End of Day

It's 2158 hrs.

The good news is that the barbeque is not in low earth orbit; it's still out on the patio, more-or-less intact.

The bad news is that its valve knobs are twisted wreckage, and its control panel needs a paint job.

Spiders. Where I live is no place for an arachnophobe. The little devils are everywhere. They get into barbeque burner fuel supply tubes and clog them up with their silk. The resultant flashbacks can be pretty spectacular. This evening's certainly was.

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End of Day

It's 2121 hrs.

Tidying up. Tossing stuff into the city's recycling bin. Spotted a stray paper towel by the retaining wall. Picked it up and looked it over and there's a little slug on it. Gave the slug a fingertip flick westward toward the fence.

ZIIIING. THWAP!

That's likely the fastest that creature has ever moved in its life.

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End of Day

It's late. It's 2206 hrs. This afternoon's outrageous gusts of wind from the south and the west have settled down to gentle wafts of air through the branches of the big trees near us.

Cooper the cat gave me a big yawn this afternoon when I got home from work. That's a scary sight-- a cat's mouth when it yawns. Wouldn't want to see that if I were a mouse. Don't much care for the sight of it as a human, for that matter.

Tomorrow's another day. (That's a silly cliché, really. What else would it be? Another washing machine?) New brake pads to be installed on the Ford Ranger. We'll see how that goes.

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Plus ça Change, Plus c'est la Même Chose

Or, 'The more things change, the more they stay the same.'

The following is verbatim from the introductory chapter of the book, "Modern Gunsmithing", by an American gentleman name of Clyde Baker. The book was published in 1933.

"Work -- honest, decent labor, skill of fingers, accuracy of eye, -- somehow it seems to be beneath the present generation. The business man in his office sticks out his chest, holds "conferences," frowns and looks wise, preening himself on that thing he calls "ability." Then he sharpens his pencil by sticking it into a little machine and turning a crank -- or more likely screws down the point of an automatic gold one; has his finger nails cleaned by the blonde in the barber shop; calls a service man to change a tire on his car; wears a little useless penknife on his watch chain and sends it to a grinding shop to be whetted! -- yes, he does just that. We've been pampered now to the point of helplessness -- and if we don't watch our step, we'll find ourselves at the point of uselessness."

There was, no doubt, some chariot-maker in ancient Rome or Athens who said or wrote something similar.

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The Local News

Switched on the radio in the truck this morning in time for the 0630 hrs local news report.

The first item told of a motorist who lost control (presumably) of his vehicle and struck an apartment building, severing a gas line. The place had to be evacuated while things were straightened out.

The next item was the story of two guys in a mall who were confronted by a security guard on suspicion of shoplifting. One of the two pulled out a gun and fired it, missing the guard. He dropped the gun and the two ran.

I'm listening to this and I'm thinking, "Isn't this grand? I have at my service the full resources of CBC Radio to tell me what the city's douche bags have been up to. Where would I be without this?"

Sitting in my truck in blessed silence is where. I switched it off.

Think about it. The local news reports exist to keep you up-to-date on the exploits of your city's douche bags. Do you or I need this? Does anyone?

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