What do you think?

Cam’s blog for July 24, 2011

The news seemed quite full the other day. In a jarring snapshot of modern life, the Monterey County Herald placed five items on their front page:

· “Close the book on Borders”

· “Green Vehicles goes under”

· “Out-of-shape baby boomers facing future health problems”

· The Moto GP motorcycle races

· The Salinas Rodeo

Let’s review these one at a time.

CLOSE THE BOOKS ON BORDERS

Borders Books, an Ann Arbor, Michigan company founded in 1971 by brothers Tom and Louis Borders, went completely out of business, releasing its 19,500 employees into the already-flooded employment marketplace. Here in Monterey, California about 200 folks will be competing for slave-wage jobs at places like CVS and Jamba Juice.

Borders began as an 800-square-foot used bookstore during the brothers’ undergraduate college years and evolved into a chain of huge, we-have-it-all entertainment department stores with coffee kiosks. People had a chance to while away an afternoon studying or reading, but not buying anything more than a cup of coffee.

Amazon.com saw the opportunity and swooped in with anything you want at wholesale prices, frequently for half of what Borders charged. Did I take advantage of this? Hell yes. I got laid off two years ago. Money’s hard to earn and I spend it as efficiently as I can.

So adios, Borders. Maybe you just got tired, but it looks to me like you hit a dead-end and couldn’t adapt to the digital age. We’ll see how Barnes & Noble fares through it.

GREEN VEHICLES GOES UNDER

This one bothers me a lot more than Borders. It smacks of fraud and preying on the good will of people who want get off the gasoline jug and transition to something new.

Green Vehicles came to the city of Salinas in 2009 like the very breath of salvation. They took over the old Firestone plant with the (grant-funded) promise of manufacturing a fully electric, 3-wheeled car called the Triac, which had a 100-mile range and a top speed of (gasp) 80 mph. Everyone saw the possibilities: An advanced, highly-sought, clean motor vehicle made in the U.S. Hundreds of young Salinas people being trained to assemble the cars, giving them a decent life away from gangs. A thunderbolt to the local economy, housing, libraries, schools, hospitals. The American Dream comes home to Salinas. The leaders of that city believed it, and they ponied up more than half a million bucks.

But something wasn’t right. The cars were not appearing on the road. In my role as chief contributor to the Cedar Street Times “Green Page,” I contacted a man named Lee Colin—whose title with the company was unclear—and asked for a tour of the facility. Colin referred me to company president Michael Ryan, who referred me back to Colin. Colin said I would not be allowed to tour the plant, but I could see the car. That seemed odd to me. Regardless, I figured I would take what was offered and we set up a time for me to have a ride in a Triac.

On the appointed day, I called Colin to make sure we were still on. Colin said he thought it was for a different day and had made other plans. At that point, frankly, I lost interest.

Since they’ve closed I’ve become very interested again. What happens to the money? Will these modern-day carpetbaggers have to pay it back? Where are they now? There’s nothing out at the old Firestone plant except one Triac and some empty pallets. I want answers, and perhaps justice.

Because I write for a Pacific Grove newspaper, I’m not sure how much cooperation I’ll get out in Salinas. But as Al Pacino said in The Insider, “I am now two things: pissed off and curious!”

OUT-OF-SHAPE BABY BOOMERS FACING FUTURE HEALTH PROBLEMS

All I can do is laugh at this one. The last American president to really encourage physical fitness got his head blown off. A weak population is easily controlled. The boomers are a generation raised on television, McDonalds, faster cars, longer commutes and a dysfunctional health care system. Throw in computers, take away our pensions, bankrupt our 401 k’s, foreclose our mortgages and then force many of us into “early retirement” (unemployment). You bet your ass we’re facing health problems, and money problems.

MOTO GP

The international motorcycle races are in town and nearly every motel is full. Buses are shuttling race fans back and forth from CSUMB to Laguna Seca. The event brings hundreds of screaming motorcycles and huge revenues each July to an area hard-hit by a decline in tourism. It’s noisy and crowded, and then the town will become a dead, exhausted thing for the following week. I really have no gripe about any of this, other than concerns for safety. There had been two crashes on Highway One as of Thursday. I do wish there was more genuine interest in electric cars to balance people’s fanatical interest in racing and sports.

CALIFORNIA RODEO SALINAS

Kelli Uldall, lead photographer for Carmel Magazine, loves animals. Her magazine work is superb; but she really got my attention with a series of shots she posted on facebook last year from the Salinas Rodeo. Using a powerful zoom lens, she captured the terrified facial expressions of horses, calves and steers as they are hurled to the ground and dragged by the neck.

This year, I watched a video taken at the 2005 Salinas Rodeo. Again using a zoom lens, the videographer caught a cowboy in the act of shocking a horse with a stun gun before releasing the “bucking bronco” from the pen. The cowboy slips the gun into his back pocket, right under the nose of the “rodeo judge” who is there to make sure the animals are “handled properly.” More stories are surfacing about rodeo brutality.

This one bothers me the most, and there seems to be little I can do about it. Driving past the Salinas Sports Complex today, a line of vehicles ran a good half-mile down North Main waiting to get in. Rodeo is as American as apple pie. However, these folks are supporting the brutalization of defenseless animals in the name of sport, and then passing those values to their children. It will take a lot to change that. One guy can’t do it. Personally, I will not risk getting my teeth kicked in by a mob of cowboys to protect animals that will be brutalized anyway. This is a call to every animal rights group, every legislator, every law enforcement officer and everyone who keeps a pet. My part will be to investigate. I’m curious about the history of rodeo. For example, how did they get those horses to buck before stun guns were invented? Fire ants under the saddle?

As for the other four stories:

Borders: They got fat, dumb and lazy.

Green Vehicles: Shame on you, but the city leaders were gullible.

Out-of-shape boomers: We’re probably not facing any more health problems than any other generation hitting 65. Many didn’t live that long.

Moto GP: Please encourage your fans to be courteous and drive safely while they are visiting our home.

Ground Zero Mosque

I really don't get political here unless I can't ignore something. This business about Obama supporting Muslim's right to build a mosque near Ground Zero in New York: This is a no-brainer. Would the Japanese have been allowed to build a temple in Pearl Harbor less than a decade after that attack?

Beautimous

What’s the best car you ever had? Mine was sleek, nimble, practical, utterly reliable and fun, with a very high cool factor. It had bucket seats, dual exhaust and four-on-the-floor. The best car I ever had was a 1968 Plymouth Barracuda. The ’68 model came in the series between the first Barracudas and the “E” body design, which appeared in 1970 with the Dodge Challenger. The ’67-‘69 Barracudas had smooth, European lines. Although basically still a Valiant underneath, I thought the ’68 ‘Cuda carried some of Detroit’s best body styling.

My ‘Cuda was a fastback with the legendary 318 V-8. The car had some interesting options: 4-speed manual transmission, heavy-duty suspension and a limited-slip, 8-3/4” rear axle with 3.23 gears. I’d say it was special-ordered. Someone wanted to see how the 318 would run with all the hardware intended for the high-performance 340. It worked out very well. Handling was exceptional. The beefy suspension glued the car to the road while the big, heavy back glass provided near-perfect weight distribution.

Beautimous first appeared to me in 1986 on a consignment lot in San Jose, California. I remember the moment: looking down a row of cars, I spotted the front anti-sway bar hanging boldly like the one on my Dart GTS, saw the Barracuda’s distinctive split grille and the round side marker lights that identified it as a ’68. It wore a coat of drab, dark green enamel, a sad imitation of its original color. Inside, I saw an Inland four-speed shifter in a center console. The odometer showed 163,000 miles. My then-wife and I met the owner for a test drive. The car ran well and a deal was made.

The ‘Cuda underwent a transformation. My friend Steve and I decided the black interior could work with any color, and together in his shop we painted the car a bright, metallic ocean blue with a polyurethane clear coat. A set of Rallye wheels went on, along with new, raised-white-letter tires. The single exhaust was split into duals with some nice baby turbo mufflers and rectangular chrome exhaust tips. The car looked and sounded great!

The 318 finally wore out at 190,000 miles. I rebuilt the entire engine using every skill and resource I had. In that process, I put in a modest RV cam (which I also “degreed-in”), had the heads ported and the rotating assembly custom-balanced. New forged pistons went in. How about adjustable rockers; a Cloyes double-roller timing chain; and a Melling high-volume oil pump? Hardened exhaust seats for unleaded fuel; electronic ignition; three-angle valve job; bronze valve guides; dampened valve springs; Fel-Pro gaskets; Clevite 77 crank bearings—the best. With all that invested, I beefed up the cooling with a 3-row radiator core and a 7-blade heavy-duty clutch fan.

I also did a little number on the transmission, fitting a new set of gears with a 0.73 overdrive. That was a big improvement. The original gears were for high performance: the 318 didn’t really benefit from those ratios. The new gears made it a simple 3-speed around town, plus a nice extra gear for the open road. That kept the 318 in its optimum range, making the ‘Cuda easier and even more fun to drive. The Inland/console setup came out and an excellent Hurst shifter went in.

In the summer of 1991, Beautimous earned its name by standing up to the brutal heat of California’s San Joaquin Valley. We lived in Visalia, 40 miles south of Fresno. My wife spent the whole season doing in-home health care. The little blue Plymouth ran up and down Highway 99 five days a week in triple-digit temperatures and never missed a beat. No boilovers, no stalls, not even the classic Chrysler alternator failure.

I went to work at an auto parts store and continued to keep Beautimous in top shape. It got the best of everything, including a complete front-end overhaul—which I did myself—and a masterful alignment at the best shop in the area. That, combined with a set of KYB Gas-A-Just shock absorbers gave the car superb handling qualities.

When I had my auto upholstery business, Beautimous benefited with a whole new interior. I changed the original black to a beautiful two-tone, white over dark blue. I did everything from the headliner to the carpet and carefully repainted all the interior metal and the dash. Late-model high-back bucket seats went in with new white upholstery. It all came together for a striking, sporty appearance.

Beautimous cemented its place in my heart and memory in the autumn of ’94, when we decided to leave Visalia and move to Sacramento. I was charged with finding a place to live up there, and due to the disrepair of our other cars at the time, only the Barracuda could make the trip. I took it up State Route 99 to the River City and all around that town for an entire day.

Late that evening, I turned for home. The heat of the day had abated. I took Highway 50 back to 99 South, cool air flowing through the car’s interior. Out of Sacramento and down through Elk Grove, doing about 75 in the fast lane, the 318 turning an easy 2800 rpm in overdrive.

Evening gave way to night. I had the window open about two inches from the top, yielding just the right amount of air. Dire Straits on the stereo: my favorite album, On Every Street. And I swear to you, somewhere on that run the car came alive. The engine smoothed out and ran the strongest it ever had. The throaty sound of its exhaust became another kind of music. The steering tracked perfectly, no need to correct. The ‘Cuda rode like it was on a rail, in what I can only describe as an automotive state of grace. Route 99 is rough territory, but Beautimous and I owned the road that night. We sailed down that hellworn highway as if pulled by a divine force that knew no friction.

I did not want that ride to end! When the Visalia exit came up I could have just kept right on going. I felt no fatigue at all. If I hadn’t had the responsibilities of a family man I would have been gone, down the road, adios.

Thirty years after it left the factory, Beautimous met its end on an urban street in Sacramento on June 26, 1998. A newly-licensed 16-year-old thought she could turn in front of us and smashed the front of her Buick into the ‘Cuda’s A-pillar, crushing the unibody’s main support and destroying the left side of our beautiful car. We were thrown sideways into the curb, collapsing the front suspension.

People got banged up, but no one was seriously hurt. Beautimous brought us through the way it always did: surely, and Valiantly.

May Day, 2010...Yesterday, I gleefully photographed a new Camaro parked over in Monterey and posted it on Facebook. Later, I read how awful the situation is with the BP oil spill off the coast of Louisiana. (Spill? Is it a spill when it's gushing out of the sea floor at hundreds of thousands of gallons a day?) Now this greasy monster stands a good chance of swimming around Florida and then riding the Gulf Stream clear up the eastern seaboard. So, contrition directed me to stuff the car pics for a while.

My question to you, dear reader, is this: Am I the only one who noticed the Deepwater Horizon oil platform, which exploded on April 20--Hitler's birthday--sank on Earth Day? That’s when it got ugly. "You want oil, I'll give you oil," said Mother Earth. Another thing: I haven't read anything about how the explosion happened, i.e. what caused it. I get suspicious when bad things happen on 4/20.

God, what a terrible mess.

DONNY BOY

In the late 1930’s, an annual race called the Rough Water Swim took place in Southern California. It was a popular event hosted by radio personalities Fibber Magee and Molly. Swimmers fought through two and a quarter miles of powerful waves and currents around Balboa Island. Those swimmers included Florence Chadwick, who also swam the English Channel. The actor Buster Crabbe often did the Rough Water Swim, his enormous feet propelling him to victory.

Another regular contestant was a scrappy young carpenter named Donald W. Tosh. With tremendous energy and upper-body strength, Don became a presence in those races, even winning a few.

After service in the Navy during World War II, the ambitious young Scotsman wooed and won the lady LaVonne, and they began a life together. The Toshes built and operated a chain of hamburger stands at Huntington Beach, did well, and went on to other ventures. In the mid-1970’s, I came to work for them at a place called Big Sur Lodge.

Don was a man’s man, affectionately known to his children as “Archie Bunker.” His political views lay somewhere to the right of Rush Limbaugh, and he made no apologies for that. Working for Don quickly yielded some basic truths: there was the right way, the wrong way and Don’s Way. And if you didn’t like it, you’d better get out of the way, because Don would shove you aside and do it himself. He was a man accustomed to hard work.

Don owned some mountain property near the Lodge in Big Sur. He was building a gravity-feed water system up there, consisting of several tanks and a network of steel pipes. In summer, we young men liked to boast of long, hot days hauling pipe up the mountain. Yes sir, that was man’s work.

In wintertime, when the rains came and the days grew incredibly short, things at the Lodge slowed down; but Don, the Workingman’s Man, always kept us busy. And so one dark, cloudy day in January, Don said we should all go up the mountain and pour a pad for one of his water tanks. Someone pointed out the threatening clouds and suggested it might be best to wait for a sunnier day. But one look at our boss gave us the answer, and off we went.

There was me, Tom, Bill, Mark, Phil the maintenance man, and of course, Don. Phil loaded up his personal truck, a beautiful, 1970 Dodge 3/4-ton pickup, while the rest of us climbed aboard another Lodge vehicle. We rode a short piece down Highway One, turned off at Don’s private gate, and began the slow climb up the skinny dirt road that Walt Trotter had carved out of the mountain with a D-9 Caterpillar. Like most Big Sur back roads, there was no margin for sloppy turns, no room for a lapse in concentration. Any mistake like that would send you right off a cliff. The road wound up the rugged west face of the mountain, around the other side through many redwood trees to the top, yielding a wondrous view of the lush Big Sur Valley below and the great Pacific Ocean beyond. Going up there brought a mix of enjoyment and dread: while it meant a welcome break from the routine, we also knew that mountain work was a time for us to really earn our keep.

On this gloomy January day however, there were no pipes to haul, no heavy tanks to erect. Just a simple, ten-foot concrete pad to be poured. Easy, right? Sure — although we did these from scratch using shovels and a wheelbarrow, hauling water from another part of the mountain.

The dark clouds converged above us, knitting themselves together ominously as we toiled below. At two o’clock, they released a cold, menacing drizzle. Working shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of us, Don shouted, “Work faster!!” And we did. We mixed and heaved and poured and spread with model efficiency.

By three o’clock the drizzle had thickened to a solid, steady rain. To compensate, Don ordered us to use less water. All of us were cold and wet, hoping the rain would let up, our clothes and shoes covered in mud and cement.

The clouds finally stopped toying with us and unleashed a raging downpour. It soaked us to the bone and turned the road into a slippery mess. Phil’s prized pickup got stuck twice, and its rear wheels machine-gunned great clots of mud into our faces as we struggled to push it free. The second time this happened, the shiny blue Dodge glanced off the embankment, scraping a fender. Phil was not pleased.

At four o’clock we were finished. Totally. I stood beside Don as the rain pelted our freshly poured cement, now a pockmarked ruin. It looked like the surface of the moon. Don, hair plastered onto his head as water dripped from his eyebrows and the tip of his nose, tried in vain to light a cigarette. He looked at me, gave his characteristic chuckle and said the only thing left to say:

“Well...maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.”

You know, I couldn’t really be mad at him. Another, more cynical employer once said to me, “I pay for all the mistakes around here, including my own.” Don paid the price on the mountain that day, and he acknowledged it fully.

You gotta love a guy like that.

THE END

It's not every day that an 8.8 quake hits. Reports of tsunami activity led me south to greet the incoming waves. At Garrapata Creek on the way to Big Sur, the waves seemed to be at war with each other, north against the south. Many other photographers had gathered at this spot, where the power of nature could be seen and felt to the core.

For your reading pleasure, the story of a young man and his warrior machine...

THE MIGHTY FALCOON

By Cameron Douglas

995 words

Once in a great while, a car comes along that is so dependable, so impervious and so downright stubborn that it absolutely refuses to give up — even in the worst conditions.

In the hard winter of 1975, my friend Tom and I shared an apartment on Euclid Avenue in East Cleveland. We lived a simple life of work, hangin’ out with our rowdy friends and getting from point A to point B. The cars we drove were different than they are now. Back then front-wheel drive hardly existed. Nearly every the car on the road was propelled by its rear wheels, which, in winter, were typically shod with great, gnarly snow tires. The cars themselves were heavy, poorly suspended tanks with terrible brakes. Even with snow tires, they skated across the icy roads like Dodge-Em cars on a Teflon rink. Snowplows ambled through the gloom, showering rock salt to melt the snow and ice. Their heavy plow blades turned the asphalt into a minefield of lumps, bumps and potholes that slowly destroyed front suspensions. The road salt caused massive structural rust. (I once had a rusty ’65 Ford Galaxie actually break in half as I pulled into a driveway.)

‘Twas a land of great automotive hardship, and that year my friend and I faced a grim car situation. My ’68 Plymouth Road Runner had a bad transmission. Tom owned a broken ’64 Chrysler Newport that was up on blocks. Money was tight and we needed something to get us around.

In January, we bought a ’66 Ford Falcon for 40 bucks. That’s right: 4-0 dollars. We named it, “The Mighty Falcoon.” It was a dark green, two-door coupe with a 200 cubic-inch six-cylinder engine. It seemed to run pretty well, but the transmission leaked badly. It had no snow tires, and the tires it did have were all worn out. The heater didn’t work. Neither did the horn. Extensive body rust had left gaping holes in the floor pans, so bad that the front seat used to rock back and forth on the weakened metal. And before long the muffler fell off, adding to its charm.

It was the quintessential beater car, and we flogged it like a sheetmetal mule. We ran it through wind, rain, ice, snow, slush and salt, giving it only cheap gasoline and lots of transmission fluid. We never tuned it. We did no work on the brakes, even after the drums started grinding on bare linings. Never changed the oil. Nor did we add any oil because, quite surprisingly, the engine never leaked or burned any oil at all.

The Mighty Falcoon just kept rolling along on its bald tires, leaving a trail of bright red tranny fluid. In zero temperatures with no heat it was a handful to drive. We had to drink some hot chocolate and take a blanket, hat, coat and gloves. The blanket went across our legs, while the gloves were there to wipe frost off the inside of the windshield, since there were also no defrosters. But the little inline six ran flawlessly. It ignored the freezing weather and started right up every time.

One day, I had to drive up to Cleveland Heights for a job interview. Heavy snow had accumulated for two days and showed no sign of letting up. A bitter, Canadian wind blew in from Lake Erie, and thick flurries of snow clouded the view of the street from our windows.

As I pulled on my coat, Tom said to me, “Looks pretty nasty out there.”

I agreed with him: “Yeah, sure does.”

“You sure that car’s gonna make it?” he asked.

His question made me think. Hmmm...leaky transmission; no heater; bad tires; bad brakes. Most people would have sat down, switched on the TV and said the heck with it. But I was determined.

“No problem,” I replied. And off I went.

Gloved, blanketed and hot-chocolated, I fired up the Mighty Falcoon and made my way onto Euclid Avenue, cutting deep tracks in the snow. With the wipers wiping and my hands clearing frost, I waited to make a left turn onto Green Road, where there would then be a long, twisting, uphill grade. A hitchhiker stood near the bottom of that hill, hoping for a ride. I considered stopping to pick him up and decided against it: a running start would be my only chance.

When the light changed, I punched it and made a crab-like, sideways turn onto Green Road, climbing about 30 feet up the hill before the madly spinning tires lost their grip and the car began sliding back down. The hitchhiker stepped away: he wanted no part of this! Just when it looked completely hopeless, the car drifted over and the right rear wheel hit the curb. The downward slide halted and I felt that wheel dig in. Somewhere in my mind a voice said, “Go for it!” — so I hit the gas.

Roaring, snarling and bellowing; the mufflerless Mighty Falcoon inched forward. Smoke rolled off the tire and sparks flew as the wheel ground against the curb. The din of unsilenced internal combustion racketed off the walls of nearby buildings. The hitchhiker stared in disbelief at the ragged car waging war with the pavement. His image grew smaller as I pulled away from him. And I made it. The Mighty Falcoon took that hill — a distance of 500 feet — with the wheel screaming against the curb all the way.

In the end, rust prevailed and we had to lay the Mighty Falcoon to rest. We watched in sadness as the junk man came to haul it off. He made the mistake of hooking up to the Falcon’s bumper, which tore loose from its rusty mounts and dumped the car back on the ground.

I hope someone salvaged the engine from that poor car: it still ran like a champ.

THE END