The Silent Industrialist

BY THE END YOU'LL BE CRYING

There's a gentleman in my neighborhood, a guy who likes to keep to himself. He's well known for not being very sociable, not speaking to very many people, and not even waving all that much. It looks like it causes him physical pain to acknowledge you.

The one thing, I guess, that keeps him from nailing his door shut and staying inside is the fact that he has three dogs. The dogs have to go outside, and he apparently has a lot of respect for their needs because he'll walk them up the street and back, one at a time. That's nice, but the downside is that it gives him lots of opportunities not to wave at people and not to speak very much. So he has ... a reputation.

For me, that's OK. I see him looking down, so I look down. I see him going to the opposite side of the street, so I turn toward the house. I see his dog crap on the green space near my signage, so I turn and allow him to clean it up privately. It's only after he's well out of sight that I go to the scene with an antibacterial wipe and restore the grass to its pristine appearance.* I don't want to embarrass him if he hasn't yet acquired this social skill. Who could tell him?

I've heard people say he was a military man, perhaps a high-ranking officer. I believe he's probably had to kill many people in his time, and maybe that's why he doesn't want to look anyone in the eye and say something nice. And that might be why he prefers the company of his dogs, because in battle they would've alerted him to the scent of enemy soldiers. It's a very good reason why he'd want to walk only one dog at a time, so as not to get mixed signals.

Now, even though he keeps to himself that doesn't mean he's not up to date on the affairs of the neighborhood and world. Even this guy has adopted the industrial lifestyle, having formed a company in his backyard, with his manufacturing specialty reflecting his possible military past. He makes Army surplus items. I always thought that Army surplus stores sold actual surplus items, that is, items that the Army had left over. But no, the fact is, Army surplus stores buy from companies who churn out this stuff especially for them, canteens, mess kits, ammunition boxes, rations, strychnine capsules, rafts, camouflage jackets, and gun sights. Because there's only one Army and many surplus stores, something has to give.

I think about this guy a lot. And in my imagination, the silent industrialist could find himself facing the wrath of the crowd for his lack of sociability. In my imagination, I can picture it like in Frankenstein where the mob goes ballistic that there's a monster in its midst. They're running down the street with sticks and torches, with blood lust. Then he's cornered in his factory, and the mob threatens to torch the place.

Finally, he breaks down, sobbing. An innocent child from the neighborhood moves closer and takes him by the hand. With a few encouraging prompts from the child, the old man raises his hand. The mob thinks it's a threatening gesture and surges backwards a step. But he pleads with them, with tears streaming down his face, to hear him out and let him speak.

The silent industrialist -- once silent, but now speaking -- speaks with a clear voice, as though delivering a well written soliloquy by a Bard, that he knows his reputation and that it breaks his heart. He says, "It's not that I dislike people. I don't!" Then he explains how he has seen so much suffering, from his time in our country's wars, and much more suffering in his own land, our land! He explains what suffering he means, what is dished out to us everyday by the major industrial powers. "They have selfishly squandered our resources," he rightly claims, "and exploited each one of us. We've all suffered so much. How can I not be silent in the face of all that?"

He goes on, explaining that the major industrialists have cornered markets and the means of production in ways that have done severe damage to the whole country. But he saved the best for last, becoming positive, praising the Residential Industrial Movement and the efforts of each of us. How strange it'd be, the people he praises (in this imaginary scene) were the very ones who 10 minutes before wanted to lynch him for not being sociable! And for allowing his dogs more kindness than he did his fellow man!

By the end of this scene, the crowd is crying their eyes red, putting down their sticks, and dousing their torches in an adjacent runoff ditch. They present him a bouquet of flowers, then, one by one, going in random directions, each one lost in thought, finally he is left along, a man looking down, sobbing, a single spotlight lighting the spot, the flowers bright in his hand. Then he does it, he looks directly at the flowers. You can tell he's sniffing the fragrance. Then he looks up and smiles.

The sun pops over the horizon directly behind him. He's framed in blinding light. There's a deafening silence, when, as at the dawn of creation, the strains of "Also Sprach Zarathrustra" begin, climaxing with the music at a deafening volume. The silent industrialist has his arms out. He's naked like Leonardo da Vinci's artwork of the naked man. And his dogs come in, one at a time, looking up to him, with great love in their spirits. Each one holds it long enough so as not to ruin the moment.

My point is: The silent industrialist is one of the Residential Industrial Movement's own. He's doing his part, just as he served his country in other ways. Just because he's silent, don't think there can't be a very good reason for it. Like he said, he's seen a lot of suffering. And I'm willing to take him at his word.

I see this guy everyday. And I'm pretty sure he reads my blog. So ... to you, my friend ... this post is dedicated. You're probably a very modest fellow, and you'd be the first to say you'd rather I hadn't written about you. No doubt you want to just do your part in your own way, take your dogs for their three individual walks, and live in your own peculiar, silent way.

And I respect that. But what I've written, I've written. But I won't wave at you again unless you initiate it. Then I'll be right by your side, asking you your name and what kind of suffering you've seen, that I might know exactly what you've seen that's given you this very strange, odd, silent nature.

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*Sometimes I'll wait till all three have been by so I'm not spending so much on wipes.

What The Major Industrialists Could've Done

I'm so heavily into the affairs of the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM) these days that I'm not usually thinking of What If questions. This is just the fact of the matter. For me, life is an endless series of new factories opening in people's yards. New products, and all your old favorites, are being manufactured and rushed to market.

And of course, being the philosophical father of the whole thing takes a lot out of me, so I have lots of other tasks and responsibilities -- cutting ribbons and passing out 'first dollar' plaques -- and there's not a lot of extra time for letting down my hair, letting my mind wander, and spacing off, drifting off in a self-indulgent reverie on the issues of alternative history. Like What if?

And yet when I allow myself, at those rare moments, to indulge in the non-practical and unwise past time of backwards speculation, I suddenly realize it really didn't have to be this way. Or to put it a better way, it didn't necessarily have to be this way. After all, the average man existed for thousands of years without his own factory, his own warehouse, his own forklift, his own supply depot, or any of the thousands of other things we now take for granted.

Now that it is this way, of course that's good, that's progress. And it evens out the playing field, taking away from the major industrialists the monopoly they once enjoyed over the means of production and the market. We were mere pawns in their greedy little paws, existing at their whim, and being completely expendable. Of course we felt happy ... I guess ... since we didn't know any better ... until I came along to open everyone's eyes to their misery and what else might be possible. That was April 2010, and nothing's been the same since!

Yet ... What if we were to ask What if? Was there anything the major industrialists could've done differently that would've prevented or forestalled the rising of the RIM?

Right off the bat, and I hate to give them any ideas, but since they're mentally bankrupt there's probably little danger of that, they could've killed me. And they probably would've if they would've had the chance, if they could've captured me. Of course I'm very happy they didn't, but from their point of view, seriously, they should've given it a bit more effort.

And they had me right in their sights, too, since my location isn't exactly a secret. They all know where I live, and they were here. One thing to mention is they probably could've gotten more competent underlings to pursue me. I know if I would've been them, I would've. Looking back, this shouldn't've been that tough to see. It wouldn't've taken much, since I was right in plain site, anyone could've seen me. But they were asleep in my willow trees!

In defense of the underlings, remember they had chiefs too! They probably should've looked for better chiefs. But at that point they would've thought of me as just another burr under their saddle, someone who could've been easily brushed aside with a few threats or payoffs. Yet anyone who knows me could've told them they should've known better! If you shoot fireballs over my house (thank God it wasn't thatch), you should've just burnt the place down. Because anyone who knows me could've told them they would've come to regret it.

So that's where it started. I could've given up, but that would've given them the win. Instead, I redoubled my efforts -- being fervently anti-industry at the time. I didn't back down, so they should've known something would've happened. I changed my focus to being anti major industrialist only, hatching my greatest brainchild ever, which resulted in the birth of the RIM. If some men have a factory, why can't every man have one? The idea could've come to anyone, but it didn't.

And yet, even at that point, it seems like the major industrialists would've had options. Before the foundations for new factories were laid, they could've come in and given the average man a reason to forebear, a pay increase. If I would've been them, maybe I would've quickly cut prices. Maybe I would've bought up all their land. Or, to be drastic, they could've mass produced bombs and destroyed the country's highway system, then they could've poisoned our water system, then they could've tainted our land with poison, and finally they could've crippled us all with napalm. Or, at the very least, they could've asked us nicely.

Frankly, in certain ways, it would've made my life a lot easier. If everyone would've told me my idea was cracked, I would've just gone on my way, alone as ever. And I wouldn't've known the difference. Just think of all the extra time I could've had.

But the major industrialists, being a brainless bunch of dimwitted ignoramuses, didn't do anything right. And now they see, that is the few who have two braincells that still function on special occasions, what they should've seen all along.

Did The Major Industrialists Hide The Flight Plan?

COLD CASE -- "THE AIRPLANE RIDE"

Today's post centers on certain issues from my past that perhaps could just as well be left buried. But since I've personally exhumed them many times over the years, and recently, and performed repeated autopsies on them as well, I may as well put it out there.

Admittedly, if anything, this is a subject that probably belongs to the "Cold Case" file. Because the major industrialists, in collusion with the airport, and with payoffs to the FAA and their subsidiary agencies, have thus far successfully kept the details strictly in the deep freeze.

The issue, as far as I can remember it, centers on a particular plane ride I took as a kid. The date was sometime, estimating here, between 1960 and 1966. I remember certain of the details distinctly. One, it was indeed a plane ride; that much I remember with clarity. The plane had two steering wheels. We went generally in a northeastern direction, although it was a circular flight, in that we took off and landed at the same airport. The pilot was a man. He allowed me to steer the plane for a while. And I remember looking out the window. Other than that, as to the make of the plane, the identity of the pilot, etc., I have very few memories.

It's been bothering me for several good reasons. One big reason is: I don't know how safe the plane was. Along with that, I don't know how thoroughly it was checked out or whether the pilot was a certified pilot. You can see the questions start multiplying as soon as you start asking them, and the whole subject is one enormous can of worms. Who exactly was behind this flight? What did they want with me? I was just a kid, somewhere between eight to 10 years old. An innocent. When he asked me to take the wheel, was he sleeping off a bender from the night before? Or was it meant to look like suicide?

The questions are simple enough, and there's no reason they couldn't be answered, even at this remove, assuming the principals were still alive and the records well kept. If the various participants in this little drama are deceased, still the records should be handy and available. But this is where it gets strange. There doesn't seem to be any records, and everyone is very close-lipped as to who the pilot was or any of the other operatives. They all seem to have vanished, or, even more mysteriously, to have gone underground. But who's hiding them? And what is it they've got to hide?

I called the airport and asked them about it! The airport, for those who don't know the lay of the land, my half acre and the town, is off to the southeast. Every night for the past 50+ years, however long I've been at Grandma's, I have seen the swirling airport light above the horizon. It lights the sky in its repetitive sweeping motion. It's a little dimmer now that I have a tire factory/warehouse between my window and the sky, but I see it all the same. So I have what you might call an intimate relationship with that particular airport. If anyone ought to be able to call and ask them questions, it would be me.

Anyway, I called, expecting them to go to the file and read off the information. No harm, no foul. In addition, if the pilot happened to be there, I was hoping to quiz him personally as to what he remembered. And if anyone else on the staff was out there, I figured they could either corroborate or contradict his version of the facts. So it was a real stunner to have the guy on the phone playing dumb, claiming not to know "the slightest thing" about the flight, the plane, the pilot, the file, or any other relevant details. After a few minutes of browbeating him, something went wrong with the connection, because suddenly we were cut off.

What I'm thinking, and forgive me for stating the obvious, is that there was very likely something wrong with the plane. And going along with that, it's likely that the manufacturers and the airport and the pilot knew about it all the time! I can only come to one conclusion, that the plane was manufactured by a plane manufacturer from the major industrial powers, who even then were using shoddy workmanship, then covering their tracks with payoffs to the very people who risked my life that day. It's all very cozy, I'm sure, all the snakes curled up in the nest together!

But how can I know? I want to know. But I don't see the pilot stepping forward to disavow the facts. I don't see the records in a sheaf or folder. What happened to them? Does it sound reasonable that all the other records from that time period would be present and orderly at the airport, yet that particular file would be missing? That's the conclusion I'm drawing from the guy saying on the phone that he didn't know "the slightest thing" about "the file you're talking about." Notice his use of the singular. He didn't say a word about the many other files, leading me to believe they're still present and orderly. But someone, with some ulterior motive, has lifted out that one file, and, who knows, it's might be destroyed by now.

I'm just thinking of my safety that day. If I can get some word from the pilot -- an admission of guilt -- I would likely be very forgiving. After all, I did survive, in spite of the worst they could throw at me. I just want to know. Is that so much? In addition, I'd love to hold the perpetrators legally responsible, to have them locked up, for society's protection and mine.

There's another aspect of this whole thing I should mention. They were risking my life that day with '60s technology, perhaps even technology from the '50s. That doesn't sound very responsible, convicting them of irresponsibility if nothing else. But I believe there had to be more to it than that. I think the major industrial powers, for whom I've been a burr under the saddle for the better part of six months, might've already been out to get me, because there's no limits to how much they hate me. With no limits, we can't exclude any possibility.

So all these nagging questions remain: Does the flight plan from that day still exist? Did they hide it, and where? Precisely how safe was I? Should I let it go? I'm sorry, but I can't. There's people from 50 years from now who may be on their hit list today. The airport needs to keep much better records -- maybe in triplicate -- so their questions also can be answered in the future, assuming they survive this airport's mysterious plane rides today.

The Golden Age Of Residential Industrialism

It is well known that most of the things that man does later gets divided up into ages. Man, prone to giving much thought to his own output -- mental, physical, musical, spiritual, and industrial, just to name a few realms -- makes these divisions after he's done thinking about it.

The ages, to give them their typical monikers, are Golden, Silver, Bronze, and Paper. So we have the Golden Age of Whatever, comic books, classical music, rock 'n' roll, architecture, dentures, hoop skirts, sack dresses, hula hoops, gila monsters, paper sacks, grocery stores, art, and so forth.

Then there's some decay -- and self-consciousness, which I'll say more about later -- and next thing you know, the Golden Age gives way to the Silver. With comic books, just to mention one I was reasonably familiar with at the time, the Silver Age coincided with an increase in price, leading every kid in town to pronounce the Golden Age officially dead. Back then, two more cents was a huge thing.

Then you go from Silver to Bronze, meaning everything is a little more inferior to the way it used to be. In rock 'n' roll, once we got to disco, that was the turning point between the Bronze and the Paper Age. We felt like wadding it up and throwing it into a big boogie inferno.

So everything has its ages. I said I'd say more about self-consciousness having something to do with the passing of ages. That's true, leading me to state that it pays to be non-reflective. An example of this is: In the Golden Age, the item is used enthusiastically for what it's intended to be. But by the time you get to the Paper Age, the item is carefully collected and off limits. The big difference is self-consciousness, which ruins everything.

It's like Adam and Eve discovering they're naked. Self-consciousness. Suddenly, the Golden Age of innocence passed, and now they were wearing non-acidic, Mylar, collector-quality clothing to keep their genitals in mint condition. That's what caused the problem between Cain and Abel, which one was going to own their dad's preserved, collectable "sex," being the first of its kind in the world, and, hence, the "sex" of perfection from the Golden Age of genitals.

Well, guess what, residential industrialism is now in its Golden Age! We, all of us who have factories in our back yards, have that first flush of confidence and pride. We're stamping out the first of many items, consumer goods for the most part. We have the Golden Age-ish camaraderie of people together in a common purpose. And maybe best of all, we have the philosophical father of the movement still alive, that individual being me. People know they can still ask me questions and get firsthand "living history," as I relish the opportunity to rehearse some of the details, especially with young people who come by to visit and look up to me.

That's the way it was with Colonel Sanders, too. He had the Golden Age of KFC ... when he was alive. So he did it all, made the chicken, mixed the potatoes, took buckets out to the side of the road to sell, and appeared in commercials. Then when he perceived he was about to die, and that the Silver Age was starting, he posed for pictures -- especially the iconic logo of him they use today. That was his way of hoping he could extend the Golden Age, which of course he couldn't.

Then KFC hit the Bronze Age, and finally the Paper Age, becoming an increasingly terrible place to eat. I know I can barely stand to go there. Just the thought of it makes me a little nauseous. And this is a place we used to drive 50 miles to eat at back in the Golden Age. I had a couple teeth messed up in a car accident and couldn't eat solid food for two weeks. But the staff at KFC -- in the Silver Age -- used to hand feed me their delicious mashed potatoes and gravy. But I wouldn't eat them now if I were toothless. It's the Paper Age.

You go to KFC and right away you can tell, these people don't want me to eat their food. Just pay and sit, thank you. You see a little sign over the chicken, "Grilled chicken is available upon request." Upon request? What kind of buffet is this? I'm here to eat! Get the crap out here! But it's the Paper Age, they can't help it. I used to say, right when they were still on the cusp of the Paper Age that KFC had a subliminal message going out to each table, "You're full, you're full, you're full." Then at the door on your way out, it said, "Come back soon, come back soon, come back soon." I used to get some laughs from my family for that line when we were there, because they all knew what it meant. It meant KFC was chintzy with their food, and last time I was there, they still were. As further evidence, they give you the world's smallest plate and weird spork utensils that can't actually handle food.

You can tell, the way I went on at length, that's quite a subject for me. True. I've thought of it a thousand times, and, like I said, I used to get some good laughs out of it with my family. They'd all nod in agreement, laughing, because KFC's oddball policies are so obviously antithetical to the spirit of pleasant dining, you'd have to be brain dead not to notice it. For comparison, just imagine going to McDonald's and getting an empty bun and looking up to see a sign, "Hamburger available upon request." I mean, it's ludicrous!

Anyway, this is about the Golden Age of Residential Industrialism, which age we're still in. I say this with some trepidation because of the whole matter of self-consciousness. It's tough to be self-conscious and maintain the Golden Age. And with so many of the "ages" in modern times already being either Bronze or Paper -- almost everything! -- it's tougher to keep yourself at that initial stage of excellence. Which is even more reason why we need to work like the devil to keep it going.

Someday, assuming we eventually flub our way into the Silver, then the Bronze, then the Paper, at least we'll have the Golden Age well documented, thanks to my blog. We'll have a good record of how the movement started, what we were doing, what our struggles with the major industrial powers were, and of course the philosophical groundwork for the whole thing. And that's some consolation...

With my fellow residential industrialists, I plead, do not let rot and decay get into your thinking or your plants! Once we start losing our grip, that'll be it! The key to our success is to keep the Golden Age going! Let KFC's shameful example be a huge red flag to each one of you. Colonel Sanders eventually died. And with the decline of a once great restaurant, he spun so many times in his grave he went through the bottom of the casket and is nearing the core of the earth. That's really bad.

But you've still got me! So, please, don't let the Golden Age of Residential Industrialism die!

I'm Not Afraid Of You Industrial SOBs

I'm spittin' mad this morning. Finally, the gloves are coming off. I've had enough. This is it.

I simply refuse to live this way, threatened by the major industrial powers. It's time for those SOBs to either put up or shut up. Here I am, SOBs, if you want me, come and get me! What's the matter, you can't do it?!

Seriously, it's not like you don't know where I live. We all know you do. Because it's obvious. You were already here at my house in April or May. For those who may not remember it, even though it was unforgettable, certain thuggish characters -- both chiefs and underlings -- had me under house arrest, as they hung out in my willow trees and shot fireballs over my roof. Thankfully, my roof isn't made of thatch.

Well, you dirty so-and-sos -- SOBs -- I haven't moved. I'm still right here on the old half-acre. I'm the same old bundle of bad news you've always known. Bad news, as far as you're concerned, although the rest of the world seems to think I have more than a few redeeming qualities. And quite frankly, I have to agree with the world!

Look, you SOBs, I guess I'm just fed up with your idle threats. It's getting old! Either come out with it -- come across with it -- or give it up. If you're out to get me, here I am. I'm starting to think you're all talk and no action. I'm starting to think you're nothing but hot air. You've got nothing to show for it! Are you chicken?

I know I've given the impression that I've been afraid of you SOBs in the past. Like when I've made my reconnaissance sorties into your precious park, I've been looking both ways, all four directions, and up and down. Every black SUV and green ATV has given me the jitters, and I've given up the fullness of my reconnaissance efforts prematurely due to fear. You had me going for a while...

But now, you dirty SOBs, I'm announcing it loudly and proudly, those days of fear are over. I'm no longer afraid. Because you've shown yourself incapable either of catching me or doing anything with me when you had me. I've slipped through your grasp time after time, even though anyone with any competence could've taken me. But you've shown yourselves incompetent, either to make quality items in your factories or to catch your nemesis. At both tasks, you suck.
 
I seem to recall you were going to keep me prisoner in my house till you got a hold of me. How'd that work out for you, you rotten SOBs? It didn't take that much effort for me to sneak out of the house and evade you time after time. Your chiefs and underlings both were left sleeping in the tree. More incompetence! Wake up and smell the willow buds!

Here's the real deal, SOBs: Let me spell it out for you: I will go where I want and do what I want, whether here at home or there at your precious park. There's no more fear, zero fear. I've advanced on. There's nothing you can do to frighten me at this point. I've got your number. I've got you all figured out. You wouldn't know how to take me prisoner if you had handcuffs, a badge, and a Velcro body suit! It's all a sham.

Let me just say, I'm so sorry if I'm shaking your confidence, you industrial SOBs. I guess that's just what I do. But hey, it couldn't happen to a bigger bunch of SOBs! Now ... buzz off!

A Quick Return To The Industrialists' Park

You are not going to believe what I did yesterday! Ha ha, I made a quick return to the industrialists' park, in a way just to show I could, and in a way to see what was going on.

This is an especially dangerous thing to do, too, because there's only one narrow entrance and exit. And if they catch you down there, there's not much you can do, except maybe fight it out ... or submit. But I'm a guy who likes to live by his wits, and that's exactly what I did in this case.

Since it was just the other day I was there, I made the calculated guess that they wouldn't be expecting me back so soon. Remember, it's just like the President visiting Iraq; you have to keep the enemy guessing when you might return. So I thought, what if I just drove in nonchalantly and sat there for a while, then drove out. No big deal.

On the way in, though, I had a quick fright. Just as soon as I rounded the corner, a green John Deere (maybe) ATV vehicle with two guys on it came driving out quickly from some trees. I don't know what kind of reconnaissance intelligence they were working off of, if any, but it didn't seem coincidental. I was really afraid they had finally out-maneuvered me and that I was in big trouble, but thankfully it must've seemed like a false alarm to them and I was able to pass unmolested.

While arriving at the park (at the main entrance) and once I had arrived (in the park proper), I was stunned to see, first, a woman driving out of the park, and, two, another woman parked there. This is unheard of. The only ones, basically, you see there are men. I'll give you a couple guesses why that would be, and, please, don't limit your imagination to things Grandma would approve of. Why the women were there, that's anyone's guess, except the last one had a dog and was apparently there to let the dog have a walk.

When I saw the dog loose, I truly started thinking, "What is this, Abergavenny?" As in the song, "Abergavenny," that has the words, "If you see a red dog running free, well you know he's mine." (These words, by the way, are consistently the source of many of the Google searches that show up at this blog. At any given moment, there's someone in the world Googling those lyrics!) The dog wasn't red, though.

I sat there watching the dog for a while. I had an unimpeded view all to myself of his backside as he walked toward the river. He was flagrantly and unapologetically exposed to my view, his butt. I started thinking of unashamed organisms, and he looked like a machine headed for the water. The way he was unabashedly exposed, that part of his anatomy, gave me pause to think, mostly how strangely appropriate it was...

After the dog drank and the woman got him back in the truck and drove away, I looked around. There were a couple of guys standing off to the other side and back from my car. They kept glancing at me. I was taking notes, but I dropped the notebook to my lap. At that point, probably from their point of view, it probably looked like I was engaged in some extracurricular activity, not writing, so they left me alone. If that's what they supposed, it'd just show how much I fit in the park. If they were actual industrialists from the major industrial powers, it threw them off the scent.

I was thinking about packing it in and getting on my way, lest my lingering cause suspicion and lead to my capture. Just then, another guy showed up, out of the blue, and I thought I'd chance it and give myself time to observe his activities.

It got real interesting when he started walking casually down the path toward where the big hole is. I've never seen the big hole, but I'm assuming it's massive. He had on a yellow shirt. As he started, he was barely moving his arms. As he went farther, he swung them more diligently. I thought maybe it was a mating signal that I'd never seen before. I kept watching. As he got farther, he appeared to be getting smaller from my point of view. And he had no apparent problem with the big hole.

The guy turned left, more toward the river, and finally was out of my sight. This was around 11:28 a.m. Whatever was going on there, I knew he was living dangerously, and he had to know it too. The way I pictured it was that he was keeping an actual rendezvous, and barring that, it'd likely be a knothole on a tree. I was sure the yellow shirt would later look back and know it'd seen better days!

At 11:34 p.m., he reappeared, not noticeably changed. I could only conclude, Now that's a guy who works fast! But just when I started making these observations, and maybe not coincidentally, a city worker pulled up right next to me. I pulled my shirt's collar up around my ears to be more inconspicuous. He started fumbling around with the garbage can. I took it as a signal to the guy in the yellow shirt, who, remarkably, showed no return sign.

The short end of the story is: I saw this as perhaps my last opportunity to get the heck out of there. And if my haste was a false alarm, so be it. Anyway, assuming the guy had nothing to do with the major industrialists -- which, like everything else in this park, is a stretch -- I wouldn't want to violate his privacy. Also, I wouldn't want to embarrass him in his great shame. Or, lastly, if he turned out to be brazen and unbowed by his dirty deeds, I wouldn't want to personally witness that level of recalcitrance.

The Good Industrialist Maintains Things

The issue of good industrial maintenance habits is near and dear to my heart. I touched on it yesterday, but it's one of those subjects that I always have more to say about. I hope you agree.

It's always fun when things are new, shiny and new. It's just like Christmas. Maybe you get a new car, a new couch, or a new pet. But that's just the beginning, because from now on you're going to need to take care of it. Or it'll go to pot and you'll fail to get the maximum value (and enjoyment) out of it.

When it comes to a car, of course you're always maintaining a car. The way it's been for me, most of my cars have been used, so they've had issues. If I have to go out of town, my stomach is instantly a tangle of knots, because I'm never sure I'll make it. I've had cars so bad, in a parallel universe I'm still standing by the side of the road. Even St. Christopher refuses to ride with me. The one and only thing my cars have never failed at is needing constant maintenance.

A couch doesn't need that much maintenance. Just brush off the pet hair and occasionally soak up a pee stain and flip the cushion. I don't really mind flipping the cushion, because I'm always surprised by how much change I find. Whenever I find a quarter or dime or something, I put it in a jar, and that's my new couch fund. So far I have 80 cents, two paperclips, and a partly chewed dog biscuit. Eventually, we'll get there! I actually remember years ago, the last couch Grandma and Grandpa owned. It was from the '40s. We tried to give it away but no one wanted it. So I had to tear the sucker apart, piece for piece. I can't remember how much I found that day, but it was probably close to a dollar. So it was win-win.

Then there's our pets. For me, it's a dog, Underbrush. Does she need maintenance? Of course, plenty of it. And I lost the instructions that came with her, so I'm just winging it. But I keep her food dish filled and her water dish. She likes regular walks, giving her a chance to take constant pees and an occasional pootie. I'm a meticulous, obsessive cleaner after her, getting it all in a bag, then using an anti-bacterial hand wipe to make sure the grass is left as clean as it can be. And she herself might need a spritz when we get home, if there's any crustacean left behind. We take a breather for a few hours, then we're back out.

Maintenance. It's what you do to take care of your stuff. And for those in industry -- in the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM), at least -- everything we have, we need to maintain. I've been very proud of our many RIM members, knowing they've been dedicated to the proposition that good maintenance is job one.

You notice I specifically praised the members of RIM for their attention to maintenance. That's true, because I have nothing but scorn and reproach for the major industrial powers, many of the "great" companies that everyone knows so well. My opinion of them -- and it's a fact -- is that they, by their evil nature, simply let things go to pot. I've seen it from the inside and the out, although doubtless they do a better job with the outside of their facilities than they do the inside. Because they want everyone to think they're so great in there!

And yet, how many times have I driven by a major industrial plant and seen dirty windows, signs tipped over or crooked, shabby loading docks, and even bad landscaping. It's ugly as sin to see weeds basically as tall as the building, sometimes even blocking the main entrance. There was one major industrial facility I saw -- I believe they made lawn mowers -- the grass and weeds were so beyond control, they were well on their way, creeping toward the apocalypse. Kind of ironic.

The major industrialists, as in so many other aspects of the work, simply don't care. They think they're so big and bad they can live like the devil and people will still love them. And it's really because most of us avoid the industrial sections of our town, because we instinctively know this stuff is hidden away for a good reason. We don't want to feel bad about ourselves for rewarding bad behavior. Or their million dollar ad campaigns paper over the offense, lulling us into a state of blissful denial that they really can be that bad. It's the hidden persuaders syndrome all over again. They brag about their high standards, but check the corners; there'll be dust or mouse droppings for sure. No maintenance...

But the good industrialists -- the members of RIM -- maintain their things. They see dirt or streaks on a window, they clean it. The grass is getting long, they cut it. If the loading dock looks shabby, they de-shab it, pronto, quick, lickety split, now, if not sooner. If there's dust, they put it in a dustpan and dispose of it properly. If there's a mouse, they kill it and fling it in the incinerator. Because they care, and because they know you care.

In conclusion, there's a big difference between the major industrial powers and the members of RIM. The residential industrialists care about maintenance, knowing what is necessary and making sure it gets done. The major industrialists simply don't care. They gladly let their facilities go down the tube because they know they can still make a fast, dirty buck.

No More Sex -- Industrial Maintenance

Anyway, no more sex.

We're getting back to business, the business I announced yesterday of "how you can prosper as a residential industrialist in the face of the major industrial powers." And my opinion on that subject is that everyday dry, mundane information -- non-sexual information -- is the key to our success. Because if you're dwelling too much on the lusts of the flesh, frankly, you may do something that's over with in a couple minutes, but you're not going to accomplish anything that will stand the test of time.

So you can see, just because something is a dry subject, that doesn't mean it's not important. It is!

I'm in the tire business, of course, and there's a lot of picky little dry-as-dust details when it comes to tires. They need air -- a tire's always gasping for air, panting, heaving, a lot of heavy breathing going on, so much air pressure. All that lusty breathing puts you in the mood to work your hardest. And you've got to keep your nuts tight, with everything securely screwed when it needs to be. It takes so much work, you feel like blowing your stack. And you just might. You will certainly regret it, but in the heat of the moment, you know it's definitely a great release.

What I want to address today -- for my fellow Residential Industrialists -- is that maintenance is an all-important thing for your equipment, your factory, and for all your many moving parts. You have a conveyor belt that gets too loose, it's just like the belt on your pants, it gets too loose, things start falling down. Then what do you have? Your pants down around your knees, you're struttin' your stuff around the room, very proud, but no one else can get anything else done with an unwelcome protuberance constantly bobbing in their line of sight. Especially if you're a natural redhead.

Next, oiling and greasing are essential aspects of maintenance. How many machines with pulleys and pistons, levers and prongs, have been destroyed because we forget to keep them well lubricated, luxuriating in silky lubricants and oils? You don't like the chaffing and discomfort of too much dryness ... down there. You don't want to miss the satisfaction that comes from lovingly applied lubricants, ranging from a warm soapy lather all the way up to the very specialized edible lotions you find at Spencer Gifts. There's just something about everything being all slippery and smooth that gives you that extra-added, indescribable sensation of pure pleasure. And that's how your pulleys and pistons feel, too. They fervently desire a spritz of oil every now and then, and maybe flowers after the shift.

Regular maintenance, regular attention to all your moving parts, is what keeps everything throbbing and pulsing along in a beautiful, well-adjusted harmony. I know it's very seductive to listen intently and hear the satisfying sound of parts moving together as one. Back and forth, rocking gently yet insistently. But without maintenance, our factories -- let's face it -- get very tight -- even uptight -- and at their neurological center they become a bundle of frazzled nerves, just waiting finally to completely snap. Lying in a heap, twitching and babbling, occasionally an exposed electrical short flashes, lighting a dark corner. An air hose flips up with a random convulsion. No ones wants to be alone. No one wants their needs neglected. I've seen pulleys that have never been satisfied, pulling at it all day but nothing happens. And screws, neglected, finally falling to the floor in a frustrated pile, never again to seek reinsertion.

All of our equipment has the same needs we all have -- maintenance, attention, loving care. From the biggest boiler -- with the hottest pipes in the plant -- to the smallest coffee pot, that abides alone, making only a single cup at a time, each one has challenges of its own. And if you're not there to maintain it in its day to day course, don't be surprised if you show up for work and see it's drained itself all over the floor and has died ... or has run away to Thailand, perhaps, where the industrial trade, they say, is very hot, wild, and free.

Getting Back My Industrial Focus -- No More Sex

I've really been thinking non-stop about my four words, "Many Walking The Paths," from the last few days. It's a very enjoyable thing when you do something truly wonderful. And if you're like me, you want to just keep reliving that moment.

But I know I shouldn't, because that's not my focus. This is where it ends...

It's kind of funny, in a way, that I'd want to relive that moment, because, actually, when I had that inspiration, it was accidental, I felt like I was in a tight spot. It was right when that guy 'walking the path' glanced at me. I hope you know all of this is true. No one's making anything up here. That's what makes it so great! There's no way I was hoping for that moment to happen. There's no way I was planning for it to happen. I honestly was only there to see if there were any signs -- hide or hair -- of the major industrial powers.

Just as an aside, maybe a funny one, if you want to see hide or hair this might be a good park to go to!

I'm a little uncomfortable, I'll confess, intruding on people's privacy down there. Because those who go there and have nothing to do with the major industrial powers are entitled to their privacy, even if they're doing their thing right out in public. Technically, it's public. I mean, it's a series of wooded paths by a river, with lots of bushy cover; you can't see things from the parking lot, although you could be innocently walking the paths without any clue about what was going on there, I'm sure, and get a royal eyeful!

Now, since I'm being honest -- and let me repeat, all this is true although it's hard to believe -- let me just say, I myself have not walked the paths. I have kept to the parking lot. One, I don't want to be in a position of someone backing me up against a bush that could give way at any moment. And, two, I don't want some guy with a notebook taking notes about me when I come staggering out with my shirttail askew, my hair messed, and my eyes crossed. I'd be throwing up all kinds of protests, none of which would ring true, since, "Methinks he doth protest too much!" And all that ... Anyway, as far as I'm concerned, it's a fright.

But just because I myself haven't walked the paths, I still have an imagination second to none. And I've had a long time to think it over. I've studied the angles and parsed it completely. I know the ways of men's hearts and what they do when left to their own unbridled lusts. You want to turn away and probably do. I myself would turn away, because, again, I like to respect people's privacy. But that doesn't mean it's not all brightly pictured in my mind, because it is; it's stark and tremendously detailed.

OK, I've said all that. But what I wanted to get to is the fact that I need to move on from the 'four words' and the issues surrounding the park. Except as they relate to the dealings of the major industrial powers. Those are the guys I want to bring down, not every other lonely, obviously desperate guy in town. And it's not even every lonely guy in town, because it wouldn't occur to most people to strip down and cavort through a bunch of mosquito-infested trees and bushes on these crazy paths with total strangers. Remember, tomorrow's going to come, and you don't want to wake up with ... whatever, a rash ... or worse.

So it's not them -- they're all quite innocent, as far as I'm concerned. No, it's the major industrial powers who've managed to get my goat, lo, these many moons. That said, then, I will leave this other business behind. And I will get my focus back to the things of industry, strictly speaking, the dealings and double-dealings of the major industrial powers as they stand solidly against the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM). We are good, they are evil.

Anyway, that's the information you come here for. You're thinking about practical things, such as how you can prosper as a residential industrialist in the face of the major industrial powers. Because they are out to stop us. They are out to get us. We need to be prepared, and a big part of that is sharing information, with knowledge being power.

Four Words: My Brilliant Industrial Succinctness

I keep thinking about the four words I used the other day to describe what was going on at the park the major industrial powers had been using. You can see my other two posts on this at Incredible Link 1 and Incredible Link 2. I can't quit thinking about it, it's that good.

You might remember, as documented in one of the two links above, that I was at the park, and, just as a guy was coming out from the paths, I was reaching for my notebook. Normally, I would've written more, and in my normal handwriting style. But when he glanced over at me, and I was feeling very threatened, I wrote just these four words, and in a scrunched up writing style. I seriously thought the guy might come over and demand my notebook and that anything more than this brief note (and in more legible handwriting) would be something that might incriminate me in his eyes. And then, who knows what might've happened? I know I didn't see him wipe his hands, so they were probably wet with something.

But looking at the four words as they turned out, maybe I ought to do a lot more very brief writing under pressure. Because as far as I'm concerned, that's one of the most impressive things I've ever done. I described it yesterday as being like a cameo, and that's the perfect term for it. It'd make a nice broach or necklace or maybe a cool 3D thing, like those little plastic cubes that have a 3D thing encased in them in the exact center. That'd be cool, because then I could see it from every angle, including from above or below or both.

Anyway, I am suitably impressed.

Now, to carry it just a little further, what do you think? Do you think these four words might take their place with the other great four word phrases of history? Maybe I should rephrase that... Do you think these four words will take their place with other great four word phrases of history within my lifetime, or will I have to wait till I die to see it?

Some of the other great four word phrases are great indeed: Shakespeare's "To be or not." The Constitution's "We the people of." Or the Declaration of Independence's "When, in the course." The Bible has a good one to start it, "In the beginning God." My Cousin Roto had an interesting one he used to always say when we were kids: "Shut the f*** up!" And, just to give one other example, from the moon landing, "The Eagle has landed." So you can see I'm in very good company, saying, "Many walking the paths." Four simple words, but, oh, what words!

I'm thinking of some of the other "fours" in life. Like the first four notes of Beethoven's 5th symphony, the four legs of a chair, the four basic directions, the four fingers left on a hand injured in a punch press accident, and, to go for a very obscure one, the four words of Eldad and Modad (in the Greek), but I can't remember what they are. El dad looks like "The dad," and Mo dad looks like they're confusing him with mom, so that could be an issue.

As to my own four words, I've already got them clipped out of my notebook and framed. I'm just waiting now for my full due, the kudos, plaudits, and lauds of historians of the future as well as the citizens of the world in this present day. If each of you could send me as little as one dollar, four quarters, that would be a very welcome tribute. Thank you in advance.

Documenting Industrial Misdeeds

There's always misdeeds, I don't care what the field. Mistakes, missteps, peccadilloes, sins, errors -- to err is human! You get out the eraser and start over.

But usually with misdeeds, you're not just talking about mistakes, but something with a bad intention behind it. You know you're doing wrong but you do it anyway. And some of this can't be easily erased, like if you send miners into a shaky mine and they're suddenly trapped. The problem, obviously, is that it might make the news and you'll get bad publicity.

One of my purposes in writing this blog, in posting this vital information, is to expose misdeeds, to bring into the light of day the many things the major industrialists do that are wrong. In this way, I hope we can drive them out of business sooner or later, that goodness might prevail. The sooner the better, of course, because there will be more worthy residential industrialists on the scene to step in. And I've never heard of a misdeed within the Residential Industrial Movement. Ever.

In writing these things, I always do a lot of research beforehand. Like when I was out at the park the other day, checking it out to see what I might see of the major industrialists, who had been hanging out there. I didn't see them, but I did see some apparent wrongdoing, all the men who were walking the paths. I believe there are things going on out there that would curl your hair, or at least expose some of your already-curled hair if you were publicly taking part in them, if you catch my meaning.

Now, I wasn't on the scene with the intention of documenting any of that. I was hoping to catch the major industrialists in some kind of embarrassing misdeeds -- because nothing makes me happier than to catch them in flagrante delicto, that they might be cheerfully (by me) exposed. But it's not just wishful thinking that makes it happen, of course. Yet I know they're out there somewhere doing things, and since that's so, I may as well be trying to find out what.

Concerning the men walking the paths, then, look at the beautifully succinct way I documented it -- four words! I always like to get things thoroughly documented. But that is thorough documentation, even in its brevity. Because the things that are going on there, were I to see them, I know I wouldn't forget them. They would be burned in my memory. So in that case, any brief documentation is still fulsome, because I'm not going to forget it anyway. And it's actually nicer, because it crystallizes it perfectly, like a cameo, whereas a long and drawn out description would be clinical, and overkill to boot.

When I was writing that little entry in my notebook, remember, there was a guy walking the path who glanced over at me just as I was getting my notebook. So I'm trying to look nonchalant, like my writing had nothing to do with his latest misdeed (or peccadillo, and a brazen one at that, in this case). One thing, I didn't want him charging me in my car. There's no way I could know what precisely he might have on his hands, and I certainly wouldn't want to get any on me. A guy like that, in danger of losing his reputation thanks to a momentary lapse into lust, could try anything in retaliation against an unknown reporter sitting in his car cooly writing times, dates, and observations in a notebook. I don't know what's been going on at home, whether his wife suspects, whether it's been an issue between them, or if he's actually fearing a private investigator right at that moment. So he could do anything. He thinks he's down the path and in no danger, the whole thing's over, and all he has to do is get back to his car. And there wasn't a guy with a notebook 10 minutes ago, so he'd be cursing his bad luck to see me sitting there documenting the whole sordid affair.

So that's why I made my notation in such a succinct and scrunched up way. Yet it definitely is beautiful in its brevity, with the little box and date, so I'm happy. Plus, I have my good memories of exactly how totally freaked out he looked when he glanced over and saw me there. I actually felt a little embarrassed for him, since I didn't mean anything, but how can I call out, "Hey, I'm just taking notes on such-and-such and not on whatever it was you were doing down the path," which, heh-heh, should probably be obvious to all. The drives we have we have in common, that's true, so there's a certain human sympathy that could come into play. However, we don't all act on our basest drives, and certainly not in broad daylight and without taking all due precautions. I know I wouldn't. And I know I would be freaked out by an unknown guy with a notebook. But I'm a lot happier when I'm the guy with the notebook instead of the reverse!

Anyway, it's important to catch the major industrialists in their misdeeds, that's my point. It's good when someone is there to document it so we can bring them down! And if they're not anywhere in sight, just do what you want. Keep your eyes open, because you never know what else you might see. I actually do know what I might see at this particular park, and that's what makes it so endlessly fascinating. If the major industrialists aren't there, there's plenty of the rest of humanity's flotsam and jetsam still present to keep us all entertained. Doing what comes nature, albeit in an unnatural way, if you catch my meaning. With strangers and perhaps all over the leaves of innocent bushes. Disgusting.

Have The Industrial Pervs Given Up The Park?

You may have noticed something about me at this blog, that I don't forget! I've always got my finger on the pulse. I'm know which way the wind blows. And if there's anything to latch on to, my teeth will still be dug in.

That's one of the big reasons the major industrial powers hate my guts, because I'm tenacious, like a junkyard dog with a one track mind guarding his junk. Look at what's happened just since this past April. I went from unknown provocateur to mild irritant to burr under their saddle to the middle of their blacklist to public enemy number one in their eyes. Because I didn't forget. I saw the problem and I kept going back, back, back, returning over and over, without fail, and without apology.

That last point really is true. You can look back to my post, "The Industrial Powers Shall Receive No Apology," and see I stood my ground. It wasn't easy either. Because in those days there was no one on my side, then Paul Krugman, out of the blue, stepped in as one lonely voice, and from that point everything improved. Then especially when the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM) got underway, there was true power in numbers, and the majors, while not letting me off the hook entirely, had a lot more to deal with than one guy.

And yet ... I remain that same burr under their saddle ... and you never know when they're going to descend on me. That's just reality, the reality I live with everyday.

You know, I was watching the new show on TV, "Hardcore Pawn," and this weather-worn, rough cut, begrizzled old pawnbroker, who must've seen more violence than most human beings alive, in war torn Detroit, was totally freaked out that some big-mouthed sassy woman, clearly nothing but talk, threatened him because he wouldn't give her back her pawned item without a ticket. Somehow, inexplicably, he must've been a pawnbroker in Detroit for 40 years without ever receiving a threat! And this one seemed mild. But he totally freaked out and decided everyone in the shop needed a brand new gun and the full training that goes with it. I say all that to say all this: If that guy, who seemed like he might've* been playacting for the cameras, has security issues, what about me? This is reality. The majors have shot fireballs over my house, meaning, if my house had had a thatched roof, I wouldn't be here now. Yet here I sit, all these enemies, obviously it's dire.

But I don't let it get me down. Even in the face of their boldfaced attacks against me. Like that day at the park by the river, back in July. Sometimes a walk in the park is no walk in the park, if you catch my meaning. Especially this park, with all the things going on there. I'd hate to walk too far, because I might go all the way, if you catch my meaning. One, there's a lot of hard workers there, if you catch my meaning. They work so hard they're working their fingers to the bone, if you catch my meaning. Two, there was actually a plot hatched there to get me, with a guy named Thompson relaying the word to his confederates, the word coming to him from the powers on high.

OK, like I said at the top, I never forget. So guess what. Like an unannounced presidential trip to Iraq, I went back to the park, and no one seemed to be expecting me. There were guys coming out of the bushes and heading for their cars, of course. I jotted down these incriminating words in my notebook: "Many walking the paths." That's it, that's what I wrote. And I might've freaked out one of the guys, because he glanced over at me just as I was reaching for my notebook. But I didn't see anything of the major industrial powers or anything slightly threatening, except maybe this guy's glance, if you catch my meaning.

Whether the major industrial pervs have indeed given up the park or not is not a question I can answer with 100% certainty. I don't have any way to monitor it, for one. And two, if I went there regularly, they'd probably return to get me, assuming for the sake of argument that they've actually given it up.

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*It just so happened that the sudden need to get a gun coincided with the first or second show in the series.

Charting My Industrial Future

The future is very important for industrialists. We're always thinking about what we're going to make tomorrow, how much of it, and whether people will buy it.

But the past is also very important. Because that's our track record, how well our products have performed, and the basis for sales in the future. You think the egg producers of Iowa have a bright future? That chicken's already left the barn...

So, as an industrialist (making tires and generating electricity), I think about the past a lot, but I also think about the future. The big difference is that you can't do much about the past -- except to hurriedly come up for plausible excuses why it turned out the way it did. But the future lies out ahead, a blank slate, giving you plenty of time to think of good excuses. And, who knows, you might do a good job and the future will take care of itself. It could happen.

I've been resting on my laurels somewhat, with my past reputation as "the philosophical father of the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM)." But that's not going to do me good forever, because it is past. And it's tougher to father more movements than it is actual children, assuming you can get a date where breeding is an actual option she goes for.

But if I'm going to have any future, I'll need to let go of the past as much as possible, except to the extent that I need it for the future. And yet the future remains an iffy prospect ... for every industrialist. Like they say, since about 1900, there hasn't been anything else left to invent, meaning we're at a dead end there. The only thing left is to improve what we already have, if that's possible. It's bad news, but a good excuse.

For me, to chart my future is a tough thing, with all that being true. So probably my future will simply be to continue making tires and electricity, and stepping up production. That's always an option for the future, to make more of what we make, and, if necessary, sacrifice sleep to get it done.

I also have the unique opportunity -- again, as the philosophical father -- to guide others in their industrial labors, to be reconciled to the inherent limitations, as stated, yet to encourage increased production. My opportunity is to generate more information, like I do with this blog. Information is power, fundamental for people's outlook and success. So I could do that. Or whatever.

To conclude, in charting my industrial future, I shall keep my concerns focused on the immediate future only. Such things as getting up, writing this blog, having coffee, and working with my plants. I have a metallic thumb.

FUTURE UPDATE: I'm always wishing I knew then what I know now.
What I need to do is learn now what I'm going to wish I knew then.
But it's still possible, when then is now, that even if know then what I know now, there'll probably still be stuff I wish I knew then that I don't know now.

A Dynamic Burst Of Industrialism (A New Window)

Sometimes you just look around and see a capital improvement that needs to be made. That's what happened yesterday. I'm proud to say I'm always thinking, and I'm willing to put forth the effort to do what it is I'm thinking of.

As most of you know, I've been heavily involved in the day to day production of tires at my own residential tire plant. I'm proud to say I'm a proud member of the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM), in which every man can have his own factory and take his product to market.

Of course, it was huge to contemplate building a tire factory in my back yard, then to follow through and actually do it. It was the kind of effort that seemingly would be impossible for a guy with limited resources to do. But I faced the many challenges and followed through on the task, accomplishing it and overcoming every obstacle, practically without help.

And now I've done it again! I made a decision and I followed through ... in a dynamic burst of concentrated activity. What I did was this: I completely shut down production through the morning yesterday and put in a window between my little office and the plant. It's a small window, about two foot wide and 10 inches tall. The same size, actually, as a standard basement window.

This was a dynamic break from my other responsibilities, a power break, accomplishing the task that was set before me. Dynamism is at the heart of the entire RIM, key to all our actions, as opposed to the major industrial powers, who generally do things by rote, out of desperation, or with the secret intention of screwing the little guy.

For me, to put in this window was a great thing. The time I lost in production was nothing compared with the sense of really getting something done. It was a power break, I said, because it was a break with a great purpose. I'd been thinking about it, I thought how it would go, I thought of what I would do, I thought of the process of doing it, and lastly, I saw the pieces fall into place, envisioning it. Finally, the time was right.

In short, I came to the conclusion that I seriously needed a small window between my office and the plant, the window to have the dual purpose of seeing into the plant and seeing into the office. Wherever I am, I can see the other place.

The way it was done, briefly, is this: A guy who does these kinds of jobs came over. He happens to be one of the county's best glass cutters, and he installs a very good frame too. With the frame in place, he put the window up against it, then applied a gum-like substance against it around the edges.

Looking back with nearly a day's hindsight, I can say, it's good to have the job done. Not only conceived and planned, but accomplished. First, an entire factory, and now a window. This can only help my production values and, eventually, my overall bottom line.