tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508130387228593022024-03-14T02:55:47.054-07:00Clanging BellA collection of automotive stuff, restaurant/travel-related items and personal observations; mostly a lot of claptrap, really.Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.comBlogger671125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-13647171104249510442020-11-01T06:17:00.001-08:002020-11-01T06:33:55.713-08:00I See Dead People: Being Part of the Ghoul Squad Has Nothing to Do with Halloween<p>
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FD81VFsWTWE/X56_QQSCuzI/AAAAAAAAJ7k/X3NNDPd0g7kFOAG-nX17Rki9GO8bMCVHACLcBGAsYHQ/s193/OIP.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="193" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FD81VFsWTWE/X56_QQSCuzI/AAAAAAAAJ7k/X3NNDPd0g7kFOAG-nX17Rki9GO8bMCVHACLcBGAsYHQ/s0/OIP.jpg" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I'm not the kind of guy who refuses to
learn from experience. Well, at least, usually. Sometimes I plow
ahead knowing full well the outcome of the endeavor probably isn't
going to be positive. Those who know me well will insist I'm a
glass-half-empty guy, but I normally don't view myself that way. If I
was, I would have retreated to the blackness of depression or drunk
myself into a permanent stupor long ago. No, I have always soldiered
along, pushing forward with the expectation things will get better.
It's been my experience that they do.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Sometimes I've had to swerve out of my
comfort zone to make things happen. I've embarked on several leaps of
faith over the years. My move to Greenville 12 years ago being among
them. The odds were that a single, 57-year-old guy with few resources, no source
of income or local emotional support could plant his flag in a
strange land and make good. Well, to date, I wouldn't call where I am
“making good,” but I've been successful keeping my nose above the
waterline both emotionally and financially. As always, I've leaned on
good friends and family to help keep me on the rails and my eye on
the ball.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Staying on track through this WuFlu
nonsense has been challenging. As I look around at my favorite
restaurants, bars and breweries as they struggle to keep their doors
open, at least a small staff employed and the wolves from the door, I
realize I've had it pretty good since the two-week nationwide
lockdown to flatten the curve began, oh, 38-or-so weeks ago.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Land of the free, home of the brave, my
ass.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">My largest client furloughed me in
mid-April. In the world of business, freelancers are always the first
to go. Hey, I've been doing this a long time. I get it. That's why
businesses employ freelancers: They are easy to jettison when things
get tough. They are also easy to bring back as things get better.
This client is once again tossing some steady work my way. (Insert
sigh of relief here.)</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">In the meantime, I haven't managed to keep the home
fires burning by my good looks and savings. Good friends of mine in
Greenville tossed me a lifeline more than three months ago. They own
a funeral home. In fact, they own one of the busiest funeral homes in
South Carolina. They offered me a job with the provision, I could
work as much or as little as I want. I gladly took the offer.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">This isn't my first foray into the
funeral-home business. I worked at a Louisville funeral home during
the summer between my freshman and sophomore years in college. It was
1970, and things in the funeral business were much different. I
actually stayed in a small dormitory in the bowels of that funeral
home every-other night and every-other weekend. My main job was to
answer the phone in the middle of the night, take down the
information needed to retrieve a body and call one of the
licensed guys to come in to oversee the retrieval. He and I would
then go to the private home, nursing home or morgue. I would also
work services. On many a quiet evening there, buddies would arrive,
pizza in hand, to keep me company. It was an interesting
experience for a 19-year old.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Fifty years may have elapsed since my
last funeral-home experience, but it's like riding a bike, right? Not
exactly. I am still a member of the ghoul squad, retrieving bodies
and doing whatever else is needed around the place, but an answering
service and a guy who does all the after-dark pickups have replaced
the dormitory. A giant leap forward, in my book.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">A new wrinkle this go-round is doing
cremations. This funeral home has a cremation oven, or a retort in
polite company. One of my main responsibilities is everything
involved in cremating. We probably average 13 or 14 cremations during
a five-day-work week. That's a lot. Then there are the traditional
burials on top of that. Yep, it's a busy place. <br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Do you want to know two things I've learned
over the past three months? I'm willing to stick my hand in almost
anything as long as I'm wearing latex gloves. Yep. I just wrote that. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The other thing to which I can now attest is, widespread obesity is a
thing. I am still suffering from a shoulder tweak I received the second
day on the job trying to push a 350-pound lardass into the oven. That's
the easy part, though. Trying to get that 350 pounds down three flights of
stairs is the hard part. I need to get back to the gym.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I won't say my presence is invaluable
there, but I try to make a difference. I've even suggested sort of a
happy way to answer the phone: “If you're soon to join the dear
departed, we've got the equipment to get you started.” So, far
they've declined to adopt this upbeat, informative greeting. I'm not sure why.<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Until my inbox overflows with writing
assignments, I will continue to work Wednesday through Friday to the
tune of about 21 hours a week. Sporadically, I also work a service or
two on my off days. I'm not growing rich, but it's always good to
have steady money rolling in. <br /></p>
Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-20565016782405487362020-09-22T05:26:00.000-07:002020-09-22T05:26:08.544-07:00Trails End: A Wrapup of the Great Wyoming RV Adventure of 2020<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9qeK_xfaAV0/X2np2BzxlvI/AAAAAAAAJ3s/EaI8c17pM2osaWbJD7hGoRWDsQJQpiYnACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/The%2Bboys%2Bin%2Btheir%2BFiji%2Bshirts_2020.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9qeK_xfaAV0/X2np2BzxlvI/AAAAAAAAJ3s/EaI8c17pM2osaWbJD7hGoRWDsQJQpiYnACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/The%2Bboys%2Bin%2Btheir%2BFiji%2Bshirts_2020.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>I'm not the kind of guy to jump the gun, but in the case of The Great Wyoming RV Adventure of 2020, I'm wrapping things up a day early. Currently, it's the morning of Day 3 of the 3.5-day return trip home. The truth is, I should have saved this slice of prose to write tomorrow. However, who knows what tomorrow will bring? I certainly won't have time after I arrive back in Greenville to pen a final summary.<br /><br /><br />My intention was to do a much more thorough job chronicling this boondoggle with video and blogging. The best-laid plans....<br /><br /><br />My enthusiasm for videoing was stunted by the realization that Eatons' Ranch is a technological black hole. Nearly nothing gets in or out. It's as though the property is encased in a dome resistant to cell phone, Internet or TV communication. Although some may welcome the loss of touch with the outside world as they rough it in the wilderness, it's never been a big selling point with me. No matter where or when I am, as a freelance writer, I must always do at least a modicum of work. That's tough when isolated in a no Wi-Fly zone.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-otk9309fkhQ/X2nsUGt9fRI/AAAAAAAAJ4I/UfwZFlJUqJAcj74jdtVSolbn4tzM8bd4ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/The%2Bboys%2Bat%2Bhappy%2Bhour%2Bat%2Bthe%2BRV_2020.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-otk9309fkhQ/X2nsUGt9fRI/AAAAAAAAJ4I/UfwZFlJUqJAcj74jdtVSolbn4tzM8bd4ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/The%2Bboys%2Bat%2Bhappy%2Bhour%2Bat%2Bthe%2BRV_2020.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of the boys at an after-ride happy hour at the Magnificent Bastard.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />This was my 11th Eatons' outing and its familiarity hindered my enthusiasm for noting every little aspect of daily routine there. Compounding my lackluster attitude, I didn't ride this year. Nope. I've looked my mortality in the eye and I blinked. After 10 years of trail rides there, I didn't feel the odds were in my favor. When you ride with any regularity, the question isn't will you get turfed, but when will you get turfed? I have had friends tossed from their saddles there – some with alarming results.<br /><br /><br />There were only another 20 or so guests at the ranch while we were there. Yet, a lady managed to get bounced off her steed, resulting in a multifracture-shoulder injury. No thank-you. Uncle Russ is precious cargo not to be dropped, thrown, bounced or heaved. Ten fingers, ten toes, right?<br /><br /><br />Food at the ranch is always a roll of the dice. My first couple of years going there (Beginning in 2003, I think.), a married couple wrangled the kitchen. He cooked and she baked. For our money, it was a marriage made in heaven. The meals were exceptional, accented by homemade rolls, bread and breakfast pastries. The third year was a bit of a disappointment. The couple had moved on to open a restaurant in Surprise, Arizona. The food was fair, at best. Then came the Dark Years.<br /><br /><br />We always go to Eatons' in September beginning the weekend or so after Labor Day. We arrived that year to learn the ranch had fired its dining room chef two weeks before. Manning the kitchen fell to the lady who tended the garden. If you have even once operated a microwave oven, your skill level is equal to hers. Often having described the food scene there as that of a cruise ship, we were horrified by the gruel being dished out three times a day. On the next visit, the food was marginally better. This year we were greeted with some seriously good grub prepared by a twenty-something guy. There wasn't a miss among the 11 meals we consumed this visit.<br /><br /><br />Our days were punctuated with after-dinner sessions on the porch. With 10 bottles of bourbon and single malt scotches, as well as a variety of craft beers and a tequila, at our disposal, our evening bull sessions were well lubricated. I turned the main room of our cabin into a video studio and a few of us shot two bourbon and a craft-beer videos over the course of our stay.<br /><br /><br />Our trip home got underway after breakfast on Saturday. One of the brothers had to ferry us and our gear to the RV, which was parked in a field roughly half a mile from our cabins. As we spooled up the RV's many systems, Hal discovered the power driver's seat, which was positioned as near to the steering wheel as possible, wasn't operating. Hal stands at 6 ft 6 in.<br /><br /><br />In the early planning stages of this trip, we thought Ports and I would spell Hal behind the wheel. This was before Hal had driven the Magnificent Bastard for the first time. Once that happened, we all realized he would be the only driver. I could have managed to drive this beast with the seat in the full forward position, but I'm nearly a foot shorter than Hal. So, here we were, parked in an open field with a 15-minute walk to the ranch office and no phone service. We couldn't search for solutions on the Internet because we had no service.<br /><br /><br />Hal opted to squeeze behind the wheel and drive us off the ranch. Because I was streaming video when we arrived a few days earlier, we knew there was Internet mere feet outside the ranch entrance. So, with his knees nearly touching his chin, Hal coaxed the Magnificent Bastard down the 3-mile driveway to roughly 50 yards beyond the gate. Bingo! We had a connection. Hal put in calls to everyone he had contact with at the RV dealership, as well as the driving instructor he spent two days with and the technicians at a 1-800 number he had. He left messages all around.<br /><br /><br />We then discovered the power passenger seat was also dead. After checking the circuit breakers, Hal began checking the wiring under the passenger seat and found a connection that wasn't secure. Both front seats rotate to face the rear of the RV. We had rotated them around upon our arrival at the ranch and then back to their driving positions when preparing to leave. Apparently, that had disturbed the wiring. Making that adjustment made both seats operational, but we had lost nearly 45 minutes.<br /><br /><br />Rolling into our overnight RV-park accommodations in North Platte, Nebraska at 9:30 that night, we were tired, frustrated and cranky. Here's a tip about RV parks: They aren't designed for after-dark arrivals. No lights, site locations with no rhyme nor reason, unintuitive hookups and so forth don't make 9:30 setups optimum. When we finally found our appointed site, the surface was a thick layer of gravel. The RV's automatic leveler doesn't cotton to gravel. Twenty minutes, several attempts to level and two repositionings of the RV later, we were able to level it and extend the slideouts.<br /><br /><br />Oh, but there's more. Where the RV finally came to rest was farther away from the electrical hookup than our power cord was long. Hal has read every piece of literature on the infinite situations one might face when RVing. He accumulated several lists of the must-have things for every RV and purchased them all. “We do have an extension cord somewhere, boys,” he exclaimed. “I just have to find it.”<br /><br /><br />A quick search through two or three of the storage bins under the RV was rewarded with a 25-foot 50-amp extension cord still in its unopened box. It says “50 amp” right on the box and on a tag attached to the cord. It is, however, not a 50-amp cord configured for extending the reach between the RV's power cord and the hookup. It has some sort of bastardized fitting on the female end that is neither 50 amp, 30 amp or any other amp we have been able to identify. It's a mystery amp. There we were leveled, but sitting six feet short of the power source. Now it's after 10 p.m. and we can't run the generator out of respect for our neighbors.<br /><br /><br />What transpired next is just one of those episodes of serendipity leaving you both grateful and scratching your head. As we stood there considering our next action, the door to the RV next door to us opened and out stepped an older guy in his bathrobe with a dog on a leash. “You guys all right?” he asked. Hal explained our situation. “What you need is an extension cord,” he responded. Hal noted we had an extension cord, but it had the wrong female connection. “I have one,” he offered, “but I'm leaving tomorrow.” We told him we were as well. Thirty seconds later he handed us a 10-foot extension cord and we were in business. Not exactly loaves and fishes, but a miracle in our eyes, nonetheless.<br /><br /><br />Fierce and relentless, the 15- to 20-mph crosswind through most of Nebraska challenged Hal for hours. A Class A RV presents a similar target for the wind as a mizzen sail on a boat. It is one large, light slab that a strong wind pushes all over the road. Conspiring with the wind was the legion of 18-wheelers whizzing by at 70 miles per hour. That was our Sunday.<br /><br /><br />This three-man squad, though, has transformed into a well-oiled pit crew. Whether it's refueling where one of us, armed with a walkie-talkie hops out and provides real-time directions when positioning at the pump, to the actual act of fueling where one of us goes inside to purchase snacks as another pumps the fuel and the third finds an extended length squeegee and washes the windshield, or its setting up at an RV park, things unfold much more smoothly than they did a few days ago. We rolled into our campground in Columbia, Missouri at 7:30 on Sunday evening, by 7:50, we were plopped down in the RV munching on popcorn and watching TV. Setting up, once parked, took no more than 10 minutes to level, as well as hooking up power and water. A high-five-worthy accomplishment.<br /><br /><br />Saturday and Sunday were 500-plus miles days. Today, however, is mapped out at fewer than 400 miles. Tuesday will be a 200-mile as we make the final leg into Knoxville. Time to relax.<p></p><br /><br />Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-65379588082294310842020-09-18T09:28:00.004-07:002020-09-18T09:33:05.073-07:00Wyoming or Bust: Day 3.5 or So<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ltP1YEPFB5c/X2TecwDUT-I/AAAAAAAAJ28/GNc4K7EmMO89Hb8S9NmqJCPvM_t6sGtcACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/The%2BBoys%2BArrival%2BNight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ltP1YEPFB5c/X2TecwDUT-I/AAAAAAAAJ28/GNc4K7EmMO89Hb8S9NmqJCPvM_t6sGtcACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/The%2BBoys%2BArrival%2BNight.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The brothers at happy hour 30 minutes after our Eatons' arrival. From the left: Scott Spayd, Rick Fowler, Bruce Kirkpatrick, finally a handsome guy, Hal Mclean, Randy Porter and Pat Hillard.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I'm not the kind of guy who splits
hairs over an hour or two, but, in reality, Day 3.5 of our journey
from Knoxville to Eatons' Ranch in Wolf, Wyoming was more like Day
3.8 or 3.85. How's that for splitting hairs? When I mapped this trip
out, the final driving day was to be four to five hours long. I
expected to roll into the ranch around 1 p.m. A variety of factors
foiled the successful completion of that schedule.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">As with every morning, we got a later
start than I had anticipated. Even with eating breakfast in the RV<span style="font-size: small;">,</span>
rather than stopping at a restaurant, we didn't get on the road until
about 9:30. We decided the day before that we would take a side trip
to Mt. Rushmore, involving roughly 60 additional miles of driving.
Moreover, we lost another 45 min or so getting as close to the
spectacle as possible once parked.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Here's the secret to fast-and-easy
parking at Mt. Rushmore: Pull up in a 38-foot, Class-A RV. Upon
entering, after our old-timers' 50-percent discounted entry fee, we
were directed to the bus parking right at the walking entrance to the
monument. Once out of the RV, we had a 20-step slog to the entrance.
Sweet! We spent a little time milling around, snapping photos of the
quartet of stoned presidents. And, then it was time to boogie. In
other words, we didn't channel our Clark Griswald visiting the Grand
Canyon, but we didn't hang around for an undo amount of time, either.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Achieving RV maneuvers, like
positioning at a gas pump and backing up, require<span style="font-size: small;">s</span> one person outside
eyeballing the situation and reporting the RV's exact relationship to
unmoving objects via a walkie talkie, as one person in the passenger
seat conveys that information to Hal. We had to kick this operation
into gear backing out of our Mt Rushmore parking space. There was
plenty of room, but there was also mucho traffic of the vehicle and
pedestrian varieties. I was outside and after successfully completing
the backup, I noticed the 30-something guy from the rig next to <span style="font-size: small;">ours</span>
standing behind his RV with a cup of coffee studying the process.
“Wow,” he exclaimed, “Walkie talkies. I never thought of that.
I'll have to add it to my list.” Apparently, we were<span style="font-size: small;">n't the only RV pilgrims loose in South Dakota</span>.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_JU65B-93kc/X2TfObCoevI/AAAAAAAAJ3E/SopLW_CPY7gMhkOwg9Ja-dvmNyIZ2V2VgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Mt%2BRushmore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_JU65B-93kc/X2TfObCoevI/AAAAAAAAJ3E/SopLW_CPY7gMhkOwg9Ja-dvmNyIZ2V2VgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Mt%2BRushmore.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Never get tired of seeing this.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>We lost our bearings getting out of the
park and back on to I-90. This involved an extra half hour to
reorient ourselves and get back on the road. Tick Tock.
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I forget whether it was Day 3 or Day
3.5, but at some point, we had to pull over and perform a bit of
battlefield surgery on the Magnificient Bastard. A metallic flapping
sound suddenly arose. <span style="font-size: small;">As we rolled down the highway, t</span>he two nondrivers wandered all around the RV's
interior searching for the culprit. We saw a bit of vibration in the
galley ceiling fan cover and attributed the racket to that. We were
in the process of Paper-Rock-Scissors to see who would climb on top
of the rig with duct tape to seal the cover when I suddenly realized the
issue was somewhere outside the rig. Glancing in the passenger<span style="font-size: small;">-side outboard</span> mirror,
I could see an outside cover flapping away. Looking at it through the
convex, wide-angle mirror, I believed it to be a
storage-bay cover.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">After finding a safe place to pull off
the road, we dismounted to check the covers. They all seemed secure.
Shrugging our shoulders, the other two guys were climbing back into
the coach when I noticed a screw missing on the panel covering
access to the refrigerator. Sure enough, that was the issue.
Applying a strip of duct tape solved the problem and we were back on
the road.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Because my Sometimer<span style="font-size: small;">z</span> does kick in
sporadically, I mistakenly related the Mt Rushmore adventure as part
of Day 3. In reality, it was part of Day 3.5. If you missed it, you
can catch yourself up by reading the previous Clanging Bell.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">No longer fighting the 15-20-mile
crosswind we dealt with during our trek across South Dakota, our drive
through Wyoming was quite pleasant and uneventful. The hours and
slightly rolling landscape passed quickly enough. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_EnyqiaKcWY/X2TfiysDnaI/AAAAAAAAJ3M/QAxnDHvN0B8bj5fwCMD6G46T44Qxms0gQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Booze%2BLineup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_EnyqiaKcWY/X2TfiysDnaI/AAAAAAAAJ3M/QAxnDHvN0B8bj5fwCMD6G46T44Qxms0gQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Booze%2BLineup.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is only half of the bourbons, single-malt scotches and whiskys on hand. Yes, a bit of high-end siping is on tap.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">We rolled into Eatons' Ranch around
4:45 p.m. Hal found an out-of-the-way spot to park the RV. Sadly, it
was a quarter of a mile from our cabin. Using one of the other guy's
vehicles, we transported our luggage and my video gear to the cabin.
The next morning we had to move the RV even farther away, which was
okay because it was a larger, flatter area where we could extend the
levelers and deploy the slideouts.<span style="font-size: small;">On the other hand, it was a real pain to access as we discovered must-have items left behind. </span><br />
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Here endeth the summary report for Day
3.5.
</p>Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-39664687799127048922020-09-16T09:19:00.006-07:002020-09-16T09:19:54.261-07:00Wyoming or Bust Boondoggle: Days 2 & 3<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oD06W-i8WlQ/X2I5SLG04sI/AAAAAAAAJ2Q/NLWcMUkVd9ELrrZIET5wCpiF6QeeX2okgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Mt%2BRushmore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oD06W-i8WlQ/X2I5SLG04sI/AAAAAAAAJ2Q/NLWcMUkVd9ELrrZIET5wCpiF6QeeX2okgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Mt%2BRushmore.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<p></p><p>I'm not the kind of guy who always works and plays well with
others. I've spent the past 30-or-more years on my own only needing
to consult with myself about impending decisions, and only worrying
about myself when it comes to setting a time to eat, shower and shit
– plus nearly anything else that crops up in my life. If that makes
me a curmudgeon, so be it.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">So, here I am slogging along in a 38-ft
RV with two fraternity brothers (both, by the way, roommates in our
college days) on a trip from Knoxville, Tennessee to Eatons' Ranch in
Wolf, Wyoming. We are currently in day 0.5 of this 3.5-day mission.
How am I holding up? Let me just say, I couldn't pass the psych
evaluation to serve on a submarine. My mood has evolved from “Oh
What a Beautiful Morning” on morning one three days ago to
“Somebody Give Me a #*$@$ Drink” today.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I'm an early riser and have been the
first out of bed each morning (about 5:30 or 6, regardless of the
time zone) of this boondoggle. If I were alone, I would have been on
the road an hour later. This morning, three hours evaporated between
my rising and pulling out of the RV site at the KOA in Rapid City,
South Dakota. Tick-Tock.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Because of this rig's mammoth size,
there is a lot of storage; yet, there really isn't enough. We spend a
fair percentage of our day moving things from here to there to there
and then back to here, as we proceed through our day. Because there
are three of us playing object roulette, there is also a lot of “Hey,
where did you put this thing or that?”
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I tell you all of this simply to convey
my state of mind at this point.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3gBGeEOSrMM/X2I6Pa9V14I/AAAAAAAAJ2c/yQAHq_3qH304SsiW3x7Av6dZB1A5-oN-wCLcBGAsYHQ/s600/Bison.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="292" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3gBGeEOSrMM/X2I6Pa9V14I/AAAAAAAAJ2c/yQAHq_3qH304SsiW3x7Av6dZB1A5-oN-wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Bison.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here kitty, kitty, kitty. Up close and personal.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Having established that I'm a bit
cranky, we did make it all the way through day three without
consulting the often-viewed “walk-around video.” That's a huge
leap forward. At the end of the day, there was much cheering and high
fiving. Hooking up at last night's KOA park looked like an Indy pit
crew. Good thing because it was close to 9 o'clock at night when we
rolled into our slip. This was thanks to a much-appreciated side
jaunt into the Badlands National Park; during which, we turned up a
dirt road to take a closer gander of some bison we saw next to the
road. Getting within about six feet of one of these magnificent
animals was our reward for making that error in judgment. We had
given no thought to how we were going to turn around.
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">This washboard road eventually would
dump us out on another secondary road that went all the way into
Rapid city, roughly 40 miles away. OK, but not optimum. Fortunately,
we came upon a Viewpoint with an entrance and an exit. We turned
around and headed back to our preprogrammed route.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The most exciting activity on Day 2 was
dumping the waste tanks. This is not intuitive. There are hoses to
connect, reconnect and disconnect. There are valves to throw, a
sewage line to hook up and much swearing to be achieved. We were
about an hour later getting underway that morning than scheduled. We
ate at the same truck stop for breakfast as we had for dinner the
previous evening. Yes, it was that good. Among the food we snarfed
down were two cinnamon rolls: one regular and one with icing. Oh,
Momma, they were good. So good, in fact, I ordered an iced one to
take with me for breakfast on Day 3.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Day 2 was a haul from Mt. Vernon,
Illinois to Nebraska City, Nebraska. It was, for all intents and
purposes, uneventful. We skipped dumping the waste tanks on the
morning of Day 3, and got off to a somewhat timely start. Not timely
enough, however, to accommodate our side trip into the Badlands.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bsOxqkC3us0/X2I643svg4I/AAAAAAAAJ2k/5oX1RMMPW7ww5xyvUw8Ex7yUF6ipKAMBgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/SD%2BCondiments.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bsOxqkC3us0/X2I643svg4I/AAAAAAAAJ2k/5oX1RMMPW7ww5xyvUw8Ex7yUF6ipKAMBgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/SD%2BCondiments.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What the heck? Actual condiments on the table. What is this 1955?<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Northern Iowa and South Dakota were a
breath of fresh air. Traffic all but disappeared and the quality of
the paved surfaces improved dramatically. The Butterfield Trail was
better maintained than the freeways in Illinois. I'm still searching
for one of my fillings. Although the paved surfaces were primo, Hal
had to fight a 20-mile-per-hour crosswind most of the afternoon. We
arrived in Rapid City around 7:30 pm. We stopped at a Flying J (Hals
preferred fuel stop) fuel station and topped off the tank. We then
moseyed into the restaurant for dinner. To our amazement, there were
actually salt-and-pepper shakers, as well as condiments, on the
table. God Bless South Dakota. We ate some better-than-average
truck-stop grub and set off in search of the KOA Campground where we
had a site reserved.
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The drive from the Flying J to KOA was
Hal's maiden after-dark-driving experience in the Magnificent
Bastard. He did fine. We rolled into the KOA around 9:00, after
closing time. There was an envelope with my name on it in a rack on
the outside office wall. After a bit of searching in the dark, we
found our slip. After all of our success setting things up and taking
them down on Sunday night and Monday morning, we stumbled attempting
to hook up to the city water at KOA. There were leaks galore that we
simply couldn't overcome. Our solution was to let it leak, finish
cleaning up for bed, then turning off the water supply for the night.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">No one wanted to hang out last night.
We were beat. It was lights out before 10 to prepare for Day 3.5.</p>
Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-40601103111867699602020-09-13T18:08:00.004-07:002020-09-13T18:08:50.610-07:00The Great Wyoming RV Expedition: Day One<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MWmx0dlP8FY/X17CJmr99kI/AAAAAAAAJ14/BwqRuC71pTU5jeDxwOBWJOHq_Pu8vDflQCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/Hoy%252C%2BPorts%252C%2BMe%2BBefore%2BLeaving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MWmx0dlP8FY/X17CJmr99kI/AAAAAAAAJ14/BwqRuC71pTU5jeDxwOBWJOHq_Pu8vDflQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Hoy%252C%2BPorts%252C%2BMe%2BBefore%2BLeaving.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Everyone looks good at the starting line. Well, nearly everyone. From left: me, Ports and Hal.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />
</p><p>I'm not the kind of guy who shies away from an adventure. In fact,
in the case of an RV trip from Knoxville to Wolf, Wyoming, I actually
instigated it. You may think to yourself, what's the big deal? It's
just like driving a big truck, right? Ummm, no.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Here's the thing, we are in uncharted
waters. I helped my fraternity brother Hal pickup this 38-ft monster
two weeks ago. Up until that point, he hadn't done anything, but
research it, walk through it and ask the salesman a few questions. If
you are among the RV unwashed as I was a scant 36 hours ago. I did
have the benefit of going through the technician walkthrough before
Hal actually closed on the deal, but, by in large, I am an RV virgin,
a novice, a fledgling, a plebe – you get the picture.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Hal and Ports, my other fraternity
brother on this boondoggle, aren't much ahead of me. So, every
process is a learning experience. Every issue a Chinese fire drill.
As Hal and I followed around the technician as he explained each
system on closing day, I videoed the entire walk through. The
following week, I edited down more than two hours of video to a more
manageable 75 minutes. I have had to drag out my laptop and open up
that video file at least five times in the past day and a half to
determine how to switch electric sources, get the cabin AC running,
drain and flush the waste tanks, and so forth.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Hal spent two days between picking up
the RV and leaving on this trip a<span style="font-size: small;">t</span> RV<span style="font-size: small;">-</span>driving
school near Nashville. He has done an amazing job of piloting this
battleship down the highway. I, meanwhile, have done a little writing
for a client, read, relaxed and napped. I restrained myself from
having a beer or a pull <span style="font-size: small;">from the bottle of</span> James
E Pepper 1776 bourbon <span style="font-size: small;">I brought on this trip</span>
until we docked at the Archway RV Park around 4:30 on Saturday. <span style="font-size: small;">Yes,
</span>I'm a saint and an inspiration to my fellow travelers.</p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ys6II8tPXLs/X17BXkHCRAI/AAAAAAAAJ1w/pDbHYzng5L0FDlAh34CzWZJu9j3ieAlKgCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/filling%2Bup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ys6II8tPXLs/X17BXkHCRAI/AAAAAAAAJ1w/pDbHYzng5L0FDlAh34CzWZJu9j3ieAlKgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/filling%2Bup.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So far, we've spent a lot of time doing this.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Besides the fact Illinois has the worst
paved surfaces this side of Texas Hill Country, the one thing I've
learned is that everything you need to do in operating this vehicle,
which I have christened the “Magnificient Bastard,” requires a
procedure. Flip this, turn off that, and turn yourself about. It's
nuts. As we get deeper into the experience, our hope is the veil will
be lifted and things will become ever easier. Hope, however, as my
daddy always told me, is for missionaries. So, we'll see.
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Today we have miles (470 to be exact)
to ge before we sleep, miles to go before we sleep. Destination:
Victorian RV Park in Otoe, Nebraska.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-69791808798924696942020-06-11T05:46:00.000-07:002020-06-14T05:26:06.191-07:00WuFlu Blues: A Personal Ode to the Months-Long Lockdown<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VEn0xQUoLmM/XuIm6EZBzEI/AAAAAAAAJLQ/c8dD6q7a8bwUImRn4-MF_TyruVnTBofvgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/kitchen%2Breno%2Bpoem.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VEn0xQUoLmM/XuIm6EZBzEI/AAAAAAAAJLQ/c8dD6q7a8bwUImRn4-MF_TyruVnTBofvgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/kitchen%2Breno%2Bpoem.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I'm not the kind of guy who wants a solid 30 minutes of creativity to go unnoticed. Therefore, I decided to publish a poem I wrote answering the request of one of the car companies for short notes, videos and audio recordings offering a diary of what each of us did during the WuFlu lockdown. Attention has turned away from the WuFlu, but my verse, I think, still resonates. <br />
<br />
WuFlu Blues<br />
by D.R. Heaps <br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I like me the way that I am.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I like bacon more than ham.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I like the Steelers of the NFL.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Belichick and his Patriots can go to
hell.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I like good bourbon and I like beer.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I like pizza and the flank of a steer.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I like writing about and videoing cars.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I agree: Women are from Venus, Men are
from Mars</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
All that seemed to matter mere weeks
ago.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
That was before the pandemic. WuFlu,
you know.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What transpired in a short amount of
time</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Brought the world to a halt; it stopped
on a dime</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Doc Fauci took over; man, what a tool.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Shutter every business. Close every
school.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Close the parks and the beaches, too.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Wear a mask or shame on you.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Like obedient little serfs we hunkered
down.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Stayed in our homes, stayed out of
town.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We did it in the name of flattening the
curve.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Those medical resources must be conserved.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Back at home, we lounged about.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We didn't work, we didn't go out.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Frustrated and furloughed from my
biggest gig</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I was gaining weight, fat as a pig.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Sitting on my ass is never okay.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
If only there was an alternative for
spending the day.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A voice began screaming inside my head.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Do a project, get busy, don't wait, it
said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
For years, renovating the kitchen lurked
in the back of my mind.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But, where to get the money, and where
to find the time.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Money can be borrowed, the devil on my
shoulder cried.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And you've got time spilling from your
ass, the angel replied.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Determination and a shed full of power
tools are all you need.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When it comes to home improvement, I
can do it, that's my creed.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ripping out cabinets, tearing things
up.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Demoing a kitchen doesn't suck</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The fridge, the oven, it all must go.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Are new appliances expensive? I don't
know.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Out with the old, in with the new.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Something borrowed, something blue.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Don't hesitate. Don't stop to think.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Step on the gas. Wait, take a drink.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A sip of bourbon every day.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
That's the spirit. Was that a cliché?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I spent money as if I was making it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Dumping cash by the bucket down the
kitchen pit.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What I didn't know how to do, I faked.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Not spending a nickel on labor at
stake.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This house is old, built on a wing and
a prayer.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
How old, you ask. Apparently older than
the level and square.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
With nothing level and nothing plumb,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Renovating is a fool's errand. Man, I'm
dumb.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Relocating the sink was a dicey chore.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Plumbing is tough, there were leaks
galore.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Flooring down, cabinets set, appliances
in, it's nearly done.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Not so fast, cowboy. There's more to do
and more to come.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
More than the cabinets, appliances or
floor,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The countertop nearly broke the store.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then there's the backsplash remaining
to do.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I think maybe I bit off more than I can
chew.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Renovating was a job needing done.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Now, the kitchen war is nearly won.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Yes, I spent too much money with no
income in sight,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But, hey, it's only money, right? Holy
Christmas, I hope that's right.</div>
Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-30406924633381362402020-04-12T07:43:00.000-07:002020-04-12T07:43:36.486-07:00WuFlu Revisited
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iZ6zk380UT0/XpMmdTRaL4I/AAAAAAAAI4s/cee7p-ZGIfkCGMrsyLlLD_lPoVq6P1UMQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/1918%2Bpandemic.594x500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="594" height="269" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iZ6zk380UT0/XpMmdTRaL4I/AAAAAAAAI4s/cee7p-ZGIfkCGMrsyLlLD_lPoVq6P1UMQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/1918%2Bpandemic.594x500.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm not the kind of guy who sees the
benefit of throwing water on a drowned man. No point in recovering
ground once covered. But, hey, I'm essentially trapped in my home
office with nothing better to do. I'm becoming a bit cranky over this
WuFlu lockdown. The longer it drags on, the less in favor of it I
become – and, I wasn't a true believer to begin with.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I think 50 years from now when history
takes an objective look at this pandemic, it will be referred to as
the Great Toilet-Paper Famine of 2020. Every textbook for
sociology, economics and political science will frame this virus
and our over-the-top reaction to it as the killer of the most robust
economy in a generation. Is “killer” too harsh a
characterization? I guess we'll see, but consider this....</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In what we now call the Great Recession
that began in 2008, basically, one element of the economy took a dump:
the housing market. I won't go into the whys of how so many bad loans
were made, but the easy-mortgage market created a false demand for
housing that drove values far beyond fair market. When the defaults
began pouring in, the housing market collapsed, taking a huge chunk
of financial institutions and the stock market with it. Getting the
economy booming required nearly a decade.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Look around today. Following
recommendations from the Feds, state and local governments have
shuttered any and every business deemed nonessential, cutting across
a wide swath of the economy. Most of those not closed are operating
under some sort of duress. Sixteen million workers are sitting on
their duffs at home hoping the unemployment checks begin soon. Who
knows how many small businesses will never reopen their doors?
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Although I have little regard for
“experts,” some have lined up to predict the unemployment rate
will reach 15 percent before this is all over. That rate averaged less
than 10 percent at the height of the Great Recession in 2009. You do
the math.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Even as someone in the higher-risk
pool, none of this makes any real sense to me. I still don't know
anyone who knows anyone who is sick from this. Our (U.S.) experts
have admitted to inflating the death numbers. Even at that, I don't
know anyone who knows anyone who knows anyone, well, you get the
picture, whose death was attributed to the WuFlu.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There is still no clear picture on how
many have been infected because in some people the symptoms are very
light and others don't even exhibit symptoms. Hell, half of us could
already have had it and don't even know it. The first reported case
in China was in mid-November, but that wasn't patient zero.
Reportedly, the Chinese can't find patient zero and have no real clue
how long the virus was spreading through China before the first case
was reported.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We know we can't believe the virus
numbers coming out of China. The hysterical media in this country are
claiming reported U.S. virus deaths now surpass China's. “Reported”
being the key word in that headline. Knowing how the virus spread in
this country, is it reasonable to think fewer people died there, when
China didn't even know what it was dealing with in October and
November? If you do, I have some beachfront property in Iowa I'd like
to unload on you.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
(Here's a math problem for you to
ponder: How is it that Beijing, China, with 21.5 million people sitting 700 miles from Wuhan, only reports 8 WuFlu deaths? Shanghai
with more than 24 million people lying 500 miles from Wuhan only
reports 6 deaths? And, New York City with its measly 2.4 million people that is
7,500 miles from Wuhan reports more than 5,500 WuFlu deaths? Let's
see, carry the one.... Really, how is that even possible? Hmmm.....)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My point in all of this is, it has
become clear that the early models for this pandemic are wrong.
Remember the 2.2 million U.S. death-toll prediction? Do you know how
many are being treated on the hospital ship sent to New York City?
Zip, zero, zilch. Nary a one. What about those desperately needed
ventilators Gov Andrew Cuomo continues to whine about? New York still
has a stockpile of thousands of unused ventilators.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And, allow me to drift into the
political for a paragraph. Isn't Andrew Cuomo the chief executive of
New York? I've got that correct, right? If I ever had the misfortune
of being elected governor of New York, knowing that the numero uno
target of every aspiring great-infidel-hating terrorist is New York
City, I think I would ensure warehouses outside of the city are
filled to the brim with ventilators, gas masks, medical supplies,
hospital tents, hazmat suits, bags of rice, and so on and so forth.
The fact that New York was caught as flat footed as every other
state, is the fault of, wait for it, Andrew Cuomo. I get why Lincoln,
Nebraska or Minot, North Dakota wouldn't be prepared, but there's no
excuse for New York to not have stockpiles of stuff in case of a
terrorist attack, biochemical or otherwise. Cuomo can point the
finger at Trump, but in fact, making sure New York is prepared is
Cuomo's job.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, here we are heading into month No.
2 of the Great Toilet Paper Famine of 2020. It's time to climb out of
our bunkers, stretch our legs and get back to work. Anyone who is
still worried can stay hunkered down at home. Otherwise, head out,
buy some Schweppes Tonic Water and zinc tablets, and let's get things
rolling again.
</div>
Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-52633934740890934842020-03-20T09:55:00.000-07:002020-03-20T10:05:11.160-07:00WuFlu Panic: Are You as Confused as I Am?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XDpJEivzlCs/XnTxJD7ib0I/AAAAAAAAI1s/4CL9owkpfuQpgpB_ul5EQrZQ89kIk6YjwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/odaka.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="634" data-original-width="950" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XDpJEivzlCs/XnTxJD7ib0I/AAAAAAAAI1s/4CL9owkpfuQpgpB_ul5EQrZQ89kIk6YjwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/odaka.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm not the kind of guy who believes
everything he hears. Even some things that play into my preconceived
beliefs, I look at with a cynical eye. I don't believe in Santa
Claus, the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy. I don't believe Lee
Harvey Oswald was the lone shooter. I don't believe George
Washington chopped down a cherry tree as a lad. I don't believe FDR
saved us from the Great Depression. I don't believe Jonah was
swallowed by a whale and then spit out again fully intact three days
later.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I do believe in the Holy Trinity. I do
believe Neil Armstrong stepped on the moon in 1969. I do believe
Stalin murdered 20 million of his own people. I do believe Muslim
terrorists crashed planes into the Twin Towers on 9/11. I do believe
Ted Williams is the best hitter in the history of major league
baseball. I do believe the Road Runner is smarter than Wile E.
Coyote. And, I believe in the resilience of the human spirit.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In the end, what I believe shouldn't
matter to anyone, but me. No matter. I use Clanging Bell to let you
know what I think anyway.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I am no physician. I didn't even stay
in a Holiday Inn Express last night. I am just an old guy who tries
to put life into some sort of perspective. And, as I sit back and
watch us turn our world upside down in response to the WuFlu. I
continue to ask myself, <i>What in the hell is going on?</i>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I am composing this post on Friday
morning, March 20. As of this morning, there are just over 14,000
reported WuFlu cases in the U.S., translating into nearly 220 deaths.
This among a population of over 327 million souls. World wide the
number infected is 255,000 with 10,500 deaths among a population of
nearly 8 billion.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Italy, the country of 60 million souls
with the most deaths from WuFlu, today has 41,000 infected with 3,405
deaths. What these infected/death numbers don't tell us is that the
average age of the dead in Italy is 80 years and 99 percent of them
had previous health conditions. So, basically, Italy reflects what
the experts have been telling us about WuFlu all along: Fatalities
will be primarily among the elderly and those with preexisting immune
or respiratory issues.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
If you can find an average age for
those WuFlu has killed in the U.S., it will be somewhere between 75
and 80 years, depending on the date released. But, the best of luck
in finding a news source publishing the average age in the U.S.
Apparently, our “need to know” doesn't extend to this important
statistic.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Again, from the get-go we have been told
that this virus is most likely to kill the very young, the very old
and those already suffering from some sort of immune or respiratory
issues. Seems like the medical experts were correct about that,
right? Or am I missing something?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At the risk of sounding cavalier, I
have no dog in the fight where the stock market is concerned. That
it has lost most of its gains of the past three years has no direct
impact on me. I have no stocks, nor do I have any retirement accounts
tied to the stock market. I am generally affected, though, because
major drops in the market affect how businesses invest and spend
money. When the market drops, so does investment and spending. All of
that is to say, I'm not wringing my hands over the recent losses. The
market will recover at some point. When that recovery comes is more a
function of how much panic can be whipped up and how long that panic
will last. Right now, I don't see an end. Certainly, the media isn't
going to calm down any time soon.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
No, my economy concerns rest more on
the retail (pedestrian) level: People being able to work and
businesses being able to function. This seems like basic stuff to me.
We want people employed and businesses thriving. Most of my family
members and other people I know have limited savings and at least
some debt. These folks need to be able to earn a living to pay the
bills and put food on the table. No income, no food, no car, no home,
no hope.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, here are four my questions relating
to the WuFlu and, what I think is, our rather radical response to
it....</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<ol>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What are we so damn afraid of?
Yes, WuFlu is deadly, but so is whichever strain of the flu sweeps this country annually. There are tens of thousands of deaths from
that flu (for which hudreds of thousands have been immunized) in this country each and every year. Why now? The Hong Kong
Flu in 1968-69 killed more than 2 million people around the world
with around 34,000 of those deaths in the U.S. I was around for
that. I was going to college at the time. We weren't sent home from
college and I don't remember restaurants being closed. There was no
panic. People got sick, some of them died, but life went on. It was
the flu!</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Is the prevention more devastating
than the disease? I don't think any sane person will argue that
shutting down half of the economy to “flatten the curve” of this
outbreak isn't a radical measure. It is. The government (in this
case federal, state and local), urged us to stay home. Almost no one
followed that directive. For one, humans are social animals. We like
to mingle. We like to make contact. Secondly, most of us need to
earn an income, which involves a majority of us heading to a job
somewhere. The result of our indifference: The government shut the
doors of many businesses, throwing their employees out of work. I
have service-industry friends sitting at home wondering how they are
going to pay the rent, the car payment and, maybe, buy formula for a
newborn. Meanwhile those shuttered businesses are also at risk. How
long can they sustain closed doors? I have friends who own breweries
that won't survive if this lasts longer than the end of the month.
It's one thing if this lasts two weeks. It's another if it goes on
for months. Even if the $1 trillion bailout is passed, bureaucrats
will pick winners and losers. How much of that will really trickle
down to the street level? Very little, I wager.</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What is the obsession with WuFlu
testing? In the early stages of this breakout about all we heard was
the shortage of testing kits. There aren't enough kits to go around!
What will we do, what will we do? The only people showing symptoms
who need testing are those at the highest risk. For the rest of us,
it doesn't matter if we have the virus or not. There is no cure.
Have you ever been tested for the flu? I never have. When we get
sick, we stay home in bed and a few days later we feel better.
Anyone showing symptoms, who is tested, is supposed to follow the
same procedure whether the test is positive or negative for WuFlu:
Stay home, get plenty of rest, and so on and so forth. It's the flu!
There is no cure! The only reason for widespread testing is to keep
track of the spread rate. But, is that really important? To be
tested, you have to go somewhere for the testing, right? If you do
have WuFlu, you risk infecting others while out and about getting
the test. And, to what end? Now you know you have WuFlu? It doesn't
matter unless you are one of the high-risk people, requiring extra
care or hospitalization. Otherwise, it's go home, stay home, get
plenty of rest and wait for it to play out.
</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What are the chances the
population continues to voluntarily follow government orders if the
government-imposed economic shutdown goes on for longer than three
or four weeks? Right now most of us are willing to go along with all
of this self-imposed quarantine silliness because we can put up with
just about anything short term. But, at some point, our patience
will run out. This will be particularly true if it becomes more and
more apparent that nearly everyone who is infected recovers. If the
death rate remains statistically low, confined primarily to the
elderly and, indeed, the vast majority of those infected recover,
how many of us are going to be willing to stay cooped up at home?
How many of the surviving businesses will be willing to keep their
doors closed? How many of those unemployed by the government
shutdown will quietly remain docile? And, if we don't continue to
tow the government line, what will be the government's response?
There are already cities with curfews. Is Marshall Law on the table?
I shudder to think what the public's response to that would be.</div>
</li>
</ol>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As you can probably tell, I am really
confused and frustrated by what is going on right now. I think
government reaction is way over the top. This isn't Smallpox or the
Black Plague. It's a unique strain of the flu. I'll turn 69 years old
in a few months. I'm relatively healthy and probably not in that top
tier of at-risk Americans. But, I am at higher risk than most of the
population. More than a week ago I was in a crowded bar in Boca
Raton, Florida. There were probably 250 people in the joint. Thirty
of them were part of a pipe-and-drum corps from Boston. I met a table
of three couples from Iowa and there were many others there from
around the country. They were in South Florida for the Delray Beach
St. Patrick's Day parade and celebration originally scheduled for
that following Saturday. It had already been canceled, but a lot of
people traveled in anyway.I did.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Strangers hugged, shook hands and
toasted one another. I was party to all of that. Guess what? Neither
I nor any of the several friends I was with is sick. I don't know
anyone who is sick from WuFlu. Do you? Do you know anyone who knows
anyone? Do you know anyone who has died from it? We could Kevin Bacon
that question, as well with probably a negative outcome.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As someone who is in the higher-risk
pool, I'm ready to end this shutdown today. I want my friends and
family back to work. I want the restaurants open. I want kids back in
school. I want to go back to the gym. I want to see the people in
charge to stop politicizing this thing, stop trying to one-up each
other and get the country back on track. And, as a higher-risk
person, if that happens, I'm more than willing to take my chances.
It's the flu!</div>
Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-21377342867998522162020-02-25T07:42:00.001-08:002020-02-27T10:45:58.446-08:00Park City, Utah in Winter: Toyota Throws a Snow-Driving Experience and I Live to Tell About It<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y5kLkDxYbtI/XlU60YRfVKI/AAAAAAAAIus/T1aTCGcwWMcvbNCz8_QNFgqw2DxXPIoTQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/IMG_20200211_082217_611.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y5kLkDxYbtI/XlU60YRfVKI/AAAAAAAAIus/T1aTCGcwWMcvbNCz8_QNFgqw2DxXPIoTQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_20200211_082217_611.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All ready for a day of snow adventures.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I'm not the kind of guy who looks death
in the face and laughs. There was a time when I was more adventurous. You know, when I thought I was bulletproof. Those days
are long gone. No more do I long to jump out of a perfectly good
airplane simply for the adrenaline rush. The group of fraternity
brothers that I join every year or two on a trip somewhere have
pretty much decided we will return to Eatons' Ranch in Wyoming this
September. This will be my 11<sup>th</sup> visit there. I, along with
one or two other brothers, announced that we will attend, but won't
be climbing aboard a horse this year. As anyone who rides with any
regularity will tell you, it's not a matter of if the day will come
when your noble steed tosses you to the ground, it's a matter of when
that day will be. Having never been thrown, the odds aren't with me.
Nope. Not going to do it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Actually, if I knew the outcome of
doing something dangerous was either coming out the other side
unmolested or being killed, I would be more inclined to do it. At
this point, I'm on the downhill slide of my life. I've lived a rich,
fun-filled run. I wouldn't change much of anything. My fear isn't
termination, it's being maimed doing something silly. I'm old. I
don't mend nearly as quickly and easily as I used to. Not to mention,
there are those injuries from which you literally don't walk away.
You may still be breathing and your heart still beating, but that's
about it. So, I've opted to sit on my cabin's porch, sip some bourbon
and read a few chapters of whichever book I happen to have with me as
most of my brothers ride off into the Wyoming mountains. Godspeed,
boys.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lZ63rUdesoE/XlU7oefOd-I/AAAAAAAAIu0/22Hd72osH6c9PQbKTOvM5YyCsUmOWS4tACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/a3fa6f9c21f74a3f4a79bd85fa602c6b--cn-tower-logos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="257" data-original-width="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lZ63rUdesoE/XlU7oefOd-I/AAAAAAAAIu0/22Hd72osH6c9PQbKTOvM5YyCsUmOWS4tACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/a3fa6f9c21f74a3f4a79bd85fa602c6b--cn-tower-logos.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
For nearly 15 years I've followed the
advice of Sir Richard Branson: Life is more fun when you say, yes,
than when you say, no. I still do, to a certain extent. Adhering to
those sage words provided the opportunity for having some great
times. But, now I usually draw the line at things that just seem a
little nuts. “Usually” being the operative word.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In mid February, Toyota invited me to a
snow-driving event in Park City, Utah. It served as host of the 2002
Olympic Winter Games, and for good reason: There's always plenty of
snow. More of a boondoggle than anything else, this event did provide
the attending media the opportunity to pilot its sedans and car-based
crossovers armed with all-wheel drive on a rather challenging snow
course.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LK0Tk7FL4Tc/XlU76sWFTZI/AAAAAAAAIu8/58o4JPeDENACvNBjD0G1vs_IdFOoNrxlQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/IMG_20200210_134830.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LK0Tk7FL4Tc/XlU76sWFTZI/AAAAAAAAIu8/58o4JPeDENACvNBjD0G1vs_IdFOoNrxlQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_20200210_134830.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2021 Toyota Avalon AWD.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The stars of the show were the 2020
Toyota Camry AWD and 2021 Toyota Avalon AWD. Camry hasn't offered AWD
since 1991, and 2021 will be the first-ever AWD Avalon. As other
carmakers are abandoning sedans, Toyota is working to give more folks
a reason to buy a sedan. Because of the widespread use of the Toyota
New Global Architecture across a variety of models, Toyota was able
to swipe the engine, transmission, transfer case, rear differential
and some other underpinnings from the AWD RAV4, dropping them into
the Camry and Avalon. The result is two surprisingly competent AWD
sedans.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Toyota had me driving these AWD
machines on the snow course, as well as paved roads on the first day.
The second day Toyota offered a number of snow-related activities in
which we could participate. I checked the box next to snowmobiling.
Somewhere between making my pick and arriving at the Montage Resort
in Park City, my name was also added to the list for the bobsled run.
Neither of these events seems well suited to someone who has become a
bit squeamish about his fragile health in his advancing years. But,
nothing ventured nothing gained, right? Er, right.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--JXhD5RD4uY/XlU8JyuinuI/AAAAAAAAIvE/rF-M0qOu-CIy3kcFCIGbosvHV7Gabdf_ACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/IMG_20200211_094338.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--JXhD5RD4uY/XlU8JyuinuI/AAAAAAAAIvE/rF-M0qOu-CIy3kcFCIGbosvHV7Gabdf_ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_20200211_094338.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All dressed up in snowmobiling gear.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Snowmobiling was my morning event.
Toyota packed six or seven us into a van and we headed off the resort
property to some snowmobiling vendor. There are several in Park City.
There we dismounted, signed the usual “don't sue us” form and
donned vendor-provided snowsuits, helmets and boots. Then we loaded
into one of the vendor's vans for the ride to the trailhead. The
vendor blended a young family with two little kids, as well as two
older ladies from parts unknown into our merry little band.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--pQYS-rfdXU/XlU8Xe0mIbI/AAAAAAAAIvM/unCaH_LiwCwZrDcBo9njfkUULDIES99JwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/DSCF4538.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--pQYS-rfdXU/XlU8Xe0mIbI/AAAAAAAAIvM/unCaH_LiwCwZrDcBo9njfkUULDIES99JwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSCF4538.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our snowmobiling group taking a break. Where's Waldo?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
After a brief tutorial on snowmobile
operation by one of the two guides tasked with overseeing our
adventure, we chose a machine, climbed aboard and followed nose to
tail, single file a mile or two to what the guides called “the
meadow.” From the moment we cranked up our machines, one of the
small children began wailing, which commenced and terminated with
the ignition on the snowmobile on which he was riding being engaged and
switched off. The kid's bawling was like a GPS: We always knew where
that particular snowmobile was. We stopped at the top of a steep hill
and climbed off our machines to get another tutorial on what the next
45 minutes would bring. Basically, we were turned loose.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Although this area is called the
meadow, it's composed of some flat land, woods and hills. The biggest
hill was the one on which we were standing. It was so steep, you
couldn't see the bottom until you were over its crest. Then it was
like the big summit at Cedar Point's Top Thrill Dragster roller coaster. So, for
roughly 45 minutes we went as fast as we wanted on, what was
basically, a closed course. During our initial instruction, we were
told that if we lost control and the machine wound up on its side, to
keep our feet locked into the footholds and not try to use our legs
to keep from going over. I found this to be handy advice as my machine
went over after taking a corner a bit too fast.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We had been out for about two hours when we
returned to our starting point where we turned in our gear, hopped in
a van and headed to the resort.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Around 2:30, nine of us loaded into a
van bound for Park City's Olympic Park and the bobsled run. Upon our arrival, we again
signed the appropriate paperwork, this time at a computer kiosk. We
also had to answer a few health questions. Then for the third time in
this process, someone droned on about all the physical ailments that
would disqualify us from the ride. Heart issues, back issues, neck
issues and on and on and on. I doubt the list would have been any
longer had we been there to be shot out of a cannon or to have a
heart valve replaced.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We were in the staging building for about 90 minutes as we were signed in, questioned, tutored,
helmeted and so forth. Some of the downtime was spent simply
strolling around the Olympic exhibits on display. Finally, came the
moment to mount up. Because Toyota arranged this event (And,
obviously I'm too much of a slacker to research it.), I don't know
how many times a day Olympic Park offers this experience. I suspect
only two or three times. The course must be groomed and repaired at
the start of every day. As with our snowmobiling adventure, we
shared this one with a number of civilians unrelated to our group.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Also because Toyota arranged this for
us, as well as another wave of media the following day, our group
was pushed to the front of the line. Each bobsled group consisted of
an experienced pilot and three of us. I was part of the first three
of our group that probably numbered 18 or 20 people in total. There
was a group finishing up ahead of us and we queued up waiting for the
next sled to roll over the finish line. Yes, this is the same bobsled
course that hosted the 2002 Olympic competition. For safety's sake, we
weren't going to run alongside the sled pushing it and then jumping
in; nor were we going to experience the entire course, which would
have propelled us to roughly 90 mph. For the public experience, they utilize
about half the course.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I can't imagine the practice and
athleticism required to push one of these sleds and then jump in. We
were packed in this thing, spooning the person in front and behind.
When we finally got to the point to situate ourselves in a stationary
sled, getting the three of us lined up behind the driver took three
or four minutes. There are metal handholds attached to the floor that we
grabbed once seated. That's good because there isn't a back on a
bobsled. Before actually being seated in this contraption, I had
visions of us popping out the back one by one like candies from a Pez
dispenser. Once seated, however, it became clear that only the Jaws
of Life could sufficiently free one of us to bounce out the rear.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7APgW2HWwHE/XlU8zhjwlrI/AAAAAAAAIvY/CcOo5Cx8gS4mqogfEu8NA59uw8jaJw2nwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/IMG_20200211_163231.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7APgW2HWwHE/XlU8zhjwlrI/AAAAAAAAIvY/CcOo5Cx8gS4mqogfEu8NA59uw8jaJw2nwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_20200211_163231.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the back of the truck awaiting the trip to the top of the run.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Getting a bobsled and its crew to the
top of the run is an ordeal in itself. With only two sleds in
operation, one is always being carted back up the course as the other
is racing down it. Once the sled is stopped and unloaded of its
shell-shocked passengers at the bottom, two attendants drag it off
the track and place it on ski-like runners. They then maneuver it
into the back of what looks like a midsize U-haul truck that is also
fitted with a bench seat along one wall for the passengers. Once
loaded with sled and passengers, the truck is driven to the staging
area where the operation is reversed. This, folks, is how they do it
at the Olympics, too: Sled and team are transported to the starting
point in the back of a truck.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Once situated in the sled, the pilot
reminded us how to position ourselves throughout the ride. We were to
sit upright with our shoulders hiked up as far as possible, as if
frozen in mid shrug. Our helmets, he added, would protect our noggins
and the mid-shrug thing our necks. Oh boy...
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-neHlTf6wPv4/XlU9DHyRNkI/AAAAAAAAIvc/96aMCf_ccC0TM-y0VNImCAtMy0ZE-37qgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/IMG_20200211_165419_387.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-neHlTf6wPv4/XlU9DHyRNkI/AAAAAAAAIvc/96aMCf_ccC0TM-y0VNImCAtMy0ZE-37qgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_20200211_165419_387.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cheated death once again.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I have no clue who the first person was
who thought racing down a twisty ice track in, what amounts to, a
fiberglass canoe was a good idea; they must have had a screw
loose. But, of course, what does that say about me? The entire ordeal
occupied a mere 48 seconds with a top speed of just under 65 mph.
That section of the course contains 10 turns, which means 10 times we
were somewhat perpendicular to the floor of the track. It was zero to
sheer terror in about five seconds flat. But what a rush. My buddy
Javier Mota had a camera attached to the front of our sled. You can
watch the video he posted to his YouTube channel here.<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/LE6UO9rqUTY" width="560"></iframe></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At the finish, extricating ourselves from
the sled proved a bigger challenge than getting into it. Slowing my
heart rate to something close to normal probably required four or
five minutes. Simply, it was an almost unbelievable experience. Sir
Richard Branson, you magnificent bastard!</div>
Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-48292964864319744462019-12-30T06:35:00.001-08:002019-12-31T06:30:17.915-08:00Another Encounter with the Friendly TSA: You've Got to Be Kidding<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e9IXXlHTbrM/XgoH_VC-tCI/AAAAAAAAIeE/gffxmbyy1NgnB6-MakwimjjORWQF7UoRgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/TSA%2B3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="185" data-original-width="272" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e9IXXlHTbrM/XgoH_VC-tCI/AAAAAAAAIeE/gffxmbyy1NgnB6-MakwimjjORWQF7UoRgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/TSA%2B3.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm not the kind of guy who responds
well to someone who thinks everyone (which includes you and me) they
encounter is a moron. I give you the TSA.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I do more than my fair share of
traveling. You're welcome. But, I don't travel nearly as much as some
of my A-list comrades, who basically live in planes and airports.
Most of the carmaker-media events I attend are one or two night
affairs. Unfortunately, the one-night events are becoming ever more
common. When these take place on the west coast, I often spend more
time in airports and on planes than I do at the actual event. I try
to avoid these “one nighters” when I can. Put a couple of them
back to back in the same week and a weekend doesn't provide enough
time to completely recover.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I probably had between 60 and 70
encounters with TSA in 2019. I am pretty well versed in dealing with
this agency. Ten-or-so years ago, I ponied up $100 for Global Entry,
which includes TSA PreCheck. This streamlines my entry back into the
United States after traveling outside its borders. (Something I
rarely do anymore.) It also includes expedited PreCheck screening for
all domestic flights.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
To qualify for Global Entry, I not only
had to stroke out a $100 check, I had to fill out an application, be
cleared through a background check and spend a day driving to Atlanta
where I had a one-on-one interview with a TSA interrogator, was
finger printed, and photographed. PreCheck alone costs $85, but I
believe involves all the same upfront security screening as Global
Entry.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
One problem with the PreCheck is, the airlines are allowed to randomly bestow PreCheck on
passengers who haven't been through all of the advanced screening.
Consequently, everyone in the PreCheck line is still treated with a
certain amount of heightened suspicion by TSA personnel. All my
efforts and money spent (I have had to renew my Global Entry once
since having it for an additional $100.) really only guarantee that I
will have PreCheck on every trip. It doesn't mean I'm considered less
of a threat. The TSA personnel manning (womening, iting?) the
screening lines at the airport have no way to identify people who
have been through the Global Entry/PreCheck prescreening process from
the airline-awarded random PreCheck passenger. There is absolutely no
effort on TSA's part to identify those of us who are registered
PreCheck with heightened clearance from those who aren't.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In fact, I'm not even guaranteed
PreCheck because TSA will sporadically withhold it. I won't go into
that here, but having paid for and survived the prescreening doesn't
mean I will get PreCheck 100 percent of the time -- just most of the time.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There are a few major advantages to
PreCheck: shorter lines, keeping on your shoes and belt, leaving
everything in your carry-on and pretty much keeping everything in your
pockets. Right on the TSA website home page it states, “With a 5
year, $85 membership, you can speed through security and don't need
to remove your: (sic) shoes, laptops, liquids, belts and light
jackets.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
On trips of more than one night, I
check a bag. Because I shoot video on most carmaker trips, I have a
tripod and some other gear that I pack in a rollerboard with my
clothing. That gets checked. I carry on my backpack. Typically it
contains a laptop, a kindle, a video camera, a still camera, my cell
phone, a gallon plastic bag with batteries and chargers, and other
assorted odds and ends. About half the time, a second laptop will be
in there, as well. The only item in that backpack that I routinely
remove and send through the x-ray separately is the bag of batteries.
If left in the backpack, it will get the backpack pulled for a hand
search everytime.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My annual Christmas celebration every
year includes a journey to my sister's in New Mexico. I drive from
Greenville, SC to Atlanta, drop my carmaker test car off at the valet
in Park N Fly Plus, shuttle to the airport and pass through security.
This year I traveled on the Sunday before Christmas. To minimize the
number of miles the ticket cost, I booked a flight that left Atlanta
at 2:15 p.m. My average drive time to Atlanta airport is
two-and-a-half hours. I left my house at 9:30 for a leisurely drive
to Atlanta. I didn't realize it was raining until I loaded my bags
into my car. I would have left another 30 minutes earlier had I
known. As it was, the drive required nearly three hours that day
thanks to a wreck on I-85 about 60 miles outside of Atlanta.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When I entered the security line, I had
an hour and forty-five minutes before my flight was scheduled to
depart. Plenty of time, right? I have PreCheck. I had removed and left at home several
of my usual backpack items for this “pleasure” trip because I
didn't need them. I left behind the cameras and bag of batteries. I
did have two laptops (I had some work to do.) and my Kindle.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Atlanta has adopted this ludicrous bin
system at the security x-ray machine. There are a half dozen stations
where passengers must take a bin for every different item they are
sending through the x-ray. Once you've taken your place at one of
these stations, you grab a bin from down below, place it in the
staging area, put you bag or whatever in it and then wait for an
opportunity to push it on to the conveyor belt. Once that bin is on
is way along the belt, if you have another item, you repeat the
process. If you are at one of the stations downstream you might stand
and wait five minutes before the stream of bins provides an opening
to shove your bin into. Somewhere, someone probably earned a
promotion and a bonus for thinking up this better mousetrap; except,
it is less efficient and more time consuming than the line moving up
one person at a time, filling a bin(s) and putting it on the end of
the conveyor. Even though it is clear this system is less efficient
than the traditional way practiced at most airports, Atlanta has
invested so much money into the new system, we'll be stuck with it
for years.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
From the time I stepped up to a station
at the conveyor on that Sunday, it required almost 35 minutes for me
to clear security. Some of that time was eaten up by the wait at my
station to insert my bin on to the conveyor. Some of that time was
also spent because this was apparently TSA training day. The person
operating the x-ray was obviously training. He paused at every bag,
staring at the x-ray screen as though he were participating in a
“Where's Waldo” tournament. The line was barely moving. Finally
my bag moved into the x-ray machine and I cleared the passenger
x-ray. I stood on the other end for at least five minutes before my
bag exited the x-ray machine and another five minutes before it moved
far enough down the conveyor that anyone could get to it. When it got
there, it was pulled off the conveyor for hand screening.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As frustrating as it is, bags being
pulled for no real reason does happen. The problem here was, the
genius watching the x-ray monitor was having one out of every three
bags pulled. The bags selected for hand searching were stacked up
like cord wood. When a TSA person finally got to my bag, he pulled
out one of the laptops, scolding me that according to regulations, if
you have two laptops, one of them must be removed.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Since when?” I asked. Thinking
perhaps this was a new regulation and looking for some clarification.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It's always been that way,” was
the response.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I beg to differ,” I said. “This
is far from the first time I've traveled with two laptops and it's
never been an issue.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That's the way it's always been,”
he persisted as he rifled through the rest of my bag with a Delta 2
Million Miles tag waving in his face. This obviously wasn't my first
rodeo.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He took my bag and the now-removed
laptop back to the x-ray for a second run through. Five minutes later
both items exited the x-ray. At which time, my bag was pulled for a
hand search again. WTF? I about popped my cork.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I attempted to get the attention of one
of TSA bag searchers to get my bag, which had already been hand
searched, into the front of the line. No luck. I stood helplessly as
four or five bags were searched ahead of mine. When my bag reached
the front of the line, the same TSA clown got it again. “I'm not
getting this,” I said, “this bag has been searched. You searched
it.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well, it's going to get searched
again,” he responded.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I have a flight to catch.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“So does everyone else here,”
Captain Obvious replied.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah, but their bags haven't been
through the x-ray twice and searched once,” I said as calmly as I
could at this point.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
With that, he pulled out my Kindle.
“Only one electronic item can go through the x-ray,” he chided</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You guys are now considering a
Kindle the same as a laptop?” I asked, reacting to what was also a new development.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“We always have.” was the only
response I received as he handed me the laptop that had gone through
by itself the last time. He carried my bag with the remaining laptop,
as well as my separated Kindle back to the x-ray and ran them through
again. This time everything came out unmolested. Tick-tock.
Thirty-five minutes. Wow, this PreCheck thing is quite the deal.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
How many of you reading this have been
in a PreCheck line and heard a TSA wonk yell, “Everything stays in
your bag.” I've probably heard it nearly every time I've flown
since PreCheck began. What in the world changed since the last time I
flew two weeks earlier? I wondered.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Fast forward to my flight back to
Atlanta on December 27. In the PreCheck line in Albuquerque. I get to
the conveyor, grab three bins and commence removing the Kindle and
one of the laptops from my backpack. “Leave everything in your
bag,” the TSA drone instructed.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah, but I have two laptops and a
Kindle in here,” I said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Doesn't matter,” he replied. “This
is PreCheck and everything stays in your bag.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You should tell TSA in Atlanta
that,” I answered.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Everything stays in the bag for
PreCheck,” he reiterated, as though I hadn't said anything.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You should tell TSA in Atlanta
that,” I repeated. “They said only one electronic item could
remain in the bag. I had to send a laptop and the Kindle through
separately.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Every airport has its own rules,”
he said as I turned and walked through the metal detector.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Every airport has its own rules? What?
How does that work? Anyone who travels with any frequency understands
the TSA is more about show than substance. I get that, but every
airport has its own rules? Why have TSA at all. Why not just have
every airport hire a bunch of mall cops? Why even put on a show of
having any sort of national standards?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The culprit causing half of the stress
involved in flying today is the TSA. The Disney World-like lines, the
constant shouting of instructions, the bag hand searches, pat downs and so on. At least
they could make some effort at consistency. There is no reason in the
world the security procedures in Atlanta shouldn't be exactly the
same as in Salt Lake City, San Francisco or Greenville/Spartanburg.<br />
<br />
And, of course, making any protest beyond a mild question or two will result in being ushered off into room somewhere, cooling your heels as your flight departs. Is this a great country or what.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-71224113492885697362019-11-10T07:02:00.002-08:002019-12-30T10:57:22.250-08:00Saving Big Bucks: I Did a Little Cord Cutting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HQImFE0qQzY/Xcgkl7i2l0I/AAAAAAAAIRM/oKNSkZz-dA0kU_FuwEoaMT3B3l97JJQCACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/cordcuttingmsn.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="457" data-original-width="728" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HQImFE0qQzY/Xcgkl7i2l0I/AAAAAAAAIRM/oKNSkZz-dA0kU_FuwEoaMT3B3l97JJQCACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/cordcuttingmsn.webp" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm not the kind of guy who loves
change. In fact, I hate it. And, it's not because I'm old; although,
I suspect my embrace of change has weakened in my declining years. I
can't tell because I never liked it. I'm a creature of habit. I drink
at the same places when in Greenville. I try to park in the same row
in the same lot whenever I fly out of the local airport. Saturday
nights at home mean Italian food and rented movies. I like to stick
to a routine. Does that make me boring? I don't know, but I do know
I'm not bored.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
During the past 30 days I initiated two
big changes in my connectivity. So far, so good.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I have contemplated “cutting the
cord,” abandoning my cable TV completely for more than a year.
Until the first of this month, the main source of my TV programming
was AT&T's Uverse. Available sources for my programming consist
of Uverse and Comcast. Because of a copse of tall pine trees on the
adjoining lot on my property's southern border, satellite TV has
never been an option. I also pay for Netflix and get programming
through Amazon Prime.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When I first moved to Greenville,
Comcast was my only option. Boasting the worst DVR in the industry,
Comcast was a compromise I simply couldn't live with long term. As
soon as Uverse became available in my area eight or nine years ago, I
dumped Comcast and picked up Uverse. Eventually AT&T provided my
cell phone service, my broadband and my TV.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A few months ago I dropped its
broadband for Spectrum, thus saving $20 a month and improving my
speed by a thousand percent. With AT&T, uploading a 30-minute
video to YouTube required seven or eight hours. I can upload the same
video through Spectrum in about 45 minutes.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Beginning November 1, I dropped Uverse.
The monthly cost without any movie channels was around $120 a month.
That works out to $1,440 a year. Hey, I work for a living. Forking
out nearly $1,500 a year for TV that I'm only home to watch about 250
days a year simply doesn't work for me anymore. After looking at
streaming alternatives, I settled on YouTube TV. My monthly bill with
fees is less than $55 a month or less than $660 per year. That's an
annual savings of $780 over Uverse.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I am satisfied with the switch to
streaming so far. Two downsides are first, I no longer have a guide for
upcoming programming. That is not a big deal, I rarely watch TV in
real time. The programs I record are on a weekly schedule. The second
shortcoming is I can no longer fast forward through the commercials.
Because the programs I record are set up to stream, the commercials
are limited, but I'd still prefer to fast forward through them. I'm
getting used to this change. (<i>Update: YouTube TV recently enhanced its recording capability that allows fast forwarding through commercials on recorded programs. Yea!)</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
To recap, in switching my broadband and
TV services from AT&T to other sources, I'm saving more than
$1,000 a year. That's a lot of bourbon.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
AT&T is forcing me to haul my DVR,
modem, remote and assorted wires to UPS to ship them back. All of
this stuff is over eight years old. I suspect they will open the box
and then chuck the whole mess into the trash. This is more to punish
me for leaving them than it is to somehow refurbish all that junk for
someone else's use.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I have to make a trip to UPS anyway.
When you reach a certain age, rather than a colonoscopy, the health
of your colon can be evaluated by shipping your poop off somewhere to
be analyzed. I call it, “poop in a box.” The company sends a box
in which you poop. You then take said box to UPS and some poor
counter person sends it on its way. In the case of my Uverse junk,
UPS boxes it up, labels the box and sends it off free of charge. I
will accomplish both these tasks on the same visit. I hope the UPS
clerk doesn't make a mistake and switch them. Someone at Uverse will
be in for a big surprise.But it would accurately reflect my feelings about them gouging me all these years.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My second big step in the past 30 days
was to replace my P.O.S. Samsung Galaxy S7 with a Google Pixel 3A
smartphone. I only had my S7 for seven months when I dumped it. I
must confess, I made the change for reasons other than not liking the
S7. I would have held on to it for at least 12 months. I hate
spending hundreds of dollars on something as stupid as a phone. As it
is, I never buy a phone new. I buy phones that are at least a
generation old and save roughly half on them. But, in the case of the
3A, it was still about $350.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
One of my main gripes with the S7 was
that almost every day, I would have to access it by typing in my
password rather than using my thumb print. I know. Not exactly the
last chopper out of Saigon, but annoying nonetheless. Doing a little
research, I found this is a common issue with the S7. There is a very
involved possible fix, but I never could muster the energy to follow
the numerous steps. I don't get it. The damn phone updates itself
once or twice a month with things that have no bearing on my usage
nor service. Why not do an update and fix a real problem? Nope. At
least once a day I'd have to type in my password.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The real reason I switched phones is I
wanted a phone better suited to live broadcasting to Facebook and
YouTube. My team (Yes, I have a BEER2WHISKEY team.) will be live broadcasting from
Barley's Biggest Little Beer Fest in January. After talking to people
who do a lot of live broadcasts and researching gear, I decided the
simplest path would be to use a smartphone. Always one to take the
easiest road, I began looking for a smartphone capable of
broadcasting in HD (S7 isn't) that also has a 3.5 jack to plug in an
exterior microphone. Of course, it had to have a great camera, as
well. The 3A filled the bill.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Thus far I am pleased with the 3A. I
have yet to find anything to hate. That's a major thing in itself. If
we are Facebook friends, you will probably see more live broadcasts
from me between now and the January beer fest as I attempt to get
comfortable with the process. I did some live broadcasting from the
Whiskey Vault and the Texas Truck Rodeo a couple of weeks ago. Seemed
to be fine.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Stay tuned. More to come.</div>
Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-46822286063597222152019-09-22T06:56:00.000-07:002019-09-22T06:56:31.716-07:00Pittsburgh Steelers: Managing My Expectations
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-651km7OG8P8/XYd7jZkLvVI/AAAAAAAAH8s/vH4QJFifMB04MjoaaOylTJ9ufj9hBWu1ACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Ben_Seahawks_2019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="797" data-original-width="1140" height="223" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-651km7OG8P8/XYd7jZkLvVI/AAAAAAAAH8s/vH4QJFifMB04MjoaaOylTJ9ufj9hBWu1ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Ben_Seahawks_2019.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm not the kind of guy who always sees
a glass as half full. In fact, you wouldn't need look too far among
those who know me well to find someone who would laugh out loud at
the idea I'm a half-full guy at all. Some of that reaction is based
on the character I play. Yes, I do some play acting, even among my
friends. Inner Russ, the one people don't see much of, usually hopes
for the best, but mentally prepares for the worst. Part of that
preparation often surfaces as negative statements. Does that make me
fun to be around? Probably not. This is particularly true when the
Pittsburgh Steelers are involved.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I have friends who won't watch a
Steelers game with me. I can't blame them.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Truth be told, I have calmed down a lot
where the Steelers are concerned. Life is too short, especially from
where I'm sitting, to get all wound up about something that has
absolutely no impact on my world. I still wear my black-and-gold
colors on most game days and watch the games when I can. My Sunday
watering hole doesn't have Direct TV's Sunday Ticket. I'm not willing
to forsake my normal Sunday routine to go sit in a crowded, noisy
sports bar to see the game. So, unless the game is carried by my
local CBS affiliate, which is indeed rare, I miss at least the first
half of most of the Sunday early games.I might wander into a sports bar for the second half.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
If they have the second Sunday game, as
they do against the 49ers today, I'll miss the game entirely if it's
not shown locally. I often only watch the first half of night games
because, win or lose, I'm too amped up after a game to sleep. It takes me a
couple of hours to wind down enough to fall asleep. If I began that
process at 11:00, I don't fall asleep until 1:00 or so. I wake up at
the same time no matter what, which means I get four or five hours of
sleep, tops. That doesn't work for me.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Much of my growing indifference to the
Steelers fate results from their colossal under performance the past
three years. If a team doesn't have the personnel or the coaching
talent to get it to the Super Bowl, well, as a fan, I can understand
that. But a team populated with the veteran talent the Steelers have
had in recent seasons to sputter and stall enough to either not make
the playoffs or lose in the first round of playoffs, is
disheartening. It's also inexcusable.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, now we find ourselves in the 2019
season. Bell is gone. Brown is gone. Ben is out for the season. Does
any of that matter? They were inconsistent as hell with those three
guys playing. The Steelers couldn't get to the championship game with
those three guys there and healthy. What now that we're in uncharted waters?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The good news for me as a Steelers fan
is, I have no expectations. If the Steelers manage a .500 season, I
will be surprised. Any win they get will be a gift. Christmas come
early. I know very little about Mason Rudolph, Big Ben's backup. I
was traveling last Sunday and missed the entire game. He may be the
second coming of Big Ben. I don't know. Can Pittsburgh somehow get
its running game together? I don't know. Can the defense find a path
to holding the opposing offense to fewer points than the Steelers
offense puts up? I don't know. But, I'm not counting on any of those things.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I have no expectations. Based on the
first two games and the loss of Big Ben, I have envisioned a season
where every game will be an up-hill slog. We can't even count on
beating the Browns this season.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In other words, I am confident I won't
be disappointed this season. Hope for the best and mentally prepare
for the worst. Oh, I'm prepared.</div>
Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-33513469830550874062019-09-08T06:51:00.000-07:002019-09-09T06:53:23.926-07:00Make Your Plans and Listen to God Laugh: A Lost Week<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EhfPiZmtbcU/XXUEPcI7maI/AAAAAAAAH5s/wtRfnZSpe40vJ78A2sr_RdaLLhsc6JLmwCLcBGAs/s1600/angel-soft-toilet-paper-gep16880-64_1000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EhfPiZmtbcU/XXUEPcI7maI/AAAAAAAAH5s/wtRfnZSpe40vJ78A2sr_RdaLLhsc6JLmwCLcBGAs/s320/angel-soft-toilet-paper-gep16880-64_1000.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Say, hello, to my little friend.....</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm not the kind of guy who often
shares his ailments and infirmities with others. I'm 68; I have my
share, believe me. Outside of my surgeon, six people were aware of it
before I went into<a href="https://clanging-bell.blogspot.com/2018/02/cute-nurses-room-in-icu-and-three-days.html"> throat surgery</a> that put me into intensive care for
two nights: my friend who has my power of attorney and her husband,
the friend who I asked to drive me to the surgery and his wife, and
my craft-beer partner Big Jon and our Sunday bartender. The only
reason Big Jon and our bartender were aware is because the surgery
was scheduled the day after the 2018 Super Bowl. I had to fess up as
to why I was sipping water rather than guzzling beer during the game.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I didn't tell anyone
else because, well, why would I? Those who did know were under strict
orders not to visit me at the hospital. I didn't want anyone taking
time out of their day to show up at my bedside with a Mylar balloon,
making small talk. Screw that. If this involved a six-week stay to
recover, then maybe a visit from someone would be a welcome change of
pace. But, I knew this would be a short recovery. Just go about your
business and we'll have a drink when I am sprung. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I didn't even tell my New Mexico-based
family. It would have made a wreck out of my sister. The entire
family would have been crazed for the three-day information blackout
extending from the surgery until my release. I didn't want the
pressure of trying to keep them or anyone else updated. Get in, get
out and that's that. I did finally let the cat out of the bag a
couple of days after returning home.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I have all the aches and pains someone
my age endures, but I don't talk about it. Who cares? I'm old, right?
It happens.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Now that I'm on the other side of it,
however, I will share that I was as sick this past week as I have
been in years, if not decades. It reared its ugly head late Monday
(Labor Day) and persisted throughout the week. Apparently a stomach
bug of some sort, it reeked havoc with my digestive tract. It was
relentless and fierce.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I won't go into the details beyond
saying, my water bill will be significantly higher this month and
Charmin dispatched an extra tractor-trailer truck of Ultra Strong to
the Greenville region.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Twice during the week I flirted with
heading to Urgent Care. I'd never dealt with anything quite like this
before and the idea that his might be the symptom of something more
sinister nagged at me in a whisper for four days.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I didn't sleep for two of those nights,
didn't eat anything beyond a couple of nibbles from a protein bar for
three days and didn't have the energy to shower. I had no appetite. A
couple of bouts with light headedness inspired me to begin chugging
copious amounts of water to battle dehydration. On Wednesday
afternoon, I dragged myself to my car, headed to CVS and purchased
some Imodium. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At the checkout the clerk cheerfully asked how my day was going. I pushed the box toward him and said, "You be the judge." </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Seven of those tablets over the next 24
hours capped the flow. Friday was the day that had me really
considering Urgent Care. The worst was past, but I still felt off. I
was still listless and weak. I still had no appetite. Was this symptomatic of something bigger, I asked myself for the 20th time. Again, I chose
to skip Urgent Care. Most of the day on Saturday was more of the
same, but toward the late afternoon I heard a welcome sound and felt
a longed-for rumble: My stomach was growling.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Mac & Cheese sounded good and
sufficiently innocuous. I thought I might have a box squirreled away
somewhere. Nope. No such luck. I opted instead to heat up some Prego
and boil some pasta. I wolfed down half a plate. I spent the rest of
the evening watching movies and waiting for dinner to cause a sprint
to the bathroom. But, no.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I went to bed hoping for my first
good-night's sleep in nearly a week. I awoke this morning with my
eyelids crusted shut. I pried them open and glanced at the clock.
Trumpets sounded, a flock of doves took flight, bells tolled in
celebration and a choir of angels sang, “Halleluliah.” It was
7:30. I had managed to clock nine hours of nearly uninterrupted
sleep. Oh happy day!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In the negative column: This was to be
a week of work for me. I basically produced no revenue in August.
This was my week to get back to work. Nope. All I managed to do was
edit this week's and next week's episodes of BEER2WHISKEY. I did this
week's segment on Wednesday. It was a segment that should have
required about three hours to edit. It required around five hours.
I'd edit for 15 or 20 minutes and then lie down for 15 minutes. I
also managed to sit upright at my laptop for about three hours on
Thursday submitting four or five already-written assignments to a
client.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It was also to be six straight days in
the gym. Nope. I've been twice since arriving home on Aug 30.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, that's my story. I feel recovered –
just in time for beer-drinking day at Smoke, as well as some football – and back on top of my
game. Ain't life grand!</div>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/_S4K1qqRIvU" width="560"></iframe>
Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-23062956339689140902019-08-11T06:54:00.000-07:002019-08-11T06:54:10.739-07:00It's Just Bourbon: A New Chapter in the BEER2WHISKEY Saga<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lxZb-_dukRw/XVAdS9fm_hI/AAAAAAAAHxY/KS49pFIUKxAkZROWeFHAeh3OS7L4LpOuACLcBGAs/s1600/SnapShot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lxZb-_dukRw/XVAdS9fm_hI/AAAAAAAAHxY/KS49pFIUKxAkZROWeFHAeh3OS7L4LpOuACLcBGAs/s320/SnapShot.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm not the kind of guy who expects
different results from doing the same thing. I may be crazy, but I'm
not insane. At least that's what I tell the voices in my head. What I
do know for sure is that there are only so many hours in a day. As I
mature (translation: grow old), I highly treasure my available
productive hours. I treasure all my time, really; but productive hours are
those in which I have the energy and motivation to accomplish one
task or another.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Historically I've been a slacker at
heart. Neutral, and not overdrive, my natural gear. I have always
been a procrastinator rather than a doer. My over-worn response to my
mother when she would remind me of some basic chore, like taking out
the garbage, was, “It's at the top of my list.” It was a list
that rarely saw anything checked off. Alfred E. Neuman was my role
model.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My attitude has somewhat evolved during
the last decade. Maybe that's a result of a ride around the block on
the reality bus, bringing me face to face with my mortality; but I
find myself less and less inclined to waste time. In fact, I abhor
it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I confess that most days when I'm in
residence at my Greenville home I am in my recliner in front of the
TV by 4:30 or 5. I watch a fair amount of TV when I am in town –
none of it educational in any way, shape or form. Nope. I'm one of
those escapism-TV types. I enjoy brainless TV. But, the only way I
can plop down in front of the TV at the end of the day is if I have
actually accomplished something earlier. I have to have done
something to earn some money, put in a few hours working on the house
or furthering one of my video projects.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My Saturdays have suffered most from
this new-found work ethic. I always loved Saturdays because it is the
one day of the week when I had nothing to do and all day to do it. I
didn't even need to fret about going to work the next day because it
was Sunday. Now I find I can't just sit on my rump watching movies
all day. Things left undone don't call to me, they scream to me. Ugh,
I hate being responsible. Now, even on Saturdays, I must accomplish
something.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When you freelance doing anything from
home, you either adopt a degree of self starting or you starve. Think
of it as a daily gym workout. The toughest thing about going to the
gym is, well, going to the gym. Donning your gym attire, pushing
yourself out the door and making the trip to the gym is the toughest
part of the exercise. Beginning some project, any project, demands
some amount of self motivation. I have somehow developed that.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Making yourself productive when you
don't punch a clock or have someone prodding you on is a challenge.
Inertia is my natural state. Setting myself in motion requires some
serious inner dialogue. Prioritizing tasks is another learned skill
that remains a struggle for me. That list of things to do is always
in my head taunting me with the tasks remaining undone. A decade ago
I could tune them out. Today: not so much.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The above is a preface to sharing with
you that I have made a slight change of direction in my BEER2WHISKEY
YouTube channel. Over the past couple of years I invested a ton of money in to this project.
Acquiring all the necessary gear, including editing software, and
traveling around the country shooting videos all cost money. I
decided that this year, I'd scale back on the B2W trips. I did take a
road trip to Ohio in May to shoot some brewery videos; but because I
drove and stayed with a fraternity brother in Dayton, the cost was
minimal.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I am always pondering other things I
might introduce into the B2W format that will 1) gain some audience
traction, and 2) be cheap to produce. I decided to try something new
and created the “It's Just Bourbon” playlist. The plan is to
shoot videos in my home with me (and perhaps sporadically me plus one) talking about bourbon. Some videos
will be recommending specific bourbons and some will be tasting them.
The first of these went live last Thursday; I've embedded it at the
end of this post.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It's Just Bourbon” checks a few
boxes for me. It certainly fulfills the “cheap” requirement. It
also allows me to shoot multiple segments at a single sitting as
does the “Big Jon in 5” playlist. Plus, it also contributes to
the whiskey content, which has been somewhat lacking to date.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, addressing the “not doing the
same things and expecting a different result” statement at the top
of this post, we'll see how well this new playlist works. Early
returns are in and I'm optimistic. We'll see.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A note to my TAWA friends: I am putting
together a small group to visit Austin's Whiskey Vault on the Sunday
afternoon we arrive for the Truck Rodeo. I booked a 1:30 p.m.
reservation for October 27<sup>th</sup>. I directly reached out to a few
members who I know would have an interest, but the reservation is for
up to 12. Three of us have already registered. Anyone attending the
Rodeo, including non-media types, with some interest, reach out to me
and I'll provide more details. Cheers!</div>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/618PwEv_YD0" width="560"></iframe>
Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-14846919719382785162019-08-04T07:19:00.003-07:002019-08-04T07:21:35.250-07:00Red Box Failure Turns into Old-Movie Gold<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HtVuFCn9NVg/XUbn2tyn-hI/AAAAAAAAHvU/uWfSWiQ2trsJ0eiprWEeOal0TBn5MVQIwCLcBGAs/s1600/the-great-escape.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="444" data-original-width="649" height="218" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HtVuFCn9NVg/XUbn2tyn-hI/AAAAAAAAHvU/uWfSWiQ2trsJ0eiprWEeOal0TBn5MVQIwCLcBGAs/s320/the-great-escape.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Wow" From "The Great Escape."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm not the kind of guy who can't
appreciate old movies. No, I'm not a huge fan of Casablanca, but I
own DVDs of several John Wayne films and watch them from time to
time. And, of course, there are classics such as “The Godfather,”
“The Great Escape,” “The Magnificent Seven” and “Hard
Bodies.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I am waxing on about old movies because
I watched one last night. First a bit of background. On Saturdays
that I'm in residence at Casa Heaps, I usually rent a couple of Red
Box movies. Sometimes they are movies I know about and have an interest
in watching, and sometimes they are movies I'm not familiar with.
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DS0Len2WcZU/XUboRP5Eb7I/AAAAAAAAHvc/AuoZkwhH1xoAQZwZnylwgV8M6sL4uqzRQCLcBGAs/s1600/London-Fields-16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="289" data-original-width="696" height="132" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DS0Len2WcZU/XUboRP5Eb7I/AAAAAAAAHvc/AuoZkwhH1xoAQZwZnylwgV8M6sL4uqzRQCLcBGAs/s320/London-Fields-16.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Yesterday I rented two movies I knew
nothing about. One was “London Fields.” It's one of those movies
defying description. “Mulholland Drive” meets “Pulp Fiction”
is about as close as I can come. Never have I watched a movie so
centered around sex in which there was no skin. That, at least, would
have been a redeeming quality. At no time before, during or after
watching it did I have a clue what it was about. I could have dozed
off three minutes into it and awoken in time for the end credits and
had the same tenuous grasp of the plot that I have now. I rented it
because it stars Amber Heard and Billy Bob Thornton. How bad could it
be? I reasoned. Bad enough.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HQ3LeSDvuWM/XUbomVMdB4I/AAAAAAAAHvk/Ny-2Xi2-41Mcy-29WKDESYCRS8P2q7EjgCLcBGAs/s1600/seth-rogen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="318" data-original-width="618" height="164" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HQ3LeSDvuWM/XUbomVMdB4I/AAAAAAAAHvk/Ny-2Xi2-41Mcy-29WKDESYCRS8P2q7EjgCLcBGAs/s320/seth-rogen.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not since Cheech and Chong has anyone made a career out of burning one.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The other DVD I rented was a comedy?
Apparently so. I had never heard of it. Called “Long Shot,” it
features Charlize Theron, whom I like a lot, and Seth Rogen, whom I
don't. Obviously I rented it based on Theron. I can't tell you what
this movie is about either because I ejected the DVD about 20 minutes
into it. Rogen has had a very successful 20-year career essentially
playing the role of the “stoned dude” in countless movies and TV
shows. It's as though he is on the top of Central Casting's list for
burned-out doper. “Hey, the script calls for someone who can pull
off a couple of marijuana gags; send for Rogen.” Rogen's
character's name in this turkey is Fred Flarsky. If that made you
chuckle, it would have been the only such reaction you would have
watching this thing. I guess the writers went with Fred Flarsky
because Paul Blart had already been used.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This brings us to the old movie I wound
up watching to fill in for “Long Shot.” I probably haven't
watched it in five years, but last evening, as I scanned the 200 DVDs
in my cabinet, my gaze came to rest on “Proof of Life.”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I didn't realize until I researched it
this morning that this movie was released in 2000. I think 19 years
qualifies it as old. I was sort of surprised it was that long ago. It
still holds up reasonably well. It's notable on several levels; none
having to do with the story or its execution – both of which are
solid.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Jjzg9F9-M4o/XUbpAGvfZ-I/AAAAAAAAHvs/WYNWN3yGci0EI0WClRNKuXsITwt6Q2ImACLcBGAs/s1600/Ryan%2Band%2BCrowe%2Bstanding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Jjzg9F9-M4o/XUbpAGvfZ-I/AAAAAAAAHvs/WYNWN3yGci0EI0WClRNKuXsITwt6Q2ImACLcBGAs/s320/Ryan%2Band%2BCrowe%2Bstanding.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
No, what I find noteworthy about this
film that failed so spectacularly at the U.S. box office despite
being good is, it was the movie that brought Meg Ryan and Russell Crowe
together. Their fling began just as her marriage to Dennis Quaid was
ending. In one fell swoop, Ryan fell from grace as America's darling.
Her career never really rebounded from that six-month tryst. She finally drove a stake through the heart of her reputation with her role in "In the Cut" that released in 2003.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6AJwHd4tovQ/XUbpJwOIb5I/AAAAAAAAHvw/1KYscdaT5PYQw7Hc3RF8Z9wMUQbLDXOWwCLcBGAs/s1600/Crowe%2Band%2BCaruso.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="390" data-original-width="670" height="186" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6AJwHd4tovQ/XUbpJwOIb5I/AAAAAAAAHvw/1KYscdaT5PYQw7Hc3RF8Z9wMUQbLDXOWwCLcBGAs/s320/Crowe%2Band%2BCaruso.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Bad news, David, looks like your movie career is about over."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
"Proof of Life" is also notable as providing
our last glimpse of David Caruso on the big screen. If you recall, he
left the wildly popular cop series NYPD Blue in 1994, after just one year,
to pursue a career in the movies. It never really happened. A
supporting role in “Proof of Life” was probably his biggest
movie, and it was about his last.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As it turned out, I was sort of glad I
had invested two bucks so poorly in renting “Long Shot.” It
provided the motivation to revisit an old favorite. Maybe I have
finally learned my lesson for taking a flyer on movies I've never
heard of. Then again, probably not.</div>
Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-25597562503321304122019-07-21T06:14:00.000-07:002019-07-21T06:15:56.536-07:00Internet Shopping Misadventures: $20 Underwear<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eoHedfjuIWY/XTRhyAd65FI/AAAAAAAAHsc/JaVDMNCkNDAd2_tT8YppiLHJn6JYZVOmQCLcBGAs/s1600/9617849_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="700" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eoHedfjuIWY/XTRhyAd65FI/AAAAAAAAHsc/JaVDMNCkNDAd2_tT8YppiLHJn6JYZVOmQCLcBGAs/s320/9617849_2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm not the kind of guy who typically
blabs about what lies between his person and his Wrangler jeans. Not
because it isn't polite conversation, but because, well, who really
cares? However, I am breaking with tradition in this Clanging Bell
post to talk about a recent experiment with some high-end briefs.
Yes, when it comes to underwear, I became a card-carrying,
brief-wearing member of the one percent.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Here's the thing, up until a year or so
ago, I believed I was already a one percenter in the men's-briefs
department. I've been wearing Tommy Hilfiger briefs for years.
Currently at Amazon, you can have a four pack delivered (in two days
for free as a Prime member) for $22.99. To prevent your head
exploding from doing a little long division without a calculator,
I've done the math. That works out to about $5.75 per brief. I think
that's plenty to pay to keep Big Rusty and the boys from getting
caught in my zipper.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Several months ago I was rescued from
my fog of briefs ignorance when a buddy began regaling
me with stories about the $25 per-pair Tommy John underwear he had
begun wearing. He waxed on about the comfort, easy access and overall
superiority of his briefs to any that had preceded his new
top-dollar underwear. “It's like wearing nothing,” he insisted. "He really likes them," his wife chimed in. My curiosity was piqued. I like the idea of wearing nothing. I do it
at home all the time. It used to scare the bejezzus out of the cat,
but, hey, my house, my rules.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Despite wanting to share in his
experience, I simply couldn't bring myself to pony up 25 bucks for
one pair of underwear. Who does that? Sure, I want my junk to have a
safe, cozy home, but I seemed to be adequately providing that with
sub-six-dollar briefs. Plus, I didn't want something called Tommy
John's that close to my business.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Here's a bit of advice, if you find
yourself shopping on the Internet with a beer, a glass of wine or a
pour of bourbon in one hand as you search with the other, stop, log
off and walk away. Nothing good can come of it. Two or three days
later you will find a salad spinner, a case of Rice A Roni or a
couple of pair of $20 briefs on your doorstep. I've seen it happen.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As I was messing around on the Internet
one day, a pop-up ad for Mack Weldon magically appeared. I had never
heard of Mack Weldon, but there was a photo of some cut dude wearing
a pair of Mack Weldon briefs. Wow, they looked good on him, I considered. I clicked
on the ad, which landed me on its site, opening the door to $20
briefs.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I took the plunge and put two pair in
my cart. As a new customer, I qualified for free shipping, if I spent
at least $50; so, I bought a pair of $14 socks, too. I like socks, as
my credit line with Bombas will attest. I can always use another pair
of overpriced socks, I figured. A few days later my Mack Weldon
package arrived.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I opened the package, admired my
purchases and tossed the two pairs of briefs into my suitcase. I had
a trip to Asheville the following day for a Hyundai event. I decided
to use that stage as the maiden cruise for my high-end undies.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I slipped a pair on the first day and
tried to calculate how they might be superior to my regular briefs. I
came up with nothing. The briefs I chose are what the manufacturer
calls 18-Hour Jersey Briefs. Maybe I should have sprung for the $24
AIRKNITx Briefs. Well, perhaps you need to pull on some pants to gain
the full effect? I did. Nada. Then I decided that maybe I needed to
give them the full 18 hours to be able to appreciate their
superiority. At the end of the day, I remained unconvinced the $14
more I paid over my Hilfiger's was well spent.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And the kicker is, none of my buddies
realized I was wearing $20 underwear. I spent the day with a bunch of
these guys and the price of my underwear never came up in the
conversation. Once, after the drinks began flowing, I almost blurted
out, “I'm wearing $20 underwear! How much did yours cost?” But the urge quickly passed.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As for them feeling like you're wearing
nothing at all, nah. The only way to feel like you are wearing
nothing at all is to wear nothing at all. My days of going commando
ended for good after my first screening of “There's Something About
Mary.” The phrase “frank and beans” still gives me nightmares.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, the great $20-Brief Experiment of
2019 was a bust. Maybe the socks will impress me.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/WxDI8YeKiaw" width="560"></iframe>Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-47927695619734470262019-07-07T07:07:00.000-07:002019-07-07T07:07:24.075-07:00One Way to Spend Indepence Day<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8uRmgkzGNN0/XSH2Knf0dFI/AAAAAAAAHqs/VrCJkDSdFgoIf3IAg3_ZF9KvAmI-r6mlgCLcBGAs/s1600/DSCF9755.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1168" data-original-width="1600" height="233" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8uRmgkzGNN0/XSH2Knf0dFI/AAAAAAAAHqs/VrCJkDSdFgoIf3IAg3_ZF9KvAmI-r6mlgCLcBGAs/s320/DSCF9755.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just another Sunday afternoon in South Florida.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm not the kind of guy who really does
much in the way of celebrating the summer holidays. I don't have a
circle of friends in Greenville who regularly get together for
cookouts and other activities most associated with Memorial Day,
Labor Day and Independence Day. (Yes, I used the politically
incorrect term “Independence Day.” Many of those born after 1990,
are scratching their heads and thinking, <i>what the hell is
Independence Day?) </i><span style="font-style: normal;">I'm usually
left to my own devices for the summer holidays.</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AUIY8nOX1fk/XSH3Ne0_qxI/AAAAAAAAHq4/RxlskXyQ56gXeS1vCkhqfqIYB2NqRotBACLcBGAs/s1600/426808_4309933594816_1489582157_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="405" data-original-width="720" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AUIY8nOX1fk/XSH3Ne0_qxI/AAAAAAAAHq4/RxlskXyQ56gXeS1vCkhqfqIYB2NqRotBACLcBGAs/s320/426808_4309933594816_1489582157_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hey, we never really needed a reason to head to someone's house and toss back a couple by the pool.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When I lived in Florida, any day the
average person was free from work was cause to gather, tip a few
beers, cook burgers and lounge around a friend's pool. This held true
whether it was a state-mandated holiday or a weekend. I'm sure
everyone wasn't as fortunate as I to have have a platoon of friends
with a similar mindset to mine. Not everyone in South Florida was at
the beach, on a boat or cavorting in a friend's pool, but an awful
lot of folks were. It's probably the only thing I really miss about
no longer living in Florida: Having an infinite supply of good
friends with whom to goof off.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Consequently my Independence Day this
year looked like any other day for me. I arose at my usual time,
which is between 6:30 and 7:00 a.m. I was at my PC 20 minutes later
responding to e-mails and hitting my favorite news sites. I then
polished up a story for a client that I had written the day before.
By 9:00, I was finishing up installing the new ceiling fan on the
front porch. Thirty minutes later I was out mowing the dirt. I have
about three-quarters of an acre to mow. Roughly 20 percent of that is
flat. The rest is hill. Compounding the task are the swales for water
runoff, running along two sides of my lawn. Mowing always requires
about 90 minutes of work and at least that much time recovering
afterwards. I skip the gym on mowing days; after all, how much cardio
does a guy need? Even a fat, old guy?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
After cooling down and eating a quick
lunch, I had a decision to make: Shower, dress and head downtown for
a few hours of bar hopping, or stay home and paint? I chose the
latter. I had declared this the season to paint the outside trim of
my house. Areas that suffer the brunt of weather, like step railings,
get painted every two or three years, but this was to be an
all-inclusive trim painting. For the first time in the 11 years
owning this house, I was going to paint the front-porch and carport
ceilings.
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Pa6WCjLD8p0/XSH6R9Ok0DI/AAAAAAAAHrM/dGGaKdDWAcspHuCY3edjMiJox_NDjSZqwCLcBGAs/s1600/20190707_095218.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Pa6WCjLD8p0/XSH6R9Ok0DI/AAAAAAAAHrM/dGGaKdDWAcspHuCY3edjMiJox_NDjSZqwCLcBGAs/s320/20190707_095218.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The front porch turned out rather well, I think.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Actually, I had already painted both
those ceilings by that time. Last weekend, I pressure washed both the
front porch and carport in preparation for painting. When I hit the
painted areas in the carport, I stripped off a lot of the paint. My
goal was to complete the carport painting before the next big rain.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I went ahead and painted the
front-porch ceiling that day, while I had all the stuff off the porch
and in the front yard. I didn't want to have to move all the
furniture and the rug more than once. Both ceilings are bead board,
which entails cutting in the grooves between each plank with a brush,
then rolling the flats. I cut in and rolled the front-porch ceiling
the same day as I pressure washed everything. I then moved all the
porch furnishings back before night fall.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aoqe7PhAzLc/XSH3kpt3xoI/AAAAAAAAHrA/6u_fKZOn1GALg_wqDCYBEkOMf_E4SqiUACLcBGAs/s1600/20190707_084807.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aoqe7PhAzLc/XSH3kpt3xoI/AAAAAAAAHrA/6u_fKZOn1GALg_wqDCYBEkOMf_E4SqiUACLcBGAs/s320/20190707_084807.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another masterpiece in home renovation: the carport-painting project 2019.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The following day, I cut in all the
grooves on the carport ceiling and then rolled it on Wednesday. This
brought me to Independence Day. After lunch, I used painter's tape
along the borders of the ceiling and then painted all the white trim.
By 4:00, I had cleaned up the mess, showered and was cranked back in
my recliner with a pour of Wathens bourbon and a little TV.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I grilled a steak and fried up some
hash browns for dinner. I was in bed by 10:30. Another Independence
Day for the record books. I was sufficiently bushed that my collapse into a sound sleep wasn't disturbed by all the fireworks exploding in the neighborhood.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Would I rather have been hanging out,
drinking, laughing and eating too much potato salad? Yes, I would
have. But, I managed to accomplish a lot. I can settle for that.</div>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/3SFVQR-2dMU" width="560"></iframe>
Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-28435256481317568532019-06-23T07:27:00.000-07:002019-06-24T05:41:03.093-07:00A Kitchen Remodel May Happen Yet!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MWG1wE6fyQg/XQ-LrHzsguI/AAAAAAAAHoo/a_7oLMr0l1YXD2QVlScIjxF5ez0pqhxewCLcBGAs/s1600/S0028276.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MWG1wE6fyQg/XQ-LrHzsguI/AAAAAAAAHoo/a_7oLMr0l1YXD2QVlScIjxF5ez0pqhxewCLcBGAs/s320/S0028276.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Greenville homestead.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm not the kind of guy to rush into
things, this despite the fact I chose my last two houses on the first
day of those house hunts. Although it took a bit longer to submit a
contract for the Boynton Beach house I purchased in 2001, I saw my Greenville house on
day one of my search and submitted an offer three days later. The
three-day cooling-down period for the Greenville house was only
because I found it on a Greenville trip on Friday, and had to wait
until I was back in Florida on Monday morning to get things rolling.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Should I have taken a little more time
in finding a house in Greenville? Yes, indeed. But, my Boynton house
doubled in value in three years. It caused me to think I was an
expert when I pulled the trigger on the Greenville home. Yeah, right.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Any way, I don't typically rush into
things, particularly when it involves big sums of money. I've been
shopping for a car for 28 years, for example.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Other than some smaller, niggling
maintenance jobs around the house, the next big project will be
remodeling the kitchen. A task requiring ripping out and replacing
all the bottom cabinets, relocating the sink, fridge and dishwasher,
putting down a new floor in the kitchen and dining area, replacing
the counter top, and replacing all the appliances. There is a bit of
related work, as well, like cutting away some of the upper cabinet
where the refrigerator will eventually reside. Even doing the work
myself, I'm figuring a number somewhere between $10,000 and $12,000.
Ouch.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My intention was to embark on this
journey last fall, but my paying work began evaporating in September
and dried up to an agonizing trickle by the end of November. Like the
grasshopper, I hadn't prepared for such a winter downturn. When my
work had been flowing, I was putting money into video gear and trips to
shoot segments for BEER2WHISKEY. Rolling into January 1 of this year, I
didn't have one penny more in savings than I had on that date a year
earlier. In fact, my savings was down about 15 percent. The kitchen
project was on hold.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The first quarter this year wasn't any
better. I wasn't even thinking about the kitchen remodel. Heck, I was
contemplating selling the house. Like someone flipping a switch, work
began again in earnest in April and continues.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Having shoveled some money into my
savings, I am now pondering the kitchen remodel again. One stumbling
block had always been, how much to do? At some point, I will sell
this house. Even though I own it free and clear, it's never really
free or clear. There are taxes, insurance and, maintenance costs. A
couple unavoidable maintenance costs, such as a new roof, sewer line,
air handler and so forth, all come due eventually. I don't want to
deal with any of them. The stay-or-sell question's answer has always
been, sell; but when? If I'm going to sell soon, I will do less in
the kitchen. I won't relocate things, for one. It won't mean a whole
lot in the cost, but will take much less time.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Recently, one of the cracker-box houses
across the side street from me (I live on a corner lot.), was
purchased by an investment company that has poured tens of thousands
into it. That project is wrapping up. This past week, a dumpster appeared in the driveway of the vacant house next to it. Oh, be still
my heart. I've been waiting 11 years for someone to begin pouring
some bucks into my neighborhood, which once was the married-officers
quarters for Donaldson Air Force Base. I live off of one of
Greenville's major drags: Augusta Street (or Road, depending where on it
you are). Less than a mile up Augusta are $300,000 plus homes.
I've been waiting all these years for that to spread south. Looks
like it may now be doing just that.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, now I am thinking that I will stay
another couple of years, at least, and let my house follow the
neighborhood up in value.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In my spare time the past few days,
I've been online looking at kitchen cabinets and dreaming. I'm still
not quite ready to make a move, but I'm getting closer.</div>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ulR0nti8Fsg" width="560"></iframe>
Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-81017647371646732712019-06-16T07:27:00.001-07:002019-06-21T05:28:52.275-07:00Buying a Mattress on the Internet: Not Always Smooth Sailing<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jDUe5vEM3c0/XQZOmyQnhDI/AAAAAAAAHk8/CpaXiEJ9KrcFHJEfcBqeuYgfaxMd_JBGgCLcBGAs/s1600/20190613_064652.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jDUe5vEM3c0/XQZOmyQnhDI/AAAAAAAAHk8/CpaXiEJ9KrcFHJEfcBqeuYgfaxMd_JBGgCLcBGAs/s320/20190613_064652.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My God, it's magnificent. I've always wanted a Flying Wallendas Bed, and here it is!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm not the kind of guy who over
indulges himself, unless you count $100 bottles of bourbon, $500
cowboy boots and $12 per-pair casual socks (love those Bombas). Okay,
so maybe I indulge myself a little. But, the newest piece of
furniture in my house is a $450 expandable dining table and four
wooden folding chairs to match. I bought it six or seven years ago.
It has been used exactly once. Virtually every other stick of
furniture in my house is at least 20 years old.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MQoVCR84XS0/XQZPAx9ILVI/AAAAAAAAHlI/yYEbCj9qk8gSXOZUkYOmQ5fvIj4NVgz5wCLcBGAs/s1600/S0378156.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MQoVCR84XS0/XQZPAx9ILVI/AAAAAAAAHlI/yYEbCj9qk8gSXOZUkYOmQ5fvIj4NVgz5wCLcBGAs/s320/S0378156.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yep, it's 2014, and the solitary time this expandable dining table has been used.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I have purchased one suit in 20 years –
a black one I bought on sale online at Joseph A Bank a year or
so ago. I bought it to wear on the very rare
occasions that my funeral-home-owning friends need an extra old man
to stand around solemnly and nod at mourners. It was a business
expense, really. I only need work another 35 hours at the funeral
home to pay for it, the white shirts, conservative ties and black
London Fog raincoat that comprises the total ensembles. My friends,
of course, could just dress me in it when I die. In any event, it is
pretty much reserved for funeral-home use.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, recently pulling the trigger on a
$700 mattress was a big deal. My old mattress was at least 25 years old. The girl I was dating at the time and I went on a mattress-buying outing one Saturday. We decided we would each buy the same mattress/box-spring set for our apartments. That way, it didn't matter whose bed we wound up in, it would be familiar. Ah, to be young and silly again. I'm sure she's been through at least two or three mattresses since our pact, but, being a guy, I had the same mattress through six residences, a half-dozen relationships and a quarter of a century. Time to buy a mattress.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In fact, I pulled the mattress-buying trigger twice.
The first time was the Thursday or Friday of Memorial Day weekend. As
every red-blooded American should, I marked Memorial Day by buying a
mattress because I couldn't wait until the President's Day sales next
year. I found a 14-inch Novaform mattress at Costco regularly priced
at $899; I bought it for $699. The shipping was free with a promise
of 5 to 10 days delivery. The date of purchase was either May 23<sup>rd</sup>
or May 24<sup>th</sup>. I wasn't leaving home again on a trip until
June 7<sup>th</sup>. That was at least 13 days from purchase. Plenty
of time for a parcel promised in 5 to 10 days to arrive. The odds
were with me that it would actually be less than 10 days, I reasoned.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My strategy seemed to be validated with
a Costco e-mail the following Wednesday (5/29) that my mattress had
shipped and delivery was scheduled for Friday (5/31) before 7:30 p.m.
Well, 7:30 p.m. Friday came and went. No mattress. I logged onto Costco's Website
to check its tracking update for my mattress only to discover that it
shipped from Tupelo, Mississippi on Wednesday, making landfall 185
miles southwest in Jackson, Miss around midnight. And, it was still
sitting there.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I thought, okay, I'll probably see it
the following Monday (6/3). Nope. I rechecked the tracker: still in
Jackson. I live chatted UPS to ask why the hell my mattress was still
in Jackson. “We don't work on the weekends,” I was told. Well, we
all know that's not true. UPS trucks are zipping around all the time.
But, maybe the warehouse crews don't work weekends. The next day
(Tuesday 6/4), or day 11 of this fiasco, my mattress is still sitting
in, wait for it.....Jackson. I could have loaded the damn thing in a
wheelbarrow and pushed it from Tupelo to Jackson in 11 days. Point of
fact, I wouldn't have pushed it to Jackson because it's the wrong
direction. It's southwest for crying out loud. I would have pushed it
north east 185 miles, give or take, to Birmingham, Alabama.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
On Tuesday morning, I live chatted
customer service at Costco. I was told that if I factored in Memorial
day and weekends, that my mattress wasn't really due at my house
before Friday (6/7). I'm like, “Okay, can you tell me exactly what
date to expect it?”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No, we can't guarantee delivery
dates.”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well,” I responded, “Costco had
no problem promising delivery when it shipped.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That's why we don't guarantee
delivery dates.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“So, what you're telling me is, if
it's not here by Friday evening, I should get back in touch, right?
That's your answer?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yes,” she replied.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I explained why that wasn't going to
work. I was leaving town on Friday morning and that mattress wouldn't
last in my carport over the weekend. The only things I can put in my
carport overnight with any reasonable expectation they will still be
there the next morning are a car and an anvil. I can't take a chance
on it arriving while I was gone, I told her. Then she said the magic
words: “Do you want to cancel?” Why, yes, I do.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
That conversation took place the
morning of June 4<sup>th</sup>. Today is June 16<sup>th</sup> and I'm
still waiting for my $700 refund to appear in my bank account. Let's
see, carry the one...that's 12 days. I checked the tracker on
Wednesday (6/5) and it informed me the order was cancelled and the
mattress was on its never-ending journey back to Tupelo.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The moral of the story is, I'll never
again buy anything from Costco that I can't load in a cart and push
out the door of a Costco store. It's easy to be spoiled by Amazon Prime, but I
think even the U.S. Post Office can move a package farther than 200
miles in 11 days. Oh, and so can some other Internet retailers.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xQQTAFoSeU8/XQZPbRLztUI/AAAAAAAAHlU/FO1o5fiIwK4MD1Z8j8gGYPhYsSA64658QCLcBGAs/s1600/20190611_174944.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xQQTAFoSeU8/XQZPbRLztUI/AAAAAAAAHlU/FO1o5fiIwK4MD1Z8j8gGYPhYsSA64658QCLcBGAs/s320/20190611_174944.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Well, I got it this far. (Notice the unexpanded version of my dinning table to the left.).</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Right after I ordered the mattress from
Costco, I went to the Website of Wholesale Beddings and ordered
sheets. They were having a sale, too. I screwed up and ordered a set
of regular fitted sheets and hit Purchase. Once I had done that, I
couldn't find a way to cancel that order. I went ahead and ordered a
set of special fitted sheets to accommodate a 14-inch mattress. They
arrived at my door four days later. Of course, now I didn't have a
mattress to put them on. Well, the regular set I could have kept and
used on my bed, but I didn't need them.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Now, I had two sets of sheets to
return. That seemed like a lot of extra effort, which is verboten in
the slacker code. I got back online searching for foam-mattress
deals. I found a 14-inch Simmons Beauty Rest foam mattress at
Overstock.com. Supposedly it was a $2,000 mattress on sale for $700.
I seriously doubt it's regularly priced at two grand, but I'm sure it
was a deal nonetheless. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ChGiYzeq1AY/XQZPx7nkCXI/AAAAAAAAHlc/PecinnnbBV0TvtrBwog87uFxBbJoMjlhACLcBGAs/s1600/20190611_175117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ChGiYzeq1AY/XQZPx7nkCXI/AAAAAAAAHlc/PecinnnbBV0TvtrBwog87uFxBbJoMjlhACLcBGAs/s320/20190611_175117.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh, crap. How do I get this 98-lb thing up the stairs?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I pulled the trigger again. This time I
was able to pay through PayPal. What do you know, it showed up at my
house three days later. Three days, Costco!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rolled up in a box, the parcel tipped
the scale at 98 pounds, according to the UPS label. It was up to me
to somehow wrestle this nearly 100-pound load into the house, up the stairs
and onto my box springs, which I decided to keep when I hauled the
old mattress to the dump.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Opening the back door, I laid the box
down with the top against the top step going into the house, lifted
up the back end and shoved. I set it back on its end in the dining
area. Handles were cut into two sides of the box, I grabbed one and
dragged the box to the steps going to the third level. Now what?</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8BUgC1P-z3k/XQZQEaq5R9I/AAAAAAAAHlk/FgvleJzRcycsWOg9lj7PwxLgkp7JaOxZQCLcBGAs/s1600/20190611_175227.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8BUgC1P-z3k/XQZQEaq5R9I/AAAAAAAAHlk/FgvleJzRcycsWOg9lj7PwxLgkp7JaOxZQCLcBGAs/s320/20190611_175227.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's all down hill from here.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Laying the box down against the second
step I flipped it end over end up the stairs until it rested on
hallway floor. Then it was just a matter of dragging it into the
master bedroom.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DvWEOXmEotQ/XQZQYeVZtYI/AAAAAAAAHlw/1_LP3rcoWjYpxnjAgrl1MhTgu79MZufJwCLcBGAs/s1600/20190611_175651.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="689" data-original-width="936" height="235" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DvWEOXmEotQ/XQZQYeVZtYI/AAAAAAAAHlw/1_LP3rcoWjYpxnjAgrl1MhTgu79MZufJwCLcBGAs/s320/20190611_175651.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I cut open the top end of the box,
revealing the plastic-wrapped mattress. Flipping the box one last
time, I shook out the rolled-up mattress, which I then leaned on the
bed rail and pushed up onto the box springs. I had to cut away the
plastic wrapping.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G_6uDT0DmsU/XQZQawioH-I/AAAAAAAAHl0/Tpyr0L8yHxkYd8XadO3KRWFhIGb_QBe5QCEwYBhgL/s1600/20190611_181107.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G_6uDT0DmsU/XQZQawioH-I/AAAAAAAAHl0/Tpyr0L8yHxkYd8XadO3KRWFhIGb_QBe5QCEwYBhgL/s320/20190611_181107.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Springing open, the mattress itself was
still encased in a plastic wrapper, but it flattened out.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Sizing it up, I convinced myself that
it was the wrong mattress. It sure didn't look to be 14 inches high.
I grabbed a tape measure, calculating it was a mere 7-inches high. I
could hear it taking in air, but had serious doubts it would suck in
enough air to bring its height to 14 inches. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W7oFjrcFKOg/XQZQdtqVwbI/AAAAAAAAHl4/m5cz9SQMNf0eJLyN7vTN_ZBxFftR0RLWwCEwYBhgL/s1600/20190611_182214.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="947" height="273" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W7oFjrcFKOg/XQZQdtqVwbI/AAAAAAAAHl4/m5cz9SQMNf0eJLyN7vTN_ZBxFftR0RLWwCEwYBhgL/s320/20190611_182214.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It continued to grow. Within 10
minutes, it was indeed 14 inches high. I cut away the plastic casing,
and behold, the Bed Magnifico! I was able to stretch the old mattress
pad over it. After washing the new sheets, I made up the bed. My God,
it's magnificent!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I've always wanted a Flying Wallendas
bed. You know, one you need to take a running leap and spring up
into. Or, find an assistant to bend down, make a cradle with their hands and alley-oop you up into the bed. Now, I finally have one. This time of year I typically sleep in
the guest room on the lowest level of the house. It's cooler. I'd
need to turn the air conditioner down another 5 to 8 degrees to get
the temp cool enough on the third level to sleep. But, the night temps this
week were mild enough that the air conditioner wasn't going to kick
in. I opened the windows in the master bedroom and put in my fourth
night on the new mattress last night.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At this stage of my life, I don't sleep
all that well and need all the help I can get. I couldn't be happier with
this mattress. I dread heading back down to the guest room as the
night temps get back up to where they are historically this time of
year.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But, now, I have another reason,
besides football, to look forward to fall.</div>
<br />
<br />
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/BUiwGb-e6c0" width="560"></iframe>Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-81065191801087945002019-06-02T14:30:00.001-07:002019-06-02T14:38:38.539-07:00You Can't Go Home Again: Our Fiji House Is History<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KPQUigFwd7g/XPQ6gNewyZI/AAAAAAAAHig/iXA4nZoXfKoD_BNpPqkUCq0NzQtbKDfQACEwYBhgL/s1600/Da6eWksWAAAPgW6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KPQUigFwd7g/XPQ6gNewyZI/AAAAAAAAHig/iXA4nZoXfKoD_BNpPqkUCq0NzQtbKDfQACEwYBhgL/s320/Da6eWksWAAAPgW6.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some nameless group of undergrads taking a shot in front of our Sig Fiji House.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm not the kind of guy who dwells on
the past. For one thing, at my age I find myself with more history
than I have time to contemplate. For another, there's not much that
can be done about it. I must admit, it's also a bit painful thinking
about the steady diet of fun I had for decades, as compared with my
rather sedate life style today. One word pretty well sums up my life
today by its standards three decades ago: BORING! Yawn.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I was forced to mull over a chunk of my
past a couple of weeks ago while visiting a fraternity brother who
resides near Dayton, Ohio. Of course, whenever any of us get
together, conversation always lands decades in the past, reliving
antics revolving around our membership in the Phi Gamma Delta (Fiji)
fraternity at Wittenberg University. Ours is Sigma Chapter,
identifying it as the 18<sup>th</sup> chapter formed of a fraternity
dating back to 1848. Today there are somewhere in the neighborhood of
160 undergraduate chapters and colonies. Not bad in an era of a dying
Greek system.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
To say that Sigma Chapter had a rocky
year in 2019, would be an understatement of Biblical proportions. A
major fundraising effort to rebuild the fraternity house, which
apparently was no longer habitable, came up short. There wasn't the
money to demolish it and then rebuild it. The fallback plan was to
demolish the old chapter house, relocating the chapter to the former
Chi-O house next door. Sitting next to one another, both houses were
former mansions on a hill overlooking downtown Springfield. Not much
of a view, I'll grant you; but certainly a prime location, removed a
few blocks from campus, for a fraternity house.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GRo-QxYEutE/XPQ7bpYqzjI/AAAAAAAAHik/jA9AC4RIcDA5gLuUrNfSENwGtRkoFiaFgCLcBGAs/s1600/20190514_144834.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GRo-QxYEutE/XPQ7bpYqzjI/AAAAAAAAHik/jA9AC4RIcDA5gLuUrNfSENwGtRkoFiaFgCLcBGAs/s320/20190514_144834.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yep, this is the fallback. The former Chi-O house. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Today, the Chi-O house is no prize
either. It's in need of a lot of work, but evidently not in as bad as
shape as the old Fiji house. Decorum prevents me from going into a
lot of detail about our relationship with the Chi-Os when I lived in
the Fiji house in the early 1970s, but I did chuckle at the prospect
of that house being converted into the new Fiji house. I will say,
though, that one of my fondest memories involving a Chi-O sister was
standing on the porch roof (Sunova Beach, we called it.) of the Fiji
house and dumping a full beer on the head of a Chi-O standing on the
front porch steps 10 feet below as she was delivering a load of crap
to one of my brothers. She had screwed him over in some way that now
escapes me. But, being me, I determined that having wronged a brother, she deserved a Schlitz shower. Ah,
the good old days.....</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Otherwise, we would always scoop up a
couple of the Chi-Os who were studying late when we would make a
midnight run to the donut shop in Yellow Springs. It opened at
midnight with fresh donuts rolling right out of the oven. And, yes,
it is that Yellow Spings: home of Antioch College. We would pile six
or eight of us, and a couple of assorted Chi-Os. into a car and drive the 20
minutes to Yellow Springs.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ep7buITZTos/XPQ8mfpQw1I/AAAAAAAAHi0/mSIDMJd_Fmo4iZ7BWdUr-foTcKlrNLNhQCLcBGAs/s1600/MV5BMjI0OTc0OTAwMV5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTcwNjAzNzcxNw%2540%2540._V1_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ep7buITZTos/XPQ8mfpQw1I/AAAAAAAAHi0/mSIDMJd_Fmo4iZ7BWdUr-foTcKlrNLNhQCLcBGAs/s320/MV5BMjI0OTc0OTAwMV5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTcwNjAzNzcxNw%2540%2540._V1_.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bluto: "Christ, seven years of college down the drain."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Back to the story. So, after sorting out the bulk of the
house renovation issues with scores of graduate brothers kicking in
all sorts of cash to the project (Disclaimer: I wasn't one of them.),
the current undergraduate members managed to get the fraternity booted off of campus. Yep, officially, there's no Fiji chapter at
Wittenberg until the last undergraduate member graduates in 2022 or
whenever. If there's a Bluto among them, it could be even longer.
2025?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Now you have the pertinent background.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XmeRFxY8iRI/XPQ77KS-GQI/AAAAAAAAHiw/XZatOdhgabIpOKrd_irP5-yxYQW6S9KpQCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_20190514_145410_998.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XmeRFxY8iRI/XPQ77KS-GQI/AAAAAAAAHiw/XZatOdhgabIpOKrd_irP5-yxYQW6S9KpQCEwYBhgL/s320/IMG_20190514_145410_998.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">This is the driveway into the back parking lot blocked by flotsam from the now torn-down house. That's The Shanty in the background.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, my fraternity brother Ports and I
decide we would take a stroll (or in this case drive) down memory
lane and visit the Wittenberg campus. Springfield is a 30-minute
drive from his home. Our first stop was at the Fiji house. This being
late May, the school year was already over and most of the students
gone. Driving up what used to be the house driveway we found an empty
lot where the house once stood and our path blocked by a pile of
discarded furniture and mattresses in the driveway. We had kidded
earlier that we should find an old sofa to take with us, dump it on
the driveway and set it on fire. We did that very thing with one of
our sofas at the end of our senior year. We dragged it out a
third-floor window, tossed it off the roof onto the drive way and set
it aflame. Good times, right?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I can't tell you the sense of loss we
both felt as we stood on the driveway looking at a blank space where
the house once stood. The finality of it was almost too much to
ponder. All that remains of the original structures is a small
three-person residence building called The Shanty at the rear of the
property.<br />
<br />
We were both spring pledges our freshman year. The next three years were three of the best years of my life. I'd go back and do it all over again in a heartbeat. Seeing the house gone, cut a chunk out of me. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We wandered around the empty lot and
then around the old Chi-O house in a fog. It was utterly disturbing.
I hadn't been back to Wittenberg for any of the annual Fiji events
aimed at graduate members in well over 15 years. At this point, I
doubt I ever will again. For ever and ever, Amen.</div>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Mu1XThCSSuA" width="560"></iframe>
Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-15037793394587466122019-05-12T07:27:00.000-07:002019-05-12T07:27:09.402-07:00My Semi-Annual Bourbon Excursion to Louisville<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NToPbCtZbK8/XNgmHh1IDiI/AAAAAAAAHdk/f-6g_L8xNj4sNf9kdtzIM4EVVC7ay85VQCLcBGAs/s1600/S0013301.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NToPbCtZbK8/XNgmHh1IDiI/AAAAAAAAHdk/f-6g_L8xNj4sNf9kdtzIM4EVVC7ay85VQCLcBGAs/s320/S0013301.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Graceland of bourbon distilleries.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm not the kind of guy who doesn't
take advantage of any opportunity to sip some good bourbon. In fact,
I deem it more of a calling than an opportunity. At least that's what
I'm telling myself as I sit in the afterglow of a day flitting from
bourbon bar to bourbon bar in Louisville. It's a good thing I no
longer live in the Derby City. Drunk and broke is no way to live out
my remaining years. No, I just swoop in every six months or so, visit
friends and put a dent in the local bourbon supply.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Let me set your mind to rest, we do
have a designated driver for these little bourbon-infused excursions.
Also, most Louisville joints seriously pouring bourbon are attuned to
the needs of folks who just want to sample this or that. Many have
price lists including half-ounce pours. So, we aren't tossing back
bourbons two ounces at a time. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ql6XOBO0A3w/XNgmZqgBkpI/AAAAAAAAHds/kqe-1tAuW2EtFLEAG47bl_FczKDpxIhWgCLcBGAs/s1600/DSC02616.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1064" data-original-width="1600" height="212" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ql6XOBO0A3w/XNgmZqgBkpI/AAAAAAAAHds/kqe-1tAuW2EtFLEAG47bl_FczKDpxIhWgCLcBGAs/s320/DSC02616.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No serious bourbon drinker can live life without at least one visit to Louisville's Whiskey Row.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Earlier this year, I made a
half-hearted attempt to put together a group of friends to spend a
weekend in Louisville on a bourbon-tasting adventure. Because I just
came off one of the worst earning quarters in the past several years,
the Great Louisville Bourbon Gathering of 2019 was postponed –
perhaps until 2020. When I visit Louisville on my own, I stay with
friends and my only costs are an occasional meal out and the cost of
whatever bourbon I consume. The GLBG would have entailed renting a
house, securing transportation, meals and on and on and on. I simply
couldn't justify it with the uncertainty of revenue-producing work this year.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I firmly believe that to be a member of
the pseudo religion of bourbon, requires at least one pilgrimage to
Louisville. It is, in fact, where bourbon was elevated from glorified
moonshine to the wonderful elixir we know today. To turn distilling
bourbon into a money-making enterprise required a broader audience.
This audience was accessed by shipping bourbon south down the Ohio
River to ports in New Orleans. Louisville became the obvious jumping
off point for a bourbon's journey to world fame. (During your trip to
Louisville, be sure to invest an hour in the tour of the Evan
Williams facility on Mains Street. You will leave there with a rich
education in Louisville's contribution to launching bourbon.)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Although my first attempt at organizing
a GLBG failed miserably, I have not given it up. I want my fellow
bourbon travelers to experience Louisville's bourbon scene as I
have. I want them to belly up to the tasting bar at Liquor Barn, gaze,
open mouthed, at the scores of bourbons and ryes lining the shelves
spread across the wall behind the bar. I want them to be able to
thumb through the 40-page booklet of available brands to sample. And,
this would be just one stop on the agenda.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
No, I haven't given up on the GLBG.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
On these forays into bourbon country, I
usually have a wish list of difficult-to-find brands to purchase.
Elmer T Lee always tops this list that also includes Wild Turkey's
Forgiven, Col. E H Taylor Small Batch, Weller 12-Year Old and others.
One can dream, right?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Driving up to Louisville from
Greenville, SC, I had mapped out a number of liquor stores in the
Frankfort area to visit as I made my way to Buffalo Trace. A
fraternity brother of mine in Ohio had texted me the week before to
report that a buddy of his had visited Buffalo Trace that day and was
bringing him bottles of Blanton's, Eagle Rare and (wait for it) Col.
EH Taylor. I was stoked. Visions of hard-to-get bourbons danced in my
head. I was convinced that all I needed to do was get myself to
Buffalo Trace and bottles of Eagle Rare and EH Taylor would be mine.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Tell God your plans and watch him
laugh, right? Just outside of Frankfort proper, Buffalo Trace is easy
to find and to get to. It's not officially on the Bourbon Trail, but
is surrounded by distilleries that are. You must look for it
separately. Anyone investing the time and effort to follow the
Bourbon Trail is missing out if he/she doesn't add Buffalo Trace to
the itinerary. It is, after all, the Graceland of distilleries. It's a
tourist trap of the first order. I have no clue how much revenue it
generates annually, but I've never been there when it wasn't packed
with tourists eager to plunk down hard-earned dinero for a tour, tee-shirt, set
of coasters or some other trinket emblazoned with the Buffalo Trace
logo. The only thing missing is a photographer set up in front of the
huge bison sculpture, snapping photos of mugging tourists with the iconic sculpture and selling them for $20
a pop.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
On the plus side, Buffalo Trace offers
one of the better distillery tours I've ever experienced. And, if you
are lucky, you can buy one or two of its hard-to-find labels right
out of the gift shop. I was not so lucky. After parking in the
sprawling parking lot and hiking to the gift shop, I found shelves
lined with a Bailey's-like beverage. “Hey, where's the EH Taylor?
Where's the Eagle Rare?” “Not here,” the ghost of the Great
Buffalo taunted me. Nuts!</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-C12DNWrJClI/XNgndqaagrI/AAAAAAAAHd4/8FBpqkKHSJ4aX86Tzs6SwRH7IaPZG3QrwCLcBGAs/s1600/20190510_134553.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-C12DNWrJClI/XNgndqaagrI/AAAAAAAAHd4/8FBpqkKHSJ4aX86Tzs6SwRH7IaPZG3QrwCLcBGAs/s320/20190510_134553.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes!</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Foiled in my plan to buy at least some
of what I was searching for at Buffalo Trace, I fell back on my
liquor-store list. I visited three Frankfort liquor stores before
getting on I-64 to continue to Louisville. I did manage to find a
single bottle of Eagle Rare at my last Frankfort liquor-store stop.
Twenty-or-so miles west of Frankfort is Shelbyville. I like
Shelbyville with its historic downtown. I had some time to burn and
decided to take its exit and search a liquor store or two in the
area. As soon as I exited, there was a liquor store. I wandered in
with low expectations, but, what do you know, I found another bottle
of Eagle Rare. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mqi6mD1D580/XNgnrdH0w4I/AAAAAAAAHd8/1ONHyNvJvishHU5wI745CxVMZNpxs7PWgCLcBGAs/s1600/20190510_142644.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mqi6mD1D580/XNgnrdH0w4I/AAAAAAAAHd8/1ONHyNvJvishHU5wI745CxVMZNpxs7PWgCLcBGAs/s320/20190510_142644.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I was on a roll.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I found my way to State Route 60
running parallel to I-64 and headed west. The friends I stay with in
the Louisville area live off of Rt 60 roughly 15 miles west of
Shelbyville. I Googled liquor stores near me and found two on Rt 60.
In the first one, I found a bottle of Col. EH Taylor for $49.
Trumpets sounded, a flock of white doves ascended and angels wept.
Once again I was little Rusty falling to my knees in awe of the
mountain of gaily wrapped presents under the Christmas tree. Wiping
the tears away, I climbed back into the Kicks Nissan provided me for
this extended trip and moved on to the next liquor store on my list.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I walked in the store and found a
second bottle of EH Taylor. Here it was priced at $65. Having just
bought a bottle for $49, and thinking if two stores each had a
bottle, others must, as well. I passed on the $65 price tag. That
may have been a dumb thing to do, but I couldn't justify spending $15
more.
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cXStEejdOaI/XNgn50u4WgI/AAAAAAAAHeE/H2UcXaNcm-ksC9WLFRT_l6nzXZCEt2u0wCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_20190511_112309_858.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cXStEejdOaI/XNgn50u4WgI/AAAAAAAAHeE/H2UcXaNcm-ksC9WLFRT_l6nzXZCEt2u0wCLcBGAs/s320/IMG_20190511_112309_858.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This a liquor-store tasting area done Louisville style.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
That was Friday. Saturday was our day
to wallow in the bourbon experience. We visited a couple of big
liquor stores where we sampled a few bourbons and I found a couple of
new bourbons to add to my stash at home. Then we hit downtown
Louisville's Whiskey Row. This is an 8-to-10-block stretch of
Louisville's Main Street that is almost entirely devoted to all
things bourbon. There are bourbon distilleries, bourbon bars and
bourbon restaurants operating in what used to be a warehouse district
just a couple of blocks from the river. Although two or three bourbon
joints we visited had Elmer T Lee on their bourbon list, they didn't
actually have it to pour. Elmer T Lee is an elusive label distilled at, you
guessed it, Buffalo Trace. I have unsuccessfully hunted it for the
past two or three years. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f-6WhdF5v3I/XNgoR6T52nI/AAAAAAAAHeQ/XLfq5sVVM6ogo4SuXJf93XoOmCmK508YACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_20190511_160232_810.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f-6WhdF5v3I/XNgoR6T52nI/AAAAAAAAHeQ/XLfq5sVVM6ogo4SuXJf93XoOmCmK508YACLcBGAs/s320/IMG_20190511_160232_810.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two birds, one stone: This is a stout-barrel-finished bourbon aged and bottled by Goodwood craft brewery.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We hit a couple of joints, had a sip of
bourbon in each and then headed for home to rest up for dinner and
then post-dinner bourbon sipping. Dinner was at Eddie Merlot's, a steak
house in downtown Louisville. There I found another bourbon I had
never heard of called Wathen's. It will be on my list to buy on my
next Louisville junket. After dinner we stopped at Checks BBQ and
Blues for a nightcap. Running my finger up and down the columns of
bourbons in its whiskey list, I discovered Elmer T Lee. With
absolutely no expectation of them having it, I asked the server for a
pour, neat, of course.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Imagine my surprise when she returned
with it. Not only did they have it, the bartender told me he had
three more bottles in the back room. What? I know where my first stop
will be on my next Louisville visit.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GHC-2TK9nL4/XNgosBEsXxI/AAAAAAAAHec/lbjiRnbZZzkNnpeNWNReswtoQKSrCSI3ACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_20190511_214257_035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GHC-2TK9nL4/XNgosBEsXxI/AAAAAAAAHec/lbjiRnbZZzkNnpeNWNReswtoQKSrCSI3ACLcBGAs/s320/IMG_20190511_214257_035.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finally, a pour of the highly prized Elmer T Lee! I can now die happy.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Cheers! </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/1TpNzXTC-cM" width="560"></iframe>Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-82936366410176200112019-04-07T06:56:00.002-07:002019-04-07T07:07:52.520-07:00Bend Over. It's Income Tax Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vGKINCwWd34/XKoAJcZ39YI/AAAAAAAAHZc/h7kxzqIjI3IABZiGWbMkzOfmi1laEDCTQCLcBGAs/s1600/1040alt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="200" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vGKINCwWd34/XKoAJcZ39YI/AAAAAAAAHZc/h7kxzqIjI3IABZiGWbMkzOfmi1laEDCTQCLcBGAs/s1600/1040alt.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm not the kind of guy who thinks we
as individuals shouldn't have to pony up some small fraction of what
it costs to maintain the federal government each year. The term “fair share”
is bandied about a lot. I'm not sure what constitutes fair share. No
one seems to be able pinpoint it. Here's my take: I'm just one
person. It would seem to me determining fair share would divide what
it costs to run the country by the number of people sharing the
protections of the national government, and that would be my <i>fair</i>
share. It would be the same from diapers to the grave. Choosing to
have a family would put the head of household on the hook for picking
up the slack of those in the household too young to work.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Radical; I know. But, apparently, truly fair is a radical concept in our society.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Instead we have a progressive income
tax system in which an individual's share is determined by taxing net
income. The final income amount can be manipulated by capitalizing on
loopholes and deductions within the U.S. tax code that's so thick you
could stand on it to change an overhead light bulb. If you are
clever, or well off enough to be able to afford someone really clever
to put all those loopholes and deductions to good use, you get to pay
less. If not, you are left to pay more, but certainly not a fair
share.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Of course, the rate at which that net
income is taxed is based on an arbitrary sliding scale. The higher
the net income, the more tax is paid. In other words, the more
successful – as measured by net income – an individual is, the
higher rate of tax. Maybe I don't understand what “fair” means. I
looked it up in Webster's dictionary. It defined fair as “marked by
impartiality and <a href="https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/honesty">honesty</a>
<b>: </b>free from self-interest, prejudice, or
favoritism.” Wait; I did know the definition of fair.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I grapple with this whole income-tax
thing about this time every year. Every April I spend two or three
hours filling in blanks on some online tax program to come up with
what I owe for enjoying the protections of our national government
during the previous year. It almost always seems like a lot. It seems
excessive. It seems punishing. It never seems to fit within the
definition of fair.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My situation is different in many ways
from the typical citizen filing a 1040. For one thing, I'm over 66,
and treated somewhat differently than a younger person working 8:30
to 5:00. I work for myself, which adds yet another twist to the
process. After investing all this time filling out all the required
information about my income and expenses, I am usually facing some
amount to pay. Sometimes it's a shock and sometimes it isn't. It never seems quite fair.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
People receiving a W-2 are in a
different boat.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
To avoid trying to collect a lump sum
from everyone at the end of the year, the federal government forces
employers to take money out of a employee's pay every pay period and
loan it to them. Every April those employees must go through hours of
paperwork to, in effect, petition the government to repay that loan
minus whatever tax was owned. The government does so, but without
paying any interest on that money. That doesn't seem to quite fit the
definition of “fair,” either.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
After filing federal taxes for nearly
half a century, one thing I do know: There's nothing fair about it.</div>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/pz5SkNduXWo" width="560"></iframe>Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-14972481812070666482019-03-30T07:46:00.001-07:002019-03-30T11:32:56.501-07:00From AT&T to Spectrum: I Never Thought I'd Write That<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-h7Ht9UhRzSA/XJ9-v9kKMBI/AAAAAAAAHXc/KpuYy-A84aEBLXEWTKvheAIGIAE56caGgCLcBGAs/s1600/Internet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="202" data-original-width="250" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-h7Ht9UhRzSA/XJ9-v9kKMBI/AAAAAAAAHXc/KpuYy-A84aEBLXEWTKvheAIGIAE56caGgCLcBGAs/s1600/Internet.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm not the kind of guy who has
historically acted on his knee-jerk reactions. Yes, there are times I
act impulsively, as when I bought my house in Boynton Beach, Fla. in
2001, and especially when I bought my house in Greenville in 2006. In
my defense, I made out like a bandit on the sale of my Boynton home
when I sold it in 2006. During the housing boom, it more than doubled
in value in the five-or-so years I owned it. Too soon to tell with my
Greenville home, but I certainly won't sustain a loss.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Removing those two decisions from the
averaging, I usually think things through. I may still not make the
best decision, but it isn't because I haven't thought about it. It's
taken not one, but several factors to nudge me into changing gyms.
It's been a progression of smaller things that have morphed into an
avalanche of reasons to move on after 11 years. Some are almost
insignificant, like changing the music played over the sound system
from various satellite-radio stations alternating from classic rock
to current pop, to permanently turning to some head-banging station
where screeching and hollering pass for music. They have been
torturing the membership with this for nearly a month. It's like a
Chinese water torture: drip, drip, drip. Why not just waterboard us
as we enter and get it over with? Other deciding factors are larger,
like the machines not being maintained. I haven't pulled the trigger
on the change yet. That will come sometime on Monday, but the
decision is made.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
You may well be thinking <i>where in
the hell is he going with this?</i> Stay with me.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Also early on Monday, if
Comcast/Spectrum is on schedule, I will replace my AT&T Internet
connection with Spectrum's Internet. At least I hope they are on
schedule; AT&T will terminate my service at midnight on Sunday.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The reason I am penning this entry to
Clanging Bell today (Saturday), rather than my usual Clanging Bell
day (Sunday), is that I've been knocked off the Internet twice
already this morning. And, it isn't even 9:00. I will be at home the
next two weeks and have a ton of work to do before returning to the
road in mid April. I have some big assignments to knock out. Today
was to be a research day for a couple of those assignments. I can't
research if my Internet isn't performing. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A little background. Because of the
treeline to the south of my house, satellite TV doesn't work for me.
I have two choices for TV content: AT& T Uverse or
Comcast/Spectrum. I had Comcast when I first moved to Greenville, but
it has positively the worst DVR in the industry. It is severely
limited in the number of channels it can record simultaneously. I
dumped it after a year for Uverse. When I switched to Uverse, I also
changed my phone service from Verizon to AT&T. My Internet
service had always been with AT&T. Yes, I bundled. Perhaps the
biggest scam in the digital universe.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EQNoebNGf2w/XJ9_V_1UATI/AAAAAAAAHXs/6B7V6ru04AslKK7UsGtsiqUtGInTLG4fQCLcBGAs/s1600/07-youve-got-mail.w1200.h630.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1200" height="168" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EQNoebNGf2w/XJ9_V_1UATI/AAAAAAAAHXs/6B7V6ru04AslKK7UsGtsiqUtGInTLG4fQCLcBGAs/s320/07-youve-got-mail.w1200.h630.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At the time I started with AT&T
Internet, streaming still wasn't much of a thing. Also, I wasn't
uploading videos to Vimeo or YouTube. The 12 mbps (Laughable, I
know.) I originally purchased gave me all the steam I needed for what
I was doing. Even when uploading my short 3- to 5-minute just3things
videos to Vimeo, upload time was reasonable. Once I began
BEER2WHISKEY, which has segments running as long as 30 minutes,
suddenly it was taking five, six, even seven hours to upload to
YouTube. I mitigated that by uploading over night. I was unhappy, but
making do.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I recently stayed at a Ritz Carlton.
While there, I finished editing a 20-min B2W segment and went about
uploading it. It uploaded in about 90 minutes. This was four hours
less than it would have required at home. I took a giant step in
making the decision to switch.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kuUezjmDVbE/XJ9_fy56UkI/AAAAAAAAHXw/UEInbW2ZMDspBtNMfYs-2PGk4aeNJBmXACLcBGAs/s1600/Poor%2Btv%2Breception.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="299" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kuUezjmDVbE/XJ9_fy56UkI/AAAAAAAAHXw/UEInbW2ZMDspBtNMfYs-2PGk4aeNJBmXACLcBGAs/s1600/Poor%2Btv%2Breception.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In the past couple of months, streaming
at my house has taken a nose dive. Often the picture quality is like
watching an episode of "Bewitched" on a 1969 Admiral table-top TV with rabbit ears.
There were times I couldn't even get Amazon TV to come in. This issue
became progressively worse to the point that between 4 pm and 8 pm on
weekdays, I can't stream at all. I suspect it has something to do
with kids being home from school and gaming or whatever. AT&T's
broadband during those hours apparently is something akin to the Blue
Ridge Parkway during fall-foliage season: stop and go. As I say, in
recent days on my PC, my Internet drops two or three times an hour.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I returned home from my Ritz Carlton
stay, and checked on my current Internet plan with AT&T. This was
when I realized the $64 a month I was paying was only giving me 12
mbps. But hey, they had another plan that, for $2 more, I could get up
to 24 mbps. I “upgraded” to that two or three weeks ago. Clearly
the key phrase in that upgrade offer is, “up to 24 mbps.” There
was not a prayer that I was going to actually see 24 mbps or anything
close to it. I did see it up to 10 mbps while I was streaming
something from Amazon TV, but on a good day it hovers around 6 mbps.
During peak times, it was more like 2 or 3 mbps. Two bucks doesn't
buy you much in the world of broadband.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Early last week I checked out Spectrum.
I receive solicitations from them like I owe them money: often two
per week. Normally that would be enough to prevent my reaching out to
them, but, as I mentioned above, my choices here are limited. The
offer I found and picked is 400 mbps for less than $50. Seems like a
bargain, right? I took it and made an appointment for 8 am this
coming Monday to have it installed.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Now came calling AT&T to cancel my
current Internet service. I got Paul from AT&T's customer service
on the phone. He's located in Dallas, he was quick to tell me,
letting me know he wasn't Bob from New Delhi. To his (and AT&T's)
credit, he didn't try to keep me on the phone for 20 minutes
attempting to talk me out of canceling the Internet portion of my
service. But he did tell me he wished I had called before taking the
plunge with Spectrum. You see, he confided to me, my area qualifies
for an upgrade to 100 mbps that only entails an AT&T tech showing
up and attaching some sort of box to the side of my house. Oh, and
the upgraded service would cost $14 less than I am currently paying.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Are you kidding me?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rather than instilling some degree of
buyer's remorse in me, the double-secret-probation offer ticked me
off. If this upgrade is available in my area, why was this the first
I had heard of it. When I upgraded a few weeks earlier, this 100 mbps
option wasn't on the list of available services. I never received an
e-mail nor a snail-mail letter notifying me of the 100 mbps option.
Nope, apparently this is something they keep in their back pocket as
a hail Mary to try to retain defecting customers. It would have
worked on me had I not already scheduled new service. Problem was, I
was already over the wall. I had already defected.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, beginning Monday (fingers crossed),
I will have new and much improved Internet. I am stoked.</div>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/4pioyspD7S0" width="560"></iframe>
Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-31073768117863716002019-03-17T06:17:00.003-07:002019-05-12T07:32:55.576-07:00I Stumbled as the Technology Around Me Crumbled<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tWY5_QdBzCc/XI5Ifv76xrI/AAAAAAAAHVI/EvjZ8J_S91EwwjW-5CHMobQuR1ybP43VQCLcBGAs/s1600/screaming-person.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="299" data-original-width="401" height="238" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tWY5_QdBzCc/XI5Ifv76xrI/AAAAAAAAHVI/EvjZ8J_S91EwwjW-5CHMobQuR1ybP43VQCLcBGAs/s320/screaming-person.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm not the kind of guy who embraces a
lot of change. Yes, there are things that need changing; I get that.
However, rocking the boat just to see who or what falls out, isn't
something I do for kicks.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Last month I was on the road for two
straight weeks. Well, I was back in Greenville once for a whopping 11
hours and home for about 9 hours of that. It was long enough to
unpack, do a load of wash, repack, grab six hours of sleep and get
back to the airport. Sometime between that brief home stand and my
final return three days later, all hell broke lose.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Maybe that's being a little too
dramatic.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
For the couple of weeks I've been back,
I've been in connectivity/technology hell. I'm ready to gut punch a
kitten. I've had it with computers, printers, personal devices, AT&T,
whoever the jerks are who make GoPro, Apple, iTunes, and the list
goes on and on. My head is pounding just thinking about it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I get alerts from Duke Energy whenever
there is a significant power outage in my area. Apparently there was
one during the three-day period mentioned above. The lights went out
at my home. I have no clue how long the house was without
electricity, but it was long enough that I received two messages
about it over a 24-hour period. If I lived in Wisconsin, a
12-plus-hour outage in February might have meant frozen water pipes,
as well as other catastrophes. But, that's why I live south of the
Mason-Dixon line.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
No, what I did come home to was all of
my digital clocks flashing, and all the timers controlling lights
when I'm out of town turning those lights on at 2:30 in the
afternoon. I reset all of those only to have Duke Power, the next
day, intentionally shut down electricity in the area to “make some
improvements.” Whatever that means. I got to reset everything all
over again. (Oh and then the time change: another round of resetting
it all.)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It wasn't until that afternoon that I
finally fired up my PC to do a little work and found my Wi-Fi wasn't
working. I couldn't connect to the Internet. I rebooted everything. I
unplugged my ATT gateway and plugged it back in. Nada. My network
didn't even appear when accessing available Wi-Fi networks. I was on
the phone with the AT&T robot three times trying different
troubleshooting solutions. By now, I had burned through more than two
hours. I was steaming. You see, I can't make phone calls from inside
my house with AT&T without Wi-Fi calling. Each call entailed me
heading out to the carport in 40-degree temps to make calls.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Eventually, I got a human being on the
phone. Although English was obviously not her first language, I had
her repeat things until I understood what she was saying. Sometimes I
got the gist of what she was saying on the first repeat and sometimes
on the third or fourth. For some reason known only to the gremlins
constantly attacking our technology, during all of the power outages,
my Wi-Fi network reset itself to the factory network name and
password. The technician I spoke with couldn't explain it, or if she
did, I didn't realize it. There was a lot of chattering going on. We
reset the password and I had Wi-Fi again. Of course, that meant going
through my long list of Wi-Fi-connected devices, including outside
security cameras, and reconnecting. Another 90 minutes up in smoke.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
While in Florida during my two-week
sabbatical, I decided the issue with my phone signal reception was due
to the phone. I was having the same problem making calls and sending
texts where I was staying as I was at home. Because one of my friends
I stay with works for Verizon, he was familiar with the closest AT&T
cell site, which also happens to host a Verizon site. They have no
problem with their cell-phone signals. Although my phone was only 13
months old, I decided to pull the trigger and replace it. I ordered a
new phone, which was waiting for me when I returned at the end of my
trip.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Of course, signal reception isn't any
better on the new phone. I'm keeping it, however, because it's a
little smaller than the phone it replaces. It's easier to slip in my
back pocket. When I bought the phone just over a year ago, it marked
a switch from Apple to Android. After nearly 14 months, I am still
not an Android fan, but I stuck with Android because for the last 12
months of using my third iPhone, it was updating twice or more a week.
What a pain. Finally, somewhere in all that updating, it caused the
GPS function on the phone to quit working. The phone knew where it
was as long as I was stationary, but the moment I began to move, it
had no clue where it was. I couldn't use Google Maps or any other
direction app. That was enough to finish me with iPhones.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Since I've been with Android, I've been
trying to figure out a way to move all of the iTunes music I've
purchased over the years to my Android phone. Last week I finally
broke down and spent $40 (annual subscription) on an app to transfer
iTunes music from my iPod to my PC and then back to my Android phone.
I'll eventually cancel the subscription. I have been able to make the
transfers, but rather than playlists, the songs have transferred in
file folders. I struggled with being able to get the phone to play
songs in succession. I had to click on each song to play it. Another
blood-pressure raising task.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm please to report, however, that I
finally overcame the song-transfer issue. For the first time in 16
months, I'm able to share my entire music library with my Android
phone and play songs in whichever car I am driving. A small victory,
but I'll take them as they come.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Over the Christmas holiday, I bought a
GoPro on a site called Daily Sale. I get an update of new sale items
each day. I really have never had an interest in GoPro. Recently,
though, I've been thinking about doing just3things car reviews from
behind the wheel. As I was scrolling through the sale items one day I
came across an $80 deal on GoPro Hero 3+ cameras for $80. I couldn't
pass it up. I ordered it. It's arrival required about two weeks. Once
delivered, it sat, unopened for another month. I finally got around
to opening the shipping box since returning from my two week trip.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Once I had the shipping box open, I
discovered the GoPro in a plain white box. Somehow I totally missed
the fact that this was, in fact, a refurbished camera. Had I realized
that, I would have opened it sooner. Once open, I had to buy a mini
SD card. I got on Amazon ordered that, as well as one for my new
phone. I also bought a couple of other GoPro accessories like a mount
and spare batteries. A couple of days ago I watched a YouTube video
on the subject and then set up my Hero 3+. I also downloaded the App
allowing me to perform some basic operations on the GoPro through my
phone, as well as use my phone as a monitor. Of course, the phone and
GoPro wouldn't automatically sync. No, I need the serial number to do
it manually. Where's the serial number? you may ask. It's supposed to
be in the battery compartment. Fat chance. The serial-number sticker
is missing leaving behind some glue residue in its place. Had the
phone not been sync'd previously, I could do it with the factory
settings, but that's not an option either. I reached out to Daily
Sale. More on this in a future Clanging Bell.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As part of my Wi-Fi fiasco, the Wi-Fi
connection between my PC and Canon printer was severed. I couldn't
get the printer back online. I attempted to delete it from my PC,
download a new driver and whatever else I could think of. After
fooling with it for more than an hour, I was well over my tolerance
threshold. I sprang a gasket. I was fed up with fighting technology.
I got on Amazon and ordered a new printer. Of course, even though the
new printer is from the same Canon line as the old one, it takes
different ink cartridges. They looked the same in the online photos,
but they are different. Consequently the box of spare cartridges is
worthless to me. I'm hanging on to the old printer. It will rest in
the upstairs spare bedroom until I have put enough distance between
my breakdown and recovery to attempt to get it up and functioning
again.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I am fed up with AT&T. I'm going to
have to live with its lack of cell coverage for another year. I'm not
going through all the crap associated with reconfiguring my phone for
a new carrier. But I will be shopping for a new broadband provider. I
am too exhausted to lay it all out here, but even after doubling my
broadband with AT&T, I still can't stream anything between 4 p.m.
and 7 p.m. I assume it has something to do with kids being home from
school and, en masse, logging on to game or whatever. All the extra
traffic on AT&T's system knocks me off. It's fine earlier in the
day and later in the evening. So, I'll waste more time and expend
more energy (physical and emotional) addressing this issue.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Oh, the humanity.....</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250813038722859302.post-46831673217893024002019-02-03T06:54:00.001-08:002019-02-03T06:54:14.392-08:00Super Bowl Blues
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SAxzDzcLIqA/XFcAabsui3I/AAAAAAAAHAU/QaB60mok_54M-5XYDDVkW0UhlpXhJgbiQCLcBGAs/s1600/mike-tomlin-draft-pick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SAxzDzcLIqA/XFcAabsui3I/AAAAAAAAHAU/QaB60mok_54M-5XYDDVkW0UhlpXhJgbiQCLcBGAs/s320/mike-tomlin-draft-pick.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm not the kind of guy to cry over
spilled milk. As I prepare myself to attend a Super Bowl party later
today to watch a game in which I have little interest, I can't help
but think about how the Steelers squandered yet another season with a
team that should have, at the very least, made it into the playoffs,
if not the Super Bowl.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When a team begins its season by being
played to a draw by the less-than-dynamic Cleveland Browns, you know
there is a problem and it originates at the top. I have always been a
fan of Mike Tomlin, but how can you explain fielding a team brimming
with talent to so little effect, if not an issue of coaching?
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I can't.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Sure there was some drama within the
Steelers ranks. Bell sitting out the season in a snit for one
example. The front office miscalculated when they supposed he would
eventually show up for practice rather than lose nearly $10 million.
Clearly he is willing to sacrifice short term-money for long-term
wealth. Or, maybe he just doesn't really want to play football
anymore. That's a possibility. In either case, his talent was missed,
particularly in the scramble in the season's closing days to squeak
into the playoffs. Then there was Antonio Brown who may have so
poisoned his relationship with the team that he can't effectively
come back.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
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But, historically, these sorts of
troubles aren't reserved just for the Steelers. Every team has its
drama.
</div>
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<br />
</div>
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Nope, the Steelers missing the playoffs
is a failure of leadership plain and simple. And because it is, I
don't see a way through. Next season will be a repeat of this season.
Talent and opportunity wasted.</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Now I find myself forced to pull for
the Rams today, if I even pay any attention at all. What a waste.</div>
Clanging Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02049550374812770271noreply@blogger.com0