Opinions, Assholes, and Whatever Floats Your Boat

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I can’t help it.  But if the cars/owners involved were Camaros or Corvettes, that would be even funnier.

I don’t think that I will ever be shocked again.  It’s been awhile since anything really shocked me.  There aren’t too many things that really rattle me.  The problem is that the things that do rattle me really rattle me.

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With the exception of rare genetic or congenital anomalies, gender is male or female.

Pick one.  Preferably the one that matches your plumbing.

I can’t say that I am celebrating in the streets or bathing my profile pic in a rainbow colored filter on Facebook. Nor am I shouting doom and gloom and proclaiming the end of the world because now Adam and Steve (or Annie and Eve) can get “married.”  Personally I believe that same sex relations are wrong in any context (and to me, positively vile)- but so are opposite sex relations out of their proper context (but I’ve been there with the heterosexual fornication and done that, hypocrite that I can be.)  I am not the Judge, nor do I want to be.  I’m guilty of “doing it wrong” too, just in a different way.

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Two dudes.  Wonder who will clean up the piss splatters around the john?

However,  I don’t make a hobby of rubbing my straightness in everyone’s face and Making Them Like It.  I even use the term straightness almost lightly, as “asexual” is probably closer to what I am now.  I really don’t have any desire for physical contact with anyone.  I don’t like strange people touching me, and it’s been more years than I’d like to admit since I did anything other than sleep (or watch TV) in bed. The older I get the more averse to such things I become.

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Even so, if you have found your “soulmate,” and you want to have at it like rabbits in heat, whether it be male, female, mechanical, inflatable, or gerbil, I don’t care.  Maybe I am a bitter, old, frustrated bitty, but I just don’t want to hear about it.  That’s in the same category as wondering whether or not your grandparents still have sex.  Some things should remain a mystery.

I don’t care if you have the hots for a ’93 Ford Escort.  I really don’t care how people get their jollies for the most part, or who they choose to land in bed with, or why.

It only bothers me when you expect me to call it normal.

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You celebrate your holidays, I’ll celebrate mine.

I do have to wonder about the World Rabies Day thing.  Is this observation a call to inform people about rabies and to prevent the spread of rabies?  I can’t imagine anyone wanting to celebrate Rabies, but there are some real freaks out there.

In all seriousness, I don’t believe anything good or healthy is going to come out of legalizing same-sex marriage.  I don’t think it’s healthy to teach children that this an acceptable lifestyle.  I don’t want my grandchild witnessing gay groping and make-out fests in public.  Celebrating same-sex attraction to me is sort of like celebrating heart disease or cancer- or getting excited about rabies.  We know things like heart disease or cancer or some things that some people do in the bedroom (gay OR straight) are not good for you, and eventually any of those things can kill you- but then human beings can be destroyed by things that society has traditionally condoned.

For instance, overwork can kill you- (been really close to that one) but nobody has ever gone to great lengths to morally condemn those who live to work even though that can be just as much idolatry- and positively poison to your physical, spiritual and mental health as anything else.  Nobody really puts up an argument to exclude or demonize the addicted-to-work.  Especially when that work-addicted person is doing your work for you.

Overeating can kill you- and gluttony is a sin- but do we actively seek to exclude and shame the fat?  If fat shaming really worked, we would be a nation of Calista Flockharts, and I don’t see that happening.

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Fanny is allowed to experience the feline lifestyle.  Fat and lazy is OK- for cats.

Perhaps the silver lining in the gay marriage movement is maybe the whole gay pride in-your-face attitude will become passé and less “trendy” now that it’s legal. Nothing serves so much as a buzz kill than making something once forbidden legitimate.

Maybe that’s why I pretty much gave up binge drinking by age 23.

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Sometimes Mom does not realize the absolutely horrendous double entendre she brings up.

Fascinatingly Horrible, a Painful and Awe-Inspiring Truth, and a Silent Witness

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I’ve often wondered when it comes to abandoned cars- why this particular dying place?

I find entropy fascinatingly horrible. Part of me doesn’t want to watch the process of death, decomposition and/or decay, but at times I am almost compelled to do so, because there’s also a strange and captivating beauty in it.

Perhaps my fascination with old and decomposing things lies in the knowledge that somewhere, in a better time, those things were once new and whole.

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I could get lost in a place like this. Intentionally.

I don’t like what this world has turned into, at least culturally, and the turning began years-decades, actually- before I was born.  Not all change is bad of course, but the moral and cultural disintegration of society is definitely a negative change as far as I’m concerned. I’ve said it before: Orwell’s 1984 was meant to serve as a warning, not an instruction manual.  I think Orwell would be spinning in his grave if he could see just how eerily true his observations have become.

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All the freaking time.  Just look up at all the traffic cameras.

I do appreciate many technological advancements- in fact I would probably been long dead without a fair number of mid-20th century medical advances.  Most likely I’d never lived beyond infancy, for good or for ill.  And being the third (unwanted female to boot) of three, they’d probably never even bothered spending the scratch on the post mortem pic.

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Once you’ve had three kids, don’t they all sort of look alike?

Anyone old enough to have ever had to mess with a broken cassette tape or who has been stranded miles away from a phone gets what I’m saying about technology.  If we could have the technology without the dumb shit, and without the social and moral atrophy that seems to come along with it, perhaps utopia could be achieved!

I am not nearly that naïve. (Back to Orwell and Animal Farm and the time honored truth that some pigs are more equal than others.)

Of course, we all know that there is no such thing as a perfect world. In fact, I honestly believe in the devolution of humanity.

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If only people knew… the VW “Thing” was a thinly disguised Kübelwagen.

And the whole Volkswagen concept was brewed up by Adolf Hitler.

I’ve commented many times on the strange beauty of abandoned machinery, and also of the concept that there might really be literal deus ex machina or real “gods in the machines.”

I can only imagine the silent witness written in cold, dead steel, and what does it have to say?

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Sort of like a post mortem for an old, old VW Transporter.

The reality of the Transporters was (and is) that these are pretty much only meant to be owned and operated by technicians capable of repairing them.

Passionate Pragmatism, “Gifted,” but an “Underachiever,” and Related Descriptives

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The lot is cast into the lap, but the decision is the Lord’s alone. – Proverbs 16:33 (NRSV)

“Life’s a box of chocolates, you never know which one you’re gonna get.” – Forrest Gump

I actually used to have a tapestry like this- only it was of cats playing poker- when I lived in Downtown Columbus.  It covered up some old plaster imperfections in the wall.  From the looks of me lately I could use something like this to cover up more than plaster imperfections.

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Holy shit, I’m looking old.

Even though I look every flipping second of my age and then some, I went to school with some people who look a hell of a lot worse than I do.  Some of them look better than me too, but that makes sense. By and large, the golden people tend to stay that way.

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I was never, ever, ever, one of the golden people.

I know, comparison isn’t very fair and isn’t really very comforting, especially when I realize that if I let the hair color go and didn’t bother to do makeup I’d likely be mistaken for deranged or even dead.  I didn’t come from a particularly affluent part of the world, either, and many of my cohorts are even poorer than I am.  Poverty does not do much for one’s appearance or outlook.  As the saying goes, money may not buy happiness- but it can buy you the misery you like the best.

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 I guess if it is rumored to be shitty it must be funny.

Speaking of all things shitty, I remember all too well there’s a holiday weekend coming up which means I will have lazy asses goldbricking at my expense even more than normal.  “Skippy” as I like to call him -because even when he does show up at work he comes in late, wanders off for hours at a time, and has the balls to leave early to go to Every. Single. One. of his 17 year old son’s baseball games (and he’s not the coach) has got to be the laziest man on earth. Anyway, Skippy has managed to take his level of apathy and work avoidance even higher by taking off Friday afternoon before a holiday weekend- probably to watch even more freaking baseball.

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I can think of so many more things I’d rather do.

Granted, he doesn’t do anything when he is at work, so why do I care?  I’m already doing his job as it is. I guess I’m just pissed because he’s getting paid for not doing shit. I am getting a bit of entertainment as he is trying to train his buddy (who has the IQ of paint) to be as adept at shirking work as he is.

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Yes, I am burned out. Crispy. Fried. Smoked.

I am so tired of how stupid people can be.  It might be because of the stupidity I encounter at work, and yesterday was especially choice given that I was horribly sick most of the day.  Of course I couldn’t just leave because we are (as always) short staffed and one of the guys (as usual) had a child care issue. So screw me sideways again.  It’s good I am not a frequent puker, and that I didn’t have the screaming shits.

I’ve been called many things in my life, and a good many of them derogatory.  I always thought “gifted but an underachiever,” was a funny one, as the only ones who ever used that descriptive were math teachers who couldn’t understand why I was doing good to get a “B” or “C” in math when I pretty much slept through everything else and got straight “A”s.

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Math was the only subject I actually studied for, and I still sucked at it. I love it when people just assume that if you’re good at one thing then you’re slacking if you suck at something else.

If they thought I sucked at math, they should have watched me attempt team sports.

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I suck at sports like no one has ever sucked before. Except swimming, but that’s just for personal exercise.

I’m Not Supposed to Be Like This (But It’s Okay)

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There’s a rather obscure song written by REM back in the mid 1980s called, “The Wrong Child.” Sometimes this song sort of runs through my head at times.  If I were to try to explain what my childhood felt like, this song captures it pretty well.

I’ve watched the children come and go
A late long march into spring
I sit and watch those children
Jump in the tall grass
Leap the sprinkler
Walk in the ground
Bicycle clothespin spokes
The sound the smell of swingset hands

I will try to sing a happy song
I’ll try and make a happy game to play
Come play with me I whispered to my new found friend
Tell me what it’s like to go outside
I’ve never been
Tell me what it’s like to just go outside
I’ve never been
And I never will

I’m not supposed to be like this
I’m not supposed to be like this
But it’s okay

Hey, those kids are looking at me
I told my friend myself
Those kids are looking at me
They’re laughing and they’re running over here
They’re laughing and they’re running over here
What do I do?
What can I do?
What should I do?
What do I say?
What can I say?

I said I’m not supposed to be like this
Let’s try to find a happy game to play
Let’s try to find a happy game to play
I’m not supposed to be like this
But it’s okay, okay

REM, The Wrong Child

It is a paradox. I  wouldn’t change the way I’m wired for anything but I wouldn’t wish it on anyone either.

I can be an impartial observer, a voice, a navigator of sorts, but I don’t belong on the inside.  I really never could be that carefree child playing with other kids without being constantly wary and afraid. 

I am what I was created to be for what that is worth.  No, I don’t understand and probably never will.

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Arousing the Attention of Law Enforcement, and Vehicle Customization “Don’ts”

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I try to avoid interactions with law enforcement.  I think most rational people do.  I’m intimidated easily enough, and I really don’t want to be bothered anyway, so I try to just live my life, quietly obeying the rules and generally blending into the wall.

I learned a disturbing truth a few mornings ago.  I should know better, too, but I wasn’t paying attention.

On my car (the illustrious Corolla S, with the 6 speed manual, which is an awesome ride) you can just leave the lights and fog lights on (which I usually do) and they will turn off when one turns the ignition off.  But for some bizarre reason I turned the lights off.  When you turn the lights off, the DRLs (headlights only) still come on.  Usually that’s not a real issue.

The headlights are HIDs and are insanely bright, so I didn’t notice that the parking lights or tail lights weren’t on, as I went off on my merry way through the cop obstacle course between my house and the Y.  I’ve been known to see as many as six cops between my house and the Y (1.8 miles.)  This is particularly odd, considering I make this trip between 5 and 5:15AM.  I know there are quite a few speed traps in that small stretch, so I plan accordingly and keep at a painfully slow 35MPH to avoid an unplanned and expensive speeding ticket.

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So I was completely shocked when I had a cop light me up.  I know I was only doing 35 or maybe a bit less, so what in the flying thunder could this guy want with me?

I did remember the most important thing from my CCW class- let the officer see your hands, because he knows you carry the minute he runs your plates.

So as I stuck my hands out the window, all I could say was, “My weapon is in the trunk.” Which it was.  I’m not about lying to cops.

He asks for my driver’s license, and then asked me if I knew my tail lights were out.  Then it dawned on me- I looked at the dash and realized for some reason I’d turned off the lights and was just running on DRLs.  Oh. Shit.

So the officer- who thankfully wasn’t being a douche bag about it, even though he would have had the right- ran my license.  Seeing I had no record, or outstanding warrants, or reason to believe I was running a meth lab out of a late model Corolla, let me go once he verified that yes, my lights all work- when they’re turned on.

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At least I didn’t get a speeding ticket.

I have to wonder if I’d been treated differently had I been younger, male, or belonged to a different ethnic group.  I know Steve-o was randomly pulled over several times when he had his Audi.  The demographics didn’t look good- a 20 year old kid driving a late model Audi A4 in impeccable condition, in an area where the average young 20 something is unemployed,  on drugs, and not averse to stealing things.  I think the cops just couldn’t believe that someone of Steve-o’s demographic actually worked and earned money to buy a nice car via legitimate means.  In their defense, considering most of his age cohorts, I understand their incredulity.

 

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So… the place of notoriety for those of Steve-o’s generation is the “Busted” paper- getting your mug shot plastered all over Central Ohio.  The list of names (center) were all the bizarre names I found in just that one issue of the “Busted” paper.  Anyone with the last name “Hunt” should really have their head examined before naming their child “Michael.”  Another one I found funny was the name “Ciera,” as if her first name should be “Cutlass.” And the name “Crystal,” no matter how you spell it, leads me to want to call her “Crystal Meth.”  Note to self: do NOT use the “Busted” paper as a reference source for potential baby names.  Although I’m sure some people do.

The badly painted (likely with a house roller) Cincinnati Bengals tribute Civic is a more typical vehicle for someone of Steve-o’s age to be seen driving.  Either that or this distressed Accord:

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This looks eerily like Steve-o’s first car, a ’92 Accord with about 400K on it.

As soon as he could afford it, he traded it on a ’95 Integra- but he’s had plenty of cars since then.

 

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I mean, right MEOW.

Steve-o got to sit in the back of a cruiser (twice) while the cop verified that his temp tag was legit right after he bought the Audi.  Not long after he got his regular plates he got pulled over (again) and the K9 officer who pulled him over thought it appropriate to go through the Audi with the drug dog.  I doubt if they found a cough drop or a gum wrapper, (Steve-o is one of those people who doesn’t eat, smoke or do anything in the car that might leave a mess) but the dog did leave behind some hair and slobber that provoked Steve-o to pay for a $150 detail to remove.  In some ways I’m glad he traded the Audi for a (newer, yes, but less ostentatious) Jetta.   He’s not been pulled over once in the Jetta.  Apparently that’s not as much of a head turner as the Audi.

Do I agree with profiling?  Not necessarily, and I realize that if Steve-o appeared to be anything other than what can only be called “super white” that a simple, “have a seat in the cruiser” could have turned far uglier.  Cops are human too.  I know I profile. I know I hit that door lock switch extra fast in certain parts of town. I’m not saying it’s right to do it, but everyone does.

 

 

Creative Use of Just About Everything, and Adventures in Eclectic Home Décor

 

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If Steve-o thought I had problems with the whole “warm and fuzzy” mommy bit, just wait until I try my hand at home décor- in his house.  That is just plain scary, given that my idea of decorating has much more to do with function than the aesthetic.  I still have the big Ohio State tapestry on the wall in my room that Jerry put there, for some inexplicable reason.  I’m not even that much of an Ohio State fan.  I like some hangings on the wall to break up the monotony, but I don’t really give décor much thought.  Unless, of course, it’s funny.

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For example, this is funny.  It will be even funnier when I get the outhouse next to it done.

For the most part, however, I can live without a whole lot of kitsch.

I already told Steve-o he will have his very own G T F O sign- since he doesn’t really get into cute little “Welcome” signs.

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Figure it out.. it’s not difficult.

Of course he will probably come up with his own unique flair:

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I can imagine all the other funky things that being a man, he won’t mind, such as shall we say “dated” furniture, archaic bathroom fixtures and strangely colored kitchen appliances:

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70s kitchen

In all seriousness, Steve-o’s house has two full bathrooms.  Both of them have new plumbing and faucets, but the tubs, sinks and toilets are straight out of 1975.  One bathroom set is this horrible yellow (like the above kitchen) and the other one is a sort of medium brown.  On the plus side, the brown will probably hide a lot of stains.  Especially in the toilet bowl.

I envy him the 70’s non-low-flow toilets though.  Those things are industrial strength, heavy duty beauties that will flush down horse piles, and various and sundry objects up to as large as Jimmy Hoffa.  The way he shits, that’s going to be necessary.  I don’t know how many times he has had to run for the plunger not just in my house but in my parents’ house (Dad replaced the toilets in the early 2000s and they are awful) as well.

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I’m still getting him a couple of plungers as housewarming gifts.  In fact, three- one for each toilet, and one for the sinks.

I’ll have to put together my list of crap you need when you move but don’t think about, and then work on collecting said items for him.

1. Drain cleaner.

2. Clorox.

3. Paper towels.

4. Cleaning rags and towels (cloth.)

5. Lysol and various spray air fresheners.

6. Mop and mop bucket- also Murphy’s Oil Soap and magic erasers.

7. Plungers.

8. Coffee- coffee pot, coffee filters, coffee cups.

9. Paper plates, Dixie cups, plastic silverware and napkins.

10. Toilet mints (the blue things you put in the toilets to keep the water blue and to keep dogs from drinking out of the bowl)

I’m sure I’ll come up with more. I have time.

Let’s Have a Riot! (Why?) and Historical Interest

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Why?  Ass pilots!

I am sorry but I have absolutely no pity, understanding or tolerance for ass pilots who drum up misdirected feline aggression toward “da man” because some criminal gets beaten up by cops, and then go off to destroy their own cities.  I don’t care what kind of rationalization gets cooked up to justify that sort of behavior.  Let’s face it: there are flaming idiots who go out and commit egregious crimes. Violence happens.  I don’t like those facts either, or that we humans are violent beasts, but the cure for violence generally is not cooking up more random violence and destruction to add to it.  That’s sort of counterintuitive.  The only sort of justifiable force is the force necessary to put a thug in his place.

Violence is more likely to happen when someone is in the process of breaking the law.  I don’t care if the law breaker in question is male, female, straight, gay, trans, black, white, green or turquoise.  When you break the law, you open yourself up to having the police- or even those who you are breaking the law against- beat the living shit out of you.  I’m not going to start it, but if you physically involve me I will finish it.  If the circumstances dictate, I may just cheer the arbiter of legitimate street justice right on along- but looting the 7-11 because you’re pissed that some thug got what was coming to him from the cops…that’s just plain stupid.

If you steal from me and I beat you senseless, you asked for it.

If you try to assault me or carjack me, and I put a .357 through your skull, (and in the proper circumstance I would not hesitate to do so) you bought and own that particular suicide-by-old-bitty.

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A last resort, but if it’s you or me…it’s gonna be you.

Leave me alone, you keep your stuff, I keep mine, you keep your hands to yourself, and I have no problem with you.

Why can’t we all just get along?

In better portents, the POMC- the Precious Only Male Child- has signed a contract on a house.  He has, from what I can see, done well for himself, even though I had some trepidation regarding the age of this place.  The main house (it has numerous additions, upgrades and renovations) was built in 1885.  I didn’t know if I was really comfortable with him buying some joint that’s 130 years old, but the basement is thick stone with a concrete floor and the foundation is solid. There are two huge full bathrooms, one upstairs and one downstairs. The joint even has a new dishwasher.  The wiring, water heater, furnace, plumbing, carpets, paint and pretty much all of those kinds of things that can be big problems in old houses are new.  The seller agreed to install the central air unit that goes with the furnace as part of the deal (why he did all those improvements without adding A/C is beyond me, but different strokes for different folks, I guess) so Steve-o will pretty much only have very minor things to deal with once he moves in.  The first call should be to the alarm company, then to the utility companies.

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Chez Steve-o is not this ornate, but almost this big.

He will need the alarm company.  He does not have dogs, and even though he is armed, guns don’t help if you sleep like death.  Someone could break into that place and steal him blind and he would sleep through it.

His days of waking up to the All-Catholic, all the time, channel are hopefully numbered.  Now he will probably be waking up to the tune of “Boats and Hoes.”

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