My Review of Firewood Rack Cover

Brookstone

Firewood covers keep cordwood clean and dry!
Protect your wood from the elements with a Brookstone firewood rack cover. Made from heavy-duty, rip-stop vinyl, these covers protect your wood from whatever Mother Nature throws at it. Order one of these log rack covers today and improve yo...

Firewood Rack Cover

RACK COVER MAY CRACK

Bob Redding CA 4/13/2009

 

1 5

Gift: No

Cons: Product fails, Not Weather Proof, Poorly Made

Best Uses: Patios

Describe Yourself: High-end Shopper

Primary use: Personal

Here's the product description for this cover: "This cover is so durable it won’t crack, even in extreme temperatures." I bought two of these covers in September 2008 and in April 2009 portions of both covers have cracked. There is a 30 day warranty on this product. Since the 30 days have come and gone more than a couple of times I've been told there are no provisions for replacement or for a refund. For 40 bucks a piece you'd be better off to buy two 5 buck tarps to cover your Brookstone rack with.

Yes, They Do Crack!

: Picture of Product

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BLOG POST #950

To think this all started in August 2006. Here I am at post number 950. If nothing else Bob has been consistent over the years when other blogger have come, gone and come again only to finally fade out. Blogging is like that.

Posting today.

To hell with posting tomorrow.

Bob is still looking for the sailboat. I won't write any more about it until that damn boat is found, bought and sitting in the lake.

I did see this little beauty in the photo just down the hill from the house. Isn't that about the cutest little sailboat you've ever seen? There's room enough for Bob, some sandwiches and beer. No room for anyone or anything else. I might just buy this boat for fun.

As for the Catalina 250, there are several offers in the works. One in Nevada. One in Los Angeles. And another in Portland if neither one of the first two don't work out. Catalina 250's are hard to find. There's like five for sale on the west coast.

That's all I'm going to say.

Not bad for 950 posts.

AND WHILE WE'RE ON THE SUBJECT

ONLY 257 DAYS

I got hell once from a parent who was pissed that the school allowed kindergarten kids to participate in an Easter egg roll at a local park. "Easter is not to be celebrated with an egg roll and the Easter Bunny", she screamed in my face.

Being that she was Jewish I chalked it up to secular differences and continued the practice of sending our five year olds every year to roll eggs with kids from other schools.

My parents owned a supermarket. I worked for them during high school and after military service. Back then holidays were a time for families to be together. Everything and I mean everything was closed. We were one of two markets in a city of well over 50,000 that opened for a few hours on Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years and Easter. People would always forget something and were thankful that we had taken time our from our family activities to be open. Basically, it was dad, me and my brother who opened at 10 a.m. and closed the store at 2:00 p.m. every one of those holidays.

Today it amazes me at the number of retail stores that open during every one of these holidays when there was a time when an open store on a holiday was almost sacrilegious. I mean like now everything is open as if there's nothing to celebrate and as if no one has a family to celebrate the holidays with. Why does everything boil down to making a buck when a buck can be made? Amazing.

And to top this off, what about retailers who jump the gun on holidays? In July there are shopping centers and stores decorated for Christmas. In July!! Have we gone completely nuts?

I thought I'd shop today at the local market and buy the turkey for Easter dinner (hold the ham, please) that I should have bought yesterday. Typical Bob stunt. Why do today when you can put it off until tomorrow?

It would not surprise me if something like this was posted and plastered all over one or more of our department stores:

SHOP NOW!!! ONLY 257 SHOPPING DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS!

Sheesh.......

Enjoy the day . . . WITH YOUR FAMILY!

.

WHO'S STANDING BY YOU?

This piece has multriple singers recorded around the world. Worth the time to watch and listen.

SUNDAY AT THE BLACKHAWK

It was a cold, rainy Sunday afternoon in San Francisco. That day just wasn't any day. It was the day that I heard Miles Davis play in person at the Blackhawk nightclub.

Normally reserved only for those 21 and over, the Blackhawk opened its doors to those under that age on Sundays. It was their way of allowing younger jazz aficionados just one day out of the week to appreciate the live music the Blackhawk showcased.

I had seen Miles' gig at the Blackhawk advertised in the San Francisco newspaper. In the following weeks I planned on how I could sit in on his Sunday session.


It was advertised that those underage would be seated apart from the "watering hole" portion of the club. The area reserved for those of us under 21 had been sectioned off by a 6 foot high wall of chicken wire. Yup, 6 feet high and 20 feet long. It was kind of a bummer having to watch Miles play through chicken wire . . . like being in jail or maybe like being a caged rooster so badly wanting to be let out to be with the "free range" chicks.

Expensive soda was served up by a cranky waitress knowing that the peanut gallery wasn't the best location for tips.

That Sunday I hoped and prayed that Miles just had to be Miles and make for great entertainment. He was which made up for what wasn't right that afternoon. At 16 I had collected most of what Miles had recorded over the years. And at 16 sitting in a nightclub with the other "cats" (or hens peering through chicken wire) was a dream come true.
Miles left San Francisco and later released several albums, part I and part II both recorded at the Blackhawk. They're some of his best work.
As Miles aged he got a little strange in his habits and in his talk. The television show did a piece on Miles several years before he died. Sixty Minutes commentator Ed Bradley, usually a cool cat himself was sometimes at a loss for words during the interview all due to the interesting/off the wall responses that came from Miles Davis. If nothing else, Miles seemed comfortable with who he had become.

When you think about it that's really what life is all about.

Through his music Miles was with me during what I would terms as being the darkest moments of my life. For that I'm grateful.

LIFE AS A HIPPIE

It once was said that Hippies never showered. Never had the time. Always stoned. VW vans didn't have showers. Hippies always stunk like some kind of oil to hide B.O. You've heard this.

If being a hippie means never showering then I'll never make the grade. Got to have a shower to start the day. The day does not start unless Bob has done his P.T.A. thing in the shower. In case you didn't know PTA stands for pits, tits and ass. But I also hit all the other spots.

The California drought and our community water services is putting a crimp in the length of time that I can shower. Wallowing in hot, soapy, steamy shower water for 20 minutes is my way of saying hello to my day. With the drought the water police have put everyone on notice that they have to cut their water use by 20%. If the drought goes on that 20% will most likely turn into 40% less water use.

The logical way to cut water has to be less time doing my PTA gig every morning. It's recommended that a 4 minute shower is plenty. For the past week Bob turns on the egg timer that's set to 4 minutes, waits one of the four minutes for the water to heat up and then hits it. I'm thinking that less water with shorter showers might just make up the 20% reduction.

Four minute showers can be done. Yesterday I showered, shaved while showering, wiped down the shower, got out, dried myself and still had a minute left on the timer. Am I good or what?

Bob, the 4 Minute Shower Poster Boy.

With all the water we're saving I can invite wandering hippies over to shower.

ONE WAY TO BUY FRIDAY BEER

POOR WIFEY!





















Yesterday Wifey had a cyst in the corner of her right eye which was excised by her Ophthalmologist.

Three Novocaine injections to the lid. Scalpel. Incision. Lots of blood. Lots. Cyst is no more. A ton of pain for about 6 hours.

Wifey is well and on the mend a day later.

Speaking of "that" check this hole-lee woman out here. Yikes! From what I understand she's holds the record (who keeps track of that?!) for having the most piercings. What an honor.

I'm thinking she'd never get by Homeland Security in any airport.

CALL FOR MISTER CHEESE

I hate layovers. Waiting for the next flight can be deadly especially if it's more than a two hour wait. If I have the laptop along I play games and if there's wireless access to the Net check and write e-mail, read the news and what have you.

Then there's my favorite airport pass time: The white courtesy telephone paging service.

Operator: Who would you like paged?

Me: Mr. Cheese. Mr. Mac N. Cheese.

Operator: Thank you.

A couple of moments later: "Mr. Cheese. Mr. Mac. N. Cheese, white courtesy telephone please.
I check out the reaction. People look at each other and snicker. They know. Ahh, success.

I have quite the list of people who I have paged.

Mr. E. Gress
Ms. V. A. Gina
Dr. E. Nuff
Mr. E. Coli
Mrs. Dee Part

You get the idea.

Oh yeah, the picture here. Heck, I'm the master of getting kids to behave. When in doubt, put 'em in cuffs and BOOK 'EM DANNO! (like in Hawaii Five O).

Happy Monday.

Back in the 80's we owned a house in Apple Town. An old friend, Mona, lived across the street from Wifey and I. I'd get up early in the morning to pick up the newpaper from the driveway and yell out, HEYYYY MONA! and sing this song of Bo Diddley's. Mona was never up that early, My HEYYYY MONA!! fell on deaf ears.

Wonder what ever became of Mona?

WORDS TO LIVE BY

This was taken a while back in the fifth wheel while RVeeing it on the Oregon coast. Bob was solo (plus one of the dogs) hence the feast of gin, red meat and garlic bread. Man cannot live on vegetables alone.

Now for Bob's Words to Live By:

Martinis are like breasts: One is not enough and three is too many.

STUPID PEOPLE TRICKS:

"A SINGAPOREAN died of heart failure after his penis became stuck in a soft drink bottle, reported Sin Chew Daily and China Press.

The incident happened when the 77-year-old man used the bottle to masturbate.

China Press reported that the senior citizen got his private part into the bottle and only sought help after his penis could not be dislodged from the bottle despite trying various ways such as applying soap water.

Doctors tried to alleviate the man's suffering by cutting the bottle below the neck but to no avail because by that time, the skin around the penis had started to become inflamed, causing him to be unable to urinate.

His misadventure later led to other medical complications causing his death."

Had I attended his memorial service these words would have been spoken: "If you live by the bottle you must die by it." Or, small holes suck in big fools. Or I could have said, Once a jack off, always a jack off. Or maybe, A blowup doll would have been a better idea, don't you think?

So now what? Are soft drink bottlers now going to have to post warnings on each soft drink bottle?

CAUTION! Do not spank the money, choke the chicken, whack off or grease the pole with this bottle. Sexual use of this container may result in death, disfigurement or a broken boner.

When I first heard about this I wondered what I would have done had I been this old guy. On second thought, Bob could never stick his johnson in a soda bottle 'cause it would never fit! But if it did, I'd say, HELP! I'VE FALLEN. MY DICK IS IN A BOTTLE AND I CAN'T GET UP! GET THE HAMMER! BRING ON THE HAMMER! BREAK THE BOTTLE!! DAMN IT!! BREAK THE BOTTLE!

Then I thought about it..... That would probably slice and dice the entrapped unit beyond recognition. Or, it would be a new and inexpensive method of circumcision.

What would you have done?

Lost in Space (and in Oregon)

Just back from a two day trip to Portland. Head up his ass (as usual), Bob takes the wrong fork in the road while trying to find his way home.