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Now, for the next month and hopefully not too much longer, the Balfour Bus.
The schedule - frequently disrupted, and so weekends - more or less - will be spent crashing on the couch in the restaurant.
But there's still the getting to & from the weekend in the restaurant, and as I don't care to hitchhike this will involve the bus. This bus, depending when you take it, can be an interesting bus. Today, the 2:45 back from Balfour to Nelson, 3 people, me and 2 women - 1 girl, one a rather ravaged and older cougar with lipstick on her teeth. The cougar is talking to the driver, a driver's quit, no notice, just walked off the bus...
...and cougar is wondering if it was the driver that dropped her off the other day, yesterday, her cat, I mean, it was in a carrier, but it got upset and had an accident....smelled the bus right up, wasn't her fault, couldn't help it, but he just stormed off the bus afterwards...
and they talk back and forth for a bit and it turns out it wasn't the same driver, not the one that quit, and then the conversation turns to the tweakers at the BBI...
...which has long been famous for providing minimal shelter to tweakers in return for their government cheques, and I'd been behind one, 9:30 this morning, in the bakery, buying up all the chocolate treats, clearly jonesing for a dose....
...back to the cat...
He's very loud (the driver) about talking about what an asshole that driver-quitter was. A lousy driver too...I'm at the very back of the bus, and I can hear everything.
We acquire more passengers, now - another reformed junkie, in his 30's I'm guessing, Cougar is unpacking and repacking her purse, taking everything out of it, then putting it back in, giving pep-talks to the reformed junkie, telling him he'll feel better soon, can't expect to be good after all he's done to himself...
I've talked with him, about him before, the other day he'd been in the library, in the aisles, talking loudly to himself, "Firing them all!! I'M FIRING THEM ALL!!!", I have no clue as to who was so deserving of his wrath, indeed I didn't picture him an employer, but....
Now more passengers, someone sits up next to the driver - and together, talking about that asshole who just up and quit 10 minutes before his shift...
You can tune your mind between every conversation on this bus, everyone knows everyone, and everyone talks loud enough that everyone can here, it's never a conversation with one person, it's with the entire bus...rural BC performance art...
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Today, a seasonal blip in an otherwise unseasonable winter, cold, and not so much the cold as the wind that tears up the sand from dry roads, spews grit into your face, eyes, turning your back to it circles and finds you again, another direction for this assault, it's only today, and yesterday, but tomorrow it will be fine.
Only it's today, and the library is filled with the homeless and their backpacks, sleeping bags, and every one of them is talking to their welfare case worker on their cell-phone, updating them as to their job search, housing applications, etc.
And so I bear it for an hour, but these voices, loud attempts at being quiet, it's maddening and you can't blame them, you can't be outside in this, but - I can't be here either.
Buy time at a quiet café, then head home to finish my book, 150 pages left, it's a masterpiece for sure, but I'll review it when I'm done.
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This, overheard in the Library the other day, someone at the front desk loudly asking about the Lost & Found. Loudly, of course, because I'm 50 yards away and can hear everything and because, of course, I'm at the library and it's the community soapbox, open-mic, town-rag, merely sit and try to find some solitude and you'll be brought up to speed on all of the town gossip.
Anyways, man, I can't see him, presumably homeless (why? Just the conversation...)
"Has anyone turned in a $50 bill? Last couple of days...I may have left it at the store or spent it or lost it here...just checking...not sure exactly when..."
And so the clerk is pulling out the lost & found box and going through it with him and I'm thinking, my god, this is brilliant!!! I should do this, go around to all the shops and stores with my own lost & found list....
- "Has anyone turned in a wallet brimming with money but without ID?"
- "Has anyone turned in a large duffel bag filled with drugs?"
- "Has anyone left a full or mostly full or not quite empty bottle of Vodka/Pack of Cigarettes?"
- "Has anyone turned in a solid gold/diamond ring/bracelet/..."
- "Has anyone found a key fob to a newer model Jeep?" !!! THIS
- "Has anyone a turned in a brunette, 5'6", glasses, fine ass, smart?"
I mean, I got a shopping list, I should spend the day out and about and see what treasures I can turn up...
Regarding dude with his $50 bill, I would have answered: "Yes, yes, somebody turned one in just yesterday, I'll just need to confirm the serial number with you...".
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As the headline states, readers of his blog have been using Chat GPT to send Nick songs in his own style.
He's not too impressed.
I get it - we'll all be redundant soon, but here's his take on it:
Link: https://www.theredhandfiles.com/chat-gpt-what-do-you-think/
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As of late, little to report.
Working at the thrift shop a bunch of neck massagers come in, they're all thrown out without testing.
I pick one up, take it home.
And it doesn't work.
Which intrigues me, the power light goes on - what could be wrong? And so I give it a little detour before throwing it into the garbage. Taking it apart I find - that there is NO massager inside whatsoever - and that it's claims of being a "Neck Massager" are greatly exaggerated.
It's a funny ole world...
Today, putting out someone's lifetime collection of Owls.
I mean, my eyes were bleeding by the time I was done. How does this happen? I mean, probably at one point this person found an Owl knick-knack, picked it up, liked it, took it home. Maybe she was a schoolteacher - probably, in fact, owls are generally regarded as wise, and teachers are generally regarded as wiser than their pupils.
SO the first one could have been a gift.
From there, someone spotted it on her shelf, word got out, and for the rest of her life people gave her owls 'for her collection'. She probably didn't even like owls, but, under the increasing weight and presumption of others just bit the bullet and was condemned to a lifetime of Owl Collecting.
Bloody hell there's a tragedy.
There's a pattern with these collections - usually they're owned by women, and they usually fall into a few motifs. Butterflies - which are transformation, mermaids - sexual repression, Unicorns, symbolizing purity and innocence, ...
You get the idea. But when the shit comes in My God it fills boxes.
Even just looking at this photo is making my eyes bleed again.
***
A couple of other shelves full of kitsch so you can wash your eyes...
Note the Norman Rockwell sculpture of a kid reaching into an Old Man's Pocket. That shit doesn't fly anymore Grandpa...
And the heinous resin bears..."Collectable". Nothing that says collectable on it - whether it be a plate, figurine, whatever - ever is.
***
Following, somebody dropping off donations. I'm going through what he's got on offer when M*** shows up - he interrupts my rummaging to greet M*** and then, explaining to me that he's his "Back Door Buddy". I know what he meant but I still take it as my cue to leave.
I'm not making this shit up...
And M***, when he comes to the back just shakes his head, he knows what I'm thinking - and, goddamned this politically correct world because...if he were Ken...
Well, you know.