OK, I admit it. I have developed HAS. A yearning -- nay -- a desire to collect more and more of these paragons of pre-semiconductor technology.

Hammond Organs. The B3. The A100. The M3. And Leslies. Yeah, lotsa Leslies. Whirly amusement park thrill rides. Gimme more.

Ungrounded metalframed behemoths with death-dealing electrons coursing through their fabric-wrapped wire veins. Big Volts. Big Amps. Big Watts. Tubes from old Russian stock. And new Russian stock. Leaky wax capacitors. Hundreds of solder points.

And Nichrome. What else uses Nichrome? Oh, yeah, pyrotechnics and toasters.

The only musical instruments that require automatic transmission fluid.

Nightly, I pray to the deities Jimmy and Ethel Smith...

Heading downtown in a few minutes for the LA Auto Show.

With two eleven-year-old boys.

And a thirteen-year-old girl who "kinda wants to go...maybe."

But who will pout if she doesn't.

And who will keep the rest of us waiting while she gets ready.

Now them's karma points...

Spelling counts.

Punctuation counts.

Nothing counts more than intelligence. According to me. Final arbiter. No appeals.

Never acknowledge an AC; not even when it's me.

Too much time on my hands, you say?

Lackey to the Imperium, you say?

Covered with lint and waiting for the Apocalypse, you are less likely to say?

OK, well...

Just to get the metaphors all lined up nice and neat...

OK, so we've entered Terra Incognita.

No more hugging the coast or plying the inland waterways.
It's time to spread the spinnaker, trim the top'sls, batten the hatches, and shiver the timbers.
And batten the hatches.
Again.
Don't want a buncha unbattened hatches laying around causing trouble.
Nosiree, me.