The Rebirth of Enron

Encyclopedia Britannica describes the events of Monday, April 17, 1961 as the "unlikely, simultaneous occurrence of two unrelated but equally significant events in American history". Both events started small but soon snowballed into catastrophes that took on lives of their own, seemingly rolling downhill, faster and faster, extracting the requisite pound of flesh from those unlucky enough to be standing too close, laying waste to friend and foe alike, pitting brother against brother, family against family and country against country.

The first event, and the better known of those two events started when the US backed Cuban Exile Brigade invaded Cuba to promote a revolution against Castro and his revolutionary government. Today, we call it 'The Bay of Pigs'. That aptly named day started a chain of events that culminated in a standoff between superpowers and nearly ended in thermonuclear war. It didn't, but not because we didn't try. Basically, we got lucky.

The other event of note that happened on that day is they began construction of my house. It started small, but snowballed into a cataclysmic disaster for all owners of my house, past and present. This house is a nightmare from a safety point of view, a fecal pile from an aesthetic point of view and Enron reborn, from a financial point of view. Nobody who lives in this house emerges unscathed.  An entire banking conglomerate was put out of business just by reading over my loan application.

Last July fourth, the deck stairs finally buckled, the rotten supports giving way, the only injury was to my son, who found himself freefalling to doom, only saving his own life by an act of superhuman strength and agility. Well, not really.  Basically, he got lucky.

A friend of a friend came to my house yesterday to give us a bid on a remodel job. We showed him around, we told him we want this done, we want that done, don't fix this thing but we have to get that thing fixed etc. It took two hours and ten minutes from the time he pulled his car into the driveway until he left.  I timed him. It took ten minutes to show him what we wanted fixed, and then he stole two hours of my life telling stories about other remodel jobs he did over the years.  I had to listen to inane stories about his childhood, which was bad enough, but then he amped up the pain with an un-amusing anecdote about his ex-wife and her strange affinity for Robert Goulet music and baby oil. I was at the end of my rope. How  long do I have to listen to this yap yap garbage? It went on forever. I finally showed him to the door and told him we didn't have any money to pay him. He left pretty quickly after that. That's how I get rid of salesmen. I admit I have no money. You know what they say; “And you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.”

Speaking of the truth, it's time I faced my own truth. My foot isn't getting any better. In fact, its worse. Everyday, from the time I get up until about noon, I limp like a leper, then from noon to three, I limp a bit less, then after three I limp like an actor on 'The Walking Dead'. The pain wanders up and down the Richter scale like an oil well pumping up and down in the drylands of West Texas. I think I need to pull the plug and participate in the Lake Stevens Ironman from the bleachers. If I don't, I think I might have my own Bay of Pigs right here. My house can't take any more trouble.