A bit Heath Robinson

In the later part of 1990 one of the structural proposals I was involved with for Menasco was for a latch mechanism for the Boeing 777, not just a simple door latch that is, this was one latch actuator (of a series of seven or eight a side) that would allow the wings to fold up.

Yes, you heard me, a folding wing concept on a massive airframe like the 777.

I'd heard the phrase before, probably from good old Jim Collins and here it was again from Larry Abram, as he put it in a meeting one day:

"It's a bit Heath Robinson"

That's one of the English phrases in life that can sum up an entire concept as being far-fetched, overly complex or just plain old silly, yet here we were, a group of important design and structural engineers, giving it a go (again, the paint it pink approach for your average contractor).

The latch mechanism was the first that I had been involved with where the "rapid prototyping" approach was used, nowadays we just call it 3D printing which is fairly inexpensive, but in 1990 it was far from cheap. However, watching a three-dimensional CAD solid be created into a tangible, full size prototype was impressive.

This was not the first full size prototype in my career however, if you exclude photo-elastic models for various landing gear systems, the best, most exciting mock-up was for the C-17 fuselage, back in 1985 when I was enjoying life at McDonnell Douglas in California.

I've never mentioned the T-45 mock-up that we had back then either, however, something hand crafted from foam board, sitting on a table, could hardly compare with my first rapid prototype that evolved from a designers sketch, stressed using a rudimentary beam model, developed into a CAD solid and finally printed (sintered) using minute plastic beads to produce a life size component.

Amazing, even if the (doomed) concept was a bit Heath Robinson.

NTN

The pub of choice for those midweek outings had NTN trivia, a radical new way of wasting time (and encouraging extra beer to be drunk) and it provided an excellent break from the real world.

The pub up on Taunton Road, was called Mickeys (eventually turned into the Waltzing Weasel) and provided great food, atmosphere, BEER and of course, NTN.

I adopted my online nickname of DRYICE and for some reason, Karen's monica became PICKLE.

It was the start of a decade or more of occasional play on the trivia network with various bars in the Oshawa region, Mickeys would become the Waltzing Weasel (and lose the NTN franchise) and eventually, years later, we would find ourselves at a great bar, Jack's Filling Station, on Simcoe Street, home of four dollar pints, free peanuts (throw shells on floor) and of course, NTN and a good crowd of working people out for a good time.

Sorting it all out

So here I was in 1990, a very hectic year and what would be a very rapid year as fifteen hour days would strip all the daylight from my life, Winter, Spring and Summer.

Although the Summer was far better.

When we left Britain in 1988 there were a few things that were left outstanding, I still owed part of my college grant, a lump of money on the Barclaycard (Visa) and four hundred pounds to the National Westminster bank.

The middle of 1990 presented a zero balance on all of that and the only link left to the UK was a monthly money order that I was sending to my first wife.

So, the money situation was being sorted out, probably due to the excess from jobshopping and not particularly from any business savvy, we were still extremely inefficient in the managing of money, but it was slowly starting to change.

Weeks flashed by and we made sure that we had our midweek pub night, something that was an oasis from all the ridiculous lost time from both our epic commutes, the Summer made it all that much better because even leaving the house at 7.30pm we could walk down to our local pub in the daylight.

This second (or third) pub night per week was essential...

...we needed the receipts.

Music Revisited - Part One

How many times in this life will it happen?

When I was younger music was one of the most important things in my life, a feature (almost) bolted onto my head using these amazing ear things, it always seemed to be available even without the aid of walkmans or ipods or anything else remotely portable.

It was elusive, but I sought it out.

And when music became more portable, it seemed, for me, that the appeal of music became diminished, because, music was being fed into my head while other things were happening, not when I was relaxing on the couch or spread eagled on the floor meditating between two speakers.

(because we had no headphones in our house)

So, bit by bit, because of portability, music became less important to me, not more important.

So in 1990, during all those long, long commutes, I was able to sit back once more and enjoy music, not just soundbites, I was listening to full albums once again, all the way through, and it became vibrant and meaningful once again.

And as life is cyclical, I would lose it once again.

Paint it Pink

In the first hours of arriving at Menasco in January I was taken down a peg or three by Larry Abram who instructed me to move some boxes, the Stress Office was relocating and I was tasked to move some stuff.

I objected, saying "I'm not here to move boxes" which was quickly shot down by the seasoned man.

"You're here to do what you're f##king told!! - you get paid the same rate for moving f##king boxes!"

A lot of what Larry would say was like that, usually the f-word was used for maximum impact.

So, my apprenticeship started and during that first year, I learnt that if someone said "Paint it Pink" and it really didn't make any sense to paint it pink, for a quiet life it was best to paint it pink.

This I realized, was one of the fundamental differences between what I was and what I became.

The career man, someone who wishes to ascend the corporate ladder, would associate pride with the decision making process, a trust from management who bestowed (endless) responsibility on their subordinates and the career man, proud that his responsibilities were growing (even if his salary was not growing).

Yet, it became apparent that the only long term goal of the jobshopper was to earn more money and it really did not matter how that was accomplished, the one thing that was important was that responsibility was the responsibility of the masters, the salaried staff.

And if their decision was to paint it pink, then pink it would be.

If subsequently their decision was to paint it grey, then of course that could also be done.

Whatever color they wanted because as we all knew, if they had the hours...

...we could fix anything.

Captain Aries

The preferred method for obtaining software back in the middle of 1990 was the BBS or Bulletin Board System and I was a member of a local Oshawa BBS run by a chap called Captain Aries.

As the year evolved, my library of Amiga games grew to unreasonable proportions, yet the game seemed to be like collecting baseball cards, the more you had, the better it was.

Even if you did not play them.

So, my arrangement with the BBS was one of a "paid" member, I was downloading a lot of stuff, but uploading very little, sure I was a member of a couple of other Bulletin Boards in the Oshawa and Pickering area (the limits of the local phone calling zone) so I could contribute somewhat, but my "ratio" was not sufficient for a free membership.

So, I was paying a few bucks here and there.

The "Captain" was also not impressed with my 2400 baud modem, so he insisted that I buy (from him) a much faster dual standard US Robotics HST modem.

This paired up with his Courier HST modems for blazingly fast file transfers at 9600 or 14400 baud. 

There was a method in his madness, the less time a leecher like me was online, the more time "proper" users could upload good quality warez.

It was also a good thing for me because I could fill disks up faster with all the useless crap.

(A historical note here, in 1990 if you were paying a dollar a piece for 1.4mb floppy disks you were getting a bargain - I think I amassed about three hundred of them)

Mickey Ratts

Another very good friend of mine was a chap called Derek Smith whose family had originated on the West Coast (I understood they had a residence in Whistler) and he was a tall, sort of handsome stress analyst who liked a beer or three.

In the early years in Canada, we would visit Derek at his Grandmothers apartment (she was off in Florida) in Toronto and much beer was had, he had a buddy called Drew, who said he was from Jamaica, although he was one of the whitest dudes I had ever met.

The nights out in Toronto are the stuff of legend.

I could go off on some stories, but they all were a "you had to be there" type of story, sufficient to say, I had never had so much fun in Canada, sure, it was drunken fun and probably through the old rose colored glasses, but nevertheless, we had a group of people that were "well behaved" or "well conditioned" drunks and nights were usually safe and controlled.

We liked them so much that we even drove to one in a snowstorm (in the Ford Festiva biscuit Tin) once.

The diary entry in May 1990 reminds me of a trip to Buffalo, New York were we met up with Derek and his friend, who was a girl, but never seemed like a girlfriend, Tammy. We met at the Walden Galleria and had lunch and then booked ourselves in a motel.

The evening was spent at a place called "Mickey Ratts" and happened to be blue cup night. A concept that was amazing, went like this, you pay the man five bucks and he gives you a blue cup (about sixteen ounce size) and then, hear this, you can have it filled with beer forever (that night).

So we all had one of those.

I can remember being impressive on the mirrored dance floor, dancing with myself to Madonna (Vogue) and  leaning up against a column, the night became a series of snapshots and at some point, an argument between me and Derek, Tammy and Derek, or someone and Derek, ensued.

A taxi back to the motel and the invigorated discussions followed, I remember Derek becoming more hysterical and later (with Tammy and Karen drinking booze on the bed, watching with bemused looks on their faces) I tussled with him on the floor and finally, exasperated, thumped him on the head.

This then deteriorated in threats of throwing himself off the balcony (we were one floor up and he was over six feet tall) and then he went off driving in the car park before returning, tired and remorseful, to the motel room.

And once more, within minutes, we were all friends again.

Happy Times.