By the gods, I need to paractice some form of regularity in my posting. I've been working at a new call center for 3 months now, ad have had some majpr life changes occur recently. I don't quite feel the need to get into it, so I'll just step aside and leave out all the sordid details for another day.
I finally got that massive shipment of stuffI was pining after, and have since ordered a videocamera from club live. Let's see if those fuckers deliver.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Sunday, June 14, 2009
This night is winding down but time means nothing. As always at this hour, time means nothing. One final, final round 'cause time means nothing.
Yesterday Devon, Raine and I went to a birthday party for our friend Grace and I had the most fun I've had in a while. Games were played, alcohol was consumed, and lulz were had. When all was said and done, I left with 100 hamburgers and 32 hotdogs (Please, don't ask.)
Thanks, T. You throw a great party, and thank you grace for having a birthday for partying over!
I also ran into an old friend at the 7-11 nearby, which was a pleasant surprise.
I've become addicted to "The Lonely Island", as well.
No prizes from Club Live, which has been rebranded to Club Bing, in my possession. but, let me tell you, have I ever ordered a shitload of them. It'll have to wait until I actually have money to ship them to me.
:D:D:D:D
I had a job temporarily, it was doing telemarketing from my home, but it paid by commission. I didn't do well enough, and I'm basically sitting there ignoring my child, so I quit.
Thanks, T. You throw a great party, and thank you grace for having a birthday for partying over!
I also ran into an old friend at the 7-11 nearby, which was a pleasant surprise.
I've become addicted to "The Lonely Island", as well.
No prizes from Club Live, which has been rebranded to Club Bing, in my possession. but, let me tell you, have I ever ordered a shitload of them. It'll have to wait until I actually have money to ship them to me.
:D:D:D:D
I had a job temporarily, it was doing telemarketing from my home, but it paid by commission. I didn't do well enough, and I'm basically sitting there ignoring my child, so I quit.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Fields of Gold Update: Journey to the center of Plastic
I was conversing with my brother about that post and he shed a bit of light on the circumstances in which he found out about the plastic center of the earth.
Apparently, he was reading a text book that had a split section diagram of the earth, and someone had told him that there was plastic in there, and since the diagram was so small, it was easy for one to think "This over 9000 foot layer of soil and clay must only be 10 feet at beat! Look at the diagram!
Case in point.
Apparently, he was reading a text book that had a split section diagram of the earth, and someone had told him that there was plastic in there, and since the diagram was so small, it was easy for one to think "This over 9000 foot layer of soil and clay must only be 10 feet at beat! Look at the diagram!
Case in point.
Fields of Gold: Deconstructing the Fire Escape/Spare Ribs
Eventually, long after the fire escape had proven it's uselessness, the decision was made to tear the bitch down, and ironically enough, set fire to it. This was done with what is known as a winch. The winch (or, Wench as we called it) was used for various tasks around the property, but this was by near and far the most epic of all, second only of course to the Indiana Jones-esque escape from a falling awning (which is, sadly a story for another day). We hooked up the wench to a nearby tree and my brother, herein referred to as "Monkey Boy", on account of his climbing abilities, hooked up the rope end of the wench to the fire escape and we were ready to go!
The original plan was to just have the fire escape get pulled off the wall and crash to the ground, where it would be promptly surrounded, doused in gasoline and set on fire, with the three of us dancing around it chanting tribal things. Anyone who's met a Fortune can attest to the fact things don't normally go our way
The fire escape creaked and cracked as the wench was torqued and the rope which was to be the escape's death warrant grew tighter. There was a moment of silence here we all thought the thing would pop off and murdefy (yes, I said murdefy) us, but no such thing happened. It was only when my father made one last repetition on the wench that the crazy wooden bitch on the wall started to break free. We all started cheering and high fiving each other, because we were certain the plan would go exactly as we had assumed. The fire escape fell, but not down. It was still attached to the wall at the end, so it kind of swung down and crashed through a window. Conveniently, my grandmother was on the otherside of the window playing Solitiare on the computer. The terror she must of felt when she decided to put the Jack of Clubs in with the King, only to find that, moments later, a Jack of Massive Freakin' Wood Contraptions was ramming its way into her home.
We all shouted cries of dismay at the general failure of our seemingly foolproof plan and rushed inside to see if everyone was okay. they were, score one for us. We broke the fucking window. Penalty, 5 points. We boarded up the window, and with the help of the wench, pulled the fire escape the rest of the way down. Mission: accomplished. Well, sort of. When all was said and done, there was still a bit of wood left up on the wall. It was one horizontal board with 4 or 5 others attached to it vertically. In a way, it vaguely resembled a ribcage.
It was then decided it should be forever referred to as "The Spare Ribs"
Caption #1 says "Vile bitch"
#2 says "Yellow Terror was here"
#3 says "A nearby tree"
The original plan was to just have the fire escape get pulled off the wall and crash to the ground, where it would be promptly surrounded, doused in gasoline and set on fire, with the three of us dancing around it chanting tribal things. Anyone who's met a Fortune can attest to the fact things don't normally go our way
The fire escape creaked and cracked as the wench was torqued and the rope which was to be the escape's death warrant grew tighter. There was a moment of silence here we all thought the thing would pop off and murdefy (yes, I said murdefy) us, but no such thing happened. It was only when my father made one last repetition on the wench that the crazy wooden bitch on the wall started to break free. We all started cheering and high fiving each other, because we were certain the plan would go exactly as we had assumed. The fire escape fell, but not down. It was still attached to the wall at the end, so it kind of swung down and crashed through a window. Conveniently, my grandmother was on the otherside of the window playing Solitiare on the computer. The terror she must of felt when she decided to put the Jack of Clubs in with the King, only to find that, moments later, a Jack of Massive Freakin' Wood Contraptions was ramming its way into her home.
We all shouted cries of dismay at the general failure of our seemingly foolproof plan and rushed inside to see if everyone was okay. they were, score one for us. We broke the fucking window. Penalty, 5 points. We boarded up the window, and with the help of the wench, pulled the fire escape the rest of the way down. Mission: accomplished. Well, sort of. When all was said and done, there was still a bit of wood left up on the wall. It was one horizontal board with 4 or 5 others attached to it vertically. In a way, it vaguely resembled a ribcage.
It was then decided it should be forever referred to as "The Spare Ribs"
Caption #1 says "Vile bitch"
#2 says "Yellow Terror was here"
#3 says "A nearby tree"
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Fields of Gold: The Fire Escape
Let me take this time to tell you about something my grandmother had built in her days as handywoman of the house. She felt it necessary to build a fire escape on the side of the house, maybe about 20 feet up, in the unsightly event of a fire, which was fine. Safety first, right? But the worst part about it was the manner in which it was constructed.
What she had done was take her trust ladder and essentially build a scaffold onto the side of the house, along one of the bedroom windows and the bathroom window, with the goal being to be able to escape from said bathroom in the event of a bonfire going awry (Of course that's why). What she didn't count on though, was the improbability of this plan succeeding, for you see the window was about 5 feet up from the floor, and no normal sized adult could get out of it, and certainly not elderly folks. My brother and I did test runs with moderate amounts of difficulty ourselves, so how was anyone else to use such a thing?
A great idea on paper, not so great when played out, sadly. This construct had led from the window, onto a second roof which was actually added onto the house after it was built. Apparently my grandma added another couple of rooms to the house, or something. Then, one would be able to traverse this sloped second roof, onto a wobbly homemade wooden staircase and make your way to the bottom. If you made it that far, you can say you not only survived a fire, but the fire escape as well.
Fortunately, years went by, and no fires happened in the house, and the the fire escape was left to rot in the elements. One winter, my brother and I were climbing it, and an icicle dislodged and cracked him in the head.
Safety first.
What she had done was take her trust ladder and essentially build a scaffold onto the side of the house, along one of the bedroom windows and the bathroom window, with the goal being to be able to escape from said bathroom in the event of a bonfire going awry (Of course that's why). What she didn't count on though, was the improbability of this plan succeeding, for you see the window was about 5 feet up from the floor, and no normal sized adult could get out of it, and certainly not elderly folks. My brother and I did test runs with moderate amounts of difficulty ourselves, so how was anyone else to use such a thing?
A great idea on paper, not so great when played out, sadly. This construct had led from the window, onto a second roof which was actually added onto the house after it was built. Apparently my grandma added another couple of rooms to the house, or something. Then, one would be able to traverse this sloped second roof, onto a wobbly homemade wooden staircase and make your way to the bottom. If you made it that far, you can say you not only survived a fire, but the fire escape as well.
Fortunately, years went by, and no fires happened in the house, and the the fire escape was left to rot in the elements. One winter, my brother and I were climbing it, and an icicle dislodged and cracked him in the head.
Safety first.
Fields of Gold: the Slop Pail
This, unfortunately is a short story about the grim horror that is/was/forever will be known as "The Slop Pail". Now, you may be saying "An organic bin isn't that big of a deal." Well, you've clearly never dealt with country-style organic waste.
When it was evident we couldn't burn organic waste in our fires (egg shells and orange peels don't burn as well as paper and bug spray cans do, apparently), I suppose, the slop pail was invented to give those misfit organics a place to go and be organic. This place was one of those massive plastic compost bins with lids that never fit (And fruit flies that clouded in front of you if you dared try to open it). And the means to transport aforementioned organic waste to this shoddy compost bin was: The Slop Pail.
On a weekly (yes, weekly) basis, when my brother and I would go for our visit, the slop pail would be waiting patiently in the kitchen, greeting us with a mixture of enthusiasm and rage. Normally, this festering mass would consist of eggs, coffee grinds, vegetables and liquid hell(?).
The smell that emanated from the slop pail was one I've never smelled prior, but it was the same every time I took it out. Since then, I've only encountered a similar scent once or twice.
I'll consider myself lucky.
When it was evident we couldn't burn organic waste in our fires (egg shells and orange peels don't burn as well as paper and bug spray cans do, apparently), I suppose, the slop pail was invented to give those misfit organics a place to go and be organic. This place was one of those massive plastic compost bins with lids that never fit (And fruit flies that clouded in front of you if you dared try to open it). And the means to transport aforementioned organic waste to this shoddy compost bin was: The Slop Pail.
On a weekly (yes, weekly) basis, when my brother and I would go for our visit, the slop pail would be waiting patiently in the kitchen, greeting us with a mixture of enthusiasm and rage. Normally, this festering mass would consist of eggs, coffee grinds, vegetables and liquid hell(?).
The smell that emanated from the slop pail was one I've never smelled prior, but it was the same every time I took it out. Since then, I've only encountered a similar scent once or twice.
I'll consider myself lucky.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Fields of Gold: Burn Baby Burn/Garbage Inferno!
When you live so fucking far away from civilization, garbage collection doesn't exist (like Michael Jackson), so the best way to deal with your trash is to burn the shit out of it. So that's exactly what we did.
It became a weekly ritual to set the heaps of trash that had accumulated over a 7 day span ablaze. This was achieved with a handheld butane torch (Good times), and an accelerant such as gasoline. See, back then, gasoline was astoundingly cheap, so it was thereby astoundingly easy to do this every week. There was a gas station just down the road, so a blazing pyre was only a short drive away at all times. Most of the "bonfires" we had were nothing short of epic, involving small and often intentional explosions via not-quite-spent aerosol cans and/or lighters that clearly state "Do not incinerate, you dumb fuck. What's wrong with you? Hey, wait, what are you doing? Is that gasoline? No.. No.. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Really, they did say that. As you know, however, Fortune's don't take instructions very well, and we did it anyways. Throughout the swiss cheese block I call my memory, I recall there being about 5 different fire-pits (piles?) scattered across the property and switching sites occurred only when one pile had become too great to place anything else atop it.
Some of our more memorable fires involved the burning of tires that were on the property for one reason or another, and subsequently burning a hole in the ozone. Another addition to the fire history books involved the unintentional setting-fire of a clubhouse that was built many a year prior, an incident which actually had burned a tree to the point where it just fell down. On whom you may ask? (You probably didn't, but I'm going to tell you.) My brother, that's who. He was minding his own business watching the pyre eat at our childhood clubhouse and suddenly there was a loud cracking noise, and before he could react, a tree fell on him. Fortunately, he was leaning back onto an old car on the property, and when the tree landed, it landed in such a way that he was untouched by its branches and leaning against the car.
Lucky break, brother. Lucky break.
It became a weekly ritual to set the heaps of trash that had accumulated over a 7 day span ablaze. This was achieved with a handheld butane torch (Good times), and an accelerant such as gasoline. See, back then, gasoline was astoundingly cheap, so it was thereby astoundingly easy to do this every week. There was a gas station just down the road, so a blazing pyre was only a short drive away at all times. Most of the "bonfires" we had were nothing short of epic, involving small and often intentional explosions via not-quite-spent aerosol cans and/or lighters that clearly state "Do not incinerate, you dumb fuck. What's wrong with you? Hey, wait, what are you doing? Is that gasoline? No.. No.. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Really, they did say that. As you know, however, Fortune's don't take instructions very well, and we did it anyways. Throughout the swiss cheese block I call my memory, I recall there being about 5 different fire-pits (piles?) scattered across the property and switching sites occurred only when one pile had become too great to place anything else atop it.
Some of our more memorable fires involved the burning of tires that were on the property for one reason or another, and subsequently burning a hole in the ozone. Another addition to the fire history books involved the unintentional setting-fire of a clubhouse that was built many a year prior, an incident which actually had burned a tree to the point where it just fell down. On whom you may ask? (You probably didn't, but I'm going to tell you.) My brother, that's who. He was minding his own business watching the pyre eat at our childhood clubhouse and suddenly there was a loud cracking noise, and before he could react, a tree fell on him. Fortunately, he was leaning back onto an old car on the property, and when the tree landed, it landed in such a way that he was untouched by its branches and leaning against the car.
Lucky break, brother. Lucky break.
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