A Message for all Subscribers

Plus, a wee story of my utter incompetence

I chose this photo because I searched “message” on my Getty account and saw this and said well shit that’s perfect because I expect some will read this and it will elicit a similar expression.

You likely have noticed that, after a lengthy period of infrequent posting for free subscribers, I am suddenly posting daily again. Or, shall I say, RE-posting. Some of you, especially if you own either (or both) of my On This Day in History Sh!t Went Down books, may have noticed that the posts I have been publishing of late are from those two books.

Well why don’t you write some fucking new shit, James? You got writer’s block or something?

Nope. I have been maxed out for the last couple of years working on a new book titled Greedy Sexist Religious Bigots: A History of Humanity. Writing it has been all-consuming, but as we go through the edits I am getting closer to when I’ll have time to write new free posts. In the interim, I’m republishing older posts for a couple of months. Because money.

It’s been a few years since these stories were first shared on this Substack, and my subscriber base has grown considerably since then, so it’s likely many of you have never even read them. Or, perhaps, you don’t mind reading them a second time. And maybe it will entice you to buy one or both of the books. With the holidays approaching, it made financial sense to repost these stories because the books are popular gifts. Since Volume I first went on sale in 2021, the books have sold at least half their copies in November and December alone. So, yeah. Buy the fucking books, either for yourself, or as gifts. Please.

It also gives me the opportunity to promote paid subscriptions. You can get a free trial and check it out:

What’s behind the paywall? That is the one place I have been writing lots of new stuff, in addition to working on that behemoth of a book. It’s a mix of things, and only sometimes about history. Lately I’ve published a bunch of chapters of anthropology / pre-history that my editor felt didn’t work for the new book. There are also travel stories of visits to places like Japan, Spain, and Portugal. Sometimes I do movie reviews, concert reviews, or tell silly tales from my life.

Below is one such tale, as an example:

My father worked his whole life as a carpenter. He built his own house, and can fix just about anything. But my parents split up when I was six and my mom remarried a physician a couple of years later. My new dad only knew how to fix people.

I can’t do either of those things.

I am not mechanical. I can change tires like a motherfucker, because I’m cheap. Living in Canada, we need to put on winter tires in the fall and switch to the terribly misnamed “all-season” tires in the spring. All season means that if there is a mild snowfall you might not crash but hurry the fuck up and get those winter tires on.

It’s less expensive to buy separate rims for the winters and just do the annual switching of wheels myself. It also takes less time, as I’ve got the entire job down to 40 minutes from the time I step out the door to when I walk back in. Getting someone else to do it not only costs money but you have to fuck around with appointments and either taking a shuttle or waiting around or fuck all that. Whenever it’s tire-changing season, that’s my exercise for the day. The minivan is the tough one. Those fuckers are heavy.

Anyway, I can change tires. I cannot do other things.

I’m not much of a DIY guy. When it came to building our deck, fence, and shed, my best friend Craig was in charge, and I was the labor. He knows how to do shit and I know how to follow orders. But vehicle repair is something that I leave to the professionals. I learned this the hard way.

Long ago, when I was about 19, there was a leaky hose on my car. Knowing how expensive mechanics are, I figured I could replace that leaky hose myself. I went to an automotive parts store, bought the appropriate hose for $13, and replaced it. Go me.

Car: “No, actually, you’re not going anywhere.”

It drove a few blocks and it died. Seized up. Wouldn’t start again. The fuck?

I got it towed to the shop (expensive) where they told me that in the process of replacing the hose, I’d yanked out some important wires or some shit and something got frazzled and they needed to replace some electrical stuff and (also expensive).

Fuck.

Since that time, I’ve been reluctant to fuck with motor vehicles. I make sure their service is always up to date, and I’m good at deciphering mechanic speak so I don’t get ripped off. What I mean is I know when to interpret “You may want to think about changing …” as meaning “We’re trying to drive up your bill.” I only get things done when I know they truly mean “This HAS to be done or you’re fucked.” It’s worked out well for me.

Like I said, I’m cheap. Speaking of, have you bought my fucking books yet? That minivan is getting old.

Anyway, a little while ago the end of the block heater cord on my car got ripped off. If you’re not from a northern climate you may have no fucking clue what that is, so permit me to explain. In winter where I live, it gets cold as fuck. So cold that if you don’t “plug in” your vehicle, it won’t start the next morning. The “block heater” keeps the engine warm so it will start when it’s butt-ass cold outside. There is an electrical cord that hangs out the front of your vehicle, and you run an extension cord from your house or whatever out to the car overnight and the car starts right up the next morning instead of saying fuck you it’s too cold I’m not going anywhere.

Whew. Yeah. So, the end of the cord broke off probably because some kid drove away without unplugging it first. That happens. Sometimes the car takes the entire extension cord with them then goes for a drive, dragging along what is known as a Saskatchewan Snow Snake.

Here is the thing about block heater cords. I believe that there is some kind of federal mandate that the cord must do forty-eleven loop de loops around various engine components before it plugs into the heater. You either need to take the entire engine apart or be like that fuckin’ elastic man dude from the Fantastic 4 to get the cord into the right place. Or you hire a mechanic and they charge two hundred fucking dollars to do it.

“Just replace the head on the cord,” my wife said. She was born in Saskatchewan and there is nothing to do in that province, so I guess she came from a culture where people fix their own cars because they’re bored of staring at boring-ass wheat fields so fucking flat you can watch your dog run away for three goddamn days.

I had no clue as to how to put a new plug head on a cord, and I was very reluctant to learn because of my experience with blowing up the electrical system of my car when I was 19. But my wife was all “You can do it I have faith suck it up.” So I googled it and found a YouTube video. I watched that video like three times, and then I made some careful notes from the video.

I bought a new plug head for $8, and I also had to buy some wire-strippers. I can’t remember how much they were, but it wasn’t that expensive and now fuck yeah I own wire strippers.

So, I followed the instructions and put a new head on the end of the ripped cord and did all that electrical tape shit on top of it and I said hey that wasn’t too bad go me.

And the car said no, you’re not fucking going anywhere. Again.

For real. All I did was replace the end of a plug hanging outside the goddamn car, and then I hopped in to make sure it would still start because I’m fucking paranoid, and . . . dead. Nothing. Won’t turn over. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. Be ready to pay more than $200 because fuck you you’re cursed.

My wife knew all about my uncertainty facing this DIY fix it job because I told her about the hose-replacement debacle from when I was younger, and when I came into the house, she saw the look on my face, which she later described as “crestfallen,” and said, “My god what’s wrong?”

“It won’t start.”

“What? How?”

“Because I’m cursed,” I said.

“I don’t understand how that’s possible.”

“It’s possible because I’m fucking cursed.”

But then I thought, no, this is fucking bullshit. And I went back out to look at the car. I popped the hood, and the battery was still connected, and it didn’t look like I’d somehow un-yanked anything critical while fiddling with the block heater cord. I closed the hood and got back in the front seat and tried to start it again. Still dead.

Fuck.

Not just dead engine, dead everything. No radio. Nothing. Toast.

Except . . . the faintest glow from the dome light.

“[DAUGHTER’S NAME]!”

It was a Sunday and the car had actually been sitting there for three days, in the cold, and I knew the last one to drive it was my daughter. Here is the fucked-up part. She had on rare occasion done that before, leaving the dome light on, but it had always been caught in time. But it JUST SO FUCKING HAPPENED that the ONE FUCKING TIME it wasn’t discovered in time and it KILLED THE FUCKING BATTERY was when I was VERY FUCKING NERVOUSLY trying to fix the damn plug.

Jesus. Fucking. Fuck.

So I boosted the damn car and it started fine and everything worked fine and the block heater heats fine and fuck cars and fuck fixing things next time I’m just paying someone.

Perhaps you’re willing to give that free trial a try.

And don’t forget to buy both volumes of On This Day in History Sh!t Went Down.