A note to my future wife...

I'm naming our first son: Vitruvius Danger Kallay.

Deal with it.

There's something oozing from my person...

How the hell does one “ooze sexuality?” Furthermore, how does one stop it from happening?

I'm cool now...

No longer am I the only guy in the room besides Byron without an iPod. I got one, baby.

Poor Mexican...

So, I'm at The Mayflower Inn to deliver some furniture with Korey (he's a master upholsterer). We get out of the Ford van and I do my getting out of the Ford van ritual: I turn off the lights, put the keys in the cup holder, and walk out. I see that Korey is impressed with my technique so I make a mental note to teach it to him. We walk around to the back of the van and find the door locked. Our faces say, “What the hell.” Actually, his face say's that, but being that I am a child of the AIM Generation, mine says, “WTF.”

Now, you may be asking yourself, “Why does it matter that the back is locked? Just go around to the front and unlock it.” If you're asking yourself that, you obviously know nothing about our Ford van's back door. There are only two ways to lock it. The first is to manually lock it, which we never do. The second is to lock all the doors using the electronic lock button located on either front door, which makes a very loud sound as it reverberates off of the un-insulated van's interior. We did not hear that noise. So how did it lock? The world may never know.

We walk to the front of the van and see the key resting in the cup holder--fantastic. So, now we have to walk inside and call our boss. Once the call has been made, we linger near the concierge's desk.

This woman Helen comes along, hears our plight and calls this South American Mestizo boy whom I will refer to as “The Mexican.” He runs off to find a hangar.

We start talking about beer and Korey mentions Boddingtons Ale, which I've never had. We walk over to the bar and start talking to this guy that I assume is the bartender. I mention that I've never had a Boddingtons and he grabbed a glass to give me a taste. “I'm on the job,” I said, and didn't try it. We then told him why we were hanging around, he came out to have a look at the van.

When we arrive at the van, we see The Mexican fiddling around with a hanger. I immediately think, “Please god,” which is strange for me to say, because you know, I'm not a believer. “Please god, don't let this poor non-English speaking Mexican unlock the van with a mere hanger single-handedly reinforcing a heinous Mexican stereotype.”

This bartender character turns out to not be a bartender. Anyway, he starts putzing around with a thicker metal rod. He tells me that he's quite a master at unlocking doors this way as he's locked his keys inside his car more times than he cares to remember. I also learn that he speaks 7 languages fluently.

I go back inside to call the shop and am told that they've already sent Troy, my sidekick, with the spare keys. I walk back outside and find that the door is open. The Mexican did it.

I was impressed and worried. Everyone said, “Figures.” I'm not any better than they are because I was thinking it. But later, as I was driving home, I realized that it's all about perspective. The well educated, multi-lingual Irishman was beaten by the lowly, Spanish-speaking cleaning lad. Or maybe he has a past history of stealing cars. Oh, that poor Mexican.

Keeper of the Paintings…

Yesterday turned out to be interesting. I drove to Amber’s to help her move some stuff to Byron’s. She has finally decided to move onto the next step in her life. I drove to Byron’s house with plant resting on my floor--it’s appendages reaching for and groping my ceiling--slightly obscured my view.

Elsha did a crazy beeppullupbesidesmycarinmovingtrafficwithherwindowdown move--she ended up telling me that she needed gas. I needed oil, so we pulled over and filled up our empty receptacles with the proper liquid. Elsha helped me out with my oil change, as I am a complete idiot when it comes to cars.

Got to Byron’s house, waited for him to come home from the gym and went to a diner sans-Elsha. When at the diner, I removed my coat and hoody in a very slow and dramatic way. Found out that the manager was standing behind me the whole time. Byron informed me that I’m a little pretentious--which I’ve been told quite often but no one has been able to put their finger on it. He eventually settled on the fact that I have a pretentious face.

I immediately wondered how one goes about making their face less pretentious. The final solution was that I have too many dark features (i.e. bushy eyebrows, black hair and beard) for dark, thick framed glasses. I tried on his thin, wire framed glasses and Amber went into instant orgasmic bliss. She spread her body across the table in an attempt to dissipate the heat emitting from her body across the large cool surface of the Formica table. I don’t think it worked. She started playing footsies with me, I guess I played footsies with Byron (accidentally, honestly--those booths were very small), and he gently grazed my knee while reaching for his wallet.

Amber started singing I’m Looking Through You in the way that only she can. The song stuck in my head and we had to play it in the car, on the way home.

Wanna’ be a writer Mars Volta?

I can’t get enough of The Mars Volta’s CD Frances the Mute--especially track 2, The Widow. Good stuff.

P.S. If you have any desire to be a writer, check this out.

So many posts…

Why am I posting so many new entries in the same hour? Snow.

I couldn’t go home today because I was snowed in at work. My very cool boss let us stay over her house (“us” being my mom and me) which is ten paces from the shop. I decided, at 7:00 p.m., to use my extra time to work on my chair (see previous post). After 7.5 hours in front of my chair, I am now sitting at the computer waiting for the washing machine to alert me when my clothes, the ones I wore today, are ready to be dried.

“Ahh, but Patrick,” you might ask , “if your clothes are in the washing machine, whatever are you wearing while sitting in front of the computer.”

I would respond, “Good question.”

I’m a chair designer…

Word of advice: Don’t try designing a chair unless your IQ is earth shattering and you have a surfeit of spare time. Otherwise, you’ll end up working over 40 hours on it (so far) and still not be able to get the lumps out of the rear-right seat decking. You may find yourself wishing that you purchased hard-wood instead of pine. You may also regret designing it to be ridiculously large. The question, “Cushion or Tight Back,” will most likely put your stomach in knots.

You will definitely find yourself writing about your still unfinished chair at three o’clock in the a.m.

Toothpaste: a poor substitute for soap…

The morning begins and I get ready for work. I grab sexy-man hair product, put a dollop of said product in my palms, and massage it into my hair. This stuff smells nice, makes my hair presentable, but leaves a nasty, sweat-inducing substance on my palms. So, I reach for the soap; but guess what? No soap.

My ride was waiting so I had to improvise. I saw the toothpaste and thought, “This stuff should foam into a reasonably effective cleaning substance. It gets pretty foamy when in my mouth--how could my hands be different.” So I’m rubbing my hands together and not a single cleansing foamy bubble appears. Needless to say, my hands smelled twice as nice (the hair product and mint mixed well together), but were still sticky.

How I help my stepfather fix the car...

1.Hold the light.
2.Light moves an inch off target, move it back.
3.Stand in the mud holding the light.
4.Offer to hold on to various nuts, bolts and screws.
5.Move the light back in the right place.
6.Look around to see if any neighbors are bothered by the sound of the ratchet.
7.Wonder why I care so much about my neighbors being bothered by the sound of the ratchet.
8.Question the synthetic content of grease. I was told it is normal grease. I have trouble believing that because the grease is fuchia.
9.Wonder what normal grease is.
10.Singe my finger on the light.
11.Grab a pair of interesting looking pliers and support the light in its grip.
12.Learn that there is a lubricant spray more powerful than WD40. Ask if it's called WD50, no laugh received—another joke wasted.
13.Save the day by suggesting an easier way to attach something to the motor.
14.Was thanked for saving the day.
15.Looked at my pant bottoms to see if they're covered in mud.
16.Go upstairs, wash my hands and attempt to make this awesome avocado dish I had at Blood Root.
17.Fail miserably.