Today, I reupholstered a chair. My friend Sarah's computer chair was well... showing it's age, and the requisite use and abuse. Specifically, having been close to three small children.
It was time.
Naturally, we decided this at eleven thirty at night.
I'm sure that what Sarah's mother, attempting to sleep in the next room heard was something like "I don't know what that goes with. Maybe this fabric? No. This one? Eww. Hmm... OH! I know what this sort of pattern is good for. UPHOLSTERY!"
"Eww."
"No, not huge chairs. Like the seat on your computer chair."
(Silence)
(Already dismantling the chair) "Let's reupholster it!"
(Silence)
(Ka-CHUNK. Ka-Chunk kachunk kachunk. BAM! Bam Bam Bam! Ba-Bam! .... Taptaptaptap. .... kaChunk.)
"This might staple you in the face."
Bap bapbapbap.
"Let's go get a hammer."
The chair turned out great. Nobody got stapled, accidentaly or otherwise, and it looks professional. Kachunk is now a verb. We did make an unholy racket, but really, isn't any time always the right time to use the staple gun?
(Note from the honorary hick Sarah: Now it needs paint... And at least the staple gun wasn't a chainsaw.)
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Yee-HAW
Post 100! I used "yonder" in a senence the other day. That was exciting.
I don't have anything really deep for all ya'll today. Instead, I have a Garth Brooks video. I would have a Billy Joel viedo, but all of those were either crappy karaoke or had embedding disabled. So here we are.
Speaking of Garth Brooks:
I don't have anything really deep for all ya'll today. Instead, I have a Garth Brooks video. I would have a Billy Joel viedo, but all of those were either crappy karaoke or had embedding disabled. So here we are.
Speaking of Garth Brooks:
Monday, September 29, 2008
Advice I never got... and that I won't tell my kids
"You can't expect anyone else to respect you until you can respect yourself."
My grandfather never told me that.
My father never told me that.
My mother never told me that.
In fact, they never told me shit. But that's okay, because most of the things parents tell their kids are lies. They tell you you can be anything you want to be. That the sky's the limit. What they don't tell you is that, to borrow a phrase, you have to paint the inside of your box the right shade of blue. They tell you that if you try hard enough, you can go to an Ivy League school. They don't tell you the truth, that you'd better work extra hard or you're stuck right where you grew up. They say that if you tell the truth, you won't get in trouble, but you always do anyway. They say that timeout is a position of shame when it really means you thought for yourself.
My dad told me that if I worked hard, he might be able to help pay my way through community college. And that I'd damn well better graduate, or he won't waste his money. My mom explained just how much shit life can throw at you when you haven't earned it. They never told me I could be anything I wanted, because they knew it wasn't true. They saiid I could be anything I made myself. There's a critical difference.
Half of what I learned, they didn't come right out and say. That wouldn't have made sense. They showed me. They made me learn that I'd better either take action to make something better, or shut up about it not being to my liking. They proved that sometimes you just had to tough it out, but you'd better not give up, because the world will just kick you in the teeth when you're down.
They also showed me that hard work can change almost anything. Grandpa was a self-made man. You might say that dad was a self-destroyed man, but that's not really a fair assessment. Point is, this man hit the road with $100, a car, and a girlfriend, and made a success of himself, despite the best efforts of physics. Between them, my parents showed me that the only one who could destroy you was you. Even if you told yourself that it was someone else.
Growing up with my parents, I learned that when you can't change the situation, you've got to get out of it. If you can't leave, you're fucked. Make the best of it.
Shit happens.
More shit happens.
So stop whining about it.
Crying at Costco doesn't help anything.
"You ain't dead, get it off yourself."
If it looked like a bad idea at the time, in hindsight it was a horrible idea that you're lucky to have survived.
Even if it looked like a good idea at the time, see above.
Don't drink. Don't smoke. Don't join the Army.
People die. Death is forever. Adults can't explain this, so don't ask them to.
They didn't tell me any of this, they showed me. I don't know if they meant to, but I'm glad they did. I learned it better that way. Of course, the other half of what I learned were things I taught myself. Like when to leave a room. How to heel. How thinking for myself was the only way to keep things straight, when everyone else wants to manipulate you.
That calling someone a manipulator and then acting like the good guy, the savior from this evil manipulator, makes you just as guilty.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me... until someone picks up sticks or stones because of those words.
People lie.
Hit back.
Screaming does nothing when nobody will come running. They will ask why you didn't scream for help, like having screamed instead of defending yourself would have been better. Then you'd have been creamed by the other guy, and then offered no protection OR retribution.
Even if someone comes running, they can't be there forever. In the 15 minutes in between the call and the flashing red and blue lights, a lot can happen.
Getting the police involved rarely reduces your problems.
Sometimes street justice is the only justice.
Sometimes there is no justice.
Justice is most often about revenge.
That when it got right down to it, you were no better than anyone else. Get used to it.
You don't deserve shit. Nobody does. Earn it or shut up. But be confident in what you've earned. Don't let anyone take it. Don't let anyone tell you it's any less. If they do, don't believe them.
Lives are like national parks: people walk in and out, leaving their trash and leaving tracks, but you can't keep them out. You wouldn't want to. Whenever you're a guest in someone's life, no matter who they are, try and leave them a little better than you found them. Same with national parks.
Squirrels are good judges of intentions.
Goals are like the ice cream truck: when you finally reach it and get your ice cream, you realize it cost more than you expected and isn't as good as you remembered. But like when the ice cream truck drives by every Saturday, don't stop chasing your goals.
Live for the moment. The next one isn't guaranteed.
Grandpa practically let his kids raise themselves, just stepping in to guide them when they were truly lost. My parents didn't mean to make me raise myself, but I'm glad they did. They showed me more than they ever probably knew about themselves.
Back to the quote I opened with, "You can't expect anyone else to respect you until you can respect yourself." That's the most important thing I ever learned. School doesn't teach you the true meaning of respect. You parents sure as hell don't. They mean "blind obedience" when they say respect, when really that's not what it's about at all. Martial arts doesn't teach you what respect means. They can all teach you the symptoms, but fake sincerity is hardly sincere. You have to learn it for yourself.
I intend to raise my kids by example. Even a bad example can turn out a good kid, you know.
My grandfather never told me that.
My father never told me that.
My mother never told me that.
In fact, they never told me shit. But that's okay, because most of the things parents tell their kids are lies. They tell you you can be anything you want to be. That the sky's the limit. What they don't tell you is that, to borrow a phrase, you have to paint the inside of your box the right shade of blue. They tell you that if you try hard enough, you can go to an Ivy League school. They don't tell you the truth, that you'd better work extra hard or you're stuck right where you grew up. They say that if you tell the truth, you won't get in trouble, but you always do anyway. They say that timeout is a position of shame when it really means you thought for yourself.
My dad told me that if I worked hard, he might be able to help pay my way through community college. And that I'd damn well better graduate, or he won't waste his money. My mom explained just how much shit life can throw at you when you haven't earned it. They never told me I could be anything I wanted, because they knew it wasn't true. They saiid I could be anything I made myself. There's a critical difference.
Half of what I learned, they didn't come right out and say. That wouldn't have made sense. They showed me. They made me learn that I'd better either take action to make something better, or shut up about it not being to my liking. They proved that sometimes you just had to tough it out, but you'd better not give up, because the world will just kick you in the teeth when you're down.
They also showed me that hard work can change almost anything. Grandpa was a self-made man. You might say that dad was a self-destroyed man, but that's not really a fair assessment. Point is, this man hit the road with $100, a car, and a girlfriend, and made a success of himself, despite the best efforts of physics. Between them, my parents showed me that the only one who could destroy you was you. Even if you told yourself that it was someone else.
Growing up with my parents, I learned that when you can't change the situation, you've got to get out of it. If you can't leave, you're fucked. Make the best of it.
Shit happens.
More shit happens.
So stop whining about it.
Crying at Costco doesn't help anything.
"You ain't dead, get it off yourself."
If it looked like a bad idea at the time, in hindsight it was a horrible idea that you're lucky to have survived.
Even if it looked like a good idea at the time, see above.
Don't drink. Don't smoke. Don't join the Army.
People die. Death is forever. Adults can't explain this, so don't ask them to.
They didn't tell me any of this, they showed me. I don't know if they meant to, but I'm glad they did. I learned it better that way. Of course, the other half of what I learned were things I taught myself. Like when to leave a room. How to heel. How thinking for myself was the only way to keep things straight, when everyone else wants to manipulate you.
That calling someone a manipulator and then acting like the good guy, the savior from this evil manipulator, makes you just as guilty.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me... until someone picks up sticks or stones because of those words.
People lie.
Hit back.
Screaming does nothing when nobody will come running. They will ask why you didn't scream for help, like having screamed instead of defending yourself would have been better. Then you'd have been creamed by the other guy, and then offered no protection OR retribution.
Even if someone comes running, they can't be there forever. In the 15 minutes in between the call and the flashing red and blue lights, a lot can happen.
Getting the police involved rarely reduces your problems.
Sometimes street justice is the only justice.
Sometimes there is no justice.
Justice is most often about revenge.
That when it got right down to it, you were no better than anyone else. Get used to it.
You don't deserve shit. Nobody does. Earn it or shut up. But be confident in what you've earned. Don't let anyone take it. Don't let anyone tell you it's any less. If they do, don't believe them.
Lives are like national parks: people walk in and out, leaving their trash and leaving tracks, but you can't keep them out. You wouldn't want to. Whenever you're a guest in someone's life, no matter who they are, try and leave them a little better than you found them. Same with national parks.
Squirrels are good judges of intentions.
Goals are like the ice cream truck: when you finally reach it and get your ice cream, you realize it cost more than you expected and isn't as good as you remembered. But like when the ice cream truck drives by every Saturday, don't stop chasing your goals.
Live for the moment. The next one isn't guaranteed.
Grandpa practically let his kids raise themselves, just stepping in to guide them when they were truly lost. My parents didn't mean to make me raise myself, but I'm glad they did. They showed me more than they ever probably knew about themselves.
Back to the quote I opened with, "You can't expect anyone else to respect you until you can respect yourself." That's the most important thing I ever learned. School doesn't teach you the true meaning of respect. You parents sure as hell don't. They mean "blind obedience" when they say respect, when really that's not what it's about at all. Martial arts doesn't teach you what respect means. They can all teach you the symptoms, but fake sincerity is hardly sincere. You have to learn it for yourself.
I intend to raise my kids by example. Even a bad example can turn out a good kid, you know.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
lolsbians
Like lolcats, only sexier.
I have done that. Just recently, even. It is very true. Good news is, most of my arm hair grew back. Which is a perfect segue into our next picture:
I would have been caught. Please be gentle, mistress!
Or not, if I've been bad and need to be punished.
Or not, if I've been bad and need to be punished.
On that note:
Friday, September 19, 2008
I've been busy
Perhaps it's a little tough to read, so here's a zoomed-in version:
FEATURED! I am extremely proud of myself right now, to have written a featured instructable. Maybe my first two 'ibles ever weren't featured, unlike my buddy Skunkbait, but then again the rest of mine have been quick and tossed together. So again, hooray for having my first "serious" 'ible featured!
In other news, meet my second-favorite fish blog.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Baseball, anyone?
Whoever the two people are who have actually played Moldy Pumpkin Machete Baseball, would you please stand up? Was it as fun as it sounds, or more so? If I built a small air cannon and shot a pumpkin out of it at a machete I was holding, would that be as stupid as it sounds?
What else?
Oh, yeah, I feel like an asshole, but I really don't hate you. As far as I'm concerned, things don't have to be weird, or awkward, or anything else but friends.
What else?
Oh, yeah, I feel like an asshole, but I really don't hate you. As far as I'm concerned, things don't have to be weird, or awkward, or anything else but friends.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Redneck philosifizin'
Have you ever sat and just watched a fire? I mean really watched it. It's tough to start at first, and sometimes it seems like the harder you try, the farther away that magic spark is. Of course, accidental fires are notoriously easy to light. But once the fire is lit, it's alive. It's got a mind of its own, and its both stubborn and fickle.
The flames leap up from the fuel, dancing across it like the northern lights brought to the ground. No two tongues of flame are ever exactly alike, but there are patterns that they always follow. Its interesting to note, however, that once the initial flush of flame dies down, the entire pile of fuel begins to glow. Looking in amongst the sticks, it is obvious that the air itself, everywhere in that space, is combusting. The fire is comprehensive, all-encomappassing in amongst its fuel. Most people fixate on the leaping flames, but it is obvious where the real beauty lies. The true elegance of a fire rests in its heart.
After forest fires and lightning strikes, snags and stumps have been found smouldering, even after heavy rain and weeks of time since the main fire passed through. The fire crawls into the heartwood, into the roots, into the secret nooks and crannies that every tree has. In some respects, fire knows trees better than any other being on this earth knows them. Putting out a smouldering stump can take hundreds of gallons of water, or a dozen people hacking it into little bits and spreading it out to cool, or both.
But fire isn't actually free. It is bound to systems and rules, just like we are. There are certain paraneters within which an enber can live, grow, become a flame. there are other parameters where fire dies quickly of exposure. Without its food and its air, the fire starves. If put in too small a space, it snuffs itself out. Embers and flames love company, but if you put too many of them in the same space, none of them have the resources to live.
Wildland firefighter and priest Peter Leschak wrote that when he dies, he hopes he may return and roam this earth as a wildfire, turning up wherever lightning or a careless match might strike, engaged in an earnest battle with firefighters, but extending them a certain professional courtesy, so to speak. He understands that although a fire will always burn itself out of its own accord if not snuffed sooner, fire will always be back. It's an integral part of earth's natural balance, here before we were, and here long after we're gone.
The flames leap up from the fuel, dancing across it like the northern lights brought to the ground. No two tongues of flame are ever exactly alike, but there are patterns that they always follow. Its interesting to note, however, that once the initial flush of flame dies down, the entire pile of fuel begins to glow. Looking in amongst the sticks, it is obvious that the air itself, everywhere in that space, is combusting. The fire is comprehensive, all-encomappassing in amongst its fuel. Most people fixate on the leaping flames, but it is obvious where the real beauty lies. The true elegance of a fire rests in its heart.
After forest fires and lightning strikes, snags and stumps have been found smouldering, even after heavy rain and weeks of time since the main fire passed through. The fire crawls into the heartwood, into the roots, into the secret nooks and crannies that every tree has. In some respects, fire knows trees better than any other being on this earth knows them. Putting out a smouldering stump can take hundreds of gallons of water, or a dozen people hacking it into little bits and spreading it out to cool, or both.
But fire isn't actually free. It is bound to systems and rules, just like we are. There are certain paraneters within which an enber can live, grow, become a flame. there are other parameters where fire dies quickly of exposure. Without its food and its air, the fire starves. If put in too small a space, it snuffs itself out. Embers and flames love company, but if you put too many of them in the same space, none of them have the resources to live.
Wildland firefighter and priest Peter Leschak wrote that when he dies, he hopes he may return and roam this earth as a wildfire, turning up wherever lightning or a careless match might strike, engaged in an earnest battle with firefighters, but extending them a certain professional courtesy, so to speak. He understands that although a fire will always burn itself out of its own accord if not snuffed sooner, fire will always be back. It's an integral part of earth's natural balance, here before we were, and here long after we're gone.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Wristwatch motorcycles
I just ran across this post showing all sorts of motorcycles, made entirely of old wristwatch parts. They are amazing in their detail, even when the artist took liberties with the laws of physics. The sheer aura of coolness is overwhelming.
If I can't get one of these pre-made, I need to go make friends with a watch repairer and try and build one myself.
If I can't get one of these pre-made, I need to go make friends with a watch repairer and try and build one myself.
Friday, August 22, 2008
The greatest hot rod song ever written
I will gladly explain it if you don't get why it is the greatest. What other song has epic sports cars, totalitarian governement, high-speed pursuits, and the unparalleled musicianship of the three men of Rush? It's not just a good-time song like the Beach Boys wrote, it is an intricate tapestry of nostalgic pleasure in the midst of the Priests' dystopic rein. I cna't think of another song where the protagonist risks a death at the hands of the mountain, or worse, a non-death at the hands of the Thought Police. I could go on about how much I love this band, but I really have to sleep sometime soon. Good day.
Gonna buy me a Mercury and cruise it up and down the road.
I am a diehard Mercury fan. Any Merc, big, small, new, old, running, rusted out, I don't care. I believe in american cars and American bikes. I don't like the fact that they're not built in America anymore, but the Big Three are classic American marques. That's why every car that's ever occupied the driveway has had Ford, GM, or Mopar badges, even rentals. There just is no beating them. Of course, at hill climbs and rallies, I do occasionally love to hear an Italian engine wail and howl like it's tearing a hole in Hell itself. But it's the growl, roar, and bark of the American V8 that I love the most. If I can't get that, a well-tuned V6 can do a tidy job. Dare to be different, right?
You should have heard the fellow on the other end of the phone at a certain famous mail-order parts company when I asked about anything that might maybe kinda work on a front-drive 1993 60 degree six inhabiting the engine bay of a Cutlass. He tried to help, first by trying to talk me out of it, then by giving me prices and sources of parts that might not work, but might just do the trick. The target is around 400, so it might never happen, but he helped all he could. I've got my work cut out for me if I want a high-power V6, offroadable tow rig/city cruiser.
Of course, the other car is already a "little hot rod." It's a '07 Merc Milan six. 220 horse out of 183 is pretty good. But I get the feeling it's being held back. The low end is great, but the transmission is a bit shifty. It tends to pick the gear I'd like it to, you just have to speak its language. Off the line is great (even with the auto, you can pull a great holeshot. The converter stalls around 900 if you go easy on it, or up to about 1300 if you stomp on it. By the time it shifts gears, the engine is already making as much power as the four-banger does wide open. Like I said, the pull at low rpms is pretty fun.
Handling is crisp, predictable, and smooth. I find the power steering to have a good amount of resistance. I've only felt the vehicle skid once, and that was on a wet road with the traction control off. I call it "active Positraction." I mentioned the responsiveness and low end earlier, but that's on a good day. On a bad day, things are jerky, opening the throttle is just a suggestion (the computer gets final say, since it is infuriatingly drive-by-wire). Response is not crisp, but compared with the ocean-liner handling and throttle response of the Olds, it only annoys me when the person in the right seat is being impatient and wants faster starts, later stops, and general disregard for gas milage and parts longevity. Well, she should know her daughter better. When she gets impatient and says "speed up to 60 faster" she should know that that means all four windows down, pedal to the metal, engine spooling up past four grand, exhaust note loud. I may be a hotrod enthusiast, but I'm secure enough in the machine's ability to not have to show it off. My mom just likes to get there now, even if "there" is a red light. She doesn't like not being in control.
So back to what I like to call "on-ramps with a pissed off nervous backseat driver." The Milan is not a straight-line car. It does the quarter in 15 seconds at a hair over 90, or so I'm told. I intend to get it up to Bandimere soon and get timed in an E.T. class sometime this year. I'm confident it'll lose. 0-60 in nine seconds. Those numbers are bad for a car of this magnitude. Where's the lead brick?
The car itself is the lead brick. Coming in at over two tons, it's one heavy mutha. The speedometer goes to 120, the revs are limited at 133, but the car doesn't even want to do 90. I'm sure with a long enough road 133 could happen, but I don't know where that blacktop would be. I felt it complain at 87 and asked to do more last summer out in the flatlands with my dad at the helm. Besides a Corvette or a red Barchetta, I can't think of a better mountain backroads rallymobile. But if fast acceleration is needed from 55 on up, it's not gonna happen. The low end is promising, but the stock tune can't deliver.
Of course, none of that amounts to a hill of beans, the favorite thing for my family to do in that car is to cruise it up and down the road.
You should have heard the fellow on the other end of the phone at a certain famous mail-order parts company when I asked about anything that might maybe kinda work on a front-drive 1993 60 degree six inhabiting the engine bay of a Cutlass. He tried to help, first by trying to talk me out of it, then by giving me prices and sources of parts that might not work, but might just do the trick. The target is around 400, so it might never happen, but he helped all he could. I've got my work cut out for me if I want a high-power V6, offroadable tow rig/city cruiser.
Of course, the other car is already a "little hot rod." It's a '07 Merc Milan six. 220 horse out of 183 is pretty good. But I get the feeling it's being held back. The low end is great, but the transmission is a bit shifty. It tends to pick the gear I'd like it to, you just have to speak its language. Off the line is great (even with the auto, you can pull a great holeshot. The converter stalls around 900 if you go easy on it, or up to about 1300 if you stomp on it. By the time it shifts gears, the engine is already making as much power as the four-banger does wide open. Like I said, the pull at low rpms is pretty fun.
Handling is crisp, predictable, and smooth. I find the power steering to have a good amount of resistance. I've only felt the vehicle skid once, and that was on a wet road with the traction control off. I call it "active Positraction." I mentioned the responsiveness and low end earlier, but that's on a good day. On a bad day, things are jerky, opening the throttle is just a suggestion (the computer gets final say, since it is infuriatingly drive-by-wire). Response is not crisp, but compared with the ocean-liner handling and throttle response of the Olds, it only annoys me when the person in the right seat is being impatient and wants faster starts, later stops, and general disregard for gas milage and parts longevity. Well, she should know her daughter better. When she gets impatient and says "speed up to 60 faster" she should know that that means all four windows down, pedal to the metal, engine spooling up past four grand, exhaust note loud. I may be a hotrod enthusiast, but I'm secure enough in the machine's ability to not have to show it off. My mom just likes to get there now, even if "there" is a red light. She doesn't like not being in control.
So back to what I like to call "on-ramps with a pissed off nervous backseat driver." The Milan is not a straight-line car. It does the quarter in 15 seconds at a hair over 90, or so I'm told. I intend to get it up to Bandimere soon and get timed in an E.T. class sometime this year. I'm confident it'll lose. 0-60 in nine seconds. Those numbers are bad for a car of this magnitude. Where's the lead brick?
The car itself is the lead brick. Coming in at over two tons, it's one heavy mutha. The speedometer goes to 120, the revs are limited at 133, but the car doesn't even want to do 90. I'm sure with a long enough road 133 could happen, but I don't know where that blacktop would be. I felt it complain at 87 and asked to do more last summer out in the flatlands with my dad at the helm. Besides a Corvette or a red Barchetta, I can't think of a better mountain backroads rallymobile. But if fast acceleration is needed from 55 on up, it's not gonna happen. The low end is promising, but the stock tune can't deliver.
Of course, none of that amounts to a hill of beans, the favorite thing for my family to do in that car is to cruise it up and down the road.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Din't rock the jukebox-- play me a country song!
I have come to the official conclusion that you probably don't have enough country music. No matter who you are. I intend to fix that. Montgomery Gentry have got some great songs, like "Back When I Knew it All," "What Do Ya Think About That" and "Hillbilly Shoes."
Embedding is disabled by request on some of'em, so here's the links. Check the fiddle in Hillbilly Shoes.
What Do Ya Think About That?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QytPoRLEhF0
Back When I Knew it All
Hillbilly Shoes
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=glyGjAyw9sM
All Night Long
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JWu911G7RxA
Embedding is disabled by request on some of'em, so here's the links. Check the fiddle in Hillbilly Shoes.
What Do Ya Think About That?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QytPoRLEhF0
Back When I Knew it All
Hillbilly Shoes
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=glyGjAyw9sM
All Night Long
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JWu911G7RxA
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Can you beat this?
The other day I was having a debate with a friend of mine over who was whiter-trash. We've set the bar pretty high over the course of trying to one-up each other. So here's a short list.
You might be white trash if:
You have ever watched someone beat a belligerant drunk party guest with a string of dried chiles.
You were ever on the recieving end of such a beating.
You have ever heard a tornado warning and hid under your trailer.
You have ever ridden in the bed of a Ford pickup.
You have ever ridden in the bed of a Ford pickup at 75 miles an hour and were still able to hear the Alan Jackson song playing in the cab.
You once went two months without eating anything that hadn't been microwaved.
You have ever bought breakfast, lunch, and dinner at a 7-Eleven.
You have ever proudly sang the song "Upper-Middle-Class White Trash".
You began singing the chorus when your friend said that.
You know anyone who actually "stopped to pee, got some gas and won the lottery!"
You will drop whatever you're doing to go to a pig roast.
You have ever seen roadkill and thought "I bet that'd be good with some A-1 on it."
You keep your James Bond tapes in an A&W box.
You can name twelve barbeque joints within driving distance of wherever you are.
You have gator meat in your freezer.
You have a snakeskin belt from a snake killed by anyone you know.
You know anyone who goes by the name "Cornbread".
You know how to ride a non-riding lawnmower.
You have ever gone to Wal-Mart in search of shoes, because you accidentally left on vacation with no shoes whatsoever.
You're not ashamed to wear a bright red Rocky's Autos hat.
You will drive 900 miles to watch someone drive 500 miles.
You will drive 200 miles to watch someone drive 12.42 miles uphill.
Freestyle Snowshoe Boulder Jumping sounds like a good idea.
You have ever hit a tree. While walking. In the summer. On purpose. More than once.
And, most of all, if you have ever participated in a contest over how white-trash you are.
You might be white trash if:
You have ever watched someone beat a belligerant drunk party guest with a string of dried chiles.
You were ever on the recieving end of such a beating.
You have ever heard a tornado warning and hid under your trailer.
You have ever ridden in the bed of a Ford pickup.
You have ever ridden in the bed of a Ford pickup at 75 miles an hour and were still able to hear the Alan Jackson song playing in the cab.
You once went two months without eating anything that hadn't been microwaved.
You have ever bought breakfast, lunch, and dinner at a 7-Eleven.
You have ever proudly sang the song "Upper-Middle-Class White Trash".
You began singing the chorus when your friend said that.
You know anyone who actually "stopped to pee, got some gas and won the lottery!"
You will drop whatever you're doing to go to a pig roast.
You have ever seen roadkill and thought "I bet that'd be good with some A-1 on it."
You keep your James Bond tapes in an A&W box.
You can name twelve barbeque joints within driving distance of wherever you are.
You have gator meat in your freezer.
You have a snakeskin belt from a snake killed by anyone you know.
You know anyone who goes by the name "Cornbread".
You know how to ride a non-riding lawnmower.
You have ever gone to Wal-Mart in search of shoes, because you accidentally left on vacation with no shoes whatsoever.
You're not ashamed to wear a bright red Rocky's Autos hat.
You will drive 900 miles to watch someone drive 500 miles.
You will drive 200 miles to watch someone drive 12.42 miles uphill.
Freestyle Snowshoe Boulder Jumping sounds like a good idea.
You have ever hit a tree. While walking. In the summer. On purpose. More than once.
And, most of all, if you have ever participated in a contest over how white-trash you are.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Getting in the Holiday Spirit
This is the coolest Christmas light display I have ever seen. That includes the concept of Tim Taylor's 12 million candlepower house, and the decorations the people down the street put up every year.
This allegedly cost that guy $10,000 to set up and program, using 88 different control channels. In order to not annoy the neighbors, he put up a sign instructing viewers to tune into a low-power FM station to hear the music. As far as I know, he does this every year now.
Last year, I scotch-taped a few LEDs to the window, and hung one string of lights. Badly. It's not quite the same.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Tips for salesmen
Funny story. Don't be this tool. Seriously.
A few weeks ago we had just pulled into the driveway and gotten out, when a door-to-soor salesman walked up to us. Of all the rotten timing, we manage to get home just as this guy's walking through the corner of our lawn, now making a beeline for the car. Too late, he's spotted us. We can't just throw it in reverse and gun it. Remove your hand from the gearshift please.
I figure we'll let him say his piece and scurry off, since that's usually the fastest way to get rid of a salesman, short of acting like you're not home, or audibly cocking a gun.
"Have you ever considered vinyl siding?"
My mom says, "No, we don't want any."
"You never have to paint it, it's weatherproof, and affordable."
"I really don't think we're interested."
This guy just wasn't getting the hint. Then he said it. "It's available in a variety of colors. It'd be real easy to cover up some of this ugly brick."
The whole neighborhood is brick ranch houses. No siding to be found. This tool just didn't get it that he might be barking up the wrong tree. There's a reason we live in a brick house. Mom's approach wasn't working. My turn to talk.
"I don't know who you think you are, but let me give you a word of advice. Don't go callin' my house ugly and expect me to want anything from you except to leave. Now get out of my driveway. And stay off my grass while you do it."
He didn't want to leave, but this time he got the hint. I don't think he ever called someone's house ugly again. At least not that day.
A few weeks ago we had just pulled into the driveway and gotten out, when a door-to-soor salesman walked up to us. Of all the rotten timing, we manage to get home just as this guy's walking through the corner of our lawn, now making a beeline for the car. Too late, he's spotted us. We can't just throw it in reverse and gun it. Remove your hand from the gearshift please.
I figure we'll let him say his piece and scurry off, since that's usually the fastest way to get rid of a salesman, short of acting like you're not home, or audibly cocking a gun.
"Have you ever considered vinyl siding?"
My mom says, "No, we don't want any."
"You never have to paint it, it's weatherproof, and affordable."
"I really don't think we're interested."
This guy just wasn't getting the hint. Then he said it. "It's available in a variety of colors. It'd be real easy to cover up some of this ugly brick."
The whole neighborhood is brick ranch houses. No siding to be found. This tool just didn't get it that he might be barking up the wrong tree. There's a reason we live in a brick house. Mom's approach wasn't working. My turn to talk.
"I don't know who you think you are, but let me give you a word of advice. Don't go callin' my house ugly and expect me to want anything from you except to leave. Now get out of my driveway. And stay off my grass while you do it."
He didn't want to leave, but this time he got the hint. I don't think he ever called someone's house ugly again. At least not that day.
Monday, July 21, 2008
The redneck to-do list
First of all, I would like to know how I wound up with the honey-do list. I was snaking the drain of a sink I don't even use today when I realized, "Holy crap, I've been doing stuff my mom has been nagging my dad to do. When did that happen?"
So to counteract and delay the honey-do list's evils of pulling weeds, returning dog shit to our neighbor's yard where the little shitter lives, cleaning dishes that have been soaking against my explicit request, and watering the lawn, I have drawn up my own official to-do list, which is as follows.
So to counteract and delay the honey-do list's evils of pulling weeds, returning dog shit to our neighbor's yard where the little shitter lives, cleaning dishes that have been soaking against my explicit request, and watering the lawn, I have drawn up my own official to-do list, which is as follows.
- Complete portable jacob's ladder for sparking motorcycle helmet
- Get another motorcycle
- Get it running
- Go to the Rocky Mountain Concours d'Elegance and dig the Munro Special '20 Indian Scout 45
- Get the rest of our motorcycles running
- Join a high school rugby team
- Aquire and hotrod a 50cc scooter to do an honest 55 for any sustained period of time, more than once
- Attach a tow hitch to our Olds
- Hotrod the Olds
- Get Brushfire Customs off the ground as a business
- Graduate high school
- Build a machine to race up Pikes Peak
I'm not sure whether those are in chronological order or by drop-everything-else-and-do-it priority, but whatever. There's some NASCAR-watching, NHRA-following, family reunions, shooting, barbequeing, wild-game-eating, and all that in there, too, but that's kind of par for the course, y'know?
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Weekly Gearing
Seeing as I build crap as a hobby and an income (and build even more crap when I'm bored... they know me at Home Depot), I've been hanging out on Instructables with other people who like to build stuff, too.
If we're given the choice between an easy solution and a free solution using junk we already have, rednecks will usually pick using the junk we already have. And trust me, your average redneck has a LOT of junk. The people on Instructables like to take the DIY approach, too, and write step-by-step directions so that anyone else who has the same problem can fix it themselves, too. Even if they decide they want to turn an old Apple computer into a toilet paper dispenser, which has since been dubbed the "iPood" by the commentors. However I think we all agree, nobody would want an iPood Shuffle or Video.
Me and a couple of other people on the site have decided to put together a weekly podcast of interesting happenings, contests, and notable inventions we've run across. We really don't plan on talking much about the nitty-gritty of how to do it, since the steps are already available and illustrated on the site, but we will be talking about the great, the awful, and the just plain "WTF?" inventions on the site. Kind of a weekly digest and who's-who.
The infamous Killerjackalope of Northern Ireland, the not-so-infamous spoonty of Australia, and yours truly of Colorado will be hosting.
So if you'd like to listen to "Weekly Gearings," we expect to have the first episode put together and available by sometime next week. More details pending. First we have to figure out who's paying international rates for a conference call!
(Just kidding, file transfer is both free and magically delicious)
If we're given the choice between an easy solution and a free solution using junk we already have, rednecks will usually pick using the junk we already have. And trust me, your average redneck has a LOT of junk. The people on Instructables like to take the DIY approach, too, and write step-by-step directions so that anyone else who has the same problem can fix it themselves, too. Even if they decide they want to turn an old Apple computer into a toilet paper dispenser, which has since been dubbed the "iPood" by the commentors. However I think we all agree, nobody would want an iPood Shuffle or Video.
Me and a couple of other people on the site have decided to put together a weekly podcast of interesting happenings, contests, and notable inventions we've run across. We really don't plan on talking much about the nitty-gritty of how to do it, since the steps are already available and illustrated on the site, but we will be talking about the great, the awful, and the just plain "WTF?" inventions on the site. Kind of a weekly digest and who's-who.
The infamous Killerjackalope of Northern Ireland, the not-so-infamous spoonty of Australia, and yours truly of Colorado will be hosting.
So if you'd like to listen to "Weekly Gearings," we expect to have the first episode put together and available by sometime next week. More details pending. First we have to figure out who's paying international rates for a conference call!
(Just kidding, file transfer is both free and magically delicious)
Kiteboating
If we had wind and water (mostly consistent sea-breeze type wind), I'd probably be first in line to attach a boat to a kite out on the reservoir. But since we don't, I'm trying to design a ducted-fan-powered wagon-like-object to take out on the plains. Like an airboat, only funner. But since Tim Anderson is out in California, where sea breezes are common, him and all his friend kitesurf. So it makes sense that they'd decide to attach a big kite to a little boat and see what happens.
That's what happens.
No, actually, I hear that it worked pretty well. they did drive to the beach like that, though. Note the guy riding hood ornament up top of the truck. Who knew anything would be able to make a Ford F-series pickup look small?
That's what happens.
No, actually, I hear that it worked pretty well. they did drive to the beach like that, though. Note the guy riding hood ornament up top of the truck. Who knew anything would be able to make a Ford F-series pickup look small?
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Redneck decoration 101
http://myredneckworld.com/
Ran across that the other day while I was looking at the Google Analytics for this page. I want that wooden motorcycle! That is badass. The real "riding" lawnmower is pretty cool, too. If our yard weren't so damned hilly and obstructed, I'd have to see about getting me one of those. But the last thing I'd need is to lay it over, 'cause we all know it'd be too heavy to pick up alone, and the mower blade would be spinning.
In fact, WAY too many of those photos look really familiar.
I like the gingerbread trailer, too. The front lawn on that one is spot-on perfect. And it's not just trailer park folks that do that, either. I've never had to live in a trailer park myself, but I've crashed with a lot of relatives who do, and it's true, everything you hear. We all have stuff in our front yards like a gigantic truck, or a car that's getting washed, or a car up on blocks. One feller (whom I believe is my 2nd cousin's husband, or maybe he's my second cousin, I'm not sure) who comes to my uncle's Thanksgiving party every year really likes old tractors. So we sold him one. It was an old Ford that had been used as a mountain logging tractor. See, they'd put the wheels on backwards so they got the most grip going backwards, then they'd drive up the hill in reverse, since that was the lowest gear. My grandpa bought it in the late 40s or early 50s for use in his construction business. One time he nearly ran over my dad with it. He parked it on the hillside that day, in 1956, where it sat and rusted for fifty years.
Then my dad told cousin Jim the tractor story, and Jim said he'd pay cash for the tractor if it was for sale. Why what a coincidence, it just happens to have gone on the market.
So the nest weekend, it's still hot as hell, even though it's November, and now the whole family is up halfway up the hill looking at this tractor. Jim brought his wife, his truck, and a trailer. You guessed what that means: papa's goin' hunting and bringin' back a big'un. And what a catch this tractor was. Thing is, it was about 40 feet from the road, grandpa parked it in gear, and now we can't get it out of gear. Oh, this thing was going nowhere.
It took a couple of hours, four people, a truck, a tow chain, and a prayer, but we got the tractor off the mountinside and onto the road without tipping it over. We just had to drag the stubborn hunk of rust. Then, with more effort, we got it onto the trailer and got it chained down. Tractor in his possession, cousin Jim payed up in cold, hard cash.
The next Thanksgiving, Jim had wallet-sized photos of his new favorite tractor to pass around. He had gotten it back out to his kustoms shop way out in flat ranch country, wrestled it off the trailer, and left it where it landed.
Right in front of his porch, next to the mailbox. It had a couple of field-find cars and what might have been some sort of railroad equipment to keep it company. Over turkey, he informed us that it was quite a conversation piece.
The final test will be next Tuesday. It will be multiple-choice. A score of 70% or better means you pass Redneck Decoration 101 and will be able to move on to Redneck Decoration 102: Proper uses of cinderblocks.
Ran across that the other day while I was looking at the Google Analytics for this page. I want that wooden motorcycle! That is badass. The real "riding" lawnmower is pretty cool, too. If our yard weren't so damned hilly and obstructed, I'd have to see about getting me one of those. But the last thing I'd need is to lay it over, 'cause we all know it'd be too heavy to pick up alone, and the mower blade would be spinning.
In fact, WAY too many of those photos look really familiar.
I like the gingerbread trailer, too. The front lawn on that one is spot-on perfect. And it's not just trailer park folks that do that, either. I've never had to live in a trailer park myself, but I've crashed with a lot of relatives who do, and it's true, everything you hear. We all have stuff in our front yards like a gigantic truck, or a car that's getting washed, or a car up on blocks. One feller (whom I believe is my 2nd cousin's husband, or maybe he's my second cousin, I'm not sure) who comes to my uncle's Thanksgiving party every year really likes old tractors. So we sold him one. It was an old Ford that had been used as a mountain logging tractor. See, they'd put the wheels on backwards so they got the most grip going backwards, then they'd drive up the hill in reverse, since that was the lowest gear. My grandpa bought it in the late 40s or early 50s for use in his construction business. One time he nearly ran over my dad with it. He parked it on the hillside that day, in 1956, where it sat and rusted for fifty years.
Then my dad told cousin Jim the tractor story, and Jim said he'd pay cash for the tractor if it was for sale. Why what a coincidence, it just happens to have gone on the market.
So the nest weekend, it's still hot as hell, even though it's November, and now the whole family is up halfway up the hill looking at this tractor. Jim brought his wife, his truck, and a trailer. You guessed what that means: papa's goin' hunting and bringin' back a big'un. And what a catch this tractor was. Thing is, it was about 40 feet from the road, grandpa parked it in gear, and now we can't get it out of gear. Oh, this thing was going nowhere.
It took a couple of hours, four people, a truck, a tow chain, and a prayer, but we got the tractor off the mountinside and onto the road without tipping it over. We just had to drag the stubborn hunk of rust. Then, with more effort, we got it onto the trailer and got it chained down. Tractor in his possession, cousin Jim payed up in cold, hard cash.
The next Thanksgiving, Jim had wallet-sized photos of his new favorite tractor to pass around. He had gotten it back out to his kustoms shop way out in flat ranch country, wrestled it off the trailer, and left it where it landed.
Right in front of his porch, next to the mailbox. It had a couple of field-find cars and what might have been some sort of railroad equipment to keep it company. Over turkey, he informed us that it was quite a conversation piece.
The final test will be next Tuesday. It will be multiple-choice. A score of 70% or better means you pass Redneck Decoration 101 and will be able to move on to Redneck Decoration 102: Proper uses of cinderblocks.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Oh, shit.
If I haven't already made you sit through my whole gun-rights opinion (oh, you'd know it if I had), you don't know that I believe in the right to posess, carry, and use handguns if it proves necessary.
But this is going a little far. Don't get me wrong, I know several people who might buy and use a pair of these pants. There's a reason I don't visit these people. They're generally a little trigger-happy, and I'd rather remain bullet-hole-free.
If you've never spent some time in the South, be it ranch country like Texas and parts of Colorado (yes, I know that's a geographical screw-up, but the culture's plenty similar), or the plantation country of the Deep South, then you don't know what I'm talking about.
Without getting into the "you can have my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers" speech, let me just point out that rifles and handguns are an integral part of America's collective culture. There's a reason Colt called it the Peacemaker.
Of course, we all know that guns (and the nutcases that own them), can contribute to some real old-fashioned hell-raising. We don't want that, now do we? And that's why the sort of people who would buy pants just so they can keep their Colt ready to kill with at a moments notice are probably the sort of people we really shouldn't be allowing to have a handgun.
But whether or not they have a screw loose is irrelevant. What really matters is the fact that even though it's a little dangerous for everyone involved, these people have a right to own their guns, and pants to carry them in.
But this is going a little far. Don't get me wrong, I know several people who might buy and use a pair of these pants. There's a reason I don't visit these people. They're generally a little trigger-happy, and I'd rather remain bullet-hole-free.
If you've never spent some time in the South, be it ranch country like Texas and parts of Colorado (yes, I know that's a geographical screw-up, but the culture's plenty similar), or the plantation country of the Deep South, then you don't know what I'm talking about.
Without getting into the "you can have my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers" speech, let me just point out that rifles and handguns are an integral part of America's collective culture. There's a reason Colt called it the Peacemaker.
Of course, we all know that guns (and the nutcases that own them), can contribute to some real old-fashioned hell-raising. We don't want that, now do we? And that's why the sort of people who would buy pants just so they can keep their Colt ready to kill with at a moments notice are probably the sort of people we really shouldn't be allowing to have a handgun.
But whether or not they have a screw loose is irrelevant. What really matters is the fact that even though it's a little dangerous for everyone involved, these people have a right to own their guns, and pants to carry them in.
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