Wednesday, July 30, 2014

Pat Brown

Long ago, 1955, when I was in fifth-grade, all the little boys in my class lusted after classmate Pat Brown.
That was because she was extremely well-endowed with a gigantic rack.
That is, all the little boys but me.
Gigantic rack or not, she had a large moon-shaped face, always scowling, and seemed a mite portly.
I was more attracted to Shirley Stenghem (“sten-jum”), who lived in a large nearby apartment-complex, and sunned herself strapless outside on a blanket.
She wasn’t as well-endowed as Pat Brown, but she was a tart.
She was the sexpot daughter of an Air Force daddy, and they lived in the apartment-complex because he might get relocated.
I’m a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of sexual relations.
Hilda was the Sunday-School superintendent of my parents’ church. She also lived next-door.
She convinced me as a pants-wearer no female would have anything to do with me.
My parents concurred by also convincing me I was “Of-the-Devil.”
Yet there was Shirley Stenghem, but she lived on the wrong-side-of-town, in an apartment-complex, for cryin’ out loud.
I also got the attention of a cute Jewish girl named Joan Kupzoff, who despite going steady with a dude named Mike, chased me on her bicycle.
I biked away scared, no idea what I’d say. It’s the Walton legacy.
Shirley even sent me a cryptic note inviting me to a dance. I still have it; it’s in my safe-deposit box. (A dance, with my father?)
Joan was cute, but she was also from the wrong side of town, north of Marlton Pike. She was also Jewish (gasp), the wrong religion.
The girls Mrs. Walton would have me interested in were all older than me, somewhat boring as church-members, and hardly sexy.
There was only one non church-member from the right side of town, Vivian Arcinese (“ARE-sin-eez”), same age as me, and two doors distant.
But she had become a trollop. She bleached her hair blonde, and would parade through our neighborhood in her skimpy yellow bikini headed for “Bare-Ass-Beach.”
I’d heard all about “Bare-Ass-Beach,” but wasn’t sure it existed until I walked to it one afternoon through the woods.
Sure enough, there were Vivian, Shirley, and buxom Pat Brown sunning themselves bare-naked on a small beach next to a muddy creek.
A few hard-rocks with greasy DA haircuts were also sunning themselves bare-naked.
Plus a tall gangly girl named Barbara — I can’t remember her last name. She looked embarrassed to be buck-naked.
Such were the social-pressures of south Jersey.
I don’t recall any intercourse.
That Walton legacy is still with me, as it has been over sixty years.
I still feel intimidated by girls. And that’s despite all the girls that chased me when I drove bus.
So now I wonder if Vivian and Shirley and Joan and Pat are still alive.
Pat Brown is probably overweight, and Shirley is probably upset she’s a fading sexpot.
Vivian still lives in my old neighborhood. She’s alone, and has divorced a few times.
Too bad I didn’t visit her when I visited Hilda back in ’92.

• “Q” stood for Quincy, her maiden-name.
• “Marlton Pike” was the main east-west drag through our little town. Anything north of Marlton Pike was “the wrong side of town” to faire Hilda. We lived south of Marlton Pike. — “Stenghem’s” apartment-complex was far east of where I lived, thereby making it “the wrong side of town.”
• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs. My stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered fairly well.

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

No Internet

The other morning, Sunday, July 27th, 2014, I fired up this here computer and opened my Internet-browser, which is Firefox.
This ‘pyooter can fool you. You think you’re getting Internet, but what you’re actually getting is the site stored in your computer’s memory.
Ask the site to refresh, and my browser has to get the site from scratch to bring it up again.
I was getting the “Firefox cannot load site” message with every refresh.
“UH-OHHH,” I thought to myself. “Looks like the Internet burped.”
This happens occasionally, sometimes related to a weather anomaly, like a thunderstorm, or utility-lines brought down by a car-accident, requiring rerouting over alternate circuits.
“Time to reboot my modem,” I said to myself.
All this is, is pulling the plug on my cable-Internet modem for 10-15 seconds, then replugging, which makes the modem reset.
So I did that, and got my Internet back.
Later that afternoon, I fired up again, and again no Internet.
I reset my modem yet again, but this time it didn’t get me back online.
“What fun is that?” I e-mailed an old friend who’s fooled with personal-computers since the Atari days.
I’m not as experienced as him. My first ‘pyooter was about 25 years ago, when state-of-the-art was a 386.
No SX cheap-shots for this kid!
At that time the average personal-computer was a 286-SX; “SX” being some way of making computers cheap by I forget how.
I did state-of-the-art, a 386-40 (40-meg hard-drive — this laptop’s hard-drive is 500 gigs; that’s 500,000 megs), with Windows® 3.0 as its operating-system.
We later upgraded to Windows 3.1.
Later I switched to Apple Macintosh, mainly because my employer, a newspaper, computerized with Apple Macintosh.
At that time Windows was disdained by the Apple-crowd, like it was inferior.
This seemed to be true. Various computer-functions under Windows prompted the hourglass.
That’s not true any more.
Windows seems to have caught up.
I advise previous Windows-users to not switch to MAC.
“Stick with whatcha know,” I say.
MAC is a whole ‘nother ball-game, and I don’t think it’s superior. MAC can drive a PC-user crazy.
My wife’s employer was PC-based, so she drove a Windows PC.
My MAC would drive her up-the-wall.
I am now on MAC number-three, this MacBook Pro laptop. I still have number-two, my G4 tower, but number-one, a beige G3 desktop, tanked. It’s probably cluttering some landfill.
My niece got my wife’s PC when my wife died. It was a laptop, and its operating-system was Windows-Seven. It replaced her big clunker laptop with Windows-XP.
I don’t watch TV hardly at all.
I prefer this here ‘pyooter and the Internet.
Which can lead astray, but I know that.
I’ve seen spellings of Hillary Clinton as both “Hillary” and “Hilary.”
And Dulles Airport as both “Dulles” and “Dullas.”
I also read a history-article that had Pennsylvania Railroad’s “Horseshoe Curve” originally built with four tracks.
Uh NO; one or two. It was later increased to three and then four. But it wasn’t originally built with four tracks.
So without my beloved Internet I climb the walls.
Finally I called Time-Warner, my Internet-service-provider.
“We value your call. Please hold during the silence: BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA!”
After a few minutes I reported no Internet to some high-school dropout.
After a few minutes more I got referred to Internet-Technical-Support.
Sounded like India — the guy could hardly speak English. But he fiddled my modem from wherever he was.
“It’s back,” I declared.
I then reported my modem was probably five years old: ancient in the ‘pyooter-world.
He suggested I should swap for a new modem; my original modem was free from Time-Warner, and the new modem would be free too. (It’s their modem.)
So drag-ass all the way to Time-Warner in deepest, darkest Rochester (NY) — I have a slew of other errands I could do along the way.
So Monday (July 28th) I took my dog and drove all-the-way to Time-Warner, about 20 miles one-way.
I now have a new modem, and it’s getting Internet.
Sweetness and light!

• “‘Pyooter” is computer.
• My beloved wife died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her dearly.
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s ten, and is my sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder.] By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s my fourth rescue.)


Monday, July 28, 2014


BEEEEEP! (Alarums-Alarums!)
Another gumint alert to my cellphone.
A flash-flooding alert.
This is the second cellphone alert I’ve received.
First was an Amber-alert, notification of a missing teenager.
Scared me to death!
That child was found;
probably because of that cellphone alert.
Well okay, but I have a feeling gumint minions will go bonkers with cellphone alerts.
Given some new technology to inflate their egos, we’ll get an alert for everything. Cellphone use interrupted so the gumint can alert us about the silliest of things.
Like heavy snow expected, or Granny behind the wheel.
So what will happen is what I just did: shut the damn things off in my cellphone settings.
Well, maybe I’ll turn my Amber-alerts back on. It’s worthwhile to counter a child-kidnapper.
But I don’t think I need gumint nannies interrupting my cellphone use to tell me to watch for ducks crossing.

Sunday, July 27, 2014


So begins the mad calendar-chase, my attempt to get all seven calendars I use.
They aren’t really calendars. What they are is wall-art that changes every month.
In fact, I really use only one as a calendar, plus I keep appointments in my iPhone.
It’s July, for cryin’ out loud!
And I already have one 2015 calendar, my All-Pennsy color calendar.
“Pennsy” is the Pennsylvania Railroad, no longer in existence, but once the largest railroad in the world.
I’m a railfan, and have been since age-2 — I’m 70.
And I’m a Pennsy railfan.
But the “All-Pennsy color calendar” sells out quickly.
I have to order early. There have been times I missed it.
The “All-Pennsy color calendar” is published by Tide-Mark Press, who publishes other calendars.
I can’t be the only Pennsy railfan. You’d think they’d publish enough to not quickly run out.
I had forgotten to order, but then an order-form  for the Audio-Visual Designs black-and-white All-Pennsy Calendar arrived, the calendar I got for years.
In fact, for a time it was my only calendar.
The first Audio-Visual Designs black-and-white All-Pennsy Calendar was published in 1966.
My first was ’68 or ’69.
The first Audio-Visual Designs black-and-white All-Pennsy Calendars were a collaboration of photographer Don Wood and publisher Carl Sturner.
Wood had taken many photographs of the Pennsylvania Railroad, particularly steam, in the late ‘50s.
The calendar eventually ran out of Wood’s extraordinary photos, and began using other photographers.
But they published as good as Wood.
Both Wood and Sturner are now gone.
Wood was an inspiration for me.
About 1970 I took a trip through central PA trying to find Wood’s photo-locations.
It didn’t work. It was pouring rain, but most importantly everything had grown in since Wood had been through.
So now I have my two most important calendars, although my Audio-Visual Designs black-and-white All-Pennsy Calendar won’t come until September.
Although it is ordered. My All-Pennsy color calendar is already here.
That leaves five more calendars.
I usually receive an e-mail notification for my Ghosts WWII warbirds calendar in August or September. I order online.
I usually get a catalog from Oxman Publishing, source of my Oxman Hotrod Calendar, usually in September or October. I order that online too.
Three to go.
I try to order my Motorbooks Musclecar calendar by October or November. It’s online at Motorbooks, a large supplier of motoring books. They publish the calendar themselves, one of many they publish.
That leaves only two. My Norfolk Southern Employees’ Photography-Contest calendar is ordered snail-mail from a  Trains Magazine ad, usually in their December issue.
That is, I’m usually ordering it around the end of November.
I’m also putting together my own calendar at that time, which I send out as Christmas-presents.
My calendar is photos I recently took where the old Pennsy main, now Norfolk Southern, crossed Allegheny Mountain in central PA.
The line is still quite busy, and my pictures are stuff shot with Phil Faudi (“FOW-dee;” as in “wow”), the railfan extraordinaire from that area who was leading me around.
Phil was doing it as a business at first, but gave that up after -a) too many near-misses with him driving, and -b) a newer car he didn’t wanna abuse.
He cut back to leading me, and others, around with us driving. Now he can’t even do that. His wife has Multiple Sclerosis, and I’d rather he take care of his wife.
I’ve gotten so I can do pretty well on-my-own — I consider myself one of his graduates — and the line is quite busy anyway.
So quite a few pictures are already set aside to process for my calendar — which is great fun.
My calendar is produced by Shutterfly, and although it’s adequate, it’s not as good as my first calendars, which were Kodak Gallery, which tanked with the Kodak bankruptcy.
Most of my pictures are Faudi-and-me, but some are just me.
Just about all the pictures are at Faudi photo-locations.
I’ve also begun using photos by my brother Jack, from Boston, if his were better. Also my nephew Tom, from northern DE.
Faudi still leads me around somewhat; but from his house.
He monitors his railroad-radio scanner at home, then calls my cellphone.
This works great; he can still lead me around, yet be around for his wife if she has a problem.
Which is fine with me. If he cares about his wife, I can understand that.
My wife is now gone, but I jumped through plenty of hoops trying to keep her alive.

• My beloved wife died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her dearly.

Friday, July 25, 2014

Falling into a time of inactivity

Yrs Trly has managed to remain fairly active for someone my age (70).
I was walking my dog long walks at a nearby park, and working-out at the YMCA in nearby Canandaigua.
But now I seem to be falling into a period of relative inactivity.
All because my left knee is hurting. It has me hobbling.
I had to give up walking my dog, and pretty-much give up aerobic exercise at the YMCA.
I was referred to an orthopedist, who I visited Wednesday, July 23rd, 2014.
Over a year ago I slammed hard on that knee when I fell on ice walking my dog at the park.
My knee pretty-much recovered, but became a bother again over a month ago.
People were advising left-and-right; ice, cold-pacs, hot-pacs, Ace bandage, etc. I tried ‘em all, but was still hobbling.
I went to my regular doctor, and he prescribed X-rays to see if anything was broken. It wasn’t.
He suggested I see an orthopedist.
I thought this needed a referral, but I could go there myself. We set up an appointment over two weeks ago. That is, at least two weeks passed between my call-up and the actual appointment.
A kindly orthopedist walked in, poked around, and ordered X-rays of his own. My previous X-rays weren’t load-bearing; he needed load-bearing.
He handed me a hospital-gown, since I had taken my pants off.
“So the nurses don’t follow you down the hall.”
“Uh, sure Doc,” I thought to myself. “As if some lithesome young tart is gonna be attracted to someone my age.”
I ain’t Adonis. If anyone’s attracted to me it will be the same thing that attracted my wife, my penchant for humorous snide-remarks that skewer conventionality.
I never was Adonis. I’m not some square-jawed Clark Kent.
I also have noted most girls are turned off by snide remarks, humorous or not.
But my wife wasn’t, and endured 44-plus years of madness because I made humorous snide-remarks.
But now my wife is gone. I no longer am the person I was with her.
But I still make snide-remarks.
I end up wondering why I always elicit the same favorable response from those attracted to humorous snide-remarks.
Which seem to be potshots and snide-remarks in return.
Although thems that respond favorably are a minority.
My wife wasn’t gorgeously cute or attractive.
But she wasn’t fat or obnoxious.
I always told her she had what mattered, which was what was between her ears.
There were a few others like that in my past.
I had a female cousin I could talk to, and I remember a strange-looking girl in college who clearly had what mattered.
She was a good thinker, and showered me with enlightenment.
My wife was like that too, although perhaps not as open about it.
My wife could occasionally say things that were enlightening.
But now she’s gone, and I’m left to my own devices, which appear to be adequate.
Other widows and widowers I know might be more desirous of replacing a marriage-mate.
But not this kid!
“Whatever attracts me,” I say; “has to be as attractive as what I had.”
And I don’t expect that to readily happen.
My wife was in the minority.
I’m not on-the-hunt.
So my orthodontist displayed the X-rays on his computer-monitor.
My right knee looked fine, but my left knee is almost bone-on-bone, even bone-on-bone in some places.
That is, my cushioning cartilage is almost all worn away, or worn away in some places.
The definition of arthritis; I had him define it.
So now I’m shot up with Cortisone, and not in so much pain.
The orthopedist drew off almost a half-cup of fluid swelling.
I also have been prescribed physical-therapy, to supposedly build up muscles around my knee.
And supposedly give me an aerobic option I can do.
But bone-on-bone may lead to knee-replacement. For now we’re seeing if I can get by without it.
My father (long-gone) apparently had a knee replaced, and my sister-in-law (still alive) had a knee replaced.
I don’t remember either.

• My beloved wife died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her dearly.

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Marcy, it’s everywhere


Now that I’m pretty-much caught up with my blogging — my August 2014 Monthly Calendar-Report was finished two weeks ago — I worried I’d have nothing to blog about.
But something always appears, fulfilling my advice to Marcy there’s always utter madness to blog.
Marcy is my Number-One Ne’er-do-Well. We worked in adjacent cubicles at the Messenger Newspaper. She was the first I sent stuff to. She thought them so hilarious she began filing them in her computer.
They were just stuff I was filing on my family’s website. Now my vaunted Ne’er-do-Well e-mail list comprises maybe 20-25, and what I blog is not always madness.
Marcy was also the one that got me into BlogSpot blogging. My family’s website tanked, so now my stuff only flies on BlogSpot.
As I say, madness is everywhere; all I have to do is see it, then blog it.
One time Marcy asked how I had so much insanity to blog about: “Marcy, it’s everywhere!” I shrieked.
Perhaps a week ago a solicitation came for me to financially support some effort to memorialize WWII female aviators (WASPs)
They’re apparently building a museum at an airfield in Texas.
The envelope has a so-called “bird’s-eye view”of a proposed hanger-extension — illustrated above.
I wondered if that bird could fly.
Obviously the viewing bird was still on the ground; the “bird’s-eye view” appeared to be a side-elevation.
Every “bird’s-eye view” I’ve seen before was from up in the sky looking down.
I know I’m picking nits. But I worked for a newspaper, and right-wing extremists were all-too-happy to point out our mistakes, especially grammatical errors.
“Well, you know what they meant” wasn’t good enough for the extremists, unless it was their mistake.
They’d loudly claim we were too liberal and therefore stupid; that they could do a better job.
Often they sent us Letters-to-the-Editor we’d have to clean up. They’d go ballistic we did that, and phone to castigate our publisher (the head-honcho).
We had to make them say what they meant.
We should have published ‘em as is.
I remember once getting a phonecall from some lady screaming about “freedom-of-the-press.” All because we had the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to doctor her letter so it said what she meant — that we were too liberal and therefore stupid. What press freedom had to do with her beef we had no idea. She was doing a Rush Limbaugh imitation. She was soaking her telephone’s mouthpiece just like Limbaugh soaks his gold-plated microphone.
Sometimes they’d copy/paste directly from the Limbaugh website. We could tell because such letters were cogent and well-written. Obviously someone was ghosting for Limbaugh.
Once an extremist called and started angrily haranguing our City-Editor. He got her crying. Our Executive-Editor had to take over and shut him down. Extremist-dude called back, and we put him on infinite hold.
So some underpaid graphic-artist imports the architect’s side-elevation onto his envelope template.
And then labels it a “bird’s-eye view.”
And the overpaid mavens don’t catch it.
Well, we know what they meant.
It wasn’t us, the dreaded media, a newspaper (GASP).
So therefore it doesn’t matter — unless it’s a newspaper.

• A picture of “Marcy” is in this blog at Conclave of Ne’er-do-Wells.
• The “Messenger Newspaper” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger, from where I retired almost nine years ago. Best job I ever had — I worked there almost 10 years (over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern [I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I recovered fairly well]). (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where I live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 14 miles away.)

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Tuesday, July 22, 2014


Scarlett. (This is four years ago; now she’s gray in the muzzle.) (Photo by Linda Hughes.)

The other morning (Monday, July 14th, 2014) I took my dog to Petco in nearby Canandaigua (“cannan-DAY-gwuh”).
Petco is a pet-supply store. I needed a small bag of dogfood.
They allow pets in the store as long as they’re leashed. I decided to take my dog instead of abandoning her in my house.
WHOA! Yanking and pulling every-which-way when I let her out of my car. A silly lunging monster; this is the high-energy Irish-Setter I brought home.
I may be lame and old, but I can still hang on to my dog.
We went into Petco.
Yippee; a new place to check out — lots of food and toys.
Lunging this-way-and-that; I’d get pulled down aisles.
I managed to find my dogfood, then got in line to check out.
“Awww; can I pet your dog? She’s beautiful.”
The store had treats on display below the checkout counter. My dog glommed a few.
Well, obviously this was a great idea. Take my silly dog some place she’s never been, but I get the dog I brought home five years ago.
One of my supermarkets in Canandaigua, Wegmans, holds a car-krooze on Thursday nights. A fellow widower I eat with bought an SS-Camaro he shows at this show.
Being a car-guy myself. I’ve wanted to attend this show, but always felt like I had the dog-problem. I felt like in order to attend this show, I had to abandon my dog in the house.
But after Petco, I decided I should take my dog to the show.
So, off we went, headed for the Thursday-night Wegmans car-krooze.
I found my friend and his Camaro right away. We exchanged greetings, and I immediately began walking around.
Lunging and pulling: “Oh, what a pretty dog?”
“Can I pet your dog?”
“What kind of dog is it? You don’t see Irish-Setters any more.”
I had along my camera, and didn’t get far before I saw the gorgeous 1962 Pontiac Bonneville convertible pictured.

A ‘62 Bonny — one of the best-looking cars ever. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

I almost said something, but didn’t, because it’s not 1961, which I consider one of the best-looking cars ever.
‘62 is almost as nice, but not as nice as the ‘61.
The only thing wrong is GM’s failure to give up the knee-knocking “Wrap-Around” windshield.
Both the ‘61 and ‘62 Pontiacs still have that tiny vestige of a Wrap-Around windshield.
The Wrap-Around wasn’t gone until the 1964 model-year. Other ‘61 and ‘62 GM cars have that same windshield, Chevrolet, Buick, Oldsmobile, Cadillac.
I continued my wandering, being pulled this-way-and-that.

Ersatz 427 Cobra. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

“Is it an actual 427 Cobra?” I asked the owner of the car pictured.
“It’s not. I had to pull out the original 427, then install a new motor. It’s 402 cubic-inches. But the car-body is 427 Cobra.”
“Looks like a 427,” I exclaimed, snapping a picture.
Next I came across the white ‘57 Chevy Bel Air two-door hardtop pictured, an excellent example of perhaps the most collectible classic-car, the ‘57 Chevy.

The two-door hardtop. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

The four-door hardtop. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

I saw at least three ‘57 Chevys at this show, none of which were convertibles, perhaps the most collectible classic-car of all.
Not many Tri-Chevys were in attendance; ‘55, ‘56 and ‘57.
I didn’t see any ‘55s, and I prefer the ‘55s.
I saw only one ‘56, a two-door sedan (a “post”), and it was leaving, although it sounded strong.
Hardtops are no longer made. They lack the vertical door-post up to the roof like a sedan. The front and rear side-windows of a hardtop interlace just like a convertible; which is where the name comes from: “hardtop convertible.”
That hardtop doesn’t retract, of course. Only Ford did that for a few years; ‘57 through ‘59. It was overly complicated, and its top was short.
A hardtop has no roof stiffness. Flip a hardtop and its roof will crush. Safety-mavens in the guvamint decided roof-stiffness was needed so a car could roll without killing its occupants.
The windshield might shatter, and other glass, but a car can end up on its roof without it crushing.
Okay, but losing the hardtop was a loss. It looked really great, especially if all the windows were cranked down.
The four-door hardtop was an engineering nightmare. The heavy rear door was hung off a post that didn’t go all the way up to the roof. You had to engineer chassis-stiffness that didn’t sag everything at that door-post. Otherwise the rear door wouldn’t shut, and/or the side-windows wouldn’t properly interlace and seal.
They managed to pull it off. I’ve seen many four-door hardtops, but never a one where the glass and door didn’t line up.
Maybe there was a tiny bit of sagging, enough to throw the rear doors out of alignment, but it was minimal.
I then came across what to me is “Best-of-Show,” the red ‘57 Thunderbird pictured.

Best-in-Show. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

I always liked the early two-seat Thunderbirds, especially the ‘57. And that’s despite its canted tailfins which look okay on a Thunderbird, but ridiculous on full-size sedans. —Think N.Y. taxi!
‘Birds weren’t as interesting as the early ‘Vettes, which lacked the style the T-birds had.
And the ‘Birds, though unsophisticated with a boat-anchor motor — compared to Chevy’s SmallBlock — were steel, not fiberglass.
Wandering complete, I then sat down next to my friend’s Camaro.
But I soon got up to visit a nearby Wegmans concession selling hotdogs, hamburgers, and soda-pop.
“Any chance I can get water for my dog?” I asked.
They proffered a bottle of bottled-water and a plastic drink-glass.
SLURP-SLURP-SLURP-SLURP; but she then knocked it over, spilling everything.
Later I went back for a hamburger, that night’s dinner.
It wasn’t easy to eat that hamburger with my dog continually trying to snag it.
I saved her a small piece; CHOMP-CHOMP-CHOMP-CHOMP!
I then continued wandering.
I came across a 1964 Corvair identified as a Yenko Stinger.
I don’t know as there were any 1964 Yenko Stingers; Wikipedia is telling me the first Yenko Stingers were the second-generation Corvairs, actually 1966.

A ‘64 Corvair Monza coupe. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Corvairs always interest me, since I had one myself.
They were General Motors’ most Porsche-like (“POOR-sha”) car, unique enough for opportunist Ralph Nader to make a life as a crusader against corporate evil.
The Yenko Stinger was a special version of the Corvair tuned by Don Yenko.
The motor was souped up, and handling supposedly improved.
But that was 1966; the car pictured (1964) may not be a “Yenko Stinger.”
My Corvair was stock; not even a four-speed floor-shift — it was PowerGlide.
It was my first legitimate car; not my first car, which was a Triumph TR-3 totally unsuited for transportation.
My Corvair was the first car I could drive in rainy or Winter weather.
My father purchased it used for $600 by cosigning the loan.
But I couldn’t pay it, which I never heard the end of despite later forking over hundreds of dollars for my younger siblings’ college educations.
The Corvair pictured looks like my car, which was also a black Monza coupe.
But it’s a ’64; mine was a ’61.
Other Corvairs were also at the show, including second-generation Corvairs, which I prefer.
Too bad GM had to give up on the Corvair. It was Nader, but mainly Ford’s Mustang, which is really just a reconfigured Ford Falcon.
There weren’t many hotrods, but there were a few.

A-bone. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

T-cup. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

One was a pretty red five-window Model-A coupe made into a hotrod, and there was a T-cup hotrod, all-engine, and not much else.
A five-window coupe has the fourth and fifth windows behind the door-posts. A T-cup is the tiny Model-T roadster body, which looks like a cup. T-cup hotrods are generally hardly anything.
Hot-rodders call the Model-A “A-bone;” Model-Ts “T-bone.”
I also came across the insanity pictured, a tiny Volkswagen Beetle re-engineered as a V8 hotrod.

As a friend says:  “Gas it and flip!” (Photo by BobbaLew.)

I had to take a picture. Look at the rear tires! The area that used to be motor is now all tires.
And of course when I asked the owner how he could drive such a thing, I got the macho-man response.
I then discovered my poor neighbor up-the-street still trying to sell his gorgeous 25th-Anniversary Corvette, which he had on display. A “For-Sale” sign was in its windshield.
“How much do you want for it?” asked a callow young dreamer.
“Eleven-six,” my neighbor said.
Dreamer walked away.
$11,600 is ridiculously cheap for what to me is a gorgeous $25,000 car.
I’d be interested myself were it a four-speed floorshift, but it’s automatic.
“So otherwise, how ya doin’?” my neighbor asked.
“Well, I haven’t burned the house down yet.”
My neighbor knows my wife died, and is also a car-guy like me.
My dog yanked me into a tree, nearly pulling me down in surrounding mulch.
We weren’t far from the food-concession, so “How about I give your dog a hotdog?”
“Sure, she’ll eat it,” I said.
The dude took a white-hot off his grill and broke it up for my dog.
CHOMP-CHOMP-CHOMP-CHOMP! Gone in a second.
I then headed back toward my friend’s Camaro, but a lady I met earlier produced a hamburger-scrap. “Can I give it to your dog?”
We then decided to leave.
But not before my friend poured water into a paper-plate, so my dog could drink.
Do I come again the next time (this coming Thursday)? We could only spare about an hour.
Plus it wasn’t that good as a car-show.
The only reason Wegmans holds these car-kroozes is because their current CEO, Danny Wegman, son of founder Robert Wegman, is very much a car-guy.
Apparently he used to street-race a 454 Chevelle.
Now as CEO of Wegmans, a very successful grocery because of his leadership, Danny can afford Ferraris, and has at least one.
I’ve seen Danny’s Ferrari in the Canandaigua Wegmans parking-lot. He lives nearby on Canandaigua Lake.
It’ s like what Ferrari has he got this week?
Yet no Ferrari was at the car-krooze. And no sign of Danny.
I probably won’t come, but at the car-show my dog was her old self, a nutty Irish-Setter.

• “Linda Hughes” is my beloved wife of over 44 years, who died of cancer April 17th, 2012. My friend’s wife died about a year later, also of cancer. They were married 51+ years.
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s nine, and is my sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder.] By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s my fourth rescue.)
• “White-hots” are hotdogs made of white meat. “Red-hots” are hotdogs made of red meat. “White-hots” and “red-hots” seem to be specific to Rochester, NY.

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