I Love This Game 2

Standing there in the hallway of my high school, facing my furious girlfriend, she leveling the ultimatum that if my beloved Sonics could actually do the unthinkable and push the Houston Rockets to the brink I would not be able to see the decisive game 7 because of the stupid fucking Senior Prom; in that moment I learned some very important things about myself.

Let me digress briefly to say that then, just like now, I recognized the situation was ridiculous and it was stupid for me to ever think that I would ruin some girl’s senior prom so I could watch a basketball game. At that point I truly had a conundrum on my hands. As much as I knew the Sonics could win I didn’t dare think far enough ahead about whether or not I would honestly skip prom to see the game if they did win. Deep down inside I knew just how maniacal and ridiculous that was. But somewhere in a much more shallow location of my soul all I could think was, “I love the Supersonics!”

So like I said, in that moment I learned some important things: 1) I’m a man of principles and regardless of how misguided my principles are I’ll stick to them through and through and while honoring your commitments by attending the senior prom with your girlfriend is obviously a noble principle to uphold, so is loyalty; loyalty to a team, which is to say, loyalty to a greater sense of self; 2) I could will the Supersonics to victory and by God I would! 3) I was going to break up with that girl sooner than later.

I think at that moment I said to her, “Oh, it’s okay baby, Seattle won’t be able to win the next two games. That’s impossible. We’ll still go to the prom on Saturday.” But in my head I was thinking, “HOLY SHIT! LET’S GO SONICS, LET’S GO! DUH-DUH-DUH! LET’S GO SONICS, LET’S GO!!!”

Tuesday night couldn’t have come soon enough. I rushed home from school, ate dinner in 7 seconds, jumped in bed for a 3-hour nap, then threw on all my Sonics gear and went through my pre-NBA-playoff-game preparation ritual.

It worked. The Sonics dominated the Rockets and won in convincing fashion. The comeback was on.

The next morning I was practically dancing through the hallways at school. I met my girlfriend at her locker like I did every day and couldn’t possibly contain my shit-eating grin. My smile was only countered by her scowl, as she was already aware of the outcome of the game. She seethed 5 vicious words through her teeth, “You will not miss prom!” and stormed off down the hall. LET’S GO SONICS, LET’S GO! DUH-DUH-DUH! LET’S GO SONICS, LET’S GO!

Thursday night seemed like it would never come. When it did, same routine as before: dinner, sleep, Sonics underoos, shorts, jersey, hat, pre-game ritual, game time¹. The game was a positive nail biter but my boys pulled it out again, beating the Rockets 99-96. Not only was the comeback still on, but so was he greatest war of attrition ever.

Friday morning I was positively floating through the hallways. By this time word had spread through the entire school that I planned on skipping Senior Prom for the basketball game. Every dude I passed in the halls would give me a high five, “Go Sonics! Fuck the Prom!” they’d yell. “Fuck the Prom!” I’d shout back.

All the girls would give me the look of death as they thought to themselves, “You low down dirty pig! I can’t believe you would ruin her Senior Prom.” I’d just smile back at them and think to myself, “I’m the man! I am the man!”

To every guy I had become a cult hero; a living symbol that they could do whatever they wanted in a relationship; that they didn’t need to cave to their girlfriend’s wishes; that peeing while standing up actually meant something in the world.

To every girl I became the embodiment of male chauvinism; a real life representation of exactly what they all thought was wrong with boyfriends; and most importantly, I represented exactly what they feared: a dude that was going to make decisions for himself.

Now obviously these gender stereotypes couldn’t be more ridiculous in retrospect, but there isn’t anyone reading this now that isn’t mentally putting themselves back into high school in this very situation and there isn’t a single dude that isn’t thinking right now, “Holy shit, I hope you skipped that stupid fucking prom! Go Sonics!” while there isn’t a single girl that isn’t thinking, “You are a disgusting sonofabitch if you didn’t go to that dance with that sweet, innocent girl²!”

Well I hate to disappoint anyone, but I can’t be the hero and the villain in this story…

 

1. Apparently I didn’t do any homework in high school because I don’t have any recollection of that ever making its way into my pre-NBA playoff game routine.

2. I recognize even this is a gross gender stereotype because there are several females reading this that are rooting for me to miss the prom to watch the game and those are the females who would get into a bar fight over the outcome of a soccer match. You know who you are.  

I Love This Game

As you all are undoubtedly aware, the NBA Playoffs are in full swing and you all know what that means: Actually, it doesn’t mean anything, but it does remind me of one of the greatest stories of all time.

When I was growing up in Jr High and High School I was a huge NBA fan, and specifically I was a huge Seattle Supersonics fan (RIP Supersonics. Good luck ever having success in Oklahoma City), and more specifically, I was a HUGE Shawn Kemp fan. Yes, the same Shawn Kemp who made the jump from high school to the pros long before KG, Kobe, or Lebron even thought about it (true, he did try to go to college but got busted peddling stolen jewelry (the charges were later dropped), got kicked off the basketball team before ever playing a single minute, and subsequently declared himself eligible for the 1989 NBA draft where he was selected 15^th overall); the same Shawn Kemp who was arguably the most talented young player in the league in the early 90’s and could have been the greatest player of all time; the same Shawn Kemp who then took up alcoholism and cocaine, put on 100 pounds, and sired 7 or 8 illegitimate children around the world (let’s face it, 1 or 2 of those are probably legitimate but let’s also face it, there are probably dozens more illegits that haven’t been accounted for).

When I say I was a fan, I was fanatical. We’re talking posters on every wall, jerseys, trading cards, Supersonics trashcan; if you could put a logo on it, I had it. I knew all the players from Gary “The Glove” Payton, to Nate McMillen (long before that Judas stabbed the organization in the back and went to coach the Portland Trailblazers), “Sleepy” Sam Perkins, Detlef “The Nazi” Shrempf, Vincent Askew, and even a few 10-day contracts for the Lithuanian Sarunis Marcelonis (believe me, that was all from memory. I can’t tell you the proper spacing for sprinkler heads in a light hazard occupancy even though I get paid to know that shit but I can tell you the name, height, weight, and stats for every member of the Supersonic’s organization from 1992-1997. What’s an acceptable pressure loss through a ½” section of Type L copper pipe? I don’t know. Who was the Seattle Supersonic’s team trainer in 1994? Gerald Anderson).

One time as a freshman in art class the teacher had a bunch of extra undecorated paper mache masks and offered us extra credit to decorate them so she could hang them around the room. Some people did clown faces, others did Mardi Gras masks, while still others did completely abstract things. I, on the other hand, made a mask of Shawn Kemp’s face. It looked great but I was positively incredulous when the teacher refused to give me extra credit for a lack of creativity. “But it looks just like him!” I pleaded, which is to say, it looked like a black man with a goatee. I’m not sure what I was thinking back then.

Growing up the absolute best time of year was the NBA playoffs. Aside from a minor misstep in ’94 the Sonics made the playoffs every year and every year they made it to the Western Conference Semis or Finals where they would inevitably run into the Phoenix Suns led by Charles Barkley, Danny Ainge, and Dan Marley or the Houston Rockets with Hakeem Olajuwon, Clyde Drexler, and Sam Cassel. Because Seattle was on the west coast, typically games wouldn’t start until 10 PM or later. So I would come home from school, eat dinner, go to bed for a few hours, then wake up for the games, staying up until 1 or 2 in the morning. I was dedicated.

The 1997 NBA playoffs were no exception. Seattle as the number 2 seed faced off against Phoenix, the number 7 seed, in the first round. Seattle actually went down to the Suns 2-1 in the first three games and had to make a miraculous comeback to win the next two games to win the series 5-2 only to have to face the streaking Rockets in the next round.

The Rockets came out of the gates right off the bat and beat the Sonics in game one. Seattle battled back in game 2 but then lost the next two games putting them in a seemingly insurmountable hole, down 3 games to 1.

That Monday I went to school completed depressed and dejected. Meeting my girlfriend at her locker she asked what was wrong and I informed her that my team was in trouble.

She, not comprehending for a second what I was going through, empathetically said, “I’m sorry.”

Sorry isn’t going to cut here! This is the NBA playoffs we’re talking about! “This just means they have to win the next two games just to force a game 7 and do the unthinkable and beat the Rockets in three games in a row to advance.”

“Ahhh, I understand. Well, I think they can do it,” she said in an effort to appease me, which actually just infuriated me.

You don’t understand! You don’t have a fucking clue! “You really have no idea what I’m saying,” I informed her emphatically, “The Sonics need to beat Houston at Houston on Tuesday, then beat them again at home on Thursday, then beat them again at Houston on Saturday. It’s damn near impossible…”

“Saturday? Game seven would be on Saturday?” She asked.

“Yeah. In Houston on Saturday.”

“You do realize that Saturday is our Senior Prom! You will not miss our Senior Prom for a stupid basketball game!”

And now you can see where this story is going.

Jimmy Carter Is An Ass

I spent the day Saturday doing Habitat for Humanity through work. Let me start by saying I think Habitat is an amazing organization. It runs extremely efficiently, they’ve built thousands of houses, and the results are undeniable. That said, every time I’ve volunteered I always come away with the same thought, “Have mercy on the owners of these houses because I can’t believe they let laypeople like us build a house because we have no idea what we’re doing.” The most common phrase you’ll hear on site is, “That’s good enough for Habitat.”

“Uhh, excuse me, but it looks like this wall is about 15 degrees out of whack.”

“Good enough for Habitat. Move on.”

That’s a bit extreme and I really do understand the use of the phrase – while they’re trying to build the best house they can, they realize they’re using unskilled, volunteer labor and the only way they can keep doing it is if it’s fast and efficient. But some of the things I’ve seen, and admittedly, some of the things I’ve done make me really question whether Jimmy Carter had it all together when he dreamed this thing up.

Truthfully I didn’t really have time to do Habitat this weekend. In fact, what I needed was a volunteer crew to work on my house. But I chose to go anyway. Mainly because the CEO was supposed to be there. Well, the sonofabitch didn’t show, not that it honestly would have changed my willingness to volunteer¹.

At any rate, there were six different houses being built and therefore six different groups each assigned to one house. Generally there are two foremen that are a part of the Habitat organization and who typically have years of construction experience. After that the crew is simply comprised of the volunteers.

There are generally two types of volunteers: people that have little to no building or DIY experience but a ton of willingness to learn and help, and the weekend home improvement warriors who are all there to show off their skills and prove just how awesome they are. Everyone wears nametags so in that respect I feel like there only needs to be two names: “Lifter,” for the unskilled people who get stuck just lifting heavy objects all day, and “Billy,” as in “Billy Badass” for the other guys who are out there to prove they’re more awesome than everyone else.

The house we were working on had a lot of “Lifters” so it took us a while to get going. Our task for the day was to set all the premanufactured interior and exterior walls AND put all the roof trusses on. Quite a workload. One of the other volunteer groups was a bunch of construction workers and at one point while we were all still standing around trying to level our very first wall I looked over and the construction workers already had all their exterior walls up. Goddamn showoffs. We ended up catching up to them in the afternoon though, when they must have gotten confused and thought they were getting paid to build the house and therefore stood around for 4 hours with their thumbs up their asses trying to milk it for all it was worth.  

At one point late in he morning I was standing around waiting for the next wall panel to get set in place when the head foreman overseeing all six houses walked up. He said to me, “Hey, are you good with a saw?”

“I am,” I replied.

“Good, I need you to grab a ladder, climb up to the top there and cut out some holes.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I thought, “You want me to get on a ladder and operate a circular saw 12’ above the ground? When you asked, ‘are you good with a saw?’ and I replied, ‘yes,’ I did not mean to imply I had attended the Cirque Du Soleil School of Power Tooling…”

But not wanting to disappoint I agreed and asked how exactly I should go about completing the task.

“Okay, you’re gonna cut out the beam pockets which are 9-1/2” by 5-1/2” and usually 3” wide but could be 3-1/2”, you’ll have to check that so you cut a u-shape but be sure to keep it flush with the top plate and tight to the 2x6 and you have to account for the sheathing and don’t forget to add a ½” for the wrap. Understand?”

Starring back at him blankly I could only assume I must have looked to have the intelligence of amoeba because I had no idea what the hell he said. I mean, I understood the meaning of each individual word, but strung together in one massive run-on sentence and I didn’t have a fucking clue. The only thing I did understand was, this was a very important thing to get right.

So I asked him to clarify and got more of the same nonsensical contractor talk so I had to set out to climb up a ladder with what had to be the heaviest circular saw money could buy and cut some hole out of the top of the wall that was going to serve some purpose.

The first hole went well and the foreman patted me on the back then instructed me to cut a second one on the other side. I did so and came away with all fingers and both eyeballs intact and thought I was pretty successful. Right up until he came over and was like, “That hole is backwards.”

Fuck. Me.

“Oh, so when you said ‘Cut a second hole over there,’ what you really meant was, ‘Cut a second hole OPPOSITE OF THE FIRST HOLE over there’?” Awesome.

Plus, it happened right as lunch was being served so basically the entire volunteer crew walked by and was like, “What seems to be the problem here?”

“Oh, nothing, just that I’m a dumbass.”

All in all the day went great, we reached the goal they set for us, and aside from feeling like I’d been roundly beaten with a baseball bat about my entire body, it was a lot of fun.

Except for the fact that someone walked off with my crowbar. I’m not suggesting it was intentional at all; I can just imagine that I let someone borrow it, they passed it on to someone else, and next thing you know someone walks off with it thinking it was their own. It’s not a big deal except that it is a really big deal because if you recall back in August when I was doing the kitchen remodel the crowbar was the only back-to-back MVT, Most Valuable Tool, and it just pains my heart to think that he’s in some other man’s hands right now. They say you never forget your first. Well I can tell you, I will never forget my first crowbar and it saddens me just to think that he is with someone else who quite frankly doesn’t deserve him.

1. Yes it would have².

2. Really it wouldn’t have³.

3. Actually, yes it would. 

Worst Case Scenario

Posted by John

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I have to apologize for my sporadic postings on the blog lately. We're in the midst of a huge bathroom remodel at the house that's been occupying quite a bit of my time. I just hope the IRS is as understanding as you all are.

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A few years ago there was a short-lived television program called Worst Case Scenario in which some choch bag stunt man would enter into ridiculous situations in order to show you, the television audience, how to get out of them. Things like getting bit by a poisonous snake, swimming in shark-infested waters, or going on a blind date. I saw one segment of one episode once where the guy was in an elevator when the cables snapped and the elevator car went crashing to the ground floor. His method for surviving that awful situation was to face one of the walls and bend his knees like he was doing a squat so he could absorb the impact. It would have been useful information if it wasn’t immediately evident that they did not in fact put the guy in an elevator that was plummeting to the ground rather they put the guy in a stationary elevator with a cameraman who was shaking the camera violently to give the appearance of the elevator crashing to the earth. Obviously he "survived" this worst-case scenario but only because there was nothing remotely bad or dangerous about it in the first place.

I'm pretty sure the show went off the air so quickly because other shows like Mythbusters started proving you could not, in fact, survive stupid scenarios like a free falling elevator and in shows like Man vs Wild the dude would actually let himself get bitten by a poisonous snake instead of just faking it.

Anyways, as lame as the show was, I do wish it was still on the air just so I could have had some pointers, whether real or fabricated, to help me get through the day yesterday.

The wife was on call all weekend so she was up early in order to go to the hospital. I remained asleep right up until I heard the cat yowling like he does when he’s about to hack up a fur ball. I went running out to make sure he wasn’t puking on the couch or something only to find him poised with his mouth directly over one of my toolboxes, back arched and convulsing like it normally does. I couldn’t get to him before it started, but to my shock and horror he did not in fact puke into my toolbox, rather in the process of his violent convulsions it started coming out the other end, like someone spreading frosting on a cake, albeit a disgusting greenish-brown cake. My amazement at the situation was only matched by the cat’s amazement, who wasn’t expecting that to happen at all. He had this look at his face like, “What. The. Fuck???” And truthfully, who could blame him? If you went to sneeze and instead shit your pants, you'd have a lot of questions running through your head too.

He then took several steps, collapsed to the floor and started having what I could only describe as a miniature seizure. That, I can assure you, was one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever been through. I thought I was going to lose my cat. The tremors subsided but he wasn’t moving so I snatched him up and immediately rushed to the animal hospital.

After spending the better part of the morning there he recovered to a point that they couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him. Suffice it to say he’s back to normal now, having just given both of us a horrible scare.

Getting back to the soft-serve pile of shit on the floor though - it was so bad all I could do was scoop it up with a spatula. Disgusting.

Prior to that episode I had planned on spending the whole day completely re-plumbing our bathroom. Not to be deterred I jumped into the project anyway, spending the better part of the afternoon and early evening in the crawlspace beneath our house running new pipes. While I was down there crawling among the crickets and spiders with the water shut off, cutting and patching sections of our water piping, the thought occurred to me, “Maybe this wasn’t the best idea for a Sunday afternoon project,” because the thing was, once it got started, it had to be finished.

I ended up getting that all done around 7 o’clock, which didn’t leave me much time to finish the piping aboveground, so I had to make a fairly simple decision – just get the shower and toilet working. We could brush our teeth in the kitchen sink if necessary.

It was 9:30 by the time I had that done so I had the wife stand in the bathroom to see if anything was leaking while I went to turn the water on. Now, our shut off valve is located in a box buried two feet below the ground in a flowerbed out by the street. So picture me, 9:30 at night, laying in our flowerbed, trying with all my strength to turn a rusty old valve that hasn’t been operated in over two decades.

I was able to muster enough strength the open the valve enough that I could hear the water starting to flow. It was shortly after that when my cell phone started vibrating in my pocket and you can imagine where this was going. Sara, standing in the bathroom watching the new pipes for any leaks; me laying in the front yard trying to turn a shut-off valve installed by the ancient Romans; she hears the water come surging through the pipes right up until it reaches the last fitting which bursts off the pipe like a projectile missile; water is shooting straight into the air like a goddamn geyser spraying everywhere; she empties her bowels righ there on the floor like the cat did early. Now, how much time do you think would ellapse between that fitting bursting off the pipe, Sara pulling out her phone, dialing my number, the call signal going up to a cell phone tower then back down to my phone, my phone vibrating in my pocket, me feeling that vibration, retrieving it, answering it, hearing my wife’s voice screaming bloody murder, “OH MY FUCKING GOD! OH MY FUCKING GOD!”, me returning to the antique shut-off valve, and using all the strength in my body to close it again? How long do you think that would take? I’ll tell you – too fucking long.

Suffice it to say, water was everywhere. The floors, the walls, the goddamn ceiling. It was absolutely a complete disaster.

So there we were, 10 o’clock at night, mopping up several dozen gallons of water, and all I could think was, this is the worst possible case scenario. 

Death To Phil Collins

I don’t want Phil Collins life to actually end, just his musical career. A dream I’ve had for many years came true last April when Phil Collins announced his retirement from music. Stage 1 was completed. Next up, the more difficult Stage 2. Making sure a Phil Collins song is never heard on the radio or television again. 

I don’t hate Phil Collins as a person. I just hate his music. And his general appearance. And the fact he looks more like a shoe salesman or junior high math teacher than he does an internationally known musician. You know that uncle you have that you see twice a year, is always wearing pleated jeans, still wears Blu-Blocker sunglasses, and still rocks a braided belt? That’s Phil Collins. When I see Phil Collins I don’t think grammy winning musician. I don’t think nine #1 singles. I think Arby’s assistant manager. And not even a good assistant manager. The type of assistant manager who still wants to impress the teenage employees so he lets them borrow his car, lets them show up late to work, and buys them beer. He’s the type of guy who still uses phrases that were popular last decade, like, “we’re not worthy”, and “talk to the hand”. He’s the one who was doing the Budweiser “Wassssssuuuuppppp” at last years Christmas party. Then at the same Christmas party, he’s the one that got you a “No Fear” t-shirt. He’s a gigantic douchebag all around. From the top of his shiny bald head to the bottom of his feet tucked away in penny loafers, he is void of any sort of coolness, and wreaks of Vicks VapoRub and baloney sandwiches year round.

And that’s not even the worst part. Have you ever been subjected to his music? First of all, before he even opens his mouth to sing, I feel like a dozen miniature donuts are going to fall out. Then when he does sing, feelings of dizziness, fright, and depression sweep over me. His songs are the perfect example of what shitty music is all about. If you don’t believe me, here are the lyrics to one of his hit singles, “Sussudio”:

There’s this girl that’s been on my mind

All the time, sussudio oh oh

Now she don’t even know my name

But I think she likes me just the same

Sussudio oh oh

Oh if she called me I’d be there

I’d come running anywhere

She’s all I need, all my life

I feel so good if I just say the word

Sussudio, just say the word

Oh sussudio

Now I know that I’m too young

My love has just begun

Sussudio oh oh

Ooh give me a chance, give me a sign

I’ll show her anytime

Sussudio oh oh

Ah, I’ve just got to have her, have her now

I’ve got to get closer but I don’t know how

She makes me nervous and makes me scared

But I feel so good if I just say the word

Sussudio just say the word

Oh sussudio, oh

Ah, she’s all I need all of my life

I feel so good if I just say the word

Sussudio I just say the word

Oh sussudio I just say the word

Oh sussudio I’ll say the word

Sussudio oh oh oh

Just say the word

It’s so hard to describe why I hate his music so much. Maybe because every song he wrote/sung is a typical pop song. No variation. No excitement. His songs conjure up feelings of.....nothing. You know after the song is over you just wasted 4 minutes of your life, and you are a worse person than you were when the song started. His songs sound like every other pop song around in that time period. Just boring lyrics where he’s not really saying anything mixed with bubbly, upbeat instrumentals, mixed with the fact he looks like a frumpy math teacher = hatred.

More evidence:

Well I’ve been waiting, waiting here so long

But thinking nothing, nothing could go wrong, ooh now I know

She has a built in ability

To take everything she sees

And now it seems Im falling, falling for her.

She seems to have an invisible touch yeah

She reaches in, and grabs right hold of your heart

She seems to have an invisible touch yeah

It takes control and slowly tears you apart.

Well I don’t really know her, I only know her name

But she crawls under your skin, you’re never quite the same, and now I

Know

She’s got something you just cant trust

Its something mysterious

And now it seems Im falling, falling for her.

She seems to have an invisible touch yeah

She reaches in, and grabs right hold of your heart

She seems to have an invisible touch yeah

It takes control and slowly tears you apart.

She don’t like losing, to her its still a game

And though she will mess up your life,

You’ll want her just the same, and now I know

She has a built in ability

To take everything she sees

And now it seems I’ve fallen, fallen for her.

She seems to have an invisible touch yeah

She reaches in, and grabs right hold of your heart

She seems to have an invisible touch yeah

It takes control and slowly tears you apart.

Give me a team of monkeys, a typewriter, cocaine, and 24 hours, and that team of monkeys will compose a better song than “Invisible Touch.” 

iTunes lists Phil Collins and Genesis musical genre as pop, but wikipedia lists Phil as progressive rock. Clearly, this is because there is no “shit” category as  an option. But after reading this I started to worry. What if somehow he one day made it to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame? This travesty would be the equivalent of Paul Blart Mall Cop winning an Oscar for Picture Of The Year, or Nickelback winning a Grammy, or George W. Bush be included on Mount Rushmore. The apocalypse would surely be upon us. And that’s fine, because I don’t want to live in a world where Phil Collins is in the Hall Of Fame for anything. Except douchebaggery. And on his induction day, this picture would definitely be shown:

So you are probably now asking, how do I help complete Stage 2, making sure a Phil Collins song is never heard on the radio or television again? Well, first of all, thank you for your support. I’ve taken the liberty a drafting a form letter for you to print out, sign, and mail to your local radio stations, cable provider, congressman, clergy, mayor, driver’s ed teacher, and anyone else of authority who is willing to listen. The madness has to stop - and that starts with your participation.

Dear ___________________,

Please help me in my quest to eliminate the music of Phil Collins from the recorded history of mankind. Recent studies show that most random acts of violence, spousal abuse, and world wars are caused by repeated listening to Phil Collins songs. I mean seriously, the song “Two Hearts?” These are some of the lyrics: 

She knows (she knows)

There’ll always be a special place in my heart for her

She knows, she knows, she knows,

Yeah, she knows (she knows)

No matter how far apart we are

She knows, I’m always right there beside her

Now you can see that we, as a people, are in grave danger. If I have to hear “In The Air Tonight” at one more sporting event, I might kill someone. And that person may be you. And I’m sure you don’t want to be the latest victim of PCRD (Phil Collins Related Death). So please, do everything in your power to make sure the next TV commercial I hear doesn’t have a Phil Collins song playing in the background. And make sure the next time a Phil Collins song is requested over a radio station’s “Lunchtime Retro Flashback” request show, the DJ does not play it. Because we are not safe as a society, until Phil Collins is no longer given a voice. Thank You for you concern,

Sincerely,

It's A Boy!

No, we're not pregnant. Better. The other day I purchased another nail gun.

Truthfully I've had my eye on it for a while. In fact, for the better part of 2 years. I had my original finish nailer in the shop for some routine maintenance last week so while I was waiting I was ogling the cordless framing nailer I've been dreaming about. While the dude was ringing me up I said, "Sooooo, I'm thinking about getting the framing nailer..." and left the sentence trailing to invite his sales pitch.

"Well, are you thinking about the new model or the old one?" He replied.

"Excuse me? The new model??? I didn't know there was a new one. How is it different?"

"Well, it's lighter (cool), it shoots faster (sweet), it's more accurate (awesome), and it's more powerful (fuck yes!)..."

"I'll take it!"

I couldn't wait to get it home. Just to be clear, we are talking about the sweetest tool ever invented. It's cordless, so it doesn't need an air compressor. It shoots framing nails, which are like long, galvanized steel bullets. You can frame up a new wall in a fracti - listen, it doesn't matter how fast you can frame up a wall because you're giggling the whole time and you add in 75% more studs than you need because you can. Just this weekend I framed up 17 new walls in my house. Not because I needed to; because I could. My house is now a maze. Literally. But it doesn't matter because every time I take the wrong turn on the way to the bathroom and wind up at the dead end I won't care because I'll still be giggling.

Seriously, when you pull this thing out and hold it in your hand you feel other-worldly. You feel invincible. You feel badawess, which is a combination of awesome and badass. It's like you hold this thing and you can hear angels singing and they're singing Phil Collins' In The Air Tonight and even though you don't know what "It" is you can definitely feel it and it feels fucking sweet.

Here's a family photo:

Junior, the original finish nailer, is there on the left and that tall drink of water on the right is the new framing nailer, which I'll be calling Billy; Billy Badass. That's when I'm not calling it Johnny Awesome or Nitro Gunnerson.

My manliness just went to 11. 

__

On a side note, now that there are multiple contributors to the blog, several people have commented that they can't tell who posted what, so I'm going to experiment with posting in a different color to see if that clears up the confusion.