Pumpkin Spice

It's not everyday you park next to an orange Lotus Elise  

 

  Pirate Press            November 2023  

 

 

 

At the end of July, Victoria had her first collegiate-level dance competition in Tuscaloosa. So, as a lifelong University of Alabama fan I was excited to finally see the campus there. Over her high school dance career, we'd already visited both Mississippi State in Starkville and University of Southern Mississippi in Hattiesburg. 

 

Amazingly, when I mapped out the distance we drove to Starkville in 2019 versus the route to Tuscaloosa, it was only separated by one singular mile. But for whatever reason, the jaunt to State seemed so much longer. Despite that, the first two hours are an identical slog up Hwy 45 through such strangely named small towns as Buckatunna and Shubuta. From Meridian onward, it's a combination of I-20 and I-59 for the remaining 100 miles into Tuscaloosa. 

 

Weirdly enough, we'd driven the 85 miles to Tuscaloosa from Starkville before, but it was for the express purpose of dining at the Chuy's restaurant there. We never toured the campus or even saw the stadium. However, the Tuscaloosa Chuy's closed down just 4 months after we ate there, so we sadly wouldn't get the opportunity to do it again.

 

Instead, lunch was at Rama Jama's, a Roll Tide-devoted dive that's to Crimson Tide fans what Graceland is to Elvis enthusiasts. As we pulled up, I noticed that it was just as popular with the locals as it was with tourists— vehicles from Louisiana, Texas and Oklahoma competed with regional ones for the few parking spaces available.

 

 

Luckily, we made it right before the lunch rush and the customers were a mix of families and campus residents. The young girl taking our order seemed like she could also be a student but was surprisingly unenthusiastic which was rather shocking given the otherwise upbeat vibe in the restaurant. There was some sort of novelty champagne bottles being consumed and several tables were letting it flow freely. However, each time a loud pop accompanied a bottle being opened there was an audible knee-jerk reaction from Amanda and some of the other patrons. Sadly, random school shootings are no laughing matter and our current crazed society requires constant vigilance. 

 

Fortunately, the most dangerous thing I saw there was the $22 National Champs BLT sandwich which consisted of 18 strips of bacon (one for each National Championship), on 3 slices of Texas Toast with double lettuce and tomato. I'm confident I could have taken it down but I knew we would be driving into Birmingham later to eat at Chuy's so I wanted to save my appetite for that. Instead, I opted for the large Cheeseburger and fries while Amanda ordered the Fried Green Tomato BLT with a fried Peach Pie. My burger was nothing special, but Amanda raved about the BLT and said the Peach Pie was even better than the one she had eaten at The Varsity in Atlanta.

 

                     

 

Afterwards, we made our way down the main drag, Paul W. Bryant Drive, and marveled at how calm and quiet everything was. With a coverage of 72 square miles and a population of 100K, Tuscaloosa certainly dwarfed the other college towns like Hattiesburg and Starkville. 

Further down, we stopped at a huge University of Alabama Supply Store to see if any of the merchandise appealed to us. Of course, there were all the usual items with the Crimson "A" or elephant mascot on them, but not nearly the amount of "Bear" Bryant or Nick Saban paraphernalia that I'd been warned about. I can remember the fervor over the Bear Bryant Coke bottles in the early 80s, and I even found a couple of them in my parents' attic when I cleaned it out in 2016. Unfortunately, over three decades of heat and humidity conspired to turn the soda a frothy green color that definitely didn't look safe to consume.

 

I was tempted to buy something but with Victoria attending Perkinston Junior College for two years and then planning on going to USM for the last two, it didn't make much sense (financial or otherwise) to sport any Alabama apparel.

 

But it was when we walked out to my car that I got the shock of the weekend. There, parked beside it was a bright orange Lotus Elise. Naturally, it was striking, but it nonetheless reminded me how unusual the Lotus brand is and that is occupies a very strange segment in the automotive universe.  

 

For starters, I've always felt that Lotus is the most "non-exotic" exotic car ever built. After all, for a couple decades it was saddled with a four-cylinder despite competing with twelve-cylinder Ferraris and Lambos. But it's sheer rarity and unusual styling means that it is often mistaken for much more expensive machinery. Upon sharing the photo with both my daughter and a long-time Pirate Press reader, both pegged it incorrectly as a McLaren. However, I did give them credit for recognizing the British ancestry as Lotus and McLaren each hail from England. 

 

I distinctly remember the first time I saw a Lotus and it coincided with my first James Bond movie, The Spy Who Loved Me. Of course, at eight years old I didn't understand the significance of the brand, only that a car that turned into a submarine (and back again) was something I'd never seen before. And it would be five years later before I'd witness another sports car submerged. However, this time it would be unintentional and by a very young Tom Cruise in Risky Business. 

 

1976 was the first year for the Lotus Esprit and it produced a decidedly unimpressive 160hp from a naturally aspirated 2-liter four-cylinder. In comparison, it's closest contender at the time, a Porsche 911, made 200hp. 

 

Eleven years later, I'd see my first Esprit in person as in the late 1980s New Orleans actually had it's own authorized Lotus dealership. By then, the engine had grown 10% to displace a full 2.2-liters and a turbocharger had been added to give it a more competitive 215hp.          

 

The Elise pictured here debuted twenty years after the Esprit and is the Lotus most likely to be spotted in daily driving. It certainly looks exotic, but a Toyota powertrain and a Corvette resale price makes it a lot more common than a real purebred like a Ferrari or McLaren.

 

If you remember the 2000 Celica GT-S than you're familiar with the 1.8-liter four-banger in the 2005 Elise that squeezes out a miserly 190hp and 133tq— an amount that is clearly not supercar territory. That's not a typo, the 1976 Esprit actually makes more torque than this 2005 model!

 

Reliability-wise, I'd personally have been a nervous wreck (no pun intended) driving a nearly 20 year-old Lotus the 800 miles from Hopkins County, Missouri to Tuscaloosa, Alabama. And even assuming you made it in one piece, the nearest Lotus dealer is still another three hours away in Atlanta. However, my biggest gripe wouldn't be the possibility of breaking down, but the space-saver 10-gallon fuel tank, which with an optimistic EPA rating of 22 mpg, would require four separate fuel stops on such a trip.  

 

Smaller than even a Miata, it also begs the question of how any semblance of luggage and personal possessions were transported across four states? I know when we helped Victoria move to Perk, we filled up her Kia Forte, her cousin's Toyota Tacoma and my Ford Fusion, each from floor to ceiling. 

 

Funny enough, as we were leaving I noticed a stunning young woman walking across the street. She looked like a model who had just stepped out of a Cosmopolitan feature, with perfectly-styled hair, dark sunglasses and a flowing dress. I muttered to Amanda that there was no way she was getting into that cramped Lotus that was barely sitting 4 inches off the ground! I desperately craned my neck around searching for a Range Rover or some other high-end SUV that seemed like something she'd drive. 

 

Sure enough, she approached it and opened the passenger door to drop her purchases in the seat. Not wanting to appear as some pervert stalking her, I nonetheless stole a quick glance inside the Lotus and was surprised to see a mess of papers and other items littering the interior and footwell. In a perfect world, I'd love to have gotten her thoughts on the livability of the Lotus but a lot of factors (read: wife) conspired to prevent that. Obviously, Amanda wouldn't appreciate me chatting up a strange blonde in a sports car and it foiled my efforts to inquire if she needed a Sugar Daddy?

 

Also, the "BTMOBL" tag seems to suggest that it's an abbreviation of "Batmobile" hinting at the Caped Crusader's personal vehicle. I take exception to this as the orange color and fish-eyed countenance strongly suggests "Aquaman" if we're associating it with superheroes. And an "AQUAMAN" tag would be perfect for the submarine-diving Lotus Esprit in "The Spy Who Loved Me." 

 

It's also not very often that I park beside an exotic car and am able to boast about having a more powerful engine. I believe the last time was in October 2021 when I spotted an Acura NSX. However, the lilliputian Lotus is accustomed to doing more with less and it's still slightly faster given a weight (1,975 lbs) that sounds like a birth year instead of the tonnage of a full-sized car. In comparison, my Fusion weighs almost double that! 

 

However, I can say with complete conviction that I would not have enjoyed driving the Lotus three hours to Tuscaloosa. And by that I mean my wife would not have enjoyed riding in the Lotus three hours to Tuscaloosa. With the cramped space, noisy drone from the engine and lack of modern amenities, she would have been (ahem!) very vocal about her discomfort. 

 

As such, it was probably better that we took the Fusion, particularly for the hour drive into Birmingham. Of course, we had no idea that it was a Tax-Free Weekend so The Summit had become a traffic-snarled hellscape straight out of a Stephen King novel. It honestly looked like the city's entire population of 200,000 had all tried to cram into that shopping center and it created an entrance and exit choke-hold of biblical proportions. 

 

It also didn't help that everyone wanted to eat at Chuy's because with a 600-ft elevation, the view of the Appalachians in the distance is stunning, particularly at sunset. And while it's certainly the most scenic restaurant at The Summit, I'd also wager that it offers the prettiest vista of all 100 Chuy's restaurants in seventeen states! 

 

As we patiently waited, one pretentious woman clad head-to-toe in Lululemon marched up to the hostess stand with her husband and two young kids in tow. She obviously expected to be seated immediately and was furious when informed of the 1.5 hour delay. Clearly, she was used to getting her way and was completely unprepared to handle the rejection. Trying to save face in front of all the patrons and employees, she spun around and dragged her husband and children out the door muttering under her breath that such an extended wait was "ridiculous!" I laughed and told Amanda that she should have just sucked it up because any decent place on a Saturday night was going to have a similar backlog and the longer she held off, the worse it would be.   

 

And being late July, we wisely opted for an inside table to avoid the stifling heat. Of course, it meant forgoing a patio spot with an amazing view, but the temp would have made it unbearable. Nonetheless, Amanda and I were seated at a massive booth large enough to accommodate six or seven adults. The gesture was appreciated, but seemed unusual given the lengthy waiting list of families who needed it much more than we did. Personally, I would have been fine with two chairs at the bar. 

 

After dinner, we made our way back to the hotel which was from a brand we had never patronized before. Billed as "SureStay by Best Western"  I was initially turned-off by the "Best Western" name as I've always viewed that economy hotel chain as a place where I'd rather pay more to stay somewhere else. However, when I researched the SureStay brand I discovered that it follows the contemporary template of upmarket collections by big hotel companies such as Marriott's Autograph and Hilton’s Curio. In essence, it's a separate "white label" offering that operates independently from Best Western. Typically, properties that are selected for the SureStay group are individual entities that have carved out their own personal niche, but would benefit from the resources and more favorable commercial advantages afforded by partnering with a major hotel platform. 

Indeed, our "boutique" lodging boasted a unique and appealing colonial architecture that looked like something I'd expect in Virginia or along the Northeastern seaboard, not rural Alabama. Inside, the furnishings were similarly eclectic, with a faux brick partition acting as a divider in our suite. I reminded Amanda that it recalled our hotel in Times Square in which I opened our curtains expecting a beautiful view of Central Park only to be greeted by the unappealing visage of a brick wall.

 

 

 

 

That questionable styling aesthetic aside, our "SureStay" was comfortable and affordable which made it ideal for a getaway weekend in Tuscaloosa. And although we furiously looked all weekend, we never once spotted Nick Saban driving his new 2023 Ferrari Portofino M. You see, Saban is an investor in the new Prancing Horse of Nashville, the only authorized Ferrari dealership in Tennessee. That's because after signing a $93 million contract last year, he clearly needs a side hustle to earn extra money.

With that kind of transportation enhancement fund, I can certainly think of several different Ferraris that would be at the top of my shopping list, but the one he chose would certainly not be. Don't get me wrong— the Portofino is a fine Ferrari, but it is the entry-level model and is in one of the most uninspiring colors possible: a drab, dishwater grey somewhere between Grigio Titanio Metall and Grigio Silverstone. It's almost as if he took the least desirable Ferrari they had, perhaps because it was at a very attractive price. I mean, who buys a grey convertible as their first new Ferrari, particularly if you're the coach of the Crimson Tide? He will never live down not getting it in a Scarlett color like Rosso Barchetta, the color of my 360.

Regardless, it's 612hp twin-turbo V8 spits it to 60 mph faster than he can yell "Roll Tide!" and it corners quicker than his 72 year-old reaction time. And judging by the photos of it below at Tuscaloosa National Airport, it looks like he could seriously use some parking lessons. However, he recently admitted to being very superstitious about it and claimed on The Pat McAfee Show that he only drives it on Wednesdays and if it's not raining. Finally, Ferrari has gotten so soft about coddling it's clients that one of the Portofino's new features is a neck warmer, which I suppose speaks volumes about it's  septuagenarian demographic like Saban. The press release states that the neck warmer "offers a choice of three heat levels and the system constantly adapts the speed of the warm air flow from the headrest to ensure it is proportional to the car’s speed, outside temperature and the position of the retractable top." Somehow, it just feels wrong even including "Neck Warmer" and "Ferrari" in the same sentence, unless you're referring to something manly like the mid-engine V8 catching on fire 🔥 which I suppose would definitely raise the temperature on your neck. Until then, if Saban wants frivolous things like a neck warmer, he should stick to the Mercedes he hawks at his dealership in Irondale. 

Lastly, it's sad to acknowledge that Lotus, which was originally created by Englishman Colin Chapman in 1952, has now split it's ownership between Chinese Multinational Geely and Malaysian business tycoon, Syed Mokhtar Albukhary. Whomever said "politics makes strange bedfellows" has obviously never seen the bizarre roster of owners Lotus has had in it's 70+ years, which also includes brief stints with GM and Bugatti. 

As of now, the Lotus Eletre is the first offspring from that peculiar Pan-Asian conglomerate. It flies in the face of every principal Colin Chapman set forward with Lotus as it's too big, too heavy, possesses 4 doors and runs solely on electricity. Even more aspirational, Geely claims that by 2028 the entire Lotus lineup will be electric and they will be selling 100,000 cars annually. Supposedly, they will all be built at a plant in Wuhan (Yes, that Wuhan!🦇) and it's pretty far-fetched when a good year for Lotus is churning out 4,000 vehicles, but I suppose stranger things have happened.

As for the new Eletre, I bet Nick Saban is wondering if it has a neck warmer?    

 

 

Red Line Sunset

I get a rare chance to relive the past.  

 

  Pirate Press            September 2023  

The John Grisham of Russian Readership*

No matter how long I live, I don't think I'll ever fully understand (or anticipate) the curve balls that life tends to throw at us. 

CASE IN POINT: Earlier this Summer, I spotted my old 2006 Saturn Ion Red Line at a nearby gas station. I watched it come and go and had that familiar twinge of regret, wondering if selling it three years ago was a mistake? I recounted the experience to my wife, underscoring how surreal it felt to hear it speed away from the ears of a bystander instead of the ears of the owner. Yet, it somehow sounded buzzy and not at all like the deep, baritone growl that I remembered. I've heard of viewing memories through rose colored glasses but I wondered if that also applies to ears as well as eyes? Like, do things even sound different than how you recall them?

 

And if I could do it all over again would I still sell it?

 

I last chronicled my Red Line in 2017, when it rolled over 100,000 miles. In 2020, I ditched it after I bought the Fusion, justifying the sale by pointing out how many items needed replacing and how that would have handily exceed the value of the car. Essentially, I'd be investing way more into it than it was worth, so I took the pragmatic approach and sold it. In short order, it needed: a new transmission, new clutch and new tires, or roughly $5000 in parts and labor for a vehicle with a book value of $2000. And given that it still had all original parts, I knew that eventually the a/c compressor, starter, fuel pump and water pump would fail.

 

But, I wasn't reunited with the Red Line by mere happenstance. No, it was an otherwise, ordinary Saturday and Amanda and I were headed to Ocean Springs to pick up some special Adidas for Victoria's Perkette Training Camp. We'd encountered one of those odd, afternoon thunder storms where it was raining and sunny at the same time. During that strange weather occurrence, I've often heard people remark that "The Devil's beating his wife." Now, having the inquisitive (and some might say warped) mind that I do, I naturally was curious about the origins of that expression. Typically, aged aphorisms are usually somewhat logical but I couldn't wrap my head around that one so I went looking for the genesis of the declaration I've been hearing all my life.

Upon further research, I found out that it can actually be traced back to Greek mythology circa 700 B.C. Not surprisingly, even that far back the phrase originated due to a woman's jealousy, proving that couples have been fighting ever since Eve got us kicked out of Eden. According to the fable, Zeus tricked Hera into believing he was marrying someone else and in a fit of jealousy she created a heavy downpour on the wedding day. However, Hera soon discovered the ruse and quickly turned her tears into laughter, creating the clash of rain and sunshine.

 

It's little wonder that other cultures around the world have adopted similar stories to explain the unusual phenomenon with people in Spain referring to it as "The Witches are combing their hair." In Estonia, it's described as "Orphans' Tears", where the sun is the grandmother drying those tears. And in Germany they proclaim it as "A Feast Day in Hell." Finally, Hawaii calls it "Ghost Rain" which sounds like an Anime anthology.

 

But, I digress. 

However, my point being that the pavement was wet from this sunshower when a vehicle approached an intersection in front of us. Apparently confused, they stopped, pulled out, and then stopped again with me barreling down on them at 60+ mph. I hit the brakes and felt the ABS kick in, but it made little difference on the slick pavement. 

 

There was a split-second realization that we were going to hit them, but as funny as it sounds, I wasn't concerned for my safety. I never doubted that the Fusion wouldn't protect us as were were wearing our seat belts and were surrounded by air bags. No, I was angry because I knew the insurance company would total the Fusion and I wouldn't get anything even remotely close to its value for the pittance of a payout I'd receive. 

However, the story doesn't end there.

At the proverbial last second, the stationary vehicle abruptly accelerated and just managed to move out of our way as we narrowly missed it. Disaster averted, I exhaled and reflected on how lucky we were. But a few miles down the road, the battery light suddenly came on and it seemed we'd exchanged one automotive problem for another. 

 

In the 12-month ownership report of the Fusion I discussed replacing the battery, so I knew it was barely two years old and shouldn't be having any issues. Despite that, we got off at an exit and I doubled-back to the nearest AutoZone to have it checked. Unfortunately, they weren't much help as the employee insisted that I had to turn the vehicle off and I refused given that I knew I might not get it started again. Ironically, their portable jump-box wasn't charged either so I left without a complete diagnosis. 

On the drive back home, the Fusion's condition deteriorated rapidly with an array of dashboard lights that strobed frighteningly at me. I tried to keep my eyes on the road, but I distinctly remember both the "ABS" and "Traction Control" symbols as well as some others I'd never seen before (and didn't recognize). Acceleration became more erratic and it wouldn't shift out of fourth gear resulting in a deafening drone of 4500 rpm at 60 mph. Of course, my Sport model does have the manual "SelectShift" option, but I was concerned that trying to physically upshift or downshift might cause further damage and the last thing I wanted was to have to pay for a new transmission, too.

So while the whole car was essentially uncooperative, mercifully the A/C continued to work as it was a sweltering 90-degree day and would have made for an (even more) unpleasant ride home.

 

Sure enough, it refused to start after I parked it, so I just left it in the garage. And that's when I called my brother-in-law, fully aware of all the begging/cajoling/pleading that would be required to borrow back my Saturn after a 36-month absence. Truthfully, slinking back to the Red Line made me feel like a deadbeat husband who had abandoned it after being seduced by a flashier, newer model. 

 

But my pride had a price, and it clearly didn't involve paying nearly $100 daily to rent an under-powered Nissan Versa from Enterprise! Unbelievably, that's what the average post-Covid rental price is now versus the $35 per day I spent on a Hyundai Accent in 2017. 

 

Truthfully, I was excited to get back behind the wheel of the Red Line and relive some of those great memories. Unfortunately, I didn't fully grasp just how much time had actually passed and it was heartbreaking to say the least. For the 10 years in my possession, it was always garaged but the past 3 years of it sitting outside in the unforgiving elements had really taken a heavy toll. The previously shiny black exterior pieces were now bleached a dull gray and even the famous Red Line insignia was so faded it wasn't even an actual red line anymore. But, worst of all was a freak hail storm a month earlier that had pock-marked the Saturn's hood, roof and trunk with marble-sized dents. 

Inside, it wasn't much better as the foot wells were caked with mud and grime, and it looked as though it hadn't been cleaned since I handed over the keys in 2020. There were a couple pairs of cheap sunglasses in the back seat, random change and coins in the cup holders, and even the desiccated remains of a tiny tree frog who had become a permanent passenger. During my time with the Red Line, the deceased amphibian stowaway became such an enduring fixture that I simply nicknamed it "Kermit" (although I didn't want to be guilty of assuming it's gender).

 

But the most pleasant surprise was the Recaro seats, which regardless of the considerable wear still remained as snug and comfortable as I remembered. Likewise for the special Italian leather shifter boot and emergency brake boot that I'd custom-ordered and installed— both looked almost brand new despite over 10 years of daily abuse.

 

On the downside, there were constant, annoying reminders that this vehicle was designed two decades ago by the lack of now-common features such as an outside temperature gauge or a backup camera. To that end, a rear camera would be particularly helpful since the high-mounted rear wing does such a great job of blocking nearly half the view out the back window. 

 

Similarly, the clutch creaked and was heavy, and fifth gear had pulled an Elvis and permanently exited the room. So, that only left four forward gears and one very uncooperative reverse gear. It takes steely nerves to endure the cacophony and vibrations of the engine at 80 mph on the highway. But aside from that, the only other mechanical casualty was the original a/c compressor which finally succumbed last summer. Thankfully, he replaced it with a new unit that wasn't as effective as the OEM part but still managed to get the job done. 

 

Likewise for the generic tires, which were a poor substitute for the B.F. Goodrich G-Force I used. They didn't look good or grip well, but did provide an acceptable barrier between myself and the asphalt, which I suppose is all that really mattered. 

 

Admittedly, the best thing about the Red Line was the light weight (2,800 lbs.) and 300+ hp four-cylinder so I was eager to experience that again. Yet after a brief third gear pull from 60 to 90 mph, I was underwhelmed and wondered if my memories of that too had been unduly influenced by nostalgia? Or had time and wear simply dulled the performance that I remember? 

 

However, I convinced myself that while it was loud, crude and rode like an ox cart, at the end of the day it was still free so I should be content with that. And while I try to limit using the A/C in the Fusion to only when absolutely necessary, I never missed an opportunity to run it full blast in the Saturn.  

 

But a few days into my time with it, it suddenly began acting up one morning. In fact, it was bucking and surging so badly that I thought I might have accidentally left the emergency brake on. And then the "Check Engine" light started glowing menacingly at me so I knew something serious had happened. My mind instantly snapped to the cruel irony that my brother-in-law had neglected this car for three years and it waited to break right when I borrowed it back!

 

Unfortunately, the situation failed to improve over the next few days as the misfiring continued. Even worse, it was taking a terrible toll on the fuel economy, dragging it down to an abhorrent 13 MPG and costing me $20 per day in gas. Suddenly, it was as if I was driving the Ferrari again, but without any of the redeeming qualities like the gorgeous Italian bodywork or razor-sharp acceleration. So, in a desperate attempt to temporarily appease it's petulant nature, I threw a 16 oz. bottle of VP Racing Madditive at it, but even the high-octane elixir failed to change it's angry disposition. 

 

 

By this point, I wanted to believe that all the Fusion needed was a new battery since it would be so much simpler and cheaper to fix. But numerous trips to have the battery tested and charged confirmed my worst fears and they all pointed towards needing a new alternator. Of course, a failed alternator at just 65K seemed ridiculous but it followed my bad luck and validated the existence of Murphy's Law. 

 

 

Naturally, the alternator's expense was a concern but the major problem was the labor required to remove and replace it, as it's the meristem of the entire car's electrical structure. Once again, my maxim of always buying the largest and most powerful motor available came back to haunt me as the 3.5-liter V6 is crammed sideways in the engine bay and nothing is easy to access. After the AutoZone rep confirmed it was the alternator, he simply shook his head and admitted he didn't even know how someone could reach it to change it. Obviously, that didn't boost my confidence in the matter but it had to be done regardless. 

 

A call to the local Ford dealer revealed that they wanted $450 for the alternator, but Rock Auto once again came through with the lowest price, saving me $200 on the exact same Motorcraft part. I ordered it on Sunday and by Thursday it had arrived. My brother-in-law, Clint, whom I borrowed the Red Line from, volunteered to swap it for me and I certainly wasn't going to refuse his charitable act. 

 

 

 

He determined that the alternator was best accessed from underneath and with the front passenger tire removed, so the Fusion went up on jack stands. My modest selection of assorted tools sufficed until he got down to actually trying to remove the alternator and he ran into a small 5mm stud holding it in place. Now, I don't know if any of my dear readers have ever used such a tiny wrench before, but it was literally impossible to find one. I checked all the auto parts and hardware stores and they each stopped at 6mm, just shy of what I needed. We even raided every tool stash (parents, friends, etc.) we could think of to no avail. I told Clint that locating that wrench was harder than finding an honest politician, but he finally managed to prevail with a minuscule socket set. However, to fully take out the alternator required dropping the entire engine cradle. And that necessitated just the opposite of the mini tools we had been working with, which was a massive 21mm deep well socket. Naturally, I had a 19mm that I used on the Fusion's lug nuts, but of course it was too small by the narrowest of margins. Fortunately, Advance Auto had one in stock so I bought it, knowing full well I'd probably never use it again in my life.

 

Upon hearing of our distress, Amanda's friend Tammy ordered me a 5mm wrench off Amazon. Even with Prime shipping it came in too late to use, but I now have one if the need ever arises again. (Which it better not!)

And to keep things interesting, the new alternator proved to be just as difficult to put back on as it was to take off. It took 30 minutes of Rubik's Cube-like manipulation to get it squeezed back into place from under the car. But once that was done, the bottom retaining bolt absolutely refused to screw back in, protesting as if it was hitting up against an invisible object. After 30 more minutes of finagling with it, Clint was about to give up when it suddenly slide right into place like there had never been any obstruction. (BELOW: If it's this hard to see the new alternator, you can imagine how difficult it was to change it!)

 

 

Out of an abundance of caution, and before he reattached the plastic wheel well and under-body cover, he wanted me to try and start it just to make sure that everything worked. I climbed inside, turned the key and after a couple cycles the engine caught and roared to life. I was ecstatic, but Clint was furiously motioning for me to kill the engine. Somewhat perplexed, I nonetheless obeyed but wondered if he'd sensed something wrong and that was why he was so desperate for me to shut it off?

 

I quickly hopped out and walked around to the front of the Fusion only to witness an enormous black oil spill splattered all over my pristine garage floor. Now, I'm the type of person who can't stand a single drop of stray motor oil on my driveway, so the sight of this nearly sent me into catatonic shock. The day before, Clint had removed the oil filter for easier access to the alternator and had simply forgotten to screw it back on before I started it. I frantically checked the dipstick and was relieved to see a tiny amount of oil on the lowest marker indicating we had just narrowly avoided an engine meltdown. Even so, the Fusion had lost nearly two-thirds of it's oil capacity and it took three full quarts the following day to bring it back up to its normal operating range. 

 

But while the Fusion was finally back on the road, all my attempts at resuscitating the Saturn had proven fruitless. I felt terrible returning it to Clint in its ailing condition— especially after all he'd just done for me— but I also didn't want to spend several hundred dollars on a car that wasn't mine, particularly with no guarantee that it would fix it.  

 

He shrugged it off and claimed that with the high mileage, it was probably just an ignition coil or spark plug that needed replacing, so I felt relieved that he wasn't overly concerned about it. 

 

The next morning, I dutifully trekked to our local auto parts store and picked up the aforementioned three quarts of cheap motor oil. I felt this would be enough to fill the crankcase and get me to Mobile where I could buy a gallon of Mobil 1 to properly change the Fusion's oil. However, I quickly discovered that "cheap oil" should be an oxymoron in that even the least-expensive 5w-20 was now $6 per quart. Heck, it wasn't that long along that I could get premium Royal Purple for $7 per quart but apparently those pre-Covid prices are now as extinct as the dinosaurs that generated it. 

 

The following day, I set up a cookout and invited Clint as appreciation for all the hard work on the Fusion. But when he arrived he informed me that neither new plugs nor fresh ignition coils corrected the misfire and he suspected it might be a blown head gasket. I really hated hearing that and felt responsible, but he said he was just going to sell it AS-IS and not worry about trying to fix it (even if he did throw me under the bus in the Craigslist ad.)

 

 

But the bad news didn't end there, as when Amanda's sister went to leave she suddenly noticed that something had shattered the entire rear window of her 2019 Buick Enclave. There was a tiny hole in the center of the glass where the object had struck it, and the rest had spidered and splintered all over the driveway. Although there was no way to determine exactly what happened, my neighbor had been mowing past it earlier and kids often race by on their four-wheelers so either could have been the culprit that slung up the offending projectile. We definitely had an encounter with an Unidentified Flying Object (UFO) but it wasn't extraterrestrial as far as I can tell. 

 

So, if you've made it to this point in the article I guess you're asking what's the big ecumenical precept I learned from all of this?

 

I suppose it's to simply live life without any regrets. Few of us are ever given a chance to relive a significant decision like I made by selling the Red Line which I'd owned for ten years. As humans, we're plagued and tormented by the daily choices we make and too often we second-guess ourselves with needless recriminations. I'm fortunate to see that getting rid of the Saturn was the right thing to do. That being said, I'm fully aware that serendipity rarely shines on us in such a favorable fashion and I was extremely lucky.   

 

The other painful life lesson is things will invariably break with no warning or reason as the Fusion and Saturn both did. But with the Fusion's third birthday coming up in October, I certainly hope this is the last mechanical malady for a long, long time!  

 

IT LIVES AGAIN!!! (E.T. not included)

                

*My BFF thought it was cool that Pirate Press was so well-received "behind the Iron Curtain" and that with it's popularity I could be like John Grisham in Russia. I laughed and told him I'd be sure to take credit for that in my next article! 

 

World Star

 Embarrassing Myself Across The Globe. 

 

Pirate Press               July 2023

Back in 1990 when I cranked out the first Pirate Press I never imagined that (for better or worse) one day people from all over the earth would be reading it.

It was always meant as a small, private newsletter just for my closest friends—those who affectionately knew me as a nerd that loved cars, computers and female porn stars. 

Thirty-three years later, I like to think I'm still the same nerd but Pirate Press has certainly outgrown that tiny computer lab at South Alabama where it was created. In fact, the campus has expanded so much now that I doubt I could even find it again.

Recently, I peeked at the Google analytics of my blog for the first time and was astonished to see visits from literally every country in the world. In fact, some geographic locations were so small that, like my hometown, were simply filed under "Other" or "Unknown Region". 

Naturally, I was tremendously humbled that my silly ramblings were reaching the remotest parts of the world but I was even more shocked to have not [yet] received any hate mail or death threats. Surprisingly, the unsolicited comments that have been left are all positive (See Below). 

Of course, my biggest readership (33%) comes from the U.S., but constituting second place is Russia with 14% and could potentially indicate that Anna Kournikova is a fan. I felt that maybe sheer population and land mass might explain the order of viewership but that formula didn't compute with minuscule France coming in third highest. Likewise, Canada which is second to only Russia in total area, placed a lowly seventh behind China, Germany and the Ukraine. It also seems as if the kangaroos are not admirers since enormous Australia was second to last with less than 1%. That's disappointing as I've always relished authentic experiences from The Land Down Under like Crocodile Dundee and eating at Outback Steakhouse. Finally, a chunk the size of Europe was simply labeled "Other" (like a gender-confused individual) leaving me to only speculate at the possible locations.

The statistics for my page views are similarly skewed since up until 2018 I was mostly emailing my articles. It was only after I quit the bank from which account I was sending out Pirate Press that I began posting the stories and backdating them to fit the timeline. Even so, it shows the most active day in the history of my blog to be June 30th 2016 when it received 506 unique page views. This is quite puzzling as I always release new issues on the first of the month so this activity on the final day of the month makes no sense. Furthermore, Music City Madness, the article released on June 1st 2016 didn't even record it's most views until over two years later on Halloween 2018. 

And although my favorite article is probably Cat Scratch Fever from 2020, my all-time most viewed one is an evaluation of an Aeroforce Interceptor Scan Gauge from June 2012. It has shown amazing relevance and longevity with spikes in views during 2013, 2015 and 2016. It also enjoyed a renewed interest as late as Fall 2021 with it pulling in the most views in five years. Not surprisingly, my least viewed article is also the oldest, a six-month review of Windows 7. It generated no views from 2013-2015 but then saw a spurt of activity in the summer of 2016 and 2018. As of this writing in June 2023, it was last viewed on May 31, 2021. Of course, that's understandable as not many people are interested in reading about a 14 year-old operating system.    

I've also found the computers used to be nearly as fascinating as the countries they originate from. Obviously, Windows dominates the market share with roughly 73% and Linux trails behind at 17%. Following that, it's just a handful of random mobile operating systems such as iPhone and Android, and it's amusing to imagine someone perusing my pages whist perched on a toilet somewhere. But most humorous is the single reader who's still using Windows NT, an OS that first debuted in 1993! Obviously, it must be from some third-world country, but sadly the analytics don't tell me where.

Likewise, the web browsers employed are similarly intriguing with Chrome taking the top spot at 32%. However, Firefox edged (no pun intended) out the win over IE by the slimmest of margins—just 400 page views (30% to 29%). Safari was a distant fourth with only 5% and Opera was even further back in fifth at 2%. But unbelievably, 27 readers were still using Netscape, my favorite browser from the 1990s. And a bunch of alternative browsers I've never even heard of rounded out the bottom with names like NS8, Maxthon, Iron, Konqueror, Dragon, YaBrowser and Trident.  

As promised, here's three 100% honest, completely unfabricated reader comments I've received over the years that shall, in the sole pursuit of journalistic integrity, remain totally anonymous: 

"The writing in Pirate Press gets right to the point and is sharper than a Stingray barb!"

 — S. Irwin, The Great Barrier Reef (Australia)

"Pirate Press is hotter and more exciting than a Thermobaric Rocket striking a Ukraine schoolhouse!" 

— V. Putin, The Kremlin (Moscow)

"The articles are breathtaking and always feature an explosive ending!"

— S. Rush,  Oceangate Titan (North Atlantic Sea Floor)

Finally, it's quite heartwarming and enlightening to see such positive feedback from my extended reader base all over the world. And thanks to the advances in technology over the past couple decades, it's now possible for my trivial musings to offend people everywhere!

   

 

Tragic Kingdom

Suicidal Drivers, Devil Worship and Food Poisoning at the Happiest Place on Earth.

 

  Pirate Press             May 2023  

Celebrating 33 Years In Publication

For better or worse, 2023 was the fourth and final year Victoria would attend UDA's National Dance Competition at Disney World. It also meant it was our last time with her as a high-school student which, quite frankly, was heart-breaking. However, she didn't share the same sentimentality, as over the five days we were there we barely saw her outside her two dance routines at ESPN's Wide World of Sports arena. Not coincidentally, the other times we saw her was when she wanted food, money, or both. Otherwise, she was with her coach and teammates living her best life ordering (among other things) a $40 Filet Mignon at Chef de France, a $65 buffet at The Crystal Palace and gigantic 31-ounce (Trenta) Starbucks drinks, all of which she happily charged to my account.

 

But, the week before as we were preparing to go to Disney, Amanda noticed a rattling and lack of cooling from the Santa Fe's air conditioner. A quick diagnosis revealed that two of the coolant hoses had mysteriously ruptured and would require replacement. But that wasn't the bad news; No, the bad news was that to replace the hoses and recharge the system was going to cost $900. And the worst news was that due to the global supply-chain shortage, the parts were back-ordered. 

 

Having last driven my green Saturn SC2 for two summers without air-conditioning, I was fully prepared for the trip to Disney sans A/C, but my daughter and wife (obviously) felt otherwise. Victoria cheerfully volunteered her new car, but being a sport compact it was short on luggage space and I didn't want to put the 1,200 miles of wear-and-tear on it. I just recently paid for her Forte's first oil change at the dealer and it was a $100 affair. Excluding the Ferrari, it's the most I've ever paid for an oil change, but is mandatory given Kia's new policy that synthetic oil must be used to maintain the factory warranty. Sadly, it's a shameless cash grab by the manufacturer, but unfortunately there's little resistance to be had from us if we want to keep the automotive coverage intact.

 

That left the Fusion as our sole means of transportation to Orlando. Naturally, I was fine with it, but warned Amanda and Victoria that they were essentially trading luggage space for air-conditioning. At 16.5 cubic feet, the Fusion's overall trunk volume actually matches that of some full-size BMW and Mercedes sedans, but a factory amp and deep rear speakers create a very low ceiling. Hence, there would be no piling of suitcases on top of each other, as is our preferred method in the spacious Santa Fe. Instead, I cautioned Victoria that some luggage might have to ride beside her in the back seat. Fortunately, after some creative Tetris-style stacking at 4 a.m., I managed to squeeze everything in the trunk right before we left.

 

Shortly thereafter, we departed in a convoy with five other vehicles behind us. One of the dance moms, whom I'll call Trixie, had quite the heavy foot reputation and openly bragged about it prior to leaving. Not one to publicly boast about my driving mastery, I privately told Amanda that we'd soon find out just how skillful Trixie really was. 

 

All agreed, a 555-mile trip to Lake Buena Vista is a marathon slog, not a quick sprint, entangled by three massively busy interchanges— Interstate 10, Interstate 75 and Florida's infamous Turnpike. So it was going to take patience, persistence, endurance (and a little bit of luck) to maintain the quickest pace over that enormous distance which would admittedly be complicated by compulsory stops for food, fuel and, of course, bathroom breaks.

 

Given the early hour, it was still dark, rainy and foggy, a terrible trifecta when you have a 7+ hour haul ahead of you and five bloodthirsty constituents behind you, each eager for the infamy and bragging rights of being the leader. 

However, while they were all piloting heavy, ponderous SUVs, the Fusion was a Formula One car in comparison— light, agile and quick. Some of the thirsty V8s may have made slightly more power on paper, but there was no denying that the Fusion had the best overall power-to-weight ratio. It also averaged 25 mpg, an impressive feat given that the speedometer rarely fell below 85 mph and the parasitic A/C ran for the duration of the trip. Incidentally, the EPA Highway rating for the 2.5-liter 4 cylinder Fusion is only 29 mpg, so I was fine sacrificing 4 mpg for an extra 90 horsepower!

 

 

Observing the Navy Seal's mantra of "Slow is Smooth, Smooth is Fast" I drove with surgeon-like precision and gradually saw their headlights diminish behind me. Our first stop was the new Buc-ee's travel center in Robertsdale, Alabama, just a stone's throw from the Florida state line. Not only were we the first to arrive, but we were one of the first customers in the whole parking lot. While Buc-ee's is insanely popular during the summer months and on holidays, apparently it's not so busy on a random February morning at 6 a.m. 

 

About 10 minutes later, the rest of our caravan pulled in and the banter quickly switched to the fast getaway I made with rhetorical jokes of "Where's Chip?" and responses of "He's already made it to Disney!" I modestly laughed but it was clear that a new pecking order had been established. Likewise, I was determined to maintain that pole position, so we were also the first to leave for our next destination— Tallahassee, which was 3 long hours away.

 

Unfortunately, I was accompanied by three dashboard alerts that served no other purpose than to annoy me for the lengthy trip. I've long maintained that today's sophisticated cars are burdened with a lot of useless sensors, and with the Fusion being the most modern I've owned, it's clearly the worst. It started with a "Tire Pressure Sensor Fault" that at first glance alarmed me because I thought a tire was going flat, something that would immediately cannibalize our precious lead. But thankfully, it turned out to be a problem with the actual sensor and not the tire itself. However, the Fusion's Tire Pressure Monitoring System is perhaps the most useless in existence since it only informs of a problem if the air pressure drops below 25 percent of the recommended PSI. In other words, it knows the amount of air in each tire, but there's no way to access that information for preventive maintenance; I still have to periodically check it. 

 

The other two equipment warnings, a "Cross Traffic System Fault" and a "Check Rear Park Aid" were both traced to—Believe It or Not!— a blown speaker. Yes, I've heard of some stupid causes for equipment malfunctions but this one definitely takes the cake! 

 

As mentioned earlier, the Fusion is my first car to be encumbered by a phalanx of safety features that would make Ralph Nader proud. And apparently they're all tied to a tiny speaker the size of a quarter under the rear shelf in the trunk. Well, for whatever reason, this speaker died and the system freaked out because it couldn't issue any audible alerts when the car is in reverse or a vehicle is in my blind spot. So, like a nagging Jewish Mother it reminded me every few seconds that those two devices weren't working by broadcasting a different, yet still aggravating chime. 

 

 

 

After our trip, I changed the part myself and was stunned at what the procedure costs at the Ford stealership. One Fusion owner paid $150 for the part and $500 labor to install it. As you can see above, the OEM part was $15 off Amazon and it literally took me five minutes to replace it. However, I've read horror stories about replacing the speaker in the Hybrid model due to the EV battery being stored in the same area. Thankfully, I avoided both the Fusion Hybrid and All-Wheel-Drive Sport version due to the added weight and complexity, and it sure has saved me a lot of money and headaches.     

 

When Amanda and Victoria volunteered me to drive the Fusion, I was initially excited because it meant the 15-hour round trip would be covered under the watchful eye of my Escort radar detector. However, this elation was short-lived as Amanda became increasingly annoyed by the constant K-Band false alarms generated by the blind spot monitoring systems on other vehicles. Typically, it's not a big deal for me as I rarely come across them on my daily, rural commute. But in more prosperous areas with a preponderance of new cars like we encountered, there was almost always some vehicle triggering it. In fact, it got so bad that I just eventually shut it off as it was virtually useless. So, for the remainder of the trip going down and back, I had to depend solely on Waze to warn me where the radar traps were.

 

And as we made it to the Florida Turnpike, I began to see the Toll Booths I despise so much. Granted, taking the Turnpike shaves nearly an hour off our trip but I still resent having to pay for a highway system that was originally free when it was built in 1957. Perhaps taking lessons from Disney on how to monetize everything, the Florida legislature passed a bill in 1990 allowing revenue to be collected for the first time. $123 million was seized from motorists that year and it has grown to a staggering $956 million in 2016, the most recent financial year on record. Given the post-Covid surge in travel, I'm sure annual income has eclipsed the Billion dollar mark now, but they're still seeking more ways to boost their corporate coffers. Hence, the creation of a "Toll Plaza", their clever euphemism for literal highway robbery. Merriam-Webster defines a Plaza as "an open area usually located near urban buildings and often featuring walkways, trees and shrubs, places to sit, and sometimes shops" which Florida's Toll Plazas are clearly not. Instead, they're now completely automated and manned by dozens of closed-circuit, high-definition cameras that aside from license plate recording can be used for a variety of insidious injustices like illegal face recognition and vehicle tracking. 

 

After a 2019 trip to Dallas in which I accidentally used portions of a Toll Road, I was sent several fines in the mail totaling more than $20. Of course, it was the principle and not the insignificant monetary amount that had me so angry. After all, if I was going to illegally use a Toll Road I would driven it for the entire distance, not just a couple miles. But disputing it was a dead end, so I began researching the best ways to foil Toll cameras when traveling. I considered using a car dealership temporary tag or a fancy license plate cover that obscures it from certain angles but both of those could land me in legal hot water if I was pulled over. The best suggestion came from a member on the Ferrari forum who suggested simply mounting a bike rack. I admitted that it was a good idea but pointed out that it would take years of Tolls before I'd ever break even after buying a brand new bike rack. And while I was irate and vindictive, I simply wasn't that patient. Ironically, the perfect solution was provided by the same organization which seeks to enforce those nasty tolls: The Highway Patrol. That's right, when Amanda and I renewed our drivers licenses in 2020, they no longer allowed us to list our post office box and instead insisted we use our physical address. It was fine by me, and since we have no mail box at our house, all correspondence with that address gets rejected and returned to the sender. For that reason, we haven't gotten a single Toll charge in three years despite going through multiple ones each time we visit Disney or anywhere else. In short, if the citation can't be delivered, we legally can't be held liable for it!         

But, after completing 7 hours of intense driving (and proudly still maintaining first place) an incident occurred just a few miles from our destination that I doubt any of us will ever forget. I always feel like once we finally get off the terrible Turnpike that the worst is behind us, but this time I was clearly premature in that assumption. We were on State Road 536 and traffic was fairly heavy. I was in the left lane, giving cursory glances to the vehicles behind me when I noticed the red Civic. The crimson paint was striking and stood out in a sea of otherwise bland sedans and minivans. And like me, it seemed to be ensnared in the congestion. As a vehicle pulled alongside, I noticed the Civic draw right up to my rear bumper in an effort to prevent them from squeezing in between us. Clearly, the young, female driver was very impatient and getting more and more agitated and frustrated by the slow pace of the traffic. And after driving 500 miles that day, I was too, but realized there was nothing I could do about it. Yet thirty seconds later, the Civic suddenly bolted out from behind me and flew into the other lane. As it raced by, I noticed it was a garden-variety, 10th-gen model, mostly likely built in 2015 or 2016. I briefly wondered where she was going, as there was a car directly in front of me and one in her lane also.

 

Without warning, she violently swerved over, attempting to fit her 12-foot car into a six-foot space. I literally had to stomp on the brakes to prevent her from slamming into us. And even then, I still don't know how her rear bumper didn't hit my front fender. In the intervening time since that incident, I've replayed her action hundreds of times in my head and still cannot rationalize her motive. She knew there wasn't enough room, but was so hell-bent on getting one car-length ahead that she willfully jeopardized the lives of me, my wife and my daughter. I laid on the horn for a good 10-15 seconds as it was all I could do to relay my anger and disbelief at what she had just done. Traffic parted in front of her and she attempted to flee, but I flat-footed the throttle and reeled her anemic 143hp Honda right back in. I continued to blast the horn and flash my high beams, just inches from her back bumper at speeds up to 90mph, zigzagging in and out of traffic. Eventually, I was able to swing alongside at which point I flipped her off multiple times and cursed her at the top of my lungs. Quite frankly, she's lucky she didn't stop as I wanted to physically beat some sense into her. Incidents like that, I reminded Amanda, are why I don't carry a firearm because I'd be too tempted to use it.

After that frightening episode, Amanda and Victoria were visibly shaken so I lightened the mood by stating that thanks to the kamikaze bitch, we made it the last few miles to Disney even faster than ever before! This broke the ice, and gave Victoria an opportunity to throw in her own little insult: She commented that the girl's stupidity didn't surprise her since she was a "Swifty" (i.e. a Taylor Swift fan) a detail I completely missed during the whole altercation. Not surprisingly, a couple weeks later I read an article about the most dangerous states to travel, and Florida was ranked third in the nation, right behind California and Texas. It stated that the Sunshine State experienced 2,762 traffic fatalities in the first nine months of 2022, and authorities cited "impatient and aggressive drivers" as the primary cause. 

 

Disney's new "Inclusive Employee Policy" also allows for some *colorful* characters that poor Walt would never have imagined in even his most terrifying nightmares, and I don't mean the ones that dress up and pose for photos with the kids. No, this individual was standing outside the Beach Club resort when we were trying to find our way to the Cape May Cafe. We were running late for our reservation, so I decided to ask this employee for directions. Of course, it was dark and from behind it looked like a tall woman in a sailor's dress with long blonde hair. But as it turned around, there was no mistaking that it was a man with a very deep voice. I've literally never been that shocked in my life and, as a result, was completely speechless. In fact, my brain was so bamboozled by this unexpected visage that I temporarily couldn't form thoughts or words. Fortunately, Amanda stepped in and asked for directions while I was completely flabbergasted. I stammered a "thank you" as we were walking off because the employee had been so nice, but I had not been prepared to see something so different than what I anticipated. Let's just say he wasn't Jessica Rabbit!           

        

After dinner, Amanda and I made our way to Disney Springs to check out the activities since it's absolutely spectacular at night. While walking down by The Landing, she suddenly grabbed my arm and pulled me with her into a line of around 50 people. I asked what she was doing and she promptly informed me that the wait for this place was normally EIGHT hours, but that she just heard it was down to 45 minutes! She explained that it was a world-famous bakery named Gideon's and their specialty was hand-made cookies that weigh almost a half-pound! 

 

From the outside, it was a rather unassuming brick building but it's what was on the inside that shocked me. In our 2021 visit to Disney, I expressed my frustration and anger over attractions like "Splash Mountain" being cancelled because of perceived racist overtones.  So, I was appalled to discover the satanic imagery present. Perhaps I'm overreacting, but portraits of vampire children with blood dripping from their fangs and a demonic goat figure seems hardly appropriate for a bakery! Granted, they were crafted in a very non-threatening, cartoon style, but it's still disturbing nonetheless. And why is no one offended by it? I'm not a conspiracy nut, but it's almost as if there's a dark cabal controlling the media and entertainment industry. From Meghan Thee Stallion's, "Sweetest Pie" to Sam's Smith's "Unholy" Grammy performance, there's certainly seems to be a lot of recent satanic glorification. This also comes on the heels of Panera Bread's recent announcement to begin using palm-scanning technology to order and pay for meals. So, does that mean the Mark of the Beast is coming or is it already here?

 

 Are these demonic images really necessary to sell cookies?

 

The next morning, we arose at 5 a.m. just so we could make "Rope Drop" at Epcot. Typically, having to awaken that early on vacation is a cardinal sin, but was necessary so we could try Disney's newest ride, "Guardians of the Galaxy: Cosmic Rewind." For the initiated, "Rope Drop" means getting to the park before it opens and waiting in line behind the entrance rope until it is released and everyone can flood in. It's a Pro Move for sure, as only the most hardcore patrons have the necessary discipline to pull it off. The only other time we've actually made Rope Drop was at Hollywood Studios in 2020 to be some of the first to ride "Rise of Resistance."

 

"Guardians" just opened at the end of May last year, so we missed it when we went in January. Understandably, as the first Marvel ride at Disney World, the first roller coaster at Epcot, and with a projected cost of $500 million, it's a huge deal— both literally and figuratively. 

 

But more so than any other thrill ride, it is making people violently sick. We spoke to two friends who went last Summer and both confirmed that it made them ill. And these are longtime Disney vets who have ridden all the big coasters like Expedition Everest and Space Mountain. 

 

However, what seems to be the catalyst is that it's Disney's first backwards-launched roller coaster and that the seats spin a full 360-degrees while the participants are experiencing steep climbs and sudden drops at up to 60 mph. If that sounds like a recipe for a Vomit Comet, it certainly is and cast members even hand out barf bags prior to boarding. 

 

But before we could be guinea pigs for nearly 3 G-Forces of gravitational punishment, we needed to snag two seats. And like "Rise of the Resistance", this meant playing the Virtual Que lottery and hoping that we'd roll seven instead of snake eyes!

 

So, right before the allotted time, Amanda and I began furiously refreshing the Disney App on our phones. I was slightly quicker and got two passes for Group 26, one of the earliest reservations. Even so, the projected wait time until it was boarding was almost five hours! 

 

But, despite getting to Epcot for Rope Drop, there was still a deluge of people (all apparently with the same plan as us.) So, given our delayed spot on "Guardians", Amanda suggested we walk to France and take a spin on "Ratatouille", the new ride based on Pixar's 2007 film.  We had ridden it for the first time last year right after it had opened and it has proven immensely popular. In fact, by the time we got to the French Pavilion, I checked the App and there was already a 90 minute wait! Admittedly, we could have bypassed that with Amanda's DAS credentials, but our wait time for "Guardians" was already dropping so quickly that we decided to start making our way back. 

 

Located in Future World East, "Cosmic Rewind" is the first "Other-World" exhibit at Epcot and is in good company with "Mission Space", "Space Ship Earth" & "Test Track."

 

 

A Xandarian Starblaster ship greets visitors outside the Cosmic Rewind attraction.

Of course, there's some flimsy back story about going back in time to save the earth, but the real excitement begins when you are strapped in and the coaster shoots backward. I understand the concept of having a shuttle that spins around for a full 360-degree view, but in reality it's more jarring than enjoyable because it happens so violently and quickly. I measured 12 instances over 2G with the longest lasting 3.52 seconds and this is similar to what astronauts experience in the Space Shuttle at lift-off.

 

 

Afterwards, I told Amanda that they should rename it "Cosmic Washing Machine" because we had been flung around so much that it's what it felt like (minus the water, of course.) I knew I wouldn't get sick and thankfully Amanda didn't either, but I can certainly see how it would be too much for most people.

Enduring Cosmic Rewind's violent spin cycle!  

 

Enjoying the 80-foot drop on Expedition Everest.

Mine Train is the top ride at Magic Kingdom with wait times up to 2 hours.

We visited Magic Kingdom the following morning and everything was great until lunch. That's when we dined at Columbia Harbor House, located in Liberty Square. I love the Lobster Roll and had been looking forward to it since the restaurant closed down for Covid in early 2020 and only just recently reopened. 

 

For theme-park fare, the $17 Lobster Roll isn't too bad and I like that I can get something besides a hamburger for lunch. It was good, even if a fair bit of the lobster was the cheaper, shredded variety. But the real treat was the "Happy Haunts Milk Shake". A holdover from Halloween due to it's extreme popularity (and Haunted Mansion's close proximity) it's a Blackberry Milk Shake that's topped with a Purple Chocolate-Glazed Doughnut and covered with Black Sprinkles. Fortunately, no ghosts were harmed in the making of it and it was incredibly delicious!

 

 

About two hours later we were getting on Pirates of the Caribbean when I first started to feel strange. At first, I just thought I had some gas on my stomach, but I simply wrote it off as a result of all the theme park food. However, it returned a few minutes later but this time the malaise was much more intense and spread over my entire body. I suddenly felt so bad that I wondered if I was experiencing a heart attack, but none of the tell-tale signs of myocardia were present: my chest didn't hurt, there was no tingling in my left arm, etc. Despite that, the extreme discomfort seemed to be washing over me in waves. I tried breathing exercises, and even walking around, but it only got worse.

 

That's when Amanda noticed how pale and sweaty I was and asked if I was okay. I told her I just needed to sit down for a minute and I literally dropped to the ground. Unfortunately, I was concerned that if I said anything to a cast member, they might send me to the hospital via an ambulance rather than risk the public stigma of me dying on one of the rides. We also had dinner reservations coming up, so Amanda volunteered to stay while I went back to the hotel room. 

 

It's a grueling hike from Adventureland, down the crowded Main Street, and out to the distant bus parking when healthy, but I don't even remember how I got back to my bed at All-Star Sports. I just remember that I had massive chills and couldn't stop shaking. But despite the lethargy and fatigue, I didn't want to miss UDA's private party at Hollywood Studios later that night from 9pm-1am. It was going to be my only time to ride Aerosmith's Rock N Roller Coaster as Disney was closing it down indefinitely. Although there is no official reason for the "refurbishment" (their words, not mine) a popular fan theory is that it's because of the recent lawsuit surrounding Steven Tyler's sexual assault of a 16 year-old girl. Whatever the case may be, I certainly hope that it doesn't get re-themed like Rock N Roller Coaster did at Disneyland Paris and turned into a Marvel Avenger's ride.     

 

 

Several days later, I conveniently wanted to blame the Lobster Roll, but the emergence of two fever blisters signaled that what I had was probably viral. Likewise, Amanda saw a forum posting on a Disney Fan site whereby many people had complained of coming down with Norovirus shortly before we arrived. Regardless, with a daily attendance of 38,000 visitors from all over the world, Magic Kingdom is likely the most disease-ridden park on Earth.

 

The next morning, we packed our bags, but Victoria wouldn't let us leave Orlando until we stopped by the largest White Castle on earth. Personally, I've always felt that White Castle was the Yankee version of Krystal, similar to how Hardee's and Carl's Jr. are actually the same entity. As such, I wasn't enthused about going because: (1) My stomach was still on strike and (2) I've never cared for Krystal. 

 

However, on the drive there Victoria piqued my interest when she rattled off some useless trivia such as the little know fact that White Castle is actually America's original hamburger chain and that it's been around for over 100 years! With the ubiquity of the Golden Arches, I always thought that McDonald's was the oldest fast food establishment, but White Castle actually preceded it by more than thirty years. Furthermore, in 2014 Time Magazine even named their Original Slider as the most influential burger of all time.

 

We purposely got there around 11:00, hoping to beat the lunch rush, but it was busy anyway. And given my digestive distress, I simply ordered their 1921 burger which is an homage to their very first one. It was $1.99 and came fully dressed with caramelized onions, cheddar cheese, Roma tomatoes, lettuce and pickles. Seeing that I was expecting it to closely approximate a limp, greasy Krystal, I was pleasantly surprised— the bun was fresh, the beef patty was juicy, and the vegetables were cool and crisp. Granted, I wouldn't eat them regularly even if they were available in Mississippi, but it was nice to finally be able to try one and see what the fuss was about!   

 

  

So, maybe I shouldn't be sad that this was our last trip to Disney in the foreseeable future. After all, Disney has the absolute worst ROI (Return on Investment) of any entertainment product that I can imagine. For park admission, lodging and food, the average worked out to $1000 per day for the three of us and is five-times what our first trip with Victoria cost us in 2009! Granted, there's a handful of new rides but it's certainly not 500% better in my humble estimation.

 

And then there's the inhospitable weather, which fluctuated between scorching during the day and freezing at night. We're talking schizophrenic temperature shifts of low 50s to high 80s, which meant each day you could either choose to dress warm or cool, but not both. Combine that with the 16-hours of drive time and the relentless crowds, and I always feel like I need a vacation from that "vacation" when I get home. Until Disney is actually able to put the "Magic" back into Magic Kingdom, I don't want to come back!