Tsunami

What if they threw a Tsunami and it didn't show up?

Last week there was an earthquake in Chile. Maybe you heard about it? It was on the news.

There were warnings that we were under a Tsunami watch. Everyone was to stay away from the beaches and marinas. Being I live in a marina, it was a bit hard to stay away. About five years ago, there was another warning. It was the first time that I could remember such a warning. I got a text message from my older son Ed saying that a Tsunami warning was in effect. It was twilight and we, my then wife and neighbors, stood around the dock wondering what to do. Should we literally head for the hills, or just stick around and take our chances. Nosy bastard that I am, I elected to stick it out and see what happens. Nothing happened.

Fast forward to last week. The news mavens were predicting the big one to hit Newport Beach at 11:47. Long Beach at 11:54 and LA Harbor at 12:10.

At high noon, beer in hand, I causally strolled down to the end of the gangway to watch. There was another boat owner standing there looking around. We both were waiting to see the big event. After the last warning, I did a little homework. I read that being there was a realitivally shallow (300-500 foot) shelf extending out 10 miles from Long Beach before the bottom falls off, any very large wave energy will dissipate before pounding the crap out of LB. Very good news if you live in Long Beach. No so good news if you want to take a tsunami right on the chin. But hey, who doesn't?

Anyway, I thought maybe we would see a one or two foot wave, as predicted, roll past the LB Yacht Club.

Once again, nothing. Nada. Zilch. Null.

Probably if we ever get another warning and I say that I've been there, I'll end up going from LB to West Covina in six seconds.

Epilog.

I talked to an old friend Steve Murphy this afternoon. Steve had flown to Maui for his birthday last Saturday and the island was under a Tsunami alert when they landed. Everyone was to seek higher ground. Not only did nothing happen, but horror of horrors, when did finally get to his hotel, he couldn't occupy his room for another day and a half because all of the housekeepers were sitting the Tsunami out up on the Pali.

Zen and the Art of Mercedes Maintenance

The other day my younger son Dave called me to ask how much a charge on his car's air conditioner should cost. I thought that the widow should be $30 to $50 tops. He said that the dealer wanted $135 just to "diagnose" the system. I told him that if he were to come over on Saturday, I would put my freon gauge on his system and see how it looks.

Yesterday he came over and we had a look. Neither of my sons is particularly mechanically inclined and I suppose that maybe I am to blame. When I was a grade school boy, my dad had me under his old Studebaker that he drove to work. He told me it had a "knocking rod". He told me how to drain the oil and then remove the crankcase pan. I then had to figure out how to pull he end cap off of the rod and change the bearing's insert and put it all back together. It wasn't that my dad was a dedicated teacher. I it was that he just figured that kids were around to do the light lifting and he wasn't crazy about crawling under a dirty car. I, of course, was more than happy to do it. I loved all things mechanical. I still do. Being that the times have changed, I didn't make my kids crawl under my Porsche or Mustang. Besides, unlike my Dad's old Studebaker, they didn't need crawling under.

I showed Dave where the AC compressor was located and how it wasn't turning because the magnetic clutch wasn't pulled in. We first checked the fuse(s) and found a blown one. But it wasn't the one for the AC. I then put a gauge on the AC and explained that there was no pressure at all and that there was a low freon pressure switch to disable and therefore protect the airconditioner compressor when the freon leaks out. Off we went to Auto Zone and bought a $9.95 can of R134 freon. We hooked up the freon can to the filler and gave it a shot. We soon had pressure and the compressor started to turn. There was a charge but it was a bit low.

It was a good father & son day for me and Dave probably saved himself about $250 by doing it yourself.

I'll have Dave check the freon pressure in a few weeks to see if it is holding. If it is holding, I'll see if he wants to do the charge himself. Much cleaner for him than crawling under under a '41 Studebaker.

When it comes to tools, it's like WallMart. If dad doesn't have it, you probably don't need it.

I still hate cilantro

I hadn't gone to the I HATE CILANTRO web site for a while and now it seems to be gone.

What is going on? Is freedom of speech being squashed everywhere?

I did find http://ihatecilantro.blogspot.com/ where I did comment;

You are not alone in your true hatred of cilantro, my brother. I believe that it is a communist plot inspired by Nancy Polosi to silence the opposition to the dreaded, vile green growth that is harvested from the private parts of slimy infected insects.

I believe that every peace loving true American should stand tall and help stamp out this alien menace to our palettes. Fight the fight, dream the dream.

Remember, if you tell the waiter at a Mexican restaurant that you don't like the stuff they will just ignore you. Yuck, yuck, please gag me, yuck. If you tell the server that you have violent allergic reactions to the stuff, they will omit it.

Remember, the truth will set you free.

I have a dream. A dream that cilantro will be eradicated from the face of the Earth in my life time.

The Greatest thing since sliced bread, or canned beer.

I hear people use the expression that something is the greatest thing since sliced bread, or canned beer. I personally opt for canned beer.

A few minutes ago, I ripped open a twelve pack of Coors and popped a top on a cold one. I got to thinking about the old adage about canned beer and happened to glance at the carton as I was shredding it up for kindling. I happened to glance and came to the realization that a can of beer has undergone about the same amount of technological advancement as the super computer.

When I was a snot nosed kid, we needed to pack a "church key" around. Usually it dangled from our belt or key-chain. This was, you may forget, the era when a cool dude rolled his pack of unfiltered Camels up in the sleeve of his tee-shirt.

Now anybody can pop a cold one without the aid of an appliance. But I'm sure you all knew that.

What is maybe not so apparent, is the other transformations that the humble beer can has experienced.

The label of a Coors' can is now printed with a liquid crystal type ink that makes the mountains on the label turn from silver to blue when the can is nice and cool. How cool is that? There is also a "vented wide mouth" to keep your brew from getting to "wild" or foamy while being decanted from it's can. And lest we forget the "frost brew liner" to keep your swill from tasting like the aluminum siding of some cracker box palace in Levitown.

Aint technology wonderful?

Catch 23

After commenting on Catcher In The Rye the other day and commenting that Catch 22 is one of my favorite books, the brain got to churning again. I ordered up Catch 22, the movie, from Netflix. I hadn't watched the movie since it was in first run back in the early seventies. It, the movie, had a really great cast. Among others Alan Arkin, Jon Voight, Buck Henry, Richard Benjamin and Paula Prentis in a nude shot. Hell, Orson Wells was even in it. But I had remembered it as being so-so at best.

Well the DVD arrived in the mail and I watched it the very day that it came.

It was as dull as I had remembered it. The story line seemed too fragmented. I am not a real fan of abstract. I like my art real. When I look at a nude descending a staircase, I would actually like to see a naked woman descending an actual staircase. In the movie Pulp Fiction, the story was disjointed and jumped around but you could follow it. I don't like to ask another person who is watching "what the hell is going on"?

The airplane scenes were very good however, but all in all. It didn't improve with age.

What's in a name.

My son David and I had lunch together at a Persian restaurant yesterday. His wife Amy is expecting a boy in April and we were talking about names. They have pretty much decided on Alexander Wolfgang. That name will get him beat up in the school yard until he learns to keep his left up. I have been campaigning half-heartedly for little Donald. I have been advised to cool it on the little Donald as I'm sure that the kids are getting enough pressure as it is and told Dave so.

That got us talking about family names. I was explaining that all of the women in my family had the same middle name. My Mother's mother was Ella Marie. My Mother was Louella Marie. Her father was Louis and, if you have been paying attention you know her name was Ella. My sister is Marlene Marie and my dog is Sadie Marie. Marie, a good solid family name.

He asked about his big brother's name. When Ed was born in 1967, my father's name was Arthur. My wife's father was Arther. We had a boy child so I expected that we would name the little swab Art. We could honor both grand pops in one shot. But was I ever wrong. The Maternal Art's name was actually Edward Arthur so mums wanted to name the little house ape Edward. After her father. But, I explained, he hates the name. He doesn't even use it. He goes by Arthur. Hardly anyone outside of the family knows that Art is actually his middle name. As usual, I was outvoted by a landslide of one to one and Edward it was. Edward Grant wasn't so bad. Not my first choice, but we all have to, as Rodney King said, learn to get along.

But wait, there's more. Since then, Ed has changed his name to Edward Arthur. So guess what, the family middle name is Arthur. I'm Donald Arthur. Dave is Davis Arthur and we have Edward Arthur.

Maybe I should cool it on the little Donald campaign and turn up the Alexander Arthur pressure another notch.

Ma Duce

I got an email yesterday about the 50 caliber sniper rifle used in Iraq & Afghanistan. It got me to reflect on my Navy days once again.

In Nam, on the ship, we had a Ma Duce on either side of the missile house.

Ma Duce is the pet name for these bad boys.

When we weren't trying to zap MIGs, we were manning the 50s.

This is a twin mount, it's real big and bad.

We only had single mounts.

You just know that you're a bad ass when you're firing one of those LOUD monsters.

Notice that the modern sailor on top is wearing Mickey Mouse ears.

I never did, it's probably why I can't hear very well these days.

Maybe if we had twin 50s, I'd woose out and don the ear protection also.

The original 50 cal. Browning Machine Gun that we used were WW2 vintage.

Still in cosmoline and stunk like hell until we got them cleaned up.

Still cherry. Never fired. Never been to the big dance.

Same round as the snipers use, I believe, only we spit them out at 500/minute.

The mix was two ball ammunition, an armor piercer and then a tracer.

Then it repeated all over again and again.

We would saw junks in half like a band saw in about 5 to 10 seconds.

What didn't sink, burned like hell.

It wasn't fair and it wasn't honorable.

A big bad US Navy destroyer taking on a junk or WBLC.

WBLC, that's Navyspeak for Water Borne Logistic Craft.

Better known as a sampan.

But it was exciting. Up close but not too personnel.

I still miss it occasionally, but I'm glad that it's in my past.