manning The Septic Stir Stick is the worst job in the world, narrowly passing Hot Dog On A Stick Employee, the previous record-holder for stick-wielding professions.

The pumper was talkative, perhaps taking advantage of the fact that he was breathing through his mouth. He delivered an impromptu lecture on the origins and composition of the thin layer of funk coating the inside of the tank. Subsequent research indicates that his explanation was completely incorrect, but at the time, even if I’d known, I would not have challenged him, for he still held the evil Stir Stick.

The actual pumping process is not one you’d have to study long to master. Given my physical proximity to the world headquarters of O’Reilly & Assoc., I feel okay about providing this “Nutshell” reference to septic tank pumping:

1. Don HEPA air filter or oxygen mask if available (optional)
2. Apply the Stick: break up any large floating mass. If you spot anything you can identify, civility demands that you not mention it to the homeowner.
3. Lower a vacuum hose into the soup.
4. Suck the tank dry.

You’ve just earned $330 — enough to invest in rubbing alcohol, boot covers, gloves, leather aprons, autoclave… a coliform containment system so you don’t contaminate your truck’s interior, your pants, shoes, arms, face, and hands with other people’s feces.

Or, like the guy who pumped my tank, you could disregard the need for cleanup and pocket the full payment, blissfully ignorant of the virulent germs running freely over your entire being. I realized that my pump guy belonged in this category when I saw that he had not marked the “up” end of the stir stick. Think that through.

The worst part was still to come. After the pumper had coiled up his hoses and driven away, I realized that having the septic tank open on a breezy day creates an unfortunate air channel: the pipe that feeds the septic tank terminates, at its far end, in my kitchen sink.

Air moves at the slightest provocation, like, even from the wind. This seems especially true when malodors are present. When I returned to the house, having withstood and, to some extent, habituated the great stink in the back yard, I was bowled over by the far greater stink in my kitchen. I guess that was a little going-away present from the pumper, a virtual prepayment for any future tales told at his expense. (As if I would ever do that!)