HOOKING UP THAT COMPUTER IS NEVER EASY
Published June 4, 2009
My computer was really showing signs of dementia. So it’s off to the computer store for a new one.
Getting it home, I plug in all the wires, approximately like the instructions say, push the ON button, and hot damn, the screen lights up.
Next I hook up the printer and run a test copy, but the thing spits out twenty pages before I can pull the plug. I guess I should have read the instructions and installed the printer set up software.
Now, to set up for the e mail program. So, this time I read the instructions, push the proper buttons, and fill out all the pop up forms, and Viola, I can receive e mail.
But try as I might, I just can’t get the machine to send. Even by following the installation instructions word for word, four more times.
So, in desperation, I call my Internet service provider. I eventually get a guy in Bangladesh who can’t speak English, and then a guy in India, who says that they don’t support my computer, and that I need to call The manufacturer.
So I call the company, and they tell me that they have no idea how my Internet service works, so they can’t help me. But they did e mail me a list of questions for my Internet guy.
Now, when I call the Internet folks again, I get a guy in Russia, the Ukraine, or someplace, who is reasonably proficient in English, but seems to have a little less technical acumen than my neighbor’s Russian Wolfhound. Anyhow, I give up on him and call the factory back,
This time I get a nice lady in Canada, who seems competent. But after a couple of hours of trying everything, her shift is over and I am still nowhere. But before signing off, she transfers me to a guy who allegedly knows all about e mail. So we try everything again, and still nothing works. But then the guy suggests NOT giving the computer a password when it asks for one, and guess what, the e mail starts sending like mad.
Now everything is going great, and I am happily working away, till at 10 PM, the machine crashes. So I do the standard fix, which is jerk the plug. But when I plug it back in, the device groans and wheezes, and presents me with a blank white screen. And nothing I can do, including all the boot up techniques, and every cuss word I can think of, will budge it.
By this time I am thinking that maybe I have bought an expensive boat anchor, and spend a sleepless night, waiting to call the manufacturer's Help line in the morning. And when I call, I get an American, no less, who seems reasonably proficient. So we go thru everything he can think of, and, you guessed it, nothing works. His computer finally tires of this game and dies, so I have to give up on him.. The computers must have been talking to each other, I guess.
But now I get a brainstorm. Maybe something hooked to the computer is causing the problem. So I pull all the connections, and guess what, the machine happily boots up.
Anyway, I finally figure out, mostly by brute force and awkwardness, that the culprit is the digital camera dock. When the camera is in the dock, the computer crashes and won’t restart, but with the camera out of the dock, the computer runs fine.
So after me tweaking the software some more, with no effective help from any Help line, I might add, the computer now doesn't care whether the camera is in the dock or not, and runs happily either way,
If cars were as cranky as this, we would still be driving a horse and buggy.
Anyhow, stay tuned for the next episode, which I’m sure will happen soon.
THAT OL’ FISHING HOLE WAS NEVER LIKE THIS
Published July 2, 2009
After a long rambling argument over beer and cigars one night, my old fishing buddy Sam convinced me that I should spin a tale, for all you rabid fishermen out there, about the joys of our previously secret fishing hideaway. So, here goes a “true” fish story about one of my favorite spots.
This rather rustic place, which shall stay nameless, both to protect our fishing and on the advice of our attorneys, is on a small pristine lake in the Canadian North Woods.
This camp is unique, as is the owner, an ageless Swede who we will call Lars. Lars really doesn't care for guests, and only tolerates them because they bring in (barely) enough money to support his modest needs. Accordingly, he does everything possible to discourage visitors. To start with, he only has an obsolescent radio phone. And since almost all radio phones disappeared years ago, no one has a clue as to how to place a call. So you spend 10 minutes arguing with an operator, and maybe after the third try you get Lars on the phone. Then you have to convince him to rent you a cabin.
Next there is the problem of getting there. Not only is the place 25 miles up an almost impassable four wheel drive road, but along the way there are innumerable road branches and cross roads going in all directions, and Lars, of course, does not believe in signs. If you had the foresight to get directions when booking, it still doesn't do much good as his verbal instructions are pretty much useless.
What a sight awaits when you finally arrive. The place is about 35 years old, and has had zero maintenance for the last 30. I have heard tales that there is a well somewhere, but otherwise there is no water except the lake, and no indoor plumbing. Some of the outhouses, however, do have doors. The cabins sag in all directions, with the floors being so uneven you get dizzy just walking across the floor, even without one of Sam's strong cigars. Sam anticipates that Lars will have neglected to cut wood, and brings along presto logs, which burn so hot they almost melt the stove, and get the cabin up to 130 degrees in about four and a half minutes. Of course there is no electricity, but Lars does furnish one old time gas lantern, which you can sometimes get going without an explosion. The beds all sag, and bedding is non existent. There are some dishes, but if you use them, Lars charges you twenty dollars more.
Speaking of the cabins, the guests sometimes must share them with strange forest creatures. But let me explain. One night I am wakened from a sound sleep by Sam yelling and banging around. I ask him what is the problem, and he says that there is a rat in the cabin. I tell him that if it bothers him that much to get up, open the door and let it out, but not to wake me up with his problems. Sam replies that he (the rat) is eating our apples. So what's wrong with sharing, I ask, and try to go back to sleep over the sound of crunch, crunch, crunch. I don't know why Sam got so upset, as we trimmed off the parts which the rat had gnawed on and there was no real harm done.
Sam really appreciates the informality and the absence of women, who generally have enough sense to stay home. The informality, however, sometimes goes a bit far, as when Lars takes a “whiz” out the front door of the office.
So why do we go to this place. Simply because the fishing is fantastic. Rainbow up to 5 pounds, or if you speak Canadian, two and a quarter kiloliters, centipedes, decimeters, or whatever the hell they call 'em. We catch ‘em on wet or dry flies, and we never fail to get our limit.
PS. We asked the Editors to run a contest to see if any of you fishermen out there could identify this lake, but on the advice of their attorneys, they declined
AVOID THE CROWDS BY FOLLOWING RICK STEVES
Published August 20, 2009
Experienced travelers are always on the lookout for an undiscovered gem. You know, killer scenery, friendly natives and NO TOURISTS.
And, it seemed that my traveling companion Betty had found such a place, reading about it in one of Rick Steves’ books. That’s right, Edmonds’ own Rick Steves.
This supposedly was a quaint village in Switzerland, name of Gimmelwald, where tourists never venture, cowbells tinkle, and farmers scythe the hay by hand. One could even imagine seeing Heidi shyly peeking out the window of a flower bedecked alpine hut. And since we were doing Europe anyway, Betty and I decided to check this place out.
So off we go, down a scenic alpine road. Then up and away on the Shilthorn Gondola lift.
Off at the first stop, and there we are. An enchanting village of some 120 souls, it hangs on cliff’s edge, 2000 feet above the Lauterbrunnen valley. In fact, you kinda feel that one misstep might bring you crashing to the valley floor those thousands of feet below.
And Rick Steves’ description was right on. No cars, no gift shops, and definitely no tourists. Only the sound of cowbells, and a killer view of the Jungfrau, across the valley, seemingly so close that one could touch it.
And off in the distance, at the end of a steep trail, we saw this nondescript building, but it was emblazoned with the word HOTEL. So onward and upward we trudged. And after almost having a heart attack trying to lug our luggage up this alpine obstacle course, we finally we made it. Then finding the owner, I enquired, in German, about our reservations. He kind of looked at me like I had two heads, and answered me in English. Which should have been my first clue.
Looking around, we decided that while this place was a certainly not the Taj Mahal, it did appear to be adequate. Even if the bath was down the hall somewhere, wind was blowing through cracks in the walls, and the Swiss federdecke, or down comforters, were about a foot too short for the beds.
Anyway, we finally got settled in, and headed to the terrace for a drink. We were just starting to relax when some young people, at the next table, asked us, in English, to join them. We did, and it turned out that not only were they from Edmonds, but had read Rick Steves’ book as well. So it didn’t really surprise us, when later at the communal dinner, we discovered that all of the other guests were also from Edmonds. Having read the same book, we found out.
Betty was enthralled to be with people who could speak English. But I was kind of disappointed, to tell the truth. One thing for sure though, folks from Edmonds do seem to really get around.
Next morning, following another of Rick’s suggestions, we decided to go on up the gondola lift to the Shilthorn.
This is a 9744 foot mountain, and its main claim to fame is the revolving restaurant Piz Gloria, atop the summit. You might remember this as the restaurant that was blown up, in the James Bond flick “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service”.
Anyway, it was a great morning, and Betty and I were just hanging out on the observation deck. I was dressed, incidentally, pretty much like a European, wearing canvas shorts, leather jacket, and Tyrolean hat. It was also a bit chilly, but we really didn’t mind. Anyway, as we were standing there, taking in the view, an old Austrian guy strolled over and struck up a conversation. “You must be a really tough guy”, he said to me in German, “to be wearing shorts in this weather.” “Oh, I’m not so tough”, I replied in kind. “I am just an American who doesn’t know any better.” Taken aback, he mumbled a couple of words, and wandered off. But we were destined to meet again.
And sure enough, while walking alone in Gimmelwald village that afternoon, I ran into my “friend” once more. Where’s your wife, he asked. I’m not sure, I replied. Probably in Edmonds or who knows where. Now, absolutely positive that the American was daft, he just shook his head and walked away.
THINGS GO BETTER WITH RUM (STRAIGHT PLEASE)
Published August 27, 2009
Once upon a time, while working in the US Virgin Islands, I had to make a business trip to the British Virgin Islands, about 100 miles away. The British Virgin Islands was and is a British Crown Colony, one of the last vestiges of the old empire. And in those days, it was a real backwater, to say the least. The best way to get there, it seemed, was on a rinky-dink bush plane operation, which flew a couple of Britten-Norman Islanders. These airplanes, though, were a little long in the tooth, as were the pilots, for that matter. But that couldn’t be helped
Anyway, my companion and I started the adventure by hitching a ride to the airport, where we met the pilot at the airplane.
So we threw our baggage in back, climbed in and belted up, and guess what, the machine wouldn’t start. At this development, the pilot, who was a real West Indies character, pulled a rum bottle from under the seat, had a large swig, and passed it around, while we assessed the situation. Deciding that the batteries were flat, we located a starter cart, and after a few more belts of rum, got it hooked up. But you guessed it, the machine still wouldn’t start. At this point, after another couple of swigs, the pilot and I decided to have a go at fixing the plane ourselves. So, out came the tools, and with the cowlings off, the cause of the trouble soon became apparent. It was corroded battery terminals. So we cleaned them up, put the plane back together and saddled up. By this time, the rum bottle was empty, but our mechanical endeavors had been successful, and the plane fired up immediately.
Upon reaching our island destination, though, the pilot, through his alcoholic haze, could barely make out the runway, and then he couldn’t believe his eyes. It was a 3000 foot dirt strip wedged between a cliff and the ocean, with a 30 degree dogleg smack in the middle. This really shouldn’t have been a big deal, because the Islander can normally land in 1500 feet or less, but the pilot, needless to say, was not in the best of condition. Anyway, since we couldn’t stay airborne forever, we decided to chance it. And aside from a good bounce when we landed, everything turned out OK.
Upon alighting from the plane, we borrowed a Jeep, and got our business out of the way. We then repaired to the local watering hole, a quaint thatched roof shack on the beach, just like an old Humphrey Bogart movie. We grabbed a few drinks there, and piled on the Islander for the ride home.
But the day wasn’t over yet. While winging back we spotted a raft with what looked like three survivors of a shipwreck. So we radioed the Coast Guard, circled the scene till the rescue helicopter arrived, then headed for home.
At the airport, though, while clearing immigration, we noticed the US officials hassling these poor sodden sailors, because they didn’t have the proper entry documents.
Enough adventure for one day, one might say
A huge Westport tuna tale
Maintaining order at the air museum
Published on Thu, Apr 8, 2010 by John
Lately, I have been doing my civic duty by volunteering to guide little kids through the air museum.
And sometimes it gets interesting, even before we get in the door, but let me take a moment to explain.
Once inside the museum, the WW II airplanes awe my small charges, but most are convinced that I am much older than the planes.
Everyone in Edmonds has heard of Canlis, the fine Seattle restaurant that offers excellent Midwest steaks, served by demure servers, in an elegant setting.
In the old days, it was said to be the best eatery in Seattle. And some folks swear that it still is, I might add.
A guy named Peter Canlis owned the place, and it was presided over by a stately maitre d’ named Douglas. Colloquially, it was generally known to the locals as “Pete’s Drive In”.
Back then, along with somewhat steep prices, the establishment had the reputation of being a bit exclusive. And there was even a rumor circulating that the “Average Joe” was not particularly welcome. This, of course was not true, although it was good PR, and made the place seem even more desirable.
But let me get to the point of this story.
At that time, I had a bunch of hotshot computer engineers working for me. Now these guys were really good, probably the best in the business, and I would have put them up against anyone from IBM or anywhere else. And, they had just done a fantastically great piece of work for me, in computerizing the Portland OR police department.
In view of this accomplishment, I felt that they, and their significant others, deserved a night out, on me, so I invited them all for dinner at Canlis. Their sartorial tastes, though, ran pretty much to faded logo tee shirts, worn with torn jeans, no socks, and occasionally no shoes either.
But in those ancient days, the Canlis dress code kind of called for coats and ties for the gentlemen, and cocktail dresses for the ladies. So, in the interests of preserving decorum, Douglas arranged for the meal to be served in one of the better private rooms.
Anyway, the big night arrived, and not wanting to appear too overdressed, I donned a leather jacket, and an old pair of slacks, along with scuffed loafers, then headed for Canlis. A bit early, to be sure.
But would you believe that when my crew finally arrived, the guys were all decked out in new suits, and the gals all wore stunning frocks.
They had all heard of the legendary Canlis, of course, but never thought that they would be fortunate enough actually be invited into the place. So to do this occasion up right, and to avoid embarrassing the boss, they had all gone out and bought spanking new outfits.
Southeast Asian airlines are generally among the best in the world, particularly when it comes to customer service. But I have had my share of “fun” on them as well. So now let me spin a tale of a time when I flew Garuda, the Indonesian flag airline.
Seems I was at the Jakarta airport, trying to catch a Garuda flight to Hong Kong. But after a search in the computer the counter agent announced that the airline had no record of me, the flight was full, and I would have to rebook a later flight. This really didn’t compute with me, as I had checked with Garuda a day or two before, and had been told that everything was cool. But then I remembered that East Asians have a propensity for getting first and last names mixed up, so I enquired if they had anything under John. Oh yes Mr. John, the agent said. I have your records right here, everything is in order and you are confirmed Business Class.
Things didn’t work out that well in Hong Kong, though, where one day in a similar situation the airline really couldn’t find our reservations to Tokyo. The Chinese lady counter agent, however, was very solicitous, explaining that since we were not in the computer, we really didn’t exist, and since we didn’t exist, we didn't really need a flight to Tokyo, so please relax. This explanation caused my traveling companion, who was new to the ways of the Orient, to almost bust a blood vessel. But after he calmed down a little, and stopped threatening to burn the place down, we found the Station Chief, and he got us a flight to Tokyo on Swissair. The Swissair flight was fine, except when I tried to chat up the cute flight attendant. Trying to speak Switzerdeutch, (The Swiss version of German), gave me a headache in about five minutes, and I had to revert to English. This lost me much face with my traveling companion, but the flight attendant thought that it was kind of humorous.
EDMONDS BEACON JULY 15, 2010
PEOPLE’S CHOICE? NOT REALLY
Mayor Gary hasn’t even got his desk cleaned out, and some Council members are beating the drums for a new City Manager form of government. This new way is said to be more efficient, but I call it a power grab.
And one council member says that the public doesn’t understand the difference. So maybe I can help out there.
Edmonds has been around over 100 years, and the Mayor, Council government has so far worked out pretty good. The Council makes the rules, and the Mayor runs the town.
And, if both sides really can’t agree, we might have gridlock. Which maybe isn’t so bad for us common folk after all, ‘cause then, none of the politicians can make too much mischief.
The way things are now, both the Council and the Mayor work for us, and if we don’t like either’s performance, we go to the ballot box, and throw the bums out
But it seems the Council is not satisfied with just making the rules, they now want to hire the guy who will run the town, as well, all in the name of more efficient government.
That way, they can pick their own dog, and if he doesn’t bark when they say so, and roll over on command, they can turn him in at the pound, and pick up another, and maybe more compliant, mutt.
And look at the poor guy they hire. Working for seven bosses, who play musical chairs every election, and always looking over his or her shoulder to see when the axe will fall. And it seems to be pretty often, with average City Manager tenure in Washington State being 5 to 7 years. And folks, does that make for efficient government, and experienced administration? I think not. In fact, it seems to me that a professional baseball manager has about as much job security.
Hey, if we had this on the National level, we wouldn’t elect a President, the Congress would hire one, and throw him or her out when they didn’t like what he or she was doing.
And at the State level, we wouldn’t have Gov. Chris, elected by us, but rather Harry Hack, some politician’s cousin, hired by the legislature.
And the clinching argument. Under a City Manager format, the City Manager, who is really only an employee, toils at his desk, while the Council members take turns with all that neat ceremonial stuff. Like getting their picture in the paper, working Sister City arrangements, not to mention soaking up free food and drink on the banquet circuit. And maybe even taking those boring fact finding junkets.
No thanks, folks. I think I like things just the way they are.
Published October 14, 2010
The Edmonds Art Commission has done it again. Or more accurately, done it again for the 25th time.
Their “Write on the Sound” conference, hosted on the weekend of October first and second, was a resounding success, bringing together twenty seven presenters, and 247 writers and authors.
I was really impressed by the presenters, who were all experts in various writing and publishing fields, and hailed from as far away as Florida. The author and writer attendees ran the gamut, varying from those who pen a word of two at the kitchen table, to accomplished, published authors.
And there was something for everyone. A pat on the back and helpful tips for beginning writers, along with a lot of good “insider” stuff for more experienced scribes, including discussions on how to better market their wares, and other neat subjects.
Kudos to the Art Commission for hosting this world-class event for its 25th year. This and other superb efforts by the Commission have gone a long way toward giving Edmonds real recognition on the American cultural scene.
But the high spot of the conference, at least for me, was the good looking 30’s something lady who somehow appeared in the seat beside me at almost every seminar. And I have been trying to convince myself ever since, that this was maybe something more than sheer coincidence.
Fine British workmanship
Published on Tue, Nov 23, 2010 by John
One fine day, long long ago, a big ol’ British industrialist showed up at our Seattle offices, looking to fill his plant in Britain with work.
And of course, there was a meeting between this guy and our major big shots, which somehow I was invited to attend.
There were introductions all around, and when my turn came, this guy, whose first name was Andy, unnecessarily explained to me that he had been the chairman of Rover.
Rover, incidentally was the largest British car manufacturer, at that time, so I guess that I was supposed to have been impressed.
That’s interesting, I allowed. I once owned a Rover motorcar myself. “What did you think of it?” asked Andy, walking right into that one.
"Well I’ll tell you", I drawled. "You can tell the high quality of a Rover motorcar, by the fine British workmanship on the parts that fall off." Needless to say, there was a long silence.
My boss eventually asked me, on my next trip to England, to take a look at Andy's operation, which I did. With his driver picking me up at my London hotel and personally delivering me to an audience with the great man.
The car was a Rover 900, briefly sold in the US as a Sterling.
It was basically a Honda, with a Rover body shell and interior, and had proved to be a real piece of junk.
Anyhow, when I was ushered into Andy’s presence, the first thing he said was, “Well John, I see we got you here in a Rover motorcar
“That’s right Andy” I replied. “But it had a Honda engine.”
That exchange, incidentally, was all over England within a week. And Andy’s company, somehow, didn’t get any work.
BOEING PLANT 2
Published November 18, 2010
They are losing their birthplace, as Boeing has decided to demolish its venerable Plant 2 airplane factory, where these B-17 and B-52 warplanes were produced in incredible quantities.
When I first visited Plant 2 in mid 1950, the wartime production of B-17 bombers, which actually reached 16 per day…every day, had long ceased, the camouflage village erected on the roof to confuse Japanese bombers had been removed, and the metal jigs and fixtures used to produce the planes, had been cut up and sold for scrap.
The only remaining evidence of this mighty production effort were the thousands of nuts, bolts and rivets embedded in the plant’s asphalt aisles, and the scars, dents and embedded metal in the maple floors of the balcony, where the smaller pieces of airplane had been assembled. In fact, you could shoot a cannon down any of the main aisles with no fear of hitting anyone or anything.
But listening closely, one could imagine hearing the whine of the lathes and milling machines, and the thump of the presses, turning out the bits and pieces, and then the earsplitting clatter of rivet guns, wielded by hundreds of legendary “Rosie the Riveters”, assembling the parts into complete airplanes. And finally outside on the apron, the scream of the four big radial engines, as they were run up to full power, bringing the big “bird” to life, at last.
But Plant 2 didn’t sleep for long. The Cold War was soon upon us, along with the B-52 bomber. That awesome machine, which is still in service, could carry an H bomb to anywhere in the
Soviet Union. Thus threatening unimaginable devastation upon that Evil Empire.
And where was this monster built. You guessed it, Boeing Plant 2. The airplane could barely be contained inside the plant, and actually had to have the vertical tail folded down to clear the doors. But the other Boeing plants were full of priority work, so the old gal was again pressed into service.
And serve she did, with 277 B-52s being built there in 8 years.
But with the transfer of B-52 production to Wichita, the old lady, who by now was showing her age, again fell into disuse.
Boeing had built a state of the art Developmental Center elsewhere, and modern plants for producing jetliners, were sprouting like weeds at the Boeing Renton site.
She did have a bit of a reprieve though, when the first 8 737s were built there in 1966. That was a couple of years before I used part of this old factory to build and test a full scale seawater desalination plant. While at about the same time, some other guys were building asphalt processing plants elsewhere in the building.
In recent years, however, the place has fallen into almost total disuse, with antique airplane storage and some Museum of Flight airplane restoration being the only significant activities.
Somehow though, it doesn’t seem quite right to rip down this iconic structure, and recycle this irreplaceable bit of Seattle and airplane history into just another park. Or Heaven forbid, a shopping center.
CROC FISHING IN THE AMAZON, WITH PROOF
Once, not so long ago, buddy Sam and I were fishing at a remote camp in the Amazon jungle. Right on the Brazil/Venezuela border, and about 200 miles from nowhere.
We were trying our luck on this pristine lake, when we noticed a crocodile snoozing off in the shallows. He seemed to pay us no heed, till we hooked a fish. But then he would spring into action, swim over, and grab the fish before we had a chance to reel it in. When the score in this game had reached four for the crocodile, versus zip for the fishermen, we were really getting frustrated. But then the croc seemed to tire of the fun, and wandered off.
There was more to come, though, on the subject of crocodiles, but let me explain. Dinners in this camp, while tasty, usually ran to unknown jungle creature. Unknown, because the animal dish to be served was unidentifiable to us, and interrogating the cook was futile, ‘cause his command of English was non existent. But one evening, we really did know what we were eating, as a couple of the guys had gone hunting, bagging a small crock and a pica, which we had the cook make up for dinner. But before turning the croc over to the cook, we all snapped pics of each other proudly holding this creature. Like, we had caught him while fishing.
Now, fast forward to back home. I was seeing my doc, trying to get rid of the tropic crud I had picked up, when I mentioned the crocodile, and gave her the photo of me holding him. She was immediately taken with this pic, and promptly hung it in her private office.
Anyway, sometime later, while hanging out in her waiting room, I got into a conversation with this rich guy fisherman, who was bragging about fishing all over the world. I told him that I was into fishing a bit, and had recently returned from the Amazon, where I had been fishing for crocodiles. Of course, he didn't believe me, so I ushered him into Doc's private office, and there was me with the croc, big as life.
