Sour Taste

Was chatting to my insurance guy the other day, and the result of said discussion was that as far as my VW Tiguan is concerned, I’m screwed if I ever get into a wreck because the book value of the 2013 model with 130,000+ miles is in the single-figure thousands.

This would be barely enough for a deposit on a “new” (i.e. second-hand) replacement, assuming I could even find one in acceptable condition — mine is near-perfect because I look after my cars, and it has the “leatherette” seats which are like hen’s teeth in this model.  (I’m a huge fan of the Tiggy because I’ve owned two, consecutively, and neither ever gave me any trouble, for a total of 210,000 miles.)

And to continue on the math of the thing, a $5,000 deposit would result in a $450+ monthly car payment, which I can’t afford #CrappyCashFlow.

So I’m stuck with what I’ve got, and the only thing I’ve got going for me is that a month’s total driving tops out at about 200 miles.  Had I not done Uber for a couple years, the mileage would now stand at about 40,000 miles, but I had no option in the matter (did I already mention #CrappyCashFlow?).

Anyway, I’ll just have to be careful out there, as a wise TV cop once said.

But there is an advantage to not having a modern — i.e. 2015+ — model, in that the electronics of the Tiguan are minuscule:  no keyless entry, no mapping software or any of that jive.  In fact, other than electric windows and -rearview mirrors, it’s about as electronics-free as one could imagine:  no seat “memory”, no “touchless trunk-closer”, none of any of those apparently-must-have “features” which are now common in cars nowadays.  Hell, my Tiggy doesn’t even have an Event Data Recorder (EDR) chip installed (that came after the 2014 model year).

This non-modernism is a real advantage when it comes to dealing with bastardy of this nature:

In a world where privacy is becoming increasingly elusive, drivers are facing an invisible foe that could be costing them money. A New York Times report details how automakers are sharing information on driving habits with insurance companies which can have a harmful impact on people’s wallets.

Insurance companies have “offered incentives to people who install dongles in their cars or download smartphone apps that monitor their driving, including how much they drive, how fast they take corners, how hard they hit the brakes and whether they speed.”

Car companies have established relationships with insurance companies, so that if drivers want to sign up for what’s called usage-based insurance — where rates are set based on monitoring of their driving habits — it’s easy to collect that data wirelessly from their cars.

But in other instances, something much sneakier has happened. Modern cars are internet-enabled, allowing access to services like navigation, roadside assistance and car apps that drivers can connect to their vehicles to locate them or unlock them remotely. In recent years, automakers, including G.M., Honda, Kia and Hyundai, have started offering optional features in their connected-car apps that rate people’s driving. Some drivers may not realize that, if they turn on these features, the car companies then give information about how they drive to data brokers like LexisNexis.

Here’s the thing:  I am one of the world’s most careful drivers;  in fifty-odd years of driving, I’ve had two wrecks of any consequence (and none at all in the past forty years) and two — count ’em, two — speeding tickets (both for doing less than 50 in a 40mph zone).  That’s it.

So if anyone would qualify for a lower insurance premium, assuming that I’d agree to let my insurance company snoop on my driving, it would be me.

But I’ll see them all burn in hell before I agree to this bullshit.  Fuck these assholes, fuck their Big Brother snooping, and fuck any car company who goes along with this foulness.  I’ll stick with my old ‘un, thankee:

No wonder ol’ Fred’s smiling.  He doesn’t have to put up with all this bullshit.

Dead Horse, Beating Of

In this case, the dead horse would be me — or rather, my plans to fly on that fucking Oz airline to their poxy country.  But that’s not what this latest breathless missive is about, oh no:

Hi Kim,

This month, I have some exciting news to share about the investments we’re making to improve your experience with us.

Firstly, our new A220s took to the skies last week. Featuring sleek new comfortable interiors, they offer a more sustainable way to fly across Australia and beyond. We’ve also improved the Qantas App so you can now track your checked baggage on any Qantas operated flight.

This is just the start of the investments and improvements we’re making, and I look forward to keeping you updated.

“Digital Officer”, hey?  Then you’ll have no problem interpreting this digital signal, then:

I’m so glad that Qantarse is getting all those shiny new planes which make flying more “sustainable” (do they even realize how full of shit they sound?), as opposed to simply “more economical”.

It’s just too bad that I’m never going to sit in one.

Back when I was in the customer loyalty business, I remember setting targets as to how often we would try to entice a customer to shop with us — as I recall, after four or five fruitless attempts, we’d give it up as a lost cause.

I’m curious to see how long it will take OzAir to come to that conclusion with me.

Time To Step Up

I hardly ever drink Coca-Cola anymore… no big reason, I just seem to have lost the taste for its battery-acid sweetness.

One of my biggest eye-openers was when I bought a Coke in the Cape Verde Islands back in 1986, and could hardly finish the can.  You see, I’d always thought that Coke was a universal flavor, no matter where you bought it.  Nu-uh.  The super-sweet formula of South African Coke was nothing like the Belgian (?) Coke sold on Ilha Do Sal (yes, the Coke was bottled in Brussels, according to the legend on the can).

Anyway, that was my first exposure to the battery-acid burn of regular Coca-Cola, and once I got used to it, I drank it as much as I had back in Seffrica… until I stopped.  Maybe it was the switch from cane sugar to corn sugar — there is a difference, and I can, or could tell it, even in blind taste tests back when I used to do such things.

Anyway, my Coke consumption is now about… I dunno, maybe a few cans a year, and usually only when I can’t think what else to drink.  We keep maybe a 6-pack in the house, mostly in case visitors might want some, and when it’s gone I don’t exactly rush to restock it in the garage fridge.

That may have to change.  You see, Coca-Cola is now apparently a Zionist drink, according to these fucking loons, who have resorted to damaging stores — even very popular ones — who sell the stuff.  All this because Coke has a distribution center on Israel’s West Bank, and the Pals think that the WB is theirs and Israel is The Great Invader / Colonizer or something, I can’t be bothered to keep up with whatever is riling them up these days.

Were I in charge of such things at Coca-Cola, I’d close the operation in the West Bank and move it to, I dunno, somewhere outside Tel Aviv — thus causing the Arab workers in the WB plant to lose their jobs along the way.  But that’s just me.

Take the time, however, to read the article linked, because unusually for the Daily Mail, it’s a sound piece of actual journalism as used to be commonplace but is no longer.

The British “Friends of al-Aqsa” organization is, like the American Council for Islamic Relations (CAIR), one of those festering pustules in Western society who, while being all about keeping relationships friendly with their host societies, are in fact nothing more than terrorsymps who, if they had their way, would impose Shari’a law in a heartbeat.

Wait a minute, Kim, I hear you say, calling them “terrorsymps” is a little harsh.

Really?  Attacking a store and its owner just for stocking Coca-Cola, and causing him to stop selling it — terrorism isn’t just blowing up buildings and flying airliners into skyscrapers, you know.  And this kind of thing happens everywhere — everywhere — when the Muslim population of country reaches even as little as 5% of the total.  (And Bradford, where the above bullshit happened, has a Muslim population which — forget that piddly 5% — is closer to 30% of the area’s total.  Small wonder that they can rampage around at will for the slightest excuse, such as a store having the temerity to sell Coca-Cola.)

Frankly, I’d have no problem at all with putting an asterisk in our own First Amendment which says in effect “except for Islam and its practitioners”.

But I can’t do that, of course, so I think I’ll just put on my yarmulka and go buy a case of Coke.  Because fuck ’em.

Shootin’ Time

Try this little bit of fuckery on for size:

“I came out at the end of a funeral service. I saw the traffic warden there, and he got his little pad out to start ticketing us, and I said ‘you’ve got to be joking’. I said ‘we’re only going to be 10-15 minutes more, can you just go for a walk round the block?’ He said ‘no’. I said, ‘have a bit of compassion, this is a funeral.’ And he started remonstrating with me.”

And then when someone, overcome with grief, snaps and starts killing these pathetic little officials, it’s the gun’s fault.

 

Losing Character

I’ve ranted so often about shitty architecture on these pages that one might be forgiven for thinking that I’d be sick of it by now.

Silly rabbit.

Here’s the latest example of foulness:

Residents living next to one of the most expensive houses in Britain have blasted the home as a ‘monstrosity’.
The newbuild, in the exclusive London suburb of Chelsea, has been nicknamed ‘Gucci House’ by appalled neighbours because of its ‘gaudy’ appearance.
The ‘ugly’ mansion occupies land that was formerly a school playground and has a dark grey exterior and imposing metal gates outside.

The exclusive street is the oldest in Chelsea, dating back to at least 1566.

I know, it looks like a wart on a pretty girl’s face — not, mind you, that London residential architecture is anything like a pretty girl’s face:  it’s dated, and occasionally quite horrible — but whatever, it’s what gives London its character.

As to why some rich fuck and his equally-fucky architect would want to lessen or destroy that character, I leave it to you to decide.  But speaking of that architect, here’s a quote which describes the process perfectly:

Original architects, Gumuchdjian, describe the property as surrounding a garden courtyard with an entrance that echoes the Parisian Hotel Particular.

Okay, let’s just nip this little turd-piece in the bud.

There’s no such thing as the Parisian Hotel Particular — it’s not a specific building, so it shouldn’t be capitalized.  The hotel particulier  is a style of building, and denotes a grand townhouse.  Here’s a typical example of said style, in Paris:

To even suggest that this London carbuncle resembles the above is mendacity in the Clinton Class.

And here’s the final word on this catastrophe, from a neighbor:

‘My house has survived The Blitz, it was built in the 1780s, they’re not building to match the heritage of the area. It’s like vandalism. How can the council approve this when it doesn’t match the other ones?’

Here’s a clue:

The house changed hands just last year and according to data from the Land Registry, the price tag of £73.2million was 209 times the average house price last year which was £350,396.

When a house costs about $100 million, a hundred thou or so to the right councilor or planning authority is small change.

Just sayin’.