April 1, 2014

One year ago today: April 1, 2013, I fail the test.
Five years ago today: April 1, 2009, Market Street.

           Hunting for a computer cable had me fishing through the shed and I found a packet of pictures dated 1978 to around 1982. And this photo, which was taken in the summer of 1999. This, I think is eastern Tennessee in the foothills. I remember driving my baby Cadillac but not where this photo was taken. It was late in the summer or early fall. It had been raining for hours earlier. It’s a different kind of rain in Tennessee. Rather dreary, you’d call it. In the same box, I found my old address book from 1980. I knew an awful lot more German people then than I do now. I mean in Germany, not from Germany.

           It was an uncomfortably muggy and hot day, so I stayed right here. In the shade. I got to thinking how I don’t have a room full of grandchildren. Then I realize nothing else worked out as planned either. I was raised in ultra-conservative surroundings, to put it mildly. Why, even the maxim “you don’t work you don’t eat” was applied at the family level and from early infancy, too. I was deliberating all this when I decided not to renew my high IQ mating club. That became official noon today.
           So hello any new readers from the far reaches of academia. I consider that club as an episode that failed. From what I can see, everyone plunks down an ad and then sits around doing as little as possible to actually meet anyone. In a year of writing, I believe the longest response I received took maybe five minutes to write. As luck would have it I met a lady right here just last afternoon.
I decided not to follow up. We got along straightaway, but I could tell I was only there in case someone else came along. You can say I’m picky, but the American terrain is a-brim with divorcees who should have chosen the pickiest man they could find when they had the chance. I know I like picky women for that reason.
           She was nice to me but equally nice to anybody who strolled past. Wrong move. That goes against my “PIE” recipe. Positive, Immediate, Exclusive. Without those ingredients, do an Ann Landers. What’s that? It means run, don’t walk, for the nearest exit. I didn’t follow that advice. I kind of went along with her for a while, then left on my own. With my money, although she did not seem like a money person. Waste not, want not.
           I have a diagram of a lightning detector, a project I’ve put off so many times. The snag is I just don’t understand the workings, except that lightning throws off a 300 kHz radio signal, in the bottom range of your AM radio, if anyone remembers those. And I don’t know much about coils. Hence, the classic decision. Should I just build it anyway? See if it works? This approach has worked around here many times before. Do you get the hunch we are about to learn something the hard way?
           Radio signals are a near total blind spot with me. Nothing works no matter how closely I follow the specs. I am in stunned fascination by how easy some people find it all. I spent the entire day tinkering with circuits. Since I had Germany on the mind, I was here with some books, tea, smoked herring and crackers, and a big jar of applesauce. It’s a European kind of thing. I wrote all my letters and sorted through those old photos. Here is Wendy, next to my original 1955 Buick Roadmaster. I wonder what happened to her. Those cars back then had a fully functional rear seat.

           I’d place this photo around 1978 at the latest. I eventually walked away from that car after sinking $20,000 into it. Restoring cars is a rich man’s game. Wendy was typical of the tall, healthy, blonde farm girl that I grew up around. It predicated my thinking about women well into my late twenties. Much as I hate small towns, I’d like it more if there were still a few around. But the Internet has made sure that will never happen again.
           Movies. I also watched a couple of movies. And there were others I did not watch. Like the new releases of Star Trek, where Uhuru is the commander. She holds séances and attends group therapy. Just the kind of commander to get all our confidence when the missiles fly. If Star Fleet adds aromatherapy to to holodeck, cancel my subscription. My questions about U-boat radio silence led to this interesting video of ocean gliders. One of these automatons swam 9,000 from Australia to the USA. It is propelled by ocean wave movement. It dangles a set of blades 21 feet below the ocean surface and the up and down of the waves tugs it along at a couple miles per hour.
           The last of the Frenchies was packing up overnight. When I watch the amount of work that goes into owning and living in one of those motorhones, I wonder. The lady next door spent two full days getting things ready. I guess I’m saying those things are not carefree camping. I’ll stick with my pod, ready to go in 30 minutes tops. And the pod paid for itself in the first 15 days. Alas, I can’t work on it or take a holiday until I get my foot pain looked at. I’m having trouble finding a specialist who accepts my insurance and I can’t get through to a live person at Molina.
           ( Seriously, I waited some 45 minutes before giving up this morning. I’ve talked to enough people with this condition to know it is a simple prescription, but that must come from a specialist. GPs can only issue painkillers. Which I avoid.)
           The home remedy is a tablespoon of apple cider vinegar per day, but that requires up to six weeks to take effect. And that’s your trivia for today. I’m staying put and focusing on the weakest numbers on my song list. “California Dreamin”, “She Loves You”, and “The Shape I’m In”. That first tune, for some reason I learn it over and over but I must have a mental block or something. It never sticks. Today I write it out, note for note because I’m on my own musically. Except Elliott, but he lives 3,000 miles away. Outside of rehearsal and gigs, I rarely hang out with musicians. “What do I have in common with an off-duty drummer?”
           Wait, here’s a little more info just arriving. The last Frenchie came over to ask about my mileage on the batbike. He is selling his 1998 motorhome for $30,000. Otherwise, he says at ten miles per gallon, it costs him $2,500 to move it 1,500 miles. Not counting food. His eyes popped when I told him I got to Seattle last November for $613 total. I am still undecided to enhance the existing pod, or tear it down and do a complete rebuilt. I’ve designed a new white sound noise generator that makes the pod, once buttoned up, impervious to all ordinary traffic sounds from more than six feet away.