censorship as counterproductivity
May. 12th, 2003 08:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragonlady7I just opened up my web browser to start writing this post, and guess what-- with our new internet-filters-to-keep-us-slackers-from-maybe-having-too-much-fun, I can no longer access... guess which page. Just think. You're a business owner who thinks your employees are spending too much time online. Your webmaster, by the way, is right smack in the middle of optimizing your precious website for the search engines. Which page should you block her from viewing?
That's right...
Google.
They've fucking blocked Google.
Good Jesus, there are more retards in the world than there are competent humans.
ARGH.
Anyhow. I had meant to post quickly about my weekend in Buffalo. But then last night happened and I think I'll talk about Buffalo once I recover.
See, last night, about 15 miles from home, we learned a hard lesson: Even the Prius can run out of gas.
So we drove nearly 900 miles this weekend. The trip back was about 400. 360 miles into that, we take a wrong turn on 17 near where it intersects the Palisades Parkway. We had intended to avoid Tappan Zee traffic by taking the Bear Mtn Bridge. To do that, you go from 17 onto the little northern spur of the Palisades Parkway, which takes you across the bridge. The gas light dings; we need more gas. Shit. We're in the middle of nowhere. Oh well, we'll get some near the bridge. We should have like another 40 miles with this tank; it's a fuel-efficient car and we know it will go pretty far after the ding.
Whoops, there was a fork in the highway and Dave took the wrong one. I can't find the route number of the new road we're on on the map (it's not even dark yet, we got such an early start on the drive, so we're doing really well, but there's just no 293 on our shitty map). So we turn around. Soon there's an exit for the Palisades Parkway. Good, that's what we need.
After 20 minutes (during which the fuel light's blinking makes me nervous, but we're in the middle of nowhere and the bridge should be soon. I think there's a gas station near it. Maybe.) Dave says "we should've crossed the bridge 10 minutes ago. We're going the wrong way on the Parkway."
Shit.
Well, we'll take it down to the Tappan Zee.
God dammit.
Well, there are more gas stations near there. Maybe we'll see one.
So we reconcile ourself to TZB traffic, and settle in.
Ding. You're now OUT of fuel, please stop the car immediately.
FUCK.
We coast off the exit and to an intersection. No gas station. Shit. The car's still running fine, but it cannot operate the electric engine for long off of only battery power. We make a wild guess at the intersection and turn right. There HAS to be a fucking gas station somewhere. Somewhere. We're in the middle of nowhere and it's pouring. It's like 6 pm so it's starting to get dusky. And there's no gas station. And the car is getting sluggish and it's going to die soon. God damn it. God FUCKING damn it.
So we pull off into a park & ride parking lot, and turn the car off. If the battery gets drained, bad things can happen. We don't want that. If we shut it off now, it'll start again when we put gas into it. Maybe. Probably.
So we get out and look around. There's a garden shop across the street. Closed. A house-- lights are off. Another garden center. (It becomes apparent in the next hour that the ONLY commercial establishments in Ramapo are garden centers / nurseries / tree thingies / places to get plants and produce. And that's IT.)
But along from the Park and Ride, there's a little park, with an office. And a light is on in one of the windows. We go over to it, shivering in the rain. A man is inside. We go inside. He's the Information desk. So we ask him where the nearest gas station is. He points helpfully; it's like a mile or so up the road that way at the intersection of 202 and 45. My car won't make it a mile, Dave tells me, and we glumly bid the man farewell and trudge outside. I briefly consider running back to the car to put on jeans and sneakers instead of my sandals and shorts, but decide I'll probably live.
Suffice to say that the distance was considerably more than a mile.
I got a blister on my foot from my sandals. I would've been fine but my shoes got full of gritty mud and water, so my skin was softened and then abraded. So that sucked.
It was very rainy and my hair got soaked, and I couldn't see through my glasses.
There wasn't a gas station at the next big corner, but there was a sign that said we were on 45, and the intersection with 202 was ahead.
Finally we stopped at a house to ask if there was a gas station ahead. It was getting dark. The house had three cars in the driveway and several lights on. But nobody answered the doorbell.
We went across the street to a garden center. It was closed. We crossed its parking lot to a house full of apartments. No doorbells. I went through an open door onto a porch and knocked on the inside door, timidly. A man answered the door. He came outside and lit a cigarette and reassured me that the gas station was up ahead, less than a mile, can't miss it, and if it was closed, there was another one just around the corner from it. Sniffling, we thanked him, and he went back inside. I wrung out my hair and pulled myself together (i was quite wet and miserable) and Dave gave me a hug and we continued up the hill. A car pulled over a ways in front of us, and we wondered whether it might be stopping to help us. But just as we got up to it, it put its other blinker on and merged back out into the traffic that throughout this entire adventure had been whizzing by us two feet to our left (yes, we were walking on the wrong side of the road; there wasn't a sidewalk on either side, but the road was too busy to cross anyway, so we walked in the ditch) with neither pauses nor swerves to avoid the draggled rats on the shoulder.
So, not one person stopped to help us. I probably wouldn't have either; I don't tend to stop for pedestrians when I'm driving alone, especially if they outnumber me.
There was eventually a gas station. It was, indeed, closed. But, there was another one further along. It was open. We went in, bought a gas can, bought two and a half gallons of gas, and called a cab. It was dark now. If we tried to walk back along that road, we would get hit by one of the oversided SUVs speeding along it. It just wasn't feasible.
So we got in the cab, and the guy asked us if the dispatcher had told us what the fare would be. No, we answered. OK, he said. Great, I thought. Shenanigans.
So we drove back to the car, the cabbie occasionally exclaiming over the fact that we'd actually walked this. It was a very busy road, I've mentioned, and there was no sidewalk. We would have been in serious danger of getting killed if we'd walked it in the dark. Dave was wearing light colors, but the only light thing on me was my bare legs. (My jacket's bright blue but after dark it looks dark gray. Not high-visibility.)
The cabbie helped us get the gas into the car, and waited until we started it. (He couldn't hear the engine when it was started, and was astonished when Dave jumped out and said "sounds fine!") Then we asked him how much we owed him. "Whatever you think's fair," he said.
Man... You gotta give him a bunch of money. Dave said how's $10 sound (it costs $10 to get from Journal Square PATH station to southern Jersey City, which is a far greater distance than the probably 2 miles we'd just gone, with much worse traffic), and the guy shrugged and sounded glum, "Sure, whatever." So we gave him $12, which was all Dave had in his wallet. I mean, sure. I know that was more than the fare would've been. But I have no idea how much more. He fiddled with a gas can and we gave him stuff to wash his hands with. Yes he was nice but it was kinda bare minimum... so we thanked him profusely and he rolled up his window and drove away. We got back in the car and shivered a bit. The battery was low but not critically low. So we drove off in search of a different gas station, and Dave told me I'd have to take a hot bubble bath, and he'd read me a story and feed me hot tea. I was feeling delicate, blistered, and teary, so I told him he was a sweetheart and while he got gas, I washed and wiped the rain-speckly windows and cleaned the gasoline off the side of the car where it had spilled from the shitty leaky gas can.
The crisis, of course, had arisen because the car was heavily laden. We had a lot of stuff in it, especially because we'd been to Wegman's, and we'd had air conditioning on until it had suddenly gotten cold and we put the heat on. So the car was averaging only about 39 miles to the gallon. It usually averages 45. And, as we found out on foot, 6 miles is a damn long way. It took us well over an hour to walk to that gas station. I still don't know how far away it was, but I know it takes me 45 minutes to walk a mile and a half to work. And there are some very steep hills on that walk. So I don't know how far it was. But it was far.
In short, it sucked.
And now T's sanctimoniously informed me that the filters are important and necessary and it's just a damned shame that there's no better way to solve our problems.
Oh there so fucking are better ways; we're just too fucking cheap and lazy to use them.
That's right...
Google.
They've fucking blocked Google.
Good Jesus, there are more retards in the world than there are competent humans.
ARGH.
Anyhow. I had meant to post quickly about my weekend in Buffalo. But then last night happened and I think I'll talk about Buffalo once I recover.
See, last night, about 15 miles from home, we learned a hard lesson: Even the Prius can run out of gas.
So we drove nearly 900 miles this weekend. The trip back was about 400. 360 miles into that, we take a wrong turn on 17 near where it intersects the Palisades Parkway. We had intended to avoid Tappan Zee traffic by taking the Bear Mtn Bridge. To do that, you go from 17 onto the little northern spur of the Palisades Parkway, which takes you across the bridge. The gas light dings; we need more gas. Shit. We're in the middle of nowhere. Oh well, we'll get some near the bridge. We should have like another 40 miles with this tank; it's a fuel-efficient car and we know it will go pretty far after the ding.
Whoops, there was a fork in the highway and Dave took the wrong one. I can't find the route number of the new road we're on on the map (it's not even dark yet, we got such an early start on the drive, so we're doing really well, but there's just no 293 on our shitty map). So we turn around. Soon there's an exit for the Palisades Parkway. Good, that's what we need.
After 20 minutes (during which the fuel light's blinking makes me nervous, but we're in the middle of nowhere and the bridge should be soon. I think there's a gas station near it. Maybe.) Dave says "we should've crossed the bridge 10 minutes ago. We're going the wrong way on the Parkway."
Shit.
Well, we'll take it down to the Tappan Zee.
God dammit.
Well, there are more gas stations near there. Maybe we'll see one.
So we reconcile ourself to TZB traffic, and settle in.
Ding. You're now OUT of fuel, please stop the car immediately.
FUCK.
We coast off the exit and to an intersection. No gas station. Shit. The car's still running fine, but it cannot operate the electric engine for long off of only battery power. We make a wild guess at the intersection and turn right. There HAS to be a fucking gas station somewhere. Somewhere. We're in the middle of nowhere and it's pouring. It's like 6 pm so it's starting to get dusky. And there's no gas station. And the car is getting sluggish and it's going to die soon. God damn it. God FUCKING damn it.
So we pull off into a park & ride parking lot, and turn the car off. If the battery gets drained, bad things can happen. We don't want that. If we shut it off now, it'll start again when we put gas into it. Maybe. Probably.
So we get out and look around. There's a garden shop across the street. Closed. A house-- lights are off. Another garden center. (It becomes apparent in the next hour that the ONLY commercial establishments in Ramapo are garden centers / nurseries / tree thingies / places to get plants and produce. And that's IT.)
But along from the Park and Ride, there's a little park, with an office. And a light is on in one of the windows. We go over to it, shivering in the rain. A man is inside. We go inside. He's the Information desk. So we ask him where the nearest gas station is. He points helpfully; it's like a mile or so up the road that way at the intersection of 202 and 45. My car won't make it a mile, Dave tells me, and we glumly bid the man farewell and trudge outside. I briefly consider running back to the car to put on jeans and sneakers instead of my sandals and shorts, but decide I'll probably live.
Suffice to say that the distance was considerably more than a mile.
I got a blister on my foot from my sandals. I would've been fine but my shoes got full of gritty mud and water, so my skin was softened and then abraded. So that sucked.
It was very rainy and my hair got soaked, and I couldn't see through my glasses.
There wasn't a gas station at the next big corner, but there was a sign that said we were on 45, and the intersection with 202 was ahead.
Finally we stopped at a house to ask if there was a gas station ahead. It was getting dark. The house had three cars in the driveway and several lights on. But nobody answered the doorbell.
We went across the street to a garden center. It was closed. We crossed its parking lot to a house full of apartments. No doorbells. I went through an open door onto a porch and knocked on the inside door, timidly. A man answered the door. He came outside and lit a cigarette and reassured me that the gas station was up ahead, less than a mile, can't miss it, and if it was closed, there was another one just around the corner from it. Sniffling, we thanked him, and he went back inside. I wrung out my hair and pulled myself together (i was quite wet and miserable) and Dave gave me a hug and we continued up the hill. A car pulled over a ways in front of us, and we wondered whether it might be stopping to help us. But just as we got up to it, it put its other blinker on and merged back out into the traffic that throughout this entire adventure had been whizzing by us two feet to our left (yes, we were walking on the wrong side of the road; there wasn't a sidewalk on either side, but the road was too busy to cross anyway, so we walked in the ditch) with neither pauses nor swerves to avoid the draggled rats on the shoulder.
So, not one person stopped to help us. I probably wouldn't have either; I don't tend to stop for pedestrians when I'm driving alone, especially if they outnumber me.
There was eventually a gas station. It was, indeed, closed. But, there was another one further along. It was open. We went in, bought a gas can, bought two and a half gallons of gas, and called a cab. It was dark now. If we tried to walk back along that road, we would get hit by one of the oversided SUVs speeding along it. It just wasn't feasible.
So we got in the cab, and the guy asked us if the dispatcher had told us what the fare would be. No, we answered. OK, he said. Great, I thought. Shenanigans.
So we drove back to the car, the cabbie occasionally exclaiming over the fact that we'd actually walked this. It was a very busy road, I've mentioned, and there was no sidewalk. We would have been in serious danger of getting killed if we'd walked it in the dark. Dave was wearing light colors, but the only light thing on me was my bare legs. (My jacket's bright blue but after dark it looks dark gray. Not high-visibility.)
The cabbie helped us get the gas into the car, and waited until we started it. (He couldn't hear the engine when it was started, and was astonished when Dave jumped out and said "sounds fine!") Then we asked him how much we owed him. "Whatever you think's fair," he said.
Man... You gotta give him a bunch of money. Dave said how's $10 sound (it costs $10 to get from Journal Square PATH station to southern Jersey City, which is a far greater distance than the probably 2 miles we'd just gone, with much worse traffic), and the guy shrugged and sounded glum, "Sure, whatever." So we gave him $12, which was all Dave had in his wallet. I mean, sure. I know that was more than the fare would've been. But I have no idea how much more. He fiddled with a gas can and we gave him stuff to wash his hands with. Yes he was nice but it was kinda bare minimum... so we thanked him profusely and he rolled up his window and drove away. We got back in the car and shivered a bit. The battery was low but not critically low. So we drove off in search of a different gas station, and Dave told me I'd have to take a hot bubble bath, and he'd read me a story and feed me hot tea. I was feeling delicate, blistered, and teary, so I told him he was a sweetheart and while he got gas, I washed and wiped the rain-speckly windows and cleaned the gasoline off the side of the car where it had spilled from the shitty leaky gas can.
The crisis, of course, had arisen because the car was heavily laden. We had a lot of stuff in it, especially because we'd been to Wegman's, and we'd had air conditioning on until it had suddenly gotten cold and we put the heat on. So the car was averaging only about 39 miles to the gallon. It usually averages 45. And, as we found out on foot, 6 miles is a damn long way. It took us well over an hour to walk to that gas station. I still don't know how far away it was, but I know it takes me 45 minutes to walk a mile and a half to work. And there are some very steep hills on that walk. So I don't know how far it was. But it was far.
In short, it sucked.
And now T's sanctimoniously informed me that the filters are important and necessary and it's just a damned shame that there's no better way to solve our problems.
Oh there so fucking are better ways; we're just too fucking cheap and lazy to use them.
