One year ago today: March 24, 2015, the annual February slump.
Five years ago today: March 24, 2011, bankrupt by 2014.
Nine years ago today: March 24, 2007, apples by the dozen.
Random years ago today: March 24, 201, FireHow, and other disasters.
MORNING
What on Earth is this? It is the Earth, according to the “flat Earth” people. Their leader, one Mastakongo Prez, says that everything in science is the opposite of what the Bible says. I like that name, like “President” of the Congo. He provides a list of opposites, any one of which proves that science is wrong and Mastakongo is right. This is the guy who says to listen to phonograph records backwards. And you better get hip to all the Satanic Masonic hand signals on TV.
Mastakongo is such a kook, he winds up driving people away from the Bible. Kind of like the way protesters being so obnoxious, they send people toward Trump to find out why people like him. Masta hates school books, history, and the Van Allen radiation belt.
Well, what you don’t find out when you read. The cPod, or wagon, or trailer, that I pull behind my sidecar is called a cart, that is technically not a two-wheeled version of what was once called a “dray”. A real dray is a gypsy wagon. The reasons are obscure, but it appears back in time that there were as many words for types of carts as there are for automobile designs of today. And the average child knew all the differences. Apparently a cart is a two wheeled wagon with the wheels under the chassis rather than beside it, and that “leans forward” when it is unhitched. But I’m still calling it the cPod for camper pod. And don’t quote me on any of this.
Next news is the people called back again on the house, my offer has gone through at least the seller’s first line of defense. It is beginning to look like I was right about the place on several counts, including that the asking price was completely arbitrary. It does not match any of the equity projections I’ve followed backwards to its construction in the 1950s. But it also means the seller, in this case Wells Fargo, has an ulterior motive and decide to sit on it. Either way, I’d rather have a low-ball offer on the table than deal with the hidden agendas of these remote bankers who have never seen the property.
Another aspect of these offers is the cantankerous rules around “proof of funds”. This doctrine is totally rooted in the 1970s, where houses were always sold on credit. Some people developed the mentality that credit is “proof”. I was around when this “get pre-approved” nonsense came along. Without credit, the seller would demand a copy of your bank statement, thereby tipping them off whether you had more money than you were offering and how much.
Today, I am dealing with the same ossified mindset. These people do not know the world has moved on. They view selling a house as a fixed procedure that involves only bank-to-bank transactions with the real estate company taking a cut and the purchaser, unwise to their ways, glibly smiles and pays every fee and extra they can tack on. I mean the buyer just signed his life away, he’s not going to back out just because you add on a $6,000 closing fee at the 11th hour.
What I’m referring to in this case is the refusal of the seller to recognize cash as proof. I looked at the situation from a dozen angles and all of them have one thing in common. They involve putting the money in the bank just long enough for the system to do a check to see if you have any judgments against you. I’m not saying that is wrong, I’m saying they don’t have to be so sneaky about it. Like I’ve said before, they are training their own enemies.
And I mean real enemies who, if they were on fire, would not piss on them. That’s not a figure of speech, you folks at the DMV.
In other news, during the negotiations for my offer on the property, I had a brief conversation with a lady up in the interior. To me she was just another office flunky, but she did seem fascinated by how I was able to grasp every progression just by scanning the money figures. Meh, I thought, she just doesn’t meet that many educated people in her line of work. I did get the impression she was gaining an eye-opener from me for free. Anyway, at 3:38PM today, I received an unofficial e-mail where she states it was “an honest and sincere pleasure” speaking with me. She’s right, you know. Hmmm, I wonder what she looks like.
The lovely Canary Islands.
NOON
Propellers, not the best place for beginners to start. I’m a beginner, so it is always nice to get lucky. The trickiest part of making a propeller is to get the thing to balance. You place it on a spindle and give it a twirl to see if one blade keeps stopping at the bottom. Then you shave it until it balances with the lighter blade. I’ve built four propellers in my life. They are rough-cut from 1” square dowel rods, using the bandsaw. So indeed, it is about as rough as you can get.
The first I took to be luck, but then I did it again and again. Harrumph, I may have a knack for making wooden propellers. Why not a knack for winning the lotto? Fate, I guess, although I can’t help thinking it is in part to cutting wooden robot gears and such.
Due to a lack of gumption, I stayed home all day and read. The lack of a clutch cable on the Honda was another factor. I get a call to watch this clip of Jorge Ramos continuing to make a total ass of himself. I can’t say I know where he stands, but I watch him squirm, lie, and try to talk overtop of the interview. Does this guy take lessons from Whoopi Goldberg? He’s obviously never learned his place. You will notice he only talks his garbage from behind a television camera, never in person.
I thought we’d seen the last of the guy when he got his ass kicked out of a Trump rally, but he’s gone on to a career in racist comedy. The message most Americans have for Ramos is, “Get out of my country.” He’s too thick-headed to grasp what they mean. He’s a traitor of the worst stripe.
Aye-yi-yi, inflation. Home Depot prices are getting insane. Aluminum washers 40¢ apiece. Plus tax. It’s nothing to most of people, but these are basic components of most of the machines in our lives and the cost is going to filter through to your pocketbook sooner or later.
By dusk, two positive things have happened. My 55% offer has not been rejected, and the longer that stays so, the better my chances. The other thing is if you dig deep enough, you can usually find who is really the party behind most real estate sales. And this one, it transpires, is not Wells Fargo at all. Instead, it is a certain government agency known to be extremely lax in their requirements.
For example, they will accept an ATM printout as “proof of funds”. Even if you found it on the lobby floor. I’ve already hinted enough that there is more to my offer and the story behind this building than I can ever say up front, but I’d say the only thing that will stop this offer from climbing up their bureaucracy is some bigwig stepping in now and saying absolutely no. However, that is a big possibility.
NIGHT
These are Russian apples. You can read about them next segment, but the picture is here to make this page appear more balanced. That’s also the food portion of this post. These are not crab apples.
How about some gossip? Sure, what’s a blog without a little nonsense now and again? Just before dark, I decide to go for coffee. I’ve not yet found a replacement for the bakery, but I like my sit-down break once a day since time immemorial. I’ve been in the house all day, mind you, all my tools are oiled, all instruments calibrated, and plans drawn up for a week of small projects. After a lifetime of big deals, I’ll have you know I now like small projects.
So I grab the crossword and head into the café on Dixie. Whoa, you talk about impact. There is a waitress there I’ve only ever seen from a distance, but tonight working the front counter. You know when you meet a lady who absolutely gushes over you, well, Ken, I mean most of us know it. I’m like, do I dare to encourage this gal? She is not really my type, but elegant looking in a telephone company sort of way. But she was completely taken by everything I did and when I ordered in Spanish, she was eating out of my hand.
If you are expecting me to say, “I’ve still got it”, my reply is that I’ve never lost it. Ha! I will have to think this through, however. But I was getting sunburned on the side facing her. She was bound by a wild desire and I’m glad the place was empty except for other women, all of whom politely smiled through it all, which was like fanning the fire. I’m did nothing but my puzzle because I’m not forgetting how my library date backfired on me not that long ago. I’m not ready for a relationship with a Latina, which is a nice way of saying I’m way out of her league. And at my age, such things matter.
But two gals in one day? That has never happened often enough in my life. Then again, I do wear that scent that few sincerely intelligent women cannot resist. It is called “money”.
ADDENDUM
Here is a graphic I found hilarious. The caption is “Two Ways To Celebrate”. What? Well, I happen to think it is very funny, Patsie. Why, that’s you in the bottom panel. Just you watch, once the kids are grown and gone, he’s dropping you like a hot potato. You see, I can read other people’s e-mail. You had better like cats.
As with most diets, I’m allowed all the fruit I want. This caused a surprise. I bought a big bag of what I thought were crab apples at the Russian store. Crab apples are super tart, to the point of sour. Turns out these are not sour at all, but outright deliciously sweet. It’s an apple, but more like biting into a pear with an aromatic hint of sweet banana. Try them on your cream of wheat. I’m impressed. If I can find out the name, I’ll report back. But my Russian is pretty bad and I can’t pronounce my R’s backwards.
What’s this? I was almost going to stop writing when the phone rang. No, my diet stays the same and I have to go on vitamin D again. My other prescriptions have the side effect of lowering my vitamin D. I don’t care about that, but they still say cut down on the carbs. No potatoes, no rice, no pasta, no grits. I swear, that diet was invented by some damn Yankee. The south did not lose the war; we came in second.
Last Laugh
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