“ZZZZZZZT!” Nothing.

Yesterday (Wednesday, May 30, 2007) I had two small errands to perform on the way to the vaunted Canandaigua YMCA.
Both are along the way — it’s called shooting two birds with one stone.
One was to deposit mail into the drop-box at the Bloomfield post-office; a slight diversion from my route to the YMCA.
The second errand was to take cash out of our checking-account at the Canandaigua National Bank ATM across the street. This was so I could pay the Hairman cash.
I pulled slowly into the ATM-line. A fatish lady was standing out in the open — no car — working the machine.
Finally she walked away, money and receipt in hand, so I drove gingerly up to the machine, window down, card at the ready.
“Begin here. Insert card here.”
“ZZZZZZZT!” Nothing. Won’t take card.
Okay; turn card 180°.
“ZZZZZZZT!” Nothing.
Okay; flip card other way.
“ZZZZZZZT!” Nothing.
Okay; 180° from that.
Again: “ZZZZZZZT!” Nothing.
I glanced to make sure I was using the kerreck slot. This one disgorges the cash; this one discharges the receipt; and the card-slot is specifically marked: “insert card here.”
Thankfully an angry Granny wasn’t behind me laying on the horn.
A glitzy color-display came on the video-screen explaining EXACTLY how I should insert the card.
Again: “ZZZZZZZT!” Nothing.
I finally drove away.
I have better things to do than dork around with a wonky machine — or go inside.
I didn’t need that cash right away. I could always get it at the Honeoye-Falls ATM.
That there Bloomfield ATM has always worked in the past: I’ve used it “hunderds” of times.

“Hairman” is my hair-dresser.

“Honeoye Falls” and “Bloomfield” (nearby villages) are both equally distant; although west and east.

My macho blowhard brother-in-Boston, noisily insists “hundreds” is spelled “hunderds.”

Snowshoe

A gigantic flashy brochure arrived in today’s (Wednesday, May 30, 2007) mail for Snowshoe Mountain Ski Resort (YuppieLand) in West Virginny.
“What are we getting a Snowshoe Mountain brochure for?” Linda asked.
“Because that’s where we stayed a year-and-half ago on our Cass trip, which puts us on their mailing-list. The fabulous ‘50s motel in far-away Stony Bottom was kaput, so we had to stay at Showshoe’s gigantical motel” — corridors a mile long.
Snowshoe apparently also has a funky village atop its mountain (you can see it from the railroad), but essentially it’s a fabrication — stores and funky shops that would only appeal to the yuppie ski-set.
It’s way out in the middle of nowhere; but what appeals to me is Cass Scenic Railroad; over the hill.
Every railfan should be required by law to visit Cass — but only to hear the steam-whistles echo in the hollers. I’ve been there at least three times, and every visit I end up crying.
Cass is a West Virginia state park, but only the railroad right-of-way. Plus a giant parking-lot has been located down in the flood-plain of the Greenbrier River.
Plus the town is still extant. The station and company-store are still there, as are the tiny cottages (which can be rented) the lumber-jacks once lived in. Only the lumbermill is gone; it burned down years ago; after the timberstands had been depleted.
It’s a step back in time. Even Linda likes it, and she’s not a railfan.
But the fantabulous motel in Stony Bottom was kaput; the owners got sick and old.
Obviously the motel in Stony Bottom was not a serious motel: little more than a house with motel-units off to the side.
And the road wasn’t a main road. Only one lane, but paved. If anyone else approached, all moved to the shoulder, and tried to keep outta the forest.
No air-conditioning, no ice-machine, no coffee-maker, no Internet — are you kidding? I wasn’t expecting them to take our credit-card, but they did; with the original imprintable form from the ‘70s and a separate phonecall to the authorization-center in New York City.
What Linda remembers is their door-stops: bricks wrapped in aluminum-foil.
You woke up to the sound of birds chirping outside and a gurgling stream, not blatting Harleys like in Altoony.

“Linda” is my wife.

“Cass Scenic Railroad” is the restored remains of a old logging railroad; too steep and curvy for normal railroad operation. At that time (turn of the century), logging was mainly done with railroads, not large off-road equipment like now. The village was actually called “Cass;” and still is. Lumber would be harvested up in the hills, processed in the lumbermill, and shipped out on a railroad (now abandoned) along the Greenbrier River.

Cass has quite a few steam-engines, but they aren’t rod-engines (engines with side-rods to the driving-wheels). Instead most are “Shays;” a special application whereby locomotion was via a driveshaft and helical gears. Such engines were less likely to slip on steep hills, since their piston-thrusts could be more equally distributed — plus they could operate on very rough and rudimentary track.

“Altoony” is Altoona, PA, the location of Horseshoe Curve, by far the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to.

Eye-Care Center

And so my visit yesterday (Tuesday, May 29, 2007) to the vaunted Eye-Care Center in Canandaigua comes and goes.
About two weeks ago we got a letter from our old health-center in far-away Henrietta saying I needed their regular biannual eye-exam.
We stopped going to that health-center about a year-and-half ago. We started going there because at first it was part of the HMO I was signed up for at Regional Transit Service.
But apparently health insurance, and health maintenance, has moved beyond HMOs, so that now we could designate any healthcare provider, not necessarily our old health-center.
So I guess what happened was that our old HMO health-center had become independent, but we kept going there because we thought we had to.
Healthcare at that place was always a bit wacko. My doctor, old halitosis-breath, a towel-head, was the one who put me on calcium-blocker blood-pressure medication, and also the one who told my wife I’d have to be carted around like a vegetable after my stroke.
Towel-head departed, and was replaced by a lady who lasted about six months. She was too strung out. The health-center was allowing only 15 minutes per patient and wheeling them through like cattle.
Healthcare had to be scattershot. My doctor became exasperated and quit.
Suddenly we were on a doctor merry-go-round (counter-clockwise) at a health-center 50 minutes away.
We were apprised we could select any provider we wanted, so we switched to a small health-center in nearby Bloomfield, about five minutes away.
They aren’t stretched so thin. My doctor is from northeastern Pennsylvania, so always asks about my Horseshoe Curve jacket. —Apparently he has the time; old towel-head didn’t.
We dumped the calcium-blockers and halved the anti-cholesterol medication — thus making my anti-drug wife somewhat happier.
It also made me happier, since dumping the calcium-blockers seemed to end the so-called “episodes” that prompted my retirement. Blood-pressure, borderline as it was, was being lowered by getting back into shape.
I’ve lost 20-25 pounds, and am about to drop a waist-size from my levis. I’ll soon have to drill another hole in my belt so I can cinch it tighter.
Apparently Eye-Services at our old health-center was semi-independent; so they would still be soliciting appointments even though we had left.
I was happy with what they were doing, but they’re 50 minutes away.
Linda went to the Canandaigua Eye-Care Center for her last eye-exam; so I wanted to switch there too — 25-30 minutes as opposed to 50.
But my switching there meant I was a new patient, so true-to-form: “Mr. Hughes, we find no indication of your appointment.”
Well, here I am, guys; standing right in front of you. I wouldn’t have come here had you not made me an appointment.
They hemmed-and-hawed, having me kill time filling out various forms while they feverishly searched.
Finally after about 10 minutes a tiny butterball paddled out of an adjacent anteroom: “Mr. Hughes’s appointment was made this morning.”
“I didn’t call this morning. The appointment was made last week.”
Finally, “Have a seat, Mr. Hughes. We’ll be with you shortly.” (Peace and tranquility.)
After a few minutes I was whisked into a dark room with various gizmos, and interviewed by a youngish male technician.
Then it was into another room, where a bubbly young female technician performed various tests, including internal pressure of the eye.
“Can you read this, Mr. Hughes?”
“I’ll need my glasses;” it was for distance.
“E-T-O-P-Q;” over-and-over. All I could think of was the eye-chart in a veterinarian-office behind a dog (a photo that ran in a Post-paper); how’s a dog supposed to read that? (“Bark-bark-bark-bark-bark!”)
Finally I was whisked into another room, and “Dr. Pisello will see you as soon as she’s finished with another patient.”
Room-to-darkened room; this was certainly different from my previous eye-exam, where the entire exam was performed by the Ophthalmologist.
“You’ll see an old retina-tear that apparently healed itself; as I was never aware of it, but previous eye-exams have seen it.” I said.
“You’ll also see a slight floater in the left eye; I don’t find it bothersome.”
“What’s this comment about using a magnifying-glass if the type is really tiny?” she asked. “Do you wear bifocals?”
“Nope,” I said; “onliest one from my high-school class that doesn’t.”
“Do you wanna try bifocals?” she asked.
“Maybe eventually, but not right now,” I said. “Things aren’t bad enough.”
Step-by-step, she proceeded through the exam. She also looked at the old tear better with a special gizmo.
“I think you should have our retina-specialist look at that. We might wanna repair that with laser surgery.”
“You also have the very slight beginnings of cataracts.”
“Well, I am 63, and I think my grandfather had cataracts.”
“Not enough to worry about; you shouldn’t see anything.”
“All I wanna do is be able to see well enough to keep riding motorbike; right now it isn’t a problem.”
I was finally discharged into the bright sunlight, but not before forking over a $10 co-pay. My appointment is in late August; “If it’s that old, I see no hurry.”
My pupils were dilated, so driving was a bit wonky. I was glad I wasn’t riding motorbike.

For 16&1/2 years I drove transit-bus for “Regional Transit Service” in Rochester.

“Towel-head” equals Asian-Indian. It’s my sister-in-Floridy’s exhibition of tolerance. He wore a turban.

I had a stroke October 26, 1993.

RE: “merry-go-round (counter-clockwise).....” My loud-mouthed macho blowhard brother-in-Boston has loudly declared the merry-go-round he rode at the old Lenape (LEN-uh-PEE) amusement-park rotated clockwise (as viewed from above). We never have been able to determine which way it operated, but almost all merry-go-rounds in North America operated counter-clockwise. Many were built by the same manufacturer; including the one at Lenape Park.

“Horseshoe Curve” in Altoona, PA is by far the BEST railfan-spot I have ever been to. I have a Horseshoe Curve jacket.

“Episodes” were dizzy-spells where it felt like my heart had stopped. Apparently dizzy-spells are a known side-effect of calcium-blockers.

“Post-paper” is one of the 10 weekly Post-papers published by Messenger-Post Newspapers, my previous employer.

cold coffee

Here we have a topic sure to prompt loud weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth on this here site.
I predict negatory nattering similar to what gets prompted by my choice in toothpaste, snowblower, running-shoes, cellphone service, breakfast-food, mouthwash, and on-and-on — world without end: amen, amen........
This morning (Tuesday, May 29, 2007) I made the coffee before we went to the park. Yesterday I made it after we got back from the park.
When I make it before the park it sits for almost three hours and cools off.
So yesterday morning it was still hot when I started drinking it.
Well, perish-the-thought, I don’t like it that way — thereby flaunting a hoary hide-bound tradition passed down through the ages.
REPREHENSIBLE, I tell ya!
I prefer it warm, but better cold than hot.

“This here site” is our family’s web-site — everything on this blog also went onto the family web-site.

RE: “my choice in toothpaste, snowblower, running-shoes, cellphone service, breakfast-food, mouthwash, and on-and-on.” I am loudly excoriated by all in my family for my individual choices, more particularly my politics, my lack of religion, and my choice in motorcycles (not a Harley) and computers (a MAC). I have actually been bad-mouthed for my choices in toothpaste, snowblower, running-shoes, cellphone service, breakfast-food and mouthwash. Plus I had the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to dispute my all-knowing, macho blowhard brother-from-Boston. It made me the so-called “Black-Sheep” of my family.

“The park” is nearby Boughton (“BOUGH”-tin) Park, where we walk our dog.

Memorial-Day ruminations

The Keed.

-Today (Monday, May 28, 3007) is Memorial-Day, which by all means means we have to get the flag out.

-So how many people does it take to get the flag out?
Actually for me it’s nothing new. I fly the flag every day if it looks like it won’t rain.
I figure the flag isn’t just something for the tub-thumping Limberger REPUBLICANS to wrap themselves in.
I also had a mentally-retarded (Down Syndrome) kid-brother who went ballistic if you didn’t fly the flag.
I fly it partly in his honor.
So of course I raised my flag as soon as I got up, which was around 6:45 a.m.
Obviously my frail 93-year-old nosy neighbor (soon to be 94 — I’ll have to change my macro yet again) was thinking the same thing: it’s Memorial-Day; we have to put the flag up.
I looked across the street and his 90+-year-old wife was outside in her housecoat trying to put up the flag.
The 93-year-old nosy neighbor, who was inside his house, had probably ordered her to put up the flag.
So I went across the street, ostensibly to help her.
A clevis-pin that holds the flag was rusted nearly solid, so that her hands were unable to work it.
I worked the pin and attached the flag, and right about then the garage-door opened, and the 93-year-old nosy neighbor started his John Deere lawn-tractor (his so-called buggy).
He was coming to supervise.
We started to hoist the flag, but it was attached upside-down.
Heaven-forbid that occur, for some super-patriot Granny will appear with Uzis blazing for implying our nation was in distress.
I reattached the flag and we hoisted it.
“Now put that thing away,” I said to the 93-year-old nosy neighbor; “and get back inside before ya miss ‘Good Morning America.’”

-Return to running........
Today, since it’s a holiday and we figured the Canandaigua YMCA would be closed, we took our dog instead to the so-called elitist country-club to run.
It would be my first attempt running since last year, when I only ran once. (And that was the first time in years.)
It went fairly well; never stopped, and under a half-hour (28:50). There have been times I was over 30 minutes — it’s about four miles.
Felt stiff and rusty; but made it. I think conditioning helps. Linda ran along side with the dog.
“Dog’s getting a workout,” some lady said.
No; he probably thinks we’re moving more his speed.
Running at the park only chews up about 1.5 hours; walking the dog about 2.5, and the YMCA equals 3.5. Running also uses more effort, and is more aerobic than what what I do at the YMCA. The only lack is strength-training — pulling weights.
So I’m hoping I can do more running and less YMCA.

-Parade-detours.......
A number of tiny nearby towns hold Memorial-Day parades.
We have to circumnavigate these parades to get to the park and avoid blockages.
We travel through the tiny hamlet of Ionia, which is in the Town of West Bloomfield; little more than a rural crossroads the Peanut once crossed — the railroad-station is still there.
Ionia holds a parade, and was setting up with marching-bands and fire-engines. It is also the location of the world-famous tractor-parade every fall.
Grampaw, an aging veteran, was blocking the road with his silver LeSabre — “I nearly sacrificed my life on Omaha Beach protecting your freedoms, so you better move aside!”
Mental note; don’t drive back through Ionia.
West Bloomfield also holds a parade, so I had to not detour through West Bloomfield.
After we returned we could hear the rattling snare-drums and wailing sirens. Marchers were turning the corner far away up at the traffic-light, off 5&20 up County Road 37 to the Firehouse. Dippity-Dan had his white Crown-Vic across Route 65 with the red roof-lights flashing.

“Limberger” is Rush Limbaugh — I call him that because I think he stinks.

RE: “I’ll have to change my macro yet again.....” refers to the fact that “the 93-year-old nosy neighbor” is an AppleWorks macro. I recorded it some time ago. Hit Apple-Option-Shift-v and AppleWorks types “the 93-year-old nosy neighbor.” Saves the possibility of mistyping. (Change number-one was from 92 to 93.)

“The so-called elitist country-club” is nearby Boughton (BOW-tin) Park; called that long ago by an editor at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I once worked, because it only allows use by residents of the three towns that own it.

“Linda” is my wife.

“The Peanut” was originally the Canandaigua & Niagara Falls Railroad, built about 1850. It eventually was bought by the New York Central Railroad, where a Vanderbilt called it a “peanut” compared to the New York Central mainline. “The Peanut” has been long-abandoned.

Every fall, as part of its town-wide festival, Ionia holds a tractor-parade. We attended last year, and it was really nifty: 89 bazilyun chugging tractors.

“5&20” is the main east-west highway through our area; State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20, both on the same road.

We live in the “Town of West Bloomfield,” although not in the tiny crossroads hamlet up the street that could be said to be West Bloomfield.

good old Internet-Explorer

The mighty MAC.

Internet-Explorer 5.2 for MAC.

I’ve about had it with good old Internet-Explorer 5.2. It is by far the most unstable browser I’ve ever driven.
I don’t think I’ve ever had FireFox lock up; Netscape 7.2 occasionally — but IE usually locks up every session.
IE 5.2 was the browser that came with OS-X; as did Apple’s Safari which I haven’t used. FireFox and Netscape were free downloads.
My old 5.1 (under 9.2) was fairly stable, but 5.2 is terrible.
I do my e-mail via the Internet and IE, a MyWay-account, like a Yahoo-account. —Which means I can do the e-mail anywhere that has a ‘pyooter: e.g. De Land Public Library, the Tally-Ho lobby, and the ‘pyooter-room at Hampton Inn in Raynham.
But last night IE locked trying to open an e-mail from David Connor.
Of course, maybe I wasn’t giving it long enough. Gates and his merry band like to calculate the value of Pi to 89 bazilyun digits (“Please wait while Windoze calculates the value of Pi. OOOOOOOOOOOHHMMMMM.........”).
I remember trying to fire up aerial photographs of Philadelphia Airport With Jack’s vaunted PC-laptop.
I don’t think we ever did — hourglass city!
Of course we’ll hear a torrent of noisy excuses here: like I mucked up the site with my tinker-toy MAC eight weeks earlier.
I’m used to getting results in 30 seconds or less. After that I think it’s time to force-quit the app.
But last night’s IE-hang wasn’t even letting me force-quit.
It had gotten to the spinning soccer-ball — the Apple equivalent of the Windoze hourglass; although Apple apparently has another passing-time indicator: the miniature ticking wristwatch.
Windoze has apparently gone beyond the hourglass too; 89 bazilyun icons to indicate passing time.
But they apparently haven’t gotten beyond the NEED for a passing-time indicator.
So I couldn’t force-quit IE with the mouse. The mouse-arrow had converted to the spinning soccer-ball, so wouldn’t activate anything.
I couldn’t even access the force-quit menu.
There also is a keyboard force-quit, but I didn’t think to try that. Who knows if it would have worked. (It works.)
So what I had to do was pull the plug on OS-X; thank ya Gates. First time!
I have to keep IE because that is the preferred browser for most online ordering.
But I think I’ll start doing my e-mail with FireFox.
I successfully completed an online purchase at LL Bean last night with FireFox.

“IE” is Internet-Explorer.

RE: “De Land Public Library, the Tally-Ho lobby, and the ‘pyooter-room at Hampton Inn in Raynham.....” My mother-in-law lives in De Land, Floridy; the old “Tally-Ho” motel was where we once stayed in northern Delaware; the “Hampton Inn in Raynham,” Mass. was where we stayed for the wedding of my brother Jack’s daughter Rachel.

“David Connor” is a cousin that lives in North Carolina.

“Gates” is Bill Gates, head of Microsoft.

“Jack” is my all-knowing macho blowhard brother-in-Boston, who has noisily declared that anything other than a Windoze PC is a mere Tinker-Toy — e.g. MACs.

Kevin's motorbike.......

Linda Hughes.

Yr fthfl srvnt on Kevin’s BigDog two winters ago.

Yesterday afternoon (Saturday, May 26, 2007), as I was putting away the zero-turn, I’m pretty sure Debbie’s Kevin blasted by on his custom motorbike.
Debbie Bell is the only child from my wife’s brother’s first marriage.
She was born April 1, 1969, and is my first niece; born even before JillZ (May 21, 1970).
That makes her 38. She married Kevin in March of 1994 shortly after my stroke.
Kevin is much older than her; born in 1960, which makes him Sue’s age, but slightly older. That makes him 47; almost nine years older than Debbie. (His full-name is of course “Kevin Bell.”)
Together they have a daughter, Christina, but something is wrong. She’s almost 14, but looks only seven or eight. She apparently has to have special-education courses — perhaps autism (but that ain’t nuthin’; look at J-Mac).
Together they all live with Carol, who goes by the name Carol Button, my wife’s brother’s first wife. Linda’s brother has been married at least four times — I’ve lost count.
How they can all live in the same house I’ll never know.
Their house is the tiny homestead where Carol grew up — in a western Rochester suburb.
We can’t imagine living with one’s parents — or mother (in this case).
They even got married in that house.
-So as I was putting away the zero-turn, I heard an almighty roar coming up the hill.
I turned to look, and first a noisy GeezerGlide blatted by, then Kevin, on his monstrously stretched custom, arm upraised in salute.
He tootled the bike’s puny horn, which would never pass muster with my all-knowing brother, and waved at me as he passed.
It appeared to be another $50,000 Rochester-Thunder custom-bike. Two years ago he had another $50,000 custom-bike, a Big Dog.
It had a massive Harley V-twin, hogged out to 114 cubic inches, which he claimed made 152 horsepower — I doubt it; to get that reading it would have to hold together at 8,000+ rpm. Too much weight flinging around — pistons the size of paint-buckets.
It had little muffling — each piston-stroke shook the ground. “Nice!” Kevin exclaimed, as he lit the motor, and then goosed it.
I straddled it and wondered how it ever turned. The front-fork was stretched at least three feet, and angled low to the ground.
The most recent engineering on sport-bikes is to get the front-fork near vertical, so that the motorbike is extremely responsive and will turn on a dime.
Trouble is, the closer to vertical a front-fork gets, the more likely it is to shake its head in the middle of a turn — a wonderful thing to have happen in mid-turn.
My old Ducati (a 1980 900 SuperSport) had conservative geometry; lots of trail. Made it more stable at speed (like 135 mph, which I never did), but made it turn like a Mack truck.
But it wasn’t anything like Kevin’s bike.
“How do you ever turn this thing? It’s wheelbase is at least seven feet.”
“Rides great! Smooooth.....” Kevin said.
Kevin parted with the Big Dog soon after I saw it; mainly because it would lock in second-gear.
Something about the custom tranny; which was special to allow right-hand drive (drive belt on the right side — big Harleys are usually on the left).
He’d start out in first, shift into second; and there it stayed. Couldn’t upshift or downshift. Wound to the moon on the road at 60 mph in second gear, and then try to get it into the garage still in second.
50,000 smackaroos. Around-and-around they went. Mechanics at Rochester-Thunder tried to fix it, but it kept hanging up.
He finally gave up in exasperation; and bought another Rochester-Thunder custom motorbike to replace it.
We heard all about that motorbike last Christmas; it was number-three — Big Dog was number-two.
“This bike is more old-school” — I guess that means a springer front-end, or maybe a girder.
But still a mightily stretched, laid-back front-end, with an 89 bazilyun foot wheelbase.
Actually I wish he’d stopped — I’d like to see what he had.
Linda suggests he’s like a little boy that never grew up — all wild enthusiasms untempered by experience or knowledge.
No doubt the salesman at Rochester-Thunder smiled as he walked out. (“Slap another steak on the grille, Martha.”)

“The zero-turn” is our Husqvarna zero-turn riding lawnmower. (We keep it in a shed.)

“JillZ” is my sister-in-Floridy’s only daughter, Jill Hinderer; by my sister’s first marriage. JillZ is married and divorced, and has a son by that marriage.

I had a stroke October 26, 1993.

“Sue” is my brother-in-Delaware’s wife.

“Linda” is my wife.

RE: “but that ain’t nuthin’; look at J-Mac” refers to my family’s opinion of autism. J-Mac had autism, and was allowed to make a few successful baskets for his high-school basketball team, where he had been a student team-helper. He became known nationwide for that; even got to meet the president.

“GeezerGlide” refers to a Harley-Davidson ElectraGlide. My brother-in-Boston has one, and loudly proclaims that it’s vastly superior. It’s a very laid-back cruiser-bike, and he’s 50; so we call it the “GeezerGlide.”

RE: “Bike’s puny horn.....” I once was riding motorbike with my brother-from-Boston, and my motorbike needed gas. I tried to get his attention by blowing the horn (he was leading, of course), and failed, supposedly because of my puny horn — which couldn’t overcome his blasting the surrounding countryside with Waylon Jennings.

“Tranny” is transmission.

RE: “springer front-end, or maybe a girder......” Most motorcycles nowadays have telescopic front-forks: the front-fork assemblies have the springing and damping inside. Eons ago, some motorbikes had outside springing, with the front-wheel mounted in an articulated girder.

vipers’-den

Yesterday (Wednesday, May 23, 2007) began our dreaded foray into the vipers’-den known as MarketPlace Chrysler-Suzuki.
We’re thinking of trading the CR-V for a Suzuki SX4. (You have to have FlashPlayer to get all the groovy bells-and-whistles.)
MarketPlace Chrysler-Suzuki is one of the 89-bazilyun car dealers along West Henrietta Road (U.S. Route 15) south of Rochester; otherwise infamously known as “auto-row.”
Auto-row is the product of drunken pro-development REPUBLICAN Jim Breese (“Breezy”), also the Henrietta Town-Supervisor.
Breese has been Henrietta Town-Supervisor for eons. I say “drunken” because he’d stagger whiskey-sodden into the Henrietta-office of the bank I worked at, and bellow at all-and-sundry. This is late ‘60s.
No one dared challenge this blowhard, or all the insane overdevelopment he encouraged in his previously rural domain.
Auto-row is what the local anti-development crowd parades whenever local development is proposed. “We sure don’t want our little town looking like West Henrietta Road.” It’s all blaring roadside signs that probably needed a zoning-variance — that Breese probably happily provided for a kickback.
Auto-row actually begins at the southern Rochester city-line, a large Lincoln-Mercury dealer in West Brighton.
But it doesn’t really become serious until south of Brighton-Henrietta Townline Road, and nearby Jefferson Road.
South of Jefferson it’s one car-dealer after another; at least 10.
I don’t know what to compare this to, other than Admiral Wilson Blvd. outside Camden, N.J.
South of the old Lehigh Valley Railroad Rochester-branch, which crossed West Henrietta Road at grade (it’s still there, although operated by Livonia, Avon & Lakeville Railroad, a shortline, and stubs at a lumber-yard), lie the abandoned remains of the vaunted Patrick Pontiac-GMC-Jeep where I bought the Bronco-II.
Patrick Pontiac-GMC-Jeep has since moved farther out West Henrietta Road, and built where an old John Deere farm-supply was, which became a heavy-equipment supply. Patrick has become a glitzy super-dealer, with a skylighted lobby.
Across the street is a Lexus-dealer, that previously tanked, but “auto-row” has since moved out where it is, and Lexus has resurged.
South of the railroad begins a string of car-dealers associated with Dick Dorschel or some guy named Holtz — it’s so confusing I never know which.
Dorschel has a Buick franchise, but also sells Mercedes and BMWs in separate dealerships.
Or maybe BMW is Holtz. Holtz had a Honda-dealership, and is where I heard about the “vicious-coupling” on the AWD Civic-wagon, when I was shopping around for same back in 1990 (our Faithful Hunda was an 1989 AWD Civic-wagon).
The correct pronunciation is “viscous-coupling.” When I heard “vicious-coupling” I walked out laughing. If them guys couldn’t get it right, they lost the sale.
MarketPlace Chrysler-Suzuki stands out like a sore thumb; a standalone loner wedged between Dorschel and Holtz.
It got its name from nearby “MarketPlace Mall;” a gigantical shopping-mall built where the old Ray Hylan FBO private airport had been.
Lots of adjacent locations have been named “MarketPlace;” there’s even a MarketPlace Drive.
We walked warily into MarketPlace Chrysler-Suzuki, and were accosted by no one. In fact, we had to poke around to find a human-being.
MarketPlace Chrysler-Suzuki looked a lot like something out of Los Angeles, or south Floridy — well-scrubbed parking-lots filled with glittering inventory, and a building that looked like an imitation of an Egyptian tomb.
And the shrubbery looked plastic — at least ya don’t have to trim that.
All I could think of was Joni Mitchell’s old paean to lost environment: “Pave paradise; put up a parking-lot — take all the trees, put ‘em in a tree-museum; charge people a dollar-and-a-half just to see ‘em.”
The lobby at MarketPlace Chrysler-Suzuki was divided into two halves: Suzuki on one side, Chrysler on the other.
Both sides were empty, and all the vipers were in a tiny cluttered room off the side of Chrysler-side.
A smiling viper appeared, and gladhanded us. I flashed the business-card of the salesman the cooking-aide for the 93-year-old nosy neighbor bought her SX4 off of. Supposedly a referral gets her a “hunderd” smackaroos.
I had looked at her car, and asked about it.
The salesman was out-to-lunch, so that viper got us an SX4 to road-test.
Seemed okay, but since Linda is the primary driver, it has to not be “a submarine;” i.e. sit too low, with gun-slit windows.
We never did know who viper number-two was, so when we returned, confusion reigned, with various vipers clawing furiously to be the one who fleeced us.
After a muffled shakeout in the cluttered anteroom, viper number-three took over (I guess he was the next on-deck); and seemed flustered that he couldn’t make a sale IMMEDIATELY.
Viper number-one had returned by then, so number-three was a bit distraught he had to hand off to number-one.
My impression is that the SX4 is very small, although it comfortably seats four.
But the space behind the rear-doors is tiny — room for only one dog, not two; even with the rear-seats folded. Even then it would be rather crowded.
The rear-seats also fold up like the CR-V, and partially block entrance to a dog. The remaining floor is flat, but with the Faithful Hunda everything folded flat, including the seats.
Linda is also upset an SX4 probably wouldn’t do any better with gas-mileage than the Faithful Hunda; probably worse. The Faithful Hunda averaged around 29, but had only a 1.6-liter motor. I think the SX4 is two-liter, and probably heavier.
Well, that’s not that much an issue to me — it looks like 28-29 mpg.
But the back-end is rather small — enough to make me look around some more. It ain’t the Faithful Hunda.
We left MarketPlace Chrysler-Suzuki with two handouts — they didn’t have literature specific to the SX4.
What they gave us was a) literature describing the entire Suzuki line — which of course includes cars we don’t want, and b) what appears to be an inside brochure to encourage sales-people; like how to be a complete idiot to make a sale. It listed all the Suzuki complete sales idiots across the country — Seattle to Tuscaloosa.

“The CR-V” is our 2003 Honda CR-V SUV.

My second job out of college was at Lincoln-First bank in Rochester; I was let go, because I wasn’t enough of a viper.

“The Faithful Hunda” is (was) our 1989 AWD Civic-wagon; it used a “viscous-coupling” to allow it to be All-Wheel-Drive, same as the Subaru. It was the best car we ever owned. “Hunda” is because that’s how a fellow bus-driver pronounced “Honda.” (I drove transit buses for Regional Transit Service in Rochester for 16&1/2 years.)

“FBO” is Fixed-Base-Operator. The old Ray Hylan private airport was an FBO.

“The 93-year-old nosy neighbor” lives across the street.

“Hunderd” is how my noisy blowhard brother-in-Boston insists “hundred” is spelled.

“Linda” is my wife.

tillers

The Keed.

I can still see that oily black pillar-of-smoke, TOWERING above that there ship.

Yesterday morning (Monday, May 21, 2007) I ran an errand before going to the Canandaigua YMCA to work out.
Any more we’re showing up at the Y around noon. This is because the gym is nearly empty at that time. Earlier it’s crowded.
The errand was to correct two detriments with our tillers.
-1) was to correct a dropsy-caused disappearance of a pin for the big tiller into the grass; the pin that held the dragbar in position.
Dropsy has been a failing ever since the stroke.
There’s no sense trying to fight it.
Supposedly a large pin dropped into the grass — it’s about two inches long and 3/8th-inch in diameter — should be findable. But we couldn’t find it; even raking the grass.
Years ago my Exacto-knife rolled off the easel at the mighty Mezz and fell onto the floor and disappeared.
I looked for a couple seconds but couldn’t see it.
“Forget about it!” I said. “That’s your lot in life after the stroke. Go get your spare.”
“Baloney,” said Frank, the 400-pound head of paste-up. “Exacto-knives don’t just disappear; it has to be there somewhere.”
He proceeded to tear up carpet, and we found the Exacto-knife.
So yes; that pin is out there somewhere — how much time do I wanna spend poking around for it?
I drop things all the time — it’s my lot in life after the stroke. Just go get another.
-2) was the fact the dragbar on the small tiller was missing.
The small tiller was given to us by the 93-year-old nosy neighbor.
Linda got a small Mantis tiller after my stroke, when we thought our big tiller might be beyond my operating.
But the Mantis is a two-stroke, and likes to soak its plug.
So it sat unused in the garage for a long time, rusting its tine-plates.
The 93-year-old nosy neighbor’s son thought he could get the Mantis running, so we gave it to him — and he got it running.
Meanwhile, the 93-year-old nosy neighbor had gotten the small Honda tiller, which had tine-plates the same size as the Mantis.
So we inquired about buying it, now that the 93-year-old nosy neighbor seems too frail to operate it.
They subsequently gave it to us. The 93-year-old nosy neighbor’s son had given them the Mantis in working condition.
But they had lost the dragbar.
And rather than have them poke all over for a missing part to a thing they had given us, and since I had to get a another pin for the big tiller, I decided to get a dragbar for the small tiller.
It only cost about five smackaroos.

“The mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I once worked.

When I first worked there, which was before computerization, the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper pasted-up each page; waxed copy/etc. on cardboard page-dummies.

“The 93-year-old nosy neighbor” is our neighbor across the street. (He’ll be 94 in July.)

tacos

Last night (Sunday, May 20, 2007) we had tacos for supper.
I’ve yet to feel positive about this, since I have no idea exactly what tacos are supposed to taste like.
My only experience with tacos is Taco-Bell (BONG......), and that was long ago.
This is our third or fourth attempt at homemade tacos, prompted by two things: a) we had a mix, and b) at our first attempt Taco-Bell was under investigation for delivering tainted food.
To me, they only qualify as tacos because they’re served in soft tortillas.
What’s inside is a gooey mass of cooked ground-beef in packaged taco-seasoning, to which we add chopped lettuce and tomato.
Last night I mixed in the remainder of the Ortega taco-sauce Marcy recommended.
Marcy is an authority on Mexican food, since her mother was a high-school Spanish-teacher. Marcy also lived a while in Los Angeles, a hotbed of Mexican food.
Ortega taco-sauce is what I would buy, as it tastes like Taco-Bell’s (BONG......) “border sauce.”
But Taco-Bell is a fast-food joint; although to me better than most.
Our homemade tacos always seem to have too much filling.
This time we ate two tacos each instead of one.
But even then; too much filling — I think our first attempt half got put into the freezer.
And mixed in the lettuce cooks down and contributes to gooiness.
We also add shredded cheese, which melts.
Despite that, our grand experiment will continue. Taco-Bell (BONG......) is an extra trip, and has too much cheese.
I suppose the onliest place to get a decent taco is El Pacifico restaurant north of Canandaigua. I’ve attended quite a few Messenger parties there, and they serve authentic Mexican fare.

“Messenger” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I once worked.

“Marcy” worked next to me at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper.

hitchhikers

Last Monday (May 14, 2007), traveling to the Canandaigua YMCA, I passed a rather disgruntled-looking hitchhiker on 5&20 just went of Canandaigua.
She was seated atop her crumbling suitcase, and sullenly extended her thumb as I passed.
I used to hitchhike quite a bit, although I haven’t done so in years. In fact, I haven’t picked up hitchhikers in years.
It became too dangerous, and I wasn’t carrying a loaded 44-magnum in my lap.
In fact, I don’t carry a gun in my car, and don’t even own a gun.
Most hitchhiking I did was at Houghton, which is somewhat an aberration, since those that picked you up often knew you.
Even though I had The Beast, I’d hitch to the supermarket in Fillmore, the next town north.
And in November of 1963 (or 1964), my friend (and Houghton classmate) Charlie Gardiner and I decided to hitchhike all the way from Houghton to Boston — actually Harvard, where a past friend and 1963 Houghton-graduate, Charlie Green, was matriculated in Harvard Divinity School.
By now Gardiner may have forgotten about it, but not me. It was one of those incredible events you remember all your life.
Step One was getting to the New York State Thruway; probably a couple of hitches.
On the Thruway we hitched a ride with some salesman in a Volkswagen Beetle. It was clear across the state.
Charlie drove part way; he claimed familiarity with Beetles.
Finally we got left off, probably when the guy turned south at Albany toward New York City; and we continued east into Massachusetts.
I remember standing next to some lonely rural tollbooth at midnight, freezing and stomping about in a light dusting of snow.
Finally we were picked up by some guy in a new full-size Chevy with a 283 four-speed. He was headed to Westover Air-Force Base, maybe two stops east.
I remember bemoaning it wasn’t a 409, but what it was, of course, was warmth.
More rides took us all the way to Harvard, where we found Charlie Green’s apartment and knocked on his door at 3 a.m.
Groggy Charlie, despite being totally zonked, was thrilled to see us.
We yammered until 5 p.m. the next day, finally sacking out on the floor.
For the next day or two we traveled all over the Boston area in Green’s humble ‘54 Bel Air; including some funky second-floor restaurant that served family-style, the House of the Seven Gables, and some downtown key-shop that surreptitiously cut us keys for the Houghton barn.
We even attended the urban church in Lynn where Green was student-pastor. He tried to shepherd a youth-group of obvious malcontents. It was a joke! They were bored silly.
Finally, after a couple days, Gardiner and I were standing at a Mass-pike interchange in nearby Cambridge to begin our return to Houghton.
It may have only been one ride; all the way to Rochester — except that going to Rochester was roundabout.
I also recall a Toronado, which doesn’t make sense, since the first Toros were 1966.
Whatever; we rode all the way into Rochester, and from there began hitching south.
Back then the main road into Rochester was West Henrietta Road, U.S. Route 15 — I-390 hadn’t been built yet.
Route 15 was also Mt. Hope Ave., and one hitch took us from out of Rochester to West Henrietta Road.
There we walked up the long hill that comes down into the area, but is deceptive, since it also comes back down the other side.
We were picked up by a rather plain fat-girl in a black 1949 Chevrolet four-door fastback.
It was raining, and I think she may have carried us all the way back to Houghton.

“5&20” is the main east-west road through our area; State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20 combined on a single road.

“Houghton College” is the college I graduated from in 1966.

“The Beast” is my first car, a rather rudimentary, but very fast, 1958 Triumph fish-mouth TR3.

“283” is Chevrolet’s revolutionary Small-Block, introduced in the 1955 model-year. “409” was a hotrodded version of Chevrolet’s 348 cubic-inch truck-motor; introduced in the 1961 model-year. 283 and 409 are the cubic-inch displacements. (The 348 was introduced in 1958 — totally unrelated to the Small-Block.)

RE: “Keys for the Houghton barn......” Houghton College had an old barn off-campus where they stored everything. Charlie (and/or I) had been given keys to the barn to use it to build a class-float inside. We had keys cut so we could access the barn on-the-sly.

It's hard to keep a straight face......

Every night I try to take our dog Killian for a walk before supper.
I figure it’s the least I can do. The stroke makes me not relate to the dog very well. I’m a dog-person, but rather distant. I feel badly that Killian is suffering the effects of my stroke.
So here we are at dusk walking up the road (State Route 65) to Michael Prouty Park, a rather turgid treeless assemblage of soccer and lacrosse and baseball fields. Killian is hunting: hoovering all the brush and grass.
Quite often the park is filled with bloated minivans and SUVs and Hummers, parents yelling for their kids to “poke-poke-poke” in lacrosse. It’s all about intimidation, baby!
The fields were empty tonight (Friday, May 18, 2007), but a passel of minivans was assembled at the pavilion — an open shelter full of picnic-tables surrounded by pull-down garage-doors.
That pavilion is the onliest building in the park; and the onliest place to escape if it rains (or snows); or from the wind.
The soccer-fields are surrounded by a rectangular stony path of crusher-run.
What I try to do is walk Killian around that path, although he likes to cut across the field.
We usually always cut through the pavilion — which tonight was the location of a cub-scout ceremony.
A droll pack-leader was at an improvised podium, and a fire was crackling in an outside burn-barrel. Parents and uniformed scouts were seated at the picnic-tables, or standing along the perimeter of the pavilion.
A great ceremony was taking place — it was all I could do to keep Killian from barging right through the middle of it. What usually happens is that the dog walks me — we’ve never had a dog that pulls like Killian.
“We are gathered here to award Jason with the Wolf-pack badge; the first step in the scout badge program.”
“As you all know, scouting is a parent program too. So you as Jason’s parents can be proud that Jason has achieved the Wolf-pack badge. We therefore honor you with this little silver pin that you can wear with pride.” (It’ll end up in the Flint landfill.)
We had passed the pavilion and were walking away. Droll pack-leader was receding in the distance.
“Now, to celebrate this great achievement, I ask you to all do the wolf howl.”
40 voices upraised: “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!”

The landfill in nearby Flint is where area trash is dumped.

Sure drove like a Dubya-supporter...........

So here I am this morning (Friday, May 18, 2007) placidly driving to the vaunted Canandaigua YMCA; and I have two letters to mail.
We have taken to returning the “business-reply” mail; usually it’s credit-card applications, although one last week was a solicitation for Hilary-dillery.
We used to do this — if they wanna bother us with various solicitations, they can just pay the return-postage on their “business-reply” envelopes. It’s also revenue for my wife’s employer.
But we stopped when processing the mail ate up so much time — like when we both worked.
Mailing something means going through the Bloomfield post-office to deposit in their drop-box.
As I pulled in, Grandpop was blindly backing his Freestar away from the post-office — right in front of me — he hadn’t looked at all.
Well; no problem. It’s a BIG LOT; so I’ll go around him.
To get to the drop-box means turning left; like in front of Grandpop.
But I know all-too-well what might happen. Predictably, Grandpop keeps moving slowly forward, and then lunges left himself to exit the lot.
Didn't look at all. I had to stop to keep from driving into him.
As he disappeared, I looked at the tailgate of the Freestar, but NO DUBYA-STICKER.
Funny; he sure drove like a Dubya-supporter.
Maybe they’re tearing the things off now that angry veterans want us to disengage from a war that was little more than a diversion from failed national policies, and reconciliation with Daddy.

“Hilary-dillery” is of course Hilary Clinton.

My wife works part-time at the post-office.

I am retired; my wife semi-retired.

“DUBYA-STICKER” is Bush-Cheney 2004.

RE: “You got hosed.”

Yes, I’m sure we did.
$22,102 is almost the cost of a GeezerGlide, and might make the down-payment on a 454 Chevelle that only burns gas that costs $7.99 per gallon — by now probably more.
A primary factor was at play here, that put the kabosh on competitive bidding, namely that doing so would have tripled, probably quadrupled, the lead-up time, so that replacement windows would have got put off yet another year.
Well, our windows are disgusting enough, and I don’t feel entitled to make my wife endure an IED faucet for five years. —It’s bad enough she has to endure a stroke-survivor.
If we had bid the job, we might have saved 5,000 smackaroos, but I’m sure we would have been comparing apples to oranges.
E.g. bronze exterior finish is not available for a $5,000 saving.
So we decided to peruse with a major Rochester window-replacement company, that offered availability of options and prompt scheduling for a price.
Kind of like your opting to buy a Harley-Davidson.
Monty Python and his Merry Pranksters lick their lips lustily in slavering anticipation: “Slap another steak on the grill, Martha. Here comes another one of them macho swaggering pretenders with stars in his eyes, anxious to buy into the whole noisy Harley schtick. Faux rebellion and bombast equal food on our table.”
Yep; that there faucet can just wait. If it floods the kitchen, Lynn-Ellen can just clean it up.

“You got hosed” was my blowhard brother-in-Boston’s response to our gigantic window-replacement contract, $22,102 for 19 units, half “new construction,” including four doors.

“The GeezerGlide” is my brother-in-Boston’s Harley-Davidson ElectraGlide, “GeezerGlide” because it is a laid-back cruiser-bike; unlike my bike (a Honda CBR600RR), which is a sport-bike. He of course continually bad-mouths my bike, noisily insisting I should buy a Harley (“a man’s motorbike”).

My brother-in-Boston also owns a classic 1971 454 Chevelle.

Years ago, I visited my brother-in-Boston and encountered a junky faucet on his kitchen-sink, that needed to be replaced. He allowed that it wasn’t replaced for another five years. I called it the “IED faucet;” much like the “Improvised-Explosive-Devices” in Iraq.

I had a stroke October 26, 1993.

The dealer my brother-in-Boston bought his ElectraGlide at was “Monty’s.”

“Lynn-Ellen” is my brother’s wife.

5/16/07

The Keed.

3683 Sanitaire Mighty-Mite canister vacuum-cleaner with telescoping wand.

-And so concludes the frenzied and difficult search for a canister vacuum-cleaner, a search that included hours of online searching, and many fruitless shopping-trips.
My wife was leading this effort — she’s the one that takes this cleaning-thing seriously, and has had all-too-much experience with pretenders.
Most at play is that our shop-vac is a disaster — lotta racket for no performance. It’s bagless, and its filter clogs with concrete-dust within seconds of turning it on, so that after that it’s useless — i.e. within seconds. The vacuum-salesman says that doesn’t sound right — that concrete-dust shouldn’t clog the filter; but it does, and that seems entirely predictable.
Other factors were at play here; like a) the bags on most small canister vacuums were too small; which would require frequent changing; and b) that bag-changing would get dust all over — like what was the point of HEPA-filtration when ya dumped dust all over just changing the bag?
Another factor was that tools and hoses were rather chintzy on small vacuums — and the unit we bought today (Wednesday, May 16, 2007; my brother Jack’s 50th birthday) has a hose that doesn’t pass muster.
The hoses on everything any more are cheap plastical fabrications that aren’t very flexible, so that they “knock things over” when being dragged about.
But ya can’t buy a decent hose any more. What we bought today is not as disgusting as the hose on the shop-vac, but it’s still a plastical hose.
Part of Linda’s Internet research led to various brands that weren’t available locally, and could only be purchased online — which means who knows what you’re getting until it appears? “I’d rather see it in-the-flesh,” she said. Which to me is quite reasonable; I too have had experience in getting some disgusting hairball without ever seeing it in-the-flesh.
So here we are at “American Maintenance Supply” in deepest, darkest Henrietta looking at a 3683 Sanitaire Mighty-Mite canister vacuum-cleaner.
We had already been to both Wal*Mart and Sears, where we saw units with HEPA filtration that disgorged dust all over when changing bags.
Wal*Mart had mostly standing floor-models, which we of course don’t want (how ya supposed to get a floor-model inside a car?). —Plus 89 bazilyun units that look like rejects from the Star Wars cantina set.
Wal*Mart had only two tiny canisters, both bagless; both of which evaluate horribly on the Internet.
Sears had more canisters, but they suffer from small bags, and other detriments — like a profusion of power-wands.
American Maintenance Supply is a supplier of commercial cleaning equipment, and the 3683 Sanitaire Mighty-Mite is a commercial unit.
“In-the-flesh” it seemed more sensible than anything else we’ve seen, but a) the hose was still plastic, and b) the bristles on the floor-brush seemed stiffer than what we’ve had in the past.
Our new central-vac is using the fittings original to our old Nutone central-vac, and the bristles on the floor-brush on that are softer — which may seem rather silly to an ordinary person, but not to a cleaning-lady.
So $134.95 for a 3683 Sanitaire Mighty-Mite canister vacuum-cleaner. They have a cheaper Mighty-Mite, but it has cheaper fittings (that don’t pass muster). Compromises are a) the plastical hose, and b) the too-stiff bristles on the floor-brush. But a) the floor-brush wand telescopes, so can be individualized in length, and b) our old Nutone floor-brush fits the Mighty-Mite wand.
So the only thing that doesn’t pass muster is the plastical hose, and Linda will try to find a better hose on the dreaded Internet.
Naturally we set the “new toy” up as soon as we got it home.
“How do you insert the bag?” Linda asked.
She inserted the bag and then began closing off a cardboard flap that covers the inlet to keep the dust in when removing the bag.
“You’re closing off the inlet,” I said.
Thank goodness for a Liberial-Arts education.

-We had a thunderstorm last night, which knocked the power off for about a minute.
The stand-by has a 30-second delay, so we were in the dark for a short while.
Well, no matter, the ‘pyooters were off, and we can live in the dark for a few seconds waiting for the stand-by to kick on.
But the new DVD-machine is a hairball. Kill the power at all and its clock resets to August 8, 2003, and drops back almost an hour. The timer also screws up its settings — it drops one, and adds another for the time it is, plus 10 minutes.
Um, our old VCR didn’t do that. Kill the power and battery backup held everything for an hour or so.
And there ain’t some preference I can set whereby it holds everything. There must be a battery-backup of some sort to hold the settings it holds.
“They don’t make things like they used to,” Linda says. The power dives and I have to reset the whole stinkin’ kabosh. Plus our old VCR had a “reality-regenerator” button.

“Jack” is my younger macho blowhard brother-in-Boston, who loudly bad-mouths everything I do or say.

“Linda” is my wife, the so-called “cleaning-lady.”

“Henrietta” is a crowded suburb south of Rochester. “American Maintenance Supply” was a low garage-doored facility along a crowded industrial strip.

My brother-in-Boston loudly excoriates me for a “Liberial-Arts education.” He claims the spelling of “Liberal” is “Liberial.” He trained as an engineer; and is therefore vastly superior.

We have a “stand-by” electrical-power generator.

The “DVD-machine” is a combination VCR and DVD player and recorder.

We never did know what the “reality-regenerator button” did, although we pushed it once and strange things happened at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I once worked; and in Ashburnham, Mass., residence of a guy I graduated from college with back in 1966.

“I give up.........”

Yesterday morning (Tuesday, May 15, 2007), since it started raining, and we were unable to walk our dog at the so-called elitist country-club, we were forced to delve into a huge mountain of ‘pyooter processing.
Both our Quicken checking and charge accounts needed to be updated, and the charge-account needed to be reconciled (balanced).
I also needed to cut a check to a charity — a Quicken check-print — but that means also updating my Excel taxes (Schedule-A) spreadsheet.
I also had three online orders to try. Great idea that. Save shopping all over, often for naught; just order the stuff online.
Even cut the phone-clerk out of the transaction, and get an e-mail notification.
But I’m only batting about 60%; and yesterday only successfully completed one attempt out of three.
I’ve learned to do my online ordering with Internet-Explorer, since online ordering often locks up my other browsers (i.e. their site wasn’t configured for Netscape or Firefox). And this is despite Internet-Explorer being my least stable browser — I often have to “force-quit.”

My first order was for a motorcycle T-shirt (Indian), and went better than last time when their site was bog-slow.

My second order was a sportscar T-shirt (Alfa-Romeo), and that crashed when their site kept circling me back to set up an account.
“What do I want to set up an account for? I’m only gonna be ordering this one time. It ain’t like I’m gonna order five T-shirts per year.”
Around-and-around we went. Seems the powers-that-be at these sites, in a fevered desire to put food on the table, wanna make you an account.
Finally, “I give up,” I said. “If I wasn’t that desperate to buy the T-shirt, and your site is so unfriendly, forget it!”
“Why don’t you just call up their 800-number,” my wife called out from the kitchen. “Sometimes it makes more sense to talk to a human-being.”
“Welcome to Speedgear; your source for glittering trinkets, baubles, and other car-racing paraphernalia that will boost your virility. If you want to order a catalog, press one now. If you want to order an item, press two now.”
I pressed two, and immediately was accosted by a ‘pyooter-like Californy-girl — probably in her early 20s, and angry to pursue her self-imposed prompt-sheet.
“What would you like to order?” she snapped.
“Your customer-number please.......? It’s on the face of the catalog.”
I fumbled around — we’re parrying an angry automaton.
I was tempted to hang up; perhaps slam the phone down on the receiver.
“And what would you like to order, Mr. Hughes?”
“Well, let’s see. I have to find the page the item was on.” Obviously I was driving her up the wall with my trying to find the page. Probably delaying her donut-break. (OOOPS; that’s the cops. Make that chocolate latte.)
“RCR1101,” I said; “a red Alfa-Romeo T-shirt, size medium.”
“And how will you be paying?” she snapped.
I read back our entire Visa-account number, the expiration-date, and the security-code on the back.
“You have a credit outstanding for $4.61; should I apply that?”
“Funny,” I said. “The last time I ordered anything from you guys was over five years ago. A Ferrari mouse-pad.”
“Please hold during the silence: ‘boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka..........’” She apparently did some research as to why I had the credit.
“Sorry, Mr. Hughes. I have no idea what it is. It’s out of our system.”
“Your verification number is 1914-615689.”
“Can you send me an e-mail?” I asked.
“Can’t do it,” she snapped; “not when I just gave you a verification number.”

I get e-mails occasionally from online outlets that wanna get me to purchase stuff so they can put food on the table. Essential-Apparel is one, the place I got my Lee jeans from online before. They were having a sale on the kind of Lee jeans I get; so since my current jeans are on the verge of wearing out, I thought I might order replacements.
Clicking the link on the e-mail sent me directly to their Lee jeans order page, so I started ordering.
Internet-Explorer has an auto-fill feature (my other browsers might too), which is rather convenient, but I have it set up to fill in the phone-number with hyphens, and my Zip-code as the nine digit thingy with the last four digits (the sub Zip-code) separated from the first five digits (my Zip-code) by a hyphen — the way the post-office does it.
But apparently some sites don’t like that....... This one was burping over the hyphens in my phone-number, so I deleted them.
Then it was burping about the hyphen in my zip-code, so I deleted that.
Then the order processed and burped over my zip-code being nine digits instead of five. The whole thing crashed mightily in flames and displayed a cryptic error-message in strident HTML gibberish.
So I went back, and tried to delete the last four digits of the zip-code (the sub-zip), but it wouldn’t let me.
“I give up,” I finally said. “If you guys won’t let me fix the zip-code, you’ve lost the sale. Ice-flow for you guys. You can just stand on the corner with a tin cup. I’ll get my Lee jeans at Penney’s or Sears.”
I tried a second time, and it still had the earlier contents of my cart, and the errant zip-code, which I couldn’t fix.
I’m hoping it all times out, so I can try again this afternoon (Wednesday, May 16, 2007; one day later; Jack’s birthday — he’s made 50; geezerdom).

“The so-called elitist country-club” is nearby Boughton Park, called that long ago by an editor at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I once worked, because it would only allow residents of the three towns that own it to use it.

“Schedule-A” is a federal income-tax form.

“Jack” is my loud-mouthed brother-in-Boston, who excoriates everything I do or say.

1200-series buses

GM “New-Look.”

This morning’s (Sunday, May 13, 2007; Mothers Day) Transit dream was about our old 1200-series buses.
The 1200s were a variation of GM’s “New-Look” buses, also called the “goldfish bowls;” called that because of their huge expanse of curved windshield-glass.
The “New-Look” buses hit the market in 1959, and lasted through 1977, when GM’s new “RTS” hit the market.
As such, quite a few “New-Looks” were still on the property when I started in 1977, and in fact 18 were ordered in 1976 — after which they became unavailable, much to Transit’s sorrow.
Most of our service was performed by Flxible “New Looks:” the 500-series, what I called the “Flxible-Flyers.”
Primary of the GM “New-Looks” were about 20 wide-100s, #s 151-171; and they were the 102-inch width.
A few 1000s and 1100s were left, and the 1200-series: #s 1201-1236; which I think were 1966. All had the 6-71 V6 Detroit two-cycle diesel; unturbocharged — and a two-speed automatic tranny. (500s too.)
The 1200s were smaller — probably only 30-35 feet (instead of 40) — and therefore a shorter wheelbase.
1200s were therefore easier to drive — not as much swing required.
They were generally relegated to westside routes, where you didn’t need as much capacity, and the vaunted 16-Crosstown route, which had many 90° corners.
The dream was about 1217, called the “pumpkin;” who knows why.....
1217 and 1231 were our Bicentennial buses; 1217 was navy-blue with white stars.
I used to call both 1217 and 1231 “the flags.”
I was loathe to drive either one, although inside they were the basic puke-green of all transit buses. (Our 1000s were baby-blue.)
By the time I started the 12s were already junk; worn to a frazzle.
A 12 was kind of a penalty-box: woozy performance and slow.
There also was a pretty fair chance a 12 would cripple; in which case you gotta placate angry commuters.
The 12s may have been our first buses without the low-air dingle; although that may have been the wide-100s.
What would happen is that a low reading on the gauge would cripple the bus. —Which is okay, but what if it’s an errant gauge? Once as an extra-man I drove a cripple back to the barns with the gauge screaming at me. Everything was fine except the gauge.
1217 and 1231 were eventually painted back to regular Transit colors; Bicentennial no more.
1217 had apparently been given a new motor when made a Bicentennial bus, which is why it lasted as long as it did.
In fact, I think 1217 was Transit’s final 12.
In the dream I was driving 1217, and it ran strong; like a Flxible-Flyer.

I drove Transit-bus for Regional Transit Service in Rochester, New York from 5/20/77 through 10/25/93 (the day before my stroke); 16&1/2 years.

RE: “puke-green......” Everyone in my family refers to light-green as “puke-green.”

The best buses I ever drove were the “Flxible-Flyers;” basic bus; hardly ever crippled. But compared to a GM-bus they leaned a lot in turns. May not have had anti-rollbars, whereas the GMs did.

Saturday shenanigans........

-1) This morning (Saturday, May 12, 2007) we took our dog Killian to the so-called elitist country-club to walk the trails.
We had completed about half the circuit when we came upon a large black dog apparently named “Oz.”
The dog was wandering around loose with no owner in sight. So I got the loose dog’s collar, but I also had Killian, who broke free and escaped.
He took off in hot pursuit into the woods, dragging his retractable leash, which tangled in trees.
Oz weighed at least 100 pounds — a very big dog. Appeared to be a labrador perhaps mixed with a mastiff.
We carry a spare leash, so Oz got put on that leash.
No one we passed knew of anyone looking for a lost dog, so we made it all the way back to the parking-lot.
Oz had a rabies-tag, but it was West Virginny.
Later we noticed a New York dog-registration riveted to his collar, plus another tag with his name and a phone-number.
Linda was leery of putting Oz into the Bucktooth Bathtub, aware that Killian might go bonkers.
It’s happened before.
So I took a stab at calling the phone-number from my cellphone, and got a lady who didn’t appear to know the dog was lost.
“I’ll be right over,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
Turns out Oz was the dog of the guy who owns the private golf-course next to the park — the course-dog.
“He follows the golfers, and then wanders off into the park.”
-2) Years ago I got pallets from the mighty Mezz.
The Messenger’s newsprint rolls come on wooden pallets, so pallets are “free to a good home.”
Most become firewood, but our mulch-pile is constructed of pallets, and the step to the rear man-door of our garage has a pallet underneath.
A couple weeks ago I got five more, because our original pallets were rotten.
So the new ones replaced the old ones, which were to be tossed.
The Town of West Bloomfield has a Transfer-Station, where the rotting pallets were to be taken.
A graying, yellow-toothed attendant with a huge beer-gut was manning the Transfer-Station, jawing with all-and-sundry.
We heaved our rotting pallets onto the scrap-wood pile, and yellow-tooth asked where we lived.
“Across from Habecker” (HAH-becker), I said. Habecker is the 93-year-old nosy neighbor.
“Oh, I know that guy,” yellow-tooth said. “He was our milkman growing up.”
“Ya also need to sign my book; and I’ll need to see your card,” he said.
“What card?” I asked.
“Ya get ‘em from the Town Clerk; ask for one and she’ll give it to you free.”
“Our last visit was 10-15 years ago, and we didn’t need a card then,” Linda said.
Apparently it’s proof you’re a resident, and can therefore use the vaunted Transfer-Station.
A large pile of discarded refrigerators was off to one side — I almost took a picture.
Soon those refrigerators will join the other discards at the vaunted refrigerator-dump along old Route 220 north of Altoony.

“The so-called elitist country-club” is nearby Boughton Park, called that long ago by an editor at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper because it would only allow residents of the three towns that own it to use it.

“Linda” is my wife.

“The Bucktooth Bathtub” is our 2005 Toyota Sienna van, called that because it’s white, and like sitting in a bathtub, and it has what appears to be a single bucktooth on the grill.

“The mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I once worked.

We live in “The Town of West Bloomfield.”

RE: “other discards at the vaunted refrigerator-dump along old Route 220 north of Altoony.” Our route to Altoona, Pennsylvania to visit Horseshoe Curve, the best railfan-spot I’ve ever visited, is along the old U.S. Route 220, north of Altoona. A waymarker along the route is a large junkyard of discarded appliances. The refrigerators stand out.

We can just imagine what woulda happened if I had taken a picture of them refrigerators. Yellow-tooth woulda called in Home-Security.

Jetsam

-1) We were listening to the TV-news the other night, a report on the tornado devastation in Greensburg, Kansas.
They were interviewing a flabby, bespectacled 83-year-old Granny sitting in her wheelchair amidst the ruins, breathing oxygen through small clear plastic tubing to her nose.
“Well; I survived the DEE-pression,” she said; “and then went on to make the world safe for democracy. And after that I looked for Russian bombers from the local fire-tower.”
“Wait a minute!” I said. She’s reprising the exact same litany Linda’s mother has said.
Do people from that generation have that etched on their brain?

-2) I had to hit mighty Weggers after the YMCA to buy spinach.
While there I passed a man wearing an “I survived the ‘60s” T-shirt. It had a graphic of a psychedelic-painted Volkswagen bus.
I was tempted to collar him but didn’t.
“I survived the ‘50s,” I would have said.

-3) The cashier at Weggers forgot to process my Shoppers’-Club key-tag — a fairly common occurrence; it means a trip to the service-desk.
Shoppers’-Club is an 80¢ discount on a gallon of milk.
I get out the key-tag first, and put it on the counter for them to see.
No doubt this will prompt noisy blustering from West Bridgewater that I ain’t satisfactorily apprising the clerk — and thereby avoiding responsibility; that I’m therefore reprehensible and disgusting.
But I don’t think the equivalent of noisily smacking the clerk with a ballpeen would be as useful, and tactful, as avoiding the key-tag altogether, and swiping my wallet Shoppers’-Club card together with our credit-card.
That takes the harried cashier outta the loop.

-4) A lady is working-out at the YMCA whose left-arm is limp, and she appears to be wearing a brace on her left-leg.
She fell into waiting for me to finish cranking a Nautilus-machine.
“Are ya gonna be a while?” she asked.
“Almost done,” I said.
I subsequently got off and started wiping the machine with a paper-towel.
“I’d like to ask you a personal question,” I said.
“Did you have a stroke?”
“Yes.”
“Well so did I,” I said.
“You must have got the shot,” she said.
“No shot,” I said. “My whole left side was outta commission, but came back.”
“You’re very lucky,” she said.
“Also ornery,” I said.
“Well I’m ornery too.” she said; “but still no left-arm, and the stroke was five years ago.”
“Sounds like you may never get it back,” I said sorrowfully.
“All strokes are different,” she said.

-5) After I finish the treadmill, which is my first function, I usually have to go to the bathroom — accumulated coffee and orange-juice.

The Ducati-logo on my T-shirt.

The bathroom is accessed by leaving the exercise-gym and walking down a hall past a water-fountain (the one with the admonition against spitting and gum-deposit).
Returning from the bathroom I passed a couple muscle-bound dudes using the water-fountain.
“Do you have a Ducati?” one asked.

The Giugiaro Ducati-icon — the best one. This is the one that was on my motorcycle.

I looked around thinking “What brought that on? I’m not wearing my Ducati-jacket. The dude would have to have seen me in my Ducati-jacket.”
“Oh yeah, I’m wearing my Ducati T-shirt;” the one with the ancient Ducati icon from the ‘50s and ‘60s — before Giugiaro.
“Used to,” I said. “Black-and-gold 1980 900SS. Never should have let it go.”

“Linda” is my wife — her 91-year-old mother lives in a retirement-community in De Land, Floridy.

“Mighty Weggers” (Wegmans) is a supermarket we buy groceries at.

My macho younger blowhard brother lives in West Bridgewater near Boston, Mass. He loudly bad-mouths everything I do or say. He has a habit of fixing things with a ballpeen hammer.

“Giorgetto Giugiaro’s” ItalDesign was hired by Ducati to style its motorcycles in the early ‘70s, including the logo.

Ferrari 365 GTS/4

1973 Ferrari 365GTS/4.

The May 2007 entry of my Oxman sports-car calendar is a red ‘73 Ferrari 365 GTS/4 “Daytona” spyder (pictured), the convertible version of the fabulous Ferrari 365GTB/4 Berlinetta coupe, perhaps the most fabulous road-Ferrari of all time.
Wags say it’s the most fabulous front-engined Ferrari. After it Ferrari fell into building mid-engined road-cars, following the direction of racing.
One fabulous mid-engined Ferrari was the Testarossa; Danny Wegman has one. My brother Jack and I saw one in Boston, and queried the salesman about giving us the car to take apart.
Most importantly, the 365GTB/4 is a V12; a shining example of truest prancing-horse tradition.
“Daytona” in quotes, because Daytona was never an official Ferrari name.
Ferrari placed 1,2 and 3 in the 1967 Daytona 24-hours, a year before the new coupe was to be introduced, so people were expecting the new coupe to be called that.
But it never was. The nickname stuck, though; even though it wasn’t an official Ferrari name.
I never was that enamored of the 365GTB/4; it’s not as pretty as earlier Ferraris.
Worst of all was the partially retracting headlights: they don’t completely disappear.
Another problem is the front pancake styling, which squashes the trademark Ferrari egg-crate grill.
I remember when it came out thinking it looked rather moribund, like something from Detroit. It sure wasn’t as pretty as earlier Ferraris, like the 275 GTB/4.

Gurney and the Kirk White Daytona in Huntington Beach, Californy.

In 1971 a blue Ferrari 365GTB/4, co-driven by Car and Driver magazine Senior Editor Brock Yates, and retired Grand-Prix racer Dan Gurney, won the first Cannonball Baker Sea-to-Shining-Sea Memorial Trophy Dash, New York City to Huntington Beach, Californy in 35 hours, 54 minutes.
Gurney was ticketed for doing 135 mph on a 70-mph interstate, which the 365GTB/4 could do in safety and comfort.
The car was owned and sponsored by Kirk F. White of Philadelphia, and painted the same color as the Penske/Donohue Trans-Am Sunoco-Camaros he sponsored.
I think that Daytona still exists — at least I’ve seen it.

“Testarossa” is red-head. The motor had cylinder-head covers painted red. In the middle ‘50s there was a Ferrari Testarossa racing-car, but it was front-engined. The later Testarossa was in honor of the earlier ones.

“Danny Wegman,” son of founder Robert Wegman, is the president of Wegmans Food Markets (“mighty Weggers”), one of the supermarkets we buy groceries at. Danny is a car-guy; he used to street-race a 454 Chevelle.

“Jack” (“the almighty Bluster-King”) is my macho blowhard brother-in-Boston.

final installment

And so concludes the final installment of my dreaded Introductory Excel class..... (Three two-hour classes totaling six hours.)
......which despite all the noisy blustering and fevered breast-beating about amazing feats of ‘pyooter-superiority; was INTERESTING PERSONALLY TO ME.
I’m sure my siblings are much more experienced in Excel than I am. After all, it’s an application they use at work.
What they don’t crank at work is Quark and Freehand and Photoshop.
What Excel I’ve driven has only been for our personal use — the Excel spreadsheets for our taxes. We weren’t doing fabulous pivot-tables on nuclear-garage-expansion.
Nor operation of a nuclear-generator.
We managed to get Excel to total the Schedule-A items despite lack of a manual — sounds sorta like what Elz is doing with condo-expenses; and Vast with the famblee budget.
Doesn’t sound like they are doing the supreme ‘pyooter shenanigans of my other brothers for work — particularly the one in Boston who loudly asserts ‘pyooter-superiority; and seems to be insecure about anything I do or say.
Yet despite my not needing to do ‘pyooter shenanigans, plus a brain-injury; we managed to get Excel to do what we needed — which wasn’t to score points.
But there was too much we didn’t know about Excel due to the lack of a manual — and a brain-to-pick like I had at the mighty Mezz for Quark and Photoshop and Word.
So I decided to take this here course — not a return to school like the almighty Bluster-King loudly claims — but to IMPROVE what we could already do with Excel.
End result: end-of-month processing reduced from about 15-20 minutes to about a minute; which to me justifies taking the course.
A secondary side-effect was learning how to make charts (pie-charts, bar-graphs, etc.) These are things I’ll never use, but INTERESTING only because I’ve seen them and thought they looked pretty.
My source was that lady on the Boughton Park Board. I figured that if she could make them, so could I.
Well, LA-DEE-DAH! This isn’t doing extraordinary manipulation to discern how a dummie should expand a nuclear-garage.
Yet it wasn’t the almighty Bluster-King who removed Elz’s knees.
So what I’m saying (and I’m sure this will prompt a tirade of noisy breast-beating) is I REALLY DON’T CARE if the almighty Bluster-King can do more than me in Excel.
I’m only trying to better myself in Excel; to better be able to apply it.
I have yet to see graphical manipulation of any sort from West Bridgewater; in fact NUTIN’.
It was ME that took out Elz’s knees; not even Vast or 44 — and I see no reason why they couldn’t. Photoshop (or Photo-Deluxe, WHATEVER) ain’t rocket-science.
All ya have to be is INTERESTED enough to do it, or NEED TO DO IT for work.
At the mighty Mezz there was plenty of NEED TO DO, but many put it off because THEY WEREN’T INTERESTED.
Jack-a-Bill-a-Vast-a-Elz-a-Peg-a-Paul are INTERESTED; AS-AM-I (and Outlaw). And I’m INTERESTED despite a brain-injury.
The mighty Mezz is still using my stockbox. (And up to a few months ago, Boughton Park was still using my brochure; and in fact, their new brochure has what I wrote.)
So far I’ve had THREE (or four) ‘pyooter-courses: at least two in Photoshop (one combined Photoshop and Freehand), and one in DreamWeaver. Most of what I know about Photoshop (and Quark and Word, for that matter) was figured-out without benefit of a class.
So far this here Excel-class was the BEST I've ever had; and I said so, and suggested a similar class in Photoshop; since there still a number-of-things I don’t understand there.
To suggest such a class indicates INTEREST; after all, what use do I have for it except manipulation of famblee-site faux pas. Ya don’t need Photoshop to build a nuclear-garage.

RE: “nuclear-garage-expansion.......” My loud-mouthed brother-in-Boston doubled the size of his garage, which he portrayed as vastly superior, partly because he used a contractor concrete-pump to pour the floor out back (“pumping the concrete into the stratosphere” — i.e. over his existing garage). His job is managing construction of electricity-generating stations; e.g. nuclear-generating facilities — like Nine Mile Point.

“Elz” is my sister Elizabeth in Fort Lauderdale. She is condo-treasurer.

My macho brother-in-Boston co-wrote a book about nuclear-generating facility construction, which he loudly boasts is in the Library-of-Congress, and I have titled “Garage-Expansion for Dummies.”

RE: “removed Elz’s knees......” My sister posted a picture of her grandson on the beach, which inadvertently included her knees, I overwrote them with adjacent beach-sand with Photoshop.

“Vast” and “44” are my brother-in-Delaware’s wife and kid. (Vast-Right-Wing-Conspirator” and “Agent 44.”)

“Jack-a-Bill-a-Vast-a-Elz-a-Peg-a-Paul” are my siblings. My Down Syndrome brother pronounced “and” as “uh.” Paul is Peg’s husband.

“Famblee-site” is our family’s web-site.

T-shirts

A wide variety of T-shirts find flower at the Canandaigua YMCA.
Most are athletic or college T-shirts, although someone wears a Southern-Comfort T-shirt, and another guy wears “Protons have mass — I didn’t know they were Catholic.”
The runners wear the T-shirts given out at races: “Bill Kehoe Memorial Fun-Run 10K,” with 89 bazilyun sponsors listed on the back in tiny graphics, usually including a bank and a realty.
I wear my various motorcycle and railroad T-shirts.
The other day a guy asked what “Norton” stood for.
“Well,” I said; “the first motorcycle I ever owned was a Norton.”
“Furthermore, the Art Carney character on “The Honeymooners” was “Norton.”
“If manhole covers were pizza,” I said; “we’d be in heaven.” That’s a Norton-line.
“If ya wanna play golf,” Ralph bellows; “the first thing ya gotta do is address the ball.”
Norton looks down at the ball, and says “hello, ball.”
Yesterday (Monday, May 7, 2007) a girl was at the Y with a “Black-Diamond” T-shirt on.
The “Black Diamond” was Lehigh-Valley Railroad’s premier Buffalo-to-New York City express passenger-train.
I never did get to see if “Black-Diamond” was the train, since doing so would have meant staring at the girl’s breasts.
The YMCA is not NASCAR. Boorish behavior is discouraged.
I generally don’t say anything about T-shirts.
A guy appeared wearing a “Camden F.D.” T-shirt. I kept to myself.
Memories of my experience at Weggers; where some poor lady was wearing a “where the heck is Sea Isle City anyway” T-shirt.
“I know where Sea Isle City is,” I said. “It’s between Ocean City and Wildwood.”
Never saw that T-shirt again.
And then there are my various sickening encounters at Weggers pertaining to my Horseshoe Curve jacket.
Any number of times I’ve been collared by a flaccid, googly-eyed railfan geek.
“Best railfan spot on the entire planet,” I say, trying to move on.

The city of “Camden” N.J., across from Philadelphia, is where I was born.

“Weggers” (Wegmans) is a supermarket we shop at.

“Sea Isle City” and “Ocean City” and “Wildwood” are all south-Jersey seashore resorts.

“Horseshoe Curve,” in Altoona, Pennsylvania, is by far the BEST railfan-spot on the entire planet.

Cellulite

Yesterday morning (Sunday, May 6, 2007), after walking our dog at the so-called elitist country-club, we had to gas up the Bucktooth Bathtub, and also buy gas for our lawnmowers.
The gas-station is slightly out-of-the-way from a straight shot home — a trip over lonely country roads and then 5&20.
It’s the same gas-station which occasionally can’t read my credit-card — which no matter what the almighty Bluster-King says is not an indication of my being “technically-challenged.”
What it is is their equipment being unable to read a well-used credit-card.
Many people still use cash to buy groceries and gas; but we don’t.
We hardly use cash at all any more. I pay with our credit-card, which is putting off payment until the credit-card bill arrives.
And as long as I pay-in-full, there’s no interest. Start charging interest and we’re gone.
A reissued card lasts about six months, so for the next 18 months there’s a fair likelihood the machines can’t read the card.
In which case I have to let a clerk key in the card-number; e.g. go inside the gas-station — which is also a mega-priced convenience-store.
So here we are using the lonely rural road to Ionia to access 5&20; and at 5&20 there is a ranch-house across the street.
A white Neon two-door was in the driveway, decorated with garish fluttering red-and-blue stripes on the sides. It had one of those big five-inch chromed tailpipes attached to a noisy muffler.
It also had gigantical JC Whitney chromed alloy-wheels that were spoked, so that the massive disc-brake elements showed through.
Actually they didn’t look too bad; not as bad as the massive chromed alloys I saw on a huge black Exhibition bouncing down I-10 in Los Angeles.
They looked like flower-petals; albeit chromed.
The reason the Exhibition was bouncing was giant sub-woofers in the back — ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom — shaking the pavement in the setting sun.
The garish Neon pulled up, also to buy gas. A thick-legged butterball bounced out with elegantly coiffed and dyed hair (almost a beehive), and began gassing the Neon.
Finished, butterball zoomed across the station lot, toward the store; probably to pay cash.
“KEE-YUCK!” I said. The girl, probably in her 40s, was wearing short-shorts.
“Ya shouldn’t be wearing short-shorts, honey” I said outside hearing-range.
Thunder-thighs were awash in gelatinous cellulite, jiggling like Jello.
She also was walking at a speed where ya dared not get in her way.
Why are people always walking at the speed-of-light? I get blown by in the Weggers parking-lot, and I ain’t walkin’ that slow. (I pass a lotta people.)
Then there was a loud door-slam, and the Neon roared off. She laid rubber leaving the gas-station.
WHAT A TURN-ON!

“The so-called elitist country-club” is nearby Boughton Park; called that long ago by an editor at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I once worked, because the three towns that own the park would not allow anyone but town-residents to use it.

“The Bucktooth Bathtub” is our 2005 Toyota Sienna van; called that because it’s white, and like sitting in a bathtub, and has what looks like a bucktooth on the grill.

“The almighty Bluster-King” is my macho brother-in-Boston Jack that bad-mouths everything I do or say.

State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20 are the main east-west highway through our area. Both routes are combined on a single highway.

“Ionia” is a small nearby rural village — essentially a crossroad with some houses.

“JC Whitney” is a mail-order catalog outfit in Chicago that sells independently-made accessories for cars and trucks. They have a reputation for selling junky baubles — e.g. fuzzy-dice.

Ford “Exhibition.”

“Weggers” is the Wegmans supermarket we buy groceries at.

Flotsam

-GOOGLE:
The other night, for laughs, I Googled “Bob Hughes.”
The main reason I did was to see if the bluster-boy was lobbing rotten tomatoes onto the Internet.
People do that nowadays.
Employers Google a potential employee to see what scurrilous baloney has been posted, often by angry past lovers and jilted companions.
I wouldn’t put that past the almighty Bluster-King, since I had the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to dispute his CLEARLY ERRONEOUS recollection of where we got off I-80 during our motorbike-trip to the mighty Curve, this starting a torrent of rotten tomatoes.
Angry wackos post vitriol and insanity about someone, and then some potential employer believes it.
But what I got (and there were 4,290,000 hits) were references to some real-estate salesman, a TV-soaps character, and some guy awarded an award for meritorious service to Multiple Sclerosis.
There also was some guy named “Bob Hughes” who wrote some book about ‘pyooter-based media and its working culture.
Years ago, while I drove bus, some guy named “Bob Hughes” was the art-critic for Time Magazine. A fellow driver asked if that was me.......
No doubt, one of them 4,290,000 hits is me on FlagOut.
But nothing from the almighty Bluster-King yet.

-JAMBOREE:
In July of 1957, the Boy Scouts of America held their national jamboree at Valley Forge, west of Philadelphia.
The Summer 2007 issue (it’s quarterly) of my Classic Trains Magazine has a large treatment of this because the nation’s railroads came together to deliver the 35,000 scouts to-and-from the park.
Valley Forge is on the southwest side of the Schuykill River valley, which was also threaded by the Reading (RED-ing) Railroad — in fact, its main line.
Valley Forge is where George Washington encamped his Continental army during the winter of 1777, early in the Revolutionary War. It was frigid and many of his troops did not survive. (Conditions were so bad, Washington was afraid troops would desert and the effort collapse.)
I remember visiting Valley Forge when I was a little boy, but I paid more attention to the Reading — which was still steam.
Reading had two stations in the park, but not the capacity of mighty Pennsy. Pennsy’s Norristown branch was electrified to Norristown (about 10 miles from the park), but that was the end of the wire.
Pennsy went up the Schuykill River valley too; but on the north side, and after Norristown diesels had to be used, plus the scouts had to be moved across the river. (I.e. Pennsy didn’t directly access the park.)
Coaches came from all over the nation, and got switched into trains to Valley Forge (or out the Norristown line).
It was the onliest time GG1s ever went to Norristown, normally the domain of owl-face commuter-trains and freights. (The Norristown branch is not the Main Line of the Pennsy.)
Reading also ran sightseer trains for the scouts to Philly — Reading Terminal on Market St.
Reading could assemble large trains — including gobs of borrowed equipment — and load them directly at the park; although they had to upgrade and increase platform-space, and install johns.
They used Geeps and 900/901; F-units I once rode behind. They also used borrowed CNJ power to switch cars.
It was probably the greatest movement Reading ever made. They had to do a lotta planning; including the head-honcho.

-IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF THE BIG MAN:
(And prepare to get deluged with F-bombs if you fire up this here link. —Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.)
Last night (Friday, May 4, 2007) I perused a flyer on the proposed Bloomfield School District annual budget, which we get to vote on........
It mentions setting up a capital-reserve fund for schoolbus purchases. Doing so avoids borrowing, and facilitates state-aid.
So here we are driving a street in Bloomfield, and we get stopped by a schoolbus loading up kids to bus to the school around the corner.
GOOD GRIEF! We never had no schoolbuses in our day.
In our day, we had to WALK TO SCHOOL — FIFTY MILES; and it was uphill both a-comin’ and a-goin’.
WE HAD TO WALK TO SCHOOL BAREFOOT IN SNOW EIGHT INCHES DEEP!
And the wind was always in our face — if we turned around, the wind turned around too.
Always snowin’ too — even in summer.
Daddy builds a nice enclosed shelter for the kids to wait for the schoolbus in, but do they use it?
OF COURSE NOT! They’re in mom’s minivan idling at the end of the driveway; and THEN SHE COMPLAINS ABOUT THE PRICE OF GAS!

-MANUFACTURED-HOMES:
A few lots up the street, which is south on State Route 65 (the road we live on), since 5&20 is at a higher location, is a vacant-lot where a manufactured-home dealer stores house-trailers and halves of manufactured-homes — probably illegally.
The lot is adjacent to Michael Prouty park, where I walk the dog each afternoon.
For at least two years the halves of a partially burned manufactured-home were stored akimbo on the lot. Actually only the end was burned — the parts are intact, though not bolted together.
Now one half is gone — in fact, both halves were gone last week; but now one is back.
Makes me wonder what is going on; it’s hard to imagine someone buying one-half of a manufactured-home.

-CRESSON:
May’s entry in my Norfolk Southern calendar is of an NS freight-train passing a waving little boy at the Cresson Railfan park.
It looked familiar: I’ve been there. The park (viewing area) is below the railroad-grade — although I’m sure in the 1800s they were at the same elevation. It’s just that the railroad-grade has been raised as ballast was added over-the-years.
I once saw an old photograph of the guy — his name was Brandimart, and he was Italian — who supervised Pennsy’s crossing of the Allegheny Mountains, which include the mighty Curve.
Brandimart was holding a large vertical ruler which indicated the railroad had been raised over four feet since his employ.
We’ve been at Cresson many times.
It’s not a very good railfan spot. It’s out in the open; which means too much sunlight (no shade).
Once we were there when it was socked in by fog — and it was raining; which you couldn’t escape. What a drag; get drenched trying to watch trains.

“Bob Hughes” is of course me, BobbaLew, a nickname I was given eons ago (1961) while on the staff of a boys summer-camp.

“The bluster-boy” (“the almighty Bluster-King”) is my younger brother-in-Boston, who bad-mouths everything I do or say. He always refers to his strident pot-shots as “lovingly-lobbed rotten tomatoes.”

“The mighty Curve is Horseshoe Curve near Altoona, Pennsylvania, by far the BEST railfan site on the entire planet.

RE: “While I drove bus.......” For 16&1/2 years I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service in Rochester.

“FlagOut” is our family’s web-site. (I had a Down Syndrome brother who always wanted the flag out — “flag-out” he’d shout.)

“Pennsy” is the Pennsylvania Railroad; no longer in existence. For years it was “The Standard Railroad of the World”— the General-Motors of railroading.

The “GG1” was the finest electric locomotive the Pennsylvania Railroad ever had. —Probably the finest railroad-locomotive of all time.

“Owl-face” were the Pennsylvania Railroad’s commuter-coaches — electrically self-powered. A commuter-train could be made up of “owl-faces.” “Owl-face” because the end of the car had round (port-hole shaped) windows, making them look like owls.

“Philly” is of course Philadelphia.

“Geeps” is the generic name for General-Motors GP7 and GP9 road-switchers.

“CNJ” is Central of New Jersey (railroad).

“5&20” are State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20, the main east-west highway through our area. Two routes on a single roadway.

“Cresson” Pennsylvania is a little town west of Allegheny summit (Gallitzin) and Horseshoe Curve. The helper-locomotives that help trains climb (and descend) the Allegheny crossing are based there.

“Norfolk Southern” is the railroad that came to own and operate the old Pennsy main across Pennsylvania — including the mighty Curve. Pennsy merged in 1968 with New York Central, and promptly went bankrupt. Penn-Central, and quite a few other eastern bankrupt railroads, were turned over to Conrail, which at first was government-financed, but eventually went private. A few years ago Conrail was split into two halves and sold; most of the ex-Pennsy lines going to Norfolk Southern, and the ex-NYC lines going to CSX.