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Friday, November 08, 2013

Way, Way More Than An Hour On The Stage


Shall I sing you the song of my people?

Shall I strut and fret an hour upon the stage? Wait a minute, I don't take music gigs any more. What I mean to say is, do you want to hear a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying, well, not nothing, but not much, either? 

I said earlier that if I describe my life accurately, no one believes me. If I tell the truth, I'm disbelieved, or excoriated, to taste. People think I'm bragging when I'm expiating my guilt, and they think I'm being modest when I'm thumpin' my chest. I have some problems explaining that I don't like explaining jokes, especially if I have to explain that I was joking before explaining the joke. 

But enough about me; what do you think about me? (There. that's a joke. Drat. I'm doing it.) Should I tell you what I did this summer? Think before you answer. By proxy, you're asking me a direct question. That's like making eye contact with panhandlers or people handing out flyers in front of the alternative bookstore. You're going to have to shoulder some blame if you look me directly in the Intereye and say, Sippican, what did you do this summer? 

If you ask a normal person what they did this summer, you figure they'll tell you about their tedious trip to Disney World, or whatever normal people do in the summer; how would I know what normal people do? I haven't talked to a normal person in years. I've retreated to my mountain bolthole and only get to espy circus families in the Walmart to gather intel on my fellow citizens. I gather you like NASCAR and Funyuns more than I do. Other than that you're all a mystery.

So be warned; if you answer in the affirmative, I'm not going to tell you about vacation, because I haven't had one in fifteen years or so, and I won't tell you about the interesting things I saw on television, because there is no such thing, and I can't take pictures of my food in funky restaurants and Instagram the shite out of them because I never leave the house, never mind go to restaurants. 

All I can tell you about is lifting my house six inches with no money and a seventeen-year old to help. If you're not interested, say so now.

20 comments:

DJMoore said...

I have yet to read anything on this site that isn't as finely crafted as your furniture. Even if I never eat off of one your tables, it's a pleasure to look at them. Same-same to read your words.

Besides, since I almost always work alone, I'm interested in how this was done. Again, not likely to do it myself, but I kinda doubt it was simply a matter of sticking a crowbar under each corner in turn and shoving a concrete block in to hold it up.

Leslie said...

Do tell.

Deborah said...

As one who lives perched in an old house, transplanted and resettled high off the ground on a concrete blocks snugged into a steep slope, I'd be more than interested in reading how you and the Heir elevated your home.

Anonymous said...

I'd be fascinated to hear the story on how you raised your house.

Only run across your blog occasionally (usually links from Ace of Spades) but fantastic writing!

vanderleun said...

Been there, done that, have the tee shirt.... but on a house three times the size of yours and I was forced to work with a nuclear physicist and bronchitis .... still, fire away. Yours is probably a better story and more meaningful.

vanderleun said...

Been there, done that, have the tee shirt.... but on a house three times the size of yours and I was forced to work with a nuclear physicist and bronchitis .... still, fire away. Yours is probably a better story and more meaningful.

Sam L. said...

Now THAT'S gonna be a story! My eyes are ready! I await with baited breath. (Been eating worms.)

julie said...

Oh come on. You must know your audience at least a little bit by now. Of course we want to hear it. You aren't a panhandler, you're a pusher, and one of the most dangerous sort: what you deal in is tales, well told, that always leave the reader hoping for more.

Now give us a hit. Pretty please!

Anonymous said...

In the mennonite community barnraising and the like are occasions in which the whole town participates

Leon said...

So

Matt said...

I'll call, and raise you my 142 window panes which needed re-bedding and re-glazing and now repainting. By the bye, have you burned any cedar? I just had an un-called-for load dumped in my yard. The stuff is marvelous.

Anonymous said...

"Do tell" were my exact thoughts, as well.

leelu said...

Pray, tell!!

Anonymous said...

See, the eye contact thing - works like this - ya gotta make eye contact - constant, but and here's the thing - your focus is THROUGH the eyes about a yard behind the head an about four inches below the jawline - theirs, ya see?

Unnerving, even for crazy street folk. anifya gotta speak - monotone only, see?

what was you askin about?

Kathleen M said...

I too want to know all about the house project.

Thud said...

Please continue.

Anonymous said...

House jacks, no big deal, pffft. I wanna hear about "if I describe my life accurately, no one believes me. If I tell the truth, I'm disbelieved"
I have never owned a TV
Thank you BGarrett

Sam L. said...

Come, Mr. Sippi, fork it over. Ya wanna riot in your front yard? What would the neighbor think? Oh. Yeah. They already think that.

John the River said...

Is it possible that even in Maine it is permitted to undertake a house jacking without a permit (and sizable fee for such), plans from a licensed architect, a pre-inspection, a police detail, a union crew, and sizable payoff?

I'm adding a handicapped ramp for my mother and hired Owl construction for the job. They only work at night, use nightvison googles and IR lights, cut all the pieces off site and fasten them together with nerf hammers.

RonF said...

I lived in a house with a fieldstone and mortar foundation. Pretty solid, actually. But then I never found sand on the floor and it was stone all the way up to the house. This is in the southwest Illinois suburbs.