Lockdown Anxiety Syndrome

It's a new thing. I just made it up, although I haven't done a google search.

It's there, it's real, and therefore there's a good possibility somebody, or many, noticed it before I did.

Lockdown Anxiety Syndrome, or LAS, is when you're plunged into perpetual anxiety over if and when the next restrictions are declared and what they're gonna look like.

The lockdown itself, once you're in the clutches of this syndrome, comes to be experienced as relief from the anxiety. 

You see it all around you. 

It's the reason you see folks walking down the street in masks when their town hasn't had a covid death in six months. They truly believe the reason their town hasn't had a covid death in six months is because they're walking around in a mask.

They're afraid to take it off lest they inadvertently kill someone.

That's a terrible burden on a populace that was already suffering unprecedented levels of mental illness before all this started.

Bruno Report; dog park edition

If you've followed the Bruno Reports, you'll know there've been some issues. Like his penchant for wanting to kill other dogs.

We flagged that as a nasty character trait early on. I've been dutifully taking him to the Owen Sound off-leash dog park for months now, hoping he picks up some social skills.

I've had mixed results, but we seem to be trending in the right direction. He left a poor first impression on a dog park regular, Lilly, on his very first visit.

Lilly is, I think, mostly a standard poodle. She used to, in the aftermath of that first encounter, bark for the entire time Bruno was in the park, and wouldn't get anywhere near him.

That eventually got whittled down to a welcome bark, mutual butt-sniffs, and sauntering around the park together.

So I know we're making progress.

Today we arrive at the park and there's nobody there but an old dude with a "rat-terrier cross."

Penny.

I had no idea there was such a creature. Looks like a terrier, but it's the size of a rat. It's half the size of our cat, Doublewide.

I've got the big boy on leash, and I'm holding on tight, because this could turn real ugly real fast. 

Penny wouldn't be more than a mouthful for Bruno.

Buddy doesn't seem concerned.

"Let him off, just let him off! She'll tune him up in no time."

So I did.

And so she did.

She, half the size of an average cat, bared her teeth and growled at my 150 pound mastiff. Whereupon he immediately fell to the ground in total submission.

Obviously, she doesn't know she's little, and he doesn't know he's twenty times bigger.

And then they embarked on the most enthusiastic romp Bruno has ever had at the dog park!

Good old times with Jimmy Walker

Remember the show Good Times? There was a tall skinny Black kid starring in it, Jimmy Walker.

I saw an interview with Jimmy on Fox today. I'd link you to it but Google algorithms have pulled my linking privileges. They quizzed Jimmy on how he felt about cancel culture etc.

Well, you already know Jimmy wouldn't be on Fox if he was going to promote the PC point of view, so no surprises there. 

Jimmy's not a fan.

But here's what made my head explode.

In the intro, they tell us Jimmy Walker, that skinny teenager you saw on TV when you were a teenager, is now 74 years old!?!?

How the fuck did that happen to the poor devil?

Progress

Check out the pretty highway tractors at the website Cabover Kings. I'd link you to it but I've had my linking privileges lifted by Google algorithms.

There's diesel trucks there that used to haul freight of all kinds from coast to coast. Coast to coast means through the Rocky Mountains, through the Appalachians, and everywhere in between.

Here's what's fucky, to my way of thinking.

Pretty much any truck you see there has less horsepower and less torque than you'll find in a typical V-8 pickup truck at your local Ford, GM, or Dodge dealer.

Around here, that power is generally used to get one guy or gal to their job.

Fifty years ago, that power got 20 tons of freight through a mountain pass in the Rockies.

That's progress for you!

How to tell the difference between a fart and a Justin Trudeau apology

When you think about it, farts and apologies have a lot in common. I fart, you fart, everybody farts.

Just like everybody apologizes for something sooner or later. Sometimes we even apologize for our farts!

Justin's apologies strike me as more fart-like than the typical run-of-the-mill apology.

First off, they have about the same amount of thought put into them. Like none. Trudeau can squeeze out apologies the way mere mortals pass gas. 

And Justin's apologies are delivered with about the same level of sincerity as mere mortals would put into delivering a fart.

Like none.

So here's how you tell the difference.

Any random fart doesn't stink as much as a Justin Trudeau apology.

 

The slippery slope

In my opinion, sometimes it's best to just stay put.

Whether that's on the couch watching TV or on the stoop watching the world go by is up to you.

Because mark my words, if you succumb to the siren call of "using your time productively," you're gonna regret it.

The problem is, one thing leads to another. For example, today I was sitting out on the porch, enjoying a profound moment of satisfaction with life. The fall colours are peaking all around. There's geese honking and cows bellowing. I've got a full belly and a roof over my head, and all the kids are out of jail and off welfare.

Life is beautiful!

And then, right there in the midst of all that bliss, it occurs to me to turn off the water to the outside tap. Pretty sure the Farm Manager won't be doing any more watering this season.

A few years ago I forgot that chore and ended up with a water-pipe that froze so solid it turned a brass casting into a work of art. I was able to rectify the matter without calling a professional plumber, saving several thousand dollars. 

Point is, there's no need to have a repeat of that disaster.

So I roust myself off the stoop and make my way to the basement.

Water shut off, I look around...

Gott im Himmel!!!

There's so much to be done down here. I really should use my time more productively....

That's the red flag right there.

Whenever you tell yourself that one, give your head a shake and resume your meditation on the porch.

I'd been busy trying to get rid of the stuff that can accumulate in basements, and there was plenty more to go. So I busied myself tossing old pallets up into the woodshed and from there out the back, where I soon had a great heap of them. We used to have them on the floor so the firewood wouldn't be sitting on the cement.

Not really sure what the science is on firewood sitting on cement. Is that bad for firewood? Maybe that's just a local superstition. In any case, we had a whack of 'em, and I piled on some cardboard and a stack of Globe and Mails and lit a match to it.

Then I returned to the basement to muck out where the wood had been stored. That stuff won't burn, but it makes a decent potting soil.

Next thing I know, I'm hearing some crackling and popping.

I check out the back... and whoopsie! The fire found some dry grass and is licking at the base of the splendid laundry-hanging platform I put in a few years ago, when the FM got tired of standing on the picnic table to hang the wash.

I run for the garden hose, and... nothing!

Because I just turned the water off!

There you go. Had all sorts of destructive hormones rushing through my frail blood vessels for a good fifteen minutes, simply because I had that urge to do something useful with my time.

If you're happy on the front stoop of life, stay put.

Don't go down that slippery slope.

Workin' steady while gettin' nuthin done

Last week the neighbour up the hill gave me a hand re-arranging my fleet of parts vehicles, primarily to facilitate the tow truck that was coming to take half the fleet for scrap. One of the keepers, at least for now, is the F-150 that once belonged to my Dad.

It was on axle stands at one time, but one had collapsed and the front end was sitting in the dirt on the disc brakes. In my efforts to jack it up I ended with my jack stuck under the truck.

I went to Canadian Tire and bought a second jack so I could retrieve the first one. Before I could get around to it, four straight days of rain descended upon us.

So I focused on indoor jobs, number one at this time of year being to rodent-proof the house. We don't want a repeat of last winter, when the chipmunks would give you a nod as they nonchalantly strolled through the living room.

I'd used spray-foam insulation generously a year ago to seal off where I thought they might get in, but now I want to get those spots I missed, and they're mostly in the 100+ year old stone foundation. While I'm down there, and having three more days of rain in the forecast, I get to thinking this would be a good time to de-clutter some of the shit that's accumulated down there.

That worked out ok for what I could just stuff in garbage bags. Then I got to the old Cascade 40 water heater. By rights I should have had the plumber take it out when he installed the new one, but you're so grateful to even get a plumber to make a house call you don't want to burden them with extra demands.

I'd forgotten all about it, but there's a back stairwell out the basement into the woodshed that I wanted to seal in my anti-chipmunk campaign. I open the door, and there it is!

In my prime I'm sure I could have muscled that tank out of the stairwell onto the woodshed floor, but I'm more cautious these days. After all, if you can blow a retina straining to take a dump, what havoc might you wreak on your body tossing a hot water heater around?

No thanks!

Then I had a brain-wave! I could use the new hydraulic jack to lift the tank high enough that I could tip it into the woodshed! 

Brilliant!

Lucky for me, the previous and only other owners of Falling Downs had left a stack of bricks down there from the original construction. I got the jack under the tank and began to lift it. Unfortunately, the jack only has about 6" of lift. I could lift it enough to get a couple of bricks under it. Then I'd remove the jack, put a couple of bricks under it, and repeat.

That stairwell had a cement floor at one time, but when we used to heat with wood we'd toss the firewood down there. Between woodchips and bark, the floor is now a bed of mulch. The higher I got that water heater, the more wobbly the entire edifice got. 

By the time I had it two feet off the ground the operation was looking pretty dodgy, and I had another two feet or so to go before I hit the tipping point.

As I'm dinking around with the jack under this tottering water heater in virtual darkness, it occurs to me that I wouldn't see the tank falling till it crushed my skull.

Time for Plan B!

Fuck it!