We don't always drink shots and have chips and salsa for dinner on Fridays, but...
Oh wait - yes we do! And when we do, we take turns giving a short toast, with each shot. Notes: 1) We are not toastmasters. 2) We take tiny shots, so coming up with new toasts - especially now that neither of us works in a Vortex of Doom, anymore - can be problematic.
We start small.
[Maris]: To having survived this week - and to surviving this weekEND.
Joe: To paydays!
[M]: To being rescued and returned to our homeworld.
Joe: Yes! And to not leaving a paper trail.
[M]: To Chips-and-Salsa Friday nights.
Joe: Here's to the Garbage Pail Kids (they never lie) - Here's to Transformers, 'cause there's more than meets the eye!
[M]: All shots, all the time!
Joe: Here's to heat pumps.
[M]: TOAST! (Raisin toast, especially)
Joe: To the Patron Spirits Company, makers of the best-tasting rum I've ever had. They make a nice tequila, too.
[M]: To our dinner NOT being made of goat chops, asafoetida, petite French lentils, brownie edges, used tea bags, and quince paste.
Joe: To drinking enough to come up with better toasts - or buttered toast.
[M]: Mmmm... raisin toast?
Joe: Of course. Or, you know, French.
[M]: Yay!
Joe: Your turn.
[M]: Here's to the NL and AL managers of the year (our very own Matt Williams and Buck Showalter).
Joe: To the humans who managed to land a washing-machine-size robot on the surface of a comet, 300 million miles away, after a 9-year flight through space.
[M]: To the Star Trek transporter!
Joe: Here's to finding and/or remembering that ass-hattery quote...
Postscript: We can do so much better. So here's to the fact that so few people will see this, before we have a chance to redo it.
Friday, November 14, 2014
Thursday, November 13, 2014
8th-grade Elevator Pitch: The Cosmos Annihilation Matrix
As I remember it...
It wasn't technically an elevator pitch, because we weren't in an elevator. Also, I was fourteen years old, and had no concept of what a "pitch" was - let alone the elevator version of one. Still, that's what it was.
I was waiting in line at the Air and Space Museum in Washington, DC, with my mother and my younger brother, who were busy negotiating the dining and/or treats in our future. We were queued up to see "To Fly," on the 5-story-high movie screen that would later be called "IMAX." The gentleman in line behind us had overheard our prior conversation about Atari games - and how we would improve them. He asked me to describe in two minutes what I would put into a game if I were in charge.
[Blogger's note: It was 1981 so, you know, cut me some slack.]
"In my game, you're a baby owl, so you can't fly, but you have roller skates, but if you get hit, you can lose them, but you can get them back if you eat enough mice from the barns along the way, and..."
The man, who seemed to me to be about 99 years old, when in fact he was probably 28, interrupted. "Wait. Is this a first-person shooter, or is it a scroller?"
"It's both," I said. "When you're the baby owl, it scrolls right-to-left, but later, when you learn to fly, and when you fight the mother ships, it's first-person."
"Do you have inanimate obstacles, active enemies, or both?"
"Both. If you hit a tree branch, or a car, or a squirrel's tail, you lose energy, and if you lose too much energy, you go extinct. Also, there are theater majors with a creative writing minor, and they try to grab you and use you as a prop for their soliloquies. They squeeze you over-dramatically and kill you 'cause your eyes pop out. Plus, there are these cats that are, like, part cat and part over-ripe plantain, and they're all named TJ, and they're friendly at first, but eventually, if you don't buy a universal life policy from them, they turn sort of passive-aggressively hostile, and they start to subtly call your manhood into question, until eventually, the only way to get rid of them is to hold down the Fire button and waggle the joystick left and right as fast as you can. Then, your owl says, 'Fuck off, TJ,' and it works, but your owl feels bad that it had to be rude, and you lose more energy points. But then, after a few seconds, your owlet starts to resent TJ even more, for putting it in the position where it had to resort to telling him to fuck off, and it chases the ghost of TJ off the screen, throwing stuff at him. There's a cutaway instant-replay of this action, where you can clearly see that what your owl is throwing is poop - and not owl poop, if you know what I mean..."
"Wait. How old are you, kid?" the stranger asks.
"Fourteen," I say, "Why? It's okay for me to say the F-word, if it's in the gameplay description."
"No, no - I'm okay with the language. I'm just wondering how you're going to get simulated speech from an 8-bit processor."
"A what?"
"An 8-bit processor. Some of the new arcade consoles have 16-bit chips, but if you're talking about your little Atari set at home..."
I held up a confident, let me finish hand. "Ah, I'm not worried about that. If the voice can't be emulated, I'll just have a dialogue bubble pop up above the owl."
"Okay. So, what's the goal? Is it just multi-level, never-ending, or is there a boss villain - an end?"
I hadn't thought of that. I said, "I thought of that, sir. There's a giant robotic alien guy at the end, and he looks like Joan Lunden and R2D2 had a baby - all gleaming blue and white and metal, but with a cute blonde bob, and thin, professional, no-nonsense on-air lips. He fires dirt missiles and intestine-shattering jokes that can't be unheard, plus some deep-fried bowling shoe guacamole balls, and reaches out with long, vector-graphics tentacles and grabs you as you try to dodge the projectiles. He pulls you into his freakish plastic mandibles and eats you, and you lose."
"And?" the man said, shuffling forward as we began our march into the massive theater.
"And what? Game over."
"How do you win?"
I tried to be polite, but I could feel my brow furrowing into its What are you - stupid? shape. "You don't," I said, matter-of-factly.
"It's un-winable?"
"Correct."
"What are you calling this thing?"
"It's called The Cosmos Annihilation Matrix, because if you don't collect all the coat buttons in the coat-button phase, everything that is, or ever was, or ever will be... winks out of existence in one fell scream of ultimate horror and suffering."
"What? No extra lives?"
"Nope. Finito."
"Wait - what coat-button phase? You must have skipped that part," the man said, somewhat bemused.
"That's 'cause I just thought of it. I realized that there was no transaction education element, and our future capitalists really need that, you know?"
"Yes. I'm fully aware of that. Anyway, you had me until you said 'vector graphics,' kid. You can't do vector graphics on a regular TV. No sale."
"Okay." I pretended not to be heartbroken.
"Maybe you should think about a career in accounting or something."
"Um... okay..." Soul... crushed.
"Enjoy the movie!"
It wasn't technically an elevator pitch, because we weren't in an elevator. Also, I was fourteen years old, and had no concept of what a "pitch" was - let alone the elevator version of one. Still, that's what it was.
I was waiting in line at the Air and Space Museum in Washington, DC, with my mother and my younger brother, who were busy negotiating the dining and/or treats in our future. We were queued up to see "To Fly," on the 5-story-high movie screen that would later be called "IMAX." The gentleman in line behind us had overheard our prior conversation about Atari games - and how we would improve them. He asked me to describe in two minutes what I would put into a game if I were in charge.
[Blogger's note: It was 1981 so, you know, cut me some slack.]
"In my game, you're a baby owl, so you can't fly, but you have roller skates, but if you get hit, you can lose them, but you can get them back if you eat enough mice from the barns along the way, and..."
The man, who seemed to me to be about 99 years old, when in fact he was probably 28, interrupted. "Wait. Is this a first-person shooter, or is it a scroller?"
"It's both," I said. "When you're the baby owl, it scrolls right-to-left, but later, when you learn to fly, and when you fight the mother ships, it's first-person."
"Do you have inanimate obstacles, active enemies, or both?"
"Both. If you hit a tree branch, or a car, or a squirrel's tail, you lose energy, and if you lose too much energy, you go extinct. Also, there are theater majors with a creative writing minor, and they try to grab you and use you as a prop for their soliloquies. They squeeze you over-dramatically and kill you 'cause your eyes pop out. Plus, there are these cats that are, like, part cat and part over-ripe plantain, and they're all named TJ, and they're friendly at first, but eventually, if you don't buy a universal life policy from them, they turn sort of passive-aggressively hostile, and they start to subtly call your manhood into question, until eventually, the only way to get rid of them is to hold down the Fire button and waggle the joystick left and right as fast as you can. Then, your owl says, 'Fuck off, TJ,' and it works, but your owl feels bad that it had to be rude, and you lose more energy points. But then, after a few seconds, your owlet starts to resent TJ even more, for putting it in the position where it had to resort to telling him to fuck off, and it chases the ghost of TJ off the screen, throwing stuff at him. There's a cutaway instant-replay of this action, where you can clearly see that what your owl is throwing is poop - and not owl poop, if you know what I mean..."
"Wait. How old are you, kid?" the stranger asks.
"Fourteen," I say, "Why? It's okay for me to say the F-word, if it's in the gameplay description."
"No, no - I'm okay with the language. I'm just wondering how you're going to get simulated speech from an 8-bit processor."
"A what?"
"An 8-bit processor. Some of the new arcade consoles have 16-bit chips, but if you're talking about your little Atari set at home..."
I held up a confident, let me finish hand. "Ah, I'm not worried about that. If the voice can't be emulated, I'll just have a dialogue bubble pop up above the owl."
"Okay. So, what's the goal? Is it just multi-level, never-ending, or is there a boss villain - an end?"
I hadn't thought of that. I said, "I thought of that, sir. There's a giant robotic alien guy at the end, and he looks like Joan Lunden and R2D2 had a baby - all gleaming blue and white and metal, but with a cute blonde bob, and thin, professional, no-nonsense on-air lips. He fires dirt missiles and intestine-shattering jokes that can't be unheard, plus some deep-fried bowling shoe guacamole balls, and reaches out with long, vector-graphics tentacles and grabs you as you try to dodge the projectiles. He pulls you into his freakish plastic mandibles and eats you, and you lose."
"And?" the man said, shuffling forward as we began our march into the massive theater.
"And what? Game over."
"How do you win?"
I tried to be polite, but I could feel my brow furrowing into its What are you - stupid? shape. "You don't," I said, matter-of-factly.
"It's un-winable?"
"Correct."
"What are you calling this thing?"
"It's called The Cosmos Annihilation Matrix, because if you don't collect all the coat buttons in the coat-button phase, everything that is, or ever was, or ever will be... winks out of existence in one fell scream of ultimate horror and suffering."
"What? No extra lives?"
"Nope. Finito."
"Wait - what coat-button phase? You must have skipped that part," the man said, somewhat bemused.
"That's 'cause I just thought of it. I realized that there was no transaction education element, and our future capitalists really need that, you know?"
"Yes. I'm fully aware of that. Anyway, you had me until you said 'vector graphics,' kid. You can't do vector graphics on a regular TV. No sale."
"Okay." I pretended not to be heartbroken.
"Maybe you should think about a career in accounting or something."
"Um... okay..." Soul... crushed.
"Enjoy the movie!"
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
On Our Planet...
It has been established that my wife and I are not of this earth. We fell through an unidentified portal (wormhole, time-uterus, quasar-crack, other?) to this pretty - but ridiculous - place in the mid-to-late-sixties, and have yet to find our way back. I once asked [Maris] about our home world, just to be sure that my memories were still intact.
Realistically, I should have stopped with the first answer I got from my [M]...
On our planet, we have magical powers.
That, as previously indicated, is where I should have stopped. It is, in fact, not where I stopped.
On our planet, there is no one we don't like.
It never rains or snows, and when it sleets, it sleets amethysts.
We have unlimited books. (obviously, that one's [M]'s)
Our planet is populated only by Ricky Gervais, Ellen DeGeneres, and Steve Martin (and maybe Leon Redbone and Tress MacNeille) - and they love us.
On our planet, a train comes whenever you approach a railroad crossing - and the power is always a dog's breakfast of history.
On our planet, food has only the calories you need, and junk food is nutritious.
Also, no one cuts in line - car or no car.
On our planet, Starbursts - unwrapped - original flavors, with lots of strawberry - grow like dandelions. Also Skittles - but the apple flavor was never invented.
Movies on our planet: Murder gets an X rating, while sex is PG (and Ps actually exercise their G).
On our planet, [Maris] gets magical powers. I think we've pretty much established that, but there it is. Again.
On our planet, you can continue "Space Harrier" until the end - no extra quarters required.
On our planet, when you say "gigitty," everyone knows exactly what you mean, and responds in kind.
On our planet, all animated movies are made by Pixar.
"[M] can fy flighter jets as fun."
On our planet, our teams always win, while the yankees and braves... don't exist. Nor do the cowboys, or duke.
On our planet, Thanksgiving comes four times a year, and when we host, we have invisible spirits who do all the cooking and cleaning.
Finally, and perhaps most-importantly, on our planet, all pandas and/or lighthouses have the perfect light, and are devoid of all people.
There. It's a start. Hopefully, with deeper hypnosis and temporal regenerative regression therapy, we can uncover more...
This time, I couldn't bring myself to attempt the *phrase* prompt from my Studio30Plus buddy Kirsten,so I used her "amethysts," from "Inside the Chamber," instead. I hope you like it. I'm in the middle of attempting to produce 30 blog posts in 30 days. Not an excuse - just an explanation. Bear with me...
Realistically, I should have stopped with the first answer I got from my [M]...
On our planet, we have magical powers.
That, as previously indicated, is where I should have stopped. It is, in fact, not where I stopped.
On our planet, there is no one we don't like.
It never rains or snows, and when it sleets, it sleets amethysts.
We have unlimited books. (obviously, that one's [M]'s)
Our planet is populated only by Ricky Gervais, Ellen DeGeneres, and Steve Martin (and maybe Leon Redbone and Tress MacNeille) - and they love us.
On our planet, a train comes whenever you approach a railroad crossing - and the power is always a dog's breakfast of history.
On our planet, food has only the calories you need, and junk food is nutritious.
Also, no one cuts in line - car or no car.
On our planet, Starbursts - unwrapped - original flavors, with lots of strawberry - grow like dandelions. Also Skittles - but the apple flavor was never invented.
Movies on our planet: Murder gets an X rating, while sex is PG (and Ps actually exercise their G).
On our planet, [Maris] gets magical powers. I think we've pretty much established that, but there it is. Again.
On our planet, you can continue "Space Harrier" until the end - no extra quarters required.
On our planet, when you say "gigitty," everyone knows exactly what you mean, and responds in kind.
On our planet, all animated movies are made by Pixar.
"[M] can fy flighter jets as fun."
On our planet, our teams always win, while the yankees and braves... don't exist. Nor do the cowboys, or duke.
On our planet, Thanksgiving comes four times a year, and when we host, we have invisible spirits who do all the cooking and cleaning.
Finally, and perhaps most-importantly, on our planet, all pandas and/or lighthouses have the perfect light, and are devoid of all people.
 |
| Aw, come on! What now? Get out of my shot - I've got waves breaking and clouds rolling in... |
There. It's a start. Hopefully, with deeper hypnosis and temporal regenerative regression therapy, we can uncover more...
This time, I couldn't bring myself to attempt the *phrase* prompt from my Studio30Plus buddy Kirsten,so I used her "amethysts," from "Inside the Chamber," instead. I hope you like it. I'm in the middle of attempting to produce 30 blog posts in 30 days. Not an excuse - just an explanation. Bear with me...
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
An Armistice Day Wish From Rear Admiral JF Grease Pencil
Rear Admiral JF Grease Pencil never served in the military. His father was a US Navy Captain who served - and died - during the Great War. James Franklin "JF" Happ was born in Annapolis, Maryland within a few seconds of the official 11/11/18 armistice - the end of the first world war. His mother gave JF the nickname "Rear Admiral" during the boy's toilet training.
Through his formative years, sharing his birthday with Armistice Day, and growing up with the ghost of a brave father he never met, JF learned a deep and abiding respect for the uniform and those who wore it. JF's mother taught him to thank his friends' fathers for their service, and he did - long before he even knew what that meant.
So in 1932, when his mother was killed in an owlery collapse, and fourteen-year old JF hit the road with his hobo uncle, he took his appreciation for his country's veterans with him. Every November 11th, he made sure he found his way to the war veterans or Armistice Day memorial of the nearest town, said a prayer, and left a note and some of his best lint. He did this every year from 1932 until 1940, when he was crushed to death under a load of scrap metal while sleeping in an open gondola near Atlanta.
One of these notes survives, and is on display in the National Hobo Museum on the National Mall in Washington, DC - or it will be, if I can ever get the Smithsonian people to answer my emails:
Dear Veterans of America's wars,
I never knew my father. I've been told that he was very brave, and I've met some of the men who served with him, and they cry when they talk about him, so I suppose he was a special man. I knew some kids in school whose dads also never came home. It's very sad.
Now, I have some wishes. On this Armistice Day of 1939, I wish my father were here, so that I might shake his hand and say thank you. I wish I could thank everyone on his ship - in fact, everyone who fought in the war to end all wars.
More than that, I wish you didn't have to do what you do. I wish you didn't have to go where you go. I wish with all my heart that my country had no use whatsoever for your sacrifice and your set of skills. But the simple fact is that you are needed - you go and you do and you sacrifice because it is necessary.
One of my dad's men once told me that most of them can't stand being called heroic - or even brave - so I'll just say, as I do every year...
Thank you all.
Respectfully,
Hobo Rear Admiral JF Grease Pencil
Through his formative years, sharing his birthday with Armistice Day, and growing up with the ghost of a brave father he never met, JF learned a deep and abiding respect for the uniform and those who wore it. JF's mother taught him to thank his friends' fathers for their service, and he did - long before he even knew what that meant.
So in 1932, when his mother was killed in an owlery collapse, and fourteen-year old JF hit the road with his hobo uncle, he took his appreciation for his country's veterans with him. Every November 11th, he made sure he found his way to the war veterans or Armistice Day memorial of the nearest town, said a prayer, and left a note and some of his best lint. He did this every year from 1932 until 1940, when he was crushed to death under a load of scrap metal while sleeping in an open gondola near Atlanta.
One of these notes survives, and is on display in the National Hobo Museum on the National Mall in Washington, DC - or it will be, if I can ever get the Smithsonian people to answer my emails:
Dear Veterans of America's wars,
I never knew my father. I've been told that he was very brave, and I've met some of the men who served with him, and they cry when they talk about him, so I suppose he was a special man. I knew some kids in school whose dads also never came home. It's very sad.
Now, I have some wishes. On this Armistice Day of 1939, I wish my father were here, so that I might shake his hand and say thank you. I wish I could thank everyone on his ship - in fact, everyone who fought in the war to end all wars.
More than that, I wish you didn't have to do what you do. I wish you didn't have to go where you go. I wish with all my heart that my country had no use whatsoever for your sacrifice and your set of skills. But the simple fact is that you are needed - you go and you do and you sacrifice because it is necessary.
One of my dad's men once told me that most of them can't stand being called heroic - or even brave - so I'll just say, as I do every year...
Thank you all.
Respectfully,
Hobo Rear Admiral JF Grease Pencil
 |
| Yes, I know that's a schooner. I like the flag on it. |
Monday, November 10, 2014
That Thankfulness Thing 2014 - First of Three Bite-size Pieces
Remember a couple of years ago, when a lot of people spent the month of November sharing via social media one thing per day for which they were thankful? And remember how I did all 30 of mine at once, via blog post, in 2012, and again (a day late) in 2013? No? That's okay. I don't remember what song my iPod finished playing 22 seconds ago.
Anyway, those posts were way too long for today's short attention spans, so-- hey? HEY! OVER HERE! (snaps fingers)... Geez. I'm trying to help! This year, I'll post my list in three MUCH more reasonably-sized parts, so that you, dear reader, can get back to your pintstergram and skype-chat and whatever this year's Candy Crush is. See - aren't I nice? Well, sure I am. You have a bad attitude, today. Wait - I didn't mean that. You're very busy - I know.
So let's do this! This year, I find myself especially thankful for...
1. Hypnotoad. All glory to the Hypnotoad... And to everyone involved in any aspect of the production of "Futurama." It was a most skillfully-crafted show, and it was unapologetically nerdy - even before that was trendy.
2. Robin Williams. Versatile, fun, gifted, and flawed - just like the rest of us, only more so.
3. Neil deGrasse Tyson, Bill Nye, and Carl Sagan - bridging the gap between us and science. Dr. Sagan is irreplaceable, of course, but Nye and Tyson are engaging and smart and witty, and they're doing an admirable job, despite the astonishing power of the willful ignorance that stands in their way.
4. Two words: Red Stapler.
5. The fact that, as she did in November 2012, my old (snow) car surprised me and the DMV by once again passing her emissions test.
6. Beach webcams. Especially THIS ONE.
7. Game Sevens - especially when the yankees and braves are not involved. In the sports world, it doesn't get much more dramatic than a game seven. Unless, of course, it's a best-of-nine series, in which case WOWEE GAME NINE!!
8. Lizards. They HATE me, but I still think they're groovy.
9. My office (cubicle) toy corner...
10. The Internet Arcade! Free, old-timey (1980s is old-timey) arcade machine emulator software you can run right in your browser. I'm wallowing in nostalgia, here!
And with that, Bite #1 is complete. Will Lionel trains finally make the list, this year? Tune in on the 20th for Part Two, to find out! Seriously. Tune in. Don't make me beg. I'll be thankful for not having to beg, maybe...
Anyway, those posts were way too long for today's short attention spans, so-- hey? HEY! OVER HERE! (snaps fingers)... Geez. I'm trying to help! This year, I'll post my list in three MUCH more reasonably-sized parts, so that you, dear reader, can get back to your pintstergram and skype-chat and whatever this year's Candy Crush is. See - aren't I nice? Well, sure I am. You have a bad attitude, today. Wait - I didn't mean that. You're very busy - I know.
So let's do this! This year, I find myself especially thankful for...
1. Hypnotoad. All glory to the Hypnotoad... And to everyone involved in any aspect of the production of "Futurama." It was a most skillfully-crafted show, and it was unapologetically nerdy - even before that was trendy.
 |
| All Glory to the Hypnotoad... |
2. Robin Williams. Versatile, fun, gifted, and flawed - just like the rest of us, only more so.
3. Neil deGrasse Tyson, Bill Nye, and Carl Sagan - bridging the gap between us and science. Dr. Sagan is irreplaceable, of course, but Nye and Tyson are engaging and smart and witty, and they're doing an admirable job, despite the astonishing power of the willful ignorance that stands in their way.
4. Two words: Red Stapler.
5. The fact that, as she did in November 2012, my old (snow) car surprised me and the DMV by once again passing her emissions test.
6. Beach webcams. Especially THIS ONE.
7. Game Sevens - especially when the yankees and braves are not involved. In the sports world, it doesn't get much more dramatic than a game seven. Unless, of course, it's a best-of-nine series, in which case WOWEE GAME NINE!!
8. Lizards. They HATE me, but I still think they're groovy.
9. My office (cubicle) toy corner...
 |
| Oh, the personal history on that shelf. |
10. The Internet Arcade! Free, old-timey (1980s is old-timey) arcade machine emulator software you can run right in your browser. I'm wallowing in nostalgia, here!
And with that, Bite #1 is complete. Will Lionel trains finally make the list, this year? Tune in on the 20th for Part Two, to find out! Seriously. Tune in. Don't make me beg. I'll be thankful for not having to beg, maybe...
Sunday, November 9, 2014
Water Under The Wall -or- Houseapalooza 2014
Shit happens.
On July 22nd, as I rolled into the homestretch of Camp NaNoWriMo, I came home from work, went to the back door to look for the rabbit that had been visiting our backyard for much of the summer, and squished. The carpet in our dining room was saturated with water that had leaked from our neighbors' washing machine.
[Maris] and I had been thinking about replacing the carpeting in our tiny townhouse - and we knew that its cheap, pre-2001 paint had long ago passed the end of its useful life - but we also happen to be incredible procrastinators, so we were in no way prepared to act on either of these home improvements. And yet...
In a fit of pique, I ripped up the damaged part of the carpeting, knowing that this would spur us to action. And it worked. Eventually. Carpet was ordered, a painter was hired, and because [M] and I don't do anything half-assed, new blinds, closet doors, and bathroom and door hardware were selected.
We have no useable attic, and no basement, so we pretty much had to move out, for the duration of the work...
We spent more nights than I care to recall in this room, at our local Extended Stay America. I don't recommend doing this at any time, ever. For any reason. I mean, we've stayed in worse places, but...
Meanwhile, back home...
Then...
After another weekend of more work than either of us like to do to a house - ever - we lived there, again. Our stuff (apart from the things we moved out to the trash and/or recycling and/or Goodwill) was back where it belonged. Our walls had become untouchably beautiful - as had the floors and most everything else. It pained us to hammer that first picture hook.
We now float through the house like ghosts, physically willing everything to remain unblemished, like teenagers with brand-new sneakers. It's still technically not much of a house, and sure, it's still at least $100K under water, but it's SO MUCH nicer. I figure, if we're stuck here, we might as well like it as much as possible.
And we do.
(These pics don't really do justice to the improvement over the prior condition, but trust me...)
On July 22nd, as I rolled into the homestretch of Camp NaNoWriMo, I came home from work, went to the back door to look for the rabbit that had been visiting our backyard for much of the summer, and squished. The carpet in our dining room was saturated with water that had leaked from our neighbors' washing machine.
[Maris] and I had been thinking about replacing the carpeting in our tiny townhouse - and we knew that its cheap, pre-2001 paint had long ago passed the end of its useful life - but we also happen to be incredible procrastinators, so we were in no way prepared to act on either of these home improvements. And yet...
 | |
| Ew... |
We have no useable attic, and no basement, so we pretty much had to move out, for the duration of the work...
.JPG) |
| You have no idea how many paperbacks fit into those shelves. |
We spent more nights than I care to recall in this room, at our local Extended Stay America. I don't recommend doing this at any time, ever. For any reason. I mean, we've stayed in worse places, but...
.JPG) | |
| And this view omits the TV with a 1970s-grade channel selection. |
Meanwhile, back home...
.JPG) |
| Blurry is better, for this one. |
Then...
.JPG) | ||
| Even the mighty iPhone and natural light fail to do justice to the improvement. |
After another weekend of more work than either of us like to do to a house - ever - we lived there, again. Our stuff (apart from the things we moved out to the trash and/or recycling and/or Goodwill) was back where it belonged. Our walls had become untouchably beautiful - as had the floors and most everything else. It pained us to hammer that first picture hook.
.JPG) |
| Same wall, different day. Oh, and Halloween! And don't knock the 25-year old Ikea dresser. If that thing could talk... |
We now float through the house like ghosts, physically willing everything to remain unblemished, like teenagers with brand-new sneakers. It's still technically not much of a house, and sure, it's still at least $100K under water, but it's SO MUCH nicer. I figure, if we're stuck here, we might as well like it as much as possible.
And we do.
.JPG) |
| All's well that ends well. |
(These pics don't really do justice to the improvement over the prior condition, but trust me...)
Saturday, November 8, 2014
1983
The favorite year. Most people have one. It usually occurs in one's late teens or early twenties, and involves some sort of coming-of-age event, like a first job, first love, first sexual encounter, first drug experimentation, first out-of-body experience, first murder, first space flight, first arrest and so on. For some, it comes later, and centers around becoming a parent. For a few, the favorite year comes late in life - retirement, grandchildren, enlightenment, transcendence.
I have a lot of favorite years, and I'd love to bore you with tales of 1978, 1988, 1996, and 2000 - but I won't. Tonight, let's take a quick peek at 1983, because really, it was all downhill from there, in so many ways.
I was fifteen when the year began, and younger than my years, so my world was an amalgam of music, movies, video games, and a few TV shows... Oh, and my first job.
First, there was snow. We don't get a lot of snow, in the DC area, but in February of '83, we got this:
I know that by now, if you've read what I have to say about winter, you know that I am not a fan. I hate snow - because I'm an adult, now. In 1983, however, it was pure white fluffy frozen MAGIC. Anyway...
Television. I had outgrown "Little House On The Prairie," and "Automan" proved to be a giant lie - with trailers that deliberately made it look like "TRON," but a show that was beyond terrible. I was too young to care about "Dynasty," and even at fifteen-going-on sixteen, I could not wait for "M*A*S*H" to just end, already. Also, I really thought "Just Our Luck" and "Mr. Smith" had a chance, but they were dead on arrival. But there were bright spots. "Taxi" showed promise, "Cheers" was good, and "V" did not disappoint, but in early '83, we obtained our first VCR, and suddenly it was MOVIES that we wanted on our TV screen.
"Cujo" was, as almost all big-screen adaptations of Stephen King stories are, a gigantic disappointment, but "War Games," "Risky Business," "Flashdance," "Monty Python's The Meaning of Life," "The Outsiders," "Return of The Jedi," "Vacation," "Scarface," and -helLO- "A Christmas Story?" It was not a bad year. Not enough? How about "Eddie and The Cruisers," "The House On Sorority Row," and "Krull?" Yeah - top that, 1984.
Of course, at 15-16 years old, I couldn't help but be ruled by music. Whether it was on the turntable of our first real component stereo system, on my first boom-box, or in the too-powerful headphones of my first-generation FM Walkman, it was one of the driving forces behind my adolescent psyche.
There's entirely too much music to even begin to attempt to think about doing justice to, here. Rest assured, if Bowie said "Let's Dance," we danced. If the Plimsouls were "A Million Miles Away," so were we. When the Stray Cats were "Sexy and 17," and demanded that we "Rock This Town," we did. Thomas Dolby couldn't find "One of Our Submarines," Kajagoogoo was "Too Shy," Peter Schilling hijacked "Major Tom," and Men At Work said it was all "Overkill," and we were all like, "I'll Tumble For Ya," it's just "The Politics of Dancing -" no, "Don't Change" "My Ever-changing Moods -" "Goodbye to You."
I'll be brief on the video games, too. I mean, it's not like anyone remembers Congo Bongo, Tapper, Blaster, Mappy, or Gyruss, right? Everyone's all about Pac Man, Ms. Pac Man, and Q*Bert, blah blah blah. But does anyone want to join me in a rousing adventure in Mr. Do's Castle, or a round of Crossbow, or the Journey (as in, the band) video game travesty, disaster, and money-grab? No. You're all off playing Missile Command, or Centipede. Harrumph.
Now, about that first job. In the late summer of 1983, I graduated from delivering newspapers to making bad pizza, cleaning up after bad pizza-eaters, and entertaining bad pizza-eating children - at Chuck E. Cheese's Pizza Time Theatre, in Rockville, Maryland. Yes, they actually spelled "theatre" that way. Anyway - click on that link, read that story, and you'll get a feel for why 1983 was special.
That's about it, really - although I would appreciate a little credit from you sports-haters, for not mentioning the Redskins' Superbowl victory or the Orioles' World Series victory. You're welcome.
Anyway. This post-a-day thing is already dragging a bit, but bear with me. There's much for which we will be THANKFUL, as well as the highly-anticipated by no one TWO-HUNDREDTH POST! I know! The all-caps should arouse some excitement. No? That's okay. Just don't leave me. Yet.
Please?
I have a lot of favorite years, and I'd love to bore you with tales of 1978, 1988, 1996, and 2000 - but I won't. Tonight, let's take a quick peek at 1983, because really, it was all downhill from there, in so many ways.
I was fifteen when the year began, and younger than my years, so my world was an amalgam of music, movies, video games, and a few TV shows... Oh, and my first job.
First, there was snow. We don't get a lot of snow, in the DC area, but in February of '83, we got this:
 |
| Thirty Inches of White Sky-excrement |
Television. I had outgrown "Little House On The Prairie," and "Automan" proved to be a giant lie - with trailers that deliberately made it look like "TRON," but a show that was beyond terrible. I was too young to care about "Dynasty," and even at fifteen-going-on sixteen, I could not wait for "M*A*S*H" to just end, already. Also, I really thought "Just Our Luck" and "Mr. Smith" had a chance, but they were dead on arrival. But there were bright spots. "Taxi" showed promise, "Cheers" was good, and "V" did not disappoint, but in early '83, we obtained our first VCR, and suddenly it was MOVIES that we wanted on our TV screen.
"Cujo" was, as almost all big-screen adaptations of Stephen King stories are, a gigantic disappointment, but "War Games," "Risky Business," "Flashdance," "Monty Python's The Meaning of Life," "The Outsiders," "Return of The Jedi," "Vacation," "Scarface," and -helLO- "A Christmas Story?" It was not a bad year. Not enough? How about "Eddie and The Cruisers," "The House On Sorority Row," and "Krull?" Yeah - top that, 1984.
Of course, at 15-16 years old, I couldn't help but be ruled by music. Whether it was on the turntable of our first real component stereo system, on my first boom-box, or in the too-powerful headphones of my first-generation FM Walkman, it was one of the driving forces behind my adolescent psyche.
There's entirely too much music to even begin to attempt to think about doing justice to, here. Rest assured, if Bowie said "Let's Dance," we danced. If the Plimsouls were "A Million Miles Away," so were we. When the Stray Cats were "Sexy and 17," and demanded that we "Rock This Town," we did. Thomas Dolby couldn't find "One of Our Submarines," Kajagoogoo was "Too Shy," Peter Schilling hijacked "Major Tom," and Men At Work said it was all "Overkill," and we were all like, "I'll Tumble For Ya," it's just "The Politics of Dancing -" no, "Don't Change" "My Ever-changing Moods -" "Goodbye to You."
I'll be brief on the video games, too. I mean, it's not like anyone remembers Congo Bongo, Tapper, Blaster, Mappy, or Gyruss, right? Everyone's all about Pac Man, Ms. Pac Man, and Q*Bert, blah blah blah. But does anyone want to join me in a rousing adventure in Mr. Do's Castle, or a round of Crossbow, or the Journey (as in, the band) video game travesty, disaster, and money-grab? No. You're all off playing Missile Command, or Centipede. Harrumph.
Now, about that first job. In the late summer of 1983, I graduated from delivering newspapers to making bad pizza, cleaning up after bad pizza-eaters, and entertaining bad pizza-eating children - at Chuck E. Cheese's Pizza Time Theatre, in Rockville, Maryland. Yes, they actually spelled "theatre" that way. Anyway - click on that link, read that story, and you'll get a feel for why 1983 was special.
That's about it, really - although I would appreciate a little credit from you sports-haters, for not mentioning the Redskins' Superbowl victory or the Orioles' World Series victory. You're welcome.
Anyway. This post-a-day thing is already dragging a bit, but bear with me. There's much for which we will be THANKFUL, as well as the highly-anticipated by no one TWO-HUNDREDTH POST! I know! The all-caps should arouse some excitement. No? That's okay. Just don't leave me. Yet.
Please?
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