GTI in the shop

It seems the starter solenoid in my GTI has finally kicked the bucket, after one last application of my hilarious jam-bare-copper- against-battery-terminal starting technique. The thing should have happily frolicked and rejoiced with that free-flowing current from a virgin 12.4 volt source, but instead it has died a mournful death, cooked slowly under the exhaust manifold over the last 100,000-some miles. It is a shameful thing—a Volkswagen death due to a honest, verifiable design flaw, in their stepchild Automatic Transmission version of the good old Mark II. Maybe it stands to reason—nobody in Europe would have an AT; hence the cobbled design? The starter has to come out through the bottom, possibly involving removing an axle—patently strange and nothing I could do myself. Anyway, now negotiating with various Rochester mechanics (and envious of the various rec.autos.makers.vw.watercooled gurus who can scrounge up $30 starters). My legal parking expired three hours ago.

In other news, the co-op (or, more specifically, Jon), just bought an arcwelder ($15 from the guy down the street).

Ants go marching on

A good, lazy weekend. On Saturday I met Jon and Heather at the southwedge diner, then helped them move. I biked over to their house, and it was really a glorious day. This is the Rochester I knew, with the cicadas buzzing unseen and the neverending sunny afternoons. Biking to the diner I even passed a guy wrenching on his very own red MkII GTI (e.g. virtually the same car I have) in his driveway. I stopped to say Howdy and ask for a mechanic recommendation. He was a pleasant 20-something and had just bought the vehicle for $500. "Runs fine," He said, "just doesn't have a floor." Sure enough it didn't have a floor. "Previous owner let water get in, floor rusted out." He was busy fashioning a new one, out of a junked hood. The moving was pleasant enough, in the hot, hot afternoon, sweat dripping down, moving large objects down stairs, with the cicadas buzzing all around. H&J are moving into a house on the huge, huge common backyard of Ant Hill Cooperative which will be the third house we've colonized. Their house is adjacent to the common garden, too, over which sunflowers rise and butterflies flutter and where a makeshift brick patio extends, mainly the labor of love of neighbors Tori and Sue. Salvaged park benches under the little trees provide the ideal venue for a little barbecue, which is exactly what we had. Having Jon and Heather next door is going to be the best of the best—and more hands and more motivation to turn the backyard into the Pleasure Dome it is meant to be. Jon moved over his oscilloscope, bought an arcwelder, and they're setting up a work room—our Foundry is sure to follow. Sunday we hiked Letchworth, illicitly put our feet in the forbidden river, ate ice cream, and got stung by bees.