Age is Ruthless

Val’s dad is having health problems. A few years back, he was a strong septuagenarian. He was active. He worked at his welding. Now he’s having serious problems with arthritis and diabetes. He just can’t do what he used to do. I know how tough it is to see a father age.

You prayed for my sister, and things are going as well as they possibly could. Can you pray for Val’s dad, too? You might mention Val and his wife Maggie, too. This has not been an easy year for them.

I’m trying to drag them to church, because I know it works. Maybe this will be the weekend.

This is Not What a Leader Does

The four-year-long amateur hour at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue continues. We thought we had elected suave, surefooted Stefan, but in fact, it was plain old Steve Urkel. The guy whose life is a never-ending wedgie. Even prominent leftists have started complaining about the incompetence and inexperience of Obama and his staff, and the same liberal members of Congress who claimed his experience didn’t matter are now snubbing him right and left because his juvenile mistakes have wrecked his political capital.

He is living up to the sobriquet “Carter II” by involving himself in minutiae. Carter used to insist on deciding who got to use the White House tennis court; he made up the schedule while he should have been thinking about the country’s problems. Obama has flown to Denmark, at huge expense, to try to bring the Olympics to Chicago. Can you imagine George Bush insisting on handling something this unimportant? Oh, well. Once a bagman, always a bagman. When you build a career by flunkying for machine bosses, it’s probably not easy to stop running errands.

Where is the outrage over Obama’s third vacation? Every time George Bush left the White House grounds, the liberals at CNN, CBS, and the other mainstream outlets screeched about his penchant for vacations. He never took a vacation; he just moved his office from time to time. Hopefully, that is generally true of Obama as well. In any case, it didn’t matter to the Bush-era press.

Obama blew a king’s ransom on a trip to New York. He holed up in Martha’s Vineyard. Now he’s flying to Denmark for a trip which is clearly primarily recreational. And it’s only the beginning of October, in his first year as President! And the press doesn’t care, any more than they still care about mounting military deaths in Iraq, which they portrayed as a major crisis before the election.

It’s almost as if there were a TOTALLY HYPOCRITICAL DOUBLE STANDAND.

Almost.

It would be a tragedy if Obama seemed to succeed. Appearing to succeed while doing the wrong thing is worse than failure. It assures that you will continue doing the wrong thing in the future. So when I see Obama do something dumb and sure to fail, it encourages me. I want to see the US prosper because we behave responsibly and please God, not because we robbed our children’s piggy banks to pay for a heavily leveraged plateau in our slide toward weakness and defeat.

It’s remarkable that Obama and his blunderkind advisors thought the Olympics trip was a good idea. Several cities are vying for the games, so the odds that Obama will lose are high. If he had stayed home, no one would have imputed the loss to him, but now it will be an Obama failure. On top of that, the trip confirms his image as a lightweight. You would not send Ronald Reagan or Abraham Lincoln to beg for an Olympiad, any more than you would send them to pick up the Secretary of State’s dry cleaning. But Obama? It fits.

I’m guessing that none of Obama’s confidants, nerdy though they are, were members of their high school chess clubs. They are incapable of strategic thinking. That’s just swell, given that America is fighting two wars right now. I suppose it explains his decision to abandon missile protection for our loyal allies in Eastern Europe, at a time when Russia is resurging as an enemy and Iran is developing long-range nuclear weapons.

What Obama gaffe DOESN’T it explain? He alienates a new sector of his base every week. Doctors. Cop unions. Car unions. Jews. When health care craps out, he’ll alienate blacks. Prior to the election, the big media outlets actively suppressed negative coverage (even more than they do now), so Obama never learned to think ahead. When you live in a bubble, you need no immune system. Now that criticism is increasing, he has no one to protect him from his own fecklessness.

I don’t recall the press and the entertainment industry (same thing, really) doing much to help Carter, once he started circling the drain. SNL made his embarrassing health problems weekly fodder. Stories about the sad state of the country filled the airwaves.

While he was running, the press treated him like–wait for it–a messiah. I recall that clearly. They adored him. Then he became an embarrassment. Did the networks stand up for him? If so, I have no memory of it. Once Obama’s incompetence is established beyond dispute, he’ll fare no better. Sooner or later, we’ll see video of him smoking cigarettes. The liberal press will discover Bill Ayers and Tony Rezko. They’ll finally take notice of the other kooks he has hired. They’ll realize he’s unfair to Israel. These are my predictions.

Is he smoking cigarettes in our White House? He must be. He’s still addicted, and you don’t make the President stand outside when he has a nicotine fit. There must be ashtrays in the White House again! Either that, or he flicks the ashes on the floor. When did we last have ashtrays and cigarette butts in the White House? Was it under Ford? Nixon?

I always pray for him and his wife and the Bidens to humble themselves, acknowledge God (the real one, not the Jew-baiting Jeremiah Wright straw god), and start leading us in something resembling righteousness. I also wish he’d quit carrying that Hindu idol around and get rid of the big gold-plated one the Indians sent him. But an ego like Obama’s is tough to penetrate. And he does not admit fault. A leader takes responsibility for the things his underlings do. Obama throws them under the bus immediately. He does the same thing with his associates, like Wright and Blagojevich and Ayers and…well, I don’t want to make a long list. When Obama’s regime crumbles, one of the worst things about it will be listening to the whining and excuses.

He’s the Michael Jackson President. He surrounded himself with people who tell him he can do no wrong, and he believes them. Therefore his life is decadent, and he has no judgment. He does things no shrewd or mature person would do, and unless he changes, he will fail.

He’s in for a fall. And then we’re stuck with him for three more years. As anyone who lived under Carter during his humiliating tenure can tell you, a permanently hamstrung President is hard to live with. Pelosi and Reid will rule the free world, and our enemies will walk all over us.

God Hears

My sister’s cranial MRI was clean! I know people have been wondering. When I prayed, I felt by faith that it would be so, but it’s still a great relief. Thanks for all the prayers. I would have told you sooner, but I just found out. I told her my readers were praying, and she thanks you all.

“Mr. Sluggo Needs Your Help With the Scenery!”

Can I tell you what a delight my leg injury has been?

On Sunday, I went to my church to help dismantle a set. I was in the way the whole time, and I achieved nothing. But someone managed to drop a set on me from behind, removing a whole lot of skin from my ankle and leaving a marvelous 3″-square raspberry on my lower back.

I began treating the ankle by hosing it with Bactine once a day and then applying gauze and soft tape. Let me say right now that I’d like to punch the ad guy who made up the lie about Bactine not stinging. It’s like pouring hot sauce and lemon juice on the wound. Before doing these things, I washed it in the shower with a washcloth. That was pretty awful, but not as bad as the Bactine.

I started smearing it with Neosporin before taping it up. I developed some soreness, so I thought it might be getting infected. Now I’m changing the dressing twice a day, and I’m starting each change by rubbing the wound with alcohol, to clean the crap off. WOW does that open your eyes. First that, then the horrible Bactine, then Neosporin.

I have to keep up with this thing, or it will take forever to heal. Guess I better hit the drugstore and get supplies.

Don’t let anybody drop anything on you. Spare yourself this misery. I can’t even imagine what a big area of road rash would be like. This is the same sort of thing, but it’s only a few square inches.

Keeps Passing Tests

Today I got up and did my usual prayer and communion thing. I have been trying to learn to hear from God. One thing I’m trying is asking for guidance as to which scriptures I should read in the morning.

Weird things happened last week. Let me see if I can remember the facts. One morning, I asked what I should read, and I heard “Josiah.” But there is no book of Josiah. So I read Jeremiah. And it turned out the part I was reading was about Josiah, the last good king of Israel. Score one for God.

The next day, I tried again, and I heard “Rehoboam.” There is no book of Rehoboam. But I looked Rehoboam up, and once again, the scriptures I was looking at referred to Josiah. Three hundred years before he was born, a prophecy named him and said he would be a reformer.

That makes two.

A day or two after that, I wanted to read about the temptation of Christ. My mind said, “That’s in Matthew 4.” I don’t know the gospels that well. I know John 3:16, but I don’t know which book or chapter goes with which story. But I opened the Bible anyway, and there I found Jesus, refusing to jump off the temple. And he cited the psalm I was in the process of memorizing, which is number 91.

Almost creepy.

Today, I heard “Malachi 3:11.” My first thought was that I hoped Malachi had a third chapter. I didn’t know. But I looked. Here is what I saw:

And I will rebuke the devourer for your sakes, and he shall not destroy the fruits of your ground; neither shall your vine cast her fruit before the time in the field, saith the LORD of hosts.

Dang.

I’ve heard that verse a lot. It’s very popular among prosperity preachers, both good and bad. It expresses a concept which has been on my mind lately, because I think my family has been under a curse. But I didn’t know the chapter and number!

I felt like documenting it.

I’m wondering if I should have gotten a DVD receiver for the truck. Why? Because a DVD receiver will accept a rearview camera. My truck is so big, I have no idea what’s going on behind it. Also, a DVD receiver will have a bigger screen for navigating folders and finding music.

I can send the new CD receiver back to Crutchfield. Thoughts?

MRI Blessings

My sister had her cranial MRI tonight. This is to determine whether the cancer has spread to her brain. They’ll interpret it tomorrow. Do me a favor and pray.

Miami: Funhouse Without Walls

I’m glad to say I’m not having too much soreness after yesterday’s accident. I barely feel the leg injury, although I can’t say I enjoyed washing it in the shower this morning. I might as well have been pressing it with a hot iron. The sore place on my back hurts whenever anything bumps into it, so I’m trying to watch it.

The pastor called and explained what was going on. His son usually handles projects like stage demolition, and his son is a good organizer. But he’s away this week, and a guy he usually supervises decided to get this done for him. On top of that, he decided to surprise the pastor’s son by getting a two-weekend job done in one day. If that isn’t a recipe for death, I don’t know what is. This guy works hard but is not used to leading, so the job was chaotic. And it turns out he was the one who dropped the set on me. It’s strange that he didn’t identify himself or talk to me after he did it. Maybe he was embarrassed. When you injure somebody, you should say something, if only for the sake of your own character. Sooner or later, we’re going to meet up. Then it will be awkward for him.

I was afraid this was how things always went at the church. I know they have some organizational problems, and the financial picture is not great right now, so things are a little hectic, and I figured what I saw yesterday was typical. But the pastor says they don’t do business that way, and that this was an embarrassing aberration. That’s a relief. I was starting to think they were really floundering.

One danger of walking by faith is that you may find yourself counting on God a little too much. Often, you’ll have to get into things without a lot of preparation or support, knowing God will take up the slack. Think of the disciples who headed off down the road without money or changes of clothes. When you’ve taken that path often enough, you may start to feel like you don’t have to think or prepare. I was afraid that was what I was seeing yesterday. I’m glad I was wrong.

Now I feel bad about pointing out the problem. I don’t want to cause any friction up there or alienate anyone. I felt I had to say something. I could have come home in a bag, and other people were in danger, too. I don’t know what kind of insurance the church carries, but I’m positive a lot of the neighborhood kids who were helping have none. You don’t want to see someone end up on life support in a county hospital, because safety rules were not observed and there were no hard hats on the premises.

It’s remarkable that I was positioned so only about a quarter of an inch of me protruded into the path of the thing that hit me. It was just enough to remove skin, without tearing through it into the flesh. I am so lucky. I keep thinking about how different it would have been, had the set landed on my head.

I have been thinking about my dad’s new interest in moving up north. I just checked the weather here in Miami. It’s 81º and 89% humidity. I nearly fainted. I then checked Melbourne, which is not far from the area we’re considering. It’s about 80º and 70%, which is not good, but it’s certainly better. And here’s the real difference: several nights this week, the temperature will drop into the sixties. Oh, man. What I would give for a week of that. I’d lie naked in the yard all night.

Not really.

People always say humidity is worse than heat. That’s not the whole story down here. Another problem is the sheer intensity of the sunlight. You can work up a sweat just walking around your house once in direct sun. If you wear a light-colored shirt with dark parts, you will feel the dark areas heating up, because they absorb heat so fast. Last year, I was stupid enough to work in the yard in June and July. I’ve taken it easy this summer. The bugs benefited from my reluctance, but I saved myself some unpleasant times. Now that things are beginning to cool off, I can get out there and fertilize and spread poison.

When the weather is this hot and the sun is this merciless, you feel it even when you’re inside your house. When you lie in bed at night, the memory of the heat on your head will bother you.

Brevard County would be nice. Maybe north Georgia or southern Tennessee would be even better. I’d have to give up tropical fruit, but I’d have tomatoes, peaches, and apples. Maybe blackberries.

Tropical fruit is overrated. Mangoes are great, but peaches are better. Papayas have a funky smell. Guavas have an off flavor. Mameys taste like they have tiny hairs in them. Citrus is fine, but there is a good possibility that it’s about to become nearly extinct, due to citrus greening. Some clever Miamian brought illegal plants here, and they had the wrong bugs on them, and now Florida is likely to lose its citrus industry. That means no juice for the rest of the US and much of the world.

Bananas are also in danger. There’s a fungus attacking them. Here’s what I’ve read. No wild banana is worth eating, because they have gigantic seeds. All the bananas we have now come from one seedless ancestor, so there is little genetic diversity. That means a blight that will harm one variety will probably harm another. The blight is in Asia, and that means it will get here eventually.

If I’m up in Georgia surrounded by normal fruit, I won’t have to worry about stuff like this. And I’ll hear a lot of English, which will be soothing. Seems like every day I get this phone call three times:

Me: Hello?

Caller: Allo?

Me: Yes, I said hello.

Caller: Allo? [“If I say ‘allo’ twice, the person I called will magically speak Spanish!”]

Me: Hello.

Caller: Allo? Who ee dees?

Me: No hablo espanol.

Caller: [click]

Phone: RING! RING!

Me: Hello?

Caller: Allo? Who ee dees?

Me: La migra.

Caller: Ay! [click]

Then there’s the fun of playing charades at the store, trying to mime your desires because the “bilingual” clerk speaks no English. You have to be Marcel Marceau to order a hamburger. Okay, not Marcel Marceau. More like Cantinflas.

One other benefit is that I’d be less likely to get MRSA, also known as flesh-eating bacteria. It’s a problem down here. People bring amazing diseases to Miami. After I got scraped at church, I had to buy antiseptic, and if what I read on the labels is right, Bactine kills the MRSA bacteria. Good thing to know. I applied it liberally. It stung like you would not believe. I can’t understand why they put “no sting” on the label. If you’re going to lie, why be obvious?

I better go have a banana while I still can.

OSHA is for Heathens

I went to the church today to help tear down a set. I was hoping to get to know more people and help out, but it did not work out that way.

I thought they were hard up for helpers, but when I arrived, there were maybe thirty guys hacking up the old set and moving it out. There was no meeting. No plan. There were no groups with specific tasks. There was no safety gear. There were no rules. There was absolutely no leadership. There was one guy who occasionally gave very vague instructions to no one in particular, and whoever got there first got whatever task he needed done. Everyone worked very fast. There was no communication.

I should have backed out slowly and gone home, but I’m not a blue-collar guy, so I suppose I’m not as sharp as I should be about workplace safety. And I wanted to be of some use.

The set consists of a number of plywood pieces propped up with two-by-four supports. It’s all held together with drywall screws. I suppose each section is around ten feet long, so they’re pretty heavy. There are also big aluminum structures that hold TVs. There are cables all over, and weird props like stage rocks.

I was not able to be very helpful, so I tried to stay out of the way until an opportunity arose. People kept wandering near me, carrying heavy things they didn’t seem to know what to do with, and I kept moving, trying to find a safe place to stand.

Right after I found a place that seemed relatively secure, I felt something bite me in the lower back and the back of my left leg. Somebody had dropped a section of the set, and the edge had hit me twice on the way to the floor. I yelled “JESUS!”, which probably was not a great idea, but I didn’t have a lot of time to plan it. The next time I get maimed at church, I’ll try to remember to watch my language.

I turned around and saw the set section lying there, with parts of it shattered. I looked at my leg and saw a lovely injury that started high with abraded skin and ended low, with a strip of skin peeled off. And the blood was starting to flow.

I never saw the person who dropped the set on me. I am told his name is Mike.

Some guy whose name escapes me sent me to the men’s room to clean up the wound. He said he’d find a first aid kit. When I located him again, we sat down and started patching up the leg. My back wasn’t scraped badly enough to need a bandage.

The kit had antibiotic packets, but when I opened one, it was completely dry. OSHA would tear this place up.

I assured everyone I was okay (in the sense that I did not need an ambulance), but I pointed out that the total lack of leadership and organization is what caused my injury. If that thing had hit my head, I’d be in surgery right now. Had I been one inch farther back, it would have opened my leg up to the point where I’d need expensive treatment. As it is, it will be a good two weeks before my leg is right, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s very painful to walk on over the next few days.

It’s a wonder nobody has been killed down there.

On the way home, I realized what they need when they do projects like this. They need one leader with supreme power. They need that leader to draw up a plan that calls for tasks to be done in a certain order. That would take fifteen minutes. He needs to decide how many men he needs. He needs to stand in front of the church on Sunday and ask for that many men. He needs to have a duty roster. When enough men sign up, he needs to tell the church he has everyone he needs. He needs to divide them into groups, with a leader over each group. On the day of the project, they need to have a ten-minute meeting where he explains what they’re going to do. He needs to hand out hard hats and gloves. He needs to give them basic safety rules. Finally, how about a prayer that everyone goes home in one functional piece?

He should also insist that everyone wear boots and jeans. I’d be a lot better off if I had done that. I didn’t have any idea how dangerous it would be. Most of the skinned area would have been covered by boots.

Christians forgive. So I forgive. I forgave all the way home. Several times. Eventually, it will stick. I will not let myself be crabby about this for the rest of the day. At least I hope not. Nobody intended to drop a set on me. Everyone there was trying to do something unselfish. These are good people. But it’s hard not to be annoyed when you get a painful, bloody injury that was completely unnecessary and caused by obvious mistakes.

On a DVD I watched, the pastor talked about his deformed left index finger. The last joint goes off at an angle. He hit it with a sledge hammer while he was putting up a tent in the rain. He was driving a heavy steel stake. Another church-related accident. It should never have happened. Back when I was on the kibbutz, they stuck me in the almond fields with a bunch of blunt stakes and a sledge, and they told me to drive them into the hard dirt and tie them to the saplings. I did it, but my right hand shook in the evenings. It was a very dumb idea. The Israelis marveled at my capacity to take abuse, because I was too stupid to complain. Later, one of them came out with a proper implement for driving stakes. It was a heavy pipe with two handles and one end welded shut. You drop it over the stake, and one person takes each handle, and you drive the stake into the ground in about ten seconds, without injury or strain. That’s what the pastor should have been using. Or he should have found someone with the proper power tool. I suppose a Bobcat would be ideal, if you rigged it up right. But hey, people perish for lack of knowledge. He mashed his finger (nearly losing the end of it), and I got my leg peeled. The next person may die.

I think it would be best if I excluded myself from this kind of thing in the future, unless they’re willing to start planning and quit using the Holy Spirit as a parachute. I really wanted to help, and I have faith that God will watch over me, but I’m not crazy.

I am Nice to the Little People

Yesterday I went to a men’s breakfast at church. I really enjoyed it. There were about 160 men there. We had a good breakfast, and then we heard from an interesting speaker.

This guy was a shortish black man with a thick island accent. He was introduced as a local pastor. I thought maybe I should donate a few bucks to whatever he was doing. Given the nature of the area and his humble appearance, I figured he was running a low-budget operation out of his apartment.

He started talking about his background. He said he ran a church and three businesses. “That’s nice,” I thought, “he has some subchapter S deals going on, which he also runs from his apartment.” Then he said he testified frequently as an expert in bankruptcy court, and that one of his businesses had offices in London, and that he had eleven appliance stores. And he writes all sorts of expert commentary on asset-based lending, and he pals around with big-time CEOs, and in December, he is flying out to California, to baptize a corporate bigwig and his wife in the Pacific Ocean.

Guess he didn’t need my five bucks after all.

He said people ask him how he has time for ministry, when he does all these things. He said his ministry is in the marketplace. He goes after people he comes across while doing business.

He provided five rules he follows.

1. Don’t cart a Bible around. It turns people off, and you don’t need it to bring people to God.

I think that’s true. It’s pretty tough to pick through a Bible and use it to prove God exists. A testimony is easier and more convincing.

2. Be the best you can be at work, even if you hate your job.

3. Smile and have a pleasant demeanor. I guess you can’t win people over if you’re sullen and obnoxious.

4. Control the conversation. Consider the authority you have behind you.

5. Know how to lead people to Christ, and close the deal.

He cited Nehemiah, who was a cup-bearer for Artaxerxes, the king of Persia. Though he was a slave, Nehemiah did his job well and cheerfully, and on the one day he appeared unhappy, the king noticed and asked what was wrong. Nehemiah explained that Jerusalem was in ruins, and that he wanted to rebuild it. Artaxerxes commissioned the rebuilding of the city walls, and he sent Nehemiah to be governor of the region.

I don’t know if Artaxerxes came to believe in God, but he certainly did a lot for God’s people.

At the end of the breakfast, someone came and prayed the 91st psalm over the pastor (mine, not the guy who spoke), and I was freaked out for the thousandth time this year. That’s the psalm I’m memorizing this week.

I met a guy who was jailed three times for drug addiction. That’s how he put it, although I don’t know if it’s accurate. I assume he must have been dealing, in order to get himself imprisoned three times. He was jailed in Texas. Evidently, it wasn’t very pleasant. He talked about the spartan life he led. They timed the showers and gave everyone lye soap, and he said he had soaped himself up and failed to rinse in the allotted time, so he had to spend the next two days in a 115° cell with lye soap on his skin.

He said he had been delivered instantly from his cocaine addiction. Now he has his own ministry, and he sends newsletters back to the men he was in jail with.

I got the pastor to bless my truck. It still has a little olive-oil cross on the grille.

Today I’m going to drive up and help with the dismantling of a set or something. Not sure. Whatever it is, I’m sure I can be of some use.

The pastor proclaimed a fast for today. It’s not a terribly hard fast. Liquids only, from 6 p.m Saturday until 6 p.m. tonight. I’ll bet he inadvertently sold a lot of milkshakes when he came up with that. It’s our way of acknowledging Yom Kippur. We’re a day early, but work with us, okay?

I hope we don’t have to work outside today. I’m almost positive September has been hotter than August.

Up the Indian River

In a comment, someone said something about how I should use the new Dodge for something other than the McDonald’s drive-thru. I really don’t think this thing will fit in the nearest drive-thru. Taking the Thunderbird through it makes me nervous. It’s very tight.

The other day, I encountered one of the incredibly stupid, dangerous, and wasteful traffic islands the mayor of Karl Goebbels Coral Gables has put in our streets, and I had to back the truck up and correct the angle in order to get through it. Then I realized I could just run over it, so that’s my plan for next time. I won’t mash the little palm tree in the middle of it, but I’ll run my tires over the masonry. Sorry about that, Mayor Slesnick. You should have known better.

Suddenly I’m glad I bought the lifetime wheel alignment over at Firestone.

The mayor hates pickup trucks already. He was highly distressed when Coral Gables got dinged in the now-famous pickup lawsuit in 2007. For weeks, he could barely stomach his tofu. The guy who sued is the brother of a lawyer who beat me and my dad in an employment case. That lawyer handled the pickup case. I guess I can forgive him now. Thanks to him, I can park an aircraft carrier in front of my house. God bless him. Before the lawsuit, pickups were illegal, so the law was slanted in favor of vehicles such as Mayor Slesnick’s pink Prius covered with Miami City Ballet bumper stickers. I assume that’s what he drives. What else could it be?

I’m kidding. I guarantee you, it’s a Mercedes or a BMW. I don’t even have to look.

I can’t stand those traffic islands. They’re supposed to slow traffic down. I would guess that part of the purpose is to slow people down when they’re running from the cops. Miami is slowly sinking under a pile of traffic impediments intended to stop crime. Hopefully they’ll never block the streets to the point where people can’t leave for good.

Some of the islands are funny. I guess I should describe what they are, so you’ll understand. It’s a circular concrete thing in the middle of an intersection. It’s about four inches high and twelve feet across. They build the curbs up around them so, in theory, you’re forced to turn and go in a circle. But some of them are constructed incorrectly, so I just zip right through at 40 miles per hour. It’s not my fault they can’t build them right. I wish I could fly through one while Slesnick was on the sidewalk, walking his poodles. I would love to see the look on his face.

One of the islands near me was too open, so they rebuilt it. And it’s STILL too open. So I still shoot through! For some reason, I find that incredibly funny. It probably cost the city $15,000 to rebuild it, and they achieved absolutely nothing. It’s legal to drive fast through these things. There are no reduced-speed signs.

My sister has a standing offer to represent anyone who gets injured, running into one of these silly things. No charge. I look forward to the day when the Gables gets hit with a $50 million verdict. Then the islands will be removed, and hopefully, so will Slesnick.

I don’t really care. This place is beyond fixing. Either you like small lots, crowded streets, high taxes, and Nuremberg-worthy zoning laws, or you don’t. I don’t.

My dad is making noises about leaving Miami. A friend of ours up in Brevard County wants us to come up so he can show us around. I’ve been wanting to get out for a long time, but I didn’t want to leave my father here. A year or two ago, he got on the bandwagon, and we decided to look for a compound which we could fortify with Claymores and machine gun nests. But we never got it going. Now he’s saying he wants to drive up there. And we finally have a vehicle in which we will be considered presentable.

“The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord.” Maybe that applies to me, as well as to men who are actually good. I feel like the pieces of my life are falling into place. A move out of this unpleasant city would be a wonderful example. I am tired of living in a city that has voodoo temples and goat sacrifices and nude beaches. And the country’s worst traffic. If I could get up every morning and look out over an acre or more and see a huge pickup truck and a whole bunch of fruit trees, I would think I had arrived in paradise. The land of Bible clingers and McCain stickers.

Is it too much to hope for?

Home From the Garage

Man, am I having chest pains. I just paid the folks at Firestone. I opted for the lifetime alignment. I can’t see how it can fail to be a good thing. I have a bad habit of skipping wheel alignment, and this, more than anything, is what ruins expensive tires. They will also give me a free rotation every time.

I also had two brake pads done. What an idiot. For what they charged, I could have done all four. They claimed the brake fluid looked bad, so I let them flush the system.

I think I did good, except for the brake pads. And the brakes feel much better now. The last thing I want is to plow into someone with three tons of steel, right after being warned that the pads needed to be replaced.

I took my old man to get his Explorer, which was getting new ball joints. He loves that car. He probably could have bought one the same age for what he just put into it.

The mechanic said the ball joints gave out because it was a Ford. Apparently Fords do this. That’s horrendous. The car’s suspension has been making noises for forty thousand miles. That means they went bad in the first half of the car’s projected life. Can Ford really be this lax about this important issue?

All the way home, I felt like I had won the lottery. I am enjoying this truck way too much to be healthy. I started fantasizing about a new stereo and better speakers. But I did not pull into Best Buy.

A man needs a truck or a sports car or convertible, the same way he needs one good revolver and a barbecue grill and smoker. A wife can probably spend the rest of his money entirely on herself if she gives way on these key issues.

Well. I guess I forgot about guys who play golf. I cannot relate to their illness.

I am sorely tempted to get a vanity tag. I was considering something like “Jzbel,” but then it occurred to me that “Prov 3110” would be even better. A sports car is like a hot stewardess you stay married to for three years. A pickup is the girl you should have married the first time around.

Bible Clingers Love Trucks

I just got up and found 18 comments waiting for me. It looks like I finally discovered what my readers care about. Pickup trucks.

Somebody mentioned Rotella T oil as the local oil of choice for marine diesels. This is true. There are several gallon jugs of it over at my dad’s boat right now. I think it’s 40-weight. I don’t know whether it’s right for a small truck diesel. The boat’s diesels are truck diesels, I suppose. I’m not sure. I have heard that the original V71-series Detroits were used on World War II landing craft, but for all I know, they were on trucks before that. They rarely go above 2000 RPM, if that means anything.

I think I’m going to get rid of the Thunderbird. It’s been fun, but it seems a little silly as a second car. It would be great to have a cheap small car for errands, but the T-bird is not ideal for this. It gets something like 18 mpg (guess), and it has a trunk the size of a kitchen drawer, and on sunny days, it’s like an oven until the AC kicks in. I think it would be better to get a secondhand Japanese car I don’t care about. A beater. Put money in the guts and forget about the looks.

Here’s what I keep thinking about. How am I going to get a thirty-foot-long truck through the drive-thru at McDonald’s? I have to have a Mickey D’s breakfast once in a while. Is it irresponsible to want a small car just for McDonald’s? Of course not. That much is clear.

I will lose babe appeal if I sell the Ford, but I never had much of that to begin with, so it’s a small sacrifice.

Today I have to get my front brakes fixed. I’m tempted to do it myself, but little jobs like this tend to be pretty cheap, and okay, I’M LAZY. I’ll just admit it. I don’t want to haul the floor jack out and get grease all over me. Are you happy? I should also have the alignment checked.

I was very impressed with Plaza Auto, the place that did my inspection. They get raves from reviewers. But Firestone is way closer, and they do lifetime alignments, so you only have to pay once, and believe it or not, they have told me the truth in the past.

I found used nerf bars for $115 on Craigslist. I would ordinarily haggle, but that’s like $400 off the new price, and it’s about 40% of the cost of most used bars. I don’t have to be a royal pain all the time. Sometimes it’s okay to just pay and leave. I am looking forward to putting them on. When I get out of the truck, I feel like I’m base-jumping. I don’t know why it’s so high. I don’t think it was lifted. I guess the suspension on this model starts out pretty high.

I have to decide what to do about tires. I think I can get another 5,000 out of the existing tires, and if I replace the front tires, I should be able to go maybe 20,000. I don’t know what kind of spare this truck has. I assume it’s just like the other tires. I think it’s safe to bet it’s not a compact.

I should get a toolbox and put some basic breakdown supplies in it. Flares. Vise grips. Cheap screwdrivers. Fuses. Socket set. I don’t want a truck box. They take up two feet of bed.

I might upgrade the stereo a little. I definitely have to get the Cuban stations off the presets.

I chose Geico for the insurance because Progressive was a little more expensive, and because I didn’t want to keep funding Progressive’s bizarre political causes. The name “Progressive” ought to get you a clue what they’re about.

I’ll be honest. They’ve been fantastic. But so is Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, and I avoid that, too. A commenter says Warren Buffett owns Geico, but I don’t think he’s as far to the left as the Progressive folks.

The suggestions are very helpful.

Large & Red

The baby is home. The mechanic said the only problem he could find was that the front brake pads needed to be replaced. He said the body work was excellent, apart from the dubious paint. That’s a relief. I was dreading returning the truck. I got him to recommend a shop to fix the paint.

I can’t get used to driving this thing. In Miami, nobody respects a turn signal from a small car. But signal to change lanes, while riding ten feet from the pavement, in a vehicle the size of a boxcar…people hit the brakes.

I think I should put a trailer hitch on it. It’s already set up for one. I have no plans to tow anything, but I think that big shiny ball will discourage tailgaters. My car’s bumper is soft plastic. No one is afraid of that. But a ball would take out a tailgater’s grille. Mike wants to send me a weight-distributing hitch. He says it will destroy any vehicle that touches it. I would take no pleasure in damaging another person’s car, but I think the sight of a big scary steel hitch will tend to keep other drivers alert.

I wonder how long it will be before I’m comfortable taking turns. As soon as the truck leans enough to make the springs move, I feel like it’s turning over.

I should go to Home Depot and buy some poop. I’ve been wanting to poop up the banana and plantain trees, but I didn’t want to put the bags in my dad’s poor SUV.

It’s just a used truck with one side that needs paint, but I’m thrilled to death with it. I can’t remember the last time I was this grateful for a possession.

Maybe I should run out and shop for a Jesus fish! I already emailed my pastor and let him know I have new hauling capabilities.

Bad cell photo:

Thanks for all the help in this protracted process.

The Dinosaurs are 6000 Years Old, and I am Burning Them, but Fast

Depending on how things go over the next day, I may be the owner of a ridiculous red diesel pickup truck.

I got my dad to run me to the dealership, on the assumption that I would be driving the pickup out. It was probably 20 minutes before I got to see the finance guy. He’s like the bridgetender from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. You have to get past him, regardless of whether your quest includes borrowing money.

They provided me with about a ton of forms, and being a lawyer, I read every line. This seemed to drive the finance guy insane. He was polite enough, but his manner suggested only a tiny thread of reserve was preventing him from lunging across the desk. He seemed extremely upset that I was wasting his time, which is remarkable, in an establishment where one of the primary tactics is to waste the customer’s time. I don’t make the rules, Finance Guy. I just turn them around on you to make your spleen pop.

I found a problem with one of the forms. They wanted me to swear to the truck’s VIN number, and since I had not personally verified it, I made them go get the truck and bring it to me so I could confirm it. I thought the finance guy would go nova.

I hoped my dad would give someone a stroke or a panic attack or an aneurysm or something, but he was very restrained.

I made them give me a written affirmation that they would give me 48 hours for a mechanical exam, and when I received it, I took my pen and wrote in a sentence assuring that I would receive a 100% return if I brought the truck back for any reason whatsoever. I drew a little line on it and put an X by it, indicating that the appropriate person should sign there, and I sent it back, and it came back to me initialed. I guess they didn’t like that too much, but I suppose they wanted me out of there.

We took the truck to a highly recommended mechanic, and he will have it until tomorrow morning. I had to fill it up on the way. Stupidly, I put a tankful in it. The dealer will get that if the truck fails inspection. I had to use two credit cards to fill it. The station had a $50-per-card limit. But I won’t have to fill it for another 700 miles.

The truck is amazing. It has remarkable acceleration. Because you’re so far off the ground, it’s hard to see how fast you’re going, but when I looked at the speedometer, I realized 50 mph was coming up mighty fast. I had to be careful not to get a ticket. The 3200-RPM redline does not seem to hold it back. I am no truck expert, but I think this thing has SHTF written all over it.

I hope it works out. I would rather hang myself than take it back. You can imagine what it would be like, trying to make them accept it. It will be like trying to put a diaper on a wildcat.

If the paint is the only problem, I’m home free.

I’ll have to see what maintenance it needs. The only diesels I’m familiar with are my dad’s 871s, and they take 40-weight oil. I don’t know if you can put synthetic in a diesel. I should have the brake pads checked, and I think the tires need a rotation. The wheels may need an alignment.

The truck does not have running boards. I thought it did. I suppose I should spring for some. Jumping down from the driver’s seat is already getting old.

Gun rack. I must get a gun rack. My dad did some research the other day, just for fun, and it turns out Florida has no law against openly carrying a long gun, so it may be time to put an assault rifle in my rear window.

I guess the diesel was a good move. The truck flies, and it will haul nearly anything, and the motor should outlast several bodies. Now that I know how good this motor is, I’m surprised everyone doesn’t have one. It’s a $7000 option, I think, but if you’re buying a new $40,000 truck, and you intend to use it like a truck, that’s not a terrible expense.

Now I have a means to take all the crap from my dad’s warehouse and haul it to my church. They will never get around to it. Surely they can use a two-thousand-dollar pile of new cable trays. If not, they can put it out front, and the crackheads will take it to the scrap dealer.

The day has been remarkable in one other regard. As I’ve noted, after a recent fast, I found that I no longer had a problem with gluttony, and that I had increased self-control in some other areas. I had one other positive result. I was less angry at people. This is something that had been driving me nuts. I found that I was irritated with people who had not done anything wrong, and even though it was me feeling this way, I wanted nothing to do with it. I hated it. It was fatiguing. The other positive effects I got from fasting lasted, but this one faded, and it disappointed me. Over the last week or so, I’ve been soul-searching, trying to figure out what I might have been doing wrong, to lose this.

I had several theories, but now I suspect it had something to do with the way I treat my dad. I had been allowing my sister’s situation to affect him too much. I wanted to get out from between them, to avoid taking on too much stress, so there were times when I withdrew. This morning I recalled that my grandfather had died the month after my aunt died from cancer. The cardiologist thought her death had contributed to his, by causing a stress-related ulceration inside a coronary artery. Even if I have to absorb a ton of stress, I can’t let that happen to my dad. After I thought about that and resolved to do better, the peace came back to me. I can’t tell you how great it feels. I hope I’ve found the problem.

Man, I hope that truck works out. I do not want to wade into the den of dissembling tar babies again.

Also

Marv has learned the cell phone walkie-talkie noise. We were watching “Bait Car” on the Tru network last night, and some cop was using a cell phone in walkie-talkie mode, and you know that high-pitched beep they make. One of the beeps seemed to come from the wrong direction, and when I looked in that direction, I saw Marv, looking quite smug. It cracked me up. He kept doing it; Marv knows when he comes across a crowd-pleaser. Now he knows I’ll squeeze him every time he beeps. That’s a problem.

This Will Teach Me

What is the most dependable phenomenon on earth? Death? Taxes? Toast landing on the buttered side? How about this: having a car dealer change the price after you make a deal.

Today I went down to the dealership from which I am trying my best to buy a used truck. I had negotiated a price, inclusive of absolutely everything except taxes and government fees. And I looked at the list of charges, and naturally, they had stuck a $689 “dealer fee” in there.

Am I crazy? Is there some reason why a dealer can’t make a profit without lying at every turn?

When I started shopping for a truck, I made sure I contacted the guy who sold me my Thunderbird, because he didn’t lie to me. It turned out he didn’t have any trucks I wanted, but every time I searched for something to buy, I looked at his dealership to see if something new had come in. That’s what happens when you treat customers like human beings. Isn’t that worth something to a dealer? One of the hardest things about retail is getting people to show up at your place of business. Isn’t it desirable to have people come in because they’ve already done business with you and look forward to buying from you again?

I had my dad with me, purely as a tourist. This did not help the dealer any. My dad gives car dealers diarrhea as a hobby. There was no way I was going to accept that fee in front of him. I would never hear the end of it. The salesman tried to get me to split it with him, but there was just no way. Why should I buy someone a new washing machine as a reward for mistreating me? I fail to see the logic.

I said, “A deal’s a deal,” and we left. And about a quarter-mile down the road, I heard my cell phone ring. That was the end of the dealer fee.

The salesman also said I would have to pay $450 for the tag and so on. He said the prices had gone up, and that the dealership would refund anything above what they paid the state. I was positive he was lying, but it looks like the actual fee is around $315, so–incredibly–he seems to be telling the truth. Of course, I’ll have to bring a microscope to look at the contract and make sure they’ll refund the excess.

I’ll be going back later. Then I’m taking the truck to a mechanic, and God willing, he will approve it. I’m worried that a rear door may be new. I got under the truck, and everything on the left side of the cab appears to be original, so hopefully, if the door is new, it’s the only thing damaged. The paint is somewhat imperfect, so it may be that when they fixed the bed, they had to blend the paint on the door.

Why does every car dealer on earth have to be a tar baby? Just sell me a car. Make a profit. I realize you expect to make money. But don’t commit fraud every time I walk in the door.

I think I want a vanity tag. I’ll have to think up a design and a couple of alternatives. I’d like to put something in it which reflects my religious beliefs. It’s always comforting to see a religious vanity tag. Is “religious vanity” a contradiction in terms. Sadly not, now that I think about it.

I do look forward to having the truck, aggravation notwithstanding. It should be very liberating. Can any man be complete without a pickup truck? It’s like not having a .22 rifle. It’s unseemly. Finally, I will be free of the shame.

Let’s see if I can buy it this time, without having to shoot anyone.