tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-285621052024-03-07T14:16:26.240-05:00The Occasional Stevie<p>The goings on chez the Steviemanse. The indignities suffered by Stevie. The blight on humanity that is the Long Island Rail Road, with special reference to that part of humanity named "Stevie".</p><p>Spelling will vary throughout between standard English, American English, and the personal Stevie dialect of Manglish. Live with it.</p><p>Everything © Stevie.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger583125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-60035649891807163152022-09-25T21:13:00.007-04:002023-02-24T13:06:06.640-05:00It Is May; Time For My Hospital Visit<!--It Is May; Time For My Hospital Visit--><!--Composed on 9/23/22 at 6pm--><!--Categories: Fiasco, Health'n'Hospitals, Chateau Stevie--><p>So it had been over a year, things were looking not bad financially and I was feeling healthy; it was time to get that second Carpal Tunnel surgery.</p><p>There was a small wrinkle in that Mr Brain had forgotten to remind me to renew the program I was in that stashes pre-tax pay for medical bills, so 2022's taxes will be higher and out of pocket expenses will be higher. Stupid brain.</p><p>So I went to see Doc Snipsnip who did that thing he does of making eye contact until one is sure one is hypotonuzed who booked a date on his calendar and we were set.</p><p>Another problem was that my wedding ring seems to have shrunk over the 35 years of sheer hell it signifies and was impossible to get off despite several nurses (I'm coming to that) who swore by "the hand lotion trick" or "the dental floss trick".</p><p> Now as you, dear reader, may know, surgeons really hate to start work with a person wearing jewelry. They like to say it's because certain sensors can pass electricity through the jewely and deliver a nasty burn, but the only thing that seems likely to do that to me is the "sensors" that deliver umtytump volts across the heart when the said surgeons have royally screwed something up (I'm coming to that) and are yelling "CLEAR" at everyone. Another reason is that the hands can swell up when the anethetist inserts various chemicals into one and tight rings might cause an emergency fingerectomy.</p><p>So, much to the annoyance of Mrs Stevie, I went looking for a jeweler who could cut the ring off with the sorta-promise they could make it good again *and* resize it to my manly finger. I felt that that was unnecesary, but Mrs Stevie was firm on the matter so that was that.</p><p>I was called for the pre-surgical consult at St Catherine's Hospital as I was the last time, and so Friday the 13th found me tootling up to Smithtown for this Q&A and a gift bag full of Surgical Soap, Filthy Englishmen For The Scrubbing Of.</p><p>A lucky happenstance, as it turned out.</p><p>During the quiz about what new medical humiliations had been visited upon the Steviebod in the intervening year-anna-bit, my vision started to do the thing it did last summer when I passed out. Basically, this involves the backdrop getting brighter until all foreground detail<sup><a name="2509221sup1" href="#2509221foot1">1</a></sup> gets consumed in the Nova Mr Brain has decided I should look at instead. I alerted the mediacl interviewer by asking if I might lie down as I was feeling a little faint.</p><p>She hustled me to the recliner every doctor's office has and, after applying various medical machines to me called for an emergency team to take me to the E.R. I protested that that was not really necesary and that I was sure I was going to be alright in just a few minutes<sup><a name="2509221sup2" href="#2509221foot2">2</a></sup> but the team arrived and would not be gainsaid, even when their gurney would not fit through the door and they were reduced to asking me if I would mind walking from the medical recliner to the Wheeled Bed of Transportation to the Seventh Ring of Hell<sup><a name="2509221sup4" href="#2509221foot4">4</a></sup>.</p><p>And so I spent the next ten hours or so in <i>the</i> most uncomfortable bed I have ever had the misfortune to attempt rest upon, sans pillow because there were so many other patients they had run out of them. I ended up rolling up my Levi jacket and using that because I sleep on my side and that was the only way to get the needed head support.</p><p>Mrs Stevie came for a look to check I wasn't faking, shirking or lead-swinging. But it being Friday the 13th, there were more than the usual hideous piles of post-car-accident human remains and "code blue" alarms when people would decide they couldn't take the E.R. any more and would opt to leave this plane of existence, so she fled in short order. Well, as I said, the beds were <i>very</i> uncomfortable<sup><a name="2509221sup5" href="#2509221foot5">5</a></sup>.</p><p>Periodically, someone would appear to take blood pressurees, blood, do ultrasound on my heart, do an EKG[Just so they could ensure I wasn't dead by the screams when they tore off the stickers and my chest and leg hair too</p> and toward the evening I was told that in addition to the usual Q&A, the carpal tunnel interview would now have an added "sign-off by my cardiologist".</><p>I have no idea why American doctors always assume one has retained a staff of specialists and has them on speed-dial. Go to a GP and be told you need to see "your" dermatologist, caridologist or osteopath, then watch them recoil in surprise when you say "haven't got one of those".</p><p>I did a bit of uncharacteristic dickering and persuaded the staff to have one of <i>their</i> cardiologists, the one who had already visited me to supervise various nurse-goings-on stick a stehoscope on me and mutter about "heart murmurs", to do the said sign-off as I was at that time under the happy illusion that this symphony of suck was over, when in fact this was just the over<i>ture</i>. The cardiologist hove into view around 8pm and made me sit up, stand up, lie down and do it all over again to see if I would faint. I did not so he signed me off for the Carpal Tunnel surgery.</p><p>Another doctor then told me they were going to admit me overnight for observation, so I had to hang around until about 10pm, when I was wheeled up to a ward and tranfered to a more comfy bed.</p><p>Unfortunately, the only <i>available</i> bed was in a room with three patients who required observation on account of them being "special needs". One of these young men wanted to go home very badly and was telling the world about it almost continually. I felt sorry for him, but I also felt sorry for <i>me</i> on account of my back hurt and I would dearly have loved to get some sleep.</p><p>6am rolled around and I was wheeled out of that room into a quieter one where I was able to sleep for about ten minutes until the nurses needed blood and a new cardiologist wanted EKGs and all the other things people want while one is desperate for sleep in a hospital.</p><p>Mrs Stevie hove into theater to find out why I was still there.</p><p>Which was when I realised I needed to go to the toilet <i>very</i> badly.</p><p>The nurses had left a portable commode by the bed but had instructed me that I was to call for a bed pan rather than use it. In light of later events this can only be seen as some sort of medical snare for the hospital virgin.</p><p>Having never been put in the position of asking a young woman to help me onto a bed pan and then to do whatever was needed affter I was done, the humiliation factor in doing so was extremely high and I elected to use the trap commode.</p><p>And passed out after doing so.</p><p>I woke to a crash team making a big fuss over me and a young nurse scolding me. Then someone took a look at what I had left <i>in</i> the commode and everyone got quietly efficient and reassuring.</p><p>Mrs Stevie was white as a sheet. A large elderly doctor (the first medical person I had seen over the age of Forty, I might add) who in what I heard as Germanic accent<sup><a name="2509221sup6" href="#2509221foot6">6</a></sup> told me that he thought I was bleeding internally, and not to worry. He was going to move me to the ICU because he "prefered to have all his patients in the ICU". This was transparent patient-calming talk but I was so out of it I didn't care.</p><p>And so I was moved to the ICU and given a room of my very own with an even more comfortable bed, and the promise that I was going to be given a down-the-throat tube-oscopy to find the bleed, which was almost certainy in the bit where the duodenum and stomach meet, that I was going to be out for that part, and now I needed to be given blood.</p><p>This was when the nursing staff found out that I am what they medical profession refers to as "a difficult stick". This is a euphamism for my viens and arteries being protected by many layers of manly fat as an evolutionary defense against vampires, and the immediate effect is any attempt to draw blood or attach a "hep-lock" semi-permanent vein tap/port consists of nurses holding me down and stabbing me repeatedly while I help by my falsetto screaming and thrashing about in a suitably manly fashion.</p><p>In this fashion blood was taken, then a whole bag of new blood put back in.</p><p>The staff also delighted in attaching stickers to me for various machine inputs, then ripping them off c/w suitable amounts of chest and leg hair. This never got old<sup><a name="2509221sup7" href="#2509221foot7">7</a></sup> and they were <i>very</i> put out when I eventually begged them (sometime around day 4) to just shave holes in the hair wherever they needed to put stickers. But I'm getting ahead of myself.</p><p>Anyway.</p><p>That first evening in the ICU (Saturday), I was wheeled into an O.R. where an earnest young man said he was going to be my anesthetologist and would be doing "an awesome job" for me. Fighting words for the anti-anesthetologist demons he should have <i>known</i> were just waiting for the Call to Action.</p><p>I woke up with a tube down my throat and a machine making me breathe at just the wrong rhythm for comfort. I knew form shows like <i>E.R.</i> and <i>Chicago Hope</i> that this was normal for those situations where the patient had stopped breathing at some point in the previous hours, so I just lay there until someone noticed and we did the whole "Take a breath, now breathe out" thing. I was also connected to a variety of beeping machines, and my ankles were being rhythmically squeezed by another in a most disturbing fashion.</p><p>There was a whiteboard on the far wall. It said it was Monday. What happened to Sunday? And why did my throat hurt so much?</p><p>I looked around and assumed I was hallucinating that I was on the set of a TV medical drama. All the staff were between the ages of 25 and 35. The men were ruggedly handsome and had angles where normal people have cheeks. The nurses were all runway model gorgeous. Clearly Californian actors. Guessing I was hovering twixt the hell that is everyday life and the blessed oblivion of Lethe, I decided not to care about this. Indeed, part of the internal bleed problem was to be the lack of the need to care about anything, which was good as I was about to get a master class in the Escalation of Humiliation.</p><p>Well, no-one would tell me what was going on until Doc Accent arrived, beaming like Santa Clause, and he said that there had been a slight problem intubating me, that I had received a small cut in my throat and that it had had to be stitched up. After this it was felt that I should sleep for an extra day to let things heal up. Had he found he bleed? No. More procedures would be needed.</p><p>The real story of the throat fiasco only came out later. The "awesome job" guy had put the tube through my throat instead of down it, giving me a rather unusual peircing. An ENT surgeon had been called in who had said that the options were to remove the tube, let him stitch up the entry and exit wounds and then let Stabby McStabStab<sup><a name="2509221sup8" href="#2509221foot8">8</a></sup> have another go, which seeing as everything was now swollen would be even harder, or for Dr ENT to slice the flesh in front of the tube open, freeing it, then stitch up the resulting slit. Since that would be the most painful, everyone voted for that. I was asleep, so they felt it was reasonable that I did not get a vote or a chance to bolt.</p><p>And so, on account of the new wound in my throat bleeding a bit more than it had when I was admitted, it was judged prudent to keep me in an induced coma while everyone got their stories straight. Mrs Steve was called by the Doc Accent and was told I had stopped bleeding<sup><a name="2509221sup9" href="#2509221foot9">9</a></sup> but over the cell phone connection that provides the usual modern voice quality<sup><a name="2509221sup10" href="#2509221foot10">10</a></sup> she heard "stopped breathing", and there was a subsequent freak-out when that was clarified and the insurance company had to be called to cancel the pay-out.</p><p>And they hadn't found the internal bleed. Doc Accent smiled and said I could have clear liquids and ices to eat. This was another ploy, as he would go on to deny me anything but ice chips for the next few days, but I grabbed opportunity by the opps and ate three tubs of Italian-style ice, which presented to the throat as acid-soaked razor blades. I didn't care, maddened by thirst as I was. Good news was that the new liquid intake would not require any effort from me to void on account of someone thoughtfully inserting a tube about the size of a garden hose up my urethra and into my bladder<sup><a name="2509221sup11" href="#2509221foot11">11</a></sup>.</p><p>One bed-pan later, I was sent for a CAT scan and put on a nil-by-mouth diet. I was weak as a kitten which had been dosed agressively with chloral hydrate, and so could do little more than grunt when informed of tests in which I took little interest anyway.</p><p>I think it was about this point when my legs and upper arms became both numb and yet somehow agonizing to touch. The weight of a blanket was sheer misery, and to this day if I get poke hard in the leg (say by colliding with the corner of a table) it is agonizingly painful. This was yet another factor denying me sleep as I could not get comfortable despite the bed being about the best one I've yet slept in. My GP's theory is that I have a trapped nerve in my back, so there is another set of painful nerve tests in my future. Back to the ICU.</p><p>The next day I was given a few more bags of blood, put through the bed-pan routine again, had my oxygen nose-tube changed for an oxygen mask in an attempt to combat the shortness of breath I was experiencing, was stabbed a few more times in the interests of medical science and made to drink "banana flavored" contrast for yet another CAT scan.</p><p>This involved me drinking one bottle over the course of two hours, the next over the course of an hour and the next over the course of a half hour, at the end of which I was struggling not to show everyone what it looked like after it had been drunk. I have no idea how they make the flavoring, but I never want to see the mutant bananas used in the process.</p><p>The CAT scan showed no bleed site.</p><p>The next day was more bed pans and blood bags on account of me leaking out the stuff they had put in me and digesting it, and they stuck a tube down my nose to syphon out some of the fluid to see if it was bloody. In order to turn this already awful procedure into sheer torture, the doctor (who looked like Neil Patrick Harris) shot "hurricane spray" up each nostril, which was slightly more unpleasant that what I imagine running a nasal lavage with concentrated sulphuric acid would be and produced what I imagine were some pretty impressive shrieks for someone barely able to draw breath. I spent half an hour heaving and gagging and begging the doctors and nurses to take the tube out, and they finally did having seen nothing but mucus in the syphon. By then my diet was my other people's donated blood, my own having leaked out pretty much completely by then, and - it would seem - my own snot.</p><p>The next day was colonoscopy day, so they made me drink two bottles of Magnesium Sulphate soda under the impression that I had more to give when it came to bed-pan time. This would have been quite pleasant, a walk in the park, but for the wound in my throat, which experienced the soda as pure citric acid. Very painful indeed.</p><p>Doc Accent had had a conversation with Mrs Stevie in which he had assured her they were under no circumstances going to attempt another intubation, which produced a very diverting drama in the O.R. It was as I was being wheeled in that I was informed I was going to be anesthetized again and I wailed "not by Stabby McStabStab!", to the amusement of the attending nursing staff (all of whom were privvy to the throat fiasco of Saturday night it would seem). The Anesthetologist carefully arranged my head so it was tilted back as far as it would go, aided by his lady assistant. Then Doc Accent arrived in theater<sup><a name="2509221sup12" href="#2509221foot12">12</a></sup> and asked what was going on.</p><p>"We're preparing to intubate the patient" said Doc Ether.</p><p>"No! This is absolutely not to happen!" cried Doc Accent.</p><p>"Well you can't do an Upper Bowel Tube-Up-The Jacksyogram<sup><a name="2509221sup13" href="#2509221foot13">13</a></sup> without intubation!" Doc Ether said, firmly, brooking no argument.</p><p>"This cannot be!" argued Doc Accent. "Do you know the position you are putting me in? Do you know what you've done to me"?</p><p>"I've done <i>nothing</i> to you" insisted Doc Ether, who was winning on calmness, but I was giving Doc Accent more points for emoting.</p><p>This went on for a few minutes until I asked politely if I had to be there for the argument, and whether or not some compromise might be reached that would not render the evening a complete waste of everyone's time.</p><p>And consensus was reached in that it was decided to knock me out and continue the professional frank exchange of views sans patient input.</p><p>And so I was colonoscopized, but the site of the bleed was not found.</p><p>The next day I had some more of other people's blood pumped in me. Though everyone was still smiling I noticed nervous debate on the subject of acquiring the blood needed. I have O negative type blood, which means I can give it to anyone, but I must get only O negative<sup><a name="2509221sup14" href="#2509221foot14">14</a></sup>, and it was apparent that I had used up all the O negative on-site.</p><p>On the up side, by now having my bottom cleaned by gorgeous young women (or muscular young men of the night staff) was no longer the humiliation it had been, but of course, my haemoglobin count was so low I pretty much couldn't have cared less had they started amputating bits anyway.</p><p>In fact, the staff and Mrs Stevie were becoming vocally concerned about my lack of interest in watching TV. I would later put it all together and realize that they were using this as a gauge of my mental wellbeing, but I was happy to just lie there looking at the patterns that occasionally lit up in the ceiling tiles due to oxygen starvation. I could watch TV any time (or possibly never again) but I didn't care either way.</p><p>I think it was about the time they hooked up the sixth pint of blood that I asked the young nurse tasked with watching me all day if it was time to have a difficult conversation with Mrs Stevie. They were pumping blood into me and I was leaking it out from somewhere in my digestive system as fast as they did so but they couldn't find out <i>where</i>, so it didn't take a genius to figure out that at some point the whole thing would become unviable.</p><p>The nurse smiled and said not to worry, but I noticed an increase of activity around me that night. Maybe they thought I was going to help matters along. I might have done so if only I could have mustered the interest in anything at all. It was all academic in Mr Brain thanks to the haemoglobin/oxygen thing. I knew some people would be upset, others less so, but from my perspective I wouldn't know much about it. Just like going to sleep.</p><p>And sleep would be a really good thing, because not only was there a steady program of wakings for blood samples and x rays and ultrasounds and stethoscope listenings (and of course the painful leg and arm thing), but my throat was swollen to the point that as soon as I drifted off I woke myself with truly staggeringly loud snoring. I can't sleep on my back anyway, even when I'm not hooked up to a nest of machines. I went days with very little sleep at all, which contributed to the lassitude I was experiencing.</p><p>Time for fresh humiliation. It was decided to put me under a "Gamma Camera".</p><p>This involved taking out some of my blood, parking me in a corridor while they irradiated it, then putting it back in me and arranging me under a large machine for 45 minutes during which time I was sternly instructed by another beautiful, young female technician not to move.</p><p>45 Minutes later, she re-appeared, giggling nervously.</p><p>"I don't know how to say this so I'll just say what Doc Radiation said. He needs to differentiate your penis from your bowel so he'd like you to elevate it"</p><p>I considered the likelihood that I was going to have the site of my bowel bleed found by a machine that could not distinguish my appendix from my appendage, and responded "In the interests of medical clarity, how far would Doc Radiation like me to raise the said member, bearing in mind that it has been a rather difficult week for me?"</p><p>The technician fled in gales of hysterical laughter and I was left attempting to achieve the requested adjustment. It should go without saying that the results were once again inconclusive.</p><p>Eventually, after ten pints of blood and nine days in bed it was felt that I was well enough to undergo another scanning. First though, Doc Accent decided I should drink something called "golightly", yet another laxative.</p><p>At this point I had had nothing but blood to eat for 9 days, so the benefit of all the laxatives was, I though then and still do, dubious at best. But there was an escalating pattern of disgustingness to all the revolting stuff I had to consume for tests (notwithstanding the out-of-band Hurricane Spray/Nasal Intubation torture which by rights should have been done more toward the end of the week) and this golightly stuff was absolutely disgusting. Not only did it have to be drunk in pint lots, it tasted rather like what I think the contents of a shark's bladder would. The point at which I was told I would have to drink three more jugs of it was the point where I mutinied and refused point blank.</p><p>The night nurse was understanding and allowed that there wasn't time for the rest of the drink schedule anyway as the scanner was available <i>now</i> and wouldn't be later so whatever it was was done on only one jug of shark pee.</p><p>This was when Doc Accent decided I was well enough to walk with a walker (I wasn't, but I was going to have to try), my garden hose was pulled out and one of his young staff gave me a camera to eat.</p><p>Eight hours later the sensor belt was taken off and the pictures analysed, whereupon it was found that the battery had gone flat before the trip through my entire digestive tract was over.</p><p>And the pictures they got had not shown the site of the bleed, which had seemed to have stopped all by itself.</p><p>So, since I had gotten better despite medical forensics, they moved me back into the regular hospital ward, where I spent my waking hours walking round the corridors with a walker trying to regain my strength, until Mrs Stevie arrived one afternoon to take me home.</p><p>I had been in hospital 9 1/2 days.</p><ol class="footnote"><li><a name="2509221foot1"></a>Human beings, speeding cars, charging rabid animals etc<a href="#2509221sup1">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2509221foot2"></a>Bringing my not inconsideralbe medical self-diagnosis powers to the fore<sup><a name="2509221sup3" href="#2509221foot3">3</a></sup> <a href="#2509221sup2">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2509221foot3"></a>A sad mistake<a href="#2509221sup3">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2509221foot4"></a>Anyone who has spent any amount of time in an E.R. knows this appelation is <i>not</i> hyperbole<a href="#2509221sup4">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2509221foot5"></a>I have come to the conclusion that this is a deliberate choice by the hospital adminsitration as a litmus test against those just looking for a good snooze and some quality time listening to their next-bed-neighbor's soap opera-like revelations to doctors and relatives through the "privacy" curtains<a href="#2509221sup5">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2509221foot6"></a>The Doctor was Israeli<a href="#2509221sup6">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2509221foot7"></a>For them<a href="#2509221sup7">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2509221foot8"></a>Not his real name but one I used for him in an unguarded moment as the next bout of unconsciousness loomed large in my future, to the amusement of the staff present.<a href="#2509221sup8">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2509221foot9"></a>from the throat; my insides were still bleeding quite nicely thank you very much<a href="#2509221sup9">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2509221foot10"></a>Somewhat less clear than that received from Neil Armstrong from the Sea of Tranquility in 1969<a href="#2509221sup10">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2509221foot11"></a>I would periodically forget this and get tangled up, giving it a good tug with a spasming leg. The long days just flew by<a href="#2509221sup11">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2509221foot12"></a>In Operating Theater in fact. Ahahahahaha<a href="#2509221sup12">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2509221foot13"></a>Not the real procedure name, I forget what the real name was<a href="#2509221sup13">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2509221foot14"></a>In point of fact I can't give my blood to anyone no matter how often I offer on account of being in the UK for two weeks in 1987 and therefore assumed to be a breeding ground for BSE prions. I digress<a href="#2509221sup14">↑</a></li></ol>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-18694772219453475692022-08-05T18:08:00.003-04:002022-08-05T18:08:43.728-04:00April, Come She Will (Despite Our Wishes To The Contrary)<!--April, Come She Will (Despite Our Wishes To The Contrary)--><!--Composed on 8/5/22 @ 12pm--><!--Categories:Life--><p>April is the traditional month of <i>get your freaking taxes done already</i>.</p><p>While we were in lockdown some politicians had got together and sold the central post office building on 8th Avenue so Penn Station could be extended into it, thus ruining the only upside to Tax Day; watching the crowds of people sitting on the steps at 8:30pm scribbling out their 1040s for all they were worth, trying to get it done before the post office closed its multi-banked revolving doors at 9pm. Seeing people sitting around waiting for <span class="lirr">Bloody Long Island Railroad</span> trains is no special treat, it being such a common occurence.</p><p>Turbotax told me I owed money to NY State. I double and triple checked, but ever since the tax code changes made by that nice President Trump I've been having to pay NY State instead of getting a refund, like I did for the previous gosh-knows how many years.</p><p>Brief explanation time: My place of work's payroll department has proved incapable of properly withholding from my paycheck while simultaneously deploying a cadre of personnel who refuse to believe they could possibly make any sort of mistake, hanging up the phone if one should suggest the idea merely because the Internal Revenue send one threatening letters out of the blue in spite of the fact that one is a married man with a kid, claiming to be single with no dependents<sup><a name="0508220sup1" href="#0508220foot1">1</a></sup>. To offset the arrival of hate mail from the IRS I have, for well over a decade, instructed the payroll department to overwithhold from my pay to a usurious degree.</p><p>This, which should be a simply paper W4 form stating "please withhold an extra XXX dollars per month etc", is a stupidly hard automated form mandated by HRA that forces one to work out a bi-weekly version of the necessary amount based on net wages, then pro-rate for wherever we are in the fiscal year and AAAAAARRRRGGGGHHH!</p><p>Each year I would normaly receive a quite large refund from the Feds, a not-small one from NY State, and a reasonable one from NYC, paying me back the amount I had carefully calculated was <i>really</i> needed to ensure no-one would start talking about paying quarterly estimated taxes again, then doubled.</p><p>This year I got a smaller, but still large, refund from the Feds<sup><a name="0508220sup2" href="#0508220foot2">2</a></sup>, a demand for a few hundred dollars from NY State (with menaces) and a refund from NYC that all-but matched the demand from NY State.</p><p>Given that the NYC tax withholdings are mediated through NY State, one wonders why the "arrears" in column one caused so much angst to the tax assessor part of Turbotax when it was clear they already had monies to which they thought they were entitled labelled "collected by NYC".</p><p>So with a contemptuous sneer at the suggestion to file "vouchers" and quarterly taxes - the IRS <i>have</i> my money, all they are entitled to within a few dollars more or less, it's not my job to watch which shoebox they keep it in - I e-filed and made tea.</p><ol class="footnote"><li><a name="0508220foot1"></a>The usual way of making the sums work<a href="#0508220sup1">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0508220foot2"></a>Who somehow never get round to thanking me for the interest-free loan . I digress<a href="#0508220sup2">↑</a></li></ol>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-30825839259247276512022-08-02T23:39:00.010-04:002022-08-03T21:30:08.870-04:00Ill Met In March<!--Ill Met In March--><!--Composed on 8/2/22 at 11:05pm--><!-- Categories: Steviemobile II, Fiasco--><p>March was here!</p><p>The house was full of spackle dust but we had heat that worked, new baseboards that looked nice in the front room<sup><a name="0208224sup1" href="#0208224foot1">1</a></sup> and money in the bank for a new roof, if we could but track down a roofer.</p><p>What to do of a Saturday evening? Why, to drive over to Smithtown and eat a very late lunch at a small crepe restaurant.</p><p>And the crepes were indeed lovely, as were the hazelnut lattés.</p><p>I was feeling good as we drove home. We turned onto our street, and tootled down it at a sedate 30 mph<sup><a name="0208224sup2" href="#0208224foot2">2</a></sup> with Joni Mitchell bleating about Ladies of the Canyon and street musicians. All was well with the world.</p><p>Which was when Mrs Stevie let out a shreik and I looks over to see the front of a large SUV about an inch from the passenger side door coming over for a hug.</p><p>There commenced the lamest T-bone crash in history. I was doing 30. The SUV was doing whatever it was doing, not super speed at any rate. Had we been speeding we'd have bounced off each other, but as it was the SUV hit my car's front wheel, then gouged a nice path down the entire side of the car ending up with a nice ding in the rear wheel<sup><a name="0208224sup3" href="#0208224foot3">3</a></sup>.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHEWME9t0jNbK1qQ6Hb5p5yf1yg6e9glF2nyQjFE_-v6PfudGOp24hiejGd-Ria-Ob2wExPdDoHwdkOJ34zG3pSEvAxCaHJEmlB3kOGVsoBX683HMflNKzykbUcSpAXIB0VLhwORwc_a_cqBSdXiJ8wibHKUeU4JBcP6OMf7c6yL-alofh3Q/s1920/DoorDingsPlus.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHEWME9t0jNbK1qQ6Hb5p5yf1yg6e9glF2nyQjFE_-v6PfudGOp24hiejGd-Ria-Ob2wExPdDoHwdkOJ34zG3pSEvAxCaHJEmlB3kOGVsoBX683HMflNKzykbUcSpAXIB0VLhwORwc_a_cqBSdXiJ8wibHKUeU4JBcP6OMf7c6yL-alofh3Q/s320/DoorDingsPlus.jpg"/></a></div><p>We stopped to exchange information and that is when we discovered that the driver was a minor, and his passenger was just 18. The driver, I should add, was mortified and couldn't stop apologizing.</p><p>Both Mrs Stevie and I were concerned. Not only were these two lads very young, but they were Hispanic and we weren't, which could result in some unfortunate misunderstandings of the sort that had characterized that nice President Trump's tenure if we weren't very careful to avoid them.</p><p>First order of business was to ask if everyone was OK, did we need an ambulance and so forth. Then I called 911 and asked for a police officer to come and take down the details as the damage to my car looked both extensive <i>and</i> expensive. Then we made sure that the young driver not only provided his details, but got ours too. We insisted he photograph both vehicles as we were doing. No one had died and there was no need to have the whole thing spiral out of control. We were once young ourselves after all. I can't speak for Mrs Stevie but I was flashing back to a rear-ender I perpetrated on the South Circular Road back before electricity.</p><p>We wanted to call a parent, but the lads were adamant that there was no need. Mrs Stevie said the boys were aware that when the driver's mother found out about her car, she would revoke all driving privileges, and they were just starting their Saturday night out. I sympathized.</p><p>The police officer came and given the youth and demographic background of the young lads we stuck close to ensure that things stayed as pleasant as they could be. The officer was terse at first, and I'm sure that being on duty on a Saturday night was part of that, but he cheered up immensely when he heard a call on the radio for all officers not currently busy to go to the scene of a bad accident.</p><p>"They'll be scraping up bodies off the road for that one" he said, and cracked a smile as he turned to get our addresses. He was excused the grim scene on account of the prior accident, you see.</p><p>He was also keen to call a parent, but didn't force the issue once he ascertained that we had tried to get that too, and the young driver was not being coerced in any way. The passenger meant that any legalities involved were all properly sorted by the presence of a 'responsible adult'. It was clear none of us had been drinking, so the officer really only had to fill out his report.</p><p>Which was how I ended up driving a loaner car for two weeks while the Steviemobile II was in dock getting new wheels, new doors and cripes-knows what else<sup><a name="0208224sup4" href="#0208224foot4">4</a></sup>.</p><p>It wasn't all bad. The other guy's insurance paid for all the damages, and the loaner, while being a smaller car, had adaptive cruise and self-steer.</p><p>The former was great. Set the cruise for 50 mph in town and it would follow the traffic ahead ot the best distance and speed.</p><p>The latter was a royal pain that took me several hours to figure out and turn off. The wheel was fighting my road position habits. To check that it wasn't just my crappy driving habits I found a deserted stretch of curvy highway and let the thing steer itself. Two near excursions into the woods at the roadside persuaded me that the technology needed work.</p><p>I was getting quite intrigued by the long strip of metal that the builders had simply dropped inside the baseboard they had replaced<sup><a name="0208224sup5" href="#0208224foot5">5</a></sup> and after a lengthy search online and a dig through the trash pile left from the construction I found that the loose bit was a damper that was supposed to be clipped to an odd-looking lug on the cover-support thingies.</p><p>I fished it out with some trouble, figured out how it was supposed to work and, with only the help of some Class Two Words of Power got it attached where it was supposed to go. Result. The cover however was missing a splice plate<sup><a name="0208224sup6" href="#0208224foot6">6</a></sup>. It took almost the entire month to track down the only supplier of that part - the same bloke who had sold me the Aquastat Relay<sup><a name="0208224sup7" href="#0208224foot7">7</a></sup>.</p><p>I tried mightly to source one somewhere - anywhere - else but it was no-go, so I made another trip to the store, where the experience was significantly different. Not only did he have the part, he gave it to me gratis, which was nice of him.</p><p>I fitted it, and was only moderately annoyed when, two days later, I found the missing part on a high shelf where the builder had left it.</p><p>Still, March was nearly done, and it would soon be nice weather. Time to get the roof sorted out.</p><ol class="footnote"><li><a name="0208224foot1"></a>But had a puzzling loose rattley strip of metal inside them<a href="#0208224sup1">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0208224foot2"></a>the actual speed limit thereabouts<a href="#0208224sup2">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0208224foot3"></a>It reminded me of the scene in Galaxy Quest where the ship scrapes slowly down the side of the spacedock while everyone cringes<a href="#0208224sup3">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0208224foot4"></a>I no longer care to ask<a href="#0208224sup4">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0208224foot5"></a>And nice it is too<a href="#0208224sup5">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0208224foot6"></a>used to join two short cover plates into one long one<a href="#0208224sup6">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0208224foot7"></a>dammit<a href="#0208224sup7">↑</a></li></ol>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-58424183112696618632022-08-02T22:57:00.005-04:002022-08-02T22:59:59.286-04:00More Fun With the Furnace<!--More Fun With the Furnace--><!--Composed on 8/2/22 at 10:20pm--><!--Categories; Chateau Stevie, Furnace Fun, Fiasco--><p>To be honest I simply couldn't face posting any more about the avalance of complete and utter suck that descended on me after the Great Lack Of Heat Pipe Fiasco, what with the slings and arrows being at a level not seen since the French decided to show the English a thing or two in the line of getting a good kicking at Agincourt.</p><p>But I have rallied and recovered<sup><a name="0208220sup1" href="#0208220foot1">1</a></sup>.</p><p>When last I enthralled you my dear webspider<sup><a name="0208220sup2" href="#0208220foot2">2</a></sup> I stated that I was in need of a discontinued Aquastat Relay to make this never-to-be-sufficiently-damned Slant Fin furnace start working again instead of periodically going on strike for whatever it thought it could get out of management.</p><p>Well, I finally tracked down said part, bought it<sup><a name="0208220sup3" href="#0208220foot3">3</a></sup> and called John the Plumber, who came over that evening and made a solid attempt to fit it.</p><p>It would not work.</p><p>John said I should return the Aquastat Relay to the local plumbing supply place where I got it, and since he was at the end of his tether<sup><a name="0208220sup4" href="#0208220foot4">4</a></sup> that I should contact a not-so local appliance service center and explain the problem.</p><p>Turns out I had two problems.</p><p>The first problem was the need to fund the service center technician with close to a thousand bux before he'd do tghe necessary. Easily fixed with yet anothert dip into Stevie's Bottomless Money Bucket, though the tech complained the entire time about the amount of howling, wailing and gnashing of teeth he had to put up with while effecting repairs.</p><p>But finally the job was done and the furnace, having had every part not actually cast into its superstructure replaced, decided that any more mutinous behavoir might be rewarded with a trip to the dump after a cosmetic thumping with my sledgehammer and fired up for the several hours it took to get everything toasty warm again.</p><p>The second problem was that the local plumbing stuff supply guy refused to refund my money for the non-working Aquastat Relay. It would have to go back to Honeywell, he said. It would have to be tested, he said. Only then would he refund the money I'd laid out, he said.</p><p>It was clear from the way he poked his face into the works and started furiously sniffing for all he was worth that he thought I'd tried to fit the bloody thing myself and had shorted the electronics and fried them.</p><p>John the Plumber called to see if the service center had fixed things. I told him about the plumbing supply place issue and he got very cross. Turns out he knows the guy who owns the place, so he offered to go down and explain the facts. Which he did and I got a call to say the refund was waiting for me and thank you very much John the Plumber.</p><p>The builders meanwhile had decided that they would <i>not</i> tear out all he sheetrock in the hallway, but would put a skim coat of spackle on it, smooth it and paint.</p><p>These guys were in love with spackle. If it had been a bit warmer we could have done the job properly and had huge fans exhausing through the windows. As it was we had to make do with propping the front door open while they worked, with the end result that the entire house was coated with spackle dust. I'm <i>still</i> cleaning it up.</p><p>They did an OK job, but missed a few spots, but I was so heartily sick of the process by then that I gave them a check and moved them out of the way so I could work it myself. The bannister was also put back slightly off-slope. It annoys the piss out of me but not enough to pull it off and redo it. Yet.</p><p>The electrician did some extra work for me, wiring for the new ceiling fan in the front bedroom<sup><a name="0208220sup5" href="#0208220foot5">5</a></sup> and a new hall light that Mrs Stevie declared great, and eventually I was able to buy and install a fan.</p><p>Which was whan I discovered that the switched socket was now permanently switched <i>off</i>.</p><p>The other electrician came round and fixed it in a jiffy, but while he was working Mrs Stevie noticed his van door was ajar and helpfully slammed it shut.</p><p>A sad mistake. Turned out the door handles on all the doors were broken off, so it was vital that the doors not be closed unless someone was inside the vehicle.</p><p>Fortunately, several of the windows were missing too, so the electrician, still smiling bravely theough his own personal sucky Sunday, ripped off the taped plastic standing in for safety glass and climbed in. I was expecting a police officer to hove into view and misunderstand the nature of the crisis, but for some reason the anti-handiman demons turned off the Farce faucet.</p><p>All that remained now was to get some furniture, remove an old air conditioner from the wall, put in a new one, repair the bits the builders had left unrepaired and I could look forward to a cool, happy summer.</p><p>February had brought high winds that ripped yet more shingles off the roof, reminding me that we had not heard a dicky-bird from the roof guy who had been so enthusiastic about pulling off the roof in mid-December.</p><p>It was time to do some shopping around.</p><ol class="footnote"><li><a name="0208220foot1"></a>Mostly<a href="#0208220sup1">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0208220foot2"></a>Both real readers of this blog switched to watching cat videos on ticktock yonks ago<a href="#0208220sup2">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0208220foot3"></a>260 bux neatly siphoned from Stevie's Bottomless Money Bucket<a href="#0208220sup3">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0208220foot4"></a>I don't blame him one bit by the way; in his place <i>I</i> would have told me to mount my velocipede and start pedalling - he had gone above and beyond and only been reimbursed for some of his time.<a href="#0208220sup4">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0208220foot5"></a>Scene of indoor waterfalls, collapsing sheetrock, innundation etc.<a href="#0208220sup5">↑</a></li></ol>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-14442025968364685942022-02-03T11:48:00.012-05:002022-08-03T21:52:04.927-04:00Less Than A Month Down, And 2022 Starts The Suckage<!--Less Than A Month Down, And 2022 Starts The Suckage--><!--Composed on 2/2/22 at 1:30pm--><!--Categories: Life, Fiasco, Chateau Stevie--><p>So I already mentioned the disappearance of my case review date with immigration, but that really counts as 2021 putting in a final boot before sneaking off into the winter night and not an indcation that 2022 is getting the bit between its teeth.</p><p>Stay tuned.</p><p>Mrs Stevie and I departed for Florida on the third Friday in January, ready to take up residence in our timeshare week starting the fourth Saturday in January per the agreement we've held freehold for lo! these many years. We've done this for many years, and now have it all down to a fine art: We load the Mrs Steviemobile with four or five boxes of essentials (paints, easels, my n-scale UK model railway gear, clothing, Harry Potter cosplay gear etc) load a cooler with sandwiches and bottled water<sup><a name="0302220sup1" href="#0302220foot1">1</a></sup> and the iPad with a Terry Pratchett book-onna-tape<sup><a name="0302220sup3" href="#0302220foot3">3</a></sup> and off we go.</p><p>This year the cargo included three big totes of stuff for the Stevieling, whose stuff is currently taking up one room, half a basement and a storage unit in NY. I keep hinting that maybe a storage unit in Florida would be a better idea<sup><a name="0302220sup4" href="#0302220foot4">4</a></sup> but so far no action has been taken.</p><p>We break the journey just this side of the North/South Carolina border, which on a good day means we arrive at a hotel around 7pm and at the timeshare around 4pm the next day. Last year we hit bad weather and it took longer. The year before we had a winter storm so we started a day early and broke the journey in three. Bad weather is very bad in the South because they don't know how it works<sup><a name="0302220sup5" href="#0302220foot5">5</a></sup>.</p><p>This year we drove out of cold weather in NY into a winter storm in Virginia and North Carolina, something that was once unknown and is now getting to be a familiar exerience<sup><a name="0302220sup6" href="#0302220foot6">6</a></sup>. We still made decent time, but the driving was terse because Virginian drivers don't do weather well and in North Carolina they were not used to plowing so the plows and graders they were using were going slow and carving up the road. The sparks were pretty. Funny thing, I only knew it was snowing because of the noise. With the headlights dipped I couldn't see anything but the road. On full beam sleeting snow. If I hadn't heard the exact same hing two years before I wouldn't have understood the danger before we hit the black ice. We stopped just shy of the North/South Carolina border and it was <i>cold</i>. </p><p>Saturday we got up early and driving was pretty nice at first as everyone in the Carolinas decided that the weather was so cold they would stay at home in case the weather did something nasty. It didn't last for very long, but was neat while it lasted.</p><p>We rode into the timeshare complex around 5pm and Mrs Stevie went to check in. I don't deal well with the check-in drones' attempts to upsell us and Mrs Stevie's attempts to get free stuff without going on a four hour <strike>kidnapping</strike> tour and sales-pitch, so I sit in the bus and fulminate while she deals wth it all.</p><p>She returned remarkably quickly, smiling hard<sup><a name="0302220sup7" href="#0302220foot7">7</a></sup>. It turned out that for some alchemical reason I am still unclear on, the timeshare conglomerate had decided that because the first Saturday of the year was on Jan 1st, it didn't count and therefore we were a week early<sup><a name="0302220sup8" href="#0302220foot8">8</a></sup>. "Lots of people are making that same mistake" a smiling employee told Mrs Stevie. Mrs Stevie pointed out that perhaps some sort of warning that this bizarre calendaring had been decided upon could have been sent to owners and thereby the issue could have been avoided. The timeshare people decided they could pretend it was our week even if we differed on how many Saturdays had elapsed in 2022. Our unit was in use, but they found us another on the same block, so it was all OK. Ish.</p><p>The weather during our stay proceeded to be foul. Cold and wet. Think English autumn. Scratch that. Think Welsh autumn. In mountain country.</p><p>We had decided that we had nothing to do but spend time with the Stevieling and her hubby on this visit, but they had an unusually busy social schedule so we only saw them for a couple of days.</p><p>So we made the best of things by bickering and arguing, as couples do, until it was time to leave for NY again.</p><p>The drive back on Saturday<sup><a name="0302220sup9" href="#0302220foot9">9</a></sup> was not bad, we were a long way from the blizzard ravaging NY that day, but we made a very early start on Sunday so as to avoid the section of I95 in Virginia where everyone forgets how to drive<sup><a name="0302220sup10" href="#0302220foot10">10</a></sup>. About the time we got to that section Mrs Stevie had the idea that the driveway would be blocked by the 18 inches of drifted snow a neighbor was reporting, so she called a plowing service and got our driveway cleared. Sorted. Everything was looking good.</p><p>Of course, it was too good to last.</p><p>On entering the house I detected that it was in fact colder <i>inside</i> than it was outside, and it was below freezing outside. Yes, that never-to-be-sufficiently-damned Slant Fin furnace had shut down, by the feel of things about ten minutes after we left the house bound for the balmy drizzle and cold of Florida <i>despite</i> having a nice new thermocouple fitted only six weeks before when it shut down until John the Plumber could get it going again.</p><p>Mrs Stevie sprang into action as I struggled fruitlessly to light the pilot. She called John the Plumber. He, bless him, loped over and got the furnace started, but it shut down about 45 minutes later. John opined it needed a new gas valve and politely asked if he could come back the next day. There being no option, it being night on a post-blizzard Sunday with the likelihood of the gas valve stockist being open standing somewhere south of nil, I agreed this was acceptable.</p><p>As I was having this conversation there was a loud crash from the kitchen followed by some light, glassy clinking. I ran into the kitchen but could see no obvious fallout. I thought it might have been the final wheel of the microwave cart giving up the ghost and collapsing like the other three have under the loads Mrs Stevie put on it<sup><a name="0302220sup11" href="#0302220foot11">11</a></sup>, because the cart is where we store our liquor supply<sup><a name="0302220sup12" href="#0302220foot12">12</a></sup> and the bottles might make the clinking noise. No matter. Anything not on fire or leaking was by definition OK.</p><p>I deployed our only space heater and Mrs Stevie slept in an armchair with it pointed at her, she cocooned in blankets with an electric heating pad. I initially put all the rings of our cooker at full blast, and to be fair that was effective, sorta, but the thing it was most effective at was melting our hot air fryer standing next to the cooker. So that worked. I retired to the unheated front downstairs bedroom and slept fully clothed with <i>two</i> heating pads between the top sheet and the comforter, reasoning I slept in an unheated bedroom while a child so no big deal.</p><p>It was bloody cold. Every three hours the heating pads shut down so I could experience what it would be like to be on Scott's expedition team. I kept warm by re-activating the heating pads and moaning piteously in a manly fashion.</p><p>The next day I rose early, chipped he ice off my beard and started to make tea. On opening the cup cabinet I discovered the <i>real</i> reason for the crash and clinky noises. The top shelf of the cabinet, the one with a bunch of wine glasses on it, had suffered the failure of the little pin-brackets that held it in place and fallen onto the shelf below. I rejoiced in my good fortune in discovering a <i>lateral</i> bracket failure, the sort that drops one end of the shelf onto the content of the one below, rather than the one I found last time, a longitudinal failure of the front brackets that rigged the cabinet o' canned goods as an elaborate Laurel and Hardy-esque booby trap and cost me severely smashed feet as I unsuccessfully attempted to catch the avalanche of a year's supply of canned soup.</p><p>John turned up clutching a universal gas valve<sup><a name="0302220sup13" href="#0302220foot13">13</a></sup> as I was finishing unloading the shelves and removing them. He went downstairs, fiddled and swore and announced thet the gas valve he had wouldn't fit<sup><a name="0302220sup14" href="#0302220foot14">14</a></sup>. He spent the next three hours trying to find a gas valve that would fit the Slant Fin furnace of rebellion, found one in Hicksville, bought it, brought it then fitted it and for a wonder the furnace<sup><a name="0302220sup15" href="#0302220foot15">15</a></sup> burst in to life. The baseboards began to warm and I did a little dance of victory but couldn't help noticing that John was not joining in. If fact he was positively pensive. Measurably morose.</p><p>"What's up" I asked, hoping for something un-furnace-related.</p><p>"I don't feel any circulation in the upper circuit" he said, gripping a pipe gloomily. "You can feel the downstairs is working fine."</p><p>I gripped the pipe he indicated.</p><p>"See? Red hot, just like it is supposed to be. This one is just warm from conducted heat from the pipes. I think the pipes upstairs are frozen" he said, and I thought I detected a hint of plumberly predation through my watering eyes, though I was somewhat preoccupied hopping round the basement with my right hand clenched under my left armpit while gnashing my teeth so hard the enamel was flaking off them.</p><p>He opined I should use space heaters to warm the upstairs, and told me how to shut down the water should the pipes have done what pipes always do when they freeze, smiled appreciatively at my heartfelt wails at the sight of the bill, accepted a check for his servces, helped me stamp out the spontaneous fire that started in my checkbook and departed Chateau Stevie.</p><p>I also departed, bound for <span class="blowes">Blowes</span> where I had reason to believe I might locate the extra space heaters I would need, and the brackets I needed to fix the kitchen cabinet almost getting arrested for setting off the smoke alarms at the checkout when my visa card melted. I was escorted to my car, drove home, deployed the new space heaters in the freezing upstairs bedrooms,and began work on the cabinet restoration. This involved drilling out the shorn-off pins, then drilling out the mounting holes as the pins on the new brackets were a different size than the old ones, and slowly losing the will to live.</p><p>But the fun was just beginning.</p><p>I wandered into the upstairs and noted that the space heaters had the upper rooms at 70 degrees in a remarkably short time. The "working" baseboards were only managing to raise the downstairs by a couple of degrees an hour, because the house structure was so cold. Yay, space heaters!</p><p>I wandered into the <i>downstairs</i> bedroom and was greeted by the sound of indoor rain. I drew the curtains and saw that most magnificent sight, the indoor (hot) waterfall all made more beautiful by the backdrop of trees through the window. Pausing only to deploy a towel and some appropriate Class Three Words of Power I ran downstairs and pulled the valve to shut off the flow of water to the upstairs heating zone. Then I ran upstairs (twice) and zeroed out the upstairs thermostat, and then back down to the bedroom to call John the Plumber.</p><p>Which was when the front downstairs bedroom ceiling fell in, dousing the carpet, bed, my everyday leather jacket<sup><a name="0302220sup16" href="#0302220foot16">16</a></sup>, my guitar, two autoharps and my strumstick in a mix of water, gypsum sludge, clods of orange fiberglass and clumps of the water-logged white Mammoth-hide insulation that was used when the house was built.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq2nuQjtgKFruuc2dugiFNtfe07ex5PDGgL3nLDv7WN8k6I19MJC--vBzv0hzNcKrq1-TYyC_GHtTkgxhzRM7MlbM3ipTcTHtCL3vLlQAqtZi7sdu5HK2a7qRGctT1EbbzGwiEK0NzCcnTtkoPf9xhJ706HLQscfGmdD4QLGDpjVQrG7Ly4w/s3412/ceiling%20%282%29.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="1741" data-original-width="3412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq2nuQjtgKFruuc2dugiFNtfe07ex5PDGgL3nLDv7WN8k6I19MJC--vBzv0hzNcKrq1-TYyC_GHtTkgxhzRM7MlbM3ipTcTHtCL3vLlQAqtZi7sdu5HK2a7qRGctT1EbbzGwiEK0NzCcnTtkoPf9xhJ706HLQscfGmdD4QLGDpjVQrG7Ly4w/s320/ceiling%20%282%29.jpg"/></a></div><p>I opined to the air that this was in fact the most vile turn of luck one might encounter so early in the year, and to reflect on the irony in that if we had found out about the timeshare calendar debacle in time we would have been home when the furnace failed and avoided what would surely be a very inconvenient and expensive series of events-to-come, but I did so using far fewer words on account of needing to find buckets and a stick to poke holes in the ceiling so more of it wouldn't come crashing down. It was all very tiresome.</p><p>John the Plumber arrived the next day with his son<sup><a name="0302220sup17" href="#0302220foot17">17</a></sup> and they proceded to replace the split section with PEX, a sort of plastic pipe that apparently can resist splitting better. I think copper has just become so expensive post 9-11<sup><a name="0302220sup18" href="#0302220foot18">18</a></sup> it is no longer cost effective to use it for pipes. It also has the advantage it is attached by snap-fitting rather than soldering with heat<sup><a name="0302220sup19" href="#0302220foot19">19</a></sup>. </p><p>Once the repair had been made John, the other one, turned on the water just a bit so we could watch the second leak soak into the basement and ruin another wall and some hall ceiling.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjba-JoPcAy1wq5FGFWPYytS_G_uyr0gLpROQCHKubIOG82LGPVV-kKbIx2e2B0KLTuYc8PMtbWqtp-DUTWPlcVq5u7eK09oba2HXCVa-MRVwX5P1MVCuVi93RT000GxOkxNX9AA1fn39PlNtbwv6ZZC84Au1nJJ_ZE9_sN2l8n4xAWN0hx3Q/s4004/One_Of_15_Leaks%20%282%29.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="2084" data-original-width="4004" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjba-JoPcAy1wq5FGFWPYytS_G_uyr0gLpROQCHKubIOG82LGPVV-kKbIx2e2B0KLTuYc8PMtbWqtp-DUTWPlcVq5u7eK09oba2HXCVa-MRVwX5P1MVCuVi93RT000GxOkxNX9AA1fn39PlNtbwv6ZZC84Au1nJJ_ZE9_sN2l8n4xAWN0hx3Q/s320/One_Of_15_Leaks%20%282%29.jpg"/></a></div><p>John asked if there was a crawlspace access hatch. I said no, I didn't think so. We went back and forth on this for a bit, then John said he'd make a hole in the back of the Stevieling's former bedroom closet.</p><p>"No problem" I said and opened the closet to dislay the problem. Mrs Stevie had already used the closet to store clothes (because all the other closets in the house are not, apparently, enough for the Fall Collection) and every single Playmobil figure, vehicle, boat, ship, plane and playset ever made except for the castle<sup><a name="0302220sup20" href="#0302220foot20">20</a></sup>. So it was with much cursing and red-face that I emptied it out so John (the same one) could make a new inspection hatch with his mighty sawzall.</p><p>I retired out of theater, but could hear the gentle re-assuring bursts of foul language as John crawled through the tiny space and replaced another eleven leaks.</p><p>It was finally over, and John presented his new bill, which I greeted with the proper crying, wailing, tearing of hair and howls of "Why me?" and I deployed another check drawn upon Stevie's Magic Bottomless Money Bucket, and the Two Johns departed, slapping each other on the back and trading ideas on how to spend their new-found riches.</p><p>At least the heat was working.</p><p>John the plumber had suggested a firm for the damp mitigation steps needed next, and we argued the insurance company into using them. They arrived, talked a good game and described the pulling out and putting back needed, all with many re-assurances. It was only after the hall ceiling was down that I discovered <i>they</i> weren't going to put anything back. That would be the job of the "construction contractor".</p><p>Another call to the insurance people garnered the sniffed news that the firm they originally wanted us to use would indeed have put it all back. So Mrs Stevie called that firm and suggested that although they had lost the original demolition work due to a "communication issue"<sup><a name="0302220sup21" href="#0302220foot21">21</a></sup> perhaps they would like the contract to rebuild. They would, but couldn't start until an estimate was made, and the first opportunity to do that would be next week.</p><p>Since I was rapidly running out of available time off, we tearfully begged the assessor to come on the weekend and they finally agreed once the acceptable grovel-threshold had been achieved. So we are looking forward to that.</p><p>And last night, around 6pm, the furnace c/w new gas valve and thermocouple, shut down.</p><p>John the Plumber ran over, poked the furnace, got it working again and opined that the Aquastat Relay<sup><a name="0302220sup22" href="#0302220foot22">22</a></sup> was failing intermittently. He suggested I find one, buy it and he'd fit if for me. A quick search and call-around to local suppliers revealed that the part was discontinued and they did not have a substitute. Mid-search the furnace shut down. I wiggled wires, banged solid-looking components hopefully, then poked the armature of the relay and it closed with a loud click like a bone dislocating and the boiler fired up.</p><p>The saga continues.</p><ol class="footnote"><li><a name="0302220foot1"></a>which we worked out saves us about two hours of transit time per leg by not stopping and buying prepared meals<sup><a name="0302220sup2" href="#0302220foot2">2</a></sup> <a href="#0302220sup1">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0302220foot2"></a>and besides Covid, refusal to mask up in Southern States and why encourage that?<a href="#0302220sup2">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0302220foot3"></a>Maskerade this year<a href="#0302220sup3">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0302220foot4"></a>By saying "For the love of Azathoth will you please get a storage unit near you? I will pay for it!"<a href="#0302220sup4">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0302220foot5"></a>There's a video out there of some people in Georgia watching a minivan sliding <i>sideways</i> directly toward them down an ice-encrusted hill, and they only think to take evasive action when the vehicle is literally an arm's length away<a href="#0302220sup5">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0302220foot6"></a>Nope, no climate change here<a href="#0302220sup6">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0302220foot7"></a>I have learned to fear that smile<a href="#0302220sup7">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0302220foot8"></a>After spending far too many brain cycles milling this idiocy I believe it may be because the fourth Saturday of the month was in fact the end of the third full <i>week</i> <a href="#0302220sup8">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0302220foot9"></a>we say the fifth in the month, they say the fourth<a href="#0302220sup9">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0302220foot10"></a>the same place where the blizzard stranded people for 24 hours two weeks ago<a href="#0302220sup10">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0302220foot11"></a>Mrs Stevie remains obstinately ignorant of the nature of gravity and weight when it comes to putting things on top of other things, and the three wheels I could actually see had surrendered to the Atlasian loads the cart had been called upon to support in defiance of its design specs<a href="#0302220sup11">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0302220foot12"></a>Something I was feeling more and more would be useful in the very near future<a href="#0302220sup12">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0302220foot13"></a>The proper part was not to be had for luvner money, apparently<a href="#0302220sup13">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0302220foot14"></a>Universal. Right<a href="#0302220sup14">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0302220foot15"></a>Now re-christened <i>Start You <span class="bleep">BLEEP</span>ing Bastard</i><a href="#0302220sup15">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0302220foot16"></a>My genuine Arnold Schwarzenegger Terminator T2 souvenir motorcycle jacket!<a href="#0302220sup16">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0302220foot17"></a>Also John. Does that make them John the Plumbers, Johns The Plumber or Johns the Plumbers? I have no idea<a href="#0302220sup17">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0302220foot18"></a>We use an awful lot of it for making ammunition<a href="#0302220sup18">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0302220foot19"></a>No burned hands, no impromptu fires. Where's the fun in that?<a href="#0302220sup19">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0302220foot20"></a>That is in the basement. I checked<a href="#0302220sup20">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0302220foot21"></a>Specifically the abundance of misdirection communication being done before the walls were pulled down<a href="#0302220sup21">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0302220foot22"></a>Not a plumber-made-up part name. I checked<a href="#0302220sup22">↑</a></li></ol>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-8250972674238021172022-01-24T21:28:00.000-05:002022-01-24T21:28:38.820-05:00Catching Up<!--Catching Up--><!--Composed on 1/2/22 at 9pm --><!--Categories: Life, Chateau Stevie--><p>Well, that was a year of suckage, wasn't it?</p><p>From discovering that we had a real, honest-to-goodness epidemic plague loose in the world, to discovering that our neighbours were and remain a bunch of idiots who would rather take massive doses of horse dewormer<sup><a name="2401220sup1" href="#2401220foot1">1</a></sup> than get an injection containing Bill Gates microchips, black helicopters and gosh knows what-all else, to the discouraging fact that the said plague was not playing fair and was infecting people who had been given the injections to the pundits on both sides of the arguments getting super stupid largely because their TV studios were half empty<sup><a name="2401220sup2" href="#2401220foot2">2</a></sup><p>Disappointing the results of the polls, too. Almost half the people who could be arsed to get off their fat backsides and vote still thought a man incapable of stringing coherent thoughts together on any given day, a man who gave the country permission to behave like animals (providing they were on the right side of course), was still a fit choice to lead us. I fear for the continued existence of the United States.</p><p>And the barely believable events of January 6th, when the world watched the so-called largest democracy in the world host a third-world insurrection which it seems increasingly possible was actually fomented by the outgoing administration and a bunch of back-room actors who put Nixon's dirty tricks team to shame. The world watched the all-too-close call American democracy had with the Dictator's axe-crew, most of whom seem bound to escape the well-earned legal thumping the astoundingly stupid rioters are getting.</p><p>What seems strange is that the people in charge of the aftermath don't appear to grasp that the constitution-established law was well and truly broken - the Constitution often doesn't say much about the things people commonly believe it does, but has very definite and easy to understand language about how the government is chosen, and what should be done about people who attempt to subvert that process by force of arms. And yet the charges that are brought are of the "disorderly conduct" and "breaking and entering" variety, rather than traitorous insurrection. No doubt I am too naive to understand the nuances of the law involved.</p><p>Feeling completely unempowered to affect events on the larger stage, let me return to more personal matters.</p><p><b>The Citizenship Screw-up</b> </p><p>I filed for US Citizenship in 2020. The date for my case to be heard was originally January 2021. On January 1st, it changed to March 2021. Then it was changed to "It's all taking a bit longer than we thought. Stand by". A small crisis was averted when my visa was extended by some very helpful immigration people, and my new date became December 2021. It is now back to "Stand By". Covid derailing the wheels of government, of course. Can't be helped, but worrying.</p><p><b>Working From Home</b> </p><p>In March of 2021 I was ordered to cease and desist coming to work, and start and commence and, presumably, ensist, working from home.</p><p>Initially, I expected this to be a problem, and for my productivity to drop due to distractions, but in actual fact, and despite various "experts" on PBR<sup><a name="2401220sup5" href="#2401220foot5">5</a></sup> opining to the contrary, I found myself working far more efficiently and productively. My attitude was great in the morning, an effect I put down to not having had to cross swords with the Bloody Long Island Rail Road before I started, I worked steadily without interruptions or distractions from people in other cubes having loud phone calls, and often would log back in after the rather stupidly configured remote software kicked me out after 8 hours<sup><a name="2401220sup6" href="#2401220foot6">6</a></sup> so I could finish what I was doing.</p><p>Not only that, if I was required to work an extended shift to accommodate the truly herculean efforts my colleagues in the applications teams were putting out to switch NYC from a face-to-face process to a remote-by-computer one, I could do so having had a bite to eat and still feeling relaxed and keen to go because my morale had not been hammered flat by the Bloody Long Island Rail Road demonstrating that they could not get me appreciably merry in a brewery.</p><p>Of course, this had to end. "The optics are not good" one manager said. Several more opined that we were needed to help save the NYC small businesses by buying lunch from them.</p><p>I have to admit I found this rather hard. For years I've listened to these same NYC dwellers tell me how the commuter is killing NYC by working there then leaving, paying a non-resident level of tax (which in my case is an outright falsehood, I am required to pony up as though I live in NYC). Now we commuters are the last, best hope for the NYC small businessperson?</p><p>I returned to commuting to find the Bloody Long Island Rail Road still couldn't give me a good time in a cat-house.</p><p>Not only do they still cancel trains - and still make a habit of canceling the straight through Wyandanch-Brooklyn trains in preference to the umptytump Penn Station trains - now the trains they provide as an "alternative" are overcrowded superspreader parties on wheels. So lessons learned and preparation for a post-Covid world: Nil.</p><p><b>The New Roof Ditheration</b> </p><p>In August I decided to put a new roof on the house and solicited bids. Only one builder showed up, but he gave me a fair price for what looked like a very good deal. Then he vanished. I called him in October and he said he was having trouble sourcing materials, which was understandable, but that he would get back to us soon. A few days after Thanksgiving he called me to say his team would be around my house on the second week of December to replace the roof.</p><p>I pointed out that the brochure he had given me spoke long on the subject of the roof being composed of a self-sealing arrangement of shingle and underlay, that the sealing process required several days of warm, sunny weather, and specifically said that unless the roof was properly sealed it wasn't covered under the warranty.</p><p>The builder agreed that this was indeed the case, and we then agreed that he should schedule the work in the spring. The week he wanted to start, there was a heat wave.</p><p><b>I Attempt Plumbing; The Anti-Handiman Demons Fire For Effect</b> </p><p>Speaking of Thanksgiving, Mrs and Mrs Stevieling asked if they could come and stay and we said yes, which required us to clean out The Stevieling's room, which she had left looking like someone had backed a thrift shop into it and then blown it up. Mrs Stevie, under the impression that I proposed putting them up in that room then cooperated wonderfully, finding a storage unit for a reasonable price and packing everything up. I helped transport it, but refused to help parcel it up. actually, that is not true. I had offered to go in with a pitchfork and deal with the bloody problem but had been rebuffed.</p><p>With two weeks to go before wheels-down, Mrs Stevie announced she was going into Manhattan for a long weekend with her friends, to attend some band performances. She believes this band is really cooking. I believe that band has overcooked to the point of needing a packet of baking soda and a damp cloth to smother the flames, but of course I do not say that out loud when she plays their CDs. I limit myself to groaning, clutching my ears and crying "By All The Gods Olde And New, Please Let It Stop Soon".</p><p>Anyway.</p><p>I saw this as a good time to renovate the horrible downstairs bathroom that had never been properly improved since we moved in, and featured bright yellow el-cheapo renter-special fixtures'n'wotsits. Peace, quiet and no-one making uninformed comments about unavoidable fires breaking out or complaining about the shrieks of pain the normal deployment of a blowtorch elicit.</p><p>So no sooner had Mrs Stevie decamped, I grabbed hold of the vanity top and pulled <i>hard</i> and it tore off the wall, being bodged in place with eight-penny nails that were mostly rust after 30-mumble years of steamy showers<sup><a name="2401220sup7" href="#2401220foot7">7</a></sup>. I filled a few things with water in anticipation of Anti-Handiman Demon activity and turned the household water supply off<sup><a name="2401220sup8" href="#2401220foot8">8</a></sup><p>This was necessary because the little stop-taps that live under the sink had fused into solid masses of brass when the Chixulub meteor smashed into the Earth. Replacing them was going to be high on the list of Stuff to Do. Then it was the work of a few minutes with Mr Tiger Saw and the vanity and sink were outside and I was ready to deploy m' plumbing skills!</p><p>The plan was to cut the old fittings off using either my trusty pipe-cutter or, failing that, my even more trusty Tiger Saw, but naturally a problem poked its spiky head out of the u-bend almost immediately. The old stop taps had been soldered into place very close to the walls, likely before the wallboard had been nailed into place. When cut, the hot water line would be flush with the wall.</p><p>Plan B immediately sprang full-formed into Mr Brain (<i>in fact I sort of planned for this eventuality ahead of time by buying the parts needed, which was stupid because in thwarting the need to overnight sans water because the blasted shops would be shut had naturally woken up the Anti-Handiman Demons and given them time to plan villainy of the most desperate stripe</i>). I would solder the stop tap to a short length of pipe, then use a copper sleeve to join that to the newly-cut pipe. This would mean the stop tap soldering of the heavy brass fitting would be done away from the wall, and only the relatively quick copper-copper soldering would need to be done very close to the cardboard cladding of the wallboard.</p><p>I started with the cold water line to give me a chance to get my soldering hand back in before having to deal with hiding pipes. It went well. I had the assembly all soldered up and had inflicted the obligatory agonizing hand burn by picking up the red-hot brass tap fitting in about five minutes. Then I grabbed a spritzer bottle I had pre-filled with water as a makeshift fire extinguisher<sup><a name="2401220sup10" href="#2401220foot10">10</a></sup> and put out the small fires that had started on the wall and it was Job Done. Half Done, anyway.</p><p>The hot water line added the complication of having zero pipe poking out of the wall. I countered this by grabbing the pipe with vise-grips and pulling it out of the wall. Luckily the pipes had been installed "Genaro Fashion" and had no internal bracing to speak of and so there was some leeway to be had. The pipe was cut and a new fixture fabricated. Deciding to get a head start on fire suppression I spritzed the wall liberally before I began waving the roaring flame of pipe soldering all over it.</p><p>A sad mistake.</p><p>The wall absorbed much water, then gave way, and the pipe retracted, pulling the vise grips through the wall, making a rather large hole. (see picture).</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEguys1e6COdsQNPcMg4duIia2CBZBy9dgD6_vZe4wRj9ZMoX1tSk79F8TQFyR7qrz69BewGe3tGML38bUdoOciLPMVpXmNXmu-3l9Vzyz3aFnwIW9lk9cLcZWruIbsuz7mK5DXqJnloOYFve_tH1XLTme6upHfHzLfXOLwB8Ef2b5-zSeEalQ=s1673" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="1419" data-original-width="1673" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEguys1e6COdsQNPcMg4duIia2CBZBy9dgD6_vZe4wRj9ZMoX1tSk79F8TQFyR7qrz69BewGe3tGML38bUdoOciLPMVpXmNXmu-3l9Vzyz3aFnwIW9lk9cLcZWruIbsuz7mK5DXqJnloOYFve_tH1XLTme6upHfHzLfXOLwB8Ef2b5-zSeEalQ=s320"/></a></div><p>Snarling some pre-prepared class three Words of Power I grabbed the pipe, reconfigured the vise grips and applied heat to the pipe. The wall gave way some more and the pipe retracted taking the vise grips with it.</p><p>It was all very tiresome.</p><p>Eventually, by holding the vise grips with my foot while I waved the flames over the pipe I was able to solder the fitting into place. Then I was able to turn on the water, add some flexible riser pipes and test the water was working properly. Of course, the first time I opened one of the stop taps I let go of the flexible pipe and so the water that was supposed to go into the coffee can (see picture) went all over me instead, but that did have the effect of extinguishing a couple of small body hair fires I had not noticed, so all was well that ended not badly, all things considered.</p><p>Then I replaced the U-Bend, which was where the Anti-Handiman Demons really got the bit between their teeth.</p><p>If you take a look at the annotated photograph you can see the old u-bend u-bending then disappearing into a compression fitting on what turned out to be a cast-iron pipe fitting connecting to the greywater drain. Water from the kitchen sink also passes through this pipe, as does the dishwasher drainage. Further downstream is where it joins the outflow from the commode which is where I'm drawing the line.</p><p>Ever since we've lived here the sinks block about every four to six months requiring a tiresome and disgusting process of filling the kitchen sink with water then using a plunger to suck the crud out of the pipe and into the bathroom sink, then allowing it to drain out again. This will be relevant soon. Back to the U-Bend.</p><p>No matter how much I swore the bloody fitting would not come loose so I could remove the old U-Bend and replace it. I ended up having to heat it with my trusty blowtorch, after which I could use Mr Pipewrench to unscrew the collar and pull out the straight pipe from the cast iron fitting along with 30 years worth of impacted crud that had backed up behind the compression fitting seal.</p><p>After a short dry-heave break I deployed the new U-Bend and compression fitting and discovered two unfortunate things:<br> a) The new straight pipe was a very worrying rattling fit in the cast-iron fitting, and<br> 2) <span class="homedespot">Home Despot</span> had changed supplier for their compression fittings with disastrous consequences.</p><p>Old-style compression seals are triangular cross section. You slip the collar over your pipe, slip the seal over he pipe "blunt" side toward the collar, slide the pipe into the fitting seating the seal as you go until the pipe is where you need it, then screw down the collar to deform the seal and fill all the gaps. Works surprisingly well.</p><p>The new seals appear to be simple rubber washers, square in cross section, and in this case the seal would <i>not</i> deform and make a proper seal no matter how tight the collar was screwed down. The straight pipe was still a rattling, and therefore leaky, fit. Luckily I had a fresh old-style seal in my toolbox and some unused class threes in my vocabulary and was able to deploy both to fit the U-Bend securely. And thence to bed for some well-earned rest.</p><p>Now, I had had to cut the straight pipe to the approximate length required - that is what it is for, to allow some horizontal customization options when matching to the sink drain. But it bothered Mr Brain that I had slid so much of it into the fitting that it had to be protruding into the greywater drainpipe. I resolved to remove it again the next day and cut it shorter.</p><p>It was while doing this the next day that I recalled just how long the old straight pipe had been. It must have been pushed all the way across the greywater drainpipe as in Diagram 1. And thus a sneaking suspicion as to the cause of all those old blockages made its way into Mr Brain. Now the situation more resembled Diagram 2 the flow of water attempting to drain from the kitchen or dishwasher would be unimpeded by the bathroom sink U-Bend's straight pipe and I thought blockages might be a thing of the past as a result<sup><a name="2401220sup11" href="#2401220foot11">11</a></sup>.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhlOV57QmE0PzEaN7IuxYwNBladjWZN8h41KJEKjVTlN33QmzKpLoVxx_plzyAs9eDJqAaXZfiXIwKmPePafvLUTEPxOfHrAkBdEtZG47PiEQRrj5hPozKZZ2DJyMUdF7aDuBvHcOPnP7fW-rPOriDS_9LitYDQxNhzCz9a78YYFBe_Zupr_A=s769" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="428" data-original-width="769" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhlOV57QmE0PzEaN7IuxYwNBladjWZN8h41KJEKjVTlN33QmzKpLoVxx_plzyAs9eDJqAaXZfiXIwKmPePafvLUTEPxOfHrAkBdEtZG47PiEQRrj5hPozKZZ2DJyMUdF7aDuBvHcOPnP7fW-rPOriDS_9LitYDQxNhzCz9a78YYFBe_Zupr_A=s320"/></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhCZobrT7qbPLjXuRuFhtXEYbxf24axVm27D6VsTaCFzjSvAtBjD4MjrVywVTDYCncUqPvZB7Yt1phcIlmnSZePho5PuSo2GVDRKhjKR3I1PTTlKnvTo3z1oeWAcsDuEzNzbxGVZzDe34JGjsPXxAW2c7Y5t2WW6nWnMVMS2GmDrpF6xRWBVQ=s769" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="428" data-original-width="769" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhCZobrT7qbPLjXuRuFhtXEYbxf24axVm27D6VsTaCFzjSvAtBjD4MjrVywVTDYCncUqPvZB7Yt1phcIlmnSZePho5PuSo2GVDRKhjKR3I1PTTlKnvTo3z1oeWAcsDuEzNzbxGVZzDe34JGjsPXxAW2c7Y5t2WW6nWnMVMS2GmDrpF6xRWBVQ=s320"/></a></div><p>The next day I fitted the sink vanity and discovered that the U-Bend was a 1 1/2 inch pipe but that the sink drain was a 1 1/4, and moreover was a good four inches too high to connect to the U-Bend anyway, so another run to <span class="homedespot">Home Despot</span> was enacted to search for a conversion adapter, which they did not have so I made a run to <span class="arsehardware">Arse Hardware</span> where they <i>said</i> they didn't but I found that they <i>did</i>, albeit as part of a kit intended for some other purpose. After that it was the work of only half an hour with Mr Hacksaw and some more class threes to connect the sink to the wastepipe, the taps to the risers and the little chrome stick to the plug release. Huzzah! A sink!</p><p>The water flow through the taps was surprisingly light and disappointing but there were no kinks or blockages and last night's drenching had proved the water pressure was good. I guess in the intervening years since I fitted that exact same design of tap to the old sink there must have been some sort of well-meaning water conservation activity at the tapworks.</p><p>I will draw a curtain over the removal of the old toilet and the installation of the new one, except to say that I managed to drop my prized Leatherman down the sodding wastepipe even though I had it blocked with paper towels. I couldn't get my hand to it as it lay on the bend, threatening to slip over and drop into <i>Pipus Incognita</i>, but Mrs Stevie could and retrieved it just so she could lord it over me for a few days. You'd think the pipe would have been filthy but it was sparkling clean. Even so the Leatherman was subjected to maximum hygiene soakings in various chemicals before I allowed myself the pleasure of sucking it again, as I had no idea what Mrs Stevie had been holding before she grabbed Mr Leatherman.</p><p>The toilet, bought for its profile and general looks, turned out to be a new design that intentionally only half filled its tank. The instructions bloviated about a new special power flush design that used less water (which I was less than happy about given the lackluster performance of the new taps) but for a wonder it works very well.</p><p>Mrs Stevie was briefly interested in a different model that advertised it could flush 100 golf balls, but I pointed out that the golf balls would inevitably clog the pipes and disable the septic system, and would cost a fortune to boot, and she decided that wasn't a desirable feature after all.</p><p>Installing the commode also called for another fossilized-shut-stop-tap-ectomy, and I had a slight brainwave when I decided to add a right-angle turn to the extra pipe I was adding so the stop-tap would be close to the wall but not require me to set fire to the wall to install it.</p><p>And that, for a wonder, worked well even when I wanted to install a new over-the-toilet hutch-cupboard thingy and <i>did not</i> end up having to saw slots in it to accommodate the piping even though I had not thought to measure it all up first. Not only that, the new commode was wider than the old one, so the stop tap would have been hidden in a multiple Class Four location vis-a-vis installing a risor pipe to the tank. As it was, only Class Twos were involved.</p><p><b>Thanksgiving.</b> </p><p>The kids arrived in theater and promptly buggered off to be with their friends and others who were actually pleasant company. But the Stevieling insisted she would make thanksgiving Dinner round her grandmoher's house for the immediate family, around five people. Grandmother then invited All the <i>extended</i> family and a panic attack was triggered.</p><p>I came downstairs the day before Thanksgiving feeling crappy. Ever since I went back to work I've been catching one cold after another. I underwent Covid tests the first few times, all negative, but had stopped doing that because I had none of the other symptoms of fever, chills, boils, locusts and whatnot. But I had warned everyone that I was not going to put the Grandmother at risk if I got very sick. I'm getting ahead of the story.</p><p>The Stevieling was showing signs of quiet desperation, and after a few minutes of insistent interrogation by yours truly admitted that there were insurmountable problems with her doing the cooking she planned at our house. There was no room in the fridge. There was too little time to make the five pies she had planned. It was all going horribly wrong.</p><p>I strolled over to the fridge and started unloading cans of soda, huge flagons of iced tea, and bottles of "Harry Potter Butter Beer" Mrs Stevie had laid down in the late Jurassic. The Stevieling opined there was now enough room in the fridge, but not enough hours in the day.</p><p>So we decamped for the swank bakery just down the road where Daddy's Bottomless Money Bucket provided three pies that only required a bank loan to secure. Thick choking smoke filled the bakery.</p><p>"The pies are burning!" screamed the baker.</p><p>"Calm yourself! That is merely my wallet immolating itself." I replied.</p><p>Having resolved The Great Pie Disaster by hurling money at it, the Stevieling decided she would bake the two remaining pies herself, which she did.</p><p>On the day, I was very much sicker, and in the mood to just lie groaning under a blanket in peace and quiet, so I did that while everyone else decamped for Grandma's. Well, there was a small debacle when the pumpkin pie we had bought turned out to have a skin of mold over it, but the baker replaced it with no arguments. Something to do with the way the pumpkin slurry had been prepared. What do I know? I'm not a baker.</p><p>Staying home turned out to be a Good Idea though, as my quick solutions to the Stevielings' problems had of course attracted some anti-handiman demons which she, poor girl, was unprepared to deal with.</p><p>When they got to Grandma's house, now full of people, the kids made their signature Turkey Wrapped In Bacon And Painted With Butter, placing the bird in a foil baking pan.</p><p>What they <i>didn't</i> do was put the baking pan on a rigid baking tray <i>before</i> putting it in the oven and roasting it, with the result that when Mrs Stevie attempted to remove the now-brimming-with-fat baking dish it buckled and spilled "some" fat into the oven. Had anyone noticed even this wouldn't have been a problem, but then someone had the bright idea of baking crescent rolls, and the afternoon descended into fiasco.</p><p>The spilled fat ignited, filling the house with dense black smoke.</p><p>It was at this point that it was discovered that Grandma didn't have a fire extinguisher and fiasco became debacle. It was decided to evacuate the house, but only after everyone had grabbed a plate of food, which they ate in the freezing cold driveway. Mr Stevieling raced around banging on neighbors' doors pleading for a fire extinguisher, which either no-one had or no-one was willing to share. Grandma was having a meldown about her "ruined" oven, and the Stevieling was in tears over the whole affair. I imagine that after a few more of these sorts of out-of-parameter excursions she will have my own fatalistic attitude and simply run in circles gibbering.</p><p>It took so long to organize all this chaos that the fire, of course, went out, and the smoke dispersed without causing further damage, allowing a resumption of Thanksgiving in the more-traditional <i>inside</i> venue. Grandma was fulminating over her oven which would :have" to be replaced.</p><p>The next day I rallied the troops, grabbed some cleaning supplies and the kids and deployed them in oven-cleaning mode at Grandma's house. Grandma was now just muttering darkly, but was secretly pleased to have the Stevieling nearby again. I investigated why the smoke detector had not gone off during the Great Thanksgiving Conflagration and discovered that Grandma's habit of poking it with a broom handle when it went off during her cooking sessions had bashed and smashed the works until they were now just a do-it-yourself kit. I departed to <span class="homedespot">Home Despot</span> to throw more money at this Thanksgiving Fiasco to Make It Go Away.</p><p>Two hours later the oven was clean enough to put it into auto-clean mode <i>without</i> the danger of more dense black smoke, the new smoke detector was securely mounted to the ceiling ready for its first damn good poking and we left so we could get lunch before the kids had to be back at the airport.</p><p>Grandma was now fit to be tied, as the vision of a nice new oven had receded over the horizon. Not only that, she later admitted that the oven had never been so clean. Turns out she doesn't use the self-cleaning program properly.</p><p>So much for Thanksgiving.</p><p>And just before the year could wind down and die with a whimper, the Chateau Stevie Furnace o' Heating stopped, er, heating.</p><p>I suspected the bloody thermocouple had burned out, but since Mr Stevie had not had the wit to look at the thermostat while I was doing battle with the Bloody Long Island Rail Road, John the Plumber was not alerted to our situation until 7:30pm at which point he quite reasonably said he could come first thing the next day. Which he did, and he took two hours to install a themrocouple that worked and do sundry other essential maintenance stuff. In the meantime I deployed a small electric heater to keep the core of the house inhabitable, then went to bed.</p><p>The next day John the Plumber did battle with the furnace and merged victorious after only two and a half hours of man vs furnace in a World Gone Mad, and Chateau Stevie gradually warmed to tolerable levels.</p><ol class="footnote"><li><a name="2401220foot1"></a>Yesyesyes I know that Ivermectin is also used as a by-prescription-only treatment for scabies, but people aren't taking that, they are taking the over-the-counter stuff they get from the feed store<a href="#2401220sup1">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2401220foot2"></a>Bill Maher has been a particular disappointment for this writer, as his writers have had him spouting the most ridiculous and easily disproved stuff about what the CDC are<sup><a name="2401220sup3" href="#2401220foot3">3</a></sup> saying to how natural immunity is better than that conferred by the vaccines<sup><a name="2401220sup4" href="#2401220foot4">4</a></sup>. His angst over the lack of bums on seats has had him reversing many of his positions and taking contrary viewpoints depending on who he is targeting. As a rather vocal former commentator was fond of writing at the end of his unhinged rants: Sad.<a href="#2401220sup2">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2401220foot3"></a>not, actually<a href="#2401220sup3">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2401220foot4"></a>or, if you buy into so-called medical science, not so much, really<a href="#2401220sup4">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2401220foot5"></a>Public Radio, a listener supported non-commercial radio<a href="#2401220sup5">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2401220foot6"></a>Because I was not watching the clock, not needing to make allowances for catching the one straight-through train from Brooklyn to Wyandanch. Think of how much free overtime the taxpayers of NY could have had if the software had - for example - been set to kick people off after eight hours fifteen minutes<a href="#2401220sup6">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2401220foot7"></a>Neither the kid nor that bloody woman open the sodding window, and the Stevieling was wont to use an entire 50 gallon tank of hot water per shower. It's a wonder she didn't dissolve or grow gills<a href="#2401220sup7">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2401220foot8"></a>I can do this easily because years ago, as an anti-flood-the-house-while-we-were-on-vacation measure I had installed two inline ball-valve shut off taps, one in each line. Now I simply walk to my workbench in the Basement O' Crap, reach up, grab the handles, shout YAR-VOLE HERR CAPITAIN, DIVING ZE BOAT!<sup><a name="2401220sup9" href="#2401220foot9">9</a></sup> and pull the levers down<a href="#2401220sup8">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2401220foot9"></a>Traditional<a href="#2401220sup9">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2401220foot10"></a>I've formed the belief that running around trying to improvise a fire extinguisher after the water has been turned off lends any plumbing job an air of unacceptable amateurishness and opens one to unnecessary spousal approbation, and having taken care of the latter possibility it seemed prudent to deal proactively with the former<a href="#2401220sup10">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2401220foot11"></a>And it seems that water flow from all drains has improved. Fingers still crossed<a href="#2401220sup11">↑</a></li></ol>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-85217584363950452072021-01-03T21:20:00.001-05:002021-01-03T21:20:12.093-05:00Bonus Pun<!--Bonus Pun--><!--Composed on 1/3/21 at 9:20pm--><!--categories: Puns--><!--Local--><p>I'm thinking of replacing the Norwegian Maple I had chopped down with a diferent tree, one that showcases my English Heritage. I think I'll plant a tree made famous by the archers who held off the Norman Invasion for a bit in 1066.</p>
<p>I'll take good care of it, proper soil care and feeding etc.</p>
<p>I'll be able to look out of my window and know I have a happy Yew near.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-34728867328618402102021-01-01T01:38:00.003-05:002021-01-03T17:44:14.025-05:00Once A Pun A Christmas <!--Once A Pun A Christmas--><!--Composed on 1/1 at 1:30 am--><!--categories: Puns--><!--Local--><p><i>A slightly different vesion of this appeared previously on Dunx's Orange Mornington Crescent server. I wrote it for Christmas 2003, and intended to post it here before Christmas 2020, but events related in the previous post knocked it right out of my head. I present it now because I will forget if I delay posting it another year.</i></p><p><i>01/03/2021: I just realized that I posted that earlier version on this blog. Mr Brain wins another round. This version is better, but not much.</i></p><p>It is a little-known slander, completely unsupported by any facts whatsoever, that Bing Crosby once had a flirtation with "flower power" in the early sixties, and for a period of about six months he kept a spacious, under-furnished apartment in "The Haight" where many of the legendary figures of the day could be found lounging on stinking scatter-cushions and spouting the sort of dribble that would mature in the fullness of time into the babble that is New-Age Philosophy.</p><p>The central feature of this den of iniquity was an enormous water pipe, custom built out of motorcycle parts and glassware lifted from a selection of the best-equipped university chemistry laboratories. This gigantic water-pipe (amusingly referred to by Cosby in "The Road To Hong-Kong" in one of the musical scenes) had no fewer than two dozen flexible pipes of luxuriant length, enabling a happening of hippies to enjoy their favourite smoking mixture together without the unsanitary sharing of pipe stems. It seems that if you needed a hookah in those days, "The Bingster"'s Place was where it was all at (man).</p><p>These gatherings would always devolve into an orgy of a sort most unsavoury to us in these more moral (and disease-infested) times, and Bing's Pad was, predictably, the most popular venue in the entire state of California. Busloads of young, acne-scarred men would descend on the place in the endless quest for a very earnest, stoned and accommodating young lady in a kaftan and little else (usually going by the name "Galadriel" but that is a phenomenon for another tale). It was at the frenzied Thursday Night jam session and think-in that the virulent red Da-Glo™ knitted pantaloons - so popular for about a month in the summer of '63 - had their genesis, and it is rumoured that the Pet Rock was conceived in a marathon brainstorming session fueled by some particularly fine Moroccan Gold. The first Whole Earth Catalog was conceived one Wednesday after the washer on the hot tap in the bathroom broke. Everyone was so badly wasted that instead of fixing the faucet or calling a plumber, they invented a whole new way of buying taps.</p><p>The Weight was written at Bing's place, and the great man is believed to have contributed the verse about Crazy Chester although he denied it strenuously and shot the last person who asked him about it with a paintball gun.</p><p>Of course, these things didn't last. Bing came to his senses (literally by some accounts) after the disastrous failure of "A Night At Bing's", the seminal live triple album, a joint-venture between Crosby, Stills, Nash & Crosby, Steppenwolf and The Grateful Dead. Once the dream died, it died fast and Bing unloaded the apartment and all its fixtures so fast everyone's heads stopped spinning.</p><p>Today, the building houses the last of the great "head shops", Haight Miles High, offering modern and antique "scene" materials, clothing, and hairstyling attuned to the modern flowerchild. As the owner, Galadriel, says: "What is the point in filling your hair with flowers if the underlying cut looks like you did it with a weed-whacker? The hair must accent and compliment the floral and crystal inclusions so that the final result is a holistic statement of wellbeing and harmony with the Earth-Mother." Indeed, her own hair is a cascade of delicate flowers, highlighted with well-shaped amethysts and cairngorms all resting on a most pleasingly feathered coiffure, although she points out that that particular styling is quite expensive and says that she mostly ends up just weaving flowers into the customer's finished haircut. Over the years she has come up with a signature style featuring asymmetric placement of strings of flowers that is attractive, long-lasting and above all cheap. It is extremely popular with the younger hippies.</p><p>Pride of place in the large window display is given over to the Brobdingnagian water-pipe that once graced Bing's apartment, and it is a magnificent sight indeed, worth the visit on its own. One can also purchase those eye-blinding knitted pantaloons as Galadriel and her life-partner Catweazle hand-make them to the same patterns, using the same ancient, mandala-encrusted knitting machine that the originals were made on in '62. In point of fact, the only downside to visiting the place is that Catweazle, a British Ex-pat, insists on wearing the damn things. They are available in more colours today since the march of time has brought with it newer, brighter and less cancer-causing dyes, but Catweazle, like many who weren't actually there the first time around, is a traditionalist and wears only the red ones as they are "more authentic". Be warned, wear shades.</p><p>I shall be writing these notes up into a more rounded article for <i>The Fingerlake Morning Examiner</i> under my nom-de-plume "Biro", and plan to headline it: <i>Bing's Bong, Cherry Neon Thighs, Uneven Herbal Hair Stringing</i>.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-67648990304162834682020-12-25T14:10:00.022-05:002020-12-25T21:52:46.459-05:00An Absolutely Awful End To An Absolutely Awful Year<!--An Absolutely Awful End To An Absolutely Awful Year--><!--Composed on: The Worst Christmas Day Ever--><!--Categories: Life-->
<DIV class=xmas>An Absolutely Awful End To An Absolutely Awful Year</DIV>
<p>What an absolutely appropriate climax to this <span class="bleep">bleep</span>ing year.</p><p>During the summer I had a builder in to do three jobs: repair the roof shingles, replace the back door (the frame had gone rotten but the builder wouldn't consider a repair so a new pre-hung door was to be installed) and add an awning to the back of the house to ward off another rotting event.</p><p>The shingling went well. The back door was installed incorrectly by a guy who conveniently only spoke Spanish when I tried to speak to him. The awning looked good at first, but I discovered that the siding had been cut to accommodate the new roof line and not proprly finished, allowing water to run down the sheathing of the house.</p><p>I only discovered how bad the the door problems were when I tried to re-install the burglar alarm sensor, and the siding problem was revealed weeks later during a storm. More on that later.</p><p>Naturally, the builder, once paid<sup><a name="2512201sup1" href="#2512201foot1">1</a></sup>, refused to respond to emails or calls, so I had to get on the roof with a length of aluminum pre-bent to shape to form the rain-channel<sup><a name="2512201sup2" href="#2512201foot2">2</a></sup>, a coil of aluminum, some shears and a pop-riveter.</p><p>Lesson learned.</p><p>The problems with the door are annoying and very inconvenient. The frame was installed a half-inch out of position on the lockset side and the door did not close properly. The Spanish expert apparently did not know how a security lockset was supposed to engage in the mortise, and simply ignored the instructions his boss relayed to him about how I wanted the frame positioned in the oversized hole for it in the house, which meant that the storm door, and expensive new item that cost more than the actual door, did not seal properly and there was no room to re-install the alarm sensor without extensive chipping away the kitchen wall - all unnecessary if my simple requests had been followed.</p><p>I "fixed" these problems one by one, having to move the top corner of the frame out about a quarter inch and re-shape the mortise so the door would lock securely. What actually needs to happen is the whole frame needs moving and tilting, but that can wait until next year as the spanish expert glued the door to the sill with silicone so it is stuck fast right now.</p><p>Then came the storm.</p><p>I've mentioned before about the fence and how I storm-proofed it "for a bit" by propping it up with an improvised A-frame made of older snapped-off fenceposts on the south side, reinforcing it against southerly winds by sinking a dog-stake<sup><a name="2512201sup3" href="#2512201foot3">3</a></sup> at the foot of this frame and putting the vertical post/angled post bodge under tension with ropes wrapped from the top of the vertical post to the foot of the angled one to form an awesome pulley of tension multiplication and <i>weren't you listening in class for Azathoth's sake?</i> It looks like the cabling on a crane<sup><a name="2512201sup4" href="#2512201foot4">4</a></sup> or a corset lacing <sup><a name="2512201sup5" href="#2512201foot5">5</a></sup>and does the same job of multiplying the applied force. So the wind blows from the North, the angled post holds the fence up by pushing. When the wind blows from the south, the ropes hold the fence up by pulling. Physics!</p><p>And it worked, holding up the much bashed and smashed fence for much longer than the one season I had planned.</p><p>Until the storm.</p><p>I looked outside during the height of the storm, alerted by an odd noise, and saw the whole fence slamming back and forth, and about to disintegrate from it all. I dashed outside into the teeth of a gale the likes of which drowned George Clooney and sank his trawler, and determined the odd noise was coming from the <i>other</i> side of the house. One problem at a time.</p><p>I ran round the house to the fence destruction in-progress and found that all the ropes had snapped. Actually, only two of the three stake-ropes had snapped. The trouble had obviously started when one stake had pulled out of the ground that had become so waterlogged it was like choclate pudding.</p><p>I had a quick think about where to source rope in the middle of the night in a storm, then remembered that I had a whole spool of the stuff I used to hoist the repacked Xmas Tree into the garage loft space once the merriment was deemed over, usually sometime around Easter.</p><p>I ran round the house again, opened the garage<sup><a name="2512201sup6" href="#2512201foot6">6</a></sup> and grabbed the rope which was for once where I last saw it. It was then a simple matter of running back around the house, re-driving the torn-out stake in a piece of dry ground, cutting away the old ropes as the wind repeatedly moved the fence out of reach, rigging a new line form the new rope, dragging the fence back upright as the wind pulled me across the lawn and attempted to throw me onto the fence while I chanted the Magic Words of Fence Straightening, hauling on the re-rigged lines as the wind and rain howled round me in a manner not unlike that depicted in the storm scenes of <i>Mutiny on the Bounty</i> (absent, of course, the encouraging words of Charles Laughton), securing the rope and doing it all twice more. Job (eventually) done.</p><p>Then I ran round the house again and climed up the rotten ladder to the Stevieling's tree-house so I could gain line-of-sight to the bit of decorative flashing trying to tear itself from the roof-line.</p><p>I cried out some appropriate Class Two Words of Power, then upshifted to a reserve of Class Ones when the ladder 'neath my feet disintegrated into a shower of rotten, waterlogged wood shards and me.</p><p>I ran to the garage and grabbed my lightweight ladder (metal, to add to the excitement of what was to be honest a somewhat boring job by introducing the chance that the lightning zooming hither and yon might give it a poke or two), a hammer and some aluminum nails, and ran back and propped up the ladder on the new awning right where the weather was doing its worst. I grabbed a handful of nails, ascended into the heavens, folded the flashing back to an approximation of where it was supposed to be and briskly hammered my fingers flat.</p><p>It was during this exercise that I discovered the builder had not properly finished the siding when he cut it.</p><p>A quick digression. For siding to do it's job of keeping the rain out of the house walls, the places where it meets a roofline must be "flashed" so that water running down the siding is directed outward onto the roof and no allowed to run down the interior cladding. By simply cutting the siding where the new roof line of the awning met the wall the builder left a gap where water could (and did) get in.</p><p>The correct technique is to add aluminum flashing to the cladding out onto the new roof, apply shingles over the flashing, install <i>decorative</i> flashing (colored) with an integral rain channel to the wall at the join to the shingled roofline and add siding from the bottom up, locking each panel to the one below. In this way weather has no way of getting inside the lapped joints unless it goes up.</p><p>The builder <i>should</i> have removed part of the siding to achieve all this, but didn't because it would add hours to the job and he only worked when he felt like it (which was why a four day job took three weeks to finish).</p><p>What I <i>should</i> have done is rip the builder a new one until he did the job right, but as I said, he vanished. What I <i>should</i> have done in that event was remove siding and add the decorative flashing myself, then try and install the removed siding in reverse, an extremely tedious and problematic job <a href="https://theoccasionalstevie.blogspot.com/2016/01/another-tedious-year-begins-tediously.html">as an event one Martin Luther King day demonstrated.</a></p><p>So what I actually did was add the flashing over the siding, riveting it to the siding panels and sealing all the wrong-side-out lap joints with silicone sealant. This involved breaking out the <i>big</i> ladder so I could extend it way beyond the roof edge and enable me to simply step off the ladder onto the roof with only some normal whimpering and trouser-wetting excursions onto an untested surface constructed by a demonstrably untrustworthy builder should evince. Liberating the ladder was an epic in its own right, but I'm too overcome with ennui and lack of sleep to go into it. Suffice to say that the garage is as cluttered as the rest of our house and leave it at that.</p><p>I prefabricated the rain-channel using an improvised (and hence totally inadequate) bending brake<sup><a name="2512201sup7" href="#2512201foot7">7</a></sup> and installed it by riveting it to the siding. I patched any remaining holes by cutting small sections of aluminum flashing to fit and riveting them in place. Then I sealed the joins with silicone and got the hell off the roof.</p><p>A couple of small rainstorms proved my work good so I moved on.</p><p>I installed the Christmas lights on Thanksgiving. The timer and extension cords were in place and had been for years. All good. Lights on, decorative vignette of happy snowmen with Christmas tree<sup><a name="2512201sup8" href="#2512201foot8">8</a></sup> inflated and looking good.</p><p>I decided to test-fire our emergency gear, so I started the generator, a matter of pulling the starter cord four or five dozen times while chanting the Magic Start Words. Then I plugged the starter of Troll, The Snowblower of Supreme Spiffiness into an extension cord attached to the genny and pressed the starter button. Normally this provokes a chugging noise followed by the mighty Briggs and Stratton firing up in a cloud of blue smoke. This time there was no noise, and the smoke was white and coming out of the wiring box for the starter.</p><p>I used a couple of Class Three Words of Power, then figured that maybe both the socket of the extension cord and the pins on the starter motor connection were corroded and had gone high-resistance, cooking off the wiring with the high current draw<sup><a name="2512201sup9" href="#2512201foot9">9</a></sup>. The proper fix would be to replace the extension cord and clean off the starter pins but that would involve a cord I didn't have and dismantling the starter to get at the pins which were shrouded.</p><p>I decided to simply add the proper starter cord, which I rarely used and hence wasn't corroded, to the end of the old extension cord (the new one wouldn't reach the genny) and hope the good-to-corroded connection would be better than corroded-to-corroded. It was and Troll burst into life with the proper color smoke coming out of the right places. This would prime the carburetor so that when I needed to start Troll in an emergency it would start relatively easily.</p><p>The snowstorm blew in a couple of weeks later, requiring Troll to clear it all up. However, my Christmas lights all went out because the wet triggered the GFCI.</p><p>So, in order to make the whole thing worthwhile I replaced all the extension cords and taped all the plugs after drying them out. The ones that would be in very wet places I wrapped in cut-up old rubber gloves and more tape. I had to replace the timer stake because I fell over the old one and broke off the stake. I ended up using it as a power strip as the new power stake only has three outlets and I needed four. Everything worked as planned and the lights worked nicely thank you very much.</p><p>On December 23rd my inkjet printer made a funny noise when asked to print something and from that moment refused to complete its power-on test. No color printer and scanner, then. I went out on Christmas Eve and bought a replacement, not as hefty but would do the jobs we needed it for. Upon opening the trunk of the Steviemobile I discovered that a near full bottle of windshield washer fluid I had placed there a couple of days before had split a seam and inundated everything.</p><p>Five hours of messing about with the new printer and I had connected it to my network. The software installer claimed it could see the printer, but it wouldn't install no matter what I did. I've had problems with wireless printers before, but never so persistent. So that was that. I face an interesting day on Saturday attempting to return the blessed thing.</p><p>But I am getting ahead of myself. I retired at midnight Christmas Eve, but was woken by howling winds at 1:30am. I looked out of my window and sure enough, the fence was repeating it's mutinous behaviour of the summer.</p><p>I grabbed some clothes<sup><a name="2512201sup10" href="#2512201foot10">10</a></sup> and waded out into Hurricane Zelda to assess the problem. This time there were no broken ropes, but all the stakes had pulled out of the waterlogged ground. So this time I had to untie the ropes as the gale pulled me hither and yon. All I could do was pull as hard as I could and wait for the wind gusts to drop so I could get enough slack to untie the dangling stakes. I couldn't cut the ropes because I didn't have any more to spare.</p><p>Somewhere around 2am I had all the stakes<sup><a name="2512201sup11" href="#2512201foot11">11</a></sup> back in the ground and the ropes re-rigged. The wind was getting even stronger and I didn't sleep well once back in bed because I was worried that the wind would pull bits off the house.</p><p>Which by some miracle didn't happen. Even my naff siding repair held fast. Only my carefully waterproofed lights were shorted out again. There must be a plug somewhere I missed. Those hours of effort were not wasted then. So that was my Christmas.</p><p>Over before it started.</p><ol class="footnote"><li><a name="2512201foot1"></a>It took me some small time to appreciate the nature of the problems and I paid up foolishly thinking all was OK<a href="#2512201sup1">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2512201foot2"></a>And I don't possess the bending tool needed so that was a pain<a href="#2512201sup2">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2512201foot3"></a>Looks like a giant corkscrew with a loop at the non-twisty end<a href="#2512201sup3">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2512201foot4"></a>But not much<a href="#2512201sup4">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2512201foot5"></a>But not as interesting<a href="#2512201sup5">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2512201foot6"></a>Funny story: during the painting of the new yet uninstalled back door frame, done in the garage, the lock of the garage had fallen to bits requiring me to lock myself inside, figure out how it all worked, remove the casing, recover all the teenytiny works off the floor, put them all back again and then invent a way of screwing it all back together from both sides of the garage doors. It was all very trying.<a href="#2512201sup6">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2512201foot7"></a>And this is where my rage became my master as the bloody builder had a magnificent bending brake he brought round and left for four days, worth at least a couple of grand. Why he couldn't bend up a few inches of aluminum and finish the job is beond me. Would have taken literally minutes.<a href="#2512201sup7">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2512201foot8"></a>A revenge gift from the Canadian Contingent of La Famile Stevie<a href="#2512201sup8">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2512201foot9"></a>V=IR and W=IV so if W stays roughly the same and R gets big, V drops and I soars. This is how the 2004 blackout started<a href="#2512201sup9">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2512201foot10"></a>Won't make that mistake again<a href="#2512201sup10">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2512201foot11"></a> I really must look into acquiring some proper hurricane anchors. They grip better than dog stakes, I'm told<a href="#2512201sup11">↑</a></li></ol>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-39217673274464593372020-11-17T12:41:00.004-05:002020-11-17T12:41:22.697-05:00Wikipedia Blither<!--Wikipedia Blither--><!--Composed on: 11/17/20 at 12:40pm--><!--Categories: Wonkipedia--><p>Another triumph of obfuscation by the editors of Wikipedia is the page on <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Snark_(graph_theory)">Snark (graph theory)</a>.</p><p>The opening paragraph reads: <i>In the mathematical field of graph theory, a snark is a simple, connected, bridgeless cubic graph with chromatic index equal to 4. In other words, it is a graph in which every vertex has three neighbors, the connectivity is redundant so that removing no one edge would split the graph, and the edges cannot be colored by only three colors without two edges of the same color meeting at a point. (By Vizing's theorem, the chromatic index of a cubic graph is 3 or 4.) In order to avoid trivial cases, snarks are often restricted to have girth at least 5. </i></p><p>Palpable blither.</p><p>Encyclopedia for the masses indeed.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-60111522073200693642020-11-03T17:02:00.000-05:002020-11-03T17:02:02.274-05:00T* T*s<!--T* T*s--><!--Local--><!--Composed on 11/3/20 at 4:55pm--><!--Categories:Idiots, Life--><p>And just when I think life cannot possibly get worse, life says "here y'go!"</p><p>Someone has hung a large Trump flag from the power lines in front of my house.</p><p>It is my understanding that I have no right to take it down, even if I were to want to contemplate the same sort of risk I took to save the house from a tree in a recent storm<sup><a name="0311200sup1" href="#0311200foot1">1</a></sup>.</p><p>I am now awaiting the inevitable property damage when either candidate is declared the winner.</p><ol class="footnote"><li><a name="0311200foot1"></a>Story may follow one day<a href="#0311200sup1">↑</a></li></ol>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-50925439267157440052020-11-01T17:05:00.000-05:002020-11-01T17:05:08.543-05:00My Week In Limerick<!--My Week In Limerick--><!--Local--><!--Composed on 11/1/20 at 5:05pm--><!--Categories: Lamentable Limericks-->
It's Monday: can't get out of bed.<BR>
It's Tuesday: A gas bill that's red.<BR>
It's Wednesday: a bruise.<BR>
It's Thursday: blown fuse.<BR>
It's Friday: Hooray! Still not dead! <BR>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-33403998224671010132020-11-01T11:13:00.007-05:002020-12-19T23:27:04.515-05:00My Dryer Makes Too Much Static<!--My Dryer Makes Too Much Static--><!--Composed on 11/1/20 at (:45am--><!--Categories: Life, Electrickery--><p>In these days of Plague Lockdown I am wearing only T-shirts<sup><a name="0111201sup1" href="#0111201foot1">1</a></sup>.<p>Said shirts are usually black, and have neat "mashup" artwork<sup><a name="0111201sup2" href="#0111201foot2">2</a></sup> on them. The one I have on right now is a mashup of the Knights of Ni<sup><a name="0111201sup3" href="#0111201foot3">3</a></sup> and Nine Inch Nails album cover "With Teeth". It has the NiN logo replaced with "Ni" and a silhouette of a Shadowy Figure wearing the iconic antlered helmet, and the caption [With Antlers]<sup><a name="0111201sup4" href="#0111201foot4">4</a></sup>.</p><p>Naturally I sometimes go through more than one shirt a day, so Wash Day can see me staggering round carrying piles of shirts one might expect from a much larger workforce than just me.</p><p>The new washer, bought last year during the post-wedding hiatus on this blog, has been mastered enough to get the clothes clean. Usually. It is a modern "conservation-of-resources" machine and I recently forgot to reset the water levels and washed a bunch of stuff in an eggcup of water and was so enraged afterwards I reset the controls to "Water Level Max" and hit the "Deep Fill" button for the now imperative re-wash<sup><a name="0111201sup5" href="#0111201foot5">5</a></sup> on the principle I was owed some extra water to get the concentrated soap residue out of the load left there after an hour's gentle misting in the washer. I digress.</p><p>But the dryer, set to cook the shirts until they are dry, builds up a ferocious static charge that has each of my shirts coming out of the dryer in a burst of Weird Science pyrotechnics, and covered in all the white lint they can suck out of the universe. Not only that, my extensive and luxurious body hair gets stood on end and it <i>tickles</i>.</p><p>Then I get a bloody great shock.</p><p>Why doesn't this charge get grounded to earth by the frame of the machine?</p><p>I've researched this and the common wisdom is "use static sheets" (no thank you, I just spent an hour washing all sorts of chemicals <i>out</i> of the clothes or spritz the clothes with water and run the machine again to dampen everything (no thanks, I just paid for the energy to get the damp <i>out</i> you oblivious fools).</p><p>Electrical engineers blither on about capacitance of the human body blahblahblitherdrool but miss the essential point the as-bewildered-as-I fellow zapped-and-sick-of-it and asking why the static doesn't ground out through the dryer frame? In my case it is worse; my dryer has a steel body.</p><p>Now I have had that dryer in bits more times than I care to recall and I have a couple of ideas as to why the bloody static isn't going into the ground - or out of it into the clothes, I'm unclear as to which way the static-electricitons have to flow to equalize the charge. I always assumed it was electrons, but since electrons aren't being added to the load they must be being locally relocated between the clothes<sup><a name="0111201sup6" href="#0111201foot6">6</a></sup> . So what we, i.e. I need is some way for these charges to move about, possibly into and out of the path to ground.</p><p>The drum is conductive, so why don't the charges move about locally? Dunno<sup><a name="0111201sup7" href="#0111201foot7">7</a></sup></p><p>The drum itself <i>isn't</i> grounded, despite the Great Internet Collective Wisdom to the contrary. The drum is rotating on a pair of bearings made of some sort of dry felt, driven by a rubber belt<sup><a name="0111201sup8" href="#0111201foot8">8</a></sup>. Perhaps some of the charge can be carried by the belt to the motor pulley, to be grounded there, but the drum itself is not grounded and it isn't the sort of surface that static builds up on so it all has to stay in the shirts.</p><p>Plus, the casing of the dryer is enameled [made of hardened molten glass, basically.</p>This is an insulator, but paradoxically <i>is</i> the sort of surface that can hold a static charge. Whether it does or not is open to experiemnt as the glass is backed onto steel so could be forming a capacitor. Whether that is an important factor is not immediately apparent, but <i>is</i> one of the sorts of reasons why models differ from reality - the Universe uses all the stuff, models ignore the small stuff. I digress again.</><p>I see two ways forward on project <i>Stop My F<span class='bleep'>bleep</span>ing Shirts Sticking Together And Attracting Lint And Giving Me Shocks</i></p> <p>a) Spray water on the clothes to encourage electrons to migrate back where they belong etc etc. Not happening in this universe</p><p>2) Connect the frame of the machine to a cable ending in a soft metalic ribbon or tinsel-like brush touching the drum.</p><p>Unfortunately, this won't help electrons move about in the clothespile. Short of screwing short lengths of chain to the drum interior to form a conducting path<sup><a name="0111201sup10" href="#0111201foot10">10</a></sup>, I'm stumped.</p><p>There used to be a thing called a Zerostat Pistol that purported to neutralize static charge on LPs by firing a stream of charge at the platter, then sucking a stream of reverse charge back. Sounds stupid, but I had friends who swore it worked and I know it could stun spiders and reset digital watches 'cos I did both of those. Some sort of piezoelectric gubbins inside.</p><p>This is what I need for the clothes, possibly in a semi-portable cannon calibre.</p><ol class="footnote"><li><a name="0111201foot1"></a>And underpants, but that is the sum total of my usual pre-noon Business Casual these days and my lifestyle is not on trial here and I don't want to talk about that any more<a href="#0111201sup1">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0111201foot2"></a>In which two or more ideas are humorously melded into a pleasing whole<a href="#0111201sup2">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0111201foot3"></a>Google it for Azathoth's sake<a href="#0111201sup3">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0111201foot4"></a>I admit, I bought the shirt before "getting it"<a href="#0111201sup4">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0111201foot5"></a>that wouldn't have been needed on the old machine<a href="#0111201sup5">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0111201foot6"></a>Which poses the question where are all the positively charged shirts and shouldn't they stick to the electron-rich shirts and negate the charges in a bunch of unseen physics?<a href="#0111201sup6">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0111201foot7"></a>Despite extensive looking on the internet. So much for collective wisdom.<a href="#0111201sup7">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0111201foot8"></a>Static charges can be moved around on insulating belts. Have a quick look at how a Van der Graff generator works<sup><a name="0111201sup9" href="#0111201foot9">9</a></sup><a href="#0111201sup8">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0111201foot9"></a>Google it for Azathoth's sake!<a href="#0111201sup9">↑</a></li> <li><a name="0111201foot10"></a>Introducing the possibility of having the clothes thrashed into rags. Swings, roundabouts<a href="#0111201sup10">↑</a></li></ol>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-50225868444301551512020-10-31T22:04:00.000-04:002020-10-31T22:04:15.808-04:00History's Most Boring Hallowe'en<!--History's Most Boring Hallowe'en--><!--local--><!--Composed on 10/31/20 at 10:00pm--><!--Categories: Life-->
<p>Title says it all, really.</p>
<p>No kids.</p>
<p>No Candy.</p>
<p>No set decorating.</p>
<p>No costume.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-80487027290001766482020-10-31T19:29:00.003-04:002020-10-31T22:04:40.409-04:00My Muse Is Upon Me<!--My Muse Is Upon Me--><!Local--><!--Composed on 10/31/20 at 7:25pm--><!--Categories: Poetic License-->
<p>
You can stand on ceremony,<br>
Or on principle, people tell me.<br>
But I think it's best<br>
To do like the rest<br>
And stand on the floor, sensibly.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-47604195717890629052020-08-06T20:21:00.004-04:002020-08-06T20:21:41.039-04:00Google Broke Blogger<!--Google Broke Blogger--><!--Composed on 8/6/20 @ 8:15pm--><!--Categories: Idiots--><p>WTF?</p><p>Blogger was working properly when I peeked in two weeks ago, but now there's a new interface that doesn't seem to do what I want, and the pencil tool on each post no longer works properly, or indeed, at all.</p><p>Glad to see that people with time on their hands have talen up the old practice of enhancing a popular computer application until it no longer works.</p><p>Tres 1970, hien?</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-19744090415720687512020-07-22T17:23:00.000-04:002020-07-22T17:23:33.068-04:00Catching Up.<!--Catching Up--><!--Composed on 7/22/20 at 5:22pm--><!--Categories:Life--><!--Local--><p>So the Stevieling got married last year.</p><p>I turned 65 today.</p><p>That's about it.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-51208802086787673222019-05-14T11:37:00.000-04:002019-07-16T15:32:37.638-04:00Why Wikipedia Is Not An "Encyclopedia for the Masses"<!--Why Wikipedia Is Not An "Encyclopedia for the Masses"--><!--Composed on 5/14/19 at 11:24am--><!--Categories: Wonkipedia--><!-LOCAL--><p>Imagine a young student, maybe 14 or so, needing to know what Angular Momentum is, having come across the term for the first time.</p><p>Our student has two choices for online encyclopedic help:<ol><li><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Angular_momentum">Wikipedia, the Encyclopedia for the Masses, enblitherates the subject here</a> and</li>
<li><a href="https://www.britannica.com/science/angular-momentum">The Encyclopedia Britannica, which does a slightly more useful job because it was written to explain stuff to people who don't already understand whatever it is they are looking up</a></li>
</ol></p><p>Sadly, most kids would not know of the latter resource, and would thus give up physics and go play Fortnite instead after reading the first paragraph of solid mathblither and off-page hyperlinks (to more blither).</p><p>Why the STEM editors cannot do the same sort of job the Star Trek, Pokemon and Marvel Universe editors do is beyond me. I can get up to speed on any of those things even though not one of them interests me in the slightest (with the possible exception of X-Men). Proper introductions, working up to the hardcore as the article progresses so as to educate without overwhelming the reader. Contrast with the dense, jargon-encrusted job the STEM articles have as an opener. They make income tax instructions look interesting.</p><p>Wikipedia, crushing any desire to know more science since, well, forever.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-61637812930536252602019-04-25T22:00:00.001-04:002019-04-25T22:01:12.929-04:00A Year Has Gone By<!--A Year Has Gone By--><!--Composed on 4/25/19 @ 955pm--><!--Categories: Life, Smaller Family, Smaller World--><br />
<a href="http://theoccasionalstevie.blogspot.com/2018/04/and-then-this-happened.html">And I <i>still</i> find myself thinking about what I'm going to talk about with him today, and hoping he'll be having a "good" day when I call them at lunchtime.</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-53093447570999623302018-12-27T13:21:00.000-05:002018-12-27T13:21:47.879-05:00The New Steviemobile<!--The New Steviemobile--><!--Composed on 12/27/18 at 12:25pm--><!--Categories: Life, Car--><p>I sulked for a week or so after the insurance company handed me a check for the defunct-over-a-piddling-issue Steviemobile, then Mrs Stevie got cross and told me I had to do something about getting a new car because she was fed up with collecting me at the station and driving me around in Chauffeured Luxury™.</p><p>Mrs Stevie had a co-worker who had suggested we look at what might be obtained from Hertz used car sales, giving their used cars a thumbs up and explaining that although they typically had high usage they had been well-looked-after for their entire life with Hertz.</p><p>So, on the next Sunday I took a look on their website and discovered a Nissan Altima of this year's vintage with only 14,400 miles on its clock.</p><p>This looked too good to be true so when Mrs Stevie returned from Defensive Lutheran-Fu classes I swung over to Smithtown, about twenty minutes away from Chateau Stevie, and asked for a test drive. The nice man brought out the car, which was listed as "Storm Blue" but was charcoal to my eyes. He swore it was the right car so I climbed in, with Mrs Stevie in the back seat for comparative experience reporting and back seat driving tests and prepared for driving.</p><p>I think the nice man was waiting for me to ask how to start the car, but I had driven this very model while in Florida in the summer<sup><a name="2712182sup1" href="#2712182foot1">1</a></sup> so knew about pressing the brake and pushing the button. I did, however, spend about five minutes checking all the controls to ensure I knew where such things as door locks, window winders, mirror adjusters, headlight and so forth were located. Not doing this in Florida had brought on fiasco when we were rear-ended seconds after leaving the hire car lot, and I couldn't open the door to jump out and be properly outraged.</p><p>The engine burst into life and we hurled out of the carpark on what proved to be a convincingly nice test drive.</p><p>In about ten minutes I parked in front of the showroom and we went inside to say that yes, we'd like to buy the vehicle.</p><p>When I bought the Steviemobile 15 years ago I clearly remember that the process involved a three day wait so that plates and paperwork could be completed. We bought the car on a Saturday and picked it up on a Wednesday night after work.</p><p>So you can imagine I was quite impressed that although it was Sunday, the nice man could not only get the financing sorted out but could register the car to me and fit the plates, even as we insured it over the phone with Geico.</p><p>Mrs Stevie went out at one point and searched the other Altimas in the lot to see if she could locate a handbook, the one for this particular car being AWOL, and she found one<sup><a name="2712182sup2" href="#2712182foot2">2</a></sup>. I hadn't even thought to look for it. It took less than two hours from walking into the place to driving out to get lunch in our new car, which was clearly charcoal-colored even though both Mrs Stevie and the nice man swore blind they could see the blue in it.</p><p>And what a happiness-inducing car it is.</p><p>The engine is 25% larger than the never-to-be-sufficiently-damned SULEV unit fitted in the Steviemobile, so it goes rather more like my old TR6 than the Steviemobile (which was speedy and quick off the mark when needed). The new car seems to be accelerating slower than the old Steviemobile but is in fact very nippy. I think it is the difference in the transmissions that is the deceptive thing, along with the added comfort of the ride. The Nissan shifts at much higher RPM than the Steviemobile did. Should that shifting be too conservative for the driver, I discovered after three days driving that there was a "sport" position for the gear shift that caused the transmission to linger in lower gears during acceleration for a more racy, trouser-ruining experience.</p><p>Inside it is a quantum leap above the basic fixtures of the old Steviemobile. The (leather) seats are heated. The steering wheel is heated. There is a rear-view back-up camera that comes on when reverse is selected. There is a bluetooth gubbins that alllows me to sync my phone with the radio and play music or make calls. Calls can reliably be made by just speaking the name of the stored contact. Touch the button on the steering wheel, say "Call Mrs Stevie" and in seconds you too can be harangued vituperatively as you drive.</p><p>The car has a remote start so it can be fired up from the living room of Chateau Stevie while I make my coffee and be all defrosted and warm when I am ready to leave for my train. It is like driving a starship, and I can pop the trunk either with the remote or manually if I have the remote in my pocket. In fact, I can operate the entire vehicle if I have the remote in my pocket, since all the locks and controls work when the fob is nearby.</p><p>Downsides? Well there are some. The heater has a habit of selecting "fresh air" instead of "recirculated air" when the demister button is pressed, which is okay sometimes but totally pants when passing an odoriferous recycling station or driving home during one of the neighbors' heavy weed intake sessions<sup><a name="2712182sup3" href="#2712182foot3">3</a></sup>.</p><p>The curve of the hood is such that I can't see the front of the car as clearly as I'd like and I've scraped the front spoiler a couple of times as a result. I am looking into a forward view camera, and have to make an appointment with a bodyshop to touch-up he minor damage.</p><p>There were a couple of very minor dings in the trim, and the nice wheels had been curbed several times to judge by the scrapes, but that just means they won't get lifted by the Wyandanch Wheel Gnomes while I am at work.</p><p>That's about it.</p><p>The only problem, such as it was, was that because the car was a rental there was only one key-fob, the other being gosh knows where in the Hertz network. The missing one also had the all-important tag that held the serial number needed by a locksmith to re-engineer a new fob should both go missing somehow. I shrugged and made a mental note to obtain a fob from a third party supplier ASAP. Before I got round to that the nice man called me just before Christmas and said the other fob had turned up so I have them both now, along with the number tag.</p><p>So it is all good, car wise.</p><ol class="footnote"><li><a name="2712182foot1"></a>The Mrs Stevie surprise Trip<a href="#2712182sup1">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2712182foot2"></a>She is good at thinking of these things and achieving them<a href="#2712182sup2">↑</a></li> <li><a name="2712182foot3"></a>A downside of legalization – the whole place reeks of weed at certain times of day Can't abide the stench of Special Smoking Mixture these days<a href="#2712182sup3">↑</a></li></ol>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-69583267762882523842018-11-19T15:24:00.001-05:002018-11-19T21:04:41.672-05:00The Inexplicable Death Of An Automobile<!--The Inexplicable Death Of An Automobile--><!--Composed on 11/19/18 at 12:45pm--><!--Categories: The Steviemobile, Life, Idiots--><p>So this is the tale of what happened after I sought "expert" help because the Steviemobile's <i>Check Engine</i> light was on.</p><p>The Steviemobile's <i>Check Engine</i> light had come on two days before we were due to leave for Florida, and I made a mental note to call the dealership while we were away and schedule an appointment. Naturally, I let this slip until after we returned, and was un-elated to find there was a two-week waiting list before a Hyundai mechanic could look at the car. I asked for an alternative, but was given cricket noise. Service was not available from them and nowhere else either it seemed.</p><p>The only other Hyundai service center in driving distance was Atlantic Hyundai in Bayshore, and 15 years ago I was treated so badly there that I resolved never to give them any business were they the last car dealership on Earth.</p><p>I was told that unless the light was flashing it wasn't that serious (a statement that would be contradicted a few days into the Steviemobile's visit to the service center, but I'm getting ahead of myself) so I drove the car to and from the station with the engine running rough - there was definitely Trouble Up At Mill - until the magic date arrived.</p><p>I drove to Huntington Hyundai and attempted to park the car in the dealership, but was stymied by the chock-a-block situation that had been engineered in the car park. I finally found a space and went inside to give them my details as I had only the 9 months before, and was brusquely informed that I had to "register" the vehicle with the "technician" outside. Okaaaaay.</p><p>So I did that, and while doing so I realized what had changed to make chaos the order of the day. The dealership had two sites, on opposite sides of the road. <i>This</i> one dealt in Hyundais. The other in Jeeps and Chryslers. The building on the other side of the road was curiously dark, although there were cars in the lot, and it dawned on me that the business had in all likelihood closed down the repair shop in the Jeep dealership and now were attempting to manage things from one shop and a badly overloaded car park.</p><p>So I gave the details to the account manager assigned to my car and Mrs Stevie drove me to work.</p><p>At the end of the day, having heard nothing from the dealership<sup><a name="1911180sup1" href="#1911180foot1">1</a></sup> I called <i>them</i> and was told that they were just looking at the car now<sup><a name="1911180sup2" href="#1911180foot2">2</a></sup>. I explained that having made and appointment and having dropped of the car at 7:30 am I was disappointed that they couldn't be bothered to actually do anything until the day was almost over. This was met with the expected indifference. I was informed that the problem was likely a camshaft sensor. I said this was good news because they had just changed out a camshaft sensor at Christmas and it had less than 3000 miles on it and so would be under warranty. The Man from Huntington Hyundai said it was probably the <i>other</i> sensor. I said some Class One Words of Power and told him that in that case he would need to call Geico and start involving them and the lifetime warranty I had through <i>them</i>. </p><p>I called again at 5 pm and was told that the car hadn't been worked on because it needed their "best mechanic<sup><a name="1911180sup3" href="#1911180foot3">3</a></sup>" to look at it and he was booked solid until tomorrow. I objected that the matter of a sensor check should just be plugging in an analyzer and reading off the codes returned. The Man from Huntington Hyundai counter-objected that it wasn't so easy; you had to know what the codes mean. There was the matter of code interpretation. I said "Google?" and the line went quiet, and then I was informed that the mechanic would look at the car "first thing" in the morning.</p><p>The next day, in the absence of an update<sup><a name="1911180sup4" href="#1911180foot4">4</a></sup> I called again in the early afternoon and was told that they were having a problem reading the codes. "All sorts of crazy codes" were coming out of the computer. They were going to try fitting a new computer but they didn't have one in stock and would have to order it in. It would be there the next day once Geico authorized the work. I asked if they had called Geico. The Man from Huntington Hyundai said he had, but they hadn't gotten back to him.</p><p>I immediately hung up and called Geico, who denied any knowledge of any contact with Huntington Hyundai, but the representative was happy to reach out and get things moving from his end. I said thank you and called The Man from Huntington Hyundai .I objected that by not calling me back hours had been lost. This was met with indifference.</p><p>The next day I called (once again the secret of the telephone was eluding The Man from Huntington Hyundai) and was informed that the new computer had not fixed the problem and that they needed to get their "Platinum Guy" on the job. I was impressed that they had a Platinum Guy ready to throw at me. I had assumed they had shot their bolt excuse-wise when they deployed their "Best Guy" the day before. I idly wondered where The Man from Huntington Hyundai would go from there once the Platinum Guy was in play, but needn't have worried because The Platinum Guy was in fact on vacation and wouldn't be returning until the following Monday. I suggested that in that case I could take the car and use it (because the <i>Check Engine</i> light wasn't flashing so it wasn't that bad, right?) but The Man from Huntington Hyundai said he wouldn't recommend that.</p><p>I need to break here to explain that while this was playing out, my mother was passing away. I <i>needed</i> the car because I was trying to arrange a trip to Canada and sort out all sorts of last-minute stuff that <i>didn't</i> get sorted out before my mum passed away, not to mention that I didn't need these clowns adding to the stress of events with stupid nonsense and made-up excuses for not getting it done. In the event, I ended up going to Canada for a cathartic meeting with my sister and her family, and the scattering of Mum and Dad's ashes on their property. I got back to the USA in a calmer frame of mind.</p><p>I called The Man from Huntington Hyundai and asked for progress, and of course there was none. Mr Platinum<sup><a name="1911180sup5" href="#1911180foot5">5</a></sup> was just as stumped as the rest of the crew.</p><p>While I had been intransit back and forth I had done some research and had found that sometimes a component calle the "camshaft phaser<sup><a name="1911180sup6" href="#1911180foot6">6</a></sup>" gets fouled and causes all sorts of strange effects, including crazy computer codes. I suggested they have a look at this. It was a mark of my increased peace of mind that I didn't ask why <i>I</i> was making this suggestion rather than The Platinum Guy.</p><p>I knew it was bad when the next day, at 9:30am I got a call from The Man from Huntington Hyundai, breaking the established communications protocol.</p><p>It seems that in all this time, the mechanics at Huntington Hyundai had <i>never</i> removed the valve cover from the Steviemobile's engine. When they did, they found sludge in the oil. I said that it was probably the "caramel" that came from making short-hop journeys, expecting that an oil change was called for. That's all it took when I used to do my own oil changes back when engines didn't need computers in them.</p><p>No, I was informed. There was a problem. Hyundai's official "fix" for sludge in the engine was a new engine. There was a second problem, in that Hyundai didn't make the Steviemobile's engine any more. The only solution, according to The Man from Huntington Hyundai was to use a scrap engine. This brought up the third problem - the scrap engine they wanted to use had ten housand more miles on it than the one currently sitting in the car.</p><p>To say I was upset doesn't begin to come close to what the reality was. Although the car was 15 years old, I had babied it. Every major service had been a dealer service performed at Huntington Hyundai. I had spent thousands of dollars over the years replacing parts before they broke. On top of that the engine, which had a measly 87,400 miles on it, had never been revved over 4000 RPM and only a handful of times over 3500. This engine, by any yardstick, was barely used for a 15 year old block. The previous Hyundai we had owned, an Excel, had 180,000 miles on it before I sent it to a farm to live.</p><p>I asked why we couldn't just add a detergent-rich oil and flush the engine like in the old days. I got back the sound of sucked teeth. I suggested a scrap engine with more miles on it was likely to be just another sludge failure waiting to happen. I was told I should have used synthetic oil and had to point out that the first five years of oil changes had happened in the Huntington Hyundai shop and not once had they suggested using synthetic oils<sup><a name="1911180sup7" href="#1911180foot7">7</a></sup>. I was told that my last oil change had been 9 months before and there was sludge on the dipstick, and I pointed out that I had only done about 2600 miles in that time and there had been <i>no</i> sludge on the dipstick at the previous service or I presume they would have mentioned it, nor had there been any sludge on the dipstick when I had last checked the oil a few days before the <i>Check Engine</i> light came on.</p><p>I called Geico and spoke to a representative about how unhappy I was at the idea of using a scrapyard engine in my carefully cared-for car. The Geico guy was astounded. No-one had told <i>them</i> the replacement engine was to be hauled out of a scrapyard. I asked if we could explore a couple of options please before going that route and got a tentative agreement.</p><p>I did some research of my own<sup><a name="1911180sup8" href="#1911180foot8">8</a></sup> and found that for a mere 500 dollars more than Huntington Hyundai were proposing to spend on a scrap engine I could have a rebuilt unit with a one year guarantee. So I called The Man from Huntington Hyundai back and asked him to explore two options with Geico (who were the final arbiters of what was going to be done): A rebuilt engine rather than a scrapyard special, and cleaning and rebuilding my own engine, which in my opinion should have been the first line of attack.</p><p>And only a couple of hours later I was called back by The Man from Huntington Hyundai<sup><a name="1911180sup9" href="#1911180foot9">9</a></sup> who told me that Geico were going to total the car, and that I should come down to take the plates and settle the outstanding bill of a few hundred dollars.</p><p>One quick call from Geico fired them up to put the dealer straight about the matter of an outstanding bill and so I got a visit from a Geico operative holding a check for about half what the trade-in value of the car would have been when I used it to help pay for the new Hyundai Tucson I had my eye on, and that Saturday I pulled off the plates and emptied the various personal junk out of what will certainly be my last Hyundai automobile, Huntington Hyundai and the Hyundai Motor Corporation having destroyed almost 30 years of customer satisfaction in a welter of poor service and even poorer engineering.</p><p>I sulked without a car for a week, then Mrs Stevie suggested how I might get a new Steviemobile - a tale I shall tell in my next posting.</p><ol class="footnote"><li><a name="1911180foot1"></a>As per usual<a href="#1911180sup1">↑</a></li>
<li><a name="1911180foot2"></a>I took this to mean "I can see the car sitting in the same parking space in which you left it from where I'm standing by virtue of the large picture window between me and the vehicle." I was not in any way, shape or form fooled into thinking my car was on a lift with a mechanic actually within touching distance.<a href="#1911180sup2">↑</a></li>
<li><a name="1911180foot3"></a>This is a well-known trope in the business and I have always taken it to mean "Everyone has gone home. There's no-one around to look at your car"<a href="#1911180sup3">↑</a></li>
<li><a name="1911180foot4"></a>As per usual<a href="#1911180sup4">↑</a></li>
<li><a name="1911180foot5"></a>Assuming he actually existed<a href="#1911180sup5">↑</a></li>
<li><a name="1911180foot6"></a>Which against all reason is a real thing and not an elaborate Trekkie joke, which shifts the timing of the camshaft in real-time altering the valve timings in accordance with computer sensor data<a href="#1911180sup6">↑</a></li>
<li><a name="1911180foot7"></a>I later remembered that they <i>had</i> suggested synthetic oil as a choice at the first oil change., I had asked what the difference was, as synthetic oils were a rather new thing at the time, and was told that they were much more expensive but meant <i>longer</i> times between oil changes. I was also told that since I needed to change the oil every 3000 miles to keep the warranty valid, it was a pointless expense using them<a href="#1911180sup7">↑</a></li>
<li><a name="1911180foot8"></a>Again. Why all the suggestions on how to proceed were coming from me and not from The Platinum Guy is still a mystery<a href="#1911180sup8">↑</a></li>
<li><a name="1911180foot9"></a>Again, I knew this was going to be bad news because I was not having to call <i>him</i> <a href="#1911180sup9">↑</a></li>
</ol>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-62777265012861019962018-11-13T13:09:00.000-05:002018-11-13T15:17:36.267-05:00Why Me?<!--Why Me?--><!--Composed on 11/13/18 at 1pm--><!--Categories:Chateau Stevie, LIRR--><p>Monday, Veterans Day (Obs), John the Plumber Guy turned out to fix my furnace, as he does about two years in every three.</p><p>Mrs Stevie had activated the upstairs heating without telling me. I rarely go upstairs any more as the sight of the junk piled in the Stevieling's bedroom makes me come over all funny and ragey, but I had cause that day and found the place hovering at a brisk 56 degrees Fahrenheit. The thermostat was set for 70, presumably waiting for me to turn it to 68.</p><p>Heaving a sigh I went down into the basement and did some basic troubleshooting. The downstairs heat was on and working, so the usual thermocouple fail was not in progress. I touched the feed pipes and the one for the upstairs circuit was stone cold. The motor-valve for the upstairs circuit was very hot indeed though. Clearly the motor had siezed and was in the process of bursting into flames, so I went upstairs and turned the heat off again and called John the Plumber Guy.</p><p>Over the course of the next hour or so the motor cooled down, confirming my diagnosis<sup><a name="1311183sup1" href="#1311183foot1">1</a></sup> so I wasted the rest of my Sunday in pointless regret, howls of despair and pitiful cries of "why me?" and let Monday roll on.</p><p>John the Plumber Guy arrived on-time with a big smile on his face and his son in tow. Between them the wrestled with my furnace in a World Gone Mad for two hours, fixing the valve, changing the thermocouple<sup><a name="1311183sup2" href="#1311183foot2">2</a></sup> and finding the Big Time-Wasting Problem™ that was lurking inside the Easy Job™<sup><a name="1311183sup3" href="#1311183foot3">3</a></sup> and is the main reason I won't touch even simple furnace work with a barge-pole<sup><a name="1311183sup4" href="#1311183foot4">4</a></sup>.</p><p>I paid off John & Son, indicating my gratitude by the traditional manly wails, howling and gnashing of teeth as my checkbook caught fire, and that was Monday.</p><p>Tuesday was the first workday of the week, and was begun in fine style by my stepping out into the freezing rain that had decided to greet me, only to realize just as the front door clicked shut that I had left my keys inside the house. I shouted out some Class Three Words of Power but the door was latched tight. Naturally. On any other day the bloody thing would have to be pulled tightly into place for the latch to catch, but this day, perfect lock action. Gah.</p><p>With no real hope I tried the trunk release on the new Steviemobile<sup><a name="1311183sup5" href="#1311183foot5">5</a></sup> and then the door, but they of course remained locked<sup><a name="1311183sup6" href="#1311183foot6">6</a></sup> so I had to bite the bullet and call Mrs Stevie.</p><p>She hoved into view about twenty minutes later and let me back into the house so she could get the proper accoustics for the frank exchange of views this dimwit act deserved. In some time at all I was on my way to my morning commute, an hour late and soaking wet.</p><p>The <span class="lirr">Bloody Long Island Railroad</span> was, despite now being fitted with the magic Double Tracks at Wyandanch which would Cure All Delays, delayed because of some electrical problem in Penn Station. In fact, since installing the double tracks a month ago there hasn't been a trouble-free commute once. It seems that despite all reason to the contrary, the <i>real</i> problems with trains originate at the <i>West</i> End of the network. Coo! Who could have predicted that?</p><p><a href="https://theoccasionalstevie.blogspot.com/2017/02/back-to-same-old.html">Oh that's right; <i>I</i> did.</p></a><ol class="footnote"><li><a name="1311183foot1"></a>This motor valve is f<span class="bleep">bleep</span>ed to a fare-thee-well<a href="#1311183sup1">↑</a></li> <li><a name="1311183foot2"></a>A pre-emptive strike I asked them to do<a href="#1311183sup2">↑</a></li> <li><a name="1311183foot3"></a>"Yer pipes are all clogged with rust, but we'll sort it out for ya by substantially dismantling the Moustrap Game™ pipework and cleaning it out".<a href="#1311183sup3">↑</a></li> <li><a name="1311183foot4"></a>That, and the fact that I do not own a barge-pole<a href="#1311183sup4">↑</a></li> <li><a name="1311183foot5"></a>The story of what happened to the <i>old</i> Steviemobile eventuating in the need for the new Steviemobile has yet to be told, but still brings me out in snarls of rage and so will have to wait to see the light of day in these pages<a href="#1311183sup5">↑</a></li> <li><a name="1311183foot6"></a>The new Steviemobile has a keyless start fob thingy, but it was annoyingly on my keyring in the house. At least I can confirm that the doors won't release to some stranger because the fob is in close enough proximity in the house to release the security locks.<a href="#1311183sup6">↑</a></li></ol>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-42674129068994616702018-08-17T10:27:00.000-04:002018-08-18T19:39:40.763-04:00And Then This Happened<!--And Then This Happened--><!--Composed on 8/17/18--><!--Categories: Life, Smaller World, Smaller Family--><!--LOCAL--><p>My mother passed away early this morning in a Hospital in northern Alberta, where the rest of my immediate family has put down roots.</p><p>She had been very ill and had asked that no heroic measures be taken by the doctors attending her.</p><p>My sister sat with her through to the end.</p><p>I had hoped my mother would rally after she met with the Stevieling and the Stevielingbeau in June, and she did for about a week or so, but she was old and worn out from a life that had treated her badly at times.</p><p>And I think she missed my Dad more than she let on.</p><p><*<i>sigh</i>*></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-89019954468994622732018-08-06T11:55:00.000-04:002018-10-05T15:12:46.768-04:00Homeward Bound<!--Homeward Bound--><!--Composed on 8/6/18--><!--Categories: Life, Summer Vacation 2018--><p>Saturday was time to go back to New York.</p><p>We packed the car and as we were doing so The Kids arrived early for once, so we had a nice breakfast, then began the trek north to NY to the sounds of Neil from The Young Ones reading Terry Pratchett's <i>Making Money</i>. There really isn't much to report other than a bunch of silly people speeding who then wrecked a few miles later, and the traffic on Sunday once we crossed the various bridges into New York on Sunday afternoon.</p><p>Next up: The Great Steviemobile "Engine Light" Fiasco.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28562105.post-77906325676339604722018-08-03T00:17:00.000-04:002018-09-16T00:47:39.842-04:00A Day Off<!--A Day Off--><!--Composed on 8/3/18--><!--Categories: Life, Summer Vacation 2018--><p>The kids arrived at the villa early and we started our Fun Day with breakfast in a Perkins.</p><p>The Stevieling said they needed to pick up their cat in the afternoon, so we decided to hang out in their locale, about 40 minutes drive from Kissimmee.</p><p>We tooled around a couple of malls, and ended up in a different Coliseum of Comics, where we had a good look at all the different stuff and my hunt for a particular pattern of dice came up empty (discontinued line, impossible to find) and then I bought some D&D books for the kids as they have of late gotten into the RPG habit with some friends but were finding the cost of acquisition a tad high for their current resources.</p><p>We decided to have ice-cream and drove around until we found a local parlor where we enjoyed a very pleasant interlude with some rather nice home-made ice-cream. The day was progressing at a leisurely pace, and it was early afternoon now.</p><p>We nipped round the vet's place and picked up their loony cat. She is a rescue moggy and is seriously deranged. I suspect they will end up having to take her to a farm in the country when she gets older. A less pussycat-like cat I only saw once before - the one my father-in-law bought some years ago. It put my mother-in-law in hospital twice before it was sent farmwards.</p><p>Then we raced for Disney Springs, where we had an appointment to once again take part in the Star Wars VR thing they have there. Sadly, we were crowding the clock all the way, then just as we got to the turn off for the car park I somehow got confused by the roadworks and ended up going the wrong way down a bus-only road.</p><p>I turned around, but then was driving in a bus-only lane where the traffic lights are bizarre. I was familiar with the red-amber-green sort, along with such refinements as English red-and-amber cueing the clutch and arrows and flashing lights. I have a passing acquaintance with French eye-level mini-lights.</p><p>But these were special signals for busses that obviously conveyed arcane stuff like permissive red semantics (you can go if you have a clear road). They weren't even the right color for the vertical position. Sadly I had not been to Disney Bus Driver Training School and so had no idea what these lights meant. I made a best guess based on what the busses were doing and the semiotics of Traffic Lights in the Western World. No-one got crashed into or run over but it was terrifying.</p><p>Eventually I found the car park, parked the car and we ran to The Void<sup><a name="1609180sup1" href="#1609180foot1">1</a></sup> and, after signing endless releases and waivers we suited up in the odd VR rig and waded into battle.</p><p>This experience is about the best fun you can have wearing several pounds of electro-mechanical clothing. When you look around, your fellow "rebels" look like stormtroopers (a cunning disguise). You have a blaster that fires the slower-than-light laser bolts at anything to dumb to get out of the way. When the bad guys shoot you, you get a small kick in the torso. You stride over unfeasible bridges and ride elevator platforms, none of which have safety rails<sup><a name="1609180sup2" href="#1609180foot2">2</a></sup> while in reality walking a small pattern in a jet-black room full of other teams of people having the same experience.</p><p>We'd done it last winter, but this time we didn't rush it and shoot up the consoles. The Stevieling solved the color-based puzzle that would win us the game while the rest of us shot at stormtroopers, monsters and, in the case of Mrs Stevie, me. She would rapid fire at moving targets and walk her fire onto my back every time. I finally turned around and shot her to get the point across, before returning to my trademark Ranging Shot, Crotch shot, Head Shot response to any stormtrooper running into theater.</p><p>And I don't even like Star Wars.</p><p>Afterwards The Stevieling demanded Poutine<sup><a name="1609180sup3" href="#1609180foot3">3</a></sup> which apparently one can now obtain in Disney Springs. Who Knew? But on the way we got sidetracked and ended up in The Earl of Sandwich, a sort of Quiznos on steroids. Really good ingredients and they toast the sandwiches. Delicious and not overly pricey. We never did go on and get poutine.</p><p>We then wandered into the art shop next door and I spent a good 45 minutes entranced by the work of one particular artist, who was capturing various elements of the Disney experience in watercolors and a really nifty style. I can't really explain the attraction for me but I looked at it, realized what it was after a second (the style could make deciphering the subject not straightforward in some and I started with one of the harder ones) and I was hooked. If I'd had anywhere to hang one I'd have bought a print. I did end up buying a plaque advertising a long-gone attraction, but to explain why I did I'll have to digress into the past. A long way into the past, when I was thin and Mrs Stevie had a dancer's body and legs that wouldn't quit<sup><a name="1609180sup4" href="#1609180foot4">4</a></sup>.</p><p>About a year after Mrs Stevie and I got married we holidayed in Florida. At that time part of what is now Disney Springs shopping and dining mall was a collection of nightclubs called Pleasure Island.</p><p>I'm not a big nightclub fan, but Mrs Stevie expressed a burning desire to spend a night clubbing in Pleasure Island so earlier in the day I took her out and we toured the boutiques in what was then Downtown Disney, where I kitted her out in a leather miniskirt c/w chain belt, low-cut frilly blouse with puffy sleeves and asymmetric shades. She looked like she had just walked off the set of a Robert Palmer video. Hot doesn't begin to come close to the effect.</p><p>We agreed there was no point tarting me up as I would never carry off 80s clubbing attire. Slacks and a nice shirt. Done.</p><p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOi4P6ecnI3LVNRN3RXB-053fdbxsjWfOXvlJvtZNLXzrkVwgpUZ0qtWq1MKTLPH9y4judixdsUuWCkahKlxbFNPLH01x3BaR6UfZjpgQUY78XS1Bnz9F3im88qehZBvSUN2_B/s1600/Adventurers_Club_Plaque.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOi4P6ecnI3LVNRN3RXB-053fdbxsjWfOXvlJvtZNLXzrkVwgpUZ0qtWq1MKTLPH9y4judixdsUuWCkahKlxbFNPLH01x3BaR6UfZjpgQUY78XS1Bnz9F3im88qehZBvSUN2_B/s320/Adventurers_Club_Plaque.jpg" width="320" height="297" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1484" /></a></div>When we arrived in theater that night Mrs Stevie, striding along in true model fashion and cooly ignoring everyone in her shades, was the center of attention wherever she went, and young men kept trying to insert themselves between us so they could impress her. We decided to try a place called The Adventurer's Club, which had half a dozen different rooms, most of them standard humorous Disney clutter and animatronic displays, but one was a small library-like room (might have been the "Mask Room" but I don't remember that detail) where people could sit while an actor dressed in Great White Hunter drag wold tell tall tales of his adventures. When we walked in he immediately insisted Mrs Stevie sit next to him, asking if she had been attacked by a lion and lost her clothes. Then he started to tell his tale, looking for a short time at each person sitting around him. Every time his gaze came anywhere near Mrs Stevie, he lost his place in the story (for real, not an act). It was hysterical.</p><p>That's the story.</p><p>So I was about to leave the art shop when I saw a replica of the plaque that hung over the door of The Adventurer's Club, and of course I had to have it. It's hanging on the wall as I type, between a fantasy print we got at I-con and a framed commemorative Sojourner Mars Rover postage stamp.</p><p>And then it was time to say goodbye to the kids and wend our way back to the villa. It had been, all said and done, and excellent waste of time.</p><p>And so to bed.</p><ol class="footnote"><li><a name="1609180foot1"></a>The VR place is called The Void<a href="#1609180sup1">↑</a></li>
<li><a name="1609180foot2"></a>In space no-one can spell OSHA<a href="#1609180sup2">↑</a></li>
<li><a name="1609180foot3"></a>A bowl of french fries covered in melted cheese and gravy, which The Stevieling had encountered in Canada where it is considered a delicacy and not just whatever was left in the pantry slung in the microwave.<a href="#1609180sup3">↑</a></li>
<li><a name="1609180foot4"></a>Wouldn't quit attracting pests who would behave boorishly until they were chased off<a href="#1609180sup4">↑</a></li>
</ol>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0