One year ago today: June 11, 2022, white minority rule.
Five years ago today: June 11, 2018, it ain’t soundproof, dammit.
Nine years ago today: June 11, 2014, he sees Elvis.
Random years ago today: June 11, 2016, at the Palmdale Cracker.
Wilford is working at the old club. He’s got the personality for it and he’ll be pulling his own shifts in no time. It’s a good job match, his tolerance for bullshit is incredible and he will do well. Seems he was not informed he was in a band like I was. Folks, I know every musician in the county and the ones that are not in a band will never be, unless they learn to do what they are told, which ain’t gonna happen soon. Good morning, and I need more time off. We got a thorough soaking overnight, I’ll do the rounds once it dries out.
It’s the makings of a beautiful day, I had thought of inviting Karen for brunch since I have to go downtown. Update the cost of the last movie in Nashville to $42.05. The receipt says a small popcorn is $9. And they wonder why attendance is low. There were six people in the theater. In brighter news, because of more yard work (when times are slow, that’s when you hear about work), we are way under budget. Something like $537. Maybe I will give Karen a call. So many women say they long to go on a real date, which is nearly impossible any more from what I hear.
I also hear the cardinals. The missus is right into the birdbath again, here’s a rather dynamic shot showing for the dripper and the mist. She stands to one side of the mist, but can’t get enough of it. Tucker’s first episode has topped 100 million views. And NASA predicts a massive “internet blackout” lasting three months, to occur just before the 2024 election. The British produced around 400,000 Bren guns, an unusually potent weapon. Today I learned only 300,000 of them can be accounted for.
I was researching why the Bren Gun Carrier required a crew of three. Driver, gunner, and what was the other guy for? Turns out I lack an understanding of British bureaucracy. He was the “commander”. This vehicle proved handy for lots of transport duties and was built up until 1960. I went to school with a kid whose dad used one on the farm. It used a Ford Model T motor mounted in the middle.
Finding the Internets most woketard website is not easy, because there are so many of them. I think I’ve come close. Have you heard of 80,000 Hours? That’s how many the average person works in a lifetime. They profess to help you find the career that most fulfills you. Take a look at two of their pages if you have time. One is their list of the world’s biggest problems and the other a list of the best careers to make an impact. If you are like me, you spot the pattern right away. But oddly enough, many people swear by this site. Most noticeable are the list of careers.
They are not about innovation or creativity. Zero primary level academic or intellectual requirements, it’s all fund-raising, influence-peddling and government-style administration. Don’t become a biologist. Instead, become a bio-risk assessment expert to keep a tight rein on anyone who does any actual research. Don’t develop any A.I., rather invent rules and laws for those who do. How about China-based safety regulations, or advanced “grantmaking”. That’s where you determine who gets government grants and you can really shove climate change down their throats.
And thanks to the latest indictment political hit piece, Trump’s popularity continues to soar. And most of it is working class, the people who make this country tick.
Panasonic battery factory.
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Still favoring my shoulder, I laid down and did not wake until past dark. Today was a nothing day, except for blogging I suppose. I found water-damaged booklet that contained my original notes to set up this blog. I’ve no recollection of the day but it was October 5, 2006. I recall I was at my Internet shop and did not like the format. By this time, I had switched to word processing the blog and knew what looked good on screen. It turned out that blogs had no easyu way to indent paragraphs, so this blog was different from the start.
This was around the time we learned driving a car was aggravating my heart condition. That’s why so many bicycle pictures of the Jamus. I could not walk, but that is the bicycle I rode a minimum of seven miles a day for a thousand days until I could walk again.
Wow, it takes as long to update each of the 2006 blogs as to create them. I’m saying they are already written, but the post process has become horrendous. You can no longer scroll through the old listings on Google, each must be painstakingly brought up by title. Even when posted, it takes up to 20 minutes, as Google has changed the workings so many times, often the pictures won’t even display unless converted to the horrid png and back again. I won’t get into it, but you should never post png pictures on-line. Change them to jpegs, then post. Ever heard of on-line blackmail? It’s a rising crime.
ADDENDUM
Did I ever tell you about my real first date? It was a Catholic girl called Lynette from my tenth grade class. They were a German family who changed their name to English and tried to act English. She was hot to trot but no way to get near her except through her family, who I had never met but knew they were good people. Finally, she got permission to have me over to their place for supper. This was not part of the plan but it seems like the only way. Now, don’t go thinking that my upbringing or home situation ever prepared me for any such events, it was another of those things you were “supposed to know”.
Their farm was six miles north of town. I got there by motorcycle (my Honda 90). Her family, especially the mother, made sure we had not a spec of privacy. Remember, by then I had been playing in my own “rock band” for close to two years and although I knew how to keep a secret, it was obvious something was going on. Most other boys never began dating until they were at least 18. And to hear them talk it was a big deal and a scary thing. Not for me. I had the process streamlined at a much younger age, and down to a science by age 18.
Supper was fun, because her mom had gone all out and make these neat meat roll-ups. I’d heard of them but never seen them and I could not get mine untied. Finally, Lynetter held it while her mom undid the knots. It was a nice enough event but far too socially complicated and drawn out for what I was already used to. They were thinking in terms of Lynette and I becoming ultimately husband and wife, I see that now. And the last thing I was in my early teens was husband material. I’d never even seen a big city yet.
Nor did I ever get the goods with Lynette. I was off to university, she stayed on the farm. Years later I bumped into her brother at one of my summer jobs. He assured me that was the right move, for she had married the first guy who got her alone, mainly it would seem because she promptly got pregnant. He added that was also the end of her looks, that she had doubled in weight, age, attitude, and would not even show me a picture of her. Dale, that was his name.
For the books, that Honda 90 was my joy. I was not the first to have one in town but I was easily the youngest. That made me the only one in my gang (as we called ourselves then) that had one. I often get flak that I was not raised poor because I had a motorcycle. Anybody who thinks that needs a bust in the chops. That implies that I got it handed to me for free, when in fact it was less than a down payment on a down payment what I worked for. This is my opinion, of course, because my family would never allow for different levels of involvement. That kind of thinking was part of “raised poor”. No matter how you outshone them, your time was as worthless as their own.
