Thursday, June 3, 2010

Almost Communicado

I've been incommunicado for a couple of days now. In some respects even longer. It was my decision to avoid all until I had the stubborn garage doors at the British oil man's house worked down to the point where there is nothing more to do until Raul shows with the secret formula number 2, the paste wax of unknown substances. I suspect it is really show polish mixed with bee's wax and peyote. Perhaps there is a drop of virgin's blood or an entire virgin in the mix. One can only speculate and, perhaps, hope.

My goal was to finish with the sanding and sealing by this past Monday. It took longer than expected. Six to eight hours, sanding by hand, using my fingers to try to get little places here, there and everywhere is not something I generally do. Yesterday I put in 11 hours on the final push. My fingers were somewhat raw. Then I felt no pian but they seemed to have a strange tactile sense. I thought maybe I'd inadvertently sanded off my finger prints.

It turned out that they were merely sealed byt the sealer I'd been applying to the doors. Once I rubbed it off, I again felt the burn and normal sense of touch. No finger prints would have been cool.

The crazy thing is that I don't even know what I'm getting paid. I bid the job figuring an entirely different scenario. This has taken many hours more. More than I would want to admit. The goal of making it right appears to be close to being realized, though. That is the important part; Turning out the result to which I committed. I wanted to run away from this mess in the worst way. That was before I found out what I was dealing with and made some progress. Then it grew to an obsession. Now if Raul will hurry up with this top secret mix, maybe I can be done with it altogether.

I now know how to do something I didn't know existed. Wonder if that will ever pay off.

So, after days and days away from home, working the doors and doing some projects around the corner for the weel connected Democrat, I made it home. By the way, if you think the dems are not money people, and that their policies do not serve some segment of the monied elite, you are miles off the mark. That's OK. I get paid to do the work the illegals won't do.

Tomorrow, I have to go back. Then Sat. do work at a private house. Not one of the rich folk houses. I agreed long ago, but I've decided this sort of thing is not for me. Since this person runs the political house, and that is where my bread is buttered, best to bite the bullet and go through with this.

We have a strange gig Sunday at some Rotary club thing. I like to play so I will, but for various reasons I have a feeling I am not that much on the same page with this group of roto heads. It will be OK.

After that, I'm almost back to my normal slack self, and I'll be communicado.

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Ballistic Mountain, CA, United States
Like spring on a summer's day


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