Chain, Chain, Chain...

On my front gate is a chain attached to a latch. The idea is that you reach in between the dowels, pull the chain which unlatches the gate, and walk in. The mail man gets it, I always find my packages sent by the USPS on the porch. The little kids in the neighborhood have figured it out, and regularly come inside my gate to fetch their goddamned balls, arrows, and Frisbees. Even those idiotic Jehovah's Witnesses have figured the damn thing out. So for crissakes why can't the stupid UPS driver figure out how to open the gate. He is a professional, and you'd think he would have come across every type of gate, and door there is. But no, instead when I go out to the front of the house I find that little yellow note stuck to the gate. He didn't even try, I was home all day.

Paint in the Ass

Carefully I taped off the tile so as not to get any paint on it. For the areas around the ceiling, and window I slowly drew the paint brush along, creating a crisp line. This is called 'cutting in' in painters jargon. The problem was that the paint wasn't going on as nicely as it had in the kitchen. It was the same paint from the same can, or so I thought. In fact it was when I thought to myself that this paint should be going on the wall just as easily as it did in the kitchen that I realized it wasn't the same can. This was the paint I had bought for the baseboard and crown molding, an enamel. It wasn't for the walls at all.

See the theme of my posts this week? My mind is going, I'm getting old. I went and spent an hour screwing around in that bathroom, and then had to turn around and repaint every damn thing I had just painted. Today I am going to blame it on Mark. I say my mind wasn't as sharp because of all the wine, and vodka I drank at his Oscar party Sunday evening. Also, I was the guy who spent two hours cleaning up the kitchen after the party while Mark laid in bed watching Jimmy Kimmel. I was tired, and hung over, and the labels on the paint cans kind of looked the same. Yeah, that's it, it's all Mark's fault.

Old

Ever since February twelfth I have been a slaving away redecorating the empty apartment in our building. I'd like to get it rented out for March, but I don't see that happening. Craig's List isn't bringing in the calls like it used to. One thing I have to keep me going while doing all the crap needed, is the radio. All day long I work on the apartment while listening to 102.7, the oldies station. Now right there I should realize that it's called the oldies station, and no kid is going to be listening to it, but it freaks me out every time they have a contest.
"Be caller twenty five, and win two tickets to see Styx in concert!" The deejay screams.
What freaks me out so much is when they put the twenty fifth caller on the air it always sounds like some old fart or like my grandmother is the winner.
"Oh thank you very much sonny. I just love the Styx."
In my mind I still think of people who like rock concerts as young. Who the hell are all these old people who are listening to a rock station?

Growing old is freaky. I don't like it. Paul McCartney, and all the other rockers faces look like a relief map of the Badlands, and almost daily one of the people I grew up listening to croaks. I could listen to 'Y100', the younger peoples station. I did that the other day in the car, and heard some guy singing "I got passion in my pants and I ain't afraid to show it. Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle."
So I guess that unless I want to listen to crap like that, I'll just keep listening to the old codgers radio station and hope I don't break a hip trying to move like Mick Jagger.

Photo Friday

I was sitting having breakfast, and the "juice" bottle was right in front of me.

There are so many things wrong with this label.

Raspberry

Strawberry

Video Thursday

It's corny, but Mark was recording me tiling the apartment kitchen for posterity.

Subway Walls

Mark; "I'm not sure if we should get the glass mosaic tiles or the subway tiles for the backsplash."
Me; "I don't know about 'we', but 'I' am getting the subway tiles."
Mark; "Waaaaa...., I want the glass mosaic.... waaaaaa"
Me; "I don't care. I'm the guy doing the tiling, and besides it's a rental unit."
"Waaaaaaaa....."
"Mark! I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU WANT!"

That's us in the tile aisle of the Home Depot. It's not a pretty sight when Mark and I go shopping together. I often end up screaming at him, usually with profane punctuation.

I swore after tiling Mark's bathroom floor, that I would not be tiling another thing for the rest of my life. It appears that my word is as good as dust, because here I am tiling again. And the worst part about it is that I don't even get to enjoy the end result because this is for our next tenant. I do have to say it is turning out even nicer than I thought it would, and tiling a wall is much easier than doing a floor. In fact you can even sip a cocktail or a beer while doing a wall.

Mardi Gras

http://www.earthcam.com/usa/louisiana/neworleans/bourbonstreet/?cam=bourbonstreet

Thirty six years ago I got off a Delta jet in New Orleans, Louisiana, with a friend of mine. We were going to Mardi Gras. What happened on Fat Tuesday is a little foggy, but here is the little bit that I do remember. First there was a parade on Canal Street, and the people on the parade floats were throwing worthless, aluminum coins and beads to the people watching. It was bedlam. Old ladies pushing and shoving, little kids running everywhere, all vying for those stupid coins and beads. I managed to get quite a few, but after getting my fingers stomped on by a little black kid, we decided it was time to go over to Bourbon Street.

Bourbon Street was packed side to side with a human tide of drunks, a few religious zealots, and me. I almost immediately got separated from my friend, so I spent most of Mardi Gras alone. Here is an interesting fact about New Orleans. It is a place where you can drink liquor on the street, and the bars where you get that drink are open twenty four hours a day. That would prove to be problematic for me, as the rest of the day was a blur of wedging myself into bars packed tightly with drunks, trying to find a place to pee, and then trying to buy another drink from the over worked bartenders. I do remember at one point being on a balcony overlooking Bourbon Street, and seeing a lot of women showing off their bare breasts. They were standing under the balcony of a gay bar yelling for beads. Surprisingly, they got quite a lot of beads there. I also remember seeing naked people in the pool room of one bar. It is quite possible that I was one of them. Other than that, the day was truly a blur of drunkenness.

As you can see, I had a terrific time. So if you ever have the chance, go to Mardi Gras. Everybody should do it at least once. And if you do, try to keep your clothes on. It's probably for the better that you do.