It’s a rare day......

........I can return directly home from the Canandaigua YMCA.
Yesterday (Monday, July 29, 2008) I had to run two errands after the YMCA; one to Victor Power Equipment, and the second to the Funky Food Market.
Involved is a long trip down the Thruway — from Canandaigua to Henrietta — although not Victor Power Equipment.
My point is a long journey was required; unlike coupling the YMCA with the Canandaigua Weggers.
The Funky Food Market is in the Rochester Regional Market in Henrietta, built long ago as an outlet for area marketers.
Businesses set up outlets in Regional Market, but it has since become more of an office-park, or outlet-mall.
The Regional Market was hard by the Rochester Bypass, so railroad sidings were built into it.
The rail sidings have been removed, since they were hardly used, and Regional Market could use the space.
Regional Market is a long, wide north-south strip; attached stores in a long building on the east side, a wide paved area in the center, wider than a football-field is long, and then stores on the west.
The stores on the west side are more separate; stores with an end fronting the wide paved center area, with wide paved driveways between stores 90 degrees from the center paved area.
Funky Food Market is one of these stores.
The center paved area is marked as a street on the west side, parking in the center, and the east half can be used for driving or unloading semis parked at loading-docks.
So here I am quietly navigating north on the west-most street area, leaving the Funky Food Market.
I notice a powder-blue metallic Toyota Matrix crossing the semi area to the east — she appears to be headed for the street area.
She crosses the parking area; no signal, no look, not even a glance in her mirror.
Merges blindly in front of me, requiring I slam on my brakes.
Too bad I wasn’t 20 yards farther ahead; she coulda merged right into me, and then be loudly incensed I was even there.
Sorry chillen; no Dubya-sticker. (Sure drove like a Dubya-supporter.)

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

“Victor Power Equipment” is in the nearby town of Victor.

New York State “Thruway;” Interstate-90.

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

“The Rochester Bypass” is the old West Shore railroad-line south of the city — it bypasses Rochester; doesn’t go through. The “West Shore” was a line financed by the Pennsylvania Railroad built to compete directly with the New York Central Railroad in New York state in the late 1800s. It was merged with NYC at the behest of J.P. Morgan, who got all the warring parties together on his yacht in Long Island Sound. The NYC got the West Shore for no longer financing the proposed South Pennsylvania Railroad (which was graded but never built, including tunnels, which were incorporated into the Pennsylvania Turnpike). It was called the “West Shore” because it went up the west shore of the Hudson River. It’s been largely abandoned west of the Hudson, although the segment around Rochester became a bypass around Rochester.

“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.

KER-CHUNK!

KER-CHUNK!
Linda has hit a rock in the garden with our small Honda rotary push-mower.
I used the small Honda rotary push-mower last fall so Linda wouldn’t hafta mow during her cancer-gig. But now she is back to mowing with it.
So I flopped the mower to see if the blade had been damaged. Not too bad; just tiny chunks out of the cutting edges.
So I figured I’d replace it. After all, the blade is original, and probably over five years old.
That’s a trip to the mower-store: Brodner Equipment in deepest, darkest Henrietta, where we bought it; or alternatively, Victor Power Equipment, a Honda mower dealer nearby.
So I went to Victor Power Equipment — it’s closer, so I’d rather go there.
Victor Power Equipment is in Ontario County, which has the lowest sales-tax (7.125%) in the Rochester area.
Brodner is in Monroe County: 8.5%.
So from now on it’s Victor Power Equipment — they’re nearer anyway.
Funny; Ontario County (where we live) has the lowest taxes in the area, but the only growth.
Adjacent counties have higher taxes, yet are deflating.
The only problem is REPUBLICAN leaders ending the Ontario County farm economy. —Strip-malls and developments galore. And businesses that make a killing on tax-incentives (at taxpayer expense), and then tank. REPUBLICANS lining the pockets of their fat-cat golf-partners.

“Linda” is my wife of 40+ years. She had lymphatic cancer. It was treatable — she survived.

“Deepest, darkest Henrietta” is a rather effusive and obnoxious suburb south of Rochester.

Finally

Finally. (Photo by the so-called “old guy” with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.)

Billie, the onliest child of our recently deceased 94-year-old nosy neighbor, has finally figured it out.
Billie is living across-the street in the home of our deceased 94-year-old nosy neighbor; and was living there when Vern died.
The 94-year-old nosy neighbor had a large selection of lawn-tractors, one of which was his so-called “Cadillac,” the John Deere pictured.
Vern had farmed out the lawn-mowing, since he was no longer able to mow.
The farm-out continued after Vern died — Billie is in his 70s.
Billie has sold everything but the John Deere, which he was using as a car.
Up the road Billie would charge with that mower; assuming it wasn’t raining. At full revs it might do 20 mph.
“That thing licensed?” we’d ask.
“Gotta mow my cousin’s yard up the street.”
“So why can’tcha mow your own yard?” we’d ask.
“Kenny owes me a mow to finish up payin’ for that Cub Cadet he bought from me. Ya shoulda bought that thing yourself!” he said.
“Wha-fo? I like my zero-turn,” I said.
“For when ya gotta turn that thing over to Leif’s.”
Yesterday afternoon (Saturday, July 26, 2008) he was mowing his yard with the John Deere.
“I see ya finally figured that thing out,” I said.
“What’s your problem?” he said.
“It’s a mower, not a car.”
“How come you’re doin’ this?” I asked.
“Because Kenny never showed up. I decided to mow it myself.”
“Took me long enough to figure out how to set this mowing-height,” he said. “I was turnin’ this knob, but ya gotta also depress this foot-pedal.”
“Yes; Vern and I went around-and-around about that,” I noted. “I had to give him a lesson; and I don’t think he ever got it. —Shoulda majored in History.”

Now if we could just get the almighty Bluster-King to figure out what his mower is for, like Billie.
First he’s gotta find it; in which case he might hafta ask Lynn-Ellen.
And mowing his lawn probably will mean less NASCAR (maybe even less GeezerGlide).
And perhaps fewer Cheetos, although I’m sure his mower-dealer could fashion a Cheeto-holder.

RE: “‘Old guy’ with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.......” —My macho, blowhard brother-from-Boston, who is 13 years younger than me, calls me “the old guy” as a put-down (I also am the oldest). I also am loudly excoriated by all my siblings for preferring a professional camera (like the Nikon D100) instead of a point-and-shoot. This is because I long ago sold photos to nationally published magazines.

“Vern” was our “94-year-old nosy neighbor.”

“Kenny” is the guy that was mowing Vern’s yard. He also mows our front bank.

Our “zero-turn” is our 48-inch Husqvarna riding-mower; “zero-turn” because it’s a special design with separate drives to each drive-wheel, so it can be spun on a dime. “Zero-turns” are becoming the norm, because they cut mowing time in half compared to a lawn-tractor, which has to be set up for each mowing-pass.

“Leif’s” is my mower-man; Leif’s Sales & Service, Ltd. —A Husky outlet; my zero-turn is a Husqvarna — bought from them. It was apparently assembled by the Friday-crew; and has been returned to Leif’s at least four times for warranty service. (But I’m on my third mowing-season with it.)

My all-knowing, blowhard brother-in-Boston (the “almighty Bluster-King”), who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, excoriates me for majoring in History in college, whereas he trained in engineering, making him VASTLY superior. “Lynn-Ellen” is his wife, and does all the mowing so he can watch NASCAR, and ride his GeezerGlide.

“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 many Harley Davidson riders, is over 50 (51). So I call it his GeezerGlide.

My all-knowing, blowhard brother-in-Boston is a Cheeto-junkie. During a visit last summer he bought a large bag of Cheetos®, offered me some, and I ate none. He glommed the entire bag.

RE: “A Cheeto-holder......” —Vern’s John Deere lawn-tractor had a single cup-holder.

Tim Belknap

As of Monday, July 21, 2008, the all-powerful Tim Belknap (“Bell-NAP”) of the mighty Mezz is retired like me.

Following is an exchange of e-mails related to this:
-Me: “So now I suppose you’re a lazy, no-good, no-account reprehensible slacker like me.
Soon you’ll be freeloadin’ on Social Security.
I imagine there was retirement party of some sort, but I didn’t hear about it.”
-Belknap: “Yep, retired. No party as such, but a nice cake and lunch out by the lake with two former and one present reporter. Social Security won’t be for three more years and I won’t be freeloading, since I’ve been paying in since age 16.
For that matter, I’m not fully retired, since I have a woodpile to work on and the desire to convert my headline writing skills to songwriting skills. Plus, I wanna perform, so thus need to practice on my harmonica and dulcimer, which is fun.
When are you coming out to check out my license plate collection and collection of old train post cards — both evidence that you don’t need big collections to have world-class collections. Any day is probably good for me except Thursdays and Saturdays (ministry) and Sunday mornings.
If you come down Gulick from the north, gravel isn’t bad, but be real careful if you come up from Naples. We’ve had nothing but rain and driveways are washing down. All the drunken Harley boys are taking County Road 33. I got your ‘Arriverderci Mario’ sticker waiting for you. Give a call first: 374-8945. I only read e-mails every so often.”
-Me: “I suppose Gulick Road is now a mess — but maybe not. All I know is there was a wash across the road to Boughton Park, and that road ain’t Gulick. We got large hail the other night.
I suppose my motorbike days are winding down, but I still feel I can do it — if the roads ain’t too bad. Gulick would be okay, but your driveway rather intimidating. I can’t afford mistakes; like dropping it.
374-8945 is now in my cellphone. (My landline phone probably has a memory book, but I’ve lost track of the manual. Cellphone is a slam-dunk. —I hardly use the landline anyway. We tried to dump it, but Linda’s mother had a fit: ‘I ain’t callin’ no cellphone!’)”

“All-powerful” because once my all-knowing, blowhard brother-in-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, loudly declared Belknap was the sole and onliest reason the Messenger was so reprehensible.
As if Belknap was the only editor, which he wasn’t.
He was one of about six, and toward the bottom of the pecking-order.
Belknap was “City Editor,” essentially responsible for local reporting — Queenie was another.
He would assign stories to reporters, edit them, and occasionally write stuff.
The newspaper also reflected his tastes; more a car-rag, since like me Belknap was a car-guy.
Of particular interest to me is his statement that future collection of Social Security ain’t a handout like my brother noisily claims.
Like me, Belknap’s paid into Social Security since he was a teenager.
My first payments to Social Security were from Sandy Hill, which I first worked at in 1959. I was 15.
So my collecting Social Security is hardly a handout. I’ve paid into it all my life. Leave it to some bloated Git-R-Dun NASCAR-dad to steal my pay-ins, and thereby line his pockets.
What a shame the younger pups still working are paying into Social Security, so I, and Belknap (and Elz), can collect.
It ain’t fair to a bloated fat-cat, who feels entitled to stop the payouts to retirees, and thereby steal them.
But then, of course, when their time comes (as it will), they’ll want payback.
—Yet still complain about me, and Belknap (us older guys), collecting Social Security like them.
Social Security is an “entitlement;” much like thinking you’re entitled to Cheetos because you’re superior.
But in the case of Social Security the entitlement is payout, not posturing.

The “mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over two years ago. Best job I ever had.

“Arriverderci Mario” is a racing sticker celebrating the retirement of Mario Andretti, who I humblee submit was the greatest racecar driver of all time. He had undeniable talent; and I saw it myself.

RE: “Ministry.......” —Belknap is a Jehovah’s Witness, and knocks on doors.

“Boughton (‘BOW-tin’) Park” is where I run and we walk our dog. It’s near our house.

“Linda” is my wife of 40+ years.

“Gulick Road” (“GOO-lick”), the road Belknap lives on, is way out in the Bristol Hills. No cable; Belknap has Dish Internet. Gulick has driveway washouts, with gravel across the road.

“Queenie” was the nickname I had for Lenore Friend, the “queen of the newsroom” at the Messenger. She was excellent.

“Sandy Hill” is the religious boys camp in northeastern Maryland I worked at 1959-‘61.

“Some bloated Git-R-Dun NASCAR-dad” is my brother-in-Boston.

“Elz” is my sister Betty (Elizabeth). She’s second after me, 62 (I’m the oldest at 64). She lives in Fort Lauderdale, Fla. She recently started collecting Social Security.

My brother-in-Boston is a Cheeto-junkie, and feels I should be likewise. He purchased a bag of Cheetos during a visit a while ago, offered me some, and I ate nothing. Glommed the whole bag himself.

Air show

Air show flyer. (Epson 10000XL.)

This weekend is the annual air show at Greater Rochester International Airport.
No doubt if I had grandchildren I’d be taking them to it, much as my grandfather did with me.
But instead I have this dog, who is much more into going to the park than any air show.
The greatest air show I ever attended is that in 1956 at the Philadelphia Airport.
It was fabulous — it had everything.
I still can picture the flyovers of our house of -1) an F102 Delta Dagger; -2) a Chance-Vought Navy Cutlass flying-wing fighter; and -3) a chevron of eight humming B36s.
We were still in Erlton at that time, and I remember riding my bicycle in Camden County Park along Cooper Crick (and the kerreck south Jersey pronunciation is “crick,” not “creek”), and I was on aeronautical overload. B25s and B29s were flying over, as well as a B47, and even a B52.
Once an F100 Super Sabre shrieked over.
My greatest memories of that air show are:
—A) Walking out on the apron, and coming upon a displayed B47. I grabbed the wingtip, and started waving it up-and-down.
“Bobby, stop that!” my father yelled. “You’ll break the plane!”
“Don’t worry sir,” the sentry said. “He obviously knows how flexible that wing is. He’s probably seen it done.”
—B) Checking out the HUGE C99 transport. The C99 was a transport version of the B36. It had the B36 wing, with its six pusher motors, but no jet engines.
Only one was built.
—C) Checking out the USS Ticonderoga, a naval aircraft-carrier that had docked next to the airport in the Delaware River.
A crewman told us about lassoing a ‘49 Plymouth convertible to the steam-catapult, and lobbing it a quarter-mile into the ocean.
It woulda whomped Big Daddy Don Garlitz.
The Rochester Air Show will have the Thunderbirds, and I think I heard them blasting in.
An F16 fighter-plane sounds much different than the ordinary jet airliner.
Much crisper and more powerful.
A few years ago I was patronizing the Funky Food Market, which is near the airport, and the Blue Angels were practicing for the air show.
It was extraordinary.
A Blue Angel would fly over and rip the surroundings.
People were standing on car-bumpers to watch.
The Blue Angels fly the F/A-18 Hornet, another extraordinarily powerful fighter-plane.
And blindingly fast.
I also remember hitting the strawberry-patch once, which is south of the airport, and the Thunderbirds were practicing.
They were ripping the sky overhead.
But I checked the flyer.
No Lockheed Constellation.
I’ve always said “The next airshow I attend” (and I’ve attended many) “will have a Connie in it.”
No Connie, no grandkids; no go.

My computer scanner is an “Epson 10000XL.”

“Erlton” is the suburb in south Jersey we lived in before northern Delaware. Erlton is north of Haddonfield. Our family moved in 1957.

Aircraft-carriers use steam-powered catapults to launch airplanes off the flight-deck.

“Big Daddy Don Garlitz” is a famous drag-racer. He raced fuel dragsters, the fastest drag-racers. (Drag-racing is start-to-finish over a quarter-mile. “Fuel” is nitro-methane instead of gasoline; the stuff model-airplanes use.)

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

“The strawberry-patch” is Gro-Moore Farms in nearby Rush, where I hand-pick strawberries, which are only in season in late June.

The “Connie” is the Lockheed Constellation, a four-engine propeller airliner used in the late ‘40s and ‘50s. Prettiest airplane ever!

Mowing

Amazingly, I was able to mow the Back-40 Wednesday, July 23, 2008, with our dreaded zero-turn, of course, and despite the noisy blusterings of the almighty Bluster-King, no flowers were mowed, no trees scraped, and I kept it out of the ditch.
This is my third season with it, and despite my stroke I’ve gotten pretty proficient with it. I related to Linda a stroke can apparently be countered by the fact you were only using 10 percent of your brain in the first place, so what’s left can learn as much as you did before.
We have had downpours all week. Mowing the Back-40 was almost a week late.
The zero-turn stalled at least six times; although when it stalls is when the grass accumulated inside the deck falls. I’m cutting down to three inches (the suggested cutting-height) from a foot, and it does it with no trouble.
It’s just that a lot more grass accumulates inside the deck.
I also want to modify the chute, so it doesn’t accumulate. That way it would spray the stuff out like our Greenie.
My MyCast weather-radar indicated a window.
So immediately after breakfast I set about mowing.
The sky darkened to the west, but apparently that cell skirted north.
Then the sky cleared, so I mowed our paths with the Greenie.
The Greenie is only 38-inch cut; path-width. The zero-turn at 48 is too wide.
Shortly after putting everything away the skies opened.
The night before the skies opened too, a giant hail-storm at 2:30 a.m.

Punctured tomato. (Photo by the so-called “old guy” with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100 with flash.)

It’s getting like south Floridy around here any more.
The day starts clear but humid. Clouds fire up, turn into thunderstorms, then dump in the afternoon.
As the sun sets, storms wither.
Weather-radar only shows what’s currently happening. Clouds may start raining — and no matter what the Bluster-Boy claims, weather-radar can’t predict that; only display the after.
If a squall-line is marching toward me, there’s a pretty good chance I’ll get rained on by that squall-line.
And my weather-radar will show that coming.
But it can’t predict clouds suddenly opening.
2:30 a.m. suggests a squall-line. Individual cells die out after the sun sets.
The hail was pretty large, and made a mess of our garden.
Punctured tomatoes (see pik).

The “Back-40” is a large open field behind our house. We didn’t mow it at first, but it’s become like grass since we did.

Our “zero-turn” is our 48-inch Husqvarna riding-mower; “zero-turn” because it’s a special design with separate drives to each drive-wheel, so it can be spun on a dime. “Zero-turns” are becoming the norm, because they cut mowing time in half compared to a lawn-tractor, which has to be set up for each mowing-pass.

The “almighty Bluster-King” is my all-knowing, blowhard brother-in-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say. He loudly insists I am stupidly incapable of mastering a zero-turn lawnmower, which is hogwash.

I had a stroke October 26, 1993.

“Linda” is my wife of 40+ years.

Our “Greenie” is our small John Deere riding mower; 38 inch cut. “Greenie” because it’s green.

My weather-radar site on this computer is “MyCast.”

RE: “‘Old guy’ with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.......” —My macho, blowhard brother-from-Boston, who is 13 years younger than me, calls me “the old guy” as a put-down (I also am the oldest). I also am loudly excoriated by all my siblings for preferring a professional camera (like the Nikon D100) instead of a point-and-shoot. This is because I long ago sold photos to nationally published magazines.

RE: “Weather-radar only shows what’s currently happening......” —My all-knowing, blowhard brother-in-Boston loudly insists his weather-radar is better than mine, and can predict the future.

Gully-washers

(Ahem........)

It rained quite a bit Wednesday, July 23, 2008; enough that the local TV-news made a lotta hay out of it.
People were e-mailing pictures of flash-flooding willy-nilly to the station.
“Here we see a stopped Regional Transit bus,” the announcer shouted.
Well, the old bus-driver doesn’t think so.
Sure, the camera stopped the bus, but it also stopped the wake it’s causing.
Shortly after I started driving bus, I was driving out Lyell Ave. one night, and an intersection flooded.
Stalled across the intersection was poor José the Jamaican, his 40-foot Flxible Flyer flooded to the hubs.
Blocked everything! (Long as a ship!)
I washed right by.
In 16&1/2 years of bus-driving I discovered that a bus would go through anything.
One night I was driving in a blizzard through snow two feet deep.
By then we were on baldies — drag-slicks on the rear.
No matter, the old sucker kept goin’.
One time I plowed through a 20 foot snowdrift with an artic. Just aimed straight at it, and drove right through it. Blew snow all over.
Once I got an artic stuck in water about 18 inches deep under the Atlantic Ave. underpass.
As I recall, a pull-in detour was in effect because the old Main St. overpass over the railroad tracks instituted a weight-limit.
An artic weighed too much as a unit; although I doubt the wheel-loadings were as much as a regular 40-footer.
So the pull-in detour was Atlantic Ave., and then around the horn back to the barns.
The Atlantic Ave. underpass was long; crossed under at least 10 ladder-tracks of the Rochester yard.
The Atlantic Ave. underpass also drained poorly, so usually flooded.
The flooding was a foot deep when I started — nothing to a bus.
But it went to about two feet, enough to stall out the metallic beige Catalina hardtop in front of me.
So here I am at the exit of the Atlantic Ave. underpass with a stalled Pontiac in front of me. The lane is one lane wide, lined with steel bridge-abutments. I can’t back up; and I can’t wiggle around the Pontiac. All I could do was idle and hope it kept runnin’.
And run it did. Finally the Pontiac was towed out, and I continued on.
“Be glad your air-intakes were above water,” I was told. “If they had taken in water, you’d be in deep trouble. A bus-motor ain’t designed to pump water. It probably woulda blown the motor-casting.”
“Next time we get a gully-washer I ain’t tryin’ the Atlantic Ave. underpass.”

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 October 26, 1993 ended that.

“Lyell Ave.” is a main street on the west side of Rochester; also a bus-route.

A “Flxible Flyer” is what I called all our buses made by Flxible Coach. We had a large series of about 75 Flxible buses when I started.

An “artic” (“r-TIK”) was a two-section bus powered by one motor. The second section was a trailer connected to the first section by drawbar/bellows. It had a single driver.

RE: “Main St. overpass over the railroad tracks......” —Our bus-depot was on Main St. in Rochester. A railroad passed through the city; now CSX Transportation but then Conrail. (It’s the mainline of the old New York Central Railroad.) Main St. crossed over the tracks on an old bridge that has since been replaced — replaced before my stroke. The Rochester railroad-yard was east of there, and the Atlantic Ave. underpass tunneled under. “Ladder-tracks” are the many parallel yard-tracks, where freight-cars are stored and/or shifted.

Buses were stored at “the barns;” the bus-barns.

Incident at the misnamed YMCA Diner

The restaurant at Wye, Pa. (Photo by the so-called
“old guy” with Linda’s camera.)

It’s Tuesday morning, July 8, 2008.
We are in Altoony, carting Jack around in the Bathtub. Jack came on his GeezerGlide, but it was raining.
We managed to convince him to stay at Tunnel Inn, and even to join us at the infamous “spaghetti-joint,” Lena’s, “the best Italian restaurant in the Altoona area.”
We even managed to pay for Jack’s meal there (thereby avoiding a God-blessed Manhattan), despite a torrent of noisy grandstanding, and flashing his moldy credit-carts.
So now it was Jack’s turn.
We are required to patronize the misnamed YMCA Diner in Wye, Pa. (See picture.)
All to see the cook, a 300-pound hairy greaseball.
“That guy likes to eat,” Jack says.
Deference is the better part of valor.
“Turn here; no here. It’s over here, Bobby.”
Jack is loudly barking orders at me from the shotgun seat just like Mother-Dear used to do.
We finally enter the restaurant parking-lot, and I see a tight parking-spot hard by the door.
Jack loudly complains if he has to walk over 10 feet, so I arrow into it.
“Tight enough for ya?” Linda observes.
Not too long ago Jack was noisily excoriating me for not using tight parking-spots — called me a wuss.
So I inadvertently choose a tight spot, more to avoid his noisy complaints about walking too far, and he can’t even get out of the car.
I don’t ride him about that, because it’s the old curse of the Connor genes, combined with his liking to eat.
If I ate like him, and didn’t work out and run, I probably would look like him — and move ever-so-slowly like him too.
Even 44 is starting to get the dreaded Connor gut.
The curse of the Connor genes is a never-ending battle.

RE: “‘Old guy’.......” —My macho, blowhard brother-from-Boston, who is 13 years younger than me, calls me “the old guy” as a put-down (I also am the oldest).

“Linda” is my wife of 40+ years. I have a Nikon D100 camera, but didn’t have it along. So I had to use her Cannon PowerShot.

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

“Jack” is Jack Hughes, my loudmouthed macho brother-from-Boston. He noisily badmouths everything I do or say.

“The Bathtub” is our 2005 Toyota Sienna van; called that because it’s white and like sitting in a bathtub.

“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 many Harley Davidson riders, is over 50 (51). So I call it his GeezerGlide.

RE: “We even managed to pay for Jack’s meal there (thereby avoiding a God-blessed Manhattan), despite a torrent of noisy grandstanding, and flashing his moldy credit-cards. —1) “We even managed to pay for Jack’s meal there......” —Usually Jack feels he should spring for all restaurant meals; a form of put-down. —2) “Thereby avoiding a God-blessed Manhattan......” —My brother is a tub-thumping Conservative Christian (in the mold of Jerry Falwell), which to us (children of the ‘50s) means against alcohol. But that may no longer be; Jack bought a Manhattan for my aunt. (I don’t like alcohol, and what it does. I never drink.) —3) “Moldy credit-cards......” My brother noisily insists I’m a reprehensible skinflint, so my wallet is moldy, dusty, and insect-ridden; having hardly ever been opened. (My brother is more often a skinflint.)

RE: “Misnamed YMCA Diner in Wye, Pa.” —1) The restaurant is actually “Inlow’s (see picture). —2) “YMCA Diner in Wye, Pa.” is a mis-apprehension of the “Wye Motel,” in Wye, Pa. My brother had stayed at Wye Motel a year ago, and used the Inlow’s Restaurant. He called it the “Wye Diner;” so I renamed everything Wye as the YMCA. Put-down games. (“If you wanna use the YMCA, I can’t stop ya.”)

“Mother-Dear” is my mother, a commander of sorts.

RE: “Over 10 feet.....” —This is partially excusable, since my brother has steel pins in his ankles. But it’s also scoring points.

RE: “Curse of the Connor genes......” —All Connors tend to get fat, particularly in the belly. “Connor” is my mother’s maiden name. My brother is grossly overweight. He offsets it by being a blowhard.

“44” (“Agent-44”) is my brother-in-Delaware’s onliest son Tom. He recently graduated college as a computer-engineer, so is about 22-23. (My brother-in-Delaware, Bill, is after Jack. [Bill is almost 50.])

“Brraaaaaaaaaapp-aaa.....”

Last Friday afternoon (July 18, 2008), as I exited the mighty Canandaigua Tops supermarket, suddenly “Brraaaaaaaaaapp-aaa.....” from far, far away; the sound of an enraged unmuffled Harley being wound through the gears.
So I started looking toward State Route 332, the main north-south four-lane through Canandaigua, which at this point is about 200 yards from Tops.
He’s probably leaving the next traffic-light north, which is Airport Road.
Tops is in the northwest corner of 332 and North Road, also a traffic-light.
The raging Harley sounds like it’s approaching that intersection.
Sure enough, the light is red, so raging Harley is being downshifted through every gear: “Blam! Bda-bda-bda;” “Blam! Bda-bda-bda;” “Blam! Bda-bda-bda;” “Blam! Bda-bda-bda.”
Raging Harley rumbles quietly to a stop.
I notice it has ape-hangers, at least three feet above the steering-stem.
How can you goose such a thing and hang on?
I ride motorbike myself, and wouldn’t want any such thing.
A typical sport-bike (like mine) sits you in such a way steering inputs are natural and work.
Ape-hangers may look cool, but where is the leverage?
My first bike, the Norton, had a sit-up-and-beg seat, which had me hanging on for dear life on expressways.
I seemed to be witnessing a presentation of sorts; a noisy expression against all social constraints.
—Like the way to rebel is make incredible racket with a giant motorized fart.
Too bad he couldn’t do that at the North Road light. He must have had traffic in front of him.
When the light changed he idled quietly into the city.

My first motorcycle was a 1975 850 Norton.

RE: “kozenec”

I open my MyWay e-mail today (Tuesday, July 22, 2008).
A video is in my bulk-mail; something about “Bush Tours America To Survey Damage Caused By His Disastrous Presidency.”
I click on the link, and it wants me to install some video-player I’ve never heard of.
“Wait a minute!” I think to myself. “This was in my bulk-mail, from an unknown sender.
I ain’t installin’ any such thing.”
Curiouser and curiouser. My “FoxFire” demands I install the video-player — a message from “kozenec.”
NOTHING DOING! It ain’t even giving me the option of getting out. Click to install, or pull the plug.
This is beginning to look like some hidden executable that will eat my hard-drive.
“For heaven sake,” I say, as I pull the plug.
I have to pull the plug (back to square-one) to delete the e-mail.

“FoxFire” is the Internet-browser FireFox. My siblings think it’s deplorable, so they mispronounce it as “FoxFire.” They all noisily insist I should be using Microsoft Internet-Explorer, the one they use. But I’ve found that Internet-Explorer is inferior to FireFox.

RE: “Pull the plug......” —Is just that; cut the power to the computer to disable it, so I can reboot.

Z-Man

When I first arrived at the mighty Mezz, there was a guy working there we all called “Z-Man;” Richard Zitrin (“ZIT-trin”).
Zitrin was a page editor — I think he put together the editorial page.
Like everyone I ever met at that newspaper, he had his feet squarely on the ground; so I thought the world of him.
Zitrin was Jewish; perhaps not very Jewish in his religion, but Jewish in his ancestry — i.e. ethnically Jewish.
He inadvertently taught me about tolerance.
One day I mentioned we had “jewed down” our building-contractor on our house project.
Z-Man didn’t say anything, but I could see my remark hurt.
Thinking as highly of Z-Man as I did, I decided that wasn’t happening again.

Arrived at Messenger newspaper probably in 1995, first as an unpaid intern after my stroke October 26, 1993. Hired in January of 1996.

The “mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over two years ago. Best job I ever had — worked there almost 10 years.

RE: “House project.....” —In 1989 we had built our house in West Bloomfield we now live in. It was built by a contractor.

“Ya drive like a senior-citizen!”

So here I am quietly navigating the Bathtub toward Frank Baker Park in Canandaigua, a park our new dog has never been to yet.
Baker Park, a big park, is nearly completely fenced, so we used to take Killian there and let him run loose.
But there were gaps and small openings in the fence, so letting Killian run loose was nerve-wracking — although he, of course, was thrilled.
Killian would find the flaws and leave the park if he saw a critter to chase.
Irish-Setters are very independent; especially Killian.
Our trip was combined with the usual surfeit of errands, one of which was to dump mail in the drive-by mailboxes at the Bloomfield Post Office.
So here at am in the center of Bloomfield stopped east on 5&20 about to turn left (north) onto South Ave.
It’s the main intersection in town; and a motorbike is approaching west at the speed-limit, which is 35.
He’s about 200 yards away.
I’ve been in his shoes, but can imagine the following exchange with the Bluster-Boy.
“What are ya waiting for?” he bellows.
“So I don’t scare that motorbiker to death.”
“Ya drive like a senior-citizen! Why can’tcha just cut the guy off?”
“Because I been in his shoes. I don’t want to scare him to death. Waiting five more seconds ain’t that much.”
“I would.”
Yeah. This is the same guy that had me broadsiding a semi, and then would noisily claim the semi was at fault for being there.

The “Bathtub” is our 2005 Toyota Sienna van; called that because it’s white and like sitting in a bathtub.

“Killian” was our previous dog; a rescue Irish-Setter. He had lymphatic cancer, and didn’t survive. —He was over 10; we never knew his birthdate.

“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.

The “Bluster-Boy” is my all-knowing, blowhard brother-in-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say.

RE: “Ya drive like a senior-citizen!” —I’m 64.

RE: “This is the same guy that had me broadsiding a semi.......” —In Altoona, Pennsylvania he was riding shotgun, and wanted me to change lanes across a single white dividing-line into a passing semi. “I would,” he said.

MG-B

(Epson 10000 XL and the mighty MAC.)

We are in receipt of a Jockey catalog, the cover of which is pictured above.
This is probably because I’ve ordered from Jockey before; but online.
“What kind of car is that?” my wife asks.
“An MG-B,” I snap.
“What kind of challenge is that?” I think to myself.
“Pshaw!” I say; “A slam-dunk.”
The MG-B wasn’t very sophisticated; not nearly as much as the Triumph TR4-A, which had independent rear suspension.
But it handled extremely well. The Triumph, by contrast, was horrible.
“Good handling” mainly means predictability; the idea that a car can be slid without surprising you — and the fact that both ends slide at essentially the same rate; not one more than the other.
The owner of Best Motors in Rochester was rallying a TR6, an attractive six-cylinder version of the TR4-A. And he was considering swapping out its independent rear suspension for the old solid-axle rear-end of the TR4.
The six also wasn’t as gutsy as the old four in the TR4 and previously the TR3. The same motor was also in the TR4-A, except that had independent rear suspension; probably inspired by Jaguar and Corvette.
But the independent rear suspension in the Triumph was a disaster; essentially just a gimmick.
A well-located solid-axle rear-end could still handle pretty well. The MG-B was a sterling example.
It lacked independent rear suspension, but handled much better than the Triumph.
I remember “Group 44” was racing Triumphs in the SCCA. Their driver was Bob Tullius.
They raced the TR6, but to make it handle it was re-engineered into more a go-kart.
So little springing was in the rear-end, it was like a solid-axle.
Triumph’s first six was the TR250, and I had one; essentially a TR4-A, but with a six-cylinder motor.
It was awful; one of the worst cars we’ve ever had. The frame, flexible as an aluminum ladder, was slung under the rear-axle half-shafts, like the old TR3, which slung its frame under the rear solid-axle.
Hit a bump and what little compliance was there was the tires, or the rubber bump-stops. I bottomed it out many times.
My ‘72 Vega GT, the car I replaced the Triumph with, was much better. It’s rear-end was solid-axle, so it had a lot of momentum. It was well-located, but hit a bump set up hard in a corner, and the rear would jump and skitter. —But it was much better than the old TR250.
During the middle ‘70s, a young kid at my camera store was asking me which sportscar to buy. I was still driving my TR250.
“Buy an MG-B,” I told him. “They handle much better.”
My advice fell on deaf ears.
The MG-B wasn’t much of a looker; not as attractive as the Triumph GT6 or Spitfire, which is what he bought.
My wife’s girlfriend bought a Spitfire, and let me drive it.
My impression was it was so weak you had to wind the living daylights out of it to get anywhere.
The owner of Best Motors switched to rallying a Volvo two-door sedan, and now Best only sells Volvos. (My TR250 was from them, as was my wife’s girlfriend’s Spitfire.)
The Chevrolet Vega was probably the worst-engineered car General Motors ever sold.
Mine rusted to bits and disintegrated, but I still remember my first swoop onto an expressway on-ramp.
The Vega was unyielding. My TR250 would have twisted itself into a pretzel.

RE: “Epson 10000 XL and the mighty MAC........” —My scanner is an Epson 10000 XL; my computer is an Apple G4 Macintosh — utterly reprehensible and stupid to all my siblings, who loudly insist the Windoze PC platform is better.

RE: “What kind of challenge is that?” and “Pshaw! A slam-dunk.......” —My all-knowing, blowhard brother-in-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, loudly insists he’s more a car-guy than me, so I challenge him with cars to identify; which he frequently mucks up. Easy identifications are “slam-dunks.”

“SCCA” is Sports Car Club of America.

RE: “Rear-axle half-shafts........” —A car with independent rear suspension had its differential solidly mounted to the chassis, with “half-shafts” to each wheel. A solid-axle rear-end had each wheel connected by a solid axle with the differential in the center. Everything (including the differential) was sprung — a bump to one wheel effected the other. Plus the entire assembly was heavy, so had momentum. That momentum effected how well the suspension responded. The solid-axle rear-end (the “tractor-axle”) was a design that had been used since time immemorial. Recent cars have gone to independent rear suspension.

“Well-located” refers to locating the solid-axle rear-end with more than just the springs; usually a “Panhard-rod” — a separate rod that locates the axle. Springs are unstable by comparison. NASCAR still uses the solid rear-axle, but “well-located.” Indy-cars (and Formula One) use independent rear suspension.

Moxie

Yesterday morning (Friday, July 18, 2008), at the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym, I am quietly cranking away on the arm bicycle.
Right next to me are what I call the sand-trainers, the fabulous new exercise machines that mimic running in sand. There are only two.
The sand machines are sort of an elliptical, in that they require back-and-forth leg motion.
But they ain’t following a track, like a normal elliptical.
You can also use them as a step-machine if you want; that is, up-and-down vertical motion.
Or you can do what most do, which is what I do: back-and-forth combined with up-and-down.
You can vary the step resistance. I run it at about five; Amazon-Lady runs it at twelve or so.
Back-and-forth combined with up-and-down mimics running in sand.
There also are arm-levers connected to the foot-levers, allowing arm-swing to coordinate with leg motion, like running.
In my experience you can tug on the arm-levers to increase leg motion.
There also is a meter that indicates stride-length.
Up-and-down (the step-action) is nothing.
I try to keep it in jogging range, and mostly can.
Whatever; this trainer gets my heart-rate higher than anything else.
The target heart-rate for someone my age is 126 beats per minute. At first this machine was getting that, but now that I’ve used it some, I get 113-116.
An older gentleman mounts a sand-trainer: “Guess I gotta try this thing,” he says.
“Now what?” he says. He’s cranking it back-and-forth.
“Push ‘Quick-Start’ or ‘Program,’” an adjacent lady says.
“I do that, and it’s still going back-and-forth,” the old man says. “I can’t get it to do what you were doing.”
Around-and-around they went. “Try ‘Manual,’” the lady says.
But back-and-forth it still goes. “I can’t get this thing to do like everyone else.”
Finally, after about five minutes of diplomatically keeping my mouth shut: “Step up-and-down and it’ll do that,” I say. “It cycles the way ya tell it.”
Back-and-forth it continues. “What button do I push?”
“No buttons,” I say. “Step up-and-down and it’ll do that.”
“I give up,” he says. “Guess I gotta use something else. I never can figure out these new gizmos.”
“Worked for me!” the lady says.

It seems to me all in my family would have never given up that easily.
We’da kept pumping until we figured the sucker out.
That’s how I figured it out. Nobody showed me.

I could tell stories, perhaps my best example being about —1) Excel.
I don’t have a manual — I’ve had to figure it out by trial-and-error.
Excel has a chart-function, that automatically updates as you add to your spreadsheet.
I was using it to keep track of my running times. It would automatically update a chart displaying the ups-and-downs of my running-times.
So I decided to try the same for our car mileages, which I keep track of with each gas fill-up.
I set up a spreadsheet with -a) rows for both our two cars, and -b) each purchase would be a column.
Inadvertantly, each purchase column would be one or the other car; and I noticed my chart wasn’t doing connecting lines. All it was doing was single-point values for each gas-purchase per column.
My running-time chart connects all the point-values with lines — I can follow the ups-and-downs looking at the line.
So where are my lines on my mileage chart?
Then I made a trip to Altoona, Pennsylvania in our minivan, and that required two consecutive gas-purchases. That means side-by-side columns for the minivan-row in my mileage spreadsheet.
VIOLA; a line connected the two.
So I surmised the reason my mileage-chart lacked lines, was because it couldn’t chart across an empty cell.
Perhaps the way to get lines was to do separate spreadsheets for each car, so consecutive purchase-columns could be side-by-side.
Worked, of course.
The unmoxied person woulda thrown up their hands and given up. But not this kid.
WHOA! I got a line here. There must be a reason.
Cranka-cranka; smoke from ears. Trial-and-error. He surmises a solution and it works.

Next example: —2) Our swingset; which is a bear to assemble. It’s heavy, and twists beams out of alignment.
-a) It has a cushion-set that can be installed either rightly or upside-down. After assembling it wrongly at first, I ain’t doin’ that again. I’m markin’ the top.
-b) There’s gotta be some way of jiggin’ this thing so it doesn’t twist out of alignment. Lessee; jig everything with C-clamps and plywood, and perhaps it won’t be as troublesome next time.
A moxie-person does that. It’s called “guile-and-cunning.”

—3) My sister in south Floridy gets misled by a newspaper article into thinking all analog TVs will need conversion to successfully process the new digital signal after the transition next February.
Immediately begins a lot of weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth among her siblings about how supposedly this only effects TVs using the antenna signal, not those that get their feed from cable or a satellite-dish.
Instead of throwing up her hands, my sister dials up the cable-company, to see if all those in her condo-building need conversion. They all have cable-connections.
Am I the least bit surprised?
NO! Like me she figures things out.
That newspaper-article had led her astray.

—4) My all-knowing, blowhard brother-in-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, observes a stray roll of duct-tape in a water-filled nuclear reactor vessel. It can’t be in there; and has to be extracted.
He has two options: -1) empty the vessel, so he can extract the errant roll; or -2) fish the roll out.
Option-1 is of course very costly.
So what does he do here? Fish the roll out, or throw up his hands?
Cranka-cranka. Whirr...... Smoke from ears.
He fashions an extracting-hook, probably from a coat-hanger, installs some wadded-up duct-tape on the end, and fishes the errant roll out.
Hellooooooo. “Why thank ya, Mr. Hughes.”

—5) In 1993, my brother-from-Boston and I videotaped an excursion railroad steam-locomotive in West Virginia. I noted recently I wanted to put that video on You-Tube. My brother suggested his son could do it.
NOTHING DOING! The Keed wants to figure out how to do it himself. No cheap-shots.

It’s called “moxie,” chillen. Guile-and-cunning.
Some have it; that old guy at the Y didn’t.

I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym.

Amazon-Lady is a YMCA-employee. We call her that because she is extremely muscle-bound.

The trip to Altoona is about 250 miles. Our gas-tank was half-empty when I started — gas is cheaper in Pennsylvania. Altoona is the location of Horseshoe Curve, by far the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to. Horseshoe Curve is a national historic site. It was a trick used by the Pennsylvania Railroad to get over the Allegheny mountains without steep grades. Horseshoe Curve was opened in 1854, and is still in use. (I am a railfan, and have been since I was a child.)

“My sister in south Floridy” is my sister Betty (Elizabeth). She’s second after me, 62 (I’m the oldest at 64). She lives in Fort Lauderdale, Fla.

“My all-knowing, blowhard brother-in-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say,” is “Jack Hughes.”

No Dubya-stickers

—1) (This is weeks go, but it was worth writing up then, but I’ve forgotten it until now — not that memorable.)
We are returning from Buffalo with our new dog.
We are almost home, navigating Ontario St. southeast out of Honeoye Falls, Route 65, the road we live on, the road to our house.
A loud unmuffled GeezerGlide is ahead, slowing to make a right turn.
But no turnsignals. A classic scoot; devoid of anything that might detract from the macho image.
He extends his left arm, hand up to signal a right turn.
Well great! A biker willing to express himself to surrounding traffic; a class act. (In contrast to the usual sullen Sonny wannabees.)
I used to do that on the Ducati, even though it had turn-signals. I wanted everyone to know my intent.
The biker makes his right turn, and I fall in behind Grandpop in a faded dark-green Chrysler minivan.
The minivan slows, and suddenly arrows left into a driveway.
Totally unsignaled of course — and 65 is a main highway.
Sorry chillen; no Dubya-sticker.

—2) We are returning from the so-called elitist country-club.
We are on Baker Road, a rural back-country road between Ionia and Route 65.
Suddenly a shiny red stepside Colorado lurches to a stop where a driveway enters Baker Road.
I had tapped the brakes, because it looked like macho-dude was gonna cut in front of me.
But he stopped, thankfully. Probably already late to the Tastee-Freeze, and I was gonna make him five seconds later.
I pass and macho-dude suddenly blasts onto Baker Road behind me, spinning his unladen rear inside tire in the gravel and laying down a stripe.
The speedlimit on Baker is 40, and it’s double-yellow a long way, so I speed up to about 45.
But macho-dude is climbing all over my rear bumper, glowering angrily in my mirror.
Before 65, Baker flattens into a short straight section that can allow passing.
I hear a sudden roaring behind me, and macho-dude is suddenly passing, giving me the finger.
“I thought you were going faster than normally,” Linda observes.
That passing section is very short, so macho-dude suddenly cuts in front of me.
On his rear window, in front of the faded Confederate flag, is an upside-down decal. It says “If you can read this, turn me over.”

A “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.

A “GeezerGlide” is a laid-back cruiser motorcycle, usually made by Harley-Davidson, who makes a motorcycle known as the ElectraGlide. My all-knowing, blowhard brother-in-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, has a Harley-Davidson ElectraGlide Classic, which I call his “GeezerGlide.”

“Sonny” is Sonny Barger (“BAR-grrr”), the ultimate Hells Angel motorcyclist.

I long ago had a Ducati 900SS motorcycle; a motorcycle Ferrari — made in Italy.

“The so-called elitist country-club” is nearby Boughton (“BOW-tin”) Park, where I run and 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.

“Colorado” is the Chevrolet’s current small pickup-truck.

“Linda” is my wife of 40+ years.

Alumni

And so another quarterly meeting of the dreaded “Alumni,” retired members of Amalgamated Transit Union Local 282, my old bus-union at Regional Transit Service, drifts slowly into the filmy past.
Readers of this here blog, assuming there are actually any, will know that I also still attend the regular monthly business meeting of my bus-union, even though my employ at Transit ended long ago with my stroke.
As a retiree I am unable to vote on union business, so my attendance is little more than support for my union, which it needs considering how uninvolved and distant the membership is.
What few attend the regular monthly union meeting, and they are lucky to get a quorum, which is only 15, are mostly hires since I retired, so I only know a few.
My badge was 1763; I’ve seen badges as high as 2800.
About the only ones that recognize me are the Union officials, who go back before me.
The “Alumni” are people I worked with, so I know most.
There’s “W-D” Johnson and Lymus Blanding. W-D was the one who long ago convinced me to buy a van (our E250), and now I am on our third.
The meeting was held in a slightly dinghy restaurant across from the Greater Rochester International Airport, directly under the final approach to the north-south runway, the runway in use north-to-south.
We were given an anteroom, but every once in a while a jet would fly over about 100 feet above the building on final approach, trembling everything.
Memories of contract-negotiations years ago, held at the Airport Holiday Inn, directly under the final approach to the east-west runway, which could accommodate jets back then, but now they don’t use it often (except for general aviation), since it’s short.
Those negotiations were dreadfully boring. The only interesting action was those jets flying over.
I remember everyone chuckling once. Someone made a comment about “the real world,” which negotiations weren’t.
Not much seemed to be happening. Stony faces trying to extract free coffee from a dysfunctional coffee carafe.
I wrote up the whole turgid affair in my “282-News;” a slam-dunk pillory.
“May I have your attention please?” bellowed the Alumni Recording-Secretary over the din.
“The meeting will come to order,” bellowed Steward Broadhurst, Alumni-prez, offhandedly pounding his table.
“We are pleased today,” said the Recording-Secretary; “to welcome Ms. Kimberly Johnston of the local Diabetes Association to give a presentation on diabetes.”
“This should be sweet,” said Gary Colvin, a fellow retired bus-driver.
“Oh Colvin, will you shut up!” I said. “That was sick.”
Sadly, beside Colvin, I think I was the onliest one that got it.
No one else seemed to have noticed.
“Diabetes mainly effects African-Americans, Native-Americans, Hispanics, and people of color; more so than the average white person.”
“Honkies,” I was tempted to say; but didn’t.
Sadly, those in attendance segregated themselves into the usual groupings: blacks here, honkies there.
One guy was entertaining all-and-sundry. He used to drive Transit management crazy by saying “Yow-zuh” to everything.
I had a semi-related question. The Alumni have negotiated lower pricing with Q-Dental, but Q-Dental was billing me the regular price.
Question answered I buried myself in a Horseshoe-Curve book I had brought along, in case I wasn’t included in jawing.
Most depressing is Art Dana, my idol at Transit, the guy who determined my attitude toward bus-driving: just go-with-flow. The rules are a joke; just show up and they never fire ya. “The idea is to avoid getting shot.”
Dana has Parkinson’s, and his wife died. He’s also an old hot-rodder, and used to ride motorbike. He also had a large American-Flyer layout.
It’s good to see Dana is still around — he can’t be much older than me — but depressing.
He looks like a hobbled little old man.

“Dreaded” because all my siblings are anti-union.

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 October 26, 1993 ended that.

RE: “What few attend the regular monthly union meeting, and they are lucky to get a quorum, which is only 15......” —Our union has a membership of over 600.

“Badge” is employee-number.

During my final year at Transit I did a voluntary union newsletter called the “282-News” that caused weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth among Transit management. It was great fun; and I did it with Microsoft Word — although it required a lot of time.

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

In the late ‘40s and early ‘50s, “American-Flyer” was a marketer of tinplate model trains. Unlike Lionel, they used two-rail track, so looked more realistic. Lionel used three-rail.

“Hooray for Matson”

.....I said in an e-mail, the text of which follows:

“Stick to your guns, BossMan. Ain’ nuthin’ wrong with being meticulous about spelling.
I remember getting letters from Poyzer (Victor?) loudly asserting a fevered agenda against the Messenger. We used to get them all the time. ‘What’s wrong with you guys? I could write better than that. Here’s my letter — make my day!’
Yeah, after an involved rewrite to help him say what he meant, and a tortured phonecall.
I sure rewrote enough letters I had scanned.* The tub-thumpers had a habit of mucking up, and then it was the old waazoo — make them say what they meant; if someone went to all the trouble to write us, they should be published.
Last weekend my tub-thumping brother-from-Boston suggested I needed my “prostrate” checked, and I found that laughable. Seems I stopped that from flying in the Mezz once.
So the writer excoriates you for pointing out spelling-errors. “Tough!” I said. Fly an error and Poyzer (or his Limbaugh wannabees) goes ballistic.

(*I shouldn’t have done that. We shoulda just run them AS IS — let them make fools of themselves.)

Not too long ago, the Houghton “Mildew” (that’s Wheeler) had a write-up about David Findley, Class of ‘68. I guess he went on to become a veep at Hartford Insurance (or something). He allowed he was more partial to hiring liberal-arts students, because they were better prepared for life — like spelling correctly. Techies had a habit of crashing mightily in flames.”

“Matson” is Robert Matson, “BossMan,” the Executive Editor at the mighty Mezz, who -a) had the moxie to take me on as an unpaid intern after my stroke, and -b) then made the giant leap of doubling my pay, so I could go off Social-Security Disability, and go full-time.
Matson has always had his head screwed on right — probably from being a Houghton grad (1980), unlike some noisy Limbaugh wannabee who wasn’t a “Liberial”-Arts student.
Matson had a column in the mighty Mezz last Sunday (July 13, 2008) about the vagaries of hiring.
Apparently he turned down an applicant that misspelled “definitely” (misspelled as “definAtely), and misused the word “two” (as “to”); both in a follow-up e-mail.
Ya got a spellcheck; use it! Ain’t nuthin’ wrong with being meticulous.
Misuse of “two” is an editor-gig.
Be not meticulous, and the tub-thumping Conservatives showed up at the Receptionist-Desk, Uzis a-blazin’: “What’s wrong with you Liberials? I could write better than that.”
Followed by retired English teachers and others of the dreaded Grammar Police.
Apparently the spurned applicant loudly excoriated Matson for pointing out spelling errors — “fiddling while Rome burned” — refusing to acknowledge towering writing-talent all because of a mere spelling error.
Matson also rejected another applicant who supplied a link to her blog wherein she abhorred having to work for a low-paying newspaper only to be told her writing “sucked” (her word).
Newspapers are under incredible pressure, and may be doomed.
But at least the Messenger will spell “cemetery” kerreckly.

“Houghton” is Houghton College in western New York, from where I graduated with a BA in 1966. I’ve never regretted it. Houghton is a religious liberal-arts college.

“Wheeler” is L. David Wheeler, an editor at the Messenger newspaper, also a Houghton grad (‘91).

Actually it was Sydney Poyzer.

The “Messenger” (mighty Mezz) is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over two years ago. Best job I ever had.

I had a stroke October 26, 1993.

“Liberial” is how my loudmouthed macho brother-from-Boston noisily insists “liberal” is spelled. (Recently it’s “liberila.”)

The Messenger had a Reception area.

Monthly Calendar Report for July, 2008

An image for the ages. (Photo by Jim Shaughnessy©.)

The July 2008 entry in my Audio-Visual Designs black & white All-Pennsy calendar, the best one, is another classic Jim Shaughnessy shot, Pennsy Decapod number 4230 starting out of Max siding on the Elmira branch at Ralston, Pa., in 1957.
The Dek is the quintessential Pennsy steam-engine, 2-10-0; and is performing a quintessential Pennsy task, lugging a heavy train in a deep Pennsylvania valley.
It’s belching a heavy column of smoke and cinders high into the sky, an act which would inflame Granny, if her laundry was hanging outside at trackside. (Who hangs their laundry out any more? Ya blow-dry it with burning natural-gas in a dryer.)
Nowadays such smoke would be frowned upon — in fact, even back then it was frowned upon.
Engine crews were admonished to run their smokestacks clean, and stack police were around to blow crews in.
Yet nowadays the crews on restored excursion steam-locomotives are advised to make a lot of smoke, especially for photo-runbys.
The railfan photographers want the same towering pillar of smoke that’s in this picture.
The fireman pours so much coal (or fuel-oil) into the engine’s firebox, the fire burns so rich it creates an oily black smudge on the sky.
The Greenies would have a fit. GLOBAL-WARMING ALERT! POLLUTION ALERT!
And conditions have to be just right — they were right for this picture.
The air has to be still enough to not dissipate the smoke.
How many times have I seen smoky photo runbys ruined by smoke fanning over the countryside, dissipated by the wind.
Yet here we are deep in a mountainous Pennsylvania creek-valley, surrounded by towering hills, and Shaughnessy is ready.
Thank you, Shaughnessy — an image for the ages.
My friend Charlie Gardiner, who I graduated with from Houghton College in 1966, has a vacation abode in Vermont, and once pointed out a proposed steam excursion railroad.
It was scotched due to environmental concerns. (Even cellphone towers aren’t allowed.)

Raw and basic. (Photo by Peter Vincent.)

The July 2008 entry of my Deuce 1932 Ford hot-rod calendar is a Pheaton, set up to race at Bonneville — and photographed there.
It’s originally a show-car, a full-fendered Pheaton hot-rod, but unfortunately it burned to the ground in 1984.
The burned-out remains sat for 20 years, until rescued by Matt Reynolds.
He installed a 350 Chevy Small-Block, and reconfigured it to race.
It’s a classic hot-rod, raw and basic, and set up to go fast; not impress onlookers.
The original hot-rods usually rated flat-black primer. Glittering trinkets and baubles and fancy paint don’t make a car any faster.
Neither does the kerreck body, which to me would be a fenderless high-boy roadster or a three-window coupe with a chopped top.
I remember seeing a customized ‘50 Merc lead-sled in a northern Delaware fast-food joint: chopped, channeled, sectioned, lowered; the whole kabosh.
It had been done up in flat-black primer, yet looked great.
My old friend Art Dana, ex of the bus-company, built up a Model-A hot-rod with a ‘56 Pontiac V8.
“I hope ya brushed it with flat-black primer,” I said.
“Sure did, Hughsey,” Art said. “There’s no other way.”

The most beautiful railroad diesel-locomotive of all time. (Photo by John Dziobko.)

The July 2008 entry of my All-Pennsy color calendar is the most beautiful railroad diesel-locomotive of all time, the Alco PA — although the Baldwin Sharknoses styled by Raymond Loewy could give them a run for their money.
Unfortunately, the Alco PA wasn’t very reliable, although not as bad as the Baldwins.
But they weren’t as good as the EMD E-units.
The PA was rated at 2,000 horsepower, but out of only one engine, a turbocharged V16 Alco 244.
It was one of the earliest applications of turbocharging to a railroad diesel-locomotive.
The turbo would fail, crippling the locomotive, and/or sending pillars of black exhaust into the sky.
Fuel-metering was configured for turbo operation. Without it the engine ran incredibly rich.
A PA could emit a pillar of black exhaust even when the Turbo was working.
The Turbo wouldn’t spool up quickly enough, and the engine ran rich until it did.
The EMD E-unit was getting comparable horsepower out of two unturbocharged V12 diesel-engines.
Unfortunately they weren’t as gorgeous as the PA, but they were more reliable.
The 244 engine was rushed to market, and was so failure-prone it dragged down Alco sales. The later 251 engine was much better, but the damage had been done.
The PA pictured is in commuter service on the New York & Long Branch, a joint Pennsy and Central of New Jersey operation in north Jersey.
It was the final stomping-ground for many Pennsy engines, like the PAs, the Sharknoses, and the K4 Pacific steam-locomotive.
The unelectrified engines would run north to South Amboy, where they were swapped out for electric engines for final running to New York City.

The Stooges play golf: “nyuk-nyuk-nyuk-nyuk......”

The July 2008 entry of my Three-Stooges calendar is an all-time classic.
A movie-frame outtake, regrettably, but from one of the best Stooges skits of all time: the golf-game.
I think I have that in my Three Stooges video DVD.
In this frame they are analyzing a golf-hole; Larry looking suitably analytical, Curly looking wary, and Moe, as always, mugging insanely for the camera.
Moe looks completely freaked out, but it’s an act.
Without this, it wouldn’t be the Stooges.
“Here, see this?” POINK! “Why I oughta........”
But it ain’t Gleason and Carney in the Honeymooners.
Gleason (Ralph Kramden) and Carney (Norton) did the best golf skit.
“Okay Norton; lemme show ya how to play golf,” Ralph bellows.
“First ya gotta address the ball.”
Carney looks quizzically down at the ball, and says “hello, ball.”

Norfolk Southern double-stack through Oak Harbor, Ohio. (Photo by John Stanovich.)

The July 2008 entry of my Norfolk Southern Employees calendar is what I see all the time on Norfolk Southern Railway any more: two black Norfolk Southern locomotives leading a colorful double-stack freight-train, this time through Oak Harbor, Ohio.
What’s interesting to me is the lead locomotive; a brand-new SD70M-2 from EMD (GM’s ElectroMotive Division), one of a recent order of 130.
It ain’t the usual General-Electric Dash-9. (NS rates ‘em at 4,000 horsepower, so Dash-9 40C, instead of the usual Dash-9 44C (4,400 horsepower); “C” being a six-axle truck.
The SD70M-2 is the new EMD four-stroke prime-mover; previous EMDs were two-stroke.
The two-stroke was too sloppy to meet emission requirements.
During a recent trip to Horseshoe Curve I saw quite a few SD70M-2s, usually leading GEs; but sometimes the complete lashup.
The moving finger having writ, moves on.......
So much for the Dash-9s; although many were still in evidence.
Stanovich is a locomotive engineer based in Chicago.
He’s probably proud of these things. I can understand. I used to take pictures of buses when I drove bus at Transit. I really loved driving our first “artics,” and thought our GM “RTS” buses were gorgeous.
The calendar picture appeared to be widened some; the nose of the SD70M-2 was too wide.
An old Photoshop trick; stretch the picture to fit the calendar image size.
This pik was narrowed back to make the SD70M-2 look right. It looks more kerreck, but ain’t the original camera image.
The calendar pik didn’t appear to be either — it looked like the stretched HD-TV I see at the Canandaigua YMCA.

Lockheed A-28 “Hudson.” (Photo by Philip Makanna©.)

The July 2008 entry of my Ghosts WWII warbirds calendar is an airplane I never thought much of, the Lockheed A-28 “Hudson.”
As I recall, the Hudson was a military version of the Lockheed Model 14 Super Electra commercial airliner; used primarily by the Royal Air Force as bombers and maritime observation aircraft.
Two machine-guns were mounted in the nose of one version, so the airplane could be used as an attacker.
It was designed and constructed under Lend-Lease in the late ‘30s, a response to a British request in its effort against the Nazis.
The Hudson ain’t the North-American B25, which ended up being a primal force in the American war-effort.
The B-25 was a hot-rod, and the Hudson a turkey.

1981 C3 Corvette. (Photo by Richard Prince.)

The July 2008 entry of my Corvette calendar is a 1981 Corvette, perhaps the worst of all time.
The early ‘80s were a sad time for Corvette — the only engine available for Corvette was a 190 horsepower 350 cubic-inch Small-Block.
For heaven sake! In 1957 a Small-Block was available at one horsepower per cubic-inch: 283 horsepower for 283 cubes.
Zora Arkus Duntov was gone (retired in 1975), and the C3 had been around since 1968.
General Motors was even considering shortening a Camaro (a la the original American Motors two-seater AMX), and rebadging it as a “Corvette.”
Thankfully, this didn’t happen. A new C4 Corvette debuted in the 1984 model-year, and thereby saved the marque. The new C4 resolved many of the things that were wrong with the C3, and had a completely reengineered chassis.
That chassis is still being used in the C6, but has been improved.
The C4 saw reinstitution of performance as a goal with the Small-Block, as a 230-horsepower port fuel-injected version was installed in most Corvettes in the 1985 model-year. This is fuel-injection for each individual cylinder; much better that the twin crossfire injected Small-Blocks in previous Corvettes — which had two separate throttle-bodies for each cylinder-bank. Crossfire was better than carburetors (too sloppy), but not as good as individual port injection. (The 1957 fuel-injection was individual port injection.)
Even more powerful Small-Blocks were eventually installed.
During 1981 Corvette production transitioned from St. Louis to Bowling Green, Kentucky.
A manager at Transit had a C3, but his was 1976 — and he kept having problems with it.
It was a 350 Small-Block with a four-speed, and was “Hugger-Orange;” a beautiful car.
He finally had to sell it — the frame had rusted out. The body was fiberglass, but the frame was steel.
I shed a tear.

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

“Jim Shaughnessy” was a railfan photographer in the late ‘40s and the ‘50s. He was based in Binghamton, NY, and took a lot of railroad photographs in that area. Pennsy’s bucolic Elmira branch was nearby.

A “photo-runby” is when all the railfan photographers detrain, and set up in a “photo-line” at trackside. The train backs up, and then blasts by the photo-line; after which the photographers are picked up.

“Houghton College,” in western New York, is from where I graduated with a BA in 1966. I’ve never regretted it. Houghton is a religious liberal-arts college.

A “Pheaton” is an open four-seater with only a canvas roof. It wasn’t convertible. A “roadster” is an open two-seater (also unconvertible). Pheatons are no longer made; cars are closed.

“Bonneville” is Bonneville Salt-flats next to Great Salt Lake in Utah. It’s a vast open flat area where top-speed runs can be made.

The Chevrolet “Small-Block” V8 was introduced at 265 cubic-inches displacement in the 1955 model-year. It continued production for years, first at 283 cubic inches, then 327, then 350. Other displacements were also manufactured. The Chevrolet “Big-Block” V8 was introduced in the 1965 model-year at 396 cubic-inches, and was unrelated to the Small-Block. It was made in various displacements: 402, 427 and 454 cubic inches. It’s still made as a truck-motor, but not installed in cars any more; although you can get it as a crate-motor, for self-installation. —350 cubic-inches displacement.

A “high-boy roadster” is an unfendered roadster at stock height (although the front axle may be lowered). —A “three-window coupe” is a coupe with only three windows (four if you include the windshield): those in the doors (two), and the rear-window. “Five-window coupes” were also available, with small side-windows behind the doors. The yellow Milner coupe in “American Graffiti” is a five-window.

Usually a customized 1949-‘51 Mercury was known as a “lead-sled.” This was because so much custom metal-work at that time was done with molten lead.

“Chopped” is small sections cut out of the window-pillars, so the roof can be lowered. “Channeled” is constructing channels in the carbody, so it can be dropped lower on the frame. “Sectioned” is cutting longitudinal sections out of the carbody sides, so it will have decreased section height. “Lowered” is to lower the carbody relative to the axles. It was often done with lowering-blocks between the springs and the axle — although the front-axle might have to be “dropped:” rebent so the frame would sit lower relative to the wheels. (This presumes a front beam axle; a method out-of-fashion after the ‘30s and ‘40s.)

RE: “bus-company......” —For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, N.Y.

“Alco” is American Locomotive Company of Schenectady, NY; a longtime builder of railroad steam locomotives. When railroads began to dieselize, Alco switched; but is now out-of-business.

“Sharknoses” are Baldwin diesel-locomotives designed by Raymond Loewy, probably the prettiest diesel railroad-locomotive of all time — although it’s competing with the Alco PA. “Sharknoses” because they had the headlight overhanging the pilot, looking like the nose of a shark.

“Baldwin” is Baldwin Locomotive Works in southeast Pennsylvania; a longtime manufacturer of steam railroad locomotives. When railroads began to dieselize, Baldwin switched; but is now defunct.

“Raymond Loewy” is a prolific industrial designer hired by the Pennsylvania Railroad — and also Baldwin Locomotive Works.

“EMD” is Electromotive Division of General Motors, GM’s manufacturer of diesel railroad-locomotives. Most railroads used EMD when they dieselized; although many now use General-Electric diesel railroad-locomotives.

The “E-unit” was EMD’s passenger locomotive from the ‘30s through the ‘50s.

“Turbocharging” is using exhaust gases to drive a turbine-driven supercharger. —Supercharging blows (forces) more air into the engine.

The “New York & Long Branch” is a railroad in north Jersey that could operate commuter-service to New York City. At first it was a Jersey Central operation, but became a joint operation with Pennsy, when PRR proposed building a competing line. —The Pennsy tunnels under the Hudson River from Jersey to New York City required electric operation, since they weren’t ventilated enough to operate otherwise.

The “K4 Pacific” was the Pennsylvania Railroad’s standard passenger steam-locomotive for many years.

“Norfolk Southern” is a 25+-year-old merger of Norfolk & Western Railroad (in Virginia and West Virginia) and Southern Railway. Along with CSX Transportation it operates the preponderance of railroad service on the east coast (including the northeast). —NS got most of the ex-Pennsy lines when Conrail was broken up and sold. (“Conrail” was a government amalgamation of east-coast railroads that went bankrupt pretty much at the same time as Penn-Central, a merger of the Pennsylvania Railroad and New York Central. It included other bankrupt east-coast railroads, like Erie-Lackawanna and Lehigh Valley; but eventually went private as it became more successful.) —N&W was immensely successful, since it served the Pocahontas Coal Region.

RE: “Double-stack...... “ is a system whereby two trailer-sized freight containers are stacked two-high in railroad well-cars. The system is very high, and required raising bridges and increasing tunnel-heights so it would clear. Stacking the containers two-high is much more efficient than only one-high — although one-high could also include the trailer-wheels (Trailer-On-Flatcar = TOFC).

“Two-stroke” diesels do a power-stroke for every down-stroke of the piston — “four-strokes” are a power-stroke for every other down-stroke of the piston. In two-stroke diesels the descending piston uncovered cylinder ports, through which intake air was blown into the cylinder. Poppet-valves would also open in the cylinder-head to let exhaust-gasses escape. —A four-stroke uses poppet-valves to both let in the intake air and also let out the exhaust gasses. One piston down-stroke pulls in the intake air, and the last upstroke of the cycle exhausts. Being a diesel, fuel is injected at the top of a piston-stroke, and it self-ignites. The upstroke of the piston compresses the intake air, but with a four-stroke, this is a separate move. —General Motors developed light two-stroke diesel-engines in the ‘30s, and the principles therein were used in truck and bus diesels, and much larger railroad locomotive diesels.

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

An “artic” (“r-TIK”) was a two-section bus powered by one motor. The second section was a trailer connected to the first section by drawbar/bellows. —The General Motors “RTS” bus was a series brought to market in the late ‘70s. It was GM’s third series of buses, and replaced the TDH “New Look” series (the fishbowls). In my humble opinion, they were GM’s best styling effort — even better than their cars. They made the humble bus look great. (I called ‘em “Starships.”) —For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, N.Y. Regional Transit had many “RTS” buses.

RE: “It looked like the stretched HD-TV I see at the Canandaigua YMCA.......” —I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym, and it has over three wall-mounted flat-screen HD TVs. HD TV (in this locale) uses the same image used in normal-width TV, only it’s stretched to fit the increased image width. The effect is slight, but you can ascertain it. The Photoshop computer program can be used to stretch an image.

Zora Arkus-Duntov is the former hot-rodder hired by Chevrolet. He made the Corvette the great sportscar it is.

Various Corvettes have been marketed over the years; 1953-1962; the Sting-Ray from 1963-1967; the mako-sharks (also Sting-Rays) from 1968-1982; the C4s from 1983-1996; the C5s from 1997-2004; and currently the C6 (2005-to date). Earlier Corvettes didn’t go by the “C” nomenclature, and “C” nomenclature is essentially a fan thing. Ergo, C1 is 1953-1962; C2 is 1963-1967; and C3 is 1968-1982. The car pictured is a C3.

“Just shut up and don’t ask questions”

Yesterday morning (Friday, July 4, 2008; Independence Day) I turned on our fantabulous HD-radio after returning home from running.
Don’t know as the HD-radio function is that fantastic, but as a mere table radio the sound is impressive.
But WHOA! It’s blowing me out of the bedroom.
It’s full volume.
So I fiddle around.
—1) The volume control does nothing, except at zero, at which point no sound.
—2) The tuning knob shows me the usual stuff on the digital display: the frequency, and the HD channels; but no HD channels.
In fact, I keep getting 91.5 FM even though it’s tuned to other frequencies.
“Wait a minute,” I think to myself. “This is the new technology. When in doubt, reboot.”
So I shut the HD-radio off, and turn it on again.
Everything back to normal: normal volume, and HD channels.
Apply old drill learned at Messenger newspaper regarding technology issues.
“Just shut up and don’t ask questions.”

I run (this time at a nearby park).

“91.5” is WXXI-FM, the classical-music radio-station in Rochester we listen to.

The “Messenger newspaper” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over two years ago. Best job I ever had.

Declaration of Independence

“When in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. —That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, — That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.”

Do you know what this means, chillen? It’s the antithesis of the sage wisdom of Limberger* and Falwell and their lackeys. *The so-called “OxyContin®-King.” If we had followed their all-knowing wisdom, we’d still be curtsying to Queenie. That there Patrick Henry was a flaming liberial hot-head. And that tea wouldn’a been dumped in Boston Harbor.

RE: “All men are created equal.....” That includes liberials. Zealots are not superior.

Perhaps we should fix democracy in this country first.
—Jefferson, et al were risking their lives. Were it not for a VAST ocean, “we’d still be curtsying to Queenie.” Jefferson, et al could disappear.
Shoulda followed the wisdom of the Tories, who high-tailed it to Canada.

“Limberger” (also “OxyContin®-King”) is Rush Limbaugh. I call him “Limberger” because I think he stinks.

“Falwell” is televangelist and tub-thumping conservative Jerry Falwell.

“Liberial” is how my loudmouthed macho brother-from-Boston noisily insists “liberal” is spelled. (Recently it’s “liberila.”)

“Queenie” is Queen Elizabeth II, the ultimate honky.

All my siblings are judgmental tub-thumping conservative Christian zealots. Therefore I am utterly reprehensible, because I ain’t.

Q-Dental Story-Time.........

“Would you like to schedule your next six-month cleaning, Mr. Hughes?”
“Sure; why not?”
“Well, I can do that.”
She fired up her Dental-Soft appointment book, which I could see on her laptop display.
“Tuesday or Thursday, afternoon is better,” I said.
“How about Tuesday, January 8 at 2:00 p.m.?”
“Sounds all right to me.”
“Wait a minute,” she says. “That was 2008; I want 2009.”
She fiddles around and schedules Tuesday, January 6 at 2 p.m.
“NOW WHAT!” she says. “Conflict alert; will not compute. You have performed a grievous error.”
“Wassa-matter?” I asked. System throw up an alert about an undeleted appointment?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Hughes. Sometimes it does this.” (“Windoze is cogitating the value of Pi; please wait.”)
“STORY-TIME,” I said.
“A few years ago I worked at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, and I learned all about unexplainable ‘pyooter hairballs.”
“Recently I was doing something with Excel, and I don’t have a manual, so I was winging it.”
“Somehow I got it to do what I wanted, so I did the old dance I learned at the Messenger: ‘just shut up and don’t ask questions. Ya got what ya wanted; ya don’t need to understand how.’”
“I related this all to the so-called ‘pyooter-guru at a party at the Messenger, and of course he understood.

Q-Dental is where I have my dentistry done. See earlier blog-post.

“Dental-Soft” is the Windows-XP software application they use.

The “Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper” is from where I retired over two years ago. Best job I ever had.

“‘Pyooter hairballs” are difficult computer glitches.

Toxin-free

I’m at the vaunted Canandaigua YMCA the other day (Monday, June 30, 2008), quietly pumping the sand trainer.
These things are very hard to get, and everyone knows they are the best trainer — they get my heart-rate higher than anything else.
But there are only two, and right now one is on the blink.
The northmost one was outta commission not too long ago, and now it’s the southmost.
“I think we need a new one,” says Nadine, head-honcho of the Wellness Center. “I’m leery of just fixing it. They’re guaranteed.”
They lasted less than a year, and now even more are using them.
An ad comes on the Weather-Channel plasma-baby: “Operators are standing by. Call the toll-free number on your screen. Only $19.95 for a full two-week supply. Have your Visa or MasterCard ready.”
What they are are adhesive pads for your feet, that supposedly draw toxins out of your body.
The fact the whole process has an oriental name lends credence, of course. But I forget what the name is. (Chinese magic; fortified with lead.)
Apply pads to your feet at bedtime, peel off the next morning, and sure enough they’re covered with filth.
Um, like my feet weren’t dirty when I went to bed.
“I got this bridge in Brooklyn you might be interested in. —We need all your account information. Our operators are standing by.”
Fame-hungry people are paraded to trumpet the wonders of these pads.
“I’m on TV, Martha! My life has been turned around because of these pads. I’m toxin-free,” she beams.
The owner of the Physical-Therapy I was kicked out of was an advocate of toxin removal.
But it wasn’t some silly gimcrack.
It was a toxin-free diet that allowed toxins to flush out of your system.
She was also selling supplements: eye of newt, ear of pig. Not investigated by the FDA.
She used to say Mountain-Dew was the most toxic food of all. —That Cheetos were dreadful, and even the Arby’s Pig-Out Menu was questionable.

The “sand trainer” is a semi-elliptical cardiovascular exercise machine; called a sand trainer because it mimics running in sand.

The YMCA “Wellness Center” is its exercise-gym.

“Plasma-babies” are what my loudmouthed macho brother-in-Boston calls all high-definition wide/flat-screen TVs. Other technologies beside plasma are available, but he calls them all “plasma-babies.” The Canandaigua YMCA has three, all wall-mounted. One is permanently tuned to the Weather-Channel.

RE: “Physical-Therapy I was kicked out of......” —Before the YMCA I was prescribed physical-therapy, but was kicked out for revealing a patient in this blog. My take is they needed an excuse to boot me, because I was using their equipment too hard. My release seemed an overreaction for my sin.

My all-knowing, blowhard brother-in-Boston, the ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, claims Mountain-Dew and Cheetos are the breakfast of champions, and has switched to Arby’s as a less-fattening alternative to his beloved Wendy’s.

Q-Dental

Yesterday (Tuesday, July 1, 2008) was my first time at Q-Dental, what dental-practice seems to have become in the new century.
No longer is dentistry the practice of individual dentists; like the dentist we’ve used since the late ‘60s.
The TV is awash with dental-groups; I suppose practices like our eye-practice.
We get bombarded with dental-group advertising; TV ads and brochures.
It’s by special arrangement of “the Alumni,” retirees of Local 282, my old bus union. The Alumni has negotiated special pricing with Q-Dental, whereby Q-Dental bills Blue Cross for my Transit-retiree dental-coverage, and then charges me the difference.
Well, I don’t understand, but I was sent packing with “all set, Mr. Hughes.”
I thought I was supposed to copay a difference, a negotiated amount less than my old dentist.
WE SHALL SEE! (It’s a miracle, Bobby!)
I bet I get charged that difference, or perhaps they already charged my Visa. I don’t know how they could; since I never gave them that information.
It’s a new store — I had a feeling I was the onliest patient there. Two receptionists, a dentist, my dental hygienist and me.
Q-Dental has four (or five) offices. Their Henrietta office (the one I used) is just opened. We use the Henrietta office because it’s closest.
It looked as active as the Perinton-Plaza office of the bank I worked at long ago — about 1969. It had just opened, and we were doing everything to generate what little traffic we had. Free coffee, donuts; and the branch-manager had no qualms whatsoever about skirting banking-laws.
I was moved on because I lacked the proper viper attitude; namely, kiss the big guys, and screw the little guys.
I remember a Veep from Xerox came in one time, dapper in plaid bermudas and funny golf-hat, and everyone bowed. Huzza-huzza! We were carrying overdrafts on his huge checking-account like interest-free loans. Let some little guy try that; we’d rain down fire and brimstone.
One time that branch-manager suggested I solicit sex from a pretty young girl that bounced a check.
First was X-rays: “insert this in your mouth, Mr. Hughes; and bite down.”
Whoa! Digital. Not the cardboard mini-card with film inside, but a reusable wired image-capturer, and the X-ray was immediately displayed on a nearby laptop.
I was instructed to brush three times a day, and use dental-floss every day, lest I lose all my teeth.
“Beginnings of periodontal disease, Mr. Hughes. Naughty-naughty!”
My dental hygienist looked to be about 25-28, and in full command of her judgmental authority. “Must be a REPUBLICAN,” I thought. She was incensed I wanted to use the bathroom before cleaning my teeth.
“Looks like I’m gonna have to use the Cavitron, Mr. Hughes. You’ve got heavy tartar buildup, and food accumulation.”
I suppose the Cavitron is a glorified pulsing water-pik that blasts tartar off your teeth.
It also drowns you in water, for which a mouth-sucker is installed.
That thing sprayed water all over creation; I ended up drenched.
But I’d do it again; they seemed more thorough than my old dentist.
Before leaving I noticed a plaque on her wall. (“There is no plaque in the Dental Hall of Fame.”) —She had won the “Golden Scaler” award. On it was a gold-painted tooth scaler on a plague.
Marcy, it’s everywhere!

“It’s a miracle, Bobby!” is something my God-fearing mother said.

“There is no plaque in the Dental Hall of Fame......” is an old Bob & Ray joke I frequently repeated under the plaque-wall at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper. We worked under a wall of plaque-awards.

“Marcy” is my number-one ne’er-do-well — she was the first I was e-mailing stuff to. Marcy and I worked in adjacent cubicles at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired. A picture of her is in this blog at Conclave of Ne’er-Do-Wells. Marcy married Bryan Mahoney (ex-reporter from the Messenger newspaper), and together they live near Boston. (Both Marcy and Mahoney keep blogs — Marcy’s is Playtime at Hazmat.) —She once asked me where I got so much material.