May 28, 2013

Fuel, air, and spark

“Fuel, air, and spark are all it needs to run. Which one isn’t it getting?” was something my dad would say when we’d confront a car that wouldn’t start. It’s an oversimplification, but an excellent starting point. From here, you start checking if enough air is getting in (usually is). You might pull a spark plug and see crank it over while grounding against the engine block to see if it sparks. Or make sure you do indeed have gasoline, and then check if the fuel pump is functioning. I’ve successfully used the formula to get my old motorcycle going by discovering a spark plug cable was shorting out, meaning no spark inside the cylinder, where I need it.

Recently, my girlfriend’s Honda was having some problems. Subtle problems, like the check engine light intermittently coming on and occasional hesitations. It was a thorn in her side, so needless to say it was a thorn in mine, too. I looked around for any obvious problems and found none of the usual suspects. The spark plugs had a lot of soot on them, figured I might as well change them. Despite shiny new plugs, the problem remained and this did not impress the lady friend.


Rather than considering myself a shitty mechanic, I imagine myself as House, the tortured, pill popping, TV doctor who tries to figure out what’s wrong with people. Engines aren’t so different from people-they take in fuel (air and gas vs air, water, and food in humans) and produce work. Still, there’s a lot of complicated things going on inside that we don’t see.


The fuel we run on needs to be balanced. For humans, this means that the insulin and blood sugar levels need to be, as Goldilocks said, “just right”. Gasoline engines are the same. In fact, the stoichiometric ratio that an engine likes is 14.7 parts air to 1 part fuel. This is pretty precise, and if it’s off be even a little, it usually becomes apparent. On top of that, on car engines with 4-8 cylinders, it should be the exact same between all the different cylinders.


Let’s go back to 1947, when the Japanese economy was in reconstruction after WWII. The U.S. was still occupying the islands, and sent over an expert in statistics and planning named W. Edwards Deming to help. The gist of Deming’s story in Japan is that he helped institute a practice known as “statistical process control” which helped Japanese manufacturers improve the precision of their output. By improving precision, they could cut down on cost by making consistently making fewer mistakes that needed rework. Statistical process control had not yet gained wide acceptance in the U.S., so it was a novel move for Japanese manufacturers. In fact, it wasn’t until the 1980’s that Deming began to be recognized as an expert in the U.S.. Meanwhile, the precision and quality of Japanese products skyrocketed. By the early 1970’s, Japanese car makers used this newfound ability to create engines that both used less gas and lowered emissions. When the oil crisis of 1973 struck, new fuel efficiency regulations were imposed and American car companies were caught with their pants down. They couldn’t make small engines that balanced both fuel economy and power. As a result, the American car consumers flocked to buy the Japanese brands, and Detroit has been in decline since. Kaizen is a Japanese word that describes a philosophy of continuous improvement in business, engineering, or manufacturing. Japanese car makers have taken it to heart and continue to lead the pack in regards to quality. This is all well and good for my girlfriend and her Honda. Unfortunately for me, I drive a German car.

While my dad’s assertion that “all an engine needs is air, gas, and spark” is still correct, it doesn’t tell me how much each of those it needs. Learning the stoichiometric ratio needed doesn’t really help me either, as I don’t have the tools to measure what the engine is getting anyway. We gave up and took it to a dealer, who suggested checking the valve clearances, luckily not exploratory open thoracic surgery. With adjustments as small as one or two thousandths of an inch, things were back as they came from the Honda factory within a few hours. And yup, the check engine light has stayed off. The subtle, precise balance of air to fuel across the 4 cylinders has been restored. House brilliantly saved another patient. And my girlfriend has finally stopped bitching about her car.

May 24, 2013

Boom-loading Hay without Medical Insurance


Thomas, a pseudonymous friend of mine from the military, found himself a job driving a semi-truck full of hay after his enlistment ended. He invited me on a trip to eastern Washington to move a double trailer over Snoqualmie Pass to our neck of the woods near the Puget Sound, a 24-hour trip with a night in the truck cabin. Even though he would only be paying me with dinner, I went along.


I admitted to some reservations before we left. “I’m probably really allergic to hay. I grew up next to a hay field and I was always miserable on days they harvested it.”


“What kind are you allergic to? The first trailer is alfalfa, the second is Timothy.”


Hay fact one: there are different kinds of hay. If you’re allergic, try stacking different kinds in the same day to find out how miserable the right kind can make you.

About nine hours after coffee, we were in a field next to our haystack, waiting for our loader. Thomas doesn’t just drive the truck, he also loads it, usually with just one other person. The air in rural eastern Washington has that agrarian scent to it I usually only experience driving past fields on the freeway. The rich smell is good enough to make up for the smells of cattle shit and diesel exhaust that frequently punctuate it.

Thomas, like many hay-throwing Catholic war veterans, has a conservative bent. “The healthcare system is already too easy to abuse. This stupid reform only makes it worse, more of a burden. There should at least be mandatory co-pays or something to keep the ERs from getting clogged. Everyone needs to be covered for life, limb, or eyesight...but my taxes shouldn’t pay for the whole system. It’s full of people that don’t need medical attention beyond a head-examination.”

“I’d rather everyone get taken care of instead anyone getting overlooked.”

“Me too...unless it collapses the economy.”

Our loader, Ryan, showed up and gave me a quick introduction to throwing hay. “Let the hay do the work for you. When I send a bale to you, just control it while it falls into place.” This is not an exact quote. It is nearly that simple, though. Ryan operated the loader by holding a rope in each hand. With what looked like minimal effort, he could manipulate the rope holding the weight of the hay and the rope controlling the speed of the boom and move a bale within about a foot of where it needed to be.

Hay fact two: hay bales are not perfect rectangular cuboids. Four faces of the bale are held together with twine, two are not; of these two sides, one has been cut by the baling machine and is slightly larger. When stacking bales, the larger “cut” side is faced outward. The edges have to be lined up manually. The bales are laid down in alternating patterns like any good Lego construction, and the whole pile leans in on itself. This is how you can stack hay 10 feet high and hold it down with just four ratchet straps.

“Uh, be careful where you step,” Thomas warned me when I sank up to my knee between two bales. “You can break your leg doing that. Or fall off.” The first trailer of alfalfa practically stacked itself. We left the open field, shirtless and covered in hay dust, for a covered haystack to load the Timothy.

Alfalfa
Hay fact three: I’m allergic as fuck to Timothy. I was hoarse, snotty, swollen, itchy, and miserable by the time we neared completion. It had started getting dark, even on the west side of the truck. My vision was understandably blurry.

“You really need to watch where you’re stepping. Those bales near the edge can fall off,” Ryan said from the ground as I sank again near the front of the trailer. I steadied myself and looked down to straighten the bale, then stared at the nauseating 12-foot drop into the coupler connecting the two trailers.

“Yeah, I really don’t want to break my neck, or I’d drown in snot before you got me to the hospital.”

Thomas was stacking the final layer of hay on his side of the truck. “Don’t worry, if you fall, Obama will catch you. Then the taxpayer will cover your clumsy ass.”

“Well, I couldn’t pay for it. Who should? The client? Ryan? The hospital?” We finished and climbed down the hay boom to the ground. Three tired rednecks surrounded by $17 bales, and none of us could pay for a broken neck.
Ryan ignored our ignorant discussion. “Well, you’re not as fast as my 14-year old, but if you’re not careful, you might just get yourself hired.”

“Hope you guys don’t drug test.”

Creative Commons License

Here is a video of some very fast boom-loaders. I had no idea there were competitions. This is from the “1989 Rural Olympics”. Watch the whole thing, I dare you.

May 14, 2013

I'm a Fucking Scatterbrain

 I started writing this bullshit about the weather and decided I got really fucking bored with it. It's fucking nice and hot out and that's the bottom fucking line. It's hard to be in a bad mood. I'm on little more than 3 hours of sleep and the day appears to be dragging on. Fuck it.

There's a new open mic tonight I'm pretty fucking pumped about and I'm going to New York for 9 days starting Friday.

I can't focus on anything and I'm still not sure if it's for lack of sleep or coffee intake. It's certainly a combination of both but I don't know which is tipping the scales more.

Anyway it'd been a while since I wrote anything here and this shit is dope so I figured I'd throw something down. I haven't been to any Juggalo parties or anything so life is obviously too fucking lame to comment on. I did think of an extremely hacky joke about 15 minutes ago and I came to write it down before catching myself.

If this is entertaining at all to read, please send $1 to Happy Dude, 742 Evergreen Terrace...you too can be happy. Oh fuck. Yeah. I took some fucking pseudoephedrine too. That could be part of this crazy train headtrip I'm on. That shit's no joke, son. Allergies should be long gone by now. It's fully fucking summer. What's the deal? What the fuck could I possibly be allergic to? The fucking sun? My own existence?

Allergies are the biggest negative in my life right now. That I want to post about here.

Here's the thing. If you're always saying, "I always really wanted to..."--fucking stop. Get on with it. If you wanna learn to play guitar you won't learn a fucking thing by not picking up a guitar. I don't know why I just got on this inspirational shit line but today is the fucking day to punch your boss in the dick and go on a road trip.

Change. Of. Fucking. Scenery. We all fucking need it and most of us don't get it in this stupid slave society. Your career is stupid and so are your work buddies.

Oh, I saw a fucking burning car last night and that shit was crrrraaaaazy. This fuckin hooptie was parked right up against this garage wall and the entire front end area was ablaze. It was pretty rad. Anyway I'll close out this retard posting with that.

Shotgun a beer, tear some shit up. It's too nice out not to. Fucking finito.