Firebird Update

I checked the oil in the Firebird and it looks like coffee and cream from Dunkin' Donuts. I never liked the way it was running and have the worst hopes for this vehicle now as this is the second engine and the second set of heads that appear to be leaking. The heads are tight, the gaskets are new, the heads are new but the engine block was original. It's not looking good. Cursed from the start.

Fortunately, I'm on the trail of a job that will let me leave all of this madness behind. It's either going to come together this week or slip through my fingers. I can't mention details because I accidentally used my oggybleacher gmail address to send my resume to the boss.
He called up, "May I speak to Oggy Bleacher?" and my eyes bulged open.
OH FUCK.
If he googles "Oggy Bleacher" then I'm sunk for lack of explaining my insanity.
Of course I also showed up to the interview with a full beard, a backward baseball cap and I was riding my moped. My strategy is to act like I already have the job.

Spiteful Post

GM Oil Pressure Sensor

I'm going to really give you casual surf monkeys something to ignore now because I'm going to describe the whole saga of this oil pressure sensor for a 1999 Pontiac Firebird.

First I want to tell you that the threaded end of this sensor is screwed directly into the engine block down by the oil pump. See? And the suction from the oil pump will direct oil into the hole and into this sensor where it spins microscopic wings around and magic fairies whisper secrets in troll ears and on the other end are two copper contacts on a suspended spring wire system. The plug going to the electronic control module is connected to the two prongs via an indexed connector that was green in 1999 and brown in 1998 (I know this from the crashed vehicle I found at the scrap yard)

No Relief

This is way better than living in the van

I really don't know what more I can do to get a comment from the three Russian spambots who regularly visit my blog.

Never Been To Spain...or Greece...or Tibet

How many more years do I need to sing this song before I get to Spain? I'm not talking about the Ibiza-body-shots-of-Vodka Spain but the rural Spain where live Fascist bombs still act as landmarks on the market road and kids still hold doors open for old women.

Goodnight

Webs of crooked lies deceive our inner hero
the wounds of past trespasses lock doors to freedom
freedom belabors the inclimate military
reality is a broken catchphrase for meat manufacturers
cattle withdraw cash from temples of fraud
we are all double agents who have had our
memories erased.
Television tries to implant new memories of heroic deeds
but finds the spot occupied by dusty trauma

I can write the saddest lines tonight
because the rain washes into rivers of mute erosion
the glad rags of our lonely love affair
are burned in acrid despair
but the embers burn red and the ashes fertilize new seeds
sewn by new lovers inventing the language again and again
holding hands holding hearts