Saturday, May 27, 2006
gettin' damp
No, hasn't rained enough to pay attention to in way too long. It's just turning back into the usual Southern summer. Got up at my usual oh dark thirty planning on making a serious grocery run into the burg so I GI'ed the kitchen (normal Saturday routine anyway) and found out those marvelous "improvements" I made to the grease trap, well, they were not working as advertized. **sigh.** Mops and glop removal aren't listed on my union contract. Oughta go on strike. Maybe management will replace my sorry ass with a Mexican!
About the gettin' damp part, for that I have to crank up the wayback machine. 40+ years ago in South Alabama where I was raised, when school ended we kids would do our best to practice fishing, trying to drown each other, and engage in becoming either Willie Mays in the sandlot or Tarzans and Janes in the swamps. That is until the larger folk decided help was needed doing little jobs like weeding sweet tater fields about the size of Australia come July. Couldn't really tell the difference in the color of the little black ones or the little white ones! Since my primary gene stock was seriously Northern European, I only turned a deep walnut. Substantially darker than Colin Powell. ..and a whole bunch darker than her! ( ;o)
To this day I'm not a big fan of sweet taters. Can't imagine why..
* * * * * *
4:15 PM. Ain't done yet. The Rimadon Shitferbrainicus has gone into the heat-stunned mode. The plumbing failure was a tiny bit more troublesome than dreaded. Seems there has been a backup for quite a while longer than the last post indicated. Should be done in an hour or so. I've still got a few cups of bleach left, gonna need them when this bit of nasty is finished and I take a bath. Of course I'll be blonde from my toes to the top (won't need to check with my hairdresser!) Since I'm only dealing with 20 gallons of aged grey water and grease (somewhat dispersed, exit point isn't in a room I visit often), it won't be nearly as bad as my (very) few assistance jobs fixing septic systems. If this one fails, there are a lot of leaves in the woods. Been there, done that.
More hosing, more wet-vac. Thankfully it's just the grey and my fault grease overload. Still smells.
* * * * * *
Deed is done. It'll need a good PineSol mopping and that'll wait jus' fine. The kitchen floor needs it as well, kinda sticks to the feet, I'll go get a jug of the stuff and do them at the same time. Eventually. BTW, it's been years since a female/girl-type person was in the house. The last one decided that, well, that relevation will keep! To defer odd thoughts, read (pronounced "red") trade journals become minor piles, working files occupy most all horizontal surfaces, and bits and pieces of various devices are to be found in places mostly difficult for dawgs to get at.
This place was a lot nicer when the female/girl/wimmin-type person was around. Wonderful paradox and a bunch smarter.
I'm used-up. Need air. There's $20 worth of juice in the buggy.
* * * * * *
Reubin James? Wonder if Kenny ever met someone like him. Had the radio on. Needs a link to a earlier post.
Just in case you might be curious, I'm back. Went out for a co-cola and a pouch of Bugler, stopped at 2 yard sales that had interesting folk, drove the buggy along the road where my extraordanarily good friend used to live before he joined his wife for the first time in years. USMC, ret. Gunnery Sergeant. 6' 6", more than likely Hell during his last time before retiring in 1964 training recruits at Parris Island. 5' 4" designer-of-tools with many years in San Francisco and a rather large gunney being best buds? Worked wonderfully! 1987-2003. His heart just finally quit. We killed an awful lot of fish, solved most of the world's problems, potted a bunch of squirrels, taught each other all kinds of things. Politics and religion were kinda allowed. Him being 5th gen Democrat, I convinced him not to vote for Clinton the first pass. He got all born again after his first heart attack and attempted to convert me. I may never be ready to pay a preacher meself. I'm still Christian, go read back. That was OK, kinda, by him. I wasn't a recruit! Wonderful fella married to a tough gal (who kicked my ass all the time! ;) with nearly a half-dozen kids that are between kinda mostly good to awesome.
20 miles of old country roads not traveled by me in years. North Florida is rolling real estate, in places very like the Pennsylvania foothills. As green as the tropic islands this time of the year. So beautiful it is hard to wander through alone.
* * * * * *
"Old man look at my life,
I'm a lot like you were.
Old man look at my life,
I'm a lot like you were.
Old man look at my life,
Twenty four
and there's so much more
Live alone in a paradise
That makes me think of two.
Love lost, such a cost,
Give me things
that don't get lost.
Like a coin that won't get tossed
Rolling home to you.
Old man take a look at my life
I'm a lot like you
I need someone to love me
the whole day through
Ah, one look in my eyes
and you can tell that's true.
Lullabies, look in your eyes,
Run around the same old town.
Doesn't mean that much to me
To mean that much to you.
I've been first and last
Look at how the time goes past.
But I'm all alone at last.
Rolling home to you.
Old man take a look at my life
I'm a lot like you
I need someone to love me
the whole day through
Ah, one look in my eyes
and you can tell that's true.
Old man look at my life,
I'm a lot like you were.
Old man look at my life,
I'm a lot like you were."
That was written and sung most of three decades ago. Mr. Young was a major-league pharm way back then. Still is. No matter. Damn good song. I was just beyond 21, finally found out what happened after years of batshit what happened between my folks. Mr. Young is a major suck these daze, matters not at all. I still think this is a fine song.
Been singing it for years. Might have some significance if I had kids. At least that one doesn't make me cry like some of Emmy Lou Harris's do!
Almost dark, one final hose-it-out job for the evening with the tools. The pre-written grit teeth stuff, damn. I'm so disgusted with the US gub, might be worse than the Mex gub, judging from what appears in the LSM, ought to be embracing the stuff in Venezuela. Nah. Folk of my ilk and history with kids and grandkids are not particularly pleased these days.
Land mines are kinda spiffy. Kinda like signs that read "This drive is private. Mined" Oooold tag. "This drive is private mind".
I need to go out for another night hike with the disturbed Rimadon. There is still a bunch of arab juice in the buggy, haven't been to the local whoreatorium since the last 3 died of AIDS, the barkeep back then lost his bo to the same (116 white ones dead in this rural Southern county in 1 year, 5 times that many black and covered for the usual reasons). Nah. Plague.
Night hikes are finestkind. Find socks, add boots. Tee shirt and shorts work. Rimadon is cool about leading the blind one.
About the gettin' damp part, for that I have to crank up the wayback machine. 40+ years ago in South Alabama where I was raised, when school ended we kids would do our best to practice fishing, trying to drown each other, and engage in becoming either Willie Mays in the sandlot or Tarzans and Janes in the swamps. That is until the larger folk decided help was needed doing little jobs like weeding sweet tater fields about the size of Australia come July. Couldn't really tell the difference in the color of the little black ones or the little white ones! Since my primary gene stock was seriously Northern European, I only turned a deep walnut. Substantially darker than Colin Powell. ..and a whole bunch darker than her! ( ;o)
To this day I'm not a big fan of sweet taters. Can't imagine why..
* * * * * *
4:15 PM. Ain't done yet. The Rimadon Shitferbrainicus has gone into the heat-stunned mode. The plumbing failure was a tiny bit more troublesome than dreaded. Seems there has been a backup for quite a while longer than the last post indicated. Should be done in an hour or so. I've still got a few cups of bleach left, gonna need them when this bit of nasty is finished and I take a bath. Of course I'll be blonde from my toes to the top (won't need to check with my hairdresser!) Since I'm only dealing with 20 gallons of aged grey water and grease (somewhat dispersed, exit point isn't in a room I visit often), it won't be nearly as bad as my (very) few assistance jobs fixing septic systems. If this one fails, there are a lot of leaves in the woods. Been there, done that.
More hosing, more wet-vac. Thankfully it's just the grey and my fault grease overload. Still smells.
* * * * * *
Deed is done. It'll need a good PineSol mopping and that'll wait jus' fine. The kitchen floor needs it as well, kinda sticks to the feet, I'll go get a jug of the stuff and do them at the same time. Eventually. BTW, it's been years since a female/girl-type person was in the house. The last one decided that, well, that relevation will keep! To defer odd thoughts, read (pronounced "red") trade journals become minor piles, working files occupy most all horizontal surfaces, and bits and pieces of various devices are to be found in places mostly difficult for dawgs to get at.
This place was a lot nicer when the female/girl/wimmin-type person was around. Wonderful paradox and a bunch smarter.
I'm used-up. Need air. There's $20 worth of juice in the buggy.
* * * * * *
Reubin James? Wonder if Kenny ever met someone like him. Had the radio on. Needs a link to a earlier post.
Just in case you might be curious, I'm back. Went out for a co-cola and a pouch of Bugler, stopped at 2 yard sales that had interesting folk, drove the buggy along the road where my extraordanarily good friend used to live before he joined his wife for the first time in years. USMC, ret. Gunnery Sergeant. 6' 6", more than likely Hell during his last time before retiring in 1964 training recruits at Parris Island. 5' 4" designer-of-tools with many years in San Francisco and a rather large gunney being best buds? Worked wonderfully! 1987-2003. His heart just finally quit. We killed an awful lot of fish, solved most of the world's problems, potted a bunch of squirrels, taught each other all kinds of things. Politics and religion were kinda allowed. Him being 5th gen Democrat, I convinced him not to vote for Clinton the first pass. He got all born again after his first heart attack and attempted to convert me. I may never be ready to pay a preacher meself. I'm still Christian, go read back. That was OK, kinda, by him. I wasn't a recruit! Wonderful fella married to a tough gal (who kicked my ass all the time! ;) with nearly a half-dozen kids that are between kinda mostly good to awesome.
20 miles of old country roads not traveled by me in years. North Florida is rolling real estate, in places very like the Pennsylvania foothills. As green as the tropic islands this time of the year. So beautiful it is hard to wander through alone.
* * * * * *
"Old man look at my life,
I'm a lot like you were.
Old man look at my life,
I'm a lot like you were.
Old man look at my life,
Twenty four
and there's so much more
Live alone in a paradise
That makes me think of two.
Love lost, such a cost,
Give me things
that don't get lost.
Like a coin that won't get tossed
Rolling home to you.
Old man take a look at my life
I'm a lot like you
I need someone to love me
the whole day through
Ah, one look in my eyes
and you can tell that's true.
Lullabies, look in your eyes,
Run around the same old town.
Doesn't mean that much to me
To mean that much to you.
I've been first and last
Look at how the time goes past.
But I'm all alone at last.
Rolling home to you.
Old man take a look at my life
I'm a lot like you
I need someone to love me
the whole day through
Ah, one look in my eyes
and you can tell that's true.
Old man look at my life,
I'm a lot like you were.
Old man look at my life,
I'm a lot like you were."
That was written and sung most of three decades ago. Mr. Young was a major-league pharm way back then. Still is. No matter. Damn good song. I was just beyond 21, finally found out what happened after years of batshit what happened between my folks. Mr. Young is a major suck these daze, matters not at all. I still think this is a fine song.
Been singing it for years. Might have some significance if I had kids. At least that one doesn't make me cry like some of Emmy Lou Harris's do!
Almost dark, one final hose-it-out job for the evening with the tools. The pre-written grit teeth stuff, damn. I'm so disgusted with the US gub, might be worse than the Mex gub, judging from what appears in the LSM, ought to be embracing the stuff in Venezuela. Nah. Folk of my ilk and history with kids and grandkids are not particularly pleased these days.
Land mines are kinda spiffy. Kinda like signs that read "This drive is private. Mined" Oooold tag. "This drive is private mind".
I need to go out for another night hike with the disturbed Rimadon. There is still a bunch of arab juice in the buggy, haven't been to the local whoreatorium since the last 3 died of AIDS, the barkeep back then lost his bo to the same (116 white ones dead in this rural Southern county in 1 year, 5 times that many black and covered for the usual reasons). Nah. Plague.
Night hikes are finestkind. Find socks, add boots. Tee shirt and shorts work. Rimadon is cool about leading the blind one.
