You lose, Toyota

“When creating the first-ever Toyota C-HR, Toyota's team of global designers (my underlining) was inspired by a single theme: the diamond.”
HUH? Do they realize how silly that sounds? Or am I out-of-it? Totally clueless — an old geezer unhip to the new reality?
Whatever; I wouldn’t touch this thing with a ten-foot pole!
Ugly as sin! Even a platypus looks better.
I admit I am no longer addicted to automobiles.
I occasionally find myself seeing cars not familiar, and many are grotesque.

A Jaguar XK-E. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

A Porsche 904. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

I come from an era that generated the best-looking cars ever: the Jaguar XK-E and the Porsche 904.
Unfortunately the Porsche is a racecar, but I certainly drew enough 904s.
Even some of Detroit’s cars looked pretty good, but now they seem in lockstep with the Japanese.
I happen to own a 2012 Ford Escape. It looks pretty good, but it’s five years old, and slight rust is appearing.
I don’t look forward to replacing it. It’s an All-Wheel-Drive SUV. Oldsters like me like the taller seating of an SUV.
I also need All-Wheel-Drive. It negates having to clear my long driveway unless I get eight or more inches of snow.
AWD also makes it easier to chase trains. (I’m a railfan.) I can safely navigate icy dirt-tracks and farm-tractor paths.
No doubt a 2012 Escape is not as aero-friendly as what’s available now. It’s a brick.
Even an XK-E and Porsche 904 have lousy aero.
“Sleek lines and distinctive exterior” — are they kidding? Dumbo the Elephant is “sleek?”
Even Honda looked fair not too long ago. Now they look awful. It’s their attempt to paste brand-identity on the front of every model = that ugly strip across the full frontal face of every offering.
The FIT looked fine until they started doing that. A wonderful chassis with excellent space-utilization. But I can’t get past its front.
Then there’s Lexus with its angry upsidedown fishmouth grafted to the front of every model.
Not too long ago I saw what I think is the new Prius. All pointy knife-edges poking toward the stratosphere; even its corners.
Nice concept, but dreadfully ugly; a turnoff.
Even Detroit is doing brand-identity. Chevrolet pasting the same styling themes on every model. And Ford with its Aston-Martin grille, or sundered in two with a slivered opening up top.
Even Chevrolet is doing double grille-scoops, which look ridiculous on its tiny “Spark.”
Only Chrysler has good-looking styling; purveyor of the infamous K-car.
Is this what I have to look forward to? Frumpy cars totally lacking in grace?
“Sleek and distinctive” is the XK-E: prettiest car of all time.


Prettiest car of all time.

B-25

B-25. (Photo by Philip Makanna.)

—I keep seeing it. It’s in my bathroom.
The June 2017 entry of my Ghosts WWII warbirds calendar is a B-25, one of my all-time favorite airplanes.
And not sullied by that awful-looking hard-nose with growling teeth — more ground-attack than bomber.
Worth a blog.
9,889 were built. My WWII warbirds site says the B-25 was the most widely used medium bomber during WWII.
It has two 1,700-horsepower Wright R-2600-92 Cyclone radial piston engines, and could carry 4,000 pounds of bombs.

As far as I know, this is a B-25J. No cannon; that’s the B25G. (Photo by Philip Makanna.)

In November of last year, Ghosts ran a Makanna picture of a hard-nosed toothy B-25, a B-25J — no cannon. The B-25G had the 75 mm cannon.
This B-25D looks much better.
The B-25 was versatile, and could be easily adapted.
They were kept on duty after the war ended, used for training and VIP transport; the final USAF B-25 was retired in 1960.
Shortly after the Pearl Harbor attack, Lieutenant Colonel Jimmy Doolittle lead a bombing raid on the Japanese mainland. It involved B-25s flying off the deck of the USS Hornet, an early aircraft-carrier.
The B-25s barely got in the air, and couldn’t return to the Hornet. They landed in China. (The Japanese then conducted a massive campaign against China.)
After the war, a B-25, lost in fog, crashed into the Empire State Building. 14 died; 11 in the building, three crew. The building still stands.
I remember a B-25 used as a camera plane for the first Cinerama movie.
Cinerama was wrap-around: triple cameras, then three projectors. It was pretty good, but the projectors could go out of register.
The triple cameras were set up in the bombardier quarters of a B-25, then the plane was flown up East River next to New York City under some of the bridges.
Exciting footage, but a single camera would have been fine.
According to my Warbirds site, about 34 B-25s are still airworthy. I’ve seen quite a few. I remember B-25s flying over as I drove to DE once. Probably a warbirds show in southeastern PA.

B-25 in Geneseo. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

A few years ago I attended a similar show in nearby Geneseo (“jen-uh-SEE-oh”). A B-25 flew in and landed, but only one. I’ve been to that show when four or five B-25s were on display.
They did pumpkin-drops. Pumpkins in the bomb-bay were dropped from low altitude into a target area. The closest pumpkin won.
I never modeled a B-25. I never could find a Revell® B-25. I had an Aurora B-26, but its wings drooped. Only the Revell® kits had interlocking wing-tabs.
Plus the B-25 was much prettier than a B-26.
I also remember Yossarian of “Catch-22” being terrified of duty in a B-25. People got shot up and killed — bloody gore everywhere.

Uhm

“Eat your heart out no art guy,” said a good friend of mine who once, like me, drove transit bus.
I guess I set him off describing his model-railroad equipment as “toy trains.”
(I used that description to avoid “N-gaugers,” which I thought another wouldn’t understand. His model-railroad equipment is N-gauge.)
As a railfan I’d do a layout myself, except they collect dust.
Plus they aren’t realistic, their appeal in the first place. They can’t be.
To properly model a railroad ya need an airport-hanger. Model-railroad curvature is way tighter than what real railroading could operate. It has to fit — often a four-by-eight sheet of plywood.
Feeling I’m an “artist” is recent. It contradicts over 70 years of being convinced I was stupid and rebellious.
I don’t wanna delve into that; that’s a sob-story. Fodder for boring blogs; what many are.
In my humble opinion, thinking of myself as an “artist” is partly an ego-trip. But not a superiority-gig.
I hafta be confident of my artistic judgment, so when some critic badmouths what I’ve done, I know better.
I’m confident in what I do. Their negative opinion just happens to disagree with mine. The final judge of what I do is ME.
This has been a long time coming. For years I was convinced I was inferior.
I see it happening. “If that brochure is mine, we ain’t usin’ no cheesy Xerox map!”
RE: Background color for my annual train-calendar:
-Green? “No. Looks wussy.”
-Gray? “This is a color calendar.”
-Navy Blue? “Maybe.”
-Dayglo spaghetti? “What you been smokin’, dude?”
-Red? “There it is!”
RE: Font-choice for that calendar:
-“Nope; looks awful.”
-“No again.”
-“There it is!”
RE: Font-color:
-Black? “Absolutely not!”-
-White: “Looks pretty good.”
-Any other color: “Has to be white.”
Same thing with photo choice. I pore through the hundreds of train-photos my brother and I took.
“Whoa dude; we’re usin’ that one.”
It’s artistic judgment, and I happen to be doing it.
It’s even extending to photo set-up. I imagine a final result, then try to assemble it.
“Has to be about 2 p.m. for light, and has to be a semi-Cirrus sky. Strident sunlight won’t work.”
A friend is correct to say photography ain’t art, at least regarding equipment and operation thereof.
Another friend told me picking out successes from the 89 bazilyun pictures I took, is being an artist.
“Looky-looky! Nothing but trees in the background; no sky to distract. What a shot!”


(Photo by BobbaLew.)

(The photo below was very much planned.)


(Photo by BobbaLew.)

(So was this.)


(Photo by BobbaLew.)

(Very much not-planned. A “Shaddup-and-shoot.”)


(Photo by my brother Jack.)

• 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 environs. My stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered well enough to return to work at a newspaper; I retired from that 11 years ago.
• “N-gauge” is model-railroad track 9 mm (0.354 inches) between rails. That’s smaller than HO, which is 16.5 mm (0.64961 inches) between the rails. HO is more popular, but requires more space.

“Grandma, Grandma.....”

“Every American, BY LAW, should be required to see the Grand Tetons at dawn,” I said to my friend **** as she entered the Canandaigua YMCA pool for our aquacise class.
Yrs trly has been doing aquacise for the past couple months to hopefully improve his balance, which is dreadful.
I was poolside practicing get-ups.
What prompted this was the YMCA had their gizmo on that roils the water in their kiddie-pool; a pump that blasts water toward the surface creating turbulence.
“They got the jet on,” **** had said.
“Yeah, but it ain’t Yellowstone,” I said. “Ever been to Yellowstone?” I asked.
“Why yes I have,” **** said.
“All kinds of crazy stuff is going on in there,” I said. “Bubbling stink-pots, geysers, foaming mud-bogs.”
“Ever seen the Grand Tetons at down?” I asked.
**** thereupon related her Tetons story.
“Grandma, Grandma, Grandma,” her grandchildren said, running back to their campsite in lee of the Tetons.
“The Ranger just told is ‘Tetons’ is French for ‘tits.’”
“Why thank you, ****. I’ll hafta tell all my friends.”
“For 40 years we lived on Long Island. Go out at night, and ya might see a couple stars.
Co out west, and....”
“Billions and billions of stars,” I interjected; “just like Carl Sagan said.
We’re at some campground in Colorado, 10,000 feet. I step outside in the dark, and ‘billions and billions of stars.’
And I could hear coyotes yipping. Ya don’t get stuff like that around here.
I walk out of a supermarket in Jackson Hole, and a gigantic rock-face is across the street. Wegmans ain’t like that.”
“How about Pikes Peak?” I asked. “Every American, by law, should be required to drive the Pikes Peak road.”
“Couldn’t do it,” **** said. “Had to turn around half-way. Scared of heights.”
“Ya don’t make mistakes,” I said. “Thousand-foot drop-offs await.”
And when ya get to the top, ya sing ‘America-the-Beautiful’ at the top of yer lungs. Amber waves of grain to the east, and purple-mountain majesties to the west.
That’s where that was written, first as a poem by Katharine Lee Bates.
It should be our national anthem.”

“O beautiful for spacious skies....”

“That was 1987; only to Montana. 1980 all the way to the Pacific.
Stopped in Monument Valley, the Four-Corners, on the way back, stepped out, and utter silence. No birds, no rustling trees or shrubbery; only the faintly wafting wind.
Don’t know how old **** and her husband are. They may be older than me. I’m 73.
“I’ve always loved traveling,” **** said.
I have this awful feeling appreciation of this nation’s beauty is being lost to SnapChat, Facebook, etc.
Even now we have a prez who governs by Tweet.

Good Old Amazon

“Good Old Amazon,” I said.
“Always hyper-friendly, but if you muck up, Amazon punishes.”
Maybe not. I could probably reverse my mistake, but doing so requires hours of figgerin’ gigantic menus = trial-and-error and into the ozone.
I could ring up my Amazon authority in south FL, but I figger I’ve bothered her enough.
Like every time I have anything to do with Amazon, I hafta call Amazon-lady.
We deduced I unintentionally have two Amazon accounts: one under an ancient e-mail I no longer use, the other under my current e-mail.
I used to do “Subscribe-and-Save” with the ancient e-mail.
“Subscribe-and-Save” is an Amazon thingy where they send regular shipments for less.
They were Arrowhead-Mills puffed cereals. But they kept being out-of-stock, so I switched to Walmart*.
It just so happens I need “Wellness-Simple” dog-food for my dog.
I could “Subscribe-and-Save” that with Amazon, so I set that up. But apparently with a new Amazon account under my most recent e-mail.
Look at my previous account, and no “Subscribe-and-Save” dog-food.
My most recent account has it.
It took moving Heaven-and-earth to surmise I had two Amazon accounts. The helper in India couldn’t see it. Their command of English is little more than “We’re deeply, deeply sorry.”
They’re also near impossible to contact. There’s no “Contact-Us.”
I got an e-mail from Amazon saying they were about to ship my “Subscribe-and-Save” dog-food. They don’t say it, but I can skip the shipment (it ain’t easy).
I also have a “Subscribe-and-Save” at Chewy.com for “Greenies,” the chews that supposedly clean a dog’s teeth. —My dog gets two per day, about 12 hours apart.
I knew I had too much of something. —It was Greenies. My mistake was thinking it was dog-food. I shoulda looked.
I keep a spare dog-food on hand in a closet. But I was out = I needed dog-food.
So I mistakenly skipped my “Subscribe-and-Save” dog-food from Amazon.
For that I am punished. I probably could reverse that, but it’s simpler to hit my local Petco® than figger out Amazon’s contorted site.
Throw 89 bazilyun menu-options at a stroke-survivor, and he overloads.

• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.

It’s a Hemi

My “It’s a Hemi” teeshirt. (Look carefully, and ya see “So-Cal Speed Shop, established 1946;” and “392 cast-iron Hemi.”)

“It’s a Hemi” (“hem-EEE;” not “he-me”),” my mower man said, looking at my teeshirt.
“You’re the second one that noticed,” I commented. “I should wear this teeshirt more often.”
(First was at my bus-union hall earlier that day to elect officials.)
“And it’s the original ‘FirePower’ Hemi,” I added; “1951 through 1958.”

A Hemi head.

Front-elevation line-drawing of a Hemi motor.

Combustion-chambers were hemispherical (“Hemi”) with intake and exhaust valves on each side. Intake-valves therefore aimed at the intake-manifold, and exhaust-valves aimed at the exhaust headers.
A regular V8 had all its valves side-by-side in a row. Intakes aimed slightly at the intake-manifold, but exhausts aimed that way too — not at the exhaust headers.
Chrysler’s Hemi wasn’t overhead-cam; its camshaft still down in the engine block. Different-length valve rockers on two rocker-shafts were used to activate the valves.
The Hemi was what all drag-racers fell to, because it could be so powerful. One was Don “Big-Daddy” Garlits (he preferred “Swamp-Rat”) of Tampa, FL.
In the mid-‘60s I went to Cecil County Drag-o-Way in northeastern MD; Garlits was matched with a fuel-burning Chevy that won because by not being supercharged it was so light.


Garlits’ dragster (a B-block Hemi). (Long-ago photo by BobbaLew.)

Garlits was also burning fuel — model-airplane fuel composed of nitromethane = extremely explosive.
A Hemi was extremely heavy with cast-iron cylinder-heads. But It breathed extremely well, especially at high revs.
Garlits was cranking 1,600 horsepower or more at that time.
I’ll never forget it! That’s goin’ to my grave!
Sheets of white flame perhaps 15-20 feet long emitted from the exhaust headers every time Garlits goosed the motor.
The two dragsters staged at the starting-line: Chevy versus Garlits.
“Blink-blink-blink-blink” from the starting lights, the so-called “Christmas-Tree.” All were yellow except the last, which was green.
The Chevy red-lighted = a jumped start; too early. Garlits started right, but holy mackerel, he blasted right past the Chevy!
He spun his tires the whole length of the quarter-mile, the entire strip!
199.10 mph, 7.70 seconds — the Chevy did 188.03 at 8.03.
Dragsters are much faster now, well over 300 mph - towards 350.
Back then 200 mph was amazing.
The smell of nitromethane filled the air.
“In 1957 and ’58,” I told my mower-man; “people raced their Chrysler 300s the entire length of the Pennsylvania Turnpike, Philadelphia west, to see who got to Ohio first.” (The first 300s were the original Hemi.)
“And that was back when the Turnpike didn’t have a divider barrier.” Closing speed for a head-on was usually over 100 mph, higher if boomin’-and-zoomin’.
Drag racing has moved past Chrysler’s Hemi. Purpose-built motors held to the Hemi format, pushing 11,000 horsepower.

An early Hemi (“FirePower”).

A B-block Hemi (426 cubic-inches).

A current Hemi.

The Hemi has been through three iterations.
First was the original Hemi, 1951 through 1958. It was so costly to manufacture, Chrysler moved to a more normal V8, its “B-block.”
The second Hemi was Hemi heads on the B-block, at the request of NASCAR racers.
Chrysler had to make it street-available, which they did. But NASCAR eventually outlawed the Hemi.
The B-block had to be modified some to make it race-worthy.
Buddy Baker qualified a Hemi Daytona at Talladega Superspeedway at slightly over 200 mph.

Groceries in this thing?

The final Hemi is what’s currently available. I know not if it’s hemispherical combustion-chambers. What I perceive is Chrysler cashing in on the Hemi’s reputation.
It’s pretty strong, and a 392 is available. 392 cubic-inches is final displacement of the original Hemi.
At least it’s aluminum, reversing mind-bending weight.
B-block Hemi’s are available as crate-motors. Swap out your sick Hemi, or lessor, for a brand-new crate-motor.
I don’t get much reaction for my “It’s a Hemi” teeshirt. I don’t expect to; it’s just a teeshirt.
Only car-guys — they know. (“All bow to the mighty Hemi!”)

• The rotating “camshaft” is what actuates the valves. Most engines have a single camshaft down in the block, but it can be atop the cylinder-head, which is more direct and precise. “Double overhead camshaft” is two overhead camshafts, one for intake, and the other for exhaust. Often such arrangements have four valves per cylinder instead of two. Four valves  breathe better.

“Fat Lotta Help!”

Most of the “Transients” at this get-together. (Father *******, nattily dressed, is front-and-center.) (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

Yrs Trly is very good friends with retired Regional Transit bus-driver *** ********.
Since retirement *** has organized get-togethers of retired Transit employees, mostly bus-drivers, but also management — management that weren’t jerks.
“Transients” is an appellation given us by the guy who daycares my dog while I attend these get-togethers.
He’s a mocker like me, and we worked together at the Messenger newspaper in Canandaigua after my stroke. He as an editor, me as anything-and-everything, sort of an editorial-assistant.
My job-description there was “typist;” but I never typed anything. I suspect they didn’t wanna call me “Editorial-Assistant,” afraid I’d ask for more pay. I doubt it; it was the BEST job I ever had. They can take credit for my excellent recovery from a stroke.
With me it was Word® tricks, computer-stuff. I retired doing their website.
Usually these get-togethers were at eating establishments, buffets and restaurants. Those who showed were among those invited; although *** invited all he could.
Things were falling apart. I’d been to get-togethers of only two others beside me.
Most retirees drove bus far longer than me. 16&1/2 years for me; many 30 or more. My bus-driving ended October 26th, 1993 with my stroke. Many of my friends drove much longer than I did.
It was a stupid, meaningless job, although I enjoyed the challenge of learning how to drive large equipment.
Plus the pay was pretty good. —It paid for my (our) house.
Among RTS management were jerks, all too happy to pull rank on drivers.
Beyond that was our clientele — I always picked country runs to avoid city-folk.
We drivers had an unspoken rule: DON’T GET SHOT! Be difficult and yer pushing your luck.
I once had a senior clobber me over the head with her umbrella when I asked for senior-citizen ID. (That was the last time I asked.)
Once at a party, Roadeo volunteers (ambulance auxiliaries, whatever) asked how we did it.
“Only three things matter in this job,” I said. Suddenly you could hear a pin drop. “They are -1) show up, -2) don’t hit anything, and -3) keep yer hands outta the farebox.”
A management-minion quietly observed “Ya know Bob, I think yer right.”
Senior-citizen ID was a rule I regularly disregarded. But management wished other drivers were like me — I never caused them grief.
I always reported for work, never late, drove cautiously with 100% concentration, and never stole from the company. Even some in management were fired because of that.
I offered to help ***. He e-mailed retirees as well as phonecalls. I would assemble a gigantic group e-mail list, then send the e-mail myself, so he didn’t hafta do it.
Getting Transit retirees to attend anything seems like pulling teeth. Beyond that, none of our group look at e-mail like ***, me, and a few others.
“Fat lotta help I was,” I told ***. “All I did was assemble that e-mail list. You still had to make phonecalls.” —Phonecalls are difficult for me due to slight aphasia, a stroke-effect.
We tried to arrange a similar get-together last March at Cartwright’s Pancake House. We had only four, but Cartwright’s is 65-75 miles from Rochester.
*** suggested another get-together, but this time in Rochester.
We’d gather at “Nick’s, a restaurant in Sea Breeze up near Lake Ontario. It’s across from Sea Breeze Amusement Park.
I arrived earlier than most, greeted by a torrent of F-bombs from another retired bus-driver.
That’s okay with me, since that’s how we talked at Transit. I had to consciously reduce my F-bomb usage when I began at the Messenger after my stroke.
Usually I feel out-of-it at these shindigs, but not this time. I suppose because most of my retiree friends are somewhat like me.
I happen to have a college degree, but so does another — in fact, he graduated Notre Dame.
That other guy is rather religious, but also is a bleeding-heart Liberal like.
“Them kids from those Projects are gettin’ to school. I ain’t stickin’ ‘em. I’ll stop if he’s chasin’ me. Education might be his only way out.”
(Transit had to contract to bus kids to a school on Rochester’s outskirts. The students came from all over the city. School-trips were often hooked with additional bus-trips needed during rush-hour.
Father ******** is the hyper-religious one. He also is the Notre Dame graduate.
But he better not judge children. —I’ll butt right in.
“Your kid is goin’ through that B-17 on my nickel!”
There were at least 12 people, one being management.
“You were the best radio-controller there was,” an ex-driver said to the management guy.
(The radio-staff were called “controllers.”)
“No need for brownie-points,” another ex-driver remarked.
“Bob, will you please smile?” Father ******** said.
I bared my teeth, what I usually do when so requested.
This shindig was the same day that nut shot Congressmen in that baseball-practice near Washington DC.
Most bewailed the violence.
“How come mayonnaise is on my sandwich?” a patron asks the pimply clerk at a local Mickey D’s.
BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM!
Father ******** also decried the gun-violence. “This country is so divided we feel justified killing our opponents.”
I pretty much kept to myself. (“Bob, what aren’t you smiling?”) Verbal discourse is difficult for me; it’s my aphasia.
I often get made fun of because I’m a mite slow getting words out or making sense of things.
I can still sling words extremely well; those guys will read this blog.
I suppose I could hide = not attend these get-togethers. I do partly because my wife died, so I’m told I should socialize.
I also attend because they’re pretty good friends.

• “Transit” equals Regional Transit Service (RTS), the public transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, where I drove transit-bus from 1977 to 1993. My stroke ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered fairly well.
• RE: “my (our) house......” —My wife (now gone) and I designed our house — a contractor built it.
• “Bob” is of course me, Bob Hughes, “BobbaLew.”
• Mickey D’s is McDonald's.
• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her immensely. Best friend I ever had, and after my childhood I sure needed one. She actually liked me.

Easy-Walk®

Scarlett models her new Easy-Walk® harness. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

“I have a humble request,” I said to the middle-aged clerk at the Henrietta CountryMax.
“I know this is the third time I visited, but I’d like to swap this Extra-Large Easy-Walk harness for a Large or Medium-Large I originally purchased.”
“Well, ya got it on wrong,” the guy said. “The silver part doesn’t go on top.”
He thereupon began completely unharnessing my dog — dogs are allowed in the store.
I made it fit by shortening the part under her belly with a safety-pin. “I need an Easy-Walk that lets me adjust to the lengths I have here.”
Try to get that out understandably when I have slightly compromised speech: a stroke-effect. It’s called aphasia. Not serious, but somewhat challenging.
The guy began reinstalling the harness “correctly” (so he said).
But I didn’t think so. He ended up with the leash-loop under her belly.
The dog was wiggling; harness parts were flying this way and that!
Meanwhile, the poor guy had the store to himself. Customers were piling up. A craggy old bent-over witch complained about lack of checkouts.
“Take care of these others,” I exclaimed.
At least he had it fitting.The dog was now back on her collar-leash, so stole a dried pig-snout = $1.99.
I was pretty sure the leash-loop wasn’t supposed to be under her belly. I happened to look at the package picture, so now had it figgered out.
Gimme a few seconds to make sense of something and I usually can; prior stroke or not.
I managed to get my new railroad-radio scanner working in Altoona (PA), thinking I might not. Madness and mental jam-up have happened before.
I forked over $2.15 ($1.99 + tax), then left.
The harness was still on wrong, but at long last I had it figgered out.
I fiddled it when I got back home. It’s Extra-Large, so every strap is shortened as much as possible.
But it fits; she’s wearing it in the picture. (Leash is to left, leash-shadow is to right.)

BRAPPA!

“Brappa-brappa-BRAP-BRAP! Blat-blat-blat.”
Followed by high-pitched buzzing.
“For Heaven sake,” I exclaimed; “an actual rice-burner down there in deepest, darkest Harley land.”
“Rice-burners” are any Japanese motorcycle. They don’t thunder and bellow like Harley Davidsons. (Signifying anger on the part of their owners.)
As a railfan, I watch Railstream®, a streamer of railfan video over the Internet.
Railstream has various webcams, but the one I watch is Cresson, PA (“kress-in”), hosted by Station-Inn, a bed-and-breakfast for railfans.
I’ve stayed there myself. It’s across the street from the mainline of the old Pennsylvania Railroad, now owned and operated by Norfolk Southern.
I watch that webcam because I’ve been in the area many times. It’s where Pennsylvania Railroad conquered Allegheny Mountain.
Eastbounds past Station-Inn’s webcam are climbing the west slope of the mountain.
The line is extremely busy. Sometimes a train every 5-10 minutes. (There are dead times.)
That old Pennsy line became one of two major conduits of trade with the east-coast megalopolis.
The other was the old New York Central railroad across NY state, now owned and operated by CSX Transportation.
“Railstream,” above, is a link. Click it and you’ll go to their home-page. On it are webcam selections, one of which is Cresson. Click that, and you watch the Cresson webcam for free.
But you’ll get ads, and I think it times out.
To avoid all that you become a “member” like me.
100 smackaroos per year, but worth it, considering how much I view the Cresson webcam.
Especially on Saturdays, when my classical-music radio-station out of Rochester, WXXI-FM, airs stuff I can’t stand.
An entire afternoon of opera: “Uh-oh; they goosed her again!”
Stringy-haired 350-pound blonds screaming “Ride of the Valkyries” at the top of their lungs.
Stabbings, shootings, star-crossed lovers holding hands leaping off 350-foot castle parapets into roiling ocean.
None of that for this kid! Fire up Railstream’s Cresson webcam.
A passing train just about blows my computer-speakers.
Station-Inn is on Front St., which is parallel to the railroad. The railroad is about 200-250 feet away across the street.
The webcam is aimed southwest. You get the classic three-quarters view, sometimes as many as five-six locomotives.
Eastbound trains are climbing the mountain = assaulting the heavens. Westbounds are just as noisy.
Plus engineers like to blow the horn at waving Station-Inn patrons.
The camera also gets anything passing on Front St., e.g., blatting Harleys.
Central PA is Harley country. I suppose it’s also Trump country, but I ain’t touchin’ that.
If it doesn’t weigh 600-800 pounds, it ain’t “a man’s motorcycle.”
Harleys cruise Front St. The webcam gets everything: church-bells, lawnmowers, the town fire-siren, parades. I’ve heard drunks yelling at each other, R-rated language, the scanners of railfans sitting on Station-Inn’s front porch.
None are as loud as an unmuffled Harley: “Brappa-brappa-brappa! Brap-brap-brap!”
150+ idling horsepower, pounding the pavement with thunderous exhaust-pulses. If you can’t get your way otherwise, assault people’s ears = macho manliness.
We had a lawnmower like that; no muffler at all. Nowhere near as loud, but only one cylinder, and less than 100 cubic-inches displacement. A Harley has two cylinders, perhaps 650 cc’s each.
Unmuffle that, and I hafta turn down my ‘pyooter-sound.
A train is no match for the Harley-dudes!

• Many Japanese motorcycles are four cylinders inline across the frame. Harleys are V-twin (two cylinders) inline with the frame.
• Engine “displacement” is the size of the engine = the cylinder volume swept by each piston. NASCAR is currently limited to 358 cubic-inches displacement. Going above that is “cheatin’, but can be done. (The old NASCAR saw is “there is no substitute for cubic-inches.”) Current Japanese fours run 600 cubic-centimeters up to a liter (1,000 cc’s). The large Harleys run 1,200 cc’s or bigger.
• It’s no longer “we.” My wife died five years ago.

Carshow in Bristol Center

The powder-blue ’60 Chevy is in the middle. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

“I wish I could find the owner of that powder-blue ’60 Chevy,” I said to my friend Jim LePore (“luh-POOR”).
I was attending Bristol-Center Fun Days, and it showed cars — hotrods, speedsters, nothing special, just attractive.
Jim was showing his Camaro. Jim, like me, is a widower. He sorta bought that Camaro to offset the death of his beloved wife.
His Camaro, pictured at bottom, is very much a classic. He doesn’t drive it much; mainly just shows it.
“It’s a shame us old guys have money for such things,” he says. “When younger, and more able, we couldn’t afford ‘em.”
“That’s my car,” said another dude in the shade south of the display area. “That ’60 Chevy is MINE.”
“Is that the same car I saw at another show with open exhaust?” I asked.
“I haven’t heard a sound like that in years. 283 Chevy at Cecil County Drag-o-Way back in 1965.”
“Not a 283,” the guy said. “Now it’s a 350 SmallBlock. Originally it was inline six, but the guy before me installed a Jasper crate-motor, a 350 SmallBlock.”
Needless-to-say I gave the car a good look/see. “Bel Air” it said on the side. Not a Bel Air that I can see. Too plain; maybe a Biscayne.
No backup lights; a ’60 Bel Air had backup lights. Mess not with The Keed!
I ambled around; I had my dog with me.
“What a beautiful dog!” people said. “What’s she after?”
“Food,” I said.
“Yep, she smells my chicken.”
“You can’t have that, you monster!”
Plenty of glittering four-wheel monsters were on display.


Cheek-to-jowl in strident sunlight. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

’57 Chevys, a ’55, and lots of made-up specialty cars — things that would scare me to death.
A bunch of foreign sportscars were off-to-the-side.


The ferriners. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

“Didn’t I pass this thing this morning up on 64?” I asked, pointing to the red Triumph.
“Probably. They live in Fairport, so would use Route 64.”
“I used to have one of these things,” I said. “A silver ’58 fish-mouth.”
“Ya probably wish ya still had it.”
“Nope, I like what I have. I ain’t Mario Andretti, I don’t need to prove manliness.
Furthermore, I need rain and snow protection. A TR3 totally lacks that. I remember freezing in a blizzard on Blossburg Hill in PA.”
Front-and center was a line of cars including a tricked-out Volkswagen Beetle.


Oh the insanity! (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

The car had a giant V8 — I didn’t look to see what it was — stuffed into what normally is the Beetle’s trunk.
It had two gigantic four-barrel carbs under a drag-racing scoop. I wondered if it was driven in — probably 3-4 mpg.
How can it handle (safely) with all that additional weight on its front?
Sure, stuff yer foot in it, and hang on for dear life!
Interesting to look at, but I wouldn’t touch it with a 10-foot pole.
Cars are so much better than when I was a teenager. Mainly they stop, and handle fairly well. I can usually avoid skids in the snow — I don’t push too hard. (Retired bus-driver.)
I looked at a ’55 Chevy years ago, the car I lusted after in high-school and college.
The owner took me for a ride: SmallBlock with four-on-the-floor; once the car of my dreams.
Kee-YUCK! What a douchbag! I could hurl $50,000 at it, a complete frame-off restoration. Yet end up with an old car.
Its door-locks were the same el-cheapo wire things I remember.
The buttons unscrew and are lost forever.
Car-owners were starting to leave. I arrived about 1:30.
LePore was considering leaving, so I walked to his Camaro and took the picture below.
His Camaro was probably the newest car there. Shortly after I took the picture, he left.
I left about the same time. It’s notable I’m no longer as interested in car-shows as previously. I was there perhaps an hour. A chance for my dog to socialize.


LePore’s Camaro, named after his wife Shirley. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)


• It’s notable I did this blog entirely on-the-fly; no legal-pad, entirely on my laptop. I went to the show earlier this afternoon, then after returning home sat down to process photographs, and started writing (“slinging words”). I expected to crank a sentence-or-two, but I never stopped.
• “The Keed” is me, Bob Hughes, “BobbaLew.”
• 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 environs. My stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered well enough to return to work at a newspaper; I retired from that 11 years ago.

Christine

Not “Christine.” (Photo by Dan Lyons.)

—Actually the car pictured above is not “Christine,” which was a ’58.
The June 2017 entry in my Tide-mark “Fab ‘50s” car-calendar is a 1957 Plymouth Fury two-door hardtop.

Supposedly the actual “Christine,” i.e. not one of the many destroyed making the movie.

The “Fury” was a special high-dollar performance version. It had better-looking side-trim than standard ’57 Plymouths, which lacked that rear upsweep on the fin.
That upsweep became stock on the ‘58s.
I stopped including car-calendars in my Monthly-Calendar-Report, but I keep noticing this Fury.
I keep thinking of Christine, but it’s a ’57, not a ’58.
Plymouth no longer exists. Like Oldsmobile, Pontiac, and Mercury, it was a victim of the Japanese car invasion.
Also poor marketing. Detroit manufacturers acquiesced to their dealers desiring a version of every car Detroit made. E.g. an el-cheapo Pontiac or Buick that stole sales from Chevrolet.
There were Dodge versions of Plymouth models. Even Cadillac now sells what I construe a truck.
1957 was Chrysler’s first foray into its so-called “Forward-Look.”
No longer were Chrysler cars plain-jane turkeys.
Sweeping styling and fins became de rigueur.
My wife, deceased, learned to drive in a ’57 Plymouth. Her father bought it planning a cross-country drive — all the way to the Pacific Ocean. Biggest V8 available to flatten mountains.
Learning to drive with such a barge was intimidating. Especially to someone, like my wife, who was “automotively challenged.”
I think part of that may have been her mother, who was all-too-happy to criticize my wife.

Only two headlights on a ’57. (This looks like same same car Lyons photographed.)

This ’58 has FOUR headlights.

For 1958 Plymouth made this car look a lot better.
Those headlight-surrounds, which look like they were for four headlights, now had four instead of only two with parking-lights (turn-signals).
It’s like for 1957 Plymouth held back what shoulda been available until its 1958 model = four headlights.
The parents of one of my first high-school girlfriends had a ’58.
By then (1962) it was an older car, but still in excellent shape.
My wife’s parents’ ’57 started rusting almost immediately. Salt-slush accumulated in its crannies.
My girlfriend’s mother, who thought me wonderful — her father didn’t — would dump my junky RollFast bicycle in the car’s gigantic trunk, to cart me and my bicycle back home.
I had ridden perhaps four miles to her house. We’d sit on her outside porch in the dark and talk. Her house was near a large horse-trotting racetrack. The sky was aglow with light.
“Christine,” for those unaware, was a movie. “Christine” was possessed, and repaired herself when damaged.
Who knows how many ’58 Plymouths got trashed making that movie? Self-repair was crash-damage reversed.

• RE: “Automotively challenged......” —My wife had difficulty driving. She had difficulty processing inputs; also difficulty predicting whether-or-not others were threats. Her father had more-or-less the same problem. If she were driving, with me along, I was driving too from my shotgun seat: “Keep going! You’ll pass before he merges.” She never was able to master standard-shift. All of this was incomprehensible and exasperating at first, but after a while I understood — and therefore accommodated. She had no sense of direction at all: “The sun goes down over there!” “What if it’s cloudy?” “I know where the sun is supposed to be. I been here before.”

Geezer-discount

“So what, pray tell, is the ‘Golden-Apple’ discount?” I asked ****, our wonderful young waitress at the Canandaigua Applebee’s.
**** is gonna make a fabulous wife, if she hasn’t already.
I was eating-out with my friend *** ******, as I do every Tuesday night.
****** and I are widowers. We’re both also car-guys.
“I haven’t figured your ‘Golden-Apple’ discount yet,” **** told ******.
It’s for veterans — ****** is a veteran.
It’s the same for senior-citizens.
“So do I qualify for the geezer-discount?” I asked. “I am 73 ya know.”
“I woulda never known that,” **** said. “Ya don’t look that old.”
My hair is white, as is my beard. I look in the mirror and see an old man.
I think it’s my refusal to act my age. I still talk and act like a young pup — snide remarks, wisecracks, sick jokes and puns.
Muscles ache, my balance is dreadful, I have a knee-replacement, and I no longer have a prostate (not “prostrate”) gland.
It was removed as beginning cancerous.
Unlike some retirees I’m not bored-to-death. Judge-Judy, Facebook, Dr. Phil, Facebook, Oprah, then “Dancing-with-the-Stars” or “Da-VOICE.”
None of that for this kid! What interests me are -a) slinging words (what I’m doing here), -b) chasing trains (I’m a railfan), and then -c) fiddling my train-pictures on this laptop with Photoshop-Elements.
Been doin’ that all my life. Any jobs I had supported those things, and the best job I ever had involved those things.
I don’t think any of this makes me look any younger, but my attitude might.

• Exchange in 12th-grade English class: “Hughes, you write extremely well.” “But Dr. Zink,” I said — his name was Zink. “All it is is slinging words.” (I thought him joking.)

“Oh SHADDUP!”

“Sorry Robert, I didn’t get that!”
”Oh SHADDUP!” I said.
I was at Boike Counseling the other day in nearby Canandaigua.
I go there to discuss the death of my wife.
I was at the window reporting, taking my iPhone out of my pocket.
Siri (“sear-eee”) came on, the iPhone thingy that follows your voice commands.
I had inadvertently activated a button.
“Sorry Robert, I didn’t get that,” she said.
“Oh SHADDUP!” I shouted.
The entire waiting-room started laughing.
“What are you all laughing at?” I asked,
“Done the same thing!” they said.
“You should see me with the GPS-lady,” I said.
Exiting a plaza “turn right on Gibson St.”
“What you been smokin’ girl? Gibson is one-way, and that’s the wrong way.”
I’m in Williamsport, PA.
“Right lane for 15-south.”
“NO WAY JOSÉ! Ain’t doin’ it! The Keed is takin’ the expressway!”
Wondrous technology.
Actually Siri is pretty good; although I don’t do much. E.g. “Call Jack mobile” my brother-in-Boston, which she hasn’t goofed yet.
Siri will also search out stuff on the Internet when so commanded.
GPS is pretty good too. It gave me a better route to Altoona (PA) where I chase trains.
GPS is my iPhone; I use GoogleMaps.
How come Google, in its infinite wisdom, has my house 500 feet south of where it actually is?
I tell everyone to disregard GoogleMaps and look for my mailbox.
My iPhone has its own GPS app, but my cellphone store told me GoogleMaps was better, so they installed it on my phone.
No idea. In south FL, visiting my niece in Fort Lauderdale, my brother-in-law, who lives nearby, texted me a restaurant for an eat-out.
It was underlined, so my niece said “hit that.” My AppleMaps gave me the location, and GPSed a route. Lord-a-Mighty! A new iPhone trick, and it was even the same GPS-lady.
I used AppleMaps to GPS me to the restaurant = 20-25 miles, deep into Boca Raton. Into a tree-shaded parking-lot crammed with cars. Slowly circling behemoths waiting for someone to leave — maximum speed perhaps 2 mph.
My wife, having died, misses all this.
She also misses Trump as prez.
I got my first Smartphone just before she died, a Motorola Droid-X®. It wasn’t too bad, but total reboots required removing the battery = taking it apart.
My brother-in-DE had an iPhone, despite Apple being described as Satan personified. That led to my iPhone-4, an i-5, and now an i-6. All were contract renewals — my cellphone service is Verizon.
At first my iPhone was mainly a phone. It became more, but I’ve yet to master its potential.
What really blows me away is how good its camera is. It’s not my Nikon, but often my blog-pictures are my iPhone.
What impresses me most is how it can shoot available-light inside = no flash.
Also its depth-of-field; so much is in focus. It must be shooting through a pinhole, f/64 or even f/128.
I discovered Siri by surprise; didn’t know I had it.
Every once-in-a-while I activate Siri by mistake.
“Sorry Robert, I didn’t understand that!”
”DIE-DIE-DIE!” I say.

• “Robert” and “The Keed” are of course me, Bob Hughes, alias “BobbaLew.”
• My wife died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her immensely. Best friend I ever had, and after my childhood I sure needed one. She actually liked me.
• RE: “chase trains......” —I been a railfan since age-2; now 73.
• “Depth-of-field” (that part of an image in focus) is determined by “aperture-size” = the part of the lens that passes light (the image). The larger the aperture, less will be in focus = “depth-of-field” is decreased. Pretty good depth-of-field is rendered at openings of F/4, f/5.6, F/8, and F/11, aperture sizes typical for the past few years. Years ago you might see F/2, F/1.4 or even F/1.2 — needed to pass enough light for film used at that time; usually available-light-no-flash on Kodak’s Tri-X. At that aperture depth-of-field was minimal. The greatest depth-of-field is rendered by a pinhole, except it doesn’t pass much light.

Into the glittering future

My gigantic new suitcase modem. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

“Sooner-or-later you’ll have no TV at all,” said the Spectrum techie.
“And why is that?” I asked.
“Spectrum is going digital. Soon you won’t be able to get TV without a Spectrum TV-box.”
“Spectrum” is my cable-TV; previously Time-Warner, or merged, or bought, whatever.
My Internet is also Spectrum, previously Time-Warner. I have cable Internet, not Dish, or whatever else it could be.
When my wife-and-I had this house built 28 years ago, there was no cable out front.
But I figgered there would be eventually, so I trenched a connection.
In a couple years the cable-guys were out front putting up cable.
I called the cable-company and asked them to hook us up.
Go back far enough and the first TV I ever saw was my grandparents’ giant RCA heating-unit. Its screen was an 8-inch tube that flickered. That was 1948. It was gigantic with its tiny screen — probably over 100 pounds. Inside were glowing red tubes — you dared not touch anything = harmful or fatal!
On it were Jack Benny, Bob Hope, Jimmy Durante, etc. My grandfather sang along to Bing Crosby, who he loved.
The first TV my family had was a black-and-white RCA console in 1949 with a circular picture-tube 12 inches in diameter.
Back then TV was over-the-air, and our stations were from Philadelphia — we had three — all national network (ABC, NBC, and CBS).
An antenna was on the back of our house; I remember its metal mounting tube howling in a hurricane.
My father, an employee of Texaco, had us watch “Texaco Star Theater” with Milton Berle.
Being hyper-religious and against smoking, he also turned down the sound during “Camel News Caravan” so we children didn’t hear the cigarette ads.
By the time my family moved to DE (1957), our TV was about done. When it finally failed, my father refused to replace it.
He loudly declared TV was Satan personified: degraded yooth boogying to the Devil’s music, rock-n-roll, on Dick Clark’s “American Bandstand” (Gasp).
I remember my 11th-grade English teacher being utterly flabbergasted when I reported I couldn’t watch “Julius Caesar.”
Before we moved, color-TV began. That was 1956 I think. It was so awful I never bought a color-TV until perhaps 35-40 years later.
I never watch TV anyway. Dreadfully boring!
I don’t think my wife-and-I bought a TV until the Watergate hearings. I remember vacationing at the south Jersey seashore, and never leaving our apartment while Senator-Sam wagged his craggy finger skyward at John Dean. (“Be ye not deceived. God is not mocked. Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap!”)
That was black-and-white from Sears.
I bought an antenna for out here in West Bloomfield to receive the three Rochester channels. I still have it, but it was never mounted. Cable-TV began in Rochester before we moved.
But no cable-TV in West Bloomfield until well after we moved.
In the ‘80s, color-TV became good enough for me to switch.
My first was a fairly large Sony Trinatron® with a 13-inch screen. I installed it on our dinner-table atop our Sony Betamax® VCR.
Soon Beta, supposedly the better format, went the way of all flesh; so I replaced it with a Sony VHS recorder. By then Sony was no longer made in Japan. (Remember when “Made in Japan” signified junk?)
I probably also went through a couple TVs, and now have the cheapest (smallest) flat-screen I could get, a “Dynex” from Best-Buy, I think their store-brand.
I now am on video-recorder number-three. 10-15 years ago things were recorded to DVR discs. Machines number-two and three are/were dubbers - dub my VHS tapes to disc.
I’ve never done it. Lack of time/motivation. Plus I can play video discs on this laptop. I’d rather, since it remembers where I stopped.
I also connected to Time-Warner’s Internet. My cable splits to feed both my TV and computer.
My monthly cable-bill was around $90. 20 MBps Internet and the cheapest most basic  TV = maybe 10 channels.
Spectrum said I qualified for 60 MBps, plus more channels — all for about $60 per month.
“Suppose I never watch TV, just the news?” I asked. “Can I increase my Internet speed yet remain basic TV?”
“Nope; has to be our package.”
Okay, increasing my Internet speed is worth the extra channels, especially for fewer bucks.
A Spectrum techie came to upgrade.
He installed their TV-box, plus a new modem (pictured).
Turns out that TV-box disabled my ancient (“ancient” at 10 years?) video-recorder. I no longer could record news.
“I wish I’d known that,” I said. “I mighta stayed put.”
What-to-do?
“I could reinstall our cable into yer old DVR machine. That would take you back to what you were doing. You could record the news.
So, I inadvertently got what I wanted: tripled Internet speed, still basic el-cheapo TV, all for $30 less.
So now I have their TV-box dormant on my table. And it produces much better TV than what I had.
Plus it advances me to “JunkyardTV,” etc.
The techie commented my ancient system would eventually vaporize. No more TV without their box.
If I wanted to record the news, I’d hafta switch to their fantabulous video-recorder; no discs, just a hard-drive.
“This here machine is about 10 years old,” I pointed. “When it fails, or if TV goes away first, I’ll upgrade to your box and fancy-dan disc-less recorder.”
So, into the glittering future.
Dr. Oz and Oprah via Spectrum = impressive, but droll and boring.
When our house was built I hard-wired a phone box into every room. Within two years, a single phone could transmit to your handset in another room, or perhaps outside.
Now I intend to dump my landline. 55 years ago, when I graduated high-school, who’da thunk?
I call my aunt in south Jersey, and it’s like right next door. That used to be long-distance, difficult to arrange, and extra cost.

(I’ve seen as high as 75.). (Screenshot by BobbaLew.)

What will TV be in a decade? is Spectrum doomed? My connection to the world outside is their cable. Satellites zoom around the planet — I could get my Internet via Dish®.
And Judge-Judy could be on this laptop; although no Judge-Judy for this kid.
Whatever, 60 MBps download speed, and TV as it was for the time being.
“The moving finger having writ, moves on,” I said to the techie as he left. It fell flat, of course.

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her immensely. Best friend I ever had, and after my childhood I sure needed one. She actually liked me.
• I lived in south Jersey until I was 13, a suburb of Philadelphia.
• “Senator-Sam” is U.S. Senator Sam Ervin of NC. “Be ye not deceived. God is not mocked. Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap,” was Ervin’s rendering of Galations 6:7 in the King James Version, which reads “Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.”
• “MBps” is megabytes-per-second. Computer information is stored in “bytes.”
• “The moving finger having writ, moves on,” is the BobbaLew rendering of  “The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on,” from Edward Fitzgerald’s translation of the poem “The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam,” 1859.