As is stated on our homepage, we are late adopters. We always wait a few years for the hype to wear off before adopting a new technology. If after this period of hype, the technology in question has become more ubiquitous, and truly addresses a need which makes cyber communication better, we then decide to [...]]]>

As is stated on our homepage, we are late adopters. We always wait a few years for the hype to wear off before adopting a new technology. If after this period of hype, the technology in question has become more ubiquitous, and truly addresses a need which makes cyber communication better, we then decide to give it a try. But there are some technologies – no matter how meteoric the rise in popularity – which are destined for failure.

Take Twitter for instance. From the word go, we have never understood the reason for its existence. Besides having one of the most irritating names in the history of the interweb, spawning rage-inducing verbs like ‘tweet’, the mere existence of Twitter begs the ultimate question that we always ask before undertaking any project; “So What?”

Is our cyber world the better for having a technology like Twitter? Does it replace any means of communication? Is it endearing, useful and fun to use? Does it effectively complement other technologies like email and cell phones? After the hype wears off, does it settle into a role which makes our lives better?

The answer seems to be a resounding “No, Nada, Nyet.”

You can analyze Nielsen research and other studies which show that more than half of all new Twitter users bail after 30 days of signing up, but all it takes is you actually using the service to realize it ain’t gonna last long.

There is no “stickiness”, no endearing quality to keep people coming back to Twitter, because its whole existence is predicated on the deluded notion that EVERYONE has something important to say. News flash – what you have to say isn’t important and nobody cares. Particularly if you’re a corporation.

To make matters worse, corporations see this gargantuan bandwagon effect happening with Twitter, and they instantaneously have to have a Twitter handle. Oprah is on there. Ashton Kutcher too. All the celebrities are on there. So it’s gotta be relevant, right? Everyone’s jumping off the Empire State Building, and there’s going to be one huge splatter of a party at the bottom.

You leap on the wagon and get a Twitter handle. Great. Now what? What do you say? Who cares. Say anything. Just make sure you inject your “brand” into whatever you’re saying, as hollow and insignificant as it may be to genuine users.

This lack of substance is magnified by the fact that even if you might have something remotely pertinent to say, you gotta say it in less than 140 characters using abbrs., acronyms & unreadable ‘twit-ese’ to cram your cyber soliloqy into the space allotted.

But we don’t need the latest Twitter trendspotting to validate what we already know – that Twitter is all hype, and will fail at the hands of a much more useful, interactive, and enjoyable communication platform – Facebook.

Facebook has the “stickiness” that Twitter only wishes it could have. And not only that, but Facebook is founded on the premise of interacting in a way that most people would typically interact in real life; by sharing photographs, videos, and links,  and commenting to one another in an open, relatively unrestricted manner without having to use confusing twit-ese. 

There is a personality to Facebook and a usefulness which complements email perfectly. And it has a clean, spam-free design and user interface which doesn’t make you want to blugeon yourself in frustration - unlike the cyber train wreck that is MySpace.

Can corporations use Facebook? Yes, but as is the case with any technology, use with discretion. Go home and tell your spouse what the company wants to say as if you were saying it yourself. Do they listen intently, or do their eyes glaze over and shift to the television while muttering ”uh-huh” and “that’s nice, honey” ad nauseam?  If they do the latter, don’t waste your time and marketing budget.

But if you insist on wasting both, do it on Facebook, not Twitter. In our modern ADD-riddled world, there simply isn’t enough room for two social media platforms.

A mud bog + a Land Cruiser + an oversupply of hubris = stuck. But not just any stuck; stuck overnight with my father-in-law.

By Kurt Gensheimer

I should have known better. I should have just turned around. The blocked off entrance to Pine Mountain’s lookout tower was Providence’s way of saying, Not today kid, just pack it up and [...]]]>  

A mud bog + a Land Cruiser + an oversupply of hubris = stuck. But not just any stuck; stuck overnight with my father-in-law.

By Kurt Gensheimer

I should have known better. I should have just turned around. The blocked off entrance to Pine Mountain’s lookout tower was Providence’s way of saying, Not today kid, just pack it up and head home.

But I didn’t take much stock in Providence. Providence didn’t understand the capabilities of a Land Cruiser. Providence couldn’t grasp my driving skill. Providence was nothing more than a city overrun by sailboats, striped polo shirts, Topsiders and tea parties. I didn’t take stock in my father-in-law’s comments either, who was sitting shotgun and sided with Providence.

“Hey, we gave it an honest try,” said Mike. “Let’s just head home.” But his words only further motivated me. Here was the chance I’d been looking for. Finally prove to my father-in-law – a respected doctor and Navy Captain – that I’m a real man.

No “trail closed” sign was going to discourage me. At the top lay the most sweeping view of Lake Winnipesaukee this side of Route 16, and if getting a little stuck along the way was one of the consequences, then so be it. But never in my life did I think a Land Cruiser could get that stuck.

I backed away from the gate, stomped the accelerator and sent the Cruiser roaring down the fire road in a sheetmetal stampede.

“We’ll find a different way to the top,” I said. Mike looked at me with his calculating yet affable demeanor.

“It’s no big deal, really,” He replied. “We can just go back to the cabin and have an early dinner with the ladies. They’ll be expecting us.”

“Trust me. I’ve been up here before.”

“Okay,” said Mike, grinning with that characteristic gap in his teeth. And from his lips came the hex. “I trust you.”

Unlike my own father, Mike isn’t the type of man argue. He is wise beyond his years, but doesn’t force his wisdom upon others. He kindly voices his opinion, and if you don’t agree with it, he’s just as happy to shut up and hand you the shovel to dig your own grave with. Too bad it’s a proverbial shovel I’m referring to, because we really would have benefited from an actual one.

We were ninety percent of the way there. I remember looking over at Mike and seeing him gasp with fright as we approached a rock the size of a Volkswagen, then breathe a sigh of relief followed by an exhilarated laugh as the Cruiser crawled over it like nothing more than a speed bump. But in the end, like every tragic hero, hubris got the best of me. That cursed hubris. We could have just stopped, walked the remaining ten percent of the trail, and let Mike take in the lush New Hampshire panorama while I basked in the glory of earning his respect. But oh no, there was that one last mud bog my hubris absolutely had to blast through.

I shouldn’t say through, because through suggests that we made it to the other side, which was definitely not the case. Instead, my brother’s beautiful blue Land Cruiser was sitting up to its doors in mud, stuck like an iron beam in dried concrete.

“No problem,” came my confident response. I engaged the lockers and put it in low gear, but it only burrowed the Cruiser even further. “Well that’s not good,” I said in a markedly less confident timbre. “Let’s try taking some air out of the tires.”

I opened the door, but it wouldn’t move more than six inches before hitting a wall of dirt in the narrow, rutted-out trail. So I shimmied out the window, stepped down and felt my legs sink with suction into the mud. Getting air out of tires submerged in repugnant, liquefied earth teeming with blood-parched mosquitoes proved to be futile.

“No problem.” I said. “We can just dig her out. She can’t be that stuck.” My conviction wavered, and Mike was losing faith.

“It’s seventeen hundred,” he said looking at his drab green government-issue watch. “It doesn’t get dark until nineteen hundred. We can probably make it back to the cabin if we hoof it now.” It was sound judgment, but also an opportunity to redeem myself. What if I were to dig us out and save the day? My confidence was rekindled.

“Nah, we’re good. We got two hours of light left.” And then like a broken record, “No problem.” Mike gave that calculating glance once more, and the proverbial shovel came my way.

“Okay, then. Let’s start digging.” But of course, we had nothing that could help extract a two-and-a-half ton monstrosity besides a plastic Wendy’s spoon Mike found between the rear seats. To make matters worse, we had no water, food, flashlight or warm clothing.

I laid down in the mud under the Cruiser frantically digging, clawing and scraping like a man buried alive. Mike searched for wood and rocks we could place under the wheels for added traction. I dug so much my fingernails were packed halfway to the cuticles with dirt and my hands were bleeding. We were in a race against daylight, and with every failed attempt at backing out the Cruiser, daylight was winning. Mike offered up his wisdom for a third time.

“We still have an hour of light left, but we have to leave now.”

“No,” I said rolling pig-headed in mud under the truck. “One more try and she’ll back right out.” Finally, Mike had had enough of my digging – literally and figuratively.

“Seriously. I think it’s time we go.” The only thing worse than failing my father-in-law was abandoning my brother’s new Cruiser deep in the New Hampshire thicket. He would slay me. Besides, it was too far to backtrack. If we were walking out, we’d have to push forward, but I couldn’t remember how much further the trail went.

“She’ll back right out,” I repeated, ignoring his suggestion. And of course, she didn’t. The Cruiser might as well have been bolted to the ground. We weren’t going anywhere.

Darkness washed over the sunken Cruiser, the mosquitoes went to bed and the biting September cold took over. We managed to make a two minute call to our wives before the connection was dropped and our phone died. At least they knew we were still alive – so far. It could be worse, I thought to myself. It could always be worse. At least we were sitting in huge, comfortable leather seats with the engine running to keep us from freezing solid. And how many guys are lucky enough to be stranded in the woods overnight with their father-in-law? This was going to be great, I thought. Quality, bonding time. No distractions like the radio, television, magazines or books. An impromptu camping trip. Just Mike and I, sharing stories and listening to the cacophony of wildlife around us.

Problem was, I seemed to be doing all the talking. Mike was silent. He’d smile pleasantly and nod his head at my stories, but he offered nothing in response. I knew what he was really thinking – his son-in-law was a consummate ass. The type he’d read about in the newspaper and treat in the Emergency Room. The guy whose famous last words were “Hold my beer and watch this.” The guy who starved to death in the woods trying to be Mister Adventure. A mental midget of unbounded proportions. What in the world did his daughter see in me?

I was convinced the clock on the dashboard was broken, as an hour drew out like a day. It was only eight o’clock. We had ten hours to go. My stomach was already a hollow pit of hunger. My throat dried up. My clothes soaked through with stinky, funky mud. It was going to be a long night.

We finally fell asleep around ten, and the next thing I knew Mike was tapping me on the shoulder. Daylight broke through the fogged up windows. It was time to find our way back home. As it turned out, we were only a mile from pavement and only four miles from the cabin. We could have easily made it there before dark, but Mike didn’t once utter those words a consummate ass never wants to hear – I told you so. Instead, as we strolled back to civilization, he just gave me that calculating look. Only this time the affable tinge was gone. Then finally, he spoke to me for the first time in twelve hours.

“Of all the nitwit, numskull maneuvers I’ve witnessed in my life,” Here it came. The painful, unbridled truth. I deserved every slanderous word. “Nothing will ever compare to the time I sunk my father-in-law’s boat trying to prove my worth as a real Navy man.” He doubled over in a convulsion of laughter, its echo thundering through the sleepy valley. He slapped me on the shoulder and spoke between his riotous howls.

“Hubris, son. That cursed hubris.”

After relaunching the BPP site in WordPress, I’ve been getting comments on my first few Musings. But of course, most are ridiculous spam comments which beg only a one word response – Really?

Really? Is my work ‘wonderfully lucid’ and ‘gratifying’? Are you really ‘thirstily’ awaiting my next post? Or did you just cut and paste [...]]]>

After relaunching the BPP site in WordPress, I’ve been getting comments on my first few Musings. But of course, most are ridiculous spam comments which beg only a one word response – Really?

Really? Is my work ‘wonderfully lucid’ and ‘gratifying’? Are you really ‘thirstily’ awaiting my next post? Or did you just cut and paste an entire generic, adverb-riddled comment for the less than microscopic chance of plugging your make-more-money-at-home dot com spam site? Is English even your first language?

Although annoying, some of these comments are entertaining. I’ve posted a few below. And if you are truly reading this for actual comprehension purposes(doubtful) and intend to post your cyber refuse, I ‘thirstily’ recommend you not waste your time with the CTRL C and V buttons. Instead, take that time and off yourself. ‘Substantially’, your life has become nugatory.

——-

From Helpless as a Borrego in Mud:

Simply want to say your article is astonishing. The clearness in your post is simply spectacular and i can assume you are an expert on this subject. Well with your permission allow me to grab your rss feed to keep up to date with forthcoming post. Thanks a million and please keep up the gratifying work.

Ed: Well, I’m glad you find it so astonishing. Getting stuck in the mud isn’t really what I would call astonishing, but I guess for a person with as much intellect as a chalk stick, it might be. But you are correct on one point – I am an expert on the subject of getting stuck in mud.

Substantially, the article is really the greatest on this deserving topic. I fit in with your conclusions and will thirstily look forward to your upcoming updates. Just saying thanks will not just be sufficient, for the wonderful lucidity in your writing. I will directly grab your rss feed to stay abreast of any updates. Good work and much success in your business dealings!

Ed: Substantially, huh? Well, it’s great you insignificantly fit in with my conclusions. Do you also fit in with my conclusion that you’re an unmitigated mental midget? And instead of thirstily awaiting my next post, go quench your thirst by taking a long walk off a short pier. And don’t you dare grab my rss. I don’t swing that way.

Published at CarReview.com

By Kurt Gensheimer

Blings:

Dings:

What happens when poor male judgment meets the Salton Sea. 

By Kurt Gensheimer

There should be a photograph paired to the word “helpless” in Webster’s Dictionary. It should be a photograph of a man, because only men possess both the lack of good judgment and oversupply of bravado to be caught in the situation I’m about [...]]]>

What happens when poor male judgment meets the Salton Sea. 

By Kurt Gensheimer

There should be a photograph paired to the word “helpless” in Webster’s Dictionary. It should be a photograph of a man, because only men possess both the lack of good judgment and oversupply of bravado to be caught in the situation I’m about to describe. The image should be of a spotless, chrome-rimmed, street-bound SUV stuck frame rails deep in mud. Below this photograph, it should read “see knucklehead”.

And the relative feeling of helplessness in said photograph is directly correlated to how derelict the area surrounding the stuck situation is. In my case, it was pretty derelict; it was in Salton City, right on the breathtaking shores of the Salton Sea. Breathtaking not so much due to the mix of sweeping desert and water vistas, but more due to the wafting stench of rotting fish carcasses and bird crap. And I’m not just talking your reasonable amount of carcasses and crap here. We’re talking serious, major league carcasses and crap – so much that the carcasses and crap actually were the two main ingredients besides wet dirt that made up the mud which devoured the 2009 Kia Borrego I was driving. No other word besides helpless could describe this particular situation. Helpless as a sheep, one might say. Or as they call them in Spain, borregos.

All I was trying to do was get a few cool photographs. Honestly. After getting stuck in another mud situation a few years prior with my brother’s Land Cruiser – which came with the added reward of an impromptu overnight car camping adventure with my father-in-law – you’d think I’d know better not to do such a dumb, I mean, male, thing again. I had even scouted the proposed photo shoot area, and on the surface, it was hard and crusty, thanks of course to the fish carcasses. But underneath, oh, underneath, lay the peril. Just like thin ice veils the many leagues of chilling water below, the thin fish carcasses veiled the endless underground sea of green bird poop that the Borrego was about to get stuck in.

And that feeling of helplessness begins to take hold of you when your vehicle goes from casually cruising along to slowly sinking downward like a ship with a hole in it. The process from here goes something like this: The wheels begin to spin. Man stops. Man shifts into Low Range thinking that it gives him more traction and power, and a confident “Don’t worry honey” is communicated to female passenger. Accelerator is applied. Truck sinks deeper. Man has slight look of consternation, and a less reassuring “I got it” is communicated to female. Accelerator is applied some more. Truck sinks even deeper. Now man knows he screwed the pooch, to use the parlance of our times, so he resorts to the most base male instinct; stomp the throttle through the floorboard. The anticipated result is predictable to any reasonable human being, except the knucklehead behind the steering wheel of course.

Thankfully, I wasn’t a rank amateur off-roader, despite my rank amateur situation, so the second the Borrego murked to a halt, I knew I was done for, and doing anything to get unstuck was only going to make the situation worse, so I just turned off the engine and got out. The helplessness sank in at just about the same rate the Borrego sank into the Salton Sea poop soup. But that feeling of helplessness was dramatically accelerated when a local on a Yamaha Rhino went zipping by holding a Coors Light while screaming, “You’re ƒ*©<ing nuts, buddy!” It was at that moment helplessness turned to panic.

No discredit or ill-willed journalism should be borne upon either the Salton Sea or the Borrego. Despite all the bad press the Salton Sea has gotten over the years as the world’s biggest man-made natural disaster, it’s an eerily calm and serene place. A place filled with curious secrets only revealed to those who wander its hundreds of miles of shoreline. A place where millions of birds and fish exist and thrive. A place where you really feel small as a human, especially if you’re dumb enough to get stuck in the mud.

And trust me, it wasn’t due to any offroad shortcomings of the Borrego. I could have been driving a Unimog and it wouldn’t have changed the situation. No bayou-blastin’ big-block 4×4 would have made it out of the carcass and crap concoction that only the Salton Sea can serve up.

I got confirmation on this fact when the Silver Bullet-wielding Rhino guy came by to assess the situation and said, “You’re ƒ*©<ed, buddy. I got my seventy-six Stepside with thirty-five inch mudders stuck in here once. Shee-ooot. Took four trucks to get me out. Two of ‘em got stuck with me and the other two took off looking for a tow truck with a winch. Five-hundred bucks later, I was out. Yep. I’d say you’re pretty well ƒ*©<ed.”

It was now four-o-clock, and the sun set in an hour. We had to be back in San Diego by six to my in-laws for dinner, which by this point was out of the question. I couldn’t bear the thought of telling my father-in-law that I got stuck in mud again. This time over a hundred miles from home, with his daughter, amidst a scary-looking guy who kept telling me my wife was “the pot” – whatever the hell that meant – while simultaneously jabbing me with his elbow and winking. At that moment, I feared the price for our rescue would involve cash and a special favor from my wife. I began to tremble.

Up to that point, the day was terrific. We started at home in Escondido, shot up to the mountain town of Julian for some of the best chicken on the planet at Bailey’s Bar-B-Que, then down to Borrego Springs to check out Galleta Meadows, a tract of private desert land owned by Dennis Avery. Galleta Meadows, which Avery has turned into a shrine of ‘free-standing art’ and a local attraction, features staggering steel sculptures of prehistoric creatures; almost like a post-apocalyptic version of Jurassic Park set in a barren desert landscape. The sculptures are the work of artist-slash-welder Ricardo Breceda of Perris, California, and their detail is painstaking. Hand-hammered sheet metal, rusted to patina perfection, accentuates every sinew, muscle and tendon of Breceda’s Gomphotherium creations.

Afterward, we wandered the sleepy street – because there’s really only one – of ‘downtown’ Borrego Springs, and then headed out to Salton City for a quick drive around the barren, abandoned town which held so much promise in the 1950’s as the next Southern California seaside resort. Although the idea was aborted in the mid-1960’s after it was discovered that the Salton Sea had some serious environmental challenges, the developers had already laid down the entire infrastructure. Roads, sewers and electric lines criss-cross the shores of the Salton Sea in a perfect gridlike formation. There are only two elements missing, houses and people. Even the street signs are there. Streets like Sea Dream Avenue, Treasure Drive and Rivera Circle give a glimpse of what Salton City could have been, but never became.

For my wife and me, it’s one of those eerie attractions we can’t stay away from. Abandoned seaside motor lodges, miles upon miles of empty roads complete with power poles that seemingly stretch into eternity, and of course, the sea, which showcases an abundance of wildlife and some of the most wondrous sunsets you’ll find on this planet. It’s a place you’ll never forget, especially if you’re dumb enough to venture off road.

 The sun was quickly setting, and we were no less stuck than an hour prior. After I had made a pact with Silver Bullet that I’d pay him 80 bucks if he’d get me out – a relative deal of the century considering we were technically ‘off-road’, and the local AAA guy, who, according to Silver Bullet was ‘a complete dick’, apparently charged $500 minimum for any rescue – we sat on the shore in wait for him to go retrieve his Stepside with lots and lots of chain. All I could think was that Silver Bullet was going to yank the rear bumper right off the Borrego, adding injury to insult.

Just then a trail-ready Mitsubishi Montero and Dodge Raider, complete with winches, cruised towards us from the seemingly abandoned mobile home marina about a half-mile away. Following directly on their heels were two smaller vehicles incapable of pulling us out, one of which was a motorized wheelchair scooter-type thingy piloted by an older gentleman in a Bermuda shirt with a straw hat. Although he was incapable of pulling us out, he was fully capable of sitting there simply to heckle me and relish in my moment of utter city-slicker stupidity.

I asked the driver of the Montero – a retired old Salton Sea salt who could have passed for Santa Claus if he headquartered his holiday operations in the Southern California desert – if Silver Bullet had sent him. He said no and pointed to the marina.

“We were up there playing some bocce ball, and we seen ya get stuck, so we figured you needed some help.”

 “You do this a lot, I take it,” was my response.

  “Oh yeah,” he replied as he hooked his winch cable to the back of the Borrego. “Every weekend.”

Salton Santa Claus slowly winched us to safety, with the Borrego suffering no more than a bruised ego and some carcassy crap splattered all over the shiny chrome wheels. I handed Santa a crisp Jackson and jumped into the Borrego to make tracks before Silver Bullet came back. But alas, as we were pulling out, Silver Bullet came roaring down the road in his Stepside.

 “Aw damn, they got you out already,” exclaimed Silver Bullet with a look of dismay. “I’d a yanked your ass right outta there, you know,” as he pointed to the pile of chain in the back.

 To diffuse any potential confrontation, I handed Silver Bullet a twenty for his troubles as well. He was appreciative and shook my hand.

 “Now you know, man. Now you know.”

  “Sure do,” I responded. “I’ll never do this again.” Silver Bullet roared.

 “Yeah right, buddy! You’re a guy. Don’t bet on it!” Silver Bullet dropped the Stepside into first and left me choking on a cloud of Salton Sea dust, which is far more agreeable than the mud.