Monthly Archives: March 2011

Little house of horrors.

Ah, dreams.

All along, I knew this would happen. I knew at some point we’d hit the wall.

I knew that the lusty fun of building a dream would slowly succumb to the reality of getting to pay for it and having to see it through to the end.

Shits like that.

Dreams at inception are magical elfin little things dancing around on the periphery, seductively luring you into stuff that the long haul slowly grinds into something you end up hating.

I knew this was gonna happen.

The truly fun way to build would be having enough money to pay everybody from architects to contractors to finishers and designers to build your little dream and paint and stock it with freshy goodness and let you walk into your squeaky new little house beaming broadly with the huge happiness that comes from not having had to work on any of it.

But that ain’t a happenin’ thing at Casa Oceandoggy.

Phabulious Phil and his crew are just about done and the house will be dried in-meaning the siding, the roof, and the windows and doors will be on or in. Rough shelter. You could live in it if you didn’t need running water or heat or toilets. Think plywood tent. Think trailer on fuck me pumps.

And then it’s just me to finish this baby.

Having spent 50K by dry in we’re approaching budget limits that let Miss Carol scream at me almost constantly, which is always nice.

I look up at it and think about the countless hours of my life I’m gonna spend getting it done and I wonder what the fuck I was thinking? I don’t have enough to do keeping my business afloat, writing a crappy blog, and trying to write a book?

And now I’m gonna spend every weekend for the rest of my life working on Casa Oceandoggy?

Dreams baby.

Pirates.

Well I’ll be goddamned- there’re still REAL pirates out there.

I mean who’d a thunk it? In this day and age when technology trumps everything and GPS can track little kids walking home from school or triangulate car accidents and send rescue almost as soon as your air bags burst that something as anachronistic-seeming as real pirates still exist kinda bends the mind.

I mean, really?

And yet, out there in the cold salty spray of the Indian Ocean Somali pirates armed with automatic weapons are loping about in small open boats and preying on ships and shipping seemingly willingly at will.

The World denounces them and their piratical ways. Like they care. The pirates, I mean. At last count they held more than 660 hostages and around 30 vessels that they use to pirate more vessels if the owners can’t or won’t pony up the big bucks to release them, running them until they’re used up pieces of floating garbage.

A part of ┬áme, hopefully the biggest and best part of me, joins in the denunciation and wonders why we (we being the rest of the world) can’t just rock and roll into Somali and kill everything looking remotely pirate-like.

But. And yet.

A little squeaky part of me, and probably the part that still hopes I’m not the big pussy I am, secretly cheers for the loping pirates. I mean, can you imagine attacking a bazillion ton container ship from a 26 foot panga?

Does desperation breed courage or is it vice versa?