Since the day I got him, PD’s speedometer demonstrated two awkward behaviors: the needle jumped all over the place and the speeds indicated were off by, oh, 30 miles per hour or so.  I posted my problem on the Triumph website and was counseled:  Send it to Morris (Morris Mintz, an instrument genius in California).

I gave Morris a shout and he, being of some middle European descent, instructed me in a no nonsense, staccato fashion regarding the procedure to calibrate the speedometer, matching it to the particulars of the car (turns out, modifications to the factory delivered vehicle, like different sized tires, affect greatly the speedometer’s accuracy).  The procedure outlined included removing the cable from the back of the speedo, measuring carefully 52.8 feet on a flat surface, and moving the car in a straight line, all the while watching how many times the cable fitting rotated (the cable has square fittings on both ends; affixing a toothpick and a piece of tape to the speedo end allowed me to count the rotations).  My friend Rob was engaged to spot from outside the car which allowed me to start and stop at the exact locations indicated by the course laid out upon the ground.  We did it twice.

Triumph "Wahrs"

The speedometer on a TR6 has but a few connections: two wires and four bulbs (high-beam indicator, turn signal light, and two bulbs which provide illumination in concert with the headlight switch), held in place by two simple screws replete with brackets and knurled knuts.  Into the back of the instrument is also inserted a cable to permit resetting the trip meter and the speedometer cable itself which runs from a fitting on the transmission under the car.  Tres simplement, no?  It turns out, what seems simple in theory is not quite as clear in practice.

When I initially removed the speedometer and cable, I met with a few obstacles, overcome with grit, invention, and my usual “Can Do” spirit.  The first problem I faced was the relatively low slung frame of a Little British Car; my [not inconsiderable] girth prevented me from getting far enough under the car to affect removal of the speedometer cable connection, located on the transmission.  I pondered for a bit and then realized I could lower the ramp on PD’s Treehouse (trailer), drive upon it half-way, and render the fitting within reach.  Applying my [not considerable] strength and the right tool permitted me to disconnect the fitting.  Snaking the cable through the various rubber-grommetted apertures which permit the cable to wend its way through the engine compartment and then through the firewall reaching its terminus at the back of the instrument in the dashboard, I removed the cable from the car.

The second part of the removal involved releasing the instrument itself from the dash.  I studied the repair manuals in my possession and managed to release it from its usual location.  Unfortunately, during extraction, a series of sparks issued forth; I had forgotten to disconnect the battery before initiating the removal process, a “standard” procedure when working on these cars.  Drats.

I sent to Morris both my speedometer and cable (the cables are often “gunky” and tend to bind without regular cleaning) and the results of the calibration process and received, in addition to the repaired speedometer, a brand new cable.  I also got a brand new Voltage Stabilizer (it’s screwed on the back of the speedo and is used to supply just the right voltage to the Temperature and Fuel gauges; it is to this the two wires mentioned above connect); Morris said the VS I sent him was “shorted” (see: fried, see: sparks during removal, see: didn’t disconnect the battery, see: Dumbass).  Neato.

Voltage Stabilizer

The sun was shining, the birds were singing, nary was a bark heard in the distance, and this time, I remembered to disconnect the battery.  I was ready to reinstall the speedo and cable.  I backed PD halfway up the Treehouse ramp, chocked the wheels, and climbed under to attach the shiny new cable.  Piece of cake.  I then routed the cable through the various grommets, terminating through the firewall, to meet with the back of the speedo.  Piece of pie.  I affixed the wires to the new and improved Voltage Stabilizer [Slight stutter here: the stabilizer had two terminals, each with two spade connections (male and female), one marked “I” and one marked “B”.  I consulted the instructions provided with the gizmo and was informed that it was important to make the right connections. Unfortunately, I hadn’t paid particular attention to the wires when I removed them and I was stumped.  I ciphered for a bit and then realized that Morris had returned the defunct VS unit. I cleverly inspected closely the old unit and was able to discern the proper wiring sequence since two of the connections on the old unit were “shiny.”  I was pretty pleased with myself.]  I reinserted the lights into the back of the speedo, connected the cable, and connected the Trip Reset cable.  Carefully maneuvering the unit back into the dash, I screwed the retaining clamps in place and thought, “Nothing has gone wrong.  This cannot possibly be right.”  A road test was required.

I started the car, extremely pleased to see the temperature and fuel gauges registering in accordance with their respective specifications, and headed down the drive to the back road a quarter mile away.  Hmmmm…the speedo didn’t move, its needle remained in situ, its reading contrary to the display on the GPS.  I knew this had gone too well.

I pulled over and reached up under the dash to remove the end of the speedo cable from the back of the speedometer.  Whilst doing so, I heard the familiar crackle of electrical imbalance; sure enough, sparks were flying.  Crikey.

I held the speedo cable in hand as I drove along, much dismayed to find it was not spinning.  Concurrently, I noticed the temp and fuel gauges no longer registered. [insert expletive(s) here.]

I drove home, lowered the Treehouse ramp, and backed PD upon it.  Working my way under the car, I removed the speedo cable and manually turned the transmission end while watching the speedo end, projecting beneath the dash.  It spun.  I cursed.  I puzzled.  While under the car, my eyeglasses kept catching on things so I removed them and tossed them aside.

At times like this, Occam’s Razor should spring instantly to the fore, for therein lies the solution to many of life’s difficulties.  I, of course, ignored the inner voice, and began a long series of missteps (technically, I had already begun by neglecting to disconnect the battery before reaching under the dash to pull the speedo cable; my stupidity met by a firestorm of sparks).

The cable appeared to work, but only while unencumbered by the connections which rendered it utilitarian.  Its potential as a tool to deliver 30 lashes remained, but its functionality defied its actual raison d’etre.  I pondered.

Looking at the “new” vs. “old” cables (Morris returned the one I had sent him), I noted the transmission connector seemed to be “deeper” than the original.  Perhaps it was not the correct fitting?  I slid back beneath the car and investigated the tranny fitting.  It “seemed” like the cable end could not screw completely on the tranny, thus rendering it “useless” (except as noted previously).  I had only tightened the fitting to “snug” using my fingers rather than a tool.  After much consideration, I decided to try to get the cable end to screw all the way down on the tranny fitting.  And this I did (with a pair of channel locks).  Down the driveway I went.

Ye Olde Cable

Nothing.  No spin.  No rotation.  No joy.  Plenty of cussin’.  I backed PD back on the ramp.

Another possibility presented: perhaps the tranny itself was not imparting to the cable the necessary spinning action?  I reached for my glasses and headed off to read Bentley, the Bible of TR6 repair.

I opened Bentley, intent on researching the nether reaches of transmission/speedometer interactions.  My vision was fuzzy.  I couldn’t focus.  I was confused.  Eventually, I realized my eyeglasses were missing a lens, I assumed it was knocked out when I flung them from beneath the car.  I wandered around in search of a spare pair.

I was concerned I had somehow damaged the transmission/speedo cable connection by driving the car without the cable in place (Morris said it was ok).  Maybe a critical piece had been flung out or some grit had found its way inside which prevented it from spinning.  I learned nothing from Bentley (save the knowledge that there was/is no special piece in the fitting which may have been lost).  Only one thing to do: isolate the cable as a problem.

I got the old cable out and installed it, leaving the speedo end loose.  Once in place, I drove down the driveway, holding the “old” cable in my hand which, after a momentary pause (hint), began to spin like a top.  Good news: tranny was fine.  Bad news: no explanation as to why the “new” cable didn’t work.  [For the record: it was noon-ish by now but I had not had a drop to drink.]

So now I knew the tranny was spinning (at least one of the cables) just fine.  That only left two possibilities: the attachment between the tranny and the cable was improper, or the end of the cable (the square bit) didn’t “fit” in the aperture in the tranny.  It was then that I thought back to my test drive with the old cable.  Remembering that it had not spun at first, I considered the need to allow some spin up time for the new cable (I assumed it would begin to rotate instanter; a poor assumption, it turned out).  Back up on the ramp PD went and I swapped out the old cable and re-attached the new.  I also located the missing lens to my glasses.  Well, technically, the car did as I pulled away for one of my test drives.

Sure enough, about 100 yards away, the cable began to spin.  I began to swear and then to laugh, my own stupidity exposed.

Pretty Fast, Pretty Damn Fast

In retrospect, I had turned a “perfect,” 40 minute car job into a six hour nightmare by simply neglecting to attach properly a screw-on fitting.  Well, technically, I turned it into a cluster through a combination of ignorance and by ignoring Occam.  [By the way, the VS wasn’t shorted; I had knocked one of the wires off when I had reached up under the dash to remove the speedo cable from the back of the speedo.  It’s back on and all is well.]

PD was resting peacefully in the Tree House (his personal trailer; one simply must immerse oneself in Go Dog, GO! to fully appreciate the references in these tadbits) back at the Kascinsky Kabin when I interrupted his slumber, affixed his four point restraint system, and lit out for parts unknown (well, I knew where I was headed).

The Tree House

Upon arrival, I unhooked PD’s tie-downs and cranked him over to drive out of the Tree House.  Something was amiss.  His engine didn’t sound right; it was amissing.  I pulled him into the garage, transmogrified instanter into The Operating Room.  PD needed a house call.

Before lifting PD’s bonnet, I thought back over the past two weeks, since the last time I took him out for a drive, and tried to imagine what might be the cause of PD’s malady.  The only thing I’d done was to torque his spark plugs.  I feared I may have broken something.

I called my brother-in-law (for the duration of this story, we’ll call him “Phil”) and explained the off-putting sounds and particulars being then emitted by PD, normally a very suave and smooth running fellow.  Phil gave me some tips and things to try and then refused to answer his phone for the rest of the evening, my call having apparently interfered with his usual Friday night binge drinking.  I was on my own.

"Phil" (I know, right?)

I pulled the plugs and checked them; all was well, no sign of moisture, no signs of fouling. I changed the plug wires using some spares I had in the boot (yes, I carry spare spark plug wires, along with a coil, points, plugs, a condenser, and a cell phone…doesn’t everyone?) with no joy.  I was getting desperate and decided to take the plunge and post an inquiry on the TR6 Owner’s forum online.  What the heck.

My post to 6-Pack.org was answered almost immediately with some good ideas and things to check.  After I did all that was asked of me (over the course of about 2.5 hours), there was no change in the patient’s vitals; PD was ill.

I’m not sure what contributed more to my inability to help PD recover – a lack of experience with internal combustion engines, the application of my considerable intelligence in areas “other” than automotive problem solving, or the scotch I’d consumed to lubricate my puzzler over a three hour period – it didn’t matter, I was stumped.

Suddenly, I was struck by one of life’s truisms, a veritable Do It Yourself Guide for all that ails, known to all who seek knowledge and tend to over think the obvious: Occam’s Razor (the less erudite have reduced this classic philosophy to a rather inane principle: KISS (Keep It Simple, Stupid; fits them perfectly)).  Back to basics I went, dragged mercifully by Occam and his personal grooming device.

These infernal combustion engines seem to operate by combining an explosive mixture with an electrical spark, causing some internal parts to pound up and down in some pre-determined sequence.  This is caused by a potpourri of mysterious parts and pieces; things like distributors, spark plugs, and Quiji boards which are mixed with natural substances like air, fuel, and hope.  It’s all brought together and encouraged to work in concert by a mystical power known as “Voodoo.”

Oh, What a Tangled Web

Prodded along by Occam, I thought, “I wonder if I put the spark plug wires on wrong when I pulled the plugs?”  I looked up the “firing order” for engines of PD’s ilk and discovered, after invoking the Google, that I had, indeed, put the plug wires on incorrectly.  How I managed to do that when pulling one wire and one plug at a time is beyond me (see: “Voodoo”).  I corrected the problem and took a quick spin to validate the efficacy of my repair efforts (probably not the best idea at the time considering the late hour and the liquid level of the scotch bottle).  Ole PD ran like a top.

The hour approaching midnight, I tucked PD in for the night and, in light of my newly found and remarkable mechanical acumen, decided to tackle adjusting the valves on the ‘morrow.  What could possibly go wrong?

A while back, I chatted with Becky about her desire to stop eating anything containing high fructose corn syrup, to buy from her local farmers, to provide wholesome food for her family.

Recently, I spoke to Becky about her efforts to prepare meals made from the fundamentals, to eschew preprocessed, industrial foodstuffs.

Frankly, a few years ago, I thought Becky was nuts.  I don’t think that anymore.

Last month, I wanted to buy a gun case for a new rifle I was given by my brother-in-law.  I looked around; everything was made in China.  I refused to buy one until I could find a quality product made in America.  My brother-in-law asked, “How long has this been going on?”  I said, “As of now.”

I was talking to an old friend last Friday night and told her about my discussions with Becky; about how I was drawn to the message.  How I wanted to follow her lead.  My friend said, “All it takes is one person.”

So, I’m now one person.  I’ve begun to locate sources for local food; eggs, raw milk, produce, meat, butter.  Grown locally, purchased right off the farm.

I’m also one person who will never again buy anything except that which is made in America (or was made in America at some point).  Is this even possible?  I don’t know.  But I’m one person and I’m going to try.

I invite you to follow my progress.  And I invite you to join me.

One thing of value I did extract from Joel’s tome was a “lead” to an organization dedicated to healthier food and local growers, the Weston A. Price Foundation (WAPF).  I used the Google (my boss calls them, “the goggles”) and discovered, much to my amazement, a local representative and an email address.  I sent an email instanter and got an almost immediate reply from Julie Konikoff, a fellow(ette) resident of Tallahassee.  Julie answered patiently my many questions and then told me one of her favorite produce producers is the farm, get this, ACROSS THE STREET from my house.  Julie also told me there is a farmer’s market every Wednesday almost literally ACROSS THE STREET from my office.  Yeah, right?  See: stars, aligned.

So today, I headed over to the Lake Ella market and picked up a few items:

•  Sourdough bread, made naturally with olive oil ($7)
• One T-bone steak ($15.34; 1.18 lbs)
• One dozen eggs, one container of hummus, one pack of pita bread ($20)

The other day, I bought some Vidalia onion and peach salsa ($4.15) and a jar of apple cinnamon jelly ($4.50) from the country store up the road from my house.

Market Food

Look at the cost of those few items.  You getting the sense that this ain’t a pursuit for a pauper?  I knew it would cost more to buy better, healthier food; after all, the point is to buy from small producers who don’t benefit from economies of scale and government subsidies.  I am suffering a bit from sticker shock, but I’m intent on continuing.  This lifestyle change is not a financial issue; it’s a cost/benefit analysis where I’ve chosen to spend more to realize the benefits of healthier food.  Besides, every time I can buy something from a local farmer, I poke a sharp financial stick in the eye of Publix; you know that has to appeal to me, right?  At any rate, I’ve just begun the journey so I’ve yet to “learn the system, work within the system, beat the system.”

Here’s something else I learned which amazed me.

Perusing a local farmer co-op/store website (you can place orders online from Sunday until 6:00 am on Wednesday and then pick up your stuff on Thursday at a couple locations around town), I noticed the link to “Dairy” didn’t work.  And there was something else “strange” on the site: a link to “Pet Food.”

Pets Only

Reading ole Joel’s book, I ran across an offhand comment about farmers who were overwhelmed by the onerous regulations levied on all food producers by the government.  The costs required to comply with the regulations are a barrier to entry for the small producer; they just don’t generate sufficient income to comply with all the laws which would permit them to sell their products (you know, dangerous stuff like eggs, milk, cheese) to the general public.  However (and this is a BIG “however”), they can label the items thusly:  “Pet Food Only, Not Safe for Human Consumption” and sell it to any Tom, Dick, or Mary.  I shit you not.

Julie told me I can go into a local New Leaf Market and ask for raw cow’s milk (they had goat’s milk at the market today, but I’m not ready for that yet) and you can get all you want (you have to ask an employee; they don’t put it in the dairy case).  I imagine I can get other stuff there, too, but I’m really intent on forming a relationship with the farms and farmers in my area.  To begin with, I plan to visit the farm ACROSS THE STREET from me this weekend.

Ironically, despite this pursuit of better, healthier foods, I haven’t quit smoking.  How stupid is that?  I am riding my bike, though.  Baby steps, Dr. Bob, baby steps.

I invite you to follow my progress.  And I invite you to join me.  Remember, “It only takes one person…”

The taste was comparable to “normal” eggs.  Perhaps I’m not an egg aficionado.

To accompany my eggs, I had a hunk of sourdough, olive oil based bread.  That was delicious, but again, nothing approaching the realm of spectacular.

For lunch I had some pita bread and the hummus I got the other day.  Again, nothing to write a blog about.  Maybe my palate is simply too simple.

This afternoon I drove to Publix to buy a baking potato to eat with the trial T-bone steak I purchased at the Farmer’s Market on Wednesday.  And therein lies a bit of a problem with this whole “buy local” shtick – you can only buy local what is grown locally and it has to be “in season.”  Potatoes are not in season.  They can’t be found, unless you choose to get them in a grocery store (where you can get anything, any time of year, eh?).

Here’s what’s in season: leafy vegetables (kale, arugula, and soon, lettuce) and root vegetables (turnips, parsnips, etc.).  Those of you who know me are aware that I have not eaten a turnip since 1968 and I have no intention of starting now.

I’m a bit stuck.  Faced with a food “shortage,” I have but a few options: I can learn to eat turnips (not on a bet), I can abandon my pursuit of healthier foods, or I can expand my culinary skills and my willingness to try “different” things.  Given my proclivity to rebel against any decisions which are forced upon me, I’ve had to engage in introspection to ascertain my motivation for this life change (wow, this took an entire week to fall to pieces).  Here’s what I’ve decided (unilaterally).

I started this to eat healthier, but I think the real impetus behind this is to take a small step toward going back to a better time, a better place, and a better country.  It’s nice that I may end up healthier, thinner, and better looking (as if) as a result of this enterprise, but I’m really trying to cast a vote (just one, but one nonetheless) against industrialized food and, in no small measure, against the government which promotes and supports a system which tilts decidedly against farmers and their families.  I think I’m pissed.  Nah, I KNOW I’m pissed.

No Luddite I, I just want to “take back” what has been taken from us.  Freedom to choose from whom we buy our food, freedom to support our neighbors, freedom from having some asshole pick winners and losers.  I’ve pretty much had enough of that from my government.  I’m buying American, and I’m buying from my community.  No matter how hard it becomes.  So, I’ll be learning to cook and eat new things.  I’m Gumby, Dammit!  I can be flexible!  Now that Twinkies are not an option, why the hell not?

An aside is in order here.  When I went to the Farmer’s Market, I met Mary, a lithe and helpful lass, easy on the eyes.  I inquisited her in re her beef’s pedigree:  Where is your farm located?  What do you feed them?  Do you use drugs?  What is the best cut you have available?  What do you recommend?

Mary, to her credit, was as truthful as she was vivacious:  “I’m not the right person to ask.  I’m a vegetarian.”

You have to give the farmer credit for his marketing acumen.  As for his beef raising skills…

The grass-fed meat had a “different” flavor which I can not describe adequately.  I was struck by a strange sensation at one point during my repast; it reminded me of being on the ocean.  I have no idea why that occurred to me, but I’m all about full disclosure.

The texture contrasted with the grain-fed beef I’m accustomed to consuming.  When the meat fibers separated, it wasn’t a clean break; it was more like a tearing away.  The fibers were sort of “clingy” like when you pull chewing gum off your shoe.  Long fibrous strings of meat clung to the bone.  That was unexpected, and I offer no explanation based upon anything other than conjecture (one might ponder the difference between kernels of corn breaking free and trying to pull a stalk of grass apart).  I couldn’t really discern any difference whilst masticating.

One other thing I noticed which varied from store to farm fare: the farm steak was bloodier in its package than the usual store variety.  However, once cooked and under attack by knife and fork, the farm meat didn’t “ooze” as much juice onto the plate as a store cut.  That was kind of weird, but I guess the grass-fed beef, once cooked, retained more moisture?  I have no idea.

In any event, it was pretty good.  The package came, surprisingly, with two steaks inside, so I had one left over for breakfast (I cooked them both).

Now I’m in search of chicken and pork to compare with store-bought animal flesh…

PD'n Me

A run-in with the law was inevitable.  Others may disagree, but like I’ve always said, honesty is the best policy.

“Do you have any idea how fast you were going?”

“No, Deputy, I don’t have a clue.”

“What do you mean you don’t have a clue?”

“My speedometer doesn’t work.”

“I had you at 103.”

“Cool.”

“Cool?”

“Yes, sir.  I would have sworn I wasn’t going more than 75.  It was really smooth and the engine was just purring along.”

“Do you know what the speed limit is?”

“Um…55?”

“Well, at least you knew that.”

“Where are you going?”

“Where?”

“Yes, where.”

“I’m not going anywhere.  I’m just going.”

“Where do you live?”

“Over that way someplace.”

“You don’t know?”

“No, sir.  I just turned on roads that looked like fun.  I’m sure my house is over that way somewhere.  If I get lost, I’ll turn on my GPS.”

“What is this, anyway?”

“It’s a TR6.”

“MG?”

“No, sir.  It’s a Triumph.”

“What year?  Looks new.”

“Thanks.  Wish I could take credit for it, but I just bought it last week.  It’s a ’73.”

“I wasn’t even born in ’73.”

“I’ve always wanted one and I waited almost 40 years for this one.  I’m just checking it out.”

“You need to slow down some.”

“Yes, sir.  I agree.  I had no idea I was going that fast.  Honestly, it felt like it was just getting into a groove.”

“You’re going to leave a groove in the road if you keep driving like that.”

“Yes, sir.  You’re perfectly correct.  I’ll keep the speed down a bit.”

“See that you do.”

“Thanks, Deputy.  Have a nice day.”

“You, too.”

A day or so ago, I removed the covers inside the boot (don’t forget, it’s British) from the rear lights (warning flashers, turn signals, brake lights, reverse lights) in an attempt to rectify a known problem: one of the reverse lights didn’t work.  I proceeded to troubleshoot the issue as best as I could given my lack of tools, experience, and illumination (hold the laughter).

Electrical Repair Kit

I found, through a disciplined methodology (trial, error, bloodletting), it wasn’t simply a need for a new bulb; one of the dang British light fixtures appeared to be inoperable.  Bravely facing a dearth of usable implements (multi-meter, work light, and, of course, beer), I resigned myself to do some additional research (I’d mention doing a bit of web-surfing at work today, but my boss reads this…so…um…I looked it up in catalogues and parts lists at home after work) before venturing forth again to repair that which would serve to warn unsuspecting drivers of my intention to back the hell up.

Today, I went by the local auto shoppe emporium and boutique and dropped nearly a Benjamin buying knicks, light bulbs, a multi-meter, some anti-freeze, and enough windshield washer fluid to fill the reservoir in the car 17 or 18 times over (oh, I got some knacks, too).  To the swamp I went.

I removed the covers I’d carefully put back in place the other day (why did I put them back on knowing full well I’d be taking them off in a day or so?  I have no clue.) and grasping firmly my fancy multi-meter, I started checking things over.  The results were less than ideal.

The offending member of the light parade was a simple (see: idiotically prone to failure) part:  the bulb holder itself.  I puzzled over the obvious solution:  get the ground on the bulb holder to make a connection to the ground on the car (this part grounds itself, and its snug as a bug in a rug light bulb, to the car’s body through a rather bizarre looking series of prongs (think: octopus meets a Klingon warship)).  The problem was that the little tab dingus which is designed to make a connection to the bulb did not make a connection with the prong-prone whatsis (pardon the technical jargon; maybe it would help to read this as if it were written using a British accent).  Closer inspection just served to make me angry since this stupid little part was so simply designed as to never need repair or replacement (yeah, right).  I cranked my puzzler up another notch.

Dang Brit Electrics

It occurred to me that the bulb retention device was circular in nature, the light bulb touching bit (dingus) was just under the round prong part (whatsis).  What I needed to do was to make them “touch” with something which, in accordance with some whacky laws of physics or chemistry or philosophy, would conduct a magical, unknown substance called “electricity.”  Puzzler: Overdrive.

I took a moment to suck on some puzzler “lubricant” (beer) and was inspired; an idea so brilliant that itself might be used to illuminate the nether reaches of the boot, sans work light.  I had some wire “nippers” (too many words to describe) and a package of tiny washers in a drawer in the kitchen (leftovers from building the house, I suppose).  See where this is going?  ROUND washers, ROUND bulb holder (whatsis)…do you see it?  Once you get ye olde puzzler properly lubed, it’s child’s play to solve life’s many problems…even the time-honored electrical issues associated with all British (and BMW) cars.  I quickly cut one of the washers in half and headed back down to figure out a way to jam the semi-washer in the whatsis to allow the necessary electrons to flow like aqua pura down the River of Dreams.

This Should Work

Locating my Leatherman (did I mention I don’t have any tools?), I tried valiantly to “stuff” the washer (sans half) into a gap which wouldn’t have fit a washer thinner by ten times.  Naturally, I attempted to force it (oft with a sharp knife in my hand).  No joy.

During my treasure hunt, I found a spool of solder (pronounced, “solder”) in the very same kitchen drawer.  Picture this:  I attempted to hold the solder over the bulb holder, heating the solder with a grill lighter, fully expecting a careful drip of melted solder to find its way into the aforementioned bulb holder “gap.”  It might have worked if I could have held the solder/lighter closer to the bulb holder, but since the holder was plastic, that approach was less than ideal.  Turns out the distance required between the lighter/solder/holder was sufficiently sufficient to allow the solder “drip” to cool on its journey; it hardened and “clinked” off the part and bounced to the ground.  What the hell, who knew?

Retiring in disgust, I took up residence in the front seat of my Tahoe (much more comfy whilst one is attempting to stuff things where they won’t fit) and felt the dark veil of defeat begin to descend upon me.  There is NO way in hell I’ll pay good money for such a stupid, silly part!  There MUST be a way!  I’m SCOTTISH, for God’s sake!!!  (Perchance, I swore.)

Catching my breath after a long swig of lubricant, I reached into the console for a napkin (I did mention the knife and “forcing”) and espied a common, ordinary pen.  You know, the ubiquitous kind found in so many company supply rooms (again…my boss reads this stuff…so, um…I bought this pen, and the other 14 just like it in my center console, from Staples).  In this case, it was a Uni Super Ink, which, if the advertising is to be believed, has built into it, some magical ability to stop plagiarism (motto actually printed on the side of the pen: Helps Prevent Document Fraud).  How that works exactly is a subject for another time (lucky you).  Here’s the best part of a Uni Super Ink writing device: it has attached to it something which nerds, engineers, and Trekkies (wait, I repeat myself) find so utterly appealing: a clip to affix it to a pocket/nerd pack.

I ripped the clip off the Uni Super Ink fraud-prevention device with my Leatherman and twisted the end bit, back and forth, until a tiny little piece was extracted.  I used some nearby tweezers (Trim, straight edges, motto on the side:  Helps to Prevent Unsightly Zits) to insert the tiny little piece into the tiny little gap in the bulb holder and VIOLA! That clip was the perfect thickness to make Einstein rejoice in the knowledge that the universe would be made once again whole, electrons flowing from positive to negative (or whatever the hell they do) with reckless abandon. (Oh, the pen ink was blue.  I guess you use pens with red ink for positive connections…but I don’t really know.)

I put a bulb in its natural place and re-attached the lot to the car in its assigned location.  And it was good.

I decided to leave the “Add Windshield Washer Fluid” challenge for another day.  I’ll keep you posted.

“Madam Speaker, thank you for talking to me today,”

“No problem.  I’ve got a lot more time on my hands these days.  About all I have to do is clean out my office, but I’ve got people for that.”

“Right.  So, the Democrats took quite a ‘shellacking’ in the election, as the president put it.”

“Well, I have to agree it didn’t turn out as well as we had hoped.  But there were many positive things.”

“Such as?”

“Well, about half of those Blue Dog Democrats were defeated.”

“I’m not sure I understand, Madam Speaker.  Why is that a good thing?”

“Those guys were a major pain in the ass.  They kept blocking legislation and insisting on something called ‘fiscal discipline.’  I did everything I could to keep money out of their campaigns.  You’d think they never read the Constitution.”

“The Constitution?”

“Sure, the Constitution gives Congress the power to spend money it doesn’t have.”

“Doesn’t that lead to ever increasing deficits and create more debt for the country?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’m confused.  Why is that a good thing?”

“If we pass legislation, regardless of whether the American people want it or not, we get reelected to do it again and again.  It’s not important what the legislation is, it’s only important that we pass things.  Do you have any idea how many post offices we named over the past two years?  Say what you will, we were very effective legislators.”

“But didn’t the Republicans, for the most part, vote against the Health Care bill and weren’t many Democrats defeated simply because they voted for the bill along with the Stimulus bill, Wall Street bailouts, and takeovers of the American automotive industry?  In fact, as many races tightened up, many Democrats tried to downplay their votes and some even said they would withdraw support for you as Speaker.”

“Besides being an effective legislator, I raised more money for Democrats than any other member of the House.  I simply withheld money from my enemies and provided more money to candidates who share my progressive ideology.”

“And that ‘ideology’ is what?”

“The underpinning of the American electoral process is money.  Sure we lost more seats in a mid-term election in over 70 years.  That’s not what’s important.  What is important is that we raised about the same amount of money as the Republicans.  That’s the real purpose of politics, to raise money.”

“I thought you said being an effective legislator was the most important characteristic of an elected official and passing more legislation would lead to reelection?  Again, I’m sort of lost here.”

“Look, members of the House and Senate spend most of their time raising money.  That’s why we never read most of the legislation we pass.  We simply don’t have the time.  I mean, you can’t exactly carry a 2,700 page Health Care bill around with you and read it while you’re sitting on the dais at a fund raiser.  People would think you’re rude.  Besides, it’s pretty damned heavy.”

“Ok.  If I understand what you’re saying, you’re running for House minority leader because you’re a great fund raiser?”

“Exactly.”

“Don’t you feel any personal responsibility for the historic losses suffered by your party in the elections?  Aren’t you concerned that you are an incredibly polarizing figure in American politics and exit polls indicate many voters cast their ballots AGAINST you personally rather than FOR the Republican agenda?  Aren’t you worried the Republicans will use the same tactics in 2012, possibly leading to further defeats of your House and Senate members and, possibly, the defeat of your own party’s president?”

“Robert Gibbs learned to never acknowledge such possibilities, even in the face of overwhelming information to the contrary.  So, I don’t discuss such things.  What I can tell you is, I’m a helluva fund raiser and things will go a lot more smoothly in our caucus for the next two years without those troublesome Blue Dogs trying to pay for everything.”

“What’s next for you?”

“Well, I’ve got to replace the drapes in the Minority Leader’s office.  I think Boehner was smoking in there and I hear the place reeks.  Of course, I’ve never been in his office, but I hear things.”

“Thank you for your time, Madam Speaker.”

“You’re welcome.”