Seven Real Men

Back in the days before carbon emissions were dirty- before William Shatner and Leonard Nimoy cruised the universe from a hollywood set  or Irwin Allen sent the Robinson family adrift on their way to Alpha Centauri - there were 7 real men whose job it was to go boldly (no split infinitives here) where no man had gone before.  They called it “Project Mercury”  and seven test pilots were chosen to go into outer space.

50ish years ago- before space travel went Hollywood, and before NASA went green- these guys went into space – the real thing – without makeup, soundtrack or any special effects.  They stepped off the Earth and made laps around it in a spacecraft that was slightly larger than a VW beetle (the original one) and with less computer technology in the entire project than one would find in a 1st generation iPOD.   Seven years later we walked on the moon- without the Internet.

Thanks guys- for showing us how it’s done.

In back: Shepard, Grissom, Cooper. In front: Schirra, Slayton, Glenn, Carpenter.

Joys in the Attic

Back around Christmastime, I did my semi-annual tour of the Maloney attic. The attic has been a sore spot with me, especially since last year’s raccoon incident. (Back in March, a determined lady procyonid managed an impromptu ingress into the trusses for the purpose of whelping some offspring. I was able to successfully deter the mother-to-be with a combination of loud talk-radio and an industrial stroboscope. It made for a great migraine-inducing combination. I must remember to use it election campaigners start coming by this summer.))

But the Christmas decorations must go up, and I must bring them down from the upper darkness. While rooting around in the rafters, collecting the yuletide splendor, what should I come across but a series of large boxes that I secreted there some 16 years ago — back when I made my own first ingress into the arena of home ownership. I had a dim recollection as to the nature of their contents – but I was wholly unprepared for what was to come.

After dragging down the trappings of both the joyous Buon Natale and the homage to the jolly red pagan, my mind went back to the mystery boxes. Now that the boys were mostly grown up, I could chance a look at their contents without fear of the consequences. So, after assembling the gewgaws and arranging the baubles that permeate the holiday season, I retrieved them.

I was worried. Would the heat of more than a dozen summers and the cold of as many midwestern winters have damaged the contents? What about moisture? Insects? Varmints? Would they melt, fade, craze or become so brittle as to crack apart in my hands? There was only one way to find out.

Gingerly, cautiously, I opened the first box.

I withdrew the first item and unwrapped it.  It was just as beautiful now as the day I had put it away. My heart rose. The next one….. just as perfect – its lines and curves as exciting as I had remembered. The third, fourth and fifth….. impeccable- their colors dazzling my eyes. The sixth, seventh and eighth………also just as I had remembered. My hands began to ache, as if they could recall the hours of labor that I had put into each and every one of them all those years ago. I brought them out one at a time….. number twelve … fifteen …… nineteen ……… twenty-four? Each one came out of the wrapping and dazzled in the light. How many did I have? Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six…….. some I could barely recall finishing …. Thirty-seven…. thirty-eight … where did I get the time to do it? Thirty-nine………. FORTY!

I knew that I had made quite a few of them—- but forty? The evidence was there, sitting in neat rows on my table— forty hand-built 1/25th scale model cars.

Thirty-eight old cars in a new garage

I built them in ones and twos over a period of years  – coupes, convertibles, sedans, station wagons. I made trucks, an ambulance and a hearse– foreign, domestic…. cars dating from the thirties to the nineties.. in all available colors. When I could not sleep at night, I would sit in the kitchen of my apartment and do the detail painting. On the weekends, I would scour the old hobby shops looking for odd or rare car models, and finding things like a model of a Chevy Corvair, or a ’55 Volkswagen. The late evenings were filled with the smell of liquid polystyrene cement and enamel paint thinner.

A 1952 Chevrolet Fastback- your magic carpet on the Road to Romance.

The pressures of being a new dad, the economies of home ownership and the time constraints of my career made my days of model building come to an end. I packed everything up and put it away– eventually in the attic of my new suburban home – where they lay undisturbed for nearly two decades. 　

What it all started with-- a 1962 Dodge Dart and Plymouth Fury- both ragtops.

Then they were back… but I wasn’t finished yet. I went back up into the attic … to get the other boxes. Amongst them I found more cars– thirty more car model kits yet to be assembled – just waiting for fresh paint and a sharp X-Acto knife. I wonder if my old airbrush is still good.  I figure that if I were to build one model kit every two months, I won’t have to buy another one for another five years.  Yeah, right.

1965 Pontiac Grand Prix- it's the ONLY way to fly.

From the Mailbag…….

Your comments (however strange) are always appreciated

Every now and then, a particular item in the Read&Delete inbox proves to be something interesting.  In this case – because the true meaning is somewhat obscure, I have placed a somewhat paraphrased translation at the end.

From: Worldwide Who’s Who
Sent: Wednesday, February 01, 2012 1:55 PM
To:

Subject: DEADLINE APPROACHING: You’ve Been Selected for the Worldwide Who’s Who Among Executives and Profess(ionals)

Dear xxxxxxxxxx,

Recently, you received an email indicating chosen as a potential candidate to represent your professional community in the 2012 Edition of Worldwide Who’s Who.

We have yet to hear from you! Your candidacy was formally approved on January 24th, 2012.

The Publishing Committee selects potential candidates based not only upon their current standing, but focusing as well on criteria from executive and professional directories, associations, and trade journals. Given your background, the Director believes your profile makes a fitting addition to our publication.

There is no fee nor obligation to be listed. As we are working off of secondary sources, we must receive verification from you that your profile is accurate. After receiving verification, we will validate your registry listing within seven business days.

Once finalized, your listing will share prominent registry space with thousands of fellow accomplished individuals across the globe, each representing accomplishments within their own geographical area.

To ensure you are included, we must receive your verification before February 3rd. On behalf of our Committee, I salute your achievement this year and look forward to welcoming you to our association.

Warm Regards,

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Translation:

This is to inform you that you’ve been selected for the 2012 edition of the World-wide Who’s Who Among Gullible Wannabee Suckers.  Our web trolling software has you flagged as a potential victim in our crappy book publishing scam. This e-mail was sent to well over 4.5 million potentially qualified listers- most of whom can’t qualify for thumb-wrestling.

There is no fee involved in your becoming listed in our ‘publication’, but if you actually want to read your name in a 6 point font on page 762 in this firestarter, you have to cough up at least 250 bucks (plus postage) to get a copy delivered to you. Granted, it might jack your jollies up a few notches to have this imitation-leather bound ego booster on your coffee table, but if you look closely at most of the other entries in the book, you will find that they too are severely limited in the gray matter department.

Although most of the lies recorded in our volume are at a level about on a par with the average retouched resume’, some people really ‘go to town on it’ – so to speak — by planting non-existent doctorate degrees and other fabricated achievements. There are more than a few ersatz Steve Jobs’ and Jonas Salks’ types listed in this tome.  One of our favorites was the guy in Shreveport who claimed to have a PhD in ‘bowling’. You just don’t meet people like that every day, thank heavens.

Our book is a riveting read if you are interested in studying cases of truly gifted delusional self-aggrandizement.   We pick up the occasional junior Josef Stalin or Blofeld along the way- people whose aspirations are totally unrestrained by reality.  If your life goal is “the total enslavement of all humanity under your crushing fist”, all we can say is, “Go for it, Lex Luthor– we’re behind you all the way— if you buy a couple of books.”

Massive egos make for not only big entertainment, but also really big bucks.   Last time we went to press we sold some ‘clients’ 3 or 4 of these phonebooks– ostensibly to give out as proof to others of their impressive achievements—  it worked— sort of—— we were impressed.

Have a nice day,  Weasel.

 

Weenie Computing

I am old school.  I say this neither bragging nor complaining, but just as a statement of fact.  Although I was born during the Kennedy administration, the better part of my worldview is pure Eisenhower. 

One of the more interesting phenomena I noticed after digging my way out of the time capsule  (shoulda buried it deeper, boys) was the advent of the Weenie Computer…. otherwise known as the ‘netbook’.   This little piece of progress seemed too good to pass up, so I decided to replace my old coal-fired laptop with one of these low calorie widgets. Ho-ho!

At first I was impressed with some of features:  the diminished ballast in my briefcase, the seemingly eternal battery life, the almost instantaneous start-up.  But lo…. the huzzahs end rather abruptly at this point. For inasmuch as the box is small, so is the keyboard. The marketing hucksters who work for the weasels who made this dis-oracle call it a “3/4 size keyboard”.  Alas, but I do not have 3/4 size hands.  Full size, plus.  Typing has always been a challenge for me– especially since 1977, when I took a touch typing class in summer school.  (It wasn’t as much a typing class — it was more like playing Whack-a-Mole without a mallet.) The teacher was about ready to cut off my fingers to save the two-ton Royal Standard Electric from the abuse.  But I wasn’t quite as bad on the keys as some of the athletes in class.  They were trying to type with pork sausages for fingers- but at least they could count on the girls on the cheerleading squad for assistance in filling out forms*cough*.  But I digress.

The other major joy in using the weeniePC or the DietMac is in the incredible viewing screen (as in incredibly small).  Not only do I not have the ability to see more than a paragraph of text at a time, but it changed my whole perspective of the Internet. It makes you think that you are looking at web pages through a knot-hole in a fence – like a Peeping Tom with scrollbars.  Add a couple of toolbars—I dare you. They’re just like venetian blinds

Sometimes it’s fun to watch the web addicts at a Wi-Fi hotspot, all hunched over their toddler keyboards and squinting like Popeye the Sailor at their screens- trying to read a news website or write some e-mail-with their soon to be arthritic hands cramping on the keyboard.  Does anybody remember back when Carpal Tunnel Syndrome was the Malady of the Month?  Back in the early 90s, it seemed like anybody who ever looked at a computer keyboard was being diagnosed with it. I remember seeing a whole lot of leather wrist straps (aka Chamber of Horrors) in the office where I worked. They should be back in vogue pretty soon— it is the perfect complement to the new Quasimodo humps that are sprouting up at the local Starbucks’.

I did give my little mini-marvel a fair trial. I used it for an entire week—all the time resisting the growing urge to create a new Olympic sport – the Netbook Throw (similar to the discus but with more emotion involved.)  At the end of the week, I replaced it with a FULL SIZE laptop—even bigger than the 8 year old behemoth I used to carry. It has a keyboard big enough for the Rockettes to dance on, and an IMAX size screen. The best part is the speakers. No longer did every bit of audio sound like either the Chipmunks on helium or a kazoo band.  YouTube became more to me than just a rumor.  Now I can show graphics on my screen to others without using a magnifying glass. 

The bottom line is this- the netbook would be a perfect fit for you—if you were an elf, pixie or leprechaun. But if you are a full-size human, and desire to do full size work- buy a full size laptop. Life is too short to go around googly-eyed, stooped and with cramped hands.

Raccoons in the rafters…….

Procyonid paranoia has set in at the ranch.

I just spent the better part of this morning installing a bright strobe light and wiring stereo speakers in my attic. Why would I be doing such a thing? No, this is not the latest fad in Dolby surround sound or lounge entertainment. This is serious business. I am installing the sound and light show up in the eaves in order to get a undesirable to leave. Today is the first day of raccoon relocation season. I am trying all this to discourage a raccoon from maintaining residence here in my digs. It moved in on Thursday night, entering through my attic ventilator fan. ( I tried just leaving a radio up in the attic tuned to a rap-music station in order to scare it off – but it didn’t work- every time I would check on it, the radio was retuned to a classical station. I must have a tenant of discriminating tastes.) Now I have a stereo in place where the pest can’t get to the tuning knob– plus it has a really scratchy volume control pot. Soon we will find out what 100 watts of static-laced rock music will do (other than loosen the drywall throughout my house.) Either the pest will leave or lose its hearing.

Unfortunately it is the nesting season for these critters. They are only looking for a warm, dry, quiet and safe place to whelp their offspring. So they look for some upscale garret in order to give their kids the kind of upbringing their parents never had. Tough luck, I say. As far as I am concerned, raccoons have their choice of every house on the planet except one – mine.

If they don’t vacate by tomorrow, I’m installing a couple of 250 watt quartz lamps up in the trusses. Extremely bright light is not a desirable habitat for nocturnal forest creatures– but if they grew up in an urban setting, I’m pretty much screwed. Then it’s a turf war. City raccoons are known to have gang affiliations. They have tattooed pelts and tend to carry illegal firearms. They always have a buddy around who can spring them from the live traps. After that, it’s a blood vendetta– them or me. Country raccoons are a little different. All you have to do is offer them a better trailer and they’re off like a shot– in the direction of the nearest Kroger or Piggly-Wiggly.

Judging by his/her music choice (classical), I am reasonably sure my raccoon pest has an Ivy League upbringing -and is now scrambling around the trusses in his pince-nez glasses and matching pairs of Birkenstocks, trying to locate the most pretentious and exclusive corner of the eaves. The joke is on him, as I don’t know of any gated communities in my attic. If he gets to my garage he won’t find a Volvo either. Imagine what might happen if he discovers that he has taken up residence in a garret simply laced with archived copies of the National Review, and a Buick LeSabre in the garage. His proud little chest might just cave in- forcing him to slink away in the night– before his colleagues back at the club discover that he has taken up residence with a ‘conservative’. Or else he might be a University of Wisconsin graduate, but that would make him a Badger. (I had to put that one in!)

One can only imagine what might happen if the animal stays in my attic for a prolonged time. Up there, in that confined space – with zero exercise and living off of the high sodium, low fiber and ultra fatty trash in my neighborhood, he is likely to develop heart disease, diabetes and maybe even goiter. I can see him now– trying to get around under the roof with his little gout stricken paws and pot belly- stopping in mid-gable in order to catch his breath- before trying to squeeze his size 16 raccoon body through a size 3 hole- his beady little glaucomic eyes nearly popping out of his puffy red bandit-face. Yes sir, my attic is no place for a raccoon, especially a cranky old one with prostate problems. We have to get him out before it is too late.

 

Somebody doesn't like my choice of music........

Now Playing at Your Local YouTube………

This is what happens when I have too much time on my hands.  By answering an ad on craigslist, I became part of the filmmaking community.  I did my part, (‘playing against type’- as they say) as a middle-aged womanizing golfer—in a pilot for a web series called The Club.  I was standing in for an actor who dropped out of the film prior to the shooting date, so with a minimal amount of practice, an old golf shirt and a mouthful of jelly doughnut, off we went.  The director, the talent and the crew were outstanding, and I was impressed with their professional attitude.  I just watched the camera and sound crews do their thing, while the director and the other actor and actresses brought their characters to life. My acting job, on the other hand—pure amateur.    It is notable that my movie debut was in a role portraying one of the lead characters’ occupational hazards.   All in all, I thought the rest of the people involved in the project were incredible and I wish them well in this endeavor, and I hope that my pot belly, powdered doughnut and Marlboro didn’t drag down the magic too much. And no, I didn’t inhale.

WARNING!  There is some profanity in this film (but I didn’t say any of it).

Watch for more from these fine people at:
http://www.theclubseries.com

Meet your host

This is the inaugural post for the new home of the Read & Delete experience. We are happy to know that you are visiting us.

Your Congenial Host & Charming Hostess

 As you can see, spending 15 years piloting one of the more obscure e-mail news letters on the web has taken its toll- especially on those brave souls back at the clinic (Writer’s Rehab) who tried valiantly to correct my …..well ……. for lack of a better word…. style.  But don’t worry, although they gave their best Strunk & White effort to put me on the road to cohesive literacy, they failed miserably. Basically— they Strunk out.  But don’t you worry, their persistent grammar gnashing and style stomping has left me uneffected unaffected. As least—– not much.  Apart from some small neck spasms and a slight facial tic— I am still the same Read & Delete that you all came to know and ignore. 

So now we begin a new chapter in the Great Mattress Tag of the Internet, the Blog of Bleech, the Peril of Prose or what has once been described as the world’s longest literary suicide attempt– the Read & Delete! Stay tuned……