I Love It When a Paint Job Comes Together

Or when it almost comes together, at least. I knew that diagonal stripe was going to give me problems, and boy howdy did it. I attempted to mask the model, but that strategy didn't pay off this time. 

Altogether, though, this looks pretty good on the table and should be a fun component to future 7TV games. 
 

Validating Our Worst Selves

As sometimes happens, I had a pretty lousy week (by the standards of my particular forms of privilege). I missed a day of work, the news was getting me down, I'd accidentally inconvenienced a couple of people, I wasn't getting much sleep, I had no drive to accomplish household tasks--the sorts of problems that really should be taken in stride. Instead, by Thursday I'd worked myself into a state of fierce self-loathing. 

Today I felt much better, thanks almost entirely to simply cuddling with Sylvia through Thursday night. As we drove to pick up groceries today, I made light of my maudlin mood of the days prior, mocking myself by saying things like "Oh, I've been so mean to people over the years" and "I've been a complete idiot so much of my life" and "I've accomplished nothing." I said it in a tone that tried to suggest I knew such feelings were silly, but Sylvia saw through me, as usual. She admitted that she sometimes felt that way too, but then she said something that hit me like a bombshell: 

"Why do our negative thoughts get all our internal attention and validation?" 

Yes! Why? All my life I've validated my worst feelings about myself while at the same time dismissing or devaluing the positive assessments of other people. I'm not alone in this. 

I wonder what percentage of human beings validate their bad feelings about themselves, and what percentage enjoy a healthier, more balanced view--not narcissistic, but a view that accepts their good and bad qualities without feeling undue self-loathing or overweening pride. Furthermore, I wonder that genetic traits or environmental conditions make the difference between mental health and depression and other disorders. 

I've written a few times about how much I loathed my first job after graduating from the University of Alberta: driving a truck full of automotive parts to different garages on the south and west sides of Edmonton. I had that job for three years, applying for other jobs all the while, and the longer I was there the more I began to believe that I'd never do better. (To give myself some credit, I recognized, even as an ignorant twentysomething, the inherent value of any job that in some way helped the community; I didn't feel as though I was "above" the job, just that it didn't suit my interests or skills.) 

For several months of this three-year period, I was living with my parents and commuting to Edmonton with Dad. After one particularly rough day, I confessed to Dad that I thought there must be something wrong with me because even after years of trying, nobody wanted to hire me. (I'd gotten the truck driving job thanks to Dad.) 

"Earl, that's bullshit," Dad said forcefully, startling me a little. "You're a very smart kid, but these are tough conditions. It won't be long before you find something much better suited to all the things you can do." 

Dad's no-nonsense clarity helped quite a bit that day, and he was right; it wasn't long before I moved on to better things, though not without some amusing misadventures. 

Sylvia's question today has helped me realize that I need to investigate why I've given so much weight to the ways I've failed other people, the ways I've failed to live up to my expectations of myself, the ways I've hurt others--almost always unintentionally--and yet, NOT always unintentionally, and when you hurt someone, what do your intentions matter anyway? 

This is turning into a screed, so I'll conclude with this: If you've ever had feelings like mine, I hope you'll give yourself a break. Believe people when they say nice things about you; don't devalue their judgement or support. I'm going to do my best to take my own advice. 

Black Interceptor

I kitbashed this one a little bit to give it a rough, home-brewed, asymmetrical look. I may add some rust and grime effects later. 

Pristine Interceptor

Just to try something different, I painted this interceptor model with a small selection of metallic speed paints. These act more like washes than paints, somehow making application easier and paradoxically more exacting at the same time. As you can see here, I'm having a little trouble keeping the paints looking smooth, even though it's so very thin. Some parts of the model look better than others, though, which leads me to think I just haven't been patient enough; maybe some spots need a few more thin coats to even out those rough patches. 
 

Ho-Hum Humvee

Well, this didn't turn out at all. I tried applying four shades of red at various stages to give this 28mm Humvee a weathered, realistic look. Unfortunately, I have a vaguely monotone mess that looks nothing like what I envisioned. But if I don't experiment, I'll never get better, so I guess this counts as a successful failure. 

Batmobile in Miniature

Should I be lucky to live long enough to enjoy a post-scarcity society, I'll definitely replicate a 1960s Batmobile to tool around in. Sylvia says she would refuse to ride with me, though. 

My Machines Keep Speaking

Tonight I travelled to an unfamiliar location, so I used my smartphone's navigation application to guide me to my destination. While gradually rounding the northwest portion of Anthony Henday Drive, the app suddenly blurted, "There is a speed camera ahead."

Like Pavlov's dog reacting to the dinner bell, I instinctively tapped my brakes and looked down at my speedometer, even though I already knew I'd used cruise control to set it to 100 km/h, the speed limit on that road. I was in no danger of being ticketed, even without the warning.

For a moment, I wondered if Apple had started building photo radar into their phones, but then I realized that there are probably fixed speed cameras that wind up in the navigational data of the app. Until tonight, I hadn't imagined that fixed speed cameras were a thing, but there are fixed red light cameras, so why not? 

Reflections on an Ancient Ambulance

Photograph, 1993. 

Two Cars

Photograph, 1988. 

Clutch Time

While travelling with Mom on Monday morning, she commented on the near-pristine shape of our car, a 2012 Kia Sportage with standard transmission.

"Did you get a clutch put in?" she asked.

I was puzzled. "Didn't it...come with one?"

"Yes, Earl," she explained patiently. "I mean, have you had it replaced yet? It's usually the first thing to go."

Ohhhh. I got it. The answer was no. 

Cloudbusted

Personalized junk mail! Nice try, Kia West Edmonton, but no, I'm not trading in my car for the sake of having a newer model. I will drive it until it wears out. 

Whither Gas Stations?

Earlier this morning I had my car filled with gas at Domo, one of the few service station chains that still employs people that pump gas and wipe your windows. While I was waiting for the fill-up to end, I couldn't help but imagine the days of gas stations with any employees at all will probably come to an end within the next decade or so. There's no technological barrier to eliminating employees entirely; we can already pay by debit or credit to unlock the pump, and if there really is a market for service, we must be pretty close to developing a robot arm that can flick open your fuelling port, twist off the cap, insert the spout and start pumping gas into your tank. When electric stations become commonplace, I imagine automatic fuelling will be even easier; just drive your car atop a charge pad, wave your debit or credit card in the general direction of the scanner, and you're done.

I had some trouble finding out how many gas station attendants remain in Canada; according to Service Canada, there are 2,800 in Quebec. I'm not going to do the math, but maybe that amounts to about 10,000 spread across the country, assuming each province and territory have roughly the same number of gas station attendants per capita.

Imagine you're camping in a national park a few years from now, and you notice your car is just about out of energy. You won't need to worry; you can just tell it to go charge up at the nearest station. Maybe the station will even pop your trunk and fill it with snacks, all without human intervention.

Of course, when all the jobs are being done by robots and software, few of us will be able to afford luxuries such as camping trips, vehicles and food, unless of course we decide, as a civilization, that we need to look at new paradigms to address the overwhelming wave of change that's breaking across us right now. What a time to be alive...on the cusp of utopia or cataclysm. 

Sudden (Near) Impact

Had the timing changed by a bare second last night, I might not be writing this today. 

Shortly after midnight, I was driving south on 178th, heading across the bridge over the Yellowhead. My driver-side window was rolled down so I could enjoy the warm summer night; I was listening to one of the many variations of the Mission: Impossible theme on my phone. 

I was moving at the speed limit, 60 kph, on a very fresh green light. I took note of a semi heading north, the only other traffic in my immediate vicinity; he moved into the opposite left-turn lane. 

Since I had the right-of-way, I naturally assumed he would stop to let me proceed. Instead, he moved into the intersection like he hadn't seen me at all. 

Earlier in the evening, the guys were explaining to Colin's son Avery that I cursed only under very specific conditions, and rarely. Last night gave me a new reason to bark a profane oath. 

"HOLLLYYYYY SHIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTTT," I cried as I threw the car out of gear and stomped on the brake pedal harder than I've ever done before. The car's nose pitched downward so steeply that I thought my bumper was going to touch asphalt. There was a scream of protesting rubber, and I think that's what finally alerted the semi driver, who also slammed on his brakes. His cab bucked up and down violently. 

We came to rest in perfect time with the final two notes of the Mission: Impossible theme. I'd applied my brakes perhaps two or three metres before the stop line; my car came to a halt perhaps a quarter of the way into the intersection. The semi was about halfway through. My left front corner was about two metres away from his right front corner. That sounds like a long way, but had our reactions been delayed by even an instant, the outcome would have been very different. 

In silence, three or four seconds passed. The semi driver gave me a sheepish wave of apology; I waved back that I was okay. The light was still green; there was nothing more to do but proceed. 

It was the closest call I've experienced in many years. I feel grateful to be alive today, and particularly grateful to my Kia's brakes, which performed with spectacular, life-saving aplomb. 

Everything you are and everyone and everything you love can be taken away in an instant. Last night reminded me to relish every second. 

She's Got Bette Avis Eyes

I spotted this on the west side of Edmonton this afternoon. Amusing. 

Carmudgeon

I do my best to drive defensively, though like any other driver I make mistakes due to distractions, fatigue, incomplete planning and the occasional bad judgment call.

So it puzzles me when many of the drivers around me speed through construction zones as if they don't see the signs at all. The phenomenon is especially bad on Highway 2 between Edmonton and Leduc; there's been an 80 km/h construction zone in place there for months, and yet I daresay most drivers barrel through at speeds between 100 and 130 km/h.

I honestly don't understand this behaviour. If it were one or two drivers, I could chalk it up to fatigue or distraction. But when it's almost everyone, I start to wonder if somehow I'm in the wrong, if I've missed some important secret driving rule. Is there ever a time when it's okay to race through construction zones as if they don't exist? What am I missing? 

A Mountain in Montana

On a trip through Montana in 1983, while visiting this landmark, we were redirected on our way out of the parking lot by Secret Service agents protecting then Vice-President George H.W. Bush. It was a little surreal. The family's green Ford station wagon can be seen behind Dad. 

Prairie Valley of Death

Felt marker on post-it note, 2015. 

"TOO CLOSE"

On the drive home yesterday it occurred to me that given advances in proximity detection technology, it should be relatively easy for car manufacturers to devise a new safety feature for vehicles. I envision a "TOO CLOSE" sign installed on the rear of vehicles which would light up when another vehicle, approaching from behind, breaches safe stopping distance. You'd need a computer to calculate speeds, of course, but it seems like this could be doable. I wonder if this is a good idea, or if there are factors I'm not considering that would make it unsafe or unfeasible? 

Classic Car-Fuffle

Over the weekend Alberta Premier Jim Prentice found himself a sweet ride at a car auction down in Arizona. In the face of sub-$50 oil and warnings of public service cuts, some progressive folks are arguing that this sends the wrong message to Albertans, that it shows Prentice is just another member of the privileged 1 percent and that his wealth insulates him from the sacrifices he may very shortly ask public sector workers to make.

I don't disagree. As a pretty left wing guy, it seems wrong that some can afford to pay tens of thousands of dollars for fancy toys while others struggle to make ends meet.

But I also understand that I'm as guilty as Prentice, in a sense. After a couple of decades of hard work I'm not poor anymore (I never really was, compared to many), and over the years I, too have spent thousands of dollars on fancy toys - movies, books, Lego, computer games, board games. (On the other hand, I'm not in a position to impoverish others with drastic public spending cuts.)

My point is this: while progressives are free to criticize Prentice for spoiling himself while mulling over actions that could harm tens of thousands, that criticism is more likely to harm the progressive cause than help it. Because deep down, most people want to believe that they, too, might be in a position one day to spoil themselves. Even if you're not a fan of classic cars, nearly everyone has their own share of materialistic desires - the nice house, the rare postage stamp, the around-the-world vacation. Most of us have been programmed to sympathize with Prentice. I know for a fact that I have several family members who would have loved to buy the car Prentice purchased. They're not feeling envy - they're feeling "Good for him. He works hard, he can buy what he wants with his own money."

The amount of money counts, too. Given the exchange rate and taxes and fees, Prentice's purchase will probably only cost him around $75,000 dollars. That's only three times the amount Sylvia and I spent on our last new vehicle. It's a figure that's only just out of reach to a lot of folks in rich (yes, we're still rich) Alberta. Buying a car like this doesn't distance Prentice from ordinary Albertans, because a lot of ordinary Albertans are very well off.

When progressives chide Prentice for spending a few tens of thousands of dollars, we're the ones who seem out of touch. If we ever want to change the government in Alberta, we can't afford to appear petty or jealous. We're better off fighting to protect public institutions and holding the Conservatives accountable for their many years of mismanagement. 

Earl Trek Into Darkness

I left work at five this evening, prepared for a long, slow, stressful commute, which Edmonton delivered in spades. After about a half hour I'd managed to make it from 105 street to 124 street, cars all around me, most of them wanting to make the same desperate turn at Stony Plain Road I hoped to take. 

Suddenly, sirens crowed behind me. A fire engine was driving against the oncoming traffic, its lights forcing cars to give way. Serendipitiously, I happened to be parked at one of the few gaps in the long windrows, meaning that if I wanted to, I could stealthily pull in behind the fire engine and travel rapidly north on 124 street in its wake, bypassing traffic with none the wiser and perhaps shaving a half hour from my commute. 

Of course that would be a ridiculously irresponsible thing to do, not to mention selfish, so I resisted temptation. I wonder what sort of fine that kind of driving would get you?