Well, There Goes the Plan for Tomorrow. Louis Shalako.

Louis Shalako




This time of winter, the anger lurks very close to the surface. There's still a bit of winter left, and the first half of spring isn't all that nice either.

#winter

I was planning to go to work tomorrow morning, (that's because I desperately need the money) and then make it to the Salivation Army food bank in the afternoon. (That's because I don't have any fucking food in the house, and ODSP payday isn't until next week.) 

Unfortunately, my brother wants to drop his car off at the high school auto class so that they can work on it. (For free, right.) And he will need a ride home, and then a ride back later. My car acted up yesterday, but it worked well enough today. This is no guarantee for tomorrow. 

As I mentioned in a recent blog post, I have my own fucking priorities.

I go to work in the morning. I go to work in the morning, not the afternoon, not the fucking evening, not in the middle of the fucking night. That’s so that I can get done, get paid, and get the fuck to the nearest God-damned grocery store, and yes, the smoke-shack, and yes, maybe even the liquor store, or, sometimes, maybe even just a good, old-fashioned, God-damned fucking food bank.

Hey, maybe I just want to go to the dentist sometimes. Right…???

The Salivation Army food bank is open four days a week here in Sarnia, Ontario, from one o’clock to three o’clock in the afternoon. I guess maybe that’s what I was thinking—I could go to work in the morning and then go there in the afternoon.

Having gone to the dentist’s office this morning to get a cavity filled, only to discover that the tooth was cracked lengthwise, and had to be extracted, I've had nothing to eat but soup today. 

He ain't exactly the world's greatest communicator. An even worse listener—

And now, if you don't mind, I will proceed to punch THE UNIVERSE right in the mouth, however symbolically.

#fuck

I had money a few days ago, (that’s because I worked), and while at Walmart, I noticed Swanson frozen dinners on for $1.77. Right next to that, they had Stouffer’s frozen entrees on for the same price. I asked the lady at the checkout if that was right, and scanning them, it seems that it was. I bought four of them, for $7.08.

I’ve been sort of rationing them out, mostly because I don’t always feel up to making some big, set-piece dinner. One measly fucking Salisbury steak dinner, 345-grams, will be the only solid food I get today. Yes, I know exactly how lucky I am to have that—after all, I’m the one who has to arrange all of these little secular miracles. Just to illustrate, I’m a grown man of 58 years of age, six-foot-five-and-three-quarters, and I weigh about 206 lbs.—a bit on the skinny side for my height, maybe, but after twenty-two years on the Ontario Disability Support Program, what in the hell else would you expect.

That’s the funny thing about plans, ladies and gentlemen. No matter how good, or even how simple it might be, there’s always somebody out there all ready and waiting to fuck it up for you.

END

Fuck. Anyways, I have some books and stories available from Kobo. Have a look if you like, there’s always something there for free.

Click the author’s name, and you’ll see quite a number of titles.

Images. Top: NASA, the UNIVERSE, about to get a symbolic punch in the mouth. Bottom. Self-explanatory, pic by Louis.

Thank you for reading my fucking shitty little rants.

No Plan is Truly Fool-Proof. Louis Shalako.

 Louis Shalako




No plan is truly fool-proof.

This morning, ten after seven, I was squatting in a couple of inches of water, as well as the dark, the cold and the rain. The tire I had plugged yesterday was holding air, so I could jack up the car and put it back on. That took ten or twelve minutes, suffering all the while, and in fact my lower back is stiff and sore. Firing up the vehicle, I got about one block and then the fucking yellow 'check engine' light was on, and the vehicle was running rather rough. All I could do was go around the block and try and get her back in the parking lot before she died. 

This car has something called 'limp home' mode, which is exactly what it says. It will get you home, but she will not start up again. And, just before I got to the entrance to the parking lot...it cleared up and the light went out.

Fuck.

What do we do now? I still needed smokes and gas. So I just continued on up the street, sticking close to home and trying to decide what to do. Money in hand, the engine was still behaving. Turning in the opposite direction, (which coincidentally goes past my building again, just in case of trouble), I went to my regular gas station, where the coffee is cheaper and I get to make it myself--if it's the last of the pot, I might skip it, but today I got a regular sized coffee for about $1.14.

And the car was still behaving normally. The smoke-shack isn't that far away, so I headed on down there, also noting that my rear tire felt like it had about ninety lbs. pressure in there. 

(When I checked it, it was up in the high thirties, which I have since adjusted). Picking up smokes for myself and the fucking neighbour, which always seems like a pain in the ass, (it's not like I don't have other priorities), I decided to sort of angle up towards where the highway passes along the east side of the city. With the engine running fine, there was that point.

That point where you have to commit to the mission.

I committed to going to work, and it is true that I have a cell-phone and roadside assistance. 

And I was afraid. I was afraid of the thing dying on me, and then I have to decide where to tow it. I have no fucking money and the credit card is maxed out.

It's just stress, ladies and gentlemen, but I need that part-time job, and if nothing else, it puts a bit of food in the fridge and buys me a God-damned beer once in a while.

I might have even said a little prayer there--whatever that's worth, coming from an atheist.

Anyways, I got in three hours at the shop, I made it home, and hopefully the thing will get me to the dentist’s office tomorrow and the fucking food bank on Friday.

You guys know I have all kinds of books and stories on Google Play, right.

Image. Louis Shalako. (No, it’s not my car. I wish.)

Thank you for reading. Better yet, thank you for listening.

END

My Fool-Proof Plan. Louis Shalako.

Louis Shalako

Tomorrow looks all fucked up, but I am a mission-oriented person.

I have a plan, not exactly fool-proof. You see, ladies and gentlemen, I had a flat tire the other day.

That is to say, earlier this morning—

Here's what I said on Facebook.

 

"This morning, I had fifteen totes full of dough-balls all set to go. The boss was a bit late, so I stepped outside and saw that the right rear tire was flat. I managed to snap the nuts loose...rain coming down. When I tried jacking it up, the jack was headed for China, as the parking lot at the shop is gravel, very soft in the mild conditions. Luckily, I found a short bit of 2" x 6" in the back forty. It made a big difference, jacking the car up rather than forcing the jack down. Once I had the doughnut spare on, I noticed that I still had my step-dad's tire puncture repair kit, and upon examining the tire, I was fortunate to find a hole, still gushing a bit of air. I managed to get the rasp in and out a few times, twisting and turning it to clean up the hole...I also managed to get a plug through the little slot in the end of the tool, and then I managed to get the plug in and the tool out, as it were...locking up the shop after the boss left, I drove across the street and put a buck's worth of air in it. Checking it later, it seems to be holding air. I will check that again--I have a pressure gauge. And then I will need to find a place to change that back."

" I sure as hell can't do it here in our Lake Steeves & Rozema parking lot."

Yeah, so, anyways, the plan for tomorrow goes something like this: I get up at the crack of dawn, sort of drive the car to a parking lot somewhere that isn’t flooded, and change that fucking tire back from the doughnut to the real one. And then, go to the bank, take out money, go across the street, get some fucking gas and a fucking coffee, and then head down to the smoke shack, get some fucking smokes for me and the fucking neighbour, and then drive to work, hopefully on a tire that I repaired myself and one which is, presumably, still holding pressure.

Wish me luck on that one, but, even driving on that fucking useless, 80-kph, fucking doughnut spare tire, temporary use only, I could still make the smoke-shack, the liquor store…maybe even a tire shop. But honestly, I think it’s fixed.

Oh, yeah, and after all that, I get to go to work, to make the dough.

But here’s the thing. I can still abort—take Wednesday off. Go to the dentist appointment first thing Thursday morning sort of thing…wait for the fucking parking lot to dry out a bit here in this Steeves and Rozema Residential Apartment Building.

In that sense, I really am kind of my own boss, with a fair amount of day-to-day latitude.

#superdough

Here I am on fucking Smashwords.

Thank you for reading.