A Sunday, no better and no worse

I was about to write to Duncan McGeary and ask him whether he's read the article about Amazon in the New Yorker, but I see that he already read it.

Mrs Elliott is away in the Sandwich Islands. Me, I did stuff today.

WARNING WARNING WARNING 

Sometimes I write just for the pleasure of writing.

Nothing that follows here is worth reading. 

Move along, move along.

Okay, on your head, then.

IN THE COOKING DEPT. The remains of my first-ever smoked duck simmered overnight in the slow-cooker along with carrots and onions and peppercorns and other tasties. This morning I separated everything into three (3) categories: duck meat in a bowl for use on salads; carrots and bones and onion into the trash; the filtered broth into measured Baggies for future stews and soups.

HOUSEHOLD DEPT. The second refrigerator in the garage needed some cleaning. Cat's litter needed changing. Trash and recyclage and glass needed tubbing and hauling to curb for tomorrow's pickup.

IN THE IT DEPT. I did stuff on Mrs Elliott's staff's computers: security and updating and backing up. I wanted to make sure that every computer in the office were supported by healthy battery power supplies -- the things you count on to keep the company and network and phone system running if a falling limb cuts us off from Pacific Power's sweet, sweet electricity. Yep, it's as exciting as it sounds. I'm getting sleepy just reading about it.

IN THE ELECTRONICS TECH DEPT. KPOV's station manager asked me to take a look at one of the digital recorders that hosts can check out to do interviews with folk. The headphone jack on this one was dead. Turns out that there was a loose thingummy inside that needed re-soldering. The Googles showed me that this was a Known Issue with the product, and some kind soul already posted a nice step-by-step "how to fix" page on the Internet. Very helpful!

I actually found this project a fun little challenge. I am no hand with small assembly. The model cars and HO-scale trains I built and painted when I was a kid were nothing to brag about. They looked like the work of a palsied man in his 90s who had severe macular degeneration. But I managed to take the thing apart, effect the repair, reassemble it, and -- wonders of wonders -- find that the thing 1. still worked, and (b) no longer had the dead-headphone problem.

Of course I will never let the station know that I followed published instructions: I prefer than they think I am Really Smart. (No one from the station except Sven and Michael Anthony read this blog. And I know they can be counted on to keep my little secret.)

 IN THE SOUND PRODUCTION DEPT. I did some sweetening of some show promos for KPOV's show, The Point. ("Sweetening" means to make them sound better; "The Point" is a show on weekday mornings from 9 to 9:30. Why am I explaining all this to you? Oh yeah -- because I produce the Friday Point show!! Tune in or listen online at kpov.org. I do Central Oregon's least-professional weathercast.)

That's enough for a Sunday! It is time now to listen to music (Django Django's eponymous album on the hi-fi) and sip some bubbly. Look out the window! the sun is shining, pet the cat, enjoy the day.

(I forgot to title this post . . . )

Mrs Elliott is out of town, visiting family. A friend and I met at Blue Pine Grill last night to listen to the band "Elektrapod." Good band. Guitar, drums (not a busy drummer but solid as a rock -- great snare tone, too), tight bass guitar, percussion, keyboard, and female singer.

Throw in three horn players and tighten up on a few of the songs that got overlong and "jam-y," and they'd be a great club band.

I don't know if the sound system belonged to the house or is the band's, but it didn't do the voices any favors. Muddy, indistinct, and overloaded too easily. Maybe the band can find a sound man.

There were a dozen or so people dancing. My friend leaned over. "Why is it that only 20-year olds can move their asses like that?"

"Don't be an old lech," I explained.

We parted ways at the end of the generously-long first set. It wasn't until after midnight when I finally rolled into bed. I haven't seen the far side of midnight for many, many years.

Today I'm resting up. Making some duck broth in the slow-cooker, planning to barbecue some chicken breasts for dinner. Nice weather today. Quiet, too, with Mrs Elliott out of town.

But hard not to miss her. Last night I found an "I love you" note under my pillow when I went to bed.

One of Them Nothingburger Days

Stuff. Just stuff. 

0630: Cosette (cat) wakes us from outside the bedroom door, politely pointing out that it was high time that we got our lazy asses out of bed and started going about the business of the day. First order: her breakfast granola. Plus petting and praising.

0800: Off to Trader Joe's to stock up on survival essentials (booze and meat) before the predicted snow storm hits.

0900: Call Bob Woodrow, aka "Sven Hardwax," to record tomorrow's ski report. Sven lives high in the Cascades with his wife, Inga. Sven herds reindeer. There are no phones up there so he calls his report in via shortwave. Add shortwave radio sound effects to Sven's report.

0940: Report to Desert Orthopedics to have the stitch taken out of the bottom of my heel. See here to learn why, see here to learn how I managed to miss the first appointment for the procedure.

1030: Return home to find that the garage door no longer closes. Upon examination, I find a roller wheel has come out of its track. I place a large garbage can in the center of the entry so Mrs Elliott won't drive in when she returns from wherever she's been and get in the way. I dick around with the door.

1115: I have completely given up trying to sort out the garage door thing without assistance. Mrs Elliott comes home gripes about not being able to pull into the garage. I explain the problem and employ her as a garage door opener-closer button pusher type assistant so I can demonstrate the problem to her and have her cycle the door so I can see if I can figure out a solution.

1116: "I don't have time for this," she says, "I have people coming over to talk about the web site. You'll have to deal with it."

1117: I called a garage door repair guy. He doesn't have time to come over, but explains how to get the wheel back into the track.

1118 to 1218: Steel tools, like socket wrenches, chilled to subzero temperatures are rough on the hands. But I get the wheel back in the track.

1219: The door opens smoothly.

1220: The door will not close. It moves a few inches then retreats.

1225: Cosette explains that it is high time for lunch.

1523: Mrs Elliott is done with her people, has time to punch the button a few more times while I eyeball the situation again. I can find nothing wrong.

1524: "Call someone," she suggests.

1525: A guy at a different garage door company says that no one is available to help repair the thing there, either, but has me check the little photo-sensing thingies that prevent the door from crushing children. One is blinking red. It's aligned with the other one, they can see each other, but it blinks red. "Hold the button and the door will override the sensors and close," he says. And it does, and it closes. "We'll get someone out tomorrow."

1540: The script for the show needs to be finished, the timing calculated, the final audio bits to be organized. Cosette lays on keyboard.

1541 - 1555: Play with cat. Pet her, praise her, show her that it's too cold to go outside (like 8 degrees out there). She sniffs at the air coming in the open door, shakes herself, goes back to her former activity of laying on my keyboard.

After that, the day is a blur. This might have something to do with one of the bottles of wine I got at Trader Joe's.

I don't believe that I should be allowed out of the house without an escort. And I don't mean an attractive woman dressed in a red dress, pearls, and heels -- I mean without adult supervision.

Let me explain. This morning I had an appointment out at Desert Orthopedics for a trivial bit of minor surgery (stitch removed, see here).

Before going to bed, I made a mental checklist of the things I needed to do to achieve my arrival: (1) take a shower (one does not want to offend in the cramped quarters of a procedure room), (2) drive to nearest gas station to gas up the van (gauge says "very low"), and (3) get to the van early enough to de-ice the windshield so I can get to the place without, you know, actually running into anything.

I took my shower, shaved, got the windshield clear and -- instead of heading westbound to the nearest gas station -- I drove down Portland toward Desert Orthopedics.

I totally forgot about the dire condition of the fuel level.

At the corner of Olney and 3rd, I ran out of gas. I tried to turn right onto 3rd and maybe make it to the Shell station at 3rd and Greenwood, but no. Van died right there in the right lane, right on the corner.

SO THAR I WAS. I tried a couple of times to get the engine started to complete the turn but no.

I called AAA, they dispatched a truck. I called the doctor's office, explained my plight and re-scheduled.

It was cold in the van -- about 25 degrees. I was dressed warmly, so I wasn't suffering.

Other drivers accommodated me: they pulled around me as needed to turn right. One fellow pulled up behind me and honked. I opened the door, walked back to him, gestured toward the four-way flashers blinking on the back of van and mouthed "I'm out of gas," through the window.

His expression said that he got it, felt foolish. He backed up, pulled around me.

A mere ten minutes after I placed my call to AAA, a Consolidated Towing truck showed up. The driver put a gallon of  gas into my van's tank, and the engine started up right away. I proceeded to the nearest gas station and I bought a tankful of delicious, sweet fuel.

I chalk this whole experience up to boneheadery.

Like I say, I need supervision.

Probably Kick My Ass in Arm-Wrestling, too

Mrs Elliott held a movie night over here for some of her lady friends last Friday night.

One of her friends pulled out a flask when she got here, asked for a whisky glass. "Talisker," she explained. Graciously shared some with me. A fine single-malt.

I commented on her excellent taste. Unusual, in a woman, to appreciate such a whisky.

Well, it turns out that last year she and some friends did a walking tour of distilleries on Islay. In 2015 they are returning for a walking tour of Speyside distilleries.

After the film, I said that there was a bit of music in it that I liked. It was not identified in the credits. 

The whisky woman said that surely there was a soundtrack available. I did a brief search and found nothing. She stuck to her guns -- there has to be one, she said.

So I pitched it back in her court, and wagered her a glass of whisky at O'Kane's if she turns up a soundtrack. She asked whether they had good whisky there. I said sure, The Balvenie, for one. "The Balvenie," she sniffed. "A woman's whisky."

Maybe she's too manly for me.

Odd Craigslist Postings, Pt. 2

More fun with Craigslist postings.

An electric toaster oven. "Works great on holidays when you need oven space for more food!" But the rest of the time the damn thing doesn't work at all.
Another: "Free working smoker." He's free. But he smokes. But he has a job! Throw in free delivery and I'll take him.