Page 12 of 16

New York Trumpeting

November 26, 2016 / hkraushaar

11/10 /16 – 11/13/16

Pam and I went to New York with John and Kris. For Los Angeles natives they know New York really well, mainly because their kids lived there for a couple of years while working or going to school. Pam knows New York a little bit. She has been there a couple of times over the past couple of decades. Despite the fact that my father was from New York, I know the least about it, having not been there since the summer of 1968, at the same time the Chicago Eight, later known as the Chicago Seven, were arrested in Chicago for demonstrating at the Democratic National Convention. Our vacations the past five years or so have consisted of beaching ourselves on either the island of Maui or Hawaii and just chilling in the tropical heat, something at which I am decent and something at which Pam excels. This year we wanted to make a change, and Pam said she wanted to go to New York. Neither of us felt the need to go for a week, so we opted to go for a long weekend, and thankfully John and Kris quickly said they would love to go and act as our tour guides.

Even though it was going to be a short trip, and maybe because it was going to be a short trip, planning our activities was difficult. We had a lot of Sunday morning, post workout breakfasts with John and Kris where the primary topic of discussion was where did we want to stay and what did we want to do in New York. They answered the first part, as they like to stay at the London, a nice hotel in mid-town. We readily agreed with that choice. The second part took more time and discussion. Being the supportive husband I am, my contributions were consistently simple, as I kept repeating, “I do not care what we do. We should do whatever Pam wants.” This was a true statement, though at some point I added, “Except for seeing Hamilton, as those tickets are just too expensive, and no play is worth that much money.” Obviously, lots of people disagree with me on that assessment.

After some give and take, we worked out a sightseeing plan that included the 9/11 Memorial, MOMA, Central Park, Times Square, Lincoln Center, Chelsea Market and the High Line. Then came the hard part, selecting the play and the restaurants. Besides not wanting to see Hamilton, I only made one request with respect to the play. I wanted to see a matinee because I have a bad habit of falling asleep in plays, even matinees. Embarrassingly, I once fell asleep watching a matinee of Phantom of The Opera, which was not easy to do. Of course, we decided to see an evening performance and then have dinner afterwards. Oh well. When it came to restaurants, Pam and I abdicated to John and Kris, saying we would be fine with whatever they selected.

For a long time I put off thinking about New York. It’s not that I didn’t want to go. It was just that I did not have a compelling reason to do so. So after the New York planning was over, Pam and I spent the summer and early fall going to a series of concerts. We also had an amazing return trip to Nashville, where we spent an extended weekend eating some great southern food, speaking on the radio (again), buying some cowboy boots, playing around on some cool Marine armament, watching a Tennessee Titan game, and, of course, spending an inordinate amount of time in the bars listening to country music.

Finally, it was time for me to focus on New York. I wanted to go. I wanted Pam to have a great time. I wanted to be with our friends. I just had no idea what I wanted to do there. Sure, I wanted to see the sights we planned on. Sure I wanted to see the play. Sure I wanted to eat at the places we selected. I just wasn’t sure the benefits of seeing and eating outweighed the hassles of being in New York, with its over the top costs and traffic, both auto and pedestrian. About a week before the trip, I figured out what I wanted to do in New York, and it dawned on me that I wanted, really wanted, to go there.

We flew into New York on Thursday, two days after the election. Getting into the city was a mess. Landing at rush hour didn’t help, but then every hour is rush hour in NYC. Having Donald Trump land at LaGuardia a couple hours before we landed at JFK didn’t help either, but it gave us something to talk about besides the traffic.

In a nutshell, the trip was fantastic. John and Kris were amazing tour guides. They got us on the right subways, got us off at the right stops, and shepherded us to everything we planned. We enjoyed all the sights. We enjoyed the play we saw, and with the help of a couple of Pam’s elbows, I managed to stay awake through 99% of it. And, we enjoyed the food we ate at the restaurants they selected. We were thankful that they orchestrated reasonably warm, dry weather, which enabled us to walk with impunity all over the place, see the leaves still changing colors in Central Park and watch the retailers getting their holiday windows ready. Moreover, I relished the fact that they even humored me with respect to the New York experiences I really wanted to have, which included walking on Mulberry Street, eating Pizza (Lombardi’s and Ray’s), eating Corned Beef (Carnegie Deli which is closing its doors at the end of the year) and eating Bagels (No Name Stand in Chelsea Market).

Of course, no trip goes completely as planned. This time the unexpected events made the trip even more special and memorable. After dinner on Thursday night, we walked over to Trump Tower to see what was happening. Despite our advanced ages, we were all too young to have participated in the anti-war protests during the 60s and early 70s. So when we arrived outside of Trump Tower, our long dormant boomer genes awakened. Our memories of Abbie Hoffman, Jerry Rubin, and Tom Hayden and Co. resurfaced. Our inner radical personae kicked in. And, just for shits and giggles, we joined the protest, though in our case it was more fauxtest than protest. I guess it was a bucket list item for me and maybe everyone else. We all had fun, and it was pretty obvious that Pam loved it.

On Thursday night, the NYPD was still allowing one lane of traffic up and down Fifth Avenue. By Saturday, Fifth Avenue was blocked off to cars for four or five blocks, making the usual crazy mid-town traffic insane. While Pam and Kris shopped, John and I had fun strolling up and down the middle of Fifth Avenue. To me it was no big deal, but to John it was mind boggling, as he has always seen bumper to bumper traffic there.

Additionally, I had the unexpected opportunity to sample some ridiculously priced tequila. This was made possible by an Amex promotion at the hotel which gave us free money to spend in the restaurant and bar. As we had little reason to spend any money there, the highest and best use of the promotion was to sample the tequila, which was expensive and quite good.

Last, but not least, was our unexpected trip to the Lego store at the Rockefeller Center. After I got over the postage stamp size of the ice rink and the immense size of the Christmas tree adorned with scaffolding, enabling the workers to decorate it, I announced that I wanted to go into the Lego store. Pam, Kris and John found this amusing. Frankly, so did I. I am too old to have played with Legos in my youth. Our girls were never interested in them so we have never had them in the house, and we have never gone to LEGOLAND. But Lego recently came out with a 2,700 piece scale model of a Porsche GT3, and, given my Porsche obsession, I really wanted to see one. So they all humored me some more, and in we went. Even though it has a somewhat exorbitant price tag, I have a feeling I may see one again in the near future, most likely long before I see New York again.

Re-Coiled

November 20, 2016 / hkraushaar

11/5/16

The 912 sat all week. I had no choice after last week’s adventure but to leave it in the driveway . I spent the week working, and the 912 was in no shape to be driven. Furthermore, my car pushing helpers were unavailable, as Kim was back at her apartment and working and Kris was still sick, hopefully not because she pushed the car last week.

On Monday, I pulled the trigger on a new coil. It was not expensive. The cost was less than the towing fees I paid in September because I had not upgraded my AAA membership in a timely manner, but that’s another story. The coil was delivered by mid week, turning out to be a blessing and a curse. The good news was that I had it in my possession. The bad news was that I had to look at it for a couple of days before trying to install it, making me feel somewhat apprehensive and stressed. In theory changing the coil should be pretty simple. Just unplug some wires, remove some bolts, remove the old coil, put in the new coil, put back the bolts and reconnect the wires. Simple. In theory.

Throughout my life, cars have epitomized the most complex of devices to me. I was fascinated by them, but never really had the confidence to touch them in a mechanical way. I have never intentionally removed a single part from a car. I think I secretly wanted to take auto shop in high school, but, for a myriad of reasons, was too afraid. Time passed and then cars and life really got complicated, driving any thought of tinkering with them from my consciousness. Pam would argue that those thoughts should have stayed far away. And they would have been if I hadn’t got my first Cayman and subsequently joined the Porsche Club a couple of years ago. Since then I have spent a lot of time around cars and car guys, and my interest in tinkering with cars has resurfaced.

There are no words to describe my mechanical ability because I have none. To put it in perspective, Pam changes the light bulbs in the house. I do the laundry. Pam does the plumbing in the house. I do the cooking. The thought of f***ing something up is so overwhelming that it prevents me from taking it apart. I once had a Masters Swim coach, an ex Olympian, who had an acronym, NEBAB, which stood for Never Ever Been Athletic Before, for people who joined the swim team and had no athletic skills. When it comes to being mechanical, my swim coach would have referred to me as a NEBMB, where the M stood for Mechanical. He would have pronounced it NEE-BOMB. And it would have fit.

I am a conceptual guy. I can look at almost anything and understand how it works, I just have a fear of tinkering with it. I like to get my hands “dirty” analyzing data, building spreadsheets, writing some computer code, and doing complex financial calculations. I haven’t turned a wrench in decades, and when I last did, it was under the extremely close supervision of one my high school friends who was a mechanical savant. So just looking at the box with the new coil in it made me a little nervous. It also made me a little excited. I bought the 1977 911 to try to learn to do some mechanical tasks. As I have written about before, that project went up in smoke before I did a single mechanical thing to it. Now I have the 912, and I have not done anything to it myself, partly because my garage is still not rebuilt and what few tools I have are in storage and partly because I have not had the courage to take anything apart.

But all of that was about to change with the coil project. To slightly misquote Lao Tzu, It represented my first step on a journey of 1,000 miles. Or so I hoped. My confidence, though a little shaky, was buoyed because the 912 was running like shit, and I thought my mechanical ministrations could not make it much worse.

So I gathered up my courage and my $20 socket set from Pep Boys, peeled the car cover off the back end of the 912, opened the rear lid, memorized where each wire was attached, removed the wires from the old coil, took a deep breath, and started to take out the bolt on the left of the coil. The bolt came out easily, too easily. It was short and nothing was behind it.

I began to work on the bolt on the right. After turning and turning it for some time, I realized that it was not any looser than when I started. Because the new coil came with a mounting bracket, I assumed that I should just take the old coil off by removing the old mounting bracket and then reattaching the new coil using the new mounting bracket. Big mistake. It took me about 10 minutes and some help from the electrician, who was working on my garage project, to realize that the right bolt was really long and had a nut attached to it on the back end, which was inconveniently located behind the fan shroud. I could barely reach the nut with my fingers. I had no way to see it. Thinking a box end wrench would be small enough to get behind the shroud and hold the nut in place, I headed out to buy a set of them. I again opted for a really cheap set, as I would be buying nice tools once the garage was fixed. I returned and proceeded to try to get a wrench on the nut again. Same result. No way to get it done.

At that time Jeff, my neighbor not my Tequila mentor, walked over. He was happy to see me wrenching in my driveway, not a sight that is prevalent in my neighborhood. He offered his tools in case my meager assortment was not sufficient. Then he said, “Never mind. They are all in storage.” We both laughed because he has been rebuilding his house for almost two years, and his tools have been in storage the entire time. Then he said, “Maybe we can get at it thru the rear seat.” We both discounted that idea immediately. His question, though, did make me re-think my strategy, causing me to look, really look, at the new coil. I had been so fixated on getting the old one out that I had never looked at how the mounting bracket was attached to the new coil. The bracket was not integrated, but it was affixed by tightening a long screw which had a nut on the end. At that point I realized I did not need to remove the existing coil and bracket, I just needed to loosen the bracket that was affixed to the old coil and slide the old coil out of the old bracket. After some maneuvering and beating myself up over my own stupidity, I was able to loosen the bracket and slide the existing coil out. From that point is was easy to slide the new coil in, tighten the retaining screw and plug in the wires.

With the new coil in place, I nervously sat in the driver’s seat and turned the key. …. …. … The 912 started immediately. The tach behaved nicely as I revved the 912 in the driveway. With newfound confidence I backed it out and drove it around the neighborhood. This time after about five laps I was able to drive it right back into my driveway. No pushing required. I had taken the first step on my journey of 1,000 miles.

Coiled Again

October 30, 2016 / hkraushaar

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, which 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.

Keith Urban at Staples

October 22, 2016 / hkraushaar

10/20/16

OH. MY. GOD. Thank you, Keith Urban.

On Thursday night, Pam 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.”

Pam and I love to see live music, and we are lucky that we have the opportunity to see lots of great shows. All hyperbole aside, Keith Urban’s show Thursday night, including opening acts Maren Morris and Brett Eldredge, was one of the best shows we have ever seen. When the tour was announced, we knew we had to go, each for different reasons. We had seen him in concert once before, a little over six years ago when he performed at the UCLA Tennis Center. At that time, Pam was not really into country, but she loved the show anyway, though it may have had more to do with his arms and overall appearance than his music. I enjoyed that show and enjoyed his performance, but I did not feel a strong emotional connection to his music.

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.

As usual, Pam bought the tickets. She was a little miffed about the seats, as they were a little worse than we usually get, putting us at the back of the arena on the first level, giving her a less than perfect view of those arms. From the time she bought the seats and through all the shows we saw before Thursday night, she groused about how her view would be less than ideal. By the end of the concert, she had had such a good time that I do not think she cared that she did not have a bird’s eye view of those arms.

The show was great from start to finish. Maren Morris came out and performed very well. We enjoyed listening to all her songs, and she made my night when she strapped on an acoustic guitar for her final song, “My Church.” I loved it, as did Pam. At that time, I felt “My Church” would be the best song of the night. A little while later I learned just how wrong I was.

Though we had heard Brett Eldredge’s music on the radio, neither of us had much of a feel for it. By the end of his set, we had changed our views. We thoroughly enjoyed his voice, especially when he sang in the higher registers, as we both felt he was a little off on the lower ones. Speaking of lower tones, we were subjected more of that body shaking, chest reverberating, teeth clenching bass so prevalent in modern country at the outset of his set, the kind of bass that causes a vibration that works its way up from your feet and legs through your torso before stopping in your head, making you want to scream in frustration. That much bass has no place in country music, or any music for that matter. Having said that, as the show progressed and he sang his other songs, the driving bass lessened and we enjoyed him much more.

I use the tequila and doughnut scale to determine what it will take me to see an artist perform, either the first time or subsequent times. The absence of requiring tequila or doughnuts gives me an easy way to express threshold levels of enjoyment, but it fails miserably when I try to describe just how good I perceive a performer to be. For that I use the Bruuuuuuuuce scale. In the umpteen times I have seen Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band over the past 40 years, I have experienced them put on many special shows. Experiencing him sing his songs live is so much better than hearing the recorded versions. In my mind, Bruce Springsteen is the quintessential rock star. Bruce has always been the finest live performer I have ever seen. His shows have always been masterpieces.

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.

I don’t know if the show Thursday night was just a great show or if that is just how good he performs on a consistent basis. It doesn’t matter. His performance was outstanding. Every song was spot on. His musicianship was unparalleled, as he just shredded his way through each song on a variety of stringed instruments. His energy was off the charts. His interactions with the crowd were real and did not feel choreographed. It looked, felt and sounded like he was having fun, really pouring his heart and soul into the show. Pam felt it and was into it. I felt it and was into it. The crowd felt it and was into it. The band felt it and was into it. The ushers felt it and were into it. For all I know even the people working in the food stands felt it and were into it. If they weren’t, they should have been. The overall effect was synergistic, where the total was so much greater that the sum of the parts that I just stood there listening in awe.

Keith Urban may wear the mantle of a country singer, but in reality he is a rock star. And, after Thursday night, I rank him right up there with Bruce. After Thursday night, I will never need tequila or doughnuts to entice me to see Keith Urban perform. I would even consider buying tequila and doughnuts for him just to be allowed to buy a ticket, as on Thursday night Pam and I became true Keith Urban fans for life.

Rise of The Jack O’Lanterns

October 16, 2016 / hkraushaar

10/15/16

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.

We exited the car and made our way to the Convention Center. It came as no small shock to me that there were lots of people there, even people without kids, like us. It also came as no small shock to me that there 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.”

The exhibit was cool, odd, but cool. There were “sculptures” made with stacks of pumpkins, there were big pumpkins with carved faces and bodies of superheroes, famous figures, sports teams, political candidates and other evils, and there were individually carved pumpkins laying almost obscurely on the floor. The overall effect was chillingly eerie. Pam and Kris made sure I saw every square inch and round pumpkin face in the exhibit. By the time we finished , I was ready for Tequila, which I had no doubt that I would order when we ate dinner at El Cholo.

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.

I am glad I saw the exhibit. I am glad I will probably not see it again. I am really glad I had Tequila at El Cholo after we left.

Dixie Chicks At The Bowl

October 15, 2016 / hkraushaar

10/10/16

Pam and I went to see the Dixie Chicks at the Hollywood Bowl. I had never seen them live before. Neither had Pam. Of course, Pam was not into Country music when they essentially stopped touring about a decade ago after 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.

The Dixie Chicks sound has always been somewhat unique. With roots in bluegrass, they have morphed into contemporary country, alternative country, and pop. Irrespective of the genre, the Dixie Chicks are led by an amazing trio of women musicians who excel at playing many stringed instruments, ranging from the acoustic guitar to the fiddle and viola to the banjo and dobro, an inverted single cone resonator guitar. While Natalie Maines, their lead singer, is a rare talent, the group’s overall sound is boosted by the harmonies of the two sisters, Martie Maguire and Emily Robison, who complete the trio. As we listened to them at the Bowl, we were transfixed. The show we saw was the 70th, and final, show of their tour. Despite being at the back end of the tour, or may be because of it, once they took the stage, we were treated to a perfect night.

The opening act, Elle King, was a conundrum to me. Elle King has a tremendous voice when she chooses to use it in a less in your face, I’m tougher than the rest, sort of way. It is light and sweet, and in my opinion, should be used to sing ballads accompanied by an acoustic guitar. There were several moments during her set when she did that, usually in the opening notes and lyrics of a song. At those times, I was an Elle King fan. Unfortunately for me, those moments were few and far between. The other moments were filled with poorly mixed, over sung sounds that ranged from tolerable to awful. It really didn’t help that her fairly low voice meshed almost perfectly with the drum beats and bass notes, making her lyrics impossible to decipher. If that was not bad enough, she had the temerity to make a partial parody of “Landslide” when she teamed with the Dixie Chicks to cover the Stevie Nicks/Fleetwood Mac classic. I have an offbeat sense of humor so I can understand wanting to play around with lyrics now and then, but certain songs are sacred and should not be f***ed with. Landslide is one of those songs. In addition, to my ears, her vocals did not mesh well with Natalie Maines. I am not sure why the Dixie Chicks selected her to tour with them. Maybe it was her non-mainstream, outlaw persona that endeared her to them. Maybe they saw something in her I did’t. Either way, I have no immediate plans to see one of her shows again. If I do see her again, I may require more Tequila and doughnuts than I can safely consume.

Part 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.

My only complaint was that everyone was so into the show, I had to stand just about the whole time, arguably not a serious complaint. I have seen a lot of shows this year and this one ranks right up there as one of the best. I would never need either Tequila nor doughnuts to see them again. I just hope I do not have to wait a decade to do so.

Angeles Crest And More

October 8, 2016 / hkraushaar

9/17/16

The day dawned bright and warm. There was not a cloud, either from moisture or fires, in the sky. It was going to be a hot day. The PCA Grand Prix Region had organized a drive up and over Angeles Crest, and my friend Mark and I were going. I had prepped my car for the event, having washed it the day before. I was a little miffed that when I left the house at 6:40 AM, my front and rear windows were covered in a visually impermeable coat of opaque water. I hate using my windshield wipers at times like this because they make a mess. Instead, I tried to use the defrosters, both front and back, to remove the water.

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.

Our plan was to grab breakfast at Dish, a folksy coffee shop on Foothill Boulevard in the heart of La Canada. Then we would head over to the meeting place and the chit chat session before the drive started. We had a nice breakfast. Mark got gas, and I got air. Then we went to the meeting place at the foot of Angeles Crest. We stayed for about 30 minutes before it was time to leave. We had about 26 Porsches on the drive, so we left in two run groups of 13 cars separated by about 15 minutes.

Mark and I left in the second run group. I spent the time before we started fiddling with my newly acquired GoPro camera. It took me about 2 minutes to figure out I had forgotten one of the pieces that would have enabled me to turn the camera 90 degrees and enabled it to face out the front of the windshield. It took me about 15 minutes trying to find a suitable location to attach the camera to get some forward view. I finally suctioned it onto the passenger window, giving me a somewhat interesting view out of the windshield and the passenger window.

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.

We ate at the Grizzly Café, sitting as a group on the back patio. After a nice lunch and great conversation, it was time to head 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.

Luke Bryan – The Forum

September 25, 2016 / hkraushaar

9/23/16

Kick. The. Dust. Up. Pam and I went to see Luke Bryan at the Forum. Luke Bryan is another of the modern country performers that we had never seen. It’s not that we do not like modern country, with its genre blending R&B and Hip Hop influences, it’s just that we prefer the last generation of country stars like Alan Jackson and George Strait, guys who wore cowboy hats instead of baseball hats facing backwards and played music with more traditional country influences like slide guitars, steel guitars and fiddles instead of ear splitting bass drums and driving beats.

When Pam asked me about seeing Luke Bryan, she mentioned two things that grabbed my attention. The show would be in the Forum and one of the opening acts would be Little Big Town. I love the remodeled Forum. I love its intimate size and awesome acoustics. I love Little Big Town. I do not know all of their music, but ever since I heard Karen Fairchild sing Girl Crush the first time on the radio, I have been hooked for life. In fact, Girl Crush, with its stripped down sound and twistedly unique lyrics, may be one of my top ten favorite songs.

I was aware of Luke Bryan. No country music fan could not be. He has been a top star for almost ten years, having released several albums and having earned a whole roomful of awards. I knew his music, though I have never purchased any of his songs, most likely because they contain sophomoric themes and lyrics that do not inspire me. I mean no self-respecting, well educated, sixty something professional living in West LA can really get inspired by lyrics like Country girl shake it for me, Kick the dust up, Huntin, fishin, lovin every day or Rain makes corn, Corn makes whiskey, Whiskey makes my baby feel a little frisky. I do not mean to imply that his songs are not well written, they are just a little too poppy for me. If I had my way, I would only listen to the county outlaws like Billy Joe Shaver, Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson and David Allan Coe, with a generous dose of folky Americana singers like Robert Earl Keen, Joe Ely, The Old 97s and Pat Green thrown into the mix. But those guys are either too old to sing any more or they don’t come to LA very often. So if I want to see country music, I have to embrace change and listen to the current country stars.

Pam and I arrived at The Forum just as the opening act, Dustin Lynch, was about to start. I knew 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.

Little Big Town was the second act, and they were amazing. The quartet of lead singers, two male and two female, evoke memories of the Mamas and the Papas and Fleetwood Mac. And just like the Mamas and the Papas had Cass Elliot and Fleetwood Mac had Stevie Nicks, Little Big Town has Karen Fairchild, a gifted singer who blends in yet at the same time defines the group. Little Big Town is just fun to listen to. They are all musically amazing, and they did a great job delivering great songs, including Day Drinking, Pontoon, Little White Church, Boondocks, and The Chain, a Fleetwood Mac cover. 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.

Then it was Luke time. As far as I was concerned, my night was already complete, so I really did not care if Luke Bryan put on a mediocre show or a great show. I was blown away, though, because Luke Bryan put on a great show. I mean a really great show. He was incredibly entertaining. He was unbelievably fun to watch. He sounded great. His songs are party songs, and he threw a great party. He swiveled his hips. Let me repeat that. He swiveled his hips. Not in a sexual way like Elvis, but, as Pam put it, in a teddy bear you want to cuddle sort of way. I interpreted that to be like Ted, the Seth Macfarlane character, though I doubt that is what she had in mind. And boy, did the women in the audience want to cuddle, and they outnumbered the men by a substantial margin. He sang for about two hours, and much to my chagrin, I spent most of that time standing. I really had no choice, as everyone around me was standing and every woman was dancing, including Pam. Of course everyone was singing, too. Even the guys. I learned that Luke Bryan can sing ballads. His mostly acoustic version of Drink A Beer, an homage to loved ones that have passed away, was my favorite song of his set.

I became a real Luke Bryan fan that night. So did Pam. We can’t wait to see him again.

Carrie Underwood – Staples

September 25, 2016 / hkraushaar

9/14/16

Pam and I went to see the Carrie Underwood show at Staples Center. We were not alone. Our good friends, John and Kris, were going with us, well sort of. We drove together and texted throughout the latter two thirds of the show, as they ate dinner instead of seeing the opening act plus half of the second act.

Thankfully, the show started right at seven. Pam and I found it somewhat interestingly disconcerting that the sounds playing in the arena before the concert started were from a live DJ instead of the usual canned background music. We might have liked it better if he spun country songs instead 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.

The second act was Easton Corbin. Pam and I really enjoy listening to him, having seen him open for Phil Vassar at the Disney Concert Hall a couple of years ago. That was the first time, I truly appreciated the vaunted acoustics in the Disney venue. He put on a great show then, and he put on a great show the other night, singing Roll With It, A Little More Country Than That, Lovin’ You is Fun, and several others. John and Kris arrived at the arena at the exact time he was covering Love Yourself, a Justin Bieber song. I had never heard the song and had no idea it was a Bieber song, but, as usual when it comes to pop music, Pam enlightened me. I told her I hoped I never hear the original version. Easton Corbin made a big deal about saying he lost a bet with one of his band mates and allowed the band mate to choose the song, but I think he just wanted to cover it. While he was singing, Pam received a text from John and Kris wanting to know if this guy just sang covers. They couldn’t believe their ears. We assured them that this was not the case. Anyway, Easton Corbin, did a great job, and we would happily see him again.

Between each act the DJ returned to spin more music. At least between the Easton Corbin and Carrie Underwood sets, he did some break dancing and shot some tee shirts into the crowd. Finally, it was time for the main event. We have never seen Carrie Underwood perform live. We were not disappointed. She put on a great show.

I am not one of her biggest fans, as she tends to oversing lots of her songs and instead of sounding good, she sounds screechy to me. As I have said before, when it comes to music, less is usually more, and this really becomes apparent when she sings softer songs and her magnificent voice really shines. That is why All-American Girl was the song of hers I liked the best, and that was why my other two favorite songs in the show were I Will Always Love You, a Dolly Parton cover, and Mountain Music, an Alabama cover.

As I watched the show, I realized that Carrie Underwood is really a professional performer. She is not a natural entertainer, as she appears choreographed and not at all spontaneous. I am not sure when I realized this, but it may have been after the second or third costume change, most likely dead giveaways that this was a completely rehearsed act. I tend to find it amusing when artists continually change guitars during a show, though I understand the musical need for it. I really do not see any value in a singer changing his or her clothes during a concert. But apparently she does.

Carrie Underwood and her band made use of the entire acre of stage that night. I admit that it added a dimension to the show, and by the end of it I found I really liked it. Speaking of her band, they did an outstanding job, from the drums to the guitars to the fiddles, and Pam really loves the fiddle, though she refers to it as a violin. Speaking of instruments, I was pleasantly surprised when Carrie played the harmonica during Choctaw County Affair.

When the summer started, if I would have been asked to decide whether I would rather see Miranda Lambert or Carrie Underwood, I would have chosen Carrie Underwood. After having seen them both over the past month or so, I would choose to see Miranda every time, mainly because she puts on what appears to be a real, spontaneous show, even if it is just as produced as Carrie’s. That is not to say that I would not see Carrie Underwood again. I would go happily, without the need for the tequila and doughnuts that I would need to see Adele.

Stranded

September 5, 2016 / hkraushaar

9/3/16

I took the 912 to Seal Bach for the monthly PCA Grand Prix Region breakfast. I was really excited 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.

Turns out he was right. The carbs needed adjusting, but even more importantly, the fuel lines, which appeared to be the original ones put on the car when it was built in 1968, were still in use. Upon closer inspection of the fuel lines, the shop noted that one of them had been repaired some time ago, a repair that severely diminished the fuel flow from the gas tank to the carburetor, resulting in too little fuel getting to the engine at higher RPM.

I was also excited to go because the type of Porsche featured at the breakfast this month was the 914. I have always secretly liked 914s, not enough to buy one, but enough to enjoy looking at them. And I was not disappointed. There were 23 of them there, in all different configurations, as the 914 is the Porsche to alter any way you want. There was even one with a water-cooled, turbocharged Subaru engine. Other than the VIN, the body and the Porsche badging, not much of Porsche remained in it or on it.

The drive down was great. 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.

I pulled off the freeway, went down the off ramp, got on Hawthorne Boulevard, stopped at a light and started to go when the light turned green. At that point the engine quit. It just flat out died. Everyone behind me honked. I put on my emergency flashers got out of the car, and started pushing it. The honks stopped at that point, but no one offered to help. The 912 is a light car, light enough for me to push it while I was turning the steering wheel to angle the car to the side of the street. As I neared the curb, the camber in the road increased, as did the speed of the 912 as it approached the curb. I had to fold myself over the door frame and reach between the seats to grab the emergency brake to stop the car. Despite the fact that my window was partially up and I jammed my stomach on it as I reached for the brake, I was successful and stopped the car without crashing into the curb.

Once I got it parked, I sat there and called AAA, a call I really didn’t want to make because I had never upgraded our AAA subscription to the next level which had a larger towing radius. I knew I was in international waters, resting well outside the seven mile towing limit, meaning that I would have to pay for any miles towed over seven. Of course I asked AAA if I could upgrade my membership at that time. The representative said yes, but it would not be effective for seven days. Live and learn. So I asked for a flatbed and waited for it to arrive.

While I waited, I called David, one of my PCA friends who knows a lot 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.

Feeling somewhat sorry for myself, I looked at my surroundings and sure enough there was a doughnut store on the other side of the street. So I walked over and bought a couple to eat while I waited for the flatbed to arrive. The flatbed was going to take quite some time, and I realized that I was going to be very late for my haircut at 1 PM. This was not good. I called Pam, who gets her haircut by the same lady and always has the appointment right after me, to see if we could switch slots. She said we could. At least one problem was solved.

Eventually the flatbed arrived and the driver put the car on it. I enjoyed my ride up the ramp, as I was in the car as it was loaded to ensure it stayed straight. The ride home was pretty uneventful. I got to ride in the car as it was lowered down the ramp when we parked in front of my house. I placed the car across from my house and in front of my neighbors house.

I called the City of Beverly Hills to get a better idea of how I could leave the car 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.

Even though the shop was closed on Saturday, I had called and left a message about the situation. The owner, who had happened to pick up the message, called while I was waiting to get my haircut. He said bring it in on Tuesday, and also said try to test all the connections on Sunday after everything cooled down, just in case. So the car sat on the street overnight. I didn’t get a ticket, which was just a little disappointing, as I was ready to fight it. In the afternoon I went to the car, opened the engine compartment lid and fiddled with all the connections. 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 felt so good and even contemplated doing more work on it. Then I remembered that my garage was partially destructed, that the City has not approved my construction plans, and that I have no place to do any work or store any tools. This put a damper on my enthusiasm, as I realized that my next mechanical endeavor would not happen for a few more months.

HCAYMAN