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In how many homes do televisions blare
pro war propaganda – lest anyone care?
The shuttered GM plant had languished for several years.
Now, finally, someone has begun ripping into several of the massive structures. Giant excavators with clam shell grapple attachments have already hastened the creation of rubble piles. Like buzzards pecking a fetid corpse, the demolition crews will soon sort brick, concrete, steel, copper, aluminum and whatever other non-ferrous metals, mounding said materials to be trucked and passed off to the highest bidder. What would then become of such vast acreage in this age of outsourcing and acquisitive Amazon?
Speculation flew among the locals. After all, the quintessential ‘AVAILABLE’ sign was still posted on the surrounding stockade fence.
Who would occupy this barren stretch?
An Amazon ‘fulfillment’ center? Not likely.
Folks in those parts said that pigeon had already flown – and wasn’t carryin’.
How about a Wal*Mart? Possibly.
A mall was out. Malls were rusting relics of a bygone pre-Amazon era. Hey, what about a professional plaza peppered with medical offices of all stripes? Ths seems most plausible as that is one of the few American businesses – outside of lawyers and fast food – that are still turning a profit.
Next, a mighty bitter pill,
as traffic was at a dread standstill.
Davey got behind an Audi R3
and it took off so fast he could barely see.
That slick R3 was quickly lost;
aloft in a chuff of R3 exhaust.
Alas, of all days,
this was not to be one
to slog through the haze
under such a hot sun.
The cloud cover was of no consequence
as the humidity level hovered ‘round 96%.
But eager to finish the task at hand,
Davey H drew a line in the sand.
And not to get too far into the weeds,
he drove in the car in accordance with needs,
turned on GPS hoping not to get lost,
yes, no need to guess,
but breathe lots of exhaust.
This was farm country of sorts,
not the typical Big Boxes, beef, beer and sports.
The air, it stank a bit like a sewer,
with Holsteins to thank for abundant manure.
Davey H was not feelin’ groovy
and should have said “NO!”
to that bad action movie
right before bed with blue light and UV.
Today you could say
that he didn’t feel nice;
for that movie foray
he was payin’ the price.
That would be the last time for such a mistake, Dave thought.
It had taken his energy and he had felt shot.
The movie in question, as per this discussion:
‘The Accountant’ with Ben Afleck,
and it brought quite a rush in.
That was on the first night of their stay at Kaitlin D’s fab pad, which was situated not terribly far from the still active and terribly smelly (censored) landfill.
Next to that was the port of (Censored), which, on this, Davey’s departure day, was idle, though its massive lots were piled high with ‘stuff’ awaiting loading for export.
Reflections on the trek were few
as Davey had lots of driving to do.
Getting home late would not be fantastic
if they entered a spate of stop-and-go traffic.
During the cruise up the mind-numbingly long I-(censored) stretch, Davey H still couldn’t shake the obsessive pessimism regarding our species-wide petro-intensive existence. He waxed philosophical thus: “how long can this petroleum gravy train continue? I mean, come on! We are collectively and absolutely GUZZLING this stuff at an unprecedented rate!”
Watching and being immersed in the 4, 5, 6 or more lanes of cars, trucks, buses and the occasional motorcycle,
it indeed bore morbid testimony to petroleum usage.
Billboards along this trammeled thruway shouted and shilled for hotels, beer, lotteries, secret ‘gentleman’s clubs’, and online education opportunities.
Cool. So what if, for the sake of conjecture, said education could include courses in petroleum consumption or vegetarian/vegan diets with an emphasis on NOT strip mining the oceans for every last wisp of fish?
Back to the departure from Kaitlin D’s: it was ‘goodbye’ to yet another ‘wired’ home and the questionable Alexa ® presence. Farewell to those robustly trilling songbirds that woke us each morning. Good riddance to the electric garage door opener
and the doggie and cat
that could not be let out without supervision.
Now, finally, at Don’t Laugh It’s Paid For Farm®, Davey was back
and back in the saddle;
out of the sack,
not without a paddle.
The proverbial creek
of which he did speak
did not his demeanor addle.
Home at last – in a place paid for,
hence the name, Davey H was sure
back right in the game.
The weather was sunny
and quite frankly pleasant;
and for his money, no tail-gaters present.
Yes, indeed – true peace of mind,
as per his need to leave cities behind!
Feeling a tad bit out of sorts,
Davey nevertheless engaged in wood sports. And after the day’s initial fueling,
in hot sun ablaze, the work was quite grueling.
But he continued the fight.
And did so undaunted;
“hell, it’s only right,”
as he got what he wanted.
He grinned with mirth
and a sheepish “aw, shucks”,
as that job had been worth
about (censored) bucks.
The next day it rained
and old Davey did scoff:
“Hah! I just gained
one more friggin’ day off!”
It was just the shot-in-the-arm
he had needed,
having first done no harm,
relaxation was heeded.
So Davey basked, in case you had asked
without much reservation,
and thinking fast, he multi-tasked
engaged in conversation.
That was yesterday,
and be that as it may,
it is relegated to history, and THIS is today.
Today is sultry, hot and comfy NOT.
Music on the drive was mellow,
twin stripes on the road so yellow,
tooling to the pleasing strains of Franz Liszt’s Hungarian Dance in C major – was it G major?
No worry. This is feel-good stuff. Pure fluff.
Now it appears that yesterday’s acupuncture session was on point, and much to the ‘Quackbusters’ dismay, acupuncture WORKS,
regardless of what the Quackbusters say.
And as a point of reference regarding all such “Quackbusters” or “Quackwatch”,
their effect on health is a scurrilous splotch.
Thus Davey H has this to say:
he won’t give ‘Quackwatch’ the time of day!
Then, a pleasing violin concerto trilled through well worn speakers as Davey H aimed his anonymous year, make & model automobile southward on (censored) Road. He exults in the revelation that he is blissfully unaware of any warm Co2 being huffed at the Democrat’s so-called debates.
The aging odometer’s last four digits read 9518. Hmmm. . .Lots of miles this year.
And since 100Words.com is so friggin’ insecure, whereby by inference Davey H’s data is splayed publicly when posted yet none of it is anyone’s concern, the final tally for the fiscal year shall remain unmentioned.
Yes, the precise mileage
shall remain obscured here.
One thing will stand clear:
Davey H has little time to read this time of year.
In fact, work is usually the sole thing
toward which he will steer.
Davey pondered the day
as his tea steeped in kettle;
oh, would the foray
be a test of his metal?
That metal was hard earned, by the way.
The next day’s odometer reading was 9561.
It’s been 15 miles more or less,
so can you more or less guess
where Davey H went to have fun?
His work gig yesterday
left him well soaked with sweat;
it was HOT you might say
and on that you can bet.
But summer was here, oh, dear
and then. . .
He was grateful to hear
the scolding of a wren.
“I just got chided,” Davey confided,
and got to work again.
Then Davey saw fit to blurt
“let’s work ‘til it rains!”
Though his shoulders did hurt
with some sharp stinging pains.
But he didn’t scoff at this pain threshold test;
rather took a day off to lay it to rest.
The next day’s slated appointment on Burpington Road meant cresting it in 3rd gear. The anonymous year, make & model’s otherwise capable engine seemed to groan in protest. On the contrary, the mere fact that the old buggy was still moderately functional was not only good, but best.
But that was okay, it was a rain day
and yes, the work was gravy;
so a good bit of chill would soon fit the bill
and that was just fine with old Davey.
Davey’s work clothes
were quite sullied by spots,
but before he dozed,
he collected his thoughts.
“Not much time for thinking these days,”
Davey thought as he flailed his bod in the haze.
The job today was pretty neat,
but sad to say it had bittersweet.
That sh** made Davey temperamental,
as all of it was Oriental.
This, friends, is NOT meant to disparage Asians; and is quite to the contrary.
‘Bittersweet’ refers to a particularly invasive, noxious weed which, in this case, just happens to have originated in the Orient. Tough as rope, sneaky and sporting horribly tenacious roots,
it will gallop ahead of any non-astute gardener’s attempts to control it. “Glad that crap isn’t in OUR yard. . .yet,” Davey H hissed to himself as he hacked and pulled the obnoxious vines from the loam.
Mrs. Budd, ever the responsible homeowner, seemed overwhelmed at the prospect of what all needed to be weeded, beckoning Davey H thus: “please try and start work soon. The jungle is encroaching.”
But Mrs. Budd was kind and patient – the least of Davey H’s worries. Indeed, he had bigger fish to fry – or get fried by – which brings us to the ever-tempestuous Ms. Krook.
Davey felt like he had to walk on eggshells when dealing with Ms. Krook, a nominally affable divorcee of long standing. And to be frank and earnest, her standing in the world was understandable; rare indeed would be a long term spouse who’d stand for long.
Krook needed to vent and in the process make sure to fling the resultant excrement on any recipients, the easiest of which happened to be the grate and presently hapless Davey H. He felt, at times, like a pincushion, but needed to morph into one of those plastic hi-viz mannequins holding a ‘SLOW’ sign.
Now it was July 4th
and Davey H was heading north.
The scorching sun stood fast as ruler
so it would be fun in some place cooler.
Then, as a matter of course, it was July 5th,
the day the late Frank Gormley
met his cowardly assassin.
But flags were still waving
from big pickup trucks
as Davey was craving
to make a few bucks.
Hauling the splitter
would not take that much power,
but he didn’t dare go 40 miles an hour.
In the summer haze, gray old Davey fights
as long sultry days lead to short sleep-ful nights.
This writing stuff was getting to be
a pain in the ass,
as he would see
if enough time did pass.
If 100 words is all it takes,
then how absurd: little difference it makes!
Here’s Davey H’s dilemma reiterated for the umpteenth time: these paper notebooks suffer from durability shortcomings among other faults. They would burn well, too. So no robust or reliable archiving is to be had by them.
Number 3: they are bulky. And since our fair (but very insecure) ‘social tasking’ website is a strictly cloud-based medium, transposition from paper to computer is an ever-annoying must.
‘Tis about this aspect Davey has cussed. In addition to – and perhaps also as a result of – the bulk factor is weight. F’rinstance: take a long stack ‘o paper, say, a ream or so, then add another 2 or 3 equivalent quantities, stack, schlep, lather, rinse, repeat. Pretty soon you’re talkin’ serious heft. You’re pumpin’ iron, fercryinoutloud.
Lastly, though Davey H has a love affair with pencils (“they tend to be more reliable than today’s chintzy pens that run out of ink after a couple of paragraphs.”), written material promulgated by pencils doesn’t stand the test of wear and tear.
As stacked pages rub and scuff together, all those thoughts, musings, observations and purple prose get hazy and illegible. Add in Father Time, and you have yourself some starter paper for the Rumford fireplace.
But Davey H will stubbornly remain with paper for now, as it’s fairly handy to keep nearby where it can be summoned and snagged at a moment’s notice. It needs no electricity and generates zero magnetic or electrical fields. Never mind the downside it yields; those were already chronicled. So anyway, Davey H’s nose has been to the mechanical grindstone lately, with only brief electronic intermissions.
Too many fun things to do around the perennially messy shop, which has pretty much spilled out into the yard as of late.
No curious passers-by have stopped to query Davey H as to why his anonymous year, make & model car is 5 feet off the ground. Had they been so inquisitive, he would have waxed philosophical: “this makes it much easier on the back and knees.” The conundrum, however, was that Davey had no viable weatherproof structure around said lift, ergo, it is and shall remain a fair weather friend, at least for the immediate foreseeable and sustainable future.
For you see, the grate Davey H was ever determined to pinch pennies en route to remaining as financially independent as possible.
Noting this, his mentor Dan had questioned Davey on occasion thus: “why do you scrimp? You don’t have any kids.”
Taken aback, old Davey fussed
at this query that seemed to smack of distrust.
So he pondered a credible response, deciding upon one in short order.
“I scrimp for SPITE,” Davey snapped. He elaborated on that theme, railing on for a bit about the repair shop that was up over $85 an hour for labor, among other gripes.
Nevertheless, a-scrimping or not,
and not under duress even though it was hot,
it was off to the hill to commence with the toil
after the fill with a fresh change of oil.
The recent tire rotation project initiated a potentially dangerous conundrum: the anonymous year, make & model’s front end tends to pull to the left if left unattended.
All Davey AH’s rattletrap automobiles have suffered from this phenomenon over the years, commensurate with handling frustration extant throughout. Citing frustration and consternation with today’s tire prices, Davey H sees fit to squeeze every nickel he can out of his rubber.
Which brings up a very good, if unrelated point: his boots are getting damn well buggered, too. This stands to reason, as footwear ‘round Davey’s place takes a beating, especially in season.
And Davey ain’t jokin’ or teasin’.
The latest casualties are a set of Keen® sneakers, and while they are decidedly not boots, with work they are still in cahoots.
Suffice to say gravel and asphalt have not been kind to them. But wait! Here’s what to do:
get some great Gorilla Glue®!
It’s one of life’s perks that actually works,
with no need to sew, nail or screw.
The next project worth hollerin’ about was a truck trip out to Stainfield via Routes (censored) and (censored). Since Rusty White® was pulling an 1800 pound trailer, the going was slow.
Davey H therefore thanks all engine-ists – unlucky enough to have gotten behind him – for their patience and temperance. This was reality. Slowness – whether or not a bona fide slow lane existed and/or could be utilized – was the rubric of Davey H and his aging Rusty White®. It was an adventure and nail biter rolled into one with a mangled brake master cylinder gasket ready to poof at any time.
But that master cylinder thing was yet another headache to be put off for ‘when we have time’.
Now ponder this: you have a newly operational, down home gussied up self propelled log-splitter. That baby was built from scratch, by golly. You fire up and demo said machine for the grate Davey H, who wishes he had brought his cheapass camera to snap a video of that one-of-a-kind rig. Things go along pretty much as planned for a while and since you have 3 supposedly slipped disks in your beleaguered spine and resultant sciatica, you hire on some old friends,
a couple of which are a couple you haven’t seen in a while. The gal half even brings along her Bobcat® loader to help with the heavy lifting schlepping wood. The dude, however, is a bit flippant, and irregular in tending to the splitting. But a sizeable pile does grow and much dead wood is felled from the ‘back forty’.
You take copious breaks with your hired hands, sitting in the shade of Norway maples and pines, smoking cigarettes and whatever else and insouciantly chatting it up around a picnic table covered with bottles and debris. Again, all seems hunky-dory.
Then, out of the blue, one morning around 5 am you are rudely awakened by a crazed wood cutter who is actively stabbing you in the chest while screaming accusations and insults!
Luckily, no arteries are hit and you hobble out, shouting as your son loads you in his anonymous year make and model sedan for the fast-as-hell trip to the hospital.
Whew! That was a close one – and the doctors who sew you up tell you how lucky you are. And what if you had been living alone like before?
Well, truth be told, trouble has only just begun
in a way; after all, you are on approximately 15 medications (and that’s not counting alcohol consumption), depressed and suicidal.
You agree to an immediately sign up for rehab and are assigned a lockup. Alcohol detox is the first step on this 10,000 mile long path toward normalcy, but as the scourge of ethanol slowly dissipates from your tissues, your life will SLOWLY become worth living. Now you need to crank up your innate reservoir of chutzpah.
Oh, and the piece of meat that stabbed you? He got caught by well equipped police who tazed him after he resisted arrest.
He now resides where he belongs: in a cage. Back to your situation: will your 1 ½ pack a day cigarette habit be truncated?
That’s the least of your worries now.
And as you enter an alcohol free existence, those ciggies are a handy crutch. No one can argue with that.
Yes, a crutch you need so much
to keep you from a fall;
for now you choose life over booze . . .
bye bye to alcohol!
You just might win,
so strap your butt in
as you rock and roil inside;
for you’ll feel queasy;
it isn’t easy
forever – booze free ride.
The Tip Jar