It's A Mystery 

Out behind our house is a wetland, and a woodsy spot with trails that are mostly used by the Lindbergh High School Cross-Country team.  We walk those trails regularly with dog in tow (or while being towed by) and are familiar with the ways and their denizens.  I think I mentioned before that the land had been deeded to the County as a passive park, which left us in the great position of having a permanent green belt behind our house.  Eventually the Soos Creek trail will run through on the way from Lake Meridian in Kent and the Cedar River Trail that starts in Renton.

Much like the story of Peter and the Wolf, everything inside our fence is safe country, for the most part, and outside is a scary place patrolled by packs of coyotes, the occasional bobcat, gray squirrels and rabbits, lots of rabbits.  Crows, woodpeckers and barred owls can be seen, and we have even had pileated woodpeckers in our back yard attacking the suet cake feeder.

As this story goes, I was walking the old dog, Harley, one day, and as we worked our way down the steep side of the hill I noticed a rusty hunk of metal half-buried in the bushes just off the trail. A closer inspection revealed that it was a Ford three-speed transmission, with a cast iron bell housing still attached.

Like all neighborhoods, this one has a history.  Before WWII it was a marshy, logged-off swamp.  My brother and I used to ride our bikes from Top Hat down and across the Kent valley to visit one of our buddies who had moved to the new Cascade Vista development.  One of life’s little ironies is that my wife and I lived in that neighborhood in a rental house for 19 years before we bought the one which we now occupy.  Some time in that distant past, somebody parked an old rig on top of the hill behind my neighbor’s house and took it apart.  Most of the pieces of sheet metal are still there, unrecognizable due to rust and disintegration

I took a few pictures of the transmission and shared them with my buddies from our Thursday lunch group, most of whom are old car guys.  They got rather excited about the possibility that this part could still be used someday.  That was all I needed to hear, so the next week my wife and I went out there with a hand truck and drug that old hunk of iron back up the hill from where it had lain for an unknown period.  I figured, since this land was now a park, it was our civic duty to remove litter and garbage any chance we got.

But beyond that, it becomes an issue of value.  Something like a car transmission is made up of many parts, starting with a series of castings, the gear box, the tail shaft and the bell housing, inside of which are gears, shafts, synchros, bearings and all the other small parts that make it work.  All of these parts are cast from iron, forged from steel or cut from stock by machinists and other skilled trades people from foundry to factory.  At every step in the way people laid their hands on it and added value to it.  If the results of all that labor is thrown down a hill to rust away, the accumulated value is lost.

The other modern wrinkle to the old auto parts story is the internet, which now make available all those old part numbers and makes it easy to trace almost any part back to the original application.  That is where this individual transmission becomes very interesting, indeed.

It seems that, back around 1966, Ford needed a new three-speed transmission to install in their V-8 powered trucks and full size cars, and this RAT model is the one they came up with, known as a top-loader after the tin cover on top of the gearbox.  The funny part is, about that same time GM was having a problem with their transmissions being too weak to handle the increased horsepower generated by the small block engines they were making.  Their new version was not ready, so for a couple of years they bought the transmission from Ford, bolted on a different bell housing and tail shaft housing to match up with the GM power trains, and there they were!  That’s why if you dig deep enough you will find charts that show the same transmission was used in Ford Broncos and F100 pickups and also the 1966 Pontiac Catalina, a thought that the GM fanciers in the never-ending argument about which is better, Ford, GM or Mopar, must find extra galling, and of which the Ford folks never let them hear the end.

This story is still open, so we don’t know how it ends, yet.  I did pull the top cover off and expose the inner works to the sun for the first time in many a year, and found much yuck and eww, but also saw a complete, possibly rebuildable transmission that was all there.  The only lingering mystery is why someone saw fit to pick up an 80 pound chunk of cast iron and steel and throw it over the edge of the hill.  I can only suspect much beer was involved.  :-{)}

Tales from Banti Creek

 

Tales from Banti Creek

 

There is a special place tucked in along the banks of the Yakima River below a steep slope that overlooks a small valley carved out by the river as it passes by what became the town of Cle Elum, Washington in recent years.  The gravel road that winds down the hill has a sign at the entrance announcing the neighborhood of Banti Creek.  I’m sure the creek is down there somewhere, if only evidenced by the wetland marsh on either side of the road as you approach the homestead.

There are some special people who have built a cabin on a few acres of forest land in that valley, and what makes it a special place is that for many years they have hosted an annual party over a weekend in the summer that has become a thing of legend among those fortunate to receive an invitation.

At the center of the celebration is a whole hog, the roasting of which over an open bed of charcoal below a spit captured by temporary sheet metal walls is the featured activity of most of the Saturday.  The pigmeister oversees this process through the heat of the Eastern Washington summer as people show up on site and set up their camps where they may.  Dinner that evening is a giant potluck to which nobody arrives empty-handed.  The minimum donation is a bag of charcoal briquets for the pig and a roll of toilet paper for the outhouse in the woods.

There is a trail that starts by one of the neighboring permanent houses, marked by carved bears on either side, and wanders through the woods to the bank of the river.  Part of the magic of the site is that every year the river is in a different place, motivated by log jams that form spontaneously during the winter months and force the river into different channels every time.  Upstream a little way is a fisherman’s dream of shallows and pools and a rocky beach that allows for sunbathing and wading, for those who can stand the icy cold waters coming down from the mountains to the west.

At dinner time, when the bell is rung, we find out how many people showed up this year, and it’s always more than you’d think, given that everyone is out doing fun stuff all day.  Coolers open to disgorge a veritable feast of side dishes of all types and cultures as the diverse crowd brings out their specialties to share with everyone else.  Over the years, we have witnessed the growth of children into adults as the adults turn into elders.  We have seen 60 foot high Doug Firs become exposed on the opposite bank of the river as the timeless dance of slowly falling water eats away the soil around their roots until they become part of the log jam or float downstream on their way to the Columbia.

After dinner, the crowd gathers around the picnic tables as the evening’s entertainment spontaneously begins.  There is tradition to follow here, as well.  Anyone who wishes to tell a joke or a story must straddle a log on a teeter-totter plank while wearing a mariachi hat on their head.  This applies to everyone from young to old, and what follows is just one of the stories that has come out of the gathering.  There may be others as time goes by.

Sven and Oly

Sven and Oly were the best of friends who grew up in Ballard (pronounce Bollor by those of the Scandihoovian tradition).  Oly was the idea man, quick and short, who always had a plan, while Sven was tall and taciturn, happy to go along with anything Oly thought up, even over his own misgivings about the chances of success of a given idea.

One day Oly caught up with Sven as he was leaving Hattie’s Hat after breakfast.  “There you are, Sven,” he said.  “I got us a quick job to do today!  I was talking to the Parson at the Lutheran church and he hired us to paint the steeple!  He even gave me the money for the paint, so let’s go to Limback’s and get the paint, then we can get started!”

That sounded good to Sven, so off they went.  Of course, any good job needs planning and forethought to be sure it comes out all right, and a planning session needs a few beers to stimulate the mental activity to get the right ideas in order, so they started at the Sloop tavern on Market Street.  That went well, if a bit long, and they discovered after they finally got to Limback’s that they may have spent a bit more on beer than they should have.  Oly allowed as how they could just buy water based paint so they could  thin it from the hose at the church to be sure it covered, and off they went.

The steeple was higher than they thought, and, after a while Sven looked at the remaining paint in the buckets, then up at the remaining shingles on the steeple and said, “I don’t think we have enough paint, Oly.”  Oly climbed back down the latter and topped off both buckets from the hose, and back to work they went.

The same thing happened again a while later, so Oly topped off the buckets again from the hose and mixed it up with a stick.  As you could imagine, by that time the paint was getting pretty close to translucent, but, since the money was all used up they had no choice but to keep going.

As they got close to the very top, a strange and wondrous thing occurred.  The sky, which in typical Seattle spring behavior was dotted with billowy cumulus clouds broken by sunshine, suddenly turned dark and threatening, but just over the church steeple, nowhere else!  As they hurried to reach the top before the rains came, there was a sudden rumble of thunder and a flash of lightning that shocked both of them out of their wits!  That was followed by a giant voice that came down from above.

It bellowed to them, “Re-paint!  And Thin No More!”  :-{)}

Count Your Blessings

 

Doing the dishes, like I do every single morning, is a meditative philosophical act.  And, when I say “doing the dishes”, I mean the old fashioned way, with both hands in a tub of hot soapy water with the scrub brush hanging on the wall next to the window sill and the drain rack on the counter to the right.  I think the hot, soapy water is the reagent that leads to deep thoughts and philosophical moods, and the repetitive, mindless motions allow one to stay in the present while gazing at the feast of activity in the back yard out the window – the birds flocking to the suet cake, jays landing on the deck roof to snatch the peanuts she tosses up there for them, while the hummingbirds flash through the scene to one of the feeders on either side, which they guard with impressive displays of tail feathers.  The fuzzy-tailed rats with good PR, otherwise known as squirrels, congregate on the deck roof and wolf down the suet cake while sneering at me when I complain.  When our dog, Bella, passed, so did any fear remaining in those rodents.

Why do I do the dishes every morning, you ask?  Pure self-interest is the answer.  I learned years ago that, if every time she decided to bake some delectable concoction  in the oven or whip out a delicious meal on the stove top, the dishes would magically be cleaned and returned to their places the very next day, the result of that would be more goodies.  And so it has turned out to be, a fair trade in any book, I say.

We had a dishwashing machine in the kitchen when we bought this place in ’97, the first one ever.  I remember the seller referring to it as a “dish storage device”, which I soon learned was true, and when the seals inevitably failed out it went to make room for recycling bins.  After I retired the first time we had to reconsider our domestic routines, and I wound up with the dishes.  Now I own them.

There was a guy on Facebook a while back, some general, and he was asked what the first thing was he got done every day, and he said, “I make my bed.  It’s simple, it’s easy, there’s a right way and a wrong way, and that way, I start off every day with an accomplishment.  Some days, that’s the only part that went according to plan.”

Doing the dishes is my equivalent of what he said.  I have also observed that the sound of me doing the dishes while she relaxes in the next room seems to have a beneficial effect on her general contentment, and therefore also mine.  It could be a self-reinforcing cycle that never ends, but I always seem to run out of dishes, eventually.

And so it goes in the never ending struggle to find meaning in life, and take pleasure during even the worst of times in the simple things that matter. Count your blessings. :-{)}

I Saw a Robin

 

I saw a Robin

With a hawk in hot pursuit

Flying for its life.

 

I saw a Coyote

Running through the neighborhood

My cat in it's mouth.

 

Now this pandemic

Has us hutched up in our dens

Nothing you can shoot.

 

Death is all around

As we strive to stay alive

Wear that silly mask.  :-{)}

Our Bubble

 

As vintage motorcycle enthusiasts, restorers, racers, afficionados, hobbyists, whatever we want to call ourselves, we live in a pleasant little bubble, largely concerned with the past.  Our motorcycles were built in the past, and any history of racing victories and legendary performance is pretty firmly in the past as well.  Newer technology has caught up with us, and many of our favorite brands have disappeared, but we don’t care.

We don’t care, much, that our collections have been and are continuing for the most part to lose value at all levels, especially for the oldest models with inadequate brakes and acceleration that confines them to only the most occasional of outings, like the IOVTT.  That’s all right with us.

It would seem that our enthusiasm is indifferent to world economies and trade issues, and the connections we make flow around the world.  I bought a stack of factory manuals from various British manufacturers one time at the ABATE swap meet, about 18 of them, and it turned out that many of them were re-patriated back to England (at a healthy markup), and I have bought bevel-drive Ducati valves from a guy in Amsterdam when nobody in this country has them.

So when I read about the trade wars with China I tend to brush it off as irrevelant, mostly.  But Ebay, the platform over which I have bought and sold for many years now, has made it clear that such indifference is threatened.

It started with leather saddlebags.  The Harley aftermarket business, conducted largely on Ebay and other online venues, used to be wide and deep, with the low end occupied by horse bags made in Pakistan and the high end populated by manufacturers like Willie and Max, with prices up in the $300+ range.  Now, you type in “Harley leather saddlebags” in the search bar, and you get page after page of perfect Chinese made knockoffs at ridiculously low prices.  A set of Heritage Softail bags with all the studs and conchos one would expect is now $60.  All the aftermarket manufacturers are gone.

The Keihin CV carburetor, first introduced on Harley EVO models in 1988 and becoming the standard carb for all models until fuel injection took over in the mid ‘00s, used to be pretty valuable, with good used ones around $125 and new ones over $300.  I just noticed that that market has been destroyed.  You can now buy brand new Chinese made knockoffs that are probably from the same source as the factory ones for $60, with free shipping.

How about a nice new muffler for my Moto Guzzi Breva?  I can choose between an Italian-made Mivv set for $4-600 or a brand-new knockoff from China for $56.98.  Which do you think will still be available next year, and what does that say about the value of any inventory a small shop might have accumulated?

The entire aftermarket business has severely contracted, with one distributor after another being swallowed up by a fish with a bigger mouth.  One publication reported that in 2018, China produced 34.9% of a $7.1B worldwide market.  I couldn’t get further details from them without shelling out $4500, so they must have had a high opinion of their facts, anyway.

It’s been going on for years.  One list I found from 2014 says Tucker Rocky merged with Motosport Aftermarket Group (MAG) that year.  MAG also owns Vance & Hines, Kuryaken, Progressive Suspension, Performance Machine, Mustang, Renthal, DragonFire and Roland Sands Design.  MAG also owns Motorcycle Superstore and J&P Cycle.  Surprise, surprise, it turns out that an anonymous company titled LSI is the majority owner of MAG and owns Tucker Rocky/ Biker’s Choice.  Can you see the octopus behind the curtain?  Think any of the decision-makers at those companies even ride motorcycles?

Anyone who has flipped through a J&P Cycles catalog lately knows how thin they are getting, as the bean counters toss anything that doesn’t sell fast enough, along with the idea of supporting restorers with aftermarket parts.  We’ve seen the same thing in local Hardware stores, as McLendon’s, which was bought out a few years ago, and has walked away from the idea that they should stock everything anyone might possibly want ever, just in case.  Now, you walk in there and half the time you walk back out empty handed.  And people wonder why Amazon is taking over retail.

What will save us is true unobtanium, the parts that were produced in such small numbers that there is no aftermarket and will not be one as they slip under the eyes of analysts looking for another market to destroy.  The rarest pieces get to the point where there is no sum of money that will pry them loose from the tight fists of the crotchety old-timers who are sitting on them.  I remember selling a busted-up Matchless G80 racing engine to a guy one time.  I asked him what he was going to do with it, and he said, “I actually don’t have a use for it at all, but there’s a guy in Anchorage who has a transmission that I want, and he will trade it to me for this engine.”

That’s how the future will go for vintage motorcycle enthusiasts, in my opinion.  The important thing to me is that the piles we accumulate, some of which contain truly precious things, at least in someone’s mind, must not be lost to the indifferent whims of our heirs, who may or may not realize the value of them.  In my case, where the pile was less valuable than the square footage it took to store it, and where I knew a guy who was active in the business and had a good chance to put some of those pieces back in service again, it was easy.  I dumped everything on him.  But for most of us, given how much time we have left, it is a good idea to think about such things from time to time, and come up with a plan that will carry our enthusiasms into the next generation.  That is where we find immortality.  :-{)}

Hidden Reality

 

Now that we know, it should have been obvious all along.  The leaders of the Greater Galaxy, meaning the Milky Way - a remote isolated sector of one of the smaller arms in which our Solar system is buried - and also meaning the representatives of the greater Culture that has gained hegemony over the millennia, has decided a few thousand years ago to place this planet of primitive, dangerous mammals under close surveillance, within the restrictions imposed by the Prime Directive of non-interference.

That decision has been proven correct over and over again as the human race gained in technical sophistication without managing to leave behind all their primitive beliefs and clannish behaviors and the religions they manufactured to support those beliefs and justify those behaviors.  There is an ongoing argument among the professionals in the Oversight department whether we will kill ourselves along with most of the other species on Earth before we wise up to reality and start cleaning up the messes we’ve made.

One side says that, in order to be scientifically pure and rigorous in the experiment, we should be allowed to go extinct as a result of our decisions, and a new and interesting species of being will take our place.

The other side says that, even though things are going bad fast, it is also true that the majority of people are not in a position to do much about it other than vote in the next election, though it must be admitted that less than half of us bother to do that, and an even smaller amount tries to work on the issues and for their solutions.  Because of them, it is pointed out, we are worth saving, and someone should step in and put a stop to our insanity before we blow the whole world up.  Not to mention that the rest of the planetary biodiversity has not been given a chance to weigh in on the situation.

The argument continues, and the betting line on the outcome has a life of its own.

And of course, in any society, even one as vast and complicated as one that spans a galaxy, there are always the outsiders, the pirates, the negative side of the equation, always working in the dark, quick to run for cover when the cops show up.

It is also true that there is one thing that a vast, complicated society loves to share among it’s elite members, that of succulent and tasty comestibles from all the remote parts of the galaxy, the more obscure the better.  A good red wine from certain areas of France, or California, is worth enough per bottle on Altair VI to buy the whole vineyard that produced it, and don’t even get them started on the idea of chocolate!

That is why, for thousands of years, especially over the last few hundreds as our culinary output grew in sophistication, the demand for Earth-made products has ensured a steady supply of smugglers and agents all scouring the planet for the next great find.  Our current economic system supports all this activity nicely.  Just try to think about how many anonymous warehouses exist all over the world into which things can go and never come back out, since they got transported aboard the cloaked vessel orbiting the planet.

This interest has also been spreading into jewelry and musical instruments.  Think about it:  We have been digging up diamonds for hundreds of years, yet the price is still so high!  Some of them are just not accountable for.  Like a ’59 Gibson Les Paul sunburst guitar, some have just disappeared, and nobody knows where they went.  Nobody on this world, anyway.

Many choice items are so highly valued, like Vincent motorcycles, Bugatti automobiles or antique firearms, that people maintain lists of every known example of the marque and speculate endlessly on the fate of the missing ones.  It should be clear that those have all disappeared off-planet.

It also tends to explain all the stories we have heard, from biblical days forward, about contact between humans and God, or Gods, or any of their related Angels and Demons.  It also explains the UFO stories, Area 51, and the rest.  No surveillance can be perfect, and crashes do happen.

So how do I know all of this, you ask?  Easy.  I made it up.  There are several layers of reality, you know.  You have Facts.  Then you have Facts disguised as Fiction, along with Fiction masquerading as Fact, quite common on Facebook.

And then, thanks to the efforts of Robert Shea and Robert Anton Wilson in the Illuminatus Trilogy, you have facts disguised as fiction disguised as facts, masquerading as the Truth.  Only you can decide which is which, and don’t ask me to point you in the right direction.  I’ll just make something up.  :-{)}

Mathematics made easy

Mathematics starts with the concept of nothing, expressed as a zero, and continues to infinity, shown as a lazy eight laying on its side.

Since explanations are my stock in trade, I have come up with simple understandable demonstrations of these two concepts, which I am happy to share.

Zero is easy, learned as a toddler.  You have a nice piece of halloween candy in your hand, and you put it in your mouth.  Pleasure ensues, leaving a sticky residue on your fingers and face.  So you go to Mom and ask for more.  First thing she does is drag you to the sink and wash off your hands, along with your snotty nose.  The sticky residue is gone.  All gone, just like the candy.  So zero means no more, and there is no tantrum or plea that will make it come back.  A bitter lesson to be learned from something so sweet.

The hardest lessons are learned early.  I remember my son one time, he was about three, maybe.  We were at the store, and he wanted a treat.  I said, “No, put that back.  Payday is Thursday, and we can’t afford any treats till then.”  “But Daddy,” he said, “Can’t we just go to the Cash Machine and get more money?”  That was when I realized his understanding was that when you grew up, they gave you a magic card and you went to a machine and made it spit money out any time you wanted.  Ah, if only that were true!  The funny thing is, he’s a lawyer now, and it is.

Infinity, however, is a bit harder to grasp.  I found it in my bathroom.

Back when my illustrious wife retired the first time, before they called her up and said nice things to get her to come back as a temp, she looked around and decided the upstairs needed a bit of sprucing up.  Thirty thousand or so dollars later, one of the changes was a nice new medicine cabinet in the bathroom, which featured mirrored glass panels on all surfaces.  Behind the shelves, glass.  On either outside vertical panel, glass.  Inside both doors, more mirror.  There is no place in that room where you can’t look at the cabinet and see yourself looking back if the angle is right.  I understand what Lewis Carroll was thinking.  And here’s where infinity comes in, and you can try this at home with no danger other than to your mind if your bathroom cabinet is similarly equipped.  The doors open to the side, meaning you can stand in front over the sink and open both, then lean in to a point where you can look to either side.

You quickly realize that both doors can be gently positioned to show the reflection of the one on the opposite side, with your head in the middle, and, when you do, you are looking directly (out of the corner of your eye) at infinity.  As far as the eye can see, followed by as far as the mind can think, there it is, laid out for you to contemplate, your smiling face, and your hair, too, if any.  I’d say it was mind boggling, but I don’t know what that means.  If you could somehow magnify your vision you could theoretically look far enough down the line past all your noses to where the image would be lost in the Brownian Motion of the particles of glass, itself an extremely viscous liquid, like hair gel.

So infinity is related to hair gel, and that’s as far down that path that any sane person wants to go.  If any of you are so intrigued with this notion, but not equipped to experience it in person, give me a call.  For a small fee I can arrange a personal visit to infinity, one at a time.  :-{)}

I gotta Right!

The Constitution of the United States of America is pretty clear, considering that we have been arguing over what it means, amending it to suit the whims of the moment and filing endless lawsuits to force an interpretation that fits our particular goals since the day after it was enacted.  It all seems to boil down to one thing:  People have a Constitutional Right to be stupid.

We have a right to peaceably assemble in our multitudes, either in Church or in the town square, at a bar or a concert, or a sporting contest, and we tend to get a bit testy when someone suggests that it might be in our own best interests to stay home and avoid those multitudes, because some of them are contagious.

We have a right to do a lot of things, no matter that those things are bad ideas or might cause us injury or otherwise bad outcomes. We have a right to buy and own a handgun, whether we take the time to learn how to use and maintain it properly or be trained in all aspects of when, how and why to use it for what it was designed, or not.  For the most part, those who feel the need to strap their AR-15s across their chests and parade in front of the Capitol are living proof of this idea.

We have a right to go to school, but not necessarily to pass. We have a right to cross the street, but we give that up at busy intersections with crosswalks and lights, because we know that following the procedure greatly increases our chances of survival out on the streets. We have a right to not step out in front of a moving train, but we mostly shun that behavior unless we are heavily drugged or despondent, but most everyone would agree that it would be stupid to do such a thing.

So why is it so hard to accept the idea that we should stay home until this Coronavirus problem is under control? We have heard over and over from experts on the level of Dr. Fauci on down how dangerous this virus is, and how little we know about how it works and how to cure the disease it causes, so why are so many people shouting from the rooftops, demanding their right to be stupid?

Part of the issue, it seems, is that our economic system leaves much of the lower section of the working class with no options. Either you work, and eat, and have a roof over your head, or you don’t. If your work is hands on, you can’t do it from home.

The funny thing is, if you’re one of those workers whose wages stop the minute you can’t work anymore, the profit that your employer earns from your efforts also stops the minute you’re not there to do it.  Extrapolate this from the lowest burger flipper at McStarches to the highest level of employment, and it is easy to see why the Ruling Class, from their climate-controlled purified ivory towers, are so eager to get the rest of the proletariat back on the job.  The Mayor of Seattle just gave up her paycheck, along with a bunch of football coaches with nobody to coach.  The longer this goes on, the more people will see the rock and the hard place getting closer.

But the problem is we still don’t know how many of us are infected.  This is because we still do not have enough test kits to test everybody.  It is just as important to know who is not infected as who is. And when we do, we still do not have a vaccine or a proven treatment. This also tells me that most of the ones who are bad mouthing the Public Health people are either paid trolls or obviously conflicted financially, like a preacher desperate to get the butts back in the pews because her Cadillac payment is due.  Either that, or they’re stupid, which explains Fox News, for the most part.

So this means, for everyone out there demanding the right to go back to work, that the Powers That Be have decided that we are going to be the guinea pigs in this little experiment.  See how many will die, and how many will get sick, then if it gets worse we clamp down on them again, and if it doesn’t we don’t.  We are the expendable elements in this test.  Look around as you go back to work and see how many high level executives continue to work from home, and how many Senators.

And that’s the thing:  Those of us who can, the retired ones with pensions coming in every month can afford to be smart and stay home for at least a couple more weeks after the all-clear has sounded.  Let the young ones and the dumb ones and the poor ones who have no choice go out and test the waters for us and see how it goes.  We are the ones who are mostly in the high-risk group, anyway, so a little extra caution is reasonable.

We also have a Constitutional Right to sit on our asses at home. It should be obvious to most of us that any of our public officials who are telling us to do that are working in our best interests, and those who are taking the opposite tack are not. :-{)}

Quarantine

Quarantine

I drove through White Center today, like I have done so many times before.  The streets were empty, but the sidewalks were full.  I came through on the main drag, past all the boarded up shop fronts, the closed taverns, and the empty parking stalls on both sides.  Waiting at the light at Roxbury, I saw a young man sitting on the curb outside the empty bank, all folded in on himself in a way that can only mean a major rush on heroin.  I passed on, did an illegal youie at a four-way stop and backed in to a stall outside the smoke shop, which was boarded up, but open.  I noticed as I backed in a young man advancing up the sidewalk with a peculiar dancing gait, with a look on his face as if he was so blissed out on whatever he ate that his joy could not be contained in just a smile.  He went into the shop next door as I stepped into the smoke shop for a pouch of American Spirit and some papers.  I was on an errand of mercy for a shut in with vices.  They quickly ejected him and he wandered off back down the street, full of bliss but without purpose..

As I drove through town, I realized one thing.  When the Coronavirus Quarantine hit, everybody who had a home went there and stayed.  Who is left on the streets are the people who have nowhere else  to go, and I’m here to tell you there are a lot more of them when all of “us” are out of the picture.  The parking lots along 15^th Ave, the bus stops and the alleys are busy today.  There is a line outside the food bank.

On the other side of town, there is a line to get into Costco.  Since everyone stands six feet apart, the line stretches from the entrance out to the far exit from the parking lot.  The difference is in the clothes.  The people in line at Costco are clean and well-dressed.  The people on the streets of White Center, and Burien, and Renton, and Kent, and anywhere else you want to look are scruffy and dirty, wearing the clothes they slept in last night, maybe on that bus stop bench.

Since I like to stay off the freeway, I take the back roads through the neighborhoods on the way home.  I see them, and I thank my lucky stars, and I scan the faces for one of my old childhood buddies.  I grew up in White Center.  Smack took a lot of them.  The ones that lived didn’t go far.

When the full realization of the damage done by a virus to our world sets in, there is a strong chance we will not be able to get back to where things were before.  It’s going to take time, and effort, and collective energy.

There is also a chance we could fall apart badly and take everyone back to the ‘30s for a while.  Or back to the Stone Age. One thing that is made clear by this crisis is that many people are living right on the edge, where one false move or missed payment will put them out on the street with everyone else, to prey or be preyed upon.  This is what income inequality means at street level.

But there is also a chance, just maybe, that we could learn our lesson from the last few years and band together with our fellow American Citizens and put this country back on track towards a progressive vision of fairness and equality that up to now has only been talked about.  We need to get it done.  It will take all of us working together.  :-{)}

Silence

This is a combination of an observation and a suggestion.

What I am observing, as the national election gets closer, is a marked increase in hysteria contained in the frequent e-mails and Facebook pages I see every day.  I know there are many other venues, like Twitter, Instagram, et. al., but there is a limit to how much information I can take in without suffering overload, so I’m just talking about the two.

The hysteria comes from both sides, in many forms, all of which seem to be formulated by experts in crowd psychology and weasle-wording, who I expect are also making money on their output, which gives them a fatal conflict of interest in my book.  They always want money, and they often want us to do this survey or sign this petition, which really means they want us to supply more personal data that can be packaged and sold on the open market.  More and more, they want us to line up on one side or the other of President Trump.  He is either our Savior or the Devil, depending on who you talk to, and everyone wants to know whose side we are on.

I expect this trend to grow exponentially through November.  Millions of dollars will change hands between now and then, as ads are bought, TV spots are filmed and articles are written and published.  I’m surprised there is not a stock market index following the various companies that generate all these billings.  Since the product is mostly hot air I would think the markups are quite generous for the principals.

Out of all this comes the germ of an idea:  Why not go silent on them?

I have already suggested that there are no minds left to convince, no voters who have yet to decide, and therefore nothing left about which to argue, but I don’t see much evidence that that particular seed fell on fertile ground.  But, think about this:  Nothing else matters but the vote on November 3^rd.  Like many on the Democratic side of things, I have deliberately avoided endorsing a particular candidate until the Convention rolls around, to give all of them the chance to explain their thoughts and talk about their plans for our money and society.  I know I don’t need to worry about who the Republican candidate will be, that’s all set, unless somebody dies, so I stay focused on the Dem side.

So, why not lull the other side into a sense of complacency?  On Facebook, I just block the trolls as soon as they pop up, without responding to their bs or engaging in any way.  Just shut them down.  I don’t need to listen to their shit.  There is an argument that the election will be won by whoever stimulates the most voters to get off their butts and vote, and the most effective strategy, especially on Conservative types, seems to be stoke their fears of imminent Lib takeovers and gun grabs.  So stop talking about it.  There is certainly no use arguing with an idiot.  It only drags you down to their level where they beat you with experience.

So, don’t answer any emails from strangers, don’t take any polls, just fade into the background in silence.  On November 3^rd they will find out who has been paying attention, and there is absolutely no need to say one thing until then.

Of course I will continue to ask questions and point out things that don’t make sense, and laugh at all the nonsense (while avoiding their hooks).  I will slip an occasional donation to a campaign I like, but you will never see me announcing it and suggesting you should do likewise.  It’s none of my business.  I will vote in our state primary, probably for someone who will not win, but nobody will know, because it’s none of their business.

I will continue to pay attention to what’s going on, of course.  At some point, we may all be out in the streets again.  Until then, I’ll just shut up and vote.  :-{)}

My car, the snitch

As motorcycle riders, we must occasionally pull our heads out of our garages and smudged parts manuals to look around and wonder what the heck those yahoos are up to these days, the yahoos in question being our elected representatives in the Legislature.  It's like, you can't take your eyes off them for a minute, they're always looking for ways to nick us for little things that add up.  For example, who knew that a bill was put in play last session that wanted all of us with Collector Plates on our bikes to pay an annual fee for them?  It did not pass, but next time it might.  Apparently, some folks were complaining that the collector plate was designed for bikes that are only ridden occasionally, as in to a Vintage Motorcycle event or a swap meet, but some folks are abusing the privilege and putting them on their daily rider bikes that just happen to be old enough to be allowed one.

Now here's another one I stumbled across, and bring it to your attention in the same spirit of public awareness, since how many of us have the time and the inclination to pay attention to those idiots in Congress.

You must dig through the flood of information we get every day, and be paying attention to little bits that flit by - buried in the back pages of the daily paper or popping up in your news feed for a brief moment - in order to stay on top of what is coming down in this country, if not world-wide.

A small piece in the back pages of the Seattle Times caught my attention, saying the State was studying a pay-per-mile scheme to replace the gas tax.  A quick Google search showed that the concept has been talked about for some time, and trial balloons are being sent up regularly all over the state to get people used to the idea.

Presumably, this is happening because of the advent of electric vehicles combined with the increasing fuel efficiency in newer cars (not to mention motorcycles) has been dropping the state’s income from the gas tax, and they’re looking for ways to replace the lost money.  The Washington State Transportation Commission’s final report on the plan is available here:  https://waroadusagecharge.org/

Without getting too deep in details, the basic question is “How will you know who is driving how many miles?”  The answer could come from voluntary reports quarterly from each driver (think of the bureaucracy that would generate), up to a dongle you could plug into your data port (you’d have to take out the one that your insurance company is already using to track how fast you go and stop), or a built-in GPS that reports your whereabouts continually to the appropriate authorities.  This last option appears to be the most painless for them, if not for us, and I believe many new cars already have this installed.  I do see a few mouthed concerns about privacy in the articles, but no details yet.

It’s not too hard to see what’s coming and imagine the implications.  For one obvious thing, what if they institute the mileage fee, but never quite manage to drop the gas tax?  Raise your hands, all those who see this as inevitable.

But the big thing is the data that will be generated about our individual movements, and how that data can be exploited both by government and companies.  Have you ever walked into a restaurant and had your phone chime in with the specials of the day?  How soon before the restaurant does a quick credit check to be sure you can afford to be there?  How long before an automatic charge is levied every time you cross a state border, or a county?  How long before, in the name of convenience, we will be signing up for a new, expanded Good-To-Go pass that pays your tolls on all freeways (what a silly name, free-ways) and can be used to pay your customs fees while leaving or entering the country, or a park, or a tunnel.  Counties will quickly see the benefits of a very small fee levied on all vehicles that pass through, especially those who are not owned by one of the few voters in the county.  The smart ones will find a way to cut the voters a discount, if not a free pass.

But wait, further ramifications are in order here!  If you have one of those new cars or bikes (?) that sounds an alarm if you get too close to the car in front of you, and even hits the brakes if you don’t slow down fast enough to satisfy your car, does that not serve as a training tool for habitual tail-gaters?  So why not also tag along a small fee every time the system engages, not to mention a copy to the insurance company, which will rack up another point on your record?  How long before they all do it?

Since these vehicles will already be equipped with front, rear and side cameras, they can also send video to the authorities, who can review the data with computers who will assign a traffic citation to you for the infraction, even if it does not result in a collision.

The last time I rented a car with a video display for navigation, I quickly realized it included a camera pointed right back at me, which meant the rental agency staff could probably have a look at me any time they wanted, just to be sure who was driving.  So much for deniability.  Can automatic speeding tickets be far behind?  We already have photo-op cameras that ding us for $125 or more if we go through a school zone too fast at the wrong time, regardless of the presence of children, or fail to completely stop in the right place at an intersection.  This service is provided by an out-of-state company that is paid by the ticket, plus a large minimum for each camera.  In the future, our own car will rat us out.

Bit by bit, hook by crook, Big Brother is creeping into our lives.  In the name of stability, and the tyranny of very large numbers, the United States of America is following China and the other authoritarian countries down the path of control, which leads to hell for anyone who doesn’t meet the requirements.  The only reason we are not all out in the streets right now demanding the closure of all the existing detainment camps is that we have been reassured they are not for us, this time.

What can we do about this?  For one thing, buy, restore and drive old cars and bikes, at least until they pass a law requiring us to install the tracking equipment.  Think that can’t happen?  What did California do to bring old cars in compliance with their smog control laws?  What happened to the aftermarket motorcycle exhaust industry?

But above all, we must stop leaving to other people the oversight of our government, beginning with the most local levels.  It is no longer possible to relax and leave it to others and not wind up regretting it as our costs go up and our control goes down.  As American Citizens, we do have the Bill of Rights in our pockets, and, as our own history shows us, we can take to the streets, man the barricades, and fight!

Before we open any door that can’t be closed and might let in something we didn’t want to deal with, we can talk.  We can stand up and speak our minds.  We can educate the misinformed.  We can speak truth to power.  And we can vote like our lives depend on it, because they do.  :-{)}

Things and Stuff

We grow attached to our things, over time.  Stuff grows on you.  Stuff piles up, especially in corners, or basements.  A garage, if left empty of parked vehicles, becomes a vacuum that sucks in stuff from all over, sometimes even other people’s stuff, which can be especially dangerous.

You can stuff a turkey, and the stuff with which you stuff it is called “stuffing”, and then, by the time the feast is over you put both hands on your belly and announce, “I’m stuffed!”  That does not make you a turkey, however.  What you said does.

So some stuff is good even if you’re not going to keep it very long, unless you forget it in the back of the fridge and it turns into weird stuff, or gloopy stuff or gross stuff, and it becomes bad stuff.  That kind of stuff is easy to be rid of.  Other stuff is more deeply attached, and harder to shake.

What kind of things do we tend to keep?  It’s different for each one of us.  Mostly, it seems like all those things have one thing in common, that they all have a story attached that explains why we still have that thing.  When the story attached to a thing falls away from that thing, as often happens when people die, the value disappears along with it, in many cases where the intrinsic value of the thing by virtue of it’s essence (think gold and silver) is not a shared thing.  In other words, if someone does not have a thing for that thing, it is nothing.  Does that even make sense?

But the main reason we love our stuff is because it’s our stuff.  We get to decide where to put it, how to protect it, and when and how to let it go.  We can write our names on it, or we can give it away.  We found it, bought it, stole it, begged it or otherwise obtained it because we decided we needed it, or it was a good deal and we never turn down a good deal, ideally.  And this is not to deny that some stuff shows up and you never quite figure out why or from where, like old broken kids toys or Styrofoam coolers split down the middle that all it needs is a dump run but who has the time right now to get around to it.  That kind of stuff is a drag.

And we like to do stuff with our stuff from time to time.  This is known as “doing my thing”.  That usually requires tools and expertise, if not just a large plate, so we tend to get more of those things that we need to do stuff with our stuff.  That is where the danger comes in, when we accumulate more stuff than we can store at any given time in our available space.  Or we bring in more things to which we plan to do stuff, but we can only do one thing at a time, so we wind up with too many things to do, mostly involving stuff.

I recall the story of the guy who owned too many vehicles, and he lived in a North Seattle neighborhood where parking was hard on the best of days, and when you saw the chalk mark on your tire it meant you had 24 hours to move that vehicle to a different spot.  So this guy was in so deep that once a week he would have to go out through the whole greater neighborhood and find all the cars, trucks and vans that he owned and, one by one, move them to a new spot somewhere else.  Quality of life tends to regress when we let our stuff get the better of us to the point of obsession.  It’s a bad thing.

I have philosophized in an earlier story that everything we possess has a hook embedded in our shoulders with an invisible line attaching us to that thing, and the more important that thing is to us, the stronger is that line and the deeper is that hook.  When things are ripped away from us against our will the hooks cause pain as they are yanked out, but the loss still has the effect of lightening our load a tiny bit.  But when we voluntarily exchange one of our things for money, or pass it on to an heir or give it to a good cause, we not only lighten our load, we lighten our mood as well, due to the relative heft of our wallet, or just the good feeling that comes with removing one more hook from our shoulders.

It is slowly coming clear to me as I get closer to that mythical checkout time that much of my stuff of which I am so fond may not be seen in the same light by whoever is stuck with getting rid of all that stuff if I’m not there to make sure it goes to the right person at the right price.  That’s why I have embarked on a project to lighten my load by finding a new home for some of this stuff.

Twenty-five or thirty years ago, when we lived in the same neighborhood as today, but a few blocks down the hill, we used to walk our dogs down the end of the block where the orchard used to be before the houses came in.  The old split cedar posts had rotted off at the base, and the last fifty feet or so of the woven wire fencing was coiled and tangled enough to be a problem, so I cut it off and coiled it up and brought it home, where it followed us here, because you never know when a nice chunk of spring steel fencing wire will come in handy, and there was a place on the garage wall where it hung all these years.  Well, just the other day I pulled down one of the remaining coils of this wire and gave it to a friend to reinforce a section of fence, which felt real good when I realized I had stored that wire for thirty years only to put it back to work doing what it was supposed to do, hold up a fence!  Now that is a good thing.

If I can only come up with something to do with all the rest of this stuff, that would be an even better thing.  :-{)}

Afghanistan

Afghanistan

Elizabeth Warren said at least one interesting thing during the debate last night, but failed to follow it to its logical conclusion.

She said, “Asking the military to solve a problem that is un-solvable by military means is putting them in an impossible situation.”  I agree.  But let’s look a little deeper.

When the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan for whatever reason they used at the time, they quickly found out that they were in the middle of a hornet’s nest of tribal allegiances and feudal relationships that paid no attention to things like the United Nations.  The Russians lost their asses in the attempt, and part of the result was the fall of the SSR concept.  The USA, of course, being locked in cold war with Russia, slipped lots of money and weaponry to the guerilla opposition, who turned out to be conservative Islamic radicals for whom a martyrdom death was something to be looked for, and who became the Taliban after the Russians left, and quickly turned the country into an Islamic Fiefdom where Sharia Law ruled everything, and the warlords who controlled the various demesnes remained in power while the Taliban took over the government.

They in turn sheltered Al Qaeda and supported their goal of punishing the US for our previous transgressions in the middle east.  We pissed off the Shiites when we overthrew the President of Iran, and we pissed off the Sunnis when we jammed Isreal down their throats and took their land upon which to build it.  Now they all hate us, surprise, surprise.  At least we didn’t take all their land and put them on a reservation.

Underlying all of it is a well-known but mostly ignored tenet of all Islam, that the entire world is destined to become Muslim, no matter if they have to kill us all to get there.  The difference between the mainstream Muslims and the radicals is the mainstream guys are willing to wait for us to come around on our own, while the radicals have already started the killing.  They share many common beliefs, among them that a slaughtered animal must be killed by slitting its throat while it still is conscious and letting it die from loss of blood.

But back to Afghanistan, everybody knows or should know what will happen as soon as our troops leave the country.  The Taliban will come back into power and butcher the politicians, and the country will again fall back to feudal times.  Women will again become chattel slaves, the warlords will continue to sell the opium and have their dancing boys, and death will come quickly and easily for the slightest transgression.

So how is this America’s problem?  Other than the fact that we sorta caused the whole thing in our usual sneaky underhanded way?

The answer is, it’s not.  What we should do is pack up our tents and haul our asses and all of our weapons the hell out of that country and wish them well.  Or, maybe we should issue an M-16 and a case of ammo to every household in the country, then sit back and see who comes out on top.  Whoever that is will be the government of Afghanistan, if it doesn’t break apart into Persians and Kurds, or Sunnis and Shiites.

And remember the final scenes of the abandonment of Saigon, with the helicopters on the roof?  The only honorable thing to do in this situation is to invite every single Afghani citizen who fears life under the Taliban a visa to the USA.  Every single one of them.

What it really is is a United Nations problem.  Unfortunately, the leaders of the United Nations, the Security Council, have forced the will of the powerful minority on the helpless majority while the continuing exploitation of Third World resources for the benefit of rich First World elites goes on behind the scenes.

So the United Nations doesn’t have enough pull to make anything happen.  Every other country with troops on the ground or planes in the air needs to back the hell out of there, pronto, and let the Afghanis settle their own future.  If the Taliban wins, why would that not be expected?  Did we not invade them on the pretext of their hospitality to Al Qaeda and destroy their country with bombs, fighters and civilians alike?

After they settle down and get organized, they should provide us with a bill for the damage to their sovereign country, which we should promptly pay.  Sure, they’re assholes, and they treat their people like shit, and that offends us, but you know what?  They don’t think much of us, either.  We’ve spilled a lot of blood over there, and spilled blood carries memories that last a long time.

Many years ago, the British decided, “Piss on this, those rowdy Americans can have their damn colony, and to hell with ‘em!”  They came to this conclusion for a good reason.  We need to come to the same conclusion with Afghanistan, and Iraq, and Israel, and a whole bunch of other places.  It’s up to the people who live there to accept or reject their own government.  Anybody who steps in automatically becomes the enemy, and we don’t need to be the world’s enemy.  :-{)}

Truck Driver's Blues

I woke up early this morning, and reflexively reached for the alarm clock, but then remembered I didn’t do that alarm clock shit anymore.  I rolled out, sat on the edge of the bed, and grinned.  This new reality was going to take some getting used to, all right.  But it was a nice problem to have.

You see, I’m a truck driver.  Long haul is my specialty, and, like the song goes, I’ve driven “every kind of rig that’s ever been made” all over the USA, for the last twenty years or so as one of the best of the best, an owner-operator.

And the thing is, I’m still driving today - right now, in fact.  After I get some coffee in me I’ll turn on my laptop and find out where my truck is.  And that’s the thing that has me grinning to think about, the idea that my new truck is out there on the road right now, making me money with every mile that rolls under its fancy new individually powered wheels driven by electric motors supplied by the battery pack that sits up front where the engine used to be.  There’s no cab, of course, just an aerodynamic cover to maximize stability as it rolls along with a 70,000 pound load in the walking-floor equipped self-loading trailer, the wheels of which are also powered.  Electric motors having maximum torque at stall speed means the eighteen driven wheels can hum along at 75 miles an hour all day and all night, with stops at the service platform every 600 miles or so for a 15-minute battery swap.  And the real beauty of it, of course, is that, without an old grouch like me behind the wheel trying to grind out as many miles as possible in the limited driving time allowed for humans, my truck sits in the slow lane, happy to roll along as fast as traffic allows while still leaving plenty of room in front for entrances and exits, all while consuming zero diesel.

I understand some truck stops keep a fuel tank in the ground and an old pump, just for nostalgia sake and to keep some of the old Luddites happy, but the rest of them are now converted battery swap joints, while the few remaining restaurants are living on tourist and local traffic, and the whores, shoplifters, petty thieves and homeless beggars have long gone the way of ultra-low-sulfur diesel around here.  The UBI we enacted years ago, as it became obvious that most traditional “jobs” were going the way of the steam locomotive in the modern era, has removed the junkies and nut cases from our public areas and got them taken care of.  I’m still surprised that the Powers That Be were smart enough to realize that truck drivers were an essential part of our economy and society and passed the law that allowed one robot truck to each driver and awarded that person the total earnings from that truck.  Surprised, yes, but very glad they did, with a lot of pressure applied by everybody out here in the real world on the politicians we elected.  Just like every ironworker gets the money earned by their replacement robot, and every electrician and carpenter, too.

That reminds me, I have a meeting this afternoon with the neighborhood cleanup committee. We’re talking about rehabbing a couple of old service stations in the neighborhood with the help of the construction ‘bots and turning them into music hangouts.  We’ve got enough kids playing these days we can have a Battle of the Bands every Friday night for weeks without rotating the players.  The new playgrounds and ballfields we had to build when so many more parents had time to help with their kids’ Little Leagues and Junior Football games are starting to produce world-class talent, and the local schools, because so many of us have time for Booster Clubs and PTA stuff, are on a roll with the college applications going up all the time.

Looking back, I realize it was all worth the battle we started, to take back our country from the Robber Barons who controlled our lives for decades and stand on the principle of One Robot Per Person that has made it possible for everyone to be freed from the drudgery and grunt work that used to be inevitable, not to mention the idea that when you couldn’t work anymore you were useless trash to be tossed into the streets.  The funny thing was, and the way it worked out, that when you take economic pressure off people and provide them with the basics of life along with a path to do better individually, suddenly a whole bunch of crime goes away too.  It’s so obvious that criminals are driven either by the hunger of an addiction they can not control or the anger that a young, strong person feels as they realize that all the decks are stacked against them with no way out, it’s a wonder we were so greedy, those of us who had a say, that we didn’t realize that the obvious benefit that flows to the rich as well as the poor when society is stable and everyone’s needs are met is true security.  No more gated enclaves, no threats of kidnapping, no security cams everywhere, no slums, no neighborhood patrols, no guns going off in the night.  Sure, it cost the rich a big part of their cash at the time, but it’s not like they couldn’t afford it, and most of them now realize how much better off they are, too.  No Big Brother is a good thing, and they’re still rich, if not as much.

But it all started with the election of 2020, when we went into the voting booth and threw out the liars, the grifters, the cheaters, the demagogues and the party hacks on both sides and replaced them with people just like us, who listened to what we said and went and did what we wanted for everybody’s benefit.

And that’s why I’m grinning this morning, as I sit in front of my laptop watching through the remotes as my truck drops a load off in Chattanooga, Tennessee and picks up another one for Rhode Island somewhere.  I might go visit it next time it comes through town to pat it on the fender and thank it for the money that shows up in my account every week.  Yep, life is good here in the USA.  Raise the flag.  :-{)}

The Beggars of Toulon

The following observations stem from a trip my wife and I took to Europe a few years back.  My brother-in-law, the college history professor, had been hired to teach American History in English to a summer class of students in Hyeres on the French Riviera for a month, pre-pandemic, and we were quick to jump at the chance to join them in the 600 year old house they rented in Old Town.  It was a fascinating opportunity to experience old European culture from the inside, and prompted the story that you read here.

Beggars in Europe are different from beggars in America.  It’s almost like the Art of Begging is considered an honored profession over there, while here it is considered evidence of depravity or personal failings.  There, typically, the beggars sit quietly on the ground with their hands out, saying nothing.  Their targets are the pedestrians walking by.  Here they will be standing at intersections with hand-lettered cardboard signs, seeking funds that are handed out the window of a vehicle.

Even in Europe, there are differences between the various types.  Coming up out of the underpass after departing the Eiffel tower, we were confronted by a toothless old woman sitting on the upper step of the exit.  The crowd comes in spurts as the giant elevators disgorge their streams of tourists, and, when we came around that last corner, she went into a practiced routine where she rubbed her ample belly and cried out loudly, “J’ai faime!  J’ai faime!”, meaning “I’m hungry!”

Later, as we crossed the large open lawn of the Champs De Mars we were accosted by one of several young Roma women who wordlessly handed us a note written in English explaining that they were lost and in desperate need of funds and could we help them?  I noticed as I sent them away that there was always a young man in the vicinity, apparently wandering aimlessly.

When we went to the Sacre Coeur in Montmarte, as we got off the subway we were accosted by young men from North Africa who would take us by the hand and quickly braid a leather tie around our wrists in hopes of getting 10 Euros out of us afterwards.  The technique was to ignore our protestations and assume we would not punch them, which seemed to work, mostly.  I had to speak rather sternly to the young man who made the mistake of picking me, then I had to go rescue my wife from hers.

In the evening, if you were seated near the edge of a roped-off outside dining area attached to a bistro, it was not unusual to be approached by one or two elderly Roma women asking for funds.  The waiters would run them off quickly.

But in the South of France, along the Riviera, the beggars become different again.  We rode the TGV fast rail down from Paris to Marseille, then switched to a local train for the last leg to Toulon, and from there to Hyeres Les Palmiers, where we were based on this trip.  The name refers to the Casino that was the center of town, but we were up the hill in the old town.

On the train ride East from Marseille we shared a compartment with a group of young people, who were all laughing and talking like any other similar group on a vacation junket.  The funny thing was, they were beggars, a fact that was revealed a couple of days later when we came back to Toulon for an evening of touring and bistro hopping with my sister and her family.  As we walked through town, I saw that exact same group of young people sitting on the sidewalk in a busy intersection, but the difference was night and day.  On the train, they were laughing, joking around and having fun.  Here they sat in a disconsolate sprawl up against a building, their eyes downcast and their faces sad and quiet.  Their earrings had disappeared along with their jewelry, and they appeared to be the picture of poverty as the people passing by dropped an occasional coin or bill in their bowl.  It’s a living, I guess.

Of course, those experiences on that trip to Europe are separated from these days by more than a few years, and world events have no doubt changed the makeup of beggars all over the world as desperate people migrate from their homes in search of peace and security.  One thing does seem to remain consistent, though.  The people all over the world who are living in the street, where every day is a scrabble to survive, and satisfaction is only to be found in a needle or a bottle, those are the ones who are on the bottom rung of the ladder of life.  When times get tough, there are more of them, and when things improve, they get less visible.

They’re still there, though, and until we find a way to bring all of them up out of the gutter, everywhere in the world, we will never be completely able to relax.  There is no wall we could ever build that would keep them out if things got so bad that we thought it might.  And if it ever got to that point, it would be too late.  We would most probably join them, those of us that survived.  :-{)}

Story Time

My wife and I were both at a garage sale in the cul-de-sac kitty-corner behind us, where an elderly couple with a lot of history between them were lightening their load.  I snagged some very cool hand reamers in sizes I will probably never use, but they were so cheap, and some also very cool extension points for my lathe tailstock in graduated sizes, so I went away happy.  When you work with machine tools all your life you get where you just like to handle them and admire their precision and heft, all the more enjoyable knowing you don’t have to sweat and grunt over a T handle and actually use them.

My wife came home with a stack of old cookie tins, some quite faded and scratched up.  “Whatever possessed you to buy these?” I asked.  “Don’t you already have more than we need up on that shelf in the kitchen as it is?”  She laughed.  “You can’t have too many cookie tins, you know, and, besides, these have a cool story!  Apparently, they were among the residue of our elderly neighbor’s equally elderly Great-Aunt, who emigrated from the Old Country, and they’ve been kicking around ever since she passed.  She’s never even opened them, and some of them have stuff inside!”

I picked up the biggest one and shook it.  There was something inside, all right, but the lid appeared to be sealed with wax, and was resistant to being opened.  I took it out to the shop and clamped it down to the milling machine table with angle clamps, then proceeded to warm the rim with a heat gun until the wax liquified and I was able to gently pry the top off to reveal a very old, hand lettered diary, the text of which I now reveal to the world:

Jack and the Beanstalk:  After the Fall

Jack Spriggins is my name, and the following is a true and forthright account of what happened to me after I became famous following the chopping down of the giant beanstalk and resultant death of the giant himself, for which I was held liable.

I gotta be honest.  Some of those story-telling types made me out to be some kind of hero, where I called for my mother to toss me the axe, then chopped the beanstalk down just in time to throw the giant to his death.  Actually, I got away with the golden harp clean, and he didn’t find out it was gone for some days after I got home.  What happened was, I was outside one morning the next week, and I noticed that the beanstalk was shaking a bit on a regular basis as some very large feet were stepping carefully down what to him must have been a very shaky ladder.  That’s when I knew I had to chop it down, and it took most of the morning and into the afternoon, because the base was so thick.  The neighbors sawed great lengths of it for lumber, later, and when the giant fell he landed in the next county, so I wasn’t there for that.  Squashed a barn, he did, and two horses inside.

The beanstalk itself, as you would imagine, caused a lot of damage when it landed, wiping out fences and roofs for miles in a straight line.  When the shirriff followed the trail of destruction back to my place, there I was, with the axe in my hand, figuratively.

So a lot of the gold coins I got away with went to patch up the neighborhood, and a fair bit of it seemed to fall off into the hands of the various councilmembers and politicians in the process, but that was hardly a shock.  I did get to keep enough of it to pay off the farm and set my mother up for the rest of her life, and allow me to keep a wife and raise a mess of children over the years, so I guess you could say it worked out well.  I had to hire a team of soldiers to beat off the constant stream of shirt-tail relatives, scheisters and thieves, all coming at a run with their hands out, but that died down after a few of them lost parts of their bodies in the process, like the ones above the shoulders.

Then the Duke heard about the harp, and word quickly came to me that it would be a very good idea to grandiosely donate said harp to the Ducal Endowment for safe-keeping, which worked out well for him, until the Earl heard about it, and thence for him until the King got the story.  I was out the harp in any case, with no return beyond a few minutes of fame at a feast at the palace where I told my story in the short version before being escorted out the back door during the performance.  I was glad to leave with both ears.

And, of course, the Goose that laid a Golden Egg was not.  Not a Goose, that is.  It was a hen.  So the eggs were maybe a tad bit smaller than you would think they should be if it really was a goose.  Most of those were sold on the sly to a French family, the Faberges, and I never heard what they did with them.  I did get some pretty good money out of them, anyway, at least until the hen stopped laying, because it turned out she only did because they were feeding the chickens Golden Corn, and once that supply went away and the gold in her system was used up, the eggs were just decent brown eggs, like any other.  So one day we got hungry, and that’s what hens are for when they stop laying, right?

So, all in all, you might say I did all right because of the adventure.  I can’t help thinking about that place up there, and all that Golden Corn.  The giant must have had some relatives, because I understand one of them passed himself off as Jolly, and started a food company, but none of them have come looking for me, and that’s the way I like it.  :-{)}

Quora Question

What is your perception of Harley Davidson, Harley Riders, Harley owners and the Harley Culture?

Alan Brittenham, former Journeyman Machinist (1973-2014)

Answered just now

Me and my buddy Griz were standing outside a tavern on a warm summer night one time. Now, I’m a reasonably big dude, but Griz, well, he come by that name honest. He was a total cream puff, of course, with a heart of gold, but he did have a tendency to look the part. Black t-shirt, black leathers, black beard, big burly biker. Both our Harleys were parked on the sidewalk there.

So these two young guys came out of the bar to their bikes, a couple of Honda 750s, parked right close to us. One of them turned to us and said, “Hey, could I ask you a question? What is it about Harleys? I mean, everybody knows they’re slow, and heavy, and expensive. Why do people buy them?”

I took a slow breath as I formulated my answer. “It’s not about speed, or power”, I was gonna say. “It’s about how they make you feel when you ride them. There’s something about that big old engine, with two coffee cans going up and down one after another inside those huge barrels, that just comes out right. You can’t spin ’em too fast, and you don’t want to push ’em too hard, and they will carry you around like an old horse for years, and feel good all the time. And you can fix them yourself!”

“On the other hand”, I was gonna say, “there are so many levels of parts and expertise out there you can take any Harley and make it into one that your friends will recognize in the middle of that giant field outside Milwaukee in 2003, you can make it something that is yours, and yours alone.  You can make a show bike, restore an antique, pop wheelies, whatever you want!  

And ignore that shit about the “Harley Fraternity”, it’s not like that. What happens is, you get some time on the road, you run into some folks who ride similar bikes, you get to know them at the bar, you show up at a few meetings, you go on rides together, and before you know it you’re part of a brotherhood. You can’t do it on purpose. You have to earn it.”

That’s what I was gonna say, but, before I could get a word out, Griz took a step towards the young guy and growled, “Fuck You! Get on that piece of Jap Crap and get out of here before I kick your ass!” Both young guys did just that, amazingly fast.

I’m like, “Gawdammit, Griz, that was a reasonable question! You’re only pissed because that 750 will run circles around your shovel! I coulda talked them into showing up at the next Chapter meeting, maybe! You just gotta stop running off the young guys, or we turn into a bunch of old farts reminiscing all the time.”

Griz laughed. “Yeah, but fuck it. Let’s go back inside, have another beer.”

And so we did. And that’s how that shit happens. :-{)}