One year ago today: August 26, 2015, I missed “Genysis”, or did I?
Five years ago today: August 26, 2011, early robot mockup.
Nine years ago today: August 26, 2007, skinny me.
Random years ago today: August 26, 2012, a Colorado crossroads.
This month is dragging on. Then I got smacked in the head by one of those revelations. I glanced around my empty room and realized it looks a lot like the rooms of the very people I know who are bored all the time. Aha, I’m missing the things that make life interesting. My books, my instruments, my gear—all up at the cabin. They’ve been up there two months, which tips me off that I have a two-month buffer zone. I can last a full two months of daily nothing before I notice boredom. Compare that with people who go bonkers after five minutes of no satellite. If learning to relax means watching TV, that’s a test I’d gladly fail.
The photo is the macadamia nut cookies from BK. Worst cookie recipe I’ve ever tasted.
I’m from the other camp. You got business with me, finish it up because I’m leaving. I know if you give somebody contact information, they’ll invent some excuse to use it, if only to check if you answer. You must be blind to not notice how the bureaucracy often finds or invents problems based on what they have on file. It’s not a tenth as bad as Canada yet, but it’s getting there. Canadians, in the large picture, have this massively distorted viewpoint that “we’re all in this together” which totally disrespects democratic principles by intolerance of opposing stances. No, Jacques, “we” are not in anything together because you are nothing but a fucking retard.
But, like I said, the American system is getting the same. When we went to close the electric, there was fearsome pressure to find out where the service would be resumed. We said no, just send the final bill to our office address and they did not want to accept that. They, the power company, wanted my father’s social security number. That is so out of line, so wrong, but their attitude was that all these tidbits of information were no big deal. Really, no big deal? Then why do they insist? It always begins with a lite series of simple, individually unimportant questions.
You quickly learn what they are really sniffing for is the slightest hesitation on your part. The tiniest balk, and you'll find out how evil they are. Blink, and you must be up to something. I mean, what's the big deal if they get your blood type on file? Everybody else gives it and you are the first person to ever, ever complain. Soon, it will be Canadian, a system where even though it is not the business of the person you are dealing with, they are constantly checking to see if you are who you say and that your file is “up to date”. “Just in case.”
I’m testy about this because of my former job at the phone place. People who call you always want a call-back number, which is totally unprofessional and I liked to let them know it. I’d say I don’t know the number and put them on hold for five minutes, then give them the number on the bosses desk. So he was always aware of the number of useless callbacks. It’s part of the corporate game. Same with the people who want your name every time they call you. Remember Bambi? Big, fat, old Bambi? So fugly she had to tell men her tits were down there. And stoopid. I gave up trying describe how stoopid.
South Africa.
Note: this is no longer Wiki picture of the day, just picture of the day.
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Okay, contract signed, JZ on the way, and I should be out of here by late this afternoon. This took a little tiptoeing around and I don’t have the cash yet. But I saw it, and the guy put up a 25% deposit at the office to seal the deal. Right now, it’s morning coffee for me, I’ve been up six hours without caffeine. It’s un-American. I didn’t get my price because once again, cash talks and the guy had it in an envelope counted out.
True, the picture is out of focus, but I’m still not comfortable with that macro feature. This photo shows the van, not bad at all. I’ll try to get some pictures before we unload, but the red scooter really is inside this vehicle, ready to roll.
It required the usual hour to get out of the nonsense traffic on I-95 and 585, but we were on the trail well before dark. The new van runs smooth and trouble-free, I advised JZ to keep it instead of the more expensive truck he is planning for next month. We’re both exhausted, as the buyer decided at the last moment he wanted everything moved out of the trailer, including items that were bolted in place when I bought it. I had to remind him several times the meaning “as is”.
At 7:00PM we passed Clewiston, getting dark by the Crossroads. Around 8:00PM we were near Zoflo Springs, and 9:30PM found us unloading a lot of gear but not the scooter. JZ was astounded by how cleaned up the house was and the number of fans. Let me count. There are eleven fans not including the air conditioning. I failed to tell him this was temporary because it had the added effect that I can’t hear anybody talking in the next room. When I’m done, soundproofing will be just as effective.
Note this soundproofing is already partially completely and can take getting used to. JZ will talk down a hallway or from another room and presume you hear him. No, and when I’m done you won’t even know somebody is talking. It’s the way I think a house should be. Playing a radio in one room stays in one room.
We being with a photo to prove once and for all we really did shoehorn the red scooter into the van, along with tables, chairs, utensils, and thirty boxes of sundry items. No way this photo could be faked, not with my pot of rolling pins in the foreground. Yes, that’s my microwave table on top. This scooter does not leak gas when tipped. Moving my primary transportation to the cabin is your final confirmation that I’m out of South Florida, unlikely to ever return. For that matter, it is unlikely I would ever again have enough money to move back to Broward.
The only slow spot was Route 66, the Zolfo Springs turnoff, a 25 mile two-lane with mucho wildlife. That’s where I saw the turtle and the baby deer was on the road. There is a low government-issue fence along the roadside that all but the smallest creatures can leap. It is customary to slow down anyway.
We stopped for coffee in Ft. Meade which was crawling with police and sheriff squad cars. Must have been payday at the mines. As said, we just unloaded the perishables and headed for the new club. Which was packed, no place to sit for the first hour. JZ was eye-popping, I told you there is no way Miami women can begin to compete. It only takes the slightest imbalance from the 50/50 ratio change a town from skank city into a fashion show.
And according to City-Data, there are nearly 52 women for every 48 men in this immediate area. I’m beginning to recognize various women now and much of it is pretty tempting. The guitar player was an acoustic show. It was slow music, but he’s a thinking man who stayed well away from the over-played standards. If I played slow music, that is probably the type of program I’d follow.
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