Punch List

The show's done, 17 pages of labels today, a goodly batch of information, which a photography show needs. An archival show like this one does. And Sara edited out the liner notes from my various postings. Still need to do a few little things. D is staff tomorrow and I need to do a load of laundry, so I'll stop by and work an hour or two. Free coolness. The punch list is always just pesky little things that usually take 30 minutes or less to accomplish. D's truck had lost a bearing and axle boot and he had been driving his Dad's old beater truck and the starter died on that at the museum. He'd picked up the parts he needed for his truck, so I drove him to his Dad's garage, so he could effect repairs. We stopped and got a six-pack, sat under a shade tree and drank a couple. Almost too hot to breathe. I headed home. We'd stopped to get the beer at a Quick Stop that has grown huge, almost a grocery store, and with the largest spread of fried food in a three-state area. I haven't eaten much of this stuff in years, but the smell had gotten to me, so I stopped back in, on the way home, and picked up some chicken gizzards, some mushrooms, and some broccoli, battered and deep-fried. Ate it all on the way home, stopped at the lake, to throw away the pile of napkins such a venture generates; I felt a touch bloated and a little sinful. Not a bad way to feel. If I ever owned a restaurant, I'd want the clientele to stagger out, feeling that way. It's 90 degrees inside my house when I get home, this is a Spring and Fall house, there's way too much glass, so I go into my how-do-we-get-the-computer-cooled-down mode, and pull out all the stops. Turn on the AC unit, turn on the overhead fan, put a bowl of ice next to the main-frame, and a small second fan, blowing the cooled air across the ice. Of course I use too many commas, I'm just trying to be helpful. Understanding anything is difficult, and language is a barrier. No, not a barrier, more like a hurdle, something you had to jump, to get to meaning. Doable, but barely, you man whatever rudder you possess and steer a curse for shore. A course. I knew that. It's not far to shore. Power went out again and I couldn't send last night. 7 straight days over 90 degrees has the local grid screaming and I'm at the end of the line. Another thunder storm moving through and I have to shut down. A sudden wall of water moves through quickly, it couldn't have been 100 feet wide. Refreshes the leaves. Couldn't see across the yard for a few seconds, then it was gone. Did the signage today, touched-up some paint, then touched-up out in the Carter Gallery; we have to hang another painting to fill the wall space where we stole "River Boat Pilot" for the Steamboat show. I wasn't even supposed to be there, so I felt no guilt about going online and reading about diesel engines for a couple of hours. Some interesting players. Mister A. Busch himself bought Diesel's patents for North America. Because he ran a lot of machines, needed power, and diesel engines were/are up to 50% more efficient. The propeller was invented early on, but the deep long stroke of a steam engine was better at driving a wheel. Diesel power changed that equation. This must be boring to most anyone, but I find it interesting. How do electric turbines work? How do you 'scrub' the air in a submarine? How much more efficient is a propeller than a stern-wheel? I don't have any others hobbies, other than reading, and writing you. A woman came in today, the upstairs gallery, where Sara was talking to me, I was on my knees, stirring paint, and I sort of generically recognized the person, but I often docent with my mind on other things, and I don't remember everyone. She pointed at me and said to Sara that he was here, the last time you were installing a show. Sara said I was a secret weapon. Secret means limited, what secret means. I had a recurring dream once. Right, you know what I mean. Sometimes I just don't make any sense.