Prime, priming, and primed

When deciding where Sam was going to be for New Years, Jess mentioned that the friends' party she was going to was going to feature a flaming punchbowl. 2010 has been a rough year for many, especially among our group of mutual friends. The idea, apparently, was that 2010 was a year that deserved an ending involving something being set on fire. And a punchbowl was the largest thing they could do without a permit or potential property damage.

I agreed - 2010 had indeed been that sort of year. And agreed that Sam should go to the party to see other friends' kids. And the flaming punchbowl. No five year old should ever miss that opportunity.

My initial reflection was that 2010 was a year that deserves to be beaten senseless by the empty champagne bottles that rang it in with such hope and optimism a year ago. However, on further reflection, most of my own issues with 2010 were the final "hangover" pangs of that apocalyptically Foul Year of 2009. There needed to be a year of adjustment, of changes, and of alterations. 2009 had legs, I tell you.

My final act of 2010 is to prime the bedroom of my apartment. I'd finished painting the rest of the place back in the summer, and declared that I could live with the bedroom in its current state. But I realized I was suffering from some chronic exhaustion, lack of spark, and occasional recurring bouts of leftover depression.

I blame the bedroom. Bed placement, looking at the holes in the door and the wall, the scarred, dark, and depressing paint job. New Year, new bedroom to get strength from. So over the past week I've finished patching, and today I coated the walls and trim with Kilz primer. Not sure what color I'm going to paint it - probably some sort of blue, though much lighter than the Dark Night Of The Soul Blue it was before.

I have no flaming punchbowl, but there will be fireworks on the bridge at 9. And there's a band down at the Eagle. So, a shower, a few shots of Jagermeister to drown the dregs of 2010, and a bottle of champagne in the fridge to cheer on the New Year when I get back.

And I'm going to hold on to the wisdom of Red Green in his Facebook status: "[2011] is a prime number, so it should be a prime year!" Indeed. Raise a glass.

Adding to your folklore

"What do you do when you've got nothing to do? Grow lemons. Germinate them by hand. Become a farmer of big-ass monster-sized lemons. Add it to your folklore."

-Keith Richards

We all have our own personal folklore - a listing of crazy things we've done, wide ranges of strange, interesting, and out of the ordinary. The guy at the store counter who boxes on the weekends. Your co-worker who runs an illegal sports booking agency in the basement of his uncle's restaurant. The electrical engineer who fronted a punk band back in his 20's, and rejoined the band when he took early retirement. (That being James Williamson, guitarist for Iggy & the Stooges. His story still cracks me up.)

This being the end of the year, I'm seeing all sorts of articles on websites about "How to Improve for 2011!!!!!!!" and such. Better finances, better job, better quads...etc. Lots and lots of advice that always seems to come around every year.

For my how to improve for 2011, I'm going to consider my folklore. I've had a pretty good run so far - an odd and eclectic range of stuff I've done, lots of different friends (though in the age of Facebook, I do a piss-poor job of keeping in touch), and an odd array of skills from all the experiences.

But what brought me thinking about it again was talking with a substitute teacher who has also led a very eclectic life. He asked me if I felt "limited" being a librarian, and I told him I didn't - as a librarian, I am a licensed "professional dabbler". I am expected to be a font of odd information and to know a wide range of different things.

Lately, I've been doing very little dabbling and a lot of healing. I now have a space I'm almost happy with, back in a job I'm learning to enjoy again, and making peace with the consequences of past actions that will not be changing in the forseeable future. So it is time to look forward to 2011, and what I can add to my folklore.

I've been listening to Mr. Richards and his fine album "Exile on Main St." a lot lately. Right now the album is wrapping up on what I thought was always the natural ending - "Shine a Light". Mick Taylor's soaring solos, and the other Mick wishing favor on the listener "May the Good Lord shine a light on you - like the evening sun."

So I'll take Mick's evening sun, and I'll hope to add to the folklore. I have some ideas, but I'm feeling optimistic that whatever happens, 2011 will be an adventure.

Watching baseball and fixing stuff

I broke down and bought the post-season package on MLB.com. I may be without cable, but there will be baseball. I wonder if I can order a team package to catch all the Sox games next season...

One of the things I've tried to focus on over the past seven months has been repairing things. The argument could be made that one of the things I found attractive about the apartment was the potential for repair for the place. There was so much that could be done, and the repair to the apartment would be comparable to the repair to myself.

I also took on a few other repair projects. I picked up two bicycles from the Geneseo transfer station to repair. I picked up a Deco-style vanity that needed veneer work from a curb. I had a 1994 Mercedes station wagon that, with some work, could probably be a show piece again. And I bought a 12-string guitar that needed bridge repair - something I always saw listed as "leave to trusted professionals".

Initially I threw myself into the apartment, painting most of the rooms, and transforming the place. I hesitated on the bedroom for a variety of reasons (don't mind the color, isn't necessary, brings scary finality to things), and also considered the various other projects, along with updates to Gymboree.

But as far as fixing stuff, the time has come to start shedding some dead weight. Time to make some decisions about what will and won't get fixed, and moving on.

I shed one bicycle around June, and the other one went to the curb this weekend. I rode it once. If I get the urge in the spring, I can buy a new one. It's gone.

I will never get the impulse to re-veneer the 20's vanity. It's on the curb right now. Hopefully will be picked up soon by someone else.

Mercedes - gone, and back to Geneseo. Father-in-law says it is salvageable and could be sold - the bearings, contrary to my belief, are fine. Whine is something else. I like my new Civic - have to remind myself that it is an improvement and was a necessary cord to cut.

This leaves the only two projects left as the 12-string and the bedroom. I peeled the bridge off the 12-string, and re-attached it with wood glue after some sanding this evening. I'll pick up strings and pegs tomorrow afternoon and we'll see how it goes. With any luck, I'll have a functional 12-string I can post pics of.

And the bedroom. I've found with the removal of the vanity, it is now a room screaming for a makeover. We'll see how it all works out. There is a small bit to patch, and then large sections (okay, the whole room) that need to be primed and painted. Which hopefully will be gotten to sometime very soon. Next couple of weeks, if nothing else.

And that's about it from here. More ruminations later, with any luck. And maybe even more focused writing.

Taking the time

My friend Eric has started a new blog called "How to Be a Better Man" after watching The Social Network. The focus is on the reinvention of his life - taking stock with the "what have you done lately" deal.

I understand where he's coming from. I've been living on my own for the last seven months, and getting used to the change of finding my own motivation and what makes me tick. An evaluation of my own place in the world.

And I've made some changes. Two jobs, including a return to the career of librarian. New car. Updates to apartment to make it a comfortable living space. Taking the time to pick up guitar again. Trying to figure out how to best be a "weekend warrior" Dad.

Right now I'm sitting in the corner chair that Sam uses for a bed when he's over, and listening to "Exile on Main St." My landlord invited me over to watch NASCAR this afternoon, and I'll go over for a little bit. Also have to install a new computer at Gymboree so Jess can actually do work there.

Today is one of those great fall days where it feels great to be alive. I'm just basking in the quiet, having gone out and smoked a cigar while sitting next to the creek. Not bad at all.

Class action lawsuit over time nine years ago

I got a letter in the mail from a law firm out in Minnesota, asking for my participation in a class-action lawsuit against Guitar Center for wage violations during the time I worked there. One of those "we don't admit wrongdoing but we'll pay a few million to make it go away" kind of deals. Based on the couple of months I worked there, I think my take will be about 45 bucks before taxes.

Guitar Center was an odd place to work, to say the least, but I can't say I didn't enjoy it. I met Skip Lefti there, and went on to run sound for the band he played with, King Domino. It led to the first revival meeting I ever went to - the only white person in attendance at a hotel in downtown Rochester over two days (no idea how I got talked into that - just felt that SOMEONE should accompany about ten grand worth of sound equipment we'd lent out for reasons that made sense to my manager).

I suppose I should do a run on those stories, but as I'm sitting here drinking coffee alone on a Sunday morning, I have one very happy memory.

The store staff was a bunch of guys (with the exception of the payroll clerk, who was drop dead gorgeous and an amateur boxer not to be trifled with - but I digress), and as with all fraternal organizations, there were stupid crap we did. And one was a "call on Line 9" in your department.

The phone extensions only went up to 8. "Call to Pro Audio on Line 9" translated to "there is a fantastically hot chick headed to your department, you lucky bastard".

So one particular day, announcement comes over the system, "Pro Audio, you have an urgent call on Line 9. URGENT CALL, Line 9."

Someone's head got spun...let's see who this hottie is...

And she was. Jaws dropped, heads spun. Long red hair, curves for miles, legs to die for.

And she came up and kissed me. :)

"Hey dear, just wanted to stop by and say hi and find out when you were coming home."

"I'm closing tonight, so I should be home by 9:30 or so."

The department was dead silent as she walked out, with all the other clerks staring at me. And I just smiled.

I don't know why that memory came up when I got the mailing, but it did. And I'll have to write up some other GC stories - it was an eventful couple of months.

Fear and Loathing in Le Roy

Bad Craziness in the town of Jell-O. I am camped out in my bedroom with a quart of rum, coffee on standby for the morning, and the Gurkha knife I smuggled out of Germany as a degenerate sixteen year old twenty years ago. The doors are locked, but that will merely slow them down with their offers of A Friendly Beer and Just Wanting To Talk. The bastards are closing in, and I fully expect the room to be lit by the flames of my burning car any moment now. At least that will give me the light to see the fuckers and make some sort of desperate escape...

And it all started by just wanting to do my laundry over Labor Day Weekend...

Photographic evidence of the degeneracy and foulness of the laundry area is available on my Facebook page. I would like to state, for the record, that the photographed condition is the rule, not the exception, though I am usually able to stagger over the trash to do my laundry. However, with my new position requiring a veneer of respectability (or at least dress pants), I declared at top volume my annoyance at the state of affairs and the need to do my laundry at the laundromat, which required actual money. This resulted in the thousand-yard “fuck-with-me-I-dare-you” stare of the wife, and the “oh” of the husband.

As I filled two washers at the laundromat with $2.25 each (incidentally, the price of a draft beer at the local bar, where I was informed this weekend that I was eligible for a Medal and Commendation if I remained in my current apartment for over six months, by local legend), I seethed over the domination of my life by the downstairs Harpie wife, the “neighbor Sarah” incident (some know, and that is a tale worth telling all its own if you haven’t heard it), and the constant diatribes by the Beck-head husband about the Evils of Progressives and the oncoming Rapture. I was angry. I was enraged. I found my spine straightening. And I Brought the Hammer Down.

I called the landlord to tell him the laundry area was unusable, and to tell the full tale of the “Sarah Incident”.

(This may not seem extreme, or even unreasonable. But, the wife downstairs specifically pulled me aside when I moved in to let me know they were Decent and Reasonable People, Good Americans, and that any issues I might have I could happily take up with them without involving the landlord, who was a known Crude and Degenerate Man, not to be bothered by Trivialities.)

(Another side note - the landlord asked me to drop off my rent in person this week, not only due to it being three days late, but he wanted to chat. He had heard rumors about the “Sarah Incident”, and wanted to assure me to not only not take any guff from the downstairs neighbors, but to please let him know if any Bad Craziness was going on, as they were “inches away from eviction” as it was. So I was under an Obligation.)

Upon my return from doing laundry and getting a haircut (the less said about that the better - a wretched butchery deserving of its own rant), I informed the husband about my conversation with the landlord.

“Ohhhh...not good...not good...”

Whatever, I thought. Not my fucking problem. Buy the Ticket, take the Ride, and let the Chips fall where they may. And I slept well. Which might just see me through until tomorrow, as there is no sleeping tonight...

Returning home his evening, I found the foyer had been superficially cleaned. Swept. Bag of trash gone. Other, deeper foulness remaining, of course. Amazing what a call to the landlord accomplishes, I thought.

I was greedy - drunk on the recently successful campaign. I wanted more. And, after an unrelated phone call that put me in an evil and foul mood on top of the crazy, I confronted the husband in front of the house, in the presence of the kids (a fatal error in judgement that will haunt me in this exchange, and much of the reason for the Bad Craziness resulting in locked doors and blades for protection).

I informed him that I was scouring the hallway on Thursday evening. Anything remaining in the hallway Thursday morning would be tossed on the curb for municipal trash pickup after I tagged it. And the hallway was a common area, not their storage area. It was to remain clean.

Following that, all complaints regarding their behavior would result in a call to the landlord. This included the wife roaring into the driveway at top speed with rap blaring loud enough to shake the windows, having to climb over bags of trash to exit my apartment, or Screeches by the wife at Top Volume at Ungodly Hours threatening to Kick Someone’s Ass. I had tolerated enough, and I was done.

“Yes,” the husband informed me, “you are, in fact, Done.”

An uncomfortable silence followed. Having seen no evidence of Spine previously, I was caught unprepared. This was not part of the Plan.

Then it dawned. Ah yes. The Children. Teenagers, but still. Or perhaps, especially. The Children. My fatal error. I had Spoken Ill of the Absent Parent in front of the Children. I had ceded the high moral ground. I was fucked. It was now merely a question of degree and depth.

“The fact that you called the landlord rather than talking to me tells me she was right about you. Slinking around taking pictures of the hallway. What kind of shit is that?”

(I considered telling him that the photos were not to show the landlord, but were instead for the shock and amusement of my friends and associates on Facebook. However, realizing this would not exactly strengthen my position at this point, I remained silent.)

“So I ask you - since I have to clear my shit out of the hallway, are you prepared to deal with the trash can every Thursday?”

I was stunned. I had vacated the moral high ground, prepared for a royal reaming for redemption in the eyes of the children, and this petty shit is what he comes up with?

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll even buy a new trash can.”

“And are you prepared to purchase your own snow shovel, since you told me to clear my shit out of the hallway?”

Again, the mind reeled. “Ummm...sure....”

“And are you prepared to kick in for part of my electric bill, since the light for the hallway is on my meter?”

This crossed the line of sanity - I could take no more . “I will buy a fucking flashlight,” I informed him, and headed up the stairs, turning out the light and ascending in the pitch darkness. Fate smiled on my key selection in the blind shadows, and I quickly opened and closed the door.

I fired up the stereo. Rolling Stones - Sticky Fingers, “Can’t You Hear Me Knockin” followed quickly by “Bitch”. No sense in beating about the bush. Good Mick Taylor riffs, drowning out the bad noise of the downstairs - sixteen year old threatening to leave the house (bad flashbacks - where’s the rum...ah, rum....devil rum...), wife coming out, ranting about her Unfair Position as the bad guy, that she never DID anything to deserve it, and maybe I just needed my Fucking Ass Kicked to prove how innocent she fucking was.

Pizza. Rum. Stones. “Dead Flowers.” Clear the air. Clear the mind. Make it go away. Bad noise about calling the landlord about ME. But what had I done? What could they possibly say? More rum. Nothing. I was innocent. White sheets straight from the washing machine I couldn’t use this weekend due to the foul and filth....

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

On edge, immediately, like I’d been hit with a cattle prod. NO ONE ever knocks on my door in this town.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me.”

“Who me?”

“It’s me - you know which me. I want to talk with you over a beer. Got ‘em right here...”

Sure. Along with your crazy-ass wife and a fucking shiv...

“I have nothing to say to you tonight.”

“C’mon man, I thought we were friends...”

Sure - I listen to you rant about the Evil Progressives who want all your hard-earned unemployment money while you drink my beer. Still not worth a shiv in the spleen, fuck you very much...not tonight...

“I have nothing to say to you. Maybe later. But not tonight. Not now. Go away.”

A sigh. “I’m really disappointed in you, man.”

“Likewise.” I don’t know if he hears. I doubt he would admit it even if he had.

Silence as I’ve typed the following words, and the lack of flickering from my windows tells me my car is not on fire. It is likely soaked from the recent rains and open sunroof, which was not enough of an incentive to go outside to brave the possibility of either having my Teeth Kicked In or suffer the Offer of a Friendly Beer. (Frankly put, the Friendly Beer is the more terrifying possibility - Teeth Kicked In is a simple and uncomplicated assault charge.) It is early enough that I don’t dare fall asleep - I will get merely an hour, and it might be best to remain awake with the assistance of heavy stimulants. Or perhaps just an hour of uncomplicated sleep before the hammer comes down tomorrow. Hard to say. Either way, tomorrow promises to be highly interesting, in the sense of the ancient Chinese curse. Good night and good luck.

Painting

“What are ya painting up there, the Sistine Chapel?”

Probably comments deserved from your neighbor when you paint in your boxers with an open window from the heat, and also when you’ve been painting your apartment for four months. The kitchen is the last bit that I’m going to paint (the bedroom I’m calling good and not worrying about it - I can live with the dark blue, and I have no idea what other color to paint it).

My personal tastes in apartments have always gravitated to the bottom line - cheapest rent possible while retaining some sense of livability. Usually this means older houses or adaptations that give a place “run-down character” and “fading style”, as I like to think. Or, as a friend referred to my previous apartments, “shitholes - all of them”. She hasn’t seen the new place, but her assessment was the same.

“Dude, you rented it. Therefore, it’s a shithole. As long as it’s safe for Sam - not like that one place in Vermont with the misfiring gas heater, or the one with the rotting slate shower, or the one...”

Safety for Sam did send me running from a few places I would have happily taken back in my bachelor days, but calling the current apartment a “shithole” when moving in would probably have been generous. The carpets were a combination of beige and ground-in dirt, along with some burn marks. The landlord mentioned a mark on the wall from when he’d put in replacement windows five years ago. Most of the walls were a glossy beige, but the kitchen was a dirty primer white with cabinets covered in dust and falling wallpaper in the back.

However, for a range of reasons, I was anxious to move, and the apartment had two qualities I was desperately searching for - cheap rent and a month-to-month lease. I wasn’t expecting to stay long. This was temporary.

The landlord was great - he’s a DJ, and we talked shop for a while. He was very upfront about the place’s shortcomings, and about the ramifications of dealing with them.

“I could replace the carpet, but I’d have to raise the rent and it would take a couple of weeks.”

I can live with the carpet.

“I could paint the place, but it would take a couple of weeks.”

I can paint it - I’ve painted places before.

“Okay - just keep track of your supplies and take it off your rent. I’d prefer you went with beige, but I am giving you the place with a dark blue bedroom, so I guess I really can’t say much about color.”

My plan was actually to go with pretty neutral colors - actually mostly beige. My energy levels were up and down, so even getting the place primed took effort, room by room. The plan was to repair the apartment as a way to repair myself as well, and leave a well put-back together apartment after six months or so.

By the beginning of June, however, it was apparent that things wouldn’t be going according to plan, and I was going to be here a lot longer than six months. I’d done much of the priming and repair to the cabinets in preparation for color, but now I had no idea of which direction to go. Shitholes had always been temporary - I moved about once a year when I lived in apartments, and never did very much with them. Financially, I knew I wasn’t likely to move for a while. And Sam was going to need some consistency about things. So I was here. Time to settle in.

The taking five months has been finding out I care about what the place looks like. (Not that anyone’s seen it besides Sam, and I don’t think he really cares that much.) It’s been more than patching holes and throwing up paint. It’s been a careful selection of color choices. It’s been buying stuff to put on the walls. Installing venetian blinds. Carefully painting the inside cabinets. Changing out plastic towel racks and paper towel holders for metal and bamboo.

I went with a flat enamel finish - flat enamel is much more forgiving of uneven lathe and plaster walls. So the painting required a coat of primer and two coats of color to get anything looking good.

It’s also been picking out furniture, which has been kind of an odd thing as well. My yard sale luck has been phenomenal this summer, as I found a good fold-down table, good kitchen chairs, and a nice rocking chair. Again, the idea that I care what the place looks like is kind of odd.

Might be because I’m 37 and no longer the 20-something who stuffed the shitholes of yore with whatever crap I could find. Or who only painted one of them (the Winthrop apartment) due to a drunken “discussion” that involves a brushstroke of primer across the wall at 2am. (Painted white - landlord just about fell over in shock when I moved out.) Post-30, maybe I just need a certain level of civilization and refinement.

Though more of it seems to be the apartment as a metaphor for where I am. A place to be repaired and restored. Maybe, if I could get this place looking respectable again, there might be hope for me to regain a foothold for where I was. Though now, with everything finished, I have to move on to other things. I have repaired the place. Time to move on to repairing other things.