Maybe It's the House?

The other day, I went to visit my sister at her house after work. This time of year, I have to drive directly into the setting sun, so I had my sunglasses on when I got there. My sister was out in the yard and gave me an odd look as approached her house. After I got out of the car, she said, "whoa, for a second there, I had no idea who you were. You looked like that sheriff, the Devil, in O Brother Were Art Thou?"

Nice. I guess I can see a semblance. I blame the Devil Queen. I think it's getting to me. Maybe it's time to move?

Sell Your Soul

With the downturn in the housing market, inflation, bank failures, rising gas prices, and the imminent disintegration of the economy, I thought you cash strapped housebloggers might be interested in this untapped source of financing for your next home improvement project, selling your soul. Sure we all joke about selling our souls to our vintage homes (well I don't, the Devil Queen already consumed mine), but now you actually can. They even have a online calculator for estimating the dollar value of your soul though it seems to be out of order at the moment. If their testimonials can be believed, you could probably fund some major home renovations by selling your soul.

What is even funnier is this press release issued by the City of Siloam Springs, Arkansas, warning the public about this which was posted online by the Iconoclast blog.

Check it out, it'll definitely give you something to think about.

Thumbs, Not in Sphincter

Or, I haven’t been spending all of my time with my thumbs up my ass lately. Really. Sure, I know that it doesn’t look like I’ve been doing much lately. The lack of news, information, and whatnot has been staggering. It’s easy to let your imagination run wild. Visions of me, naked with a bevy of supple, young, foreign women, a case of whiskey, and a predilection for white powder must be quite distracting. I don’t know how you manage to get anything finished at work when you’re daydreaming about me. I mean what else would I be doing at the Devil Queen in the long hours of the night? Right?

Don’t fear. I’m lamentably ordinary. I come home after stopping for milk or laundry detergent. I eat an unremarkable dinner and afterwards brew a pot of coffee. Maybe I catch a catnap as it perks. After a cup or two, I take my oil paints outside and paint for thirty minutes or an hour. I pack-up under darkening skies and call my wife. After we’ve talked, maybe I call Kenny, our real estate agent, or renter as need may dictate. I load the dishwasher, drink more coffee, and work on another oil painting. Or, I install weather-stripping, paint a built-in, or something of the sort. One or two nights a week I treat myself to a stiff drink and an episode of Rome or WKRP Cincinnati. I take a shower and read a little in bed because the written word keeps the lonely man civilized in a fashion. Then I sleep for four, five, or six hours. I aim for six since it helps my keep my inner psychotic at bay. My wife appreciates it.

I am sure you’ve noted that I spend more time oil painting than getting my home-improvement mojo going. There is a reason for this. As I mentioned before, there are a lot of things we plan to hire out in the name of expediency. Lamentably this requires money.

Last week my lady friend and I struck a deal. I get to paint my amateur heart out and try to raise a respectable amount of money to get this stupid fucking home improvement project jump started by October 1st of this year or I have to get a second job. Given what my second-job options are, I’ve been painting my fucking heart out. It’s gotten off to a slow start but I’ve got the bitch on the move. I have two long-standing commissioned works to finish off (an nearing completion as we speak, sorry guys), and then I’m free to roam wide, open spaces. Artistically speaking that is. It would take more than a few paintings for me to be turned loose on the world, something I lament daily.

That is enough merde for now. If you happen like my art and have a $100 or more dollars to spare (or know someone who does), please buy my art. If not, wish me luck. The second-job field is looking pretty grim.