4,051 Posts, But Three Short

At the start of the year, I made a goal of 20 posts a month this year.

Though I'll make that goal by averages, by numbers August fell three posts short.

This blog has turned into a journal of sorts, not really intended for a wide audience. Yet here it is. I hope I post things that are occasionally of value or entertaining.

Cold War, Still Paying Dividends

Seems fitting as I earn my keep at a federal facility cleaning up Cold War nuclear waste that we should visit a decommissioned Minuteman missile silo way out in the middle of nowhere.

Cold War is still paying dividends.

This, of course, applies:

He Is Not at His Appointed Location

Today in Rapid City, South Dakota, looking for Martin Landau or James Mason preparing for the final battle atop Mount Rushmore, and also looking for Richard M. Nixon among the city's presidential statuary.

At the location where Nixon was supposed to be, construction of a rather substantial building:

I am disappoint, I said.

But the son who suggested the visit found where he'd been moved, so I got to do this:

And thus:

I felt a tad underdressed there, with Nixon in his office/beach attire. But I got to see him.

How Old *Are* You?

Visiting Mount Rushmore today.

I wanted to use one of their machines to pay for parking, but it wasn't working. So I went into the nearby ice cream parlor and stood in A long line.

Finally my turn, and the following happened:

Cashier No. 1: Are you a senior?

Me: No.

Cashier No. 2: How old *are* you?

Me: I'm only 52 . . .

[Both cashiers look incredulously at .y white hair and beard]

Cashier No. 1: I'm going to.give you the senior discount anyway.

Feeling as old as the Founding Fathers. . .

Drilled

I had to go out to RWMC today for a drill -- making that long trek out to the desert for I think only the second time this year.

They didn't offer a firm time for the drill, so I drove out first thing in the morning. I started looking for a turnaround office where I could work until the drill started, but thought I'd stop by my old cubicle first. It was empty, still had my name on the wall, and had a network cable, so I set up shop.

I probably shouldn't have. It was very dusty and I found some rodent droppings. But the drill started shortly after 8 am, so it didn't matter much.

I did reclaim a few personal posessions I left there back in 2020:

I did leave the newer sign hanging on the outside of the cubicle, but took this old one home.

Also this, which is ironic, as we'll be back at Wall Drug next week:

The drill went OK. I'm a little rusty in my position, but there are some counterintuitive things I had failed to remember with this bit of software I use. It doesn't make sense how they've set it up. Well, in a way it does, but in a way it doesn't.

The Re-Junking Continues Apace

Because I have a genetic propensity to hoard bulky objects (Dad firmly believed in the theory of home improvement by making the property heavier) I finally figured out how to shoehorn the carport I mentioned earlier onto the property. I have to get the roof on along with the rest of the walls, and move one of my woodpiles for the fourth time, but it's coming together.

Or I'm having a psychotic episode. Either way . . .

I am close to realizing my goal of a condensed wood pile -- the small pile next to the carport is going to be moved adjacent to the larger woodpile in the photo. I had thought about putting some in the carport to keep it out of the snow, but that would mean less space for the other junk that's clogging the garage right now.

The slot where the little woodpile is now is going to be home to our canoe once I've got things cleaned out.

I'm not necessarily bragging in that last photo -- it's just our collection of PVC resting in the window well of the study until I can get things cleaned up enough to move it. I have thought of converting it into a shelf for the storing of PVC, but if I build the shelf I no longer have any PVC to store, so it's a real pickle.

NOTAFINGA!

[Finally finds the perfect thing to post on an ad that's been in my feed with an every-other- post frequency.]

[Ad disappears from my feed.]

I'm not complaining; just a little disappointed.

The crypto bros at BlockDAG must have done their rug pull, because seriously, they're gone.

Now that I've mentioned them, maybe they'll show up in my feed like Bloody Mary.

It's a beaut. They were gonna look at it and figure I'd just "notfinga"ed my feed.

A real crusher.

Oh, for the Love of Corn, Facebook.

It started innocently enough, with an admonition that I get a life when I noted the only thing I did for fun yesterday was clean the gutter and sidewalk in front of the house.

But then, as things do occasionally on Facebook, it took a left turn.

It's best to illustrate with pictures.

Here's the reason for Dennis' test:

I don't know what they objected to. The words? My cropping? The red circle I drew around the unrepaired damage to Homer's foundation?

I'm at a loss to explain it.

Dennis sums up the situation perfectly, hence the title of this post:

I'm sure they've got artificial intelligence involved in this -- their "naughty boy" message was instantaneous with me clicking post. But there is no explanation of how this goes against community standards. Or what those standards are. Or how those standards can allow scam crypto ads and fake links that lead one to scam computer repair links to remain. Oh, because they're getting *paid* for those . . . 

Update: I forgot to share the entire jpg I was sharing along with my pearl-clutching comment, in case that it what offended:

Treed

Do not doubt the war cry of the miniature dachshund. Daisy has a squirrel treed. Dottie comes in to take a look but isn't all that interested.

The squirrel, of course, ignored the dog and blithely went on eating the apricots.

Just Once or Twice . . .

Reading in "Captain Bonneville's County," a history of Bonneville County written in 1963. They share this tidbit from 1879:

Once or twice a summer a bitter three-day wind howls up the valley. Contrary gusts pick up the sharp sand and backlash it in mockery. The cottonwood trees and the willows bend low, as if turning their backs to the chill. The whole landscape is grey and cowering, and, summer or not, the air is raw.

From a journal written ty Tomas Moran, famed artist who painted Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons in the era:

"August 21, 1879. Left Fort Hall with Captain A.H. Bainbridge and 20 men 2 wagons on way to Taylor bridge. Reached Taylors Brfidge [Idaho Falls] later in the afternoon 27 miles desolation. Abandoned town, railroad bridge over the Snake. Andersons store. Dismal camp. Furious wind all night. Driven sand everywhere almost blinding. Gray dismal morning. Black basalt abomination. Rushing river like Niagara Rapids.

"August 22. Left camp at Taylor's Bridge at 7 o'clock. Cold and windy with dust following and blinding us all the way."

We now have a thunderstorm blowing in, and that wind, which comes only "once or twice a summer" is here.

Good to hear more than a century and a half of settlement and growth hasn't stopped the wind from blowing.