Nano

Last night (Friday, December 29) we attended the birthday-party of the infamous “Nano,” Nancy Brown, the staff-artist at the mighty Mezz, who has attained the ripe old age of 50.
Nano and I are on different wave-lengths, but I thought immensely of Nancy, because she was ever-willing to field the questions of a Quark-novitiate.
As my career at the mighty Mezz wound down, I always felt badly that things I had done were getting shoved off on Nano.
I used to do a closings-box for her which ran before holidays.
I’d give her a completed Quark-file, which I called the “Wear-Your-Rubbers” file, which she could just flow onto the page.
It entailed making a bunch of phonecalls regarding gumint office-closings, banks, schools, garbage-pickup, bus-service, etc.
We also were doing library-closings, but finally deferred to “call,” since the library-closings would have filled an entire column.
When I cut back to part-time, the “Wear-Your-Rubbers” file, and its phonecalls, got pawned off on Nancy.
She was supposed to be staff-artist, but here she was doing peon-work.
I also had been giving her “Skywatch;” sunrise and moonrise, sunset and moonset. I got this stuff from the Naval Observatory site.
When I retired it got pawned off on Nano.
I found the Naval Observatory site because I was sick of using the Farmers’ Almanac; and how imprecise it was.
“What’s that moon doing up there? I had it setting four hours ago.”
The stockbox got redesigned with the assistance of Nano.
She showed me how to set Quark decimal-tabs, and after that they weren’t all over.
I (with her help) made the stockbox look classy.
And it could be done with a quick copy/paste from a Quicken stock-portfolio I set up.
What used to take hours was now taking 5-10 minutes.
The party was held at “All Things Art” in Canandaigua, a large old storefront on the main drag converted to an art-gallery.
It was a large party — at least 200.
A funky band of old grayheads — one of whom was apparently Nancy’s husband — was blasting away along a wall far from the crowd.
The place was mostly candle-lit, and a food-line was set up with pulled-pork barbecue, baked macaroni-and-cheese, and various toxic desserts. Alcohol (beer and wine) was apparently also available; on Nano’s nickel — but I didn’t partake; I don’t like being tipsy.
The Messenger-people had gravitated to certain tables, but since they were full we ended up sitting with Nancy’s aged neighbors, who asked if I was still working at the Messenger, and then entertained us with train-stories when it was revealed I was a railfan.
Particularly upsetting to me was the wife’s noisy insistence they caught the Lehigh-Valley “Black Diamond” in nearby Newark, once New-York-Central stopped passenger-service on the Peanut to Canandaigua from Holcomb (apparently they were taking a Central train to the Water-Level at Auburn, and then down to New York City).
The Lehigh-Valley went nowhere near Newark. The only railroads that do are the Water-Level east-to-west, and the old Pennsy Sodus-Point line north-to-south — which crossed the Water-Level on a raised girder-bridge.
(Most of the old Pennsy-line [ex Northern Central — the NC actually ran to Canandaigua; the Sodus Point line was a Pennsy extension] is long abandoned; although a small portion remains operated by Ontario Midland [this Wikipedia link has a mistake; it’s Wallington to Newark, but the “New York” link is to “Newark”]. OMID is a shortline. We’ve ridden it a few times — they have Alco-power, and the old Pennsy line is a tunnel of trees.)
LV did go through nearby Geneva; but after two feeble attempts at correcting, I gave up.
I was barely audible over the din, and that lady wasn’t brooking correction.
How the Black Diamond went through Newark I’ll never know.
I saw two Messenger retirees: Joy Daggett and Marky-Mark (editor Mark Syverud).
Syverud was there with his daughter Gretchen, who is now doing the dreaded “Night-Spots.”
I recounted over-and-over how I tried to get out of doing it, and how I hated it; but she said she enjoys doing it.
“Well, we had him doing a lot of other stuff,” Marky-Mark said. “All you’re doing is Night-Spots.”
She said she was mostly doing it at home — which is mostly what I did: copy-paste from web-sites, and then e-mail the “so-far” to the mighty Mezz.
I also mentioned what I felt most badly about was that I never had time to make it what it deserved to be — which is when Marky-Mark commented about all my other duties.
What I didn’t mention was that phonecalls were a bit beyond-the-pale for a stroke-survivor with compromised speech. People never understand that — to them I’m normal, and should be able to make phonecalls as well as them.
I asked Joy how she felt about retirement, and her husband commented “often she has time on her hands.”
“Do you ever feel that way?” Joy asked.
“Absolute reverse,” I said. “I wasn’t even sure we could make this gig. We got errands and appointments coming out our ears. The question is always ‘when did we ever work?’”
I feel our attendence didn’t come off that well, since I might have inadvertantly stepped on the toes of two poeple I think the world of: particularly K-Man (the Managing Editor), and Kathie Meredith, the editor of the Steppin Out magazine.
I mentioned that the dreaded Night-Spots was probably, more than anything, what blew me up; and that K-Man refused to let me stop.
I also addressed Kathie as “Yo-Meredith;” an old Frank Brown put-down I avoid. It was to get her attention.
I also encountered another girl who has nine years to go. She introduced me to her significant-other, and both of us felt stupid.
I then told her I always felt I had to retire too early, and that she should be very careful about blood-pressure medication, that I felt it was the primary cause of my early retirement.
I doubt she heard much of what I said; I usually have to repeat everything to make what I say comprehensible, and the din was deafening.
And discussion of blood-pressure medication usually crashes in flames.

DVD-player

Today (Friday, December 29; the day before our 39th [sorry 100th] wedding anniversary) I purchased a DVD-player from Best Buy.
Our VCR came from Best Buy. It’s 5-6 years old.
The DVD-player is actually a combination VCR and DVD-player plus recorder.
Made sense to me. I don’t wanna toss all my VHS video-tapes, yet our VCR is ancient and would probably tank soon.
My ‘pyooter is a DVD-player, and would play DVDs. But to me that’s kind of silly — plus the ‘pyooter is in the ‘pyooter-center, not where I eat.
About the only time I get to play anything at all is when eating — although stuff will get written for FlagOut if it needs to be done.
Our lives are so full of errands/appointments the purchase of a DVD-player had to be a surgical-strike*. No driving all over creation to save 50¢.
The fact the VCR came from Best Buy was excuse to try Best Buy again.
The store is gigantic, surrounded by glowering intimidators in their careening automobiles, and filled with glittering gizmos.
It was hard to find the DVD-players amidst all the digital-cameras, cellphones, and home-theater equipment.
Gigantic plasma-babies covered an entire wall, flashing in unison.
The hi-fi section was emitting “Boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka.....”
A youngish sales-clerk asked if he could answer questions, so I recounted that our cable feeds directly into the VCR, and the VCR feeds the TV — i.e. no direct cable to the TV.
What I wanted was a DVD-player that could feed the VCR (or vice-versa); and then the VCR (or DVD) fed the TV.
What I was led to believe was that it was either-or; you have to switch feeds.
I also suggested I needed a DVD-player that could also record. —We transferred to another aisle.
The clerk then suggested a combination VCR/DVD that had its own internal switching, yet only one feed to the TV.
Viola, I guess. I had planned to save the VCR we have, but it’s old. Saving it and putting a DVD-player on top would mean another box. A combination VCR/DVD is only one box.
$269.99.
I predict sonorous blustering from West Bridgewater, about how I’m finally meshing with the 21st century. This from the guy who prefers a motorbike based on the 1939 Harley. How I coulda got the same thing from Wal*Mart for only 50¢ — “they saw you coming......”

*Today’s surfeit of errands: 1) PT-gym; 3+ hours; 2) trip to Best Buy on Thruway; about 30 minutes; 3) Best Buy; about 15-20 minutes; 4) Californy Weggers (near Best Buy) to use the bathroom and purchase light havarti, milk and a banana; about 20 minutes; 5) drive to Honeoye Falls; about 20-25 minutes; 6) hit the Honeoye Falls Rite-Aid (a pharmacy) to pick up a prescription; 10-15 minutes; 7) attend a birthday-party tonight after 6:30 p.m. Clean-up seems beyond-the-pale.
Tomorrow Linda works at the post-office until 12:30, and then our “relatives” come after that. Heavy fawning expected over the LHMB; this is the guy with the Big Dog. Try to keep dogs from biting our great-niece, despite her jumping all over them.

The VCR/DVD will probably not get set up until next week — in fact, it probably won’t even get out of the box. Oh, woe is me.......... Utterly reprehensible!

17-Mile grade

Years ago, I didn’t understand the particulars of 17-Mile grade.
I knew it was horrible, and 17 miles long, but I didn’t understand why it was there. I also knew it was a Baltimore & Ohio line.
17-Mile grade is part of the original Baltimore & Ohio line to Ohio River; and is part of the Baltimore & Ohio’s dramatic first crossing of Allegheny Ridge.
The Baltimore & Ohio is the nation’s first common-carrier railroad. It was founded in 1827 as an attempt by Baltimore to parry the incredible success of the Erie Canal. It used horses at first.
Baltimore & Ohio wanted to access Pittsburgh at first, but Philadelphia merchants would have none of that.
The B&O couldn’t get a franchise to build to Pittsburgh, so they headed west through Maryland and Virginia (now West Virginia) to the Ohio at Wheeling.
The Allegheny Mountains presented a formidable challenge, particularly between Cumberland and Grafton.
Cumberland to Piedmont is relatively flat, but west of Piedmont is 17-Mile grade westbound.
The line ascends 1,500+ feet (often over 2.5% — the mighty Curve is 1.8%), and crosses the Eastern Continental Divide at Altamont, 2,628 feet.
Worse grades are west. Down-and-up the line goes like a roller-coaster.
The line descends infamous Cranberry Grade (which I didn’t know about) down to M&K Junction, a coal-feeder.

Photo by Terry Moore

Up out of “the hole” at the top of Cranberry.

Then it climbs back up Cheat grade, tunnels a ridge at Tunnelton, and then descends Newburg grade.
I didn’t know about any of those grades; and Newburg and Cranberry face eastbound tonnage. Cranberry is particularly dreadful. (Trains often stalled.)
Getting down the grades is dreadful too.
17-Mile had two runaway tracks, both closed since the advent of dynamic brakes.
A train ran away on Cheat and destroyed both tracks. Only one was rebuilt.
A loaded coal-train ran away on 17-Mile and destroyed a house, killing an occupant.
B&O eventually accessed Pittsburgh, and built another line that crosses the Alleghenies to get to it. It’s the famous Sand Patch Tunnel line. (I reconnoitered that line years ago. It’s way out in the middle of nowhere. I couldn’t find the tunnel — it was on a CSX private-road. Going up Wills Creek I traveled little more than a dirt fire-trail in the faithful Hunda.)
So the original line became a coal-feeder. The line from Grafton to Wheeling became the Fairmont Sub, and another line from Grafton-to-Parkersburg continued to St. Louis.
That line is no longer through, so the original line is rather moribund, except that it moves an incredible amount of coal.
—So much the original line over the Alleghenies still exists — known as the West End from Cumberland-to-Grafton.
About 20 years ago I got a book on B&O’s Royal-Blue line. It mentioned The Royal Blue was built far better than the West End; that B&O managers wished the West End could have been built as well as the Royal Blue. And this is despite the Royal Blue being built on the face of the piedmont. (OLM was on the piedmont — Erlton was down in the flatlands.)
I still had no idea what the West End was; didn’t know it existed — and wasn’t aware Horseshoe Curve was part of Pennsy’s assault on the Alleghenies.
About 10-15 years ago I got a book on the West End; and began to realize how awful it was. I also could see Horseshoe Curve was a grade.
I also had a video-tape of C&O #614 (a 4-8-4) climbing 17-Mile; but still had no idea.
B&O rebuilt quite a bit of the West End — realignment and such — but still all the rollercoaster grades were there.
A second tunnel was built at Tunnelton; the original was only one track, and uphill, which would choke crews.
The new Kingwood Tunnel was two tracks, and not as uphill as the original. The original was left open, for westbounds (descending) only, and eventually was closed. Tunnelton was also an interchange for the West Virginia Northern Railroad, abandoned in 1999.
So the dreaded West End still exists, as does 17-Mile grade. I reconnoitered it about 5-7 years ago, but didn’t see any trains.
It’s no longer through — which accounts for why I didn’t see anything. It’s not like NS’s old Pennsy line, which carries more traffic than any other NS line.
What it carries is empty hoppers west, and loaded coal-trains east. That’s about all. And shoving them up the grades, and then holding them back back down, is frightening.
What impressed me most is how close all the clearances are — compared to Pennsy. The West End is very tight — I doubt it could carry double-stacks.

The Royal Blue is B&O’s line from Baltimore to Philadelphia.

weather-radar

Today (Thursday, 5/11) it’s supposed to rain. Not this morning — maybe this afternoon or tonight.
So before taking our dogs to the so-called elitist country-club, I decided to fire up my weather-radar; a Netscape bookmark. A dark cloud was approaching from the west.
So much for that — a good idea, but a generic site fired up requiring me to configure.
My weather-radar is supplied by MyCast, recommended long ago by the mighty Mezz webmaster — which he uses. It depicts weather-radar (and forecasts) specific to locations you set up; like “home,” “mighty Mezz,” and “mighty Curve.”
Seems this happened a few months ago. My favorites fired up the MyCast log-in site. It was like starting from scratch, although MyCast still had my locations.
Configuring will take 10-15 minutes I didn’t have then. We were headed to the park — configuring had to wait.
Cue almighty Bluster-King about the dreaded MAC platform — (SUPERIORITY ALERT!) — excuse me, but any platform would fire up a generic site the geeks set up for you to divert to. There also may have been a time-limitation.
Thank ya, Gates! OOOOOOOOOOHHMMMMMMMMM...............

(I am BobbaLouie Huey and I personally and heartily approve of this here bombast!)

MORE VIEW FROM WEST BLOOMFIELD

The web-cam at the mighty Curve has auto-focused on the housing; which means the tracks are a big blur.
It was raining there yesterday, and HUGE-AAAAHHHHH drops had settled on the housing, so the web-cam autofocused on them.
It ain’t raining there now, but the housing has dirt on it, so the web-cam is still focused on the housing.
It’s frustrating, but ya can still see the trains. In about 20 minutes I’ve seen three — two up and one down. Woops, there goes another! (Up.) Four in 25 minutes. Ain’t nuthin’ like the mighty Curve.

We went to the so-called elitist country-club this morning — raining slightly.
Every time I exit our driveway, if I see anyone coming the way I’m going, I usually wait. The idea is to not inflame speeding Intimidators with my accelerating from a stop.
To head north I look down 65, and the look is almost a mile.
No cars; so I pulled out onto the highway. I advanced about a “hundered” yards; and saw a glowering Intimidator speeding toward my rear bumper. It was a red F150 Ford pickup, headlights glaring; clearly doing way over the 40 mph speed-limit. It was a flareside; i.e. can’t carry much. In other words, just a macho-machine.
I flicked on my turn-signal; signaling my intent to turn right at the upcoming intersection toward the park — but Intimidator was angry I wasn’t doing 89 bazilyun mph, and had pulled out on the highway even though he wasn’t visible when I did.
So he swooped across the double-yellow and passed me into the intersection.
I looked, and sure enough: W-04 on the tailgate.

The other night ABC-news did a report on the “Left-Behind” Christian video-game.
They showed a clip of an animation of some guy proselytizing a non-believer, Bible swooping up-and-down, furious thumping.
It didn’t work, so the proselytizer machine-gunned the unbeliever with a blazing Uzi.
Zealots were machine-gunning non-believers willy-nilly.
“Not as many ‘spirit-points’ as a conversion,” a game-promoter commented.

great tragedy

Last night (Monday, Christmas-Day, December 25) a great tragedy occurred.
Killian, who had been outside, roared inside, into the spare bedroom, and jumped on the bed — ker-boink!
Linda had a quilt she was making spread out on the bed. Killian’s paws were slightly muddy.
All of a sudden weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. “Oh, Killian!”
And so began a frenzied attempt to remove the muddy paw-prints. “Once it’s dirty, the stains never come out.”
I was doing something else, so couldn’t immediately assess the dire emergency.
About an hour later I entered the room to turn out Christmas-lights: single electric candles we have in each window. (We have 13, although I’m sure I’ll hear noisy arguments to the contrary from my siblings regarding my count.)
Surveying the quilt I couldn’t see any paw-prints.
“What frightful tragedy am I supposed to be seeing here?” I asked.
A small area of wide white border was pointed out which might register a single-step difference on the Pantone Scale; i.e. slightly tanner, but still white.
“I’ve soaked and soaked,” my wife said.
“It’s hardly noticeable,” I said. I wouldn't have found it had it not been pointed out.

Zephyr

Today (Sunday, 1/22) the mighty Mezz ran a big stringer-story on the front of the local section titled “Hot Rods from Hall;” Hall being a tiny rural town in our readership area, and “stringer” meaning the writer was a freelancer, i.e. not a Messenger employee.
Stringers sometimes find their way onto the Messenger staff. One reporter was once a stringer, and I think this writer will be someday.
Hall apparently has an old car-dealer transformed into a shop that builds hot rods. They compete well with anything from southern California.
An editor had the story a few weeks ago, and e-mailed it to me for prior reading. This was after my departure and retirement.
The editor is also a car-guy, as is the stringer.
The story featured a customized 1939 Zephyr coupe, spelled “Z-E-L-P-Y-R.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “That ain’t right.”
I thereupon showered the editor with a torrent of anxious e-mails.
“Let’s get this right,” I said. “Ford co-opted the ‘Zephyr’ name from the streamliners of the Burlington Railroad. I am positive that’s how it’s spelled.”
I also e-mailed him a web-link to a ‘39 Lincoln Zephyr site.
The stringer also spelled “tranny” T-R-A-N-I. “Not that important,” I said. “But I would spell it ‘T-R-A-N-N-Y.’ It’s his call, though.”
The editor changed both spellings to mine.
Years ago our Managing Editor wrote a humor-column mentioning the Pacer was made by General Motors.
“It was not!” I said, but it was already in print.
He got bombarded with e-mails from angry readers demanding a retraction, which he had to do.
“You gotta run these things past ‘car-guy,’” I told him.

zero-turn lawnmower

A zero-turn lawnmower is an entirely different animal than the typical garden-tractor that steers with a steering-wheel. Our new Huskvarna mower is a zero-turn.

The Keed.

The Husky zero-turn.

Explanation: A typical garden-tractor (and our vaunted Greenie) power the entire rear axle; both tires (actually a differential). It has only one tranny — what turns the rear axle.
A zero-turn has two trannies; one for each tire. The direction it goes is a function of the speed of each tire. If the right tire (wheel) turns faster, the mower steers left. Conversely, if the left tire turns faster, the mower steers right.
There is no steering-wheel, nor a steerable front axle linked to a steering-wheel. The front wheels are only casters, like a shopping-cart.
You steer it with two levers that activate the separate wheel-trannies. Push both forward together the same amount and it goes straight. Push only the right lever and it steers left — only the left lever and it steers right.
Pulling back on the levers together is reverse. Push forward on one and pull back on the other and it spins like a top.
The advantage is it can be spun like a top. Finish one row and you spin it around to get the parallel row in no time at all. A garden-tractor has to be driven all over to line it up.
Zero-turn mowers were first a commercial application. John Deere only sells commercial zero-turns — add about $2,500.
But zero-turns are finding their way into residential applications, which significantly cuts the price.
What got me interested in a new mower was borrowing my 93-year-old nosy neighbor’s new John Deere garden-tractor with a 42-inch cut. It was twice as fast as the Greenie, which only has a 38-inch cut. But mainly it was the zoom-and-boom ground-speed.
But there was a long green nose out front, plus it had to be driven all over to line it up. It also had a reverse cutout.
So I began to look at zero-turns. Another advantage of a zero-turn is that theoretically it could trim closer than a garden-tractor. It can steer sharper, and no reversing.
Toro had a zero-turn but it was $1,000 additional. Cub-Cadet had one, but it seemed chintzy. Mighty Lowes had one, but it was an off brand. Home-Depot had one too, but it was the same Cub-Cadet the Cub-Cadet dealer had. The Cub-Cadet dealer also sold Kubota, but that was like John Deere; add $2,500.
Leif’s, our local Husky dealer, who operates out of a ramshackle assemblage of farm buildings awash in weeds, and also sells model trains (I showed him the mighty Curve webcam), had the Husky I bought.
Our 93-year-old nosy neighbor used to “draw him to school” in school-bus, so bought a garden-tractor from him. That mower, #3, has since been given to his son in Pittsburgh.
Leif’s is also nearby; much closer than John Deere.
And contrary to the fervent wishes of my noisy brother from Boston, I haven’t driven it into a ditch yet, or over the cliff (our embankment), or eaten any trees.
I damaged one small conifer yesterday (Friday, 6/30): bent it over and skinned the trunk. I was trying to trim, and the levers are like off-on. The thing turned so sharply the deck caught the tree and bent it over. It may not survive.
Approaching a tree I stop, and proceed gingerly.
But I have to keep doing it; I ain’t doing that bad — Linda says I'm doing better than expected, and the 93-year-old nosy neighbor gives me an “A.”
It’s pretty fast too. We still have the Greenie. It runs too well, and I trim with it (for the time-being). Plus the Husky is too wide for some places.
I don’t know as I’d want the bluster-boy trying anything fancy with it. “Just the straight parts, Bubba. No trimming.” There is a learning-curve, no matter how astute you think you are.
My 93-year-old nosy neighbor once worked for the Cub-Cadet store, who at that time was also selling farm-equipment.
He once drove a huge combine that steered like a zero-turn. “It was a handful” (he was driving on the road). He drove it to some guy’s farm, and the farmer promptly put it in his pond.
“Just keep that thing away from my mailbox,” my neighbor says.

zealots

During my long 16&1/2-year tenure driving buses for Regional Transit Service, I developed quite a few friendships, three of whom were zealots.

One was Chip Walker (Charles), a born-again Christian.

Another was Dominic Zarcone (“Zarr-CONE”) a charismatic Catholic.

The third was Gary Harriman, a Mormon.
-Chip was also a railfan. He’d take lunch from Transit and watch my train-tapes at our house.
Chip worked in management, starting shortly before me as a lowly transfer-clerk at the drivers’ window.
But he soon transferred to Scheduling in the White Tower, because the head of Scheduling was also a railfan — head of the Nickel Plate Historical Society.
Schedule-head had photos of smoky Nickel Plate Berks all over his office. He also had a “NYCSTL” license-plate on his red classic ‘61 Ford convertible, and was amazed I knew what it stood for (long before Google).
I’d run into Chip chasing 611, and we went to a Genesee & Wyoming railfan day.
When Chip found out I had graduated Houghton, the frenzied fishing began. Befuddled by my lack of zealotry, he started preaching at me.
Chip came to visit after my stroke; and Linda says it was one of the few times I talked like the person I was before. —We were jawing about 765 in New River Gorge.
I also visited Chip at Transit after I was discharged, but it was crazy.
Chip had no idea how to deal with a stroke-victim, so acted like I was normal despite my crying.
We used to exchange Christmas-cards, and Chip’s always had the self-congratulatory Christmas Annual so characteristic of tub-thumpers.
I sent him train-cards up until last year. Recently, no response — I think I’ll pass this year.
By now he’s probably retired — he also moved out of the city. One of his annuals mentioned his father losing both legs to diabetes. His father also had Parkinson’s.
-Zarcone, like me, was a bus-driver, and lived in the urban house he grew up in in Rochester with his mother.
I visited once, and it was all agitated yelling and screaming in Italian.
Despite his college-education (Notre Dame), I guess that was what he was used to and preferred.
Our friendship started when he loudly declared his first marriage wasn’t a real marriage.
“What?” I said. “That’s balderdash! You can’t say marriage #1 wasn’t a marriage.”
Thus began a frenzied argument about Godliness; how he felt he had been “saved” from his first marriage.
At first he was a Bible-thumping Christian, but he came from a Catholic background; so eventually “came home.”
But his stridency continued with his return to Catholicism.
Zarcone also visited after my stroke; and left me with an inspirational tape by infamous Notre Dame football coach Lou Holtz.
He got it from the Library, along with the machine that played it. Unbeknownst to him, the challenge for a stroke-victim was to be able to play it at all. I played it a few times, but was bored by it.
Zarcone took me to a union-meeting soon after my discharge. My being there was more a statement than attending a union-meeting.
I attended union-meetings faithfully after that, and once in a while Zarcone would show up.
Members were discussing whether to arbitrate over the Company not following its drug-policy.
Zarcone was there, and ardently weighed in. The accused needed to repent — Zarcone knew all about repentance.
The Union-honchos had to shut him down. We weren’t discussing the guilt of the person charged, but whether the Company had followed its drug-policy.
I gave up sending Christmas-cards to Zarcone too. What I’d get in return was a spastic hand-scrawl about prayer that looked like it had been done by Hunter Thompson’s cartoonist.
Zarcone moved to the suburbs too; but I think he took his mother along.
-Gary Harriman wasn’t as strident as Chip or Zarcone. But he was always trying to convert me.
Finally one afternoon, while he was trying to get me to attend the Morman Pageant, a giant annual shindig where the Angel Maroni gets hoisted above the stage with a cable (“ascending into Heaven”), I asked why he was trying to convert me.
“Why not Ronnie Culp or Attila the Hun” (two thugs that worked at Transit)?
“Because it’s you I care about,” he answered.
“Why not them?” I asked. “They’re gonna roast in flames too — for which you would be held to account.”
My point was he was trying to convert me because A) I would give him an argument; and B) I wasn’t a macho threat like the thugs.
Thugs wouldn’t give him the time of day.

“whisper-quiet”

The Keed.

The standby generator

As you are all probably aware, we have a stand-by back-up generator.
Its function is to kick in if the electricity dives, powering the freezer, refrigerator, water-heater, furnace, garage-door opener, and quite a few lights, the TV and these rigs. It doesn’t drive the air-conditioning.
The power dove last night during a minor thunderstorm, although only for a few seconds. No warning at all: no audible thunder; no flickering lights.
All of a sudden, bam! Total darkness. I had been cranking a story into my ‘pyooter, and about three paragraphs disappeared into the ether.
The generator waits about 30 seconds before kicking on, so we waited in the dark. But then apparently the electricity came back on. The generator never started.
My 93-year-old nosy neighbor across the street has a stand-by generator too. In fact, he got his first. So we got one too. Seemed like a swell idea; plus we were tired of all his noisy bragging.
He complained to the salesgirl about the racket it makes, but was told it was “whisper-quiet.” Like us, his is below the bedroom window, so if it kicks on, sleep is impossible.
It self-tests once a week. Forget about a nap. When his self-tests you can hear it clear across the street.
About two months ago the electricity dove during a windstorm, and the generator kicked on at 6:50 a.m. Nice, but after four hours you worry about your gas-bill.

“That’s all I need to hear.”

Last week while on a foray to the so-called elitist country-club to walk our dogs, I heard the unmistakable hum of an inline truck-six being loaded.
We had already completed one-half (the West-Pond Trail), and were starting the remainder (the East-Pond Trail).
Truck-sixes often power other things beside trucks. I remember the right-side wheel-rim of a rusty ‘50 Chevy sedan hooked up to a circular-saw by a belt. An old man cut lumber with it. He had a cable to control the throttle on the Stovebolt.
My first thought was paving-equipment. We were not far from Boughton Road (BOW-tin), and there were signs up. Out here in the sticks they don’t pave much. The roads don’t get much use.
Usually they coat the road with hot tar, then top it with a thin layer of pebbles.
There was also a quiet background whirring coupled to the engine-speed. All we could think of was Jack: “That’s all I need to hear.”
There also was the buzzing of tiny two-strokes, but they sounded like string-trimmers, not chain-saws.
As we descended the defile, I noticed the orange of an Asplundh truck between the trees, and suddenly there was the sound of a chipper chewing up brush.
Of course; the six was powering a chipper.

A couple days later we were in back-yard, and heard the unmistakable sound of a Ducati coming down 65 from the traffic-light.
Actually there are a couple Ducatis out here; one a black Monster, and the others red sport-bikes.
“Here comes the Ducati,” I said. “That’s all I need to hear.”
Nothing sounds like a Ducati. The inline-four sport bikes sound like dentist-drills, and the Harleys like motorized farts. Often I’ve mistaken a high-winding inline-four as a siren.
Cranked on, my old 900SS, the bike I never should have traded, sounded like a ‘Vette; a resonant bellow.
Ducatis are 90° V-twin, so sound somewhat like an American V8, but not enough jugs to sound like a car. Car-V8s bellow too, but don’t rev like a Ducati.
The only time I heard a car-V8 rev like a Ducati is in the Trans-Am race series for pony-cars.

wind-chime

The Keed.

Fixed (chain replaced).

The wind-chime on our porch has disintegrated.
We had it hanging from the porch ceiling and it blew apart during our recent wind-storm.
It was my first feeble stab at reattaining normality after returning home from the rehab hospital following the stroke.
So it’s about 13 years old. I noticed it in the Honeoye Falls supermarket and said “let’s buy it.”
Then, despite being unstable on a stepladder, I hung it up on the front porch, screwing a hanger-hook into the plywood ceiling.
It’s lasted since then: a brass dangler ringing four different-sized thin brass-tubing (pipe/whatever) chimes.
The wind blew off the dangler. The wind-chime was still up, but the dangler was on the porch floor, chain-and-all.
At first I thought I could rehang the dangler, but now I don’t know. Its chain is almost completely disintegrated.
It keeps breaking apart.
Time for a new wind-chime. Replacing the chain, and reattaching the ringer, etc. would be too much work (NOT! See picture at left).

Grady-cake

Yesterday (Friday, December 22) a Grady-cake was dispensed at the PT-gym and the mighty Mezz.
“Grady” is my old nickname at the mighty Mezz. Grady-cake was the name given by Editor Stevie Circh to the fabulous cakes my wife made that I brought to the mighty Mezz on occasion.
A Grady-cake was mostly a flat rectangular cake made from Pillsbury super-rich cake-mix (cue Pillsbury doughboy here: “Huh-huh!”); usually devil’s-food or yellow or sometimes white.
Linda would ladle on thick homemade chocolate frosting that was a massive chocolately sugar-hit; more-or-less my recipe.
People loved it at the mighty Mezz. A general e-mail would get sprayed around indicating Grady-cake was under the skylight; and the vipers would attack: “Umm, shu-gah!” I had to snag a piece early-on to make sure I got any.
“Toxic,” I used to call it.
The name “Grady” goes back to my earliest days of employment at the mighty Mezz, in paste-up.
The Chief Sports-Editor was Steve Bradley, long-gone, who used to go absolutely ballistic because you had followed his instructions.
We’d paste up a page per his instructions, and he’d return and tear it all up when it didn’t work; acting like it was all our fault (foult) and we were stupid boobs.
Apparently I wasn’t the only one this happened to. The hockey-dude used to kick his trashcans at the mere mention of the name “Bradley.”
Most difficult was the “agate-page,” the scorebox-page; called the “agate-page” because it was tiny agate font — eight columns instead of six.
Kenny Rush, now dead, the best paste-upper ever, usually put together the agate-page, and Bradley usually approved it without drama, because Kenny was doing it the Bradley way.
Sometimes I’d do it — I had picked up the priorities from Kenny (called “Golden-Boy”), but Bradley would get frustrated because I wasn’t Kenny.
In Bradley’s favor, he was working under iron-clad printing deadlines; 9:30 a.m. on weekdays.
The Sunday paper was even worse.
Sports got printed last, so had a 2 a.m. deadline. The entire Sports-section had to be put together in two hours.
And Kenny was off Saturday-nights; which meant I did the dreaded agate-page.
One night I got fed up. Bradley was being a jerk, so I faced him off, which totally threw him for a loop. Plus everyone was on my side.
Bradley’s reactive put-down was to name me “Grady,” since I apparently looked like the TV-character.
Even after Bradley left (for Gannett, years ago) the nickname “Grady” stuck.
Then even Stevie Circh left, but still the nickname stuck.
Marcy and the Webmaster tried to give me a new nickname, but that crashed. “Grady” it stayed.
During my long employment at the mighty Mezz, many Grady-cakes were delivered, along with Grady-pies (apple with Pillsbury pre-made crusts). Grady-pies were often delivered with the pi-sign carved in the top-crust as a vent.
My last Grady-cake was in February or March, after I had retired. None had been made since.
This most recent Grady-cake was in honor of my getting below 200 pounds.
First weighed by the Physical-Therapist last March (or April) I supposedly weighed 225. I think that’s a bit inflated — I probably had all my clothes on; i.e. no bootie-shorts — so maybe 220.
The first time it dropped below 200 was after the colonoscopy, so I thought the fasting might have contributed.
My weight climbed back up to 201, but then dropped to 198; and has stayed consistently below 200 for a week or so.
I had said to the PT when my weight got consistently below 200 I was making a cake; a vaunted Grady-cake of Messenger-tradition.
And that I would bring it first to the PT-gym, since their aerobic machines were the primary reason.
The Physical-Therapist’s 26th birthday was also last Saturday, so the cake was also for that, and I sang her happy-birthday too. She ate a piece and saved a piece: “toxic,” I said.
After the PT I went to the mighty Mezz. Not many of the dreaded ne’er-do-wells were left; only the so-called Hasidic-Jew, the Webmaster, Dreessen, and K-man. Marcy and Maloney are gone to Boston. The all-powerful Tim Belknap was there (he doesn’t eat Grady-cake), but Buchiere was out (off??????), and Allison is transferred to the MPN Pittsford-office. The only other persons I saw, that I knew, were Obit-Sally, Nano, Meredith and “Boss-man,” the Executive-Editor; who took me on long ago as an unpaid intern (“seems normal to me”).
The Grady-cake wasn’t entirely consumed. I ended up bringing a small amount home.

Ellen Hoch

Yesterday (Thursday, December 21) Linda’s friend Ellen Hoch visited.
She was apparently passing through, so stopped at the West Bloomfield post-office just as Linda was about to go to lunch.
Together they came to our humble abode.
I don’t know if I have this right, but I think Ellen Hoch was once Linda’s boss, but it wasn’t Simon Legree and his unworthy peons.
They were the crew that determined West Publishing’s print-product.
Kind of like Frank Brown at the mighty Mezz. The mighty Mezz looked good because of Frank Brown. Frank Brown overlooked the input of the mighty Mezz.
It was different than West because the mighty Mezz had color printing. West had only black, but 89 bazilyun subheads and styles — which was what Linda was programing: so that a massive amount of content would flow into place with the right indents and text-styles.
It was the old waazoo: what you saw on the ‘pyooter-screen wasn’t necessarily what came off the press.
Frank Brown jumped through all kinds of hoops to make the mighty Mezz look good.
In the days before ‘pyooterization (paste-up), Frank was the head of paste-up. —So even then what we looked like was somewhat determined by him.
He had high standards — and so did I. We weren’t looking like no cheap-shot.
I remember on 9/11/01 when the Twin-Towers fell, Frank was consulted by the Executive-Editor, and they dumped just about the whole A-section (national); eight pages.
Even the front of the local-section (B) got dumped, replaced with local reaction.
“Notice how I didn’t feel the least bit uncomfortable about Ellen visiting,” Linda said.
“That’s because I’ve been to her house and it’s a dump.”
“Well believe you-me,” I said; “CG’s house is a disaster.”
Detritus is piled in huge disorderly piles all over.
A particular vignette stands out.
Charlie’s ‘pyooter is buried in a nook of detritus; heaping piles of paper every-which-way. I was fiddling FlagOut.
I looked over-my-shoulder toward an open window (no air-conditioning; and it was July), and saw a black wedge-shaped Bose Wave-radio on a dusty wooden antique table next to a filthy, marinara-stained, black-plastic cordless telephone.
The radio was covered with a think patina of oily dust. It sure didn’t look like the ads.
“Happy with that?” I asked. (Our ancient Aiwa boombox would eventually need replacing.)
We never did buy Bose radios — their shape was a detriment.
We bought PAL-radios instead, and they’re nowhere near as filthy as Charlie’s Bose.
His wife Elaine was embarrassed. She’s an Academic-Dean or something at some North Jersey college; yet the place was a shambles.
But I didn’t bat an eye.
Compared our place is the Taj Mahal. And I got magazines stacked in piles.

CR-V

Today’s (Thursday, December 21) errand was to get the oil changed on the CR-V; the local Honda-store does it free. Free oil-changes. I’d do it myself, but the oil-filter is a humungous hairball. It’s behind frame-members and almost impossible to get without cuts and scrapes.
The bucktooth-bathtub isn’t free oil-changes. Plus the oil-filter is out front where I can get it without too much trouble.

2007 Honda CR-V.

I’m using Pennzoil in it; Kendall doesn’t come in the right weight — yet. I have no idea what goes into the CR-V; the oil-change sticker was Mobil — I hope not synthetic, because that was not in it.
While at the Honda-store I thought I would request a test-drive of the new CR-V.
It’s been redesigned and reconfigured. Same 2.4-liter four as our old CR-V, but six more horsepower — ho-hum.
The spare has also been brought inside — no more hanging on the tailgate — but it’s a donut. The rear-door also hinges up (like the bucktooth-bathtub) instead of sideways — which hangs up the garage-door.
But it’s still not very dog-friendly. The rear-seats fold up just like the old CR-V, so partially block the rear-door entrance.
I told the salesman we’re playing against the Toyota Matrix (also the Pontiac Vibe); both of which can come as AWD. And unlike the CR-V they are cars. I.e. smaller; and weigh less; and ride less like a truck (high seat).
When we bought the old CR-V it was up against a Sube, all that was available AWD at the time.
But we tested a Sube, and it was crowded; except for the breadvan (Forester), plus I also would have had to carve a floor; i.e. it didn’t fold flat. It also wasn’t very dog-friendly — there was a giant area between the floor and the front-seat a dog could fall into.

They couldn’t make up their minds.

But I’d cover that with my carved floor.
If we bought the CR-V, I wouldn’t have to carve a floor — plus the faithful Hunda ran like a watch and had over 165,000 miles.
So we bought the CR-V, but have never been really happy with it — not like the bucktooth-bathtub. The main hitch is that we can never carry the dogs in it. Sabrina has a horrible time jumping up into it.
Plus it was a truck — rode high, and was unbalanced like a truck.
The salesman, who was fairly reasonable, joined in bad-mouthing the old CR-V — “too much like a truck,” he said.
“I didn’t think it was that bad,” I said. “Pretty car-like, just not dog-friendly.”
I also mentioned we thought the world of the faithful Hunda. “Too bad they don’t make anything like that,” I said.
The new CR-V is more a crossover — but almost as big as a Chrysler Pacifica; i.e. not a car.
It’s really not better than the CR-V we have; the only advantage is a top-hinged rear-door and the spare brought inside.
If the Matrix is okay, we’ll go with it. I felt like I was driving the old CR-V.
It also looks kind of strange; like they couldn’t make up their minds.
But not as bad as the Element, which I wouldn’t touch with a 10-foot pole.

prostate-assay

Yesterday (Wednesday, December 20) was my semi-annual prostate-assay at Urology Associates of Rochester.
Jack-a-Bill have probably had prostate-assays, as have Betty’s Tom and probably Peggy’s Paul — they seem to be only endemic to pants-wearers, since only we have the prostate-gland.
But regrettably mine wasn’t performed by the vauntedly-superior Boston healthcare system; i.e. in a suburban stripmall assembly-line.
And it’s “prostate,” chillens; not “prostrate.” A prostrate-assay could be easy. Jack wouldn’t even have to leave the comfort of his sofa.
All they’d need to do is visit 640 N. Elm St., West Bridgewater, where they’d find my brother prostrate on his couch watching NASCAR on his $7,000 plasma-baby, glomming Cheetos and sucking ‘Dew out of a 55-gallon drum.
“Prostrate-cancer” showed up in an Associated-Press story once at the mighty Mezz.
“What’s prostrate-cancer?” I asked. “Too much lying down?”
All the editors picked it up, and we had a field-day.
“Nice catch, BobbaLew,” said K-man.
This is a lot like my catch of “hammered-dulcimer;” although “hammered-dulcimer” has apparently joined the lexicon next to “hammer-dulcimer.”
“Sounds like the dulcimer is drunk,” I said. A “hammer-dulcimer” relies on tiny hammers to hit the strings, much like a piano.
Urology Associates of Rochester goes back a long way. It’s one of two referrals my towel-head pill-pusher made.
The other was Rochester Cardiopulmonary, where I have done at least two — maybe three — stress-tests.
Rochester Cardiopulmonary is so far away I’m thinking of switching. Urology Associates of Rochester is far too, but not as far.
Plus my doctor at Rochester Cardiopulmonary is a bit off-the-wall; a skinny towel-head obsessed with his skinniness — that all should be as skinny.
The doctor at Urology Associates of Rochester seems to have his feet on-the-ground, a golf-playing honky; more a Lexus-type than a Bimmer.
The Urology Associates of Rochester referral came out of the level of Prostate-Specific-Antigen (PSA) in my blood, which was climbing.
Urology Associates of Rochester did a few PSA-assays, and then decided to do a biopsy. The PSA first came in at 7.7 and then rose to 8.2.
The biopsy wasn’t too bad — tiny tubular needles through your scrotum to sample prostate-tissue.
But after-effects lasted for months: bloody urine and tenderness. I also had to double the antibiotics (to two weeks) to offset infection.
But the biopsy said no cancer.
Six months ago my PSA was 6.2 — ka-ching, ka-ching: “come back in six months.”
Yesterday was 8.0: highish (but not 8.2). No biopsy was advised. “7.7, 8.2, 8.0; maybe this is where you live.”
Internet-research by my wife suggests PSA climbs with age.
At Urology Associates of Rochester I was greeted as I came in by the pretty young brunette receptionist that is smashingly beautiful — same receptionist as last time.
“Can you provide us with a urine-sample?” she demurely asked. I have never yet visited Urology Associates of Rochester without peeing into a cup.
“The rest-rooms are down the hall. Put your sample in the metal transfer window.”
(Just imagine all them technicians awash in pee. Everyone has to provide a sample.)
After doing same, and reading my Classic-Car magazine for about five minutes in the waiting-room watching tiny glittering fish in a HUGE-AHHHHH aquarium (what do they think, seeing all those smelly geezers?), I was led out back into a windowless examination-room.
“What if the power goes?” I always think; “this place doesn’t even have emergency-lights.”
A nurse interviewed me and took my blood-pressure, trying to be perfunctorily cheerful — which means useless yammering about the weather.
She gave me a small slip hawking the fabulous Urology Associates of Rochester web-site (www.urologyrochester.com).
“You can click on this, and that, and then this-and-that; and find all kinds of useful information on your condition.”
“What if I don’t have a computer?” I’m always tempted to ask — but I don’t, because we have two. Sure; recommend your web-site to a smelly old geezer and you’ll get “the look.” (We gave our cellphones to my mother-in-law and Aunt [still alive at that time], and they refused to even look at them. “Ain’t usin’ no cellphone; sure is beyond me. Ne’er-do-wells; we’re part of the greatest generation that ever was. Survived the Dee-pression, and then made the world safe-for-democracy. Why we used to look for enemy planes from the Bath fire-tower. Shouldn’t hafta figure out no cellphone!”)
Finally the doctor came in, dapper in his Izod country-club T-shirt with the miniature embroidered crossed golf-clubs, and he suggested I don't need a biopsy.
But he didn’t leave without goosing me. Never in all my born days have I escaped Urology Associates of Rochester without getting goosed.
For thems unaware of what’s actually happening here, the Doctor dons a latex-glove and then inserts his finger in your rectum to feel your prostate.
“No lumps or bumps,” he said. Ka-ching, ka-ching: “see you in six months.”

shocked and appalled

It’s apparent that some who read this site are shocked and appalled at the idea of boiling poultry.
We’ve run into this judgment before. Linda’s mother also boiled poultry, which met with utter disdain from my sister-in-law (Linda’s brother’s first of many), who lives in Rochester.
As if the proper American way to prepare poultry is to dunk it in sugary pancake-batter, and then deep-fry it in boiling transfat like Colonel Sanders.
So you end up with a chicken-flavored donut.
We figured we’d try to explain this allegedly strange practice in a feeble attempt to rationalize it.
A small deboned chicken- or turkey-breast is boiled in water so it isn’t sushi.
The poultry is allowed to cool, after which it’s shredded into tomato-sauce and reheated.
Linda always ate a chicken-leg, pan-fried. The idea is it crisped the skin, which I don’t like. (Linda doesn’t need to eat what I eat.)
To me the meat is the chicken- or turkey-breast. The skin I don’t want.
Linda’s mother also used to boil hot-dogs, but Linda has found that broiling hot-dogs (my idea — oh, woe is me.......) made them much more palatable.
Linda has subsequently changed to a soy chicken-patty — which I might eventually switch to for a second poultry entree for the week.
In which case you all can go ballistic. I.e. if Linda eats it it’s blessed, but if I eat it, it’s reprehensible and disgusting.

S&S X-Wedge

The January 2007 issue of my Cycle World has an article an the S&S X-Wedge motorcycle motor, a big V-twin that walks away from its Harley roots.

S&S X-Wedge.

The main thing it walks away from is the hoary hemispherical head Harley has used for ages.
The article says the hemi-head made sense when compression-ratio was around 6 or 7 to 1.
But as gasoline was improved, and CRs could climb, eventually the hemi-head had to be filled with a raised piston-dome.
The increased piston-surface that came with a dome makes the piston hold a lot of heat.
Hemi-heads are still in vogue; more-or-less. The head on the LHMB is a hemi, but the valve-angle is so small it’s almost flat (a wedge). The fact it breaths as well as it does at high revs is because of open valve-area. And that comes with four valves per cylinder.
S&S’s X-Wedge is huge; 139+ cubes — which would make a 557-cube V8. As such it can generate a humungous amount of torque: a Big-Bang motor.
Another thing it abhors is the vaunted Harley tradition of 45° V-twins. The bore-angle is 56.25°; it allowed a bigger bore than a Harley will allow — at 45° bigger bores can conflict.
56.25° also reduced the vibration; a 45° V-twin vibrates like a single. No balance-shaft on the X-Wedge.
The X-Wedge has three cams; all operated by an inside Gilmer-belt. Two cams operate the exhausts; the single center-cam operates both intakes. Valves are operated by automotive-type stamped-steel rockers and pushrods. The cams are down next to the crank.
No long, contorted, springy steel-tube rockers like in the Harley. Better valve-control.
The X-Wedge looks a lot like a Harley Big-Twin. It’s still air-cooled, and was designed for the Big Dog chassis and its ilk.
It eschewed a roller-bearing crank, for plain bearings. My 1980 Ducati had a roller-crank — I don’t think the new Ducks do. (I don’t know what the Harley TCs are.)
What I’d like to know is if the X-Wedge eschewed the knife-and-fork crank. (Looks like they did.)

The LHMB is my motorbike.

Incidents

Here we are last Saturday (December 16) afternoon, quietly ambling up State Route 444, out of Bloomfield, having just mailed an envelope at the old Holcomb post-office (now the Bloomfield post-office, since Holcomb has reattached to Bloomfield after being separated for eons).
State Route 444 is the two-lane highway between Victor and Bloomfield (previously to Holcomb). The speed-limit is 55 mph, and can be easily done.
I wick the bucktooth-bathtub up to 60 or so, what I normally do, and as I climb the hill out of town, an angry intimidator falls in behind and climbs my bumper.
The agitated driver is pogoing up-and-down like a frenzied monkey, apparently using the steering-wheel as a prop. The car is a tiny mauve Isuzu sedan, four-doors.
444 goes up, crosses a plateau, and then goes down approaching a crossroad: Boughton Road on the left side, and Brace Road on the right.
I need to turn onto Boughton Road to access the so-called elitist country-club (Boughton Park).
300 yards (that’s 300 yards, baby; three football fields) from the intersection, I flip on the left-turn signal so Intimidator can use the right shoulder to pass me.
About 100 yards before the turn I begin slowing: I got dogs in the back, and I can’t take the turn at 152 mph.
But Intimidator is still on my bumper — there’s plenty of pavement to pass on the right.
Then as I begin the turn, Intimidator lays on the horn and flips me the bird.
Sure enough; W-04 on the rear-bumper.

At the park we are walking our dogs down a woody trail off the road — the dogs consider it part of the route.
The path is flat a ways, and then descends a slight grade. That grade is also a wash.
Two oldsters are climbing the grade; hubby with Granny about 20 yards behind.
I’m leading, so hubby says hello, and I quietly acknowledge. Then Granny bellows “Good Morning;” and then snaps “Wassa matter? Doncha say ‘Good morning?’”
Boughton Park is being taken over by suburban namby-pambies.
“What I shoulda said is ‘he had a stroke, and can’t talk,’” Linda said.
We can just imagine: “Oh, I wish I’d known;” or is it “ice-flow for you, baby!”
“Judge not lest ye be judged.”

“Ice-flow for you, baby!” is my loving brother’s (in Boston) response to anyone with disabilities.

My brother in Delaware brags his turbocharged Volvo will do “152 mph.”

Over-and-over I have seen Dubya-stickers on the back bumpers of crazy drivers: a white Buick ran a red-light; a black Wagoneer cut me off; a black Jetta with its driver multitasking (mascara in the mirror, yammering on her cellphone, reading the morning paper — for crying out loud) nearly ran me off the road — I can’t remember all the incidents.

Square meal

On weekends we eat what could characterized as “unsquare” meals.
On weekdays we follow a specific menu — have for years: fish/corn/broccoli on Monday; pasta*/carrots/lima beans on Tuesday; turkey or chicken (we alternate)/potatoes or rice/spinach on Wednesday; and salmon/squash or rice/peas on Thursday.
Friday alternates between homemade pea-soup (with carrots and hot-dog slices); and stewed tomatoes/grilled-cheese sandwiches or garden lettuce in season.
(Squash has to be in season [i.e. from the garden]; and we don’t eat rice two days in a row.)
We have followed this menu for eons, essentially since starting running 30 years ago.
*The pasta has become unbearable, and dumped for tilapia. When the haddock runs out, the tilapia will replace it, and boiled turkey (or chicken) breast in tomato-sauce will replace the Tuesday-tilapia; with boiled chicken (or turkey) breast in tomato-sauce the other time.
The salmon may be switched to Wednesday, and the second poultry entree may get switched to one of Linda’s soy chicken-burgers.
On weekends following the pea-soup, we eat homemade pizza on Saturday, and tuna-fish casserole on Sunday — tuna-salad during summer.
Following the Friday stewed-tomatoes, we eat hot-dogs/baked-beans/coleslaw on Saturday, and subs or tacos or chili or spaghetti on Sunday.
I can’t stand pork or beef (we tried); they are too much. I have ground 98% beef in the chili and the spaghetti, but only a minimal amount. —It’s also in the tacos (Taco Bell; BONG!). The subs are roast-beef (oil — are you kidding?).
Dessert is fresh fruit in season, although we eat Ben & Fat Jerry’s chocolate ice-cream one day a week; like after pizza or on Sunday after subs/tacos/chili/spaghetti.
Grapefruit got dumped because it reacts with Lipitor, and a nutritionist suggested red grapes instead of green.
We no longer foot-race, but have stuck to the menu in an attempt to institute a small semblance of order into the madness that came out of the stroke.
The meal-schedule was thrown off last week. Linda couldn’t eat anything (the salmon) the Thursday before the colonoscopy.
So I ate the stewed-tomatos/grilled-cheese-sandwich myself that night, and figured we’d eat the salmon Friday.
Except there was the Messenger Christmas-party Friday-night.
Every Messenger Christmas-party we’ve been to in the past had only nibble-food. But this time we had a sandwich — the equivalent of a meal (a momentous reversal of tradition).
That meant the salmon had to sit another day, but the idea of eating it Saturday crashed into I’m used to eating an unsquare meal.
So the salmon is sitting another day; hopefully not spoiling (it’s in the refrigerator).
It has to be eaten tonight.

Bugle-alert

Last night (Friday, December 15) the annual Messenger-Post Christmas-party was held, this time at historic Granger Homestead in Canandaigua.
In the past, the hallowed Messenger-Post Christmas-party was held in the home of the newspaper’s owner, George Ewing (YOU-wing) Sr.
Like Granger, the historic Ewing homestead is a classic showplace, a central foyer with living-rooms on each side.
Out back is a kitchen with more rooms on each side.
One is a den of sorts, and a large poodle would be holding court on a throw-rug. We always talked with the poodle, which had apparently been trained to be a statue.
MPN Christmas-parties were always depicted as a joke. They weren’t heavily attended, although I attended a few.
Tables of nibble-snacks were heaped about, and a bar set up in the den.
The dreaded reporters and editorial-types sprung for the wine (spody-ody), and the press-guys hit the free beer.
Bugles — the tiny bugle-shaped cracker — were arrayed here and there.
The standing-joke was it wasn’t a proper Messenger Christmas-party if there weren’t bugles.
The Ewing-party was a party, but not a meal. The food was essentially snacks, which was okay, but not supper.
Senior is retired, and his good wife died a few years ago.
Which is probably why the MPN Christmas-party was transferred to another venue.
The Granger Homestead is a lot like the Ewing Homestead, though much larger.
More guests can be accommodated — the Ewing-party was always crowded.
The party was catered by a local restaurant (Eric’s Office and Restaurant [Eric’s doesn’t have a web-site]), and had hot meat they were carving: a turkey and roast-beef.
You could actually make a sandwich — supper of sorts — first time at an MPN Christmas-party.
Quite a few more attended — probably a reflection that many thought this would probably be the last MPN Christmas-party; at least the final Ewing-party, since MPN had been sold and is no longer a Ewing-family enterprise.
I met quite a few; e.g. the so-called Hasidic-Jew, the Webmaster, RED (who sewed fear and loathing in the Canandaigua School-District), and the Typist-lady.
I also saw the Executive-Editor (who took me on as an unpaid intern, despite being stroke-addled — “seems fine to me!”), and Joy Daggett, now retired, who also showed incredible moxie by hiring me.
I also saw Marky-Mark (Mark Syverud), an editor who has also retired (but on disability — he’s only 53 — but has Parkinson’s).
Among those there I didn’t see were Queeny and Yo-Meredith. Queeny makes the mighty Mezz fabulously local, and Meredith edits (puts together) the weekly Steppin’ Out magazine.
I also saw the man-hating stringbean, who was thrilled to see me (“Made ya laugh! Nyuk-nyuk-nyuk.....”), and young Vasiliy Baziuk: “Bar none, the best photographer the mighty Mezz ever had.”
“Don’t let Rikki hear you say that,” the Webmaster said. (Rikki Van Camp is the Messenger Chief-Photographer, but more into dramatic scenery shots.)
Vasiliy is an illustrator. Send him out on a nothing shoot and he comes back with fabulous stuff.
“I remember rooting all-over for that stupid Thunderbird picture (the Air Force Thunderbirds at the Rochester Air Show); and your front-page Sports-pik always flew (on the web-site — despite being advised to not fly a Sports-photo) because I couldn’t pass it up.”
Obviously, many miss having me around.
“If you experience death,” I said, “please contact your physician immediately.”
They all began rolling on the floor.
“I’m not there anymore,” I said. “You’ll have to make this stuff up yourselves.”
“With Grady gone, and now Marcy; it’s dead,” someone observed. “Nothing but gloom-and-doom.”
A-J (Anne Johnston), the fabulous Police-Reporter at the mighty Mezz, has been saddled with all the Post-fronts (10 weeklies), and is still backup for Meredith’s Steppin’ Out when Meredith goes on vacation.
This is because A-J learned how to paginate (edit) for the Sunday-paper. Therefore, when Marcy quit, A-J got saddled with all that Marcy did. (“You know how to do it; so you got it, baby!”)
“The newsroom has gotten so thin,” A-J observed; “we echo.”
Among those not there I would have liked to have seen were Nancy Brown (“Nano,” AKA “Yo-Mamma”) and 400-pound Frank Brown, my fabulous boss in paste-up.
Kenny Rush, the best paste-upper of all, died last year of Lou Gehrig's disease. He was my age, and once had a ‘56 Chevy post with a 350 four-speed.
I did see Brett Smith, who replaced Kenny in the dreaded imagesetter room. Now I have to hope the heavy fixer-fumes don’t take him too.
Others I would have liked to have seen were the all-powerful Tim Belknap, like me a car-guy; and K-Man (Kevin Frisch), the Managing-Editor, a one-time hippie longhair.

Step-Two

And so begins Step-Two of the great colonscopy caper, namely that it’s Linda’s turn.
As in my case, it isn’t really the invasion of one’s butt that’s abhorrent.
It’s the preparation, mainly the blowout.
That comes with a powerful laxative, phoso-soda, the so-called blowout elixir, liquid so salty it’s like drinking sea-water.
As I did, we mixed the phoso-soda with apple-juice, which in my case made drinking it somewhat bearable.
Linda had a hard time getting it down. She managed to drink half; but wanted to skip the other half.
“What difference could it make?” she asked.
“A lot!” I said. “The idea is to drink it all in one shot; then none is left.”
The results are rather immediate. Within minutes you’re sitting on the can filling it with vile green fluid. “Turn on the fans!”
Two administrations are required: one at noon, and one at 6 p.m. (Both yesterday.) You also can’t eat anything.
The goal, I guess, is an empty colon (bowl). It took me at least three days to recover from it.
It also left me with a tendency to get cold; no fuel.
Linda didn’t seem to have this. Preparation (blowout) didn’t seem to be traumatic to her.
The appointment was at 7:30 a.m., which meant leaving the house at the crack-of-dawn — the appointment was at Thompson Hospital in Canandaigua, across the street from the PT, a 20-25 minute trip.
After checking-in, we sat down in the waiting-room, and after 20 minutes my wife was lead away for the procedure.
I was left in the waiting-room about 45 minutes, entertained by an old guy with his wife who he kept referring to as “the Boss.”
Finally the old guy was lead away, and Granny came in; accompanied by whimpering granddaughter, afflicted by all kinds of maladies.
Granny was in her 80s, and in much better shape than granddaughter, who acted like her life was over (weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth).
What this proves to me is you’re only as sick as you think you are; that Granny felt very much alive.
Granny and “the Boss” knew each-other, so swapped complaints about the sorry state of healthcare out in the sticks.
“We switched out of Honeoye Falls,” said Granny. “Them guys are turkeys.”
“So where ya goin’ now?” the Boss asked.
“Branchport,” Granny said. (Branchport is really far out.)
Finally I was led by a nurse to my wife’s gurney, where I encountered my ever-faithful, tough-as-nails wife, who despite my being an uncaring liberial I’ve been with almost 39 years, clearly hospitalized, somewhat waylaid by the sedation that came with the procedure. —This means an I-V in her wrist, an automated blood-pressure cuff, the frumpy dish-rag smock; all the paraphernalia of hospitalization.
No doubt this was what Linda was greeted with when I was in the hospital after the stroke.
It’s somewhat frightening; although I can’t possibly feel attached, as an unromantic — after all, it’s only been 39 years of sharing living-expenses.
I was directed to sit in a chair next to her gurney — where I was entertained by the people behind the curtain in the next stall.
An aging Granny had had a stomach-assessment of some sort, and sounded rather punch-drunk.
“The doctor has prescribed two Prevacids per day, but your health-insurance will only pay for one,” the nurse said.
“So what we’re gonna do is give you a scrip for the once-a-day, and a card to get samples for the second. I guess we’ll have to write this all down.”
“Uh-Duh..........”
“Is anyone here to take you home?”
“My son is out in the waiting-room; uh-duh..........”
Son came in and sounded as wonky as his mother.
The doctor appeared, and said mother needed to go on a high-fiber diet.
“Ya hear that, Ma? They’re putting you on a high-fiber diet.”
“Uh-duh,” mother said.
“So what’s a high-fiber diet?” son asked. “She’s been eating Jello and pudding.”
“We’ll give you a menu,” the nurse said. “I don’t think you’ll find Jello and pudding on it.”
“So how about an ice-cream diet?” son asked. “That’s got fiber in it.”
Uh, yeah. Keep a straight face. No snide comments. No laughing. It wasn’t easy.

Techy........

Yesterday (Wednesday, December 13) was my semiannual visit to my dental-hygienist to have my teeth cleaned.
At least she is civil about it. The previous hygienist attacked your mouth.
“We need to take X-rays,” the hygienist said. “Haven’t done it for two years.”
I was covered with a lead apron, after which “Here; bite down on this.” ZZZZZZT!
Five different X-rays.
“So tell me,” I said, in honor of Bill. “When are you guys gonna go digital?”
“Not for a while,” she said.
“I worked in an office that had digital X-ray.”
We talked about how it works. The camera is digital and displays the images on a computer-screen. No chemicals — no developing.
“It’s nice, but a huge investment,” the hygienist said. “It isn’t just the X-ray machine; it’s also all the display paraphernalia.”
She looked at the X-rays later.
“I don’t see anything,” she said. “But the doctor will look at them, and if he sees anything, we’ll call you.”
“No, what you should probably do is e-mail me,” I said. “I check my e-mail every day. You call us up and you’ll probably get a machine. We’re never home.”
“Great idea,” she said; “but for that we need a computer.”

It looks like the technically-challenged receptionist at the PT-gym has been replaced.
She was an awfully nice lady, but technically challenged. She was totally lost — and has been replaced an unchallenged but less friendly receptionist.
The technically-challenged receptionist apparently did a number of inadvertent faux pas; once enough to make a second employee quit.
Apparently a gigantic address-list data-base was lost too, but that wasn’t the technically-challenged receptionist.
That was a lost CD. That data-base had to be completely reconstructed — by the Physical-Therapist, whose name is ironically Kristin.
(“Kristin; he’s done it again. Please step away from the ‘pyooter, Mr. Hughes.”)
What a tragic loss.
The technically-challenged receptionist was an awfully nice lady. I sang happy birthday to her on her birthday — she was floored.
But she was utterly buffaloed by technology; e.g. filing stuff in a computer, or computerized office-procedures.

—And I’m told it’s “floss-irrigate-brush.” —FIB.

1) My brother in Boston asserts he is more ‘pyooter-literate than me; so I suggested he inadvertently deleted an entire data-base — and the fixing thereof had to be done by the office-secretary: Kristin.)
2) My sister in Floridy makes a big deal out of “floss-brush-irrigate:” FBI.

the dreaded schedule

Today (Wednesday, December 13) has turned into a logistical nightmare, as seems to quite often happen since I retired.
The surfeit of appointments and errands has gotten so big we have to refer to “the schedule” before making an appointment.
Errands get tacked onto dog-walks and PT-gym workouts. The PT-gym is Canandaigua-errands since it’s in Canandaigua.
The desired PT-gym workout today is scotched by the need to do a blood-test this morning, and a dental-cleaning this afternoon.
The blood-test I can’t put off since another medical appointment needs the results next week.
The dental-cleaning was scheduled weeks ago. I can’t delay it now — 24-hour notice. And if I’d delayed it yesterday, who knows when it would get done.
Linda’s colonoscopy is Friday, which scotches another PT-gym workout. I’m her driver, which is required.
I called the Honda-store yesterday and got the automoton. The oil on the CR-V needed to be changed months ago — I hadn’t noticed. They do it free, but I have to schedule an appointment.
Referring to the dreaded “schedule;” next Wednesday is out, because that’s the doctor-appointment.
“So when would you like to do it?” automoton asked. “We have 8:30 to 11:30 a.m. and 1:30 to 4:30 p.m. on Thursday.”
“How about Thursday morning?” I said. “No, wait a minute. I can’t do that. All mornings are out.” (PT-gym and elitist country-club.)
Automoton gets exasperated if you sound disorganized. Obviously stroke-effects are not allowed.
I don’t have three hours today between the blood-test and the dental-cleaning. If the PT-gym is not the full three hours, it’s a waste of time.
A 30-45 minute trip to Wal*Mart translates to late-to-bed. I also have to hit the funky-food-market after the dentist (same neighborhood) — and the Messenger Christmas party is this Friday night.

Fatboy

My January 2007 issue of Cycle World has a road-test of a Harley-Davidson Fatboy.It also has a sidebar discussing the fact that its new 96-cubic-inch motor generates a lot of heat.
It has the same finning as the 88; no increase.
So the issue is the 96 generates a lot of heat; so much it has burned passengers and required riders to dismount.
Ridden fast enough, they run cool; but in parade-mode (which I guess is Laconia-mode), the rear cylinder gets very hot.
Harley has installed a junkyard-fix; disabling the rear cylinder if the temperature climbs high enough.
This makes me wonder about my brother’s vaunted GeezerGlide.
He has the Screamin’ Eagle modifications, which put the displacement over 100 cubes.
His bike sounded fairly strong at Rachle’s (doesn’t matter) wedding, although I’m sure a good sportbike could utterly cream it.
It also had a Bub exhaust (I think), which helped. (At least it had a nice rap.)
So I wonder if it too generates gobs of heat; i.e. if it has the same finning that was on the 88.
I predict a torrent of macho blustering. COVER YOUR MONITOR, BUBBA!

inlaw stories

For the past two weeks I have found myself entertained at the PT-gym by various lurid inlaw stories.
My Physical-Therapist, who has her head screwed on pretty straight, and I think very highly of, has apparently married into a family that is “crazy” — her word.

The first is the story of the vaunted inside of a coffee-cup (or coffee-mug).
Her mother-in-law requires that all coffee-containers have a shiny inside, or they are (drum roll here) not usable.
This has led to contretemps at restaurants, since often a restaurant will pour coffee into a cup with a matte-finished inside.
So the Physical-Therapist was required to search out Christmas-present coffee-mugs with a shiny inside.

This leads to story number-two.
The Physical-Therapist and mother-in-law were apparently at the mall searching out coffee-mugs.
“I don’t care what color they are,” mother-in-law said; “as long as they match my decor.”
REPUBLICAN-LOGIC ALERT: “I don’t care.... blah-blah-blah; as long as blah-blah-blah.”
“See how accommodating I am?”

Then there is the story of the Christmas-present requests.
Inlaws went through catalogs and apparently circled requested presents costing $1,000 or more.
“Now you do the same,” they said. “Just limit your requests to $10.”
Again: REPUBLICAN-LOGIC ALERT: “We’re entitled to grandiose gifts; you’re entitled to peanuts.”

This leads to story number-four: the great coffee-maker caper.
Apparently the inlaws contacted their son (Physical-Therapist’s husband), indicating a specific coffee-maker they wanted.
“Now you go to that store,” they said; “and get us that coffee-maker, and we’ll be happy.”
Hubby got up early to purchase that coffee-maker, got it, and brought it home.
“Oh, we hope you didn’t buy that coffee-maker,” his parents said. “We saw another even better and bought it ourselves.”
The Physical-Therapist, ever the diplomat, suggested returning the requested coffee-maker.
“Nope,” hubby said. “They’re eating it.”
-“What is it with these people?” I said.
“I’ve run into thousands of Boomers who think they’re entitled to the Moon.”
“I run into them at Weggers: Granny blocking the aisles with her powered cart; another bunting all-and-sundry; a 350-pound woman wearing shorts (‘I sure am sexy’).”
“They’re not that old,” the Physical-Therapist said. “They’re in their early 50s.”
Well, to me my kid-brothers are at the tailend of the baby-boom, ‘57 and ‘58; and they’re 48 and 49.
I don’t consider my kid-brother’s wife, born in 1960, a Boomer; nor my baby-sister, born in ‘61.
(Yet I myself am castigated as a Boomer even though I was born in 1944; before the war ended.)
Here we are navigating down 5&20 toward Canandaigua and we approach a major intersection with a state-highway angling in from the north. It’s not that busy; so only has a stop-sign.
Three vehicles are at the stop-sign: a semi followed by a Chevy Colorado pickup followed by a black Jeep Wagoneer.
The semi ambles slowly into the intersection, which is okay, since we’re still 300 yards away.
Now to see if the Colorado does the same; and it does, which is also okay, since we’re still 100 yards away, although closing.
I hope the Wagoneer has enough sense to wait, but I have my foot on the brake.
Yep, sure enough; the Wagoneer cuts right in front of me as I enter the intersection, requiring me to slam on the brakes.
“What are you talking about? I’m entitled to cut you off. I voted for Dubya, and I’m a Boomer!”

overnight

My friend and fellow Houghton classmate Charlie Gardiner, the estimable “CG,” who graduated with me 40 years ago way back in 1966, is threatening to overnight at our house.
This is because he purchased a chest of drawers at auction, thinking it was in Montreal, but actually it was in Toronto.
Getting it means an eight-hour driving marathon from his humble abode in central Massachusetts (Ashburnham).
Charlie is one of the vaunted ne’er-do-wells, also one of the infamous Cronies that caused great fear and loathing at the college during our freshman year.
As such I swap e-mails with him, and have visited him twice.
Eight-hour driving marathons could be beyond us old geezers. I remember a horrid all-day driving marathon from Huntington, W. Va. I was totally blasted.
So I announced this possibility to Linda and got a wince.
“Well, I guess I gotta start cleaning up the house.”
“I don’t think we need to,” I said. “The appearance of this house doesn’t matter that much to me.”
“It does to me,” Linda said.
It’s the old waazoo. Pants-wearers don’t care that much about digs, but skirts do.
Charlie’s wife Elaine was clearly embarrassed by the ramshackle appearance of Charlie’s house.
Most distressing was that the kitchen was no different than it was years earlier, when supposedly Charlie was in the midst of kitchen upgrades.
I was directed to Charlie’s ‘pyooter, buried in a detritus of old magazines and clippings. The house wasn’t air-conditioned, and it was the middle of July. So here I was, dripping with sweat, trying to field the usual loving rotten tomatoes lobbed from West Bridgewater.
I was taken (i.e. we drove) to Charlie’s vacation abode in Jamaica, Vt.; actually the old Holton homestead. (Mary Holton, Charlie’s cousin, also graduated Houghton.)
The homestead is very rustic. I don’t think it has central-heating, but it does have plumbing, although you don’t drink the water.
The roof is slate.
Charlie has converted the old house into an antique shop — he has antiques sprayed all over the central foyer. I guess he dabbles in antiques for a living: an eBayer.
I was taken upstairs to the dingy* bedroom I used on my first visit. The wallpaper is water-stained, and the single central bulb, operated by a frayed pull-cord, is bare. *Seems fine to me.
“If you have to pee, just go out the window,” Charlie said (the single bathroom is downstairs).
“Through the screen and onto the roof?” I asked.
“Yep,” he said, ever-confident.
I can just imagine how this would go over with skirts.
The bathroom was originally probably not a bathroom, and has a large shelf cluttered with smashed toothpaste tubes and other bathroom paraphernalia.
The toilet was also tilted, probably due to rotting sills.
“I have quilting stuff on the spare bed that needs to be moved before we can use it,” Linda said.
“I think that’s all we need to do,” I said.
Wince.
“When is he threatening to show up?” Linda asked.
“Week to 10 days,” I said.
Wince.
I suggested Charlie might want to find a motel-room in Toronto.
It’s not like I feel he’s unwelcome here, but Toronto-to-here is four hours.
Another option is staying with us both coming-and-going; in which case the marathons get halved.

Irish

A little over 13 years ago, my towel-head, pill-pushing general practitioner strode sadly into my room at Rochester General, eyed me warily, wrung his hands, tsked loudly, and said “Mrs. Hughes, your husband is done for. You’re gonna hafta cart him around like a vegetable.”
What came out was probably undecipherable gibberish, but what I was thinking was “BALONEY! We’ll see about that! I’m gonna prove you WRONG, Doc.”
I related this yesterday (Wednesday, December 6) at the PT-gym to the Physical-Therapist, and a gym-member who is 100% Irish and knows I’m part-Irish.
“That’s the Irish,” gym-member said.
A gym-member is no longer a patient of the Physical-Therapist, yet can come (for a monthly fee: $40) whenever they want to work out. I long ago was a patient, but am now a gym-member.
The PT-gym is less intimidating than a regular gym, plus I can crank 36 minutes on the treadmill without lining up people waiting.
A few weeks after Rochester General, I was in another hospital for in-patient rehab. My therapist laughed when I told her my goal was to get back riding motorbike. (“What are your goals?”)
“Your motorbike days are over,” she laughed cheerily. “You should put that thing up for sale.”
“Oh no,” I said. “You don’t tell that to The Keed.” In about two years I was riding motorbike again.
Later therapists were amazed. “You’re riding motorcycle?” they’d say incredulously. “You had a stroke. I’d think you’d have trouble balancing it. There also is the issue of judgment.”
Well, I don’t have a problem. It’s not the same as pre-stroke, but can be accommodated.
As far as I know, the Connors are 100% Irish. My paternal grandfather always told me he was Welsh. Grandmother I don’t know about. I guess she’s English — an Ingham — but never looked English. Too dark.
So I guess I am part-Irish; maybe half.
About two-plus years later, I had graduated rehab, but was still seeing a shrink.
I visited my old out-patient rehab facility, and discovered one of my old cabbies had had a stroke.
“You look okay,” he said. He had seen me ride in on the mighty Kow.
“What’s your secret?” he asked earnestly.
“Ornery,” I said; “If you think you can do it, you probably can.”
A few years ago I visited a Messenger employee who had a stroke.
“Every time you do anything at all,” I told him; “no matter what it is, you’re rewiring your brain.”
“Apparently enough is still there to have not put the lights out. I’m running on what’s left. And what’s left is doing what the killed part did.”
So that, for example, my speech may be slightly degraded; because the part of my brain driving it, isn’t the part that was intended.
“This stroke will turn your life upside-down, but you can recover. I did.”
Of my siblings I worry about Bill the most. He seems the least Irish — more of an Ingham.
But I’m not too worried. If he had a stroke I think he would be ornery enough to recover.
Jack I don’t worry about at all. Extremely ornery.
All my siblings have the Connor-genes: “Irish.”
How do I know this?
All I have to do is say anything at all on this site (MyFamblee.com) and they go catatonic.

Too loud

During the reception that followed Rachle’s (doesn’t matter) thunderstorm-threatened outdoor wedding, my brother Jack, father of the bride, ambled over and put his hands of the shoulders of Linda and I.
“This ain’t loud,” he loudly declared.
Linda and I were fixing to leave.
We had already covered our ears when the Dee-Jay started blasting all-and-sundry with “Old Time Rock-and-Roll.”
A fairly attractive young girl — i.e. one that weighed about 100 pounds instead of twice that — had taken to cackling at the top of her lungs across the way.
Which tells me she was drunk — DANCING-ON-THE-TABLE ALERT!
We had had enough; too noisy for us old geezers. We’re not party-people.
I remember blasting our first apartment with Led Zeppelin. Then came Cream and Jimi Hendrix. Those days are long-gone.
Pat Benetar (you might get a scam solicitation: “You have won 89 bazilyun dollars.”) and Def Leppard at 40 watts were too loud (10 was enough; for crying out loud).
How anyone could stand 900 watts in a house is beyond me. (I suspect it might blow out the walls!)
Maybe you need that to serenade the far-away landscape. Yep, 900 watts in wide desert Antelope Valley in Californy: “Boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka......”
I remember pulling to a stop at a traffic-light in the Faithful Hunda.
All-of-a-sudden the whole back of the car started shaking up and down.
An Eclipse had pulled behind, and was shaking the pavement with “BA-BOOM, BA-BOOM, BA-BOOM!” The driver, who appeared to be sucking a joint, was juking up-and-down, eyes rapturously closed.
How does one stand this?
I remember an uncapped steam-pipe in my father’s refinery.
It was so loud it made me sick.
I also had to cover my ears when Big Daddy (Don Garlits) fired up his fuel-dragster at Cecil County Drag-o-Way (sorry; couldn’t find a worthwhile link).
What was amazing was A) that he laid down a stripe of rubber the entire length of the quarter-mile, and B) the 15-foot sheets of white flame that spit from his headers.

processing follies

Two days ago (Friday, December 1) my morning coffee didn’t get consumed until 5 p.m., by which time it’s room-temperature.
Which is okay, since I can’t really drink it boiling hot. But by 5 p.m. it was nearly dark outside.
This isn’t the first time this has happened. Working-out has turned into a three-hour gig: 36 minutes on the treadmill, 21 minutes each on the arm-bike and the recumbent, and about 15-20 minutes each on seven other machines.
An eighth regime is 10+ minutes.
Unlike Bill I can’t spring out of bed and onto I-95 in 20 seconds. I also eat breakfast here at home, a horrible waste of time. I also don’t sleep in my work-clothes, which means getting dressed (including long-underwear).
I eat breakfast before the gym, but can only drink one sip of coffee, if at all. Together with all the processing (flag-out, etc.), which I guess Bill sloughs off on Vast, bed to garage-door is about an hour.
Getting to the gym takes a half-hour, so if I got up at 9:30 (Linda was working at the post-office; but I unloaded the dishwasher at 6 a.m. and went back to bed), I arrived at the gym at 11.
I was leaving by 2, but so began a long raft of errands, which get hooked up with dog-walks and workouts.
Friday I had to go to the funky food market, a 35-40 minute jaunt from Canandaigua on the Thruway.
I also had to shop at a nearby Weggers (the funky food-store was my excuse); 10-15 minutes. I can’t conceive of buying groceries in only five minutes. The only way to do that is not check out.
The funky food-market was 15-20 minutes. To order cereal I have to wait until the clerk gets off the phone (4-6 minutes), and I’m buying oats in bulk, which means shoveling them into the bag; five minutes.
Perhaps I could order the cereal online, in which case I might save three minutes. I’d still have to burn 40 minutes to pick it up at the store.
Or perhaps I could order it online directly and have FedEx bring it to my door. Figure $7.50-$10 shipping-and-handling. (A case of cereal is about twelve bucks!)
And I still have to shop that Weggers, since it’s the only Weggers that still sells the cheese we use on pizza — the Canandaigua Weggers no longer does.
So I didn’t get home until after 4:30, and then the coffee has to wait until the dogs receive their milkbones, which they feel entitled to because I showed up.
Then turn on the Christmas-lights and take the flag down and it’s 5 p.m. Lunch and the after-gym orange got shoved — as did walking the dogs, since by then it was dark.

the most inspiring states to railfans are.....

My January 2007 Trains Magazine has an interesting article saying the most inspiring states to railfans are Illinois, Pennsylvania and California, in that order.
Apparently they did an online survey of 1,000 Trains readers (I was not one) who said as much.
I don’t know about Illinois, having never really been there — only once as a teenager in 1960 during a family vacation. I suppose it’s all the trackage out of Chicago; a place where all railroads seem to gravitate.
Pennsylvania and California I agree about. New York is far down the list, but I’ve pursued trains hundreds of times in Pennsylvania.

The Keed.

The mighty Curve; 2006

Primarily there is the mighty Curve in Altoona, Pennsylvania — I’ve been there hundreds of times; once with mighty Jack, which was rather cool.
Political advisor James Carville said Pennsylvania is only Philadelphia and Pittsburgh and Alabama in between.
But that misses Harrisburg and Scranton and Johnstown — and even Williamsport.
To a railfan there is also Strasburg and Steamtown, although the Strasburg is rather wussy. The railroad isn’t much, and the trains are only doing 10-20 mph. (Strasburg is also the location of the Railroad Museum of Pennsylvania, where the old Pennsy collection of antique steamers [including the Lindbergh engine; E6 Atlantic #460] ended up.)
Steamtown had a steam-excursion where the train was doing 25-35 mph.
And it was on tracks that were once a mainline railroad (the Delaware, Lackawanna & Western), and it was uphill all the way out. The engine was working steam, whereas there isn’t much challenge on Strasburg.
Pennsylvania is also the location of three of the rail-pilgrimage stops; one of course being the the mighty Curve, the others being Starrucca Viaduct and giant Tunkhannock Viaduct.
Pennsylvania also has Rockville Bridge and all that old Pennsy electrification. Philly to Harrisburg on the Keystone Corridor is still electrified, and rebuilt for 110 mph.
I also long ago traced the Pennsy to all the way down the Susquehanna to Port Deposit; flyovers all over.
There also is all that Corridor trackage, Zoo Interlocking, and that high bridge over 30th Street.
California has two pilgrimage-stops: Cajon Pass and Tehachapi Loop (or Tehachapi Loop if ya can stand the music); and I’ve been to both.
Cajon was fielding trains willy-nilly — it’s the old Santa Fe access to Los Angeles off the high desert. Union Pacific also has a line through the pass now; ex Southern Pacific. (UP had trackage-rights over AT&SF, and may still have them.)

The Keed.

About 1968.

Tehachapi is the incredible line from the south end of the San Joaquin Valley up through the Tehachapi Mountains to the high desert.
The line is mind-blowing; but I’ve hardly seen any trains — maybe one years ago. It’s 2.5%, has lots of tunnels, Tehachapi Loop, and even a web-cam. (But I don’t think it’s running constantly like the Curve web-cam.)
I’ve seen trains approaching the Loop, but hardly ever on it (once; years ago). The terrain is incredible — a 10 mph highway through the hummocks. (There is a newer expressway [Highway 58], but that misses the Loop.)
The railroad was built in the 1870s (1875, I think) — wags thought it would never be built.
Illinois seems a waste — it has the old three-track Chicago, Burlington & Quincy racetrack (which Chicago’s Metra commuter-agency uses [may even own]), but there are too many unknowns.
Pennsylvania I know; I’m sure I’ll return to the mighty Curve. And K4 #1361 is supposed to be returning operable to Altoona — that was where it was built (1361 was at the Curve for years — I have pictures).

Mongolian George

Linda apparently rode the bus out Monroe Avenue from Rochester with Mongolian George.
Mongolian George — AKA Attila the Hun, The Mongol Warrior, Genghis Khan — actual name “George Weber,” is probably the most famous bus-driver in RTS history.
Years ago, when I was an outpatient at Rochester Rehab, a lowly assistant, the girl who probably did more for my recovery than anyone, mainly because she could parry a smarty-pants, knew Mongolian George.
It’s amazing to think 13+ years after I left Mongolian George is still driving bus.
I always thought Mongolian George was older than me.
Mongolian George was an ex-boxer, heavily into the macho gig.
He was a friend of Ronnie Culp, also an RTS-employee, and also heavily into the macho gig.
I met Ronnie Culp awaiting a Porta-John at last March’s St. Patrick’s Day parade in Rochester. He was swilling a giant tankard of ale, foaming loudly at all-and-sundry, threatening to unload right there in the street.
Culp is retired, but I guess Mongolian George isn’t.
Culp and Mongolian George worked as bar-bouncers. They loved it. They could beat people to a pulp and get away with it.
As such, Mongolian George is somewhat of a thug.
Unlike “Big Dude” at the mighty Mezz, who despite his intimidating presence is the nicest guy in the world, Mongolian George was into mayhem and violence.
He also thought of himself as a ladies’ man, although he never married. (Culp was divorced.)
I suppose the challenge to ladies was to think they could control him.
I don’t know. All his girlfriends seemed to be beer-sodden floozies.
It’s not surprising to see Mongolian George driving the 700-line.
By now he should be at the top of the seniority-list; maybe even #1.
He had a three-number badge; e.g. 432. All those that started long before me had three-number badges.
Mine, 1763, was four-number; the four-numbers started about 2-3 years before me.
Even 1763 was pretty high on the seniority-list. Within a few years they were into the 2000s and 2100s.
By now they’re probably over 3000.
Old heads like George (and me) liked the 700 because it had a lot of slop in it.
The headways were about 40 minutes, but that wasn’t enough time to get to the end-of-the-line and back.
As such, two buses were required on the south end, and you might sit 15-25 minutes at the layover (end-of-line).
Other lines were like that, but most weren’t. Blast through the layover and change the sign on-the-fly.
Preferred were the Park-and-Ride layovers out in the sticks where you could take a nap because no one was on the bus.
But Park-and-Rides usually got hooked up with spread-runs; where, for example, you might do a short trip to a technical high-school in the early morning, and your long Park-and-Ride in the late afternoon. (You were off-duty five hours.)
George is doing city-work: a regularly-scheduled city-bus in the early morning, and then another regularly-scheduled city-bus until about 2:30 (maybe a straight-eight on the 700).
That was the kind of work I started doing after we moved out to West Bloomfield; 35+ minutes from the barns instead of five.
I drove the 700 one summer, and got a lot of reading (and writing for the dreaded 282-News) done.