This Week | Links | About David

Previous Articles Exposing Hollywood's anti-German agenda I'm not ashamed to be religious or a liberal 'Beat Me with a Stick' Elmo and other great toys Making a difference: why I do what I do Telemarketing ban has ended a great pastime I don't rule the world, and that's fine with me Making the journey from prejudice to understanding There's no comparing genocide and killing geese All that's left is an empty feeling An unrequited love for some really neat words Foster dads offer hands and hearts ... for the time being. Thanksgiving dinner and other forms of ritual madness. Zen and the art of not getting run over by a Mack truck A lifetime of regrets as another year goes down the tubes Reform Party Convention ends in shoot-out Virtual immortality isn't all it's cracked up to be Insider's look at the Republican National Convention turns up many surprises Car Repair for Dummies, Part One: This is a Car Sadness marks the passing of a beloved mattress At last, something worse than 'Jane Eyre' Every town has a story. Tombstone has a fixation. Forget the Trekkies, the real nutcases are on the Luce Chalk one up for the faceless restaurant customers Feeling sick? Maybe it's time to get a shave. Guest Writer: Toto, I don't think we're in Mayberry anymore Guest Writer: The need for speed Does this mean we won't get free popcorn anymore? Out of the way, Martha Stewart -- I'm in the kitchen now How I'm surviving my brush with 'Jane Eyre' First blizzard of the year evokes frivolous memories, no deep thoughts Isn't it time to jump on the bandwagon with the Real Thing? Forward this column and you can turn e-mail into $300! Trips to the moon, disaster figure in mildew prognostications True confessions (more or less) of a closet survivalist Who understands what dreams may come? Hey, everyone, look -- it's an elephant! Wouldn't 'Senator Learn' have a nice ring? To my little girl: while you're sleeping . . . Special Report: Entering the Baby Zone Battling the suburban white whale Wanted: Politician to tackle key issues Something else to worry about this fall Wanted: Dumber Mice and Better Mouse Traps One More Stop on the Road to Adulthood Follow the fashion leads of the journalist from Krypton This is why naming children by committee never caught on Psoriasis may be ugly, but at least it doesn't leave scars Another casualty of the ancient family curse Quest for baby names too big to handle How the seniors taught me to get down And don't forget your scarf when you go inside Guest Writer: No room for Paradise as vandals force Dew Drop Inn to close The samba of the mad Vulcan Maybe I could be directed by Spielberg The aliens in Rhode Island don't want you to read this Voice of nostalgia is a call to destruction My wife is having the baby, but I look pregnant The end of the world as we know it Run for the hills - Y2K’s a’comin’ fast What's in a name? Shakespeare had no idea Don't waste your energy on the 'gas out' Career choice leaves a lasting mark One Easter leftover, hold the ham please

Guest Writer: The need for speed By Blair Learn (While David completes a marathon fourth reading of "Jane Eyre," his favorite book of all time, older brother Blair has stepped in with a replacement column.) When I bought my pickup in the fall of 1989, it was the last of the 1989 models on the lot. The dealership already had been selling the 1990 models for a few weeks, and since this one didn't have much in the way of bells and whistles (no air conditioning, manual transmission, AM radio) they were quite happy to be rid of it. In the late 1980s, not only did the car manufactures wait until fall to roll out the new model year, but because the maximum legal speed anywhere in the United States was 55 MPH, the speedometers on new cars only went up to 85 MPH. This helped hide the fact that those cars couldn't reach 85 MPH. And because you weren't really supposed to be going more than 55 MPH, the car manufacturers only built them to run well up to around 65 MPH or so. One time out in California, my little four-cylinder pickup truck caught a tail wind while going down a long grade. Much to my surprise, I hit 65 MPH. Then I hit 70 MPH. And then, at 73 MPH, the truck began shaking so hard I thought it would fly apart. Since that time, I've learned to tell my speed by the various sounds the truck makes. At speeds appropriate to residential neighborhoods, the engine makes a low roaring sound to remind me that the new muffler is already starting to rust. When I reach speeds appropriate for a main thruway, the clutch starts chirping to remind me that the dealership could never figure out where the noise was coming from. At speeds suitable for main highways, the wind noise becomes loud enough to drown out my radio, but not loud enough to drown out the teenager's radio three lanes over. And if I go too fast for the Interstate, the pistons start knocking while the truck starts bucking like a crazed bronco. There are advantages inherent in learning to judge your speed by the sounds the engine makes. Along with allowing you look at the street instead of fixating on the speedometer, you also notice new engine noises more quickly so you can (hopefully) get them fixed before they become more expensive engine noises. Of course, there are some disadvantages too. Take what happened to me for example. Last weekend, I drove down to Gatlinburg, Tenn., with my friend Karen. She suggested we take her car since it's equipped with such amenities as climate control, a working radio, and most importantly, cup holders. The flaw with this plan is that Karen's car is new. Now don't get me wrong, new cars are great. We made that entire trip without any mechanical problems and had a lot of fun on the way. But because it's new, Karen's car doesn't make noises yet. Driving a new car when you're used to judging your speed by the sounds the engine makes is a little tricky. If the engine is quiet, and you're travelling down a smooth stretch of Interstate in Virginia, you can forget to check the speedometer and lose track of your speed. Fortunately, the state Highway Administration foresaw this possibility and had an officer standing by to tell me I was driving 74 in a 55 zone. I'm not going to fight the ticket. I screwed up, plain and simple. The fine hurts, but not so much as my pride. The worst of it though is this: I can't make fun of David's driving record anymore. Blair Learn is David's oldest brother and is also responsible for putting this site together. Small wonder then that he gets to submit the occasional article. :-) Permission is given to forward this article, but please leave this notice intact.