One year ago today: October 13, 2014, the old welder.
Five years ago today: October 13, 2010, books, music, & motors.
Six years ago today: October 13, 2009, Run, Jason, Run!
MORNING
Yessir, my new battery from May this year on the scooter is fading. Since I cannot tell if it is the recharge circuitry or what, rather than screw with the Chinese electronics, I’ve decided to mount a solar panel and charge controller onto the rear deck of the jockey box. Don’t worry, the expensive controller, without which the panel will not work, will be secured under the locking seat.
I’ve charged up the tablet and I can confirm, it is a toy for the older child or younger teen. It does not even have a built in word processor. However, it takes decent photos and video, if you plan the shots. Most people don’t like to plan shots. I’m checking into have Windows XP installed, as the built-in software not only will not even go on-line without consulting Google.
It is designed to make the average unsophisticate think you have no choice, that Google has a right to insist you create an account or you cannot use the device. It contains 28 built-in apps, of which half are games and another quarter social-ware. I’ll try to shoehorn a word processor in there, but the gadget may not be mouse-compatible and like most Android units, the opsys gobbles up most of your available RAM.
Ha, you think there is no connection between your tablet and a tracking device? That the real reason for their intense marketing is con you into carrying the equivalent of an ankle bracelet? Now, I hear stories of people who get laid off their jobs suddenly finding themselves locked out of everything from gas cards to Twitter. Think about it, you people with nothing to hide.
I have to work in the yard all afternoon, so be prepared for interruptions. Told ya, there’s the doorbell already. No, I just got back from coffee, but thanks. No, I have to rewire that scooter before dark, because I cannot afford to be stranded, ever. NPR actually had a great program on the importance of writing. Prime example, the kid catches the home run, but when the sports hero goes to sign the baseball, the stupid kid tries to lay his smartphone on top of it. Yep, common core to the core. Pencil? What’s that?
The Palestinians are at it again. This time, stabbing defenseless people on the busses, which shows you how advanced their civilization is capable of progressing. It’s kind of like that guy in the paper this morning who was a bully in prison. A few years later, one of his victims spots him on the street and plugs him with 8 high caliber slugs. These are the first to scream discrimination when it’s payback time. We have a similar crowd in America. They scream that their neighborhoods are not adequately policed, but if you send in more police, they scream harassment.
NOON
Working frantically toward mid-afternoon to beat the hot-weather showers that arrive before dark, I completely tricked out the scooter with the solar panel recharging system. Agt. M came by and I even turned down a free trip to the coffee shop. You can see here the corner of the solar panel on the box and part of the wiring into the battery compartment. The meter is reading 19.6 Volts—one of the reasons a charge controller is absolutely necessary. Even a trickle amperage that high will boil your acid.
This is the equipment that was originally destined to keep the sidecar storage battery (the marine battery from somewhere in Louisiana) all topped up. If this works on the scooter battery, that saves me $67 so I can replace all the hardware new. Keep the fingers crossed, as I do not want to start the grimy task of tracing out the Chinese wiring. The controller is worth twice as much as the panel, but the thieves of Florida don’t necessarily know that.
I will try to get a closeup of the panel. This blog will always have a technical aspect which makes photos like this part of the deal. I won’t win any contests for excitement. I like the way this once-scary technology has now become second nature, I hook it up without much ado. And progress around here does often substitute for excitement. What’s that sound? Ah, it is silence. That means it has stopped raining.
I continued listening to documentaries on codebreaking. I’m now convinced that a lot of the success was due to regular spying methods. Because a lot of the plain text versions are so accurate, they must have been redacted after the war was over. Had, in fact, they been as accurate as they want us to believe, the Japanese would have smelled a rat in no time.
But one part I do believe because it is still going on today against the public. This is where you use new techniques or new computers or new systems to go back into the past and crack codes that seemed impenetrable at the time. This is the real danger of not having anything to hide. There is no telling what will become important or illegal in the future. My records exist, but they are carefully stage-managed.
EVENING
What a strange turnout, and yet I could have completely set this one up, if I was that type. Around 9:00 PM I thought to dip over to the nothing bar where Hayley works. Having nothing to write, I had some tin cans, paint, and brushes, thinking I’d find a quiet corner. It was for the seedlings or plantlings shown above. All the women in the place, including Hayley, instantly latche on to this activity. I happened to have extra paintbrushed in the trunk (wise move) and bunch of cans that I had (expensively) painted green last day.
Most women painted very standard pictures on the metal, much like you’d expect from an early grade school class of children. But they did a fine job of it, almost like one would say they hoped their kids would draw. That includes the single women, the club is full of single women. That’s why I go there, thinking one day I’ll meet one both single and not completely fucked over in the head. Good luck. (Hayley is not single, and has not been since, well, an awful long time ago.)
Call me the champion of the hour. It was not a situation where I could take pictures, but fun was had by all. The picture is my best effort. It’s unlikely one could duplicate the evening. It was evident that this relaxing activity was long overdue, the more so since none of the standard bar-fly men had any idea how to react to it. Which, for the ladies was awful nice. I had initially said I’d like the cans back for a photo op, in the end I did not dare. Each lady kept her can. One each.
When it comes to ladies, that’s all I can afford. One each. Then again, I doubt a lady who wanted more would be able to keep me interested for long.
ADDENDUM
A bit back, I mentioned the city of Merida, in the Yucatan. Not to be confused with the other Merida in Venezuela. I’ve spent time in both places, and I must stress I did not recommend the place in Mexico. I said only that I had at one time considered retiring there. It has, unfortunately, become a retirement mecca and I do not recommend it. The summers are brutally hot with no way to escape it outdoors. The city mainly exists in the middle of a flat interior plain because, with a million people, it has to support itself. It is a great place to visit in the winter. Summers can hit 112°F.
The coastal areas are fearsome places when the hurricanes hit. There are no real trees or barriers to the wind and water. To confound things more, most coastal towns have another town 15 miles inland with the identical name. The population retreats inland at the hint of any approaching storm.
There is zero real industry in the area and most crops will not grow there. There is a salt factory, if you’d like to go to work like a slave for $135 per month. The town is, roundabout, a sort of tourist destination, but mainly as a stop on your way to have some fun. If you visit Chichen Itza, about an hour to the east, get a hotel in Merida. There are only two places to stay at the pyramids, and you won’t like the prices.
Last Laugh
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