Shopping the Three-Dollar Wall.

I've never been a code guy. You know, code of the Old West, honor code of the NHL, dress code, Hammurabic Code--that sort of thing. My romanticized self-image attributes this to my rebellious, free-thinking, philosophically skeptical nature, but closer to the truth is probably that I'm juvenile, inattentive, and plain don't like following rules. To live by a code is to have a routinized existence, and I am nothing if not poor at adhering to routines.

But I should probably clarify. I do follow a code; it's just a personal code. Everyone has one of these, whether he acknowledges it or not, and there are plenty of psychological inventories out there that can help one define whatever it is that personal code involves. Still, I have the same problem with my code that I do with all others: I establish fundamental rules and then ignore them whenever it seems convenient to do so. It's a slacker's way of getting through life, and perhaps that's a code in and of itself--the code of disregarding the lessons of experience in the hopes that improvisation will save time and effort. Again, the romanticized view says I reject precedent in favor of pragmatism, but actuality asserts that I cut corners in defiance of better experiential knowledge. Case in point: I shopped the three-dollar wall, and now have grease-encrusted fingernails and a still-broken Wal-Mart bicycle as dividends.

My own code has affirmed, time and again, that one should never shop the three-dollar wall. What exactly is the three-dollar wall? It's both a literal and an abstract concept. Most people are familiar with it in its literal sense: you go to any of that thriving class of discount stores that feature imported knockoffs, ersatz junk, and general gimcrackery, with a sprawling wall featuring such fare for the bargain price of a mere one United States dollar. These retailers like to call it the dollar wall, but as anyone who has gambled enough dollars knows, two of every three procucts purchased off of it either fall apart in your hand after you open the package, or are utterly destroyed during or following their maiden usage. I've bought the one-dollar dartboard-and-darts set in which the board disentegrated in my lap, the one-dollar all-purpose knife in which the corkscrew snapped on its first wine bottle, the one-dollar dashboard clock which lacked any mounts to attach it to the dashboard (and a non-functioning clock--double points), and the one-dollar set of steak knives that rusted in the dishwasher following one meal. Balanced with the few working and/or freakishly amusing items I've procured (like the eerily-matching hair extensions), the mean price paid per useful item procured is right about...three dollars.

Now, it is those retailers' fault for selling me any of that junk the first time. Shame on them. It is only my own optimism and stupidity, or perhaps the realization that three dollars is still pretty cheap, which makes me continue to wager a Washington on something that is, in preponderant likelihood, worthless. Shame on me. That is the literal idea of the three-dollar wall, in a nutshell.

But on to the natuaral extrapolation of this lesson--the figurative sense of the three-dollar wall. This is an important, if bluntly obvious concept. If you buy the least expensive product of any type from the least expensive dealer, understand that: A) you are gambling; B) there are sound economic reasons that this product was cheaper than its competition; and C) you have no right whatsoever to be outraged or disappointed when your stuff turns out to be junk. People who unwisely purchased $2,500 dollar new Yugos back in the 80's and then were angry that the engines blew up are a sublimely illustrative working sample of this idea.

Back in the infant days of this blog, I wrote a gloating and self-congratulatory post about the great deal I'd scored from the evil Wal-Mart on a three-speed, aluminum-framed Chinese bicycle. I even gave it a name. I was so pleased that I'd successfully cheated the system, and that for a song I'd be rolling to and fro from Wrightsville Beach that I sang the praises of cheap imports to the heavens. The wary Giant Bladder warned me of my folly, suggesting that you get what you pay for in these exchanges, but I would have none of it. I figured, "how can something as simple as a bicycle be made badly?"

The rear wheel on Chiang the Chinese bicycle began to lock up arbitrarily a few weeks ago--just past any return date I could have reasonably used to argue with Wal-Mart. Any one who has ridden a bike (and probably anyone who hasn't) can infer certain...externalities associated with this happening. On an elementary level, it becomes rather difficult to get anywhere while fighting with a stuck drive wheel. It also means that, while darting across an intersection, one may suddenly be faced with the unfortunately lethal possibility of a car bearing down, with no immediate escape-type remedy. And then there's the third nuisance of riding in the upright position downhill when motion is suddenly and totally arrested, sending one careening headfirst over the handlebars toward the caprices of the landscape. To be brief, that's no good.

So, rather than surrender in the face of my poor choice, I took to attempting DIY repair this evening. I am not mechanically adept, but I am unfailingly mechanically adventurous, to the point that I will disassemble and analyze things with which I've no familiarity at all. I certainly did learn a lot about the propulsion, gearing, and braking of bicyles--things that I'd taken for granted. As such, the session cannot be viewed as a total failure. But by disconnecting the gearing cable, removing the rear wheel, hosing everything down with WD-40, and attempting to reinvent and reassemble my three-speed bike as a one-speed, I learned the following: I was sold defective garbage that I should have returned before I got it home, as I noticed a strange brake-friction even then. The rear wheel still drags and locks, and I'm likely out the $100 I originally thought was so cleverly spent. Had I the proper tools, I could do more, but acquiring those would probably cost more than trying to replace the defective rear wheel and/or axle. Never shop the three-dollar wall, unless you have no vested interest in the results.

As I was finishing this post (really) I popped open a bottle of a Cotes-du-Rhone white that I got off the clearance table at my neighborhood wine seller. The cost? $2.99. Perhaps I've learned something. I am not at all surprised that it sucks.