Thoughts behind the wheel

The grass seed harvest has begun in earnest. There have been a couple field burns as well, although I haven't been out to see where they took place. Going out today.

It is also berry season. Blueberries, varieties of blackberries and raspberries are available at all of the stores and several roadside stands. We are buying them by the flat and freezing those we can't eat now. Our own blackberries are a later variety. Can't wait as they taste very much like what I am used to back home.

Oh, and peaches. Our friends up the road are beginning to pick theirs.

We traded some fruit for photos of their trees.They'll be using the photos to help sell their place. Shame, but now in their mid and late sixties, I can't say I blame them.

Meant to call my Mom today. I heard Illinois got some rain. As the grass farmers here gradually moved out of grass into wheat, hazel nuts and grapes, meaning that those markets will soon be glutted, thousands of acres back home are at best silage. Expect rises in corn, beef, soybeans, swine and chicken commodities. Not that anyone but the traders will be getting rich off of it.

Coming to terms

I have some time to kill while The (Brain) Powers That Be upstairs has her way with my cover letter. Maybe a lot of time.

Josie writes today that she doesn't usually play freeroll poker. Can't say as I blame her for a number of reasons. The style of play alone at some levels of buy-in is stupid, and I have a notion stupid can rub off. Therefore, the transition from the free game to an actual cash game might mean that a player is working at a deficit until a time the cash chops get back up to speed. Free games put a whole new spin on the phrase "recreational player."

Still, when that is all that is available, as it is for this fellow who can not justify dropping a hundo into one of the remaining cash sites, let alone lay out the sixty bucks to play in the monthly home game, and inasmuch as I still seem to have a jones for this game, the free games are where I go at the end of my work day.

There was a time that I considered myself a competent poker player. Trips to Vegas paid for themselves. The irony of this is that I got my chops on a free site, Poker Academy, by playing with the best players of that substantial (12,000 members) community.  Yet, since PA was owned by those shitheads at FTP, those days are gone, which in itself has diminished my skill level. Add to that the above-mentioned issue of fundage, and, well, there you have it: grinding out that which one can't eat. No nutrition in that.

Nevertheless, I hold onto some of the lessons learned and apply them: odds to call, hand selection (sometimes), range of opponents, bankroll management, etc., although I have yet to rid myself of the weak tight handicap that comes with scared money. (Yet another irony considering there are not real financial consequences in play money games.)

Readers may recall that a short while back I made mention of moving up a level in the O-8 game. Doing so only when my roll allowed it (PS has a fixed 50/100 game and then it jumps to 200/400), and hearing  that the competition was not necessarily better, I had high hopes. Not so. After a month or so at this level, I have not improved my roll. Oh, I managed to make a little, but over the course of the last two weeks or so, I am back to where I started.

I'm a little frustrated by this lack of performance. And while I can blame chasers and the river as much as I want, I know deep down that I must ultimately look within. The evidence for this comes when I move back down to 50/100, for it takes little for me to double up. Good for the ego, good for the bankroll, and Thumper tends to stay in his cage.

At 200/400 I found myself considering closing out the site, never to return. It just wasn't worth the aggravation. The struggle of coming to terms with my perceived skill level against the "bad run" just made me want to take up tiddly winks. Or, heaven forbid, read a book, but, even though I knew it would be beneficial, not about O-8.

There are signs: all of my poker books are packed away to make room for books on topics pertinent to my writing; I know where the old PA players have since congregated online but I can't seem to muster the wherewithal to carve out an hour or two earlier in the day when I know there will be full tables. Poker is kicking and screaming not to be moved down even further in my priorities. It cries, "Don't you still love me?"

After having my ass handed to me yet again in the higher-level game last night, I dropped down. The game was easy and the players friendly. Humor could be infused into the chat. There was a French woman at the table, a horrible, losing player, yet we exchanged pleasantries in her native tongue, something I hadn't done since my days at PA. I sent her 2000 chips and won it back from her in a few hands. I had no concerns that my roll might take a hit to such a degree that my ego would suffer. For better or worse as far as my game went, I was comfortable, relaxed. I was enjoying myself.

I went to bed with a bit of a smile, but not before giving that woman another 10K to play with.

There will come a time when my financial situation will improve. I know that I will again return to live, cash tables. Yet, to do so, regardless of how severely my skills have been depleted in Donkeyland, I will have to remember to find ways to keep this game fun.

Not quite the same ol' saw

Well, fuck.

Oh, it's not all that bad. There's no blood, even though it does feel like I'm getting ready to bang my head against the wall.

You see, a guy I know who teaches at a local art school has told me that they're looking for someone to fill a part-time slot this coming semester. And it's a position for which I'm more than qualified. He's even gone as far as to tell the person responsible for finding someone to fill the position that I would make for a great fit.

Now, at this point, putting together a letter, teaching philosophy, CV and references should be a piece of cake. Indeed, it is so easy that I have already done it, of course pending the approval of the wife.

This, despite my friend suggesting that I just send a quick email expressing interest, attach my CV and suggest that we meet for coffee.

Something that casual? Well, there's more to the story that makes me think not.

My friend also said that the person in charge of hiring is already considering candidates, and in fact does not like it when he pushes too hard on someone's behalf.

And never mind that this will be the third time I've sent this person a packet. And did I receive any response from the other two attempts?

So, there's the rub. Or, at least a portion of it, for I'm still licking some wounds from the last concentrated job search. I believe I received rejection letters or emails from about half of the colleges and universities to which I sent my application. That's fine. I understand many are most likely short-staffed. But what really frosts my ass is that only two of the schools bothered to look at my website, and even then, neither went much further than the "Welcome" page.

Granted, I have begun psyching myself up for another run at them this fall when job announcements start getting posted. And given that my resume (non-teaching) has gotten a bit deeper with this new writing gig and a couple shows on the horizon for next year, I may stand a better chance of getting an interview, if not a position.

Maybe. Perhaps my talents are better suited for something else.

It's not exactly like pissing in the wind, but it's close.

Meanwhile, all is not lost.

Part of my writing responsibilities for the two online sites to which I contribute is keeping an eye out for comments. Albeit rare, they need to be answered when they do show up. And, as they not only demonstrate that I am not writing into a void, but that people care enough to start a dialogue, I rather enjoy responding.

This week I saw that a column I wrote earlier this month had two comments, both written on the same day. My heart skipped a beat (even though, as you know, that's not unusual) when I saw the name of the first commenter, for I recognized the name immediately.

There is a large art market on this coast but considerably further south than here. The name of the commenter belongs to one of the two most significant arts writers of that area. And his comments were complimentary.

He and I have made plans to meet next time we visit the wife's parents.

First Day

With Trickle Down pretty much in the crapper, I, too, have had to take a shit job. No, not that I think any job is below me, but with certain physical limitations, I have the double dilemma of not having a lot of options while also not being able to be picky.

Fifteen miles further up the canyon is a small town that could very well be considered the edge of civilization for the next seventy miles. Except for the summer vacation town a bit further on filled with hundreds of campers each season before it dies back to a skeleton population after Labor Day, Grist City is pretty much the last place to fill the tank and get a bite of food.

Grist City has three gas stations, four restaurants, five bars and three convenience stores. Of those, only two of each are not boarded up. The two-lane highway constitutes the main drag through town, but my place of employment is not on it, Instead, it sits on the edge of town on the back road the locals take between Grist City and the town I live in. The place I work at is a combination of all four of the above-mentioned businesses, plus a section they call the "Pet Store."

I am told the building used to be a mechanic's shed in which vehicles were serviced for a now-defunct lumber company (two remain, out of twelve). As such, it is not all that surprising to find that the two gas pumps are inside: one for diesel (taxed grade) and one for 87 octane gas. The lane to the pumps are blocked by saw horses until a customer pulls in, at which time the blockades are moved to create a lane through the restaurant seating area so the cars can exit through another bay door.

That's right.

The restaurant, as one might glean, is a rather casual affair, and is combined with the convenience store. The food, for the most part, is fried or pre-wrapped and stored in a glass-front cooler. While one has to point to the hot stuff one would like to eat, the refrigerated foodstuffs are self-serve. There are three laminated wood booths along a bank of windows looking out onto the road and parking, and two "deuces" a little deeper into the room and on the other side of the traffic lane. The chairs for this seating are white plastic, and between them is a 14-inch square box painted with a off-white enamel. All show their age, with cigarette burns in both the seats and table tops.

The restaurant, and therefore the gas station, permits smoking.

The pet store is in the next room. Access to it is either through the restaurant or the bar. Yet, to say that it is a room is a bit inaccurate. It is more a bay, no doubt used earlier for vehicle repair. There are no shelves, per se, as most of what is sold is large bags of cat and dog food, and cat litter. The bags of what the pet store/restaurant/gas station/bar manager (more on her in a sec) call the "cheap stuff" are left on the skids on which they arrive. The fancier brands, as there are fewer of these, are displayed in old, unplugged produce coolers. Dog biscuits, animal toys and the like are put on a wire structure that looks like it might have at one time displayed videos.

I have not ventured into the bar, yet I understand that I am eligible to work as a bartender after two months, and until then, I might be called on to carry cases of beer in on busy days, and certainly required to clean the adjacent bathrooms. You see, when hired, one is expected to work in all four sections and perform all aspects of those jobs, none of which require any more brain power than to do the simplest arithmetic.

No doubt, there are many who could fill the position I have taken, and I must say I'm a bit surprised that I was hired at all. Yet, I will admit to altering my diction during the interview. No resume was required, and my sole reference was a guy I know from my monthly poker game who is occasionally visits the bar on his way home from work.

Orientation was minimal and completed fairly fast, as I am familiar with the operation of a gas pump. deep fryer and cash register, I was not shown into the bar, and in the two hours it took to be show me the ropes, there was not a single customer. When completed, the manager, Delia, told me to get myself a soda from the fountain (heavy water glasses instead of paper cups, although I had not seen a restaurant-style dishwasher and the food was served on foam plates), have a seat in a booth and she'd be back to get me in a bit.

There were four of us on duty: Delia handled the food; Josh, a younger guy with a perpetual smirk about my height but sixty pounds heavier, manned the pumps; I did see a guy with a beard behind the bar from the hallway that led into that room; and, for my first day, I was to work the pet store. Yet, as I mentioned, there was a rotation of duties depending on the situation, so I expected to be called to pump or serve at some point as well.

"Except Josh," Delia said. "He works the pumps and that's it."

So, I sat and waited. I had a smoke, poured myself another coke, and eventually had to use the john.

I will not go into detail about the maintenance or cleanliness of the facilities. I can tell you, however, that there was hot water, a bottle of dish soap (mystery solved!), a roll of paper towels, and Delia's name had been scratched through a number of places.

Delia was waiting for me when I came out. She appeared to have been in a hurry to place herself "just so," which did give me pause, but I'd prefer not to go there.

"I have your schedule for this month."

Although I am often loathe to describe a person's physical attributes when relating something about their character, I suppose I can do so as long as there is an understanding that I do not, as a rule, equate the two. Delia appeared to be in her late twenties, although she may have been no more than twenty-one years of age. She had dirty blonde hair cut in what might be described as a long shag, not quite a mullet. She was slender in build, dressed in jeans with silver designs on the back pockets and those bleached-out stress marks one sees on a lot of new jeans these days. Her beige t-shirt had a small hole on the left shoulder but was otherwise clean. For shoes, she wore Romeos, the shoe of choice out here for folks who are engaged in heavier forms of labor. She was not unattractive but her demeanor seemed to lack any trace of a sense of humor, which worked to her disadvantage. She did not wear a ring.

"You'll be working Saturdays from eight to five. And then I'll need you an hour on Tuesdays and Fridays."

"That's it?"

"That's all I can give ya right now. Maybe more later. We'll see."

"Heck, driving back and forth is gonna eat up most of that in gas. $87 ain't much worth it."

"$87? How ya figure?"

"Well, ten hours of work, give or take, at $8.70, the minimum wage."

"Three-sixty."

"What?"

"Three dollars and sixty cents. You have to make the rest in tips. We're a restaurant."

"That's not what the ad said."

"I didn't place the ad, so I can't help ya there. The boss says three-sixty."

"I don't know... I'm gonna to have to think on this a bit."

"Well, take your time. We ain't busy, so go on and finish your soda and then meet me in the pet store."

I was in shock. I needed a job. I needed some additional income, but how the hell was this going to help? I walked back toward the restaurant area.

My soda and cigarettes were not in the booth where I had left them.

"Josh, seen my soda and smokes?"

"Over there." He pointed to one of the deuces.

On the box sat a broken glass, still wet, a glass half-full of Coke with very melted ice in it, and my pack of smokes, now emptied of most of its contents.

"What the hell, Josh?"

He walked over. "I broke your glass moving it so I poured you a new one?" 

"You mean you poured it into a new glass. There glass shards in that Coke?"

He smiled big, picked up the glass of soda and tossed it over his shoulder, the glass shattering on the concrete floor. "Well, then, we'll just get you another one!"

To everything

First of all, the review.

It has occurred to me that keeping a blog for the last four years or so has helped in this new endeavor. First, practice, and Lord knows I needed it, and continue to need it. Second, voice, which is a lot more complicated and difficult than it may seem. Third, both have bolstered my confidence.

And don't for a minute think I have forgotten you, my dear readers, as disparate a bunch as there ever was, except for that infernal game of ours. You, who have stuck with me on this journey.

Admittedly, suspecting that the piece would be published today, I hung around inside waiting so that I could do the social media thing with it. I'm glad it happened sooner than later, even though I would have surely, eventually pulled myself away, for I did not want today to be a repeat of yesterday, and spend most of it inside.

There was mowing to be done.

I'm almost embarrassed to say mention that we've been getting rain, what with most of the country in a severe drought. Thunderstorms rolled through last night and will most likely come again tonight, although much of what is headed our way is stopping at the mountains. There is flooding on the east side of the Cascades, which is most unusual this time of year. Anytime, actually.

Despite last night's moisture, the grass was sufficiently dry by noon. I knocked out the two acres in about as many hours and turned my sight to other chores, namely bush-hogging some tall grass laced with thistles and spraying yet more thistle in another paddock we've been letting the neighbor's llamas take down a bit.

This paddock, the same one in which we had a garden last year, was overrun by thistles. After the llamas had done their business, I was shocked to see just how many there were, especially after I had worked so hard last year to keep them at bay. Needless to say, the llamas won't be going back in there for a few days.

While spraying, I noticed quite a few potato plant volunteers. I find this rather exciting, for we didn't plant anything this year (doctor's orders... or rather, warning). I believe I might do a little digging this weekend. And look for tomato volunteers while I'm at it.

Digging. The mowing I have been doing the last couple of weeks has exposed a dozen or more places where gophers are foraging. Yes, I'll be digging to place traps.

Tunneling. I have another story, but it'll have to wait because I want to include some photos.

A year ago today, bastin went blogless.

Notice

Another essay under the belt. Just a bit of playful pontification that may or may not hackle. I'd prefer cackle and then a bit of head-nodding. I'll link when it's up.

The writing, and now a persistent sinus thingy have pretty much kept me in the dungeon. Otherwise, I'd attempt something entertaining here. I do have a photo.

Although there is potential for this new series, a few problems persist. Where color is concerned, the camera seems to prefer the flora over the plastic. Likewise, the surface of the flags makes the contrast untenable. And while conceptually the stark differences might be suggestive, I would prefer an overall softness... or maybe blending. I would try shooting in a softer light except I already have done so with similar results.

Speaking of light, I have made a special note to not leave the flags outside. Four days of indirect sun still begins to bleach out the red ones. 

I have what I believe to be some good ideas for this work, especially when I move into the woods and fields, so I'll keep trying to figure out what I need to adjust.

And speaking of the dungeon, you will have to pardon me, for I've become acutely aware of the build-up of paper: notes, receipts, magazine, flyers and postcards that really should be cleaned up, put away or tossed before I do anything else... or rather, before the wife makes her way down here. She's due shortly.

I'll take it

Geez, I hope I don't jinx this.

First off, let me say that I'm getting nowhere playing the higher limits in O8.  It's a nit fest and I don't have the patience right now. Oh, I could go on at length about what I'm doing right and wrong, but frankly, you guys already know this shit inside and out, so why bother?

What you don't know is that my exhibit in Salem, MA has been 86ed. I rather expected this as the guy who wanted to show my work has been doing other things besides finding a new space for his venture. We finally talked about it yesterday, and I'm okay with it because I don't need to go off half-cocked at my age. If I am going to have an exhibit, it has to be done right.

Not that this guy is a... what's the phrase that dame uses... Douche bunt? No, he's a muckety-muck, which means he prioritizes based on what he thinks is more productive for all concerned, including himself... and me.

He's making it right.

First thing he said was that he knows the local art museum curator is interested in my work, so he's going to pitch the show to him. It's already in the mail on a CD.

We'll see. And in that it's a bit of a long shot, it's better to move on to the best part.

This same guy wrote me this evening to ask if I still had a video piece I did in 2000. He's curating a show and wants to use it. He mentioned two other artists who have confirmed participation: this painter and this photographer.

Now, I've known this guy for a long time. Long enough to know that he owns a couple pieces of work by the latter artist. And, if he owns something by the former, well then, I'm fucking impressed. Still, there's a bit of a taint that I'll have to ask about, for if he is just showing work he owns, well then again, it just ain't as special as it could be, regardless of the esteem in which I hold the Japanese guy.  Could be I'll be riding the coattails of a dissolution of part of a private collection.

Still, what isn't smoke and mirrors?

And still, who the fuck wouldn't want to be shown alongside these two GIANTS?

We'll see.

Test

Here's the idea: It's very formal in arrangement, precise, even, if such a thing were subjectively possible, and hinges on a subtle simplicity that is color theory.

So far, the camera hates it. I'll futz until... 

I just wish I would have started earlier this year as very little will be blooming during the upcoming dry spell.

And field burning season will start soon.

New review

If you're so inclined, you can read it here.  'Nother almost finished.

Here's the other one.

Folly

It's hayin' time and the grass seed farmers have started windrowing as well. I've waited until I saw these signs to mow my paddocks, figuring that the heads of grass seed might stand a chance of competing with the thistles, brambles and tansy.

I overstate. I've done a fairly good job of eradicating the thistles and briars, and hit the tansy before I left for Illinois. Yet, I was surprised at the amount of the latter remaining in the fields upon my return. The bushhog took care of a fair amount Saturday and today, leaving some close to the fence rows where I dared not tread with tires and a blade, for it has been my habit to lay the 3-inch aluminum irrigation pipes close in, and with the overgrowth it is difficult to see — and even more difficult to remember — where they lay.

Of course, some were further from the fence than I anticipated and lost two pipes and one sprinkler head.

But back to the tansy. I will spray tomorrow.

It does not help that the two neighbors to my east do not tend their fields for invasive species of plants, for as thorough and diligent as I can be, drift and birds bring more for the next year. Mind you, I know I miss a few myself, and the seeds can remain viable for years. The gophers till the soil very well, which helps... the plants, not me in the battle. And yes, the terrain is hilly.

But this year I noticed a good deal more Tansy Moths than the previous few, which meant I would have some much-needed assistance. Except... Even though the moths still flutter about, I see precious few larvae atop the flowering plants. And I can't wait to see if more show.

So, I mow, no doubt killing comrades. Now, if the mowing killed the plants, I'd accept the trade off, but pernicious is perennial, and shortened, harder to detect when a second flowering occurs too late for the moths to lay more eggs and therefore for caterpillars to do any good. My best hope is that the plants that have been mowed will come back stronger and earlier next year so that I can nip them, you know, in the bud.

A little pun to keep me from going mad.

The mowing also gave me an idea of the number of voles hiding in the grass. Quite a few. Good thing the crows know what mowing brings for them. While content with injured grasshoppers, they caw with excitement when chasing down the rodents.

The two barn owls will have an easier time of it as well.

In related news, something has made a home under the pump house and something else is insistent at digging out the gravel I have put at the corner of a barn door. 

Time to increase patrols.

Details to attend

Mom looking at family photo album. 

The picture in the lower left is her in college.

 "Do you remember where you were a week ago today?" the wife asked. We were eating a latish dinner in front of the tube, something routine for us.

"Walking around my hometown. And it wasn't too much later than what it is now when I took that piss I told you about."

"Where was your sister while this was going on?"

"About twenty feet away, hiding in the shadows."

"People were home?"

"Yep."

Turns out another sister used to work with the current owner. Small town, even though it has a population four times larger than when I lived there thirty-five years ago.

But that's all behind me now... at least for now, for I imagine there will be other funerals and the church lunches afterward that I'll feel obligated to attend.

Speaking of obligations, I'm in the middle of several, some involving promises made to kin last week, some to pay bills, and others simply known as "chores," all of which have kept me from posting.

I believe I owe you, at the very least, a photo dump.

Dunno.

The uncle who is still living.

Luncheon

Sister's house

Bank-owned development

I slept in the Princess Room.

What close to crop failure looks like.

What ostentation looks like.

Rest

I'm waiting for the Benadryl to kick in so I can get some sleep. I head home tomorrow.

So much to digest, for this has been my first trip back in three years. I reconnected with sisters, an effort I began with birthdays cards to each. Under cover of night, I took a piss in the backyard of my childhood home. I visited my brother's grave with my mother. People have gotten older, and the older have become more frail. I have seen a glimpse of what my next ten years of life will involve.

The wife will be waiting for me at the airport. We have talked every day so that is out of the way, more or less. Chores await, as do three writing assignments. Life will return to normal, at least that is my hope. A pipe dream, really, for I don't suppose "out of sight and out of mind" is going to be possible any longer.

There will be pictures, I promise. And probably more than you care to know. It runs in the family.

Yep.... Yep.....

Still plenty hot and muggy with talk of a stray thunderstorm tonight. Saw a good one up North today, watching from the back porch as it approached and made a mental note there was a photo to be had in the storage facility yard once the clouds parted. But we were saying goodbyes before that could happen, so I took my chances across the open ground.

Drove back to Mom's in socks.

I'd show you the photo, except I left my cable for uploading back home. So now, for many other reasons as well, I'm counting the days.

Uncle: M's finished her book.

Me: How many rewrites did she do?

A blank stare. My Aunt gave me a wink.

I've read the PR and I can tell you that the set-up and justification is fabricated, just like a good tell-all should be.

Otherwise, this trip has so far been profound on more levels than I have the energy to spell out right now, but cloud bursts seem fitting.

My camera's card is full and the mosquitoes are out.