I'm a keeper!

I've been known to collect a thing or two.  Stamps and postmarks, Hot Wheels, telegraph insulators, cans, (ahem) straws (ahem), ugly neckties, cookbooks, rocks, shells, bottlecaps and matchbooks, to name a few.  I also hang on to random crap in the event that it might, someday, become useful.  Sometimes I fancy myself a sculptor of found objects, like the time in college I taped all of my friend's trash to his wall.

And titled it.

He was less than thrilled.  It was even worse for him when the tape failed to hold the soda cans up through the night.  Plink!  Plunk!

Anyway, I digress.  As a sculptor-to-be of found objects, it first becomes necessary to save found objects.  As such, a random assemblage of rusted metal, uniquely shaped plastic and glass and disused motors have been collected over the years.  Unfortunately, a minor incident last Friday told me I might be out of control.

My daughter sent me this picture:

This random plumbing part was rolling around in her car, which used to be my car, and she wondered if it was important.  It's the washing machine hookup valve from our house.  In Wisconsin.  A valve that I replaced in 2005.  A valve that, despite being seized up by calcium and iron deposits, seemed worthy to me of keeping.  For integrity, I suppose.

Something apparently needs to be done about me. 

I never set out to hoard, nor am I, ultimately, a hoarder.  Not by any means.  I'm not climbing over boxes in my entryway.  I can, with minimal effort, get a car into the garage next to the motorcycles.  We're not sleeping amidst piles of laundry on our bed.  I don't have stacks of newspapers from 1978 on the kitchen table or a bag of empty candy wrappers in the hall closet.  Our toilets flush.  There are limits, after all.  We rented our house to a hoarder, and I had to ask her to leave after she turned our house into a tinder bundle.  I can't even watch that TV show without shuddering.  Deep down, clutter actually bothers me.  Not that my boxes of 'stuff' aren't taking up their share of floor space in our basement and on the shelves in the garage.  The only redeeming quality is that I know what's in each of them.

And isn't at least one redeeming feature enough to keep me?

Random Acts of Thursday - To Be or Not To Be

Wait, what was the question?

Growing up in Milwaukee as I did, there were certain 'regionalisms' that I knew early on would have people looking sideways at me, should I say them outside of the metro area.  'Bubbler', for example, instead of 'drinking fountain'.  I knew that anyone outside of my geographic circle was probably going to use the term 'pop' instead of 'soda', and when I went to school in Texas, the correct term was 'coke' (much like 'kleenex' instead of 'facial tissue', I'm sure.)  My family lived on the city's northwest side, so we didn't pick up any of the Ya dere hey's, y'know's and ain'a's more prevalent in the sout' sider's vocabulary.

When we moved to Florida, I didn't catch too much of this. Since so many of my co-workers were from other places as well (including other countries, not just other states), it was hard to pick up any patterns.

However, now that we're Clevelanders, I've noticed a recurring theme that I can only assume is regional: dropping 'to be' from sentences.  Instead of 'That tree needs to be chopped down', I hear 'That tree needs chopped down.'  I've noticed it very specifically following (or not following) the word 'needs', and don't know if they're actually missing 'to be' or just having tense issues with their subsequent verb. 

This bothers me grammatically more than people who use 'seen' instead of 'saw' (though the day someone says 'I SEED [insert what they saw here]' my head will explode), more than people who say 'fixin ta', and despite my personal mastery of the profane arts in the privacy of my own car, this almost bothers me more than people who work profanity into sentences where it has no right to be.

It even bothers me more than ending a sentence in a preposition.

What colloquialisms, slang terms, or mannerisms are part and parcel of your little slice of geography?

Fun Fact Friday - It's not easy being green

I've never shied away from planting trees.  In third grade, we were sent home with elm seeds, a new variety reportedly resistant to Dutch Elm disease.  That little seed grew to a massive 30 feet or more by the time I saw it last, probably ten years ago.  

A few years ago, I started taking an interest in bonsai, the Japanese art of miniature trees.  I haven't found the appropriate outlet for this interest, never found the group here in Tampa.  Killed my first tree, but that doesn't mean I won't try again once we move next.  We planted a Japanese maple at the corner of our home in Wisconsin, and it's still strangely exciting to drive by and see how it's doing.

I saw a headstone in North Carolina a while back that had a beautiful Japanese maple growing from it, maintained lovingly by someone to keep it in perfect scale with the planter built into the stone.  I would love such a thing, if that isn't too morbid.

We were cleaning out the flower beds and continuing our mulching efforts last weekend, and I noticed a foot-high oak sapling, just taking root perfectly in the corner of the yard.  Away from mowers, perfectly spaced where it could be a feature, I can only hope the next owners decide, as I did, to leave it be. 

The next step, of course, is arborsculpture.  Rather than emphasizing the natural form, trees are made to do unthinkable contortive feats, to great effect.  I've seen some works of this in the past, gazebos made entirely of living things, and I love whimsy in the garden.  These are some cool pieces, and some things I hope to mimic the next time we have a permanent garden of our own.

However, planting trees has become more politicized in my lifetime.  Growing up exploring the forests of Wisconsin, with all the pines in straight rows where the paper companies reseeded fifty years earlier, I never thought of reforestation as 'politically correct', I just took it as something that one does.  More recently, the term 'carbon footprint' has been thrown around, and I'm being encouraged to buy 'carbon credits' any time I book travel or buy electronics (and no, I don't actually buy electronics, but bear with me).  

I never thought that suddenly my blog, the most ethereal of non-tangible things, could have a carbon footprint.  Adrienzgirl, over at Think Tank Momma, posted Wednesday that a blog receiving 15,000 hits a month produces eight pounds of carbon dioxide in that time.  (Would that I could get 15,000 hits a month, better start posting more pictures of Danica McKellar and Bo Derek, since those get the most hits of anything I've done.)

By posting this button in the sidebar, and telling the nifty people over at Machs Grun (which I assume is German for 'more green', but what do I know) about this post, they will plant a tree on behalf of your blog.

How simple is that?  And who doesn't like wood trees? 

The Unbearable Lightness of Being Elliott

One would think, that at nearly 39 years of age, I wouldn't need adult supervision at all times. However, Lori was in Cleveland for just over a week, and I clearly can't be trusted to use my own judgement.

We all know 'Classic Surly Elliott'. We love the CSE.

We do. Really.

But I gave in to compulsion last week, since there was no voice of reason giving me an exasperated look that says 'Really? I won't be seen in public with you....' Because, like Bubba Zanetti and Billy Idol, I always wanted to rock the platinum 'do.

Didn't quite get there. Sure, the NSE has a certain 'newness' about it, but I really wasn't going for the King Midas look. I just gave up after two full sessions of the strongest lightener out there. A third and I would have been 'scabby, surly Elliott'. And surly I would have been, I'm sure.

Again, let us contrast Classic Elliott Eating Pie, which we all know and love....

Versus the NEEP. Still kick-ass, and how phenomenal is Lori, that she'd humor me AND bake my favorite pie, then photograph me eating?

Quite phenomenal.

In all, I like the new look. I wish it was lighter, but it's still interesting. I just don't see me maintaining this long-term. Another few days, and I'll be two-tone. Two more weeks, I'll be due for another haircut, and it will be all but gone.

Have I mentioned that I might be the king of bad ideas?

And in case you're curious, and I know you are, dear reader: the carpet does not match the drapes. I do have some sense of judgement.

Has Bacon Madness Jumped the Swine With Bacon Beer?

Always one to share the joy of bacon, and especially if there might be alcohol involved, I must pass along the following article. If there was ever a reason for me to start brewing my own beer, it is this concept. This might even supercede my plans to perfect a bacon vodka.
Has Bacon Madness Jumped the Swine With Bacon Beer? I vote a hearty 'NO'.

Make sure you click the link at the end of the first paragraph, it takes you to another article with direct quotes from the brewer. Color me excited!

(Shared via AddThis)

I am the king of bad ideas

And it's good to be the king.

Thankfully, I am not the king of followthrough.

The first car I ever lusted after was a '69 Cutlass. I actually had my first crush in Kindergarten on a girl named Tina because her mother dropped her off at school every day in that Cutlass, and my five-year-old brain was capable of discerning that if Tina were my girlfriend, her mother would most certainly drive me places in that car. There was also a yellow '70 Rallye 350 that rumbled through the alley behind our house every day, and I was smitten with the body style. My father drove Oldsmobiles for the first 11 years of my life, so I had plenty of time at the dealership to see more and more of these rockets on wheels.

Now, as my readers know, I already have a project sitting at home in the way of a two-ton Steelcase desk. This does not mean I can't want another project, one that is nearly attainable. Like the desk, I have discovered another nearly-attainable Craigslist find: a 69 Cutlass that is just begging me to bring her home.

On a trailer.

But I can see the potential. Can't you?

And that potential is lucky I don't have $600 burning a hole in my pocket.

The DL on the CL

I've always viewed Craigslist with a bit of a skeptical eye. Though I'm a hardline moderate, things like Craigslist and Birkinstocks make me feel like a radical right-wing conservative. (For that matter, I'm not even going to look up how to spell Birkinstock, for fear it shows up in my browsing history.)

However, we did manage to part with a few overbearing, out-of-style, unused pieces of furniture, and replace them with more stylish pieces for a good deal less than retail. Oh, and Lori got her half-manniquin there. And we've met some nice people as they collect our cast-offs, or we collect theirs.

The winning argument for the greatness of Craigslist came a few weeks ago, when I found my dream desk - an old-school Steelcase. $50 seemed a bargain, since once refurbished, these desks sell for closer to $1500, and I'll keep sitting at the kitchen table for that much money. Sadly, even at $50, I have better things to spend my money on, like that urgent-care visit and the industrial-grade antibiotics for my week-long fever that seemed to kick in about the same time as the desk turned up, so I just figured that the time wasn't right and moved on.

Sunday, I got email from the seller telling me that if I wanted the desk, it was mine. Nobody had claimed it, and she needed the 500-pound monstrosity out of her garage. It's mine! All mine!

Now, it's not pretty, but I was looking for potential, not perfection. There are roller marks in the paint, some of the handles were painted while others were not, and as you can see from behind the chair, not all of the desk was painted.

The red does NOT work with the genuine imitation walnut-grain Formica gracing the top, either.

This does not faze me, since I've been told by my lovely wife that I need a hobby. Desperately. Soon. As in NOW. For my own good and the safety of others.

The goal is far loftier than the above picture suggests to anyone but those with the most discerning eye for diamonds in the rough. The 'after' picture, herein provided by a stunt desk, hints at what I hope to accomplish with my less-than-stellar handyman skills and sketchy follow-through:

Oooh, shiny! I love, too, that my double-sided desk (unlike the single-sided model above) has the deep file drawer on one side, disguised as two single drawers for a remarkable sense of symmetry (like cutting off your other thumb).

The CL truly can rock from time to time. Oh yes, it can.