I've never really been one for honking the horn while I'm driving. I find the noise intrusive, and perhaps my original sin roots lead me to always believe that any honk is intended for me. I always look around certain that I've broken some obscure traffic code and am being reprimanded for my oversight. Thus, I'm not much of a honker myself. But lately, lately I've taken to honking. We own a small hybrid vehicle so the honk is more of a high-pitched squeak, but I've found that if you really lay into the horn another driver might cock his head for a moment, as if listening for the sound of his cell phone before dismissing the miserly honk and continuing on about his merry way.
And I'm certain that this whole complex honk, and I'm at fault thing has to do with all sorts of unresolved childhood issues, but I'm not really interested in that. I just wonder, when someone honks, do most people assume that they were at fault?
My second response to a honk is to then become angry. Especially if I've actually done something to warrant the honk.
S: Well you did cut him off
M: He should have anticipated that I'd cut him off. It was clear that I'm having a bad day.
M: I'm new to this city, the least that jerk could do is be friendly.
M: Really, all that honking is doing is almost causing an accident because we're all turning around to see what caused it.
I also respond to honking, even when I'm at fault, by honking back. Nothing gives me greater satisfacation than responding to a warranted honk than an unjustified response of my own. Again, I know, it probably has to do with Adamic roots, the apple and all, but I enjoy reminding people that even though I was at fault they might also have been at fault at some point in their driving careers. I consider the return honk to be like when Christ says, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone." Except the stone is a honk and no one sins when they drive, just ask them.
On our way to Delaware this evening I was passed by a large (read hickish) truck on the shoulder while a person was taking a left in front of me. If I hadn't checked my rear-view I would have been slammed into by this truck careening around the corner. To honk or not? My wife would just say that you are encouraging the person and nothing you can do will dissuade them from driving poorly. I'm of the opinion that wrongdoers need to be reprimanded immediately and the good Lord provided us with a horn to deliver the rebuke. I honked, justifiably so. Question for any reader, to honk or not. Allow unjustified evil to continue unabated or avoid large angry white men with tattoos?
I then proceeded to catch up to the truck and watch him pass three people around a long corner and into a blind turn. I honked then as well.
S: How is this helping?
M: I'm helping everybody else. The next time I'm in the car it will probably be me that he's driving towards head on. That bastard is going to kill someone! I felt such great old man rage.
Finally, as we near Steph's parents house I see that my dear friend in the truck has gotten in an accident....shocker. He is yelling at this young guy who he's rear ended and then the guy in the car just sped off into the night and the large (read stupid) neophyte jumped back into his truck and chased after him.
I honked again. And I am sure that as he drove down that lonely highway, chatting away on his cell phone, he heard the soft rebuke of my horn. I can see him pulling over to the side of the road and calling his mother. I can hear him telling her on the phone about all his unresolved anger at being the youngest. I can see the blur of lights passing him on the highway, and the offer of rebirth that is hidden in the rhythm of the passing wheels that my honk has offered him.
So, to honk or not? I think I've presented a fair case for both sides.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Housing
As it turns out when you're going about purchasing a home they require you to get a loan. In a related story, obtaining a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing is not as helpful as it could be in terms of building up loans without earning money. It's a well kept secret that practically nobody makes a living as a writer. You've got exceptions like Danielle Steele, (but that's just pure talent) and Stephen King, but in general writing is about as prolific as collecting marbles except the marbles are shinier and more fun to play with. Thus, the 50 or so thousand dollars I spent on my education though not ill-spent entirely seems at this point like a minor miscalculation that will haunt me for years to come. Why couldn't I have lived six hundred years ago? I'd have made a pretty good knight errant. Chasing windmills, writing poems, and hopefully sleeping with lots of damsels (even if they weren't in distress).
My face returned to a decent size today. Now I just look like I have one slightly crossed/off eye. In public, people didn't turn away from me, so much as find somewhere else with which to direct their glance.
On the bright side we've been cleared by a lender to buy a home! One more American family ready to take on a big mortgage with low paying jobs and see where the months take us! Foreclosure here I come! Just kidding...mostly.
Lender: So you're husband is an out of work graduate student?
S: Yes, well, we're really proud of him. Note: When you tell your kids to follow their dreams just make sure that those dreams are realistic and profitable.
Future Son: I think I want to be a writer.
M: Good choice. Networks are always looking for someone to write ad copy. You know what would really help you get that job.
Future Son: With a look of wonder/love in his eyes.
M: A degree in math and computer science. All the great writers have it.
Future Son: Really?
M: Yes Note: Said with absolute certainty.
Future Daughter: I want to be a marine biologist.
M: Get in line behind all the other kids.
Future Daughter: (Hurt in her voice) You don't think I can do it?
M: Oh no of course you can honey. You know what would really help the animals. A malpractice lawyer. That's what they need the most.
S: What are you doing?
M: I was just seeing if I could frown with that side of my face.
S: What?
M: I WAS JUST SEEING IF I COULD FROWN WITH THAT SIDE OF MY FACE
S: Someone woke up on the wrong side of the poison ivy.
S: You look like a fish. (Pause) Is it too soon?
M: I don't even think it's over yet so soon can't even apply.
My face returned to a decent size today. Now I just look like I have one slightly crossed/off eye. In public, people didn't turn away from me, so much as find somewhere else with which to direct their glance.
On the bright side we've been cleared by a lender to buy a home! One more American family ready to take on a big mortgage with low paying jobs and see where the months take us! Foreclosure here I come! Just kidding...mostly.
Lender: So you're husband is an out of work graduate student?
S: Yes, well, we're really proud of him. Note: When you tell your kids to follow their dreams just make sure that those dreams are realistic and profitable.
Future Son: I think I want to be a writer.
M: Good choice. Networks are always looking for someone to write ad copy. You know what would really help you get that job.
Future Son: With a look of wonder/love in his eyes.
M: A degree in math and computer science. All the great writers have it.
Future Son: Really?
M: Yes Note: Said with absolute certainty.
Future Daughter: I want to be a marine biologist.
M: Get in line behind all the other kids.
Future Daughter: (Hurt in her voice) You don't think I can do it?
M: Oh no of course you can honey. You know what would really help the animals. A malpractice lawyer. That's what they need the most.
S: What are you doing?
M: I was just seeing if I could frown with that side of my face.
S: What?
M: I WAS JUST SEEING IF I COULD FROWN WITH THAT SIDE OF MY FACE
S: Someone woke up on the wrong side of the poison ivy.
S: You look like a fish. (Pause) Is it too soon?
M: I don't even think it's over yet so soon can't even apply.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Three Billy Goats Gruff
At some point over the weekend, (perhaps during a stirring game of Frrisbee golf) I got poison ivy on my face. Ergo; throughout the course of yesterday my face became increasingly puffy/mutantish looking until this afternoon when my right eye became completely swelled shut. On the bright side I have a great Halloween costume, but on the dark side it's a few months too early.
Today while picking up my prescription I had a nice conversation with a very young Iraq war vet. I was sitting in CVS desperately waiting for my prescription when this guy walks by and says, "What happened to you?" I guess their is a certain level of physical deformity which makes people feel like they can ask you questions like that. We spent the remainder of the time talking in the store about his sixteen broken bones, the best/worst one to break and how he carried his intestines around after getting hit with shrapnel.
It's strange because I've read articles saying that our volunteer army in Iraq is composed almost entirely of young men from rural areas, particularly the South, and now I had a chance to talk with someone who fit the bill. He told me he had a wife and a kid. His conversation about shrapnel and broken femurs seemed a bit odd to me, almost unbalanced. And yet, and yet, he was the only person who would look at me today. I'm a fairly decent looking guy day in and day out so it was hard to see children asking their father's in the elevator what was wrong with me. By the end of the day I was hissing at light, and pretending that I needed to feed on children's brains to subsist. But I could only do this from the solitude of my apartment where all good dreams are made, like a troll beneath a bridge.
Anyhow, nothing incredibly insightful here. But let me recommend that you contract poison ivy yourself and spread it to the area around your eyes and then walk around and see what it makes you feel like. It's not nearly as telling as Black like me, but I feel like the modern mantra is beautiful like me, and it's hard to measure up. I'll probably hole up again tomorrow and then come out when I hear the clip clop of hooves at my door.
The Three Billy Goats Gruff
Norway
Once upon a time there were three billy goats, who were to go up to the hillside to make themselves fat, and the name of all three was "Gruff."
On the way up was a bridge over a cascading stream they had to cross; and under the bridge lived a great ugly troll , with eyes as big as saucers, and a nose as long as a poker.
So first of all came the youngest Billy Goat Gruff to cross the bridge.
"Trip, trap, trip, trap! " went the bridge.
"Who's that tripping over my bridge?" roared the troll .
"Oh, it is only I, the tiniest Billy Goat Gruff , and I'm going up to the hillside to make myself fat," said the billy goat, with such a small voice.
"Now, I'm coming to gobble you up," said the troll.
"Oh, no! pray don't take me. I'm too little, that I am," said the billy goat. "Wait a bit till the second Billy Goat Gruff comes. He's much bigger."
"Well, be off with you," said the troll.
A little while after came the second Billy Goat Gruff to cross the bridge.
Trip, trap, trip, trap, trip, trap, went the bridge.
"Who's that tripping over my bridge?" roared the troll.
"Oh, it's the second Billy Goat Gruff , and I'm going up to the hillside to make myself fat," said the billy goat, who hadn't such a small voice.
"Now I'm coming to gobble you up," said the troll.
"Oh, no! Don't take me. Wait a little till the big Billy Goat Gruff comes. He's much bigger."
"Very well! Be off with you," said the troll.
But just then up came the big Billy Goat Gruff .
Trip, trap, trip, trap, trip, trap! went the bridge, for the billy goat was so heavy that the bridge creaked and groaned under him.
"Who's that tramping over my bridge?" roared the troll.
"It's I! The big Billy Goat Gruff ," said the billy goat, who had an ugly hoarse voice of his own.
"Now I 'm coming to gobble you up," roared the troll.
Well, come along! I've got two spears,
And I'll poke your eyeballs out at your ears;
I've got besides two curling-stones,
And I'll crush you to bits, body and bones.
That was what the big billy goat said. And then he flew at the troll, and poked his eyes out with his horns, and crushed him to bits, body and bones, and tossed him out into the cascade, and after that he went up to the hillside. There the billy goats got so fat they were scarcely able to walk home again. And if the fat hasn't fallen off them, why, they're still fat; and so,
Snip, snap, snout.
This tale's told out.
Today while picking up my prescription I had a nice conversation with a very young Iraq war vet. I was sitting in CVS desperately waiting for my prescription when this guy walks by and says, "What happened to you?" I guess their is a certain level of physical deformity which makes people feel like they can ask you questions like that. We spent the remainder of the time talking in the store about his sixteen broken bones, the best/worst one to break and how he carried his intestines around after getting hit with shrapnel.
It's strange because I've read articles saying that our volunteer army in Iraq is composed almost entirely of young men from rural areas, particularly the South, and now I had a chance to talk with someone who fit the bill. He told me he had a wife and a kid. His conversation about shrapnel and broken femurs seemed a bit odd to me, almost unbalanced. And yet, and yet, he was the only person who would look at me today. I'm a fairly decent looking guy day in and day out so it was hard to see children asking their father's in the elevator what was wrong with me. By the end of the day I was hissing at light, and pretending that I needed to feed on children's brains to subsist. But I could only do this from the solitude of my apartment where all good dreams are made, like a troll beneath a bridge.
Anyhow, nothing incredibly insightful here. But let me recommend that you contract poison ivy yourself and spread it to the area around your eyes and then walk around and see what it makes you feel like. It's not nearly as telling as Black like me, but I feel like the modern mantra is beautiful like me, and it's hard to measure up. I'll probably hole up again tomorrow and then come out when I hear the clip clop of hooves at my door.
The Three Billy Goats Gruff
Norway
Once upon a time there were three billy goats, who were to go up to the hillside to make themselves fat, and the name of all three was "Gruff."
On the way up was a bridge over a cascading stream they had to cross; and under the bridge lived a great ugly troll , with eyes as big as saucers, and a nose as long as a poker.
So first of all came the youngest Billy Goat Gruff to cross the bridge.
"Trip, trap, trip, trap! " went the bridge.
"Who's that tripping over my bridge?" roared the troll .
"Oh, it is only I, the tiniest Billy Goat Gruff , and I'm going up to the hillside to make myself fat," said the billy goat, with such a small voice.
"Now, I'm coming to gobble you up," said the troll.
"Oh, no! pray don't take me. I'm too little, that I am," said the billy goat. "Wait a bit till the second Billy Goat Gruff comes. He's much bigger."
"Well, be off with you," said the troll.
A little while after came the second Billy Goat Gruff to cross the bridge.
Trip, trap, trip, trap, trip, trap, went the bridge.
"Who's that tripping over my bridge?" roared the troll.
"Oh, it's the second Billy Goat Gruff , and I'm going up to the hillside to make myself fat," said the billy goat, who hadn't such a small voice.
"Now I'm coming to gobble you up," said the troll.
"Oh, no! Don't take me. Wait a little till the big Billy Goat Gruff comes. He's much bigger."
"Very well! Be off with you," said the troll.
But just then up came the big Billy Goat Gruff .
Trip, trap, trip, trap, trip, trap! went the bridge, for the billy goat was so heavy that the bridge creaked and groaned under him.
"Who's that tramping over my bridge?" roared the troll.
"It's I! The big Billy Goat Gruff ," said the billy goat, who had an ugly hoarse voice of his own.
"Now I 'm coming to gobble you up," roared the troll.
Well, come along! I've got two spears,
And I'll poke your eyeballs out at your ears;
I've got besides two curling-stones,
And I'll crush you to bits, body and bones.
That was what the big billy goat said. And then he flew at the troll, and poked his eyes out with his horns, and crushed him to bits, body and bones, and tossed him out into the cascade, and after that he went up to the hillside. There the billy goats got so fat they were scarcely able to walk home again. And if the fat hasn't fallen off them, why, they're still fat; and so,
Snip, snap, snout.
This tale's told out.
Monday, July 20, 2009
If I had a million dollars...
I don't really know what people did before the Internet to find houses. They didn't have crime maps or walk scores or nice digital pictures to upload of key features. In fact I think the exclamation point was invented in the early 1980's. Fully Finished Basement vs. Fully Finished Basement! You tell me which one you want. The other (actually real invention) was the caps lock key, which increased home values tenfold according to data that I'm making up right now. Close to metro and restaurants. CLOSE TO METRO AND RESTAURANTS! The second house might be yelling, but it's yelling about good things like metros and restaurants and other things I might have missed prior to the advent of the caps lock key. I'm guessing that people just didn't buy homes before the invention of the internet but bartered them like they were beads and hand-crafted goods.
The crime map was really instructive because as it turns out crime occurs more frequently in cities. I'd like to think that things like higher density (for Matt) would cause and increase in crime rates, but I'm here to tell you that it's because people who live in cities are inherently just bad folks who enjoy committing crime and selling drugs, and really don't even do it for profit but just for the thrill of being a city denizen. I'm using the word denizen here because it more closely suits someone from a city because denizen to me sounds like someone who is dirty and perhaps lives in a badger den.
Tomorrow we're going to speak to a lender, and we're hoping to be approved for a million dollar home, so we can live large for a few months before it forecloses. But those months we'll live it up like Gatsby, and throw wild parties, which you're invited to if you read this blog, or know someone who reads this blog, or happen to be in the area and smell some lobster boiling. I look forward to seeing you all there? (Oh, and we're kind of going for a potluck sort of thing so be sure to coordinate. I don't want to have a party with five fruits salads and no red plastic cups for the bourbon).
The crime map was really instructive because as it turns out crime occurs more frequently in cities. I'd like to think that things like higher density (for Matt) would cause and increase in crime rates, but I'm here to tell you that it's because people who live in cities are inherently just bad folks who enjoy committing crime and selling drugs, and really don't even do it for profit but just for the thrill of being a city denizen. I'm using the word denizen here because it more closely suits someone from a city because denizen to me sounds like someone who is dirty and perhaps lives in a badger den.
Tomorrow we're going to speak to a lender, and we're hoping to be approved for a million dollar home, so we can live large for a few months before it forecloses. But those months we'll live it up like Gatsby, and throw wild parties, which you're invited to if you read this blog, or know someone who reads this blog, or happen to be in the area and smell some lobster boiling. I look forward to seeing you all there? (Oh, and we're kind of going for a potluck sort of thing so be sure to coordinate. I don't want to have a party with five fruits salads and no red plastic cups for the bourbon).
Blog
Over the past two days I've been informed by my brother and my dad that they don't read my blog. I'm guessing that this cuts my readership in half, hi mom and Jill!
9-Wake up in a panic about houses. Do sit ups to alleviate panic. Attempt to reach my legs to the floor in some sort of yoga crazy pose. Risk breaking my neck. Do not touch floor. It's nice to get the first failure of the day out of the way early.
10 A.M.-Argue with wife about the probability that we will go berry picking. Spend the morning searching through houses online, still waiting to find the perfect one.
11:10: Leave house. Am proved right when it's decided that we will not have enough time to go berry picking. Hassle wife until she admits that I was right. Sit in a satisfied manner in the car soaking in the victory. Mention that we will not be able to go berry picking later either as planned.
1:00 P.M. Join extended family for lunch/croquet. Lose at game of croquet to a woman over sixty. Try to reflect on the glory days when I was a wonderful croquet player, capable of hitting the ball through wickets from miles away. Reflect on the fact that wicket is kind of a fun word.
1-4-Eat lunch. Celebrate a birthday. Fail to go berry picking. Celebrate the small victories in life. Conduct a marching band in my head who plays something by Michael Jackson because he is popular again.
5 P.M. Play two more lackluster games of croquet. Claim that the equipment is made for midgets. Consider changing my name to something British to increase my skills. Play the DC crime map game with my mother-in-law.
6 P.M. Discuss the suburbs with MIL.
7-9 P.M. Head home to collect roach bodies from cabinets. Am mildly disappointed by their absence. I'm not a pet person, but the little guys were kind of growing on me.
10 P.M. Watch Mad Men (Good show).
11-1 A.M. Check D.C. crime maps and try to figure out where we are going to live. Decide to start committing crimes of my own to bring down median housing cost in current neighborhood. Get kind of sleepy. Desist in plan to do anything but sleep.
9-Wake up in a panic about houses. Do sit ups to alleviate panic. Attempt to reach my legs to the floor in some sort of yoga crazy pose. Risk breaking my neck. Do not touch floor. It's nice to get the first failure of the day out of the way early.
10 A.M.-Argue with wife about the probability that we will go berry picking. Spend the morning searching through houses online, still waiting to find the perfect one.
11:10: Leave house. Am proved right when it's decided that we will not have enough time to go berry picking. Hassle wife until she admits that I was right. Sit in a satisfied manner in the car soaking in the victory. Mention that we will not be able to go berry picking later either as planned.
1:00 P.M. Join extended family for lunch/croquet. Lose at game of croquet to a woman over sixty. Try to reflect on the glory days when I was a wonderful croquet player, capable of hitting the ball through wickets from miles away. Reflect on the fact that wicket is kind of a fun word.
1-4-Eat lunch. Celebrate a birthday. Fail to go berry picking. Celebrate the small victories in life. Conduct a marching band in my head who plays something by Michael Jackson because he is popular again.
5 P.M. Play two more lackluster games of croquet. Claim that the equipment is made for midgets. Consider changing my name to something British to increase my skills. Play the DC crime map game with my mother-in-law.
6 P.M. Discuss the suburbs with MIL.
7-9 P.M. Head home to collect roach bodies from cabinets. Am mildly disappointed by their absence. I'm not a pet person, but the little guys were kind of growing on me.
10 P.M. Watch Mad Men (Good show).
11-1 A.M. Check D.C. crime maps and try to figure out where we are going to live. Decide to start committing crimes of my own to bring down median housing cost in current neighborhood. Get kind of sleepy. Desist in plan to do anything but sleep.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Some days
Some days it's good to take a break from housing. To sit back and relax, and reflect on the fact that you are happy to not only be alive but to not be examining square footage, washer dryer combos, and insect carcasses. Thus, we started our break from the house hunt by going out with a real estate agent to look at houses again today. I've got a fever and the only thing that will cure it is more houses! That saying is pretty popular where I'm from.
We looked at a couple of condos. The great thing about condos is they are all entirely updated, with nice appliances and flooring et al. The other nice thing about condos is that they are all too small. I read books. I collect books. I need a place to put my books. Condos don't have room for books. More specifically, they don't have room for my books.
"You know what this condo could use? Built in book shelves. Oh yeah, I think we could just take down this wall here and turn this living area into one big library. What would that do for the resale? So libraries aren't as in as they used to be huh?"
One of the condos we visited was jammed packed with CD's, which made the unit feel smaller. And here are all these crappy CD's, and I'm thinking about leaving a note that describes in detail just what an iPod can actually do for you as a music collector, but I figured the tenant would enjoy it more when he figures it out for himself he's going to be blown away.
The carpet was stained in several places, and I just assumed that the tenant had been staining some wood in the living room or spilling random bottles of soda on the floor for the past three years. "What, oh, I think I must have missed a spot. That carpet could really use a Mr. Pib stain." (Pours drink out). The condos also had a nice view of a parking structure, which would never get old. I've always imagined waking up in the morning and looking out my great big window into a large parking garage. I suppose it might curb nude walkabouts, but I'm not even sure that's a good thing.
Then we looked at a nice town house. The sun was shining, all the birds and the bees were twittering or pollinating, or flinging themselves blissfully against the window, or alighting on our fingers. The house was full of light, and also furniture, and one strange guy who seemed to think that he owned the place. It was the sort of place, just outside D.C. where you could picture yourself raising a happy and healthy family, and living around a bunch of people who reciprocated all of your values, and really enjoyed the short walk to the Metro. And didn't mind watching the house while you were away, or giving you some advice on kids and generally just being the sort of good folks that you always imagine that you are. It was a place where you could gather round, hold hands, and sing la la la la la la la la la la la... and everyone would be blue and male except for one girl with blond hair. Sorry, I briefly confused these townhouses with the Smurfs. As long as we don't get a place next to Gargamel we should be in pretty solid shape.
"You'll worry less about what people think about you when you realize how seldom they do."
* Infinite Jest
We looked at a couple of condos. The great thing about condos is they are all entirely updated, with nice appliances and flooring et al. The other nice thing about condos is that they are all too small. I read books. I collect books. I need a place to put my books. Condos don't have room for books. More specifically, they don't have room for my books.
"You know what this condo could use? Built in book shelves. Oh yeah, I think we could just take down this wall here and turn this living area into one big library. What would that do for the resale? So libraries aren't as in as they used to be huh?"
One of the condos we visited was jammed packed with CD's, which made the unit feel smaller. And here are all these crappy CD's, and I'm thinking about leaving a note that describes in detail just what an iPod can actually do for you as a music collector, but I figured the tenant would enjoy it more when he figures it out for himself he's going to be blown away.
The carpet was stained in several places, and I just assumed that the tenant had been staining some wood in the living room or spilling random bottles of soda on the floor for the past three years. "What, oh, I think I must have missed a spot. That carpet could really use a Mr. Pib stain." (Pours drink out). The condos also had a nice view of a parking structure, which would never get old. I've always imagined waking up in the morning and looking out my great big window into a large parking garage. I suppose it might curb nude walkabouts, but I'm not even sure that's a good thing.
Then we looked at a nice town house. The sun was shining, all the birds and the bees were twittering or pollinating, or flinging themselves blissfully against the window, or alighting on our fingers. The house was full of light, and also furniture, and one strange guy who seemed to think that he owned the place. It was the sort of place, just outside D.C. where you could picture yourself raising a happy and healthy family, and living around a bunch of people who reciprocated all of your values, and really enjoyed the short walk to the Metro. And didn't mind watching the house while you were away, or giving you some advice on kids and generally just being the sort of good folks that you always imagine that you are. It was a place where you could gather round, hold hands, and sing la la la la la la la la la la la... and everyone would be blue and male except for one girl with blond hair. Sorry, I briefly confused these townhouses with the Smurfs. As long as we don't get a place next to Gargamel we should be in pretty solid shape.
"You'll worry less about what people think about you when you realize how seldom they do."
* Infinite Jest
Friday, July 17, 2009
Housing Blitz
Today we started working with a real-estate agent because we wanted to get serious about the housing search. I was hoping for a dude driving a corvette and wearing a pair of awesome shades, but we got a middle-aged motherly lady instead. And I'm just wondering, how is this lady going to know what kind of house we want? She doesn't even drive a Corvette. I was indignant, or something akin to that. The English language is occasionally too vast for me to be able to pin down exactly how I feel? Am I hungry or just really really angry? Hard to know.
I think I should probably start with the worst house and work my way up. The low part on the totem pole of the day, (and I'm talking like the part of the totem pole that's buried here, and maybe the American Indian/Native American cut the corners a little bit when he was sanding the thing down, and it's a bit rough to the touch because who gives a sh-t it's going to be buried anyway, no one is seeing this part of the pole. And now you've got a splinter in your hand from digging up this pole, but you can't properly complain about it because it's only a splinter and you're a man for crap's sake, a full-grown man can't complain about a splinter, but it's uncomfortable. It sort of hurts, this splinter, when you're opening doors and the like and all because some Native American/American Indian was cutting corners on the low part of the totem pole...that bastard) Aside complete, continue with main plot.
Malvolio: Kidding. Just a little Shakesperean humor for you. Most of the houses we attended today were empty, people were off at work, or living in their new condo in Florida et al, but the low totem pole house had a bunch of people just camped out in the living room watching television. Which, doesn't exactly make the house feel like your home. Nothing screams new home like twenty people popping out of doorways, but I've gotten ahead of myself. Anyhow, we walked in front of the tv, (cardinal sin, I believe, the eleventh commandment. Thou shalt not obstruct the sightling of the viewing box. Viewing box being the King James translation, the Bible not always being as hep (is hep a word people use now) to all of the technological advances of the past two thousand years or so. Anyhow, yet again, we proceeded to inspect the kitchen, which was surprisingly decent looking, except that it smelled as if they'd been feeding, slaughtering, and cooking an animal in the kitchen just minutes before our arrival.
"Do you usually slaughter them in the entryway or directly on the counter?"
"Does this scent come in potpourri?"
"I notice you're cooking what smells like death in here. (Pause) I think it could use some cayenne pepper."
Then we wandered down into the basement where a plague of flies accosted us. And that's what we get for breaking commandments, a plague of flies, or locusts, or whatever. I'm fairly certain it was a plague of something, but not pies because what kind of a plague would that be? A delicious one.
I'm fairly certain that their was a dead body on the premises, but we found ourselves in a hurry to leave before discovering it, and feeling as though we needed to call the police. We then proceeded upstairs, breaking the eleventh commandment a second time in the process and walked into incredibly small rooms that were housing somewhere between three to five families. Again, nothing says this house can be yours like a bunch of people popping out of every room like clowns out of a car. We then sprinted out of the house and didn't even speak about the home. We just acted as though that part of the day had never happened.
"How many houses did we see?"
S: Six.
I thought it was--
S: We saw six homes (shudders)
Author's Note: In now way does this author condone/find comical the tough living situations of families in D.C. However, he would like to point out that said tough living conditions are kind of scary/off putting when you are viewing homes as a walk-in.
We watched 500 Days of Summer in the evening, which we both thoroughly enjoyed. A bit of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless mind here.
I think I should probably start with the worst house and work my way up. The low part on the totem pole of the day, (and I'm talking like the part of the totem pole that's buried here, and maybe the American Indian/Native American cut the corners a little bit when he was sanding the thing down, and it's a bit rough to the touch because who gives a sh-t it's going to be buried anyway, no one is seeing this part of the pole. And now you've got a splinter in your hand from digging up this pole, but you can't properly complain about it because it's only a splinter and you're a man for crap's sake, a full-grown man can't complain about a splinter, but it's uncomfortable. It sort of hurts, this splinter, when you're opening doors and the like and all because some Native American/American Indian was cutting corners on the low part of the totem pole...that bastard) Aside complete, continue with main plot.
Malvolio: Kidding. Just a little Shakesperean humor for you. Most of the houses we attended today were empty, people were off at work, or living in their new condo in Florida et al, but the low totem pole house had a bunch of people just camped out in the living room watching television. Which, doesn't exactly make the house feel like your home. Nothing screams new home like twenty people popping out of doorways, but I've gotten ahead of myself. Anyhow, we walked in front of the tv, (cardinal sin, I believe, the eleventh commandment. Thou shalt not obstruct the sightling of the viewing box. Viewing box being the King James translation, the Bible not always being as hep (is hep a word people use now) to all of the technological advances of the past two thousand years or so. Anyhow, yet again, we proceeded to inspect the kitchen, which was surprisingly decent looking, except that it smelled as if they'd been feeding, slaughtering, and cooking an animal in the kitchen just minutes before our arrival.
"Do you usually slaughter them in the entryway or directly on the counter?"
"Does this scent come in potpourri?"
"I notice you're cooking what smells like death in here. (Pause) I think it could use some cayenne pepper."
Then we wandered down into the basement where a plague of flies accosted us. And that's what we get for breaking commandments, a plague of flies, or locusts, or whatever. I'm fairly certain it was a plague of something, but not pies because what kind of a plague would that be? A delicious one.
I'm fairly certain that their was a dead body on the premises, but we found ourselves in a hurry to leave before discovering it, and feeling as though we needed to call the police. We then proceeded upstairs, breaking the eleventh commandment a second time in the process and walked into incredibly small rooms that were housing somewhere between three to five families. Again, nothing says this house can be yours like a bunch of people popping out of every room like clowns out of a car. We then sprinted out of the house and didn't even speak about the home. We just acted as though that part of the day had never happened.
"How many houses did we see?"
S: Six.
I thought it was--
S: We saw six homes (shudders)
Author's Note: In now way does this author condone/find comical the tough living situations of families in D.C. However, he would like to point out that said tough living conditions are kind of scary/off putting when you are viewing homes as a walk-in.
We watched 500 Days of Summer in the evening, which we both thoroughly enjoyed. A bit of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless mind here.
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