One year ago today: April 5, 2016, real estate “bloom”.
Five years ago today: April 5, 2012, the cause of all violence.
Nine years ago today: April 5, 2008, some Boolean logic.
Random years ago today: April 5, 2013, it’s been leased.
Yes, I know most of you want more pictures of skinny women, but just you wait until April 10, when the Yesteryear tab links back to the most popular photo of this blog. I presume most of those viewers did not become regular readers, for reasons. The lady moved out of town. Anyway, here’s the promised photo of the Baltimore & Oriole brass fitting. This is as clean as it gets, even after an overnight soaking in solvent. The other objects in the picture involve pre-fabbing tie-down cleats for the motorcycles, and entirely common occurrence around here. Note the drilled pilot holes in even the gaskets. My specialty.
The first problem was the grit kept clogging up in the sprayer hose. Turns out the compressor had not been drained and the slightest moisture in the lines is enough to cause a stoppage. It seems the compressor had not been drained at all, even though I’d repeatedly asked about it. Sorry, then, all the articles I was supposed to blast this morning kind of will miss the Saturday sale, as I wasted most of the time chasing around to buy a line filter, a pressure regulator, and another in-line moisture trap. So that adds up to a half-hour of sandblasting and two hours of logistics.
To keep you interested, here is a picture of a for-real Civil War cannonball. There are many similar pieces in the pile but most do not bear any markings that would help place them to a specific year or event. We have glass panes, lanterns, candle molds, cinch straps, and small wooden boxes of unknown utility. None of these have been combed over to find any inscriptions yet. Why don’t you come over and we’ll put you to work.
There are no estimates of the number of prospectors in the USA, but some say any number would be fictitious because they don’t exactly get census takers in the wilderness. In most states, including Florida, small gold seekers are classified as treasure hunters and the laws are becoming more restrictive all the time, especially so near old Indian villages and off the coast where the state lays claim to any pirate ships for archeological value. That’s the value of the trinkets that are left after the state swipes the good stuff for private collections.
Ecuador.
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JZ has taken a keen interest in the gold operation, he does not listen when I say this is all speculation at this time. I guess he’s seen how rapidly things can surge once I turn on the taps. He’s also they type that is convinced others have incredible beginner’s luck on such ventures. I Iistened when he said to count him in to jump in the water and run the nozzle. I’ll definitely keep that in mind. The pump required has a centrifuge and seems to run up to 25% more expensive than the trash pumps just mentioned.
There was ranching in this area and no doubt saddlebags were common up to the 1920s. But that still makes these antiques or some classification of really old for these parts. These seem small, like barely enough room for a day’s grub. Too small, in fact, to be of any use on my motorcycle.
In another disturbing development, when I went put money on my phone, Sprint gave me the runaround. I was able to determine they were saying the system was down in a way that they could not take cash payments. Yes, I’m miffed because the reality is, they don’t hire staff trustworthy enough to deal in cash, and there is that ever-present pressure to switch to Sprint. The problem here is that if they don’t take payment, I have no phone service starting around noon today. I use the phone to confirm appointment times.
As usual these days, Sprint spends a huge chunk of effort to make sure if something goes wrong, it is never anybody’s fault that you can pin it on. That’s Millennial marketing. Those who haven’t the brain thrust to make any money spend their time calculating how to wiggle out of paying for their own mistakes. So if my carrier shuts off my service because Sprint can’t get their shit together, who gets stuck? In the end, that’s exactly what happened.
“My ex can’t post her love life on Twitter because
it involves more than 140 characters.”
I’m still reading “Peaches and Daddy”. I more captivated by the descriptions of the times than the plot. And I see the author is out to demonize Daddy, a more appropriate title might be, “Author Wanted Peaches for Himself”. Orphanages, in the early 1900s were going out of style in favor of adoption and it was common to see personal ads dealing in children. Thank goodness that has been done away with. It sounds inhumane, but the reality was times were so bad the best hope for many children was to be adopted by a family that could support them.
It’s still a tale of betrayal and adultery. It shows universally how incredibly difficult to impossible it is for any man, including one of means, be it spiritual, intellectual, or financial, to find a good woman over the age of twenty. Add educational or musical means to the list, because that doesn’t work either. Just as rich kids have every incentive in the world to believe in Santa Claus as long as possible, so do older women have motives in developing theories of “appropriate” dating ages. There are few more self-centered groups than older women over marriage issues.
In the book at this chapter, it is the late 1920s with that curious mix of Victorian stuffiness beginning to lose ground to reality. There’s lots I did not know or care about, so I’m learning. About how Americans went to Paris to get divorced, a fake passport made the bearer a spy, and good radios had sixteen tubes. The majority of all this naturally happened in the cities, so it was an era when being raised on the farm indeed had its advantages through isolation. At least until electricity brought that to an end. It was fun while it lasted, I was 19 before I dated a gal who wasn’t a, you-know, a type of forest.
What’s round-about neat is the hypocrisy. When Daddy earlier adopted a 16 year old girl, the press went haywire over the implications. But later, when it was revealed she had lied and was 21, she was not prosecuted either in the courts or in the newspapers. What’s round-about neat is the hypocrisy. When Daddy earlier adopted a 16 year old girl, the press went haywire over the implications. But later, when it was revealed she had lied and was 21, she was not prosecuted either in the courts or in the newspapers. You see, lying about one’s age to commit fraud is, in practice, only illegal when men do it. Because most judges are old men. So don’t go saying I’m the only one that picks on older women who lie about age when the whole damn country does it whenever they please.
ADDENDUM
I’ll stick my neck out again. How? Well, I’d say 90% of men out there, including Ken Sanchuk, are not going to believe what I did tonight. Or, worded better, what happened tonight. Like my brothers, they cannot possibly conceive of a situation where desperate assholes like themselves would turn down a piece of tail. They honestly think anybody who says so must be lying—and I’m about to say so.
I arrived at the club in a mood, mostly over these lame guitar players lately. A few regulars filtered in, and after I’d had three or four, this group of women showed up. They were wearing semi-formal skirts, which I looked at and thought “prom dresses”. So I leaned back into the book I was sketching with; they were not my type. Okay, the younger blonde one was my type, but she was not precocious, and I only like women that young who are precocious. That’s a fact.
The same blonde whisked past me a few times and I peripherally noticed she glanced backwards to see if I was watching her ass. I wasn’t. So imagine my surprise an hour later when one of them started shouting across the [otherwise quiet] room that I should join them and do shots (hard liquor drinks). You bet the barflies noticed. How, they were obviously thinking, does the one guy in the room who is writing in a book and ignoring the women be the one who gets them? Guys, it’s a gift.
I only smiled, because I’d earlier said to the new barmaid, you should hire me [as the entertainer] because I’m good at working the room. I don’t drink hard booze, so I wagged my finger at the middle gal and said I’d instead play them one song on the jukebox. One song. They lit up like wow.
Dang, the tune was not to be found. So I waltzed over to semi-apologize and asked if they would like to hear it anyway. The middle gal, again, not my choice, was enthralled. That’s the word, enthralled. So I did an a cappella version of “Tell Me Momma”, and to my surprise the middle gal recognized the chorus. Now, you cannot mistake the way I present that song, it’s one that took me “beyond emotionally” when I first heard it, and that’s the way I sing it when I do.
All three gals were captivated. The otherwise quiet bar of five or six men could see and hear the whole deal. When I got to the part about you got tomorrow and I’m yesterday, the pretty blonde one started to cry. I hugged her in the most “that’s okay” fashion I could muster and kept going. Hey, I’m a professional and crying is 100% okay. I did not hit on these gals, I thanked them for what they were saying and sat back down. A man can’t get nicer than that.
You see, part of my show involves breaking the ice for the whole room, not just myself. I was not on duty tonight but you should have seen the effect anyway. The half dozen barflies, suddenly flummoxed that there were now three receptive females right under their noses, started swarming. The otherwise silent jukebox swiftly held twenty credits, because if they didn't make some noise, that was letting me have everything my own way. No how, no more than my own brothers, could they let me get away with singing a second number, so into the slot went their juke box money. The bar staff, I’ve told you, always likes my show as much as the audience, but not always vice versa, so they had to leave the volume up loud.
There’s more. I know I’m in when the women react to my singing individually, rather than as a group. I know to cut it off now for maximum effect, I went back to my spot and sat down with book and pencil. This creates two secondary effects. One is that the other men in the room just saw me walk away and now they have to do something or let me have things all my own way. That is insufferable to most men. The other thing is I have to be careful because episodes like emphasize that I am intentionally not hitting on the older ones.
Sure enough, the other men predictably moved in for the kill, and all three women left.
[Author’s note: so, am I making this up? Or has this blog been right too many times to ignore? Sure, I could be lying about the whole thing. But that would credit me with an incredible imagination. The fact of the matter is, my critics simply have to, for their own sanity, insist that I’m lying.]
Last Laugh
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