Unpleasant Twisted Cynic's-ville


Tools: a pale new dawn

Just last week my toilet attempted to take a midnight wiz all over my apartment and I was brought down to my knees (literally) to tightly hold a metal tube that had been punctured by fluctuating water pressure for the greater part of an hour. Fifty minutes and a nightmarish leg cramp after, the plumber showed up and fixed my disobedient plumbing with the daintiest twist of a wrench. Our minuit affair ended in a $100 plumbing bill. After an otherwise restful night, I decided that some changes had to be made.
There comes a time in every man’s life when some things need to be decided upon; things such as a insurance providers, appropriate coverage, weight loss, dieting, 70’s Ramones vs 80’s Ramones, arcade cabinet building, and marriage. But before any of the aforementioned queries can be tackled, a man must have the correct tools to successfully run life’s four-minute mile; in other words what is a man without tools? I’m hardly speaking metaphorically here folks, I don’t mean tools as in knowledge and/or intellectual well roundedness when standing on one of life’s proverbial cross roads. I’m talking about the galvanized and iron foundered tools you buy at the hardware store. Tools that, when used skillfully, posses the power to turn you into the handiest of men.
Today I crossed one of life’s portals, thus leading me into another facet of pseudo-adulthood. Today I maximized an aspect of my life… today I purchased my first complete toolbox, and I’ll point out that this wasn’t a pre-assembled set, no sir! My toolbox was strategically hand picked tool by tool by yours truly. Carefully tailored and designed to cater to any household situations and/or malfunction that may need the attention of variant degrees of brawn, craftiness, and of course tools.
While shopping for said toolbox, I took some things into consideration like; durability, usability, and stainless steel vs. other metals (i.e. When threatening someone with a hand-tool, a stainless steel wrench has more of an effective visual effect than a metal one because of the former’s polished finish. If faced with having to actually carrying out said threat you run the risk losing your tool; a metal wrench has a lower opportunity cost than one made of stainless steel. Conclusion: stainless steel is best for threats and impressing other kin folk, and in comparison metal is more expendable as far as cost go).
Once I had chosen all of my pliers, socket wrenches, and general tool-ery I made my way to the front checkout a paid. As I walked to the car toolbox in-hand, my innards rewarded with the feeling you get when you know you’ve acted efficiently. My gut echoed “John, this was a wise purchase”.
Upon my arrival at the apartment I praised myself for having done well, and proceeded to call family members and friends alike to indirectly inform them of my current status of Toolbox Owner/Craftyman.

Craftyman

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Groundings, “Santa’s”, and e-mail

While my parents boxed the trinkets and furniture from their Florida home in preparation for their end of the month move to Central America, my father found this:

Deal with the kids

A contract made by my brother and myself dating back to December of ’93 that reads exactly as follows:
“December 4 1993
if you take us to Santa’s we promise we will behaive if we dont you mai ground us for a month
expires January 1
sign
Christophe Frochaux
John Frochaux”

You can tell that contrary to my earmark, my brother had already established a working signature long before he penned up this here agreement, though I will say that it’s pretty endearing to see my infantile attempt at creating a signature just for the occasion. If you examine my signature (the one on the bottom) you’ll find that many of the elements found on Chris’ J. Hancock can be found in mine; it almost appears as if I’m using Chris’ as a template for signature making. Cue the “endeared public” sigh.
By “Santa’s” we were referring to a somewhat popular Miami theme park (fittingly named “Santa’s Enchanted Forest”) that opens every year during the x-mas holidays.
In hindsight, this really paints my parents as severe and overly strict reactionary-types (something they aren’t in the least). Seems like the only way we could manage to obtain a trip to the theme park was through documented bargaining; I mean, a month of unspecified punishment in exchange for a trip to the amusement park? Talk about all the eggs in a single basket, you’d think “Santa’s” was made of candy that made you grow wings and video games.
I’m sure I objected to offering this sort of collateral, but my brother has always been known to drive a pretty solid bargain so I’m sure I caved after one of his often-persuasive speeches, I’m pretty sure that in a passed life Chris was a Snake Oil salesman in the old west.

In the end I do remember going to “Santa’s” that year and really getting a kick out of it. Over the years I grew, and like many things when you grow, “Santa’s” progressively lost a good amount of its luster; I began to notice the carnies, the people, the allowance factor, and before I knew it the desire to attend “Santa’s” had just faded, only leaving behind entertainingly written contracts for my father to e-mail other folks in the future.

Thanks dad.