Way to land, dude.

I've heard a lot lately that the proper way to snowboard is upright, on one's board, not flat on one's face. The main reason for this is probably the road rash I have all over my face right now from landing on rough spring ice. Other than that, though, I have had a great time on a snowboard, feeding my need to sometimes walk a knife's edge between getting home safe and coming home in a pine box.

I don't really know why some people love to take their life into their hands, toss it around, and bet it all on red 13 for a couple of spins. We all know that eventually, sooner, rather than later, our numbers will come up and we'll wake up injured or worse. Some people live timidly for decades, avoiding anything that might cause them pain, and drop dead of a stroke with a thousand regrets, or get hit by a bus, or a drunk driver, or lightning. Other people live twenty-some years, but enjoy and savor every minute. Most people don't know where on the spectrum they'd rather be.

I do know that "hey ya'll, watch this!" and getting hurt often go hand in hand, but we rednecks love to showboat, risk something (like our trucks), and be able to look back on good times. A lot of folks think that if you do dumbass stunts, you're automatically a redneck, and if you're a redneck, you'll be doing dumb things. Tha's not really true, but we do love a good risk now and again, even those of us who would rather not flirt with disaster most of the time, like me.

Motorcycle Musings

If every time you read the letters "HD" your mind reads "Harley-Davidson" even if you're reading about a TV, you might love motorcycles.

If you know more about two-wheeled history than any other sort, you might love vintage motorcycles.

If you can sing along to "Vincent Black Lightning," you might love vintage motorcycles.

If you have a motor oil stain on your carpet, you might need a garage for your bike, you gearhead, you.

If the phrase "Move the Scout, I'm trying to watch TV" has ever been uttered by someone you know, you might have motorcycles in your blood.

If that phrase is generally followed by "But it's too cold to ride it!" you might be a Coloradan.

If you can tell a story involving the words "and then we got to Sturgis," you might be a biker.

If you have more Sturgis t-shirts than you have socks, you might be a biker.

If armor is a consideration when buying a leather jacket, you might be into motorcycles.

And, most of all, if your solution to having too many bikes and not enough money is to build one more and a shed to keep it in, odds are you love motorcycles.

What could possibly go wrong?

Let me get this straight...

You build a giant slingshot, very near to a large stand of trees. You strap yourself into it and have your buddy on a his ATV tow you at least 100 feet and then let you go.

You do not bring a helmet.

You do not bring a change of underwear.

What could possibly go wrong?

http://video.msn.com/?mkt=en-us&vid=33c89eca-bd1f-4ea4-8d97-f429c2b9cee0&playlist=videoByTag:tag:most%20watched%20viral:ns:MSNVideo_Top_Cat:mk:us:vs:0&from=MSNHP&tab=m1192124571607&GT1=28114

If I could embed, I would. Sorry.

Are all rednecks bigots?

Skanky Jane asked me a while ago, "Are all rednecks bigots?" I've had to think about this for a long time, but my final answer has to be no, not all of us. Unfortunately, a disproportionate number of us are. It would appear that the same cultural conditions that are likely to lead to the tendency to take a straight line from problem A to conclusion B, regardless of the issues in the way (making them a redneck), is also likely tolead them to jump to conclusions about people. The tenacity to not give up when things get difficult also tends to lead to a tendency to not admit we're wrong. Mix in the fact that the racist South is the birthplace of most rednecks, and you get the tendency for a randomly selected redneck to also be a little bigoted. Sometimes more than a little.

Let's review the sorts of pop culture examples that lead to the perception of being a racist, sexist, and generally bigoted person as being synonymous with being a redneck.

In the closing scene of Easy Rider, Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper are riding their motorcycles out of New Orleans and a truck comes up behind them. Pickup truck--redneck mark #1. One of them says to the other, "pass him, let's give him a scare." Accent--redneck mark #2. You will note that they are probably socially conservative (like the vast majority of rednecks are) based on their antagonism towards Hopper, as well as their close haircuts and the demographic makeup of the region they come from. The man riding shotgun then pulls out an actual shotgun, points it at Hopper, and shouts derogatory remarks at him. Hopper flips him off, and the redneck shoots. Please note the use of stereotypical redneck traits immediately surrounding a man who shows himself to be a murderous bigot. Thus, a Pavlovian association is formed between redneck and bigot in the viewer's mind, even when someone the judge to be a "redneck" displays no bigoted behavior. Fonda stops to check on Hopper, then rides in the direction they and the truck were going, to go get help. By this time, the shooter has convinced the driver of the truck to turn around and check on Hopper. We are unsure whether this is out of human concern, or to make sure he's dead. The truck passes Fonda going the other way now, back towards Hopper, and the trigger man pulls the shotgun again as Fonda draws near, and the shot hits the tank on his motorcycle, causing a large fireball and blowing him to Kingdom Come. As the truck drives away and credits roll, one can hear the two men laughing.
Given the tendency for rednecks to grow up in the South, and the the American South's history as a racist, sometimes sexist, generally intolerant cultural area, it is not statistically suprising that many rednecks are a little right-of-center on the mainstream political spectrum. Rednecks tend more than the general U.S. population to be

1. somewhat racially biased (many without even knowing it-- heck, everyone is, just some more so than others)
2. wary & unaccepting of outsiders (remember, small-community upbringing is a common formative factor for rednecks, even if that is just a neighborhood or trailer park within a big city)
3. more outspokenly critical of anyone whom they have concluded to not be straight, especially men. This escalates to violence much faster among rednecks than among, say, your average New Englander.

However, I believe that since prevalence of these stereotypical (and accurate) redneck traits drops as cultural setting changes, it is the setting causing both these bigoted behaviors and redneck-ism, not redneck-ism causing the behaviors.

I hope that's a satisfactory answer, ma'am.

Is that for you?

And other embarrassing moments avoided since the invention of the self-checkout machine.



Are you stuck doing the shopping for your family? While someone you love is in dire need of immodium? "I love you, but not that much..... oh, all right. But you owe me. We ain't changing the channel during Indy this year."

This has been a major embarrassment averted by... Checkout Machine!



A lot of fathers and husbands know this one:

*ring*

"Yes, Honey?"

"I need you to pick up some... sanitary products."

"Some... you mean... wait a second, I am a grown man. I ain't goin' up there and putting that on the conveyor belt. I gotta see these people every week."

*puppy dog eyes on other end of phone*"Pleeeeaaaase?"

Relax, sir, your supermarket is equipped with.... Checkout Machine!



It's not just at the supermarket, either. Sometimes you're at the library picking up an embarrassing movie that just came in. I believe in keeping human librarians employed and always checking out my stuff that way, but sometimes an exception must be made. For example, your documentary about gay activism has just arrived, and a glance around the room reveals that only the uber-conservative librarian with the icy stare is on duty. This could be deathly awkward, especially since you're in there every week like it's a Blockbuster.

Fear not, Checkout Machine now lives in libraries, too! (She doesn't have to know)



Or maybe you're out and about with a friend, and stop off at Safeway for some food. While you're there getting all the fixin's for a good meal of strawberries and fake whipped cream, you realize how this probably looks. If you stand in line to have a chashier ring you up, that means that both the casheir and the bagger might be getting the wrong impression, and you and your ladyfriend might get followed by some aspiring filmmaker. Solution to your strawberry fix and people getting the wrong idea:

The greatest invention since sliced bread (except not really. You can ring up your own pre-sliced bread with it, though): The Checkout Machine.



Let's talk about Cool Whip for a second. This is a fantastic invention. I'm pretty sure it's not actual cream, or if it is, there is a lot of other stuff in there with it. Cool Whip, unlike aerosol whipped creams, has a very low coefficient of collapse. That is I'm-pretty-sure-I-just-slept-through-math-class-ese for Cool Whip doesn't melt as fast as canned whipped creams do.

This property makes it ideal for topping desserts which must be made and then survive the journey to the barbeque inact. This propety also makes for some fun food fights, and allows it to stand fluffed in a bowl for weeks from manufacturing to consumption. Previously, making whipped cream was a very labor-intensive task, and, having no binders, your creation had a tendency to melt and run before you could really enjoy it. Seeing a problem, some redneck took the shortest route from point A (whipped cream a hassle, but delicios) to point B (whipped cream easy and cheap, but still tasty). In case you ever find yourself without a map on this route, it is somewhere near Route 66 and Everywhere, and at exit 252 you can get off and find Cool Whip. I can't speak to whether or not the Cool Whip will give you directions back to the interstate.

It makes sense that Cool Whip is a staple in the Midwest, especially, as part of the all-American diet. I can't say I've ever been to a get-together worth bein' at that didn't have Cool Whip. My aunt's and my cousins' weddings have all had Cool Whip in among the fancy "or-derves" once the officials had let out and the reception of liqour and stories began. Every good barbeque, reunion, and Thanksgiving dinner has had Cool Whip available, and at many of those even the non-Cool Whip vittles were housed in Cool Whip-brand tupperware. In case you haven't noticed, Cool Whip is as much a part of many rednecks' culture as using too much hairspray and growing a moustache (generally not the same person).

I am personally partial to aerosol sorts of whipped cream, given their different flavor, when getting whipped cream to top food with. You can't tip your head back and spray your mouth full of whipped cream from a plastic tub. Of course, you can't dip things in a spray can, and like I said, once sprayed, it has the self-life of an ice cube in summer. Hats off to the inventor of Cool Whip, you are a real redneck of genius. (I didn't just rip that off of a Bud ad). Hush now.

Speakerphone was invented for a reason, and that's not it.

Standing in line at my local Subway shop, I got to witness an odd bit of what happens when redneck behavior collides with the portable speakerphone. The man ahead of me was next up to order and since apparently he couldn't remember what his wife wanted, he put it on speakerphone and had her talk to the dude making the sandwich, who, understandably, was annoyed. She nagged on him stuff like "make sure you get enough mayo on it. Is he getting enough mayo on it?" Which left us wondering, what evil hath this man unleashed upon this unsuspecting restaurant? When you have someone order through speakerphone, anywhere, you're a redneck. You've solved your problem. You also apparently don't give a rat's ass that it's very annoying to everyone else.

It's always white folks doing this, too. I don't know why, but it's your average "Wal-Mart when it's not on rollback IS fancy" crowd that breaks cell phone ettiquette the most.

Speakerphone is excusable when you're at the pet food store and she wants to talk to you and you want to get 50 pounds of Purina in the cart. Speakerphone is not excusable in the grocery store, at restaurants or drive-ups, or in any other situation where you could use the earpiece. In fact, if you're ordering a sandwich, have her say what she wants, write it on your hand, THEN get in line.

Basically, before you hit the speakerphone button, think. I've gotten the urge to do the speakerphone thing whilst completing one of my mom's inane "call me for details" shopping lists many times, where she'll write vague things that send you all over the store, and then talk to you like you really care what frozen dinner she gets. Dinner is not a committee process. Anyway, if I can resist the urge to put it on speaker, drop it in my shirtpocket, and stroll the isles, so can you. So just think of that little story and have a laugh next time you're tempted.

Oh hells yes

I had always kind of laughed at the fantasy football guys. That is, up until I was just kind of tooling around NASCAR.com today and found the little fantasy NASCAR link. No good can probably come of this for me, but I consider myself pretty good at picking winners, so I'm giving it a try. If anyone else here happens to also do fantasy NASCAR, comment or email me-- I figure I'm not the only one who has noticed the game.

I really have way too much random knowledge.

I do. I'm trying to gather more car-related knowledge and less fish-related knowledge, so I'm going to have to share some more fish info with you to get it out of my head.

Blowfish guts are toxic, but the muscle is not.

While Canada and the U.S. generally get along on everything, there has been continued bitter dispute over North Pacific salmon waters since time immemorial. Each country has a line that they're not supposed to fish past, but we all know how well that works. So next time you order some sushi here's an exciting thought: you may be eating illegal fish.

Now, have you ever noticed that no matter who your old neighbors were and who your new neighbors are, the new ones seem worse at first? Well, let me set the scene for this one: The original owners of two 50-year old houses both sell around the same time. They had always kept to themselves, but seemed like nice respectable people. New people buy the houses. One is bought by somewhere between three and half a dozen college-age students who probably aren't in college. There are usually three cars in their driveway and one more, which could fit in the driveway, which they like to park in front of your house. This little peice of shit wannabe sports-car import makes it tough to get out of your drive, and blocks you putting your trashcan where you always have on trash day. The second house was bought by a three-generation white trash family, based on what you've seen of them-- grandma, grandpa, young mom (and no father), and at least two school-age children. They keep to themselves and don't park in odd places, but pretty soon you start finding Docshund poo in your yard (theirs is the only tiny dog on the block, so you know). Who annoys you more?

Well, in both instances, you mount a passive-agressive campaign, putting your trash can right where you always put it even though the car is way too close to it, and begin scooping up the dog poo and tossing it back on their land. None of you yeild and neighborhood staring matches are common. How does it resolve? Well, you're still getting little brown presents every day after a long time of this. As for the young punks with the car, turns out they're car guys too and you're now on good terms (with the import parked on their side of the street). Why the shift? You both sized each other up when they moved in and decided you couldn't possibly have anything in common with them and thus decided to act like some Arab states do towards Israel: ignore them and hope they'll go away. But when they were out on their porch drinking beer, you just happened to be tuning on your Oldsmobile and ya'll got to talking. Turns out they're not violent, trashing the house, orinto drugs like they looked like at first. You're not uptight squares, creepy weirdos, or nearly as insane as you looked like at first. You're both interested in getting as many miles out of your beaters as possible, and come to be something near to friends before they're out of beer and you are convinced that you don't have a compression leak. You don't mention their annoying car out front (they do ask what the turning circle of you car is and if you ever have trouble getting out of the driveway), and when you're done talking, one of the guys moves it over in front of their house. That night, you don't call the cops when their keg party (which is suprisingly non-messy come morning) gets loud. You now officially get along with these neighbors and talk sometimes when you're both hanging out on the porch on weekends.

Moral: well, you figure it out, it ain't that tough.

Now, here's a redneck moment my chemistry professor had the other day. Remember, this is a bright, college-educated guy we're talking about here. When he figured out that people were stealing his calculators in between classes, though, his solution was to duct-tape them to three foot lengths of 2x4, when he could have just locked them in his desk. That would have been no fun, though.

The grass may be greener on the other side, but it still has to be mowed

According to my friend, the world record for watermelon-seed spitting is 3.6 yards. 11 feet, people. I've never measured my best shots. But I know that as soon as watermelons are available at King Soopers, I'll be out in the backyard with a camcorder and a tape measure. I know I'm mighty good with a sunflower seed.

Believe it or not, we got on the watermelon seed topic by flipping through and making comments about an atals we found in study hall. In it, there was a picture of a man dressed in old-school Inuit gear, furs and all, riding a caribou. The caribou didn't seem suprised. Neither did the man. There is something, though, that just seems like a bad idea when it comes to hopping onto a grazing caribou. Maybe it's because "hey ya'll, watch this" are famous last words. I know some people who would try to ride a caribou after one or two beers.

U-Hauls, muscle cars, stump rot, and cooking

I'm not really sure when this turned into The Weekly Redneck Digest of Meat, Fire, Motorcycles, and Women, but it has. And I'm okay with that. I kind of like not touching my computer for a week.

So first, a story. Get used to it, I tell a lot of stories. Yesterday at the light rail Park&Ride I saw a U-Haul. Yes, a big ass van, which you can now rent for $20 a day. This made me wonder, why would anyone rent a U-Haul and then take the train to get someplace? They're obviously not moving. Then it hit me. You get headroom, space for passengers and stuff, lots of power, and it's in good condition (generally). If you get in a car wreck and have to rent without a reservation, you can only get a compact car for that price. How shameless do you have to be to rent a U-Haul as a daily driver while the shop fixes up your ride? Well, it takes a lot of nerve. I like the idea. I don't like having to ride around in an underpowered Japanese econobox, hitting my head on the rear window (all 5'4" of me) when someone else is in shotgun. That's when I miss my full-size ride, even with it's little gremlins. Those gremlins don't whack you in the head and cramp your legs. If you rent a U-Haul as a daily driver when you're not moving, you're redneck. Face it, buddy. You ought to be on a Budweiser Real Men of Genius ad. High-five.

Another story. I still have an original Xbox. I still use it. I just found my favorite game, Sega GT 2002. It had fallen behind the TV. So you ain't going to see much of my ass for a while. Send me a suggestion or comment and I'll get back to you, but only after I'm done dragging my 427, 814 horse blown '70 Chevelle. If they had Xbox live for this, I wouldn't even be going to class. Or work. You'd have to roll a grenade under my chair to get me out of there.

So I listed fire in my new description of my blog. Why? I love fire. I love watching fire. I love improving fire. I love cooking with fire. I ran into some of my old friends last weekend, and guess what we did? Yep, fire. They like to take Purell, spread it on newspaper, light it, and then scatter powder such as non-dairy creamer into the fire (like a grain-dust explosion). Not being the criminal sort, they do this on their own property on concrete. But, see, I knew we could do better. Bigger, longer-lasting fire can be achieved with rubbing alcohol. You can burn more stuff, hotter, with stump rot. Oxidizers are fun. Colors can get involved with barium, for example. You can blow things up with just rubbing alcohol. We like blowing things up, but we'll do that later. Turning a soda bottle into a gumball cannon, though, was pretty badass. We had fun with that. That's just our competitive nature: take something cool that they've done and do it better. They're probably working on something cooler right now. I'm okay with that.

So, women. One of my favorite subjects. This is going to have to be a separate post-- I've got a lot to say, but I can't think of any of it.

Motorcycles: For a few years now I've been telling my dad to excavate his crap out of the garage so we can get his motorcycles running again. Given that he's finally started listening to me about "we are going to get at least one of them restored and running before I turn 16," that looks like that could actually happen. Whoo. Classic Massachusetts iron. I also am in the market for a used dirtbike. Just FYI, if anyone happens to have one laying around in the Denver area.

Meat: I feel guilty that my friend has decided to blog about fish (God knows why), has nothing fish-related to talk about, and I know more than I should about fish. I know more than I should about a lot of things. So, here we are. One way to fish in shallow, narrow streams is to spot your dinner, sneak downstream of it, and build a rock dam all the way across the water flow. All the way. If the fish can get out downstream, you're going to be going hungry, so get it right. No need to stop the water, just make sure there are no fish-sized holes. Now, grab a big stick and sneak up (really quiet) behind the fish. Make sure your shadow never goes over or in front of it. Now, whack. Yes, whack the fish. Get it out of the water as quick as possible, too. Once you've got ahold of it and have it on shore, no need to be cruel, put the injured soon-to-be dinner down and clobber his head with a rock. No pain, instant death. Anything over three inches should be gutted. Cook and enjoy (or eat raw--I reccommend cooked). When you're done, don't be an asshole, dismantle the dam. Chuck Norris will come find you otherwise. Now copy-paste, I insist.

Also, more useless fish knowledge: Some salt-water fish are poisonous, but all freshwater fish are edible.

More food: Yes, I'm writing while hungry, can't you tell? In consideration of my readers who stick to a more suburban diet, I promise I won't discuss how tasty pigeon is, or how to cook snake, not in this post. Anyway, I've noticed that when I'm only getting food for myself, I'm a very simple person. If I want beans and ham, I'll open a can of Busch's Maple-Bacon Baked Beans (put 'em on top of your head and your tounge will beat your brains out trying to get to it), open a package of sliced ham, put the ham in the can, turn on the stove (or light a fire), and cook them both at once. Then I'll eat out of the can. But when I'm cooking for other people, I get fancy. I can get real fancy. When I make hamburgers and take them in my lunch, I literally have to fight people off, it looks and smells that good. When we have company I'll cook anything that we have on hand to order. I know a lot of recipes that are just "yeah, that looks about right", but folks love when I'm the grillmaster at the 4th of July barbeque. Seriously, come over sometime and I'll make you apple pie over a wood fire and you will want seconds.

When I'm on my own, if I want mushrooms I'll grab some mushrooms out the fridge, add butter and microwave. If I'm making mushrooms for you, you're getting sautee'd mushrooms in a freakin' root beer-pineapple glaze and carmelized apricots. I can't help it. I don't know where I got this tendency from. it's freaking me out.