One of the funnier stories I've heard in my life was told to me by a man in the early stages of Alzheimer's. It has been a number of years since "Flaps" told this story, and time has worn smooth some of the more precise edges, but I'll do my best to push this story across to y'all as well as it was told to me.
During World War II, Flaps was training to be a fighter pilot. He had cleared every hurdle, and was scheduled to report for duty on the USS Wasp within a few weeks. They were still training in Rhode Island while they were preparing to ship out, and they ran drills almost daily. One fine morning, Flaps was taxiing down the runway when his plane did an abrupt face-plant. Undeterred, he ran back to their staging area to try and get in another plane and rejoin his flight group. He turned a bit too soon as he was pulling the Hellcat out the line, and managed to drag the back of his plane through the spinning prop of the plane next to him, ruining both aircraft. Not one to crumble in the face of adversity, Flaps finally managed to get airborne in his third plane of the day. That plane promptly malfunctioned over the bay, and he had to put it into the drink.
After he was fished out of the bay, military protocol required him to report to the clinic and rest for a minimum of two hours. Two hours and five minutes after he reported to the clinic, he was standing in the office of his commanding officer, inquiring about his next mission.
Without glancing up from the papers at his desk, his CO barked the following:
"Churton (Flaps), I see you're scheduled to go up again at 4:30. I'd love to let you go up this afternoon, but according to this report, we are running low on planes."
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Maybe Flaps was just trying to get all of his bad luck out his system early. It must have worked, as Flaps went on to fly Hellcats off the Wasp in the Pacific theater, and his luck held out through that war and for a long string of years and decades to follow.
Paul "Flaps" Churton, my ex-wife's paternal grandfather, passed away this morning at the tender young age of 87. He was a magnificent man with a twinkle in his eye and a warm laugh, and he will be deeply missed.
They don't make them like that anymore. __________________________________
I have this mental "trick" that I break out when I lose someone I care about. I image that person forever engaged in an activity that made them happy. Each scenario for each lost loved one is as different as the individual, and sadly my list is longer than I'd like, and will never get shorter.
So today I've been picturing Flaps, aviator's helmet pulled down over his massive namesake ears, grin on his face, and twinkle in his eye. And he's just blasting through the gap in the two blues: the sky above and the Pacific below. Sunlight glinting off the fuselage, and his Hellcat's engine a mere extension of his own ambitions. Throttle wide open, mind calm, soul at peace, and eyes on the horizon.
Note: photo and post are unrelated, aside from the "missionary" part.
I have a friend that I've known over thirty years. Growing up, he was the voice of caution, and a model of patience: the perfect counterbalance to my half-crazed youthful exuberance. I am sure that about 90% of the trouble he was called to account for as a child was a direct result of my involvement. Even to this day, I believe his parents must think of me with some trepidation. The two times I've seen them in the past five years, they still seem a bit leery of me; as if at any moment I might start shouting profanities while flinging feces and starting fires.
But they came by their apprehensions honestly. I was (for lack of a better phrase) a total shit when I was younger: headstrong, impulsive, naïve, and shameless. I literally have the scars to prove it. I often did brainless things like removing the rubber suction cups from the end of darts and (with the help of tape and glue) replacing them with hat pins.
Like this, only extremely pointy and dangerous.
And once I learned that blow-molded plastic could be easily altered with the judicious application of heat, I set about negating the earnest safety efforts of manufacturers and parental watchdog groups while simultaneously equipping my neighborhood friends with the finest eye-removing toys I could create.
It's a miracle no one was seriously hurt.
But perhaps the greater miracle is that I was never banned from seeing any of my childhood and neighborhood friends, and to this day remain on good terms with many of them. The aforementioned friend is no exception. In the thirty years since we first met, my friend has managed to become a minister/pastor/reverend of a popular denomination, and I've managed not to shoot out one or both of my eyes. So things have worked out well for both of us.
Three or four times a year we get together and do lunch, and our conversations are always fun, even if our interests and lifestyles aren't quite in synchronization.
Typical conversation:
Rev. Friend: We're expanding the church and adding a "cry room" to the sanctuary.
Me: Hmm. Cool. I ate bacon off my counter that had been sitting out for two days.
Rev. Friend: Hmm. Cool. They're bringing in another pastor to help with the visitation of the hospitalized and the shut ins.
Me: Hmm. Cool. I keep noticing weird bones amongst the piles of dogshit in my backyard.
Rev. Friend: Hmm. Cool. Blah blah blah.
Me: Hmm Cool. Blah blah blah.
And so things have gone for the past five years since he's been back in town. It's not awkward or uncomfortable; we know each other well enough by now that we aren't unsettled by each other. Plus we're both over thirty, and therefore as about as exciting as the Helen Keller Simulator. Our lives have become models of predictable banality and routine, and I think we are both thankful for the stability.
But throughout our conversations that are carried out through a series of disinterested grunts, he keeps mentioning his (and his church's) in-town missionary work. Every time he brings it up, he sees my eyes light up, and finds me listening with rapt attention (a opposed to "rapped attention," which is just Chuck D repeating the word 'attention' to a cheesy backbeat). Also, every time he brings it up, I offer to go with and help out the next time the spirit moves them to help others.
A few Wednesdays gone, he finally took me up on my offer, and I found myself leaving work a bit early, so that I might tend to my dogs before racing across town to the local John 3:16 Mission. I arrived with time to spare; time that I subsequently wasted trying to get my car alarm to engage. Up to that very moment, my car alarm had never given me a moments trouble, and it had apparently decided to wait until it was parked in the roughest area it had ever seen to leave itself vulnerable. Fine. Whatever. NowI'm late. I hurried off to find my friend.
Turns out he had been watching me from across the street, trying to figure out what the hell I was doing, what with my opening and closing my car doors multiple times. After a brief explanation, he introduced me to one of his parishioners we headed off down the block towards the Mission.
Me: Hmm. Cool. Anybody else gonna show? Or is it just the three of us?
Rev. Friend: Hmm. Cool. Well, it's summer, so most people are away on break. But we should be able to keep up with just the three of us.
Me: Hmm. Cool. What will they have us doing?
He explained that we'd be helping serve dinner to everyone, or anything else they needed. And then he clarified: The church member and I would be serving dinner - my friend would be taking prayer requests and praying with the people gathered there. I quickly realized that he had the harder of the two jobs, as I was in NO way prepared to hear about the hardships of those gathered there. Serving food should be a snap compared to that. I'd be able to keep smiling the entire time if I wanted to.
We walked in the front door and I was struck by the diversity of the people at this shelter. Racially, the shelter's occupants were more varied than this Dove ad, although not quite as female or unclothed. And even though I suspected they likely weren't, they appeared economically striated as well: some looked like they had walked straight out of a Bumfights clip, while others looked like they just finished off the back nine. All types and kinds. Even a few families.
We made our way to the back of the building, washed up, and started preparing everything for the evening meal. Apparently, we had pulled a "lucky" meal for our shift: pizza. Not much to do in the way of preparation. Load 96 trays with pizza, mixed veggies, and peaches. Place them at one of many tables, along with tea, napkins, and utensils. Pretty easy, and made even easier by the help of the mission's "students"; at-risk youth that John 3:16 was mentoring. One of the students started singing "Basketball" by Kurtis Blow, and it was all of ten seconds before I was singing harmony on the chorus (the only part I could remember). The prep and distribution flew by.
Then, as people were filing into the dining room, I was asked to serve seconds to anyone that wanted them. As it turned out, almost everyone wanted seconds. It also turned out that I had exactly 5.2 boxes of medium pizza left. Now, I've never been a crackerjack at math, but I could tell pretty fast that fifty slices of pizza wouldn't split well between 96 people, especially when the first ten or so people through the line specifically requested more than one slice. Being new to the whole "hand out second helpings at the shelter" routine and having no staff member nearby for guidance, I obliged every individual in line as best I could as I got closer and closer to the last box of slices. When I hit that last box, I just started giving out one slice at a time.
Shit, I'm going to run out and there will be an irate mob accusing me of giving out too many slices to the first people... I set my jaw and handed out the last of the pizza. Then I turned and addressed the rest of the line.
"Sorry, we're out of pizza. We still have some mixed vegetables and peaches left," I said while mentally bracing myself for a chorus of angry shouts.
They peppered me with furious shouts of "Ok, sir," or "That's all right," or "I'd love some more peaches," or "God bless you anyway."
"Uh....Sorry again," I stammered when I realized they were in NO ways angry or upset. And then I proceeded to feel like a total dick for even imagining that they would be.
.....
Later, as I was mopping the floor, my pastor friend caught up to me. He'd been busy too, seeing that anyone with a prayer request was heard. His list wasn't 96 names long, but the names and prayers on the list once again drove home how well I have things, and how I need to get up off my dead ass more often and give something back, even if it is something as simple as volunteering.
Byron – for his family in New Orleans
Derek – for his family (keep them healthy)
Bobby – for his brother, Tim, to get out of prison, and that he himself would get an apartment
Joseh – that he would find a job with work for him 5 days a week, not just 1 or 2 days at a time
Gary – lung infection
Robert – offers a prayer of thanks to God for sending His Son Jesus for our salvation
Filip – he asks for financial security, and that he would be closer to God
Larry – for his daughters (unsettled marriages), and for his son who is living with a woman though not married (that he would realize this isn’t right in God’s eyes)
Elmer – that he would find work, and that God would protect his home and family
Eric – that he would find work
Tiffany – that God would help in her relationship with her boyfriend, that He would be with her family, and that she would find a job
Brian – that he would find a job, and that he would have good health
Justin – that his doctor appointment on July 29th would go well so that he is able to get into his apartment on August 1st (the doctor visit is required for the type of housing he is trying to get)
My "unprotected" car was completely unharmed, and my alarm has worked perfectly ever since. Maybe my car was trying to set an example. You know, letting down its guard.
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Annie Lennox - Missionary Man Missionary Man on YouTube I'm pretty sure her outfit in that video is the reason Annie Lennox was featured in most of my adolescent bondage fantasies. That and her riding crop from Sweet Dreams.
Here's a far less sexy video included in the "Mission" theme:
Lots of people will tell you that to properly hydrate yourself during a workout, you should drink plenty of water, or even something full of electrolytes. Those people are idiots. Only the truly professional athletes can let you in on a trade secret: Pound the Pabst. Before, during, and after the workout. Not only does the alcohol keep you loose, but fighting the urge to vomit up beer foam can be a welcome distraction from the grueling tedium of your routine. Your workout will just FLY by! And eventually so will your liver functionality.
The Eye Of The Tiger!
Seriously, don't drink while you workout. It's really difficult. And possibly counterproductive. Big ups to Brent for capturing this hilarious photo. _________________________________________
Regarding this last image: I'm inclined to crazy-glue a spread-legged Barbie to the knees of Apollo Creed, facing the character. That way every time you access data, Carl Weathers goes down for a light snack. He's the only one who would look like he was enjoying himself, and honestly Barbie deserves a man who is into it.
The names have been left out to protect the guilty. Also, most of the people mentioned herein are now lawyers, and I know better than to go poking a bear.
Back in my college days, I had this friend. He was an alright guy, and like most of my other college friends, he was able to consume massive amounts of alcohol rapidly with almost no discernible effects. Having never been so "lucky" in that regard, I usually wound up passed out on the floor after six or seven beers (these days it only takes four).
One evening, I was well over my limit while partying with this particular friend. And his roommate. And about four other friends. And a dog. Anyhow, we all had a wild night (except the dog) that included the strip bar followed by some mild gutter-barfing. Truly, you would have been hard pressed to find a classier bunch of people wandering the streets at half past midnight. We finally arrived back at his apartment, and after belching up beer foam for about forty-five minutes, I managed to pass out cold on their couch.
Miraculously, my friends somehow resisted the urge to draw two dicks and a chinstrap on my face while I slept, but possibly only because of their own alcohol-induced blackouts.
OK, nowyou're ready to meet the governor!
But in retrospect, I think I would have preferred a Sharpie-cock to what actually happened. You see, even the most permanent of markers will wash off in a few days, but nightmarish memories are immune to water and soap. Even that pumice-filled Lava soap won't make a dent in those occasional life events that stain your very soul. So filthy...I'll never feel clean again.
The above expression about "alcohol-induced blackouts" was not 100% accurate. Or perhaps the blackouts were just short lived. Whatever the case, sometime in the wee hours of the morning, I awoke because my organs had completely processed all of my beer and needed to give it back to nature. I didn't open my eyes or sit up, I was just awake and lying still on the couch, needing to take a wicked piss. But I couldn't move, because something was WRONG.
As an aside, I'd like to point out that it's a shame that humans haven't developed earlids. Want to stop looking at something? Close your eyelids, or just look in another direction. Want to stop hearing something? Tough shit. Short of sticking your fingers in your ears, there's not much you can do beyond humming a happy song in your head while praying for an end to the offending cacophony.
The first noise I noticed was the obvious sound of two people fucking. Assuming you're not high on glue, there's no mistaking that noise for anything else. As I had been roommates with both of the current occupants of this apartment, I had (sadly) become familiar with their wails and shouts and grunts, as well as those of their respective girlfriends. Only this didn't sound like either of them. In fact as I listened further, I realized that these sounds weren't muffled by walls and doors... Oh, goddammit! That's coming from in THIS room. A few more seconds passed before I pegged the noise: audio from a porn flick. Shit. I listened for a few more seconds, trying to pick out a noise I didn't want to hear. Fuck. There it is. You filthy bastard. During a lull in the porno's "dialogue" was the unique sound, like the flat side of a spatula repeatedly and rhythmically slapping a glazed ham.
Muthafucka!
Don't ask what's in the glaze. Just don't.
My friend thought I was passed out, so he took advantage of the opportunity to pop in a porno, pull a kitchen chair in front of the TV, and grease the weasel. I guess I should be thankful he didn't just sit down on the edge of the couch upon which I "slept".
So, there I am locked in the horns of a dilemma. Do I lie there, feigning sleep while he finishes hosting his own one-man crotch party? Or do I sit up and start asking questions I don't really want answered? Couldn't you do that in any other room? Or maybe just wait until after I stumble home in the morning?Seriously, WHAT THE FUCK are you thinking? As unappealing as the second option seemed, the first scenario was even worse. I couldn't just lie there. I just couldn't. No way. Too fucking weird. And I REALLY had to pee.
I quite suddenly realized the solution to the problem. Taking care to keep my eyes as closed as possible, I stood up and staggered off into the bathroom, acting like nothing out of the ordinary was going on. After I took care of my most pressing concern in the bathroom, I loitered for a few extra minutes, making fake fart noises and throwing in a few extra flushes to try and really sell it. Three or four minutes later I walked out of the bathroom and into a living room that was now empty, silent, and dark. Not wanting to endure a reprise the next time I awoke, I decided to play it safe and I trekked home.
The next day, as we all gathered to continue our wild adventures of young ignorance, I had to confront my friend, especially since there were others present to join in the ridicule. And there was much mockery and laughing and shame. Well, maybe not shame. But as soon as our throats became raw from all the taunting, one of my other friends shared another story. Apparently, this wasn't the first time my friend's chronic masturbatorial habits infringed upon the comfort of others.
About two months prior, his roommate and another friend had returned home with a few "dancers" from the skin bar. As the roommate unlocked and opened the front door, there sat my friend, passed out in a chair with his pants around his ankles in front of a TV that was blasting out Dirty Doctors Volume Four. The "ladies" had to wait on the stoop for three or four minutes while my friend was helped to his room by the shouts and sharp kicks of his roommate.
But even that tale isn't the crown jewel of his escapades. The best story came from my friend himself. To this day, WHY he chose to tell us this story remains a complete mystery. Perhaps he was able to step outside his body, and see that the story was so fantastic that it couldn't be contained. Or perhaps he was born without a sense of shame or dignity. He did become a lawyer, after all.
...
My friend was (and still is) an avid golfer, and was constantly striving to improve his game. Hours at the driving range, some coaching from a golf pro, gimmicky products...my friend tried all kinds of ways. He even went so far as to video tape himself both putting and swinging, in an effort to see where he needed to make improvements.
So, the Thanksgiving before he headed off to college, all of his extended family was at his parents house, and he and his uncle began discussing golf. My friend mentioned that he had taped his swing and his putting, and his uncle insisted that they watch the tape. Soon cousins and aunts and grandmothers were all gathered around the television in the living room, waiting to see the golf swing tape.
They all examined his golf swing, and his uncle quickly concluded that my friend was swaying his hips too much before he made contact with the ball. They (the entire family) sat and watched and waited for the swinging to give way to the putting footage.
They were then treated to a slight amount of static, followed by roughly three seconds of my friend vigorously fingering the perpetrator, followed by a bit more static, followed by putting footage.
According to my friend, nobody talked much after that. Not even during dinner. Except for his grandmother, who burst out laughing every time she looked at him.
...
When my friend finished telling his story, every question we threw at him started with the word "why". I never did get an answer to my favorite question: "Why the fuck would you film yourself rubbing one out?" I mean, if you want to know what you look like when you're milking your own udder, get a damn mirror. Or just look down for christ sake.
I can understand why some guys feel the need to film themselves having sex with women: because those guys are horrible shitbags void of character. But solo? Filming your self masturbating is just retarded.
Rejected titles for this post: Ease Up On Your Backswing Loosen Your Grip Widen Your Stance
Need a laugh? Click THIS LINK and scroll down to the part labeled Anomalous Anal Ghost Phenomena. I almost wish it was a joke. Almost. That's just about the best excuse I've EVER heard.
02 July 2009
I would have updated sooner, but I really didn't feel like it. Still don't, as a matter of fact. But I figure if I don't put something out here every so often, the few eyeballs I've managed to attract thus far will lose interest and go back to surfing for goat porn.
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Thanks to all for participating in the photo caption from a couple of weeks past. Out of all the submissions, "BEER RUN" was my favorite.
Even still, I feel like I need to throw out a few of my own. So I will...
"Hey bro, why is your van leaking all that chunky oil onto my carpet?" or "No, goddammit! I said get dressed for an A-LIST party!" or "Jerry, I don't care if we ARE a 'Full-Serve' gas station! You can fire me if you want to, but I'm not pumping that guy's gas." or Dave finally found a way to stealthily masturbate in public.
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While I think ponchos have their place in this world (namely Clint Eastwood movies), I've never wanted to own one myself. Until I saw this ad, anyway. Now I'm not so sure.
Bitch aint even COLD.
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So, apparently if you're a celebrity needing to kick start your flagging career with low-cost PR, dying is one surefire method.
re: the 'Inside' section... Why can't it be both? Zombie Princess in Morocco! I smell a Mike Bay movie.
Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, Billy Mays, and MJ have all recently cashed in on the "free publicity" death train. A bunch of whore mongering, prima donna media sluts, if you ask me. Obviously their deaths are just transparent last ditch efforts to reignite guttering careers. And apparently, I'm not supposed to say anything unkind about ANY of these people now that they're gone. Not even the awesome food poisoning joke about trying to swallow an 8-year-old wiener. Somehow, their recent passing temporarily shields them from our scrutiny and mockery, as we try to remember the good things they brought to this world. Even that alleged child-rapist, Billy Mays. [\sarcasm]
Quite a few people have told me over the past week that they felt emotionally effected by the passing of Michael Jackson. I would wrinkle my nose and comment that I was more broken up over the passing of Ms. Fawcett, which would typically elicit confused looks from whomever I was talking with. But Michael Jackson was the KING of pop! or Thriller was the best selling album ever! or He was so dynamically talented! or some variant thereof is usually thrown back at me. And I'll grant that those things are true.
But here are the twin forks of my counter argument: 1) Farrah Fawcett never (allegedly) molested children. 2) I've never tossed off to a picture of MJ in a red bathing suit (also allegedly). But now that MJ has passed, it occurs to me that I might actually be able to listen to his music without thinking about the horrors he inflicted on others (allegedly). Maybe.
While recuperating from sinusitis/summer cold/H1N1 on the couch yesterday, I attempted to watch television between the hours of noon and four. After flipping between the talking heads on the various cable "news" channels (and an occasional stop on MTV to watch some show about women who are into douche-bag guys), I was about ready gouge out my own eyes. Then, I rediscovered CSPAN. No commercials, no scrolling distractions, no shouting matches, just experts dully covering facts about issues. I hadn't watched CSPAN in about ten years, and I'd forgotten how much I enjoy it. And how easily it can lull me to sleep.
I think I'm in love with that channel. If I could find a way, I'd totally fuck CSPAN. And it would be hot, and sweaty, and droning and dull.
Being a man, I'm not sure how effeminate it is to show concern for grooming my nails. Can you advise me on the proper way to make sure my hands and feet always look their best? Thanks, Fic Tishuss
Dear Fic,
No. I honestly have no earthly idea what you're talking about. Like the ten-penny galvanized nails I keep in my toolbelt? They're galvanized, so they're permanently "groomed".
The best way to make sure your hands and feet look their best is to make sure you look as manly as possible by always holding one of the following in at least one of your hands: Beer, pistol, your own cock, cheeseburger, still-beating heart, Zeus's lightning, tit (or 'tits' if you have a huge hand ... or small tits), someone's fate, steak, circular saw, claw hammer, or guitar.
It occurred to me that you might be seeking grooming tips for fingernails or toenails. But that seemed like a sissified question, since the fickle public's fascination with the "metrosexual" fad has long ago evaporated from society's collective consciousness, like so much piss from the top of a hot desert rock. Real guys have reverted back to the time-honored tradition of not giving a shit about things like "products" and "grooming", if they ever pretended to care at all.
Even so Fic, here are a few quick manly grooming tips for your finger/toenails...
1) Bite your damn fingernails off and spit them out, like the rest of us men. Preferably spit them someplace awesome like a NASCAR track or your buddy's bowl of chili or some snooty prime minister's face. Or, if you're truly uninspired, just spit them onto the filthy floor of your poorly-lit dwelling like you always do.
2) Toenails do not need to be trimmed. At least not in the traditional sense. A really macho man will find the most studly way possible to control the length of his toenails. My personal preference is to use furniture to this end. See, first you put a piece of heavy furniture in an unexpected place. If you can't do it yourself, have one of your dogs do it when you aren't looking. Put their bed near said heavy home furnishing, and let them kick it around in their sleep. Then, early one morning, you can reduce your field of vision by carrying a basket of laundry back to your bedroom. This will help you to not notice your relocated furniture, so you won't alter your stride or direction in any way. Now deftly smash at least two of your toes into the leg of said furniture. If you get the angle just right, at least ONE of your toenails should shatter, greatly reducing its length while simultaneously exposing tender nail bed.
See? You don't need expensive pedicures or nail care equipment. Just a chair leg.
That image above is what flew off from the piggy that "stayed home" with just one simple treatment of blunt force chair leg trauma. Glorious. You really can't get results that close with traditional methods.
It takes a fair degree of mastery before you'll be getting the results you want, such as also knocking "roast beef" into "had none", and flaying "had none" with "roast beef's" disgustingly long nail.
Click that photo to remove the band aids and show the wounded toes covered in Neosporin, dog hair, and band aid goo. Mmm. Foot close-up!
But just stick with it, and you'll be proficient in no time flat. Soon, you'll be able to trim the nails off of all ten toes in a matter of minutes, using nothing more than ordinary household objects.
3) Men who are married, engaged, or have been "dating" the same woman for more than three months should disregard these instructions and instead refer to the handbook that their significant other gave them in trade for their own free will.
If at first you don't succeed, get drunk and blow it off for a day or two. Then sober up and try again.
My weekend company was incredibly forgiving about my inconsistent climate control. Friday evening saw eight or nine different people wandering through my house (not counting myself), and nary a complaint among them. At least, none that I could hear over the roar of my attic fan and ceiling fans. And guitar. And piano. And drums. And Hammond. And drinking. The roar of the drinking is always the loudest. It was almost pushing 80 degrees a few times.
Despite my late night liver abuse, I still managed to roll out of bed at a respectable 9 am on Saturday morning. After spending a half hour jawing with a neighbor I hadn't seen in three or four months, I set myself to the task of A/C repairman once again.
After brief breaks listen to my guest's piano playing and inhale some caffeine, we set off to get the CORRECT parts from the parts supplier. After a quick stop at the donut shop, my guest and I hit the parts store, and I asked the first person who offered to help me why they sold me the wrong motor earlier in the week. An employee took my old new motor away, and brought out the exact same model motor again.
"Um, I'm pretty sure I already tried this motor. It failed to hold up under even my most lackluster scrutiny."
"Sir, this is the replacement motor our computer recommends."
"This is a one-quarter horsepower motor."
"Yes sir."
"Just like the last one you sold me?"
"Yes sir."
"The one that failed."
"Uh huh."
"Even though my old General Electric motor was a one-fifth power motor?"
"Sir, that's what my computer tells me you need. Its actually a MORE powerful motor."
"Yes, I can 'do' math."
"Anything else I can help you with sir?"
"Hmm. Apparently not."
I didn't see the point of arguing that MORE power isn't necessarily always an improvement. The cooking directions call for 300° for sixty minutes. I'm going to try 3000° for six minutes. I'll bet my results will be just as good. Or even better, this Ferrari engine will make this go-kart haul some ass. But whatever. I'm no heat and air expert.
I went to another store to get a replacement capacitor, as my faith in the first place had spiralled out of existence. I asked what kind of replacement motor they recommended, and was shown the exact same overpowered motor I'd already seen twice. Fine. Maybe that is the replacement I need. Hmm. That meant the capacitor was probably bad, not the motor. Except I'm certain that the old motor was ruined. The bearings were shot. Which means that BOTH parts had failed originally, and I'd only changed out one. Which still meant that the motor I'd returned was probably fine. Which ultimately meant that I have no clue and therefore no business tinkering around inside my HVAC unit. Yay!
But now I had new replacements for both parts.
By one o'clock, I had replaced the fan and capacitor
By four that afternoon it was below 70 in my house.
By the following morning it was below 60.
My guest finally complained about the cold. "Krëg, I'm afraid to stick my tongue to metal in your house!" I just looked over and arched a brow. "Well, now I'm even MORE afraid to stick my tongue to any metal in your house!" "Why don't we go ahead and extend that fear to all of my property? Is there still some part of my house of which you remain unafraid to apply your tongue? I hope its not the bathroom or garage." "I'm just saying its cold, man." "Yeah, I sure did fix the ever-loving-fuck out of that air conditioner," I replied through chattering teeth.
Quoted cost of repairs = $400 Cost of parts = $115
Saving almost three hundred bucks made me feel even more manly. At least I think it did. Its difficult to tell through the hypothermia.
Before I dive in to the "story" part of this post, I had to share these two photos I found after using the search term "muy macho".
If you don't maximize this photo and read the text, you don't deserve eyeballs.
Muy macho, indeed!
And now that that's out of the way...
In order to simultaneously fulfill my monthly quota of manly actions and indulge my passion for thrift, Wednesday evening I attempted something I'd never done before... "You thought about monster trucks while masturbating onto a pile of junk mail, for inexpensive, fuss-free cleanup?" asked my mocking mental peanut gallery. "Shut up," I mentally replied. "You know I only do that on weekends."
No, instead I did some manly home repair.
My air conditioner is probably twenty five years old. I say 'probably' because there is no marking on the unit that would indicate an install date. I've tried estimating the age by cutting a cross-section and counting the rings, but it turns out that only works with trees and Liberace.
Whatever the case, Ronald Reagan was president when it was installed, and Bill Cosby was probably considered cool. People owned "disk" cameras. I may not have had pubes then. Breakdancing was still popular. In fact, I'm fairly certain that the guy or gal that installed the behemoth was breakdancing while they worked. Possibly in spandex, and with back-up dancers.
Hopefully, you've clued in to what I'm driving at. Namely, my air conditioner is old and the damn thing needs to be replaced. It has a slow freon leak that necessitates a service call every spring, and has chewed through capacitors/solenoids and other parts like a smoker hell bent on quitting goes through Juicy Fruit. But over the five or six years that I've had the "privilege" of owning it, I've learned a few things. One of the first lessons I learned is that my DOGS can (and do) turn off the gas to the furnace due to the terrible location of the unit (its a package unit, so furnace, blower, a-coil, fan, and radiator are all in ONE location). After watching a parade of repairmen tinker with the unit over the seasons, I've also figured out what I can repair myself, and what is best left to the experts. (Very little, and damn near everything else)
But I had three different people tell me that my fan motor was cooked, and one of the was an EXPERT. So in a pouring rainstorm, I went out and unhooked the old motor, took it to a parts store, bought a new one, made all the adjustments, and installed it myself. Again, this was all in the pouring rain.
Net savings = $300 Everything worked perfectly when I finished Wednesday evening, and I had cold air flowing like manna from heaven. I felt like the king stud of home repair.
Yesterday my new fan motor quit running.
It is hot, and I'm expecting company in about an hour. Company that plans to stay until Sunday.
I hope your weekend is better than this king stud.
My parents celebrated their 40th wedding anniversary a few weeks ago. My mother even wore her old wedding dress for the occasion. We did NOT serenade them with songs about that fateful summer.
First up, a classic video of boy meets girl, they both fall in love, and as their passion and feelings grow they grow to understand each other better. Enjoy.
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Ever wonder why you are fat? Answers are HERE. The Clogger and Breakfast Sushi look pretty kick ass. _______________________________
Sometimes mothers have to do some regrettable things to feed their cubs:
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Finally, for your interactive portion of this post, please caption this photo: The winner will receive an all-natural mixture of nitrogen, oxygen, argon, and carbon dioxide.
You have precious little time left to get me a kick-ass birthday present. Better move quickly. Things on my "desired but not acquired" list include: world peace, total enlightenment, end to world starvation, Liv Tyler, reduced pollution, and increased compassion for all the planet's creatures.
Big props to your fellow reader over at SHST. He sent me these über-cool origami dollars.
Pictured: Demonstrable skill
Pop that photo up to big size, and check out the TINY folds he made on some of the feet and noses/trunks. I don't think I could make folds that small without lathroscopic surgery gear.
Seriously, if y'all wanna do something cool in celebration of my birthday (and I know you do), find a local charity you believe in, and give them something nice. Or just give a small wad of cash to the nearest homeless person. They'll know what to do with it.
Like many of you homeowners with lawns have discovered, lawns are a total pain in the prolapsed sphincter a wonderful blessing. Occasionally (or every other day, depending upon your springtime precipitation), lawns need to be mowed. Last Friday was one such event down at the Krëg Ranch.
As I was pulling the mower out of the shed, I noticed that my Saint Bernard had followed me out, and was sniffing around in the overgrown clover nearby. After about three seconds of nose-investigation, he then flopped over onto his side and began rubbing his body into the clover. He continued, rolling over onto his back, with all four legs in the air, but still grinding his body into the clover. He concluded the puppy-like display of happiness by flipping to his other side and wriggling around some more.
That's cute, I thought, he still has a puppy's heart and despite his old age, he really just want's to frolic in the clover until h ... wait. What's going on?
He had completed his little happy "dance" and was now standing up and sniffing the ground again. In the EXACT same spot as before. Odd. My subconcious floated the theory that perhaps there was something on the ground there.
Oh, you little son of a ... If you're rolling around in your own fecal matter I'm going to g...
My thoughts evaporated as I shooed the dog away and began looking for the offending turd that he had been trying to body-slam.
Oh THERE it is ... No, wait. That's not dog poo. What the fu¢k IS that?!?!
After I fetched a good poking stick, and shooed the dog away again, I began my CSI-like investigation of the clover.
"Oh you nasty, NASTY fu¢ker! You're getting a bath first thing tomorrow. And sleeping outside tonight!"
I'm not sure (I really couldn't tell) what creature originally housed them, but my Saint Bernard had been rolling around in a tiny pile of half-eaten critter guts. I could see small intestine and what I believe to be a singular kidney or a liver. I assume all the rest of the evidence was eaten.
The next morning, I discovered that no amount of dog shampoo can wash away some mental images.
So, I'm working my way through my iPod, putting together a new playlist, and I keep finding more and more artists that I inadvertently deleted a few weeks back. Traveling Willburys, Tom Waits, The Boss, Bob Dylan, Townes Van Zandt, Lenny Kravitz, M. Ward, Violent Femmes, Leadbelly, Pixies... The list goes on and on.
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I found out today that Jimmy Strader (a local musician) died. He passed on earlier this month. I used to catch him with the rest of The Lifers at 6C on Sunday evenings. No cover and cheap drinks to sit and listen to a sh!t-kickin' little blues band. It was always a great way to wrap up a weekend.
For some reason there never were more than ten or eleven people in that bar, no matter what the line up.
Anyhow, Mr. Strader (the big guy in the middle) will be missed.
Interesting side note: This video was shot while I was at this bar. I had brought a date, and we were just kicking off what ended up being the WORST date I've ever experienced.
One of your fellow readers mentioned to me that today was her birthday. So the image below is my birthday gift to her. And it truly is a thoughtful gift, since we all get to enjoy it together and discuss the unholy feelings it instills in our souls.
Don't say I never got you anything. Because I got you horrible nightmares.
I have a great (read: lame) story about midget strippers and birthdays, but that tale will have to wait for another post.
