I've got issues

 

 

“My name is Mark and I’ve got some issues!” 

          I love you like the fourth brother I never had. You know that. But, the last thing I need right now is to hear about your gripes. I’ve got enough of my own.

          To begin with, someone or someTHING has been messing with men’s back pants pockets, and I’m tired of it. The final brick landed after I bought two pairs of pants at Sams last week. Sams does not approve of you trying on their clothing inside the store. You’re supposed to buy your pants and keep returning them until you get the right fit. Ingenius! I don’t mind gambling with underwear, but pants? You don’t mess with pants. 

          My new pants fit great, and the fabric is light. Oh, and the pants breathe. It’s rare to find a pair of breathable pants. The only thing wrong with my pants. They are missing a left back pocket, better known as “the wallet pocket”. I didn’t think to check for a wallet pocket when I bought the things. I should’ve had Kay create a distraction so I could’ve tried on the pants.

It was not until I was ready to step out into the world in my new pants that I discovered the massive breach in pant-wear. It happened when I heard a “ka-thunk” sound immediately after inserting my wallet into my missing pocket. After the third try, I noticed the problem. Now my pants are good only for hacking in the house. That’s bad because I only wear shorts in the house. 

During the summertime, I only wear pants to church. I think the law is somewhere in Leviticus. I’m thinking of starting a short-wearing movement for men. In all the pictures I’ve seen of Jesus, he’s not wearing pants. If you scratch this thing, you’re going to see the Pharisees all over it.

          I’ve got eight other big problems, but only have time for one. When I got into the car yesterday morning, the first thing I noticed was the horn blaring as soon as I turned the key on. I immediately removed the key, but the horn continued to blare. The smart thing to do would be to jump into the little car and let Kay handle the horn. She likes challenges. At least I thought she did. This time she ran out and yelled for me quit honking the horn. She almost used an expletive. Horns can do that to a person.

          Nothing else on the car worked. Just the horn. I tried to disconnect the battery, but a crescent wrench was too big to grip the nut-blocker. Five minutes later the horn sound turns into the sound of a doorbell. Not as irritating but still gross.

While I was sweating bullets in the garage, Kay was reading the owner’s manual for our 20-year-old Highlander. She came out and informed me that the key was the problem. It’s got a computer chip in it that identifies itself to the engine. They’re buds. If one doesn’t recognize the other, the thing won’t start.  

          I said, “Really? I know it’s the right key.” -- Kay said, “Well then, you did something wrong with it,” That almost caused ME to say a bad word.  I assured her that I had never abused my Highlander key. The Yaris key? Maybe twice. I then tried Kay’s Highlander key, and the doorbell sound was replaced with the blaring horn.

          After a few more minutes, I managed to disconnect the cable to the battery, which allowed the car to make a snoring sound. I can take snoring over blaring or ding dongs. That’s when Kay told me that I needed to get a new key. She said to get one, I’ll need the code to the current key. “It’s on a tiny metal rectangle thing attached to the key ring.” She said. – “Ah, that thing?” I said, to myself.

Nobody mentioned a purpose for the metal piece, so I removed it and put it in a memorable place. That was back in the time I could remember things. The Highlander manual hinted that without the number, the car would be forever inoperable. It seems like Bob Dylan wrote a song about that.  

          There’s an outside chance that everything will be taken care of between now and the next time we meet. It was Shakespeare who had Cassius declare "The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.” 

          That’s where I stand right now. I am an “underling” to some of the stuff that’s going down. And, I’ve only shared two of the eight gripes I intended to tell you about. There’s nothing funny about that. -- I take that back. The fourth gripe is kind of funny.  If it doesn’t take care of itself, I may share it later. -- Happy week!

end

hayter.mark@gmail.com

Lawnmower

Hayter’s article for May 29,2022

“Dead Lawnmower” 

 

          I’ve never made a secret of the fact that I wanted to be a lawnmower
repairman. I can only assume that God was against it. --  “God, I hate to tell you but one of the Hayter boys has decided that his calling is in the field of lawnmower repair.”

          “Fine. It’s a noble profession. By the way, which brother?” – “Mark.” --  “Oh, My word! He has trouble peeling an orange! Get down there and put a stop to it! Now!”

          Here it is 50+ years later and I can now peel an orange. Tangerines are easier, but when I put my mind to it, I can de-skin a naval orange. However, I’m lousy with lawnmower engines. That’s too specific. I’ve always been lousy with any engine. However, I have been known to take off the wheel of a lawnmower, switch out the blade, and change out the sparkplug. Anything that requires the loosening of more than two bolts is beyond my capabilities. I’ve always known that, but last week I sidestepped reason and tried to determine why the lawnmower wouldn’t start. The project led me to the guts of the carburetor. A bad place to visit.

          I spent half the morning and most of the evening inspecting the carburetor. Before I started, I wisely watched four videos on YouTube, each of which showed a guy taking off the carburetor on my lawnmower engine. While I don’t hate them, I really didn’t like any of the guys.

          During the repair, two of them said they had never worked on the engine.  But it sure didn’t stop ‘em from tearing into the thing. One guy even cut off a three-inch piece of plastic covering. He said, “I’m not sure what this does, but I don’t think we need it.” He sounded like my dad.

          During the job there were tiny screws and thin aluminum wires that pull on things. They’d take ‘em off, never looking at where they laid them. A tiny pin would fall out of some contraption and they’d just set it aside. If they had any trouble, the video would have a nanosecond glitch, and the repairman would return with the situation solved. – “As you can see, I removed the deformation spigot.” What?!

          Three of the lawnmowers required the repairmen to order parts. You know, stuff that fastens to the manifold occilator switch, and some thin wire attachments. (The names of some of these parts are imagined.) I think that’s what it was. In a matter of minutes, each lawnmower was purring like an unmuffled Yugo. That’s the normal sound of a working mower.

          As mentioned, I managed to remove the carburetor five times. Each time I’d try to start the mower. It never would. Start. A couple of times I had left out tiny metal things or gaskets. Give or take, there are 80 gaskets, each located in a special place. Right now, the mower is still dead, but it has all its parts in place. Not necessarily the right place, but they’re in there.   

Yesterday, I began looking online for nearby lawnmower repair places. There are several in Alberta, but not that many in Montgomery County. Few places specialize in lawnmowers. Most of the advertisements list air conditioners, generators, BBQ pits, motorcycles, lawnmowers, and large leaf-blowers. See? They’re not pushing lawnmower repair. I can understand why. They’ve already got 1200 rusted, dead and dying old lawnmowers in the parking lot or behind a fence outback. 

I’m assuming the overabundance of junk lawnmowers is why lawnmower repair people are so testy. I have very little pride as is, but some lawnmower people can really humiliate you. The few times I’ve brought in a mower, I always left in tears. And, that’s why I wanted to be a lawnmower repairman. 

Back in the day, Dad would send me to get the mower repaired and each time, the clerks seemed to hate that I was there. When he chose to notice me, the conversations went something like this.  -- Repairman: “What’s wrong with the mower?” – Me: “It won’t start?” –  RM: “Why not?” – Me: “My Dad said it was the valve-release discondenser.” – RM: “Interesting. How do you spell that?” – Me: “I don’t know. I’ve never seen it in print.” –  RM: “Okay, I’ll take a look at it. You might check back with me in the latter part of November. Maybe January. For now, just park it with the BBQ pits. Me: You want to put a tag on it? RM: Uuuh, no.”   

See how badly this country needs lawnmower repair people who, at least, pretend to care? I know it sounds stupid, but maybe they could behave as if I was doing them a favor with my business, instead of trying to telegraph the notion that it would be so much better if I wasn’t there. -- Let me include one qualifier concerning my experiences with lawnmower repairmen. They apply to only one mower repair place I ever went to in Montgomery County, and that was a couple of decades ago. The other experiences were in counties both north and south of here. 

And that is the reason I originally chose to be a lawnmower repairman. I would approach the customer as if I were a car salesman. Those people know how to approach! 

At the moment, I’ve lost any notion of getting my mower started. Kay never entertained such a notion. The minute she saw me wheeling the dead mower out of the shed, she went online and started pricing lawnmowers. She came out and told me that a new lawnmower like the one I was working on costs twice as much as it did in 2014. – And God thought it best that I not be a lawnmower repairman? – Fortunately, He did gift me with a sense of humor.  

 

Follow-up: I eventually found a repair guy, who, for a $25 inspection fee, would look at my lawnmower. He called me a couple of hours later and told me that I had a cracked block.--  Not me, my lawnmower.-- It would cost $600 to repair it, and the mower wasn’t worth it. He said I could come pick it up, or he would keep it and not charge me the $25 inspection fee. I trusted his word, because I didn’t want to load it up and look around for another mower repair shop. The rest of my life is too short. Didn’t used to be.

end

hayter.mark@gmail.com

 

Hayter’s article for Jun 5, 2022

“Jill and her scary movies”

Lon Chaney, Jr.

          There was a time when the TV Guide was all I needed to figure out what to watch. I don’t think they make ‘em anymore. Today, such a guide would be as thick as a printed copy of the Texas Constitution. I doubt you could cram that thing into a footlocker.

          Do you have any idea how many cable Networks there are in this country? Neither does anyone else. The number of TV programs, Movies, Documentaries, Sporting games, game shows, and sitcoms airing right now is known only by God. And, it’s not one of his priorities.

          That’s why I called Jill. My kid sister has kept a rating of every movie she’s seen since the advent of cable TV. She keeps her data online, because it’s easier to categorize, alphabetize, and numericalize her findings. Mesmerizing it is.

          I don’t know if you’re aware, but it takes me a long time to decide what to watch. I can spend an hour or two cruising through Netflix, Amazon Prime, Hulu, and everything else. I could watch an entire movie in the time it takes me to find a movie I wanna watch. Kay thinks my process defies logic. I told her, “Oh, yeah?”

          The movie networks have made selection somewhat easier by providing reviews of the movies. They call ‘em trailers because it makes less sense than “previews”. Trailers are tricky. They can show you an exciting scene in an otherwise boring movie. I’ve found it best to call Jill. In this particular instance, I asked her about a werewolf movie. There are 137 of them, and I don’t remember the name of the one I asked her about. She looked at her computer and in a few seconds told me that she gave my werewolf movie a C+. That’s a high grade for Jill.

She read me the good and bad parts, but I wasn’t paying attention, because I changed my mind about werewolves. I told Jill (for the 10^th time) about when I was camping out in the backyard of one of my two David friends. It was about midnight when we finished the last of the snacks, and decided to cancel the campout. I wasn’t invited into David’s house, so I had to grab my bike and haul my buns home.

          On my way home, the monster I most feared was a werewolf. Specifically, Lon Chaney, Jr. You can’t outrun or out-peddle a werewolf. You’re just dead. I told Jill that when a werewolf gets you it’s best they kill you. If they just bite you, that means you become a werewolf. That’s a lousy life. Mom would never let me out at night if I was a werewolf. Jill said she wasn’t worried, because there aren’t any girl werewolves. However, I think I saw one in 2009.

          I immediately changed the subject to “how much special effects in scary movies have improved. Now they don’t have to cut the camera when a person gets halved. They let the video keep the top of him together and render the bottom part so it looks like a red pair of limp jeans. That stuff doesn’t scare me anymore. If they had been that graphic when I was a kid I would’ve probably wet myself. Now I just try to close my eyes before the gore hits the screen. It grosses me out. The same thing happens when the news shows a segment of people getting COVID shots. I don’t watch when I’m getting a shot, and I sure don’t want to watch you get one.

          Back to werewolves, Jill said, “You know what gets me? It’s when somebody’s running away from a werewolf or vampire and they look back every two seconds to see if it’s closing in on them. Do they have any idea how much slower you run while looking over your shoulder? I learned that running track.

          The way I know if Jill is enjoying a scary movie is by how piercing her screams are. If it’s a good movie, she’s gonna let it all out. She’s reached octaves that Celine Dion only dreamed about. The worst scream was during “Jaws” when the rotted head bobbed up in front of Richard Dreyfuss while he was underwater inspecting a sunken boat. There’s no music to warn you about it, either. Jill was sitting in front of me, and that girl let out an eardrum-burster. She wasn’t the only one, but her scream caused others to scream. You could hear people screaming from the concession stand. Maybe.

          At one point during our discussion, I asked Jill to name the movies that rated an “A”. She said there were only two. ‘To Kill a Mockingbird” and “The Searchers.’” She asked for my favorite movie and I said, “Hombre” with Paul Newman. It was the first great movie that came to mind, so I went with it.

          After our phone chat, I logged in to YouTube and watched the greatest running plays in football history, then the 10 best knockouts in boxing history, the most costly errors in baseball, and unexplained weird stuff. There’s a lot of that going around. After that, Kay called me to bed. Mom used to do that, but she never let me stay up as late as Kay does. Even though she criticizes my logic, she was still a good catch.

end

hayter.mark@gmail.com