Last year, I ran low on graph paper for the first time in a long time, so I went online to order some.
A dozen pads of good old fashioned green K&R 10×10 ruled graph paper is what I wanted.
The kind you had to do your homework on in college. You used to be able to get it anywhere.
Well it seems that nobody uses graph paper any more, and the good stuff is hard to find, and when you do, you pay through the nose.
I bought a dozen pads, and I’m careful not to waste it.
In related news, I use an old-style mechanical keyboard, with a good tactile vibe.
The kind that clacks when you click it, and it gives your hands a workout.
The kind that makes you wish you had a bigger desk.
The kind you have to go out of your way to get.
The one you become one with, once in a while.
So.
The other day, I was typing. Shifting mental gears.
Thinking a little too hard. Not hard enough. Not at all.
I sipped from my water glass, I set it down wrong, and I spilled it.
All over my keyboard.
And all over my graph paper.
I did a quick Solomon in my head, and I saved my graph paper before I saved my keyboard.
It wasn’t even close.
It took me four tries, but I finally got the brake line fixed.
The GL1000’s rear brake has been broke since day one. It’s the only thing on the bike that I had to actually saw off when I took it apart, way back when. And somehow, I saved it for last when I finally got around to putting the bike back together.
That was a mistake.
In order to work on the brake, you gotta take off the seat, the shocks, the wheel, 2 fenders, 6 plugs, the battery, the battery cage and, of course, the brake and master cylinder.
All of which I’d just put on.
So I took them all back off and set about fixing my broken brake.
I needed one tube nut. One nut.
But somewhere between 1978 and today, tube nuts changed, and the nut I need is now hard to find.
So I shopped far and wide, and then I waited for a week, tracking my package of tube nuts through the system every day.
And when it finally came, I only ruined 3 brake lines before I finally got it right.
Which is pretty good, for me.
Oddly, now that my brakes aren’t broke, I can no longer say:
Nothing can stop me now!
If my ISP server weren’t fucked up, I’d show you a picture.
It was the first gorgeous day of Spring, and we had nothing better to do, so we gave the yard a spring cleaning.
Power broom. Back hoe. Chainsaw. Hack. Rake. Haul. The whole nine yards.
It’s a lot of work, but we got ‘er done, and we were both fried.
Mary had the good sense to take a shower, a nap, and a pill.
I, on the other hand, took off my shoes, sat down, and didn’t move.
She make me a cocktail, and I drank it while I read and then nodded off. And when I nodded back on, I knocked the dregs of my drink onto the floor.
Jesus, Reid! WTF is wrong with you?
Quick as I could, I dropped to my knees to mop it up, but my knees were still full of dirt from our day in the garden.
And – whaddayaknow – dirt dissolves in gin and tonic, so the rug was now full of brown streaks with a hint of lime.
Mary glared at me. She stood up, pointed at the bathroom, and told me where to go.
I went.
And when I came back, the carpet was clean, and I didn’t ask how.
We’re putting in a patio.
Normally, you’d be hearing me say “I’m putting in a patio”, but I finally decided I’m too old to be digging holes. Heck, my hernia hurts just working on my motorcycle! Patios are a young man’s job, I told myself.
Then I hired Robert, who’s been doing it for 52 years.
Back when we built this house, I kinda fucked up. The land isn’t quite steep enough for a walk-in basement, but we did it anyway, and one end of it ended up a little bit below grade.
And that, of course, is the end where I just gotta put a patio.
Robert insists: the patio has to drain away from the house, and the driveway is higher than the patio, so the driveway has to go down. Ergo.
And that is how my little patio project morphed into a BFD.
Part of Robert’s schtick is talking up the benefits of a good, solid base for your hardscape. “Can’t go wrong with a good, solid base”, he’ll tell you. Over and over.
“Can’t be good without one.”
In March, I’d dropped off some stuff at his office, and I couldn’t get his door open to leave, because it was mud season, and the foundation was shifting.
I finally wrestled his door open and told him “You need a better base.” He laughed.
And he built a good, solid base under my patio. It’s impressive.
If my ISP server weren’t fucked up, I’d show you a picture.
Wait, wait wait!
Before we go, how did that chair turn out?
The one I busted, took apart, and decided to re-upholster last month.
If my ISP server weren’t fucked up, I’d show you a picture.