So, Dweebert and I own this one bedroom cabin in the woods. The Old Rattlesnake built it back in the day, circa 1961-4. We inherited it when TOR passed on.
Inexplicably, Dweeb and I both wanted to keep it. Older bro, the IT Guy, bailed. He was always the smart one. Not surprisingly, he said “Show me the money.“ Mashie desperately wanted me to do the Sensible Thing, too, but I wouldn’t. I’m that kind of guy.
Anyways, it’s ours now. The place is a wreck. It hasn’t seen much use over the last couple decades. The most use it got was the semi-frequent occasions it was broken into and used as a party house by the local yokels. Also, TOR was big on Deferring Maintenance. In short, there’s Problems.
One of the biggest is that it is a non-conforming structure. That means it was built before permits were being issued. It was built onto an existing miner’s cabin from the early 1900‘s. I remember it. It looked like it was from the early 1800’s.
The setback is 5 feet from the neighbor’s lot (to his consternation), and the current requirement is 30. This will prevent ever being able to enlarge the house. I believe the exact words of the inexplicably hostile building department lady were, “Make my day. Just try to get a permit.”
Other problems are due to Shoddy Construction. TOR was a master of cobby work. Dweeb thinks it was because he was drunk all the time. I don’t. I think it was because he was fundamentally lazy on top of being drunk all the time.
We go up there and try to salvage what we can. It’s not easy. TOR utilized some truly inexplicable building techniques. Some of his Framing Solutions must have been suggested by Pink Elephants. Being freed of constraints such as building codes and having your work inspected must have been liberating. I guess he felt that conventional framing members needn’t be installed in every case, and you really didn’t always have to nail them in.
His electrical wiring was the stuff of nightmares. He was an electronics technician, and knew about electricity. I think this led him down some slippery slopes. Like with his construction technique, he went his own way electrically. To be fair, the place didn’t fall down or explode into flames in almost 50 years. Surprisingly. You used to get quite a jolt off the shower faucets, now and then, though. And, the living room floor did cave in that time….
Other factors: Dweeb is really good at demolition. Unfortunately, he isn’t as well versed in construction. He is the industrious sort. In order to keep busy, he often starts tearing stuff out. This makes progress difficult. Eventually, you have to reverse the flow and start putting it back together.
Hopefully, if I’m patient, he will begin to see the truth in that.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
To Forgive, Divine
I’ve mentioned my kid brother Dweebert.* He’s a crazy-ass sombich. We have gotten closer in recent years over the unexpected death of our mom, the care and feeding of The Old Rattlesnake (TOR), his eventual passing, the clean-up and sale of the old homestead, and recently, working on a semi-valueless cabin up in the woods we both now own.
When we were kids, Dweeb was always the poor, well....., dweeb, that got the short end of the stick, courtesy of the FCC (Family Chain of Command). Those of you with siblings know the drill. For the rest of you, or those who had an abnormal childhood or siblings who were body-snatched pod people or something, this is how it Usually Works: For whatever reason, (often, no reason), the older sister/brother kicks the ass of the next one down, then that one goes and kicks the ass of the one under her/him. If there’s more, add "and so on".
The bee-otch about this arrangement is, usually (not always), the youngest DDS (didn‘t do sh**). The middle one may be innocent, but usually PDSS (probably did some sh**).
The oldest often escapes his/her come-uppance unless the middle one gets enough rocks in his/her pockets to dish it out. Unfortunately, the youngest often doesn’t ever get the chance to Even the Score because the older siblings, realizing that they’ve Created a Monster, wisely GTHO (get the hell out).
The point is, the youngest suffers. Usually without any reason other than they were defenseless. And, well....., dweebs. This post is all in aid of describing how things stood between Dweeb and me before the bonding-thingy. We get along very well now.
Sometimes, late at night, when Dweebert and I up at the cabin, and the wind is whistling through the pines, and the coyotes are howling in the canyon, I start having doubts. I begin to wonder, and I remember that revenge is a dish best savored cold.
And there's plenty of Power Tools laying around.
*The promised Post, "Goin' Up Country" has been delayed. Get over it.
When we were kids, Dweeb was always the poor, well....., dweeb, that got the short end of the stick, courtesy of the FCC (Family Chain of Command). Those of you with siblings know the drill. For the rest of you, or those who had an abnormal childhood or siblings who were body-snatched pod people or something, this is how it Usually Works: For whatever reason, (often, no reason), the older sister/brother kicks the ass of the next one down, then that one goes and kicks the ass of the one under her/him. If there’s more, add "and so on".
The bee-otch about this arrangement is, usually (not always), the youngest DDS (didn‘t do sh**). The middle one may be innocent, but usually PDSS (probably did some sh**).
The oldest often escapes his/her come-uppance unless the middle one gets enough rocks in his/her pockets to dish it out. Unfortunately, the youngest often doesn’t ever get the chance to Even the Score because the older siblings, realizing that they’ve Created a Monster, wisely GTHO (get the hell out).
The point is, the youngest suffers. Usually without any reason other than they were defenseless. And, well....., dweebs. This post is all in aid of describing how things stood between Dweeb and me before the bonding-thingy. We get along very well now.
Sometimes, late at night, when Dweebert and I up at the cabin, and the wind is whistling through the pines, and the coyotes are howling in the canyon, I start having doubts. I begin to wonder, and I remember that revenge is a dish best savored cold.
And there's plenty of Power Tools laying around.
*The promised Post, "Goin' Up Country" has been delayed. Get over it.
Monday, December 11, 2006
It Ain't Groundhog Day, Bubbie
December has lots of stuff going on. It’s a hectic time and requires diligent planning. There are several minor holidays like Chanukah, Christmas, and New Year’s Eve, but these are under the radar compared to The Single Most Important Event of the Season.
What this is goes without saying. (For those of you who guessed Pearl Harbor Day, slip back into your coma.)
Many are run ragged by the time The Event can be prudently allowed to wind down. Just the anxiety and tension can wreak havoc on those of a softer mettle.
Generally, this is how it breaks down:
“Ramping Up”
Usually occurs a full two weeks before The Day. Shopping, party planning, guest list writing, invitations, laying in supplies, baking, gift wrapping, and other essential preparations.
“Pre Season”
Minor events organized and held. Brunches, lunches, theater, dinners-on-the-town and other get-togethers ("Sorry,Boys, it's Just The Wimmin").
“The Day”
Phone calls. This may go on for several days as the Brain Dead try to catch up. AT&T has to take drastic measures to keep emergency services available. Family Time. Family party at home. Family gift-giving.
“Post Season”
Family gifts are returned. Parties, dinners-on-the-town, theater, other get togethers with small and large groups (may occasionally include The Men). This may not die down for several months.
Anyway, she doesn't look a day older than when I met her. Even after all that December partying over the years. She looks mahvelous.
Here's my birthday wish to her for this year: Jeryleh, I hope the CFO listens to your gift hints next year.
What this is goes without saying. (For those of you who guessed Pearl Harbor Day, slip back into your coma.)
Many are run ragged by the time The Event can be prudently allowed to wind down. Just the anxiety and tension can wreak havoc on those of a softer mettle.
Generally, this is how it breaks down:
“Ramping Up”
Usually occurs a full two weeks before The Day. Shopping, party planning, guest list writing, invitations, laying in supplies, baking, gift wrapping, and other essential preparations.
“Pre Season”
Minor events organized and held. Brunches, lunches, theater, dinners-on-the-town and other get-togethers ("Sorry,Boys, it's Just The Wimmin").
“The Day”
Phone calls. This may go on for several days as the Brain Dead try to catch up. AT&T has to take drastic measures to keep emergency services available. Family Time. Family party at home. Family gift-giving.
“Post Season”
Family gifts are returned. Parties, dinners-on-the-town, theater, other get togethers with small and large groups (may occasionally include The Men). This may not die down for several months.
Anyway, she doesn't look a day older than when I met her. Even after all that December partying over the years. She looks mahvelous.
Here's my birthday wish to her for this year: Jeryleh, I hope the CFO listens to your gift hints next year.
Idle Hands Do the Devil's Work
This is my first post for December, as one of the followers of this blog pointed out.
Sigh. Expectations and pressure already.
My Big Mistake was to post Too Many Installments too quickly. Now I am deluged with emails clamoring for more. It's my own fault. I gave you the world, and now you all expect me to post intelligent and witty observations and fascinating tales willy-nilly.
Some of you must not have that much to do. Besides, I really don't have that much to say. Maybe I said everything already.
Well, maybe not everything. Stay tuned for my next post, "Goin' Up Country".
When, Vance? When when when?
Save your emails.
I'll post it when I'm good and ready. Sit on your hands or something.
Sigh. Expectations and pressure already.
My Big Mistake was to post Too Many Installments too quickly. Now I am deluged with emails clamoring for more. It's my own fault. I gave you the world, and now you all expect me to post intelligent and witty observations and fascinating tales willy-nilly.
Some of you must not have that much to do. Besides, I really don't have that much to say. Maybe I said everything already.
Well, maybe not everything. Stay tuned for my next post, "Goin' Up Country".
When, Vance? When when when?
Save your emails.
I'll post it when I'm good and ready. Sit on your hands or something.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
California Dreamin'
I've been wondering.
You know how, when you meet someone in the Bay Area, and they're almost all from the East Coast? And how 99% of them are from New York? It’s always the same. When you talk to them, you will soon discover that Each and Every One of Them will insist, probably to the death, that Everything is Better in New York.
Let's not even get into the question that is obviously going begging here. You know, if it's so great, why do they leave like lemmings streaming over the tundra or whatever?
The fact is, they should be grateful like the rest of the transplants. The ones from like say, Baltimore, are always honest. They’re all like, “Dude, I’m so hella stoked to be out of there…”
I don’t get why everything in California is substandard. There are so many New Yorkers living here that you’d think one or two of them would remember how to make a bagel. I mean, how come all of these New Yorkers who are now living in California have forgotten how to make the Good New York style stuff? Does crossing the Rockies cause amnesia?
The Way Things Are, According to the New Yorker (I will debunk most shortly):
1. New York is the only place you can get a Decent Pastrami Sandwich.
2. The Yankees Are The Only Good Baseball Team on Earth.
3. Even though bagels are crap in california, you have to follow the New York
Bagel Rules.
4. No ice cream on earth compares to Carvel.
5. Theater in Manhattan is The Best in the World.
6. Compared to New York, the bread in california sucks.
7.You haven’t experienced Life if you didn't Go to Camp for 8 weeks in the
summer.
8. People you met Outside of Summer Camp are not Really Close Friends
(especially californians).
9. Jews from anywhere else are Barely Jewish.
10. Homosexuals from anywhere else are not even Gay.
11. Hella isn’t a word.
12. Don't even mention Pizza. Fuhgeddaboudit.
The Truth:
1. I've had a pastrami on rye from The Carnegie Deli. It was ok. Too much
mustard.
2. Maybe.
3. A bagel is just bread. They're not sacred.
4. Carvel is nice soft ice cream. It’s good when dipped in chocolate. The Dairy
Belle in Belmont has the same thing. Besides, ever hear of Gelato?
5. How is it possible that when A Hit Play on Broadway's entire production is
moved to San Francisco it will suck?
6. San Francisco sourdough, baby!
7. I had a bike. What more does a kid need in the summer?
8. I have no way to judge.
9. This also may be possible.
10. Where is Ryan Seacrest from?
11. Dude. I won’t even address that one.
12. Two words: Hawaiian pizza. They don't even have it in New York!
Now that I have put this topic to rest, let's attack another hypocrisy:
You know how people from New York are all, “It’s made with mayonnaise? I Won’t Eat That.”
Yeah. Except with or in tuna salad, egg salad, chicken salad, turkey sandwiches, artichokes, Russian Dressing, Big Macs, tartar sauce, deviled eggs, yada, yada, yada.
I think they eat it right out of the jar.
You know how, when you meet someone in the Bay Area, and they're almost all from the East Coast? And how 99% of them are from New York? It’s always the same. When you talk to them, you will soon discover that Each and Every One of Them will insist, probably to the death, that Everything is Better in New York.
Let's not even get into the question that is obviously going begging here. You know, if it's so great, why do they leave like lemmings streaming over the tundra or whatever?
The fact is, they should be grateful like the rest of the transplants. The ones from like say, Baltimore, are always honest. They’re all like, “Dude, I’m so hella stoked to be out of there…”
I don’t get why everything in California is substandard. There are so many New Yorkers living here that you’d think one or two of them would remember how to make a bagel. I mean, how come all of these New Yorkers who are now living in California have forgotten how to make the Good New York style stuff? Does crossing the Rockies cause amnesia?
The Way Things Are, According to the New Yorker (I will debunk most shortly):
1. New York is the only place you can get a Decent Pastrami Sandwich.
2. The Yankees Are The Only Good Baseball Team on Earth.
3. Even though bagels are crap in california, you have to follow the New York
Bagel Rules.
4. No ice cream on earth compares to Carvel.
5. Theater in Manhattan is The Best in the World.
6. Compared to New York, the bread in california sucks.
7.You haven’t experienced Life if you didn't Go to Camp for 8 weeks in the
summer.
8. People you met Outside of Summer Camp are not Really Close Friends
(especially californians).
9. Jews from anywhere else are Barely Jewish.
10. Homosexuals from anywhere else are not even Gay.
11. Hella isn’t a word.
12. Don't even mention Pizza. Fuhgeddaboudit.
The Truth:
1. I've had a pastrami on rye from The Carnegie Deli. It was ok. Too much
mustard.
2. Maybe.
3. A bagel is just bread. They're not sacred.
4. Carvel is nice soft ice cream. It’s good when dipped in chocolate. The Dairy
Belle in Belmont has the same thing. Besides, ever hear of Gelato?
5. How is it possible that when A Hit Play on Broadway's entire production is
moved to San Francisco it will suck?
6. San Francisco sourdough, baby!
7. I had a bike. What more does a kid need in the summer?
8. I have no way to judge.
9. This also may be possible.
10. Where is Ryan Seacrest from?
11. Dude. I won’t even address that one.
12. Two words: Hawaiian pizza. They don't even have it in New York!
Now that I have put this topic to rest, let's attack another hypocrisy:
You know how people from New York are all, “It’s made with mayonnaise? I Won’t Eat That.”
Yeah. Except with or in tuna salad, egg salad, chicken salad, turkey sandwiches, artichokes, Russian Dressing, Big Macs, tartar sauce, deviled eggs, yada, yada, yada.
I think they eat it right out of the jar.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Da Bluze
Da Big Mon sent me this blues primer. He should know da bluze. He be a bass pla'r. I publish it here without his permission because that's how I am.
We can all learn from it. I know I did.
THE BLUES 101
If you are new to Blues music, or like it but never really understood the whys and wherefores, here are some very fundamental rules:
1. Most Blues begin with: "Woke up this morning...."
2. "I got a good woman" is a bad way to begin the Blues, unless you stick something nasty in the
next line like, "I got a good woman, with the meanest face in town."
3. The Blues is simple. After you get the first line right, repeat it. Then find something that
rhymes - sort of:
Got a good woman with the meanest face in town.
Yes, I got a good woman with the meanest face in town.
Got teeth like Margaret Thatcher and she weigh 500 pound.
4. The Blues is not about choice. You stuck in a ditch, you stuck in a ditch...ain't no way out.
5. Blues cars: Chevys, Fords, Cadillacs and broken-down trucks. Blues don't travel in Volvos, BMWs, or Sport Utility Vehicles. Most Blues transportation is a Greyhound bus or a southbound train. Jet aircraft and state-sponsored motor pools ain't even in the running.
Walkin' plays the major role in a Blues lifestyle. So does fixin' to die.
6. Teenagers can't sing the Blues. They ain't fixin' to die yet. Adults sing the Blues. In Blues, "adulthood" means being old enough to get the electric chair if you shoot a man in Memphis.
7. Blues can take place in New York City but not in Hawaii or anywhere in Canada. Hard times in Minneapolis or Seattle is probably just clinical depression. Chicago, St. Louis and Kansas City are still the best places to have the Blues. You cannot have the Blues in any place that don't get no rain.
8. A man with male pattern baldness ain't the Blues. A woman with male pattern baldness is.
Breaking your leg 'cause you were skiing is not theBlues. Breaking your leg 'cause a alligator be chomping on it is.
9. You can't have no Blues in an office or a shopping mall. The lighting is wrong. Go outside to
the parking lot or sit by the dumpster.
10. Good places for the Blues:
a. Highway
b. Jailhouse
c. Empty bed
d. Bottom of a whiskey glass
11. Bad places for the Blues:
a. Nordstrom's
b. Gallery openings
c. Ivy League institutions
d. Golf courses
12. No one will believe it's the Blues if you wear a suit, 'less you happen to be an old person, and
you slept in it.
13. Do you have the right to sing the Blues? Yes, if:
a. you're older than dirt
b. you're blind
c. you shot a man in Memphis
d. you can't be satisfied
No, if:
a. you have all your teeth
b. you were once blind but now can see
c. the man in Memphis lived
d. you have a 401K or trust fund
14. Blues is not a matter of color. It's a matter of bad luck. TigerWoods cannot sing the Blues.
Sonny Liston could have. Ugly white people also got a leg up on the Blues.
15. If you ask for water and your darlin' gives you gasoline, it's the Blues. Other acceptable
Blues beverages are:
a. Cheap wine
b. Whiskey or bourbon
c. Muddy water
d. Black coffee
The following are NOT Blues beverages:
a. Perrier
b. Chardonnay
c. Snapple
d. Slim Fast
16. If death occurs in a cheap motel or a shotgun shack, it's a Bluesdeath. Stabbed in the back by a jealous lover is another Blues way todie. So are the electric chair, substance abuse and
dying lonely on abroken-down cot. You can't have a Blues death if you die during a tennis
match or while getting liposuction.
17. Some Blues names for women:
a. Sadie
b. Big Mama
c. Bessie
d. Fat River Dumpling
18. Some Blues names for men:
a. Joe
b. Willie
c. Little Willie
d. Big Willie
19. Persons with names like Michelle, Amber, Jennifer, Debbie, and Heather can't sing the Blues
no matter how many men they shoot in Memphis.
20. Blues Name Starter Kit:
a. Name of physical infirmity (Blind, Mute, Lame, etc.)
b. First name (see above) plus name of fruit (Lemon, Lime, Kiwi,etc.)
c. Last name of President (Jefferson, Johnson, Fillmore, Clinton,etc.)
For example: Blind Lime Jefferson, Pegleg Lemon Johnson or Lame Kiwi Clinton, etc. (Well, maybe not "Kiwi.")
21. I don't care how tragic your life is: if you own a computer, you cannot sing the blues, period. Sorry!
22. Probably can't sing the blues if you live in Belmont -- SanFrancisco, ok; Oakland, Daly City, Colma, definitely; Corte Madera, LosAltos Hills, forget it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
OK! Thanks. That's an inspiration to many of us, I'm sure. It made me want to Sing the Blues!
Here's some Blues from Bulgy Tummy Vance (I cain't decide on Reagan or Bush).
It goes a little bit li'k'is:
I woke up in Belmont this mo'nin',
Devil-woman on my back,
Woke up in Belmont this mo'nin',
That Marjorie she sho is whack.
She et my po'kchop fo' brexfas',
Didn't know she cud swaller so fast,
She done et my po'kchop fo' brexfas'.
Made me check my e-mail last.
Got into that Mazda an' flo'd it,
Mos' likely gwine wind up dead
Got into that ol' 626 an' flo'ed it,
Din wanta hear the las' words she said.
Oh, that Memphis man be hatin',
From that poke in the eye he got,
Oh that 'lectric chair is waitin',
Or mebbe I end up shot.
Woke up in Belmont this mo'nin,
Tiger-woman on my back.
From my irritable bowel syndrome I's moanin',
Could not get out the sack.
Thang ya, thang ya vera mush.
We can all learn from it. I know I did.
THE BLUES 101
If you are new to Blues music, or like it but never really understood the whys and wherefores, here are some very fundamental rules:
1. Most Blues begin with: "Woke up this morning...."
2. "I got a good woman" is a bad way to begin the Blues, unless you stick something nasty in the
next line like, "I got a good woman, with the meanest face in town."
3. The Blues is simple. After you get the first line right, repeat it. Then find something that
rhymes - sort of:
Got a good woman with the meanest face in town.
Yes, I got a good woman with the meanest face in town.
Got teeth like Margaret Thatcher and she weigh 500 pound.
4. The Blues is not about choice. You stuck in a ditch, you stuck in a ditch...ain't no way out.
5. Blues cars: Chevys, Fords, Cadillacs and broken-down trucks. Blues don't travel in Volvos, BMWs, or Sport Utility Vehicles. Most Blues transportation is a Greyhound bus or a southbound train. Jet aircraft and state-sponsored motor pools ain't even in the running.
Walkin' plays the major role in a Blues lifestyle. So does fixin' to die.
6. Teenagers can't sing the Blues. They ain't fixin' to die yet. Adults sing the Blues. In Blues, "adulthood" means being old enough to get the electric chair if you shoot a man in Memphis.
7. Blues can take place in New York City but not in Hawaii or anywhere in Canada. Hard times in Minneapolis or Seattle is probably just clinical depression. Chicago, St. Louis and Kansas City are still the best places to have the Blues. You cannot have the Blues in any place that don't get no rain.
8. A man with male pattern baldness ain't the Blues. A woman with male pattern baldness is.
Breaking your leg 'cause you were skiing is not theBlues. Breaking your leg 'cause a alligator be chomping on it is.
9. You can't have no Blues in an office or a shopping mall. The lighting is wrong. Go outside to
the parking lot or sit by the dumpster.
10. Good places for the Blues:
a. Highway
b. Jailhouse
c. Empty bed
d. Bottom of a whiskey glass
11. Bad places for the Blues:
a. Nordstrom's
b. Gallery openings
c. Ivy League institutions
d. Golf courses
12. No one will believe it's the Blues if you wear a suit, 'less you happen to be an old person, and
you slept in it.
13. Do you have the right to sing the Blues? Yes, if:
a. you're older than dirt
b. you're blind
c. you shot a man in Memphis
d. you can't be satisfied
No, if:
a. you have all your teeth
b. you were once blind but now can see
c. the man in Memphis lived
d. you have a 401K or trust fund
14. Blues is not a matter of color. It's a matter of bad luck. TigerWoods cannot sing the Blues.
Sonny Liston could have. Ugly white people also got a leg up on the Blues.
15. If you ask for water and your darlin' gives you gasoline, it's the Blues. Other acceptable
Blues beverages are:
a. Cheap wine
b. Whiskey or bourbon
c. Muddy water
d. Black coffee
The following are NOT Blues beverages:
a. Perrier
b. Chardonnay
c. Snapple
d. Slim Fast
16. If death occurs in a cheap motel or a shotgun shack, it's a Bluesdeath. Stabbed in the back by a jealous lover is another Blues way todie. So are the electric chair, substance abuse and
dying lonely on abroken-down cot. You can't have a Blues death if you die during a tennis
match or while getting liposuction.
17. Some Blues names for women:
a. Sadie
b. Big Mama
c. Bessie
d. Fat River Dumpling
18. Some Blues names for men:
a. Joe
b. Willie
c. Little Willie
d. Big Willie
19. Persons with names like Michelle, Amber, Jennifer, Debbie, and Heather can't sing the Blues
no matter how many men they shoot in Memphis.
20. Blues Name Starter Kit:
a. Name of physical infirmity (Blind, Mute, Lame, etc.)
b. First name (see above) plus name of fruit (Lemon, Lime, Kiwi,etc.)
c. Last name of President (Jefferson, Johnson, Fillmore, Clinton,etc.)
For example: Blind Lime Jefferson, Pegleg Lemon Johnson or Lame Kiwi Clinton, etc. (Well, maybe not "Kiwi.")
21. I don't care how tragic your life is: if you own a computer, you cannot sing the blues, period. Sorry!
22. Probably can't sing the blues if you live in Belmont -- SanFrancisco, ok; Oakland, Daly City, Colma, definitely; Corte Madera, LosAltos Hills, forget it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
OK! Thanks. That's an inspiration to many of us, I'm sure. It made me want to Sing the Blues!
Here's some Blues from Bulgy Tummy Vance (I cain't decide on Reagan or Bush).
It goes a little bit li'k'is:
I woke up in Belmont this mo'nin',
Devil-woman on my back,
Woke up in Belmont this mo'nin',
That Marjorie she sho is whack.
She et my po'kchop fo' brexfas',
Didn't know she cud swaller so fast,
She done et my po'kchop fo' brexfas'.
Made me check my e-mail last.
Got into that Mazda an' flo'd it,
Mos' likely gwine wind up dead
Got into that ol' 626 an' flo'ed it,
Din wanta hear the las' words she said.
Oh, that Memphis man be hatin',
From that poke in the eye he got,
Oh that 'lectric chair is waitin',
Or mebbe I end up shot.
Woke up in Belmont this mo'nin,
Tiger-woman on my back.
From my irritable bowel syndrome I's moanin',
Could not get out the sack.
Thang ya, thang ya vera mush.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Sheboygan Brats
I am not the World's Biggest Sports Fan. This generally keeps me out of ballparks. However, I do go occasionally, especially with my friends Gaah and Slick. Both have generously invited me to various ball games in the past couple of months. I saw the Cincinatti Reds play some other team with Gaah. I went with Slick to watch the 49'ers play some other team. Sometimes, prolly a couple times per season, The Group will take the kiddlies and go to see the Giants play at the new park.
This is something I love to do. It's not so much that I love to watch the game, though. I barely do that. I like all the other parts. Especially the beer and brats. That's livin'! I have sat through a whole game without ever knowing who the opposing team was.
Someone once asked me if I have a preference: football or baseball. It's close, because both have things to recommend them. The fact that they both have brats and beer makes the decision dependent on lesser things, like the ambiance. Or possibly even the games themselves.
I have a much better understanding of how baseball is played than football. I played it myself as a kid, and played softball in my 30's and 40's. I also like the park in San Francisco. It is a beautiful stadium. Getting there on the train is a piece of cake, but I especially appreciate the ease with which you can get out. The execution of the Exit Strategy is the single most important aspect of any activity. Duh.
Football is not a game I've paid much attention to, so I'm often mystified by the rules and the subtleties. Football is much more confrontational and violent. The fans are often in each other's faces and pounding on each other. This can be quite entertaining. The game is more violent, too. On the other hand, the stadium is old and run-down. I do like the "No Standing in the Vomitorium" signs, though.
Getting to the stadium and out of the stadium takes a bit more effort than the baseball stadium, but it's still easy as pie. I actually like the mile or so walk to and from the train.
I've had mostly positive experiences at both kinds of ball games. But, once at football game, Slick and I sat next to some Big Fat Mean People. They were in the aisle seats and had us boxed in. We had to get past them to get in our seats, and they made it plain that going back out Would Not Be Appreciated. Slick had me as a sort of DMZ between him and the BFMP's. I was scared stiff since I was sitting next to the Big Fat Mean Lady. That sucked. With a searing Stink Eye and a vicious elbow to the ribs, she also let me know that I Wasn't Allowed to Share the Arm Rest.
We really needed beer, so I climbed over the back of the seats and managed to get out that way. I thought about abandoning Slick (and drinking his beer), but I concluded that that would be Cowardly as well as Low. I climbed back over and sat Quiet as a Mouse for the rest of the game. Big Fat Mean People seem to be less numerous at baseball games. Anyway, that's been my experience.
It's close. I would pick baseball if pressed.
This is something I love to do. It's not so much that I love to watch the game, though. I barely do that. I like all the other parts. Especially the beer and brats. That's livin'! I have sat through a whole game without ever knowing who the opposing team was.
Someone once asked me if I have a preference: football or baseball. It's close, because both have things to recommend them. The fact that they both have brats and beer makes the decision dependent on lesser things, like the ambiance. Or possibly even the games themselves.
I have a much better understanding of how baseball is played than football. I played it myself as a kid, and played softball in my 30's and 40's. I also like the park in San Francisco. It is a beautiful stadium. Getting there on the train is a piece of cake, but I especially appreciate the ease with which you can get out. The execution of the Exit Strategy is the single most important aspect of any activity. Duh.
Football is not a game I've paid much attention to, so I'm often mystified by the rules and the subtleties. Football is much more confrontational and violent. The fans are often in each other's faces and pounding on each other. This can be quite entertaining. The game is more violent, too. On the other hand, the stadium is old and run-down. I do like the "No Standing in the Vomitorium" signs, though.
Getting to the stadium and out of the stadium takes a bit more effort than the baseball stadium, but it's still easy as pie. I actually like the mile or so walk to and from the train.
I've had mostly positive experiences at both kinds of ball games. But, once at football game, Slick and I sat next to some Big Fat Mean People. They were in the aisle seats and had us boxed in. We had to get past them to get in our seats, and they made it plain that going back out Would Not Be Appreciated. Slick had me as a sort of DMZ between him and the BFMP's. I was scared stiff since I was sitting next to the Big Fat Mean Lady. That sucked. With a searing Stink Eye and a vicious elbow to the ribs, she also let me know that I Wasn't Allowed to Share the Arm Rest.
We really needed beer, so I climbed over the back of the seats and managed to get out that way. I thought about abandoning Slick (and drinking his beer), but I concluded that that would be Cowardly as well as Low. I climbed back over and sat Quiet as a Mouse for the rest of the game. Big Fat Mean People seem to be less numerous at baseball games. Anyway, that's been my experience.
It's close. I would pick baseball if pressed.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
My Big Tool
In one of my previous posts, Moving Day, I mentioned the reason why the guys tolerate me. I possess Power Tools. Big Throbbing Power Tools. They particularly like them when I'm all thrusting and hammering and stuff with one at their houses. Their wives like that, too. When I'm finished Doin' the Job, you know, whatever and wherever they want, all over the house, they show their appreciation in many different ways.
Everyone I Do For is appreciative, no complaints, but Siouxie and The Daminator lavish me with attention and take me out to fancy dinners with martinis and fine wine. They even picked me up in a limo once. I must have really been amazing that time. I know I'm good, but I tend to think of myself as Highly Competent rather than Masterful. Siouxie did tell me she was very satisfied.
But, this post is really about My Big Tool. It is impressive. It's longer, thicker, and can be pounded on harder than the other guys' Tools. I can get just the right amount of torque with it, and I can probe into the deepest crevice with ease. It's very easy to clean, too.
The biggest fan of My Big Tool, though, is Sayandie. She was mightily impressed first time she saw it 20 odd years ago. I remember it well. I was going at it pretty hard, and lost my grip on it. It swung down, clattering to the floor. "You need to use two hands on that bad boy," she said with a big grin.
She asks about it to this day. Just the other night, at Jach's birthday dinner, she asked me, "How's your Big Tool, Vance?" The restaurant was rather noisy and there was a large, boisterous party of 20-somethings close by, so she had to shout pretty loud for me to hear. Several of the people at the loud table gave me the wink and a Thumbs Up. Everyone appreciates a craftsman.
Needless to say, Mashie loves it. Not so much that I can keep it in the house though.
Everyone I Do For is appreciative, no complaints, but Siouxie and The Daminator lavish me with attention and take me out to fancy dinners with martinis and fine wine. They even picked me up in a limo once. I must have really been amazing that time. I know I'm good, but I tend to think of myself as Highly Competent rather than Masterful. Siouxie did tell me she was very satisfied.
But, this post is really about My Big Tool. It is impressive. It's longer, thicker, and can be pounded on harder than the other guys' Tools. I can get just the right amount of torque with it, and I can probe into the deepest crevice with ease. It's very easy to clean, too.
The biggest fan of My Big Tool, though, is Sayandie. She was mightily impressed first time she saw it 20 odd years ago. I remember it well. I was going at it pretty hard, and lost my grip on it. It swung down, clattering to the floor. "You need to use two hands on that bad boy," she said with a big grin.
She asks about it to this day. Just the other night, at Jach's birthday dinner, she asked me, "How's your Big Tool, Vance?" The restaurant was rather noisy and there was a large, boisterous party of 20-somethings close by, so she had to shout pretty loud for me to hear. Several of the people at the loud table gave me the wink and a Thumbs Up. Everyone appreciates a craftsman.
Needless to say, Mashie loves it. Not so much that I can keep it in the house though.
Kung-Fu Investing
This was written previous to the recent market rebound (during 11-06), and the impending crash I expect any day now.
(Sometime after May-2006)
My friend the CFO gave me some investment advice. Just to give a bit of background, I had a chunk of change languishing at Emigrant. It was bringing in a paltry 5%. This was guaranteed income, FDIC insured. Pah! Us Kung-Fu investors laugh up our sleeves at this kind of weener-dog investment strategy.
The CFO suggested some funds. I got in. The ride was like Slim Picken's atop the nuculer* bomb in Dr. Strangelove. Helpfully, the CFO tracked my downward spiral with graphs gleefully submitted periodically. Why he was so gleeful is a mystery. He had a lot more in there than I.
I have already apologized to individuals, but now that I have the ear of the world, I want to apologize to the masses. The Great Stock Market Crash of '99 was my fault. Sorry. I got in, the market imploded, end of that story.
We all have our war stories. I bought Cisco at about $1M per share, pissed that I missed the skyrocket. I figured I was buying a solid stock, since most everyone said it was. I held it until it rebounded to $11, and I bailed. My Apple stock, which no one advised me to buy, bought at $22-ish, plummeted along with the rest. I held onto it. There was some stupid mp3 player being introduced by Steve Jobs, but I was elated to break even, so I folded at $24. What is it now? $1M per share?
Now I've gone and caused this slump by re-entering the market. Sorry.
* Nuclear is now incorrect and ignorant. The word has been changed to the new official spellin' and pronounciantin' way, in order to affirm that The President is correct.
(Sometime after May-2006)
My friend the CFO gave me some investment advice. Just to give a bit of background, I had a chunk of change languishing at Emigrant. It was bringing in a paltry 5%. This was guaranteed income, FDIC insured. Pah! Us Kung-Fu investors laugh up our sleeves at this kind of weener-dog investment strategy.
The CFO suggested some funds. I got in. The ride was like Slim Picken's atop the nuculer* bomb in Dr. Strangelove. Helpfully, the CFO tracked my downward spiral with graphs gleefully submitted periodically. Why he was so gleeful is a mystery. He had a lot more in there than I.
I have already apologized to individuals, but now that I have the ear of the world, I want to apologize to the masses. The Great Stock Market Crash of '99 was my fault. Sorry. I got in, the market imploded, end of that story.
We all have our war stories. I bought Cisco at about $1M per share, pissed that I missed the skyrocket. I figured I was buying a solid stock, since most everyone said it was. I held it until it rebounded to $11, and I bailed. My Apple stock, which no one advised me to buy, bought at $22-ish, plummeted along with the rest. I held onto it. There was some stupid mp3 player being introduced by Steve Jobs, but I was elated to break even, so I folded at $24. What is it now? $1M per share?
Now I've gone and caused this slump by re-entering the market. Sorry.
* Nuclear is now incorrect and ignorant. The word has been changed to the new official spellin' and pronounciantin' way, in order to affirm that The President is correct.
Moving Day
I helped my good friend's parents move into their new house last weekend. I drank beer and watched the movers carry stuff. I occasionally got in the way. One friend, I'll call him the Canuck, helped me.
The Canuck will drink Heineken, so I let him. Fortunately, I didn't have to drink too many Coronas before Gaah showed up with the good stuff. The wimmins upacked boxes and drank wine. I helped them, too, when the Boont ran out.
The Canuck and I did some actual work. When we had become stupid enough, we allowed the son-in-law to convince us that a refrigerator needed to go into the closet/utility room which houses the furnace. He then accomplished the even more difficult task of convincing us that we were the Men For The Job. It was a tight squeeze, even after we took the doors off. Just to clear up any confusion, we put the doors back on when it was in.
The CFO outdid us though. He showed up just as the son-in-law arrived with the Chinese food. Masterful timing, as usual. He has a gift.
After eating egg fu yung with sauce on the side, potstickers, kung pao chicken, etc., the real work began. The guys got the TV hooked up and the football game on. They jumped into some serious debate over the Ohio State/Michigan game. I left the room.
I'd rather talk shoes with the wimmins. This makes me popular with them. The guys tolerate me because I possess Power Tools. They like to borrow them, especially when I'm using them on their projects. The wimmins like this, also.
I am convinced the guys talk football just to get rid of me. This is not simply paranoia. I have reasons for saying this. I was describing a pair of sling-back pumps I admire when I heard the abrupt change of subject in the other room: Britney is dumping K-Fed. I have no opinion about Ohio/Michigan, but this is Stuff that Matters. As soon as I reappear, the conversation swerves back to the Ball Game.
OK, fine. I go back and chat up their wives.
The movers finished the moving. The parents were exhausted, and so was the wine, beer, and Chinese. The son-in-law finally succeeded in kicking us all out around 10.
That reminds me. It's pronounced flack-sid! Not flas-sid. Listen! Suck-seed, ack-sident, ack-sept, etc. Don't even talk to me about fell-at-ee-o. Wake up!
The Canuck will drink Heineken, so I let him. Fortunately, I didn't have to drink too many Coronas before Gaah showed up with the good stuff. The wimmins upacked boxes and drank wine. I helped them, too, when the Boont ran out.
The Canuck and I did some actual work. When we had become stupid enough, we allowed the son-in-law to convince us that a refrigerator needed to go into the closet/utility room which houses the furnace. He then accomplished the even more difficult task of convincing us that we were the Men For The Job. It was a tight squeeze, even after we took the doors off. Just to clear up any confusion, we put the doors back on when it was in.
The CFO outdid us though. He showed up just as the son-in-law arrived with the Chinese food. Masterful timing, as usual. He has a gift.
After eating egg fu yung with sauce on the side, potstickers, kung pao chicken, etc., the real work began. The guys got the TV hooked up and the football game on. They jumped into some serious debate over the Ohio State/Michigan game. I left the room.
I'd rather talk shoes with the wimmins. This makes me popular with them. The guys tolerate me because I possess Power Tools. They like to borrow them, especially when I'm using them on their projects. The wimmins like this, also.
I am convinced the guys talk football just to get rid of me. This is not simply paranoia. I have reasons for saying this. I was describing a pair of sling-back pumps I admire when I heard the abrupt change of subject in the other room: Britney is dumping K-Fed. I have no opinion about Ohio/Michigan, but this is Stuff that Matters. As soon as I reappear, the conversation swerves back to the Ball Game.
OK, fine. I go back and chat up their wives.
The movers finished the moving. The parents were exhausted, and so was the wine, beer, and Chinese. The son-in-law finally succeeded in kicking us all out around 10.
That reminds me. It's pronounced flack-sid! Not flas-sid. Listen! Suck-seed, ack-sident, ack-sept, etc. Don't even talk to me about fell-at-ee-o. Wake up!
Monday, November 20, 2006
When the watecooler burps.....
I was reading my buddy DJ's blog, and thought, "Shoot, I have as little to say as he does! Maybe I should start a blog?" Suddenly, the watercooler burped. A sign!
I decided to copy him. I copy him in most everything he does with a few exceptions. I didn't follow him into the telecommunications game. Also, he Shakes Hands with the Bishop rather more than I think is healthy.
He tells me he sells circuits. I could never do. Too intangible. What th' heck is a circuit? It's like Billy Crystal talking about selling time in City Slickers. My company, M/Y Properties, is a burgeoning Real Estate Empire. As it consists of 1/2 a semi-valueless cabin no one wants to go to, it mainly exists in my mind.
I'm still unsure about blogging. Who wants to read ravings from some guy who doesn't know shite from shinola? Blogs are ubiquitous, though. People seem to write about a kinds of nothing. People seem to read them. They read DJ's, for cryin' out pete's sake.
DJ covers the entertainment industry, politics, and other current events. I'll try not to infringe on his territory. I thought perhaps I'd write my most personal inner thoughts, and invite the world to ridicule them. And perhaps talk about my feeling. Pause. Not!
I learned that from Borat. I'm working my way up the humor ladder to knock-knock jokes. I don't feel ready. Humor is a harsh mistress.
I learned a lot of serious stuff from Borat's documentary. Everyone should see it. Who knew that the testicle smell could linger in a mustache that long?
I decided to copy him. I copy him in most everything he does with a few exceptions. I didn't follow him into the telecommunications game. Also, he Shakes Hands with the Bishop rather more than I think is healthy.
He tells me he sells circuits. I could never do. Too intangible. What th' heck is a circuit? It's like Billy Crystal talking about selling time in City Slickers. My company, M/Y Properties, is a burgeoning Real Estate Empire. As it consists of 1/2 a semi-valueless cabin no one wants to go to, it mainly exists in my mind.
I'm still unsure about blogging. Who wants to read ravings from some guy who doesn't know shite from shinola? Blogs are ubiquitous, though. People seem to write about a kinds of nothing. People seem to read them. They read DJ's, for cryin' out pete's sake.
DJ covers the entertainment industry, politics, and other current events. I'll try not to infringe on his territory. I thought perhaps I'd write my most personal inner thoughts, and invite the world to ridicule them. And perhaps talk about my feeling. Pause. Not!
I learned that from Borat. I'm working my way up the humor ladder to knock-knock jokes. I don't feel ready. Humor is a harsh mistress.
I learned a lot of serious stuff from Borat's documentary. Everyone should see it. Who knew that the testicle smell could linger in a mustache that long?
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