One year ago today: February 1, 2024, Caltier in focus.
Five years ago today: February 1, 2020, a toy-like vehicle.
Nine years ago today: February 1, 2016, it isn’t real foil.
Random years ago today: February 1, 1982, not for publication.
America awakes to the news the mainstream media have been kicked out of their offices at the Pentagon. This is a big deal, because America still has a sizably contingent of people who believe in that media. By the time anybody calls the media on a lie, millions of people already believe that version. Apparently the offices are now occupied by conservative outlets, and they are slated to be reviewed every year for performance. Welcome to the blog that dares to feature a used lawnmower gas tank.
Here is the punctured tank under repair. On-line they wanted $16 for a tank because it is metal, not plastic, plus $8 shipping. In the top pic you can see a 1/4” nut and bolt and a pair of needlenose pliers. In the bottom pic is the bolt in place with two tight-sealing washers. Now it won’t start because there water in the piston, but I’ll drain that tomorrow.
I borrowed a chain from Roger and moved the KIA van ahead half a tire roll. That’s to get the riding mower out and over for repair and sale. I’ve had it with that thing. This photo shows the spot where the van tire was rolled ahead, which does not convey the rather large amount of work this involves. Those chains don’t find towing lugs under the chassis by themselves. I spent around 15 minutes on the ground, as the KIA had a plastic flange in the way and the Hyundai, well, I opted for the axle and was careful with that.
The increased amount of sawdust from regular box-building means I may have to invest in a better vacuum in the neighbor’s shed. Caltier is late again with this month’s disbursement, and I have the Reb trained to keep an eye out during the day when she knows I’m likely in the yard. I check the European silver prices, by the way. And it is incredible how popular Trump is at street level over there. People are fed up with Brussels, but they have no Trump to rally them. They had one a hundred years back, but they all ganged up on him. By the way, the smart on your smart phone is an acronym for “self-monitoring analysis and reporting technology.”
This, a classic, just in. Seems ICE has been using a fake Spanish food truck to round up entire crews of illegals at once. Hey, helps save taxpayer money. Some smart aleck suggested they open a fake welfare office and really amp those numbers. What Americans are commenting on most is that, without the illegals, the system works. You can read in the libraries again, the streets are full of courteous drivers, and even Wal*mart has enough open checkouts. But the real dead silence is out of Canada, or as people who have left that country call it, California 2.0. They are about to discover for all their big talk, they are 99% reliant on the USA. Trudeau is miffed that he could not freeze Trump’s bank account.
Typical Florida seashell beach.
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A long coffee break at noon instead of lunch, I’m going through that Rifle brand coffee pretty fast. It’s great but does not justify the price considering I drink more of it because it’s good, not necessarily a positive thing. What’s that called when you get a memory stuck in your mind for no reason? It’s like I cannot peel potatoes without thinking of scout camp.
No word back from the guitar player, so we’ll assume he has family or something. If I’d gotten married that would have been game over for me. A life of poverty slaving away in a lumber mill out in the northwest. It was a hard decision but I don’t regret it. I’m the last one to buy into that scenario of the happy generations gathered around the fireplace. Like somebody chopped the wood and handed it to you.
Here’s the boxes clamped up. I give them the full 24 hours. Thse are pinned together with the new air staples and they work right. I made a temporary fix to the air compressor but I know that can’t be put off much longer. It’s getting many times the use now as it did most of last year. This matching set of boxes is another milestone, these are the first boxes specifically made for sale. Each box has $1.28 in lumber and around 16ȼ in glue and staples. The target price is $15, but I have no place in mind to sell them. They are mid-size, around 16x7-1/2x5-1/2”, good enough for storage.
Not to neglect our new fenceposts, I stood them up on place. But working the posthole digger has to be done early in the day or I won’t even try. My shoulder muscles stayed limbered up since I mentioned it a few weeks back, or maybe a month. I’m still lopsided a bit but both arms and shoulders are working so fine I don’t think about it any more. That calls for a beer later tonight just to get out of the house.
I played bass an hour, this time running through the custom bass lines and an oddball tune came up. For some reason it is on an old list, David Allen Coe’s “Pretty Redwing”. I even play the drums at the end. That new guitar player, I’ve never met him, but you know, when I play this old material, my hunch mechanism says he might have been in one of the bands I’ve jammed with. I don’t count jamming and don’t keep score. If he lives close enough to the Prez, I figure let them practice together.
There are minimal chances they’ll strike out on their own now that I know I’m the only studio-grade bassist in this territory who makes muster. That’s not bravado, I monitor the lists very closely and know who is reasonable, who does their homework, and who sticks with their commitments. No, I’m not being snarky. The four bass players who are advertising have been running the same ads for years now. A signal they are getting nowhere. By now, I know why, the most common problem is they are not maestros. Their ads quote several instruments and I know, with one exception, proper bass playing is a specialty not to be shared. The exception is if you are super-gifted and there is nobody around here like that.
ADDENDUM
Here’s the burn barrel. Today’s fire was well behaved. I suppose I should have baked some spuds. I watched the big flames burn down to the steady fire shown here. Kind of relecting that I’ve now entered an unplanned but final segment of my life. I didn’t bother to go downtown for a half-sack of Yueng-Ling. This would have been a four-beer fire. The burning wood aroma didn’t bother me the way it used to. Some of my really long-term goals have spilled over but nothing I’ve ever written out goes past December 31 of 2032. Mankind won’t even have made it as far as Mars by then.
So I’m now, officially in my own mind, the old guy I turned out to be. I can reflect on a lot, and for that matter, thanks to this blog, I can even go back and read it. While I never did get lucky, I suppose I managed to get a few things done in this life. Had I known I never stood a chance, there are things I would have done differently. On the other hand, compared to many, I can’t say there is any wide category of things I wish I could have done more of. Nope, world, I’m pretty balanced in that department. Other than things I never had the money to do, I regret only that I never met anyone in my life that I wanted to be like.
For some reason, the year 1967 was in focus as I watched that barrel. It was the year I started my first band, although I had played before. Also the year I first had a real girlfriend I didn’t have to keep secret. It was such a hick town you were not supposed to date until after you were 18. (Ha, by then, all the good ones were gone.) That was the last year I ever watched television for a full evening, which gives you an idea of how little else there was to do. I had a Honda 90, which not knowing better, had cost me three years work, then I found out it was not really mine.
I’d earlier planned to go out to the club in Bartow. But it is no longer the old club. Only strangers playing pseudo-rap on the juke and the place is rarely full of women any more. If I did not say, Cathy is talking about buying the place, which will totally turn it into something it isn’t and likely never can be—a Las Vegas style lounge. No atmosphere, no live entertainment, and empty except on paydays. The only other clubs around are the Legions, and other than birthdates, I have nothing in common with anyone I’ve ever met there.
