Sanctuary!

I've cleaned up the workroom in the garage to the point that I've been able to outfit it properly. Floor fan? Check. Stereo (with subwoofer)? Check. iPod? Check. Laptop with wireless access to the BIG tune library? Check. Guitar? Check. And for special occasions, Kentucky Orange Juice? Check.

I still need to drag the bass amp in here so I can practice. It's a bit off-putting to the House People when the china dances, so relegating myself to the workroom is probably best for all concerned. If you want to come visit, just bear in mind you're welcome to bring your own incense. Pipes are allowed. Cigars are permissible if you bring one for the landlord. In short, it's a guy's room. Soon, the dart board will be carefully hung and a warning sign will be posted on the inner door.

Come on by!

A Day Made of Taffy

At 4:50 this morning, the alarm went off. I stumbled to the alarm clock, suffering from a literary bender. Three nights ago I was reading a book that featured native philosophy chiding Anglo-Europeans for refusing to live in the now. It talked about segmenting our days in such a way that we are constantly reliving the past or anticipating the future. Good point, I thought. So I took off my watch. It was just as well. I was scheduled for a day-and-a-half of classes at work and being fixated on my watch wasn't going to buy me a thing. The watch was still off two nights ago. Two nights ago, I picked up a book at 10 p.m. and read until I couldn't. So I have no idea when I finally went to sleep. I do recall that Tuesday Morning has a vengeful attitude that doesn't play well with the rest of the day.

Last night I finished the book. Heh. And my wife calls me stubborn. Where does she get that? It was a good book that ended too close to the start of the day to make today much of an improvement on Tuesday. My little silver lining was that I would be out of work at 2:30 this afternoon. So, at 2:30 this afternoon, as I was logging out for the day, a notice popped up reminding me of a meeting from 3 to 4 p.m. When I returned to my desk, my absent boss had become present. He'd also left me a message asking me to edit and submit a report. Then I became a damp shoulder for a co-worker to lean on. Then I found time to corner my boss in his office and ask him a question. After I returned three phone calls, I was a free man. 7 p.m. Nice.

So that's why the title of this bit of whinery is "A Day Made of Taffy." It had its sweet moments, but it stretched and stretched far beyond the capacity I imagined it had. Now, at 20 minutes 'til 9, I'm officially calling it. It's a day.

This is a Rust-Free Zone

I've been gradually rearranging things in the garage. This afternoon, I finally cleared enough space to drag the drill press out and fit it with a fancy new wire brush. Then I cleaned several tools.

One tool in particular, a rather long shovel thingy, had been left out for quite a while by the resident gardener. I think she was encouraging it to go feral. I snuck up on it, grabbed it by the throat, and wrestled it into the garage. There I loosed a cloud of oxidized metal. Sure, the divots that remain look like it's still making the transition from puberty to adolescence, but the handle came out beautifully. That and two pairs of loppers and tool-that-shall-remain-nameless, but looks like a little cultivator somebody stuck on a stick like a marshmallow at a weinie roast are now dutifully derusted and bathed in WD-40, which is kind of like the handyman's saliva--a universal cure-all and the liquid equivalent of duck tape.