From the Exedy Troubleshooting FAQ:

I rolled over my first 100 miles today. I celebrated in a sense by pouring in a near full tank (10 gallons), which at $1.95 for 87 octane, ran me just shy of $20. =D

This is a stock Miata revving:

This is a Miata with an 8lb Fidanza flywheel revving:


The following is easily the worst essay I have ever written. And I say “I” because even though it was a partner essay, I wrote the fucking thing myself. This is the literary result of a Red Bull addled mind at 3 o’ clock in the morning.

Note: I was actually embarassed to write the first paragraph. The first and last sentences will make me cringe for the rest of my life.

People are like cars; they come in
all different shapes, sizes, colors, and they are always ready for a journey. They
can be quick, slow, large, fast. Fat people are SUVs. Agile ones are sports
cars, like Miatas. Really agile ones are Miatas with an 8lb Fidanza flywheel,
which provides ridiculous throttle response and head snapping acceleration.
People are always dependent on others to inspire and drive them (which is a
hilarious pun in case you didn’t notice), just as cars depend on gasoline to
run and…you know, drive.

            Cars are a
part of everyday life. Cars, we use them to travel from place to place, to
transport goods, as well as passengers. They provide comfortable transportation
through any and all weather conditions and perhaps most importantly, they pick
up girls. Because women like men with cars.


Babe-Y Magnet (Oh yeah)

jeeps were downright fantastic. You were 6 years old, sitting in your plastic
pimp mobile, grinning from ear to ear as you crawled along at 5mph. Your ride
was adorned with plastic trim and your plastic rims painted to resemble chrome,
otherwise known as bling bling.

            And as
you’d cruise around your block, honking your obnoxious little horn, you could
point and laugh at the kids whose parents cannot afford to buy them one. They’d
hate you and everything you were, but it was ok because YOU WERE LIVING LA VIDA


Dual Wheelers

            Once you
turned about 8 or so, bikes came into the picture. You got your first awesome
bike either on Christmas or your birthday, and from there on, you pretty much
lived on that thing.

You could do anything on a bike – and
you did. You raced your buddies down the biggest hill in the neighborhood. You
went offroading on sick jumps you made in the woods out of plywood and pvc
piping. And you fell down so many times, it made Christopher Reeve’s horse,
Eastern Express,” feel guilty.

With a bike, you now had the
freedom to loiter at convenience stores and harass kindly Indian proprietors.
“Don’t leave your bikes in front of the door!” he would let out as you and your
friends proceeded towards the candy section, ignoring him entirely. And when
you went to leave, your bike would be there just as you left it, simply further
cementing your apathy towards anything the Indian gentleman told you.


Four Wheeled Death

            Here you
are, 17 years old, and absolutely dying
for your own set of wheels. You’ve spent 6 months driving with your parents (or
not), and now you’re ready to take on the responsibility and privilege of being
a licensed driver. It’s been a long educational road. You’ve learned to make fun
of those less fortunate than you. You’ve learned to ignore what people tell you
if it interferes with your whim. And now you’re ready to make fun of Chevy
Cavaliers and break speed limits with open alcohol containers in the vehicle.

            Women now
flock to you as if you carried discount coupons to Abercrombie & Fitch
and/or Hollister, and the backseat of your vehicle now becomes victim to
various expulsions of fluid, and frequent treatment with bleach and vinegar.


            Cars will
always be there to take a person away from their dull, mundane lives. Dumping
the clutch at 6k will bring a grin to even the biggest frown and really, even
having a stock Mazda Miata in one’s life is all one needs for pure happiness in

The new setup is fucking fantastic. Acceleration is head snapping, and doubly so once the 5k border is crossed. Downshifts and revmatching are nigh effortless, done with a simple tap of the throttle.

Torque delivery is brutally fast.
As I was approaching a turn, I downshifted into second. As I let out the clutch, the car ripped through the turn and I actually oversteered a little. It was one hell of a surprise. The old setup sent the car through turns like a slug in comparison.

My new clutch necessitates a 750 mile break in period. This means that I cannot go full throttle at any point, cannot do hard launches, or do any hard or fast shifting. Just mellow around town driving with frequent shifting for 750 miles. All I know is it’s gonna be a long 750 miles.

Midterms begin Thursday. And to my utter ecstacy, I only have one final in the afternoon, allowing me to sleep in to an incredible 9 a.m. or so.

Car will be ready by Sunday at the very latest. Progress may be made today potentially.

I am so close to completion that I can taste it. And it tastes sweet like nectar.

Despite the savageries I have borne for purchasing a Zune, I did buy it for a reason, and I held this reason tight in my palm like a mystic amulet.  The strip focuses on Gabriel’s growing zealotry, its dark seeds bursting into clutching vines. The credit card was out, he was ready to buy, and I’ll be God damned if I wasn’t right there with him.

It’s always the wrong time to buy an MP3 player, always, which is
what kept me from seriously investing in one until 2006.  But I didn’t
just purchase the wrong one, at the wrong time: I purchased it
virtually on the brink of its dissolution. I can hardly look at it now,
it’s like holding a dead squirrel. On its 4:3 screen – the exact ratio of obsolescence – I can see destroyed futures. I don’t have to tell you that the iPhone
is the future of that platform, as opposed to an aberration. iPods just
have touch interfaces now, multipoint touch interfaces with clever
gesture controls that you use to manipulate a rich video environment on
a screen that is best in show.

I wonder what the mood is at the Microsoft booth over at CES – I would imagine that it is apocalyptic. I’ll be down there soon, so I’ll know for myself. I’ve imagined the following scenario:

Young men and women are seated on low red couches, their eyes
glistening, the blood gone from their face. Their badges identify them
as Microsoft employees. Many of the kiosks are empty, but there is a
devastated young man standing like a statue near an Xbox 360. The
monitor connected to it is turned off. From the intensity of his stare,
he is either deep in thought or has discerned some secret message woven into the carpet.

I approach him.

“So,” I say.

There is no response.

“Hey. is the, um…” I feel like he really needs a friend right now. “Is the Xbox, you know… I mean, is the Xbox cool?”

He doesn’t speak so much as the word just falls out of his mouth.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “I guess.”

What kind of loser spends 45 minutes reading through archives on a blog?

Anyway, trans is mounted. It took more than 3 hours. Fuck.

All that’s left is hooking up the driveshaft and the exhaust.

Thank God.

So my car’s pretty much in a billion fucking pieces right now.

Exhaust is pulled. Driveshaft is pulled. Transmission is pulled. Pressure plate/clutch/flywheel are pulled.

6 words: impact…wrench…for…the…win.
That thing made life so fucking easy it’s not even funny.
Driveshaft bolts? ZOOOM…BANG. Off.
Flywheel bolts which are torqued to some insane fucking 80ft lbs? ZOOOOOM…BANG. ZOOOM…BANG. OFF.

Also, 20″ extension plus universal swivel ftw. Taking off the transmission without either of the two items would have been a joke otherwise.

1/2″ – 3/8″ adapter helped too.

The OEM pressure plate bolts don’t thread with the Fidanza. The pitch is different. I bought 6 bolts for $2.31 at ACE vs. Fidanza’s offer to ship them out for $15.

My car’s gonna be up on jacks probably until Wednesday or so.

I’ve wiped down the transmission of clutch dust and filth and will fill it with two quarts of Redline MT90 today.

Cars are fun.

I recently composed an essay which I am fairly certain is quite easily the best essay in the universe.



To this day, he remains a silly
puppet, providing a mere chortle or two to others.

A menagerie of embarrassing traits
bear down upon the boy who is unnamed. He claims to be a gamer. But not just
any gamer, a hardcore gamer. So hardcore, that he bought an Xbox 360 a year
after it came out. This isn’t the largest of transgressions however. As a proud
owner of an Xbox 360, he further goes on to insult himself, his console,
Microsoft, and the entire gaming world by playing his next gen console in 480i,
a standard interlaced non HD resolution. He expects to have the next generation
of gaming on a television Thomas Edison would have scoffed at. “B..but, it
makes be a better person!” he sputters trying to prove himself in the eyes of
his fellow gamer friends.

As a weathered Internet blogger, he
enjoys formulating biting commentary and reviews on various video games.
Lately, however, it seems that he thinks highly enough of himself to take on in
the footsteps of Maddox, a writer who he despises yet in many senses admires,
and leave his idiotic blog abandoned for upwards of two months. The irony here,
of course, is that one of the very main reasons he dislikes Maddox is his
recent scarcity of updates.

His choice of vehicle is both ironic
and depressing. Spending an approximated $5,000-$6,000 on a Chevy Malibu is
something very difficult to beat on the complete waste of money scale. I think
a better investment might be a sign and a marker, the latter with which to
write, “Kick me.” The remaining balance would be best invested in a mutual
fund, so that in 20 years, the interest accrued would bring the balance up just
enough to purchase a brand new Chevy Malibu! An added benefit to being a proud Malibu
owner is that drivers on the road mistake you for an 80 year old geriatric! And
who doesn’t enjoy being treated as the bane of the road, as people pass you,
make rude gestures, and generally laugh at your existence?

He views himself as a connoisseur
of music, a snob of phenomenal caliber. His theory is that the more music he
illegally downloads off the Internet, the more musically cultured he becomes.
Apparently, good taste is defined by a catalogue of over 10,000 songs written
by various terrible underground metal bands no one listens to. Of course, this
only makes him more unique and hardcore! I mean, who can resist headbanging to
the awesome riffage of Kamelot, which is spelled with a K, because that makes
the band sound more exciting and edgy!?

The personality he demonstrates in
school is ridiculous on so many levels. In class, he sits mumbling to his
surrounding classmates who are trying intently listen to what the teacher is
trying to say. He bursts out with random turns of phrase that hold no bearing
on the class discussion and serve only to distract everyone’s train of thought.
He feeds on the attention given to him. He receives it nowhere else. It’s not
as if anyone actually likes him. He has this odd voice around him that I am
almost certain he dons purposely to make himself seem absolutely hilarious. As he reads aloud his essays,
the class chortles at the ridiculous images he paints. Of course, his writing
is nothing more than esoteric references to fantasy metal bands and various
videogames released more than a decade ago. But throw in an F-Zero instance
here and a risqué Crucidix reference there (remembering of course to apologize
before uttering the terrible slang for a penis), and you’re on your way to

It’s Friday tomorrow.

This pleases me.

I have to write an essay for English about a classmate that I despise. Oh the delicious possibilities.

Idiot     (8:59:25 PM)  
: heyy are you in honors english?

Mike     (8:59:30 PM)  
: Nope

Idiot     (8:59:35 PM)  
: regular?

Mike     (8:59:41 PM)  
: Yes

Idiot     (8:59:46 PM)  
: what book did you read

Idiot     (8:59:53 PM)  
: cause im a dumbass and read to honors books

Mike     (9:00:05 PM)  

Mike     (9:00:55 PM)  
: I read About A Boy

Idiot     (9:02:15 PM)  
: whats that about

Mike     (9:03:23 PM)   : …..a boy

Idiot     (9:04:50 PM)  
: whens our math homework due

Mike     (9:05:55 PM)  
: Wednesday

Idiot     (9:07:19 PM)  
: its not due wednesday is it?

Mike     (9:07:26 PM)  
: I just said Wednesday

Idiot     (9:07:37 PM)  
: are you sure?

Mike     (9:08:47 PM)  
: Positive

Idiot     (9:09:14 PM)  
: like a week from today?

Mike     (9:09:17 PM)  
: Yes

Idiot     (9:09:26 PM)  
: okie thanks

Idiot is away at 9:10:06 PM.