Another Facebook fast-one

Last night (Wednesday, December 29, 2010) the ABC national TV news was trumpeting the sudden triumph of Facebook.
As one of the significant things that occurred in 2010.

Ugh!

Clips were shown of Diane Sawyer interviewing cherubic Facebook founder bubbly Mark Zuckerberg (at left), recounting that Facebook now had 500 million members.
Well, consider me a disgruntled member of those 500 million. Facebook has locked my machine, and every time I fire it up, which isn’t often (too risky), something is different.
Not to mention all those silly ads to the right, to find who’s looking for you (always a voluptuous tart), or aimed at my interests, in my case railroading.
More exasperating are all the ads for reverse mortgages, and Medicare-Advantage plans, supposedly of interest to someone my age.
More ridiculous are all the ads that post photos I once posted to blogs, like the mere screenshot above.
I never click any of them. I ain’t havin’ some hacker steal my information.
I used to post Facebook links to these here blogs, but stopped when those links no longer worked.
I had a question I wanted to ask an old friend, and figured it made more sense to post to her Facebook than e-mail.
She’s more likely to look at her Facebook.
So I fired up Facebook; first time in about two weeks.
My friend had “updated” to Facebook’s “new profile” page; so did I want to?
The implication, I thought (stupid me), was do I wanna look at my friend’s new Facebook.
Well, I guess I have to.
BOOM; suddenly my own Facebook is “updated” to Facebook’s “new profile” page.
A Facebook fast-one; not the first time.
The fact I even have a Facebook at all is a result of a Facebook fast-one.
I got an e-mail from Facebook suggesting my old friend wanted to “friend” me.
Okay, click!
BOOM; welcome to Facebook.
Suddenly I had a Facebook of my own; not particularly wanted, but I couldn’t see a plug to pull.
Far be it Facebook supply an exit; they might not have 500 million members.
I perused my new Facebook profile. It had me living in Bloomfield, and originally from West Bloomfield.
Well, that is all wrong.
I live in West Bloomfield, and am originally from south Jersey.
Their incorrect answers were responses to queries which Facebook has since screwed up.
I see an “edit profile” button, so I click that.
Residence questions are presented, so I overwrite “West Bloomfield” to “Erlton, NJ.”
“Save changes.”
BOOM; the origin question went blank.
“View profile.”
“Add origin location” is a link.
I click it, crank in “Erlton, NJ,” but “save changes” is dead; grayed out.
I try again. Still dead.
Well, I ain’t interested in tryin’ to drive around all your glitches, Facebook, so I guess the error stands.
Sorry cherub-boy; every time you “improve” something, ya make things worse. I shut off and went to bed.

• RE: “In my case railroading......” —I am a railfan, and have been since I was a child.
• 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.
• “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.

Dream

Over the Edgemoor Yard-entrance north of Wilmington, DE. (This thing is probably doin’ 90!) (Photo by BobbaLew)

Yesterday morning’s wake-up dream was horrible (Monday, December 27, 2010).
Not a nightmare, just depressing.
I drove my beloved E250 van up to a favored spot along the Northeast Corridor to watch trains, and the railroad was gone.
I’ve been a railfan all my life.
The tracks were gone, even the catenary (“KATT-in-air-eee”) and high-voltage transmission lines were gone.
Everything had been ripped out. All that remained was the ballasted right-of-way — that had previously seen trains doing 100+ mph.
The Northeast Corridor is the Pennsylvania Railroad’s fabled New York City to Washington DC line.


Acela south through Claymont, DE. (Photo by BobbaLew)


AEM-7 (“Toaster”) #916 north into Newark, DE. (Two too many cars; probably doin’ 80-90 mph. With only six they can do over 120.)(Photo by BobbaLew)

Most of Amtrak is passenger-train service on the long-established freight railroads. —In fact, Amtrak was established in 1970 as a government enterprise to relieve the railroads of passenger-service, which were hemorrhaging money.
The Corridor is a complete Amtrak railroad.
Amtrak trumpets it as “Fast-Rail,” which it is, sorta.
Portions of the line can sustain 140 mph speeds. The line has since been extended to Boston, and can probably go even faster along it.
But there are segments good for only 40-50 mph, e.g. a junction in Philadelphia.
And there are restrictive tunnels that go clear back to the 1800s, like in Baltimore.
The so-called “Tubes” under the Hudson River are about 100 years old and very tiny.
They limit the size of equipment, e.g. passenger-cars; as do the tunnels in Baltimore.
Just the same, I’ve always been impressed by the Corridor.
I was a teenager in northern Delaware (‘60s), and every time I saw a passenger-train on the Corridor it was doin’ 80-100 mph.
The Corridor was the stomping-ground of the GG1 (“Jee-Jee-ONE;” I only say that because a friend was mispronouncing it “Jee-Jee-Eye”), which I consider to be the greatest railroad-locomotive of all time.
I really liked that E250 (pictured), which I consider my favorite vehicle.


I think this was in South Dakota during our 1987 vacation-trip. (Photo by BobbaLew)

It was entirely out-of-character. I was used to buying smallish sporty-cars.
An E250 was gigantic; it took two moves just to park it at the grocery-store. —We used the call it “the Queen Mary.”
I bought it at the suggestion of fellow bus-drivers at Regional Transit Service (RTS).
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for RTS in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
Many bus-drivers had vans, and suggested I try one.
So I started looking, to replace our rusting Volkswagen Dasher stationwagon, perhaps the worst car we ever owned.
(My 1968 Triumph TR250 would challenge it.)
Our van had a giant 460 cubic-inch V8 engine with a four-barrel carburetor.
It was probably the ambulance motor.
It got 10 mpg; that is, every 300 miles, 30 gallons!
Just the same, I loved it; mostly because a lot of me was in it.
It overheated shortly after I got it, so I pulled out the entire cooling-system, replaced every hose I could see, the thermostat, and recored the giant radiator, three cooling rows to four — it could accommodate four cooling-rows.
That thing was never overheating again if I could help it.
It had dual air-conditioning, and I could use it front-and-back.
It was air-conditioning a giant volume.
We did a cross-country vacation in it in 1987; camped out in it every night.
110 degrees up to Mt. Rushmore, full air-conditioning. It didn’t overheat.
That thing was good for the Pacific Ocean, although we only went as far west as Montana.
But we had to keep it in gas; 8.5 mpg up-and-down Pikes Peak.
The owners of a desolate gas-station in Wyoming cheered as we pulled in.
“Slap another steak on the grille, Martha. 40 gallons!”
It started rusting. It was already seven years old when I bought it.
It also got so that giant motor wouldn’t crank when hot.
Too much compression versus a weak battery.
I also had to fully rebuild the carburetor, which I did on our kitchen countertop.
Rebuilding it cured it running rich; the power-valve was stuck open. —The tiny rubber diaphragm that operated it was holed.
The carb worked fine for a while, but it got so I had to set up the automatic-choke so my wife could start it commuting.
I had to stop in a parking-lot coming home from work. It was where she left it to catch the bus.
When my wife transferred to a 30-mile auto commute, 10 mpg was out-of-the-question. And slush would splash inside; the wheel-wells had rusted through.
The E250 was retired, but I got a Chevrolet Astrovan to replace it. —We drove that Astrovan 12 years, 140,000 miles.
I used to think the E250 was something Old Henry would be proud to find his name on — the front swing-axles were gorgeous forgings.
But 10 mpg was insane. That 1987 trip was $637 in gas, and that’s 1987. Imagine what it would be now..... Probably over $2,000.
I’m sure if I drove down to northern Delaware, I’d still find the Corridor extant.
It’s hard to imagine anyone walking away from such massive investment.
Although sections of Pennsy’s electrified lines were dieselized.
I thought that catenary was forever, but it was removed.
Maintaining catenary is costly.
Passenger railroading has become moribund.
Rail-alternatives to the automobile and airline travel were abandoned.
Our nation has become dependent on petroleum-based transport.
So much we cry uncle when gasoline goes over $4 per gallon.
Imagine $5 or $20.......
And no one wants to do real fast-rail, which is an all-new railroad from Boston to Washington DC.
Devoid of restrictive tunnels and ancient junctions.
The guvamint wants to do “Fast-Rail” across New York State, except it won’t be fast, stopping at every little burg it travels through. Politicians would have it no other way. It won’t be an attractive alternative to driving the NY State Thruway — it won’t draw anyone.

• “Edgemoor Yard” (“Edge-more”) was the freight-yard for Wilmington, DE. (It was entered through the flyover pictured.)
• “Catenary” is the system of cables, etc., that supports the overhead trolley-wire. —The overhead power-supply for Pennsy’s electrification was called “catenary.”
• “Acelas” are Amtrak’s high-speed electrified train-set, for use on the Corridor. It’s a full train-set, including the passenger-cars.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993.
• “Old Henry” is Henry Ford. (The E250 was a Ford.)
• RE: “Front swing-axles......” —The front suspension of a Ford van wasn’t the more commonly-used short A-arms with coil springs. Instead it was long axle-forgings (“swing-axles”); one for each wheel. They looked like the front-end of a Model-T, except there were two.
• “Pennsy” is the Pennsylvania Railroad, no longer in existence. It merged with New York Central Railroad in 1968 as Penn-Central, and that tanked in about eight years. “Pennsy” was once the largest railroad in the world.

Where it all began

Thanks to an infected and swollen right index finger, yrs trly has finally been able to read one of his many books start-to-finish.
It’s a book I just got, a color picture-book of Pennsylvania-Reading Seashore Lines in south Jersey (“REDD-ing,” not “READ-ing”).
“Pennsylvania-Reading Seashore Lines” (PRSL) is an amalgamation of Pennsylvania and Reading railroad-lines in south Jersey to counter the fact the two railroads had too much parallel track. It was promulgated in 1933. It serviced mainly the Jersey seashore from Philadelphia.
I have hundreds of books on railroads, cars, and classic airplanes, and never the time to read them.
I’m always otherwise occupied; writing this here blog, and running our frenzied torrent of errands and medical appointments.
I also have magazines to read.
I used to read magazines cover-to-cover. The books were for retirement.
Now I’m retired with no time to read much of anything.
The books continue to go unread, and my magazines get short shrift.
The book is by John Stroup, who grew up in south Jersey like me.
I purchased it a few weeks ago at a model-train show at a local college.
The seller claimed it was the only copy he had; $30.
“Why that book?” my friend, who accompanied me, asked.
“Because that’s where it all began,” I shouted.


Where it all began. (Photo by Robert Long©.)

In 1946, at age-2, my father sat me in the front wooden orange-crate basket of his heavy balloon-tire Columbia bicycle.
I can imagine my mother: “Thomas, you gotta do something with your son; get outta the house so I can clean!”
He pedaled me to the railroad-station in nearby Haddonfield, NJ (“HAH-din-field”).
Haddonfield was on old Revolutionary-War town. We lived in a suburb just north of Haddonfield.
The railroad was the old Camden & Atlantic, built in 1853. (“KAM-din;” as in “amble.”)
The Camden & Atlantic is the main reason Atlantic City was founded.
People from Philadelphia would escape to the Jersey seashore in summer via it, although they had to ferry across the Delaware River.
The Pennsylvania Railroad got control of Camden & Atlantic, and built a connector bridge across the river in 1896.
But the bridge was in north Philadelphia. A line had to be built down to the Camden & Atlantic. The junction was in west Haddonfield.
A competing railroad was also built, Camden to Atlantic City, the “Atlantic City Railroad.”
Reading got control of it, and Pennsy and Reading used to race to Atlantic City from their adjacent ferry-terminals in Camden.
But a gigantic highway bridge across the river opened in 1926, which began putting the kibosh on railroad seashore trade.
By my time everything was PRSL.
We pedaled out a dead-end street south of and parallel to the railroad, and east of the station.
The black-and-white photo above is the exact location, though taken in 1953.
It’s where a long-abandoned branch into farm-country left the mainline to Atlantic City, although a wye was still in the woods.
Commuter-trains would come out from Camden, and then turn their power on the wye.
There also was a water-tower at the junction, so steam-engines might fill their tenders with water there. (You can see a water standpipe in the photograph.)
Trains coming in from the seashore would whistle for the many grade-crossings in Haddonfield — my father claimed they were whistling for me. We’d wave.
Free theater; I was enthralled.
Steam-locomotives were still in use on PRSL, mainly locomotives from owners Pennsy and Reading.
PRSL apparently had a few steam-locomotives of their own, but I don’t remember seeing any.
I was terrified by thunderstorms, but could stand right next to a gigantic throbbing steam-locomotive.
What I always preferred were the Pennsy steamers. They were attractive, well proportioned, and had that gorgeous red keystone number-plate on the center of the smokebox door.
That red number-plate was the giveaway; I could see it coming miles away.
I’ve been a railfan ever since.
My doctor lanced the infection; gobs of pus flowed out.
I was prescribed an antibiotic, and told to soak my finger twice each day — 20 minutes per soak.
Since it was my right hand, and I’m right-handed, I couldn’t do anything during the soaks.
So I dragged out the PRSL book. I had it fully read in 6-7 soaks.
It’s not a heavy read — it’s a picture-book.
PRSL is where it all started; I’ve been chasing trains ever since.
(I’m now 66.)

• I grew up in south Jersey, but now live in western NY.
• “Camden” is the city in south Jersey across the Delaware River from Philadelphia.
• A “wye” (“why”) is a triangular section of track, shaped like the letter “Y,” with a switch at each end. A locomotive or train can be reversed on it. (The stub-ends of the wye in Haddonfield were only long enough for a locomotive.)

Merry Christmas!

(Photo by Linda Hughes.)

So here we are, at long last; Christmas Day.
Kind of like Election Day, signifying the end of mud-slinging potshots, where sure winners, like Chuck Schumer, trumpet their “Just Folks” image.
I remember passing Schumer once in a Rochester St. Patrick’s Day parade. He had got hold of a microphone, and was making a complete fool of himself. —“Just Folks” would never do that.
Just like Election Day, except no longer would we hear frenzied ads exhorting us to “spend-spend-spend!”
Most annoying was the screaming torrent of jewelry ads, implying not buying jewelry for your sweetie was a cardinal sin.
One-after-another pretty young girls are stunned by handsome young hunks opening a tiny box shielding a diamond engagement ring.
“Divorced in six months,” I always shout.
The TV news was celebrating the resurgence of Christmas spending.
“The American consumer is back,” it said. “Buying things they don’t need.”
(It actually said this.......)
I keep driving a Nikon D100 digital camera.
More recently available is the Nikon D300.
I haven’t gotten one. I feel my D100 is fine for what I do.
Does that mean I’m a stick-in-the-mud, a drag on the economy?
I never buy anything I don’t need; e.g. a speedboat or a Corvette.
A while ago my wife and I were discussing our credit-rating.
“I don’t think it’s that good,” I said.
“Why not?” my wife said. “We pay the full outstanding balance every month.”
“Which is why we’re not that good,” I said. “We aren’t using it like most credit-card users. We don’t have a massive outstanding debt.”
So what do aging retirees like us do, with relatives all far away?
My wife’s mother lives in a retirement-center in Florida. Her brother also lives in Florida.
In my case, both my parents are gone, and my siblings are spread all over the East Coast, from south Florida to Boston.
We live in western New York, hundreds of miles from anyone.
Just about every relative is an airline flight.
We didn’t celebrate Christmas much; really haven’t since my stroke.
We managed to get a tree up for a year or two afterward, but nothing since.
The stroke was over 17 years ago.
We didn’t get our outdoor Christmas lights up this year. The weather was uncooperative. —Too cold.
I managed to get our window-candles up, but that’s inside.
Our aging neighbor across the street, in his 70s, didn’t get his anorexic tree-bear decorated as Santa, like last year, as illustrated above.
A few weeks ago my hairdresser asked about Thanksgiving.
“Came and went,” I responded.
What a drudge; a Scrooge.
“We roasted a turkey-breast, and shared it with our dog,” I said.
I noticed the Christmas-cards from my brothers all came from their wives.
We also never got a card from my baby-sister.
Surely my blowhard brother-in-Boston, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, was utterly swamped policing his beloved Porta-Johns.
Our cards were done by me. I managed to wedge it in amongst the blizzard of errands and medical appointments. —Although some cards were sent Christmas-Eve.
As usual, there was the annual bounce of the Christmas-card to my sister’s daughter.
I supposedly corrected her address last year, but it bounced yet again.
For this I was loudly excoriated as a ne’er-do-well, consistent with my politics, my computer-platform, and motorcycle, all of which are of-the-Devil.
I’m a Democrat, a “Liberial,” I use an Apple Macintosh, and I don’t ride a Harley. —All signifying rebellion. (Gasp!)
So what do we do on Christmas Day?
We take our dog to nearby Boughton Park (“BOW-tin;” as in “wow”) for a long walk.
To go “hunting;” just like every other Saturday.
After that, I’ll pump up the tires on our CR-V, with my wimpy little tire-pump that’s a disgrace.
I don’t need a giant 150-pound-per-square-inch gas-station air compressor to pump up tires.
Which makes me a drag on economic recovery!
I’m not lining the pockets of Republican fat-cats.

• My wife of 43 years is “Linda.”
• We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993.
• My neighbor’s “anorexic tree-bear” is a tree-trunk carved into a bear with a chainsaw. It’s extremely thin.
• 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.)
• “Liberial” is how my loudmouthed macho brother-from-Boston noisily insists “liberal” is spelled. (Recently it’s “liberila” or “libieral.”) —He once criticized my tire-pump as “wimpy.” (He has a giant 150-pound-per-square-inch gas-station air compressor.)
• The “CR-V” is our 2003 Honda CR-V SUV.

“Recalculating.....”

I’m headed west on N. Bloomfield Road, returning from Mighty Tops in Canandaigua, after working out at the YMCA.
I’m headed for Brace Road, where I will turn right, north.
A black BMW sedan is in front of me, also signaled to turn right on Brace Road.
They turn right, and immediately head for the right shoulder, but still block half the road.
No four-ways; still just the right-turn signal.
I will hafta cross the double-yellow to go around.
I go around and look their way as I drive past.
Yep-err; they got the GPS on.
“Do we turn here, or don’t we......”
I continue on, but look in my rear-view mirror as I continue ahead.
They are hooking a U-turn back toward N. Bloomfield Road; back-and-forth.
Then as I drive farther ahead, they are headed in my direction again.
In the time it took them to figure out their GPS, I put at least a half-mile on them; and I wasn’t being Mario Andretti about it.

• “Tops” is a large supermarket-chain based in Buffalo we occasionally buy groceries at. They have a store in nearby Canandaigua.
• “Canandaigua” (“cannan-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.
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym.
• “Mario Andretti” is a famous retired racecar driver.

Dark forces

(Photo by BobbaLew.)

All of the few automobile accidents I’ve ever had, all minor — I never was injured — occurred on Christmas Eve or New Year’s Eve.
My first accident was December 24, 1961, when I slid our family’s 1953 Chevy, the infamous “Blue-Bomb,” into the rear of a Mercedes sedan on icy pavement at a railroad crossing in northern Delaware.
I had got my license earlier that year, and the “Blue-Bomb” was the car I learned to drive in.
I was 17, and was on my way to a church function alone. By then, the Blue-Bomb was our family’s second car.
The Mercedes wasn’t damaged at all, but the front of the Blue-Bomb was punched in, the radiator holed, and a headlight and turn-signal broken.
I drove home despite the slightly leaking radiator.
I was embarrassed more than anything.
My father got the front of the Blue-Bomb pulled out, had a shop fix the radiator, and replace the broken headlight.
It wasn’t a cosmetic restoration.
Since then, I’ve always left plenty of stopping-distance in front of me, probably more than the average driver.
Enough to get my blowhard brother-in-Boston, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, loudly incensed.

A poor daily-driver (my car was also British-Racing-Green).

On December 24, 1968, shortly after starting as a management-trainee at Lincoln-Rochester bank in Rochester, I was driving home from their busy Ridge-Dewey branch in the city in our 1968 Triumph TR250.
I was driving south on Dewey Ave., signaled to turn left onto a side-street.
A car coming the opposite direction had also stopped to make a left-turn into an opposite street, so I started turning left.
Suddenly a Camaro swept to the right of the stopped car and plowed right into me.
Her lights weren’t on, and it was dusk.
Since then I’ve held back until I see it’s clear, and I look for such people.
E.g. I don’t pass a stopped bus, because someone getting off that bus might walk in front of me.
I’ve seen it happen.
Our Triumph was somewhat damaged. It was drivable, but would need a body-shop.
The side-door was caved in, and the window broken.
The door-jamb was also pranged, and the right-rear fender damaged.
What I didn’t notice was the right-rear wheel was knocked out-of-line.
The aluminum swingarm had been bent. —The TR250 had Independent-Rear-Suspension (IRS).
The bend was slight, but I noticed later. The tire was toed in. Since it was IRS, it could do that.
I had to replace the aluminum swingarm.
The body-shop pulled the pranged door-jamb back, but it was still damaged.
The door had been replaced, plus the right-rear fender.
Everything looked fixed with the door closed, but the body-shop had done a sloppy job.
The body-shop should have replaced the door-jamb, and noticed the rear-wheel misalignment.
On December 31, 1969, I drove our TR250 out to another Lincoln-Rochester bank branch where my wife was working.
It was snowing and icy.
A car backed into our Triumph in the bank parking-lot lot and dented the trunk.
I saw it happen, and the miscreant tried to get me to accept $50 to forget about it.
I refused. I correctly guessed it would take more than $50 to fix the dent.
Which it did.
I was noticing a pattern.
I surmised I shouldn’t be driving on Christmas Eve or New Year’s Eve.
So I didn’t for a while. We had to schedule things so we wouldn’t.
I eventually decided doing so was silly.
That dark forces weren’t at work.
Eventually I decided to drive on Christmas Eve and/or New Year’s Eve.

One of the most satisfying cars we’ve ever had, even though it rusted to smithereens.

By then it was a different car, our red 1972 Chevrolet Vega GT (illustrated at left).
Nothing happened. Both days came-and-went.
So today (Friday, December 24, 2010), I piled everything into our Honda CR-V, and drove to the Canandaigua YMCA.
Again, nothing happened.

• “Ridge-Dewey” is on Ridge Road near Dewey Ave. in Rochester. The Ridge-Dewey branch was across from Kodak’s massive manufacturing facility.
• “Independent-Rear-Suspension” is to suspend the rear wheels independently. Most cars use the tractor layout; a solid rear axle between the rear-wheels, with a center differential (same as the Model-T Ford). —With IRS, the differential is mounted to the car-frame, and the wheels work independently on half-shafts. The wheels mount on A-arms (in the case of the TR250 aluminum swingarms — a TR250 is rear-wheel drive), and are driven by universal or constant-velocity joints. During the ‘60s IRS was considered to be superior to the tractor layout. (With the tractor layout, both sides are effected by a bump to one side.)
• “Toed in” means the front of the tire is closer to the opposite tire than the rear. (Same with the front wheels.)
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-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 have had at least two other accidents, but neither on Christmas Eve or New Year’s Eve. One was fairly serious, a rollover.

Doomed

Photo by BobbaLew.

I guess our allegedly fantabulous Kenmore dishwasher, pictured at left, is doomed.
It’s only four-five years old.
It committed the unpardonable sin of leaving a thin patina of soap-scum on its interior fixtures.
I don’t know how true that is, but I leave such observations to my wife, our guardian of cleanliness.
“I don’t know if it’s rinsing properly,” she said. “If it’s leaving soap-scum behind, it’s probably on our dishes too, although I haven’t noticed it.”
My contact with this dishwasher is basic.
I empty it every morning, and occasionally I put things in it, put dishwashing detergent into it, or start it.
It replaced our original dishwasher, a Maytag.
I don’t remember what was wrong with that one, other than it was old and noisy.
Our Kenmore has had other issues.
Some of the rack-ends weren’t sealed, so now rust is exuding out of those rack-ends.
“I suppose we could replace those racks,” my wife said.
“I could get tips that seal those rack-ends.”
My guess is $200-$300.
A new dishwasher might cost twice that.
Our Kenmore has a plastic tub.
Also available is a stainless-steel tub, for a considerable increase in price.
“The stainless should be the racks,” my wife said. “Plastic is fine for the tub.
And why is it the manufacturers feel they gotta keep the price of such appliances the same as years ago?” my wife asked.
“Years ago the average new car cost maybe $5,000. Now figure on $21,000 or more.
Yet dishwasher prices are the same as eons ago, and they’ve cheapened the engineering.”
I remember a Sony TV dealer similarly complaining.
“The TV ya buy nowadays is a throwaway. Ya can’t repair it. And years ago they were tanks! They might last 20-30 years.
What’s available now might last seven years; after which ya trash it and go to Best Buy and buy another.
Putting shops like us out of business. Oh, the infamy!”
So back to washing dishes by hand — as it was for many years.
I suggested maybe we should look into a new dishwasher, but was told to not bother.
The Kenmore just sits unused, retired, I guess.
Maybe we can ripen tomatoes in it!

• My wife of 43 years is “Linda.”
• RE: “Maybe we can ripen tomatoes in it......” —My father-in-law, long deceased, suggested he was ripening tomatoes in their dishwasher, so we asked the salesman if their dishwashers, e.g. our Maytag, had “tomato-ripening cycles.”

Notes

—1) Memo to the brunette cutie in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym.
Sorry, I can’t resist.
I guess I’m still doing it at age-66.
Still ogling the eye-candy.
But I just can’t get by that tattoo above your butt.
UGH!
Attractive as you are, that tattoo turns me off.
At least my wife doesn’t have that, nor 89 bazilyun body-piercings.
I could never spend time with a face full of steel.
It would make me sick!
About 30 years from now, when you’re old and haggard, you’ll still have that tattoo, and probably regret it.
You’re just proving what I’ve felt all my life.
What matters, when it comes to female companionship, is what’s between the ears.
—2) I see New Mexico governor Bill Richardson is bringing reality to the North Koreans.
Why is it Bill Richardson gets intransigents to negotiate?
Why the governor of New Mexico, for cryin’ out loud?
Maybe we should make Richardson a special envoy to Congress, especially the House of Representatives.
Bring John Boehner and Nancy Pelosi together and broker a deal.
Sweet reason; get us off the dime.
Maybe he could work with the Tea Partiers.
—3) Santa came to the West Bloomfield Legion-Hall last weekend.
Of all the places he coulda gone on this planet, he came to tiny West Bloomfield.
Reminds of my discussions with my parents about Santa when I was four.
“Mommy, there’s a Santa on every corner.”
“Those are ersatz Santas, son; not the real Santa.
The real Santa is at Gimbels Department store in Philadelphia.”
(We lived in south Jersey at that time.)
“He came on the hook-and-ladder in the Thanksgiving Parade, climbed the ladder, and went in through the eighth-floor window.”
Last weekend the entire West Bloomfield Volunteer Fire-Department trundled slowly south on Route 65, in front of our house.
All five trucks, about 20 mph, sirens shrieking at full wail.
“They’re going the wrong way,” my wife said.
“Usually they’re headed north.”
“They’re probably bringing Santa,” I said.
“They’re not going fast enough for a fire.”
(The Legion-Hall is right up the street.)
—4) The proposed West Bloomfield Town Hall, the “Taj-Mahall,” was voted down.
1.8 million dollars; slightly over 1,000 taxpayers.
It was a proposed bond.
Supposedly, good bond-rates can be floated now, but what about later?
We taxpayers would be paying for that bond for decades.
How much of a Town Hall does West Bloomfield really need?
Do we need all those offices for just a couple full-time employees?
I get the feeling the Town Supervisor wanted a palace he could put his name on.
His contention is West Bloomfield is growing.
Uh yeah, but it’s not nearby Victor.
Where developers are given tax-breaks to throw up industrial buildings, and then cut-and-run when that industry goes belly-up.
Yet keep the local Mercedes dealer in business.
And all those industries presume the continuation of gasoline transport via car.
West Bloomfield is growing much more slowly.
It might gain a house or three per year.
What we should be doing is consolidating with Bloomfield.
But that would be anathema.
Bring in Bill Richardson!

• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-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. We live on State Route 65.)
• “Victor” is a rural town to the north of where we live. “Bloomfield” is a village in the Town of East Bloomfield, just east of our town, West Bloomfield. Bloomfield-village is about four miles east.

SquareBirds

(Photo by Richard Lentinello.)

The February (????) 2011 issue of my Hemmings Classic Car Magazine does a paean to the 1958-’60 Ford Thunderbirds, the famous SquareBird.
The earliest Thunderbirds, the smallish two-seaters, 1955-1957, were Ford’s response to the Chevrolet Corvette.
My uncle had an early Thunderbird, a ’56 I believe.
His job was selling Fords in a south Jersey Ford dealership.
He was considered a black sheep because he liked Fords.
Our family was deeply conservative, into Chevrolets.
Fords were swashbuckling and symbolized rebellion.
It was that Flat-Head V8 engine introduced by Ford in the 1932 model-year.
It made Fords go like stink, the darling of hot-rodders.
No matter Chevrolet introduced the Small-Block V8 engine in the 1955 model-year, that retired the Ford Flat-Head to pasture.
Chevrolet could not successfully market cars to the younger-set with a conservative image.
Despite the fact the early Thunderbirds were hugely outselling Corvette, they weren’t making Ford any money.
So Ford changed the entire concept of the Thunderbird.
No longer would it be a Corvette wannabee. It now would stand on its own as a styling triumph.
It became a four-seat “personal luxury car,” a concept supposedly first laid down in the 1963 model-year as the Buick Riviera.
That Riv is a classic, but the SquareBird is the first personal-luxury-car.
The “personal-luxury-car” concept was still nascent in 1958, and the SquareBird wasn’t marketed as basic transportation.
It wasn’t the taxicab a full-size ’58 Ford sedan could be.
There were no four-door SquareBirds, nor stationwagons.
It’s over-styled, as cars were in the late ‘50s, but successful and very well done.
Particularly the taillights.
It even made canted tail-fins attractive.
The car pictured is a restored 1960 model; to me the least successful of the SquareBirds, but not by much.
All that’s wrong is that silly grill-insert. It doesn’t need it! —It’s a concession to the requirement for annual model-year differences back then.
The owner claims the SquareBird is one of the most beautiful cars of the ‘50s and ‘60s.
I agree.
The SquareBird that is; especially the ’58 and ’59 models.
During my four-year stint at nearby Houghton College, 1962-1966, there were two guys there, Harry Thomas and Terry McLaughlin (“Mik-LOFF-lyn”), Class of ’65, who both had matching white SquareBirds.
They were a musical folk-duo, “Harry & Terry.”
Harry got his SquareBird first, then Terry, who played Poncho to Harry’s Cisco, got a matching SquareBird.
I remember our reaction that his doing so was silly, yet the SquareBird was a gorgeous car.
But off-the-wall as a conveyance for folkies.
Perhaps Volkswagen Beetles would have been more like it.
I wonder what ever became of Harry & Terry, and their matching white SquareBirds......
Perhaps each went their own way after graduating, but maybe not.
Terry was the follower, so he probably gave up his SquareBird first. He probably traded it for a proper Chevrolet product.
Harry probably kept his SquareBird the longest, and probably traded it for a Mustang.
He was that kind of person.
“Harry & Terry” may have been folk oriented, but a Volkswagen was unsuitable for Harry’s image, that he was a lothario.
Sure; make out in a Volkswagen!
(I also get the feeling if Harry had got Volkswagen, so would Terry.)
“Harry & Terry” were always a joke; folk-wannebees, but with a Houghton schtick.
That is, approved by the college — who could be overly zealous.

• RE: “My uncle.....” —My father’s younger brother — my father was the oldest.
• A “Flat-head” meant side-valve, like a lawnmower engine. The engine-valves were down in the engine-block, next to the cylinder-bore, instead of overhead in the combustion-chamber. —The valves being that way, intake and exhaust passages are contorted.
• The Chevrolet “Small-Block” V8 was introduced at 265 cubic-inches displacement in the 1955 model-year. It continued production for years, first to 283 cubic inches, then 327, then 350. Other displacements were also manufactured. The Chevrolet “Big-Block” V8 was introduced in the 1965 model-year at 396 cubic-inches, and was unrelated to the Small-Block. It was made in various larger displacements: 402, 427 and 454 cubic inches. It’s still made as a truck-motor, but not installed in cars any more; although you can get it as a crate-motor, for self-installation. The “Big-Block” could be immensely powerful, and the “Small-Block” was revolutionary in its time.
• “Houghton College,” in western New York, is 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.
• “Cisco” is “The Cisco Kid,” a TV western in the ‘50s. His sidekick was “Poncho.”

Lo-flow becomes no-flow

Photo by BobbaLew.

Yesterday morning (Thursday, December 16, 2010; Beethoven’s birthday), as it occasionally does, Toto cried uncle and refused to compute.
Toto is our supposedly fantabulous lo-flow toilet (pictured at left) in our master bathroom.
It’s manufactured by Toto.
It replaced our original toilet, American-Standard, which had become dysfunctional. That toilet was almost 20 years old, and was semi-plugged with urine-salt deposits.
Well, I guess Toto is impressive for a lo-flow toilet.
It has worked consistently almost three months since it last plugged.
Our plumber suggested Toto was the best lo-flow toilet money could buy.
Well, fine; but he’s the same plumber that suggested the reason our previous toilet wasn’t working was because of our tankless water-heater.
A tankless water-heater doesn’t heat water in a holding-tank.
It heats the water as it flows through. —You can’t run out of hot water taking a shower.
Tankless water-heaters are allegedly more efficient.
It’s not keeping 40 or more gallons of water hot.
It only heats on demand, but I don’t think it’s saving natural-gas.
With constant hot-water, you lake longer showers.
I found our plumber’s contention rather interesting.
Far as I knew, our dysfunctional toilet wasn’t plumbed to a hot-water line.
Who was I, a mere customer, to question the venerable wisdom of someone equal to the Pope?
Toto may be a lo-flow toilet, but our water-use has significantly increased since it was installed.
You have to make allowances with a lo-flow toilet.
It has to be double-flushed with certain uses, plus it has to be flushed after every use.
Our previous toilet didn’t have such requirements, so used less water.
And if I use a bucket of tap-water to help it, that’s additional water.
That got it to compute. I didn’t have to plunge it, which it often requires.

Alumni Christmas party

(Photo by BobbaLew.)

Yesterday (Wednesday, December 15, 2010), the Alumni of Local 282 of the dreaded nationwide Amalgamated Transit Union (“What’s ‘ah-two?’”), held its annual Christmas party.
The so-called “Alumni” are the union retirees of Regional Transit Service in Rochester, NY.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS), a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs.
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. (I guess it’s an ATU functionary.)
It isn’t just a social club.
It has bylaws, officers, and an Executive Board.
In many ways it’s just like our union-local, except it entertains issues of interest to retirees; like Medicare, healthcare, and diabetes and Alzheimer’s.
The party was held at Nick’s Sea Breeze Inn, in Sea Breeze, north of Rochester. “Sea Breeze” because it’s right on Lake Ontario; visible as you drive in.
Nick’s is right across from Sea Breeze Amusement Park, an old trolley-park that still exists. —It even has a wooden roller-coaster.
My wife got it pretty good; Nick’s was nothing special.
Despite photographs of various famous patrons it has served: Luciano Pavarotti, Frank Sinatra, Marilyn Monroe, and Tony Bennett.
But better than the cockroach-infested restaurant where we usually hold our Alumni meetings.
That restaurant is falling apart; there’s a thin patina of dusty goo on everything.
Its rest-rooms are frightening.
“I’m not settin’ foot in that place!” a compatriot shouts. “If I have to go to the bathroom, I’m goin’ out in the street.”
The rest-room is lit by a low-wattage bare bulb, has a broken lock, and the toilet-seat comes off in my hand when I lift it.
(“You touched that toilet-seat? You better wash your hands, boy!”
Sure, in a sink used as a urinal?)
The rest-room wreaks of urine.
I suppose they don’t charge much for the Alumni to hold its meetings in their conference-room — which also has a bar.
Other unions assemble there too, I guess.
I see Teamsters stickers on the walls.
Nick’s, by comparison, is a palace.
We were greeted by the usual noisy bellering. Bus-drivers became that way.
I was required to sign in; vestiges of our union local.
I was then refunded my reservation deposits; $5 each.
We were offered door-prize tickets; $1 each.
PASS; I never buy drawing tickets.
The Sergeant-At-Arms was going around hawking 50-50 raffle tickets.
A hostess tried to get us all to shaddup, so she could announce how things worked.
It was a buffet; tables called.
My wife and I sat with fellow ne’er-do-well Gary Colvin (“COAL-vin”), also a retired bus-driver.
He had his wife with him; also a retired Transit employee, but not union. —But a really nice person; even was when I worked at Transit.
We were also sitting with Hank Moran (“more-ANNE”) and his wife.
Our table seated six.
Perhaps the funniest moment was when retired bus-driver Major Anderson announced the door-prize winner: “I can’t even read the ticket.”
Failing eyesight; the bugaboo of getting old.
He held it away, but someone helped him.
I had my camera along to take a picture (above).
It’s digital, so it stores its image-files on an internal memory-chip.

Photo by BobbaLew.

It still had the photograph (at left) of the GG1 (“Jee-Jee-ONE;” I only say that because a friend was mispronouncing it “Jee-Jee-Eye”) model I recently purchased at a model-train show.
Colvin and I had gone to it. Colvin is a model-train buff.
“I can’t believe you bought that thing,” Colvin kept saying. “Ya said it was the wrong color.”
“Well 35 smackaroos for a model of the greatest railroad-locomotive of all time ain’t bad even if it is the wrong color,” I said.
Plus it looks fantastic.
It actually looks like a real GG1.
I saw another today (Thursday, December 16, 2010) that was obviously shortened to negotiate the tight curvature of model-train track, but it looks too short.
It ain’t right.
The one I got looks right.
“I saw a brunswick-green one down there in N-gauge. You said it was too small.
(By then, Colvin had gone upstairs to the concession-stand.)
“It wasn’t green, Gary,” I said. “It was red.”
Thus began a so-called “spirited discussion” as to the color of this model locomotive.
“Green.”
“Red.”
“Green.”
“Red.”
“It was green, I’m tellin’ ya!”
“What you been smoking, boy? I only saw two and they were both red. I never seen any green the whole afternoon. —If I’d seen one, I’da been interested.
Nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyahhhh!”
Recently retired Local 282 president Joe Carey was there, giving out presents he had bought, tiny LED flashlights.
Wrapped they looked like $10 rolls of quarters; but they weren’t that heavy.
They had batteries, but didn’t work unless a plastic safety-disc was removed.
The kid (me) figured this out, and got my flashlight working first.
The others were prompted by Joe and me.
A photograph of Nick Massa, proprietor of Nick’s Sea Breeze Inn, was in the lobby.
A caption had been applied, Nick saying “I’ll make you a dinner you can’t-uh refuse-uh.”
Nick was doing his best Godfather imitation.
Well, I guess it passes as an Italian restaurant.
Bottles of Italian virgin olive-oil are all over; “Continadella,” whatever.
Before we left, Colvin made a comment about working at Transit, probably dredged up in deepest rumination.
“For someone with no education, it was a good job,” he said.
“For someone with an education, yet a despicable ne’er-do-well, it was also a good job,” I added.
All thanks to the union — dread!
We were first to leave, although others began leaving as we left.
Across the street was an RTS bus idling in the Sea Breeze loop next to the amusement park; probably the end of the trolley-line years ago.
I drove the line to Sea Breeze; it was a nice ride.
The clientele could be difficult, although no more than anywhere else.
I did the first bus outta Sea Breeze Saturday mornings shortly after I started. It was a pleasant ride.
Mostly because it was a long; a yo-yo that took hours per trip.
Sea Breeze to downtown and then all the way out to Latta Road in Greece.
Probably about two hours or more per trip.
The amusement-park was closed for Winter.

• “Dread” because all my siblings are flagrantly anti-union.
• “What’s ‘ah-two?’” is something my mother asked seeing my ATU (Amalgamated Transit Union) button.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993.
• My wife of 43 years is “Linda.”
• “Brunswick-green” is a standard Pennsy locomotive color. (“Pennsy” is the Pennsylvania Railroad, no longer in existence. It merged with New York Central Railroad in 1968 as Penn-Central, and that tanked in about eight years. “Pennsy” was once the largest railroad in the world.) —Most of the GG1s I saw were brunswick-green.
• “N-gauge” is 9 mm (0.354 inches) between the rails. HO-gauge is 16.5 mm (0.650 inches) between the rails; almost double N-gauge. My GG1 model is HO gauge.
• I called bus-trips “yo-yos,” since they operated like yo-yos, back-and-forth (or up-and-down) over the same line.
• “Greece” (“grease”) is a large suburb west of Rochester. “Latta Road” (“LAH-duh;” as in “ladder”) is an east-west two-lane in the northwest corner of Greece.

Mano-a-mano with U-Scan

Yesterday (Tuesday, December 14, 2010) we patronized the Mighty Tops supermarket in Canandaigua.
They have U-Scan terminals, places where you can scan your own groceries, and check out yourself.
I’ve done it all-the-time, although it’s always a bucking bronco.
I pushed the start-button.
“Welcome to Tops. If you have a Tops Bonus-card, please scan it now,” said the disembodied female voice.
I tried; it doesn’t always work.
Bip!
“Welcome Tops favored-customer,” it bubbled.
I put our reusable shopping-bag on the destination scale.
“Please remove all items from your shopping-bag.”
“We don’t even have anything in it yet,” my wife cried.
Leave it to U-Scan to think we’re stealing groceries with an empty shopping-bag.
The system cut off in mid-sentence.
“Please scan your first item.”
A gallon of milk.
I waved it over the scanner-platen, at least three different ways.
Nothing!
Finally, giving up: Bip!
I quickly put the milk-jug in our shopping-bag.
“Please deposit your scanned item in the bag.”
“I already did,” I said.
The system cut off again in mid-sentence.
“Please call attendant.”
“Now what?” I said, looking at the attendant.
She was looking in my direction.
Another one of them Dagwood wannabees, frustrated by technology.
Back to U-Scan.
“Please scan your next item.”
A bottle of ginger-ale.
I waved it in different directions over the scanner-platen.
Nothing!
Again, giving up: Bip!
I quickly handed it to my wife.
“Please deposit scanned item in bag.”
“We just did,” my wife said.
I hit the produce button.
“Please enter the code on your produce-item, and press ‘done’ when finished. Then place item on scale.”
“It’s already on the scale,” I said.
“Bip-bip-bip-bip-done.”
U-Scan apparently weighed my produce, a bag of quick-oats, and threw a price on the screen.
I handed the quick-oats bag to my wife.
“Please deposit weighed item in bag.”
“We just did,” my wife cried.
I punched the “pay-now” button.
“Do you have any coupons?”
I punched No.
“Please select your method of payment.”
Credit-card — Bip!
“Please slide your card through the card-reader, and follow the instructions.”
(Lest you get thrown into jail?)
Credit-card? Yes.
“Please take your groceries and charge-slip to the attendant.
We walked out.
For charges under $50 there’s no signing.
“We’ve learned to pay no attention to that thing,” we said to the attendant.
“It’s always nattering us, and frequently cuts off in mid-sentence.

• “Mighty Tops” is Tops; a large supermarket-chain based in Buffalo we occasionally buy groceries at. They have a store in Canandaigua. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-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.)

Scarlett’s incredible adventure

(Photo by Linda Hughes.)

“That’s the second time that collar has saved your butt,” I said to our dog.
Our dog’s collar has her name stitched into it, along with my cellphone number.
The dog is also chipped.
It was bitter cold yesterday afternoon (Monday, December 13, 2010) when I returned from the Canandaigua YMCA and Weggers, perhaps 12 degrees with a wind-chill of minus three; in other words, quite windy.
It was so cold I thought the dog might need her coat just to do “the rounds.”
Her coat is a small afghan my paternal grandmother knitted; we attach it with safety-pins.
“The rounds” are walking around our property along the chainlink fence we had installed last summer.
The dog equates it with hunting.
That fence has a couple gates in it we keep closed, and semi-locked.
I had bought the dog a fuzzy toy.
She wasn’t much interested in playing with it — more interested in deeries, whatever, behind the fence.
She’s a hunter.
Later I saw our dog sitting outside in the cold patrolling our back yard.
Later still, no sign of the dog.
My wife went out to look for the dog, and a gate was open in our fence, like some hunter had left it open.
Then I got a frenzied phonecall from my wife. She was across the street, and had followed Scarlett’s tracks in the snow.
Here we go; no idea where to look, it’s bitter cold, and getting dark.
I put on my boots, and put my new Smartphone in my pocket, since that’s the number on her collar.
I took a flashlight, because I knew I might need it.
Into the fray, double-gloves.
Yelling was fruitless; a voice doesn’t carry far.
“Scarlett knows that car-horn,” my wife said. “She knows it miles away.”
I drove our car, a Honda CR-V SUV, around the block — a country-block of maybe two-three miles — blowing the horn occasionally.
I pulled into Michael Prouty Park up the street, and then back into our garage.
I started up the road on foot towards Prouty Park; I could hear a dog barking in the distance, as if protesting Scarlett.
Into Prouty Park I went, and then across an adjacent cut cornfield I always avoid with the dog.
I was headed toward that barking dog, and getting cold.
About half way across that cornfield, I heard a faint ding-a-ling in the wind. I figured it might be my Smartphone in my pocket.
I had to remove gloves to get it, and the cold wind was howling.
I attempted to answer, but it kept ringing.
There appear to be tricks to using a Smartphone I don’t understand yet.
Finally it stopped ringing; it had gone to voicemail.
I poked around in the gathering gloom, still bare-handed in the cold, trying to find the missed call.
I found that, and called.
It was the girl with our dog.
She had picked our dog up across from the motorcycle-store north of our house. (Our dog jumped right into her car.)
I said it would take me at least 15 minutes to walk back to our house.
The girl wasn’t from around here; she said she’d wait at the motorcycle-store.
I was gonna suggest taking Scarlett back to our house, but by then it was dark.
I started hiking back, and was gonna call my wife to suggest she go get the dog.
But the Smartphone threw anomalies at me, and refused to make the call.
I was still bare-handed, and getting frost-bitten.
I gave up and hiked back toward our house, circling back to pick up gloves dropped in the snow.
Finally, back in our house: “Now to go pick up our dog.”
At least five more minutes were needed to get the car back out, then down the street to the motorcycle-store.
There was the girl waiting in the dark, a Toyota Corolla, headlights on.
Scarlett was in the back seat along with a greyhound or afghan or something.
It was so cold, I don’t think our dog could have survived outside.
So now I have a cowed dog on hand, loaded with burrs and seeds.
Afraid -a) she was in deep trouble, which she’s not, and/or -b) we had abandoned her.
Also, she was utterly bushed.

• “Scarlett” is our current dog; 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.)
• “Linda Hughes” is my wife of 43 years.
• The first time was when the dog ran away in nearby Boughton Park (“BOW-tin;” as in “wow”), and was picked up by a guy with a pickup-truck.
• RE: “Chipped......” —Our dog has a tiny microchip embedded in her skin. It’s for identification.
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-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.)
• “Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester we often buy groceries at. They have a store in Canandaigua.
• “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.

Nyuk-nyuk-nyuk-nyuk

“It looks like I can actually return the rebate-form on that Smartphone,” I said to my wife. “I managed to get rid of that silly boogaloo ringtone.”
Anyone who reads this here blog, assuming there are any at all, knows yrs trly purchased a Droid-X® Smartphone (pictured at left).
“It appears to be within the range of this aging stroke-survivor,” I said.
At first it seemed I might have to give up; return it as incomprehensible.
There’s no manual, yet. (I’ll order one.) —I have to punch things in and see what happens.
Strange anomalies occur while doing so.
We got a small informational flyer with it. It denoted one button as “menu.”
Hmmmnnnnnn.......
I turned it on last night (Sunday, December 12, 2010) and punched “menu.”
A menu appeared, just like my old cellphone.
It had “settings;” I punched that.
The “settings” menu appeared, it had “ringtones.”
So I punched that.
Suddenly all 89 bazilyun possible ringtones appeared, including the one currently activated; the dreaded boogaloo ringtone.
Okay, on my old cellphone if I switched to an alternate ringtone, it rang that, so I’ll try that on this Smartphone.
I punched a standard telephone ring.
“Ring-ring!”
“WOW!” I said. “That’s much better than ‘Boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka.’”
Okay, time for a test.
I unholstered our wireless landline phone, and dialed my cellphone number.
Nothing!
I could hear it going to voicemail.
I turned on my wife’s cellphone, her old Motorola RAZR, and dialed it from our landline.
My Smartphone rang.
“Now what?” I said.
I dialed her cellphone again, and it rang.
Then my Smartphone, and it rang.
At least it was no longer the ridiculous boogaloo ringtone. It was something I could stand.
We have individual cellphones, but under the same account.
Like maybe Verizon had activated my Smartphone to be my wife’s cellphone.
But I guess not.
My wife’s RAZR calls my Smartphone, as does our landline, or so it seems.
And it’s no longer the boogaloo ringtone.

• “My wife” of 43 years is “Linda.”
• RE: “Aging stroke-survivor.....” —We’re both 66, and I had a stroke over 17 years ago.
• “Verizon” is our cellphone service provider.

Wal*Mart

Yesterday (Friday, December 10, 2010) I happened to patronize the Mighty Wal*Mart SuperStore in nearby Canandaigua.
This was despite my not liking Wal*Mart, which my siblings all loudly tell me is the greatest store in the entire known universe, so I’m of-the-Devil for not shopping there.
There are two reasons I don’t like it:
—1) Is that it’s inconvenient.
Wal*Mart didn’t get to do its own entrance off a main drag, so shares an entrance with Mighty Lowes.
You have to drive all around Robin-Hood’s barn to get to Wal*Mart.
It also is about a mile-and-a-half beyond the Canandaigua Wegmans supermarket, a store I know, so shop at often.
Grocery shopping is a frequent affair. I shop Wegmans 2-3 times per week.
Wegmans discounts their milk (Shoppers Club), and their fruit is usually better.
Their selection is more eclectic. There are things I can only buy at Wegmans.
So Wal*Mart is an additional trip.
But Wegmans doesn’t sell telephones, and I needed a telephone.
So out to Wal*Mart, where I’d bought a previous phone.
—2) I’ve had two negative shopping experiences at Wal*Mart.
-a) Once I was hugged by a urine-smelling geezer-greeter as I entered the store.
-b) Once I was snapped at by two store-associates for interrupting their day-long donut-break by having the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to dare ask where something was.
So into the store I went.
A semi-crippled military veteran mumbled something at me as I walked in. Soliciting donations, I guess.
A Salvation-Army bell-ringer was also outside, but I managed to get by without being waylaid.
I was greeted by a giant humming video-display hawking wares; “Shop Wal*Mart, the meaning of life.”
So began my long search for telephones in the gigantic store.
Audio blared at me.
“Cash-registers ring; are ya liss-nin’?
We’re happy tonight, walkin’ through Wal*Mart.
Don’t leave our store empty-handed.”
My wandering search for telephones lasted at least 15-20 minutes. I dared not ask anyone, for fear of interrupting their day-long donut-break.
A foreign lady with a navy “ask me” teeshirt was stacking crock-pots.
At least she was in kitchen-wares.
I managed to find Electronics, where I had found telephones before.
But it wasn’t the Electronics Section I had seen earlier.
89 bazilyun Sponge-Bobs were yelling in unison, from a wall lined with giant plasma-babies.
A grizzled country-boy in greasy dungarees was silently contemplating the plasma-babies — perhaps a present for his drunken Harley-momma.
Finally I stumbled upon telephones, but behind the computer gizmos, and gleaming BlueTooth earpieces.
There wasn’t much selection of telephones, despite my being loudly told by my siblings “Wal*Mart has everything!”
All were wireless, and some had multiple handsets.
Wireless yes, but I only need one handset.
I took the cheapest one from store-stock; it looked adequate.
I hope it works better than our roulette-scale; also from Wal*Mart.
The roulette-scale is all-over-the-map.
It’s electronic, but renders body-weights five pounds different each time.
I’ve given up on it.
The scale I go by is the medical-scale at the Canandaigua YMCA.
I figured I’d check out their grocery section, and thereby avoid shopping Wegmans.
But their bananas looked horrible — 89 bazilyun rotting bananas.
I passed boxes of Froot-Loops and Cocoa-Puffs with luridly grinning cartoon bunny-rabbits trumpeting “Minimum Daily Requirement.”
Of what? Sugar?
Everything seemed sugar-coated.
Sugar overload is also available at Wegmans, but seems to be off to the side — apart from the healthy choices.
Wal*Mart doesn’t have funky-foods, yet Wegmans does.
47¢ a pound for rotten Wal*Mart bananas; 49¢ a pound at Wegmans, non-rotten. —I should burn $5 of gas to save perhaps 4¢?
But of course, Wegmans doesn’t sell telephones — or does it?
I walked out of Wal*Mart with a telephone.

• “Canandaigua” (“cannan-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.
• “Mighty Lowes” is the Lowes hardware and home-supply. They also have a big-box store in Canandaigua.
• “Wegmans” is a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester we often buy groceries at. They have a store in Canandaigua.
• “Plasma-babies” are what my loudmouthed 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 work out in the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym, usually 2-3 times per week.
• “Funky-foods” are so-called natural foods.
• Wegmans has stepped up to marketing everything; perhaps even telephones.

Hospital time

Yesterday (Thursday, December 9, 2010) we had a medical appointment at 1 p.m.
We had been told it would take a half-hour.
Okay, take wife in with magazines for me to read to accompany her throughout the appointment.
This was instead of dropping her off, returning home, and then coming back to get her — what we do if appointments are long.
Lock dog in house with radios on.
We arrived at 1:04 for the appointment, and were checked in.
Go sit and wait — read magazines.
The appointment began about 2 p.m.
Time passed ever-so-slowly.
It was an anti-cancer chemo infusion.
My wife has cancer, but it’s not a death-sentence, I guess.
She seems fine, but I worry.
We function as a team.
As a stroke-survivor myself I’m not very good at interacting with people, especially by telephone.
My speech is slightly compromised.
So my wife does it.
She also tends to our dog; better than I would alone.
What I do is be taxi-driver, and I do the banking and accounting.
The financial stuff I would tend to do anyway, but my wife has a hard time driving.
So what I do is cart her around myself; e.g. take her to this medical appointment.
So already an hour had passed since 1 p.m.
Hours more passed.
I could have returned home and walked our dog.
Dropoffs and retrievals could have been dog-accompanied; not the dog locked alone in our house.
The appointment ended about 4:20; the sun was setting outside.
By the time we were on our way home it was getting dark.
By then the slam-dunk automated parking machines were off, so a massive traffic-jam was at the parking-lot exit.
We weren’t on the road until about 5 p.m., so parrying NASCAR rush-hour in the dark.
Giant traffic-jams hither-and-yon, traffic slowed to a crawl.
And look out for the NASCAR wannabees, desperate to get home for “Dancing With the Tarts.”
“Do you see how much slop I’m leaving?” I said. “I wanna be able to parry the cut-offs, and stop if necessary without drama.”
It was dark when we got home.
Not a light was on in our house.
We hadn’t planned it that way.
Our poor dog had been abandoned for hours.
And it had gotten dark.
It looked like a medical-appointment for me I had rescheduled was not gonna work.
I had scheduled it for an afternoon following a morning appointment for my wife.
But under hospital-time a half-hour may become three hours.

• “My wife” of almost 43 years is Linda. She had lymphatic cancer. It was treatable with chemotherapy — she survived. Like me she’s retired, but she worked part-time at the West Bloomfield post-office. She no longer works there. (We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of 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.)
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and it slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty putting words together.)
• RE: “Do you see how much slop I’m leaving.....” —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. It made me a defensive driver.
• “Dancing With the Tarts” is Dancing With the Stars.

Aging stroke-survivor takes on incredible challenge

“Dave, Dave; don’t do this to me Dave. I feel my memory going.”

—Whereby an aging silver-haired stroke-survivor buys a Motorola Droid-X® Smartphone.
This upgrade was for two reasons:
—A) It’s largely my hairdresser’s fault.
He got a Droid himself, and showed it to me at his shop.
Gee whiz; apps galore, some silly.
What interests me most is it will do Internet direct from the satellite.
So I could be out in the hinterlands, and do Internet without Wi-Fi, and without a cumbersome laptop.
So I was gonna upgrade to a Smartphone anyway.
—B) My old Nokia 6205 cellphone (pictured below) was dyeing.
I guess the flopsie tech wannabee at Verizon recognized me; “Back again,” I said.
She was gone almost 10 minutes, far better than the 30 seconds last time.
“It’s your phone,” she said.
Uh-DUH!
“I see you have insurance,” she said.
“But I’d rather upgrade early. I’m due to upgrade next month, and the penalty for an early upgrade is $20. Insurance is $50 deductible.”
“I’ll put you in the sales queue.”
“Robert?” a lady asked.
“I’d like to upgrade to a Droid-X,” I said. “My old cellphone is dyeing. I gotta leave here with something that works.”
“Will your old cellphone turn on? What about your contacts?”
“They’re all upstairs,” I said. I had to explain “upstairs;” “Backup-Assistant,” I said.
Next was getting the Droid to be my phone, and downloading all my contacts. —I did this myself on my Nokia, but I figured there were too many unknowns with a Smartphone.
Now that I’m home our first goal is to get it working as a phone, and change that silly boogaloo ringtone.
My old phone did that too; rap as a ringtone. I just want it to ring, or better yet the 765 whistle; an MP3 I created of the whistle on restored Nickel Plate steam-locomotive #765.
The lady tried to sell me a box of appliances, namely a charger, a dock, a windshield-mount dock when using the Smartphone as a navigation device, and also a car-charger.
“All I need is that charger,” I said. “I ain’t havin’ some navigation device yammering at me while I drive.
I use pre-printed maps from Google,” I said. “I need to know where I’m goin’ before I leave my garage.”
“Your Droid will have a charger,” she said. “That charger would be a second charger.”
“And I don’t need no car-charger either,” I said. “My cellphone goes in my pocket when I drive.”
“How ‘bout a Bluetooth earpiece? The Droid is Bluetooth enabled.”
“No crickets in this kid’s ears,” I said. “When I get a car with a Bluetooth receiver I’ll be interested.”
“Beep-boop;” lotsa programming.
My RoadRunner e-mail was added; I can respond to my e-mails with the Droid.
I also had to create a GMail account; apparently Internet is via GMail or something.
Plus the Droid platform is Google.
I also bought a clip for carrying it while I run — although it’s big. It’s about 5-6 inches long by 2&3/4 inches wide, and a half-inch thick, with a rather large display.
Although the display is tiny compared to a laptop. You have to expand and then scroll.
She installed the battery. “That thing’s why I didn’t do iPhone,” I said.
“On an iPhone the battery is soldered in.”
Now I see the Droid-Xs often have display problems — imperfect technology.
That picture above is from a site recounting the Droid-X’s display problems.
If I’d seen that at first, I mighta upgraded to something else.

• “Dave, Dave; don’t do this to me Dave. I feel my memory going” is what the on-board computer HAL says as astronaut Dave pulls its memory-modules in the movie “2001.” (HAL had taken over.) —HAL is always signified by a glowing red eye.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993.
• “RoadRunner“ is Rochester RoadRunner, my Time-Warner cable-service. My e-mail is over them.

La-dee-dah!

Yesterday (Monday, December 6, 2010) I got a “progress-report” from the SilverSneakers® program.
SilverSneakers® is nationwide, I guess, a program for oldsters like me to stay in shape.
My health-insurance pays my membership at the Canandaigua YMCA through the SilverSneakers program. —Where I work out in their Exercise-Gym (“Wellness Center”).
“Congratulations,” it said. “You made 12 visits to participating locations (the YMCA) in July of 2010, as opposed to the national average of 7.64 visits per male participant in SilverSneakers.
And eight in August versus 7.87, and nine in September versus 7.52.”
Uh-DUH! Yeah, and it wasn’t intentional.
I wasn’t trying to score points.
I was able to hit the YMCA 12 times in July, eight in August, and nine in September.
I’m one of the regulars.
There were probably medical appointments and/or trips in August and September that made more frequent visits impossible.
I try to do the YMCA Exercise-Gym three days per week, Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
Each workout is about three hours; about 1&1/2-to-two on cardiovascular machines, and the rest on other machines, weights, and stretching.
I consider it my endeavor to stay alive.
What the “progress-report” doesn’t detail is the excess poundage I’ve lost — and my improved balance.
I can still run, albeit very slowly.
What I say is my knees still let me.
The Canandaigua YMCA has a giant outside staircase out front, about 20-25 steps climbing perhaps 15 feet.
I ascend those steps two at a time.
“How come you’re doing that?” people ask. “That’s a workout before you even got here.”
“Because I still can,” I answer.
“If I quit trying, I’d get so I couldn’t.”

• RE: “Oldsters like me......” —I’m 66.
• “Canandaigua” (“cannan-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.

The greatest railroad-locomotive of all time

The greatest railroad-locomotive of all time. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Yesterday afternoon (Saturday, December 4, 2010) yrs trly finally purchased a model of the greatest railroad-locomotive of all time, the Pennsylvania Railroad’s GG1 (“Jee-Jee-ONE;” I only say that because a friend was mispronouncing it “Jee-Jee-Eye”) electric locomotive.
The model, pictured above, is HO-scale, 87.086 to one, the most popular model-railroading scale — 16.5 millimeters between the rails, 0.650 inches.
It’s powered, but I doubt I will ever run it.

My TWA Connie model.

What I will do is display it with my TWA Lockheed Constellation (at left), and my McLaren (“Mik-LAR-in;” as in Larry) M8D racecar (below).
The Trans-World Airlines (TWA) Lockheed Connie is the greatest airplane ever, and the McLaren Can-Am cars were what I consider the greatest race cars of all time.

My McLaren M8D model.

The Sports-Car Club of America’s Canadian-American Challenge-Cup (“Can-Am”) was a series for two-seater fendered sports-racing cars in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s.
It usually was comprised of six or more races at different road-racing tracks.
The McLarens were the pinnacle of the series; they used aluminum Big-Block Chevy V8 motors.
They were incredibly fast and powerful; the ultimate hot-rod.
I attended quite a few Can-Am races, and was smitten.
I don’t know as this Gee is what I wanted.
It’s tuscan-red (“TUSS-kin”) with five gold pinstripes, the early “cat-whisker” scheme.
What I wanted was Brunswick-green with the single yellow stripe (see below).
This is the scheme I saw so much of in the early ‘60s when I was a teenager.
And every time I saw one it was doing 80-100 mph!
A model-railroad friend is painting an HO GG1 for me; Brunswick green with the single yellow stripe.
I may prefer it.
I went to a model-train show yesterday with another friend, a retired bus-driver like me.
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.
This guy also drove bus for RTS, and is also a model-train fan.
I more prefer the real things; not model-trains.
Model-trains collect dust.
I certainly have been involved in enough model-railroad layouts.
I had model-trains of my own (Lionel), and helped a young neighbor friend build a giant HO model-railroad layout in 1959.
The show, at nearby Rochester Institute of Technology’s Gordon Fieldhouse, put on by RIT’s model-train club, was massive, model-train overload.
Layouts galore, with local dealers displaying their inventory.
I took along $100 cash; the most I’d pay for a GG1 model.
We hadn’t gone very far, and stumbled on a tiny model GG1.
But it was N-scale, and tuscan-red.
N-scale is about half of HO size; 9 millimeters between the rails, 1-to-148 to 1-to-160. (HO is 16.5 millimeters between the rails.)
The seller wanted $92.
“No thanks.” I said. “It’s red and too small.”
My friend gave me an argument. “You’re too picky,” he said. “A GG1 for less than a hundred, and you pass it up!”
“Well of course,” I said. “I have a friend painting a Gee in the scheme I want. I’d rather see that first.”
We kept wandering. Did all the aisles.
I attended this show a year-or-two ago with another friend who has since died, and we only did about two-thirds of the show.
At that point my earlier friend had to sit down.
He was bushed.
My friend yesterday was somewhat hobbled by painful knees, but got around fine.
He purchased an antique New York Central system-map, and I purchased a picture-book about Pennsylvania-Reading (‘RED-ing,’ not ‘READ-ing’) Seashore Lines (PRSL).
“Pennsylvania-Reading Seashore Lines” is an amalgamation of Pennsylvania and Reading railroad-lines in south Jersey to counter the fact the two railroads had too much parallel track. It was promulgated in 1933. It serviced mainly the Jersey seashore from Philadelphia.
“Why that book?” my friend asked.
“Because that’s where it all started,” I said. “PRSL in the late ‘40s.”
The seller said it was his only copy of the PRSL book.
$35.


The real thing. (Photo by Tom Hughes.)

We wandered some more, me looking for the sales-display of the friend who is painting my GG1.
We came up on another GG1, HO-scale, but also cat-whiskers tuscan-red.
$50.
“Wrong color,” I said.
We kept wandering.
We began asking about GG1s.
Someone told us some sellers were along an opposite wall, selling stuff from layout breakups.
I might find a GG1 there.
When I attended this show one-or-two years ago, I thought I stumbled across some GG1s from similar layout breakups.
Most were Brunswick-green, and one perhaps the single-stripe scheme.
I didn’t buy any of those, but should have.
Finally after about two or three hours of wandering, my friend wanted to hit the upstairs concession-stand for something to eat.
Up we went, but “I’d still like to look along that wall down there. I was told I might find a Gee there.”
My friend got a soda, and back down I went.
I found the red N-gauge Gee again, but never saw any HO Gees.
I also found the sale-display of my friend who is painting my GG1.
“Any GG1s?” I asked.
“No, but there’s one back there, although it’s Amtrak,” I was told.
“No Amtraks,” I said. “Only Pennsy.”
I’ve seen quite a few Amtrak GG1s. They look terrible. A modern paint-scheme on a ‘40s deco classic.
Back upstairs I went. By now my friend was quietly perusing my PRSL book.
“I found that N-gauge GG1 again, but it’s the wrong color, it’s too small, and it doesn’t look that good.”
“What I remember is a Brunswick-green N-gauge, and a second GG1 in HO over there,” he said. “But it was red.”
“I remember that too, but I never found it,” I said.
He pointed where it was — not along the back wall.
Back down I went, and found it, a tuscan-red HO GG1; the one for $50.
“Tell ya what,” I told the seller. “How ‘bout a card, so I can call if the repaint doesn’t work out.”
The seller was antsy. “How much can ya offer?”
“$25,” I said.
“How about $35?” he said.
“Lemme see what I got,” I said, taking out my wallet.
I gave him two twenties, and walked away with a five-dollar bill and an HO model of the greatest railroad-locomotive of all time.
It’s a plastic body-casting on cast metal trucks.
It looks great; plastic can usually render more detail.
I lifted one pantograph (“pant-uh-GRAFF”) for the photo, and my wife noticed. The pantographs look great too — very real.
The pantograph is what slides along the overhead trolley-wire, delivering electricity to the locomotive.
The model is AHM (Associated Hobby Manufacturers), and I still have the original box it came in.
I guess it’s not oriental.
My friend pointed out the original price, which had been marked out: $19.95.
“Yeah, but that was back then,” I said.

Photo by BobbaLew.

GG1 #4896 in the single-stripe scheme at the shops in Wilmington, DE.

But I’m not sure of the color.
What I saw so many times was the Brunswick-green single-stripe scheme illustrated at left.
Still, 35 smackaroos for a model GG1 ain’t bad.

• The Pennsylvania Railroad (Pennsy) no longer exists. It merged with New York Central Railroad in 1968 as Penn-Central, and that tanked in about eight years. It was once the largest railroad in the world.
• The Lockheed Constellation airplane is also called the “Connie.”
• The Chevrolet “Big-Block” V8 was introduced in the 1965 model-year at 396 cubic-inches. It was made in various displacements: 402, 427 and finally 454 cubic inches. It’s still made as a truck-motor, but not installed in cars any more; although you can get it as a crate-motor, for self-installation. The Chevrolet “Small-Block” V8 was introduced at 265 cubic-inches displacement in the 1955 model-year. It continued production for years, first to 283 cubic inches, then 327, then 350. Other displacements were also manufactured.
• “Brunswick-green” is a standard Pennsy locomotive color, sort of dark olive-green. “Tuscan-red” was the standard Pennsy passenger color. Many of its passenger diesel-locomotives were tuscan-red, as were its passenger cars. Its MP54 electrified commuter-cars were also tuscan-red; as were many of the houses of Pennsy shop employees in Altoona, PA. (My GG1 model is “tuscan-red.”)
• “Tom Hughes” is my brother-from-Delaware’s only son. He recently graduated college as a computer-engineer. He works for Boeing-Vertol, and like me is a railfan.
• “Amtrak” is a government corporation promulgated in 1970 to take over rail passenger service. It mainly runs passenger trains over the independent railroads with its own equipment, but it also owns and operates its own railroads; e.g. the old Pennsy electrified line from New York City to Washington D.C., the so-called “Northeast Corridor;” although the Corridor has been extended to Boston over the old New York, New Haven & Hartford line.
• “My wife” of almost 43 years is “Linda.”

Mano-a-mano with Verizon

The title may make it appear I’m unhappy with Verizon.
Actually I’m not.
It’s just that I might have to do what in my case passes as a grandstand: “Prove to me my cellphone will take a charge.”
Over 17 years ago I had a stroke.
As a result, my ability to carry on an argument is slightly compromised.
My fantabulous Nokia 6205 cellphone (illustrated above) is dyeing. It won’t accept a charge.
Its battery-icon is now empty, even though the cellphone will still turn on.
I took it to Verizon yesterday (Friday, December 2, 2010), and they told me my charger was defective.
“Before we do anything,” I said; “I’m eligible for an upgrade next month.”
“$20 for an early upgrade,” they said.
“Before I do that, I think I may have another charger back home. “This phone replaced an identical phone that was dunked.”
Back home, the second charger was installed, and nothing.
So back to Verizon: “It ain’t the charger, guys; it’s the phone.”
My cellphone is doing anomalies.
It no longer beeps when I have a message.
It also was coming on when I flipped it open — like it decided a flip-open was the same as the on-switch.
And now it’s not taking a charge.
“It’s the phone, guys!”
It still comes on, but the battery icon is empty
“Let’s upgrade early; collect $20!”
The upgrade would be to a Smartphone, what I was planning to do anyway.
Last night, while it was still working, I made sure my Backup Assistant in the sky was up-to-date.
It was.
I turned it back off.
It’s still not accepting a charge.
I don’t expect it to last much longer.
“You’re gonna hafta show me it’s accepting a charge, that both my cellphone chargers are defective.
Even then, I don’t think I wanna spring for another charger. I bet it costs more than $20.
I’m gonna upgrade in a month anyway. That’s silly!”
The dyeing Nokia is making me upgrade before I’d planned.
In which case I have a Smartphone that will do way more than just be a phone.
Which is okay, but upgrading ahead of time.
I’m not ready.
My ability to drive such wizardry may also be compromised.
It’s the old waazoo; figure it out while driving — try this and see what happens.
It’s the way I figured out most technologies.
Although the results are rather rudimentary.

• I had a stroke October 26, 1993.
• “Backup Assistant” is Verizon’s service for maintaining your contact-list at Verizon besides in your phone. —When you get another phone, you can transfer your contact-list from their servers. (I always say the Verizon servers are on-high “in-the-sky,” like God.)

Fuzzy-math

At Horseshoe Curve. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Over a year ago, I happened to put together a calendar at the Kodak Gallery web-site of my own train-pictures.
The cover of that calendar is illustrated above.
My intent was to replace one of my seven calendars.
These calendars are written up in my monthly calendar reports on this blog.
Usually my own calendar appeared first, because I was so impressed with it. The pictures were pretty good too.
Seven calendars might seem extreme, but to me they aren’t really calendars.
What they are is wall-art that changes every month.
No dates or appointments are kept track of thereon.
My wife does a separate calendar-printout that lacks art.
I happened to order one version, and was so impressed I ordered at least 10 more.
I figured I’d send ‘em around as Christmas presents.
I happened to send one to Mike Kraynyak (“CRANE-eee-ack”), the proprietor of Tunnel Inn bed-and-breakfast in Gallitzin (“guh-LIT-zin”), PA.
All the pictures were taken along the old Pennsylvania Railroad mainline over the Allegheny Mountains near Gallitzin in central PA.
Mike was so impressed he suggested I do more calendars he could sell.
I suggested a 2011 calendar with most of the photos in my 2010 calendar, plus a few others.
I also suggested a better calendar, with snow scenes for January, February and December, and a fall-foliage scene for October.
Back to Kodak Gallery, finessing a 2011 calendar.
I also happened to take pictures in the Allegheny Crossing area last February after a heavy snowstorm.
I managed to put together a 2011 calendar, so ordered one for Mike for display.
75 calendars since last June; he needed 75 calendars.
Tunnel Inn is a fabulous railfan hostelry. It’s right next to the old Pennsy tunnels at the top of Allegheny Crossing.
He’s always getting railfans, so the calendars sell themselves.
I tried 75 calendars on the Kodak Gallery web-site, and got $1,372.46, 75 times $14.99 each, plus tax and shipping.
Kodak Gallery had some “free-shipping” promotion, but you had to plug in a coupon-code, or so it appeared.
$975.58; that’s better.
I called Mike last night (Thursday, December 2, 2010) and told him $975.58.
I tried Kodak Gallery again after our phonecall, and this time I got around $919.
Hmmmmmmmnnnnnnn...........
Even $975.58 divided by 75 isn’t $14.99 per calendar. It’s around $12.77.
FUZZY-MATH ALERT!
I’ve had trouble with the Kodak Gallery web-site before.
Last June it insisted I was a new customer because I was using my new computer.
I ended up ordering from my old computer.
My wife also tried the 75 calendars from her computer, a PC (I drive a MAC), and came up with another total.
“Who is updating this site?” she cried. “Every time I get a different total!”
Never did either of us come up with $975.58.
So now Mike is sending me a check for $975.58, and I have no idea if it will be right.
It may be too much, or not enough.
There also is the likelihood the free-shipping may come off before I order the 75 calendars.
We never were able to pin it down — first one date, then another.
And I don’t wanna order the 75 without proofing my single calendar-order first.
Last June a flurry of e-mails was exchanged with Kodak Gallery’s Customer-Service.
What I got was boilerplate, and it sounded like it was from India.
Kodak Gallery’s web-site was perfect, flawless, and without error.
No matter it seemed to be changing with every visit.
So if $975.58 is not enough, I figure I’ll just eat it.
Order the 75 calendars, and hope for the best.
I told Mike it was just a hobby. I’m retired and not in it for the money.
He promised a few free visits to his bed-and-breakfast.
Kodak Gallery’s final product is worth the hairballs.

• I’m a railfan, and have been since I was a child.
• Allegheny Crossing is the location of Horseshoe Curve, west of Altoona (“al-TUNE-uh”), PA, by far the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to. Horseshoe Curve is now a national historic site. It was a trick by the Pennsylvania Railroad to get over the Allegheny mountains without steep grades — the railroad was looped around a valley to stretch out the climb. Horseshoe Curve was opened in 1854, and is still in use. —I’ve been there hundreds of times, since it’s only about five hours away. The viewing-area is smack in the apex of the Curve, so trains are right in your face. Train-frequency is also high — wait 20 minutes and you’ll see a train. A scenic railfan amphitheater!
• “Pennsy” is the Pennsylvania Railroad, no longer in existence. It merged with New York Central Railroad in 1968 as Penn-Central, and that tanked in about eight years. “Pennsy” was once the largest railroad in the world. The cross-PA Pennsylvania Railroad line is now operated by Norfolk Southern Railroad.
• “My wife” of almost 43 years is “Linda.”
• Every time we visit Allegheny Crossing, we stay at Tunnel Inn.