They're not John and Abigail!

Trotsky . . . in a letter dated July 19 [1937] defiance veers towards bravado: "Since I arrived here, not once has my poor cock stood up straight. It's as though it doesn't exist. It is also resting from the stresses of these days. But in spite of it, I myself am thinking tenderly of your old dear cunt. I want to suck on it, shove my tongue all the way inside it. Natalochka, my dear, I will ever more strongly fuck you with my tongue and with my cock. Forgive me, Natalochka, these lines, it seems it's the first time in my life that I write to you like this."

TROTSKY
Downfall of a Revolutionary
Bertrand M. Patenaude 2009

Shifting Gears

I recently watched a video on the Car & Driver youTube channel. The video was in response to a reader’s question: “Is it important to learn how to drive a manual transmission?” The answer was yes, though for silly and inconsequential reasons but it got me thinking. There have been four times in my life when I was asked if I knew how to drive a manual transmission/stick shift.

As soon as I turned 10 years old, I began counting down the years, months, weeks and days until my 16th birthday when I’d be able to get my driver’s license. At the same time, I began a love affair with all things automotive. I began reading car magazines like Car & Driver, Road & Track, etc. I began photographing cars and keeping an eye out for unusual/exotic cars. Growing up in Rhode Island Mercedes and BMW were rare enough so spotting a Porsche was cause for celebration. You can imagine how I felt when I spotted a Ferrari! In the course of my “automotive research” I taught myself (virtually) to drive, how to handle inclement weather conditions, how to dive into the apex of a curve and yes, how to drive a stick shift.

Shortly after I got my license and clearly demonstrated my prowess handling the rolling liquor store that was my 1969 Oldsmobile Cutlass, my friend’s father purchased a new orange Volkswagen Rabbit with a 5 speed manual transmission. My friendship with Charley Ansty was forged on the baseball diamond where we served as the nucleus of the powerhouse Newco Little League team. We were also Air Marshalls in the French Air Force at Western Hills Junior High School. And together, we ruled the snow covered gridiron of Woodridge School. We were tight.

So naturally, I just had to drive his dad’s car. After all, it was the most exotic car I had access to (it was German!), it had front wheel drive (an oddity in those days and a distinct contrast to my rear wheel drive Cutlass) and it had that 5 speed stick shift. I turned 16 in February 1978 but Charley’s birthday wasn’t until October. So he didn’t have a license but I did.

I’m not sure how I convinced Charley to let me drive the Rabbit or why he agreed. Probably just a sense of daring and adventure. I don’t even remember if he actually asked if I knew how to drive a manual transmission (I only volunteered that tidbit on our way home!) but we hopped (pardon the pun) in and away we went. Remarkably enough, I pulled it off nearly flawlessly. Getting started, backing out no problem. That first hill . . . a slight problem. But all in all I/we had a blast and my confidence (something no 16 year male will admit to lacking) got a huge boost.

The next time I was questioned about my prowess with a manual transmission was during my freshman year at George Washington University. Through my fraternity I (and a bunch of my fellow pledges) landed a gig parking cars at a party hosted by Ted Kennedy at his Virginia home. All was going well until Senator Clairborne Pell arrived.

Senator Pell was the definition of a patrician. Wealthy, cultured, lived in Newport . . . you get the picture. As a fellow Rhode Islander I was proud that he was our senator. And for Rhode Island college students in Washington DC Senator Pell was a favorite because every September he’d host a party at his Georgetown residence feeding us hot dogs and providing plenty of Budweiser. I also had another connection with the Senator. Several months earlier, my senior year in high school, I was awarded the Pell Gold Medal for excellence in American history.

So naturally, when the Senator arrived I wanted to shake his hand and park his car. Sadly, it wasn’t an auspicious occasion for me. First, he was patrician and I wasn’t treated as a constituent but as a servant . . . as in “go park the car.” There would be no hand shaking.

Second, there was his car. I wasn’t expecting a Ferrari but I thought he’d have something better then a beat up and faded blue second generation (early 70s, not the Charlie’s Angel era) Mustang. The car was filthy, inside and out. And while it did feature a manual transmission, it wasn’t a stick shift, certainly not 4 on the floor. Instead, it was a three speed transmission with a column mounted shifter. Something I had only seen once before and hope to never see again. I got in, started the car and promptly stalled it. And again. And again. Finally, one of my fraternity brothers rescued me and moved the Senator’s POS into a most unfavorably parking spot.

For the next few years my opportunities to drive a stick shift were few and far between until I purchased a Dodge Omni GLH (goes like hell – really, that’s what the GLH meant) with a five speed manual transmission. I also got to drive quite a few Camaros and Corvettes with stick shifts while working as a salesman at Scuncio Chevrolet. The next time my shifting skills were “tested” came when I began selling Peterbilt, Scania, and Hino trucks for Bay Peterbilt.

Before I was allowed out on the road with the “big rigs” I had to convince the sales manager I knew how to drive a stick shift (and then I’d be hired and sent to get my commercial driving license). No problem, I figured . . . I’ve driven a Rabbit, I’ve driven a Corvette . . . how difficult would it be to shift a truck transmission? Silly question!

The process is the same and upshifting through the gears on the Ford C model truck was a breeze (Mike, the sales manager, wouldn’t trust me with anything new (or good)). Then I had to downshift and that’s where the problems began. In a car downshifting is a breeze . . . depress clutch, move shifter into gear, release clutch. Not so on this truck. Why? Truck transmissions (at least at that time) weren’t synchronized. If you wanted to downshift, you had to match vehicle speed [mph] with engine speed [rpm]. If you didn’t, there was no way to downshift into gear. Embarrassed? Yes. Lesson learned? You only need to be barreling down the road in an out of control 9 ton truck once before you learn your lesson! By the way, I learned that by manually synchronizing engine and vehicle speed you could shift (up or down) without using a clutch. Neat trick!

It would be another 20 years or more before my stick shift skills were called into question. I wanted to borrow the car of my friend and neighbor Eric. He’s a great guy and he had a sweet, and rare, Honda Accord V6 with a six speed manual transmission. Naturally enough, the car was his prized possession and before he let me get behind the wheel, he wanted some assurance that I indeed knew how to handle a stick. He wanted to give me a road test. Reasonable enough request but I couldn’t resist being a bit of a smart ass. As we got in the car, I asked . . . “do you want me to shift with or without the clutch?”

I had an Animal Planet moment a few days ago.

Here in FLA, we have lots of geckos running around all over the place. And everyone, aside from the bugs and pests they eat, love them. Even folks who are usually scared witless by spiders and all manner of creepy crawlies don't mind them. After all, they eat pests, have no interest in any and all human food, and they're kind of cute looking. Plus, in a pinch they'll sell you auto insurance! :-)

Geckos rarely are seen indoors . . . certainly not in our condo (on the fifth floor) unless it is extremely cold. OK, that's a relative term . . . for Floridians and geckos that means anything below 40 degrees.

So imagine my surprise the other night when I saw a baby gecko in the kitchen. He couldn't have been more than an inch in length. Remarkable, even though he was tiny, his eyes were adult size so they looked very out of proportion. My guess is the huge eyes are part of the baby gecko's defense mechanism.

Naturally, my first instinct was to capture him and release him outdoors. But these critters are remarkable quick and after two half assed attempts to capture him I gave up. After all, if he found his way in, he could find his way out.

About an hour later, I spotted him again in the kitchen . . . maybe he couldn't find his way out. And since our place is bug free (knock on wood) he might not have been able to find any food, perhaps he wouldn't survive.

So I grabbed two glasses (imagine a bartender trying to make a martini) and was able to trap him. He looked at me, I looked at him. He was either very calm (that's what I'd like to think) or was so scared he couldn't move. Either way, I whispered some words of encouragement and tried to relax him.

When I got him outside and tried to release him, he wouldn't leave his glass prison. But when I stuck my hand inside to grab him, he happily crawled on my finger. His suction cup fingers and toes felt pretty cool (in a weird way) as he traversed his way up my finger. We played for a few minutes, had a meaningful conversation about the fragility of life and then I released him.

Not exactly on the same level as the Crocodile Hunter but who knows, maybe there's an Animal Planet show in the works for me!

iPad & the toilet reader

In the 1990s I worked in IT/Tech support at Brown University. It was an interesting time and place for an Apple user. IBM and the Thomas J. Watson family provided a lot of money and equipment as well as research grants to the University. Indeed, initially I worked at the Watson Institute for International Studies.

When I arrived, most of the staff were using IBM microchanel PCs and Wordstar 2000 or WordPerfect. Within a few years, the Institute was almost exclusively using Macs. (Sadly this was reversed sometime later as Apple's fortunes declined and the Institute sought more funding for their new and improved facilities.) I even got to demonstrate Apple's QuickTake digital camera [http://tinyurl.com/3k4c33c] to Mr. Watson's widow, Olive, who seemed suitably impressed.

So how does this relate to the iPad? Well the man in charge of all things computer at Brown was Don Wolfe, himself a former IBMer. Once a year he'd hold court with all the departmental computer coordinators and deliver his "State of the Computer" speech. For IT folk, it was a must see event.

Mr. Wolfe's speech in 1995 (or 1996) was prophetic (and off base). When talking about future computing trends at the university, he declared that as Apple was in decline, support for Macintosh would be limited and perhaps eliminated. In fairness, this was before the return of Steve Jobs. Had Steve not reclaimed his role at Apple, Brown wouldn't have been the only university to abandon the Mac. So Don came to the wrong conclusion but given the facts as they existed at the time, who could blame him?

But on another point he was quite farsighted. One of the major concerns at Brown (or any university) was the impact of technology (and the then new internet phenomenon) would have on books, newspapers, journals and the world of publishing. Mr. Wolfe's thoughts? "You can't take your computer into the bathroom! Until then, books are safe."

And he was right. Even if you did take your laptop to read on the toilet, were you going to bring along a power cord and a phone cable? Who had phone access in the bathroom? And if you could connect a laptop, how long would you want a hot computer resting on your bare flesh? Laptops would be just a tad unwieldy.  And how much stuff was there to read? No, he argued, the future was still bright for book publishing.

Of course I doubt that Steve Jobs had the iPad toilet tested but it certainly would meet Don's criteria: as easy to hold (maybe easier) as a book or magazine, plenty of material to choose from and . . . video as well. All brought to you by Apple.

iPhone noPhone

I love my iPhone but sometimes I'm just not so crazy about the phone. 

Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with the phone itself. But sometimes you'd like to not be so connected. It really is quite liberating to free oneself of constant connection to the rest of the world via phone and voice mail. 

Simple solution? Turn the iPhone off. Or better yet, leave it behind.

Except . . . while I might not want to talk with anyone, I don't want to deprive myself the pleasure of surfing the web or using some of my netcentric apps. What to do?

Technically, the phone is one feature/app that you can't just turn off. If you could, you'd have an iPod touch. However, there are ways to disable the phone.

The first option is to set your iPhone to Airplane mode. This will immediately terminate all cellular [3G] transmission and reception. It also will shut down any WiFi connection. So now you've eliminated phone calls but while you'll be able to use some apps (Camera, iPod, Calculator, etc.) you won't be able to use any netcentric apps. Solution?

Once you've engaged the Airplane mode, you can now go back and reconnect to your WiFi connection. Now you can sit back and enjoy your iPhone without having to deal with any pesky phone calls.

Enjoy!

Just can't be left alone . . .

Do you remember Paul Buchman? He was the lesser half of the NBC sitcom Mad About You. The character was portrayed by Paul Reiser (the evil company man from Aliens).

In one episode Paul Buchman joined a gym. For Paul, his time at the gym wasn't just an opportunity to buff up but an escape from his otherwise busy schedule. In fact, he wore dark sunglasses in order to preserve his anonymity and add an air of mystery.

Much like Paul I like to go to the gym to exercise and yes, to escape. But for me, wearing sunglasses indoors is a tad impractical and there's little I could do to add an air of mystery. But I do wear headphones and listen to music on my iPhone to aid in motivation and isolation. Sadly, some folks just can't take a hint.

There's Ned, the 62 year old former/current stoner. He still  wears his graying hear in a ponytail (actually I wish I still had enough hair to do that) and walks around with a toothpick dangling from the right corner of his mouth. He's 6' 4" but probably only weighs 135 pounds. He's constantly updating me on his prowess and progress. As if i care that he can now curl 10 pounds instead of the 5 pounds he did just last week  He always wants to talk to me. As if that weren't bad enough, he's deaf in one ear and can't hear himself talk. Sadly, neither can anyone else as he's a "low talker". A boring two minute conversion turns into a 15 minute snoozathon.

Wait, there's more. They say there's nothing worse than an ex smoker. Yes there is: an ex fatty. And because I'm a pound or two over my ideal weight (ha ha) they love to share their tofu and sprout recipes and regale me with tales of their weight loss. I'll admit, when a really hot looking woman wishes to share her weight loss success story I'm happy to listen. The first time that happens I'll let you know. Sadly, it is the porkers who are down to a svelte 325 pounds who feel the need to share.

But the absolute worst ones are the Amway types. They've lost their once great careers but things are looking up because they're selling vitamins or urinal cakes via the Amway model. And now that they've been suckered (I mean successful) they want to suck me in as well to share in the misery (and presumably the "profits").

Just when I was sure it couldn't get any worse, it did. This morning I was chugging along on the elliptical when I spied an old man with a cane and a yamika huffing and puffing it up the stairs. This guy was old enough to be Moses' grandson.

Anyway . . . I'm doing my thing while wearing a towel draped over my head and listening to the Allman Brothers' Les Brers In A Minor. I'm sure it was pretty obvious to anyone, except Moses' grandson, that I was deep into song and exercise. It should have been equally obvious that I wasn't in a talkative mood. This didn't stop our friend.

He began waving his bony hand in my face to get my attention. I tried to ignore him but he wouldn't stop waving and I thought that maybe, just maybe, he had some trenchant observation to make. Boy was I disappointed.

"You look like a monk." 

I was about to remind him that monks often took vows of silence so that they could contemplate great theological questions. Instead, I realized he was still trying to say something.

Smiling a smile that did little ameliorate the disparaging remark that he was about to deliver, he said:

"No, I mean you look like a Muslim!"

Only the fact that he probably would have died of a heart attack prevented me from responding by saying:

"Allahu Akbar!"

Obviously the headphones haven't detered these busy bodies. Neither has profuse sweating and the lack of deoderant. Maybe I do need the sunglasses. And a big sign that says FUCK OFF!!!!

I smell like garlic and I don't care!

This weekend Delray Beach was host to the garlic festival which sparked several thoughts.

The obvious reference is of course the use of garlic when cooking, in almost every type of cuisine, except in certain quarters of the old West Berlin. When I was there 21 years ago for a college semester abroad, I remember one of my fellow students was warned against using garlic in the meal he was preparing for his host family.

Thankfully garlic was not universally shunned in Berlin - especially in Kreutzberg. I made a special appearance on the rehearsal stage of what was once an up and coming band: the Klingons. Making my vocal/rap/hip hop debut, I joined bassist Nancy in a spirited rendition of my once classic hit: "I smell like garlic and I don't care!"

It has been years since I thought of this riveting vocal tour de force. I was, of course, magnificent but sadly all I have are my memories. In spite of my intensive 15 second google search, I was unable to find this song anywhere on the net.

If there are any collectors who have a copy of this performance, please contact me asap. Ideally I'd like to find a super clean soundboard version but at this point I'd even settle for a less than perfect audience copy.

Thanks in advance.