travel the world with beasts in your trunk: buy a wagon.
(I've been listening to MUCH James Harriet, often while sleeping, so my inner monologue features constant mention of silliness like pouring one’s self a measure and dapper dreadful and champion splendor, all delivered in a perfect english metronome. It's annoying, really.)
fff is something my family invented in the late 80's and stands for "Forced Family Fun."
(one of those three f's is meant to be ironic, James.)
Monday, November 29, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
Abstract
Arc welding machines are large, heavy devices that transform an alternating current (AC) input into a high-current, low-voltage, direct current (DC) output. These machines traditionally require electromagnetic transformers that account for the large size and weight. While the cost of high power silicon devices has been decreasing, the cost of steal and copper required for electromagnetic components has been increasing. This parity has created an opportunity for a cost effective DC switching welder to be introduced to the consumer market. Under the commission of a local welding equipment manufacturer, this study sets out to develop and prototype the electronics necessary for an affordable, portable battery-powered welding machine. The design is implemented with a high current buck switching circuit as well as an assortment of feedback, control and safety circuitry necessary to complete the product. Using simulation, bench validation and the bounds of real world cost limitations, this project will develop a market-ready welder.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Truck update
Though undocumented, i have been putting a tiny amount of time and money into the ratty rat truck. (Or as some call her, "El Burrito.") It doesn't have much interior, which is how i like it, but I did miss having a light in the cab. So i decided to build a rat rod appropriate LED light using the rear dome from an old bicycle light.
Departing from the norm, I decided to use small, low power LEDs rather than the usual face-melting monster lights that would require fans and heat management and all that noise. Simple components with a nice cap on to add the fancy "Dimming" effect that seems to be all the rage in them cars from this generation.
Then i built a bend arm using a ball-and-lock jiggy from one of those "helping hands" project holders. And because the truck has no head liner, I'm an aspiring weld-master and this is a rat truck, i done welded the mount in place.
And then i gave it a switch.
And now it works like a champ. Sturdy, metal, bright and Low power with 360 degrees of rotation. Made with parts from the basement. Biggity.
Departing from the norm, I decided to use small, low power LEDs rather than the usual face-melting monster lights that would require fans and heat management and all that noise. Simple components with a nice cap on to add the fancy "Dimming" effect that seems to be all the rage in them cars from this generation.
Then i built a bend arm using a ball-and-lock jiggy from one of those "helping hands" project holders. And because the truck has no head liner, I'm an aspiring weld-master and this is a rat truck, i done welded the mount in place.
And then i gave it a switch.
And now it works like a champ. Sturdy, metal, bright and Low power with 360 degrees of rotation. Made with parts from the basement. Biggity.
Stupid 7
Stupid 7
Why are fractions of 7 so much harder than the other 8 digits?
1/1 = 1. This gets better, I swear.
1/2 = Half. Its a half. See my point yet?
1/3 = A Third. .3333 forever. Well known.
1/4 = A Quarter. Half a Half. Also Currency.
1/5 = 20% -> 0.20
1/6 = Probably second place to the Stupid 7, but just half a third. 0.17ish
1/7 = WHO THE FUCK KNOWS?
1/8 = Half a quarter. Mental math. 0.125
1/9 = Anything over 9 is that anything repeating. 2/9? 0.22222. Also, a third of a third.
Grad school is almost over. I feel... Different
Why are fractions of 7 so much harder than the other 8 digits?
1/1 = 1. This gets better, I swear.
1/2 = Half. Its a half. See my point yet?
1/3 = A Third. .3333 forever. Well known.
1/4 = A Quarter. Half a Half. Also Currency.
1/5 = 20% -> 0.20
1/6 = Probably second place to the Stupid 7, but just half a third. 0.17ish
1/7 = WHO THE FUCK KNOWS?
1/8 = Half a quarter. Mental math. 0.125
1/9 = Anything over 9 is that anything repeating. 2/9? 0.22222. Also, a third of a third.
Grad school is almost over. I feel... Different
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
Do the Robot
Most of you have probably seen this by now.
Holy shit.
Fortunately I'm here to read between the lines for you baby birds. Unlike most robot uprisings, this is a good thing for men.
(Let me roll up my sleeves here and put on my "World's Greatest Chauvinist Pig" trucker cap)
See, once sex bots become as realistic as a flesh and blood woman, it will completely change the man/female sexual dynamic. Hot chick's social value will sink like when one of these damned robots falls into the deep end of the pool, This will be particularly true for annoying and/or stupid girls. Overnight there will be a whole population of women that are no longer subjected to the non-stop, slobbering advances of your average male slob. It will be like Every woman is shifted down two spots on the 10-scale.
But that's not all!
The sociological landscape will thrown into complete disarray in (almost) all the best ways. If they can build a robot that recreates the female body in every way, perfectly (or more likely, better than perfect) Pollution, war, douche-baggery, violence, religious tom-foolery... it will all fall off when your average middle-class a-hole can save his pennies for a few years and by himself a virgin that doesn't require him to don a dynamite vest. What the government SHOULD be doing is subsidizing this research to undercut the market cost of these things and prevent the possible (likely?) riots when that same middle-class A-hole can't afford the thing.
Given a half a generation or so of acquaintance and refinement, and us old guys will become the minority, a rare breed that prefers sex "the old fashioned way" and as such highly saught after in a world gone crazy with sex deprived Alpha females fighting for attention in a sea of sex-bots.
...
what just happened? I think i blacked out for a few minutes.
Holy shit.
Fortunately I'm here to read between the lines for you baby birds. Unlike most robot uprisings, this is a good thing for men.
(Let me roll up my sleeves here and put on my "World's Greatest Chauvinist Pig" trucker cap)
See, once sex bots become as realistic as a flesh and blood woman, it will completely change the man/female sexual dynamic. Hot chick's social value will sink like when one of these damned robots falls into the deep end of the pool, This will be particularly true for annoying and/or stupid girls. Overnight there will be a whole population of women that are no longer subjected to the non-stop, slobbering advances of your average male slob. It will be like Every woman is shifted down two spots on the 10-scale.
But that's not all!
The sociological landscape will thrown into complete disarray in (almost) all the best ways. If they can build a robot that recreates the female body in every way, perfectly (or more likely, better than perfect) Pollution, war, douche-baggery, violence, religious tom-foolery... it will all fall off when your average middle-class a-hole can save his pennies for a few years and by himself a virgin that doesn't require him to don a dynamite vest. What the government SHOULD be doing is subsidizing this research to undercut the market cost of these things and prevent the possible (likely?) riots when that same middle-class A-hole can't afford the thing.
Given a half a generation or so of acquaintance and refinement, and us old guys will become the minority, a rare breed that prefers sex "the old fashioned way" and as such highly saught after in a world gone crazy with sex deprived Alpha females fighting for attention in a sea of sex-bots.
...
what just happened? I think i blacked out for a few minutes.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Which one is the real world
Editor's Note: I wrote this last week after returning from a weekend of awesome to a the familiar world of bullshit life maintenance. I'm not sure why i didn't hit "publish" then, but i suspect it had something to do with lack of sleep and grad school stress. I eventually finished the labs but didn't do very well on the quiz, but it was well worth the triumphs on the track.
I'm having a hard time focusing my brain back to the mundane day to day activities of the real world. To my brain, I'm still driving; racing a weekend's worth of endurance race. Still wearing a fire proof suit, strapped tightly into a metal box built by the team and I. Driving into corners at maximum speed knowing the brakes that I rebuilt along with the suspension that I installed would probably hold THIS car faster around the corner than any other vehicle around me. This is important information, especially at turn 11 because I also know that this motor is mostly untouched since that day back around the winter of 1993 when some Asian man (or lady) compiled its economy parts and as such, it cannot be relied upon for any manner of acceleration once we hit the front straight. But again, I'll be okay if I just brake later into this turn and carry more speed than everyone else. This late-braking, high speed plan does not of course account for a pink Camaro spinning out deep in the turn I was entering. I don't realize this until I'm approaching 80mph, trying to brake later than an MR-2, and the car a few yards in front of me locked up his brakes. Only slightly panicked, I too stand on my own tired, hot, over sized brakes, immediately seizing the front tires, stalling the engine and wearing two perfectly flat bald spots into the front tires. Turns out I was too busy minding the large, panoramic rear-view mirror for impending rear-end collisions and as such, failed to mind the clutch.
A 10th of a moment later I was coasting past the backwards-facing Camaro, noting it's orientation as the cause of my grief, and restarting the engine so as to take back lost positions.
You see, this story really starts Friday morning, when we leave the house and drive a normal car- a station wagon- 6 hours to the race track. Or maybe it starts thursday night when we pack that station wagon full of gear and tools. Possibly even the summer spent rebuilding the car or the summer before that, but its hard to say for sure. Regardless, the weekend it turns out, encompasses the lion's share of the story and it tells of the technical inspections and the building up of campsites; Cooking food, building fires, meeting up with friends and setting to rotating tires and making last minute repairs. But they are the hours spent in the car that my brain can't undock from; instances Like the one above when the system became overwhelmed by sensory data and in trying to control a world of entropy with shear willpower alone, achieved a meditative state of instantanious decision making. One void of conjecture or even the always present internal dialogue. At what point did my status quo become an impossibly small envelope inches from junk-racecars, throwing myself into squeeling turns two and three cars wide at the very real and very physical edge of grip? And that's the problem, really (if you can call it that): A series of timeless moments on a looped replay fighting for my attention.
We didn't win, per say, but we were the best loser. There was an award and a brief meeting but we were too busy to celebrate. We all had a beer because it seemed like the right thing to do but before I could finish I think it was lost in the confusion of packing up tools and loading a race car. We said goodbye and we drove home, exhausted. I returned to past due lab reports and quiz material that had not been studied. Real life moved in from all directions but the loops in my brain remain. I see them when i'm driving to work in the slow lane and when i'm sitting in a computer lab. And this is why I can't make my brain summarize and report an electronics lab from last week, detailing intricacies I can't quite recall. This is why the work world and the school world have no volume left.
If you're interested you can see the action here, from inside the car that caused the madness. The first paragraph above takes place between the 31 second mark where I can be seen coming into the frame and the 39 second mark where I coast away trying to restart the engine.
I'm having a hard time focusing my brain back to the mundane day to day activities of the real world. To my brain, I'm still driving; racing a weekend's worth of endurance race. Still wearing a fire proof suit, strapped tightly into a metal box built by the team and I. Driving into corners at maximum speed knowing the brakes that I rebuilt along with the suspension that I installed would probably hold THIS car faster around the corner than any other vehicle around me. This is important information, especially at turn 11 because I also know that this motor is mostly untouched since that day back around the winter of 1993 when some Asian man (or lady) compiled its economy parts and as such, it cannot be relied upon for any manner of acceleration once we hit the front straight. But again, I'll be okay if I just brake later into this turn and carry more speed than everyone else. This late-braking, high speed plan does not of course account for a pink Camaro spinning out deep in the turn I was entering. I don't realize this until I'm approaching 80mph, trying to brake later than an MR-2, and the car a few yards in front of me locked up his brakes. Only slightly panicked, I too stand on my own tired, hot, over sized brakes, immediately seizing the front tires, stalling the engine and wearing two perfectly flat bald spots into the front tires. Turns out I was too busy minding the large, panoramic rear-view mirror for impending rear-end collisions and as such, failed to mind the clutch.
A 10th of a moment later I was coasting past the backwards-facing Camaro, noting it's orientation as the cause of my grief, and restarting the engine so as to take back lost positions.
You see, this story really starts Friday morning, when we leave the house and drive a normal car- a station wagon- 6 hours to the race track. Or maybe it starts thursday night when we pack that station wagon full of gear and tools. Possibly even the summer spent rebuilding the car or the summer before that, but its hard to say for sure. Regardless, the weekend it turns out, encompasses the lion's share of the story and it tells of the technical inspections and the building up of campsites; Cooking food, building fires, meeting up with friends and setting to rotating tires and making last minute repairs. But they are the hours spent in the car that my brain can't undock from; instances Like the one above when the system became overwhelmed by sensory data and in trying to control a world of entropy with shear willpower alone, achieved a meditative state of instantanious decision making. One void of conjecture or even the always present internal dialogue. At what point did my status quo become an impossibly small envelope inches from junk-racecars, throwing myself into squeeling turns two and three cars wide at the very real and very physical edge of grip? And that's the problem, really (if you can call it that): A series of timeless moments on a looped replay fighting for my attention.
We didn't win, per say, but we were the best loser. There was an award and a brief meeting but we were too busy to celebrate. We all had a beer because it seemed like the right thing to do but before I could finish I think it was lost in the confusion of packing up tools and loading a race car. We said goodbye and we drove home, exhausted. I returned to past due lab reports and quiz material that had not been studied. Real life moved in from all directions but the loops in my brain remain. I see them when i'm driving to work in the slow lane and when i'm sitting in a computer lab. And this is why I can't make my brain summarize and report an electronics lab from last week, detailing intricacies I can't quite recall. This is why the work world and the school world have no volume left.
If you're interested you can see the action here, from inside the car that caused the madness. The first paragraph above takes place between the 31 second mark where I can be seen coming into the frame and the 39 second mark where I coast away trying to restart the engine.
Saturday, October 02, 2010
A new member of the family!
As you all know I am a practicing Quiver Full. And as such, once the means were available, i was obligated to increase my vehicle count by one.
His name is El Burrito. (I know, its stupid, but this is what happens when someone watches "Machete" and then strolls up when you're flexing your new wheels. I wanted to call it "old reliable and easy to work on" but it didn't have the staying power of "El Burrito.")
4 cylinders, 5 speeds, 2 wheeldrive and built in 1988. (Though the engine is from 90, allegedly). Counting the Caddy and the Dynasty, this is the 3rd American car I've owned from 1988, meaning that must have been a hell of a year.
Of course the nay-sayers will ask "why would you buy such an absurd vehicle to drive in the snowy winters of OH?" to which i would respond "come closer so i can spit on you."
His name is El Burrito. (I know, its stupid, but this is what happens when someone watches "Machete" and then strolls up when you're flexing your new wheels. I wanted to call it "old reliable and easy to work on" but it didn't have the staying power of "El Burrito.")
4 cylinders, 5 speeds, 2 wheeldrive and built in 1988. (Though the engine is from 90, allegedly). Counting the Caddy and the Dynasty, this is the 3rd American car I've owned from 1988, meaning that must have been a hell of a year.
Of course the nay-sayers will ask "why would you buy such an absurd vehicle to drive in the snowy winters of OH?" to which i would respond "come closer so i can spit on you."
Friday, October 01, 2010
Reasons you Shouldn't go to Panera Bread...
...During Breast Cancer Awareness Weekend
This weekend Panera bread will be donating 100% of their profits to some tit-centric organization. Or so I hear. If you're the kind of person that cares about this type of thing, you probably got an email, but i was unaware of this fact before heading out for lunch today.
- Pink Balloons tied to cash registers obstruct menu.
- Cups for water too small.
- Slow service due to abnormally high number of middle aged female customers.
- Pink Strawberry smoothie carries unintended political message.
- A lot of breast awareness talk. No breast awareness walk.
This weekend Panera bread will be donating 100% of their profits to some tit-centric organization. Or so I hear. If you're the kind of person that cares about this type of thing, you probably got an email, but i was unaware of this fact before heading out for lunch today.
- Pink Balloons tied to cash registers obstruct menu.
- Cups for water too small.
- Slow service due to abnormally high number of middle aged female customers.
- Pink Strawberry smoothie carries unintended political message.
- A lot of breast awareness talk. No breast awareness walk.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Blogging: Like talking to yourself
Remember when everyday was spent with your best friends? When did life become devoid of significant human interaction?
...
Wake up alone, have brief words with an animal that behaves like a toddler on Red Bull, exchange mutual looks of confusion. Drive to work, listen to voices from machine. Check emails, read internet, stare at wall.
Idle chatter with coworkers about coworker things; That is, sometimes the things that conservative, engineering-minded, middle-age, middle-class white guys from small towns like to talk about... but most of the time about work. Read internet
Go to lunch, eat alone, read internet.
Go to school, listen to professor, sit silently with a group of soon to be conservative, engineering-minded, middle-age, middle-class brown guys from small towns.
Go home, eat alone, read internet.
Go to coffee shop, exchange hollow pleasantries with barista, do homework alone, read internet.
"Sleep! that's where I'm a viking"
...
My average daily net time in a real-life conversational exchange is surely less than 1 hour, but more importantly, average net SIGNIFICANT real-life exchange is less than 5min, with most days being zero.
I grow tired of the endless cycle of facebook, text messages and email.
Perhaps a crime spree involving a stolen El Camino and a pair of baristas!
...
Wake up alone, have brief words with an animal that behaves like a toddler on Red Bull, exchange mutual looks of confusion. Drive to work, listen to voices from machine. Check emails, read internet, stare at wall.
Idle chatter with coworkers about coworker things; That is, sometimes the things that conservative, engineering-minded, middle-age, middle-class white guys from small towns like to talk about... but most of the time about work. Read internet
Go to lunch, eat alone, read internet.
Go to school, listen to professor, sit silently with a group of soon to be conservative, engineering-minded, middle-age, middle-class brown guys from small towns.
Go home, eat alone, read internet.
Go to coffee shop, exchange hollow pleasantries with barista, do homework alone, read internet.
"Sleep! that's where I'm a viking"
...
My average daily net time in a real-life conversational exchange is surely less than 1 hour, but more importantly, average net SIGNIFICANT real-life exchange is less than 5min, with most days being zero.
I grow tired of the endless cycle of facebook, text messages and email.
Perhaps a crime spree involving a stolen El Camino and a pair of baristas!
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Thursday, September 09, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
On turning 30
So you've been burdened with an arbitrary assessment of your oldness, namely, a three in the tens-digit of your age. At times like these its good to take stock and tally the score.
The age test:
1) Hair: Longer than ever
2) Sex: Doing better than highschool
3) Fast cars: Check
4) Rock 'n Roll: Not a Katie Perry fan but Ke$ha's cool...
5) Acting a fool: At least once a week
6) Physical fitness: Why am i always sore when i wake up? (see 2?)
7) Relationship with food: WHY AM I SO SOFT IN THE MIDDLE PARTS?
8) Freedom to run off into the woods: Sure, but it sounds like too much work. Can't I just watch Cougar Town and go to sleep in my comfy OH GOD I'M 30!
Well, there you have it; science, folks and it don't lie. You're acting like a 30 year old. The only solution is a party. Something epic that forever cast a likeness of your youth in the minds of generations to come. It won't be easy but being awesome never is.
First, you're going to need a destination. I choose DC because it was centrally located, offered excellent surroundings and featured access to a luxury apartment. Second and more importantly, you need a crack team of experts to help revisit your youth. This is not about reliving your 20's (remember when you gave hand jobs for grocery money and often spent the night studying in the library?) but instead fiercely focusing on the best parts of life. Rather than blindly carpet bombing and hoping to get luckily, you'll use the wings of experience to carry out a precision strike, hitting only the very best life has to offer. And for this, you'll need people with age and experience but also a flair for crazy.
Our core team consisted of Chesto the Ninja, Stos the Greek, The Physicist, Gay Andrew, C-5 Sally and me, Sophist. This core team was then able to integrate their own, respective peoples, once we were on the ground in DC. The weekend went something like this:
Chesto arrives in Ohio Wednesday night and we immediately start telling lies and drinking beers. We meet up with some locals and entertain them by send a few items into a parallel dimension. Thursday morning we drive east, stopping only in a Pennsylvania J.C. Penny to buy button up shirts so we'll blend in with the DC natives. We arrive just in time to meet the others + extras at a semi-posh DC restaurant. We drink, we eat, we refresh and we retire after a long day of travel, ready to start the weekend.
Friday Chesto, myself and Gay Andrew set off to explore. (Editors Note: As far as i know, Gay Andrew doesn't have an actual alias and is in fact married to a woman. But once a man has grabbed at my crotch more than twice my brains goes about automatically filing him in the following format: {name}, Gay) Are travels would take us to the White House, Lincoln Memorial, various war monuments and most importantly, the Washington Monument, where we would meet The Greek.
Stos the Greek is a mountain of a man: Larger than life and twice as hairy. He lives vicariously through himself, his beard alone has experienced more than lesser men's entire body and he knows this town inside out. Now that the crew was falling into place it seemed obvious that we would strike right for the heart of the city. We made our way to the Pentagon.
HOLY SHIT THEY LET US INSIDE THE PENTAGON. I could tell you about it, but they'd cut my thumbs off. lets just say we lounged in the middle part.
Having penetrated the government's 5-sided center, we rallied and caught up with C-5 Sally (who isn't a figurative Sally but is a literal Sally). The core group was together at last so we grabbed the bag of fancy cigars that someone had gifted us (surely after hearing about our awesome) and made haste for the wood-lined, leather bound cigar bar called Kelly's Back Room. There we drank stiff drink and smoked full bodied cigars. It was Friday night and the weekend was in full effect. A warming happiness swept over us as we lounged, puffed and marveled at how far we'd come. And we still had Saturday ahead of us!
I can't really describe Saturday. It warrants a book. I choose to fall back on lists:
Boob Cup Cakes: I think this will be a yearly birthday tradition now. I. LOVE. CUP CAKES. also, i love boobs. There it is. I'm an adult, and i want a delicious cake product that reminds me of breasts. you know what else? Other people love boob cup cakes too. it's true, even girls. It makes them think about all the great times they've had with their own boobs, i think. Plus, it's a cup cake. Are you writing this down?
The metro: It's awesome until it breaks
Pre-partying: This is where the size of our party became obvious. 12 people? 16? I don't even know but there was more girls than guys and that makes both sexes happy. More importantly, every single person in our group was a rock star. I'm talking above average, good looking, funny, smart and probably trained to kill. Editors Note to the Physicist: In the future, please refrain from offering viewing of my tattoos to anymore strange women. I have a very specific and proven technique that needs to be followed, thus allowing me to negotiate a beneficial arrangement. You can find my work in the "I'll show you mine if you show me yours" section of the library.
Kelly's Irish Pub: They get good you drunk. Also find cell phone morning.
If i had to sum up Saturday, it would look something like this:
Sunday we ate at the Capital City Cafe and revisited the events of the weekend. "Did that really happen?" "Yes."
So there ya go. 30 ain't so bad when you and your friends are awesome.
Fortunately, the madness didn't end there. Following the weekend above was the actual observance of my First Annual 29th Birthday, which happened mid-week. Then there was picking up of the Physicist's new-used car. (I'll give you a hint: its turbo, its a wagon, its got a 5spd, its Swedish and its mine by proxy.) And the week following will find us exploring Oregon and winning at weddings.
After all that I've got that college thing I do.
Editor's Final Note: Since free time is so precious and scattered, i typically write these lengthier posts over a long period, revisiting them until the product is saleable. I was looking back through the archives and realized a few drafts existed that never made it to print. Here's one from the first half of 2009 that I titled "Trying to remember"
I'm pretty sure i remember this weekend; Not a bad life. It probably never made it off the drawing board because the stories weren't particularly noteworthy in anyway other than an attempt to document an average good weekend. I Also have one from even further back called "online dating profile" where i constructed an online dating profile that would represent what i WANTED to say about myself, but it was a little too dark for prime time. Maybe someday I'll publish that too.
The age test:
1) Hair: Longer than ever
2) Sex: Doing better than highschool
3) Fast cars: Check
4) Rock 'n Roll: Not a Katie Perry fan but Ke$ha's cool...
5) Acting a fool: At least once a week
6) Physical fitness: Why am i always sore when i wake up? (see 2?)
7) Relationship with food: WHY AM I SO SOFT IN THE MIDDLE PARTS?
8) Freedom to run off into the woods: Sure, but it sounds like too much work. Can't I just watch Cougar Town and go to sleep in my comfy OH GOD I'M 30!
Well, there you have it; science, folks and it don't lie. You're acting like a 30 year old. The only solution is a party. Something epic that forever cast a likeness of your youth in the minds of generations to come. It won't be easy but being awesome never is.
First, you're going to need a destination. I choose DC because it was centrally located, offered excellent surroundings and featured access to a luxury apartment. Second and more importantly, you need a crack team of experts to help revisit your youth. This is not about reliving your 20's (remember when you gave hand jobs for grocery money and often spent the night studying in the library?) but instead fiercely focusing on the best parts of life. Rather than blindly carpet bombing and hoping to get luckily, you'll use the wings of experience to carry out a precision strike, hitting only the very best life has to offer. And for this, you'll need people with age and experience but also a flair for crazy.
Our core team consisted of Chesto the Ninja, Stos the Greek, The Physicist, Gay Andrew, C-5 Sally and me, Sophist. This core team was then able to integrate their own, respective peoples, once we were on the ground in DC. The weekend went something like this:
Chesto arrives in Ohio Wednesday night and we immediately start telling lies and drinking beers. We meet up with some locals and entertain them by send a few items into a parallel dimension. Thursday morning we drive east, stopping only in a Pennsylvania J.C. Penny to buy button up shirts so we'll blend in with the DC natives. We arrive just in time to meet the others + extras at a semi-posh DC restaurant. We drink, we eat, we refresh and we retire after a long day of travel, ready to start the weekend.
Friday Chesto, myself and Gay Andrew set off to explore. (Editors Note: As far as i know, Gay Andrew doesn't have an actual alias and is in fact married to a woman. But once a man has grabbed at my crotch more than twice my brains goes about automatically filing him in the following format: {name}, Gay) Are travels would take us to the White House, Lincoln Memorial, various war monuments and most importantly, the Washington Monument, where we would meet The Greek.
Stos the Greek is a mountain of a man: Larger than life and twice as hairy. He lives vicariously through himself, his beard alone has experienced more than lesser men's entire body and he knows this town inside out. Now that the crew was falling into place it seemed obvious that we would strike right for the heart of the city. We made our way to the Pentagon.
HOLY SHIT THEY LET US INSIDE THE PENTAGON. I could tell you about it, but they'd cut my thumbs off. lets just say we lounged in the middle part.
Having penetrated the government's 5-sided center, we rallied and caught up with C-5 Sally (who isn't a figurative Sally but is a literal Sally). The core group was together at last so we grabbed the bag of fancy cigars that someone had gifted us (surely after hearing about our awesome) and made haste for the wood-lined, leather bound cigar bar called Kelly's Back Room. There we drank stiff drink and smoked full bodied cigars. It was Friday night and the weekend was in full effect. A warming happiness swept over us as we lounged, puffed and marveled at how far we'd come. And we still had Saturday ahead of us!
I can't really describe Saturday. It warrants a book. I choose to fall back on lists:
Boob Cup Cakes: I think this will be a yearly birthday tradition now. I. LOVE. CUP CAKES. also, i love boobs. There it is. I'm an adult, and i want a delicious cake product that reminds me of breasts. you know what else? Other people love boob cup cakes too. it's true, even girls. It makes them think about all the great times they've had with their own boobs, i think. Plus, it's a cup cake. Are you writing this down?
The metro: It's awesome until it breaks
Pre-partying: This is where the size of our party became obvious. 12 people? 16? I don't even know but there was more girls than guys and that makes both sexes happy. More importantly, every single person in our group was a rock star. I'm talking above average, good looking, funny, smart and probably trained to kill. Editors Note to the Physicist: In the future, please refrain from offering viewing of my tattoos to anymore strange women. I have a very specific and proven technique that needs to be followed, thus allowing me to negotiate a beneficial arrangement. You can find my work in the "I'll show you mine if you show me yours" section of the library.
Kelly's Irish Pub: They get good you drunk. Also find cell phone morning.
If i had to sum up Saturday, it would look something like this:
Sunday we ate at the Capital City Cafe and revisited the events of the weekend. "Did that really happen?" "Yes."
So there ya go. 30 ain't so bad when you and your friends are awesome.
Fortunately, the madness didn't end there. Following the weekend above was the actual observance of my First Annual 29th Birthday, which happened mid-week. Then there was picking up of the Physicist's new-used car. (I'll give you a hint: its turbo, its a wagon, its got a 5spd, its Swedish and its mine by proxy.) And the week following will find us exploring Oregon and winning at weddings.
After all that I've got that college thing I do.
Editor's Final Note: Since free time is so precious and scattered, i typically write these lengthier posts over a long period, revisiting them until the product is saleable. I was looking back through the archives and realized a few drafts existed that never made it to print. Here's one from the first half of 2009 that I titled "Trying to remember"
Friday
Sending out work reports at 8pm
Live music at bar number 1
Dancing at bar number 2
Arrival of physics consultant
Drinking beer of the month
Going to bed at 4
waking up at 10
Zehnders of Frankenmuth chicken dinner
I'm pretty sure i remember this weekend; Not a bad life. It probably never made it off the drawing board because the stories weren't particularly noteworthy in anyway other than an attempt to document an average good weekend. I Also have one from even further back called "online dating profile" where i constructed an online dating profile that would represent what i WANTED to say about myself, but it was a little too dark for prime time. Maybe someday I'll publish that too.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Its been a while since I've done one of these rambling, multi-topic posts
Even longer since I've done one drunk. Let's go:
"You can't stop the signal Mal." Wikileaks wins again.
In other news, WTF is going on in Winona? Wildman, Timbo, I'm looking in your directions.
Here's a story. I was cleaning out the garage the other day because I'm all domestic and shit now. (also, she beats me) Basically the final step is using the BFGlf (BIG FUCKING GAS leaf blower). It was supposed to be used to supercharge a ghetto race car, but in the mean time there's no reason it can't be blowing dust off the work bench. Anyway, i came across these:
Apparently this garage is where beautiful things come to die. This explains the 1986 Supra slowly rotting in the driveway.
{single tear}
That's all for this week. Remember kids, the slow sword penetrates the shield
"You can't stop the signal Mal." Wikileaks wins again.
In other news, WTF is going on in Winona? Wildman, Timbo, I'm looking in your directions.
Here's a story. I was cleaning out the garage the other day because I'm all domestic and shit now. (also, she beats me) Basically the final step is using the BFGlf (BIG FUCKING GAS leaf blower). It was supposed to be used to supercharge a ghetto race car, but in the mean time there's no reason it can't be blowing dust off the work bench. Anyway, i came across these:
Apparently this garage is where beautiful things come to die. This explains the 1986 Supra slowly rotting in the driveway.
{single tear}
That's all for this week. Remember kids, the slow sword penetrates the shield
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
emoticon gender benders
I was on the Playstaion Network (Yes, i play playstation it helps clear my brain STOP JUDGING ME!) and within certain games, people are able to put "tags" in front of their names, limited to 4 characters. You see a lot of interesting stuff ,like the lawnmower
\.=.
The pistol
%"""
all manner of middle finger (which look better in font-type other than this)
o0oo
n0nn
an assortment of male genitalia and female frontal parts
{use imagination}
this week i saw one that didn't immediately make sense. And like a vanity license plate with no vowels, it sent my brain spiraling into a vortex of analysis... I believe it looked somethingng like this:
-32=
I'm quite certain of the lat three characters but the first is a little fuzzy. Something like that, however. After several zetaflops of calculation, a couple beers of lubrication and an hour or so of eliminating digital terrorists, my brain was only able arrive at one conclusion:
Its a transvestite.
I mean look at it. The parts are all there. They're blown out of proportion, not unlike a caricature, but that's what these preteen n00bs are going for, right? And the limit on characters meant the head had to be cut off, but it's all there, man, in black and white, OPEN YOUR EYES.
Of course, in the light of day and away from the passion of the moment, i can see it is also, perhaps, construed as a face.
Here i have redrawn it to include a hat.
<32=
I don't know, maybe identifying patterns in these things is like looking for shapes in clouds.
\.=.
The pistol
%"""
all manner of middle finger (which look better in font-type other than this)
o0oo
n0nn
an assortment of male genitalia and female frontal parts
{use imagination}
this week i saw one that didn't immediately make sense. And like a vanity license plate with no vowels, it sent my brain spiraling into a vortex of analysis... I believe it looked somethingng like this:
-32=
I'm quite certain of the lat three characters but the first is a little fuzzy. Something like that, however. After several zetaflops of calculation, a couple beers of lubrication and an hour or so of eliminating digital terrorists, my brain was only able arrive at one conclusion:
Its a transvestite.
I mean look at it. The parts are all there. They're blown out of proportion, not unlike a caricature, but that's what these preteen n00bs are going for, right? And the limit on characters meant the head had to be cut off, but it's all there, man, in black and white, OPEN YOUR EYES.
Of course, in the light of day and away from the passion of the moment, i can see it is also, perhaps, construed as a face.
Here i have redrawn it to include a hat.
<32=
I don't know, maybe identifying patterns in these things is like looking for shapes in clouds.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Okay, here's another one
I have this friend, let's call him Jennifer. (protect the innocent and all that)
This guy has a lot of random stories but i like the one of the crazy voicemail girl the best. I'm not exactly clear on the details surrounding how it all started but many years ago he got a call on his cell from a number he didn't know. It went to voicemail and this random caller, a girl, proceeded to leave him a voice message as if they were long lost friends catching up and had known each other for ages. Except he doesn't know her. He's sure of it. He doesn't recognize the name, voice, back story or know anyone from that area code.
This continues for years. Like 10 of them, maybe? every so often she calls, often in the middle of the night, he doesn't answer and she leaves a rambling, update of a voicemail. As such, time marches on, he gets married, has kids, he tells everyone about this random woman because its a great story but the phone calls eventually die off. (Did she die of crazy disease? Eaten by lions? run over while hopping on a west-bound trian? who knows) Then, a couple months ago, another phone call. For some reason he decides to answer this time, leading with the quite obvious: "WTF mate?"
Turns out she dialed the wrong number that first time so long ago and at the sound of his voicemail voice, decided to just start talking. From then on she used his inbox as something of a non-permanent diary; A way to unburden herself and recount the ups and downs of the years and whatnots.
We should all be so lucky to have a crazy cell-phone stalker.
This guy has a lot of random stories but i like the one of the crazy voicemail girl the best. I'm not exactly clear on the details surrounding how it all started but many years ago he got a call on his cell from a number he didn't know. It went to voicemail and this random caller, a girl, proceeded to leave him a voice message as if they were long lost friends catching up and had known each other for ages. Except he doesn't know her. He's sure of it. He doesn't recognize the name, voice, back story or know anyone from that area code.
This continues for years. Like 10 of them, maybe? every so often she calls, often in the middle of the night, he doesn't answer and she leaves a rambling, update of a voicemail. As such, time marches on, he gets married, has kids, he tells everyone about this random woman because its a great story but the phone calls eventually die off. (Did she die of crazy disease? Eaten by lions? run over while hopping on a west-bound trian? who knows) Then, a couple months ago, another phone call. For some reason he decides to answer this time, leading with the quite obvious: "WTF mate?"
Turns out she dialed the wrong number that first time so long ago and at the sound of his voicemail voice, decided to just start talking. From then on she used his inbox as something of a non-permanent diary; A way to unburden herself and recount the ups and downs of the years and whatnots.
We should all be so lucky to have a crazy cell-phone stalker.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Trying to explain: pt 1
Michigan:
I spent the weekend of the 4th in America's most underrated city, Detroit. I managed to check almost all the boxes necessary for a successful Detroit visit:
Sleep at Stos' house: Check
Harassed by the suburban police: Check
Illegal Fireworks: Check
Royal Oak: Check
Cruise Woodward: Check
Harassed by homeless guy for driving a Miata: Check
Challenged to a stoplight race by pick-up truck: Check
Freeways of construction: Check
Both sides of family: Check
Seedy Strip Club: N/A due to funding
Vehicular maintenance: Check
5am at an all night, private downtown bar: Check
Hanging out with Greeks: Check
I spent the weekend of the 4th in America's most underrated city, Detroit. I managed to check almost all the boxes necessary for a successful Detroit visit:
Sleep at Stos' house: Check
Harassed by the suburban police: Check
Illegal Fireworks: Check
Royal Oak: Check
Cruise Woodward: Check
Harassed by homeless guy for driving a Miata: Check
Challenged to a stoplight race by pick-up truck: Check
Freeways of construction: Check
Both sides of family: Check
Seedy Strip Club: N/A due to funding
Vehicular maintenance: Check
5am at an all night, private downtown bar: Check
Hanging out with Greeks: Check
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Did that just happen?
Events of the past three weeks have left me struggling to sort out the details of my reality. Did all those things just happen? Did two Yoopers (and their respective lovers) visit Ohio in back-to-back weeks? Was I really at an underground Detroit after hours bar at 5am? Do I spend my day's toiling in a dim lab tucked away in a half-abandoned 80yr old building, tweaking circuits... or did i imagine that part?
Look, there was like TENS of THOUSANDS of motorcycles there. Wait, I have a motorcycle and a convertible but nothing big enough to transport a lawn mower?
How did I break the lawn mower?
When did i get a lawn?
...
I'm almost 100% sure i Kareoked Big Balls by AC/DC.
(Who in an S-10 would try to drag race a Miata? Oh Detroit, I've missed your crazy ways)
Look, there was like TENS of THOUSANDS of motorcycles there. Wait, I have a motorcycle and a convertible but nothing big enough to transport a lawn mower?
How did I break the lawn mower?
When did i get a lawn?
...
I'm almost 100% sure i Kareoked Big Balls by AC/DC.
(Who in an S-10 would try to drag race a Miata? Oh Detroit, I've missed your crazy ways)
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
From McSweeney's
There's too much uncertainty in the world these days, too many things we can't count on anymore. That's why I think you'll be happy to hear there's a 100% chance that I'll be taking my clothes off tonight.
We're in the midst of a classic tale, you and I. Boy meets girl. Boy and girl go to Applebee's. Boy exposes himself to girl. Sorry if that's not how dates end in your prudish ivory tower, but this isn't about you, it's about trying to get this night back on track and make things right.
You want to see what thirty-five minutes of elliptical machine a month can do to a man's body? You're about to. You want to cradle me in your capable arms and tell me everything's going to be okay? That can also be arranged.
It's called spontaneity if you're not familiar with the term. Another term you should familiarize yourself with is psoriasis. My inner thighs look like relief maps of South America. Sorry if that makes you uneasy, but life isn't always neatly wrapped up in a little box with a pretty bow. Sometimes that little box has a patchy skin disease that flares up without any goddamned warning.
Fact: you are throwing me more signals than a third base coach who's trying to have sex with me. Fact: I am reading you loud and clear and I'm heading straight for home, unencumbered by garments. Don't let playful euphemisms like that lull you into thinking I'm keeping my clothes on, because that's not an option at this point. Mentally, I'm already very naked. It's just a baby step from here.
Look, no one said dating was going to be easy. The sooner you come to grips with that, the sooner you can let your guard down and start exploring my body like a budding archeologist who just unearthed a terra cotta warrior. A warrior whose armor and undergarments appear to have eroded over time. Whoopsy-daisy.
Enough talk. It's time to check your inbox because there's an invitation to an epidermis party. It's from me. No need to RSVP, you're already here. And so's my body. If you need to brush up on some old biology curriculum, now's your chance because it's about to get anatomical up in here, and I don't have time to explain to you how my body works.
We're moments away from doing the kinds of things we couldn't have done if I kept my clothes on. It's like those final seconds of anticipation before a thunderstorm. But no slicker's going to protect you from this nasty forecast. It's about to rain three to four inches of me. Possibly five, but I can't promise anything.
source
We're in the midst of a classic tale, you and I. Boy meets girl. Boy and girl go to Applebee's. Boy exposes himself to girl. Sorry if that's not how dates end in your prudish ivory tower, but this isn't about you, it's about trying to get this night back on track and make things right.
You want to see what thirty-five minutes of elliptical machine a month can do to a man's body? You're about to. You want to cradle me in your capable arms and tell me everything's going to be okay? That can also be arranged.
It's called spontaneity if you're not familiar with the term. Another term you should familiarize yourself with is psoriasis. My inner thighs look like relief maps of South America. Sorry if that makes you uneasy, but life isn't always neatly wrapped up in a little box with a pretty bow. Sometimes that little box has a patchy skin disease that flares up without any goddamned warning.
Fact: you are throwing me more signals than a third base coach who's trying to have sex with me. Fact: I am reading you loud and clear and I'm heading straight for home, unencumbered by garments. Don't let playful euphemisms like that lull you into thinking I'm keeping my clothes on, because that's not an option at this point. Mentally, I'm already very naked. It's just a baby step from here.
Look, no one said dating was going to be easy. The sooner you come to grips with that, the sooner you can let your guard down and start exploring my body like a budding archeologist who just unearthed a terra cotta warrior. A warrior whose armor and undergarments appear to have eroded over time. Whoopsy-daisy.
Enough talk. It's time to check your inbox because there's an invitation to an epidermis party. It's from me. No need to RSVP, you're already here. And so's my body. If you need to brush up on some old biology curriculum, now's your chance because it's about to get anatomical up in here, and I don't have time to explain to you how my body works.
We're moments away from doing the kinds of things we couldn't have done if I kept my clothes on. It's like those final seconds of anticipation before a thunderstorm. But no slicker's going to protect you from this nasty forecast. It's about to rain three to four inches of me. Possibly five, but I can't promise anything.
source
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