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Guest
Guest
I had a few shop visitors of late. The Seasonal spring visit from Joel, but other than replenishing some FIAC wax feeder bricks, visiting the DNR to license another motor canoe and designing a more Gilpatrick-ish motor mount I don’t recall how we occupied our time. Must have been fun.
Friend Tom stopped by after a river run yesterday. Unfortunately I had a boat resting on the “Little Boy’s Bench” in the shop, where I usually confine him, away from any on-going work. He’s a good soul, and dependably generous. He immediately handed me a cold can of beer, well shaken from his travels. I pondered the intriguing graphic on the Devil’s Backbone Striped Bass Pale Ale before popping the top.
https://www.google.com/search?q=dev...=6GQvV-CoMcbl-wGk8JGQCA#imgrc=2lIQZx43q1l-WM:
Amidst that lingering label contemplation I noticed that there was a pin hole in the can, spewing a tiny, near invisible arc of ale onto my workbench.
I had a serious esprit de l’escalier moment. Why oh why did I not turn the can around and continue to contemplate that label while the invisible ale arc was spattering Tom? Another perfect comeback missed.
Instead I played little Dutch Boy, plugging the hole with my finger while I went to fetch a glass. Seriously, I was only gone a minute. Maybe less.
As it happen mere seconds before Tom arrived I had delicately laid a tall bead of epoxy design on Cooterville’s new Farmersexual shovel blade, sprinkling the epoxy liberally with glitter. Piles of glitter, so that it would soak well into the depths of the epoxy bead as permanent unicorn fairy dust crap (quoting a Cooterville contractor who borrowed one such farmersexual shovel).
Unsupervised for 60 seconds Tom picked up the shovel and dumper glitter across the shop floor. He professed an accident, but it may have been payback; there are tinted epoxy drips and dribbles on the shop floor labeled “Tom”, “Tom again” and “Still Tom”.
Maybe I should take that boat off the Little Boy’s bench.
Friend Tom stopped by after a river run yesterday. Unfortunately I had a boat resting on the “Little Boy’s Bench” in the shop, where I usually confine him, away from any on-going work. He’s a good soul, and dependably generous. He immediately handed me a cold can of beer, well shaken from his travels. I pondered the intriguing graphic on the Devil’s Backbone Striped Bass Pale Ale before popping the top.
https://www.google.com/search?q=dev...=6GQvV-CoMcbl-wGk8JGQCA#imgrc=2lIQZx43q1l-WM:
Amidst that lingering label contemplation I noticed that there was a pin hole in the can, spewing a tiny, near invisible arc of ale onto my workbench.
I had a serious esprit de l’escalier moment. Why oh why did I not turn the can around and continue to contemplate that label while the invisible ale arc was spattering Tom? Another perfect comeback missed.
Instead I played little Dutch Boy, plugging the hole with my finger while I went to fetch a glass. Seriously, I was only gone a minute. Maybe less.
As it happen mere seconds before Tom arrived I had delicately laid a tall bead of epoxy design on Cooterville’s new Farmersexual shovel blade, sprinkling the epoxy liberally with glitter. Piles of glitter, so that it would soak well into the depths of the epoxy bead as permanent unicorn fairy dust crap (quoting a Cooterville contractor who borrowed one such farmersexual shovel).
Unsupervised for 60 seconds Tom picked up the shovel and dumper glitter across the shop floor. He professed an accident, but it may have been payback; there are tinted epoxy drips and dribbles on the shop floor labeled “Tom”, “Tom again” and “Still Tom”.
Maybe I should take that boat off the Little Boy’s bench.
