It Could Be Worse

"So that's it, Doctor? I only have six months to live?"

"I'm afraid so," the doctor replied. "Unless..."

"Yes?" The patient asked hopefully. "Unless what?"

The doctor sighed. "You could be hit by a bus or something."

Have a great day everybody!

Mind. Blown.

While at a customer's place in Indiana yesterday I came across a profoundly interesting vehicle. He had a small Subaru pickup truck which he sometimes used for service calls. 

It was little; smaller than a Ford Ranger I would say. In my excitement I neglected to ask how old it was, although it's apparently fairly old as he had an Indiana Historic Vehicle license plate on it. But that wasn't what impressed me most. Oh, no no no.

This tiny truck had the steering wheel on the right, what we would call the passenger side. But more - get this, get this, get this - it had a manual transmission.

Okay, that in itself is no big deal. Dial down your excitement, Marty. But as the pickup was right wheel drive that meant you had to shift with your left hand. I was, quite frankly, overly taken in by that. I can drive a stick, but never thought about having to shift left-handed. I seriously considered asking the man if I could take it for a spin simply to get an idea what it felt like. 

"It shifts just the same, has the same pattern, same left foot clutch," he had explained to me. Yeah, but you had to manipulate the shifter left handed. That makes, like, all the difference in the world, doesn't it? 

In a few weeks I have to return a couple machines of his which I brought back to Detroit for repair. I might just ask about that drive then.

Road Worthy

I have always liked how Canadians, or at least those Canadians in Ontario, often call their roads 'lines'. There's Huron Line, Michigan Line  (an appeal to their nearby friends, maybe?) and my personal favorite, Chalk Line. Yes, it exists.

But the U.S. has its share of interestingly named byways. In southern Indiana yesterday I saw Sample Road. What, if we like the sample we can get an entire road?

Then there was Washboard Road. I had no desire to check it out because, you know, a washboard road is stereotypically so rutted and pitted (like an old fashioned washboard, get it?) that going ten miles per hour rattles your teeth so bad it loosens your fillings. Perhaps it was just truth in advertising though.

Uh, um, that's all I got today. Thanks for reading!

Righteous Anger

Since I seem to be going on about my work lately - why stop when you're on a roll? - let me tell you about a very safe repair that yet managed to set me off yesterday.

I worked on anchoring a cable inside a drain snake for more than a hour Tuesday morning, and so help me if I could get it done. It was something I have done dozens, maybe even a couple hundred times in my life, generally in a matter of minutes, yet that dadburn anchor would not go into place. Despite trying all the tricks that I knew, and you do learn a lot of different approaches even for the same job over time as sometimes one way works, sometimes another, it was total frustration. A complete no-go. I could not get that anchor in place. I finally decided the hell with it and went home for a sandwich and cup of coffee.

After lunch I went back to the old barn still stewing over that bloody miserable repair. But it had to get done, so I might as well get right back at it, you know? And that stupid little so-and-so absolutely popped smack into place. I was done in five minutes.

That actually upset me all the more. I was madder than the proverbial old wet hen. Why in the world did it not go so very easily before? How had I offended the drain snake gods in the morning, that they were nevertheless miraculously appeased by 12:30? Was someone yanking my chain? I had to remind myself, albeit through clenched teeth, that it was a good thing the job was done. Wasn't that what I wanted?

Well, yes. At Ten AM. By early afternoon I had planned on being three repairs or so beyond that anchor, to have it tease me like that. 

I'm still mad. But I'll let it go eventually. Some day.

Getting Her Share

One of the best things about having gotten beyond COVID - we are beyond COVID, aren't we? - is that the fast food restaurants are reopening their dining rooms. For me and me Mom, this means that on our Sunday excursions we can actually sit comfortably at a booth or a table and eat our cheeseburgers. It sure beats uncomfortably having lunch with our food on our laps or the dashboard and with napkins everywhere. Or me negotiating bites around the steering wheel.

It also lets Mom refill her Diet Pepsi. 

Nearly all McDonalds and Burger Kings and whatnot offer soda fountains outside of the counter so that customers can get refills easily. That is a perk of which me Mom takes full advantage. 

When we had finished eating yesterday and I had thrown our trash away (another convenience of eating in the restaurant) she said, "I want to fill my pop." It was no problem of course, as I knew she'd want to as we left.

What I did not expect was how much she drank as we approached the soda fountain. She took the straw of her drink in her mouth and sucked down nearly half the contents. She had hardly touched it when we were actually eating our lunch. I was positively pie eyed in astonishment as I watched her. You could see the top line of her pop dropping inside the cup.

That old woman was going to get her fair share of Diet Pepsi. And, hey, why not? That's why the machines are there, right?

The More Things Change

While watching my Detroit Tigers yesterday afternoon - the home team is always my team, and why not? - I noticed that the starting pitcher, Tarik Skubal, wore number 29. My first thought was, honestly, 'but Mickey Lolich is 29'. It took a moment to remind myself that that great Tiger lefty was number 29. It's not exclusively Mickey's marker.

I thought that knowing others have worn the number since Lolich hung up his spikes; Nate Robertson, another Tiger southpaw, comes to mind. Yet because Lolich wore it when I was a young Tiger fan, as they were becoming my team, he will always be #29. Exactly like #24 will always be Mickey Stanley. Nothing personal and no offense, Miguel Cabrera. You are indeed one of the all time greats. No Detroit Tiger will wear number 24 after you. It's just that there was a 24 before you, that's all.

I'm not the only one, am I? It's as though who we grew up with are impressed into our being. I think that's just how our minds work, don't you?

Tut Tut

The things you remember when you're reminded.

I read yesterday where Steve Martin's King Tut song debuted on Saturday Night Live on my birthday in 1978. I recalled watching it once I remembered it.

That's cool. And it makes sense, right? I forgot until my memory was jogged. No mere power of suggestion by any means!