A Weekend in the Life of a Buck: The Boring Edition
Why must people insist on screaming when an animal sticks its head through an open car window? If a giraffe stuck its head through my sunroof and licked me with it's long, black tongue, I don't think I would scream.
This weekend was a wash. Very few things that I hoped would happen, or that I would accomplish, met with the end I was hoping for.
Most things revolved around my car. Last week I replaced the glow plugs. The very same day, my power steering pump began to leak. I would understand if it was leaking due to me doing something to upset it while replacing the glowplugs, but I didn't even touch the pump. Besides, it's the main pump seal that has gone bad, something that is hidden behind belts, pulleys, and a big, shiny, lubricated shaft.
This weekend I had planned to replace the pump with one from a parts vehicle I have, which is located on a friend's property. This friend happens to live in the backwoods of rural Wisconsin, replete with trailers, farms, low income housing, all built, of course, on, or near a swamp. This is a place that is in a swamp.
Normally dry, at least on the surface, dry enough to drive one's car on without fear of getting stuck.
Not this time, as I soon found out as my 4700 pound Mercedes sunk into the loamy earth of his driveway. Of course, no one else was around, both a blessing and a curse (No one to laugh at the deer stuck in the mud, but no one to help, either). An hour later, and a ton (almost two and a half tons) of jacking tires onto planks and boards repeatedly, I was able to escape the earth that wanted to eat my car so badly. I can see why, it is a pretty sweet ride.
After that, a hot, sweaty, horsefly bitten buck was sludging his way to his parts car, each step accented with a profane expression, and a lewd "glorp" of stinking mud.
Back to first person, made it to the parts car, and after a flurry of wrenches and a few more choice words, I was trudging back with a replacement pump. The first step to a successful transplant complete!
I wish I could say the second part was just as successful. I wish I could say the new/old pump was installed and worked flawlessly. But old car repair is no fairy-tale world.
No, instead my luck continued. After returning to my apartment, a rather long drive, I changed out pumps, fired the car up and...
The replacement pump leaks WORSE than the one that was in my car. Bitch Tit.
I traded pumps again, thinking up creative strings of cussings, much to the amusement of my nieghbors. If they didn't think I was odd enough...
Not to leave myself feeling like I hadn't accomplished anything, I changed out the injectors which were old and worn with the injectors I had rebuilt weeks before. I am most pleased with the outcome. A much crisper (meaner?) sound, and no smoke. Mmm....Diesel WVO Power! Smell dem frenchfries.
Shortly after completing that fun task, a series of telephone calls rolled in, each one delivering news laced with...bad news...I'm no creative writer. A visit I had been looking forward to was a victim, as was a brunch mono et mono with my FPU (Father Parental Unit). For now, a simple groan reminiscent of a cholicy buck will suffice. Brrrrllllaaaagggghhuuuuhhh
Since a Unicorn mentioned it during the evening, several hours were spent playing the Hammond and violin, more so the latter than the former. It is interesting, on a side note, what music seeps from one's soul. While I appreciate nearly all forms of music, from Chopin to Zappa to Daft Punk, only certain kinds seem to speak to me, or rather, I seem to speak certain kinds freely, without thinking about technique. One such, as lame as it might seem, is folk/bluegrass. Must be the family ties, and the living in the Midwest that brings out the nostalgic waltz in a fiddlin' deer.
Sleep Took place between Midnight and Eight AM.
A call shortly after informed me that a cookout was cancelled. Boo.
For father's day, I took my father out to brunch at his place of choice. From the phonecall the day before, I knew he would not be alone, with girlfriend #11 in tow. I had been through this many times before, at least ten, so it was the usual *slaps muzzlecheeks and smiles chorus like* "Showtime!"
On the awkwardness meter, one being having a perfect meal, and ten being GF#11 ripping her face off revealing head tentacles, this was a six, raised from a category four when I learned that my sixty-one year old father is dating a twenty-seven year old woman. Way to go, Dad, way to go. *thumbs up, in front of a shaky, twitchy smile*. Still had enough class to pay for her, too.
And that about it to this current moment. Found a seal kit for my power steering pump, so that will be a project in a few days time. Work will be work. Music will be music. Life will be life. Oh, and a summer class thrown in there, too.
This weekend was a wash. Very few things that I hoped would happen, or that I would accomplish, met with the end I was hoping for.
Most things revolved around my car. Last week I replaced the glow plugs. The very same day, my power steering pump began to leak. I would understand if it was leaking due to me doing something to upset it while replacing the glowplugs, but I didn't even touch the pump. Besides, it's the main pump seal that has gone bad, something that is hidden behind belts, pulleys, and a big, shiny, lubricated shaft.
This weekend I had planned to replace the pump with one from a parts vehicle I have, which is located on a friend's property. This friend happens to live in the backwoods of rural Wisconsin, replete with trailers, farms, low income housing, all built, of course, on, or near a swamp. This is a place that is in a swamp.
Normally dry, at least on the surface, dry enough to drive one's car on without fear of getting stuck.
Not this time, as I soon found out as my 4700 pound Mercedes sunk into the loamy earth of his driveway. Of course, no one else was around, both a blessing and a curse (No one to laugh at the deer stuck in the mud, but no one to help, either). An hour later, and a ton (almost two and a half tons) of jacking tires onto planks and boards repeatedly, I was able to escape the earth that wanted to eat my car so badly. I can see why, it is a pretty sweet ride.
After that, a hot, sweaty, horsefly bitten buck was sludging his way to his parts car, each step accented with a profane expression, and a lewd "glorp" of stinking mud.
Back to first person, made it to the parts car, and after a flurry of wrenches and a few more choice words, I was trudging back with a replacement pump. The first step to a successful transplant complete!
I wish I could say the second part was just as successful. I wish I could say the new/old pump was installed and worked flawlessly. But old car repair is no fairy-tale world.
No, instead my luck continued. After returning to my apartment, a rather long drive, I changed out pumps, fired the car up and...
The replacement pump leaks WORSE than the one that was in my car. Bitch Tit.
I traded pumps again, thinking up creative strings of cussings, much to the amusement of my nieghbors. If they didn't think I was odd enough...
Not to leave myself feeling like I hadn't accomplished anything, I changed out the injectors which were old and worn with the injectors I had rebuilt weeks before. I am most pleased with the outcome. A much crisper (meaner?) sound, and no smoke. Mmm....Diesel WVO Power! Smell dem frenchfries.
Shortly after completing that fun task, a series of telephone calls rolled in, each one delivering news laced with...bad news...I'm no creative writer. A visit I had been looking forward to was a victim, as was a brunch mono et mono with my FPU (Father Parental Unit). For now, a simple groan reminiscent of a cholicy buck will suffice. Brrrrllllaaaagggghhuuuuhhh
Since a Unicorn mentioned it during the evening, several hours were spent playing the Hammond and violin, more so the latter than the former. It is interesting, on a side note, what music seeps from one's soul. While I appreciate nearly all forms of music, from Chopin to Zappa to Daft Punk, only certain kinds seem to speak to me, or rather, I seem to speak certain kinds freely, without thinking about technique. One such, as lame as it might seem, is folk/bluegrass. Must be the family ties, and the living in the Midwest that brings out the nostalgic waltz in a fiddlin' deer.
Sleep Took place between Midnight and Eight AM.
A call shortly after informed me that a cookout was cancelled. Boo.
For father's day, I took my father out to brunch at his place of choice. From the phonecall the day before, I knew he would not be alone, with girlfriend #11 in tow. I had been through this many times before, at least ten, so it was the usual *slaps muzzlecheeks and smiles chorus like* "Showtime!"
On the awkwardness meter, one being having a perfect meal, and ten being GF#11 ripping her face off revealing head tentacles, this was a six, raised from a category four when I learned that my sixty-one year old father is dating a twenty-seven year old woman. Way to go, Dad, way to go. *thumbs up, in front of a shaky, twitchy smile*. Still had enough class to pay for her, too.
And that about it to this current moment. Found a seal kit for my power steering pump, so that will be a project in a few days time. Work will be work. Music will be music. Life will be life. Oh, and a summer class thrown in there, too.