Saturday breakfast started out perfectly normal (coffee (Columbia / Samatra blend, black - none of that Seattle yuppy crap (my office assistant (the one who was just certified insane) drinks that stuff)), orange, quart of "Hot chili flavor" ramen (with an added spoon of chopped Thai chilis to bring it up to spec) and a can of Morocan sardines).

Then my wiring guy called to say he'd be a half hour late for today's cable pull at the mental health clinic. That was nice of him since my slowly awakening awareness had not yet recalled that we had a cable pull today.

Yeah, and some guy down the street called to ask if I fixed computers. Windows ate itself on his HP Pavilion and it didn't come with a Windows CD. "What do you mean the recovery CD could wipe my disk - my life is on that disk!"

Loaded my ladder and box of Cat-5, and keys to the clinic (my proof that I'm not a "patient") and got him started.

Headed off to Trader Joe's where I bought my weekly ration of beer, wine, bread, coffee and Gerolsteiner "fuzzy water". Loaded it in and started the engine . .

. . and my car broke.

The spline the synchromesh rings and striking dogs slide on had split and jammed the rings (I know this because when it happened four years ago I took the transmission out and disassembled it to find out what went wrong). Fortunately I was able to jam it into a gear (4th) but that was it. Got it almost home but the clutch overheated and got slimey.

Called Rent a Wreck and they had a guy out with a car in 45 minutes ($16/day). Had my brother give me a shove to get moving (and again at a couple of intersections). Got it up over the hills ("mountains" for you on the East coast) and down across Burbank to the approved mechanic.

Now this is painful to me, because I love filthy grueling work, but, alas, we have jobs and I have to meet payroll, so I have to let someone else do my car (how fondly I remember doing an engine overhaul in a driving rainstorm some years ago, coming in every half hour for a change of clothes when they got too waterlogged (one of my employees rung them out and hung them over a roaring gas heater to dry for the next change (no, they do not "understand" - but they want their check so they keep their mouths shut (well Rose doesn't, but she wasn't there (it takes a nut case to understand one))))).

Oh, yeah, I fixed Windows on the HP and got the Palm to synch to the desktop. Piece o' cake: $60.

So, now over an hour behind schedule, I did my Saturday grocery shopping. They had a sale on Riga (Latvia) smoked sprats, 69 cents a can (each containing 30 or so little smoked fishies arranged neatly in alternating ranks). Oooh this is just too tempting for me to stand, so I have just opened a can (and poured a wee touch of the Estonian vodka I keep in the freezer to go with).

But now, on to the main event of the day - turning CRC's stomach.

I present - the "Montrose Chamber of Commerce Octoberfest!"

• "Authentic" German OmPah band (with elderly gentlemen in "authentic traditional German costume", playing brass instruments of various sizes).
  
  
• Other elderly gentlemen in "authentics" playing genuine German Polish dance tunes on accordons here and there.
  
  
• A "Stein holding" contest (held at arms length) (won by the same guy for the 4th year (20 some minutes) but it was close this time). There were many other "contests", but I only watched this one because I love to watch self inflicted pain.
  
  
• Bratwurst sandwiches (4 tickets - with Sauerkraut 1 additional ticket).
  
  
• Beer: Budweiser: 3 tickets. "German beer" (something called Widmer Brothers): 4 tickets. It is definitely a pleasure to pay only a dollar more to not drink Budweiser (however, I will confess, it's worth more than a dollar to drink Budweiser instead of Coors. At least you get something approximating lemonade (I won't describe what Coors approximates)).

So I got to see the children of my younger friends pushing baby strollers through the crowds (the children of my peers are well beyond stroller stage and will soon be facing - gasp! - teenagers).

And hundreds and hundreds of beautiful women. When you achieve my age (with a bit of experience) you can see they are all beautiful - they all have something to offer). The swirling hoard of "Teen / 20's" are pasty and incompletely formed (and you really wouldn't want to touch one) but you can see what they will become. The grey haired and bent - you can see what they were. And the ones in the middle - yes, the ones in the middle - there are always too few of them. I don't know where women go during those years, they just kind of disappear.

"Hey Andrew!" The receptionist at one of my clients. A lovely little Armenian girl (with her boy friend, trying so hard for the impression of a 19th century poet). If she were 20 years older I'd definitely be on her case (but then she would be among the "disappared" and I'd never have seen her), but I'm relieved to see she has some taste.

I read a poem once, many years ago, advice of the poetess to her grand daughter. I don't remember much of it, and I have no recollection who she was that wrote it, but she admonished her grand daughter, at length, to seek practical men, stable men, "good providers" and to stear clear of poets, writers, artists, "visionaries" and other ner-do-wells. And her last line: "And if these words you heed my dear - you are no blood of mine".

Well, the sprats are all gone, so I can't pour any more vodka, so I'm off to bed.

Usually they have a couple brands at .79 and .89, so .69 is a really good deal.

They also put in a brand of roasted sprats in tomato sauce ($1.20) which are very tasty. These are roasted "heads guts and feathers", so they are not for the squeamish who might find all those little eyes staring up from the tomato sauce disturbing.

As to the vodka, I'm cheap, so I buy what Trader Joe has bulk buy specials on, since straight unadulterated vodka doesn't seem all that different to me (though I know Polish is considered the best). The Estonian (Tundra brand) seems pretty decent for the purpose.

I am reminded of a magazine (don't remember title) that decided to do a "scientific" study to settle once and for all whether experts could really tell the quality of vodka by taste, and they came up with a conclusion so in violation of the evidence it rivaled the best illogic of Psychology Today.

They set out samples of various vodkas, and included a ringer: reagent grade ethyl alcohol cut with distilled water to match the proof of the vodka samples.

They concluded that the experts were lying and couldn't really tell, because most of them selected the reagent grade alcohol and distilled water combo most of the time. Obviously the evidence shows they can tell, and the closer the vodka is to reagent grade alcohol and distilled water the better vodka it is.

I use Laurel Canyon infrequently to get into Beverly Hills, but I try to avoid clients there. BH is not convenient to any freeway, the drivers there are both the worst and the most arrogant, parking is always a problem, and people in Beverly Hills are mostly of the Leona Helmsley school: "Only the little people pay bills".

No, I've never been on the Laurel Canyon cycle ride - in fact i've never been on a motorcycle. They seem a touch suicidal for my taste, especially as I tend to "push the envelope" where vehicles are concerned. My younger brother does restoration work on old bikes, but doesn't ride them any more since his foot was smashed in a motorcycle accident.

Maybe a little bigger, but all the elements of many years ago are still there, including the parking lot bingo game. The formula works, and this valley is not a place that much goes for change for the sake of change.

La Crescenta is still grumpy about being dragged kicking and screaming into the '60s. They were much happier in the '50s but they just couldn't sustain that era much past the year 2000.

. . (and I did, of course, suspect it), then they don't do me a damned bit of good anyway. However, picking up a stray one just divorced now and then can be quite interesting indeed. Some can be a rather wild for a few months at least, some for years, especially if hubby wan't showing much interest.