Friday, November 30, 2007

trial-run

Yesterday (Thursday, November 29, 2007) we made a trial-run to infamous Bugaboo Creek in deepest, darkest Henrietta on Jefferson Road.
The concept of being automotively-challenged is not something the average person can understand.
They just hop in the car and go; what I and most everyone else does.
But with Linda it’s different: “Do I change lanes yet? How do I butt in without hitting anyone? I can’t see; I can’t turn my head.”
“That guy is coming at me from the on-ramp. Do I slow down?” (“Keep going. We’ll pass well clear of him.”)
“Turn left; turn right; then left, then right. And the roads are roads I’ve never heard of. I’ll never be able to do this.”
“Which way are we going?” “East.” “How do you know that?” “The sun’s over there.”
And Jefferson Road in Henrietta is a tangled maelstrom: bloated Hummers juking-and-jiving with giant Chevy pickups driven by macho Dale Earnhardt wannabees.
And angry Grannys in white LeSabres blowing their horns at you.
“What was that all about? Did I do anything wrong?”
“She was mad at our ISP,” I say.
Bugaboo Creek is the location of this year’s annual Christmas get-together of some of Linda’s old Lawyers friends.
Last year — I don’t know if this is the same bunch — was a get-together at some restaurant north of Rochester, and I went along because it was a sit-down dinner, and woulda meant Linda driving back home in darkness. Ziggity-zag per written directions over strange (to her) roads at night is utterly impossible. I’m not about to make my wife try that — I also mow the lawn.
But this Bugaboo shindig is around noon-time, and “I know how to get to Jefferson Road.”
Bugaboo Creek is one of a continuous conga-line of national franchise food-outlets: Hooters (or is it “Hotties?”), cheek-to-jowl with Don Pablo’s Mexican Food Joint, Red Lobstah, Taco-Bell (BONG!), and Macaroni Heaven or something.
And then there is Starbuck’s in the old Wendy’s — “All I want is a cuppa coffee!”
Look carefully, and you’ll see the abandoned minimall with an active colonoscopy clinic, hard by the abandoned Chase Bank branch (“Don’t get locked in the vault”).
And everything seems to be on a “pad.” “Place your pad here!” “Pads for lease!”
Trial-runs are nothing new — nor is my going along so Linda doesn’t have to drive.
Last summer was a get-together for old Lawyer friends at nearby Powder Mills Park when an employee turned 60.
It was daytime, but ziggity-zag all over. So I went along.
A while ago was a charity work shindig at some home for the mentally-challenged, near Powder Mills Park. So I took Linda there and returned later to pick her up (after she called me using her cellphone).
“Okay, first goal is Jefferson Road.”
Jefferson Road is also the location of the main Rochester Post-Office (it’s no longer in the city); so Bugaboo Creek is an extension of the Post-Office journey.
(The Post-Office journey was also a trial-run; we had to trial-run it so she could get there herself [for training]. Like Bugaboo Creek, the Post-Office is on the wrong side of the road. A normal driver would just crank the left turn in the face of traffic, but not Linda. We have to engineer a way to get there either -1) without left-turns, and/or -2) left-turns with a dedicated arrow.
The Post-Office meant going about a mile further and then right into a shopping-plaza, where she could turn around and drive back out onto Jefferson Road (other direction) with a dedicated left-turn arrow.
Getting to Bugaboo Creek means a similar journey, except the shopping-plaza ain’t far enough, and we have to hope the turn onto Clay Road has a dedicated left-turn arrow. (Bugaboo Creek is inside the corner of Clay and Jefferson Roads.)
There is a dedicated left-turn arrow onto Clay Road, so we made the turn, thinking we might have to go all-the-way around the block.
But there’s a Denny’s in the other corner, so we turned right into that (Linda was driving), and could therefore access Bugaboo Creek by crossing Clay Road from Denny’s.
Slowly we navigated the Bugaboo Creek parking-lot. “At least it’s a big lot.” We passed the dedicated parking-slot for “Moose of the month,” hard by a large full-size fiberglass statue of Bullwinkle.
So I feel confident she could do this herself.
Years ago I got frustrated at her difficulty, thinking she should just “DEAL WIDIT!”
The last standard-shift car I got was the ‘83 GTI; it had a five-speed floor-shift.
We took it up-the-road from our house here in West Bloomfield, and Linda tried it.
Are you kidding? Utterly beyond-the-pale.
Linda has to get back-and-forth from her employer in a Rochester suburb about 25 miles from here — utterly outside taking a bus.
So I gave up. What’s the sense? On balance I consider it more important to accommodate her being automotively-challenged.
I noticed she could drive the giant E250, which was auto-tranny; so we got the so-called “faithful Hunda” with auto-tranny.
So we make trial-runs. SO WHAT? On balance I’d rather. It’ll be 40 years at the end of this month.

  • “Deepest, darkest Henrietta” is a rather effusive and obnoxious suburb south of Rochester.
  • “Linda” is my wife.
  • RE: “She was mad at our ISP..........” ISP equals Internet-Service-Provider; in our case RoadRunner via the cable. Last July my macho, blowhard brother-from-Boston visited, and set up a wireless Internet connection to my router. His Internet reception was spotty, so he loudly blamed our Internet-Service-Provider (ISP). Now anything untoward is due to my ISP.
  • For almost 35 years my wife worked at what began as “Lawyers Co-operative Publishing Company” in Rochester.
  • RE: “I also mow the lawn........” My macho, blowhard brother-from-Boston recently declared that his wife had mowed his huge lawn for the last time this year. So I said: “why not you?” (He’s always farming out mowing his lawn, so he can watch NASCAR. Now that his onliest son is away at college, he makes his wife mow it.)
  • RE: “or is it ‘Hotties?’” —Not long ago, my macho, blowhard brother-from-Boston admitted his onliest son at college was dating a “Baptist-hotty.” Things have probably changed, but I can’t make sense of “Baptist-hotty.”
  • RE: “Abandoned minimall with an active colonoscopy clinic........” —My macho, blowhard brother-from-Boston admitted his colonoscopy was performed in a minimall clinic, and was therefore superior to mine, which was performed in a hospital.
  • “DEAL WIDIT!” is what my macho, blowhard brother-from-Boston loudly says to anyone facing a difficult fait-accomplis.
  • The “‘83 GTI” was a 1983 Volkswagen Rabbit GTI bought brand-new, a hot-rod.
  • The “E250” was our 1979 Ford E250 Econoline van, one of the neatest vehicles we’ve ever owned. We drove it out west in 1987, and camped in it every night.
  • “The Faithful Hunda” is our 1989 Honda Civic All-Wheel-Drive station-wagon, by far the BEST car we ever owned, now departed. (Called a “Hunda” because that was how a fellow bus-driver at Transit [Regional-Transit-Service in Rochester, where I once worked], pronounced it.)
  • RE: “It’ll be 40 years at the end of this month......” Married 12/30/67.
  • Wednesday, November 28, 2007

    The last straw

    One-and-a-half to two years ago I had at least 75 straws left in a giant cellophane package that started with a “hunderd” or so.
    I use about one per week, and used to wonder if I’d be around to finish them off.
    At that time I was having so-called “episodes,” which didn’t seem like dizzy spells, but as if my heart had stopped and the blood was draining from my head.
    After 89 bazilyun tests, a neurologist suggested the “episodes” might be a side-effect of the calcium-blocker blood-pressure medication I was taking at that time — and I had just doubled the dose.
    We subsequently dropped that medication, and began working-out at a physical-therapy gym.
    I had been referred there by the neurologist for post-stroke balance issues; but the therapist and I were more interested in my getting back into shape.
    I started at 225, or so they say (I think that was fully clothed), and was soon down to 200.
    Then the owner went ballistic when I blogged a public-figure patient, although I think they were fishing for an excuse to toss me — I was busting their equipment.
    So we moved on to the vaunted Canandaigua YMCA — and they had better equipment, and more of it.
    I was hitting the “Y” two-or-three days a week.
    I also began running — wasn’t sure I could at age-63, but apparently I can.
    Running partially supplanted the “Y,” now we are down to one-or-two visits per week.
    Running is two-or-three times a week; and I’m still doing it. Below freezing or less, but my running-route is still snow-free. (About 28 degrees this morning [Wednesday, November 28, 2007].)
    So last Saturday (November 24, 2007) I used the last straw.
    We move on to the new box.
    About 200 Q-tips are left.
    1.5+ years ago I’d be wondering if I’d finish them.
    But now I don’t worry about it any more. I probably will finish them.

  • “Hunderd” is how my blowhard brother-in-Boston noisily insists “hundred” is spelled.
  • I had a stroke October 26, 1993.
  • Tuesday, November 27, 2007

    “Oh what a tangled web we weave, when we practice to deceive.”

    (TIME FOR ANOTHER SONOROUS BLAST DIRECT FROM THE L-STREET POWER STATION, WHILE HIS BELOVED PORTA-JOHNS CONTINUE TO GUSH RAW SEWAGE INTO THE RESERVE CHANNEL.)

    Even though it wasn’t my so-called “silly MAC,” and the memory-chips weren’t ordered by me — as always, anything that goes wrong is MY fault (sorry, “foult”). As always, it’s our ISP.

    Dell was offering one-gig memory-chips to fit Linda’s laptop, so since her laptop has two slots, I suggested two one-gig chips.
    Which gives her two gigs versus my piddling 1.2. Well, we can’t have that! Time to buy that non-running ‘59 Chevy, or custom carbon-fiber wheels at $8,000 for the LHMB, to show off to the neighbors (“Woops; another golfball!”).
    So Linda orders two one-gig chips from Dell online; they merrily charge our Visa-account 256 smackaroos; and the memory-chips get handed over to DHL for delivery.
    Linda tracks the shipment, which was supposed to be delivered last week.
    The package comes up “delivered,” but nothing here.
    “I know what is happening,” Linda says. “The courier is loading 89 bazilyun packages into his van, then in one fell swoop scans them all as ‘delivered,’ yet never makes it to West Bloomfield.”
    And so the package is returned to the depot and scanned as “undelivered.”
    HMMMMMMMMNNNNNNNN.......... “Delivered” yet “undelivered.”
    “Must be our ISP,” I say. “That’s what the Bluster-King would claim.”
    “Yep, our ISP got in there at DHL and erroneously rendered that ‘delivered’ message; and/or if I didn’t have that ‘silly-MAC,’ Linda wouldn’t be needing additional memory.”
    Yessirree Bobby, my so-called “silly MAC” is mucking up the Internet.
    I need to toss that silly boat-anchor in Canandaigua Lake and use Linda’s PC at 512 k, and back down to Internet-Explorer and XP like a good boy.
    Hourglass-city. “Please wait while Windoze cogitates the value of Pi; OOOOOOOOOOOHHMMMMM........”
    “Did you look on the porch?” a minion at DHL asks. That question has been asked at least six times.
    “How come ya got it back in the depot scanned as ‘undelivered?’”
    “Don’t trouble me with sweet reason, lady. I have a college-degree; majored in engineering.”
    “Because it was mis-delivered to 2465 State Route 65. (The plot thickens........ “Oh what a tangled web we weave, when we practice to deceive.”)
    “Again, how come ya got it back in the depot scanned as ‘undelivered?’”
    Around-and-around we go. Four phonecalls from them so far; and who knows how many from our end.
    “I think we just oughta declare it lost.”
    “Don’t use DHL,” Linda e-mailed Dell. “Next time just hand it over to the Post-Office.”
    But we all know it’s my so-called “silly MAC;” or is it our ISP: you tell me, Boobie.

  • My macho blowhard brother-in-Boston (“Boobie,” “the almighty Bluster-King”) works at the L-Street Power Station, next to the Reserve Channel of Boston-Harbor. Among his management responsibilities are the Porta-Johns kept on-hand for contractors. We say he’s the Porta-John manager, and that his Porta-John holding tanks were shot through by al-Qaeda terrorists, due to his not properly guarding them, so they are now gushing raw sewage into Boston-Harbor.
  • RE: “silly MAC........” All my siblings use PCs, but I use a MAC, so am therefore reprehensible.
  • RE: “Foult......” For years my brother-in-Delaware and I have been having an argument about the spelling of “Foulk” Road. When we moved there in 1957 it was spelled “F-a-u-l-k.” He noisily insists it’s always been spelled with an “O.”
  • “Linda” is my wife.
  • RE: “Non-running ‘59 Chevy......” —My macho blowhard brother-in-Boston has a classic 1971 454-SS Chevelle that is currently not running. It cost him $55,000.
  • RE: “Custom carbon-fiber wheels” are custom motorcycle wheels made from carbon-fiber: a lot lighter than cast-aluminum or cast magnesium, but incredibly expensive — essentially a racing application. My macho blowhard brother-in-Boston bought megabuck custom-wheels (actually not carbon-fiber) for his Harley.
  • RE: “Woops; another golfball!” —My macho blowhard brother-in-Boston lives next to a golf-course, so that his back yard gets regularly showered with golfballs.
  • “LHMB” is my 2003 Honda 600-cc CBR/RR motorcycle. Seeing a picture of it, my sister-in-Floridy declared “Lord-Have-Mercy;” and my loudmouthed brother-in-Boston, a macho Harley-guy, seeing it was yellow, pronounced it a “Banana.” So LHMB equals Lord-Have-Mercy-Banana.
  • RE: “Must be our ISP!” ISP equals Internet-Service-Provider; in our case RoadRunner via the cable. Last July my macho, blowhard brother-from-Boston visited, and set up a wireless Internet connection to my router. His Internet reception was spotty, so he loudly blamed our Internet-Service-Provider (ISP). Now anything untoward is due to my ISP.
  • RE: “Majored in engineering.....” —My loudmouthed macho brother-from-Boston was trained as an engineer, and claims superiority. I majored in History, so am therefore inferior.
  • RE: “Back down to Internet-Explorer and XP like a good boy.........” —I use Firefox (browser) and OS-X which make me reprehensible. (Even Windoze Vista is reprehensible.) I also use Colgate toothpaste instead of Crest. And my cars are all Japanese (“I can still see that oily, black pillar-of-smoke TOWERING above that ship”).
  • RE: “Just hand it over to the Post-Office.........” —My wife works part-time at the Post-Office. Post-Office shipping woulda cost less, and been more reliable. The package woulda ended up in our mailbox.
  • Monday, November 26, 2007

    Partial madness

    I guess the ‘pyooter-madness ain’t over yet......

    Chase Bank, protecting its customers’ online banking (or appearing to anyway) has apparently decided my so-called “silly MAC” has so far been at least three ‘pyooters — maybe four.
    My twin-procesor G4 tower came with two operating-systems: 9.2 and OS-X.
    For a long time I drove 9.2; it was very similar to what we drove at the mighty Mezz.
    Then my 9.2 got wonky, but my 9.2 apps ran fine under OS-X Classic-mode.
    I found I could also drive OS-X, which I previously had avoided.
    My original contact with Chase had been under 9.2. When I switched to OS-X they decided I was using a different ‘pyooter, so I had to set it up again.
    As I recall (I’m not sure of this) they may have also decided my upgrade from Jaguar (10.2) to Tiger (10.4) was ‘pyooter number three, which meant setting up again.
    Then I upgraded to Leopard (10.5), but it lacks Classic-mode, which I need. I had to reinstall Tiger (10.4), but that was an install, not an upgrade.
    So I had to reconstruct everything, and Chase thinks it’s ‘pyooter number three (or four).
    “You seem to be attempting access from a computer different from the one we know. You’ll need an authentification-code.”
    Boom-zoom; same drill I went through before, although that was long ago.
    “Please verify your Social-Security number, and set up a user-name.”
    Boom-zoom: “Your user-name is ‘Bobbalew25.’”
    “Now, you need an authentification-code. E-mail, text, fax, or phonecall? Phonecalls are fastest.”
    “E-mail.” Boom-zoom; wait two minutes. “I have my authentification-code,” so I attempt to log-in.
    “Negatory” — probably did something wrong. Get another authentification-code; wait a while for the e-mail (thrump-thrump); SUPPER-TIME!
    I fire up my rig after supper, and there’s the authentification-code; and I get “negatory” again.
    Obtain my third authentification-code, and this time send it phonecall.
    Ring-ring; a machine call. I pick it up, and deafening silence. I hang back up, and my wife picks up to get only a remaining snippet of the authentification-code. Note-to-self: allow 89 bazilyun minutes for machine calls. (Musta been a Microsoft system: “Please hold while the system cogitates the value of Pi.”)
    Obtain authentification-code number four.
    Back to e-mail; I need a written document. The authentification-code is eight digits.
    Wait a few minutes (it says “two minutes,” but it’s more than that); and attempt another log-in.
    It works, but “You need to set up a password.”
    I crank in an old phone-number, and “all done.”
    VIOLA! I fire up Chase, log in like I did in the past, and proof our Visa account.
    All purchases legit.
    Only took about three hours.

  • RE: “I guess the ‘pyooter-madness ain’t over yet......” —In the past two weeks I’ve successfully loaded four things to my ‘pyooter with few (or no) hairballs. Windoze Media Player and Stuffit Expander were sight madness; FlashPlayer and Photoshop Elements 4.0 were slam-dunks. Windoze Media Player needed to be unstuffed; and Tiger doesn’t have Stuffit Expander.
  • RE: “silly MAC........” All my siblings use PCs, but I use a MAC, so am therefore reprehensible.
  • “Classic-mode” is a 9.2 operating system resident in OS-X. Earlier iterations of OS-X have “Classic-mode,” but the most recent (10.5 Leopard) doesn’t. “Classic-mode” runs software-applications (“apps”) that won’t run under OS-X, but will run under 9.2.

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  • Sunday, November 25, 2007

    RE: “HOTTY.....”

    Well, ex-KYOOZE me for being old-fashioned, as I’m sure, like sex and drugs and rock-and-roll, “hotty” has been somewhat defanged and pasteurized by the fevered zealot minions (“whatever works” — yep, Jerry Falwall’s a hotty).
    But.....
    The definition I had of “hotty” was “hot-to-trot,” i.e. overly desirous of sexing it up with anything, especially those of the opposite sex.
    I don’t consider the one I married a “hotty,” and didn’t while at Houghton.
    Of all the girls I dated at Houghton, none were hotties.
    Barbara Bolles was hardly a hotty, Virginia Friedley was no hotty, and Doris Bulmore was a drudge — hardly a hotty.
    My mother wanted me to marry Claudia Gregg; the total antithesis of hottydom.
    Danice Horner was overly attractive, but according to Linda, not a hotty.
    Only a few girls at Houghton qualify as hotties, per the old definition.
    Judy Johnston, from Seattle, the roommate of Lois Priebie from Wilmington, a definite hotty, was only a hotty wannabee. I dated her, and it turned me off.
    Danice Horner refused to go out with me, but befriended me much later.
    At Brandywine, only one girl I dated, Linda Lilly, was a “hotty.” She even showed me her bedroom.
    Gail Kitselman was perhaps a hotty wannabee; but I didn’t think of her as a hotty.
    Lynn Huntsberger was somewhat a hotty — she certainly had the reputation as one.
    BHS seniors from my class fell all over themselves to take her skiing in the Poconos. She had a reputation.
    But I never did anything with her.
    What contact I had with Bonnie Hasse tells me she was a hotty.
    So now I guess “hotty” has come to mean any female (so much for Falwell) that’s attractive.
    Perish-the-thought, I have a hard time imagining Houghton encouraging solicitation of hotties — or encouraging girls to be hotties.
    The cardinal-rule at Houghton was “if it’s fun, it’s sin.”
    —At least when I was there. But I guess religion has moved on since then — it’s called selling out.

    Per my Oxford ‘pyooter dictionary: “hottie (also hotty)
    noun (pl. hotties) informal
    a sexually attractive person.”

  • “Houghton” is Houghton College, from where I graduated with a BA in 1966. I’ve never regretted it. Houghton is a religious college.
  • “Barbara Bolles,” “Virginia Friedley,” “Doris Bulmore,” and “Judy Johnston” were all girls I dated in college. I refused to date “Claudia Gregg;” a complete stone only a mother could love. “Danice Horner” I never dated.
  • “Brandywine” is Brandywine High School, north of Wilmington, DE; from where I graduated in 1962.
  • “Linda Lilly,” “Gail Kitselman,” and “Lynn Huntsberger” were all girls I dated at Brandywine. They all were friends of my sister Betty in Floridy — and graduated Brandywine in her class; 1964. I went steady with Gail Kitselman, who thought she was too skinny. But the Kitselman relationship fizzled when I went to college. “Bonnie Hasse” was another friend of my sister who graduated high-school in her class. She got married soon thereafter, and became a loose cannon. Linda Lilly was a slut, as was “Lois Priebie” at Houghton.
  • Saturday, November 24, 2007

    wash-and-wax

    So here we are yesterday (Friday, November 23, 2007) returning from Canandaigua in the CR-V.
    We have left the Bucktooth Bathtub with a guy to wash-and-wax it — a job so big we old folks farm it out. (I can wash a car, but waxing it is almost a whole day. The Toy store [where we bought it] did it last Spring, and it looked so great we decided to have someone else do it.)
    Returning from Canandaigua was on a rural, back-country road.
    It eventually enters nearby Bloomfield, where we turn right (west) onto 5&20.
    The turn onto 5&20 is a main intersection in the center of town; no traffic-lights (there should be — I almost got T-boned by Granny there once), only stop-signs.
    I approach the intersection, right-turn signal on, wait for an opening, and start into the intersection.
    Suddenly about halfway through my turn “PRAAMMMMMMPP!” A silver Cobalt is roaring straight across 5&20; it’s driver angrily glaring at me, and mouthing obscenities.
    NOW WHAT? I was already halfway through my turn.
    Sorry chillen; couldn’t see if it had a Dubya-sticker. All I saw was the quickly-disappearing right flank of the car, and its angry driver.
    He had probably narrowly avoided rearending me, and therefore decided to lash out.
    Sorry REPUBLICANS. I can’t make a sharp 10-mph right-turn at 152 mph. (I’ve had similar dramas occur at our driveway.)

  • “The CR-V” is our 2003 Honda CR-V SUV.
  • “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.
  • “The Toy store” is LeBrun Toyota in Canandaigua — actually any Toyota dealer is a “Toy store.”
  • “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.
  • “Dubya-sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. All insane traffic-moves seem to involve Bush-supporters. They seem to think they have the right.
  • RE: “152 mph.....” My brother-in-Delaware bragged that his turbocharged Volvo station-wagon was capable of 152 mph.

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  • Friday, November 23, 2007

    Snow has finally flown....

    .....here in West Bloomfield.

    The Keed with the dreaded D100.
    We can tell, because:
    -1) A thin crust of snow (pictured) is on everything outside, and
    -2) The local TV weather prognosticators have trotted out
    -a) “Nothing we can’t handle,” and
    -b) “We Rochesterians are a hearty lot.”
    —We haven’t heard this tiresomely boring boilerplate until now — now that snow is back.
    Of course, if those prognosticators predict more than an inch, people run around like chickens with their heads cut off, gasoline goes clear outta sight, Weggers runs out of milk, and schools and factories close.
    If an inch actually falls, enraged SUV-drivers slide blithely into the boonies and wonder why they lost control — and why their SUV flipped.
    Wasn’t like that back in our day. School never closed; we trudged to school every day, often barefoot in snow eight inches deep, and it was uphill both comin’ and goin’.
    Linda rode in a schoolbus (but often walked home) — I walked, and later graduated to driving the Blue Bomb (pictured) — me and Elz and Huntsberger.
    The Keed with my father’s Hawkeye.
    The Blue Bomb at Brandywine High School in 1962.
    Now all the kids are riding schoolbuses.
    I drive through nearby Bloomfield and stop for schoolbuses picking up kids two blocks from school.
    For crying out loud — no wonder school taxes are ballooning out of sight.
    And here’s Mom (or Granny) idling her minivan out at the end of the driveway. Her kids are inside the minivan waiting for the schoolbus.
    Linda waited outside, and it was always a blizzard.
    When I worked at the mighty Mezz, I used to do the “Holiday Closings-box:” a listing of what facilities would be closed for a holiday, or operated on a holiday schedule. (I got them to add the local bus-service.)
    I kept it as a Quark-file, so that completed it could be just flowed onto the page.
    By doing so, I also controlled how it looked — I wanted it to look classy.
    What I’d do is save each updated file so there was only one file. All I’d do is overwrite the last update and save the new update.
    It was a tiny file, but I kept it on the huge servers upstairs.
    I titled it the “Wear-Your-Rubbers” file.
    I called it that because it reminded me of a mother telling you to “wear your rubbers.”
    So now when the TV weather prognosticators tell us to take an umbrella, we say “Yes, Mother!”

  • The “D100” is my Nikon digital camera. My siblings all loudly abhor it because it’s a “professional” camera, instead of point-and-shoot.
  • “Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester we often buy groceries at.
  • “Linda” is my wife of nearly 40 years.
  • “Elz” is my sister Betty (Elizabeth). She’s second after me — 62 (I’m the oldest at 63). She lives in Fort Lauderdale, Fla. “Huntsberger” is Lynn Huntsberger, a friend of my sister, who like my sister also graduated “Brandywine High School” (see below) two years after me, in 1964. I also dated Huntsberger.
  • “The Blue Bomb” is the tired navy-blue 1953 Chevrolet Two-Ten two-door sedan I learned to drive in.
  • I graduated from “Brandywine High School” north of Wilmington, DE in 1962.
  • My father gave his old Kodak “Hawkeye” camera to me.
  • The “mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired almost two years ago. Best job I ever had.
  • RE: “I got them to add the local bus-service......” —For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, N.Y. My stroke, which occurred October 26, 1993, ended that; and I began work at the mighty Mezz early in 1996. The local bus-service was Canandaigua-Area-Transit-Service (CATS), a private company.
  • “Quark” is the computer-software many printed graphics (e.g. a newspaper) are generated with. It’s the industry-standard.
  • Thursday, November 22, 2007

    Another free paper-clip attains the vaunted paper-clip collection

    (I ONLY WRITE HEADLINES LIKE THAT TO GET THE ALMIGHTY BLUSTER-KING ALL BENT OUTTA SHAPE — LIKE WAVING A RED FLAG AT A BULL.
    I PREDICT A NOISY TORRENT OF FEVERED BLUSTERING ABOUT MY HORDING OF PAPER-CLIPS, MUCH LIKE THE BOMBAST I GET ABOUT RETURNING SODA-CANS FOR DEPOSIT.
    IT AIN’T LIKE WE SUBSIST ON INCOME FROM RETURNING SODA-BOTTLES. THE OTHER DAY WE PASSED 10-25 BEER-CANS TOSSED ALONG THE SHOULDER OF THE ROAD RETURNING FROM THE SO-CALLED ELITIST COUNTRY-CLUB.
    WE DIDN’T STOP.
    PEOPLE TOSS ASSORTED TRASH HERE-AND-THERE — THEY SEEM TO THINK THEY HAVE THE RIGHT; MUST BE
    REPUBLICANS — LET THE DEMOCRAT RIFFRAFF CLEAN UP THE DETRITUS; SCUMBAGS.
    “CIVIC-DUTY,” LINDA SAYS. BOUGHTON PARK SHOULDN’T BE LITTERED WITH TRASH; NOR MICHAEL PROUTY PARK.
    SO THE CANS ARE 5¢ A CAN; WE’RE GETTING REWARDED FIVE CENTS IN PASSING. “VICTIM OF SOICUMSTANCE,” AS CURLY SAYS. [NYUK-NYUK-NYUK.....])

    So here I am yesterday (Wednesday, November 21, 2007) at the Eye-Center in Canandaigua; follow-up of laser-welding of my left retina a few months ago — do yaz remember that, guys? (I bet Peg does.)
    My Ophthalmologist at that time was Heidi Piper; Houghton College, 1987.
    “I see you’re a Houghton-grad,” I said.
    “Yes.”
    “Well, so am I; Class of 1966.”
    “Class of 1987,” she said.
    “So ya probably had the new Science Building,” I said.
    “Yes we did.”
    “If that Science Building had been there when I was there, I might have stayed with Physics. Our science-labs were in dungeons, and the good profs were in History.”
    I revisited Dr. Piper yesterday.
    “She and I both went to the same college,” I said to her assistant, pointing at Dr. Piper.
    “And I can tell,” I said. “She has her feet on the ground. Houghton graduates are like that. I’ve come across quite a few and they all have their feet on the ground.”
    Unlike the towel-headed doctor I had at Folsom Health Center.
    I’ve been taking along “The History of the L-Street Power Station” as reading-material, although -A) I can’t fathom a red-neck NASCAR-dad sending me a history; -B) it’s clearly (or so I’m told) way above my head (the original boilers were hand-fired? Good Golly, Miss Molly!); and -C) it doesn’t treat discharge of raw sewage into the Reserve Channel from beloved Porta-Johns.
    I set the book aside while Dr. Piper surveyed her laser handiwork.
    Finished, “Here is your book, Mr. Hughes,” the assistant said. “I’ve marked the page you were on with a paper-clip.”

  • “The almighty Bluster-King” is my macho, loudmouthed brother-from-Boston.
  • “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. We are residents of one of those towns. “Michael Prouty Park” is a small town park nearby up the street. It’s mainly athletic fields.
  • “Linda” is my wife.
  • In New York State the beverage-containers are five cents return-deposit.
  • RE: “do yaz remember that, guys? (I bet Peg does.)” —My all-knowing siblings have a habit of pretending things that happened to me never happened. “Peg” is my baby-sister.
  • Houghton College” is from where I graduated with a BA in 1966. I’ve never regretted it. Houghton is a religious college.
  • RE: “Towel-headed doctor I had at Folsom Health Center......” was an Indian and wore a turban. My sister in south Floridy calls all Indians “towel-heads.”
  • My macho, blowhard brother-in-Boston works at the “L-Street Power Station.” He loudly badmouths me for having majored in History, unlike him, who majored in Engineering.
  • RE: “Discharge of raw sewage into the Reserve Channel from beloved Porta-Johns.” I tell my brother-in-Boston that he is Porta-John manager (actually he’s the “Technical Manager”). I suggest his “beloved Porta-Johns” were shot through by al-Qaeda terrorists, and are therefore discharging raw sewage into the Reserve Channel, part of Boston Harbor — all because he wasn’t doing his job; which is to protect his “beloved Porta-Johns.”
  • Wednesday, November 21, 2007

    Horror-of-horrors

    Last night (Thursday, November 15, 2007) I attended a regular monthly business-meeting of my old bus-union, Local 282 of the Amalgamated Transit Union (“What’s ‘ah-two?’”)
    Local 282 is eons old, over a “hunderd” years.
    That goes clear back to electric streetcar days; when Rochester Transit Corporation was the local transit-operator in Rochester. (The streetcars came off in 1943.)
    In fact, Regional Transit’s new facilities were built on the site of the old Rochester Transit streetcar barns.
    Those car-barns lasted clear until Regional Transit, but the new facility was built before I hired on in 1977.
    Local 282 organized the transit employees, and got them a living wage and benefits.
    Local 282 also looked out for union brothers (and sisters) when Transit management tried to take advantage of them.
    As such, 282 has become a thorn-in-the-side of Transit managers. Often the “bigger picture” is just self-reward at the expense of the hourlies that actually generate the income.
    282 became sort of a toothless shell when the New York State Taylor-Law passed.
    It banned strikes by public-employees, and transit-employees are almost always public-employees.
    Disputes were to be settled by collective-bargaining, arbitrators, or — heaven-forbid — a Public-Employment-Relations Board (“PERB”).
    It was a response to public-employees striking; like bus-drivers, who could cripple a city by striking.
    And of course most city-wide transit operations had become public — no longer private corporations.
    So 282 could no longer strike, and Labor-Law — at least that under the Taylor-Law — is biased somewhat in favor of public authorities.
    Except over-the-years, bus-transit has become sort of a joke.
    Not many are commuting to work by bus any more. So bus-transit has become the only option for the halt, the maim, those who otherwise cannot drive.
    During the 16&1/2 years that I drove bus, I saw fewer and fewer commuters, replaced by the halt and the maim.
    “Goin’ to ‘wuh-foh?’” someone would ask. (‘Wuh-foh’ is Westfall Road, the location of the Welfare office, in southern Rochester.)
    “Do ya mean ‘welfare?’” I’d ask. (No one could read the electronic signs, and the guy probably couldn’t read anyway.)
    The only ones riding were those who had no other choice — what few commuters we carried were those lucky enough to have a bus-route nearby; and Transit was loathe to try new bus-routes. So that essentially there was little bus-service south of the city.
    It was like the whole reason for Transit was to line the pockets of the managers: “just keep that bloated paycheck a-comin’; and don’t bother us!”
    At the union-meeting a rep recounted a meeting with a manager. “We’re down to one broken paddle in a canoe trying to paddle upstream above Niagara-Falls,” the manager said. (That manager had a classic hugger-orange ‘74 Corvette — I wonder who paid to rebuild that?)
    Story number one:
    The union Business-Agent (the only full-time Union official present) noted Transit-management was dragged kicking-and-screaming before an arbitrator about some discipline-issue, and a Transit-official claimed they had never “written-up” anyone about what was at issue.
    The Union-attorney thereupon pulled a sheaf of write-ups out of his briefcase, and said “then what do you call these?”
    “Well, I don’t know about that,” the ashen-faced manager admitted.
    Story number two:
    Dragged in before another so-called “faceless arbitrator” (LIMBERGER ALERT!), Transit claimed its rendering of work-assignments was a “gift;” but then turned around and claimed it can’t give out gifts.
    “So doncha give out bonuses to your staff? What do ya call those?” the arbitrator asked.
    “We call them ‘performance-inducements.’ They’re not bonuses.” (Neither is a shovel a shovel; it’s a “trenching-tool.”)
    WHATEVER; I walked out feeling that for once 282 seemed to have the upper hand.
    Transit management continues to violate the contract, and appeal all arbitrations — so that we have to drag ‘em to court.
    “We have to fight these lackeys,” a long-ago occasional meeting attendee said. “The place is being ruined by politics.”
    “Yep,” the Business-Agent said; “and the only way to fight politics is by becoming political ourselves; no matter how ugly you think that is.”
    “Frank,” I said; “that’s the same thing you said 15 years ago when I was still driving.”
    About 10 attended the meeting: “we got 700 members,” the Business-Agent said.
    “So Bobbalew; how we gonna get more to attend these meetings?” the rep asked. (Same issue that was driving things 15 years ago.)
    Things haven’t changed since I retired from Transit; 282 is still a joke.

  • RE: “Horror-of-horrors.......” —All my siblings are flagrantly anti-union. (My two brothers are both management, and my sister-in-Floridy retired from management.)
  • For 16&1/2 years I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, N.Y.
  • RE: “What’s ‘ah-two?’” This is a comment my retired mother made in the ‘90s. I was visiting (in south Floridy), and had a jacket on with a “proud to be ATU” (Amalgamated Transit Union) button, and she sincerely asked “What’s ‘ah-two?’”
  • “Hunderd” is how my blowhard brother-in-Boston noisily insists “hundred” is spelled.
  • RE: “No one could read the electronic signs.......” —The roll-up curtain destination-signs were changed to electronic readouts no one could read — progress.
  • “Limberger” is Rush Limbaugh. I call him that because I think he stinks.
  • There are only two full-time Union officials — i.e. working for the Union instead of Transit: the President and the Business-Agent. The BA is “Frank.”
  • PRAAMMMMMPP!

    Okay; I’ve left the Union-meeting

    It’s about 10 p.m., so here I am motoring blithely out E. Main St. in Rochester.
    Our union-hall, actually the Laborer’s union-hall, is in a more-or-less urban area of Rochester, not far from the mainline railroad-tracks of CSX — so if a train passes, you can hear it from the parking-lot.
    Main St. goes almost all the way across Rochester; W. Main becomes E. Main at the river, and goes all the way across the eastern side of Rochester; it only goes part-way across the western side, ending at Bull’s Head (“Bull-hyeed”) where it splits into West Ave. and Chili Ave. (“CHEYE-leye;” not like the south American country), which both go west from Bull-hyeed.
    I used to drive the Main-St. bus route; and it was a worker. Lotsa passengers (every stop), and never any layover-time. I had to blast through the layovers and change the destination-sign on-the-fly.
    So I go down E. Main, past the infamous White-Tower of my former employer (Regional Transit Service), and approach the intersection with Culver Road.
    Culver road is a major north-south road in eastern Rochester, that crosses seven bus-routes — one even uses part of it; up north.
    So the intersection of E. Main and Culver Road is a major intersection, complete with traffic-lights and individually signaled turn-lanes.
    I’m on E. Main and will turn south (right) onto Culver Road. I have a red-light in my face.
    Culver has green lights, and a Saturn sedan is in the right-most southbound lane signaling to turn right (west) onto E. Main (toward downtown).
    A dark-green Ford Explorer is fast approaching the Saturn. Good golly Miss Molly, am I about the witness a rear-end collision? That Explorer is really moving!
    Suddenly the Explorer slams on its brakes and hits the horn. PRAAMMMMMPP!
    No contact, and the Saturn drives slowly around the corner.
    Finally getting off the horn, the Explorer-driver floors it, and steams across the intersection.
    Sorry guys; too dark. Couldn’t see if it had a Dubya-sticker.

  • “Union” is Local 282 of the Amalgamated Transit Union; the employees’ union at Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, N.Y., where I drove transit bus for 16&1/2 years. (See above.)
  • RE: “at the river.........” —The large Genesee River flows from south to north through downtown Rochester.
  • “Regional Transit Service’s” main facility was at 1372 E. Main.
  • “Dubya-sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. All insane traffic-moves seem to involve Bush-supporters. They seem to think they have the right.

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  • so much for Leopard

    OS-X has apparently been through four upgrades.
    I think my so-called “silly MAC” came with 10.2, Jaguar.
    I never used it until I found I could drive it when my old 9.2 got flaky. (My rig also came with 9.2.)
    Then Tiger came out: 10.4 (don’t know if there was a 10.3). So I got it and upgraded my 10.2 to 10.4.
    OS-X was fabulous. So much more attractive and reliable than my old 9.2. —It never crashed; 9.2 did occasionally.
    So now 10.5, Leopard, has hit the market.
    So I ordered 10.5 and installed it last night.
    Now I find Apple has done a Gates fat-cat move and tossed the Classic-mode — to me one of the best reasons to run OS-X.
    At least half of my apps are Classic; i.e. they won’t run under OS-X. But they did run under OS-X’s Classic-mode — a resident 9.2.
    My old Photoshop 4.5 is Classic, as is Quark 4.1. Word 98 and Excel 98 are also Classic apps, plus my Appleworks 5, which I use a lot (I’m using it right now).
    My Photoshop Elements is an OS-X app, but it’s not loaded yet. All my browsers are OS-X, and I even loaded Appleworks 6 (an OS-X app), but it lacks the macro-function.
    Okay, I could write my macros into Word, but I know how Word is. Too many bells-and-whistles, and it punishes keyboard sloppiness, a stroke-effect (“ya won’t understand until it happens to you”).
    So now we have to find an OS-X word-processor that will do macros — supposedly there are some; some even free.
    Installation of 10.5 took over two hours.
    First the installation DVD was scanned for “consistency;” about an hour.
    Then actual installation began, taking over two hours.
    As usual, the “time-remaining” calculations were way off. First it was two-hours 49-minutes, then two-hours 51-minutes (huh?); then suddenly it was two-hours 12-minutes.
    REPUBLICAN ALERT!
    And the “final minute” lasted at least 10.
    When completed I found I had to go back to Tiger — back to 10.4; none of my Classic apps worked.
    I need that Classic-mode; unless I can find some way to transfer my simple Quark-documents — and there are many.
    And an OS-X word-processor that does what Appleworks 5 does.

  • RE: “my so-called ‘silly MAC’” —All my siblings use PCs, but I use a MAC — making me reprehensible. My blowhard, macho brother-in-Boston coined the phrase “silly MAC.”
  • RE: “ya won’t understand until it happens to you..........” —My blowhard, macho brother-in-Boston thinks the effects of a stroke, like hand-sloppiness, are sheer poppycock. I had a stroke October 26, 1993. So I tell him “ya won’t understand until it happens to you.”

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  • Tuesday, November 20, 2007

    Today........

    .........(Tuesday, November 20, 2007) I was proceeding west (north, south, east; WHATEVER; how could I possibly know? Looked west to me) on Jefferson Road in deepest, darkest Henrietta (south of Rochester) in the Bucktooth Bathtub, headed for CompUSA to buy some rewritable CDs.
    I had already completed two errands: -A) the drive-up mailboxes at the main Rochester post-office in Henrietta, and -B) the Funky Food Store to pick up a jar of no-salt spaghetti-sauce along with a case of puffed-rice cereal I had ordered.
    The post-office was to deposit two return-postage credit-card solicitations — we have taken to sealing up these things with junk inside. If they wanna shower us with junk like that, they can just get junk in return, and pay the postage.
    We used to do this, but fell out of it, because doing so ate up precious seconds.
    But now we’re retired, so can. Sealing up takes about 30 seconds, and hitting the mailbox is often along-the-way to other errands.
    The puffed-rice cereal is one of the things I eat for breakfast. The usual major-mills cereals have way too much salt; and ya notice it.
    Same with the spaghetti-sauce. Horror-of-horrors, yaz all ate no-salt spaghetti-sauce and whole-wheat spaghetti with nary a whimper. “Wassa matter wit you guys; doncha believe in salt?” the bluster-boy bellowed. Give him a salt-lick.
    Yaz also ate ground-beef that was frozen last April; and it was July, for crying out loud.
    So here I am motoring placidly west on Jefferson Road. It goes up and over Route 15 in a jumpover that was built long ago, alleviating a major traffic tie up.
    Descending the other side, ya come upon the parking-lot entrance to the minimall where CompUSA is (hard by a colonoscopy clinic). It’s marked one-way as an entrance.
    A fortyish dude is arrowing his maroon Corolla toward the entrance from inside the parking-lot, obviously planning to exit. No matter he’s driving the wrong way into a parking-lot entrance.
    So here I am on a main highway approaching the entrance, and fortyish dude is planning to exit the entrance.
    I slow down, so fortyish-dude accelerates and heads farther into the entrance.
    At first it was looking like I should drive around him, but by then I had no choice: come to almost a complete stop on the highway and then turn in before hitting him.
    Sorry chillen; couldn’t see if he had a Dubya-sticker. That woulda been on the trunk; and all I could see was the front of the approaching Corolla and the driver.

  • RE: “west (north, south, east; WHATEVER; how could I possibly know?) —My loudmouthed macho brother-from-Boston and I have been having an argument about which way a road goes in northern Delaware, where we grew up; me as a teenager. I say the road goes west-east; he says it goes north-south. Actually it goes northwest-southeast.
  • “Deepest, darkest Henrietta” is a rather effusive and obnoxious suburb of Rochester.
  • “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.
  • “The funky food-market” is Lori’s Natural Foods, south of Rochester in Henrietta — a source for salt-free cereal, sauce, etc.
  • “The bluster-boy” is my all-knowing, blowhard brother-in-Boston, Jack, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say. He visited in July, with many of my other siblings.
  • RE: “Horror-of-horrors, yaz all ate no-salt spaghetti-sauce and whole-wheat spaghetti with nary a whimper.” My siblings all pig out, and think I’m reprehensible for eating healthy.
  • RE: “Ground-beef that was frozen last April; and it was July, for crying out loud......” I’ve been noisily badmouthed for not glomming a whole package of ground beef in a single sitting. We hardly ever eat red meat. Ground-beef gets frozen in tiny packages.
  • U.S. “Route 15” used to be the main north-south road into Rochester. Now it’s Interstate-390. “Jefferson Road” (state Route 251) is the main east-west road through the area.
  • RE: “Hard by a colonoscopy clinic......” —My blowhard macho brother-in-Boston’s colonoscopy was performed in a suburban mininall clinic, which he noisily claims was far superior to mine, which was performed in a hospital.
  • “Chillen” are my all-knowing siblings, and they are all tub-thumping REPUBLICANS.
  • “Dubya-sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. All insane traffic-moves seem to involve Bush-supporters. They seem to think they have the right.

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  • RE: “Use Linda’s computer”

    Yep, spot-on; a capital idea!
    -1) I dutifully waddle into her ‘pyooter-room, bowing humblee to the incredibly wizened advice of my all-knowing, vastly superior siblings, siddown, and fire up her machine and Internet-Explorer.....
    .....Which I have done in the past, just like similar PCs all across this great country. —So I can check my e-mail and fiddle FlagOut, parrying the almighty Bluster-King.
    The process is irksomely slow; no macros, and respond directly to the reply-box. No spellcheck without a lotta horsing around (although she does have the Google toolbar spellcheck) — expect fevered pontificating from Steno-Queen.
    It can be done, but takes about twice as long as my machine. I can’t run circles around the bluster-boy like I do with the so-called “silly MAC.” (He probably wants to slow me down to his speed.)
    -2) Next item of business: fiddle my Excel Schedule-A file.
    But what ho?
    No Excel app.
    And even if she had it, will it magically open a data-file on my hard-drive?
    Okay, so we network by e-mailing files back-and-forth — have before.
    She can’t open the attachment without the app.
    -3) Next item of business: update my Quicken files.
    Again, what ho?
    No Quicken app.
    And again, even if she had it, it can’t open a data-file on my hard-drive.
    So again we network via e-mail, but she can’t open the attachment without the app.
    Simple, yaz all say. Just network your two machines and install Excel and Quicken on Linda’s computer. (Or better yet, dump that silly MAC in Canandaigua Lake and perform miracles on an XP PC — [um, I had to fix the Greenie myself, the Lord didn’t do it]. Yessirree Bobby, an XP PC will open files it’s not connected to.)
    Except the time to do all this is more than straightening out my so-called “silly MAC.”
    I can’t just “use Linda’s computer” to magically open files on my hard-drive, especially when she doesn’t have the apps.
    Sure; I can fiddle FlagOut and do my e-mail from Linda’s PC, if I accept it taking twice as long as my machine; about the same as any ‘pyooter all across this great land.
    And FlagOut is only about one-third of what I do — add the e-mail, and we’re up to half.
    I can’t “use Linda’s computer” to fiddle my Excel Schedule-A spreadsheet, or update our Quicken accounts. (Any ideas, oh all-knowing great ones?)

  • I’ve already configured the dreaded MAC to fiddle Quicken, and can do my e-mail — even my non-Internet e-mail [Netscape/RoadRunner — and that’s about a third].
    And I did this post with Tiger [10.4] on the so-called “silly MAC.”
  • RE: “Use Linda’s computer” was the response from my all-superior siblings, who use Windoze PCs; whereas I use a so-called “silly MAC.” “Linda” is my wife of nearly 40 years, and she has a PC-laptop, very similar to the one she used at work. I have used it on occasion, but there are many ‘pyooter-functions I can’t do, because the files are in my ‘pyooter, and she doesn’t have the software applications. I had the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to upgrade my operating-system from OS-X Tiger (10.4) to OS-X Leopard (10.5), since I had upgraded from Jaguar (10.2) earlier, but Leopard lacks the Classic-mode which many of my software applications are — plus I have to use Appleworks-5 (a classic application) instead of Appleworks-6 (OS-X) because 6 doesn’t have the macro-function; which I use a lot. (E.g. “the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity” is a macro.) So I had to reinstall Tiger, but it was a clean install instead of an upgrade, so I had to reconstruct my old 10.4 desktop on the new install. —The gut reaction of my all-superior siblings was to “Use Linda’s computer.” Same deal with Internet-Explorer; which I use little in preference to FireFox.
  • “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.)
  • “The almighty Bluster-King” (“bluster-boy”) is my macho, loudmouthed brother-from-Boston.
  • “Steno-Queen” is my brother-in-Delaware’s wife; she is always correcting my grammar-and/or-spelling, claiming she is all-superior because she once worked as a stenographer.
  • “App” is software application.
  • “My Excel Schedule-A spreadsheet” is my Excel spreadsheet for 1040 Schedule-A.
  • “The Greenie” is our old John-Deere riding mower. Two years ago it needed a battery-cable replaced.
  • “XP” is Microsoft Windows-XP.
  • Three items

    -1) “So Jake, ya gonna move with me to Canada when Hillary becomes president?”
    “Well, I don’t think she can be all that bad. If she’s anywhere near as decent as her husband, he did pretty good.”
    “Are you kidding? That guy was the worst prez we’ve ever had. He couldn’t keep his pants zipped.”
    “So which is worse, Frank: unzipped pants or ballooning the deficit clear outta sight and slaughtering millions of innocents?”
    Jake is in his early eighties; Frank in his late fifties.
    “Now you look at what’s gonna happen when all these baby-boomers retire,” the gambler says to Mike. “Social Security will go bankrupt.”
    “Oh, I don’t know,” Mike says. “I always thought Social Security was a pretty good idea.”
    Mike is in his early seventies; gambler his late sixties.
    “I been retired eight years,” gambler says. “All my healthcare was paid for by the county. Now they wanna change all that.”
    “Ya know who I think would make the best president?” Frank says. “That senator from Delaware, Joe Biden.”
    “Yeah, but both he and Richardson are doomed,” Jake says.
    “That Giuliani guy only knows 9-11.” Frank says. “We haven’t had a president experienced in foreign policy for 30 years. The only one that was was Bush’s father.”
    “Yet he blew it in Iraq,” Jake says. “His kid had to fabricate flawed intelligence to attempt to reverse that.”

    -2) I ordered an HD-radio last night (Monday, November 19, 2007); ordered it online with FireFox.
    Boom-zoom; no hairballs whatsoever.
    I did some research; an HD-radio site had links to about 89-bazilyun manufacturers.
    Probably not as much as the vaunted Steno-Queen might make. —But I couldn’t afford 89 bazilyun minutes to save five bucks, and had to fit a depression 6.75 inches wide.
    So the radio is a “Boston Acoustics Receptor HD clock radio;” the radio with a speaker (four by seven by six), and a separate speaker-box (four by 4.5 by six). $305.55 from Amazon; $8.49 shipping & handling; ordered via Dubya-Hex-Hex-Hi — theirs was slightly less than direct from Boston Acoustics.
    NOW FOR A NOISY TORRENT OF “I COULDA DONE BETTER!”

    -3) Linda is attempting to order the one-gig memory-chips from Dell Computer for her laptop.
    Lotsa “Now what” and “for crying out loud.”
    Dell, of course, insists Linda order through her employee program, which she did when she worked.
    Dell can’t seem to accommodate her retiring — this is a lot like Transit insisting Linda is a Transit-retiree.
    Then they wanted a Visa-password — “Now what? No one ever asks for that!” It was set up about three years ago, so we have it in a password-folder.
    Of course, the Visa-password was set up under my old e-mail; and the ordering from Dell (and log-in) was through Linda’s old work e-mail.
    “Okay; give it a shot — to the moon, Alice.”
    Lo-and-behold, it worked. Ain’t technology wonderful? The simple act of ordering memory-chips got turned into an hour-long wrestling-match.
    “Thank you for your order, Linda!”

  • “Jake” and “Frank” and “Mike” and “gambler” are all members of the Canandaigua YMCA. I don’t know “gambler’s” name, but he bragged about winning $4,000 at a local casino.”
  • “Vaunted Steno-Queen” is my brother-in-Delaware’s wife; she is always correcting my grammar-and/or spelling, claiming she is all-superior because she once worked as a stenographer. She does purchasing research; and always points out that whatever purchases we make, she could have got for less.
  • “Dubya-Hex-Hex-Hi” is WXXI-FM, 91.5, the classical-music radio-station in Rochester we listen to. They are now doing three channels of HD-radio.
  • “Linda” is my wife.
  • “Transit” is Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, N.Y. For 16&1/2 years I drove transit bus for them. My wife never worked for them, but was listed (supposedly) as “spouse” on my benefits.
  • RE: “my old e-mail.....” was RoadRunner; a have since switched to an Internet e-mail.
  • Monday, November 19, 2007

    Still blastin’........

    ....at the vaunted Canandaigua YMCA.

    —Despite having a tiny snippet of my “More overheard at the Canandaigua YMCA” published in the Sunday-Messenger the other day, namely: “‘I’m not related to her at all,’ a teenager said.
    ‘Yes you are,’ a pretty young thing with a blonde pony-tail said. ‘I’m your mother!’
    Mother was sitting on a 36-inch exercise ball, bouncing it across the floor.”
    This was slightly reworded, but pretty much as is. Under a headline of “Mommy, dearest;” it also included mention of a young mother walking her baby son outside in a baby-carriage, son dressed as a rabbit.
    I send these posts also to the Messenger Ne’er-do-wells, one of whom is Managing-Editor Kevin Frisch (K-man).
    I can imagine him saying “Bobbalew, this is fabulous. On the front-page!”
    So no intimidation from the YMCA; just the usual glowering and snarling from Amazon-lady and pony-tail.
    Things are changing at the vaunted Canandaigua YMCA. Their giant exercise-gym expansion-project is almost complete.
    No sign at all of the ancient Nautilus machines*.
    Amazon Lady and others were leading guys around discussing where all the new equipment would be put. Pieces of giant new exercise-machines were being wheeled in on dollies. People were assembling glitzy new exercise bikes with video-screens (yep; if it’s on TV, it’s the real thing.) Giant ellipticals got tossed to-and-fro.

    *This didn’t matter, as I had a 2 o’clock appointment at the Toyota-store to change the oil in the Bucktooth Bathtub; so didn’t have time for the Nautilus machines. (“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.)

    “What a nifty idea!”

    So here we are last Monday (November 12, 2007) in the chemo clinic of Wilmot Cancer Center in Rochester so Linda can begin Round Three of her R-CHOP anti-cancer chemo.
    That day she received the Rituxan only, the “R” in the R-CHOP. It’s my third time there that day, and I am at her side. The Rituxan is being slowly trickled into an intravenous in her arm. (The CHOP will be administered the following day.)
    A little old man waddles in, and takes a seat in a throne across the way, here to receive chemo himself; his comely young daughter at his side.
    “When were you born?” a nurse asks.
    “February 24, 1944,” little old man says.
    “Well,” I think; “same age as us — a hair younger.”
    Linda’s Rituxan is bog-slow, so I decide to leave again and go home. Linda will call me to come get her — our so-called “mutt” is abandoned in the house.
    Nearing finish, Linda takes out her cellphone and calls me.
    “What a nifty idea,” little old man thinks. “Call someone without being tied to the landline network.”
    “I gotta get me one of them cellphones,” he says to daughter.
    Daughter unholsters her tiny cellphone, and punches in a number that displays on the tiny screen.
    “Dad, can ya read that?”
    “No.......”
    Daughter hands over the cellphone to Dad; a cellphone with buttons the size of matchheads.
    “Dad, can ya see those buttons?”
    “No.......”
    Too bad I wasn’t there.
    “Baloney!” I would have said.
    “We’re older than you, and both driving cellphones,”
    “I’m sure ya can work out something. Our cellphones don’t have matchhead keys, and if ya have to use reading-glasses to read the display, ya use reading-glasses. Same as the newspaper.”
    “If ya wanna use a cellphone, ya probably can.”
    “Anyway, since when do ya see a pay-phone anymore?”

  • “Linda” is my wife of nearly 40 years. She has lymphatic cancer. (It’s treatable.)
  • “CHOP” is Cyclophosphamide, Doxorubicin (I don’t know where they get an “H” for this), Oncovin (trade-name for Vincristine), and Prednisone, a steroid. “Vincristine” is what makes your hair fall out; she is hairless.
  • RE: “February 24, 1944.........” —I was born February 5, 1944; and Linda was born January 2, 1944.
  • “Our so-called ‘mutt’” is “Killian;” a rescue Irish-Setter. My blowhard, macho brother-from-Boston calls him a “mutt,” as a put-down.
  • Saturday, November 10, 2007

    Plinka-planka-plunka!

    It’s an event I’ll never forget.

    The almighty Bluster-King was coming to visit on his GeezerGlide.
    I was outside mowing lawn when I heard a great commotion down the street.
    Birds scattered; cows over the hill reared up and ran for the barn. The neighbor across the street gathered up his young daughter from the back yard and headed inside his house.
    “Plinka-planka-plunka!” Sorry neighbors; sorry all-and-sundry. My brother is coming down the road; noisily serenading the entire countryside with his plinka-planka-plunka.
    He arrows his noisy GeezerGlide into our driveway, and then parks it inside the garage he claims Ty Pennington and his buxom minions should blow up.
    He strides with great flourish in the door, his Red-Wing seven-league boots loudly clomping.
    Tracy is on the Castro-Convertible.
    Jack starts barking orders at her.
    Tracy looks at him, and then at me; as if to ask “who let the blowhard in?”
    “Am I supposed to listen to this guy?”
    She got up off the Castro-Convertible, and ran for cover; tail between her legs.

  • “The almighty Bluster-King” is my macho, loudmouthed brother Jack from Boston.
  • “GeezerGlide” is what I call all Harley Davidson ElectraGlide 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. It has an on-board audio, and he loudly plays country-music while riding.
  • RE: “the garage he claims Ty Pennington and his buxom minions should blow up........” He loudly claims our house was poorly engineered, since it was me not him that designed it, so it should be blown up for “Extreme Home Mayhem.”
  • “Tracy” is one of the dogs, an Irish-Setter, we had before our two most recent. By then she was alone, and she died a few years ago.
  • Friday, November 09, 2007

    Monthly calendar report

    November 2007 is a banner month for four of my seven calendars, having graphics of some of the greatest motorized vehicles of all time.

    THE GREATEST RAILROAD LOCOMOTIVE OF ALL TIME
    Photo by Ray Mueller.
    Nine GG1s at the Army-Navy Game in 1955.
    Perhaps most interesting to me are the nine Pennsy GG1s (pictured) at the Army-Navy Game in Philadelphia in 1955.
    The Army-Navy Game was a Thanksgiving tradition in Philly for years.
    1955 is even before Veterans Stadium.
    And Pennsy always fielded its best.
    The entire student-bodies of both West Point and Annapolis had to be transported to the Army-Navy Game, and the routes included most of what is now called the Northeast Corridor.
    Pennsy even electrified its Municipal Stadium trackage so the mighty Gs could run all the way to the stadium.
    And in 1955 the Gs were still in the beautiful cat-whisker scheme (pictured), the dramatic five pin-stripe scheme designed by Raymond Loewy.
    Only once did I ever see a cat-whiskered G, and that was in December of 1960 at Wilmington Station.
    By then, most Gs had been repainted into the single-stripe scheme, which still looked good (or perhaps it was the GG1 itself, the greatest railroad locomotive of all time).
    That of course is not the first time I’ve said that, and it’s hard to think of something other than a steam-engine as the greatest railroad locomotive of all time.
    But I saw quite a few GG1s, and they were always blasting by at 80 per or more; often over 100.
    And I certainly saw plenty of steam to compare them with; e.g. marauding K4s and E6s; and 765 or 611 could give them a run for their money.
    One time Bruce Stewart and I rode up to Philly, probably behind a GG1, and we had to ride home that afternoon.
    We scheduled riding the Congressional Limited, and soon it was booming into 30th Street Station — I have a picture I still treasure.
    We got on, and within minutes were booming south at 80 mph — and that’s despite 17 cars.
    My paternal grandfather once rode the Congo and obviously it blew him away.
    We’re driving back from Sandy Hill in 1954 and a northbound Pennsy express passenger train flashes through Elkton, GG1 on the point.
    “Must be the Congressional,” he said, with awe and reverence in his voice.
    We’re inside the grandparents’ apartment in Edgemoor, and a Pennsy train roars through down by Edgemoor Yard.
    All we could do was hear it; we couldn’t see it.
    “Must be the Congressional,” he said. Same awe, same reverence.

    WHISTLING DEATH
    Photo by Philip Makenna.
    Four-bladed prop.
    The November 2007 Ghosts WWII warbirds calendar is a Vought F4U Corsair, certainly one of the most impressive airplanes of all time.
    It’s a Dash-Five (F4U-5N — “N” meaning night-fighter), meaning it was built after World War Two, and has the fabulous Pratt & Whitney R-2800-32 Wasp engine, rated at 2,300 horsepower (the Corsair site [link] has the R-2800-32 at 2,350 horsepower).
    The Corsairs were first developed per Navy request in 1938, melding the most powerful motor yet with the barest minimum of airframes (including state-of-the-art construction and riveting methods).
    Over 950 engineering upgrades were made to the Corsair over time, although most significant were the engine upgrades, which stretch over 5-7 models (dash-designations — F4U-7 was French only).
    The first Corsairs were at 1850 horsepower, and the last (a Goodyear variation) at 3,000 takeoff horsepower with the phenomenal 28-cylinder Pratt & Whitney Wasp-Major R-4360-4 “corncob” engine after the war.
    But most Corsairs were the original Wasp engines, a two-row air-cooled radial of 18 cylinders and 2,804 cubic inches.
    Supercharging and development increased Wasp horsepower over time; although supercharging mainly raised altitude-limit.
    Most interesting is why the Corsair has the inverted gull-wing.
    This was to allow a short stubby landing-gear with the gigantic 13-foot 4-inch propeller.
    Landing-gear had to be very strong to permit slam-bang aircraft-carrier landings.
    Yet decreasing propeller radius would have meant the Wasp engine was a waste.
    The Corsair was rejected for carrier use at first; partly because the long snout cut off vision.
    The Corsair was also a monster at stall-speed, and could drop like a stone, smashing a landing-gear.
    The motor also liked to spray oil all over the windshield.
    The Corsair was first assigned to land-duty, but the British made it work on aircraft-carriers. They wired closed the cowl-vents on top to stop the oil-leaks onto the windshield, and re-aimed the carrier downwind. The landing approach was thus alterated, allowing the pilot to watch the flight-deck officer until the last second.
    Stall-behavior was also fixed.
    The Corsair went on to become one of the greatest fighter-planes of World War Two.
    They were still in use in 1952 when I visited Willow Grove Naval Air Station outside Philadelphia with the cub-scouts.
    This is an epiphany I’ll never forget.
    A pilot strode out and climbed into the cockpit of a Corsair. They were practicing tailhooks on the Willow-Grove airstrip.
    He cranked the huge motor, and giant gouts of yellow flame gushed out of the exhaust-pipes and washed down the fuselage.
    “Won’t it catch fire?” I asked.
    Our tour-guide mumbled something at me and laughed.
    I will never forget that as long as I live.

    THE MOST BEAUTIFUL CAR OF ALL TIME
    Photo by Scott Williamson.
    1965 E-Jag 4.2 coupe.
    My friend the all-powerful Tim Belknap of the mighty Mezz, like me a car-guy, says the most beautiful car of all time is the Jaguar XK-E.
    This was prompted by my statement that the 1953 Studebaker Starliner Coupe, styled by Raymond Loewy, was the most beautiful car of all time.
    It’s extraordinarily beautiful, but I’m beginning to agree with Belknap.
    Not too long ago (about two years) I saw a 1953 Studebaker Starliner Coupe at Watkins Glen, and it reminded me of the Blue Bomb, the tired 1953 navy-blue Two-Ten Chevrolet two-door sedan I learned to drive in.
    The Blue Bomb was a turkey, and so was that Starliner. Masterful styling, but still a blowsy old antique, too big and too high.
    The XK-E, by comparison, is tiny. Also dramatically low.
    Why I sided with the Studebaker was that it was readily accessible to the public, whereas the XK-E was like the ‘Vette — a specialty car hardly anyone could afford.
    But no matter, compared to the XK-E the Stud looks like a turkey.
    I think I’d rather have the XK-E, no matter how masterful the Stud was.
    Bonnie Hasse’s older brother had one — it was white — and I took a picture of it once. He used to come over to visit Bruce Stewart who by that time was driving his new ‘63 Fairlane V8, 260 and four-on-the-floor. That XK-E made Stewart’s car look like a turkey — the usual Detroit wannabee.
    (Stewart got a Mustang not long after they came out; 289 four-speed. Close, but still not the XK-E. [The XK-E had fully-independent rear suspension; the Mustang was still tractor-axle.])
    Apparently Belknap rode in an XK-E once, and it blew him away. The thing was so low, “you could just about touch the ground.”
    My TR3 was like that — lean out the cutaway-door and you could touch the pavement. (As I recall; the frame on a TR3 was slung under the rear-axle. But the XK-E didn’t even have a frame; it was monocoque.)
    But a TR3 was nowhere near as good looking as an XK-E.
    The XK-E was so dramatic to look at, Car & Driver magazine replaced the motor with the overhead-cam inline six built by Pontiac. And who knows how many Small-Blocks were wedged into XK-Es.

    “MY LITTLE DEUCE COUPE........
    Photo by Scott Williamson.
    .....You don't know what I got.”
    The November 2007 entry of my Oxman hot-rod calendar (this link also gets the sportscar calendar) is one of the most famous hot-rods of all time, “Little Deuce Coupe” (AKA “Silver Sapphire”) that graced the cover of a Beach Boys album.
    Thankfully alterations were not made to the basic shape of the car; a 1932 Ford Three-Window coupe.
    Pardon me for saying so, but I think these three-window coupes are prettier than the roadster — a comment sure to prompt noisy blustering from West Bridgewater.
    But they did tamper with the front-end; successfully, amazingly.
    The ‘32 Ford radiator-shell is gorgeous; about all you can do is shorten it.
    It’s vertical, and the front-end of “Little Deuce Coupe” is vertical too.
    About the onliest way to put four headlights on a ‘32 Ford is the way it was done: vertically.
    The car also has a massive motor: a supercharged Rocket Oldsmobile.
    Oldsmobile and Cadillac V8s were the first choice of hot-rodders after the war. They were the first modern V8s (1949); and both overhead-valve.
    But the Small-Block Chevy became the motor of choice after it was introduced in the 1955 model-year. (I have to say that lest the almighty Bluster-King go ballistic. —It was introduced in late 1954 as a ‘55 model.)
    (He noisily insists the 409 Chevy was introduced in 1960. Maybe so, but if so it was late 1960 as a ‘61 model — and as I recall the 409 was introduced in March of ‘61.)
    The Small-Block used pressed-steel valve-rockers on pressed-in ball-studs; compared to rocker-shafts on the Olds and Cadillac.
    The Small-Block was quite a bit lighter, and would rev higher. Available in abundance, and amenable to tinkering, it put the infamous Ford Flat-head V8, fountainhead of original hot-rodding, out to pasture.
    “Little Deuce Coupe” suffers from strange styling filigrees; like the horizontal planes at the bottom of the body.
    But on balance, it’s extraordinary — because the front-end works, and they didn’t change the coupe styling (all they did was chop the top).

    Photo Courtesy of Bob’s Photo©.
    Pennsy M1a #6732 at Denholm; 1954.
    The November 2007 entry of my Audio-Visual Designs black and white All-Pennsy calendar is also rather notable: a Pennsy M1a Mountain (4-8-2) at the huge watering and coaling facility on the main line at Denholm, PA in 1954.
    Denholm is about half-way between Harrisburg and Altoona — actually the freight-facility in Harrisburg was by then Enola Yard across the river west of Harrisburg. (Most freight-traffic from the east went to Enola via the Columbia branch — the original Philadelphia & Columbia Railroad. The line via Lancaster was built later.)
    From the Susquehanna River west was the giant four-track “broad way” to Altoona; i.e. across the state. It paralleled the Juniata River, and the route of the original Pennsylvania Canal as far as Petersburg. (The “broad way” is now 2-3 tracks.)
    The Main Line was a monster; channeling immense amounts of traffic. —So successful other lines had to be built to channel all the traffic — many have since been abandoned.
    A steam-powered train had to refuel between Harrisburg (Enola) and Altoona (or reverse). Water-troughs to scoop water on-the-fly could be placed between the rails along the way, but coal was something else.
    Norfolk & Western built numerous concrete coaling-towers along its route to refuel steam-engines, but the main stem of the Pennsy had that immense volume — refueling a steam-engine at a coaling-tower would tie up the railroad.
    So Pennsy built this immense coaling-facility at Denholm; and at one time it was 12 tracks.
    Freight-trains would diverge onto a track at Denholm, where they could stop and tend to the locomotive without holding up a follower, as that train could take another track.
    Denholm had a giant coaling-facility bridging those 12 tracks, fueled by hopper-cars of coal that could run atop the facility and dump into the coal-bunkers.
    Only Pennsy could afford this kind of extravagance — in fact, they had to. So much volume was moving over that main stem, anything less would have tied up the railroad.
    Little remains of the Denholm coaling-facility. In my cab-ride tapes, the engineer makes note of Denholm, and it’s rather obvious, as the right-of-way widens out as it did, enough to accommodate 12 tracks.
    All that remains of the coaling-facility is the stone foundation footings at trackside. Denholm disappeared with the steam-engine.

    Only two calendars remain, and both are ho-hum.
    -My Howard Fogg railroad calendar features a watercolor of a Shay-type logging locomotive, drawing logs over the long-abandoned Camino, Placerville & Lake Tahoe Railroad in California to a Southern Pacific connection in 1922.
    Fogg didn’t depict many geared locomotives so supposedly it’s a rare treasure; but ho-hum.

    -My other calendar is my Norfolk Southern Employees Photography-Contest calendar, and depicts a Norfolk Southern rail-police Explorer, roof-lights flashing, fronting a Norfolk Southern freight-train in Croxton Yard, Jersey City.
    Congratulations go to the photographer that he could successfully pull off a nighttime photograph, but ho-hum.

    Actually the GG1 picture isn’t that good either.
    It suffers from low November light.
    But it’s nine GG1s — the greatest railroad locomotive ever made.
    And they’re in the cat-whisker scheme, and it’s the Army-Navy Game.
    Pennsy at its finest.

  • “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.
  • As a teenager, I lived in “Wilmington,” Del.
  • “K4s and E6s” were Pennsy’s standard steam-engine passenger power; the K4 a 4-6-2 Pacific, and the E6 a 4-4-2 Atlantic, the standard steam-engine used in the teens, before the K4.
  • Nickel Plate “765” (2-8-4) and Norfolk & Western 611 (4-8-4) are restored railroad steam-locomotives. 611 has been retired, but 765 was just overhauled and is still operable. I have ridden behind both.
  • “Bruce Stewart” was my next-door-neighbor in Wilmington. He was a year older than me. He like me was also a railfan. We frequently made trips together to watch trains, and built a giant HO model-railroad layout in his basement.
  • “The Congressional Limited” (the “Congo”) was Pennsy’s premier New York City to Washington D.C. (and reverse) train. It started out as all-Pullman cars, but became partially coach by the time we rode it.
  • “Sandy Hill” is the religious boys camp in northeastern Maryland I worked at 1959-‘61. I was a camper there from 1954 through-and-including 1958. Our route to-and-from there passed through “Elkton,” MD, the elope capital of the universe.
  • “Edgemoor,” Del.
  • Vought (or Chance-Vought) was the original designer and maker of Corsair fighter-planes, but “Goodyear” was converted from tire to Corsair production.
  • A “tailhook”-landing was just like an aircraft-carrier. The airplane was snagged by an arrestor-cable after it landed. But the arrestor-cable was across a land-runway.
  • RE: “The all-powerful Tim Belknap.......” Tim Belknap is an editor at Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I once worked; one of about seven. I once posted something by Belknap, and my brother-in-Boston loudly claimed Belknap was the whole and onliest reason the Messenger was so reprehensible; unaware the paper has at least seven editors, and Belknap is toward the bottom. Belknap like me is a car-guy, so we continue to keep in contact.
  • “Bonnie Hasse” was class of 1964 at Brandywine High School, where I was class of 1962. Bonnie Hasse was a friend of my sister Betty, the one from Fort Lauderdale. (My sister is also BHS class of ‘64.) Hasse’s family was quite rich. Her brother was older than me.
  • “260” is 260 cubic-inches displacement, the first size of Ford’s Small-Block V8 engine.
  • The “TR3” was my first car, a 1958 Triumph TR3.
  • “The almighty Bluster-King” is my macho, loudmouthed brother Jack from Boston. He lives in “West Bridgewater,” south of Boston.
  • The “Ford Flat-head V8” was built from 1932 through the 1953 model-year. It was valve-in-block (side-valve), like a Briggs & Stratton lawnmower engine; as opposed to valve-in-head (overhead valve). If was easily modified to generate larger amounts of horsepower than originally delivered, but not as much as the Chevy Small-Block.
  • RE: “Chop the top......” about 3-4 inches are cut out of window-posts, so that the roof of a car can be lowered.
  • “Altoona,” PA; foot of Pennsy’s ascent of the Allegheny Mountains.
  • “Petersburg,” PA; about 3/4ths of the way to Altoona.
  • “Water-troughs” aren’t as reliable a water-source to get water as a water-tower. But to use a water-tower, ya had to stop. Steam-locomotives need water to generate steam.
  • A “Shay-type logging locomotive” dispensed with the usual side-rod operation activated by pistons. “Shays” were a special design by a guy named Shay to operate successfully over a logging-railroad, that often had poor trackage and steep grades. Under such conditions the typical side-rod steam-engine would spin the drivers during piston-thrust. Thrust was more evened-out and continuous with a Shay. The Shay was a “geared locomotive,” as the pistons worked a driveshaft geared to each drive-wheel. The engine depicted had three cylinders — some had four.
  • “Southern Pacific” was the main railroad in California. It is now merged with Union Pacific, and as such no longer exists.
  • Ford “Explorer,” Ford’s popular SUV.
  • Wednesday, November 07, 2007

    More overheard at the Canandaigua YMCA

    I’m in the temporary weight-room (Wednesday, November 7, 2007).
    That is, I think it’s temporary as they keep referring to it as the game-room.
    During remodeling all the weights were moved downstairs to the game-room — from the old weight-room, which was remodeled and reopened as the exercise-gym. (That will be combined with the remodeled old exercise-gym to make a grand new double-size exercise-gym that will have fancy new machines — hopefully including the Nautilus-circuit, which is ancient.)
    I only do one machine in the weight-room — and since all the treadmills were outta commission, I went directly to the temporary weight-room, which is downstairs in the dungeons.
    “I’m not related to her at all,” a teenager said.
    “Yes you are,” a pretty young thing with a blonde pony-tail said. “I’m your mother!”
    Mother was sitting on a 36-inch exercise ball, bouncing it across the floor. (A dead ringer for the PowerBall N.Y. State Lottery ads.)
    About that time Amazon-Lady waltzes in.
    “Lissen to this, Michelle;” (Amazon-lady is Michelle).
    “My mother gets a cellphone call from Iraq at 7:51 a.m., and 20 minutes later she gets another from Singapore.”
    “Who do ya know in Singapore?” Amazon-lady asks.
    “That was just some tech-support,” pony-tail says.
    “And how about Iraq?”
    “That was just some guy I met the other night at a bar.”
    “Give us all the gory details,” a guy shouts from across the room.
    “Wherein do ya know some guy in Iraq?” Amazon-lady asks.
    “He’s a Marine, and just got sent back to Iraq.”
    “How old is this guy?” Amazon-lady asks.
    “28.”
    “You’re old enough to be his mother.”
    “I gotta picture of this guy on my cellphone — here, lemme show ya.”
    “He’s hot,” Amazon-lady says; “but where’s his face? Ya missed his head!”
    “I didn’t take his picture,” pony-tail exclaims.
    “Well, what I’ve been thinking about all day is chicken-soup.” (Laughter.) “I have to multi-task chicken-soup when I get home. I baked the chicken the other day; now I gotta make the soup,” Amazon-lady says.
    “Mother; you need to grow up!” teenager observes.
    About this time I was tempted to chime in.
    “Grow up?” I would have said. “What fun is that? People have been telling me to ‘grow up’ all my life, and I’m 63.”
    “By not growing up I get to drive stodgy young pups up-the-wall,” I woulda said.

  • “Stodgy young pups” are all my siblings, who are younger.
  • Tuesday, November 06, 2007

    Election-Day

    Tuesday, November 6, 2007.

    Overheard yesterday in the Canandaigua YMCA men’s locker-room:
    “I haven’t missed a vote since I left the Marines in 1963, I’ll tell ya!”
    New York State’s Democrats, led by their governor Eliot Spitzer, have opened a pandora’s box.
    It requires a higher level of thinking, greater that the average gun-toting NASCAR-dad is capable of.
    .....the level of thinking Clintsky often did, prompting slavering blasts from the OxyContin®-King.
    Spitzer has proposed driver’s licenses for “illegal” aliens (should be “undocumented”), allowing better tracking of their movements.
    True to form, REPUBLICANS have gone ballistic.
    So here we have beady-eyed little Monroe County Democratic chair Joe Morelle “debating” 287-pound slobbering Monroe County REPUBLICAN chair Steve Minarik, stoked with 29 cups of coffee, and perhaps a 55-gallon drum of Mountain-Dew.
    Debate my foot! If this was a debate, one wonders what a full-out Mexican stand-off is? —It reminded me of FlagOut, with Minarik as the almighty Bluster-King.
    There’s Morelle trying to be the voice-of-reason, and foaming, sputtering Minarik in highest dudgeon doing his best Karl Rove/Rush Limbaugh imitation.
    The REPUBLICANS have floated an ad depicting gun-toting dishtowel-swathed al-Qaeda terrorists pictured on N.Y. state driver-licenses, which are photo licenses.
    “Lemme finish,” bellows frenzied Minarik; mouthing the siren-song of tub-thumpers everywhere.
    “Finish my foot!” the Democrats should say. “Since when is an unfinished steaming-pile any less putrid than a finished steaming-pile?”
    I see presidential wannabee Fred Thompson has taken on “lemme finish;” perhaps explaining why tub-thumpers are gravitating toward his side.
    It was “fun,” my wife said. Just like FlagOut — or Al Sharpton going on about “the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity.”

    More overheard in the Canandaigua YMCA mens’ locker-room:
    “I’ll tell ya what’s wrong with this country! It’s them liberials.”
    “Now you take that Teddy Kennedy. That guy doesn’t know his ass from a hole-in-the-ground.”
    “Them liberials have been leading us to hell-in-a-handbasket ever since I left the Marines!”
    “Seems a lotta countries have been having revolutions. Maybe we should too. I say we go after ‘em.”
    “Now you take the apologist view of what we should be doing in Iraq. You end a 10-round boxing-match at five rounds, and your opponent just toys with ya and wins after five rounds.”
    “Okay,” I thought to myself. “So we have a full 10-round match. Wherein is the outcome gonna be any different?”
    Thankfully I was three rows of lockers away from the tub-thumper.
    But there’s no using sweet reason to challenge a loud tub-thumper — especially an ex-Marine.
    (“I nearly sacrificed my life on Omaha Beach protecting your right to free speech, so you better shut up.”)

  • “Clintsky” is President Bill Clinton.
  • “OxyContin®-King” is Rush Limbaugh.
  • “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.)
  • “The almighty Bluster-King” is my macho, loudmouthed brother-from-Boston.
  • “Liberial” is how my loudmouthed macho brother-from-Boston noisily insists “liberal” is spelled.
  • Sunday, November 04, 2007

    “are we on fire?”

    SPOCK
    The Keed with the dreaded D100 with the flash.
    Beam me up Scotty; there’s no intelligent life down here.
    Linda is having a hard time, more or less, ever since CHOP chemo Round Two, which was almost two weeks ago.
    Actually, we were all right until two nights ago, when nausea and weakness set in, making it so Linda couldn’t eat much of anything.
    The inability to keep anything down, or eat anything, adds to the weakness.
    An offset is to take a Compizine pill to counter nausea, but they also knock her out.
    Her temperature was up to 100.8°, and we were also looking at the weekend, when all but emergency health services shut down.
    So she called Wilmot and detailed her symptoms. They wanted to do blood-cultures for infections. —Chemo reduces immunity.
    Thompson Hospital in Canandaigua is 20-25 minutes away, whereas Wilmot is 45 minutes away and a parking challenge.
    So a blood-draw script was faxed to Thompson.
    We set out for Thompson about 5:15 p.m. yesterday (Friday, November 2, 2007) in the Bucktooth Bathtub.
    Since it was late, we went directly to Emergency.
    “Up the hallway and to ‘Admittance.’”
    Their directions were a bit wonky (MAPQUEST ALERT!), so we tried “Diagnostic Imaging.”
    “Up the hallway and to your left.”
    We continued (“sauntering,” no doubt).
    “Can I help you?” someone in Admittance asks.
    “I need bloodwork done; Wilmot is faxing a script.”
    “Our lab closes at 6 p.m. (it was 6 p.m.); you’ll have to go to Emergency.”
    “They just sent me up here,” Linda said.
    The usual mountain of paper was processed; signatures required 89 bazilyun times. (“In case of death, I will not sue.”)
    “Please take a seat and wait until called.”
    No sooner had we taken a seat when the whole hospital was plunged into darkness, ending my reading of a Car & Driver article on the original Baja 1000 in 1967.
    Emergency strobes started flashing.
    Fortunately the sun hadn’t set yet, so it wasn’t pitch-dark inside.
    Nervous employees began congregating at the information-desk. Someone out back kept yelling “are we on fire?”
    Finally the hospital administrator-lady strode out in her pink pant-suit and assured all-and-sundry that everything was hunky-dorry, “but the elevators don’t work — not until our generators fire up.”
    In-and-Out..... the blood-draw was performed in minutes, despite the lack of electricity.
    “Are we allowed out?” Linda asked administrator-lady. (A PA announcement had said no one could leave.)
    “Of course,” she said, so we sauntered across the vast parking-lot to the Bucktooth Bathtub.
    No street-lights, no parking-lot-lights; nothing at all — all of Canandaigua was dark.
    Canandaigua is Rochester Gas & Electric, but we’re Niagara-Mohawk; so who knows?
    All the way up 5&20 was dark; no street-lights, no flashing caution-lights, no traffic-lights — even through nearby Bloomfield.
    But as we descended the hill past the mighty Bloomfield water-tower we noticed lights on the other side of the valley: Niagara-Mohawk was still up-and-running.
    West Bloomfield was still on, meaning our poor dog had not been plunged into darkness.
    Turns out a car-accident had taken out a power-pole, which dumped an entire substation. A whole service-area had been wiped out.

  • “Linda” is my wife of nearly 40 years. She has lymphatic cancer. (It’s treatable.)
  • “CHOP” equals Cyclophosphamide, Doxorubicin (I don’t know where they get an “H” for this), Oncovin (trade-name for Vincristine), and Prednisone, a steroid.”
  • “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.
  • RE: (MAPQUEST ALERT!) Once I was driving toward De Land, Fla., where my mother-in-law resides, and was following MapQuest instructions, which directed me to turn onto a one-way street in De Land against traffic. At that point the MapQuest instructions got tossed into the back seat of our rental-car.
  • RE: “sauntering.....” My blowhard, macho brother-in-Boston equates my running with “sauntering.”
  • “Rochester Gas & Electric” and “Niagara-Mohawk” (NiMo) are both electric utilities. RG&E is based in Rochester. NiMo is now “National Grid.”
  • “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. To get home from Canandaigua we travel 5&20.
  • We live in the Town of “West Bloomfield.”
  • Our dog is“Killian;” a rescue Irish-Setter. We left him alone in the house while we went to Thompson.
  • “Git-R-Dunn”

    So here I am serenely motoring west in the CR-V on the roundabout back-country road (Martin Road) we use to get to the vaunted Honeoye Falls MarketPlace supermarket Linda always patronizes.
    MarketPlace is not actually in Honeoye Falls. It’s on the western fringe out along a glitz-strip populated by garish minimalls and abandoned bank-branches and colonoscopy places, one mall of which has yet to lease any space despite being brand-new at least 10 years.
    Probably built by some REPUBLICAN fat-cat hoping to feed his Mercedes Jones at the expense of rural hicks. But the dreaded rural hicks won’t bow to his self-declared wisdom. (A similar corner is for sale across from Rochester-Thunder at the intersection of U.S. Route 15 and State Route 251. It’s an old house, and has been for sale as long as we’ve been out here — 17 years. Obviously it’s overpriced; some REPUBLICAN fat-cat is hoping to make a killing off the corner location. It begs for a minimart [or a colonoscopy clinic]; but so far no one has bitten.)
    Must be our ISP.
    I am going to get coleslaw mix and Ensure, as Linda had to abstain from going to the supermarket.
    As I motor west I notice Granny slowly approaching from the other direction in her metallic powder-blue Ford Focus station-wagon.
    About 200 yards away, her left-turn signal flicks on — she’s planning to turn left across my path onto a side-street.
    At 100-150 yards away, she has time to turn left without cutting me off. I’m only doing about 40-45 mph.
    (Sorry guys; not 152 mph. It’s a residential road with playing children and dogs. The speed-limit is 40 mph.)
    Suddenly, “PRAAMP!”
    A glowering intimidator is behind Granny in a towering Z71 4WD Chevy pickup with a chromed brushbar, and a greenish semi-opaque “Git-R-Dunn” visor decal at the top of the windshield.
    Young macho-pup is bouncing up-and-down and madly thumping the steering-wheel.
    Despite the commotion, Granny waits. She could have made her turn safely, followed by macho-pup, who could then cut me off.
    Sorry guys — I didn’t think to look. Don’t know if it had a Dubya-sticker to go with its “lead, follow or get outta the way” license-plate surround, and Calvin peeing on the Ford oval in the rear window.

  • “The CR-V” is our 2003 Honda CR-V SUV.
  • “Linda” is my wife of nearly 40 years. She has lymphatic cancer. (It’s treatable.)
  • RE: “garish minimalls and abandoned bank-branches and colonoscopy places.......” My loudmouthed macho brother-in-Boston had a colonoscopy in a clinic in a minimall — mine was in a hospital. He loudly claims he did better.
  • RE: “Must be our ISP!” ISP equals Internet-Service-Provider; in our case RoadRunner via the cable. Last July my macho, blowhard brother-from-Boston visited, and set up a wireless Internet connection to my router. His Internet reception was spotty, so he loudly blamed our Internet-Service-Provider (ISP). Now anything untoward is due to my ISP.
  • RE: “Sorry guys; not 152 mph......” My brother-in-Delaware bragged that his turbocharged Volvo station-wagon was capable of 152 mph.
  • A “glowering intimidator” is a tailgater, named after Dale Earnhardt, deceased, the so-called “intimidator” of NASCAR fame, who used to tailgate race-leaders and bump them at speed until they let him by.
  • “Dubya-sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. All insane traffic-moves seem to involve Bush-supporters. They seem to think they have the right.
  • “Calvin” is the nasty little boy in the Calvin & Hobbs cartoon.

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