tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62413292024-03-07T00:29:09.571-08:00Hook EchoesSkipping to the coital fury since 2004.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger259125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-9426090205404391302014-10-19T18:38:00.002-07:002014-10-19T18:38:17.755-07:00ZOMG I have a follower!Hi follower!<br />
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I think I might start doing this again.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-2498642366637593902011-07-19T08:29:00.000-07:002011-07-19T08:47:49.752-07:00Car Free?So I've been riding the bus quite a bit lately, for a number of reasons. The car is on its last legs, work is close to home, and I need the exercise....plus most of the time it's kind of fun. And let's not forget the $140 a month I'm saving in gas, which is a good thing. And as long as I'm a student, the bus and train are free. <br /><br />The natural continuation of this is "why the hell do I have a car at all?" Why not just cancel the insurance and give ol' Bessie to KUT? Car 2 Go has a place not far from the house that I could use to rent a Smart car by the hour, which is pretty awesome. And for the semi-annual trips to the parents up in Oklahoma, wouldn't it be cool to rent a big ol' Cadillac for the drive? <br /><br />Some problems: Smart cars don't carry two kids. There's some question about whether they should even carry one, come to think of it. Also, having two cars is convenient. I had to replace a dead battery for K recently, but she didn't miss work or have to do anything icky with her car because she was able to take mine. I suppose that might be remedied with a Car 2 Go setup, but it would be complicated. Car 2 Go charges by the hour, unless you drop it off in a recognized "zone." I don't know that there are any zones close enough to K's work to make that practical, and I'd still be looking at a pretty long walk if I chose to use it to commute from time to time. And I _did_ miss the bus the other day. I'd have been late without my car.<br /><br />Then, not to get too far into my mother's line of reasoning, WHAT IF SOMETHING HORRIBLE HAPPENED TO THE KIDS WHEN KIMMIE WAS AWAY FROM HOME IN HER CAR?<br /><br />And finally, as it stands now I have an alternative to driving a pink jeep with eyelashes. This alternative would really go away, unless I was able to utilize the Car 2 Go thing.<br /><br />For now, getting rid of the car would only save me about $60 a month. But, since the car is dying, it would pretty soon mean saving me a car payment. And I can't see paying $400 a month to have a car that sits in the street 99% of the time. I'd probably be back to commuting, if only to justify the money spent. <br /><br />Bah.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-63128616740011259722011-06-16T06:17:00.000-07:002011-06-16T09:30:52.814-07:00Tactics For Dealing With AssholesSo K's "on travel" this week, leaving me to play single dad. Which I'm fine with, don't get me wrong--it's fun, in the short term, when mom's away. Reminds me of my childhood, a bit--when Dad went TDY, Mom "cooked" TV dinners and things were generally much more relaxed.<br /><br />But Wednesday nights are nights when K generally takes the boys to their grandmother's house to eat dinner with their dad. She does this because a) the boys want to see their dad, b) because it's nice to have some time alone with yer partner during the week, and c) because he's a dickhead who doesn't have a car. And possibly d) she's nice.<br /><br />I pointed out last weekend that I wasn't keen on doing the drop off/pickup thing on Wednesday--the kids are going to see the guy in two days anyway, and I'm not inclined to jump through hoops just so dude can feed them strawberries for dinner while watching "America's Funniest Kittens" or whatever. There's something that irks me about bringing him his kids, then waiting 2 hours to go get his kids and continue taking care of them. Perhaps if I was a biological parent, I'd look at it differently. But I'm not.<br /><br />So, naturally, the guy doesn't call yesterday during the day. I'm sure we're both busy--I spent yesterday reconciling payment and transaction data between the DOT and their collections agency, and I imagine he spent yesterday smoking cigarettes and bearing down on "One Life to Live." But come six o'clock, when they're supposed to be at his house, still no phone call. Guess he didn't want to deal with me.<br /><br />Squared the kids away with dinner, and advised them that I was going to be taking an economics quiz--which, this online econ class is a good reason for another post, if I get around to it. The critical thing about this quiz, from the standpoint of this story, is that it's <em>timed</em>. And, you know, it's kind of hard. Something you have to concentrate on, and concentration's difficult for me when I'm pissed off.<br /><br />Naturally, he calls when I'm in the middle of it. 6:37pm, because I looked at the clock. Math in my head confirms my feeling-even if I was able to drop everything and take them, what's the point in taking them for an hour? I send the call to voicemail.<br /><br />Once I'm finished with the quiz, I thought I'd try to grow myself a little bit and actually call the guy back. I haven't yet run across a situation in which I benefited to reach out to him, but whatever. This is what grown, responsible people do. Return calls. Right?<br /><br />So I call the number, and after a few rings and some light conversation with his sister, I get him. Apologized for missing his call, explained the timed test thing. Pointed out that since it's now 7pm, it's not really efficient for me to bring the kids for an hour. But I'd be happy to let him talk to the kids on the phone.<br /><br />His response: you can still drop them off over here for two hours.<br /><br />Not "yeah, you're right," or "yeah, I should have called earlier to make a plan," or "I really want to see my kids, how about I come get them instead?" All of these potential outcomes are so unlikely that I actually had to do some work to sort of put those words in his mouth...<br /><br />My response: "well, no, as I said, it's...."<br /><br /><click><br /><br />The fucker hung up on me. <br /><br />Which made me kind of mad (although I've been in this game long enough to recognize that being hung up on is better than being screamed at), but I considered it a teachable moment for the kids--who had long ago figured out that they weren't going to hang out with daddy today.<br /><br />"Well, kids, I just got off the phone with your daddy, who isn't very happy with me right now. In fact he kind of acted like a jerk. Which is somewhat understandable in that he didn't get what he want, and some people think it's OK to act like a jerk when you don't get what you want. Which is not how we want YOU to be, of course, but we can't really do much about your father at this stage. The thing that you should learn from this is that you get a lot more of what you want when you communicate and plan with the people who are involved in your getting what you want. For instance, had your daddy planned something with me, or called me beforehand, there's a good chance he would have gotten what he wanted. Instead he didn't get what he wanted, and acted like a jerk." <br /><br />Followed shortly by:<br /><br />"I'm sorry you don't get to see your daddy tonight. But I think I've got the next best thing here."<br /><br />To which Eddie responded: "Ice cream?"Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-81326262642373673372011-01-01T17:09:00.001-08:002011-01-01T17:10:11.579-08:00Dinner Tonight!Sort of a date night--the kids are gone, at least. I copied this from the other, long dead blog:<br /><br /><h3 class="post-title entry-title"> Slammin Steak Kyoto </h3> <div class="post-header"> </div> Shamelessly ripped from the pages of the Weber grill brochure, and put here primarily so I can recycle said brochure:<br /><br />1/3 cup Vi Dai Bo De soy sauce (or some other low salt/Asian soy, not that Chung King Americanized crap)<br /><br />1/4 cup orange juice concentrate (not sure about this, but I just used OJ)<br />2 T olive oil<br />2 t tomato sauce<br />1 t or so green onion<br />1 t lemon juice<br />1/2 t prepared mustard (I used dijon)<br />1/2 t minced ginger root<br />1 clove garlic, minced.<br /><br />4 big ass salmon steaks<br /><br />marinade the steaks in all the above for an hour or so, then grill the salmon skin side down with Direct Medium heat til it's done (doesn't take long, 5 to 10 minutes). Boil the marinade for at least 1 full minute to kill nasty food bugs from the fish, the use as a sauce fur deine feesh.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-92118925663792854742010-01-30T22:00:00.000-08:002010-01-30T22:24:55.547-08:00Job Angst"And you may ask yourself: How do I work this?"<br /><br />That's me. This stupid song's been running through my head for 3 weeks now, I think. <br /><br />I have a Management job. It's a grown up job--handling money and a relatively fragile reputation for the TXDOT and toll roads in Central Texas. Dealing, I hear, with POLICE on a daily basis. It involves Meetings and Corner Offices. I've gone from a work station (not a Cube, even) directly to this office, skipping Cubes and the top levels of middle management...I guess. They tell me I'm moving into capital-M Management, and given the way people are bein' all nice to me now, I guess They are right. <br /><br />And it's not that much more money. It's substantially more money than I'm making now, but somehow there's a disconnect between the way people are acting and what I know will be on my paycheck two Fridays from now. My new peers and boss are doing their best to make me feel like I've "arrived," and the aforementioned corner office is nice, but...if I'm not clearly in a new tax bracket, but people are either doing their best to hump my leg or telling me that people are going to start humping my leg any time I go outside, where am I?<br /><br />I've owned it--it's not like I don't enjoy my job. I'm a spreadsheet nerd, a data geek, and I don't care. I got the damn job because I was the only person who could pass a relatively simple spreadsheet test, and that's sad. I know I don't sell myself well, and while I didn't freeze up and blurt something about being a professional fire breather, I know the other applicants did well at the talking bit.<br /><br />Sigh...I have a reputation, it seems, around the workplace. I'm "really smart," and "know everything about Excel." And I'm weird looking--I think I'm the only guy in the building with long hair, and I'm certainly the only guy who has tattoos bigger than some half-assed Sigma-Chi late night drive to Gainesville on his tit. Being weird looking but not too threatening kind of helps you with people in ties, I think--you can be a kind of useful pet.<br /><br />I work for a GIANT construction firm, and I think what has happened is that I'm being pulled up from the -local- workforce into the lowest ranks of the actual company. I'm replacing (sort of) a guy who's moved off to Florida to do the job of the guy who's three or four pay grades above his boss here...<br /><br />Everyone keeps telling me "you'll do great." I KNOW I'll do great. I may spend 20 hours a week extra at work, which will suck, but I'll do it and feel good about it even as my carefully built and genuinely happy home life crumbles around my unhearing ears. <br /><br />Feh. I'm confident in my ability to do the work. It's spreadsheet analysis and navigating the database, and acting like I know what I'm doing. <br /><br />What I'm not sure of is whether I'm going to become one of Them, or whether that sort of dichotomy really exists at all.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-47607330295806518122009-11-13T18:31:00.000-08:002009-11-13T18:44:58.746-08:00Description of Cute BehaviorI'm in bed with the laptop, avoiding Stupid Roommate. The kids brush teeth and the elder, Freddie, comes and does normal hugs/wrestling with me (he's too adult, at six, for man-on-man kisses, which is kinda funny). During the good night stuff, this sort of thing begins:<br /><br />"Hey, where's Eddie the Younger? Isn't he coming for hugs and kisses?"<br /><br />Starting at the foot of the bed, moving stealthily clockwise, the rustle rustle rustle of jammies on low-nap carpet. <br /><br />"Man, Freddie, is that a cat I hear down there?"<br /><br />No rustling.<br /><br />"I guess you should go find your brother. I wonder where he is..."<br /><br />Excited, muffled breathing from approximately the same spot where the rustling stopped.<br /><br />"Man, I guess I should go brush my teeth, but first I'm going to look in my closet for the clothes I want to wear tomorrow."<br /><br />A second's thought, then hurried rustling counterclockwise away from where I'll be putting my foot. A tuft of reddish blonde hair appears between my feet, beyond the foot of the bed.<br /><br />"Wow, I wonder where Eddie is?"<br /><br />SILENCE. Then the sound of a finger being drawn across a half-snotty nose.<br /><br />"Well, heck, I guess I'll just call it a night. Sure wish I coulda..."<br /><br />Suddenly, a small boy in lizard jammies flops onto the bed, scrabbling frantically up to rub his mucus on my chin. <br /><br />It's bed time. Man, I love this life.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-7374053506535939732009-10-10T20:26:00.000-07:002009-10-10T20:36:00.671-07:00Sick DorkI'm still fighting a fucked up back (for the last 10 years I just THOUGHT I had a back problem), and I'm not quite finished ripping this DVD of "Inferno," which you really ought to check out. Dario Argento before he became a caricature of a caricature.<br /><br />The E man has had straight Wows since he had a come to Jesus moment on Monday after hitting a kid in line to do something. I can't tell if this is due to the talk I gave him or the spreadsheet I started building for him and his brother immediately afterwards. After dinner ever night, now, we've come to the laptop and booted up OpenOffice.org's Calc, to update everyone's grades (behavior and legitimate test scores). <br /><br />I bought K a big fat pink Ipod for her birthday, end of October. Don't tell her-it's one of the new Nanos, because she runs with it (bless her), and because it has an integrated radio receiver. Hopefully I get it with time enough to either a) make a thoughtful playlist of all of "our" songs over the last 2 years, or b) shoot 10 minutes of video down my pants. I sure do love that girl.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-88930010913040956972009-09-30T17:45:00.000-07:002009-09-30T18:27:56.277-07:00Being Sad Vs Being AngryI'm (mostly) pretending to be bummed out. Eddie, the younger, is in kindergarten, and is predictably acting out. He's not <span style="font-style: italic;">terrible</span>, mind you, but his behavior warrants damn near daily write homes from the teacher. <br /><br />Well, that's not the whole story. He brings home a daily behavior scorecard every day--if he behaved well, he gets a "wow!" stamp. If he behaved poorly, there's generally a short note describing the infraction. Straight "wows" gets you an ice cream on Friday, but the E Man either doesn't give a shit about ice cream or can't grok a reward that is five days away. <br /><br />Worse, he's not really motivated at school. He's easily distracted, and most of his troubles can be classified in the "isn't paying attention" section of the daily report. It sounds a lot like me as a young adult, actually, which scares me enough that I make a pretty big deal about "wows" and bad days.<br /><br />But the poor guy just can't seem to catch on. He'll do well for a couple of days, and then slink home with bad reports for the next three. There are discussions nightly about what happened, good or bad, and he's actually gotten better about retaining what he got in trouble for. But that's just the first, really low, hurdle.<br /><br />Worse, I'm not sure the freakin' teacher's on the level. K thinks "she's kind of a hippie," and some of the bad conduct reports seem pretty small minded. "Skipping in line" comes to mind, and "pushed the button on the water fountain while in line" does too. On the other hand, "poked another student with a pencil" and "playing with acorn instead of listening in class" come to mind, too.<br /><br />As a parent, I learned pretty quickly that you have to be pretty careful about getting angry as a means of controlling the kids. It's not that it scares them or gets my blood pressure up, it's that there's just not a lot of wiggle room in being mad. Threatening a 3 year old, while fun, has to escalate pretty quickly into giving a spanking to said 3 year old, which isn't really fun at all. And from the beginning (age 3), that's about all Eddie understood. <br /><br />But he's fucking FIVE now, and he's learned about all the lessons that I think spanking's going to teach him. He's got all the major rules down, and is, in fact, a very well behaved and polite child. Not to mention sweet and cute and all that other stuff. We're past the power struggles, in other words, and I think now it's more an issue of motivating him to do well.<br /><br />The problem is that not much seems to work. The stick (spankings) is no longer really appropriate--he doesn't do anything bad enough to warrant a serious punishment like that. However, carrots don't have much of an effect either--witness the utter lack of ice-cream Fridays in his life. <br /><br />Treating him like an employee hasn't worked very well, either. "So, Eddie, your productivity has been down this week. Is there something I can do to help you?" Hell, he doesn't know anything other than he's constantly getting in trouble for not paying attention. I can see it in his eyes: "yeah, you can help me. Get in my brain at school and make me pay attention."<br /><br />So tonight's discussion ended with me telling him I was very sad that he wasn't working hard enough in school, disappointed with him about his behavior, etc etc.. I'm just at a loss as to where to go from here. <br /><br />Oh, in other news I've been promoted, temporarily, to call center supervisor. More money, for the next couple of months, and some unknown increase in responsibilities. It's kids all the way down, it looks like.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-18001764776603682872009-09-23T18:15:00.000-07:002009-09-23T19:02:38.761-07:00Pity, Not To Be Confused With FriendshipSo I've been living with Kimmie for over a year now. Next month we'll have been dating for <span style="font-style: italic;">two whole years</span>, although it seems like much longer (and might be-perhaps I should look at the GCalendar). We have a really good life--enough money, and bad enough financial habits that we treat each other pretty well; good kids, who enjoy watching me play video games; and a pretty decent set of friends, most of whom show up for dinner now and again. Ahem.<br /><br />I've said for quite a while that I feel like I'm living in the opening scenes of a horror movie. Something this good and stable can<span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> merely be the beginning montage in a cheater's melodrama. There's going to have to be some serious ectoplasm, and probably some dwarves, before this is all over with. <br /><br />But my nervousness at the perfection of the situation was assuaged when Kimmie told me about her friend Kelley, a horrible old hippie redneck biker chick that she's been friends with for the last few years. I'd met her once last year, when she made the trip up from Houston to spend the weekend for Kimmie's birthday. At the time, I felt that she was one of those annoying but distant friends that I'd probably have to deal with a couple of times a year.<br /><br />Kelley's been officially destitute for a couple of months now, and with great reluctance (and a little bit of assholish behavior), I consented to let Kelley stay here to "get on her feet."<br /><br />This is a big deal for me. I don't LIKE people in my space, yo, and there are days when I crave that hour of quiet like I never, ever craved beer, sex or cocaine. My oasis of calm has been the "office," which has really developed into my old apartment in microcosm, only cleaner. The most important feature remains, naturally, my computer, although a close second would be the futon. It doubles as the guest room, you see, and thus it's been effectively off-limits to me since August 1st. <br /><br />Which is why I'm writing this on a bad ass new laptop, incidentally, but I digress.<br /><br />This woman is maddening in the extreme--not just because she's an obnoxious loser, but because she can get her act together for just long enough to <span style="font-style: italic;">make me look bad</span>. I could have sworn at the outset that she wasn't going to even get a job, for instance, but she's now got three part time gigs. Now, none of them are stable, and I would still bet the farm that she's not saving any money towards Getting The Fuck Out of My House, but she's got three damn jobs. <br /><br />Worse, she's a cryer. She exhibits more self pity than Bill Laimbeer on the floor of wherever the Detroit Pistons used to play. I've yet to hear her say anything was unequivocally her fault, and most of the drivel I've accidentally run into (because I learned really quickly to stay back here in the bedroom with the ipod turned up and the door shut) runs along in the "why is this happening to me?" or "I can't do this, I need help" vein. It's sickening.<br /><br />I knew we were in for it, friends, when Kimmie went down to help her move and found that a) nothing had been packed, but b) a couple of friends who were willing to drop everything to ensure that Kelley got out of Houston with absolutely no reason to come back, ever. They even <span style="font-style: italic;">gave her a car</span>, ladies and gents, and <span style="font-style: italic;">drove here</span> to drop off clothes when it didn't look like the UHaul was going to hold everything. <br /><br />I've watched with horror, pity, and a little bit of self-righteousness (Kimmie would say a LOT of that, probably) as things have gone from bad to (slowly, subtly) worse. The husband she decided to "leave for good" has taken to calling and texting her regularly, then blocking her for reasons unknown on various social networking sites. She can't seem to make it to ANY of her jobs on time, and for various reasons all three of those won't keep her on past February. Which would be OK, for me, because I was smart. I set ground rules:<br /><br />1) December 1st, she moves out. That's four months of living rent, bill, and food free.<br />2) She doesn't pay a dime, as you might have guessed-every penny she makes should go to Getting Out of My House.<br />3) No Dudes. You're destitute. You're not schtupping some gi-tarr player on my freakin' futon. <br />4) Monthly updates on how the move is going. How much money you'll need, how much money you've saved, etc etc.. This should be a no brainer-she's in her late 40's, after all. <br /><br />But alas, she's done more whining and excuse invention than she's done anything else. She's quitting the one decent semi-permanent gig because they want to drug test her, the other weekday temp job will be over by February, although it may get moved to San Antonio before that, and her third (weekend) job is selling powdered energy drink at a stand in a San Antonio Costco. Though I hear that job may go the way of Jolt Cola pretty soon too.<br /><br />But Kimmie's doing her best. I, at least, can come back here and blog. She has to listen, counsel, and Be a Friend. <br /><br />It's gonna be a long couple of months. And at the end of it, I'm going to have to be a dick. I can feel it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-70246585876038794372009-06-06T13:50:00.000-07:002009-06-06T13:51:09.872-07:00_Imperial Hubris_ Review<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/6256998.Imperial_Hubris_Why_the_West_Is_Losing_the_War_on_Terror" style="float: left; padding-right: 20px"><img alt="Imperial Hubris: Why the West Is Losing the War on Terror" border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51W-wDY0QjL._SX106_.jpg" /></a> <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/6256998.Imperial_Hubris_Why_the_West_Is_Losing_the_War_on_Terror">Imperial Hubris: Why the West Is Losing the War on Terror</a> by <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2845852.Michael_Scheuer_aka_Anonymous">Michael Scheuer aka Anonymous</a><br/><br/><br /> <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/54654617"><h3>My review</h3></a><br /> rating: 3 of 5 stars<br/>I'm pretty disappointed. It's not terribly well written (typos galore), and it's long on criticism (some of it bitter) but short on suggestions. Some of the suggestions are pretty fucked up, too (build more minefields in Afghanistan?).<br /><br/><br /><br/>Most troubling is that it seems to dodge the biggest picture. Granted, members of the last 2 administrations have failed to look beyond "they hate us because we're different" and into the bigger picture of "they hate us because our foreign policy sucks." But Scheuer never really talks about the negative aspects of bin Laden's ideology.<br /><br/><br /><br/>Seriously, I'm OK with "US get out of the Arabian Peninsula." You can throw "out of Afghanistan" in there too...but bin Laden's goal is the return of the Caliphate, and the establishment of sharia in all lands that were a part of the Caliphate. Not only does this mean the destruction of Israel (be aware that I'm not particularly happy with Israel, either), it means some pretty big cultural changes in an area that hasn't been predominantly Muslim in a long damn time (part of SPAIN was a part of the Caliphate, no?).<br /><br/><br /><br/>What may be worse is Scheuer's tiptoeing around one of my big problems with the Taliban and Salafist Islam in general: the awful restrictions on women. He mentions, once (I believe), that the Taliban does not approve of "western feminism." Which is kind of like saying the Japanese behaved badly in Nanking. How are we going to reconcile human rights with a repressive brand of Islam? I've no clue. And neither, apparently, does the author.<br /><br/><br /><br/><br /> <br/><br/><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/576427-jeff">View all my reviews.</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-83131637035581080652009-05-16T12:00:00.001-07:002009-05-16T12:00:21.090-07:00P4140058<div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39439293@N00/3496786911/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3562/3496786911_4c6bcff6a0_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39439293@N00/3496786911/">P4140058</a><br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/39439293@N00/">houdinisblind</a></span></div>Shower is tiled and grouted, although this picture was taken before we cleaned the grout off the tiles (if you take anything away from this blog, Reader, it's that you always clean off the grout when it's wet).<br clear="all" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-68105379341868150362009-05-16T11:58:00.001-07:002009-05-16T11:58:23.752-07:00Obligatory "Little Shop of Horrors" Quote Here<div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39439293@N00/3522867981/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3316/3522867981_134277e998_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39439293@N00/3522867981/">P4210012</a><br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/39439293@N00/">houdinisblind</a></span></div>That's the zucchini plant. One single plant. I think it eats squirrels.<br clear="all" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-4871539172583982272009-05-16T11:55:00.001-07:002009-05-16T11:55:30.979-07:00P4230018<div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39439293@N00/3522869645/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3594/3522869645_30899d9740_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39439293@N00/3522869645/">P4230018</a><br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/39439293@N00/">houdinisblind</a></span></div>Stage one of the bathroom is mostly complete, here. We still need trim paint and some chair rail, as well as new knobs and towel racks (towel bars are EXPENSIVE), but that's about it.<br /><br />Phase 2: tile floor and toilet backsplash, probably next weekend. Since K will be gone, I can play with her tile saw!<br clear="all" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-91293595965882723572009-04-22T05:54:00.001-07:002009-04-22T05:54:01.605-07:00Hardibacker Nightmare.<div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39439293@N00/3464825737/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3507/3464825737_e9da1d3102_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39439293@N00/3464825737/">P4030024</a><br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/39439293@N00/">houdinisblind</a></span></div>Man, I HATE this stuff. It's like drywall, except it's WAY heavier. And moisture resistant, so it's kind of what you have to use in shower/tub situations. <br /><br />They tell you that you cut it by scoring and breaking, like glass. This is true, just like it's true that you could crawl to Las Fucking Vegas on your hands and knees. <br /><br />And speaking of Nevada, after about 15 minutes of cutting the stuff, I felt like I was back on the playa. Except that on the playa I'd have a bandana, but I wasn't smart enough to make that connection until about 30 seconds ago. <br /><br />I'm here to tell you: you can cut hardibacker with a skil saw, if you're not too worried about your blade. And since the blade on my saw came with the saw, back in 1984, I think it's already had a good long life. <br /><br />Today, there's one more wall to install (hardiback?), new tub and shower hardware, and maybe the beginning of tile. I also need to get some new siding for the front of the house, and tack that up. I feel undressed.<br clear="all" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-45146882598350671592009-04-22T05:42:00.001-07:002009-04-22T05:42:02.453-07:00Hi Neighbors!<div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39439293@N00/3463107602/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3628/3463107602_ed52f7dd49_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39439293@N00/3463107602/">Hi Neighbors!</a><br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/39439293@N00/">houdinisblind</a></span></div>This is the bathroom at its worst (hopefully).<br clear="all" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-32706611818887678472009-04-21T06:30:00.001-07:002009-04-21T06:30:53.830-07:00Inside After Day 1<div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39439293@N00/3459960832/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3521/3459960832_44c4ef69c1_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39439293@N00/3459960832/">P4020012</a><br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/39439293@N00/">houdinisblind</a></span></div>There's something satisfying about knocking down walls. Flying shards of porcelain add just enough danger to keep things interesting, and hearing things fall and break in the tub (protected by painter's plastic, which kept giving me Prog flashbacks) was satisfying. <br /><br />You can see the window, since this is an earlier picture, but you can't really see how rotten the wood is. The house had termites years ago, and that combined with water seepage means I have to replace pretty much everything you see in this picture. <br /><br />I think I can do it. Once you get over the weird mental hurdle of Taking Out The Entire Wall (the neighbors can see me brushing my teeth!), it's just a collection of lumber and building material. Smart guy like me can see why the lumber is arranged in such a way, so as long as I put it back pretty much the way it was, hell, why WOULDN'T I do it? <br /><br />The only thing I'm concerned about is doing something to my back that incapacitates me during the week I've taken off work, probably with a giant hole in the side of the house. Here's hoping that doesn't happen.<br clear="all" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-23920430074460910582009-04-21T06:18:00.001-07:002009-04-21T06:18:19.452-07:00The Outside, After Day 1<div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39439293@N00/3460666898/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3525/3460666898_e00a61158c_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39439293@N00/3460666898/">P4020017</a><br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/39439293@N00/">houdinisblind</a></span></div>This really doesn't do justice to the time and energyI spent just getting a window out. I will say that the window is really only about 2/3 the size of the hole you see. And a lot of the time was spent trying to be subtle and avoid destruction of the siding, which in retrospect was kind of silly. <br /><br />Still, I'm looking forward to today's work, which entails completely ripping out the wall you see in that picture, and replacing it by the end of the day. If I'm REALLY good, there will be glass bricks where the window was...<br clear="all" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-67316231220733646832009-04-19T13:35:00.001-07:002009-04-19T13:39:18.033-07:00The Destruction of The BathroomSince I moved in with Kimmie, I've been planning an attack on the bathroom. There's a hole in the shower wall already, through which you can see the inside of the exterior wall. The bathroom sink's starting to rust out. There are mysterious holes, drilled in the 1980's white glitzy formica, from which issue impressive streams of little black ants, some of which end up on my toothbrush every night. <br /><br />This assault begins tomorrow. I'll post pictures.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-76877610238377058152009-03-21T14:09:00.000-07:002009-03-21T14:22:43.569-07:00PlantingMan, I'm old. By the time I got home with the supplies this morning, I was hurting. Now? I'm scaling back dinner plans because I'm just too tired to whip up the garlic confit I was gonna use to stuff the (half thawed) pork loin. <br /><br />But things got accomplished. Sort of. Projects were moved further along, at least. <br /><br />Take the ongoing redesign of the compost bin. I managed to build it out of landscape timbers K had lying around the place, and fenced it off from the coons and possums and occasional stray dog with chicken wire and aluminum tubing (yes, it was ghetto, but it was FREE).<br /><br />But the coons have developed quite a vertical leap, and have mashed down the wire in a couple of places to make their escape. Twas more of a mess than when I started...til today.<br /><br />Today, off to the Big Box Store for tposts and more wire. And to my surprise: PLASTIC "poultry netting." In essence, smaller "gauge" construction fence, much easier to work with. PURCHASE!<br /><br />Get home, tear down and roll up the existing fence...drive my posts (with the new post driver, thank you very much)...stretch the fence nice and straight...oh god, so good...so professional...<br /><br />Four feet short. I have an open side, so now my arrow-straight and Berlin Wall-high compost fence is even less effective than the mashed down, floppy and pokey chicken wire and aluminum stick contraption I had this morning. About the only critter this fence is going to fool is Spot the Cat, who sometimes gives the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Tra'al a run for its money.<br /><br />So, mostly done. <br /><br />OTOH, all the plants I own are in the ground, finally. I've decided that vegetables and fruit plants will grow in the ground, and herbs will grow in pots. I've had pretty good success overwintering my oregano and thyme, not to mention the three year old bird pepper plant...but that's mostly due to judicious pullings-into-garages during the cold snaps that pass for winter down here.<br /><br />And there are purple petunias in the window box. THAT project's done, finally.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-91656997338225288302009-02-25T19:05:00.000-08:002009-02-25T19:40:15.781-08:00Mixed Spring GreensMan, what a night. How many different threads do I have that are worth talking about, to me? Four? Five?<br /><br />First, and most important, it's spring. I know, you northerners (which is damn near everyone but Houston fokes, it's true) can kvetch, but it's been in the 80's here for a couple days, and tonight I intend to leave the windows open. It's spring. Primafuckingvera. The end of cabsavs and goulash and the merciless flogging of the Gourd. We're in the between period, a thing I've always loved...because of the smells.<br /><br />Smells are constant. For me, tonight...it's the smell of Grandma's house and a gravel driveway under a full moon, ramshackle chicken houses, bluestem waking up. Freshness, wetness. Aliveness. Trees throwing their woody cares to the wind and getting on with the business of photosynthesis and pollen. <br /><br />And here in Austin, there's an even bigger, wilder sense of waking up. Shit, Home Depot still has foxtail palms from LAST YEAR, and weird-ass citrus crosses like the Lemon Drop, a cannily named (considering) cross between the lemon and the kumquat. <br /><br />I looked up at the sky tonight, as I was dragging the tubs of trash out to the curb...looking for the moon, and the comet I hear might be visible behind the Cubano's casa down the street. But even as I was sucking up the NOW (because, with kids, you'd better suck up the fucking NOW, because otherwise you'll be brainless PTA fodder by the time the little bastards get to second grade)....even as I was sucking up the NOW I was going back through my meticulously organized aisles of memories, on my belly snatching things off the lowest shelves, like you do...<br /><br />The silver cattle guard at my grandmother's house, first afeard of alligators, then leaping it in the mad dash for the bus, then bemused by the drift of gravel that made it ineffective, about the time my grandmother wasted away.<br /><br />Driving home from Parker and Ed/Hippie Dave/Osborn/Ryan S parties, at midnight or at 6am, past a magnolia tree. That tree only bloomed half a dozen times...<br /><br />Ah, crap. Must go. The evening winds to a close. It's a good life.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-49810531487698191712009-02-21T19:11:00.000-08:002009-02-21T19:18:40.500-08:00Can I Just Skip the Title?I was just thinking how radically different my evenings are these days, compared to...well, any other time in my life. <br /><br />Weeknights in the past: work til 9pm, get Chinese delivery or pizza, drink, watch a bad movie, fall asleep.<br /><br />Weeknights now: work til 4pm, get the kids, fix dinner, bathe the kids, brush teeth, crack the whip over jammie time, possibly play a little Halo, read a story, drink a whiskey/soda, crash out at 9pm.<br /><br />Weekends in the past: generally speaking, Oklahoma weekends were spent doing huge amounts of various drugs, running up equally ridiculous bar tabs, and occasionally going to a party. <br /><br />This weekend: I dug a hole. And folded some damn jammies.<br /><br />I'm going to try posting here more regularly. It won't be like the old stuff, but the old stuff was over and done with a long time ago.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-1144809078773476832006-04-11T19:31:00.000-07:002006-04-11T19:31:18.786-07:00Tip's Truck Mart 1: The Tow TruckBack in 95, I was living in Crackville, and my relationship with the girl I was living with was pretty much in its last throes. It got to the point that a rain day from work wasn't much of a bonus, given that I'd have to spend it with <span style="font-style:italic;">her</span>. So when, on a rainy Friday morning, "Jim" called me up and proposed a harebrained scheme that would net me two hundred bucks, I said "sure!" <br /><br />At the time, Jim was working at an auto auction. Dealers would buy used cars at the auction, then rent a car hauler to get them back to their lots. If there was an odd number of cars, though, they'd pay someone to drive the thing there. It was good money, if you could find a cheap way back. <br /><br />That was to be my job--following Jim to Topeka KS in his mother's car, picking him up, and driving him back to Oklahoma City. HIS job was to drive a 1978 Chevy 2 1/2 ton tow truck. When he came to pick me up, he insisted on spending fifteen minutes digging through my tape collection, because he thought he'd seen a tape deck in the thing. While he did so, I perused his "contact sheet," a printed order showing the address and contact info. The vehicle was going to Tip's Truck Mart, and the blank beside "contact" was filled with "Max Mart." I made sure there was a phone number.<br /><br />On the way to the auction lot, Jim told me how it was gonna go: we'd drive up there, drop the truck with a guy named Max, who lived behind the lot in some sort of shack at the top of some wooden steps. Max would give us cash, Jim would give me two hundred bucks, and we'd drive home. The whole exercise should take no more than thirteen hours, including the drive both ways. <br /><br />Of course, I wasn't foolish enough to believe it was actually going to work like that, but it was attractive because a) it got me out of the house and away from a clingy girlfriend, b) it was a road trip, and c) it paid two hundred bucks. In no time, I was following him out of town.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-1143219804219260612006-03-24T08:11:00.000-08:002006-03-24T09:03:24.330-08:0014 Years Gone Now...Damn, I'm surprised this thing hasn't been deleted yet...but here we go, a short story pertaining to my recent life:<br /><br />I got my job at NWL through the auspices of the mother of TLJO, who was the mother to a lot of us back in those heady days of the early, early 90's. Later, I found out that my dressing up for the job interview (complete with sportcoat and tie) was kinda unnecessary, because mom had loaned the Man some money, and was using it as a kind of crowbar to get me on there. <br /><br />So, knowing the Man, he hired me with great resentment in his heart. On my 19th birthday, in fact. <br /><br />The first day, I walked to work, which was all of a couple of blocks. The Man looked at me and said "you weren't supposed to start til tomorrow. Ah well, I guess I'll find something." He sent me out on a mow crew full of stoners, but warned me that I would be helping on the "bed crew" for the duration of my stay there. <br /><br />A couple hours later, a guy on another of our crews caught me at a yard and asked me where the water faucet was...it was his first day, he explained, and he didn't know anything. I guess I already looked like a mowhand. That was Chuck Phoenix, Dan.<br /><br />The next day I met my foreman, an idiot named Mark. Mark talked like Divine and had some serious dental issues, plus he wore baby blue sweatpants and shaved his legs, for reasons I'd rather not get into...but he had been to school for horticulture, and so I respected his authoritay. <br /><br />Mark taught me to detect bullshit, actually--not because <span style="font-style:italic;">he</span> knew how to detect it, but because he was constantly spewing it. In a way, it was like watching some indestructible moron walk through a minefield--you learn what NOT to do by watching him fuck up. <br /><br />The first couple of days we spent picking weeds, and that went OK. Then we were sent to a bed install job, which basically entailed humping giant wheelbarrows of topsoil over curbs and up steep ramps, without chipping brick at the end of it. Mark lasted 3 whole days, then quit. In retrospect, Mark wasn't the one the Man wanted to quit. <br /><br />A week later (a week I spent pulling weeds at old ladies' houses, listening to them talk about their grandkids or dead cats, getting fed candy, and wondering when I was gonna get paid), Mark was back, and the summer well and truly began.<br /><br />Don't kid yourself. It was menial, tedious work, and I was very glad when I was moved to a mow crew, that fall. <br /><br />Mowing was different, and better--I lost my fear of dangerous machinery, the day went much faster, and I might have even gotten a little raise. And the people were cooler.<br /><br />The following spring, I got my own mow crew. I thought I was doing pretty well--less than a year, I went from low-man to bossing people around...and I think I did pretty well. I took to the regularity of mowing, although I still hated the drudgery of doing the same thing every time, and thus got to know a large part of the city by taking alternate routes to the various jobsites. I coulda been a cabbie.<br /><br />Five years later, we got an employee named Ed. Ed was about forty years old, gray where he wasn't bald, smelled bad, and talked about "pussy" and "weed" in a way I thought was the domain of people even younger than ME (I think I was 24 at the time). But for Ed, I might still be there--because when I looked at Ed, I <span style="font-style:italic;">saw</span> me, 20 years from now, taking orders from some longhaired punk and not being real sure where all the years before had gone. <br /><br />And, hey, I was 24 in 1996--the world was my oyster, yo. TLJO and I made plans--floating the Mississippi (foiled by the floods and our giant-ass LSD habit), walk the Continental Divide, etc.. Stuff MY dad dreamed of doing, and I think everyone does (Twin B and the Appalachian Trail, for instance)...but instead, I gave my notice and my reasons, and the Man talked me out of it.<br /><br />The company was in dire need of technical support at the time--schedules were being printed off a spreadsheet at the time, but billing was still being done by hand, and that looked pretty bad to the bigger contracts we were getting. So in 1996, I sold out.<br /><br />Two years later, I had a company owned car, a company owned computer, life insurance, a HOUSE, two company credit cards, and an ulcer. <br /><br />Two years after THAT, I had health insurance, credit card debt, and a bleeding ulcer.<br /><br />And six years after that, I'm here. <br /><br />So, add it up--fifteen years. And you know what I got?<br /><br />"Well, thanks!"<br /><br />Yup. No watch, no fucking bonus, no nothin'. Don't let the door...sayonara, sucka. ..<br /><br />Beh.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-1135714952237148102005-12-27T12:22:00.000-08:002005-12-27T12:22:32.280-08:00Merry Holidays<style type="text/css">.flickr-photo { border: solid 2px #000000; }.flickr-yourcomment { }.flickr-frame { text-align: left; padding: 3px; }.flickr-caption { font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px; }</style><div class="flickr-frame"> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39439293@N00/31315499/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://static.flickr.com/23/31315499_0c363ae4fe.jpg" class="flickr-photo" alt="" /></a><br /> <span class="flickr-caption"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39439293@N00/31315499/">tgiving17</a>, originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/39439293@N00/">houdinisblind</a>.</span></div> <p class="flickr-yourcomment"> From the Minuard Foundation.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241329.post-1131124934748279292005-11-04T09:06:00.000-08:002005-11-22T17:30:54.573-08:00Flock of Seagulls 1: HousewarmingSometime in 94 or 95, Chuck had moved into an apartment fairly close to my place in Crackville, and began having regular parties. The first party was a housewarming party, since he'd lost most of his household stuff when he moved out of his ex-girlfriend's place. I dutifully brought some kind of kitchen implement, but it appeared that most people were just there to drink. Which was fine, I guess. Chuck didn't seem to care.<br /><br />Over the course of the evening, I got to meet all sorts of people. Edless, of course, was right in the middle of everything, as were various current and former skinhead guys, including a crazy dude named Ben, fresh out of the Marines, and Dusty and John M, who were not. There were also twenty or thirty people from Cox Cable, where Chuck worked, and it seemed like fifty people of the hipster/rockabilly crowd. Yes, it was a Big Party, but it didn't really get started until Terry showed up.<br /><br />Now, I've talked about Terry before, over on Midian, but it was a while back. Terry was a big, loud guy who sold cable television door to door with Chuck. Terry was quite a bit older than us, but nevertheless managed to fit in because he was utterly crazy. In this case, he walked in the door, located Chuck, and handed him a flyer. "I stuck about 500 of these on cars down on 10th Street," he said, grabbing a bottle of rum out of someone's hand, "they'll probably start showing up after the strippers leave at 2am."<br /><br />Chuck handed me the flyer. The top of it said "PARTY!" in big black letters, and below that was a grainy picture of a topless girl. Below, various phrases caught my eye: "oil wrestling," "naked chicks," "free keg." And Chuck's address.<br /><br />Yes, it was utterly over the top. Surely he wouldn't do that, right? Right! He agreed that it was all a joke, fished for compliments about the flyer, and rummaged in the fridge for one of my beers. The flyer was forgotten. <br /><br />Sometime after one AM, the party thinned out. The remaining revelers were snoozing or policing the apartment, as I recall, when the doorbell rang. Two rather scruffy looking guys stood outside:<br /><br />"Hey, they a party off in here?"<br /><br />"Huh?"<br /><br />"We got a flyer, man. Where all the women at?"<br /><br />"What? Let me see that. Where the fuck did you get this?"<br /><br />"Down on 10th Street, man! Now come on, where's the party? Where's the oil rasslin?"<br /><br />"Look, there's no fucking party. There's no girls here."<br /><br />"What? Sure looks like a party!"<br /><br />"The party's over. Just go home."<br /><br />"No girls?"<br /><br />"No girls."<br /><br />"I see why. You so mean, you ran 'em all off!"<br /><br />"Ha ha, very funny."<br /><br />"All right, man, better luck next time."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2