Coffee to the Desktop App

 Your love is like  prunes

The 2021 Emmys Were a Thoroughly Modern (Mostly-White, COVID-Unsafe) Disaster

We need a mandate that black shows win Emmys, regardless of whether they deserve it. 

In fact, I present next year's Emmy to the new Wonder Years (black version). Is it on yet? Doesn't matter.

Today I identify as   a CIS hetero furry

FDA advisers greenlight Pfizer boosters for people 65+ and at-risk groups

Went to a car show the other day.

There were a lot of cars. 

The most wonderful car we saw was a 1990 Buick Roadmaster station wagon, fully loaded, great condition. You could fit a 3rd grade class in there, with room to move your house. I told the owner "SOLD" but he refused. I'm not sure, but I think I saw a coffee maker and fridge in the back.

I prefer to see antique cars, which, in my state, is any car over 25 years. There were a whole bunch of recent Mustangs, hopped up to hell. Not impressed. It was interesting to see 1950s cars hopped up. One had an engine so bright and shiny, it was cleaner than my dining room table - you could eat off it. There was a Studebaker - ever see one? I liked the 50s and some 60s cars that were stock. American cars were the Stuff and we haven't come close since the 80s. Now everything is smaller and bumpy. There was a huge old Lincoln with suicide doors. An incredibly early El Camino.

No car show would be complete without completely irrelevant booths and activities.

They had all sorts of mobile rides, which largely involved getting into a harness and jumping. If you jumped in the right spot, it would vault you directly to the hospital.

There were political booths. Interesting to note that any political signs had the person's name, but not party affiliation. There was also a Tea Party booth... that's odd, although anything's an improvement where I live. There were cheerleaders with a booth, or so Wife tells me. I dare not look in that direction.

Out favorite truck was The Dog Bone Guy. He has all sorts of frozen fresh bones for your dog, as well as cat goodies. He always has a few Bernese Mountain Dogs with him, one laying on a fan. Penny is a huge fan of the bones. Did you know that catnip mellows dogs out?

• 2 injured after ejecting from Navy jet near Fort Worth before crash
• Look. Up in the sky. It's a bird. It's a plane. 
• It's a plane.
• Hey Jimmy - what's that in your house?
• It's a plane.

The Endless Faceyspaces Apology

"Faceyspaces is the new cigarettes: It's addictive. It's not good for you."

• Researchers Defeated Advanced Facial Recognition Tech Using Makeup
• Yay - one for the people!
• The AI has a bad time with black people. Will makeup make the system work better?

Our local convenience chain (Wawa), which dropped their mask requirement after vaccines, has reinstated the requirement. There is no mention of social distancing.

Pennsylvanian's are serious about their baby showers

HOW SERIOUS ARE THEY?

A fight about gifts broke out at a Pennsylvania baby shower. The expectant father shot 3 guests, police say.

• Several streets in Philly were closed for the filming of an Adam Sandler movie.
• The citizens were in a near riot state, threatening to physically unseat the mayor for bringing further disgrace to the city

We went to a flea market, with a small guitar show.

It was said to be under an hour's drive.

With directions and phone in hand, we discovered it was no way near an hour.

In fact, it took two hours.

Two hours and a lot of screaming.

One thing we noticed when we got together was that we agree on most things.

We discovered the only thing we didn't really agree on was directions.

ME: I left the page up with the directions

HER: FSCK YOU. 

ME: Huh?

HER: Oh, sorry, I'll copy them down. Now that I've copied them down, can you give me the minutes between directions?

ME: FSCK YOU. 

HER: Huh?

ME: Did you miss them when you were copying the directions down?

HER: Never mind - I'll just use my phone.

This is before we've gotten in the car.

HER: This is where you want to get off. Stay to the left, stay to the left.

ME: I am staying to the left.

HER: I just wanted to make sure you stayed to the left.

ME: I heard you.

HER: I was just sayin...

ME: Well maybe you should stop sayin...

ME: Look - there's Forty Foot Road! Do you know the history?

HER: Huh?

ME: Do you know the history of Forty Foot Road?

HER: Where's that?

ME: We're passing it.

HER: Oh.

ME: It's from a time where everything was dirt, like North Philly. They managed to put together forty feet of actual road.

HER: Really?

ME: No. But you know you're out of the city when you cross Forty Foot Road.

HER: You're a dick.

ME: So what are we looking for?

HER: Route 37.

ME: and about when should we be looking for it?

HER: Soon.

ME: I see.

ME: I don't mean to aggravate things, but I still haven't seen a Route 37.

HER: I'll look it up on the map. I need cross streets.

ME: Main St. Hollows St. Route 34.

HER: Ok, what are the cross streets?

ME: Start with the three I just called out.

HER: WELL MAYBE I WASN'T READY YET.

ME: Brown St. Eviction Ave.

HER: Ok, checking... it says there's no Eviction Ave.

ME: In spite of us just passing it.

HER: Yes. Ok, look for route 36 instead. Have you seen it yet?

ME: No, because I wasn't looking for it.

HER: [hissing of air] Pull over at that gas station and ask.

ME: YOU ask.  Won't matter.

HER: And why not?

ME: It's closed.

HER: [hissing of air] WELL STOP AT ONE THAT'S OPEN. OR SOMEWHERE.

ME: It's EARLY IN THE MORNING, perhaps we should have called the stations to be open and ready for us to ask directions. Hey, is that a phone in your lap?

HER: Yes.

ME: Then WHY is it taking us forever to find simple streets? You've got more power in that thing than the Space Shuttles. They managed to make it to space and back.

HER: YOU DO IT.

ME: I'm driving, which leaves me short an appendage or two.

HER: You know it annoys the hell out of me when you breathe that way.

ME: What way?

HER: THAT way. I know you're doing it on purpose.

ME: If I had known breathing annoyed you so much, I'd have done more of it.

HER: We're looking for Hill Ave.

ME: We're ON Hill Ave. Turn the phone around. You were smart as a whip when I met you. What happened?

HER: You had hair. What happened?

ME: Was that Route 36?

HER: I dunno. I wasn't looking. TURN THE CAR AROUND!!!!

ME: Screw this. I don't want a divorce. I'm turning around and going home.

HER: No - wait ... that's the street we're looking for. The flea market is on the left! Right before it is the dairy where we're going afterwards, for fresh ice cream!

Meeting us, you'd never know.

I've often said that living with a multiple is like driving a bus full of first graders.

I HAVE TO GO TO THE POTTY!

I'M THIRSTY!

I'M HUNGRY!

All I want to do is get to the guitar show.

The first problem is that parking is about half a mile from anything. The flea market is that big.

Eventually we located all the necessary places to keep everybody quiet and happy.

The small guitar show was.... small. It was a nice place to pick up your first no-name guitar, built in a country that you can't pronounce, using child labor.

After 15 minutes' eyeballing, I was done.

And now, breakfast.

There were two food stalls. I don't know what they had, but they were identical in the humongous lines to purchase food. The voices were starting again.

The location is pretty far out into the non-city regions.

I was pretty good looking, compared to the rest of the crowd. This should alarm anyone.

The vendors were really friendly. They kept trying to talk to me. I suggested next time, I wear the invisibility cloak.

An old foreign fellow talked to Wife, completely unbidden (and completely unwanted). He said he should've gotten there the day before so he could see everything. He smelled like he had been there a few days.

There was just acres of Stuff, some inside, some outside. Every individual piece had the distinction of being completely not interesting to me. Plus my nerves were regenerating from the car battle, so I kept my mouth shut before something really bad came out of it (as opposed to generally bad). 

We finally ate. The three of us... Her, me, and the bee. The bee was incredibly interested in my sandwich. I was going to suggest she swat him away violently, but decided better of it. Then she went pale anyway... 

HER: Did I bring  my wallet?

ME: Am I supposed to answer that question?

HER: Yes, the blue one.

ME: Where did you pull money out of?

HER: That's the other wallet... the smaller one. Have you seen the bigger one?

ME: Errrrr.... no.

HER: I have to go back to the car and check.

ME: And you want to know what happened to my hair? They don't even have a shuttle going to the lot. 

HER: YAY! It was in the car. Now we can go back and shop.

ME: YOU can go back and shop. I'll just sit in the car and touch myself to this copy of Vintage Guitar. 

HER: Ok.   [disappears]

[returns]

HER: You have to pull the car up to the 32nd row.

ME: Good God, what have you bought now? A lawn tractor?

HER: No, its a tree that you can decorate.

ME: Ok, you showed it to me and explained it and all it looks like is black blinds.

HER: No, you decorate with it.

ME: I see.  So, everybody ready for ice cream?

HER: YAY!!!

We pull into the dairy. We notice there will be no trouble at all getting as much ice cream as we want. Provided we wait four hours until the place opens.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

Do you know how hard it is to clean exploding cranium from car ceilings?

This was the cherry on our sundae, so to speak.

And on top of this, we still had between one and two hours of advanced arguing and screaming to get home. I picked a bad week to give up sniffing glue.

It's been four days. The only one talking to anyone is the dog.

• Today President Biden sat on the White House lawn. Nobody had the heart to tell him it wasn't a water park.

Someone said one cannot argue there is no female privilege when a female can go online and show her asshole to pay the rent. He's right, you know.

I mention this because one of the sites I visit has a banner featuring online beauties, whose cams you can visit.

I have to admit there are some real stunners.

How can I put this tactfully? I can't.

There are some real woofers too.

Mostly woofers.

I'm not talking about "I like blondes but they're not brunettes" woofers.

I'm talking about "she's so ugly I need to hit myself with an iron skillet first" woofers.

Some are merely overweight. Some are grossly overweight. Are there that many chubby chasers?

Some the plastic surgeon said he couldn't help.

Some the plastic surgeon kicked out of his office.

I wonder if there are stats on their cams. I'm not going to the site to find out.

I think what happened was their parents always called them their gorgeous little princess and they took it to heart, like when Cindy Lauper's parents told her she could sing like an angel.

In the end, I hope they're all doing well.

The Flying AIDS has crippled income for too many. Get it where you can.

• ‘Extremely troubling’: Investigation launched into border agents on horseback seen chasing migrants
• This is America, where we leap to deal with small visual issues, while we pretend the larger issues don't exist. It's not ok to allegedly whip migrants. But what are we doing about the migrant situation?
• The Department of Homeland Security, a gift from 9-11, said they were extremely upset over the situation (getting caught) and said there will be discipline (for getting caught). They will do whatever they can to avoid this situation in the future (getting caught).
• The whipping was stopped immediately (as soon as they got caught) and other forms of crowd control were used, such as making sure no one could take video of what they were doing. Also using half paper clips attached to rubber bands, sledgehammers, poison darts, anvils, and baseball bats.
• The Biden administration has promised to get on the situation immediately, by creating a diversion in another country, possibly by taxing Afghanistan.
• If all else fails, Dick Cheney will be brought in to bomb the migrants.

Amazon is rolling out driver surveillance cameras.

The drivers are up in arms. Here is an early list of observances:

1. drivers cursing the existence of Amazon
2. drivers leaving packages in the rain
3. drivers leaving expensive packages out in the open, with notes pointing to their obvious location
4. drivers trying to disable the cameras
5. boom boom breaks with unattractive retail workers (if the truck is rockin, don't come knockin)
6. cars cutting off the trucks and honking at them
7. a surprising amount of masturbation
8. more middle fingers than imaginable
9. more than one potty break per day

God's Country

We don't get out much, not that I have to say that. Again.
Now that the weather has gone from cold, gray, and humid to warm, gray, and humid, it's time to leave the homestead now and then, for stuff not involving picking up dog food.

Much to the grief of the wife, it was a guitar and musician flea market. It was on the grounds of a large flea market, so everyone was covered.  There was a fifty percent chance of rain, which was a bit of a joke, but it seriously couldn't decide which way it wanted to go. This is why it's called Mother Nature, because only a woman would spend the entire day going from cloudy to sunny to cloudy, over and over again. The sun and clouds were fighting like Hillary and Trump supporters, with neither getting an edge.

The place was a bit far out, so we had to get some online directions; never a good idea. For instance, the directions said to make a left to Route 134 West, while the sign said Route 134 West was right. You know where this is headed, right? We sure as hell didn't.

We knew we were in for an adventure when 134 West crossed Forty Mile Road. Being from the city, we don't have Forty Mile Road. We have Market St. The Boulevard. I-95. Just down from Forty Mile Road was Granite Road.  Forty Mile probably indicated that in 1900, it was forty miles to civilization, not that much had changed, except some nice houses and grass. Granite Road was the entrance to the quarry, where Fred Flintstone worked.

It was ten miles to the next road, so being the Excellent Navigator I am, I mentioned we were to continue for ten miles.  A ways down the road (because you say 'ways' past the city line) I asked how close were we. The answer, Excellent Driver she is, was "I don't know - I got distracted." And so it began.

When we first met, we were unusually perfect for each other. We didn't fight and managed to do everything together and in rhythm.  As we got older, we started to notice stuff.... stuff like all of the sudden, it wasn't too good an idea to have both of us in the kitchen at the same time. It was like putting Gordon Ramsay in the kitchen with coked up Billy Mays, a few sharp knives, and maybe some grenades. I'm extra careful around knives because I almost amputated a digit when I was little. This is not helped by my wife's tendency to reach past me every time I slice something. Similarly, water acts as a trigger for her... whenever I run the water to do dishes, she automatically needs water for something else.  I don't pretend to understand, but let this be our biggest problem, right?

But no. Another large problem involves Going Places, specifically places we've never been, that rely on directions. She becomes very nervous and extremely short-tempered and communicates by yelling.  Since yelling is usually my territory, it gets hot and loud in the vehicle. Hot and loud is good during sex, for waking the neighbors, but it does absolutely nothing to help get somewhere.

'About' ten miles down the road, the yelling continued. We had no choice but to pull over and fire up my eternal nemesis... no, not the mower... the Garmin.  Technology certainly has come a long way from having to get directions over the wired phone, write them down, then remember to take them with you. Now you just have to know the address and put it into your GPS. Most people have stopped using Garmins and simply use their phone's system. Since I'm tin foil hat, I have the GPS in my phone locked down so far it would take longer to activate it than to walk ten miles. If we fire up the wife's phone, it will give us directions completely different from the Garmin.

I decided to make peace with the Garmin, in spite of my one hundred percent negative experience with the infernal device. This was going to be different, I told myself.  And of course I was mistaken. Putting the address into the device, it immediately told me there was no such address. This is absolutely typical of my Garmin experience. It always requires screaming. And the moment the first error comes up, I go from quiet and positive to wishing universal death and destruction on the device, its headquarters, and everyone involved in its production, down to the clerk that rang it up for me at the electronics store. There is no other device or circumstance in life that gets to me like this, except possibly the mower.  Once I established that the little $@&*er didn't understand 'Rt' and required me to type 'Route', it asked me if I wanted the exact address I typed.  Smart little box, isn't it?

Back on the road, it told us to go another few miles in the direction we were headed, causing a temporary thaw in international relations. The moment it told us to make a left from Green Road to Green Valley Road, one of us completely failed to make the turn, causing a recalculation. Fortunately it did not recommend driving into the water, as two of them did last time we used it.

Eventually we made it to the market. There is all sorts of folksy lore on the website about how the market came to be, with Old Papa Jed selling stuff on the roadside back in the 1800s (or 1900s or something) and the stand becoming so popular, it's now a large flea market.  And when I say large, I mean an awful lot of rock-filled drives and stalls, similar to a dilapidated drive-in of yore. The wife immediately started asking where it was. Well, it was the only indoor area and the rest of the place was stalls and parking lots. This was insufficient, for some reason, so yelling was indicated. Impossible physical acts were suggested. And cigarettes were involved.

Cigarettes are always involved. It's the most bizarre legal drug addiction I have ever beheld. While Mrs lefty is gracious enough never to smoke in the house or car (even she can't stand smelling it), it's worse than crack. The moment she leaves a building or exits the car, the cigarette is At The Ready, before she has actually left the building or opened the car door.  We call this PTSD - as if she's never going to get another one so this one is Very Important.

This was God's Country. We kept checking the GPS and our phones, shocked that there was signal at all. The big hangout was probably the Walmart, no doubt a very recent addition. There were feed stores, as well as actual hardware stores, which have all but disappeared in the city. The was an actual dairy with an attached ice cream shop. Horses, chickens, cows, and very few people were seen on the way.

After locating the sole indoor space, I sallied forth and intruded. After over an hour's drive, I had no idea what to expect, but at least there weren't two toothless family members selling used guitar strings and a whole lotta space. There were about twenty tables... I hesitate to call them vendors because this was an indoor flea market. Gone are the days of finding an ancient gem under someone's bed - things were market priced or higher.

One table featured violins in different colors. They even had ukeleles in different colors. Not sure if the color indicated the value or tone, or whether it was just best to breeze by quickly. There were definitely a lot of guitars there, mostly of the very cheap off-brand variety. Someone even had a few off-brand lefties, bless them. There was also a metalflake pink, star-shaped guitar, hopefully for young girls, although I wouldn't hesitate to play it if I were wearing a pink tutu, a set of Disney ears, singing Earache My Eye, as Cheech Marin. But I'm just different that way.

I saw a few Marshall amplifiers, which was exciting, right up til I got close and realized they were the kind that didn't have tubes in them, which sold about four units when they were new. There were also a few very old mixing boards, one described as vintage, priced astronomically. The board used to record Abbey Road sold for millions and was worth it. These relics of the Eighties were approaching $1,000, for which you could triple the performance by purchasing a new one.

There was one item I didn't want to leave without, but alas, the vendor was nowhere to be seen.  The Rules would tell you that since it was not marked, it was free and since there was no vendor around, I could just wheel it out myself, but I wasn't sure if these people read The Rules, so I decided to leave it there. It was a huge console tube tester. You know, old folks, when you had tubes for your tv or radio and you needed to see if they were good or you had to buy new ones. I use tubes in most of my guitar amps, so this would make a great piece of 'furniture' for the house. I even had Wifely Approval, but the bastard was nowhere to be found. Ok, I do have a portable one anyway, but this was in its own console and looked all retail-like.

I suspect because it was God's country, the people were largely locals and they were nice, amiable folks... the kind you like to do business with. I manged to escape with a few baubles. My wife, who can find treasure anywhere things are for sale, managed to locate some bizarre sort of pick holder that involved velcro. I already have quite an efficient pick holder made from denim. It's called pants and it has four or sometimes five pockets which can be filled with picks. Come to think of it, there was not a single pick for sale in the entire structure. In any case, she saw gold in these devices, purchasing a bunch of them for relatives who do not play guitar, but would find them invaluable for something entirely different. I gave up asking a long time ago.

Musician Crap: I got a Boss DS-1 so I could do some modifications on it and check out the differences. Also a Tascam USB audio interface that I took for granted will work with linux. This is an adorable little box that will take a mic or guitar signal and send it out to your computer via USB.

And that was that for the guitar show. If we were so excited we couldn't contain ourselves, it was also open the next day. You know... if we didn't get to all twenty tables in one morning.

Poof - out of the music gate we went, walking in minor, freshly-installed lakes, to the rest of the flea market, conveniently located out of doors. Flea markets are different than I remember, not that I am a frequent visitor. The first few stalls seemed to consist of merchandise from QVC, which was a selling point, for reasons I am not privy to as a man. Guys, or other genders with external plumbing, would think that one doesn't need to drive over an hour to purchase merchandise that can be ordered via the phone or QVC's convenient website. Women, on the other hand, don't let logic interfere with a good shopping opportunity.

Some of the other vendors had tables plus what can best be described as a small shed that you could walk into and see more merchandise, some actually not from QVC, but in an atmosphere that could make mice claustrophobic.  The places looked a lot like episodes of Hoarders that haven't aired yet. My job was to Hold Things. It was my job for the day, apparently. Wife would pick something up, say some words, then order me to Hold This. As any husband will tell you, it's better to smile, agree, and Hold This, never asking a single question or uttering any noise that would invite further talking or debate on the item(s).

Because we don't get out a lot and because I'm probably past the mean age of crime, I'm not used to seeing an employee appearing wherever I am, 'tidying up' an area. And reappearing at a different area at which I've just arrived. Usually the more observant of the two of us, my wife did not notice. I did, and desperately wanted to find a different vendor to give my money. That was to be a losing proposition, so I just continued to Hold This.

There were a few places to get breakfast, like eggs, sausage, and bbq. Apparently bbq is what's for breakfast in God's Country. I do not have a single issue with this, so bbq it was, with some loaded fries, outside a railcar-turned food truck, in the recently started monsoon-ish wind and the clouds which had temporarily won the argument with the sun. It was romantic. We decided it was as romantic as we needed, whereas if it rained, we couldn't stand that much more romance.

I saw a drill press, next to some strange scented lotions, probably from QVC. I was compelled to look upon it's pressiness with manly appreciation, exclaiming that I wanted it.  What would I do with it, Dear? I have no idea... I could put it in the basement and tell people I had a 'shop' down there. Then show them the various holes I had drilled into my hands since I got it.

You know the stuff at flea markets, as do I. This flea market was no different, so naturally we had to look at everything. We are now the proud owners of a bunch of bizarre, loud, owl necklaces. Fortunately they're for a family member, as were the Daffy Duck glasses.

On the way home, we stopped at the dairy to get some ice cream for breakfast. We did well.

And nobody had any marks on them by the time we arrived home. Except for where the ice cream dripped.

Weekend in Review - or Why Did I Leave the House?

So it's Monday.  It's usually Monday, moreso at this time of the week.  It is, in fact, rather early for a Monday, but there we are; it's Monday.

So what rhymes with Monday?  Hyundai.
And why do I mention Hyundai?  Because it has been a wonderful experience owning an almost new car.  And because it has been a wonderful experience, the Hyundai has obliged by overheating.

A quick trip to the mechanic diagnosed the problem as bad hoses and a thermostat (which should have been replaced when the dealer rebuilt the front end after the Deer Incident<tm>).  Naturally the parts had to be ordered and wouldn't be in for a few days.  The universe is funny this way.

Somehow we made it out last weekend.

Let's start with the Musicians Flea Market at the New Hope Winery.  I made several assumptions which turned out to be totally incorrect.  My wife was on point and we got proper backup directions.  And where were the backup directions?  Back up at the house, where we left them.

The Winery is a few miles past Peddler's Village.  You can't miss it (although we almost did).  There is the winery and the events building.  It there appeared to be more cars in the lot than people attending the event.  Apparently this room is routinely used for national events - it's very nice.   We were charged a door fee of five dollars and went off, exploring.

I don't mind paying: I pay for the Philly Guitar Shows twice a year and it's worth it.  The Philly Guitar Shows have hundreds of vendors.  The Winery had approximately six.  This is where I start to mind paying.

Still, I wanted to support this concept, hoping it would really take off.  Unfortunately the approximately six vendors took up the large part of the room, leaving little if any room to grow.   When I think flea market, I think lots of tables and vendors.  Not so much here.  And we got a coupon for ten percent off wine purchases that day.  This is ironic, as I don't drink.

Sadly, it was a bit of a wash.  I hope the vendors did well.

Peddler's Village was in the midst of its Strawberry Festival, which was a real boon to those who like strawberries.  In a bit of flawed logic, I suspect that people who like Strawberries are large, slow and grossly inconsiderate of others trying to walk near and around them.  I needed a cow catcher to get from shop to shop.

My wife wanted a fresh lemonade.  In front of us was one party of about five people, which seemed to be completely monopolizing the party of five people working at the stand.  Every they finished ordering, someone came up with another thing they needed.  After about five minutes of waiting for lemonade, I gave up, leaving my poor wife to stand behind these idiots.  I procured a smoothie in the time it took her to get her lemonade and walk to the next stand.  They kept adding one more thing, like a really bad version of Columbo.  And the people who worked there were so stunned, no one thought to ask her if she wanted anything.

On the plus side, it was a beautiful day.  We got cotton candy.  There was a jazz band on the lawn, with a really interesting drummer.  On the way out we saw a band doing Jimmy Buffet-type songs in the gazebo.


Sunday was the MARC Hamfest, starting at the ridiculous hour of seven in the morning.  We got there by eight.  It was very well-attended, moreso than we have seen in quite a while.

I didn't see anything that thrilled me, aside from a $600 R390 boatanchor tube receiver.  Having left my $600 bill home, I was forced to leave the R390 at the hamfest.  The silver lining is that the receiver is so heavy, I watched the vendor having to get help removing it from his trunk.  So I saved some of my vital parts<tm>.

My wife did quite a bit better, as usual.  She runs through vcrs and dvd players like I run through soda and she purchased one of each for ten dollars.  You never know what you're going to find at a hamfest.   The table with the greatest title was the Guilt Table, where buyers were encouraged to buy candles for their wives/girlfriends.  Naturally my wife scored there too.

I may need to rethink this hamfest thing.

Philly Area Events of Note

This Saturday, 5/4, is the New Hope Winery musicians flea market.

I hear good things about this flea market but have never attended.  If you haven't been to New Hope, you should go and bring the spouse/significant other.  It's a really `quaint little shopping village'.  Nice place to spend the day.  They have all sorts of interesting shops you won't see elsewhere and good places to eat.

-------------------------------------

This Sunday, 5/5, is the Warminster Hamfest

This is my traditional first hamfest of the season.  It's a great location, albeit a ride.  Warning: the mere presence of a hamfest at this location on this day tends to produce rain.  You never know which way it's going to go.  But a great time is usually had by all.

For the uninitiated, a hamfest has nothing to do with ham, pigs or potato salad.  It's a flea market for amateur radio and electronics nuts.  You can also find a bit of stuff for computer people and musicians.



I have no financial interest in any of these places or events.  It's just nice to get out of the house once or twice a year.

========================

Funny story about New Hope

Last time there, we located an adult shop.  I was having a fun time holding things up and saying, "Hey Honey, look at this!".  

While walking to the next area, my wife asked me if I noticed that guy.

What guy?

The guy in the adult shop.

No.

You didn't see him looking at you?

No, why.

He wanted you.

Excuse me?

You really are oblivious, aren't you?

Completely.  I don't notice women coming on to me.

Or men, apparently.

I stopped cold in my tracks and considered what she said.  As we continued walking, I started looking around and really noticing.  Uh-oh.  I was apparently way more popular than I had ever thought possible (and I am not a good looking guy).  I swore, at that moment, I would never objectify women again.  I felt like a piece of meat.

As it turned out, New Hope is a rather gay place.  While I am a huge supporter of gay rights, I do not participate.

It's Raining Trees

It's been a rough month this past week.   Finding out about my fried dying, back pain, the wife's three-day migraine and other jocularities combined for an interesting week.  Seemingly out of the blue, my wife picked up a postcard reminder that Renningers had a musicians' flea market happening and today was the final day.  We chose to view that as a Sign that we should get out of the house.

I woke up to gray, overcast skies.  In other words, it was a normal Philly day.  We checked weather online and decided to go; everything was covered anyway.  My wife decided to check her directions online, which I thought was a little weird, as she drives there the same way every time.  She came up with a more direct way.

Off we went, traversing the mighty Pennsylvania Turnpike, in all its gray glory.  Whoosh we went, past the exit we normally use.  I figured the new directions should get us there more efficiently.

Twenty minutes later, I asked my wife if she checked the directions.  What was the advantage - time, speed, directness to our destination?  She said yes.

This should have been a clue.

Further off we went, passing places with names I couldn't pronounce, nor would I care to.  As we got much closer, we went through Pottsville (no, really) then a few tiny little places where no one in their right mind should live.  Seriously, I was raised in a row house in Philly.  I moved to the `burbs as soon as I could.

Corn comes from the store, not the stalk.  Meat comes wrapped up, as it should.  Marshall the cocker is the closest we have to animals around here and I like it that way.  So it was bizarre to drive through these little hamlets with all of the stereotypes in full attendance. There were even two fat good-ole boys, sitting shirtless on the porch in their rockers.  One town even had a restaurant - a real fancy kinda joint with an Eyetalian name and everything.

For some strange reason the directions were completely accurate, down to mileage, and we hit Renningers exactly when we should have.   Only this didn't entirely look like the Renningers we usually visit.

I looked at my wife and asked her if she got directions to the wrong Renningers.  She looked at me and said she had no idea there was another Renningers.  Sure enough, my blonde wife obtained driving directions to the wrong Renningers.

I was not amused.

In fact, I was beyond not amused.  I stupidly thought that getting out of the house would be good for us, given the past week's festivities.  Nothing raises the spirits like guitar gear and Retail Therapy<tm>.  I was largely agitated that I had been separated from my bed for this long in this weather, using that much gas.  I suggested an immediate return to the house, where Marshall and my bed would be waiting for me.  Since my wife gave up sleep for lent, I mostly sleep alone anyway.  Marshall likes to barge in and spend some quality time on the bed, but only if the air conditioner is running and he can leave the bedroom door open.   Smart as he is, we have not been able to get him to close doors behind him.

My wife, feeling Uber-Blonde, insisted she rush us to the correct Renningers, as we would be passing that exit anyway.  Grumbling, I decided I'd go along for the ride, largely as I had no other way home.

It continued to be very ugly outside, as it tends to be.  We arrived at the correct Renningers shortly thereafter.  I knew it had to be the correct Renningers as it looked so familiar (and as there was almost no one there).

There are two outdoor pavilions under which there were a few people selling stuff.  The first one seemed to be the regulars.  As we walked through, it appeared that most were packing up.  There certainly weren't any shoppers.  The remaining merchants looked depressed.  It became difficult to tell if the ones not hanging from the rafters had already succumbed to depression or were waiting for the pills to take effect.

We heard a band, which was a good sign.   And when I say band, I mean a few people banging away at their instruments in no real semblance of togetherness.  Still, it beckoned us on to view the people selling musical equipment.  And when I say people, I mean a sad group of stragglers with all varieties of musical gear.

No, really, I saw lots of pure junk, an eight-track player with some tapes, a Soldano and a Dr. Z amp.  Cheap guitars (all right-handed) abounded.  I don't think there were many more than ten people selling.

Having exhausted the possibilities of the musician portion, we looked toward the band.   The band, as it were, turned out to be four young fellas who had a distinct inability to complete a single song.  They'd get going then stop.  They weren't painful when they started but they'd kinda grind to a halt and there would be radio silence for a minute or three, followed by an attempt at a new song.  I don't know if this was an actual band or a jam but it wasn't entirely successful at being either.

Don't get me wrong: I drove well over an hour to check out this event.  I had high hopes for it and still do.  I wish them all the luck in the world: our region needs more musical events.  Perhaps it was the fact that it opened at eleven and we arrived at two.  Maybe it was the weather.  Maybe it was too close to a college.

Failing the musical portion, I pointed my wife toward the inside area.  She asked for a rest room and I pointed her toward the large, white portapotty right in front of us.  I haven't seen a blonde day like this in years.  I had to point out a turn because someone was looking at the road repair guys.

If you have never been to Renningers, you really should go.  It's kind of like a long, multi-lane, very humid indoor flea market, where the vendors go home but their stores don't.  It's also beyond a time warp because although you see things that you remember growing up, so will your parents.  Ancient coats, clothes, `antiques', military gear (including nazi paraphernalia) and even an electronics repair shop.  I
stopped at the electronics place to chat with the owner about All Things Tubes.

There are all sorts of food stops in the market, some manned (and womaned) by the Amish.  I asked my wife if it was appropriate to give the ladies my card and tell them to call me at Rumspringa.  She was most amused but suggested it would probably be better left unsaid.

I really have to give this some thought.  The concept of leaving something unsaid is most foreign to me.  In fact, up until recently, I didn't know one could leave something unsaid.  This might explain my weekly standing meeting with Human Resources at work.

We did purchase quite a variety of vegetables and some chipotle powder, because everything is better with chipotle.

Overall it was pretty depressing and disappointing.  The humidity indoors was oppressive and most of the stores were closed (on a Saturday, their big day).  We decided to leave and were amused to note that we were the next to last car in the lot.  By the time we got there, we were the last car.  I figured that this must be the same kind of Sign as finding the reminder post card about the event.

Homeward bound we were, back to the gray turnpike.  Only things seemed to be a lot more interesting in this direction.  I was minding my own business, checking email on my tablet, when my wife kept repeatedly trying to get my attention.  I looked up and immediately wanted to look back down.  The skies were almost black, with stuff swirling in the wind, falling down on the turnpike and hitting cars.

There were things that looked like flocks of birds blowing all about the sky, with some eventually hitting our car.  They weren't birds and didn't appear alive at all but they were flying about in the horrible winds and impacting the windshield with a sickening thud.  For purposes of illustration, let's call it Flying Mulch.  We'll call it that because Flying Mini Cooper with a side of Flatbed Truck is not as easy to remember.

We are not used to driving in hurricane-type winds.  Even stranger was the fact that a whole lot of trees were bent over at almost ninety-degree angles.  There were branches flying too, plus tree limbs and leaves all over the four lanes of the road.  It got so bad that some of the drivers stopped doing eighty miles per hour and actually put their flashers on.  This is almost unprecedented in Pennsylvania.

A brief check of the weather on my smart phone let us know that it would be dark, with a chance of showers and five mile per hour winds.  Weather forecasts are the biggest joke on the planet, with the possible exception of Congress.

We drove through a few different versions of hurricane and General Yuck.  The Hyundai behaved flawlessly, which is more than I can say about some of the other drivers.  They were exercising their God-given right to do eighty in a hurricane and there was simply no one that was going to deprive them of this liberty.

Another check of the weather indicated that there were tornadoes in DC and Lancaster.  I had the sinking feeling we might have driven through a Weather Event of some sort but I preferred to remain ignorant at the moment.  You can't drive through a hurricane or tornado if you don't know it's a hurricane or tornado (right?).

It had almost cleared by the time we got home, which was just in time for the storm to have followed us.  Fortunately it was a very pale ghost of itself by the time it hit us.


As I suspected, both the dog and the bed were happy to see me.  As much as it seems better to stay in bed most of the time, I need to get out and have these stupid experiences so I can type them out for you, my readers.

Thank you for coming by.  If you like ThermionicEmissions, please tell your friends.