Thursday, August 13, 2015

Sofa King Something

I have a new couch.

It's a new, old couch.

See, my old couch was falling apart.  Literally.  I was the third owner of that couch, owing to that I don't sit on a couch much, and didn't want to spend money on something I wouldn't use.  You may call it "cheap," and you wouldn't be wrong.  However, I prefer the term "Thrifty Asshole."  But, I did use that couch some, and due to that use, it was falling apart.  And by falling apart, I mean I was becoming wary of sitting down on the thing and not stopping until my butt hit the floor.

Again, I don't use the couch much, I say, this despite sitting on the couch as I write this.

I didn't want to spend money on something I didn't use much.  Especially since Shyam and I are looking at moving in together.  I didn't want to spend money on something I might potentially need to jettison in the somewhat near future.

It so happened that Eric had a couch coming available.

Last night, there was a game of logistical Tetris played as we all tried to mesh and match schedules and vehicles.  It was only the 289th time since my truck was stolen last year that I've missed having a pickup truck.  Had to borrow Dad's.   Had to figure out a way to get my old couch to the dump, which so conveniently for everybody closes at four, according to the recording I got at 4:03 PM.  Because nobody works and everybody is able to get to the dump by 4 PM on a weekday.  Thanks, Obama!

So, what ensued was a trading of vehicles and sofas and sweat and bruised hands (sorry, Eric).  We got the sofas traded.  I sit on it now.

I took the old sofa to the dump today, after it opened.  By the way, I'm thinking banker's ought to be wistful for landfill worker hours.  8-4?  That's sweet!

Instead of taking the couch to the dumpsters, I got to take it all the way back to the pile, complete with bulldozers waiting on my ass to dump the couch onto the pile so he could bulldoze the shit out of it.

While I was there, I looked down, and realized I was stepping on a goodly number of porn DVDs.  I had to wonder if they were dismissed at the landfill with the same moment of sentimentality I had with my sofa?  It wasn't a long moment, but there was a brief moment of " ass has had contact with that thing off and on for 15 years...."

I would be remiss if I didn't note that I did enjoy playing gorilla and heaving a piece of furniture in front of a bulldozer for a man to shove it down a hill, cover it with dirt and leave it so some future archaeologist might dig it out and place it in a museum in the year 2422.  I enjoyed it immensely.

Also?  I'm going to need a new BluRay player.  Mine's got a bunch of tape and landfill dirt in it for some reason.

Saturday, August 01, 2015

Two Deaths.

I found out today that my Uncle Johnny passed away.  It wasn't unexpected.  He'd been ailing.  A diagnosis of lung cancer came not long ago.  He had a heart attack a few days back.  It took a heart attack on top of lung cancer to take him out.

I didn't know him well.  In fact, I was thinking about it today, after I found out, and I figure that the number of times he and I actually saw each other in person in my couldn't have numbered much more than a dozen.  It was an issue of proximity, more than anything.  Johnny, his wife Linda and their four daughters lived in Michigan, which isn't ridiculously far away, I know, but is far enough away that it wasn't convenient for every Labor Day or Thanksgiving get together at my Aunt Brenda's house in Kentucky.

Still, he was always cool to me when we did meet.  He had a dry wit, and he had the kind of disposition where he didn't really require you to be in on the jokes.

He was quite kind about the stuff I'd written.  And when I lamented that work was eating up my writing time, he said "if it's important enough, you make the time."

He's right.  Was, and is.

Thanks, Uncle Johnny.  I wish I'd known you better.


Tonight at work, I saw that somebody had posted to my Facebook that Rowdy Roddy Piper had passed away.

I hope you won't think it too maudlin of me that I had to take a minute in the back of the store.

It's one thing to say that Piper was my favorite wrestler.

It's another to think of why.

I was a quiet kid.  Smart enough, but never fully trusting of my verbal skills, at least when it came to one of the most important places--with the other kids.  When it came to any sort of confrontation, I let myself be horribly outclassed, verbally.  I'd stammer, I'd trip on my tongue.  Or I'd just stay silent, fearing the stammering.

I was in awe of Roddy Piper.  Who never seemed to be the most popular guy.  Or the biggest.  Or the toughest.  But he always had something to say.  I admired that.  That complete inability to be cowed into silence.

I still admire that.  I have moments still, where I don't trust myself to speak my mind.  It's bullshit, and I get angry with myself about it.  But it still happens.

Less, though, than when I was growing up.  I'd like to think Hot Rod not being afraid to step up to Hulk Hogan, or Andre the Giant, or Mr. T., had something to do with that.