Yesterday the news is existing home sales are up 7%. Today the news is new home sales plunged 11%. The lower end is still being re-acquired. Empty houses don't produce new home buyers when they're sold.
Gold dropped 200 bucks an ounce. Health insurance stock is skyrocketing. You don't have to own gold, but you legally will have to be insured. Good for business. And no Government option competing to screw up profits. I have no idea why gold dropped in value...unless the dollar strengthed a little on the international market.....Gold was only rising in price if you were buying in dollars. Tell you something?
Al Qaeda is now threatening the world in Yemen. It may be necessary to go to Yemen to fight Al Qaeda now. Somalia is next door to Yemen so we can expect to go there after Yemen, I suppose. It astounds me that the endless war goes on still. Furthermore, when I think of all the hard evidence there is to prove that those two planes did NOT bring down the WTC, ...and that the American people just don't get it, I am dumbfounded.
The brilliance of the sham. One puppet President after another, And the beat goes on. By the way, the latest " terror threat level " is bankruptcy. .
If a man works fifty years, and makes fifty thousand dollars a year, He'll make two and a half million dollars in his lifetime. If that man pays 30% of his income to the Government in taxes it will amount to approximately 800,000 dollars. Two men just worked their entire lives so the government could spend a million and a half dollars on studying the sex habits of rats on hard drugs. At twenty five thousand a year it took four men's taxes. I'm not gonna go there on the sex habits of rats on hard drugs.
There was a Blackberry Blackout. Then there was another one. If all this talk about 2012, and the poles reversing, and the world ending as we know it, is true, it's going to be exciting, isn't it ? And to think it might have all started with a Blackberry Blackout.
Balloon Boy's dad got ninety days. He should have put the kid in the balloon. Dummy.
Oh, and high tech computer camera's are having trouble tracking minorities for video . The final insult, or, ..... are you kidding?
Just kidding
Showing posts with label Property. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Property. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
The War Tax
I am totally outraged. Start the Revolution.
Remember way back when folk singers would refuse to pay the portion of their taxes that were spent on war? Well we can call Joan Baez and tell her it's time to rebel; The Obama administration is proposing a " War tax" to finance the war in Afghanistan . Won't that make it easy to know what taxes NOT to pay? How about the next trillion to ... " finish the job ".
What are you getting for your Trillion dollars, America ? Is " finishing the job", whatever that line of crap means regarding Afghanistan, more important than America's infrastructure, health care, or securing our own border with Mexico ?
Another trillion dollars and a war tax for Afghanistan, while America's currency, property, and standard of living all decline in value and quality? Is Obama crazy, or are we stupid enough to allow it? What are you getting for your trillion dollars America..........reamed!
I expressed my view on this " finish the job" line of crap previously, (Here's the Deal, 02AUG09)
if the Obama administration continues the same Imperialistic policies of the Bush administration, which I might remind you are based on lies and a Zeitgeist, then he is just another puppet, and one puppet is the same as another, no better.
Thirty thousand more troops in Afghanistan ,.... for what? Finish the Job.
What job? Catch Osama? ...............No, the job is to clear the TAPI * pipeline route. Nobody's looking for Osama. Money wants to start the project in 2010.
TIME TO SCREAM NO ! SCREAM BECAUSE THE BASTARDS CONTINUE TO REFUSE TO LISTEN TO THE AMERICAN PEOPLE !
LET OBAMA KNOW -----MORE TROOPS EQUAL ONE TERM ----BRING THE TROOPS NOW !
*The Trans-Afghanistan Pipeline (TAP or TAPI) is a proposed natural gas pipeline being developed by the Asian Development Bank. The pipeline will transport Caspian Sea natural gas from Turkmenistan through Afghanistan into Pakistan and then to India. Proponents of the project see it as a modern continuation of the Silk Road. The Afghan government is expected to receive 8% of the project's revenue.
PS KNOW WHY THE ADMINISTRATION CAN'T TELL YOU THEIR "CLEAR CUT PLAN" FOR AFGHANISTAN ? BECAUSE THEY CAN'T BE HONEST AND THERE IS NO ACCEPTABLE LIE FOR THEIR ACTIONS . THEY WANT TO BUILD A PIPELINE. FORGET THE BULLSHIT ABOUT HUMAN RIGHTS, THE AMERICAN WAR MACHINE RUNS FOR MONEY. PERIOD. NOBODY IS WEARING A WHITE COWBOY HAT ON THIS TRIP
Remember way back when folk singers would refuse to pay the portion of their taxes that were spent on war? Well we can call Joan Baez and tell her it's time to rebel; The Obama administration is proposing a " War tax" to finance the war in Afghanistan . Won't that make it easy to know what taxes NOT to pay? How about the next trillion to ... " finish the job ".
What are you getting for your Trillion dollars, America ? Is " finishing the job", whatever that line of crap means regarding Afghanistan, more important than America's infrastructure, health care, or securing our own border with Mexico ?
Another trillion dollars and a war tax for Afghanistan, while America's currency, property, and standard of living all decline in value and quality? Is Obama crazy, or are we stupid enough to allow it? What are you getting for your trillion dollars America..........reamed!
I expressed my view on this " finish the job" line of crap previously, (Here's the Deal, 02AUG09)
if the Obama administration continues the same Imperialistic policies of the Bush administration, which I might remind you are based on lies and a Zeitgeist, then he is just another puppet, and one puppet is the same as another, no better.
Thirty thousand more troops in Afghanistan ,.... for what? Finish the Job.
What job? Catch Osama? ...............No, the job is to clear the TAPI * pipeline route. Nobody's looking for Osama. Money wants to start the project in 2010.
TIME TO SCREAM NO ! SCREAM BECAUSE THE BASTARDS CONTINUE TO REFUSE TO LISTEN TO THE AMERICAN PEOPLE !
LET OBAMA KNOW -----MORE TROOPS EQUAL ONE TERM ----BRING THE TROOPS NOW !
*The Trans-Afghanistan Pipeline (TAP or TAPI) is a proposed natural gas pipeline being developed by the Asian Development Bank. The pipeline will transport Caspian Sea natural gas from Turkmenistan through Afghanistan into Pakistan and then to India. Proponents of the project see it as a modern continuation of the Silk Road. The Afghan government is expected to receive 8% of the project's revenue.
PS KNOW WHY THE ADMINISTRATION CAN'T TELL YOU THEIR "CLEAR CUT PLAN" FOR AFGHANISTAN ? BECAUSE THEY CAN'T BE HONEST AND THERE IS NO ACCEPTABLE LIE FOR THEIR ACTIONS . THEY WANT TO BUILD A PIPELINE. FORGET THE BULLSHIT ABOUT HUMAN RIGHTS, THE AMERICAN WAR MACHINE RUNS FOR MONEY. PERIOD. NOBODY IS WEARING A WHITE COWBOY HAT ON THIS TRIP
Monday, March 9, 2009
Disclaimer: The Oregonian and Encyclical Letters
As a matter of clarification:
I am not an Oregonian.
True Oregonians, those born in Oregon, are a proud group and very exclusive and they could hardly suffer having a Smokey Mountain hillbilly from California like myself calling himself an Oregonian.
My mother (born in Pennsylvania and raised on my Grandfathers homesteaded property in Southern Oregon) was not an Oregonian to the Oregonians, she was a newcomer. I'm worse; I'm a Californian. The son of a Pennsylvanian, who was the daughter of a Smokey Mountain Hillbilly who came from a long line of North Carolinians raised in the Smokey Mountains. You can't divorce that kind of heritage in one generation, and I only try to make all this clear in effort to say that I only speak for myself, and that my blog, titled 'The Oregonian', is a misnomer in regard to myself.
It should not be confused for someone actually born in the state of Oregon, or a rural, backwoods thinking, unemployed lumberjack clinging to his guns and his religion in bitterness. Oregon is the most atheist state in the union. Halleleujah.
As a matter of further clarification:
I did not assume the title of 'The Oregonian'.
It was a gift from a man in Italy. The son of an American, he was raised in California to be a Smokey Mountain Hillbilly, who instead fled to Europe to live a life of culture and became a British citizen. Who am I to question a well rounded man of the world with heritage like that?
If he wants to call me 'The Oregonian' simply because my property borders on Oregon on all sides, so be it; I've been called worse by him.
However, I don't fancy myself to be an Oregonian because I own property in Oregon. Every landowner on the Oregon side of Happy Camp Road is a former Californian. Owning property in Oregon has nothing to do with being an Oregonian, really. The distinguishable qualification in determining a true Oregonian is that of having been born in Oregon. Otherwise, most of the Oregon residents I know are, well, like people in London, from somewhere else.
As a final clarification, should I need a 'true Oregonian's' opinion, I need go no further than to call my older brother and sister, both of whom were born here in The Beaver State. However, since they were both raised in California, disqualifying them in the eyes of people who were not only born here, but had to grow up here too, I could use one of a hundred other relatives that qualify for both prerequisites, should I be pressed to refine my research.
That said, I think it should now be perfectly clear that these letters carry no authority in regards to what other people in the state of Oregon might be thinking, and further from that still, what may or may not be the opinions of real Oregonians.
Quite honestly these letters do not even originate from Oregon state, but rather from 'the Shack'.
I am not an Oregonian.
True Oregonians, those born in Oregon, are a proud group and very exclusive and they could hardly suffer having a Smokey Mountain hillbilly from California like myself calling himself an Oregonian.
My mother (born in Pennsylvania and raised on my Grandfathers homesteaded property in Southern Oregon) was not an Oregonian to the Oregonians, she was a newcomer. I'm worse; I'm a Californian. The son of a Pennsylvanian, who was the daughter of a Smokey Mountain Hillbilly who came from a long line of North Carolinians raised in the Smokey Mountains. You can't divorce that kind of heritage in one generation, and I only try to make all this clear in effort to say that I only speak for myself, and that my blog, titled 'The Oregonian', is a misnomer in regard to myself.
It should not be confused for someone actually born in the state of Oregon, or a rural, backwoods thinking, unemployed lumberjack clinging to his guns and his religion in bitterness. Oregon is the most atheist state in the union. Halleleujah.
As a matter of further clarification:
I did not assume the title of 'The Oregonian'.
It was a gift from a man in Italy. The son of an American, he was raised in California to be a Smokey Mountain Hillbilly, who instead fled to Europe to live a life of culture and became a British citizen. Who am I to question a well rounded man of the world with heritage like that?
If he wants to call me 'The Oregonian' simply because my property borders on Oregon on all sides, so be it; I've been called worse by him.
However, I don't fancy myself to be an Oregonian because I own property in Oregon. Every landowner on the Oregon side of Happy Camp Road is a former Californian. Owning property in Oregon has nothing to do with being an Oregonian, really. The distinguishable qualification in determining a true Oregonian is that of having been born in Oregon. Otherwise, most of the Oregon residents I know are, well, like people in London, from somewhere else.
As a final clarification, should I need a 'true Oregonian's' opinion, I need go no further than to call my older brother and sister, both of whom were born here in The Beaver State. However, since they were both raised in California, disqualifying them in the eyes of people who were not only born here, but had to grow up here too, I could use one of a hundred other relatives that qualify for both prerequisites, should I be pressed to refine my research.
That said, I think it should now be perfectly clear that these letters carry no authority in regards to what other people in the state of Oregon might be thinking, and further from that still, what may or may not be the opinions of real Oregonians.
Quite honestly these letters do not even originate from Oregon state, but rather from 'the Shack'.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
The Old Man
My sister called me today. She had received a call from a potential buyer who she described as an old man with an accent. He was to be driving by my property and getting back to her. My sister was alerting me to watch for him and, if I wanted, I could invite him in and show him around.
I meet the nicest people trying to sell this shack. A lot of nice people would like to buy the shack. The nice people don't have any money.
About 40 minutes later, interrupting my attempt to blank my mind and find another plane, a Toyota Corolla pulled in front of the gate, blocking it, and parked. I watched as an older gentleman with white hair under a tan golf cap exited the car and, sure enough, walked right around the gate and up the driveway. I could see he was old. I tell the story like he moved quickly, but actually the whole procedure was a controlled, careful combination of rather jerky movements that had little fluidity and much determination, and moved him forward at a slow pace while barely bending his knees. Nevertheless, he was halfway up the driveway by the time I went out and introduced myself.
I stuck out my hand and said, "I'm Bradley Austin."
He took my hand and said something that sounded like, "Bran Ray."
I noticed he had an accent, and I said again, "Yes, I'm Bradley Austin." But this time more slowly, so he could pick it up .
Again he mispronounced my name, so a third time I stated it. Maybe he didn't hear well, too.
Then he slowly said in his accented voice so I could hear, "Yes, Mr. Austin, I'm Van Ray."
I think I blushed a little and asked him in. We toured the cabin.
I demonstrated all the amenities, and then I asked, "It's all a man needs, but don't you think it might be a little rough for your wife?"
"Oh, we'll just use it for camping," he said.
"Let me show you the upstairs," I responded.
Upstairs, I invited him to sit in my chair. He sat at my desk and faced to the north.
"Oh yes," he said. "I like the view."
Then he faced me and said, "I have an unusual proposition for you. I'm 90 years old and my wife is 88 years old. We're not going to be around very long and so we thought we'd offer you $10k and then will the property back to you when we die." He continued, "Look, we can't live too much longer. I'm already 90. In these hard economic times we thought you might take the deal."
I smiled at him and said, "You look like you have another 20 years in you at least. I wouldn't want to bet against you."
He answered, "That would make me the oldest man in America, don't be ridiculous."
More than willing to reassure me he would die quickly and I would soon have my property back. Seeing he was earnest and ready to negotiate, I then explained to him why I could not accept his offer. He was disappointed and offered me an additional $100 a month while he was alive. I further explained my business and finally, not wanting to be harsh, I told him I would consider all offers presented in written form. He was encouraged and I saw him out and down the driveway.
Later, relating the story back to my sister, adding that if he was a moll he got all my information, she said, "Maybe... Although he said he lives on Highway 199 by the community college. There is an old folks home there. Maybe he hates it so much he wanted your cabin to escape senior living."
Which made more sense than his story of buying the shack to use for camping. The senior home is only 40 minutes away, he could use it as a base for 'camping'. I have to hand it to the old man, whatever plan he had in his mind, whether it was imagined, unrealistic or not, he still had the gumption to come up here and make a pitch.
I meet the nicest people trying to sell this shack. A lot of nice people would like to buy the shack. The nice people don't have any money.
About 40 minutes later, interrupting my attempt to blank my mind and find another plane, a Toyota Corolla pulled in front of the gate, blocking it, and parked. I watched as an older gentleman with white hair under a tan golf cap exited the car and, sure enough, walked right around the gate and up the driveway. I could see he was old. I tell the story like he moved quickly, but actually the whole procedure was a controlled, careful combination of rather jerky movements that had little fluidity and much determination, and moved him forward at a slow pace while barely bending his knees. Nevertheless, he was halfway up the driveway by the time I went out and introduced myself.
I stuck out my hand and said, "I'm Bradley Austin."
He took my hand and said something that sounded like, "Bran Ray."
I noticed he had an accent, and I said again, "Yes, I'm Bradley Austin." But this time more slowly, so he could pick it up .
Again he mispronounced my name, so a third time I stated it. Maybe he didn't hear well, too.
Then he slowly said in his accented voice so I could hear, "Yes, Mr. Austin, I'm Van Ray."
I think I blushed a little and asked him in. We toured the cabin.
I demonstrated all the amenities, and then I asked, "It's all a man needs, but don't you think it might be a little rough for your wife?"
"Oh, we'll just use it for camping," he said.
"Let me show you the upstairs," I responded.
Upstairs, I invited him to sit in my chair. He sat at my desk and faced to the north.
"Oh yes," he said. "I like the view."
Then he faced me and said, "I have an unusual proposition for you. I'm 90 years old and my wife is 88 years old. We're not going to be around very long and so we thought we'd offer you $10k and then will the property back to you when we die." He continued, "Look, we can't live too much longer. I'm already 90. In these hard economic times we thought you might take the deal."
I smiled at him and said, "You look like you have another 20 years in you at least. I wouldn't want to bet against you."
He answered, "That would make me the oldest man in America, don't be ridiculous."
More than willing to reassure me he would die quickly and I would soon have my property back. Seeing he was earnest and ready to negotiate, I then explained to him why I could not accept his offer. He was disappointed and offered me an additional $100 a month while he was alive. I further explained my business and finally, not wanting to be harsh, I told him I would consider all offers presented in written form. He was encouraged and I saw him out and down the driveway.
Later, relating the story back to my sister, adding that if he was a moll he got all my information, she said, "Maybe... Although he said he lives on Highway 199 by the community college. There is an old folks home there. Maybe he hates it so much he wanted your cabin to escape senior living."
Which made more sense than his story of buying the shack to use for camping. The senior home is only 40 minutes away, he could use it as a base for 'camping'. I have to hand it to the old man, whatever plan he had in his mind, whether it was imagined, unrealistic or not, he still had the gumption to come up here and make a pitch.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Grandchildren
It's all good.
Soon my property will be SOLD. Or not. The idea stirs so many emotions in me I can hardly begin to enumerate them; rootless with a profit; terrified of homelessness; free to simply be a boy and his dog; agile enough to hang with the young; once again unencumbered, and solvent with capability to ______ with the rest of my life. What's the next 5 year plan?
When I left Sacramento I proclaimed to another idiot that "a man can do anything in 5 years if he's capable and smart." The other idiot looked at me like 5 years was a century. He was unaccomplished and younger than I. Looking back 5 years is a blur, but looking ahead it's practically limitless. When I think of the last 27 months and how my world has changed, I wonder how many more lives I have in me? And where will I find the worlds on which to live them?
Of course I could never return to the city or California, because I have passionately declared them either flooded or a desert in the future, so for investment purposes they would be out. I would only return for love, because love overwhelms reason and is always a good investment. See? So point made.
In 5 years I could have a doctorate and be teaching university classes. At the very least earn a masters and be totally immersed in the world of academia. I could do a thesis on comparable similarities between the Han Chinese and the Native Americans tribes along the Pacific Northwest. I could ______. Fueling my desire, that is the question: what still burns hot enough to fire the engines? Nothing, really.
It's sad.
My youth is gone and I realize it could have been better spent. My children are grown and I realize I could have been a better father. My looks are gone and I realize I was flattering myself anyway. I have squandered a small fortune, and would have lost more, but for luck and economic circumstances. And I have a world of choices from which to choose and no passion for anything. Sad.
Grandchildren are the answer. Grandchildren are a second chance. Grandchildren are a great investment. Grandchildren and great-grandchildren are all the future I need, all the love I desire.
Until then, it might be time to learn to sail. I know where there is a dry-docked trimaran as big as the one in Waterworld. Time to ask a price and assimilate a crew. Sail to Italy. Right after I build a new compound in the city in the valley where the two rivers meet.
Soon my property will be SOLD. Or not. The idea stirs so many emotions in me I can hardly begin to enumerate them; rootless with a profit; terrified of homelessness; free to simply be a boy and his dog; agile enough to hang with the young; once again unencumbered, and solvent with capability to ______ with the rest of my life. What's the next 5 year plan?
When I left Sacramento I proclaimed to another idiot that "a man can do anything in 5 years if he's capable and smart." The other idiot looked at me like 5 years was a century. He was unaccomplished and younger than I. Looking back 5 years is a blur, but looking ahead it's practically limitless. When I think of the last 27 months and how my world has changed, I wonder how many more lives I have in me? And where will I find the worlds on which to live them?
Of course I could never return to the city or California, because I have passionately declared them either flooded or a desert in the future, so for investment purposes they would be out. I would only return for love, because love overwhelms reason and is always a good investment. See? So point made.
In 5 years I could have a doctorate and be teaching university classes. At the very least earn a masters and be totally immersed in the world of academia. I could do a thesis on comparable similarities between the Han Chinese and the Native Americans tribes along the Pacific Northwest. I could ______. Fueling my desire, that is the question: what still burns hot enough to fire the engines? Nothing, really.
It's sad.
My youth is gone and I realize it could have been better spent. My children are grown and I realize I could have been a better father. My looks are gone and I realize I was flattering myself anyway. I have squandered a small fortune, and would have lost more, but for luck and economic circumstances. And I have a world of choices from which to choose and no passion for anything. Sad.
Grandchildren are the answer. Grandchildren are a second chance. Grandchildren are a great investment. Grandchildren and great-grandchildren are all the future I need, all the love I desire.
Until then, it might be time to learn to sail. I know where there is a dry-docked trimaran as big as the one in Waterworld. Time to ask a price and assimilate a crew. Sail to Italy. Right after I build a new compound in the city in the valley where the two rivers meet.
Monday, February 2, 2009
I Could Return
Craig's List has a small house on a third of an acre on 67th street, two blocks from my old compound.
FOR SALE for $125k. That is a $150k difference from my California property selling price 2 and a 1/2 years ago. All the money that was needed to finance all the good and bad choices, extravagance and excess, substance abuse and self abuse that I packed into 20 years. Well, almost enough. Twenty years is a long time.
Now being of moderate income and having sold my residence in the city to retire in the mountains of southern Oregon, I never thought affording a house again in that city in the valley where the two rivers meet (especially one at least as good as the last) would be possible. It would appear, however, that returning to purchase equal or better housing at this point is entirely feasible.
That wouldn't look good to all the people who have read my various posts predicting flood and future deserts for the Valley (not that what others think carries great influence for me; I have watched others "think" while I have lived my entire life). Somewhere between locking yourself in a safe room and running headlong into the train, there is a style for everyone's life.
The winner shares the most love, has the most fun, and lives the fullest life (in my opinion). Since I am still enjoying life and living fully, there in itself is the argument for me. Though it would be better if I was most loved.
Part of me would love to own a home in California again. I love southern Oregon too though. Croco-dog likes the Shack and property.
Anyway, as luck would have it (only luck and the Housing Market moved me at the right time; enabling me to both catch the wave and return with the swell gone), I could return to California and buy a residence. The perk is bills paid, debt resolved, mortgage owed, systems cleaned, and adventure lived; I would be way ahead. Think of what I could have done if I had been on top of the game.
Choices.
FOR SALE for $125k. That is a $150k difference from my California property selling price 2 and a 1/2 years ago. All the money that was needed to finance all the good and bad choices, extravagance and excess, substance abuse and self abuse that I packed into 20 years. Well, almost enough. Twenty years is a long time.
Now being of moderate income and having sold my residence in the city to retire in the mountains of southern Oregon, I never thought affording a house again in that city in the valley where the two rivers meet (especially one at least as good as the last) would be possible. It would appear, however, that returning to purchase equal or better housing at this point is entirely feasible.
That wouldn't look good to all the people who have read my various posts predicting flood and future deserts for the Valley (not that what others think carries great influence for me; I have watched others "think" while I have lived my entire life). Somewhere between locking yourself in a safe room and running headlong into the train, there is a style for everyone's life.
The winner shares the most love, has the most fun, and lives the fullest life (in my opinion). Since I am still enjoying life and living fully, there in itself is the argument for me. Though it would be better if I was most loved.
Part of me would love to own a home in California again. I love southern Oregon too though. Croco-dog likes the Shack and property.
Anyway, as luck would have it (only luck and the Housing Market moved me at the right time; enabling me to both catch the wave and return with the swell gone), I could return to California and buy a residence. The perk is bills paid, debt resolved, mortgage owed, systems cleaned, and adventure lived; I would be way ahead. Think of what I could have done if I had been on top of the game.
Choices.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
2 out of 5
The beginning of November will be the start of my third year here in Oregon. If the progression of the improvements on the property continue at the rate they have the previous two years, by this time next year the shack should be complete. In three more years the place should be paid off, or paid down to less than what you paid for your last car.
Life is good. I'm adapting to the new world and the lifestyle changes. I need a few goats and some chickens, a 'Sea-Land container' filled with MRE's and a ton of rice and beans. A little more ammo and fishing lessons and I'll be ready for the Apocalypse.
The last thirty days I've had caretakers at the house to feed the dog and watch the property: Randy and Jacob. The three of us Insulated underneath the shack, water-sealed the exterior, dug trenches and helped the Plumber plumb the place. It's a whole house now, or at least a whole shack. When we weren't working, or they weren't fishing, I was riding the motorcycle back and forth to California. It was good to have someone watch the dog and guard the property while I rolled a little. But alas, all good things come to an end; last week Randy went to his mother's in Portland. Today Jacob returned to Sacramento. It's back to me and the dog.
It'll be nice to have the shack to myself again for a while, but it will be lonely far too quick.
I look at pictures of my sons and kick myself in the ass for not video recording our every moment together. I try to talk them into coming and living my life with me, but they want their own lives. They are exactly whom I thought they should be in many ways...what the hell did I know? They're Worldly, Educated, the Beneficiaries of learning from my mistakes, I feel like the ultimate loser on Jeopardy around them.
It was a good year. Three more to go, this base will be paid for, and I'll be able to start the next Five year plan: buy a 36 foot sail boat and become a Asia coastal trader for five years while I pay for the Boat. But I won't think about that for the moment...
Don't live for the future, Live for the NOW, you get more done that way. Yours must be a busy, enjoyable world.
Life is good. I'm adapting to the new world and the lifestyle changes. I need a few goats and some chickens, a 'Sea-Land container' filled with MRE's and a ton of rice and beans. A little more ammo and fishing lessons and I'll be ready for the Apocalypse.
The last thirty days I've had caretakers at the house to feed the dog and watch the property: Randy and Jacob. The three of us Insulated underneath the shack, water-sealed the exterior, dug trenches and helped the Plumber plumb the place. It's a whole house now, or at least a whole shack. When we weren't working, or they weren't fishing, I was riding the motorcycle back and forth to California. It was good to have someone watch the dog and guard the property while I rolled a little. But alas, all good things come to an end; last week Randy went to his mother's in Portland. Today Jacob returned to Sacramento. It's back to me and the dog.
It'll be nice to have the shack to myself again for a while, but it will be lonely far too quick.
I look at pictures of my sons and kick myself in the ass for not video recording our every moment together. I try to talk them into coming and living my life with me, but they want their own lives. They are exactly whom I thought they should be in many ways...what the hell did I know? They're Worldly, Educated, the Beneficiaries of learning from my mistakes, I feel like the ultimate loser on Jeopardy around them.
It was a good year. Three more to go, this base will be paid for, and I'll be able to start the next Five year plan: buy a 36 foot sail boat and become a Asia coastal trader for five years while I pay for the Boat. But I won't think about that for the moment...
Don't live for the future, Live for the NOW, you get more done that way. Yours must be a busy, enjoyable world.
Friday, May 23, 2008
The Buyers
Sons,
I woke up this morning with a stomach ache. The same stomach ache I have every morning. It's worse lately. I went back to bed, slept in till almost eleven o'clock, maybe later. I don't know what time it was, really, when I got up to make coffee and start a fire. I stepped outside to grab a little kindling; it was then I thought I heard someone call "hellooooo".
I even called "hellooooooo" back, but hearing no reply, and having collected the kindling, I went back inside to start the morning routine.
I even chuckled at myself; hearing voices.
I do have visitors. This month alone there were the Canadian Honkers, The wild Turkey, Grey Mule deer daily, and everybody whom drives by for the first time will take pictures, or stop to admire the shack. I might start taking pictures of the people taking pictures. And I've been to the city in the valley where the two rivers meet twice in May, and up to Oregon city (by Portland) visiting this month. I'm not lonely enough to be hearing voices.
But there it was again..."helloooooooo".
This time when I looked up, there they were; two women standing in the driveway, looking at the glass shack, cooing "helloooooooo", and probably wondering if there was life behind the mirrors.
COMPANY!
I could hardly get my shoes on fast enough. I recognized them. Potential BUYERS.
(Who the hell else could they be? I'm not exactly in the right area for a neighborhood stroll, unless you're a bear, and I can't remember the last time a damsel in distress didn't smell of liquor or worse. On the fringe of the wilderness, here, it's worse. No, they were looking for property; they had the mannerisms of not wanting to intrude, but being curious. The younger hung back a little as they approached, uncertain if they would be welcome (WELCOME? They were invited to breakfast!).
After exchanging introductions, we talked about southern Oregon, and myself, and the weather here, etc (of course, as you are aware, I can talk). One of the ladies asked me why I was selling. I replied, only half honestly, because I don't have any idea where the next adventure takes me. "I was thinking of going to China to teach English."
And then the MAGIC started. One has to be careful with MAGIC. The main ingredient is Illusion. The younger women replied, "Oh, I just graduated from the University of Southern California. My major was Chinese-Mandarin. My mom taught English in Taiwan.
Speaking Chinese, I asked if she spoke Mandarin, when she replied in Mandarin it was like the lightening bolt. I invited them in.
(It is often noted by those who have studied a foreign language, the difference it makes breaking down barriers, when you speak another’s language. I.e. entering a shop in Chinatown San Francisco, or a Chinese owned shop in London, The moment I speak Chinese everything changes; I'm a friend, we have something in common. I'm looked at, spoken to, treated entirely different then a common 'ugly American'. When the young woman spoke to me in Chinese, everything changed. We all seemed to relax; it was no longer ‘business’. It was business with someone you like.
I showed them the inside of the house. I told them stories. We talked about what they were looking for in land and purpose. I talked too much, listened too little. I enjoyed their company immensely. After seeing the house, and politely keeping me company, the ladies asked to see the springs. We hiked the hill and saw the springs. I never shut up, and they never seemed bored. I had fun.
When I looked at my watch after walking them out the gate, it was 4:30. By my estimate those ladies had spent 4 hours visiting with me. It was no wonder their ears were turning blue when they left. I hope they enjoyed themselves as mush as I did.
But now, the analysis.
Being who I am, I had to consider: what are the chances of two Mandarin speaking, American born, round eyed women, showing up at my property as potential buyers? Just being potential buyers weans the numbers way down, and drives the odds conversely up. And speaking Chinese as a second language too? Lastly, how did four hours go by? Maybe they found the circumstances as compelling as I did. That's doubtful, and I love to talk.
The whole thing was MAGICAL. Unexplainable. Illusion: I should be so interesting, they should be so interested. Like the THUNDERBOLT. I had fun, but never forget, "the male ego can make anything reality" and so I have to wonder, and considering the odds, I must ask, who were they really? Is the world really that small? Oh well, another day in southern Oregon, but this one escaped much too quickly.
I woke up this morning with a stomach ache. The same stomach ache I have every morning. It's worse lately. I went back to bed, slept in till almost eleven o'clock, maybe later. I don't know what time it was, really, when I got up to make coffee and start a fire. I stepped outside to grab a little kindling; it was then I thought I heard someone call "hellooooo".
I even called "hellooooooo" back, but hearing no reply, and having collected the kindling, I went back inside to start the morning routine.
I even chuckled at myself; hearing voices.
I do have visitors. This month alone there were the Canadian Honkers, The wild Turkey, Grey Mule deer daily, and everybody whom drives by for the first time will take pictures, or stop to admire the shack. I might start taking pictures of the people taking pictures. And I've been to the city in the valley where the two rivers meet twice in May, and up to Oregon city (by Portland) visiting this month. I'm not lonely enough to be hearing voices.
But there it was again..."helloooooooo".
This time when I looked up, there they were; two women standing in the driveway, looking at the glass shack, cooing "helloooooooo", and probably wondering if there was life behind the mirrors.
COMPANY!
I could hardly get my shoes on fast enough. I recognized them. Potential BUYERS.
(Who the hell else could they be? I'm not exactly in the right area for a neighborhood stroll, unless you're a bear, and I can't remember the last time a damsel in distress didn't smell of liquor or worse. On the fringe of the wilderness, here, it's worse. No, they were looking for property; they had the mannerisms of not wanting to intrude, but being curious. The younger hung back a little as they approached, uncertain if they would be welcome (WELCOME? They were invited to breakfast!).
After exchanging introductions, we talked about southern Oregon, and myself, and the weather here, etc (of course, as you are aware, I can talk). One of the ladies asked me why I was selling. I replied, only half honestly, because I don't have any idea where the next adventure takes me. "I was thinking of going to China to teach English."
And then the MAGIC started. One has to be careful with MAGIC. The main ingredient is Illusion. The younger women replied, "Oh, I just graduated from the University of Southern California. My major was Chinese-Mandarin. My mom taught English in Taiwan.
Speaking Chinese, I asked if she spoke Mandarin, when she replied in Mandarin it was like the lightening bolt. I invited them in.
(It is often noted by those who have studied a foreign language, the difference it makes breaking down barriers, when you speak another’s language. I.e. entering a shop in Chinatown San Francisco, or a Chinese owned shop in London, The moment I speak Chinese everything changes; I'm a friend, we have something in common. I'm looked at, spoken to, treated entirely different then a common 'ugly American'. When the young woman spoke to me in Chinese, everything changed. We all seemed to relax; it was no longer ‘business’. It was business with someone you like.
I showed them the inside of the house. I told them stories. We talked about what they were looking for in land and purpose. I talked too much, listened too little. I enjoyed their company immensely. After seeing the house, and politely keeping me company, the ladies asked to see the springs. We hiked the hill and saw the springs. I never shut up, and they never seemed bored. I had fun.
When I looked at my watch after walking them out the gate, it was 4:30. By my estimate those ladies had spent 4 hours visiting with me. It was no wonder their ears were turning blue when they left. I hope they enjoyed themselves as mush as I did.
But now, the analysis.
Being who I am, I had to consider: what are the chances of two Mandarin speaking, American born, round eyed women, showing up at my property as potential buyers? Just being potential buyers weans the numbers way down, and drives the odds conversely up. And speaking Chinese as a second language too? Lastly, how did four hours go by? Maybe they found the circumstances as compelling as I did. That's doubtful, and I love to talk.
The whole thing was MAGICAL. Unexplainable. Illusion: I should be so interesting, they should be so interested. Like the THUNDERBOLT. I had fun, but never forget, "the male ego can make anything reality" and so I have to wonder, and considering the odds, I must ask, who were they really? Is the world really that small? Oh well, another day in southern Oregon, but this one escaped much too quickly.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Grand Theft Auto 4
Coinciding with oil reaching another record high of $123 a barrel today, the new video game 'Grand Theft Auto 4' generates $500 million in sales in it's first 1/2 week. That's half a BILLION in three and a half days in video game sales.
At the same time Myamar loses 100 thousand plus people in a cyclone (hurricane), and a good portion of Asia's rice crop is destroyed or threatened, unfotunately and coincidently, the week after experts predict world food shortages. Yet there is still $500,000,000 paid for this one new video game in 3 and a 1/2 days worth of sales. I underline this point because I wonder what the total game sales will in a week, month, year?
Now, I'm no Reverend Wright, and I won't claim to know anything about the divine plan, or how God really thinks. I'm not even going to claim there is a GOD, but supposing there is... then what the hell would you guess the Almighty is going to think upon her appraisal of the current state of affairs: "Things can't be that damn bad" or "How bad can it get"? Might depend on how many shares of Microsoft God owns.
Half a billion in retail sales has to be good for the stimulus package. Let me do a little research on that game and see if the money is going to China....
And just back from Google... Xbox is Microsoft. There you are; the rich get richer. And using theological criteria of appraisal for logic, God has to own a piece of Microsoft, otherwise no way in hell they could have that kind of success. Anyway, if the world falls apart, Americans don't think they care. They're stealing cars on the computer, and getting life's lessons from the perverted wisdom of Wall Street, graphic designers and the thrills of cyberspace.
What are life's lessons? I would guess for every life they are different. In America, where the vast majority of the now living population did not experience the Great Depression, where Baby Boomers have lived their entire lives in what, for the most part, was the expanding economy of the richest nation on earth, the lessons of life already learned may not apply to the world of the future. A world with a shrinking economy and the comforts and luxuries of yesteryear gone.
In a shrinking world, new lessons of life may be necessary to learn and, for Americans, it won't be easy. A world where property depreciates and today's pleasures can't be paid for with tommorrow's equity. How the hell are Americans going to pay for all those $35K SUVs, and put gas into them all $5 a gallon, if we can't refinance our homes every 3 to 5 years? That's why SUV sales are down in the billions and my Jeep has 235 thousand miles. Lessons learned.
A world where people go hungry. Everybody I know that has ever 'starved', afterward they could never be rich enough. Being hungry for food to sustain life, survive, must leave a long and lasting impression/fear. Today's native born Americans, for the most part, have never known real hunger. And the mass production of food depends on fuel and petrol chemicals and the weather. Absurd, Americans hungry! Not in our lifetimes. Hopefully.
Furthermore, in America (in our lifetimes) opportunity has always been available. Why save, just go make more money. Buy it on credit, pay for it with future money. Future money may not be available in the future. Opportunity may disappear. If you can't afford it now, forget it. Learn the value of a dollar and save. Damn, am I talking to the past, or what? I'm talking to the future, too. Too bad I can't afford to save. Anyway, I just thought the juxtaposition of current world conditions and video sales might explain why I think when the Almighty shows up she might be a little bitchy. Half a billion dollars. I wish I could afford that game and see what I'm missing.
At the same time Myamar loses 100 thousand plus people in a cyclone (hurricane), and a good portion of Asia's rice crop is destroyed or threatened, unfotunately and coincidently, the week after experts predict world food shortages. Yet there is still $500,000,000 paid for this one new video game in 3 and a 1/2 days worth of sales. I underline this point because I wonder what the total game sales will in a week, month, year?
Now, I'm no Reverend Wright, and I won't claim to know anything about the divine plan, or how God really thinks. I'm not even going to claim there is a GOD, but supposing there is... then what the hell would you guess the Almighty is going to think upon her appraisal of the current state of affairs: "Things can't be that damn bad" or "How bad can it get"? Might depend on how many shares of Microsoft God owns.
Half a billion in retail sales has to be good for the stimulus package. Let me do a little research on that game and see if the money is going to China....
And just back from Google... Xbox is Microsoft. There you are; the rich get richer. And using theological criteria of appraisal for logic, God has to own a piece of Microsoft, otherwise no way in hell they could have that kind of success. Anyway, if the world falls apart, Americans don't think they care. They're stealing cars on the computer, and getting life's lessons from the perverted wisdom of Wall Street, graphic designers and the thrills of cyberspace.
What are life's lessons? I would guess for every life they are different. In America, where the vast majority of the now living population did not experience the Great Depression, where Baby Boomers have lived their entire lives in what, for the most part, was the expanding economy of the richest nation on earth, the lessons of life already learned may not apply to the world of the future. A world with a shrinking economy and the comforts and luxuries of yesteryear gone.
In a shrinking world, new lessons of life may be necessary to learn and, for Americans, it won't be easy. A world where property depreciates and today's pleasures can't be paid for with tommorrow's equity. How the hell are Americans going to pay for all those $35K SUVs, and put gas into them all $5 a gallon, if we can't refinance our homes every 3 to 5 years? That's why SUV sales are down in the billions and my Jeep has 235 thousand miles. Lessons learned.
A world where people go hungry. Everybody I know that has ever 'starved', afterward they could never be rich enough. Being hungry for food to sustain life, survive, must leave a long and lasting impression/fear. Today's native born Americans, for the most part, have never known real hunger. And the mass production of food depends on fuel and petrol chemicals and the weather. Absurd, Americans hungry! Not in our lifetimes. Hopefully.
Furthermore, in America (in our lifetimes) opportunity has always been available. Why save, just go make more money. Buy it on credit, pay for it with future money. Future money may not be available in the future. Opportunity may disappear. If you can't afford it now, forget it. Learn the value of a dollar and save. Damn, am I talking to the past, or what? I'm talking to the future, too. Too bad I can't afford to save. Anyway, I just thought the juxtaposition of current world conditions and video sales might explain why I think when the Almighty shows up she might be a little bitchy. Half a billion dollars. I wish I could afford that game and see what I'm missing.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
The End of Winter
The flag waves lazily today under cloudy skies with patches of blue. Penetrating sunlight reflects brightly in the distant ridges where the last of winters fleeting army of white is on the retreat. Not even reinforcements in March will prevent the inevitable meltdown of the oncoming new season: Spring. My old friends, six grey mule deer, wander up the hill behind the shack. Stopping to eat the new grass beginning to bud, they quickly look up when I gently tap the upstairs window with a pen (I should hear so well!). I try to get Croco-Dog to look out the window (he likes the deer ), but despite my efforts his attention cannot be distracted from his ball.
The house, much easier to heat now that temperatures are staying above freezing, is comfortable and roomy for one person. It will soon be expanded: Opposite the kitchen and upstairs, on the back of the house, I'll add a living room with windows that face south and west. Someplace for a big screen and a pool table. This time next year I want the pictures to reflect another years work.
When I compare pictures twelve months apart I realize how much progress has been made. Like most accomplishments achieved over years on a day by day basis, looking back, it is hard to fathom the depth of the accomplishment immediately upon completion. Remember that when you stop to take a breath in your educations.
The pictures help to illustrate my feelings. Wouldn't it be nice if we could photo the human mind to graphically show and encourage the new graduate, who on occasion will look around and say, "For what did I work so hard?'' The fruit of ones labor is not always apparent to the producer.
This second summer the shack and my property will blossom dramatically if I can only apply myself as I did last year. That will be the hard part; my incentives, my fears, my desires have changed. I have waited 51 years for this Spring. With good luck my new home will be a success, a springboard, and history: sold for enough profit to do it again on property without a mortgage where I can apply what I've learned here. Can I get a Hallelujah?
With bad luck anything can happen, but I never forget that we make our own luck for the most part, and hard work goes a long way to influence an outcome in most circumstances.
With no luck (or no buyer) I'll set steel post and build the aforementioned living room.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
City-Lag
The frost on the ground is barely surviving in the warmth of a coming rainstorm. The thick fog that covers Illinois valley, a fog I normally look down upon like a white sea from my perch on the mountain, slowly is crawling up sleepy valley canyon, veiling the world with a sheer nightgown of mist. High thin clouds, pink in the morning sun, will soon give way to thick, dark clouds and rain .The slow, beautiful, serene world of the mountains.
Compared to the stimulation and excitement of the city; the fast paced, twelve lane highways at rush hour, fast food, all night everything, all those people trying to squeeze as much life as possible out of every moment as they scramble full speed through their daily routine. It is understandable why returning to the mountains can result in city-lag (society is not always really such a rat race).
Our next door neighbor in California, Darryl, had rats infesting the whole neighborhood from their base in the boxed-in eaves on his garage; one summer evening just before dark I watched them from the roof of the house exit from a hole in the eave and gather on the roof of his carport. It was like a Disney movie; old fat rats walking slowly and sniffing, young rats wrestling, playing, and all the rats in their prime racing from the carport roof to the pecan tree. It's limbs overhanging the roof, and all of the rats streaking through the neighborhood via the trees. It was a commune, not a society.
The ant world is more of a society, with the hill as the city. One ant out on an adventure, sees the sun going down and decides to head home. As he returns to the hill, other ants returning from their day join him. The closer they get to the hill, the more ants there are, until their lines get thicker, multi-directional, full of worker ants, foragers, scouts etc. The ant speed of movement increases proportionately in their distance from the hill. Suddenly there is a hurry. Movement more purposeful and straight. There is more control and supervision, larger enforcement ants and traffic direction, more societal requirements. The door is crazy. Ants bumping into each other. Ants bringing in leaves. Ants everywhere. Move or get walked on. There is no time to wander back and forth looking for grasshopper limbs, no time to explore cracks; one might get in the way, or an enforcer ant could get the wrong impression.
First of course is the drop in blood pressure and the natural lull after the rush. The senses relax without the constant radars up that are necessary in the city. Secondly is the realization that the party is over and it's back to cooking for oneself (two more weeks and it's Webber time). The convenience of fast food and restaurants, a poor man's fantasy. Reality can be depressing. Another realization is it's hard to be lazy in the mountains: find and cut firewood, move large rocks onto the driveway and crush them with a sledgehammer, keep the fire in the stove burning.
City-lag is like being lazy; depressing to know there are lots of things to do and all work! Work isn't exciting like the city. It's work, but without the work I'm bored. The city was fun. Fun takes money. Money takes work.
Finally, normally the second or third night back, you sleep fourteen or fifteen hours and wake up with your senses running at mountain speed. Akin to four or five deep breaths after a fast dash."There's no hurry now." The return to a world unobstructed with urban sprawl and strip-malls, devoid of traffic and people, and nary a neighbor I can see. I've been back nine days and not been once approached by a panhandler. The only company I've had is a friend and the neighbor's dogs on their passing stroll to the school bus stop. Plenty to sniff there before returning home. The good life.
My friend showed up two days after my return from the city. He works at the hardware store. He arrived with a six-pack of Corona and a bottle of Clamato juice. He loves my glass-shack. The shack has a certain lure to the cowboying, frontier male in all of us.
My friend owes a large mortgage, is 52, and has 28 years left on his mortgage. If not for his wife (I hear that a lot), he'd prefer to live in a shack next to the national forest, and own it in five years. He would like to retire in ten years. "Ten years is a long time," I tell him, "but something will happen. Have faith."
The evening view is spectacular. Still suffering from city-lag, as he talks I feel better; I remember to count my blessings. I think about that commercial, "You don't need a nip and tuck, you need a plan." Oregon has been my plan for twenty years. I'm here. At 51 I'm comfortable. The pace and relaxed state is good for me.
The city-lag releases it's grip. The clamato-beer is good. My friend leaves and I'm grateful for the visit. Suddenly, I remember with earnest again that life is wonderful, every miserable moment.
Be happy.
Compared to the stimulation and excitement of the city; the fast paced, twelve lane highways at rush hour, fast food, all night everything, all those people trying to squeeze as much life as possible out of every moment as they scramble full speed through their daily routine. It is understandable why returning to the mountains can result in city-lag (society is not always really such a rat race).
Our next door neighbor in California, Darryl, had rats infesting the whole neighborhood from their base in the boxed-in eaves on his garage; one summer evening just before dark I watched them from the roof of the house exit from a hole in the eave and gather on the roof of his carport. It was like a Disney movie; old fat rats walking slowly and sniffing, young rats wrestling, playing, and all the rats in their prime racing from the carport roof to the pecan tree. It's limbs overhanging the roof, and all of the rats streaking through the neighborhood via the trees. It was a commune, not a society.
The ant world is more of a society, with the hill as the city. One ant out on an adventure, sees the sun going down and decides to head home. As he returns to the hill, other ants returning from their day join him. The closer they get to the hill, the more ants there are, until their lines get thicker, multi-directional, full of worker ants, foragers, scouts etc. The ant speed of movement increases proportionately in their distance from the hill. Suddenly there is a hurry. Movement more purposeful and straight. There is more control and supervision, larger enforcement ants and traffic direction, more societal requirements. The door is crazy. Ants bumping into each other. Ants bringing in leaves. Ants everywhere. Move or get walked on. There is no time to wander back and forth looking for grasshopper limbs, no time to explore cracks; one might get in the way, or an enforcer ant could get the wrong impression.
First of course is the drop in blood pressure and the natural lull after the rush. The senses relax without the constant radars up that are necessary in the city. Secondly is the realization that the party is over and it's back to cooking for oneself (two more weeks and it's Webber time). The convenience of fast food and restaurants, a poor man's fantasy. Reality can be depressing. Another realization is it's hard to be lazy in the mountains: find and cut firewood, move large rocks onto the driveway and crush them with a sledgehammer, keep the fire in the stove burning.
City-lag is like being lazy; depressing to know there are lots of things to do and all work! Work isn't exciting like the city. It's work, but without the work I'm bored. The city was fun. Fun takes money. Money takes work.
Finally, normally the second or third night back, you sleep fourteen or fifteen hours and wake up with your senses running at mountain speed. Akin to four or five deep breaths after a fast dash."There's no hurry now." The return to a world unobstructed with urban sprawl and strip-malls, devoid of traffic and people, and nary a neighbor I can see. I've been back nine days and not been once approached by a panhandler. The only company I've had is a friend and the neighbor's dogs on their passing stroll to the school bus stop. Plenty to sniff there before returning home. The good life.
My friend showed up two days after my return from the city. He works at the hardware store. He arrived with a six-pack of Corona and a bottle of Clamato juice. He loves my glass-shack. The shack has a certain lure to the cowboying, frontier male in all of us.
My friend owes a large mortgage, is 52, and has 28 years left on his mortgage. If not for his wife (I hear that a lot), he'd prefer to live in a shack next to the national forest, and own it in five years. He would like to retire in ten years. "Ten years is a long time," I tell him, "but something will happen. Have faith."
The evening view is spectacular. Still suffering from city-lag, as he talks I feel better; I remember to count my blessings. I think about that commercial, "You don't need a nip and tuck, you need a plan." Oregon has been my plan for twenty years. I'm here. At 51 I'm comfortable. The pace and relaxed state is good for me.
The city-lag releases it's grip. The clamato-beer is good. My friend leaves and I'm grateful for the visit. Suddenly, I remember with earnest again that life is wonderful, every miserable moment.
Be happy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)