Ty Pennington was here

Ty Pennington was here. (Photo by the so-called “old guy” with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100 camera.)

“Ty Pennington” is the head honcho of the “Extreme Home Makeover” TV program. They always seem to destroy a house.

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.

“Or possibly while crashing”

Talking about BMW’s fantabulous new iDrive system (Car & Driver magazine):
“The navigation system includes an 80 gigabyte hard-drive, 15 of which can be used for music.”
“For heaven sake,” I cry. “The hard-drive on my ‘pyooter, which is an antique, is 60 gigabytes. Rigs are available now with 160 gigs.”
“The display offers a split screen option to, say, view a map while playing with the radio, or possibly also crashing.”
“You added that last part,” my wife said.
“No I didn’t,” I said. “It’s in here — they wrote it.
Now do you see why I’ve subscribed to this magazine over 45 years?”

“‘Pyooter” equals computer.

“My wife” of 41+ years is “Linda.”

RE: “Now do you see why I’ve subscribed to this magazine over 45 years.......” —I’ve subscribed to Car & Driver magazine since college; I graduated in 1966.

“Get outta here; see me in six months.......”

Off to Bloomfield Family Practice (yesterday, Wednesday, May 27, 2009), my biannual visit with Dr. Yavorek (“yah-VORE-ik”).
“How are you, Mr. Hughes?”
“Well, all right, I guess.”
“Ya look okay to me; and your blood-pressure seems fine.
Altoona, PA, eh? The Railroaders’ Memorial Museum. That the museum in Scranton?”
(He grew up in Scranton.)
“Nope,” I say. “But I been there.”
“Worth going to?”
“Only if they still run steam excursions; otherwise forget it.”
“I see ya had your prostate biopsy.”
“Yeah, but that was a while ago,” I said.
“Last November,” he said. “But I see ya did a recent follow-up checkup at Urology Associates of Rochester.”
“PSA was higher then, but they said it wasn’t worth doing another biopsy,” I said.
“They poke around, and say I have an enlarged prostate.”
“I’m sure you do,” the doctor said. “It goes with aging.”
“Not what it was a few months ago,” I added. “Often I sleep all night without going to the bathroom.
There are a few things I should mention,” I said.
“—1) is that my feet get cold.”
“Lemme see.”
Remove running shoe and sock.
“Hmmm. They are pretty cold; but ya got excellent circulation.
Do your feet hurt when ya walk? Do ya have trouble walking?”
“No. Don’t forget I run; I still can.”
“Your hands are cold too. Probably just aging capillaries. Don’t worry about it.”
“—2) My balance seems to have gotten worse.”
“Seems that was compromised by your stroke.”
“It was.”
“Do ya have trouble walking? Do ya fall over?”
“No. I still pull my pants on one leg at a time, but I have to pay attention so I don’t fall.”
“So what medications are you taking; just the water-pill?”
“That’s all.”
“And aspirin?”
“81 mg.”
“Your cholesterol was 176 last time. I guess ya don’t need cholesterol medication.”
“And if ya were to suggest it, I’d give ya an argument,” I said.
“I’m sure you would. You and that damned Internet. How am I supposed to dispense wisdom if you guys are always questioning it?”
“Yeah, well that so-called ‘damned Internet’ was probably part of the reason my wife survived cancer.
My blood-pressure started climbing a few months ago, when I couldn’t do the YMCA.
But then I got back to the YMCA, and it fell back down.
Two 35-minute sessions each visit on a semi-elliptical. 800 calories total. They’re the only machine that gets my heart-rate up where it belongs without killing me.
The treadmills killed my back.”
“Ya seem pretty stable, Mr. Hughes. Get outta here, and see me in six months. And make sure ya see our receptionist on your way out.”
“That’ll be $10 copay.”

As always, a slew of errands got attached:
-a) was Victor Power Equipment to pick up a hinge-bracket I had ordered for the small Honda mower.
-b) was the Canandaigua National bank Honeoye Falls ATM. I was paying cash for everything, since the amounts were small.
-c) was Rite-Aid Pharmacy, to pick up a prescription I had called in earlier with their machine.
-d) was the hardware, to get stainless nuts and lockwashers for the hinge-bracket.
-e) was the famed Honeoye Falls MarketPlace supermarket, to buy bagged spinach and milk.

Apparently two things happened while I was away:

(Photo by my wife.)

-1) Collins Landscape arrived unannounced to remove our box-elder tree. (See picture.)
-2) The neighbor up the street came down to see if our Back 40 was dry enough for him to begin work with his tractors (one of which is a backhoe).
“Can’t the state remove that tree?” he asked. “It’s on their right-of-way.”
“I tried,” Linda said. “But they won’t remove it.”
“How about the utilities?”
“Electric yes, but electric is across the street.
That tree is fouling phone lines. The telephone company won’t trim it unless it’s actually damaged their lines.”

“Bloomfield” is a small rural village near where we live. It’s about three miles away.

RE: “Altoona, PA? The Railroaders’ Memorial Museum....... —Horseshoe Curve, west of Altoona (“al-TUNE-uh”), Pennsylvania, is by far the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to. (There is also an affiliated Railroaders’ Memorial Museum in Altoona, once the premier shop-town for the Pennsylvania Railroad.) —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.) —There is also a railroad museum in Scranton, PA called Steamtown. It used to have steam-locomotive powered railroad excursions — don’t know if they still do — and I once rode same.

“PSA” is prostate-specific-antigen; a blood component that elevates if ya have prostate cancer. Taking your PSA level from a blood-draw is screening for prostate cancer. “Biopsy” is to actually look at cells taken from the prostate to see if they are cancerous.

RE: “I still can run.....” —Age 65.

I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and it slightly compromised my balance, among other things.

“The water-pill” is hydrochlorothiazide; a diuretic to help lower blood-pressure. I take one 25mg pill per day.

My wife of 41+ years, Linda, had lymphatic cancer. It was treatable with chemotherapy — she survived.

I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym.

The “hinge-bracket I had ordered for the small Honda mower” is a hinge-bracket that holds a small rubberized cover on the lawnmower deck so it will mulch. —I had to replace the entire mower-deck because it had rusted through. I had to destroy the original hinge-bracket to remove it; the bolts/nuts were rusted. The bracket was not in stock at Victor Power Equipment and had to be back-ordered.

“ATM” equals automated-teller-machine.

RE: “With their machine.......” —Reordering prescriptions at Rite-Aid Pharmacy can be done with a telephone machine.

“Honeoye Falls” is the nearest small town to where we live; about five miles away. It’s in western New York.

“MarketPlace” is a private supermarket in Honeoye Falls we often buy groceries at.

Collins Landscape is a large, long-standing landscape service.

A “box-elder tree” is a rogue maple, a weed-tree. The tree planted itself. The female trees (seed-bearing) attract box-elder bugs in great quantity.

RE: “The neighbor up the street came down to see if our Back 40 was dry enough for him to begin work with his tractors.....” —Our back-yard (the “Back 40,” which is well over an acre) has a drainage-ditch along the edge. It has partially filled in. Our neighbor up the street, who is retired, will dig it out for us. He has two tractors; one of which is a backhoe.

Indy 500

—Paul Long: “Props to Brent Musburger for the line of the day, talking about Helio Castroneves: ‘From the clutches of the IRS to the top of the IRL.’ Gotta love Brent, he’s a terrible announcer but he never holds anything back.”
—One of Paul’s Facebook friends: “That was a good line, but the contrived drama of the ‘Hollywood script’ was a bit much ... he got acquitted of tax evasion, not pulled off death row!!!”
—Me: “I used to be a motorsports fan.
I used to watch the Indy 500 every year.
Haven’t for years.
But I tried today (Sunday, May 24, 2009).
Turned it on at noon, and switched it off about 15 minutes later.
Yada-yada-yada-yada.
Musburger was a lot of the reason; plus it was WAY too overproduced.”
—Long: “I think it’s a great story that in just a month’s time, he went from facing six years in prison to victory lane at the Brickyard. But it does seem like the TV folks don’t have enough faith in the product and so they have to blow some of these storylines out of proportion. C’mon, it’s one of the oldest and most traditional events in all of American sports. Let it stand on its own merits.
I went to that race three times, from 1989-91. The last time, the front row was Rick Mears, Mario Andretti and A.J. Foyt. Mears won the race and then retired at the end of the season. Never came back, either, although he was spotting for Helio today. There’s nothing like the Brickyard. But, like so many things, it just isn’t quite what it used to be.”
—Me: “Never been to Indy.
I was told it’s mind-blowing.
Incredible speeds and shrieking.
Amazing to me is that Andretti and Foyt and Mears are all still alive.
Part of the reason I lost interest (and that was back in the mid-’70s), is that so many drivers were getting killed; including Mark Donohue.”
(“Paul long” used to be the head sports honcho at the mighty Mezz)

Well people, I tried to watch the Indy 500, but tired of it after 15 minutes or so.
I’m an old racefan, particularly sportscar racing.
During the late ‘60s and early ‘70s I drove all over the northeast to watch sportscar races.
This included Canada.
The tracks I hit were Bridgehampton, Lime Rock, Mosport (“MAH-sport”) near Toronto, St. Jovite (“sahn joe-VEET”) near Montreal, and of course Watkins Glen.
The first race I attended was the U.S. Grand Prix (“preee”) at Watkins Glen in 1964.
By then Formula-One was well into the rear engine revolution. Every racecar there was rear engine, but limited to a tiny 1.5 liters displacement. (Formula-One was 1.5 liters, and the U.S. Grand Prix was Formula-One.)
Indy cars were just beginning the switch to rear engines. In 1963, Jimmy Clark ran a Lotus powered by Ford, but dropped out. —I followed the race coming home from college; asked at just about every gas-station.
In 1965 he won.
Supporting Formula-One racing was a statement; that European automotive engineering was superior to American.
And it was, sort of. Although aimed at road usage unlike here in America.
American automobiles were adequate for American conditions; open roads, and plenty of gasoline.
American auto travel could get by with the old tractor layout, and gas-guzzling engines.
Let the highway become twisty and bumpy, and the old tractor-layout was challenged.
Gasoline availability was tight in Europe, so the Europeans were building engines with much higher specific output — performance equal to American engines but at half the displacement.
It was a religion, of sorts; and I partook of it enthusiastically.
E.g. The Pontiac G-T-O was a joke; nothing compared to a G-T-O Ferrari.
No matter the Pontiac G-T-O was better suited to American conditions — given a bumpy curve it was into the weeds.
And it was using gobs more gasoline.
There also was the fact America wasn’t building a proper sportscar — as laid down by the MG T series.
There was the Corvette, but it was a joke compared to a Jaguar, or a even a Triumph.
The early Corvettes were heavy and used the lousy chassis used on a Chevrolet sedan. Their motor was also a joke; a StoveBolt six modified for performance. —Compared to a proper sportscar, lightweight and nimble, they were turgid.
So that first race at Watkins Glen was an epiphany or sorts; a religious experience.

Photo by the so-called “old guy” with a Pentax Spotmatic camera borrowed from Houghton; October of 1964.

There for sampling were tiny Formula-One racers, open-wheeled, many with tiny V12s.
As I recall, that race was won by Graham Hill in a V12 BRM, but another hallowed name, Jimmy Clark, had held the pole in a Lotus-Climax.
Meanwhile, Indianapolis cars had jumped on the rear engine bandwagon, although later than Formula-One.
Some used heavily modified Ford V8s, but eventually the Offenhauser (“AWF-en-HOUZE-rrrr”) four returned to prominence, just like in front engine days.
The Offenhauser was reliable compared to a Ford V8; the Ford V8 being essentially a modified street engine. (The Offy [“AWF-eee”] was a race design.)
This was especially true after turbocharging came into use. The Offy could stand it.
Years ago my blowhard brother-in-Boston, like me also a car-nut, went to Indianapolis. The racecars shrieking hitting over 200 mph was mind-blowing.
Another talking-point was that American racing was around-and-around a circular track nothing like a road.
Well, sportscar circuits have twists and turns and hills, but are around-and-around too, since they’re closed circuits.
So Indy, despite its being around-and-around, was the premier auto race — a showplace for ultimate automotive technology.
I remember in the early ‘50s, Firestone Tires ran two full pages in Life Magazine, recounting every Indianapolis 500 race they’d ever won; which went all the way back to the beginning — nearly all the races.
They’d won another, and I always pored over those ads.
In 1953 and 1954 Bill Vukovich won, but shortly thereafter he was killed in a racing crash.
I remember he was using a Kurtis Kraft roadster, with exposed grill-teeth that looked like a Corvette. Looked nice!
But by the ‘70s I was losing interest. In the 1973 Indy 500 a slew of drivers got killed, including young Swede Savage, who T-boned the wall at full speed, bursting his car into flames.
Also involved was the great safety crusade of Formula-One drivers about 1970. They made Watkins Glen line their track with Armco barrier two and three high. —It looked ridiculous.
Yet Francois Cevert died in a Formula-One Tyrrell (“tuh-RELL”) when it flipped and rode that barrier in 1973.
To my mind, the safety-crusade was a sham, when drivers poo-pooed the idea of full roll cages like the sprint-cars. Perhaps with a full roll-cage Cevert might have survived.
Years ago I watched the Indy 500; which by then was becoming moribund. NASCAR was getting more viewers racing taxi-cabs with hot-rodding from the ‘50s, and theatrics much like professional wrestling.
The cost of fielding an Indy team had gotten so outta sight, the entrants went off by themselves; and Indianapolis set up its own series that supposedly cost less.
It didn’t attract much at first.
But Indy is the premier auto race; the one all the drivers want to win.
Indy returns to prominence, but they’ve lost me.
Most depressing was the TV coverage, which looked much like Hollywood.

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

“Formula-One” is the international open-wheel car-racing formula that’s been around for years. It specifies car-weights and engine-displacements, etc. “Formula-One” is the premier European car-racing formula.

“1.5 liters displacement” is only 91.535616 cubic inches of engine size; the volume swept by the pistons. —Most engines are much larger; 200-400 cubic inches or more; although foreign engines are usually smaller.

The so-called “tractor layout” is engine and transmission up front, with a central driveshaft back to a solid back axle, much like a farm tractor. Although unlike a tractor, that rear-axle was suspended on springs. The only suspension for a farm-tractor was the sprung seat.

RE: “Much higher specific output......” —The “specific output” of an engine was the amount of horsepower per cubic inch.

The Chevrolet overhead-valve inline “Stovebolt-six” was introduced in the 1929 model-year at 194+ cubic inches. It continued production for years, upgraded to four main bearings (from three) for the 1937 model-year. In 1950 the Stovebolt was upsized to 235.5 cubic inches (from 216), and later upgrades included full-pressure lubrication and hydraulic (as opposed to mechanical) valve-tappets. The Corvette had double carburetors. —The Stovebolt was produced clear through the 1963 model-year, but replaced with a new seven-main bearing (as opposed to less — like four) inline-six engine in the 1964 model-year. The Stovebolt was also known as “the cast-iron wonder;” called the “Stovebolt” because various bolts could be replaced by stuff from the corner hardware.

RE: “‘Old guy’ with the Pentax Spotmatic camera borrowed from Houghton.......” —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). A “Spotmatic” is the old Pentax Spotmatic single-lens reflex 35mm film camera. I eventually got one and used it about 40 years, since replaced by a Nikon D100 digital camera. (“Houghton” is Houghton College in western New York, from where I graduated with a BA in 1966. I’ve never regretted it, although I graduated as a Ne’er-do-Well, without their blessing. Houghton is an evangelical liberal-arts college. They used a Spotmatic at the college yearbook.)

“BRM” equals British Racing Motors; a Formula-One car-racing team.

“Offy” equals Offenhauser.

“Turbocharging” is to supercharge the intake air-flow to an engine with a compressor driven by engine exhaust through a turbine — rather than the compressor (“supercharger”) being driven directly by the engine.

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

Monthly Calendar Report for May 2009

The railroad-crossing at Luray, VA. (Photo by O. Winston Link)

—The May 2009 entry of my O. Winston Link “Steam and Steel” calendar is what I consider the best railroad photograph Link ever took, his famous Luray, VA grade-crossing shot in March of 1956.
It’s 3 a.m., and Link is set up at trackside with his 89 bazilyun flashbulbs — actually 36.
A Norfolk & Western freight barrels through, powered by a Y-class 2-8-8-2 articulated, and Link records an image for the ages.
(Link took a number of photographs here, including one of the actual watchman.)
Two things stand out about this photograph for this old railfan.
—1) Is that up-in-the-air crossing watchman’s shanty.
Ya don’t see them any more.
Used to be the railroad/highway grade crossings were protected by a watchman, a human being.
It’s not that way any more. —Maintaining a gizmo cost less than that watchman.
The approaching train trips a circuit that drops the gates, and gets the red warning-lights flashing.
Often it also activates a bell — although now the bell-clangs are often just audio recordings.
In Haddonfield in south Jersey, the old Revolutionary War town adjacent to the suburb I grew up in, the alignment of the old Camden & Atlantic, by then the Pennsylvania-Reading Seashore Lines, to Atlantic City from Camden, crossed Kings Highway at grade.
Kings Highway was the main north-south drag through Haddonfield, and was very busy.
When a train approached, two guys would waddle out from nearby Haddonfield station, one to flag the crossing and stop traffic, and the other to crank down the crossing gates.
Doing so seemed to drop all the other railroad-crossing gates throughout Haddonfield, and also set the red crossing lights flashing.
I used to love seeing this happen. A train was coming.
It was the late ‘40s, and trains on the PRSL were still steam-powered.
I don’t remember Haddonfield having an up-in-the-air watchman’s shanty; although I think there was one at ground level, but it was removed about 1947 or ‘48.
There may have been an elevated watchman’s shanty farther up the line at another grade-crossing in Haddonfield.
There also was a tower in western Haddonfield, where a bypass to Philadelphia merged into the old C&A alignment.
The old C&A alignment is now a rapid-transit line, and the line from Atlantic City to Philadelphia still exists but is NJ Transit.
Everything has been dropped into a below-grade cut through Haddonfield. Kings Highway is still what it was, but now on an overpass.
Pavonia (“puh-VONE-eee-yuh:”) Yard in Camden had a tiny shanty — the only one I remember — and it was elevated like this one.
Pavonia was a solution to the many tiny railroad yards within Camden, all at riverside and cramped up against what used to be ferry-crossings over the Delaware River into Philadelphia from Camden — which is just Philadelphia extended into south Jersey.
Pavonia was built in eastern Camden out along the old Camden & Amboy, by then Pennsy’s Bordentown branch, the first railroad in the nation, between Philadelphia and New York City, although with ferries at each end, since it was entirely in New Jersey.
It took a while for a railroad to get around to bridging the Delaware River, which was done at Trenton, NJ, upstream.
The Hudson River was tunneled under at New York City in 1910, but that’s only passenger service.
Freight from the west into New York City is still ferried, although also trucked.
Back then the Bordentown branch was still pretty active.
Trains from New York City to Atlantic City would switch over to the Bordentown, and then bomb southwest into Camden, before turning east for Atlantic City.
A main highway (the “Marlton Pike”) headed east out of northeastern Camden, and crossed a lot of Pavonia Yard at grade.
The yard was so busy with switching moves, a watchman’s shanty had to be built to protect the highway.
There also was the chance an Atlantic City express from New York City would bomb through.
It was a way from my paternal grandparents in Camden, a way that I preferred — mainly because I’d see trains.
But not my parents. It was more direct, but very rough over the railroad crossing.
Marlton Pike now leaps over the yard-throat on an overpass; no fun any more for a railfan.
—2) The other thing is those reflective glass buttons on the sign-lettering.
Ya don’t see that any more; now the entire signs are reflective.

Steve McQueen’s 1963 Ferrari 250 GT/L Lusso.

I was going to run the May entry of my Oxman legendary sportscar calendar third behind the hot-rodded Model A (below), but every time I see it I think “wow!”
Just about any Ferrari is collectible on brand-name alone, but the “Lusso” is the second-most collectible road Ferrari (the road legal and more luxurious version of the Ferrari 250 GT Berlinetta).
I haven’t seen this particular car, but I have seen the most collectible road Ferrari of all time at a Watkins Glen sportscar show, what appears to be a 275 GTB Berlinetta coupe. —Identification of specific Ferraris is always difficult, since so many were one-offs (GTBs weren’t).

The most collectible road Ferrari ever; a 275 GTB (Gran-Touring-Berlinetta), Watkins Glen. (Photo by the so-called “old guy” with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.)

Only 350 Lussos were made.
This is a car once owned by actor Steve McQueen.

That’s McQueen.

It’s powered by a three-liter version of the fabulous Colombo (“co-LUM-bo”) V12.
The Colombo V12s, designed by Gioacchino Colombo, are the most famous Ferrari motor.
Larger V12s were designed by Aurelio Lampredi (“lam-PRED-eee”), but they weren’t the fabulous Colombo motor; which of course isn’t as exotic as what’s available now, even on a garden-variety sport motorcycle.
The Colombo V12 is single overhead camshaft on a two-valve hemispheric cylinder-head. It used multiple two-barrel carburetors (three, or as many as six) — imagine trying to synchronize all that.
But for its time (late ‘40s on) the Colombo V12 was extraordinary. Its horsepower output was comparable to Detroit V8s of twice its displacement.
The most collectible Ferraris of all time are the early Testa-Rossa racecars; about 1960.
Phenomenal horsepower in a gorgeous two-seater sportscar body. “Testa-Rossa” because the cast-aluminum cam covers atop the cylinder-heads were painted red. (Red-Head.)
Current garden-variety sport motorcycles are double overhead camshafts with four valves per cylinder, and will rev to the moon.
But in 1963 a Lusso Ferrari was extraordinarily desirable; more so than even the fabulous 409 Chevy (introduced in the 1961 model-year).

“Live Wire.”

—The May 2009 entry in my Oxman hot-rod calendar is a 1931 Model-A Ford “low-boy” five-window coupe hot-rod, chopped and channeled.
“Chopped and channeled” means the top was “chopped,” and that channels were built into the body-floor so the body could sit lower on the frame.
Three-or-four inches would get hacksawed (“chopped”) out of the side-window posts, so the roof could be lowered.
Then everything could be welded back together for a low appearance, which looked really cool except to the poor scrunched driver.
“Channeling” is as described.
A “Five-Window” coupe is a two-seater coupe with small windows behind the doors, so that the total window count (less windshield) was five.
There were also “Three-Window” coupes, which lack the small windows behind the doors.
In my humble opinion these look better; very spare, and not as busy as a “five-window.”
I don’t remember the Model-A being built as a “three-window,” but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t.
The “Three-Windows” I remember were the ‘32 and ‘34 Fords. —Willys also had a three-window coupe for 1940 or so; much better looking than the ‘40 Ford, which looked pretty good — except it’s five-window.
The engine in this car is 1952 Cadillac.
In the 1949 model-year Cadillac and Oldsmobile introduced the first modern overhead-valve V8 engines.
They were very attractive to hot-rodders, because they could generate more horsepower then Henry Ford’s old side-valve V8 (the “Flat-Head”) introduced in the 1932 model-year.
Flat-Heads were cheap and available; the Olds and Caddy V8s weren’t. Ford produced the Flat-Head through the 1953 model-year, and hot-rodders continued to use it.
But then in the 1955 model-year Chevrolet fielded its incredible Small-Block V8, and thereby put the old Flat-Head out to pasture.
Small-Blocks were cheap and available; and responded well to hot-rodding.
The Chevy Small-Block also used ball-stud rockers, dispensing with the heavy rocker-shafts used on the Cadillac and Oldsmobile V8s.
Eventually Cadillac and Oldsmobile went to ball-stud rockers, as did just about every manufacturer.
And not being tied to a long rocker-shaft, the valves could be splayed to maximize flow; e.g. the Chevy Big-Block and the Ford Cleveland motor.
My friend Art Dana (“DAY-nuh”) was building a Model-A hot-rod like this, but his was an open roadster with a souped-up ‘56 Pontiac V8 motor.
Dana is a retired bus-driver from Regional Transit Service, Rochester’s transit-bus operator where I drove bus 16&1/2 years — until my stroke.
He and I share similar interests; e.g. hot-rodding.
Sadly, Dana has Parkinson’s, and was unable to complete the car and had to sell it.
It was a great concept, but crude, of course, as hot-rods tend to be.
The Pontiac V8 was much heavier than what was in there originally, so the weight balance was terrible.
So much the front shocks were overwhelmed.
There also was some question that humble banjo rear-axle, from a ‘46 Ford, could have sustained the output of that Pontiac V8.
But the car’s gone regrettably — a victim of electrical confusion.
The taillights were six-volt ‘50s Pontiac units, and would burn out with the car’s 12-volt electrical system.
People would come by, apparently just as confused as Art, and cross wires. No one was using a flow-chart.

Northbound Pennsylvania Railroad I1 Decapod (2-10-0) with coal-train on the Elmira Branch north of Trout Run, PA; 1957. (Photo by Jim Shaughnessy©.)

—The May 2009 entry of my Audio-Visual Designs B&W All-Pennsy Calendar is a classic Jim Shaughnessy shot of a northbound coal-train on the Elmira Division, now abandoned.
The Elmira Division is the old Northern Central line from Williamsport, PA north to Elmira, NY.
The line continued north to Canandaigua, and was extended further north to Lake Ontario at Sodus Point.
There a large elevated coal wharf was built for transloading coal into lake ships, for shipment to Canada.
Most of that line was abandoned; although some continues in shortline service. The coal wharf was also removed.
The old Northern Central line, from Baltimore north into New York state, was an outlet for Pennsylvania coal; which was why Pennsy got it in the late 1800s.
Shaughnessy, as mentioned before, was a railfan photographer from Binghamton, NY, who took railfan photographs with his press-camera in the late ‘50s.
Mainly he shot Delaware & Hudson, which traveled through Binghamton.
As a railroad, D&H was an outgrowth of the Delaware & Hudson Canal Corporation, and extended up to Albany and Montreal, and down to the anthracite coal region around Scranton.
It became a conduit for anthracite coal.
Shaughnessy would stray west to Pennsy’s old Elmira branch, primarily because Pennsy was still using steam on it, clear up to the end of steam in 1957.
The old Northern Central route was challenging; well suited to Pennsy’s Decapod steamers (2-10-0).
The area north of Himrod Junction north of Elmira up to Penn Yan, NY is especially stiff, apparently still operated by Finger Lakes Railway.
Pennsy would slam coal-trains up the old Northern Central to the coal-wharf at Sodus Point.
And there would be Shaughnessy trackside north of Williamsport in the bucolic Lycoming Creek valley to record the Deks slugging it out.
The one pictured is #4311. They rode rough, but were very strong. Basic pulling power. Little more than 10 drivers under a very heavy locomotive.
I have ridden part of the old Northern Central route, a short segment operated by Ontario Midland shortline.
OMID’s ex-Pennsy trackage is from where the old Pennsy crossed the Hojack at grade at Wallington, east of Webster, NY, down to Newark, where it crosses the Water-Level via a bridge, and also interchanges.
(OMID also operates much of the Hojack, but not west of Webster.)
By that time the ex-Pennsy route was only a box-car sized tunnel of leaves.
It was a “Fall Foliage” trip, punctuated by Alco power. (OMID is nearly all Alco.)
It was a nice ride, in the valley of Mud Creek.
Used were the Rochester Chapter’s (of the National Railway Historical Society) set of retired New York Central “Empire State Express” cars; fluted stainless steel.
The excursion gave an idea of what the Pennsy Deks were up against, although by then the railroad was easy; just very rural.

A Fairey Firefly. (Photo by Philip Makanna©)

—The May 2009 entry of my Ghosts WWII warbirds calendar is a Fairey Firefly, an airplane I’m not familiar with.
The Firefly is a fairly large and heavy airplane, bigger than a Mustang.
It was designed to meet British military requirements for a reconnaissance airplane that could operate from aircraft-carriers.
It’s a redesign of the Fairey Fulmar.
It’s engine is the Rolls-Royce Griffon, bigger and more powerful than the Rolls-Royce Merlin, but still a water-cooled V12. (2,249 cubic inches versus 1,649 cubic inches.)
The Rolls-Royce Merlin was used in the Spitfire at 1,478 horsepower, and a version was built by Packard here in America at 1,695 horsepower for the Mustang.
The Griffon in this airplane is rated at 2,250 horsepower.
It has a four-bladed propeller.
Only a few Fireflies are left, at least three operable. —As opposed to 89 bazilyun Mustangs; actually about 150. (About 50 Spitfires are still airworthy.)
The one pictured is NX518WB out of California.
It looks like it’s flying over the California desert.
Of interest to me is that NX518WB appears to have wing-root radiators.
The Griffon engine is water-cooled, and apparently early Fireflies had a chin radiator beneath the propeller-spinner like a P40.
But then the radiators were relocated into long rectangular housings ahead of the wing-roots.
You can see them here; long rectangular scoops at the wing-roots.
Seems such an arrangement would render better weight-balance.

Norfolk Southern mixed freight rolls through Payne, OH toward Bellevue. (Photo by John Lindquist.)

—Ho-hum! The May 2009 entry of my Norfolk Southern Employees calendar is a standard three-quarter view of a Norfolk Southern freight-train.
I suppose it was chosen because it’s the May entry, and it has pretty purple wildflowers in it.
The lead locomotive is a General Electric C40-9W, a Dash-9 of 4,000 horsepower, six-axle trucks (“C”), and wide cab (“W”).
Don’t even know if a regular cab version is available any more — the arrangement found on early road-switchers.
The full-width nose was a special modification of the regular narrow road-switcher nose, supposedly safer.
The front of a wide-cab locomotive is full width like the early cab-units (F and FA), but behind the cab it’s still a road-switcher, with a narrow casing of the engine, etc. with walkways along side.
Supposedly a full-width cab renders better protection in impacts.
Such cabs were better insulated to seal out noise and weather, thus improving the working environment.
Just the early diesel-locomotive cabs were a step up from steam locomotives, where the crew had to hang out in the open.
The engineer had to hang out an open side window, and usually the whole back of the cab was open so the Fireman could access the coal in the tender. —Not so in Canada.
And it seems General Electric made the Dash-9 at 4,400 horsepower; and sold mostly them.
But Norfolk Southern specified a derated 4,000 horsepower version to prolong their operational life.
One wonders how long this unit will last.
Soon they become moribund — already they are being replaced by EMD’s SD70M on premier freight-trains. And a six-axle road locomotive can’t be bumped down into local service or switching.
I’ve seen rusty GE units in the Altoona scrap lines, only 15 years old or so. —A steam locomotive usually lasted 30 years.

1969 American Motors AMX. (Photo by David Newhardt.)

—The May 2009 entry in my Motorbooks Musclecars calendar gets my boobie-prize this time, but that’s not fair, because it’s really a pretty good picture.
It’s just that I’ve always felt that the AMX was an el-cheapo cobble-job; hardly a true sportscar, more something a hot-rodder might put together under a tree in his backyard.
The AMX is the AMC Javelin pony car with the back seat area removed.
The entire section holding the rear seats was removed, making the car a two-seater.
The AMC Javelin was a pretty good pony car, although not a Mustang or Camaro.
Years ago (1970), the Penske/Donohue (“PENN-skee”) Trans-Am team switched from the Camaro to the Javelin, causing fans to charge sell-out. Mark Donohue (long deceased) was the driver, and Roger Penske the entrant. (Penske is still alive.)
But they got the old turkey running pretty good; even won a championship with it.
The AMX may have been a two-seater, but it was hardly a sportscar.
That’s the front-end of a Javelin, as is the rear-axle and tail.
The only things missing are the rear seats, and the surrounding chassis/body area.
When John Z. DeLorean (“de-LORE-ee-un”) was head honcho of Chevrolet in the ‘70s, he wanted to do the same thing to the Camaro and call it a Corvette.
Thankfully, he didn’t succeed. Though the Corvette is a bit of an overblown tub, it’s at least a sportscar — and so far, the best sportscar America has ever offered.
It was groomed to excellence by Zora Arkus-Duntov, and made good use of the fantastic Small-Block V8 introduced by Chevrolet in the 1955 model-year.
Chopping the Camaro and rebadging it as a Corvette would have been a HUGE step backward.
This didn’t happen — the ‘Vette guys prevailed.
Also of interest is that filmy speed-limit sign behind the rear tire.
The publishers probably hoped we wouldn’t notice.
The photographer probably shot a slew of angles, that included masking out that speed-limit sign.
Yet the publishers decided this shot was best — and we hope no one notices that filmy speed-limit sign.
—Coulda been fixed with Photoshop®.

“8:39........

.......that has to be a record,” said 282 Recording-Secretary John Blocchi (“BLOCK-eee”)
“282” is the Rochester division (“Local 282”) of the nationwide Amalgamated Transit Union, my old bus union at Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, where I drove transit-bus for 16&1/2 years until my stroke.
Local 282 holds three regular monthly business meetings the third Thursday of each month: 10 a.m., 3 p.m., and 8 p.m.
The 3 p.m. meeting was essentially my doing.
Attending the 8 p.m. meeting was virtually impossible for an early pull-out like me. And at 10 a.m. I was working.
The 8 p.m. meeting might last until 10 p.m.; then 45-50 minutes to drive home; so in bed at 11 p.m.
Get right back up at 3 a.m., so I could pull out a bus at 5 a.m.
So I circulated a petition. Early pull-outs were being circumstantially blocked from attending meetings.
The petition passed, and the International office in Washington D.C. liked the idea, so 3 p.m. meetings began.
I guess they still have them, although my stroke ended my bus-driving career way back in 1993.
The meeting started on time at 8 p.m. with the Pledge-of-Allegiance to the flag, and a moment of standing silence for recently deceased members, both of whom I didn’t know, since they were mechanics.
Only four attended; one of the four being me. Eight if you include the union officials.
At least 17 or more attended the morning meeting, and 10 or more the afternoon meeting. So we had a quorum.
Union support is always a joke. Our union has almost 650 members. The ones that are bus-drivers are all ornery — you couldn’t succeed if ya weren’t.
The mechanics are ornery too; as a result of being managed by jerks.
The bus-drivers, being pretty much on-their-own all day, aren’t very connected to the Union.
And we don’t have a “Hall.” (What we have are Union offices in a building down the street from Transit — that building also has a large meeting-room inside; where we hold our meetings.)
What we have is “the Drivers’ Room,” which is on Transit property, and overseen by management.
As a concession to the Union, it has a tiny bulletin-board off in a dark alcove.
Union officers visit occasionally, but the bus-drivers have to hit it daily. Rumors fly and can’t be squelched.
Union officials are fairly available if called, but there’s a likelihood you’ll get an answering-machine.
It’s an arrangement that works against the Union: “the Drivers’ Room.”
Of the four on hand, three were Transit (one being me; retired), and one was LiftLine.
“LiftLine” is the area’s “Dial-a-Bus” service. Its Operations-Center is at another location separate from Transit, but it’s affiliated, since both LiftLine and Transit are run by the Rochester Genesee Regional Transportation Authority.
So LiftLine is also 282.
So is a private bus operator in adjacent Ontario County (where we live). —Ontario County doesn’t belong to the Rochester Genesee Regional Transportation Authority (“RGRTA”).
About 10 or so proposed LiftLine arbitrations were rattled off for vote by the single LiftLine attendee.
Only four arbitrations for Transit.
Next was the report by 282’s Business-Agent: Frank Falzone (“fowl-ZONE”).
“Blah-blah-blah” then “I wanna squelch a rumor that Joe and I were against back-pay in a proposed contract.” (“Joe” is Joe Carey [‘carry’], president of Local 282.)
—282 has been without a contract with Transit since late 2006. By law, we operate under the old contract.
“This is bunk!” Frank said. “We never would accept no back pay. Ahem; ‘Read-my-Lips!’”
That completed: “Any new business?” Joe asked.
“Any old business?
With nothing presented, I’ll entertain a motion to adjourn.”
Boom-zoom.
“Gotta go pull a bus out,” a Transit attendee said. He walked outside and down Main St. toward the Barns.

I had a stroke October 26, 1993.

The so-called “Genesee Region” is all the counties in the area of western N.Y. that the Genesee River flows through. (The Genesee River flows north from Pennsylvania into Lake Ontario, also through Rochester.) —The only county in the Genesee Region that wouldn’t join the Rochester Genesee Regional Transportation Authority (“RGRTA”) is Ontario County (where we live). RGRTA also operates other small bus-services in other counties that surround the county Rochester is in (Monroe County); but its main function was to make the private bus-operator (who was losing money) in Rochester public.

In the final year of my employ at Regional Transit (i.e. before my stroke), I did a voluntary union newsletter called the “282 News.” It was great fun, since it would prompt weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth among Transit managers. Finally the union viewpoint was getting out to local politicians and media, instead of just the usual Transit self-congratulation. This included egregious safety issues, that before had been swept under the rug. It also included stories like what appears in this blog, so was interesting. —It was done with Microsoft Word®, was a lotta work, and ended with my stroke.

An “arbitration” is to bring a dispute before an impartial arbitrator, agreed to by both management and the Union, to decide the case.

“The Barns” are the location of Transit’s operations — also large sheds the buses can be kept inside.

Kiley

Lazy, no-good, layabout, no-account, do-nothing pack a’ Ne’er-do-wells. (Photo by the so-called “old guy” with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100 camera.)

Yesterday morning (Wednesday, May 20, 2009) was a brunch get-together at a restaurant east of Rochester of a pack of lazy, no-good, layabout, no-account, do-nothing retired employees of Regional Transit Service.
Most are retired bus-drivers, but a few were management.
Our group isn’t organized; just ad hoc.
Word gets spread around through e-mail and phonecalls of future get-togethers.
We all share the experience of having worked for Regional Transit Service, which could be rather difficult.
I used to have to get up at 3 a.m.
Beyond that, the people we were working for were jerks. That included our clientele.
Most interesting to me was the presence of Dan Kiley (“KEYE-leee”).
Kiley and I always did similar work; that is, as little as possible.
At run-pickings, many drivers just took a stab-in-the-dark, and then complained until the pick ended.
Kiley and I would assiduously research the available runs, trying to find what worked the least, and was convenient.
I was even more thorough than Kiley, since I was factoring in logistics.
The ideal logistical arrangement was pull-out, pull-in; pull-out, pull-in. This avoided a relief downtown; three miles and 15 minutes away.
Relieve and/or get relieved downtown and you were adding to portal-to-portal time.
It was either -a) wait for a bus downtown at the Barns, or -b) park your car downtown. I did this for a while, but then the freebie lot threw us out.
And ya didn’t get paid to wait for a bus.
Kiley and I picked packages when I lived in the city.
I lived only five minutes from the Barns, so I could come home and go back five hours later.
Packages generally paid the most, since ya were still drivin’ eight hours after ya started. Anything after that was overtime.
No matter ya might have a five-hour break between run-halves; the law said if ya were still working eight hours after starting, it was overtime.
Packages usually had schoolwork in them; using your bus to pick up schoolkids along a bus-line, and then take them to school.
A large technical high-school had been built on an old landfill west of the city, and it drew kids from all over the city.
Transit was always able to do this work for way less than a schoolbus service, so we did it.
The advantage of such work was that if the school was off, that part of your run was canceled.
Yet we got paid as if we had made the entire run.
Per contract, we were guaranteed eight hours per day; but I got the same paycheck every week, schoolwork or not.
Sometimes your schoolwork got hooked with regular line-service, or to clean up a busy line.
The goal was school-trip only, so we might only hafta work four hours (or so) in the afternoon. —Sleep in and get paid!
Kiley and I always picked work like this: one trip to that technical high-school in the morning, plus additional school-trips in the afternoon hooked to line-service.
If school was off, we were only doing the line-service; maybe four hours.
Some packages were three-trickers; three pull-outs.
Kiley and I avoided those; too inconvenient.
Another factor I had was no technical high-school in the afternoon. Them schoolkids were too sleepy in the morning to be any trouble. But in the afternoon they were wired. I never drove them home.
Another factor was the expressway schtick; it was no fun driving bus if ya couldn’t put the hammer down at least once each day.
A fourth factor was that some lines were easy, and some were killers.
The 700-line (Monroe Ave. and N. Clinton) was easy, as it was so long it needed five all-day buses. At the south end ya might layover about 15-25 minutes.
The last line I did before my stroke, the 800-line (Main St.) was a killer, but had an immense logistical advantage; namely that it relieved right in front of the Barns (which were on Main St.).
I’d have so many passengers I was stopping at every stop — and the entire east end, out-and-back, had to be done in an hour.
I was always late through the east end layover-point, changing signs on-the-fly.
So I no longer saw Kiley after we moved to West Bloomfield in 1990.
I could no longer do packages with the Barns being 35-45 minutes away.
No more schoolwork, and canceled run-segments when school was off.
Eight hours per day of regular line-service; and my last run was eight straight hours — only one pull-out, but get relieved after eight hours right in front of the Barns.
This minimized portal-to-portal, but even then from wake-up alarm back to into the garage was 12 hours — and I got paid for eight.
Getting relieved (or pulling in) at the Barns meant walking right to my car. Catching a bus from downtown to the Barns was 15-20 minutes; a roulette game.
Driving bus was fun for a while, but became irksome with no more packages.
And line-service versus a package was a cut in pay.
We had a good time swapping bus stories.
This all started when I related my infamous Culver Road story:
I’m driving the 800-line east on Main St., and pull up to Main & Clinton, the main stop downtown.
“Hey man; this bus go to Culver Road?”
“Well, depends on whatcha want. Culver Road crosses about eight bus-lines, and one even travels on it.”
“Don’t gimme no crap, man......”
“Okay, suit yourself,” I think. “I tried to help ya.”
“Yeah, I cross Culver Road, but on Main St.”
We proceed out Main St., and finally we come to Culver Road.
“This is it,” I say; “Culver Road. Says so right on the sign.”
“So where’s Sea Breeze, dude?”
“About 10 miles that way,” I say, pointing up the road.
“Aw man......”
“I tried to help ya, but ya ‘bout bit my head off. So I gave up; I cross Culver Road.”
“I used to get that about ‘Westfall Road;’” said another driver; another long road that crosses three bus-lines.
“I’m drivin’ the 50 to Monroe Community College, and it crosses Westfall at its end.
I let the guy off at Westfall, and he askes where Social-Services (Welfare) is. ‘That way,’ I point. ‘See it?’ ‘Aww man...... Ya mean I gotta walk a block? I thoughtcha went to Welfare.’ ‘Yeah, but ya asked for Westfall.’”
Another driver chimes in: “I’m drivin’ the 700, and it crosses Westfall on the way southeast. ‘This bus go to Westfall?’ ‘On Monroe Ave.,’ I say. We go out Monroe and I announce Westfall: ‘this is it; see the sign?’”
“‘So where’s Social-Services?’”
“‘About three miles that way.’”
Amazingly, he didn’t get shot. (Musta been an angel aboard.)
For noisy complaints about poor scheduling from the all-knowing Bluster-Boy, I humblee submit that the bus-scheduling reflected the two rush-hours, which were over eight hours apart.
More buses had to be on-the-road then than around noon.
It wasn’t possible to schedule driver run-times to cover both rush-hours, without working into overtime.
Kiley and I were playing the game to avoid exposure to our horrendous clientele. —Minimizing city runs to maximize suburban and otherwise.
Kiley used the long break to patronize the Rochester YMCA; I used it to run with the dog.
I hadn’t seen Kiley for years — about 19+. And of course my stroke ended all possibility.

For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. —My all-knowing, blowhard brother-from-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, claims all bus-drivers, like me, are lazy, no-good, layabout, no-account, do-nothings.

RE: “Run-pickings......” —Three times a year (Fall, Winter, and then Summer) the bus-drivers would pick their runs by seniority from a massive schedule. Summer was lighter than the other two, since there was no school.

“The Barns” were essentially the central operating location of Transit. They also were large sheds for storing buses inside.

The “Bluster-Boy” is my all-knowing, blowhard brother-from-Boston.

I still run. Back then I ran at a county park with our first dog, Casey, a female Irish-Setter. —We are now on dog number six, “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s almost four.

Incident at Weggers

By far, the greatest railfan spot I have ever been to. (Photo by the so-called “old guy” with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.)

I’m at the mighty Canandaigua Weggers last week, probably last Wednesday (May 13, 2009), checking out.
“Have a nice day,” the clerk coos.
I turn around to arrow my cart toward the door.
The lady behind me is smiling broadly, and looking right at me.
“Altoona, Pennsylvania, eh?” she says. “My son was just admiring your railroad hat.”
“Horseshoe Curve,” I say. “Ever been there? By far the greatest railfan spot I’ve ever been to; and I’ve seen many, even in California.”
“No,” she says.
“By all means do it!” I say. “Trains willy-nilly, and you’re smack in the apex of the Curve. You won’t regret it.
And take your kid too.”
“Is it the sort of thing kids can enjoy?”
“He’ll love it. Trains up close and personal.
And ya might hafta wait 20 minutes or so, but wait. You’ll get rewarded.
It used to be four tracks,” I say. “Now it’s three; but I have seen as many as three trains at once.
And since it’s uphill, the uphill trains are wide open.
I usually say ‘wait 20 minutes and you’ll see a train.’”

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.

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

RE: “My son was just admiring your railroad hat........” —I am a railfan, and have been since I was a child.

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.

Catch-22 Alert

“Our attempt to deliver a text message notification to your wireless device was unsuccessful........”
Well of course it was. My current cellphone is kaput.

A little explanation here:
My Motorola RAZR® cellphone was dunked, and is inoperative.
I’ve tried various methods of drying it out, and nothing worked.
So I ordered a new cellphone, a Nokia 6205.
Okay, next step is to activate the new cellphone; call 877-807-4646.
“Please key in your cellphone number with area-code.” (A machine call.) “Bip-bip-bip; bip-bip-bip; ba-bip-bee-bip!”
“Please key in password to your MyVerizon account.”
I don’t have it! Ya texted it to an inoperative phone; thereby crashing mightily in flames.
So activate your new phone to get that texted password.
I can’t activate the new phone without the password, which I can’t receive because my new phone isn’t activated.
CATCH-22 ALERT! Another one of them wonderful technological loops served up by engineers; ya need to activate your new phone to activate your new phone. —Sounds like my politics is wrong, or I don’t understand the engineering mind. (“The way to cure a power-surge in Floridy is disable the entire power-grid.”*)
REPUBLICAN-LOGIC ALERT!
*“That was a human-performance error,” he’ll bellow.
“Yeah,” I’ll say. “It was an engineer.”

Linda has since called Verizon (while I was at the vaunted Canandaigua YMCA); and determined my MyVerison account has the same password I’ve always used — like maybe a new MyVerizon account was set up when we renewed our contract almost two years ago.
Too bad we don’t have 44 around — although the Nokia is now activated.
(Toy not with the master!)

My loudmouthed macho brother-from-Boston (“he”) was trained as an engineer, and noisily claims superiority. I majored in History, so am therefore vastly inferior.

RE: “The way to cure a power-surge in Floridy (Florida) is disable the entire power-grid.......” —Last year most of the Florida electric grid was shut down because of a single engineer trying to fix things.

My siblings are all tyub-thumping Republican Conservatives.

“Linda” is my wife of 41+ years.

I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA exercise gym.

“44” (“Agent-44”) is my brother-from-Delaware’s onliest son Tom. He recently graduated college as a computer-engineer.

RE: “Toy not with the master!” —I always say that to get my siblings upset.

U-scan follies

“Welcome to Tops! If you have a Tops Bonus-card, please scan it now.”
“Bip!”
“Welcome Tops favored customer. Please scan first item.”
“Bip!”
“Please deposit scanned item in non-recyclable plastic bag that clutters landfill 700 years.
Ah-ah-ah! Naughty-naughty!
Not in reusable shopping bag. Please deposit scanned item in non-recyclable plastic bag that clutters landfill 700 years.”
“Uh, sir,” Granny-staffer mutters, munching on a donut. “There’s a scale under them plastic bags. Ya gotta use the plastic bags.
If you wanna use your reusable bag, ya gotta wait until you’re finished, then transfer your groceries, and give your plastic bags to me.
I then toss your plastic bags to clutter the landfill 700 years.”
Reminds of the automated tram at Orlando Airport.
“Please stand clear of the doors; they are about to close. Please hold the grab-bars while tram is in motion. Welcome to the Land of Make Believe.”
Better yet are the trams at Atlanta’s airport, which years ago had the disembodied monotone synthesized voice: “please get up off the floor. Tram will not operate unless all passengers are on their feet.”

“Tops” is a large supermarket-chain based in Buffalo we sometimes buy groceries at. They have a store in Canandaigua.

Simon Pontin

Pontin.

What can I say?
This morning (Monday, May 17, 2009) was the first morning without Simon Pontin (“PAHN-tin”); the longtime morning-man at the classical radio station in Rochester we listen to, WXXI.
He finally retired after 33 years.
We’ve been listening to Pontin ever since he came to WXXI in 1976, which is about the time I stopped listening to rock-‘n’-roll radio.
I guess I’ve always been attracted to classical music, a flame fanned by my childhood piano-teacher, the infamous Mrs. Dager (“DAY-grrr”), the choir-director at Erlton Community Baptist Church.
Mrs. Dager got my sister and I into a children’s concert by the Philadelphia Symphony.
The Orchestra played Dvorák’s New World Symphony, and Sibelius’ Finlandia. I couldn’t get them out of my head; and it was time of Jerry Lee Lewis and Chuck Berry — and I was only 12 or so.
About 1970 I was listening to radio station WCMF-FM in Rochester, the so-called “underground station;” although by then rock-‘n’-roll was no longer the boogie-woogie it had been.
It had become a means of rebellion, as signified by “Cream” and Jimi Hendrix.
Which was okay. I used to listen in my darkroom (no light from a transister radio); although the station was also playing Joni Mitchell, James Taylor and Carol King.
I remember listening to “Riders on the Storm” by the Doors in the dark, as a downpour beat on my blacked-out bathroom window. (WCMF’s studios weren’t far away.)
But my tastes were changing.
The last rock-‘n’-roll albums I bought were Def Leppard and Patti Smith, although by then I was also buying Mozart symphonies and Bach.
TV station WXXI (Channel 21) started a public-radio service, and at first had an announcer from WCMF as their morning-man, one Tom Teuber (“TUBE-rrrr”).
Shortly before that, WBFB-FM, the private classical music station in Rochester, affiliated with the giant number-one rock-‘n’-roll radio station, WBBF-AM, changed format to all-news.
Pontin was one of the two classical radio-personalities there. Both were British expatriates, and have the accent.
It was as if the accent were required for classical music announcing.
Pontin tried to sell Mercedes for a while (almost a year), but failed.
Not a viper.
WXXI’s public-radio format was also failing, so they decided to try the classical music format WBFB had used, and hired the two British expatriates, including Pontin.
They figured there was a market for classical music in Rochester, and there was; although it’s public-radio.
As such there are occasional fund-drives (“Beg-a-thons”) to support the station. There is no advertising — so they say, assuming one discounts the support from Velmex of East Bloomfield, Shepard Ford, etc.
We support the station ourselves; probably more so than the average member.
The best thing about Pontin was his wry and gentle humor — much like us.
“I had a horrible nightmare last night,” he once said; “that all our Academy of St. Martin in the Fields recordings were gone, and that as such we had nothing left to play.” It was a reflection on the fact so many classical pieces are now by the Academy of St. Martin in the Fields Chamber Orchestra.
It also is the sort of comment I would make.
One morning long ago at the mighty Mezz I commented to a photographer, who was also a classical music geek: “they played a tedium (‘tuh-DAY-um’) on WXXI yesterday. Not a tomorrowum or a yesterdayum; a tedium.”
That’s also the sort of comment Pontin would make.
Years ago he did a remote morning broadcast out of the back of a city garbage-truck. That was because every Thursday he announced as “garbage-day in the Wedge.” —The “Wedge” is an area southeast of center-city Rochester he lived in at that time.
So now Pontin is gone; replaced by Brenda Trembley (“trom-BLAY”), a Houghton grad, and known to us as “Bubbles.”
This was because of her somewhat strident effervescent personality.
“She’s not as bad as she was,” I observed.
“But she’s not Pontin,” my wife said. “Mornings won’t be the same.” —It’s the old waazoo; the triumph of wry humor.
“Some have it; and most don’t,” I said. “And most people go ballistic faced with wry humor. They can’t handle it.”
Pontin’s last day was last Saturday (May 16, 2009). He played “Cows with Guns;” one of his staples.
“He can’t last forever,” I said. “He’s older than us, although just a little.”

“Erlton” (‘EARL-tin’) is the small suburb of Philadelphia in south Jersey where I lived until I was 13. Erlton was founded in the ‘30s, named after its developer, whose name was Earl. Erlton was north of Haddonfield, an old Revolutionary town.

About 1969 I began trying to freelance car-race photographs, and set up a black-and-white darkroom in the bathroom of our apartment in Rochester. I sold a few nationwide.

RE: “Pontin tried to sell Mercedes.....” — He tried to be a car salesman.

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

“Houghton” is Houghton College in western New York, from where I graduated with a BA in 1966. I’ve never regretted it, although I graduated as a Ne’er-do-Well, without their blessing. Houghton is an evangelical liberal-arts college.

My wife of 41+ years is “Linda.”

Gates-speak

Last night (Thursday, May 14, 2009) was an effort to set up a new Excel® chart for running at the so-called elitist country-club, identical to the charts I had last year.
Last year I had a single Excel spreadsheet with three charts, each 26 items long; the number of characters in the alphabet.
I started a new spreadsheet with my first run this year. Now I had a second run, so could do a chart.
“Something is wrong,” I say. My chart is not identical to previous charts, and makes no sense.
“So use last year’s spreadsheet as a starting-point,” Linda suggests; “and then all your previous formatting is in place.”
Capital idea! I save last year’s spreadsheet as this year, and then delete the three rows of information.
First row is formatted as dates; then the second and third rows are custom-formatted as minutes and seconds and tenths of seconds, although it shows up as clock-time in the working window. (??????)
Third row is identical to the second row, as it’s the sum of the column — just the second row.
Now, chart-function. Chart contents of third row. It will be an up-and-down line.
“Not logical,” Excel asserts.
Okay; I determine that’s because no values are in columns selected but to the right of the two columns that have values.
Okay; insert zero as the total in each empty column.
Now we’re getting somewhere; I have a chart identical to last year’s chart.
But it wants to be chart #4. Charts 1 through 3 are still there.
So I need a “delete chart.”
I poke all around, but no “delete chart” function.
“I’m sure I did it once,” I say.
There is a “delete-sheet” function, but I don’t wanna delete the spreadsheet the charts work off of.
Do I call in the support of Excel-master, the guy who taught my Excel class?
I try the Excel “Help” function. Nothing about “delete chart.”
Finally, after taking a break and walking the dog, I decide it’s do-or-die time — time for a fearsome experiment. Just like the mighty Mezz.
I have on my screen the chart I wanna delete, and hit “delete-sheet.”
If this deletes my working sheet, I don’t save it. —And I still have the entire spreadsheet from last year I started with.
VIOLA; the suspect chart is gone, but my working spreadsheet is still there.
GATES-SPEAK ALERT! Apparently a sheet is also a chart.
I delete the other charts, so now I can rename “Chart-Four” as “Chart-One.”
How, pray tell, am I supposed to know the strange Gates lingo; that a chart is also a sheet?

“The so-called elitist country-club” is nearby Boughton (“BOW-tin” as in “ow”) Park, where I run and we walk our dog. It was called that long ago by an editor at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper (the “mighty Mezz”), 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. —At the Messenger I was sort of a computer-tech geek. Although most of what I knew was self-taught; the result of “fearsome experiments.”

“Linda” is my wife of 41+ years. She programed computers before she retired.

Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s almost four, and is our sixth Irish-Setter.

“Gates” is Bill Gates, the head of Microsoft, developer of the Excel® spreadsheet software.

Three errands.......

.....the other day (Tuesday, May 12, 2009).

—1) Was to buy tires for the CR-V.
Sadly, the tires weren’t el-cheapo rim-protectors from mighty Wal*Mart, manufactured by Chinese child prison-labor in steaming cockroach-infested sweatshops.
As I have been told by my siblings, Wal*Mart is indeed the greatest store in the entire known universe, and the fact I don’t like shopping there means I’m of-the-Devil.
Every time I’ve shopped there has been a bad shopping experience.
-A) Once I got snapped at by Wal*Mart store-associates for interrupting their day-long donut break.
All because I had the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to ask where something was in their gigantic store.
-B) We bought an electronic scale there once we call the roulette machine.
It reads consistently less than the YMCA medical scale, plus it’s erratic.
Every time ya stand on it, ya get a different reading, even seconds apart.
Made in China, of course.
-C) There’s always the risk you’ll get hugged by a urine-smelling geezer-greeter with bad gingivitis.
All that for a savings of 25¢.
Getting into and out of it burns probably a gallon of gas.
And just going to and parking there gobbles at least 20 minutes.
All of this matters little to my siblings; the fact I avoid Wal*Mart means I’m of-the-Devil.
After all, Jesus shopped Wal*Mart.
I bought the tires from a Goodyear store; Eagle GTs.
I’ve been using Goodyear tires for a long time.
Bought a set of GT+4s for the Faithful Hunda, and when they wore out, a second set.
The N.Y. State Police was using GT+4s on their pursuit cruisers, so they were well recommended.
I’ve always used quality tires; got Pirelli CN36s for our Vega GT — supposedly the best tire money could buy at that time.
They made all the difference in the world. Combined with new Koni® shocks, they made it a great car. It came with Wide-Ovals, which looked butch, but were awful. All-over-the-road in the rain.
The Faithful Hunda came with stock tires; they were flaccid and mere rim-protectors.
I considered a Firestone GT tire, but got the Goodyear GT+4s.
They made it a great car; well-balanced and a handler. Steering was quicker and precise; with the stock tires it had been wimpy.
Our so-called soccer-mom minivan (the Astrovan) came with stock Continental rim-protectors; flaccid and woozy. I swapped them out for GT+4s, the same tire used an the Astro GT.
My blowhard younger brother-in-Boston, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, and considers himself the supreme authority in all things automotive, claimed I had used an oversized tire, I suppose because of their wide footprint.
But they weren’t; they were the same tires used on the Astro GT.
Made it a much more pleasant van; steering was quicker and much more precise.
I put 140,000 miles on that van; two sets of GT+4s, and then the Goodyear tire that replaced the GT+4.
Our CR-V came with stock all-terrain Bridgestones, which were okay, but they were on heavy stock 15-inch stamped steel wheels.
A custom-wheel outfit was offering alloy-wheel and tire packages in my Car & Driver magazine.
I coulda sprung for 18-inch alloy rims, but to me that was ridiculous — this ain’t Los Angeles; I ain’t stylin’. —What if ya hit a curb?
16 inches was enough; one inch more than stock. The tires were also slightly bigger than stock; and 60-series, instead of 70.
The Goodyear store suggested they could save me a few bucks by downgrading my tire-choice: “The Eagle GT is a performance tire.”
NOT THIS KID! “I really like those tires; I ain’t downgradin’.”
I told him the story of the Astrovan; no flaccid rim-protectors for this kid.
The Bathtub has Bridgestone run-flats, and they’re pretty good. Stock tire technology seems to have caught up with Goodyear.
Change-out would probably require new wheels, and/or no run-flats and no spare.
So they’re staying put. There’s nothing wrong with them. As I say, stock tire technology seems to have caught up with Goodyear.
“All done, Mr. Hughes. I’ll say one thing; ya’ve been awful quiet. Not a peep outta ya; and ya were there at least two hours.”
“Yep; and I had to endure loudmouthed Tyra on your plasma-baby!
I’ll tell ya a secret though. It was because I had a stroke. The old speech-center doesn’t work very well, so I don’t say much. It ain’t the one I was using before the stroke. It’s what’s left.”
“Well, I’d never know the difference.”
“Well, listen carefully, and ya’ll hear hesitation, and often the wrong words spill out.”

—2) Was the Verizon store, to replace my dunked RAZR.
I had been told our cellphone contract would expire May 4, but it expires in October — May 4 was the first day I could upgrade under our old contract.
Linda didn’t wanna upgrade from her RAZR; “every cellphone is a new gig. I finally got so I could drive the RAZR, so I’d rather not switch.”
Okay, I hafta replace my phone, so can I upgrade just it?
And I just use it as a phone — we have texting turned off, since we never use it, plus ya charge us for the spam.
So all I need is a phone much like my RAZR — not some silly Blackberry with a tiny keyboard of matchhead keys, and not some glitzy Apple iPhone I can start my microwave with from across the universe.”
“Well, this here phone is outta stock in this store; I’d hafta order it online — in which case it FedEx-es directly to your house, and ya can bring it back here to activate, or activate it yourself. Instructions are in the box.”
“Okay, we’ll try it; but this here RAZR was also VZ-Navigator enabled.”
“That’s a separate download. Ya can bring it back here, or call this service-number and they’ll walk ya through it.”
Bottom line: only my phone upgraded. My new phone is much like my RAZR, only smaller. So far, the RAZRs were the best cellphones we ever had. —My new phone is cellphone number five. First were the pop-tarts; then the stick a’ butter; then the flip-phones; then the RAZRs.

—3) Was Victor Power Equipment (this is a very basic site), to get a few items for our small Honda walk-behind mower.
I had replaced the mowing-deck, which had rusted out, and needed a few small items to complete the job.
-A) was the bracket a small hinge mounted to; it had been damaged by hacksawing. A rubberized flap fits over the discharge hole, so the mower will mulch.
None of this had been included with my replacement deck, which was okay — I planned to reuse.
-B) was a small retainer cap for the long pin a long rubberized flap hung from. The flap hung at the back. The cap had been made useless in removing.
“More parts, eh? Parts-parts-parts! I’m sick of looking at this monitor. That’s all I’ve been doing all day. ‘Honda Harmony HRS216,’ ya say?”
“Hey Jeremy. This yellow sheet go in there?”
“Right in here, dude.
This looks like what ya want.”
“Wait just one cotton-pickin’ minute,” I think. “I know it’s rude, but I don’t wanna waste time ordering the wrong part.”
Walk around and behind counter; look at monitor.
“This is it, right here.”
“Wait a minute; that’s a different part. That bolts right to the deck.”
“Yep; that’s what I need. This is that same part, although damaged by the hacksaw.”
Um, toy not with the master! I sure am glad I was rude.

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

“We” is my wife of 41+ years, Linda and I.

I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym. They have a medical scale in the Mens Locker-Room.

“The Faithful Hunda” is our 1989 Honda Civic All-Wheel-Drive station-wagon, by far the BEST car we’ve ever owned, now departed (replaced by our 2003 Honda CR-V). (Called a “Hunda” because that was how a fellow bus-driver at Transit [Regional-Transit-Service in Rochester, where I once worked] pronounced it.)

The “so-called soccer-mom minivan” is our 1993 Chevrolet Astrovan, traded over two years ago for our 2005 Toyota Sienna van (the “Bathtub”). My loudmouthed macho brother-from-Boston calls both “soccer-mom minivans” as a put-down. —We call the Sienna “the Bathtub,” because it’s large and white and like sitting in a bathtub.

“Run-flats” are tires that can run without air in them (“flat”), although at low speed. Our Sienna, which is All-Wheel-Drive, had to make do without a spare-tire. —To avoid putting regular tires on “run-flat” wheels, the outside and inside diameters of the wheels are different. “Run-flat” tires correspond.

“Tyra” is TV personality Tyra Banks; a former supermodel.

“Plasma-babies” are what my macho brother-from-Boston calls all high-definition wide/flat-screen TVs. Other technologies beside plasma are available, but he calls them all “plasma-babies.”

I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and it slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty putting words together.)

A “RAZR” is the Motorola RAZR® cellphone. I inadvertently left it in my pants-pocket, and then soaked the pants.

“VZ-Navigator” is Verizon’s cellphone navigation system — your cellphone becomes a GPS navigation unit. (It requires cellphone Internet access, which my cellphone had enabled. My wife’s doesn’t. —Both our phones are on the same contract; it has two separate phones; two individual numbers for each phone. I.e. mine doesn’t ring when her’s does.)

Over the years, we’ve had four different cellphones; our first looked like pop-tarts; our second like a stick of butter; our third were flip-phones; and our fourth were RAZRs.

The mowing-deck on our small Honda walk-behind lawnmower had rusted out because it’s a mulching mower, and damp grass builds up inside.

Desktop picture

Good old GG1 #4896, my computer desktop picture (“wallpaper”). (Photo by the so-called “old guy” years ago [‘70s] with the Pentax Spotmatic.)

I spent the better part of yesterday afternoon (Monday, May 11, 2009), and last night, trying to recapture my desktop picture.
My desktop picture is good old GG1 #4896, a locomotive I saw many times, and went through, but only photographed once.
Anyone who reads this here blog, knows I consider the Pennsylvania Railroad’s GG1 electric locomotive the greatest locomotive ever.
I have a slew of scans of my one-and-only 4896 print, probably seven-to-10.
For some unknown reason, one is razor-sharp.
I suppose it’s an old scan from eons ago, as any I’ve done since were a little fuzzy — and prints deteriorate.

A little ‘pyooter-image instruction:
Scanning at low resolution renders an image-file that can’t be blown up. Blow it up and it goes all jaggy.
I had resized the razor-sharp scan down to 72 pixels-per-inch and 5.6 inches wide by whatever for a blog story, but had apparently kept the original scan.
I tried scanning the print again, at increasing resolutions; first 300 ppi (pixels-per-inch), then 2,400, then 3,600, and finally 4,800.
The drill here is if I had enough memory to process such a monster; my previous rig didn’t.
It would start doing the virtual-memory shuffle.
But this rig has 1.2 gigs of memory; so it swallowed it.
A 72 pixels-per-inch image only 5.6 inches wide, blown up to monitor size (10’ X 16’) goes all jaggy and woozy.
Which was why I was rescanning at higher resolutions — I couldn’t use the pik I had in the blog; too small.)
But everything still looked fuzzy, even at the higher resolutions. And at 4,800 everything took so long it was unbearable.
Finally, I happened to stumble on my razor-sharp original, buried deep within a folder on the hard-drive partition for my previous ‘pyooter, and it was 144 pixels-per-inch, but 26.056’ X 17.208’; fairly large.
I opened that, and did a few Photoshop Elements® tricks, namely brightening and lightening shadows.
That I “saved-as” “desktop.jpg,” so I know my desktop pik next time.
It also was saved on my desktop, although I coulda saved it any old place.
My razor-sharp original was not written over; it still exists. —I ain’t overwritin’ that!
Apparently OS-X does things in the background, fiddling for desktop display.
I had 4896 on my old 9.2 desktop, but ya had to allow for stretching-to-fit. Apparently OS-X avoids that, or I don’t click stretch-to-fit.

So, back to setting my desktop-picture; I chose my “desktop.jpg” file.
Back to good old 4896 as it was before, razor-sharp. I guess somehow it got to reading the 72ppi, 5.6 (5.597) X 3.694 file.

RE: “‘Old guy’ with the SpotMatic.......” —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). The “Spotmatic” is my old Pentax Spotmatic 35mm film camera I used about 40 years, since replaced by a Nikon D100 digital camera.

I have been a railfan since I was a child. As a teenager I lived in northern Delaware not far from the Pennsylvania Railroad’s electrified New York City to Washington D.C. line, now the Amtrak Northeast Corridor. At that time the locomotive Pennsy mostly used was the GG1; and most I saw were doing 90-100 mph.

“Rig” is my personal computer (‘pyooter), an Apple Macintosh.

When a personal computer runs out of memory (“RAM”) for doing a process, it can start using “virtual-memory,” open segments of the hard-drive. Doing so requires a slow and tedious process, which I call “shuffling.”

The fact the image was “26.056’ X 17.208’” (rather large), made it expandable despite a lowish resolution.

I use “Photoshop Elements®” as my image-processor; not the full Photoshop®.

“Save-as” makes an additional file, separate from the one you opened. By “saving-as,” you don’t overwrite the file you opened — the original.

The “desktop” is what appears as your computer display. You can save to that, or some other place in your computer.

“OS-X” and “9.2” are Apple computer-operating systems, OS-X the most recent.

“What?”

“What?” I shout.
“K-Y intense arousal gel for her.”
www.KY.com.
“Well, I have to go to that,” I say.
“I’m tellin’ ya, J.B., there’s a whole market out there waiting to be plucked.
This sex thing shouldn’t be just for men.
Not just twin bathtubs by the beach, and crackling campfires.
It’s called the flagging housewife market.
No matter she’s 70 years old. ‘Get it on, baby!’”
“No matter the Old Guy is no good in the sack any more.
Just use this here magical ointment, and have a good time.
Only 89 bazilyun buckaroos at your friendly pharmacy.”

Bedard

Bedard.

Last Wednesday (May 6, 2009), while waiting the see a urologist, I happened to read an interesting viewpoint by Car & Driver magazine columnist Patrick Bedard (“beh-DARD”).
Bedard has been a columnist at Car & Driver magazine for eons; probably since the ‘80s.
He was hired away from Chrysler Corporation in the ‘70s, where he had been a suspension engineer.
At first he was one of the grunts that put together the magazine, but now is just a columnist and editorial contributor.
He raced for a while, mainly Showroom Stock when Ford’s Pinto raced the Chevrolet Vega.
One time he picked up a used Vega sedan, and put everyone on-the-trailer. The Vega was compromised, probably the worst car GM ever fielded, but it sure could handle.
Incredibly stiff (when not rusted), and well balanced.
I had one myself, a Vega GT. About the only thing wrong it did was jump sideways in a corner if it hit a bump.
That was that heavy rear axle. Well located and stable, but heavy. It had so much momentum it took a while to get the tires back down on the pavement.
Bedard raced other things; a C/D Pinto, and eventually an Opel (“OH-pull”) that outhandled even the Vega.
It handled so well it was outlawed in Showroom Stock racing.
He then went on to race a Mazda rotary that trounced everything.
Don’t know as it handled that well, but it was incredibly powerful.
He went on to race Indianapolis — an Indy-car powered by a turbocharged Buick V6 motor.
There were a few other Turbo-Buicks racing at that time, but I don’t know as they ever won anything.
Too fragile.
Bedard’s racing ended when he flipped his Indy-car 89 bazilyun times.
The accident nearly killed him, but didn’t. He survived incredible violence.
I’ve always liked Bedard’s writing; very spare and to-the-point. He has a habit of finding the right single word to express things.
He also thinks about things at a higher level than the average person.
Unfortunately, he’s very much a car-enthusiast, so he tends to be somewhat a tub-thumper.
Recently he used questionable statistics to pan transit.
Every time I see that I think of PATCo, the incredibly successful rail-transit line that attracted Philadelphia commuters out of their cars in south Jersey.
This month’s column (June, 2009) suggested, in essence, that Obama’s Green-Power initiatives are like trying to change the direction of a cruising aircraft carrier.
Ya don’t just turn it around.
The total contribution in power-generation of wind and solar is 45,493,000 megawatt hours, 1.1 percent of the 4.118 billion megawatt hours generated nationwide over 12 months.
A lot of that total is generated by burning carbon; coal and natural-gas.
Wind and solar are subsidized HUGELY; way more than coal and natural-gas.
Bedard suggested nuclear is a better deal; it’s subsidy not much more than coal.
But of course nuclear is on-the-outs — it generates extremely toxic waste material.
So where do we go?
Doubling Green-Power generation, as Obama promised, won’t make much of a dent when burning carbon dominates as much as it does.
For those not knowing, I have seen the future, and it’s from the Mulholland Drive overlook in the Hollywood hills.
That view was used many times as background for TV sets; a grid of lights spreading out toward the horizon.
I saw it again not too long ago, and the grid has filled in. It’s become a solid carpet of light.
It’s not a grid any more. —And something has to be pushing all those lights. Acres of coal are being burned, spewing the atmosphere with carbon-dioxide.
One morning you could see all the mountains surrounding the L.A. basin; and the next morning everything was socked in with thick smog.
Also interesting was a recent comment by another columnist, one Kevin Cameron at Cycle-World magazine.
Cameron was once a mechanic and tuner in motorcycle racing, and is interested in technical stuff.
His son suggested switching to plug-in electric cars, charged by the electric-grid, is just switching from gasoline to coal.

“On-the-trailer” is an old drag-racing term. Many drag-racing cars were brought to the drag-strip on trailers, so that when two cars raced, and one won, the loser was said to have been put back “on-the-trailer.”

“GM” is General Motors.

“C/D” is Car & Driver.

“Opel” is the German General Motors car-making division.

Years ago Mazda sold a small economy sedan with a Wankel (“von-kull”) rotary engine, a principle whereby the various cycles of an internal combustion engine were designed to work a rotating wedge-shapped thingy inside an oval-like epitrochoid-shaped housing. Ignition would rotate the thingy at high speed. —It was an idea General Motors tried to develop, but they never marketed. The Wankel rotary engine has become more-or-less moribund, because its seals don’t seal well over a long time.

“Turbocharging” is exhaust-driven supercharging. (—Supercharging being compression of the intake-charge, either with or without fuel. Supercharger compressors are driven directly by the engine; turbochargers by escaping exhaust gases through a turbine.)

“PATCo” is Port-Authority-Transit-Corporation, a rail rapid-transit line along an old railbed into the south Jersey suburbs of Philadelphia. It’s affiliated with the Delaware River Port Authority. It connects to an old rapid-transit/subway over the gigantic Ben Franklin Bridge across the Delaware River into Philadelphia, opened in 1926. PATCo was built to avoid building another highway crossing of the Delaware River into Philadelphia. PATCo has been phenomenally successful, because it shortened portal-to-portal (garage-door to company parking-lot) by about 20 minutes. It also avoided parking in downtown Philadelphia, which was inconvenient and costly. It also initiated automated ticketing.

“Plug-in electric cars” are not hybrid (part gasoline; part electric); just straight electric. A battery is charged by “plugging-in” to the electric grid. (Like in your garage, or from a company parking-lot circuit.)

“It ain’t rocket-science”

(For those who noisily claim I’m no longer able, OR NEVER WAS ABLE, to do such a thing, I offer undeniable photographical proof that I changed out the deck on our Honda walk-behind mower.)

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

Our mower-deck is a heavy steel stamping, but it was severely rusted and disintegrating.
Primarily because it’s a mulching mower.
Wet grass would pile up inside the deck, rusting it out.
Okay, but otherwise the mower is fine. Runs great, and everything else was solid.
So I ordered a new deck for it. It looked like it could be replaced.
Took a while, but the new deck finally arrived at Victor Power Equipment, the Honda store nearby I patronize — not the store where we bought it, which is farther away in deepest, darkest Henrietta.
Next item of business: swap decks.
Linda suggested farming it out, but it looked doable to me.
I figured maybe eight hours max, and possibly running into something that made me farm it out.
So I set about doing it the other day (Tuesday, May 5, 2009). We already had to use it once this season, and Linda was afraid the deck would fall apart.
The wheel-holders are a simple bolt-on attachment, so they were easily transferred.
I ran into a problem that looked like I’d have to farm it out, namely snap-rings that held everything together in the rear wheel-holders.
My snap-ring pliers are cheese; not actual snap-ring pliers with the snap-ring pins integral.
The snap-ring pins are on tiny rods that screw-clamp into place into grooves in the pliers.
The rods are screw-clamped into place, and can work loose.
But I got it to work — snap-rings released.
The deck also has baffles inside, but they are held in place by the bolts that hold the wheel-holders.
Baffles transferred.
Next item of business: The great transfer; reinstall the motor onto the new deck.
I hadn’t dislodged the cables; everything was still attached to the motor and handle.
Four simple bolts; unscrew each, and transfer motor to new deck. Reinstall handle to rear wheel-holders.
“I see a reassembled lawnmower,” my wife said.
“It ain’t rocket-science,” I said.
Engage pull-cable; start mower.
“Putt-putt-putt — ROAR!”
“Nobody convinces me I can’t do something I think I can do,” I say.
I ain’t what I was 10 years ago.
—I’m 65, and my legs ache, my balance is sloppy, and it’s hard getting up.
But I can still grovel around on the garage floor, and the old brain still works, what’s left of it.
About 5&1/2 hours; a slam-dunk.

RE: “For those who noisily claim I’m no longer able, OR NEVER WAS ABLE.......” —My siblings all claim I’m a complete and utter airhead.

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.

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

“Linda” is my wife of 41+ years.

RE: “What’s left of it......” —I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and it killed part of my brain.

“Thump-thump-thump-thump!”

Neatest dog we ever had. (Photo by the so-called “old guy” with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.)

All our dogs were pretty neat, and Scarlett, number six, is almost as neat as Killian, number five.
Killian was a rescue dog, a reject from two prior homes.
We think home number one was okay, but that ended for some reason — perhaps divorce.
Number two was a misfit and abusive.
Killian was a high-energy hunter, a smaller Field Setter, not the bigger show dog.
Home number two had small children, and he knocked over a baby-carraige with the baby in it.
You could see he had been kicked around.
They’d also slam him into a crate.
He was five years old when we got him.
Brought up from Harrisburg or even farther south.
We got him at a Mickey D’s in Williamsport.
“You can turn him down if ya want.”
Probably because he was small.
“Oh no ya don’t,” I said.
“This dog needs a break. He needs a home.”
Killian was a crazed hunter. He broke loose on our first visit to Boughton Park.
I thought he was lost forever.
As I walked dejectedly toward our car, here comes Killian, trotting up behind me, merrily dragging his leash.
“Hey, where ya been? I was having a good time!”
He’d probably been taken hunting with horses.
He was from Tennessee, and always barked excitedly at horses.
“Hey, let’s go!”

“Come down outta that tree and fight!” (Photo by the so-called “old guy” with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.)

The one thing I learned from Killian was that it makes sense to fuss over your dog.
It got so I was walking Killian up to Michael Prouty Park every afternoon.
All I had to do was grab the leash, and “thump-thump-thump-thump!” Killian was wagging his tail.
At four o’clock he began getting antsy, and would butt into anything I was doing. “It’s walk-time, Boss. Let’s get going!”
We could not get Killian to sleep with us in our bedroom — he probably had been kicked out in previous homes.
But Killian was more than “thump-thump-thump-thump.” All our other dogs have abhorred grooming. But not Killian.
Linda would get the brush out, and down Killian would go. Probably the only attention he ever got in prior homes — he loved it.
Plus he’d roll over to the other side. Musta been trained to do that.
Sadly, Killian got Lymphomic Cancer, and had to be put down at only 10 or so.
We never knew his exact birthdate.
We only had him five years; always feel too bad we didn’t have him from puppyhood.
He might have had an easier life.
Killian was a special case — trying to make up for earlier abuse.
“Thump-thump-thump-thump!” We seem to have succeeded.

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.

“Scarlett” is our current dog; a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s almost four, and is our sixth Irish-Setter.

“Mickey D” is McDonald (the fast-food outlet).

Nearby “Boughton Park” (“BOW-tin” as in “ow”), is where I run and we walk our dog.

“Michael Prouty Park” is a town park near where we live. The land for it was donated by the Prouty family in honor of their deceased son (“Michael”) who used to play in that area. —It is mostly athletic fields, but has an open picnic pavilion. It’s maintained by the town. I walk our dog to and around it.

“Linda” is my wife of 41+ years.