Month: December 2016

Somewhere Along Randy’s Route

Went for a little walk in Hitchcock Woods early this morning. It was quite peaceful, the only sounds, besides saying hello to a couple of dog walkers, was the random dripping of moisture off the trees because of the fog.

I finally popped off the door card of the passenger side to see about the slow window movement. Turns out the guide bushing was fine. It was just the original, 14-year old grease, in the tracks had gunked up in places. So I cleaned the track and the bushing and sprayed some silicone on both items and put it all back together. But the silicone stuff I used was too liquid, I’m really supposed to have semi solid grease-like stuff. I think I’ll save the driver’s door and a re-greasing of the passenger side until the MMC’s Tech Day this spring.

Maybe I can sell the bushings for enough to pay for the right lubricant…

Chag Sameach1

The President-Elect has decided we will return to saying Merry Christmas at this time of year and with 70% of Americans identifying as Christians it is a pretty safe bet, so next year it’ll be nothing but Merry Christmas all the time around here. So for now I’ll trot out my favorite all purpose seasonal missive one last time and a little something for the other 30%:

Please accept – with no obligation, implied or implicit – my best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, low stress, non-addictive, gender neutral celebration of the winter solstice holiday, practiced within the most enjoyable tradition of the religious persuasion of your choice, or secular practices of your preference.

In addition, please enjoy a fiscally successful, personally fulfilling and medically uncomplicated recognition of the onset of the generally accepted calendar year 2017.

1. The Hebrew equivalent of Happy Holidays, literally “joyous festival.”

Christmas Lights in Hopelands Gardens

Tired of merely walking the 1-1/2 miles up to see the lights in Hopelands Gardens and back, last night we decided to walk the 3miles to downtown for pizza at Mellow Mushroom before swinging by the lights on the way home.

25 Years Ago – Winter 1991

Ol’ Paint

– by Vince Tidwell
President
Miata Club of America

I did an irresponsible thing the other night. No, nothing that I would regret the rest of my days, but the kind of act resulting from a poor decision that everyone makes at least once in their lifetime. I was fortunate in that the outcome was as planned, but it caused me to ponder and discard the editorial that was intended for this issue for what you are reading now.

I usually require at least 24 contiguous hours of tranquility to compile an editorial (hey, I majored in engineering and business, not English). In an effort to find that solitude, I decided to travel to a relative’s cabin high in the Tennessee hills, adjacent to the Smoky Mountain National Park near Gatlinburg. It was early November and the probability of any inclement weather at that time of year which could impede my arrival was slim to none – or so I thought.

Wrong – it snowed. I left the club’s office late in the evening and with excellent local road conditions, knowing that there might be scattered snow flurries near my destination. I congratulated myself for taking a generally lower altitude route and topping of the gas tank full of dinosaur juice. Even though it was a slightly different route than I usually take, it appeared to be the same distance, and I had arrived easily on one tank before.

Wrong again – I ran low on fuel well before I planned. There must be a law against gas stations being open past 9:00 PM in Tennessee. Either that or these good or boys figure that anyone with a lick o’ sense ought not be a drivin’ here late at night. Nonetheless, I was determined to get to the chalet and heat up some of the home-made Brunswick stew and country ham (no caviar dreams and champagne wishes for me, thank you) for what would inevitably be a midnight snack. Press on, Vince ol’ boy.

A sign read “Gatlinburg 18 miles”. My fuel gauge then read WELL BELOW the empty mark tick. Average speed on the road ahead of me was 30 mph (great curves) at best, even when dry. My rear tires were showing their wear bar indicators, but I decided to continue. Oh yes, it was 12:30 AM and I had not seen a car for the last ten minutes. I knew I wouldn’t see any on the park road (no facilities or residences) I was about to enter either. Once in, there would be no turning back.

“Shouldn’t I stop and do something?”, I silently asked myself. “Why should I risk running out of gas 15 miles down the road in some pitch-black dark remote mountain hollow with only Cherokee Indian spirits and bears to converse with?” I still can’t answer that question. Maybe I’ve seen too many NIKE ads saying “just do it”.

I was ten miles deep into the park when I had to stop and gaze at a wonderment of nature. There was untrodden snow on the road and a thick two inches on the branches above. Absolute silence as well. Eery – very eery. The illumination provided by my megawatt halogen headlights caused a tunnel-like path. Maybe experiencing that was worth the risk. I turned my headlights off to see just how dark it was and quickly concluded that, “I shouldn’t be here – not now and not in these conditions.” Besides, I just knew there was some black bear bigger than the Miata out there that wanted my stew more than I did. Perhaps I should have put the hard top on before I left after all.

It was literally down hill from there as I put the 5-speed into neutral to conserve fuel. “Remarkable,” I spoke out loud to console myself. “This road has been so full of tourists at times that traffic often comes to a standstill”. Thankfully, no one answered.

Finally, I spotted some lights of civilization and once again the Miata’s fuel gauge fooled me. (The next day I filled the tank finding 1/2 of a gallon to spare – equating to another 15 miles.) Through judicious driving and reduction of the air pressure in the tires for better adhesion in the snow, I made it to the chalet without having to share my stew with Smoky.

I pulled my Miata into the garage at the cabin and, as I still often do, even after two years, went down to the garage to look at it before going to bed. This time was different, though. Instead of listening to it cool after a hot track session or admiring a recent wax job, I leaned against it like a cowboy would have leaned against his horse after crossing a high mountain pass. “A good horse delivers his master from his, own foolishness” is what clearly came to mind.

Copyright 1991, Miata Magazine. Reprinted without permission.

 

South Carolina Breakfast Club

Apparently Miata owners aren’t the only ones who like go to a destination for no other reason than to eat breakfast, aircraft folks do it too. Since 1938 (with a couple of years off for WWII) every other weekend private pilots from all over have met at various airports in South Carolina on Sunday morning for breakfast and fellowship.

There are several folks in the MMC who have, or have had airplanes, and with there being no official Miata Club breakfast for the month, one of them invited the car club to come out and dine with the plane club. And we did. Seven Miatas come out for breakfast, which was more than they had aircraft fly in. While the low overcast skies and threat of a storm front passing through kept the planes at bay, the unseasonably warm December day brought out the cars.

From the South Carolina Breakfast Club home page: This is a club that has no dues — you join by attending your first meeting, and “the only rule is to fly safe.” So, just like that, Donna and I are members in another club. Maybe we should buy us an airplane…

Backup Man With A Backup Plan

“Don’t try to frighten us with your sorcerer’s ways, Lord Vader. Your sad devotion to that ancient religion has not helped you conjure up the stolen data tapes, or given you clairvoyance enough to find the Rebel’s hidden fort…” – Admiral Conan Antonio Motti

The Valve Store has actually hired a real IT Guy1 a couple months ago, so I am back to being just a back-up. And right now my only actual duties when the primary IT Guy is off is to change the backup tape every day in the server room2. Occasionally I get called upon hand out a cable or go lay hands on an ill PC, but the tape is really it. I remove the previous night’s tape and put in the current day’s, then take the used tape over to the main entrance door and hand it to the Security Guard (where later he gives it to a courier for off-site storage.) The highlight of this duty is to make up something different to say about the contents of the tape: “Just fast forward to the hour and 15 minute mark because that is where all the nudity is.” or “Don’t let Congress get a hold of this, its got all of Hillary’s emails on it.”

Unless you have been out west protesting an oil pipeline for the last 2 months or so you probably know there is a new Star Wars movie coming out. Well, over Thanksgiving week while the real IT Guy was on vacation I thought it would be cool to make a label for Friday’s tape referencing the supposed plot of Rouge One. That way when he pulls out the tape on Monday to swap them, he’d notice my little Easter Egg and get a smile. Trouble was, because I wouldn’t be in on that Friday, the guard was going to do the swapping and I didn’t want to take a chance he’d notice the different label, not get it, and call somebody because of the “error.” So I didn’t do it.

But last week I got a second chance. The IT Guy had to visit a sister plant for a project and would be gone from Tuesday through the end of the week. Friday afternoon I scoured the internet for a Galactic Empire logo and I also found out that the “Death Star” had a real name – Orbital Battle Station. I made a label just a touch smaller than, and used a glue stick to paste it over, the existing one on the tape.

Monday morning I heard the IT Guy get paged a half dozen times in the first hour by at least 4 different people, so I knew he was hopping around like a one-armed paper hanger. Around mid-morning I finally stopped in for a visit and asked him how the visit went and updated him on any IT problems that arose. I then asked if he had changed the tape yet. “Yep” “Did you notice anything different? Like the label?” “Yeah,” he replied, “I thought the storage site messed up somehow and just put the tape in the box and sent it off.” He totally missed my joke…sigh.

1. His name is Matt Somethingorother, but I like IT Guy better. And besides it gives him a bit of anonymity. The previous fellow’s real name was John Smith, but that’s got the anonymity built right in.
2. This is what the new IT Guy calls it because that is where our plant’s servers are. John and I always referred to it as the computer room because it was purpose built to hold the AS400 mini-mainframe we were supposed to get.

Jar of Toe Jam

Friday night was the MMC’s annual Christmas Party. I really kind of dislike giving a store bought gift for the gift exchange, so when I can, I like to make something sort of crafty. After last year’s Wrench on the Bench I really felt like there was no way to top that. So this year I dropped back and bought some stuff, admittedly non-standard stuff, and added a little crafty delivery system.

I didn’t get a cut of sales of the Blipshift shirt I inspired, but I did in fact get a $100 credit at the company store to use as I see fit. So on Cyber Monday when they offered these cool Cargyle Socks, I decided to spend some of that money. Because it was two pair I figured the second one would be my gift to give away. I also bought a set of the laser-cut ornaments and then I could use one of the four as decoration on the sock delivery package.

Initially Donna was going to bring a bottle of Blackberry Gold that we bought in Hendersonville over Thanksgiving from the Flat Rock Ciderworks. I was going to some how stuff the socks into a wine bottle so that we would both show up with identical shaped gift bags. This planned crashed for two reasons, first Donna opted to take the hard cider as her gift to the Valve Store’s Lady’s Christmas party the night before and second it turns out wine bottlenecks are too small to stuff a grown man’s sock through.

What you see above is Plan B. I was impressed with my effort, the person who ended up with it on Friday night was not. I was not too surprised by that though as the car club is stuffed full of non-car guys. Even if every person in the Club was there, I bet it would take less than one hand to count the number of folks out of the nearly fifty member/member families who would know the significance of the color pattern of the socks.