“Toy not with the master”

Yrs Trly, the aging geezer, successfully ordered online with his Smartphone.
“Toy not with the master.” I used to say that to my brother-from-Boston, who has since become my favored compatriot chasing and photographing trains in Altoona, PA.
Altoona is where the Pennsylvania Railroad crossed Allegheny Mountain, once a barrier to trade with this nation’s interior.
That railroad became a major artery of trade with the northeast. It’s no longer Pennsy, but still exists. It’s now Norfolk Southern, and trains are very frequent.
I’ve been a railfan all-my-life, and my brother and I got very good at railroad photography.
I left behind my iPhone’s charging module at my northern DE brother’s.
I stayed there to celebrate Thanksgiving with south Jersey relatives — I’m originally from south Jersey. I cross the Delaware River to do so, but they’re about 20 minutes away.
So once home off to Mighty Verizon — Verizon is my cell-service — to see if I can get another Apple charging module. They didn’t have it, but they did have an over-packaged alternative.
35 dollars. I try to be diplomatic, but “Fer cryin’ out loud! Is it gold-plated?”
Back home I Froogled an Apple charging module. About 10 dollars from Mighty Walmart*.
I gave it a shot. “Into-cart” from my iPhone. My DE brother suggested mailing back my recovered charger might cost more.
Bam-bam-bam! “Method-of-payment.” PayPal of course. Been there — done that. Walmart* allows PayPal if yer hip.
“Holy mackerel!” I’m actually doing this — and on my Smartphone.
“Complete-order.” Bam! Mind-blowing success. I actually ordered something online from my Smartphone.
Take that, Millennials. “Toy not with the master.”
I may be old, but I ain’t done yet.
“What hill? I don’t remember any hill?”

• RE: “Aging geezer.....” —I’m almost 74.

More insanity

Bopping west across northeastern PA on Interstate-80, krooze at 75 or so, on GPS programmed for the Williamsport Wegmans....
....My iPhone mount dislodged and dumped everything to the car-floor.
One more reason to visit Mighty Verizon. The other is I left behind the Apple charging module for my iPhone. I left it in an outlet at my brother’s.
I was driving back from northern DE after a Thanksgiving celebration with relatives in south-Jersey. I stay at my brother’s in DE, then drive over to my south-Jersey relatives. About 15-20 minutes, including crossing the Delaware River.
My iPhone (a “6”) etc, are from a local computer-store. That store was once a Verizon outlet. Verizon since pulled-the-plug on local shops. All things Verizon are now centralized in a gigantic Verizon outlet.
Full of young hot-shot vipers. I dread visiting Verizon. Some help they are. They wanna ply me with junk.
So back home I visited Mighty Verizon, intending to buy -1) a charging module, and -2) another iPhone mount.
I was accosted by a young hot-shot with a glistening red bow-tie atop a dark plastic suit, hair eloquently coifed and greased.
“What can I do for you?” he asked. Translated, “Please deposit your checkbook and wallet with all credit-cards on this table, and we’re happy to help!”
“All I want is another Apple charging module,” I said. (Ya mean I gotta parry this viper just to get it?)
“We got this charger over here,” he said, lifting a large plastic case off the wall.
“How much is that?” I asked. It looked like overkill.
“35 dollars,” he said.
“For cryin’ out loud,” I said. “Is it gold-plated?”
My brother found my charging module. If he mails it back, it won’t cost me 35 smackaroos.
Usually I try to be diplomatic. But 35 dollars for something that may cost a dollar to produce?
Get real, baby!
“Not yet,” I said. “Lemme show you the other thing I need. A mount similar to what I forgot to bring in. I hafta go get it.”
I stepped outside and returned with my failed mount.
Suddenly the next hot-shot on deck swooped in — I felt like I was at a car-dealer.
But my viper interjected. I was his fish. He led me to his cubicle. —What do I need a cubicle for? Again, the car-dealer jones.
He showed me an alternative car-mount that sucked to the windshield. 30 bucks.
He offered a 10% discount if I bought both the mount and the charger,
PASS! (I did the math. Total $65 less $6.50 is still $58.50. If I paid my brother to mail back my charger, I doubt it would cost $28.50.
So, “just the mount,” viper-boy. “No discount.” I ain’t linin’ yer pocket.
I worry about running out of insanity to blog, but something always happens.

• “Wegmans” is a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester. I often purchase groceries in their Canandaigua store. They pretty much dominate the Rochester grocery-biz, but are now expanding throughout the northeast. They have a store in Williamsport PA. I use GPS to get to it, because getting there through Williamsport is a little hairy.
• Verizon is my cellphone service.
• Williamsport is home of the Little-League World Series.

Just say it

“Can I help you?” said the lady behind the counter at the Williamsport (PA) Wegmans.
I was on my way home from celebrating Thanksgiving in south Jersey with relatives.
Trips to Altoona (PA) to chase trains are also via Williamsport, and I always stop at Mighty Weggers driving home.
“Where I come from,” I said; “Wegmans has coleslaw out in casseroles in the display-case. That’s what I was looking for.”
“We have that,” she said. “I can get it.
How much do ya want?” She came around and showed me a small plastic container of macaroni-salad.
“That looks right,” I said; “but it’s macaroni-salad.”
“I’ll make you one of coleslaw.”
Every Wegmans is different. In Williamsport milk is in back next to eggs. In Canandaigua it’s out front as well as in back.
She opened a tub of pre-made coleslaw, then started filling my plastic container.
“If that container is a half-pound, don’t fill it completely,” I said.
“Quarter-pound?” she asked.
“Third of a pound,” I said.
“Canandaigua, NY,” I said. “C-A-N-A-N-D-A-I-G-U-A; that’s where I’m going. And if yer hip ya know that’s were yer recently retired boss, Danny Wegman, lives.

Danny’s Ferrari. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

He lives on Canandaigua Lake, and Wegmans in Canandaigua isn’t a ‘jewel-in-the-crown,’ but it’s his store.
It better look good; he’s always hanging out there.
If a Ferrari is in the parking-lot, it’s Danny.”
“Right behind you,” a gentleman said as we walked toward an Interstate-80 rest-facility.
“I’m slow,” I said. “I usually get passed by Millennials walking at the Speed-of-Light.”
We stopped. “This knee is fake,” I said to this complete stranger. “Total knee-replacement, December 7th, 2015, ‘a date that will live infamy.’” (Pearl Harbor was December 7th, 1941.)
“My balance is also dreadful,” I added. “Perhaps because I hobbled so much before this knee-replacement.”
“So’s mine” (his balance). I’ll never see this guy again in my entire life.
The rest-facility was closed. “I suppose I can hold it another 30 miles.”
Back to our cars, which was uphill.
“I see yer climbing okay,” stranger observed.
I was faster than him, but “I used to run,” I said.
Driving farther north I gassed up at the Blossburg Kwik-Fill.
The pump was lobbing insanity, and I noticed a lady on the other side having similar problems.
“Ya need a Doctorate to operate this thing,” I said.
She laughed.
“Doncha just love it when ya call someplace, and the machine asks you to key in your account-number on the keypad? Do that, and the first thing the service-rep asks for is yer account-number.
Like HELLO.
If I say anything, the service-rep goes on defense: ‘we got a live-one here!’”
The lady loved it. “Nice talkin’ to ya,” I said as we left. I’ll never see her again in a million years.
(She probably went home and mentioned me to her husband.)
“Just say it,” I’ve learned. My wife died five years ago, so 50 years late I’m discovering “just say it.”
If my target takes offense, I don’t need a fence; i.e. it ain’t my fault.
Most people love it.

• RE: “Chase trains....” —I’m a railfan. Altoona is where the Pennsylvania Railroad, heading west, crossed Allegheny Mountain. The railroad is now Norfolk Southern, but remains. That railroad is a main conduit of trade with the nation’s interior. Trains are frequent — enough for my brother-and-I to chase and photograph trains.
• “Mighty Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester (NY) where I often buy groceries. They have a store in nearby Canandaigua, and are expanding into other east-coast locations — like Williamsport, Wilkes-Barre PA, Cherry Hill NJ, near Dulles Airport, etc.

The End

“He’s in there somewhere.” (Photo by Ron Palermo.)

“What in the wide-wide world is someone my age doing bringing home a high-energy dog like this?” I said to anyone and everyone at Veterinary Specialists & Emergency Services.
I was there to pull-the-plug on on my beloved dog Scarlett.
Scarlett is/was a rescue Irish Setter from Ohio Irish Setter Rescue. Nine years ago Ohio Irish Setter Rescue brought four dogs in crates to Buffalo for people from Rochester to consider. How my wife found out I have no idea.
A couple from nearby Penfield was to consider Scarlett as a therapy dog. (YEAH SURE; “feeling better today?” BOINK!)
We were to consider one of Scarlett’s puppies. Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder. She was only four, but already had two litters.
The lady opened the side-door of her minivan, and I heard “WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP!” “I hear a wagging tail,” I cried.
“Oh, that would be Scarlett,” the lady said.
Dogs out, the husband of the couple considering Scarlett tried to take her for a walk. Ker-SLAM! Scarlett dragged him to the ground.
“Here, let me try her,” I said. “I just put down a high-energy dog.”
YANK-PULL-LURCH! Sniffity-snort; this way and that.
I made it; stayed on my feet.
That wagging tail was all I needed — how could I resist? I woulda taken all four dogs, but decided only one dog was all I had time for. I decided I’d take Scarlett.
“Why is someone my age bringing home a dog like this?” I said.
I promised I’d try my best. I was 64, but still in pretty good shape — I ran foot-races previously, and was still running back then.
Four years passed, then my wife died. We could see it coming, but of course hoped it wouldn’t. Wife gone I was alone with Scarlett — just me and that silly dog.
I was complete wreck for a while, especially at first. Still am somewhat. I felt I couldn’t give Scarlett the life I promised.
But she became very attached to me; I spoiled her rotten. The people that board my dog showed up for moral support. They also liked Scarlett quite a bit.
That dog ended up being the BEST one I’ve ever had. She’s Irish-Setter number-six. None have been prettier or more regal, and also spunky.
She was age-13, ancient for an Irish-Setter. At least 20 rabbits died in her jaws, and innumerable mice and moles. Once she caught four chipmunks at the same time.
Even at 13 I had to raise the back step so she could chase a chipmunk. “I smell it — I’ll git it!”
She was getting seizures; had a couple a week ago. A nearby vet prescribed anti-seize pills, plus diagnosed her with diabetes. I began shooting her up — with insulin.
Last night another seizure, and her back-end was getting clumsy. I took her to Veterinary Specialists & Emergency Services; they hospitalized her. She had another seizure soon after I arrived.
They kept her overnight, and we decided taking her home was too risky. I didn’t want her to get hurt. Veterinary Specialists & Emergency Services is 40 minutes away.
So now Scarlett is gone. BEST dog I ever had. Is it fair for an oldster like me to take home a dog so spunky?
I miss that dog already, and it’s only been a couple hours. No one to prewash all the plates and pans before I put ‘em in the dishwasher; no more treat-game when she eats her supper; no more “tomato-dog,” or “broccoli-dog.” “No spinach for this dog; who do ya think I am, Popeye?”
No more Scarlett showing me her harness for our walk at the park. To her we were hunting.
Also no more Scarlett to follow my life-schedule; everyday habits to make life easier for a stroke-survivor. “Order-out-of-chaos;” she loved it. (Time to pet the dog.)
Most important is she stayed with me after my wife died. I was utterly smashed, but I had Scarlett, alias “the Big Meat-Head.”
BEST dog I’ve ever had.
(I cry just doing this blog.)

• 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.
• RE: “Meat-Head.....” —Every dog we (I) ever owned I’ve nicknamed “Meat-Head.” With me Scarlett knew of herself as “Meat-Head.” (A previous dog, who was rather small, I called “Little Meat-head.”) —“Meat-Head” because like a pot-head likes marijuana, Scarlett liked meat.

“Welcome to New Jersey”

Annual Thanksgiving Gig. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

“Oh shaddup!” I shouted to the GPS-lady in my iPhone.
I was cruising off the Delaware Memorial Twin Bridges into South Jersey. I was headed toward my cousins for our annual Thanksgiving Gig.
“Robert-John, yer yelling at yer phone like it was a real person,” my Aunt May would scream.
Most of the reason I attend these gigs is to entertain my Aunt May.

“Why I oughta......” (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

She’s my last remaining aunt. She was 13, soon to be 14, when I was born. Now she’s 87.
She was born in 1930, the height of the Depression. Her mother, my paternal grandmother, was at least 40, and mad as Hell.
As a result my grandmother badmouthed my aunt the whole time she grew up. “Don’t do that May; we ain’t buyin’ that! Yadda-yadda-yadda-yadda!”
I too had a difficult childhood. Hyper-religious parents who declared me rebellious because I couldn’t worship my father. “You ain’t ridin’ no ‘Maid-of-the-Mist.’ Who do you think you are? Disrespectful I tell ya! WE’RE BROKE!”
So my Aunt May and I swap stories about our dreadful childhoods. She’s had a hard life, and I make her laugh. She needs that.
“May’s in here,” as soon as I arrived.
“Next time I visit I’m wearin’ a diaper,” I say. “Ya got me laughin’ so much I wet my pants!”
She loves it. We have a good time.
With at least a third of those attending I have no idea who they are. My cousins and aunt I know. One is the lady who married my aunt’s first and only husband. He died recently; dementia I guess.
My aunt and that lady are friends, but weren’t at first. Despite her age, my aunt is still a firecracker. She has a hard time getting around, but is still full of wisecracks and snide remarks.
“Go ahead Robert-John. Take me to task right while I’m saying something!”
Years ago my Uncle Rob, her brother, told me anyone named “Robert” was automatically disreputable.
My grandfather’s name was “Robert,” Uncle Rob (“Robert”) was a scumbag because he sold Fords for a living instead of Chevrolets. And now it’s me, but not disreputable to my grandmother — just my parents. My grandmother was always advising my parents to lay off, and thereby suffering deepest doo-doo.
Although I think later my mother was saddened I was already lost.
Returning to my brother in northern DE, where I was staying, my GPS went crazy. It was pitch-dark, and there were so many detours, I drifted off-route. GPS went bonkers suggesting U-turns.
With no sun to go by I noticed I was heading south toward MD. Dorking around, I essentially restarted from where I began, and somehow fell back on-route. It again looked like I was headed toward MD, but I saw signs indicating I was headed north. (At least 50 miles of dorking around.)
“What you been smokin’, girl?” I asked the GPS-lady.
“Robert, yer always shouting at it, and it’s only yer phone,” my aunt would say.
People wonder why my head is so full of wackiness.
“You ain’t ridin’ no ‘Maid-of-the-Mist.’ Rebellious, I tell ya!”
“Don’t do that May; what’s wrong with you anyway? I’m gonna report you to the principal.”

• “Robert-John” is of course me, “Robert John Hughes” = “BobbaLew.”

Why is it?

“I could tell you were a live-wire,” said the girl behind the counter at the infamous Foy Avenue Sunoco just north of Williamsport, PA. I was on my way to south Jersey to celebrate Thanksgiving with my cousins.
“As I recall you need a key to let me use the rest-room,” I said.
As she lead me toward the rest-room I said “You also need to let me in, which means I gotta hold it until I get there.”
Finished, I picked up two Tasty-Kake creme-filled cupcake packages with buttercream icing.
“Oh, the best ones,” she exclaimed. “I wanna go home with you.”
“Actually, I’m not goin’ home. I’m driving to south Jersey for a family Thanksgiving gig. This is fuel. I still have a long way to go.”
“I could tell you were a live-wire,” she said.
“Why is everyone telling me that?” I asked. ”You weren’t the first.
I visited my cardiologist the other day. ‘I see here a note on yer chart alerting me yer a live one.’
A while ago the orthopedist who replaced my knee told me to behave.
‘Wait a minute,’ I commented. ‘I come here for doctorly advice, and get my mother.
Next will be my father telling me to “straighten up and fly right.”
Then you’ll be my 12th-grade Social Studies teacher saying “Reform-School for you, baby!’
SHORT STORY,” I said.
“My wife died five years ago. She really liked me; I’m still somewhat devastated. But I’ve learned to ‘Let ‘er rip!’ In other words just say it, intending to ‘make ‘em laugh.’
For 44+ years I’ve pretty much kept to myself, afraid to say anything to anyone. Afraid I’d offend people; convinced I was of-the-Devil.
Since my wife died I’ve discerned that ain’t necessarily so.
I called Zappos out in Las Vegas about three weeks ago — sneakers I ordered were too small. I needed a return-authorization.
I noted in passing the sneakers were made in Vietnam. “We were at war with them guys years ago. I didn’t hafta participate because I was ‘4-F’ = I’m still here = I ain’t dead.”
“What’s ‘4-F?’” the service-rep asked.
“You sure you wanna hear all this?” I asked. “It has nothing to do with a shoe-return.”
“But it’s interesting,” she said. “Ya learn all kinna things in this service-rep job.”
So on-and-on it went — at least an hour. “4-F,” the military draft, etc. Things someone 30-40 never experienced.
“Again,” I said; “ what does any of this hafta do with a shoe-return?”
“It’s interesting,” she repeated.
All because I happened to mention the sneakers were manufactured in Vietnam.
Just say it! Some are offended, but many aren’t.

• The Sunoco near Foy Avenue is my second bathroom stop on long auto-drives south of my home. It’s not actually on Foy Avenue, but I use the “Foy Avenue” expressway exit.
• My wife died of cancer April 17th, 2012.

14,000 rpm

“If I make ya laugh, do I get a freebie?” I asked the receptionist at my cardiologist.
I was on my way out — “see me again in a couple years.” I figgered they might need a copay on top of the 89 bazilyun dollars my medical insurance pays that cardiologist to shake my hand.
A while ago I did an Erie Canal cruise with fellow retired bus-drivers. When I returned to pick up my dog from doggy daycare, I said to the kennel co-owner “as you can see, the boat didn’t sink.”
Broke her up, then “No charge,” she said.
“Wait a minute!” I said. “Are you sure? Yer running a business here.”
“We like your dog, and you too,” she said.
Make ‘em laugh; collect freebie.
Not long ago an aunt died. She made 100, and I think half the reason she did was because she could laugh, especially at herself.
I.e. she didn’t take herself too seriously.
Yrs Trly is a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations. Hilda was my Sunday-School Superintendent growing up. She was also my next-door neighbor.
Together with my hyper-religious parents, she convinced me no female would want anything to do with me.
It’s taken 70+ years to reverse that, partly because my wife actually liked me, which allowed me to avoid women.
My wife died five years ago, so now I’m alone. And discovering women seem to enjoy my company = make ‘em laugh.
Perhaps two weeks ago I got up enough nerve to talk to a pretty lifeguard at the YMCA pool in Canandaigua. I do aquatic-therapy there for bad balance.
I heard her say “hello” today as she walked past. But I was distracted, and didn’t respond.
Okay, gotta make the effort: go over after aquacise and say hello back.
Hilda and my parents were ringing in my head: “She won’t wanna talk to you, lecher!”
I could sense them spinning in their graves.
Let ‘er rip! Hike all the way over there and ask if she tried to say hello.
14,000 rpm; Hilda and my parents are horrified. (Gasp!)
The lifeguard smiled. If I turned her off; it wasn’t my fault. She smiled instead, and we jawed a little.
Hilda and my parents were flat wrong!

• A good crotch-rocket motorcycle might get 14,000 rpm.
• 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 12 years ago.
• “Q” stands for “Quincy,” her maiden-name.

“A riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma”

Why is it every time some computer-app on this laptop rolls out some fancy-dan new version, that supposedly solves all the world’s problems, and I will find incredibly attractive....
....just happens to be when this laptop lobs some stinking hairball at me, announced with “NOW WHAT?” before my wife died.
My wife would come running, and together we’d figger things out.
My Internet-browser is Firefox, recommended to me long ago by a college classmate who is computer-savvy. That guy has since become mad as Hell because I had the awful temerity, unmitigated gall and horrific audacity (cue Sharpton) to dispute his implying I was inferior.
That’s how we were in college, but that was 50 years ago.
I fired up this laptop, then fired up Firefox, intent on doing online banking.
Flash-boom! “Firefox is all-new,” instantly followed by a dour-faced emoticon sobbing the 404 message.
“No Internet” I surmised. It didn’t tell me that; just sobbing dour-face.
Happened before. Drag out Big Guns, namely “guile and cunning.” I’m alone now; no more wifely cheering-section.
I tried “refresh;” again, old dour-face.
I fired up a second Internet tab, engaging a bookmarked web-address.
Again, old dour-face.
My Internet happens to be hard-wired, and the tiny plastic tab on my plug broke off long ago. Sometimes that plug wiggles out — no tab to hold it in.
Wiggle plug back in. Still, old dour-face.
It just so happens my cable modem is also a wireless transmitter, a vestige of my wife having her ‘pyooter in another room.
Turn on wi-fi on this rig.
VIOLA! No more dour-face.
Fiddle banking with wi-fi; figger out hard-wire hairball later.
Can they ever leave well-enough alone?
A fancy-dan new Firefox means figgerin’ out a new interface, which I can usually do, although it wastes time.
This new Firefox was okay, but not incredible.
Sorry I’m not easily impressed.
They promise incredible speed. I’m not playing Candy-Crush in cyberspace. My challenge, I guess, is streaming video. Any increase in speed is unnoticed by me. My streaming video seems same as before.
What I’m doing is streaming railroad video from Cresson, PA. The railroad is the old Pennsy mainline over Allegheny Mountain, now Norfolk Southern. Wait 25 minutes and a train comes, sometimes 10 minutes.
Now YouTube is putting up 89 bazilyun rail streams in cohorts with VirtualRailfan. I still prefer my Cresson rail stream. I play it whenever the classical-music radio-station out of Rochester, WXXI-FM, airs opera, which I can’t stand.
350-pound stringy-haired blonds screaming “Ride of the Valkyries” at the top of their lungs. Stabbings, murders, star-crossed lovers jumping hand-in-hand off sky-high castle parapets into roiling ocean. All to strident yodeling in some ferrin language.
Banking done, I moved on to figgerin’ the hard-wire hairball.
Viola again! Hard-wire Internet is back. I didn’t do anything except shut off wi-fi.
“A riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.”
As ‘pyooter-guru at the Mighty Mezz said, “Works, don’t it?”

• “A riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma” is from a 1939 Winston Churchill radio speech: “I cannot forecast to you the action of Russia. It is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.”
The quote has found various iterations, including in movies, and the Simpsons.
• 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.
• “Sharpton” is Al Sharpton.
• The dreaded “404 message” is a computer display one’s Internet browser can’t get the website. It may be due to “no Internet connection,” “site no longer exists,” or “you mistyped the web-address,” etc.
• RE: “What I’m doing is streaming railroad video.....” —I’m a railfan, and have been since age-2.
•“Pennsy” is the Pennsylvania Railroad, originally built from Harrisburg to Pittsburgh in the 1840s. Its greatest challenge at that time was Allegheny Mountain. Pennsy became a major conduit of trade between the nation’s interior and the northeast. Pennsy no longer exists, but its railroad continues.
• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired 12 years years ago. Best job I ever had — I worked there almost 10 years (over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern [I had a stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I recovered fairly well]). (“Canandaigua” is a small city nearby where I 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 14 miles away.)

Welcome to Aging

“Well, that stinks as it puts me totally out of ideas or solutions… I do not know.”
So says my good friend *** ****** in Syracuse, who I once worked with at the Mighty Mezz. He’s extremely ‘pyooter savvy, and years ago helped me do a voluntary brochure for a park-board I was on.
It was bare-bones cheap; only one color = black ink on ivory card-stock. But between him and me it looked pretty good. ****** was a Graphic Designer at the Messenger.
Not too long ago I shot a short video of my dog barking to go for a walk. I shot it with my iPhone, then e-mailed to this laptop. It’s only eight seconds, and QuickTime plays it (I guess).
Last February my niece in Fort Lauderdale shot video of me being enthusiastically greeted by her dog. She shot it with her iPhone, then e-mailed to this laptop (I think), which I had with me.
I click-dragged it onto my laptop desktop; QuickTime could play it. I also cranked it on Facebook.
Her video is 29 seconds, yet e-mail flew it. As I understand it, video-files are humongous.
Now I can’t get my barking-dog video on my desktop. It’s in this machine somewhere; my QuickTime plays it (I guess).
****** inadvertently became my ‘pyooter-guru. I ply him with questions he usually solves.
So how do I get this barking-dog video out of my e-mail onto my desktop?
He suggested “save-as” the e-mail. I tried that, but all it saved was the text. —And there was little of that; just my iPhone e-mail “signature.”
He then suggested I try what I tried a week ago: “Control-click” the e-mailed video (that’s MAC, dear readers; Windoze PC is “right-click”) the e-mailed video, then “save-as” from the menu that displays.
Again, didn’t work.
“I don’t know what to tell you BobbaLew. That’s all I can think of.”
Welcome to aging, my friend. Frustration and failure become blessings.
My wife, who died five years ago from cancer, got this at work before she retired.
She was a computer programmer, and good at it. But because she was in her late 50s, she was declared clearly out-of-it.
No matter she was much more productive than a new hire, her employer wanted recent ‘pyooter techies = people with little experience getting a job done.
She retired throwing up her hands. Her employer was continually badmouthing her age. Only her immediate boss knew how valuable she was — but was overridden by higher-ups.
I get this myself. Millennials claim I’m so old I must be clueless.
For the moment my barking-dog video remains in my e-mail; and also on Facebook. I’m sure I will continue lobbing stinking ‘pyooter hairballs at ******, expecting he, like me, will fight “aging.”

• Since this was written yesterday, November 14th, Yrs Trly successfully saved the video to his desktop. I guessed there were more options on that “Control-Click” menu than just “save” — like ”save to download-folder.” It worked. There was the video-icon in my downloads-folder, so I dragged that to my desktop.
• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired almost 12 years ago. Best job I ever had — I worked there almost 10 years (over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern [I had a stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I recovered fairly well]). (“Canandaigua” is a small city nearby where I 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 14 miles away.)

“No Dr. Phil for this kid!”

“Sling together more than five words, and you’ve exceeded the attention-span of the average person.”
I said that to **** *********, who I previously worked with at the Daily Messenger newspaper in nearby Canandaigua. He was a reporter/editor, and I was a “typist” — although I never typed anything. What I did were computer-tricks that generated reams of copy.
Page-editors loved it when I cranked a school honor-roll. That would blow an entire page.
My statement isn’t a complaint; it’s an observation. With TV and now the Internet, instant gratification became more possible. I’m guilty myself. Reading, though pleasant, became too time-consuming.
Yet here I am slinging words. The Messenger somewhat determines how I write. “Keep it short,” an editor used to say. I think the world of her; she could write extremely well, yet wasn’t elitist about it.
I look at some of my long-ago blogs, and shout “enough already!”
I also hew to a retired fellow bus-driver who tells me “you didn’t need to say that.”
“Don’t bore us; get to the chorus,” ********* says.
I’ve also noticed what I write often comes across more curt than originally perceived.
What e-mails I get are usually 25 words or less. Occasionally I get a “War-and-Peace;” what a pleasure to rummage someone else’s brain. Usually I congratulate the author with a word-count: “874 words, you win!”
“What’s the best book you ever read?” ********* asks.
“That would be ‘Moby Dick,’” I always say. “I also read ‘V’ by Thomas Pynchon, then started ‘Gravity’s Rainbow,’ but gave up. ‘Ulysses’ was beyond-the-pale.”
“Most important?” “‘Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.’ It gave me the confidence to try automotive bodywork, which I did successfully = a ‘quality’ job. First time I reversed my parents’ convincing me I was not only rebellious, but stupid.”
Books like that are history. More important are -1) Don “Big Daddy” Garlits in his Double-A fuel dragster burning rubber the entire quarter-mile, -2) P-51 Mustang “Old Crow” doing 500 mph power-dives and hammerhead stalls at an airshow, and -3) and restored Nickel Plate steam locomotive #765 bursting out of the tunnel atop Allegheny Mountain, throttle-to-the-roof, and whistle screaming!
So where does all that leave me with this pen?
There seem to be 10-20 constant-readers, and slinging words became a way for this retiree to pass time.
No Dr. Phil for this kid!

• Almost 12 years ago I retired from the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper. Best job I ever had — I worked there almost 10 years (almost 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern [I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I recovered fairly well]). (“Canandaigua” is a small city nearby where I 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 14 miles away.)
• 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 ended that — I retired on medical-disability. I recovered well enough to return to work at the Messenger newspaper.

Back to the Future

Lucy the Margate elephant. (My motorbike is parked in front — you could go up top.) (Long-ago photo by BobbaLew.)

25 years ago Yr Fthfl Srvnt set out on motorcycle for his original home in south Jersey. —I live in western NY.
My motorbike was a 1989 Yamaha FZR400, only 400 cc’s. Double overhead-cam, four cylinders, four tiny valves per cylinder.
To get by with only 400 cc’s it had to be wound to-the-moon. About 9,000 rpm at 60 mph. (Seemed unnatural.)
I got saddlebags and a tankbag. I also bought a rubberized rain-suit.
It began raining not long after I started. My route was good old Route 15 toward Harrisburg, then east to northern DE.
I drove that route hundreds of times. College was in western NY, and we later lived in Rochester (NY). Back then my parents still lived in northern DE, so Route 15 was the way home. (My parents eventually moved to south FL.)
I remember stopping at the infamous Campbell rest facility (“Kamp-bell;” not the soup), inadvertently parking in the handicap zone earning the anti-biker wrath of the curmudgeonly facility manager.
That meant parking 100 yards south of the facility next to its dumpsters. This encounter prompted snide remarks on my part, fulfilling my duty as a “biker” (gasp).
I was amazed at how well my rain-suit worked. 60-65 mph in a drenching downpour past Mansfield University. I had a glowering-intimidator on my tail — a Dale Earnhardt wannabee in a Chevrolet Astrovan.
Back then the infamous Blossburg Hill was still in use. It’s been bypassed.
By Williamsport the rain let up. I remember stop-and-go traffic around Williamsport due to the Little League World Series.
On Route 15 one passes all the hoary landmarks: the small golfball water-tower just south of Williamsport, Clyde Peeling’s “Reptileland,” Bucknell University in Lewisburg, and what used to be three-lane highway next to Susquehanna River. “Pass safely” = “Put the hammer down!” Seven or eight cars zoom past a slow truck in hopes of completing before “No passing.” (The center lane was for passing.)
On Route 15 one also passes “Green Shingles” restaurant just north of the NY border. It’s been bypassed. I wonder when I’ll see it burned out.
The next day I decided to visit my old boys-camp in northeastern MD on Chesapeake Bay. Many fond memories; I started there as a camper in 1954 at age-10, did four more times as a camper through 1958, then was on camp-staff 1959-’61.
The camp is perhaps a mile-and-a-half in from the highway. I’m on motorbike. As soon as I rode in, I hit the familiar smell that always greeted me if car-windows were open.
That aroma is right up there with seashore smell. No idea what it is, although it may be the woods you first encounter as you begin the road to camp.
My camp’s name was “Sandy Hill;” I blogged it. (That’s a link, dudes.)
Sandy Hill was a religious camp — my going there was compliments of my hyper-religious father. But Sandy Hill was much more than religion.
I was on horsemanship staff, and did a lot of canoeing.
25 years ago, Sandy Hill was still related to the religious institution that also had a nearby conference center. Sandy Hill was sold when that organization almost tanked.
Sandy Hill still exists, but now has different owners.
When I rode there it was still a religious institution, but the camp season was over. The camp was being used as a retreat for zealots. All I could do was ride in.
I rode to the old mansion-house, the palatial abode that once was a duPont family summer retreat.
All I could do was savor the smell. I was there maybe 10 minutes; I dared not dismount lest some zealot preach at me. The fact I was on motorbike made the zealots nervous.
From there I rode to my original home in south Jersey = Erlton, a Philadelphia suburb.
I lived there until age-13, moving to northern DE when my father got a better job.
We lived at 625 Jefferson Ave. in Erlton. and I visited Mrs. Walton in next-door 627. She was still alive in her 80s, and still in her original home.
She’d been my Sunday-School Superintendent, and did her best to convince me all men, including me, were disgusting.
That I was unworthy of any girl she didn’t approve of; certainly not the slatterns south Jersey generated.
She took me to our old church in Erlton, but it was clear she was upset with the pups running it. She still had a key to her beloved Sunday-School addition, but that addition no longer passed muster.
From there I rode to my Uncle Rob’s in Pennsauken, north of Camden, the south Jersey extension of Philadelphia. My Uncle Rob was my father’s younger brother.
He told me anyone named “Robert” in my family is automatically disapproved. That included him, my paternal grandfather (his father), and now me.
(Scuttlebutt had him disapproved because he preferred Fords over Chevrolets. He was even a life-long Ford salesman.)
He called my Aunt May — his baby sister — to come visit. “MayZ” arrived and started nattering me, just like my grandmother used to do with anyone named “Robert,” although not me. (With me it was my parents.)
My Aunt May is divorced from her first and only husband. “Is this why Al started frogging around?” I asked — his name was Al. “He couldn’t take the constant yammering?”
My Aunt May went ballistic. She started yelling at me. “Don’t furrow yer brow at me,” I said. “My father used to do that. Compared to some of the goofballs I parry driving bus, yer angelic!”
I felt bad. Now I had my Aunt May all bent outta shape.
“She had it coming,” my Uncle Rob said.
That night I rode to Swedesboro (NJ) and stayed with my Aunt May. The FZR stayed parked outside.
Next day to the south Jersey seashore. Again, many fond memories.
Like “Lucy” the Margate elephant (pictured above).
“Lucy” was originally a beachside hotel, that turned into a tourist-trap.
(Two different Lucy links, readers.)
“You ain’t goin’ up in no Margate elephant!” my father shouted angrily. “That’s 25¢; WE’RE BROKE!” My paternal grandmother got my sister and I up in Lucy; 50¢ total.
I stopped for breakfast at a roadside diner, and started crying on my pancakes. I was alone as always. I feel like I never had loving parents; they were always badmouthing me.
I think my mother eventually realized my father was turning me away, but it was too late. She was a zealous partner at first.
Beyond that I was way too smart; they had no idea what to do with me. My father was smart too, but apparently more suckered for religious zealotry.
My first stop was Lucy, but that was after hitting the wonderful aroma of the Jersey seashore. I got that riding the causeway out to Longport, south of Margate and Atlantic City.
On motorcycle smells are strident.
Then south toward Ocean City (NJ). The barrier island Ocean City is on is now connected to Longport by drawbridge over a bay inlet.
In Ocean City I set out for 59th Street beach. Of all the beaches I’ve been to, Huntington and Manhattan near LA, Fort Lauderdale, Jacksonville, Daytona; 59th Street is still the best.
But ya gotta wear shoes, lest the sand burn yer feet.
I still have a container of 59th-St. beach sand under a window in my kitchen.
My first girlfriend and I did 59th-St. beach back in 1962. Did it again in 1968 with my new wife.
“Where is Sea-Isle City, anyway?” said a guy’s tee-shirt in a nearby grocery.
“I know where Sea-Isle City is,” I said; “south of Ocean City, and north of Wildwood and Cape May.”
And we all know Wildwood is the plastic pink-flamingo capital of the entire known universe.
I bet he never wore that tee-shirt again.
Maybe 10-15 minutes at 59th St. beach. Park motorbike, then walk out and collect sand.
In the ‘50s my Uncle Rob bought an unheated summer-cottage in Ship-Bottom, north of Atlantic City on Long Beach Island.
I stayed there often with my parents when my Uncle allowed us to use his cottage.

Me at age-10, severely sunburnt.

Sleep was difficult, the salt-spray aroma was so heavy.
We were there when Hurricane Carol passed offshore, lashing the beach. (I think it was the Hurricane Carol of 1954 — there was also one in 1953.)
My mother took us all up to the beach in our ’41 Chevy. Its wipers couldn’t cope. My mother got out wrapped in a bedspread, but had to get back in. Her bedspread was soaked.
After 59th Street I headed back inland to visit my Aunt Betty and Uncle Irv, still in south Jersey. My Aunt Betty was my mother’s youngest sister. Irving died not too long afterward, then my Aunt Betty. My Aunt May is my only living Aunt; she’s 87.
After Aunt Betty I rode back home = a journey goin’ to my grave. My roots hadn’t changed hardly at all.

• A “golfball water-tower” has the water vessel atop a single pylon, spread at bottom resembling a large golf-tee. I always notice because I helped paint a golfball during a college summer job. That golfball is pictured below.

The “golfball” water-tower in Ventnor, NJ. (The golfball near Williamsport is much smaller.) (Long-ago photo by BobbaLew.)

“Before I go.......”

“Gotta do it,” I told myself as I climbed out of the pool at Canandaigua YMCA.
I just finished my hour-long aquacise class.
“Gotta walk all the way over and talk to that lifeguard. She seems to like it, and if that puts her off, it ain’t my fault.”
Yrs Trly is a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations. Hilda was my Sunday-School superintendent and next-door neighbor. She convinced me all pants-wearers, including me, were unworthy of female attention. That girls would avoid me like the plague.
My parents, as hyper-religious zealots, concurred.
My wife was inadvertently complicit in this. The fact she liked me made it possible for me to avoid females — she made other females unnecessary.
Now my wife is gone; she died over five years ago.
Way too late I’m discovering Mrs. Walton, and my parents, were flat wrong.
Every relation with females doesn’t automatically have sexual connotation.
A while ago I had a really pretty physical-therapist. Intimidated at first, I got so I could look at her. In my head Mrs. Walton was nattering me, but cutie was disproving her.
So on-and-on it’s gone. A couple weeks ago this lifeguard seemed to like I said hello to her.
So I walked over and started jawing. She smiled. Mrs. Walton is spinning in her grave — 14,000 rpm!

• “Q” stands for “Quincy.”

“I got a live one here!”

“So what’s ‘4-F’?” asked the Zappos service-rep.
Ever since my wife died, I’ve gotten my footwear online from Zappos, which is based in Las Vegas.
Mainly my running shoes, although I stopped running when my wife died. She’d take our dog.
Zappos probably wants twice the price for running shoes, but saves me the time needed to research maybe a 40-dollar saving.
“‘4-F’ was my draft classification,” I said. “‘4-F’ wasn’t draftable. It indicated a medical condition that made me unsuitable for military service, in my case a duodenal ulcer.”
“So what was ‘the draft’?” she asked.
“During the Vietnam War, a military draft was in effect requiring service. Military wasn’t volunteer.
College was a deferment, but after I graduated I was draftable.”
“So what were the other classifications?” she asked.
“No idea,” I said. “I think ‘1-A’ was draftable, ‘2’ and ‘3’ I have no idea; that was 50 years ago.
What does any of this have to do with a shoe-return?” I asked.
“I’ve learned all kinds of things as a service-rep.”
“Useless facts,” I said.
“But interesting,” she said.
What prompted this was my Asics running shoes were manufactured in Vietnam, “once our enemy,” I commented.
“You should also know yer talking to a stroke-survivor,” I said. “It’s why my speech is a little wonky.”
“I don’t hear anything,” she said.
“Of course not,” I said; “but my brothers do. They heard the before.
It’s called ‘aphasia’,” I said. “Google it.”
“How do you spell it?”
“A-P-H-A-S-I-A.”
“Aphasia is impairment of language, affecting the production or comprehension of speech and the ability to read or write. Aphasia is always due to injury to the brain — most commonly from a stroke.” —She had already Googled the same site I use.
“It can be so bad the stroke-victim can’t speak at all. In my case it’s slight.
Again, what does any of this have to do with a shoe-return? We’ve blown at least 20 minutes so far.”
“Interesting,” she said.
Her name was ******, at Zappos in Las Vegas.
“Where that horrible massacre occurred?” I commented.
“Supposedly The Donald was gonna end all this, but ‘thoughts-and-prayers’.”
“And now they’re using rental trucks,” she added.
On-and-on it went. Neither of us would shut up.
So Zappos can allow ****** to waste time jawing with a customer?
Is that worth 40 extra smackaroos for a pair of sneakers?
Ever tried tech-support at Microsoft?
“We’re deeply, deeply sorry” from wannabees in Indonesia with no technical savvy whatsoever, and little command of English.
“Next,” they say.
A while ago I tried to solve some ‘pyooter hairball by calling Adobe. Their techie suggested I purchase a Photoshop upgrade.
I go to tech-support and get a salesman.
After 70+ years I’ve learned to just say it. I don’t always get a ******, but often I do. And they seem to love it.
“I got a live one here! Speaker-phone for this dude!”

• 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 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 slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty finding and putting words together.)

1954 Corvette

1954 Corvette. (Photo by Dan Lyons.)

A 1954 Corvette is the October, 2017 entry in my Tide-Mark “Cars of the Fab ‘50s” calendar.
The 1954 Corvette was introduced in 1953, a stretch for staid Chevrolet.
(I learned how to drive in a ’53.)
At that time Chevrolet was marketing very pedestrian automobiles, pretty much devoid of glamor. Attractive to those who preferred reliability over glitz — like my paternal grandmother.
My grandfather wanted a Packard, anathema to my grandmother. Packard was more class than glitz.
In the ‘70s my grandmother was living with my parents, more-or-less separated from my grandfather. I showed up in a used red 1972 Chevrolet Vega GT, somewhat sporty in appearance.
“Is it a Chevrolet?” she asked plaintively.
Her ability to weigh in was compromised by old age, but not her values.
My uncle, my grandmother’s second child, was in deepest doo-doo, perhaps because he sold Fords for a living. He used to get dealer loaners. Once he showed up at his seashore cottage in a top-down ’55 Thunderbird.
Yet droll Chevrolet brought Corvette to market.
The Corvette was just a sports-car wannabee at first. It even had Chevrolet’s tired six-cylinder engine, the “cast-iron wonder” from 1937. It was slightly “souped:” two carburetors.
The car pictured is probably the six. But Chevrolet was developing it’s fabulous SmallBlock V8. When debuted for the 1955 model-year, Zora Arkus-Duntov, an old hot-rodder, noticed.

Zora.

Replace the Corvette’s six with the new SmallBlock. and you had more than a sports-car wannabee.
Duntov was off-and-running. He became Corvette’s chief-engineer, and made Corvette more a sports-car.
The first Corvettes, 1953, were only available white. The car pictured is red, but it’s 1954.
A family in our neighborhood had an early Corvette, white, but 1954 I think. Totally impractical; of course. Just posturing — not for groceries. A daughter in that family, two classes ahead of me, went on to become “Miss Delaware” in the Miss America pageant. That ‘Vette was part of her image, or so it seemed.
Not long ago I glimpsed a car-chase on TV. The car chased was an early ‘Vette, 1954 I think. —It was also red. Ford “Crown-Vic” Police-Cars crashed or exploded in flames. The ‘Vette was always zooming away, to the sound-track of a high-winding American V8, although it was probably only the six.
“Look at the tires on this thing,” I exclaim. “Mere rim-protectors; bias-ply no doubt.” The Crown-Vics probably at least had radials. In reality, a ’54 Corvette would be no match for a ‘90s or later Crown-Vic.
Except for looks, and even that’s debatable. Compared to a Crown-Vic an early ‘Vette has glitz.
With Duntov at the helm, Corvette became an attractive sports-car.
This ’54 is a first iteration of the C1, which lasted through 1962. What made early ‘Vettes attractive was that SmallBlock V8.
An experimental ‘55 is in my area. It’s red, and has appeared at car-shows. It’s essentially the car pictured with a SmallBlock V8. I don’t know how experimental it is; that’s the owner.
From 1956 on the Corvette was rebodied. No more recessed headlights behind screening, or jet taillights. And I think they were all SmallBlock, tuned for performance.
But underneath was pretty much the Chevy sedan chassis, poorly suited for racing. People raced those ‘Vettes, but their only advantage was that high-winding SmallBlock.
It wasn’t until the 1963 model, the C2, that Duntov was able to work his magic. It was still the SmallBlock, but independent-rear-suspension under an attractive new body. How well this all worked is debatable. The IRS was rudimentary.
For 1969 the C3 was introduced, with body influenced by the Mako Shark/Manta Ray (whatever). It was still essentially a C2 underneath, rudimentary IRS.
By then the ‘Vette was available with Chevrolet’s “Big-Block” V8. I’ve seen 454 C2s. Compared to the SmallBlock, a Big-Block weighed much more. Corvettes balance better with the lighter SmallBlock, but won’t win straight-line drag-races.
Compared to what Corvettes became, how humble is this ’54? Yet there it was beating all-and-sundry in that movie car-chase.
In my opinion Corvette is still being made largely because of Duntov, even though he’s gone. Would that other Chevys were as good as the ‘Vette, now at C7.

• RE: “Bias-ply” versus radials. —Originally tires were bias-ply, with the casing made of cross-hatched plies across the tread at about 45 degrees from tire-rotation. “Radials” had the casing at 90 degrees from tire-rotation. Bias-ply weren’t as compliant as radials, and were slipperier. Now all tires, since the ‘70s, are radial construction.