August 2017 Archives

things i'll miss about pittsburgh, part i

Yesterday I was smoking cigars with a Jewish district attorney, an Italian Catholic realtor, a gay CFO, and a black construction worker, listening to a jazz musician tell us about the Asian tour from which he'd just returned when a middle-aged black guy drove by, blaring Johnny Cash on his car stereo.

I don't know where you live, but this scene doesn't happen where you live.


Not that I'm ready to bolt outta here, but when I signed the sale agreement on this house, I already had 67 boxes packed.

Here's some fun math. And by "fun," I mean "nauseating." Let's say I sell this house, put the cash into a savings account earning a measly 1.2%, and live in a furnished townhouse hotel month-to-month.

   Current cost of state & local taxes
+ Current utility bills
+  Interest income from new cash
$40 less than cost of the hotel

I get paid $40/month to have someone scrub my toilet for me.

no cigar

I got an offer on my house two weeks ago, and I just balked at their terms, so this post is pretty much pure anticlimax.

What can I say about their inspector that I haven't already said to anyone in my presence this last week? He couldn't work the lockbox. He left my doors unlocked. When I went to get a glass of water, I'd found that he'd turned off my kitchen faucet. I turned it back on to discover that the faucet was bent and now leaking water from its base. There was no note from the man who broke it. I made my displeasure known to the buyers' realtor, and soon I was listening to the inspector's bullshit narrative about how the faucet had been leaking when he got there. The faucet a plumber installed six months ago, the one I use 20 times a day. That faucet.

His masterpiece would not come to full fruition for several days, when I was greeted in the morning to an absolute swamp of a swimming pool. To verify that the pool heater works, the inspector cranked the thermostat up to 92...and left it there. Thanks, guy!

i can't not see it

Jesus, Facebook.


lingua miserabilis

More so than my peers, I have a hard time understanding Indians speaking English. I find the accent impenetrable, and I always try to steer them toward email or chat. "What is your phone number?" they'll respond, and I groan. I guess this is a cultural thing. They'd rather talk than write. Me, if I'm forced to speak Spanish, I'm begging to write instead of speak.

I spent yesterday in meetings with Indians, and by day's end I was exhausted from straining to understand. I needed silence. I needed solace. Not a smart person, I went to a Mexican restaurant. I cannot explain this choice. I was served by my new least favorite kind of person, the Earnest New Immigrant Who Wants to Practice His Conversational English with the Presumably Lonely Guy at the Bar.


moron taxonomy
stupid church signs
super bowl xl officiating
percy chronicles

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