Neanderpundit

Compression test OK. Wthin spec on all eight.

Plugs 1,2, 5,6,7,8 smelled like gas, and were, in fact, wet. Plugs 3 and 4 were bone dry. When doing the comp test I smelled gas on the above listed cylinders and not on 3 and 4.

The cylinders (all cold, so not the best circumstances) were all beteween 100 and 140, and my cheapo tester is leaky, so I suspect the actual numbers are much closer.

So I think I’m looking at injectors. And I have a couple ideas about cleaning them. And I’ll replace them all, if need be.

Haven’t had a chance to do the compression test yet- hopefully tonight.

Looks a lot like this is a bad injector. I will have to build myself a test fixture to check the injectors so I know what they need. Which means something to give me 30 psi of fuel. Think I’ll use kerosene so I don’t blow myself up. At least, not as readily.

This may be because of a small stupidity I inflicted on myself some months ago- I ran out of gas on my way home- You know the drill, “I think I have enough gas to make it to the next Shell station” and “not”. This is the first time I have done that with the explorer, so I suspect the accumulated sludge of 17,000 gallons of petrol is now in my fuel rail and injectors.

is a Blogtalkradio show that Steve has been doing sunday evenings for a while. If you haven’t been, and you like actual flavor in your food, you shoulc check it out.

Tonight, in chat during the show, I ran into Eli’s son. he suggested that our post-show conversation was a blogpost in it’s own self.

Actually, it was just a story of the kind I usually tell to kill the time between the departure of one clusterfuck and the arrival of another, but along the vein of that specific conversation, I present to you, a dream.

I dreamt of a hollywood movie, and I was the star of the mov.. No, wait, that’s Eric Burden’s dream.

My dream involved meeting a man with whom I’m all too familiar, the persona of Kilgore Trout, from the many novels by Kurt Vonnegut. I dreamt of meeting Trout as I ate dinner in my hotel- I don’t know what job I was on or why, I just saw him sitting at the bar, and he looked at me, recognized me, and walked over.

“hello! I’m Kilg..”
” know who you are. I dream of you somewhat regularly, I’m ashamed to say”
he shrugged. He explained he had a manuscript there he wanted me to read. He’d heard I was the king of crapblogging (since the untimely demise of Acidman) and wanted me to read his manuscript, and see what I thought.

The manuscript was exactly that- single spaced, written on a combination of canary legal pad, three ring binder paper, and pages torn out of a spiral notebook. Some of the pages appear to have been written in crayon. There were coffee stains and cigarette burns on everything. I took it back to my room.

Lacking my good reading glasses, I nearly went blind trying to decipher Trout’s illegibel scrawl, and after several hours of torturously dragging myself through, I gathered, at least, the gist of the story. The novella- for that was the approximate length- had the working title “Shit baby”. The premise consisted of a boy who had been conceived by the chance combination of a prostitute’s egg somewhere in Queens making contact with semen from a feebleminded janitor jerking off into the urinal in the sewage treatment plant itself. The unholy zygote of this unlikely encounter grew, nurtured by the filth in the sewers, chased in his infancy by the gators of NYC, weaned on bat’s milk, grew hale and hearty eating discarded goldfish.

One day, Shit Baby came out of the sewers to view, with his own eyes, the noissome world above. SOme wanted to make him their king, some wanted to flush him back to the sewer where he was born.

Here ended the narrative.

Apparently Kilgore, having gotten this far, could go no further.

I met him for breakfast and he said “well?”

‘I think” i said “That you would ahve been an excellent riddler, but you have no business writing. Here, let me finish it for you. ”
I took a pencil and wrote for a few minutes, and handed him the now-complete manuscript. He read.

“Wow, you really pulled that off. Can I really use this?”
“Certainly, as long as you NEVER TELL ANYONE IT WAS ME”.

I think he left me the tab for his breakfast, too.

I woke up wondering what the fuck I’d eaten. This was only a few weeks ago.