Observations from Habitat

Yesterday, three half way houses donated twenty six couches to the Habitat ReStore. Twenty. Six. Couches. Some on the third floor.

26. Couches. Third floor.

Oh, did I mention that they were in Schenectady?

26. Couches. Third floor. Schenectady.

I have to admit that I have spent very little time in Schenectady for the better part of a decade.

Is it possible that it got worse?

Let me talk about fashion, Schenectady style?

Yes, that is Lord Humongous.

While I am not saying that the denizens of Schenectady are leather clad survivors of an apocalypse, I am saying that a fashion choice like that may have been a better choice.

Sweat pants are rarely appropriate in the house, they definitively are not acceptable for wearing outside of the house.

Painted on jeans are difficult enough to pull off if you are in splendid shape, if you are not, please refrain from wearing them. Scary.

Yesterday was a nice day, and most of the sidewalks were quite clear, but you wacky scamps in Schenectady made the choice to walk in the middle of the fracking street. What the heck were you thinking? Oh, you weren't. You were ambling around without a care in the world while a big truck was trying to make it down the street. I hate you.

One final thing, and this is a class based observation (not race based) but I find it difficult to determine when certain people (inter-city and tremendous institutional poverty) greet each other if they are happy to see each other or very angry with each other. This is a bit disturbing.

To sum up:

I hate couches and Schenectady. Good luck soon-to-be-Mayor Hull.

Oh, Hey! It was my birthday...

Last Friday, it was my 36th birthday.

It did end up being a good day, with very special thanks to the people who showed up at Wolff's to celebrate. It was grand.

That is not how it started out though.

I try to volunteer for Habitat for Humanity at least once a week, sometimes more often, for purely selfish reasons.*

It started out well enough. I had a great bike ride to the ReStore (454 North Pearl Street in Albany, if you are wondering) and Teacher Dave and I were ready to hit the road early because we had something like eight pickups with the first one in Wilton. As a note, Teacher Dave tries to avoid the highway because they are not pretty and this was a holiday weekend, but for expedience, he decided that the Northway was the way to go. As Gob says, "I made a horrible mistake."



As soon as we pass into Clifton Park, the light for the truck inspection prompts us to stand and deliver. I have never been through this before. Teacher Dave had never been through this. Guess what? We were both concerned.

Firstly, we got on the road early to ensure that we could be back by three pm so I could commence drinking.

Secondly, this inspection was going to make us late for the first pickup.

Finally, I am often frightened by the capriciousness of officers of the law. Which is not to say that I think all law enforcement officals are bad people. Quite the contrary. Many, if not most, are dedicated public servants who work hard and are both fair and consistent, which is a difficult balancing act. Luckily, our inspector was one of the many great ones.

Teacher Dave handed over the requested documentation and we sat. And we sat. And we sat.

And we sat.

(In the alternative Bible that my life story will become, "He.sat." will be the shortest verse.)

Then the inspection began.

If I ever hear the phrase broken leaf spring again, I may be forced to make it a hostage situation.

While Teacher Dave was trying to figure out to do with a truck that, by law, was not allowed on the road...



I sat.

In a rest stop.

In Clifton Park.

ON MY BIRTHDAY!

Now, I know some of you live, have lived, or are considering living in Clifton Park, and I still think that you are all good people but...this is not the place for me. Being trapped in a rest stop on Interstate 87 with no real way of getting back to the ALB and the German beer that was waiting for me was...scary. Well, not scary as tempting me to take Mister Hand and turn him into Mister Fist.



(While I was not a happy camper, I did take the time to look at the fashion choices of those around me, and it made me happier. At least I was not...that guy.)

Eventually, Teacher Dave and I were rescued by Emily and her sister (who was volunteering for the day as well) and we decided to get lunch at someplace on Rt 9.

Let me ask you all a question, if you are in a car with a group of people and someone says that there is a diner down the road; is that an implicit endorsement of the establishmetn or an acknowledgement of the diner's existence?

It was, by far, the worst dining experience that I have ever had. How bad was it? They screwed up a Kosher Dill Pickle. The screwed up a grilled cheese. This is how awful it was. They murdered a BLT. A BLT, folks!

With what happened later in the evening at the Hill Street Cafe (which I am not going to share here), it could have been the worst birthday ever.

It wasn't though.

It was awesome.
*These include but are not limited to: hanging out with Teacher Dave, working out without having to work out, and a sense of smug superiority with those who preach about investment in the community however fail to do anything.