Didn’t we just have a full moon? Is God overstocked with these things and blowing them out? Or has He finally run out of patience and put His foot to the floorboard on the road to the End of Days?
This latest celestial spotlight is the Snow Moon, which, ha ha, etc. Yesterday’s high was 61, 10 (!) degrees above normal. Today’s may be warmer still. What little remains from last week’s snow lurks in dark corners, like ICEholes waiting for women and children to push around.
But we were talking about time, not temperature, yes?
Lately it seems that the instant I’ve finished washing the breakfast dishes it’s time to make lunch. Then, with luck, a bit of exercise, and boom! Dinner and bedtime.
Not a lot of unclaimed space therein to, as Whitman put it, “loafe and invite my soul.” My soul won’t even take my calls. Straight to voicemail they go.
Now, some may say that I burn an awful lot of dawn’s early light slobbering around the Internet like an ADHD kid working out on a Tootsie Pop — the National Weather Service, The Paris Review, various and sundry purveyors of products that I don’t need and can’t afford — before finally biting into its center, the homepage of The New York Times, which almost always shares a deep brown hue with, but is very much not, chocolate.
That this drives me to lunch is only because (a) I no longer drink, and (2) I desperately need something to take the taste of the NYT homepage out of my mouth.
Having eaten my way through the fridge and pantry, I feel a pressing need for either sleep or exercise. And exercise it is, because Miss Mia Sopaipilla is in the bed, and if I try to share a corner of that king-size bed with that 8-pound cat she will get right out of it and stalk around the house, meowing at the top of her lungs. She’s deaf as a post and her voice carries.
So out the door I go. And sure, if it’s 55 or 60 out there I’m liable to stay out a while, because see “the homepage of The New York Times” and “meowing at the top of her lungs” above. Last week I got 100 miles in, plus one trail run.
When I get home I’m hungry again for some reason as Herself inspects a gas range atop which dinner is very much not cooking itself with that look on her face that says, “Some people have to go to work in the morning.” I strive mightily to swallow a cheery, “Not me!” And get out in that kitchen and rattle those pots and pans.
And soon dinner is served, as is something less toothsome on TV, and since some people have to go to work in the morning (not me) everyone is in bed by 8 and asleep shortly thereafter.
Tomorrow, as the fella says, is another day. That Tootsie Pop ain’t gonna lick itself.
Mad Blog Media 
Yea, that pretty much describes my day. My mind comes up with a list of shit for a 30 year old to do, and my 77, almost, year old self says bullshit buddy. It’s 3 PM, and I’m done. And, I have yet to touch a guitar or go outside.
I know each day is a smaller chunk of your life as the years roll by, but still, damn, etc.
I was out yesterday and stopped to burn some young dog calories off at our local park and the old Honda (I think you have one of the same model) decided that my many weeks of ignoring the signs of the ailing starter were used up and no more starting was going to commence. After trying to see if a jump would kick the starter a few degrees to then turn the engine over and get us home did not occur. Alas the old CRVs have starters that are hidden away in the dark under-recesses of the engine cavity, so the old trick of a broomstick or hammer tap was not possible to accomplish. If only it was a manual tranny rig. So after getting a complimentary ride home I coordinated getting a tow truck to drag the old CRV home. I spent a part of the day today pulling the front of the engine off so I could get to the starter – They are located under the intake plenum grrrrrr. This task occurred while I took care of the young body, very forgetful mind of my 93 year old ma, along with a couple of trips back and forth to town running errands on the bike. What’s that you say? Don’t I have a second backup wagon? Well, that wagon is tired also and sitting in the driveway with a leaking intake manifold gasket. Life sure is fun.
Well if you’re finally forced to throw in the towel Shawn (or wrenches) and get a replacement vehicle, I hope you can hold out for Slate truck/SUV in early 2027. Unless you drive a zillion miles a day, this simple watt burner is priced about where many used vehicles are now. The list of trouble making automotive parts NOT in an EV is wonderful. Unless you just thrill to have timing belts, oil filter’s, spark plugs, ignition coils, various fuel sensors, etc.etc. on hand at the ready. And as you noted, many of those parts are almost impossible to reach without pulling half the engine out.I have a Slate on order to replace an aging (not gracefully) Honda. I went to one of their “reveals” in Deetroit and talked to some tech folks that made it clear that you could do lots of repairs or mods yourself with basic tools.
I got rid of the Porsche I owned thirty years ago after realizing, belatedly, that anything that was difficult in a normal car was a nightmare in a 944 Turbo. Friend of mine bought it, and also discovered that the joys of a Porsche were matched by the pain.
I think when the ’17 Forester goes, if we are still driving, will be electric. Keep one gas car for those long trips, presuming New Mexico is still short on charging stations.
Oh, and speaking of old folks like us, did anyone catch Diane Jenks Outspoken Cyclist discussion with Maynard Hershon?
https://www.wjcu.org/2026/02/02/outspoken-cyclist-2-2-2026
Shit, really? I haven’t chatted with Maynard in forever. I’ll have to give it a listen.
Maynard has a “Buy Me a Coffee” page, for you fans eager to catch up on the latest.
I take a squint under the hood of the Forester and the first thing that comes to mind is, “Well, the dudes at Reincarnation need money too. …”
Yuh, Herself rocks a 2011 CR-V 2WD. Less than 150K on the odometer and she hopes to keep herding it along for a spell. My Forester is a 2005. Neither of us is interested in new cars. And neither of us is a mechanic. It will all end in tears, as Kerouac wrote in “Dharma Bums.”