Treason of Words

It's high time this place had a name. Until now, it's been like having a town called Exit 221 (Hi Buda!). I've taken the name from a favorite painting of mine by Magritte, which illustrates both the wonderful facility with which the human mind decodes meaning from sensory inputs, as well as the problems implicit with such ability when it is not done critically. Welcome, then, to Treason of Words , and remember, ceci n'est pas un endroit .

Yesterday, we closed on our new house. Should we hang on here for the next three decades, we can expect to pay about 303 grand for our modest abode, a figure belied by the reasonable 131 kilodollar asking price. As soon as we got the keys, we went to work. Christina scrubbed vigorously in order to make commodes that had sat fallow for months fit for her discerning tushie. The bathtubs will take a bit more work, she tells me. It's not so bad when it's your own crud, but when it's a stranger's schmutz, well, it shan't be tolerated. I became a walking advertisement for Leatherman brand multitools, using only my trusty Squirt S4 to rip up a room worth of unwanted berber carpet and take a dodgy door off it's hinges. Dashed manly, that. Next, I will remodel the closet using only a toothpick and some tweezers. The very nice ceiling fans use the ponty-type, odd-sized bulbs with tiny little bases that don't come in nouveau-vert compact flourescent varieties. They are