Suzy-Q

Yesterday (Wednesday, November 29), as I walked out of the PT-gym, I noticed a guy preparing to depart on his tiny yellow Suzuki sport-bike.
It was probably only 600cc, but was endowed with all the current sport-bike accouterments. —Except the muffler, still a large cannon hung on the right side.
Current sport-bike practice is to tuck the muffler up under the seat. The Banana has this.
But I think Buell has a better idea; namely hang the muffler under everything between the wheels.
Buell has quite a few good ideas; another being the giant front brake-disc hung out at the wheel-rim. Too bad it’s saddled with an antediluvian boat-anchor of a motor. One wonders how long it will take the Japs to start using the Buell good ideas.
Mainly the Suzuki was small. I rode the mighty Kow a lot, but always felt it was big. This is despite it only being 600cc.
My FZR400 was the right size, but the motor was tiny. Pistons the size of thimbles, and valves (four per cylinder) like nails.
60 mph was 8,500 rpm — I always was looking for another gear.
The LHMB is small — more-or-less the right size.
I followed the yellow Suzuki a few blocks. At six feet the guy riding it seemed too big.
Its taillight was two parallel rows of tiny red light-emitting diodes.
And the rear-tire seemed to have quite a bit of tread — more of a road tire. Not the grooved slicks I usually see on sport-bikes.
So it might have been a V-twin — Suzuki makes such a bike.
But it looked like a sport-bike, and the guy rode it as such.

(Banana = LHMB [Lord-Have-Mercy-Banana] = my current motorcycle: a yellow Honda CBR600RR.) —My sister in Floridy, upon seeing it, said “Lord-Have-Mercy!” And my tub-thumping macho Harley conservative brother in Boston gave it that name.

The muse

Friday, November 24’s “Writer’s Almanac” included mention of the novel “Tristram Shandy,” which I was assigned to read and do an oral report on for my twelfth-grade English teacher at Brandywine High School in 1962, Dr. Zink.
“Writer’s Almanac” is the short daily feed from Garrison Keillor. It’s date-specific, so morning-man has to play the right feed, and on Saturday he can’t play all the week’s columns, like he does with others.
He can only play the Saturday-feed.
I dreaded Dr. Zink at first. He had a reputation of being distant and difficult, but was the first one that told me I could write.
He’d often assign pop creative-writing essays as we sat down in his class.
Obviously this whole gig was directed at me. Our class was the dregs of college-prep; the ones that would drop out of University of Delaware and become cannon-fodder in Vietnam.
“What do you want us to do here?” I’d ask.
“Just fabricate something with your imagination and let ‘er rip.”
I’d conjure up some tortured mess, and he’d oooo and ahhh. “This is fabulous,” he’d say.
“Are you kidding?” I’d say. “It’s garbage!”
Tristram Shandy crashed mightily in flames. It was Zink’s feeble attempt to inspire me, but teacher-wisdom. I can see him being advised in the smoke-filled faculty-lounge by his turgid peers.
There was no way I could read it, and rendering an oral report wasn’t writing. “Obviously you didn’t read it,” Zink said. He was crestfallen.
My muse ducked into seclusion after that, and didn’t flower again until my final year at college, when the editor of the school newspaper (Houghton Star) asked me to pen a report of upgrades of the college-offices.
While there the most amazing and hilarious thing happened. I asked a secretary, wife of the Academic-Dean, what she thought of the tangled mess in her office.
Her response was incredible. I reported exactly what she said: “Mrs. Lynip allowed that she liked the dulled-brown color of her office’s radiators. And the confusion of varicolored wires and tin-plate conduit boxes” (Houghton Star, 2/25/66).
And so began “of Men and Things,” a biweekly campus overview.
Zealots will recognize “of Men and Things” was part of a religious-book title — I headlined a column with it, and thereafter the editor named my column that.
Houghton was deeply religious — so far out from civilization it could be “a little island of decency.”
And of course most of the student-body, many of whom were from the Eastern Megalopolis, were forever parrying with the fevered zealots that ran the college.
A tradition of such writing in the college-paper had begun two years earlier, namely an editorial segment by senior Dan Willett (and another), the editor of the paper.
The Star tried to carry on such writing after he graduated, and had two guys doing an imitation.
But once when Willett came back he told the editor it was me that was writing like him. —The two guys had his previous space, but were only boring wannabees.
Most memorable to me was the paean I wrote on the retirement of “Sam-the-Soda-Machine” at the college radio-station, WJSL.
That soda-machine had been around for eons, and to me was a campus fixture, as much as the buildings.
Someone (likely from the soda-distributor) told me it was being taken out because it dispensed glass bottles, and the soda-companies were switching to aluminum-cans.
The retirement of “Sam-the-Soda-Machine” also meant the end of SunDrop, much like Mountain-Dew, only better.
The local distributor refused to can SunDrop, and SunDrop seemed to be at the end of their rope anyway (it’s still made — I got hits).
I first tasted SunDrop at Sandy Hill; but that was probably eight-ounce bottles. Sam-the-Soda-Machine was 10-ounce.
To me the departure of SunDrop was big-bigitty-big.
An ersatz student-center had also been begun: the “Bent-Cent.”
It prompted a treatment of soda-can opening, which at that time were not pop-tops.
Especially laughable were the feeble attempts of our ex-marine campus shrive wannabee trying to drink soda out of a one-hole can.
Suck-suck-suck-suck. “Oh I’ll be all right!”
The muse went into remission again after I graduated Houghton, and didn’t resurface until about 1971 when I was asked by City/East newspaper if I knew anyone that could do motorsports coverage.
City/East was a tiny weekly published by Bill and MaryAnna Towler out of their house in Rochester’s funky Park Avenue district.
It was a way for MaryAnna to mouth off. Bill still worked at Kodak, and sold advertising-space on the side.
MaryAnna was also raising a family, but obviously that was not enough.
City/East was also an outgrowth of the massive effort to get New York State to not bulldoze a path smack through southeastern Rochester neighborhoods for an expressway.
New York was figuring to get their right-of-way through eminent domain, but such a protest arose they had to capitulate and tee their expressway from the south into the already existing Outer Loop.
What right-of-way they had — aimed at those neighborhoods — had to be abandoned or put back on the market.
Houses had already been torn down; and you can still find state-owned property.
Our first City/East was free, but I was so impressed I began subscribing. By comparison, the local newspaper establishment (Gannett) was awful.
Since I was trying to freelance photography, I called about doing a shoot. I was assigned to shoot a food-commune meeting, which I did available-light with pushed TriX. I suppose they used one — they loved that style.
Then Bill, an ardent sportscar enthusiast (he owned a 356 Porsche), knowing I was also a sportscar-enthusiast, asked if I knew anyone that could do sportscar coverage.
He wanted to start sportscar coverage — which Gannett didn’t do — and thought it might be a revenue-generator.
“No I don’t,” I said; “but I could probably give it a try.”
Thus began my City/East motorsports coverage; a gig that extended three years.
The paper expanded to four pages (from two); two of which were mine.
We ran a giant introductory treatment, including a large black-and-white photo of American Trans-Am cars approaching the uphill hairpin at Le Circuit Mont Tremblant near Montreal.
It was a strange and difficult time.
I had to report every local sportscar race, which to me was Watkins Glen, Mosport near Toronto, and Lime Rock in Connecticut; Trans-Am, Can-Am and Formula One (among others — the Glen also had a six-hour race like LeMans for prototypes).
What usually happened is a tortured attempt to get the grammar/syntax right.
It wasn’t flowing naturally, and this was before word-processing, when you had to type from scratch on a typewriter.
Nevertheless a few things stand out.
Between races I would do big sections on local motorsports; rallying, autocross and car-shows.
I also rode in a dune-buggy.
Most memorable is a treatment I did on a small hot-rod show.
It brought back memories of hot-rodding in Erlton, particularly the young Marchioni (sp?) boys on Wesley Avenue, hot-rodding around in a primered ‘40-Ford two-door sedan with a wheezing flathead.
“Arms slung over window-sills, hair combed into greasy ducktails, brazenly puffing on cigarettes,” they prompted my mother to call the police.
Dippity-Dan showed up in his filthy black ‘51 Ford with his red gumball flashing: “protect and serve, Mrs. Hughes.”
Another time was the Trans-Am at Lime Rock in 1973 or ‘74. Trans-Am no longer had factory participation, and were even allowing ferrin cars; e.g. the Porsche 911.
Chevrolet was surreptitiously represented by Rochester-driver Warren Agor — he had a 427 Camaro.
The Porsche was Floridian Peter Gregg, who has since committed suicide.
For some strange reason I had been given a trackside photo-pass — I rarely got one. So I set up outside a tight hairpin at the end of a long straight.
Agor had the pole, so would fly at the hairpin at 160+.
He’d slide the heavy Camaro through the turn, pitching and yawing all over, massive forearms sawing at the wheel.
Gregg, in hot pursuit, would steam through the turn in his 911 with one, two, often three wheels in the air.
It was the most impressive display of hammer-and-tongs auto-racing I had ever seen; so we drove home next day with that ringing in my head.
After numerous fits-and-starts, I gave up and wrote what was in my head.
It flew fabulously, but I still had to report the race.
“You were really cooking,” my friend Albert said; “but all-of-a-sudden ZOOP!”
(Albert [Stokes] was a columnist at City/East.)
Other stuff went fairly well; e.g. my coverage of a local off-road rallyist who had entered a Volvo in the Press-on-Regardless rally in Michigan.
I also got the local road-rallying community all bent-out-of-shape after I attended a rally and reported exactly what I saw, which seemed to be sheer mayhem.
Race-coverage drifted away from strict reportage. I remember attending sportscar races at the Glen, and reporting swimming in the lake.
But they wanted me to keep doing what I did. It had devolved into a page-or-two every two weeks, summers only; and maybe 4-6 inches of briefs on the off-weeks.
The one-or-two pages usually had art. I remember running three pictures of the 1972 (or ‘73) Canadian Gran Prix at Mosport.
The swan-song of my sojourn at City/East was to take my friend Albert to the 1973 Grand Prix of the United States at Watkins Glen, a muddy bacchanalia of beer and boobies.
Albert was totally blown away. He had never seen anything like this before.
He penned a gigantic treatment, which, in credit to City/East, they ran. I think it was six pages; two of which (the center-spread) were all art; 6-7-8 pictures; some of which were people swilling beer atop the burned-out mud-slathered hulks of overturned cars, and a blurred shot of a degraded youth lobbing a half-empty beer-can with a lighted ash-can inside.
A race-report by me ran the following year decrying the insanity of the safety initiative of Formula-One drivers — a Formula-One driver had been decapitated, and the Glen tried to hide it.
The Glen was victim of a misdirected Formula-One driver safety initiative which required lining the track with guardrail, three-high in many places. (That guardrail had decapitated the driver.)
I’d had enough. Formula-One drivers were being killed willy-nilly, and I wasn’t making any money.
I had sent some of my stuff to Motor Trend magazine, and they were interested, but it would have meant interviewing in Californy for who-knows-what. So I pulled the plug. (They hired someone else; who lasted about a year.)
I also made an attempt to interview at every advertising agency in Rochester, but nothing came of it.
So I went into bus-driving; a job that was only supposed to be temporary, but lasted 16&1/2 years.
With that, my muse went back underground.
The muse resurfaced when Ray Dunbar — who I used to call “Radical-Dude” because his initials were “R-D” — suggested one way to jump start our ailing bus-union, was to do a newsletter.
Our bus-union was only a union among the mechanics, who were together on-the-property all day.
The bus-drivers were on-their-own, since they were mostly off-the-property.
The only place for communication between drivers was the drivers’-room; an attempt by the head-honcho to monitor his drivers — which succeeded.
Which is why Radical-Dude suggested a newsletter, to offset the torrent of spurious rumors.
The Union was supportive, but backed away as soon as it got rolling.
89 bazilyun qualifiers to absolve the Union of anything that was in that newsletter — all to avoid a suit.
And so began “282 News” (union local-282 of the Amalgamated Transit Union [“what’s ‘ah-two?’]).
It turned into mainly an effort by me. Linda and I experimented with Word on our old PC, and generated an attractive two-column layout with a one-column page-width page-header.
In fact, it was that two-column layout that made doing the newsletter attractive to me.
It turned into a wild bucking-bronco ride. Often it kept me up until 3 a.m.
I managed to get one out every month for a year — the best Transit could do with their turgid house-organ was every two months; and often they crashed mightily in flames.
We’d generate a master-proof Linda printed on her company laser-printer at work. And then we’d do 400 copies of each page on the Union-copier; and collate it all over the floor.
Dunbar and I would show up at Transit at 4 a.m. to pass it out. The a.m.-pullouts were the ones getting it, although one always showed up on the head-honcho’s desk (although not by us).
Writing was also much easier. I suppose it was because I didn’t have time for belly-button picking. Plus word-processing meant rearranging stuff without drama.
I also learned each page had to be its own document. That was because if the contents of a page exceeded the space, it jumped a page.
That way I could avoid the insanity of jumping pages, and limit the page-content to that page alone.
Do a newsletter as a single document and pagination goes haywire.
My newsletter always included a birthday and service-anniversary list — the only things that got read. I had also wanted to include columns from Union-officers, but none were ever filed.
So I cranked out big general-interest stories about bus-driving; like the time I shut off the interlocks at a layover and the bus started rolling with me far away from the driver-seat.
Most memorable was my massive treatment of the fact the head-honcho refused to ride his buses.
There was obvious irony in this. The guy was head of the Transit-Authority, and yet he refused to ride his own service.
The story came out of the fact I was driving a city-route that passed the street in the glitzy suburban development wherein he lived in a gigantic hilltop mansion.
I was passing at 7:00 and 9:00 a.m., times that wouldn’t facilitate his commute on my bus.
But I could imagine him taking my follower downtown to wait with the riffraff at Main-and-Clinton for a transfer out East Main Street to the glittering White-Tower.
I suggested a media-circus: a TV-camera crew alongside as he awaited the bus at his stop in the sunshine.
But nothing-doing! Are you kidding? Wait with the riffraff at Main-and-Clinton for a transfer?
Hardly anyone in the White-Tower used the bus. A few did; e.g. my friend Chip, and Rosie in Human Resources.
Most drove their cars, and many, like head-honcho, had company-cars, fueled and maintained by the Authority.
I also engaged a cartoonist — actually mainly an artist. I had to generate the story-lines myself.
Our best cartoon was the one of the motor-cradle of a bus falling out on the floor of the overhaul-shop.
This actually happened — the bus had been assigned that morning and the driver wrote it up for being all-over-the-road.
Transit, in its infinite wisdom, refused to look at it — the bus was assigned to the quick-repair lane.
A mechanic road-tested it and it was indeed all-over-the-road, so it was taken back to the overhaul-shop.
A mechanic put it on a lift, and it promptly dropped the heavy motor-cradle, rear-axle and everything, on the floor.
Transit had a PR-honcho that was supposed to keep such things hidden, but my newsletter was getting circulated among all the local politicos.
They started calling up. “What’s going on down there? I got this union newsletter with a cartoon about a motor-cradle falling out of a bus onto the floor.”
“Oh, pay no heed to that,” the PR-honcho said. “Just a buncha union-activists.”
Immense Powah! It was such fun. Transit was on the ropes — thrashing mightily.
I was invited to a Christmas-party and the PR-honcho was there. He ran into the Men’s Room; refused to talk to me. “Just keep it positive,” he screamed; the only thing he said to me all night.
My stroke ended that; as it did my bus-driving career. I’m sure the head- and PR-honchos celebrated — at last I was outta their hair.
My final issue was six pages. I had to take out the word “Bolsheviks” at the insistence of a Union-official. That was what he said, but he was afraid of repercussions.
So the newsletter came-and-went. Nothing much came of it. The bus-drivers still congregated in the driver’s-room — the idea of a separate Union-hall was beyond-the-pale. It would have meant a huge outlay of money, which the Union didn’t have, and could have only gotten through assessments.
Drivers were already complaining about assessments to arbitrate. “We gotta stop all these arbitrations,” they said. “Isn’t there any way we can’t negotiate these disputes?”
Not with a management that refuses to negotiate, and wants to arbitrate everything to inflame the union-membership.
Also in management’s favor was that it was only two union-officials against a Transit staff of hundreds — all hot to kiss head-honcho’s hairy butt.
I guess head-honcho retired shortly after my stroke, as did the $78,000 (back then) PR-honcho.
Head-honcho was an appointee of Mario Cuomo, in place to keep buses rolling in Rochester, and keep Transit in the background. His salary was over $98,000 per year back then.
Transit continued on after my stroke; things back to normal — i.e. no newsletter. A political appointee was named new Transit head-honcho. A REPUBLICAN; rewarded for party loyalty.
The Union felt they did better with the old head-honcho. At least he was a man of his word. The new guys weren’t. “Contract; what contract? We don’t go by no contract. Take us to court!”
But it was fun while it lasted. The dreaded newsletter had Transit quaking in its boots. Politicos were calling them up.
And they couldn’t fire me. I was too good an employee — “I wish they were all like him.”
Radical-dude was almost fired for some trumped-up charge. Only a hearing with union-officials kept him on the payroll. The charge was poppycock. Management knew they would lose an arbitration, so they capitulated.
Another flowering of the muse occurred at the Daily Messenger after my stroke.
One day I said to no one in particular, if I ever wrote anything for this place, the first thing I’d write about is that presidents don’t seem to wear hats anymore.
K-man, Managing-Editor Kevin Frisch, at that time not Managing-Editor and a hippie long-hair, eyed me earnestly and said “so why don’t you?”
And so began about a year’s worth of published columns. The Messenger even took a mug-shot and began running it atop my column.
I’d usually do one every week, and of course they were free. One-fourth of the Op-Ed page would get filled at no charge.
And writing them was easy. Word-processing was heavily in vogue by then, which meant no retyping. A finished column on floppy flowed right onto the page.
Most memorable was “The Sun Always Shines at 35,000 Feet.”
It was a reflection of the fact I’d pull a morning Park-and-Ride commute into Midtown Rochester, and it would be dark and windy, snow swirling off Xerox Tower.
A passenger would comment as they bundled up and got off. “The sun always shines at 35,000 feet,” I’d say.
An airliner would leap off the runway at Rochester International, socked in by snow.
It would climb a while, and finally the sun would break out as we climbed above the cloud-deck.
We’d level off and cruise at 35,000 feet, sun shining.
Then we’d descend into the cloud-deck and the sun disappeared.
My columns for the Messenger ended when I got the flag-police inflamed.
That was because one afternoon when I came home after work I found the wind had disgorged my flagpole and tossed the whole kabosh, flag and all, unceremoniously onto the ground.
I also saw that one of our dogs, Sassy, had got herself hung-up on the chain-link fence trying to escape.
Apprising the two situations, I decided to rescue Sassy first, since she was alive.
The flag-police got all bent-out-of-shape. I was being disrespectful. The flag was a living thing too.
Well, I glance outside right now, at my flag flapping in the breeze, and I don’t think it’s monitoring its surroundings like our dogs. (“G’-head; ring that doorbell. Make our day!”)
Take the dogs for a walk and you know they’re alive. I’ve had plenty of flags, but none have ever pulled like Killian.
That was my final column — the mighty Mezz pulled the plug after that; can’t upset the Legionnaires. That was eons ago; at least 8-9 years before I retired.
Now that I’m retired, I find the muse to be a-boomin’-and-a-zoomin’.
Actually it reawoke years ago when I started lobbing stuff onto FlagOut, and then started e-mailing these posts to the infamous “ne’er-do-wells,” the first of whom was Marcy.
Marcy liked what I was doing so much, she saved everything on her ‘pyooter, and compiled it all into the dreaded “Grady-book.”
FlagOut was great fun. Post anything at all and it would prompt weeping-and-wailing-and-gnashing-of-teeth, particularly from West Bridgewater.
I also have started a ‘pyooter-blog, but that was mainly to see if I could do it. I seriously doubt anyone reads it.
As far as I was concerned, FlagOut was kind of a blog anyway.
Pure gibberish from West Bloomfield, but my siblings seem to read it.
Say anything at all, and I get a reaction, usually from West Bridgewater.
I’m also dealing with a bunch of fevered “gotchas.” Make a mistake and I get pilloried by somebody. Muck up my grammar or misspell something and it’s Steno-Queen in highest dudgeon.
So that sometimes I consider diving out of FlagOut; but my wife insists the site would be no-fun-at-all without me — dreadfully boring; a computerized Christmas-annual.
Plus I have an audience beyond FlagOut. I can make Marcy laugh — that is reward in itself.
It’s gotten so I write something almost every day — first onto FlagOut, then e-mailed to the “ne’er-do-wells,” then cranked onto the blog.
The muse is great fun; ride ‘em cowboy!

POW!, POW!, POW!, POW!

This morning (Thursday, November 23, Thanksgiving Day) we took our dogs to the so-called elitist country-club for a walk. They love it — and were thrilled.
Lots of other people were there; all with dogs. — one guy with two big dogs, some with one dog each, and an entire family with a dog and two small kids.
Which shows what dogs think of the Thanksgiving-Day holiday:
“We don’t care what day it is. All we know is you’re here, and therefore you can take us to the park. Hup-hup!”
We were walking out atop the West Pond dam-dike when suddenly “POW!, POW!, POW!, POW!,” from the nearby woods.
Shotgun deer-season started last weekend. The park is awash in deer, since it’s off-limits — supposedly.
Here we are walking two brownish critters each about three feet high that can easily be mistaken for a deer by some beer-sodden hunter following in the footsteps of Dick Cheney.
“This is a park,” my wife said. “Hunters are not supposed to shoot within 500 feet.”
“POW!, POW!, POW!, POW!”
Every year the mighty Mezz ran a story about deer-slugs entering a house and embedding in the wall. “If I had been on the computer, it would have got me!”
Hunters have been known to shoot cows. “Sure looked like a deer.”
Every year there’s at least one local fatality.
After the dam we walk a wide trail that parallels the park-border; about 300 feet from it at first, then 50.
Two deer were scampering along the border — the park is fenced. “POW!, POW!, POW!, POW!”
Down a hill they went, and out across a meadow.
“POW!, POW!, POW!, POW!” (Extremely loud, and gunshots echo for hours.)
All rather frightening.
From what I can see, these are the bad apples. An ex-editor at the mighty Mezz who I think the world of used to hunt. “Out slaughtering Bambi?” I would say.
The all-powerful Tim Belknap hunts too — sort of an outdoorsman.
Fiddle-de-dee. So a bad apple shoots me dead. Little consequence, I suppose; especially if he’s REPUBLICAN.

jewel-in-the-crown

Today (Wednesday, November 22), after getting the wheels balanced on the CR-V, I had to patronize the so-called “jewel-in-the-crown,” the nearby gigantic Pittsford-Plaza Weggers (Wegmans), the store so big ya need a powered cart, and they have limo-service in the parking-lot.
The place was a zoo both inside and out — I suppose the usual pre-holiday melee.
Outside, the parking-lot was awash in huge SUVs, juking-and-jiving ponderously trying to get a parking-place.
I had to park hard by a bunch of discarded shopping-carts half in the lane — I guess the mighty Hummers were avoiding it for lack of footprint.
Frankly, I don’t think Linda could have dealt with such automotive madness.
Every intersection (and at the vaunted Pittsford-Plaza Weggers there are 89 bazilyun) was a slow strange dance of angry drivers.
A red Neon lumbered slowly into the intersection in front of me, but stopped to let the others clear.
I drove in front of her, across the intersection — I don’t think it’s a move Linda could have made. Madness like this is mental overload.
Inside angry Grannys were ramming their powered carts into massive produce-displays, sending apples tumbling onto the floor. Haggard clerks picked them up and put them back for sale.
I found myself threading narrow passages through careening carts, and all I wanted to purchase was milk and bananas and spinach and a few other things.
I found myself dodgeing numerous Jack wannabees: “HEX-KYOOZE me; I voted for DUBYA! What are ya; some kind of Godless liberial?” Just getting milk was a tortured mess.
Checking out was a melee of trying to find a lane not already clogged.
A clerk dragged my cart into an express-lane, and then promptly missed my “Shopper’s-Club,” even though I put it right in front of her nose.
It meant using “customer-service;” we’re talking about 60¢.
The Pittsford-Plaza Weggers only has one entrance — who knows what happens if the power goes. To get out you have to thread all the angry Grannys coming in.
Then you have to get across the vast parking-lot without getting T-boned by a Hummer searching for a parking-space.
A black Scion phone-booth was in the fire-lane; four-ways flashing — “no parking; fire-lane.” No one was in it, or anywhere near.

Hit-Man

About 14 years ago, which was before my stroke, yet after we moved out here to West Bloomfield, I purchased a “Hit-Man” automotive alignment system.
I purchased it because A) I had already aligned my 1983 GTI myself with plumbs, strings, tape-measures and protractors, and B) I had had the Honda-store where we bought the faithful Hunda align it and they seemed to mess it up.
Alignment is relative to three axis; caster, camber, and toe (in or out).
In many cases caster and camber can’t be adjusted. They are set in the chassis-design.
Camber could be adjusted in our Volkswagens, however. The top of the MacPherson struts were in large lateral slots, so the strut could be aligned left-or-right before tightening.
Honda didn’t do that. Your only adjustment was toe, the degree to which the wheels point at each other.
I could set the camber in the GTI; so I did with a plumb and a protractor. It was already where it was supposed to be — I didn’t change anything.
Car-designers often design a little positive camber (tops-of-wheels out) into a car-suspension — seems to make the car track better. Racecars often have negative camber (top of wheel is closer in than the bottom), so that as the car rolls into a turn, the outside-front tire comes to 90° to the pavement, putting more contact-patch onto the road.
Often you see negative-camber designed into the the rear of IRS cars. —You can’t do that with a solid axle; although Mark Donohue tried on his Trans-Am Javelin.
“Hit-Man” was a solution by a local guy that couldn’t get a proper alignment on his classic ‘66 Olds Toronado. He marketed “Hit-Man” nationwide, but was based in Rochester.
Flat surfaces (plastic discs) attached flush to the wheel-sides, and then rifle-scopes were mounted to the discs.
Targets were set up 50 feet out the same distance apart as the rifle-scopes, and then you sighted the targets to align your car.
All this really aligns is toe; but often that’s all you can align, and in most cases that’s what goes wonky.
“Hit-Man” allowed a four-wheel alignment on the faithful Hunda, so I did the rear-wheels first.
The wheel-hubs were on trailing-arms that could be moved back-or-forth in slots.
My changes were only about half a degree.
The front toe was off. Changes were almost two degrees.
It tracked much better after I aligned it myself.
The toe-adjustment was that one tie-rod end was threaded outside (the other tie-rod end had a threaded-inside receiver), and something threaded revolved. Lock-nuts held the final adjustment.
The alignment was thrown off horribly after the motorcycle T-boned Linda, and I was all set to do it again.
But the threading was so corroded I farmed alignment out to Ontario Honda in Canandaigua, not where I’d bought it, but closer. (The CR-V came from Ontario Honda.)
They did an excellent job, especially considering how pranged it was.
I was all set to align the so-called soccer-mom minivan, but it too was corroded beyond use.
GM threads the ends of its tie-rod forgings, and provides a threaded adjustment-sleeve. All were frozen solid. I didn't do it.

Four things

102.3 Sunny-FM, WVOR in Canandaigua, the radio-station they play at the PT-gym, has taken to airing all Christmas-music.
We knew this was coming. They were doing a countdown all last week.
Normally they are a soft-rock station; decent enough to make me try it on the car-radio.
But almost immediately I shut it off. Their signal was so boosted it was unbearable.
“Boost” was explained to me long ago by my hi-fi store.
Radio-stations amplify (“boost”) the quiet parts of an input, so that the quiet parts are as loud as the loud parts.
Radio-stations do this to snag listeners even during the quiet parts.
I was told the only radio-station in the Rochester radio-market that doesn’t boost its signal is WXXI, the classical-music station we listen to.
So now we were serenaded with 89 bazilyun versions of “Winter Wonderland,” and “Jingle Bells.” Also 89 bazilyun covers of “Jingle-Bell Rock.”.
And Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas” (ba-ba-boom), Elvis singing “Blue Christmas,” (“Thank you. Thank you very much”), and various advertisers singing “I’m dreaming of a green Christmas.”
The store-owner walked in and said “aren’t there any radio-stations that aren’t playing Christmas-music? I like Christmas-music, but this is ridiculous.”

Yesterday (Monday, November 20), after exercising at the PT-gym, I patronized the mighty Canandaigua post-office to mail 44’s Christmas-present.
I was wearing my mighty Curve jacket, and the tattered engineer-hat I got years ago at Steamtown in Scranton.
I’m sure my loving brother in Boston would consign it to the flames, and poo-poo me as some kind of indigent ne’er-do-well. (CUE BLUSTER KING!)
The clerk eyed me earnestly, and said “I bet you like trains.”
“Yes, I do,” I answered.
“Well, so do I,” she said.
“In that case, by all means, by whatever means, go to this place,” I said, pointing to the Curve-embroidery on my jacket.
“It is by far the best train-watching spot on the entire planet.”
“In fact, if you have a computer.......”
“I do,” she said.
“Google Horseshoe Curve. You’ll get 89 bazilyun hits.”
“One of those is the Curve-site; I have no idea which one.”
“Fire it up, and you’ll get a home-page lined with links; one of which is the web-cam.”
“Put that web-cam on in the background, and I guarantee you see a train in 20 minutes. Don’t be surprised if you see one when you fire it up!”
She wrote everything down on a tiny scrap of paper, and stuffed it into her shirt-pocket.
“I gotta try this,” she said.
“I thought the best places to watch trains were in Colorado,” she said.
“I’ve been there; California too,” I said. “Believe you-me, Horseshoe Curve is the best.”

Mighty Wal*Mart finally has a store in Canandaigua it can be proud of.
I reconnoitered it yesterday to verify it did indeed exist, and the old store was closed.
The incredibly-powerful Tim Belknap, who despite being only the City Editor at the mighty Mezz, continually puts executive-editor Bob Matson, and Managing-Editor Kevin Frisch, on-the-trailer, says the new Wal*Mart is a 500-pound gorilla in the local supermarket wars.
The new Wal*Mart is right down the street from mighty Weggers, and has a grocery-section as big as Weggers.
Tops is hardly the competition that Wal*Mart can be; although as always Weggers isn’t selling price; it’s selling ambience.
What’s strange is that Wal*Mart isn’t accessed from the street; it’s accessed from the mighty Lowes parking-lot.
Wal*Mart is visible from the street — it’s gigantic. But there were no more vacant-lots along the four-lane. Wal*Mart had to locate behind a couple small restaurants.
As such Wal*Mart couldn’t access the four-lane directly. They had to use the Lowes entrance; and as far as I ever knew, Lowes is a Wal*Mart competitor.
Whatever; I’m sure we’ll try the new Wal*Mart eventually. The old Wal*Mart was dreadful; and I think they have gotten beyond the foul-smelling kissing greeters. At least the last time I shopped the old store I wasn’t attacked by a stinking geezer.
And thankfully the old store is shuttered and “available.”

No free turkey this year. We don’t qualify — apparently the Honeoye Falls Market-Place has upped the qualification to offset all they gave to the Honeoye Falls-Lima School District.
This means the regular Thursday meal (salmon/rice/peas), and no turkey/stuffing this weekend; or for weeks on end. Linda won’t miss all the work.
The local supermarkets are selling turkeys at 29¢ a pound; which is like giving them away. We’ll pass.

chili

Last night (Sunday, November 19) we had chili for supper.
Usually I make chili with French’s mild Chili-O mix in a quart of smashed canned tomatoes.
I add two heaping tablespoons of chili-powder, precooked Kidney and Pinto beans and ground 98% beef. It makes two meals (four servings).
The Chili-O mix is too salty, but every alternative we’ve tried was wrong.
Most have oregano, which makes it unbearably bitter; particularly Carroll Shelby Texas chili mix.
Yesterday we had a chili kit I probably received as a retirement gift.
It talked something about using tomato-sauce, but I preferred to use the smashed canned tomatoes.
It had a huge amount of chili-powder, so produced a darkish mixture that was too liquid.
There also was a large package of minced onion, which is a gamble, but I added it.
It was unbearable. It also had oregano. We decided to add a packet of Chili-O.
That made it bearable, but it was still rather horrid. At least it was less liquid and more like chili.
What I wish is that we could make it from scratch like the Chili-O, without the salt.

It all began here

The last of my fabulous 2007 calendar collection has arrived, my Audio-Visual Designs black-and-white All-Pennsy calendar, which I’ve gotten every year since 1968.
Actually, two came, which means 44’s annual Christmas-present will soon be shipped.
44, like me, is a true railfan. Actually, I think Jack is too.
I’ve seen Jack chafe at my wimpy driving as we chased 611.
Here I was, driving one of the best factory hot-rods of all time, the 1983 Volkswagen GTI, and I wasn’t redlining it in every gear, or cornering anywhere near the potential of the Michelins.
I also remember him lighting up as 765 stormed into view on the parallel C&O main, throttle to the roof.
He thereafter drove like a complete maniac, in pursuit of the engine. We came down I-64 toward Meadow Creek floored, 100 mph in the humble company Lumina.
We also blew a stop-sign in front of a West Virginia state trooper.
But I don’t think 44 is like that; more reasonable like me.
Here we are crossing the Royal Blue on the Naaman’s Road overpass, when Tom says “I saw a light.”
“So did I,” I said, and we quickly found our way down by the tracks.
We were rewarded with a northbound freight ambling along behind a Richmond Fredericksburg & Potomac Geep, among others.
That may have been before RF&P was merged into CSX.
What tells me 44 is a true railfan is the way he was enraptured by my train-videos at only age five.
Anyone else that age was quickly bored. Not 44.
We were quietly eating breakfast once when Bill visited us at Winton Road.
I looked at the clock, and noticing it was 9 a.m., announced “right about now, Amtrak’s ‘Niagara Rainbow’ is stopped at Rochester station, and in about 15 minutes it will be passing the Cutout up the street.”
We all immediately jumped up, and piled into Bill’s Volvo. Drop everything!
In minutes we were at the Cutout. “Get out!” I screamed. “It’s in the block!” The lights were on on the nearby signal-bridge, and the Rainbow had the high-green.
Within seconds the train was boring down upon us, throttles to the roof, and blasted past in a flurry of leaves and dust, and shrieking air-horns.
I think Jack would have done the same.
I remember him taking me to the Cutout after my stroke, but I was still in the ozone. It didn’t seem real.
The Audio-Visual Designs calendar has been around since 1966.
For a long time it was only photos by Don Wood, who had roamed Pennsy in the early ‘50s with his 4X5 Speed-Graphic in search of steam.
Steam was still fairly common on the Pennsy back then (it last ran in 1957). Sometimes you would see steam on the Middle Division between Harrisburg and Altoony, and up The Hill around the mighty Curve. Steam was often still in use on the Pennsylvania-Reading Seashore Lines in south Jersey, the New York & Long Branch in north Jersey, and the heavy ore-trains up Shamokin Creek to a Lehigh-Valley interchange.
The ore-trains would get double-headed Decapods at each end, and the New York & Long Branch (actually a Central of New Jersey line with Pennsy trackage-rights) was usually the final stomping-ground of Pennsy passenger-engines.

It all began here. (This is a K4 — it’s 1953.)

The final K4s ran on NY&LB, as did the final passenger Sharks, and the final GG1s, although by then the railroad was Jersey Transit and electrified quite a bit.
I matted some of Wood’s Audio-Visual photos into wall-art, and mounted them at our first apartment, 644 Averill. I’m sure some of that stuff got transferred to 20 Woodland Park.
Audio-Visual began running out of Wood Pennsy photos, and started running other photographers. Wood died recently; this new calendar has no Wood-photos at all.
The September 2007 entry is a photo taken at the same location east of Haddonfield my father used to take me to watch trains. We’re on the adjacent street, looking down into the cut; and the spur to the abandoned Philadelphia, Marlton & Medford branch is visible. As is the stand-pipe where steamers used to water — there was a wye in the woods off the PMMR spur.
The photo is not as far up the street as where my father used to stop; a dead-end. But this is essentially where we hung out — watching steamers water along the spur, for the run back to Camden or Philly.
The picture was taken by Robert Long; who may have been the guy who worked as a salesman at Custom Sport-Shop in Fairfax Shopping Center, where Bruce Stewart bought all his HO-stuff, and his Rollei Twin-Reflex.
What I regret is that 44 never got to experience the thrill of a red-and-gold keystone number-plate bearing down onto you at 70 mph, or the thrill of a mighty G at 100 mph*. I did.
*Cantenary bouncing up-and-down; huge yellow arcs sparking between the cantenary and the pantograph. 11,000 volts, baby!

great colonoscopy caper

Today (Friday, November 17) was the great colonoscopy caper; a medical procedure met with “this too shall pass.”
The last time anybody invaded my butt with a greased light-probe was about 5-7 years ago, a sigmoidoscopy, much like a colonoscopy, except it only goes half-way. The prep is not as extensive, only an enema to clean out your lower bowel (bowl, whatever; but my bowls are in the kitchen-cabinet).
Preparation for a colonoscopy was horrible; a full-day of eating only clear liquids, plus a super-laxative — phoso-soda — meant to clean you out.
Per suggestion, I mixed the phoso-soda with apple-juice, since otherwise it tastes awful; so salty it’s unbearable.
I was supposed to take this stuff at noon and 6 p.m. yesterday, and did.
It blows you out. I used an entire roll of toilet-paper; could have used one the size of the one atop the Scott facility across from the airport.
Most abhorrent was the fact that it blew out what you stayed warm with. My feet and hands turned to blocks of ice.
The metabolic disarray also shot up my blood-pressure: 150/90; not dreadful, but higher than normal.
And filling my bottom with fluid made sleeping near impossible. I had to be cognizant of not losing it in the bed. After three visits to the can, I finally fell asleep after 2 a.m.
Blood-pressure was more normal this morning (137/85), and I felt fairly normal. Hardly any of the phoso-soda was still inside, and I was existing despite lack of fuel.
The colonoscopy was to be performed at Thompson Hospital in Canandaigua, the Ambulatory Procedure Center — not the vaunted miracles of Boston healthcare, but fine enough.
I drove us both there; but Linda was to be along to drive us back, since I was to be sedated.
A nurse nervously interviewed me, and pasted 89 bazilyun stickers on 89 bazilyun forms. All I could think of is if they can make a printer do 89 bazilyun labels, why not the forms? Here the nurse was manually being the ‘pyooter.
Finally I was wheeled into a darkly-lit room where the procedure was to be performed. Sedation was administered via an IV. To my mind, it didn’t do much; since I was fully awake during the procedure. The procedure-nurse said I was zonked out for a minute after it was administered.
They managed to scan about 90% of everything; and pushed and shoved me every-which-way to try and get the final 10%. But they failed. Their probe was up against a pretzel: must be a liberial colon.
The probe was removed and I was apprised of the situation: “curvy colon,” they said. “Fairly normal; we need to X-ray to see the final 10%.
“Let’s boogie,” I said.
A “transporter” wheeled me to another darkly-lit room with a huge X-ray machine.
“It’s a barium enema,” the kid said. (Um; not what I expected.)
Another probe was inserted, and gallons of barium-fluid drained into my bottom. A Chinese doctor strode in, and said “we’ll have to mix more. Turn this way; now that way; you’re doing fine, Mr. Hughes.”
Finally I was wheeled back to reception, after dumping some barium-fluid into their toilet.
“The colonoscopy-doctor has left, so we don’t know about aspirin. No polyps were found, or removed; so I guess you can take aspirin again.” (Polyps are the whole idea of the scan, since they can be precancerous.)
Then the colonoscopy-doctor reappeared, and said “Aspirin? No problem. Call me next Monday after I go over the X-rays.”
Another nurse was saying “I have to discharge this young man.”
“Not that young,” I said. “I bet I’m older than you.” (62 as opposed to 53.)
She was on the other side of the office. “Did I just hear a snide comment from far away?”
“That’s my husband,” Linda said. “Now he sounds more like himself.”
I was put in a wheelchair for wheelout, and saw Linda Barry, our typist-lady at the mighty Mezz, signing in.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Having my butt checked,” I said.
“Yep; hasn’t changed a bit. Always had us rolling in the aisles at the paper. That place is no fun since he left.”

(My brother in Boston [the tub-thumping macho Harley conservative], loudly insists it's spelled “bowls.”)

Birx Motor-Court

The other day, probably last Monday, as I paraded east on Routes 5&20 toward the PT-gym in Canandaigua, I noticed workers removing the ancient neon-sign pointing to Birx Motor-Court.

Birx Motor-Court

Yesterday (Wednesday, November 15) the sign was gone, as were most of the cabins.
It’s the end of an era.
Before the Thruway, Routes 5&20 were the main east-west thoroughfare across Western New York, although they split west of Avon (pronounced “AH-von”) about 12 miles west of here, U.S. Route 20 wandering off to the west-southwest, and State Route 5 going northwest toward Buffalo and Lake Erie.
But they run together east from Avon all the way to Auburn, almost 100 miles.
Small towns have usually sprung up at every major intersection; e.g. Lima (“LIE-ma”), West Bloomfield, Bloomfield, Canandaigua, and Geneva — usually all farm-towns. The highway navigates a huge traffic-circle in Avon around the main square; although Avon also had railroad service, as did Canandaigua and Geneva.
Linda’s parents used 5&20 to get to Rochester when her brother started University of Rochester. The Thruway was open then, but too far north to serve the Southern Tier.
5&20 is a majestically-wide two-lane, probably once three.
It goes back a long way, once an Indian-trail. Shortcuts were laid to cut off dog-legs around Bloomfield. The local roads were a grid, and the original road followed the grid. Bypasses of small towns were also built.
West of Bloomfield the road skirts a deep cut, where the road once went, except that it T’d at a crossroad.
Being a main thoroughfare, the road is lined with old motels, although Birx Motor-Court was not the standard row of sleeping-rooms fronting the highway or at 90°.
Birx was small one-room cabins, although one cabin was two rooms.
Birx became moribund after the Thruway opened, although it stayed open, renting to contractors for weeks at a time.
The Motor-Court was an adjunct to the family-farm. The Birx family found their farm on a main thoroughfare, so erected the Motor-Court to take advantage.
Registration was at the farmhouse.
The farm also suffered a massive fire a few years ago — I think a barn burned down. The hey-pile smoldered for weeks.
Old man Birx died a few years ago; the mighty Mezz did a story. He had been keeping up the Motor-Court, mainly mowing lawns and registering renters.
So now Birx Motor-Court is finally gone. Some of the cabins are intact down the street at an antique-shop.
My wife suggested a savvy person could have made a go of Birx Motor-Court. Advertise it on the Internet as “the last of the ‘50s motels.” A throwback; “spend the night like you did when you were growing up.”
Tunnel Inn is like that; except they had to invest a lot to air-condition and decorate the rooms with mini-refrigerators and cable-TV, etc. Tunnel Inn gets a lot of patronage from railfans like me. I don’t know as Birx would.

“Must be the Congressional”

Yesterday (Monday, November 13) the morning-man at the FM classical-music radio-station we listen to (WXXI) played an extract from an “on-the-road” musical.
The protagonist, also the singer, announced the following: “now loading on Track 7, the southbound Congressional Limited, with stops in Philadelphia, Wilmington, Baltimore and Washington, D.C. Change trains at Washington for all points south.”

The Keed.

Congo.

It choked me up some (partly a stroke-effect — it’s called “lability”) because I rode the Congo in 1959 with Bruce Stewart.
And I was impressed.
We got on it at 30th St. Station, after a day reconnoitering the Philadelphia train-sites (one of which I’m sure was Baldwin #60,000 at the Franklin Institute).
A mighty G was on the point, and in no time at all we were cruising at 80 mph. —And that was despite 17 cars.
By then the Congo had a coach section, and was one of the many trains Pennsy fielded on The Corridor.
The infamous Corridor wasn’t electrified at first. In fact, full electrification to Washington, D.C. wasn’t completed until 1935, financed by the New Deal.
Electrification turned the Corridor into a highly patronized subway, and Pennsy needed a locomotive that would handle all the traffic.
That, of course, was the mighty G (the GG1).
No doubt the Congo did not have coaches at first. It was probably all first-class, Pullman.
But it wasn’t a sleeper, since its route could be covered in a couple hours.
But demand for coach-seats was outstripping train-frequency. The Congo became part of Pennsy’s Corridor-service. Still a name-train, but part of the Big Red Subway.
Even now Amtrak’s Corridor-service is still saddled with some of the same deficiencies that bothered Pennsy’s Corridor-service; namely the tight-clearance tunnel-restrictions in the Hudson Tubes and Baltimore.
There are also numerous tight curves; like in Zoo Interlocking and approaching Wilmington Station (both directions).
In one of my cab-rides the Amtrak engineer slows his train for a 90-mph curve.

The Keed.

STAND BACK! Boy-oh-boy, if I had not wrapped my arm around a light-standard, I wouldn’t be here. This thing is doin’ at least 90; yet my ancient Hawkeye managed to stop it, even at only 1/125th (it's fastest).

What the Corridor needs is a new alignment, like in Europe — something capable of consistent 150-mph running. And perhaps new tunnels (or access) into New York City — something that would clear double-stacks or double-deck passenger cars. (Freight [in trains] still gets ferried across the Hudson.)
Nevertheless, the Congo, and its mighty Gs, was impressive.
My paternal grandfather apparently rode the Congo, and was similarly impressed.
I remember returning from Sandy Hill in 1954 (my first time) on Route 40 in the Blue Bomb (we had just got it). A GG1 streamliner flashed by on the Corridor where Route 40 jumps over near Elkton.
It was fluted stainless-steel cars, so probably not a Pennsy train. Probably the Silver Meteor or Comet that ran through to Floridy.
“Must be the Congressional,” my grandfather said, obvious awe in his voice.
After we got married my grandparents lived in apartments up the hill from Edgemoor.
A train boomed through Edgemoor. We couldn’t see it, but inside the kitchen we could hear it.
“Must be the Congressional,” he said.

Flxible-Flyers

During the 16&1/2 years I drove bus, my favorites were our old 500s, our Flxible-Flyers, made by Flxible. We had at least 75 — maybe 76.
501 through 506 were Park-and-Ride, having air-conditioning, soft seats, and an ungoverned three-speed automatic tranny.
570 through 576 (577?) were also Park-and-Rides, but two-speed (like our city-buses) and not air-conditioned. What made them Park-and-Rides were soft seats and the shotgun-seat faced the windshield, instead of the aisle.
All the rest of the 500s (507-569) were city-buses: two-speed automatic tranny governed to 56 mph.
The first 25 or so Flxibles had “batwings;” the lighted side-display advertising signs on the 500 (511) in the picture.

Regional Transit #511 with batwings.

All the 500s had the unturbocharged General Motors 6-71 V-6, a two-cycle diesel, the basic design of which had been around for eons.
It had four valves in the head surrounding the injector, and they were exhaust.
Intake-air was blown into the cylinders by a large mechanical Rootes supercharger, converted for use on fuel-dragsters.
The blower pressurized the cylinder-sides, and blew intake-air into the cylinders through slots in the cylinder-sides uncovered when the piston reached the bottom of its stroke.
This action also blew exhaust out the top.
Electromotive (EMD) locomotive diesels followed the same principles at first: e.g. the 567, the 645, and now the 710. (That number signifies the individual cylinder displacement, as a 6-71 bus engine displaces 71 cubes per cylinder.)
GM’s diesel also found its way into trucks. The huge 650-cubic-feet-per-minute Schram air compressor Mahz-n-Wawdzz rented had an 8-71 (V8).
I never saw 507; I think it was destroyed — burned out before I hired on.
About all that would destroy a bus was burnout. I remember a 500 sustaining heavy front-end damage when it hit a pole, but it was rebuilt with new sheet-metal stampings and glass.
Although it was rather cobbled — not all straight.
The 500s lasted about two-thirds of my career. Our first Starships (GM’s RTS-model), the 700s, came in 1979; two years after I started.

700-series Starship.

They were unturbocharged 8-71 and air-conditioned. The tranny was automatic four-speed, and they were ungoverned.
With semi-soft seats they could be used in Park-and-Ride service; but the air had to work.
No opening windows, and with the AC condensers close to the ground, they plugged and the AC failed.
The 700s all had to be converted to opening windows and the AC condenser-blister up top.
More Starships, the 8s and 9s, came in the early ‘80s; intended to replace the 500s.
The 8s and 9s were additional width (102 inches instead of 96), but were strong, having turbocharged V6 6-92s. They also had air, but the AC-blister was up high, and there were opening windows.
The 8s and 9s were city-buses (therefore governed), but the front-doors of the 9s weren’t interlocked, which defined means brakes-on if any of the doors are open.
Most buses had front-interlocks, but the Park-and-Ride buses didn’t, which included the 7s.
So the old Flxibles were very basic, which meant they hardly ever broke down. A GM-bus would cripple (not run) if it got an errant low oil-pressure signal.
The Flxibles only had one flaw: no anti-roll bars. Which meant thrown into a corner they would lean intensely, sending Granny bonkers. (“We’re gonna tip over!”)
A GM-bus wouldn’t lean; it had anti-roll bars.
504 was especially strong, despite pushing air.
I’d go through the barns every afternoon looking for it, and many are the times I moved buses or backed it out to get it.
504 was a Park-and-Ride bus, and usually drivers of Park-and-Rides requested 400s, which had an ungoverned 8-71 and three-speed with air.
But most 400s were pigs by then, and requesting 504 wasn’t bellyaching for a 4. I could always get it.
504 was only a 6-71, but stronger than most 4s. I’d pull out on the expressway, head for the passing-lane, and floor it.
It would cruise at 65-70 mph. And it was a Flxible. Majesty at 70 mph.

Mustang

My December 2006 issue of Car & Driver magazine has a gigantic cover-feature on the 534-horsepower FR500GT Mustang race-car (pictured).

FR500GT.

The Mighty Ford Motor Company, despite hemorrhaging billions, has brought to market one of the most appealing cars of all time, a new Mustang.
It’s a throwback, of course. Various styling cues from the original Mustang are included, plus the sound of Steve McQueen’s car from “Bullitt.”
But it’s a modern car, except it also has a fabulous motor, a four-cam, 32-valve, double-overhead-cam V8.
The FR500GT makes a few “improvements” to make it a race-car. The stock motor is levered out and replaced by a Roush-Yates motor, but it’s still four-cam, 32-valve, double-overhead-cam; and fuel-injected too.
NASCAR still uses carburetors, and still uses the pushrod motors — mired in the ‘50s.
The original Mustang was one of the most successful marketing ploys of all time.
The market was obviously ready. The success of the Corvair Monza made the Corvair a Porsche wannabee instead of a Volkswagen wannabee.
And Chevy had introduced the mighty Small-Block in the 1955 model-year; a motor that revved like a Ferrari and turned hot-rodding upside-down. It put the revered flatty out to pasture.
Everything was in place, but Chevy missed the boat.
Ford reconfigured the Falcon platform, and dropped in their own Small-Block, introduced in 1963. Viola; the Mustang.
The earlier Falcon Sprint, a two-door Falcon hardtop with the new motor and four-on-the-floor, was impetus.
But Lee Iacocca saw an opening and developed the new Mustang.
They lengthened the hood and shortened the trunk to give it a sporty appearance (and appearance was what it was all about). Underneath it was still the Falcon — but that was great as the Sprint.
My neighbor Bruce Stewart’s first car was a 1963 Fairlane with 260 four-on-the-floor. He traded it later for a Mustang, but I never saw it (he was out of the house by then).
The Mustang was introduced halfway through 1964; my junior year at Houghton.
As such it was a little beyond-my-time; I was still enamored of the Chevy Small-Block, particularly of the 327 ‘Vette FI four-speed in a 1955 Chevy hardtop.
Yet a couple of Mustangs found their way into our class.
One of “Da Cronies” got one, bought by his father, the coat-hanger magnate. But it was only a six; although three-on-the-floor.
It was far more appealing than The Beast. It was a complete car, and could be driven in rain or snow. I remember going to Buffalo in it; to see a Peter Nero piano-concert at Kleinhans.
Another guy, a mover-and-shaker wannabee, had one. But it was white and automatic: more of a T-bird.
Some of the greatest car-racing I ever saw was between pony-cars. Chevy got on board in 1967: the Camaro. And they began an option to remake the car for racing, option number Z-28.
With the Camaro, pony-car racing turned into a ding-dong battle — Mustang versus Camaro, and later Mopar and AMC.
Chrysler raced their original Barracuda at first, but fielded a team in 1970 of their new Barracudas.
SCCA called the series “Trans-Am.”
In 1969 Ford fielded a racing-option of their own, the Boss 302 Mustang. NASCAR stock-car racer Bud Moore had raced Cougars earlier, and switched to the Boss 302. He hired Parnelli Jones and George Follmer to race his cars.

Bud Moore pointing.

I remember standing at trackside at the old Bridgehampton Raceway, far out amidst the sand-dunes on Long Island. It was a long downhill curve after the starting straightaway.
Jones and Follmer were on the front-row, and came over that blind brow at 160+ mph; flat out, not giving each-other an inch.
Down that hill they slid, bottoming their suspensions at the bottom. The track-bars on the cars scraped the pavement, and threw up a shower of sparks.
It’s an image I’ll never forget — right up there with Big Daddy at Cecil County. I’ll carry it to my grave.
Those ‘69 Mustangs were fairly ugly, but looked better in 1970; when Ford made a mustard-yellow version available.
Bud Moore painted his cars mustard-yellow, and Parnelli/Follmer raced them.
Mark Donohue won that Bridgehampton race in a Penske Camaro, but switched to AMC-Javelin in 1971. They made that pig into a potential winner — even won a few.
And I remember Jerry Titus drifting his 1967-or-1968 Mustang at Watkins Glen.
After the start was a long uphill esses that emptied onto a long back-straight. Titus would consistently drift through that corner with the car sideways. Titus later killed himself crashing a Trans-Am Pontiac into a bridge-abutment at Road America race-course in Elkhart Lake, Wisconsin.
The Glen didn’t have bridge-abutments, but did have that awful three-high guardrail that could make a royal mess of anyone who rode it. Francois Cevert lost his life in a Formula One Tyrrell when he rode that guardrail. That guardrail was installed to satisfy a safety-concern by drivers.
The Trans-Am drifted into anonymity after GM and Ford pulled out (as did Mopar). Foreign cars were let in, such as the Porsche 911, the Datsun 510, and the Alfa Romeo.
Those early years when Trans-Am was between GM and Ford (and Mopar), was when it was really great. And the cars raced were actual stock-cars — stock-cars modified for racing — not some tube-frame special made up to look like the stock-car with draped-on sheetmetal.

Follmer and Jones in the mustard-yellow Mustangs.

The Trans-Am series lasted for years; but dropped into racing of tube-frame specials — cars made to look like the Mustang and the Camaro, but hardly driveable on the street.
Those early Trans-Am cars were hardly driveable on the street either, but at least based on stock-cars.
NASCAR has made the same mistake — tube-frame specials that look like the stock offering, but aren’t even close. Sure, take your Granny to church in one of them things! What if it rains?
So now Ford wants to make racing this FR500GT into a series, a lot like the old Trans-Am. The car is for sale at $225,000, and they have a couple buyers. But it can’t be driven on the street, although it has wipers and headlights.
Hertz has dredged up their old program of renting special Shelby GT-H versions of the Mustang that they had years ago. They had one on display at Orlando; and I would have liked to rent one, but you apparently have to jump through hoops, and they are only two-door.
Linda’s aging mother needed a door; so that scotched the GT-H.
The GT-H was also available at Logan, so if I’d known I could have rented one at Rachel's wedding, but didn’t know. (I can just see it: navigating some condo parking-lot in a GT-H. “Get yourself turned around. We know that guy. He gave you a bum stear. You’re headed toward New England.”)
Plus the all-powerful Tim Belknap at the mighty Mezz, who despite being only a city-editor puts Executive-Editor Bob Matson and Managing-Editor Kevin Frisch on-the-trailer, poo-poos the GT-H as being a mere imitation of the great GT-Hs of yore. A kit-car. It has 325 horsepower.

Tent City

Years ago, back when I drove Transit-bus, I patronized a funky store in Rochester called “Tent City.”
It was in one of the many huge factory-buildings that lined the right-of-way of the original Erie Canal. Without “Tent City” it would have been derelict.
The Erie Canal used to go right through Rochester; southeast to northwest. In fact, it crossed the Genesee River with a giant aqueduct. Linda’s long-time employer, Lawyers Co-op, was in the “Aqueduct Building” next to that aqueduct.
But eventually the canal was rerouted south of the city. The city canal right-of-way was abandoned, and became the City Subway, essentially a little-used trolley-line, partly underground. Some of that became the Eastern Expressway.
I’m sure the Erie was rebuilt many times. Apparently the first canal had a draft of only four feet. Frequently it was dug deeper and widened.
The final iteration, the State Barge Canal, skirted Rochester to the south, and can handle tug-boats. I think it has a draft of 18 or more feet.
It crosses the Genesee River “at grade,” so it uses river water. It gets drained before winter, and refilled before the boating-season.
Rochester used to be the “Flour City.” It was at the northern end of the huge Genesee River Valley, the first “breadbasket of the nation.” Grain was grown in the Genesee Valley and shipped to Rochester via a small feeder-canal called the “Genesee Valley Canal.”
Houghton was a canal-town along that canal at first: “Jockey-Street.” People used to race their horses up the main drag. The reason Willard J. Houghton moved in was to clean up the town: drinking, and gambling, and women-of-ill-repute.
That canal is long-gone — although much of the trench remains, as do the locks. A lot of the towpath was converted to a railroad, eventually bought by Pennsy. That railroad still existed when I matriculated at Houghton (I saw a black Pennsy RS3 on it once), but it was soon abandoned.
Many flour-mills set up in Rochester at first. They milled the harvest of the Genesee Valley, and shipped it east on the Erie Canal.
Many factories set up along the canal too — including the building “Tent City” was in.
There were plenty of abandoned factories in Rochester. One became “Fabrics and Findings,” a huge outlet of sewing supplies known all over the northeast. We have patronized “Fabrics and Findings.” The tank-bag harness for the mighty Cow was from “Fabrics and Findings,” as were the plastic clips.
Another became “Village Gate Square,” an assemblage of funky-shops that supposedly competes with suburban malls.
I visited “Village Gate” a few times. What I remember is long, dark, dank, dusty hallways connecting small shops far apart.
It was barely surviving and unheated. Not many shops had been rented. Not much traffic either. Parking was scattershot.
“Tent City” was a large factory with five floors. It was very rudimentary — just the freight-elevator and an I-beam outside that accessed gaping openings on each floor that had been covered over with corrugated steel. Displays were always a picked-over jumble.
The entire western wall was sprayed over with red oxide, including windows and brick. Five stories of red disarray.
Parking was minimal — maybe 20 spaces — which was okay, since most patrons were welfare-cases who had come by bus. (It was on a bus-line — there was a stop out front.)
To get to each floor you had to climb a rickety wooden staircase, which I guess was also the inside fire-escape.
I bought my one-person motorbike camper-tent at Tent City. The tents were all set up on the top floor. I remember the salesman being embarrassed to take me up there in the freight-elevator.
Tent City opened a newly-constructed, smaller store-front across the street. Apparently they were so successful in the old building they could afford it.
I haven’t been to Tent City since buying that tent.

teakettle

Our fantabulous stainless-steel teakettle, purchased to replace our old teakettle, which had gone beyond simple repair, has experienced failure #1.
Not enough to put it out-of-commission, but “guaranteed for life.”
It has a small cover that can be removed for filling. It also can be removed for cleaning out the pot. That cover had a small wire pull-handle attached by simple tack-welds.
To me this was utterly stupid, since sooner-or-later one of them welds would break. One did, allowing the other one to work; so it broke too.
The solution is to drill the cap and insall a proper pull-knob — stainless hardware is preferred (I fixed a measuring-cup this way long ago).
Ex-KYOOZE me, but this is how it should have been made in the first place. Tack-welds are a cheap-shot.
So maybe I could send it back under “guaranteed for life” — in which case I have no teakettle for a month, and they reattach the decorative pull-handle with el-cheapo tack-welds, which will break again.

Ted

Today (Friday, 4/7), while running errands, I’m pretty sure I saw Ted.
Years ago, like back in the middle-to-late ‘80s, when I drove 1703, Ted was a regular passenger.
1703 was kind of a monster, but a nice ride. It made three long trips to Pittsford, a very old and classy suburb southeast of Rochester. (Three trips is one too many.) It was also hooked up with a trip downtown from a middle-school.
It pulled out about 1:50, and I think the first Pittsford-trip (from downtown) was at 3:25. I did the middle-school trip first, but it only took 15-20 minutes. Then I could kill time until that 3:25 trip.
What I’d do is park in a safe spot, and then nap over the idling motor. (Paid to nap.) I’d set my alarm-watch.
Ted rode my second trip, about 4:30, also my busiest. That trip I took home all the stolid honkies that worked downtown and lived in Pittsford. Ted was one of my many regulars who would hold court in the back (noisy, animated discussion of politics and religion).
Ted was a big man; over six feet. He had worked at Lincoln-bank all his life; first Lincoln-Alliance, then Lincoln-Rochester (where I once worked), then Lincoln-First.
I think he retired about the time Chase bought Lincoln-First. (Lincoln-First was a statewide bank holding company.) But they hired him back as a consultant.
So even though he was retired, he continued riding my bus. The only time he didn’t was when Transit had a free-fare promotion for a Pittsford Park-and-Ride.
Ted was along when I totaled the Citation. He was worried I might get fired — he was aware of Transit’s penchant for firing anyone involved in an accident, their fault or not. (A cinder-block delivery driver saved my job.)
Ted was a railroad buff of sorts; but mainly a history buff. He lived outside Pittsford on a single-lane paved road that had once been the roadbed of a long-abandoned trolley-line (actually interurban).
Two railroads and one-or-two trolley-lines traversed Pittsford, as did the Erie Canal. One railroad was New York Central’s “Auburn Road,” the first railroad across the state to Rochester. It had a station; since converted to the “Depot Motel” and restaurant.
The second railroad was the old West Shore, now used by CSX as its Rochester Bypass. That bypass is about the only segment of the West Shore in western New York that wasn’t abandoned.
Since it bypassed downtown Rochester, NYC kept it active, as did Penn-Central and Conrail.
(The bypass leapt over everything in Pittsford on bridges; it didn’t connect.)
One time as Ted was about to get off, I asked him if he knew where the trolley crossed the street I was on: East Ave.
It crossed in about the same place as the Auburn. The Auburn is long-abandoned. Finger Lakes Railway, a shortline, operates a segment east of Canandaigua, but the line to Rochester is gone.
Ted was totally turned on by my interest. He thereafter tried mightily to get me to be a volunteer firefighter, probably because he was one out of Pittsford, and therefore familiar with how hard it is to get firefighter volunteers. (At that time, we were living in Rochester — which had full-time paid firefighters.)
Ted became my friend. He told me everything — like that his son was attending Purdue. He also told me about the surgical-strike he made for the bank one day to New York city and back in five hours. —As a courier; I guess he rode to work on the bus that morning and then home on my bus, like nothing had happened. “Drop everything!”
Ted looked haggard and down-in-the-dumps. He’s still a big man, but probably in his early 80s. Ted was in poor shape when he rode my bus — he’s in worse shape now: stooped at the neck.
He was walking to the glitzy new Pittsford library. His car, a dark-green Camry, was parked in a handicap spot. It had a volunteer firefighter tag.

Sunoco

I’ve noticed a new bumper-sticker is finding circulation, or rather it is appearing on the backs of cars (and trucks): “Sunoco, official gasoline of NASCAR;” about 4X5.
Well, at least it’s not “official toothpaste,” “official telephone” or “official soup.”
And never mind about NASCAR and its manufactured competition, which like me a fellow-employee at the mighty Mezz poo-pooed as a sham. (Cue Bluster-King: I predict use of the words “clueless” and “history-major.” BROKEN-RECORD ALERT!)
At least it’s racing; even if it is racing taxi-cabs.
But I wouldn’t touch a Sunoco-sticker with a ten-foot pole; not after what happened a few years ago.
Some time ago, probably before the stroke, Sunoco double-charged me for a gasoline-purchase. I called them up, and they dutifully removed the erroneous charge.
Then a few years ago, after the stroke, they did it again. I called again, and got a mindless management minion.
“What if you’re just trying to dodge [not Plymouth] a purchase?” she asked.
“It’s the identical amount as a valid purchase,” I protested.
“Again, I think you’re just trying to dodge a purchase,” she said.
“Listen,” I said. “There are plenty of gasoline-retailers in the area. I don’t have to buy Sunoco. I can pay the erroneous charge to maintain our pristine credit-rating [about $20], but it’s the last money you’ll ever see.”
The gas-station up the street is Mobil, as is the one in Farmington on the way to the Thruway. The one in Bloomfield is a CitGo, as is the one in Honeoye Falls.
Toomeys, on 5&20, is Sunoco, but I only go there if I have to, and don’t use my Sunoco-card. Never again. Haven’t in years. Visa only.

RE: “Wife Swap.”

Last evening’s (Monday, 4/10) snippets were “Wife Swap.”
I say “snippets” because we don’t actually watch “Wife Swap;” an utterly stupid program pandering to the American taste for the salacious.
What we’re actually watching is a VCR-replay of the news, which we have to stop to get another dinner entree.
When we do, the TV, and VCR, revert to current programing, which in this case was “Wife Swap.”
We didn’t walk the dogs until 6:50 p.m., but before supper. After supper is still too dark; although it remains light longer.
Sometimes we watch the news live, or play it back on top of “Entertainment Tonight” or “Friends.”
These aren’t too bad, although ET can prompt “for crying out loud,” “shaddup,” or “too bad she couldn’t finish her dress.” “Friends” is reruns of programs we’ve seen over-and-over.
But “Wife Swap” is even more ridiculous than “Extreme Home Makeover,” where they always demolish the house.
The pretext of “Wife Swap” was obvious from the outset: a fat, lazy liberial against a God-fearing zealot.
The wives exchanged houses, and the liberial was saying “this house is too clean — do I dare walk on the carpets?” and “bor-ing........”
Zealot had a fit: “each kid has a TV,” and “what filth.”
Zealot pointed out her treadmill: “every morning I get up and do a half-hour.”
We also saw zealot pointing out parental control: “You didn’t do your homeworky? No Internetty.” Poink!
Zealot and hubby were appalled at web-sites the liberial’s kids accessed.
Liberial apparently didn’t smoke, but she roared off to work in a white Z28 Camaro, leaving her house a shambles.
How the God-fearing zealot would allow herself to be part of such shenanigans is beyond me.
The liberial picked up a calendar-datebook, and solemnly intoned “too organized........”

Playtime......

As you all know, our shredder has been down for some time (probably over a month). I fed it too much into it, and it locked — blew a breaker, and also apparently an internal fuse. We reset the breaker, but then it wouldn’t get power at all.
So, true to my Connor genes, I started taking it apart — breaking the dreaded seal. I got the unit out; has a motor big enough to turn a Small-Block with 11.25-1 compression-ratio. The shredder units are essentially unjammed — and you dare not touch.
It sat for a while, and finally today I had more time to tear into it. So I started taking the shredder-unit apart. There are two small shields of the shredder-mechanism — since removed. There was a gear-case on one end between the motor and the shredder-unit: about four gears that gear everything down. The motor is probably turning about 100 times the speed of the shredder-unit. (The gears were heavily greased in plain bearings.)
I then removed an end-piece, that holds the shredder-unit in plain-bearings. Everything was Phillips-head screws.
I also removed the fuse, which was completely blown — even the glass tube. 7 amp. We shall see.
The motor-leads also pulled free, so now I am faced with reconnecting everything, but I see two tabs. It may run in reverse — or not at all.
So, bottom-line, whether or not it’s salvageable depends on whether I can get another fuse, and if so if it will run after reassembly. No ballpeen hammer — guile-and-cunning instead. Linda wonders about reassembly, but I’m a Connor. I had to test-reassemble the gearing (puzzle-time), but got it. I majored in History. Had a stroke too.

“you need to see a shrink........”

So I do; go dutifully back to a psychiatrist, first time in 11-12 years, on the loving suggestion of my all-knowing superior brother in Boston.
I report I set all my clocks to the atomic-clock in Boulder, and the psychiatrist looks at me quizzically and says “This is a problem? You had a stroke. What’s so strange about bringing order out of chaos? I synchronize all my clocks and I didn’t have a stroke.
“And your brother went ballistic over this? HMMMMNNNN. Sounds like he has self-esteem issues of his own.”
“And you say he bad-mouths everything you do or say? Absolutely everything? Sounds insecure to me. Maybe I could help him.”
I dealt with a so-called shrink (actually three or four) years ago. They all had a rather curious habit of disregarding my stroke — saying everything came from a difficult childhood.
They also were making me explain everything every visit — you’d think they had a folder to review. The nurses at Park-Ridge did; a massive 3-ring binder. They’d hide behind it.
As far as I could see, it was a racket. The shrinks go through the motions so they can collect from Blue-Shield.
I was prescribed anti-depressants. I resisted at first, but finally caved. The prognosis was a stroke would throw off the chemical balance of your brain, and drugs would restore it.
First was Prozac, which did nothing except almost knock me out. Tried it for a month or two (“It takes time for it to take effect” — not much time to almost knock me out). I remember having to lay down in the so-called soccer-mom minivan at the Pittsford Weggers after almost collapsing in the store three days after starting the pills.
“So we have to try something else. We have to try different drugs until we find one that does something.”
Great; they all knock me out, but don’t lower depression a bit. The drugs were making it impossible for me to run — turning me into a zombie.
So finally I said “enough.” No more drugs. The depression wasn’t that bad. We’re flying on our own. The best anti-depressant I ever had was working at the mighty Mezz.
Maybe you could tell a shrink about that $15 auto-loan insurance charge; where you almost lunched a sale for a $39,000 truck. They’re waiting for you, Bubba. With their white straitjackets.

Bullies

During my final two years of residence in Erlton, 1956 and 1957, when I would have 12 and 13, I became friends with a kid named Ronald Hanson, who was the same age as me.
Ronald was an only child, son of a father who was stonily conventional — he worked as a real-estate agent for local Blakely Realty — and a mother who was a Hawaiian exotic gone heavily to seed.
They lived in a small two-story on Harrison Ave., one of a bunch of houses put up in Erlton after the first bunch, probably in the late ‘30s.
Ronald was rather spoiled, and I would hear him yelling with his mother. Both he an she would go completely bonkers, yelling at the top of their lungs.
And Ronald always won these contretemps. He always got his way. I guess his father weighed in on his side.
Ronald had a fabulous Lionel layout in the basement, more realistic than my Uncle Herb.
Uncle Herb would string stuff together on a table-platform to display the trick gizmos Lionel had. Ronald’s layout was through plaster scenery intended to look faintly like the real world.
Of course it was a world awash with railroad-track, but I remember war-bonnet Santa Fe Fs trailing tiny imitation stainless-steel streamlined passenger-cars. (We never saw such things on the PRSL.)
Those war-bonnet Fs were the jewel of the Lionel line, and the coaches had internal lighting with opaque shadows of people in the windows.
The Hanson house was on a double-lot, which meant the house was on the south lot, and the north lot was vacant land, which could have accommodated a house, but didn’t.
Instead, the vacant land was fenced (half-fenced), and attached to the house-lot on the south.
A rustic playhouse had been built along the back wall, turned into a medieval torture-chamber by Ronald.
Ronald had strung up a steel cable from a tree, down across the vacant yard.
A big cardboard shipping-barrel had been hung from the cable with tiny pulleys. The idea was to climb atop the playhouse, get in the barrel, and ride it down across the yard.
Musatanos had a similar arrangement at their house on Marlton Pike, although theirs was a bosun’s chair.
I rode them both.
So the cable-ride was the bait.
Ronald was playing with the Divine kids, perhaps slightly older, and enamored of torturous intimidation.
I was invited to ride the barrel, but soon found myself lashed to the backwall of the playhouse facing a grand assemblage of rusty bicycles, screens and wire, all intended to signal my escape to my intimidators.
And escape I did. I managed to escape my tie-ups, and bolted out of the playhouse without attracting too much attention.
But the yard was surrounded by fence, so I had to leap the fence to escape.
Couldn’t do it. Johnny Divine lassoed me with ropes.
It started me crying, which turned them all off.
Seems that was all they wanted; intimidation enough to make me cry.
A few years ago I saw a movie about stock-market investors whose greatest joy was to get others to cry.
It reminded me of this incident.
So does the “story” on Weggers sub-bags.

supermarket wars

Buffalo-based Tops supermarkets, current competitor for mighty Weggers, is giving up. It’s selling all its many stores in western New York and Pennsylvania.
So yet again mighty Weggers emerges triumphant. —Which to me doesn’t really benefit the shopper with lower prices, since Weggers isn’t selling low prices.
What it’s selling is ambience; the competition had to sell price.
Wars like this have been going on since I moved the Rochester in late 1966. On the west-side (West Ave.), it was mighty Weggers versus an adjacent Star Market; although the Star was a creaky abomination compared to Weggers.
When we moved to Averill Ave., after we got married, we shopped at a small city Weggers (on Monroe Ave. near Goodman) that closed long ago. It was nearby — within walking distance.
Both Weggers and Star were near our Winton Road house (and before that, Woodland Park); although Star suffered from a poor location. It was straddling two levels: a store-level and a parking-lot one level down.
It meant you had to carry your groceries down stairs; you couldn’t just wheel them out. (They had a small never-used elevator.)
But now that Weggers (the funky Park-Ave. store) is suffering from its tiny parking-lot. It’s also a small store.
Tops built a number of large city supermarkets in areas Weggers wasn’t.
The Park-Ave. Weggers was nearby to the giant new Tops at Winton and Blossom, previously the location of Taylor Chevrolet, where I bought the Vega.
But I didn’t like it, since they only had one size cart (big as a Buick), and often only one checkout was open (40 minutes).
I’d often shop there while at Transit, even after moving to West Bloomfield, since it was on the way home.
So now Tops is giving up. Low prices can’t compete with ambience and Wal*Mart.
Apparently a lot of the opposition to building a Wal*Mart supercenter in Lima came from the Honeoye Falls MarketPlace, the non-Weggers supermarket we shop at.
MarketPlace saw itself fading if Wal*Mart opened four miles away.
Tops also built a supermarket in Canandaigua, after wars with Weggers.
Tops was originally going to build in downtown Canandaigua, but Weggers bought the land. Hammer-and-tongs!
So Tops built their new store in the town on the city-border (i.e. outside the city). But it was still competing with long-established Weggers and the Weggers-ambience.
I patronized the new Tops a few times, while at the mighty Mezz. It was glitzy, but still a Tops.
Apparently a few small supermarkets* remain in downtown Canandaigua; and I was advised to patronize them instead of Weggers. *Ramshackle affairs with additions on additions.
Nice idea, but I know where things are at Weggers.
I also shop occasionally at the Honeoye Falls MarketPlace — but that’s mainly Linda, and me Weggers. Probably 60% of our groceries come from MarketPlace. Weggers is mainly produce and milk — plus you can’t get “Choose-a-Size” paper-towels at MarketPlace.
Weggers has a “story” printed on their sub-bags, about patronizing the best sub-place in Rochester, and getting their recipes.
Um, yeah; I can just imagine. Shaded thugs in trenchcoats waltz into the sub-place, saying “either you give us your recipe, or we’ll open a shop next to you and put you out of business.”
Weggers is a bully.

sign-wars

A gigantic contretemps has developed over mighty Wal*Mart’s proposal to build a superstore in nearby Lima (LIE-ma).
It’s all because Lima is a rural town, and the fear is if Wal*Mart comes in the rural nature of the area will be destroyed.
Well, we don’t care that much. There is a large vacant field up the street, and Linda hopes eventually Weggers will buy it, and put up one of its giant extravaganzas. It would be much more convenient than driving to Honeoye Falls or Canandaigua.
I’m not so sure, but only because if they did, our road would be bottlenecked. Route 65 would need traffic-lights galore (I haven’t seen a Weggers yet without one at its entrance). And the pressure would be on to turn our road into a commercial strip. The pressure would also be on to turn our house into a beauty-salon or a car-dealership, and erect gasaterias and/or car-washes on our vacant land.
There also is a large vacant field across from Honeoye-Falls MarketPlace (a supermarket Linda shops). I have a hunch Weggers may buy it someday, or another large field just east of Honeoye Falls at an intersection.
MarketPlace might last a few years, but would eventually tank. Our area is currently a large hole in the Weggers market. You have to drive 15 miles to shop Weggers (Canandaigua); it’s 18 miles to Geneseo.
And so an epic sign-war has developed; just like the political sign-wars where righteous REPUBLICANS remove and destroy the lawn-signs put up by homeowners that support Democrats.
We’ve seen many of the Wal*Mart smile-face frowning (pictured), with dollar-signs for eyes, screaming “never in Lima.”
The pro Wal*Mart supporters are not as organized, and are angry the antis remove their signs.
It’s just like the anti-windfarm sign-wars to the south.

Slow transition to OSX

Earlier this week two books arrived from Amazon; “Little MAC Book, OSX Tiger” and “OSX for Dummies.”
My current rig, the twin-processor G4, has both OSX and 9.2 on it. You can choose what it boots up. I switched it to OSX, but was utterly buffaloed. The mighty Mezz uses 8.6, which 9.2 is very similar to. So we switched it back, since I do well with 8.6, and didn’t have time to figure out OSX.
So I’ve been using 9.2 for some time, but have always wanted to switch to OSX.
I was introduced to “Little MAC Book” at Visual Studies Workshop. It was a fine introduction to the dreaded MAC world for Windoze people.
So “Little MAC Book” was my choice regarding OSX, since it’s so helpful.
I never read much of “Little MAC Book” for Visual Studies Workshop, since I really didn’t need to. “Little MAC Book” is rather basic, almost for ‘pyooter-users starting from Square One. “Little MAC Book, OSX Tiger” is almost the same way, although so far it’s helpful. “Gee, OSX is a lot like 9.2; it just looks different” — which probably means I could have figured it out without books. But I didn’t have time — and 8.6 was what the mighty Mezz used.
“OSX for Dummies” is Linda — although as far as I’m concerned it might be more help than “Little MAC Book, OSX Tiger.” “Little MAC Book, OSX Tiger” had a comment that 9.2 was terrible — as likely to lock up as Windoze 95. Well, I don’t know; maybe so. I never worked that much with Windoze 95, but our lone PC at the mighty Mezz had it, and wouldn’t shut down unless you pulled the plug. 9.2 sure bombed on me enough times; supposedly OSX cures that by segregating the system-memory used by apps. So the app may crash, but not the entire rig.
OSX is also based on a Unix kernal, and will supposedly even do the Unix command-prompt; something Linda is familiar with. The fact it’s Unix-based is what makes it stable. People have switched to Linux (a free Unix) because under Windoze an app might freeze the entire rig.
So what’s happening is that OSX is turning the personal computer into a mainframe; a rig that never crashes.
I’ve always wanted to run OSX, primarily because all the software upgrades I want to do want OSX. The ones I have are 8.5 or better, but not OSX. I can run my old apps under OSX-Classic Mode; but all my apps are years old.

settlements

A monstrous 6-page legal-notice appeared in the mail about two weeks ago; something about settlements against suppliers of ‘pyooter DRAM. The suppliers, global mega-corporations, had allegedly violated anti-trust law.
Supposedly I am part of a class that purchased DRAM at some time. Plaintiffs include Kevin’s Computer and Photo, PC Doctor, etc. (HMMMMMMMNNNNN....)
Well, far as I know I never purchased DRAM from the defendants; and in fact, the only time I ever purchased RAM-chips at all was for my long-retired beige G3, many years ago, and I bought it through MACwarehouse.
Additional memory was purchased for my G4, but that was done by MacShack; i.e. the ‘pyooter was delivered with additional RAM.
Naturally the defendants claim they are not culpable (REPUBLICAN ALERT!), despite various persons from their staffs being imprisoned.
But of course they’ve agreed to settle out-of-court because they can’t win the suit.
And naturally the notice is full of “wherefores,” “heretofores” and “therefores” — language only a lawyer could love — plus a huge instruction in capital-letters to read the notice in full under penalty of death followed by dismemberment.
I tried, but it was putting me to sleep. Don’t know as reading the notice was worth the $5 I might collect. $165-million divided amongst 89 bazilyun ‘pyooter users.
“Do not ever dare remove these tags from your cushions lest the tag-police throw you in the slammer.”

Small-time house-builder

Yep; our house-builder was small-time. Like most house-builders he wasn’t trying to build us a Three-Mile Island or a Nine-Mile Point.
Before us, he had built three houses, one for himself, one for his parents, and one on speculation. Part of my judgment was to analyze what he had done before, and it looked pretty good.
All the houses were on abandoned swamp-land he had bought for a song in a tax-sale. He had previously worked for Kodak, and apparently became aware of the tax-sale because his previous house, a suburban tract-house, backed up on it.
He filled in the swamp with a bulldozer, and dug drainage-swales. He subdivided the lot into four lots, but actually only built on three. The fourth lot received an old house moved from the city.
He also redid our kitchen on Winton Road, and did a good job considering what he was up against; like the foundation was a foot off square.
He had to tear off the old roof and build anew. There also was the hairball of fitting a countertop into an unsquare corner. Countertop #1 was horrible. He thought so, and recommended I refuse it. We did. His countertop supplier had to eat it.
So indeed he was small-time, and I always felt that worked in our favor. A big-time builder would have tried to make me eat that countertop, and accept his short-cuts building our house.
Various Mexican standoffs arose in the building of this house.

First was the windows. He had gotten the shell up and roofed, and now the window-supplier had delivered. I looked at the windows (not hung yet — still in the cartons) and raised the roof. They weren’t even casement; they were double-hung. “I specified casement.” Back they went.
Turns out the window-supplier had delivered the wrong order (or was hoping to reduce inventory at our expense). I have a hunch a big-time builder would have tried to make me eat them double-hungs.

Then there was the grand stand-off over the vapor-barrier. We had specified 10-mil, but all the builder could get locally was 3-mil. He wanted me to cave. “Well we specified 10-mil; it must be available someplace.” So we got on the phone and got it from someplace in Minnesota next-day UPS. The vapor-barrier is 10-mil; much stronger than 3-mil.

And then there was his perfectionism about appearance. A big-time builder would have cut the roof off at the shell-ends. But our small-time builder preferred a two-foot overhang. So did I: that was what was in the plans. It adds almost 200 square feet of roofing-material and plywood.

And there was the issue of the soffits. The builder was planing to add framing to the roof-trusses, which were to be squared off at the shell.
“Why bother?” I said. “The trusses can have the soffit-framing integral if the trusses aren’t squared off, and are wider than the shell. And the soffit-plywood is nailed to two-foot centers.
No noisy posturing about superior knowledge. That’s what he did.

There also was the issue of garage-windows. The garage had a 9-foot-plus ceiling. “Do you want garage-windows even with the others, or the correct height above the floor? If they’re the correct height above the floor, they’ll be lower than the others, and look weird from the street.”
I agreed, so the windows have a seven-foot reach to the top latch. He took my advice. I don’t think a big-time builder would have even asked. “Weird; so what? We don’t sweat the small stuff!”

And then there was the pit vent-pipe fiasco. The Town wanted the pit vented, so the builder had to install a 12-inch PVC pipe.
It cost $500. He didn’t even bat an eye. “Fair is fair,” he said to himself. “I bid them $2,500 for that pit. It ain’t their fault I blew the vent-pipe.”
I think a big-time builder probably would have tried to pass along a cost-overrun.

And there was the grand fiasco of the final $50,000. This was because he was building the house the same way he built his previous houses: 30 days cash for materials. I.e. every month or so he would bill us for what he had done so far, and we’d pay.
This emptied out our savings, and used the proceeds of our house-sale in Rochester. The final $50,000 was the mortgage. But the bank wouldn’t pay until we had a CofO. The town-inspector wouldn’t issue a CofO until the house was finished, and without the mortgage-proceeds the builder couldn’t finish the house.
So he had to finagle store-credit, hold off his creditors, and not pay his crew until the house was finished.
We had to move in before the CofO; it was like camping. No countertops in the kitchen, and the only water was in the master-bath shower. We had heat, but the floors were bare plywood.
-So I think we did pretty good with our small-time builder. Our house is probably the last one he ever built (his crew-control was poor), but it reflects his integrity and perfectionism, which reflects my perfectionism. (I still think it’s a class act.)
We also had the advantage of owning the property and what he had built. He was only supplying a service; he couldn’t stuff it to us and sell to someone else. A big-time builder would have only built on speculation. Add $3,000 or so for his cost of credit.