Category Archives: Life, The Universe, And Everything

Leap Day Ramble

Due to the fraction generated when calculating how many revolutions of the earth occur during one orbit around the sun, it is technically still February today. But it sure feels like Spring here in Misery. The temperatures have been up and down like a yo-yo, everywhere from the 30s to the 70s, playing havoc with my sinuses and fooling the trees into budding early. The birds are getting pretty active around here too, but I can’t help thinking Winter will pull another drive-by on us.

I’m currently giving my hands and shoulders a break from wet sanding the PotatoCaster neck. I should have it ready to buff out by the end of the day. Then I can attach it to the body and begin shaping a nut.

Tomorrow is what is known in the politicking game as “Super Tuesday.” Several states hold their primary elections on the same day, and all indications are that Ghostface Hillah and reality teevee guy will extend their leads. It looks like the Republican establishment has just about reached the final stage of their grief and begun accepting the Donald as their likely nominee. It should be fun, over the next few months, watching the pundits who — rightly — denounced him for the xenophobic, fascist, racist, misogynist, egotistical buffoon he is publicly talk themselves into supporting him.

But what other choice do they have? Ted Cruz is a god-bothering asshole that even his friends don’t like, and Marco Rubio is nothing more than a telegenic parrot. Granted, that is normally considered a good thing in Republican politicians, but anyone with a functioning brain can see, in a debate with Hillary, Marco is going to be exposed as a 2.5-watt appliance bulb in a Xenon world. We’re talking dim, son, dim. (/Foghorn Leghorn)

I don’t believe in karma, but sometimes you really do reap what you sow. The Republican establishment, with the aid of the right-wing noise machine, has spent the last 7 years proclaiming to their rabid base that Michelle’s husband was hell-bent on destroying Amurka, and now they seem genuinely befuddled as to why that base is pissed off at them for not doing anything about it. The right-wing base may be “poorly educated” but they are smart enough to realize the establishment doesn’t really believe the accusations they throw around to get elected. The scary thing is, the right-wing base does believe the bullshit. Every word of it.

So, keeping in mind that my political prediction skills are non-existent somewhat limited, here’s how I see this election going down. Hillz will carry about 45 states in giving reality teevee guy an epic beat-down, and on her coat-tails the Democrats will re-take control of the Senate. Then, upon taking office, she will nominate Michelle’s husband for the empty Supreme Court seat the Republicans refused to fill. All around the country, Republican heads will pop like teenager’s zits. It will be glorious to behold.

Youngs vs. Olds

Yesterday, during a round of disc golf in the rain, a friend and I had a discussion about the plight of young Americans. Actually, it started out more along the lines of two late-middle-aged guys bitching about how the kids these days don’t have any ambition, but I think we both had a little attack of empathy when the conversation drifted to how young people are turning out by the thousands to listen to, and vote for, Bernie Sanders.

I’m not sure about my friend, but I flashed back to the ’80s and how discouraging it was to be 20-something with a load of student loan debt and not much for prospects. At that age, I too would have supported someone who promised to stop letting the billionaires run the world. Hell, I like the idea now. It’s just that three decades of accumulated (earned) cynicism won’t let me even imagine the possibility that it could happen. I just hope they stay engaged in the political process when Bernie inevitably flames out.

I remember a few years ago, when my oldest daughter was busy dropping out of the U.S. Naval Academy, trying to talk her out of making the biggest mistake of her life by explaining to her the fiction of America as a class-less society, the myth that unlimited opportunity exists for all who want it and all it takes to move up in class is hard work. She was 17 and clueless. The only lesson learned was my own; the wisdom and life experience of one generation is largely meaningless to the next.

Our kids may be selfish and spoiled, but they are not blind. If they are paying attention at all, today’s youth cannot help but see that the baby-boomer generation climbed to unprecedented economic heights, and then pulled the ladders up after themselves. In the quest for corporate profits over all else, the boomer generation shipped millions and millions of manufacturing and entry-level jobs overseas, decimating the middle class and, more importantly, the path to that middle class.

What looks to us old folks as laziness and a conscious choice to live their lives at a lower socioeconomic level than their parents may not be a choice at all. Maybe it is just resignation and acceptance that they lost a rigged game. After all, what other options do they have? The America where someone could just grab a piece of land and carve out a living from it no longer exists. Even if it did, life would very much resemble that described by Thomas Hobbes in Leviathan, “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.” Also the cell phone coverage would be pretty iffy.

Global Climate Change? Hmph

It was 16 years ago today that we closed on the estate here in suburban Misery. It’s not an anniversary I normally take notice of. All those house payments have mostly just passed by in a blur. I happened to notice today because something happened which had never occurred before.

It has been raining buckets ever since Christmas night, so much rain that I-70 has been closed due to flooding. That hasn’t happened even during our typically rainy spring seasons, let alone in December. Another first, we’ve had so much rain that the groundskeeper, Butch, has had to re-drain our long-closed pool because the water level has risen up into the skimmers.

I can’t imagine how bad this weather event would be, how much snow and/or ice we would have if our temperatures were down where they normally are for this time of year. And it’s not over yet. I ventured out to the post office a bit ago and heard on the radio that we can expect as much as 3 more inches of rain today. My next wood shop project may need to be a boat. The End Times are upon us…

Into The Darkness

The winter solstice happens tonight at 10:48 PM (Misery time). At that precise moment in the Earth’s axial wobble, the northern hemisphere is tilted its farthest from the sun. It is the longest night of the year, so the good news is at least the days will begin to get longer as the wobble reverses direction. The bad news is this marks the beginning of winter.

It’s important to look on the “bright” side during this darkest part of the year. It’s officially winter, but at least the forecast for the first week or so in Misery looks pretty good. Highs in the 50s and lows mostly above freezing. Even though I have to work on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, it looks like I will be riding the scoot to and from.

The mild weather has me remembering my paternal grandmother. She was very superstitious, and always on the lookout for bad omens and signs to protect us kids from. She believed in things like carrying a buckeye for good luck, and never taking a photo with a dog, because either the person or the dog in the photo would die soon after. With her dark eyes and hair and skin, she had the look of the Cherokee that runs in our family, and a way of telling a story that made you believe in the magic. Or at least want to. When I was very young, I believed those things right along with her, simply because she told me they were true.

But by the time I reached my teens, with a head full of science and a smart mouth, I had no time for magic and mysticism. I made fun of her “old wives tales” and poked holes in her logic. She laughed right along with me (she had a great laugh), and pointed out that she had been married and divorced twice, and therefore she was an old wife. I was her first grandchild, and she spoiled me rotten, always exclaiming about how smart I was. She was uneducated, but intelligent. She understood the things I told her, but she never stopped believing in the magic. (And I have carried the same old buckeye in every truck I have owned for the last thirty-some years.)

One of Grandma’s old sayings was “Onion skins thin, mild winter coming in.” I don’t peel enough onions to be able to make a comparison, but I bet she would say the skins are looking thin this year. I wish she were around so I could tease her and ask if the rule applied in today’s global marketplace, where the onion she peeled likely came from somewhere like Peru or Chile, in the hemisphere where tomorrow is the first day of summer.

First Sortie

Yesterday morning, as part of a reconnaissance mission prior to this year’s War on Christmas (© Fox News Outrage Channel), I ventured off the estate, masquerading as a irritable, middle-aged white man. For my disguise I used clothes from my closet and, uh… my face. I wanted to get a genuine feel for the area, put my finger on the pulse of the town, so to speak. I went to the barber shop.

Long story short, as far as intelligence gathering goes, I pretty much came up empty. Some highlights:

One of the barbers is a big Donald Trump fan. He thinks the Donald is saying all the things people want to hear. I suppressed my gag reflex and nodded sagely. Customers and barbers alike concurred that we don’t need any more foreigners in Amurka, especially here in Misery.

One customer, a loquacious and jowly man, said he would like to see Ted Cruz come up in the polls, since he was really the only “true conservative” in the race. I hadn’t been expecting weapons-grade stupidity so early in the day. I had to slip into the bathroom and do some breathing exercises to keep from having an anxiety attack.

When I returned, the topic of conversation had turned to Hillary Clinton. Whiteface Hill. Hillz. The Hildebeast. There was unanimous agreement that she represents a grave danger to all that is decent and holy, and it doesn’t matter who the Republican nominee is, as long as they beat her. I held my breath and waited for my opportunity.

It came when jowly voiced his concern that “some people are more interested in electing the first female preznit than they are in the damage these liberals are doing to the country. They already elected the first black preznit, and look where that’s got us.”

I commiserated. “Exactly” I said. “But I don’t see how she’s not the next preznit. She’s going to collect every vote Obummer did, plus she’s going to grab a bunch of the female vote from whichever Republican wins the nomination. I don’t see how they can stop her.”

The barber shop actually went a little quiet, and several people kind of shifted in their seats and glanced around like they smelled a fart. I watched jowly’s eyes go a little dead as the logic of what I had said sank in. One of the barbers nodded his head and allowed as how that sounded about right, as much as he hated the thought of it.

After a minute or so, jowly came back with one of those made-up-on-the-spot statistics about how 62% of the country thinks Hillary is an outright liar, and maybe that will stop her, but everyone there could see his heart wasn’t in it. He didn’t say much after that, just paid for his crew cut and left.

I took his place in the chair. I don’t know if the barber was onto me or he just had the shakes from a hangover, but he nicked me twice shaving around my ears and neck.

Approaching Discontent

Well, it seems I am constantly being reminded that it is autumn here in Misery. The humidity packed up and left town — probably won’t be back until spring — leaving behind skies that are brilliant blue during the day, and so crystal clear at night you can see all the stars. The leaves have been turning for a week or more, and some have already fallen. Butch, the groundskeeper here on the estate, has closed the pool and largely abandoned the garden. All indications are that winter will arrive on schedule. Sigh.

Even my fancy motorcycle is getting in on the act. I don’t want to go into a lot of boring technical details, but those crafty German engineers have incorporated an ingenious device called a thermometer into the bike’s electronics. It measures the ambient air temperature and displays it right there on the digital dashboard. Now, you might think a guy riding down the highway at 70 MPH doesn’t really need the bike to tell him it’s cold outside, and believe me, you’d be right. But the nifty (and useful) bit is this: if the temperature goes below freezing, the bike displays a warning light in the form of a snowflake. It seems a bit early to me, but I saw that snowflake this morning for the first time this season.

It’s the time of year when, as Granny Clampett would say, my rheumatiz starts acting up. The ghosts of every injury I’ve ever suffered come back to haunt me with aches deep down in my joints, seemingly in my very bones. With each passing year, I understand better why so many people choose to retire in the south. I’d consider it myself if it wasn’t for all the old geezers down there.

My 16th Prime

A few weeks ago I mentioned that Pope Francis was coming to Amurka for his first ever U.S. visit on my birthday. I also expressed my desire to have a beer and a chat with him. I knew he would get my invitation because, even in the unlikely event that he doesn’t read my blog, everyone else does.

Well, the good news is… it’s my birthday. The bad news? Frannie is not going to have that sit-down with me. He called me last night to tell me in person. One of the countless reasons the Baptist church I grew up in frowns on the Catholics is their appreciation for getting one’s nose wet every now and then. And it turns out the shepherd is not different from his flock. As soon as I picked up the phone and heard “It’s a me, da Pope” I knew he was already plus-3 or so. It gave me a brief hope that free alcohol coupled with a chance to get away from all the religious adulation might be enough to persuade him to stop by the house.

But he just can’t make the time. He’s dead set on meeting all the people and giving all the speeches on his schedule. I told him he should blow off his address to our Republican-controlled Congress since they’ve already pegged him as a hippie liberal they can ignore anyway, but he still wants to have a go at them. That’s faith, right there. Hope and persistence in the face of reality.

Getting On With It

I’m still “de-sensitizing” my franken-fingers. It’s a long, slow process. The hand surgeon told me it may take a couple of years, but I am making progress. I am typing some of the letters in the words you are reading right now with my left middle finger, the worst damaged and most painful of the two. Sweat pops on my forehead, but I soldier on.

I’ve resumed 10 hour shifts at the salt mine. I can do probably 90% of my job, but only at about 60% speed, babying my fingers and taking frequent breaks, especially when I bang them into something. Returning to work also brought back my battle with the twin demons of insomnia and dysthymia. I didn’t realize how well I had been sleeping during my recuperation, until I wasn’t any more. Sigh.

Just More Finger Whine

My hand is getting better, little by little, every day. I’m still working to reduce the hypersensitivity, but that is a grueling, masochistic endeavor. Here are the tools of my self-torture.

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Doesn’t look so bad, does it? A bowl of uncooked rice, a bolt and some nuts. Not much to it, really. I just use my fingers to screw the nuts on and off the bolt. There is some pain, of course, but the predominant feeling is one of electric shock, as if there is a live current passing through the bolt. Eight nuts off, eight nuts back on, and I start to feel a little clammy and have to take a break. But that’s nothing compared to stirring my fingers around in that rice. Hoo boy, it might as well be a hornet’s nest.

Mornings are the best. When I wake up, my hand is stiff, but almost pain free. As the day goes on, every touch — whether accidental or intentional — adds progressively to my discomfort level until I fall asleep each night exhausted.

This morning I was feeling exceptionally frisky, so I decided to hop on the scoot and ride uptown for breakfast. It’s only a distance of about five miles to my local Panera Bread, but there are eleven stop lights in that stretch. Given my lifetime .150 batting average at catching lights on the green, that translated into quite a bit more clutching than I was ready for. I was pretty spent afterwards, but it sure felt good to be back in the saddle.

Yo Soy El Mas Macho

Yesterday, I visited the enhanced interrogation specialist hand surgeon again. He looked at my scab covered Franken-fingers for a few seconds and said they were doing well. Then he stood up and left the room, stating he needed to do some “housekeeping.” He came back momentarily with a little package of tools and proceeded to peel off all the remaining scabs! Anything that stuck up or gave him too much resistance, he just snipped off with a little pair of scissors. I just smiled and said “What else you got, Doc?” Here is a photo I took earlier today.

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Believe me when I say they feel every bit as raw and sore as they look. And oh so sensitive. The slightest touch sends chills down my spine; a bump weakens my knees. The good news is, the surgeon has agreed to let me return to work on light duty beginning tomorrow. I may actually be able to salvage a couple of vacation days for a motorcycle ride later this year.

But that’s not what I came to talk about. See that piece of wood my hand is resting on in the photo? That’s the guitar body I was working on when my router tried to eat that hand. Did you notice how smooth the edges are? That’s right, I finished that job. Granted, I had to have a little lie-down afterwards, and I fucked it up and will have to re-make the whole thing, but I got back on that horse. I’m optimistic that my new normal — however far away that still is — may not be too much different from my old normal. I would cross my fingers, but… you know.