Pardon the language. But my 7 grand worth of GE appliances is about to get a fourth repair in 4 years. Sure they’re nice and shiny… but I would trade that for reliability at this point. Each of the three appliances has broken at least once, and this is the second go-round for my dishwasher. Sigh. To be honest, I don’t know if any brand woulda been better – I paid a fair amount, but I clearly didn’t go top of the heap, nor did I go cheap and reliable.

But that doesn’t stop me from being pissed that sh*t keeps breaking. I’ve got more than enough on my plate without watching dished stack up, and pulling half cooled food out of my fridge.

And that’s my complaint of the day.

It’s seems like every time I write a post, I’m apologizing (to know one really) for a lack of updates. On this rainy Saturday morning I’ve decided to take the opportunity to finally post some photos from the last nine month of renovation, gardening, and reorganizing.

My first thought was to take a brute force approach to this retrospective. It seemed like uploading all of my photos to flickr and then using some wordpress plugin to pull them in would be a clever way to catch up in a tic.

After 30 minutes of looking for a plug-in I liked, and poking around the theme files for this site, it was beginning to feel a bit too much like work. The last thing I want to do is spend Saturday morning re-coding an plug-in I wrote on bus commutes two years ago… wait second to last thing… the laaast thing I want to do is dive into the markup for the site and implement all of the interactive pieces I planned out when I built v-house.

So my new approach is to upload a shitload of pictures, in no particular order, with enough captioning for context. I’ll get to breaking them out into posts later. I look at this as forgoing the barriers to writing. When I sit down to write a post, I waste most of my time looking for photos, resizing, cropping. Something always comes up, and the posts just don’t get done.

Putting up the mortar for the backsplash - the tile sat in the basement for nearly 3 years

The tile is up... now to grout

Almost done... obsessing on the clean up of the grout.

So it’s taken my 9 months to post the pictures… but I did indeed survive. But you can tell who trained and who didn’t. Look close.

That’s not a smile on my face.

But I did make it, and I was under 4 hours.

So that’s the before. Just happy I could find the picture after 9 months. I’ll come back to say something approximating cleverness at a later date. For now, that’s me in disbelief at 5:30am.

Hmmm. So it’s been quite a while since I’ve dusted off the key board and written anything about the house. Guess what….I’m not gonna write about the house tonight either. The kitchen shelves are coming slowly, and a few odd tasks have gotten finished. But truthfully the house is a damn mess. Power tools and pizza boxes. Dirty clothes tossed to the bottom of the basement stairs – dishes in desperate need of a washing.

The house has been temporarily put on hold for

• the new job (now three months old)
• late preparation for the Chicago marathon

Well the race is here. I don’t feel ready in the least, and it’s cold here in Chicago. But I’m still a bit excited to see what the story is with running a marathon. So here we go. 12 hours from now. I should be well and truly into the 2009 Chicago Marathon.

-w

Click for full size

Last weekend we took our motely Sunday league team to Philadelphia, PA for the annual Fado Cup soccer tournament. 4 games in one day is quite a bit for the old fellas, but we made a good showing.  After a rocky start, a 0-1 defeat to “The Misfits”, we got back on track with victories against Chicago and Stamford. For my part, I scored the goal that put us through to the semis, and then slotted in the assist to the fella in the orange shorts, sealing the deal.

Embarrassingly enough, the tourney film crew caught my meager celebration on film. I hope to have a copy of the vid posted soon. If I’ve lost a strp on the pitch, then I’ve definitely lost all of my swagger in celebration. Who knew that I’d have to add goal celebrations to my training regime?

While the pitch was absolute rubbish, we did manage to put together a few decent football moves, including a handful of overlapping runs from the (balding) wing backs resulting in goals. Ollie, second from the left, top row, managed to volley in a screamer and a cheeky one-timer to clinch the win against Chi-town.

Our tournament came to an end against a fit and young Columbus side that plays together twice a week. A hand ball and own goal into the match, we found our legs a bit a held fast, but ended up losing 0-3. There’s a part of me that’s thankfull we didn’t make it to the finals, where a very good Atlanta team was waiting. They thumped Columbus 8-1 on their way to a second straight Fado Cup.

Beyond the footie, it was a weekend repleat with great quotes, including the insiteful scream of “I’m running!!!” by a defender as he called for the ball. The quote of weekend had to be “Sham, I’m bollocksed,” said by an anonymous teammate after one two many beers – and pouring one of those beers all over his crotch.

Ah, the pleasures of playing football with the Irish. It was a fantastic tournament – a big thanks to Fado for organizing the event, keeping us fed, hydrated and alive.

Carlo Crrivelli's The Annucation

This clearly has nothing to do with my house. At least not anything I’ve done to the house today. Carlo Crivelli’s “The Annucation” has always been one of my favorite painting since the first time I saw it in London at age 18. My father bought me a poster reprint, which hung in many an apartment over the years. It may, in fact, still be around here somewhere, although I do remember it having taken a few knocks over the years.

Why would I write about a painting I saw at 18? It just came to mind. I just felt like seeing this particular piece tonight. Hanging my print to be one of the most important rituals in establishing a new living space. Right after setting up my stereo.

So for some reason, after a day spent working in the yard, my thoughts drifted to the imaginary world I always associated with “The Annucation”. I know there is a religious back story to the piece, but the detail and clarity of the piece always made my mind wander. There always seemed to be so much more going on just beyond the edge of the frame.

If there’s any connection to the house, perhaps it’s just the urge to put my stamp on the space, beyond drywalling, and painting, and plumbing. A little art and imagination goes a long way toward happiness. Perhaps tonight is “hang the paintings” night. Not to wild and crazy, I know. But after a week at the new job, it’s kinda nice to spend an evening at home, writing somethin’ about nothin’.

-w

Just returned from a brief holiday with my parents, kid sister and her boy friend. Won’t lie – time on the lake made me a bit sentimental. It’s not often that sentiment is a quantum emotion – fragmented memories all linked to your current place, yet each sentiment discreet, and vastly different. My thoughts ranged from catching a bluegill by the eye as a boy while visiting Oklahoma , to family trips to Lake Cumberland during my teens, to a trip last summer to Dale Hollow.
Life was very different a a year ago (or “then” if you’re catching references).

Boating with the family is a good time, every time. But I definitely had a bout of introspection that led me to this fact: it’s been a crazy year. I certainly wouldn’t have expected my life have taken the turns it has during the last few months. In the broad spectrum of my life, it wouldn’t stand out as remarkable  – I haven’t had any hole drilled into my head. I haven’t purchased a home, and I haven’t left the country for a month or more. But I am keenly aware of mistakes that have been made – mistakes that can’t be undone, and that perhaps shouldn’t be undone. I’m aware of choices that I’ve made that may effect my life as much as the aforementioned drill hole.

All in all, life is going well. I start a new job (which I think will be fantastic) on Monday, I’m running a race tomorrow, and the house is coming along. Hell, even the book I’m reading (Hocus Pocus, by Kurt Vonnegut) is quality. Perhaps that is why I’m susceptible to nostalgia – to reflection. Life’s successes are very much like mile 10 on a long run – you get hypoxic enough to believe than everything is good, and  the next 5 miles aren’t much of a task. You reflect back on the past ten miles, and think of them fondly, as if they weren’t much work at all. But when you were on mile 7, you thought you might die.

When I first wrote this, I felt like I might be in mile 10, pushing forward to easier times ahead. At the moment, it looks more like mile 7. And I may have left something very important back at mile 5. I have the sneaking suspicion that Orwell would have been disgusted by my expended metaphor, but it’s what comes to me at the moment. And he’s dead, so I’m not likely to receive a reprimand.

Now you might accuse me of being vague – I’m guilty, and it was certainly intentional. The details aren’t important.  What is important is notion of reflection. And taking time to do it – to feel the water on my face and remember the times spent away from the world. I relinquished control (or the illusion of control, if you like) for a few hours and took the time to think about what has past since I last laid out on a boat floating across a lake. I took inventory of the mistakes I have made – one standing out in particular – and felt the sun on my skin. The sun said that I’d never correct those mistakes, but that life would likely be alright, and that I would be able to lay out at take a nap in the heat of day again regardless of the troubles at hand.

Of course, I haven’t completely given up on rectifying the mistakes of the last year. It’s in my nature. But I have come to grips with the beauty of spending a weekend on the lake with Mom, Dad, Kelly and Joe, rather than dwelling on sentiment. That’s the lesson of reflection – it’s fleeting, so you best enjoy what’s really in front of you, lest you be Narcissus.

-w

What’s that you say? Is it an injury from running? Perhaps an knock from my latest soccer come-back? Maybe I just fell while working on the shelves – a little scuff from kneeing the table saw stand?

Nope.
That there is the result of 10 to 12 tweens jacking me at gun point last night. That and two wee lumps on my head.

It’s pretty surreal to see a bunch of kids, a full head shorter than yourself uncomfortably rush you. No one was really in a hurry to get to me first. The ones that did looped in from behind as I turned back to face the skinny, jacketed kid in the middle. That’s when I got love taps one and two from behind. Now getting blindsided is an odd experience, but one I’ve had before. Having it done by a kid is a bit different, though. Most noteably, as your brain processes that you’ve been hit, you quickly realize that:

• it didn’t hurt that much
• you’re still standing
• hey, that little bastard just hit me!

If an adult had caught me from behind with the butt of a gun, I’m pretty sure I woulda been crumpled up in a bloody pile. As it was, I took the knocks, spun around just in time to see the aforementioned gun pointed at my face.

Sweet!

This totally how I wanted to finish my night.

Now, I’ve lived in cities for a while now, and I always split out my essentials from my wallet when I’m walking around at night. And for 12 years or so, it’s just been one of those paranoid idiosyncrasies I’ve allowed myself.

Guess what? Not paranoia. Clever.

So I still have my ID, and my main credit card. And EVEN BETTER I didn’t get fucking shot. I handed over my wallet (ok, tossed – it was a hasty affair) and my gym bag, so I’m sure the kiddies were happy enough with their score. I’m sure I was satisfactorily scared as well.

Not shot, and no trip to DMV. Awesome!

But in the end, they got a bag full of nut sweat – just finished running 5 miles – a $5 bill, one expired credit card, a Y card, and a year old pair of Ascics. Oh, and a potential felony charge. And a break from the underlying social contract that keeps their little asses safe.

I’m not at danger to them, let’s be clear about that. But this is DC. Eventually, they are going to jump out of the bushes and rob the wrong person. Or they’ll get scared and actually shoot someone. But the fact is, there is an unspoken contract that keeps me, or the other bigger guys in the neighborhood from taking their lunch money when they swarm into the corner market after school. Now maybe I’m the only one who adheres to this contract – maybe the other older guys in the neighborhood routinely kick the shit out of the little bastards. Dunno. But I didn’t sense the malice or desperation you’d expect from an adult committing the same crimes. That leads me to believe that they were simply playing – just petty shit for a few laughs, with absolutely no concept of repercussions or consequence.

And that in itself is pretty scary. Now, as a teenager, I did my fair share of stupid and disrespectful shit. But I came face to face with a moment indicating that the basic vaule for human life failed to get passed along. This isn’t a “kids these days” moment. I remember classmates getting hauled off in high school, so intellectually, I’ve known this kinda shit was happening.

But this is the first time I’ve stared into this particular rift – a potentially life altering (for me or for the kids) moment failed to register as anything other than a laugh. A chance for five dollars. A few kicks on a Friday night. A moment not to get the shit kicked out of themselves, perhaps? Again, I don’t know. But there was such a blind, scripted, lack of imagination that I saw in the gun wielders eyes, that I know he had no concept of how a life could turn in that moment.

The other night, I saw a clear connection with Anthony Burgess’ original version of A Clockwork Orange. That connection has gotten a bit fuzzy in my head – laregely because I feel these kids lacked any of the stylized self concept that the “droogs” carried. At least Alex. Was this a pack full of “Dim”s, where they were just looking to batter anyone unlucky enough to wander past? Or was there an artist, one of the kids who actively saw the robbery as a way of impoising his vision on the world? Did one of them see the beauty and coreaography of all ten of them pouring off the steps, with just the right timing, so that I wouldn’t see the number until they were accross the street? Did one of them liken the experience to a great composition?

No. At least not the kid with the gun. But it really did seem like imitation, not art. Mechanical at best. If a life or death situation stops moving you, then something really has died. Your early teens is a hell of a time to become estranged from the lineage of survival – well described by Mike Skinner in On the Edge of a Cliff. What happens to a human when life and death ceases to be meaningful – or at least your contextual understanding of the world has become so limited that empathy reaches no further than the tip of you nose?

The kids’ immediate evaluation of the situation was likely, “yeah, we jacked that fool” – Probably a feeling that they took something of value from me, and somehow, they had come out on top. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still pissed I got taken by surprise, that I got hit in the head. I’m not saying that they didn’t get me. They just didn’t get anything of value. I’m sure they quickly realised that the smell emanating from my bag wasn’t a laptop, but rather my dirty ass running shorts. But beyond the material score, or lack thereof, nothing of value exchanged hands. I went on to have a pretty fantastic weekend, enjoying the weather, playing soccer and running a few errands. I’ve now written the quintessential argument for a liberal arts education in referencing Kubrick, Burgess, a British garage hip-hop band, and Walter Benamin while discussing gettin’ pistol whipped.

So, did I get jacked? Nah. I just got something new to write about. Since I didn’t get hurt, I may have been the only person to have actually gained anything of real merit. Isn’t that the moral of  A Boy Named Sue – to be given “… the gravel in ya guts and the spit in ya eye” for a relatively small slight?

Did I just get “named Sue”? Feels like it. Maybe it’s just the warm weather,  the results of stepped up training and soccer that has me feeling so positive on a rather shitty topic. But I don’t think so. I am legitimately still pissed at the little bastards. Having written all this, and been out and about the neighborhood every morning since the jacking, I do feel… engaged. Yeah, yeah, I see the Raymond K Hessell reference. I’m not going to touch it. Look it up if yer feeling like some pop-thinkin’.

In closing, I’d really like to do something more clever with the title – tying into the body, if only a bit. But I just don’t see it coming. I feel some philosophical exposition tickling the back of my thoughts, but I really don’t feel like exploring. It feels very diluted to me. No, I’ll just acknowledge that when I started this post, I was a bit pissed, and looking for a little bit of shoe-gazer irony to cool myself out. That’s all the symmetry you’ll get out of me on this occasion.
Until the next time I wildly botch a house project, and need to write about it -

Wyatt