February 13, 2019

Yesteryear
One year ago today: February 13, 2018, diet & rice, er, I mean race.
Five years ago today: February 13, 2014, meet George Yancy.
Nine years ago today: February 13, 2010, on tuition gouging.
Random years ago today: February 13, 2008, sigh, Tobacco Road.

           It’s barely noon and today has already been un-quiet enough to offset any recuperation I gained from y’day. Start with a 5:30AM with the radio blasting on. I forgot to turn it off, I guess, and Boss Hogg radio is back on the air. Back like nothing happened. Then shortly thereafter I get an automatic alert somebody is looking for me. The hack seemingly originates from Arizona, the alert being that they are using information that was current less than two years ago. About the time I canned my cardiologist over his office manager’s indiscretions. Then I bump into the local chatterbox at the coffeeshop. I can’t repeat the details, but I can say the fact that I’ve spurned advances from some of the local hussies is not lost to the gossipmongers.

           I finally found some paint stripper that works. The problem is it’s poisonous and can only be used outdoors. The rain precluded that, so here is a big chance for Durham’s Water Putty to strut its stuff. It took over 50 years, but I do have all the tools needed to repair old windows. It was some years ago already I decided not to replace the old wooden windows in this cabin. I’ve done a ton of homework and know the construction. Now to apply it in practice. I’ve decided to start on the bottoms and work up, first the interior because I’m expecting company.

           Next, JZ got on the line, we can’t yet figure out what all the knobs and attachments are on the radial arm saw. That means I’ll have to search and get fifty different wrong answers before something works. Then to discover that during the all-night rainstorm, I had left my car window open just wide enough to get my paperwork soaked. I’m strained to find any good news. Wait, here’s something. Remember the ten pounds of chicken quarters? I ran the cost of production through the now-standard hotdog profit formula and those margins are pretty intense. Enough to take a chance on.
           You bet, the hotdog cart is still parked and in perfect condition. The thing is, the inspection never did get scheduled. We got the certificate to operate, which normally arrives only after an inspection. This means we could just go ahead, since that puts us on about the same parameters as a dozen people we know that have never been inspected. Wait, there’s more. We also know that every one of the vendors is selling food they are not licensed for. It’s making sense why they are all so tight-lipped about the start-up procedures. Most of them probably don’t know.

           Anyway, from the production cost of the chicken quarter and the common price of $7, that’s quite a meal and quite a profit. I would not trust myself cooking chicken for resale, but I know plenty of people who would have no problem with all that. Then I get home and find all the coffee I have left in the place is some flavor of toasted coconut. What was I thinking? This pic shows the first lily that is starting to sprout.

           Coffee was cut short this morning because of a lady lawyer. My theory that says if a woman is married, she cannot talk five minutes without mentioning it. And she will mention it most the year before the divorce. There I am working the crosswords and five of them walk in. Three men, two ladies. One lady I think I’ve seen before and totally not my type, kind of looks like a small version of Mickey Roonie. Always dressed in black. She smiled at me several times, including one time walking backward through the lineup to get a refill so that she had to pass right by my table. Yuck. Over-applied lipstick. Did you know the average lady will swallow 40 pounds of lipstick in her life? This one’s done that in the last fiscal year.
           Anyway, it is the other lady who gets me goat. These type start by pretending to engage in conversation, but fifteen minutes later here’s what I know. She listens to you talk only because she knows her turn is next. Her husband’s name is Grant, also a lawyer. They’ve been married seven years. Both have been divorced before. She is 39 and has two kids. She wants another kid now. Because she’s 39. Yeah, right. Oh, did I already mention her age? That’s because she kept on about it. Her eldest kid is the smartest in the known universe, the second kid is bound for the Olympics, and the third will be President. It’s all mapped out, the only remaining challenge is getting the world to recognize these facts. She wore these beige-colored slacks that, while doing nothing for me, would drive the office party married men just wild. As she intended. That’s 39, my eye. The thighs say 46-47.

Picture of the day.
Far side of the Moon.
Remember to use BACK ARROW to return to blog.

           Cold spell number five. With no end in sight, here’s a photo of my bat-guano crazy pal. Yeah, same guy who visited here in, what was it, 2016? Anyway, his idea of fun remains putting on three pairs of long-johns and parkas, then using toboggans to print nuclear formulas in the snow at -33°C. See it? It says E=mc². Where can I go to un-see it? And where is his sense of perspective, you know, like those sidewalk chalk artists?

           Then, JZ wants information on how the diet it going. It isn’t, my weight has not changed much in months. All you can do in this limbo is keep pointed in the right direction. That’s done by severely restricting quantity of even “diet” food. In 2018 I consumed only 35 pounds of potatoes, which is more than 100 pounds less than average. He says I should sell the story but fact is, this blog is about as documented as it is likely to get. But I have an opinion why most diets fail. What works for me is when the pangs arrive, you distract yourself away from food—and you’d best get good and quick at this. You can’t just click another channel or change the topic. You must glom onto a topic that is powerful enough to completely occupy your mind and blot out the thought of food.
           So there is your answer. Most people cannot do that. I spent 15 years at a job that convinced me most people, particularly women people, live their entire lives in a state of nearly total self-absorption. No hobbies, no interests, no pursuits, just sitting there all day thinking of themselves and fantasizing and judging every event in the universe over how it makes them feel. Such a person cannot begin to defy their own urges and, in my opinion, are doomed to fail at most everything that involves delayed reward. If a lady cannot go five minutes without checking her make-up there is no way she’ll resist hunger cramps by getting distracted enough.

ADDENDUM

           I’ve found a way to avoid playing tunes with a lot of F chords, which I flub a lot. I capo up two or is it three frets and play the tune in A. I’ve got a premonition this time with the guitar, it will be different. One factor that supports that is I finally know that I can walk away from the bass for long periods without losing my touch. I’m by far not the only musician who watches for that. And here is my one-speed lying on its side. The association is with the last picture of the snowfields. In the same week in Florida, it rained enough for the ground to get soggy enough to topple my bike off the stand.
           Today, a first. I used the chop saw, not the radial arm, to make a perfect 45° angle cut. Seriously, I’ve never done that before. It is a step closer to doing my own window trim. I may actually use both saws now that I’ve discovered the window casing is not rectangular. When you slice it, the angle changes whether you butt the thick or the thin side against the saw guide. Laugh if you want, nobody ever showed me these things. Then again, I’ve laughed back at more people who laughed at me than most. It’s a strange world.

Last Laugh