That’s the title of the first album by the crazy Firesign Theatre audio troop, cut back in 1968. It also describes me over much of the weekend, which is part of the price you pay for living in the Texas Outback.
No power again this morning, so I’m writing the first draft on actual analog paper, with a physical pen – can you believe it?
Yesterday, a transformer blew before noon, going off like a shotgun, which I reported to the proper authorities at the CenterPoint Energetic Monopoly of Houston. Unfortunately for us (in this case) our modest, aging and eclectic neighborhood lies 36 miles outside the megalopolis.
So yeah, two and a half hours rolled by and yet no CenterPoint crews had set foot in the neighborhood, notwithstanding their regional facility just down the street. One grows used to such fate on the fringes, so one hauls out the propane generator, fires it up and prevents the food in one’s fridge and freezer from spoiling. Then one might contemplate the wondrous beauty of an incredible fall day for another couple of hours until, somewhere around 4:30, utility crews actually show up and fix the problem.
Until 8:30 the following morning (today), when we repeat the whole exercise because, well, just because.
I don’t know why, but I am reminded of a day many years ago, 1985 to be exact, when I patrolled the southern end of the Blue Ridge Mountains as a roving country reporter in South Carolina. And lo! after many decades, a tiny village area tucked away down a small road from “civilization” finally was hooking up with The World electricity-wise. And it turned out an elderly man of nearly 90 years was discovered to have lived all his life in the rural community. And a reporter was tasked with asking the gentleman how he thought his life might change now that he finally could hook up to the grid.
“Ain’t ever needed electricity before,” he said, or something approximate. “Don’t see what I need it for now.”