A Day Off...

Monday, a day off. A rather unremarkable day off. Still, a day off.

Nothing planned. No big things to do. No important places to be. No pressing issues to address. No significant people to impress. No questions to answer.

Phewww, time out.

I did need a breather, both from work and from three nights at the 63rd Back Mountain Library Auction. A great event. However, between commitments there, and commitments at work, I needed some hours to myself to do nothing.

So, what did I do? Nothing, really. For whatever numbingly boring reason, I felt like looking at the day in writing.

10:30AM - Out of bed after more than loving a long night's sleep during which I had some tremendous dreams. I love to sleep, always have. The wife and I often refer to this mutually appreciated type of sleeping as "recreational sleeping," meaning that we find sleep to be inherently enjoyable, whether or not you physically and/or mentally need the sleep. I know many others who feel the same. Unless something, anything, has changed in the last ten or so years, science/medicine/physics, whatever, really can't explain sleep. The odd fact is, we don't know what sleep is, or what our body does to make it move between the state of awareness to that of non-awareness. I am not a scientist. I was not a meteorologist. I am a good sleeper.

10:35 - 11:40AM - Sat on my butt and drank coffee, read the papers, checked email and Facebook, caught some of The View, which isn't typically on my daily planner. Carol makes great coffee. We grind our own beans. You really can't beat fresh ground beans, regardless of what beans you use. Frankly, buy cheap, it's the fresh grinding that makes the difference. Grind your own, I say, make it drip method, I say, and you'll have yourself some really good coffee. If you go cheap beans, you may have to up the suggested amount of coffee per cup. Just remember, you have to grind the beans, meaning you'll need a grinder. They're cheap.

11:40AM - 1:15PM - Took a shower, threw on some shorts and a tee, got in the truck, then drove over to the chiropractor. Following deep muscle therapy, my chiro "adjusted" me, which is a monthly routine. I happen to have faith in chiropractic. It works for me. I have no back problems where I once had many. My right hip is nagging me. He did a couple things directed at that hip. It feels better. This likely won't surprise you; there are chiropractors who treat animals, and do so with verifiable success. There are also acupuncturists who treat animals. They, too, have their triumphs.

1:30 - 2:00PM - Home now, I decide to dork around with a piece of camera equipment that's been collecting dust for probably close to ten years. It's a circular polarizer - a CPL - a filter that threads onto the end of a lens. If used and adjusted properly, this thing eliminates glare completely. Why, you can take pictures right through glass windows. Or photograph water and actually see clearly what's beneath the surface, should that spit-shine your loafers. What I love about a CPL is that it punches up blue skies and clouds. Does this matter to you? I doubt it. Like I said, it was a day off to do nothing, this was a big part of my nothing day. Mary Tyler could have made it suddenly all worthwhile. But does she know how to use a CPL?

2:00PM - Had a "light" salami sandwich on "light" bread. I am forever on a diet, born on one I do believe. My victories over weight have been few the last seven or eight years. Not a bad sandwich. It would have been 1000% better on some sort of real bread, especially a nice rye or sourdough. Even two slices of good old fashioned American white bread of the cheapest quality would have improved the experience. Oh, washed it down with a diet soda - better living through chemistry.

2:30PM or so - Decided to flop down on a couch and read a book. Two of our three dogs were on me in a heartbeat. The third dog is not all that fond of a nap between my legs, or next to me, or right on top of me. Two out three ain't bad, right? With two dogs out cold with me on the couch, I managed to fly through about a hundred pages of a book I've been working at on and off for months.

4:30PM or thereabouts - Put said book over my eyes to block out light, thereby facilitating attempt at aforementioned recreational sleeping. Attempt successful. Dozed off nicely, very nicely. Dogs went right with me. They sleep better then we do.

5:00PM - Awoke in time to say so long to the wife, she was off to the auction to help open on its final night. Sunday is normally final night, Saturday they rained out, moving Saturday night's schedule to Monday night. I mumbled myself back to snooze status, finally moving my rump off of the couch around 6:30.


6:30 to 11:15PM - Drank some beer, watched some TV, had something to eat in there, too. The beer was Victory Prima Pils and some Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. What did I watch on the TV? I don't remember. What did we eat? Delmonicos, they were on sale. A Delmonico, a baked sweet potato, and a salad. OK, I had a glass of wine with dinner.


11:15PM - Back to bed. Good night...

And there it is, my day off.

Just In Case You Missed It...

WILKES-BARRE - A Wilkes-Barre man was arrested Saturday after attempting to steal a pack of ribs from a supermarket by stuffing them down his pants, according to city police.

On A Holiday Weekend Just Past ...

The 5th of July always waves the green flag for what's left of summer to rip, to fly, to evaporate.

Next stop - Labor Day.

Depressed? There's still some space under that bus.

OK, we all know, and I mean really know, that there's at least another seven weeks of "summer" left, even if you're a grump and a cynic and a whiner, bummer, bum, or wet blanket who allows the 4th mark the midway point.

Did I say, "Next stop - Labor Day?"

How about, "Next Stop - The Twilight Zone."

One of the more enjoyable things the 4th brings these days is SciFi's Twilight Zone Marathon. Perhaps its biggest draw is it being an alternative to all the nothingness on the other several hundred channels available at the tip of my index finger.

Saturday night, though, we took a little time out from Rod Serling to watch The Boston Pops on CBS. Can someone explain this show to me?

Not all that many years back, maybe not even ten, The 4th of July Pops Show was about the best out there, including the "have-to-hear-on-the-4th" 1812 Overture. (A piece which has zero to do with the USA. It's Russian in origin, and Russian in basis and foundation. We've made it our own. Also no, I really don't know why. It has far more to do with the French than us.)

So, what do we have now with the Boston Pops?

We hit CBS at the very opening of the show, just in time to catch Craig Ferguson introducing Neil Diamond singing Sweet Caroline. Right. Sweet Caroline. We glanced at one another and said in near unison, "What the hell does this have to do with the 4th of July?"

And the rest of the show was as equally perplexing. After one, maybe two Sousa marches and a patriotic sing-a-long, the fireworks finale was allowed to air uninterrupted accompanied by...no, not the Boston Pops, but rather by a mix of recorded contemporary music, much of it country.

What was once a terrific 4th of July production has come to be the ultimate in "I don't get it..." And for the show's producers not to use the Boston Pops for the finale has to be a snub unlike any other to Keith Lockhart and the fine orchestra he conducts.

Oh, and there was no 1812 Overture to be had. Just a guess - they perform their signature number BEFORE network coverage begins. Brilliant.

I will say one thing: Craig Ferguson manages to show considerable restraint when he emcees this show, Saturday's was his third. Did you ever get the sense that Ferguson, funny and likable as he is, is about one small step away from coming completely unglued, taking off his clothes, and running off cackling into the night?

A few hours earlier, we caught about five minutes of another 4th of July television show on PBS. A live show on which we were treated to Barry Manilow lip-syncing Copacabana. That was kind of a warm up, a tease, for the ultimate "I don't get it..." Sorry to ask the obvious - neither Copacabana nor lip-syncing have anything to do with the holiday, right?

Are public fireworks displays in decline?

Seems to me that also not that long ago the list of fireworks displays was long, very long. Looked like it was a whole lot shorter this year, maybe because it was scattered across three, even four nights. I can easily recall a time when these things were few, maybe a couple in both the Scranton and Wilkes-Barre area.

Since most neighborhoods in NE PA sound like Antietam come Independence Day, I got to wondering what, if anything, had changed with the legality of fireworks since I was a kid. Surprisingly, I'd say nothing has changed. I have an easy and simple rule of thumb when it comes to fireworks in this state.

Just think of Gleason's "Bang, zoom!" If it explodes or flies - goes bang or it zooms - it's illegal. Pretty simple. Not so simple, compliance with existing law.

If you're curious about a state by state list of laws, here you go.

What is the 4th of July all about?

The 4th of July commemorates the adoption of The Declaration of Independence by the Second Continental Congress, a holiday to be celebrated by and for all Americans. Without going on about specifics, let me just say that I heard some pretty odd things about the origins of Independence Day over the weekend. Despite not being a teacher, or a parent, or a school director, I still think that civics, local history, and Pennsylvania history should be a mandatory course in each grade's curriculum beginning with first grade and running through twelfth. While I'm making a speech, and in keeping with a patriotic theme, what you hear about George Washington not being born in the United States is undeniably correct. What those spreading this nonsense either don't understand, or would rather you not understand, is that when Washington was born in Popes Creek, Virginia Colony, the United States didn't exist.

Finally, what might be my favorite all-time 4th of July story, and a very true one.

Somewhere in my teens, I spent a 4th with a friend and family at a lake in Wyoming County. The focus of the day was to be an enormous and "private" fireworks show launched from the cottage owner's dock right after nightfall. Off-limits for much of the day was about half the dock, the half at the end of which was the lake. That's because the box of fireworks, and it was one honking big box, sat at the edge of the dock not to be disturbed by anyone until showtime when bombs would be bursting in air.

Things went wrong. Before dark, things went very wrong.

A discarded cigarette had landed in the fireworks box. I know, I know, this all sounds like a goof, right? It's not, not at all.

The grown-up men had all been guzzling beer most of the day, meaning that the men in charge of pre-detonation safety were getting a little sloppy. One of them, and it was said unknown to him, tossed a butt from the lawn near the lake. Speculation was that the wind had blown the burning butt into the box.

Here's where things get murky. See, there's this legend, this alternate account of what happened.

In the years following this incident, the story emerged that "the boys" - the youngest was probably 45 - were bouncing cigarette butts off the box and having a few laughs to go along with those few beers. One of the boy's aim was skewed by the brew and his lit butt landed in the box.

Oooooops.

By the time they found the nerve to peer into the box and fish out that butt, the hissing had already begun, some fuse had been lit.

Sobering up in one big hurry, the boys scrambled for cover, yelling to everyone within earshot to run for their lives. We all did.

It took but five minutes or so for the entire box of fireworks to fizz, whiz, bang, pop, thunder and ka-pow, all the while propelling flaming debris at every compass point. No injuries were reported.

The only casualty was that dock.

About a third of the dock had been weakened such by the unscheduled display that it creaked, leaned, and splashed into the lake. What was left behind smoldered, shortly thereafter breaking into visible flames and burning down to water level.

Now, on to Labor Day!

Mama, Don't Take My Kodachrome Away...

Paul Simon's lyrics can be puzzling, perhaps even meaningless. Though you have to give them one thing, they often rhyme, and that's why many call him "Rhymin' Paul Simon."

The entire notion that Kodachrome had left us rendered the comparisons and connections to Simon's 1973 song trite and old in a hurry, and it only took about 48 hours for it to happen.

I stopped shooting Kodachrome eons ago, almost back in another life. One big reason was that it was slow, really slow. Meaning you needed bright light and/or long exposures to get those brilliant colors for which Kodachrome was famous. Famous enough to be fabled in song, which I still think is weird.

Was it a great product? Absolutely.

The photo at left from the West End of London taken in 1949 is proof of what a marvelous film Kodachrome was in the technical sense. Exposed properly, it captured everything; contrast, brightness, shadows, highlights, mid-tones, and above all else, color.

Even at that, Kodachrome had been nudged out of favored film status some years ago by Fuji's Velvia. Still in production, I wouldn't bet serious money on the future of any photographic film, including the near-iconic Velvia.

Sad to say, if you weren't or aren't at the very minimum a serious amateur photographer, the wonders of Kodachrome mattered little. A song about color slide film? How about a song bringing the world the joyous news of vacuum cleaner bags? I never did get what moved Paul Simon to write the song, but it sure can stick in your head. I'd last heard it about three days before Kodak announced that its signature color reversal film, slide film, was to be no more.

Sadly, I don't think the photographic world let out one big collective "OUCH" when the news broke. There may have been a widely scattered groan and a sigh. I'm thinking more whimper than bang here.

This post is mostly about and for all those who've argued (at times, in a highly agitated state) that digital photography would never overtake film, that it couldn't possible replace film.

It did and it has. You really need to get over it.

Weekend Work...

So, there I was. It was me and the door. Showdown time.

We've lived here for seventeen years. Over that time, our front door, our entry door, has managed to eat at least four or five lock-sets. Why? I can't even float a clue here.

Locksmiths have been to our place more than some family members.

The first encounter with the lock guy results in their trying to repair things. Failing that, they replace things.

I swear I saw one, a locksmith, go slowly past the house yesterday, somehow sensing another piece of hardware had tanked. As I quickly turned to make his eyes meet mine, he goosed it and roared down the street, the jangling of keys fading as he sped away knowing that he'd soon return.

Like hell.

It started hassling me a few weeks ago when it started sticking, sometimes making the door harder and harder to open. Compounding that is the mystery of the door that forever needs sanding. The door edge that meets the frame looks to me like its regenerating. Every time I haul out the orbital sander, slap on a medium-grit pad and a face mask, fill the house with sanding dust, all is well for, oh, maybe a month or two.

Then, it's back. Yes, I do know all about expansion and contraction due to heat and humidity.The puzzler is that there is never any contraction, it's always expansion, and that defies some law of physics, right?

I've considered doing some planing on a couple of occasions. Planing could do the trick, planing could also be cruel and unforgiving. A little too much pressure and all is lost. And you can't Superglue what you shaved back where it was.

So this past weekend I was determined to solve both problems. After sanding for a half hour, gently, in small increments with a very light hand, some progress had been made. Good.

Next, I take the lock-set apart in search of answers. As always, there are none. Forget it, let's just go buy a new one and be done with it.

The spreading headache wasn't all that bad. I've had worse.

Seeing how I'd watched professional locksmiths agonize over this demon door and its tumblers, strike plates, and knobs, what chance did I have of actually swapping out the entire bum unit for a new one?

Somehow, I did it. Somehow, it didn't take that long. Then somehow, the thing didn't work right.

Brand new, out of the package, all shiny and bright with smooth operation well-tested before tightening the bolts, it now wasn't all that smooth. It was sticking. And there was no apparent reason. Until...

Until I completely removed the new lock-set and peered through the oval hole in and out of which that part of the lock-set which is supposed to go in and out of goes. Certainly it has a name. You know which part I mean? Sure, I thought so.

Sticking my index finger in the hole, I half expected to get bitten by the spirit of the door. Instead, there it was. I could feel it plain as can be.

There was the problem and it was likely what had bedeviled professional locksmiths for years. The hole itself was of unequal diameter and shape throughout its length. Sounds like time to measure, then measure again - you always measure twice - do some calculating, make a sketch or two, then deftly begin your work.

Nah, no time for that crap. Hand me my Dremel tool.

I love my Dremel. Sometimes I just open the case and stare at it a bit, usually wondering why I spent what I spent when I bought this rig, this outfit, which was quickly supplemented by the 7,000 piece accessory kit. Or was that the 11,000 piece kit?

Now, here's the best part of it all. This is truly the pay-off, the sweet of the deal. My Dremel is the rechargeable unit, I've no time for dorking around with power cords, this here is a man who needs to be portable, to go where the challenge might be. I hadn't used my Dremel in maybe a year, meaning it hadn't been charged in that much time at least.

I loaded up a sanding wheel, locked it in, and spun the speed control. This thing whined like it was fusion-powered. The battery was fully charged. Amazing. Whoever makes Dremel's batteries, and however they are made, they have achieved perfection; a rechargeable battery that holds a charge longer than a week to ten days.

A few turns around the hole for the in-and-out thing, another rub with my finger, another bit of gnarl still there. A few more swipes from Dremel and done.

It worked. That was it. Our longstanding lock problem was never a lock problem at all, it was a carpentry problem. And Dremel solved it.

Another successful weekend project brought to you by the makers of Dremel rotary tools.

I figure come November it'll be time for another.

Right Here in River City...

I'd driven past the construction probably a hundred times since it began. Catching glimpses of the progress wasn't enough to make me nosy enough to stop and have a look around. A glance on occasion was adequate.

Part of my interest in all the work was that the northern portal is The Millennium Circle Portal, so named for a philanthropic group within The Luzerne Foundation. We're members and proud to be so.

My main interest, likewise altruistic, was that the River Common project had replaced and effectively stopped forever another project; the inflatable dam. I thought the dam a horrid idea. It was.

Please know that my opposition to this man-made intrusion was based on one fact and one fact alone; it would have been an ecological nightmare. As such, it had the potential to halt the Susquehanna River's recovery permanently, or for however long the dam was in place.

The thought of a big rubber water-stopper scared me from the start. A river needs to flow free, it's how they work, how they are ever changing and never changing at the same time. More important, it's how they heal themselves from human abuse. The Susquehanna is healing, that blow-up bladder would have been death to the riparian ecosystem that has begun to timidly return.

Despite what many may think, this river has made huge gains over the last ten to twenty years. Even throughout its stretch in this valley the Susquehanna is home habitat to Bald Eagles, Great Blue Herons, and Snowy Egrets. Beneath the surface, the river holds a bounty of smallmouth bass, muskellunge, walleyed pike, catfish, eels, turtles.

Even the outrageous annual mayfly explosion on the river is cause for great optimism. These mayflies are truly the "canary in the coal mine" when it comes to water quality. Bad water - no mayflies. Mayflies are incredibly delicate, needing excellent water. Good water - lots of mayflies.

If we can ever get the good sense to remove all impediments, the American Shad will return to the river, even as far north as the Wyoming Valley. And that would be one heck of a site to see. Shad are anadromous, they start life in freshwater, maturing, growing to adulthood in salt water. They then return to their natal rivers to begin the cycle all over again.

For now, one heck of a site is the River Common. Go, see, enjoy the river as we haven't been able to since the years immediately following the Flood of '36, which is when the levee system began to take shape.

The mighty Susquehanna has been effectively sealed off to our population center for over seventy years. It is now again open to us all. Walk through the portals, they're yours and mine. The river is ours. The River Common is a great thing. My guess is that you will be impressed.

The Good Stuff Goes Up Top...

I get lots of voicemail, most of it at work. My cell number is not something I pass around like a quart of Carling Black Label out back of the Scranton CYC in 1967. You'll have to forgive me for clinging to the Jeffersonian-era notion that all of us are still entitled to at least some isolated pockets of privacy in our lives.

Did I ever tell you our personal checks don't have our address on them? That can lead to the occasional amusing moment or two. Some of the oddball stares we've gotten from those not knowing what to do with a check without an address are priceless. It's pretty clear that we've completely stumped the party to whom we've handed the check. The next move, predictably, is that they go in search of their immediate superior.

Orwell's 1984 was published in 1949. So, how are we doing so far?

You got yourself a GPS? It can tell you precisely where you are at any given moment, meaning that it knows where you are at any given moment. Do you need the potential for abuse spelled out here? Some would say we're screwed. I say it's a trade-off, it's all part of the times in which we live and the info-jammed lives we lead. I'm OK with it, only because I see no way out of it.

And, yes, I caved on GPS-mania, buying one a couple weeks ago.

When email and the internet exploded in the mid to late '90s, my opinion was that about all it amounted to was more ways for strangers to intrude into your life, maybe more like insinuate themselves into your life. Through my job at the time, I was forced to become not only computer literate, but computer savvy in a hurry. Either learn the software or flunk the daily test of getting the job done.

I learned the hardware, the software, and became, almost by default, pretty good at that which many others were not yet any good at all. For a time, perhaps one of those brief and shining moments, I was almost the computer expert, the go-to guy.

Let's consider this post nothing more than a gripe, one gripe.

If and when you leave voicemail to anyone at any time for any reason, just remember the old TV news axiom that the good stuff goes up top. When you build a TV newscast, you put the best stuff at the beginning of the show, you give people your best right away. You don't make them wait, because waiting is boring, and boring means those people go elsewhere.

It easily applies to voicemail. Put the good stuff up top there, too. The good stuff is your phone number. Give your phone number s-l-o-w-l-y, and do it again, s-l-o-w-l-y.

There have been occasions when I couldn't pull a phone number out of the message left me despite playing it over and over and over again. Several times, I actually forwarded the message to other staffers on the outside chance they could break the code. Some times they can, mostly they cannot.

Now, enjoy the music while your party is located...and do remember that your call is important to us.