Let's Laugh at Comically Diminutive Cars!

One of my two life goals is to hijack a spaceship mid-flight. The other is to own and operate an all-electric car. Let's review some vehicles both in production and on the drawing board that just might fulfill that dream, all the while making as many electricity puns as possible, wholly discarding quality in favor of quantity. Meet me in the next paragraph to see what I mean.

No More Gas Personal Electric Vehicle
I really get a charge out of this banana-lookin' bastard. Developed by Myers Motors, this one-seater has a range of 25 to 30 miles, making it ideal for an urban environment. "Socket to me!" one might exclaim about this little sparkplug. Technically classified as a motorcycle by the US Department of TransportatiOn, the NMG plugs along at 75 mph, enabling normal highway travel where other three-wheeled EVs go static. Currently available in the United States of America, the NMG could be yours for a shockingly-low price of under three hundred Ben Franklins, more commonly referred to as $30,000. If the public adopts the magnetic styling of this vehicle, it may be the first to gain inductance into the Electric Vehicle Hall of Flame.

Lumeneo Smera
Check out this joule. I'd love the opportunity to drive this Faraday, and get a feel for how it holds the road. Looks like I just might be ready to grid of my Nissan! At a mere 35.5 inches wide, it fits two, and handles like a moped, requiring you to lean into turns. Ohm my God, how coulomb is that? The motors are in the wheels as opposed to the chassis and get you 93 miles on a singe-le charge. Of course, it looks more like something you'd see in a DC Comic than a regular guy like AC Slater driving it around! Generations of people might be electrocuted by this light person-conductor, though the manufacturer disputes that claim.

Reva
This car is built by Iondian manufacturer Reva Electric Car Company, so don't expect to walk up to the showroom window ampere in, because India is 8400 miles away or 16,800, if you plan on making a full circuit. At an irresistanceable price of $9,000 (or better if you have a connection that can get an employee discount). Eight hours of charge time, and you're in the ready state to drive up to fifty miles. Maybe one day we'll be sinusoidal wave-ing to our friends as we roll by in a Reva. It's a shame Ron Paul didn't have the funding Obama had, or else the country's desire possibly would have been to electRon. He loves Revas.

Subaru R1
Even Subaru has the potential and capacity to get in the electric vehicle game. Your biggest concern when driving the R1 should be getting struck by lightning, especially if you're holding a lightning rod out the wind-ow - the vertical glass surface you wind down the same way you'd wind some kind of electrical thing that requires winding, like a wind-up toy or something. The R1 also plugs along at about 65 mph, also known as the speed of light. It's a shame it can't get up to 88 mph, which is the speed that, when driven next to the clocktower which was struck by lightning at 10:04 PM, generated 1.21 jigowatts of electricity, sending Marty's Delorean time machine from 1955 back to 1985. The R1 is produced in Japan.

Snow in the Time of Cholera

That there's pa.

Come November, Jillian and I would descend the stairs faster than if we were pushed, which we were from time to time, usually by Bobby, that jerk. Meanwhile, William and Lucah were already in the kitchen, getting ready for work at the factory. Little Grace and Vicky would still be upstairs fast asleep. Zachary, Caleb and Noah would already be outside, probably doing something involving tackling. And there's no doubt Daniel wished he could be there with us, but apparently they're pretty strict about leaving base when there's wartime missions on multiple fronts. Yeah, growing up in a house with eleven kids wasn't easy - it was incredible.

And when we'd wake to see the ground completely covered in white, we knew what kind of revelry was in store. Caleb would come running in, ruler in hand, and breathlessly announce the tally. "We're over a foot!" And with that, he'd dart right back out as though he'd better take another reading in case it was higher. As Jillian and I were twins, we seemed to do everything together, mostly by happenstance. We never said "let's eat breakfast together", we'd just find ourselves spoon-deep in porridge only to look up and see one another. Mom forced us to consume something before spending the entire day outside. We were all home-schooled, so "snow days" were by Mom's decree. Suffice to say the kids had some influence; the word "please" abounded.

Time to suit up. In kid time, this took thirteen years. We put on fifty-five layers, even so, mom insisted we were under-dressed and going to freeze to death. I don't recall that ever happening. Once the mittens and wool cap were neatly in place, there was only one thing left to do - sprint at top-speed through the door, dive with reckless abandon and immerse ourselves in nature's best kind of precipitate.

We didn't even realize we were forming the fondest and firmest memories of our lifetime.

Hang tight. Waitwaitwaitwaitwait - sheeeit. Nevermind. That wasn't me. That was a movie I saw on Bravo. Not that I watch Bravo. I think I was flipping - no, what it was was, I turned the TV on, I assumed it was HBO. It was like, twenty minutes until a commercial came on. Seriously, I'm more of an ESPN guy. Or ESPN 2. FX. I basically never watch Bravo.

But the sentiment's the same. Didn't it used to snow a lot back in the day? You know, 1985 through 1996? Am I wrong about this? I could definitely be wrong about this - heck, one time I mistook my entire childhood for a movie that I saw on Bravo! Not that I watch Bravo. No, I'm pretty certain I'm right - it used to snow. It was...white. I want to say it felt like either cotton balls or maybe it was really hard like golf balls. That part isn't coming back to me. And it was usually...waist-high. Is that right? No wait, it was foot-high. Or maybe it was all under foot, like walking on a giant piece of paper. Which is a great example, because paper's white.

Hang on - did it used to snow? I know it doesn't anymore, that part's obvious. It hasn't snow-snowed - and you know what I'm talking about - since, I don't know, '02. That's a long time without snow-snow. What gives? My gut reaction is to blame Bush, but it would be giving him too much credit to pretend he controls the ongoings of the upper atmosphere. Is it something I did? Does karma exist? Is there a God? Where does outer-space end?

It's not exactly where-did-I-lose-my-glassesesque, but I'm just curious as the dickens over here. Where the frick is the snow?! Allegedly it happens in other parts of the country, but here in the location where johnatron magic happens, zilch. And I'm talking like nil; nada. From my perspective, the word snow is nine-tenths "no", one-tenth "sw", which stands for so what when it comes to God's opinion of snow.

Not sure what that last sentence was all about. What can I say, I'm frazzled.

But there's a silver lining. It's called hope. Snow still exists - in our hearts. In our memories. And in our faith that one precious day, we'll wake to find the ground white. We'll have our porridge, we'll fifty-five-layer up, and we'll dive into that ish like Louganis off the springboard. Plus, the 36-hour forecast says 90% chance for tomorrow. Ninety percent. Round that bad boy up to a hundred - that's a guarantee, baby.

It will snow again. But we have to keep hope alive. It's what Jillian would have wanted. I think she got cholera towards the end of the movie.

Huh, look at that. I got a Louganis reference in there. Don't see them much. Did you know he was gay?

Can't We Still Be 'Friends'?

[johnatron is off today. Filling in is Steve from America.]

"Oh man, I didn't know that. No, I didn't hear about that party/see those pictures from last weekend/find out who just got engaged/learn who's bi-curious now. No way, that's crazy. What? Oh, I see, yeah. No, I'm not on Facebook. I know! I should get one. Definitely by next week. Is that Coors? Another beer? Nadene!"

I've had this weekly conversation for about two or three years now. It's true, I don't have a Facebook page. Should I get one? Probably. Will I get one? By now, probably not.

Am I technologically inept? No way, man. I'm pretty good at the computer screen and keyboard. I can type over three emails per day. Is it some form of anti-socialism? Definitely not. I'm totally into staying up on things with my friends, or yes, I'm in favor of capitalism and free trade, depending on what you meant by that. If anything, as I ripen with age and friends move away, Facebook represents the perfect medium to stay in touch with people spread all over eastern Moorestown. Probably other places, too.

I guess, plain and simple, I've never been an early adopter, and I just missed the boat on this one. Facebook only started to really catch on at the end of my college life. A few of my friends were up and running with their own pages. I guess I would have created a profile too, but our house's internet connectivity was permanently set to "sometimes". Not ideal for quickly alerting* our friends that, once again, we'll probably start playing washers in our front yard around 6 before heading to the Darkhorse, so just look out your window and come down because you have next game. Sorry, you're stuck with Pete again. Odd numbers.

*I'm not sure if that's a feature of or the intent of Facebook. I assume it is one of many.

After college, I just settled into that schedule of work all week, PJ's on Thursday night, Philly on Friday or Saturday, marriage, Birds/Phils on the couch on Sunday, and then work again on Monday. For better or worse, the circle became smaller and the routine became more, well, routine. It's all a comforting sort of thing.

Sure, I have hobbies that I'd be happy to discuss, pictures that I'll show you, goings-on to update you about (we're celebrating Christmas this year!), but unfortunately in this news-by-the-second digital age we live in, I haven't gotten in the habit of updating my peers in real time. Maybe one day the pendulum will swing back in my direction, and all my idiosyncrasies will all of a sudden become trendy:

"Look how environmentally conscious he is with his fuel-efficient car and how he maintains a speed limit that maximizes MPGs!" (I've been known to drive my Civic slow as a bastard for no reason. I just get bored.)

"Sweet retro phone. Throw-back, I like it." (When I buy a cell phone, I always ask for the cheapest, most basic device they have. I'd buy that green Shrek phone with the pre-set numbers intended for kids to call only their parents and, I guess, poison control, but it only has four buttons.)

"Thanks for growing me my week's supply of cucumbers, peppers, and tomatoes! Your garden in your backyard is an excellent way to reduce carbon emissions resulting from needless worldwide food transport where we could simply be more self-sustaining and grow and buy things locally. Plus, your use of compost creates less waste and uses natural fertilizers, and using organic farming techniques with no additives, while encouraging me to eat healthier, will help wean us off our addiction to high fructose corn syrup, which is most likely responsible for our epidemic of obesity and type 2 diabetes." (Dude, I don't have a garden. I go to Acme. Jen has a 5% discount. And your mom brought those over for you.)

But I'm sure I'll never be that cool. Most likely I'll probably just slip into parenthood and have tech-savvy offspring who will be pre-programmed with these twittering abilities. Got to text before you can talk.

So listen, next time you guys want to have a party for the Eagles playoff game or have pictures of Dan in a sumo wrestler costume, just do what we've always done and tell me about it months later. It will be great to imagine how funny it must have been for everyone the first time around.

Steve from America

[sad emoticons]

Yeah. I just wanted to go ahead and clarify something from the 12/31/08 post titled "2009: The Reeee'MMIX'!!!!"

Did everyone get the clever title? See, 'MMIX' is Roman Numeral for '2009'. No one acknowledged it, and, I don't know, ever since late-2008 I've been feeling kind of blue about it. It's like, why do I bother developing these high-concept wordplays if my readership is just going to gloss right over them? I guess now I know how James Joyce feels. I should text him.

Could I have just put one "M" and solely relied on the topical pop-culture reference to all those really, really good songs that start with a clearly-educated gentleman bellowing "reeeeeeemixxxx!" Sure I could have. But don't you think I would have spelled it with seven e's and four x's, and not four e's and one x, if that's what I was going for? And what about the apostrophes? Were they there for my health? No. No apostrophe has ever been there for someone's health. That I'm aware of.

I just get down sometimes. Is it your fault? I guess so, yeah, but look - this time around, let's share in the blame. From now on, if there's a postmodern meta-gag somewhere in a post that I really want you to experience, I'll italicize the f-word out of it. That should be plain as day.

I feel better. You guys are okay, let's go to Red Lobster.

Words to Your Moms... Volume 1

You know, it's pretty evident we here at johnatron like to have fun. Just the other day was our annual staff picnic, and I spared no expense. Of course, I also spent no expense - sometimes the worst kind of ride is a free one. It's rare, but sometimes.

And so, in the spirit of lack of fun, I bring to you the first of however many:

Words to Your Moms...

panegyric (n): (PAN-uh-JEER-ik) a formal expression of praise, often a eulogy.

Though Daryl was terminated with just, albeit odd, cause (misappropriation of the company pet), his boss felt it necessary to say a little something to his staff before Daryl's departure.

"It's pretty amazing to think you've been with Rectix for 33 years, each one better than the last," Mr. Yeager said. "I doubt any replacement we can find will offer the same mix of dependability and comraderie we all enjoyed during your time here. Why you chose to take home Ronnie the Rectix Rhesus, we'll never know, but one thing's for sure - you'll be missed. As will Ronnie."

Daryl, stiff with self-consciousness yet brazen by embarrassment, quietly approached Mr. Yeager. "What was the panegyric all about?"

Mr. Yeager froze. "The, uh, the what?"

"The panegyric. I felt like I was witnessing my own funeral. You got up there - atop a desk, no less - and went straight panegyrical on everyone."

"Oh, PANegyric. I thought you said... [unintelligible]. Well, Daryl, I thought it was fitting to give you a proper send-off. Your colleagues will miss you. Plus, my staff loves my panegyrics."

Daryl grew increasingly agitated. "We actually hate your panegyrics! Remember your 'Ode to Joe'? When Jeff Connigan left? He cried, and not in a good way. For one thing you called him 'Joe' the whole time."

Mr. Yeager hesitated. "Okay, just - and I'm not trying to pick nits here - it's really not 'we' anymore. Your termination was effective yesterday. I just figured you'd want to come in for some cake."

"And the panegyric?"

"And the panegyric." Daryl stormed away. Mr. Yeager turned and gazed down from his first-story window. A single tear streamed down his cheek. He couldn't stop thinking of Ronnie. But he knew of one way to truly honor his memory - panegyrically. And he'd be sure to get the phrase "monkey business" in there somewhere.

Adobe Flash is Way, Way Too Hard

I've been put in my place, and boy does my place taste bitter. I feel - what's the word? - dumbful. The soundtrack in my head for the past three hours is a medley of the word "duh" blended with extended periods of "umm..." and the occasional "wait what now?"

I downloaded the free trial version of Adobe Flash. Dude. It's hard as all get-out.

Now, this is especially infuriating to me in particular as I was involved in the early development of the Apple Macintosh's GUI - oh, sorry, "graphical user interface". Sometimes I think I'm still talking to my fellow beta testers back in the late 80s. Yeah, we in Mrs. Willoughby's sixth-period Computers class were pretty cutting-edge, with yours truly leading the way. One concept I really grasped was "the mouse". So you can imagine my distress that I couldn't master the finer intricacies of Adobe Flash CS4.

Flash is the most popular software tool used for creating animation. It's award-winning and recognized as the standard-bearer in its class, but here's the problem - clearly, somewhere in the testing stage, Adobe, Inc. must have lost all its funding. So, they rushed it to market, and we're left with an end-user application that is figuratively impossible to figure out - literally.

Like I do in any foreign situation, I stared blankly and felt waves of panic. Flash is probably the kind of thing where, once you get it, it's like riding a bike. But I forgot that learning how to ride a bike was ridiculously hard and I fell often - it was Band-Aid central up in there. Today, as a professional genius, I take "getting stuff" for granted. I do not get Flash.

You'll see I mastered the "single-frame" concept. A pastiche of Dali, Rockwell, and my neighbor's daughter Becky, I found my voice and really explored the canvas. It's when it came time to animate that the insufferable dread began to hang over me like so many crushing waves in the middle of a stormy sea. Where is the "next frame" icon? Shouldn't there be a "GO" button? Move, damn you! Dance like no one's watching!

I had to step away from the situation. So I went down to the pub with me mates. Got a pint. Shot some billiards, or maybe snooker, I forget. At a distance, the answer became clear: "just give up!" And with that, I felt renewed! "Oy, blokes!" I told the blokes, in the blokiest tone I could muster. "Bollocks to that bloody programme!"

"Arse," I added.

It's a shame, though. Who knows what rich, multimedia masterpiece might have emerged from that picturesque setting? I bet three birds would have flown across the screen. The kind that are lower-case 'm's.

I leave you with some of my earlier works.

Hard-Angled Blue Reptile Guy with Cement Wall in Background (2009)

Green Trapezoid on Blue Rectangle, or, Where Goes God When the World Ends? (2009)

It's posterity's loss, really.

So Sometimes I Like to Look at My "Photos of You" on Facebook. Are We Gonna Have a Problem Here?

I mean, they're on there anyway. It'd be a waste not to look at them. But I have a defense, and it'd be awesome if you'd listen to it.

My overarching point is this: so whatsies? Who are you, the presiding judge in What's Okay v. What's Not, et. al (2009)? Wait, you are?

Think of the criteria that goes into every photograph, and agree or not, live inside the reality of what it takes to appear on Facebook:

You have to:
A. Be a 3D person (possibly the most challenging if you're out of practice)
B. Attend a function where someone has brought a camera
C. Be appealing enough that someone decides to capture you photographically
D. Not be deleted in the photog's initial scroll-through for blanks/blurs/drive-by moonings
E. Have your image successfully uploaded onto the photog's compy
F. Have your image deemed worth posting on Facebook

And lastly, and most importantly:

G. Someone's gotta tag that sucka. You can do it yourself, but then everyone sees "John tagged himself in a photo...", and you just look like a raving lunatic or worse - a chronic Facebook tagger.

After clearing all these hurdles, why not take a stroll down random-access memory lane? It's chock full of good friends and good times that you otherwise would be forgetting, plus you have the opportunity to get your wit on in the comment section.

But put on your Hat of Tomorrow, which I was perplexed to learn es un sombrero. Facebook is a mere newborn in the grand scheme. It was only in 2004 in my Cambridge studio apartment that I started it. But four score from now, it will be your life's photo album in sum. Now it's possible you're made of some aluminum-steel composite and have no feelings nor sense of nostalgia, but we with a limbic system tend to emote periodically. It's perfectly natural, and I invite you to do the same.

Unless you use MySpace. Dork.