Oh, And…
I have a few unrelated tasks to take care of first –harvesting the year-end basil for pesto and returning my friend’s food processor, harvesting another jars worth of hot peppers for pickling– and then I’ll be emptying and storing a bookshelf, sorting through my son’s toys and storing that away, moving more furniture into the storage room, and perhaps even breaking down the stereo. I doubt I’ll get this all accomplished today, since I stayed out late last night and woke up just before 11:00. But that’s the plan, Stan.
As it happened, I got the pesto done, the toys sorted and put away, as well as many of the books. As soon as I get my ass out of bed (gig last night), I gotta hit the Home Depot for some Quikcrete, because my neighbor and I are splitting the cost of repaving a sunken area of the alley that turns into a swimming pool whenever it rains. Then it’s back to books and boxes.
Philly
I really need to start carrying around a camera.
This past Thursday I had to drop off my car for repairs. My mechanic (the only place I trust in this city, Schummer’s Super Sunoco) is located in the Mayfair neighborhood of northeast Philly, a good 30 minute drive from my place. There’s a bus that goes connects to the El, but I decided to take my bike and ride home. I’m glad I did.
I saw an interracial homeless couple walking down the street pushing a cart full of shit up Frankford Ave. They were arguing loudly about something and wearing matching American flag bandanas.
As I headed south under the El through Kensington, the now-decrepit manufacturing heart of the city, I watched a bus blatantly run a red light, as two angry junkies across the street looked like they were about to duke it out over god-knows-what.
I was in the shadow of Philly’s magnificent industrial past, zipping past empty buildings — a shuttered movie theatre that looked like it had been built in the 1920s, an old Fraternal Order of Indians lodge(i think that’s the name), the Northeast chapter of A.A. (it said so on a plaque on the building, which kind of obviates the whole “anonymous” concept), and more.
I reallyy need to get a camera….
Oh and Also
Elvis the cat came back. little fucker was hiding in the basement the whole three days, because he’s learned that rolling in basement filth means an immediate bath.
Which is what he got, followed by a lion haircut. He didn’t like that at first, but soon realized all that hair had been keeping him from all sorts of mischief. Now Little Elvis is like Peter Parker, climbing to heights heretofore unattainable.
Big Days
I’ve been going nutso trying to get my house finished up. Over the summer, as I think I mentioned, we repaired the porch roof frame, re-roofed, and painted the entire exterior. Now we have moved to the floors. (Sorry, no pictures for now, as I don’t have a digital camera).
I have exposed yellow pine sub-flooring, 3″ planks, but they are not in the best shape. When i bought the place, the floors had this ugly orange finish that was old and crumbling, so I scraped where I could and then hit it with a layer of grey floor paint. Now, almost 10 years later, that paint is in bad shape too.
My original plan had been to do plywood floors, but C and I were both concerned that it might not appeal to a buyer. So instead, I settled on hardwood floors — but as the search went on I realized that the stuff I liked was out of my price range, and the stuff I could afford was ugly or poor quality. So then we reconsidered plywood: perhaps planks like this or this; or maybe tiles.
But when my contractor and I discussed, she abruptly said, “hey let me show you something.” She got down on the floor with a scraper and sander, and in a few seconds the a spot of raw pine wood was peeking through the paint. She popped open the can of denatured alcohol I had used to strip paint off the baseboards and brushed a coating onto the pine, which turned a beautiful,glossy butterscotch.
“I’ve refinished worse floors than these, dude,” she said looking up at me. “Heck, I can replace the one or two boards that need replacing, it’s not like yellow pine’s in short supply.”
“Yeah, but the mess of refinishing,” I began but she reminded me “You’re gonna have to sand if you do plywood. And i can have these floors done in a couple of days once the room is cleared.”
So now we’re back to re-finishing, which will be completed in October (contractor leaves on vacation Tuesday).
So I’ve been working, largely by myself, to prep the rooms for refinishing. The dining room is largely done in terms of being emptied, and now it’s on to the living room. I have a few unrelated tasks to take care of first –harvesting the year-end basil for pesto and returning my friend’s food processor, harvesting another jars worth of hot peppers for pickling– and then I’ll be emptying and storing a bookshelf, sorting through my son’s toys and storing that away, moving more furniture into the storage room, and perhaps even breaking down the stereo. I doubt I’ll get this all accomplished today, since I stayed out late last night and woke up just before 11:00. But that’s the plan, Stan.
Speaking of Stan, here’s an old “Sesame Street” bit on the Golden An:
Missing
My stupid-ass cat Elvis managed to escape the house last night when I went looking for my cell phone in the car. He must have been really slick about it, because I am really consistent about closing the doors behind me.
He’s been an indoor cat his whole life, and he’s not really prepared for life outside. He’s been gone more then 24 hours. I’m putting signs up tomorrow, but I’m pretty upset.
Toys and Flavors
What Is This Thing Called Love
Keller the Killer: Re-Visiting a Modest Proposal
In the wake of a much-belated and truly odious non-apology from bloodthirsty child-killer and warmonger Bill Keller, I am compelled to re-publish a six-year old modest proposal for the New York Times. (And folks, it’s really worth reading Keller’s sterile, self-serving, bullshit, if you can stand the way it’s going to make you sick in your stomach. It’s a work of art, really, although the artist’s medium is piles and piles of horseshit.)
Although the substance of the original post deals with the lies of Judy Miller, which Bill Keller joyfully published on the front pages of the New York Times leading directly to the deaths of hundreds of thousands of innocent Iraqis and the death and maiming of thousands of our soldiers, my prescription remains the same.
One does not get to apologize for the first time ten years after the fact and get treated with respect for doing so. An apology, at the end of the day, is nothing but words unless there are actions to back it up. Keller has had a decade -a DECADE- to say or do something to TRY to make up for the ditch he helped run us into. All he’s got is a boatload of empty words. But before we move onto what I think Bill Keller should do, let me share with you what I wrote to him today:
An apology that is issued ten years after the fact is what we call “too little, too late.”
Kindly shove your apology straight up your hindquarters, and instead of impotently flapping your murderous little gums, why not do something tangible. here are some suggestions:
Adopt Iraqi children who have lost their parents thanks to your bombs.
Will your entire life savings, which is substantial, to a charity that helps injured soldiers you helped put in harm’s way.
Retire. You have done more harm in a few paragraphs than most of us will ever do in our entire lifetime. And then become a monk, and spend the rest of your life reflecting on your crimes.Seriously, Bill. Your “cri de couer” is way, way way too late. No one cares what you think anymore anyway.
Ten years for an apology and an explanation: pathetic.
But really, i don’t think he should retire, not in the “i got my pension and I’m doing fine” sense. No, I want him to retire permanently:
It is probably too much to expect dishonest cowards like yourselves to commit ritual suicide, but I do not believe it is not too much to ask.
Pistols and shotguns are readily available at sporting goods stores everywhere (and some department stores as well), although after splurging on Judy’s steak dinner and massage at the Ritz Carlton perhaps you need to “pinch” your pennies (do you get that one, Mr. Sulzberger?). I suggest one of the following options:
** Draw a nice hot bath, and avail yourself of any one of Gillette’s fine line of razor blades. Remember, it’s “up the highway” not “across the street” when you
make those incisions into your arteries. Make sure to do this in the bathtub, to avoid any mess on your fine towels and bathmats.** Rope, made from nylon or all-natural jute, is inexpensive, and a noose is not a complicated knot. There are many handy places in Manhattan from where you could suspend your rope: Central Park comes to mind. Remember to put the knot on the side, so as to snap your neck when you jump off the stool, hastening death. If you leave the knot at the back of your neck, you will simply choke to death, but really, either method would work.
** Gas up your Jaguar, Cadillac Escalade, or whatever obscenely expensive car you guardians of the public’s right to know are driving these days, and park it in your garage. Pour yourself a nice martini (maybe two or three), put in some relaxing music, close the garage door, and let the engine run as you drift off to sleep. Or skip the whole carbon monoxide thing and just douse yourself with unleaded and strike a match.
** You may simply wish to take the elevator to the top floor of the New York Times Building and take the plunge, although your eventual collision with the sidewalk may result in the death of an innocent bystander. However, given your enablement of the Iraq war, through Ms. Miller’s reporting, the deaths of innocents probably doesn’t concern you all that much.
** Finally, please don’t forget to leave a note.
Best wishes,
Brendan Skwire
I am not being snarky, fooling around, or being over the top. I really DO think Bill Keller should dispatch with himself as soon as possible. He SHOULD kill himself, what with all the blood on his hands.
He won’t though. Bill Keller, who never served a day in the military himself, was only too glad to have YOUR sons and daughters go die in some rich asshole’s war. Just so long as HE didn’t have to go. You can bet his kids haven’t served either. Keller is another run-of-the-mill coward, who supports wars he won’t have to fight.
If he was on fire, I wouldn’t so much as waste a drop of urine on him. Does that sound mean? Good, it should.
Two Weeks Back
About two weeks ago, i was heading home on the eastbound Schuykill Expressway. As i drove along the stretch that goes under 30th Street Station, I saw in the westbound lane, a man on a road bike. He was all done up in lycra, wearing a helmet, and leaned up against the jersey barrier, studying a map. He was well past the South Street entrance ramp, and a few tenths of a mile before the 676 merge.
I wondered how long he’d been there, how he’d missed the fact that he was riding down an entrance to the fucking highway, how he’d missed the big sign that says “No pedestrians, bicycles, or horses”, and when he’d be arrested.
Philadelphia is a freakshow.
Thoughts on Jesus and Joey Vento
Hot off the griddle from Scrapple TV. Please share with your xenophobic friends.
And now a thought on Jesus and Joey Vento. No, not Jesus Christ: if he really was Yahweh made flesh, then whatever He and Joey have to talk about is not my concern.
No, I’m talking about Jesus Ayala, who I worked with in the 1990s. Even though I was largely supported by student loans, I worked all the way through college as a cook. As you might expect, I worked with a lot of people from South and Central America: Jesus was from El Salvador. He couldn’t speak a word of English, but he could understand it perfectly. I often wondered if he actually could speak if he wanted to, but was just embarrassed by how thick his accent would be, or maybe he was just afraid if he tried, he’d make a silly mistake and look the fool.
My major was in English, but I was minoring in Spanish. Jesus and I spent about 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, in a basement kitchen together. I credit him with my straight As in Spanish: my professors would remark that my accent was better than any of the other non-native speakers. Some would ask where I sounded like a Salvadoreno.
I had decided to make my job my classroom. Because Jesus understood English, I could ask him how to say a particular word or phrase, but my favorite was learning proper colloquialisms.
“Quiero decir “Bob’s a fucking asshole”, pero no se la palabra,” I would ask.
“Brendo, diga ‘Bob es guay’ o ‘Cabron’,” Jesus would tell me.
I learned a lot during that time of my life, about communication, about other cultures, and about respecting people as individuals. And that’s why I could give a rat’s ass that a xenophobic, racist, classist, arrogant, right-wing asshole like Joey Vento has left this mortal coil.
I hope the sign on the Gate, no matter where the sandwich maker goes, reads “Spanish Only.”
