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ROCK OF THE BAY - LINDNER

Today’s gonna be a Fab Four marathon here at the happy hovel as I prance around whipping up slop in the kitchen.

 

Magical Mystery Tour, which is isn’t my favorite Beatles album, was released 57 years ago yesterday; November 27th, 1967. Though it wasn’t the masterpiece that Sargent Pepper or the Rubber Soul/Revolver duo were (I consider the latter two a double album separated by 8 months; their best, IMHO), Magical Mystery Tour left a magical impression on my adolescent psyche. Because it served as the exclamation point for what turned out to be the absolute best year of my then-fifteen year old life: 1967

 

January: The Human Be-In in Golden Gate Park, which set the stage for the Summer of Love (I didn’t get to go, but it motivated me nonetheless).

 

March-May: My first girlfriend; Mary something, first kiss, first acid trip, first encounter with the Contra Costa County Sheriff. 🙄

 

May: Sargent Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band was released. It change EVERYTHING. 

 

That Spring: free concerts in Golden Gate Park by the Grateful Dead, Jimi Hendrix in the Panhandle, etc. Hendrix… for FREE!! We just walked right up and sat our asses down.

 

June: Monterey Pop. I went with my friends Kit and Barbara; the first time I saw Janis Joplin, the ONLY time I ever saw the Who, Simon and Garfunkel, Mamas and Papas, Otis Redding, the Byrds, Buffalo Springfield, etc.

 

July: the Yardbirds played in Danville, literally just down the street from our house. (Got to kinda/sorta meet Jimmy Page).

 

August-November: Regular Friday night pilgrimages into the City to go to the Fillmore, Winterland and the Avalon. We didn’t even check to see who was scheduled first. If we didn’t like who was on the marquee at one venue, we’d drive on until we found one that appealed to us. Kit’s brother Robert always played chauffeur, as none of us were old enough to drive yet.

 

December 9th: Kit and I flew down to Los Angeles to visit our friend Barbara for a week. Went to several concerts while there. Every time you’d turned on the radio, it was a track from the newly issued Magical Mystery Tour. Which is why that album is imprinted in my head with *those* particular friends in *that* particular place at *that* particular time. Every time I hear “I am the Walrus,” I’m there. 🤩

 

Flew home on the 16th. The fourth member of our crew, Terry, froze to death at Lake Tahoe two days later, bringing sobriety to us in an instant.

 

Kit was killed in a car crash in the mid ‘70s, his brother Robert died from AIDS a few years later, Barbara died from breast cancer several years ago.

 

So it’s just me and my magical memories of the best goddamn year EVER. 1967. They don’t make years like that anymore. 🎶 

 

(In contrast, 1968 kinda’ sucked)

 

Anywho, sorry for the catharsis. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! 😃

INTERESTING STORY ABOUT BRUCE LINDNER’S FATHER

 I’ll try to make this interesting, but I’m not making any promises. These pictures were taken in June of 2007 at a restaurant called Asparro’s in Portland. My parents drove up from California to attend Lisa’s college graduation ceremony. Later that night, we got together with my friends Kurt (in the yellow shirt), his wife Sharon (white blazer) and my dear friends Peggy and Andrew. Kurt was my closest friend and personal lawyer. Sadly, he was killed in a car crash on the Ross Island Bridge in 2011. I still miss him.

 

Just to give this some context, my dad was utterly tight-lipped about his involvement in the Manhattan Project at that time. We all knew he was involved, but no one, not even my mom, knew the nitty-gritty. For all of his career, they had it beat into them: There are Nazi (then Soviet) spies EVERYWHERE, as well as FBI agents tracking them, so if you spill the beans, you and your family will be ruined.

 

So we’re all sitting around that night having coffee and dessert, and Kurt asks my dad; “Manny, what exactly was your role on the project?”

 

“Oh, nothing really. Just boring chemistry stuff.” (I could tell he was caught off guard by it: humminah-humminah).

 

Kurt pressed him some more. He clammed up. Finally, I said; “C’mon dad, the Cold War is over. Brezhnev, LBJ and J. Edgar Hoover are all dead. No one cares anymore. You were a part of history, and if you don’t tell it, it might never be told.” He just looked at me, smiling.

 

The next morning, Lisa and I met my parents at their hotel for brunch. My dad was pensive. Finally, he asked me; “You have contacts with the media, right? Do you still serve the Portland PBS network?

 

“Yeah, why?”

 

“Well, I’ve been thinking about what you said. I think I’d like to tell my story now.”

 

And just like that, 62 years of absolute secrecy was about to give way.

 

I introduced him first to one of the main producers at OPB, a wonderful guy named Milt. They went through the preliminary stages together, but that project was stillborn. As I recall, it was over a lack of funding. Then a few months later, another of my OPB customers, a producer named Nadine, came out to the Javamobile:

 

“Hey, is your dad still alive?”

 

“He is. He’s eighty-eight years old.”

 

“Do you think he could come in for an interview?”

 

“Well, I suppose so, except he lives 630 miles from here in the Bay Area.”

 

Nadine put together a camera crew from the OPB studio, they flew down to San Francisco, recruited a sound crew from KQED, the San Francisco PBS affiliate, and they all piled into two vans and drove out to Danville. Nadine conducted the interview in my parent’s living room.

 

For those of you who are new to my page, that interview became part of a documentary on the Manhattan Project; specifically, Hanford, where the plutonium was produced. I’ve posted it umpteen times before, so I’ll spare you the redundancy here—but I’ll post the link at the top of this thread for any newbies.

 

Nadine won an Emmy for Best Documentary. Other Emmys were awarded too, but I can’t recall who won what.

 

But just sitting here this morning, thinking about that conversation 17 years ago… I’m SO GLAD he acquiesced and agreed to participate in Nadine’s project. 

 

Now here it is, 2024, and his story has been told, retold, and translated into seven languages. Both of my parents are gone now, their house is gone, Kurt’s gone, even that restaurant, Asparro’s is gone, though Peg’ and Andrew are still my good buds.

 

His shift towards transparency revealed a lot of history. Some stuff I always assumed, some of it bowled me over. Of all the things I ever did for him as his son, hooking him up with my media friends is the one I’m most proud of. And it was nothing short of cathartic for him. 💙

LINDNER HAS WOOD

if you’ve never seen one, that’s what a cord of firewood looks like. They delivered it in two batches; half on Thursday night, the other half yesterday afternoon. I have a hydraulic splitter crammed waaaay back in the catacombs of the garage. I’ll fish that out next week and start splitting those larger chunks down, the smaller ones I’ll take an axe to. Then I’ll stack it all up in two steel racks (out of the scene, behind me) with 6 inches of clearance off the floor of the carport to allow air to circulate. Then once that’s done—sometime in the year 2039—I’ll be able to use the carport again to keep my myriad vehicles undercover.

 

But I’ve gotta tell you about the couple who delivered this firewood. I found them on Facebook Marketplace. Their price seemed fair, they had several good reviews, so I went with them. When they delivered the first half Thursday night, it was already dark out. They were definitely rural folks, living about 50 miles from here up near Mount Saint Helens. Both VERY nice people, very gregarious, but definitely out of place in suburbia, if you get my drift.

 

They offered a cord of Douglas fir for $200.00, or a cord of mixed hardwoods (maple, oak, ash, etc) for $250.00. I opted for the later, as it burns hotter. But before they showed up, she texted me to tell me they came up short on a full cord of hardwood, so they had to mix in some fir. I told them no problemo, and that I appreciated their honesty.

 

When it came time to square up, she told me “Because there’s some fir mixed in there, we’re taking $30.00 off the price, so it’ll come to $220.00.” I told her “Because you’ve been so honest, you’re getting $250.00 anyway. Take it or leave it.” 🤨 She thanked me, and said if I wanted to wait until Friday to pay up when they delivered the other half, that would be fine. I told her “No, I’m paying you now. I trust you.” I just felt they’d earned it.

 

Sure enough, Paul Bunyan showed up yesterday afternoon with the other half of the cord; the half that had the fir mixed in. As he was unloading it, we chatted. What a fascinating guy! Ten years in the military, ex-Army Ranger, ex-some other covert military special forces group I’d never heard of. Served in Afghanistan, wounded by an IED in Iraq, took some shrapnel to his face in Mogadishu. This guy was HARD. And he threw those chunks of wood around as if they were styrofoam. And now he and his wife live in the woods in the shadow of an active volcano, harvesting and selling cordwood.

 

He pointed out a couple of larger chunks (at the back of the pile in this picture) from a tree that was felled in 1949, but left unharvested. I don’t know what the process is for getting permits to harvest felled timber (or how they know the year it was felled?), but he managed to get permission to cut that one up. It was 130’ long, and he had to use a special chainsaw with an extended bar to chop it up.

 

So being the pedant that I am, I counted the rings from the core to the bark: 178. Which means that tree first took root before the Declaration of Independence was drafted, and lasted until it was felled 75 years ago, and for whatever reason, only harvested within the last year or two. It’s almost tragic, isn’t it?

 

Anywho, this should get me through the next few winters, barring any unexpected, catastrophic global cooling. I have a regular gas furnace too of course, but I much prefer to heat with wood whenever possible. There’s just something so natural about dino-free heat. 🪵

 

#PaulBunyanAtTheHovel

WORLD ACCORDING TO LINDNER

LINDNER’S DREAM RIDE

 Back when I was a freshman in high school, this was my dream car; the Shelby GT 350. Carroll Shelby took the standard Mustang fastback, massaged 50% more power out of the Ford 289 V8 engine, stiffened and modified the suspension and removed any “nonessential” bits (like the back seat) for lightness. It was for all intents and purposes, a race car that was (just barely) tame enough to be used as a daily driver.

 

But driving them wasn’t for sissies. They were loud, they ran hot and they were a rolling billboard for cops looking to fulfill their <ahem> quotas. I got picked up hitchhiking with a buddy by a guy who had a white one with blue stripes. I sat in back (no back seat, remember? I folded myself up like a 14 year old hairy duffle bag). My friend sat shotgun. The driver couldn’t resist showing off for us; he drove us from Walnut Creek California to Danville, about 6 miles, on the old Danville highway, speed limit 45 mph, hitting 105 mph. By the time I crawled out of there, my knuckles were sore from digging my fingernails into the seat back.

 

I decided then and there, I was gonna get me one o’ them! My plan was to get a job, save for two years, then by the time I had my license, I could buy one! 😍 The cost of a new ‘66 Shelby GT 350 was around $4,500.00. A veritable fortune for a teenager. And don’t even get me started about insuring one:

 

👨🏻‍💼 “So you say you’re sixteen years old? And you just got your license? And you just bought a race car? And you want us to insure it for you? Sure thing sonny, sit right there while I go get my slide rule.”

 

Well, shit. Part 1 of the plan went okay, I got the job, but everything from there on went bust. I ended up buying a used ‘65 Corvair Corsa turbo instead, for $930.00. It was a hoot, but it was no Shelby. But what I saved on insurance alone, I probably could have bought the Taj Mahal.

 

Fast forward 58 years.

 

I’ve been comparing specs of the original GT 350 with my current jalopy; a Heritage Bronco (links below). The raw numbers are almost unbelievable.

 

Price — Shelby in 1966: $4,428 ($47,000 in 2024 dollars), Bronco in 2023: $50,000. 

 

Engine — Shelby: 289 cid V8, Bronco: 138 cid inline turbo 4

 

Horsepower — Shelby: 306, Bronco: 300

 

Transmission — Shelby: 4 speed manual, Bronco: 7 speed manual

 

Fuel mileage — Shelby: 13-15 mpg, Bronco: 20-22 mpg

 

Curb weight — Shelby: 2,940 lbs, Bronco: 4,700 lbs

 

0-60 mph — Shelby: 7.3 seconds, Bronco: 6.5 seconds

 

1/4 mile — Shelby: 15.6 secs @94 mph, Bronco: 15.1 secs @90 mph

 

Top speed — Shelby: 124 mph, Bronco 106 mph

 

Bottom line: due to advancements in technology, for roughly the same (adjusted) price of an original GT 350, the trucklet has an engine less than half the Shelby’s displacement, half as many cylinders, about the same power rating, the same torque, gets nearly double the gas mileage, weighs half-again MORE, and can suck the doors off its ancestor.

 

So after all these years, do I STILL want an original Shelby GT 350?

 

What do you think, dumbass? 🤤 

 

1966 Shelby GT 350

https://www.carmemories.com/shelby-mustang-articles/specifications/1966-gt350.html#top

 

2023 Bronco:

https://fastestlaps.com/models/ford-bronco-2-3-t

LETTER TO BRUCE LINDNERS DAD

This is from a book that my dad was presented with on his 20th birthday; October 21st, 1939. He was an avid birder, so his aunt Ray and his two siblings, Erna and Sig bought him this huge Audubon book; “Birds of America,” and wrote inscriptions on the inside cover. I just recently came into possession of this book. My dad (Manfred), Erna and Sig were orphaned young, so their aunt Ray and her husband took them in around 1929.

 

“For one of the finest brothers in the world.” ~ Erna

 

“(And I’m the other one) But I take my hat off to you. Happy Birthday.” ~ Sig

 

“1939 has been a big year for (you) Manfred, dear. Full scholarship and Phi Beta Kappa. Just the forerunner of bigger things to come.” ~ Aunt Ray

 

That last inscription from his aunt Ray makes my head spin. Three years later, he’d be working on the most top secret, dangerous project of the 20th century, entrusted with its secrets until the day he died.

 

The part about the full scholarship is news to me. He never mentioned that. As for his Phi Beta Kappa key, that’s in my possession too. 

 

His aunt Ray died in 1964. I think she was 89. It’s so ironic that he could never tell her just how prescient that inscription was. If she only knew: “bigger things to come.”

Mr Lindner at 102 years 

 

LINDNER ON THE CAR LOT

 My buddy Dave Rogoway posted this picture in his “PORTLAND MEMORIES” Facebook page a few minutes ago. Boy-howdy, does it ever bring back a flood of memories for me. That’s Marv, the big boss whose name was on the roof. And I’ve got stories…

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Marv was actually very nice to me when I worked for him. For whatever reason, he thought I was okay. I dunno, maybe he was nuts. I was 20 years old at the time, and he once asked me to do a favor for him one evening; take these papers down to the credit company and get them signed, but I don’t want them see you pull up in your *CHEVY* Corvair. So he gave me the keys to his über rare and astronomically expensive Maserati Ghibli roadster. As exotic and expensive as the Lamborghini Miura, which was at that time, the Ghibli’s direct competitor.

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It had hidden headlights that popped up from the fenders, the same design that was used on Corvettes of that era. When I pulled the Maserati out onto 122nd Avenue, I turned on the headlights. But rather than pop up and STAY up, they’d “flutter” a bit with every little bump or pothole in the street. It turns out the spring mechanism that actuates the headlight doors wasn’t strong enough to hold up the U.S. spec headlights. So as long as the road was good, I could see. But at that time, there was construction going on on from Halsey to Stark Street, where the credit office was, so I was driving damned near blind; in the boss of bosses $25,000 Ghibli. 😱

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Another fun Marv story: It was the winter of late ‘72, early ‘73, and we had a terrible ice storm. Power lines were down, the buses stopped running, snow and sleet was coming in sideways and the wind was howling. But business is business, so we all came in like good, obedient salesmen do.

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Right where that little cart is parked in this picture was called “the point.” It’s where Marv wanted at least two salesmen from competing teams to be standing to greet customers at all times. On the day of that ice storm, there were two guys standing there, huddled under umbrellas, with ice pellets pummeling them.

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Marv pulled into his personal parking spot in his Maserati, got out of his car wearing his fur-trimmed coat, walked into the dealership and paged the two salesmen’s team managers to the showroom floor. They both showed up at once. Marv told them both to fire those two guys.

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“Sure thing Marv. What did they do?”

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“When I pull in to the dealership that bears my name, I expect my employees to greet me with respect. Neither one of them said hello to me.”

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Both salesmen were fired on the spot. Merry Christmas! 🎄

LINDNER’S WINDOW

 There’s this thing I like to do with the little kids at the farmer’s market; particularly when their parents are just getting coffee for themselves and nothing for the kids: I’ll say to them “Do you like whipped cream?” (99 kids out of 100 say yes). Then I say “Tip your head back and open your mouth like a baby birdie,” and I let them have it with a blast until it’s coming out of their ears.

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So years ago, there was this one little kid, maybe 5 or 6 years old, who’d come by every Saturday with his parents. I bet I pumped 6 cans of whipped cream down that kid’s gullet over the years. And then; I never saw him or his parents again.

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Fast forward to today. The handsome gentleman in this picture walked up and ordered a latte. He said “Bruce, don’t you remember me?”

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“I’m sorry, I don’t. I see a lot of people.”

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“I’m Brian. I used to come by when I was little and you’d give me some whipped cream every Saturday, then I’d go play in the fountain.”

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“Holllleeeeey shiiiiit! Brian! Look at you… You’re not a rugrat anymore!” 😃

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I love making people happy with my various concoctions, but there’s NOTHING like seeing generations of former market customer’s kids grow up and come back to say hello. It doesn’t get any better than that! 💙

LINDNER TAKES A LOOK AT THE NEW - NEW SEASONS

 They just opened a new upscale “New Seasons” market in my neighborhood. It’s kinda’ like Whole Foods, except you won’t go home flat broke. So I walked down yesterday for a look/see. They carry everything—and when I say everything, I mean EVERYTHING. This seems reasonably priced for puke, however.

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Notice the fine print; it says “MADE IN THE USA.” What a relief! I’d be apoplectic if I learned I’d shelled out $7.00 on owl puke imported from Mexico or China. USA!! USA!! USA!! 🦉

READ HOW LINDNER’S DAD CALCULATED NUMBERS

 This was taken on my dad’s 80th birthday bash at a winery in the hills above Stanford University. Today is Pi-Day; March 14th. And it’s been one year since my dad transitioned to that big cyclotron in the sky.

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As many of you know, he went on to live another 23-1/2 years after this picture was taken, all of them good, productive years. Neither of my parents ever suffered any debilitating disease or major cognitive decline during their lives. They, and we their family, were blessed with that good fortune. In all of his 103 years, he was never hospitalized. Though he was temporarily confined to a “rehab unit” for a few days in 2009, when at the age of 90, he decided to get a ladder out and clean the gutters. What’s the worst that could happen? Down went Lindner! A shattered femur, a broken clavicle and a bruised ego. That’s what. 🦴 

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His doctors told us that at his age, with such major fractures, we should prepare for him to be confined for the remainder of his days. He said “Bullshit. I’ll be fine.” And he was. A few weeks later, he was back to walking three miles every other day on the Iron Horse Trail and trekking through his beloved Morgan Territory preserve on weekends.

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I remember when we were kids, we would ask him how old we were at that moment in seconds. He’d calculate it out in his head; “Let’s see; you were born at 10:00 am on April 22nd 1952, right? Ten times blah blah blah to the fifth, add the square root of your weight, minus the hypotenuse of Ed Sullivan’s shoe size… you’re 290,784,691 seconds old.” That’s the snarky version, obviously, but he could actually do that. No pencil & paper required. And his mind stayed that sharp right up until the end.

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He was the second-smartest person I’ve ever known. The only one I’ve ever met who was even smarter, was his friend and mentor, a man named Isadore Perlman (Google him). Iz was up there with Einstein, IMHO. It was under Iz’s tutelage that my dad got his PhD. Iz was the closest thing to an actual biological computer I’ve ever seen. But he was no robot. He was kind, compassionate and funny as hell. Just scary-smart.

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Both men lived happy, productive lives. My one regret is that neither of them lived to see “Oppenheimer,” the first (largely) accurate film portrayal of the events they bore witness to. Iz died back in the ‘90s. But my dad was very much aware that it was coming and was looking forward to seeing it. Alas, he didn’t quite make it.

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I’d love to have been able to read his and Iz’s reviews. ⚛️