alex chiang: web 6.0

Today, from the “Alex’s pet peeves file”, I bring you a thought that has been bugging me for a while that I figure I’d share with you, because as they say, misery (or annoyance) loves company.

Anyone who’s used a public restroom lately has probably seen the slightly newish no-touch paper towel dispensers, wherein you wave your hand in front of the sensor and it feeds out a patch of dead tree with which to dry your hands. Auto-hand dryers have been around forever, touchless faucets too, and at work, they recently installed a soap dispenser that automatically squirts goopy glycerin product into your paws.

So why is it, that in our Lysol-sponsored-germ-free-autoclave-jr-hypochondriac’s-wet-dream world do all of these Stanley-Kubrick-meets-Douglas-Coupland-(with-a-touch-of-Ridley-Scott)-touch-free bathrooms have a PULL HANDLE on the door to exit?

Either omit the door completely (like in airports), add an automatic door (like a supermarket if you have mind of a dullard or like in Star Trek if Tina Fey is your dream date), or maybe just get rid of all the stupid half-assed touch-free appliances whose benefit is entirely nullified when Jim Bob Jimmy Joe John Jimmy James drops a gigantor deucer and gropes, paws, and molests the door handle as he rushes out to complete his loser trifecta bet on Pie in the Sky, I Hate Poor People, and Hoof Harted, without ever even once contemplating washing his grubby mitts.

Anything else is just wankery.

(click above picture to see entire photoset)

As always, my favorite holiday of the year is Tour de Fat. Hands down, the most fun day of the year — insane bikes, insane costumes, and beer. What more could you want?

I started this year off as a Canadian — denim shirt, denim jacket, tight (women’s) jeans (size 8), cowboy hat, and boots — aka, the Candian tuxedo. Had it not been for the 90+ degree weather, the outfit might have worked. As it was, I ended up stripping down to just the jeans, hat, and boots, looking very homoerotic. The new costume was “Ang Lee, filming on set”.

The day was extra special, due to the fact that New Belgium was trying to break the world’s record for largest bike parade. The old number was around 1900 or so, which we crushed, weighing in at about 4500. Assuming the number gets validated, it infinitely increases the number of world records that I hold.

TreeHugger reports on a study from the Texas Transportation Institute, stating that the average American will spend almost a full work week in traffic (38 hours) over the course of a year. Note that this number is not the time spent commuting, but extra time on top of an existing commute. A followup post tells us that people are waking up earlier to beat the traffic as well (15 million Americans out the door before 6 AM).

I remember my high school days when my dad was commuting from Randolph, NJ to Conshohocken, PA. For those of you who are not going to click that link, Google Maps says, “89.8 mi – about 2 hours 3 mins”.

Holy Christ.

Also kinda explains why me and pops didn’t get along so well in those days. Ingredients: one smart-ass, rebellious son + old-school disciplinarian who was commuting FOUR FUCKING HOURS per day = perpetual motion machine fueled by screaming and hate. Of course, in the event that we ever build a time machine, one of the many lessons that future Alex plans on giving to past Alex is to realize that least past, punk-ass Alex could have done was to cut his pops a break. Sorry about that, Dad. Also, don’t worry about chicks, past Alex, because the future will play much more to your strengths (intelligence, wit, money) rather than your weaknesses (short, band camp attending, Asian math nerd guy).

In any case, perhaps some of those memories (and let’s face it, my inherent Asian cheapness) explains my extreme aversion to driving. Total daily bike commute: 60 minutes (and 0 minutes spent in traffic). Doesn’t matter what time of the morning I leave; it’s totally a function of distance (and wind velocity).

This holier-than-thou, self-congratulatory, “I wish he would shut up and choke” retrospective brought to you by Tegan and Sara.

I received my Social Security statement in the mail recently, and it tells me that over the course of my working career (11 years), my employers and I have donated $24,428 each, for a total of $48,856 to Social Security. We’ve also donated a combined $11,412 to Medicare.

I don’t really begrudge the less fortunate a safety net. Maybe we can debate where the line should be drawn, or how the system is actually implemented in our country, but all things considered, the idea of a safety net is a good one.

Of course, glancing at my statement, I also don’t feel the need to donate to private charities. I’ve already given around $60k, thanks, with much more to come in the future. Note that I do donate to various 501(3)(c) organizations whose missions I agree with and believe in, but I wouldn’t really call them charities.

Popular Mechanics has a hokey list of 25 things every man should be able to do.

I scored 20/25 for things that I am absolutely certain I could do (with skill).

Of course, because I am a man, I am also absolutely certain that if I were called upon to perform the other 5 things on the list, I would charge forward and perform those actions confidently and decisively as if I knew exactly what I was doing (doing it correctly is a different story).

Thus the paradox of the man test — you either get a perfect manly score due to your extreme and overbearing overconfidence, or you are not a man because you doubt yourself, you skirt-wearing sally.

How many of my loyal readers are men? (Note: you don’t actually have to be a man to be a man; being a man is 100% attitude and 98% jock strap size, meaning a woman could theoretically score 100% on the man scale. Do not worry about the emasculation of our gender, though, as I have achieved the perfect score of 198%.) On the other hand, if you’re not a man, you would be too cowardly to let the rest of the world know. Thus, if you have ever read my blog and do not affirm your manhood by posting a comment, I can only assume you are a woman. Sorry.

This post has been brought to you by James Westfall and Dr. Kenneth Noisewater.

As seen in a flame on lkml:

I won’t tell you further, I know you know it, you were just playing the dumb.

I love globish.

Colin Powell has long been one of my heroes, mostly due to his pragmatism when it comes to real world issues. Here’s a great interview with Colin in GQ magazine with him. I started reading it, kinda nodding along, as he wasn’t really covering any new ground for me, even when he says something insightful like:

We are taking too much counsel of our fears. [...] Yes, there are a few dangerous nuts in Brooklyn and New Jersey who want to blow up Kennedy Airport and Fort Dix. These are dangerous criminals, and we must deal with them. But come on, this is not a threat to our survival! The only thing that can really destroy us is us. We shouldn’t do it to ourselves, and we shouldn’t use fear for political purposes—scaring people to death so they will vote for you, or scaring people to death so that we create a terror-industrial complex.

But what really blew me away was when he said:

Q: Would you really bet on a country that feels it necessary to censor Google?

A: China will not be censoring Google forever, and most Chinese teenagers know how to go to proxy servers, anyway. The Chinese leaders know they can’t block full access to the Internet forever, but they’re trying to control it.

In an interview where he talks about what went wrong in Iraq and exporting Jeffersonian democracy and reforming the middle east, he also goes and throws off a one-liner about proxy servers! My hero for life.

Colin Powell is in ur internets, accessing ur blocked seitz!

… Almost.

I have one more to attend (Cousin Paul in Tampa in October), but for now, my three consecutive weekends of weddings has finally come to a close. Thank $DEITY. All that travel was getting old.

A few pics can be seen here:

• wedding collection

You’ll notice that there are fewer pictures taken each week, which is a good indication of my dwindling life force.