The Devil Is In The Detail

I have to say, I've heard this said for years and while I understood what it meant, I never really thought about how true it actually is.  I think the phrase, although quite common, falls victim to obfuscation.  Hell, that sentence is a victim. Unclear thoughts. Purposefully hiding the meaning within communications and willful ambiguity to disguise the clear meaning. Right?

I mean why make something so relevant so vague and opaque. Simply put, When people say that the devil is in the detail, they mean that small things in plans and schemes that are often overlooked can cause serious problems later on. When I looked up the derivation of the phrase, I found that it apparently stems from the saying "God is in the detail" singular, no "s".  This idiom has been attributed to many but most agree it was most widely used by the German art historian Aby Warburg (1866 - 1929). Bartlett's Familiar Quotations lists the saying's author as anonymous (That guy writes a lot of shit) and if you rely on Google, which I do less and less these days, they state that it does not appear in print before ca. 1975.  Duh... I've been hearing this since I was very young and I was born in 1966 so Google, in the words of Donald Trump, You're fired. I bet Google can tell you all about that bitch Snookie though. 

But I digress. Why do I raise such a conundrum you ask? Because... it's there that's why. Just like the mighty Everest. To be climbed. To be littered with rusted oxygen tanks and used, bloody bandages. It's peaks strewn with old carabiners and lost souls who got caught too far from base camp. But I digress. Ambiguous, slight of hand, conversational trickery has lead us all asunder. Mark Twain, the venerable Mr. Samuel Langhorne Clemens.   Whenever I'm looking for guidence I look to Twain. He once wrote, "Eschew Obfuscation!" Simply put... "Avoid being unclear, support being clear."  How much more clear can it be... the answer is none. None more clear. Again... why? Well, because it's glaringly obvious that the detail is M.I.A. No... not the rapper.  


Detail has been white-washed, digitized, cannibalized, capitalized, homogenized and circumcised.  We've been weened off the tit of great expectations and now suckle ourselves from emaciated, IV bags dripping with an elixir of sub-standard mash.  Mmmm. Belly up boys and girls.
   

This is because of the detail. The lack of detail. Someone, somewhere lost sight of the fact that the devil is indeed in the detail.  And so is "God" whatever that is.  The detail is all we got. Sometimes I think the more erect we walked, the less intuitive we became.  So drag those knuckles friends. Drag em' Along those mean streets and feel, I mean really feel the aggregate as it musters some blood to the surface and ruins a perfectly good manicure. After all, like your fine automobile, you can always have em' detailed.

Go With The Grain

It's been a few weeks. I had some ideas and I even did a post about hockey. I deleted it. I feel like there must be a certain "grain" to this endeavor. That post felt a bit like a knot right in the middle of a nice piece of mahogany. So I cut it out. I've been at a loss for words a little bit since all of the madness has settled down. I mean, when I wake up every morning, I'm struck by temporary-ness of my surroundings. My clothes hang on a chrome and plastic rack bought from a big-box store. It barely holds what it needs too. It looked so hip and... current on the box. My shoes and jeans reside on a wooden shelf, open to the room and slammed right next to our little, double bed. Plastic totes full of socks and tee-shirts line the walls and it's a little like living in a storage unit.  After 20 + years in the music business, I know what that feels like. The hardwood floors are nice though. I'm not a carpet fan. The amount of dirt, dander and dead skin that gathers in one's carpet makes me queasy.  I like the hardwood. Jet however, feels differently. He prefers the Persian rugs. I got two rugs while I was overseas on a USO Tour in 2001 and they are beautiful.  Were beautiful.  We're keeping them. One is in the living room and one in the bedroom. They aren't very large but they mean something and I like looking at them. I like the way they feel on my bare feet. While in the middle-east, I learned about these rugs and developed a strong desire to bring a couple back. I became infatuated with the amount of skill and devotion it took to complete such an amazing work of art. Art that lasts centuries if properly cared for.

I can say honestly that mine are not properly cared for. They haven't been cleaned since I got them and while I try desperately to keep them in good shape, it seems like whenever something gets spilled or Jet gets sick and decides to throw up at 3 am he does so on my favorite rug. I've come to the conclusion that it's his favorite too. This happened the other night and to add insult to injury it was raining. Pouring rain and cold.  Jet was up all night making us very nervous with his licking at nothing, looking like he was choking and pacing back and forth. Up to the front door, circling, whining and back to his spot at the foot of our bed. So we got up, each taking turns rubbing his belly and asking, "do you think we should go to the emergency vet?" After a few rounds of this I said, "ok, let's go for a walk." I'll take him for a walk and he'll do his business and life will be fine. I'll get an hour of sleep and we'll move on. Well he didn't do any business. He did pee on every errant bush, pole and curb along our cold, wet walk. Me? No jacket. No shoes. Jeans and a tee-shirt. Dumb. So, at 3 am me and my sick dog stroll down our temporary street in our temporary neighborhood in the pouring rain and returned home. Both of us soaking wet. Of course he waits until just inside the door to shake all that water off. Me... freezing cold, dripping wet, wide awake and not getting anymore sleep. I towel us off and crawl in bed anyway. Five minutes later... Mel is out of bed as his grumbling stomach is no better.  Then he starts to circle and make that sound... It's a horrible sound. His big shepherd ears slump out to the side instead of those proud erect ones he usually carries. 

He threw up. A massive blob of undigested, very expensive food. And you know what? It was on my rug. His rug. Not on the hardwood floor. That would be too easy. Nope. We've had Jet for about three years and every, single time he's gotten sick, it's been on "our" red, silk Persian. He was fit as a fiddle after that. Tail wagging, prancing around like he won an award. And... up into one of two chairs we still own. Nite-nite.

The moral of the story? I don't know the moral of the story but I know this. My grandmother had couches that were covered in plastic slip covers for her entire life. I remember as a kid,  The plastic runners that protected her carpets from the front door to the kitchen. Tributaries of plastic meandered throughout her modest abode in South West Philadelphia. My ass never touched the fabric of those beautiful couches. My bare-feet were never allowed on those carpets. Some would say they were "properly cared for". My grandmother died at 96. No one in my family has any of that furniture. The house sold to a complete stranger and all that "proper attention" at 54th and Gross street in Philadelphia went for naught. At least in my estimation. So, I guess I'll enjoy my rugs in my way and Jet will enjoy his rug in his way. Either way... Someday... Someone, probably someone I don't know, will inherit a work of art that has been walked on with the barest of feet, lived on, loved on, cried on and laughed on. And yes... puked on. And there's nothing temporary about that.

Brokers and Agents and Surveyors, Oh My...

Well folks... I should have never stated "Monday" as my blog day.  As soon as I did, the whole schedule went to crap. You know what they say about "good intentions."  That said, this was the week and what a week it's been. With the house closing locked in and done, I readied for the trip to Panama City for the boat survey while Melody went through scores of boxes and plastic totes to decipher what we were keeping, selling, donating or storing.  I drove to Panama City... again... on Sunday for the survey on Monday morning. Now... If you don't know what a survey is, think "Home Inspection" for a boat.  Same thing, only different. You have to haul the boat out of the water so the surveyor can see and check the bottom for any number of problems such as blisters (bubbles in the fiberglass), keel de-lamination (look it up), cracks, corrosion, etc... It's nerve wracking and expensive. $350.00 bucks, plus $50.00 to pressure wash it, plus tax. All told, $454.00 for about 1/2 hr. on the 70 ton lift.

  

Yard worker scrapes the growth off her keel

Surveyors are like every other profession on the planet. Some are good some are crap and some are well... completely indifferent. When you want the best guy, you gotta dig. Call locals, ask questions, read reviews and, if you can, get a copy of some of the survey's potential hires have done. I found a company that came highly recommended and when I called, I knew I had the right guy. Capt. Rick Corley from Capt. Tom Corley and Sons Marine Surveyors.  Capt. Rick has to be in his early to mid-seventies.  His father just past away at 93 years old and surveyed up to about six months before his death.  Capt. Rick has been surveying boats for over 55 yrs.  When I called him on the phone to discuss the potential survey, he kept me on the line for over an hour. He asked me more questions than I had for him. It was enlightening and put my mind at ease. But... It's nerve wracking and expensive. $560.00 bucks. Actually that's cheap compared to other quotes I got that were in the $650.00 area. It's all priced by the foot. At 35 feet, my days of cheap bottom jobs, trailers and haul-outs are officially over! 

Now Capt. Rick can talk. Boy can he talk. If he didn't give me so much damn information that I needed, I would have been exhausted and frustrated.  As it stands, I'm struggling to read his nineteen page survey! He is former military and very, very detailed. Well worth the money. We met at 9AM, did a quick look around, met the broker, the owner and the owners wife. We had a quick look around, fired her up, backed her out and drove her by motor to the haul out facility about 45 min. by water. This gave us the opportunity to check the auto-pilot, engine cooling, steering, etc. When we got to Bay County Boatyard, they had the lift ready and pulled her out without incident. Everything looked good with minor "issues" such as she needs new bottom paint and  zinc, which I knew. Then, I paid the large sum of money to watch her descend in the sling and travel back to the marina where we broke for lunch, which I bought. After lunch, we went back to the boat and eventually, around 3PM finished up.  I wrote yet another check to Capt. Rick for his services and sent him on his way. Then, I wrote another check to the broker (Who I'll remain tight-lipped about until I have the keys in my hand... 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5... deep breath) and still another check to the owner for allowing me to keep the boat in his slip for the month of April. At which time I'll take her back to Bay County Boatyard for the bottom job and yes... another check.  That sucking sound you're hearing? My bank account. 

With the survey process done, I drove home Tuesday. I'm now at work trying desperately to do... my job. Yeah, that thing I have for two more months? They actually expect me to accomplish something during that time.  I now get to deal with "that Broker," an insurance agent and the U.S. Coast Guard. I'm going to have the vessel documented... don't ask.  More paperwork and yes... cha-ching... another check.

So this is the point at which I go against my natural inclination to second guess everything. You know, when the craziness ceases and there is calm or, relative calm. Okay, not calm but less crazy than before? The voices creep in and say, "Did I just do something really stupid?"  Yeah, that voice. NOT the Clint Eastwood voice. This is more like David Spade-ish. This voice is just my "old self" questioning the "new self", trying to upset the apple-cart.  Thing is... the "old-self" doesn't know just how sick the "new-self" is with the "old-self."  As we age, or should I put this in terms of me and me alone... as "I" age, I find that tiny sliver of self doubt gains traction and likes to sabotage my attempts at "happiness" or whatever word you'd like to insert.  But this little "adventure," our "journey" is pretty iron clad at this point. We've sold the house. I've given notice at work. We've spent a very large sum of money on our next dwelling and it's PAID FOR. Our cars are paid for. Pieces of shit mind you... But PAID FOR. The dog? Jet-pack... PAID FOR. Although he's getting a little needy... But the broader point is; this snowball is rolling. It's growing and rolling faster and faster towards some locale way down the hillside.  And "old self" take heed... You're in the F'ing path.