Posted on 11/03/2005 10:28:48 PM PST by TheMadLurker
If you have a sense of humor, and can poke fun at yourself:
http://www.angelfire.com/poetry/fear4republic/
J-lo's only admirable characteristic is her arse!!
Hi, Irish!
I'm glad you'll be available. We're gonna have a blast!
Your hubby is a good chippy!!
We're going to Mars now?
wow!
nicely finished.
good afternoon!
she lacks Mollie's priest-collar
she is a cutie
It's scheduled for this ofternoon. Everybody ready?
Ya, I only need a toothbrush.
I have my boots on.
I have my knife, a lighter, and some string.
everything else is negotiable.
let's rock.
You have to know what you're dealing with. In this case, to begin with, it's a 1979 Amana Radarange. In 1979 switching power supplies were relatively rare -- and in any case had it used a switcher my job would have been done, because the symptoms were "consistent with" too much AC ripple on the DC power supply to the CPU chip, and it would take a lot more knowledge to troubleshoot the supply. And it's the switchers that (can) develop the really high voltages, so I probably would not have even bothered.
What I expected to find (and did!) was a simple step-down transformer whose AC output was rectified, then regulated. My guess was that the "averaging" capacitor was failing; it's been 26 years, after all, and electrolytics do not last forever. So I was dealing with voltages in the range of 7 to 10 volts, no more. And it was all on an open circuit board, though getting that out of the extruded frame was a bear.
You can see it in the photo below; the power supply is the board pulled out of the frame. The two capacitors to be replaced (< $2.00 total) are the two blue cylinders.
Glad we didn't have to. The 26 year old microwave goes well with the 52+ year old toaster.
Thanks!!
How smooth is a smoothing capacitor!!
So that is Mcxlplx!!
Psychologically, there is an echo ringing in our heads of the slamming of doors. For the twelfth time, the scan is run to determine that all doors, windows, ports, and cargo hatches, vents, drains, scuppers, pitots, and openings of any sort are tightly sealed.
All fuel, gas, and liquid transport lines are isolated to local function through the appropriate gate valves. Electrical connections are set up to automatically disengage on overload, and to re-synchronize when possible. Data communication lines are put on seek-and-synchronize, rather than secure, mode.
The factory and forge facilities have been stopped, fires banked, and workers assigned to rest stations. All movement of materials comes to a halt. The normally bustling activity of a large community shushes to a quiet whisper.
The “All Aboard” has sounded, and warnings have been issued for the last fifteen minutes to prepare for imminent launch.
Miles distant, on the open ocean, ferries, launches, barges and work vessels are keeping vigil. There is an unnatural silence. Even the noisy gulls seem to have sensed some kind of danger and are patrolling elsewhere.
There is only a slight chop in the ocean, where large swells were migrating just days ago. The sky is clear, but not entirely cloudless. It could be a beautiful West Pacific day, but everyone is securely shut up behind thick barriers as if expecting an assault.
And then the assault comes. With unbridled fury, six hundred demon voices scream like outraged volcanic vents as gases heated to incandescence erupt from their maniacal throats.
On the horizon, the flash is visible long before the noise arrives, causing people to wonder if something has gone terribly wrong. Then the fire rises, like Poseidon’s wrath, out of a molten sea.
Steam clouds circle and roil in its wake as it rises, and the thunder shakes the air. Such fury cannot be contained, or constrained, and yet it rises, climbing like a demented soul out of the depths of Hell.
Atomic fury, ill contained. A genie, shaken into a terrible rage, with his bottle upended, blasts out of the opening at hypersonic velocity. Hundreds and hundreds of times repeated. It is indescribable.
The immovable object of three linked massive habitats is balanced on an inverted volcanic plume gone into full afterburner. The watery surface, the Pacific Ocean, and planet Earth itself are rejected, pushed aside, shoved away like a spurned suitor as the violence continues.
It rises. Impossibly, it rises.
A concentric wave rolls outward toward the waiting ships. Most are ill prepared for its arrival, and people are thrown violently back and forth as the smaller vessels pitch and toss. But even this does not tear the human eyes away from the incredible vision streaking skyward.
A plug of Earth has been ejected from the very molten mantle, and is rising in a catastrophic volcanic eruption dwarfing Pinatubo and Krakatoa! -- No, not a volcano ... not a volcano. This is an elevator up from the fires of Hell itself! Rising, ever rising, turning slightly as it reaches the upper atmosphere.
People attempt to speak to each other in what should be relative quiet, for the fantastic apparition seems now long gone, but the noise is still reverberating, and drowning out such minor things as shouts. They rub their eyes, their ears, and they shake their heads, but the memory of this launch will never loosen its grip on their minds.
Aboard the Flying Castle, an eerie calm prevails. The thunder gradually subsides, replaced by rushing breath, as the strain of breathing with two people sitting on your chest makes everyone an astronaut.
Voices speak calmly, hands reach out, straining against the pull to touch the controls with precise movements. Slowly, gradually, the strain lessens to only uncomfortable, rather than unbearable, as the mighty engines are throttled back, and the biggest, strangest vessel to have ever been conceived maneuvers into a high orbit. In a control station on the Thrust Ring, a woman in a command chair lets out a “Whoop!” and eyes briefly glance in her direction, taking in the two cats in separate carriers on either side of her. She smiles reassuringly.
Halfway around the planet, the engines cut back further. Voices spring up, and commands are given. The securing catches of the habitats are released, and very, very slowly, the structures begin to edge away from the security of the cradling Thrust Ring, unfolding under a gentle rotation as electric winches gradually feed more cable out, and the massive robot-like arms gently unfold.
The huge central enclosure of the Flying Castle drops down on its two supporting arms from the center of the Thrust Ring, while the hanging baskets of Habitats A and B gradually swing out and away.
The Flying Castle is nearly over its launch point again before the deployment is completed. As the rotation takes hold, the nuclear rocket thrust is further reduced. Finally, the process is complete. The rockets stop.
Silence reigns. Dead silence. The distant hiss and pop of cooling metal and ceramic are far from any human ears, and there is no air to carry the sound of it to them. In the Castle courtyard, songbirds dare to fluff their feathers again, but still are not ready to trust their wings. In the forests, eyes peer out, but there is no motion.
Inside the castle, and in the other Habitats, people begin moving about again. There will be a few hours before thrust will return, and there are many chores remaining to be done. In the kitchens, ovens are turned on again, and fresh bread awaits its baking.
In the moat, some heads are seen bobbing in the water. They are not human heads, but they appear to be moving normally once more. The birds take flight again.
Insects, in the trees and in the grass, have been unaware that anything unusual has happened. They had continued their walks and journeys undisturbed by the distant noise and the strain of acceleration.
On the fifth level of the tower, a woman is relaxing in a hot tub. Under the now-reduced gravitational force, she struggles to her feet, wrapping a large towel around her temporarily large body.
As she moves away from the hot tub, a communication monitor clicks on, routing a video feed from the President of the United States to the Executive Secretary of the “Imperial Weatherman.”
Respectfully, she straightens, and attempts a salute. Realizing that she has tried to salute left-handed, she switches hands, unfortunately losing control of the towel. “Sorry, Mister President ...”
In a scene reminiscent of “Barbarella,” the President chuckles. “Don’t bother worrying about how you’re dressed, Ma’am. I just wanted to congratulate you and your crew for a momentous achievement. You have advanced the state of manned exploration of space by a generation, at least! The United States applauds your effort, and stands ready to assist in any way possible.”
Demurely, she kneels to retrieve her towel. “Uh, thank you, Mister President. We are honored. We hope to be of service to the United States and to the world.”
“Very well, then. Carry on!” The image of the smiling President clicks off.
“Drat!” She says, “Caught me with my hair a mess.”
On Habitats A and B, the regular Night-time conditions reassert themselves. Habitat A is coming into morning, with artificial lights ramping up their illumination, while Habitat B allows darkness to settle in for their regular nightfall. Eight hours separate their clocks although only minutes separate them physically.
A new world of human habitation has separated itself from its mother planet and is venturing out into the darkness.
But on that spiraling microcosm, life goes on in a dramatically undramatic fashion. Sheep and cattle graze, farmers tend their crops, bakers bake. Flight officers begin their post-flight checklists, making sure that all “engines” were operating properly, and a number of children begin their school studies for the day.
Not everyone is so nonchalant about their adventure. Thousands of eyes look upward, beyond the carefully crafted illusion around them, to see the Earth looming blue and beautiful overhead, and in the opposite direction, as the slow rotation brings it around, a distant arc of disappearing Moon, toward whose dark menace they will soon be hurtling.
The Moon seems less friendly this trip.
I think I may have left the coffee pot on at home as well...
dang...
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