One year ago today: September 4, 2015, too tiny a minority.
Five years ago today: September 4, 2011, the Lusitania hoax.
Nine years ago today: September 4, 2007, opening night, Boston Johnnys.
Random years ago today: September 4, 2012, at the continental divide.
MORNING
A meeting of the robot club commando supremo, which these days consists of me, has decided to go for an electric stapler. (And just as quickly decided against it.) This being the first month in years I have not had to put something ($$$) away, so think of it as a distinguished service award. Hey, when you get right down to it, not many people can save up money consistently for 20 months in a row and buy a house. Who knows, I may even take the batbike for a sprint later today.
[Author’s note: See, Mrs. Taschuk, I used “fraught” in a sentence. So there.]
I ran the batbike for ten minutes and talked to Howie. He’s got this excellent wagon that he built himself. It’s even painted nicer than my cPod, and I thought I could paint. In the quasi-immortal words of Redfish, “Why is my life so much harder than everybody else’s?”
And notably something happened this morning that has not been done in thirty years. Without looking up to see who it is, I yelled, “Door’s open.”
Am I adapting to country living or what?
Maybe I should have held off on that question until the morning was over. I fired up the batbike and let it idle while I raked the yard. I shut it down just ask Howie, the neighbor began working in his yard. Not to be outdone, I was at if for three hours. That’s more yard work than I do in two years. Raked the entire front yard, which resulted in only one bag of leaves. Er, a very large bag, you know, the 33 gallon. Now, I’m tired. Take my word.
There were also those purple bushes along the south kitchen. After much thought, I decided to take them down and leave one bush out near the corner. I like purple flowers but these were causing allergic reactions, though they did not bother me. Howie saw me start to tackle the job, drove over on his tractor and pow, done in two minutes. Now if only they could invent a power rake . . .
And the first bird to visit my feeder was a crow. It dive-bombed the unit, to see if it could be dislodged and knocked to the ground. No, but at least the guy tried. I’ve got it positioned so any movement at all will catch my eye and he only tried once. So he’s smart, too. Next, I got a phone message from across the river (Mississippi) indicating everything is in good order, so right now, I’m going shopping.
Downspout.
Remember to use BACK ARROW to return to blog.
NOON
Somebody get Frank on the blower. I just came out of the supermart where I found toothpicks priced at over 1 cent each. Tell him we just made another $10,000 and it’s sitting in my back yard. Look for yourself, $2.19 for 200 picks. I happen to be a bit of an expert on the price of toothpicks and I could not believe this when I saw it. That’s, if I recall, 14 times the price I paid for them in 2002 and here I’ve been investing in silver! Jeeze, what a schmuck.
What I decided to go with was another manual stapler. I figured there was no guarantee that an electric would not suffer the same damn problem, that is unavailability of the cartridges. So I bought one that uses the most common staple found on the shelves at Wal*Mart and Lowe’s, that is T50 style. Stick around and I’ll get you a picture.
Today was a blast from the past because I have not really shopped for a household since late last century. A professional renter, that’s what I was. And the trailer court I lived in to save the cash for this place took care of the property and such. Now I had to shell out $9 for garbage bags, the heavy duty kind I can chop up tree branches and such.
Why? Because there are a lot of wind storms in this spot, or at least they’ve been pretty consistent since I’ve been around. Oak trees tend to drop weak branches and in some cases, entire limbs. Since I have twice as many oak trees as anyone else on the block, I should consider a better solution than picking up the branches and sawing them to the 8” length required by the pickup service. I notice my entire front area, where I would put either a lawn or a circular driveway, has been taken over by this plant.
It being a quiet Sunday, I thought I’d have a sit-down coffee at McD’s. But you know, that’s twice I’ve had coffee at this outlet and it was not very good. It’s too weak, but I not going to say anything until I know it is a pattern. Next I visited the Radio Shack to find out it is your basic toy outlet. It has almost zero for electronics and about the same rating for knowledgeable staff.
AFTERNOON
Then having the time, I calculated the true cost of rechargeable lithiums for my camera. Remember, we did this exercise before, how keeping a stock of recharged units at the ready very quickly triples the estimate you had in mind. You need three sets of batteries, and if you are wise you will purchase the charger that can get the next set ready in less time than it takes your camera to discharge the active set. In some cases, I’ve gotten as little as three pictures from a fresh set of batteries on the Vivitar.
During this process, I was reminded of the fundamental differences of my work habits contrasted with most. We’ve all worked with those who do not know what tool they need until they need it. Right, Wallace? I’m not like that. I have a pretty good idea which tools I will need between now and late tomorrow afternoon, so work doesn’t have to come to a standstill while somebody goes fetch the Philips. Right, Agt. M?
Same with batteries. It took me a while to figure out others were often leaving certain projects aside until they had access to my system. This time, I plan to use nickel hydride, with a 15 hour charging time on my standard charger. I’ll have two sets of batteries, which are sold in fours, which figures. But I can test to see if I get away with out buying a third set or the rapid charger.
Instead of lingering, I put in a couple more hours on the floor. I’m behind schedule, but only a bit because of the truck disappearance. I can’t really expect JZ to be here while he’s still buying tools of his own. He said he might show, but I haven’t heard from the dood and his phone goes direct to voicemail. Which reminds me to call the few people who need to know that I moved. I’m telling them if they are within a hundred miles, to please drop in and let me show off the premises.
I’m even considering doing a drive around movie of the area to document what I’m talking about. It is like a classical southern movie setting, every street has at least one dream house. By comparison, I got the servant’s quarters, but hey, it’s still miles ahead of the shack I grew up in. You know, when I think about it, didn’t my parents say they paid $8,000 for that shack back then? That’s the place where we finally moved to the last house on the edge of town.
And that move was not out of consideration of the kids growing up. It was because the farm was such a failure, both my parents had day jobs over the winter in town and snowdrifts made it too tough to commute by road. This was the place where I coined the phrase, “Why can’t we have nothing in California?”
NIGHT
Here’s the gooseberries and whipped with a sprinkle of nutmeg. No, not Cool Whip, which contains HFCS, a poison not normally allowed on my premises. Okay, it isn’t poison, so call it an addictive substance. Anyway, that is the last of the Columbian gooseberries so you are too late.
I decided against a run up to Zephyrhills. Talking with a few locals who said it is a nothing town with a moto-cross on Saturdays, they suggested leave it until I have some other reason to pass through. I’ll take that advice.
Still, it is coming along and I now have a system. One complication was that the room always had to contain a bed and space for the tools. Along with shifting the plywood around, I’ve moved that bed around six times, four of them by myself. Half the room, when completed, is destined to be storage and shelving until the remainder of the house is renovated. That was always the original plan—to live in one half while working the other.
ADDENDUM
I still cannot find the box with my antennas so the only station my Kenwood picks up clearly at night is Fort Meade. The good news is it is pre-Millennial rock, the real deal. There are certain giveaways, like a real rock beat instead of some tribal bongo sound. And real vocals instead of electro-harmonies. And of course, back then, the fixation of teen males was teen females which is the way it was intended. And rock musicians scored, they didn’t have to crow on about chronic masturbation. I don’t mean anything, you bunch of pansies, I’m just sayin’.
I gave a good listen to the music since a lot of it I only listened to marginally in my teens and twenties. This is the era where I listened to less and less rock over time, as I said, I grew up and rock didn’t. Now, I’m not saying it was bad music, in fact some of it is unbelievably slick. The studio work is incredible but around 1980, I felt rock had gone into a routine, much like country music has today.
Somebody sat down and memorized the country clichés and began packing them into endless strings of cookie-cutter albums. No more singles, you had to shell out twenty beans for the platter or CD to get one or two hits—there’s your real explanation for music piracy right there. I cannot tell most of the songs apart and barely recognize the difference between Eagles hits until the vocals begin.
That process should make sense to a lot of you. When music is mass generated like that, of course it all sounds the same. I noticed it with rock music in 1980 and country music in 2000. The music is now rarely unique enough to spot what song is playing on a single note. (I can do that with most 60s & 70s tunes.) Of course, back then I knew the philosophy that says people always like best the music they grew up with, but I was still growing up when I spotted this. Hence, I never really was into a lot of 80s rock bands. Too cliché.
However, Ft. Meade is spiced with just enough of the more distinctive numbers that I’ll stay listening. Not that I care for “Jackie & Dianne” or “Heat of the Moment”, but at least the station draws the line at indie material. Recording companies may not be everybody’s cup of tea but they do a reasonable job of sifting out the cuckoos. Psst, that’s you, Randy. (Randy’s the name of that “furry” little guitar player from Sunrise who’s been posting the same ad on Craigslist fifty-some times a month since time immemorial. The ad that says you must be a fast learner, because Randy has already got everything he’s going to play down pat. Since 1980.)
Last Laugh
Return Home
++++++++++++++++++++++++++
