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The Frustrating Universe, and other complaints

Romans 8:20 says that God has subjected the universe to futility. And sometimes I try to game that futility. I dare the universe to frustrate me in a small way, so to speak, in order to sidestep some greater frustration.

As best I can recall, this never works. But it doesn’t stop me trying.

Case in point, my car, which remains immobile in the transmission shop lot, awaiting shifter cables. These cables are Chrysler products, and come from China. Apparently the two big Cs, China and Chrysler, are not playing well just now. Which is why I haven’t had my car for a full month.

The last time I’d called the shop about it, they said the latest delivery date they’d gotten from the dealer was July 7.

So, when an opportunity to drive down to Faribault and have lunch with some high school friends on the 7th showed up, I thought, “Ah ha! I shall agree to this appointment, which will give the Frustrating Universe the opportunity to have the shop people call me that day to say the parts have come in. And I won’t be able to pick the car up right away. Perhaps that’s enough inconvenience to tempt the universe’s Frustration Protocols!” So I drove down to Faribault in the loaner (a Honda Civic) today, and waited for the call.

No call. I called the shop after I got home and they told me the dealer is now saying maybe July 30.

I think the Frustrating Universe saw through my ruse, and took its revenge.

In any case, I had a nice lunch. We ate at a place called the Depot in Faribault; it’s the old Rock Island Railroad depot, converted into a popular bar and grill. (I expect my grandfather knew the place, though he worked for the Milwaukee Road.) I’d never been there before. My hamburger was excellent.

I have to admit I wasn’t entirely sure who everybody was. We’ve all changed beyond recognition since the 1960s. But we had plenty of Old Geezer Stuff to discuss. Aches, pains, operations, diagnoses, enforced diets. I came away actually feeling pretty healthy, if you grade on the curve. At least I haven’t had a stroke or a heart attack yet. (Is saying that a challenge to the Frustrating Universe?)

I shared with them a scene I’d just written for the new Erling novel. Old Steinulf (you may recall him from the earlier books) fights a young guy and kills him, but ends up on his back in the grass. He says, “Can somebody give me a hand up? When you’re old, it’s a lot easier to kill a man then to get up from the ground.”

Everyone understood.

Of convection and creative angst

Nice day, though the coolness of the earlier week (highs in the 70s) has passed like a memory of youth. It got up to 90 degrees today. This is annoying when I drive my loaner car (a Honda Civic), because the driver’s side window won’t roll down partially – it’s full commitment one way or the other. Like all sane vehicle operators, I like to leave the windows cracked about an inch when I park on a hot day, but with this one I can only do one side. You don’t get the cross-ventilation.

And yes, Miss Ingebretsen, my PT Cruiser, still languishes at the transmission shop. They tell me they think they’ve located the cables we need, and might possibly have them tomorrow.

I’ve heard this song before.

Anyway, the Civic gets me around – and with a little more zip than Miss Ingebretsen, I have to admit. Had to go to the dermatologist for an annual check-up this afternoon; I won’t disgust you with details about that. Nothing serious. My flesh is generally uninteresting (as many women have noted over the years), which is what you’d inspect in a man who gets less Ultraviolet than the average Morlock.

I arrived precisely on time, to be confronted with a sign that said “No Admittance Without a Face Mask.” This shouldn’t have surprised me – they’d made it clear when we scheduled the appointment. They get cancer patients with compromised immunity in there. But I hadn’t thought about it. I keep a stock of masks in Miss Ingebretsen for just such emergencies. But of course they’re baking in the transmission shop lot right now. And it never occurred to me to stash any in the Civic.

So I stood outside the clinic door, and called them on my cell phone. When the woman behind the desk answered, I made eye contact and told her, “I’m standing outside the door talking to you. This is embarrassing, but I haven’t got a face mask…”

She waved me in and handed me one from the cache I expected them to have there. No doubt I’m not the first patient in that situation.

What else to say? I’m revising, revising, revising on King of Rogaland. It’s amazing how lame (yet resonant) my Negative Interior Voice’s arguments are – “This is hopeless. You’ll never finish it.” Despite the fact that the thing is essentially written, and I’m just polishing now. Though it’s true the bumps never seem to run out. I’ve still got a lot of loose plot ends to tie up, and some ends are tied to the wrong other ends, and so need to be untied and re-tied somewhere else. This is far from the longest novel I’ve ever written, but it seems to be the most complex. Lots to keep track of.

I think I may not be smart enough to write this book.

But I plan to finish it anyway. When did I ever claim to be smart?

The transmission lockdown, continued

I’m reading a book right now that I’m enjoying very much. But it’s long. Looooooooong. So the stream of consciousness blogging must continue, regardless of the cost in pain and suffering to our audience.

On the automobile front, my car, Miss Ingebretsen, yet languishes in durance vile, in the transmission shop. I learned today that the transmission itself is all right. It’s the shifter that’s broken. They’re trying to find me a used shifter, and I guess those things must be harder to find than you’d expect. Maybe tomorrow. Otherwise I’ll have to use Door Dash for groceries again.

If you skipped the video above, take a minute to watch it. It’s not much longer than that. It’s the Dragon Harald Fairhair, the big Viking ship I hoped to see in Duluth a few years back, but was disappointed. Seriously, was anything ever more romantic than that graceful ship cutting through a stormy sea? That (or the idea of it, anyway) was what surprised me by joy nearly 60 years ago, making me a lifelong Viking nut, and pointing me to my destiny, as a highly peripheral figure in the world of Norwegian history, literature, and entertainment. And, oh yes, a novelist.

I can report that I’m still working on the new Erling book, King of Rogaland. Its current status hovers in a weird space where the book is essentially written, but far from finished. We speak of “polishing” a manuscript, and that’s what it is. Very like sanding wood. Going over the same surface again and again, smoothing out the rough spots. I’ve got a few passages where I’ve left out place names I still need to select, with a map. And there are joints that aren’t tight. Once this current pass is finished, working onscreen, I think I need to print the next draft out, and labor over it on paper. Some things work better with a red pen and notes and swoopy arrows. Especially when you need to hunt through the pages multiple times.

Also, I’ve never gotten a splinter polishing a manuscript.

After-inaction report

[Imagine a picture of Saturday’s events here. I neglected to take one. My brain was overheated, I think.]

It is one of the anomalies (I think that’s the word for it) of historical reenactment, that many of us impersonate people from the history of northern Europe, where it’s cool most of the year and most people historically wore wool. But we do it at events in America in the summer, where big wool costumes with cloaks are borderline dangerous if you don’t keep carefully hydrated. (And those who don’t reenact European stuff generally do the Revolutionary or Civil Wars, where wool is also de rigeur.)

Minnesota Military History Days, an annual event held in Dundas Minnesota (where my grandfather was once town constable for a year, as I kept telling people), was originally scheduled for May. But the weather was cold and wet in May, so they rescheduled for the first weekend in June. June is usually real nice in Minnesota.

This year the temperature hovered up just below 100˚. If I can trust my car’s thermometer, it actually hit 100 in the Cities. (Another thing I often tell people, whether they like it or not, is that I spent 11 years on the east coast of Florida, and never saw 100˚, but I’ve been through many such days in the North Star State.) I figured that after the long lockdown, people would want to come out to a public event in spite of the heat – but that was not the case. Attendance was sparse, much below normal levels, according to the old hands.

This was the first year anybody from The Viking Age Club & Society of the Sons of Norway had been to the event. (It was a three-day event, but we only did Saturday.) It’s what’s called a timeline event, where reenactors from various periods all come together to provide a walking (and camping) history lesson. There was a big World War II battle in the afternoon (America won again, I’m proud to report), but our Vikings did a couple combat shows too (I left that to others). And we had a good turnout of members, all of them young people – except, of course, for me.

I brought my tent and awning shade (we did need the shade), and it was good to have a lot of youthful free labor to do the bulk of the putting up and tearing down. Even so, I had occasion to ponder the fact that it had been more than a year since I’d done this stuff, and in the interim I’ve arguably become too old for it. Especially on really hot days.

I comfort myself with the thought that it will be better if I lose some weight. (Though that’s less comfortable when I remember that losing weight requires effort and self-control.) I got a fair amount of exercise in, though, walking back and forth to the water tap.

It was a fun event in spite of the sparse crowds. We (by which I mean mainly the other Vikings) made a lot of contacts. Invitations to other events and possible new group members came up. It was a good time.

In which I didn’t sell a single book, because we weren’t allowed to display any modern stuff.

However, another event was coming Sunday. Danish Day at the Danish-American Center in Minneapolis. Granted, I almost never sell any books at that event, but at least I’d be able to display them, and who knows?

As an added attraction, the temperature would be about the same as Saturday.

However, I was denied the joys of another tropical set-up and tear-down, when I went into my garage to start my car on Sunday morning, and the transmission wouldn’t function. Bummer. I unloaded my car and spent the day rehydrating and recovering from Saturday.

This morning I got AAA to tow my car to my regular transmission place (I have a regular transmission place because – as I have learned to my chagrin – PT Cruisers are prone to those kinds of problems.) If it’s the same thing it was the last time, it’ll be easily fixed. But they haven’t gotten back to me yet. Which leads me to worry.

On the high spiritual plane which I inhabit, we call this “opportunities to increase our faith.”

Uber than thou

I will never be the Ubermensch, alas, but I am currently living the Uber life.

You know about Miss Ingebretsen, my tastefully beautiful PT Cruiser automobile. She’s been teaching me hard lessons about having tastefully beautiful women in your life – they tend to be high maintenance. Recently I’ve been having Miss I. in the shop almost on a weekly basis. And that was just the preliminaries.

Last Saturday I was driving along 42nd Avenue North in Robbinsdale, on a routine jaunt to the grocery store, when Miss I. gave a discrete cough and shut down. Right there in the street. Wouldn’t start again, of course.

I had her towed to the garage, which was closed at the time, of course. Had to wait till Monday morning to tell the mechanics what I’d laid on their plate. Then it was Uber to work. Later the shop guy called me back: “I haven’t got any good news for you,” he said. Continue reading Uber than thou