Project (Fr)Audi continues.
Receiving all of the parts last week, I took the plunge and started reassembling.
But where to begin this jigsaw puzzle? There is an order to these things, and it's not entirely evident which major subsystem should receive the attention first. I concluded that I could get the exhaust started. So I took the plunge and cut the wires of the old oxygen sensors, then pulled out the catalytic converter section, which runs from the exhaust manifold over the drive shafts and under the body to the mid pipe section. A twist, a turn, and out it came with the stubs of the old oxygen sensors in place. Could I have saved the originals? Possibly. Were new ones expensive? Moderately, at ~$80 each, qty. 4. But after an hour of struggling, I'd managed to get one of the easy ones out and decided to just cut them. Out came the pipe; easy peasy. New Oxygen sensors were double-checked for which one went in which position and, anti-seize in place, loaded, strung through, and the new catalytic converter pipe went in and hooked up to the studs surprisingly easily. Fifteen minutes tops. And then all the wires, sensors, connectors, tubes, and whatnot on that side of the engine bay went back together. Also very quick and easy. A double check and I was done there.
Until.
I looked at the other side's matching cat-pipe. Huh, only one hole for an oxygen sensor where there should have been two. Can't be right. It wasn't. I called up the manufacturer today, verified it should have had two, and concluded it was mis-manufactured and slipped past quality control. Back to Rock Auto she went for an exchange.
What else to do? Well, I wrangled the new steering rack in. I had assembled the new tie-rod ends on using the old rack as a guide for rough total width and positioning of the tie-rods with respect to the rack itself. Close, but with all this work it will need a full alignment. It will probably be the easiest one the shop has ever done, with everything all new and not rusted into place. Getting the rack in was like giving birth, in reverse, as it just clears this edge and that firewall with a bit of angling, spinning, and, um, persuasion. Then you've got to bolt it down from the top in the headwall where the brake reservoir and other fiddly bits live. Two from the top and one from the bottom. As the previous owner left it without the one from the bottom, so did I. Not the way I like to do things, but not the end of the world. A bit more difficult yet is getting the banjo bolts that hold the hydraulic feed and return lines into place. You can barely get a wrench onto those, and execute 1/12th of a turn. Patience and sore muscles. But they're on. Back in the driver's seat I hooked up the steering wheel and put together all the trim covering the interior. Done and done.
On to the suspension. I'd already put the new struts into the spring assembly, so it was on to the big-box-o-control-arms to sort driver from passenger sets of upper and lower control arms (eight in all) and sway bar connectors and then open up the big-bag-o-nuts-and-bolts to figure out which ones went where. It's a good thing I had marked up the old ones as I removed them, and kept most of the bolts pointing in the proper direction. I think I have that puzzle solved, although when finished, I think I'm going to have two spare bolts. We'll see. They may be for the sway bar connectors.
What lies ahead?
Too much, unfortunately. I was replacing the brake cables, but in removing them from the caliper, I think I spied one of my root causes for lousy braking- the caliper pistons are rusted to heck. I can't imagine what they look like under their dust seals, but it's got to be bad. Calipers are relatively cheap to buy, but I'm concerned about the bit of metal tube brake line that runs from the caliper to the brake hose. One of the brake hoses refuses to break free and I'm stripping the nut. Images of new calipers online don't show that they come with the brake line, so... where to source that? Will I find the same problem at the rears when I go to replace them?
I still have to put together a whole suspension side, including the drive shaft, the control arms with their ball joints into the steering knuckle, then the drive shaft, then the upper control arms and tie rod ends, and then tightening the various bushings while the weight is on the wheel to pre-load the suspension.
But things do go together more quickly than they come apart. At least so far. Maybe in a couple of weeks I'll have it running.
Monday, June 25, 2018
Thursday, June 14, 2018
Strutting can be exhausting
Although Old Blue is gone, I still have three Audis, and that means work.
I've taken this week and next off to do some vacation time. We really haven't a clue how to do vacations here at casa del Toadroller. Part of most people's reasoning for vacations is to get away from it all. When we look at our lives, we're already away from it all, so... this time two weeks off is just a longer break than usual.
I had designs on a three-day motorcycle journey to see a college friend earlier this week, but my route would have taken me, by necessity and choice, through New Hampshire. Trouble is that New Hampshire is celebrating Bike Week this week, and is overrun with tens of thousands of fellow motorcycling enthusiasts. I severely doubt that a ride across the Kancamagus would have been the solo, introspective trip I wanted it to be. So maybe towards the end of next week after all the birthdays are done.
Yep. I'm turning fifty next Wednesday. This has nothing to do with my penchant for fast cars and motorcycles. Nothing at all.
Over the last year, I've been debating replacing the catalytic converters in the silver Audi, which we call the Fraudi, as it was originally acquired for Mrs. Toadroller. I've done a long list of fixes small and large on the car, ranging from a replacement headlight switch to having the timing belt done. All along the way, though, the engine code has been on for bad catalytic converters. At 180-something thousand miles, I think we've gotten our fair distance from them. But it's a big job. Hard to get to nuts, lots of assemblies to disassemble, and lots of blind reaches with special (improvised in the field) tools and forum writeups and videos giving you almost but not quite enough information to go on. I asked about for a price and was told a cost of catalytic converters alone that were more than the car was worth. Further research showed I could get after-markets engineered for the exact model, engine, transmission, and enough evidence that others had success with them. All for a price that was reasonable.
Then, in February, driving one of the Taller Toadrollers to driver's ed, the exhaust gave way where the center pipe meets the muffler and garowwwwwlll I had myself an open-pipe sports car. So off in the corner it was parked, to be buried by ice and snow until I had enough room and time to take it on. Come late March/early April we had our thaw and I moved it into the garage, with the thought that its taking of the Merc's primary parking spot would be incentive enough to git-er-dun.
Except one thing leads to another. Yes, the mufflers needed to be replaced. Yes, the mid pipe too. And of course the cats, which start at the end of the manifold. So that's everything.
Except one thing leads to another. To get to some of the nuts that hold her exhaust system on, I needed to get the tie-rods removed from the steering. Wouldn't you know that the through-bolt that holds the tie rod in place to the steering knuckle was frozen. Couldn't heat, bang, parts-blast, or impact-gun that thing out. I don't own an air hammer. Yet. Regardless, I was in there now, and as the steering rack has always been... inconsistent... with this car, I might as well get that done. But to get that out I really needed to get the steering knuckle out of the way, and besides, one of the struts was leaking and they were original. To get the strut assembly out, you only have to remove a 4 inch pinch bolt.
Which led to... Meeting a guy that runs his own little machine shop on the other side of Augusta. Does a lot of contract machining and engineering work but will, on occasion, do smaller jobs like drilling out frozen pinch bolts. I did manage to get the struts out, but had to bring the steering knuckle and control arms with them. Hardly standard operating procedure, but there was no way of getting that pinch bolt out. So I brought them over. He looked at them. Said he'd just done the same control arm job for his daughter on a VW Passat, which is the same car as my Audi. He was a true Mainer- strong opinions he'll explain, and he'll be teaching you what you're doing wrong along the way even if you weren't. Not sure what it is about Maine, but I've run into this demeanor before and simply recognize it and accept the lesson I may or may not have needed. They've learned the proper way the hard way, and they're intent on helping you avoid a learning curve.
He was a busy guy, couldn't promise when he'd get to it, didn't like to take these jobs too often, don't call me, I'll call you, might be two weeks. I related a little of my story and he realized two weeks wasn't a big deal, that I wasn't in a rush, that he was in charge of his world. Then I asked him about the BMW R/75 from the early 80s out front. "I bought that one brand new," he beamed of his bimmer, and then proceeded to confess that he's currently got seven different ones, all of which he's bought brand new. So we talked for fifteen minutes about motorcycles and long rides and Audis and what-not. It's interesting who you meet along the way. I shook his hand and thanked him for attempting the job. He couldn't promise success, but he'd try.
I got a call the next morning. Come get 'em. I commented that the two weeks had gone by in a flash and he offered to call me in two weeks if that's what I preferred. Maine. They were sons-of-bitches to get out, but they were done. Showed me where he'd cleaned some things off, where he'd used his air hammer, how much heat he'd needed- my propane wouldn't have been enough, no. Score the hole with a drill a little - not too much- and it'll give the anti-seize a place to dig in and last. Use anti-seize on everything, you're in Maine now. Yes, sir.
Another adventure in car repair.
You get the picture. When I'm done (and I think I'm about 60% of the way there), this thing will have a whole new front end: All control arms and bushings, new struts and associated bushings and bellows, new steering rack and tie-rods, new exhaust from the manifold back. Except one thing leads to another. Did I mention that the brakes have always sucked? New performance pads all around, turned rotors (if I can find anyone to do them. These were relatively new rotors anyway, only a few thousand miles on them), as it turns out new brake hoses (I'll go with stainless steel braided like some kid in his twenties), and possibly new calipers. You know what? Heck. I'm getting new calipers too.
And after all that, a windshield, an alignment, a sticker, and... I'm not letting the kids touch it.
I've taken this week and next off to do some vacation time. We really haven't a clue how to do vacations here at casa del Toadroller. Part of most people's reasoning for vacations is to get away from it all. When we look at our lives, we're already away from it all, so... this time two weeks off is just a longer break than usual.
I had designs on a three-day motorcycle journey to see a college friend earlier this week, but my route would have taken me, by necessity and choice, through New Hampshire. Trouble is that New Hampshire is celebrating Bike Week this week, and is overrun with tens of thousands of fellow motorcycling enthusiasts. I severely doubt that a ride across the Kancamagus would have been the solo, introspective trip I wanted it to be. So maybe towards the end of next week after all the birthdays are done.
Yep. I'm turning fifty next Wednesday. This has nothing to do with my penchant for fast cars and motorcycles. Nothing at all.
Over the last year, I've been debating replacing the catalytic converters in the silver Audi, which we call the Fraudi, as it was originally acquired for Mrs. Toadroller. I've done a long list of fixes small and large on the car, ranging from a replacement headlight switch to having the timing belt done. All along the way, though, the engine code has been on for bad catalytic converters. At 180-something thousand miles, I think we've gotten our fair distance from them. But it's a big job. Hard to get to nuts, lots of assemblies to disassemble, and lots of blind reaches with special (improvised in the field) tools and forum writeups and videos giving you almost but not quite enough information to go on. I asked about for a price and was told a cost of catalytic converters alone that were more than the car was worth. Further research showed I could get after-markets engineered for the exact model, engine, transmission, and enough evidence that others had success with them. All for a price that was reasonable.
Then, in February, driving one of the Taller Toadrollers to driver's ed, the exhaust gave way where the center pipe meets the muffler and garowwwwwlll I had myself an open-pipe sports car. So off in the corner it was parked, to be buried by ice and snow until I had enough room and time to take it on. Come late March/early April we had our thaw and I moved it into the garage, with the thought that its taking of the Merc's primary parking spot would be incentive enough to git-er-dun.
Except one thing leads to another. Yes, the mufflers needed to be replaced. Yes, the mid pipe too. And of course the cats, which start at the end of the manifold. So that's everything.
Except one thing leads to another. To get to some of the nuts that hold her exhaust system on, I needed to get the tie-rods removed from the steering. Wouldn't you know that the through-bolt that holds the tie rod in place to the steering knuckle was frozen. Couldn't heat, bang, parts-blast, or impact-gun that thing out. I don't own an air hammer. Yet. Regardless, I was in there now, and as the steering rack has always been... inconsistent... with this car, I might as well get that done. But to get that out I really needed to get the steering knuckle out of the way, and besides, one of the struts was leaking and they were original. To get the strut assembly out, you only have to remove a 4 inch pinch bolt.
Which led to... Meeting a guy that runs his own little machine shop on the other side of Augusta. Does a lot of contract machining and engineering work but will, on occasion, do smaller jobs like drilling out frozen pinch bolts. I did manage to get the struts out, but had to bring the steering knuckle and control arms with them. Hardly standard operating procedure, but there was no way of getting that pinch bolt out. So I brought them over. He looked at them. Said he'd just done the same control arm job for his daughter on a VW Passat, which is the same car as my Audi. He was a true Mainer- strong opinions he'll explain, and he'll be teaching you what you're doing wrong along the way even if you weren't. Not sure what it is about Maine, but I've run into this demeanor before and simply recognize it and accept the lesson I may or may not have needed. They've learned the proper way the hard way, and they're intent on helping you avoid a learning curve.
He was a busy guy, couldn't promise when he'd get to it, didn't like to take these jobs too often, don't call me, I'll call you, might be two weeks. I related a little of my story and he realized two weeks wasn't a big deal, that I wasn't in a rush, that he was in charge of his world. Then I asked him about the BMW R/75 from the early 80s out front. "I bought that one brand new," he beamed of his bimmer, and then proceeded to confess that he's currently got seven different ones, all of which he's bought brand new. So we talked for fifteen minutes about motorcycles and long rides and Audis and what-not. It's interesting who you meet along the way. I shook his hand and thanked him for attempting the job. He couldn't promise success, but he'd try.
I got a call the next morning. Come get 'em. I commented that the two weeks had gone by in a flash and he offered to call me in two weeks if that's what I preferred. Maine. They were sons-of-bitches to get out, but they were done. Showed me where he'd cleaned some things off, where he'd used his air hammer, how much heat he'd needed- my propane wouldn't have been enough, no. Score the hole with a drill a little - not too much- and it'll give the anti-seize a place to dig in and last. Use anti-seize on everything, you're in Maine now. Yes, sir.
Another adventure in car repair.
You get the picture. When I'm done (and I think I'm about 60% of the way there), this thing will have a whole new front end: All control arms and bushings, new struts and associated bushings and bellows, new steering rack and tie-rods, new exhaust from the manifold back. Except one thing leads to another. Did I mention that the brakes have always sucked? New performance pads all around, turned rotors (if I can find anyone to do them. These were relatively new rotors anyway, only a few thousand miles on them), as it turns out new brake hoses (I'll go with stainless steel braided like some kid in his twenties), and possibly new calipers. You know what? Heck. I'm getting new calipers too.
And after all that, a windshield, an alignment, a sticker, and... I'm not letting the kids touch it.
Thursday, June 7, 2018
Hundred dollah car.
Today, my old A8 found its proper new home.
Yesterday, I went to run an errand and decided to take Old Blue. I got to the top of the driveway and suddenly an engine stumble. I've been down this path a few times before. I could say with certainty it was one of three $50 things to fix it. I parked it, went inside for keys to another vehicle in the Toadroller stable, and told Mrs. Toadroller it was time.
At the counter at Autozone on an unrelated oil purchase, I mentioned it to the clerk. Said I should just let it go. You know, $100 bucks.* Kid working the next register perked up. "$100 bucks? Does it run?" Yes, it even passed inspection. It's no beauty queen. He took my name. Called later. He and his buddies tune VWs and Audis. "So you know what you're getting into then."
A month ago I was thinking up drafts of humorous "Thousand dollar car!" ads for Craigslist. But second thoughts had me thinking $700. Then $500. Then $250. It wasn't about the money. Heck, it will cost more than that to register it.* Maine's registration fees are a bit silly, based on a percentage of original retail price, so even at 21 years old, it cost me ~$300 for the year.
Fifteen and a half years and 194,000 miles ago I found her, shiny, five years old, and 73k miles on her. $18,900 for a $65,000 luxury-sport sedan that still, in her bones, is more sophisticated, sporty, comfortable, and fun to drive than my much newer E- Mercedes.
An hour ago, I handed the kid the keys. Showed him the power rear window screen. Watched it float up and out of my driveway.* I wouldn't be surprised to see it around town. Twenty-year-olds without kids and with ambition and ingenuity can make magic happen.
So long, Old Blue. I love you. I promised myself I wouldn't cry. But I can tear up a little, right?
* I don't know if you can tell, but I can. I've been reading T.R. Pearson again. It comes through in my writing style.
Tuesday, May 1, 2018
Gotham
Gotham pokes his meaty index finger right into your chest. He pokes you
-Hey! You cool?
-Yeah, I'm cool
-Oh yeah? Prove it
-Don't have to
-Yeah, you cool
Then Gotham walks away
-Hey! You cool?
-Yeah, I'm cool
-Oh yeah? Prove it
-Don't have to
-Yeah, you cool
Then Gotham walks away
Wednesday, April 18, 2018
Cable Support leading the pack
- Wake up, get coffee, come to the realization that my internet is down. Dang.
- Unplug cable modem, router. Plug back in. Wait. Christmas tree lights flash and blink, but no internet on computers.
- To the cell phone! Google search:
- By the time I type 'spec' of 'spectrum'- tech support is the second link listed in type-ahead
- The support page from my phone
- Recommends the mobile app, with links to apple and google stores
- Download, open, sign in with account
- Shows my devices, services, billing, free WiFi locations (does anyone ever use one of those?) offers to upgrade
- Support on devices section app:
- What type of issue? Drop-down choice
- Automated check from Spectrum to my modem
- App sez 'that didn't work, contact us?'
- Offer of phone or chat
- Don't call us, we'll call you
- Call when you're ready or now. I chose now
- Phone rang immediately
- Agent confirmed my account
- Able to see my devices and provide guidance
- Couldn't resolve in 7 minutes; was able to tell me about missed data, etc.
- Will send technician, but be advised:
- Technician needs an adult present
- Technician may take up to 2 hours of work
- Does the window 3:00-4:00pm work for you?
- Automated phone survey about call center conversation minutes later.
- Email detailing the Service Appointment confirmation received
- 'service is on the way soon, but please take a moment to review the appointment details below'
- Service Address
- Order header (account, appointment, work order numbers, date and time window)
- How we'll contact you (by email, by text to my number, by phone)- if you want to change any of those channels, click here…
- Automated phone call 15 minutes in advance:
- Technician "dave" ID number 1234abcd is on the way and should arrive in "time window". Service work estimated to take up to 2 hours
- If this is still correct, no action on your part, simply hang up
- To change, press 2
- I hang up
- Technician arrives
- Has been to this location before.
- Has already checked signal information and suspects the modem, gets out of the truck with a new modem box in hand
- I show him the old modem and leave him for 15 minutes as he works. Our timid puppy is scared
- He calls me back to the room and his work is complete, has tested thoroughly with his iPad. It was the modem
- He goes above and beyond- gives advice about how much modems have changed, their internet bandwidth in my subscription goes beyond what my older router can deliver. He explains this well and describes what type of router specs and features to look for, does not try to sell me a rental on one form Spectrum.
- I sign the work order, digitally, as complete. 'No charge', he indicates, before I sign it
- They provided simple access, self service, clear communications, and right-the-first-time service when promised. Are you listening, businesses? The butt of service jokes, Cable-repair-man, is now leading the pack
Sunday, March 25, 2018
All of winter in a Sunday morning
Sunshine yet snow squalls
Palms, alms
Friendships rekindled through loss
Coffee and errands
Slippery steps collecting into puddles
All of winter in a Sunday morning
Palms, alms
Friendships rekindled through loss
Coffee and errands
Slippery steps collecting into puddles
All of winter in a Sunday morning
Thursday, December 14, 2017
Don't call us, we'll call you
Well, it had to happen at some point. It's been sixteen years after all.
I spoke with customer service at Amazon.
This, it turns out, is not something easily accomplished. Go ahead, go to their web site and find a number to call. I'll give you five minutes. See you back here.
Did you find a number? I'm impressed. The most bleeding edge, innovative, pervasive consumer-focused business in the world and it took me sixteen years (and a little more than five minutes) to get on the phone with them. And they were on their game the minute I spoke with them. As I sell customer service and engagement systems that help business establish commerce and service processes across communications channels, I am professionally intrigued and a little impressed:
First of all, the phone number is a bit of a wild goose chase. They do such a good job of self service for returns and other common processes you don't need to call them. Talking with them is truly the last option, both by design and by customer desire.
And here's the kicker: you don't call Amazon, they call you.
When you finally go down the rabbit hole far enough, you'll find a place to punch in your phone number and they'll call you: now or in five minutes, your choice. Not sure who wants to be called in five minutes as opposed to now, but it's an option so there's probably a good reason for it. In my case, I entered my cell phone number, clicked a button, and my phone started ringing.
Amazon calling!
...Which gave their systems time to connect to an agent and pop her screen with information about me- a lot of information, it turns out, including my cell phone number which they now have- and simply confirm that it was me she was speaking with. Through our brief conversation, she had the exact date of the transaction in question in front of her, how many transactions had occurred since then (fourteen, it turns out), had visibility to Mrs. Toadroller's account and orders, and was empowered to resolve the issue.
Customer service: rare, clever, empowered, gathering, informed, complete. I probably won't need to talk with them for another sixteen years.
Of course, calling on a phone is so early 21st century. I don't doubt that should the Toadroller household have an Alexa device, or maybe a Fire-TV (Alexa enabled), I could, probably with five minutes of verbal sparring, get through to a human. That used to be called OnStar, I think. But there's Siri, Cortana, "Ok Google"; there are ChatBots, AI, Machine Learning, IOT signals, Predictive Service, Twitter, Facebook... uh... email. what's the consumer's choice of convenient communication channel? As a customer support organization, that's where you need to be.
Why make them "press or say one" for service?
Don't call us, we'll call you.
I spoke with customer service at Amazon.
This, it turns out, is not something easily accomplished. Go ahead, go to their web site and find a number to call. I'll give you five minutes. See you back here.
Did you find a number? I'm impressed. The most bleeding edge, innovative, pervasive consumer-focused business in the world and it took me sixteen years (and a little more than five minutes) to get on the phone with them. And they were on their game the minute I spoke with them. As I sell customer service and engagement systems that help business establish commerce and service processes across communications channels, I am professionally intrigued and a little impressed:
First of all, the phone number is a bit of a wild goose chase. They do such a good job of self service for returns and other common processes you don't need to call them. Talking with them is truly the last option, both by design and by customer desire.
And here's the kicker: you don't call Amazon, they call you.
When you finally go down the rabbit hole far enough, you'll find a place to punch in your phone number and they'll call you: now or in five minutes, your choice. Not sure who wants to be called in five minutes as opposed to now, but it's an option so there's probably a good reason for it. In my case, I entered my cell phone number, clicked a button, and my phone started ringing.
Amazon calling!
...Which gave their systems time to connect to an agent and pop her screen with information about me- a lot of information, it turns out, including my cell phone number which they now have- and simply confirm that it was me she was speaking with. Through our brief conversation, she had the exact date of the transaction in question in front of her, how many transactions had occurred since then (fourteen, it turns out), had visibility to Mrs. Toadroller's account and orders, and was empowered to resolve the issue.
Customer service: rare, clever, empowered, gathering, informed, complete. I probably won't need to talk with them for another sixteen years.
Of course, calling on a phone is so early 21st century. I don't doubt that should the Toadroller household have an Alexa device, or maybe a Fire-TV (Alexa enabled), I could, probably with five minutes of verbal sparring, get through to a human. That used to be called OnStar, I think. But there's Siri, Cortana, "Ok Google"; there are ChatBots, AI, Machine Learning, IOT signals, Predictive Service, Twitter, Facebook... uh... email. what's the consumer's choice of convenient communication channel? As a customer support organization, that's where you need to be.
Why make them "press or say one" for service?
Don't call us, we'll call you.
Sunday, October 8, 2017
Captured thoughts
Many a thought has congealed in my brain over the last few months. And any conclusive insight is worthy of an essay, explaining the context, the new information, the logic, and therefore the conclusion, all packaged in an analogy to act as the sugar which helps the medicine go down.
But I've not felt prolific enough to sit down at the keyboard and develop these records of progress and instead, off they go, some forgotten, some put into regular use, some stumbled upon and rediscovered and rearranged without me remarking on the remarkable.
So let me capture a few of these thoughts here, while the coffee is still warm and the brain is fresh; perhaps for future development or simply to know that I've had them and wonder at some future date whence they came and where they went and how I could have been so undeveloped in my thinking to have considered them novel or insightful in the first place. For the world is not so complex; there is nothing new; an much more can be achieved by applying time-tested principals than trying to develop new ones.
Linear thinking
We are all so skilled at multi tasking, at noting the squirrels that interrupt our thought processes, and gathering fleeting ideas and noting them before they scatter just out of reach that we think brainstorming and mind mapping are the way to think. They are but and early stage of thinking. We are proposing ideas, identifying avenues, coming up with hypotheses. We are dealing in potentials. This can be active, it can be group or individual, it can be done while performing a separate task,* but these establish boundaries, identify goals and obstacles.
Thinking is the processing of the obstacles and the boundaries through which we must travel to achieve our goal. And there's nothing so amazing as sitting down with a pen and paper to process. Linear thinking. Start writing and work your way through without chasing a distracting squirrel. Give yourself fifteen minutes, half an hour, and you'll be amazed at what you can come up with. Most problems can be solved with short bursts of hard thinking on a single process. The pen (or the keyboard or the state-machine drawing) has the ability to focus and distill the random thinking and the processing into a cohesive narrative.
Friendship
I was asked by one of the younger Toadrollers how one makes friends. My first thought was that I don't have any, how can I advise?
But that isn't true. What I don't have is any I pal around with, clubs I belong to, families that the Toadroller family visits or vacations with. Between family and career, I have enough excuse in the world not to pursue a good buddy. When the time is right, such buddies will appear. Perhaps (and most likely) through a common hobby or pursuit- golf, motorcycles, what have you. For now, relationships come from the families of childrens' friends, mentors, and my brothers in arms in business with whom I've been through battles and with whom I've shared the toasts of victory and defeat.
Dear friends are the result of such shared engagements of the past. Who, by chance, was on the same floor in a dorm? Who was your lab partner? Who else had a shared interest in a project? Time and reflection and occasional communications celebrate the relationship, if for no better reason than nostalgia. Good times, indeed. The battles you fight today become the memories tomorrow. Enjoy that journey along the way and you'll have a friend for all times.
Learning to compete
When the eldest Toadroller visited a few months ago, we played pool and golf. Though I am by all measurements a competitive person, I don't compete to win. He pointed this out over a game of eight ball. He had no idea the impact it had on me.
I like to think my passive aggressive, sarcastic, and competitive nature was honed through an adolescence in the northeast, a near-Boston culture where survival was based on being, well, a dick to people without them really knowing it. Plant a little time-bomb of an insult and, should the victim think about it in the future, they'll realize they were bettered. Can I blame it on jerky rich kids? It's as good an excuse as any, but the passive-aggressive nature remains.
I like to think that I temper this in competition. I compete to prove to the other that I can beat them, but choose not to. Call it strutting or showing off, but I will compete to just below the level of my competition, with my excuse being that I could have won if I chose to, so that's as good as a victory.
What an ego.
The truth is that people really aren't impressed that I could have beat them. They probably never even give it a second thought. The truth is that I'm not good enough to win and have never made the next level or applied the focus in the moment necessary to win. With that insight, I started to recognize the things I wasn't doing, and the things I had to do in order to win. And focused on eliminating mistakes and incorporating the tactics to bring about my result.
In the world of billiards, it has been ball control and shot selection for the next shot. Which choice will lead me to a better result? No shot attempts without knowing what the next shot will be. From there you learn how the ball reacts to the target ball, the carom off the bumper, power and touch. In golf, it has been concentration, information gathering, wedge play, and focusing on the putts. And eliminating carelessness to avoid scores greater than a bogey. My last four rounds have been in the low 80s, with 38s on both sides of the 18. Improvement is there, and I just seem to know how to focus. I make the right decisions. I execute the right shots. This feeds itself and improves my score.
For what it's worth, winning here is not meant to be a defeat at the cost of the loser, but winning as a success and completion, achievement of a goal and process.
Giving up
At a recent team meeting, we had a keynote speaker who had climbed Everest and had jogged across Canada for a charity cause. He naturally took his experiences and related them as analogies to the business world, insights to professionalism, etc.
One of the insights he discovered and related to us was that when you're at your limits, when your whole body and mind are asking you to give up, you'll discover that you can take one more step. You don't have to stop. It's those who persist who break through and succeed. It's the extra 1% that makes all the difference.
My peers and I looked at each other and marveled in the epiphany that there was an option to give up. We're a group of type A's who had never considered abandoning something.
It reminded me of comedian John Mulaney's story of playing as a bench-warmer on the basketball team for five years. At the annual awards ceremony a speaker extolled the virtues of the athletic programs because "without them, the alternative is kids turning to drugs and alcohol." For Mulaney, it was the first time he'd heard there was an alternative. He decided that he "would become the best at that."
* Over the weekend I polished the old A8 and reminisced about how much I've enjoyed the car. Yes, I waxed nostalgic.
But I've not felt prolific enough to sit down at the keyboard and develop these records of progress and instead, off they go, some forgotten, some put into regular use, some stumbled upon and rediscovered and rearranged without me remarking on the remarkable.
So let me capture a few of these thoughts here, while the coffee is still warm and the brain is fresh; perhaps for future development or simply to know that I've had them and wonder at some future date whence they came and where they went and how I could have been so undeveloped in my thinking to have considered them novel or insightful in the first place. For the world is not so complex; there is nothing new; an much more can be achieved by applying time-tested principals than trying to develop new ones.
Linear thinking
We are all so skilled at multi tasking, at noting the squirrels that interrupt our thought processes, and gathering fleeting ideas and noting them before they scatter just out of reach that we think brainstorming and mind mapping are the way to think. They are but and early stage of thinking. We are proposing ideas, identifying avenues, coming up with hypotheses. We are dealing in potentials. This can be active, it can be group or individual, it can be done while performing a separate task,* but these establish boundaries, identify goals and obstacles.
Thinking is the processing of the obstacles and the boundaries through which we must travel to achieve our goal. And there's nothing so amazing as sitting down with a pen and paper to process. Linear thinking. Start writing and work your way through without chasing a distracting squirrel. Give yourself fifteen minutes, half an hour, and you'll be amazed at what you can come up with. Most problems can be solved with short bursts of hard thinking on a single process. The pen (or the keyboard or the state-machine drawing) has the ability to focus and distill the random thinking and the processing into a cohesive narrative.
Friendship
I was asked by one of the younger Toadrollers how one makes friends. My first thought was that I don't have any, how can I advise?
But that isn't true. What I don't have is any I pal around with, clubs I belong to, families that the Toadroller family visits or vacations with. Between family and career, I have enough excuse in the world not to pursue a good buddy. When the time is right, such buddies will appear. Perhaps (and most likely) through a common hobby or pursuit- golf, motorcycles, what have you. For now, relationships come from the families of childrens' friends, mentors, and my brothers in arms in business with whom I've been through battles and with whom I've shared the toasts of victory and defeat.
Dear friends are the result of such shared engagements of the past. Who, by chance, was on the same floor in a dorm? Who was your lab partner? Who else had a shared interest in a project? Time and reflection and occasional communications celebrate the relationship, if for no better reason than nostalgia. Good times, indeed. The battles you fight today become the memories tomorrow. Enjoy that journey along the way and you'll have a friend for all times.
Learning to compete
When the eldest Toadroller visited a few months ago, we played pool and golf. Though I am by all measurements a competitive person, I don't compete to win. He pointed this out over a game of eight ball. He had no idea the impact it had on me.
I like to think my passive aggressive, sarcastic, and competitive nature was honed through an adolescence in the northeast, a near-Boston culture where survival was based on being, well, a dick to people without them really knowing it. Plant a little time-bomb of an insult and, should the victim think about it in the future, they'll realize they were bettered. Can I blame it on jerky rich kids? It's as good an excuse as any, but the passive-aggressive nature remains.
I like to think that I temper this in competition. I compete to prove to the other that I can beat them, but choose not to. Call it strutting or showing off, but I will compete to just below the level of my competition, with my excuse being that I could have won if I chose to, so that's as good as a victory.
What an ego.
The truth is that people really aren't impressed that I could have beat them. They probably never even give it a second thought. The truth is that I'm not good enough to win and have never made the next level or applied the focus in the moment necessary to win. With that insight, I started to recognize the things I wasn't doing, and the things I had to do in order to win. And focused on eliminating mistakes and incorporating the tactics to bring about my result.
In the world of billiards, it has been ball control and shot selection for the next shot. Which choice will lead me to a better result? No shot attempts without knowing what the next shot will be. From there you learn how the ball reacts to the target ball, the carom off the bumper, power and touch. In golf, it has been concentration, information gathering, wedge play, and focusing on the putts. And eliminating carelessness to avoid scores greater than a bogey. My last four rounds have been in the low 80s, with 38s on both sides of the 18. Improvement is there, and I just seem to know how to focus. I make the right decisions. I execute the right shots. This feeds itself and improves my score.
For what it's worth, winning here is not meant to be a defeat at the cost of the loser, but winning as a success and completion, achievement of a goal and process.
Giving up
At a recent team meeting, we had a keynote speaker who had climbed Everest and had jogged across Canada for a charity cause. He naturally took his experiences and related them as analogies to the business world, insights to professionalism, etc.
One of the insights he discovered and related to us was that when you're at your limits, when your whole body and mind are asking you to give up, you'll discover that you can take one more step. You don't have to stop. It's those who persist who break through and succeed. It's the extra 1% that makes all the difference.
My peers and I looked at each other and marveled in the epiphany that there was an option to give up. We're a group of type A's who had never considered abandoning something.
It reminded me of comedian John Mulaney's story of playing as a bench-warmer on the basketball team for five years. At the annual awards ceremony a speaker extolled the virtues of the athletic programs because "without them, the alternative is kids turning to drugs and alcohol." For Mulaney, it was the first time he'd heard there was an alternative. He decided that he "would become the best at that."
* Over the weekend I polished the old A8 and reminisced about how much I've enjoyed the car. Yes, I waxed nostalgic.
Tuesday, March 14, 2017
Good for Another Year
First I brought Scarlet, Mrs. Toadroller's monstrous S4, down to the local all-purpose fix-it shop for an inspection. I noticed the other day that the sticker had expired in December. Whoops!
Mutt and Jeff* admired my handy-work strapping the mid-exhaust to its hangar which had un-welded itself. They also admired the car - "they crammed a V8 in there? Must go like stink! Ooh, it's a stick?" The replaced a license plate bulb and splat-boom, one down, one to go.
Conversation turned to fixing things in general, including houses, and they started talking about a feller that does a lot of work for them and all he ever seems to do these days is "fix shit he would have been embarrassed to charge a customer for in the first place" and by example a project he was working over on The Scribner Road where the customer didn't want a frost barrier on their concrete because they were too cheap. That rang a bell for me - "Oh, you mean Jeff W?" "Yeah! He was here just ten minutes ago. Went home to take a nap. Lots of plowing tonight."
Jeff W. is going to be tearing into the latest shit others have done to our home that he would have been embarrassed to charge for, but clearly others weren't.
Small circles like this are Maine to the core. He knows her, and she knows him, and he knows somebody else; his cousin. It's true of any real community, if you think about it. It probably applies to The Big Apple, but on occurrences a bit more spread apart. You can have community where you are... and you can not have community. Both at the same time. Of the world, in the world. Yes. No. At the post office yesterday I ran into the parent of one of the kids Toadroller Luke played sports with oh so long ago. And then the usher from the church over in Winthrop** came in and I sent him ahead in line- he with a letter and me with four boxes to California. And the Postmistress herself a regular at Saturday 4:00pm anticipated mass.
Back up the slippery hill I went to fetch Old Blue, the A8, the Thousand Dollar Car, she of the sagging oil pressure. Fingers were crossed: they said that brake pads would be coming around soon enough, but okay for now. I shared my recent fun with alternators, fuel injectors, and batteries, never mind the disintegrating plastic bumpers which are evermore shattering in the cold when you back her into a snow bank. But still, from a 3/4 view looking from the rear to the front, she's a beautiful car with incredible lines and shiny paint and at 20 years*** (14 in dog years), my heart reached out to her. And so they passed her too.
"You're good for another year," they said, putting the sticker on the window, and I wondered to myself, "Am I?"
* One of them is named Jeff, or at least his shirt patch says so, but the two of them seem like twins; very likely brothers. Picture a pair of Santas, white beards and all, wrenching everything from Saabs to Chevys.
** The Winthrop post office suffered the defeat of a fire, so ours has a stream of visitors picking up their mail.
*** They had a snowblower in the shop, at the ready. It looked familiar and sure enough, it was the same exact model we inherited from my father-in-law Bert. "That thing is older than you!" they joked, but I told them I had the same one. "Oh, that's a good one. You kick in that rear traction and it's a monstah!" I believe it's from 88-89 time frame. It'll be getting some solid use tomorrow, as our nor'easter continues to blow through the night.
Mutt and Jeff* admired my handy-work strapping the mid-exhaust to its hangar which had un-welded itself. They also admired the car - "they crammed a V8 in there? Must go like stink! Ooh, it's a stick?" The replaced a license plate bulb and splat-boom, one down, one to go.
Conversation turned to fixing things in general, including houses, and they started talking about a feller that does a lot of work for them and all he ever seems to do these days is "fix shit he would have been embarrassed to charge a customer for in the first place" and by example a project he was working over on The Scribner Road where the customer didn't want a frost barrier on their concrete because they were too cheap. That rang a bell for me - "Oh, you mean Jeff W?" "Yeah! He was here just ten minutes ago. Went home to take a nap. Lots of plowing tonight."
Jeff W. is going to be tearing into the latest shit others have done to our home that he would have been embarrassed to charge for, but clearly others weren't.
Small circles like this are Maine to the core. He knows her, and she knows him, and he knows somebody else; his cousin. It's true of any real community, if you think about it. It probably applies to The Big Apple, but on occurrences a bit more spread apart. You can have community where you are... and you can not have community. Both at the same time. Of the world, in the world. Yes. No. At the post office yesterday I ran into the parent of one of the kids Toadroller Luke played sports with oh so long ago. And then the usher from the church over in Winthrop** came in and I sent him ahead in line- he with a letter and me with four boxes to California. And the Postmistress herself a regular at Saturday 4:00pm anticipated mass.
Back up the slippery hill I went to fetch Old Blue, the A8, the Thousand Dollar Car, she of the sagging oil pressure. Fingers were crossed: they said that brake pads would be coming around soon enough, but okay for now. I shared my recent fun with alternators, fuel injectors, and batteries, never mind the disintegrating plastic bumpers which are evermore shattering in the cold when you back her into a snow bank. But still, from a 3/4 view looking from the rear to the front, she's a beautiful car with incredible lines and shiny paint and at 20 years*** (14 in dog years), my heart reached out to her. And so they passed her too.
"You're good for another year," they said, putting the sticker on the window, and I wondered to myself, "Am I?"
* One of them is named Jeff, or at least his shirt patch says so, but the two of them seem like twins; very likely brothers. Picture a pair of Santas, white beards and all, wrenching everything from Saabs to Chevys.
** The Winthrop post office suffered the defeat of a fire, so ours has a stream of visitors picking up their mail.
*** They had a snowblower in the shop, at the ready. It looked familiar and sure enough, it was the same exact model we inherited from my father-in-law Bert. "That thing is older than you!" they joked, but I told them I had the same one. "Oh, that's a good one. You kick in that rear traction and it's a monstah!" I believe it's from 88-89 time frame. It'll be getting some solid use tomorrow, as our nor'easter continues to blow through the night.
Sunday, March 12, 2017
Man, the Tool Maker
I came across this drawing:
.. and asked Henry Toadroller (hey, his initials are HTR) what it was. In his usual precise conversational mode, imparting all that I need to know in the fewest words possible, he said, "something I'm making," and that was that.*
I came back from a business trip to find this on the workbench:
Dang! I like that!
And so you see the tool holder along with a shelf for the works in process. I believe those are bishops for the chess set he's been carving.
I think he's going to be amazing.
*Not entirely true. At some other point he asked if he could use the piece of white trim "for something I'm making."
I came back from a business trip to find this on the workbench:
And so you see the tool holder along with a shelf for the works in process. I believe those are bishops for the chess set he's been carving.
I think he's going to be amazing.
*Not entirely true. At some other point he asked if he could use the piece of white trim "for something I'm making."
$15.86 Worth of Doom in the Post
For lo, the Thousand Dollar Car is showing low oil pressure again.
Given the recently replaced oil pressure sensor, all of two months ago, and yet another (this time I bought the $10 sensor, big spender that I am) lighting up the dashboard animations after a few minutes of running time, I figured it was time to buy a genuine oil pressure gauge (and assorted adapters, $15.86, free shipping) to do a real test and see if the oil pressure really is low. Or jumpy. Or high. Come to think of it, I'm not even sure what its oil pressure should be reading. This information can surely be found somewhere on the internet. Regardless, Amazon provides and the USPS delivers, eventually.
It's probably a $500 test. If it passes and the problem is something else, like bad wiring, then it's a $1400 car for Craigslist. If it fails, then maybe it's a $900 car. Maybe it's a free car. Maybe it makes its way to a junkyard under its own power. 'Tis a shame really, all the seat heaters still work. Nice stereo too. But its doom is upon us, and that makes me sad. Fourteen years. Still drives nicer (engine response, power, suspension refinement, sound, interior, etc., etc.) than the fourteen-years-newer and fancier Mercedes E class.
In other Toadroller's Used Car Lot news, I've been bringing the silver A4 back to snuff after two years in the hands of the eldest, whose car she wasn't yet whose primary driver he was, and whose cheapskate-first-class treatment of her (he wouldn't turn on the heat, thinking it would save on fuel) left her feeling a little droopy. After filling two bags of trash with used candy wrappers, dirty socks, a tie, many a coffee cup, and various and sundry, I've set about treating her more nicely. I washed her, changed the oil and filter (almost 9k miles on that! I completely spaced it last year), replaced the broken arm-rest cover, put in a new light switch plate that wasn't scratched to hell, aimed the headlights properly (they were pointed down to a point about five feet in front of the vehicle) ran a container of Techron through the tank, filled her with the highest test (93) I can find around, and have given her some time on the highway. The engine is running much more smoothly and is happier to rev. I think another tank or two of good juice and it will be butter on hot roll.
Next up will be a replacement hood release lever along with some cable lubrication. Lack of the latter lead to a breaking of the former, although the former was a cheap piece of plastic. Again, Amazon, my auto supply shop, delivers what can otherwise be found only at a dealership for much money, or on Ebay at pretty-much money and unlikely fit. Still to go is the power steering. I'm thinking it's the pump as it's not losing juice and the reservoir isn't foaming from air in the system. The first 15 seconds of driving though, the system has no pressure and then suddenly *snap* it pops on. I've never done this job, but it appears to be an unhook, remove and replace procedure after you remove a few other things, like the front bumper. Which sounds awful, but is really a matter of six nuts, unhooking headlight wires, and two bolts, then it slides out like a drawer. Or so the videos on YouTube show me. Come spring and warm weather I'll spray-glue the headliner in the back seat, give her a detailing, and be pleased. Oh, and fix the driver's bun-warmer, which has focused all of its power like a laser beam to one spot at my right buttock. So a short in the wiring. Also a solution to be found on YouTube.
Other than that, it really is a fun, zippy, easy to shift German sedan, and it's happier and more at home the farther north of the speed limit your needle finds itself. It comes into its own. Not bad for 174000 miles.
Mrs. Toadroller's beastie S4 got a new strap to hold up its sagging exhaust- the hanger welded to the top of that mid-exhaust un-welded itself, giving me a half an hour on the garage floor in mid-March's best 18 degree weather. But that's why I have old snow pants, boots, coats and work gloves. It's actually quite toasty in there. After I got it all strapped up, I took it for a drive through the neighborhood. What a monster. What a flipping amazing half-throttled, high-revving, climbing-for-more beast of a V8 and a flip-of-a-lever-and-push-of-the-clutch sweet, sophisticated bitch of a car she is. Damn.
That said, it's supposed to be spring soon, and I'll be prepping the Suzie for the road. I can't wait.
Given the recently replaced oil pressure sensor, all of two months ago, and yet another (this time I bought the $10 sensor, big spender that I am) lighting up the dashboard animations after a few minutes of running time, I figured it was time to buy a genuine oil pressure gauge (and assorted adapters, $15.86, free shipping) to do a real test and see if the oil pressure really is low. Or jumpy. Or high. Come to think of it, I'm not even sure what its oil pressure should be reading. This information can surely be found somewhere on the internet. Regardless, Amazon provides and the USPS delivers, eventually.
It's probably a $500 test. If it passes and the problem is something else, like bad wiring, then it's a $1400 car for Craigslist. If it fails, then maybe it's a $900 car. Maybe it's a free car. Maybe it makes its way to a junkyard under its own power. 'Tis a shame really, all the seat heaters still work. Nice stereo too. But its doom is upon us, and that makes me sad. Fourteen years. Still drives nicer (engine response, power, suspension refinement, sound, interior, etc., etc.) than the fourteen-years-newer and fancier Mercedes E class.
In other Toadroller's Used Car Lot news, I've been bringing the silver A4 back to snuff after two years in the hands of the eldest, whose car she wasn't yet whose primary driver he was, and whose cheapskate-first-class treatment of her (he wouldn't turn on the heat, thinking it would save on fuel) left her feeling a little droopy. After filling two bags of trash with used candy wrappers, dirty socks, a tie, many a coffee cup, and various and sundry, I've set about treating her more nicely. I washed her, changed the oil and filter (almost 9k miles on that! I completely spaced it last year), replaced the broken arm-rest cover, put in a new light switch plate that wasn't scratched to hell, aimed the headlights properly (they were pointed down to a point about five feet in front of the vehicle) ran a container of Techron through the tank, filled her with the highest test (93) I can find around, and have given her some time on the highway. The engine is running much more smoothly and is happier to rev. I think another tank or two of good juice and it will be butter on hot roll.
Next up will be a replacement hood release lever along with some cable lubrication. Lack of the latter lead to a breaking of the former, although the former was a cheap piece of plastic. Again, Amazon, my auto supply shop, delivers what can otherwise be found only at a dealership for much money, or on Ebay at pretty-much money and unlikely fit. Still to go is the power steering. I'm thinking it's the pump as it's not losing juice and the reservoir isn't foaming from air in the system. The first 15 seconds of driving though, the system has no pressure and then suddenly *snap* it pops on. I've never done this job, but it appears to be an unhook, remove and replace procedure after you remove a few other things, like the front bumper. Which sounds awful, but is really a matter of six nuts, unhooking headlight wires, and two bolts, then it slides out like a drawer. Or so the videos on YouTube show me. Come spring and warm weather I'll spray-glue the headliner in the back seat, give her a detailing, and be pleased. Oh, and fix the driver's bun-warmer, which has focused all of its power like a laser beam to one spot at my right buttock. So a short in the wiring. Also a solution to be found on YouTube.
Other than that, it really is a fun, zippy, easy to shift German sedan, and it's happier and more at home the farther north of the speed limit your needle finds itself. It comes into its own. Not bad for 174000 miles.
Mrs. Toadroller's beastie S4 got a new strap to hold up its sagging exhaust- the hanger welded to the top of that mid-exhaust un-welded itself, giving me a half an hour on the garage floor in mid-March's best 18 degree weather. But that's why I have old snow pants, boots, coats and work gloves. It's actually quite toasty in there. After I got it all strapped up, I took it for a drive through the neighborhood. What a monster. What a flipping amazing half-throttled, high-revving, climbing-for-more beast of a V8 and a flip-of-a-lever-and-push-of-the-clutch sweet, sophisticated bitch of a car she is. Damn.
That said, it's supposed to be spring soon, and I'll be prepping the Suzie for the road. I can't wait.
Sunday, February 19, 2017
Why?
I'm forty-eight years old.
I've never listened to (or purchased) a Rolling Stones album in my life.
Why?
Many reasons. They're not my thing. Beatles or Stones? Beatles. Pride. Ignorance. Just don't care. Life is too short. Which is strange, because I've purchased albums of other artists who I've never cared for to see what, if anything, I might be missing. Bruce Springsteen comes to mind as an example.* So does Prince.**
The 'Stones came up on some random playlist on the interwebs the other day. It might have been YouTube or Pandora, but it was probably Amazon's music service which flows though the tele into the stereo into my family room. An album is a click away, and so I clicked and added "Sticky Fingers," to my subscription, an album I remember for the vulgar intent of its cover, depicting and even providing an actual zipper embedded therein for purposes of, well, you get it, going back in time to regarding it as a mid-teen (15 years of age? 17?) in Strawberries, Nashua "mall," ca. early 80s. The album itself, it turns out, was released in 1971, me just a toddler of a Toadroller, somewhere in Ohio; most likely in Dayton near an Osinski domicile, not a resident of Plumwood Road.
And so, this evening, as I relaxed from a Sunday of Maine-styled roof-shoveling and errand-running and oil-changing and who knows what-all, reviewing the internet's denizens' definitions of capitalism and economic paradigms and generally making a rage against General Theory, I listened to "Sticky Fingers" from start to finish.
Not bad. Bluesy, swaggery, sloppy, hardly polished and slick, but in the best way, and decent in attitude.
I'll listen again.
*Shame on me. I've bought them, on vinyl even, but still haven't given them the "spin" that vinyl affords.
** Prince, it turns out, was awesome.
I've never listened to (or purchased) a Rolling Stones album in my life.
Why?
Many reasons. They're not my thing. Beatles or Stones? Beatles. Pride. Ignorance. Just don't care. Life is too short. Which is strange, because I've purchased albums of other artists who I've never cared for to see what, if anything, I might be missing. Bruce Springsteen comes to mind as an example.* So does Prince.**
The 'Stones came up on some random playlist on the interwebs the other day. It might have been YouTube or Pandora, but it was probably Amazon's music service which flows though the tele into the stereo into my family room. An album is a click away, and so I clicked and added "Sticky Fingers," to my subscription, an album I remember for the vulgar intent of its cover, depicting and even providing an actual zipper embedded therein for purposes of, well, you get it, going back in time to regarding it as a mid-teen (15 years of age? 17?) in Strawberries, Nashua "mall," ca. early 80s. The album itself, it turns out, was released in 1971, me just a toddler of a Toadroller, somewhere in Ohio; most likely in Dayton near an Osinski domicile, not a resident of Plumwood Road.
And so, this evening, as I relaxed from a Sunday of Maine-styled roof-shoveling and errand-running and oil-changing and who knows what-all, reviewing the internet's denizens' definitions of capitalism and economic paradigms and generally making a rage against General Theory, I listened to "Sticky Fingers" from start to finish.
Not bad. Bluesy, swaggery, sloppy, hardly polished and slick, but in the best way, and decent in attitude.
I'll listen again.
*Shame on me. I've bought them, on vinyl even, but still haven't given them the "spin" that vinyl affords.
** Prince, it turns out, was awesome.
Tuesday, February 14, 2017
Quadratus Lumborum! Quadratus Lumborum!
...is Latin for "root cause."
Well, maybe not. But I do think it has been the root cause of much of my back pain.
Over the last few weeks I've been at it again, trying to strengthen my core and stretch anything I can think of to stretch, getting to know various yoga propositions (they're not positions, as there's no way I'll ever reach them). And while noticing strength improvements, I've not really been gaining much in the old-man-flexibility index, which has been hovering around .001 for the last 4-5 years.
Until another set of searches for lithe young yoga practitioners spewing self-spiritu-harmonious advice while tying their legs and arms behind their necks in positions that would confound a salty sailor's knowledge of knots brought me to some videos with diagrams and musculo-skeletal aparatus with very largely bicepped and tricepped men standing beside them talking very seriously with big medical-physio terms and the dos and don'ts of muscle development and gain without the wrong kind of pain.
I'd tried this last year and was convinced of the need to strengthen my Tiger-Woods-style de-activated glutes of maximus, medius and even minimus varieties to the point that I was strong right up until the whole house of cards collapsed and I spent a month barely able to walk, much less laugh or swing a golf club. Which was bad, because it was May.
Well, these very large men who apparently like to pick things up and put them down an awful lot then proceeded to sit on the floor and demonstrate by stretching to an extent to make Mary Lou Retton blush.
What's this Quadratus Lumborum then?
These are the muscles of the lower back that connect from the top of your hip bones to your last rib. Check. They said these are the ones that like to zing and grab. Check. They said if you sleep on your side, one hip is hiked up for long periods of time, and these relaxed Q.L. muscles are happy to shrink up and bind. Check. Oh, and if you're the type of person who often sits in a chair with one leg underneath a hip... Check mate.
They said not to stretch, just yet, but rather to do deep-tissue activation, which they demonstrated by lying on the floor and shoving a tennis ball under their backs at the location of these muscles, and then rolling around on it, doing what to me looked like tenderizing the meat before putting it on the grill. I'm sure you could pay a Helga good money to inflict this type of pain upon you in what is known as a massage. Then they instructed stretches in a couple of ways that were similar to my yoga ladies' propositions, but were frankly obscene to be seen from a large man. Men can't stretch like that!
So I got out a tennis ball and tenderized my Q.L.s what I hoped would prove sufficiently, then folded my legs at the hips and knees this way and that, and began to stretch. Chunk, chunk, chunk! Chiropractic spine cracks rang out in the most satisfying way, and I was able to lean what seemed a good way forward and just rest into the stretch. For a while. It's taken me years to understand that stretching isn't so much about the pressure you put on the muscle, it's about letting the muscle relax once you get it to a stretched position. I unfolded and refolded myself in the opposite direction and gave that a go. Chunk, chunk, ah....
And then I stood up.
I have not been that loose in the hips for twenty years. Elvis' pelvis had nothing on me. I mean, the whole lower back wasn't being held rigid by some tight pressure; I could move. I'd demonstrate, but no one really wants to see that. Not even Mrs. Toadroller. Apparently especially not Mrs. Toadroller. Suffice it to say the change was dramatic and immediate.
And just the beginning.
Over the last two days (in addition to about 5 hours of waltzing my snow blower through 20 inches of snow), I've tenderized and stretched and been able to lean more and more. This has allowed my other muscles to get back to their fundamental responsibilities and stop helping the Q.L.s out.
Hell yeah!
Well, maybe not. But I do think it has been the root cause of much of my back pain.
Over the last few weeks I've been at it again, trying to strengthen my core and stretch anything I can think of to stretch, getting to know various yoga propositions (they're not positions, as there's no way I'll ever reach them). And while noticing strength improvements, I've not really been gaining much in the old-man-flexibility index, which has been hovering around .001 for the last 4-5 years.
Until another set of searches for lithe young yoga practitioners spewing self-spiritu-harmonious advice while tying their legs and arms behind their necks in positions that would confound a salty sailor's knowledge of knots brought me to some videos with diagrams and musculo-skeletal aparatus with very largely bicepped and tricepped men standing beside them talking very seriously with big medical-physio terms and the dos and don'ts of muscle development and gain without the wrong kind of pain.
I'd tried this last year and was convinced of the need to strengthen my Tiger-Woods-style de-activated glutes of maximus, medius and even minimus varieties to the point that I was strong right up until the whole house of cards collapsed and I spent a month barely able to walk, much less laugh or swing a golf club. Which was bad, because it was May.
Well, these very large men who apparently like to pick things up and put them down an awful lot then proceeded to sit on the floor and demonstrate by stretching to an extent to make Mary Lou Retton blush.
What's this Quadratus Lumborum then?
These are the muscles of the lower back that connect from the top of your hip bones to your last rib. Check. They said these are the ones that like to zing and grab. Check. They said if you sleep on your side, one hip is hiked up for long periods of time, and these relaxed Q.L. muscles are happy to shrink up and bind. Check. Oh, and if you're the type of person who often sits in a chair with one leg underneath a hip... Check mate.
They said not to stretch, just yet, but rather to do deep-tissue activation, which they demonstrated by lying on the floor and shoving a tennis ball under their backs at the location of these muscles, and then rolling around on it, doing what to me looked like tenderizing the meat before putting it on the grill. I'm sure you could pay a Helga good money to inflict this type of pain upon you in what is known as a massage. Then they instructed stretches in a couple of ways that were similar to my yoga ladies' propositions, but were frankly obscene to be seen from a large man. Men can't stretch like that!
So I got out a tennis ball and tenderized my Q.L.s what I hoped would prove sufficiently, then folded my legs at the hips and knees this way and that, and began to stretch. Chunk, chunk, chunk! Chiropractic spine cracks rang out in the most satisfying way, and I was able to lean what seemed a good way forward and just rest into the stretch. For a while. It's taken me years to understand that stretching isn't so much about the pressure you put on the muscle, it's about letting the muscle relax once you get it to a stretched position. I unfolded and refolded myself in the opposite direction and gave that a go. Chunk, chunk, ah....
And then I stood up.
I have not been that loose in the hips for twenty years. Elvis' pelvis had nothing on me. I mean, the whole lower back wasn't being held rigid by some tight pressure; I could move. I'd demonstrate, but no one really wants to see that. Not even Mrs. Toadroller. Apparently especially not Mrs. Toadroller. Suffice it to say the change was dramatic and immediate.
And just the beginning.
Over the last two days (in addition to about 5 hours of waltzing my snow blower through 20 inches of snow), I've tenderized and stretched and been able to lean more and more. This has allowed my other muscles to get back to their fundamental responsibilities and stop helping the Q.L.s out.
Hell yeah!
Thursday, January 5, 2017
I find your lack of pressure disturbing
What does it say about about me (or about Audi) that my gut reaction to red low oil pressure warnings animating themselves in glaring red on the instrument panel is to blame and replace the sensor?
Surely the sensor is bad. It's old. It's like a fuse. If the engine hasn't given up the ghost after twenty years and 257,000 miles, why would something go wrong now? A replacement sensor was five bucks. I'll tell you if it was the culprit a little later on.
Failing that test, the next is to get an oil pressure gauge and check it out. Thirty-five bucks on Amazon, or Autozone can loan me one.
Should it fail that test, I may achieve my Uncle Jim's dream of killing a modern car engine through benign neglect.
Edited to add:
One hour later, I'd removed the airbox to get at the old sensor, tucked away as it was under the exhaust manifold. I practiced a little patience with a crescent wrench (who has a 24mm open end wrench?) and it came smoothly off. It replacement went smoothly on. I buttoned her back up, double-checked everything and went for a drive.
Rev the engine, no error light. Up the drive way, no error light. Up the road, no light. Romped on her up to 60 a few times, no light. Drove her in to town and got some gas, no light.
Fifteen miles later, no light.
I love it when it's the sensor!
Surely the sensor is bad. It's old. It's like a fuse. If the engine hasn't given up the ghost after twenty years and 257,000 miles, why would something go wrong now? A replacement sensor was five bucks. I'll tell you if it was the culprit a little later on.
Failing that test, the next is to get an oil pressure gauge and check it out. Thirty-five bucks on Amazon, or Autozone can loan me one.
Should it fail that test, I may achieve my Uncle Jim's dream of killing a modern car engine through benign neglect.
Edited to add:
One hour later, I'd removed the airbox to get at the old sensor, tucked away as it was under the exhaust manifold. I practiced a little patience with a crescent wrench (who has a 24mm open end wrench?) and it came smoothly off. It replacement went smoothly on. I buttoned her back up, double-checked everything and went for a drive.
Rev the engine, no error light. Up the drive way, no error light. Up the road, no light. Romped on her up to 60 a few times, no light. Drove her in to town and got some gas, no light.
Fifteen miles later, no light.
I love it when it's the sensor!
Wednesday, January 4, 2017
Mental anguish
Have you taught yourself to ride a bicycle lately? Tie your shoes? Worked to improve your penmanship?
Nor have I.
But I did receive an electronic drum set for Christmas, and it's much the same experience. My brain (and I suspect yours as well), on trying to learn a new coordination, simply hurts. There's a wall, a humming, a pressure, a blocking obstacle, an insidiously spawned anxiety attack there that is just this side of physical when I try to enforce a new coordination upon it. I can only battle it for a few minutes before I have to get up and walk away.
I encounter this when I make a change to my golf swing, when I try to learn a new song on the guitar, or when I sit down to develop the logic and flow of a customer presentation. There is an order to be investigated, there is a sequence to be memorized, and a tempo to be met. It takes repeated practice for it to stick.
This is mental work. Thinking is hard. But this goes beyond problem-solving and reasoning; here we're doing something physical, ingraining a coordination so we can ride without the training wheels, read and write without spelling each letter of each word, and in the case of drumming, run through a pattern of 1-y-and-a, 2-y-and-a without counting it out.
I draw different insights than, say, Destin and his backward bike, but I bet the mental anguish was the same. Watch his struggles here:
The breakthroughs, though, are worth the sacrifice. After much effort, the passive coordination kicks in and you're able to simply do things, and it's on to the next challenge.
Over the next week I'll be spending a lot of time in a hotel room in Las Vegas on business. I'm not one for gambling, so after a long day of work and thinking and smiling and trying to remember people's names, I'm looking forward to getting back to my room with a pair of sticks and a practice pad to blow off steam with some coordination integration focused execution and speed on a two stroke roll, a para-diddle, and a five stroke roll:
By the way: the exceedingly slow, mechanical strikes he begins with are very important; they tell the muscles what to do. Your brain automatically absorbs the slow and key coordinations through the full path of the drumstick. I played along with this one and was almost able to keep up to the height of his speed. I couldn't believe it. And no, Yoda, I did not fail.
Getting a little fancier, here's a drummer who'd been at it for ten years before he really broke down the para diddle rudiment and then knocked it out of the park. It only took him a few months of steady practice.
Wish me luck.
Nor have I.
But I did receive an electronic drum set for Christmas, and it's much the same experience. My brain (and I suspect yours as well), on trying to learn a new coordination, simply hurts. There's a wall, a humming, a pressure, a blocking obstacle, an insidiously spawned anxiety attack there that is just this side of physical when I try to enforce a new coordination upon it. I can only battle it for a few minutes before I have to get up and walk away.
I encounter this when I make a change to my golf swing, when I try to learn a new song on the guitar, or when I sit down to develop the logic and flow of a customer presentation. There is an order to be investigated, there is a sequence to be memorized, and a tempo to be met. It takes repeated practice for it to stick.
This is mental work. Thinking is hard. But this goes beyond problem-solving and reasoning; here we're doing something physical, ingraining a coordination so we can ride without the training wheels, read and write without spelling each letter of each word, and in the case of drumming, run through a pattern of 1-y-and-a, 2-y-and-a without counting it out.
I draw different insights than, say, Destin and his backward bike, but I bet the mental anguish was the same. Watch his struggles here:
The breakthroughs, though, are worth the sacrifice. After much effort, the passive coordination kicks in and you're able to simply do things, and it's on to the next challenge.
Over the next week I'll be spending a lot of time in a hotel room in Las Vegas on business. I'm not one for gambling, so after a long day of work and thinking and smiling and trying to remember people's names, I'm looking forward to getting back to my room with a pair of sticks and a practice pad to blow off steam with some coordination integration focused execution and speed on a two stroke roll, a para-diddle, and a five stroke roll:
By the way: the exceedingly slow, mechanical strikes he begins with are very important; they tell the muscles what to do. Your brain automatically absorbs the slow and key coordinations through the full path of the drumstick. I played along with this one and was almost able to keep up to the height of his speed. I couldn't believe it. And no, Yoda, I did not fail.
Getting a little fancier, here's a drummer who'd been at it for ten years before he really broke down the para diddle rudiment and then knocked it out of the park. It only took him a few months of steady practice.
Wish me luck.
It's a Raymond Chandler Evening
Raymond Chandler's The Big Sleep starts with:
The dialogue's vernacular is comprised of dames and soldiers, dusting-offs and skipping town, colts and blackjacks, club-ears and worn suits; they're crafted into phrases like "Shake your business up and pour it. I haven't got all day," and "You've been following me around for a couple of days, like a fellow trying to pick up a girl and lacking the last inch of nerve. Maybe you're selling insurance. Maybe you knew a fellow called Joe Brody. That's a lot of maybes, but I have a lot on hand in my business."
Lose yourself in West Hollywood hacks and private dicks, spoiled rich women and crooked cops, dirty smut and desperate dames. It's better than watching the tele.
It was about eleven o'clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills. I was wearing my powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie, tie and display handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark blue clocks on them. I was neat, clean, shaved and sober, and I didn't care who knew it. I was everything the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was calling on four million dollars.And gets better...
The lean black-eyed credit jeweler was standing in his entrance in the same position as the afternoon before. He gave me the same knowing look as I turned in. The store looked just the same. The same lamp glowed on the small desk in the corner and the same ash blonde in the same black suede-like dress got up from behind it and came towards me with the same tentative smile on her face.
+++It was raining again the next morning, a slanting gray rain like a swung curtain of crystal beads. I got up feeling sluggish and tired and stood looking out of the windows, with a dark harsh taste of Sternwoods still in my mouth. I was as empty of life as a scarecrow's pockets. I went out to the kitchenette and drank two cups of black coffee. You can have a hangover from other things than alcohol. I had one from women. Women made me sick.
+++
The blonde spat at me and threw herself on my leg and tried to bite that. I cracked her on the head with the gun, not very hard, and tried to stand up. She rolled down my legs and wrapped her arms around them. I fell back on the davenport. The blonde was strong with the madness of love or fear, or a mixture of both, or maybe she was just strong.
+++
A small man with glasses and a tired face and a black bag came down the steps from the pier. He picked out a fairly clean spot on the deck and put the bag down. Then he took his hat off and rubbed the back of his neck and stared out to sea, as if he didn't know where he was or what he had come for.
+++
Lose yourself in West Hollywood hacks and private dicks, spoiled rich women and crooked cops, dirty smut and desperate dames. It's better than watching the tele.
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