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I know I have touched upon how fond I am of performing feats of interior demolition (very). In “real life” I was regaling my friend Jared with a frenzied monologue on the team of tearin’ some shit up, and he got all wide-eyed and bouncy as he does when he has some really awesome info to impart. He started singing a song I had never heard before, but one which intrigued me. “…and I am down-right amazed/at what I can destroy with just a hammer…” He explained that it was a song by Atom and His Package, who has done many other humorous, observational, electro-punk songs that I would probably enjoy. I was intrigued. So, the next chance I got to log on to YouTube, I did a little search and came up with this:


A couple of weeks ago, I essentially spent the PERFECT evening. I burnt stuff for a good two and a half hours, ate dinner with Joel, then got to break things for another hour and a half or so.

We were preparing for the Pesto Party, and so we needed to spruce up the backyard, prep the firepit, and finish destroying the living room so that we could clean it up a bit before we had company. To that end, Joel put me to the task of burning the brush pile we had yanked out of the fenceline while he pried nails out of used 2x4s, found a good place to store the lumber, and brushed another coat of polyurethane on the new shelves for in the kitchen.

For well over two hours I presided over a conflagration of brush, sticks, and junk-mail, the most content woman in all of the midwest. It’s not every day that I get the go-ahead to just start torching things. At times the heat was so much that it intensified the perfumes in the fabric softener in my clothes, so I smelled smoke and Downy.

After a piece I’d burnt about everything that needed burning, and Joel was done tending to the re-usable lumber, so we broke for dinner, then moved on to destroying the living room. We’d made a good start on it a few days previously, but needed to basically finish that phase of the job to get to a good stopping point before the party. I ripped down the last three sheets of fake-wood paneling, and Joel knocked cascades of decaying plaster off the upper sixth of the wall where the dropped ceiling had been. Apparently, the air-pocket created by the dropped ceiling encouraged condensation, and so while the plaster is in good shape lower down on the walls, up near the true ceiling, it is reverting to sand and horsehair.

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