August 25, 2013

           Rehearsal was cancelled today, giving me time to visit the much-advertised Pembroke Pines indoor flea market. I doubt that will happen again. Except for one lonely old guy selling off his tools, there was nothing flea about this market. Everyone was retailing either new product or craft-style goods I could not use. Dozens of jewelry stands with the same merchandise and identical prices. Almost as many selling those sample plastic bottles of shampoo for a dollar that you can get at Target for 90 cents.

           The only hand-made things were two ladies busily crocheting doll clothes and shawls and I must say they looked the roll. Sorry, but to me, a flea market means ordinary people occasionally selling second-hand stuff in such good condition they don’t want to throw it away. It is not a “family business”. There was a nice cafeteria that sold single boiled eggs. So, thanks to motorcycle work done this week and bingo, I had Sunday breakfast on the town.

           There was one bookseller, but it was all romance and self-help. And lots of books on slavery. To me, slavery is like the Holocaust and queers. We know it probably happened the way they tell us and we hope it doesn’t happen any more, but we do not need to be reminded of it every damn day. It is always those personally into these boring topics who always take these things past the aggravation stage.
           I bought a couple of ancient screwdrivers because they had wooden handles, but everything else the old guy had was heavy duty for me. He had a railroad spike and small, maybe 3-inch, length of railroad track. I thought it was a dandy little anvil, but it was some kind of commemorative given to a bunch of politicians when the Metrorail was inaugurated. He found it in the garbage can of an office he was renovating.

           I underestimated the amount of primer this wagon camper will require. Either primer is made cheaper or wood soaks up faster than I remember. And it’s going to require more than two coats on the underside to protect the plywood from road grunge. One reason this place is so secure is my back patio is under the halogen lights of the office parking lot. This, plus a simple hanging light, gives me an excellent place to work well into the evenings. Here is an unassisted photo of how bright the area is at night.

           I puttered around another eight hours today without difficulties. I’m saying I put in full hours without any increase in blood pressure. There was a time when an hour called for a halt, now this is almost five full days in row. Pat me on the back—after you make sure I’m not carrying a power tool, that is. What wouldn’t I give to find something I can do for a living? Diet-wise, this activity is causing me to undergo a 1,600 calorie deficit per day, yet I have not lost a gram this entire week. Watch for a real drop sooner or later.
           I didn’t allow for was how long I’d be in this particular premises, so when I moved in, I never wired the place for sound. Well, since I’m no longer concerned with appearances, I’m in the process of running the cables to connect my home theater system. This place isn’t as sound-proof as Wally’s Folly. But I need volume to hear the bass parts I like to play. I’ve chosen the old “Doors” tune “Love Her Madly” to be a showpiece. It suits my style, a fantastic bass line that you don’t know you are hearing until you realize you’ve been missing it.

           In my spare time, I rigged up the solar panel and connected it to a recording device (Arduino). The 8 watt claim is closer to 3 watts and the panels are extremely sensitive to light levels. A cloud elsewhere in the sky or even walking past throwing a shadow nearby will register on the meter. Peak power is 18 volts at .02 amps (20 milliamps), not near enough for anything really useful. But it works.

           Wait. There was one good-looking babe at the flea market. I’d noticed her but didn’t realize I had this picture till I went to clear the camera. It took this accidental video, so this is a still from that clip. Here is a babe of my style at the home-made jam counter. That’s one more babe than you’ll ever see at the bookstore on Pines. But she never turned around. I never saw her face. So careful what you say.
           This town needs a serious game of Cowboys and guitar players. I infer that from the statistical 23 million guitar players in America, five times the population of Norway or Ireland or New Zealand. That's 460,000 in Florida, say 230,000 in south Florida, so we'll round it off to 23,000 in this general vicinity. And not one of them knows how to sit down, play his guitar, and keep his goddam mouth shut long enough to play a gig. You think I'm exaggerating? You don't know.

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