Hey, how is everyone this fine weeked? What plans have you got? We’ve been so bizzy being adults lately, I am glad to have some kick it time with my Sweet Bumps. Miz Chris has promised to turn her phone off for three whole days. Mah brat loves to yak yak yak ’round the clock on that dayum phone, business or pleasure, so I ain’t holding my breath. But I am looking forward to spending some quality (wink wink) time with my wife. *Ahem* I took a shower and everything. Welp, here are some updated pics of the construction project that’s been going on at my house for the last few weeks. With the help of my handyman, I enclosed my carport into a two car garage, and am converting an old windowless, rough storage shed into a painting studio.

The photo above is the new garage, all finished! We added the cedar shake shingles for a little architectural interest, and to tie in with a dormer ’round front. The photo on the right is the studio in progress. It’s kinda soft cuz I took the photo in morning light. This used to be a plain, dark, little building with no windows. a place where I stored all my tools and rusty junk. Yes, my butch bros, I am aware my dawghouse looks like a dollhouse, but the style of our home is very storybook. Cuz I dig that quaint shit, aiiight! You can still drink beer in it. And beer will be forthcomimg. Bleeve it. The cedar shake shingles will be painted tan, and the trim and windows will be painted green soon. See the little leaded glass window up in the attic loft? That was there before we started.

This is part of the back wall of the new studio, all roughed in with drywall. Not much to look at just yet, but I wanted to show those new floor-to-celing windows. There are three of them all along the back wall. These huge windows were custom-ordered by someone at Homo Depot and then never picked up. So I got them for a song! The wood in the ceiling is a set of pull down stairs for access to the attic loft. I just use that overhead space to store shit, but what a great hideout it would be for a kid. For the success of this project so far, I gotta give total props to my hardworkin’ handyman, Emet. He is amazing. Man, I just love construction. When I was growing up, my dad (long since passed) used to take us to visit houses he was working on. I would stand in rooms that were simply framed with 2×4s and feel the space that would be. When I was real small, I used to like to roll out my Dad’s blueprints and imagine how all the homes would be in 3D. And I used to create blueprints of my dream house when I was like in the first grade. LoL I still draw dream blueprints when I doodle sometimes. I’m not in no kinda shape to actually do this kind of labor for a living, but I do love the process. It’s the type of honest work you can stand back from and experience instant gratification, having a sense that you actually accomplished something. You nail up a sheet of drywall, and it’s there. I think you can get a special feeling for a wall once you’ve seen it born, so to speak. And all wood has heart, of course. Technology has no pulse easy to detect, save for the people behind it. It’s just a different kind of work altogether, and I certainly can’t complain. Hell, I was an art major. I always say am lucky I ever had any job at all! All ya’ll have a sweet weekend. Holla back.

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You know how sometimes you’ll see some guy driving a truck so ridiculously huge, you think… “Ow. Sorry about yer penis, dewd.”

Well, check this out:

http://www.bullsballs.com/chevy/truck/accessories.html

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I just had a searing blister burger so violently hot, it feels like I once had huge clown lips that were burnt off with a fiery blow torch. Miz Chris accidently rubbed her biggo brown eyes with her pepper soaked hands, and now she is running around the house crying hysterically with barking chihuahuas chasing her.

Just wanted to share that with the internets.

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Goooood lord…

When Christine saw the new Krispy Kreme sign going up awhile back, she squealed and slammed on the brakes in the middle of the street. I was the same when I saw the new big orange Home Depot sign going up around the corner. But everyone at the new Home Depot already knows me now. For an old curmudgeon like me, it’s kinda annoying sometimes. I don’t always feel like being all neighborly when I am just slamming in real quick to pick up a box of nails or something, yanno. But I do engage in the nice-nice… … cuz I am southern, afterall.

Heavy into the construction project in the backyard, turning a rather rustic old shed into a painting studio. Hoping to finish it up by the middle of next week. The guys are doing drywall now. At this point, I am mostly staying out of the way, running those endless errands to the new Home Depot. To tell the truth, I think the workers send me on an errand when they want to take a long break. It’s already hitting some serious highs in the afternoons.

The handyman who is heading up this studio project is squat little monkey of a man, masquerading as a peacock. His name is Emet, and he is full of shit. He has been working around my love shack off n’ on for a coupla months now, helping me with different stuff. I know full well he bluffs when he boasts, but I have seen that he will throw down to back it up. Emet will take on construction stuff he knows nothing about, and figure it out as he goes. (I did the same thing in technology.) Any man who takes some pride in his work gets my respect and my money. Emet is no craftsman, but he is the most earnest handyman I have ever come across. (In renovating this old house, believe me, I have had some less than stellar experiences with contractors.) Emet is a citizen of Mexico and his English is only so-so, just as my Spanish is pretty limited. But sometimes we’ll stand around bumping our gums, topping each others stories. These are somewhat tall tales, usually punctuated at the end with “no shit”.

Since I do have a genuine affection for Emet, I was glad to be able to help him a little. I made Emet some business cards and set up the voice mail on his cell phone so he could bump his business up a notch. Because the man is such a hardworker, now he is supervising crews on a coupla other renovation jobs while managing mine. He just bought a new work truck last week and was showing it off to me.

Not far from my house, there is a certain corner where other men from Mexico gather very early every morning, waiting for labor for that day. This is where Emet gets his crew, and he has brought a different guy almost every day. I used to see those men waiting on that corner in the mornings, and suspected their labor was being exploited. Now they are in my own backyard, I don’t know how I feel about that. A real personal sensitivity around class struggles, combined with the usual dose of white guilt, topped off with the nagging weight of American privilege makes me feel like I should spring for lunch most days. But what kind of reaction is that, really? My desire to show some appreciation to Emet for the work he has done for me is pure, but what assumptions am I making that I would feel any tug to be generous to his work crew, men with whom I have shared inconsiderable interaction with? Is it self-serving or charitable?

I’d prefer to relate to any stranger soley on a direct human level, with common kindness and respect. But even an everyday act as simple as hanging drywall in an old shed reminds me we do live in a complex world. Racism is such a crushing, turning wheel the world over… I think it is impossible to have both eyes open and be unconscious and unaffected, even in simple decency and intended good will.

Mmmm. Unresolved, but that is nothing new.

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Someone sent me this and it gave me a chuckle…

After 17 years of marriage, a man dumped his wife for his young secretary. His new girlfriend demanded that she wanted to live in the couple’s multi-million dollar home, and since the man’s lawyers were a little better, he prevailed. He gave his now ex-wife just 3 days to move out.

She spent the first day packing her belongings into boxes, crates and suitcases. On the second day, she had the movers come and collect her things. On the third day, she sat down for the last time at their beautiful dining room table by candlelight, put on some soft background music, and feasted on a pound of shrimp, a jar of caviar, and a bottle of Chardonnay. When she had finished, she went into each and every room and deposited a few half-eaten shrimp shells, dipped in caviar, into the hollow of the curtain rods. She then cleaned up the kitchen and left.

When the husband returned with his new girlfriend, all was bliss for the first few days. Then slowly, the house began to smell. They tried everything; cleaning & mopping and airing the place out. Vents were checked for dead rodents, and carpets were steam cleaned. Air fresheners were hung everywhere.

Exterminators were brought in to set off gas canisters, during which they had to move out for a few days, and in the end they even paid to replace the expensive wool carpeting. Nothing worked. People stopped coming over to visit. Repairmen refused to work in the house. The maid quit. Finally, they could not take the stench any longer and decided to move.

A month later, even though they had cut their price in half, they could not find a buyer for their stinky house. Word got out, and eventually, even the local Realtors refused to return their calls. Finally, they had to borrow a huge sum of money from the bank to purchase a new place.

The ex -wife called the man, and asked how things were going. He told her the saga of the rotting house. She listened politely, and said that she missed her old home terribly, and would be willing to reduce her divorce settlement in exchange for getting the house back.

Knowing his ex-wife had no idea how bad the smell was, he agreed on a price that was about 1/10th of what the house had been worth. But only if she were to sign the papers that very day. She agreed, and within the hour, his lawyers delivered the paperwork. A week later, the man and his new girlfriend stood smirking as they watched the moving company pack everything to take to their new home

. . . including the curtain rods.

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I frikken love this Peter Pan guy. He is 50, str8, and still hoping to meet his “Tinkerbell’. Can you believe it? I visited his site years ago, and visited again today and smiled when I realized he is now fairly famous in that Internet sort of way.

Apparently, Peter knows his lil’ pixie quirk/fetish is pretty silly. I appreciate anyone who can be who they really are, and have the real courage to laugh about it at the same time. That takes a heart that is light AND stout, in my opinion.

And heh… if you are going to entertain Peter Pan fantasies, jump outta the closet in a big splashy internet way, costume and all! Put the biggest feather in your cap and go for the shiny pants!

Check out Peter Pan’s fashion page: http://pixyland.org/peterpan/petersFashionPage.html for some truly, truly pansy ass outfits.

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Cut out snowflakes just like when you were a kid:

http://snowflakes.lookandfeel.com/ Neato.

Or… if your creativity requires something a little more sophisticated:

http://www.mrpicassohead.com/create.html

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“Working” from home today but mostly working on clearing out my old workshop. Coming inside to cool off a minute and kissing on my chihuahuas.

Wonderin’… how come I just gave these lil’ fur babies a bath the other night and now their tiny feets already smell like they have been frolicking in a field of fritos? I must be a nasty old Butch cuz I actually love funky dog smells, even puppy breath.

Okay, back to work…

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There was the time Chris scored some cut velvet heels for half price and punched me square in the gut right in the middle of DSW Shoe Warehouse. I had the Butch equivalent today at Home Depot while shopping for materials for my new studio. And there was no one to knock the hell out of!

I decided … fuck it… If this claustrophobic little cave of a building is going to be my new studio for real, welp, I am putting some windows up ‘n this bitch. So I was looking at the cheapie standard issue windows and trying to decide how far I could stretch my budget for the luxury of natural light. And then the sales guy (bless his HomoDepot heart) says: “Hey, yanno, this dude special-ordered some huge windows back last December and never picked them up. I got ‘em in the back and they are marked down half price.” Half Price is my primary language, doncha know. FUCKEN SCORE! These custom windows only cost a wee bit more than the standard ones, and they are ridiculously hugoramus. The front of the studio will have these little cottage windows with flowerboxes boxes and shutters, but the whole back wall of my studio will be floor to ceiling windows. Whoaaaa… I never pictured the space like that and I can’t even imagine what the feel will be. Should I put in a baby grand and a chandelier? Heh. You know, even my Butch dawg house be fagged out.

Of course, my handyman can’t do math any better than I can, so the opening we made for my new garage door was all WRONG. Doh. We spent half of the morning tearing that down and rebuilding it. The new garage door will be installed day after tomorrow. This afternoon we put together a new workbench and scooted it into the new garage next to the window. Cool. Tomorrow we will be putting up peg board and wiring some lights, hopefully getting closer to painting, too.

I also managed to come indoors in between all the hammering and shopping and whatnot to get enough work done to cover my sizable ass this afternoon. I have so much to do and not enough hours. While Chris was out of town this past weekend, however, all I did was mope and watch ignunt-ass television. So it feels good to end a productive day tired, sunburnt and lightly coated with saw dust.

Babygrrl is home now and I am gonna go give her some sugar.

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Uhm, did I mention my wife Christine is out of town?

Last I heard from my lil’ travelin’ brat… she sent a pic to my camera phone… There she was… lounging all sassy on the balconey of her hotel room in Santa Fe, drinking sumpin’ called a “Panty Drop”. Pffft! Phat Daddy be thinkin’ baybee grrl best keep them drawers on til she git back home!

Babes, I just wanted you to know I’m here… just… ah… you know… sleepin innocently.. 0:) Got the picture to prove it. We’ll all just be sitting in the dark eating leftovers until you come home. I miss you, Sweet Bumps, and hope you are having fun.

PS. Here is a picture of your son, standing on three legs and scratching his ear. I taught him that. But I would rather he not practice so close to my face.

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