One year ago today: March 10, 2016, an old liberal theme.
Five years ago today: March 10, 2012, the last duo gig.
Nine years ago today: March 10, 2008, the aggragate curve.
Random years ago today: March 10, 2001, crop circles and tax cuts.
This morning we had a serious windstorm, you bet I went into the bedroom to check things out. What a difference. The wind howl is gone—and no, Sally, it is not a romantic sound once the air speed gets over 30 mph. There is also the effect of leaves and debris that get blown against the siding, but inside, it is barely perceptible. It was down below 60°F last evening, but the bare floor was pleasant to walk on. And of course, it passed the candle flicker test. I can’t wait to move into my new bedroom, so watch for that drywall shortly.
Ha, ha, I just got that. A “cropped” photo. Get it, Ken? Crop? Never mind, go watch your cable sports. You must be what, pushing 60 by now? Everybody knows that babes just love aging, balding jocks with the attention span of a deaf chicken.
To keep things updated, I revised and update my Dead List this morning. That’s the instructions to my people of who to contact when I kick off. Hopefully, that won’t be until the 2040s, but you know. I do drive a motorcycle. This gets mentioned because many of these people are on my mailing list, and one of the recipients, I claim to be unique. You see, although I can basically understand my old math professor’s language, I cannot write it. So here’s your unusual item for today. I often write to him in phonetics. These are just nonsense phrases, but it looks something like this:
Ya habibi, yabnel metnyekka. Ai-wallah, fain teshterrel? Bozazz methla romon, tee-ezz methla shemamah. Al-bent de de sharrmoota, nick teh-heh? Nim-shee ala raseef, arr-hamnee-uh. Wuh-hud itneen tellatta arr-bah, xhumseh. Hazaah si-yeed, yabnel weska.
Eleven forward gears.
Remember to use BACK ARROW to return to blog.
That visit to the museum last day invoked other memories, some of which I may record here. I’ll take that liberty since it’s my blog. I had strong recollections of how my paper route distanced me from my siblings. I was more than once shall we say “persuaded” to divide my route in half and give it to one of them. They invariably failed and I got the customers back. I single-handedly had the routes north and south of the tracks, but the real element at work here was that by the age of eight, I had something none of the others had. Money of my own and some experience spending it.
Small amounts as it was, I could save without anybody catching on. That’s another tale from the trailer court, however, that every time I did save anything, it was stolen by my father, he even managed to clean out my bank account by telling the banker I was “underage”. “We’ll pay you back, little by little,” he’d say, as if my money was stolen for the common cause. What’s this little by little crap? I never did see that money again. I had to laugh when I read (MSN) that boomers today are, on average, having to support each of their Millennial offspring to the tune of $10,100 per year. What a joke that is for people who claimed to be better and righter than the rest of us. Serves them right.
[Author’s note: this means, folks, that no matter what side you take on such “family” matters, in the end my parents stole much more cash money from me than I ever got back from them. And no, you have never heard of such a thing before, so don’t go there with me or I’ll call you on that bullshit. You want some real numbers? Okay, my parents stole a total of $46 from me, and believe you me, my parents never, ever gave me no $46 cash, ever. Not even close, or put another way, maybe in your fucking dreams.]
However, and this may begin to make sense to a few who know me, it meant that by the ripe old age of ten, I had already solidly learned BOTH the tactics and wisdom of concealing assets. Oh, I was a quick learner, for I also picked up on only investing in those things which cannot be easily partitioned. One cannot be compelled to give half an education, or half a music lesson, to some puke little brother who whines long enough. Now don’t any cute types out there go concluding this was some clever reverse psychology ploy by my parents. Not only did none of the others follow suit, wherever it was found out I was deliberately choosing such paths, the gain was either destroyed or prohibited. You can only keep a secret so long in a small town—and one might note we kept moving to smaller and smaller towns.
I dropped in to visit Agt. R, but nobody was home. He’s got a virtual museum of farm history in his back yard, which is about three times the size of my entire property. Here’s an authentic horse drawn plough (that's "plough" because plow is a verb) beside his house. Millennials, that’s the green curved thing with the two wooden handles. I checked out the availability of Black Kow, the manure based soil additive. I found out that improving soil is technically called “amending” but I’ve never heard it in use. I was able to determine my soil is lacking clay, which explains why the water puddles and runs off instead of sinking.
Twenty years ago I’d agree with you there was not that much work this week. But I’m still tired, and I recognize this brand of tired from my years at the corporation. Even if the week went well and work was light, at the end of the week you were tired. If you went out at all, it was straight to the local pub after work. And it is only years later when you withdraw from that environment that you realize the connection was the job stress level. You were always pressured to believe that others who didn’t handle it as well were the natural losers who couldn’t cut anything.
That’s the job where I concluded nearly a third of my take-home pay was going right back into the cost of having the job. You spent that money in ways you would not have to be able to show up. You needed a car because of forced transfers, you needed work clothes even if it was casual slacks, you paid higher rent to either live closer to the jobsite or to public transportation. I wish back then I’d known I could buy a little cabin in Florida for three months pay. But it took nearly 50 hours per week of your total time to put in the 40 hours at the office. So come Friday, it was down to the local pub. Who had time to get over there for a look-see?
“Always give it 100% unless you are donating blood.”
Nowadays, I head for the library instead. Even with the counterweights, these wooden windows can be a chore to open. They never seem to glide properly and the trick of raising them exactly parallel in the tracks has to be learned. I don’t believe that’s the way they were designed to work. There’s a natural progression for you. As soon as I get all the windows to work, I start aiming to make them work perfectly. Of course, I’d rather be out on the town, up on stage, hitting on the prettiest of the women. But such venues become rare and if you are the least bit picky after age 40, well, you know the tale from the trailer court.
So I decided to read the local dating ads again. Test the water. As usual, the ads fall into distinct categories. Women who say what they want. Women who say what they are. Women who say what they do. And the usual contingent who are “tired of the dating scene” probably because they approach writing their ads with the same attitude as they exhibit at the saloon. You quickly eliminate the fat ones (bbw), the single mothers (my kids are number one), and the ethnics (open to dating other cultures).
The ones I consider trouble looking for a place to happen are the married women who want to date, “hubby gives permission”. Yeah, you take her all the places he’s too cheap to. Or the women over 50 who have incredible expectations. “Must be tall, handsome, rich, and sensitive.” Ha, you think I’m fussy. At least I don’t ask for anything I can’t give in return. I just have the unfortunate situation of liking the very type of woman that 99% of other men like. When it gets down to it, all I really want is a woman who is attractive, pays her own bills, has really called it off with her exes, and leaves my stuff alone.
Ah, I heard that. A woman that pays her own bills, why, I must be a cheap bastard myself. Or, maybe it is because unless you insist she carry her own weight, you will always wind up with some kind of leech out to bleed you dry. That’s also why I’ve rarely dated a girl who didn’t have her own car. I read the top 20 ads without seeing anything that interested me. That got me thinking, what kind of ad would I respond to? Something along these lines:
“Educated, independent, own career, no kids, seeks a gentleman for companionship to start. Musically talented, naturally curious, well-read, own home. Traveled, HWP, light blue eyes, Christian but not a church-goer, prefers a quiet home life, though will party out. Well-mannered, presentable, extrovert with zero bad habits. Great cook, too many hobbies and interests to list. Looking for a mate with comparable life experiences to share quality time.”
If I saw an ad like that, I’d jump on it. But a woman who has any of those qualities would not need to put up an ad, would she now? Actually, I fooled you. That is my old ad with the gender changed. All the replies I got were hookers and gold-diggers. And you’d think stating my eye color would get rid of the riff-raff? Wrong.
ADDENDUM
“Altar of Eden” is finally picking up. So is that author’s inclination to prove he researched some, so get ready for big words and unaccustomed terms. The extra genes have become “aberrations” and the spots on the brain scans have become a “richer synaptic environment”. I have a suggestion for contemporary writers. Quit trying to impress us with computer specs. That field is still evolving and where you think a 30” computer is a big deal in 2010, not so very soon thereafterward.
They are in the lab, dissecting and finding embedded chips. You just know it’s a classy operation because it doesn’t have exits, it has “egg-zits”. This is the point in the book where they begin to suspect the parrot is not just reciting, but is calculating. I’ve heard that phrase before but can’t place it. You, help me out on this. They keep asking the parrot, “Igor, what is pi?”
Can you tell me about this? Is it some TV catchphrase or a meme? Igor, what is pi? Squawk, Igor, what is pi?
Last Laugh
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