Upon further reflection...

You know, I sat down to type up a little something for y’all the other day and I just drew an enormous blank. I really had nothing to say. And rather than leave you with complete and utter dreck, I figured I would listen (for once) to that old chestnut ‘silence is golden’. But then I started to wonder if I was truly out of something interesting to say, which was somewhat depressing since I had recently become inspired to try and actually do a little quote-unquote real writing. Then, today, I was thinking about some stuff that happened to me a long time ago. And I was like “Wow! My life is a wealth of personal pain, bitchy snipes, inappropriate stories, and other piquant observations. It’s really an embarrassment of riches.” And further, I remembered my quasi-commonplace book: a little memo I keep on my Palm for sort of story ideas. You know, things that I see or think of at times when I can’t just plop down and bang out a few paragraphs for you, my devoted readers. Now, I don’t want to promise big to you, especially since I have a ton of shit coming down the pike at this particular moment. Apart from the holidays, I have meetings, the architect delivered my plans so I will soon begin construction, I am going up to Tallahassee for a few days around my birthday (36x30 in pants, medium/large in shirts, and any size cash always fits), and I also have a visitor coming soon. But, just know that I am still out there, lying in wait, tumbling the raw stones of ideas in the lapidary of my mind. Ick. Maybe I should start with a metaphor/simile workshop. Anyway. Kisses to you all!

damn

You know how when you bitch someone else out, and then you realize that they could turn around and bust you for the same thing? Yeah, I hate that too. Sorry Rach.
On a lighter note, I am about to depart for a few days to the land of chocolate. No, wait: sorry. I meant the land of sun. I am swinging down to ole Miami for a few days. Gotta put my stank back on it after Wilma blowed some of it away. And, you know, see friends and junk.
On a random thought, why not choose hurricane names from the least frequently used list? I mean, every time I heard something about Wilma, I didn't hear it in the newscaster's voice, but in Fred Flinstone's bellow. Although, upon reflection, I guess that it would suck to be destroyed by hurricane Prudence, or to talk about the flooding caused by Wilbur. Sounds like angry and/or incontinent old people.
That's all for now. Have a happy celebration of that thing on that day.

Conversation with the devil

Recently, I had the opportunity to attend a Halloween party. I haven’t been to one since I was 13, and for good reason: costume parties come with a guarantee of feelings of inadequacy. I mean, yes: a regular party can make you feel awkwardly dressed, or like a total fuck stick, but the comparison of one’s attire to another’s is a forgone conclusion at a costume party. Why did I go, then? Well, you know how much I love to hold on to things that happened 18 years ago. Besides, it was a chance to do something other than sit at home by myself on a Saturday night (which is also an inducer of feelings of inadequacy, but I digress).

To my mind, it seemed the best way of not losing was not competing, also known as the complete and utter wimp-out. I mean, honestly, I just wanted to kind of hang out, chat with some friends, and go home. I was not in it for the prizes (sidebar: I honestly didn’t even know there was an ACTUAL contest. I didn’t win anything, but then I didn’t really try either so no disappointments there). I decided to just slap on something that would be slightly revealing (this was a bear party, and if I know one thing it’s that they do like to pet me) but that would not require a lot of effort. I chose the mechanics shirt that I once greeted Al Gore in (those in the know will remember the shirt I speak of). I put on a wife-beater underneath, and was able by mysterious confluence of events to slip into my Dickies (I love my Dickies). With a pair of boots and scrunched down knee length socks my outfit was complete.

Once I arrived, I saw a variety of costumes, most of which were okay, some of which needed more covering, and a couple that I didn’t dare look at directly for fear that the image would be burned into my retinas for all eternity. Since I cannot look at a strobe light without having a seizure of epic proportions, I quickly shuffled outside, so as to avoid the implications of being unconscious in a room full of gay men. That’s when I met the devil.

I introduced myself (you may be thinking, “Why? Aren’t you already on intimate terms with your dark lord?”) and he told me his name was Charles. He seemed nice, and we had fun ripping apart everyone who was not as charmant, as well dressed, as attractive as we were. Especially if they were wearing unnecessary ass-less chaps. Anyway, eventually we were joined by another fellow, David, who was dressed as a pirate (I’m guessing butt, although he could have been another kind). After several hours of delightful conversation (and a modicum of groping), I went home alone.

Fucking Nuts

I lived with the rat noise for a while, far longer than I should have, I now realize. The rat noise is what I called the subtle skitter-scratchings I would occasionally hear in the attic of my home during the evening and night. I don’t even think it was rats, because somehow I think rats have a quieter nature: they are used to the scorn heaped on them, and therefore seek a lower profile. What this was, I am nearly positive, was a bad case of squirrels.

I first heard the noise late one night as I lay in bed reading. Hearing that sound was like having my entire body brushed with mildly charged electrical wires (although I don’t actually know what that feels like: no kinky sex here!). See, I had a night light (which I have heard has been linked to the occurrence of homosexuality in several studies) for an embarrassingly long time, (the first one to guess how long wins a prize! Also, if the studies are right, that means I am REALLY gay) so terror of the night is just a given with me. The gush of adrenaline into my circulatory system causing my heart to race and the sweat to ooze from my pores was not an unfamiliar phenomenon, although the fact that I was alone and potentially dealing with rabid vermin was a bit of a change up.

Now, when I am in a crowded room or situation, I usually can’t hear for shit. When I am by myself, and nothing is on, I can hear the click and hum of my digital video recorder. Instantly, I became all SOCOM command unit, ears aswivel, trying to locate the origin of the noise. Then, since opening the attic access and turning on the light (thereby encouraging a rodent attack) was sheer stupidity, I resorted to the time tested tactic of all people who live below noisy neighbors: I banged on the ceiling.

This was followed by a frenzy of apparent movement (I say apparent because I could not actually SEE the squirrels fleeing from mythumping; they could have been doing the old receding footsteps trick) and then silence. Smugly triumphant (“Heh. I didn’t even have to go into the attic.”), I put the occurrence in the behind me to simmer on the back burners of my subconscious. When it happened again, I assumed that this must be a new squirrel, one that simply didn’t get the memo vis a vis not clambering about in a decent person’s (or my) attic. More ceiling banging was committed, and again I sent my upstairs tenant packing. Until the next time. And the one after that. Surely even the dullest among you (although I doubt you know who you are; I have often found that stupid people don’t seem to know that they are stupid. I find it quite shocking, even though logically a lack of awareness goes glove in hand with the whole stupidity thing) are sensing the pattern: I basically have been whacking the ceiling for about 18 months now.

I knew, however much I wished to deny it, that I would have to come up with a real solution to this problem; it was only going to be so long before I ended up putting a hole in the plaster with the broom thereby opening the gates to rodent invasion, as it were. So, I asked my neighbor to come and sit in my living room while I climbed into my attic. This I did with safety in mind; I didn’t want them to be alerted to my potential distress by feeble cries or even worse, a funny smell. I waited until I hadn’t heard the noise for a couple of days and then made my ascent. There, I saw the damage done by the nut-loving little bastards. The insulation on the duct work from the kitchen to the exchange was all torn up. I found the (I hope the, as in singular) entrance they had been using to give me the nighttime willies: a hole in the screen in the vent over the carport. So, I had two repairs to make: fix it so the furry bastards couldn’t come back and then repair the damage they had done.

Dad helped me with the repairs, by which I mean he watched the Family Guy movie while I crawled around in the attic. Hey, he’s almost 60: he shouldn’t be doing that kind of shit anymore. Without too much trouble or injury, I was able to affect all the repairs and even travel to my first bear Halloween party. But more on that later.