The Coffee Guy's blog

Dungarees Diligently Distinguish the Desired

Revisiting is not the norm, however repetition can both be comical and a reminder.  All blues are not the same, some are light, some are dark and some make you cry.  Thought is the origin, not the result.

From whence cometh the cotton habiliments?  Leg worn and knee scuffed, true or actuated dyes worn thin through ardour.  Truth be known, there is only one true.  The one which fits each time, the one that shapes as known, the one that wears as belief, the one that has proven to be “the” one.

Passing judgement is a tough course.  You have to have the resolve and steadfastness to be believed and followed.  Inner knowledge can be swayed as fashions trend here and there.  Fro and to with the likes of Parisian critics pining to be on the inside.  No, my statements were true before and hold water in the watered-down world of the 24-hour news cycle.

Cycles on and circuitous arguments for others pale by distinction not only because of weak premises, bet because seams, zips and button cannot be closed or clothed.  Clotted cream courses my veins at age and the tried never gets tried by courtesans.  Dissagrweemnets I have staved off with fact and fervour.   Fakes and foibles of others cannot budge my belief.  Cogito ergo sum.

Let the Levis rest Lannah, I need a dark espresso 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., Cee Minus.

With 2 Cats in the Yard, and a Friend

“Life used to be so hard, now everything is easy ‘cause of you.”  Well, “cats” can be just people, and a friend can be a cat.  When Mr. goes stalking, we all look up and attend.  Attendance is not mandatory, obligatory, nor ambulatory.

I ride, some ride in cages.  I cage too but not if the temp is conducive to the ride.  Whilst the heat of summer is not upon us as of yet, I await those days for comfort and the ride.  The bitumen reflects the heat upward washing the view and raising the corn.  Those days of abandon have not met me yet.  There will be more and there won’t be less.

Pandering to the populous is never on my cognitive awareness chart.  I strum a different kind of instrument.  The instrument of justice does not touch me.  But decking can be a relaxing and enjoyable experience with two cats.  Chatter that does not matter waddling it way through topic and tropic.

Those times are the filler in the pillow of life.  Nothing hard and discomforting, no dispute, no discrimination.  Those troubled topics tenor the times with terse remakes best left for the solitude of singularity.  Jabs and jests of jocularity are just what the proffers of betterment have prescribed.  Under orders of course, but not a loop.

Distractions and attractions and actions mused and discussed.  Not subject or Mr. too small or too sly.  Mystery abounds outside.  Inside, just the house. Outside, the rest of the world.  Inquisitiveness and breath waft through the winds of chatter.  The milky miasma of mornings alerted by aromas of Java and the sounds of the city.

Slip in smooth Sonya, no splash.

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.

Vituperous Venting Violates Virtues

Whilst I can use expletives at Will or any other person, it is no my will to wile away the hours with wanton wry comments.  I pursue more puritan platitudes to place my mind at ease.  Definitive speech comes at a cost.  The frontal cortex works harder when the emotive parts of the cranium are at rest.

I could F**k with this and that. Pull up the rest of the seven words you couldn’t say on Television.  Slay the soothe with vernacular from Shakespeare.  Go at the worst of my banes with atrocious verbiage.  But I would rather formulate furtive flailings with flair and elan.

The regression to slang is sighter than the cue.  Even the dreaded text speech the young’ins of you spout and spiel, to be such a schlemiel is not my want. Speech must convey, script is meant to be read and understood.  All that and it needn’t always use the vulgar.

Of course, there are time where a nicely stropped cussing is needed.  Honed and to the point.  The, Less is More, is more important, and brings forth the intimation deeper to the heart of the matter.  It’s the drug of choice for the cranially challenged to browbeat the brethren incessantly with impiety.  Impudence receives nothing from those that need a scolding.

Speak truth to power with clarity.  Your, “How dare you!”s will only spurn disgust and disbelief.  You need to coddle the odd cudgel close to get your conversation heard.  The beaten brow holds not bead on the goal.  The dared, dared not. 

On the global stage the actors wage war on the unwashed.  We are that which we have described ourselves as in speech.  If you want the gold it is bought with honey and honour. The beasts are those that get the blood.  Bastards bleat with unbounded anger at the thought.  Not of the thought of it.

No Vente here Veronica, I prefer a Verona, dark and smooth.

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.

Yen and Yearn for Your Yesterday

When what I did when comes around, I polish off the old and revel in the new.  The platitude, “get back to normal” is in error.  What I yen for is a new day where masks and protocols are not in the mix.  Why would I go back?  Where would I lead me?  I want to break free, to quote a good songster.

They yore of yesteryear will never return except in your yearnings.  Worry not of the past, not of the future, but of what you can control now.  Dr Leo Buscaglia posited this some 35 years ago.  It holds true today.  The coming year will determine following years.  Will things change?  Yes.  Will they be something you know now? No.

The tomorrow of wishers is the fluff filling the interweb thingy with trash.  Trash talking the world away will get you less of the more.  Working your world into what you want will guide you to that which is desired.  We all desire something different.  We all wish for the nought and the hole.  Wish for the torus, not the void.

Substance is that which you can, vapour is untouchable.  Could the secret service use it and find the money?  Nope.  Only consume what you can use, use it wisely.  Only purchase what you can carry, employ, or ply.  Storage lockers around the world belie the folly of the past.  “I though I would.”  “I was going to.”  “I need that.”  Fair estimations of decisions fraught with fallacy.

The future is not going back to “normal”. It has been to long, move along. Move with stealth, determination, and fortitude.  The fray is not to be joined, but to be directed.  Move with earnest tenacious resolve.  This will pull and sway that which you want closer.  Anything less is imprudence. 

In chess, the game, your move is unreturnable.  There is no stale date, no period of limitations, no undo function.  You will survive the board if the process of movement is correct. Your King will fall to folly.  Flake that bark off gently, the tree survives by covering it base.  Scarring and marring will lead to dried out membranes and life loss.

Perked piques my palate Paula, Pour slowly.

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.

Educate and Emulate, Encourage and Enlighten

The term 'education' is the noun form of the verb educate. It comes from the Middle English educaten; coming from the Latin term educare, educatus meaning 'bring up, rear'; linked to educere meaning 'to lead forth' or 'bring out'. The suffix 'ion' refers to a particular action or process. It could also refer to the result of the same.

What the result is, is learning.  As it turns out, from the Middle Dutch leeren, Dutch leren.  Is it by coincidence, nature or nurture that we have a revelation that from information, you can get to knowledge?  Cogito ergo sum.  This does not mean that just because you are here, you know.  It must be either delivered or encouraged to be brought forth from that which has already been given.

From what we give, is what can be gleaned.  Nothing given, nothing gained.  The zero-sum game played here is unnerving at best.  What is it that we should give?  What is it that we are trying to deliver?  Air, water, land, sound, sight, touch, and taste.  All methods of conveyance.  The receiver must be aware there is something on the way; “I sent you something, didn’t you get the tracking number?”.

My German supplier has a subtle way of delivering the tracking number for which I wait endless days, weeks, and months for consummation of the contract.  Here in the instant world of the interweb thingy and Amazonian deliveries, I ponder the image of arrival.  Daily I get no education from this.  Perhaps weekly there comes a smidgeon of Pidgeon droppings of information bringing my level high.

To end the process of education, one needs to lack cognition.  Lacking cognition means you are no longer there.  Dementia proves this wrong.  It’s the delivery method which must change as well as the receiver.  We still orate, “pick up the phone”, “dial the number”, “tape it”, and many other phrases from the past.  No referential exercise to learn this from other than the intention of language.

Intonation and visual clues lead to odd conclusions.  Even in trended linguistic learning occurs on the streets of the virtual world.  We need more people red pilled into the fact we are at A.C. 646!  Keep your distance.

Make it eddy Edith, some movement in my Cuppa would be nice.

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.

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.

In My Garage

It all began with a roundabout drive home through a part of my neighbourhood I don't often go through. Rounding a corner I caught out of the corner of my eye a ”FREE” sign. Always up for something free I backed up in my car and eyed a sign on the side of a motorbike. After the two guys already kicking the tires had confirmed they had to go ask a wife if they could have it. I immediately stated, “Don't bother, I’ll take it”.

I secured the ownership from the guy with it up for grabs and drive the short distance home to tell my wife while she was driving me back to pick up the bike. I pushed it the two blocks home and beamed at my newly acquired ride. I felt like I hit the lottery. I took pictures while my wife wondered what she had just abetted me in bringing home. A 1972 CB350 K4. No pipes, broken side cover, rust dirt, and many other missing or broken parts.

That was the start of a 20 month odyssey into the vintage Asian bike world. With no time on my hands that summer I stored the bike in my shed till November. Dragging the unlikely suspect to my garage I marvelled at all the stuff I hadn’t noticed before. More missing parts, jury rigged parts, and aftermarket changes to the original model. As I had rebuilt four Honda PA50 Mopeds vintages from 1979 to 1982 my first instinct was to strip all the parts down and see what I really had.

Month 3. After pulling the tank and a few other parts, the thought occurred to me that I might have more on my plate than I bargained for. I decided to see if it would actually fire and ensure the engine was in principle in working order. Pouring some gas in the carbs and getting some juice to the starting circuit, I prepared to kick it over. With no pipes or manifolds now on the bike after two kicks I was scared ****less by a roar I had not expected so easily.

Fire shot out of the cylinders and lights came on! I screamed with delight! I ran in a got my wife to film the next blast on our digital cam. It’s still on my Facebook page. I finished the strip in a couple of days setting aside the parts which definitely needed replacement, and listing others I would replace anyhow. Tired but satisfied with work well done. Little did I know of the availability of parts for this bike? Once the bike was stripped and the motor was on a working mount, I started visiting my local Honda dealer. Encouraged and discouraged at the same time. Necessary parts No Longer Available (NLA), many parts still in stock; I started piling up the new parts in a box. The remainder of the bike now in six large boxes with assemblies in zip-lock bags.

My winter challenge would be the motor. First stripping it down and refinishing it. I determined that the tranny or lower part of the motor was fine with only 20,000 miles on it, if the odometer was accurate. The kids went together and bought me vintage rubber for Christmas. Refinishing, buffing, painting all the parts as close to the spec of a new bike. New pistons and many other internal engine parts. By the end of January, the motor was finished and ready for the frame.

Month 5. The frame was sent to a powder coater. While I knew this was not original, I knew the finish and final result would be superior. Now with the motor finished and spring coming soon I started to clean and replace the remainder of the parts. My buffing wheel and solvent well were working overtime. Every night from parts soaking the radiant aroma of solvent permeated the lower half of our house. I really needed the frame so I could determine more fully if I needed more parts.

It took more 5 months. The powder coater had problems with his furnace and delay and threat turned into more delays. In the mean time I amassed the chrome parts needed to be rechromed, and the list of NLA parts grew. I started searching the internet and Ebay. I knew all the vintage and Bike parts dealers in a 200 mile radius and on line. Parts dribbled in. Some were not the original parts and had either to be discarded or resold.

Month 10. Chrome was the easiest. Thank God as I was getting tired and discouraged just looking for parts. With the best parts I had from several sources I delivered the mass of partially restored parts to the chrome shop. The quote was in ($900) and the delivery day set (six weeks exactly). As I continued to wait for the frame and get smaller brackets and parts painted or rebuilt, I also had to start considering the colour painted parts. While I would let any good paint shop work on the gloss black bracket, I wanted a paint job on the forks, tank and side covers to exactly match the showroom. There are many paint shops who said they would do it. Few which would consent to OE paint standards, and none which would do hand painted pin striping.

After the mid to late seventies most of the Asian bikes were using decals for stripes and shapes on their tanks and covers. Mine had to be old enough to need that special touch. Too many shops saying they paint are simply guys wanting to be artists and have no knowledge of the craft of painting. Word passed around, I strolled bike shows and cruise nights. I no longer visited the shops; I simply phoned and asked if they could do the original. Finally, one shop said yes and I brought the pieces by. Another $900 quote and a promise for a completion date in six weeks. I okayed both.

By now I had to pick up the chrome, on time and to the penny of the quote. Like new but with more gleam and depth to the chrome. Techniques have improved vastly. But I still by this time had no frame and a garage full of carefully rebuilt and restored parts and assemblies. I so wanted to put this thing together. I would return and watch the short video of the beast starting up with gas poured down the carbs. More parts from the New Old Stock NOS market, both from dealers who had parts but would not ship out of the United States, and from others who would only deal in Cash or certified cheques, as well as the ubiquitous Ebay account.

The frame shows up and I immediately drop the motor in it. The slick shiny black contrasted with the gleaming silvers of the power plant make me giddy. I slide on the rear fender for more effect. Wow! Startling in its simplicity. Assembly begins in earnest without the painted parts.

While I am relatively able to assess parts and assemblies, I missed the mark on a number of them both in terms of originality as well as extent of rebuilding required. So back to the parts guys and on-line purchases. Over this whole time, I have procured a CD of the micro fiche for my bike so now I know all the exact original part numbers and assembly tricks. I had also found and kept many pictures of various bikes out there, noting wiring, cabling, and tubing routes. I also noted those bikes which were not original and in what way. I could now tell at a glance if a bike was true to form very quickly.

Month 12. Late August the paint is finished and the final assembly happens. Ready to start up and test drive I go over the spec sheet and repair manual for anything I might have missed. Anything out of place or that might be dangerous or unsafe. After all, this bike would go a lot faster than the four Mopeds I had rebuilt. All seemed generally in place. I looked great! A few beauty shots in case the whole thing blew up when I cranked it over.

I fired it up just before a buddy of mine (a Harley owner) dropped by. Up the road one way, back past the other. It died. I coasted home. Fuel or spark? I lay on the ground trying to see what I could be. After a couple of hours, I slinked it back in the garage for an open book examination. I was to emotional out there in public to think this through. With the manual open and gauges and tools nearby, I marched my way through trouble shooting. A blown fuse and the spark advance plate retaining pin out of place stopped me on my test drive.

More checking and more checking I was ready for another ride. The bike started easily and sounded great. Shifted well and pulled like a horse. I was thrilled but it was late in the year now, one week before the Canadian Thanksgiving week end. Oh well there is always next year. But maybe one last ride. I pull out and go shifting into third and the motor just stops. I cruise back the shop and go through the trouble shooting again.

Month 15. Out comes the motor and I strip down the motor. Getting into the cams I discover that the two bolts holding the cam on the shaft have sheared off. 35 years old and they just couldn’t handle loosening and retorquing. To compound the problem the wobble of the cam chain has allowed the chain to chew through the inside of the cylinder casting. A mad scramble for another cylinder block and more cleaning and glass beading. Back on the road briefly before the snow flies.

Little note from a fact page about the bike. “The CB350 was the highest selling Motorcycle in American history, shifting more than 300,000 units in its six-year run. Add the CL350 and SL350 variants and the figure goes to 626,000! The CB350 had a twin cylinder, over-head cam, air cooled engine. It had two carbs, a five-speed gearbox and an electric starter. It proved to be very reliable, even without maintenance. It was truly an 'everyman' motorcycle that appealed to a mass audience. It made 36bhp@10,000rpm, and weighed in at 370lb's.”

Month 20. The spring arrives and I win the best Asian bike at The Canadian Vintage Motorcycle Show. Kudos and stares at cruise nights. Bike of the night at several places. A dream to ride and pulling strong. Would I do it again? You bet! Differently. I would buy all and any new bolts and nuts for any parts being stripped off or rebuilt. I would be more patient and give more lead time for large items like paint and chrome. I would automatically replace all rubber parts. A bigger better buffing machine and a sandblasting area in my garage. In the end I have a vintage bike everyone recognizes. A bike which stops any passerby, and starts many a conversation. The CB350 K4 is a great starter rebuild with many rewards along the way.

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

My Heavy Hiatus Hovers over me like a Humpback

Wales wails about Whaling at this time of year. We in Canada rue the drop in temperature and contemplate hibernation for the nation. I on the alternate appendage, see this change in temperature practice for the apocalypse.

Position yourself as a teaching nation. Ready to accept all comers to the north with zero cold weather skills. We could preach and teach on, Icy road driving, coping with the cold, the diseases that chills bring, warm indoor eating, cold weather sports, snow carving, ice sculpture, shoveling techniques, snow clearing technologies, footwear for ice and snow, cranial protection for both the cold and slippery. The list would be endless.

And you are mostly glaring at the screen pushing buttons in anger,” Its Global Warming, not Colding!” YUP. But hear this out. The global warming will take place about up to about the 45th, not much past that. Puts us in the desirable position of the holiday spot of the future. You heard that right. Do you not think that after 330 days of 100 plus degree heat all year that your vacation will be in the tropics? That you will be searching for that perfect cool spot to put your feet up in?

Canada and its North coast, (yes we have a north coast), will be the holiday playland for most of north and south America. Europeans too will be tired, as most of us are of the fjords by then too. And no matter what the Russians post out there, the majority of people still won’t think of them as serving up good Mongol hospitality.

Nope, we will be come the Mecca of modernity for the wayward worker looking for a nice relaxing beachside resort for their meager two weeks of holiday cheer. Mushing, and sliding, making steam rings with their breath, snow volleyball will develop as a Olympic sport, Quinzhee construction, ice walks on the tops of pressure ridges. All these and more are awaiting the summer holiday revelers. Even that stressful March break period will see party towns like Alert thrive and grow to hip university holiday destinations.

No way MoBay, yessir Kugluktuk. The holiday wear industry will revive the trapping industry. Northern mining will become a tourist attractions offering deep bore underground tours. People will buy prepackaged bits of muskeg to bring home to show their family and set on the mantle like a giant sea conch. Ice will be sold in small liquid nitrogen containers at the airport for those of you who want to bring one home and show off. Boredom eye covers for the long flights will become feature and benefit points for selling trips by many of the new upstart airlines like, Northern Tern Air, Ice Vacations, Cold Comfort Cruises, or Canadian Freeze Dried.

Can is sign some people up for teaching: warm indoor eating?

Who will be the director of: cold weather sports?

We must have an artist who can polish: snow carving?

Of all the art fest types we could get a department of: ice sculpture?

Definitely the government would have to lead the: shoveling techniques division. Universities could teach and develop: snow clearing technology.

Business leaders could be given grants to invest in: footwear for ice and snow.

Hospitals can work together with Universities to bring up to speed, cranial protection for both the cold and slippery.

Slip the java into the mug snugly sister, 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.

Up s the Down Side of Delivery

If ever you neve need to know that which is unknown, then don’t.  USPS or anything other than the UP Service.  In My Opinion these “people” need to take a read form the basic customer service booklette.  The “ette” because I’sa knows that the whole enchilada would be way too verbose for such weenies.

40 bucks is too dangerous for them to carry.  But alas they do not carry mobile Chargex machines either!  On no!.  Your neighbourhood may be too dangerous for their ilk. Oh yeah, I am in downtown while bread Splitlip nowhere.  Waaaay  to verifiable for those shorts clad weenies!

And now for the pies de resistance!  They conjure up usury for delivery.  24 bucks for a vintage Tee outa The Big Apple.  25 bucks for delivery.  And get this, 40 bucks for brokerage fees!  Whatttttttttttttttttttttttttt????????????

So I get a vintage Tee for another 80% interest charged for  uhh….errr.. I don’t know.  They claim it comes to the brokerage, read, the Ups people reading the outside of the package and “valuing it as the number claimed on the outside.  Oh and they claim the Value includes the shipping.  So now I pay HST GST PST ABC, PCB and all the other alphabet soup on each other and the shipping which is already charged by the Ups syndicate.

So better than the government , they tax the tax which was taxed on purchase and paid tax on already claiming  the tax was apportioned on the unpaid paid portion in apportionment of the accordant by laws.   Yup, hold on let me bend over.  I breathe better that way.  With my cranium up my anus.

So not only do the pretty boys in brown not take cash at your door, their depots don’t take cash.  So I a’wanna be the account rep who gloms onto the sales bonus for those bozzoi who have to pay for allllllll their Cash On Hand as a business.

So their dolla is only worth say 96 cents.  ( after the creditage)   No wonder they have to charge usury rates for brokerage.

Oh yeah one better.  If I had have had the item sent via a more expensive route ie, air: there would not be any brokerage fees!

Whattttttttt?

Yup, spend less get more screw down on the up wards.

Peed again.  Never request or send via themsa.

Get me a strong pull Paulette.  Amber, not Brown.

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.

 

Snow Off Already! Oh but we put in a Snow bar!

With my tabula rasa looking like the environs on the wind ward-side of the wind-ow.  I pond-er the unseen pond, its depths below 2 meters depth of snow.  My rink now adorned with a rink-side bar as requested by the rellies in Germany.  Thank-you Arianne.

Follwing the catastrophic fault in the engine of my trusty Ariens, the con-rod threw its bearings and rammed straight through the side of the block.  BANG.  Picked up a newbie like my oldie for a few notes and am back ready for the depths to increase as this year they are inevitably gonna do!

“We think it trivial the speak of the weather, yet there is nothing more important”. Emerson.

An we find it so 150 years in advanced thought and invention, as you peruse and cruise the FacePlant or the Interweb Thingy, the chatter and clatter like Klaatu is all about the weather.  Are you up with that referent?  I have inamabilis sciurus trussing about my trestle snapping up the munchy buns staled out on our counter.  In the antiquity of yesterday, a couple of couples of Cardinals were spiriting about in the neighbours trees, when my eagle eye spotted a large Hawk of sorts espying the aforementioned Tabula for a snack of sorts.

Need I remind thee loyal readers of the Merlin episode of some years past?  The naught grey boy sat and feasted on starling or other such bird on my now bloodied rink.  And here another rink year and the raptors scan my frozen glazing from more eats.  Back off!  Get your own sandwich.  But as I speak the Snow Bar is being stocked and locked for another raucous running of the weekly game.

Olympic efforts warring on who will Woody beat to the puck?  I think he has a better stopping goals rating than most NHL goalies.  Perhaps in the next incarnation he might even sport a real glove hand.  Seems they come available at the waning of the season.

Well off to the outside with the inside warmed.  No cockles on my watch.  Might just Barbie up some proteins, and add some spuds and veggies, have the gang over for a bit of a bash. 

I will be watching from the bar.

Add some Amaretto Angel, I will be in the bar.

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.