Return of Gerrie the Geriatric Ranter

I once had a Substack by that title; “The Geriatric Ranter.” Had high hopes for it, but a few years in it was somewhat underperforming my expectations, and I pulled the plug. 

Meanwhile, the numbers on the original blog went nuts. Even today, when I’ve posted nothing yet, 6k+ views. And what’s kinda screwy is at least half the stuff I’m writing sounds like it coulda come straight from Gerrie.

So I’m sort of thinking maybe I should bring back the Ranter. On Substack. Because the algos gate-keeping at Google’s Blogger insist I’m still violating their imaginary “standards.” Therefore I could never monetize on Blogger, but could on Substack.

On the other hand, I like bragging up the fact I write not for filthy lucre, but because it’s in me and it’s gotta come out… oh Lord, let that boy boogie woogie!

Anyway, Gerrie woulda had some fun with the adventure I had today. I’d meant to stop for gas after me and Big-Lips Bruno the mastiff were done our laps at the dog park, and I’d actually meant to do it yesterday but wtf, I’m old, I forget shit. So I 100% knew it was 100% essential to fill up today.

And then I got a call from my dear sister inviting me for lunch in Wiarton! She is the most wonderful sibling I could ever wish for, deeply cares for me, is driving all the way up from the city, and of course I said yes, and since I’m at the stage of mental impairment when I can’t actually keep two thoughts in my head at the same time, I totally forgot that fill-up.

We had a lovely lunch, and I was swimming in good vibes on my way home to Falling Downs. Or at least I was till the “low fuel” warning light came on… Oh shit! Wiarton doesn’t have a gas station anymore… I’m 30 km from the nearest gas station and according to the flashing warning light I got 12 km range left in the tank. 

So I obviously go from happy vibes to  max stress in about half a second… and by the time I got to my driveway I had 4 km left, and for a guy still learning his limits around congestive heart failure and COPD, all I can say is thank-you Jesus for not calling me home today!

With 4km in the tank I obviously wasn’t driving the 20km into town to pick up the Farm Manager from her day job. Luckily I was able to get through and give her the heads-up, although there was a moment of miscommunication when I had to clarify it was essential the jerry can I was asking her to bring home be full.

But all’s well that ends well, and that’s pretty much all I ask of life these days; happy endings!

Getting back to the Geriatric Ranter, maybe it’s time for Gerrie to fire up a fresh Substack.