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in a prelude to one of the most tawdry phone conversations known to man, it dawned on me that a great deal of my recent life has revolved around "chores". considering that the shocking reduction in cashflow has cut short a lot of what can be described as "fun" (i guess i spent all of that capital at racetracks, previously), finding productive things to do without panhandling for gas money seemed a better use of my time. ...and they used to give me "unsatisfactory" marks on my report cards for "spending time wisely". goddamn, that sounds quaint, now. and yet, a mountain of things that scream for accomplishment seem to mulitply, exponentially. the pendulum does like to swing more to the dull side than the ecstatic one, dunnit? showing the ropes to a slightly nervy radio neophyte in the course of Friday's show... i guess that was "fun". and exhausting, considering said broadcasting virgin locked me in conversation for two hours after the program. if it's possible, i think i used up my word quota for a week. obviously, not. i'd like to think i saved up some good ones for miss Galore. not so much fun: >trying to buy (from incompetent big box stores) and install air conditioners in the middle of summer... >dis-and re-assembling mower decks with ludicrous instructions. yes, i am a man, really... though i like accomplishing what i set out to do with a minimum of bullshit, which sometimes involves checking the written procedures. unfortunately, most of them concern themselves with minute details so that chimps would understand... and the complicated stuff gets the "remove said part. refitting is reverse of removal" cop out. which was what i read the instructions for in the first place, muthafuckas. this is what has become of my "artistic" thought processes. >attempting to set the house ablaze. really. the time to start putting paint on, instead of taking it off, has come for the project with which i spent my previous weekend. one more little thing... shearing off a stubborn bolt... got in the way. wanting to make use of labour-saving devices, i decided to "fire" up the compressor for it's cut-off wheel potential. i unplugged the drier, plugged in the compressor cord... which suddenly started, outside. i didn't like that idea, so i immediately unplugged. the next thing i smelled was paper burning. but there was no paper. anywhere. now, i have endured some disquieting events without collapsing into a big, sniveling pussy. and, while i didn't blubber, or shreik like a banshee, i was not happy. or, particularly efficient. but i did manage to attract Yoko's attention when i shot down the basement stairs to shut off the fusebox...especially when i shakily inquired where the extinguisher was (buried, it turned out, under the kitchen sink, below five million plastic grocery bags she'd squirreled under there, like nuts for the winter). prying off the metal cover to the crawlspace below the wiring in question, i was greeted with charred fluff... fluff that came from years of drier lint accumulating where the landlord's ducting dumped it (instead of outside, like a fire marshall would approve). probably, a spark dropped down the hole where the wiring came in, and it could have gotten considerably more ugly than it was. at least i found the source of the problem... one i can make sure never happens again. yes, i am a big, Big Man. i didn't even shit my pants. but i can tell you, it didn't take much brow-beating to come up with a song title that fits this entry. though, come to think of it, IggyPop's "No Fun" would have been equally appropriate. |
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