You Are Angel

You have a pretty dark past, but you've changed your ways... and possibly not by choice. These days, you try to do your best to be a good person. You have a sore spot for anyone who hurts anyone else. You are a true romantic, but you can't be with the person you truly love. And you are completely torn up about it. At your core, you're a loner. You are light-hearted and funny, but deep down you're really quite tormented.

Current Mood: bored
Current Music: When there's a moon over Bourbon Street.

I took the day off.

The whole day. The plan was he was going to call this afternoon, my father in law would pick me up and we would go get Gen, the beetle, and I would drive her back home.

That was the plan.

So I took the day off.

He called on Wednesday and told me that it was looking good for Friday pick up. He had everything and they were working on it as we speak.

Friday.

So, I took the day off.

He called at noon.

He ordered the wrong heater boxes and couldn't jury rig them (Not that I would want that seeing as I've paid all this bloody money) and had to order new boxes. He also broke something in the new electronic distributer so he had to order that. The parts should arrive Monday.

The distributer thing is a short job, and once it's timed and adjusted should never need adjusting again. New technology that's been proven to work real well in Beetles. Also bolting on the heater boxes is also a short job, assuming you have the right parts. Then all that leaves is put the engine in the car and start it up. That is also a short job. 4 bolts, some screws, couple wires, couple hoses and a cable.

So if he has his parts, a couple hours for a trained mechanic and done and done. I'll have no worries short of oil and valve adjustments, for the next 75,000 miles.

Assuming he can do this.

Truth told, this should have been done before Wednesday. Hell, this should have been done Months ago. The car was in his shop on July 30th. For a trained mechanic, this is a fairly easy job.

So there was little doubt that it would be done today.

Which is why I took the day off.

Truth is, my lack in my own skills is what brought me to this hard learned lesson. I know how I fuck things up. Measure twice, cut once, fuck it up and get a new piece and start again. Nothing I build would pass any inspection. The kids at the Tech school could miter rings around me.

I was afraid.

I was afraid of me.

I was afraid of me fucking up my dream car so I gave it to a stranger and paid him.

True, he's the best air cool mechanic in the state. True, he works on Beetles, Busses, porches, Gia's on a daily basis. This isn't strange to him.

But he's so unreliable!

I took the day off, had my father in law on stand by, waited by the phone...

So, we're looking at Tuesday now for his new parts to arrive and have it all together to bring home.

Tuesday is my day off.

Current Mood: pissed off
Current Music: all the cops in the doughnut shop say waaaaooooowaaaaooowaaaeo!

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Current Mood: contemplative
Current Music: sittin here restin my boooooones.

Sunset + Margarita + Hot tub + watching the stars come out one at a time until you can see the jewel encrusted belt of the Milky Way = ?

I know the answer! Do you?
Poll #1486446 Your answer is?
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 1

I know the answer, do you?

Staring up at the quickening sky and thinking that NASA has called the astronauts of yore, liars.

Liar, Liar! Pants afire!

Guys who strapped themselves onto untested bombs on the promise and hope to reach out into the cosmos and shake hands with Heaven. Guys who gave their lives, depended their lives on the skill that some geek with a slide ruler could calculate a way home for them. Depended on computers that lack the processing power of my wristwatch to get them out into the cold unknown of space and back to the warmth of mother Earth.

Yeah, those guys.

They are liars.

NASA now says that there is water on the Moon and is busily making plans to suck the Moon dry and selling bottled Moon water in Parisian Cafes to sponsor their next project: Once and for all call out Jesus and the raise dead thing. Heaven is in space, right? Just sign over the Gross National Product and we'll get a direct line to Jesus, and if not Him, at least one of the Saints, one of the main ones like Saint Peter, or Paul, or Guinefort.

Let me think. If NASA spent a billion dollars to build a rocket that will hit the moon and send up a giant dust cloud to find water, and not spend it on Health Care, or Edumacasion, or Climate Control, and did not find anything and could only say, Ooops! Would we in turn hand them another billion dollars and hope they can tell the difference between Metric and Standard and not loose another Mars rocket, or tell them, you know what? Your big brains could be better used at a real job that actually produces something other than Tang and Teflon, like, Ah donno, curing H1N1 or male patter baldness... something useful for a change?

What do you think would happen?

Don't answer that.

Think of the hot tub... watching the stars come out... the fat band of the Milky Way spanning above us...

Margarita mixed WAY too strong...

All is well.

Current Mood: getting a little spiced
Current Music: every sperm is sacred, every sperm is great

John Henry shifted on his feet, eyeing the machine. A little man turned knobs and valves while the boiler hissed and sizzled. The foreman lifted his had to allow a bit of air to cool his smooth pate, then looked at his pocket watch, small in his fat hand.

"Make yourself ready!" He shouted.

And John Henry picked up his hammer.

It's an appliance. You plug it in. Men love appliances and modern conveniences. It's cute and sleek and white that looks like it would love to be on the counter, in plain site. Nice and comfy right next to the wok.

But there is a certain pathetasad (Pathetic and sad) for anyone who can't cook a pot of rice. It's more of an affront of manhood being unable to use the fire to boil the water to cook the rice and feed the tribe. It's RICE! The staple of more than 11/16ths of the planet! What moron can't cook a bloody pot of rice.

My rice is either gooey with oatmeal consistancy, or crunchy with crunchy consistency. Neither makes for a good rice, but I eat it anyway because I will eat anything that I cook. That's how I roll. All those starving children out in India are just going to go another night, because I never waste food. I do seem to waist it, but I'm getting better, really.

But there has to be something I'm doing wrong. I even looked up instructions on the net. Rinse rice, water, butter, salt, cover pot cook 20 minutes. How hard is that?

I broke down and instructed Kagetsunami to buy a rice maker.

She did.

Water, salt, oil, rice. 15minutes later, it's rice, light fluffly grainy rice, firm yet soft, not gooey, not crunchy. I forgot how perfect rice should look like. And it uses way less oil. I used a 1/2 teaspoon but I think I can get away with none at all.

It sits there, steams away and bing! Done! No stirring, no clock watching, no boil overs, no burning.

John Henry had won. He beat the drilling machine. His muscles were rent, his strength, his mighty strength had left him, the light in his eyes fading like the sunset as he sat down and rested. In the quiet he watched the engineer climb down from his cab, brush a few errant pebbles from shirt and walk away.

Current Mood: contemplative
Current Music: I hit the postman, hit your lover

Attention trees! O' guardians of the forest! Oh, tall wooden stick things! It is I, the Guardian of the Lawn. Hear me! I have cleaned up all of your discarded foliage, your shed leaves. Everything is nicely put away and the lawn is free of your spent fauna.

That's it! We are done. Whatever bit of dying plant material that clings to your branches will simply have to stay there until next fall. P'raps that will teach you to molt in a more timely fashion. We're half through November, so I've given you plenty of time to clean yourself off.

Now we are done here.

I'll see you all next year.

Current Mood: frustrated
Current Music: It was my own lovely lady, and she said, oh, it's you.

I went to the store today.

I bought tequilla, beer and sake.

That is all.

Current Mood: tired
Current Music: Scurvy. We got scurvy.

I have named my Mac, Archimedes. He is sleek and slim and has black keys on a silver face, sort of like a reverse Oreo. I've been playing with settings and stuff. It found the internet, hooked up my e-mail and sent a letter to my VW mechanic demanding they hurry up and fix my bug, all by itself within the first minute of powering up. It's folding my socks while I type.

The one click is a little to get used too. Mac is very key stroke command driven which is good for writers. I can save docs and stuff without having to pick up my hand, figure out where the mouse is, find the pointer and then get the pointer to the little space on the screen and then click on it.

The one mouse button? Ahdonno. I may have to give into Microsoft thinking with multi mouse buttons. And there is no backspace. That was strangely handy. I am more than likely to use my egro-wireless keyboard for serious writing as I do have bad posture and my wrists slouch on the key board. The aluminum case is sharp right there. On the slightly newer models, I think they beveled the edge. Bevel is good.

It sound nice and the graphics are nice and it's all around nice. I think the best thing about it is, it's not a PC. I like that I can pick and choose what parts I want to work like a PC, like two button mice, and what part work like a Mac, like it works and I don't spend the majority of my time figuring out why it isn't working.

So, we shall see. I have some playing to do.

Current Mood: indescribable
Current Music: I've been to the edge...

Leaves filling with sunlight flit slowly across the road as I peddle down the long, lonely driveway. I am horribly, horribly out of shape and puffing at the first hill. Up into top gear, I'm moving now, the crisp air sting my damp cheeks, my legs warming up.

A quick stop at the post office, detained to answer a few questions about my bike, and then it's off to the town hall to vote.

Back in the day when North Stonington was a Penal Colony, the building was the warden's house and office. When South Stonington went the way of Atlantis and North Stonington was upgraded to a real town, the Warden became the first mayor, his home the town hall, and his breast pocket was the records office.

Things were simpler then.

They voted with rocks, rocks being the lead export of North Stonington we certainly had enough of them. The system is simple. Go in the booth, select your office and drop a colored rock for the party of your choice. Red for republican, blue for democrat, Green for labor party, Brown for Green Party and white for Right to Life. For a write in, you get a piece of chalk and write it on a black rock and toss that in.

That worked for us then, it worked for us today.

They are polished these days, so they shine like pool balls and roll nicely into the slot where members of the Mystery Elders counts them, tabulates them and inform the counsel of the winners. Not a very high tech operation, but saves on electricity.

In the darkness of the booth, it's just you and your thoughts, unless you do something dumb like drop two balls in the same slot and a Mystery Elder joins you in the booth to assist you in making your vote. You don't mess with the Mystery Elders. They can kick you out and deny your vote if they deem you too much of a goof ball, so it's best to play it straight.

But in the booth, sans screwing up, and alone, you have all the time to study the names and reflect on who they are. I read the material they mail to my house, so I know for the most part who I'm looking for before going in. Read is defined as skim in this paragraph.

It is a local election and everyone down plays it as, Eh, Who Cares? But it is important. Would the mighty whale be in deep, deep water if the plankton were to die off? You bet. It is important that we take charge of our own turf, our own town. If we can't decide who our dog catcher should be, then how can we decide something important, like health care and borders.

Know who these people are for goodness sake!

Back outside, fresh from doing my public duty, I am once again quizzed on my bike, this time by a Conservation Officer. While we're chatting a man walks up with a cookie. He points to my shirt. I had not put any thought into getting dressed, I rarely do, and it reads: "The big questions. Who am I? Why are we here? What is my Fate? Where are the cookies?"

I think my brother gave me the shirt.

Anyway, he was happy to present me with a cookie.

So, here's the real reason you should all go out and vote.

Someone may give you a cookie.

And Cookies are good.

Current Mood: accomplished
Current Music: The ink is black, the page is white

It is sleek, black and cool, lifted neatly and silently from a spy's pocket. It has no buttons, only a tiny, tiny light on its blank face to let you know it's on. It is smaller than my outstretched hand, flatter than my Sunday morning pancake.

Inside is the Louvre, Library of Congress and Paramount movie catalog.

My life.

500 gigabytes of space, the final frontier. It is a back up drive, a warehouse of emptiness waiting to be filled. My old computer's hard drive was cracked open and it's secrets poured out into the new back up drive.

It is wizzbang to say the least.

There are bigger drives, I'm sure. Tetrobytes and Terrorbytes and Gooblebytes and GoblinBytes, but I'm from the generation that used to have to press play on a tape recorder in order to play a computer game, where a kilobyte was the size of the Tibetan backdrop, and where 8 green blocks on a grid were high resolution graphics.

Sound was a beep.

Now? 500 Gigs in the palm of my hand.

I better get to work.

Current Mood: Awed
Current Music: When you get to my door tell them Boris sent you.