Using a Cheater

You're about to learn something about drain snake repair, but I'm sure it's a lesson which can be equitably applied to any and all repairs, whether at work or in the household.

The SC-10-A drive shaft on an Electric Eel Model C is held in place with (2) 5/16 allen screws. Most of the time they come loose fairly easily. Yet as all things made by human hands, things don't always go according to plan. In the case of these screws, they sometimes seize. They insolently will not come out. When that happens you either heat them with a torch in an attempt to coax them out, or do what I do. Put a length of pipe over the top of the allen wrench, a 'cheater' as me Pops taught me, to give you greater leverage turning the wrench.

Now, I know there is a school of thought that you should never ever, ever use a cheater bar. Well, me Grandpa Joe and me Pops both believed in them, so I believe in them. So there.

Anyways, you turn the wrench with the cheater, increasing pressure as you go, and one of three things will happen. You will either (A) break the allen wrench, (B) strip the allen head on the screw, or (C) you will hear a tiny but sharp little 'ting' exactly as the wrench turns suddenly. That ting is either good or bad. But usually, it's good. Usually it means that screw has broken loose and you are seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Your job will soon be over.

The good bad ting. Listen for it when you do your own repairs. And don't be afraid to use a cheater.

Full Speed Ahead

The Rosary is a set of prayers widely said by Catholics. It is made up of traditional prayers well known to most: The Our Father, Hail Mary, and Glory Be, said in a particular sequence. 

But there are variations. Most folks, when they say prayers, say them with a certain pacing. 'Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee'. So it is with the Rosary generally.

Yet me Pops, having grown up in a parish staffed by Dominican priests, always said there were Rosaries, and then there was the Dominican Rosary. It was said very, very fast, almost at a machine gun rate. HailMaryfullofgracetheLordiswiththeblessedartThouamongsywomenandblessedisthefruitofthywombJesus.

Could you follow that? Then you might be a Dominican.

Joe's Birthday

Today is me Grandpa Joe's birthday. He would have been 121. Sure, that would not be a likely age for him to have made. But I can imagine the hell he would have raised if he had.

He passed away August 27, 1991, just shy of 86, so we buried him pretty close to his birthday. He smoked heavy from his teens (his doctor at the end remarked that his lungs were probably like leather). No doubt some tobacco farmer lived the high life because of Joe. 

I remember him smoking Carltons. It's a silly thing to be sentimental over but I can still see clearly those red packages they came in, and him opening a fresh one on his front porch, tearing the cellophane off with a carpet knife because that's what he did when something didn't open readily enough. Which, for his purposes, they typically would not. 

He went home in style. Me Pops rented a large black Chevy Suburban and drove Joe back to Jacksonville, Illinois for internment. Joe always promised himself he was going to buy one new car before he died. He never did, but his last trip was in one. I wonder if, perhaps, that was Pops' salute to his old man.

Down at the funeral home in Jacksonville I remember me and me cousin Art were standing by the casket. One or the other of us said, "This ain't right."

"What?" the other asked.

"He can't leave this world without a pack of cigarettes."

"I'll get the smokes, you get the lighter," I said. Off we were to find a store. I bought a pack of Carltons for the first and only time in my life. Art got the lighter. The undertaker solemnly placed both in the vest pocket of Joe's suit.

A little while later we were talking to an uncle, telling him what we'd done. "I don't know that that was a good idea," Uncle remarked. "What if that butane mixes with the gases of the body decomposing? It might cause an explosion."

Hell, Joe would have loved that! Dirt spraying up and the headstone falling over to the side? Magnificent. And I can't help imagining me Grandma Cosgriff lying next to him, shaking her head and tsk tsking. She had to do that often enough in life, and now two of her grandkids go and give Joe one final reason to annoy her. Everyone else in the cemetery would be thinking, 'That's just Joe'. Grandpa would simply be cackling in the way he always did when he found something funny, a hee hee hee as though forced out of his body.

Happy Birthday Joe. I know you're still rooting that explosion.

Can't be that busy

I remember me Pops would frequently ask, to no one in particular and everyone in general, "You ever notice that the guys who claim they're the busiest always have the time to tell you how busy they are?" It sure seems that way.

I had a customer at the Shop yesterday who came in (without his machine for some reason) and wanted to know how much and how long to put a chuck on his Eel. I told the man twenty five bucks and we could do it while he waits. "Cool. Let me go get my machine Cosgriff and I'll be right back. I got a lotta jobs waiting."

He left to get his machine an hour later. Several times in the interim as he was supposedly about to leave he would stop before reaching the door and ask about a cutter, or the turnaround time on rewiring his unit, or simply to tell me about how much he loves his Model C Eel. I ended up fibbing to him and said I had to close at three, just to expedite things. Well, to move him on anyway. "Okay, Cosgriff. Let me go get it 'cause I'm really busy. Got a lotta jobs lined up."

I hope he was very busy, because he was really selling me on the point. Yet he did not return by three. Or by my actual closing for that matter.

Trashy Cloyce

The sectional drain snake cables which I sell come in large barrels. They're maybe three feet high and about two feet wide. They make great garbage cans once I've sold the cables, as they're just about the ideal size for 33 gallon trash bags. I have a couple in the Shop set aside for that purpose.

Once a plumber, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, came down from Saginaw to buy some cables. He paid me, and then grabbed a barrel. "What do you think you're doing?" I demanded.

"I'm loading my barrel, Marty," a confused and somewhat annoyed Cloyce responded.

"Well, if you really want to drive my trash to Saginaw, Cloyce, who am I to deny you the pleasure?" I then explained what he was doing, latching onto the first barrel he saw thinking it filled with sectional cables. Peals of laughter and much knee slapping then rang throughout the old barn.

Raw Reviews

Daniel, a reviewer, says this about my book David Gideon:

Hands down one of the best books I’ve read in a while! This book just continues to captivate me and I’m always left wanting more. There’s so much raw emotion and the plot pulls you in quickly. If you like themes of this type of book , rewriting history, and solid character development pick this up now and you won’t regret it!

I must say an emphatic thank you to Daniel. Such encouraging words are heart warming, to say the least.

Would Charles Martin Cosgriff's novel David Gideon leave you hungry for me? Find out here. Why? Because maybe Daniel's onto something.

Still No Sign Of Land

Yes, I know I said just this past Sunday that I loathe commenting on social issues these days, yet here I am again. C'est la guerre.

The WNBA thing recalls, for quite obvious reasons, questions of women's rights. But see here: if you don't know what a woman is, how can you speak of women's rights? All talk of women's rights is only just so much nonsense, complete and utter nonsense in fact, if you don't or can't know what a woman is. 

Human rights presume human beings. Property rights presume property. It would be indelibly and profoundly stupid, indeed incomprehensible, to argue for property rights if no such things as property or ownership existed and could be defined in language understandable by all. Likewise, if you don't know what a woman is, what are you arguing for? What rights can possibly exist within the indefinite?

If you don't know what a woman is you cannot speak of women's rights, precisely because such things do not exist if there aren't women. Responding, as many of our progressive friends do, that a woman is whatever she says she is, is not an answer. It's begging the question and, quite frankly, cannot produce intelligent conversation. It's deflection, a shallow debater's trick to stymie any useful conclusion. Tell me what a woman is and then we can speak of her rights. Until then, you're just wasting your breath and my time.

Fruit Salad

Under doctor's orders, I am resolved to try to eat better. Let's see how long this lasts. 

Now, to be fair to me, a few years ago when I embarked on a similar voyage I actually did manage to lose twenty pounds and drop my blood pressure thirty eight points. So hey, it can happen. Deep within my being is some semblance of willpower.

Last Friday I was heading into my local supermarket determined to get fried fish from their deli as my lunch. Then that lurking spirit of will crept up. Passing the deli counter I approached the fresh fruit, where some reasonably priced fruit salads were on display. The one I selected had a mixture of watermelon, cantaloupe, and honeydew, obvious through the plastic container. The bottom layer seemed to me to be black olives. That struck me as odd, olives in a fruit salad. But I like black olives, so I bought it.

Once home and checking email, I ate the fruit rather quickly and went after an olive. The sweet taste informed me that the black olives were in fact grapes. 

It all makes sense to me now. Fruit salad wouldn't have any bit of vegetable, would it?

The WNBA Fiasco

Long ago, I decided to hold back on political and social commentary in this here blog. Writing lighter stuff was more fun, it did not get one drawn into tedious arguments, and truly helps a body stay mentally healthy. But, damn, sometimes staying away is a hard pledge to keep.

Take the entire fiasco surrounding the WNBA, the Women's National Basketball Association. I'm going to cut right to the chase: we all know what a woman is, and to argue anything contrary is simply intellectual dishonesty. Yet there are those who try. That's worse than not being honest. I'm tempted to say they are flat out liars.

But here's this women's group, with the term women all over the place, and they can't make up their mind what it means? Hogwash. They don't want to make up their minds. They don't want to make a definitive statement. If they actually affirm what a woman is, they can't support other things which they very much want to aggrandize. 

Then two biological men call their bluff. Well, good for them.

I know it's a grandstand play on their part, but so what? Make the WNBA say what a woman is, or make them live their creed (whatever the hell it is). Make them commit, or be, heh, heh, committed. Live your dream right down to its logical conclusion, ladies, or admit what is patently obvious to all. Stop being the emperor in new clothes. Start being rational human beings. 

Interim David Gideon

Here were go again! Some kind observations about my book The Interim Generation:

Writersive on Amazon says: I mistakenly got the third book first but to my surprise it reads well as a standalone. I really love the engaging concept and captivating storyline. I'm hooked! Definitely getting the earlier 2 books for sure!

Why thank you! I'm certainly okay with that approach, especially as I try to style my books as stand alones!

See more about The Interim Generation: Interim

Josh offers this about David Gideon: This book truly is a very entertaining literary book. The story really is quite creative and illustrates the life of a fictional character named David, who apparently had a wide arrange of professions over his lifetime. Overall the story highlights different elements of suspense, drama, intrigue, and even inspires leadership. Leadership is actually one of the big qualities that the main character begins to recognize in himself. Overall a very satisfying read!

Check out what others are saying: DG

I'm really, really happy with the progress of my writings. Thank you all!

David Gideon

It's here. It's available. My revised novel about an everyman who happens to become President has now been released. You can check it out here:

David Gideon

We all know that an everyman could never be President; politics will typically destroy men and women of principle and common sense. But David Gideon is about more than that. It's a story of a good man's life, and the interactions and prodding of his closest friends.

I've been told by several people that it's an easy read which tells a compelling tale. I hope so, because that's what I was going by for: a straightforward story of a principled man committed to doing things right and well. The actual political machinations I purposely kept to a minimum precisely because they would be dull. Campaigns are glossed over in part because no sane individual cares about them. The novel is about the man David Gideon, not the politician David Gideon. That man is only incidental to the story.

David is just a guy committed to his family and friends who otherwise wants to be left alone, but is called to something higher. It's a bit Capraesque, and maybe a bit corny. I like to fancy that it appeals to the soul, that little voice inside us who wants things to be right, to be the way they ought to be. I enjoyed his story and I think you would too.

Obsession

I am not a fan of the sabermetrics push, this seeming willingness to reduce analysis to numbers. It began with baseball but is spreading not only to other sports, but apparently everywhere. And while numbers can be important, as with many other things in life they aren't necessarily the know all be all.

Me Pops liked to talk about Frank Lary, a pitcher on the Detroit Tigers sixty years ago. He was nicknamed the Yankee Killer because he had extraordinary success against that New York team. I'm sure the sabermetricians have an explanation for why, but I suspect it was really only simple fate. Sometimes things just happen, they just are what they are. Lary owned the Yanks. That's how it was. Is an explanation necessary, helpful, or even obtainable by reason and analysis? I doubt it.

As I said, it's going beyond baseball. The absurdity is, it seems, to be found in other areas. I stumbled across an article the other day which declared, after thorough analysis of the structure of various Beatles songs, their hit In My Life,  a truly wonderful song, was with a 98% chance of accuracy written primarily by John Lennon. We should be astounded by that revelation...except that virtually everyone connected to the song (although, to be fair, Paul McCartney debates the point) have long conceded that it was a Lennon tune. Why are we even analyzing it then?

I mean, how much more can we know, how much more useful information can additional study bring? Especially when there probably isn't a worthwhile final answer, as with that old Yankee Killer Lary. Sometimes it's simply how things happened, nothing more.

Perhaps it helps you to know that a certain right handed batter is more likely to hit a double at 3:12 on a Thursday afternoon in Cleveland with runners on first and third with one out in the fourth and an easterly wind of 8 MPH off of a lefty pitcher who was drafted from Vanderbilt in the second round, was born in Decatur, Illinois, and had blue eyes. Well, there you have it. Place your bets on such hyper trivia. But you'll have more fun just enjoying the game, watching to see what actually happens rather than anticipating bare chance.

Marty's Armageddon

The first book I ever wrote to completion is A Subtle Armageddon. The following is the Amazon link, and notice you can buy a kindle version. I have my son and daughter in law to thank for that. Their work on it is very much appreciated.

A Subtle Armageddon

My inspiration is found in C. S. Lewis' The Abolition of Man. What, I wondered, would be the embodiment of a true last man on Earth, based on Lewis's conjecture that such a man would be an entirely 'made' man. But made how and of what, and by whom and for what purpose, that man himself could not know. Or could he? On that question I built my story.

I'm rather proud of Armageddon, to be honest, particularly (spoiler alert) the very last line. I fancy it the best turn of phrase I've come up with, at least so far. But if you don't understand the point of the book that quiet little sentence will surely fall flat. 

I don't know if that's the case. Yet the question which has always been at the back of my mind since I finished the thing was whether I made the point reasonably easy to see. I didn't want it to be too easy because that, in my opinion, would spoil the read. At the same time if the basic idea for writing it doesn't come through to the average reader then it may not be a good book at all, the very end notwithstanding.

And that's what troubles me. I've always been afraid that A Subtle Armageddon is somewhat obscure. I'm not sure that the reader will get the point. But if you're game to try, it's free through Kindle Unlimited, and I would love to hear your opinion. 

Moving On

Today's missive is courtesy of the Department of Trivial yet Interesting Information to Baseball Fans.

Baseball fans know that teams have sometimes changed cities. At least three have moved twice (one of them, uh, thrice): the Braves, Athletics, and Orioles. The Braves were in Boston, Milwaukee, and currently Atlanta; the Athletics Philadelphia, Kansas City, Oakland, and next, supposedly, Las Vegas. The Orioles began in Milwaukee, ventured to St. Louis, and call Baltimore home these days. There are other instances of franchises finding new locales as well. But does anyone know about the teams who nearly abandoned their original home towns?

Cleveland seriously looked at relocating to Minneapolis in the 1950s. The St. Louis Browns were all set to move to Los Angeles for the 1942 season, but World War II and its travel restrictions got in the way. The St. Louis Cardinals nearly moved to Houston, but the Busch family and beer money saved them (and forced the Browns to move to Baltimore in 1953). It's all trivial yet interesting stuff to baseball wonks.

But what always gives me the opportunity to wipe my forehead and say, "Phew! That was a close one," is that the American League almost moved my beloved Detroit Tigers to Pittsburgh in the early 1900s, to compete directly with the National League's Pirates. Detroit was the smallest city in the AL at the time and the Powers that Be questioned whether it could support major league baseball. Thankfully that move did not happen. And we showed 'em that Detroit is a worthy baseball town, didn't we, Tiger fans?

Out Of The Loop

The things you learn as time goes by.

I had to take a car to a mechanic due to overheating issues. At one time I would have attacked the problem myself. I mean, the possible troubles are few (I did mess around with it a bit): radiator (which appeared all right) hoses (which showed no breaks or leaks) cooling fan (which seemed to work) and thermostat. Yet with all the additional hoses and valves and sensors which vehicles are mobbed with these days, I felt better taking it to an expert.

I'm glad I did. Did you know that 2010 Jeeps have not one but two thermostats? I'd have never guessed that. I would have determined where the one I expected was likely to be and not given a thought to finding another. To be sure, I might have tried You Tube videos (which have helped me diagnose and repair other problems on other stuff) but how long might that take? It's simpler to take it to a mechanic.

I suppose the complications make cars better. Still, it's a bit sad that Shade Tree Marty is out of a job.

Trouble Comes Calling

I sell drain cleaning machines. As such, every now and then a guy will come into the old barn and ask me - me - for advice on the subject. Imagine that.

The other day a plumber came by and asked for my thoughts on trying to use a steel cable drain snake which was 1-1/4 inches in diameter in a pipe which was 1-1/2 inches wide. Further, said pipe had two 90 degree turns in it. Someone with no plumbing or drain cleaning experience at all can surely see there isn't anywhere near enough clearance for that to work out well.

What did I think, he asked.

I think that you're not only asking for trouble, but laying out the welcome mat and insisting it stay for dinner. Get a smaller machine with a smaller cable. 

But that's just me. I do think I talked him out of it, though.

Bereft of Hope

Some days I truly believe in humanity. Then reality kicks in.

The other day I was waiting in the drive through lane for my order. In front of me, not one, but two cars were so far away from the pickup window that the drivers had to step out the door to grab their food. This despite their windows being open. I point that out to show there was a problem with them. The drivers were simply too far back.

Some days I truly believe. But today I believe that people are stupid.

The Old Ball Game

We, myself, me Pops, and me Grandpa Joe, all lived within two blocks of the Shop, the old barn where we worked when we weren't telling tall tales. It wasn't unusual for any one of us to head home for this or that reason during the work day.

Joe left for his house on some errand early one afternoon. About ten minutes later, the phone rang. "Bill, I think Joe's collapsed out on Hancock street," a worried neighbor told him.

Dad bolted from the Shop. He was quickly on Hancock, but could see from well back it wasn't his father laying along the curb. Still, whoever it was ought to be checked. Me Pops went up to him. 

The man on the ground was face up, staring into the clouds. "You okay, fella?" Dad asked him.

"Oh yeah. I'm just watching the ball game," the guy answered. 

"Ah. Well, who's winning?" Me Pops returned.

"I don't know. I just got to my seat." About then an ambulance pulled up. Apparently Anxious Neighbor had, rightly, already called one. Dad had done his duty, so he stepped back for the EMTs to do theirs.

If It Suited Joe

I do wonder sometimes whether we are fashion conscious enough. Yeah, I know. Sounds real weird coming from me. But still, I wonder.

When me Pops took me to my first baseball game at old Tiger Stadium in Detroit, he wore a suit and tie. One of the times I noticed me Grandpa Joe wear a suit coat was when he did his weekly banking. That's right, he cleaned up and put on a coat and tie to go to the bank. Meanwhile, although I wore a suit and tie to the funerals of both my parents, I didn't to the viewings the night before. I had my reasons; with Mom, there was one particular pullover shirt of mine which she without fail would compliment when I had it on. So I wore that to the funeral home.

What do we wear suits for these days? You don't see them at Church, or, at least, I don't. In offices, yes, although that doesn't appear as universal as it once was. News shows, yes. But by and large, men don't wear suitcoats. 

I'm no longer sure that such relaxation is an improvement in style. After all, when Joe Cosgriff would dress up just to put money in his bank account, I do wonder if he had a better idea of proper dress than we seem to have these days.

Newark Technical Support

Yesterday morning, my computer screen began blinking in and out. It would stay on for about two seconds, then blink out, to reappear for a second or two before blinking again. Now, I'm a man who is rather complimented by a wink. Just not from my desktop screen. What to do, what to do. I know! I'll contact Newark, Ohio Technical Support.

Once the texts had begun, I filmed around a half minute of the monitor winking and sent it. The tech asked me to try hitting four buttons on the keyboard all at the same time. No result. So he said to try three different keys. 

The screen changed. I snapped a pic of that and texted it. Aha, we're getting somewhere, responded the tech. Click on blah-blah option.

A new screen came up. In fact, it was the start up screen. Enter your PIN, I was told, and see what happens. 

Viola! The computer, she worked, and right fine. I expressed profound gratitude.

Newark Technical Support. Five stars!