paint

i don't like to.

never have.

every summer, for years, when i was a kid, my parents made me and my siblings paint the gd picket fence surrounding our house. you can't invent a less-conveniently-paintable surface, nor imagine less-enthusiastic chore slaves. and even though the condo walls would be far more straightforward, the basic issue remains. i don't like to.

so combine this with the grudging admission that, yes, the condo walls would look nicer with a fresh coat, and you have the classic mexican home decorating standoff.

i could easily throw money at the problem, except scraping together the money to throw wouldn't be easy. others have suggested the "paint party" idea, but, eesh, that's pitting my yankee stubborn self-sufficiency streak against my longstanding personal vendetta against benjamin moore, and that can't possibly end well, either.

another approach would be relying on cosmic coin flips (who else loved "no country for old men"?) and base the "buy" option of the "make or buy" question on the sellers' forbearance to allow entry and painting before the real estate closing. yes, they'll allow it, and, yes, i'll pay for the painter. no? then it wasn't meant to be and my housewarming party guests can just look the other way past the smudges on the walls on their way to admiring the woodwork.

of course, it would be easier if i knew the amount of money we were talking here. 1500 square feet. no prep. one coat. what would you guess that goes for at decent quality in beautiful downtown lowell, massachusetts?

do i hear...

reduce, reuse, recycle

had a great laugh this morning out of a "webinar" advert forwarded to me by a friend. seems there's a salesperson at my company who's bs'ed their way into a speaking slot by entitling themselves "ambassador for green initiatives". too funny.

and while we're on the green philosophies, of reduce, reuse, recycle, i liked an email i wrote earlier this morning so much i think i'll reuse it here:

my friend had raised the existential question of "what do i want", and i'd noted in reply that one of the harder things i've noticed about my life these days (profession, marriage, kids, house in the burbs, etc.) is that it serves in almost every respect to cut me off from exactly that--"what do i want". the best job i ever had was working the parts counter at an auto parts store when I was just out of college. we were paid just barely over minimum wage, but we enjoyed immensely spending the whole day with each other, and then heading out after for beers and bands at the local pubs. (allston in the 80's was an incredible place for music). it all went downhill when my apprenticeship (indentured servitude?) was up, and i got my "good" job down at corporate headquarters as was the original plan. a black and white case of "careful what you wish for", and i've often wondered how my life would have been different if i'd have stayed with the "crew". (nah, you can never go home again...)

my second best job ever was working the phones for a software company in their support department. not nearly as close to minimum wage, but still way down at the bottom end of the corporate software pay scale. incredibly exploitative to the brilliant young minds assembled to answer the incoming idiot calls, but an incredible place to be young and smart. we'd bring beers in on friday afternoons, and play in the corporate softball league, and carry on as one big happy extended family of single up-and-comers. that one i wrecked to take the proverbial "plum" job and get myself married at the same time. lots more money, and lots less of everything that made me happy up to that point. can't complain about the rewards of family and children, and i never will, but while i contemplate what comes next, i have to realize that there's a blueprint out there for me, if only i'm able to find and follow it.

which brings us back to the cutting off part. my contemporaries are most often married with children living in single family houses and working at demanding professional jobs. water cooler confabs on the state of the red sox, or spontaneous decisions to "let's go grab a beer", or go bowling for that matter, are extremely hard to find or organize. everybody's so busy. everybody's so focused on their own personal everests they're climbing.

so how does one go about forging connections with others who are also effectively the social equivalent of self-induced-comatose, and doggedly resistant to wakening? the progress is incremental, and usually infinitesimal. just sitting down to fill out a loan application with someone with whom i might otherwise have a lot in common is an exercise in listing all of the reasons why there simply wouldn't ever be time to try it. drives an hour in from nashua, commuting daughter to and from school on both ends, and spends evenings at second and third jobs to make the single mother ends meet. where's the life to be had in that???

the secret i think i found in the auto part aisles and on the phone banks was the simple coincidence of time and place. spend 50 or 60 hours a week with great people, and great things happen. add another 10 or 20 out of pure joy of camaraderie, and now we're solid into "makes me happy" for everyone. but, now, try that while juggling home mortgages and daycare/schooling and babysitting a grumbling spouse or other house/roommate, and what do you get? i'd say, the recipe for solitude standing.

while I was waiting for the real estate agent to return with the seller-signed copies of the P&S this past monday night, i situated myself in one of the local coffee shops and treated myself to a beer. all on my lonesome at first, but i was sooned joined by an 80-year-old guy named tony who had just been moved to lowell by his daughter so he could live in a nice condo and be walking distance from shops and restaurants instead of out in the boonies of eastport, maine. he was a machinist in the war, and told me how much he liked to be able to meet people on the street and begin to strike up friendships again. i agreed that this was a very nice way to make ones life.

i hadn't been joking to the "what do i want friend" some months earlier when i told her i wished my building could be filled with people like her and so many of the others i treasure. add some old portuguese guys who like to head out to play soccer on weekend afternoons and follow up the games with a beer and linguica, and maybe even some software geeky types who'll ooh and ahh over my (potential) high-def projection tv setup, and show me some of the cool gadgets of their own. the hardest part is realizing that nothing like this ever grows up out of whole cloth. it's got to be built one relationship at a time, and patiently, because nobody else has the freedom i have right now to redesign and define a whole life.

but at least i think i've got the thread now, and i can start to recognize and choose to nurture and cultivate the relationships that "fit". it's like building a soccer team: every weak link is doubly detrimental, because it neither performs, nor gives its place to a better alternative. and every strong addition is sometimes hard and slow to recognize for everything that it is, because it can only start to truly produce when it's surrounded by a sufficient number of other strong components. but when the "tipping point" is reached, and critical mass is more closely approached, real joy can start to blossom.

i'll start with the condo. begin collecting neighbors. work out the necessary sacrifices to do all that can be done for family and children. and dream of the day when a job can be taken on its own merits alone. i think i saw an auto parts place up the street from where I'll be living...

has it really been over a week???

there's been a lot going on, i guess. or maybe there's something about filling out bank paperwork to suit these days' patriot act necessities that takes away all volubility. or, maybe it doesn't, and you're going to be sorry...

as many of you may know, you need 20% down to escape the need for PMI. what i can now tell you, that i hadn't realized earlier, is that it can be very important from where and for how long said 20% comes from. as in, if it's been sitting in one of your accounts for long enough for a bank statement to have been printed, then everything is hunky-dory, even if you'd gone to a knee-capping loan shark at 50% interest to get it, or stolen it from somebody's elderly grandmother, or found it in a black bag under whitey bulger's old porch. no questions asked. however! if it hasn't been sitting in one of your accounts long enough to have been seen in print, then the interesting stuff starts to happen.

first of all, and please forgive the bad manners to be talking about ones own finances, lets just say i've got a 401k fat enough to choke a 47 year old horse. (20 years of maxing contributions will do that for a guy). according to the IRS rules, i could easily raid it for my down payment by either taking the 10% penalty and paying some income tax, or, easier still, by simply borrowing against it, and the way it's supposed to work, just waving a copy of a statement showing the balance should satisfy the deposit-means requirement on any home mortgage. except when the silly applicant actually puts the deposit cash on deposit with the bank to be granting the mortgage, and shows a statement showing that pile of money instead.

"oh, but that's only been in the account less than a month". "well, yeah, i just opened that account with you in anticipation of this becoming my favorite local bank". "but since it's been there less than a month, i'll have to see the account where it came from". "that's in florida, and it's my brother's--why does that matter?" "well, if it's a gift, he'll need to sign a notarized form saying it's a gift, and get a notarized signature from his bank saying he has the funds to loan you". "um, not to appear dense here, but if you already have the funds in your bank, doesn't that sort of imply he had the funds to loan me, and can't we just get him to send you a note?" you can already see where this is going. patriot act this, and anti-money-laundering that, and it's just the way the paperwork needs to be submitted for when the government audits the loan books. notaries. forms. the whole nine yards.

"ok, let's start over--we'll say it's a loan". "ok, in that case, just sign a piece of paper describing the repayment terms". "no notary?" "nope". "um, so don't you think this might be a loophole for money-laundering terrorist types?" *blink, blink, blink*

i had to laugh at how stupid our national paranoia has become, but not with any surprise. there's a million ways to inconvenience and screw up any honest loan applicant, but nothing that the least amount of knowledge of the process couldn't circumvent like falling off a log. so, in case you'd like to launder some drug money or terrorist proceeds or whatever ill-gotten wealth you may want to sink into our failing real estate market, just make me an offer by the hour to be your consultant. guaranteed results. it'd be like shooting blindfolded fish in a geo w. bush brain-sized barrel. (which is to say, not a barrel so much as a vodka jigger emblazoned with the crest of the alabama air national guard, but i digress).

but you know i love this stuff, too. the loan officer was pretty damn cute, and, coincidentally, a very sweet and separated single mother with plenty of sympathy for how hard this all must be for me. did i know her dad was one of the honchos down at the portuguese american club, where i could go to drink cheap beer and watch soccer games on weekends? see, they have these very nice dinner and dance nights on fridays...

i think i'm going to like this town.

it's not nice to fool mother nature

it's snowing outside! :-)))

but primary among the mental hyperlinks leading to the quotated headline above are all the things that are thought of to say in place of "you hadn't oughta ha' done that".

we rarely understand the full consequences of the things we say and do to other people. a couple of weeks ago some nervous real estate sellers expressed their anxiety through some petty and, at the time, inconsequential stipulations. (an additional $500 down as a deposit, etc.) nothing you'd think twice about, right?

well, a week or two has let the petulance of those requirements percolate, and an ace of a real estate inspector has dropped into my lap a very useful litany of what all is less than perfect. and, and here's the kicker, a very polite request to inspect certain areas of the building (the roof, the boiler in the basement, etc.) was rebuffed in lieu of a promise to provide condo board meeting minutes and maintenance records and a schedule of planned repairs. did i mention that the documents weren't ready to be reviewed along with the inspection?

now, none of this dampens desire and anticipation to purchase. but it does recall the silly nature of the inconveniences asked of me in the beginning, and lead the pragmatic to consider the practical impact such things should have on the price...

nope, they shouldn't oughta ha' done what they did. 'cuz this morning i'm thinking of celebrating the beauty that is new england with a good ole swamp yankee's real estate negotiation. i'm also thinking, if they whine at all about it, the second amount introduced into the negotiation from my side will be further from, not closer to, any suggested compromise from theirs.

sounds hostile, i know, but it's just business. i actually kinda enjoy this stuff. ;-)

wolfgang's vault

bill graham was a pack rat, and his o/c disorder has become our gain. not just for all the "bill graham presents" promotional posters and psychedelia, but now for much of the rock photography of the era that has been impelled within the vault's imperious orbit. (but bring your visa card, because the vault doesn't take anything less than an arm and a leg...)

because of that arm and a leg thing, i used to be little more than a gratefully fortunate freeloader, (you can listen to concert recordings gratis anytime you please), right up until this past weekend. but then, oh to my wondering ears did i hear, i ran into little feat's winterland concert from 1976, and, you know how this is, I JUST HAD TO HAVE IT.

i haven't spend $10 on a cd in years. (ok, well that's a lie that'll remain just between me and suzanne vega, but it's essentially true). but i happily plunked down my online $9.98 to download the feat set the moment i heard lowell cracking wise about being fired from the mothers of invention. and singing his apolitical blues. and rocking out his teenage nervous breakdown. and giving my now-favorite-of-all-time tune, cold cold cold, it's best. rendition. ever.

straight to the pod, in all its 256k glory.

wolfgangsvault.com

you won't believe the stuff they've got on there.

la la la la i can't hear you

tivo's time-shifting the mls cup for me in just a few minutes, and i'm looking forward to experiencing it not-quite "en vivo" later today. (screw abc and their inane commentators, i'm watching to hear them say GOOOLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!). that'll give me time to head out to the store for everything that can be fried in the oven, from fingers to wings to fries themselves. the healthiest portion for me of my planned dinner will be the first of my home brewed beers. (those beer-is-good-for-you stories all have that word in them i sometimes i've trouble spelling... m-o-d-e-r-a... cion? sion? tion?) rah rah.

then it's the pats at 8:30. (when the games are on late, the tivo is just for rewind and replay for that last incredibly amazing randy moss catch that he made to look so incredibly easy). someday, soon, i'll be having sex for halftime entertainment during all my televised sporting events, and i can't wait. (until then, just pass me the popcorn shrimp).

the perfect woman

it's either oxymoron or redundant, depending on who you might ask. ironic among those hard done by one, it's usually the belief in the latter despite all evidence of the former that keeps 'em going. and why should i be any different?

so i'll tell you why--it's because, for all my black and white generalizations and arrogant pronouncements, i don't believe in either premise. we're all just folks, ya know?

though i did have reason to contemplate the subject recently when a friend mentioned the circumstances of one his wife happened to know. either twenty or thirty something, perhaps out of confusion, or, possibly, because that way projection can enjoy its widest range, single, of course, as these fix-ups more or less require social acceptability, regardless of how contrived they may be, and precociously successful to the point of intimidating all the other worthy candidates, leaving poor little lonely rich girl without a date for saturday nights. maybe i'd want to throw my newly-minted "single" hat into that ring?

even moreso than all that, to me, it's that she's belonged to one of those colorful ethnicities that makes my soon-to-be new home town so warmly anticipated, appreciative of finer automobiles, (according to the accounts, drives a particularly nice one), and, if hearsay is to be believed, stunningly beautiful. yes, these are the sorts of things i could get up for on a saturday night. of course, we'd also all have to be nodding together that she's coincidentally got all the makings of "too good to be true", because the cynic in me knows that there is no free lunch.

so, is she the proverbial "perfect woman"? or should we instead imagine that diogenes, on his nights off, had entertained this other of worthy yet impossible quests with a picture of just this hottie in his mind?

if you're curious which way i'd be leaning on the question, let me deconstruct the circumstances a bit, in case that'll give you a clue: 1) twenty OR thirty-something risks of biological clocks and naive beliefs in "true love". *gak*. 2) nicer cars are most often driven by those who generally think less of others who don't, and there's nothing pretty about that. 3) finally, sad truth be told, "stunning" goes most frequently with "not so much when the makeup comes off", and i tend to prefer my paramours to be more of the flesh and bone variety.

there really needs be no mystery: the perfect woman is the one i want who wants me. (no need to worry about shape, size, or the number that might come in the pack).

human behavior

i'm a poster child for the consequences of bad human behavior. no question. for fun, and in addition to that, it's interesting to observe how, even so, there's still no real or absolute or empirical scale for "bad behavior", just "i'll know it when i see it" and "you shouldna oughta ha' done that". yup, i'm guilty, but, among people, you'll likely never hear it described exactly the same way twice.

beyond the collective (and, in my case, definitely individual) scale of exhibited vs. expected behavior, there's also a panoply of possible punishments and sentences to be chosen depending on who you know and who you did it to at the time. (more than a few men thankful their last name isn't bobbitt). no use trying to figure out if it's un-cruel and/or usual, because, basically, it can't ever be and that's not the point.

so it was with a certain amount of schadenfreude that i read this morning that the city of new york is suing derek jeter for back income taxes. seems the captain thought he was smart enough to have declared his residency in florida, (where they don't have such dastardly and liberal poisons like income tax), but his real estate paper trail at the trump towers prominently featured his name, along with any number of newspaper quotes telling the big apple how much he loved being there. so, ny being ny, you know it was only a matter of time until somebody deep in the bowels of gracie mansion woke up to the multi-million dollar payday such carefree behavior illicits. i mean elicits.

so here's the funny part to me. had derek used a nominee, or a real estate trust or any other semi-anonymous vehicle for his condo purchase, nobody would be reading about him in today's post. doesn't change the fact that he's living in ny and dodging their income tax obligation either way, but the *way* he goes about it makes all the difference. you know the fans lining the city streets wouldn't begrudge him one dime of dodged obligation, had he filled out the paperwork the right way.

so i have to laugh about the parallels, even while i know there aren't likely a whole lot of real ones. yup, in addition to being a cheat, i was also too honest and/or too stupid and/or too lazy to have bothered hiding the tracks with the necessary amount of zeal. no question, like derek, i'm indeed guilty. but i think what makes us most different in this discussion is the likely "jury of our peers". in ny, derek is the captain. all sins likely forgiven. in my house, i'm the scourge. all sins recalled and reiterated forever. game over.

sadly, for derek's checkbook and my kids sense of security, it really does matter *how* you do what you do. he should have gone through one or two extra motions, and so, if i were to be cheating, should i. not because it would change our utter and profound guilt against the statutes, (and, in my case, against nature), but because it would have saved everyone involved a lot of heartache.

next time, i can't say where derek will choose to live, or how he'll choose to go about living there. but i can say, for my part, that there won't be any expectation of monogamy that isn't informed by the realities of the situation each and every new morning. i don't buy it that i'm wholly and solely guilty for what i did this last time, but there can't be any question that i did it. next time, i'll know better to establish the discussion where it belongs--on where i live and why. how i go about living there will, in that case, take care of itself. and then we can save the lawyerly tax dodges for the multimillion dollar baseball players, and i can go about my business of just trying to be a better person. no dodges, just me and my honest emotions.

nerd/geek home decorating

no, this is not about bad decorating sense, or the need for queer-eye-for-the-hopeless-guy. (this all should go without saying, since there's nothing to be done about that, not really). this is, rather, about how nerds/geeks go about planning for such things. for example:

certain home furnishings, like projection tv and the nice comfy couch from which to enjoy it, normally comes with a hefty price tag that discourages frivolity. this is as it should be. (if you're anyone but samsung or phillips or name-your-gadget-maker-here). but when the nerd/geek gets thrown out of his old domicile and is thrust into the vortex between home decorating and home mortgage, all sorts of changes take place to his/her math.

$10,000? mais non! at the equivalence of the around $6/thousand todays 6-7% interest rates translate into, $10,000 is really just a simple-to-add-up $60/month. need to add leather to the couch options? consider it just another sawbuck!

it's a very slippery slope. new parking spaces, (in the building would be so much more convenient in the winter), totally new dining, living and bedroom sets, and all manner of nerd-geek nirvana electronics, are all just a $6/thousand wave of the mortgage wand away.

so where's the catch? *sigh* there's always a catch...

when you're not even sure you'll have $6 a month left over after feeding the court-mandated beast that is your ex's alimony bank account, it's wisest to save your nerd/geek wet dreams until you've been able to put a little away for a rainy day.

after all, ya gotta have enough aside for the cable sports and kegerator setups, before you start worrying about what you'll be sitting on while enjoying them.

it's so over

i had the temerity to ask how much of the joint checking account (that i unilaterally replenish twice a month via my paycheck) might be possible to divert towards buying myself things like, let's say, soap, over the next few weeks, (i swear, that's the example i used), and i got back a full fusillade of angry bitterness about things always being "all about me".

um... 'scuse me? should i have said something like "soap so your children could wash their hands after touching any part of their father or his penurious new life"?

no, wait, that might not be so good either...

the depths to which a human can despair are pretty impressive. she's still using the present tense to rail about my betrayal and everything i've ever done or not done, and you know that can't be good. can't even imagine the amount of debt i'll accumulate accommodating her terrors and anxieties about not having all the money in the world to herself to medicate her feelings of abandonment, but given the extremity of emotion involved, i'm not sure the alternative would be any cheaper in the long run, either.

anybody who can spare a few grand until payday, 2020, (emancipation day for #3), just give me a holler. :-)

ma

i'm going to tread as carefully as i can, not to turn this into a complaint about what mothering i received in my "family of origin" or since. (i still crack up at the shrink-speak). but permit me to be amused at how easily (it would seem from my experience) the prodigal receives all benefit of all motherly instincts among even arms-length would-be mothers, which were juxtapositionally metered (it would seem from my experience) while still beneath the familial roof.

i do get how females mark territory just as surely as males, only their territory tends in more cases to be invisible, and related to emotions and (often male) people. so i don't misunderstand why most would feel it either impossible or at least unseemly to offer certain support while perceiving the would-be supportee to be part of some other would-be mom's domaine. (woe betide the whore-slut-bitch who'd overstep such boundaries while they're still perceived to be in play). but the moment the boundaries are perceived to be relaxed, (and, in my case, this is still before any legal pronouncements or, as a matter of fact, before i've even left the shelter of the previous familial roof), just hold your head on tight lest you lose it spinning around while the mom's-would-be come streaming out of the woodwork.

now here's where i have to offer a second plea for understanding, as i'm neither intending this to be a complaint about the touching and heartfeltedly-appreciated offers themselves. (well, at least from those few i consider myself lucky enough to be considered worthy of such would-be motherly attention, and you know who you are). it's not really a complaint at all, but, and i guess to some you don't really know who you aren't, a lot of this is pretty funny.

let me put it as succintly as i can: bare-to-the-cupboard-walls kitchens of newly single males would seem to be even higher on the aphrodisiac scale among women of or past childbearing age than golden retriever puppies. (i KNOW!)

at first i wondered if this was some sort of comment on the perceived kitchen (in)competence of the average 40-something male. (and it turns out it is). but it's also much, much, much more than that.

forget candlelight and satin sheets, the thing that's going to get all the cougar-like juices flowing is the blank canvas that is an empty kitchen. it's fantasizing not about brad pitt or george clooney, but walking the aisles of bed, bath and beyond with an empty shopping cart and carte blanche to not stop until the job is properly done. it's (and here's where it starts to feel familiar again) sometimes lacking in nuance for who he is and what he really needs, but it's well-intended and there has to be something to be said for at least that.

so why, i want to ask mom and her (turns out will be temporary) replacement, wtf is different about you??? do you know me better, and so know me to be unworthy of such misguided blandishments? (ok, it's a complaint, i admit it). or does it become somehow impossible for us all, men and women, fathers and mothers, husbands and wives, lovers and lovers, to see our loves for who they are and what they want and what they need?

i'm aware that i have a precious gift to give, in a way, by choosing from whom i will (happily) be led through linens & things--it's not something an empty kitchen can afford without limit. (after all, there's only so many salad spinners you can have picked out for yourself). so part of my fantasy needs to be choosing wisely among the legion of "volunteers". most of it, i know already, isn't altruism at all, (i'm laughing to realize that "pangs" likely don't know about PANGS when it comes to "where did you get that garlic press???"), so i'm going to need to spend my cathecting wisely.

try not to be offended if it's surprising to you who gets the invite. it's not gonna be mom. you KNOW it's not gonna be her not-much-longer daughter-in-law (bizarre as it'll sound, she's made moves to). it won't be sis, or any of the sis-in-laws, and it won't be any of the "moms" at work, either. not friends' wives, not nieces, and not even (i KNOW!!!) the not unimpressive number of those who (apparently) want to be the ones first trying out the mistletoe in the new place.

i don't do mistletoe. i don't do marriage well, or ever again for that matter. i'm not the man so many of these would-be mom's project me to be, and that, in the end, has to be my measuring spoon.

if you know me, and if you understand the joy i'll take in someone finally doing something nice for me because they simply feel like being nice to me, even if i hardly deserve it, then i'd be honored to look each and every morning at my breadboard while i'm slicing my english muffin to put it in the toaster and think of you and smile. if you'd like, i'd even put yours on the tray beside mine and bring it to you in the king-sized bed, just to say thanks.

back on the chain gang

the roller coaster moment that always gets me has nothing to do with precipitous plunging. nope, can't scare me with violence, speed, or careening beyond control anarchy. but you can always get me with a simple "clank" as the chain engages, and the cars start their inexorable grind up the hill. i'm not a big fan of subtly-lurching reminders that i'm strapped in, and nothing that i can do will likely be able to change a thing about what's going to happen next, and buying real estate is full of such moments.

it'll all feel better when the ride is fully underway.

wait for iitttt...

still no word on the whereabouts of the mysterious (previous) offer man, (not to be confused with the not-so-mysterious jose offerman, recently convicted for his role in bludgeoning another minor league baseball player with a bat during a game), but the new offer man (myself) is now officially in the running for his new place. (they liked the offer, so now all we need to do is wait out the expiration of the previous close date). lots of what-if's, but it's nice to know there's a meeting of the minds on price and terms. (yes, i'll take the wall unit, and, no, you can keep the couch with the wooden arms that's just no damn good for sleeping). there's a bike room and an elevator well-sized for moving in a king-sized bed, and a washer/dryer for all those hard-to-clean mustard stains that'll be all over the front of my lounging pajamas from eating brats and drinking beer in front of the tv. (46" for now, but the projection unit comes as soon as the budget allows).

this week it's auditioning new lawyers and banks. anyone know a good one of each up lowell way?

pas de deux

todays sports headlines are a comedy--mlb managerial musical chairs, martina making noises about hypothetically spiked drinks, and barry only wishing he could take his ball and bat and go home. out of the top 5 places among yahoo's sports headlines, only 1 is actually about sports. espn manages at least 3 out of 10, though cbs sports makes a dismal 1 out of 9. you can take your pick from coke-heads in tennis skirts, big-heads in tight-fitting baseball pants, or air heads in nhl throwback jerseys, but you'd be hard pressed to actually read something relevant about actual sports. (oh, yeah, some guy poured in 47 in an early-season hoops game...)

um... the mls playoffs were active last night. the nhl had a couple of shutouts. rumor has it there were even a few other nba games, though you can rarely prove that by me. so why do we have to be reading all about some petulant race car driver and the latest in his continuing hissy-fit over whether or not the new guy was being properly dissed in his senior favor?

speaking of hissy-fits, though, there's nothing compares to barry now. (the deux relates to martina, because there has to be an honorable mention to someone who goes straight to having her hair tested ?! and speculating that somebody must have put coke in her drink, but that's beside the main point). see, the guy who spent all that money to buy the famous home-run ball put it to the people to decide, and they (we?) voted to have the ball branded with an asterisk and sent to the hall of fame. (fair enough). as a social statement, i think it's one of the more relevant ones, regardless of whether it's a deserved asterisk or not, and if pete rose can be excluded, then i, for one, have no problem brandishing a little red ink and asking the guy, "barry, why indeed is yo head so big?". but barry doesn't like to be asked such questions, and he's going to boycott the hall (how does one actually do that?) if they have the balls to accept the, um, ball.

can we, just for this once, spell it out?

laugh
out
loud

costume party

one of the saddest realizations this week has been that costumes are threatening to pass me by. only one out of the three progeny was into it this year, (whuh?), and even she was out-of-neighborhood to be t-or-t'ing with a friend. and when you combine that with the slightly macabre fact that the majority of my neighborhood has died recently, (one of the nicest streets you'll ever see, yet only one house--mine--is owner-occupied with kids and not geriatrics), there's a very halloweeny/ghostly feel to all the dark doorways. there were 25 kids living there 40 years ago, but now they're grown and gone and their parents are passing like dr. kevorkian's waiting room.

but i'm really not all that concerned about the mortality and morbidity conference, (we'll all be a subject for that discussion sooner or later), as much as i'm heartfeltedly disappointed that the fine art of costuming in my neighborhood seems to have been taken by the grim reaper right along with all the oldsters. that's simply no way to go.

so here's the deal: i'm going to have three housewarming parties. please all remain hopeful that i already know the address, (that most recent place is da berries), but even if they all have to be moved and announced in a second-choice location, they're all still on, so check your mail for the invitations. (or drop a comment here to request one if you're afraid you'll be missed).

the first housewarming will be for family--kid-friendly--and to thank them all, as many of them as may still be "with me", for all their love and support. (expect things like deviled eggs and sweet pickle platters). a necessary truth, that mom & dad will want to see the place.

the second housewarming will be for friends--still perhaps kid friendly during the earlier hours--and to thank them all, as many of them as may still be "with me", for all their love and support, only with more beer and fewer cocktail wieners. (expect things like copious cases of my home brew, and snacks that give you a salty craving to drink more of 'em). a necessary celebration of what it's like to be free.

the third housewarming will be for those who know who they are--definitely not kid friendly--and to give myself the housewarming party i really wanted all along. (expect things like everybody sleeping over, and a kitchen full of fresh eggs and bacon in the morning). the goal isn't inappropriate behavior, and i don't mean to imply by the sleeping over part anything other than everybody having such a good time they definitely won't want to leave. it'll be a time for being ones self, critiquing my quirky choices in home decor, and investing my new digs with the memories of all the people i want to see there often. you can pick out your own coat hooks in the walk-in closet. your own beer mug in the cupboard. (all the best places have their regulars' beer mugs stored in a safe place for them, right?). your own favorite spot in the living room in front of what will eventually be the 10-ft projection-screen tv setup. and your own preference for where you can sleep over, any time, any day of the week, because i'll always have your back, and would never want to see it leaving, even though i understand that everybody has their own places to go, and lives to live. (sleeping spots ranging from my bedroom's king-sized bed, to either of the two guest bedrooms, to the sofas in the living room, depending on your preference and comfort level with the host).

it's been too long since i've been able to be there for the people i care about.

OH! and the costumes!!!

i essentially missed halloween this year. yes, i'm wearing my #61 stephen neal jersey today in anticipation of sunday's showdown, but that's just not the same. your costume can be as you are, or as you'd like to be, or none, depending on which bed you're gunning for.

pickles

i hope everybody had as much fun with the "pangs" as i did writing about it. we're all pretty ridiculous with our peccadilloes, preferences and predilections, and i only mean to have fun by them. even by my own.

so does anybody else have this same emotional attachment to dill pickles as the default and quintessential pickle as i have this emotional attachment to dill pickles as the default and quintessential pickle? i think i've written about vanilla ice cream before, but if i'm being honest i have to tell you: dill pickles are to pickles far beyond what vanilla ever dreamed to be regarding ice cream. (and you know how i feel about vanilla ice cream).

the fact that there are other styles and flavors of things that get called pickles out there notwithstanding, calling something a dill pickle is, to me, just plain redundant. it is what pickles are. we should probably digress to also observe that cucumbers are to pickles like pork is to proscuitto, and, no, calling something "turkey ham" does not make it "ham", tyvm, but i'm hoping that at least that much can go without further saying.

so when i wended my way through the lunch line a few moments ago to regard what was waiting for me in the sliced pickle pot at the end of the deli station, i almost dropped my tray. crinkle cut. little pale peppercorns dotted about. a sickly, slightly luminescent green tinge to the brine. there could be no doubt. and no, by any other recipe, no other pickle, no matter how ambitiously named or flavored, tastes as sweet. give me dill or give me... i KNOW patrick henry would have known exactly what to say.

they don't belong on sandwiches. they barely belong inside the supermarket at all, except for the little old ladies who like to have them with the little gherkins and cauliflowers mixed in as a cocktail accent. they simply aren't pickles. and they have no business anywhere near somewhere someone might be tempted to post a sign, no matter how misguided for their mistaken pickle savvy, that includes the word "deli".

clausen, despite having to mass produce and distribute theirs, knows how to call it. "sandwich slices". because that's what you do with sliced dill pickles--you put them on sandwiches. (burgers being just a specialized form of sandwich, after all). any self-respecting deli, regardless of whether they've got the sense and taste to put a huge glass vat of 'em whole on top of the counter, knows that when they offer "you want pickles on that?" that their audience expects and will settle for nothing less than a dill. (sliced or diced, i've seen 'em and enjoyed 'em both ways). i'm even willing to stretch the definition to let 'em consider adding garlic to their recipe, if they'd like to add just that little extra bit of bite, but it's the dill that defines it.

so today i realize that, though some people get pangs to think about sharing the person with whom they'd like to share freud's version of a pickle, i just get pangs thinking about pickles.

dill.