Auction

I saw an auctioneer trailer pass by on the road today, and it reminded me of one of my first job choices in pre-school.  My aunt and mother went to an auction, and some dude who looked almost like Mr. Green Jeans from Captain Kangaroo, including clothes and hat, got behind a podium.  He didn’t say, “Do I hear 20?”  He did the auctioneer schtick.  I was impressed and awed from the first syllable.  I thought, in my four year old mind, this is great!  You can make a living dressing up like a farmer style clown, stand in front of other grown-ups, and babble, ‘Ahhhh, blbblbblbblbblb, ahhhhhh, blbblbblbblbblb,” something I got in trouble for doing when I tried to mimic foreign people, and not only do other grown-ups not make you shut up and quit making a fool of yourself, they reverently nod and watch the whole routine in total silence!  And at the end, the people hand you money!”

My mother bought the most ignorant, stupid nick-knack of all time.  Even her sister, who had not an ounce of taste herself, asked her what the heck was she thinking.  It was this embarrassment of a clock, that if other clocks saw it, they would kill themselves rather than live and be associated with it in the clock world.  The huge clock face was in the center of a pan scale setup that didn’t even have the honesty to actually function as a scale.  It was all welded tubing, and the whole thing was gold colored.  When we got home, my father just shook his head.  The clock ended up in the basement, with the aluminum Christmas tree complete with rotating color hood.  So his hoodwinking my mother threw the auctioneer into the stratosphere of awesomeness.

Fifteen years ago I went to a county complex auction, featuring unclaimed stolen goods, office equipment, and retired squad cars.  The horsewhipped squads were bidding up to $10,000 (I bought a new Chevy for $10K three years previously, for reference), complete with shredded and cigarette burned front seats, not even fired up to guarantee they’d drive off the lot.  A Datsun WhateverZ that had the frame bent to the ground in the center went for $15,000.  The auctioneer got to the plastic sandwich bags of jewelry, and in his auctioneer blabber got a 60 year old black guy to buy a bag for $50.  His two buds came up, looked over his shoulder, asked what he paid, and bust out laughing and saying, “When you go home, your wife’s going to kick your ass!”  and “My grandson could’ve made a better deal on the schoolyard.”  To see his narrow face go from beaming pride to hangdog embarrassment is something I can still see, and my heart still goes out to the poor schmuck.

So even though the job of caboose man, where you spend your day waving at people as your train passed through the country, regained Most Awesome Job status the next day, there’s still something about a grown man talking silly and getting otherwise sober people to pay good money for stupidity that gets my grudging admiration.

Bow

I thought I’d have a little fun with Photoshop for once.  Normally, I don’t go for stuff like this, but since Obama is in the habit of bowing, what if I could pick out a person worthy of his deep, wait-level bow?  I think I found someone to whom he should bow, someone of whom he’s not fit to tie the laces, upon which he stares, in his greeting.  I present:

Amazing Country

In 1944, Pvt. Ed Slovik was executed from walking away from the front.  In 2009, Maj. Hasan lays in a comfortable hospital bed, recovering from the wounds he got when he initiated a massacre in Ft. Hood, killing and injuring a good number of servicemen and women.  Click on Right Truth’s blog to see the video of people praising his actions.

I don’t recognize this place anymore.  Is this still the country the Greatest Generation fought for?  Is it even the one I raised my right hand for?  I like the old one, the one that Canadian broadcaster Gordon Sinclair stood up for.  May I please have it back?

I have a lot of ancestors who saw what it was like to be non muslims living in Turkland.  Um, never again.  It’s going to suck when I’m the only one not bowing to the new muslim bosses in this land, while everyone else fights to be the first in line to be his footstool.

Berlin Wall

A woman on the radio talked about revolution
when it’s already passed her by
Bob Dylan didn’t have this to sing about you
you know it feels good to be alive

I was stationed in West Germany at the time, and even though the collapse of the Warsaw Pact was imminent, there was no great trepidation or heightened threat-com, other than stay away from the celebrations and let the Germans have their moment without everyone else tailgating onto it.  Trabis scattered along the road shoulders had been a common sight, and everyone knew the jig was up, and were just waiting for it to happen.

I was alive and I waited, waited
I was alive and I waited for this
Right here, right now
there is no other place I want to be
Right here, right now
watching the world wake up from history

It was surreal to see, on the AFN broadcast of American national news, events that were playing out just a couple hundred miles away from base.  The storming of the Stasi headquarters and the raiding/destruction of the personal files.  The nightly demonstrations in East Germany and Czechoslovakia.  The anticipation, the waiting for it, the final countdown, and not one of dread, but one of hope, life, and freedom.

I saw the decade in, when it seemed
the world could change at the blink of an eye
And if anything
then there’s your sign… of the times

The 1980’s began with the age old fear of nuclear winter, mutually assured destruction, brinksmanship.  We had a cold enemy ready to dish it out in droves, and who was on the advance throughout the world.  But the staunch stand of the West, led by the great three, Reagan, Thatcher, and John Paul II, found a way to stop, then undermine and subvert, this evil.

And I was lucky enough to be over there at the time when we defeated yet another world threat, this time without a massive loss of life but for Romania.  People forget what residents of the East went through.  Getting shot trying to go over the wall, traveling 100’s of miles to soft spots in the border around Austria, hiding under cars going back to West Berlin.  Registering their typewriters in case any dangerous pamphlets came up that could be forensically traced to the thumb print of their machines.  Getting reported on by their neighbors and family.

Right here, right now
there is no other place I want to be
Right here, right now
watching the world wake up from history

In italics, the song Right Here Right Now by Jesus Jones, about this night and all that went with it.

Hammer Gone

For whatever reason, Hammer retired his blog.  Hopefully, he can still comment on other blogs, and will remain in the swing, but I doubt it.  Oh, well, it was a good read while it lasted.

Saturn

All the local Saturn dealers are closing, so I stopped in Wednesday on a whim to see the final lineup of offerings.  The showroom was empty, and being disassembled.  Only a couple of luxury cars were outside.

When I bought this one, it was going to either be it, a Toyota, or a Honda.  I opted for the American car due to its good name, and was not disappointed.  Nor were a score of Saturn owners whom I’ve known.  Some things in life are synonymous with good workmanship.  Like the old Zenith commercial, “the quality goes in before the name goes on.”  Swiss Army knife.  Timex watch.  Leatherman tool.  I add the Saturn.

The name was launched as an answer to all the ills of American cars.  Tired of scamming salesmen?  No haggle pricing.  Crap cars that dent, crease, and rust out and break in half after 50,000 miles?  How about a polymer car with a safety frame, so when it’s hit, the other vehicle doesn’t go right through it like it was a Japanese paper house.  Just change the oil every 3,000 miles, and all the rest WILL run well, and wear out at a very acceptable time.

GM was wrong to horse with the winning game plan in the 2000’s, and to finally kill the name instead of bringing it back to its founding roots.

Saturn would have been the only reason to still buy American. Except for trucks, I cannot see buying a Ford.  Good luck GM, and good luck Chrysler, after they did their dealers so wrongly after the election.  May they enjoy the same success under government control that British Leyland did when the GB government ran it.

License Plate

I had no worries about passing the emissions test with the pickup.  The diagnostic wiring is all a mess, so passing was not a consideration.  If/when it fails, I just plate it for 10,000 pounds instead of 7000, and I’m not subject to an emissions test anymore.

But no, they just changed that law.  There were too many SUV’s using that work around, and to stop them, they also stopped everyone with a work vehicle.  And I cannot get a farm vehicle plate.  So I went off to my mechanic, who knows the thing best.  I’ll most likely get a new catalytic converter, a tune-up, and erg sensor, then see if that works.  It used to be, you spend a certain amount (about the price of a decent tune-up) with any mechanic, and bring your receipt for a waiver.  Now you have to spend the money, AND the vehicle has to pass.

We all know who makes rules like this, laws about which Tam says, “Ignorance is no excuse for a law.”  Some nancy-boy in a tweed jacket with elbow patches, round glasses, and a scraggy neck beard working for Greenpeace lobbied to get the laws cinched up to keep evil, wealthy conservatives like me from melting polar bear ice floes with their massive particle plumes.

Except my vehicle is in top condition.  Despite its age, the engine has tremendous power, does not leak, is somewhat fuel efficient for a V6, and is mounted to a fine transmission that grabs and goes at the first bit of release of the clutch.  The exhaust is clean, both running empty, and under a load with a fully loaded trailer.

But some hippie wants to save the planet for Mother Gaia. So the working man has to take a $500 hit right before Christmas for that.  And this is all agency law, so what appeal?  There is no appeal.

Update: it’ll cost nigh $1000 to make it pass.  New catalytic converter, new fuel tank because the pinhole weeping is a symptom of the total tank being rusted through, which I knew, but was using undercoating to hold it together just one more day, and it was more of a water balloon than a solid tank, due to the undercoating membrane itself actually being a good section of the tank.  Of course, sending unit and holding straps, too!

Pretentious

I am a pretentious tool.  Not only do I have most of the traits covered in this month’s Details Magazine’s 63 points, I have some traits NOT covered therein.  So let’s get to the points (those that fit me are in italics), and if you wish, you can comment on how close these describe you, too.  I don’t tag with meme’s, but I’ll invite you to join in, or make your own post:

• You have your ties taken in. I wear ties whose width matches current style, and store the rest, so that’s about the same.
• You have a typewriter, thermos, or telescope collection.
• You’ve made your own ricotta. It wasn’t ricotta, but it was cheese, and it was good.
• You have a travel outfit, and it coordinates.
• You’re “way over” Wayfarers.
• You’ve taken an inspiration photo to your hairstylist. Back when I had hair, yeah.
• You think about the lighting at restaurants. And the decor, and the music.  I’m not paying for the food, I’m paying for the venue.
• You own eye cream, and you use it.
• You host brunch.
• You take off work the day before you host brunch.
• You want to go to Japan—for the shopping.
• You have sage growing on your windowsill.
  
• You don’t let your girlfriend borrow your sweaters, because you’re afraid she’ll stretch them out.  My girlfriends always run tiny framed and small breasted, so that’s not a worry.
• You have letterpress stationery. My letters come wearing a three piece suit, baby.
• You watch TV only on DVD. The DTV box still sits next to the TV, and the DVD died in a power surge.  I am TV free.
• You own a pair of white jeans.
• Your stapler comes from a design store. Red Swingline stapler.
• You invest in vinyl.
• You think Zach Galifianakis is just so funny.  Who is he?
• You have a facialist, and you see her more than your parents.
• You miss the warmth of 35mm film. 35mm was crap.  I yearn for the 6×6 cm medium format days, shot through a Zeiss lens.  Clarity, AND tonal range.
• You have seasonal scarves. The scarf is more important than the coat.
• You prefer the British version of anything. Usually.
• You watch “Le Tour.”
• You suggested your girlfriend get Anne Hathaway’s haircut. No, I prefer they have long hair.  And I like to dress ‘em, too.
• You can name an architect who isn’t one of the Franks. Mies, Burnham, and one of the most talented (though a thoroughly disgusting person), Bernini.
• You’re a Facebook fan of a food cart or truck.
• You tell your trainer you want to strengthen your core.
• You own a Moleskine. Moleskine is old and dead.  I  own the New Hotness, the Picadilly.
• You’ve referred to an event as a “gala.”
• You’ve ever tasted “notes” in a beer. I just happen to be in a microbrewer’s Private Club, so there.
• You’ve recommended your tailor to a friend. My seamstress, I have.
• You know this great little tapas place. Right here!
• You know how to spell Sarsgaard and Gyllenhaal.
• You own a _______-doodle dog. I’d like to be able to afford one.
• You use periods instead of dashes in phone numbers.
• You ski.
• You have a thing for typefaces. Gil Sans for computer type is great (the small case is horrible:  just use smaller sized capital case), and Georgia for print.
• You listen to Grizzly Bear.  No.
• You double-kiss.
• Your business venture has a social-networking component.
• You style the roll on your jeans.
• You’d go to Miami only for Basel.  I can see Basel in a book.
• You photograph your food.
• Your favorite late-night host is Craig Ferguson. Because since Carson, all others suck.  Liking Ferguson is like a grudge f**k.
• You disapprove of your girlfriend’s lingerie if it’s not La Perla. I disapprove of lingerie.
• You’ve refrained from buying a book because it had the Oprah’s Book Club insignia on it.
• You strive to be shot by the Sartorialist.
• You are the Sartorialist.  Who the heck is the Sartorialist, and why should I care?
• You think the only acceptable fast food is In-N-Out.
• You want to visit Marfa.
• You “have a guy” at the cheese shop.
• You’re secretly embarrassed by your girlfriend.
• You subscribe to Monocle.
• You think you’re down with lesbian chefs.
• You know the difference between skinny and stovepipe. Though I could wear neither, even when I had a 34 waist.
• You’ve sung the praises of a professional shave.
• You know the correct pronunciation of açaí.
• You think Marni is fantastic.
• You frequent a bar without signage.
• You’ve crossed state lines for a flea market.
• You have a favorite animated documentary.
• You don’t vacation—you holiday.

I have things that I do which should qualify for extra credit, too:

• I use a fountain pen.
• If I know the correct pronunciation of foreign words, I use it.
• I strive to speak and write proper English, and not sound like I just got off a Hegewisch loading dock.
• I’ll use DDMMYY format and 24 hours whenever practical.
• I only drink loose leaf tea.
• I really do like sushi

Peace Prize Winner Bombs the Moon

The very day Obama wins the Nobel Peace Prize, NASA hit the moon with a rocket to test the amount of water on the moon.  Oh, don’t ask me how that’s supposed to work out.  Of course, liberals are upset at this bombing campaign:

We need to communicate to the Moon. Talk to her in our dreams, trances, or meditations, and prepare her for this shock and wound as best we can. Hold her, send out imaginative protection to her, and put our dream bodies out there in front of the bomb. Collectively, we can sabotage the bombing or by imagining all manner of things going wrong, or encouraging the Moon to increase her own magnetic shields. Sing to her. Give her back just a tiny portion of all that she has done for us.

Is It, or Isn’t It?

Interesting news about the Lost Ark.  The Patriarch of the Ethiopian Church announced that it was time to reveal the Ark.  The next day, he retracted the offer.