March 8, 2007

           Something new today. I saw a crew ripping up the yard of a gasoline station to install new underground tanks. Did you know they are made of fiberglass? Tons of safety gear and environmental equipment. Ever seen a thousand gallon carboy? It holds the gas out of the old tank until the new one is ready. You could make enough beer in that contraption to host a dockworker’s reunion.
           I delivered some gear to the Day’s Inn. Yes, I remembered to tell you what problem had us mystified for so long. The Day’s Inn had two nearly brand new flat screen monitors that had exactly the same defect. Both Fred and I used standard procedure – swapping out the components to narrow the problem by elimination. That did not work this time at all because at first nobody considered the unlikelihood of two identical new monitors sharing the same fault. See? Just when you think you’ve made headway.

           Then, six miles from home, I get another flat. This is beginning to get annoying, since I have the best and most expensive puncture-proof, thorn-proof, heavy duty tires and tubes. With slime. It did not work worth nothing. A hole developed near the nozzle which would not take a patch. Upon inspection, it appears that the slime itself may be a problem. This slime is a green liquid inside the tube that is supposed to self-seal punctures “up to ¼”. They might just as well say up to ¼ mile, because it won’t do that either.

           However, the slime does leak out of holes up to 1/8th of an inch. It may be coincidence, but you will have a hard time telling me it is an accident that rubber cement and patches will not stick to any area around a puncture that has been touched by the leaking slime. The slime seems to cause rubber cement not to stick, even after the area has been carefully wiped clean.
           There I was up on Sheridan and I-95 late for work. Freddie had called to explain he took one unit into the store for repairs and I mentioned my plight. In a most neighborly fashion, he volunteered to pick me up and drive me over to my place. I owe Freddie a big favor. No way I could have predicted that none of my precautions would fail to patch a flat, so he really bailed me out on that one.

           Over to the wig shop, where I met the crew from CBC. Dang, the gal was just not my type, but certainly friendly enough. The segment will be just five minutes when complete, and that will not be for another five months near September. There was a six-foot model in the shop earning $200 per hour but she didn’t even know I was alive. That’s okay because I heard her talking Spanish with Maria in the back. Although the model had what I thought was a perfectly molded backside, she was going to have it made fatter “to look like Jennifer Lopez”. She said it was “because that is what men like”. Goes to show you how insecure some people can be, and that she doesn’t know any real men.

           The order problem [from overseas]. It seems to have been resolved in less than 24 hours once everybody understood what was supposed to happen with the money. Except, the totals are wrong. Not very wrong, a few thousand dollars here and there, but enough to confirm the factory just does not have the system we’ve already put into place. The unblinking eye of our database has never been wrong yet, so another confirmation letter is due. Nothing serious but such items have to be straightened long before they grow roots. Some of the extensions are two pieces per set, and the factory charged double what was supposed to be.
           Kudos for me. I composed a letter, a very intensely worded letter, which Ruth asked her grand-daughter, a lawyer, to review. The lawyer complimented me on the work. Hey, I just got the thumbs-up from a lawyer, how was your day?

           Over to Anna O’s for the guitar lesson with Becky. Loren seems to have lost the will to practice, which happens. Music is not for everybody. However, Becky, now a veteran of four lessons with me, was jamming to the 12-bar blues and playing “These Boots” (Nancy Sinatra) in real time along with the MP3. The earlier work is beginning to pay off, she is already able to clue in to events around her and get back on track, something that took me several months when I was around the same age (14). Mind you, I was alone and hardly had a professional coach paid for by my parents.
           I had to [back then] concentrate so much on playing that it would throw me when I tried to listen to the whole band. Don’t chuckle, I know people who play in working bands that never got past that stage. Becky was astonished to learn that it was possible to play along with a properly tuned recording. Like myself, she assumed it was something only total musical geniuses could pull off. I think she will definitely practice more now.

           The youngest girl has picked up a violin. One of those tiny instruments around 2/3 the size of a regular unit. She is around eight years old. Did I tell you I once tried violin myself? Seriously, my neighbors moved out. That was in Los Angeles. I would practice late in the afternoon when everybody leaves their back windows open. They would call out “Close your window!”
           They had a couple of very young children at that screech-cry stage. I would call back, “Close your window!” They moved out the end of the month.
I hope not over me, because I moved out fifteen days later, in November, 1991. I also gave up the violin, it is just too difficult for me. I’d rather listen to crying babies.

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