The Coffee Guy's blog

Dentists, Dentes, Redemption, and Resurrection

The art of oral eradication of one or more Dente, requires a finesse I could not muster.  I can at the best hold my own in the chair.  The pleasantries and patter are not enough for my nature. 

I have unsewn, unstitched and pulled all but two of the sutures threaded into my outer membrane.  Thankfully these most recent are dissolvable.  Using a mirror to pull them is an unforgivable experience.  I did 18 once.

In modern times these are specialists.   In those of yore, they were masters of none.  The apothecarist was also the extractor, barrister, and trader.  Today they do not allow the alcoholic daze to numb the gums.  Its swabs, or needles, or a gaseous substance, to make you as unaware as you can afford. 

I recall as a child pulling quills from the Porky Pine out of our dog’s snout.  We used ether in a bread bag over his head at first.  He awoke no the wiser; he did it again.  Ah the bush life.  Our current social porosity allows for the exemption of these tribulations.  We manifest our lives bisected into private and personal.  Wouldst I post a pic?  Would I describe in detail, adjure your comment and pixelization of my subjugation to pain?  NOPE!

We have deemed the necessary as unimportant and the trite as indispensable.  The cross pollination of these ideas has become the flowers of our lives.  The crop shorn short, the lowest common denominator.  The global calculation of our existence depends on the smallest clue. 

With the flourishing development of more and less interesting ways of excelling and exceeding expectations.  Great Expectations is a tome.  Our expectations are a snippet.

Disembogue the filtered nectar destiny, I like the flow.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C., Cee Minus.

Cee Minus Days are Here

Cee (pronounced “see”) is a referent to the type of virus infecting the orb.  We have had enough information.  It is time to ween ourselves and the media off the feeding tube of this ovine teat.  As we are in the days of A.C. it will be hard to explain: as well there is still a substantial part of the vox populi to quote Bob Segarini that have not yet subscribed.

In the olde weekly format, we will have one day in seven on which we hear no Cee News, information, statistics, or rants.  This will prevail for four rotations of the seven-day periods.  Following the four weeks of one Cee Minus days, we will transition into 2 Cee Minus days for the next 4 seven day cycles.

As you can observe, there is a progression here.  If you cannot see this, perhaps you can start at the beginning again and catch up.  Following the second four-week cycle of 2 Cee minus days, we will progress to 3 full Cee Minus days in every seven-day cycle. And as before, it will continue for 4 seven day-cycles.

The weening process has always been hard, and there will be casualties.  Social media will falter and sputter.  News agencies will have to bring back sessions promoted by soap ads.  Pundits will need to finds substantive issues to blather on about.  Politicians will now be able to get back to the job of governing without the incessant daily press conferences.  The masses can get back to work, shopping, dining, and entertainment.

The unemployed and the unemployable can get back to work.  Travel will arise from the miasma.  Your personal and outward demeanor will flourish like a flower in the spring.  Purpose will return to your cognition, allowing creativity and freedom.  The corporate big wigs can move on in confidence that economic growth is here again.

This is a simple program people, get behind it, and move on.  In a mere 200 days, (we will be nearing A.C. 800 then) we can perhaps ring in the new millennium A.C. 1000 completely Cee Minus.

Celebrate the Coffee Caren, it’s a pouring day.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C., Cee Minus.

In the Wet it Get About as Wet as I Can Get

"Now its raining cats and dogs and I can’t stand croaking frogs."  I know it’s a need for the roots, but I don’t gots no roots.  I just want the crisp cool nights and warm days of fall.  Bring on the colour, bring on the leaves.  No bug rakes needed at this juncture.

Weltern movements wishing washing was easier.  It’s not the notion of the motion it’s the Quaking of the quiver.  The hunt should be nigh over and the stores and larder full.  We bliss with behaviours not regulated by the flourish of the shortened days and darker nights.  Fuel Foraging will begin soon, 8 or 9 bushies should do it.  It’s the outside fire that uses up a lot of the fibrous material, no Damper, no Billie to boil.  Those down-under understand.

But the stock of that amber and yellow liquid builds for those relaxing meditative days and nights by the flame.  Insides warmed by that nectar and the outside soothed by the glow of the burn.  Of days in the fine cosmopolis of Hespeler on the Speed we are banned from the burn, but confidence reigns supreme.  Fire it is, by the ice.

Builds in the garage trudge ahead in await of open roads and venues.  I do have an ice option as well.  I may be employed, it may not. No diff to this dude.  I can ride or not in the cold, is a coulda shoulda thing.  Oft presented options for the ride develop and wane. We have been through this season before.

Western norms make this a time for that orange gourd to rear its ugly flavoured head in brews and baked goods.  Be wary my fledglings, it is an abomination.  You can check the Ferris listing in this medium for a factual analysis.  The atomic half-life is eons, tested and proved.  Never eat anything that lasts that long or doesn’t have that colour in nature.

Fortitude is needed to feast one’s way through the cold times.  The vertical descent on slats will resume again this winter.  Steep, Deep, and Trees is the mantra.  Muggles away, and child pollution at a minimum.  Mostly mired in moguls, many miss the serenity and challenge of the aforementioned terrains.

Projects will abound inside through the colder months, however stimulus if brought in from the cold.  That clarity that comes with the dry air cleanses the mind easily.  We have nothing but a large dark coloured bang to thank for the orbs turn and tilt.  The variety in climes as a dream of the imaginary sky friend to some.  Could it be so distinct, could the thought be that clear, the precision alone is startling.

I posit the world spins positively.  The upside of the downside moving up and up side moving down is uplifting.  Only an atom of a chance in hades could bring the primordial soup to this conclusion.

Make it a Scotch Shot Coffee today Clariss.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C.

Jogging has Jagged and it is not Joyful

1970 and it all began, sweaty multi coloured head bands that had no ulterior meanings, Sweaty wristbands that matched, leggings, matchy matchy outfits, white running shoes, spry high kneed jogging, and then the Walkman.

What we have now, are shabbily dressed, down trodden looking, sour faced, LED illuminated, phone chatting, feet dragging sloths which purport to be jogging.  Let me explain the Olympic definition which defines walking form running; running which takes in all forms of ambulation faster than a walk.  To Run; BOTH feet must be off the ground at the same time between strides.  If both feet are not off the ground at the same time between trods, you are walking.

This is what our day and age as become.  Sloth like.  And as we know, sloth is one of the seven deadly ones.   The noun.  As in indolence and being in a state of sloth.  Glum trodders rapidly scurrying along, giving off the idea that they might be jogging, as they converse on their device, either in hand or strapped like a blood pressure band to their arm.  One draggy foot plopping in front of the next still on the ground.

This is not jogging, running, expediting oneself quickly, scurrying, or any other form of humanoid quick propulsion.  This is Dragging Your Ass around the neighbourhood trying to look healthy while your demeanor gives you away.   If you like it, smile while you are doing it.  If you like it, put some pizzaz in your step.  If you are enjoying yourself, put some pop in your plodding.

Oh for the days when Jogging inspired the 20 Minute Work Out on TV.

Make a Macchiato Maria, I need some cream.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C.

Sap Sucking Super Sugar Day

It has been time in the making waiting for tapping.  It is neigh.  With a double capacity tree, we will be maxing out on the gallonage.  In the southern urban areas, the season is short.  If time permits, I might even do some offing with cellulose fuel.   Maybe just finishing off.

Back at the ole stead we tapped 40 with 100 buckets.  Had some good times drawing and boiling.  Warm sunny spring days, cool nights just below freezing.  Crusty mornings and slushy afternoons.  Ideal for the running of the drops.  Each bucket 2 gallons, good days we would empty twice a day.  You do the math this time.

With guests and the buttered rum and Glühwein flowing time passed pleasantly.  We would ski the X country style and shoe the snow style.  In the mornings the snow was hard enough to walk on.  Times were hard and soft.  Fire burning endlessly.

The sweet nectar reduced by 40, thick and sticky when poured on the snow.  Great on toast, pancakes, cereal or desserts.  The home stuff always tasted better.  And we used to grade it with a chart long gone now unfortunately.  The farmer down the road hosted the Lion’s pancake breakfast at his bush, hundreds would show up for pancakes and sausage outside in the sunny March days.

We would oft walk there the two miles to avoid the soft shoulder parking which always sucked in a few cars from the townies.  You live on a gravel road; you know you never drive near a shoulder in the spring.   Facts be as they are, we never drove near the side at any time of year.  Just a thing.  Spring would rise some corduroy up through the gravel to be graded over later in the thaw.

The budding out would end the boil off.  Tart tasting sap only produces similarly flavoured syrup.  You can’t take the tase out, you can only strengthen it.  Will be fun for the Covid Spring, and hopefully less violent that the Arab one.

Add a little sweet today Cinthia, the French roast needs it.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C.

Visits Vanquished Vacancies in Various Venues

You cannot visit veritably, or in virtuallity any way but virtually.  We cannot be two meters, and still be close, unless of course if you are in a black hole or two celestial bodies. 

Body me this, when we started on this virus venture, virtually all people stayed apart.  Now as I occasion the groceteria, people summarily come very close to me to my continued retort, “too close!”.  Do you not understand distance?  It is height, laterally.  If your height is more than your feet away from me, then get back. 

Do people really no know the difference between then and now?   Then, most knew.  Now, few understand.  There should be no browsing for blouses.  Get in, get out!   Don’t tell me you are just out and about for some casual experiences.

Compound this lack of understanding with the utter lack of concern for cleanliness, you have fewer ideas than an oak tree.   You walk in, sanitize your hands, wear no gloves, then half way through your browser episode, you answer the phone and check for messages on your various applets after opening doors, touching products, and gadding about.  Back to the cash and you use cash!

Out to the car you go, sanitizing on the way out again, touching the carts and bags again, only to check your filthy phone again before touching your keys and car parts.

Let me get you straight. Don’t touch anything with anything with which you will be touching things later.  This is called cross contamination!  You know who you are, think.  And as one of my faves once said, “People would sooner die than think, and most often do” Thank you Bertrand.

You cannot do one thing.  You must do all things.

Dip me a donut Delores, need some starch with my Java today.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C.

Curbing Corona Carefully Creates Challenges

Sos’a we all know my opining is off the charts at times.  My issue in these chronic Corona times is with the graphs and charts people find, create, source, or further.  Data is Dangerous without understanding. Numbers are nasty if you the source or the reason is nefarious.

People assume that if “WHO” or “John” Hopkins” is somewhere on a chart, that the said depiction is accurate and defendable.  Au Contraire mon ami!  The use of an accredited source simply stuck on some information does not always accredit the information.  Information can be acquired from a source then manipulated to the user’s delight.

There are numbers, then there are numbers.  On one extreme you have the naysayers, and on the other extreme you have the Vox Populi telling you the sky is falling.  What we don’t have are coherent, thought out informative numbers breaking down infection by socio-economic strata, age breakdowns, delineation by income and country,  guided statistics by travel habits and travel destinations, information based on health systems and availability of health services.  Cumulative data based on education and occupation.

Those and others are useful breakdowns.  Raw numbers are useless at worst, and dangerous at best.  In the beginning we all wanted the numbers, or at least the “media” called for them.  Given said numbers they all went off and either called foul or pheasant.  None of which had any import on behavior or informing.

One would hope that in the end, we will get the proper analysis, probably from some Grad student who will write a Thesis which after peer review will be stuck in a Journal and never read again.  Sadly, this is how information is digested.   Moronically, this is how “The Media” and “People” will regale and revel in the aftermath.

I have used one mantra in my existence through these times. FATTOM.

All micro organisms need these to exist and procreate.  They require a Food source, They require the proper Acidity.  They Require the requisite Time and Temperature for existence. They will all require some form or limit of Oxygen, and finally they will need some limit of Moisture.

Period.

Make your existence aware of their necessities and you can keep your sanity for another day.  Live by this and you will be safe in my humble opinion.

I like the pour to be hot Harriet, Pour fast and stop clean.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C

There is no PC in an AC World, Power of the People

There is now a new time reference. You heard it here first. It will be common to say things like, "in the days P.C., we would do such and such." Or perhaps "It's not been done A.C. like it was done P.C." The new terms of course refer to Pre-Covid, and After-Covid. This will be the norm. You read it here first!

Why this is important, the last date reference was based on a death, and an un substantiated resurrection. Now too will the death and resurrection be the standard. Its just as well, I am tired of so many numbers in the dates. Oh yeah there will be a few issues like all the spaces on cheques and computer forms for the date.

On the up side, I can use a bit of 001 in my life. We will all be number 1. Might even drop the whole Gregorian month thing and just use the number of the day of the year. Easy peasy. We are used to it now as we are all counting days of confinement. Just carry on down the number.

So here 26 A.C. I scribble my musings mostly mistakenly on my Motherboard. Posing postulations post haste. Today to sanitize or sort old photos. Both boring, both time consuming, both satisfying. As Time Banking has not yet caught on, (see the post on this blog), this may in fact be a time to pick up that gavel and bash on the international time system. Atomic clocks be damned.

Have any of you visited on of the three sites on the orb that distribute the international time signal? I have. The array of antennae is immense, each site has three atomic clocks that transmit the “exact” time. Set up to operate in perpetuity. Generators, back-ups of back-ups. We could toss this whole system A.C..

Even though the irritating world dominance of OLD time systems. We are at a possible cusp of change. No bicuspid for me.

Cherish that grind Crisinda, I like it dark and swirling.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C

Everything The Same, Is Different

Sosa’ we all travel, or at least I hope you do. We do. The old Novem double hockey sticks apparently changed everything. If it wasn’t secure, we bolted it down to the extreme. Well at least for a week or so. Then the standards came out and every two-bit aviation authority took to the business of interpretation.

Nobody stepped in. We all stepped out.

Now these places have some stepping sideways, into scanners, up to wands, over to the side please, turning around? and sundry other contortions concocted at the willy nilly of these acrobatic security passels.

My fave of late is the four S. Basically, means you don’t have to disrobe and they scootch you past all the other security measures and they swab you almost everywhere to the extent that you had of wish you just passed a load. Then the authoritarians lay gobs of red ink on your boarding pass which only means you are untouchable from here on in.

Been four S’ed twice. Look for it at your local security stop next time.

As I said, we travel a lot.

The procedure almost coterminous to the four S is the shoe and belt routine. Now as you know, I am a bit of a stickler for the Sketchlers. Why? A cuzzin’ they pass the metal detectors like a good swoosh. Yup, in all of the techy detechers, I have never been beeped with a Sketcher.

And the belt? Well I know that my Brass buckle up will not spool off the wizards in their alchemy. Well some want it on, some ant it off, some want it in a separate bin, some want it with the coat and shoe or shoes, some want it with the devices, some not. GET IT STRAIGHT!

One good purveyor of procedure told my darling that it was us the Canadian who are the cause of all this fracas. Whhaaat? I don’t recall. Memory is a funny thing like some bones. So now we are trained to not know what to do at any one or another security interruption.

Sosa’ the slow down begins. First what to don or un-don, then we have un-donned too much and have to don agin. My devices need to be flat and separate, no you can leave them in your bag, go from two bins to one, where do I put the empty one, Stand how? Can I walk now? Oops go back. Never walk back. Lift your arms, not that high. Turn around all the way, lift your shirt, can you feel this? Do you have any metal? Really? Inside or out? Why doesn’t stainless-steel set these things off? Nobody ever thought of making a stainless-steel shooter?

Whhaaat?

So here we are in a state of comprehensive security standardized across the orb.

Not.

One.

The same.

Get it straight folks, either the baddies know what you are doing, or you are not secure. Why is it that some places are worried about shoe bombers, and others are not? Why are some metals tested for and others not? Why don’t we all go through that body scanner, change, keys, phones in our pockets, belts on, the whole kit and caboodle? Give it up.

Scan this Shirley, in need a smooth Sumatran this morning.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019

 

Paint Plotted and a’Plied

Sos'a I get onto the interweb thingy and suss out the Winter Camo stylings. Seems simple enough for something searched. I go and procure the appropriate tints and tanks of paint. Yeah well……..

So, you kinda might opine that I like to try it myself. Have done a lot of things two, three, and some times four or five times over. This was not one of them. Came enamoured with the first enamel. Then the second and third.

Assembly was next, just checking looks and lurks. You will never see this baby in the Winter. It’s Camo. What would be the point if you could see it? This is a point I ponder periodically about the attire of persons in said clothing. How do they sell it if you can’t see it? How do you buy it? Is it already Camo? Where do you find it in the closet? Is it all tactile? Hyper temperate sensitive? Now there is a concept. Clothing that changes colour based on your surroundings. I bet the army has this detritus already.

So onward and alongside, I picked out pipes and putters this week, then to mock and Slade the Scrambler system. Farings will hopefully fare well at the same time for sure. More paint, a little slosh and wash, could be ready early, well I never said that out loud.

Just a short teaser to keep you in the loop.

Froth that Forty Weight Phillip, Baby it’s Cold out there.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019