The Hills were Alive with Music…Which Led to a Long Audio Journey 🔈

 As Steve and I trekked midway up the East Bay Hills, I had no idea that this venture would send me on a lifelong audio quest. The warm school day was over, and two juniors headed upwards towards a rocky overlook. We were out to catch more than the stunning views of the San Francisco Bay. Few knew of the place. It was private, someone’s backyard really. The owners never seemed to be home, couldn’t see us, or were simply cool with uninvited guests.

Steve led the way, negotiating the climb with one hand grasping the handle of his oversized Sony. Finally, we ascended to the most level spot and sat. The radio rested to Steve’s left, and with his right hand he reached into his shirt pocket for the roll we had stopped at his house for. Steve had elected to quit football, his prior passion. This in turn put his parents on high alert for pot use. His room was an easy search like other sparse equivalents in 1968, but who would think of sliding off the handlebar grips on his Schwinn. He was proud of that hiding spot.

As the evidence of our activities wafted upwards and eastward, so did any thoughts of trespassing and drug possession. Hey, I was with someone way cooler than myself, so there was nothing to fear. Steve switched on the elegant Sony FM. I believe it was monaural, but was a behemoth relative to the lightweight transistor radios many teens often stuffed under their pillows at night. The roughly four inch speaker seemed massive at the time to a sheltered teen.

Across the bay emanating from the hills of Marin County, invisible waves overrode the liquid variety below, tickling the antenna of the Sony. The analog signal graced the clear air space, then free from the current blanket of cellular transmissions. Many a signal strength meter would have been pegged to the right as ‘underground rock’ now rose to our rocky perch. At a frequency of 106.9 MHZ KMPX emerged…K MultiPleXed that is, or stereo in common terminology.

As one song ended, we would sit silent and mesmerized for the next eight plus minutes. It was the first time I would hear the full version of Suzie Q from Creedence Clearwater Revival. Long jams by the Dead, Airplane, and Quicksilver were not gracing the AM airwaves, but The Door’s Light My Fire broke through. The piece itself was gripping, and the quality was of an uncommon nature for the times. It was rumored that the Doors used a prototype box created by Ray Dolby to record it, long before his namesake logo graced nearly every cassette deck.

On our perch, the ambient noise level was nil, and it was lower in those times of less air travel and fewer vehicles. The higher quality of the FM signal emanating from the Sony entranced me. Had Steve’s father owned some MacIntosh equipment and pair of Klipschorns, well, it would have certainly been a different launching point, to say the least.

But at this moment, it seemed as if Fogerty and company were jamming in the garage of his El Cerrito home below us. The typecast ‘swamp rocker’ didn’t immediately garner air play from the swankier side of the bay, he wasn’t ‘psychedelic’ enough. So in this extended version, John merely waved his Fender inches from his amp, and plucked his interpretation of the James Burton riff. As a result of the powerful feedback he generated, CCR gained acceptance for their entry into the ‘San Francisco sound’.

This episode with Steve launched my lifelong journey for higher fidelity. The following handful of years remained lean for this student, and I was relegated to scouring the Allied and Lafayette Electronics catalogs. But one day, seductively sitting inside a Pacific Stereo store was a Harman Kardon 330B. Making two plus dollars an hour and having no credit made this purchase unlikely. But there was HFC on Shattuck Ave. And for $10 a month for two years, the $180 floor model was now in my possession. Yes, a mere 33% premium to secure the beauty, but it was worth every dollar. I paired it with couple of three-way DIY speakers, later a Pioneer turntable, and I was set…for a while.

A move to Chicago facilitated my deeper dive into the audio world. The long winters, along with greater income and a slow developing social life, gave me the time and means to buy, build, and modify audio equipment. My new Harman Kardon 730 was awesome, which over time I regretfully over-modified until it was inoperable. I ponied up for a Hafler, but it came up short compared to the HK 730 in my opinion.

So through the years I owned NAD, Denon, Rotel, and more. Five figure amps were out of the question. Then in the early 2000’s while out doing a call for work, I parked a couple of blocks north of my customer on Broadway. I glanced into the window of a pawn shop on my left, and there it was, a pristine looking HK 730. I apprehensively entered, and inside a couple of shady dudes were hanging out, seemingly checking out my logo- bearing polo shirt. Behind the counter sat the owner.

How much,” I asked him as I pointed.

Eighty dollars, big sound, big sound. Let me hook it up for you,” he said walking over to grab it.

“No thanks, I’ll take it,” I said, risking that the impulsive purchase may have issues, but I had the technical know-how to correct many problems. I just wanted this transaction done ASAP. I again perceived the scrutiny of the two guys. Were they trying to see just how much cash I would extract from the front pocket of my Dockers? I prayed they wouldn’t simultaneously exit as I briskly lugged the twin-powered receiver out the door. Without looking back, I hurried up the street and uneventfully slid the gem onto my back seat. Ah.

Currently, just the amp section of the HK sits in an open frame with new capacitors and wiring. A Bluesound Node Nano streamer, Soekris 1421 DAC, and Schiit Audio Lyr+ direct the signal to the HK. DIY Floorstanders with Seas drivers ideally match with the 18X20 foot room, tuned with diffusion and absorption. Also, the gear is on a dedicated circuit. Power cords, speaker wires, and audio interconnects have all been upgraded to augment the excellent sonics.

The remaining amp section of the HK730

The front end and speakers.

One Take for this Photographer, and he Couldn’t Have Imagined the Outcome.

In this digital age, billions of images are snapped, shared, posted, and deleted perhaps daily around the globe. In the late 1950’s, producing an image was cumbersome and relatively expensive. In this particular instance, I’d like to say my role in this immaculate obstruction, was as unlikely as the Franco Harris ‘Immaculate Deflection’ years later which devastated me as a Raider’s fan.

I was a mischievous third grader in 1959 at a small Northern California K-3 school, MacGregor School in Albany to be exact. My mother helped out with the Brownies after school, leaving me to my own devices in the school yard as I waited for her to finish her volunteer work.

This one particular day, the Brownies were gathered on the asphalt playground waiting to have their group photo taken. A distinguished looking gentleman arrived and set his large camera on top of a tripod on the west side of the playground. With his back to the bright California sun, he ducked underneath his black shroud, and began dialing in his focus, shutter, and aperture settings.

Myself, bored and possessing a rubber kickball to entertain myself, waited impatiently on the south end of the playground, well away from the giddy girls in their brown uniforms.

The photographer motioned and called out to the Brownies to gather. He methodically positioned the girls and retreated back to his tripod. Repeatedly ducking in and out of his black covering, he used hand gestures and verbal commands to fine tune the position of his subjects.

Finally, maybe fifteen feet from the group, he told them to stay still, as he was ready. He again disappeared, leaned forward behind his tripod, ready for his take. I had grown tired of waiting.

I turned towards the gathering, and with a solid punt, angled the kickball in the direction of the Brownies. A succession of bounces ensued, and the bounding ball perfectly split the corridor between the photographer and the Brownies. No harm, no foul.

Two weeks later, the latent image had been transformed, reproduced, and distributed to the parents. Sitting at the dinner table, my mom looked at me.

“You know that ball you kicked. It ended up blocking out a couple of the Brownie’s faces in the photograph.”

It took effort to keep from cracking a smile, and unfortunately, I never got to see the fluky photo. The poor photographer, had no peripheral perspective, and the moving obstruction eluded his view. He was stuck with one take. Hopefully I didn’t cause him much grief.

Oddly enough, as the one responsible for a marred image early in life, I landed at Eastman Kodak for 29 years, making sure commercial images, both film-based, and digital, were devoid of any imperfections.

Feeling the Paddle in High School (Not the Table Tennis Variety)

The paddle had seemingly gone into retirement in the late 1960’s in our house. Behind closed doors in our high school, it was a different story, especially where coaches ruled. In both Physical Ed and Mechanical Drawing, the whack of the wood was felt, and heard.

Our Northern California high school used the adjacent public pool for competitive swimming, and PE, where it was a free for all in the water. Myself, of diminutive stature at the time, spent a fair portion of the sessions under water, teamed up on and dunked in the deep end of the pool. This one particular day, the shenanigans were too much for Coach O.

“Everyone out of the pool and line up on the edge,” he yelled out as he retreated into the office area. Twenty or so soaking wet guys obliged as the coach re-emerged, speaking loudly and wielding a thick rectangular shaped piece of lumber in his right hand. 

“Grab your ankles!”

It was a side of Coach O. seldom seen, a man whose eyes seemed to possess a permanent twinkle. Would he unleash all his fury, or yield a kinder gentler paddling hand?

The first in line felt the sting, as the slap echoed throughout the now quiet structure. The recipient dove head first upon contact, droplets exploding from the rear of the suit. Thwack! Splash!The pattern repeated itself. Coach O. knew who the worst offenders were, and maybe administered a little more fire power their way. A few victims attempted to dive out ahead of the swat, but the coach was hip to that and made sure he connected. Then came my turn. I felt the hit, but the bark of the slap was indeed bigger than the bit of the contact. The coach left some in the bag, at least on my account.

Let’s kick it up a few notches. Step inside the Mechanical Drawing class. The instructor this time is the football coach. Teachers were in great demand at the time as us boomers filled the halls, and in retrospect some would have benefited us all in different roles. Anyway, Coach S. devised an interactive punishment measure for various infractions including tardiness, snacking, and excessive talking to name a few. In alphabetical order we sat at our drafting stations, and in that order would get to apply the lumber to the rear of an offending student. Having a last name with the letter ‘R’ insured I would have to wait a while to revenge the multiple hits I would endure before being on the other end of the paddle. You see, I was a bit of a cut-up!

There were some bigger dudes in the class, yep football players, along with some sinister guys who used some of their wood shop time to create the next butt breaking model. Over the course of the year, the implements got thicker, narrower, and bored with holes to improve aerodynamics. 

Five minutes or so before the class ending bell, the main event unfolded. In the most open space near the door, the swatter and his victim took their positions, with the latter holding his ankles. Surrounding the pair was the rest of the class. The chanting would begin, and the single brutal wallop would ensue. I had some buddies in the class who would secretly loan me their wallets beforehand. I jammed them two deep in each rear pocket if I could. But the obvious protection only caused the administrator to deliver the blow painfully south of the border. In fact once, my eyes welled up a bit…the onlookers knew that was a good one!

Finally, after many weeks and being on the receiving end of multiple rump busting shots, it was my turn to strike. Oh, and there were a few I was looking to exact some revenge on. As I waited for this opportunity, you would think I would have been on my best behavior, but nope. I don’t recall my infraction that day, but in addition to getting to pop someone, I would have to pay as well. The other guilty party was Don R. who I would hit first, and in turn he would turn around and reciprocate.

As usual, five minutes before the bell Coach S. handed me the lumber and the chanting began. Don bent over and I wound up with my game face on…and merely gave him a tap. ‘Boos’ rang out as we changed positions and Don returned an equally tepid response. The disapproval continued as the students filed out. You see, Don and I were friends, at least in that class. It really hurt in a different way relinquishing my opportunity, but neither of us was interested in getting popped. Hitting second, Don could have betrayed me, but he was a stand up guy. So we in our own way took the air out of the perverse entertainment the Coach enjoyed, as he kept the blood off his hands by having the students carry out his dirty work.

We weren’t empowered in those times to stand up to practices like that, but oh for a pair of Depends to at least mitigate the pain, and an IPhone to completely end it.

A Few Cartoons

 There’s not a lot of table tennis humor out there, so I thought I would toss out a few of my attempts.

  

 

50 Shades of….Nah, Just a Fun Box of Polychromatic Polymers

 After getting our eight dollars worth from the Chinese Buffet, Jeff, fellow table tennis player and bargain hunter extraodinaire, accompanied me next door. We strolled into Golden Bins for some ‘binster’ diving. Our third compadre Mike elected not to comb through these Amazon returns, or should I say unreturned items. Normally stir-frying our way through the partially opened and taped up merchandise, we would walk out empty handed. But today, I stumbled upon these.  

They were 40+, 3 Star, ABS, and 2.7 grams, specs in line with other premium brands. Three balls from the likes of Butterfly or Nittaku could run you $8. It was $8 Friday at the ‘Bins, and you could get 50 of these intriguing projectiles for that!  I turned to Jeff, “Look!”. 

“Let’s split ‘em” he said.

When we went back to our vehicles, we divided up the spoils, finding them quite colorful. Interesting, the 3-Star Easter egg colored balls had no stars on them, nor any markings whatsoever. Arriving home, Amazon’s website showed 8000+ reviews on them with 4.5 stars. A number of reviewers said their cats loved them, and I didn’t scroll enough to find any tournament players chiming in, hmmm. 

So Monday morning it was off to the torture track, Schaumburg Park District to get a verdict on this impulse buy. At 1/16th the price, was the joke on us, or the premium brands? Let’s find out. Mike, Jeff, and I hooked up with a relatively inexperienced woman and hit in doubles fashion. We rarely shifted out of second gear to facilitate keeping the ball in play. If you factor in a generous 30 balls hit per minute, and that we used this ball for roughly 30 minutes, old math says this ball was hit 900 times. It seemed to play quite the same as the name brand 3-star variety. Would these take a licking and keep on ticking? Mike expressed his doubts.

On one drop to the floor, Jeff and I heard the dreaded ‘craaacck.’ That’s all she wrote. So based on our limited test, 50 balls would possibly last 45,000 hits, or 25 hours, whichever comes first. Your mileage may vary, especially with big hitters. 

So the the size and playability seemed correct. The 3 star claim on the box was not evident on the balls themselves. ABS…can’t question that claim. How about the weight?  I trekked down to the basement for an old precision scale I used to use in my employment days. I rested 7 of these little beauties on the platform and got the following.

Well, 7 X 2.7 = 18.9 (grams), so  they are certainly not underweight, and the scale is likely a little off. So we used a little of our ‘disposable’ income so to speak, to buy what we knew all along…you get what you pay for. But I must say, they are fun to hit, and they do have other purposes, so you can’t put a price on that!