Thank ya Gates!

Last night (Thursday, August 30, 2007), since my giant fish-oil horse pills are running out, I had the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to think I could order them online, as I did last time, to avoid buying them at the Physical-Therapy gym I had just been tossed out of.
Last time we found them with a Froogle-search, and this time the web-address of the supplier was right on the bottle-cap.
So I fired up my Internet-Explorer 5.2, the browser I only use for online orders (it came with OS-X), cranked the web-address into the browser-window, and clicked “Enter.”
Internet-Explorer promptly dove into the ozone, globe madly spinning. At least 30 seconds passed (thrump-thrump).
“Well, I haven’t got all day,” I shouted.
I gave up, and copy-pasted the web-address into FireFox. Bam! Almost instantaneously; to the brandvitamindiscounters home-page.
I located the search-window, and cranked in “EPA-DHA 720.”
Again, Bam! Almost instantaneously. There it is: “MetaGenics EPA-DHA 720.”
“Add-to-cart;” “check-out-now.”
Bam! Off to the checkout page.
Apparently, brandvitamindiscounters is affiliated with Amazon; i.e. I guess Amazon collects and then reimburses brandvitamindiscounters.
“Insert Amazon password.”
Bam! Fill in what little information is needed. I already have an Amazon account, and they even have my credit-card number.
“Place order.”
Bam; “an error has occurred.”
Oh well; nothing new. I guess I gotta try Internet-Explorer.
I click Internet-Explorer, which is is still on in the background, and it’s displaying the brandvitamindiscounters home-page.
Apparently it could crank it, if I had waited long enough (at least 15 minutes had passed).
So I cranked EPA-DHA 720 into the IE search-window, clicked “go,” and watched IE dive into the ozone.
Thrump-thrump. Well, I guess I gotta fiddle something else while waiting. FlagOut here I come!
After about 15 minutes, IE was displaying the MetaGenics page, so I clicked “EPA-DHA 720,” and again watched the globe spin frantically.
Back to FlagOut.
After another 15 minutes, IE was displaying the “add-to-cart” page, and taking my money went rather quickly.
Buying those horse-pills took at least an hour.
Ain’t technology wonderful? Thank ya, Internet-Explorer. Thank ya Gates!

“FlagOut” is our family’s web-site, named that because I had a mentally-retarded kid-brother (Down Syndrome) who lived at home, and loudly insisted the flag be flown every day. “Flag-Out! Sun comes up, the flag goes up! Sun goes down, the flag comes down.” I fly the flag partly in his honor. (He died at 14 in 1968.)

Harley-momma

Late yesterday afternoon (Wednesday, August 29, 2007), after the biopsy, the vaunted Canandaigua YMCA, and of course mighty Weggers, we had to buy gas for the Bucktooth Bathtub.
So I pulled into a Sunoco along 5&20: $2.979 per gallon, although it’s 10% ethanol.
“At first I thought it was male, but now I see it’s woman,” Linda said.
I couldn’t see what she was describing; only a giant black GeezerGlide, liberally festooned with tassels and glittering trinkets — quiet because it wasn’t running.
Why is the Harley-crowd always obsessed with loud pipes? Is there a GeezerGlide with stock mufflers? How come so many have no mufflers at all?
Finally I pulled ahead to leave the gas-station.
I was presented with a visage of a graying, grizzled road-warrior, weighing at least 250 pounds.
“She sure is in horrible shape,” my wife observed.
Whatever subtle hints she may have ever had of comeliness and feminine appeal had been massively filled in with Jack Daniel's and Budweiser.
A thin cigarette, smoke curling into the stratosohere, dangled limply from her crusty lips.
Her flabby arms were liberally tattooed: “All liberals should be lined up and shot!” Blam-blam-blam-blam. (Uzis blazing on wrinkled, sunburnt skin.)
—A lexicon of tattooed Limberger blustering; all on a heaving relief-map of the Front Range of the Rockies.
Is this what comprises sexiness to the Harley-crowd?
I think somehow “show us your tits” would involve dropping her filthy Levis.

“Mighty Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester we often buy groceries at. They have a store in Canandaigua.

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

“5&20” is the main east-west road through our area; State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20, both on the same road. 5&20 is just south of where we live.

“GeezerGlide” is what I call all Harley Davidson cruiser-bikes. My loudmouthed macho brother-in-Boston has a very laid back Harley Davidson cruiser-bike, and, like most Harley Davidson riders, is 50 years old. So I call it his GeezerGlide.

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

C-word

The Keed.

(Grandmother had these behind their rowhouse in Camden. They’re in her honor.)

....And so Linda slowly descends into the gaping maw of the vaunted American healthcare system, a slimy morass wherein should ya have the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to get sick, or inadvertently suffer a debilitating ailment like a stroke or heart-attack; bloated fat-cats have persuaded an ignorant but compliant citizenry the best solution is the ice-flow.
....Unless you’re one of the fat-cats: in which case the best doctors are trotted in, preferably in an abandoned minimall outside Boston, to proffer a miraculous megabuck cure at citizen-expense (because you’re a venerable fat-cat).
Years ago I fell into the healthcare system when I had my stroke — although my encounter with same was rather distorted by the brain-injury (the stroke).
Linda ended up parrying all the assembled madness.
-A) They were hot to repair the patent foramen ovale; i.e. open-heart surgery — that is, slam open my chest-cavity with chisels and stop everything. Now they don’t do that.
I had to stand my ground: “Don’t let them tear me to pieces!” I said in gibberish amidst confusion and distortion.
Eventually I acquiesced, and had the surgery, but only after I had recovered enough mental capacity to know what was being proposed. (The surgery meant I could get off Coumadin blood-thinner.)
-B) They were also hot to give me anti-depressant drugs. I refused.
Eventually we tried anti-depressant drugs, but I gave it up after: -1) They didn’t seem to work; and we already had tried three different drugs, and -2) All they seemed to do was knock me out. They also made physical-exertion nearly impossible.
I figured I could do better without the fatigue and madness.
Linda has had a small growth in her pelvic area the past few months; although it wasn’t discernible last May when she had a pelvic exam as part of a physical.
She also had a colonoscopy last Fall, a recent pap-smear, and a recent mammogram— all negatory.
She first noticed “the hard spot” last June, but we were up against a Great Race, visiting relatives, and a gigantical window-replacement project.
Analysis got put off until last week, when our general-practitioner said “that shouldn’t be there.”
No pain or discomfort, although we’re beginning to get minor discomfort as the growth expands. —No cold sweats or fatigue yet; it’s almost as if it’s not there. No cold sweats or fatigue is supposed to be a good sign — but it’s 10 centimeters.
A CAT-scan verified the presence of the growth, but it wasn’t attached to ovaries or anything.
Our next stop was a surgeon, who said it needed a biopsy first — if it were lymphatic cancer, surgery wouldn’t be needed. Lymphatic cancer is treated with chemo, and is usually successful.
The biopsy was yesterday (Wednesday, August 29, 2007).
-Meanwhile, life goes on as it always has.
I’ve tried to take over some: e.g. all the dog-walking (Killian is a notorious puller), and lawn-trimming (small mower — what Linda always did).
Sunday-night Linda went to the hospital.
She had eaten spaghetti and a huge bowl of raw salad-vegetables; and was feeling faint.
We ended up calling 9-1-1. She went in an ambulance, and I stayed home with the dog. Probably didn’t need to go, but that’s what we said when I had the stroke. (We weren’t cognizant of stroke-symptoms.)
Then about 1:15 a.m. she called to say the hospital was discharging her, and that I could come pick her up if I wanted.
I rousted up the dog, who was utterly confused that we should be driving about at that hour.
I’ve always thought Linda would outlive me, but perhaps not.
If Linda died before me, it would mean:
-1) Probably selling this house and moving into smaller digs, perhaps a trailer. I could probably keep the place up myself, but it would become a dump.
-2) Trying to offset stroke-effects myself: e.g. wonky speech. I could probably get by, but I have previously deferred to Linda.
-3) Losing the best friend I ever had. We are like-minded, and pretty much alike. (“So marry somebody like Marcy!” “Are you kidding? Marcy’s a party-girl; I ain’t a party-person. Anyway, I’m 63.”)
-4) The possible end of the YMCA and running. Both mean abandoning the dog.*
More than anything I don’t want to give up on that dog.
He’s already been tossed out of two families. Now he’s attached to me.
This probably means no more trips to the mighty Curve this year, and probably not Californy (Cajon and Tehachapi)
It also puts my 45th BHS reunion in doubt. I e-mailed the contact last night that Linda might have to stay home, and possibly even me. The reunion is at the end of September.
I probably could drive to Delaware myself — although last time (Aunt Betty’s 80th birthday; almost two years ago) we shared the driving. (—The doctor says forget it.)

The Keed.

I seem to have fully recovered, although occasionally I feel slightly “funny.” But I haven’t collapsed yet, and am probably doing more than I could have done last year.
No doubt this will have all you zealots weeping and wailing and gnashing your teeth. We have put off saying anything for that reason. (We expect charges of wrong ‘pyooter-platform, wrong toothpaste, wrong politics, wrong snowblower, wrong running-shoes, WRONG WHATEVER)
Linda is not especially worried: “I’ve had 63 good years,” she said. But I am, although my ability to emote/verbally communicate was apparently destroyed by the stroke.
She’ll probably do the chemo (if need be) because of the dog and me. I told her I didn’t like the idea of living alone.
I suppose I could live by myself, but I prefer having Linda around. We’ve been together almost 40 years; and have become a team. (Linda notes that she cries at every wedding because the protagonists have no idea what the future holds.)
-Also meanwhile, Linda does not like being an invalid: “What am I going to do to occupy myself all that time?” She’s used to being active.
We’ve switched to my going to the park to run alone; before, Linda ran the dog alongside with me running.

* Probably not; the amount of time the dog is abandoned is the same no matter who does what.

“Linda” is my wife.

My macho blowhard brother-in-Boston’s colonoscopy was done in “an abandoned minimall.”

I had a stroke October 26, 1993.

A “patent foramen ovale” is hole that never sealed between the upper chambers of your heart. That hole can pass along a clot that would otherwise get filtered out by your lungs before it got to your brain — what supposedly caused my stroke.

The so-called “Great Race” was a race up the 194 steps to the viewing-area of “The mighty Curve” (Horseshoe Curve) west of Altoona (“Altoony”), Pennsylvania, by far the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to. The race was between my macho, blowhard younger brother-from-Boston and me. Despite weighing at least 350 pounds, he got to the top first, although I didn’t race him, for fear he might blow a gourd.

“Killian” is our remaining dog; a rescue Irish-Setter. We had a second rescue Irish-Setter, “Sabrina,” who died in March 2007.

“Marcy” was a co-worker at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper from where I retired. We worked in adjacent cubicles, and she is my number-one ne’er-do-well — the first of all the people I sent my stuff to (I still do). A picture of her is in Conclave of Ne’er-Do-Wells.

“Cajon Pass and Tehachapi” in California are both railfan sites.

RE: “45th BHS reunion” is my high-school reunion — I graduated Brandywine High School in northern Delaware in 1962.

RE: “Zealots weeping and wailing and gnashing your teeth......” All my relatives are tub-thumping born-again Christians. We aren’t, and are therefore reprehensible.

RE: “Wrong ‘pyooter-platform, wrong toothpaste, wrong politics, wrong snowblower, wrong running-shoes, WRONG WHATEVER.......” I am reprehensible because I use a MAC, use Colgate toothpaste (instead of Crest; the toothpaste Jesus and Fred Thompson used), am a Democrat, my snowblower isn’t an Ariens (it’s a Honda), and I run in Asics running-shoes instead of New Balance. Etc., etc.

Pedro

Toward the end of my 16&1/2-year career of driving transit bus for Regional Transit Service in Rochester, I befriended a latino bus-driver by the name of Pedro Collazo.
This would be in the late ‘80s, while we still lived on Winton Road in Rochester — i.e. before we moved out here to West Bloomfield.
Pedro was a few years older than me, and when I started driving bus in May of ‘77, he was a road-supervisor — usually stationed at Main & Clinton, the main timepoint in downtown Rochester.
His job was to field our passengers (“the halt, the maim, the infirm, etc.”), and make sure we didn’t show up too early or late — for which we could get “written up,” and thereby “called on the carpet.”
But like many road-supervisors, he went back to bus-driving, even though it meant a cut in pay.
People used to say the best job at Transit was driving bus. Being a road-supervisor required you to be a jerk, promulgating the crazy ministrations of mindless-management-minions, who were also jerks.
Pedro was in stellar shape, and fashioned himself a ladies’ man.
He had a slew of girlfriends beside his frumpy wife, and manipulated them all this-way-and-that.
The fact I ran was what prompted him to cultivate our friendship — we never talked about his girlfriends.
Once he wanted me to run with him, and I promptly lost interest.
We were running around a small park about the size of a city-block.
Each circuit took about three minutes.
What a joke! I was used to far longer distances; 30-45 minutes.
We went to the quarter-mile track at a local high-school, and started circling it.
It was so boring it was hard to keep going.
After that we parted ways. His idea of staying in shape wasn’t my idea — I could run circles around him. He was in pretty good cardiovascular shape, but would give up after about 10 minutes, saying it wasn’t worth it.

Glowering-intimidators galore........

-GOING:
So here I am placidly navigating the CR-V toward the so-called elitist country-club to run.
I’m taking the back way through Bloomfield village, to mail a letter. —The Bloomfield post-office has an outside drop-box for automobiles. I use it, perish-the-thought, instead of just putting our mail out in our delivery-box by the road for our letter-carrier to pick up.
That drop-box is just a short side-trip to many of our errands. I might as well use it.
The speed limit in Bloomfield, strictly enforced by zealous sheriff’s dippities, is 30 mph — 35 on 5&20.
I’ve been nailed in Bloomfield at least three times — nearly all my tickets are in Bloomfield. And who knows how many times I’ve waved at radar-traps, and warned oncoming speeders — obstructing governmental administration.
So here I am proceeding northeast on the main drag through town; not 5&20.
I’m doing 30-35 mph.
I dump my mail into the drop-box, exit the post-office parking-lot, and turn north on Route 444 toward the park.
Immediately a glowering-intimidator in a black Jeep Grand Cherokee falls in behind, and climbs onto my rear bumper.
444 does a long uphill out of Bloomfield, and then a slight downhill toward Boughton (“BOW-tin”) Road, where I turn toward the park.
Years ago a young kid lost control of his tiny Civic SI on this section and T-boned a stopped Dakota pickup and lost his life.
Intimidator is madly thumping his steering-wheel, and angling to pass.
I flick on my left turn-signal far before Boughton Road, because I don’t want this idiot making an insane move.
444 doesn’t have much of a shoulder, so as I start slowing for Boughton Road, Intimidator sweeps to my right onto the grass to pass me even before I got to the intersection.
Dust flies, grass-clippings fly, and the Grand Cherokee bounces all over.
But he was at least 20 yards past me when I turned onto Boughton Road.

-RETURNING:
.....I have to again navigate the village of Bloomfield so I can hit a gas-station to buy gas for our lawn mowers.
That finished, I exit the gas-station onto the main drag through Bloomfield; headed southwest (reverse) this time.
Immediately another glowering-intimidator falls in behind me in a silver Mitsubishi SUV, climbs on my bumper, and starts angrily thumping his steering-wheel.
The speed-limit in Bloomfield is 30 mph, and I’m doing 30-35.
I’m planning to turn left at the village-square, a ploy to avoid driving out the main drag, where radar-traps are often set up.
I figure I’ll lose the glowering-intimidator there; I usually do — but no, he turns at the village-square too, right on my bumper.
Okay, he’s probably going straight, across 5&20 — most people who use the village-square street are continuing straight across 5&20.
But I turn right onto 5&20; and the Mitsu turns right too. (Intimidator is still angrily thumping his steering-wheel, and has begun flashing his headlights.)
I accelerate the CR-V up to 50 mph as we exit Bloomfield, still in the 35 mph zone.
Out of Bloomfield is a double-yellow line, since it intersects with the infamous stop-sign intersection with State Route 64.
No matter; glowering-intimidator sweeps across the double-yellow and zooms past, middle-finger upraised, wicking it up to 152 mph.

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

“The so-called elitist country-club” is nearby Boughton (“BOW-tin”) Park, where we walk our dog. It was called that long ago by an editor at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I once worked, because it will only allow taxpayers of the three towns that own it to use it. I also run there.

I’ve been loudly excoriated for not “putting our mail out in our delivery-box by the road for our letter-carrier to pick up.”

“5&20” is the main east-west road through our area; State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20, both on the same road. 5&20 is just south of where we live.

RE: “The infamous stop-sign intersection with State Route 64.......” State Route 64 T-intersections with 5&20 with only a stop-sign; instead of a traffic-light. Many times I’ve been cut off by people blasting past that stop-sign. (“Outta my way.”)

“152 mph.....” My brother-in-Delaware bragged that his turbocharged Volvo station-wagon was capable of 152 mph.

NEW TOY

-Thursday night (August 23, 2007):

The Keed.

Old........

And so the Epson Expression 636 scanner (pictured at left) I’ve used for years drifts into the filmy past; replaced by a new Epson 10000XL scanner (also pictured).
The platen (scanning surface) on the old scanner was 12 x 8.5 inches.
The new scanner is 17.5 x 12 inches; almost big enough to scan an entire calendar-pik.
The scanner-upgrade was partially driven by OS-X. My old scanner is SCSSI (“skuzzy”), so it only works with Photoshop in Classic-mode; my old 5.5 (I had a SCSSI-card installed in my MAC when I bought it).
(I’ve always had to boot up in 9.2 to scan with the 636.)
Upgrading Photoshop to 7.0, which I’ve wanted to do ever since I’ve started using OS-X (I used 7.0 at Visual Studies Workshop; and it is much better), requires a USB-scanner, which the 636 ain’t and the 10000XL is.
I wanted to get a slightly smaller scanner, but it was PC only. 10000XL or puny.
So I sprung for the XL.
No more -a) merging two scans together with Photoshop, or -b) using the much smaller reprint in the preface page of every print that’s in the calendar. Using that increases the dot-matrix size of a scan — which ain’t as good as using the full-size print.
The 10000XL won’t grab all of a calendar-print, but all that matters (most). The 10000XL was the largest flat-bed scanner made — any larger would be a different technology.
I ain’t doin’ graphical arts. But I’d rather do a scan at full-size — it is better to work with.
And all I’m doing this for is the bluster-boy to flub a slam-dunk I.D. I showed him a Classic Car magazine with a Plymouth Duster on the cover, and he called it a Rambler, for crying out loud. (Oh, how the mighty have fallen.)

The Keed.

New........

I got the new scanner yesterday (Thursday, August 23, 2007) mainly because it wasn’t possible to mow lawn — the grass was wet from continual thunderstorms. I would also have liked to hit my old RTS uniform store to get a new belt. I’ve lost so much weight, my old belt is now too big.
But the uniform-store meant driving up Monroe Ave., which was a parking-lot.
So I skipped the uniform-store and just hit MAC-Shack.
I’ve seen comparable belts online at various web-sites; but why bother when I know I can get exactly what I want at the uniform-store, and thereby avoid returning something I can’t use. I already had to return a Levi-jacket to Macy’s and get another somewhere else. What a pain!

-Friday morning (August 24, 2007):
Who knows? Mowing lawn may be impossible. Looks and feels like rain.
First I have to crank this in and fly it, then call the plumber regarding a defective shower-faucet (probably a faucet replacement — the faucets are 17 years old), then check the weather-radar to see if I can mow lawn.
If I can’t, I have errands to run: Verizon, a shredder, and the belt if possible.
The YMCA got scotched by a doctor-appointment.

Visual Studies Workshop is a photo-imaging school in Rochester. They had a passel of MACs there, and I’ve taken courses there.

“The bluster-boy” is my all-knowing, blowhard brother-in-Boston, who noisily claims I know nothing at all about cars.

“RTS” is Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester. I drove transit-bus for them for 16&1/2 years, and had to wear a uniform, which Transit bought. I no longer work for RTS, so any purchases at “the uniform-store” are paid by myself.

Toothpaste wars.......

Linda forgot her toothpaste, which is Crest, to the mighty Curve.
As we all know, Crest was used by Jesus and Fred Thompson, so is apparently approved by all tub-thumping conservative zealot REPUBLICANS.
I, perish-the-thought, use Colgate “luminous.”
Colgate was recommended to me long ago by our dentist, since it is more abrasive than Crest. I use “luminous” because that is what Marcy recommended, Godless liberial that she is.
So Linda used my Colgate “luminous.”
“HMMMNNNNNNN; pretty good,” she thought.
I don’t decide what toothpaste she uses, so she could buy Crest if she wants.
But after using my Colgate “luminous,” she is thinking of switching — and probably will, when her Crest runs out.
LIBERIALS, I tell ya!

“Linda” is my wife.

Horseshoe Curve (the “mighty Curve,”) west of Altoona, Pennsylvania, is by far the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to. Horseshoe Curve is a national historic site. It was a trick used by the Pennsylvania Railroad to get over the Allegheny mountains without steep grades. Horseshoe Curve was opened in 1854, and is still in use.

“Marcy” is my number-one ne’er-do-well — she was the first I was sending stuff to. Marcy and I worked in adjacent cubicles at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired. A picture of her is in Conclave of Ne’er-Do-Wells.

“Liberial” is how my macho blowhard brother-in-Boston insists “liberal” is spelled.

“Yammer-mouth.......”

-Someone other than the dreaded Amazon-Lady this time......
I am one of the regulars at the Canandaigua YMCA; regular in that I try to be there Monday, Wednesday and Friday about 11 a.m.
When I’m there, I see pretty much the same people: skinny old John the marathoner, various stroke-survivors, the pretty girl that lifts weights and is too full of herself, and of course the dreaded Amazon-Lady.
But Amazon-Lady is a YMCA employee; the others, like me, are just users (“clients,” “members;” whatever). Our checking-accounts get charged $45.50 per month to help pay Amazon-Lady.
Another regular almost as notorious as Amazon-Lady is one I call “yammer-mouth.”
He looks like a fireplug: that is, immensely heavy and musclebound on top, yet skinny legs.
What he exercises most is his jaw. He ambles into the gym, and accosts a user; usually someone blasting away on an elliptical.
After maybe 15 minutes of yammering, he gets on a treadmill, sets it at 15 minutes, and wicks it up to about 4 mph: a fast walk (I do 3.6).
Then he steps onto the fast-moving belt for a minute or two, and then steps off; belt still booming-and-zooming.
It continues like this for 15 minutes: on, then off, then on, then off.
Then the treadmill stops and he wanders back out of the gym; usually stopping to jaw at someone.
He accosted me once, before I saw he was a yammer-mouth. But now I avoid him; I don’t want to be distracted.

“Wash the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher.”

The Keed.

Yawn...........

Our 17-year-old Maytag dishwasher (pictured), original to the house, is back on-line, I guess.
“I guess” because I’m always skeptical about repair of technology, especially now, if an engineer was involved. (“Beware of the I-35W bridge in Minneapolis.”)
The other night it apparently threw the belt that drives the drain-pump, leaving us with a dishwasher full of water that promptly leaked all over the kitchen floor. —The belt was worn.
We had to bail the dishwasher by hand, and rinse the dishes manually — it had got through the wash-cycle.
Certified Appliance Service was called; they are pretty good, the opposite of a fatuous engineer prima-donna. “Certified Appliance Service” is a goggle-eyed geek, who may have repaired the dishwasher before, and replaced the defective electronical pilot on our old dryer.
We can hardly hear him when he talks, but he fixes things instead of delivering turgid ultimatums and noisy putdowns. (E.g. “You are utterly clueless and reprehensible; so I need to order a part. A new dishwasher is only 89 bazilyun dollars!” [What he said was “that dishwasher has a lotta life left in it.”])
So he replaced the belt, but we deferred from replacing the defective soap-cup.
The intent is for the soap-cup to open after the initial rinse on start-up, but my wife is rinsing off the dishes anyway before putting them in the dishwasher. (“Wash the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher.”)
Today’s (Wednesday, August 22, 2007) errand, after the YMCA and before Weggers, is mighty Lowes to buy two fluorescent bulbs.
It’s amazing I can fix this stuff when clearly I’m too old and feeble.
But it’s either that or an engineer. (“Uh-Ohhhhhh.........” How many engineers does it take to replace a light bulb?)

RE: “if an engineer was involved.....” My macho blowhard brother-in-Boston noisily claims he knows far more than anyone else, like me, who unlike him wasn’t trained as an engineer.

Mow lawn, and have fun doing it

The intent today (Tuesday, August 21, 2007) was to supposedly mow lawn, but it’s beginning to look like I can’t.
It’s a-rainin’; and has been for a while. I can’t mow a soggy lawn.
We were able to take the poor dog to the so-called elitist country-club this morning (he was thrilled), but it was cloudy and cool, and started raining lightly before we finished.

The Keed.

Zero-Turn.

If I were able to mow lawn, I’d be doin’ it with the fabulous zero-turn (pictured), the most rewarding investment I’ve ever made.
It threw a couple fits last year — must have been assembled by the Friday-crew. It spun two rotor-drives out of three (replaced under guarantee), and then kept dying under load until we determined the gas-shutoff was partly closed.
Various engineering shortcuts were applied to get the price down — I wouldn’t wanna use it commercially. But now that it works fine, it’s cutting my mowing time in half.
The guys doing the window-replacement eyed it enviously, so I told them it was fabulous.
“Spins on a dime,” I said.
“Mow lawn, and have fun doing it,” they observed.
The old Greenie has a 38-inch cut, and did about half the speed of the zero-turn. (The zero-turn is 48-inch cut; but only 18 horsepower — high grass will stall it. It’s a Briggs & Stratton Intek overhead-valve V-twin; i.e. not a Harley.)
We still have the Greenie for mowing paths — 38-inch cut is just right; 48-inch cut too wide.
But compared to a zero-turn, it had to be driven all over to line up for the next cut.
A zero-turn has a separate hydrostatic drive for each drive-wheel — so one wheel can be advanced and the other reversed; to spin it on a dime.
I don’t have to drive all over to set up the next cut.
Just spin-mow-spin-mow-spin-mow.
Boom-and-zoom!
With the Greenie I was mowing one section at a time. With the zero-turn it’s two sections at a time, or three if need be.
My macho blowhard brother Jack from Boston wanted to try it, supposedly to pop a wheelie.
Don’t know as it will — it ain’t engaging a pulley.
But popping a wheelie on a zero-turn is missing the point. What matters is that it can be spun on a dime.
Plus there’s a learning-curve — it took me a few tries to master it; and avoid putting it into the ditch.
It was dusk, and I didn’t wanna hafta lever it outta the ditch.
One cupholder; no headlights, no horn, no turn-signals, no CD-player, no cruise-control. (My 94-year-old nosy neighbor has a John Deere riding-mower with headlights, taillights, and a cruise-control of sorts — you’re not holding a pedal down to keep it going. But only one cupholder.)

“The so-called elitist country-club” is nearby Boughton (“BOW”-tin) Park, where we walk our dog. It was called that long ago by an editor at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I once worked, because it will only allow taxpayers of the three towns that own it to use it.

“The old Greenie” is our John Deere SRX-95 riding-mower. It’s over 13 years old.

RE: “Not a Harley.....” My macho loud-mouthed brother-in-Boston has a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, and noisily claims it’s the greatest thing that ever was. It too makes a lotta noise.

Conclave of Ne’er-Do-Wells

CONCLAVE OF NE’ER-DO-WELLS

The Keed.

Visible: -1) Marcy Dewey at left, the #1 ne’er-do-well; -2) The so-called Hasidic Jew (AKA Ledley and Dave Wheeler), across from Marcy. Wheeler is the Sunday-Editor at the mighty Mezz; -3) Bryan Mahoney (AKA MaHooch) — the best reporter the mighty Mezz ever had; -4) The back of the vaunted Webmaster (Matt Ried) of the mighty Mezz; and -5) Kris Dreessen; outdoors editor at the mighty Mezz; the one who edited my “mighty Curve” story. (Not in picture: me [“Grady”], the photographer.)

And so concludes a recent conclave of the naughtyist and most reprehensible of the vaunted ne’er-do-wells (pictured).
Friday (August 17, 2007), while delivering excess produce from our garden to the mighty Mezz, I was accosted by lovable kindred-spirit Dave Wheeler (Houghton 1991), also known as “Ledley” and the so-called “Hasidic-Jew.”
I’ve always felt Wheeler had the most potential as a writer — a fabulous and extensive vocabulary (more extensive than me), combined with an appropriately jaundiced viewpoint.
No doubt the almighty Bluster-King will take issue, since Wheeler reminds me slightly of myself; a self-gratifying expression of ardent selfishness my brother-in-Boston perceives as a challenge to his self-proclaimed greatness.
Wheeler and I would exchange comments at the mighty Mezz that had people rolling on the floor.
Wheeler remarked that faire Marcy and her beau Bryan (the best reporter the mighty Mezz ever had) were going to be in town (they now live in Boston), and that I might want to attend a get-together.
The gathering was to be held at MacGregor’s, a dive of sorts in an old restored lakeside building in Canandaigua.
-Marcy is my number-one ne’er-do-well, the person who for whatever reason (I can’t remember why) I began sending copy/pastes of my posts to FlagOut, the first of which was a description of the first St. Patrick’s Day Parade Linda and I attended with our two dogs a few years ago in Rochester.
I observed all sorts of fatuous insanity, and strung together a description of same.
We’ve lost track of that original post, came across another of a later St. Patrick’s Day Parade, but it’s not the first.
Marcy wanted me to keep sending stuff. She created a folder on her ‘pyooter at work, and started putting everything in it.
Word got around, and soon others were clamoring to receive my stuff, including the infamous Wheeler.
Marcy and I worked in adjacent cubicles, and Marcy also worked next to Matt Reid, Webmaster at the mighty Mezz.
Together we’d generate a torrent of snide remarks. Marcy also had a jaundiced eye, as did the Webmaster.
Yet despite that we produced a class act.
So many were clamoring to receive my stuff, I decided to make an e-mail list, which I called the “Ne’er-do-Wells.”
The list grew as others got added, including a long-ago ex-employee and kindred-spirit a few years ago.
“Do I keep sending you this junk?” I asked at a recent party.
“By all means. So tell me what ‘the mighty Curve’ is.”
-MaHooch (AKA Bryan Mahoney) is Marcy’s fiancé, and together they live in Boston. MaHooch and Marcy are about a year apart; Marcy a year-or-two older.
I call him “the best reporter the mighty Mezz ever had” because he had the moxie to try different things, like the giant water-slide at a nearby water park that recently opened.
He’s not that young, but as far as I’m concerned it’s extreme stuff like that that generates the best writing — combining your talent for slinging words together with your reflections on an extreme event.
-The Webmaster is another person that rode the bucking bronco that was the mighty Mezz when Marcy and I were there; namely producing a class act with minimal staff.
He regaled us with tales about how things have got much worse since Marcy and I (and MaHooch) have left; and since the papers were sold by the Ewing family to Gatehouse Publishing. (Reid and Wheeler and Dreessen still work at the mighty Mezz.)
Gatehouse has a pennysaver-type local weekly in the same market as the mighty Mezz, yet the two are competing for display ads.
In a few months the pennysaver and the mighty Mezz will be combined, and the Messenger ad-reps will probably get fired for not meeting goal — which is to be expected when all the display ads are being funneled to the pennysaver.
And apparently the head honcho, an ex-Messenger bureaucrat Gatehouse appointee, got recently written up in the local police-blotter for harassing an ex.
Nevertheless, what this is all up against is the fact that mighty Mezz is still a newspaper; Linda tosses the pennysaver as soon as it arrives. Gatehouse also has a slew of other newspapers, but all we can do is cross our fingers.
“I sure am glad I got out when I did,” I said.
Among this disreputable crowd, I am easily the oldest; but apparently valued as a ne’er-do-well. “Remember Marcy, you’re young only once, but can be immature all your life!”
The others are in their early 30s; MaHooch perhaps still in his late 20s.
“Pardon me, but this 63-year-old geezer has to go home and take a nap,” I declared.
With that we adjourned.

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

Horseshoe Curve (the “mighty Curve,”) west of Altoona, Pennsylvania, is by far the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to. Horseshoe Curve is a national historic site. It was a trick used by the Pennsylvania Railroad to get over the Allegheny mountains without steep grades. Horseshoe Curve was opened in 1854, and is still in use.

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

“The almighty Bluster-King” is my blowhard macho brother-in-Boston, who badmouths everything I do or say.

“FlagOut” is our family's web-site, named that because I had a mentally-retarded kid-brother (Down Syndrome; now dead) who loudly insisted the flag be flown. “Sun comes up, the flag goes up! Sun goes down, the flag comes down!”

RE: “Since the papers were sold by the Ewing family to Gatehouse Publishing......” Messenger-Post Newspapers was owned by the Ewing (“YOU-ing”) family of Canandaigua, but they recently sold to Gatehouse — no one in the family was willing to invest what was necessary.

“Linda” is my wife.

OFF TO THE MIGHTY CURVE

OFF TO THE MIGHTY CURVE

The Keed.

Amtrak descends the mighty Curve on Track 2 next to a climbing freight on Track 1. (8/15/07.)

-8/14/07:
We can’t even take the poor dog to the slammer until 8:30 or 9 a.m., so I have a few minutes here.
This is our first visit to the mighty Curve this year, or more precisely our first visit this year ourselves; that is, without the ceaseless blustering of the almighty Bluster-King, which is a distraction from watching trains.
Last year we visited almost every month June through October — maybe even November. But this year various occurrences shoved the mighty Curve back.
June was so long ago, I forget what intervened; and July was the Great Race, Elz’s visit, and the gigantic window-project.
Every time last year was staying at the vaunted Tunnel Inn in Gallitzin, hard by the old Pennsy main. But Tunnel Inn was already booked for RailFest even though I called in May.
I plan to take a photo tonight of the parking-lot at the infamous spaghetti-joint (Lena’s; voted by Altoonians to be the best Italian restaurant in the area), and even note the time, but Tunnel Inn doesn’t have Internet-access (at least that we know of); and it ain’t in a hot-spot.

-Here we are in Altoony...........
......camped out in the Alco-suite of the dreaded Tunnel Inn in Gallitzin.

The Keed.

Alco-suite in Tunnel Inn.

For those unknowing, the Alco-suite is one of two on the backside of the building, farthest from the tracks.
The other back suite is “MO Tower” (the tower in nearby Cresson), but the AC in that suite blows directly onto the bed, so we prefer Alco. (Alco is what’s pictured at bottom-right on the Tunnel Inn web-site.)
We prefer the backside of the building so trains don’t keep us awake all night. —Although passing trains shake the entire building. There’s no denying the Norfolk Southern Pittsburgh main is right next to Tunnel Inn.
In fact, that’s its major selling-point. It caters to railfans like me. “When you stay at the Tunnel Inn, only the engineer is closer to the train!” is their slogan.
Tunnel Inn is the past Gallitzin library and town-offices, built long ago by Pennsy (I think 1905).
Gallitzin painted the outside brick, and then built a new town-offices and library across the tracks.
Gallitzin is the location of Pennsy’s Allegheny and later Gallitzin tunnel — the top of the Alleghenies west of Altoony.
Gallitzin tunnel was recently abandoned, and Allegheny expanded with state funding to allow two tracks and to clear double-stacks. The floor of nearby New Portage tunnel (also used by Pennsy) was also lowered to clear double-stacks.
(Allegheny was two tracks at first, but was reduced to one track in the late 1800s as car-size increased. (So was New Portage.)

The Keed.

The best Italian restaurant in the Altoony area. (6:45 p.m., 8/14/07.)

It’s called Tunnel Inn because it’s at the western mouths of the two Pennsy tunnels — Gallitzin tunnel now abandoned.
All the outside paint had to be sandblasted off, and the building gutted and refurbished to make it a bed-and-breakfast.
Tunnel Inn has an open deck out back for viewing trains, and they recently added a roof over the deck.
They also installed lighting down into the adjacent tunnel-cut; but it wasn’t working — it nearly electrocuted the operator. (The train-crews are probably thankful.)
-Departure was the usual madness it seems to have become since the stroke.
Nothing is ever organized, and things get gathered in passing. Organization and planning got vaporized by the stroke. (“Ya won’t understand until ya have one yourself!”)
A number of things never got done: rotating the tires, a new MAC-sticker on the tailgate, checking the oil, even turning on the all-night outdoor light. —Plus to whole-house ventilation got left on; I’d rather turn it off if we’re away; in case it burns out.
We took the CR-V; hopefully the last trip it ever makes to the mighty Curve.
Getting here was uneventful: no dramas to speak of, or mistakes, unless you count a slight foray over the left-side rumble-strip in a detour (about 20 yards).
We passed all the usual wayside markers: the Campbell (“Camp-Bell;” not the soup) rest-stop still has jet-engine hand-dryers; we passed the infamous gliderport and refrigerator-dump along the two-lane; plus the slowly moldering ‘52 Dodge sedan.
We also used the mighty Milesburg exit, as we have “hunderds” of times. Didn’t actually go through Milesburg, but used the mighty Milesburg exit, as it was in the beginning; ‘tis now and ever shall be; world without end; amen, amen.
For those into toitey-behavior, we made three widdle-stops. 250 miles, about five hours. (This some Porta-John thing?)

The Keed.

Amtrak climbs The Hill. (8/14/07.)

We’ve already been to the mighty Curve once. The light goes away about 6 p.m. (shadows), and we climbed the steps without drama.
I’d say I was less out of breath than last year; but even last year I wasn’t utterly bushed at the top like the almighty Bluster-King.
“At least we won’t have Jack harassing us every minute,” Linda said.
For RailFest every time I took my cellphone out on the trip down there was a message on it, and I felt obliged to listen lest some snippet of useful information sneak in amidst the turgid blustering.

The Keed.

NS freight down at the mighty Curve.

But no such luck! Just the usual tiresomely-boring putdowns and catcalls from the Limberger wannabee wildly driven to badmouth everything I do or say.
A neverending torrent of utterly useless fulminating. Is it any wonder I hang up when I don’t need to listen?

-Day Two (8/15/07)
.......Our full day at the mighty Curve.
-First stop: the dreaded Perkins next to the infamous Daze Inn — now Holiday Inn Express — where Jack dumped his GeezerGlide, requiring five guys and a dog to pick it up.
“Maybe yah should try something different, Dewd — so set in your ways; hell-ooooooo......”
Like Arby’s, of course; is it ever anywhere other than Arby’s?
Linda got the breakfast special; enough to feed a family of six in Bangladesh — and that’s the dreaded senior-citizen menu.
I got my standard three pancakes and two sausage-links.
The Altoony newspaper says I-99 may open north of 350 in a little over a year.
Apparently they encountered acidic sandstone (“acid-rock;” ain’t that Jimi Hendrix?” [That’s a Linda joke; 40 years, you guys!]) atop a ridge they were cutting through, and it has to be disposed of as hazardous material.
So probably before I die I will get to take the route Jack noisily claims we took.
I’ve gone that way a few times; but it ain’t worth it. Too much congestion on 322 over the hilltop.

The Keed.

NS freight at the mighty Curve.

I think the dreaded funicular may be shut down.
It descended about 10 feet and did an almighty lurch, as if a cable had stretched.
Thankfully no one was on it — at least in the top car — and I haven’t seen it run since. Someone said it wasn’t running.
-BAR NONE, this is the greatest railfan spot I have ever been to.
“Wouldn’t you like to sign our guest-register?” a smiling geezer said in the gift-shop.
There was a comment-area where you were supposed to put why you were here.
“I’ve been here ‘hunderds’ of times,” I said. “What do I say? This is the best railfan spot I have ever been to.”
“I’ve been to Cajon and Tehachapi, and Helmstetters and Tunkhannock. Nothing matches the mighty Curve.”
We’ve only been here an hour and at least six trains have passed, one the eastbound Amtraker (pictured at top) passing a climbing freight.
And climbing they always have the throttles to the roof — assaulting the heavens.
Thank ya Pennsy for having the foresight to make this a scenic area — to show off an incredible engineering feat for its time (1854).
The viewing area is smack in the Curve’s apex; and engineers are required by law to blow the horn at spectators.
And the railroad is right next to the viewing area.

The Keed.

NS freight at the mighty Curve.

-My old Rowi shoulder-grip (a rifle-mount for cameras), which goes back at least 35+ years, still works. I have the D100 mounted on it, and a cable trips the shutter — just like years ago.
I’m using the Rowi because I have the 300mm zoomer on the camera, which is too strong to be hand-held.
300 is also too strong for the Curve; it only gets about one unit. I have it set for about 135. 300 at Cassandra.

The Keed.

“Blue.”

I also called the all-powerful Tim Belknap at the mighty Mezz while a train was descending.
“No jogging tubbies,” I reported.
Belknap is always telling me Hilary-dillery is gonna shut down the Curve for her beloved Teamsters and convert it into a jogging trail.
“Never happen,” I say. “We’re talking about 200+ containers per train, and perhaps 30-40 stack-trains per day. That’s at least 6,000 trailers per day.
No way is there anywhere near enough highway capacity to handle that.

The Keed.

Two NS freights east at Cassandra. (The one at left is a double-stack.)

-Our final stop of the day, after 4-5 hours at the Curve, was Cassandra Railfan Overlook.
Cassandra Railfan Overlook is the old Route 53 overpass (over the railroad) into Cassandra, which is west of Lilly, about 10-13 miles west of the mighty Curve.
Someone noticed railfans were congregating on the old bridge, so seats were installed in the shade along with old metal restaurant tables.
Apparently the current mayor of Cassandra has a railfan gift-shop in town, and is the chief instigator behind Cassandra Railfan Overlook.
Six people and a frightened dog were already on hand — we were seven and eight. (The dog hid when locos passed, which of course is at full bore climbing east — Cassandra is on the West Slope.
I got a new antenna for the rail-scanner at Radio-Shack, and it grabs a lot. It helps the crews are calling out the signals, plus there are talking detectors galore.
At the mighty Curve I even got faraway Brickyard: 238.8. The Curve is milepost 242.
If it’s “258.8 Track 1” at Cassandra, an eastbound is coming. “253.7 Track 3” is an approaching westbound.
Every time we packed up to leave, the scanner called out another approaching train.

The Keed.

NS double-stack climbs east at Cassandra.

-8/16/07:
Driving north, returning from the mighty Curve, we stop at the Williamsport Weggers to buy milk and bananas.
Doing so scotches hitting the dreaded Canandaigua Weggers, which is rather indirect when you’re trying to pick up a dog.
The Williamsport Weggers is one of the first, if not the first, forays of mighty Weggers out of the Rochester area.
Now there are 89 bazilyun, including one in Cherry Hill and outside Washington, D.C.
Ambling through the vast, crowded parking-lot we noticed a Bush-Cheney ‘04 bumper-sticker on a car in a handicap-slot. (Amazingly, it had a handicap-tag.)
I was tempted to grab my camera, but didn’t, lest I get bopped on the head by an angry REPUBLICAN, or get dragged to the Williamsport slammer as a suspected terrorist. (“Taking pictures of a Dubya-sticker, eh? You’re under arrest as a liberial!”)
Driving north of Williamsport, one of our cellphones rang somehow despite our allegedly never having them on.
But I didn’t answer it. I can’t multi-task when one of the tasks is driving.
It was Jack, of course; blustering about quiet on FlagOut, no Internet-access at Tunnel Inn, and a possible heart-attack climbing the steps.
DREAM ON, Bubby! I marched right up the steps like I always do — once on Tuesday, and twice Wednesday. Breathing hard at the top, but nowhere near as outta breath as you were.
Still kicking, Bubby; and taking every one of your insane pronouncements to the cleaners. —We’re still wondering how coal-bearing ships access the landlocked Powder River Basin in Wyoming....... (thrump-thrump).
Your noisy claim the DC-6 was the first airliner with a fully pressurized cabin was also a bit off-the-wall, as was your incredible intimation the DC-6 came before the Connie.
We also fielded a cellphone call at the mighty Curve.
Amazingly my phone rang despite my allegedly never having it on, and it was MAC-Shack, asking a question before ordering a USB-scanner I wanted.
The poor guy probably wondered what in the wide, wide world was going on, since a train was descending.

-So what’ll it be........
....chasing trains or women?
I hope whoever 44 marries is as accommodating as Linda. (“I wanna know why every vacation seems to involve trains?”)
If railroading stays around for another 100 years — and I think it will, since nothing moves freight over land as well as railroads (see photo below of solid tank-train leaving Cassandra) — 44 is set for life. (“Just lemme out. I don’t care where ya stop. Just lemme out!”)

The Keed.

Solid corn-syrup east at Cassandra. (At least 80 cars — with pushers.)

I think the train-crews are catching on. All up-and-down the railroad — Tunnel Inn, Cassandra Railfan Overlook, Horseshoe Curve — the crews are blowing horn at the railfans — men that never outgrew their childhood.
Scanners on, photo cameras clicking, video-cameras whirring, taking copious notes. It’s better than chasing women or getting drunk.
(“Just remember, Marcy: you’re young only once, but you can be immature all your life.”)

-Addendums:
-1) Internet-access may be possible at Tunnel Inn.
We were speaking to a lady Wednesday-night getting a weak signal to her laptop — probably the library across the tracks.
When the library closed, no signal.
The so-called stationmasters (the people that run the place) have a ‘pyooter in their quarters downstairs. All it would take is a wireless transmitter — e.g. like our Linksys-box.
-2) The 94-year-old nosy neighbor had an ambulance in his driveway when we left. The 94-year-old nosy neighbor was walking out to the ambulance, so we didn’t pursue it.
Turns out he had a catheter installed — he couldn’t go to the bathroom.
“I’m gonna die soon,” he said. Obviously he’s fed up with all the insanity of getting old: like frailty, instability, falling, and not being able to do anything other than sleep and eat.

I hafta blog this, chillen; because that’s where the pictures are stored, but I ain’t doin’ the footnotes — way too many would be needed.

All I’ll say is that “Cherry Hill” is the suburban area in south Jersey where I grew up — although I don’t remember “Cherry Hill” existing when I was a kid.

Once you’ve played a Steinway, nothing else counts

STEINWAY

Model D.

Last night (Sunday, August 12, 2007) the classical-music radio-station we listen to, Dubya Hex Hex Hi out of Rochester, had a program wherein the protagonists were trying to correctly pronounce “concert-grand piano.”
“I think it’s pronounced ‘Steinway,’” one said.
A snide remark, of course; but once you’ve played a Steinway, nothing else counts.
I had nine years of classical piano training, a torturous endeavor fraught with weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.
My crowning achievement was to learn Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue, an incredibly challenging assemblage of wild rhythms, crazy syncopations, and insane offsets.
I also got so I could play Rimskij-Korsakov’s “Flight of the Bumble-Bee,”although I remember having to stop and start over during a recital.
When I finished I was given a standing ovation by all the doting parents in attendance.
Houghton had two Steinway Model Ds.
One was on the stage in Wesley Chapel, and the second retired to a practice-room, supposedly with a broken sound-board.
I played the stage-piano a few times, but the practice-room piano a lot.
(The stage-piano was rather intimidating; like breaking the law. The practice-room piano, despite its broken sound-board, sounded fine.)
Cavalier Country Club in Wilmington had a Baldwin concert-grand. I played it a few times for “Three Little Bakers” gigs, but it wasn’t a Steinway.
Every piano is different. Steinway is pretty consistent, but Yamaha pianos are making it onto the concert-stage.
While designing our house, I went to our local Steinway store, supposedly to measure a Model D, so our family-room would be big enough should I ever get one.
No Model Ds were present, but they let me play a Steinway baby-grand.
It was deader than a doornail.
I said so, so they also had me try a Yamaha baby-grand. It was much livelier than the Steinway.
So I guess it depends on the actual piano itself, although Steinway is fairly consistent.
Vladimir Horowitz played a Steinway.
Piano-playing seemed to vaporize with the stroke. I can’t even hold a tune anymore.
And a Steinway Model D is beyond-the-pale — it would be like buying a Ferrari.
Nevertheless I have Gershwin’s “Preludes for Piano” set aside.

“Dubya Hex Hex Hi” equals WXXI; the radio-station is WXXI-FM, 91.5.

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

“Wilmington” Delaware.

“The Three Little Bakers” was a bake-shop chain of three Italian brothers in Wilmington, who once did an acrobatic-act on the Ed Sullivan TV Show. They continued to do their act as a promotion for their bake-shops. I belonged to a rock-group who accompanied their act.

I had a stroke October 26, 1993.

Monthly calendar report

-1) The August entries of my two Pennsylvania Railroad 2007 calendars feature opposite extremes of Pennsylvania Railroad freight steam-locomotive practice.
My color All-Pennsy calendar has humble H-9 Consolidation (2-8-0) #1770. My black & white All-Pennsy calendar has mighty J #6488 (2-10-4).

Photo courtesy Bob’s Photo©.

J1 #6488.

The J is Pennsy’s war-baby; a borrowing of plans of Chesapeake & Ohio Railroad’s T-1 Texas type, because Pennsy wasn’t allowed to develop new locomotives in WWII.
As such it is the only Pennsy engine to not have the trademark Belpaire firebox. (It may have also been the onliest one with Baker valve-gear.) —It’s a C&O engine. (There were a few others, but almost all Pennsy engines had the Belpaire firebox and ended up using Walschaerts.)
The T-1 is Lima SuperPower, probably the apogee of steam locomotive development.
The idea was to make the steam-boiler keep up with high speeds, and to do so efficiently.
It may have been a missed application, since railroading is mainly a low-speed operation.
Norfolk & Western (railroad) may have had a better handle on it. Their goal was to reduce fuel-consumption, yet still lug heavy trains over mountainous terrain.
SuperPower did well on level terrain with few curves. SuperPower could roll at 50+ mph constantly, and not run out of steam.
So the mighty J got directed to lines where it could strut its stuff — like in Ohio.
A J on Horseshoe Curve might not make as much sense as a 2-10-0 Decapod, except that Decapod might run out of steam.
I don’t think I ever saw a J.

Photo by Fred Kern.

Consol #1770.

What I did see a lot of was Pennsy Consols like 1770. Any freight-train on the PRSL through Haddonfield was a Consol.
There also were coal yards west of the station, and a Consol-powered local came out to shift cars.
Pennsy built almost 5,000 Consols, if you go back to the earliest Consols in 1875.
They were the jack-of-all-trades; even used as switchers.
Pennsy never built an 0-8-0 switcher. They just used Consols.

-2) My only other railroad calendars are -a) my Howard Fogg calendar, and -b) my Norfolk Southern calendar.
-My Fogg calendar has a watercolor of a Santa Fe 4-8-4 pulling the Chief past the Gallup Cliffs.

Watercolor by Howard Fogg.

Santa Fe’s 4-8-4 #3771.

Santa Fe’s 4-8-4s were its most fabulous engines, comparable only to its 2-10-4s.
They were designed by Charles T. Ripley of Santa Fe’s motive-power department — in concert with Baldwin Locomotive Works (the builder): application of late ‘30s steam-locomotive technology, namely SuperPower principles.
As such, Ripley’s locomotives were phenomenal.
A few remain. Only one, 3751, is operable.
I have videotapes of it running, and it is awesome.
Unfortunately, it burns oil; but it is so big it is intimidating.
-My Norfolk Southern calendar is a huge coal-train strung out along the Susquehanna River on the old Pennsy.
Apparently Norfolk Southern is doing quite well, partly because it’s reprising the old Pennsy in Pennsylvania.
The calendar is winning photo-contest entries by Norfolk Southern employees.

Photo by Philip Makenna.

Polikarpov I-15 biplane.

-3) My Ghosts WWII warbird calendar is a Polikarpov I-15bis Russian biplane (pictured).
KEE-YUCK!
Two things apply here: -a) I’m partial to only American planes — I suppose because to me they were the prettiest; e.g. the Mustang, and
-b) I abhor biplanes — only monoplanes please.
Soon August will pass, but September is two German planes.
Again; KEE-YUCK!
October is a P-47.

-4) Only two other calendars remain: -a) my hot-rod calendar, and -b) my sports-car calendar.
-My Hot-rod calendar is a cobbling up of a ‘32 Ford “Speedwagon;” a wooden-sided enigma Ford never produced: the destruction of a three-window coupe so the so-called Speedwagon could be made.

Speedwagon.

Again; KEE-YUCK! What were they thinking? What an abomination. The three-window coupe was perhaps the prettiest ‘32 Ford ever, and somebody comes in and trashes it.
Nice job, but it reminds me of Brother-G trashing those two Model A coupes long ago at Houghton. A tragedy!
-My sports-car calendar is one of those huge super-glitzy middle-‘30s roadsters like the Duesenberg Model J; except this is a Mercedes. Swooping fenders, chromed flexible header-shrouds, and rakish lines.
I’m sorry, but to me it’s a Hitler-car: utter bombast; unworthy of a picture.
Next month is a 1988 Porsche 911 Carrera.

“Pennsy” is the Pennsylvania Railroad, no longer in existence. It merged with New York Central Railroad in 1968 as Penn-Central, and that went bankrupt in about two years. “Pennsy” was once the largest railroad in the world.

“Lima” is Lima Locomotive Works in Fort Wayne, Ind.

Horseshoe Curve (the “mighty Curve,”) west of Altoona, Pennsylvania, is by far the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to. Horseshoe Curve is a national historic site. It was a trick used by the Pennsylvania Railroad to get over the Allegheny mountains without steep grades. Horseshoe Curve was opened in 1854, and is still in existence.

“Consol” is the nickname for Consolidation steam railroad engines.

“PRSL” is Pennsylvania-Reading Seashore lines in south Jersey; an amalgamation of Pennsy and Reading (“RED-ing”) railroads in south Jersey in 1933 to get rid of excess trackage.

“Haddonfield” (New Jersey) is an old Revolutionary-War era town south of the suburb I grew up in. The Camden & Atlantic railroad, opened about 1850, Camden, N.J. to Atlantic City, went directly through Haddonfield, and was later purchased by the Pennsylvania Railroad. I first watched trains on the PRSL through Haddonfield in the late ‘40s, and they were still steam-powered.

“Brother-G” is my classmate Charlie Gardiner at Houghton College. We graduated in 1966. Before we did, he purchased, with another, two Model-A Ford coupe-bodies to convert into hot-rods, but never got to it, so junked them. They were crushed by a bulldozer.

Incident on Buffalo St.

The other day (Wednesday, August 8, 2007) I visited the mighty Mezz to unload excess produce from our garden.
The mighty Mezz is on Buffalo St. in Canandaigua, a street that goes WEST (east; north; south; WHATEVER; looks west to me) from State Route 332, the main north-south drag through Canandaigua.
The intersection of Buffalo St. with 332 is major enough to require a traffic-light, and separate turn lanes; such that Buffalo St. separates into three lanes as it approaches Route 332: -1) a right-turn lane, -2) a left-turn and through lane in the middle, and -3) a lane for opposing traffic.
So leaving the Mezz I drive up Buffalo St toward 332, merging into the left-turn lane; since I am planning to turn left onto 332.
A Ford Focus behind me merges into the right-turn lane, right-turn signal on.
But then as the traffic-light changes, the Focus suddenly swoops left, and turns in front of me, from the right-turn lane with her right-turn signal still on.
No Dubya-sticker, but a place where one was.

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

RE: “WEST (east; north; south; WHATEVER; looks west to me):” my brother (in-Boston) and I have been having a torrid argument over whether I can sense direction as well as he. It started when I mentioned that a certain road in northern-Delaware, where we long-ago lived, went mainly west-east. He loudly claims it’s north-south. Actually it’s mainly northwest-southeast. But next to the suburban development we lived in it mainly went west-east. (So that walking eastward along it, you were walking into the dawning sun.)

“Dubya-04 sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. Just about every insane traffic-move I see involves a Dubya-sticker; e.g. running red-lights, cutting people off, signaling right and then turning left, etc.

Don’t know and yes

-1) Don’t know........
So here I am yesterday (Friday, August 10, 2007) calmly headed east on 5&20 toward Canandaigua, the dreaded Toy-store and the vaunted Canandaigua YMCA.
I am approaching Bloomfield and the notorious T-intersection of State Route 64 into 5&20, notorious because it’s only protected by a stop-sign.
I am placidly following a newish navy-blue Mercury Sable, the Mercury version of the Ford Taurus.
I am about 30 yards behind the Sable, not noticing that GramPaw is inching his rusty beige S-10 pickup from 64 into 5&20.
Suddenly he lunges into the intersection, requiring the Sable to slam on her brakes.
I attempt to view the tailgate of the offending S-10, but he’s too far away.
He sure drove like a Dubya-supporter, but I couldn’t see if he was.

-2) Yes.........
So here I am quietly ambling down the row of parked cars in the Weggers parking-lot.
“Can’t-cha park any closer?” the bluster-boy would bellow angrily.
I suppose I shoulda parked in the no-parking fire-lane. Dubya-supporters think they have a right.
(I always park in the same row; perish-the-thought. It’s a stroke-induced compensatory action. By doing so I don’t have to look for my car. —But it may require parking an extra 20 yards from the store-entrance; oh dear!)
I hear a jazzy trumpet-riff, followed by Big Band music from the ‘30s-‘40s.
Granny has all the windows open on her white Park Avenue and is loudly serenading all-and-sundry with Tommy Dorsey or something.
Granny is parked in the Handicap slot — no handicap-tag, of course — and has her taillights on; which means the Buick is running, and she is about to back out.
But it looks like I can walk by; the Buick isn’t moving.
But then suddenly the Buick backs into me.
“WHOA!” I say, and throw my left hand onto the trunklid.
(At least my saying something got Granny to stop backing up; otherwise she would have been wondering why I was looking at her through the rear-window from atop the trunk.
Looking down I noticed a Dubya-04 sticker on the bumper.
And it was for real, you guys — too bad I didn’t have my camera.
And the “Wow-Wow” droned on-and-on.

“The dreaded Toy-store” is LeBrun Toyota in Canandaigua, where we bought our van. My loudmouthed macho brother-in-Boston excoriated me for not buying an American pickup-truck. He firmly believes it ain’t real if it ain’t gettin’ 5 mpg or less.

“5&20” is the main east-west road through our area; State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20, both on the same road. 5&20 is just south of where we live.

“Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester we often buy groceries at.

“The bluster-boy” is my all-knowing blowhard brother Jack from Boston. He visited recently, and complained loudly I hadn’t parked close enough to the Wegmans store-entrance. He badmouths everything I do or say.

I had a stroke October 26, 1993.

“Dubya-04 sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker.

RE: “And it was for real, you guys......” refers to the fact my tub-thumping Conservative Dubya-supporter siblings doubt my mentioning that just about every insane traffic-move I see involves a Dubya-sticker; e.g. running red-lights, cutting people off, signaling right and then turning left, etc.

“yow-zuh; yow-zuh”

This morning’s (Friday, August 10, 2007) errand was a visit to the dreaded Toy-store in Canandaigua, to do a 15,000-mile, 18-month service on the Bucktooth Bathtub. (Our mileage is only about 8,300 miles, but we bought the van in October of 2005.)
When I walked into the service-department the frazzled service-rep was being loudly shoved around by a lady angry that she would have to spend 89 bazilyun dollars for two new tires. (Proper tire-inflation should be within the ability of even the helpless.)
What I was witnessing was the usual blustering when an ignorant someone is required to spend money she wasn’t planning on.
“How come you guys never said anything about rotation? Are the parts charges included in my bill? Can you please staple all that so it stays together in my trashcan?”
The poor service-rep was strung out. I almost told him to calm down — that I wasn’t going to bite his head off.
A lowly mechanic called him in and dressed him down for something.
Good golly, Miss Molly! The poor guy had to stand by sheepishly: “yow-zuh; yow-zuh.”
I told him I didn’t need the oil changed, or the tires rotated; that I had done both things myself. Little needed to be done, so I was told on the phone I could wait for it; after which I planned to go to the Canandaigua YMCA.
“It will take us at least two hours; still want to wait for it?” the poor guy asked.
Two hours wasn’t what I’d planned on; to me “waiting for it” means about 30 minutes or less.
“Depends on whether you guys can cart me down the the local YMCA.” (If they couldn’t, I’d wait.)
A callow teenybopper was dragged out, and together we drove the Bucktooth Bathtub down to the Y.
“Be careful with this thing,” I said; “we think the world of it.”
“Just continue down this street, around the bend to Gibson St., and then back to 332.”
Three hours later I called back the Toy store and said they could come pick me up at the Y. In about five minutes, callow teenybopper showed up in a fleet Scion — not for sale. “I have no idea where to drop you off,” he said, as we drove into the Toy-store. “I just started this job; and I don’t know anything.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I told him. “You’re doing fine, and it ain’t rocket-science.”

“The dreaded Toy-store” is LeBrun Toyota in Canandaigua. My loudmouthed macho brother-in-Boston excoriated me for not buying an American pickup-truck. He firmly believes it ain’t real if it ain’t gettin’ 5 mpg or less.

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

“332” (State Route 332) is the main north-south drag through Canandaigua.

Manaña

A huge passel of uncompleted errands has piled up — so many it has become intimidating and time-consuming.
I suppose the biggest of all is the purchase of a car to replace our 2003 Honda CR-V, which we aren’t that happy with.
A number of uncompleted items stand in the way (a number have already been dispatched).
We have pretty much decided on a Suzuki SX-4 (this needs FlashPlayer), but reports say it makes a lot of racket at highway-speed, so I’d still like to road-test it for that.
A second impediment is knowing the relative value of both an SX-4 and our trade-in CR-V so we don’t get fleeced.
When I bought the Bucktooth Bathtub I appeared with a sheaf of printouts that told me what to expect.
Probably saved about $2,000.
Other errands are -1) Verizon, and -2) a shredder. Verizon and my shredder-store (Office-Max) are in the same plaza, so if I do one, I should do the other.
Verizon is updating our cellphone service, and probably replacing our phones. I ain’t interested is 89 bazilyun features. To me a cellphone is only freedom from the landline network; I don’t need it to start our dinner from across the universe, or shoot shaky video for You-Tube.
Another errand is handing our old VCR over to charity. We also had old dogfood for Sabrina Killian refused to eat. Handing it over was a separate errand.
Other errands are the camera-bag and ‘pyooter-equipment.
The camera-bag is the camera-store in deepest, darkest Rochester, about 1.75 hours round-trip.
The ‘pyooter-store is a little more than an hour — it’s in a suburb of Rochester.
I usually have to pile two or more errands into one trip — if in the same general direction, so that I got home from the camera-store about 5, after leaving the Canandaigua YMCA about 3.
The ‘pyooter-store errand got combined with others, including a trip to mighty Weggers, such that I got home about 5:15.
And I have to return to both stores — both were only ordering. More long trips required.
I would say our dog Killian is who suffers most. Often I have to be gone 5-6 hours, and often he’s alone in the house while I’m gone. Throw in that I often have to buy gas, hit Weggers at least twice a week, occasional forays to the funky food-market (about 45 minutes), plus getting rid of produce at the mighty Mezz, and I hardly have time to mow lawn.
There also are occasional car-appointments, the Hairman, and doctor-appointments. Riding motorbike is near impossible, and I no longer have an excuse to ride it; like riding to work. (I can’t run errands on it, because I can’t carry much.)
Plus we need to replace our extension-ladder — we have a wooden one that’s too heavy for us old folks.
I have little time for fun; ‘pyooter machinations get combined with eating, and what little reading I can do gets done on the can.
I guess I’m doing what I can stand, but it’s irksome so much gets shoved to mañana.

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

“Sabrina” and “Killian” are the two Irish-Setter rescue dogs we had. Sabrina died last March; Killian is still alive.

“Mighty Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester we often buy groceries at.

“The funky food-market” is Lori’s Natural Foods, south of Rochester in Henrietta — a source for salt-free cereal, sauce, etc.

RE: “Getting rid of produce at the mighty Mezz......” We have a garden which generates excess produce, which we unload at “The mighty Mezz,” the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I once worked.

“The Hairman” is my hairdresser.

RE: “riding to work.......” I retired almost two years ago.

Connie

QUEEN OF THE SKIES

The Keed.

The Trans-World Airlines Lockheed Constellation (a Super-G).

In our living-room is a mahogany model of a Trans-World Airlines Lockheed Constellation (pictured), BAR NONE the most beautiful airplane of all time.
The “Connie” was developed in the early ‘40s at the prompting of Howard Hughes, who wanted a better passenger air transport than the lowly Douglas DC-3. The main requirement was a range of 3,500 miles, which was a huge jump. Hughes was a major stockholder in TWA.
The Connie was also the first passenger air-transport with a fully pressurized cabin in extensive use. (Actually the Boeing 307 was the first in the late ‘30s, but only 10 were built.)
Fortunately, I’m old enough to have been around when the Connie was in use.
In the late ‘40s my father used to take us to Philadelphia Airport, which at that time was little more than a large concrete apron for airliners to park and load/unload.
Eventually (1950-1953) Philadelphia built a proper air-terminal with two piers connected by a concourse.
Each pier could accommodate 10-12 airplanes, 5-6 per side. Trans-World Airlines had the north side of Pier B, and at that time non-fliers were allowed out on Pier B where we could watch the activities.
Connies would taxi up to the pier and shut down their motors. A boarding stairway would be wheeled up, and the plane would unload.
Stubby red fuel-trucks would appear to load the wing-tanks with av-gas.
Then the departing passengers would clamber up the stairway and get on the plane.
Everything was out in the open; this was before jetways. The only time you see that stairway anymore is the hatless president boarding Air Force One.
Then the door would get closed, the stairway wheeled back, and the motors would light amidst huge gouts of flame and clouds of oil-smoke.
A man was always standing by with a fire-extinguisher.
Once lit, the airliner would taxi away to take off for destinations unknown.
We always gravitated to the TWA terminal, perhaps because their airplanes were the prettiest, and mostly Connies.
Pier A had an outside observation-deck on top, and once my grandfather forked over the exorbitant 50¢ so we could go up to it.
I will never forget it; and can still see it (and hear it).
An Eastern Airlines Connie taxied onto the warmup area, and wicked its engines up to full-throttle.
It was a marvelous cascade of sound.
Then the Connie took off — another marvelous cascade of sound.
In 1956 my parents took the vacation of a lifetime: flew out to Phoenix, Arizona in a TWA Super-Connie.
We watched as they boarded the plane, and then a motor bit the dust so they had to land in Albuquerque.
The motors (four Wright R-3350-DA3 Turbo Compound) on the Connie had a reputation of being flaky — in fact, the Connie was called the best three-engine airliner ever.
Supposedly the motor caught fire. Perhaps. I can imagine a small fire from leaking oil (Connies had fire extinguishment in the motor nacelle), but a major fire would bring down the plane.
The Connie was the best there was; incredible grace and style combined with immense power.
I have a video-tape of the Lockheed Constellation. Apparently a few are still flying.
They show one taking off, and then it flies over at about 300 feet. I have played that tape over-and-over.
The best part is the model never cost me a cent. The place I bought it from has never charged me for it.
For info, the three-rudder tail was to get the vertical-stabilizer area needed without raising hanger-height.
Over the years I have been to numerous airshows, most with antique airplanes.
—So many the airshows have become rather boring; so that I haven’t gone to any in a while.
The next airshow I go to will have a Connie in it.

Techno-follies

-1) Cellphone machinations:
We have discovered that apparently our cellphones lose their sound-level settings if the battery is removed.
For some reason the display setting remains the same.
Our cellphones are like PCs. Every once in a while a function hangs and the battery has to be removed.
Fire them up, and they play a welcome-tune, mostly in full, but often aborted.
Same with shutdown.
Charging the phone isn’t supposed to play music at all, but sometimes it does. This is especially true of removal.
The other day, Linda’s phone wouldn’t shut off — it was hung — so we removed the battery.
That, of course, shut it off; we were back to Ground Zero — but Linda also noticed the ringer-volume was reduced.
Some time ago my phone had hung, requiring battery-removal, and for months the earpiece was barely audible — I’d have to trigger the speaker-phone. (I thought the phone was dying — it’s at least three years old.)
So last night (Wednesday, August 8, 2007), I set about resetting all the settings on our phones.
The ringer-volume is back to full blast on both our phones, as is the earpiece-volume.
It’s gotten so I can do this without the manual — it’s 44 fiddling the menu function.
And there were no steaming hairballs to speak of. It’s also gotten so I can reset my digital watch without the manual.

-2) Online-ordering follies:
Last night I decided to try ordering a new denim jacket online — my old one has gotten too big after losing weight, plus I’ve had occasional success with online ordering.
So first I Froogled “denim jacket,” and then narrowed to “Levi denim jacket.”
Fine; 89 bazilyun hits. I fired up the non-Macy’s and it showed me some store where I could order a jacket online.
Okay, guile and cunning here: copy/paste the web-address from FireFox into Internet-Explorer. Seems the web-designers set their sites up to work with IE — other browsers often tank.
Next move: take all the hyphens out of everything — hyphens often throw things for a loop.
Similarly: five-number zip only; adding the “plus-four” throws sites for a loop.
Okay; everything hunky-dory to not throw things into the ozone: “process order.”
Boom-zoom: “Please fix the part in red!”
Okay; there was a state scrolldown I didn’t notice, and it was still set on Alaska (there’s not a 14469 in Alaska). Change it to New York.
“Process order.”
Boom-zoom: “Please fix the part in red!”
“What are you talking about? I don’t even see a red part. There ain’t a red part!”
Start over. Now it has me ordering two Levi jackets. Delete one. Do the whole stinkin’ kabosh again from start-to-finish.
“Process order.”
Boom-zoom: “Please fix the part in red!”
“Oh for crying out loud! What’s supposed to take five-minutes is turning into an hour wrestling-match. Who designed this site?”
Linda came in, and we tried this-and-that. Ordered a third time (again delete the second jacket), and again “Please fix the part in red!”
I gave up. Macy’s got the sale.
Maybe the first site didn’t like autofill; I’ve had that happen. Copy/paste an e-mail address (or password) a second time and the site bombs.

-3) PayPal for MyFamblee.com:
Bill is crying that MyFamblee.com wants us to re-up again for FlagOut.
The thought comes to mind to PayPal it — after all, I’ve paid for two things with PayPal.
Nice idea; but it’s just asking for trouble.
Just print him a check and an envelope, and send him the six-bucks 20th century style.
Like ordering subs with a ‘pyooter, it’s worth a try; but I know how things go.

-4) Go figure........
I received an e-mail from SteadFast Cycles, where I am ordering a large Ducati-patch for the new Levi jacket.
Um, “Your payment has been received,” and then “Please send payment for your eBay purchase.”
We’re waiting (thrump-thrump). I e-mailed a response, but it bounced.

“Linda” is my wife.

“44” (Agent-44) is my brother-in-Delaware’s onliest child.

“MyFamblee.com” (actually MyFamily.com) is our family’s web-site server. Our site is called “FlagOut;” what my mentally-retarded (Down Syndrome) kid brother always used to say every morning about hanging the American-flag out. My younger brother-in-Delaware “Bill” is a site administrator. The annual charge is $6 per member.

Talk-talk

Yesterday (Monday, August 6, 2007) I had a conversation with the dreaded Amazon-Lady at the vaunted Canandaigua YMCA.
“And here you are in one piece to tell me about it,” Linda said.
Amazon-Lady looks extremely muscle-bound, and can be quite nasty. I’ve seen her bite the head off an overly-friendly Granny, and this despite Amazon-Lady being a YMCA employee.
I also saw her lambaste a guy walking outside. She grimaces angrily when crunching the machines.
The Canandaigua YMCA is doing a major rehab of their exercise-gym.
A few weeks ago the downstairs johns were closed, and last Friday it was the weight-room. Cinder-block walls have been removed, and huge blue plastical tarps put up.
All of the weight-machines have been moved to a cellar dungeon — painted brick walls with huge splattered graffiti-like murals.
All the weight-machines have been set up inside, and I only use one.
When I walked in, I was the onliest user; except for perhaps Amazon-Lady — I wasn’t paying that much attention.
When I finished my machine, Amazon-Lady was off to one side, sitting in a chair as if supervising.
“I have a humble request,” I said to her.
She beamed at me broadly — obviously I’m recognized as a regular user, and she seemed thrilled I would dare talk to her.
“Up in the Cardio-Room, they’re playing XM49,” I said; “which is rather hard to take.”
“Yeah, that stuff is oldies,” she said.
“Pshaw!” I thought to myself later. “Oldies my foot!” ‘70s is not oldies. Poor thing: she missed out on Jerry Lee, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, and the early Elvis. She missed out on the greatest rock-n-roll song ever written: “Yakety-yak” by the Coasters. She missed out on “Rockin’ Robin” and “Let’s Go to the Hop.”
True to form. I made her laugh.
“The worst thing about XM49,” I said; “is Robert Plant and Lou Gramm bellowing at you; or horror-of-horrors, Mick Jagger!”
Cracked her up.
“So do you think you can change it?”
“What would you like it on?”
“XM26,” which is what she changed it to before.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said, as we walked back upstairs.
When I got back to the Cardio-Room, the radio was on XM26.
My perception is that Amazon-Lady looks more threatening than she is. I no longer feel that badly about her.
I make fun of her, but the nursing-home is decades away in her case.

“Linda” is my wife.

“XM49” and “XM26” are both satellite-radio stations. The Canandaigua YMCA apparently is an XM subscriber.

“Jerry Lee” is Jerry Lee Lewis, a late-’50s boogie woogie piano player and rock-n-roll star.

boink!

Last night (Saturday, August 4, 2007) yet another eBay/PayPal purchase was consumated, thankfully without one bit of the hairpulling insanity that accompanied the previous eBay/PayPal purchase.
This time was a Ducati-patch for a new denim jacket — last time (last week) was Apple-stickers.
No insanity because this time I was prepared — I guess......
eBay wants a log-in (why I’ll never know — I don’t want to be an eBay member).
So I tried logging in with “Robert Hughes” and my hallowed secret password, and I got unceremoniously tossed into the street.
I tried “Robert J. Hughes” again, boink!
Then I remembered my user-name at eBay is “Bobbalew25” — so I tried that and bingo!
The offerer, Steadfast Cycles, wanted $19.99 buy-it-now.
Well that ain’t bad, so I clicked “buy-it-now.”
I was presented with PayPal as a payment-option — that or bog-slow 20th-century fallbacks: certified check, postal money-order, etc.
(Linda used a money-order to buy a replacement pitcher when PayPal ran her in circles.)
PayPal wants —nay demands — my old RoadRunner e-mail address I haven’t used in years.
It also wants a secret password I remember only because I made it last week.
PayPal also refuses to allow anyone other than me (or logged in as me) to use it: e.g. my wife, or anyone else authorized to use my credit-card. (Um, we only have one credit-card; a disgrace!)
The next eBay/PayPal purchase will be years from now, but hopefully it won’t prompt any hairballs — who knows? I have everything inscribed onto a prompt-card on my monitor, but madness usually occurs — the geeks like to change things; a management thing (“mindless-management-minions”).
Amazon.com has my ancient AOL-address as my user-name, and flatly refuses to let me change it.

“Ducati” is a brand of Italian-made motorcycles. I had one once, a 1980 900SS — never should have traded it.

“Apple” is Apple Computers; my rig is a G4 Macintosh.

“25” is my birthday: February 5 (1944).

“Linda” is my wife.

8/4/07

-A) Printer-driver follies:
At long last OS-X is recognizing my printer — I guess.
As originally installed, my original OS-X (10.2) used my old printer-driver. But when I upgraded to Tiger (10.4), it fell back to using a generic driver: LaserWriter-8.
My printer isn’t a laser printer. In fact, it’s an inkjet, an Epson photo-quality Stylus 1280.
We printed a photo of Bill Ross’s mini-truck (that Jack blew), and it looked awful — stripy.
The printer was boomin’-and-zoomin’ — speed over quality. My old printer-window had an option for picking quality over speed; “LaserWriter-8” didn’t.
So I asked about it at the dreaded Mac Shack, and showed them the print.
“Must be a generic driver; I can’t believe your printer even works with a laser driver.”
He then showed me that OS-X has 89 bazilyun inherent printer drivers, including one for my 1280.
But I couldn’t do anything right then — this was two months ago. (One of the greatest advantages of OS-X is that it still let’s me fiddle even though my apps ain’t completely updated; e.g. Photoshop, Word, Excel, Quark, etc. Whereas Vast has to update all her apps to be Vista-compliant.)
I went to Mac-Shack again yesterday (Friday, August 3, 2007) to order a correct large-format scanner for this here rig (the previous order was a PC-scanner only), so I asked again about printer-drivers.
“Add a printer,” he said.
“Fire up the ‘printer set-up utility,’ and add a printer.”
OS-X searches your system, and then installs the drivers for any printers it finds.
All I had was my 1280, so that’s what it installed.
Boom-zoom; driver installed.
I also made it my default (“defoult”) printer, which tossed the LaserWriter-8 — plus it couldn’t find a laser-printer.
So finally I’m printing to my 1280, although it ain’t my old dialog-box. (Doesn’t seem to have the speed/quality option.)

-B) DONE:

DONE

The Keed.

(Old windows at back [laundry-room], cellar gun-slit at bottom.)

Our massive window-replacement project is more-or-less complete; i.e. the crew has departed, and only one window is yet to be replaced — which they were missing. (In the photo you can see how bad the old windows were.)
There are also minor things which may have not been done, which we are supposed to list.
Fleecer-man is also supposed to come to see that we are satisfied.
The wall repairs comprised an extra day, for which they would have charged an additional $1,200; but they rounded that down to $1,000 due to the missing window.
WHATEVER; I think I’d rather put up with an added 1,000 smackaroos than a noisy torrent of blustering from West Bridgewater, or Ty Pennington and his blue-helmeted minions napalming the house, or demolishing it with big-boy toys.
“Finally I can see out the windows,” my wife said.
“So tell us,” a crew-member said. “When was your house built?”
“1989.” my wife said.
“I’m not surprised,” the guy said. “Right about then the windows were terrible. Everyone was experimenting, and everything failed. We had all kinds of problems at Rochester-Colonial.”

-C) “Tuff-n-Lite:
And so goes old “Tuff-n-Lite,” (pictured), a motorcycle trailer I purchased long ago in 1984 should I ever have to rescue an abandoned motorbike at roadside.

The Keed.

“Tuff-n-Lite” departs.

I never had to rescue anything, and bought it when I had the Yamaha RZ350 two-stroke, a motorbike that only weighed about 350 pounds, yet went like stink.
I modified the RZ a lot, like Jack modifying his GeezerGlide, but in so doing ruined it. (Let’s hope Jack ain’t doing the same, but the GeezerGlide sure runs wonky.)
I was mainly trying to make it sit like my Ducati, which it replaced, but it was an upright streetbike; wonky with clip-ons and rearsets.
I also made a number of speed-modifications to it; mainly a kit for replacing the original catalytic-converter exhaust-mufflers with expansion-chambers and carburetor-jetting to match.
They made it extremely powerful above 6,000 rpm (the expansion-chambers were supercharging the intake; scavenging the cylinders with wave-action); yet below 6,000 it was nothing. It was like riding a light-switch.
It still had the oil-injection, so I didn’t have to premix, but riding it was no fun at all.
Swapping out the catalytic-converters also made it a gross polluter — supposedly illegal on the street.
Most of the modifications came from a national supplier who happened to be based in Rochester. They made out like bandits (“Toss another steak on the grill, Martha!”), and I’m sure are long-gone.
The RZ350 was replaced with the FZR400, not long after we moved out here to West Bloomfield.

The Keed.

GTI with FZR on old “Tuff-n-Lite.”

I took the RZ350 to the motorcycle-store in deepest, darkest Henrietta, and returned with the FZR400. I had old “Tuff-n-Lite” behind our 1983 Volkswagen GTI.
For a while “Tuff-n-Lite” was in our garage, but put a hole in the drywall; plus I needed room to put my motorbike in the garage.
So “Tuff-n-Lite” got put out in the backyard, stored outside in the weather.
Seems I used it one other time, but I rode the FZR when I traded it for the mighty Kow, and the Kow for the dreaded LHMB.
“Tuff-n-Lite” was stored outside for years, and not too long ago I tried to reuse it, but the taillights were severely corroded.
I ended up removing them for eventual repair, but never got to it.
I also had been renewing the plate as time went along, but stopped getting it inspected. Inspection would have required repair.
When the Rochester-Colonial crew was here a guy asked if I might be willing to part with it.
I was thinking I would eventually put it at the curb as a free giveaway, but said he could have it for $35 cash, and that it needed repair — also that -1) I hadn't greased the wheel-bearings in years, and -2) the tires might be rotted.
But I’m glad it’s going to someone who actually wants it. He plans to drag his Harley around behind a car — already has another flatbed trailer (pictured), but it needs a truck.
I think I paid about $485 for it; and that’s back in 1984. (Figure over $1,000 by now.)
When Jack was in Fulton, we swapped trailers and I used his to tow Bill and my motorbikes to Peg-a-lou behind the E250. Jack was not able to come, so only Bill-and-I were able to ride up in the hills.
That was back when -1) I had to swap the plugs on the RZ because they loaded up at 4,000 feet, and -2) Bill requested I not tell Sue he was doing 152 mph. That was the time our dog Casey bit JillZ, and also before Jack was into the macho Harley-gig. (At that time he had a navy-blue 700-cc four-cylinder Honda NightHawk — best-looking NightHawk they ever made.)

“OS-X Tiger (10.4)” is the current Apple-Computer operating-system.

“Bill Ross” is our driveway-sealing contractor. He lives nearby and has a small mini-truck model in his front yard. “Jack” is my all-knowing macho blowhard brother-from-Boston, and he “blew” what the mini-truck is supposed to be (he said Mack, and it’s supposed to be a Dodge). He lives in West Bridgewater south of Boston.

“Mac Shack” is where I bought my current rig.

“Vast” is my brother-in-Delaware’s wife Sue — she goes by the nickname “Vast Right-Wing Conspirator.”

RE: “default (‘defoult’).............” My brother-in-Delaware insists Route 261 in northern Delaware has always been spelled “Foulk Road.” But in 1957 when our family moved there (which was before he was born) it was signed as “Faulk Road.”

“Fleecer-man” is our salesman who initiated the window-replacement contract. My brother-in-Boston noisily insists we got hosed. (“Ya coulda had them windows for a ‘hunderd’ dollars a unit, from the faded blue Econoline in the Rochester slums, and installed them yourselves with bobbie-pins and paper-clips. All ya woulda had to do was hose off the blood.” “Hunderd” is now he noisily insists “hundred” is spelled.)

RE: “The wall repairs......” One porch wall had serious water-damage. Exterior sheathing and header-boards had to be replaced.

Jack’s “GeezerGlide” is a Harley-Davidson cruiser-bike — very laid back, and he’s 50; so we call it his GeezerGlide.

Without “catalytic-converters,” a two-stroke internal-combustion engine would pass a lot of unburnt hydrocarbons into the atmosphere.

A two-stroke motor has to have oil “premixed” in the gasoline, since everything passes through the crankcase. The RZ350 had “oil-injection,” to add oil to the gasoline. You didn’t have to “premix.”

“Deepest, darkest Henrietta” is Henrietta, N.Y., a glitzy and disgusting suburb of Rochester.

“Toss another steak on the grill, Martha!” is what I say about my brother Jack buying glitzy parts for his GeezerGlide.

“The mighty Kow” is my 1996 Kawasaki ZX6R, purchased after my stroke October 26, 1993.

The “LHMB” is my 2003 Honda CBR600RR. “LHMB” equals “Lord-Have-Mercy-Banana.” My sister in Floridy, upon seeing it, said “Lord-Have-Mercy!” My loudmouthed brother-from-Boston pronounced it a “banana,” because it’s yellow.

“Rochester-Colonial” is the contractor who replaced most of our windows.

“Fulton” is Fulton, N.Y., where years ago my brother was supervising the construction of the Nine Mile Point nuclear generating-station.

“Peg-a-lou” is my baby-sister in Lynchburg, Va.

“The E250” is our 1979 Ford E250 Econoline van, junked long ago.

“Bill” is my younger brother-from-Delaware. He claims his turbocharged Volvo is good for “152 mph.”

“JillZ” is my sister-in-Floridy’s onliest child.