Hot Salamander Love

Hey! I am posting Dweebert's latest blog entry here, because he doesn't have a blog of his own.

There is an obvious question going begging here: Why would someone write and post a blog entry when he don't even have a blog?

However, in an attempt to present all sides fairly, I provide him space here in my universe.

Rebuttle To All Things Said By Vance As Well As To Things He Didn't Say But Would Have If He'd Thought Of Them*

By Vance's smarter brother, Dweebert**

No truer words were ever spoken: "Don't believe anything Vance says.***" These immortal words were spoken simultaneously by Ernest Hemingway and Albert Einstein while having Absinthe together on the planet Jupiter in 1955. That also happens to be the year I was born (making me 38 years old -- Holy Moley! How time flies!). Vance was nothing more than a small pink wailing blot then and didn't even own a real toolbox, so why these two famous people were talking about him is a mystery.

I will admit that Vance gets more "physical" work done when we go up to the cabin together. I explained this in my earlier diatribe. But it goes beyond that. Plain and simple, Vance is the physical type. He doesn't have much upstairs, but he's built like a linebacker and swings a wrecking bar like itwas a pencil. (I swing a pencil like it was a wrecking bar.) Vance can pump his bicycle up a 82 degree hill like it was a 28 degree hill. He can carry twenty eight 12-foot 2x4s under one arm for six miles without working up a sweat. And he can work from sun up to sunset without taking a break. I once asked him how he could do this and he said, "Huh?"

I, on the other hand, am the "intellectual" type and spend my time thinking. I spend many hours planning, plotting, designing, and inventing. The only time I don't do this is when I'm drinking red wine and thinking about nekkid wimmen. Needless to say, the majority of the hours are spent on this latter occupation. This is because I am a Normal, Well-Adjusted Male.

I also think about food. To sustain a healthy relationship with manual labor one must be fortified with good food. So, while Vance is hammering, sawing, and plumbing, I'm thinking about what's for dinner. On rare occasions, I even cook something.

Vance made the comment that I'm interested in Boy Bands. I had to look this up because--used to listening only to intellectual music and not to mainstream garbage--I didn't know what a Boy Band was. My first thought was "The Beatles"(who I believe were boys) and "The Animals" (also boys) and perhaps "TheYardbirds" (more boys). But Wikipedia mentions such bands as "New Kids on the Block" and "The Backstreet Boys". I have never listened to these bands. This is primarily because I am mired in the 1950s and 60s.

If you mention TV shows, I think of "Leave It To Beaver." If you mention science fiction movies I think of"Forbidden Planet" and "Rocketship XM". Sometimes I force Vance to watch these movies so he will stop talking about Southpark. It doesn't work, but I keep trying. What can you expect from a man who idolizes Pee Wee Herman**** and likes to watch mommy and daddy newts make baby newts?*****

So, driving four hours up to the cabin means having to listen to Vance say "I wanna get up there. I wanna work. Why is there so much traffic? Which do you like more, orange newts or yellow newts******? I hope I didn't forget to bring the Wisky! Do you think we'll see any magpies? When are we gonna get there? Did you see that Southpark episode where Cartman..." etc. He hasn't yet realized that I now wear silicon earplugs so I can barely hear him. It just sounds like "mmmmmmmm mmmm Southpark mmmmm mm mmmm Southpark."

That's all I have time for. I have to sit down with a bottle of red red wine and think about varnishing the shelves for the bathroom closet. I have to think about buying more insulation. I have to concoct a recipe for Civet de Lapin auPommes Puree. And, of course, I have to think about Anne Francis in a bikini.

*I did think of 'em, I just didn't SAY 'em.

**Tih.

***What is Truth? Fiction represents Truth. Does something have to have happened in fact to
be True-ish?

****OBVIOUSLY, I do not idolize Peewee Herman. I idolize Peewee's pal, Vance the Pig.

*****Salamanders.

******Refer to *****.

* * * * * *

OK! Who can blame him for that? I had to take a moment or two to relieve that Anne Francis chubbie, too.

So, thanks for your perspective on that other stuff, Dweebert! I guess you told me a thing or two. (heh.) Those of you out there in my vast readership whose edges are honed even a little bit will recognize the need to take a grain or two of salt with that mess.

The same ones will note before I point it out that he Didn't Even Deny being a poofy wanker, which was the Whole Point of my last post! God!

Wanky Poofers

OK, so it wasn’t the end. Yet. Read on. If you dare……

More Tales From the Semi-valueless Cabin of Mystery

So Dweebert and I went back up to the cabin. I took a couple of mental health days off work and we went up on Wednesday afternoon. Go figure. How will that improve my mental health? We were looking forward to a couple of productive days of work. Go figure. You’d think we have enough experience with The Way Things Are, by now.

We wanted to work on the bathroom, and bedroom. I was hoping to finish something. I decided on the hall. We think small. More on this later.

The traffic was just as bad at 2:30 as it is any other time. There appears to be no good time to drive on 580 through Livermore, or 205 through Tracy….. Duh! And traffic in those places sucks, too.

One of the best parts of the drive up is the magpies on Liberty Rd. If you are lucky and you have lived right, you might see a pair of magpies near Kennefick Rd. You probably won’t. They don’t show themselves that often. Besides, it’s not something one sees every day. Neither magpies nor Kennefick Rd.

Dweebert says “nyther”. I say “neether”. He says “eyther”, too. Tih. Poofy wanker. That’s another thing I have against him. That and his interest in boy bands. Is DePeche Mode a boy band?

Well, I digress.. A stop off at the Home Depot in Stockton and various other slow-ups (like Dweebert insisting on driving like a slug) got us there in 4 hours. Fortunately, I was able to convince him to forget a stop in Jackson to the Dollar Tree, and the Cost Less.

We eventually stopped at the Cost Less on the return trip to buy cases of Crane Lake Cellars wine @2fitty a bottle. I usually don’t go for the good stuff, but it seemed a good deal after seeing the same thing at the Buckhorn for 3. That’s a substantial savings. They got meat there too. I wanted to buy a 30 lb. package of ribs there for $22, but couldn’t figure out how to keep it cold. Next time it snows while I’m up there, boy, the pork ribs are comin’ back packed in snow.

I digress again. So we’re finally there. I walk in and think the same thought I always think when entering the place. “What a dump.” Seems that we got up there too late to work. Nothing for it but to Drink Wisky and Eat Wheat Thins. This is not in itself a bad thing. However, it tends to slow the productivity somewhat.

Next day we rise and shine. Dweebert makes coffee and oatmeal. He makes me eat some. Feh. No brown sugar? The coffee goes down like buttah, though. Then to work.

Ha! I attack the unglued-in drain pipe. I gets in my “Phil” overalls and climbs under the house like I’m not even dreading it. I have avoided this moment for months. I slide under, pulling myself along by the drainpipe. I surprise a couple of colorful salamanders under a sheet of tattered plastic I lift to check for wetness. They give me baleful looks. I leave them to whatever they were doing. I suspect, from the looks on their faces, they were probably making baby salamanders.

The space under the house goes from tight to tighter. I begin to sweat. I know I will drop the trouble light and be pitched into darkness. Finally, I squeeze myself under a big stringer and there it is: the shower drain trap. I am filled with trepidation. How will I manage to get this thing glued together straight, when I can barely reach it, and can’t see it that good? Then I discover that I am a genius. I have no memory, but I am a genius!

I have already glued the hard parts together! I did it all from the top, while it was opened up, and promptly forgot. The only part not glued in is a piece of cake! Alls I have to do is cut it to its proper length and glue it in.

This only requires scrambling in and out from under the house a half dozen times. Finally, it’s glued and Dweebert turns on the shower. No leaky. I tell him to fill the dishpan and pour that down. It’s almost as dry as I like my martini’s. It’s practically desiccated. I wave goodby to the salamanders and slide out hardly worse for wear. We are in bidniss! We can take nice hot shawrs! INDOORS! Whoo-hoo!

I am way ahead of schedule. I suddenly realize that if I don’t play it right, Dweeb will make me do his work, which he’s way behind on. And there’s a half a box of wheat thins and a pint of wisky left. I strip off the overalls and head for the deck…..

No dice.

“Aren’t you going to do the ‘Nam-style knock-down in the bedroom?” drawls a voice.

Poop! Busted. Slowly I turn, and make a sudden break for the front door. Dweebert is quicker. He raises his phaser, set to stun, and blasts me where I stand. He shoots me full of some sort of hypno-tranquilizer and turns me into a zombie. He makes me do his work for the rest of the time. And he makes me sleep in the loft where I probably get fiberglass poisoning. And eat red meat all weekend, too. And watch Rocketship X-M.

By the end of the 3 days, we have the bathroom practically done (including the linen closet), the bedroom textured, primed, and painted, the bedroom closet primed and painted, and some other important stuff done, including major progress on the bathroom vanity. I also figure out, using my mind pawrs, how to install a drain for the washing machine. And they said it couldn't be done! Teh!

Of course, nothing is actually finished. There are endless finishing chores to do. This is why, once a room is livable, you never finish the detail work until you sell the house. Mashie hates that, but has learned to live with it.