... Begins with a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Good Kwanzaa, and otherwise all-around happy Friday to everyone. I am not a man who discriminates based upon the beliefs of another. I try to accommodate every faith. I make no secret of my Mormon faith. It's no secret that I was a pretty lousy Mormon for a long, long period of time, either. My decision to become a Mormon was based on a personal quest to find which religion was right for me, and I've looked into as many Christian based faiths as I have non-Christian. I've read translations of enough of the Koran to know that "true Islam" is a quest for peace, I've learned to respect the faith of others, and I would hope to be treated in kind.
That being said...
The verdict on 2015 is in... it sucked. It was on it's way to being "Ho-Hum," and almost got there, until the transfer case on my 2002 RAV4 goes out on me on I-80, coming home from a Stake Temple Assignment. Fortunately, I was able to navigate my way onto the shoulder of the road, and no accidents or near-misses occurred. We were safe, it was cold, and we really weren't dressed for it. We weren't far from home, and by the time the tow truck driver had the RAV safely secured, daughter Tyffany showed up to take us home. I did the fastest "Temple-dress-to-working-clothes" change ever recorded, was out the door, and on my way to Toyota. As I drove up, a security guard was approaching a locked gate, at which our driver was sitting. He said he called me, but my phone was still in the RAV (one of the things I was intending to retrieve), so it was lucky that I got there when I did.
Long story short, need new transfer case. No such thing in USA, however there were two available in Japan. Part should be here on, or before December 24, and depending upon when it arrives, the work should be done by December 26 at the latest. Estimated cost: $5700 parts/labor/taxes/etc.
No one, however, can explain HOW my transfer case came to be, as Ray (at Toyota Service) told me, "dry as a bone." The way I understand it is that there is a front seal, and a rear seal, neither of which showed any signs of leaking, and yet a mostly closed system of 90W gear oil is suddenly dry? I asked. Ray started sputtering, trying to go on about the people maintaining my car (Firestone), but I had had this conversation with Firestone a few minutes earlier, and noted that Toyota was the only one's even near the transfer case, particularly when they did a transmission system flush two years ago. I have a idea of how it might have happened.
Scenario One:
During the transmission system flush, oil was drained from the transfer case, either mistakenly, or intentionally. Not totally, the vehicle wouldn't last very long with no oil. Taking a portion sufficient enough to allow heat to build, over a period of time, it took time to manifest, but the oil eventually burned out on the inside of the transfer case.
Scenario Two"
During the transmission system flush, something was, either mistakenly, or intentionally, introduced into the transfer case an agent that might have adversely impacted the viscosity of the oil in the case, burning it off over time.
I'm actually leaning towards the second scenario. Particularly if a de-greasing agent is introduced during the transmission flush. I am going to stand fast on this one, because I didn't F anything up. I'm going to ask them who worked on the transmission in 2013, if he/she is still employed, how long had they been on the job in 2013, any other complaints about this persons work?
Until last Tuesday, 2015 was just another year to forget, too.
Saturday, December 19, 2015
Monday, December 7, 2015
December 7, 2015
Today is the 74th Anniversary of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. More than 2,000 people were killed, thousands more wounded, and a crippling blow on the US Navy was delivered in a short period of time. Americans came together, rebuilt the fleet, and masterfully conducted war on a global scale, proving to the world that, "You don't *&$# with America."
September 11, 2001, Islamist terrorists hijack four commercial aircraft, slam two of them into the towers of the World Trade Center, another into the Pentagon, and lost the fourth to a courageous group of passengers who forced the plane into the ground, killing everyone aboard. All totaled, more than 3,000 people lose their lives in the attack, thousands more wounded, and thousands more with ongoing medical problems from the dust from the falling towers, or injuries related to the attack. Americans came together, rebuilt the tower, toppled a sadistic dictator and a tyrannical leadership bringing freedom to both Iraq and Afghanistan.
Fast Forward another fourteen years, to 2015. Islamist terrorists publicly behead anyone in Syria and Iraq that isn't affiliated with ISIS. They carry out attacks in Germany, German warplanes fly 1,100 sorties in a week. The terrorists kill 130 some people in Paris, French warplanes fly another 1,200 sorties in a week. In California, 14 people are killed by a couple who have pledged allegiance to the "Islamic State," the President cites the need for more gun control, our Governor flies to San Bernadino to get a few photo's taken before he goes to Paris to show the world what a Paradise he has created in California, and it takes Presidential speech writers 4 days to come up with a spin on the attack that meets with Obama's approval. Meanwhile, US military aircraft continue to run less than 50 sorties per week. Is it me? Or is there something wrong?
First of all, the Right to own weapons is guaranteed by our Constitution, more correctly by the Second Amendment to the Constitution, such Amendments being known as The Bill of Rights. It would take a Constitutional Amendment to change that, and that just cannot happen. The sole purpose of the Second Amendment is to protect the citizenry from a Government that seeks to ignore the Constitution for the purpose of oppressing We The People. While many are distracted by gun control, many others are assailing our Right to Free Speech under the guise of Political Correctness. All the while, the President, by his own words, "has a phone and a pen," and no intention of living up to his oath of office to, "protect and defend" the Constitution, not "object and suspend".
I'm 64, and have 30 - 35 years, tops, left on this planet, and yet I may still live to see this Country suffer some horrendous injury. That thought saddens me in ways I cannot describe. I pray, every day, that Americans put aside their petty arguments, and start working together one more time.
In the 20th Century, American history was a continuing story of overcoming any disaster, Natural or man-made. So far, the 21st Century is a story of vanity, over-sensitivity, and entitlement. It's not a great start, but together we can overcome anything. We're AMERICAN'S damn it! It's time to go back to acting like it.
Friday, November 20, 2015
I've Gotten Hung-up...
... in the heat of the moment, and may have said some things that I regret regarding the settlement of Syrian refugees in the US. I am not against granting political asylum to people who are being bombed out of their own homes by people who have perverted a religion to their own vision of settling the Crusades once and for all. If we were a Nation where no citizens were homeless, or hungry, or lacking in any of the necessities of life, I'd be the first person in line to welcome them to my country. If we didn't have thousands of my brother and sister veterans being denied the medical care that was promised them in their enlistment contracts, I would help lay down the red carpet. The fact is, that neither of these things have been done, and have gotten worse under an administration that views it's military with disdain, and would rather give tax money to people who cross the border illegally (yeah, I said it) than make good on it's promises to those who sacrificed to serve the Nation.
Charity Begins at Home. I once saw these words, embroidered and framed, in the hallway of a friend's home, many years ago. We could, probably, argue for hours over what that means, but it's certainly apt for America today. We pay taxpayer dollars, millions of them, to people and organizations that hate us. Why? We make critical deals with a theocracy that despises the West and says, straight out, that they have no intention of honoring any deal with the infidels, and then we release hundreds of millions of dollars in seized assets so they can further their goal of developing a nuclear weapon. Is it just me, or is there a major league-sized idiocy going on?
The "good" news is that the illegal's from Mexico are going home (anchor babies and all) faster than they are coming into the country, according to the Associated Press. According to their story, more than a million people crossed back into Mexico from 2009 - 2014, while some 870,000 illegals came in over the same period. Net flow back to Mexico was 140,000, citing the poor economy, tightening of border enforcement, and a desire to reunite families as the primary reasons. Personally, I think it may have been, at least partially, caused by a change in the National consensus, more people seeing illegals as "a problem," rather than as a people.
The "bad" news is we still have an extremely porous Southern border. There will be a number of jihadists among the Syrian refugees trying to come to the US, and the Government might actually screw up and catch a couple of them, even a blind squirrel... I fear the ones that would come across the Southern border more. If the screening process for the Syrians is any good, a person might get through, but a jihadist could come across the Southern border along with some chemical/biological agents that could kill millions.
No, I am not against immigrants. I have them in my family, people who came from Ireland and Scotland to try to make a living in America. They came through Ellis Island, and withstood all of the degradation associated with that, and came in legally. If the screening process of Syrians is anything like that, I'd probably feel a lot better about them. I oppose no one based upon their religious beliefs. I have known and associated with people from around the globe, and somehow that subject just doesn't come up that often.
I was lucky, and had my first "foreign" experience before I was 21. I was out on my own, for the first time, really, in countries who's only restriction on drinking was an ability to put money on the counter. NOT being a member of any church, at the time, I gave in to the idea of drinking "to make up for the times we couldn't" (supposedly while we were out at sea). To be honest, more than one bunk had a small bar in it, a couple of bottles, or so. We had a guy take the guts out of a photo processing machine, and turn it into a source of heat and security for a home wine making kit. The new processors were installed several months prior to our deployment during an overhaul, and the Photographer's Mate in charge recognized it's potential right away. The result was that we left Norfolk with 10 gallons of homemade wine, fermented with a little heat, that was very, very strong. Those who were "in" on the scam could get half of one coffee cup full each day, when their shift was over, and not before. The reason for that was, it was so strong, you were better off waiting until you got into your bunk before drinking it. A "shot" is one ounce. Half of a coffee cup is four ounces. Drinkers, imagine what effect four ounces of "Jack," or some other such liquor. It was the same with four ounces of the "Photo Finish," as we came to name it. Drink it within a few minutes, and your BAC would go to .2 or better. Night-night!
My second cruise was much better. PACE (Program for Afloat College Education) had a teacher on board for the entire six months who was a linguist, and spoke more than a dozen different languages. He was treated as an "officer," and given a private stateroom to hang out in when he wasn't teaching (or hiding out during drills). Whenever we would go into a new port, I would ask him to give me a phonetic breakdown of three basic things: "Hello, my name is Steven." "I do not speak [language]." "Could you take me to someone who speaks English." Funny, even the guy who, ten seconds before "spoke no Englee," suddenly develops an amazing capacity for the language. It seemed as though, if I took the time to learn some phrases, and speak them in a polished manner, the people appreciated the time I put in to learn them, and be most helpful. It was a much better deployment during which I met a bunch of really nice people, including a group of Russian Sailors we met on a trip to the Black Sea side of Turkey. I have the utmost respect for all people, their customs, and their traditions.
Hate is the result of Fear. Fear is the result of ignorance. We fear what we do not know. As I got to know people abroad, I became less afraid, and strangers (for the moment) became good friends. A cab driver we met on our first trip into Athens, came and looked for us at the landing whenever INDY was in the bay (Piraeus Bay in Athens). He took us everywhere, and we'd pay him $20 apiece for the whole day, as there were three of us, he fared quite well in 1973 dollars and drachmas, and invited us into his home to meet his family. The three of us spent our next two paychecks getting stuff from the Exchange for his wife and kids for Christmas. On our last free night before leaving the Eastern Mediterranean, they brought us over for dinner, and hugged us, thanking us for our generosities, we took pictures with them (rather they took pictures of us), and we all had a good cry before we left. I never saw them again, but they are etched in my heart forever.
Now you know why I call this a "Ramble".
Charity Begins at Home. I once saw these words, embroidered and framed, in the hallway of a friend's home, many years ago. We could, probably, argue for hours over what that means, but it's certainly apt for America today. We pay taxpayer dollars, millions of them, to people and organizations that hate us. Why? We make critical deals with a theocracy that despises the West and says, straight out, that they have no intention of honoring any deal with the infidels, and then we release hundreds of millions of dollars in seized assets so they can further their goal of developing a nuclear weapon. Is it just me, or is there a major league-sized idiocy going on?
The "good" news is that the illegal's from Mexico are going home (anchor babies and all) faster than they are coming into the country, according to the Associated Press. According to their story, more than a million people crossed back into Mexico from 2009 - 2014, while some 870,000 illegals came in over the same period. Net flow back to Mexico was 140,000, citing the poor economy, tightening of border enforcement, and a desire to reunite families as the primary reasons. Personally, I think it may have been, at least partially, caused by a change in the National consensus, more people seeing illegals as "a problem," rather than as a people.
The "bad" news is we still have an extremely porous Southern border. There will be a number of jihadists among the Syrian refugees trying to come to the US, and the Government might actually screw up and catch a couple of them, even a blind squirrel... I fear the ones that would come across the Southern border more. If the screening process for the Syrians is any good, a person might get through, but a jihadist could come across the Southern border along with some chemical/biological agents that could kill millions.
No, I am not against immigrants. I have them in my family, people who came from Ireland and Scotland to try to make a living in America. They came through Ellis Island, and withstood all of the degradation associated with that, and came in legally. If the screening process of Syrians is anything like that, I'd probably feel a lot better about them. I oppose no one based upon their religious beliefs. I have known and associated with people from around the globe, and somehow that subject just doesn't come up that often.
I was lucky, and had my first "foreign" experience before I was 21. I was out on my own, for the first time, really, in countries who's only restriction on drinking was an ability to put money on the counter. NOT being a member of any church, at the time, I gave in to the idea of drinking "to make up for the times we couldn't" (supposedly while we were out at sea). To be honest, more than one bunk had a small bar in it, a couple of bottles, or so. We had a guy take the guts out of a photo processing machine, and turn it into a source of heat and security for a home wine making kit. The new processors were installed several months prior to our deployment during an overhaul, and the Photographer's Mate in charge recognized it's potential right away. The result was that we left Norfolk with 10 gallons of homemade wine, fermented with a little heat, that was very, very strong. Those who were "in" on the scam could get half of one coffee cup full each day, when their shift was over, and not before. The reason for that was, it was so strong, you were better off waiting until you got into your bunk before drinking it. A "shot" is one ounce. Half of a coffee cup is four ounces. Drinkers, imagine what effect four ounces of "Jack," or some other such liquor. It was the same with four ounces of the "Photo Finish," as we came to name it. Drink it within a few minutes, and your BAC would go to .2 or better. Night-night!
My second cruise was much better. PACE (Program for Afloat College Education) had a teacher on board for the entire six months who was a linguist, and spoke more than a dozen different languages. He was treated as an "officer," and given a private stateroom to hang out in when he wasn't teaching (or hiding out during drills). Whenever we would go into a new port, I would ask him to give me a phonetic breakdown of three basic things: "Hello, my name is Steven." "I do not speak [language]." "Could you take me to someone who speaks English." Funny, even the guy who, ten seconds before "spoke no Englee," suddenly develops an amazing capacity for the language. It seemed as though, if I took the time to learn some phrases, and speak them in a polished manner, the people appreciated the time I put in to learn them, and be most helpful. It was a much better deployment during which I met a bunch of really nice people, including a group of Russian Sailors we met on a trip to the Black Sea side of Turkey. I have the utmost respect for all people, their customs, and their traditions.
Hate is the result of Fear. Fear is the result of ignorance. We fear what we do not know. As I got to know people abroad, I became less afraid, and strangers (for the moment) became good friends. A cab driver we met on our first trip into Athens, came and looked for us at the landing whenever INDY was in the bay (Piraeus Bay in Athens). He took us everywhere, and we'd pay him $20 apiece for the whole day, as there were three of us, he fared quite well in 1973 dollars and drachmas, and invited us into his home to meet his family. The three of us spent our next two paychecks getting stuff from the Exchange for his wife and kids for Christmas. On our last free night before leaving the Eastern Mediterranean, they brought us over for dinner, and hugged us, thanking us for our generosities, we took pictures with them (rather they took pictures of us), and we all had a good cry before we left. I never saw them again, but they are etched in my heart forever.
Now you know why I call this a "Ramble".
Saturday, November 14, 2015
Brian Gardner Posted a Study on Facebook...
... concerning a resurgence in the use of LSD, and how that might trigger a renewed interest in Progressive Rock, an often overlooked, but very interesting variation on more traditional Rock themes.
Sorry, Brian, but I wanted to explain my comment, and didn't want to do it on Facebook.
I totally admit, and really haven't ever tried to deny the fact that I used drugs, fairly frequently, from the time I turned 16. Believe me, I regret it, but not like anyone would accept. I regret the fact that my self-esteem was so low that I had to hang out with some of the people I hung out with, although a lot of that had to do with the fact that I started smoking at 10, and, even in the early '60's, smokers were somewhat ostracized by the more "popular" kids, tending to hang out in groups of kids that smoked. We weren't the Popular crowd, but I found out later that quite a few of them smoked, and were just being A-holes to people they just didn't like. I didn't figure it out until much later, but smoking was a symptom of a much bigger problem.
Your dad can tell you, that teachers used the terms "stupid," "dumb," and "idiot" back in the '50's and '60's pretty freely. Classes then weren't the "touchy-feely, every one's a winner" things they've evolved into. You stepped out of line, somebody smacked you, and you didn't go home and tell Mommy and Daddy about it, because they'd probably beat your ass for being a problem in the first place. I didn't know until I was 19 that I had a 135 IQ, so I went through 13 years of public school thinking I was stupid, dumb, and an idiot. Re-enforced by my parents, who weren't equipped to deal with me, and who deferred to what the teachers said.
And that's only part of it, too. I could give you a whole lot of psychological/sociological/behavioral reasons why I did it, but to be honest, I mostly did it because I had a whole lot of fun. Particularly LSD.
Understand, my drug use was purely recreational. I never got "hooked" on anything, nor did I ever consider using cocaine, heroin, or anything like that, although I did do opium a couple of times, and could see how that could be a problem. Shrooms? Acid? A handful of Bennies? That was a pretty good Friday night, and sometimes Saturday, too. We hung out in the park like "Hippies," only we lacked the commitment to a lifestyle that included infrequent bathing.
Occasionally, we'd wait until Saturday morning to "drop" (take) the LSD tablet, and do an all-day trip (pun not intended, but it did work pretty well). During the Winter, we'd go to Tahoe, or one of the ski resorts, and just play in the snow like kids. Sure, kids never got "trails" off a snow ball, or any of the thousand things that caused one of us to say, "Oh Wow!" We had gone up in the daytime, and it was pretty cold in the back of the pick-up we rode up in, but after dark... towards the end, we were in a pile in the back of the truck, as close to the cab as everyone could get. In hindsight, probably not the best planned trip to the snow, but those of us who went had the time of their lives, playing in the snow (I know I've never seen snow the same way since).
Every once in a while, after we got married, I would get an offer to do a tab of Acid, and I turned it down, almost every time. There was this one time, in Louisiana, after we had lost our daughter Amy, I said, "OK."
We went water skiing on the Pearl River, right on the Mississippi/Louisiana border. I've tried to sit down and write this experience out many, many times, and just can't do it justice. There were no hallucinations (although I thought I saw an alligator), but everything was funny. E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G! A bird lands on a bush. HAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHA. I do a face-plant in the middle of the river. HAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHA. The alligator. HAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHA.
I woke up, the next morning, and my sides hurt. I started to think about the previous day, and start to chuckle again, OW! That was the last time, though. It's odd, because all of the other ones had great colors, and more than a few hallucinations, but there was always music involved in the others, just a boat motor, and the sound of three idiots laughing themselves silly.
The interest in Progressive Rock goes back to when most people had turntables, and PRock songs are usually pretty long, so you didn't have to change the record as often (which was BS, anyway, because vinyl could only take so much). If you had a reel-to-reel tape player/recorder, you could make tapes that were 6 hours long, and PRock albums could play uninterrupted.
Back before headphones became popular, I used to listen to music with my head between the stereo speakers, when I came back with a real good buzz going. It's A Beautiful Day, by a band of the same name, was particularly moving for me, once you get past "White Bird," which was the groups only hit, the album really gets good, particularly for someone on Acid.
I will say the same thing I always do, when this subject comes up, and that is, "Don't do it." Yeah, I did, and I survived, but that was 50 years ago, and people aren't the same. We used to get our Acid from Chemistry students at UC Davis, Sac State, and Berkley. They were pretty conscientious about what they used as fillers, often using Tylenol or Aspirin. Now, people really only care about the money. Who says you'd even have the same experiences I did, even if I could set up the same circumstances (one really good one was at a BB King show at the Filmore West. After BB played his set, and did some post show "jamming" with the likes of Mike Bloomfield, Buddy Miles, Al Cooper, and Dave Brown, the bassist for Santana, Johnny Winter came in, and they played until daybreak).
Would I do it again? Probably not, but then I would risk having an entirely different view of life.
Sorry, Brian, but I wanted to explain my comment, and didn't want to do it on Facebook.
I totally admit, and really haven't ever tried to deny the fact that I used drugs, fairly frequently, from the time I turned 16. Believe me, I regret it, but not like anyone would accept. I regret the fact that my self-esteem was so low that I had to hang out with some of the people I hung out with, although a lot of that had to do with the fact that I started smoking at 10, and, even in the early '60's, smokers were somewhat ostracized by the more "popular" kids, tending to hang out in groups of kids that smoked. We weren't the Popular crowd, but I found out later that quite a few of them smoked, and were just being A-holes to people they just didn't like. I didn't figure it out until much later, but smoking was a symptom of a much bigger problem.
Your dad can tell you, that teachers used the terms "stupid," "dumb," and "idiot" back in the '50's and '60's pretty freely. Classes then weren't the "touchy-feely, every one's a winner" things they've evolved into. You stepped out of line, somebody smacked you, and you didn't go home and tell Mommy and Daddy about it, because they'd probably beat your ass for being a problem in the first place. I didn't know until I was 19 that I had a 135 IQ, so I went through 13 years of public school thinking I was stupid, dumb, and an idiot. Re-enforced by my parents, who weren't equipped to deal with me, and who deferred to what the teachers said.
And that's only part of it, too. I could give you a whole lot of psychological/sociological/behavioral reasons why I did it, but to be honest, I mostly did it because I had a whole lot of fun. Particularly LSD.
Understand, my drug use was purely recreational. I never got "hooked" on anything, nor did I ever consider using cocaine, heroin, or anything like that, although I did do opium a couple of times, and could see how that could be a problem. Shrooms? Acid? A handful of Bennies? That was a pretty good Friday night, and sometimes Saturday, too. We hung out in the park like "Hippies," only we lacked the commitment to a lifestyle that included infrequent bathing.
Occasionally, we'd wait until Saturday morning to "drop" (take) the LSD tablet, and do an all-day trip (pun not intended, but it did work pretty well). During the Winter, we'd go to Tahoe, or one of the ski resorts, and just play in the snow like kids. Sure, kids never got "trails" off a snow ball, or any of the thousand things that caused one of us to say, "Oh Wow!" We had gone up in the daytime, and it was pretty cold in the back of the pick-up we rode up in, but after dark... towards the end, we were in a pile in the back of the truck, as close to the cab as everyone could get. In hindsight, probably not the best planned trip to the snow, but those of us who went had the time of their lives, playing in the snow (I know I've never seen snow the same way since).
Every once in a while, after we got married, I would get an offer to do a tab of Acid, and I turned it down, almost every time. There was this one time, in Louisiana, after we had lost our daughter Amy, I said, "OK."
We went water skiing on the Pearl River, right on the Mississippi/Louisiana border. I've tried to sit down and write this experience out many, many times, and just can't do it justice. There were no hallucinations (although I thought I saw an alligator), but everything was funny. E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G! A bird lands on a bush. HAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHA. I do a face-plant in the middle of the river. HAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHA. The alligator. HAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHA.
I woke up, the next morning, and my sides hurt. I started to think about the previous day, and start to chuckle again, OW! That was the last time, though. It's odd, because all of the other ones had great colors, and more than a few hallucinations, but there was always music involved in the others, just a boat motor, and the sound of three idiots laughing themselves silly.
The interest in Progressive Rock goes back to when most people had turntables, and PRock songs are usually pretty long, so you didn't have to change the record as often (which was BS, anyway, because vinyl could only take so much). If you had a reel-to-reel tape player/recorder, you could make tapes that were 6 hours long, and PRock albums could play uninterrupted.
Back before headphones became popular, I used to listen to music with my head between the stereo speakers, when I came back with a real good buzz going. It's A Beautiful Day, by a band of the same name, was particularly moving for me, once you get past "White Bird," which was the groups only hit, the album really gets good, particularly for someone on Acid.
I will say the same thing I always do, when this subject comes up, and that is, "Don't do it." Yeah, I did, and I survived, but that was 50 years ago, and people aren't the same. We used to get our Acid from Chemistry students at UC Davis, Sac State, and Berkley. They were pretty conscientious about what they used as fillers, often using Tylenol or Aspirin. Now, people really only care about the money. Who says you'd even have the same experiences I did, even if I could set up the same circumstances (one really good one was at a BB King show at the Filmore West. After BB played his set, and did some post show "jamming" with the likes of Mike Bloomfield, Buddy Miles, Al Cooper, and Dave Brown, the bassist for Santana, Johnny Winter came in, and they played until daybreak).
Would I do it again? Probably not, but then I would risk having an entirely different view of life.
Tuesday, November 3, 2015
My Appologies...
... it's been a while since I posted anything. My usual modus operendi is to turn on some music, and write my little heart out. On September 22 last, I opened up iTunes, and was alerted to a "new and improved" update to iTunes, and all I had to do was click on the "Download" icon to get it. I've had my disagreements with iTunes, but since Mary bought me an iPod, back when they were 2.5 inches square, and could hold a whopping 4 gigabytes, I've put up with it. Since I got the thing, there have been several updates, and Apple improved the product, making it a little easier to do things in iTunes. I thought, "Okay, lets update." It proved to be a bad choice.
I'm not exactly an idiot when it comes to computers, and after a career in the Navy I've learned how to follow simple instructions, which I did to the letter. iTunes asked for and executed a Restart on my computer, in order to effect the changes. After the restart, I clicked on the iTunes icon, and came up with an error saying that a certain file was not installed, and iTunes could not run. Naturally, I figured something got lost in the download, so I tried it again, and again, and... well, you get the idea.
I decided to call Apple, and see what they could tell me. It was a great idea, but it wasn't as easy as I thought it would be. I went to every page of Apple's website, looking for a da**ed phone number, and couldn't find one. I don't type very fast, not nearly as fast as I used to, because of the arthritis in my fingers, so I was reluctant to try doing an on-line chat with a technician, but it was the only choice I had. I clicked on the link, and got to a very nice lady who asked if I'd feel more comfortable talking on the phone. I, of course, answered "Yes," and a couple of minutes later she called me, and we talked about my efforts, and the error message I kept getting. I wish I'd have written her name down, because she was very helpful, to the extent of her knowledge, and when she realized that she was in over her head, she passed me on to one of the senior programmers.
That name I remember, because as the time wore on, she said it was her time to clock out, and that she would send me an e-mail that day, and a progress update the following day (a Friday). Nothing came. I waited a week, and sent an e-mail to her asking if I was being pushy in asking what progress was being made. Nothing came. Two weeks later, I send another e-mail, a little more terse than the first, suggesting that my next e-mail may be considerably less friendly. Nothing came. I wait two more weeks, and send an e-mail, "Are you doing anything, or are you just going to keep jerking me around?" Nothing came for two more weeks.
Finally, I get a response from her, telling me that she had some problems, and was out of the office until the previous day (a Wednesday), and she would be more than happy to call me, at a time of my choice, on the following day (a Friday). I told her 10am my time (noon where she worked) figuring the least I could, do after having to wait for a month and a half of waiting, would be to screw up her lunch on Friday. It didn't work. At 11am, I send her a note, reminding her of my phone number ("in case she lost it"). At 11:30, she calls, claiming she was on another call, and actually being rather "huffy" about it, in spite of the fact that the whole thing could have been avoided if she hadn't ignored me the first time.
Long story short... I have my iTunes back, and consequently I am spending more time with my computer, and getting back into writing.
I've got a lot to write about, I've discovered recently. Maybe after just getting back to it, I needed an opportunity to get my thoughts organized.
I'm not exactly an idiot when it comes to computers, and after a career in the Navy I've learned how to follow simple instructions, which I did to the letter. iTunes asked for and executed a Restart on my computer, in order to effect the changes. After the restart, I clicked on the iTunes icon, and came up with an error saying that a certain file was not installed, and iTunes could not run. Naturally, I figured something got lost in the download, so I tried it again, and again, and... well, you get the idea.
I decided to call Apple, and see what they could tell me. It was a great idea, but it wasn't as easy as I thought it would be. I went to every page of Apple's website, looking for a da**ed phone number, and couldn't find one. I don't type very fast, not nearly as fast as I used to, because of the arthritis in my fingers, so I was reluctant to try doing an on-line chat with a technician, but it was the only choice I had. I clicked on the link, and got to a very nice lady who asked if I'd feel more comfortable talking on the phone. I, of course, answered "Yes," and a couple of minutes later she called me, and we talked about my efforts, and the error message I kept getting. I wish I'd have written her name down, because she was very helpful, to the extent of her knowledge, and when she realized that she was in over her head, she passed me on to one of the senior programmers.
That name I remember, because as the time wore on, she said it was her time to clock out, and that she would send me an e-mail that day, and a progress update the following day (a Friday). Nothing came. I waited a week, and sent an e-mail to her asking if I was being pushy in asking what progress was being made. Nothing came. Two weeks later, I send another e-mail, a little more terse than the first, suggesting that my next e-mail may be considerably less friendly. Nothing came. I wait two more weeks, and send an e-mail, "Are you doing anything, or are you just going to keep jerking me around?" Nothing came for two more weeks.
Finally, I get a response from her, telling me that she had some problems, and was out of the office until the previous day (a Wednesday), and she would be more than happy to call me, at a time of my choice, on the following day (a Friday). I told her 10am my time (noon where she worked) figuring the least I could, do after having to wait for a month and a half of waiting, would be to screw up her lunch on Friday. It didn't work. At 11am, I send her a note, reminding her of my phone number ("in case she lost it"). At 11:30, she calls, claiming she was on another call, and actually being rather "huffy" about it, in spite of the fact that the whole thing could have been avoided if she hadn't ignored me the first time.
Long story short... I have my iTunes back, and consequently I am spending more time with my computer, and getting back into writing.
I've got a lot to write about, I've discovered recently. Maybe after just getting back to it, I needed an opportunity to get my thoughts organized.
Friday, September 18, 2015
A Friday Ramble...
... begins with the statement, "A lot has happened this week." Mostly because a lot has happened this week. I was invited to a Giant's/Dodger game at AT&T, on October first, by my eldest child. No grandbabies, no members of her "entourage," just Tyff and me. I like it. I am really looking forward to going. I got to play my standard two rounds of golf this week with Mr. Bill. This week we moved forward a set of tees, and played from the Gold Markers. We're back to the White markers next week, and probably won't have the lower scores (92 and 93) that we had this week. We'll be fighting to "make the cut," as Mr. Bill calls breaking 100, at 64, having had a stroke, and losing half a lung to cancer, breaking 100 from the former "Intermediate" tees is a real battle.
I used to be able to hit drives of 275 yards, prior to the lung surgery, but since then, I'm lucky to get 200 yards from my driver. It was the stroke, however, that has created all of my problems. I mean, I was a pretty fair golfer. I didn't break 80 very often, but I was always around 80 to 85 strokes per round. I was, when I decided that I no longer wanted to pay $80 a year to have someone figure my handicap, somewhere between 10 - 14 handicap (back before SLOPE). I just couldn't break 80 often enough to bring it down to a 9 (for those of you who don't play, a single digit handicap is like being in the top 20% of golfers world-wide). I was pretty good, rarely gambled, and just enjoyed being out in the sunlight.
The stroke, in 2002, put an end to that. Since then, I have had to learn to play again, from pretty much scratch. I guess, all things considered, I'm not doing too bad. It's finding out how far I can depend on each club. I said I'm lucky to get 200 yards from a driver, 175 from my 3-metal, and 150 (or so) from my 5-metal. My hybrids cover the 175 - 145 yard range, but it's getting the range of my irons down that seems to be killing me. Wedge play is pretty awesome, get me to the 100 yard marker, and I can get the ball close. I'm learning a lot about clearing my mind before I start my swing, I'm relaxing a little, and hitting pretty cleanly, most often, but I still have a tendency to look up just before impact. I'm doing it a lot less, but I can still do it if I don't control my breathing, and clear my mind before. I'm trying to focus on a spot (blade of grass, piece of sand/dirt) immediately behind the ball, and maintain that focus until the club comes through. That focus keeps me from bobbing up and down (like Tiger Woods is doing so often), and usually results in a square contact, and good shots. I am also working on attitude...
There isn't a golfer on any course, any where, that doesn't secretly harbor a dream of becoming the next great pro golfer. When I retired from the Navy, I was 40. I'd tell everyone that it gave me 10 years to get ready for the Senior Tour (now Champions Tour). Guess what? I didn't make it. Sometimes your dreams are overcome by other dreams that are actually in your ability make happen. Golf gave way to studies, as I pursued a degree and a teaching credential. We didn't have a lot of money, I didn't have a lot of time, and I didn't play much from 1992 to 1999. By the time I became eligible to play, I was way out of practice, but starting to get better from playing more often. I became somewhat of a jerk, when I couldn't hit a ball exactly where I was aiming, or when I'd miss a 25-foot putt, or some other such nonsense. Then the stroke.
In the aftermath, I had a lot of rehab, but the game was gone. In the 13 years since, my age and health have had a play in my deteriorating golf game, but there's one MAJOR consolation... at least I still get to play. There was a time, fairly recently, when I thought about giving the game up. It has fortunately passed, as I have found that I may not be hitting the ball as far, but I'm not getting in as much trouble, either. Besides, who doesn't like a day out in the open?
Made a follow-up call on my referral for my hip, checking to see if the request for and additional procedure had been sent. That was done, and re-done, as the insurer claimed he didn't receive the first one.
I also managed to get an appointment with my Primary Care Manager (PCM), Dr. Vogel, to talk about my blood pressure, etc.
It's been a busy week.
I used to be able to hit drives of 275 yards, prior to the lung surgery, but since then, I'm lucky to get 200 yards from my driver. It was the stroke, however, that has created all of my problems. I mean, I was a pretty fair golfer. I didn't break 80 very often, but I was always around 80 to 85 strokes per round. I was, when I decided that I no longer wanted to pay $80 a year to have someone figure my handicap, somewhere between 10 - 14 handicap (back before SLOPE). I just couldn't break 80 often enough to bring it down to a 9 (for those of you who don't play, a single digit handicap is like being in the top 20% of golfers world-wide). I was pretty good, rarely gambled, and just enjoyed being out in the sunlight.
The stroke, in 2002, put an end to that. Since then, I have had to learn to play again, from pretty much scratch. I guess, all things considered, I'm not doing too bad. It's finding out how far I can depend on each club. I said I'm lucky to get 200 yards from a driver, 175 from my 3-metal, and 150 (or so) from my 5-metal. My hybrids cover the 175 - 145 yard range, but it's getting the range of my irons down that seems to be killing me. Wedge play is pretty awesome, get me to the 100 yard marker, and I can get the ball close. I'm learning a lot about clearing my mind before I start my swing, I'm relaxing a little, and hitting pretty cleanly, most often, but I still have a tendency to look up just before impact. I'm doing it a lot less, but I can still do it if I don't control my breathing, and clear my mind before. I'm trying to focus on a spot (blade of grass, piece of sand/dirt) immediately behind the ball, and maintain that focus until the club comes through. That focus keeps me from bobbing up and down (like Tiger Woods is doing so often), and usually results in a square contact, and good shots. I am also working on attitude...
There isn't a golfer on any course, any where, that doesn't secretly harbor a dream of becoming the next great pro golfer. When I retired from the Navy, I was 40. I'd tell everyone that it gave me 10 years to get ready for the Senior Tour (now Champions Tour). Guess what? I didn't make it. Sometimes your dreams are overcome by other dreams that are actually in your ability make happen. Golf gave way to studies, as I pursued a degree and a teaching credential. We didn't have a lot of money, I didn't have a lot of time, and I didn't play much from 1992 to 1999. By the time I became eligible to play, I was way out of practice, but starting to get better from playing more often. I became somewhat of a jerk, when I couldn't hit a ball exactly where I was aiming, or when I'd miss a 25-foot putt, or some other such nonsense. Then the stroke.
In the aftermath, I had a lot of rehab, but the game was gone. In the 13 years since, my age and health have had a play in my deteriorating golf game, but there's one MAJOR consolation... at least I still get to play. There was a time, fairly recently, when I thought about giving the game up. It has fortunately passed, as I have found that I may not be hitting the ball as far, but I'm not getting in as much trouble, either. Besides, who doesn't like a day out in the open?
Made a follow-up call on my referral for my hip, checking to see if the request for and additional procedure had been sent. That was done, and re-done, as the insurer claimed he didn't receive the first one.
I also managed to get an appointment with my Primary Care Manager (PCM), Dr. Vogel, to talk about my blood pressure, etc.
It's been a busy week.
Saturday, August 29, 2015
Just a Random Thought...
I was driving onto Travis Air Force Base the other day, going to get a CT scan for one of my follow-ups on my lung cancer surgery almost two years ago. There's a lot of construction, for those of you who haven't been in Cowtown for a while, the biggest is the building of a Amtrak station off Peabody Rd. and Vanden/Cement Hill roads. The plan calls for an overcrossing to be built on Peabody to take traffic over the train crossing. To that end, Peabody has been closed at the intersection of Vanden/Cement Hill roads, and the detour takes you all the way back, around the jail, and back onto Air Base Parkway. Most people in Vacaville/Dixon/Rio Vista areas use the back gate, so it's not uncommon to see traffic backed up in the mornings.
The person in front of me had a rental car, and the current readiness level (Bravo) requires the gate sentries to look in the trunk of rental cars. There was some junk in the trunk, not hers, the car's, but it was otherwise OK. It got me to remembering an old car my dad fixed up, and let my sister Sherry use...
It was a brown, 1947 Plymouth coupe, six-cylinder engine, and a 3-speed manual transmission with the shifter on the steering column. Pop brought it home, and the girls (sisters Sherry and Pat) responded with the 1950's version of, "Ewww!" It was a total P.O.S., and it broke down in our driveway a couple of weeks after Pops bought it. I don't remember how long it took him to do it, but he totally rebuilt the engine, and actually had the car running pretty well. It would be a great car to have today, except for one small thing...
Pops was kind of a lazy guy, and only wanted to travel out to the dump when he had to. Our garbage service in Vallejo didn't take yard clippings, so we had to store them up, and take them out to the dump ourselves. Being lazy, Pops just tossed them into the trunk of the Plymouth. Ever smell dead grass after it has baked for several days in the trunk of the car? I can tell you, without a shred of doubt, it stinks like Hell, but this was the car my sister Sherry got to drive. I think my parent's attempt at preventing teen-aged pregnancies was pretty effective, but there were still holes in that plan, as would later be discovered.
One afternoon, my sister had to go out to Mare Island (when it was still a Naval Base), and a robbery suspect had evaded Vallejo Police, getting onto the Base somehow. They had chased him around some of the Shipyard warehouses, and had asked for the Marines on the gate, now armed with M14's, to search every vehicle for a white male suspect. Cars would pull up, stop, the Marines would ask to open the trunk (they didn't have interior switches in '47). For the safety of the driver, they would take the keys, and open the trunk with cover from the other Marine. Imagine the look on my sister's face when they opened the trunk to find two weeks of grass clippings. The Marines smiled, closed the trunk, gave my sister the keys with a, "Have a nice day, ma'am."
I don't know why, but something about that incident flashed when I saw the Airman checking the trunk of a rental car.
The person in front of me had a rental car, and the current readiness level (Bravo) requires the gate sentries to look in the trunk of rental cars. There was some junk in the trunk, not hers, the car's, but it was otherwise OK. It got me to remembering an old car my dad fixed up, and let my sister Sherry use...
It was a brown, 1947 Plymouth coupe, six-cylinder engine, and a 3-speed manual transmission with the shifter on the steering column. Pop brought it home, and the girls (sisters Sherry and Pat) responded with the 1950's version of, "Ewww!" It was a total P.O.S., and it broke down in our driveway a couple of weeks after Pops bought it. I don't remember how long it took him to do it, but he totally rebuilt the engine, and actually had the car running pretty well. It would be a great car to have today, except for one small thing...
Pops was kind of a lazy guy, and only wanted to travel out to the dump when he had to. Our garbage service in Vallejo didn't take yard clippings, so we had to store them up, and take them out to the dump ourselves. Being lazy, Pops just tossed them into the trunk of the Plymouth. Ever smell dead grass after it has baked for several days in the trunk of the car? I can tell you, without a shred of doubt, it stinks like Hell, but this was the car my sister Sherry got to drive. I think my parent's attempt at preventing teen-aged pregnancies was pretty effective, but there were still holes in that plan, as would later be discovered.
One afternoon, my sister had to go out to Mare Island (when it was still a Naval Base), and a robbery suspect had evaded Vallejo Police, getting onto the Base somehow. They had chased him around some of the Shipyard warehouses, and had asked for the Marines on the gate, now armed with M14's, to search every vehicle for a white male suspect. Cars would pull up, stop, the Marines would ask to open the trunk (they didn't have interior switches in '47). For the safety of the driver, they would take the keys, and open the trunk with cover from the other Marine. Imagine the look on my sister's face when they opened the trunk to find two weeks of grass clippings. The Marines smiled, closed the trunk, gave my sister the keys with a, "Have a nice day, ma'am."
I don't know why, but something about that incident flashed when I saw the Airman checking the trunk of a rental car.
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