STUMPTOWNBLOGGER

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…

.

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.

.

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. 😱

.

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.

.

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.

.

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.

.

“Sure thing Marv. What did they do?”

.

“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.”

.

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.

.

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.

.

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

.

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

.

“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.”

.

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

.

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.

.

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.

.

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. 🦴 

.

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.

.

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.

.

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.

.

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.

.

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

LINDNER FAMILY HISTORY … WHO SAID LIFE WAS FAIR? NOBODY

 My daughter asked me to find some information in my dad’s genealogy notes for her, and I ended up going down a rabbit hole of family history. This first picture was taken at my niece’s wedding in SanFrancisco in the fall of 2008. That’s my parents flanking my cousin, Hannelore in the middle.

.

Both of my parents have since passed away, but Hannelore is still very much alive. I think she’s 93 or 94 now, and her stories are incredible. The other picture is a screenshot of Hannelore from when Steven Spielberg interviewed her back in the mid ‘90s for the Shoah Foundation archives. Her interview lasted 6 hours, all of it is on tape.

.

Bear with me as I share this, because I’m telling it 2nd person, and from memory. I may have some of the details caddywhampus, but this is the gist of it.

.

Hannelore was born in Europe. When Hitler came to power, her family went into hiding, very much like the Anne Frank story. They rented a flat above a grocery store from the owner, who was Catholic. One day the Gestapo (gazpacho?) showed up and told the store owner that they’d heard that he was harboring Jews on the premises, and that they were going to conduct a search. He told them no, there are no Jews here. Just good, patriotic citizens of the Reich, mostly Catholics. As the Gestapo chief tried to muscle his way around him, the grocer grabbed a shotgun he kept behind the door, pointed it at him, and told him to scram. That he was offended that he and his goosesteppers would question his patriotism.

.

So what happened? The Gestapo squad left. They never did search the building.

.

Hannelore’s family was eventually captured a few months later. Most of her family was sent to the camps, where they perished. But Hannelore, her mother AND her grandmother all survived. According to Spielberg, hers is the only documented case of three succeeding generations from the same family being sent to the camps, and all three surviving to tell the story.

.

That grocer risked his life, the lives of his family and of his other tenants by standing up to the Gestapo. Contrary to how they were portrayed in Hogan’s Heroes, there was nothing “funny” or timid about the Gestapo. Why those goons backed down is a mystery, but they did. And it bought Hannelore’s family some precious time. As for that grocer, he probably paid for his integrity with his life.

.

Hannelore was 14 at the time. After she was captured, she was sent to the Terezín (Theresienstadt) concentration camp. Next stop would have been Auschwitz, but the war ended before that happened.

.

In 2007, my dad, my brother and I toured Eastern Europe, including the camp at Theresienstadt. I took beaucoup pictures on that trip. In 2016, at my nephew’s wedding in San Luis Obispo, Hannelore flew out from New Jersey to attend the bash (yours truly officiated). I showed her some of the pictures I took at Theresienstadt. She pored over them, emotionless. When she came to a picture of some barracks, she leaned back a bit, looked over at me, and said “This is where they held me,” and pointed at a 3rd floor window. “Right here.”

.

Theresienstadt was a former army garrison in Czechoslovakia that the Nazis converted into a “model” concentration camp to fool the Red Cross into thinking that the inmates were being well-treated. Hannelore told me the bunk beds were made of wood, and at night, the bedbugs would literally crawl out of the woodwork to feed on them. She said there were so many of them, you could hear them crawling out of their burrows.

.

For all she’s been through, Hannelore remains a sweet, kind, and VERY funny lady, and quite the liberal—not surprising considering her life-story. The last time we spoke was when my father died last year. I can’t help but wonder what she’d think of what’s going on with Israel/Gaza today.

LINDNER AT THE MOVIES

 During that intense stretch when even folks in Hollywood were referring to Portland as “Hollywood Northwest,” I was being booked to cater so many television shows and feature films, that it was starting to interfere with my Monday-Friday business. I rectified matters by taking Mondays off during one particularly hectic period. Mondays were always dead anyway.

.

One day about 9-10 years ago, I got a call from the Oregon Motion Picture Association to serve a crew that was shooting out at the Clackamas stages: the same location where Leverage and The Librarians was shot, so I was familiar with the layout. I had no clue who even booked me, only that “the star” had requested an espresso bar on the set. So I packed the old Javamobile to the ceiling with coffee and chocolate, ordered pastries from the bakery I was using at that time (I think Delphina’s), and off I went.

.

It turned out the star in question was Sir Patrick Stewart, and the film was called “Green Room.” At that point, it was just another in a long string of gigs that was keeping Pony Espresso afloat.

.

With the exception of Patrick Stewart, the entire cast was very young; mostly twenty-somethings. It co-starred the late Anton Yelchin (Chekhov from Star Trek), and a very adorable and gregarious British actor named Imogen Poots. At the end of the gig, Sir Patrick paid the tab himself, with a stack of $2 bills that had been marked. Leverage used to do the same with me, with the request that I used them to make change with my other customers as a means of promoting the show. I never did understand that, but mine was not to reason why—mine was to inject caffeine and skedaddle.

.

From what the crew told me about the script, it didn’t sound like a genre that would interest me in the least, so I never saw it. Punk rockers, gangs, violence, gore, etc. No thanks. But when I got home from Beaverton yesterday (following my ubiquitous collapse on the couch and cat-nap), I turned on the television to see if anything interesting was on. Nope. Mostly just crap. Except Green Room was on. So I decided; what the hell, I’ll watch it. 

.

I’m no film critic, so I’ll just say this: It was better than I expected it to be. STILL nothing I’d be interested in had I not been tangentially involved, but not the typical Gen-Z shtick, either. I was still tired. I kept zoning in and out, so I turned it off and went to bed before it ended. So this morning I looked up Green Room in Flixster. This is their synopsis:

.

“What could possibly go wrong when a punk band agrees to play a Pacific Northwest skinhead bar? It turns out a lot more than bassist Pat or the rest of The Ain't Rights could have imagined; the gig takes a violent turn and they find themselves trapped and surrounded in the club's green room. Jeremy Saulnier's mayhem-filled siege thriller is a brilliant blend of suspense, horror, dark humor, and extreme violence that gets a further lift from Patrick Stewart's gleefully atypical turn as a brutal gang leader.”

.

It’s that “Patrick Stewart as brutal gang leader” that killed it for me. Jean-Luc wouldn’t harm a Gorn. And that reviewer’s use of the adjective “brilliant” is completely lost on me. More like “amusing,” but what the hell; I’m just a Boomer. 🤨

LINDNER’S WORLD

I know I’ve beaten this dead horse into cheval carpaccio already, but oblige me this one last time.

.

• My dad was born in Chicago on October 21st, 1919.

.

• 2,100 miles to the west, California Condors still ruled the skies over Morgan Territory, an isolated wilderness on the eastern flanks of Mount Diablo, about 30 miles east of San Francisco.

.

• The Condor extinction accelerated with human encroachment. The last Condor was documented near Mount Diablo in 1922. My dad was 3 years old at the time, still in Chicago.

.

• After World War II, my parents settled in Danville, a small town of 3,000 at the foot of Mount Diablo.

.

• My dad was a naturalist, a lifelong birder, and President of the Save Mount Diablo Foundation.

.

• On two occasions (that I’m aware of, possibly more), he took time off work to drive the 350 miles to the Santa Barbara Mountains, their last natural habitat, just to see a California Condor in the wild… unsuccessfully.

.

• 1975: He and another gentleman fought real estate developers to have Morgan Territory turned into a regional preserve—off limits forever from development… successfully.

.

• June 2020: My mother died at age 97.

.

• March 2023: My father died at age 103.

.

• September 2023: my brother and I flew down and scattered our parent’s ashes at Morgan Territory.

.

• Also 👉🏼on that day👈🏼 in September 2023: a flock of California Condors was spotted patrolling the eastern slopes of Mount Diablo and Morgan Territory. 

.

• One hundred years had passed between California Condor sightings in Morgan Territory. That’s 36,524 days (and 6 hours). Yet on that day. On THAT VERY DAY last September, for whatever reason, they decided to return.

.

No, I’m not assigning any woo-woo supernatural meaning to it, or implying the Condors somehow knew who he was and what he did, or that they sensed his “spirit.” That’s pure hokum. But the serendipity of it all is just mind-boggling.

.

I’m no mathematician, but I’d calculate the odds of that happening at 36,524.25:1 🤨

LOVE THIS DIDDY FROM LINDNER

 For so many years people have been saying that Miley and I look alike. Now this pic has been going all over the place. What do you think?