“Yer backlit”

One would think after almost 75 years on this planet Yr Fthfl Srvnt woulda deduced sometimes it’s best to just SHADDUP.
Guilty as charged! It’s my newly found pleasure of “just say it.”
The other morning I tried to say hello to a new female friend at my local YMCA. It fell flat, or so it seemed. In other words, don’t be so cocky.
Cockiness counters my Sunday-School Superintendent neighbor, and my hyper-religious parents, convincing me all men, including me at age 6-8, are disgusting. With my parents I was also rebellious and of-the-Devil.
I was walking my new rescue Irish Setter at Kershaw Park north of Canandaigua Lake, and I came upon a young dude photographing his girlfriend.
The girl was embarrassed, but “stand over here and lean on that pier-railing.” The dude had a “point-and-shoot.” Usually I just unholster my iPhone and call it the best camera I ever owned.
I also have a Nikon D7000 digital. More than a point-and-shoot, but I use many of its automatic features.
But my iPhone camera is even more automatic, so hardly any technical input is required. It has so much depth-of-field — down to inches — I don’t have to focus. Exposure settings are also automatic. With minimal light I can avoid flash.
Dude’s girlfriend had the sun behind her. “Yer backlit,” I said. “Yer gonna lose her face.
“89 bazilyun megapixels!” the dude grumbled. But I know what will happen. Shoot a backlit train and my picture is junk. The locomotive will be in shadow. I might be able to save that picture with Photoshop, but it’s better to be aware of lighting.
What I forgot is young studs, or thems that wanna be, brook no advice. “I’m completely in control.” Sounds like gumint. Has there ever been some disaster our leaders didn’t expect?
Both sides seem guilty. I, on the other hand, live a life of continuing disasters: water, milk, and/or cereal find the floor, my dog pukes on the rug, tires go flat, etc. Things that wouldn’t happen if I kowtowed to gumint wisdom.
So the next time I see someone initiating something I know won’t work.... “Let it go, everything’s under control.” And the next time someone wants me to shoot-the-breeze, I’ll consider it.
Faire Hilda, my neighbor Sunday-School Superintendent, triumphs. But the next minute she’s spinning in her grave. Some pretty young girl is jawing with me.
Guess what Hilda, she wants to. A “slattern,” no doubt.

• I was fond of “slut,” but like “slattern” better. (Maybe I should use “trollop.”)
• My new dog, “Killian,” is a “rescue Irish-setter.” He’s nine, and is my seventh Irish-Setter, a very lively dog. A “rescue Irish setter” is usually an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill — or perhaps its owner died. (Killian was a divorce victim.) By getting a rescue-dog I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Killian was fine. He’s my fifth rescue.
• RE: “trains” and “locomotives......” —I’m a railfan, and have been since age-2. I publish an annual calendar of train-pictures my brother and I took.
• “Hilda” is Hilda Q. Walton, founder and leader of the vaunted “Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual-Relations.” The “Q” stood for Quincy, her maiden name.

No TV

“Yer talking to a stroke-survivor,” I told the service-rep at my cable-TV and Internet provider.
“I may hafta have you repeat, or I may hafta repeat myself. I may have difficulty getting words out. It’s called “aphasia,” a stroke-effect. It can be so bad a stroke-victim can’t speak. With me it’s slight.
I’m not angry. It’s just aphasia.”
“Oh that’s okay, Mr. Hughes.” If I tell contacts in advance I get understanding instead of anger.
“So what is yer problem?”
“No TV,” I said.
Wheels began turning. Not the first time. I had it happen before. I have a DVR-box, their equipment, on which I record the local and national news. That’s all I ever watch. I watch during supper, which I may not get to until 9 p.m. My tiny TV is on my dinner-table. Mega-dollars are in this computer equipment.
I went to watch the news the other night, and all I got was a blank screen. Plus my DVR-box wasn’t displaying the lighted icons I usually see.
“Uh-oh.... What did I do wrong this time? Can I watch the train video I have in my old ‘analog’ (?) video-recorder?” I could, but the DVR-box video output was blank.
I called the cable-company; their DVR-box came with a remote replete with 89 bazilyun buttons I rarely use.
“I’ll send a signal from my end, and see if that gets it,” the service-rep said. At the Mighty Mezz we called this “a kick-in-the-pants.” The Messenger was partially computerized by then, and our Windoze PC liked to hang delaying publication.
Our computer-lady appeared to administer the “kick-in-the-pants,” which was a “restart” I think, but may have been a full “re-boot.” But my DVR-box wasn’t being re-booted. No idea what “the signal” was, but still a blank screen.
“I guess we gotta re-boot yer DVR-box,” the girl said. “I’d like to fix this before you hang up.” First everything off. My remote wouldn’t kill my DVR-box, only its power-button would. (At least I didn’t hafta pull the plug — some Messenger computers required that.)
Time was passing. Already up to 30 minutes. Lawn awaits, as does my nap.
Re-boot began. Eight or nine lights on my TV hafta all slowly go green. Then a long 10-to-1 countdown begins. “Yer TV will be with you shortly.”  —Approaching an hour.
Finally images appeared on my TV: Dr. Phil with his latest child-abuse victim. But it wasn’t the local ABC affiliate.
Stabbing around: “Guide,” “Menu,” etc. Trying to finagle with someone 25 miles away. Dr. Phil parrying teary fat-ladies, and fisticuffs among clients. Or “On-Demand” with a screen which may lead to programs I never view.
First this, then that, then “try this and see what happens.”
Finally “Wait a minute!” = indicating I had enough.
“Lemme try something here,” I said. I had video, so I tried the “Menu” button, then I scrolled down to “DVR,” what I usually do to get my recorded news.
There it was, the previous day’s Lester Holt. Almost two hours total; maybe 40 minutes of dorking around.
“You did good,” I told the service-rep. “A stroke-survivor born in the wrong century.”
“You may get a follow-up survey. You can relate that if you wish.”
Maybe an hour later I got a voicemail from that cable-provider. “Key ‘one’ on yer phone to take the survey.”
Lost! If there’s an iPhone way of doing that from voicemail I don’t know it. “1” on my keypad calls Alexander Graham Bell, and he’s dead.

• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.
• RE: “Train video......” —I’m a railfan, and have been 72 years. I have a large collection of train videos.
• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over 12 years ago. Best job I ever had — I was employed there almost 10 years — over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern. (“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.)
• RE:  “Windoze....” —Apple Macintosh users considered Microsoft Windows inferior. I don’t know that it is any more. I use an Apple MacBook Pro. The Messenger computerized with MACs.

Sandy Hill — 2

(“Sandy-Hill,” eight years ago, was my first Sandy Hill blog.)

During the summers of 1959, 1960, and ’61, when I was 15, 16, and 17, I was on the staff of a religious boys camp in northeastern MD, on the upper reaches of Chesapeake Bay.
I was a CIT — Counselor-in-Training. The camp’s name was Sandy Hill.
How I, an agnostic, made the staff of an evangelical organization, is debatable. I always say it was because I was good at slinging words, mainly the application essay.
Pay was extremely minimal, even for full-on counselors. Usually they were college-students; summer vacation from regular college pursuits.
As a religious camp it drew its staff from religious colleges. CIT’s like me were usually ex-campers. I’d been a camper since 1954 = five times, two weeks per time; except my last year, 1958, was four weeks. My father always hoped that camp would make me a zealot.
CIT’s filled in regular counselors on their day off. I also lived in a regular cabin with a full-fledged counselor.
In 1959 I did only the final five weeks. In 1960 I did the first five weeks, although only four were actual camp. The first week was prepare camp and religious contemplation. That included communion from a common chalice. The camp nurse was aghast! The camp didn’t have a communion set.
In 1961 I did the entire season, 10 weeks total.
I was also a stablehand, although my ability to ride horse was questionable. But the horsey guys loved the fact I mucked stalls, and taught camper horsemanship classes. That meant they could pretend they were cowboys.
I also got better riding horse. By 1961 I was Assistant Horsemanship Director, and pretty much ran things myself. The Horsemanship Director had a camper-cabin, so couldn’t do much. (In 1959 and 1960 the Horsemanship Director didn’t have a cabin.)
The need to bring in and feed the horses meant I could skip the daily chapel requirement.
By 1961 I was leading trail-rides. Our horses were nags, el-cheapo rentals from a horse farm. The ride-leader took the spunkiest horse. I usually did okay, but the horses ran away once, complete with terrified campers. Our horses galloped back to the stable to stand around and eat.
Our camper cabins were rustic. No electricity, and no windows. Open but fully screened. We weren’t in tents, and had wood flooring, not dirt. We were sheltered from rain, but if it got cold all we could do was roll large canvas tarps over the screens.
The entire top half of the cabin, under the roof, was open, but screened. Nighttime illumination was by kerosene lantern, or flashlight of course.
Camp was on a named river, Elk River. But where we were that river was more than three miles wide — more a Chesapeake Bay inlet. It had tides, but wasn’t salt-water. A channel was dredged in the middle to pass ships. It went north to the Chesapeake & Delaware Canal, a shortcut between Chesapeake and Delaware bays.
The “Muddy Elk” allowed all kinds of water sports, but Sandy Hill didn’t do much. All we had were five wooden Old Town canoes: two 17-footers, a 16-footer, an 18, plus a gigantic 24-foot “warrior-canoe.” It could accommodate an entire cabin: 10 campers, plus two adult staff-members. —I could be one of those adults.
Every summer, usually in August approaching the end of the camping season, it got cool enough to roll down the cabin tarps. Summer was winding down. Hot days returned, but winter’s icy blast was coming.
We’d walk around in jackets trying to shrug off the cold; temperatures were in the 60s, or even 50s.
The other day was like that here in West Bloomfield. My sugar-maple (actually my deceased wife’s father) will soon turn red, and I’ll be blowing snow in maybe 10 weeks.
Sandy Hill was one of my happiest lifetime interludes. The fact I was on-my-own, no longer at home, made college easy-as-pie. Others in my college class mention how difficult was that transition.
But mainly Sandy Hill left many pleasant memories. Most memorable was drifting at dusk in a camp canoe, on the dead-calm Elk, with another staffer sneaking Marlboros.
(The 1960 season was awash with sinners.)
20 miles north a gigantic 40,000-foot thunderhead hurled lightning-bolts cloudside. Dead silence; we were too far away to hear thunder.
That image is goin’ to my grave.

• Being a boys-camp, the only females were -a) the camp nurse, and -b) the dining-hall hostess.
• That previous blog has me a camper six times. Five is more like it.
• Sandy Hill was previously a DuPont family summer estate. It had a mansion-house, plus a dock into the Elk River. Camp Senior-staff, including wives, stayed in the mansion-house. That mansion was on a promontory overlooking the Elk River, about 100 feet above the river. The mansion still stands, but the dock washed away in a hurricane. Camp was about 2-3 miles from the main road, which meant the camp road passed large pastures that were farmed. A husband-and-wife lived year-round in a small bungalow on camp property — they did the farming, and the wife also laundered counselors’ clothes.
• RE: The river-channel and the Chesapeake & Delaware Canal...... —They probably wouldn’t clear a really big ship, but cleared the average freighter. Occasionally a freighter ran aground = stuck in mud beside the channel. Tides ran as much as 5-6 feet, usually enough to free a grounded ship.

Ripoff

“What, pray tell, is this world coming to?”I asked the bank fraud guy.
“This is the fourth time my credit-card number was stolen. I’m not complaining. You poor guys are being taken to the cleaners.”
“Hacked purchaser site, card photographed; yada-yada-yada.”
“And if not for the fact I reconcile my credit-card statement every month it would have gone unnoticed.”
It’s only $14.40.
“Which you guys have to eat. Plus overnight me a new card.
First time was eons ago: $1,600. You froze my account, and justifiably.
Second time was a few years ago. $400 or so. I tried to buy groceries with that card, and it bombed. Again you froze it. At least I had enough cash to buy those groceries.
The third time was four months ago per my doing. Maybe 30 smackaroos charged to ‘Google-Purchase’ (whatever).”
The other night I pored through my most recent credit-card statement, and noticed a totally unknown charge to Amazon-Prime. “I don’t have no Amazon-Prime account. I know what ‘Prime’ is, and I refused it. I never buy from Amazon-Prime (gasp).”
I called the bank.
“Let me switch you to our fraud department,” the kindly service-rep said. (Don’t expect that from Microsoft. Yer lucky if the techies speak English.)
And so it began. Wheels churning; fraud reaction at full boil. “We’ll overnight you a new card. Your old card is frozen.”
A few hours later I headed for an eat-out I planned to charge to my card. My wallet was empty. I hit an ATM on the way. I needed cash to pay the restaurant.
I actually withdrew $100; which allowed me to buy groceries the next day.
I could say something here about our current prez. Like anything goes, survival of the fittest, guile and cunning to offset the thieves. Supposedly “collusion” isn’t a crime. Which I guess it isn’t, but that doesn’t justify it.
Meanwhile someone is running away with $14.40 worth of merchandise, for which my bank gets to pay — (ultimately those paying interest, which doesn’t include me, since I pay in full.)

Yo Ludwig

On July 4th Dubya-Hex-Hex-Hi, the classical-music radio station out of Rochester I listen to almost constantly.....
Aired Beethoven’s triumphant Ninth Symphony, the famous “Ode to Joy."
I had it on as background, keying in something on this laptop.
Much of Beethoven’s Ninth is in my head. Not note-for-note, but I can predict.
Bombing along, even the choruses, despite my dislike of singing. It’s a fitting tribute to the day.
But suddenly a baritone bellows over everything. “That’s it!” I say. So ends my reverie. “I’m not puttin’ up with that!”
I zoom into the kitchen, switch off WXXI, then back to my laptop to fire up Railstream: their Cresson webcam, which looks out over the old Pennsylvania Railroad mainline up Allegheny Mountain.
I’m a railfan, addicted to that webcam.
I can’t stand singing; especially single-voice shrieking and bellowing.
A guy with whom I graduated college, who sang in the college choir, recently noted he would attend a concert of Schubert’s Song-Cycles. I YouTubed it.
“Only one thing wrong Charlie, they were singing!”
On Saturday afternoon WXXI airs opera. No way José. Stringy-haired 350-pound blonds in horned helmets screaming “Ride of the Valkyries” at the top of their lungs.
And every opera involves murder, incest, stabbings, and star-crossed lovers jumping hand-in-hand 200 feet off castle parapets into roiling ocean.
“Uh-oh. They goosed her again.” The prima-donna just screamed her highest note ever, audible in 50 states.
And why can’t they speak English? I don’t know what they’re saying. And since when does dialog get sung? If I did that with my grocery checkout she’d turn on her alert-light.
The old Pennsy main sees a lotta trains through Cresson. The railroad is now Norfolk Southern.
“There’s another,” and “sounds like 07T (Amtrak’s westbound Pennsylvanian). (Rumba-rumba = I can always tell a P-42.)
I also fire up iTunes railroad-radio scanner-feed from Cresson: “O7T on Three, MO, CLEAR!” Not far; I’ll see it shortly on the webcam.
I’m a railfan, and that webcam is much better than shrieking and bellowing.
So Ludwig, ya composed some of the greatest music of all time. “Ode to Joy” for example, until that baritone starts bellering.

• “MO” are the old telegraph call-letters of a railroad-tower once at that location. That tower is gone — the railroad is dispatched from Pittsburgh. But the location remains. It’s now just interlocked switches and crossovers = CP-MO. (Control-point MO.)

Siri versus Alexa

A while ago a friend and I were discussing “See Ya Later Alligator,” a hit back in 1955 when she was born.
“I’ll hafta see if I can get Alexa to play it,” she said.
I went home and fired up Siri on my iPhone.
“‘See Ya Later Alligator’ by Bill Haley and the Comets on YouTube.”
“Here are some videos of ‘See You Later Alligator’ by Bill Haley and the Comets I found on the Web.”
BAM; got it. I fingered one, and sure enough.
“‘Louie-Louie’ by the Kingsmen on YouTube.”
“Here are some videos of ‘Louie-Louie’ by the Kingsmen I found on the Web.”
BA-BOMP-BOMP-BOMP, BOMP-BOMP; BOMP-BOMP-BOMP, BOMP-BOMP: the greatest rock-‘n’-roll song of all time!
WXXI-FM, the classical-music radio-station out of Rochester I use as background music, brags Alexa will play its digital radio-stream if so commanded.
I’m in Altoona PA, 270 miles from Rochester. I fire up WXXI on my iPhone. There she is, WXXI’s morning radio host playing Mozart, Bach, Copland, etc. Plus morning commuter traffic-jams on Rochester’s highways.
When I graduated high-school back in 1962, stuff like this was beyond imagining.
Alexa-Alexa-Alexa! “Alexa, did you just suggest I call Comfort Windows?” a TV ad says.
LA-DEE-DAH! Siri plays video, but Alexa doesn’t. There are non-Apple smartphones that play both video and audio, but not Alexa.
Whither Amazon, or Microsoft, whoever; the programmers of Alexa? Siri, etc, have ‘em skonked. Or did Amazon, etc, think the attractiveness of both video and audio may be passé?
Apple doesn’t seem to promote Siri. My perception may very well be wrong, but “I’ll see if I can get Alexa to play it.”
Recently in Altoona I unholstered my iPhone, and fired up Siri. “I need a Taco-Bell in Altoona, Pennsylvania.”
BAM! There it was, with GPS directions to it.
I’m glad my friend got Alexa. But can Alexa point out a Taco-Bell in Altoona?
“As technology advances, you can be sure WXXI will be on top of it.”
“Call Faudi,” I voice-command “Sync” in my car. I’m in Altoona, and “Faudi” is my railfan friend. It calls my immediate neighbor. Admitted Sync is nowhere near as good as Siri, and my car is almost six years old.
I could say “Whatever they think of next” (WXXI) is mind-blowing.
What I think is carbon-based life is doomed. I give us maybe 100 years. By then the atmosphere will be unbreathable, and south FL flooded. 100 years is optimistic.
Maybe insects can adapt, but I think silicon-based life will triumph.
So what is “life” anyway? Brain-waves harnessed to recreate itself. As if silicon-based life couldn’t do that?
“Here are some videos of ‘See You Later Alligator’ by Bill Haley and the Comets I found on the Web.”
All bow to the dual-headed deity of Gates and Jobs!

Kitselman’s birthday

Today, August 12th, is Gail Kitselman’s birthday. She would be 72 if she’s still alive; I hope she is.
Gail Kitselman was my second girlfriend — although how much a “girlfriend” is debatable. More proper is to say she was the second girl I befriended.
Another girl was the first one I befriended, mainly because she was a friend of my sister.
That girl, and my sister, are both Brandywine High School Class of ‘64; I’m ‘62.
Kitselman was also Class of ‘64, and also a friend of my sister. They played girls basketball — and Kitselman was exceptional, or so she claimed.
This was my senior year in high-school.
My sister died of cancer six years ago. That first girl is still alive, and is a Facebook “friend.” I’ve lost contact with Kitselman.
How many friendships were skonked by teenage male compulsion?
I desperately wanted Kitselman to be my “steady” girlfriend, ultimately my marriage-mate.
Her mother thought me wonderful, her father thought me a disaster. “He’ll never amount to anything.” And of course I didn’t.
Every evening I’d ride my junky bicycle five miles to Kitselman’s, then we’d yammer on her porch until dark. Often we drove to a nearby ice-cream stand. Kitselman’s mother gave me the keys to their ’58 Plymouth.
Sometimes it was so dark it was unsafe riding home. Kitselman’s mother put my bicycle in the trunk of that Plymouth and drove me home.
I dated Kitselman a few times. Once was a day-long church trip to Ocean City, NJ, where we walked hand-in-hand on the boardwalk at dusk.
My sister, going “steady” with a guy she eventually married (and divorced), was thrilled.
Another time was an afternoon at an amusement-park in southeastern PA just north of DE. Kitselman was embarrassed she was so skinny, plus she’d develop varicose veins like her mother.
“I don’t fill out my clothes,” she’d wail.
I thought her striking.
That amusement-park failed long ago.
A while ago a friend Googled “Gail Kitselman” and got a hit: someone in Brooklyn who died. It’s probably not my Kitselman, but she was the right age. That person was involved in some charity, which sounds like Kitselman.
I also have no idea if Kitselman married; she wasn’t the sort.
After I graduated high-school I tried to continue my relationship with Kitselman from 365 miles away in college. I met her once in my old high-school, but she wanted to cut ties. “The moving finger writes; and having writ, moves on.”
No more Kitselman after that, but I did extremely well anyway. I married the best friend I ever had, and that wasn’t Kitselman.

• Brandywine High School is north of Wilmington DE in suburbia. It still exists. My family lived north of Wilmington at that time, as did Kitselman.
• The ice-cream stand was “Linthwaite’s,” long-gone. The amusement-park was “Lenape Park.”
• “The moving finger writes; and having writ, moves on” is from the famous Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám. (My funky little Podunk college left me with that.)

Chick magnet

(Sorry readers. I can’t put a picture on here due to insanity from PhotoBucket, my usual image-source. I’m trying to set up my own domain to escape PhotoBucket.)

“You keep looking at my dog like that, and I just might hafta come up there.”
Three pretty ladies were on the outside deck of a restaurant near Kershaw Park at the north end of Canandaigua lake. They were having beer after yoga, and I was walking Killian in the park. Killian is my new rescue Irish Setter.
“Go ahead,” the prettiest one said. She was the one doing all the looking.
“Oh, what a pretty dog,” one cooed.
Years ago I woulda kept walking, a legacy of Hilda Walton, my next-door neighbor during childhood, and also my Sunday-School Superintendent. No girl would ever wanna talk to me, especially not the pretty ones. That is, ones I deduced as pretty. “Pretty” to Hilda were prim-and-proper, knees covered, etc.
“Killian is a chick-magnet!” a friend declared.
That friend is another who lost her long-time marriage-mate. She’s a widow; her husband died five years ago, my wife six years ago.
Actually there are three of us, and we eat out one night per week. But one, a widower, fell sitting-down at a car-show, and broke vertebrae. He was hospitalized, so it was just me and my widow friend.
Occasionally I walk Killian with my aquacise instructor — she brings her dog. Even though we’re very different, I always hope she comes.
But I realized walking with her diverts all the ladies me and Killian attract. Killian is gorgeous, and also an Irish Setter = rare. I think ladies also wanna meet someone whacko enough to take on a lunging monster.
“You don’t see men wanting to pet your dog,” my widow-friend observed. “Some do,” I noted; “but many avoid me.”
“Dogs and babies,” my widow-friend said. “My husband called ‘em ‘chick magnets.’”
“Walks with Killian at Kershaw are turning my life around,” I added; “and 70+ years late! Faire Hilda is spinning in her grave.
And it’s like I don’t need Killian. Just say it, even to the pretty ones. If that turns them off, that’s their loss.
It’s too bad my wife can’t experience the person I am now.”
“And if she hadn’t died, you’d still be the same jerk you were before,” my friend commented.

• A “rescue Irish setter” is usually an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill — or perhaps its owner died. (Killian was a divorce victim.) By getting a rescue-dog I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. — Killian was fine. He’s my fifth rescue.

Another Kershaw foray

(Sorry readers. I can’t put the picture on here due to insanity from PhotoBucket, my usual image-source. I’m trying to set up my own domain to escape PhotoBucket.)

“You keep looking at my dog, and I might have to come up there,” I shouted.
I was at Canandaigua’s Kershaw Park for my weekly dog walk with Killian. We were passing “The Twisted Rail,” the old Muar House at the north end of the lake.
“Sure,” they said. I slowly walked up the long handicap ramp toward them, Killian leading.
“Oh, what a pretty dog,” they said. “We’re here for our weekly yoga and beer. There’s the yoga-pad.”
I looked over the railing and there indeed was the rolled-up yoga-pad.
“I just took a picture from that fishing-dock across the outlet, and you were in it. I just wanna make sure it’s okay with you before I text it to my friend in VA, who lives up here, and occasionally walks her dog with me.”
“As long as she doesn’t fly it all over Facebook.”
“That’s why I asked. She won’t; and I protect my ladies. I was like that when I drove RTS bus. Nobody messes with my ladies.
“Thanks for asking,” one said. “Many don’t.”
“Sniff-snort!” Nuzzle-nuzzle. “You’re forgetting me!”
“Along those lines, what if I blog this? I’d lede with that picture. I don’t know that this is blog-material, but I know how things are. The muse never shuts up.”
“All they’re gonna see is my back,” the pretty one said. “So it’s okay with me.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Blog it, blog it, blog it,” said pretty one.
“What makes it blogable,” I said; “is three meet-and-greets within my first five minutes of getting here. And many more thereafter, including you guys.”
Before my wife died, and I wouldna said anything — I’d have walked past.
Hilda Q. Walton, my next-door neighbor during childhood, also my Sunday-School Superintendent, is spinning in her grave. Along with my parents, also hyper-religious like Hilda. Faire Hilda convinced me all men, including me, were evil.
I don’t need to go into that again; I’ve already blogged it too many times.
Kershaw Park is reversing my dreadful childhood; 65+ years late. My silly Killian gives me an opening, but I get by without Killian.

• My new dog, “Killian,” is a “rescue Irish-setter.” He’s nine, and is my seventh Irish-Setter, a very lively dog. A “rescue Irish setter” is usually an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. (Killian was a divorce victim.) By getting a rescue-dog I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. — Killian was fine. He’s my fifth rescue.
• 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 heart-defect caused stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability, and that defect was repaired. I recovered well enough to return to work at a newspaper; I retired from that over 12 years ago.
• “Q” stands for “Quincy,” although I’ve also been told it stands for “qulip;” something to do with The Three Stooges.

“WE SHALL SEE!”

(Sorry readers. I can’t put the picture on here due to insanity from PhotoBucket, my usual image-source. I’m trying to set up my own domain to escape PhotoBucket.)

The lengths them vipers will go to to scam me out of my money!
“Sign in” my foot!
An official-looking e-mail appeared the other day. I screenshot it before I trashed it. (That screenshot is pictured above.)
It indicated my bank-account was frozen due to possible fraudulent activity. I should therefore verify my account info.
NO WAY JOSÉ!
I was tempted to call my bank, but didn’t. If my account was actually frozen I’d know, and I woulda called.
I bet they got deluged with calls about this “PNB” e-mail. I never heard of “PNB” bank. I only have one bank-account: my checking at a local bank.
(Actually I have two accounts. The other is my credit-card.)
I had online banking to do later. If my bank-account was actually frozen, I wouldn’t be able to do it. This happened before. The bank once froze my credit-card due to fraudulent activity. Suddenly it no longer worked.
“Please deposit yer checkbook, wallet, and all credit-cards on this table and we’ll be happy to serve you.”
I could say this is Trump and his cohorts. After all “collusion” isn’t a crime. Giuliani claims any lawyer hired by Trump is a liar. HMMMNNNNNN.......
In other words anything goes. “Truth” for Limberger/Hannity becomes whatever their audience wants.
As a Democrat I’ve become “evil,” and “communist.” (And here I thought Pooty-poot was wonderful.)
And like it or not, Limberger/Hannity are part of the media they loudly excoriate.
My account wasn’t frozen.

Yet another female friend

Yrs Fthfl Srvnt seems to have garnered another attractive female friend. Perhaps more my age, not 62 or younger.
“I was hoping I might meet you here again. I regret spilling all over you the other day.”
She smiled. I wasn’t playing the macho male card, which I’m never any good at anyway. Ladies seem to love that.
“Prostate removed, stroke, etc. Perhaps because of my stroke I say things I later regret.”
Smiling again. They love it, or so it seems. And it’s true; it’s not a snow-job.
I also find it pleasant I can do this. I’m a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations, whereby all men, including me, are “despicable scum” (her words).
No pretty girl will ever wanna talk to me.
Hilda was my neighbor during childhood, and also my Sunday-School Superintendent.
My parents, Bible-beating zealots like Hilda, heartily agreed. I was rebellious because I couldn’t worship my father as worthy of the right hand of Jesus.
Imagine what this does to a callow six-year-old. Hilda also told me Elvis Presley was “the bane of western civilization.”
The fact my wife actually liked me, not who she thought I could be, continued reversal of my childhood. —My college started it. But my wife liking me allowed me to avoid attractive women.
With my wife gone — she died of cancer six years ago — I find faire Hilda and my parents were full-of-it.
“I may be mistaken, but I got the impression you worked here once.”
“I did,” she exclaimed. “Years ago I helped ******** in the old pool. But when Silver Sneakers came they wanted certification, and I wasn’t certified.”
“The fact I thought you worked here was why I hit you with all that garbage,” I commented.
“No need to apologize,” she smiled. “I’m a nutritionist.”
Nutritionists entertain stories of prostate removal?
No matter; I seem to have gained the friendship of another pretty lady. Hilda and my father are spinning in their graves! My mother became depressed because I’d left.
NO WAY was I gonna return the prodigal son.

• “Q” stands for “Quincy.”
• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.
• My prostate was removed as cancerous over two years ago.
• RE: “Old pool” and “********.......” ******** is a retired aquacise instructor. She still helps, perhaps as a volunteer. When I first joined the Canandaigua YMCA it had a swimming-pool next to its basketball-gym. Things were rebuilt, including a new swimming-pool. I never used the “old pool,” but now do aquatic balance-training in the new pool.
• “Silver Sneakers” is an exercise program for senior citizens. My YMCA membership is “Silver Sneakers,” but paid by my health insurance.

My calendar for August 2018

Amtrak’s westbound Pennsylvanian approaches Plummers Crossing in the notch east of Tyrone.(Photo by BobbaLew.)

Sorry readers. I can’t put the calendar-picture on here due to insanity from PhotoBucket, my usual image-source. I’m trying to set up my own domain to escape PhotoBucket.

—The August 2018 entry in my calendar is Amtrak’s westbound Pennsylvanian through the notch in mountains east of Tyrone.
The Little Juniata also threads that notch. Eastward is toward Harrisburg.
I am at Plummers Crossing, a tiny dirt-track up into the mountains. It’s Plummers Road, which crosses the railroad unprotected by gates or flashing signals.
An abandoned railroad-bridge over the Little Juniata led to a branch up into the mountains. It wasn’t Pennsy’s old Bald Eagle branch, which starts in Tyrone — but I’m less than a mile from Tyrone.
Pennsy’s old Bald Eagle is now the Nittany & Bald Eagle shortline, although Norfolk Southern has trackage-rights. It’s built-to-the-hilt to support heavy Norfolk Southern coal-trains.
I’ve wanted this Plummers shot for years. Strong telephoto brings in old Pennsy signals in the notch. From Harrisburg west to Altoona is uphill, but not challenging. It’s a river-grade; it follows the Juniata.
Altoona is at the foot of Allegheny Mountain, the highest elevation the railroad crossed in PA. Allegheny Mountain was long-ago the barrier to east-west trade for Philadelphia.
Who knows how many times I set up my tripod at this location? Strong telephoto needs my tripod. Lighting can also be difficult, especially if it’s cloudy; which turns the notch into a dungeon.
“07T,” whatever, “CLEAR!” on my railroad-radio scanner. He’s coming; then I hear him call the signal visible in my photograph. He’s on his horn almost immediately for Plummers.
“BAMP-BAMP-BAM-BAMP!” Two longs, a short, then a long = approaching a road-crossing.
Amtrak’s Pennsylvanian is the only passenger-train left on this fabled line. There used to be hundreds; all-stops locals and luxo limiteds.
I took multiple shots, but not motor-drive. In the one I used the front of the P42DC is in a small shaft of sunlight. At 5 p.m. or so most of that notch is in shadow.
07T in sunlight through that notch is a lucky shot, although somewhat intentional. I noticed the train was in sunlight, so BAM!

200 mph!

“Them tires are good for 200 mph,” bragged my niece’s ex regarding tires on a Ford Taurus he finagled for my niece’s mother.
“And where, pray tell, do you expect to attain 200 mph?” I snapped.
I doubt a V6 Taurus could do 200 mph. 120, maybe even 130. Four doors, 3,500 pounds or more, maybe even 4,000+. 200 mph is an 800+ horsepower mega-V8 in a 2,000 pound car. Approach 200 mph and ya also gotta make sure the car doesn’t fly.
Car and Driver magazine tried to get 200 mph out of a turbocharged Firebird. It took off, flipped, and destroyed the car. The driver survived, thanks to roll-cage protection.
There are interstates straight enough for 200 mph, assuming no traffic. Portions of the NY Thruway could accommodate 200 mph if no one else was on the road.
A Jaguar ad on the back of a recent Car and Driver celebrates the fact its F-type SVR can do 200 mph. Stuck in traffic on a Houston freeway is hardly 200 mph.
I did the math. 14 miles to Canandaigua takes 25 minutes. That’s .56 miles-per-minute, 33.6 mph average. There are portions I hit 60 or so, but also farm-equipment, stop-signs, and Granny plodding along. I suppose I could hurl caution to the winds, and shave maybe a minute or two. That ups my average to over 36 mph.
LA-DEE-DAH!
200 mph my foot!
“Always follow local speed limits,” the ad says in tiny print. “200 mph” is much larger print. “The only car you’ll wanna drive,” it trumpets.
I set my krooze at 70 on the clock. Some interstates in PA are 70 mph. NY’s speed-limit may be 65 — that is, I don’t remember ever seeing 70, although the Thruway may be 70.
Even at 70+ I get passed. Giant Lincoln Navigators fly by doing 100 perhaps.
But 200? I don’t think so. Does anyone actually take this serious? That Jag can probably hit 200, but ya need an arrow-straight interstate with no traffic. Sooner-or-later ya gotta slow or stop. 200 mph is not the real world.
I used to like fast and powerful cars. But more important now are reliable starting and operation, plus little-or-no shop time.
Sure, I’m gonna go to the supermarket in a 200 mph Jag.