Turning forty is, like, so yesterday

Like, whatEVar! Immaturity is still my beauty secret, so I suppose--barring Mayan right-on-ness--I still have a shot at being Most-Awesomeulogized Eccentric Centenarian of the Next Five Minutes (I think Andy Warhol was being too generous, optimistic, and considerate).

I made plans to compose at home, store the posts, and paste them on at work. Or not. You wanted to read a series of posts concerning my "Junkyard Playhouse--Assemble!" but at this stage, I've already come to the conclusion of the experiment, and documenting it all now isn't that appetizing. I know, I've totally let you down--but, if you bookmark this blog, I'm going to make sure you'll be amazed.

What do you mean, when? What is this horrible noise?

THE CLIFF'S NOTES VERSION: all you need

• sledgehammer


• bag of sand


• abandoned co-cola bottles (translation for Northeners: this is not brand-specific, and a co-cola is to be measured by the size of its bottle, not the color of its carbonated water--this is the New Millenium, and I need you to catch up)


• backpack or dufflebag


• two children's ball-bats


• filler for the bats (optional)


• retired tires of an amount that can be stuffed in a mid-size sedan without necessarily considering safety (hello, that's what taking the back roads are for)


• Kylie Minogue

Certainly, these items may be mixed and matched at will, save for the sledgehammer and whichever disposable disco artist you choose. The neighborhood hardware store, the thrift store, your next church social, your half-uncle's double-first-cousin's tire shop, and the corner in my bedroom where the Monster under the Bed vacations are the only places you need to look. I imagine you could spend less than I did, but why are we needing to discuss it--are you waiting for a hand-written invitation?