The Coffee Guy's blog

1000 Days

The first millennium A.C..  As we enter the second, what knowledge have we gleaned from the experiment we are all in?  I don’t mean, conspiracy, or hearsay, or junk science, or fake news.  Real knowledge that we can all agree on.

Man is pliable only for a certain length of time.  Changes can occur from our stasis, but only within a limited expectation.  Man wants and yearns for the equilibrium of moderate change at the pace not noticed.  Rapid or immediate change causes trauma and pushback.  For example, years ago electronic money transfers were only acceptable with full documentation and back up resources and proof.  Now a tap is fine for pretty much every purchase.  We accepted lockdowns for a while, now, the mere mention ire’s most.

Buzz phrases and touchpoints can set off a storm of displeasure.  A mere mention of masking or vaccinations will now make people steam at the ears. Two years ago, we masked up and lined up for vaccinations by the millions.  Now mere mention of these will paint you to one side or another of a debate and you lose, friends, family, and some a job.

Elected officials can now defer to “experts” without losing the faithful.  Forever after, when confronted with an emergency, our elected official will no longer have to make tough decisions, they simply find some random proficient of expertise and state, “they are following the best practices as defined by this expert”.  Bollox to them, I elected THEM to make decisions not some nobody from nowhere.

We have also learned, the longer a crisis endures, then the more, the and the more extreme wackos will come out of the woodwork.  They have and will continue to.  As I was a research assistant, (with a credit for same), we wrote a book on argumentation.  Super Rule # 1: Never argue with a fanatic.   How do people not know this some 40 years after we wrote that book.

1000 days and 1000 nights, make mine as strong as it gets. Pour over for sure.  Thanks Margery.

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.

Frisky Friends Flinch at Foghorns

Following forecasts, the fellows who fry fingers at the chicken joint are acutely aware of over cooking.  Activity at its base, is the act of change over stasis.  Moving and manipulating ambulatory limbs is the minimum.  You can jig or jag, but there must be a delta in the equation.

The painter applies a medium to a medium, the art comes from the conjoining of those multitudinous applications.  While some appear random, the gist is obvious.  Depth and breadth create the third dimension in our minds eye.  The artist does not push anything, the image is pulled from within the medium.

Once on a stretch, the kernel grows into an image.  The image is then developed by the third party being you, the interloper.  Morphology transcends the objet d'art.  Sometimes the missing is that which creates the substance.  Visually and with tactile developments, the artist evokes both emotion and recognition. 

The “Chicken and the Egg” quandary comes to mind, was the vision there prior to execution?  Or was the vision only after completion?   Having seen, sketched and gestated upon, was that iconic piece finished with the exception on simply laying down some paste?  Conversely, was that final product in mind all along and the dreaming, sketching and cogitating was simply a road needed to be travelled to get there?

Cats on the other hand have no apparent volition.  Mere momentary mental mythical monstrosities managing their movement at any one time.  One moment calm and serene, the next a devilishly Tasmanian frenzy of motion.  The feline foibles are vastly underrated.  Unlike the, on first glance, method of application of a thick past on thin canvas.  Did Van Gogh paint in a flurry or in a slow intentional baste of oil on velum?

While I write in response, I see the digested words of others and wonder.  Can I or would I write in a way contrived to be desirable or even cogent?  I have.  Innumerable pages of it in past lives.  Dissertationous pablum directed at a small cadre of consumers.  I am beyond that now and simply inspired by the life in a day of what I see and experience.

Unusually a Cappuccino Corrine, make it emblematic.

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.

Ideas, Ingenuity, and Inklings, ad Infinitum

Inhibited by irregular issues, I instantly imbued my inner self with an idiom.  Now not like it’s taught in books on modern usage mind you.  More akin to what one might do when.  Our common vernacular is slowly eroding to points past all known realms.

With the access to a qwerty, and the connection to the interweb thingy, the masses appropriate the language unknowingly.  Has anybody proof read anything they have espoused?   Tense can be tense to accurately employ.  Here I intentionally place prepositions in places never meant for them.  I use these ploys as part of my idiom in communication.  Intention, the excuse for error.

On the other platforms, I see error, not idiom.  Idiots and imprecision.  Oh, and yes, I have been noted as a GP.   Not Good Person, nor Grief Pole, not Gainfully Peered, nor Goofy Person.  But that Ad hominum, Grammar Police.

Whilst I am always attempting to maintain my composure and learning, some things get me irked.  My ire is raised when plural clashes with singular, as past becomes present to future, if letters mean nothing.  I actually pleasure at the sight of these faux pas.  They too bolster to theories of dumbing down of the vox populi.  Even Bob Segarini knew this some 50 or so years ago.   Even at the Mighty Q and CHUM they knew.

No history lesson here today, just a mild rant about read what you write.

Stir in some cream today Cleo.

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.

Bag Banging Body parts for the Build

It took some time to plenish the pouch for pounding, done now. Scramblers for the winter need fairing for the warmth. Bezzels will be bunged out for breathing.

So, after some time and other projects I find myself peening and pounding, rolling and reeling over the two side covers. Fending off the snow will be part of the need. Of course, who had heard of a Winter Scrambler. Will I need a trail pass? Or will I just pass the trails and go to trial?

20 gauge seems heavier now, .036 they say, was the weight of old cars. Now with the aluminiums, and the polymers, and fibrous carbon, those panels are a lot thinner than drinks at the ole’ watering hole. The ease of crimping cramps my styling of better than beaten boards in the past. Maybe there is a use for a torch?

Sitting on the bench at the bag, pounding my way to the curve. Would I do this easier on an English Wheel? Perhaps, but there is no fun in easy. Easiest way to get a punch in a pinch is to purloin it. Where is that letter now? Has it been repatriated to the owner? Or is it still lost in obscurity?

References are at your own risk, as are activities not sanctioned by the populace. Go strange, or go stranger I say. Stay odd then you can seem normal at the odd times. When does anybody ever look into the even times?

Back to banging Brad, make it black 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

Crinite Crania Cop better Custard Cups

And, as Marie Antoinette had, nice cups.  In fact modeled in wax impressions for the old style wide mouthed champagne glasses.  Custard on the other hand more like gruel than food unless  mixed with lugubrious amounts of butter.  Now that's cream!  Butter creame.  And with my Java  Jo I have a desirous dessert.

But not when not slathered nor blathering about the issue will it wreak cause to couch this issue in cotton swaddling clothes.  Municipal elections are afoot and the delirious drivel from most of them plying for your affectations amounts to more of the old, same as the thing before.  What most advanced democratic societies need now are not yes-men and do-gooders, what we need now are harsh realists with no resistance to speaking truth to power.

Intraurbanites who stand and run for the caput of others in these arbitrary, non-collaborative, non- allegiant allegiances are due their kudos.  Who would endure the anal gazing of reporters, the infantile behaviours at meetings, the pleas for alms from the poor, who has room to store the vast amounts of  lagniappe from prospective developers, who has the blind wit needed to communicate with bureaucrats?

Not I. Then you?  Do I hear the old college cheer as you strundle up to the captain of elections tossing your ten gallon in the ring?  Are you one of those deemed to aid, arrange, benefit, support, yield, serve, please, gratify, convenience, humour, indulge, supply, defer, help, assist, and follow the pleas of everyone?   Can you stretch your political umbrella open far enough to keep enough of us dry in the downpour of desires from the electorate?

Essentially if your busby is not filling with the fodder of support, then it is your obligation to get your sorry duffus out to the polling booth and scratch your EX on the spot!  I know there is the old adage that if you don't vote then you have no gam to stand your complaints on.  It is in itself the verisimilitude of the democratic system.   After all, we don't drink tea, and Boston is some distance away.

If your medulla oblongata is stuffed with enough percipience to read this, or even log onto the interweb thingy, then get your keister out and scratch your mark on the spot.

Mine is mucked up but modular in its depiction.

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.