ADVENTURE UPDATE: The reason the serpentine belt snapped was because the power steering pump seized. Not because the belt was toast. So now we gotta order a new power steering pump, which has to come from Seattle. So I’m stuck here in Grangeville til Thursday, at least. But, like I’ve continually been saying every time things haven’t gone my way, which has been frequently since the pandemic started, things could be much, much, much worse, and I haven’t lost sight of that. Nor will I.
I have lots to be thankful for. I have a beautiful cabin to live in. 101 mikes away. And I have amazing friends. I’m poor but I’m not broke, yet, and I’m able to physically work and my smarts are still mostly intact. I’m healthy, I’m fed, I’m reasonably fit, I’m not suicidal, and my dick still works even if I don’t have anyone to put it into at present. Or on the horizon. Things could most definitely be worse in a myriad of ways.
Ive moved out of the relatively luxurious Super 8 and into the mostly, shall we say, “charming” confines of the Downtowner Inn, which according to the ramshackle sign outside offers daily AND weekly rates. And has clean, affordable rooms and even color TV! Man, if this brown shag carpet could talk, i think the first thing it would say is “Don’t step THERE! Or there or there or there!” And then it would probably beg for a bathing. But as long as there’s no black light, then I shall continue to exist, no thrive, here in this state of willful ignorance. It sure beats being in jail. Or Boston.
So I wait, kept company by my little Bluetooth speaker, my overactive imagination, and a stack of wonderfully weird paperbacks I picked up at the local thrift store for literal pennies on the dollar.
Maybe this evening I’ll walk a mile and change back to the BBQ joint that fed me in so many different ways last night. Have y’all ever heard of a BBQ Sundae? It’s a 20 ounce cup filled above the brim with baked beans, pulled pork, coleslaw with the proverbial cherry (tomato) on top! All for $7.99. Plus tax.
I’ve long contended that the less windows a BBQ joint has the better the grub inside, and last night furthered my reliance on that little lesson, much to the delight of my tastebuds, if not necessarily my colon. With any luck, I’ll get that massaged before the sun sets on the year of our lord 2021. A boy can dream after all.
Send lawyers and money, both of which, unlike guns, are in short supply out here. Until then, I am a patient boy, I wait I wait I wait.
If you should find yourself at a loss for what to do with whatever spare cash ya might have in your piggy bank and would like to finance further adventures and these semi-literate musings, feel free to fire off a few pesos to firstname.lastname@example.org (PayPal) or @jake-szufnarowski (Venmo)