At long last, after ten years, ten roommates (not counting D), about 200 parties and innumerable meals of pasta with pepperoni sauce, csirke tokany with dumplings, fried chicken, pasta Bella Note and flatiron steak, it is with mixed regret and joy that I announce to you that the saga of Josephine Street is drawing to its close. Friday, November 21, 2009, Mary and I closed on our first house, on Circle Drive in BG. (By the way, for those of you who still think the President hasn't done anything in these last ten months, we're able to do this because of that awful old socialism, which is providing us with $8000 of tax credit to offset our investment. So put that in your pipe and smoke it; there's one of many things the President has done that directly affect the lives of ordinary, low-income, hard-working Americans. I promise I won't rant on politics again in this post unless I just happen to feel like it. :D )
We moved in in January of 2000---wait. That won't do. Let me set the scene a little. Mary and I had been dating for a little over a year. I still worked at motherfucking, god-awful Combined Communications. Mary worked at Box of Rocks. Our roommates were Nick Edwards and Little Mike. My cat Ford was 4 years old, and his buddy Panda, 3. Strider was not yet a gleam in an alley cat's eye. Gary Ransdell was already WKU president; hard to believe he's lasted this long. Bill Clinton was the President of the United States, gas cost $1.45/gal, and none of us for a minute believed that the spoiled son of a former one-term President had a snowball's chance in hell of gaining the White House. (That's history, not a rant. :p ) Over the last decade, three people have been President; ten roommates have lived here; Mary and I went from boyfriend and girlfriend to old marrieds and then parents; a child was conceived and has lived 99% of his life here; we've changed jobs, careers, and earned degrees; friends have come and gone.
I raise a glass of Alamos Cab (who knew ten years ago that we'd all be drinking and raving about wines from ARGENTINA of all places!) to Josephine Street. To Brenda Hale for telling me about her charming little postwar house that was open. To Jenny Forbes, who was almost our first roommate. To Little Mike, who was almost never here but who lived in the house the first few weeks while everyone else was still assing around moving our stuff in. To everyone who helped us paint and pull up the carpet and move in: Nick, Dave, Andrew, Katie, Clay, Stef, Dirk, Jeremy, Melissa, and anyone else I've forgotten. To the roommates: Little Mike, (Jan 2000-Summer 2000), Nick Edwards (Jan 2000-Summer 2002), Dave Sander (May 2000-Summer 2001), Bekki Roy (Summer 2001-Jan 2004), Clay Smith (Summer 2002), Chris Ladd (Summer 2002-Winter 2004, and Summer 2006-Fall 2007), Aaron Meier (Fall 2003-Fall 2004), Sophia Sterlin (Summer-Fall 2009) Bridgit Boggs (the unofficial Tenth Roomate, who stayed here longer over the last decade than many of the actual roommates!) and Ray Brockman (Winter 2007-Fall 2008, and Summer 2009-Present). To their significant others, who formed such a part of our crew: Big Mike Davis, Quinn, Kami Causey, Shelby Best, Michele Fishbein, the Okie, Stef Bruser, Meghan Nacke, and anyone else I forgot. To the Newton Street Crew and friends: Andrew Rose, Katie Rose, Jeremy Logsdon, Melissa Mathews, Josh and Amanda Rose, Matt Montag, Meghan Nacke, Angela Stewart, Sean Owens, and by extension Danny Fortier and his insane and loyal crew, too numerous to mention. To Dirk Fitzgerald (May) and Sara Lleras, Laurie Young and Catty Brownfield. To Ruby, the wild old woman who ran over the gas meter (who passed away at 96 last August.) To Jimbo, the sweet little tabby who lived in the backyard. To Fordy and Panda, who lived most of their lives here, and while they died at Greystone Pet Hospital, their spirits are here. To Avalon and Mordecai, Ladd's kitties who used to live here. To Chloe, Dave and Michele's rabbit. To Travy, who showed up at 5 AM with a case of High Life to Mary's first birthday party in the house, when we were all ready to pass out. (We kept it going till long after sunup, thanks very much.) To Strider, Noelle and Sadie (the current batch of Hairy Tonys). To Dorian, who has never yet known another home. To my Mom and Dad, who made our lives here so much easier. To Sue and Mike, who stayed here for weeks when Dorian was first born, making things bearable for two terrified new parents.
It's been wild. It'll never be replaced. But our time here is soon to be done, and a new home with new parties, old friends and a few new ones, new paint colors and new craziness, is about to open. For all of you who read this: we love you. We miss you. Come and see us again and bring a little of the spirit of Josephine Street with you to the new home.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Hot, Sexy, ALL NUDE Space Ranch Pics Vol. 1
As promised: hot, naked ranch house pics. What in the good God are these supposed to be? They're fake kitchen implements, for Chrissakes. Since nothing says "kitchen" like "things I can't actually cook with, but which remind me of cooking. Sort of." I threw these into the street about thirty-seven seconds later.
Space Ranch! It was built sometime between 1952 and 1960 (we're saying 1956 for convenience, but we don't actually know). It's about 800-900 more square feet than Josephine Street, and way more energy-efficient (we hope).
Trucks full of books. The first of many such loads (I said "load").
The hearth or ancestral shrine, complete with Fo Hi, candles, and incense. The incense is an Indian brand that's so strong we had to open the windows after 5 minutes. I can't recall the actual name of the brand, but we re-christened it "Cholera Cover-up: For When You've Gone Poo-poo in Your Sari". Perfect for those August evenings when explosive diarrhea fills the Ganges from bank to bank!
The hallway/utility room (utility closet is on the right). I dig that wallpaper! I mean, I'm gonna be digging it out of the drywall at the earliest possible opportunity. We went ahead and hung up some family pics to make the place feel like home.
Mary, caught in the middle of sanding and cleaning the paneling. Lord God almighty, the paneling. It's already beginning to vanish under layers of Killz and some truly beautiful paint colors (look for photos in my next post). 
It's PANELING! What's the matter, don't you like paneling? Clay is always drafted for home improvement projects because of his height. We only have to use the stepladder on days when he's not available. Also, he's really good at this sort of thing and actually seems to enjoy it. Thanks, Clyde!
Yes! The paneling loves the kitchen too! Paneling loves you ALL. Paneling has wood for all mankind!
This will eventually be the new home for Wintermute, our beloved desktop PC. I love how the kitchen counters include a built-in desk space.
The figure barely visible in the panel-shaded gloom is Clay, attempting to light the gas logs. NOW do you understand why we're painting this shit? It's as black as Satan's broom closet in that room.
Cara sands like a mofo. Even if she does have to use the stepladder.
And finally: here comes the primer! The paneling protested, but we told it to keep its splintery trap shut if it didn't want to be ripped down without anesthetic and replaced with some less sassy drywall. It has since decided it likes its makeover, and so do we. Coming soon: COLOR COMES TO THE SPACE RANCH... same space time, same space channel.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
By the way...
It just occurred to me that some of you might not know what the basic idea is behind "Space Ranch"; I've been wittering on about it for ages now without explaining myself. Rather than give you my no-doubt long-winded and expletive-and-hyphenation (and parenthetical)-filled version, just go here: http://http//www.atomic-ranch.com/
and you should get the idea. It'll take a while to get it looking as cool as all that stuff, but ya gotta have goals.
and you should get the idea. It'll take a while to get it looking as cool as all that stuff, but ya gotta have goals.
Check Ignition Vol I: Inertia. Idiots. Red Paint.
Meh. Yesterday we were shagged the fuck out by school, work, child-rearing, and the daily grind of life that doesn't go away just because you're moving. So we were naughty, naughty renovators, and didn't even go to Space Ranch.
This was probably not the worst course of action to take. Yesterday was one of those shit-annoying days where everything takes fourteen times longer and sixteen steps more than it should. Also, the vast majority of the people we encountered had apparently been lobotomized or pithed overnight.
For example: We paid TWO SEPARATE and EQUALLY FUCKING FRUITLESS visits to the vet's office. (There are, for some reason, three small, bitchy, hairy things that live with us. They loll about all day, sleeping, eating, beating the crap out of each other, and shitting into a box full of gravel. I know, it's weird. Also, they're infested with parasites. Why this is considered a normal and fruitful way to spend one's days is beyond me, but they are kinda cuddly.) We need to acquire the one-two punch of Frontline and the insanely toxic, you-must-evacuate-your-house flea bomb before we move, because I'll be goddamned if we're gonna bring even one flea into the shagtastic mansion that is the Space Ranch. Fleas + shag carpet= Eternal Paradise for Fleas. Once they get into the shag, they ain't goin' anywhere. So after we dropped Mary's car off at S & R (yes, transportation issues on top of everything else!), we headed over to the vet's for what should have been a five-minute errand.
Yeah. I'm pretty sure that the "person" who "helped us" at the vet's was operating with less than 2% of their brain mass in good working order. Mind you, this is not the normal state of affairs at our vet's. We really, really like the cats' doctor, and the staff are always very helpful and knowledgeable. But as Bernie Mac used to say: "Oh no, motherfucker, NOT TODAY!" The following dialogue should give you some sense of the fun time we had:
VETCLERK: (brightly) Good morning! Can I help you with something?
MARY: Hey. We need to get some Frontline for the cats, and a flea bomb.
VETCLERK: We don't sell flea bombs. Do you have an account with us?
ROB: Yes. It's under Bokkon, Robert Bokkon.
VETCLERK: Hmmm. Spell it?
MARY: B-o-k-k-o-n. Bokkon. Rob and Mary.
VETCLERK: Hmmmmmmm. I don't see it.
MARY (slightly annoyed): B-o-k-k-o-n.
VETCLERK: "B-o-k-k-i-n"?
MARY and ROB (rising annoyance): "B-O-K-K-O-N". Rob. And Mary.
VETCLERK: Ohhhh, OK. Strider, Noelle and Sadie are your cats?
MARY and ROB: Yes.
VETCLERK: Ok. Now what did you need?
ROB: Frontline. And a flea bomb.
VETCLERK: We don't carry flea bombs. You might try Petco.
MARY: We've gotten flea bombs here before. At least twice.
VETCLERK: Hmmmmm.
ROB (sighs): Look, we also have a question about the Frontline. I've heard that you can get a big-dog-sized dose and divide it up between the cats to save some cash.
VETCLERK: Oh. No. It's for dogs. It says "for dogs" on the package. The one for cats says "for cats".
ROB: Right. I know that. But it's the same stuff.
VETCLERK: Oh. No. It's for dogs. You don't want to do that. It goes into their blood stream. [pronounced as two very distinct words].
MARY: Of course it does. But it's the same stuff.
VETCLERK: No. It says "for dogs".
MARY (sotto voce, to ROB): Do you want to leave and we'll come back when someone else is here?
VETCLERK: Now we do have a six-month supply for cats for $94. Well, but I guess for you that would be a three-month supply. No. Two months.
ROB: Uh. Ok. But we need a flea bomb.
VETCLERK: We don't sell those. You should try Petco.
MARY: Maybe you don't understand. Flea spray. For the house.
VETCLERK: Oh. We have Frontline spray. (grabs bottle from shelf) Here you go.
ROB (examining bottle): This is for pets. It's not for spraying on the furniture.
VETCLERK: Are you sure?
ROB: Yeah. 'Cause it says "be careful when spraying pets to avoid spraying in eyes".
VETCLERK: Oh.
MARY: I think we need to do some more research. We'll be back later. (ROB and MARY exit).
If you'd like to get some idea of what the second visit at 5 PM was like, just copy and paste the entire dialogue you just read into the space helpfully provided below:
Thankfully, one of the other vet techs was also there, and she intervened. We found out that, in fact, they have got the flea bomb we need; they were just out of stock. We made arrangements to return after Thursday.
This shit REALLY took the wind out of our sails. I was a model of self-restraint, but it took a lot of effort; I was actually shaking the second time from tamping down my natural desire to combine as many derivations of the words "fuck" as I could think of with other words such as "idiot", "asshat", "dumbshit" and "goddamned".
In case you were thinking this was supposed to be a blog about house renovation, not vet-tech fuckwittery, well, it is. Keep readin'.
In order to refresh ourselves, and give the day some vague sense of forward motion, we went to Lowe's and Target afterward. Mary got some guerilla Xmas shopping done at Target while Dorian and I looked for period-appropriate (or just cool-looking) cabinet hardware, paint, and floor tiles.
I am pleased to report that there is a ton of Space Ranch-friendly stuff at Lowe's. We found at least five or six different sets of drawer and cabinet handles that we loved. We also bought blue and orange paint for Dorian's room (his choices; our kitchen is blue and orange, a combo we've come to regret, but he says he likes it). He wants to do at least one wall with variously-sized orange polka dots on a blue ground. He's his own man; we know better than to argue, and it just might look really cool.
Finally, we picked up a big ol' bucket of red paint for the kitchen/great room. The working plan is to do various shades of white and greys, with black accents and bold swaths of red, throughout the whole space. The red in question is Valspar's "Fabulous Red": you can find it here : http://beehivestudio.typepad.com/.a/6a00e54f9cbc5e883401053667b1a0970c-pi
Oh, and we have pics now. Look for those in my very next post.
This was probably not the worst course of action to take. Yesterday was one of those shit-annoying days where everything takes fourteen times longer and sixteen steps more than it should. Also, the vast majority of the people we encountered had apparently been lobotomized or pithed overnight.
For example: We paid TWO SEPARATE and EQUALLY FUCKING FRUITLESS visits to the vet's office. (There are, for some reason, three small, bitchy, hairy things that live with us. They loll about all day, sleeping, eating, beating the crap out of each other, and shitting into a box full of gravel. I know, it's weird. Also, they're infested with parasites. Why this is considered a normal and fruitful way to spend one's days is beyond me, but they are kinda cuddly.) We need to acquire the one-two punch of Frontline and the insanely toxic, you-must-evacuate-your-house flea bomb before we move, because I'll be goddamned if we're gonna bring even one flea into the shagtastic mansion that is the Space Ranch. Fleas + shag carpet= Eternal Paradise for Fleas. Once they get into the shag, they ain't goin' anywhere. So after we dropped Mary's car off at S & R (yes, transportation issues on top of everything else!), we headed over to the vet's for what should have been a five-minute errand.
Yeah. I'm pretty sure that the "person" who "helped us" at the vet's was operating with less than 2% of their brain mass in good working order. Mind you, this is not the normal state of affairs at our vet's. We really, really like the cats' doctor, and the staff are always very helpful and knowledgeable. But as Bernie Mac used to say: "Oh no, motherfucker, NOT TODAY!" The following dialogue should give you some sense of the fun time we had:
VETCLERK: (brightly) Good morning! Can I help you with something?
MARY: Hey. We need to get some Frontline for the cats, and a flea bomb.
VETCLERK: We don't sell flea bombs. Do you have an account with us?
ROB: Yes. It's under Bokkon, Robert Bokkon.
VETCLERK: Hmmm. Spell it?
MARY: B-o-k-k-o-n. Bokkon. Rob and Mary.
VETCLERK: Hmmmmmmm. I don't see it.
MARY (slightly annoyed): B-o-k-k-o-n.
VETCLERK: "B-o-k-k-i-n"?
MARY and ROB (rising annoyance): "B-O-K-K-O-N". Rob. And Mary.
VETCLERK: Ohhhh, OK. Strider, Noelle and Sadie are your cats?
MARY and ROB: Yes.
VETCLERK: Ok. Now what did you need?
ROB: Frontline. And a flea bomb.
VETCLERK: We don't carry flea bombs. You might try Petco.
MARY: We've gotten flea bombs here before. At least twice.
VETCLERK: Hmmmmm.
ROB (sighs): Look, we also have a question about the Frontline. I've heard that you can get a big-dog-sized dose and divide it up between the cats to save some cash.
VETCLERK: Oh. No. It's for dogs. It says "for dogs" on the package. The one for cats says "for cats".
ROB: Right. I know that. But it's the same stuff.
VETCLERK: Oh. No. It's for dogs. You don't want to do that. It goes into their blood stream. [pronounced as two very distinct words].
MARY: Of course it does. But it's the same stuff.
VETCLERK: No. It says "for dogs".
MARY (sotto voce, to ROB): Do you want to leave and we'll come back when someone else is here?
VETCLERK: Now we do have a six-month supply for cats for $94. Well, but I guess for you that would be a three-month supply. No. Two months.
ROB: Uh. Ok. But we need a flea bomb.
VETCLERK: We don't sell those. You should try Petco.
MARY: Maybe you don't understand. Flea spray. For the house.
VETCLERK: Oh. We have Frontline spray. (grabs bottle from shelf) Here you go.
ROB (examining bottle): This is for pets. It's not for spraying on the furniture.
VETCLERK: Are you sure?
ROB: Yeah. 'Cause it says "be careful when spraying pets to avoid spraying in eyes".
VETCLERK: Oh.
MARY: I think we need to do some more research. We'll be back later. (ROB and MARY exit).
If you'd like to get some idea of what the second visit at 5 PM was like, just copy and paste the entire dialogue you just read into the space helpfully provided below:
Thankfully, one of the other vet techs was also there, and she intervened. We found out that, in fact, they have got the flea bomb we need; they were just out of stock. We made arrangements to return after Thursday.
This shit REALLY took the wind out of our sails. I was a model of self-restraint, but it took a lot of effort; I was actually shaking the second time from tamping down my natural desire to combine as many derivations of the words "fuck" as I could think of with other words such as "idiot", "asshat", "dumbshit" and "goddamned".
In case you were thinking this was supposed to be a blog about house renovation, not vet-tech fuckwittery, well, it is. Keep readin'.
In order to refresh ourselves, and give the day some vague sense of forward motion, we went to Lowe's and Target afterward. Mary got some guerilla Xmas shopping done at Target while Dorian and I looked for period-appropriate (or just cool-looking) cabinet hardware, paint, and floor tiles.
I am pleased to report that there is a ton of Space Ranch-friendly stuff at Lowe's. We found at least five or six different sets of drawer and cabinet handles that we loved. We also bought blue and orange paint for Dorian's room (his choices; our kitchen is blue and orange, a combo we've come to regret, but he says he likes it). He wants to do at least one wall with variously-sized orange polka dots on a blue ground. He's his own man; we know better than to argue, and it just might look really cool.
Finally, we picked up a big ol' bucket of red paint for the kitchen/great room. The working plan is to do various shades of white and greys, with black accents and bold swaths of red, throughout the whole space. The red in question is Valspar's "Fabulous Red": you can find it here : http://beehivestudio.typepad.com/.a/6a00e54f9cbc5e883401053667b1a0970c-pi
Oh, and we have pics now. Look for those in my very next post.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
The Exodus has Begun
The Exodus is upon us.
After 10 years, the saga of 708 Josephine Street is drawing to its close.
On Friday, Mary and I purchased our first home. It's a tacky-fabulous Ranch house from the mid-50s with a gas fireplace, shag carpet and the ugliest linoleum in history. Its bones are solid but its interior has drifted out of place, toward the '70s instead of the Eisenhower/Kennedy years... and we're taking it back.
Sadly, this means that the house we've rented for the last decade will be left behind. We'll miss her.
More to follow on all these subjects, plus photos (lots of 'em, I promise) in the coming days. Strap in. Take your protein pills and put your helmet on.
After 10 years, the saga of 708 Josephine Street is drawing to its close.
On Friday, Mary and I purchased our first home. It's a tacky-fabulous Ranch house from the mid-50s with a gas fireplace, shag carpet and the ugliest linoleum in history. Its bones are solid but its interior has drifted out of place, toward the '70s instead of the Eisenhower/Kennedy years... and we're taking it back.
Sadly, this means that the house we've rented for the last decade will be left behind. We'll miss her.
More to follow on all these subjects, plus photos (lots of 'em, I promise) in the coming days. Strap in. Take your protein pills and put your helmet on.
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