10/29/16
It’s been almost two months since the 912 left me stranded in the South Bay. It has been running but not running well. At the time it quit running, I thought that the reason it stopped was a loose wire on the coil because I got it running after I jiggled the wire a day later after it had been towed to my house and the engine started, even though jiggling the same wire had not worked the day the engine quit. Getting it to run did not fix the aberrant behavior of the tachometer, as it continued to swing wildly, nor did it erase the niggling suspicion I had that the engine was not running well, which frustrated me.
At first I was frustrated because I wanted to continue to drive the 912 to work a couple of days a week but did not feel comfortable doing so, even though I left the driveway in it a few times only to feel the niggling in my head and return home. Then I was frustrated because I couldn’t get it looked at. Then I was frustrated because I had to juggle too many cars in the driveway when Kimberly, my younger daughter, stayed over. Then I was frustrated because I took it to my renegade Porsche breakfast and everyone concurred that it was running, or at least idling, well, everyone but me that is. Then I was frustrated because I found out I have to spend a boatload of money to get a good baseline analysis of the 912, something I had already done somewhere else. Finally, I was frustrated because I still thought the problem was electrical or fuel related, not engine related, and I did not think the baseline would find that.
Despite my mounting frustration and my feelings of impending doom every time I drove it, I have driven it sporadically over the past six weeks, most recently last Saturday when I drove it to Mel’s Diner for breakfast with my Los Angeles PCA buddies, my first appearance at a Los Angeles PCA event since the renegade group’s self imposed exile in February. I was a little leery about taking the 912, not being completely confident that it would make it up Doheny all the way to Sunset. It did. Predictably, I just missed the light at Sunset, forcing me to stop at the signal. I then had to use the emergency brake to prevent me from rolling back down the hill as I tried to turn right from a dead stop. Of course, I was embarrassed, having driven a manual transmission enough years to know how to just dump the clutch and get the car going forward without rolling backwards on all but the steepest grades.
After arriving at breakfast with no further incidents, I started to feel like maybe the car worked okay and all the niggles in my head were false alarms. Then I left breakfast, whi
ch was actually lots of fun, and headed down the hill, figuring it would be the easy part of the drive. It was, but I noticed that the engine was stuttering as I was driving down the hill. Not a good sign. I ignored it, but the niggling started up in my brain again. Drove to the market. Then drove home. On the ride home the engine stuttered again. I put it in the driveway, covered it and forgot about it for the remainder of the week.
Today I took the cover off and started it up again. I was still convinced that problem was electrical or fuel related, and I was going to test my theory. I was prepared. My VW guru, Dilthon, had emailed me coil testing procedures using an ohmmeter. I had had an electronics class in high school, some forty-something years ago, so I vaguely remembered what an ohmmeter was and how to use it. Of course, I do not currently have an ohmmeter, but Andy, who sits next to me at work, has one and brought it in for me to borrow. I sat at my desk at home today and read the coil testing procedures. I was okay with removing the wires and testing the resting resistance. Then I got to the part about making it spark and needing another person to help me, and I said, “F**k this. I am going for a drive instead.” Big mistake.
I did not have ambitious plans. I thought I would just drive around in a four square block area around my house. Excellent idea. So off I went. I made it about three laps, and I was just about to start the fourth when disaster struck. The 912 just stopped running. Deja vu, I thought. I was still convinced that my wire jiggling fixed the problem last time. So I was pretty confident that when the 912 stopped running right around the corner from my house I would just jiggle some wires and the engine would start. Easy. Wrong. I jiggled the wire that I thought was the culprit. I sat in the driver’s seat and turned the key. Nothing. I went back and jiggled more wires. I sat back in the driver’s seat and turned the key again. Nothing. They say that expecting a different result from the same set of circumstances is a sign of insanity. So I must have been insane because I jiggled the wires again and sat back down in the driver’s seat and turned the key. Nothing.
I could see my house. It was just around the corner, about 50 yards away. I said to myself, “No stress. I will just push it.” Then I realized it was on a subtle incline. Maybe one degree, but I knew I couldn’t do it myself. I walked home. It took all of 30 seconds. I rousted Kim, who was over for the weekend, off the couch and asked her to help me. We walked back to the car. She got in the driver’s seat. I couldn’t help myself. I guess my temporary insanity had returned. I told her to try to start it while I jiggled the wires yet again. Nothing.
I made sure the car was in neutral, positioned myself at the rear of the car, asked Kim to release the emergency brake, and pushed. Nothing. That was as effective as jiggling the wires, just a lot more tiring. I told Kim to reset the emergency brake. I figured I would walk to John’s house and get him to help, as I had seen his car in his driveway on one of my laps around the neighborhood.
It turned out that John was not there, having gone bicycle riding with Don, his brother in law. But Kristin was there. She was sick and watching football, but she was a trooper and I convinced her it would not be too difficult to push the car. She agreed to help, and we walked back to the car and tried to push it. This time it worked. We got the car moving, made it to the stop sign, which was about 20 feet from where the 912 had been stopped, and then negotiated the left turn onto my street. Then the car was able to coast on a slight downhill, enabling Kris and I to stop pushing and allowing Kim to easily steer down the street and into my driveway. There was just one problem. The front of the driveway has an upslope, which was steep enough to stop the car before it made it all the way up on to the flat part of the driveway. Kris and I tried to push it a few times. It was futile, and the car would not budge. The incline was too steep for us. Apparently it was too steep for the emergency brake, too, as it was hard to keep the car in place as we debated what to do.
I checked out my neighbors’ driveways, looking to see who was home and started to ring one’s doorbell when I noticed a stranger and his wife walking their dog up my street. I recruited him to the cause, and with three of us pushing and Kim steering, we pushed it onto the flat part of the driveway. Much to Kim’s chagrin, I had us stop before we got all the way up to the spot where the 912 would be parked, a spot far enough up the driveway that Kim and Pam could park behind it. I thanked Kris and the stranger. Before the stranger left, he and his wife complimented the 912, saying it was a beautiful car. I agreed. Then the stranger said, “By the way, If you want to sell it, I know someone who would be interested.” I told him I wasn’t interested in selling it. He did make me fell better about owning it, though, despite the fact that it is a money abyss. I bade goodbye to Kris and the stranger. Kim was still concerned that I would not be able to push the 912 the rest of the way, but I told her not to worry, Pam would be home soon and she could help us if we needed it.
Then my temporary insanity returned. So I jumped into the driver’s seat and tried to start the car. It worked! Proving that I was not insane for trying. It also proved that the wires had nothing to do with the two times the engine had quit and that jiggling them had made no difference whatsoever, convincing me that the coil has been slowly failing, causing the car to run poorly and to sporadically stop running. Letting the coil cool down must have enabled it to work well enough to start the car and keep it running for a while.
I will be buying a new coil and testing that theory next week. Though it would have been smarter and easier to use it, I guess I really didn’t need the ohmmeter after all. I will be bringing it back to Andy on Monday.
am and I saw Keith Urban perform during his Los Angeles stop as part of the Ripcord tour. On the day after the show when my coworkers asked about it, I honestly answered, “It was life changing.”
I wanted to see Keith Urban, but my main motivation for going was Maren Morris. I was more than willing to buy the tickets to hear her perform “My Church” live, even if that was the only song I heard the entire show. I connected with that song the first time I heard it. It was love at first hearing. I was coming down Beverly Glen, one of the canyon roads in West Los Angeles, after driving for several hours with my Porsche buddies all over the twisting back roads of Malibu. I noticed that my trip odometer had just hit 100 miles for the day, and I noticed that my thermometer was showing an outside temperature of 100 degrees. Thinking to myself that “100 Miles of Fun, 100 Degrees of Sun” would make a great title for something, I stopped the car on a side street so I could take a picture of my dashboard to document it. Just as I took the shot, “My Church” came on the radio. I loved the overall sound, her voice, and the lyrics, especially the lyrics. There I was sitting in my Porsche after driving 100 miles for fun, and Maren Morris was singing about getting holy redemption when she puts her car in drive. My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe it. She had expressed exactly how I felt on a daily basis. I was hooked.
Some shows are special. Some artists are special. Some crowds are special. Thursday night Keith Urban was special. Until Thursday night at Staples, I had never experienced a show in which a performer came close to matching any of my experiences at a Bruce Springsteen concert. That changed on Thursday night. Until Thursday night, listening to Keith Urban’s songs on the radio had been fine, but nothing special. His songs have always been pleasant, well produced and enjoyable, though they have never been compelling. On Thursday night that changed, too. I will never be able to listen to his songs the same way again. Apparently, all I needed to do to connect, really connect, with a Keith Urban song was to experience him perform it live. Either he has improved tremendously as an artist or I was just really dense when I saw him six years ago because I did not have this reaction then.
In our ceaseless search for new and exciting adventures, Pam decided we should go to see the mass pumpkin carving and art show called “Rise of The Jack O’Lanterns” at the Convention Center. What could I say? Of course, I thought it was a great idea. I mean I went to see the 40 foot bunnies invading downtown earlier this year, so looking at a bunch of carved pumpkins sounded great. In reality, I think it was just an excuse to get me to go downtown on the Metro Link, so I can enjoy the kitschy surroundings on the way there.
I grew up in Los Angeles. Until recently downtown was a ghost town on the weekends. Not anymore. There is lots to do and lots of people are downtown every weekend. There are even people paying lots of rent to live downtown, actually outnumbering the ones who live rent free. So we went downtown, accompanied by Kristin, as John was on a tour de national park with his brother in law, Don. The ride downtown was fine, despite the fact that it was crowded enough that I had to stand just about the whole way. Thankfully, the antiseptic smells were muted, no other smells were wafting inside the cabin of the car, and no one was talking to themselves or yelling at other passengers.
were lots of pumpkins, something on the order of 5,000 of them, all in various states of decay. The smell of pumpkin was palpable and concentrated due to the indoor nature of the event. It was dark enough in there that I had to be careful not to run into people and strollers, especially strollers, which were left indiscriminately in my path. Speaking of paths, the event literature mentioned that it would take about 45 minutes to walk the entire path, and advised all visitors to visit the facilities before starting down the path. I envisioned we would all be walking in the same direction, just flowing thru the exhibit following the person in front of me. The reality was that there was no path. Sure going in and out was not allowed, but I could walk any way I wanted and see the exhibit in any way I desired. Knowing my proclivity for taking shortcuts through museums and other exhibits, Pam and Kris put the kibosh on that, and I was relegated to the rear, as they negotiated the “path.”
This was an interestingly difficult event to produce. It was in the Convention Center for four days. It’s hard to imagine carving 5,000 pumpkins, but they did. And then two weeks later in Pomona they do it again. I have no idea how long it takes to carve a complex design on a pumpkin. I remember how long it took me to carve simple faces on pumpkins in my youth and with my kids. For me the time consuming and tough part was creating a design to fit the face of the pumpkin I was carving. I always believed that there was a face waiting to be exposed in every pumpkin, it just took time to see it before I started. Of course, the face I was carving was just a motley collection of squares, circles and triangles. Even so, I never had a plan in mind before I saw the pumpkin. I guess if you know the face you want to carve, you can pick the right pumpkin, but the thought of selecting the right pumpkin out
of a sea of 5,000 of them overwhelms me. In any event, I was pretty impressed with the skills the carvers possessed. They are artists, in the same sense that sand castle builders, and ice sculpture builders are artists. Their works are ephemeral, but they are masters of their process and their craft.
fter intense criticism of their somewhat prophetic, and shockingly tame, anti-Iraq war sentiment in 2003. The result of expressing that sentiment was an absolute shit storm. The consequences of which were their banishment from Country Radio, their creation of a genre neutral masterpiece of an album titled Taking The Long Way in response, their loss of a fan base, and ultimately, their retreat from touring. When Pam noticed that they were going to play at the Bowl this year, there was no doubt in my mind that we were going.
art of the allure of the Dixie Chicks show was that they played well known songs, making the show a great big party. Sure they added a few unexpected covers of songs by Dylan, Beyoncé, yes Beyoncé, Patty Griffin, Ben Harper, and, of course, Fleetwood Mac. In addition, I thoroughly enjoyed the bluegrass instrumental version of “Single Ladies (Put a Ring On it),” another Beyoncé song. But the majority of the show was a trip down memory lane for me. There were no highs and lows, just one flawless song after another. Shockingly, there was one costume change, albeit a simple one, after which Natalie proclaimed that this was the first tour with a costume change in their history. If pressed, I would say I liked the acoustic series of songs when they played seated and informally interacted with the crowd the best, but “Sin Wagon'” “Goodbye Earl,” “Ready To Run,” “Wide Open Spaces” and “Cowboy Take Me Away” were show stoppers, making any ranking close to impossible.
Because I couldn’t really see out the front window it took me twice as long as usual to get to the Shell station a few blocks away, where I was meeting Mark, When I got there, he was already waiting. I gassed up and then realized that I had forgotten to adjust my tire pressure the day before and wanted to top off the tires before we tackled the curves. Unfortunately, the air compressor was out of commission at the Shell station, so I figured I would deal with it in La Canada, where we were meeting to start the drive.
Mark and I took off down Robertson so we could get on the freeway and head east towards downtown on the way to La Canada. Mark, who loves to hammer his accelerator any chance he gets, surprised me by opting to go behind me, claiming he had no sense of direction and needing me to lead. Big mistake. My car was still littered with moisture, and as we left the gas station, most of it flew off my car and landed in his convertible. Oops.
The drive up Angeles Crest to Newcomb’s Ranch, where we stopped for a rest break, was sublime. There was very little traffic. The bicycles were few and far between. Our run group leader, Alan, was effectively using a walkie talkie to alert us as we came up on the riders. The motorcycles were few and far between and mostly well behaved, except for two nutcases who passed through our run group at high speed, cutting most of us off in dramatic fashion before disappearing up the road.
We left Newcomb’s and headed up Angeles Crest towards Wrightwood. The road was empty; the sky was blue; the gravel was flying….literally. It turns out that Angeles Crest was being repaved just up the road from Newcomb’s and there was loose gravel everywhere. We slowed down, spread out and, for what felt like an eternity, made our way past the construction zone. Eventually were back on smooth pavement and cruising into Wrightwood. Even though I am a native of Los Angeles, I frequently forget that there is a 7,000 foot summit just a few miles from downtown Los Angeles. I remembered in a hurry during the drive, as we tackled turn after turn on the way up before dropping down into Wrightwood for lunch.
d home. The drive organizer had provided us with several routes home, but none of the drives was part of the planned outing. Mark and I formed a small group of five cars that were interested in taking the twistiest route home. This was unchartered driving for us, and despite the clear directions, we missed every turn point on the route, even with the cars with navigators in the passenger seat leading. Given the speed at which we were driving, this came as no surprise nor did it impede our enjoyment. We drove on Big Pines Highway, Valyermo Road, Fort Tejon Road, Mount Emma Road, Angeles Forest Highway and Big Tujunga Canyon. For the majority of the 60 odd miles we were the only vehicles on the roads. And what roads they 
were. Nice straights. Nice sweeping corners. Nice tight curves. Roads that were made for sports cars. Roads that were made for Porsches. Roads that were made for fun. We did nothing stupid, but we went as fast as I ever want to drive on backroads. My Cayman, like the rest of the Porsches, was just amazingly precise, balanced and agile, making the drive an absolute joy.
ew we were in for a loud night when the pre-show music was playing so loud it hurt my ears. Dustin Lynch is not a big country star, but he has some great songs, including Cowboys and Angels, Small Town Boy Like Me, She Wants a Cowboy, and Seein’ Red. Modern songs that still sound country. And then there is She Cranks My Tractor with lyrics that rival those of Sugar, Sugar by the Archies. Despite the sparse crowd, Dustin played a high energy opening set. At times, though, I had to put my finger in my ear, it was just so damn loud. His performance has made fans out of Pam and me, even if he did look a little like Justin Bieber in a cowboy hat.
ver. Frankly, I heard and loved all those songs, but my interest soared once the first notes of Girl Crush filled the Forum. Girl Crush is a simple song musically. The instruments provide background sound at best. The song works because of the quality of its lead singer, Karen Fairchild. And she delivered the other night. I cannot tolerate singers that can only produce quality songs in the studio. The real test for me, is how they sound live. Karen Fairchild did not disappoint. She was amazing.
ad of rap and hip hop. So we were really ready for the opening act, the Swon Brothers, an act we had seen on The Voice and liked. Overall, the Swon Brothers did an okay job. It is obvious that they are not experienced performers, but that was not really an issue for us. The real issue was the sound. It was not mixed properly and the vocals were drowned out by the remainder of the instruments. If I wanted to hear an instrumental, I would listen to jazz or classical music, but this is country, and the lyrics are what it’s about. The other issue, which had less of an impact, was the staging for Carrie Underwood. Instead of the traditional stage running across one of the small ends of an arena, the staging for Carrie Underwood ran the length of the arena floor, meaning the stage was about as long as a basketball court. To make it more interesting for the fans, the band plays within a circle that revolves giving a front on view to all seats for some period of time. This staging does provide for more fans to get a better view of the performers, but you need to have a big enough band and be on stage long enough to take advantage of it. The Swon Brothers looked like they were victims of a shipwreck huddling on a lifeboat floundering in a big sea. They were just lost. Mercifully, they played a short set. Pam and I would most likely see them again, but not anytime soon.
cited to go in the 912 because I had just spent more money having stuff fixed last week, and the car was running well. I had taken it into the shop during the week because Dilthon, one of my co-workers and an air-cooled VW guru, listened to my engine and proclaimed that the carburetors needed adjustment. Instinctively, I knew he was right. The car was still not running well.
higher RPM.
at. The 912 had lots of pep and pulled smartly at 4,000 + RPM. It really was like driving a different car. The drive back home started out just as great, but the tach was bouncing around crazily. I thought the tack on the 912 was mechanical, but in fact it is electronic. As I was heading up the 405, I felt the engine miss briefly. I shrugged it off. I convinced myself that it really didn’t happen and kept 
on going. Then I noticed it again. Even though I wanted stay on the freeway all the way home, I knew better. So I moved over to the right lane and kept driving. Then I noticed it again, all the while the tack was going nuts.
ot more about Porsches than I do. Of course, I could have called any number of my PCA friends, as they all know more about Porsches than I do, but David has been around Porsches for decades and I had Porsche Club politics to discuss with him anyway, so I thought it would be efficient to call him. He said the wacky tacky actions were probably related to an electrical issue, and that most likely the car stopped running for the same reason. I had been thinking it related to the fuel pump or fuel filter. Either way, he didn’t think it was a serious mechanical issue. After our call, I jiggled the connections between the coil and the distributor and they all seemed ok. I tried to start the car again but had no luck.
on the street overnight, something that is illegal on my street. The city said I could not get an overnight permit, even though my car would not start. Instead, they said put a note in the front window explaining the situation. I asked if that would prevent a ticket, and they said it should, but to take a picture of it with the note in it just in case I received a ticket and had to fight it. I did that, going as far as taking three pictures and emailing them to myself to establish a timeline for my defense. Pam laughed at me because the first note was handwritten and pretty hard to read. She was right, and I typed one on the computer. Thankfully, I did that before I put it in the window, took the pictures and emailed them to myself.
nections. This time I noticed one of the wires on the coil moving a little. I pushed it back into place, hopped hopefully into the car, turned the key and ….. it started!!! I was in shock. It ran like shit for a few minutes and then was fine. Despite the absolute lack of technical, mechanical skills involved and the absolute simplicity of what I did, I felt pretty good about fixing the car.
I took the Metro downtown becasue she had to return a bracelet that kept breaking. While I see the need for mass transportation, I am not the biggest of fans. Too much planning. Too easy to make a mistake. Too many people. Too much randomness. Too many germs, despite the disinfectant small that permeates the cars, masking odors of things I just don’t want to think about. Too much weirdness. Too much plastic. In short, too much kitsch. But Pam hates the thought of traffic more than I dislike mass transit. And on top of that her vote counts more than mine. So we were taking the Metro downtown. After the trip to the jewelry store, the plan was to hang out downtown and make a blue haired evening out of it, with drinks at five and dinner at six, meaning each activity started about an hour earlier than I wouild like and about an hour and a half earlier than Pam would like.
, why, why. Whether it was the alcohol, it’s always easy to blame things on alcohol, just listen to a Brad Paisley or a Pat Green song, or our observation of others truly enjoying the décor, eventually we stopped wondering why, why, why. We just relaxed and had a great time. Shockingly, I felt myself getting into the kitsch.
hen it came to dinner. I’m sure I drove her nuts other times, too, but those are not germane to this post. I grew up in a family of carnivores. They loved meat, rare, blood dripping meat. I, on the other hand, liked salad and vegetables and mashed potatoes, especially mashed potatoes. I could barely eat meat when my mom made it, not because it was made poorly, but because she made it rare. I could never eat it that way. I would make her make mine my way, which meant it had to be really well done. I mean it had to be killed. And of course it had to be devoid of all fat and gristle. I understand I am not normal, and I understand that meat cooked that way is not necessarily good, it’s just the way I need it to be cooked.
am and I walked into the cafeteria portion of Clifton’s, all I could see and smell was turkey. Pam saw updated food items like caprese and pizza. I saw turkey.
ure, but I really had no idea what Adele sang. Yeah, I knew she sang Skyfall, but I could not have recited one word of the lyrics or hummed one note of the melody. I thought it would be a great show because I had heard it said she had an amazing voice. Pam knew one or two of her songs, so she set out to get the tickets. Turns out she did a bang up job. She got us the best seats we have ever had at Staples without using connections or StubHub. They were four rows off the floor. They were just far enough into the arena so we had a perfect viewing angle to the stage. Adele would be mere yards away when she sang. The only issue was that the seats were in the middle of the row, a place Pam dreads. She overcame her dread and bought the seats right before the sites crashed.
ang out until the show started. Pam was smart. She dangled tequila and doughnuts, arguably not a common combination but an appealing one to me, as inducements to help me enjoy the show. We parked at a little after 5 PM and walked over to El Cholo, where a Casa Noble Anejo Tequila had my name written all over it. After dinner, we walked over to Birdies for some doughnuts made with cake batter. We bought a doughnut to go, walked over to a bus stop, waited for the bus to go by, sat down on the bus stop bench, and ate the doughnut. It was good. I was ready for the show. We walked back to Staples, fished out the dead credit card, had it swiped, and went in, but not before I had to spend what seemed like an eternity listening to Fergie make an abundance of noise that some deluded souls consider music. Oh boy, I was ready for the show. Pam could not have planned it any better.
he was comfortable on stage, engaging the audience and telling quirky and personal stories. Hell, she even made a funny reference or two to the abjectly depressing songs she wrote. I realized what an amazing song writer she is and respected her for writing what resonates with her, not what is commercially expedient. Her band was off the charts good, though at times I thought the drums were too loud, sending vibrations coursing through my chest and coming close to drowning out her vocals. The overall effect was outstanding, though. I found myself videoing snippets of many songs, as I was shocked to discover just how musically good they were.
y one of her songs. I loved their enjoyment. I tolerated their screams. I revelled in their intensity. But I could not share any of it. I came in without knowing a single lyric and I left the same way.