Fuel Lines and Clamps

Here's what I see for fuel lines on our 1.9l Vanagon.

A Question About Propane on the Westy

To my non Vanagon Westfalia-owning friends, apologies for bringing you to this page, which has zero non-Vanagon content.

To my Vanagon Westfalia-owning friends, I'd like to know if modifying the propane setup under the van to allow connecting a 5-gallon propane tank to the van to permit longer stays before refilling is possible.

I don't think my setup is standard. Here's what I got:

I don't know why the photo makes it look so green. It's not green.

If this is a standard setup, then what's a good kit? If it's not standard, any thoughts about a means to attach a propane bottle to this?

Old Guys Rule but . . .

The Central Oregon Classic Chevy Club’s Flashback “Cruz” car show is back in town. I don't find cars very interesting, so I haven't visited.

A lot of the guys that do find older cars interesting are the sort to wear "Old Guys Rule" t-shirts. You see those pretty frequently.

The obvious counter is "Young Guys Get Laid."

A Detroit Watering Hole

Big city charm.

Another Detroit Picture

Inside the Guardian Building.

In Detroit

Mrs Elliott has a conference in Detroit. I tagged along. Here is my picture from Detroit.

Propane Modification to Campsite Smoker

Due to the dry conditions in Central Oregon, the Deschutes National Forest has enacted fire restrictions about a month and a half earlier than normal.

For campers this means NO charcoal or wood fires, though gas and propane stoves are fine.

This is a problem, because one of my pleasures when camping is smoking ribs and chicken. It takes about five hours to properly slow-cook a rack or two of ribs, and for this I bring my little Old Smokey #14 Charcoal Smoker -- it's lightweight and small, and does a perfectly fine job.

But it does use charcoal, so I can't legally (or safely) use it until next year. There are propane smokers, I have one at the house, but every one I've looked at is too large and too heavy to bother bringing.

What's a girl to do? I could simply not smoke anything, but that's no fun.

So I decided to create another of my famous unnecessarily complex solutions.

First, I purchased a cheap single burner propane stove:

Once the reflector/pot stand was removed, I unsnapped the burner assembly and passed the stove's carburetor tube into the opening on the bottom of the smoker, re-attached the burner, and lit it.

But even on the lowest setting, the temperature in the smoker was too high for slow cooking. I smoke and cook ribs at 220 degrees F, and this thing headed north of 250 degrees and kept climbing. Thems is grillin' temperatures, not smokin' temperatures.

The stove's valve has detents for each heat setting, but they are buried inside the body of the stove, and I could not find a way to take the thing apart without damaging the plastic valve assembly, which is press-fit into the pot metal body. And the detents are quite aggressive: you can't balance the knob at a halfway point between "off" and "low" without the shaft snapping to either the "off" or "low" position.

Covering up some of the holes in the burner would be of no use since the actual nozzle is at the bottom of the carburetor tube, and unless I could find a replacement jet with a much smaller opening, no matter how many burner holes are covered, the amount of propane being released would not change -- only the flame pattern.

I examined the stove and saw that wotating the knob actually pushes the shaft into the valve body, which opens the valve. You can squeeze the shaft inward and open the valve.

What I needed was a means to easily squeeze the shaft into the body, with fine control over how far in the shaft gets pressed.

So, here's what the stove looks like with the knob and reflector off:

I modified an old C-clamp by removing the foot from the end of the threaded shaft and grinding the end to a point so it will seat in the hole on the end of the knob shaft:

Put some Velcro on the other end of the clamp.

And a matching patch of Velcro on the backside of the valve body.

Now the C-clamp can be mounted to the stove:

At this point, I found that I had very fine control over the stove heat, and it can be turned down to a whisper. 

So -- sit the smoker bottom over the stove:

(I will sort out a somewhat less-clunky means to get the smoker high enough to fit the stove under -- the Old Smokey company makes longer legs and that's probably the way I will go.)

Snap the burner back on inside the smoker:

And I'm good to go. Initial tests show that set to a very low setting, the smoker doesn't go over 150 degrees -- this should give me plenty of control over the heat.

And that's your Uncle Jack's Unnecessarily Complicated Solution to an Otherwise Trivial Problem.

Catching Up on Camping with Cat

Many people expressed their surprise that I would take a cat on a camping trip. The folk at Newport Avenue Market (where I bought some of my pre-camping supplies) asked about how it worked out. Friends at KPOV expressed wonderment. Even my lovely wife said, are you sure?

Well, the trip was a success.

Our little girl cat, Cosette, had a wonderful time camping with me; and I with her. Here she is in her favorite napping corner under the popped-top lid:

She and I stayed six nights at a secret place on the south end of the Crooked River National Grassland, a mere wide spot off a four-wheel road on the shoulder of Gray Butte. A solitary site known only to Arne Aquvit, Sven Hardwax, Bob Woodward, Brian the produce guy at Newport Market, and my son.

I busted the tongue of my little Westrailia trailer getting there.

This sweet little rescue cat-- who is not allowed to go outside off-leash at home on account of a very busy street, territorial other cats, dangerous Bad People (no one particular but the greater the population density, the higher the odds that someone who enjoys torturing cats might pick her up -- she likes people), and big rambunctious dogs who may mean no harm but could spook a little eight-pound cat into running so far that she might not know how to get back home [she is chipped but still . . . ) -- this kitty came with me.

Anyways, she and I had a fine time. For the first two nights she was on-leash until I was satisfied that she had settled down. The after that she had plenty to keep her occupied. Like this one lizard who lived in the rocks around the firepit, this one tree where a mouse had a home the roots -- and she absolutely delighted in rolling herself in the dust of the road that passed by our site.

We went for walks. On her own she does not like to get very far from me (she's a Daddy's Girl), but with her Daddy human she was happy to go exploring. Together she prowled to my right and to my left, walking behind me and before me, stopping frequently to sniff this bush, to explore that tree, and gaze interestedly down that ravine. But she never got too far from me.

In the evenings, when the coyotes sang, she looked at me with eyes as big as dinner plates. She knew those were monsters who could catch a little cat and hurt her.

And when it was time for to go to sleep (the VW Vanagon Westfalia poptop camper van's bench seat brilliantly converts into a bed) she did her final rounds of the windows: looking outside to make sure there were no lizards, no mouses, nor any monsters lurking outside the van, then laid down next to me, curled up, and snoozed through the night.

Yes, on the third morning she woke me up at 5:30 by patting me on the nose to tell me that it was time to get up! We can sleep all day! Let's go! Come ON!

And yeah, I was so charmed by her enthusiasm that I did get up, fired up the propane heater, made myself a cup of hot tea, and let her go outside to explore.

I do indulge her.

ANYWAY, we broke camp on Thursday morning. I had to put her into the pet carrier and drive home. Like most cats, she is not a fan of vehicular travel. She yowled the whole way.

But when I brought her into the kitchen and opened the latch on the carrier, she stepped out, and looked at me. "Home?" she said. Yes, home, I said. She jumped down from the table, and was happy to be back.

A Blustery Night?

Bob Shaw, the chief metereologist on KTVZ in Bend sez we got a low pressure system working its way southward off the coast, and that as the day continues we'll start seeing more moisture in the clouds and there may be some rain showers. 

And there will be wind with stiff gusts. "A blustery night," he promises. 

We'll see about that. I've camped through some pretty rough weather so I think I'm prepared. 

In the meantime, I'm smoking a rack of ribs for dinner. Alderwood, mostly.

UPDATE, Wednesday morning. Naw, it was a quiet night. 38 degrees in the van when I woke up. Slept warmly under two down comforters. Ciosette Cat tried to sleep on my neck at one point. "Gack, gack -- hey, get off!"

First Camping Trip of 2014

Our new rescue cat, Cosette, and I are camping in the Crooked River National Grasslands, near Madras, Ore., for six nights. 

No facilities, just a wide spot off a small dirt road off a barely larger dirt road. But free, completely solitary, and with beautiful views.

It's been coolish and windish, partly cloudy, the occasional spatter of rain.  But I have a warm, wind-free shelter and warm clothing so I'm fine. Cat seems unbothered. Sleeps cuddled next to me at night. 

It's nice to be out before fire season clamps down on open and charcoal fires. I have been enjoying quickly seared steaks and slowly smoked ribs. 

Cat has been having a great time. It's so exciting here! Here is Camping Cat on morning patrol.

Old Stubbly Guys

At one of Bend's better drinking establishments, the M&J.

I Don't Usually Drink Beer . . .

. . . but I do like a dry (Irish) stout for St. Patrick's day. 

(Or: Yes, kids, it's time for Jack's annual post about dry stouts.)

In my experience, there is only one dry stout that can be found reliably here in Bend, and it doesn't come from any of the locals -- the local offerings are sweet, not dry.

No, it's Guinness for dry stout, and not just any Guinness, but their Extra Stout version. Not the Draught and not the Foreign.

The Draught is watery, and the Foreign isn't a whole lot better. Murphy's has a dry stout in cans but it's no more interesting than Guinness Draught. But Guinness Extra is quite a bit bolder: the roasted barley and the hops -- you can taste them both. It doesn't have much of a head.

I've heard that they have a "Foreign Extra," too, but I haven't seen it.

Yesterday I found the last six-pack of Guinness Extra on the west side. Newport Market said that they had purchased a case for the weekend but blew through it in less than a day. West Side Liquor didn't have it. But Marcia at Safeway took my call, found that last sixer, and held it for me at Customer Service.

Before someone quite reasonably points out that I have no taste in beer, I offer the following: (1) If someone in town made a dry stout, I'd drink it, and B), Beer is only an occasional beverage for me, because beer makes me fat.

Many men my age just grow the belly, and -- what the hell -- stop shaving. Rock that "garden gnome" look.*  And, yes, I could go that route. But and alas, it is not just my belly that swells when I drink beer, but my butt goes along for the ride.

Fun fact: The fellow at West Side Liquor said that all they had was Guinness "Drot."

===========
* it was my friend Bruce Miller who pointed out the uncanny resemblance between older men with white beards and garden gnomes. Once seen, it cannot be unseen.

Wild Rose -- Northern Thai food . . .

. . . for the masses. 

Don't get fooled by the white tablecloths and cute little bistro tables one sees at most Thai restaurants. Thai food is family food, not snooty high-end dining.

I don't blame Thai chefs and restaurants for trying to keep it classy: consider what has happened to Chinese restaurants: In the past thirty years I've watched them race to the bottom to cater to the all-u-can-eat-lunch-buffet crowd. Low prices, uninspired predictable food.

In a community with a vibrant Chinese community, the restaurants will be vibrant and exciting. Otherwise, you get tedious, predictable, and boring.

Like Mexican restaurants: they all serve the same thing.

If you compete in a race to the bottom, you have to be willing to live in crappier house or tent than your competitor is willing to do.

My guess is that most Thai restaurateurs took one look at that business model and said, "I don't think so."

And I think that's why most Thai places look pretty upscale when compared with the crummy old-school Chinese restaurants offering large quantities of low-quality food at low, low prices.

This reporter's introduction to Thai food was in the late '70s in Ventura, Calif.

Thar I wuz, living in a one-bedroom apartment with the first Mrs Elliott. I was working for minimum wage in the display department at Montgomery Ward, she was a housecleaner. We discovered this new restaurant downtown. It was dimly-lit, funky, it was never crowded. We'd never heard of Thai food. The table service was done by a white guy wearing traditional Thai clothes.

The food was amazing, the flavors shockingly bold, the cost was low.

The guy was American. He'd lived in Thailand for a while, met a woman, married her. He, she, and her mother, moved to Ventura where they opened a restaurant. The mother provided the recipes, her daughter helped with the cooking, the husband served the tables.

My eyes were opened to fine, inexpensive, bold Thai cooking. But that was a long time ago.

Since then, Thai food has become more popular, but in the process, more generic, less interesting, less exciting. Thai restaurants have learned to cater to the American palate -- sweetness has been elevated, heat has been lowered. The jarring contrasts between sour tamarind paste, rich peanuts, hot red chiles, and fresh mint have been toned down.

What passed for medium heat is now a -1 on the scale of heat. And I got bored with Thai food.

Anyway, long story not even close to short.

Mrs Elliott and I went to Wild Rose Thai on Oregon street today for lunch.

Best Thai I've had in a long time.

It's northern Thai cooking, they say. There's no Pad Thai (the "chop suey" of American Thai restaurants, I say). No chopsticks (back in 1970, the guy at that restaurant in Ventura told us that chopsticks are not used in Thailand). No white tablecloths. Oilcloth, in fact. Casual, but in the funky sense, not in the slumming sense. But a full menu -- currys, soups, small plates -- and I could sit there for a while. A full, though modest, bar. Moderate prices. Fine service, not officious. The place felt ... if not family ... homey.

The food was rich, tasty, flavorful, bold, interesting.

Check them out.

(Note: they rank their food's fieriness on a scale from "1" (baby food) to 5 (their hottest). I ordered both my soup and plate at "4". They were what this SoCal boy would call a "2". Maybe a "1". PNW palates are timid. -Ed.)

Serendipity & Lou Reed

I missed out on Lou Reed. He died last year. Didn't mean much to me. He was an East Coast artist, and I was into West Coast music, so I am unfamiliar with his work.

For the past several months, we've seen adverts for the Sony's Playstation 4 when watching shows on streaming video. Here's the video. Cool video, interesting song, I thought. Could not place it, didn't know what it was.

A couple weeks ago while getting a lift from our friends, Barb and Robin, the song came on the radio. Different singer, same song. "Lou Reed," sighed Robin.

The only Reed song I recognize is Walk on the Wild Side with its famous two-bass (electric & upright) double-stopped opposing glissandi intro. Well, it turns out that the song Sony used is from the same album: Perfect Day from his album, "Transformer" (1972). I just got a copy and it's a very fine album.

Most of you already know that, so I'm late to the game, but I'm happy to have discovered it.

My Favorite Academy Fact

The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. Formed in 1927. Tasked to "raise the cultural, educational, and scientific standards" of film.

Ever since the "Planet of the Apes" won Best Makeup in 1969 over the more interesting costuming and makeup work for the prehumans in "2001: A Space Odyssey"; the same year when the forgettable "Oliver!" won Best Picture over Kubrick's influential film, I have wondered -- who does the voting?

I know someone who is a voting member of the Academy. But she's only one person. How about the rest?

Well, a survey taken two years ago by the Los Angeles Times found that the members "proved to be ninety-four per cent white and seventy-seven per cent male, with an average age of sixty-two, and artist tastes to match." ("The Talk of the Town." The New Yorker 3 March 2014: 23)

Well -- no surprise then. Old white men. 

Okay, I was 18 when I first saw 2001. I'm an old white man now. But I still think the Academy makes lame choices. "Inside Llewyn Davis" should win. But it won't.

They'll pick something stupid. A sentimental favorite. Safe choices. Hand-jobs all around.

A Quiet Sunday Afternoon.

And I have the pictures to prove it.

EXHIBIT A. Sleeping cat.

She doesn't do a lick of work around here.

EXHIBIT B. Sleeping wife.

She works too hard.

Me, I have a Steak, Mushroom, and Irish Stout Pie in the oven. And a glass of prosecco in hand. Someone has to man the fort. It's a tough job.

Postscript: At 4:20 I turned on the TV for the Academy Awards' Red Carpet on ABC. The sound was muted. Within minutes she woke up. Her sixth sense must have alerted her: "Gowns!"

Necktie Killer at Silver Moon

I met a friend last night at Silver Moon. We went to hear Necktie Killer. (Facebook page here.) Neither of us had high hopes of being able to hear Necktie Killer very well. We've both had disappointing experiences with the sound there. It's been a blurry mess. You could see the players playing but the sound was just a roar. Lyrics unintelligible.

Well. That wasn't the case last night. It was better. They have a sound man now (didn't the last time I went). We could tell because he wore a Silver Moon t-shirt with "sound man" printed on it, and he was paying attention and he dialed the sound in after a few songs.

It still wasn't great sound, the place is too reverberant for real clarity, but it was full, and loud and there was enough detail so a fellow could hear all the players. Well, except during horn solos -- the sound man didn't notice and raise their levels -- so they were buried in the mix.

Quibbles aside, the band is great. Seven pieces (guitar, sax, trombone, trumpet, bass, lead singer, drums), and tight. High energy, a lot of work on their arrangements, with crisp breaks and rhythm changes. And a big fat sound -- in the select spots where they played unison, it's as powerful a sound I've ever heard.

I can't comment on the lyrical content of their songs for two reasons: 1. I have "lyric deafness," meaning I don't pay much attention to the words of a song, and (b) The sound was too blurry to pick out the words anyway. 

Like them a lot.

A Sunday, no better and no worse

I was about to write to Duncan McGeary and ask him whether he's read the article about Amazon in the New Yorker, but I see that he already read it.

Mrs Elliott is away in the Sandwich Islands. Me, I did stuff today.

WARNING WARNING WARNING 

Sometimes I write just for the pleasure of writing.

Nothing that follows here is worth reading. 

Move along, move along.

Okay, on your head, then.

IN THE COOKING DEPT. The remains of my first-ever smoked duck simmered overnight in the slow-cooker along with carrots and onions and peppercorns and other tasties. This morning I separated everything into three (3) categories: duck meat in a bowl for use on salads; carrots and bones and onion into the trash; the filtered broth into measured Baggies for future stews and soups.

HOUSEHOLD DEPT. The second refrigerator in the garage needed some cleaning. Cat's litter needed changing. Trash and recyclage and glass needed tubbing and hauling to curb for tomorrow's pickup.

IN THE IT DEPT. I did stuff on Mrs Elliott's staff's computers: security and updating and backing up. I wanted to make sure that every computer in the office were supported by healthy battery power supplies -- the things you count on to keep the company and network and phone system running if a falling limb cuts us off from Pacific Power's sweet, sweet electricity. Yep, it's as exciting as it sounds. I'm getting sleepy just reading about it.

IN THE ELECTRONICS TECH DEPT. KPOV's station manager asked me to take a look at one of the digital recorders that hosts can check out to do interviews with folk. The headphone jack on this one was dead. Turns out that there was a loose thingummy inside that needed re-soldering. The Googles showed me that this was a Known Issue with the product, and some kind soul already posted a nice step-by-step "how to fix" page on the Internet. Very helpful!

I actually found this project a fun little challenge. I am no hand with small assembly. The model cars and HO-scale trains I built and painted when I was a kid were nothing to brag about. They looked like the work of a palsied man in his 90s who had severe macular degeneration. But I managed to take the thing apart, effect the repair, reassemble it, and -- wonders of wonders -- find that the thing 1. still worked, and (b) no longer had the dead-headphone problem.

Of course I will never let the station know that I followed published instructions: I prefer than they think I am Really Smart. (No one from the station except Sven and Michael Anthony read this blog. And I know they can be counted on to keep my little secret.)

 IN THE SOUND PRODUCTION DEPT. I did some sweetening of some show promos for KPOV's show, The Point. ("Sweetening" means to make them sound better; "The Point" is a show on weekday mornings from 9 to 9:30. Why am I explaining all this to you? Oh yeah -- because I produce the Friday Point show!! Tune in or listen online at kpov.org. I do Central Oregon's least-professional weathercast.)

That's enough for a Sunday! It is time now to listen to music (Django Django's eponymous album on the hi-fi) and sip some bubbly. Look out the window! the sun is shining, pet the cat, enjoy the day.

(I forgot to title this post . . . )

Mrs Elliott is out of town, visiting family. A friend and I met at Blue Pine Grill last night to listen to the band "Elektrapod." Good band. Guitar, drums (not a busy drummer but solid as a rock -- great snare tone, too), tight bass guitar, percussion, keyboard, and female singer.

Throw in three horn players and tighten up on a few of the songs that got overlong and "jam-y," and they'd be a great club band.

I don't know if the sound system belonged to the house or is the band's, but it didn't do the voices any favors. Muddy, indistinct, and overloaded too easily. Maybe the band can find a sound man.

There were a dozen or so people dancing. My friend leaned over. "Why is it that only 20-year olds can move their asses like that?"

"Don't be an old lech," I explained.

We parted ways at the end of the generously-long first set. It wasn't until after midnight when I finally rolled into bed. I haven't seen the far side of midnight for many, many years.

Today I'm resting up. Making some duck broth in the slow-cooker, planning to barbecue some chicken breasts for dinner. Nice weather today. Quiet, too, with Mrs Elliott out of town.

But hard not to miss her. Last night I found an "I love you" note under my pillow when I went to bed.

One of Them Nothingburger Days

Stuff. Just stuff. 

0630: Cosette (cat) wakes us from outside the bedroom door, politely pointing out that it was high time that we got our lazy asses out of bed and started going about the business of the day. First order: her breakfast granola. Plus petting and praising.

0800: Off to Trader Joe's to stock up on survival essentials (booze and meat) before the predicted snow storm hits.

0900: Call Bob Woodrow, aka "Sven Hardwax," to record tomorrow's ski report. Sven lives high in the Cascades with his wife, Inga. Sven herds reindeer. There are no phones up there so he calls his report in via shortwave. Add shortwave radio sound effects to Sven's report.

0940: Report to Desert Orthopedics to have the stitch taken out of the bottom of my heel. See here to learn why, see here to learn how I managed to miss the first appointment for the procedure.

1030: Return home to find that the garage door no longer closes. Upon examination, I find a roller wheel has come out of its track. I place a large garbage can in the center of the entry so Mrs Elliott won't drive in when she returns from wherever she's been and get in the way. I dick around with the door.

1115: I have completely given up trying to sort out the garage door thing without assistance. Mrs Elliott comes home gripes about not being able to pull into the garage. I explain the problem and employ her as a garage door opener-closer button pusher type assistant so I can demonstrate the problem to her and have her cycle the door so I can see if I can figure out a solution.

1116: "I don't have time for this," she says, "I have people coming over to talk about the web site. You'll have to deal with it."

1117: I called a garage door repair guy. He doesn't have time to come over, but explains how to get the wheel back into the track.

1118 to 1218: Steel tools, like socket wrenches, chilled to subzero temperatures are rough on the hands. But I get the wheel back in the track.

1219: The door opens smoothly.

1220: The door will not close. It moves a few inches then retreats.

1225: Cosette explains that it is high time for lunch.

1523: Mrs Elliott is done with her people, has time to punch the button a few more times while I eyeball the situation again. I can find nothing wrong.

1524: "Call someone," she suggests.

1525: A guy at a different garage door company says that no one is available to help repair the thing there, either, but has me check the little photo-sensing thingies that prevent the door from crushing children. One is blinking red. It's aligned with the other one, they can see each other, but it blinks red. "Hold the button and the door will override the sensors and close," he says. And it does, and it closes. "We'll get someone out tomorrow."

1540: The script for the show needs to be finished, the timing calculated, the final audio bits to be organized. Cosette lays on keyboard.

1541 - 1555: Play with cat. Pet her, praise her, show her that it's too cold to go outside (like 8 degrees out there). She sniffs at the air coming in the open door, shakes herself, goes back to her former activity of laying on my keyboard.

After that, the day is a blur. This might have something to do with one of the bottles of wine I got at Trader Joe's.

I don't believe that I should be allowed out of the house without an escort. And I don't mean an attractive woman dressed in a red dress, pearls, and heels -- I mean without adult supervision.

Let me explain. This morning I had an appointment out at Desert Orthopedics for a trivial bit of minor surgery (stitch removed, see here).

Before going to bed, I made a mental checklist of the things I needed to do to achieve my arrival: (1) take a shower (one does not want to offend in the cramped quarters of a procedure room), (2) drive to nearest gas station to gas up the van (gauge says "very low"), and (3) get to the van early enough to de-ice the windshield so I can get to the place without, you know, actually running into anything.

I took my shower, shaved, got the windshield clear and -- instead of heading westbound to the nearest gas station -- I drove down Portland toward Desert Orthopedics.

I totally forgot about the dire condition of the fuel level.

At the corner of Olney and 3rd, I ran out of gas. I tried to turn right onto 3rd and maybe make it to the Shell station at 3rd and Greenwood, but no. Van died right there in the right lane, right on the corner.

SO THAR I WAS. I tried a couple of times to get the engine started to complete the turn but no.

I called AAA, they dispatched a truck. I called the doctor's office, explained my plight and re-scheduled.

It was cold in the van -- about 25 degrees. I was dressed warmly, so I wasn't suffering.

Other drivers accommodated me: they pulled around me as needed to turn right. One fellow pulled up behind me and honked. I opened the door, walked back to him, gestured toward the four-way flashers blinking on the back of van and mouthed "I'm out of gas," through the window.

His expression said that he got it, felt foolish. He backed up, pulled around me.

A mere ten minutes after I placed my call to AAA, a Consolidated Towing truck showed up. The driver put a gallon of  gas into my van's tank, and the engine started up right away. I proceeded to the nearest gas station and I bought a tankful of delicious, sweet fuel.

I chalk this whole experience up to boneheadery.

Like I say, I need supervision.

Probably Kick My Ass in Arm-Wrestling, too

Mrs Elliott held a movie night over here for some of her lady friends last Friday night.

One of her friends pulled out a flask when she got here, asked for a whisky glass. "Talisker," she explained. Graciously shared some with me. A fine single-malt.

I commented on her excellent taste. Unusual, in a woman, to appreciate such a whisky.

Well, it turns out that last year she and some friends did a walking tour of distilleries on Islay. In 2015 they are returning for a walking tour of Speyside distilleries.

After the film, I said that there was a bit of music in it that I liked. It was not identified in the credits. 

The whisky woman said that surely there was a soundtrack available. I did a brief search and found nothing. She stuck to her guns -- there has to be one, she said.

So I pitched it back in her court, and wagered her a glass of whisky at O'Kane's if she turns up a soundtrack. She asked whether they had good whisky there. I said sure, The Balvenie, for one. "The Balvenie," she sniffed. "A woman's whisky."

Maybe she's too manly for me.

Odd Craigslist Postings, Pt. 2

More fun with Craigslist postings.

An electric toaster oven. "Works great on holidays when you need oven space for more food!" But the rest of the time the damn thing doesn't work at all.
Another: "Free working smoker." He's free. But he smokes. But he has a job! Throw in free delivery and I'll take him.

 

Minor Surgery of a Foot Kind

While I was at Desert Orthopedics yesterday to have my knee looked at, I made an appointment for some outpatient surgery. They were able to take me this morning. 

Several months ago I was out wandering about the garage in my bare feet -- never a good idea -- and picked up a splinter of something in my heel. One generally deals with splinters in one of two ways: pick it out, or let the body take care of it, either by absorbing it or pushing it out.

Being on the bottom of my heel, I couldn't get to it to pick it out, and since it's walked on daily there was no chance it could get pushed out. And after a couple months it became clear that it would never be absorbed.

I asked Mrs Elliott that if I were to give her an X-Acto knife and a bottle of Bactine would she be willing to dig the thing out. She looked faintly queasy and passed on the offer.

Clearly I was going to have to go to a professional. While I was seeing my primary care doc about this and that a couple weeks ago I mentioned it, and they took an X-ray. But there was nothing visible on the film. That ruled out metal. Wood was already ruled out as it would have been absorbed by the body. This left glass or maybe a splinter of plastic.

This morning, Dr. Askew, the same guy that fused my right ankle in 2009, numbed the bottom of my heel with Freon or something, jabbed me with some Lidocaine ("Here -- bite on this piece of leather."), and dug around with a scalpel. He found a whitish length of callus with maybe something white and tough within. No telling what it was. I looked at it and couldn't figure out what it was. Wasn't glass, anyway. Probably plastic.

He put in a couple stitches, and sent me on my way.

I have to walk on my tippy-toes on that foot for a week or so, and take antibiotics, but the problem should be gone.

All in all it seems like a stupid thing to have to see a doctor about but I reckon I ran out of ideas.

Enjoy Cross-country Skiing

My left knee was replaced with a titanium and plastic model 15 years ago. This due to an auto accident that destroyed it ten years prior to that. They pasted the real knee together well enough to get by on but it wore out in 1988. Thus the metal knee.

Before that auto accident I was just getting into ski touring and backcountry camping on X-C skiis. But my legs were so trashed that I had to give it up. There really wasn't a whole lot of opportunity for X-C skiing in San Diego, Calif. anyway.

We moved here in '08 and I asked Jim Hall, a knee doc at The Center, whether I could risk X-C skiing. "No," he said after looking at the X-rays.

But Ted Shoenborn and Bob Woodward here in Bend told me that they know folk with artificial knees who X-C ski, so I figured I'd get another opinion. My doc referred me to Mike Ryan, at Desert Orthopedics, but Ryan only knows real knees, not artificial knees. The people over there said that Erin Finter was who I wanted to see. She skis and knows from knee replacements.

So I saw her this morning. They took new pictures, she looked at the new pictures. "Complicated knee replacement here," she said. Yeah, this was not your garden-variety knee replacement. There is a metal shaft going about a foot up the inside of the femur and all the baling wire they wrapped around my splintered femur to hold it together while it was healing is clearly visible.

She pointed out these and other interesting features. The plastic bearing surface shows sign of wearing out, gonna need to take another look in a couple years.

"Enjoy cross-country skiing," she said. Shook my hand, sent me on my way.

Odd Craigslist Posts, Pt. 1

Setting aside the usual misspellings ("refridgerator") and overhyped press-board rubbish ("Awesome bedside table bought at Target for $50"), there are some bend.craigslist posts that I find amusing.

For example, this one: "Glass coffee table in good condition. Central Oregon only."

Central Oregon only? The seller is very fussy about who gets the table. Maybe they hope to visit it every so often.

Or how about this mountain bike: "Bought brand new for Christmas and nephew only used it a few times before moving away. Comes with brand new solid rubber tires."

If someone bought me a bike with solid rubber tires I'd probably take the hint, too.

"Coffee table and two in-tables very nice shape $50.00"  Okay, I already broke my promise not to overlook misspellings. In my defence, it took me a few moments to figure out what "in-tables" are.

These are only a few that caught my eye this evening. I may make this a running feature.

What Airstream is this?

(SOLVED, see bottom of post)

A friend has an Airstream trailer that she wants to sell. She'd like to know what it is before she posts an ad. She says that it is about 22' from end-to-end. Here are some pictures she emailed us in hopes that some kind soul can identify it.

SOLVED. A guy on the Airstream forum has identified this as a 1954 "Safari." He provides this link: http://vintageairstream.com/photo-archives/1954-safari-22/

Many thanks to my reader for working on this puzzle.

Man Plates

A few friends came over earlier this month to watch a game on the teevee. Like a good host (but also because I like to cook) I made food.

Before that, Mrs Elliott had some of her friends come over a few nights earlier to watch a movie.

"You're invited," she said.

"Great! What's for food?"

"Salad."

Um. Okay. 

I appreciate that she invited me, and I enjoyed the film and her friends -- lively and bright company -- but, really, salad is barely a food, amirite? One endures salad, one does not thrive on salad. One resigns oneself to salad. It's like getting a flu shot: you tolerate it. Salad is something to be forborne. One does not look forward to salad. Oh good, they said, we're having salad tonight. No -- no one in the history of time has ever said such a thing.

Anyways, for my man-gathering, I made man food: Red beans and ham hocks. And also some baby back ribs. The former were cooked overnight in a Dutch oven and finished off in the crock-pot, the latter were cooked in the used-but-perfectly-good propane smoker I bought off craigslist from some guy in NE Bend in December. "Perfectly good," of course, once I steam-cleaned all the parts -- you can't be too careful about the hygiene habits of eastsiders.

When it came time to put out the plates and bowls for my friends, I realized that I didn't have decent tableware for a man-gathering. Of course Mrs Elliott and I have perfectly acceptable dinnerware for most occasions here in casa Elliott: I prefer nice white plates and bowls for most meals. Mrs Elliott has these odd square plates with bold patterns on them that confuse me -- I once completely overlooked a perfectly fine filet mignon because it was hidden in the pattern.

Neither seemed appropriate for men sprawled out in the living room, eating ribs and red beans with ham hocks in front of the teevee. I didn't trust them with my plates, and Mrs Elliott's plates were too -- well, fussy.

So I made do with random bits of unmatched crockery and some paper plates -- and it was fine, of course.

But this week I decided to patronize one of Bend's finer emporiums of fancy house- and kitchen-ware: Goodwill. Here I found exceptional (read: cheap) plates and bowls that any man would be proud to display on his sideboard.

Herewith I show you my choice:

Plate with moose.

It has moose. What's not to like?

We Done Moved Here Already

I'm retiring my previous blog, "Jack and Mrs Elliott Move to Bend" because I started it in 2008 as we were planning our move here, but we've been here for five years now, so we done moved here already. The title is out of date.

I played with Facebook for a while, but the signal to noise ratio, as we engineers put it, is poor. Very little information, a lot of noise. It's well-suited for people who like small talk, but I'm not one of those folk.

My Facebook page is still there, but I'm not going to spend a lot of time hanging out on Facebook.

So here I am.