Mein Grout!

Here at the Maison d’O’Pine, I’ve been entertaining a steady stream of workers. The latest was a tile duo who are redoing my entry hall. Yesterday, I had brief, meaningless conversations with both the boss man and his underling. The underling, whose name I never caught, was actually in the background and we didn’t have much exchange.

What a difference a day makes.

Today, Underling came back to finish the grouting. He arrived approximately ten minutes ago and this is what I now know about him.

He is 49 tomorrow. (“Happy Birthday”, I say)
He is divorced.
He lives at his mom’s because he lost his house. (I remembered many nights in my youth when I lost my house, but still thought better of asking if he’s put out “lost house” flyers on neighborhood telephone poles.)
He’s worked for this tile guy for 19 years and hates him.
The tile guy yells at him.
He thinks the tile guy does a lot of things in an “old-fashioned” way and doesn’t keep up with the times.
He has a 1967 Chevelle show car
He scored #1 on a City civil service exam, but still didn’t get the job.
He used to be an endoscopic technician and knew how ALL the doctors liked their trays arranged (hmm, that could be a handy euphemism), but got laid off.
He’s had two knee-replacement surgeries, at least one of which incurred a workers’ comp claim.
He’s had rotator cuff surgery.
He used to make $30 an hour, “pretty good, huh?” (well, yeah, I say, that’s like 100 times more than a blogger makes)

Okay, seriously dude! I have hung out with sorority girls on speed who didn’t share as much information.

Thinking quickly, Brett Michaels flashed in my head, so I faked an anyeurism, fell to the floor and crawled back to the rear of the house to get “my meds.” I figured there was probably blood coming out of my ears already, so it seemed like a plausible feint.

I think he’s still talking. But I can’t hear him over the primal scream in my head.

In your FACEbook!

So, I’m chatting on Facebook with one of my LTBFFs and I see, under “Suggestions” that perhaps I should friend Waterloo Records. Being a longtime devotee of this Austin institution, I thought it was a lovely suggestion, even though I NEVER take Facebook’s suggestions. So I bit.

Well, apparently the friendbot inside remembers all those slights.

The moment I clicked through to become friends with Waterloo, I was accosted by the following message:


Too Many Friends.

Sorry. This user already has too many friends.


Then, to add insult to injury, the only option I have is to click, “okay.” But it’s not okay!!! I suddenly feel like I’m back in junior high and everybody got invited by me. So, I go their Facebook page and they have this totally random number of friends, like 4,997. WTF? You can’t squeeze in one more? Not even one more you fucking solicited, like some big-dicked evangelical Republican in a men’s room?

And guess what? I can see all of my friends that are their friends. It’s all the cool kids, of course. Laughing and singing and playing all the cool records they got at Waterloo.

Then I glanced at a handful of the other people on the list. I knew several of them And they SOOOOOO don’t deserve to be there. They are NOT that good a friend to Waterloo. I’ve been a far better friend, but here I am . . . on the outside looking in.

In the words of Bob Schneider (whose albums I ALWAYS bought at Waterloo), “World goes round. World goes A-round. World goes ‘round and around.”

Like a record baby. True dat.

Tiger's Swing Coach Quits

Apparently, Tiger's swing wasn't what it used to be.

Need Some Help With Your Bags?

On my way to the office today, I was behind a car with a funny bumper sticker. There was an illustration of the little Darwin version of the Christian fish. It was accompanied by the line, "We have the fossils. We win."

It made me think of all the "Christians" that will be provoked by it, fomenting those rabid responses of faith uber alles. Suddenly it dawned on me, if these people are so completely secure in their "faith" then why are they constantly being defensive about it. Why not a beatific smile and a shrug. If they know the fucking secret, then why the need to overreact. It's a bit "methinks the lady doth protest too much."

Kind of like the right wing nut job homophobe, Dr. George Rekers, who just got caught with a male prostitute traveling companion. He said he needed him to carry his luggage due to a medical condition. ummm-hmmmm. So that's what the kids are calling it these days.

(Given the advanced age of the Christian leader I'm betting his luggage is "soft-sided.")

What I guess I didn't realize is that a man like Dr. Rekers purports to be (Christian, moralist, holier-than-thou and thou and thou) use gay escort sights as a good place to find employees. I guess it IS sort of like a temp service.

Hey Judas

Isn't it nice that the Vatican "forgave" the Beatles this week? Guess they didn't have anything more pressing on their plate.

Incongruous, Part Two

I noticed on the way home today that KFC is doing a promotion for the Susan G. Komen Foundation. They've even changed the colors on their buckets to Komen pink. I always find it odd when an entity not particularly known for its commitment to the health of the general public suddenly gets all charitable. How many heart attacks, strokes and states of general obesity has KFC contributed to? Guess it's time to give back.

But I guarantee you that at least one person in that planning meeting suggested the bucket be all breasts.

Incongruous, Part One

One of our sweet pups had to pay a visit to the vet last week. Nothing serious, but it required a regimen of pills and drops, plus a return visit this morning. As I was about to pull away, I noticed for the first time that there is a Korean restaurant immediately next door to the vet hospital. A little too close if you ask me. Just sayin'.