One year ago today: June 1, 2017, your phone number is ID.
Five years ago today: June 1, 2013, move into a trailer.
Nine years ago today: June 1, 2009, shift work is for losers.
Random years ago today: June 1, 2007, private companies / public records.
Chores, that’s what today meant. Will I grow old and die before I ever have a chance to have any fun? From dawn to 11:00AM before I sat down for coffee. But that made my day. Who recalls that little sexpot that was in the coffee shop whose mother practically had to tackle her? She was in there again and I must say . . . what? Okay, I can’t say that. There might be a law. She was looking at me again, but had obviously gotten a talking to. But read on, I may have another guitar player, which I’ve said for the 52nd time at least.
Shown here, that mesh that’s come apart between the bindings is called a mull. The decision here is whether the book is worth repairing. Even with volunteer help, it may be cheaper to replace. I’ve read a few articles on bookbinding and printing, so I recognized many of the clamps and presses. The trade has a whole array of specialized tapes, glues, and materials that are manufactured especially for work with books. The ordinary brands variously contain acids, yellow with age, go brittle, and break the number one repair rule, which seems to be never do anything you can’t reverse. Makes sense to me.
I got a call from Jimmy, the guitar player. Turns out he may not have heard the jam a year ago, but heard about it. We are getting together Saturday afternoon, he’s convinced we are the ideal two-piece. I’m hesitant, which may get you wondering. You see, there is that hint in his conversation that he may think he’s found his model bassist. For instance, he wants to bring his electric guitar even after I twice asked him why. For a different sound, he says. Lordy knows I’ve tried for decades and know that electric is not right for my show. But, everybody gets a chance.
He’s also in a subdivision 35 miles from here, the other side of Davenport. I have to make a cash run so the extra 24 miles is okay, but this duo would really have to pull down some serious bucks for me to make that 70 mile round trip on a regular basis. Meanwhile, the music room is nearing habitability so maybe we can alternate the long trip. Finally, by mid-afternoon, I got a chance to have my noon coffee. What’s this, robo-call telemarketing is on the rise? Told you, politicians keep trying to solve the wrong problem. The answer is to target the businesses that hire them.
And the food service types are planning a big anti-robotics strike. Good, they are merely hastening their own demise. They have got to be the most arrogant class of all America’s unskilled laborers. Everything from demanding “respect” to $15 per hour, and now these drop-outs want job security? They are going to get their asses run out of town. Boeing announces it will beat everybody to Mars. I thought they’ve been on the verge of bankruptcy for the past 25 years. And frankly, I’m sick and tired of all this Korea hype. It’s all contrived, the Koreans live like cave men in a permanent state of semi-starvation. Anybody who thinks they are a threat to the USA has rocks for brains.
Did you hear about the Korean who sideswiped the mayor’s car? The only eye-witness couldn’t identify his mugshots, but told the police not to panic. He overheard the Korean’s first name. It was “Kim”.
A peek at $5 million.
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To my dismay, another minor task has entered it’s second full day. The bathroom fan. Nothing too difficult, except everything started going wrong. There were not studs in the correct places to brace the cage, shown here. But there was one directly in the way when cut the exhaust hole through the exterior wall. This assembly is to hold the fan motor and it is much stronger than really required. You may notice a couple of small sticks on the front edges. These are for support and are temporary. I don’t want a bunch of small backing strips in my way while I put in the wiring and ductwork.
Instead, I began reading a book, “Big Wheat”. It’s depressing as hell, it’s about this man who lives at home until he is 23 and finally stabs his sadistic father in the hand. He runs away to follow the wheat harvest, this was in the days immediately before combines appeared. Harvest time was a social event, not unlike rodeos and roundups without all the good, clean fun. The tale intertwines with a serial killer, of which I’m convinced there were far more than ever reported out on the wild prairies.
The book has accurate descriptions of assorted farm machinery before combines made their big appearance. The crops were still fed by hand into threshing machines and other contraptions run by a pulley belt off a steam tractor. I’ve done this kind of back-breaking work and personally hate it and think little of people who say it is an honest living. Nonsense. They are thinking of the cute family farm concept, but these machines were for harvesting cash crops, another situation entirely. Allow me to tell you the truth about “gentlemen farmers”.
By and large, they were notoriously ill-educated louts. Often it was some second generation lunk-head who got his hands on a free section (160 acres) through inheritance or a shot-gun wedding. Only those with land titles could get loans for risky ventures like farming, so these sadists arrived with an attitude. The government guaranteed crop prices, so these drop-outs with no concept of machinery maintenance, down-time, spare parts, or economic basics had one and only one brain cell about running an operation. It was to feed the machine full blast every waking hour until it broke down. Them greedy bastards would work their neighbor’s sons to death if they could get away with it.
They were so ignorant, they rarely stopped the machines for proper oiling or rest. All repairs were makeshift. This stupidity continued until something irreparable broke, usually intermal parts like a planetary gear. Then he’d stomp around like the half-ape he was wailing about losing money. And if you were on the crew the year of the final breakdown, good luck thinking you would ever get paid. Or the bastard would say the pay was all the food you ate, which was supposed to be free with the work. The term “gentlemen farmer” is a delusion of people who’ve never seen or smelled one up close.
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