Pita or Potica?

I challenged my grandson Joey to a bake-off last week and guess what? He beat me. Joey is a student in the school of Culinary Arts at Joliet Junior College. I really thought he could pick up a few pointers from the Old Man (me). He stepped into the kitchen, I handed him an apron which he donned immediately. I thought for sure he would wimp-out and hand it back to me, but he put it on and made me proud. The challenge was to bake a walnut-roll from the recipe found in my mother’s (his great grand mother’s) cook book.

Every year at Christmas and New Year I get a strange yen to eat walnut-roll. Most likely because Mom raised me eating walnut roll, and many other beautiful baked goods. She was an excellent baker. How she became one is a mystery. She came to the USA when she was sixteen, so she didn’t have a lot of time to develop epicurean cooking or baking skills while still in her native Hungary. She married my Dad when she was twenty-three. Until then she worked as a domestic for families in the Chicago area, and might have developed some experience during that period.

My parents lived in a neighborhood called Burnside on the far South side of Chicago. Burnside had a very heavy population of immigrants from many European countries: Hungary, Italy, Poland, Ukraine, Germany, Slovenia, and few I forgot. The name of the Catholic Church in the neighborhood was Our Lady of Hungary, so a lot of Hungarians lived there. My guess is that Mom learned to cook and bake from her girl friends in the neighborhood. If they shared something, or baked something at a bake sale which she liked she would ask them for a recipe, and make it for my Dad. He was a man who never disappointed her because he ate every experiment she put in front of him without a complaint. Being the observant type, she would notice how quickly he devoured her experiments. Being a quick learner she kept making the things that disappeared from the table fast.

My brother, sister and I were also willing test subjects. I can honestly brag that she brought me up on her walnut roll, blackberry and apple pie, poppy-seed or apricot kiflik, and a myriad of other delectable bakery. Her white bread was to die for. She didn’t bother baking small loaves in those wimpy nine by four-inch bread pans, but rather a turkey roasting pan. The image of a giant loaf of white bread still warm from the oven makes my mouth water.

We two Joe’s set out to bake the best walnut roll made by any human on earth. Because Joey was in a strange kitchen, I obeyed his requests for tools, and ingredients. He never looked back and jumped into the process with a vigor I had never seen him have before. Being a good grandfather, and a believer in the benefits of positive reinforcement I became his assistant. I never said anything, but observed as he steadily assembled the ingredients. I merely asked if he finished using the dish, spoon, pot, etc so I could rinse it clean.

When it came to deciding when the dough was ready he became frustrated by the elasticity, and I finally chastised him for his impatience with a “nothing is perfect comment.” He bought my argument and proceeded to work the dough into a beautiful thin sheet ready for spreading the filling and the last roll up. Finally, I was able to teach him my technique of rolling the dough on a sheet of waxed paper which made the last windup easy. We popped two finished rolls on a greased cookie-sheet slid it into the oven and anxiously awaited for it to bake. I set a timer for thirty minutes called for by the recipe. Joey just opened the oven door occasionally and lightly touched the surface of the dough with his fingertip. He pulled the rolls from the oven at twenty-five minutes declaring the rolls done. It seemed an eternity for the them to cool enough for us to cut, and when we finally did it turned out he was right, the rolls were fully baked and ready, and delicious; just like my Ma’s.

I sent Joe home with one of the rolls, and wrapped the other to keep it moist. There was enough filling left over to make another loaf. I decided to make it the next day, but I wanted to try a different recipe. My mother’s recipe did not use yeast in the dough, so I chose a Slovak recipe using the same ingredients plus yeast. To make this loaf totally different I added cinnamon and honey to the filling. This dough was very elastic and would have met Joe’s requirements. The recipe made enough dough for two loaves, but when I spread it out into twelve by sixteen inch rectangle I realized I could have made four loaves by thinning the sheet.

I used up all the filling on one loaf and baked it using a timer. My walnut-roll came out browner on the top but still very soft inside.

Another eternity passed as I waited for the loaf to cool enough to cut. To pass time, I cut a slice of Joey’s to make a comparison. The slice almost didn’t make the side by side as I had not yet eaten breakfast and my mouth started watering.

Eventually, I cut the new roll and took side by side photos. It is obvious to see which slice had the yeast. Next came a taste test. Honestly, they were nearly identical. I didn’t taste the honey or the cinnamon. Joey’s roll tasted a bit more of flour than did the yeast dough. Both were good and I look forward to devouring them in the days ahead.

So, which is it Pita or Potica? My mother’s cook book calls it Pita, the Slovenians, and Polish call it Potica.

Damn Toyota Let Me Down

It is the last day of 2017 and what am I doing? Nothing. I’m writing an angry blog piece about a car that let me down. Lately I’ve been bragging about how good my Avalon has been to me, but today that has changed. I’ve written about the lousy experience I had with my 1969 Corolla, and how it kept me from buying another Toyota, or any other piece of Jap-Crap for thirty-six years. Once I calm down I’ll be able to explain rationally how I really feel about my Avalon. Right now the bitter sting of having to fix a car in -5 degree weather still has my shorts in a bunch.

Yesterday, I left the house on my way to my stepdaughter’s sixty-second birthday party. I gingerly placed her gift on the back seat along with a walnut roll wrapped in aluminum foil along with a fresh bottle of Champaign to help with the celebration. The temperature in the garage was low at thirty degrees. Outside it was six below. We haven’t had a winter like this since the nineteen eighties. You know, the Liberals ordered the world to go into warming mode so they could impose exorbitant taxes on us to feed the tyrants of the world, and to enrich themselves by trading carbon credits. I’m here to say the warming trend is over. By next winter the pundits will be crying ice-age once again. I like global warming cycles they keep me comfortable in the winter time. I hate ice-age like winters when I freeze me ass off. Anyway, I pushed the magic button and the Toyota chattered at me. It is that bone chilling noise one gets when a battery dies and the solenoid clicks away.

This morning I mentioned to a friend that since I have owned cars I have had a streak of bad luck with break downs when it is cold. Below zero cold makes stuff break, it makes weak stuff fail, it makes tires split, and it makes car owners very upset. What can I do? I am so dependent on a car to get around that I don’t even think about walking two miles in below zero temps to get to Starbucks. I could spew another thousand words talking about my winter break down experiences but I won’t, I’ll speak of something good instead, like improved battery life. During my life with VWs, Fords, Oldsmobiles, and Mercurys It was not uncommon to have to replace a battery every two years. Since I bought the Avalon batteries have improved, and now last for six years.  My car is  thirteen years old, has 143000 miles on it, and the second battery failed. So even though I blame the Toyota for letting me down it is the battery that is the root-cause. Since the battery is not what I sit in to drive me places I have to blame the car.

I wish all who read this a very Happy New Year without any cold weather trouble.

 

 

Things I Have Forgotten

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Last week I dreamed I was at work. It has been sixteen years since I have worked for a living, and being at work in the dream was delightful, except for one thing. I couldn’t remember a specific word that I used daily to describe a special property of the material we used to make our number one product. That spoiled my dream. Up to that point I enjoyed being an expert on the material properties. I liked to call myself an expert on the material but I was, and am still far from it, but compared to an ordinary Joe I am an expert. The same holds true for today, I am far from an expert on the use or workings of a computer, but I am further advanced in know-how than the circle of friends I hang with, they consider me a computer guru. I am also one to try to do things with a computer that no one else does, and I get very little help from anyone I know. For example, recently I conducted a class in which the students gave answers to a questionnaire. The result of the answers are meaningless unless they are compiled into an aggregate. I used Excel to do the job. I tried showing the total result to the class via a projector connected to my PC. The results were totally unreadable on the big screen. Nevertheless projecting data on a screen from a computer was impressive. The next week I imported the Excel data into a Power-Point program to display, they were better. I had used Excel in my work but this new Excel was so different it took me some time and experimentation to learn how to work with it. At the end, I concluded that although I finally made some nice graphs that the new Excel didn’t have the capabilities of the sixteen year older versions I had used. In my work I made some really comprehensive and detailed graphs to display data just like engineers did before computers. As the class progressed I kept adding more results to the Power Point until the class concluded. The last session will use the total results to make decisions about improvement projects.

While doing all this it became clear to me that I would like to show the Power Point presentation to more people. I thought I could just plug it in and play it in a loop over and over to use as a backdrop during a dinner. After much experimentation I learned that Power Point is not capable of looping.  To do what I wanted to do I would have to make a movie of my presentation. Not a problem I thought, I am very familiar with iMovie having made a dozen or so movies from my old super eight films. Except the latest iMovie program is now five years newer than the one I used forcing me to learn how to use iMovie all over again. In the process of learning, I discovered it would be easier to save my Power Point slides as jpeg images. You don’t want to know how much I swore at Apple while learning that to be necessary.

As I developed this movie using bland data I added my organization goals into the mix, now the movie was really bland. To spice things up I decided to add some canned videos before, and after my bland data, short, colorful, and informative videos one before and one after. The movie got better, except that the videos would not draw everyone into the presentation, so I added home video snips from my organization activities. This added personality to the thing and tied it all together. Making the movie was becoming easier as I repeatedly experimented with the various elements.

When I had a finished product to my satisfaction I found the loop feature in iMovie and added it; wallah mission accomplished except it wouldn’t loop.

I was giving up at this point and said it is time to burn this project to disk so I can play it on any kind of player. I set it up to burn using iDVD. I’ve used iDVD successfully many times. This time I let the computer run for twenty-eight hours before I finally shut it off to try something else. I examined the disk and there is no evidence of any transfer. I tried playing the disk and it showed up empty. In the back of my head I kept wondering if using videos from YouTube had anything to do with it. Yep it does (most likely because it is copyrighted material). I removed the videos, and the movie burned albeit with out some key entertainment. In desperation I tried showing the original file which I had saved as an MP4 on my projector and it played, but it won’t loop. I gave up and have not touched it since. Maybe it will come to me in a dream.

Today, I was delivering food to a family in need with my Lions Club and the word popped into my head, hygroscopic! That is the property of nylon that gives it the ability to gain or lose moisture from the atmosphere. Then the words nucleated, amorphous, crystalline all popped into my mind; my dream is now successfully finished.

Have you ever heard the adage “I have forgotten more than you will ever know?”

 

A New Merit Badge

ALMKE, GERMANY – JULY 31: Scouts singing prior to their dinner at the camp on July 31, 2010 in Almke near Wolfsburg, Germany.

During my lifetime I spent twenty-five years serving in the Boy Scouts of America as a volunteer. I love Scouting, and all things Boy Scouts. As a father, I often wondered why my daughter had to belong to the Girl Scouts, and not to the Boy Scouts.My daughter loved going camping with us as a family, but never got a real camping experience as a Girl Scout. My beautiful wife Barbara served as a leader for her daughter’s troop, and I served as a leader for our son’s troop. So, we both knew what the other was doing, and we often traded experiences. Except, that Barb’s experiences with the girls were so different from ours in the Boy Scouts. I can only say, well, they were girly things. I often voiced my opinion that my daughter would have had a more meaningful experience had she been in one of my scouting groups. Actually, she was. She traveled with us to scout family camp, and had that close experience, and she visited her brother’s campsite with her mom, and got that experience, but it just wasn’t the same. Her merit badges were so girly while the boys had he-man type badges to work on.

Too many years have passed since my kids were in scouts and now I find myself in a conundrum about letting girls into BOY Scouts. I think the feminists are reaching too far into the man’s world. If God wanted girls like men he would have granted them testosterone instead of estrogen. Except, that once in a awhile nature screws up, and grants a bit too much of testosterone to women, and too much estrogen to men, and we have a new conundrum of knowing which sex we really are. I do know one thing, i.e. that boys of scouting age are developing their testosterone supply, and experiencing it’s effect on their bodies, like becoming basso instead of soprano, and developing huge muscles, with hair all over. In the meantime the estrogen is making women’s bodies soft, and their breasts big, and their voices stay sopranoish, and they learn their mother’s coy attitude toward men.

Now, I have a new conundrum, i.e. should the Boy Scouts add a new merit badge for sex, and another one for motherhood?

So many questions, so little time left to know what the future holds.

Amazing Movement

My fellow Lions have been telling me for the past year to sign up for the Lions International 100 Year Anniversary Convention. I listened, and argued with myself about going. One day I got up enough nerve to begin filling out the registration form online. When it came time to pay and to pump in my credit card numbers the program locked up and I backed out. The Convention began on Friday, June 30 and runs until July 4th. Because it is the 100th anniversary and the Lions Club was founded by Chicago businessman Melvin Jones, it is in Chicago. Three days ago, I decided to let go and volunteer to work the event. I talked myself into giving up one day away from Peg and to serve the cause. E-mail is wonderful. I messaged the Volunteer volunteer and he accepted me graciously. I told him I would work in any capacity. He assigned me to the Parade of Nations. The Parade was on Saturday and this was on Thursday. The hook was that I had to register to attend the event to work the event. I busied myself for the rest of the day deciding on how to get their, where to park and how to proceed. Finally, I decided I would go down to Mc Cormack Place on Friday to register, so I wouldn’t be rushed on Saturday morning. Lion Ralph told me to be at the parade registration tent by 7:00 a.m.

On Friday morning after breakfast and after getting Peg out of bed, I drove the thirty-five miles to Mc Cormack Place and arrived at the convention center at 11:00 am. I had to be home by 2:30 to help with Peg again. I found the line going to room 102 and stopped dead. The line was easily three people wide and a hundred yards long. I wasn’t worried, I had plenty of time. After forty minutes spent chatting with Lions from India, Philippines, and Malta I made some forward progress. Still not to worry, I can still make my deadline. A Lion volunteer appeared, and asked what we were in line for. I told him what my situation was, and he walked me ahead to serpentine line immediately outside room 102. It was half filled. Great I thought, a short line. I met more Lions, this time from India, Philippines, Indiana, Hawaii, and London. At twelve thirty I made it through the door of room 102 only to find another serpentine which was full. Luckily, there were about six registrars moving us along. There was a second serpentine line in the room next to ours. It also served by six registrars. I learned that these people were all non-english speaking Lions.

An amazing thing about all these lines filled by people from everywhere is that there wasn’t a crabby person anywhere. I would have thought that if you just arrived from Australia (eighteen hours non-stop, and longer if connections have to be made), the night before suffering from a severe case of jet-lag, and were tired that you would really be upset by having to wait in another long line. It wasn’t the case, some of these people had waited in lines for hours in a couple of airports before they got to the convention. Lions Clubs International Foundation told us they planned on forty thousand people attending. By the opening day they estimated fifty-five thousand. I personally met several who made decisions at the very last-minute, and missed the deadline to get credentials by mail.  So, there we were waiting and telling stories about our clubs and activities. At 2:00 p.m. I called Peg’s caretaker to let her know I would be seriously late. I got home at 4:30. Peg was fine without me.

On Saturday morning the opportunity alarm went off at five a.m. I crawled out of bed, showered, dressed and left the house by 5:30. At that time of the morning on a Saturday of a holiday weekend the traffic moved at seventy-five all the way to the turn-off for the Outer Drive. I sailed through the construction zone past Mc Cormack Place and onto the Drive. I exited at the light before Randolph, and turned onto Michigan Avenue to disappear into the underground garage under Millennium Park. It was so empty I was able to park within fifty feet of the exit to Randolph Street. I had about a mile walk ahead of me to the parade registration tent, but I was so early I just took my time and sauntered along. About midway between Randolph and State I saw something strange. A City of Chicago dump truck fully loaded with salt and a snow plow parked at the curb. A driver sat behind the wheel. Strange I thought, they can’t be waiting for a snow storm. A few yards further on the opposite side of the street sat another truck with the plow and salt. I menatlly filed it, and proceeded to the reported check-in tent. I got to the spot only to find myself there all alone, no tent, and not a single person insight. This can’t be, I’m right on the mark printed in the instructions. Not to worry, I still had plenty of time so I sauntered back a half mile to the official parade start point. Alas, a tent with Lions. I found someone, and checked in at 7 a.m. By that time, the only parade volunteer vests they had left were XXL or XXXL. I chose the double. I am a big guy around the belly and chest but thankfully, I am nowhere near XXL, I would have asked for an L, or an M. Finally, a volunteer registered me. A volunteer registered by another volunteer. I asked for my assignment, I got it from another volunteer. I was to go to the Purple Zone which was about four blocks back from where I came. I eventually learned that a purple flag defined an area for a specific group of countries. It was about half a city block long and ended at a grey flag. Further west at half block increments there were more colored flags. Luckily, I learned one of the volunteers there with me was another Lion who held the key to the event; a list of countries and the color of their staging area. In the beginning there were not many people at the area, but by eight a.m. things began picking up. The scheduled start time was 9:00 a.m. As more people came my job was to answer their questions. Most needed direction to their start zone. I’d find the lady with the list, and we’d use sign language to direct them. (we had a poster with the zone colors and arrows pointing the direction). The crowd got bigger and nine o’clock came, and went, but the parade did not begin. There was total confusion as Lions from 135 countries milled about looking for directions.

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My XXL Volunteer Parade Marshall Vest

As the crowd grew, the head Marshall had the north-south streets closed off. As they did that the traffic on La Salle Street (the grey zone) got really heavy as Chicagoans not knowing what was going on searched out ways to get around the blockage. My job shifted to holding back people from crossing the street against the lights. The Lions are all crazy I thought, they step out with their backs into the traffic lane without looking to take group pictures, or to look at their phones. Picture taking was in a frenzy as a group saw interesting costumes from another country, and they rushed to take pictures with them. Numerous young ladies handed me their camera and smiled at me to take their picture with a group.

One lady who happened to live downtown was on a suicide mission to cross the street when we stood in front of her with arms stretched out. She very indignantly shouted that she needed to get to the other side. My fellow Lion belly bumped her, and told her if she didn’t obey he would call a cop. She rebelled and yelled even louder. She shoved   him away and proceeded to bull her way past him. He grabbed her by the arm at which point she really hollered out “let go of me, and don’t you touch me again.”

” Lady,” I Said, “all we want to do is to protect you from getting run over, when the light changes we will let you cross.” She stopped yelling and waited. Had we let her go she would have been followed by a stream of people running behind her. Most of these people were from Asia and they are accustomed to crossing streets with lots of traffic, I thought, but one wrong move by me, and someone will get hurt. I stopped another Asian lady who was stunned by my direction. I told her “We want you to go home alive,” she smiled and stepped back. In general, the Asians were very respectful.

Just around the corner on La Salle Street stood the Joliet American Legion Band. Patiently standing at ease in lines ready to march into the parade. Dressed in navy blue suits, white shirts with black ties, and Captains hats they were there for at least two hours standing, holding their instruments. I wanted them to begin playing, but they remained quiet throughout watching the mayhem pass by them. I guess I’ll have to wait until the Sunday night concert at Frankfort’s Concert on the Green where they are playing the next evening.

By 9:30 a.m. the streets were filled with marchers from the countries but still there was no movement. The people traffic on the corners and the sidewalks slowed a bit as last-minute paraders scurried to their start zones. Finally, at 10 a.m.the parade began moving, and my role shifted to one of urging people to move along so there would be no long gaps between. I stood on the median on Wacker Drive and waved them forward to catch the group so they could stand and wait for more movement.” Hurry up, and wait,” I told them. From 10:00 am until 1:00 p.m. I stood and watched in amazement waving my arms forward as people from so many countries passed me by. China was my favorite. I didn’t even know the Lions had clubs in China. First they carried a banner as wide as the street announcing China, Then a very short distance later came another banner declaring China, and below that the name of the city they represented followed by row after row of Chinese Lions waving flags. there had to be ten Chinese cities represented, each with hundreds of marchers. My favorite was the city that did a Dragon Dance as a special attraction. In addition to their hundred marchers the dragon snaked his way around, and through the marchers to the beat of a very loud drum.

At one o’clock my legs were numb and feet hurt, so I decided to quit. I walked away near the end of the line, and headed to a coffee shop on La Salle that reminded me of the Soup Nazi episode of Seinfeld. I ordered a bowl of chicken dumpling soup, it was the first and only thing I had to eat. I paid $6.79 for this small bowl of soup and thought how glad I am not to be working downtown. Inside the shop I met an Australian couple who were also snacking. I asked them why they weren’t marching. “We did,” they answered.

“How long did it take?”

“About an hour.” Gosh it started at ten, and it is now one and still going. I finished my soup and walked out to be surprised that there were no marchers left on Wacker Drive. I saw a crowd of orange vested volunteers at the corner of Wacker and State two blocks away. I walked slower than my start of the day saunter, and as I approached the tail end of the crowd two old lady Lions tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I knew where to catch a shuttle bus back to Mc Cormack Place. Here they were at the starting point of the parade route, and I had to tell them the shuttle busses were at the conclusion one mile south. I thought they were going to faint right there. I don’t know how they made it back, I’m hoping the lions marshaling the parade at the end would help them out.

I slowly walked the sidewalk south to Randolph, and made the turn east to find my car  when the answer came. There, parked diagonally across the street blocking four lanes of traffic were the two dump trucks loaded with salt, and their plows lowered to the ground. They were a deterrent to terrorists. Chicago can’t control gun violence but it was making sure the headlines would not read “truck rams parade killing. . .” My guess is they had trucks blocking every street crossing the parade route.

Good job Chicago, thanks for letting us use the city for a great parade.

PSA-170501-Road Info

Burma Shave

017aa4e838e7f192f4b3d10b48452b9e.jpg
A man, a miss,
A car, a curve.
He kissed the miss,
And missed the curve.

 

Burma Shave

I’m sure that Burma Shave actually saved some lives.  People laughed and then were more careful!  It was a REAL “service” to America, even though it was an advertisement and it was one of the RARE “really useful” ones! 

 To My Old-As-Dirt Friends and Relatives who qualify as “old as dirt.”

For those who never saw any of the Burma Shave signs, here is a quick lesson in our history of the 1930’s and ’40’s.

Before there were interstates, when everyone drove the old 2 lane roads, Burma Shave signs would be posted all over the countryside in farmers’ fields.  They were small red signs with white letters. Five signs, about 100 feet apart, each containing 1 line of a 4 line couplet… and the obligatory 5th sign advertising Burma Shave, a popular shaving cream.

*********************************************************

DON’T STICK YOUR ELBOW
OUT SO FAR
IT MAY GO HOME
IN ANOTHER CAR. Burma Shave


TRAINS DON’T WANDER
ALL OVER THE MAP
‘CAUSE NOBODY SITS
IN THE ENGINEER’S LAP. Burma Shave


SHE KISSED THE HAIRBRUSH
BY MISTAKE
SHE THOUGHT IT WAS
HER HUSBAND JAKE. Burma Shave


DON’T LOSE YOUR HEAD
TO GAIN A MINUTE
YOU NEED YOUR HEAD
YOUR BRAINS ARE IN IT. Burma Shave


DROVE TOO LONG
DRIVER SNOOZING
WHAT HAPPENED NEXT
IS NOT AMUSING. Burma Shave


BROTHER SPEEDER
LET’S REHEARSE
ALL TOGETHER
GOOD MORNING, NURSE. Burma Shave


CAUTIOUS RIDER
TO HER RECKLESS DEAR
LET’S HAVE LESS BULL
AND A LITTLE MORE STEER. Burma Shave


SPEED WAS HIGH
WEATHER WAS NOT
TIRES WERE THIN
X MARKS THE SPOT. Burma Shave


THE MIDNIGHT RIDE
OF PAUL FOR BEER
LED TO A WARMER
HEMISPHERE. Burma Shave


AROUND THE CURVE
LICKETY-SPLIT
BEAUTIFUL CAR
WASN’T IT? Burma Shave


NO MATTER THE PRICE
NO MATTER HOW NEW
THE BEST SAFETY DEVICE
IN THE CAR IS YOU. Burma Shave


A GUY WHO DRIVES
A CAR WIDE OPEN
IS NOT THINKIN’
HE’S JUST HOPIN’. Burma Shave


AT INTERSECTIONS
LOOK EACH WAY
A HARP SOUNDS NICE
BUT IT’S HARD TO PLAY. Burma Shave


BOTH HANDS ON THE WHEEL
EYES ON THE ROAD
THAT’S THE SKILLFUL
DRIVER’S CODE. Burma Shave


THE ONE WHO DRIVES
WHEN HE’S BEEN DRINKING
DEPENDS ON YOU
TO DO HIS THINKING. Burma Shave


CAR IN DITCH
DRIVER IN TREE
THE MOON WAS FULL
AND SO WAS HE. Burma Shave


PASSING SCHOOL ZONE
TAKE IT SLOW
LET OUR LITTLE
SHAVERS GROW.
 Burma Shave

 

Do these bring back any old memories? If not, you’re merely a child.

If they do – then you’re old as dirt. LIKE ME! I loved reading them.

Have a great day!

 

It Is a Plane, No A Car, No a Dri-fly

Terrafugia-Flying-Car-Concept.jpg

Ever since I was old enough to read Popular Mechanics magazine I have been fascinated by flying cars. There have been many concepts proposed over the last seventy years, and in the past few years there have been some working prototypes made and demonstrated. The video below is ones such concept demonstrator that might actually be practical.

Flying cars sound so great  when compared to sitting in traffic jams on six lane highways. Imagine what the traffic jam would look like if the same number of flying cars were involved in transporting people to and from their jobs as there are cars today. I think we would need to wear helmets while jogging for fear of being rained upon by falling debris. The number of mid-air collisions would be so great it wouldn’t be long before flying cars would be outlawed from urban areas. At least cars are restricted to well-defined roads and rules for governing movement on those roads like controlled direction, stop signs, speed limits, etc. Where would we put stop signs in the atmosphere, and if we did stop for one would we fall from the sky?

Drone technology is bringing us closer to achieving practical flying cars, and it won’t be long before we are faced with a completely new set of regulations regarding how we dri-fly.
https://www.youtube-nocookie.com/embed/D4uSWtazRCM?rel=0

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yutyfrter

Just Cruisin 2

Where Intellectuals and Rednecks foregather.