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The Liberation of A. MacMoofing

August 17th, 2017


If you want to have a thrilling experience that will leave you gasping, don’t buy a wingsuit and jump off Mount Everest. Hire movers to move your grand piano.

Today I watched movers turn my piano on its side and roll it outdoors. It’s like watching nurses play catch with your newborn child. Anyway, they seem to know what they’re doing.

Of course, the movers are doing more than I required in the original estimate. I’m handling everything myself, so it was not possible to get every possession packed. The cost went up a few hundred dollars, and it may go up more tomorrow. C’est la vie. That’s what money is for.

I still can’t get used to the idea that I’m leaving this miserable city. Day after tomorrow, I will be in MY house, in northern Florida. I won’t be a tourist or a guest. I’ll be a resident.

It’s frustrating, trying to do things in the right order. My tools are on a truck right now, so all the things I wanted to do with tools this week are not possible. I needed tools to prepare some things for the move! I had to rely on the movers and their pathetic tools. My lathe has a wooden tool shelf on it, and the shelf has to be removed for the trip north. The shelf uses special bolts. They’re not original to the lathe. I keep the originals in one of my rolling tool chests. Guess when I remembered that? After they started moving my tools into the truck. Thank God they hadn’t taken the chest yet.

Whoops. I have to get up and let them pack crystal. I’ll be back.

I have started to think there is no intelligent, efficient way to move. My obligations in South Florida are a bit screwed up, and there is nothing I can do about it. People are just going to have to show me a little patience. Or drive 300 miles to see me if they want a confrontation. By the time they get there, I should already have the security alligators trained.

I had to move in the most cloudless, blistering, glaring August in history. I hate to say anything that might make a global warming nut puff up and crow, but the sun is about an inch from the ground today. I actually had to walk around it to get to the car. It’s one of those Augusts when the sun follows you in the house. You sit in the air-conditioned shade and feel the sun’s heat and glare through the walls. Even when you close your eyes, you want sunglasses.

I feel like Miami is angry at me for leaving, and I suppose it is. There are big, filthy spirits assigned to various geographical areas, and I’m sure the ones that run Miami enjoy the suffering I endure here. I think they’re turning it up to punish me for going AWOL. It seems like people are ruder and more crass than ever this week. More people turning in front of me without turn signals. More people running yield signs simply because Carlos the Random Miamian and his leased Range Rover are more important than I am. More traffic backups. Papa John’s sent me a guy who could not say three words of English. I’m so busy I debase myself by ordering Papa John’s, and they rub it in by sending me an illegal who can’t say, “Twenty dollars and forty-two cents.”

That is some bad pizza, by the way. Really revolting. The cheese is fake (look up the ingredients), and they put about half an ounce of each topping on the pie. Flour and tomatoes are nearly free, so of course, that’s what Papa John’s sells you. Anything even slightly costly they dole out in tiny amounts more suitable for snorting than eating. They might as well chop the toppings into lines and serve them on a mirror.

At some point tomorrow, my dad’s TV will be packed. I do not look forward to that. He is not good at dealing with minor inconveniences. He was already bored with 800 channels. Now he will have…0 channels. That means he will be 800 divided by 0 times as bored. And we won’t have cable until next week. I may check into a motel by myself and claim I was abducted by aliens.

The flying saucer kind, not the lawn-mowing kind. Although for all I know, Salvadorans are already sneaking over Neptune’s border.

I found out I can use my cell phone to stream Youtube to my TV in Ocala. That’s really something. I can barely send a text message here, and the Internet is slower than Morse code in Ocala, but the phone service up there is so good I’ll be able to watch Youtube. Explain that to me. The phone should be lightning fast in Miami, and it’s not. The Internet should be faster than 1.5 MBPS in Ocala, but it’s not. The cell service in Ocala should be pretty slow…but it’s not. Whatever. As long as I can watch my machining channels with breakfast, life will be good.

Who am I kidding? Life will be magnificent. I’m not going to be in Miami! If I get bored, I’ll hop on my golf cart and tour the grounds with my AK-47. I’ll go lift something with my tractor. I’ll go for a drive! You can do that in Marion County! You can drive for pleasure! Unless you count riding my motorcycles at night, I haven’t done that since maybe 1990. Maybe I’ll just go to McDonald’s and ORDER IN ENGLISH!!!!

“I want two McMuffins.” “Ehhhhhhhhhhhhh…joo Juan A. MacMoofings?”

I’m going to change my name to A. MacMoofing.

Water. I should drink some water. I’ve been drinking it all day, and if you will excuse me for being indelicate, it’s all intake and no output. Too much work. Too much heat. I think it’s affecting my brain. I need to pump some water into it.

I guess I’ve wound down enough. Time to stop writing.

I may be able to write something tomorrow, and then again, I may not. If this is the last blog entry I ever write from this county, let me take the high road and say I will always try to remember my experiences here without heaving. No promises.

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Like we Needed Another Reason to Fear Wal-Mart

August 15th, 2017

Message From the Beast: Your Continued Existence is Intolerable

I feel like God is getting me out of Miami ahead of a tsunami.

Did you see what Doug McMillon, the CEO of Wal-Mart, said about Trump? The President called the Charlottesville murderer a terrorist, which was appropriate, but it wasn’t enough for McMillon. Apparently, Trump was supposed to come out and say violent leftists who plague other people’s rallies are good citizens. He was supposed to limit his criticism to those on the right, and he was supposed to ignore the non-racists who showed up to protest the eradication of Confederate history.

Trump wasn’t playing that. He correctly criticized the leftist nuts who show up and riot at other people’s events. McMillon, who seems not to realize that some people who buy products from his troubled corporation are conservative, says Trump “he missed a critical opportunity to help bring our country together by unequivocally rejecting the appalling actions of white supremacists.” Obviously, Trump did condemn white supremacists. McMillon is just angry because leftist criminals got part of the blame.

What a coward. What a panderer! Unless he lives in a cave, he knows leftists have been beating conservatives in the streets for over a year. He knows most violence at conservative rallies comes from leftists who were not invited, and he knows leftists commit murders at their own events. Doesn’t matter to him. He wants far-right nuts to pay, but he expects Trump to say it’s fine and dandy if BLM burns a supermarket or beats up a reporter.

Everyone has conveniently forgotten Dallas. Remember last year? A far-left black nut named Micah Xavier Johnson killed five innocent cops at a BLM event, and he also wounded eleven people. Are we keeping score? The left is way ahead.

Have you noticed that conservatives aren’t much of a presence at leftist events? That should tell you something about who is doing most of the instigating.

Doesn’t matter to McMillon. Left good, right bad. That’s what Trump was expected to say.

I completely understand why some people think it’s a bad idea to honor historical figures who fought for (among other things) slavery. It’s a little strange that Stone Mountain is decorated with sculptures of Robert E. Lee and company. It’s weird that Robert Lee Moore Hall, the physics building at the University of Texas, is named after a racist kook. Maybe some things need to be changed. But wetting your pants and rioting is not the way to get it done. Demonizing people for putting the Confederate flag on their vehicles is not the way to get it done. Losing your mind and throwing a never-ending tantrum, like a baby with perpetual colic, is not acceptable in a civilized society.

Leftists need to be held accountable for their Nazi tactics. It’s more important to hold them accountable than to hold alt-right wackjobs accountable, because leftists have much more power. The alt-right is a little fringe movement which will never get anywhere unless leftists frighten white people into joining it.

The creep who drove his Dodge Challenger into a crowd is guilty of a terrible crime, and no one in his right mind would try to excuse him. At the same time, how about not going to other people’s rallies and attacking them with rocks, pepper spray, slingshots, and poles?

The problem with leftists is that they think rioting is a mitzvah. I went to Columbia University ten years after the famous riots, and I can tell you for a fact that people who were there were proud of it. Many people who were too young to participate talked with awe about the riots. They wished they had been there. They admired the rioters. This is a sickness peculiar to leftists. They think they have a right to go anywhere they want and threaten people with force. When it comes to violence, leftists are caterers. You supply the party; they supply the beatings.

You have to wonder what kind of provocation the driver had put up with. There is no justification for driving a car into innocent people, but violence tends to generate more violence. If most protesters stayed behind the police and used words instead of weapons and fists to make their point, wouldn’t stories like the one in Charlottesville be less common?

Leftists have no self-control. What do you think would happen to me if I drove a golf cart through any ghetto in America, or through West Hollyood or Dearborn, with Confederate flags waving from the roof? Do you think people would smile and ask me to pull over and chat? Come on. If I merely got black eyes and broken ribs, I’d be beating the odds.

I don’t feel sorry for white nationalists or supremacists or whatever they call themselves this week. I don’t feel sorry for leftist thugs who turn out to fight with them. The nuts on both sides are disgraceful. I do feel bad for innocent white people, Christians, and conservatives who are now lumped in with the sheet-wearers and skinheads. We don’t deserve the PR we’re getting, and we won’t deserve the filthy reprisals Charlottesville will spawn.

I’m disturbed by the sudden campaign to get pro-white agitators fired and banned and so on. What would happen if the same rules applied to anti-white cranks? Al Sharpton would be on welfare. Louis Farrakhan would be banned from Twitter. A whole lot of black people would be fired from their jobs. Do we really want to force people out of the economy simply because they old repugnant views? If they can’t get jobs, they will still need food and shelter. One way or the other, you and I will end up paying for it. I say let them work. I don’t really care if the guy who aligns my tires thinks my race is a line of evil subhumans designed by Mister Yacub (a core belief of the Nation of Islam). Just align my tires, stay out of jail, and pull your own weight. For eighty-nine dollars, I don’t expect you to believe what I tell you to believe.

Well. Not my circus, not my monkeys. That’s something I have to remember. I am not behind either of the Charlottesville factions. As time passes, the carnal and the simple will be increasingly inclined to riot and commit murder over political and moral discord. You won’t see me wearing a football helmet and an umpire’s vest, swinging an axe handle and claiming I’m standing up for Jesus. I would never fight for Jesus. Not for one second. Say whatever you want about him. My religion doesn’t call on me to do violence in order to advance the cause, and I don’t care enough about conservatism to go out and act like a baboon.

Doug McMillon’s Nurembergesque letter shows how far America has fallen. Things are getting bad out there. I suspect heavy-duty, widespread rioting is coming soon, and the idiots on TV will back the leftists no matter what they do. There is nothing the rest of us could do to get them to excuse us or help us. We have already been adjudicated guilty. The only way to please the left is to cease being what you are. This is is how genocide starts. The left has a genocidal mindset. They think the earth would be a better place without us.

I can see why the Beast’s minions will want to behead people. The existence of people like me is a problem to the left. Rehabilitation is not going to work well, and besides, murder is more satisfying, because of the element of punishment. I’m very glad I won’t be in Miami when the gloves really come off.

For a long time, I’ve believed the Beast was not just a man, but a movement. I believe carnal humanity is the Beast, and I believe the Internet will be its voice until a man who embodies the Beast arrives. Have you noticed how articles are popping up, saying, “The Internet” says this or that? “Donald Trump Goes out with Crooked Tie Knot, and the Internet is not Happy About it.” The Internet is a hive mind, and it’s not a good mind. Who do you think controls it? Not Jesus. I promise you that.

For years, I’ve been saying that the Internet was Satan’s counterfeit Holy Spirit. Like the Holy Spirit, it unites people in thought and purpose. It’s a sad, pathetic counterfeit. It can’t work miracles or tell the future. It’s wrong all the time. But Satan isn’t ubiquitous or omnipotent, so it’s the best he can do. Now I think I’m being proven right. The Internet is turning into the mind of the Beast. Remember how the Bible says Christians have the mind of Christ? Whatever God has, Satan tries to rip off.

How weird will things get? I know they’re trying to microchip people now. How long will it be until we go past Google Glass and end up with smartphone-type devices that are implanted? How long will it be until we’re forced to accept the implants, “for the good of society”? Are we going full-tilt Borg in the future? It’s not beyond us. We really are that stupid.

If we could be implanted with Internet-connected devices, we’d be a natural step forward from the Internet of Things. We’d be the Internet of People. It would be as close to a superpowered, omnipresent, unified, God-like mind as Satan could ever hope to get. He could order his minions around with great efficiency. Flash mobs for every purpose! Go to this house, drag out this person, and cut him to pieces. Kill this politician. Rape these Christian kids. Will it come to that? I’ll bet it does, if God allows the world to continue.

It will be the Tower of Babel, rebuilt with Wi-fi. It will be something to see. And if it happens, people will love it. They will scorn anyone smart enough to think it’s dangerous. We love every gadget that makes life more convenient and destroys our privacy and free will.

I feel like I just predicted every important thing that will happen in the next twenty years.

All I want is to get away from the nuts for a spell so I can breathe. Sooner or later, if I’m still here, they’ll come for me and kill me. That’s okay. It’s unavoidable. But later is better!

I guess I sound crazy, but think how I would have sounded had I described today’s America to someone twenty years ago. Beatings over Confederate flags! Colleges telling white students and teachers not to set foot on campus on certain days! Bruce Jenner, castrated, proudly, at his own expense! I would have sounded pretty strange.

I do not care. I’m going to say what I like, and besides, I’ve already incriminated myself beyond repair.

Three more days, and I will have a new address. Can’t happen soon enough.


What’s that Noise Behind us?

August 14th, 2017

Just the Apocalypse

I’m starting another day of preparation to move, and it looks like it’s happening none too soon.

For a long time, I’ve been predicting an upsurge in persecution against Christians, white people, men, and conservatives, and it’s manifesting in a way that surprises even me. We just saw a vehicular murder in Virginia, by a purported white supremacist, at a rally convened by his kind. The left ignores the widespread and prolonged wave of beatings and murders white Christians and conservatives have endured, but they are seizing on this rare act of terrorism as though it proves all of their paranoid fantasies are justified. People are predicting “unrest” in other cities, and of course, that means riots, looting, arson, and violence against white people.

I wish I did not have to mention race, because it makes me sound like a white supremacist, but the truth is the truth. Leftist nuts aren’t picky about their victims. They don’t check ID’s and vet backgrounds. If you’re white, Christian, or conservative, you’ll do. I mention race because it’s the primary means by which victims are selected. You can be a strident Hillary supporter and be yanked out of your car and beaten just because your white skin makes you look like a Trump voter.

Americans don’t know the Holy Spirit, so they have no roots to hold them in place. We are stupid and fickle. We blow with the wind. We listen to every foul spirit that whispers to us, and we are very, very quick to change our positions on things. A few years back, the vast majority of Americans were against gay marriage, and no one cared about the Confederate flag. Now people are being fired from their jobs for refusing to support gay marriage, and no one seems to think that’s bad, and you can get a beating for having a stars-and-bars bumper sticker. People will actually say you were asking for it. This is happening in the same country that had a Dukes of Hazzard movie a few years back, with no issues.

We are a heartless people. By that I mean we have no core and no guts. That makes us extremely dangerous. If you think there is no way the masses could turn on Christians and start beating and killing us in the streets in the near future, think about what we’re already doing to those who don’t toe the PC line.

Miami is a rotten city. It’s full of ghettos, like a body full of abcesses. Between the ghettos, there are big swaths of Cubans, and Cubans have a real problem with blacks. Sooner or later, this place is going to light up. I don’t want to be here when that happens. I don’t want to be here today, for that matter.

When things heat up here, it won’t be pleasant for Hispanics and whites. Stopping at traffic lights will be dangerous. Living near ghettos will be dangerous. Being black around Cuban cops will be dangerous. When the people with no roots start tearing at each other, I want to be elsewhere.

The Holy Spirit is the only dependable source of morality and restraint. The alternative righteousness offered by the godless life is just a thin scab over an infected wound that can erupt at any second. If you don’t have the Holy Spirit to anchor you, you can believe or do anything, no matter how stupid or evil it is. Most Americans, including most Christians, never hear from the Holy Spirit. They listen to Oprah and movie stars and dope-addled musicians. They think “nice” and “righteous” mean the same thing. They’re like the big banyan trees that fell over during Hurricane Andrew. They were huge, sprawling trees with wide root systems, but when they fell over, people could see that the roots were only a few inches deep. Typical Americans will torment and kill whoever the devil tells them to. Don’t doubt it. It’s coming. It already happens in ghettos, and evil that succeeds first in ghettos eventually spreads to the rest of the nation. Look at rap, crack, illegitimacy, and marijuana.

The move north is a huge job, and I’ve been much more nervous about it than I should have been. I don’t believe in worrying. I use supernatural tools to fight it, but sometimes I forget, and then I feel agitated. I’ve been so caught up in the mechanics of moving, I’ve forgotten to feel a lot of the joy that should be associated with leaving Miami. This move is going to work. I may have to return a few times. There may be some humps to get over. But it’s a done deal. I need to focus on that so I don’t cheat myself out of the joy of escaping.

Today I’m focusing on that joy. I’m done with this place. I’m leaving a million bad memories behind. Most of the horrible ordeals my sister put my family through happened here. Most of the problems between my parents happened here. I had a lot of empty, toxic friends here. I chased poisonous dreams here. After this week, apart from rare visits, I won’t have to look at this place. I’ll never have to drive by a familiar location where something awful happened. I’ll never have to see the house in Miami Shores, where we lived for most of my revolting childhood.

Some day, I’ll have this same joy over leaving the earth. Right now I’m going to a place of temporary and limited refuge, and I’m extremely grateful, but no place on earth is free from curses. I want off this planet. Sooner or later, the nuts and murderers will come to us no matter where we live. When they get to my new home, I hope I’ve already move on to paradise. No mature person wants to live a really long life on earth. Clinging to this life is a symptom of spiritual underdevelopment. It’s like insisting on wearing diapers when you’re in high school.

These things are really happening. I wasn’t imagining things when I thought God was warning me about increased persecution. It’s here. It’s ramping up. It’s not going to stop. If I’m still on this planet, it won’t be long until I see the horrible things I’ve been expecting. The green shoots of wholesale murder and sadism are already visible. Thank God, I won’t be in a big city when the spectacle unfolds in its full glory.

I changed mailing addresses and subscription instructions. I have to get TV and Internet service in order today. On Saturday morning, the caravan departs. The movers will be on the road, and so will we. My dad’s old car will be in the hands of the Salvation Army, my truck will be in the hands of a shipper, and that will be the end of it.

Get ready for blog posts about tractors, manure, and rifles. This is going to be great.


Deranged White Male Christian Thug Terrorist Plows into Crowd

August 13th, 2017

Let the Spinning Commence

I don’t know much about the Virginia rally murders, but I know enough to make a few comments.

First, this is a gigantic PR victory for the left. Minorities and leftists commit the vast bulk of terrorist acts and violent crimes in America, yet leftists persistently try to portray Caucasians, conservatives, and Christians as violent, ignorant morons who need to be watched, disarmed, fired, and controlled. The Virginia murders will be very useful to the propagandists. If the correct person has been arrested, the murders were committed by a white conservative male, and the left will do its best to connect him to Christianity. He was even driving the perfect propaganda vehicle: a Dodge Challenger. It’s a crude, souped-up car that appeals to psychologically underdeveloped macho men and which is styled to evoke memories of times conservatives miss. It’s a close relative of the Dodge Charger used in the TV show The Dukes of Hazzard. That car had a Confederate flag on its roof. Connect the dots, even when there is no connection.

Second, the left’s evidence is contaminated by the suspect’s background. The left demonizes Southerners all day, every day. It would have been perfect for them had the suspect been from the South. Unfortunately for the spinners and accusers, he’s from about as far north as you can get without moving into Canada. He’s from Maumee, Ohio, which is located just south of Lake Erie. An enlightened Yankee, committing a racist crime…not compatible with the party line.

Third, this entire event lies outside the purview of Christians, even though the left wants to make white nationalism justification for persecuting us. Like a friend of mine says, “Not my circus, not my monkeys.” Christianity is not compatible with white nationalism or any other type of identity politics. It doesn’t matter if some of the racist nuts claim they’re Christians. The movement is not primarily Christian, and it does not have the backing of white Christians, generally.

This was not a battle of Christians versus “progressives.” It was two collections of Satan’s drones, pitted against each other for his amusement. Christians don’t have a dog in this fight.

Trump isn’t involved, either. Maybe most white nationalists support him. So what? Most people convicted of violent crimes support Democrats, as do most terrorists. Doesn’t make Hillary Clinton a murderer or terrorist.

People who go to rallies like this one, on both sides, should leave Jesus out of it. They certainly aren’t consulting him when they plan these disgraceful events.

The murderer is a wicked buffoon, and prison is better than what he deserves. The people who showed up at the rally to pepper-spray white supremacists are the devil’s puppets. White supremacy is a joke, and the tiny fringe group that keeps it alive is an embarrassment to everyone who uses sunblock. They need to go back to their Section 8 housing and part-time jobs at convenience stores and beg God for forgiveness.

As for Christians, this isn’t our party, but we will be presented with the bill. We are the Clevingers of the world. It doesn’t matter what we do or say. We will be blamed and attacked. “Christians are the problem” isn’t the conclusion. It’s the premise. Just like, “Jews are the problem.”

I had a funny thought the other day. I realized I would rather live among white racists than among progressives or in areas thick with minorities. At least white racists wouldn’t come after me. They wouldn’t see me as a threat; they would tend to give me the benefit of the doubt. I would be hassled less, unless I were put in a position where I had to speak up.

If I had to choose, I would rather live among alt-right nuts than in Baltimore. It’s not much of a choice, however.

People complain about “white flight,” especially in Miami, but the simple truth is that people leave places where they’re mistreated. This is why Chicago is full of black people; they moved there from places like Mississippi. “Black flight” isn’t even a recognized phrase, and if it were, who would criticize? I certainly wouldn’t. I would not want to live in a place where I had to get off the sidewalk when a person of another race passed by.

Here’s something else that’s sort of funny. A black friend will be house-sitting in my dad’s Miami house after we move. I’m going to leave him a signed document saying he has the right to be in the house, and I’ll put my contact information on it. Cubans have serious racial issues, and Cuban cops here are just too itchy. One hassled him the other day while he was riding his bicycle through the white neighborhood where he lives. I don’t want to have to come back to Miami and bail him out of jail once a week, because he has been arrested for serious crimes such as having an unregistered bicycle or walking on the wrong side of the street.

It would have been nice had integration been more successful, but we seem determined not to get along.

I’m moving to an area where, as far as I can tell, there are a lot of nice Christian people with good intentions. Supposedly, there is not much racial tension there. Hope I’m right.

To get back to the Virginia nightmare, I won’t bother to watch the news. I don’t have to. With leftists in charge, I can predict it.



August 11th, 2017

Goodbye, in Stages

It is becoming obvious to me that I know very little about the process of moving from one home to another.

For several weeks, I’ve been packing boxes, giving things away, and throwing things out. I’ve interviewed movers. I’ve found out about having machines and vehicles moved. After all that, I keep learning new things.

Today the movers told me the job takes three days. They pack on one day, shove things into the truck the next, and move on the third. I thought it was a one-day move, which was actually fairly stupid on my part. The drive alone will take them five hours.

If they have a whole day to pack, it takes a load off my mind. It means I don’t have to be prepared perfectly. If there are things I can’t deal with, I can turn them over to the movers.

The Internet issue is still alive. I found an outfit which will sell me a wireless data plan which is not limited to 32 GB, but they haven’t gotten back to me with a price yet. I feel like anything under a hundred bucks is acceptable. The Internet is important. If anything were to happen to my dad, I would kill the TV service immediately, but the Internet is essential.

Throwing out my dad’s ruined 1980’s furniture has been like lancing a giant boil. He paid way too much for it (i.e. more than nothing), so he has always been convinced that it’s fine furniture. The other day I put his sawdust credenza out for the Salvation Army, and he insisted it was a quality piece. Here are some interesting facts about it.

1. The back is hardboard, which is the hard cardboard clipboards are made from.

2. The body is made from sawdust mixed with glue and pressed into flat shapes.

3. Drawers from fine pieces of furniture are held together with dovetails. The credenza’s drawers are held together (barely) by staples.

4. When you bump into the credenza, sometimes sawdust falls out.

I have the 1981 receipt for the credenza. It cost $1000, and it was a floor model. That explains the strange dents and scratches. This is what happens when a divorced man finds a new girl. He buys things no one should ever buy.

Right now, if the right person (someone whose name ends in “Z”) wanted that thing, a fair price would be $150. New. It’s one step up from the furniture they sell at Office Depot, only less durable and more offensive.

Here’s something to think about. His entertainment center is a nice set from Ethan Allen. It’s solid wood. It has three cabinets, total. It’s around nine years old, and he paid $1010. When he bought it, it was new. That was about 30 years (of inflation) after he paid about the same amount for the sawdust credenza. And the Ethan Allen set was not on sale. This gives you an idea of the magnitude of the swindle.

The credenza disaster took place during the Cocaine cowboy years. People in Miami had even less taste than they do now, which is saying a lot. A lot of fake Bauhaus houses went up during that time. They look like tiny versions of cheap concrete high schools. They were filled with glass tables and bright yellow couches. People kept live tigers on their patios, and when they thought of timeless elegance, they thought of orange double knit. It was pretty gross. That’s where the credenza was spawned.

It’s gone with a capital “G” now. I have no idea why the Salvation Army accepted it. I fully expected a rejection note and maybe a bag of dog crap on the porch.

I’m very glad he didn’t see me and my friend Travis dumping his 1987 27″ TV by the curb. I think he paid $1500 for it. In its time, it was the fanciest TV you could find at Circuit City. As far as I know, it was still working when we gave it the heave-ho. You can’t make an older person understand that a 70-pound, 27″ TV that can’t receive a digital signal is no good. As Travis said, even pawn shops won’t take them.

I thought that TV was great when it was new, but then I was also pretty excited about the 512K Macintosh that only ran when it had a floppy disk inserted. What a machine. It had an external floppy drive, and if you wanted to replace the drive, it only cost $385.

I digress.

This weekend, I plan to take my mother’s mink to the Salvation Army. I saw a website that said old minks could bring as much as $400, so I was hot to put it on consignment, but then I found out it was not the $400 kind of old mink. It’s a stole from around 1970, and they sell on Ebay, all day long, for under $30. Makes me wonder why women don’t snap them up. They still look good. I guess they don’t want filthy hippies throwing red paint on them and forcing them to draw their pistols.

If my sister ever hears that I gave away the mink, the ensuing explosion will probably show up on seismographs. Last time she mentioned it, she thought it was worth a bundle. If we were still communicating, I would offer it to her, but when you commit felonies, get yourself ejected from rehab (again), and fall into society’s cracks, you pretty much give up the right to be informed about the disposition of your mom’s worthless old furs. I won’t be giving it to her, so it won’t be going to the dump or the pawnbroker like my mom’s gold Rolex or my grandmother’s wedding ring.

I was going to keep the Mom-era knickknacks from my dad’s house, but the more I think about it, the more I think I should cut a lot of them loose. Some are not very tasteful, others won’t fit in a traditional Southern house, and the rest are reminders of a dysfunctional past. I would throw out the bed my mom and dad bought after they got married, because it was my bed during many unpleasant years, but my dad is still attached to it.

Maybe he’ll forget about it, and if that happens, it’s gone.

The way you look at an heirloom depends a lot on the way you were raised. If your childhood was happy, heirlooms are treasured souvenirs of a golden age. If your childhood was like mine, you will want to burn most things that are over ten years old. The very thought of burning them is refreshing and redolent with hope.

I’m torn about discarding my sister’s college diploma. Obviously, she doesn’t care about it, or it wouldn’t have been lodged in my dad’s house since 1981. She didn’t care about her law school diploma or oath of attorney, which I set out for her when she moved out of the house she ruined. Those went to the dump. She left them where I put them.

When you have an abusive relative or former lover or whatever, keeping objects on which they have claims is like giving them permanent tickets to your presence. That diploma is like a beacon that gives out a homing signal that attracts swarms of stinging insects.

I believe in shedding my skin. Some bits of the past should be preserved, and others should be cleared away, fast. I gave away my mother’s clothes the week she died, as soon as I could get them in the car. If anything happens to my dad, his clothes and every troublesome possession he has will be gone in a week. All the things I wish he would get rid of…out. A house is not a mausoleum. The dead should be remembered and honored to some extent, but keeping things the way they left them is sick and evil. The dead move on, and we should, too. They’re not in heaven, burying their faces in our old jackets and sweaters.

I’ve rambled enough. Time to set about twenty pounds of my own clothes apart for donation. Goodbye, 1988. That jean jacket never came in handy the way I thought it would.


Surf Like it’s 1999

August 9th, 2017

Rural Internet Speeds in my Future

I am finally confronting the one big landmine of moving to a rural area: Internet service.

It’s 2017, right? Internet service is great everywhere. Nothing to worry about.


Here is what I discovered. The list of conventional Internet providers who serve my new address consists of one entry. That’s right. One. There are also three satellite providers. Fine. Four choices, right? Not really.

The only conventional Internet provider proudly offers me 1.5 MBPS, and that’s download, which means it’s the fastest figure they have. Upload is always way slower. That means that if I made and uploaded a Youtube video, an upload starting right now would end about an hour after the sun burns out. Youtube videos are huge. Several GB. It takes an eternity to upload them where I am now, and I’m in a suburb with relatively good service. On the farm, with conventional service, uploading would be, in practical terms, impossible.

That leaves satellite service. Great! Problem solved! Maybe.

Satellite Internet is screwed up. The download speeds are good (if posted figures are true, which is almost certainly not the case). The upload speeds are…adequate. Hughesnet, the hot provider at the moment, claims 3 MBPS, so let’s say 2 MBPS. I can live with that, but I’m sure it will seem painfully slow in three or four years, because data usage creeps or leaps upward as years pass. I don’t think Hughesnet will send a new multi-billion-dollar satellite every year just to make me happy. Maybe the farm will have a real phone line in a few years, though, and that would fix everything.

Another problem: satellite providers choke your speed if you go over your data limit, and the data limits are pretty low. I would have to spend a lot on a hefty plan to avoid this.

TV is easier to deal with. I can get AT&T or DirecTV. I don’t care about this, because I barely watch TV, but my dad is elderly, and old people watch the crap out of TV.

Phones should be simple, but they’re not. I want a land line, because I hate cell phones. They drop calls, the batteries crap out, and the phones are uncomfortable to use. On top of that, even when they work, they screw with the timing of speech so you keep interrupting the person you’re talking to. It looks like I would have to get a land line from my Internet provider, if I want the best deal.

I tried to find out who runs the phone system in Marion County, assuming it would be AT&T, but I can’t get an AT&T line there. I know there are little piddly companies that do land lines, but I assumed AT&T would be in there somewhere. It’s not.

If it were up to me, I’d dump TV entirely and put the savings into a big satellite Internet account. TV sucks the life out of people. You’re born, someone puts you in front of a TV, and then suddenly you’re old. You die, and they pry the remote out of your hand and bury you. At least the Internet isn’t passive and completely useless. You can turn on the Internet and learn skills. You can become an engineer. You can learn languages. TV is just man’s way of telling God he resents being given a long lifespan.

Satellite is looking tempting. The latency will probably annoy me, but at least I would be able to interact with humanity instead of trying to view the web through a constricted keyhole.

There is no point in whining about it, apart from the tremendous satisfaction I get from whining. I hate Miami, and I can’t wait to move north, so I will make it work.

Funny thing; I called a rigging company today about moving my machines to Ocala. My dad used to be their attorney, so we know them. I told the boss about the move, and I could actually hear him grinning as he said, “I can’t BELIEVE you’re leaving MIAMI.” Everyone hates this place! In fact, that’s how I responded. I said, “EVERYONE hates this place!”

It’s almost 86 degrees here right now, after ten p.m. In Ocala, it’s 77. And you can go outside and see the stars.

Maybe after I move, I’ll be able to blog from one of the porches and watch the Hughesnet satellite fly past. But I guess they’re geosynchronous? Well. I’m sure I’ll see something.


Scarface’s Hand-me-Downs

August 7th, 2017

Won’t Rest Until I have a Green Headboard with Recessed Blacklights

I am getting ruthless with ridding myself of unwanted furniture. There are a number of items I never want to see again, and the thought of having the new house befouled by their presence–and paying for it–is a little too much for me.

Yesterday I took to Craigslist and looked at bedroom sets and dining tables. I found some very nice stuff. There was a considerable amount of cardboard and sawdust furniture worthy of IKEA, but there were a lot of pieces I would not be embarrassed to own. It looks like you can furnish a bedroom with tasteful furniture for $600 or so. I’ll post a couple of photos.

I can’t decorate, but I have some rudimentary clue as to what looks good and what belongs in a cathouse or frathouse. I think the things I found will work okay.

Just for fun, I decided to check Craigslist in Miami. This is not a classy town, so I figured I was in for some interesting viewing. My neighbors did not disappoint. Generally, the furniture was less tasteful, and some was downright bizarre. If you want to sell a purple entertainment center with white hardware, Miami is the place to be.

Take a look.

Lovely, right?

In the Ocala area, I found a very interesting bedroom set made by Berkey and Gay. The owner thinks it was made by Berkley and Gray. It has twin beds. I’m not sure what to make of it. The furniture itself looks pretty cool, and it has to be old, because the company went out of business a very long time ago. Here’s the problem: it has little pictures of fruit painted on it.

I don’t know if it came that way from the factory or what. Being a man, I am not sure whether the fruit paintings are acceptable. If they’re not, can the fruit be removed without ruining the patina?

Maybe it’s a little too antiquey. I can’t tell.

Sometimes a normal sexual orientation is a disadvantage.

I thought it would be a good thing to have in a spare bedroom, in case friends with kids visited. In the South, you can get away with a certain amount of antiques.

I found some dining tables that aren’t scary.

Here’s a bedroom I could live with.

I’m starting to think it might be possible to have a house that looks okay. That wasn’t in the original plan, but maybe I can pull it off.


If Ye Love me, Keep my Suggestions

August 7th, 2017

Things That are Obvious Aren’t Necessarily Perceptible

One of the many things about God that amaze me is the obviousness of his truths. God will give me a revelation, and once I have it, I’ll realize I should have known it already.

I believe the reason God’s revelations seem obvious is that human beings have supernatural blindness. The fact that something is obvious doesn’t have much impact on our ability to see it. Sometimes we choose to be blind or deaf. Sometimes spirits cloud our perception. God’s revelations ARE obvious. Our inability to see them isn’t caused by stupidity. It’s caused by our biases and by supernatural interference.

Here’s an obvious truth God showed me this week: there is no difference between God’s commandments and his advice.

I don’t use the word “commandment” to refer to the Ten Commandments. I use it to refer to anything God tells us to do. After all, Jesus told us to obey his commandments, but we are also told we are not under the law. If we’re not under the law, then he was not referring to the Ten Commandments or any other parts of the Jewish law when he told us to obey. He was talking about the orders we receive from the Holy Spirit.

I need advice right now. I have Dade County real estate to fix up and sell or rent. I have to get a lot of things moved to Marion County. A lot of loose ends are waving in the breeze. I keep asking God to tell me what to do. If someone tells you what to do, what is he doing? He’s giving you a command. Even if you think of it as advice, what’s the difference? God is always right. You should always do what he advises you to do, so surely his advice has the weight of commands.

When we rebel, we must be cutting ourselves off from advice. We spend our lives in rebellion, and then we ask God for advice, without repenting or resolving to be obedient. Does that make sense? Of course not. We’re saying, “I never obey you, but I’m going to make an exception this time, so tell me what to do.”

No wonder we spend so much of our lives lacking guidance.

In the Bible, God told people what they needed to do, and they paid no attention. We are cursed with human government, which is filthy, incompetent, and stupid, because we chose kings over priests and prophets. Jonah was swallowed because he refused to go to Nineveh. The Hebrews wandered and died in the desert because they rejected God’s counsel. Moses was kept out of Israel because he didn’t listen. Look at Adam and Eve. They lost the entire world because they didn’t take God’s advice.

God is still God. We may be forgiven, but we still have to obey, and disobedience still causes terrible problems for us.

Suddenly, I want advice, but what about all the times I decided to make my own decisions with my little monkey brain? I wasn’t interested in advice then. Now I expect God to come running and tell me what to do. It doesn’t make sense. If God helps me, it’s not a reward. It’s patience and mercy.

Something to think about, the next time you decide to make your own plans and do things your own way.

Hope this is helpful.


Getting Squirrelly

August 5th, 2017

Making it Rain Rodents

I keep thinking about shooting on the new farm.

The seller told me coyotes are a problem in Marion County. His family raised goats, and coyotes ate kids. They also got one calf. I don’t know if I’ll have any livestock or not, but I hate pest animals, and as long as I live in a rural area where coyotes are pests, I plan to do my part, by sending them to the coyote promised land, which I like to call the Garden of Acme.

Problem: I don’t think my current rifle inventory is optimized for the work.

I know almost nothing about coyotes, but they’re supposed to be very smart, so I figure the best move is to use a scoped rifle. I assume coyotes won’t walk up to me and pose. When it comes to scoped rifles, I have .17 HMR and .308, with nothing in between. I did some research, and people say a .17 HMR will not necessarily kill a coyote cleanly. A .308 will do it, and then some, but it will probably blow out the other side and make a mess. Also, it’s an unpleasant round to shoot. I would like something that will do the job without overpenetration or bruising my delicate shoulder.

It looks like there are two popular choices. One is the AR-15 in .223, and the other is .22 Winchester Magnum Rimfire. Everyone pushes me to get an AR-15, and maybe now I have a good reason, but they’re expensive, and I like the 7.62 a lot better for home defense. You can get a .22 WMR for under $300 and spend the rest of your budget on nice glass.

I need to get up to speed on coyotes. What they look like and so on. It would be a big faux pas if I proudly posted a photo of a freshly killed coyote and then it turned to to be my neighbor’s Scottish terrier. That would make for a lot of tense moments when we encountered each other in the aisles at Tractor Supply.

Note to self: don’t shoot anything wearing a collar. Unless it also has tattoos.

The farm also has pest squirrels. Personally, I think every squirrel is a pest. I used to have one that cut mangoes off my trees and then left without eating them. I would hear a thump and then the skittering of guilty feet. I hate squirrels. I’ve even trained myself not to take my foot off the gas when I see one in the road. I am not going to wreck my car or injure someone over a rat that lives in a tree.

It would be fun to kill some squirrels for my dad. He eats them. But what would I use? My grandfather taught me you should shoot squirrels with a shotgun, because a squirrel killed with a .22 may drop in the crotch of a tree and get stuck. He said a shotgun would blow them out into a state of free fall, facilitating their cleaning and consumption. But won’t a shotgunned squirrel be full of pellets? I guess it must not be too bad, because my grandfather used a Browning Sweet Sixteen, which is now mine.

I think shooting squirrels with a rifle is irresponsible unless you’re on a huge property, because you don’t know where the rounds will land if they miss or go through the rats. What if you like your neighbors?

Is it legal to shoot squirrels? Yes it is. I just checked. On my land, I will be allowed to kill 12 per day from October through March, using any gun known to man. In September and early October, I’ll have to use a bow or crossbow. What? Seriously? Who can hit a squirrel with a bow? Did squirrels write this law? Do they have lobbyists? Crazy.

I have 16 gauge ammunition, but it’s burglar-sized. I will need birdshot. Or squirrelshot, as the case may be.

The seller says they don’t get deer on the farm. Pity, but then I’m too lazy to shoot anything that big, so it doesn’t matter. Anything you shoot has to be skinned and butchered. It also has to be dragged home. I have a golf cart now, so the dragging would be okay, but as for the meat…I’m five minutes from Winn-Dixie.

I should add that I have zero hunting skills, so deer would be difficult even if I weren’t lazy. With squirrels, you just walk out, look up, and shoot. I can handle that.

The final candidate for assassination is the eastern diamondback rattlesnake, AKA crotalus adamanteus (unless Linnaeus has changed his mind). This is the heaviest poisonous snake on earth, and it can grow to a length of eight feet. One more item I don’t feel like lugging. The seller says the snakes left when he built the house, but I’m ready for them anyway. I carry a 10mm Glock wherever I go. Guess I should keep some ear plugs on me.

There may be turkeys on the farm, but I am happy to coexist with them. When I was a kid, the mother of a friend of mine roasted a wild turkey, and I have not forgotten the stench. From the odor, I’m not sure if it was wild or merely homeless. Not anxious to eat anything that smells like that.

I don’t think I could ever hunt birds after buying three baby parrots and weaning them myself. Maybe I could shoot turkeys, which are big and ugly, but since I don’t want to eat them, I guess I won’t.

I can still go out with a shotgun and threaten them with it, so they don’t get out of line.

I have to figure out the licensing requirements. The FWC website is not very clear. I want to rid myself of pests, but I don’t want fines or the inconvenience of prison time.

If I get a .22 WMR, of course, I will be here to write about it and post photos of my targets. Assuming they’re not too embarrassing.


Porch: There is no Substitute

August 4th, 2017

Hola, Amigos

I am back in the land of joy, better known as Miami. I returned from Ocala today, and I am already basking in the rudeness and stupidity. As soon as I hit Palm Beach County, other drivers got nastier and less able.

We closed on the new house today. It’s a done deal. The sellers will stay on for two weeks, and then we take possession. It’s still not entirely real to me.

The property is far nicer than anything I thought possible. It’s secluded, it’s large, it has woods, it has pasture, it has a big ol’ shop building, and it even has a huge sand berm which will be a fine rifle backstop. Sonny’s BBQ is five minutes away, as is Cracker Barrel. Tractor Supply is close. The nearest neighbor is a guy who built a gun ROOM in his garage. Not a safe. A room with a thick steel door. Think he’ll complain about me shooting? I don’t.

The sellers kept giving me stuff. Today they gave us the rockers on the front porch. The house has a huge collection of porches. There’s a front porch with a gazebo on one end. There’s a back porch. The shop has a porch. The pool has a patio, which is sort of a porch. Rockers are a necessity. I’m not sure what rockers cost, but today at Cracker Barrel, I saw they were charging between one and two hundred bucks for one.

My only serious whine right now is that my dad doesn’t share my enthusiasm. He truly hates Miami and can’t wait to move, and he likes Ocala and the house, but he’s not excited about it. He doesn’t have that Charlie-getting-the-keys-to-the-chocolate-factory feeling I have. So I pester my friends via text.

Two years ago he thought Miami was just fine. What happened? God happened. That’s all I can tell you. My dad has changed. He complains about the people. He complains about the traffic. He sounds just like me, only without the joy over the impending move.

It seems like he has slipped a notch over the last week or two. That’s the way these things work. I’m glad we finally got the house bought, because it might have been a very strange process further down the line. I don’t know what his capabilities will be in six months. I’m certainly glad he has been able to participate in the house hunt and get involved with decisions. I wanted a place where he would be happy.

I’m fairly sure I can get us out of here in three weeks. I don’t know how often I’ll have to come back. “Never” would be my choice.

I can’t figure out why the sellers are so nice. I could sell the machinery they sold me for twice what I paid, and they didn’t expect me to pay as much as I did. They came down a lot on the price of the house. The appraiser felt it was underpriced already. Maybe they’re just tired and ready to move.

I hope I got a good deal, but I was not trying to gouge anyone. I just wanted a fair price. Maybe I did better than that. There is no way to be sure.

Next time I go up I’ll try to take pictures and post them.

I’m beat. Time for pizza. I’m so tired I’m willing to eat Papa John’s.

I look forward to blogging from one of the many porches.


Walk-Through Finished

August 4th, 2017

Written on August 3

Too-Perfect House for a Very Imperfect Man

This must be what the day after you go to heaven is like.

Again, I am forced to post this after the fact, but still.

This is a Thursday. My dad and I just went to the final walk-through at the farm he is buying. The sellers took us through the whole place. I am floored.

The place is spotless. It looks like a new house. The interior doesn’t even need to be painted. Some areas are carpeted, and the carpet is new. The seller gave me a three-point attachment for the tractor, free, with a pointy thing on it for lifting hay. I found out later it was called a “bale spear.”

There is a ton of storage. I won’t have to throw out my toys. Like I was even considering it. I guess I could just have the movers take everything both of us own, and then I could store it all and then reduce it at my leisure. Some of it would probably look nice in the fireplace on a cold February evening.

I’m going to take an entire floor for myself. My dad can do all the damage he wants downstairs. He can turn it into the TV-Watching Shrine for the Southeastern United States if he wants. I’ll be upstairs waiting for the Rapture with my hobbies. The house has an intercom, believe it or not, so whenever he wants, he can summon me, and like Lurch, I will appear and solve his problems.

The area where the farm is located is nicer than I remembered. It has a little altitude, and that supposedly improves the breeze. The land is hilly, although the farm itself is fairly flat. The traffic is light. The roads are in great shape. There’s a lot of green, especially after a rainy July.

I still have to get moved. I don’t care. I’ll get it done if I have to carry everything up there on my back.

My dad is concerned he won’t have anything to do, but since he has had nothing to do for two years, I don’t think his gripe will turn out to be well-grounded. If he’s not bored now, he never will be. I’m looking into opportunities for him to socialize. Marion County is jammed up with geezers, so I’m quite sure I can find amusements for him.

The seller says we can kill the property tax by selling hay or by getting goats. He raised cattle, but they poop the place up. That’s a good thing if you need manure, but it’s not like manure is hard to come by in horse country. He said mature Boer goats would be very happy on the farm, but that it was not a good idea to have breeding stock, because coyotes eat the kids. Down side: no baby goats. Up side: I may have coyotes for rifle practice.

He said he lost one calf to coyotes. What ever happened to the old days, when they stayed out west where they belonged?

Tonight my friends Leah and Scott will be swinging through again on their way back from Sarasota, so there will be a lot to talk about. I’m overwhelmed.

Apparently, God does not mind doing surprisingly nice things for you, when things line up right. I think my blessings are related to the fact that I haven’t given a dime to a preacher in several years. I feel like God is using me to make a point.

Tomorrow we close, and then–wheeeeeee–back to Miami for a while. It will end. I will remind myself of that over and over, the same way I’ve said the same thing to myself when I’ve had the flu or severe diarrhea. Like severe diarrhea, every visit to Miami eventually ends.

I don’t have any new photos worth posting, but you can expect some when we take possession. Believe that.

Now I’ll relax before dinner. Time to lie back and think about tractors.


Walk-Through Eve

August 4th, 2017

Written on August 2

Closing is Near

I can’t post this entry tonight, but I wanted to write it anyway, while the details were fresh in my mind. What is the Christian life without testimony? A great product with no advertising. Tonight I will advertise.

I’m in Ocala, at a hotel. It’s more like a motel, but “hotel” sounds nicer. Day after tomorrow, my dad is closing on the new house. We have a walk-through tomorrow. I’m not posting this tonight, because it’s a bad idea to go on the Internet and tell people you’re not home.

I drove us up from Miami today. Not the most pleasant trip. It took quite a while to get my dad ready to leave. He has traveled hundreds of thousands or millions of miles, and he used to have it down to a science, but he complains that he has forgotten it all. We had to get all his stuff packed, and there was some resistance to my suggestions, so I worked with him to get it done his way. For some reason, he didn’t pack last night, so it took us around 45 minutes to get him into the car.

Once we were on the road, he wanted to stop for lunch about 3 1/2 hours after breakfast, and he had to make two other stops, so we didn’t make record time. I have to drive everywhere now, except for little trips he makes in Miami, so today I had to drive us the entire way, while coping with whatever problems he had.

Along the way, I texted some friends to let them know I was on the road. One family I know moved to Orlando a couple of years ago, and another couple moved to Kissimmee a few weeks back. I also emailed Leah, the new sister God gave me several years ago. She lives in Pensacola. Leah texted back and said she and her husband Scott were helping a family move from Pensacola to Sarasota. They would be going through Ocala. She said we should try to meet.

I texted her a little later, during our lunch trip to Cracker Barrel. She and her party were at a Cracker Barrel, too. Funny.

After a while, we coordinated again, and it turned out she would arrive in Ocala about 15 minutes after we did. We made it to the hotel and checked in, and 15 minutes later, I met Leah and Scott in the parking lot. How crazy is that?

We decided to go have food. I was a little concerned that my dad would dominate the conversation and keep it off of God, because he does that. To my surprise, he didn’t want to go. He wanted to go for a walk, which is something he can do safely here. We took off for Bob Evans!

Leah and Scott were helping her friends Eddie and Nora move. Eddie is a missionary. He felt God was telling him to move to Sarasota, which is apparently a fairly Godless area. Not a surprise, given the large number of arty people who live there. He and Nora decided to sell their house and go, and suddenly, over the last few weeks, things fell together quickly, and they were free to go. Their old house sold fast. Here’s something weird: their son and daughter, who look to be about ten and eight, were all for the move. Kids always hate moving, but before their parents were sold on the idea, the kids thought it was the right thing to do.

We sat down and ordered, and while the waitress was fussing over us (same waitress I had last time I went to this Bob Evans), I said I was going to do something for someone, and they thanked me, and I said if God was giving me a house, I could do this for them. Guess what the waitress said? “Amen.” Like it was normal for Christians to come in and talk about God with the wait staff. Because it probably is. I love this place.

We had a great talk, and we shared testimony. We caught up. It was wonderful. And the kids were so well-behaved, I didn’t know what to think. Miami kids scream in restaurants, and they get up and run between the tables.

Here’s part of the testimony I gave. I have a young friend named Travis. We get together for prayer. He studies at the University of Miami, which is close to my dad’s house. Travis knows Leah. Travis is not in the greatest financial shape. I told Leah and the group I had been praying the other day about the problems I would have getting my dad’s house in order for renting after the move, and that God had given me the answer: hire Travis to house-sit. He could let contractors in and make sure no one steals. He would have a little extra income, plus free rent, and I would be released to get the move done.

I said I wanted to take a picture of the group, just to mess with Travis. I was going to text it to him. I got up and took the picture. As I sat down, I said it was going to freak Travis out, and before I could sit down completely or send the text, the phone rang. It was Travis, asking how the trip was going. Of course, I had to send him Leah’s regards. Travis has been watching things come together supernaturally all through my efforts to move, so of course, he was bowled over. I let him know I could guarantee him a place through the month of September, so in addition to the shock of hearing about Leah, he got some very, very good news which took a weight off his back.

Scott and Leah and the crew said their goodbyes at my hotel, and they took off. They’ll be coming back through tomorrow, so maybe we’ll get together again!

I went to my room, and I saw I had forgotten my sleep mask. I need this thing. Hotel rooms are full of big LED’s that burn all night. I got hooked on masks because my rude Miami neighbors have bright security lights under their eaves. I went to CVS (I know the way to CVS!), but they were out of masks. Went to Walgreen’s, and the lady who worked there could not have been nicer. She knew the aisle and shelf where I would find a mask. I got to the aisle and found the masks. They usually cost $9. They were marked down to 99 cents. I bought two! You can’t beat that. Nothing else I saw there had the giant orange sale tag. It’s like they knew I was coming.

It has been a good day. Wouldn’t you agree? By the way, my friend who lives in Orlando called me back and said he was coming to help me on the day of the move, and he means it. It will be great to see the family. I’ll never get his kids out of the pool, though. That’s a given. They may move in.

I suspect more strange things will happen tomorrow. I certainly hope so.

I wonder how wrong we’ve been about God. Just how good IS he? How much should we dare believe?

I forgot to buy dental floss. I wonder if it will be on sale when I find it tomorrow.

I would wish you a great night, but you can’t see what I’m typing tonight, so I guess I’ll just say this: happy trails.



August 3rd, 2017

Still Here

Just blogging to confirm that I’m alive. Some wonderful things have happened over the last few days. Can’t go into detail today, but you will read about it soon.

1 Comment »

Buying the Farm

August 1st, 2017

The End is Near!

I can’t put all my business on the World Wide Web, but I can say that the day of reckoning is nearly here. My dad is about to close on a farm in northern Florida. Very shortly, my well-deserved captivity in Miami will come to an end.

The other day a friend asked if “the reality of the move” was sinking in. She was talking about my dad, but it made me think. I have not fully absorbed it, myself.

Physical captivity ends quickly. When they release a man from prison, it takes less than a day to put him on the street. The passage through the prison gate takes an instant. The time it takes for him to feel free inside is longer.

It sounds dramatic, comparing a move between a reasonably affluent American city and a pleasant rural home to being released from prison, and of course, I am not suggesting my time here has been anything like what prisoners go through. I’m just talking about the principle. I felt trapped in this place. It seemed like all my efforts to break free were hindered or cut off. I felt (feel) claustrophobic. I look forward to seeing the horizon once in a while. I look forward to getting away from these rude, coarse people.

In a text message yesterday, I referred to the new place as “the farm,” as if I already owned it. I crossed a little threshold there. I don’t have to call it “the house we’re buying” or “the place we made an offer on.” It’s “the farm” now.

What will I do up there? I only have one friend in the whole county. I’ll be fine. These days, I only have one friend in Dade County. It won’t be much different. I have friends in Orlando and Kissimmee, and I know they’ll visit. Once I start attending a church, I’ll make friends. I don’t need a lot of people to be happy. I tend to pick up parasites and abusers, and a small crowd is easier to vet.

For the first month, I’ll be busy settling in, and I’ll also be taking care of problems in Dade County. I know I’ll have to come back here several times. I was dreading it, but then I thought about it, and I realized it’s much better to visit this place than to live here. When I visit Marion County, I leave an unpleasant place, relax in a nice place, and drive back to an unpleasant place for a long stay. When I visit Miami, it will be a photographic negative of that experience. The pain of Miami will be fleeting, and when I leave, it will be for longer and longer periods, soon to become permanent.

I wish I didn’t have to come back. It would be fine with me if this county sank into the earth. But I can cope with visiting. The pain will be mingled with triumph.

Moving is like settling down into a bath that kills ticks, fleas, lice, and leeches. One by one, I will feel the little mouths and claws let go, and the slime of their presence will be washed away.

We live surrounded by spirits. Miami is a cesspool of demon worship, so I believe things are worse here. The county is full of Hispanics and Haitians who actively pursue demons and pledge their lives to them. It makes me wonder…will I feel better up north simply because I’m no longer living in a demonic hub? I’ll bet I do. I’ll bet things go better up there, simply because Satan has fewer personnel available to torment me, and because God has more people to fight them.

The money for the house will have to be wired. Most people buy homes with loans, so they don’t go through what I’m going through. I have to take a sizeable part of a person’s net worth and send it off in what amounts to a bank-to-bank email. There are all sorts of ways for that to go wrong.

While I was suffering with my continuing legal education [sic], I learned a lot about the ways criminals steal money in cyberspace. Here’s one of the smarter ways: a wire recipient sends you his banking info. A crook intercepts it, substitutes his own info, and sends it on to you. You use it, and your money ends up in Botswana.

When I first received wiring instructions, everyone kept telling me to call the escrow people and read the information back to them. The realtor told me. The escrow people told me. I didn’t know why until I found out about the substitution scam. I guess there are horror stories.

I will be a very happy guy when I get confirmation that the money has been received. I confirmed the information twice and printed out a hardcopy just to be sure. I figure it will be hard for people in Botswana to hack a piece of paper in the USA.

I suppose this will all seem real when I walk onto the land and see the movers carrying boxes in. I may start the tractor and zoom around the yard in circles to celebrate. Is it legal to drink and drive a tractor? We may well find out. I’m entitled. Noah knocked back a few when he got his new property.

That didn’t work out too well, though. Maybe I’ll just have a root beer.

A few days back, I realized I had the same mindset about heaven. I know that’s where I’m headed, but it’s still hard to believe it with my whole heart. Some day I’ll wake up in a place where everything is right. It will be a place where the arrogant, fatuous, transparently false slogans of Apple and Google could be applied without snickering: everything just works, and those who live there are not evil. It’s real. Northern Florida is real, and heaven is real. It’s going to happen.

Hope it won’t be long before I’m blogging via laptop from the north pasture.


A. Mack Moofing

July 29th, 2017

John Deere Gear and Lukewarm Decaf

It’s raining, so that means I don’t have to install my dad’s pool pump today. Some people might claim it’s possible to install a pool pump on a rainy day, especially in a shed with a roof. Those people are clearly fools. I am goofing off on the Internet, digesting Egg McMuffins (or as they are called in Miami, “A. Mack Moofings”), and hoping the chicas at McDonald’s gave me decaf instead of the real thing.

I’m still very excited about being a near-tractor-owner. I’m even excited about working on them. My current shop is so jammed, working on anything large is like cleaning the Augean stables (Look how my classical education is paying off), but with the room I’ll have in Marion County, I’ll be able to walk around a tractor without stepping over anything.

My grandmother had a funny expression for small rooms. She said they were “too small to whip a kitten,” and by “whip,” I believe she meant “swing.” As in “too small to swing a cat.” I’m going to have cat-swinging room.

I probably won’t get to work on them a lot. They’re both in good condition, and they’re quality machines. I could always buy a $750 1965 Massey-Ferguson just to have a patient.

I’ve done what every responsible tractor owner does. I went online and ordered a John Deere T-shirt. I also looked at Kubota shirts. They only have a couple of designs that aren’t way too orange or full of heinous polyester. They need to fix that. John Deere has too many green shirts (I don’t wear green), but at least they have cotton.

Someone told me I was not allowed to wear a John Deere hat. Because the garden tractor is small, I’m limited to ball caps. I don’t care. I’ll tell people it’s a big tractor. I’m going to take a fuzzy photo of it, and I’ll hire a midget to sit in the seat to make it look bigger. Either that, or I’ll get the mother of my 3-year-old godson to let me put a fake beard on him.

I found one Kubota shirt that wasn’t too bad. It’s black, with “Kubota” written on the front in Japanese characters. At least it’s SUPPOSED to say “Kubota.” In reality, it may say “Sucker” or even just “Shirt.”

I need to find me a tractor umbrella. The last thing I want is to fry in the sun while running my machines. I wish there were some way to grow grass indoors. Actual grass, I mean.

Time to go look out the window and thank God for the rain.