Don't need no accurate terms!

The term "redneck" originates from the fact that we are generally white trash with blue collar jobs which require us to work outside, or we happen to hunt, fish, and four-wheel, enough to have essentially a perpetual sunburn. My dad has that problem. He's got a permanent sunburn in a "v" on his chest from keeping the top bottons unbottoned on his shirt when we went hiking one time. Never went away.



But we rednecks also wear mullets a lot. Short in front, long in back, covering our neck. I don't know about ya'll, but I've never gotten a sunburn through my mullet. So the literal use of the term doesn't fit. Ha!



In fact, I am two shades more tan than dracula. I don't know why. My dad burns a beet red very quickly, and my mom tans deep as can be. I don't burn or tan very much.



Don't get me wrong, both have happened, but it takes about twice as much sun exposure as most white folk, and the burn or tan fades very quickly. I met several people on the Dunes that had burnd more through SPF 15 in one day than I did in three, no sunscreen required. I'm pretty sure this is not a good thing. My dad burned through SPF 70.

I know that a sunburn happens when the UV rays have damaged cells. It's actually a mild, topical radiation burn. Tan happens when cells produce a chemical, melatonin, that helps block those rays. So if I don't burn or tan much, it either means that my cells aren't affected by the radiation as much as most people's would be, or they just don't react properly. As far as I know, I've done the kind of damage that UV can cause, but without the redness and inflammation reaction that leads to healing. Or maybe my skin just doesn't overreact. But when I do actually get a sunburn, which only happens from long periods of very intense exposure, even a mildly red one itches and burns like hell. Think poison ivy with a saltwater loofah chaser. That probably isn't good, either. But in any case, this is knida freaking me out. Anybody else got this problem?

1/1000 of a mile in 30 seconds

Sandboarding worked both better and worse than I expected. For a prototype made of skates, a shelf, and a couple of chunks of plywood, it exceeded expectations. I was pretty much the only one on the sand capable of going downhill for a distance. Trouble is, that trip downhill was always slower than just walking, and turning was impossible. I knew that sand had a higher friction coefficient than snow, but I didn't fully appreciate the difference.

I have come away from this experiment with many lessons and ideas for improvements in my design. For one thing, I would make the board much lighter. It was a bitch to carry until we fashioned a shoulder strap system. Lighter would also mean that there would be about 20 pounds less weight on the board/sand interface, meaning less friction.

The board needs to be much bigger, in fact. Preliminary calculations have shown that I would need 11 square feet of contact to get some serious speed, at least using wood. We can't make the board any longer, since then it won't fit in the trunk, so it needs to be wider. Almost three feet wide. That's not going to cut it, but it would be worth a try.

Also, sand is extremely abrasive. You knew that. I just spent four days sanding my sandboard with 80-grit the hard way, and it removed between three and five coats of latex paint (I know how many times we painted that shelf). This reinforces my descision not to use an actual snowboard, even the P.O.S. that I have, since it would have ruined it, and the odds of finding another $25 P.O.S. are slim to none. I want that board for snow. I was going to go to Wal-Mart and get some Teflon kitchen spray for the board, but further thought revealed that if steel spatulas scrape off non-stick on pans, the sand would make short work of the whole can of teflon spray. That idea was scrapped.

Steel plate seems like the logical idea, since it can be thin and strong, but the weight kinda worries me. It was suggested that we could attach a steel plate to the bottom of the wooden board and see what happens.

We knew that whatever we put on the bottom would get scratched to hell, so we had to come up with something durable and slippery. The possibility of custom-pouring a glass bottom onto a rigid steel board was tossed around. That would be hella fun, but I'm not sure it's a good idea. Our neighbors chuck enough empty bottles onto our lawn to more than make up for the glass requirement, though! If only they knew that I've been making glass nick-knacks out of them and selling 'em for a pretty penny, maybe they'd stop doing it. Nah!

Since there is always at least a 10mph prevailing wind at the Dunes, often faster, and quite a bit of flat land, I do believe that it would be an excellent place to kiteboard. That's basically kitesurfing, only on land in motorcycle gear. Falling sucks, and will rip you up! I'm tossing around the idea of putting footstraps (not boots, straps) on a board and attaching large tires. Balloon tires. The Sand Dunes Visitor Center has two sand wheelchairs. Brilliant inventions. They have huge soft rubber tires, easily two feet in diameter and eight inches across. Turns out they only take two to four pounds of pressure, and that they had to get a special pressure guage in order to be able to check them, which they got from an ATV supply store. I'm pretty sure that ATVs use inner tubes, and if so, I would be using an inner tube as the outer tires on my kiteboard. I'm a bit worried about puncture-resistance, though. Does anybody have experience on the subject? In fact, does anybody have experience with handling a power kite, or own a mountain board?

Even as it is, the sandboard was a people magnet. There's something about being both brilliant and batshit crazy that just draws people and questions. I love talking to people, even fielding questions about my various schemes. Really, don't avoid someone who's doing something that probably means they're a few grains short of a sandpile, ask 'em about it! Hot rodders may build cars because they love building cars, or driving their dream car, but we do love it when the person at the other gas pump strikes up a conversation. Whenever you invent something cool, it's nice to know you're not the only one who thinks it's cool. Or even just weird.

Der uber-pumpkin

Have you ever had a pumpkin last seven months without rotting? Neither had I, until this year. Last October, we went out to the pumpkin patch to buy a pumpkin, which we intended to carve into a jack-o-lantern. What wound up happening was we set the pumpkin in the kitchen and proceeded to walk around it while we did other things.

Such was the state of things for several months, until some time after New Years we realized that that really was a pumpkin from two months ago, and it hadn't turned to mush all over the floor yet. At that point, a friendly competition began over who could guess the date of the pumpkin molding the most accurately.

Even our furthest prediction only got us into mid-March.

So we proceeded to watch the pumpkin carefully for a few weeks. Weeks turned into a month, and a month into several. Finally, between Cinco de Mayo and Memorial Day, the pumpkin (which we had now dubbed the Uber-Pumpkin--I'd like to buy an umlaut, please?) finally got a few spots of mold. The mold didn't actually compromise the structural integrity of our friendly neighborhood uberpumpkin until Memorial Day weekend, at which point we declared an end to the experiment and proceeded to remove the toxic gourd from our back patio (we had decided to put it out there) in "the best way possible." You know what I'm getting at. Moldy Pumpkin Machete Baseball.*

Originally invented by Wes Sturr of Eastern Wyoming, the game consits of taking turns lobbing the moldy pumpkin (usually a jack-o-lantern in November, but this was a special case) at one another, and swinging at it baseball-style with a machete. Once the peices are too small to hit anymore, or all the parties are too grossed out to continue, the game is over. Whoever got the last hit wins.

We don't keep machetes around (shame on us), so we just ground a coarse edge onto a peice of steel flatstock. Ta-da!

With der uber-pumpkin eliminated, life could continue.

*I honestly thought I'd never get to use that tag again, but I actaully did.

Redneck sports

Give me a baseball bat and a baseball, both about three inches in diameter, and I can't get them to connect to save my life. Give me a broom handle and a soda can, and suddenly I have a .900 batting average. I don't get it either.

So I'm building a sandboard. I've modeled it more off of the "snurfer" than modern snowboards, but it has elemets of both. Not having bindings that I can fit my workboots in and not having snowboard boots, I decided to bolt the uppers from a pair of inline skates to the board. This way or may not work, I'll find out sometime between tomorrow and Sunday, when we go to Alamosa and I actually get it on the sand. So all ya'll ain't gonna hear from me for a while. As a matter of fact, I hope the dunes are as big as I remember them. That could be a dealbreaker.

As for the truck and the wheels from the red wagon, I have taken the regular wheels off of a longboard-type skateboard that I have in order to be less likely to be tempted to try something that will result in more road rash. What I really need is a mountainboard. Those things are cool, and much more useful and fun than regular skateboards. Plus, they don't have the same talent that skateboards have to almost break my neck.

The plan is to put the wheels from the wagon onto the longboard deck, bolt on some straps like a mountainboard of wakeboard would have, and do the land version of wakeboarding. It is really a pastime in the flatter areas of the country, to get dragged by your buddy's truck as you stand on something with wheels. In fact, I don't even need a truck, I just need two people: one to watch me from the vehicle and make sure I'm alright, and the other one to drive the vehicle. Motorcycle, truck, car, El Camino, I don't care.

Alternately, if I can figure out how to work and obtain a kite, I intend to kitesurf on land with it. That would be fun beyond words, and would even be worth driving out to the flatlands to do it. Or even hilly open space.

Listen up dumbass!

This is a public service announcement brought to you by Common Sense. If you are unfamiliar with Common Sense's portfolio, let me direct you to such stunning works as Run When You Hear Police Sirens, Get Underground When You Hear Tornado/Air-Raid Sirens, Come in Out of the Rain, Don't Smoke Near the Tanker Truck, and Stay Off Other People's Property After Dark Especially in Texas.

It has recently come to my attention that wrist injuries are by far the leading injury among snowboarders. I suppose this shouldn't suprise me, since experience has shown me that snowboarders are just as dumb as skateboarders, only snowboarders' brains are chilled, making them run even slower.

I really hate skateboarders. No, let me rephrase. I really hate skateboarders who think the ability to not fall off makes them better than anyone else. But they always forget that apparently the process of learning involved several sound smacks of the head on pavement when they calculate that opinion. Unforunately, that cooler-than-thou attitude prevails among them.

Of course, afficionados of one boardsport are likely to try and enjoy another, so it is only natural that that same keeping-up-with-the-Joneses-and-trying-to-out-dumbass-each-other crowd would be drawn to snowboarding, which is basically skateboarding, only different. Both cultures seem to love the idea of doing tricks, or as I like to call them, temporarily breaking up with the ground and then getting back together, only now she's pissed. I've skateboarded. I've snowboarded. They're not the same. Don't tell me they are.

Of course, when I say I've skateboarded, I mean to say that I have gotten one foot onto a skateboard, and sometimes two, before going some small distance and landing on my ass.

In both skateboarding and snowboarding, it is commonly considered cool to teach yourself. I think that's really just a great way to prove yourself to be a real world-class tool. Formal lessons? Fuck those. I'll just ride up this mountain strapped to a board which changes the physics of my body entirely, then discover that I have to come back down somehow. That somehow is probably by spending most of my time on my face, ass, or hands, and spending very little actually upright and in control.

Ever seen a car parked on a hill, but without the parking brake set? Seen it slowly take off and pick up speed down that hill, all the while being an unguided two-ton missle? Unlike in skateboarding, where you run out of hill, in snowboarding, the inexperienced boarder has basically made himself into the human version of that car. Trouble is, the car doesn't unexpectedly catch an edge and slam windsheild-first into the pavement. People do.

People who never learned to fall properly, which is an accurate desription for most participants in all land-based boardsports, will stick out their hands in front of them when falling. If they fall backwards, their stick their arms out behind them. No, no, NO!

I've done it couple of times. Precisely twice. Both times I failed to catch myself onto my wrists, for which I consider myself lucky, and instead injured my shoulder such that I couldn't even lift a glass with that hand for a couple of weeks. Every other time I've fallen, I've tucked my arms in. It's only when you're tired or uninformed that you will want to stcik a hand out. That will do one of two things: one, it will put a tremendous shock through your wrist and quite easily break it (give up that piano, guitar, drum, or video game career!), or two, it will act as a large lever and turn you into a human slot machine. It will wrench your shoulder back and leave you in too much pain to move, eyes rolled back in your head, making all sorts of strange and otherworldly noises, not to mention the new and creative string of obscenities you will suddenly find yourself employing. You've just hit the inconvenience jackpot!

It is everyone's natural instinct to stick a hand out when falling. I dohn't really know how this got naturally selected, since sticking a hand out never results in something good.

When you catch an edge snowboarding, it is like you have been tackled by a pro football defensive lineman who hates your guts. Really, try it when you're going down a slope at speeds otherwise only attainable in a car. Not gonna do that again, are ya?

But it happens again and again as you're learning, and as you traverse terrain you don't know, even as a hot-shit "expert." Especially icy spring slopes. But if you fall once onto your hand and once the proper way, you'll immediately learn what not to do. No more having to think about it. Trouble is, nobody seems to even know how to fall, let alone employ it.

Pull your damn hands in!

Now you got no excuse. You know what will happen if you keep falling the way you have been, and you know how to properly fall. Flailing about like an uninformed animal and breaking your wrist is not cool, and will not attract the ski bunnies.

Besides, they're already in the hot tub with me.

You coming to the rave in the DC-9 tomorrow night?

"We laid rubber on the Georgia asphalt. Got a little crazy but we never got caught. Down by the river on a Friday night, pyramid of cans in the pale moonlight. Talkin' 'bout cars and dreamin' 'bout women. Never had a plan, just a-livin' for the minute!" --Alan Jackson, Chattahoochee

_____________________________

It can be incredibly stressful to be in a combat situation for months on end. A lot of the time, the only way to stay sane is to go a little bit crazy. What would you do when you're off-duty? How about on-duty?

Some pilots, just for the fun of it, would get buck naked over Kuwait in the first Gulf War. Ever been in the cockpit of a fighter? From the looks of it, that would be tough but not impossible. That's what the cruise control is for.

On the Carl Vinson, pilots and trainees joke that the soft serve ice cream that comes out of the machine in the mess hall is dog feces. Now that I think about it, the way it comes out of the machine does bear a striking resemblence. I don't think I'll have soft-serve ice cream for a while.

Dark humor really is the only way to deal with the fear and stress of walking the line between life and death, where the only way you get to stay on this side of it is by working out your own salvation. When you're climbing a rock face that will take you more than one day, you'd have to sleep in a suspended sleeping bag called a bivvy sack. Mountain rescue workers call body bags "long term bivvy sacks." macabre, but necessary.

So that's really the only way I can explain these guys. They may be flying a mission, but that doesn't mean that they can't goof off a little, too. I think this is a very good reason that military airplanes should not have CD players. Of course, tank guys found a way to patch a CD player into the onboard audio, so you never know...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dGl0LNohfb4

The embed code is acting up again. Just for reference, that is a C-130 cargo plane the're flying. Or not flying...

Spare some soap?

It just hit me that my parents keep a glass jar full of soap next to the bathroom trash can. I've walked past it for years. I've stubbed my toe on it. But it just registered that it is the soap equivalent of a spare change jar, only more useless.

Every time we'd empty one of those big jugs of Softsoap, we'd trun it upside down on top of this spare soap jar and let the last few drops drip out. Over the past 15 years, we've saved--wait for it--alomst a half a gallon of soap! A buck-seventy-five! And we never have used this soap, either. In the process we've stubbed our toes countless times, wasted probably what amounts to an hour just trying to get the one bottle to balance on top of the other, and managed to totally forget about what this little redneck modern-art sculpture was originally for. Maybe we're saving it for the apocalypse, or when the store is sold out of soap. Yeah, right. You spend three decades dead broke poor, though, and I guess old habits die hard.

I got to thinking, what is this even here for? Nobody could tell me. It just seemed like a good idea to keep doing. Why are we keeping this? If we got rid of it we'd have a lot more space.

So of course I emptied the trash and turned another bottle upside down on the jar.

Gotta be good for something, right?

Apparently I'm a freak.

I recently had to fly to Sacramento for some urgent family business. That meant four hours on a plane each way. I hate airports. Last year I flew back from D.C. through Chicago-O'Hare. I'm never going there again. O'Hare, I mean. Even if that means a five-stop redirect. That airport has the largest number of delays, and those delays are on average the longest in the country. It's up north and near enough to the lakes to get very consistent foul weather. And y'know what the best part is? The seats they have at the gates are not designed for long-term seating. They're not like the seats at Dallas, Denver, Sacramento, San Deigo, Washington-Reagan, Phoenix, Ontario, LAX, and all the other airports not managed by Catbert. The seats at O'Hare are designed to get you up and out of that seat as quickly as possible and, since your plane still isn't here, into the shops to spend money you can't afford to part with.

That said, I love flying. I'd rather not have had to fly at all these past couple of days, but you take what life gives you and make the best of it. And that means the opportunity to enjoy being in a large metal object on top of thousands of gallons of fuel, going 600 miles an hour eight miles above the earth. That scares most people shitless. It makes me happy. I don't know why. Ever since I saw an airliner coming in for a landing, I've liked that concept. Then when I got to fly in one I discovered that there really is no feeling quite like the one you get just after the plane has left the runway, where it settles and then --whoosh!-- powers into the sky. That is really an unmatched feeling of raw power.

Flying is such a fragile state. You're either flying or you're not. There's no grey area. If any of the precious set of circumstances that sustain flight go awry, the flight ceases and the forcible reaquaintance with the ground begins. There's not a damn thing you as a human can do about it. Much like life itself. But you're high enough in the air that you get to enjoy the ride in a somewhat macabre way. Every time you leave the earth in an airplane (or on a motorcycle, for that matter), you are gambling. You have bet everything you have that that fragile set of circumstances will hold. And that's actually kinda comforting. It's impossible to have a bad flight that landed in the intended manner.

But here's what's really bizarre. Apparently I'm the only person on the planet that finds airplane seats comfortable. I'm not talking about just the sort of comfortable where you can live with it, but the kind of comfortable where you begin to seriously consider buying one and installing it in your car. Really comfortable. And I mean coach seats. Not even business class. I flew Southwest this week, which is all one class and open seating, but even on United where coach packs you in like you're in the backseat of a mid-90s extended cab pickup, it's comfy. Ya'll can shoot me with the tranquilizer dart, radio-tag me, and take me in for further study now if you want.

This wasn't always the case. When I was younger I practically had to schedule a chairopractor visit at each end as a part of a vacation. Now I'm five foot four and not getting any taller (I come from a large family of small people). Seriously, our family reunions have an average height of 5'5".

My point is, airplane seats were apparently designed for someone with my precise build and set of bone/soft tissue injuries. For everyone else, they are desgined to give you those injuries. Seats in cars nowadays are like forward controls on a motorcycle--a big fuck-you to short people, since both assume you're at least 5'6". The one pleasant exception is the Chevy HHR, which has sensible seats and a headrest that doesn't actively attempt to break your neck. Seats on airplanes are a big fuck-you to all human beings, or at least they're supposed to be. I'm sure if the airlines read this, they'll commission a redesign of the seats. But until they do, the infamous airplane seat is incredibly comfortable to me.

It was funny, when we got into San Diego, I stood up to let the people next to me out. Quickly. In the middle of this motion, I began to anticipate a sound whack on the head from the overhead bins. As it turned out, the bins were barely higher than the top of my head and I did not crack myself in the skull. I did literally come two paper-thicknesses away from it, though.

Wild, huh? I never woulda thunk, but this little discovery of being the same size as the crash dummy they designed the plane around means that the actual act of flying is a blast.

Well, except for the bathroom. So damn tiny you can't even put both feet next to each other, but have to put one foot half on top of the other.

Laundry day... and the next three days

Sunday is laundry day. On sundays there is not a cloth towel to be found anywhere in the house. So of course it is logical to hang up a replacement towel. But after you've cleaned the towels, should the paper towel still be on the towel rack on Thursday? You be the judge.



I think it's classy, though, that my dad actually went to the trouble of hanging the paper towel on the rack, rather than just letting us exert the tremendous effort of PULLING ONE OFF THE ROLL that is literally four inches above this towel rack.

It didn't even register for me that a paper towel on the towel rack might be a bit odd until after I had washed and dried my hands, at which point I had to grab a camera and do a writeup.

Oh good god, it's brilliant.

So I was clicking around on Instructables, and I ran across a guy who wanted to heat his pool. One of the commentors pointed him to this site. I evny the fact that I didn't think of it, but it is something I would have invented on my own if I wasn't okay with having cold water when it's hot as hell here. I just wear a wetsuit.

The guy who wanted advice on how to heat his pool wanted to put a 55 gallon drum in it so it's just above water level and light a huge fire in it. Big fire in your pool. Brilliant. I told him to seal the barrel, pipe in compressed air, and submerge the barrel, therfore getting the pool hotter faster. The concept of (gasp) a proper pool heater has not been mentioned. Of course, sealing and submerging the barrel takes away most of the fun of having a bonfire in the middle of your pool.

If we ever have an inground pool installed instead of our aboveground vinyl Thing, I'll make a point of biulding in a firebox. I want a fire in the middle of my pool, too. I do declare that's the best idea since flashpowder in small paper balls shipped in unpadded boxes. (a.k.a. Popper fireworks). Maybe I'll even install a full barbeque firepit in the middle of the pool. Forget swim-up bars, how about a swim-up rib roast?