One year ago today: July 22, 2018, nothing, but nothing.
Five years ago today: July 22, 2014, the roll-out, Mark II.
Nine years ago today: July 22, 2010, but Karaoke bores me . . .
Random years ago today: July 22, 2015, the Heikendorf Panther.
Back in the pit, but today is a turning point with the bathroom. We should have it ready by the weekend. I was disappointed I couldn’t have Ray-B or Trent crash because the floor is torn up. My fault. I want to relocate that laundry area as mentioned. See, that’s why I left 8 to 12 feet of slack in each cable, all in two-foot diameter rolls so no crimps. Once again, local rainstorms allows only Tampa radio to burn through. I keep hearing next weekend, then next weekend about throwing out the million illegals who have already been ordered to get lost. Trump is thinking. Obama used the IRS as a weapon, Trump may do the same with the census.
Anyway, the row over the census is because, and not many people know this, the American census people have the authority, if you don’t answer their questionnaire, to enter your house by force and not leave until every person there is identified and on file. There are people in jail for not answering the census. Most people just lie because after every census, taxes go up, be it income tax, sales tax, or property tax. Myself, I think I’ll play catch with Binky, shown here. Just a puppy.
Three hours, but I have the problem fixed. It’s an easy problem to say, the cold water supply was connected with a reducing elbow that had to be replace by a reducing tee. Much grime and mud later, it’s done and I’m fitting the first piece of drywall in place. It’s the tricky one, for me. It has all the cutouts for the plumbing pieces and I never get it right the first time. Boss Hogg was playing so much jazz-like hooey, I switched to the business channel. The speakers profess to be experts, but they mispronounce so many words, and get so many basics wrong that I listen to it for light comedy.
Another outfit that has gone downhill totally is the History Channel. Ah, but I don’t watch TV. Right, I hear the commercials all the time in coffee shops, stores, pubs, and waiting rooms. Since I used to like the History Channel, it always gets my attention. I don’t have to watch the programming to know you can’t make a one-hour broadcast of weak material without adding an unacceptable amount of filler. Or the one that has vets saying things like they shot 50 Nazis. How do they know, were the enemy soldiers carrying membership cards? But the German snipers were “fanatics” who shot innocent American farm boys. I changed the channel at noon.
Here’s a nice view of a second story breezeway at the Polytech. It was Sunday, but there were maybe five student types in the entire complex. In the background you can see the residences. Or apartments. Student’s these days don’t rough it any more. When I was in university, there were 32 men per wing per floor. Luckily, I wound up with the only private room on a co-ed residence. It must be some skin-flint Englishman that designed dormitories for students two in a room. Because when the roomies had a fight, my spare bunk was the only place they could get a good night’s sleep.
The main building was notable for having no food service. Not even vending machines. We were told there were cafeterias and coffee shops over in the residence complex. But that’s quite a hike for a snack between lectures. The lampposts along the walkways apparently have WiFi antennas. And the grounds have “smart lighting”, but nobody around that day was smart enough to tell us what that meant. Here’s my guess on how a millennial would make a light smart. The light would only come on if it was dark and if somebody was walking nearby. True, there’s nothing new about that, but you see, these lights start flashing when it detects a woman’s voice yelling, “Date rape!”
All seventeen instances last week were false alarms. Just fat uglies at frat parties who felt they weren’t being treated equally. And good ole Jacoby, over in primate studies, his intonation is regularly mistaken for soprano when he crosses the parking lot near the football field.
Brit jazz band.
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I thought that fossil Bernie Saunders crawled in a hole after he embarrassed himself at the polls. I guess not, he’s still at it, but wait until you hear why he’s in the news. Old Bernie is trying the old Wilson-Roosevelt con of get elected by promising everybody everything and then do as you please. Start wars, or join any already in progress. His strategy fails because in total there aren’t enough young, unsuspecting voters to believe his lies, he’s preaching to a minority. For students, free tuition, for workers, $15 an hour, and so on. He’s behind the bill to mandate that $15 per hour wage, but guess what? His staff is protesting. Apparently when it’s his own money, he pays the old minimum.
Fortunately that joker isn’t fooling anybody. His big problem is now he has to stick with it, because if he fails, he’s way too old for the Democrat back-up plan. Which consists of blaming racists, claiming collusion, and kissing a lot of fannies. While all this was going on, I fit the vanity into the wall cavity. Some access ports still have to be drilled. Manhandling this should have taken two men around twenty minutes (there were some small snags). By self, it took three hours and I had to dismantle part of a door jamb. I want to set it in place before day’s end, but bejezzus, I am tired. She’s starting to look good, though.
In this case, the project did not go too badly. When measuring cavities like this, it’s easy to overlook tiny details that create headaches. Like in the far upper right, you can see the old stud between the two layers of drywall. Well, that drywall was not trimmed exactly flush, since measuring alone showed over 3/4” of wiggle room. Now I have to get in there with a special tool to cut it. Yes, I have the tool, a bucksaw. It’s a cheap-ass Wal*Mart jobbie that won’t cut anything else. Note there is no backsplash on this dresser. There are standard models at the lumber yard, but here’s an opportunity to get creative. Leave me a comment.
I feel fine, a nine-hour day might be routine for most of you. It usually means a few days recovery. Rah-rah if I’m getting in even half days regularly. I’ll tell you, I’m tired, but it’s ordinary tired. That, and I’ve hit a batch of good coffee, always a treat around this place. Do you like the looks of the vanity? Because shoehorning it in there cracked one of the end pieces. It has to be repair in situ because moving it out of the cavity doesn’t create any more usable work space. I knew something went too smoothly. I will glue and clamp it. Yep, it’s looking more like what I had in mind each day.
ADDENDUM
I did not practice bass today, and that is a problem. I’ll explain for the record. I did not realize that I was playing daily only until I felt my shoulder acting up. But now that I must play or miss golden opportunities, things have come to a head. It’s the same pain from the collision, but it can be neutralized by the exercises from the spine doctor. When I play past that limit, the pain returns, but I’ve long since decided to live with it rather than risk a surgery with a reputation for failure. I memorized the exercises and can cure the pain. Until the next time I play bass past my limit. That appears to be 90 minutes. Here’s the core of the predicament.
If I stop playing and do the exercises, the pain abates as usual, but my arm won’t obey my brain. I have to miss complete passages. For me, that is unacceptable. That means if I play a full gig up to snuff, the last 2-1/2 hours is either in pain or sloppy. How do I know there is such a direct link? Because if I do the regimen and don’t resume playing bass, no pain until the next bass session, and in the early days that could mean a week. It is definitely bass playing that is the trigger. But anybody who suggests I’m going to stop playing bass of my own accord needs a slap in the head to wake up.
Now, with the prospect of playing in a quality Nashville group on the horizon, something I’ve wanted for half my life, some stupid lousy driver not paying attention ploughs into me and I get this. Yes, I’ve injured the same shoulder from falling off my bicycle, but the pain was gone in a few days. Plus that was a different pain than what began after the collision. That was hurt bone pain, this is deep muscle pain. I’m angry as can be about this.
