A random thought: I totally understand why many former OS contributors now contribute at fictionique.com. I tip a tin cup (if only I had a silver chalice!) to Lisa Neal and Candace Mann! It's an arty environment, mostly devoid of the negativity often found here at OS, some of that being my negativity. But, since I rarely, if ever, write fiction, I don't feel like I would fit in there. If I had the ambition, drive, and knowledge of the how to (which I don't, on all three counts), my site might be called realystique.com, because I blog what I know, the real day to day.

A pertinent sidenote: Yesterday, here relaxing on the couch, blinds closed and AC hard at work, I saw a blurb on some TV show, maybe a pharma commercial, that stated the average American passes gas fourteen times a day. I then, out of curiousity, did a study on myself. I watched the clock, carefully timing an hour to the second, making a hash-mark every time I farted. Guess what? It was fourteen! I then extrapolated the math using my cell device. That would put me at 336 foul expulsions per day, far above average.

Then, we went and ate Indian cuisine.

The setting: I (Bob Vila) show up at the new job site today before the crack of 9:30. My brother (Jeff) rolls up no more than half an hour later. We do what we can towards setting piers and receive the large materials delivery- when I realize that I had forgotten the wheelbarrow which we need to mix concrete. Not only that, the customer did not have a garden hose outside. We resolve to return to my house to pick up these necessities, and eat a free (or previously boughten, much cheaper than eating out) made at home lunch at the same time. The boy-man (prodigal son, and nephew) is still asleep, having the day off from life-guarding, although the crack of noon is approaching by this time. 

Bob Vila:  "Dayumm, wake up!" (then, not seriously) "Want to go deck building like the old days?"

Prodigal son/nephew: "Huh? Dad, do you think you and V made enough noise this morning? It sounded like you were both wearing Dutch wooden clogs."

Bob Vila: "Was it not after sunrise? Is this not Monday?"  

Prodigal son/nephew: "You may call it Monday. I was calling it my day off. Then, after you left and I finally fell back asleep that cat snuck up on my chest. I woke up from a fur tickle only to see it's asshole six inches from my face."

Bob Vila: (laughing)

Jeff: (pacing in circles, chuckling and nodding)

As I'm preparing the lunch thing...

Prodigal son/nephew: "Yeah, I'll go with you and help."

Bob Vila: (surprised) "I was just playing. There's not that much you could do today."

Jeff: " What? Holes to dig, wood and quikretes to carry!"

Bob Vila: " True dat, actually."

So we eat, load items previously forgotten, and embark to the job site through the beautifully coiffed suburbs of Johnson County, Kansas. Prodigal son/nephew hooks his iPhone through the auxillary jack to my truck stereo. We listen to his latest discovery, Dr. Dog, as we travel..

Jeff: (as we enter the vehicle) "Eli, I have to warn you. I didn't shower this morning. While you slept, semi-peacefully, I was digging piers and noticed my own funk. You know it's bad when you can smell yourself." 

Prodigal son/nephew:  "Yeah, when you smell your own, you can bet it's magnified ten times to the noses of others."

Bob Vila: (nodding)

Jeff: "Those iPhones can do pretty much anything I guess."

Prodigal son/nephew: "Pretty much."

Bob Vila: (passes gas, but not so loud that it can be heard over Dr. Dog)

Prodigal son/nephew: "DUDE! Yeah, I just got a whiff. You smell like sasquatch dick!"

Bob Vila: (casually checks traffic)

Jeff: "Told ya"

Prodigal son/nephew: "Wait, it's not sasquatch dick. No. More like a diaper full of ass-expulsed Indian food on a hot day in Calcutta!"

Bob Vila: (chuckling and nodding)