BritBox

Don't Bug BritBox

2007-06-16T19:18:00.000-05:00

The insects are bad this year. They've become a nuisance much sooner in the season than they have in the past. Sure, there's chemicals and bug zappers and martins and bats and whatnot, but the best way to swat a bug is to use the windshield of a speedy little roadster. Think of the crusty insect-remains as being like notches in your motoring gun—the greenish-yellow badge of courage, if you will.

A formidable warrior is what you are. You can be found by following the trail of your enemies' dead bodies—except the little bitty corpses are stuck to your glass and grille.

It doesn't do any good to complain. After all, it was only a couple of months ago that the weather was too bitter for BritBox to even consider going out for a top-down scoot in a Sporty Red Car. Too cold, too hot, too buggy. Maybe BritBox should shut up and move Out West where the bugs are mostly on the ground or in your boots.

The Sporty Red Car got a long-overdue soak-scrub-and-rinse two nights ago. That was one skanky classic British sports car, BritBox assures you. A stucco of various insect species had formed a protective coating over the front-facing surfaces of the car. Dust from the recent (and current) drought clung to the Triumph like that shabby gray sweater your aunt wore, although hers probably lacked the bird poop accents. Does a clean car really go faster? It certainly feels like it does. BritBox thinks so. Something to do with reduced wind resistance, or more likely, the recovery of smooth and shiny dignity.

Where My Car Sleeps

2007-04-27T09:08:00.000-05:00

My car dozes in the garage,
talks in its sleep—
the tailpipe ticks, expanded metals
contract towards entropy,
displaced fluids find new levels
defined by the tiebreaker, gravity.

I die a little in bed each night
like my car.
Hands crossed over breast,
I unscrew the fine-threaded bolts
that connect reality to desire.
If time ran faster
my rust would hiss.

The sleeping car dreams
about driving me: it pushes me
to the limit of adhesion.
We drift through sudden apexes.
As I beetle down narrow roads,
my car opens me up all the way.

Spring Bling

2007-03-31T18:22:00.000-05:00

The end of March is the gateway to Spring. It's a time of transition: the Northern Hemisphere peels off sensible layers, exposing its dark and sweaty mushroom-world of undergarments once again. The outdoors smell like something spoiled that's been taken out of the freezer to thaw on the kitchen counter and spoil some more. This is transient—all soon to be replaced by the fresh scent of fast-growing grasses and optimistic flowers.

Who are we kidding here? This is Ohio, and BritBox can count on frost up until Mother's Day in May. It would be a good idea to wait a few more weeks before getting all excited and putting expensive annuals into the ground. Relax. By August you'll be so sick of lawn and garden maintenance you'll be wishing everything was all dead and gone. You will find yourself idly flipping through the Yellow Pages, perusing asphalt and concrete contractors.

Go outside. Drive your sporty car if you can. Fix it if you must. These are the happy times, the habitable times, the hospitable times to own a classic British car. Even a Fiat, what the heck. BritBox ran into one of those guys last week at the Englewood Reserve (no, not literally) and he had just completed the restoration of his rear-engined 850 Spider. The powerplant is about the size of your grandma's Singer sewing machine, and probably has as much torque. Thank goodness for favorable power-to-weight ratios. The Fiat guy made nice comments about The Favorite TR250 and took pictures with his camera phone. A Triumph owner could begin to believe their car is big and powerful after hanging out with the Fiat crowd for a while.

Salt and Battery

2007-02-25T15:07:00.000-05:00

What a harsh winter it's been. Not just the sub-frigid arctic temperatures, or the alternating blizzards and ice storms, or even the snot freezing inside one's nose. The worst part has been the sequence and frequency of these events. BritBox loves to brag about the number of miles The Sporty Red Car gets driven during the winter. Not necessarily with the top down—BritBox is boastful but not insane, this is OHIO, man!—but circumstances have conspired against BritBox and The Favorite TR250.

What's lacking here is the usual pattern of Snow, Salt, Thaw, Rain, Dry that creates a window of opportunity to keep car and driver's fluids stirred up from the bottom of the pot. Recharge the batteries and all that. This year's cycle has been more like Rain, Rain, Snow, Snow, Salt, Ice, Snow, Salt, Ice, Rain, Snow. The few clear days that even begin to suggest a quick blast down the gray lanes between canyons of snow are spoiled by the amazing skid marks of salt excreted by ODOT trucks at each and every intersection. They could probably get another day's ice control out of these deposits if they would scoop them up for redistribution.

BritBox has nothing against salt, not really. Well, maybe a little. Sure, in moderate amounts it is a necessary nutritional component, as well as the previously mentioned ice management compound of choice. Some people cannot eat a potato without it. It is great for rubbing into wounds when you want to, for example, add insult to injury or whatever. In BritBox's case, salt has kind of assumed the role of boogeyman—it is tough on the seasoned remains of forty-year-old British steel that forms the physical shell of The Sporty Red Car. It turns out that it is also tough on the seasoned remains that form the physical shell of BritBox's forty-year-old-plus ticker.

Note to self: lay off the salt while gazing through the back window at the garage where The Favorite TR250 slumbers in chilly hibernation. A relaxing little scoot down to the nature reserve would do wonders for blood pressure reduction, but it's not going to happen today. The salt on the roadways of Ohio wants to kill one of us, and the sodium in a can of soup will surely take out the other.

S'no Event

2007-01-08T12:11:00.000-05:00

Well, now. Winter in North America is an exciting time, you bet. The roads are saltier than Chinese take-out food—too much salt for low-sodium classic British cars—and the next time the driveway needs to be shoveled could be the one that punches your cardiac ticket. What to do?

It's hard to ignore the smothering irony of steep food and oil prices versus cheap and available technological doodads. The cost of gasoline rides a crazy roller coaster between $2.00 and $3.00 per gallon—this depends on complex factors like one of ten thousand Saudi princes getting a paper cut while counting his money, or a mother duck leading her ducklings across the truck entrance of a Texas oil refinery, effectively blocking shipments at their source.

Meanwhile, in sunny, cheerful, and decadent Las Vegas you can forget about your nutrition and transportation worries by attending the CES—the annual Consumer Electronics Show. This show is a rowdy, circus-like marketing extravaganza designed to introduce new gizmos and whatchamacallits to an eager and adoring public. If you can't find something shiny and expensive at the CES, you are already dead and have just not yet figured it out.

One of BritBox's favorite new toys is the amazing little nugget called the Apple iPod Shuffle. It looks like a refrigerator magnet but is packed with 1Gb of memory—about 240 songs worth. Sweet. The little guy sells for only $79.00 and it's hard to believe that this kind of technology is available to the boys and girls on the street. What fun they'll have!

Don't tell them that replacement batteries are $59.00.

Life In The Slow Lane

2006-12-31T19:39:00.000-05:00

Move over.

The left-hand lane is for passing—why are you just loafing along at two MPH below the posted speed limit? Yes, that conversation with your beloved is quite distracting: No, really, I don’t care if it’s Pizza Hut or Domino’s. Yes. No. Anything—let’s just make one a deluxe and the other half-onion and half-mushroom.

Okay, so now you’re vaguely aware that other motorists are right on your rear bumper, and that traffic to your right is passing you. This would be a good time for you to move the heck over, but instead you accelerate to two MPH over the speed limit and glare defiantly into your rearview mirror while thumbing your way to Pizza Hut’s number on your cell phone.

Lucky for you, this is not Germany, a country interconnected by many stretches of roadway without a maximum speed limit. They take high-speed motoring pretty seriously over there—beer vending machines at Autobahn rest stops notwithstanding—and the Polizei will cheerfully pop a cap in your ass for dawdling in the Go Fast lane. That’s what BritBox heard somebody say once at a party or somewhere.

Lane ownership is ugly, evil, and stupid. Huge-normous, wide, congested interstate highways are the common means by which Getting From Point A to Point B is achieved, but the individual approaches to using them can be divided into two main groups.

Some motorists, and this group includes BritBox, see highway travel as a vaguely depressing but ultimately efficient means of semi-convenient destination fulfillment. True motoring satisfaction is found in the exploration of sudden negative camber curves that precede narrow covered bridges—the thump of a sporty British car’s Yokohama tires on cracked and patched two-lane blacktop.

The other group includes the casual motorists, the consumers of transportation resources, the living dead who clog the highways in their insulated, isolated, Nissan Maxima coffins. It’s easy to identify the champions of lane ownership even when they are separated from their vehicles. They are the ones who eat the last pork chop without asking, who don’t thank you when you hold a door for them, who push a cart loaded with thirty items into the ten-item-or-less lane at the supermarket—oblivious the whole time because they are yapping on a cell phone: No, I don’t care—what do you want to do? No. Nope. Boring. What else? Maybe just pizza, that sounds fine.

Move over.

Oh, Deer

2006-11-29T14:03:00.000-05:00

Yes, it's that time of the year again—time for deer to traverse woods and farmlands while playing their instinctive game of Frogger. Despite dedicated efforts by mankind to thin their herds, wild deer populations appear to be on the increase. BritBox wishes no harm to these gentle creatures, and venison is low on BritBox's list of protein sources; it would just be great if these roaming ruminants would simply look both ways before crossing the street. Please.

BritBox likes to commute with The Sporty Red Car on almost any clear, salt-less day, and will probably average about three or four hundred miles per month until Spring, when the top goes down and the road mileage goes up. The twenty-eight mile trek to The Day Gig is best enjoyed by taking the wandering, rolling rural roads found here in southwestern Ohio. Meadowlarks, red-winged blackbirds, hawks, quail, squirrels, cats, and dogs seem to possess the requisite road savvy. But deer? BritBox has witnessed a depressing number of deer hits and near-misses over the past few years.

Here's a recent example: BritBox was busting ass down Lutheran Church Road earlier this week, late as usual. The little round lady who walks her four small dogs (each one a different breed) every morning was walking opposite BritBox's direction on the left-hand shoulder—she should know better than to use that side of the road! BritBox lifted slightly on the accelerator and waved to her, a jaunty little wave, glancing in the door mirror while passing by to see if she waved back. She did not. BritBox looked straight ahead again, just in time to nearly clip the tail of a full grown doe crossing from the right at a very high rate of speed. No time for brakes or avoidance: it was that quick. The doe had sprung out from the tree line that crowded this road, and she was trying to catch up with the rest of her small herd that could now be seen far off in the field to the left.

It's not hard to imagine the kind of damage that a two hundred pound animal could do in a collision with a twenty-two hundred pound car at over fifty miles per hour. If The Favorite TR250 had not slowed for the Dog-Walking Lady, the doe would have likely run full speed into the passenger-side door. If BritBox had gone slightly faster, the roadster would have hit the deer full-on instead of just grazing the white of its tail.

British sports car were made to drive, and deer were made to run. It is an unfortunate reality that geometry, physics, time, and fate will conspire to occasionally kill innocent herbivores and destroy recently restored sheet metal. This conspiracy is a reminder that there is more to motoring than wind in the hair, bump-oversteer, heel-and-toeing, and the sweet smell of incomplete combustion.

The MG guys say it best:

"Safety, Fast"

To Be Gruntled Again

2006-10-27T22:01:00.000-05:00

BritBox works hard. Works hard, plays hard, and procrastinates hard...well, maybe later. Aiming the BritBox skeeball between the uncompromising siderails and tricky low-scoring holes of the Internet is a labor of love, not a slavish devotion to commerce. Love usually costs money instead of making money, although it generally depends on which side of the love you end up.

Pulling levers and flipping switches behind the curtain of an entertaining, informative, and annoying Website requires a lot of time and effort—kind of like the restoration of a classic and worthy automobile. Resorting to clever mathematical formulas and depreciation tables in an attempt to set a "value" on the object of your desire is futile and bone-headed. If you want to express yourself and enjoy the satisfaction that comes from perseverance and craftsmanship, build a sports car, a Website, a ship in a bottle, or macaroni artwork. If you want to build something that makes money, try a stock market portfolio. Don't you wish you bought Exxon/Mobil shares like, maybe, fifty years ago? Here's another hot tip from BritBox: Microsoft, Google, and Wal-Mart look like they could get really big, ever since they won those licenses to print money. Don't tell anyone.

Not everyone is fortunate enough to be engaged in a career that is challenging, satisfying, rewarding, and monetarily sufficient. The rest of the workforce toils in the dim half-light of working for The Man, whoever he is, and Making Ends Meet. Whistling While You Work is subject to specific company policies and guidelines; please observe the rules about designated whistling areas, and whistle-free zones. Thank you.

Go ahead, be disgruntled and miserable; just stop surfing armament sites and browsing scoped rifles. Baking rat poison into the boss's bran muffin (yes, he needs more fiber, and he talks about it endlessly) is only a temporary solution at best. Take that hate and frustration, ball them up like old newspaper, and use them to fuel the smoldering fires until you hit the timeclock each night. If your so-called career sucks, just remember that your job is not necessarily your life—it's just the stinky unpleasant thing you have to do to finance your life.

Last tip: don't cook the macaroni.

Invisible

2006-10-12T20:43:00.000-05:00

Don't own a classic British car if you wish to be invisible. If you are trying to keep a low profile, avoid indictment or extradition (even for GOOD reasons), or simply abhor social interaction with the teeming masses, buy a GMC Envoy. General Motors engineers spent nine years and almost half a billion dollars developing a motor vehicle that virtually assures its owner absolute anonymity. Midnight Blue Metallic seems to work the best. BritBox heard that this stealth technology is under review by the armed forces as well.

It may be hard to believe, but BritBox is self-effacing and reticent by nature—in fact, avoidance of human contact in most forms and instances is preferred. It's true! Oh, sure, these Internets have raised BritBox's profile and created a lot of attention, along with the associated "dialog" and "communication" and "listening to what other people are actually saying to BritBox" and whatnot. All of that notoriety and responsibility is forgotten when taking the Sporty Red Car for a quick little sprint down the rolling, potholed, two-lane blacktop of rural midwestern roads.

You have to be on your guard. For every finger that points and is accompanied by the exclamation "Stuart Little!", there is also a wistful "is that a TR4 or a TR250?". The second, more informed comment usually comes from graying gentlemen in their fifties and sixties who go on to tell about the TR6 purchased when they got home from 'Nam, or the TR4A IRS that their older brother broke against a maple tree in 1971, or the Spitfire that was sleeping under canvas tarps in the barn, waiting to be restored "someday".

A matronly older woman once approached BritBox's Favorite TR250 in the parking lot of a skateboard park (don't ask). She identified the car correctly, and reminisced about a TR4 in which she and her now-departed husband motored around in their younger days. Her eyes gleamed with memories of the dashing car and how handsome in it she and her husband looked, before the car was replaced by a larger vehicle to accommodate their growing family. This seems to happen a lot: little British cars passing through people's lives like oil through a gearbox seal.

BritBox stopped for gas while commuting home on a summer-like October day last week. One of those Dodge diesel pickup trucks the size of a combine harvester pulled up to the pump right behind the Sporty Red Car, and the truck's owner made some polite remarks and then asked, "Is it hard to get parts for that thing?". The reply, of course, was that 88.3% of the parts essential to a Triumph's continued motoring existence can be obtained in as little as forty-eight hours, thanks to the modern miracles of credit/debit cards and expedited shipping. The other 11.7% is only available through divine intervention, windfalls like lottery wins, or eBay—but that's not the point.

People used to integrate little British cars into their daily lives. Most of the cars were not toys with which to tinker, or eye candy, or a cooling salve for mid-life crisis. They were statements of personality; an embrace of culture and industry from a foreign land. Every British car that crossed the ocean bore with it the cachet of green hills, white cliffs, blue skies, and empire. They were driven year-round, parked outside, dug out of snow drifts, and reluctantly replaced only when propagation of the species demanded a Ford Fairlane station wagon. BritBox even bought a TR6 parts car once that rolled on mounted snow tires.

Today, classic British cars are survivors of a long gone era, one that answered a need to make something extraordinary out of the mundane. A time, like now, when the motoring enthusiast was visible against the backdrop of indifferent, utilitarian vehicles—because the LBC driver was the one who was smiling.

Get Off BritBox's Ass

2006-08-24T21:50:00.000-05:00

BritBox loves attention. Yes, yes; hard to believe, but true. Let's face it, one of the 1,743 reasons to own a little British sports car is to bask in the warm, affectionate admiration of jealous onlookers. Especially Miata owners. But not Z4 owners.

Kids say wow, cool car! and thirtysomething soccer moms say nice car, is that an MG? and your boss says stop parking that thing here, it's leaking oil everywhere!—jealous, all of them. BritBox would rather push a Triumph than drive an Escalade, and it's better to push an Escalade than pass a kidney stone, and it's better to pass a kidney stone than pay for a year's worth of gas for an Escalade...

Why do you even want to talk about Chevrolet Suburbans disguised as luxury vehicles?

Look, cars have an amazing ability to touch lives. Of course, there are people like your mother who think of them as colorful toasters—and about as interesting—but almost everyone else in the civilized world thinks cars are pretty neat. Why not? Even if you don't know a Buick from an Austin-Healey, you can probably conjure up some kind of memory that is connected to a car: a cab ride home from the airport, a very hot date at the drive-in theater, helping Dad wash the station wagon when you were just a little critter, the feeling of independence that came with owning your first car, the character-building exercises attached to maintaining that first car, and so on. Let's just agree that cars are very relatable.

The Sporty Red Car gets its fair share of attention, you bet. Sometimes a little more would be nice, like when that van or Hummer starts crossing over into BritBox's lane—but it seems rude to interrupt someone's telephone conversation. That's OK, BritBox rebuilt the car once, it can be rebuilt again. Re-rebuilt? Whatever.

There's also such a thing as too much attention, and this happens two different ways. The first way is when curious motorists tailgate The Favorite TR250 at 65 MPH because they are trying to get close enough to read the name badge on the boot lid. Funny side note: in Triumph's astonishing marketing wisdom, it was decided that the word "Triumph" would appear in exactly one place on the car—a one-by-five inch badge at the back end of the car.

The second way is when lazy, ignorant boneheads assume that The Sporty Red Car is an unfamiliar variant of the Cobra/Tiger/Interceptor let's-drop-a-V8-in-a-British-car theme and they want to show how unimpressed they are. They, too, get right up on BritBox's tail, cruising tauntingly just inches from the exhaust-dusted rear bumper. It's like a test; a battle of wills; a street duel where the honor of classic motoring must be upheld in the face of brazen provocation borne by contemporary expressions of automotive achievement. Finally, the bonehead swings out of BritBox's slipstream, passing in an arrogant yet desperate gasp of catalytic converter-cleansed combustion, strident overhead cam drowning out the music of The Favorite TR250's stalwart pushrods. The challenger passes, normal motoring resumes.

BritBox really hates minivans.

Four Thousand

2006-04-25T22:05:00.000-05:00

Riding in search of the perfect shift,
steering wheel wrapped in leather
and my fingers. I fly August roads
in the cockpit of an old fighter plane,
while engine, gears, and wind play sublime
music—a song named Four Thousand RPM.
Stacks of cut hay billow like clouds;
the smell of damp wool and spent oil
rises to meet them.

People think I feel too much love
for an old machine, but we came back
together from the edge of disintegration.
They are grounded and can all stay behind,
because there's room for only one passenger:
she loves to feel summertime wind
in her hair, as we ride in search
of the perfect shift.

Living Down to Your Potential

2006-01-28T09:02:00.000-05:00

Are you everything you should be? Have you an explanation for your current level of personal and professional achievement? Do you ever wonder if this is as good as it gets?

BritBox was pretty sure that you didn’t know the answers. No biggie.

Self-examination is good if it’s not taken to extremes. The guy in the next cubicle with the annoying personal habits could certainly use a little of it. That lady down the street with thirty-five cats could probably use a lot more of it. Where do you fit in? When no one is looking, you can’t help but check yourself out in any reflective surface you pass by. How embarrassing when you found out there were people on the other side of that mirrored-glass office building façade! Don’t feel bad, they would have done the same thing themselves. What are you looking for when you look into the dreamy, haunted eyes of the Other You? Hopefully, both parties are measuring up, but that is very unlikely. The subject is about more than just monitoring the flabbiness of your belly or hips: it’s about checking the flabbiness of your heart’s desire. Has your heart’s desire been exercising daily?

Here’s how it works: right about the time you separate yourself from your parents’ lives and begin the construction of your own adult identity, your judgment is clouded by the fact that you know everything and are going to live forever. That part of your life is sharp and clear; the colors are brighter and the sensations are more intense. The middle part of your life has got a lot to do with earning a living and finding someone who will love you, although your bad habits and decisions seem to conspire to undermine the job and relationship. This middle part is kind of a blur. The last part of your life is mostly about the realization that you don’t know as much as you thought, and that the long sweet sleep of oblivion draws inescapably nearer. This part is kind of rounded off and fuzzy, and there is a persistent feeling that perceptions used to be bigger and lasted much longer. If you did OK during the middle part, the last part is not quite so bad.

Experience and accumulated knowledge are not to be underestimated, if you live that long. It’s kind of a Darwin thing. Determination and confidence are pretty handy, too, no doubt about it. Luck is nice when you can get it, but trying to find some is like looking for the money you’ve loaned your friends: it’s all around you, you know it’s there, but you can never find it when you need it. But there is something else that can make a difference.

Passion. It’s the electric shock that makes you jump back up from the floor after you’ve been knocked out. It’s the hot smoky fire that keeps your Special Someone warm at night. It’s the grease that lubricates achievement, and it’s the secret spark that ignites redemption. Passion pushes you beyond what’s reasonable, all the way to what’s right.

If you try to make other people happy without being happy yourself, you are giving them gifts that you have shoplifted. You will neither inspire anyone nor motivate them if you are cursing your circumstances and flirting with your own self-destruction. Nobody asked you to be a saint, and the openings for angels were filled long ago, but there is a very important part that you must surely play:

Be yourself. The self you really can be, not that grumpy, unmotivated, disillusioned one that frustrates you, and annoys your friends and family.

The Other You will thank you the next time you pass a mirror.

Unreliable British Cars!

2006-01-12T21:06:00.000-05:00

BritBox was out and about in the Favorite TR250 today. It was a clear, sunny day: the finest in many cold, wet, snowy weeks. This unseasonable weather followed days of rain that had washed the dregs of salt off of the potholed SW Ohio roads. Driving a British sports car in the winter is really great; it’s like sinning or something.

It was the third time on the rolling black two-lane highways since the recent replacement of a weak rebuilt clutch master cylinder. Throughout the last year, shifting had become progressively more difficult, until eventually reverse and then first gears could not be selected at all. Those are handy gears to have, too. After a lot of hand-wringing, indecision, and jumping to dramatic conclusions like considering pulling the drivetrain to inspect the clutch, a profound, insightful decision was made: throw parts at the problem. A clutch master cylinder is about as easy to install as a distributor cap. If you have a fourteen-year-old boy close at hand, pull him off the important thing he is doing and have him assist with bleeding the line. Nothing to it.

Late this summer, BritBox will be celebrating the fifth year of happy, carefree motoring since completing the Reanimation and Reactivation of the sporty red Favorite Triumph TR250. The fact is, the clutch failure turned out to be a fairly non-dramatic episode in the life of this lively British sports car. BritBox manages to squeeze between 5,000 and 8,000 miles a year out of the willing little roadster. The car has never failed to start, never broken down by the side of the road, has never caused BritBox to undertake the Long Walk Home that is the curse of the Faithful.

Casual passers-by, and in particular fans of various domestically produced examples of Detroit Iron, love to taunt and tease about “unreliable British cars”. OK, yes, Lucas electrics have a couple of quirks, but Delco and Motorcraft do not? Some British car engines eat timing chains or overheat, but what about the Chevy Vega, or the GM diesel sedans of the 80s? A well sorted out and well maintained British car can be as reliable as most other vehicles on the road today. BritBox even saw a Honda on the back of a tow truck once. Really.

Reputations and legends are built not just on fact, but on powerful emotions like love, hate, and envy. Few classes of classic automobiles combine all three of those emotions quite like British sports cars. If you don’t own one, and share the joy and heartbreak that comes with ownership, you probably just won’t get it.

And yes, they do leak oil. Lots of it.

midlife+crisis

British+car

classic+car

automobile

New Year’s Restitution

2006-01-01T18:10:00.000-05:00

Here we are again, at the end of another year: a time of reflection and remorse. It’s funny how the turning of a single calendar page can cause so much introspection and self-examination. There are exactly three hundred sixty-four other days available for contemplation and analysis; New Year’s Day is just a logical focal point for expressing good intentions for the future. The roast pork and sauerkraut can be pretty good, too. Optimism is a dish best served piping hot; cold pessimism and regret should be sent down the sink disposal, post haste.

2005 was a pretty good year as far as BritBox was concerned. Tsunamis, hurricanes, terrorism, and civil unrest were pretty easy to cope with, as long as the TV remote was close to hand: life’s lightning bolts missed BritBox’s tree each and every time. BritBox can look back at a year when friends and family mostly experienced strong personal growth and good fortune; when purpose, focus, and clarity of thought emerged from the background noise; when a trail of bread crumbs was found to help lead the traveler out of the murky forest of doubt.

Here, in no particular order, are some of that things that BritBox hereby resolves to do in 2006:

*Write the correct year on checks, starting with the very first one. No exceptions.

*Spend more time driving the sporty red Triumph TR250, instead of just admiring it and talking about it.

*Stop believing in the fantasy of a “five-day weather forecast.”

*Stop believing in the fantasy of a “twenty-four-hour weather forecast”.

*Spend less time writing about funny, interesting, and ironic things; spend more time doing funny, interesting, and ironic things.

*Maintain good health and fitness. Consume oxygen, and expel carbon dioxide, for the entire year.

*Continue the habit of eating nutritious, low-fat, high-fiber food. Reject feelings of guilt caused by occasional consumption of an Egg McMuffin, or half a summer sausage.

*Keep taking vitamins and Ginkgo Biloba because they really seem to help with......stuff.

*Read more books. Yes, the paper kind, with words printed in ink.

*Figure out what this decade should be called: The O’s? The Oughts? The Two-Thousand Oughts? The Pre-Teens? The Decade After The Apocalypse That Didn’t Really Pan Out?

*Stop being so hard on Big Oil. They are just honest, hard-working folks like us, who deserve the huge windfall profits they extort from average consumers by opportunistically taking advantage of an unregulated and non-competitive market. They’re just people, you know. They have feelings, too.

*Try harder to get to work on time. Wait a minute; let’s not go crazy, here!

*Be nicer to people, even if they don’t deserve it. You know who you are.

BritBox wishes everyone a Happy New Year. Remember, if you cannot achieve your own inner peace and happiness, you cannot make others happy. And then they will ditch you. Is that what you want? No, BritBox didn’t think so either.

All the News You Can Use

2005-12-08T00:11:00.000-05:00

In a moment of weakness, BritBox turned on the morning news; it would be nice to get a little heads-up on the weather. BritBox loves to drive, make no mistake: man and machine, the open road, carefree highway, all of that. It’s the other road warriors that put sand in the thong of motoring. Why is it easier in this country to get a driver’s license than it is to file one’s own income tax return? Did anyone ever die from involuntary taxslaughter? Exactly. BritBox is just saying that people should take a little more seriously the responsibility of operating a two-ton killing machine. Nobody mentioned Hummers by name.

The TV newscaster was actually rather good-looking, if you go for that plastic action-figure kind of vibe. No kidding, he was really made of plastic! Deep resonant voice, golden locks, jaw shaped like Colorado. Zeus wept bitter tears when he lost this radiant demi-god to the dark Earth below, no doubt about it.

The Barbie to this Ken was some fluffhead named Kristi or Casey or Cherie or something. All teeth, hair, and nails. Talk about the blonde leading the blonde! The beautiful cornsilk-haired twosome chattered at each other like giddy monkeys, almost as if they had forgotten about the camera’s eye. If BritBox could just get the weather forecast before they segued to local reaction about the earthquake in Antarctica…why was it so important to serve up a “local connection” to every human tragedy? Have you ever actually met a South Polar research technician?

They cut away to a commercial. There was no way BritBox was going to get the required information without paying a terrible price. The damage had already been done: is there a Purple Heart for wounds caused by local journalism? There should be! BritBox decided to head out into the unknown, naked and uninformed. It was better than waiting for the Dream Team to resume their on-air romance. Waiting for Gail Force, or Storm Surge, or whatever the weatherman’s name was, to grin through his forecast like an idiot; finishing by reminding everyone to “dress in layers, folks, and wear a hat to keep your ears and head warm”. That kind of useful information could easily cause damage that surpasses a TV Purple Heart injury and have BritBox end up in a body bag due to brain delamination.

Know your enemy, and claim the high ground. It is better to go down in glorious battle than to be taken out in your own living room by handsome snipers with perfect teeth.

media

television

Control Freak

2005-12-01T23:08:00.000-05:00

Your Body

You’ve really let yourself slip. No, it’s just not cute anymore. There’s good news, though: you can surrender to obsessive exercise and physical conditioning. Oh sure, it hurts –but the point is, becoming a slave to your own body opens up a lot of exciting possibilities. The management of your physique and appearance is certainly your own province. What you do to your own little sacred temple is going to have a lot to do with who worships there, and there’s a good chance that YOU will fill the spot for High Priest or Priestess.

What You Eat

OK, counting calories is fine; in fact, you probably need to do that. Counting the green peas on your plate, or the number of olives in a jar…well, you need to get help, if you can find some without stepping on the cracks in the sidewalk. And why do you get all bent out of shape when the meatloaf touches the mashed potatoes on your plate? It all ends up in the same place anyway, just like Dad said.

What Time You Get There

You’ll get there when you get there. What’s the big deal? Sure, you’re late –but yesterday was worse. Not as late: it’s the new early! Being late, especially being chronically late, is
an attempt to control Time. Sure, you could BE on time, but that would mean that Time is controlling you. Wouldn’t it?

That Car You Drive

Sweet! Your car is very stylish; you seem to understand that it is a doorway to your innermost self. It’s like a business card, a brochure, a short essay about how cool you are. It defines and projects your true essence through a mobile medium of steel, plastic, and hi-tech electromechanical sophistication. Too bad nobody cares.

What You Write

Got a lot of emails in your mailbox? Send ‘em back! There’s a button for that somewhere on your computer; at least, there should be. The problem with emails is that they by their very nature expect a reply. A reply suggests a dialogue –holy crap, did you really care about what the other person was thinking? NO! Be glad that you don’t actually have to hear what they were saying. Just think of their torturously typed whining as eye noise.

The beauty, the art, the magic of pure creative writing is the incredible selfishness of composition; the essential inward focus, the microscopic attention to the spoiled inner brat. Control the words, control the emotion. Comments, rebuttal, editorial suggestions? Shut up!

People

People resist control, much like glaciers, hurricanes, and cats. They do not like to be diverted from their chosen course, no matter how stupid or destructive that course may be. Oh, sure, they act like they want direction: “Hey, what do you think I should do about _____?” While you are giving your carefully considered and thoughtful answer, they are thinking about ordering new ring tones for their cellular phone. Sorry.

The Things You Love

The things you love don’t always love you back. Fact is, the things you love the most are probably just not very good for you at all. There are lots of control issues, but the fact is: love is the one thing that you cannot control.

Eldest

2005-11-20T22:53:00.000-05:00

When we were young, she was our champion. She was the reason bullies fled down the street: she did not want to share the total and absolute domination of her siblings with anyone. She was our complete and utter tyrant, with a pixie haircut. Later, she became the fashion icon, the style guide, the music critic. We attended the original theater release of A Hard Day’s Night because she wanted to see it, and we endured the screams of the Monkees’s teenybopper legions because she thought Mike Nesmith was the cute one. Her girlfriends flirted with us; her boyfriends mentored us. Bad boys and dangerous men broke against her and littered her shore like driftwood. She blazed a trail; by comparison, we who followed behind seemed calm and conventional.

She was the artist who created life out of thin air, life that abided in a home made of pigment and paper. There was never any doubt her gifts were potent and would grow stronger. How did she travel to the crossroads where Life and Art intersect? Why did she feel she had to choose? How did she make the transition from rebel to responsible eldest, the polite and gracious one who always remembers to send a thank you note?

There is a deep hidden place where the sleeping artist dreams of light. Beneath the doubt and anger, yet not beyond recall, is the fire than can burn paper and canvas yet again. Kindness and decency are tempered by time undefined: no date circled on the calendar, no Post-it note placed by the phone. There will come a day when the painter awakens refreshed from long slumber, when the storyteller finds the voice she had lost. A day when the pixie-haired avenger chases bullies between the rows of maple trees again.

Sins and Redemption

2005-11-13T19:50:00.000-05:00

This question has troubled scholars, scientists, philosophers, and mechanics for countless generations: should classic cars be preserved, restored, or improved? It is an argument that dates all the way back to the Dawn of Time, when the petroleum for today's vehicles was just starting the slow process of being rendered from dinosaurs. The passion for this debate is similar to the emotion that has provoked wars founded on colonialism, religious faith, geographical boundary disputes, and the ill-fated romantic dalliances of kings. They're not making any more of these cars, you know!

The reanimation of a classic British car is a great way to challenge the brain and yet to massage it, to set clear goals and to exceed them. Restoration promotes a sort of spiritual growth, a wisdom and peace found after gazing into the Abyss of Automotive Despair but finally removing that damned broken manifold stud. The car is not the only thing that is restored.

BritBox's Favorite Triumph TR250 is not loved for its provenance or pedigree; it is loved because of a deep emotional investment that is connected to an intimate restoration. Oh yes, and the financial investment, too. This sporty car is truly the quintessential FrankenTriumph, a Heinz 57, a mongrel running with greyhounds. Did BritBox seek out this sad jigsaw-puzzle motor vehicle, this tattered and crippled remnant of some other enthusiast's faded restoration dream? Heck, no. The Triumph found BritBox, in the same way that stray cats and dogs find us and insinuate themselves into our lives. We start by feeling a mixture of pity and regret, and before we know it, they are shiny and clean and part of our family. Now, BritBox and the reborn Favorite Triumph TR250 get to run and play in the sun. BritBox enjoyed the restoration process, and, thanks to the challenge, grew strong and true.

The custodianship of an un-restored classic car represents a commitment to history, and a devotion to originality. The religion of restoration shares the same icons with the admirable discipline of guardianship; how can restoration despise the preservation of what it tries so nobly to re-create? The roads traveled are made brighter and smoother when graced by the quiet nobility of antiquity. There is powerful magic in cracked leather, splintered wood veneer, faded wool carpets, and the smell of decades of Castrol. We drive with ghosts.

Some car owners regard their project as a blank canvas, a half-realized design exercise, an engineering term paper. The enthusiast’s intent could be to improve the safety or reliability of the machine, or it could be an opportunity to demonstrate an individualistic artistic statement. Customization can range from the addition of electronic ignition, to lever-to-tube shock conversions, to the carefully considered installation of a GE gas-turbine jet engine. The broader automotive culture seems to have accepted the conventional idea of a “hot rod”, so why does the addition of a hood scoop and a rear spoiler to an MG cause dissention, strife, and civil war?

An unspoiled survivor is an important find. Pulled from a barn or dry garage, blinking in bright sunlight that is screened by 30 years of dust and bird droppings: here sits the next improbable time capsule. What to do? Wipe off the poop, put in some fresh gas, jumpstart it, and drive away? No. Place it in a hyperbaric chamber, begin an obsessive restoration, and only roll it out of a trailer at car shows? No. Shoot some pearlescent paint on it and drop a small-block Chevy motor into it? No, no, no! Don't do any of these things because someone on the Internet said to! Do what your heart tells you to do: all the answers are correct.

Blog That Blog, You!

2005-11-07T21:18:00.000-05:00

It was brought to BritBox’s attention that the standards of correct blog format have largely been ignored on this site. In the interest of maintaining the proper attitude, establishing street cred, and expanding readership to embrace a wider audience, BritBox has decided to shift gears a little bit, sellout completely, and go mainstream blog:

Thursday 6:25 AM

Woke up this morning, reluctantly. Life is like a bad dream, full of mean and uninteresting people. Lay in bed for a while considering the possibility of staying there all day, quitting The Day Gig, and starting a new life. Urge to get up and relieve full bladder overcame all other considerations. Start new life tomorrow maybe?

Thursday 7:06 AM

Showered thoroughly. Spent a lot of time trying to decide between anti-dandruff shampoo and the regular kind. Selected the regular kind, but ran out of hot water due to excessive deliberation. Wrote funny message on steamy mirror. Heh.

Thursday 8:01 AM

Stopped at donut shop for medium coffee and bran muffin. Ray Jr. and Tommy were there, as usual. Britbox could hear them talking and laughing quietly about BritBox as BritBox walked past them to get some cream. Jerks. Does Ray Jr. realize how big his ass looks in those painter paints? BritBox is sure that Ray Jr.’s fashion sense comes from a Tractor Supply sales flyer. And they have the nerve to tease BritBox?

Thursday 12:23 PM

Lunchtime, fast food again. Taco Bell is OK if you consider all 243 of their items very carefully before making your selection. Don’t kid yourself that a person who has ever even been to Mexico had anything to do with the menu. Long John Silver’s is just not an option at all. Subway is best, but BritBox does not like the way the sandwich-building kid with all the piercings refuses to make eye contact. BritBox is pretty sure that Piercing Boy once came out of the restroom wearing the same clear plastic foodservice gloves that he was wearing when he went in there.

Thursday 5:45 PM

Same old crap on the drive home. A guy in a 1985 Chevrolet Citation pulled out right in front of BritBox, oblivious to the sound of locking brakes and tortured tires. The man then trundled along for the next seven miles with the left turn signal on, while staying exactly five miles per hour under the legal speed limit. He finally made a turn without any signal at all, or working brake lights for that matter. BritBox considered tapping the guy into a ditch, NASCAR-style, but realized that the Chevy was probably close to terminal implosion anyway.

Thursday 7:53 PM

Late supper tonight, leftovers. The cat got into the bag of bread on the counter again today and ate the whole loaf. How can so much bread fit into such a small cat? It was that special high-fiber whole grain bread, too. Note to self: change cat litter box tomorrow, even though it is nowhere close to December yet. When will President Bush step in and stop the cat litter companies from setting their prices so artificially high? He and the rest of his cronies from the cat litter mining regions of Texas are obviously benefiting from this runaway price gouging.

Thursday 11:48 PM

Spent three and a half minutes at the computer tonight creating content that is entertaining, informative, and annoying for the BritBox site. A new record! May have to take a few days off to recuperate. Not sure how much longer BritBox can sustain this kind of prolific output. Heard a funny story today, something about a place somewhere and what someone said about it. Full report tomorrow.

Yes, this should work out quite nicely. Thank you for letting BritBox touch your life. Stop back soon, and often.

A Passport Photo is the Window to the Soul

2005-11-03T22:28:00.000-05:00

BritBox has an honest face. No, really! The eyes are not set too close together, the complexion is smooth and lightly tanned, and there is a nearly total and complete absence of a curly waxed moustache; the kind that requires a lot of sinister twirling. BritBox has excellent bone structure, and a chin that could drive fence posts.

BritBox’s ID photos are better than yours, but they are still pretty bad. Not ugly bad, BritBox is actually quite handsome; “bad” meaning that they do not reveal the real and true character of BritBox, the essential Self. Can any ID photo do this?

Passport and driver’s license photos must exist only for the amusement of state highway patrol troopers, customs officials, and border crossing guards. Sure, those guys act all stony-faced and serious when they are frisking you or whatever, but as soon as they send you on your way they laugh so hard that they almost pee. When they are hanging out together on their smoke breaks, they review and compare the goofy ID photos they have seen that day. There have been some bitter arguments over which images were the absolute worst!

You were probably already having a bad day the morning your ID photo was shot: rent past due, toilet backed up, the cat yacked on your bed again. The usual stuff. The license bureau employees have an uncanny ability to extract your most sullen, distracted, or debilitated facial expression. There is no additional charge for this service; they are, after all, artists who are slaves to their craft. And there is no extra fee for the shadow-mullet hairstyle that the indifferently adjusted lighting injects into your image. It’s a good thing that no one can see your tattoos and piercings. It would be hard to explain the body art and the mullet hairdo, would it not?

Just when you got yourself all secretly stylish and hip, your ID photo ratted you out. Maybe that image is a lens for Truth after all.

All Circus Cats Must Die

2005-10-27T21:22:00.000-05:00

Wait until your cats are asleep, then check out this site. If your cats find out about these cats they will find them and kill them. Be careful, it's hard to tell when they are really asleep. Your cats are sneaky.

Have you ever awakened in the middle of the night, probably from one of those dreams about being late for something, only to find your cat crouched on your chest and looking into your bleary eyes? As if the cat was trying to decide if this was the exact right time to suck your breath, or to eat the eyeballs right out of your head? Think about that: spending the rest of your wretched life blundering into the high-back stools in the kitchen as you struggle, unsighted, to open cans of Fancy Feast.

The fact is, your cat was actually in an attitude of calm alertness, waiting for new instructions to be beamed down from the Cat Mothership orbiting the Earth. We all think of cats being so free-spirited, so independent. Nothing could be further from the bitter truth! Cats march in lock-step to the cadence drummed down into their brains from the Mothership. Furry little automatons that they are, they slink through the shadows of the night like liquid death; pouring from the gloom to pounce on their next victim –probably a mouse or a vole with a terminal case of insomnia. Yes, it’s true, cats are aliens bent on a quest to dominate our fair planet Earth! Killing smaller creatures is not even part of their Evil Plan, it’s more like a bonus. Consider for a moment: the incessant grooming, the fascination with birds and blowing leaves, the refusal to respond to their “master’s” voice calling their name…it all falls into place, doesn’t it? Aliens.

It would be in your best interest to log off your computer right now, give your cat one of those stinky little cat yummies, and real quick-like slip a tiny aluminum foil helmet over its cursed fuzzy head. Block the signals, the radio signals of mayhem and horror! The two of you can then drift off to the first happy, peaceful dreams you have each enjoyed in ages. Dreams of soft chairs in the sun on a warm day, of a cat snoozing in your lap as you read your email, of a brighter happier world where all dogs are dead or enslaved…

Now where did that come from?

China Part II

2005-10-23T20:34:00.000-05:00

For those of you who still have the will and the desire to read about BritBox’s China Adventure, here follows Part Deux:

Hong Kong: A Little Imperialism Never Hurt Anything

BritBox suggests that a couple of hundred years of British occupation has been a factor in the consistent timely arrival of subway trains in Hong Kong. Say what you will about the sin of Imperialism; there is a structure and order to Hong Kong that does not really exist in the greater People’s Republic of China. There is a bustle, a rhythm, a flow to the narrow streets that is electric instead of oppressive. And a smell, but that’s OK, keep moving. The city is a comforting gateway for the uninitiated Western traveler. Hong Kong serves as a bridge between the divergent paths of two cultures and sets the bewildered voyager on accessible common ground. It is a stunning, glittering metropolis of endless skyscrapers that climb down mountains to cool their feet in the smooth waters of the busy harbor.

Hong Kong is possibly the Most Wonderful Place on Earth.

Is It Still a Sweat Shop on a Cool Day?

BritBox toured small factories in China that represented an amazing synthesis of the medieval and the high tech. The dimly lit shops were dirty and cramped. Barefooted workers operated antique jury-rigged drills, presses, and cut-off tools: shy, sullen tradesmen toiling in the shadow of modern computerized plastic injection molding machines as large as farm tractors. The floors were littered with machine tooling and open burlap bags of raw materials, while the oily CNC wirecutting machines hummed and sputtered as they carved out new tool fixtures. Many assembly operations were performed by men and women who sat on low wicker stools and worked from piles of unfinished materials scattered around and about the floor. China’s basic success as a manufacturing powerhouse must be credited to the incredible focus and blunt determination of its hand laborers.

There Are More Volkswagens in China Than There Are in Germany

Although it has recently slowed somewhat, the demand for automobiles in China has shown astonishing growth over the last ten years. An emerging middle class has found cars and minivans to be irresistible and has sought out and won a coveted status symbol. Companies like GM Shanghai, Volkswagen/Audi, Jinbei, and many others have done their best to satisfy this demand. The streets and highways are stuffed with Audi A6s, Toyotas of all shapes and sizes, minivans beyond count, and the ubiquitous VW Santana and Passat. Some of the vehicles designed and produced specifically for the Chinese market exist in forms that are often whimsical or unlikely, but seldom cute. BritBox had the surreal experience of being picked up in a plant manager’s Chinese-built Buick Regal. It was rather odd but nice to sit in the cozy leather back seat of the very American looking and feeling car, and watch the alien scene outside spin past on the road from the city to the mountains.

BritBox realized with a start: it wasn’t just the car. Everything inside of and outside of the Buick was Made In China. Everything, except BritBox.

The Sad Dogs of China

China is populated by a lot of people and Volkswagens, but not a lot of dogs. BritBox had to look hard to find Man’s Best Friend; a dog’s life in the swarming cities would be a hard one and short. It wasn’t until BritBox spent time in the mountainous outskirts of Ningbo that dogs were revealed in any numbers. They could be seen drowsing on piles of dirt or rags as they kept watch over their Master’s shop, standing on sidewalks and gazing into the middle distance, or chained to the guard booths that marked the entrance of nearly every factory.

With the exception of some feisty puppies whose antics commenced one particular factory tour, the dogs of China seemed sad, stoic, and reserved. They projected an attitude of quiet resignation, but also perhaps of mild expectation. Their aloofness reflected a consignment to the parallel life that they do not actually share with the Chinese: the people and dogs of China simply coexist in the same gray space and time.

BritBox could not wait to get home to be greeted by the ever ebullient and outgoing Favorite Border Collie.

China gives every indication that it needs to slow down, stop, and do the 20th century over again. It is a complicated nation of unequal equals; of emphatic contrasts between riches and dust, between hi-tech and no-tech. It is a country whose heart seems divided, its spirit restless as it tries to discover its place in the world. BritBox is humbled by the opportunity to have visited this Giant as it rises from long slumber to begin the journey to meet its destiny. And what a crazy scary cab ride that will be.

China Part I

2005-10-22T17:49:00.000-05:00

BritBox just got back from China, and it was an amazing journey of insight and enlightenment. No, China enlightened BritBox.

For example: unlike the Warner Brothers cartoons, everything is NOT upside down. Well, maybe just a few things.

Food with Faces

BritBox has always loved Asian food. Yum yum. It turns out that the love affair was actually with the Western version of Asian cuisine. Real Asian food, prepared on that continent, has a range and intensity that crushes the square white boxes from your favorite take-out joint down the street. BritBox was occasionally left to wonder whether all of the served items were food, or was the item being consumed in fact a garnish, a good luck charm, or a creature from outer space. Some of the food was really quite amazing, the best that BritBox ever had. It was a shame that almost every meal had to end with a fish, a shrimp, or a crab looking forlornly at BritBox, as if to say, “Why? Why me?

It made BritBox sad that there was no good answer. “You were delicious, really, thank you!” did not seem sufficient.

The Mean Streets of China

Traffic in China is like a dance with Death, a suicidal ballet if you will. Pedestrians, cyclists, and motorists merge and swirl in a hypnotic pattern; they are like dolls, confident in their immortality because they believe that their marionette strings will keep them from harm.

Every condition that could incite road rage exists there, but there is no cursing, no gesturing, no senseless aggression. Right-of-way is as incomprehensible to the Chinese driver or cyclist as are the rules of American football. It is replaced by a gentle but forceful nudge into traffic, a drift into an adjacent lane to signal intent through the promise of imminent contact, the sound of a horn to declare impending doom. In China, the burden of liability falls on the victim rather than the pilot: you should have gotten out of the way. Beep beep!

Shanghai

Shanghai is a sprawling, hyperactive city populated by 23 million unsuccessful suicides (see above). Take a twenty minute cab ride there and you will need a long run in an experimental jet to calm yourself down and feel safe again. The city is possessed by a frenetic pace and a population density that are absolutely smothering to the uninitiated. Even the fully initiated must have to come up for air from time to time! Or, perhaps it’s the fact that the population may be 23 mil, but there is only enough clean air for about 4 million. And enough clean water for maybe 500,000 or so.

It is a broad, flat city whose skyscrapers and tenements stretch from horizon to hazy horizon; whose citizens struggle with municipal infrastructure shortfalls, stinging air-pollution, and a seemingly endless hunger for Western goods and culture. This is not your father’s Communist China. The Cold War is over; the Chinese don’t want to destroy your way of life. They want to buy it and bring it home.

MTV, The Bridge to a Brighter Tomorrow

BritBox did not watch a lot of TV in China; there was no Emeril Live!, no A-Team reruns, so what was the point? There was certainly as much weight-lifting competition coverage as one could wish for, and some spirited discussion of the recent Chinese orbital space mission (all in Chinese, of course). One thing that was somewhat more interesting to see was a Chinese MTV segment wherein a pretty Asian girl spent a half hour teaching English words and hip, vacant phrases. This was presumably so that Chinese teenagers could hope to someday journey to American malls to buy Lil’ Kim CDs and chili cheddar fries. Chairman Mao must be very proud indeed; in fact, his image looks very proud and happy as illustrated on the T-shirts and canvas handbags that are sold to tourists.

Stay tuned to this blog channel, there will be more of BritBox’s keen, incisive commentary to be found in China Part II, including The Sad Dogs of China; Hong Kong: A Little Imperialism Never Hurt Anything; and Is It Still a Sweat Shop on a Cool Day? Then, BritBox will have exorcised the demons and can get back to non-Asian content which is entertaining, informative, and annoying.

The Price of Tea in China

2005-10-10T22:20:00.000-05:00

Well, the message finally came: BritBox received a ticket, an itinerary, and a big bottle of Imodium. How exciting, a ten day trip to visit the other side of the world! It turns out that the People's Republic of China, despite incredible advances in industrial output as well as raising its citizens standard of living, has suddenly realized that it is missing an element crucial to its continued growth and prosperity: BritBox.

China may have a huge population and an overheated economy, but none of that means anything without content that is informative, entertaining, and annoying. That's where BritBox enters the frame. Who else would you turn to if you were trying to haul your huge Communist nation all the way up to the lofty plateau of International Coolness?

Look, BritBox does not judge; BritBox certainly does not have a political agenda. BritBox does not even know what dogma means, unless it has something to do with pet grooming, maybe. It seems pretty obvious that improvements in human rights and living conditions start with a better wage and a better standard of living, right? Cable TV is next, and democracy cannot be far behind.

When the phone rings in the middle of the night, and the tickets and whatnot arrive by courier the next day, well, there is not a lot of choice in the matter. It's about Duty, Service, and Honor.

A side note: most of BritBox's clothing, shoes, luggage, wristwatch, camera, electronic devices, and other sundry items were made in China.

This is kind of like going home.

The Uninvited Muse

2005-10-06T11:58:00.000-05:00

There are times when BritBox's Muse is feeling frisky and fully engaged. Oh, the beautiful words that she whispers into BritBox's ear! Slow down, there are too many to type; so full of emotion and deep, deep meaning! There are also times when the Muse is preoccupied and somewhat depressed. Those are the days when BritBox comes home to find the Muse sitting in BritBox's favorite chair, in her underwear and all liquored up, watching The Andy Griffith Show reruns on cable TV. The Muse makes a frightful commotion as she hurls obscenities and empty sour mash bottles at the TV screen. Does she really think that the actors can hear her? BritBox mumbles something about checking the air in the Triumph tires and slips out to the garage for one or two or six hours. The rest of the family discreetly eases out of the driveway to go shopping; maybe farther out of town this time? Yes, that should do.

Once roused and fully lucid, BritBox's Muse can only be quieted by BritBox's nervous, fragmented Web posting. It's the only thing that works, really! And also by giving her a deluxe pizza, a six-pack of Bud Light, and a carton of Marlboro menthol cigarettes. A Muse's needs are actually quite simple.

BritBox's needs are also simple: BritBox just wants to publish content that is entertaining, informative, and annoying. The process of composing it is like Chicken Soup for the Brain. Don't read it for BritBox's sake, though; please read it for the Muse!