May 3, 2019

Yesteryear
One year ago today: May 3, 2018, more attic work.
Five years ago today: May 3, 2014, wasting time at NOVA.
Nine years ago today: May 3, 2010, now that’s a bass tab.
Random years ago today: May 3, 2013, the original ROM plans.

           Life happens in batches. Trying to smooth things out is not an option. Unless you want to become a hermit, maybe. So, today has a gossip-style component, and for good reasons. Those reasons being they were predicted long ago. I get to say, “I told you so”, by indirectly referring to earlier events, which creates a truly smug sense of satisfaction. Are you with me on that? Get ready for lots of reading today, in fact, go get another coffee and sit back down. I’m feeling ornery. Top story of the morning is I have Agt. R’s posthole digger. It’s entirely possible he thinks he’s getting it back. It’s a heavy duty model and needs fixing and painting. It’s only 11 postholes but age-related facts say plan on it taking more than a few days.

           First, Agt. R is back at the old club. They finally concluded they weren’t making any money without him there. They could have asked me, but they didn’t. Anyway, even on the off nights, like Wednesdays, he is already outselling the weekends. There is good cause why many bars don’t have female servers, and it is an economic matter, not sex discrimination. The old club is a place where people expect service, and that is defined by Agt. R. The women they hire mean well, by and large, but wagging your ass when some guy who knows he doesn’t stand a chance is not the same as having his next drink slapped down on spec. Argue that one at your own peril.

           They practically begged him back. Ah, now it enters a new phase, something that was not there before. Here’s a bad pun, but boil it down to hotdogs. When the mortgage trouble began, it’s because there was no plan. Now, there is a major plan, and it involves taking advantage of every situation, which would include something like returning to the club. I do it with music, so it is an easy conversion to “mining” the club. Don’t get me wrong, the club still exceeds their margins when Agt. R is at the helm, but he now gets his fair share as well—and it is monitored to the third decimal point.
           The club is not easy money, any more than music if you calculate the unpaid hours of practice. I’m saying, things have changed. He’s vastly better at knowing what counts. And that means tips are king, which I know a bit about. A quick post on Facebook brought 86 hits tonight when only three people were present. And on a $188 ring-out, he pulled in $42 in tips. You bet my system is alert to exactly how to make that pay off—am I not the guy who retired from the phone company at 41? I’m concerned that this pace can cause burnout, but until that happens, might as well keep going. One potential glitch is that this is a small town and after that mortgage payout, an awful lot of people know we are acting as a team. In case you are wondering, the picture is a Texas chicken pie, the kind you can’t buy. Just you look at how delicate-even that crust is right to the edges.
           I dropped off a revised mortgage schedule in which showed how to pay off the loan in 52 months.

           Now more than ever, that hotdog cart make sense. It’s not work when and if you want, don’t go there, but it lets you select the opportunities that suit your situation. Did I say that right? You get to put up with your own nonsense instead of somebody else’s. There, I finally said it. And while you are here, let me say a few words about my blog posting. I’m in the middle of an adjustment period, so things are sporadic. The end result is likely to be Internet service here, which makes posting easier. Meanwhile, things are as you always suspected—blog posts are not a priority, just more like a pseudo-habit. You know, there are now more than 5,000 daily posts. In the long run, that will count for something.
           Put another way, the millennial golden boy, Zuckerburg, is learning the Hunt Brother’s lesson, that even if you’ve done nothing wrong, the establishment doesn’t like upstarts. America can and will invent the crime you are guilty of. That motion seconded by Shkreli. I’m wondering if, when old Zuckerburg hits the skids, will he even be capable of writing 5,000 anythings? Like, what else is a drop-out going to do?

           It was Texas chicken pie day, it’s in the oven as we speak. Um, 32 more minutes. This time instead of flour, I used half chicken stuffing. The spicy brand. You mix it up ahead and throw it in the fridge for the spices to mingle. Careful control of the ingredients and it is not fattening, I should add. Around here, it is often the only meal of the day. I ran into Charla last day in Winter Haven. She’s moved to the house beside the club and wonders why people don’t drop by like they used to. I thought it would help if she told people she’s moved. She’s not my type, but I can say if you show up with a pie ready to bake and explain your oven is on the blink, it gets you a certain hour alone in the house with most ladies, presuming it takes 15 minutes for the oven to pre-heat and other preliminaries. Nothin’ spells lovin’ like somethin’ in the oven.

Picture of the day.
Eastern Ukraine.
Remember to use BACK ARROW to return to blog.

           We have a potential data breach, meaning tomorrow all passwords will change and my designation will no longer be Agent O. For those who think nicknames in the Robot Club are overkill, I advise you to read the regulations concerning the formation of clubs and organizations. Have you read them? I have. And I prefer a club where if I’m strong-armed into ratting on anybody, I can honestly say I have no idea who they actually are. It’s a concept with a lot of merit.

           Later, things moved on over to the nearest place with WiFi, or I should say places. I fired off some e-mails to people and places I know are agonizingly humdrum. It’s not like excitement seeks you out, but we are here dealing with the adoptation of a turtle. I’m a cookie-dunking guy taking on a new area of responsibility. Is there more to this than meets the eye? We’ll see when the turtle arrives. Meanwhile, here is a picture of the posthole digger. Heavy duty.

           Is the purple flower a liatris? According to my manual, no. The flowers open top town and mine were the opposite. Also, it advises to stake the flowers. What’s with that, I mean if that’s so, how do they grow in the wild? Do Santa’s elves come by off-season with armloads of little bamboo rods? I’m keeping a close eye on the turtle wildflowers, yanking up anything that grows too fast. The shoots look identical to me, so here’s where a little conformity actually works. Let me go check that pie. Looking good. I stocked up on 36 gallons of peach tea mix and you know, it’s getting harder to find regular coffee. These millennials don’t realize they are being fed chemicals. It’s no longer good enough to eat something with a couple of ingredients. Now it has to be chocolate-hazelnut-pumpkin with sprinkles. Well, that’s because you are eating flavorings, not food. You morons don’t know the real thing any more.

ADDENDUM
           We finally have contact with Miami, and more details on the amputation. What, I didn’t mention the leg? Well, here’s why. I advised JZ not to do a thing until he sees the stump. Yep, his ex-whatever was on the phone telling him she was bitten by a snake. Now, hold on, haven’t we heard this one before? She knows some guy with a pet snake and wasn’t it her hand last time? Just watch, she is going to need $5,000 to save the leg. So JZ, keep your money. Wait, there’s more.

           Around a year ago she kind of disappeared. It would seem some money did come through. She’s been mentioning a $40,000 inheritance for some time. Yeah, for her, supplemented by welfare, food stamps, subsidized housing, and what she makes dating married men, a year would seem right to lose that much. I’m guessing, but that would explain both the silence and its duration. I do not like that woman. Shouldn’t she be asking the snake boy for the money? And I’d like to hear the explanation of what she was doing at the time. That should be a good one.

           Now, I told him about the arrangement in Tennessee, but he still wants to head up there. He’s got cousins in the area, though if I recall, he said Kentucky, the bipolar state. He could probably crash for a few days, but that nosy neighbor has already caused a few unwanted crumbs. What, I didn’t mention heading back to Tennessee? Well, doggonit, leave some comments. This is a journal of what happens, and lots of things ain’t happened yet.
           I told you about the sole daffodil that took root? Here it is, where I’m pointing, and it is mighty anemic. This is the front area that gets great morning sun and well-lit afternoon shade. You can see everything around it is thriving. I dug up a couple others where I’d marked the spots and the bulbs are sending out roots. So later this year or next summer, we might see some Tennessee flowers yet.

           Coincidence? I’ve described the dividing line between old boomers and new boomers. This afternoon I threw on a DVD “Inventing the Abbotts”. It hits exactly on the dividing line to which I refer. My older sister was that do-as-you’re-told crowd, I rejected all of it. I was only mildly disrespectful compared to the greaseballs of the day, the Jimmy Dean crowd. I highly identified with the movie because, and this sounds strange to some, I was surrounded by men who were like the guys in the movie, except they never scored. The things they tried were identical, but to hear them talk, the results were not forthcoming.
           Anyway, the movie is not about that, it is the old coming-of-age theme at a time when that was delayed until the late teens. (At least that’s what I heard, since I was playing in a band since age 12 and I thought all the guys were lying about how difficult it was.) That generation ahead of me was a strange bunch. Born and raised to be hypocrites. None of them waited until they were married, but they all pretended to. And the advice they dished out was equally flawed. It makes sense to me how they raised their own kids to be automatons. Liberal in public, redneck in private—the Democrat’s ideal voter, one who wastes his ballot because he wants to look good to his own kind. They vote for more welfare, and don’t care who has to pick up the tab. Worthless scum.

Last Laugh