The creatures we once never were arose like howls from the crypt for coffee, and then, once we regained our footing, such as it was, spun off  across town juking and jiving through the police cordons, municipal make-projects and Caltrans craters to the precinct of The Wildman.  He looked good, most of him, except for that right leg.

From there we had a mini-vacation at Mi Pueblo, the more upscale of the two major Mexican markets in Seaside.  What do you do with that?  That’s eatable?  Hogshead on the menu?  Good prices on meat, we bought some marinated pig, or was it donkey?

To Marina for a shot of kim chee, the Grocery Cheaplet to fill in the grilling and snacking blanks.

Skiff was keen on buying me that estate in Sag Harbor, or lunch at the Bulldog.

Hard done fries, onion rings, dead chicken parts accompanied by ranch and curry dips – A Trailer Trash Feast!

Lunch was sublime (and the Laguinitas, while being the first draughts of the day and hence line cleanings, didn’t hoite none), except for the yaboo shouting at the soccdar match on the plasma screen, then later at his toddler son running out the front door who, even at the age of 2, has the innate sense to want to escape from his genetics.

Back to Nirvana and box building, finishing up the Cedar Squared Disaster.  Not that it’s all that firewood, but it could have been so much better.  Maybe next time.

The lid of the box is s simple slip on off. There is no varnish or tung oil to prevent the aromatic scent of the cedar from visiting your nostrils.

Fortunately, in spite of this boxing disappointment, the drinking lamp was lit, the grill was fired up and the evening was dissipated in a form convivial.

TDAY –

Happy Birthday, Teresa.

And I had another Theresa to see today.

Woman runs an art glass shop out of a back door in Carmel.  Months ago contacted me about building some boxes; it came to naught.

Last week she needs again, phone tag results in nothing.

Nothing for it but to motor over there, get the lay of the land, er…glass.

Poor Skiff, his back hurting, hiking around Moneyville.

The glass shop isn’t prime real estate, which would be on Ocean Avenue, the main promenade and cash vacuum.  No, Buccola Glass is south on San Carlos, although only half a block off Ocean in the back door to a liquor store, next a pub in the parking lot of a bank.  Then again, what’s not to like?

What’s not to like are the wooden frames/boxes this woman considers good enough for her fine glass.

JohnsonArts isn’t expert in but one thing: shoddy.  We’ve done shoddy inside back and forth all the way to hellandgone.  We know inept joinery, lame cover-ups and poor woodworking like nobody who hasn’t grown up on the wrong side of the table saw fence.

This woman’s handsome glasswork – think a four-sided display case such as I’ve made a dozen times – is defamed inside of boxes of dreck such as I made and spat upon three years ago.  Drunk.  In the dark.  Naked.  Out of sight of the nuns.

Do they sell?

Didn’t have the chance to find out as Theresa the Schizoid has to go, can I come back in ten minutes?  A woman’s ten minutes are not measured by that relatively new invention we call a clock.  No.  Skiff – who is married –  tells me a woman’s ten minutes ranges from somewhere between an hour and never.  And after 20 minutes we boodle off.  I’ve seen all that I need see: a talented but manic woman who could use the talents of JohnsonArts, but at what cost?

Knowledge is Powerless.

Afternoon ebbs finally into quality drinking and grilling time, but as the planet orbits, comes an end to any banquet and the next day Skiff departs for his home, too far away.

FDAY –

The last of what I hope will be a week’s hiatus from riking, and the left foot does feel better.  Better than an IRS Audit with dental tools.

Trucked across the village to Trader Beers for O’boom, then cased Homely Depot.  Yes, they have the hanger bolts – a misnomer, as the hardware is a lag screw on one end and a bolt on the other, there’s nothing that gets ‘hanged’ from it – I need for the next project.  No, they haven’t the T-handle to go with the hanger bolts.  Their website does.  And No, the threads inside the T-knob do not mesh with any of the hanger bolts, likely they’re all 10-24 so I’ll have to drill out and tap.

No matter, no difficulties returning to Castle Slackton for a delicious mid-day nap.

Now – the next project.  Project Scoptics.

A German, mid-century military binocular (10 x 80) spotting scope whose provenance I’m only just beginning to explore…

A military surplus item, looks mid-century, a birthday gift from Skifflington.  Before approaching whether to build a tripod or no, the spotting scope needs a case.  A case that might look mid-century.

Midnight Studyhall fills in the details – a two-part case, a lower section that cradles the optics, and a fit-over empty box.  Those hanger bolts?  The lower section will have two upright leaves on either short end, the hanger bolts will protrude, extend through the top of the fit-over box and be secured by the T-knobs.

The starting point for wood hacking, joint mis-alignment and cursing.

Maybe like this.

Simple.  Easy.  Just like life.

There’s enough cherry out in Woodlot #49 for the fit-over box.  Two hours were thus spent rendering down the 8 foot plank into two 26 cm ends and two 46 cm long sides with enough left over to butt join for the lid.

Simple to make, except for JohnsonArts…

Now, for the box joinery.  It’s a variation on a theme I’ve tried before, but have yet to master.  A simple interlocking pair of kerfs.

Today’s result: I have yet to master it, but I’m improving and had the cherry not be slightly bowed, I think the results would have been almost acceptable.  I’ll run with it.

Scarved the meet faces of the leftover cherry with the biscuit cutter, then glued ‘er up.

RIKEDAY –

In spite of the foot still sore, stepped out for a 15 minute go, no dumbbells, just 10 pounds on the belt.  The muscles all appreciated it, they’re whispering “trot up this hill, c’mon!”

To de Shop, mon.

Two ends of the Scoptics box lock joint were too loose, and happily, I’d baked in enough excess length that I could rip the ends and try again.  Twice.  The joints are still not satisfactory, since they won’t be seen, I declared victory and vow to try again the next project needed secure, non-45 degree joints.

Simple corner lock joints done badly.

Whilst the box was in glue-up, cased the catacombs for the box lower section on which will reside the scope.  Result?  ¾” ply for the base and leftover maple table leaves for the uprights.

Since the ply floor will carry all the mass of the scope, each end will be tongue and groove into the uprights.  In dry-fitting the uprights, one maple piece fractures along its grain lines.

Even if the scavenged table leaf had been wide enough to orient 90 degrees to the grain, my clumsy dry fit knock abouts would have crashed it.

Curses.  I glue it together, but likely I’ll have to start over with these.

Amid all this comes a light rain.  September is almost October and October is almost November, which is when the wet season commences.  The rain was lovely; although I  could see from the radar plot that Stockton got all the serious wet.  It’s about all they have going for themselves.

SUMMERDAY –

Light breeze, nary a cloud, temps in the 70’s.  This IS July in Eden, isn’t it?

I pile up the pieces into an envelope and mail them off – they’ll never figure it out.

This isn’t not making puzzles thanks to nephews William and Chase for helping their father buy and send me the miter trimmer.  Used very thin alder slats, about 2 cm wide to form letters that spell their names.  I thought that the task was going to be boring, but it turned out to be rather enjoyable even without using my laser CNC turret router cyclotron jukebox.

Enough of this fun, on to more, other fun, which is lam out some trim for the bottom of the Scoptics Box.

Rigorous debate surrounded the means by which the top of the upper box would be attached.  Similar to negotiating UN Treaties or NFL television rights.  The box top carries all the mass of the box and the contents, so its means of securement to the box sides is elemental to structural integrity; this complicated by the fact that I butt joined two cherry slabs to serve as the box top and that joint line will be right in the center of the box top where most likely the top handle will be attached.

After Russia and China and Lower Wretchedastan vetoed, based on pure malignity, all prior propositions, I decided to simply screw the top on to the box with round head brass screws.  What this approach lacks in streamlining, it makes up for in bold, assertive clunkiness.

And I opted for a slight overhang that renders the box slightly less crate-like and more endangered, venom-spitting civet trans-Pacific carrying case like.

And it is due this overhang that a compensatory foot is necessary, what to lend a tad more balance to the oeuvre.  Like putting golf shoes on mules.

Even our caveman skills cannot completely savage the innate beauty of cherry.

I’m glad that redwood which was my first choice had too many nail holes (and happily no nails coming out the planer) so that I was forced Forced! to use scrap alder.

Rabbeted out one edge that the box will sit on, figure on rounding over the top show edge.

Rounding over!  Rounded over the show edge grain on the box, then finessed the shape.

Not too badski for a small boy from a young town.

Your call.