Tuesday, April 19, 2011


I'm finding things to do so I don't have to kneel on the floor and install a million more cracked tiles. That job is getting tedious. And for those of you who care, you are supposed to sand down the seams of the backerboard. I neglected to do this (thinking the mortar would bring everything up to level) and now the tile feels like there are tree roots growing underneath it. Not to mention the cracked tiles are not all level with each other so the razor sharp edges are exposed. Someone please take my DIY license away.

(I'm a little distracted because I just got a phone call that went like this...a private number called....
"HHHHIIII. Tee Hee." (The voice is girlish kind of forced teenage sexpot. Like an underage phone sex line.)
"Can I help you?"
"You can help me by jacking off into the phone."
"I'm sorry?"
"Jack off, Oggy. Oggy, the jack off."
"Do we know each other?"
"You met me today."
"I don't leave the house. Ever."
"Why not?"
"Who are you?"
"You want a ride? Tee Hee."
"Yes. Are you going to Boston? Look..."
"I can see you. Are you playing your guitar or jacking off?"
"You're funny. If you can see me, what am I doing now?" (I give the finger to the phone.)
"Jerking off?"
"Bzzzzzz! Wrong."
"So what are you doing?"
"Hahhahaha. teee heeee. Do you murder people in the basement?"
"What concern is that of yours? What is your problem?"
"How old are you?"
"Old enough to know a drunk high school kid when I hear her. You know you have class tomorrow."
"Man, I weep for the future. I fucking weep like Thomas Paine on crack."
"hahahah. Thomas Who?"
"Nevermind. Just some asshole."
"I like you. You wanna fuck tomorrow?"
"I see. Now I see. You know what?"
"I can predict your past. I can tell your future too, something to do with community college and an abusive husband, but let me see if I get your past right. You saw my number in the St. Louis rideshare ads. Yes? You saw my name. You saw the gear I'm bringing to Boston. Am I right so far?"
"I like your voice. Do you have a big cock?"
"...and then you decide to call the number and have a laugh at my expense. Right? Well, I'm paying money for this prank call. A dime a minute. We're already at two quarters of my change. And I've got things to write at this very moment. I WAS TRYING TO TRUST PEOPLE ON CRAIGSLIST AND YOU BETRAYED ME!"
"Do you jack off all night? huhuhuhuhahahahah" (she starts panting but it's fake, like she thinks people fuck like they do in porn.) "I'm eating poop."
"This is too much. You get drunk and crank call my cell phone? Are you insane? Me? Oggy Bleacher? You cunt! You fucking freak. Your daddy doesn't give you enough attention?"
"Is this what you do for fun? Snort crystal meth and call random people?"
"Bwahahahahahah! My Name is Oggy and I want a blow job. Tee hehheheee!"
"hahahahahaha. tee hee. I eat poop."
I hang up and immediately sit down to write.)

I tried to avoid getting involved with the fence project because I am hearing impaired and power saws cut through my head like nails through butter. In fact, this injury developed building crappy fences for a horse ranch in CA. It's only gotten worse. The Nurse wanted some privacy for her new hot tub and I'm the freeloader in the basement so there was no way out. I did manage to get away long enough to miss digging five 3' holes in the dense Mississippi mud using a manual post hole digger. Fuck that! Tee heee!

I didn't get out of staining the shit. The Nurse saw bamboo back in our Venice days and had some shipped from California. Like $300 in bamboo but the cedar cost $400 to frame it, thus negating any sustainability credit from the bamboo. This girl throws money around. I wanted to get reclaimed scrap lumber and nail something together. Lash it together with coat hangers...like my van.

This is the final product. A kind of Tiki cafe/Spa.

Fence: $700 materials. $600 labor. $100 beer. sub total $1400

Spa: $5000 subtotal $5000

Electrical work: materials $300. Labor $150 sub total $450

Grand total: $6850.

I gotta admit that it was nice to lay in with the waterfall feature and the back jets hitting my inflamed sciatica.
Always the fashion slave...my watch says 1974 and my belt buckle says 1969.

And this is for the chicken farmer if I am ever able to get back there. With drunk teenage girls calling me every night the chances are slim. That is supposed to say SOBER but I was drunk and stoned when I tooled it so now it says SOBEA, which is how they pronounce it in Nottingham.
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Man in the Van by Oggy Bleacher is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.