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We interrupt this insouciant strain of inking for a semi-musical break. Well, a ‘break’ in the train of non-thought, anyway.
The two awesome country oldies were: “Something in my heart sure makes it hard to love again”, by What’s his Name, and “Whatcha gonna do with a dog like that?” by What’s her Name. So much for memory. [Oh: Susan Ray.]
Hit the road again for day two, traversing that marvelously and recently refurbished expanse of asphalt so straight and smooth it could lull you to sleep. Of course, you couldn’t get too drowsy riding in Davey H’s rumble bucket;
the ominous worn wheel bearings’ roar would razz your eardrums in sufficient measure to preclude that. It was nice to get an early start for a change and ride with the pack of like-minded. Unlike his experience of the mid-‘90s, Davey H found this stretch of road filled with courteous commuters. No tail-gating, road rage or gang bangin’. Entering the destination facility, what should greet the grate but a ‘Parking Lot Temporarily Full’ sign. Hey, that was okay, because the overflow lot came a little cheaper. This process was quite revealing
as Davey the elf was getting the feeling
of what it was like in that driving strife:
living a mostly urban life.
NOT! He was just one,
and not Davey plural;
thinking it fun
to be well, mostly rural.
So Davey emits a mournful groan
and flits outside his comfort zone.
Then, listening to the radio,
he heard some things that you should know: advertisers advertize
and radio preachers proselytize,
so what from this can we surmise?
“Not much,” ol’ Davey hap’ly cries.
The radio chatter was a handy tool
employed for staying awake;
and it mattered not to Davey so cool
which tangent the noise would take.
In sum, the (censored) conference was a resounding success from an educational standpoint despite Davey’s shelling out nearly $50.00 in parking fees.
So Davey H the most gracious of hosts
will gripe about this in future posts.
Spar date: 10/9 – with ZERO recognition going to the trans-Atlantic slave trader known as Christopher Columbus [Cristobal Colon].
Aside from a bit of frustration
things for the most part were okay
back home at this (censored) location.
A lot was learned and gas was burned
in the process of education;
although time was short
he didn’t abort
so that calls for a celebration.
This was a Wednesday, and though it felt like a Monday, a lot remained to be mopped up at Don’t Laugh It’s Paid For Farm®.
Mrs. T had reported a stalling problem in the anonymous year make & model auto, which, at first blush, was thought to have been the perp purview of a faulty ignition switch. However, since Davey had disconnected the battery, all bets were off. And HAH! That also meant the pesky check engine light was off, too. So you wanna know what the problem and solutions were?
Start the engine and let it idle for 20 minutes. . . .
per the master mechanic’s advice, which will ostensibly activate ‘idle relearn’.
O I C.
Did OBD tell U that?
So much for the idle relearn.
That was, of course, a mild concern,
and had some force that did in turn
bring some remorse of furl to burn.
But later, after a spate
of staying up just a little too late,
Davey H looked at the time he had to inculcate
in the new SCRATCHPAD ®.
Well, not actually ‘new’; only a refurb
into which he poured many a blurb.
And although the lingering specter of a crash still makes him nauseous,
he won’t rehash that and will be quite cautious.
Onward into the electronic abyss
he could tell you this:
in discussions with a Mike we all like,
the topic of Linux inevitably arose.
You see, Mike Edlair is a big fan of Linux OS.
“I can take an older machine and install Linux Mint® on it with good results.” he said.
Davey H could vouch for Mike’s capabilities; after all, Davey ad played around with some of the aging boxes that Mike had resuscitated or tuned up while volunteering at the (censored) facility. “How does he get this smashin’ performance?”
Davey had wondered, baffled. Actually, it was no big mystery: Linux®, by its very nature, carries a lighter footprint with resultant reduced demand for onboard resources, by and large. Small, too. Moreover, it is not burdened by extraneous spyware or bilious bloat oft associated with say, Windows®. Boot times are snappy and you’re on up and running in minutes. Similarly, shutdown is very fast. Even the update process is a breeze.
Back to the drawing, bored:
Davey squirreled away some words
like turds so discomfiting;
whilst reticent, not eloquent
in artificial lighting.
Then, once again returning to that Linux thing:
hey, take a look – nobody ‘owns’ it or asks you for money. You can buy a machine with Linux on it but it bears no 25 character product key or the implications thereof.
The license is open source,
and that has force,
so feel it, seal it,
no need to conceal it
with nary a tinge of remorse.
Say you were just two mouse clicks away
from lasting satisfaction.
Would a few knuckle cracks
or keyboard hacks
bring any better traction?
Never mind that. Stay with it
whatever you’re doing;
you’re bound to come through
are finished screwing.
Else-wise, Davey H is waxing jubilant at having finished stickerin’ the lumber that was cut 3 weeks ago. It was finished just in time before that ghastly green mold that started creeping on to the boards. ‘Stickerin’ was but one facet of farm life; a task among many to-dos that couldn’t be procrastinated indefinitely.
It HAD to happen, rain or shine,
promptly after boards came off the line.
After the lumber thus was sawn
once stickered up, they’d dry just fine
and green mold would be gone.
So, in one final session – post-drizzle, the remaining boards were laid to rest,
along with worries. At least none of the lumber would go by the boards. Exiting stage left, Davey H returned to prior commitments at the (censored) facility. After churning uneventfully for the most part and without satisfactory result, he hit upon a calm patch the fifth day.
Of course some wisdom set in:
‘This type of thing doesn’t last,’ he reminded himself. ‘So don’t get too attached to it.’
Worry is a calm preventative.
Excrement sticks to the vessel it is held in. Nonetheless, Davey H is here to inform you that although it’s not colder, he’s a bit uptight,
as his sore shoulder keeps him up at night.
He’s determined to succeed,
and hopes not to fail
as per the need,
he will likely prevail.
Prevail, yes, but in negotiations
with insurance gents,
he is indeed he pawn;
on the chessboard of business,
will he thus be gone?
“Not if he can help it,” says Davey so pensive,
as long as that nonsense
won’t get too expensive.
Now as to the aforementioned relations with insurance agencies, Davey H grudgingly admits that a bit of coverage is beneficial when engaged in semi-dangerous contract work on other people’s places of purveyance.
This does indeed fall under the heading of ‘understandable’ and ‘necessary’. But the insurance industry seeks to stick its greedy proboscis into other venues where it really doesn’t belong, like sick care. Uh-oh: better truncate that rant before we can’t;
it’s been blathered before as you readers abhor. What’s in store?
Just the Davey H slant.
Rain tonight and a balmy 48◦ in the heartland deep within the lower 48. Yes, water did bless this ephemeral mess as our climate change bridge is spanned.
The group of us supped as the ante was upped, and Davey H still hasn’t learned;
too much mac & cheese
brings his health to its knees
and along with these he is spurned.
The problem is twofold and composed of interlocking pieces: 1) the stuff is entirely too addictive; it being a notorious comfort food, and 2) contains wheat, and in this case being DeCecco, being otherwise of reasonable quality, is not organic, could well contain glyphosate, which, as more bad reviews – in addition to scores of successful lawsuits – continue to pour in, is an unreasonable risk.
That night, again, in the wee hours, gnawing sounds could be heard coming from somewhere in the south wall.
However cacophonous the chewing was, it didn’t subsume into Davey H’s macabre dream phase. In this subconscious subpoena, he had been out drinking and carousing until 4 am, knowing full well the deleterious repercussions it would wreak upon his subsequent day’s performance. This dream, like one the previous night, was fortunately only a dream. Yet the mere presence of alcohol in said dream was wicked disturbing; after all, Dave H had sipped his last beer in September, 1982. The prior dream was a doozy.
For some reason, Davey had stolen a red Chevy dump truck. Or maybe just usurped it.
Or, in his infinite non-wisdom, felt he could, well, maybe just ‘use it for a bit’.
It must have been a sweet ride
you can guess;
and Davey’s not snide,
but he must confess
that’s what it had to be for a truck to test
his honesty, let alone luck.
Next up, it was a 300 mile trip to (Censored) in real life, real time and a real truck that was really rented from a real rental firm. A stop for gas with thumpity-bump melody-bereft musical stupidity and horrid scents emanating from other vehicles-a-gassin’. Noise. Din. Rough to the tympanum.
Bad tunes gas fumes and rank cigarette smoke,
what else can you say?
It’s lots of ungainly unconscious folk
right here in the USA.
Along the road at each random node
billboards were painting a mural;
sports bar and steak – a cow muscle mistake; fried chicken at Cracker Barrel!
Nobody inside along for the ride
but Davey, himself and he;
the truck a machine and road signs of green
that passed oh so flittingly.
Trees of amber, tan and green;
onward we clamber, sights to be seen.
Mrs. T had chided Davey thus: “please be prompt in signaling your intention.”
Yet Davey won’t fuss;
that is worthy of mention.
But yes he was nervous with synapses firin’; trying not to swerve as he heard a loud siren. Hark! Traffic slowed to a bag-assed crawl;
now is the time to get Scratchbook®
No, do not teeter in a road unworthy rage;
Yo! What could be sweeter?
Just throw down on this page.
WOW! Does this ever suck?!
Sitting like a cow in a gas hogging truck.
Now to Mrs. T’s credit, we had been warned
of this Sunday traffic
with which we’re now scorned.
Like a kingsnake it’s snarled
far as most eyes can see
one more pickle in which we’re to be.
Tamp your temper; you’re stuck, that’s just luck and one thing to remember,
so don’t blame the truck.
This drive gives a task
to the rash, hooved masses
who need to arrive but now sit on their asses.
If one goes 55, then everyone passes!
“I’ll just scrawl,” says he to purge his ennui. Billboards blare of their “care” for cancer;
bumper sticker there says
‘War Is Not The Answer’.
But the best one – and how:
‘If You Lived In Your Heart,
You’d Be Home Now’.
Davey saw this and thought ‘that was all piss’, for just like everyone else, the guy in his heart was stuck in the same old damn stop and start.
Or perhaps ‘stop and go’ is what is meant
by stuck-assed traffic where much time is spent. ‘Road Work One Mile’
the sign said with no smile;
Davey let out a groan, surely wasn’t alone.
For if subsequently sore tangled trafic was piled, many folks would be with anger defiled.
So Davey, whilst not feeling down on his luck,
was just getting used to this gas drinkin’ truck.
Being once again tempted. . .
to emit a groan,
he snidely preempted “glad it’s not my own.”
So he rolled on – though not very fast
as faster rollers hurtled on past.
Dusk approached and all was shaded
as that fab jazz station sadly faded!
This was par for the course and wholly expected for him, no remorse; he did not get dejected. Toward the end of October and once again Davey did query his Yankee friend
as to which colors had burst forth
on steep hillsides up north.
The Yankee said “at the present time,
foliage is past its prime.”
Now Davey H could understand
whilst living out in the heartland:
although his leaves are much duller,
he still believes they have some color.
So on October 31st
at least the leaves weren’t at their worst.
Returning to the business meme,
things for Davey would wholesome seem.
They wanted their interest,
that oft-cited curse;
a percentage to wit that could only get worse.
Would they give a shit then to reimburse?
He thought they had a lot of gall
to play such nasty-ass hardball.
Meanwhile, the Stones’ ‘Satisfaction’ was rolling through Davey’s head – the original monophonic LP version, with booming bass
and Jagger’s bratty bray.
Mono, no stereo was yet in place,
he’ll have you know of booming bass.
Now this: pass slow gas low garlic peel;
orange cleaver micro seal.
Forest pipeline; piles of sand;
pitchfork tine across the land.
Ghost on post who stares, aghast.
Halloween’s host from centuries past.
Now back to that forest: who was that guitarist? Did someone know before?
It was Ritchie Blackmore.
Circa 1970, Machine Head LP,
and ‘Highway Star’, you see?
Son and daughter:
DO NOT play ‘Smoke On The Water’!
More on that later.
Would he goody schedule keep
now and how the gas was cheap?
Here at one mile per minute,
productivity was in it.
Davey couldn’t keep notice, Otis, that loads
of cars were rippin’ the roads
though not to be left out of the action;
trucks, buses and motorcycles
also gained some traction.
Then, this just in: look up the following:
Alex Lawson of SocialSecurityWorks.org.
Note to potential readers of this dreck:
these are what’s known as ‘snippets’ or ‘thoughts in formation’. Not to be taken too terribly seriously.
On a Friday fair from Davey’s lair
a rusty truck departed. . .
with a full tank
good luck to thank
he hastened to get started.
The next day he would say to the best of them: “hey, okay, let’s stay up ‘til 3 am!”
This was stated with compunction
as it abated optimal function.
Out and about later on:
tourists abound in this old horse-less town.
Most wear a smile, but occasional frown.
Some chattering, clueless, or just talking loud;
a few heads turn skyward as if in a cloud.
A driver with car in traffic thus slowed to a crawl for a spate on old Slate Road.
But Davey H wasn’t sticking around,
as he had too many tasks; amid the crush of cars
and trucks we get a rush from Radio Deluxe.
Yes, they’ll play us many great tunes
on just Saturday afternoons.
Then on Sunday, some bellicose bluster
as if we were morose and needed some luster.
So the orange-capped dude ballyhooed
some harsh shilling
embraced by a coalition of the willing.
Airport past dawn; oh, woe begone!
Davey H must report that he did resort
or rather opt in with nary a frown
to a handy, friendly TSA pat-down.
Thus he exults with jubilation:
he avoided the scanner’s radiation.
‘Locate your closest exit and in the event of a water landing
— certainly a best-case scenario in the realm of airline crashes — just zip tight this scratchpad, leave it behind and crawl to the exit with intact behind.
Free wifi gal or guy . . .it’s an aerial sport
that we hope won’t abort
as this bird plies the dank cloudy sky.
All that gas being huffed with his hair in a tuft, a slightly nervous Davey H set about to get some in-sky shuteye.
It wouldn’t be long until the silver bird entered its prospective airspace, otherwise known as ‘cruising altitude’ above (Censored), (Censored), and the din of twin jet engines roaring reliably
meant the craft would likely be on time.
A seamless departure line arrow from archer shot as if from stellar bow;
Ice-slick shiny flying, aluminum tubed plying; like bat out of hell we’ll go!
Then, once aloft, his senses went soft
as he was attempting to read;
then not feeling spry
he lapsed into shuteye
as the old body signaled the need.
Hence, upon landing with some understanding
did Davey H feel in the lurch;
it would be five more days
under clouded sun’s rays
before being invited to church.
So much for that patter; how much did it matter
if Davey saw Henry or Herman?
For in that church pew
with the odd likes of you
would Davey H take in a sermon!
Actually, as of this scrawling his attendance at said church was uncertain
For truth be told, Davey H wasn’t sold
and did not feel too spiritually hurtin’.
So church plans would undoubtedly be scrapped. Many times they were.
Of course it all depended
upon his gracious hosts and to whose compunction they would leave their posts.
But it was the end of October;
and those thirty one days
saw Davey H sober
and brimming with praise.
Not for a god or king or queen
or any old sod on this Halloween.
It seemed at this stage that life was a question, and at his age lots of rank indigestion.
No cigs in his digs, mo meat, fish, or booze;
he ate black mission figs
as he spelunked for clues
as to why after breakfast
of pancakes and syrup
he was put to the test
and no symptoms would clear up.
“Must be the food,” old Davey intoned,
on the porcelain goddess so often enthroned.
He’ll thus wind this down
as he champs at his bridle; [TBC]
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