This Space is NOT for Rent...

Contrary to the innuendos, rumors of my demise are false. It’s just that for once, I’ve been taking a bit of a hiatus from the writing and not forcing the issue of writer's block. Which is a farcical notion itself, because it dares assert that I’m a writer in the first place. OK, so what’s the real holdup then?

Oy, thar be several reasons, the largest being in no small thanks to a few issues with the “Old Car”, “Tankster”, “Linc”, “My Stupid #^%# Dominatrix POS”, and any/all other nicks and aliases assigned to the beast known as our seasonal-cruiser 1975 Lincoln Mark IV. Now I haven’t forgotten to post Part II of the Great Butterfly Catastrophe, but it happens that Part II actually sort of dragged on into and throughout the month of June. Yes, if anyone has a knack for diving in with both feet, casting nary a heck toward temperature and depth, it’s me. Which means I spent far too much time troubleshooting, wrench tossing, and unearthing techniques that have become something of a lost art (seriously, when old-salt mechanics and serious hobbyists warn that you’ve got your work cut out even though they can’t recall the specifics, the glow of theoretical accomplishment is justly amplified once you finally complete the repair). But I spend far too much time rambling about that car in this space so that’s enough for now, details will have to wait; if June was a Mechanic’s crash-torture course (which is technically not quite over mind you) then the summary won’t be written ‘till sometime in July (pay no attention to that calendar behind the curtain). In the meantime I’ll hint it all thusly: fuel pump revisions are NOT your friend, obsolete "rag" joints are enough to put any man ON the rag (with sincere apologies to my female readership’s sensibilities), and Detroit’s Malaise was apparently well-earned. And I really don’t need to quit my day job anytime soon!

Lesse, so where else then... other hobbies? Feh! No time for them either. My various kitbashing, decal making, and commissioned overhauling projects on the bench were all sidetracked, as were a number of personal endeavors I’ve been wanting to return to (my novel, free-form pencil drawing, and compiling a music video using stormchasing footage sequenced to the long version of Underworld’s Pearl's Girl).

Why? Allow me to join a 12-step and come clean: I hate television, as illustrated by the month of June because I let my guard down and became addicted again. The AMC drama Mad Men has definitely earned its unanimous acclaim, and I simply became ensnared. Much more than just another excuse to typecast yet another set of philandering characters, it’s so smartly acted and sharply portrayed in spite as to nearly be a time machine. The creative processes on display fascinate me even as they sadly illustrate that I maybe did indeed choose the wrong career. Viewers in my generation and younger are challenged by the societal dynamics: given the popular consensus that America, Inc. 2K+ has burrowed itself into a lower common denominator (a notion I often find myself nodding agreement to), the America Inc. of 1960 was in many ways just as barbaric, if slightly more polished on the veneer. Certainly I’ve gleaned a certain new appreciation and understanding for the world my older family, relatives, and peers were molded in. I can say this because every one of them who has seen and commented on the show says it’s so accurate as to be unnerving.

So the 13 episodes of season one and all the blu-ray featurettes ate up a good week-and-a-half’s worth of evenings. Thanks, TV. Another good chunk was wasted in what’s actually become a sort of annual tradition for me: Video Games. I don’t routinely play them anymore - in fact I haven't for several years now - but I still own a wide assortment of consoles from every generation up to and including the current one. They’re great for parties/entertaining and some titles are even fun to play with Bethany on occasion, and of course the nostalgia bug will bite on the occasional rare idle evening. But they mostly collect dust except for that random, unpredictable time of year when I jones for some hardcore time-vamping to last throughout a week.

This year’s honors went to the PS3 version of GRID, an incredible racing sim loaned to me by a fellow geek and motorhead. I’d kill him for doing so if we didn’t get along so well, since he full well knew what torture he wrought on me. For days I kept pushing myself at LeMans in a 1970 Mustang with all the driving assists turned off. This didn’t always go so well, but that was my self-chosen jump-in point, and when I told my friend I was driving au natural “because they didn’t have all that traction assist, anti-lock, and stability control BS in the 70’s” he sheepishly admitted he always left those features ON "because in a spec race car, well, you're supposed to have those". I should mention this same friend autocrosses in the SCCA, coached his wife to a division championship, and held several WORLD record times in GTA5 Prologue. So apparently my handicapped yet competitive showings at LeMans left an impression as they coaxed his admission. Now you’re probably thinking as I first did: “You idiot, it’s a game, not a car." Well, about that: I crossed-up and hooned my ’97 T-Bird Sport enough in the real world, to get a frightening sense of déjà-vu in the game. Applied physics engines are amazing these days.

Fortunately my GRID addiction was broken by none other than my dad's random spamming of my siblings and me with a song from a classic game we shared as kids: Bubble Bobble. This began an impromptu discussion of classic games with notable soundtracks, many of which I keep just for that reason. Which made me dust off the ol’ SNES to play - and hear - the likes of Actraiser, Axelay, and Castlevania IV. Just for kicks I bothered to look them up online and to my surprise discovered I wasn’t alone in my admiration for these particular 32-bit synth tracks, and some were highly regarded in the music world. Of course one game led to another song and another game and another week gone... sigh.

Thankfully (?) the long-awaited Ghostbusters sequel/game didn't release until a scant few days before our planned week “work-ation” at the farm. Oh, cruel be the fates that force pining this experience for years, nay to savor but devour in three days! At least playing the harder modes over again will be fun and game was worth the wait, if still a bit flawed. Plus, the Time-Life Real Ghostbusters compilations, not coincidentally, are making their way to store shelves one volume at a time! The most formative show of my childhood can now be relived and shared with the wild imagination of my daughter. And I won’t get stuck with the wretched final 30-or-so episodes that were embarrassing to fans even as they first aired. Wait, scratch that – they never happened. Yeah you heard me.

But you can put the gardening shears away because I’m not a total vegetable. June was indeed a lazyifying mind-melt of a month. But while Anna stepped herself silly no-thanks to her Virgin Healthmiles pedometer, I was spending more than a good portion of time outside playing with the girls, doing minor assists with ever-present yard work (Anna took most of the credit for her pedometer), and auditioning for a Vegas Contortionist role courtesy of the frustratingly bizarre work involved with the Linc- oh wait, I'm not supposed to talk about that. Anyway, if you’d was me, you’d've likewise done nothing but veg yerself once it got too dark to see outside.

Happily, the last 10 days or so fully kicked my pastifying ass, make no bones about it. In 2008 I spent a week’s vacation at the farm, to once-and-for-all attempt to get the Lincoln out of its coma. And a funny thing happened: I not only succeeded and got to “keep” the car, but perhaps more importantly rekindled my in-laws' own excitement for old cars again... to the point of finally addressing the Elephants in the Barn, the also-rotting 1929 Model A Roadster Pickup and 1966 Mustang Convertibles in the tool/junk shed. There was just one problem: their locations in the junk barn. You’ve no idea what a farm can become when designated areas play “catch all" for years. My father- and brother-in-law kinda sorta always maybe wanted to get the cars fixed someday eventually, and more importantly I wanted to help – but where to put them?

Answer: in the very same place they’ve been for the past 10-15 years, only now without the patina of surrounding junk (“The Clutter-f*@%” as my sister-in-law so brilliantly put it). But that junk has value, incredibly, impossibly (I've finally learned not to ask). So where to put it? Why, in a brand-new loft to be constructed in said barn, of course! And I would take another week off from my day job to do it.

Of course, Farm Week '08 was blessed with unseasonably cool weather, featuring temps in the high-70’s as opposed to the more typical 80’s, and I even said back then it was a rare lucky fluke I would come to pay for sometime in the future. Little did I know the “future” would be “June 20-28 2009” where temperatures smote with 3-digit heat indexes throughout. And that was before climbing into the dim, unventilated slice of hell known as a barn loft. Facing the shape I'm out of was thoroughly embarrassing. I once worked in manufacturing plants that were nearly twice as bad, acclimating toward not breaking a sweat; after 15 minutes in the loft, I looked like I'd taken a shower with my clothes on. Ugh, this last freaking decade of IT drudgery will be the death of me after all.

It could have been a good thing and I might've sweated my Video Pudge completely away, if not for the wonderful Farm Pudge my in-laws graciously fed me the whole week. Amazingly, and to their credit, they even continued to do so after a certain open 55-gallon drum full of oil and its certain stand also full of 1,000 lb. tractor weights found themselves tipped sideways into a certain aforementioned 1966 Mustang while a certain “someone” was operating a Bobcat in close proximity… *ahem*. Hollywood cliches' are dead accurate in one regard: bad things really do happen in sloooooww moooowwww shuuunnnnn. Suffice to say, it could easily have been worse (it "only" dented the door and did not break any glass), and the Lucio Curse of Murphy’s Law reared its head once again, as the cause of the mishap was reasonably determined to be not from gross carelessness, nor Bobcat–barrel contact, but a freak “how could anyone even think to prepare for or expect that to happen?” situation involving the Bobcat wheels and a plank creating their own fulcrum under the stand. Besides, when you consider the stories of everyone else’s own Moments of Infamy through the years, with my close proximity to the farm for nearing an exact Decade as of July 4 this year, I was bound to make my own mark somehow, sometime. I was probably even overdue.

Besides, I’ve been told that while I sat out the lunch break that immediately followed the clean-up so I could deal with the sick festering feeling in my stomach, the statement was made: “Well, it may not matter if it is his fault, because who did you think was going to fix it in the first place, barrel dents or no?”

So that’s a wrap. Hopefully the blasted Idiot Panel (TV’s aren’t really boxes anymore are they) will get a break this month, and I can return to more productive efforts. Priority #1 will be the restoration of an extremely rare and valuable post-war HO steam locomotive I've been entrusted with since May. Some of my friends in the railroading world have been asking and wondering where I’ve been – if you’re friend enough to read this, now you know. And if you look at TheLincolnForum.net, you can find all the sordid details of my misadventure with the Lincoln.

And you really should find another blog to read, I’m afraid. 3 pages of pointless narcissistic drivel? Sheesh! But I love ya'll for your sticktoitiveness.

Have a great 4th of July! I'll be marking an anniversary of my own that day.