Moan

The sprayhead on our Moen kitchen faucet is on the blink.
It frequently doesn’t shut off.
I can get it to shut off fiddling with it, after which we dare not use it for fear of it spraying our entire kitchen.
I took off the sprayhead and went to Mighty Lowes.
It’s a Moen part, so they didn’t have it.
I thereafter went to VP Supply at Winton Place near Rochester, the plumbing supplier that supplied all our plumbing fixtures when our house was built 20 years ago.
It’s more aimed at contractors, a wholesale shop.
I parked amidst all the gigantic white plumber vans; Chevrolet and Ford.
A guy was walking out with copper tubing.
Pot-bellied workmen were wielding battery-operated drills on the steel swinging door.
I stepped inside, and stood behind a grizzled contractor.
But he was waiting for someone else, perhaps the only skirt manning the counter.
“Can I help ya?” the counterman said.
“What’s that thing? I never saw anything like that.”
“A sprayhead,” I said; “Moen.”
“It’s a male end. I’m used to seeing female,” he said.
“I’ll go look in my detritus bin.” (He didn’t say “detritus.” I don’t remember what he called it.)
After about five minutes he returned.
“It’s part-number 104234, a ‘Protege’ sprayhead. I suggest you call Moen; they might send you one no charge.
Did you buy it at Lowes?”
“No, a plumber installed it,” I answered.
“Call Moen, and tell them ya got it from a plumber.”
I called Moen the other day (Friday, July 30, 2010); an 800 number.
“Thank you for calling Moen. Se hable Españole, tres.”
“Uh-ohhhh. Sounds like a machine,” I thought to myself.
“We value your call. Please listen to the following menu options.
If you’re a professional, please dial ‘one.’
If you’re a consumer (pity), dial ‘two.’”
I punched two.
“All customer-service representatives are busy. Please leave a call-back number. We’ll call back in 18 minutes.” (Stutter on 18.)
I punched in the call-back number and laid down to take a nap — I’ve had to take one ever since my stroke.
I left my cellphone on.
Finally “Ring-Ring;” but it was our landline. —I didn’t give them that number.
It was Q-Dental, wanting me to change an appointment-time.
I nearly tripped over the dog’s bed trying to answer the phone; you get four rings before it goes to voicemail.
Then “Ring-Ring;” my cellphone.
Woken from a sound sleep.
“Thank you for answering our call-back. Please hold.”
Well, they did call back in 18 minutes, as promised.
“Thank you for your patience. Please continue holding. Someone will be with you shortly.”
Minutes passed. Silence broken by a garbled version of “Stayin’ Alive.”
“Thank you for your patience. Please continue holding. Someone will be with you shortly.”
At least three times, with that chopped up “Stayin’ Alive” in the background.
Finally, “Your call may be monitored for training purposes.” (Another machine.)
Then, “Thank you for calling Moen. May I have your faucet model number?”
“I have no idea what that is.”
“I’m not sure I can help you without that model number.”
“The part I need is 104234.”
“That’s the Protege sprayhead sir. What’s wrong with that?
“It won’t shut off,” I said.
“Okay, look at your faucet. What do you see?”
“There’s a chrome cap on top with ‘Moen’ embossed on it.”
“Okay, remove that cap, and inside is the faucet model number.
I remove the cap. “I don’t know if this is what you’re looking for, but ‘100940.’”
“That’s it exactly sir.
Now, does your sprayhead hose attach with a threaded fitting or a snap fitting?”
I poke around under the kitchen sink, careful to not knock over the bleach or the Windex.
“Feels like a threaded fitting,” I said.
Hard to tell. It’s up behind the sink bowls, which are super-deep.
Not that it matters (I hope).
They’ll probably send everything, hose and sprayhead in two parts.
But I only need one part of the sprayhead, the part that doesn’t work.
I ain’t pokin’ around under that sink to install parts I don’t need.
Not unless I absolutely have to, in which case it gets farmed out to a plumber.

• “Mighty Lowes” is Lowes, the nationwide home-supply outlet. They have a large store in Canandaigua. (“Canandaigua” [“cannon-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.)
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993.
• “Q-Dental” is the local dentist outfit we use; local to Rochester.
• Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s five, and is our sixth Irish-Setter. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't too bad.)

Hogs fly

Harley Davidson Sportster SuperLow 883.

Harley-Davidson, according to my September 2010 Cycle World Magazine, is finally bringing its vaunted Sportster motorcycle kicking and screaming into the new century.
Primary is its use of radial motorcycle tires.
Um, guys, the radial motorcycle tire goes back to 1984.
My last motorcycle with bias-ply motorcycle tires was my 1984 Yamaha RZ350 two-stroke, motorbike number three.
Every motorbike since — I’m now on number-six — has been on radial motorcycle tires.
Radial motorcycle tire construction puts more contact-patch on the road, and runs cooler.
But the Sportster is an icon, so Harley kept making the old design.
In 2004 they rubber-mounted the engine, solving one of its major problems, that it was a chronic vibrator.
The rubber-mount was essentially Norton’s Isolastic system. The Norton engine was another chronic vibrator.
60 mph would rattle your teeth.
My first motorcycle was a Norton 850.
It had the Isolastic rubber-mount.
Rubber-mounting was first used on the Harley Big Twins, but found its way onto the Sportster.
Radial tires were first used on the XR1200, which if I’m correct was Europe only.
Cycle World got one, and sang its praises; that it still looked the part, but was much more pleasant to ride.
So now Harley is trying radials on other of its motorcycles, in this case the Sportster SuperLow 883.
That’s 883 cubic centimeters of engine displacement; 1200 is 1,200 ccs.
It’s still a pig, still flaccid and overweight.
The Japanese are making much better motorcycles.
But it has “The Look;” what Harley has used as a cash-cow.
“The Look” cashes in on the image of Hells Angel motorcycling; bombast and noise.
The local manifestation of this out front is “Loud Pipes Save Lives.” Every Harley passing our house has loud exhausts that loudly serenade the countryside; a cascade of noisy racket.
Personally, I ride motorcycle myself, and couldn’t stand such racket.
Racket like that would be a distraction; irksome.
Even the metric Harleys have this; often unmuffled.
Our house is atop a small hill not far from a sharp curve.
The Harley guys slow for this corner, then loudly accelerate past our house.
A guy up the street has a metric Harley, a Yamaha I think.
It has unmuffled exhausts.
He putts out his driveway, and then wicks it up as he blasts out on the highway.
There he goes; BRRRRAAAP-uh!
Well, I too have liked “The Look,” but to me function is more important than “The Look.”
I remember what a revelation it was, when I got my first motorcycle with radial tires; a Yamaha FZR400.
(That’s 400 ccs of engine displacement; rather small.)
It was much easier to ride.
So Harley advances the Sportster into the new century, but it’s still not interesting to me.
The guys at Cycle World were so impressed, they took it out on a ride.
What a joy, but it was so low it often grounded things.
You couldn’t tilt it even a little for curves without grounding things.
The feelers broke off.
After that were exhaust-pipes, and the retractible prop-stand. Grounded they could send you wobbling into oncoming traffic.
Sorry Harley, I don’t want surprises.
Number Six could get tilted much farther than I’d ever do, without grounding things.
The Harley Sportster SuperLow 883 has “The Look,” and is much easier to ride, but to me would be unsafe.

• “Bias-ply” is tire construction whereby the plies under the tread are at 45 degrees from the tire-rotation. with “radial plies” the tire construction under the tread is 90 degrees from tire rotation. “Radials” were first applied to automobiles. —Bias-ply was the way tires were made at first.
* “Two-stroke” is a power-stroke for every engine revolution. Most internal combustion engines are “four-stroke,” a single power-stroke for every two engine revolutions. “Two-strokes” throw out a lot of unburnt gasoline, so can’t meet engine emission requirements.
• “Norton” was an English motorcycle manufacturer, now defunct.
• A “metric Harley” is a cruiser-bike much like a Harley Davidson Big Twin, but made by the Japanese. As such they have metric fittings and nuts. “Metric Harley” is a put-down by the Harley crowd.

The beat goes on

A frenzied search has been on to find Ben & Fat Jerry’s chocolate ice-cream or its equivalent.
This is because Ben & Fat Jerry chocolate ice-cream is the best chocolate ice-cream in the entire known universe.
I’ve used Ben & Jerry’s computer flavor locater, and it tells me Tops, including the Tops in Canandaigua.
But they don’t have it, nor do any other Tops in the Rochester area.
Lots of other garbage-filled flavors, e.g. sauerkraut supreme, and Dublin Mudslide.
And ice-cream fortified with lettuce.
Why has Ben & Fat Jerry’s chocolate ice-cream become so difficult?
You’d think they could sell plain chocolate ice-cream — they claim they still do.
So I patronize groceries far-and-wide, in search of the best chocolate ice-cream in the universe.
Usually these forays are attached to other errands.
Involved is my sister-in-law in Florida, partly because she knows Ben & Fat Jerry is the best, and she also knows it’s hard for me to pursue people as a stroke-survivor.
—Slightly addled speech.
I can usually get by, but I avoid talking to anyone lest my speech muck up.
It was her that called Ben & Fat Jerry corporate offices.
She also called the Canandaigua Tops, from Florida mind you, and talked to their “frozen-dairy” manager.
She was told Ben & Fat Jerry chocolate was not in the warehouse, that Canandaigua Tops couldn’t get it.
So, what to do?
What makes Ben & Fat Jerry chocolate ice-cream so superior?
We decided it’s partially the amount of chocolate.
And also that it’s not blown full of air.
I tried Breyer’s chocolate ice-cream with 33% more Dutch cocoa.
Nice, but too airy.
It was so airy I’d have to purchase three pints to equal two of Ben & Fat Jerry.
I’ve tried two other brands; Perry’s, and one I won’t name because it tastes like Double-Bubble.
Both were too thin on the chocolate.
My sister-in-law in Florida suggested another, but it means a long journey to a Target out on Chili Ave.
Plus it has tiny chips of chocolate in it.
Why that?
Can’t I have just plain chocolate ice-cream?
I gotta drag all the way out there, for something I may not like?
Lade-lade-DEEE; lade-lade-DAAAH. Bom-bom-bom-bom-bomp-ba-bom-bom-bom-bom..... the beat goes on...... the beat goes on........

• “Tops” is a large supermarket-chain based in Buffalo we occasionally buy groceries at. They have a store in Canandaigua. “Canandaigua” (“cannon-DAY-gwuh”) is a small city to the east nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” It’s about 15 miles away. —We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.)
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and it slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty putting words together.)
• “We” is me and my wife of 42+ years, “Linda.”
• “ Perry’s ” is an independent ice-cream maker local to the Rochester area. It isn’t available in every supermarket.
• “Chili Ave.” (“chie-lie”) is a main drag far west of where we live. That Target is about 30-35 miles away.

Support Classica L Music

We have an HD radio in our bedroom.
It’s tuned to WXXI-FM, the public-radio station out of Rochester, NY we listen to.
WXXI plays mainly classical music, about all we can stand.
Just about every other radio station out of Rochester is blasting ear-splitting pop, which I can’t stand.
Or worse yet, rap.
BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA!
One afternoon I pulled up to a traffic-light on Hylan Drive.
All-of-a-sudden the whole back end of our car started bouncing.
BA-BOOM, BA-BOOM, BA-BOOM, BA-BOOM!
My follower was playing Em-N-Em, at full volume, on a megawatt sound system that filled the entire back end of his car.
I also can’t stand country; TWANG!
Motorcycles pass our house loudly serenading the surrounding countryside.
And as they pass the pitch drops with the Doppler effect.
“If I didn’t have bad luck, I wouldn’t have no luck at all;” TWA-ONG!
And then there’s talk-radio; Duh Weeze talking dirty, or Bob Lonsberry loudly claiming the whole thing wrong with our country is liberals.
That and Rush Limbaugh in his latest OxyContin® rant.
We’ve listened to WXXI for years.
There are things we don’t listen to.
E.g. The Saturday afternoon opera; mega-pound Brunhilde bellowing at the top of her lungs.
Also, “Hearts of Space.” Supposedly New Age music that bores as well as grates.
A few years ago, WXXI went to HD radio.
I Googled around some, and found a Boston Acoustics table-set I purchased.
It sounds pretty good, except I had to put up an antenna.
Apparently this is often the case, although I’m also a ways from WXXI’s transmitter.
Perhaps 18-20 miles.
It was WXXI’s Simon Pontin that suggested I put up the antenna.
Pontin has since retired, taking with him his wry and gentle humor. —And his vast knowledge of classical music, and what listeners like us preferred.
I turn on WXXI every morning, Brenda Tremblay (“TROM-blay”), the announcer that replaced Pontin.
I went into our bedroom to turn off the radio, and noticed its display was scrolling some message.
“Support (pause), Classica (pause), L Music”
We already do.
That chopped-up message is gonna get us to fork over more?

• We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, about 20 miles southeast of Rochester.
• “Hylan Drive” is a main drag southeast of and near Rochester.
• “Duh Weeze” (“The Wease”) is a local radio potty-mouth morning-man; “Bob Lonsberry” a local Conservative talk-radio host.
• “Simon Pontin” was WXXI’s morning-man, replaced by “Brenda Tremblay.”

What ho.......

Matt Shaw.

Blocchi.

The estimable and supposedly fabulous Facebook, which I don’t pay much attention to — I have better things to do — has blessed me with two friend invites, John Blocchi (“block-eee”), and Matt Shaw.
Both Blocchi and Matt are members of Local 282, the Rochester division of the nationwide Amalgamated Transit Union (“What’s ‘Ah-Two?’”), my old bus-union at Regional Transit.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS), the public transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY. While there I belonged to the Amalgamated Transit Union. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
Both Blocchi and Matt are mechanics. In my humble opinion the bus-mechanics were much more of a union than the bus-drivers.
To me this was due to circumstance.
The mechanics had pretty much the same hours, and were together in the same building.
The bus-drivers had different hours, and were away from the Property driving bus.
If something that would involve the Union occurred, it spread like wildfire among the mechanics.
Word didn’t spread like that among the drivers.
News circulation might take months, if ever.
Drivers only congregated in the Drivers’ Room, which was Company property, heavily monitored by management.
The Union’s input was a tiny bulletin-board in a dark corridor.
That Drivers’ Room was a den of extravagant rumor and innuendo.
So little Union contact was taking place, untruths were triumphant.
And if Union officials dared show up, management watched them like hawks.
To my mind both Matt and Blocchi were computer-savvy, perhaps Matt even more than Blocchi.
Blocchi was our Local’s Recording-Secretary; always on the dais with his laptop.
Other union officials might be present, e.g. the Union Prez, but without computers.
Matt specced a complete computer-system to bring our Local kicking and screaming into the new century, but it was voted down.
Partially because some noisy blowhard suggested his sister-in-law in Washington DC could get a similar system for peanuts.
Triumph of ignorance and stupidity.
Bus-drivers seem to do that — defeat themselves.
282 is still in the Dark Ages.
Expenses are still hand-recorded in a book.
I don’t consider myself that computer-savvy, but at least our accounting is in this machine.
My having a Facebook is something I put up with.
To me it’s the result of a Facebook fast-one.
Facebook e-mailed me that an old friend wished to Facebook “friend” me.
“To become a ‘friend’ you must have a Facebook of your own.”
“Well okay,” I thought, little knowing what I was getting into.
I thereby set up a Facebook of my own. It suggested various “friends,” so I made a few.
One welcomed me to Facebook.
If I’d had any idea what was happening. I woulda used an alias. —I don’t want my name spilling all over the Internet.
So my Facebook profile is quite normal looking.

Photo by BobbaLew.

The only “alias” I’ve been able to use is my profile-picture.
It’s not me; it’s the American Flag.
Facebook is nice, a social networking site; but my family’s web-site is much better.
For one thing it’s much more private — you have to be invited to join.
I suppose Facebook could do the same, by limiting “friends” to your family.
Better yet is that my family’s web-site notified of recent posts — it could take me directly to them.
Not Facebook. You have to pore through mountains of useless garbage just to find anything of interest.
And what’s posted is often boring and/or laughable; “I just burped; I hereby scratch my armpits.”
What a pain I gotta weed through all that junk to find anything of interest.
At least my family’s web-site didn’t engender garbage.
Facebook has also locked my machine; sometimes I hafta force-quit my browser.
It seems to be more stable lately; and there are all those silly ads on the right of some buxom hottie suggesting you get your “public profile.”
Plus ads aimed at stuff in your interest profile.
SPAM ALERT!
There are only two reasons I haven’t walked away from Facebook:
—1) I don’t see any way of dumping it, and
—2) I have too many friends that communicate by Facebook.

• “What’s ‘ah-two?’” is something my mother asked seeing my ATU (Amalgamated Transit Union) button.

MyCast® improved

It appears my MyCast® weather-radar has been improved.
MyCast goes back at least seven years. I installed it on the advice of a coworker at the Mighty Mezz while I worked there.
It’s a weather-site, but mainly I use it to display weather-radar.
There are other weather-sites, e.g. WeatherBug and Weather Underground.
I can even display weather-radar on 13WHAM.com.
But MyCast has always been okay.
I can specify specific weather-radar center-points, e.g. “home” and “the Mighty Mezz.”
Of course it’s displaying the weather-radar for a wide area, at least 90 miles.
It can go nationwide.
I use it to decide whether to ride motorcycle, and whether to mow lawn.
Of course, it’s not all-knowing.
It can’t display the future; like if clouds form overhead that will eventually dump rain. —A pop-up thunderstorm, for example.
It only displays after-the-fact, as rain falls.
But if a front is coming east, and it’s already raining in Buffalo, it will display that.
In other words, put away the mower. It will rain while mowing.
The improvement is a 90-mile image is no longer jaggy.
“Jaggy” means just that, a jagged display.
At 90 miles, rain-shields would have jagged edges; vertical, then horizontal, then vertical, and-so-on.
It was apparently a function of old computing.
The image resolution was low enough to display jagged edges if blown up.
It was so obnoxious I went no lower than 170 miles.
But it’s improved.
90-mile images are no longer jaggy.
The image above is at 90 miles.
A while ago I discovered I could get MyCast weather-radar for my cellphone.
Here I am outside waiting for a train in central PA, and I see a shower coming on my MyCast cellphone radar.
Into the car; here comes the rain.
Cellphone weather-radar isn’t as exact as my computer radar.
I can’t pinpoint an exact location by geodesic coordinates like I can on my computer.
But it’s close enough — it’s by zip-code.
It’s kept me dry a few times.
As you can see I dumped “the Mighty Mezz” and replaced it with “Baker Park,” where we walk our dog.
I retired from the Messenger over four years ago.
The green-and-yellow blob is a pop-up thunderstorm.

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over four years ago. Best job I ever had. (“Canandaigua” [“cannon-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.)
• “WHAM” Channel-13 is the local ABC TV affiliate, local to Rochester.
• We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester, which is east of Buffalo.
• “We” is me and my wife of 42+ years, “Linda.”
• RE: “Waiting for a train in central PA........” —I’m a railfan, and have been since I was a child. Central PA is the location of the old Pennsylvania Railroad mainline, now operated by Norfolk Southern Railroad.
• “Baker Park “ is a fairly large city park in Canandaigua. It’s mostly fenced, so we can safely walk our dog there partially off-leash. (Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s five, and is our sixth Irish-Setter. [A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't too bad.])

Sit quietly with your hands folded

.....wherein two college-graduates take on the almighty Federal Gumint.
Yesterday (Thursday, July 22, 2010) we had an appointment with Geneva Social Security.
This was because over a year ago Social Security, in its infinite wisdom, changed my wife’s benefit-start date to one month before she actually retired.
By so doing they decided her income was too high for 2006, making her average monthly income too high.
Well of course it was. She hadn’t retired yet, so for January she was getting full pay from her full-time job.
She retired January 31, 2006, which was one month after her 62nd birthday, January 2, 2006.
In consequence they decided she didn’t get Social Security for January and February after her birthday; she had started benefits in March of 2006 (first deposit April).
For that we got a credit.
They also decided her monthly benefit was too high due to the changed start date, so we owed money.
Credit minus amount owed equalled a credit to us of about $950.
(That amount was credited to our checking-account by electronic deposit, just like our Social Security benefits.)
We also were notified her benefit-amount would be reduced.
My wife protested. She wrote a long letter and did various spreadsheets.
She had been advised by Social Security to start benefits in March to avoid factoring her income from her full-time job.
She also would get income in February, her accumulated vacation-pay.
Social Security would start in March to avoid that factoring in.
We were trying to follow instructions. It wasn’t like we were pulling a fast-one. Social Security was flip-flopping.
Her protest was filed in July of last year at Geneva Social Security, with a promise it would be faxed to proper authorities for consideration.
A year passed.
“We’re working on it,” we kept being told.
Finally a letter appeared, saying her benefit-start date would be changed back to March, and therefore we owed $1,700.
“WHA.....?”
Our appointment was at 2 p.m.
Driving there takes an hour — I was the taxi-driver.
We arrived at 1:50, and were asked to check in.
We were given a stub without a number.
Apparently the numbered clients are to jaw with the clerks at the window; heavily separated by bulletproof glass.
Our appointment was more serious. We would get trotted out back.
An hour passed.
People were seeing those clerks on entry. The place wasn’t busy.
They started at #170 when we arrived, and were up to #193 after an hour.
“Well, back to Square-One,” a client said.
“Our stub doesn’t have a number,” my wife said.
We were told to wait. —At least I had magazines to read.
I had considered taking this laptop, but expected Geneva Social Security wasn’t a hot-spot.
Without Internet I couldn’t do e-mail, and had nothing else “computer” to do.
My reaction was these people seem to have forgot who they’re working for; we taxpayers.
2 o’clock became 3 o’clock. We were finally called in.
“I don’t know where to begin,” my wife said.
“Is it about your overage?” the rep asked.
“I started benefits when I did to avoid my full-time income factoring in,” my wife said.
“But your income for the year exceeds the limit,” we were told.
“But I was told the year I retired my income was looked at one month at a time.”
Sit quietly with your hands folded.
We’re being railroaded, but after 66 years I know how these things go.
It’s a war of intimidation until one party capitulates.
I also know that if I say or do anything at all, it gets perceived as bullishness.
Far be it I challenge the all-knowing minions of the Federal Gumint.
This may be a stroke-effect; that I always sound exasperated.
I grandstanded before the stroke when I thought I was being stomped on, but it seems to have gotten worse.
I’ve learned to shaddup and let my wife do the talking.
My wife had brought along her HUGE pile of documentation, plus her strange missives from Social Security.
“I just gets murkier and murkier.” Her words.
Around-and-around we went, every sentence on the rep’s part ended with “okay?”, as if we’re supposed to acquiesce, and thereafter shaddup.
I was tempted to shout “No, it’s not okay.”
Spreadsheets got forked over.
“Can you show where we say it’s not income per year?”
An earlier letter got taken out from the massive pile, and the appropriate clause read.
“This most recent letter isn’t a response to your protest. It’s just an indication your benefit-start date will get set back.
I don’t see your protest in our system.”
CAPITULATION ALERT!
The end is in sight.
The almighty Federal Gumint has caved.
I can see some invisible bureaucrat in a faraway gumint cubicle saying “We’ll fix them! We’ll just set back her benefit-start date, in which case she owes $1,700.”
“I see you have full documentation,” the rep said.
“We both have college degrees,” I said; first thing I’d said at the appointment — at least a half-hour had passed.
“Yeah, thanks to my husband,” my wife said. “He kept everything.
Those pay-stubs weren’t in a shoebox.
Spreadsheets were easy.”
The rep went into another room to copy all the documentation.
I looked at my wife and said “blog-material.”
After about 15 minutes the rep returned,
“I’ll enter your protest into our system myself,” she said.
We walked out.
Suppose it’s some poor Granny that’s not ‘pyooter-literate and threw out all her original pay-stubs?
Why should someone have to be college educated to deal with our Federal Gumint?
Reminds me of our income-tax instructions.
Ya need to be a lawyer to make sense of ‘em.
So much for serving the taxpayer.
“Tough!
The fact you threw out the originals is your problem; and you should get computer-savvy. We are!
And maybe you shoulda gone to college.
Pay up!”

• My wife of 42+ years is “Linda.”
• “Geneva” is a city at the north end of Seneca Lake, a large Finger Lake in western NY. (The “Finger Lakes” are glacial lakes in central and western NY, that look like a large hand came down from above and left an impression on the land. Actually they were carved by receding glacial ice.) —Geneva is about 30-35 miles east of where we live.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and it slightly compromised my speech.
• “‘Pyooter” is computer.

Kee-RASH!

Similar to 102 bus.

Perhaps 25 years ago I had the most horrendous accident I ever had driving bus.
I clobbered a Chevrolet Citation turning left in front of me.
Totaled the car, and knocked out the driver.
We rode up on adjacent lawn, and took out a power-pole.—Broke it like a matchstick.
The Citation crushed around the pole such that it was utterly bent out of shape.
The grille insert of a Citation is plastic. It broke off and flew under a large spruce tree.
I still have it in my basement.
I went back and got it the next day.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove bus for Regional Transit. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
I was on my second trip with good old 1703; three trips out East Ave. to Pittsford — one of my all-time favorite rides.
My second trip was when I took home the good burghers that lived in Pittsford, yet worked downtown.
This included a regular named Wendell (“WEN-dull”) who worked at RG&E, and “Ted,” who had worked for years at Chase Bank.
Although when he started it was Lincoln-Alliance, then Lincoln-Rochester, then Lincoln-First, and finally Chase.
There were others I’m sure, with Wendell holding court in the back discussing politics, probably George Herbert Walker Bush.
I was eastbound, accelerating away from the Penfield Road light.
I was approaching cruising speed, about 30 mph.
I had 102 bus, a Grumman-Flxible (pictured above), fairly pleasant, but large.
Ours were the wide-bodies, 102 inches. Standard width was 96 inches, eight feet.
They were fairly new. Worn-out buses weren’t assigned to East Ave.
I was in the right-most lane of four (two eastbound), being passed by a large Domine Builder Supply (“DOM-ih-nay;” as in “wand”) truck loaded with cinder-blocks.
I was approaching a Catholic Church driveway to my right.
With Domine passed, the oncoming Citation suddenly arrowed in front of me, aimed at the Catholic Church driveway.
BAM! It sounded like hitting a 55-gallon drum.
The driver apparently never even saw me. He just turned when Domine cleared.
It was so sudden I couldn’t even react.
How can anyone not see a bus?
Kids used buses as snowball targets because they’re so big.
At least the Citation wrapped around the power-pole behind the door-post.
It was a two-door sedan.
It didn’t do much damage to the bus — too much momentum.
Just caved in the lower right front about a foot. —The front doors couldn’t work.
Call the ambulance. My passengers were more worried about me. They all knew me by name.
No one on the bus was injured, including me.
“Call the ambulance” gets the head-honcho of Transit on-scene, plus a phalanx of minions.
Usually an accident this serious got the bus-driver fired, his fault or not.
The Domine driver had disappeared, but apparently stopped on return.
He told my bosses there was nothing I could do — I was entirely blameless.
Later I went to Domine to find that driver; he had saved my job.
I never found him. I had to leave a message.
My reaction to the crash was I was glad I was driving bus, and not my motorcycle.

• “Regional Transit” is Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs.
• “East Ave” is a main street east out of downtown Rochester. “Pittsford” is an old ritzy suburb southeast of Rochester.
• “RG&E” is Rochester Gas & Electric, the local public power utility.
• “Penfield Road” is the road out to Penfield, a suburb east of Rochester (north of Pittsford). It starts northeast from East Ave.

It’ll ruin the VCR

Photo by BobbaLew.

“I need to test,” said our stand-by serviceman.
We have a stand-by generator (pictured at left).
It’s Generac®, installed years ago.
It kicks on automatically should our electricity fail.
It’s a large industrial-grade V-twin internal-combustion engine of one-liter displacement turning a generator.
It’s fueled by natural-gas, which means if Armageddon occurs it has to also take out the natural-gas supply, not just kill the electricity.
It’s seen use out here in the sticks where the electricity dives occasionally.
One time it ran all day after a winter storm.
Another time it ran about five hours after a semi took out a power-pole up the street on 5&20.
It self-tests about five minutes every week.
We have it pushing everything but our bedroom and the air-conditioning. Which means our freezer stays cold, as does our refrigerator.
Our tankless water-heater is partially electric, as is our furnace. It has an electric blower, and electronic ignition.
Our garage-door is also electrically opened. It’s twin bay, seventeen feet by eight — extremely heavy.
There’s just one problem.
There’s a 20-second delay before self-starting, which it does with a car battery.
That delay is just long enough to kill all the digital clocks, plus discombobulate our VCR.
Our VCR was claimed to have battery backup, but it doesn’t.
If the electricity goes, I have to reprogram the VCR; the entire kibosh, clock, station-seek, and recording program.
“I need to test,” said the stand-by serviceman.
That means disable the electricity input, to see if the stand-by kicks on.
“It’ll ruin the VCR,” I said.
No biggie; reprogramming the VCR is about 10-15 minutes.
Everything went dead, and 20 seconds passed.
Then the stand-by kicked on, and everything came back on.
“Works like a charm!” the service-guy said.
Except now all our clocks were dead, and the VCR off in the ozone.
Okay, reprogram VCR start-to-finish.
Reset clock; make sure it’s P.M. instead of A.M.
Check recording program — it’s all still there.
It must have a battery backup of some sort.
Do channel-search; about 5-10 minutes.
Back in business, we hope.
We’ll see if it records the Evening TV News as programmed.
It didn’t, of course.
“NOW WHAT?”
I looked at the clock, and that was still right.
I looked at the recording program, and it was completely gone.
“That was there earlier this afternoon,” I said.
Ain’t technology wonderful?

• RE: “Out here in the sticks.....” —We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.
• “5&20” is the main east-west road (a two-lane highway) 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.
• A “tankless water-heater” is just that; no hot-water storage tank. (It heats the water with a gas flame as it passes through.)

Watch ‘em like a hawk

“We haven’t yet got our monthly statement for our home-equity loan account,” I said to the front-end person at a local bank.
“Without it I can’t make a payment.”
She fired it up on her ‘pyooter.
“Do you live in Canandaigua?” she asked.
“No, Bloomfield,” I said, slightly befuddled.
“I think that’s the problem,” she said.
“How in the wide, wide world can they change our address to Canandaigua?” I thought to myself. “That account’s almost 20 years old.
Route 65 in Canandaigua doesn’t even make sense.”
“Did you open the account in New York State?” she asked.
“Oh yeah, they’re not locally based,” I thought. “Their billing center in Timbuktu (India?) isn’t gonna know Route 65 isn’t in Canandaigua.”
“Is your telephone number ???-????”
“No,” I said, even more befuddled.
“That sounds like some radio call-in line; like for contests.
How in the wide, wide world can things like this happen?
I didn’t initiate any changes.”
“I’m sure you didn’t, but I set it right,” she said.
“Have you got a web-site where I can keep tabs on this?” I asked.
“Sure, online banking!” she bubbled. “I can set you up. Have you got a few minutes?”
“Well no actually,” I responded. “I’d prefer to initiate it myself.”
“Oh yeah,” I thought to myself. “Banks! Ya gotta watch ‘em like a hawk. They screw up and it’s your fault if you’re small potatoes.”
I had a bank lose my paycheck and start charging me penalties.
I had to do a grandstand in the bank’s office.
“I got a receipt! I ain’t leavin’ until you credit my account!”
I used to work for a bank, and that’s how it was.
A vice-president of Zerox was bouncing checks willy-nilly, and the bank covered ‘em.
Um, that’s an interest-free loan, guys.
But let some small-potatoes guy bounce anything and we were all over ‘im.

• “‘Pyooter” is computer.
• “Canandaigua” (“cannon-DAY-gwuh”) is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.
• We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester. Adjacent is the rural town of East Bloomfield, and the village of Bloomfield is within it. Our mailing address is “Bloomfield.”
• We live on State Route 65, which is in the town of West Bloomfield (among others), and nowhere near Canandaigua.

Distorted

The newsletter of the dreaded “282 Alumni” arrived yesterday, Thursday, July 15, 2010.
The so-called “Alumni” are the union retirees (Local 282, the Rochester local of the nationwide Amalgamated Transit Union) of Regional Transit Service.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit (RTS).
The Alumni was a reaction to the fact Transit management retirees ran roughshod over union retirees — a continuation of the bad vibes at Transit, management versus union.
Transit had a club for long-time employees, and I was in it. It was called the “15/25-year Club;” I guess at first the “25-year Club.” But they lowered the employment requirement, and renamed it “15/25-year Club.” The employment requirement was lowered even more; I joined at 10 years.
My employ there ended in 1993 with my stroke; and the “Alumni” didn’t exist then. The Alumni is a special club — you have to join.
“Dreaded” because all my siblings are flagrantly anti-union.
It had pictures on its front-page, two of our recent train-ride.
Sorry, but they’re immensely distorted. (See above.)
Well, the photos weren’t taken by a professional photographer, and I bet the photos were Word inserts.
Far as I know, the Alumni newsletter is done with Microsoft Word®, just like my 282 News was.
Word will do photo inserts as file-objects; spreadsheets, photos, whatever.
I never did photo inserts in my 282 News; don’t know if I could have — that was 17 years ago.
That was an ancient app. My operating-system was Windows 3.1.
So the editor of the Alumni newsletter inserted the two photos, but they didn’t fill the entire page.
They were probably only half a page wide.
That looked weird, so what to do?
I got it! Just stretch out the pictures horizontally to full page width.
HEX-KYOOZE ME; that distorts the picture.
It’s just the “282 Alumni newsletter,” so I shouldn’t be so critical.
But I laughed when I saw it.

• I had a stroke October 26, 1993.
• During my final year at Transit, I did a voluntary union newsletter on my computer. It was called “The 282 News.”
• “App” equals computer software application.

Gathering of Transit veterans

(Photo by BobbaLew)

Yesterday (Tuesday, July 13, 2010) another luncheon was held by retired veterans of Regional Transit Service.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the local transit-bus operator in Rochester. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
It was a pleasant job for a while, but I was tiring of it.
The job was difficult, especially the inner-city clientele.
Management-labor relations were strained; Transit employees were unionized.
Part of it was because so many union employees were jerks, playing the system.
Our group is ad hoc, although pretty much the same people organize and attend these events.
It’s mostly retired bus-drivers, although a few management are sprinkled in.
I was probably first to arrive, about 10:30 — the luncheon was at 11:30.
This was because -a) I had no idea where the restaurant, Old Country Buffet, was, and -b) how long it would take to drive there.
Others began trickling in, first Tim Quinlan.
Timmy still works at Transit, a radio dispatcher.
(His title is “Radio Controller.”)
He’s done that a long time. He was doing that during my employ at Transit.
His wife is Linda Quinlan, a reporter at Messenger-Post Newspapers (MPN), where I worked for almost 10 years after my stroke.
I never met Linda Quinlan during my employ at MPN, but Linda was essentially the Irondequoit (“ear-RON-dee-kwoit;” as in “oye”) Post.
The Irondequoit Post was one of publisher Andy Wolfe’s many Post newspapers, acquired by the Messenger when Andy retired.
Others worked at the Irondequoit Post, but Linda was the reporter. Or at least seemed to be involved in everything.
The Irondequoit Post was a class act, a shining star the Messenger bought into when it acquired the Post newspapers.
Of course, all the Post newspapers were pretty classy, as was the Mighty Mezz — still is.
“That was nice what you said about my wife,” Timmy said.
That was in my recent Alhart blog.
“Well, that was true,” I responded.
Soon others arrived.
People began gathering around Timmy. I was still in our van.
Finally we went into the restaurant; we were getting a discounted buffet price.
Dominick Zarcone (“zar-KONE;” as in “czar”) sat next to me.
“Oh, I think I’ll sit here,” he shouted.
Zarcone is still driving bus at Transit; he had got the day off.
Zarcone started shortly after me. He’s driven bus 33 years, and is now number six in seniority.
Which means if I’d not had my stroke, and kept at it, he’d be number seven.
Zarcone and I have always been friends.
That’s largely because I can argue with him minus a turgid torrent of noisy ad hominem put-downs.
I get that with my brothers, all tub-thumping Conservatives merrily goosestepping to the latest Limbaugh OxyContin® rant.
Zarcone is ardent Catholic, always trying to convert me; as many did at Transit. Jehovah’s Witnesses, Seventh-Day Adventists and zealous Baptists of the Jerry Falwell strand.
Other sinners weren’t being pursued; I always wondered why me.
Zarcone, like me, was also college-educated.
Yet we were driving bus.
“I majored in bus-driving,” I always said.
It was a slam-dunk.
The pay was good, and hours of work could be minimized.
Part of the reason I was tiring was I no longer could minimize work hours.
To do so, you had to live near the barns.
In Rochester we were five minutes from the barns. West Bloomfield was 45 minutes.
“Yadda-yadda-yadda-yadda. Well look at that! It’s Dick Thompson; I thought he was dead.”
Around-and-around we went, greeting old compatriots.
The management attendees were Quinlan, Dave Brown (a retired radio dispatcher), and Bernie Kreitzberg and Gary Coleman (“coal-min”).
Bernie and Coleman were both road-supervisors; Coleman retired after multiple strokes. Bernie still works at Transit, but part-time.
Stories got swapped — “lemme tell ya about the time my bus crippled in the old Can.”
And also “The time the roller-sign assembly dropped and clouted me in the head.”
“The old Flxible 500s had a vent in front of your feet,” I noted. “The thing was always stuck open — ya’d freeze in winter. I’d stuff it with newspaper.”
“How about that driver that committed suicide and killed his wife?”someone said.
“Wait a minute!” I shouted. “How is that even possible?”
“Hughes, will you shaddup,” someone said.
“One time I got called in for preaching on the bus,” Zarcone said.
“‘I hear reports you’re an excellent driver, and have an excellent command of the Catholic faith,’ management told me.”
”Remember that time Brent sent me out to tell you to lay off the preaching?” Coleman asked.
“I have to censor your e-mails,” Zarcone told Coleman.
As we walked out about 1:30 it was thundering; but not raining yet.
Some lady, probably not a restaurant employee, was handing out alleged million-dollar bills.
But they were religious tracts — mine got shredded.
Zarcone is very Italian. He ate almost 10 times as much as me.
I always feel a little out-of-it at these shindigs, like I don’t fit the mold.
It’s like I attend only because I worked at Regional Transit.
And drove bus — challenging.
The best job there.

• The “Mighty Mezz” (Messenger) is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over four years ago. Best job I ever had. (“Canandaigua” [“cannon-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.)
• RE: “Barns........” —The buses were parked inside in large sheds (“barns”). “The Barns” was also the location of Regional Transit bus operations.
• We currently live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester, about 20 miles distant. Previously we lived in Rochester.
• “Limbaugh” is of course Rush Limbaugh.
• The “Can” was a large junction of interstates on Rochester’s east side. It was built in the ‘60s, and was a mess to get through. It was massively reconfigured and rebuilt not too long ago, taking out little-used railroad, etc. It was called “the Can of Worms.” (New Can and ‘old Can.’) —Park-and-Ride suburban buses often went through the Can. (The driver’s bus broke down [“crippled”] right in the middle of the Can.)
• The buses we first drove had roller curtain signs above the windshield. The entire apparatus was in a hinged panel that hinged at the bottom. If not properly attached to the top, it could drop and clout the bus-driver. (I had it happen a few times; each time with passengers.)
• “Flxible” is a manufacturer of buses. Our old 500-series buses were Flxible.
• “Hughes” is of course me, Robert Hughes.
• “Brent” is Brent Morse, a manager of bus operations. Brent was canned after my stroke.

Alhart

(“al-heart;” as in the name “Al.”)

Don Alhart

I finally read the paean to local TV news reporter Don Alhart in the Messenger by Linda Quinlan.
I never met Linda Quinlan during my employ at the Messenger, but Linda was essentially the Irondequoit (“ear-RON-dee-quoit”) Post.
The Irondequoit Post was one of publisher Andy Wolfe’s many Post newspapers, acquired by the Messenger when Andy retired.
Others worked at the Irondequoit Post, but Linda was the reporter. Or at least seemed to be involved in everything.
The Irondequoit Post was a class act, a shining star the Messenger bought into when it acquired the Post newspapers.
Of course, all the Post newspapers were pretty classy, as was the Messenger — still is.
Linda’s husband was Tim Quinlan, a radio-dispatcher at my previous employer, Regional Transit.
For 16&1/2 years I drove bus for Regional Transit Service.
For years I didn’t realize they were related, even though they shared the same last name.
This was despite meeting Tim at an MPN picnic long ago at SeaBreeze.
Alhart is about all the TV we watch, just Alhart and the ABC national news.
It’s always interesting to see what news they play; not as much as what gets on CNN.
The Messenger used to do that.
A blizzard of Associated Press stories came over the wire (actually satellite), and the page-editors had to pore over them to find what they publish.
“All the news that fits,” they used to say.
That was the rule somewhat. But a story could be cut to fit.
A page-editor ran what appealed, and what he/she thought would appeal to readers.
The Messenger also ran a lot of locally-written stories — still does.
The other stuff was filler, more-or-less; what page-editors felt would appeal to readers.
Alhart is our age, born in 1944, making him 66 like us.
That’s probably the main reason we watch him.
He’s been through all the same revolutions as us.
Namely:
-A) The revolution in music, whereby rock-‘n’-roll became the norm.
-B) The replacing of automobiles by personal computers as the playtoys of the proletariate.
He was in college, like us, when the Beatles hit in 1964, revolutionizing rock-’n’-roll.
He should know the importance of Jerry Lee Lewis and Little Richard.
A few years ago those inclinations spilled out in a news broadcast.
Their weatherman was describing the fizzling of Hurricane Earl.
Alhart noted “Duke of Earl.”
I e-mailed him a link to that music.
“Duke of Earl” was a rock-’n’-roll hit we pounded the dashboard to as we listened on the car-radio in the ‘60s.
It blew him away.
I got a response back the next day thanking me for that link.
One time he mentioned “Topsy Part II” on his broadcast.
He got it wrong, so I sent a link to that.
I got back a CD with “Topsy Part II” on it.
At age-66, Alhart will soon retire.
Ending the era we lived with so many years.
Not too long ago Charlie Gibson retired, as did Simon Pontin of WXXI.
Charlie Gibson replaced Peter Jennings when he died, but Charlie Gibson was one of us.
So is Don Alhart.
Not too long ago George Ewing (“you-wing”) Sr. died.
Senior was the one that hired me at the Messenger, and that was shortly after my stroke.
Best job I ever had.

• “The Messenger” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over four years ago. (“Canandaigua” [“cannon-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.)
• Post Publications were small weekly newspapers in the suburbs of Rochester. They were founded by Andy Wolfe. The Messenger acquired them when he retired, becoming Messenger-Post Newspapers (MPN).
• “Irondequoit” is a large old suburb northeast of Rochester. (It’s the indian name for a large bay adjacent to its east.)
• “Regional Transit Service” is the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the supplier of local bus-service to Rochester and environs.
• “SeaBreeze” is Seabreeze Amusement Park, northeast of Rochester.
• “Us” is me and my wife of 42+ years, “Linda.”
• “WXXI”-FM, 91.5, is the classical-music radio-station in Rochester we listen to, publicly supported. For years its morning man was Simon Pontin, an English expatriate.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and started at the Messenger in January of 1996. George Ewing Sr. was the head-honcho at that time.

“I’m so sorry” times 10

Yrs trly had to finally give up and call the Zappos 800-number.
“Zappos” is an online seller of shoes, clothing, and assorted paraphernalia, e.g. purses. —I guess they’re based in Nevada.
Most times I buy things online. I’ve had fair success at it.
I’ve online-ordered from Zappos before.
I was ordering the Asics running-shoes pictured above.
Got as far as “check-out” without log-in.
Then I hit the PayPal button.
ANOMALY ALERT!
No order confirmation.
Oh well, if the order processed I get an e-mail.
My e-mail program was on.
Deafening silence.
Order e-mails are not always immediate, so I guess I’ll go mow lawn.
Back about four hours later; still nothing.
No sense wrastling with it. I’ve had stuff double-order too.
“Welcome to Zappos. How can I help you sir?”
“I tried to order online, and got sent into the ozone.”
“Your e-mail?
I’m so sorry. Your order didn’t process, sir. We’ve had problems with PayPal, but I can’t do it PayPal. I’m so sorry.”
I got the feeling the girl was prompted to begin every sentence with “I’m so sorry.”
She was begging forgiveness for sins not committed. She wasn’t making sense.
Her every response began with “I’m so sorry.”
Order completed “I’ve ordered from you guys before,” I said.
“You have? I’m so sorry. What e-mail was that?”
“Try ????????????@MyWay.com”
“Yes, there you are. I’m so sorry. So you’re no longer using that e-mail?”
“Nope.”
“I’ll upgrade your account to your new e-mail (that’s an upgrade?); and for your trouble I’ll upgrade you to VIP status.”
“Zippity-doo,” I said.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“And you’ll get an e-mail.”
So far, NOTHING!

Roll-out

After the foray. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

On the road at last.
“Battery-charge.”
Check.
“Tire pressures.”
Check.
Start in garage.
Check.
Okay, roll-out. Into the sun on our incredibly hot driveway.
“Here we go,” I said to my wife.
“You be very careful,” she said.
Fire it up.
Don helmet and motorcycle gloves.
Off we go, out the driveway, and north onto state Route 65.
Haven’t ridden in over a year.
Seems all last summer I was mowing lawn.
Or it was raining, which increased my lawn-mowing.
I never even got the poor thing inspected.
Up the street to Cycle Enterprises II, the motorcycle-store maybe 300 yards from our house.
“What can I do for you?” asked “Lightspeed” — that’s his user-name for the Cycle Enterprises computer system.
“The little dear needs to be inspected,” I said.
He strode outside.
“Is that you?” he asked. “This yellow thing?
I sure wasn’t expecting no sport-bike.”
“Is that thing comfortable?” a friend asked a few months ago.
“Just like my 10-speed bicycle,” I answered.
“I’ve ridden that way for years,” I said. “Bolt-erect I feel like I’m gonna get blown off the seat.”
I got my motorcycle-license 32 years ago. My current motorcycle is motorbike number-six. I’ve ridden so-called “crotch-rockets” since motorbike number-two.
But I’m not much of a sport-bike rider. Never was. I just putt.
A while ago I rode number-four to southern New Jersey and northeastern Maryland. It was a return to my roots, including the Jersey seashore. (I’m from south Jersey.)
Number-five is after my stroke.
I wasn’t sure I should be buying it. I was told my motorbike days were over.
But I was able to ride number-four.
I put over 7,000 miles on number-five, including deepest darkest Manhattan, and 80+ mph bumper-to-bumper on the New Jersey Turnpike.
So now I’m on number-six, and 66 years old.
I wonder at times if I should give it up, until I ride it, and wonder what I was worried about.
Lights flash, horn beeps; passed.
Off we go on a long ride — looks like I have time to change the oil, long overdue.
All the way south to Honeoye (‘HONE-eee-oy;' rhymes with 'boy'), 20A over to state Route 64, then up 64 to 5&20.
“45 mph” the speedometer said.
“I gotta do better than that!”
50 mph, then 55, finally 60+.
My motorcycle has a gas-gauge.
It’s been a while, so I thought it was reading engine-temperature.
But the gauge kept decreasing as the temperature climbed; 170, 180, 190 degrees.
Nearly out of gas, I pulled into Toomey’s Express.
I’ve always been a little intimidated about buying gas; I have balance issues.
But the poor thing needed gas.
Back on 5&20 to West Bloomfield, but back roads to avoid Bloomfield village and its possible speed-trap.
I had to stall it at least once.
The uphill intersection of Sand Road with 5&20.
Uphill intersections are always hardest; they have to be done just so.
Thankfully, no one was behind me; no glowering intimidators to get exasperated.
Into the garage back home.
Drain oil, and set about removing half the full-fairing so I can access the oil-filter.
This is all grovel work.
And removing the fairing is always a hairball; mainly getting it back on right.
Number-five had a full fairing too, and I had a shop replace the sparkplugs.
They didn’t try very hard with that fairing — it was together WRONG.
They had given up and slapped the thing together — at least they didn’t break anything; it’s plastic.
I had to take it all back apart, and put it together RIGHT.
The entire afternoon was consumed changing the oil on number-six. And getting the fairing back together was jimmying 89 bazilyun times.
Finally it fell into place.
Screw it all back together — it’s already 5 p.m.
Into the garage about 12:30; an entire afternoon spent groveling in the filth of our garage-floor.
I had to take a shower.
But the oil is changed, and finally the oil-filter is off our dining-room table.

• My wife of 42+ years is “Linda.”
• We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester. We live on state Route 65. —Adjacent is the rural town of East Bloomfield, and the village of Bloomfield is within it, about four miles away.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993.
• “5&20” is the main east-west road (a two-lane highway) 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.
• “Toomey’s Express “ is a gas-station/convenience store at the corner of state Route 64, and 5&20. The corner used to be called “Toomey’s Corners.”
• A “glowering intimidator” is a tailgater, named after Dale Earnhardt, deceased, the so-called “intimidator” of NASCAR fame, who used to tailgate race-leaders and bump them at speed until they let him pass.

Mysterious missive

The other day (Tuesday, July 6, 2010) we received an unfathomable missive from the Federal Gumint.
“Unfathomable missive” is my wife’s term.
I don’t consider it completely unfathomable.
It’s a notification that we figured our Federal income-tax too high, and would be getting an additional refund.
Manna from on high.
It said a standard-deduction would have been higher than our itemized deductions claimed, due to an old-age exemption.
Why we suddenly qualify for an old-age exemption, where we didn’t the past few years, is a mystery. —We were Senior Citizens back then.
There was also something about we should have used some Dividend Worksheet.
Which is mysterious when we didn’t have dividends.
I checked into that old-age exemption, and it seemed we didn’t qualify.
Oh well, don’t look a gift-horse in the mouth.
This follows the Gumint response to my wife’s Social Security protest, completely unfathomable.
We both have college degrees, and their response took over a year.
My wife’s birthday is January 2, meaning she turned 62 January 2, 2006.
She retired from her long-time employ January 31, 2006, almost a month after turning 62, which included five-weeks additional vacation-pay.
She started Social Security as of March 2006, receiving her first payment in April of that year.
Social Security, in their infinite wisdom, decided she retired on her birthday, so that income earned before she actually retired was well over their income limit. (Of course it was; she hadn’t retired yet.)
They sent us a check for the two months we were owed, factored against the penalty.
Her monthly benefits were reduced a small amount.
Protest was filed.
Nothing was heard for a while.
“We’re working on it,” my wife would be told when she called.
It looked like her protest was being shoved aside.
Finally their response arrived about two weeks ago.
Her retirement date would be returned to the date she actually retired, so therefore we owed some substantial amount, which I suppose is their check for the benefits we were owed, plus additional we can’t make sense of.
As always, how much time do I wanna waste trying to get the Gumint to get things right?
Another protest is another year, after which Social Security duns us for an even larger amount.
So I’ll try to refigure our taxes in a feeble attempt to make sense of the recent IRS letter.
At least they’re not billing us.

• “We” is me and my wife of 42+ years, “Linda.” She retired as a computer programmer.

I’m gonna miss out on the free donuts, Officer

After almost 50 years of driving, I find myself impeding speeders.
I merge northbound onto Interstate 390 towards Rochester, head for the rightmost lane, and wick the krooze up to 65, the speed-limit.
Almost immediately a long train of cars blasts past doing 75-80 mph.
Including the fist-waving glowering intimidator that tailgated me all the way from Honeoye (‘HONE-eee-oy;' rhymes with 'boy') Falls — actually the Rush Valero on 15A.
I learned how to drive in 1961 at age 17.
I can still remember that first time I caressed the gas-pedal in our tired 1953 Chevy, and felt that turkey move.
It was in a jr. high-school parking-lot.
No driver-ed for me, and my father was madder than a hornet.
He was convinced I wasn’t mature enough, but my mother weighed in.
I was already one year past eligibility.
Plus my mother may have had an ulterior motive; that I could be the taxi-driver she had become.
The other day we turned east onto 5&20 off Route 65.
Not far from Bloomfield village a glowering intimidator roared past, giving me the one-finger salute.
He disappeared into the distance.
“I hope that cop is taking pictures on the east side of Bloomfield,” my wife said. “He’ll pull him over sure as shootin’.”
The other day I turned north from our driveway onto 65, headed for Honeoye Falls.
I didn’t make the first turn past the motorcycle store when someone fell in behind me.
Apparently a glowering intimidator in a filthy black Cherokee fell in behind him.
We proceeded west negotiating various curves, until where 65 spills onto a straight part.
It’s hilly, so partially marked as no-passing.
All-of-a-sudden the Cherokee was blasting past my follower, revved to the moon, intent on also passing me.
We continued into a no-passing zone, but nothing was gonna stop Mr. NASCAR from capturing the lead.
Thankfully, no one was coming.
Shortly after I got my license, I was assigned taxi duty.
My mother was in the back seat, along with assorted younger siblings.
My sister was probably riding shotgun. —She’s a year-and-a-half younger than me.
I approached a place where I was supposed to turn left.
An opposing car was coming.
“DO IT!” they all screamed; sprinkled with “Get going” and “What is your problem?”
So I did, and almost got T-boned.
It was a defining moment.
“From now on,” I thought to myself; “if I’m drivin’, I ain’t lis’nin’ to nobody!
They can yell all they want.”
It’s a point-of-view that served me well, especially over 16&1/2 years of driving bus for Regional Transit Service.
I certainly had enough blowhards criticizing my driving.
“I drive, you sit,” I’d tell them. “As long as I’m drivin’ the bus, I’m captain of the ship!”
I also learned that it made no sense trying to hustle. Ya were more likely to make a mistake.
So blow on by, Mr. Speeder.
The Ontario County Sheriff is waiting for you.
I’ve certainly witnessed enough NASCAR wannabees pulled over, exasperated they wouldn’t be first to the coffee machine.
“I’m gonna miss out on the free donuts, Officer.......”

• A “glowering intimidator” is a tailgater, named after Dale Earnhardt, deceased, the so-called “intimidator” of NASCAR fame, who used to tailgate race-leaders and bump them at speed until they let him pass.
• “Honeoye Falls” is the nearest village to the west to where we live in western New York, a rural village about five miles away. “Rush” is a small rural town north of Honeoye Falls. A Valero gas-station is just south of it on Route 15A.
• “Route 15A;” a state route, is an alternative to U.S. Route 15 (now State Route 15), what used to be the main route into Rochester from the south. Now it’s Interstate-390.
• “5&20” is the main east-west road (a two-lane highway) 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 on State Route 65 in the small rural town of West Bloomfield. —Route 65 is north-south, more-or-less.
• The rural town of East Bloomfield is just east of West Bloomfield; perhaps four miles away. The village of Bloomfield is within it.
• “Taking pictures” equals radar.
• We live not far from a motorcycle store, where State Route 65 turns sharply west toward Honeoye Falls.
• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
• We live in the County of Ontario.

Allegheny Crossing

(This is only two-thirds of the map).

The August 2010 issue of my Trains magazine has a large foldout map (above) of Norfolk Southern Railroad’s storied Pittsburgh Division.
The NS Pittsburgh Division is the old Pennsylvania Railroad’s crossing of the Allegheny Mountains.
The Allegheny Mountains, part of the Appalachians, had always been a barrier to west-east commerce.
New York State was first to tap the midwest with its Erie Canal.
The Appalachians didn’t reach directly into New York. It was possible to build a canal all the way across the state from the Hudson (which was navigable) to Lake Erie.
Although there were locks in it.
Most challenging was climbing the Niagara Escarpment at Lockport; a stairstep of five double-locks — now two.
But to the east, river courses could be followed; mainly the Mohawk (“Moe-HAWK”).
The Erie Canal was phenomenally successful, so much other eastern seaports became worried, particularly Philadelphia and Baltimore.
But south of New York were the Appalachians. No way could a canal breach them.
Boston suffered even more.
The entire state of Massachusetts faced it to the west, with the Berkshire Mountains blocking the NY border.
Pennsylvania responded with its “Public Works System,” like the Erie a state-sponsored endeavor.
It was canals combined with a portage railroad.
The portage railroad was to cross the Alleghenies.
It included inclined-planes at first; ten inclines where flatcars carrying the canal-packets got winched up the hills by stationary steam-engines.
It was cumbersome and slow. 22 power changes were required over the 36-mile railroad.
There also was transloading the canal-packets onto railroad flatcars.
Capitalists in Baltimore founded the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad, the first common-carrier railroad, opening in 1827.
It was the only way Baltimore could tap the midwest (Ohio).
Even then its railroad was difficult. It included a number of arduous grades.
Early 19th century grading technology was not up to the Alleghenies.
B&O made it to the Ohio River, but its railroad was always dreadful — and hard to operate.
Washington DC instituted the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal up the Potomac River in Maryland. But it never got past Cumberland, foot of the Alleghenies.
Washington DC was never much of a seaport.
Capitalists in Philadelphia were so unhappy with the Public Works System, they chartered the Pennsylvania Railroad to build from Harrisburg to Pittsburgh. —There was already railroad from Philadelphia to Columbia on the Susquehanna south of Harrisburg; part of the Public Works System. (Pennsy eventually got it.)
Better for B&O was access to Pittsburgh.
It allowed easier crossing of the Alleghenies than its original railroad — now the “West End.”
But Pennsy blocked them to Pittsburgh a long time.
A number of physical challenges faced Pennsy, but most difficult was the Allegheny Crossing.
The capitalists brought in John Edgar Thomson from Georgia Railroad to help them build.
He decided the best way to conquer the Alleghenies was rather suddenly; i.e. helper locomotives.
But not a railroad so steep it’s impossibly difficult.
Its steepest westbound grade from Altoona is only 1.8 percent; 1.8 feet up per 100 feet forward.

Horseshoe Curve.

To maintain that grade required a trick, “Horseshoe Curve.”
The railroad loops back along two parallel mountainsides.
It stretched out the climb, so that without that curve, the railroad would have been quite a bit steeper.
Eastbound, up the western face of the Alleghenies to the summit at Gallitzin (“guh-LIT-zin”), was not as steep; at most 1.44 percent.
But steep enough to require helpers.
The Pennsylvania Railroad became a cash-cow.
Its managers merged midwestern railroads that fed the main stem at Pittsburgh.
Clear to Chicago and St. Louis.
Pennsy became the largest railroad in the world, and dominated the nation’s economy.
It also became a widow’s and orphan’s stock — it always paid dividends.
Mega-tons of midwestern commerce funneled over Pennsy.
The Allegheny Crossing eventually had four tracks over the summit, two in Pennsy tunnels, and two more in New Portage tunnel, which Pennsy acquired.
The State of PA built a “New Portage Railroad” to circumvent the inclined planes.
But New Portage Railroad only lasted less then two years.
Pennsy was triumphant. No more transloading canal-packets.
Pennsy eventually bought the entire failed Public Works System dirt-cheap. That included New Portage Railroad, which also included New Portage Tunnel. —Slightly higher than Pennsy’s tunnel, but it could be incorporated.
With New Portage Tunnel Pennsy now had multiple tracks over the summit.
A second Pennsy tunnel, Gallitzin, was opened in 1904, but was abandoned in 1995 when the original Pennsy tunnel, “Allegheny,” was enlarged to accommodate double-track, but mainly to clear doublestacks. —Gallitzin tunnel was parallel to Allegheny.
Allegheny was single-track when opened, but quickly went to double-track. It went back to single when Pennsy began using New Portage tunnel — which was double-track for a while. (New Portage Tunnel was single-tracked in 1971.)
Allegheny also went back to single-track as equipment got larger.
New Portage Tunnel also had its floor dropped so it could clear doublestacks.
Five tracks were on each side of the summit tunnels. Four on the original alignment on the eastern slope and one on the east-slope alignment of the New Portage Railroad, and two on the original Pennsy alignment on the western slope, with three on the west-slope New Portage alignment.
Pennsy had competition, of course.
Mainly New York Central Railroad and Baltimore & Ohio.
Of those, Pennsy was number-one, NYC a close second, and B&O a distant third.
The winds of change were working against railroading, mainly that -1) they were private enterprise, and therefore heavily taxed, and -2) governments were subsidizing alternative transit modes, mainly air and highway.
Giant airports were built and a control-system instituted, and a giant interstate highway system was constructed.
A railroad marshaling yard was privately funded, as was dispatching.
Eventually railroading became so untenable it began failing. Mighty Pennsy had to merge with arch-rival New York Central as Penn-Central, and even that failed in eight years.
Still, railroading was an incredibly efficient way to ship freight, so Penn-Central was folded into Conrail with other bankrupt eastern railroads.
Conrail was at first a government enterprise, but eventually it went private as it began to succeed.
Government reforms reversed the negative approach to railroading.
Conrail was put up for sale, and was gonna go CSX, until Norfolk Southern bid the ex-Pennsy lines.
Norfolk Southern now owns and operates Pennsy’s old Allegheny Crossing.
Norfolk Southern is a long-ago merger of Norfolk & Western and Southern Railway.
Pennsy tried to merge with Norfolk & Western, but failed.
Norfolk & Western was phenomenally successful; it served the Pocahontas coal-region in WV and KY.
As one who’s chased trains all over the Pittsburgh Division, I found the map interesting.
Most of this train-chasing was with Phil Faudi (“FOW-dee;” as in “wow”), the railfan extraordinaire from Altoona, PA, who supplies all-day train-chases for $125.
Faudi has his rail-scanner along, and knows the whereabouts of every train, as the engineers call out the signals, and various lineside defect-detectors fire off.
He knows each train by symbol, and knows all the back-roads, and how long it takes to get to various photo locations — and also what makes a successful photo — lighting, drama, etc.
Phil and I have covered all the way from Altoona to Conemaugh (“kone-uh-MAW”) Viaduct just west of South Fork.
Conemaugh Viaduct is a fairly longish hike over the “Path of the Johnstown Flood” trail, an old trolley right-of-way converted to a hiking trail.
Long enough for a number of trains to be missed, passing below.
Conemaugh Viaduct washed out in the Johnstown Flood and was replaced.
It’s a stone-arch viaduct over the Little Conemaugh River.
The photo location is a rock outcrop high above the railroad.
It was worth the hike. We went in a hurry, because trains were coming on Phil’s scanner.
I seem to walk slower since my stroke, but we made it.


At Conemaugh Viaduct. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Lots of other places we’ve hit are on the map; Portage and Brickyard and Lilly, Carney’s Crossing, Summerhill, and Alto (“al-toe”).
“Alto” is the old operator’s tower in Altoona; not far from where the grade over the Alleghenies starts.
It controls most operations in Altoona; crew-changes and attaching (and detaching) helper locomotives.
All via radio, 160.8, the local Norfolk Southern operating channel. (Actually it’s ex-Conrail.)
I get Alto on my scanner.
As does Phil.
As you can tell, I think the world of the Pittsburgh Division.
It’s still quite busy; my rule is wait 20 minutes, and a train will pass.
But it’s not as busy as it was in the past.
The old four-track main is down to three tracks, with three tracks over the summit.
No longer is that river of midwestern product traveling over the Alleghenies.
The river of product is out of Los Angeles and Long Beach; product from China.
Yet Allegheny Crossing can be a bottleneck.
Say two trains are coming up The Hill out of Altoona on Two and Three.
An eastbound priority train might have to follow a slowpoke down Track One.
That fourth track might have to be reinstalled.

Here it is, readers

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 to 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. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shown that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government, and to provide new guards for their future security.
.....

We, therefore, the representatives of the United States of America, in General Congress, assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the name, and by the authority of the good people of these colonies, solemnly publish and declare, that these united colonies are, and of right ought to be free and independent states; that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the state of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as free and independent states, they have full power to levy war, conclude peace, contract alliances, establish commerce, and to do all other acts and things which independent states may of right do. And for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor.

• Happy Independence Day, everyone.

ZAAAAPPPPP!

Yesterday (Wednesday, June 30, 2010) our electricity cut off for about 20 seconds.
.....Which is just long enough for all our digital clocks to lose their time-settings, including our VCR, which was claimed to have battery-backup, but obviously doesn’t.
There were no weather-related issues — a thunderstorm, for example. So probably some poor driver took out a power-pole.
20 seconds is also the start-up delay on our stand-by generator, so it kicked on as the power came back.
We don’t push everything with that stand-by, but everything was back on.
Okay, reset two clocks and the VCR.
I get my time from this computer, which gets it time from the NIST server.
I’m not that fussy, but I can get things pretty close.
My digital watch is a little fast, as are the clocks in both our cars.
Untended they get ahead of NIST.
I can’t get our van’s clock to agree with NIST time — no matter; it’s close enough.
What matters is the VCR, since it has to agree with the networks, which get their time from NIST, I guess.
All I record is the evening TV news, 6 to 7 p.m.
6 p.m. arrives; it’s not recording.
“I reset that thing the morning!” I cry.
I check the time on the VCR.
6:18 a.m., instead of p.m.
No wonder it’s not recording.
No biggie. We lose part of Alhart, a pleasure because he’s our generation.
More fiddling.
Reset a.m. to p.m.
Now it’s displaying the kerreck time.
We’ll see if it tapes the news next time.

• “Our” (“we”) is me and my wife of 42+ years, “Linda.”
• “NIST” is National Institute of Standards.
• Our van is a 2005 Toyota Sienna.
• “Alhart “ is Don Alhart, a longtime news reporter at Channel 13, the local (to Rochester) ABC-TV affiliate. He is now the anchor. —He’s our age; 66.