tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68294728221541034572024-03-13T18:48:00.817-04:00The Man in the VanOggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01226955518208644619noreply@blogger.comBlogger2118125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-49867879192532338412019-03-23T12:29:00.004-04:002022-11-25T16:43:20.740-05:00In Closing<span style="font-size: large;">The adventure of a lifetime isn't supposed to mean a lifetime of one, never-ending adventure. There has to be a beginning, middle, and an end. Or else the adventure and the life merge into an indistinguishable blob that is neither life nor an adventure. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The road takes a toll on one's heart and body. The soul may ripen with age, but the skin wrinkles, the hair turns white, the beard grizzles, the organs shrivel and decay. I remember being able to type accurately and furiously as the library was closing and the librarian was kicking me and the other homeless men into the streets of Santa Monica, typing with the words firing from my fingers, with the passion and the fearlessness of a man in search of a voice, a man who may have found the voice he was searching for, but was pushing the limits. Now I have to spell check the word 'Milk'.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Speaking of Beginnings, Middles, and Ends... I will recollect my three ghosts of travel, the moments, (one could call them <i>eras </i>since I'm talking about a decade of time). The <i>beginning </i>of the Man in The Van was not the first post, nor the tenth, because I think those were attempts to discover my blogging persona. The beginning was when I morphed into the honest, unaffected asshole one sees today. That was probably on the sands of Mexico, La Paz...summer of 2009. The van's timing cover gasket blew out and required a full dis-assembly of the front of the engine in the parking space I had just rented at a house. It was embarrassing that the second day I met that family I was neck deep in grease, but such is life. I had to fix that gasket twice because there are two layers of gaskets and the deepest one was the one that failed. (Hey, 10 years later it's never needed adjustment.) The Mexican journey was always one that could collapse at any second. I planned to spend one year in Mexico, travel towards Guatemala and abandon the van when it failed me. But I felt comfortable in La Paz up until the insane summer heat arrived and, from apathy and malaise, I did not get on the ferry to mainland Mexico. The heat drove me quite mad until I only dreamt of northern climate, the coolness of trees. Also, I had planned badly for the trip as my bank card expired and I didn't have access to any money. So I drove north without ever grasping how the persona of the blog had been adopted without my being aware. I wasn't acting anymore. Life in the van had become my life, it was not a phase anymore. I had faced mechanical challenges in desperate times in harsh conditions and I had been forced to embrace the challenge, and the process shed my previous persona that treated the van as a separate, 8 cylinder, character-rich conveyance. By the time I drove north from La Paz, the van was a part of me and that marked the beginning of the journey. Our fates had become inseparable.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The <i>Middle </i>was a large period of time that included a trans-continental journey called The Arctic Wolf Quest to Baffin Island, in which I played the role of a time-travelling scientist trying to save the future of humanity. Then an International journey as far south as Panama that required my involvement in the hydro-fracturing fields of Louisiana and Texas. This lasted many years.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The End was my return to America and realizing I had only one more journey on my bucket list, a tour of Southern Utah, which I accomplished before going completely broke for the third or fourth time since owning the van. Alas, the financial limits of the gypsy life forced me to seriously pursue and get hired in the adult world of the National Park System. That launched me into a world that the van did not really fit in and my priorities changed so that my main focus was no longer reflecting on experiences and projects, but simply moving on to another project with no reflection. What really pained and vexed me was the crazy hoops I had to jump through to play piano. I mean, I love playing Nat King Cole songs on the piano and imagining Diana Krall whispering in my ear, but the van had forced me to visit old age homes and sort of lie my way into being the evening's entertainment. Most of the times it was pretty harmless adventure into the memory garden of my blighted future but sometimes I wound up playing show tunes for actual schizophrenic patients since I mistook a group home for mental invalids for a long term care facility. I wondered, would it be too much for me to just buy a house so I could put a piano in it? Like a normal person?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The bulk of these highlights are what await you if you click randomly through my posts. The quest was to experience the world on its terms...what is the world like from 2009-2019? If I changed the world at all, it was purely by accident. These experiences included the vitriol-filled political punditry that has replaced what was the Internet, the celebrity gossip machines, the virtual minutia that now rules our every day life. The trends I've witnessed are a combination of self-consciousness that drives one to view videos on "how to wipe your ass" or "how to eat an apple" or "Why you are jerking off all wrong." These videos and similarly titled essays have two functions: 1) to fill the required puff writing assignments that Internet content employees are required to fill. Essays equal space for more ads and ads are the only thing that matters. The essay is redundant. 2) To disseminate information that actually illuminates every-day activities in a new light. But this 'information' empowers and weakens people at the same time. Now, every mundane activity can be double-checked on the Magnificent Internet of Oz to make sure we are doing it right. Yes, humanity evolved to the point that parenting, childbirth, sex, eating, etc. are now mysterious and baffling activities that can only be <span style="background-color: yellow;">studied</span>, or 'hacked', by watching a video involving animated puppets or reading an essay written by a 23 year old Brown University philosophy major. We have all this information at the tip of our fingers but don't trust ourselves to eat an apple correctly without first consulting the all-powerful Oz. We take drugs to fall asleep, and take drugs to wake up. Children are drugged if they can't concentrate on 8 hours of jingoistic social programming at school. Adults are drugged if they get addicted to drugs. Then we study the internet to determine if we should or should not take the advice of doctors...who in turn study the internet for their own reasons.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Have I reached conclusions? No. I've reached milestones that will be revisited. Have you studied Mexican political history? Well, I have dabbled in Mexican History and it is extremely complicated and tumultuous. Mexico has had a Civil War/Revolution/War for Independence/Coup/Dictatorship or something cataclysmic every few months since 1700. Repeatedly, the only peace Mexico enjoyed was during a quality dictatorship. The half-assed dictatorships like Carranza's were violent, as well as oppressive. Porfirio Diaz at least was only oppressive. I think, "Gee, maybe a peaceful transfer of power between complete idiots like Bush, Clinton, Obama and Trump is indeed better than having Bernie Sanders occupy the Vermont statehouse with a mercenary army from Ontario who bomb railroads, execute priests, sell New York's mineral resources to France, and swear to supplant the government at all cost." Yes, it's better because Mexico has proven with 200 years of insane failures in the political realm that a violent revolution guarantees the ideals of the revolution will never be realized because the revolution obliterates both the need for the revolution and the ideals of the revolutionaries. My study of Mexican history reaffirms my feeling that there are no immigrants from Mexico, only refugees who should be welcomed. (Then I wonder if obese, godless, consumer addicts should be a welcome committee to anyone.) America meddled in Mexican politics for centuries and caused, intentionally or accidentally, much of the turmoil that led to the refugees. Call me repulsive liberal or a disgusting democrat, but I'm of the opinion that you don't turn away from the mess you make; you try to clean them up. It's called being responsible in some circles; in other circles it's called being a repulsive liberal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I've made sacrifices. Early on during my van life I crossed paths with the kid of a friend in L.A. The kid toured the van and then looked at his mother and said, precociously, "I wonder if living in a van would expand my views of the world and broaden my mind." He was about 13 years old. The mother was horrified. I stammered, "Well, sonny, leave that to me. You stay in school. I gotta run." The experience forced me to make the decision to completely cut off all contact with children and all contact with people who have children. It's safer that way for everyone. Hobos have a mystique about them that is not within their power to shut off and that mystique acts as an illusion that their lifestyle is somehow causing their mystique, that their lifestyle makes them mysterious and if a kid who is impressionable decides to live in a van of his own then he thinks he will become mysterious also, and his life will blossom. None of that is true, but an impressionable kid will not see that and begin to equate a vagabond lifestyle with 'freedom' and 'spirituality'. It's like meeting a sad computer programmer and thinking it's the occupation that makes him sad. Or a happy motorcycle mechanic and thinking that occupation makes him happy. No, I've found careers are easily adapted to, even if they are all mundane and monotonous. The world needs engineers and doctors and selfless leaders who can inspire others, not gypsy van dwellers. You can adapt to any occupation, but the fluctuations of spirit and self-worth usually don't have anything to do with your job or lifestyle. The van lifestyle was required to see the world on its terms. There's no other way to do it, no other way to travel unhindered and self-sufficient among the multi-classes of the universe. I've worked as I traveled, but the work became all-encompassing because the world now demands absorption of its employees. Work is the study of minutia and the development of minute skills of a trade or career. To work well, one must abandon universality, abandon holistic philosophies and embrace minutia, embrace trade-specific details. The plow-horse knows how to plow. The milk cow knows how to give milk. One such as I, who admires Hesse and his macro-cosmic ethics, is drawn to Electrical Code books not for confirmation of ideas, but for relief from the uncertainty of the universe. Code books are definitions and 'rules' in a world that defies rules. The world rewards the man with a hammer. There is no reward for the man who ponders over a nail or cogitates about a hammer. The rewards for such ruminations are brief and private and intangible. The man with a hammer leaves behind a shed or a staircase; the man who reflects about a hammer builds castles in the sky. Speaking of Hesse, they say everyone gets what he wants. When I first read the book Narcissus and Goldmund I felt I wanted the wisdom Goldmund had. I wanted to write about it passionately like Jack Kerouac, but I wanted the wisdom and reflection Goldmund reveals rather than the melancholy confusion of Kerouac. Well, I got what I wanted. There is a scene after Goldmund's prolonged wandering through a plague-ravaged land when goes to confess in a church. I love this book most of all for the depth of reflection it contains. </span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>There were a number of confessionals in the church, but no priests. They had died, or they lay in the hospital, or they had fled for fear of contamination. The church was empty. Goldmund's steps echoed hollow under the stone vault. He knelt before an empty confessional, closed his eyes, and whispered into the grill:</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"Dear God, see what has become of me. I have returned from the world. I've become an evil, useless man. I have squandered my youth like a spendthrift and little remains. I have killed, I have stolen, I have whored, I have gone idle and have eaten the bread of others. Dear Lord, why did you create us thus, why do you lead us along such roads? Are we not your children? Did your son not die for us? Are there no saints and angels to guide us? Or are they all pretty,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>invented stories that we tell to children, at which priests themselves laugh? I have come to doubt you, Lord. You have ill-created the world; you are keeping it in bad order. I have seen houses and streets littered with corpses. I have seen the rich barricade themselves in their houses or flee, and the poor let their brothers lie unburied, each suspicious of the other. They slaughter the Jews like cattle; I have seen many innocent people suffer and die, and many a wicked man swim in prosperity. Have you completely forgotten and abandoned us, are you completely disgusted with your creation, do you want us all to perish?"</i></div></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sacrifices and Rewards: this is the story of all lives. If I'd been asked, "Oggy, when will you leave the van life behind?" I would've answered, "When it becomes intolerable to me."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I don't have a burning desire to own a house, but I accept that my life is NOT moving in the direction of minimalism and more austere vagabonding, which is what the gypsy life requires.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I accept that living in the van did not stop the ticking of my life's clock. I accept that living as a hedonistic youth did not keep me young. I admit that the limitations the van life has on my ability to play kit drums is significant. I can't carry all my instruments at once. I can't even carry half my instruments. I can't carry even 1/10th of my songbooks. I have bags within bags, sub compartments within sub-compartments that I have to memorize and re-memorize the contents of. (are my foot fetish magazines in the bathroom bag or the literature bag? Things like that.) Van life requires simplicity and the study of a single hobby, not 4 or 5 hobbies. Tools required to keep a 50 year old van on the road are significantly more important than tools to required to weld sterling silver jewelry. You can guess which tools I keep in the van. Add a 45 year old moped that requires metric tools and suddenly I've got a single hobby: keep the van and the moped running. Although I've learned to enjoy that single hobby and it has brought me satisfaction and even forced me to be the outgoing person I am expected to be, but my sole purpose in life is not to maintain a 50 year old van and 46 year old moped. No, I would like to maintain them on <i>my </i>schedule and relying on them for transportation and habitation means they control my destiny instead of me controlling their destiny. See?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">On the topic of the van: El Conquistador is a legend. This 1969 Ford Econoline E200 Super Van with a camper top conversion. Is. A. Legend. An original, irresponsible, barely able to start and stop, 8 MPG fuel chugging, no catalytic converter exhaust spewing <i>legend</i>. The world can not accommodate this kind of vehicle. It's awful that I am allowed to drive this van. Future generations will look on this kind of vehicle ownership/use as we now look upon slavery or date rape. We're <i>raping </i>the future. We're <i>raping </i>the environment. We're destroying <i>everything </i>with insane, frivolous machines that allow up to do activities we only remember because we took photos of the activities. The van is a legend but gasoline prices have driven it out of a practical realm. Only thieves can waste gasoline on 8 cylinders of consumption.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'm moving on. I'm changing my approach. I'm devoting myself to my other hobbies. I might even apply myself at work. If I live in a van much longer then I may run out of time to explore the world of home ownership. There came a time in Thoreau's residence on Walden Pond when he had worn a path in the forest floor. Thoreau had domesticated and altered the untrodden natural world he was searching for. He saw the future and it was "Walden Ponds Resort and Spa". So he left.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Recent insanity involving a Bowflex and Mt. Shasta.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The crazy part is that I still own the van and regularly sleep in it and will not sell it if I can help it. The state I live in requires at least one non-running vehicle to be on my lawn and I intend on complying. I'm just not going to pretend I am living and traveling in the van like before, so the blog has become insincere. That's the truth. My lifestyle isn't going to change significantly beyond owning a house that I'm responsible for instead of renting places periodically. I still drive the van, work on the van, sleep in the van, etc. But the blog has to end for the good of the blog. I've written for one decade about living in the van and, at my best, I was able to juggle the work and the blogging, but honestly I cheated the work and my employers in favor of the blog and my essays. My work was the blog and the other shit, oil field, national park, aluminum foundry, etc. was incidental. My work was the blog and I did put my heart and soul into that work. I figured anyone can fix the mistakes I made wiring harnesses for semi-conductor wafer slicing machines. But not anyone can write my blog, so I decided I should focus on that. I did focus on that for one decade and now my focus is more on the minutia of work (flushometers and LED light strips ballasts) and what it means for humanity. I plan on writing a completely different blog that focuses on the minutia of home renovation work but it does not belong on this blog. I feel like any new adventures I have in the van will be for my benefit alone and if I ever write a legitimate summation of my decade behind the wheel then I'll publish that here but don't hold your breath. As far as the home renovation blog, there are hundreds to choose from and if you happen to stumble on mine then don't ask me questions about the van. The home renovation stuff is separate.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I hate that this sounds like a shitty Judd Apatow movie plot where the 'over-aged youth embraces adulthood.' Sure, I'll give away my porn, throw away my water bongs, buy a Brooks Brothers tie and matching socks. Hell, I'll say the pledge of fucking allegiance every morning. Maybe get married and have some kids. Yeah, that old fucking routine. It's gross to me, it's gross to even consider owning property that was definitely stolen from the Chiracahua Apaches when the nationwide Genocide occurred in the 1880s. That's gross enough, but to compound the disgust with some kind of illusion that I'm 'embracing adulthood' is an insult when everything that I've seen suggests adults in America are a repulsive walking-caustic-acid collection of pop culture factoids, diabetes, and fast food preservatives.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">No, I have embraced nothing but my own manufactured disillusionment. I may as well swim with the current for a while because I'm convinced the whole package is defective and we're all fucked. Live in a Walmart parking lot, a mansion, a boat, a tunnel under the Los Angeles subway. It makes no difference. Everything suggests mankind is on a collision course with apocalypse. CO2 levels are beyond what can be reversed. Plain and simple. We got a fucking moron-friendly President who embraces a confederate loser culture and encourages fuckheads to protest Electric company SmartMeter radioactivity but then denies that the climate has been damaged by humanity. Ok. That makes sense. We can ban a Michael Jackson <i>Thriller </i>album but the loser Confederate flag flies over multiple courthouses...because the victims of rape and torture in the case of the confederacy <i>were only black and deprived of basic human rights by the racist writers of the constitution and the sadistic colonists of America</i>. Alright. <i>We've got our priorities straight</i>. The Confederacy is 'history', but Michael Jackson is a 'sex predator'. <i>ok</i>. Let's boycott the greatest pop artist ever because he's accused of child abuse, but memorialize a generation of rape and abuse because it's 'part of our history'. Teach pre-civil war America and you teach history. Talk about <i>Thriller </i>and you're a pervert. Maybe we should bring back Asbestos, the miracle fiber. Or lead paint? Fuck all that. I'm firmly repulsed by what the status quo peddles as a grotesque 'adulthood'. I didn't avoid adulthood for 30 years because I'm childish. No, I avoided it because what passes for adulthood has categorically destroyed the entire planet's atmosphere and has polluted the rivers and oceans and has exploited 99% of humanity for the instant gratification of the 1%. If that's adulthood then, fuck it, I'll live in a van on a beach and shit in a hole dug by a palm tree. That was my position 10 years ago, but those times are behind me. I neither embrace adulthood, nor rebel against it. I'm going to do my own thing until they bury my emaciated body in the ground and tow El Conquistador to the scrap yard. Right now, my own thing is to buy a house (if you saw the house I'm going to buy you would know I'm <u>not </u>embracing adulthood) and write my book about the state of the world and make some sterling silver collar tips and play some drums. Adulthood and conformity has nothing to do with it. I see the situation exactly for what it is, I know how we got here, I know we'll get what we deserve and I know there's no altering the destructive path we're on, and I'm over it all. Way to go, adults! </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The most generic explanation for my blog-tirement is that I've dodged as many bullets as I think I'm allowed. I've flown faster than my angels. I've used all my nine lives. I feel this in my bones. I have no more close calls left in my allotment. The next close call will be the end and I prefer to put the gun down and take my chances with another kind of risk taking. <i>Maybe </i>touring on a motorcycle will allow me more chances, but <i>definitely </i>touring in the van has pushed my luck to depletion. How many more cliffs/bandits/potholes/cows/corrupt policemen/serial killers can I miss in the van? I think none. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">On the topic of mortality I will say that I did not know how fearless I was for a decade until I stopped to reflect. "Don't look down" is advice for rock climbers and it's metaphoric as well as realistic. Don't look at what you can't control. Concentrate on the goal...each handhold, each foothold. "Down" is not a concept that needs to occupy your thoughts when "Up" is your direction. I took this methodology to heart for over a decade. I did not look down. I looked toward my destination, navigating every turn, every flat tire, every police shakedown and drug addicted hitchhiker, every gas needle hovering below Empty, every pain in my back and rattling wheel bearing. Those demanded my full attention. The cliff, the river, the sharp end of the mugger's knife, the pit of despair in every Nicaraguan torture prison...I did not dwell on these or even give them any attention. I did not think I was immortal, I simply refused to give mortality any time in my meditations because I needed to stay focused. It was a period of time where I mentally transcended mortality. I could have died at any moment, but my death would have been a surprise and not the conclusion to a time of dread. I believe that give the choice of dreading my death until I die or denying my mortality and being surprised by death then I would choose the latter. Dwelling on death, especially as one after another of the characters in this blog have died, hung themselves, shot themselves after a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer, died from congestive heart failure, etc, leads to nothing but more refined dwelling on death. It's not productive. If I fixate on the meaning of life then fixating on the meaning of death is even worse. I did not know how blissfully focused I was on life until my lifestyle and scenarios allowed me time to focus on death, to look down with dread and see the gaping maw of eternal damnation or eternal nonexistence...however you want to look at it, really reminds me that my ego is a manufactured construct that never existed in the first place.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oggy, distracted by his chrome mirror glasses, always on the lookout for serial killers and cliffs.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I want there to be finality, but there isn't. The van didn't explode or lose brakes and plummet down a mountain ravine; the van wasn't stolen; I didn't sell the van. The van is not irreparably broken. Basically, I could continue the blog, expand on it, explore other dimensions of the van life but I want to quit because I think my best improvised essays on this subject are behind me. How many times can I write about homeless people and police harassment? It's all the same story. I'm chasing ghosts now and the past two years were solely devoted to working in national park system and although I lived in El Conquistador the whole time, the van was not my life. So I didn't write much about the van life. Now <strike>I'm looking to buy</strike> I bought an actual house with PEX plumbing and that will take me further afield of life in the van. So, why not call it quits and allow my readers or those who stumble on this blog to know that for 10 years, and no longer, I wrote what I could about this adventure and at the end of 10 years I stopped writing? Isn't finality better? There will be no more random blog posts. None. I'm done. Don't expect me to add anything to this blog. I might, but probably won't. I'll probably edit some previous posts but not add any more. So, this is the last blog post. Unlike Bob Dylan and The Rolling Stones, I want to wear a different hat. I'm satisfied with the experiment and satisfied with what I've published here. My main goal was self amusement and I did accomplish that at the time of writing but I can't say I'm amused by the end product. I'm indifferent. I didn't travel to write a blog; I decided to write a blog to record my travel as an afterthought and because it was a novelty in 2009. Now you can't throw a stick without hitting some asshole living in a van and writing about it for a self-published coffee table book with staged photos of mock leisure on beaches. This blog recorded a decade of writing and video editing and trip planning and travel. I experienced these moments and the development and recording of these moments from all sides, in all dimensions. So, the actual resulting blog post is merely one dimension of an event I couldn't completely capture, but that needed to have a one dimensional platform to share it with others. That's the nature of existence: we are all struggling to communicate our singularity, but failing, so we are satisfied with sharing a trace of what we think we think. This blog certainly represents what I thought that I thought I wanted to share. I amused myself sharing what I thought would amuse me and others. That's the basic product and it's all here. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I only meant to live in the van for one year in Mexico, but got carried away with the life. It was easier to stay a gypsy, but I've checked off all my North and South American bucket list items. I'm done here.</span><br />
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If everyone could watch Audrey H. perform this tune it would be a better world.
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: large;">I leave you with some words from my future work that sounded much better when I first wrote them: </span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="font-size: x-large;">Oggy's mind was a circus tent, divided into stages of amusement and distraction. His inner eye perched on the center pole and cast its attention on the hysteria below, hosted by his somersaulting imagination. At the one/two o'clock position a walrus balanced a beach ball on its nose while a gnome tossed magic mushrooms to a fairy flipping backwards over the beach ball. Oggy's amusement quickly waned as he detected a quiet desperation in the gnome's expression, a sadness, a dejection and resignation to a lowly task. Pretension made the gnome sad. The fairy was one of those arrogant know-it-all fairies who provides infinite advice on how to better your life with pomegranate juice or <i>Yoga</i>, but obviously has failed to apply it to her own affairs. Thus, the fairy was only partially invested in the pointless routine, catching mushrooms while upside down over the spinning beach ball...again. The fairy was whistling a tune that had been composed with an idyllic vibe in mind but lapsed into sadness, even disdain upon passing through the fairy's glitter-dust lips. This disdain highlighted the pathos of a fairy being encumbered with juvenile entertainment and the fairy knew it but was trapped by her own emotional short-comings, one of which (in the opinion of the walrus) was that she had the sincerity of a stripper nearing the end of her shift. Perhaps, Oggy suggested to himself in the voice of his father, the fairy only <i>wanted </i>to surround herself with her intellectual inferiors to be the brightest bulb in a room of dim bulbs. Another voice reminded Oggy that the world was not in the literary definitions he manufactured to define his reality, but in the moist breath and hot blood of his neighbors, the men and women on foot, the other undefined. Yes, probably he should pay less attention to the mental recording of events than to the experience and focus of living. <i>Sure</i>. It'll be <i>fun</i>.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He lived happily ever after.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></span></div>Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-16410726399872303032018-12-31T21:53:00.002-05:002018-12-31T21:53:22.787-05:00Beyond The Sunset<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The sun sets on another year and 2019 should be the last for this blog. I'll motivate myself to write a closing essay and that is it. Y'all can kiss my ass! No, I'm kidding. The 3 readers who have followed me faithfully for the past 10 years are loyal. <i>Demented and sad</i>...but loyal. All good things must end but before I go I want to recapitulate my experience. The new year means nothing much to me. I'm unemployed, collecting unemployment checks for the first time in my life and should have time to reflect and ponder but I'm searching for a home where I can hang my Stetson hat and work on motorcycles without gravel in my knees. It's the kind of activity most people do in their 30s but I waited until I was 50 and it won't interest anyone since youth have disdain for home ownership and my elders have disdain for people who wait so long to be an adult. I'm looking for a house and work in a time of despair and division. Enemies, I could stab at thee from Hell's Heart, but the new year is a time to turn the page on the failures and trespasses of last year. What has happened has happened, and wisdom comes at a price greater than Dollar General's discount rack. Collect your check and take the ride.Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-78805694517844782692018-12-24T18:37:00.001-05:002018-12-24T18:37:30.002-05:00Another Chapter<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkxh88mA-psUpuLSkrNNLVEVhcRHjAu6Hr1F10_eV9EQx-m0Q7bSZ71Jd7e2ipGmf1Ke7LKBaLyXqvB9F2SSGgbs3avA1dBXSVXMDGUD2S8a2cTO1IDciWY-GFHrV62ju7nUZxqjdt5k4/s1600/100_3068.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkxh88mA-psUpuLSkrNNLVEVhcRHjAu6Hr1F10_eV9EQx-m0Q7bSZ71Jd7e2ipGmf1Ke7LKBaLyXqvB9F2SSGgbs3avA1dBXSVXMDGUD2S8a2cTO1IDciWY-GFHrV62ju7nUZxqjdt5k4/s320/100_3068.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1985 Rebel 250 CMX blah blah blah</td></tr>
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Santa brought me an old Honda Rebel to ride. It's got low mileage but a few issues that I'm going to deal with. I guess Santa has a tight wallet. This is not my dream bike but it's a worthy bike to ride locally for local business. Feeding 8 cylinders is insane when 2 cylinders is all I need. Happy Holidays to all you rebels out there.Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-482524468689830572018-11-21T21:44:00.000-05:002018-11-28T20:46:29.022-05:00Which Direction?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP8Er7b85j6IAiKOceuFODVTVQwe3aHHebhfxKfnCrN6AU2LPXDpeeL9pE-sO_QyIf5vE6F4rCD4sVe8iGhgDagnXKbJLlGTzz81MBOEy4aGOl9-A3NMYr-OvE-Lq44uVxMuCR-BE12T8/s1600/100_3022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP8Er7b85j6IAiKOceuFODVTVQwe3aHHebhfxKfnCrN6AU2LPXDpeeL9pE-sO_QyIf5vE6F4rCD4sVe8iGhgDagnXKbJLlGTzz81MBOEy4aGOl9-A3NMYr-OvE-Lq44uVxMuCR-BE12T8/s320/100_3022.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Note the paper clip style tangs on the left of the cam and the contacts on the right base. You might wonder why there is a bit of black insulation on the top/left tang and it's because adjusting the tangs was a delicate process and I broke the tiny plastic 'spacer' that prevents the two tangs from touching. So I put the wire insulation over the tang to accomplish the same goal.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">This should make everything clear as mud.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWebtN2-AIBLdY9fq23cnibgqLzUHPQmFNPqx45BDBASYpNpKzEcndDrCXekFP7LDXBBxtkab7x4Z7bACIMhNidGQepIvYOyQgWjrqWOsNFPRCHe14dTctTo7ObMLZu6d1idK2tUzZVoo/s1600/100_3023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWebtN2-AIBLdY9fq23cnibgqLzUHPQmFNPqx45BDBASYpNpKzEcndDrCXekFP7LDXBBxtkab7x4Z7bACIMhNidGQepIvYOyQgWjrqWOsNFPRCHe14dTctTo7ObMLZu6d1idK2tUzZVoo/s320/100_3023.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"><span style="font-size: large;">This pathetic silver 'push nut' is the cause of all this insanity. The two parts of the cam must be separate. The top turns on the stationary bottom base. So it can't be a tight nut that holds them in place. That push nut actually goes around the top of the turn signal arm attachment lever. As the push nut loosens the tangs no longer hit the contacts and I lose some portion of turn signals and brake lights</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">What I had to do is experiment with a multi-meter and determine which tangs are hot at what times. The tangs (when I flip the cam upside down) closest to the open 'C' are hot when the brake pedal is pushed. The Tangs furthers away from the 'C' opening are hot when the key is in the aux/run position. Ok? Then the base contacts are situated as it is installed...the right side top is the Right Tail Light contact. The Right lower is the Left Tail Light contact. The left lower contact illuminates the right dashboard indicator lamp. The top left contact illuminates the left dash indicator light. See?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So, when everything is normal and I'm not making a turn but I HIT THE BRAKE, what happens is 12v goes to the inner tang and sends 12 to both contacts on the right (right and left brake lamp). And when I'm driving and the key is in RUN then the outer tangs are also hot with 12v and when I turn left, for example, that 12v is sent to the top left contact (left dash indicator) and the lower right contact (Left tail light).,..since it also passes through a relay for the turn signals it will blink...and also cut out my brake lights. Yes, in 1969 I only had the option of indicating a turn or indicating I am stopping....I can't indicate both at once. The turn signal cuts out the brake light and blinks it instead...although the opposite brake light will come on.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I spent two days figuring out this info and although it all works right now the push nut is still going to wear out and get loose and then the contacts will not touch and I will be back to the same problem. But at least I know what the problem is and that's a positive step. Obviously, the whole assembly needs to be replaced and I promise that will happen soon. This cam is worn out, as can be seen from the amount of copper worn off the contacts. The one detail I didn't get a photo of is the custom plastic shims that I put on the handle shaft before I put the cam over it. The shim forces the cam higher so the push nut will be tighter once I hammer it on. I'm proud of that plastic shim because it had to be cut from plastic packaging with a hole the size of the turn handle shaft.</span>Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-36693640815092122302018-09-15T21:40:00.001-04:002018-10-08T02:11:34.342-04:00Decennial<span style="font-size: large;">I am aware that my blog is approaching its Tenth Year anniversary. I embarked on this journey with El Conquistador for one year exploration of The Baja Peninsula. I suspected the van would not survive the trip or maybe I wouldn't survive the trip either. To sum up my mindset at that time requires some ad lib and reliance on foggy memories but I recall my disillusionment with the status quo was very high. Nearly 5 years on the fringes of Los Angeles entertainment industry confirmed that all my idealistic hopes and starry-eyed artistic visions were obsolete. Drugs and underage sex were the main commodities in Los Angeles and I wrote a script about Henry David Thoreau's life on Walden Pond. The timing was not right. The economy collapsed along with the fraudulent housing mortgage scheme. Bush danced off into the sunset and Obama arrived with Hope that I suspected was a big scam. I knew that drugs and underage sex were all that kept Los Angeles humming and I didn't see Obama embracing that reality. Obama represented the collective delusion. Everyone I knew was stoned all the time. It was at the point that I knew no one who was ever sober and I started to question the definition of sobriety when no one is <i>not </i>under the influence. Doesn't the definition change? Isn't sobriety then defined as only <i>moderately </i>influenced by drugs? If one still knows they are human and on earth then <i>that's</i> sober. If they believe they are an Alien transplant whose real home is Atlantis then that is the new 'high'. If you snort cocaine, smoke pot and try to have sex with every warm body that walks in your office then you have embraced the status quo; you fit the paradigm and the paradigm rewards conformists.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I tried to embrace the status quo. I tried to conform but my ultimate goal was to explore Central America and in the Summer of 2008 I realized I did not have to sell my Thoreau script to reach that goal. I could throw the script in the trash, sell everything I owned and buy a disposable van in which I could fulfill that goal. The fact I did this at the beginning of the financial collapse that gave me a front row seat to the street culture that was about to explode was pure coincidence. I already knew poverty and its many faces, the moans, the drunken utterances of the hobo and the wino camped on the grey sidewalk. I spoke that language fluently and had no desire to hear the midnight rantings of a new generation of filthy dispossessed. I associated with neither the ragged and derelict Poor nor with the aloof Rich who threw their crumbs to the rabble on the damp curb. The Grapes of Wrath had not changed the world so why would any essay or script I write do anything? Furthermore, what audience was there for the rantings of a couch philosopher and closeted social activist? I held a vigorous disdain for all parties and wanted nothing more than to evaporate into the Venice mist that crawled off the Pacific Ocean each evening to cloak the miserable RV gypsies and self-professed visionaries who congregated between the Self-Storage and Gold's Gym. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I found El Conquistador, already rich with character but still affordable, in nearby San Pedro and saw my escape vessel. Hardly incognito, I would enter the stream of disillusionment in full freak regalia. I was so consumed by the process of transition that I almost didn't realize that it was a period of great personal and tribal and global change and I had a chance, maybe even an obligation, to record my thoughts for posterity. Thus The Man in the Van was born in the bloody placenta of my anal surgery and the dawning of a digital age of narcissism. At the time, 2008, I knew of zero digital travel logs involving van dwellers. Now it's a popular trend with coffee table books, art districts, music festivals and virtual donation hats. In September 2008 I only had my drug dulled instincts to guide me. I could only publish daily entries by visiting the local library and uploading data. I believe Blogger had no video feature at that time and the only way I could include video was by uploading video to a secondary site like photobucket and then linking the html video info to my blogger entry. It was not difficult as the brains of these entities were aligned with one another. They made it easy to accomplish what I wanted. I could embrace the 1st amendment without censorship nor moderation. I was unhinged and unleashed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The tale of these last 10 years is too vast to summarize. I did intend to spend one year in Mexico in the van but it was easier to embrace the gypsy life than to leave it. One year turned into a decision to cross North America from Cabo San Lucas, Mexico to Happy Valley, Labrador in Canada to raise awareness about the Arctic Wolf's perilous position as a predator who lives in fragile, at-risk environments that are becoming accessible to oil development. That quest broke me financially but through it all El Conquistador remained loyal and serviceable. I burned many bridges as I decided a true quest through Central America was my next expedition. This was only possible with the assistance and sponsorship of Shell Energy who paid some of my salary while I was working in the hydro-fracturing fields of South and West Texas where the earth is cracked like an egg to fuel our feverish travels.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Years piled on years. Apartments, keys, friends, tears, stray dogs, moons, police encounters: these are too numerous to count. I hoped that life as a gypsy would slow life down, make me appreciate it more, keep me young, but I think it is a blur no matter what path you chose. My brothers in the domestic class have the same complaint as the gypsy: where does the time go? Indeed, ten years are gone. For a man who counts his savings in experience and wisdom I can say the investment has paid off though I am basically in the same economic status as I was when I moved into El Conquistador back in 2008.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'm not finished with this blog, but I will be soon. I'd planned a grand send-off exactly on the 10th anniversary but it will have to be some grand send-off on the 10+th anniversary. The level of insanity that I deal with daily is laughable. Starting wood fires regularly in a vehicle to stay warm, defending myself against police attacks, for years and years. It's no good. I discourage anyone who wishes to follow in my footsteps. The world simply has chosen to vilify any man living in a van and whether I think it's right or wrong does nothing to deflect the attacks. The answer is obviously to NOT live in a van. That's the best approach and my only advice to anyone. Don't live in a van. No. Don't do it. Read my blog, imagine a life in a van, but stop just short of buying a van and living in it. There is no room in the world of men for such a lifestyle. That's my conclusion. I also have an adventure planned that can not include El Conquistador. At some point in 2015 I decided that a decade in the van, if I could last that long, would be sufficient. "A Decade Behind The Wheel" would be the title of my future recollection on this time period. (Believe it or not, there are many episodes I couldn't confess to) It sounds better than "Six Years Behind The Wheel". After a decade I would be going in circles, learning the same lessons, spinning my tires in the sand. In fact, I tried to escape the circle earlier but was foiled several times. If Fortuna had worked her magic in different was I could have lived a number of other lives in these past 10 years but the life I lived on this blog is the one I chose to share. It's not 100% true but the lies were told because they were more colorful. The blog has always been for entertainment purposes, mine and that of the audience. Often circumstances involving 70 or 90 hour work weeks preclude writing about my life and the work itself does not inspire me so I go silent. I equate writing with music, Jazz, specifically, so I don't edit because the writing is the melody I hear as I improvise. That's not to say I don't prewrite in my pre-sleep evening repose under my cowboy bed sheets and lion print comforter. I hear the music, develop it in my mind before my fingers touch the keyboard. The keys are merely the final phase bringing the music to life. That's a dimension of instrumental music that I've explored these past ten years. Does a musician play notes that his fingers dictate or has the music already existed in his mind before the instrument is even out of the case? Isn't 'music' a mental exercise that doesn't involve vibrating air waves? Musicians don't train their fingers to play melodies, they use instruments to communicate what is already fully developed in their minds. Well, it's debatable, but that's my approach to writing: I write the music that's already developed and can not be left unwritten. Some of it is improvised and misses the mark but to change it would be dishonest in my opinion because my objective is not concise communication. I'm not crafting an essay for mass appeal, I'm liberating the thoughts that harmonize in my mind during the quiet hours before dawn. Mass appeal is for professionals; I'm not a professional.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">There are other lessons that the past 10 years have taught me but I'm running out of mid-Autumn light and I must work tomorrow. One of the lessons was that 10 years ago I set out to write a book that I have not yet written, but in the meanwhile I wrote ten years worth of blog entries. I tell myself that I may have to force myself to write the book, but that is contrary to Jazz. Miles Davis would schedule recording session dates and then not show up. Why? Because The Muse didn't show up on the recording date. Hey! That's life! Producers gave Davis a lot of shit for skipping session dates but his response was basically that he's not going to force the music because music that is forced isn't worth playing or listening to. It's his opinion. An artist doesn't 'produce' Music; the Music <i>compels </i>the artist to play. There is a big difference. Some of my music has missed the mark and what entertained me then does not entertain me now. Maybe that was the material that was forced but I deceived myself into thinking it was inspired. I don't want to start deleting entries now so I'm going to leave it as a record of trial and error. My objective was to entertain and for ten years I was guided by that objective. In these times of rampant punditry, alarmist media, disillusionment and despair my goal was not easily satisfied. An entertainer has a sick job of commercializing laughter, that can not be captured or reused. It's sick because the entertainer, as soon as he is not entertaining, is just another asshole. There is some satisfaction with building a fence or gate because the gate lives on after the craftsman is gone. Laughter, however, evaporates like mist over the ocean.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-53723485339991928772018-08-06T23:04:00.000-04:002018-08-18T22:29:59.705-04:00Multiculturalism in Gunsmoke TV Series<div class="gmail_default" style="color: #222222; font-family: georgia, serif;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Gunsmoke is Conservative, pro-America, Pro-white social propaganda, but it goes deeper than that. Season 15 (I recently studied all the episodes in Season 15) ends with an episode (<a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0594410/">The Cage</a>) about a thief who tries to get revenge on his swindling gang while also stealing gold in order to fund a medical operation for his Mute Mexican girlfriend. It's ludicrous. One reviewer writes, "The story was not really bad it was the fact that the writers threw in a love story on top of an unbelievable storyline."
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">But this reviewer misses the point. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Disposable T.V. Shows like The Brady Bunch were so overtly moral sermons that we tend to forget they were overt moral sermons. And then we got Friends, which is absolutely not a moral sermon. it's purely isolated nonsense, self-mockery, linear, fragmented, empty, nonsense. Friends is like a rejection of the moral sermon format and it should've failed but was a success. Friends is a study in stupidity; characters act stupid and encounter stupid scenarios they can only extricate themselves from by dialing down the stupidity. But Brady Bunch, Gunsmoke, Rawhide, etc. all were moral sermons simply preaching quasi-Christian propaganda at people who don't go to church. The morals are obvious: Crime doesn't pay. Hard work wins. Law and order is best. So basic. Family first. etc. etc. So we get reviewers watching an episode of Gunsmoke as if it were literal entertainment or some kind of 'drama' that recreates history. No! Obviously Gunsmoke is not drama or historical reenactment. Morality sermons on network TV died sometime after Gunsmoke ended. We get Cheers...where is the moral sermon in a Cheers episode? There isn't one. The Cosby Show was an attempt to get back to morality sermon. Simpsons started out as a morality sermon but has since lost its way in farce and parody. Now TV shows have made it much more complicated by rejecting the morality sermon format and getting by on strictly jokes and character. That's hard to do, to write a screenplay with no moral message. Gunsmoke lasted because there are infinite variations of the same moral messages of forgiveness, law, commerce, family, etc. Infinite. But it's been so long since that format was used that people of today watch the old episodes and are clueless about how simple they are. They study the plot as though that makes any difference. Brady Bunch was pure skit-used-as-fable. Gunsmoke was the same. Scooby Doo was the same. Basic fables, but they can't be analyzed as drama because they are ludicrous by design. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Gunsmoke is hinged on Family, on self-improvement, on making small sacrifices to advance the greater good. Roy is the two-timed bandit trying to recover the gold his gang stole. Ok, but his motivation in stealing the gold was to help his future family. Then he learns that his Mute girlfriend, Maria, may have a medical condition that prevents her from speaking and with some money he could help her. Ok. What's immoral about wanting to help a Mute New Mexican woman speak? See, this is a common thread with Season 15...the grey line between Law and Crime. Over and over again this line is drawn and redrawn. For example, The episode titled Celia (episode 22) involves a "mail order bride" who cons a blacksmith...who then recovers his money and gives Celia a choice between "Church or Jail". Their relationship has been about nothing but lies up to that point, and he's essentially forcing her into marriage (her choice is not included because it's assumed she chose the church) but the blacksmith's behavior is overlooked because he never crosses the line of law. His objective is to populate Dodge City with the youth that this bought woman can incubate with her fertile womb. It is not important that she has sinned because Dodge City forgives as long as the westward expansion is unchecked. Everything is forgiven.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">This unspoken forgiveness goes for the characters of <i>The Cage</i> twice as much. Despite robbing a bank and then escaping a jail wagon, and then robbing his old partners and leaving them to die, Roy is finally forgiven and left to wait for a judge on his own recognizance by Marshal Dillon, the Blessed Anointed, the Benedictine. Ultimately, Roy's selfish desire to have a family with Maria, whom he learns is pregnant, is his get out of jail card. Maria is a mute Mexican, Celia is a gold-digging con artist, but they are fertile and their offspring will populate the land of survivalists. The difficult, even illegal nature of their heritage will make their children stronger and strong children are required to survive in this hard land. That's the message. Maria is mute right up until the gift of speech is born in her with the first pangs of pregnancy. See? She can understand bilingual speech presumably because her parents speak Spanish and her boyfriend speaks English, but her first word is actually the motto of Gunsmoke encompassed in four letters. "Baby" Spanish pronunciation is very similar, "Bebe". With a single forced word Maria, the virgin mother who is metaphorically giving birth to a new nation without having sex with the thieving Roy, has combined all that is good with this multicultural melting pot. She is a native of a land that was previously Mexico, stolen by Polk's Land Grab in 1845, became a U.S. Territory alive with native Americans who were slaughtered by Custer, then domesticated by The Law. Who better to give birth to the next generation but the fighting, mute survivors of the bloody era of colonization?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">The sheriff and the deputy and doc and Miss Kitty hardly factor into any of the plots. They are mostly hollow catalysts and don't develop beyond their silhouette metaphors: Matt is Law; Kitty is Commerce; Festus is Common Sense; Doc is Science. The whole cast of characters are as blatantly metaphors as the Cowardly Lion and the Heartless Tin Woodman and the Mindless Scarecrow. They are the 4 cornerstones of personality required for civilization in any age. The producers wanted to demonstrate that with a law enforcing sheriff, loyal prostitute, doctor, and illiterate deputy....anything was possible for all mankind. That's the hypothesis. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">The Mute Mexican girlfriend turns out to be, yes, pregnant. Her first halting word...."Baaaa-Beeee" Baby! That's basically the last word, the denouement, the Climax, spoken in Season 15 of Gunsmoke. <i>Baby</i>. Spoken by a Mexican street bread baker in New Mexico Territory in 1880, referring to her bastard child (the thief isn't married to her). </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Yes, the whole season is social propaganda. There are stereotypes. of course. but the level of multi-culturalism is way ahead of its time. The writers were definitely instructed to basically trick the audience into thinking the Kiowa Indian was the villain for the first 20 minutes...and then turn around and develop the Indian into a caring family man who kidnapped a woman only because she is the daughter of an Indian woman...and the husband is an Indian who is pretending to be a white man who long ago left the tribe and domesticated himself with fake loathing for his tribe which includes his own former wife. This is the plot for <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=USIHGpnRqDc">Episode 21: Kiowa</a>. The conclusion can only be that humanity defies definition as gaunt and simplistic as "American" or "Kiowa". Yes, humanity is defined by the final statement "I'm prouder of <i>who </i>I am than <i>what </i>I am." The <i>who </i>is defined by action, the <i>what </i>is defined by political stooges bent on division of the masses into neat categories for indoctrination and census purposes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">I recently took a survey asking about my 'work satisfaction' and randomly one of the questions was "Are you transgender?" What the hell does that have to do with anything? You might as well ask me my favorite toy growing up. It's a bullshit question and Kiowa would agree. In fact, during an Indian Showdown during Kiowa a shady camp Reverend asks Marshall Dillon to stop the violence. Dillon spits back, "Shut up, Preacher, Quichero (The Kiowa chief) is the law here." That's a classic line because it overtly demonstrates that U.S. law has its borders, it is not unlimited, that native people <strike>have </strike>had sovereignty to disregard or to honor. In this case, The Law, represented by Dillon, respects Kiowa law.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">The final denouement of <i>Kiowa </i>is a recognition that humanity has no useful category as broad as race, that action and family are the trademarks worth defending. For most of the episode Native people are portrayed as ' stinking coyote bait' and 'red bellies' and "nothin' but dirt'. Hardly the vocabulary of multi-cultural pioneers, but these are coming from the mouths of Half-Indians. Yes, it's phony self-loathing, the inability to come to terms with their own origins.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">We of the early 21st Century are in difficult times mainly because the mass media is full of vile hysteria merchants. These digital snake oil salesmen have studied psychology and base desires and concluded on a method of creating commerce, creating false desire for stability <u>by manufacturing instability</u>. This is a great irony because the 'instability' the media reports about is actually manufactured by the media themselves. <u>Every </u><u>single </u><u>day </u>CNN yells "Fire!" in a crowded theater WHEN THERE IS NO FUCKING FIRE. But we are helpless to do anything. There is not substantially any more instability in 2020 than in 1880. But 1880 did not have dozens of propaganda merchants creating instability with hysterical conjecture and speculation, so we of the present day are in deep trouble. The late 20th Century Media, when Gunsmoke was produces, was well-skilled in propaganda and Gunsmoke was simply one of the weapons used to create a fantasy of 'American History'. But the need for 20+ episodes a season inevitably created a vacuum of pure pro-white jingoism and episodes like <i>Kiowa </i>and <i>The Cage</i> and <i>Celia </i>crept in to reveal the hidden propaganda <i>behind </i>the propaganda. There's even an argument that I, Oggy, am a paid stooge, a pundit who spins essays about propaganda that is actually misdirection to make the reader believe one thing when the truth is beneath the surface. I have no defense for this accusation. Maybe it's true. Maybe Gunsmoke is truly a Xenophobic stage play, come to life for all the deluded grandsons and granddaughters of Indian killers to make us feel good about our collective genocide. Yep, it's possible. But I'm feeling hopeful and I think these simple morality plays were a message from the past, about a <i>distant </i>past, to the future. The question of faith, law, love, race and honor are as important today as they were in 1880 and as they will be in 2080. Maybe these ethics were the only important things to come out of Dodge City. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Remember: Gunsmoke's writers and producers did not have to pull any punches. The West Was Already Won. But if their history was a mess, their sermon was as plain as the Ten Commandments: Love Thy Neighbor.</span></span></div>
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Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-22646929990364531462018-07-20T22:04:00.002-04:002018-07-20T22:04:38.953-04:00Hamster Wheel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ag18nBGr2bDOHRB8LbAiKQ4uhDHwFsQMOns3gWQ0HcPO4KwgPbmj0tWDUNBF5UsVTDHfoLb5OE3mS-xW2iQfSaljcsq25N22qd4tKCNJuXx3LBBUTBdg6lbyrhciH175Z_2f3hxK0t0/s1600/100_2869.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ag18nBGr2bDOHRB8LbAiKQ4uhDHwFsQMOns3gWQ0HcPO4KwgPbmj0tWDUNBF5UsVTDHfoLb5OE3mS-xW2iQfSaljcsq25N22qd4tKCNJuXx3LBBUTBdg6lbyrhciH175Z_2f3hxK0t0/s320/100_2869.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Despite my best efforts I became a hamster wheel automaton again. I conformed and was assimilated by the grind. This means zero reflection. Zero wisdom. Zero pondering. High production. Low humanity. I'm a consumer. I produce and I consume. This is the status quo the 'coastal elite' wish for humanity, and I resist it, but lately I have been sucked into the vortex again. I move from one petty crisis to another. I almost read the news as though it were a summary of current events when I know it's pure emotional manipulation to instigate hysteria so I will buy from the sponsors to cure my hysteria that was created by the sponsors. This is the vile status quo we are all too tired to do anything about. We hope someone else fixes it. I don't know where the time goes and I learn nothing important, like my fellow hamsters chasing invisible cheese.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The specifics of my hamster wheel involve commercial flush meters and the details therein. Flushmeters have diaphragms with relief valves, refill heads and flow rings of varying sizes and colors that control the volume of each flush. I've been in a debate with the tech support of one brand to learn what I can learn. That's my hamster wheel and it's the kind of thing that devours lives. The current Oggy could've really helped the Oggy of 6 months ago.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I do have a few moments each evening when I finish the latest Gunsmoke episode, when I reflect on my day and I get some encouragement that this will end soon and I will be able to reflect deeply and continuously again as is the task of all dime-store philosophers. I wonder if using the hamster wheel as a means to an end is not obviously insane. A hamster wheel stops in the same spot the hamster started running. Will I be any different? No, but I might be able to throw some more nickles at land agents and consolidate my affairs in one location. I'm not sure this matters since I don't even intend to stop exploring so it really means I value the security of my Python skin boots more than I value my own security. The status quo, pre-packaged, valuemart, bargain bin ethics moderator has trained me well. The good, fertile ideas are still trapped in my mind but the machine wears me down until one day I'm selling flushometers to my younger self and I don't remember how I got there or where I'm going. I'm a specialized tradesman with a bad memory and reading glasses like the septic serviceman I talked to today. We're on the same hamster wheel.</span>Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-63355215118466411682018-06-02T21:31:00.000-04:002018-06-02T21:31:29.883-04:00Good StuffHere's some raw emotion in case you think Oggy is an unfeeling animal.<br />
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<br />Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-34345648664877856632018-05-22T19:29:00.001-04:002018-05-22T19:30:02.325-04:00Covering The Table<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz5-keCtzOvxIihfmeApuSEWW7drN3s4Nc0-0kOmRMJjVMdIRkJU1mjbxQ0V2B0K28IYjxbfpXOCsd2sgCFuZ_-AOdqcR5gx7Wn5lp-mULjC5_bSujOhG_nkHr5g-Be0uSr-dHZOKSc7M/s1600/cover+table.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="719" data-original-width="1069" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz5-keCtzOvxIihfmeApuSEWW7drN3s4Nc0-0kOmRMJjVMdIRkJU1mjbxQ0V2B0K28IYjxbfpXOCsd2sgCFuZ_-AOdqcR5gx7Wn5lp-mULjC5_bSujOhG_nkHr5g-Be0uSr-dHZOKSc7M/s640/cover+table.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It's just cruel to the forces of fortune to put me in front of a Roulette table. The strategy here is called 'covering the table'. On a table with one green zero the payout is 36:1. So, if I cover every number, betting $35, EXCEPT for 2 number...in this case 28 and 30, then I'm betting $35 to make $1 on a payout of $36. It's a ridiculous bet, to wager $35 in order to profit $1. Ok, but the strategy is simply to turn the odds in your favor so you are winning more often.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I've tried another system on Roulette called the Martingale system where I chose Black and then doubled my bet every loss. I concluded that 6 consecutive loses will either brake my bank or I will reach the table limit and can't bet enough to win back my losses. It's a brutal game...basically 50:50 odds it will come up black and to lose 6 consecutive times is amazing. What is even more amazing is that I have yet to win. Within 5 or 6 bets, after a few wins, I will go on the streak of losing 6 straight and that breaks my bank. See, the Martingale system works for lucky people. In my case, I will lose and then double my bet. $1 becomes $2...lose...then $2 becomes $4...lose...then $4 becomes 8...lose... Then $8 becomes 16...lose...then $16 becomes $32...lose...and lastly $32 becomes a $64 dollar bet....which I lose. The investment is $127 in order to win $128...or $1 profit which is called a 'coup' since that's the original bet amount. At that point I will need to bet $128 in order to simply win back my own losses plus $1. </span><span style="font-size: large;">It's very predictable in a way that should not be predictable. In the screenshot you can actually see the streak of 6 that broke my bank before I went to the cover the table strategy. 6 consecutive losses is all that it takes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">If you can make a $128 bet to profit $1 then Vegas is the place you should go because my conclusion is that the whole essence of gambling is based on that insanity. In gambling you will eventually be asked to make a huge bet for an insignificant profit, if only in a vain attempt to break even. This is guaranteed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Well, I don't want to talk about merely <i>bad </i>luck of 6 straight 50/50 losses. I want to talk about an amazing run of bad luck where I covered the table, picked 35 numbers out of 37 possibilities...AND LOST 3 STRAIGHT TIMES. Yes, reader, in the screen shot you see I did not cover #28 and #30...and #28 was the number that came up. Ok, well, you will have to take my word that the previous two attempts I had covered different numbers and chose to omit #15...and <i>Lost</i>...and in the previous game I omitted the Green Zero...AND LOST. Three straight bank busters. My interest in mathematics faltered exactly around the time we got in probability equations so I don't want to 'prove' how bad my luck is. Just accept that I had 35 numbers of 37 covered...so 105 numbers of a possible 111 and the ball dropped into one of those 6 omitted numbers THREE STRAIGHT TIMES. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is the whole problem with gambling is that once the losses are recorded, my whole grind strategy WILL NEVER RECOUP THE LOSSES even with amazingly good luck. See? I could go on an incredible streak with the same strategy, but I just lost $105...and I'm betting in order to profit a single dollar. So, I will need to win 106 times in a row in order to break even. Statistically, I think it's possible to win 106 times in a row if I cover the table, but I just defied the odds with three straight losses so why do I think my odds will even out?</span><br />
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<br />Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-86781409956390973382018-05-15T18:05:00.000-04:002018-05-15T18:26:23.841-04:00Tambourine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">I think this song was in a country songbook I owned but I'd never heard the song so I didn't bother playing it. Then I ran across the song again in another songbook and decided it was time. The lyrics were intimidating and now that I've learned it I know why I steered clear earlier. This is some long <i>long </i>phrasing for a country song, but that's what gives the song its uniqueness. It's like a whole paragraph that only has two rhymes. </span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">"She played tambourine with a silver jingle and she must've known the words to at least a million TUNES. </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">But the one most requested by the man she knew as Cowboy was the late night benediction at the Y'all come back SALOON."</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Two rhymes. Tune and Saloon. But that's a lot of words to remember without a rhyme. I sort of learn songs by memorizing how the lyrics rhyme together but other times I need different approach. For example, the song "The Weight" by The Band has 5 different verses. So, how do I avoid singing the wrong verse, since the story isn't exactly linear? Well, the first verse is "I pulled into Nazareth..." The second verse starts where the first verse ended when the narrator got denied a bed, "So I picked up my bag..." And in that second verse is a line "I said 'Hey there Carmen, come on let's go downtown'..." and I used that line to remember that the third verse starts with "Go Down Moses there ain't nothing you can say..." because the word <i>Go </i>is in the second verse. The hard part of the third verse is not singing, "...nothing you can DO" Because that word rhymes with "judgement Day in the next line and if I sing DO then it will not rhyme with Day. The Fourth verse still throws me because I sometimes get nervous and start to sing the fifth verse. IF I do that then I have to sing the 4th verse last. But the fourth verse is "Crazy Chester followed me..." How do I remember that? Because of the way Levon Helm sings it in this affected southern accent and this is my one chance to ham up my southern accent in the song as I impersonate Helm impersonating Crazy Chester. The fifth verse starts "Catch the Cannonball and take it down the line..." referring to a train, I think. The train is leaving the station so this verse gets sung last. But each line of the verse is rhymed with the last word in the line so it's easy to remember the words once I remember the start of each verse. However, with this Oak Ridge Boys tune, there are only 2 rhyming words in each of the first two verses. The third verse doesn't have any rhymes but still works. And the rest are sung in this effortless story telling style that tells the story but don't rhyme, so the singer has nothing to do but remember what he is singing because the rhymes don't happen often enough to help. I simply break it down into sections...we introduce the audience to the singer who plays tambourine in a smoky bar...then we demonstrate that all the patrons in the bar actually pause when she starts her version of Faded Love, in some kind of moment of prayer to lost love. The Bridge is actually a blatant reference to the song Faded Love and its context within this song. The last verse introduces the nameless cowboy and gives some context to why he requests this song and how he always leaves the bar after it is played. I break the song into those three stages... Bar Singer...Bob Wills...Cowboy...and I get through the song ok.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It took me many many attempts to record this song without any mistakes. And there are only 4 or 5 chords! But the lyrics are <u>not </u>easy to remember.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyF2Nm-xQRYlELv2qKH-CtIjFfKVujoJ0079icRN4fLyFfjCLdA_OkdZvcoScEYo77gE07ASv6v9ZDtsBM-Aw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This song is probably the best country western song because it manages to include a lonely cowboy, pinball, Amarillo, a bar singer, smoke, booze, a clever melody metaphor <i>and </i>it pays tribute to Bob Wills (Faded Love is a BW song) all in 3 verses. My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys is my second favorite country western tune.</span><br />
<br />Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-30346489813765055152018-05-15T17:34:00.000-04:002018-05-15T17:34:10.566-04:00Stages of Flying a Kite<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4txtyD-w_L-SOcZG0HFxPxwEcVS-xByWetUUZR82RgKYC3yWj9qkOKahuH4XsRdBb1CROvmrhykinExtE7yhmxzcC-jUjktmFDwPd20SK7wga1cJfHOgAUDRS1T7O2r1GREYI8F7uL08/s1600/pack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4txtyD-w_L-SOcZG0HFxPxwEcVS-xByWetUUZR82RgKYC3yWj9qkOKahuH4XsRdBb1CROvmrhykinExtE7yhmxzcC-jUjktmFDwPd20SK7wga1cJfHOgAUDRS1T7O2r1GREYI8F7uL08/s320/pack.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stage 1: Can Oggy resist a Star Wars kite? No he can not.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stage 2: Assembly. R2-D2 and C3PO? And some other droid! This thing is awesome! And it comes with string!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJI1BOcknfIUV9f3oHEXAysVAgV-TRpYX_CXjurYnjt-x-8RewBaLBTtpXT6NPvcGGmKsxwyq4ipAoWTw12khRR2QThkzVlDDuyyTgT9ZVUwUeDVJ-Egqy0O7vG80xtrimqDC0NyIqdnA/s1600/fly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJI1BOcknfIUV9f3oHEXAysVAgV-TRpYX_CXjurYnjt-x-8RewBaLBTtpXT6NPvcGGmKsxwyq4ipAoWTw12khRR2QThkzVlDDuyyTgT9ZVUwUeDVJ-Egqy0O7vG80xtrimqDC0NyIqdnA/s320/fly.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stage 3: We have Liftoff...but not enough string. Shit! Lame piece of crap</td></tr>
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Stage 4: Ok, I'm bored, time to get a taco.<br />
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<br />Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-83597198822094797312018-05-10T17:28:00.001-04:002018-05-15T18:13:11.567-04:00Turn Of Century Literature<span style="font-size: large;">I'm not a long-time fan of H.G. Wells but I now know what I've been missing. The only writer of pure prose that is in the realm of Wells is H. Melville. Thomas Wolfe and J. Conrad deserve mention. Let me say that for all the convenience and facile enjoyment that technology has given humanity it has done nothing for our ability to write at such length and detail on the human condition. The literary acrobatics of this self-taught draper's assistant turned sci-fi pioneer are nothing short of amazing. It's like a dictionary having an orgasm. A <i>Wordgasm</i>! I could take any paragraph of Wells in his turn-of-century prime and copy it here as an example but I'll snip one from his 'Earth-based', socialist/suffragette novel <u>The Wife of Sir Isaac Harman</u>. Behold, this 5 sentence karate chop to your verbal thorax:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>It has been said that Fate is a plagiarist. Lady Harman's Fate at any
rate at this juncture behaved like a benevolent plagiarist who was also
a little old-fashioned. This phase of speechless hostility was
complicated by the fact that two of the children fell ill, or at least
seemed for a couple of days to be falling ill. By all the rules of
British sentiment, this ought to have brought about a headlong
reconciliation at the tumbled bedside. It did nothing of the sort; it merely wove fresh perplexities into the tangled skein of her thoughts. </i></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">And another roundhouse kick to your mental groin...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>It has been said, I think, by Limburger, in his already cited work, that
nothing so excites and prevails with woman as rapid and extensive
violence, sparing and yet centering upon herself, and certainly it has to
be recorded that, so far from being merely indignant, and otherwise a
helplessly pathetic spectacle, Lady Harman found, though perhaps she did
not go quite so far as to admit to herself that she found, this vehement
flight from the social, moral, and intellectual contaminations of London
an experience not merely stimulating but entertaining. It lifted her
delicate eyebrows. Something, it may have been a sense of her own
comparative immobility amid this sudden extraordinary bustle of her
home, put it into her head that so it was long ago that Lot must have
bundled together his removable domesticities. </i></span><br />
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And finally, an elbow to your heart...<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">Her marriage had carried Ellen out of the narrow world of home and
school into another that had seemed at first vastly larger, if only on
account of its freedom from the perpetual achievement of small
economies. Hitherto the urgent necessity of these had filled life with
irksome precautions and clipped the wings of every dream. This new life
into which Sir Isaac led her by the hand promised not only that release
but more light, more colour, more movement, more people. There was to be
at any rate so much in the way of rewards and compensation for her pity
of him. </span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Dear Reader, Wells wrote <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/H._G._Wells_bibliography">hundreds of books</a> with this exhaustively precise and probing narrative style. It's not even <i>legal </i>to write this beautifully today. The famous works we know as movies or Orson Wells hoaxes are but a tiny sample of his library. If you are like me then you have to read and<i> reread</i> these paragraphs to try to wrangle the meaning from them. It's like learning to read again. We are out of practice at reading this kind of writing, at least I am. Unless you are a fan of William Vollmann, who is the last living torch-bearer of the elite prose writers of yesterday, then you are content with feeding your brain with verbal vomit in the form of staff writers' sloppy flatulence at online media brothels.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Wells commented that he wanted to write a story that would justify a woman smashing a post office window in protest. This explains all the detail he pours into each phrase. I finally reached the point in the story where the woman smashes the window (after hundreds of pages) and I conclude that Wells has accomplished his mission. I understand why the woman smashed the glass. No one, in any era, would be mystified. It's common for a character to do some rash action and the audience to say, "Oh, she would never do that..." In the case of Wells, this is not a problem. He has covered all the angles and justified his character's actions quite sufficiently. So effective was Wells at his prose that Winston Churchill credited Wells for rationalizing social security and socio-political equality, which were totally objectionable suggestions when Wells wrote his support of them in the dark ages circa 1900.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">If only all writers of future-based fiction were so pioneering with their ideas.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Basically, if modern fiction is too transparent and sophomoric for your tastes then you are but <a href="http://www.freeclassicebooks.com/hg_wells.htm">a click away</a> from the pinnacle of English literature in the works of elite writer H.G. Wells.</span>Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-22604082398707580032018-05-04T18:47:00.001-04:002018-05-05T18:42:55.292-04:00Fast Times in The Parking Lot<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'm back living full time in the Walmart Parking lot. It's a blast. Last night an 8 year old girl was playing in the parking lot, running on a field that is where the homeless pour their piss jugs, someone called the police and they interrogated the family while pot smoke drifted across the larking lot like wildfire. Good times. I'm not sure which is worse: the police being called to investigate a neglected child running around the pot-smoke-filled Walmart parking lot like it's a playground or my reaction, which was "Why doesn't she shut up so I can sleep."</span>Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-67329088081752965132018-04-23T18:32:00.001-04:002018-04-23T18:32:08.902-04:00Borderlands<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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More panographic copy and pasting to feature the Sonoran Desert.Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-65951723306657466832018-04-19T14:49:00.003-04:002018-04-19T15:48:57.479-04:00History<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I think this assembled panorama will be too big to fit on the page. It's an unusual place that I won't name to keep it a mystery. They fought over this pass, bled for access to the slow dribble of water from the wounded spring nearby, railroad engineers studied the land, 16 years of armies and tribes and graves and the bones of cattle bleaching under the merciless sun. And finally, the railroad is laid to the north, the pass is not needed, there are other water sources, the tribes become ghosts, the tombstones crumble, the barracks and quartermaster cabin and Victorian officer's house deteriorate before the wind and are turned back into soil. This land that was once sacred turned into strategic position, then forgotten landmark for mail coaches and then into disputed history and then back into preserved ruins that one must hike to reach on an trail empty save for rattlesnakes and crows. No flag flies on the pole, it was never owned by anyone and the land is indifferent to deed claims. Those are human realms and insignificant. </span><span style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Buddha said that if you sit beside a river long enough you will see your enemies pass by, blended with the molecules of water.</span></span></div>
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Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-86049536221073075462018-04-02T00:12:00.001-04:002018-04-02T00:15:20.537-04:00Found PoetryIf one reads social media threads randomly, and then takes a response out of context, the words become a poem that hold secrets on the reader has brought to the table. Observe...<br />
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<span style="white-space: nowrap;"><b>all I did was run to the store for milk</b></span></div>
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">poof. You were gone.<br /><br />Sweet dreams buddy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="white-space: nowrap;"><b>Escaped Calif. Fire help its Cold in Utah</b></span> </span></div>
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="quote">Starting over help..</span></span></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="quote">Propane help. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="quote">Gasoline. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="quote">Warm Clothing.</span></span></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="quote">Dog Food. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="quote">RV space help. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="quote">We evacuated at 4am with Pjs and RV. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="quote">With problems Lost 10 acres in Nevada City Ca.. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="quote">Made it out alive..</span></span></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="quote">But need pointed in the right direction..</span></span></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="quote">Can repay any help recieved waiting for Insurance.</span></span></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="quote"> I havent asked for help til now. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="quote">I havent showered </span></span></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="quote">in a week.. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="quote">I dont have anything but my word </span></span></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="quote">and </span></span></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="quote">Id to show my address and authenticity..</span></span></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="quote">Im a Grandma with a little dog trying to stay warm </span></span></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="quote">in this Un Winterized RV..</span></span></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="quote">I am very thankful for your time </span></span></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="quote">and </span></span></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="quote">Attention..</span> </span></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: nowrap;"><b>yes, I thank God for chickens that make those</b></span></span></div>
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span class="quote" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Easter egg hunts possible. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="quote" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Thank you God for the chickens and all the other eatable animals. </span></span></span><br />
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<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><b style="white-space: nowrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Self flagellation is quite popular</span></b></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span>
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(As a side note, I will not reveal the specific forums these comments came from because that provides context. But I will pass along this Easter-friendly anecdote. I visited the "Trying to Conceive" forum...because I thought the comments, taken out of context, will be revealing, human...honest...maybe sad, but human. I was thinking in my private Oggy moment that when humanity is reeling from political abuse and self flagellation, when things look most terrible, THAT is the moment we fuck like bunnies. Yes, we fuck. and sometimes conceive...and life begins anew and once the life begins some of us bounce back from our pessimism and become optimistic for the new life, living through the new life...seeing old things as new. Yes. It's honest and human and I thought those comments would reveal something...and perhaps it did. What I found in the "Trying to Conceive" forum were dozens of people commenting about trying to conceive, and a few who wrote horrible and nasty comments mocking the other people trying to conceive. Such as "You're better off child-less." or "You can't have babies because God cursed you."
At first I was repulsed that someone would take their time to find an anonymous forum about conception and defile it with mockery and insults...yes, that repulsed me initially and then I went for a walk and started to laugh at the perfection. This mockery is the trigger that makes people yearn for connection and forgetting the world, the mockery. They seek new life to replace the foul trolls who have become so poisoned they are anonymously posting their poison. But it's the trigger that spells their doom because their mockery is the symbol of what people are fucking to forget and some have babies, some even wanted to have the babies before they fucked. But some will live with the status quo. All fled the filth that is encrusted under the national fingernails, all fled to the bedroom or the couch or backseat and thus the new generation arises from the ashes of the present dreams. That's my fantasy when I self-flagellate.)</span>Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-34940669761579858102018-03-23T22:17:00.001-04:002018-03-23T22:17:09.197-04:00Transformation<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF1cIxGQSG_9-uRmIAS5XuXZqEP9TVK9VRHKYjYJAGGQtltNxhsVw3ek3SJNmDSOMz-07YUqUADBZje8IBAJdsl6MNFUzd0nkmuexOPpg7IqHe6qS_pbGtufHnZLj2Hjo-FXCuqqj8H7I/s1600/100_2757.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF1cIxGQSG_9-uRmIAS5XuXZqEP9TVK9VRHKYjYJAGGQtltNxhsVw3ek3SJNmDSOMz-07YUqUADBZje8IBAJdsl6MNFUzd0nkmuexOPpg7IqHe6qS_pbGtufHnZLj2Hjo-FXCuqqj8H7I/s320/100_2757.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oggy finally became a snowman</td></tr>
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<br />Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-11651293047982092882018-03-01T22:52:00.002-05:002018-03-01T23:00:48.370-05:00Over My Head<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHAH-OP5AyenKQM-s2UptJLGp7vSOO4VKOIr1Cdn7MvTX3-okocHsrxa_xAuM3-GKNFXlfXX3nRQsE0LDvjGoQ2J-mHc0Dih66EnLJb6Xk9CWLE148QEXVZqzcFi5HjdnUGcDblP-wi1M/s1600/100_2657.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHAH-OP5AyenKQM-s2UptJLGp7vSOO4VKOIr1Cdn7MvTX3-okocHsrxa_xAuM3-GKNFXlfXX3nRQsE0LDvjGoQ2J-mHc0Dih66EnLJb6Xk9CWLE148QEXVZqzcFi5HjdnUGcDblP-wi1M/s640/100_2657.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I expect to lose power and all links to the outside world soon behind 19 miles of snow piled fifteen feet high. The snow is unrelenting and I am not equipped to battle the merciless elements. I've lost the war but my efforts were honest. A huge 10 wheel state plow went off the road, twice, sealing my doom. If it was defeated by the conditions then what chance does El Conquistador have? none.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm re-reading the Shakleton book about his Antarctic quest on The Endurance so I'm well aware that things can get worse. That crew was 500 miles from the nearest whaling station, adrift where no one would find them, their ship crushed between ice floes, hunted by killer whales and sea leopards, sleeping under a canvas sail, eating seal blubber in -24f temps. Survival was no accident.</span><br />
<br />Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-125677536538404972018-02-23T00:20:00.002-05:002018-02-23T00:20:20.579-05:00Scenes From Oggy's Life<span style="font-size: large;">I was working next to a Pump Jack in South Texas....</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The Pump Jack was operating, so the 440v motor was spinning like a banshee on crack cocaine. The two counterweights were spinning inches from my face and the horse head vacillated overhead. Metallic creaking came from most of the joints as well as as constant sliding sound from the polished rod as it penetrated the tubing. A hot wind blew across the prairie into my face. It felt like a hair dryer but my face was so wet with sweat that any wind gave me some relief.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I was in the 'death zone' because someone needed to feed the metal conduit down the base from one end to the other. Jose, the Master Electrician, was handing me the 10' length of conduit and I was carefully reaching out for it, keeping one eye on the heavy counterweights and one eye on the conduit. Jose was watching too because the counterweight would land on his head if he wasn't careful. We made the exchange and both exhaled as I lay it in place and bolted it down. I waited for the counterweights to pass and then scrambled on my belly over the light brown dirt, under the pipe guard rail, and out of reach of the machinery.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I looked around at the dry prairie and desolate fields of sand. Far off in the distance a buzzard floated over a mesquite tree.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Well," I said sarcastically, "<i>that </i>was worth risking our lives to do."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Jose nodded with Native American stoicism. When he spoke, and he spoke infrequently while sober, he spoke like a stereotypical wise Indian one might find in a Hollywood Western. His family came from Chihuahua. His family lived in the Valley of Laredo and now traveled far north for work, returning to the valley only twice a year. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Jose was looking at the empty patch of dirt where our conduit was heading. He had already moved on from the brief drama of staging that last length of conduit. Jose was examining the next step of the project. Jose said nothing. The machinery chugged slowly in endless routine.</span>Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-79275846735171653912018-02-22T15:00:00.002-05:002018-02-22T15:00:32.733-05:00Exhausting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
The crew call snow 'white mud' and this is why. A blizzard is charming for about ten seconds and then it becomes no different than a mud slide. Oh yeah, I get to go dig a building out from under a ton of mud! Awesome! Can I go back to Nicaragua now?</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR2FH227WpR72tSRWvICAVz_dq6bBcf3qW9Vw2lST-Ssmcg0JZpfHURzIXhvWvwIog4SkrXnx5tg07Qz_1cV1KPSMASKiLqptvqxRlcgALbwDN1IkCybO2nXpNEDhmy0LTbSZyjJOvizM/s1600/100_2626.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR2FH227WpR72tSRWvICAVz_dq6bBcf3qW9Vw2lST-Ssmcg0JZpfHURzIXhvWvwIog4SkrXnx5tg07Qz_1cV1KPSMASKiLqptvqxRlcgALbwDN1IkCybO2nXpNEDhmy0LTbSZyjJOvizM/s320/100_2626.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Honda snowblower</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA6JkYdlOEM9e9dr_IS6WCJ0_rTsnW65smi3tcosncpMDfr9imRhOisLbynBzFSkb3_AdL-vwHxYXiipoEBHca7jAMmld2l00vHslwoBkygL5Vfrzz7pO8ulhcnddb11Nz1i-x7vedSnU/s1600/100_2637.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA6JkYdlOEM9e9dr_IS6WCJ0_rTsnW65smi3tcosncpMDfr9imRhOisLbynBzFSkb3_AdL-vwHxYXiipoEBHca7jAMmld2l00vHslwoBkygL5Vfrzz7pO8ulhcnddb11Nz1i-x7vedSnU/s320/100_2637.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I unearthed this blue heap of junk</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDC7vGFMbePvY25rCARP87SpvANxkgSyE4aV4Nr-9aLDqUDHuQDqd5_U3Njt_pLYuyLmnNJtJWXKWm_Ozy0W7NOF_Dh7pN9ZAZ1FgmDhszVEsdHiGGYNlpLdzHyJtonS1pfXZmBszzbrQ/s1600/100_2639.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDC7vGFMbePvY25rCARP87SpvANxkgSyE4aV4Nr-9aLDqUDHuQDqd5_U3Njt_pLYuyLmnNJtJWXKWm_Ozy0W7NOF_Dh7pN9ZAZ1FgmDhszVEsdHiGGYNlpLdzHyJtonS1pfXZmBszzbrQ/s320/100_2639.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">bobcat snow blower on a long road to nowhere</td></tr>
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<br />Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-53030912620202833622018-02-20T01:27:00.001-05:002018-02-20T01:27:59.158-05:00Worst That Could Happen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dx3yKkueHpLdpTc3sOCenbRzrInwZ-3IG9yoTNs99VQjz_jODv-CD1mHuqpWdLN_0MBx24tNLO1VIrlbPDLmg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="color: #222222; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: large;">
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I had a burst of creativity that was directly related to my disco shirt and flare jeans. I wrote an explanation for this, and it was completely justified in my opinion, but I think the explanation was a distraction. So I will let this exist without explanation for now.</div>
Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-28195193050603033252018-02-16T22:24:00.002-05:002018-02-20T21:04:54.550-05:00Glamorous Life<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlwbnNqF7IkDRGjL4v8fFbEPqTe6HvL7pu57gd8mNT1fp6OgjcdWkOKQXQEofM3_MdGim0EGEfIBj4BDNVTtB7L_tH7prHPpsCluVItOchA6vZK1SAxL4WGn03N07TMOPjpf-BG0WW44I/s1600/100_2611.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlwbnNqF7IkDRGjL4v8fFbEPqTe6HvL7pu57gd8mNT1fp6OgjcdWkOKQXQEofM3_MdGim0EGEfIBj4BDNVTtB7L_tH7prHPpsCluVItOchA6vZK1SAxL4WGn03N07TMOPjpf-BG0WW44I/s400/100_2611.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sure, level a urinal <i>before </i>hanging the drywall. Why not?</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">What can I say? I'm a plumber who studies toilets and urinals. It's not glamorous and doesn't make for great essays. I'm interested in this trade work because it's relevant to my future plans to build my own estate. Let me say that plumbers are dealing with many different details at once and I would recommend a long discussion about strategy with illustrated maps before starting. Water supply pressure/volume is important so don't go off and buy some fancy urinal that requires 1'' supply line when your house has 1/2'' supply line. The volume will be off and the flush-o-meter will struggle. Speaking of flush-o-meters, they need to match the pipe size of the spud on your fixture. Oh, yes. If the spud is 3/4'' such as on this top spud urinal, then go ahead and plan for a 3/4'' flush-o-meter. And that means, yes, the supply pex should be 3/4'' to supply the right volume. Or you can plumb the wall with 1/2'' pex, such as Oggy has done in the photo, and then realize the spud and sweat fitting are 3/4'' and then reduce the connections from 3/4'' to 1/2'', thus reducing the volume of the water and basically defeat decades of engineering by urinal manufacturing companies with your ignorance. Sure, they make $4 adapters to reduce a fitting to the size you have plumbed into the wall but I repeat that the volume of the water is extremely important and your 1/2'' pex will not magically carry the volume required to run a 1+1/4'' high volume toilet simply because you bought a $4 1/2'' ---> 1+1/4'' adapter or rigged up some ridiculous combination of adapters. No. There will be lots of goodies left over after each flush.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I told you this was not glamorous. It's not like there is one type of urinal and one type of flush-o-meter for sale in the world. There are hundreds of models of flush-o-meters. And there are hundreds of urinals. It's like randomly buying a nut and a bolt and hoping they fit one another. They likely will not fit, but you can pat yourself on the back that at least you bought a nut and a bolt that will fit <i>another </i>bolt and <i>another </i>nut. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Flush-o-meters have all kinds of spud connection sizes and urinals have top spuds and rear spuds of all different sizes and there are jet wash urinals and washout urinals and low flow urinals and there are different combinations of spud sizes and sensor urinals and there are tankless toilets and back spud toilets where the plumbing is all in the wall and the size of the spud of the toilet determines the size of the flush-o-meter which determines the size of the pex or copper which determines the size of your water supply to the bathroom. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">That's the proper way to map this out, from the fixture itself back to the main water supply. If something doesn't add up then you have to go back to the fixture and start over, preferably before you bought anything. But if you start from the water supply and buy materials and work in the direction of the fixture then I think you will reach the fixture with 1/2'' pex and realize there is no such fixture that accepts 1/2'' pex unless it is a sink or a tanked toilet. But you already bought a 1'' spud tankless high volume toilet and a washout urinal with a 3/4'' spud. Ooops. Neither of those $400 fixtures will work. It goes on and on, hundreds of hours of Oggy trying to learn the plumbing trade </span><span style="font-size: large;">by trial and error </span><span style="font-size: large;">on a federal paycheck*. I guess someone has to milk that $200,000,000,000 budget for some gas money. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvrT0ftDaxB4iauBtZGv-DDAl7wWS_dyKz2O1YH2IW_uld7cZOxHsqfoj9R_koNV4fRrKXK2SSBTsOP7ZBaVW4xeRIFH5mlsSzzweazYNT7a6PgkeFQxqxxGBNKOOg1YhqoK9OBeJtKT0/s1600/urnial.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvrT0ftDaxB4iauBtZGv-DDAl7wWS_dyKz2O1YH2IW_uld7cZOxHsqfoj9R_koNV4fRrKXK2SSBTsOP7ZBaVW4xeRIFH5mlsSzzweazYNT7a6PgkeFQxqxxGBNKOOg1YhqoK9OBeJtKT0/s640/urnial.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They talked me into the 'wolverine' beard.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">*Don't use anything I write as a guide to move forward with a plumbing project. I know only enough to get into trouble. The best generic advice I can give is to find someone to explain it and map it all out for you before buying anything. The variations and combinations for plumbing are seriously infinite.</span>Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-92220019195485408442018-02-09T19:51:00.001-05:002018-02-09T19:51:57.220-05:00Foolish HeartIt took an act of congress to keep Oggy working. That's not a good sign, in case you need a translation. But while we wait for the merciful end at least there is a good soundtrack I'd like to share with y'all. The movie Phantom Thread features some retro jazz piano improv for a moody soundtrack that blends into this a la carte Oscar Peterson piano solo. It was hard to figure out where one song ended and the other started but this melody sticks out and forced me to hunt it down. It's good enough to be confused with a Schubert or Schumann song but it's pure Victor Young, composer of some tasty tunes such as 'When I fall In Love". The movie takes place in the musically blessed 1950s so this song is relevant for more reasons than one. True, I am a Ray Bryant loyalist but this melody is expressed to the max by Peterson's lithe personality.<br />
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<iframe allow="autoplay; encrypted-media" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/XwrY7ZCTbVE" width="560"></iframe>Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-925398583349587212018-01-12T22:14:00.006-05:002018-01-12T22:14:55.881-05:00Gospel<span style="font-size: large;">I once drove through Tulsa, OK with a leather decked gutter punk who was travelling to Austin, Tx to reclaim his pawned tattoo kit. I stopped in Tulsa to look for work in hurricane response but the dairy queen ethic of locals-firsters chased me back onto the tired Route 66. We were treated as suspicious wanderers, politely moved from town to town by sheriffs and federal marshals after a pat down and ID check. In a land of laws the lawless have no home so we wandered south, avoiding public places, camping by rivers, bathing in wastewater treatment drainage culverts. I was as broke as a virgin prostitute so we started playing music on the streets until the police would run us off. In Tulsa we ran into a musician who turned me on to Southern Gospel. I was aiming for Texas to pay tribute to Western Swing artist Bob Wills but caught the Southern Gospel bug before I got there. Authentic mono recorded Western Swing of 1944 is my ideal music. It swings, moves, shakes, makes you want to do the freaky deeky and it often involves only two chords that are embellished to death by long-fingered, cigar-smoking guitarists with names like "Slim" and "Hank" and "Three Thumbs". Buddy Holly probably had to smuggle Western Swing singles into his bedroom in the virtuous town of Lubbock but I hear lots of Milton Brown influences in early Cricket's recordings. It's 'Western Jazz' if you want to get technical. Or you could call Duke Ellington the "Urban Bob Wills".</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The stop in Tulsa introduced me to Southern Gospel as it was meant to be performed, not in the previous incarnations that I'd encountered in New Orleans rescue missions where the raspberry jam tastes like arsenic and the TB phlegm and pubic hair clogs the shower drain and attending the church service is required to sleep and the out of tune piano plinks like Tom Waits on LSD to the dozing black audience.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Years turned into years and my Gospel addiction finally introduced me to The Golden Gate Quartet Jubilee. I prefer <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wfN61brn9cM&list=PLRGAu0AnJpVFQwXyl9d1LpZ2jo7DTzT5e">Acapella</a> when listening solely for meditative purposes but
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<span style="font-size: large;">Joshua Fit The Battle demonstrates the brilliant enunciation of these four vocalists that I have to feature the video. It's hard to slur the word "Joshua" into "Fit" but they do it smooth as melted butter on a slab of bacon.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It's interesting to note that I was parked in a vacant ball field parking lot, no one in sight because of the brutal heat and humidity of Corpus Christi, TX, playing Southern Gospel tunes for my own pleasure when some enforcers of Law and Justice rolled up and had me on my ass with my guitar in my mouth before I could call my ACLU rep. I always think of that scenario, playing gospel music alone in a city named after Jesus Christ, and being molested by enforcers of Law and Justice for no fucking reason, and I wonder if God isn't laughing his ass off as old Oggy stumbles around this wacky pinball game of life.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">No matter. I'm not bitter at that because I've got plenty current events to be bitter about. I'm a working man. The internet has more devoted writers and narcissistic travelers who can fund their adventures with royalties selling bath salts and plastic dildos so they don't have to work. I'm not an affiliate salesman for anything. Money isn't that important because I've seen the false smile selfies pasted on the over-tan youth-corporate-shill-generation and I want no part of it. It's not art. It's not honest. A shill is a shill and their product has been done before. I'm too busy nursing my emotional wounds to type anything worthwhile so I'm not going to force it. My powers ebb and flow, my interest waxes and wanes. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">A guy got dead shot today as I passed a Dairy Queen. He was wanted in another state but the Federal Marshals decided to pop the question on the busiest street in town where I happened to be remodeling a Redwood deck. A stray bullet could've taken my neck flaps off. Sometimes they take the plate away before you're finished eating. That's life. I'm still here but no one can say about tomorrow; the fates have their own agenda, their own time frame to work with and there ain't shit I can do but aim high and button each shirt button until there ain't none left. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The word 'fit' is slave slang for 'fought' so that should give you some clue where the tune comes from. Joshua crumbled the walls of Jericho and freed his people with nothing but trumpets. I've got plenty of excuses to keep my chains tight on; what's yours?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829472822154103457.post-4770349808779564772017-12-19T00:37:00.003-05:002017-12-19T00:37:45.870-05:00Tasty Piano<iframe allow="encrypted-media" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" gesture="media" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/HSuXKYUFPV8?rel=0" width="560"></iframe><br />
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This tune is in a Django songbook I have
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so I tracked down some other recordings of it. Sam Cooke sang a ridiculous version.
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Nat King Cole recorded it too. Especially with super nasty guitar licks.
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But Errol Garner blew this away. The octave melody. I think I could listen to 100 different arrangements of this song and not get tired. Mean to Me by Dean Martin is another tune to get you started on infinite recordings. Jazz is common literature performed by the many. <iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/g7emQi5TAoo?rel=0" frameborder="0" gesture="media" allow="encrypted-media" allowfullscreen></iframe>Oggy Bleacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199810572777436832noreply@blogger.com