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From the full version of Sunnyside's Lousy Book

Keep your mouth shut Sattler

When I returned home from bidding on the brother’s stain job I felt proud of the personal relationship I’d always had with my customers. I couldn’t help but call my friend Dean and mention what Mat had said to me. I happened to like the phrase, "We'd let the siding rot if we couldn't get you to do it." My mistake was mentioning that Mat said, “The last painter we hired not only screwed up the job, but also turned out to be a child molester.”
       I didn’t realize I could be handing out ideas. Not ideas for inventions, but ideas for rumors that the conspirators could use against me.
       Since I had no left over work from the summer before -- so when I saw a few weeks of good weather pass by in the spring I loaded up the pressure washer and headed back out to Hoquiam for some money down. Pg 80 june12 through Page 104 June 29 of Journal.

While working on the brother's shop in Hoquiam, there were times when I heard people talk about the direction I was walking while I was walking around the building. I knew I was being watched and I thought it was a good idea to lock up my truck because I wasn't sure if they were just trying to get to my journal, or if I was just imagining the things I was hearing.

While I was working on the building in Hoquiam it was quite obvious that I was being tested by the locals there when I witnessed another peculiar situation. The locals who worked in the mechanics shop across the way had sent a couple of young girls who were about 6 or 7 years old over to talk to me. They rode their bicycles around the front of the brother’s shop where I was tending to some things in the beds of my truck. The young girls asked a few questions about what I was doing and the questions appeared to be questions chosen by others. As always, with kids, I answered their questions kindly, but never stopped what I was doing. I'd talk to them all day if they wanted, but I knew their attention span was only good for a few minutes and they would get bored watching a painter work. It's quite obvious they were not interested in what I'm doing even though they had just asked.
       Then I heard a few voices in the mechanic's shop across the way, they were talking about how I was reacting to the young girls. I just kept working and answered the girl’s questions and they got bored within a few minutes. Soon they became uncomfortable and reluctantly departed as if they had nothing else to say.

On June 8th, 1998: I had a roofer show up at the jobsite and he inquired about my truck. He wanted to know where he could get one. He told me about his problem of how his fleet of trucks was costing him all his profits. He didn't care about me or my problems or that I was the inventor; he just wanted to know where he could get one. I told him he should go home and pray for one and if he was real good, maybe God would give him a chance to have one.

While I was painting the brother’s shop, I realized as my popularity was on the rise. I realized underground was well in place because people were following me everywhere. So were the cars driving in my blindspot. I noticed that the insurance scammers were on to me big time. Often they had cars with part of their grills missing and it was my guess that it was a way of being more camouflaged or that they were gutsy enough to try it twice with the same car. I was amazed how they would place themselves in harm’s way, even with their kids in the car. After two days of having the camouflaged cars trying to get me, I made an effort to solve the problem -- I went out and bought an extra large blind spot mirror.
       After I finished the brother’s shop, instead of the topic of incorporating as the brothers suggested earlier, Mat mentioned that he wanted me to take a look at the back wall of his mother’s house that was peeling. While driving over to her house, Mat asked, “How are you doing”?
       I said, “I don’t know – I must not be doing too well – we’re driving over to another house to paint.”
       The funny thing about their mothers place is that it was the reason they hadn't seen me in a few years. It was because I'd worked on the very house several years earlier when I'd first taken up surfing. During my first year of surfing I'd scored on a job in Aberdeen, working for one of the well established painting contractors. He had the contract to paint it and I was paid to paint it his way. And it happened to be a way I firmly believe in not doing. (More on this method of painting in my book titled Sunnyside.) Of course the back wall facing the sun was a peeler and was shot in a year of two.

The neighbourhood I lived in, in Parkland was a fairly decent neighbourhood, there was something different about it when I returned back home on the next paint run. Prior to that time, the neighbors would usually have an adult at the bus stop at the end of the street in the mornings and one waiting for the kids when they got home. Different was the fact that there was a parent among every group of kids that walked by my shop, (which was about mid block.) There ended up being not just one or two, but a whole group of adults standing at the corner bus stop. When I heard the child molester word in the neighborhood it wasn't hard to figure out what had just happened.

One day after I arrive at the Brother’s mother’s house, I sat down on the pouch steps and wrote a few things down in my journal. Then while I was walking towards the rear of the house an hour or so later, I heard a very clear, "Hay, he hasn't written anything yet!" It made me realize that they must had seen me write in my journal earlier, and since then I'd been around the house several times. I figured that they must of slim-jimed the door on my truck and was already up dated and someone was jumping the gun. And -- no, I wasn't just hearing things. (I found myself watching the reflection in the neighbor’s window, trying to get a glimpse of the perpetrators, but I didn’t see anything. They were clearly trying to stay out of my sight.)
       While I was working on the brother’s mother’s house, I was working off ladders which were two and three stories high. The view to other houses two and three blocks away got me thinking; If someone wanted me dead, they would have a clear shot of me from a window on the other side of the neighborhood. I’m not sure what particular incident got me thinking my life was in danger, but something told me so.
       The Brother’s had some left over finish paint from when it was painted previously so I took a gallon of it back to Tacoma to have the color matched in the kind of paint I liked using.
       I was waited on by the guy who was known to be Tacoma’s best stain matcher. I’d know him for at least ten years and he knew how important turnaround time was for me when I came in to pick up paint for the coastal communities. I asked him to match it right away, but he insisted that it was lunch time and that he would get to it right after lunch.
       Though the Stainman’s sample spots match quite well to the original can of paint I brought to him, a problem showed up after I touched up a few spots around the house. The spots turned out looking slightly darker on a sunny day when the sun shined directly on them. I ended up having to paint the whole front elevation of the house to fix the spots I did just as a favor. Although I didn't bid to do the front, the brothers paid me to paint the whole elevation.
       While I was back in Tacoma, their mother got to looking at one side in the sun and noticed more spots. One of the brothers went down to the local paint store and bought some of the original color by the original manufacture. Although it was a different batch from years apart, the color matched perfectly.
       It became apparent that the paint I bought was sabotaged. Someone either got to the paint while I had it in my possession, or they paid someone in the paint store to add some tint to it before they matched it. I had to drive out (75 miles away) to do some touch up for 30 minutes.
       Of course the paint I had mixed up in Tacoma match to the paint in the can I had matched, but if you knew the Stainman as well as I did. (Ten years at least) then you would wonder why he wouldn't match the paint while I waited because they all they guys at the paint store knew that I’d want to be on the highway the next morning before the store would even be open. But I remember quite clearly he insisted that he wanted to go to lunch. Nah, not on me I thought, I'm the guy who has brought crab and oysters back for you guys.
       I know the Strainman’s drinking habits and his attitude as well. I know he would stab a person in the back if he had the reason to. Like I said, I knew the store clerks too well and if anyone would take advantage of a pay off, he would be the one.
       I’m sure it was just as obvious to the brothers that the paint had been sabotaged, and it’s not difficult to imagine why the brothers wouldn’t want to get into business relationship, (other than painting,) with a guy like me.?
       I got back and noticed that the neighbor guy who worked for the city had come up with a brilliant idea. An idea that would prevent him from tearing his pants while hopping over his chain-link fence. He had taken a knife to about forty feet of Chicago line (A large air hose with a 1” inside diameter) and sliced it from one end to the other, then fit it over the top of his chain-link fence as a protective cap.
       I thought: Boy that’s one hell of a way to make it easy to sneak over to my place from his back yard. So from there out, I let the grass grow longer so I’d be able to tell if somebody had been walking around in my back yard. But I think he caught on to my game just as I caught on to his.
       Another game I became quite curious about was how and why people were getting into my journal. I tried to booby trap the journal by positioning it in pre-determined ways whenever I’d leave it, but it would appear to be undisturbed when I examined it later. It’s my guess they used a digital camera to provide a way to take a picture of just how the journal was positioned. Then they would open it and take pictures of the material I had written. I figured that the key to the whole ordeal was that they must have used of the screen on the camera to position the journal back to the position as I had left it.
       To prove to myself I wasn't imagining things, I began leaving pieces of dental floss shaped in a figure eight fashion on the floor of my trailer whenever I’d leave for the day. Upon my arrival, I discovered the floss would often be disrupted while I had been away.
       I slowly got back into writing and the thing that really got me motivated was when I heard comments at the local grocery store. It seemed as if people to wanted me to overhear them talking about my literature. More and more I'd hear people in other lines at the next casher over say, "Keep writing."

In my journal I would hint around about the facts of the crimes that had been committed so people would investigate for themselves and they’d find the truth of the matter on their own. Sometimes I made some incorrect statements on purpose, just to be corrected so I would know the truth myself.
       I was doing everything from Sienfeld type commentaries on the news events, to cord charts for songs. Much of the literature I wrote was designed for the follower in mind. I'd leave cliff hangers not only to entertain them, but to make sure that they would tune in later. It was also to encourage them to think things through for themselves with their own judgment. It was mostly just common sense; like putting two and two together. I figured that if I could capture the attention of the underground, they‘d be out looking for me if where to ever disappear.
       It wasn’t long before I heard that the web site had been shut down. It seemed to take the fun out of it and I the resorted to writing very little and even drew a broken heart. I’d open the bible and pull out scripter at random. It was amazing how the random takes from the bible was as if the verses were the sentences I needed to write.

There were times in the local grocery store and heard people talking about the things I had written. When I heard a lady say to another n line, “It’s was good for the kids,” I was quite surprised. I contemplated watering down some of the subject matter because I felt some of it wasn't appropriate for children. All of a sudden I realized I had a dilemma on my hand. I felt I needed to cater to all age groups, but I still wanted to be a good influence for the kids. If I only wrote material that was only suited for children, the material could become too soft and corny for adult readers and I didn’t want to lose them.

The pages were written in the spur of the moment and I never knew when something would be inappropriate for children until it was an after the fact, so on July 20th, of 1998, on page 159, I came up with the idea for Mom & Dad Warnings.

I introduced it in a really cute way by writing a spiff:

I'm going to have Mom and Dad Warnings.
Meaning:
Drop what you're doing and get your folks.
       M-D Warning is the Cue.
       It's like a Safety Rope and Help’s on the way.

Since topics of interest I wrote about were spontaneous and could change at any given moment, I'd turn back to the pervious page before mature oriented material and write in the margin with a red pin, "M-D Warning.” I thought if my journal was being posted on an internet web site, a parent would be able to look over their child's shoulder every once in awhile -- see the warning -- then distract the child away from the screen while they check out the nature of the material on the next page before letting their children view it. Many times instead of writing an inappropriate word, I’d just draw a line with a letter within it as a hint as to what the word would be. It was a way of showing kids I was aware that some of my literature wasn't proper.?
       There was a time I was in the local grocery store and I overheard a couple women talking about the things I’d been writing about. Then one said, "He should come up with some rules." I thought: I bet I could come up with some rules, but there’s got to be something special about them.
       I wanted to make the rules easy to remember so I matched them up with numbers in significant ways. Coming up with a name for the rules wasn't very difficult because it only came naturally. (See Appendix.)
       It got to the point where if I didn’t assign a rule number to whatever I was writing about, I was sure to be reminded that it called for one. It became a big game and my followers knew the numbers better than I did. Now days when I look back on those hand written journal entries, I can’t help but crack up at some of the outrageous things I jotted down.

On July 21st, I was driving east on South Tacoma Way just past the weight scales at the D&M recycling yard and just a few blocks east of the station and almost to the State Highway 16 overpass. All of a sudden I heard a noise and noticed a bucket full of black rubber bungee cords and a large chain. It had just dropped off a small hook-lift truck owned by the DM refuge and recycling company. The truck didn't stop, so I decided I'd go fetch the lost cargo. I pulled a U-turn and parked my truck in the middle of the street, in the turn lane. The bizarre thing about the situation was how much the traffic stepped up when I was picking up the bucket and chain. As I walked up the side of my truck, I had to step in between the rear fender and cab of my truck, because a truck driving the center lane sure wasn’t about to give me any room. To say the least -- I was sure glad I had the narrow 4 Ft. P-bed on my truck that day. Later I took another look at the street surface in the area of where the bucket fell off the truck. Not a bump, seam, or manhole. Smooth as a babies ass. I couldn’t see any reason why something would fall off any vehicle along that stretch.

I don’t know about you, but I think my truck saved my life that day.
       Yeah – and the trucks in question? Both mini hook-lifts.
       Maybe I imagined that both trucks where, but I’m sure one was, also the one that dropped the bucket. So two where there for sure, the third I’m not sure about. You can call it coincidence or what, but I know it happened, and I’d be a fool not to realise that.

The next chapter of Sunnyside's Lousy Book is:


Smells Funny

Not available yet.


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Keep your mouth shut Sattler is:

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