A Fifty Year Old With Daddy Issues. Pathetic.

I took another small step toward becoming my father.

Now for some this might be a good thing. Perhaps your father was a genuine war hero. . . He singlehandedly rushed the point defence machine gun and RPG emplacement killing or mortally wounding all enemy within. Then he did proceed interior along the enemy trenches whereupon he engaged the enemy once again to the same result forcing them to abandon no less than 2 artillery pieces, 155mm cannon. Not wanting these weapons to ever again be used by the enemy he then did spiderwalk up the barrels, shit profusely in each then lit same with fiery piss resulting in the destruction of both weapons. Not wanting to advance too far forward of his comrades he then  dropped his BVD’s again to release the flying monkey army for air cover and waited for his unit to catch up while providing cover for other approaching units. . .

I mean a real Goddam war hero.

So it would be a good thing to be more like that. For the rest of us there are two more choices. Your father was an OK guy. Didn’t accomplish a whole lot in his life . . . I’ve done some bad, I’ve done some good. . . He was nice to strangers and children, didn’t kick dogs, never drowned a cat even though he really wanted to. He made sure his family was housed, fed, and clothed. It would be OK if you were a little more like that guy rather than the putz who sits in his underwear on his couch most days alternating between playing Call Of Duty and streaming porn for about ten hours a day. Seriously you have calluses on your fucking dick. Asshole.

Then there are those of us who would be better off being less and less like our fathers. That is not to say that our fathers were among the top ten worst people in the world. Hitler might not even get that distinction. In fact the worst human being to ever live was  a guy named George Keller from Pittsburg. Neither a single pleasant nor good thought ever passed his mind (even Gengis Khan loved his horses). See George just never had an army. Good thing that, otherwise we wouldn’t be here to have this little chat. It is also good that actually being the worst human being is also a self limiting career path. You are so awful that you cannot even attract potential minions.

So for those of us who want to be less like our fathers, as I do, we must be constantly vigilant for habits that we may have picked up unconsciously. That is where this narrative turns to fireplaces and old water heaters.

I live in a 1920 craftsman bungalow. Google it fucknut. As such there is a fireplace in the front room, the parlour we like to call it. No ordinary fireplace mind you, but a coal burning design. Unfortunately the original grate is no longer in place and even if it were the chimney is no longer suitable for use. That’s OK because I have decided to experiment with making one of those fire centerpieces with the flames coming out of a bed of glass or stone. Kinda thing you see in the overpriced bar of an overpriced hotel. Jebus, I coulda bought a bottle of really good bourbon for the price of 2 drinks. Pretty and might warm the room a bit.

I have a nice replacement grill burner I picked up recently for 5 dollars in a bargain bin to use as the diffuser. What I need is a natural gas jet fitting to supply the fuel. So I’m poking around ebay, Amazon, Lowes, looking for anything that will fit. Then It hits me; Don’t I have an old water heater burner in the basement? The one I rigged up as a boiler pot.  I bet there is a jet on that thing. A quick trip to the basement revealed the truth. Yes I did have a water heater burner in the basement complete with the jet. I then says to myself, “wow, I actually had a use for that.”

That is the moment when I recoiled in horror. “I might have a use for that” was a common phrase my father uttered to justify hanging onto the most remarkable collection of crap. It was not as bad as an episode of “Hoarders” but It was overwhelming at the end. So there it is. This is the thing I steadfastly refuse to become. I will not surround myself with piles of junk on the offhand chance that some part of it will one day be useful. Eventually the vast piles, and I do mean pile of stuff, junk, trash, that he collected overwhelmed him. He had no idea what he owned or where it was. The most frustrating development in the end was that he steadfastly refused to let anyone help him with it. He had the childish notion that nobody knew that he was so overwhelmed.

So here’s to small steps forward and giant fucking I got a case of the willies leaps back. Throw it away. Recycle it. Compost it. Reuse it. Dig a hole, drop it in, leave a big steamy heapy on top, and cover it up. For Pete’s sake though, don’t put it in an empty coffee can whilst muttering “I might have a use for that one day” under your breath.

We Still Hate You

We still hate you. 

A little lark ten years ago. 
Ten. 
Years. 
Ago. 
. 
Fuck. 

Let's get out a little turd polish and spiffy this thing up.

Well I'm for real gonna start putting some stuff up here. I don't give a rat's ass whether a single neotenous ape ever reads any of this. I do this for myself. 

Which is more valuable, a rat's ass or a tinker's damn? I don't give either.

If it's any consolation I hate myself too. Self loathing is the curse of the intelligent. Self awareness is a prerequisite.