Oct. 28th, 2011

captainsblog: (hell)
Olean, to be precise. Another three hours of driving and close to an hour of waiting for three whole minutes of court time. It was en route, though, that I saw one of the many things I wanted to share today- sadly, without getting to photograph it.

It's a billboard, on the outskirts of Olean on 17/86, for a concrete business- featuring a guy and gal in classic button man black-shirt/white-tie outfits and a slogan reading

"CONCRETE- IT'S NOT JUST FOR SHOES ANYMORE!"

Okay, not quite as tacky as the "we fix leaks and cracks" plumbing truck with the owner's asscrack silhouette painted onto the driver's side door, but still.

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Here's another one, from earlier in the week in a Rochester parking garage, in the one working elevator next to one that's had a sign on it reading ELEVATOR OUT OF SERVICE DO NOT ENTER EVEN IF OPEN AND ON THIS FLOOR for months:

Everyone's a grammar critic.... )

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Closer to home, some actual photographic evidence of what's going on in the kitchen.

As Eleanor mentioned yesterday, she spent much of the morning ripping up the old sheet-linoleum flooring that's been in our kitchen since we got here in 1994. Behold a sample of her handiwork and the prior dirtywork:

We decided to leave it just the way it was originally!

Yeah, that approximate map of the State of Iowa is all that remains in one corner of the kitchen, to go to its garbagey grave come Sunday. Ah, but what's that pattern to the right?  We thought it was the original subflooring. We were wrong:



No, that is not a hidden masterpiece by Jackson Pollock. It's the original tile from 1950-something that either the original owner, his heirs, or the couple who briefly owned the place after buying it from him, simply left UNDER the linoleum slab they glued to the edge of the kitchen wall.  They did the same damn thing in the bathroom; that one lasted only a few years, and it had one of those hideous scrabble-board tile sets underneath it which I extracted during the 2000 Mets-Yankees World Series (why do I remember that?). 

Emily pronounced it "fugly" on arriving home yesterday, and it will simply be covered over by the new arrivals sometime soon.

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Speaking of Em, after all the agitas yesterday, they wound up only missing about five minutes of the actual performance, had a great time in the end, and best of all got home with little trouble.  It also turned out that the "asshole who gave us the wrong directions" was an actual downtown Chip Strip drunk, not yours truly. I got a written note apologizing for her having given me that impression. That's a keeper.

Not a keeper, unfortunately, is the joke photo I appended to the end of the last entry. Turns out that there really IS a butcher who sells such hideousness- in the Democratic Republic of Kampucambridge, yet. I am sorry for any offence caused by that.

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Proving that all things here seem to be seasonal, it's again floor-replacing season during a World Series. Last night's Game Six proved epic (although I only made it through a few middle innings with the game still tied in the low single digits). We shall see if I have the stamina to watch any of tonight's Game Seven, assuming it doesn't rain, or, worse, snow.

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