Storing Old Junk Is Like Wearing Old Tattoos

Since I’ve been having random sneezing and coughing fits, I have not been Ubering.

This means I have not made enough to pay for my next week’s rental!

No, I am not up to any 12 hour day make up days, either. More like 6. Not feeling quite well yet. It is not only potential contagion, for the other night while trying to follow a friend’s black SUV, my eyes went blurry and played hallucinatory tricks on me. Not safe. Not a safe driver.

I have however been using the down time to work on a boat design and throw out a lot of old junk I’ve been “saving.” Delightful! It was so fun throwing out an old pair of skis that I had kept because I’d wildly painted the tops and with which had some good stories associated. Example: The day I painted them on the picnic table outside my little trailer out in the middle of a field behind an office building in a place that was at one time in the past a placer mine was also the same day I got busted for having a lot of weed, baggies, and a scale.

Totally minding my own business inside the end of the trailer next to the open door while leisurely smoking a joint using this rather flash aluminum — milled aluminum, mind you — cigarette holder and WHAMMO! A cop with drawn gun pointed at me! The look in his eyes is that he would like to see what would happen if he shot me.

So I guess those skis had sentimental value?

Here’s a thought. Old things like that are like TATTOOS!

Am I right?

Those skis represent a story… several, actually because they were an experimental type and the experiment was a success. And then I broke one of the tails in some jump with a surprise rock hidden in the landing. Still skied on it all that day!

See? That’s a cool tat.