You know it's been a slow week news-wise when the most compelling story in your weekend Globe and Mail ($6.30 from the Korean extortionists up here in the boonies) is found in the "Style" section.
Ya, it's a shame they couldn't find more space for a little news from Puerto Rico, but nobody gives a shit about that anyway. At this very moment my sister-in-law Norma is trying to get her mother out of the place. If we're lucky this disaster will re-kindle the PR sovereignty movement, but I'm not holding my breath.
So there on page three of the Globe Style section we meet Alia and Jamil Juma, a brother-sister Canadian (by way of India and Kenya) combo who are setting China on fire with their "Juma" brand of fashion accessories.
Good on them!
I was looking for a wire brush this afternoon. Wanted to brush a bit of the rust and flaking paint off the winter rims on the Subaru that recently joined the fleet here at Falling Downs, before giving them a coat of flat black Tremclad. Do you think I could find a wire brush?
No!
Which is really fucked up. I was a welder for decades. I had wire brushes and chipping hammers out the ying yang, but when I need a wire brush there's not a wire brush to be found.
That Juma story got me thinking. If Alia and Jamil can find a niche in China, maybe I can too! I think it may be time to get serious about the Big Ass Chair Company. Not enough morbidly obese people in China, you say? I figure it's just a matter of time. From what I hear those folks are falling for the North American processed food diet big-time. They equate it with modernity and progress, if such a thing can be imagined. In another few years China's gonna have tons of fatties.
That's why I should get in ahead of the curve, so to speak.
Eventually it would only make sense to move production to China, but in the meantime I could be whipping up a few proto-types right here in the garage. I did have a 220 welding plug put in there when they re-wired the place, and I'd have an ample supply of wire brushes again.
In the event, I finally gave those winter rims a scrub with the BBQ brush.
The Subaru looks great!
Showing posts with label Subaru. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Subaru. Show all posts
Saturday, September 30, 2017
Saturday, September 16, 2017
The winter-beater
Lot's of good stuff in my Globe today. Liz Renzetti kicks things off with a beauty take-down of Facebook on A2. Also in the first section we see a nice tribute to "The Rock" and how being cut from the Stamps practice squad twenty years ago helped make him the A-list commodity he is today, and a moved-me-to-tears profile of a young actor who inexplicably checked out when everyone around him believed he had it all going on.
Further in we've got Doug Saunders, aka "Mr. Renzetti," with a lengthy polemic on why we need another sixty-million immigrants to properly colonize this great land the Indians so generously gifted us, so lengthy in fact that I've had to put it aside for later while I mollify the Farm Manager with a display of "doing something" around the place. For once I do not begrudge The Korean his $6.30.
Now that summer's over we're finally getting some decent summer weather. Me and the FM spent some quality time on the patio at Dockside Willie's yesterday afternoon, watching the melancholy spectacle of a few die-hard pleasure boaters try to wring the last drops of pleasure from the summer that wasn't.
Picked up an older Subaru last week. I'd set out to find a set of snows for the current ride. For not a lot more money, I got a practically new set of snows with a Subaru attached. Overall I've had good luck with them. Of the three I've owned, two took me well past four hundred thousand clicks. The other one was a lemon. This one has about eighty thousand fewer kilometres on it than the GM product that's been my daily driver for the past few years, so with a little luck I've found a winter-beater that should last for pretty much however many winters I've got left.
Must do something with the summer vehicle situation. The Mustang 50 is a nice enough car, but I'd never have bought it had I known the FM was done her driving days. For a thirty year old car it's impeccable and has lots of jam, but if I'd known, I'd never have bought one with an automatic. For me, a sporty car is just a whole lot sportier with a manual. Also, I've only had one ragtop in my life, a '64 Bonneville with a 348 4bbl and four speed, and I figure it's high time I did that again. There's a very pretty '69 Dart GTS (big block, four speed) convertible at Cars-on-line that's been calling my name, but the Farm Manager swears it's really shouting "denouement."
It's Concours weekend at Cobble Beach, so there's been some inspirational traffic going by Falling Downs today. Maybe we'll check out the show tomorrow.
In the meanwhile, I better get on with "doing something," - re-arranging the parts vehicles behind the barn... and maybe see what I can do about the mirror on the Ninja. If the FM gets into her Netflix, maybe I'll have a shot at a 10k blast around the block.
Further in we've got Doug Saunders, aka "Mr. Renzetti," with a lengthy polemic on why we need another sixty-million immigrants to properly colonize this great land the Indians so generously gifted us, so lengthy in fact that I've had to put it aside for later while I mollify the Farm Manager with a display of "doing something" around the place. For once I do not begrudge The Korean his $6.30.
Now that summer's over we're finally getting some decent summer weather. Me and the FM spent some quality time on the patio at Dockside Willie's yesterday afternoon, watching the melancholy spectacle of a few die-hard pleasure boaters try to wring the last drops of pleasure from the summer that wasn't.
Picked up an older Subaru last week. I'd set out to find a set of snows for the current ride. For not a lot more money, I got a practically new set of snows with a Subaru attached. Overall I've had good luck with them. Of the three I've owned, two took me well past four hundred thousand clicks. The other one was a lemon. This one has about eighty thousand fewer kilometres on it than the GM product that's been my daily driver for the past few years, so with a little luck I've found a winter-beater that should last for pretty much however many winters I've got left.
Must do something with the summer vehicle situation. The Mustang 50 is a nice enough car, but I'd never have bought it had I known the FM was done her driving days. For a thirty year old car it's impeccable and has lots of jam, but if I'd known, I'd never have bought one with an automatic. For me, a sporty car is just a whole lot sportier with a manual. Also, I've only had one ragtop in my life, a '64 Bonneville with a 348 4bbl and four speed, and I figure it's high time I did that again. There's a very pretty '69 Dart GTS (big block, four speed) convertible at Cars-on-line that's been calling my name, but the Farm Manager swears it's really shouting "denouement."
It's Concours weekend at Cobble Beach, so there's been some inspirational traffic going by Falling Downs today. Maybe we'll check out the show tomorrow.
In the meanwhile, I better get on with "doing something," - re-arranging the parts vehicles behind the barn... and maybe see what I can do about the mirror on the Ninja. If the FM gets into her Netflix, maybe I'll have a shot at a 10k blast around the block.
Sunday, August 14, 2016
Recipe for survival in a USA awash with weapons; when you're being shot at, just run really fast!
Yup, that's the thought du jour from David Ferguson blogging at The Guardian. And he should know; he's been shot at!
It's quite the compelling yarn, is it not? There he is at age 18, helping a young hottie up sticks to get away from her abusive boyfriend, no doubt angling for a shag in the big-picture scheme of things. At 18 I certainly would have been.
So they're stuffing all her worldly belongings in a battered old Subaru sedan... all good. I'm totally with the narrative so far.
Then the drunken and angry meth or cocaine addled boyfriend shows up... hey pal; that's happened to me too!
Could I tell you a few stories! (And as a matter of fact, I have had to run for my life on a couple of occasions, and I'm still here, so your advice is not completely without merit.)
But I gotta say you lost me when that baffed out old Subaru sedan left a trail of burned rubber on the road.
No way did that ever happen. I've owned and driven old Subarus for many years. They have many virtues (none of which would be apparent in a Georgia winter) but they're so under-powered they could hardly get out of their own way.
Ya, the WRX era opened a new chapter, but those were not battered and old when you were 18.
Impossible!
It's quite the compelling yarn, is it not? There he is at age 18, helping a young hottie up sticks to get away from her abusive boyfriend, no doubt angling for a shag in the big-picture scheme of things. At 18 I certainly would have been.
So they're stuffing all her worldly belongings in a battered old Subaru sedan... all good. I'm totally with the narrative so far.
Then the drunken and angry meth or cocaine addled boyfriend shows up... hey pal; that's happened to me too!
Could I tell you a few stories! (And as a matter of fact, I have had to run for my life on a couple of occasions, and I'm still here, so your advice is not completely without merit.)
But I gotta say you lost me when that baffed out old Subaru sedan left a trail of burned rubber on the road.
No way did that ever happen. I've owned and driven old Subarus for many years. They have many virtues (none of which would be apparent in a Georgia winter) but they're so under-powered they could hardly get out of their own way.
Ya, the WRX era opened a new chapter, but those were not battered and old when you were 18.
Impossible!
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Montreal wedding
We're a little behind with the wood this year.
Mind you, we were completely run out by this time last year, which resulted in a oil bill of over $4000 by the time spring rolled around.
When you're the guy responsible for getting the wood into the house, that $4000 oil bill does not help a marriage. Instead, it tends to foster all sorts of sarcastic banter, mostly at my expense.
But speaking of marriage, let's get back to Montreal!
Been there for a couple of weddings.
Dixie and Ron got married at a hotel by the Dorval Airport. Well, they didn't get married in the hotel per se... they tied the knot in a really nice church downtown.
But the reception was out by the airport.
Wood heating is a funny thing. It's very cost efficient, unless you start to factor in your own labour in falling the trees, cutting the trees, splitting the wood, loading the truck, fixing the truck when it breaks down between the woodlot and the house, unloading the truck, piling the firewood in the woodshed, hand-bombing the wood into the basement, and so on...
When you do the math on all that, electric heat suddenly seems like a smart choice!
So all I remember about the wedding is that most of the wedding party partied at my room at the hotel, and the marriage itself didn't last very long.
Which is too bad. I liked Ron; I liked Dixie. You don't even want to cheer for anybody.
It's just a sad thing.
And I'll tell you another sad thing; the number of guys who get killed by logging mishaps when they're taking down trees! I didn't even factor that in to the above calculations!
Why is it always guys who die in chain-saw accidents? Where do all the feminists suddenly disappear to when it's time to drop that 60 foot elm?
They may be equal, but they're not stupid.
Then there was that other Montreal wedding, and I am happy to report that this one has stood the test of time, and survives to this day.
This was in one of those posh English-speaking suburbs, and since this was a relative of mine I was a little taken aback by that, but nevertheless, it was a classy affair.
It's nice to be invited to one of those once in awhile.
It was my Prussian-German-Schwabian-Canadian cousin Wolfgang, who now lives in one of those posh English suburbs in the biggest French-Canadian city in the land, hooking up with his Egyptian-Canadian girlfriend.
We are super multi-culti in my family!
So me and cousin Johnny motored up to Montreal together. I picked him up at his place in Toronto, and our first stop was a liquor store around the corner where Johnny picked up two cases of Grolsch tallboys.
Our next stop was Montreal, where, upon opening the door of the Subaru, empty Grolsch cans cascaded into the parking lot at our hotel.
So, having a Montreal wedding is a 50/50 kind of deal.
Might work.
Might not.
As for the wood thing, I look at it this way.
I'm outta the house.
The freedom is exhilarating. If I want to spend all day fixing a ten-minute problem, that's what I do. It's a dog-fuckers dream life!
Chain saws, wood-splitters, trucks are inherently cool.
The house just smells nicer when you heat with wood.
Add all that together, and it's worth way more than $4000!
Mind you, we were completely run out by this time last year, which resulted in a oil bill of over $4000 by the time spring rolled around.
When you're the guy responsible for getting the wood into the house, that $4000 oil bill does not help a marriage. Instead, it tends to foster all sorts of sarcastic banter, mostly at my expense.
But speaking of marriage, let's get back to Montreal!
Been there for a couple of weddings.
Dixie and Ron got married at a hotel by the Dorval Airport. Well, they didn't get married in the hotel per se... they tied the knot in a really nice church downtown.
But the reception was out by the airport.
Wood heating is a funny thing. It's very cost efficient, unless you start to factor in your own labour in falling the trees, cutting the trees, splitting the wood, loading the truck, fixing the truck when it breaks down between the woodlot and the house, unloading the truck, piling the firewood in the woodshed, hand-bombing the wood into the basement, and so on...
When you do the math on all that, electric heat suddenly seems like a smart choice!
So all I remember about the wedding is that most of the wedding party partied at my room at the hotel, and the marriage itself didn't last very long.
Which is too bad. I liked Ron; I liked Dixie. You don't even want to cheer for anybody.
It's just a sad thing.
And I'll tell you another sad thing; the number of guys who get killed by logging mishaps when they're taking down trees! I didn't even factor that in to the above calculations!
Why is it always guys who die in chain-saw accidents? Where do all the feminists suddenly disappear to when it's time to drop that 60 foot elm?
They may be equal, but they're not stupid.
Then there was that other Montreal wedding, and I am happy to report that this one has stood the test of time, and survives to this day.
This was in one of those posh English-speaking suburbs, and since this was a relative of mine I was a little taken aback by that, but nevertheless, it was a classy affair.
It's nice to be invited to one of those once in awhile.
It was my Prussian-German-Schwabian-Canadian cousin Wolfgang, who now lives in one of those posh English suburbs in the biggest French-Canadian city in the land, hooking up with his Egyptian-Canadian girlfriend.
We are super multi-culti in my family!
So me and cousin Johnny motored up to Montreal together. I picked him up at his place in Toronto, and our first stop was a liquor store around the corner where Johnny picked up two cases of Grolsch tallboys.
Our next stop was Montreal, where, upon opening the door of the Subaru, empty Grolsch cans cascaded into the parking lot at our hotel.
So, having a Montreal wedding is a 50/50 kind of deal.
Might work.
Might not.
As for the wood thing, I look at it this way.
I'm outta the house.
The freedom is exhilarating. If I want to spend all day fixing a ten-minute problem, that's what I do. It's a dog-fuckers dream life!
Chain saws, wood-splitters, trucks are inherently cool.
The house just smells nicer when you heat with wood.
Add all that together, and it's worth way more than $4000!
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Cadillac Mountain
Back in the day when the missus of the time and I lived in New Brunswick we used to head down to Maine now and then, stay for the weekend, and then head back with our legally obtained tax-free alcohol and tobacco. Not to mention the extra alcohol and tobacco stuffed into the front and rear bumpers of the Oldsmobile Firenza that was our main transport at the time.
Bar Harbor was a happening destination at the time. You'd have your Harley crowd and your bicycle crowd. They'd pretty much frequent the same bars and restaurants, but the way you could tell them apart was the bicycle people wore helmets.
The Harley crowd didn't.
Then there was the Cadillac Mountain crowd. I'd almost call it a cult. Cadillac Mountain is the first place in America that the sun shines on every day. Cadillac Mountain is just outside Bar Harbor, and every morning it is besieged by folks from all over the USA and beyond who want the sun to shine on them first before it shines on anyone else. Don't take my word for it - drive up to Maine and see for yourself.
Cadillac Mountain was named after the same guy who the Cadillac car was named after. This was in an era where the Cadillac brand still had some call on it's motto; Standard of the World.
And arguably it was the standard of the world. Caddies were luxurious and fast.
I've never owned a Cadillac, but my dad had a couple back in the day.
He had a blue Fleetwood around '71 or so. Had the 472 motor. It was big and heavy and the upholstery was rich and deep, and it wasn't hard to see why a guy who navigated his way out of refugee camps in Denmark might find it appealling.
That was followed up by the butter-yellow '76 Eldorado. Man was that a sweet car!
But back to Cadillac Mountain. One day back in the Iraq War times we headed up there, and while you can drive most of the way to the top, you still have to get out of the car and hike the last hundred feet or so. We're hiking, and suddenly, around a bend and over a ridge, there's a whole whack of Military vehicles just a sitting in the shrubbery, generators running flat out and radar antenaes spinning round and round. A hike up a hill turns into Realpolitik 101 just like that. After all, Old George had his summer place just a hundred miles or so down the coast, and in those heady times the evil Saddam could have launched some of his WMDs onto the Maine Coast quicker than you can say "bullshit", so the forces of GOOD were right in protecting the vacationing President.
Dad was pretty good about loaning me the Caddies when I had an important date or something. Not that I made a habit of it. It wasn't like you could leave cigarette burns and used condoms in your wake. Well, you could have I suppose, but at the time I wasn't ready to push the boundaries of parental indulgence quite that far. Funny thing was, when Dad got really comfy with his role as wheeler-dealer in the new world, when he was 100% confident that the bank was going to honor that $100,000 check even if the account was a couple of dollars short, he traded that last Caddie for a Subaru.
Which was the end of borrowing Dad's car for hot dates.
Bar Harbor was a happening destination at the time. You'd have your Harley crowd and your bicycle crowd. They'd pretty much frequent the same bars and restaurants, but the way you could tell them apart was the bicycle people wore helmets.
The Harley crowd didn't.
Then there was the Cadillac Mountain crowd. I'd almost call it a cult. Cadillac Mountain is the first place in America that the sun shines on every day. Cadillac Mountain is just outside Bar Harbor, and every morning it is besieged by folks from all over the USA and beyond who want the sun to shine on them first before it shines on anyone else. Don't take my word for it - drive up to Maine and see for yourself.
Cadillac Mountain was named after the same guy who the Cadillac car was named after. This was in an era where the Cadillac brand still had some call on it's motto; Standard of the World.
And arguably it was the standard of the world. Caddies were luxurious and fast.
I've never owned a Cadillac, but my dad had a couple back in the day.
He had a blue Fleetwood around '71 or so. Had the 472 motor. It was big and heavy and the upholstery was rich and deep, and it wasn't hard to see why a guy who navigated his way out of refugee camps in Denmark might find it appealling.
That was followed up by the butter-yellow '76 Eldorado. Man was that a sweet car!
But back to Cadillac Mountain. One day back in the Iraq War times we headed up there, and while you can drive most of the way to the top, you still have to get out of the car and hike the last hundred feet or so. We're hiking, and suddenly, around a bend and over a ridge, there's a whole whack of Military vehicles just a sitting in the shrubbery, generators running flat out and radar antenaes spinning round and round. A hike up a hill turns into Realpolitik 101 just like that. After all, Old George had his summer place just a hundred miles or so down the coast, and in those heady times the evil Saddam could have launched some of his WMDs onto the Maine Coast quicker than you can say "bullshit", so the forces of GOOD were right in protecting the vacationing President.
Dad was pretty good about loaning me the Caddies when I had an important date or something. Not that I made a habit of it. It wasn't like you could leave cigarette burns and used condoms in your wake. Well, you could have I suppose, but at the time I wasn't ready to push the boundaries of parental indulgence quite that far. Funny thing was, when Dad got really comfy with his role as wheeler-dealer in the new world, when he was 100% confident that the bank was going to honor that $100,000 check even if the account was a couple of dollars short, he traded that last Caddie for a Subaru.
Which was the end of borrowing Dad's car for hot dates.
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