Flag-Out

OLD GLORY

The Keed.

This is our old flag. The blue star-field is faded.

A week ago, I ordered a fancy-dan new flag online.
It cost $30, which seems overpriced, until you find it was made by in America instead of China.
It’s made of individual stripes stitched together, and individual stars embroidered on the field.
Our old flag was made like that too — not a print. But it was polyester; probably made in China.
The new flag is nylon, made by Annin & Co. in North-America (factories in Ohio and Virginny), a storied flag-maker since 1847.
The next question is whether to get a rotating flagpole; another 60 smackaroos.
The advantage is the flag and flagpole were made for each other — a package: 90 bucks.
It would solve two problems; one which I don’t consider very serious:
-1) The new flag is slightly smaller than the old flag, which could mean relocating the mounting-hardware: two hookeyes.
That would mean drilling a new quarter-inch hole through the flagpole, which makes the old hole a weak spot.
-2) The old mounting-system didn’t rotate, so the flag would twist around the pole. This isn’t that serious; and I have my doubts a rotating flagpole could keep up with the wind. (Plus it may not fit my holder.)
Furthermore, one of the plastical clips that attached the flag to the hardware has broken, and may be impossible to replace without engineering a new mounting-system.
So the $90 package may be more convenient than the stinking hairball I’ve been presented with.
We’ve already done a massive amount of research, since I think 90 smackaroos is ridiculous for the whole stinkin’ kabosh.
But direct, an Annin flag costs even more, and we don’t have gobs of time to save 50 cents.
I might spring for the $90 package to avoid dorking around.
What I ended up doing was buying longer hooks instead of the plastical thingies, that allow me to attach the Annin flag to my existing pole.
So “Flag-Out!”
I feel flying the flag is very important.
It’s not just for tub-thumping REPUBLICANS to wrap themselves in.

I had a mentally-retarded kid-brother (Down Syndrome) who lived at home, and loudly insisted the flag be flown every day. “Flag-Out!” I fly the flag partly in his honor. (He died at 14 in 1968.)

Tick-tick-tick-tick-DING!

So here I am yesterday afternoon (Thursday, June 28, 2007) quietly resting in the dentist’s motorized Barcalounger having my teeth cleaned (semi-annual cleaning) by the nice dental-hygienist......
.....when suddenly I hear from an adjacent anteroom: “Tick-tick-tick-tick-DING!”
“Good golly, Miss Molly,” I say; “what in the wide, wide world is that?”
“Sounds like an actual typewriter. Call the Antique Typewriter Society!”
“Yes; that’s what it is,” the dental-hygienist says, sheepishly. “We’re kind of embarrassed.”
Last typewriter I saw was the ancient Smith-Corona my 90-year-old mother-in-law always drags out, wanting us to fix it — the ribbon doesn’t advance.
Linda’s old Smith-Corona from college rests in its case in our living-room — retired about eight years ago when I found I could get Quicken to print checks.
We also still have the word-processing typewriter we did the house spec-book on — a ‘pyooter/printer combination will run circles around it.
The dentist’s Selectric begs two questions:
-1) The first question, which I was tactful enough to not ask (since I did once before, prompting weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth) is when, if ever, is the dentist going to drag butt into the new century?
......and........
-2) The second question is where do you ever get the sucker fixed if it goes haywire?
I like our dentist; we’ve had the same dentist almost 40 years.
Long ago he cheerfully repaired five years of deferred maintenance, and also pulled four impacted wisdom-teeth, two at a time. (And it was a bloody struggle.)
He started out in downtown Rochester, but eventually moved to the ‘burbs when a new medical-plaza was built.
I remember when that plaza was being built; I drove bus by it, and a giant windstorm blew down all the roof-trusses — they had to start over.
Our dentist is older than us, but apparently re-upped his office-lease for another five years.
He’s a tub-thumping conservative, and likes to hunt big game. Yesterday he was yammering to an older patient about an upcoming hunting-trip to Laramie, Wyoming. (We chased Union-Pacific 3985 in Laramie, when it was still burning coal.)
He lives not too far away, out in the country like us. He has pastures and raises sheep.
No ‘pyooter though; and I doubt he’ll ever get one.
He’s probably a little intimidated.
So our billing is copies of typewritten ledger-cards.

“Linda” is my wife.

I drove transit-bus for 16&1/2 years for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus company in Rochester.

“Union-Pacific 3985” is a giant 4-6-6-4 articulated railroad steam-engine, built in 1943, since restored and still run by the railroad. Like most steam-engines, it originally burned coal, but a few years ago was converted to burn fuel-oil. “Articulated” in that the front driver-set, and pilot wheels, were on a separate frame hinged to the rear set, so that the locomotive could negotiate sharp turns (like switches) despite its length.

6/27/07

-Late afternoon; 4:38 p.m. — about the same time that “Sure Enough” was written. Which means like “Sure Enough” it wasn’t written (“fabricated”) in the morning to fill slow time. I had seen an insane-traffic-move that afternoon by an SUV bearing a Dubya-sticker, so I reported it.
I see plenty of insane-traffic-moves — usually about one per day. About 60% don’t have Dubya-stickers, but the remaining 40%, for whatever reason, do (I’m detecting a pattern here: like Dubya-supporters seem to think they’re immune to traffic-law, laws of physics; whatever).
The non Dubya-sticker insane-traffic-moves go unreported, but the Dubya-stickers get reported — because I know that’s what gets youz guys all-bent-outta-shape.

Boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka......
It was extremely hot today (Wednesday, June 27, 2007), so I left the windows slightly open on the Bucktooth-Bathtub in the parking-lot, since there’s no shade.
I had to patronize mighty Weggers after the YMCA, so I left the windows partly open going there, since it’s a short trip.
Attaining Weggers means driving down the main drag, and then left onto Eastern Blvd. at a huge seven-lane intersection.
I fell in with others at the intersection since we had been stopped by a traffic-light.
Windows partly open, I found myself surrounded by “Boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka......”
And the “Boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chickas” were at different rates, so outta synch.
“Boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka......” to my left and “Ba-BOOM, Ba-BOOM, Ba-BOOM” to my right.
And above it all was a rap-singer (?????) loudly yammering the F-word.
I woulda missed all this, had I sealed up the windows.

Brain-injury.......
I asked an older man at the Canandaigua YMCA what his ailment was. He’s yammered at me before, and usually yammers at all-and-sundry, including the users.
He told me part of his brain had been removed, so I said “that lady and I are both stroke-survivors.”
“Yeah, well you’re doing better than she is — her whole left side is gone.”

My loudmouthed, macho brother-in-Boston is accusing me of “fabricating” Dubya-sticker reports to fill time in the morning when I don’t have anything to write about.

RE: “gets youz guys all-bent-outta-shape...” refers to my tub-thumping conservative siblings, who think George Dubya Bush is the greatest president of all time.

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

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

first time

Yesterday (Monday, June 15, 2007) I spoke to the dreaded Amazon-Lady at the vaunted Canandaigua YMCA the first time.
“And here you are to tell about it,” my wife remarked. “Apparently you survived.”
Amazon-Lady — whose actual name is Michelle — is an employee of the Canandaigua YMCA, and looks pretty nasty.
She can be rather nasty too. There was that incident long ago when a bubbly granny asked what her secret was.
I’ve also seen her bite the heads off of would-be suitors.
And I’ve seen her snarl at passersby outside after she had completed running.
But actually I think she’s pretty nice.
She is friends with many Y-users — many of whom are regulars.
She also has to show people how to use the equipment. I kind of wish it had been Amazon-Lady that showed us around.
She takes more time than the guy who showed us around; who didn’t do much of anything.
Amazon-Lady also uses the equipment.
Most intimidating is the way she winces and grits-her-teeth when pulling weights.
So here I am blasting the last treadmill. Amazon-Lady gets on the funky elliptical next to my treadmill — it’s her favorite machine.
She cranks about 10 seconds, but suddenly gets off and disappears.
Just as suddenly we’re listening to XM26 instead of XM49. XM26 is easier to take than Lou Gramm or Robert Plant screaming.
Amazon-Lady reappears, and remounts the elliptical.
“Wha’dja do; change the channel?” I ask.
She apparently had. As an employee she can, and that audio-feed gets piped throughout the building.
After about 10 minutes, a sweaty hairy male-bimbo appeared and asked her how she felt.
“Tired,” she said.
“Go home and take a nap,” the guy said.
“Wait ‘til you hit your 60s,” I said, after the guy left.
“I don’t wanna hit my 60s,” she said. (She’s probably in her 40s.)
“Keep that up, and you will,” I said.
THE END; I’m not my father.

XM26 and XM49 are both satellite-radio stations. The Canandaigua YMCA is apparently a subscriber. Lou Gramm (of Rochester) was the lead-singer for Foreigner, and Robert Plant was the lead-singer for Led Zeppelin.

My father liked to pretend he was concerned.

sure enough

I’m walking peacefully down Park St. in Canandaigua. The Canandaigua YMCA is on Park St., and I am returning to my car, which is parked in a small shopping-plaza not far from the YMCA, but on the other side of the railroad-tracks that split the city.
Park St. (a very narrow street) is one-way westbound, the way I’m walking. It T’s at another side-street that parallels the main drag (Canandaigua is a grid), and a driveway to the shopping-plaza angles off the intersection.
Park St. is one-way westbound, so traffic on the side-street can’t turn left (eastbound) onto Park St. — in fact, there’s a large “do-not-enter” sign — so that traffic on the side-street must continue into the shopping-plaza driveway.
So here I am ambling quietly down Park St., I walk beneath the two railroad-bridges (once pictured), and go left into the shopping-plaza driveway.
I am about to cross the driveway, but I see a large Denali-type vehicle approaching the intersection.
Which means do not cross; that vehicle will come down the driveway if it heeds the do-not-enter sign.
Nope; it turned left, and proceeded the wrong way up Park St. (“Do-Not-Enter” signs are for wusses.)
I turned around as it went beneath the two railroad-bridges, and sure enough: Bush-Cheney ‘04.

My macho, blowhard brother-in-Boston has a GMC Denali.

Hydra-Matic

My August 2007 issue of Hemmings Classic-Car Magazine has a large treatment on the Hydra-Matic automatical transmission.
The Hydra-Matic was General Motors’ first fully automatical transmission; introduced in 1939 by Oldsmobile.
It was pretty good, considering what it was up against, like Fluid-Drive from Chrysler, which really only put a fluid-coupling in place of the clutch.
Heatwole had a variation on this that had a clutch-pedal that activated things. Startup had to be on the clutch, and then clutching (declutching) caused an upshift.
But I guess it still had a standard-transmission. I guess Fluid-Drive did too.
I’ve never really understood automatical transmissions; probably because I never tore one down.
The Classic-Car article is describing Hydra-Matic operation, but I can’t follow it.
The Hydra-Matic also competed against Buick’s Dynaflow, a horrible auto-tranny.
Dynaflow let the poor motor rev like the dickens on startup. It was like driving a rubber-band. Floor the turkey and it would slowly pick up speed.
Dynaflow was partly what engendered the term “slushbox.”
There was no denying a standard-tranny did a better job of putting the power down.
An auto-tranny also consumed horsepower driving a pump, but it wasn’t too bad.
The hairball was the slush.
But auto-trannies got better.
Even lowly Chevrolet began installing more speeds than their simple two-speed PowerGlide.
In fact, it got so dragsters, which need maximum acceleration, fell to using auto-trannies.
The auto-tranny takes out the possibility of a driver mucking up operation — like a missed shift.
The Hydra-Matic had four speeds, which is one more than average.
It also was pretty tight; a slushbox, but not very slushy.
Floored, the Hydra-Matic dropped a gear. I remember Cindy Ball telling us about Passing-Gear in her parents’ ‘59 Olds, and that it was a thrill. (One wonders if The Tank had Hydra-Matic........)
Hydra-Matic lasted a while, too; although upgrades were done over time, and it was redesigned in 1956 — but mainly to accommodate stronger engines.
Jim Bowling’s father’s 1962 Pontiac had Hydra-Matic. Bowling was the guy who went through the stop-signs in the dark at 110 on Shipley at Silverside; and that was the car.
(Shipley and Silverside is now a traffic-light.)
Now just about everything is auto-tranny — standard-shift is rare. In fact, I think you couldn't even get standard-tranny in our so-called soccer-mom minivan.

“Heatwole” is Eugene Heatwole, an older man who with his wife tried to entertain us reprehensible yooth at Immanual Baptist Church in Wilmington in the late ‘50s and early ‘60s. He had a 1952 Chrysler.

“Cindy Ball” is the only child of our neighbors across-the-street where we lived north of Wilmington. She was two years older than me.

“The Tank” is the 1964 Oldsmobile my parents owned. My younger brothers gave it that nickname because it was such a battleship.

“Jim Bowling” was a fellow-student that graduated in my high-school class in 1962 at Brandywine High School north of Wilmington.

“Shipley” Road is a main east-west road north of Wilmington. It crosses “Silverside” Road, a north-south road that eventually turns east-west.

The “so-called soccer-mom minivan” was our 1993 Chevrolet Astrovan, called that by my macho, loud-mouthed brother-in-Boston. It’s been traded for a 2005 Toyota Sienna minivan.

Beep-boop-beep-boop

Yesterday (Saturday, June 23, 2007) our new Chase-Visa credit-cards arrived.
Every three years Chase issues us replacement credit-cards; i.e. our old Chase cards expire (in this case August of this year), so they send us new cards.
The account-number is the same, but expiration is August of 2010, and the three-digit security code is apparently different.
It’s not the same account-number we originally had. That account got closed when someone other than us began charging ‘pyooter purchases willy-nilly.
The bank caught that, and apparently ate it.
And so began our current account-number.
Our new cards had to be activated; a call to an 800-number from our landline. (What if we didn’t have a landline?)
“Welcome to Chase account-services!” a machine bubbled.
“Please enter the last four digits of your account!”
Beep-boop-beep-boop.
“Would you like to add a PIN-number?” it foamed.
“Well okay,” I thought; “I’ll never use it, but......” Beep-boop-beep-boop.
“Please reenter your PIN-number for verification purposes.”
Beep-boop-beep-boop.
“You have successfully added a PIN-number!” it cheered.
“Your call is being transferred; please hold during the silence......”
“Boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka.....”
“Your call may be monitored by mindless management minions for quality-control purposes......”
“And what can I do for you?” some disembodied voice in India asked.
“An actual human,” I thought. “Holy mackerel!”
“And how are you today?” he asked, reading from a script.
“I have new credit-cards that need to be activated,” I said.
“First and last names please......”
“Robert Hughes; H-U-G-H-E-S.”
“2403 State Route 65, Bloomfield?”
“Yep; that’s me,” I said.
“What is your date of birth?”
“2/5/44.”
“Are you sure your birth-year is 1944?”
“Oh for crying out loud!” I thought. “What a pathetic attempt to stroke me.”
“I’m absolutely certain,” I yelled. “February 5, 1944 at Cooper Hospital in Camden, New Jersey.”
I know I’m supposed to be diplomatical, but this was outrageous.
“Are you sure you don’t mean 1984? You don’t sound like 1944.”
“Good grief! I have absolutely no doubt at all of when I was born.”
“Your card is activated. Would you like to customize it; change your billing-date; add family-members?”
“The date you bill me is fine,” I said. “I see no reason to change it.”
“Add family-members?”
“None to add, unless you wanna add my dog; but he hasn’t needed it yet. —We did receive an additional card for my wife; is that activated?”
“Yes.”
“Do you wanna save money?”
“No!”
“Do you wanna add theft-protection?”
“Pass!”
“I could loan you $10,000 at only 4.9%.”
“I don’t need money.”
“Transfer accounts to this account, or consolidate?”
“We don’t have any other accounts.”
“Protection for your account against identity-theft? 17 million Americans per year have their identity stolen, and credit-rating destroyed. All you’ve worked for for years is gone in a second.”
“I bet there’s a fee.”
“$11.35 per month.”
“We’ve had that account since 1969, which is probably before you were born. We monitor that account online, and apparently the bank does too. If anything strange occurs, it’s closed. Wham-bam; just like that!”

Corvair

This is a ‘62; mine was a ‘61, and black.

My August 2007 issue of Hemmings Classic-Car Magazine has a giant celebration of the Corvair, which many auto-enthusiasts consider the pinnacle of Detroit auto-engineering.
It was, since at that time it was right at the ragged-edge, and flew in the face of the stodgy conventional-wisdom Detroit had been fielding for years.
It had an air-cooled aluminum pancake motor, unlike the usual cast-iron monoblocks from Detroit, both inline and V.
Plus the motor was hung out back, behind the drive-wheels. Conventional auto-design had the motor in front, behind (or over or both) the front wheels, which were unpowered, and only steered.
Conventional auto-design had a front-mounted motor powering the rear drive-wheels, like a tractor, as things had been for ages.
Thankfully I can say that a Corvair was among the cars I owned, except mine seemed to have something wrong.
It was PowerGlide, and that tranny seemed to be set up wrong. It upshifted properly at 30-35 mph, but would downshift any time you dipped into the throttle.
So here we are doing 50-55 mph on the long slight grade out of Mt. Morris to Nunda (“None-DAY”), and the tranny would downshift revving the poor motor to high heavens.
The rear-hung motor made it tail-happy — I almost had it swap ends on me once. I always felt like I was driving a pendulum.
Mine was a ‘61, so had swing-axles. The fully-independent rear-suspension (IRS) wasn’t introduced until the 1965-model, which even had an all-new body.
(Even now IRS is somewhat a novelty; in 1965 it was cutting-edge. Many cars are still solid rear-axle; even NASCAR is still solid rear-axle.)
One has to remember the Corvair was introduced in 1960 as an American interpretation of the ancient Volkswagen Beetle, which was also air-cooled and rear-motor, with swing-axles.
But the Corvair was also unit-construction; the Beetle only somewhat — a body assembled on a floorpan. Most Detroit-iron were body-on-frame; unit-construction was the future.
The Corvair was mostly the doing of Ed Cole, who was always pushing automotive-engineering to the ragged-edge.
Cole was responsible for the revolutionary overhead-valve Cadillac V8 of 1949; and the vaunted Chevy Small-Block is Ed Cole. (—The sort of ragged-edge automotive engineering Detroit now shies away from.)
The ‘60 Corvairs are very basic, but GM introduced a sporty Monza model in 1961 that quickly became a darling of the sportscar-set.
The sportiest upgrade was addition of a four-speed, floor-shifted manual tranny — it turned the humble Corvair into a faux Porsche.
I road-tested a four-speed 1964 Corvair Spyder at some used-car lot at the foot of McKee’s Hill on Concord Pike, but it was sick. The motor was woozy.
And then my father dredged up the ‘61 — much more a car than my Beast. But it was PowerGlide, and became somewhat an albatross.
My father cosigned a credit-arrangement for me to buy that car, but for years I was in no position to pay it. 600 smackaroos. I heard about that until the day he died, despite my forking over “hunderds,” perhaps thousands, to help my younger siblings through college.
Plus the poor thing crippled on me; probably a broken or slipped tranny-engagement cable.
It sat for weeks until the local Chevy-dealer could repair it — and they pulled the motor and tranny and everything: claimed diff-lube had got into the tranny.
Then it sat for three more months while I saved up from my meager minimum-wage income to pay for it. There was no getting credit: no credit-history.
And then too even after I fixed it, it still liked to downshift and rev the motor into the heavens.
We traded it to buy the Triumph TR250 — a very bad attempt at recalling fond memories of The Beast. (The TR250 was the second-worst car we’ve ever had.)
I think my ‘61 remained in use for a while. I used to see a black ‘61 Monza-coupe in a Rochester neighborhood near where we bought the TR250.
The Corvair went on to prompt Ford to market the sporty Mustang. That’s because the Corvair appealed to the sportscar set, but was too unconventional.
That unconventionality gave gadfly Ralph Nader a handle to foam about — that the Corvair was Unsafe at Any Speed.
The Federal gumint tested a Corvair, and found it safe.
But no matter; the damage had been done.
GM also went on to bring out a conventional economy-car: the Chevy-II — very much like the Ford Falcon and the Valiant/Dart.
The Corvair was no longer an economy-car, and Chevy responded to the Mustang with the Camaro — like the Mustang very conventional.
The Corvair lasted until 1969.
Every once in a while I think I’d like to own one again, but ‘65 or later — with the full IRS.
An English lady at the bank I worked with (she was a teller) had a son who got a Corsa coupe (the later Corvair) with four-speed; a fabulous hot-rod.
And once at Mrs. Merriman’s I saw a later Corvair with an aluminum Olds F-85 V8 where the rear-seat was supposed to be.

“PowerGlide” was Chevrolet’s two-speed automatic-transmission.

“The long slight grade out of Mt. Morris to Nunda” is New York Route 408 in western New York just east of Letchworth Park.

RE: “At the foot of McKee’s Hill on Concord Pike.......” “Concord Pike” is U.S. Route 202, the main route north out of Wilmington, Delaware. “McKee’s Hill” is the main downhill on Route 202 into Wilmington off the piedmont. We (I) lived in a suburb north of Wilmington near Concord Pike.

“The Beast” is my first car, a 1958 Triumph TR3 — a fabulous hot-rod, but no weather-protection. I flipped it while in college, but it was still driveable.

According to my macho blowhard brother-in-Boston, “hunderds” is the correct spelling of “hundreds.”

Our worst car was a 1976 Volkswagen Dasher station-wagon — a rust-prone demonstrator; held together with baling-twine. The TR250 was only the second-worst. It too rusted to smithereens, but only clogged its gas-tank on me. The girl who bought it from me had the rear diff immediately lock up, plus a tire went soft.

The “Corsa” replaced the Monza in 1965.

“Mrs. Merriman’s” is our second apartment — 20 Woodland Park in Rochester; not far from our first house, which came next. “Mrs. Merriman” owned the house; we rented the upstairs. We moved shortly after she died.

Pick-Your-Own

The Keed

Pick-Your-Own.

Wednesday (June 20, 2007), contradicting the assembled and great wisdom of my all-knowing, tub-thumping siblings, who because of their religion have never made a mistake since their conversion, I had the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to pick my own strawberries (pictured) for $1.89, instead up buying the plump, overblown strawberries at $3.49 jetted from Imperial Valley in Californy that taste like paste.
I’m married to a person who divides the year into picking seasons, and June is strawberry time.
Years ago the idea of picking my own strawberries was anathema, and I was sucked in by the plump jetted berries.
But then we had pick-your-own strawberries, and they were much better than supermarket strawberries.
The supermarkets have got hip, offering local strawberries, but even those are inferior to pick-your-own.
The local supermarket strawberries have sat around a while.
Strawberries start going stale after a couple hours.
The day-old strawberries from Floridy or Californy are dreadful.
Sometimes the great institutions of conventionality get beat.

The last time I picked my own strawberries (last year) I was severely excoriated for not buying supermarket strawberries.

Memory-Lane:

Yesterday (Thursday, June 21, 2007; the summer-solstice) was elections of the leaders of Local-282, Amalgamated Transit Union........
So I went to the union-office to vote — a voting area had been set out off the old meeting-room.
It of course meant seeing 89 bazilyun former coworkers, people I used to work with at Regional Transit Service.
I no longer feel a part of this effort — in fact, I haven’t paid the retiree union-dues in two years.
I also stopped attending union-meetings about two years ago. At that time I was doing the web-sites for the Post weeklies, and they were published on Thursday — the Union-meeting day. Those web-sites were getting in the way. I might not get out until 6 p.m., after which it was rush home, glom a few tidbits, and then make the hour-drive into Rochester for the Union-meeting.
Union-meetings were rather unbearable: lots of yelling and screaming and macho strutting.
Usually for naught — the puny membership present (a quorum was always in doubt) would vote to arbitrate or deduct, and then bellyache loudly about the cost of what they had just approved.
I then had to drive back home — another hour trip, so that I might not get home until 10:30.
The Post web-sites were also why I got out of the Boughton-Park Board. Their meeting was also Thursday-night — another rush-job with the possibility of no time for supper.
Regional Transit Service. 16&1/2 years of utter mayhem. Working for jerks in a job where ya might get beat up or shot.
—Although I liked driving bus. I used to say if it weren’t for driving bus, I’d quit.
But the stroke ended all that. It also ended the dreaded 282-News, my Union-newsletter that caused weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth among Transit managers.
Of course the 282-News is what got me in at the mighty Mezz. And I continued there for almost 10 years, because they liked me and what I was doing.
Some who started when I did are about to retire, or have retired. Dominick Zarcone, the Catholic zealot, was running for office. I hardly recognized him — a dear friend, but his hair was totally gray; it had been black the last I saw him.
Some recognized me, but many are after my time — they have 2300-badges; mine is 1763.
The same two that were union-officials when I had the stroke, are still in office.
That means they have been through three Transit-administrations: first Jack Garrity, then ex-Greece town-supervisor Don Riley (who was appointed as a REPUBLICAN to replace Jack Garrity), and now Mark Aesch, who had been an aide for REPUBLICAN ex-Congressman Bill Paxon, a sanctimonious jerk.
Aesch had been hired by Riley to help reorganize Transit — a reward when Paxon quit.
“At least Garrity followed the contract, even though he was a jerk,” ATU business-agent Frank Falzone observed. “Riley didn’t, and now Aesch doesn’t.”
Falzone was in office when I did the 282-News. He once called Garrity a Bolshevik, but then we had to pull his comment back out of the 282-News.
What he calls Aesch is unprintable.
“Okay you guys,” I said, pointing at Union-prez Joe Carey and Falzone, our two full-time local union-officials. “Our pension has stayed the same for......”
“........eight years,” Falzone said.
Our pension amount can be varied — supposedly a big increase is in the works.
Another there was Ray Dunbar — so-called “Radical-Dude” — who together with me ran the 282-News. He mainly was the one circulating it, especially to local politicos. He’s running for vice-president, and once got fired — the usual management shenanigans. (He was later reinstated.)

“Post weeklies” were 10 weekly newspapers published by Messenger-Post Newspapers, my old employer.

“Boughton-Park” is the local park where we walk our dog. I was on the “Boughton-Park Board” for a while — all volunteer.

I drove transit-bus for “Regional Transit Service,” the transit bus-company in Rochester, for 16&1/2 years, until my stroke.

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

“Greece” is a large suburban town west of Rochester.

Solstice

The Keed.

Solstice by Pontiac.

Tomorrow (Thursday, June 21, 2007) is the summer-soltice; not the Solstice sportscar made by Pontiac, but the so-called “longest day of the year.”
Actually, it’s not the longest day of the year, as all days are 24 hours long, but it’s the day the sun shines longest: 15 hours, 21 minutes in our area (Canandaigua).
One wonders how successful the Pontiac-Solstice sportscar will be.
It looks pretty nifty, but ain’t as good as the Honda 2000, to which it compares.
Then too Pontiac got themselves in serious hot water with the Fiero, a fabulous mid-engine sportscar that had Corvette partisans worried.
The first Fieros (1984) were little more than a mid-engine variation of the infamous GM FWD X-car: the Chevy Citation, the Olds Omega, the Pontiac Ventura, and the Buick Apollo. Its motor was the X-car motor and suspension wedged behind the seats — except the wheels didn’t steer.
But in the end (1987-1988) Pontiac got serious, giving the Fiero a suspension upgraded from its humble X-car origins.
The Corvette-people went ballistic. The Corvette was GM’s sportscar. It shouldn’t be getting competition from within the company.
So the Fiero was deep-sixed; although it never got a really sportscar engine: e.g. overhead cams.
Even Corvette’s survival had been in question.
John DeLorean, at that time head of Chevrolet (he had previously headed Pontiac, where he was primarily responsible for the GTO), wanted to make the Corvette a Camaro-derivative; like the AMX was a Javelin-derivative.
Thankfully he failed, and the Corvette remains the best Chevrolet money can buy.
Its body is still fiberglass, and the motor is essentially the mighty Small-Block of yore — although vastly reconfigured so it no longer has the siamesed intake and exhaust ports of the original Small-Block. It’s also aluminum (as opposed to cast-iron).
The summer-soltice is the official start of summer; although we know it started a few weeks ago because my brothers were out sullying their grills for their wives to clean.
The summer-soltice means thereafter the daylight in a day gets less-and-less.
This could get messy, since the extended sunlight allows me to walk the dog, even after 7 p.m.
Last year we would eat first, and then walk the dogs.
I tried walking the dog after supper once, but by then it was getting too dark. Then too the 93-year-old nosy neighbor weighed in declaring noisily I should be wearing a reflective vest.
Killian always wants to walk up to the Michael Prouty Park, which means walking along Route 65.
Comprehension of less-and-less daylight is vaporized, but accommodated. I end up walking the dog earlier-and-earlier.
Soon I will be walking him before 6 and then 5 and then 4:30.
He’s desperate for me to walk him.
It also will mean wearing a jacket to combat the falling temperature, and rubbers to combat the snow.

I get my astronomical-events from the Naval Observatory site.

“Killian” is our remaining dog — an Irish-Setter. We previously had two dogs, but the oldest died in March. Both were (are) Irish-Setters; both rescue-dogs.

RE: “Comprehension of less-and-less daylight is vaporized....” is a stroke-effect. I had a stroke October 26, 1993.

Granny Alert

So here I am this morning (Monday, June 18, 2007) motoring placidly eastbound down the infamous West Ave. hill into Canandaigua, on my way to the tiny shopping plaza I park at when at the Canandaigua YMCA.
As we enter Canandaigua, we encounter a traffic-light at Pearl St., next to Rank’s IGA supermarket — one of the few local supermarkets to survive the supermarket wars started by Weggers.
The traffic-light went red as I approached, so I stopped, pulling into the right-most lane, since the middle-lane is dedicated turn left onto Pearl St.
WARINESS ALERT! Just because that lane is heavily marked with left-turn only arrows, doesn’t mean the users will turn left.
As I waited for the light, a blue-haired Granny slowly dragging on a cigarette pulled her metallic dark-green Malibu next to me, and began looking down at her crossword-puzzle. (It was one of the later Malibus; not the earlier iteration.)
Well okay; she’s in the left-turn lane — that means she might be turning left.
The light changed, so I began pulling away.
But then suddenly as my left-rear fender pulled next to her right-front, I heard “CHIRP!”
Granny, seeing the light had changed, had put her crossword down and floored the poor Malibu, lighting up the front tires like a fuel dragster.
She went straight, of course. Pulled past me with the poor motor on the rev-limiter, cutting me off as I tried to merge left.
Then, as we continued placidly down West Ave., Granny in the lead, I noticed on her trunk: “Bush-Cheney 04.”

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

The muse

The Keed.

BobbaLouie (AKA the muse).

Pictured here is the infamous muse, the venerable BobbaLouie.
The muse has been around since Houghton, where it first found flower in the Houghton-Star college newspaper.
“Mrs. Lynip allowed she liked the tangled profusion of dull-brown telephone-wires gushing from her walls.”
Report the insanity exactly as observed. A jaundiced eye — don’t sweeten anything, especially if it’s insane.
The muse was misdirected at City/East Newspaper, but found flower again in the dreaded 282-News.
It apparently wasn’t effected at all by the stroke.
I remember what a joy it was to discover I could still sling it no matter how mucked up I was. (I used to say I had been hit by a Peterbilt.)
Rochester-Rehab had me review a video of a glitzy wheelchair-van, and I had a field-day.
“Such a thing would only work in southern-California,” I said. I had driven wheelchair buses, where the lifts corroded into non-functional oblivion, due to salt and slush.
We were supposed to test the suckers before pulling-out, but you didn’t dare do it inside the barns for fear of the lift locking-up fully-extended and blocking a lane.
(And of course, the bus couldn’t be driven if the lift was in operation — i.e. if the lift locked up fully-extended you couldn’t move the bus.)
The muse statue is a plastic figurine from the middle-’60s, a character made famous by Ed “Rat-Fink” Roth.
It’s the driver of a supposed hot-rod. The right hand is curled around a shift-knob, and the left hand is clamped on a steering-wheel.
I was wearing Woody-Allen glasses at Houghton, so I fashioned glasses out of paper-clips, and painted them flat-black. I only wear glasses to drive any more.
44 noticed it once, and I had to explain: “That’s BobbaLouie. I have to take care of BobbaLouie; which is why I run.”
After my stroke, my wife visited the hospital with BobbaLouie in tow.
“This is to remind you who you are,” she said.
The muse has been pretty productive lately.
I post to this here blog just about every day.
What happens is BobbaLouie observes something insane, and the muse takes over.
I’ve slung so many words together it’s almost automatic any more. Grammar and syntax I don’t worry about, unless the meaning is led astray.
Diddling with grammar and syntax just about destroyed what I wrote for City/East.
The mighty Mezz had a Writers’ Group I wasn’t part of, although I didn’t mind.
Marcy was the head of it, so one day a fellow-member visited Marcy’s cubicle to share exploits.
Marcy and I were side-by-side, so after eavesdropping a while, I finally said: “I don’t know what you guys are talking about; but when it comes to writing, I’ve found the thing to do is just pick up your shovel and start shoveling.”

“City/East Newspaper” was a small weekly Rochester newspaper I reported motorsports for in the middle-’70s.

“282-News” was a union-newsletter I did as a volunteer during my final year at Transit. It was very popular, and had immense powah. Local-282, Amalgamated Transit Union.

I had a stroke October 26, 1993.

I drove Transit-bus for 16&1/2 years: May 20, 1977 to October 26, 1993; the date of my stroke. Regional Transit Service of Rochester, New York. The “barns” were the garages where they stored the buses.

“44” (Agent-44) is my nephew Tom, the only son of my brother-in-Delaware. 44 recently graduated college.

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

“Marcy” was a co-employee at the mighty Mezz, and a co-conspirator. She left not too long ago, and went to Boston.

Passing the time..........

.....on the treadmill at the vaunted Canandaigua YMCA.
Last Wednesday (June 13, 2007) I found myself on a treadmill next to an obvious college-girl.
She was paging madly through one of those dreaded 8&1/2 by 11 college-physics workbooks, the kind that’s all schemetical-diagrams and problems to solve.
The Canandaigua YMCA has five treadmills lined up side-by-side, among at least 22 cardio-machines in the exercise-gym: six bicycles (two of which are recumbent), six ellipticals, one rowing-machine, and at least four stair-machines.
And that’s just the exercise-gym. There are three more treadmills and three ellipticals in a small separate cardio-room.
The treadmills are state-of-the-art; upgrades installed last fall (we joined last March). They monitor heart-rate — the treadmill at the Physical-Therapy gym didn’t.
All five treadmills face the main-drag out front, so you can monitor the goings-on outside.
Amazon-lady ambles by, fresh and sweaty from her daily run; snarling at passersby.
People walk by with dogs and baby-strollers, many dragging slowly on cigarettes.
A bemedaled vet roars by in his motorized wheelchair, tiny Old Glories flapping gallantly in the breeze. (“What that things needs is a 350-Chevy!”)
Gigantical pickups trailering 89 bazilyun tangled zero-turns cruise by, headed for a lawn.
Giant semis roll by, and dump-trucks on the Johnny-Brake (“illegal in 50 states”).
How anyone could glean anything from a hurriedly-flipped workbook I’ll never know. (Must be because I majored in History.)
She could just as well been reading Cosmo, a magazine frequently glanced at (and tossed onto the floor) on the cardio-machines.
I do 36 minutes — no reading whatsoever — just watch the frenzied parade out front.
Part of my entertainment is to see if traffic stops for pedestrians occupying crosswalks.
Canandaigua has instituted the new New York State law whereby motor-vehicles are supposed to stop for pedestrians in conflicting crosswalks.
There is a crosswalk across the main-drag right in front of the YMCA, so I get to watch from my treadmill to see if traffic observes the law.
That crosswalk is heavily marked, but doesn’t have the tiny yellow “Yield-to-Pedestrians” cones the other crosswalks have.
Pedestrians approach with great fear and angst, looking carefully before they set out.
Granny zooms by in her white Park-Avenue, utterly oblivious to all-and-sundry (“Gotta make Bingo”).
Angry Intimidators in gigantic black Hummers blast through, giving the finger to anyone in their way.
Sometimes traffic stops as pedestrians saunter gingerly across.
So far, I’ve seen no accidents, but that’s because the pedestrians are wary.

I first began to get back in shape at a Physical-Therapy gym in Canandaigua — about a year. They had quite a bit of cardio-equipment, but I got thrown out for inadvertently outing a patient. After which we joined the Canandaigua YMCA.

Amazon-lady.

A zero-turn (this is a picture of my Husky zero-turn [48-inch cut, 18 horsepower Briggs V-twin], although it’s small) is a riding-lawnmower with two separate hydrostatic transmissions, one for each drive-wheel. One tranny can be reversed, so that the thing can be spun on a dime. A zero-turn doesn’t have to be navigated all over the lawn — it’s cut/spin/cut/spin/cut/spin/cut/spin. Compared to a non-zero-turn it can cut mowing time in half: due to no navigating. Most mowing services have switched to zero-turns, and I have one myself: although it’s a “residential” mower, not “commercial;” which cost way too much. There is a learning-curve. I’ve taken it into the ditch once. It wasn’t easy to extract.

RE: “The Johnny-Brake......” Large trucks often have a way of converting the motor into an air-compressor, to help slow the truck dynamically (beside the wheel-brakes). Quite often towns prohibit the use of Johnny-Brakes.

$612.25

The Keed.

AF-S VR zoom-Nikkor f/4.5-5.6 70-300 with hood.

Yesterday (Thursday, June 14, 2007; Flag Day — and you can can be sure our flag was out; as it is almost every day), in concert with a trip to mighty Hahn-Graphic, the place I bought the D100, and 40 years ago the mighty Pentax SpotMatic, and a slew of lenses, that I used so many years until the D100 retired it all, I bought a new telephoto zoom lens, an AF-S VR zoom-Nikkor f/4.5-5.6 70-300 (pictured).
Hahn-Graphic is no longer what it was 40 years ago — in fact, probably not the same owners. They have moved to an old Rochester fire-house, and become part of the funky artsy-craftsy establishment. —And of course, photography has come way beyond what it was 40 years ago — ‘pyooters and digital-photography have made it much more accessible.
40 years ago Hahn-Graphic was a tiny adjunct to Hahn Automotive — the effort of the owner of Hahn-Automotive’s son. Hahn-Automotive was just a small Rochester auto-repair shop.
And 40 years ago, Hahn-Graphic wasn’t the place the serious photographers went to. That was LeBeau-Photo; a place that has since tanked. My enlarger and all my photo-supplies (chemicals, bulk-film, printing-paper — I used to roll film myself, from 100-foot rolls) were from LeBeau. I also bought stuff at the Rochester-Institute-of-Technology bookstore, including a second Pentax camera-body — a black-body.
The reason I went to Hahn yesterday was because the D100 wasn’t shooting and it looked like it was going to have to go to Nikon-repair.
I had called Hahn, but apparently wasn’t talking to the right person.
So I dragged-butt all the way to Hahn — over an hour trip.
But as soon as I walked in the door, somebody yelled “That’s because you don’t have a lens in it!” (Well, of course not. I had taken the lens out to send the body to Nikon. The camera had not been working with a lens in it.)
The camera’s display was throwing up a message the phone-person thought might be an error-code; the message was r06.
Correct-person then said r06 was the number of image-spaces left in the camera’s buffer: where images are stored before they go on the flash-card — like if you’re shooting motor-drive. Trip the camera quickly and it goes from r06 to r05 to r04, and so on.
So we purloined a lens from stock and installed that, and the camera worked.
“No sense sending it to Nikon to find nothing’s wrong. Take it home and reinstall your lens. If it still doesn’t work, bring it back. That r06 is not an error-code.”
I also was instructed to lock my lens at its lowest exposure-setting; otherwise the auto-exposure won’t work, nor will the camera.
They showed me how.
But my lens doesn’t have any such things. I can’t reset or lock it.
I reinstalled the lens and the sucker works.
Who knows. I was inclined to think something got bumped, but if so who knows what.
“Before I go,” I said; “what I currently have will only do up to 85; which ain’t much telephoto. For years I have been interested in getting a bigger telephoto, and here I am at your store.” (“Toss another steak on the grill, Martha.”)
It’s probably the onliest additional lens I’ll ever buy for the D100. The lens I have is zoom 24-85 — wide-angle to slight telephoto — and I shoot mostly at 24.
Any wider than that, the wide-angle distortion gets noticeable.
The image-size on the D100 is slightly more than a 35mm film-camera, so a 24mm lens on the D100 is about equivalent to a 35mm wide-angle on a 35mm film camera — maybe a little wider.
I had a 28, and even a 21, for the Pentax, but generally I went no wider than 35 — 28 indoors.
I also had five telephotos for the Pentax: an 85, a 105, a 135, a 200, and a 300.
Back then zoom-technology wasn’t what it is now. Zoom-telephotos back then rendered a compromised image. Nowadays zoom performance is equal to my old single focal-lengths.
In fact, I got a normal focal-length zoom years ago for the Pentax.
When introduced, the normal lens for a Pentax, a 50, opened clear up to 1.2; which is extreme.
At 1.2 depth-of-field is about zilch; and the tighter you go the depth-of-field expands (hello, bluster-boy), so f16 or f22 was preferable.
My father’s Hawkeye went clear down to f64 — almost a pinhole. Of course, at that setting you had to offset the tiny f-stop with slow speed (or faster film) to get enough exposure; the Hawkeye went up to only 1/125th.
The fact the new lens is 70-300 means I don’t have to buy a slew of lenses. —Plus my Pentax 300 was a cannon.
But I would imagine a small camera-bag of some sort is in my future. My old camera-bag was too specific to the Pentaxes. (It’s big, and had a styrofoam-insert for all the lenses.)
Plus I should probably replace my fabulous Marchioni-tripod, which was unfinished aluminum and a work-of-art. It’s become kind of wonky; stable but hard to work. (Again; “toss another steak on the grill, Martha.”)
My old rifle-stock should be reusable.

“The D100” is my Nikon D100 digital camera.

“Rochester-Institute-of-Technology” (RIT) is a local college that specialized in photography. I took a photography-course there.

“Toss another steak on the grill, Martha” is what I always say to my loud-mouthed macho brother-in-Boston, referring to the time he walked into Monty’s Harley-Davidson emporium and ordered his GeezerGlide. “Here comes another one of those guys with the stars in his eyes, hot to prop up his manliness by pretending he’s a Hells Angel. Toss another steak on the grill, Martha.”

RE: “The tighter you go the depth-of-field expands (hello, bluster-boy)” refers to the fact I once asked my macho brother-in-Boston (bluster-boy) how one expands depth-of-field; and this is the answer: by tightening f-stop. He had no idea whatsoever, but loudly claims to be all-knowing in photography.

shopping-trip

Yesterday (Wednesday, June 13, 2007) I patronized mighty Weggers after working-out at the vaunted Canandaigua YMCA.
It was my usual Wednesday shopping-trip to purchase milk, bananas and bagged spinach — bagged spinach because it’s better than the brown seaweed Birds-Eye packs.
So altogether I had five items in my cutesy minicart; so I wheeled into the Express-Lane: “seven items or less.”
......Little knowing that a giant sun-burned REPUBLICAN matron was ahead of me with at least 50 items in her cart.
Slowly Big Momma unloaded her giant cache onto the belt, while bloated, corpulent daughter, hair dyed extravagantly red, watched approvingly. (Mother was angry daughter wasn’t helping......)
Big Momma was well-endowed — obviously been dipping heavily into the Arby’s Pig-Out menu.
Her flowing heavily-dyed auburn hair was rolled up into a beehive, and she had mirrored sunglasses. With a short skirt and deep decolletage she was extravagantly sexy at 200+ pounds and well over 50 years.
I waited patiently as the checkout girl slowly processed her huge order; boredly checking out the supermarket tabloids: “Angelina preggers at 83 pounds;” “Hollywood marriages crumble;” “Britney dates rehab-counselor;” “Oprah hits 200 pounds.”
It was the biggest seven items I’d ever seen; it totaled 183 smackaroos-plus.
Naturally, Big Momma was slowly writing a check.
Presented, the bank refused it: “insufficient-funds.” (Apparently Weggers accesses the bank-balance.)
Angry, Big Momma whipped out her credit-card, and inadvertently dropped it on the floor.
Angry mumbling as the lowly clerk picked it up and handed it back to her.
Wham! Now it’s the bank’s problem. “Insufficient-funds” is nothing compared to the immense powah of a credit-card. And ya don’t have to pay that if ya don’t want.
Just raise your debt-limit.
Declare bankruptcy and buy a Mercedes; it’s the REPUBLICAN way.

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

RE: “The Arby’s Pig-Out menu.....” My loud-mouthed blowhard brother-in-Boston suggests I’m eating the wrong foods; that like him I should be eating from the Arby’s Pig-Out menu. He weighs at least 350 pounds. (Mountain-Dew by the 55-gallon drum; entire bags of salty Cheetos or chips.)

Philadelphia-accent

So here I am yesterday (Monday, June 11, 2007) casually treading up the long sidewalk adjacent to the Canandaigua YMCA basketball gymnasium, or natatorium — whatever.
The entrance is toward the front — the parking-lots, gym, natatorium, etc. are in the back. (And I park in a small shopping-plaza parking-lot far away.)
I realized I was gonna call Linda regarding the fact I had not taken out an orange.
So I stopped, unholstered my cellphone, called up the home-number from memory, and sent the call.
Linda answered — she had not left for the post-office yet.
“I don’t think I took out an orange,” I said.
End of call.
“Them things are the devil’s handiwork,” an older women said, passing me on the sidewalk, pointing to my cellphone.
Well, perhaps I was older than her; I’ve found that people often underestimate how old I actually am. (CUE BLUSTER-KING).
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “It frees me from the landline network. I couldn't have made that call without it.”
“Oh, somebody from Philadelphia,” the woman said.
“Is my accent that strong?” I said. “I’ve lived up here in Western New York 45 years. I thought it was almost gone.”
“Yes, strong enough,” she said. “I didn’t actually live in Philly. Allentown.”
“Well, I’m not actually from Philly either; actually south-Jersey,” I said. “But everyone in south-Jersey has the Philadelphia accent.”
“I also have found that the Philadelphia accent goes all the way across Pennsylvania,” I said. “I had a bus-passenger from Pittsburgh, and she had the Philadelphia accent.”
Once I was in the Perkins next to the mighty Daze Inn in Altoony, and a waitress walked up and went through her spiel: (“I’ll be your server; blah-blah-blah......”)
“Oh, say that all again,” I said. “I haven’t heard anyone talk like that in years.”

“Linda” is my wife. Unlike me she is semi-retired. She works part-time at the West Bloomfield post-office — as a relief postmaster.

My loudmouthed macho brother-in-Boston (“the almighty Bluster-King”) excoriates me because I happen to be older than him — by 13 years.

“Daze Inn in Altoony” is the old Days Inn in Altoona, Pennsylvania, the motel we usually stay in when visiting Horseshoe Curve, the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to. That Days Inn is now a Holiday-Inn Express. There is a Perkins restaurant next door.

6/11/07

—A beautiful day for a Poker-Run:
Yesterday (Sunday, June 10, 2007) was a beautiful day for a Poker-Run.
Don’t know as there actually was a Poker-Run, since the Legion-Hall up the street was not processing motorbikes. —Usually the Legion-Hall is a checkpoint on a Poker-Run.
But so far 89 bazilyun blatting GeezerGlides have roared past, most with very little muffling (“Loud pipes save lives”).
Some are clearly not Harleys; mere metric wanna-bees.
And try as they might, the Japs have yet to make a metric-cruiser sound like a GeezerGlide; that is, generate the God-awful, infernal racket a Harley makes.
About two months ago I overheard a conversation in the Canandaigua YMCA locker-room, where some wiry little guy was telling about pulling his gigantical Harley next to some four-wheeler at a traffic-light.
The four-wheeler driver proceeded to power down his window, and began loudly excoriating the Harley-guy.
So Harley-guy twisted his throttle and roared loudly off into the distance, leaving four-wheeler in his dust.
And that’s how it is, chillen. Them metric-cruisers may make gobs more horsepower than a GeezerGlide, but they don’t make the God-awful, infernal racket.
The way to make a statement is with a GeezerGlide

—Helmet-law:
Saturday-night (June 9, 2007) the local TV-news covered an ABATE (American Bikers Aimed Toward Education) rally in Rochester; and they mentioned helmet-use is optional.
Well, that’s news to me (proving yet again that I am utterly clueless).
As far as I ever knew, helmet-use in New York state is required — or at least was.
Yesterday (Sunday, June 10, 2007) as I proceeded to mighty Weggers, I was passed by a biker without a helmet — blatting GeezerGlide of course.
Maybe they actually got the law changed — it was ABATE’s mantra for eons.
Supposedly the rally was to educate automobile-drivers about the presence of motorbikes. Apparently some dude just got killed by some four-wheeler pulling out in front of him.
All I ever worried about was that New York State not make helmet-use illegal. Required helmet-use is stupid. Riders should have a choice — just like required seatbelt use is stupid. (BIG MOTHER ALERT!) So much for freedom! (Citizens are showing their disdain of ridiculous laws: the anti-cellphone law is universally disobeyed, as is the headlight/wipers law, and even the seatbelt law. People are so flaunting the speed-limits the cops only ticket for excessive speed — like 10 mph over the limit.)

—Power-wash:
Yesterday morning (Sunday, June 10, 2007), our painter-guy arrived to power-wash the house before staining. He arrived about 8 a.m. — while we were at the so-called elitist country-club. He had called the day before, and I said we might be at the park. He said it didn’t matter as long as there was a garden-hose outside (and a spigot).
He was already power-washing the house when we pulled back in.
He had apparently arrived in a giant F150, which of course makes him small-time, since it ain’t a Chevrolet.
And his power-washer was only a small Honda (“I can still see that oily, black pillar of smoke TOWERING above that ship”), which obviously makes him small-time since he wasn’t pumping concrete into the stratosphere.
He claimed his power-washer generated 1,000 psi — I kinda doubt it, although maybe so; obviously I’m utterly clueless having majored in History (LIBERIAL-ARTS ALERT!)
When I worked for Mahz-n-Wawdzzz we had a gigantical Schramm air-compressor that delivered 650 cubic-feet per minute. It had an 8-71 V8 bus-diesel, and was an all-powerful monster.
That thing would push four six-bag sandblasters with two-inch rubber-hose outlets — that’s one-inch inside diameter.
It was probably getting 150+ psi for air — you couldn’t bend the hose to cut off the flow; it was too strong.
But then water is different than air. Maybe that puny Honda could actually generate 1,000 psi; but it seems to me, dreaded Liberial-Arts major that I am, you’d need a fire-truck feeding off a hydrant to get 1,000 psi.
WHATEVER: the spray from the spray-wand looked about twice as strong as the nozzle on my garden-hose. I can’t see a 3/4-inch spigot delivering enough water to get 1,000 psi.

—Ker-lunk; ker-lunk, ker-lunk, ker-lunk:
Yesterday morning a tremendous commotion began emanating from the laundryroom: ker-lunk; ker-lunk, ker-lunk, ker-lunk.
Linda was outside, unaware of the gathering disaster, so I had to run to the laundryroom, where I found our fantabulous valentine had already jumped five inches rearward, and was heaving at least six inches with each revolution.
Linda had attempted to wash both the bed-quilt and the infamous Chessie afghan, and waterlogged the afghan was much heavier.
The afghan was on one side of the machine, and the machine was trying to spin it.
Seems the aged Maytag, which this valentine replaced, would quit if things were out-of-kilter.
But not the valentine. It was gonna spin that sucker even if it had to take out the drywall.
I lifted the lid to stop it and redistributed, but ker-lunk; ker-lunk, ker-lunk, ker-lunk.
I redistributed again, but again ker-lunk; ker-lunk, ker-lunk, ker-lunk.
I gave up. It looked like all would have to be hung outside.
Linda came in, redistributed, but again: ker-lunk; ker-lunk, ker-lunk, ker-lunk.
She redistributed yet again, but this time it spun; no ker-lunk.

—Valero:
That’s Valero, guys; not Valerio, or that horrible piece of music by Maurice Ravel that he hated....... (“are we at the end yet?”) and Bo Derek loves.
A gas-station on Route 15A between Honeoye Falls and Rush is our first Valero. It used to be an accessory to an automobile mechanic shop (a Shamrock — and I guess they’re related), but apparently the gas-station has changed hands.
It used to sell Diamond-Shamrock — i.e. it wasn’t an oil-company outlet (unless you wanna consider Diamond-Shamrock an oil-company outlet).
But now it’s under new management; i.e. independent of the automobile mechanic shop.
And the new management made it a Valero-station.
I would have had no idea whatsoever what Valero was; were it not that my brother works for Valero (I think).
Valero is not a major player in our area (nor was Diamond-Shamrock) — in fact, it’s the first Valero station I’ve ever seen up here — previously the onliest Diamond-Shamrock in our area.

—611:
Today is June 11, 6/11; the significance of which was posited by my sister in Fort Lauderdale as related to the 9/11 disaster.
Well, okay; but to me 611 is the number of the greatest railroad steam-locomotive I have ever seen: Norfolk & Western J #611.
No doubt this will elicit a torrent of fevered and tiresome blustering from West Bridgewater, that Nickel Plate #765 is a better engine, and I prefer it over over 611; it looks more like a steam-engine, and has a much better whistle.
But 611 would pull 765 off the set. It has more boiler and firebox, plus it’s all roller-bearings throughout.

RE: “GeezerGlide” equals any large Harley-Davidson motorcycle. My loudmouthed brother-in-Boston owns a very laid-back Harley-Davidson ElectraGlide cruiser-bike, and since he’s 50, we call it his GeezerGlide.

RE: “Proving yet again that I am utterly clueless” refers to my loudmouthed brother-in-Boston’s fevered assertion I have absolutely no clue whatsoever about anything.

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

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

RE: “in a giant F150, which of course makes him small-time, since it ain’t a Chevrolet.” An F150 is a Ford; my loudmouthed brother-in-Boston is a Chevy-man. “Smalltime” was his putdown of anyone other than himself.

RE: “since he wasn’t pumping concrete into the stratosphere.....” refers to the fact my loudmouthed brother-in-Boston had his garage-slab contractor pump the concrete over his house to the slab-location, so he could take a picture, thus proving his grand superiority in all matters.

“Mahz-n-Wawdzzz” (Myers & Watters) was the painting-contractor I worked for during college — we painted high steel; usually in oil-refineries. “Mahz-n-Wawdzzz” because that was the way our Greek supervisor pronounced it.

“Liberial” is how my loudmouthed brother-in-Boston insists “Liberal” is spelled.

RE: “our fantabulous valentine....” is the Kenmore washer/dryer set we purchased around Valentine’s-Day of last year; to replace our aging Maytag washer/dryer set. The washer was leaking slightly, and wouldn’t fully empty.

“Chessie afghan” is our Chesapeake & Ohio Railroad afghan — it has a print of the C&O mascot during the ‘40s; an abandoned cat named “Chessie” found on a passenger-train

My brother-in-Delaware works for the Valero refinery in Delaware where my father once worked, although at that time it was Flying-A.

My loudmouthed brother-in-Boston lives in West Bridgewater, which is south of Boston.

“Norfolk & Western #611” and “Nickel Plate #765” (both railroad steam-locomotives) still exist. “Norfolk & Western #611” ran for a while, but was recently retired. It was owned and operated by Norfolk Southern Railroad, a merger of Norfolk & Western and Southern railroads. “Nickel Plate #765” was recently reconditioned, and still runs (historic excursions, fan-trips, whatever) and is owned and operated by the Fort Wayne Historical Society. Nickel Plate Railroad no longer exists. I have ridden behind both. 765 is a Lima-built SuperPower Berkshire: 2-8-4 (many other railroads had engines similar to the NKP Berk; many built by Lima). The J-series (4-8-4), of which 611 is the only remaining example, was N&W’s premier passenger-engine. It was built by the railroad in Roanoke, VA.

For your viewing enjoyment........

The Keed.

For your viewing enjoyment........

Much to the dismay of the 93-year-old nosy neighbor (soon to be 94), the gigantical red tractor (pictured) — as in tractor-trailer — has reappeared in the driveway of the house next to his.
At first the tractor was being parked in the grass, but it left deep ruts that had to be filled in.
The bellyaching began as soon as the tractor appeared: “What are they running; a half-way house?”
“That truck shouldn’t be there; I’m gonna call the zoning-officer.”
“And they got stuff stacked up against my fence; and that fence is four feet on their property.”
It’s like listening to Rodney Dangerfield: “I called a suicide-prevention hotline and got put on hold. —And then they tried to convince me to go through with it!”
“I used to cut the road-shoulders with a team-of-horses.”
“And we did a better job than them tractor-guys.”

weather-radar

The mighty MAC.

A squall-line is approaching.

My weather-radar is deceptive.
I get my weather-radar from My-Cast, an Internet weather-site recommended by the Webmaster at the mighty Mezz.
It’s the site he uses.
I suppose My-Cast is like 89-bazilyun other weather-radar sites available, but you can personalize it to a specific location — I suppose you can others too.
I never have been able to get the exact geodesic coordinates for our house (yet anyway), so I eyeballed on their map.
Crank “West Bloomfield” on their site, and the crosshairs appear south of 5&20 — which makes sense since most of West Bloomfield is south of 5&20, yet we live north. Crank Canandaigua into their site and the crosshairs appear in Canandaigua Lake (????????).
I had to relocate our “home” crosshairs north of 5&20, and the Canandaigua crosshairs onto dry land where the mighty Mezz was. —Coordinates would be more precise.
Ultimate precision of crosshairs location ain’t that important, especially when I’m looking at a 170-mile picture (the picture is at 490 miles).
I can go tighter, but A) the radar depiction gets jaggy, and B) you can’t see what’s coming — it’s cropped out.
Who knows how My-Cast makes money — what I’m using is free.
My-Cast has a paid service to put the radar on your cellphone, but I would be interested only if it were putting on the radar for where you’re standing. It’s putting on the radar for your crosshair locations. (I.e. I’d have to set up the location for where I’m standing.)
So PASS!
I have a bunch of crosshair locations in My-Cast; Elz, Houghton College, Kinzua Bridge, the mighty Curve, even wacko-Jacko. Bill too, and MayZ.
Last Tuesday morning (June 5, 2007) the weather-radar indicated a shower was approaching — a strident green plume — and would probably hit while walking the dog at the so-called elitist country-club.
So we stayed home.
It never really did rain.
The weather-radar indicated the shower was passing right over our heads, but it was apparently evaporating.
I also have learned the green plumes aren’t serious. The downpours are yellow or red.
That afternoon I fired up the weather-radar again, and it was a completely dry scan, so I got the zero-turn out.
It was cloudy and cold and windy, but I got quite a bit done before it started to rain.
It wasn’t raining that hard, so I kept mowing; but as I finished it was raining hard. —Linda had to stop (she was mowing the backyard with our small walk-behind mower).
So much for the weather-radar.
I fired it up again, and putting everything in motion (an hour and 10 minutes), a small green plume appeared over our house during the dry scan. It never approached; just appeared.
My 93-year-old nosy neighbor just laughs. His alternative to My-Cast and these “infernal computers” is to stand outside, wet his finger, hold it up in the air to determine the wind-direction, and then look into the wind to see what’s coming.

RE: “Webmaster at the mighty Mezz”.......... “The mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper where I once worked. It had a web-site administered by its Webmaster. I did the Messenger web-site for about a year until I retired — did the sites for other weekly newspapers the Messenger owned before that.

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

“Elz” (Elizabeth, Betty) is my sister in Fort Lauderdale, “Hufton” (Houghton College) is the college I graduated from in 1966, “Kinzua Bridge” is a huge abandoned railroad viaduct across the Kinzua Creek valley in northwest Pennsylvania, once the largest railroad-bridge in the world, now partially collapsed by a tornado (2003), “the mighty Curve” is Horseshoe Curve, by far the BEST railfan spot I’ve ever been to, “Jack” is my macho blowhard brother-in-Boston, “Bill” is my brother in northern Delaware, and MayZ is my Aunt-May in southern New Jersey.

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

“The zero-turn” is our large riding lawnmower — it’s a zero-turn.

“Linda” is my wife.

giant water-dish

The Keed.

Killian laps from his giant water-dish.

Yesterday (Wednesday, June 6, 2007) we bought our dog Killian a giant water-dish at the mighty Canandaigua Wal*Mart.
This was coupled to a trip to the Canandaigua YMCA and Weggers.
Wal*Mart, “your source for cheap plastic crap,” is of course the greatest store in the entire known universe (so I’m told).
To Wal*Mart it’s a kiddie-pool, but our dogs have always considered it a giant water-dish.
We have another water-dish in the basement about twice as big with three-four times the capacity.
Sabrina liked to stand in it, but Killian was timid.
So we got Killian a smaller water-dish.
The larger water-dish was also from Wal*Mart, although an earlier iteration thereof — the tiny and cramped Canandaigua Wal*Mart of old, with crowded aisles and angry associates.
The new Canandaigua Wal*Mart, opened a few months ago, is much better, and the giant water-dishes were outside.
This meant not having to use the dreaded main-entrance and risk getting bussed by a foul-smelling geezer.
A trip to Wal*Mart is essentially another errand. It’s about a mile further out past Weggers — three additional stop-lights (each with dedicated left-turn lanes).
Then there is negotiating the contorted parking-lot trying to avoid Granny, and the glowering-intimidators in their hard-charging full-size Chevy pickups liberally festooned with “Support-Our-Troops” ribbons, anti gun-control stickers, and Calvin peeing onto the Ford oval.
A trip to Wal*Mart is at least 20-30 minutes, which is additional time the dog is alone abandoned in the house listening to Dubya-Hex-Hex-Hi (we hope not opera).
And a trip to Wal*Mart is also perusal of other aisles — like Wal*Mart might have the Impatiens flowers my wife is looking for, except they looked rather putrid, and cost as much as the Flower-Farm (“Nobody beats Wal*Mart”).
We also could have looked for an outdoor-thermometer to replace the 20-some year old one we had that fell apart, but that would have meant the dreaded main-entrance (STINKING GEEZER ALERT), then finding same, and then perhaps checkout.
Add 10-15 minutes.
The outdoor-thermometer gets bunted to mighty Lowes, where I also need to purchase a special outdoor light-bulb.

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

My macho, loud-mouthed brother-in-Boston claims Wal*Mart is “the greatest store in the entire known universe;” and that I am reprehensible for not enthusiastically patronizing it. No matter that doing so would add 20-30 minutes to errands.

“Sabrina” was our other Irish-Setter rescue-dog beside Killian. She died at 11+ last March — cancer.

“Foul-smelling geezer” equals the Wal*Mart greeter.

“Calvin” is the nasty cartoon-character from the Calvin and Hobbs Cartoon.

“Dubya-Hex-Hex-Hi” (WXXI) is the classical-music FM radio-station out of Rochester we listen to.

“The Flower-Farm” in nearby Honeoye Falls is where my wife usually buys plants.

“Mighty Lowes” is right next to Wal*Mart — a Lowes.

6/6/07

—T-gurl........
Yesterday afternoon (Tuesday, June 5, 2007), while walking our dog Killian up street to Michael Prouty Park, I met T-gurl (real name Tanya Olsen, previously Tanya Kellogg).
T-gurl goes back to my first days at the mighty Mezz, where she worked as a graphical-artist.
Like most people at the mighty Mezz, she did anything and everything, like me; the driving need to get the newspaper out with a shoestring staff.
But she essentially worked in Commercial-Printing, an adjunct to the mighty Mezz, whereby most of the infrastructure was put to work doing printing-jobs other than the newspaper.
T-gurl was a really nice person, who like Marcy and my wife laughed at all my jokes, and considered me an extraordinary person.
She wasn’t some buxom floozy from the Broken-Spoke Saloon desperate for a thrill-ride on a blatting GeezerGlide.
A number of things stand out:
-1) Once T-gurl noted the Jeep was first made by American Motors.
“IT WAS NOT!” I shrieked. “It was first made by Willys.”
Any normal person would have taken affront (I’ve had it happen at the Daze Inn in Altoony).
But not T-gurl; she thought my response was extremely funny, and laughed.
-2) was T-gurl’s detailing of the mighty Kinzua Viaduct.
The Kinzua Viaduct is a huge steel railroad-bridge in northwest Pennsylvania to leap the vast Kinzua Creek valley, a more direct route to get Pennsylvania coal to Buffalo. It was financed, and operated, by the Erie Railroad. (The steel viaduct, built in 1900, was number-two; number-one [1883] was spindly iron.)
I’d heard of it, but never seen it. It’s 2,053 feet long and 301.5 feet high, slightly higher than the length of a football-field. (In 2003 it was partially collapsed by a tornado. —I’ve seen both before-and-after.)
She had seen it. It was in the Allegheny mountains where she and her boyfriend (soon to be husband) four-wheeled.
“It’s over 3,000 feet high,” she exclaimed.
“Whoa!” I said. “Are you sure you don’t mean 300? The Royal Gorge Bridge in Colorado is slightly over 1,000; and we got to 1,200 in the Tri-Pacer.”
“I’ll bring the brochure,” she said.
It was 300. Again, she laughed.
-3) When the Sass ran away, T-gurl scanned a photograph I had and made a Photoshop poster I could put up on phonepoles. (We never did find the Sass.)
-4) One afternoon it was snowing fiercely, and I returned to the mighty Mezz after getting stuck (and unstuck) in the outskirts of Canandaigua. I was driving the so-called soccer-mom minivan (our Astrovan), and I looked like the abominable snowman — covered in ice.
At that time T-gurl was driving to the mighty Mezz in a full-size Ford Bronco that her boyfriend owned.
Together we set out on a rural road toward West Bloomfield, not 5&20 — me leading.
The Astrovan caught a snowbank and went off the road; getting itself stuck in a snowpile along the verge.
T-gurl stopped, and together we continued to West Bloomfield, abandoning the Astrovan. (It was royally stuck; AAA had to dislodge it the next afternoon.)
By the time we arrived in West Bloomfield, the snow was over two feet deep in our driveway, so T-gurl hung around to make sure I got in our house (she didn’t pull into the driveway — I wasn’t sure she could get out).
Our dog (Tracy) was outside — our kennel has doghouses (Tracy was in hers).
T-gurl continued at the Messenger a few more years — I think even past the construction of the new building. Our initials are carved in the concrete for the front-door landing to the receptionist-area.
T-gurl eventually married her boyfriend, and soon got pregnant.
Our Executive-Veep, a REPUBLICAN, refused to let her work part-time or job-share. (He was eventually fired.)
And so T-gurl drifted into the filmy past; she apparently began doing graphical-artist work on her own from the rural back-country house she and her boyfriend had built.
Once-in-a-while she’d visit the mighty Mezz — usually with son number-one along, and then with number-two also.
Last night, at Michael Prouty Park, number-one was doing lacrosse in some youth-league; the one with the bellowing coach that’s always imploring all his players to “poke-poke-poke” (I hope this isn’t her husband).
She has since also had daughter number-one; that makes three kids.

—Light wars........
Apparently the bedroom of our 93-year-old nosy neighbor (soon to be 94 — I’ll have to change my macro), across the street, faces our house.
In fact, apparently his bed faces our house, so that he can monitor our nocturnal activities from his bed.
Linda visited yesterday and the 93-year-old nosy neighbor asked he what was going on the night before.
“Ulp; Bob turned the light out over his computer; they must be going to bed,” he said.
“Now what? He turned the garage-light on, and then turned it off.”
So last night I gave him a light-show: flicked the garage-light on-and-off about six times over five seconds.
Then I circled around and came back to the garage; flicked the light on-and-off about 10 times over five seconds.
Then I circled around again and flicked the light over my ‘pyooter on-and-off about 10 times over five seconds.
“Call the sheriff; them neighbors are taunting me, and I’m old enough to have been their milkman. Why I cut the road-shoulders with a team of horses! We didn’t have no tractors then.”

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

“Marcy” worked at the mighty Mezz during the later years of my employment. She quit and moved to near Boston.

RE: “Some buxom floozy from the Broken-Spoke Saloon desperate for a thrill-ride on a blatting GeezerGlide....” refers to two girls my macho brother-from-Boston picked up in the Broken-Spoke Saloon at a massive Harley-Davidson get-together at the motorcycle races in Loudon, New Hampshire. My brother has a very laid-back Harley, and since he’s 50, we call it the GeezerGlide. It’s an ElectraGlide.

“Daze Inn in Altoony” is the old Days Inn in Altoona, Pennsylvania, the motel we usually stay in when visiting Horseshoe Curve, the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to. That Days Inn is now a Holiday-Inn Express.

The first airplane I ever flew in, in 1956, was a Piper “Tri-Pacer;” a single-engine private-plane.

“The Sass” (Sassy) was an Irish-Setter we had long ago. We had “Tracy” (another Irish-Setter) at the same time. Sass ran away in a thunderstorm; she could climb our five-foot chainlink fence.

My macho brother-in-Boston, in a turgid putdown, called our 1993 Chevrolet Astrovan a “soccer-mom minivan.” That Astrovan has since been traded for a Toyota Sienna minivan.

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

RE: “the construction of the new building......” The Messenger newspaper constructed a new building during my tenure.

“The 93-year-old nosy neighbor” is an Appleworks-5 macro. I will have to rewrite it when he turns 94.

Mano-a-mano

Down-and-dirty with AppleWorks-6........
If you read this here blog, you are probably aware that the other night (Saturday, June 2, 2007) I installed AppleWorks-6 on my rig, and immediately found that Apple, in its infinite wisdom, had apparently dumped the all-important macro-function (“No macros,”) the main reason I used AppleWorks.
Yesterday (Monday, June 4, 2007) I had the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to inadvertently open an AppleWorks-file (created in AppleWorks-5, my earlier macro version) from its desktop-folder.
It fired up AppleWorks-6, and converted to an AppleWorks-6 file.
Well that’s just wonderful: there goes my macro-function.
And not only that, I couldn’t save edits. Apparently it was write-protected; or at least save-protected.
Down-and-dirty time!
I still have AppleWorks-5, so fired it up, and it wouldn’t open the file that had been converted to AW-6.
So I copy/pasted the AW-6 file-contents into a new AppleWorks-5 document.
I guess we can’t open an AW file from the desktop — AppleWorks-5 only. Desktop opens with AppleWorks-6, which leaves me unable to alterate.
AppleWorks-6 has also apparently taken over two all-important 9.2-desktop files; my href-tag and my picture-box tag (both HTML tags); both created in AW-5.
But those were text-only files, so it doesn’t matter.

“My rig” is my ‘pyooter.

“The awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity” is a macro.

“9.2” is my old operating-system: MAC OS9.2. Both OS-X and 9.2 are on this rig, and 9.2 operates as a subsidiary of OS-X.

Monthly calendar report

B29 over San Francisco Bay.

-The June entry of my Ghosts World War II warbirds calendar is a relief after looking at two Japanese fighter-planes the entire month of May.
They were not actual Mitsubishi Zeros, but all Japanese fighter-planes were called Zeros, I suppose because of the red sunburst Japanese insignia — a zero-like circle.
The June entry is a Boeing B29 Superfortress (pictured), the bomber that replaced the B17.
The B29 was a major step forward from the B17 and B24, both of which to me are turkeys.
No wonder so many got shot out of the sky; they’re so slow they’re flying targets.
Probably the main technical advance on the B29 was the engines, which are turbocompounded and much more powerful.
Exhaust gases are directed through turbines that help spin the propeller.
Eventually just turbines would spin the propeller: turbo-props.
Turbocompounded engines also found their way into the Lockheed Constellation airliner. I bet the Douglas DC7 is turbocompounded too, but I’m not sure.
B29s delivered the two atomic bombs to Japan; the first one was delivered by the Enola Gay to Hiroshima.
The Enola Gay still exists; it’s at the Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center, part of the Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum, near Washington Dulles International Airport.
The B29 had much greater range than the B17; which made it possible to bomb mainland Japan from bases far away in the Pacific Ocean.
I guess a few B29s are still flying — this is one.
The only one I’ve seen recently was flying out of Fort Lauderdale Airport in the ‘80s. It may have been this airplane.

T1 (left) and K4 (behind).

-The June entry of my All-Pennsy color calendar is a Pennsy T1 doubleheaded with a K4 (pictured).
The T1 was supposed to replace the K4, but it didn’t.
It was too hard to work on (complicated) and slippery.
Pennsy never fielded a 4-8-4 in the ‘30s like most railroads.
They were throwing too much money into electrification.
Then too Pennsy’s solution to the New York Central Hudson was to doublehead two K4s.
This is expensive, requiring a crew for each engine, but Pennsy could afford it.
So Pennsy never developed a 4-8-4 comparable to the other great 4-8-4s.
The T1 was Pennsy’s attempt at a 4-8-4 in the late ‘40s.
The eight drivers are separated into two groups of four, making a 4-4-4-4 according to the Whyte System.
But even though there are four cylinders, the front drivers aren’t articulated. All eight are on a single unhinged frame — the equivalent of a 4-8-4 except with four cylinders.
But they’re 80-inch drivers, and liked to slip on start-up; usually just one set.
The K4 was 80-inch drivers too; but it would dig in on startup.
So the T1 was a bear to drive, and got relegated to cross-country running on the Fort Wayne Division, where it excelled, to Chicago.
There it could express the immense amount of horsepower it could generate compared to a K4.
The original T1 was styled by Raymond Loewy; a sharknose more extreme than what’s pictured here. But Pennsy compromised Loewy’s original design in the interest of maintenance ease. Almost all T1s are the compromised design seen here. Only one or two were the Loewy design.
The T1 was also very smoky.

-The June entry of my Norfolk-Southern calendar is the Pennsy-summit picture at Gallitzin I posted before; and my sports-car calendar is a picture of a rather ugly early Porsche race-car.

The “Pennsy” is the Pennsylvania Railroad; once the largest railroad in the nation.

The “K4” was a Pacific: 4-6-2. They got a lot of use on the Pennsylvania Railroad.

“The New York Central Hudson” (New York Central Railroad), was a phenomenal 4-6-4 steam-locomotive. NYC was Pennsy’s main competitor.

“The Whyte System” is a system of designating railroad steam-locomotives by wheel-set.

RE: “articulated......” Most steam-locomotives with two driver-sets (with four cylinders) had the front set hinged (“articulated”), so the engine could negotiate tight curvature: e.g. switches.

“Raymond Loewy” was an industrial-designer that worked for the Pennsylvania Railroad. He also designed many other things, including the icons for the U.S. Postal-Service, Hoover vacuum-cleaners, Lucky-Strike cigarettes, and Shell gasoline. He also designed a dispenser for Coca-Cola, and the greatest automotive styling exercise ever brought to market: the 1953 Studebaker Starlight coupe.

Pennsy’s summit of the Allegheny Mountains is tunnels at Gallitzin, actually under nearby Tunnelhill.

No macros........

Good grief!
Apple, in its infinite wisdom, has apparently decided to dump the macro-function from AppleWorks.
I can just imagine all the noisy blustering this will prompt from West Bridgewater.
About how MAC is inferior, and therefore I am inferior: the same tiresomely-boring broken-record we’ve had to endure ever since I had the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to dispute his ERRONEOUS recollection of where we got off I-80.
I installed an AppleWorks-6 app last night (Saturday, June 2, 2007), planning to trash AppleWorks-5, a classic-app. AppleWorks-6 is an OS-X app; classic-apps fire up and run under OS9.2 in OS-X.
But then I noticed it didn’t grab my macros — in fact, AppleWorks-6 didn’t have a macro-function at all.
Linda did some Internet research and found users complaining about the lack of the macro-function in AppleWorks-6. The suggestion is to write Apple-scrips to equal the macros.
I dragged AppleWorks-5 right back outta the trash.
Them there macros are 95% of why I use AppleWorks.
My vaunted SuperMacro, that saved my employ at the mighty Mezz, was an AppleWorks macro.
I wrote other AppleWorks macros that cleaned up copy for our web-site. I had to install these macros on numerous machines, including the webmaster.
The idea was to install OS-X apps to replace all my old classic-apps.
I was expecting to have one classic-app left: my hoary old Quicken-2003. But that runs under OS-X, which means I was expecting to have no classic-apps.
But we’re hangin’ onto AppleWorks-5, if AppleWorks-6 doesn’t have the macro-function.
AppleWorks-5 will be my onliest classic-app. (Unless Word and Excel lob similar shortcomings.........)

RE: “ERRONEOUS recollection of where we got off I-80.........” refers to a dispute about where my macho loud-mouthed brother-from-Boston, and I, got off Interstate-80 in Pennsylvania on a motorbike trip to Horseshoe Curve in Altoona about 2000 or so. We took the route I have used 89 bazilyun times — he was leading, but I told him where to get off. Even though he had never made the trip before, he loudly insists we got off one exit earlier, and that my memory is toast. I ain’t backin’ down. He’s just plain WRONG!

“Linda” is my wife.

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

“Our web-site” (and its webmaster) are the Messenger-Post web-site, which I did for a while before retiring.

Three separate browsers

Three separate browsers (four, if you include Apple’s “Safari,” which I’ve never used; and came with OS-X) to grab the picture above.
My primary browser is FireFox — the home-page in it is the sign-in to my MyWay e-mail account. I also have this blog among the bookmarks, including all the blog-management sites.
I also have the FlagOut sign-in page among the bookmarks, and a Google folder (of Google sites).
FireFox can access fours sites at once — four tabs.
So what I usually do is fire up FireFox and do four tabs: e-mail, FlagOut, blog, and Google.
But I can’t get FireFox to download pictures. An e-mail had the photo attached, but I couldn’t grab it.
Which is why I have Netscape 7.2; it will let me download pictures (right-click).
Which is why the FlagOut sign-in is my home-page in Netscape. Sometimes I have to download pictures from FlagOut (so I can manipulate with Photoshop).
But Netscape currently doesn’t have the MyWay sign-in. That’s Internet-Explorer 5.2, which came with OS-X and was my portal to my e-mail account.
But Internet-Explorer 5.2 is the most unstable browser I have ever driven. It’s locked up every use, requiring me to force-quit, and sometimes I can’t even do that.
So here I am dickering my e-mail with FireFox, and of course it won’t let me download the picture.
So I fired up my e-mail with Internet-Explorer but that wouldn’t let me download either.
(Actually, FireFox let me download it, but it was ASCII-text; gibberish — not a picture.)
So then I transferred my e-mail to Netscape, and that let me download the picture.
I’ve had it with Internet-Explorer.
I keep it because I haven’t yet tried the Canandaigua National Bank site with FireFox.
I originally had it with Netscape; but the techno-mavens at CNB threw in some monkey-wrench that made it wonky.
Yet it still worked right with Internet-Explorer.
The other reason why is it seems to be the required way to order things online.

A “MyWay e-mail account” is like a Yahoo-account, accessible from any ‘pyooter anywhere in the universe.

“FlagOut” is our family’s web-site.

“Canandaigua National Bank” is where our checking-account is. We do online bill-pay with it.