7:30 a.m -- Drastic oversleep. Become vertical. Pee and moan about achy back.
7:32 a.m. -- Attempt to read small outside thermometer. Gritty eyes decline to focus. Treat with Visine. Re-look. nine below.
7:34 a.m. -- Perfunctorily scratch dog ears.
7:35 -- Feed fire with oak logs, two small and one large.
7:37 -- Stumble to kitchen. Fire up coffee pot. Tell dog, "Hold it for another sec, eh?" (vulgarity in original statement here omitted)
7;40 -- Let dog out after stern warning not to go running off.
7:40:07 -- Dog goes running off. Step onto deck in stocking feet and "pajamas" and yell. Feel lungs seize up and other bodily parts shrivel. Yell again. Dog returns to deck area, decorates snow. Beats me through the door and to the hearth.
7:42 -- Steal cup of coffee from half-done pot. Spill some of same. Shrug; counter-top disaster anyway.
7:45 -- Slurp enough hot coffee to wash down one aspirin.
7:47 -- Log on to National Weather Service point forecast. Confirms nine below. Perform masochistic act and check Duluth, 200+ miles north, where kids are visiting. Only seven below. Remark the irony to dog who seems not to give a damn.
7:48 -- Slowly, slowly, slowly transform grim mouth-set to semblance of smile at seeing release date of tomorrow, when begins a warmup. One more arctic night, then more than a week of nothing even close to zero, daytime highs above freezing.
7:50 - present -- engage in decision-making process re when or whether to get dressed.
.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 8, 2011
Get on the floor, bitch.
Do it NOW, cuz I don't think that breast pin is registered.
(And please, I am not being a copper bore this time either. I'm being a gold bore, merely noting in passing that copper today passed $4.60 and that your old copper cent is now worth a curly over three zinc pennies.)
The cops in Federal Way, Washington, are embarrassed at a rise in home burglaries. They blame Tim and Ben or whatever for making gold prices go so high. So they aspire to make it much harder to sell your grandma's ugly old cocktail ring if it contains gold, silver, or platinum. To do so you make the dealer take your fingerprints, require him to issue you a check rather than cash, retain the trinket for 45 days, and enter it on a police database.
The city fathers are pushing a state law to that effect, but legislative deliberation is much too slow for them, so they want to enact it locally. Me? I figure that if they get the job done there will be a boom in coin dealerships, pawn shops, and precious metal dealers just outside the city limits. If the state caves in, well, Idaho isn't all that far off.
But guys like us are probably just warped old cynics who have no sympathy for common-sense jewelry control.
Some of you are even worse. I mean you radical malcontents who look at this as a neat way for the gummint to keep track of your wedding band after the tipping point. The tipping point is defined as that instant during which you and I and the Chinese decide to quit going along with the gag that our currency means something.
(And please, I am not being a copper bore this time either. I'm being a gold bore, merely noting in passing that copper today passed $4.60 and that your old copper cent is now worth a curly over three zinc pennies.)
The cops in Federal Way, Washington, are embarrassed at a rise in home burglaries. They blame Tim and Ben or whatever for making gold prices go so high. So they aspire to make it much harder to sell your grandma's ugly old cocktail ring if it contains gold, silver, or platinum. To do so you make the dealer take your fingerprints, require him to issue you a check rather than cash, retain the trinket for 45 days, and enter it on a police database.
The city fathers are pushing a state law to that effect, but legislative deliberation is much too slow for them, so they want to enact it locally. Me? I figure that if they get the job done there will be a boom in coin dealerships, pawn shops, and precious metal dealers just outside the city limits. If the state caves in, well, Idaho isn't all that far off.
But guys like us are probably just warped old cynics who have no sympathy for common-sense jewelry control.
Some of you are even worse. I mean you radical malcontents who look at this as a neat way for the gummint to keep track of your wedding band after the tipping point. The tipping point is defined as that instant during which you and I and the Chinese decide to quit going along with the gag that our currency means something.
Feb 7, 2011
Achtung!
Apparently there is one -- perhaps only one -- difference between a blockwart and a Hitler blockleiter -- how they feel about rooting out Jewish people.
Each, according to Marko's excellent report, generated by Boston blockwarts, finds glory in using the laws, however trivial, to "behave like an obnoxious asshole."
Each, according to Marko's excellent report, generated by Boston blockwarts, finds glory in using the laws, however trivial, to "behave like an obnoxious asshole."
Weather-driven
This batch of Alberta is driving me indoors, probably for the entire day and more. Only the messy pile of firewood around the burner gives me cause to smile after looking at the thermometer (+2) and knowing this is about as good as it will get for at least three days.
I suppose this is as good a time as any to catch up on paperwork and get this cluttered cabin shaped up, but depressing self-knowledge suggests that the Master of Camp J will more likely start looking for a book which demands reading. Probably won't have any visitors anyway, especially fussy ones. They'll stay home and dust.
The other alternative is to (expensively) fire up the Knipco out in the shop and start repairing Ruger's work on the .22/.45.
---
The efforts to locate the owner of Little Miss No-Name have yielded no results. We'll give it another day or two, then start dreaming up a name for her. I've been considering "Sarah." When a liberal chick asks, I can say she's named for the Brady lady. Otherwise Palin.
Naaah, probably not.
I suppose this is as good a time as any to catch up on paperwork and get this cluttered cabin shaped up, but depressing self-knowledge suggests that the Master of Camp J will more likely start looking for a book which demands reading. Probably won't have any visitors anyway, especially fussy ones. They'll stay home and dust.
The other alternative is to (expensively) fire up the Knipco out in the shop and start repairing Ruger's work on the .22/.45.
---
The efforts to locate the owner of Little Miss No-Name have yielded no results. We'll give it another day or two, then start dreaming up a name for her. I've been considering "Sarah." When a liberal chick asks, I can say she's named for the Brady lady. Otherwise Palin.
Naaah, probably not.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)