Saturday, December 31, 2011
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Monday, December 26, 2011
So how cold is it Johnny?
Okay it is so cold that
My olive oil sludge has to be spooned out of the can..
My running water crawls..
I can walk on water -- the ice in my toilet bowl...
I dropped some fresh raspberries out the kitchen window - they flash froze on the way down and TKO'd a deer mouse
Who was wearing ear muffs and a comforter made of puffy Costanza down..
My hair dryer now has three new settings, cold, blizzard and freeze-cojones
I have a new sundial -- a robin frozen upright in the bird bath
My icebox is feeding power back to the grid
And my digital thermometer now reads ..Uncle..
My olive oil sludge has to be spooned out of the can..
My running water crawls..
I can walk on water -- the ice in my toilet bowl...
I dropped some fresh raspberries out the kitchen window - they flash froze on the way down and TKO'd a deer mouse
Who was wearing ear muffs and a comforter made of puffy Costanza down..
My hair dryer now has three new settings, cold, blizzard and freeze-cojones
I have a new sundial -- a robin frozen upright in the bird bath
My icebox is feeding power back to the grid
And my digital thermometer now reads ..Uncle..
Friday, December 23, 2011
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Friday, December 16, 2011
Plutocracy
What's a rich society ruled by a troika of an archaic laxative, a dog cartoon and deposed planet?
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Friday, December 9, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Friday, December 2, 2011
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Monday, November 14, 2011
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Yellow Jello Bellow
A ride that’s smooth, sweet and – loud!
In the heady world of New York’s Madison Avenue and the big-dollar ad agencies lining that street of dreams, there’s a concept called “chocolate cake”. It’s basically advertising that’s supposed to evoke --and invoke -- luxury, comfort and a money-is-no-object mindset in the brains of the target audience. To that end, “chocolate cake” is, by definition, populated with the rich dark tones and images of brown, burnt sienna and burgundy that often connote the finer, quieter, things in life: charcoal-seared sirloin, tung-oil finished mahogany, corinthian leather, seventy-year old scotch.
Herewith we present the answer to chocolate cake --- by motorcycledom in general, and by Dave Perewitz’s Cycle Fabrications in particular. And as much as bittersweet chocolate lulls, so does this bright yellow lemon tart arrest, alert, awake. Two-wheeled, tangy and tasty, it’s representative of the brighter, louder, and more fluid things in life – like sunny mornings, ignition sparks, english custard, bikini’d blondes, rocket exhaust, lemonade.
Now, colors that are cousins of canary, chartreuse and Pantone #106 don’t generally find their way onto Big Twin skins. But by all the appearances on these pages, Cycle Fab shows it has the savvy to pull it off. It looks right -- from the tip of its tight tolerance front fender, to the matching teardrops of tank and aircleaner, to the raffish sweep of the oil tank. Key to the effect is a Dave Perewitz designed frame with just a judicious amount of stretch, plus all the niceties – pre-drilled for internal electrics, set-up for hidden hydraulics and an extra-wide softail for concurrent rear drive belt and 200 section tire. Having 96 inches of motivation on tap doesn’t hurt the image either. Particularly when they announce their presence through a set of Bub exhausts that – how can we put this circumspectly - have had their internals just slightly reworked for euphonic enhancement by Cycle Fab. One twist of the wick makes all those subtle saffron suggestions loud and real. Last but not least is a surface finish with a gloss that’s indescribable - like smooth, sweet yellow jello.
So if color of this example is any measure, then you can keep the dulcet tones of chocolate cake in drawing room where they belong. In the garage and on the highway, tend toward tawny, go for gold, sidle up to sienna, or shack-up with chartreuse!
-- Jake, Easyriders, 1997
In the heady world of New York’s Madison Avenue and the big-dollar ad agencies lining that street of dreams, there’s a concept called “chocolate cake”. It’s basically advertising that’s supposed to evoke --and invoke -- luxury, comfort and a money-is-no-object mindset in the brains of the target audience. To that end, “chocolate cake” is, by definition, populated with the rich dark tones and images of brown, burnt sienna and burgundy that often connote the finer, quieter, things in life: charcoal-seared sirloin, tung-oil finished mahogany, corinthian leather, seventy-year old scotch.
Herewith we present the answer to chocolate cake --- by motorcycledom in general, and by Dave Perewitz’s Cycle Fabrications in particular. And as much as bittersweet chocolate lulls, so does this bright yellow lemon tart arrest, alert, awake. Two-wheeled, tangy and tasty, it’s representative of the brighter, louder, and more fluid things in life – like sunny mornings, ignition sparks, english custard, bikini’d blondes, rocket exhaust, lemonade.
Now, colors that are cousins of canary, chartreuse and Pantone #106 don’t generally find their way onto Big Twin skins. But by all the appearances on these pages, Cycle Fab shows it has the savvy to pull it off. It looks right -- from the tip of its tight tolerance front fender, to the matching teardrops of tank and aircleaner, to the raffish sweep of the oil tank. Key to the effect is a Dave Perewitz designed frame with just a judicious amount of stretch, plus all the niceties – pre-drilled for internal electrics, set-up for hidden hydraulics and an extra-wide softail for concurrent rear drive belt and 200 section tire. Having 96 inches of motivation on tap doesn’t hurt the image either. Particularly when they announce their presence through a set of Bub exhausts that – how can we put this circumspectly - have had their internals just slightly reworked for euphonic enhancement by Cycle Fab. One twist of the wick makes all those subtle saffron suggestions loud and real. Last but not least is a surface finish with a gloss that’s indescribable - like smooth, sweet yellow jello.
So if color of this example is any measure, then you can keep the dulcet tones of chocolate cake in drawing room where they belong. In the garage and on the highway, tend toward tawny, go for gold, sidle up to sienna, or shack-up with chartreuse!
-- Jake, Easyriders, 1997
Monday, October 10, 2011
Monday, October 3, 2011
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Fruit fly armageddon.
Okay, so the lingering pestilence around here finally came to a head yesterday.
I looked up from my desert of listeria laced melon, insecticide infected strawberries and Red Sox humble pie, listening to replay after replay of Tito quitting, and…
… grey smoke was hovering over the compost bucket in the sink. (I try heed mama’s words and recycle old fruit etc. into soil- my lot is mostly bedrock).
As I peered through the smoke and into the bucket, it also seemed that all the stuff was covered in dark brown mold. Hmm interesting.
Then I put my glasses. Oh. The smoke and the mold were about one trillion fruit flies. Each.
Okay, thanks to the largesse of the local orchardists I am blessed with more-or-less free fruit drops. And natch, free fruit flies.
I decided to gingerly transport this bustling hub of insect-dom outside where it belonged.
Very bad mistake.
I now had two trillion fruit flies buzzing in my face. Thank God I am not a fruit head - altho some of my friends call me that. If so, I would have had to add myself to my collection of shrunken heads from the jungles of Borneo.
Now there is nothing harder to catch than fruit flies. The are the hummingbirds of the insect world. They make mosquitos look like slugs. They must be made of neutrinos, because in my kitchen they were now exceeding the speed of light.
I tried the Dustbuster and then the Miehle and then the Bob Vila shop vac to suck em up. Zilch.
I tired the audio test tone on the EMI subwoofer turned up to the plaster-crack-glass-shatter level -- to stun them into submission. Nada.
I tried to drug then into stupor with a hemp bonfire in my living room. Nope. But somehow it now seemed like I could deal with the problem manyana. Gee how did that come about?
So…this morning I can finally report I am making headway. I now have about 55 gallons of fruit fly sludge. At the bottom of a big soapy vat of diluted vinegar. Guess I will try and bottle it for my ex..
And so that is how it is around here today…
I looked up from my desert of listeria laced melon, insecticide infected strawberries and Red Sox humble pie, listening to replay after replay of Tito quitting, and…
… grey smoke was hovering over the compost bucket in the sink. (I try heed mama’s words and recycle old fruit etc. into soil- my lot is mostly bedrock).
As I peered through the smoke and into the bucket, it also seemed that all the stuff was covered in dark brown mold. Hmm interesting.
Then I put my glasses. Oh. The smoke and the mold were about one trillion fruit flies. Each.
Okay, thanks to the largesse of the local orchardists I am blessed with more-or-less free fruit drops. And natch, free fruit flies.
I decided to gingerly transport this bustling hub of insect-dom outside where it belonged.
Very bad mistake.
I now had two trillion fruit flies buzzing in my face. Thank God I am not a fruit head - altho some of my friends call me that. If so, I would have had to add myself to my collection of shrunken heads from the jungles of Borneo.
Now there is nothing harder to catch than fruit flies. The are the hummingbirds of the insect world. They make mosquitos look like slugs. They must be made of neutrinos, because in my kitchen they were now exceeding the speed of light.
I tried the Dustbuster and then the Miehle and then the Bob Vila shop vac to suck em up. Zilch.
I tired the audio test tone on the EMI subwoofer turned up to the plaster-crack-glass-shatter level -- to stun them into submission. Nada.
I tried to drug then into stupor with a hemp bonfire in my living room. Nope. But somehow it now seemed like I could deal with the problem manyana. Gee how did that come about?
So…this morning I can finally report I am making headway. I now have about 55 gallons of fruit fly sludge. At the bottom of a big soapy vat of diluted vinegar. Guess I will try and bottle it for my ex..
And so that is how it is around here today…
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Friday, August 12, 2011
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Top ten reasons why I am a luddite
Ten. I took my Harley to the dump because it had no kickstarter
Nine. I think telecommunications is smoke signalling
Eight. And advanced telecommunications media is semaphores
Seven. To me, digital is counting on one’s hands
Six. My computer software runs on morse code
Five. My word processor is a chisel and a stone tablet
Four. The only control setting on my air condtioner is the wall plug
Three. I use dehumidifier condensate to flush toilets
Two. My GPS is a roadmap and a wet thumb…and…drum roll please..
One. To me “search engine” means “check the V-8 for a drug stash”
Nine. I think telecommunications is smoke signalling
Eight. And advanced telecommunications media is semaphores
Seven. To me, digital is counting on one’s hands
Six. My computer software runs on morse code
Five. My word processor is a chisel and a stone tablet
Four. The only control setting on my air condtioner is the wall plug
Three. I use dehumidifier condensate to flush toilets
Two. My GPS is a roadmap and a wet thumb…and…drum roll please..
One. To me “search engine” means “check the V-8 for a drug stash”
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Friday, August 5, 2011
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Why a water logged Judy Carne quit Laugh In
1. It may be epic to you, but it’s saga to me (bucket splash)
2. It may be rice wine to you, but it’s saki to me (bucket splash)
3. It may be receptacle to you, but it’s socket to me (bucket splash)
4. It may be sustenance to you but it’s succor to me (bucket splash)
5. It may be soul to you but, it’s psyche to me (bucket splash)
6. It may be chump to you bit it’s sucker to me (bucket splash)
7. It may be damp to you, but its soggy to me (bucket splash)
8. It may be football to you, but it’s soccer to me (bucket splash)
-- Rowan and Martin (and me)
2. It may be rice wine to you, but it’s saki to me (bucket splash)
3. It may be receptacle to you, but it’s socket to me (bucket splash)
4. It may be sustenance to you but it’s succor to me (bucket splash)
5. It may be soul to you but, it’s psyche to me (bucket splash)
6. It may be chump to you bit it’s sucker to me (bucket splash)
7. It may be damp to you, but its soggy to me (bucket splash)
8. It may be football to you, but it’s soccer to me (bucket splash)
-- Rowan and Martin (and me)
Monday, August 1, 2011
Friday, July 29, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
The bug rant...
“…So folks, it certainly is buggy out there today….(crowd yells in unison – and how buggy is it Johnny?…
Well it’s so buggy I had to upgrade my tennis zapper from lithion–ion to fuel-cell to pocket nuclear fusion to naked singularity...
It’s so buggy the deer flies sucked the bambis' down to venison jerky…
It's so buggy my pet echnida had to go in for lap band surgery..
It’s so buggy the mosquitos buzzing in my ear gave me tinnitus..
It’s so buggy that when IBM tried a point data cloud scan of the flying object around my head…Watson went up in smoke..
It’s so buggy every runtime compiler on the planet has decided to interpret instead...
It’s so buggy the salient feature of my landscaping is a sand trap filled with Terra ant-killer granules...
It’s so buggy the truck rolling down my driveway is not because the brakes failed— the ants are carting it off for candy in the glovebox...
It’s so buggy the spiders have come down with type II diabetes and have to jog around their webs…
….poof…
Well it’s so buggy I had to upgrade my tennis zapper from lithion–ion to fuel-cell to pocket nuclear fusion to naked singularity...
It’s so buggy the deer flies sucked the bambis' down to venison jerky…
It's so buggy my pet echnida had to go in for lap band surgery..
It’s so buggy the mosquitos buzzing in my ear gave me tinnitus..
It’s so buggy that when IBM tried a point data cloud scan of the flying object around my head…Watson went up in smoke..
It’s so buggy every runtime compiler on the planet has decided to interpret instead...
It’s so buggy the salient feature of my landscaping is a sand trap filled with Terra ant-killer granules...
It’s so buggy the truck rolling down my driveway is not because the brakes failed— the ants are carting it off for candy in the glovebox...
It’s so buggy the spiders have come down with type II diabetes and have to jog around their webs…
….poof…
Monday, July 25, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Friday, July 15, 2011
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Friday, July 8, 2011
ROADBURNER
The rise and fall of the British motorcycle in America
There was a time in America when many people championed a certain kind of motorcycle. They eagerly bought them by the thousands. They avidly rode in them in squadrons. They immersed themselves. It was a magnificent obsession that rivaled that of today’s internet surfer, day trader, marathoner.
But it was also a craze apart. For this movement did not center on heavyweight cruisers – American built or inspired. This was no Harley mystique. Instead, it espoused motorcycles imported from an unlikely homeland – the British Isles. And instead of today’s selection of smooth, sophisticated, streamlined cycles, this was a lean, hairy horde. It was populated by dozens of obscure, colorful, tempestuous types. Their unique, often quixotic designs became overnight classics. Their brand names drew from a rich palette of English ancestry – Celtic lore, Greek mythology, Norman influences, Anglican pride. They demanded a commitment and an involvement that was embracing, endearing, even enthralling.
From the late nineteen forties to the mid nineteen seventies, a cult of enthusiasts bought, rode, indeed lived these British bikes. As a group they earned the endearing nickname of “Brit iron”. And, for a quarter century they appeared on these shores in a profusion and variety never seen before or since. It was truly a golden age for all things with two wheels and a Union Jack on the gas tank.
Yet now, just thirty years later, the classic British motorcycle has largely vanished from the roads and the minds of America. One by one, fabled brands that had persisted for most of the century fell by the way side within a few short years. The story of their rise and fall of is a slice of life from the tumult wrought by worldwide war on the economics, culture and technology of all participants.
The First British Invasion
War set the stage for the ascendancy of the British motorcycle. And its ambassador was none other than the American G.I. For, with Europe occupied and the Pacific empty of land, the British Isles were our home-away-from-home for most of World War Two. Conscripted and dispatched to the European Theatre of Operations, many American soldiers spent their leaves in England. There, they encountered a kind of motorcycle most had never seen before.
At the time, the domestic offerings from Harley Davidson and Indian were large, cumbersome and utilitarian. They rolled on heavily-fendered, large sectioned tires. Their wide footboards and low ground clearances inhibited spirited cornering. Their hand-shifting and foot gear engagement relied on a rube-goldberg assortment of linkages and awkward assists. These were arrangements that gave rise to well-earned nicknames like “suicide clutch” and “mousetrap”. Suspensions were similarly primitive – sprung seat, rigid rear, springer front forks. For the most part, these American motorcycles looked and rode like the farm implements they often shared a barn with.
The motorcycles encountered in England were a startling, refreshing change. They were light and agile to handle the curvy roads of the English countryside. Trim, thin aluminum fenders and svelte tubular stays replaced cobby steel mudguards. Foot shifters and cable-operated hand clutch controls made gear changes lightning fast – a snick instead of a clunk. Tall sporting tires and fully damped hydraulic suspensions converted sportive riding from an impossibility to a pure pleasure. And their engines were the centerpiece. Novel layouts ranged from one to four cylinders in sloping, transverse, inline and even square configurations. Heavily developed to increase power and reliability, they bristled with technical innovations like aluminum cylinder heads, aircraft-like high camshafts, and one carburetor for each cylinder. In short, Americans discovered the charm of British design, craftsmanship and industry. It was the same national mindset that gave the world the revered Spitfire aircraft and Jaguar automobile. It was form-follows-function applied to two wheels. And as G.I.’s and then civilians returning stateside, Americans took to it in droves.
In the 1950's and 60's this whole stampede of steel stallions roamed American roads. For this era was the heyday of the big British roadburner. The same innovation, industry and intrepidity (!?) that won the Battle of Britain in World War II now benefited riders worldwide. Out of factories, workshops and assembly plants from "across the pond" came a rich profusion (like proliferation, like confusion, only more!) of English motorcycles. These machines had designs that looked like miniature oil refineries -- intricate, precise, complex. And the fact that some leaked like same only added to their appeal.
For, riding British consumed endless happy hours of weekend wrenching, tinkering and jigger-pokery. It meant your mount excreted a macho oil dropping wherever it had been -- like a wolf marking its territory.
It gave riders an opportunity to snivel good naturedly about Brit bike electrics. Whereas we American Joe Hunt was praised as the "sultan of spark", riders reviled Englishman Lucas as the "prince of darkness."
Between Brit and Harley riders, mutual insults of "hawg" and "limey" were exchanged so often that the terms became endearing nicknames instead. Magneto ignitions made that rare first-kick start especially sweet. And, the names on the gas tanks of these vintage vehicles had magic to match: Ariel; AJS; BSA; Matchless; Norton; Panther; Triumph; Vincent-HRD; and more.
VINCENT -- VICIOUS & REVERED
Among the big boisterous British family of motorcycles in the post war era, there was a black sheep brand. It was expensive, difficult to operate, demanding to maintain and exceedingly powerful. Its followers approached it with a reverence that bordered on religion. Its design sparkled with quirky, quixotic details in spades. In short, the Vincent HRD ( and later, simply Vincent) was the ne plus ultra of all British bikes. And the Vincent factory at Stevenage, Herts., U.K., did little to dispel the image. The dubbed their models with dark, dangerous sounding monikers like "Black Shadow, Black Lightning, Black Prince." The Lightning was rarest and fastest of all, literally a factory-built racer with oodles of special goodies. Very few were built, but clever Vincent aficionados upgraded their standard bikes with those special parts, giving rise to the description of "White Lightning" - truly a wolf in lighter sheep's cloak!.
Doing the ton, or exceeding 100 miles per hour, was the standard of excellence for most British motorcycles. Vincents, on the other hand, effortlessly topped 125, right off the showroom floor. And with a few modifications available from the factory, Vincents set records in the 150 miles per hour range. In tacit recognition, some later models came equipped with a gargantuan speedometer five inches high. The 998cc twin cylinder engine was so potent it could fly literally, for it successfully powered an aircraft drone known as the Picador. The two cylinders were arranged in a "vee " configuration, one behind the other.Each motorcycle was assembled by small teams of dedicated workers, virtually by hand. In a throwback to times before the industrial revolution, parts were specially selected to fit their mating parts. Alas, this glorious and quixotic marque fell to earth in 1955 when the company went out of business. But happily today, bolstered by an active and worldwide Vincent HRD Owners Club (voc.uk.com) and a dedicated cadre of parts suppliers, these dark and ancient monsters still breath fire on many a beckoning curvy country road. Don't blink or you'll miss them!
ROYAL ENFIELD -- THE QUINTESSENTIAL ROAD BURNER
In the heyday of the big British roadburners, the Royal Enfield was one of the biggest and baddest vertical twins to hit American macadam. It always near the peak of the pack in pure performance. Their models carried handles like Bullet, Interceptor, Meteor -- and their speed made you think you were riding one.Yet throughout most of the fifties, this marque was virtually unknown in the colonies. It was sold under the Indian name after the demise of domestic designs from this brand — and did a not-too-shabby job of filling in. While other British bikes with two vertical cylinders (side by side) of the day gave you 600cc (Norton) or 650cc (Triumph or BSA) as the standard of performance, the 1958 Enfield came out of the crate with almost 700 cubes (692cc, actually), a tall, long-stroke engine with massive cylinder-head finning and skimpy exhaust muffling that made it look and sound twice as big. That big stroker twin cylinder motor with stump-pulling torque made low-end acceleration the Enfield's strong point. At the time, only a Harley Sportster could match it over the length of a city block, and in the quarter-mile few stock bikes could touch it.
And the Enfield was as reliable as it was fast. Main bearings in the engine were huge (3 11/16 inches in diameter, as I recall). Both heads and cylinders were separated into individual left and right castings to promote cooling and reduce distortion in the head-gasket area. But the main reason for the Royal Enfield's superiority was that much of it was actually the product of an aircraft company, Enfield Precision Engineers, Limited. The engine was produced in a factory carved out of solid rock hundreds of feet below Coventry, England, the same factory that had built complex multi-row radial engines for the RAF's fight-ers during World War II. The factory was buried not only for protection from Nazi bombing, but also because the consistent below-ground temperature made it easier to hold tight tolerances on engine parts.
In 1958, the Royal Enfield finally came out of the closet, as far as the United States was concerned, wearing its own badge on the tank sides. (Before that it had been imported through the Indian Motorcycle Company and had sported the Indian label.) The engines were soon enlarged to 736cc, with higher compression ratios for high-octane American gas, and finally dual carburetors in the fearsome Interceptor model. Detail improvements continued, culminating in the introduction of the Series II engine in 1970 that incorporated an alternator, oil cooler, redesigned crankcase, and other changes. But late Enfields retained the massive good looks of their predecessors and the small but special details that always made them stand out A good example was the neutral-finder lever on all Enfield transmissions; when depressed, it auto-matically put you in neutral from a higher gear, and saved untold hassles at stop lights.
Because of its late formal introduction into the U.S. market. Royal Enfield never gained the loyalty of a large following as did the other British twins: Norton, Triumph, BSA. Also, the economic and market forces that were slowly grinding down all the British brands took their toll on Royal Enfield. It vanished from the scene after only a few years of Series II production.
In recent years there has been a revival of sorts. A factory in India now makes the smaller R-E 500cc single cylinder models today. And you can buy one right here in the USA, at http://www.enfieldmotorcycles.com/
And if you want a bigger Enfield motorcycle based on two 500 cc cylinders in a vee-twin, you even have a choice. One is being produced in Australia cf.. http://www.carberryenfield.com.au/.
And another is under development in the USA cf. http://www.musketvtwin.com/
It looks like Royal Enfield is a roadburner with nine lives!
THE "SQUARIEL" -- ARIEL SQUARE FOUR
My first encounter with a “Squariel” was in the mid-1960’s. I was not yet 20. I lacked enough money to buy a car. This was a problem. Because I loved fast and powerful machinery. An airplane was out of the question. But I devoured magazines like Hot Road, Car Craft, Motor Trend. I learned about things like horsepower, nitromethane, supercharging. Effectively, I took an amateur crash course in Gearhead 101.
Then I happened to discover something that was just as fast and powerful as any car. But a lot less costly. A motorcycle. And not just a little Honda 90 and Jawa 125 that some of my high school chums (with more liberal parents than mine) were buzzing around on. But a big bike. A machine with an engine size in the 500 cc range and more. My reading material gravitated to Cycle, Cycle World, Modern Cycle and others.
It seemed almost too easy. You could get a motorcycle license or virtually just your say-so. No one wore helmets because it was not yet the law. Motorcycles were so few and far that seeing a fellow biker on the highway was an event. Riders waved to each other. In a few years, the Japanese and the masses would begin to discover the joys of big-engined motorcycles. But for the time being, I and a few others lived some kind of charmed, largely-undiscovered, uncrowded and unhampered road life.
My first bike was German. It did not always run, but when it did, it was a marvel of Teutonic efficiency. It appeared elegantly simple and clean in construction. It would gobble up road miles by the score with little effort.
But soon I was introduced the perhaps dark, definitely Byzantine, often quixotic realm of the British bike. “Limeys” as they were often called, were the raucous Cockney louts of the motorcycle world. They roared and rattled and shrieked engine noise. They leaked oil generously. Their electrical systems primarily were from a manufacturer, Joseph Lucas Ltd., who was often called “the prince of darkness.’. With good reason. Brit iron had personality. The brands acquired endearing monikers. The Triumph 650cc Bonneville was known as a “Bonnie.” No doubt from the hit song, My Bonnie lies over the Ocean. BSA? It earned the verbal badge of Beezer. And then of course there was the Ariel Square Four. Which was dubbed the “Squariel.”
My first encounter with a Squariel, running or not, happened on a spring Saturday afternoon at Pete Andrews’. That was the man’s name, but also in effect the name of his shop. It was a large, primarily foreign motorcycle dealership in Boston, Perhaps the largest in New England. It was the motorcycle shop of legends. A snarley ill-tempered curmudgeon of a proprietor, dark grease-soaked wooden floors, parts and accessories crammed into every nook and cranny up to the rafters, new and used bikes cramped cheek to tight jowl. Best of all, a dark dimly-lit rat-infested basement held a treasure trove of old rare and unusual motorcycles, parts, and pieces not identifiable as anything remotely earthly or human. If you buttered old Pete up for months, he might just grudgingly let you delve into the mysteries down there.
The streets and alleys surrounding Pete’s shop were at that prime time of the year, a beehive of activity. Bikes being worked on. Engines coughing and sputtering and staring in a roar. Machines coming and going like ants in a colony. Young men cursing and talking and sweating and laughing. Things got even more animated when a “ bird”, usually young pretty and blonde, alighted from a passenger seat to become an audience of one or two.
The tone of the engine cacophony from outside the shop was quite uniform, because almost all Brit bikes had vertical parallel twin cylinder engines. This was years before the influx of four cylinder motorcycle from the orient. A lot of bike were just singles. The bigger ones were twins. The two cylinders sat side by side under the gas tank. Those two hot cylinder heads just below gallons flammable fluid in a thin sheet mental enclosure made leaks an interesting proposition!
But on this afternoon, I heard a sound quite a bit different in the mix . More complex and yet more smooth. It was coming from the alley and it sounded more like car than bike. It had a multi-cylinder gravely throb like an MGB or an Austin Healy Four. Obviously someone was tinkering with a sportcar in the midst of all the bikes. I went outside to investigate.
What met my eyes and ears as I rounded the corner was truly amazing to me at the time. There, pouring out of the exhaust pipes of a motorcycle was the most heavenly motor music I had ever heard. It sounded as if somehow the soul of a four cylinder British automobile engine was entombed inside this large dark red motorcycle.
Well of course, it sounded like a four cylinder engine because it WAS a four cylinder engine . In a bike known as the Ariel Square Four. The Square Four had this huge cubic block of finned aluminum that was its engine. And everything on the bike seemed outsized to match. Big deep fenders. Wide tires. A massive and wide gas tank. A ponderous looking headlight cowl. The Square Four took the standard engine layout of its smaller Brit bike brethren and effectively doubled it. Instead of two cylinders in a single row across the frame, you had two cylinders in TWO rows. One behind the other. You had 1000cc instead of 500cc. The crankshaft for the rear two cylinders was connected to the front through two very large gears. So that the rear cylinder pair had to run backward. It was in effect, two twin cylinder engines grafted together as one. It was a wonderfully crazy set up only the British could dream up – and then actually make work.
Those four cylinders arranged in a square was unique in the industry and it had a unique sound. And big and heavy as it was, this pretty-much two-engined bike was blazingly fast in acceleration. And it could easily exceed 100 miles per hour on a good road.
The old hot-rod saw, “Speed costs money’ certainly applied to the Squariel, It was ex-pen-sive. Few ordinary motorcyclists could afford it. And by the time this then-novice college boy had arrived on the soon-to-burgeon motorcycle scene, the Ariel marque had gone out of business, and with it the Square Four. The last to roll out of the factory were built in 1959. Consequently, even in those days, few of these Fours plied American highways.
Today I encounter one every now and then at vintage and classic motorcycle meetings -- where they are usually presented with care and affection reserved for jewelry – or royalty. I usual find an excuse to wait around so I can hear one these pleasant monsters come to life with a splendid roar that is still somehow exotic, even alien in the two-wheeled world. It is tinged with a fetching memory of a time when I was young and the world seemed young and new.
If there were an American Idol for motorcycles, the Squariel would out sing all comers.
to be continued....
“Corners Like a Matchless”
Oil refinery chic
The Quintessential Roadburner
A Big Bore from Small Arms
My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean
Big Single
From Pest to Pestilence
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Monday, July 4, 2011
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Memo from Far-off-istan
Most ax-cellent aydoorable Amurican buty,
You knew we have been done compleat to correspond for many long thyme and eon epoch era. Me myself I do arrive to conclude love schizofriendily for your selfsame identity backside.
So here now in this pagial territory I maintain to further describe such notations which I may entertain to cause visage improvements on lo that female Goddeuse, which I content your identity is identical wid.
Meine large abuse of Anglican linguage I hope not levee to our communism-ication. I depreciate in most extreme greatitude all your fur bear ance.
It be mite chillie hear in little doggie tent on Pluto. But me have blue tooth to send out computer lectrons… Also so cold I have blue tooth in mout. Ha he hi ho. See I can machine-pun Americanski
Big offset here twoday. We all discover gastrological god determine Pluto no longer planet. Now only mutt of Mickey. Now only bread stuff in flight around Solar thermosbottle-nucleer gas bag. Bimmer.
Nokay, so now I update palm to you what perspires in my magazine-breakfast-cereal Life. I have made renderings to de-arrive leave home ice ball and sune will co-aless to you! Even here I detach a sameness of my trouble pisspot so you can countenance my sam-seer detentions.
But wretchedly, it now happened to cause that my pet gilda monster consume vast quantity of rocketplane ticket. No tickee no flitee no leavee
So dear madame can you please forthwith kindly transit via Western Union, wire transfer, bank rout or Vulcan mind meld the precise sum of $500,000,000.00 America dollars USD or equivalent in local currency. Note how my diction amazingly clears when sums of money are involved.
Sum how meeracle of gud verb-barrage ee-merge when muny info has a need for which to communi-miserate. Yo thunk…
Me pearlogize for humus-among-us amount bescreeched, but now at this juncturate in tempor-all clothesline, Americanski congress blow-hards backyard barbecue burger buns in place of dasterdly derby of debt destriction dealing. So greenback fade to footnail fungus yellow and worth only Pluto poop.
Me here stand and weight with meat on fish hook breath for US Treasury hay bail two shift orbit!
Sinfully yers,
Alekssandr Racoonianskiov
Friday, July 1, 2011
Mourning becomes Electra
What happens when the time-of-day machine becomes an Lockheed aircraft factory?
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Gastromoner
Who discovered the Planet of the Grapes? And still thinks the moon is made from green cheese?
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
John "Methuselah" Quincy Adams
According to Michele Bachmann, who was Abraham Lincoln channeling when he ordered the Emancipation Proclamation in 1863?
Monday, June 27, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
The pin is mightier than the sore
What do you say as you perform bathroom surgery and lance that boil?
The short plastic-produce-sticker rant
Okay – so you (we are talking the editorial “you” here, of course) paraglide, levitate or teleport into Trader Joes, Whole Foods, Waldbaums -- or any other purveyor of insanely overpriced produce.
You do your best Sunday Quasimodo shuffle across those oh-so expensive terra cotta tile floors. Knowing all the time that you are paying arm and leg, through the nose and up the wazoo for their hideously expensive up keep.
Ah, the organic produce aisle manages to materialize into in your blurry blood-shot eyeshot. All is copacetic. Auuuommmmm. Macro-biotic, hypoallegenic, ecologic. Green as chlorophyll, IPM and bacillus thurigensis.
You behold all manner of manifest globular miracles of Mother Nature. Rivaling Pamela Anderson, the Mark II model. Pears. Citrus. Apples. Tomatoes. Payaya. And melons that equal any pneumatic starlet or pole dancer. You serenely select the best of the bunch, check out and arrive home. Mouth watering for a god’s-nectar-laced bucket of fresh fruit.
The nirvana commences. You eat.
But then slowly mysteriously something swims into your semi-consciousness. You become aware of something foreign in your mouth. And I don’t mean mid-winter Chilean peaches. Your tongue makes like an Indy 500 car scouring your mouth. You fish it out. Only by the slightest chance and greatest luck has the item in question escaped your gullet, esophagus, stomach, duodenum- your entire bustling alimentary canal.
It is a plastic sticker.
It reads “Organic.”
You discover identical stickers affixed to each and every one of the examples of the fruit you have purchased.
Oh you see. The same mentality that pours forest-grown, prodigiously expensive, exquisitely-brewed-in-pure-quartz urn, organic-coffee into a styrofoam cup is in play here.
The mentality is called imbecilic moronic idiocy. It’s middle name is “ this defeats the entire purpose.” Its theme song is “Snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.”
No doubt when we all die slow, agonizing and premature deaths from exotic plastic-generated cancers, the autopsies will reveal stomach, sticker deposits with more leaves than pages in Manhattan phone book.
All bearing the assertion “organic.”
Sigh….Rant finished.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
Renren, Dandang, Youku and SolarFun
What Chinese stocks must have been named -- and bought -- by a nursery school class?
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Long Days Journey Into Night
What's the movie that starred Dawn Frantangelo, Fred Noonan and Yves Montagne?
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Hey We've Been Tweeting for years
What's the new musical starring Robyn Williams, Cardinal Cushing, Jay Leno and Atticus Finch?
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Bad Smell at Ebb Tide
What's one of Art Fern's Tea-Time Movies starring: Lawrence Welk, Buster Crabbe, Dinah Shore, Pearl Bailey, Johnny Rotten and Harriet Beacher Stowe.
Poop My Eye, Kiss Sky Goodbye
What's one of Art Fern's Tea-Time Movies starring: Walter Pidgeon, Bob Crane, Larry Bird and Jonathan Livingston Seagull
Pincer movement
When Beetle Bailey advanced to Four Star General, what was his first battle strategy?
Johnny Appleseed, Sharon Stone and Zazu Pitts
Who stars in the movie, Journey to the Center of the Fruit?
Monday, June 13, 2011
The Travel Rant
If I see so much as one more single measly puny inferior pixel of ecstatically happy and inane world travelers on this computer screen ---I am gonna hurl….
…the entire LCD out the window. And then, the unsettled sesame seeds in my stomach will become airborne on their mission to be a new wall paper pattern.
I mean, people seem love to parade and prattle around internet dating sites with those vapid-smile, brainless-grin photos in front of the Matterhorn, at Machhu Pichu, in Modena, near Mumbai.
Don’t they get it? The only message they send is that the tourist on shameless display is a rich, self indulgent, shallow, narcissistic, adrenaline sucking, exhibitionistic show-off.
“Look at me -- I can travel. I am ambulatory. I’m hyperactive. I have credit card.”
What about a little balance in life. Is not there room to similarly genuflect to agoraphobia, couch potato syndrome, shut-in-itis, general do-nothingality?
I am all for voyages to places of foreign extraction. That have any thing remotely construable as a purpose. You wanna loot overseas ancient relic sites for a local museum? Fine with me. Wish to boink in person that cute Russian hottie who emails dirty pictures. Get express airfare to Leningrad and pass go. Want to run up a horrendous search-and-rescue tab as you try to swim the North Sea. Knock yourself out. Need to smuggle prozac in from Tuvalu? Right on! Desirous to see the world? Sure . Join the Navy.
But mindless useless travel is so banal. Sooo ephemeral . It creates memories you say. You need that? Oh, then watch this fist. It will create a beautiful and lasting memory on your crushed face!
And what about when you die. Anything lasting at all then? Oh sure -- those 6000 under-exposed out-of-focus kodachromes of dank dreary English gardens. Which you dragoon hapless relatives into a unbroken fortnight orgy of watching on a dim screen in a dark hot uncomfortable living room.
Okay I grant you -- mindless consumptive world wide energy use -- in the support of trivial transportation - does create all sort of fab and groovy things that do endure. Nuclear waste. Global warming, Ozone layer depletion. Ice cap melting. Glacier vaporization .Rising seas. Wonderful. You get gold stars for all those long lasting special effects and future generation abuse, fellow travelers.
Oh and I almost forgot. The fetid humidity of halitosis-afflicted tourist threatens to ruin the Ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. And vibration and air pollution from tourist busses has helped crumble the Sphinx into an oversized alley cat that needs a face transplant. And the Parthenon into a penitentiary rock pile. The mindless feeding of Yellowstone yogis and careless food disposal turns then into dangerous dumpster diver grizzlies. It’s the appetizer for their main course….
Tree-climbing tourists.
Yes!!!. Which makes it for the bear and non-travelers also…just desserts, doncha think?.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Saturday, June 11, 2011
My first encounter with a Warbird.
(A Warbird is a certain kind of vintage military airplane. Read on.)
It was a time immemorial. Nantucket Island, Massachusetts. The little airport there. The only security was a low wooden split-rail fence. And I was so young I had to look though, not over, the rails.
Some days or evenings in the summer my Uncle would drive me and my brother to the airport so we could watch the planes. Take off, land, taxi around, start-up and shut-down.
There was a control tower. And a grass lot to the side where planes were tied down when not flying. There were also a few gray matte-finished metal hangars further away.
This flock of small planes looked to me almost like a gaggle of geese. Or maybe even a recess at a girl’s school. They were mostly white. They sat even and level and quite low on tricycle landing gear. When their pilots started them up, the sound was of that of a motor that buzzed and whirred. They had big clear cockpit windows that looked almost like a pretty women’s eyes. They were rather cute and fetching to me. I was a little boy, but already I shyly and secretly liked girls.
Then one day we came to the airport and there was something different parked in among the familiar friendly white flower airplanes. Something I had never seen before. Something that looked like it had come from the Dark Ages. At first it seemed a malevolent monster. It was a Warbird. An airplane that flew in anger during World War Two. A single-engine craft that pursued bombers of the enemy -- and protected bombers of the Allies.
The Warbird was so huge it towered over and beyond the other planes like a dinosaur. It was painted in camouflage shades of very dark brown and green and black. With big bright bold American insignia on both sides and both wings. And it sat back on its haunches, like a bulldog poised to strike. Like a machine already pointed to the sky that was clearly its domain.
The cockpit looked to my young innocent eyes like a jail cell. The windows were heavily reinforced with metal and it was sunk far away from the front and deeply into the ridge of the plane’s backbone.
And the engine. It sat in a huge dark cavern at the very front of the plane. Up very high. I could hardly see inside to know what technical wonders, what immense power lurked within. Out from those mysterious bowels sprouted a shaft that held crosswise a shiny metal propeller so long and tall it was a giant saber of air, I thought. To the side I could see where the engine exhausted its gases. Most of the little planes had one, two or – rarely – three pipes to do so. I begin to count. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. And then I realized there were another nine on exhaust pipes the other side. The engine had 18 cylinders.
I stood next to my Uncle, transfixed by this amazing machine in a curious mixture of fear and rapt fascination and wonder. He leaned over and said very quietly, “That’s a Razorback, nephew. It was built by Republic.”
I knew I would never be so lucky as to see this magnificent bird-of-prey fly. Not a chance.
But then as I see out of the very corner of my eye, along came a man. The pilot of the warbird. No question. He was strong and young and tall and walked in long confident strides. But still how puny he was, compared to the massive and powerful ship he approached. To reach the cabin, he scaled a series foot holds like a rockclimber going up the face of a Himalayan mountain.
He slowly carefully raised a heavy cockpit door and then the monster suddenly enveloped him. The door closed with satisfying thud. He was inside. I can see just the head of the pilot in his pleasant prison and he was clearly checking many things before flight. All sound ceased for many moments. It was so silent I could hear the breezes I could usually only feel -- in the cacophony of a busy summertime resort airport at the height of season. It seemed if the whole world waited expectantly for this warbird.
The suddenly, a high pitched squeal broke the stasis. I heard gears grind, metal move, internals reciprocate. The pilot was starting the engine. The propeller turned slowly around.
And then all hell broke loose. The engine sputtered, coughed, and then caught with a roar and rumble so loud and deep it shook the ground and rattled my chest. It spewed withering feathery sheets of amber and orange flame, and billows of silver smoke out the exhaust. It seemed as if it was running not on mere gasoline, but on war itself. The noise was beyond stentorian. As a little boy, I often plugged my sensitive ears when something was too loud. But now I just stood and consumed in amazement this beautiful, strange and deafening music.
I feared the warbird had caught fire, was going to explode in a vicious conflagration and take every living within a mile with it.
But demeanor of my uncle – who flew in the war – remained calm. Indeed he cracked just the slightest of knowing smiles. I gathered that this clash of angry and violent mythical armies in front of my eyes was not that at all. It was just a normal and successful engine start procedure.
And indeed the engine and the million minions of parts in its belly quickly settled down. It idled back into a smooth powerful effortless lope. The smoke and flames dissipated. I heard incredible complexity, but it was all carefully operating – in tandem – as one. It was all in copacetic sync. It was running perfectly.
Before too long, the engine note rose just the merest iota. But so powerful was this powerplant and its propeller that this 6-ton plane quickly began to move . It had begun to taxi. It then slowly ponderously rotated on its wheels as if on a turntable and headed for the runway. Now I was behind, instead of in front of, that gargantuan fan. It suddenly blasted us all with furious buffeting gushes of hurricane wind -- heavily scented with the pungent perfume of engine smoke, raw aviation gas, hot oil and burning rubber. My hat careened off, but remain unfetched. I was too rapt to notice or care.
As it taxied, the pilot turned the warbird from side to side as it went. This puzzled me. Then I realized the engine was so big and the stance so aggressive that he could not see directly ahead on the ground. He had to partially turn the plane to each side and peer around from each side in turn. Wow.
Farther and farther away the big wardbird went. The runway seemed miles long to me. The plane receded so far in the distance that its rumble wafted in on the wind. But I could still see the big bright propeller spinning in the sun.
Now coming in on the wind I began to hear the sound of gathering thunder, of a mythological freight train coming down the track. The Warbird began to rumble down the runway toward us. In a flash it was upon us, deafening our ears with a hoarse and throbbing roar from its engine and a piercing snarl from its propeller. The ponderous bulldog pose was gone. Its tail was already flying above the ground and now it looked like a sleek streamlined cheetah streaking straight for its prey.
Most of the little planes slowly gracefully floated skyward when they took off. But this miracle beast attacked the atmosphere. It leapt almost vertically from the runway and cork skewered itself into the sky as if gravity had been repealed . My head spun at the dizzying rapidity of its ascent. It rose like an angel and with a trice was almost out of sight. My Uncle remarked the pilot had performed a chandelle on take-off. His tone indicated that was rather unusual. To say the least, I learned later
As Uncle drove us home, with the wonderful scent of engine in our clothes and the echoes of its the rumble ringing in our ears, I realized I had been weeping. They were not tears of pain or sorrow or fear. But something akin to joy or religion or gathering awareness.
I wondered if I had ever lived before and that this magnificent flying machine had been the one I died in.
Abe Lincoln, Freddie Mercury and Betty Ford
What did three members of The Cars just change their names to?
Friday, June 10, 2011
The War of the Words
What's going on in the terms: spendthrift, firewater, drywell, nightlight and fastfood?
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Top dozen reasons you know you are a skinflint when:
12. You use dehumidifier condensate to flush toilets-- and pray for heat waves.
11. You have an annual spending budget. It is zero
10. You roll your own cigars from dust bunnies
9. You consider electric shaver cleaning a good time to harvest dietary protein
8. You try to plumb your sewer ducts into your propane tank
7. You make flies into pets by pulling off their wings.
6. Your idea of a mid-winter romantic blazing fire is to turn up the quartz heater a notch.
5. Your have health insurance under the YGSYD program ( You Get Sick, You Die )
4. You try to excise your glioblastoma multiforme with a brace and bit, dental mirror and quart of novacaine.
3. You lift weights so you can steer your truck while coasting with the engine off.
2. You recycle toilet paper. As dinner knapkins. And…..
(drum roll)
1. The medial report comes back ands it says ….your epidermis is chert.
Ask not what your country can do for you , it tolls for thee.
What came out when the co-channeling of JKF and Hemmingway went terribly wrong?
Anthony Weiner, Frank Furter, and Snoop Dogg
Who are the latest inductees into the Phony Baloney Hall of Fame?
Home sweet home
What's the name of assisted living facility for Candy Samples, Sugar Ray Robinson, the Three Muskeeters, and Gum...by
No ifs ands or buts
What rules out any legal document that ever existed, does exist and/or will exist in the history of the universe?
Spahn and Sain and pray for rain
What did the ADHD afflicted gardener and baseball trivilogist think about?
The worlds longest pick up line
Top seven reasons why you (fill in name) are eye candy..and just a teensy weinsy bit more
7 - Because you bring me Almond Joy
6 - Because you make my knees as weak as Turkish Taffy
5 - Because you turn my brain into cotton candy
4 - Because I want to shower you with Hershey’s kisses
3 - Because your clever assertive coy flirty funny way about you gives me the Snickers
2 - Because your charm is, like, totally, Good and Plenty..and (drum roll please)
1 - Because when I lower my gaze upon you just a little, I think of (ahem) extremely delectable, beautiful and fetching Peter Paul Mounds……and Bazooka Bubble Gum…and the Two Musketeers
But mere “eye candy” is kind of, like, calling a supernova a nice little sparkler. I mean I am talking orgasmic, metaphysical, universe-shattering, ocular nirvana here…
You are like a religious experience. Like, Genesis, Resurrection and The Second Coming (pun intended) all rolled into one. Somehow you channel Jayne Mansfield, Marilyn Monroe and Mamie Van Doren all into one beautiful body. Wearing one extremely small and overstressed bikini.
You prove that God is a woman. And living on the barstool next to me
You turn every drab pixel on my brain LCD into positively picture perfect 32 billion color pulchritude.
Among the pantheon of pretty and unobtainable (at least to a troll like me) women you are like the Holy Grail, the Ark of the Covenant, the rainbow pot of gold and the Higgs Boson combined.
And such power – when you put your arms together you can melt diamonds, crush walnuts, fuse ti…oops…er…ah…tritium. With a mere thought you can part the Red Sea, freeze hell over and make pigs fly like bumblebees on crack. You can pay off the national debt from your lunch money. You effortlessly cure low T, ED, steroid banishment and metrosexual wimpitude.
You can graciously, gracefully and gently get down on your knees, part your luscious red lips, look straight up into my eyes and mouth the following words:
“I want to blow you……away…”
You turn men into raging beasts, jabbering idiots, quivering ninnies, bamboozled bozos and eager spokes-slaves for the American Diary Association. You make my eyes water, jaw drop, teeth tingle, stomach flutter, loins stir and my socks roll up and down at 90 miles an hour. Plus (ahem) certain activity in other corpulent structures.
In your wake you leave a trail of blown minds, broken hearts, swollen pride, long-standing members and monuments erected in your honor. And, men who want to consume foxy felines, stroke souls, Harley-Dee imaginary hairlines and Porky-Pig twin mountain peaks. (“Not that there’s anything wrong with that..”)
If you are 41 – oh well then I am the Uncle of Bonzo, Ham, King Kong and Curious George. No flippen way.
Rocket science you cannot do, you say? You don’t have to – you can convert a convention of astrophysicist into a gooey blubbering pool of horny protoplasm.
To put it in shelf-speak – you’ve gotta rack nicer than the gold-plated diamond-coated platinum frame that Donald Trump hangs his toupees on.
So to conclude in rapt, thunderstruck, mind-boggling adoration -- I will stop beating around the bush and making subtle noises that might be misunderstood.
I like you gurl!
Monday, June 6, 2011
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Frappes, earthquakes, baked chicken and Jerry Lee Lewis
What are the core tenets of the Shaker religion?
Saturday, June 4, 2011
The plaint of the phony architect, or How not to get a date, etc. Part umpteen
And now a word from our sponsor – caution— tongue in cheek – salt shakers ready?…
People ask me why my screen name is R_Chitect. Hellloowwww? I mean -- I built the Tower of Babel. Put up the walls of Jericho. Made the flood control levee for Atlantis. And I have a bridge in Brooklyn for sale.
In short -- I have a sterling reputation. (Oh silver polish? What’s that?) I am internationally un-renown. I even won the Ig-Nobel prize. I am honorable and honest as a mid-June day in Antarctica is long.
There’s more. I’m a good listener when my hearing aid is adjusted properly. And once my ritalin scrip kicks in, I have vast powers of concentration. I have successfully completed courses in anger management, sensitivity training and metrosexual wimpiness. Still not convinced? My real name is Frank Lloyd..(..yeah, Wright). I named my daughter Joan of Arch. My boat was christened Noah’s Arch. And I have fallen arches.
Let’see-- other interesting things about me. I am fixated on women named Betty. Boop, Page, Apple Brown and that nice ole lady that runs England. Interesting how many women names are derived from Elizabeth? Bette, Betty, Beth, Elisa, Liz, Lisa, Lizzie, Leisa, Abe… (oops!) Almost as many as the rich permutations of men’s names from Felix, Ignatz, Bozo,Rufus, Fang and Hey-You-Dummy.
Ok, time to close w/all those cool hackneyed internet aphorisms –
ciao 4 niao,
TTFN,
toodles,
“hosta” lavista,
C U L 8 R, A V 8 R
Forward slash, html, greater than
Now….You wouldn’t even think of deflowering my spotlessly clean, still-virginal, email inbox!
Thursday, June 2, 2011
It happened on July Fourth...
My own private airshow
It was one of those evenings for the ages.
Sunset. July 4. The verdant and purple mountains gobbled down a blazing ball of red to the west. It seemed as if the earth paused expectantly at the crescendo of the year, the latest twilight, the longest afternoon. Nighthawks darted silent overhead, feasting on a banquet of bugs. A hermit thrush sung ever briefly from its perch high and deep in the woods, as if to put a perfect coda on the day.
But there was more soon to come.
The air lay in a curiously light gentle dry blanket upon the land. Cool, balmy and light Canadian zephyrs wafted in from the distant hills of New Hampshire and beyond, not that usual heavy damp draft, laden with southern humidity, of most Independence Day weekends.
While embalmed in this pleasant stasis, I sensed, then felt, then heard, a deep rumble from high in the heavens. My vision lifted to the sky and was greeted with the approach of four military aircraft. Their intensely dark angular but sleek shapes perfectly matched the growing and soon monstrous, marvelous thunder in my ears -- from engines built for war and fettered only by the restraint of their pilots. In apparent slow motion, these ponderous and powerful machines now reconnoitered, pinwheeled, banked and lazily loitered right over my house, no less than a hundred feet up. The marker lights on their wing tips glowed brilliantly like sparks of burning magnesium.
As if on cue, I found myself snapping to attention and offering up a salute. In spite of myself, I felt a sense of national pride, a surge of good old American testosterone, as I saw close hand what billions upon billions of national defense dollars can create.
For a few moments we – I and this quartet of technology almost beyond my imagining – seem to eye each other with curious caution. I well knew they could – in a trice – convert my quiet humble and modest reality to a smoking hole in the ground, with a merest fingertip motion. Perhaps they in turn wondered about this miniature man on a white flat roof, nested in a forest and unusual from the air.
But before I knew it this rare moment of equilibrium passed. These four sinister, sinuous birds of prey took their leave due east. For they had an Independence Date with destiny over the Charles River and the Hatch Shell. All that was left was a faint perfume of jet fuel and an echo that rumbled and rolled off the hills to the west. And then receded into a deep growling whisper. Was it just my imagination or did one of these aerial gladiators tip his wings in acknowledgment to my salute as he departed?
I was about to clamber slowly down in the gathering dusk from my roof top vantage point when Nature proved it always has the last word. Levitating up through a sea of leaves came a tiny hummingbird to put on a little airshow of its own.
Barely bigger than a bumblebee, it hovered, it darted pugnaciously, it hung in mid air as if the law of gravity had been repealed. Then with an iridescent flash of green and red, it spun on a dime and zoomed out of sight in a flash, as if to squeak:
“Hey! Look at me! Look at me! I’m a fly boy too!!”
2005
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Top 14 reasons I’m a boring dummy snoozer
14. My dream date is sharing a vanilla pablum and a Casper milque toast with Plain Jane.
13. I play drums in a rock and roll bland.
12. Entertainment? I watch my old B&W TV with knobs for hours. Sometimes I even turn it on.
11. I write programs in BASIC.
10. I floss hourly.
9. My IQ equals my BMI.
8. My favorite protein is parboiled veal.
7.I drive a tricked-out cut-down custom unicycle
6. I dream in ones and zeros.
5. My preferred form of R&R is stupor.
4. I went to rehab for obsequious training.
3. I am nostalgic for static snow on TV.
2. I prefer velcro over shoelaces, zippers and door latches.
And (drum roll roll please)
1. I fly in an air- plain.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)