The MGB Experience

A few weeks ago, I wrote a post about how I have always been intrigued with repairing things.  Since I was a kid, the challenge of taking a broken down item and making it work again would consume my thoughts until I succeeded or had to cry uncle.  When I wrote this, I was lamenting about my 1976 MGB restoration project that has just become such an albatross, that I threw in the towel and moved on to a 1979 MGB that I can actually drive. 

Well, the flat bed truck came this week and took away my '76.  It was a bittersweet moment as I helped push her on the "hearse" and loaded all of the doors and other large pieces of her onto the truck.  The time had come to say goodbye to an old friend.  If you have never driven a British sports car, then you may not understand my obsession.  They ride hard, they burn oil, they are not particularly fast off the block, and they can really be a pain in the ass to work on.  But, simply stated, they are the most fun car you can ever hope to drive.  They have a great sound, corner hard, and just seem to bring you back to a time when "motoring" was a hobby.  Stated differently, these cars force you to enjoy the journey, and not just focus on the destination.

And that is something I can use in today's fast pace.  I no sooner learn how to text, then I have to learn what tweeting is.  My Blockbuster store closed, and now I get movies from a Coke machine in the CVS parking lot.  My cell phone has maps and apps, and I have no idea how to use any of it, including the phone.  I buy books on the computer and buy computers in the bookstore. 

So it is nice to have something that has not changed in thirty something years.  I like the creaks and squeaks.  I like the smell of the burning oil.  I like the low technology of it. 

The bitter part of watching the '76 go was quickly replaced by the sweetness of a ride around town in the working '79.   I'll see you out there.












  

Fixing big mistakes

The Big Eraser, on the Mall in Washington, D.C.

Today while driving, and then watching the news tonight on T.V. something hit me about all of the political ads.  These people are perfect.  They never make mistakes.  Their opponent makes nothing but mistakes.

No one likes to make mistakes.  But we all do.  Without mistakes, we would not learn how to do things better; to be better.  If we are not making mistakes, we are not trying. 

A personal hero of mine has always been Thomas Edison, the esteemed inventor.   What I love most about him is that he understood his own shortcomings, and worked tirelessly until he solved a problem.  One of my favorite quotes of his is:

If I find 10,000 ways something won't work, I haven't failed. I am not discouraged, because every wrong attempt discarded is often a step forward.   

I admire Edison for understanding that he had to make mistakes in order to move forward.  While I understand that the politicians have to play to sound bites and that they are trying to paint themselves in the best light, they defeat themselves, in my eyes, by not having the willingness to admit that they have made mistakes along the way and have learned from them.  

Follow up:  I just fixed a typo.  Another mistake fixed.

 

 

Shhh..it's Secret

Artist rendering of Secret Squirrel, right, and his longtime accomplice Morrocco Mole

In his never ending quest to find yesterday's celebrities in today's settings, investigative journalist Jim follows every lead, and leaves no stone unturned.  If you will recall, last week Jim tracked down the former leader of the Gallactic Empire, Darth Vader.  Now going by the stage name of DJDV, Vader is in charge of spinning the viral at a downtown dance club.  Vader is enjoying his retirement from the big screen and finds spinning discs relaxing, yet exciting at the same time.



As promised, Jim is now hot on the trail of one of his favorite Saturday Morning superstars, Secret Squirrel.  It is common knowledge that most animated super hero's are modeled after actual living people.  As a lifelong member of the Secret Squirrel Fan Club, meeting his hero has always been a big dream of Jim's.

Jim's SS fan club patch.

Jim began his quest anew in recent months after reports that the James Bond-esque rodent was in retirement at a local park.  As can be expected there were several imposters trying to cash in on
the famous squirrel.

Jim scoured one park after another until he came across who he thought was the actual Agent 000 of the International Sneaky Service, but as the picture below shows, this was just a street performer looking to steal his fifteen minutes of fame.

Just another Secret Squirrel impersonator.

 After many months of searching, Jim came upon a promising lead.  It seems that S.S had been attracted to the mighty northwest forest of Washington State.  As detailed by an anonymous lead who identity cannot be divulged, it seems that the attraction of larger than normal acorn trees and virtual anonymity was the main attraction for the move.  Leaving the glamor of the spotlight was no doubt a big change for the bushy-tailed spy, and Jim knew that finding him would be an even greater challenge than searching the city parks.

Then, weary from days of endless searching, Jim was in need of a break.  Not even noticing the sign on the restaurant, Jim sat at the center of the oak and chestnut counter and ordered a coffee. Jim was unknowingly nearing his quest (or in layman's terms, he was getting warmer).  The sign on the front of the store was:

 After a couple of sips of coffee, and a bite of nut loaf, Jim took a good look at the short order cook behind the counter.  Sure he had aged, lost his Fez, and was now wearing contact lenses, but Jim still recognized the incomparable sidekick of the greatest spy the woods has ever known.  Although he would not divulge the whereabouts of his old pal, Morocco Mole did allow a brief interview and a picture with our reporter. 

Morocco Mole,left with our reporter

Morocco during his time on the Secret Squirrel Show

 For Jim, the thrill of meeting the best buddy of his childhood hero was unimaginable.  But the search continues.  Stay tuned.

Speaking of Ben...

A couple of years ago, a guidance councilor from a local junior/senior high school called my office and asked for some help.  The school was having a career day for their eighth grade class, and it was this person's job to line up speakers for the morning.  She explained to me that the goal of the school was to provide the kids with an understanding what different career paths they could take.  She was wondering if I would be willing to come in and give a short speech about the building trades, and what opportunities they presented as a career choice.

As she was giving me the hard sell as to why it would be great if I would agree to it, my mind began to wonder what other professions would be speaking that day.  "Mmmm...uh, huh", I kept saying as I was not listening to the sales pitch, all the while picturing doctors, lawyers, astronauts, and great actors such as Ben Affleck speaking before me.  I played out a scenario where the speaker before me would have dazzled the kids with his time traveling machine, and then I would be introduced as, "Now we have the guy that fixes your toilet".  "Mmmm...uh, huh" this was going to be great.

Then I thought, "I bet Ben Affleck can't install a water heater with his fake Bawhstin accent, and his superior acting skills".  I saw Good Will Hunting.  Old Ben didn't even know how to swing a hammer.  And the guy with the time travel machine, fu** him!  Big deal.  I bet he wouldn't know how to fix his boiler if it broke down, and would have to freeze his butt off until I got to his house and replaced the thermo-coupling on his pilot assembly.  Take that science guy.  How do you like me now?

In my zeal of my imaginary competition with all of the other professions in the world, somehow I agreed to do the speech.  I think that I said one "Mmmm...uh, huh's" too many.  In that one fleeting moment, I was going to show all those kids that the trades were the way to go.  About five minutes after the call, Ben Affleck and Bill Nye the Science Guy had left my head and I was left with the realization what I had just agreed to do.

I had taken a couple of public speaking courses in college.  I knew that a good public speaker has to engage his audience.  Get the kids interested in plumbing...what could be hard about that?  Oh well, I had a couple of weeks to think about it, and if all else fails, I would just wing it.  And I was quite sure that I was over the reaction my body had to public speaking in the past.  Imagine taking a nice, long, cool drink of sand and cotton balls, and then trying to speak out loud.  Yeah, I was sure that I was over this.

So I began to think how I would engage the kids in this interesting career path.  My first thought for my speech was to go over the five unwritten rules of plumbing.  They are:
      1. Tight is tight.  Too tight is broken.
      2. Shit does not flow uphill.
      3. Hot on the left.  Cold on the right.
      4. Don't bite your fingernails.
      5. Pay day is on Friday.                                                                                                                         

I could hear Ben Affleck in my head saying, "Yeah, wicked pissah Joey boy.  Funny stuff", so I knew that this approach would be a box-office disaster.  And besides, I never really understood Rule # 5, and Rule # 4 I learned the hard way when I was an apprentice.  Let's just say you never forget the taste of the stuff of Rule # 2.  No, let's leave the rules out of it.

I decided the best way to go was to just wing it on the day of the speech.  After all, these were just kids, and I had been coaching kids for years and was used to speaking in front of a whole bunch of them.   I would ask a couple of questions about plumbing, electricity, and carpentry and these kids would relate.  I would make a few jokes, and by the time I was done I would have convinced an entire class of 8th graders that trade school was the way to go.  And, if there was enough time left, we could all break into the Bill Nye the Science Guy theme song, or maybe watch the Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez blockbuster Gigli.  Riveting.

So the big day came, and I was due to speak at 9:30 AM.  I got to the school at 9:00 and sat in the back of the auditorium.  The speaker before me was a young woman who was a massage therapist.  Ok, so no doctors, lawyers, or Hollywood icons (think: Gigli)  "I got this", I thought to myself.  The massage therapist did a great job.  She had visual aids, was concise, and even told a funny story about her work.  Before I knew it, she was done and I was being introduced.

I am not going to say that my speech influenced a group of 8th graders to not want to be doctors or lawyers.  And I am not going to say that I bombed (much like the 2003 romantic comedy Gigli, starring Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez).  Let me just say that I remember what the sand and cotton ball cocktail tastes like, but I had a bottle of water with me.  I winged off a few funny stories about my trade, and the kids seemed to like it.  I did not bite my fingernails (refer to Rule #4), but the experience was not the most comfortable for me either and I was really tempted to to gnaw on a knuckle or two.

When it was all said and done, I could tell that most of the kids were really not that interested in the trades, or becoming an electrician or a plumber.  And I can understand why.  When you are an 8th grader, you should aspire to be Bill Nye the Science Guy, or a doctor or a lawyer...I did. When you are 13 or 14 years old, you want to be a baseball star, or the first woman President.  You want to be an astronaut, or a dentist, or the first person to fly to Mars.  At that age, you should dream big dreams.

I poke fun at Ben Affleck.  He may not be the best actor, but he is doing what he loves to do.  Ok, so Gigli was a bomb, as were a couple of other of his works, and his Boston accent is so forced that it could make shit flow uphill (Refer to Rule # 2), but he seems to be a good husband and father and is providing for his family in a job that he loves to do.

 In my speech to the kids, my most important point that I made is that you have to love what you do for work, so much so, that it is never work.  You must look forward to getting up everyday (well, almost every day) to go to your job.  Dream the big dream, but enjoy the journey most of all.  And look forward to Friday because that is apparently when you get paid.  

Darth Vader's new gig

                           
                                                         Darth and Jim before the show

Ever since the last movie, Jim was in search of what happened to Luke Skywalker's father.  It took years of searching, but he finally caught up with ol' Anakin Skywalker spinning discs at a downtown club in a city known for it's edgy entertainment emporiums.

As is evident in the picture, Darth still has the helmet head from years of wearing the get-up from his days as the leader of the dark side, but after some time in the sun, he has lost the pasty pale skin tones acquired from years under the cloak zipping throughout the cosmos trying to defeat the Rebel Alliance.

Darth seems to be happy playing the hits and asked Jim to join him behind the turntable booth for a quick lightsaber duel (toys of course).

Jim's next quest is to find his old pal from Saturday mornings, the incomparable Secret Squirrel. Stay tuned.

Rah rah rah be true to your school

I guess for me, choosing the purple school had been somewhat of a letdown for the first five or six months.  That is of course except for the Senior/Freshman dance that they had back in October.  This school did not have a gymnasium for dances, so the cafeteria tables were all folded up and put away for the big night.  All of us freshman boys were lined up along the walls, too afraid to move, and not having a clue what was going on, while the freshman girls and most of the senior boys and girls were dancing and having a blast. 

The purpose of the Senior/Freshman dance was for the seniors to dance with the freshman to help welcome them to the school, and to help assimilate the newbies into the school.  Every now and then, a senior girl would come over to ask one of us freshman boys to dance.  For us freshman boys, meeting a senior girl was even better than meeting a rock star.  Every time one of our buddies was asked to dance, all of the other guys would stand there with our mouths open, then turn to each other and simultaneously say "Wow", then hit each other and laugh like little girls.

When Elizabeth came over and asked me to dance, it was like time all of sudden stood still.  I tried to be cool and say "Sure I would love to", but I think I muttered something that sounded more like "Yabba, dabba, doo".  She grabbed my hand and took me out the dance floor and we danced one quick fast dance.  Well, she danced.  I just looked like I was squishing ants and batting at flies.  I remember not knowing what to do with my arms, and had the incredible need to keep rolling up my sleeves.  Tough to do with a short sleeved shirt on. 

When the song ended, and the music slowed down, I froze.  Do I run back to the wall?  Do I ask for her phone number?  What do I do?  I was sure that she had fulfilled some sort of contract with the nuns by dancing one dance with a freshman boy, and could now leave. But then Elizabeth put her arms over my shoulders, and continued dancing.  I cannot honestly say that I do not remember anything else about this dance with her, except that we talked, I actually spoke articulately.  We talked about the school, and some of the teachers, and we laughed.  Here I was, a geeky little freshman dancing and having a conversation with a senior girl. 

When it was over, she said thank you, and although I thought for sure that I would inadvertently repeat my "Yabba Dabba Doo" line, I thanked her instead, and real words came out of my mouth.  She went back to her friends as did I.  She went back having done a really nice thing, and I went back different than when I went out on the floor.  Yes, she was a senior girl, a rock star,  but in the previous five or six minutes she became way more than that in my eyes.  She became a really nice person, and a friend who continued to say "Hi" to me for months to come as we passed each other in the hallways.  

As I was walking back to the wall, at that very moment, I really did feel that I was a part of this school.  Except for one thing.

In that purple brochure, a special emphasis was placed on the sports history of this school.  For me, the purple experience would not be complete unless I played on a sports team.  So here it was in early March, and I had missed football tryouts, spent the winter watching basketball and hockey games from the stands because I had not been born with the genes that give the talent for either one, and I had been cut from not one, but three baseball teams.

In leading up to tell of my next attempt at athletic glory, I remembered this story about Elizabeth.  I remembered why making a team meant more to me than just playing a sport.  The school had given us freshman the chance to be welcomed by our peers, and for me that really did happen the night of the dance.  I really loved this school at this point, and really loved being a part of the tradition.  I finally understood the meaning of the Beach Boys words: be true to your school now.  I had learned to be able to speak 'non-Flintstone' words to girls thanks to Elizabeth, but now I just needed the lettermans' jacket so I could, as the Beach Boys said, let my colors fly. 

Striking out

The postings for cuts for the three baseball teams went up outside the basement office of the athletic director on the morning following the last day of tryouts.  More correctly, the rosters for the teams were tacked to the bulletin board, and if your name was on one of the lists, you were on a team.  My name was not on the Varsity roster, strike one.  Nor was it on the JV roster, strike two.  Finally, I swung at the Freshman roster and, strike three...yer out.  And there I stood at the plate glass window that covered the bulletin board, and stared in disbelief.

I was young and naive and at first could not understand why I did not even get a chance to show what my best baseball talent was, namely, pitching.  My first youthful reaction was to feel that it was just not fair.  Naturally, it was not my fault that I had not made the team, it was the head coach's fault.  I hit every pitch thrown at me.  I fielded balls in the outfield, and actually made a throw to second base that caught a greedy base runner.  I shagged balls in batting practice.  But that damned head coach never let me pitch, and that is the reason, I concluded, why my name was not on any roster.  It was not fair.

The truth of the matter is that I was young and naive to think I had chance to make any of the teams.  I was a 'walk-on' candidate, trying to roster on what turned out to be a state champion baseball team.  The machine that made that team successful had begun several years before on the baseball fields all across our city and beyond.  Baseball was serious business for the coaches of this team. They coached in the senior and junior Babe Ruth leagues, held camps for Little League players to help develop their talents, and even worked with area college baseball teams to help develop their players talents and abilities.

I had no knowledge of all of these camps.  I had stopped playing Little League years before, and never even tried out for Babe Ruth ball.  No, the reason that I did not make the baseball team had nothing to do with the coach's unfairness to me.  The reason that I did not make the team is that most of the guys that did make the team had been working at baseball for years and had earned their spots on the roster.   The coaches knew these kids and had seen them play, and could fit them into their scheme.  Of course, I did not realize any of this then. 

Part of the beauty of being young and naive though is that you can shrug off adversity and move on to the next challenge.  Next to the bulletin board where my name was most unfairly not listed was a sign up sheet for another varsity sport tryout that was to happen in a couple of days.  I wrote my name down and headed off to science class.  Baseball be damned.  I may have struck out on this sport,  but now I was going to strike out on a new adventure.  I had a new pitch to throw.