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I have a judicial hearing today, at which I will defend myself against the corrupt money-for-”safety” driver-milking revenue generation scam, of immense police resources dedicated to issuing a quota of speeding citations aimed at the sole target of filling the city’s Scrooge McDuck coffers while smugly lecturing motorists about the imaginary dangers of driving with the flow of traffic.

You could make a credible argument that the six or eight hours that I’ve spent preparing for this hearing aren’t justified by the $250 fine. Of course, on top of that will be at least $3000 over six years from the second scam, automobile insurance surcharges, which use this citation to reach the conclusion that I am insufficiently able to recognize the safe speed of my motor coach. But I frankly wouldn’t care if it were a single dollar, there is no way, no way, that I am paying this fine until I have exhausted every option available to me, because a 30 MPH posted speed limit on a newly-resurfaced four-lane divided highway is almost comically absurd.

And, it turns out, rightly illegal. There are so many problems with this citation.

First, MGL c. 85 s. 2 specifies that traffic control devices — including speed limits — are subject to the Commonwealth’s Procedures for Speed Zoning on State and Municipal Roadways, which must itself be substantially conformant to the Federal Manual on Uniform Traffic Control Devices.

Both documents specify that posted speed limits will be established only after a thorough engineering study, and the Commonwealth’s manual goes on to specify in detail the precise methodology for collecting and interpreting the data from such a study. They both say that the 85th percentile of free-flowing traffic speed is the national standard by which a speed limit should be set.

The Commonwealth manual goes on to say very explicitly: unless this procedure is followed, the posting “is in violation of Chapter 90 Section 18, and is therefore considered illegal and unenforceable.”

To that end, I sent a request under MGL c. 66 s. 10 and 950 CMR 32.05, Mass’s implementation of the Federal Freedom of Information Act, to the general counsel of the Department of Conservation and Recreation (which, as we will establish later, is the controlling jurisdiction of Storrow Drive where I was cited). Although both statutes and the Commonwealth’s own Guide to the Massachusetts Public Records Law indicate that an approval or specific denial must be received within ten calendar days, I am still awaiting a proper response.

Next, the trooper didn’t use radar or laser — which have their own issues, but I digress — to determine my alleged violation, he estimated my speed and then followed me in his car. Anyone, presumably even the trooper, will agree that it’s important for a police evidence-gathering tool to be accurate when it’s used to charge someone with a crime. To that end, I sent a separate request for public documents to the general counsel of the Massachusetts State Police, requesting, among other things, the record from the police logbook indicating precisely which vehicle was being driven by the trooper on that night; a record of calibration from a mechanic certified to perform speedometer calibration; and the complete vehicle maintenance and accident history since the date of calibration. So far, no response.

Moving on, 350 CMR 4.01 (which is — surprise! — not on the web) specifically regulates the speed of vehicles on Storrow Drive and other roadways under the jurisdiction of the Department of Conservation and Recreation. I have a letter from MassHighway confirming that Storrow is, indeed, under the DCR’s jurisdiction.

However, the Massachusetts Uniform Citation that I was issued charges me with violation of MGL c. 90 s. 17. This is the wrong statute, for the wrong jurisdiction.

Finally, in a relatively minor technicality, MGL c. 90 s. 2 requires the trooper to request the signature of the violator, which they almost never do, apparently on the grounds that giving the driver a pen is giving them a lethal weapon.

I only asked the judge for a continuance to give the Commonwealth time to honour my requests for public documents, or failing that, to get the Supervisor of Public Records to compel them to do so. It’s possible that he’d have found me not responsible anyways, but it’s important that I have all of my evidence to present: if I need to appeal, I can only argue that he made an error in law; I can’t introduce new evidence.

It was pretty weird. I explained about the documents, and he said “Let me stop you right there,” reached over, picked a book off his shelf, and read silently for 3 or 4 minutes. He said “You know, I was almost sure that there was something in here about discovery in these cases, because every 6 or 8 months someone brings this up. But I can’t find it. If you want to borrow this, you can look.” I didn’t find it either. Turns out there’s nothing about discovery in the trial court rules for civil motor vehicle infractions.

Anyways, I got a continuance, of course. See you again on January 19th.

To make up for my two-month absence, I’ll try to distract you with some of the Best of Penny Arcade: They are poor spellers and are mystified by commas.

What, exactly, is the fascination with hidden tracks?

Moreover, why are these often the very best tracks on the entire album? It’s as if the band feels compelled to protect these delicate morsels from the harsh oxidizing gases of public enjoyment, by placing some flavour-lock seal between me and my entertainment.

Please stop doing this. It is extremely annoying.

I saw a great band in Canmore last month with Jacob, Coop, Eric, and Robert. We couldn’t figure out why they were playing in the Canmore Hotel — they were way too good! — and, based purely on that fact, assumed that we’d never hear of them again.

Then we saw that they were releasing an album on November 16th, according to their web site. We had a small squadron of people on the lookout for the CD, and they all told us that it wasn’t going to be released until the 30th. Nice one, guys.

Fast forward to 3 days ago, when shaver and deb began scouring the record stores in Toronto and Ottawa, respectively, for but a single copy of this recording. After just five (!) stores, we have one.

Keep in mind that the lead singer is also the band’s manager. Run with that in your mind, and you start to understand why they were playing at the Canmore Hotel to a crowd of sixty.

The Gimp is a great, powerful tool, if you are a talented artist wishing to create a magnificent work of art using the perfect dexterity bestowed upon you by God, and a 2′ Wacom tablet. If you want to draw a fucking oval, then I swear to god, you have to make a circular selection and then select Edit->Stroke. How are normal humans supposed to figure that out? I asked someone who asked someone who wrote the software. He knew.

Anyways, Amazon uses UPS, as we’ve been over before, and I swear to god I am not making this up:

More Best of Penny-Arcade: like the taste of watching girls make out.

Welcome to another exciting edition of Best of Penny-Arcade: I just rued again.

I guess we’re doing nuclear weapons in three countries now.

I am a little disappointed by how quickly other people will step up to take credit for this anonymous “open source software” which apparently springs fully-formed from the ass of some long-haired software walrus. To say nothing (well, maybe a little bit) about how we did a tremendous amount of that integration and got a pretty sexy number for them. Would they have won that bid without that number? The world will never know, so I’ll just go ahead and say no. They would not. They would have lost the bid, gone out of business, and be looking for jobs clearing tables at the Ground Round.

Confidential to Jacob: Is the Ground Round more or less funny than the Sizzler? How about to our international audience?

Obligatory Best of P-A: I am asking you a serious question about the location, and current status of your pants.

My dad is in town for one night, and where he lives in Ohio is a bleak restaurant wasteland, devoid of any kind of diverse ethnic cuisine — good or bad. But he does have extremely good taste, and likes just about all food, so I make it a point to take him to special places of the sort that he really can’t get at home. Tonight was Ginza.

By this point, I’ve eaten a lot of sushi, in a lot of different places, and Ginza is in the top five. The quality of service there is also excellent — staggeringly good, compared to most other North American sushi restaurants — because they actually employ enough chefs to keep up with demand.

And despite this excellence, it’s very reasonably priced. Good times, good times.

Today’s entry will be completely referential, with no new or otherwise original content whatsoever. First, a masterstroke, worthy of the annals of physical comedy, Best of Penny Arcade: “This is a very deep wound.” “Well, I try.”

Next, Jacob: I don’t know how you can say that the reason you like cold butter is because it tastes better, or try to reinforce that by saying that you find the coldest butter at Legal’s. At Legal’s, we take the butter — cold, warm, whatever — and cram it into a steaming hot roll — how’s that for imagery — and it melts and we eat it. Warm.

Next, Deb: There are definitely points on which we agree, and I’ll cover those first just to break the ice, and to reinforce how much I like you. One, we agree that parents are largely inept (mine are not inept, they are for the most part excellent parents, just to anticipate and hopefully defuse any potential confusion). Two, we agree that — whether you like the game or not — Apple is completely within their rights to decide what sits on their shelves, and I don’t even understand the comparison that they’re trying to make to Big Brother.

But as for point-of-sale ESRB enforcement? I think it’s adorable, and I guess there’s no reason not to do it, but I think that it will have basically the same effect as outlawing underage tobacco sales. I can’t be sure, but I bet the fact that 70% of teenagers don’t smoke isn’t because they don’t know how to get cigarettes, but because it’s disgusting. You can get any software you want with Bittorrent — so I can just imagine how effective ESRB enforcement will be.

As for me? I haven’t had time for games in ages, but I bet I would like GTA. And I bet that I wouldn’t like Postal, but not because I find the idea offensive or morally reprehensible, but rather because it probably lacks any kind of plot, character development, or voice acting talent that I’m led to believe GTA has.

So maybe that makes me an amoral snob.

In today’s installment of Best of Penny-Arcade, witness the introduction of the businesscat, in which style and substance are expertly crafted into a splendid feline form.

I hadn’t seen Blade Runner in years, and I didn’t own it on DVD yet, so it seemed natural that we inaugurate Jacob’s new TV with the timeless classic about a boy and his evil robot killing machines.

And while I do like Blade Runner — more than Jacob, I think — I am not as enamoured of it as I once was. It seemd a lot slower, a lot more plodding than I remembered, and even the zingers didn’t seem as sweet. I don’t think it’s in my top ten anymore. And the DVD transfer is complete rubbish. It absolutely needs the Criterion treatment.

Jacob’s new TV is really nice, though.

BoP-A: BEHOLD! Now you understand what we’re talking about, when we speak of a peanut-butter monkey.

Deb has convinced me that I want to be making some of her sweet and sour pork. Unfortunately, I didn’t think this one through far enough in advance, so my pork tenderloin is still in the freezer, and it won’t thaw in the fridge quickly enough. And it’s a pretty long tube, so I don’t have a pot or anything which is actually large enough to submerge the pork.

The toilet bowl, it turns out, is just the right size. It’s a good thing I don’t live in Brookline anymore, or I’d be really screwed.

BoP-A: If you’ve never played Crystal Chronicles, or don’t even know what I’m talking about, then this one may take some explanation. In that case, you should definitely read the accompanying news posting. In fact, read it anyways. It is pure gold.

A couple weeks ago, when I booked this ticket to China, I was a little peeved that they put me on an early flight to SFO, when the one that left 90 minutes later would have been perfectly fine. The later flight would have been a pleasant layover of just over two hours, whereas the earlier approaches four.

But that resentment more or less melted away when I got to the airport and saw that the later one had been cancelled. I probably would have gotten a seat on the earlier one anyways, but only because I usually don’t sleep the night before my flights to China, so I’d have presumably been awake for the phone call telling me that it’s cancelled.

When the Boston crew forgot to service the bathrooms, I got to learn an interesting new fact: on the Boeing 757, there are no lavatory gauges in the cockpit. So the way you find out that they weren’t emptied at your previous stop is that they stop working properly. They take this very seriously — perhaps too seriously, considering that we diverted with only an hour to go in our flight — because if it overflows into the cabin they have a biohazard cleanup on their hands.

I was sitting next to someone headed to Hong Kong, and his english was OK, but I think only when he focused on the conversation. When we landed in Salt Lake City, I guess he didn’t quite understand the announcements. Because a few minutes after we landed, I looked over and he had his coat on, and all of his luggage. I guess he was wondering why none of us seemed interested in getting off the plane.

This is what overcast looks like from above, sometimes. And this washed out picture of Salt Lake City makes me think of Sim City, and by extension, Jacob. And this one, from the SFO approach, makes me think of Bhopal.

In the San Francisco airport, for reasons that are I’m sure well-defended but make no sense to me, all of the postal service letter boxes are outside security, and I had one last Christmas card to send. But the nice woman who works in the lounge offered to drop it off for me when she leaves.

BoP-A: The two sub-plots — involving the lawn and alcoholism, respectively — are what really make this comic a recurring staple of our unique brand of communication, in which every sentence we utter is comprised of at least one self-contained inside joke. My mom has only once been around Joe and Jacob and me, and she still mentions it every time I see her. When we’re talking to each other, our communication is so rich with shared experiences and moronic meaningless catch-phrases, that we might as well be speaking Mooninite.

This flight to Beijing is relatively empty, at least what I can see. And no matter how many times I ride on them, I am always struck by the fact that these planes really are enormous.

From SFO, you fly north up the west coast, into Alaska, into Siberia, through Russia for a while, then enter China, turn a little, and fly three more hours to Beijing. Because it’s just after the solstice, and we left SFO at 14h, we’ve been chasing the sun ever since Alaska. I got a six-hour sunset, but it was just a little bit too late to be spectacular, so we settled for pale rosiness on the horizon.

Once in Beijing, I met up with Peter and Maggie, and we had dinner with Alex and his wife, who had arrived this morning from Moscow. I think he was too excited to sleep last night or on the plane, so he will sleep well in the Zhao Long tonight. We ate at one of our favourite Japanese restaurants, which doesn’t serve the Japanese fare that you get in most American restaurants, but rather simply-seasoned and simply-grilled meat, vegetable, and fish skewers. I’m full.

This BoP-A is funny enough to stand on its own, but has an additional layer of self-referential humour. In summary, this is not the first time that that watch has changed hands in that manner. You might also find this Shoot Club entertaining, to which they linked.

This doesn’t really surprise me. I really like my GPS, and in a city as fucked up as Boston, I’m amazed by how infrequently it gets something wrong. The worst thing it does is to choose sometimes a less-than-perfect route, because it doesn’t really know about traffic patterns.

The next step I want to see, in the evolution of these devices, is to use GPRS to download real-time traffic information. It should be smart enough to check this site to learn to avoid route 93 if there is an accident in the tunnel, for example, or avoid Storrow Drive if there’s a baseball game at Fenway. If I know it’s bad, I can route around certain damage, but it’s not a general solution.

This BoP-A synergizes well with yesterday’s, comes in a variety of colours, and stays crunchy in milk.

We’ve all been at a strange Chinese hotel outside of Beijing for the last few days. It’s actually called the Beijing Oil Sanatorium, which aside from being an unusual word, is a very strange concept. When we were driving up, I remarked that it looked rather like a factory, and now I think that it was, in fact, a factory. I think we’re staying in renovated housing of the industrial proletariat. It also has a bowling alley.

On our first night we took advantage of the not terribly well apportioned karaoke facilities, and it was pretty fun, even though the list of English songs was rather severely lacking, and skewed towards teen pop music. I learned that we have some pretty talented Chinese singers, though, in case the whole file system gig doesn’t work out.

We also bought a few bottles of “the” Chinese liqueur. Unfortunately, Peter didn’t realize that he was buying the anise-flavoured variety, which was horrific. It was so horrific that we gave the second bottle away to the best singer, as a “gift”.

Best of Penny-Arcade: like most games that they write about, I never played State of Emergency.

It’s been a very hectic last half-year — first I wrote “amazingly”, but realized that I could never make that claim stick — and as a result it’s been a full five months since my last trip to Beijing (which I guess I didn’t really write about). So it’s astonishing to talk to our friend Maggie now, whose command of the English language has made almost unbelievable leaps forward. She can understand what I’m saying in real-time now, which was apparently almost impossible before. And she has a handful of difficult English idioms under her belt.

So during this trip, I tried to teach her a few more, like “to damn with faint praise”, which I argued she did to the lamb on our plates. And the difference between “midnight” and “the middle of the night”. And various ways to say time, like “seven o’clock in the morning” vs. “seven AM” vs. “oh seven hours”. There were others, but I’ve forgotten them, and already made my point.

I also tried to explain that the “right” price for something (in this case, a lamp) is what the market will bear, and not what it cost to make. That was a harder lesson, which I don’t think she really believed. I don’t blame her, though; it’s hard to be a bourgeois capitalist pig.

After dinner, we all went back to the apartment with Alex, watched a movie, and drank some staggeringly good Russian vodka. I am ruined for vodka now, at least in terms of drinking it straight, as opposed to my other favourite way.

(I just like that this page uses the phrase “Unlike other tomato clam cocktail mixes” in a completely non-facetious way.)