A New Project?

 

423844_10151389824065796_1614054264_nThunderbutt in the weeds

 

Another new direction. Perhaps. I’ve recently assisted a new friend with a bus project, a converted school bus that someone has more or less abandoned and gave to her for free. This friend lives an alternative lifestyle, and gets by with her writing and house-sitting. A rather precarious existence due to the inevitable gaps that appear between house-sitting gigs, and the offer of a home (plus a place she can park it) seemed a boon almost too good to be true.

Which of course it was. I cautioned her that gift RVs are usually a source of massive expense and enormous amount of work, especially the self propelled type like a bus or motorhome. I’ve polished more than one of these turds myself, and know how quickly they deteriorate when not being used, how expensive parts can be, and how much very hard work it is repairing medium-duty trucks due to the size and weight of components. Finding a gem in the weeds like Thunderbutt is exhilarating, and yet requires one to step back and consider very carefully what they are getting into.

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This made my day

I spend a lot of time mucking around inside old pieces of shit. Mostly because I hate old pieces of shit being abandoned and because I can see so much promise in junk other people expect to have hauled off to the wrecker.

It’s not that I resurrect old junk for the sake of it, but because I want to restore things that have intrinsic value, and allow people to experience the joy of them long after they are usually tossed aside. I guess part of it is simply the doomed errand of trying to stave off time, trying to delay the inevitable corruption and dissolution that comes with existence. As long as I’m still around, I can delay the inevitable, at least for a little while. Maybe the old pieces of shit are a metaphor for the self.

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Old Farts

Picasso-cowboy

I think I’m beginning to understand old dudes, or at least a cohort of them. Not the jolly old farts with waistbands unselfconsciously hauled into armpits, tossing grandkids in the air and yelling at the TV when CBC sports are on, but the sour ones, the ones who carry a look of perpetual dissatisfaction and who grump and complain and vote Conservative. Mean old men, angry old men.

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