Monthly Archives: June 2011

Cash is King.

Phabulous Phis called me on Friday to let me know he was done and needed to get paid.

You owe me $11,000 he said in his gravelly bikerbaritone.

Will you take a check? I said meekly.

Nah, man, cash is king he said warmly.

Phabulous Phil’s a helluva a nice guy and I wouldn’t ever want to build a house without him. But working with him and his crew is like running with hungry wolves. They’re all lean and mean and tattooed and they work violently and almost feverishly.

It jacks up my testosterone just being around them, but you kinda wanna pay up when it’s time.

So I withdrew the cash in two $6000 increments ’cause if you play with $10,000 or more of YOUR money the Feds get involved.

And don’t even get me started on that.

But the thing is, I never EVER carry cash. Hell, I’ll pay for a cup of coffee with a credit card, just so we rack up air miles for trips we’ll never take and dream dreamy dreams of faraway places we’ll never visit, but hey, that’s just us.

So it was very strange to be carrying around a chunk of 50 dollar bills almost three inches thick.

I was soooo glad to give it to Phabulous Phil’s wonderful little wife Barb this afternoon.

You’re paying in cash? she said.

I smiled, trying to be cooler than I am and said, cash is king, right?

Beach scenes.

So I was sitting there, brooding darkly.

I’d just finished reading a really good book, quite possibly the best book I’ve ever read, and as I sat, thinking about it (the book I mean) I watched some little dramas play out.

The surf was head high and glassy so all the surfers were out. I love watching their gracefulness but I don’t harbor any awe. I mean, ANYBODY can surf. Hell, even I can surf.


OK. I suck, and maybe I should be in awe. But I’m not.

But while I was sitting and mulling I saw two girls, obviously BFF’s, on longboards out beyond the break, talking. Suddenly, one of the girls slipped into the water to wet her hair and in one long gorgeously lithesome move came back up out of the ocean and sat on her board like she was sitting on a chair. While she kept up her conversation with her friend she slowly wrung the saltwater from her hair. It was mermaidic and simply beautiful.

They paddled in and I cracked another beer and a young couple, kids really, came and sat near us. They were unremarkable in their plainness, their ordinariness, except for the girl’s remarkable desire. While her boyfriend/lover/husband/whatever/ relentlessly fucked with his iPhone, her want, her need, for him to pay attention to her, to somehow validate and return the bruising rawness of her love for him was hard to watch.

When they were leaving, he handed her his precious iPhone and she nervously dropped it in the sand.

I went for a swim, I couldn’t stand it any more.

When I got back and sat down the wind had changed direction and strengthened. It was blowing more off the water and it was getting a little chilly. Miss Carol and me were fixing to head home when a kite blew by.

Honest, dudes, I’ve never seen anything like it. The kite was flying all by itself, trailing a couple hundred yards of string- it’s little plastic hand thingie bouncing over the waves. I watched it out of sight. It was forlorn looking. I felt bad for it. It seemed lost.

So I said fuck this and stood up and collapsed the chairs and picked up the cooler of empties and as we were breaking camp, a couple walked by, hand in hand. She was a little too fat or maybe a little too pregnant to be wearing a bikini and he was fluourescently sunglass wrapped, gold chain luggingly his mid-life crisis over the waistband of his too-touristy board shorts.

And as they walked past I saw that he(?) had a tramp stamp(?)



Am I gay?

Grainy, crappy, photo aside- I did the thumb ring thingy.

I love the look but it’s been garnishing some askances in amongst the burly types I work with.

I know, I know.

In the gay community a ring on the right thumb means you’re single and available.

But I’m not gay nor single nor even available. So it’s just a ring, right?

And, hey, honestly?, if a bunch of gay guys want to hit on me I’d find it flattering ’cause ain’t none of that gonna be happening and who doesn’t like to be popular? Shit, I’ll play cock tease. (did I just say that?)

So it’s been different.

I’ve gotten some really interesting looks from the women I work with and been treated to some really strange vibes from the guys I work around.


All ’cause a stupid ring on my thumb.

Sometimes this shit makes me want to laugh out loud.


Tourons is a word I wished I’d made up. But I didn’t. It’s the marriage of tourist and moron and pretty much describes the shit we gotta put up with every summer.

Schools are out and the influx of Tourons is full bore. Like ticks in weeds they’re suddenly frickin’ everywhere.

I was wrestling the dickheads around on our walk the other day when an especially cacophonously dressed crowd of Tourons went by. (What is it about neon and tourons? I mean, really?)

And it got me thinking in broadly stroking generalizations about the Tourons. You know, broad strokes like, as in, Mexicans are REALLY good gardeners? That kinda shit.

Touron Trashing Time.

Sorry, if you don’t want to revel in this, please tune out, OK?

So I was gazing at the cacophonousness and I was all like-Pennsylvania.

Pennsylvania seems to host the most neon covered folks who eat at, like 5 o’clock?, and move in a caravan of vehicles, carefully following one another to their destination and tipping a dollar. Miss Carol knows this- a dollar is a BIG thing to Pennsylvanians.

New York is a huge state full of people but New York is framed and detained by New York City. Zoo Yorkers are amazingly loud and outlandishly friendly IF they like you. Lots of gold chains and fake tans and huge tips. Zoo Yorkers will tip you for weather info.

West Virginians are, like, from another planet? I don’t get them at all.

New Jersey is New York’s quiet little wallflower sister that you maybe don’t want to wake up?

Maine and all those little chilly places north of bum-fuck? You people are brittle and curt. Maybe it’s the constant cold?

Connecticut has the prettiest women I’ve ever seen outside of California. They are ALL scorchingly beautiful. I’m sure there are places where they keep the ugly girls but, hey, the ones visiting and hanging at our beach are drop dead gorgeous.

North Carolina has the best southern accent I know. And everyone looks like they could kill something and cook it up and make it taste good and make it a party doing it.

Hey, we get tourons from all over the world. And ’cause I’m a local, I get to poke fun at y’all. I’ve seen license plates from as far away as Alaska. (Who would drive from Alaska to Va Beach?)(And why?) But you do. And a part of me, the very little cruel part, is glad you do.

‘Cause you Tourons are endlessly entertaining.

I mean, really.

Cutter. Again.

Cutter has this weird thing that he likes to do with empty bottles of water. He likes to unscrew the cap.

So when I got home on Saturday from work I flipped him my empty Dasani bottle and he went at it.

Then I stopped and said, You’re too fucking weird, dude. Why do you do that?

And Cutter paused and said, ‘Cause it’s a challenge and I think I like challenges.

So I pulled the Dasani bottle away from him and spun the cap off with my teeth, screwed the cap back on, and said-some challenge.

Cutter looked at me like I was a turd and said- well, of course it’s easy for you dickhead, you’ve got FINGERS. Try it with these he said wiggling his paws.

So I picked the empty bottle up again and cradled it between my forearms and worked and unscrewed the top. It was harder, but not THAT hard. Honestly? I don’t know why I get sucked into Cutter’s universe, but I do.

I put the top back on again and flipped it to him again. Big deal I said.

Cutter cocked his head like he always does when he’s thinking big thoughts and then he said- maybe I just like the crackly sound it makes when I chew on it.

I walked away.

Ooh, finally. A good day.

Not only are we dried in.

Not only do we have plumbing roughed in.

Not only do we have heat and A/C roughed in.

But ooh, baby, BABY.

The best shit, like, EVER?

We got’s us a utility easement. Dominion Power had been searching legalities using the road name. Come to find out, Edgar Cayce (yes, THAT Edgar Cayce) had set up the development under HIS name.

Once the enormously unrelenting ego’s were pushed aside, we got’s us an easement.

Which means Dominion Power is gonna be planting the biggest, greenest, thickest, most engorged telephone pole ever, right IN THE FUCKING MIDDLE of dickheads property to bring us our sweet, sweet, electricity.

I hope it gives the fuckwad a stroke.

And I know. I KNOW.  I should be a nicer person.

But I’m not.

Foodie newbie.

Miss Carol and me are fledgling little foodie virgins, flapping our damp wings in the big hugeness that is the FOOD TV’s sweetly smelling universe.

I mean, please, all those channels, all that food, all the time. It’s just flipping incredible- dreaming of those nubile meals sizzling softly on the horizon while you’re stuffing your face with lunch?

But what’s even more amazing for me is the verbiage, the words.

Like tonight, Miss Carol and me were watching something on a foodie channel while we ate dinner and a chef had made (prepared?) a squab tartine for some judges to judge.

Squab Tartine.

I have no clue what that could be or what those words even mean, but I love them. Roll them off your tongue- squab tartine. Like, as in, ooh, honey, baby- how ’bout some squab tartine drizzled on your boobs? No?


What was really funny was the chef presented it solemnly and all the judges looked solemnly at this thing on their plates like they knew exactly what a squab tartine might be, instead of giggling and rocking back and forth, going, oh, please, you made those words up, right? c’mon stop, dude, you’re killin’ us.

But, hey, I was giggling.

This is why my life sucks.

20-20 hindsight, so Miss Carol and me went to a party, OK?

And it was fun, ya know, if fun can be defined by the stuff that’s yet to come, ’cause you know it’s on it’s way. Or, at least, NOW you do.

So we hung, and we drank and we exalted in another ‘effing Friday well done and well put behind us.

But then.

On the way home I just maybe mentioned that some of the other women at the party were HUGE. I mean, seriously big. And I say other women so they can all read this and go- it’s HER!  IT’S NOT ME!


Miss Carol looks at me on the road home and says- am I that fat?

And I said- No way, not a chance, baby, are you THAT fat.

So, do you see where this is going?

And it is, and it has, and I wonder sometimes why I can’t learn the simple lessons.



How weird is this?

I’m working at the hospital, in this tiny bio-hazard room in the OR complex, measuring, trying to shoe-horn in a new intercom system for the OR’s, trying to work around the giganormous digital stereo device that blares music into the OR’s, ’cause, honestly? The doc’s luuuuurrves them some music while they’re slicing and dicing.

And I’m thinkin’, shit ain’t gonna fit. And I’m scratching the pimple I call a brain, when a doctor and nurse come into the little bio-hazard room I’m pimple scratching in.

The nurse picks up a plastic container, not unlike what you keep leftovers in, labeled “right” and opens it and says- I kid you not- I don’t think we kept the nipple.

She looks into it and jiggles the contents.

So the nipple was left behind, the doc says, grinning as his nurse opens a similar container labeled “left”. She gazes into the tupperware, makes a face, looks up, and then they notice me.

Are those, like, human parts? I ask. Not knowing what else to say and, you know, curious?

Wanna see a woman’s breast? the doc says slyly, looking over his shoulder at me.

The nurse proffers the tupperware and says- it’ll probably mess up the way you look at your wife for a coupla weeks. And maybe your sex-life for awhile, she says.

Thinking that maybe my sex-life probably doesn’t need much more messing up and that maybe my relationship with Miss Carol’s boobs is just fine, thank you very much, I swallow hard and say-

Um, no thanks.

So they both giggle and leave.

The surgeons and surgical staff are the hospital’s rock stars, make no mistake, but, man, they certainly have a different way of looking at the world.

Old people suck.


But they do.

In the last couple of months Miss Carol and me have been here amid sucky old people, and then, last week, when we had to get utility easements for electricity to The Little House of Horrors, Miss Carol had to speak to this old shithead, er, whoops, I mean, gentleman, whose property rubs up against ours.

Now, keep in mind, by us paying for the utility being run past his property enhances him and his future.

He doesn’t have to fork over the big bucks, he just hooks up, should he ever want to build.

So we were kinda surprised when Miss Carol called him and he reduced her to tears saying he’d NEVER allow us to put a telephone pole on his lot unless we bought his lot from him.

Come to find out, he’s an old dickhead with lots of time on his hands who just looooves to be a prick.

Do you spell asshole with a capital A?


I was walking the boys yesterday afternoon.

Whoops, stop, and back up.

I was waiting for the boys to finish eating before I could walk them and I saw this elderly, mostly bat-shit crazy couple walk up the street. They are local bat-shit crazies. He was dressed in the same old nasty dirty shit he’s always wearing and she was sporting her bag-lady seemingly seamless shapeless dress and overbearing do-rag.

They were muttering to one another as they went by.

So Cutter and Tug finish up and we head out for the evening yank-around. As we head up the street I see that the bat-shit crazies have turned and are heading back and they’re still muttering about important stuff, I am sure.

They get closer and closer, and I’m like? WTF? are they gonna just walk on top of us and stomp me and the boys into the road with their shitty Wal-Mart walkers?

Then as they pass Mrs. Bat-Shit Crazy says- you’re walking on the wrong side of the street boy.

I turn, thinking, no way Mrs. Bat-Shit Crazy is talking to me and thinking, if she is, maybe I’ll kick the shit out of Mr. Bat-Shit Crazy.

Sorry. That was just how my day was going.

But as they scurried away Mrs. Bat-Shit Crazy started to scream at me over her shoulder about the importance of walking facing oncoming traffic. Mr. Bat-Shit Crazy just kept going, slumped.

I stood, mesmerized, Cutter and Tug jerking and yanking, and I wondered how much it must suck to get old and realize your lap is over. You’re done. You’re just waiting it out, marking out the final ticks of time.

And I thought how I’ll probably suck when I get old.

But I yelled, Fuck you bitch, into the face of her screeching, anyway.

I’m not proud of that.