I needed 3200. I wrote 10,000. Tonight.
I still have a bit more before I can officially tie it up, but if I had to, I could say it has an end and leave it where it is.
Friday, November 30, 2007
how you like them apples?
I needed 3200. I wrote 10,000. Tonight.
I still have a bit more before I can officially tie it up, but if I had to, I could say it has an end and leave it where it is.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Monday, November 26, 2007
Bad Stuff
Today, a fellow I know says he went home and asked his wife what was for dinner.
Her answer?
TOFU.
And that's what they had. It was not to his liking.
I then told him my recollection of tofu, so I'll tell it again (regurgitate, so to speak) here:
______________
Tofu is the worst.
I've always been of an open mind to try new things, so when I was at my friend Dave Chao's house, I did try the tofu.
This was after his mother insisted, "No, you big-a boy. You eat sree pack!"
And she proceeded to fix me three entire packages of ramen noodles.
That time, I asked Dave what it was he was eating. With the blocky
white chunks of stuff. He said, "Bean curr." I said, "huh?" He
said, a little slower, "Bean Currrrrr. You try!"
It wasn't until the nanosecond before it was about to hit my tongue
that my brain finally miscombulated what he was saying.
"Bean Curd!" my brain said right as I bit down on it.
"Oh Holy Jesus, spit it out, spit it out!" my stomach said.
I swallowed the one bite.
Never again.
Her answer?
TOFU.
And that's what they had. It was not to his liking.
I then told him my recollection of tofu, so I'll tell it again (regurgitate, so to speak) here:
______________
Tofu is the worst.
I've always been of an open mind to try new things, so when I was at my friend Dave Chao's house, I did try the tofu.
This was after his mother insisted, "No, you big-a boy. You eat sree pack!"
And she proceeded to fix me three entire packages of ramen noodles.
That time, I asked Dave what it was he was eating. With the blocky
white chunks of stuff. He said, "Bean curr." I said, "huh?" He
said, a little slower, "Bean Currrrrr. You try!"
It wasn't until the nanosecond before it was about to hit my tongue
that my brain finally miscombulated what he was saying.
"Bean Curd!" my brain said right as I bit down on it.
"Oh Holy Jesus, spit it out, spit it out!" my stomach said.
I swallowed the one bite.
Never again.
Friday, November 23, 2007
This just might work, after all
36,636.
That's the word count as of right now.
Actually, it's the word count as of around 2 PM today, since I've been driving and visiting people since then.
At the start of Turkeyday, I had around 22K, maybe 23K. When I went to bed that night, I had just hit 35K.
In case you didn't already know it, that's a lot of writing.
In fact, that's even more writing than I did the night before my senior term paper was due. And that damned term paper probably took longer, too. The biggest spurt this time was a six hour stretch from about 9PM to 3AM sitting at the dining room table at my wife's grandma's house. I got up once to get a fresh glass of Dr. Pepper and some more cookies.
In that time, I hit a section of my story I intended to just kind of graze -- maybe mention for a paragraph or two. My thinking here was that I wanted the point of the story to lie elsewhere and to get there I would have to gloss over some historical bits. I also didn't want to go where that part of the story could take me. I didn't know if I could deal with it emotionally.
Starting Thursday morning, I had a bad feeling about where the story was going and I found myself being extremely cranky and irritable all day. I was also doing everything in my power to avoid working on the story, but the fact that I was cooped up in a farmhouse with four families, a toddler and an infant, and NO ACCESS TO THE INTERNET, meant I could only hold out for so long.
I kept dancing around it all day long. I would write a bit here and there, and I even wrote the two paragraph synopsis I had envisioned and went past, onto the next thing in the tale I was slowly unraveling.
But after all the visiting was done and everyone was completely stuffed to the gills and parked on a sofa or chair watching football or snoring, I sat down for what I knew would be a long haul. No matter where it took me, I knew I needed to hit 30,000 words if I had any hope of finishing this thing.
And I started writing. And I found I needed to change something I had already written. So I scrolled up to just before the part where I skimmed over a whole year in the story. And I fixed the problem. But I didn't scroll back down. I just kept writing. Everyone else drifted off to bed by ones and twos. I kept writing. When I noticed I was the only one still up, I checked my word count. It was over 32,000. I figured I could hit 35,000 before bed, so I started wrapping the section up.
The story I'm writing this time is very personal. It's only fiction in the sense that I changed the name of one character. I still doubt anyone will ever give a shit about reading it, but perhaps it's a good sign that the part of my story I wanted to skip used up over 10,000 words in and of itself.
That part, covering a single year of a boy's life, took more out of me than I could have ever imagined. Writing it was the hardest thing I have ever done. I'm not ashamed to say I cried through a lot of it. I dug up whole chunks of buried memory. They were fresh as the day I had buried them, and some of the things they showed me hurt just as much now as they did then.
This novel has taken a turn from what I had initially intended. It would probably be more accurate to say that it has followed a perfectly straight path and will miss the turn that I had intended. And that's fine with me. The other idea can live on until another story. For now, this one is being told exactly as it needs to be.
That's the word count as of right now.
Actually, it's the word count as of around 2 PM today, since I've been driving and visiting people since then.
At the start of Turkeyday, I had around 22K, maybe 23K. When I went to bed that night, I had just hit 35K.
In case you didn't already know it, that's a lot of writing.
In fact, that's even more writing than I did the night before my senior term paper was due. And that damned term paper probably took longer, too. The biggest spurt this time was a six hour stretch from about 9PM to 3AM sitting at the dining room table at my wife's grandma's house. I got up once to get a fresh glass of Dr. Pepper and some more cookies.
In that time, I hit a section of my story I intended to just kind of graze -- maybe mention for a paragraph or two. My thinking here was that I wanted the point of the story to lie elsewhere and to get there I would have to gloss over some historical bits. I also didn't want to go where that part of the story could take me. I didn't know if I could deal with it emotionally.
Starting Thursday morning, I had a bad feeling about where the story was going and I found myself being extremely cranky and irritable all day. I was also doing everything in my power to avoid working on the story, but the fact that I was cooped up in a farmhouse with four families, a toddler and an infant, and NO ACCESS TO THE INTERNET, meant I could only hold out for so long.
I kept dancing around it all day long. I would write a bit here and there, and I even wrote the two paragraph synopsis I had envisioned and went past, onto the next thing in the tale I was slowly unraveling.
But after all the visiting was done and everyone was completely stuffed to the gills and parked on a sofa or chair watching football or snoring, I sat down for what I knew would be a long haul. No matter where it took me, I knew I needed to hit 30,000 words if I had any hope of finishing this thing.
And I started writing. And I found I needed to change something I had already written. So I scrolled up to just before the part where I skimmed over a whole year in the story. And I fixed the problem. But I didn't scroll back down. I just kept writing. Everyone else drifted off to bed by ones and twos. I kept writing. When I noticed I was the only one still up, I checked my word count. It was over 32,000. I figured I could hit 35,000 before bed, so I started wrapping the section up.
The story I'm writing this time is very personal. It's only fiction in the sense that I changed the name of one character. I still doubt anyone will ever give a shit about reading it, but perhaps it's a good sign that the part of my story I wanted to skip used up over 10,000 words in and of itself.
That part, covering a single year of a boy's life, took more out of me than I could have ever imagined. Writing it was the hardest thing I have ever done. I'm not ashamed to say I cried through a lot of it. I dug up whole chunks of buried memory. They were fresh as the day I had buried them, and some of the things they showed me hurt just as much now as they did then.
This novel has taken a turn from what I had initially intended. It would probably be more accurate to say that it has followed a perfectly straight path and will miss the turn that I had intended. And that's fine with me. The other idea can live on until another story. For now, this one is being told exactly as it needs to be.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Word War, Baby
The widget is nicer than I am. It doesn't put your name up if you don't have any words.
dammit, dammit, sonofabitch
HOW HAS THIS HAPPENED?
A few days ago I was VERY FAR AHEAD. I had a lot of padding in my word count.
Now I'm behind.
I haven't written for days, and not only did it catch up to me, but it blew right past me and I didn't even notice.
I'm a little less than a day behind now. By the end of today (the calendar day, not the one where I should already be in bed) I'm supposed to have over 20,000 words. This is not impossible, since the way things have been going I should be able to spew out a thousand or more in about an hour.
But I suspect sometime very soon I'm gonna hit a big ol' speedbump that's gonna knock my spew-rate way down.
Cuz I'll admit something here in print for the first time (tho I have voiced it to a few folks already...) The first part of my book is pretty much autobiographical. I changed the name of one character. Everyone else has their real name. I also changed the name of the the little suburban development where I grew up. I don't know why I changed that, or even why I didn't use my own name for the story character. It's not like anyone's ever going to read it, so it doesn't matter. But it feels right to me to do it this way.
And I really wouldn't be upset if somebody said to go and change all the real names to other names. So if I have to do that at some point, I can use a Find/Replace function. I've been thinking it would be fun to keep all the actual names of the people I knew when I was growing up but attach them to the wrong people. Then shit would get really confusing.
Anyhow, the fact that this story so far has been autobiographical has meant that I'm not really doing any hardcore story generation. I'm needing to think about pacing and structure and foreshadowing and character development -- all of which dictate what and where the story goes. But I've got a massive advantage in the fact that all of my characters and locations are already fully formed and just need to be ejected out of my head and onto the page.
If you've read my excerpt (which is the first few pages of the book minus a few later revisions) you'll know the main character is about to turn six years old at the beginning. The switcheroo, where it goes from "probably the most boring autobiographical shit ever written" to "this is the fiction part that never really happened" occurs when that same character is 19 years old. At 18,000 words in, he is 9 or 10. So I've got a ways to go, I think. Unless shit starts spiraling out of control in order to get to the end faster. But I don't see that happening. I'm starting to suspect this might be a two-parter and the first 50,000 words end up being entirely autobiographical. My own boring true-life story with (thus far) absolutley zero embellishment - just a clear focus on the real-life drama of grade school kids.
Maybe if I stop writing about it here, I can get my fucking word count in.
(See, just a few minutes and already over 550 words. Too bad they're not in the right place.)
A few days ago I was VERY FAR AHEAD. I had a lot of padding in my word count.
Now I'm behind.
I haven't written for days, and not only did it catch up to me, but it blew right past me and I didn't even notice.
I'm a little less than a day behind now. By the end of today (the calendar day, not the one where I should already be in bed) I'm supposed to have over 20,000 words. This is not impossible, since the way things have been going I should be able to spew out a thousand or more in about an hour.
But I suspect sometime very soon I'm gonna hit a big ol' speedbump that's gonna knock my spew-rate way down.
Cuz I'll admit something here in print for the first time (tho I have voiced it to a few folks already...) The first part of my book is pretty much autobiographical. I changed the name of one character. Everyone else has their real name. I also changed the name of the the little suburban development where I grew up. I don't know why I changed that, or even why I didn't use my own name for the story character. It's not like anyone's ever going to read it, so it doesn't matter. But it feels right to me to do it this way.
And I really wouldn't be upset if somebody said to go and change all the real names to other names. So if I have to do that at some point, I can use a Find/Replace function. I've been thinking it would be fun to keep all the actual names of the people I knew when I was growing up but attach them to the wrong people. Then shit would get really confusing.
Anyhow, the fact that this story so far has been autobiographical has meant that I'm not really doing any hardcore story generation. I'm needing to think about pacing and structure and foreshadowing and character development -- all of which dictate what and where the story goes. But I've got a massive advantage in the fact that all of my characters and locations are already fully formed and just need to be ejected out of my head and onto the page.
If you've read my excerpt (which is the first few pages of the book minus a few later revisions) you'll know the main character is about to turn six years old at the beginning. The switcheroo, where it goes from "probably the most boring autobiographical shit ever written" to "this is the fiction part that never really happened" occurs when that same character is 19 years old. At 18,000 words in, he is 9 or 10. So I've got a ways to go, I think. Unless shit starts spiraling out of control in order to get to the end faster. But I don't see that happening. I'm starting to suspect this might be a two-parter and the first 50,000 words end up being entirely autobiographical. My own boring true-life story with (thus far) absolutley zero embellishment - just a clear focus on the real-life drama of grade school kids.
Maybe if I stop writing about it here, I can get my fucking word count in.
(See, just a few minutes and already over 550 words. Too bad they're not in the right place.)
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Get your shit together.
Let's try some math:
13055/50000 = A whole lotta goddamn words in 3.5 days.
I'm truckin' on my novel. How about you?
GET GOING PEOPLE. YOU HAVEN'T GOT ALL MONTH. Oh. Well, maybe you do. But 3.5 days are gone already.
Have a link here to my Nano Profile where you can see my official unofficial word counter. You can also read some of the crap I'm writing if you go the EXCERPT tab.
13055/50000 = A whole lotta goddamn words in 3.5 days.
I'm truckin' on my novel. How about you?
GET GOING PEOPLE. YOU HAVEN'T GOT ALL MONTH. Oh. Well, maybe you do. But 3.5 days are gone already.
Have a link here to my Nano Profile where you can see my official unofficial word counter. You can also read some of the crap I'm writing if you go the EXCERPT tab.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Dust off your crazy ideas
It's that time again. Get your shit together. You even still have a few days to prepare and think something up. Or you can just fly by the seat of your pants. Either way works. Both are fun and exciting. I promise.
I can't offer you any fabulous prizes or promise any kind of fame. But what I can tell you is when you finish your novel you will feel all-powerful. Felling all-powerful is almost as good as being all-powerful.
So get off your ass and write a book. If you do I will promise to read it. Hopefully that counts for something.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
a hunnert
Yesterday, I completed my first century.
Century meaning - a one hundred mile bike ride. In one day. Actually, in 8.75 hours from start to finish, including (much needed) breaks.
I was not in shape to ride a century. Not one bit. And I can feel every ounce of that non-preparation right now. It's between my legs, which is a nice little spot of concentrated pain, and feels a lot like what that area right between the one pin and three pin must feel like after a week of pro bowling. It's also in my hips. My hips have NEVER EVER hurt from riding a bike. They do now. As does my back.
But my legs feel fine. My legs are ready to ride another hundred miles right now. However, they are severely hampered by the fact that my ass hurts so bad I can barely sit on the bike. In fact, you couldn't pay me money to ride my bike for ten feet. At least not for a few days yet.
This pain in my ass started somewhere around mile fifty-five. At mile forty-something, we stopped for a water/gatorade and a pee break. Right after I peed, three Red Bull-mobiles full of ultra-hot-ass chicks pulled up. And, of course, they were handing out cans of Red Bull. For the next ten miles I was feeling like I really did have wings. I recall passing the 50-mile marker feeling just fine. And then we hit a headwind. On a bumpy country road. And I felt this steady thudding from my back wheel. Thudding which made the seat jounce a little extra every time the wheel went around. I think without this extra thudding, my ass would have been OK.
But when I pulled into Assateague Island for the 62-mile marker rest stop, I found that my back tire was falling apart. I think it's a testament to the quality of the Bontrager Hard Case tire that I made it that far. It's a bigger testament to it when you know I finished on that split-open tire 38 miles later. In fact, it has two big gashes in it where the rubber is completely missing. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Every time the wheel goes around. KA-THUNK. KA-THUNK. In place of the rubber is the kevlar casing. Which is truly bullet-proof. And tack proof, and glass proof and whatever else-proof, even without rubber. I should take some pictures, it's that bad.
My wife made it to the Assateague rest stop a few minutes before I did. She also prepared a whole lot more than I did. She rode two 60+ mile rides this summer as well as a lot of 20- and 30-mile rides.
I rode a few 30+ mile rides early in the summer, a few 15- to 20-milers on some weekends and one 40-mile ride a few weeks ago. And then I didn't really get back on my bike again until yesterday. What a fucking idiot.
So, exactly as was explained to me, the 60-80 mile portion of the ride was the absolute worst. I was ready to quit and go home with my tail between my legs. I might have even done so had the map of the ride route (with the number for the SAG wagon) not been in my wife's saddlebag. When I sat back down on the saddle after that 60 mile rest stop, I nearly fell off the bike. I was barely moving and I had one foot clipped into my pedals. As soon as I hit the seat, it took every ounce of courage in me to hold back the scream. And that was at forty miles to go.
I stayed with my wife for a while, but not long. She got to the 82-mile rest stop about ten minutes before I did. I stopped at one point and loosened the straps on my shoes -- which did alleviate some of the terrible foot numbness, but which I later realized had come at the expense of a hurting ankle.
Dreading the thought of sitting back down on that seat, I set out on the last 18 miles standing up. When I had to sit, I did it very gently, but it still hurt worse than anything I'd ever known. Only because my tire was split did I ask my wife to stay with me for this last part, and she did. She pulled me along in her wake doing between 10 and 12mph most of the way. A few times I found it in me to go a little faster, but then we'd hit one of the bumpy patchy roads and it was back down to the slow grind.
In those last miles, I found myself ticking off the quarter-miles on my computer. I was pretty good at convincing myself that 13.75 was a whole lot closer than 14. I knew that we would retrace some of the outbound route for the return home. The only thing I remembered for certain was a right-hand turn and then an overpass very shortly after we left the start earlier in the morning. As we edged into single digits, and then down to five miles... four miles to go, I started wishing for that overpass, thinking that if I just got that far and managed to stand up on its wimpy incline (really the only speakable hill on the whole 100 mile ride) I would know I could make it. Even if I had to finish at 2mph or pushing the bike, I knew I'd be able to do it if I could just get to the bridge.
And then I saw it. My computer clicked over to 97.someodd miles. The speedometer said I was doing 8 or 9mph. And there was the bridge. Three faster riders shouted, "on your left" as they pedaled past me. I glanced over my shoulder to see if I was clear and there was nobody at all. I stood up and started pedaling. I hit the hill doing nearly 20mph. I came off the other side close to 25. I sat back down and couldn't feel a thing, so I just started hammering. I passed the three people who had passed me only moments before. I kept hammering. I passed people who had passed me minutes before. And I kept hammering. 17, 18, 19 mph. Then someone came around me doing just barely faster than I was. I latched onto his wheel and kept hammering. We made a left turn - just as I knew it would be onto the final stretch. Up ahead I could see the tunnel which led back to the starting line.
The pain was gone, and all I could think was, "We did it."
The concrete tunnel dipped down under the road and then right back up. As we came up the short ramp we could hear people on the outside screaming and cheering. They were cheering for us, and it filled me with the most incredible joy. I was certainly happy that I had finished, but more than anything, I was proud of my wife.
When we started riding bikes a few years ago, she couldn't keep up with me even on short rides. And while we've both continued to ride and post marked improvements, she showed me that she had not only gotten to the point where she could keep up with me, but she had gone past that and done far, far better than I did.
So I'm proud of us. And it was fantastic to both finish at the same time. But she could have beaten me by a whole lot yet she gave that up to stay with me. That means more than I am able to say with any words here.
Century meaning - a one hundred mile bike ride. In one day. Actually, in 8.75 hours from start to finish, including (much needed) breaks.
I was not in shape to ride a century. Not one bit. And I can feel every ounce of that non-preparation right now. It's between my legs, which is a nice little spot of concentrated pain, and feels a lot like what that area right between the one pin and three pin must feel like after a week of pro bowling. It's also in my hips. My hips have NEVER EVER hurt from riding a bike. They do now. As does my back.
But my legs feel fine. My legs are ready to ride another hundred miles right now. However, they are severely hampered by the fact that my ass hurts so bad I can barely sit on the bike. In fact, you couldn't pay me money to ride my bike for ten feet. At least not for a few days yet.
This pain in my ass started somewhere around mile fifty-five. At mile forty-something, we stopped for a water/gatorade and a pee break. Right after I peed, three Red Bull-mobiles full of ultra-hot-ass chicks pulled up. And, of course, they were handing out cans of Red Bull. For the next ten miles I was feeling like I really did have wings. I recall passing the 50-mile marker feeling just fine. And then we hit a headwind. On a bumpy country road. And I felt this steady thudding from my back wheel. Thudding which made the seat jounce a little extra every time the wheel went around. I think without this extra thudding, my ass would have been OK.
But when I pulled into Assateague Island for the 62-mile marker rest stop, I found that my back tire was falling apart. I think it's a testament to the quality of the Bontrager Hard Case tire that I made it that far. It's a bigger testament to it when you know I finished on that split-open tire 38 miles later. In fact, it has two big gashes in it where the rubber is completely missing. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Every time the wheel goes around. KA-THUNK. KA-THUNK. In place of the rubber is the kevlar casing. Which is truly bullet-proof. And tack proof, and glass proof and whatever else-proof, even without rubber. I should take some pictures, it's that bad.
My wife made it to the Assateague rest stop a few minutes before I did. She also prepared a whole lot more than I did. She rode two 60+ mile rides this summer as well as a lot of 20- and 30-mile rides.
I rode a few 30+ mile rides early in the summer, a few 15- to 20-milers on some weekends and one 40-mile ride a few weeks ago. And then I didn't really get back on my bike again until yesterday. What a fucking idiot.
So, exactly as was explained to me, the 60-80 mile portion of the ride was the absolute worst. I was ready to quit and go home with my tail between my legs. I might have even done so had the map of the ride route (with the number for the SAG wagon) not been in my wife's saddlebag. When I sat back down on the saddle after that 60 mile rest stop, I nearly fell off the bike. I was barely moving and I had one foot clipped into my pedals. As soon as I hit the seat, it took every ounce of courage in me to hold back the scream. And that was at forty miles to go.
I stayed with my wife for a while, but not long. She got to the 82-mile rest stop about ten minutes before I did. I stopped at one point and loosened the straps on my shoes -- which did alleviate some of the terrible foot numbness, but which I later realized had come at the expense of a hurting ankle.
Dreading the thought of sitting back down on that seat, I set out on the last 18 miles standing up. When I had to sit, I did it very gently, but it still hurt worse than anything I'd ever known. Only because my tire was split did I ask my wife to stay with me for this last part, and she did. She pulled me along in her wake doing between 10 and 12mph most of the way. A few times I found it in me to go a little faster, but then we'd hit one of the bumpy patchy roads and it was back down to the slow grind.
In those last miles, I found myself ticking off the quarter-miles on my computer. I was pretty good at convincing myself that 13.75 was a whole lot closer than 14. I knew that we would retrace some of the outbound route for the return home. The only thing I remembered for certain was a right-hand turn and then an overpass very shortly after we left the start earlier in the morning. As we edged into single digits, and then down to five miles... four miles to go, I started wishing for that overpass, thinking that if I just got that far and managed to stand up on its wimpy incline (really the only speakable hill on the whole 100 mile ride) I would know I could make it. Even if I had to finish at 2mph or pushing the bike, I knew I'd be able to do it if I could just get to the bridge.
And then I saw it. My computer clicked over to 97.someodd miles. The speedometer said I was doing 8 or 9mph. And there was the bridge. Three faster riders shouted, "on your left" as they pedaled past me. I glanced over my shoulder to see if I was clear and there was nobody at all. I stood up and started pedaling. I hit the hill doing nearly 20mph. I came off the other side close to 25. I sat back down and couldn't feel a thing, so I just started hammering. I passed the three people who had passed me only moments before. I kept hammering. I passed people who had passed me minutes before. And I kept hammering. 17, 18, 19 mph. Then someone came around me doing just barely faster than I was. I latched onto his wheel and kept hammering. We made a left turn - just as I knew it would be onto the final stretch. Up ahead I could see the tunnel which led back to the starting line.
The pain was gone, and all I could think was, "We did it."
The concrete tunnel dipped down under the road and then right back up. As we came up the short ramp we could hear people on the outside screaming and cheering. They were cheering for us, and it filled me with the most incredible joy. I was certainly happy that I had finished, but more than anything, I was proud of my wife.
When we started riding bikes a few years ago, she couldn't keep up with me even on short rides. And while we've both continued to ride and post marked improvements, she showed me that she had not only gotten to the point where she could keep up with me, but she had gone past that and done far, far better than I did.
So I'm proud of us. And it was fantastic to both finish at the same time. But she could have beaten me by a whole lot yet she gave that up to stay with me. That means more than I am able to say with any words here.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Edguy @ Jaxx
I can't remember the last time I took a camera to a concert.
But I can remember the last time I had this much fun at a concert - that would be the last time I saw Edguy play.
If you don't know who the Hell they are (and I'm sure you don't...) go check something out. I'd recommend King of Fools or Sacrifice or Superheroes if you can track down mp3's or streams or whatever (try Amazon. try the link above.)
Here are a few pictures from the show courtesy of my dying Fuji Finepix. One of them is actually good:
Tobi singing Catch of the Century.
Dirk, Eggi, & Jens rocking Lavatory Love Machine.
Felix the Drum Bunny playing The Imperial March.
But I can remember the last time I had this much fun at a concert - that would be the last time I saw Edguy play.
If you don't know who the Hell they are (and I'm sure you don't...) go check something out. I'd recommend King of Fools or Sacrifice or Superheroes if you can track down mp3's or streams or whatever (try Amazon. try the link above.)
Here are a few pictures from the show courtesy of my dying Fuji Finepix. One of them is actually good:
Tobi singing Catch of the Century. Dirk, Eggi, & Jens rocking Lavatory Love Machine. Felix the Drum Bunny playing The Imperial March.Tuesday, September 11, 2007
I remember.
I remember what it looked like when the first tower came down. I've seen it replayed a hundred thousand times on TV and in pictures since then, but I still remember everything about that moment - live on my TV - while the hastily run satellite dish cable hung through the open window, sun slanting in and making columns of light on the carpet.
I remember the horror and the revulsion and the instant realization that the other one would fall, too. The TV said it wouldn't. But we all know what happened.
Six years ago religious fundamentalists struck a mighty blow. While they may have caused a few buildings to fall and they spent the blood of countless innocents, they didn't even nick the foundation.
In the days and weeks, months and years that followed the American people rallied around the president. Flags and ribbons were everywhere. People were scared out of their minds. George Bush took that opportunity to sieze power - throwing our rights and privacy to the winds.
Six years later, George Bush and his people are still sneaking and lying, and cheating the American public however they can. Maybe people are finally waking up. George Bush's cronies and political appointees are slowly falling away, but is it enough?
Six years ago American patriotism surged. It's since waned. I'm sure it's still there and people would probably fight to the death if I suggested to them that they are not "true patriots" -- whatever the fuck that might be. But I don't see the same messages written on the highway overpasses. I don't see as many flags flying. I also don't see the same blind unwavering support for a neo-conservative tyrant.
Six years ago thousands died because certain people put a different name on their god. And six years later people in America believe it's perfectly fine to push their own political agenda based on their religious beliefs.
I remember. I remember what happened to this country. I still hate George Bush with all my being. But I've never been afraid to drive my car or enter a building or fly on a plane. Fuck terrorists - no matter what they call their god.
Anyone selling Fear is a fucking terrorist and there's an awful lot of it on sale right in your own back yard.
I remember the horror and the revulsion and the instant realization that the other one would fall, too. The TV said it wouldn't. But we all know what happened.
Six years ago religious fundamentalists struck a mighty blow. While they may have caused a few buildings to fall and they spent the blood of countless innocents, they didn't even nick the foundation.
In the days and weeks, months and years that followed the American people rallied around the president. Flags and ribbons were everywhere. People were scared out of their minds. George Bush took that opportunity to sieze power - throwing our rights and privacy to the winds.
Six years later, George Bush and his people are still sneaking and lying, and cheating the American public however they can. Maybe people are finally waking up. George Bush's cronies and political appointees are slowly falling away, but is it enough?
Six years ago American patriotism surged. It's since waned. I'm sure it's still there and people would probably fight to the death if I suggested to them that they are not "true patriots" -- whatever the fuck that might be. But I don't see the same messages written on the highway overpasses. I don't see as many flags flying. I also don't see the same blind unwavering support for a neo-conservative tyrant.
Six years ago thousands died because certain people put a different name on their god. And six years later people in America believe it's perfectly fine to push their own political agenda based on their religious beliefs.
I remember. I remember what happened to this country. I still hate George Bush with all my being. But I've never been afraid to drive my car or enter a building or fly on a plane. Fuck terrorists - no matter what they call their god.
Anyone selling Fear is a fucking terrorist and there's an awful lot of it on sale right in your own back yard.
Metal Polka
48 hours.
Some people track down criminals in a funny-buddy cop movie in that kinda time.
Other people take an a capella folk song (in Finnish) and figure out some chords and riffs to go along with it. Then they take a 40 mile bike ride for a burrito (was good) and then they come back and lay down a big fucking pile of metal guitars and drums (and some mighty fine soundin' bass) and mix that shit up metal style.
Wolfdog came up with most of the riffs and played the bass. I played the guitars (4 rhythm, 6 lead.) We both got sick of programming drums. I got really sick of lining vocals up to the click.
Despite my bitching we had a blast making this. And, in the end, it came out way better than I ever expected. You can check it out here:
That sounds better than this:
Click here to go to Wolfdog's place and to see comments.
Some people track down criminals in a funny-buddy cop movie in that kinda time.
Other people take an a capella folk song (in Finnish) and figure out some chords and riffs to go along with it. Then they take a 40 mile bike ride for a burrito (was good) and then they come back and lay down a big fucking pile of metal guitars and drums (and some mighty fine soundin' bass) and mix that shit up metal style.
Wolfdog came up with most of the riffs and played the bass. I played the guitars (4 rhythm, 6 lead.) We both got sick of programming drums. I got really sick of lining vocals up to the click.
Despite my bitching we had a blast making this. And, in the end, it came out way better than I ever expected. You can check it out here:
That sounds better than this:
Click here to go to Wolfdog's place and to see comments.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
SOS
I feel like writing another book.
I never finished the one I started in November. I blame that on two reasons -- primarily I had no time for writing a book. But -- but more importantly -- I showed it to someone while it was still in progress. I should know by now that there is no quicker way to kill a writing streak.
I'm stuck (I guess you can call it stuck) with this new idea now, and I sorta know where it goes and I really know how it gets there, but I still don't have time to write.
I'm leaving for vacation tomorrow (but we still haven't packed) and I'm planning on taking this laptop (which has the screen the memory from the other Toshiba laptop I raged about a few weeks ago grafted onto the butt-end of a better, fancier Toshiba laptop I mistakenly ordered from Ebay thinking it was the same as the one I already had), a guitar, some headphones, and definitely a DVD player.
See, we're going to the beach, so I have to be prepared for all sorts of indoor activities. That's just the way it works. After all, I want to enjoy my vacation, too. And I like the beach, but not as much as other people do. I get tired of Sandy Crack really fast.
So maybe I will have time to write some book on my vacation. You know, while I watch all six Star Wars movies and write an album full of drum-machine-metal songs and watch the baby for 19 hours a day. I'm sure that'll work out just fine.
My wife wants to know if I'm sad about watching the baby.
I think she is stupid.
One time when she was xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxor injured or whatever.
Now she's telling me I can't post this on the Internet. And I shouldn't be a fucking asshole and she's gonna be fucking pissed.
She shouldn't say such things if she doesn't want them known around the world. Or at least as far as the three people who might find this. Damn censor.
Stramby:
it's what's for dinner
I never finished the one I started in November. I blame that on two reasons -- primarily I had no time for writing a book. But -- but more importantly -- I showed it to someone while it was still in progress. I should know by now that there is no quicker way to kill a writing streak.
I'm stuck (I guess you can call it stuck) with this new idea now, and I sorta know where it goes and I really know how it gets there, but I still don't have time to write.
I'm leaving for vacation tomorrow (but we still haven't packed) and I'm planning on taking this laptop (which has the screen the memory from the other Toshiba laptop I raged about a few weeks ago grafted onto the butt-end of a better, fancier Toshiba laptop I mistakenly ordered from Ebay thinking it was the same as the one I already had), a guitar, some headphones, and definitely a DVD player.
See, we're going to the beach, so I have to be prepared for all sorts of indoor activities. That's just the way it works. After all, I want to enjoy my vacation, too. And I like the beach, but not as much as other people do. I get tired of Sandy Crack really fast.
So maybe I will have time to write some book on my vacation. You know, while I watch all six Star Wars movies and write an album full of drum-machine-metal songs and watch the baby for 19 hours a day. I'm sure that'll work out just fine.
My wife wants to know if I'm sad about watching the baby.
I think she is stupid.
One time when she was xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxor injured or whatever.
Now she's telling me I can't post this on the Internet. And I shouldn't be a fucking asshole and she's gonna be fucking pissed.
She shouldn't say such things if she doesn't want them known around the world. Or at least as far as the three people who might find this. Damn censor.
Stramby:
it's what's for dinner
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
STOP FUCKING CHEATING. This means YOU.
This came out today:
http://trustbut.blogspot.com/2007/07/vino-positive.html
It says a well-respected rider in the Tour de France has tested positive for a blood transfusion - something which is totally and utterly against the rules.
There has been a lot said about doping in the sport of cycling in recent months - most of it due to similar news regarding last year's winner, Floyd Landis.
At this point in the story - I DON'T FUCKING CARE IF HE DID OR DIDN'T.
The real cheaters here are the press and the laboratory.
The same French sports paper which leaked the Floyd Landis story (which got its "dope" from the same French laboratory involved here) has leaked this story BEFORE the results have been confirmed.
It's against the International Cycling Union's rules to disclose the results of any drug test before it is confirmed by a 2nd, backup test.
If cyclists are going to be banned for not following the rules, then this laboratory should be banned for exactly the same reasons. Period. End of story.
http://trustbut.blogspot.com/2007/07/vino-positive.html
It says a well-respected rider in the Tour de France has tested positive for a blood transfusion - something which is totally and utterly against the rules.
There has been a lot said about doping in the sport of cycling in recent months - most of it due to similar news regarding last year's winner, Floyd Landis.
At this point in the story - I DON'T FUCKING CARE IF HE DID OR DIDN'T.
The real cheaters here are the press and the laboratory.
The same French sports paper which leaked the Floyd Landis story (which got its "dope" from the same French laboratory involved here) has leaked this story BEFORE the results have been confirmed.
It's against the International Cycling Union's rules to disclose the results of any drug test before it is confirmed by a 2nd, backup test.
If cyclists are going to be banned for not following the rules, then this laboratory should be banned for exactly the same reasons. Period. End of story.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Laptop Rules
I have a bunch of laptops at my house.
ONE OF THEM WORKS.
Well, actually two of them -- if you count a flickering LCD as working. But sometimes the start-up voltage doesn't meet the grade so it just sits there black and doesn't even flicker.
So here are the new laptop rules:
1. All laptops will have an LCD. Any size is fine.
1a. If I want to put a 14.1" LCD into a 15" bezel there will be a way to accomodate that option without purchasing extra shit.
2. The LCD will have a backlight using LED technology which never burns out.
3. The LCD will require an inverter to power the backlight.
4. All laptops will use the same inverter. Thanks.
5. All laptops will require a cable to connect the system board to the inverter and the screen.
6. All laptops will use the same fucking cable. Thanks.
7. Laptops will not allow you to drive a long keyboard screw into the wrong hole thus piercing the card on the hard drive because you're so pissed off at different ribbon connectors that you didn't notice the B next to the hole instead of the K next to the hole you should have used.
8. Laptops will not have a total system board failure as a result of number 7 actually happening.
If these rules were in place I would have SEVERAL working laptops.
I'm not asking for all that much here. Really. I don't want to put a P3 into a P4 hole. Well, I do. But I don't expect to be able to. But I do expect people to make a fucking LCD panel with the same goddamn connector and the same fucking length power cable and the same fucking inverter with the same fucking interface so you can dim the goddamn screen even tho you only ever use the fucker on full brightness any way. Yeah.
ONE OF THEM WORKS.
Well, actually two of them -- if you count a flickering LCD as working. But sometimes the start-up voltage doesn't meet the grade so it just sits there black and doesn't even flicker.
So here are the new laptop rules:
1. All laptops will have an LCD. Any size is fine.
1a. If I want to put a 14.1" LCD into a 15" bezel there will be a way to accomodate that option without purchasing extra shit.
2. The LCD will have a backlight using LED technology which never burns out.
3. The LCD will require an inverter to power the backlight.
4. All laptops will use the same inverter. Thanks.
5. All laptops will require a cable to connect the system board to the inverter and the screen.
6. All laptops will use the same fucking cable. Thanks.
7. Laptops will not allow you to drive a long keyboard screw into the wrong hole thus piercing the card on the hard drive because you're so pissed off at different ribbon connectors that you didn't notice the B next to the hole instead of the K next to the hole you should have used.
8. Laptops will not have a total system board failure as a result of number 7 actually happening.
If these rules were in place I would have SEVERAL working laptops.
I'm not asking for all that much here. Really. I don't want to put a P3 into a P4 hole. Well, I do. But I don't expect to be able to. But I do expect people to make a fucking LCD panel with the same goddamn connector and the same fucking length power cable and the same fucking inverter with the same fucking interface so you can dim the goddamn screen even tho you only ever use the fucker on full brightness any way. Yeah.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Light 'em Up
Hello Stramby,
I just came back from the Senate floor, and I have to tell you, I'm pretty steamed.
Republicans who love to give speeches about "supporting the troops," and so many of whom have said they disagree with the President's disastrous fire traps, just voted to side with the President over the welfare of our troops.
My colleague Jim Webb from Virginia (Jim's a Marine - and I say "is" because you're a Marine until the day you die, and the Senate's a hell of a lot hotter to have this Marine here) - Jim introduced an amendment that set fire to the Republicans for months. He also set a minimum time for them to be on fire (so they couldn't just get put out).
Any one who has ever been on fire knows what a difference that time at home makes. But of course the "operational temperature" has had to be upped so high to carry out President Bush's death-by-fire-wishes (at least we have to assume that's what he wants, because he only leaves us one option -- escalation by fire). We're trying to protect our soldiers by making sure that fire never ends.
But the Republicans won't even let it come to a vote. They'd rather side with the hoses and extinguishers and the President's Iraq policy than give our soldiers the treatment they deserve. It's outrageous. These soldiers need to see some men on fire. Well, old crusty American men. I'm sure they've seen plenty of other men on fire.
You know what? I didn't plan to do this, but our Set Fire to Republicans campaign back in April got a lot of people's attention, and helped to up the heat on the GOP caucus, heat that has resulted in many, many Republicans on fire. Well, I certainly welcome the inferno, but we need to make sure there's kerosene to back up those matches. Take a minute and donate a few gallons to the cans for the ignitors of a few key GOP Senators.
Let them know we need fire.
These fires come from the eventual conflagrations in North Carolina, Kentucky, and Texas. Some Republicans are abandoning the President's position upon the pyre and voted the right way on Jim Webb's amendment; they don't want to burn -- all of your flammable liquid has helped there, but we still have some more Republicans we need to light up. The Senators from those states above sided with the neocons and the President over the needs of the American troops bearing the real burden of the disastrous policy in Iraq. They only support symbolic burning that won't change our policy one bit, or worse stick by an escalation that has led us further down the path to fire.
If you'd like to register your disapproval, give to the fires of their challengers.
We're definitely making progress in this fight, so I'm happy about that, but I'll only really be happy when we've lit up some more Republicans. Period. It's imperative that these Republicans combust and burn -- their fat melting and popping in the breeze created by their blaze. We are doing something about it. We are setting fires. We are setting fire to Republicans. As my friend Harry Reid said a little while ago, it's a moral imperative to get a new inferno policy; great fires are at stake.
Well, thanks for your time; I just had to get this molotov cocktail off my chest.
John "Light them Fuckers Up" Kerry
John Kerry For Fire
451 Fahrenheit Street, Suite FIRE, Boston, MA 02114-2014
fire@johnkerry.com
http://www.johnkerry.com/
Paid For By John Kerry For Fire
I just came back from the Senate floor, and I have to tell you, I'm pretty steamed.
Republicans who love to give speeches about "supporting the troops," and so many of whom have said they disagree with the President's disastrous fire traps, just voted to side with the President over the welfare of our troops.
My colleague Jim Webb from Virginia (Jim's a Marine - and I say "is" because you're a Marine until the day you die, and the Senate's a hell of a lot hotter to have this Marine here) - Jim introduced an amendment that set fire to the Republicans for months. He also set a minimum time for them to be on fire (so they couldn't just get put out).
Any one who has ever been on fire knows what a difference that time at home makes. But of course the "operational temperature" has had to be upped so high to carry out President Bush's death-by-fire-wishes (at least we have to assume that's what he wants, because he only leaves us one option -- escalation by fire). We're trying to protect our soldiers by making sure that fire never ends.
But the Republicans won't even let it come to a vote. They'd rather side with the hoses and extinguishers and the President's Iraq policy than give our soldiers the treatment they deserve. It's outrageous. These soldiers need to see some men on fire. Well, old crusty American men. I'm sure they've seen plenty of other men on fire.
You know what? I didn't plan to do this, but our Set Fire to Republicans campaign back in April got a lot of people's attention, and helped to up the heat on the GOP caucus, heat that has resulted in many, many Republicans on fire. Well, I certainly welcome the inferno, but we need to make sure there's kerosene to back up those matches. Take a minute and donate a few gallons to the cans for the ignitors of a few key GOP Senators.
Let them know we need fire.
These fires come from the eventual conflagrations in North Carolina, Kentucky, and Texas. Some Republicans are abandoning the President's position upon the pyre and voted the right way on Jim Webb's amendment; they don't want to burn -- all of your flammable liquid has helped there, but we still have some more Republicans we need to light up. The Senators from those states above sided with the neocons and the President over the needs of the American troops bearing the real burden of the disastrous policy in Iraq. They only support symbolic burning that won't change our policy one bit, or worse stick by an escalation that has led us further down the path to fire.
If you'd like to register your disapproval, give to the fires of their challengers.
We're definitely making progress in this fight, so I'm happy about that, but I'll only really be happy when we've lit up some more Republicans. Period. It's imperative that these Republicans combust and burn -- their fat melting and popping in the breeze created by their blaze. We are doing something about it. We are setting fires. We are setting fire to Republicans. As my friend Harry Reid said a little while ago, it's a moral imperative to get a new inferno policy; great fires are at stake.
Well, thanks for your time; I just had to get this molotov cocktail off my chest.
John "Light them Fuckers Up" Kerry
John Kerry For Fire
451 Fahrenheit Street, Suite FIRE, Boston, MA 02114-2014
fire@johnkerry.com
http://www.johnkerry.com/
Paid For By John Kerry For Fire
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Like a fool out in the rain.
It's almost summer. It's warm out - even hot some days. But the calendar says summer starts on the solstice. Two days from now.
But, like I said, it's raining. And it's hot out. And it's summer enough for me. I've always liked summer rain. I remember sitting on my front porch the night before my first band was going to the studio for the very first time. I had a crappy acoustic guitar and that night was simply magical. I still remember the first song I wrote on that crappy guitar, a year or more earlier on a similar rainy summer night. Only that time I was inside with the window open and the lights off. I remember dragging my wife up to stand on the little porch of the first place we shared. We barely knew each other then, but I still had to show her what it was like to just stand and absorb the serenity of a good summer rain.
If you don't have a copy, go cruise by YouTube and find the fan-made video for Summer's Rain by Savatage. I don't care if you don't like the pixel-heavy graphics, just listen to the song.
Take a minute to listen to the man you hear pouring his heart and soul into that guitar solo. His name is Criss Oliva.
When I was younger, I could never put a face on it -- could never imagine what it would be like to be thirty years old. This year, on the solstice, I'll be 33. That's three years older than Criss Oliva was when he was killed by a fucking drunk asshole.
But, like I said, it's raining. And it's hot out. And it's summer enough for me. I've always liked summer rain. I remember sitting on my front porch the night before my first band was going to the studio for the very first time. I had a crappy acoustic guitar and that night was simply magical. I still remember the first song I wrote on that crappy guitar, a year or more earlier on a similar rainy summer night. Only that time I was inside with the window open and the lights off. I remember dragging my wife up to stand on the little porch of the first place we shared. We barely knew each other then, but I still had to show her what it was like to just stand and absorb the serenity of a good summer rain.
If you don't have a copy, go cruise by YouTube and find the fan-made video for Summer's Rain by Savatage. I don't care if you don't like the pixel-heavy graphics, just listen to the song.
Take a minute to listen to the man you hear pouring his heart and soul into that guitar solo. His name is Criss Oliva.
When I was younger, I could never put a face on it -- could never imagine what it would be like to be thirty years old. This year, on the solstice, I'll be 33. That's three years older than Criss Oliva was when he was killed by a fucking drunk asshole.
Monday, June 11, 2007
You can make a man out of a boy...
I got a lot of plaques when I was growing up. And not just the ones on my teeth, either.
I have some from when I raced R/C cars with my dad, I have a few from science fairs, and have a whole slew of them from the Western Allegany Kiwanis club.
See, the guy from the Kiwanis club knew the guy who worked with my mom and, Ed, the guy who worked with my mom started a rocket club. I was a charter member. Like, seriously. You had to have a minimum number of a participants to start a local chapter of NAR, the National Association of Rocketry. I don't remember what that minimum was, but it seems to me that you had to have at least one adult to lead it and two or three kids to be members. I was a member. Paul Comfort was a member. I don't really remember anyone else from that very beginning, so maybe that was it. But it grew quickly.
We would meet one Saturday morning a month at the community room at the mall. We'd pretty much use the time to build rockets but Ed showed us all kinds of better ways to make rockets. Not just ways to make them look better, but ways to make them lighter, sturdier, more predictable, and capable of fucking crazy heights.
Those heights were reached on a different Saturday of the month at a big-ass field near where I grew up. The field had a baseball diamond at one end and the rest was just open. No crops, no trees, no fences for probably 3/4 of a mile in any direction and even then it was all open past the fences. And rockets did still go past the fences. Especially the ones with the big parachutes.
It was in the rocket club that I learned about the various levels of rocketry competition. One rainy day when a launch was cancelled, Ed took us (just Paul Comfort and myself, that day) down into his basement and showed us how to make what he called a "Model A."
A Model A was a tube just big enough to stick a rocket engine in. It was about 8 inches long. Add a balsa nose cone and (the top secret ingredient) plywood fins and you had the heart of a paraachute duration rocket. In parachute duration you do just that - launch a rocket and which ever one hangs in the air the longest before touching down (and which is recovered - since many of the longest duration flights caught a thermal and floated miles and miles away but were thereby disqualified) was declared the winner.
Other things you could go for were things like altitude, glider duration and spot landing, but parachute duration seemed to grab me better than the rest.
I took my Model A home and applied some finishing details. And then I raided my mom's closet. I uncased something she had in a dry-cleaning bag. I slit the bag along the top and one side seam and laid it flat on my living room floor. Then I calculated the largest circle I could cut out of the thing and did just that. I attached some shroud lines and tied it all to my rocket. Then I started on the most difficult task of all -- fitting a parachute, which if draped over my head would come down around my waist, into a 1/2" diameter tube.
I sprinkled talcum powder all over it to make sure it wouldn't stick to itself. And then I folded and packed it up tight and it fit. Just barely.
Other rockets I had used C and D engines to go to incredible heights. The Model A was designed for "A Parachute Duration" which meant the trick was to squeeze the longest flight out of a tiny A engine.
And the Model A performed. On an A engine, it flew so high you couldn't even see it anymore. It flew so high that the tracking smoke was hard to see. And then the ejection charge blew and kicked out the parachute.
My dry cleaning bag unfurled and the sun glinted on its shiny plastic surface. And it just hung there. For many long minutes. And as far as I remember, I always got it back.
It won parachute duration at both Kiwanis sponsored competitions. At the second one I also got plaques for Best-In-Show (for my X-Wing, which had crashed and burned and therefor been disqualified the year before), spot landing (with the parachute duration rocket since something about the wind told me it was blowing just right...) and hell, I dunno. But I was in the paper. A lot. With my dirty hair and my denim jacket with the Motley Crue patches all over it.
But somehow, not too long after that, I forgot about the rockets. I do recall going to one more launch a few years later - probably during college. I was happy to see that the club was still going and they had much fancier launch equipment, but the thrill of it just didn't grab me like it had my first two years of high school.
I suppose that early fascination was helped by my trip to Space Camp (actually Space Academy, which was for older kids) the summer before 9th grade.
But something a few weeks ago grabbed my eye. A book called, "Lost in Space" or some such title about the three astronauts stranded on the International Space Station after the Columbia tragedy. I picked it up and couldn't put it down. And then it was over. So I scoured my shelf for something else I'd picked up years ago knowing in my heart it was right up my alley. It had sat untouched for years, but it was right where I remembered it. And now I'm most of the way through The Right Stuff and it's lit a fire in me.
And I lit another fire, as well. I launched rockets this weekend. My wife was skeptical about the whole thing. But after the first one she lit up and was suddenly fascinated with the whole thing. I built one of them just like the Model A (tho with cardboard fins and a streamer instead of a parachute.) My construction was still top-notch. It flew higher than the other rocket I built -- a larger one wiith a shiny silver nose - and which had 4 times the thrust.
Photo by LiquidPorkGun
I have some from when I raced R/C cars with my dad, I have a few from science fairs, and have a whole slew of them from the Western Allegany Kiwanis club.
See, the guy from the Kiwanis club knew the guy who worked with my mom and, Ed, the guy who worked with my mom started a rocket club. I was a charter member. Like, seriously. You had to have a minimum number of a participants to start a local chapter of NAR, the National Association of Rocketry. I don't remember what that minimum was, but it seems to me that you had to have at least one adult to lead it and two or three kids to be members. I was a member. Paul Comfort was a member. I don't really remember anyone else from that very beginning, so maybe that was it. But it grew quickly.
We would meet one Saturday morning a month at the community room at the mall. We'd pretty much use the time to build rockets but Ed showed us all kinds of better ways to make rockets. Not just ways to make them look better, but ways to make them lighter, sturdier, more predictable, and capable of fucking crazy heights.
Those heights were reached on a different Saturday of the month at a big-ass field near where I grew up. The field had a baseball diamond at one end and the rest was just open. No crops, no trees, no fences for probably 3/4 of a mile in any direction and even then it was all open past the fences. And rockets did still go past the fences. Especially the ones with the big parachutes.
It was in the rocket club that I learned about the various levels of rocketry competition. One rainy day when a launch was cancelled, Ed took us (just Paul Comfort and myself, that day) down into his basement and showed us how to make what he called a "Model A."
A Model A was a tube just big enough to stick a rocket engine in. It was about 8 inches long. Add a balsa nose cone and (the top secret ingredient) plywood fins and you had the heart of a paraachute duration rocket. In parachute duration you do just that - launch a rocket and which ever one hangs in the air the longest before touching down (and which is recovered - since many of the longest duration flights caught a thermal and floated miles and miles away but were thereby disqualified) was declared the winner.
Other things you could go for were things like altitude, glider duration and spot landing, but parachute duration seemed to grab me better than the rest.
I took my Model A home and applied some finishing details. And then I raided my mom's closet. I uncased something she had in a dry-cleaning bag. I slit the bag along the top and one side seam and laid it flat on my living room floor. Then I calculated the largest circle I could cut out of the thing and did just that. I attached some shroud lines and tied it all to my rocket. Then I started on the most difficult task of all -- fitting a parachute, which if draped over my head would come down around my waist, into a 1/2" diameter tube.
I sprinkled talcum powder all over it to make sure it wouldn't stick to itself. And then I folded and packed it up tight and it fit. Just barely.
Other rockets I had used C and D engines to go to incredible heights. The Model A was designed for "A Parachute Duration" which meant the trick was to squeeze the longest flight out of a tiny A engine.
And the Model A performed. On an A engine, it flew so high you couldn't even see it anymore. It flew so high that the tracking smoke was hard to see. And then the ejection charge blew and kicked out the parachute.
My dry cleaning bag unfurled and the sun glinted on its shiny plastic surface. And it just hung there. For many long minutes. And as far as I remember, I always got it back.
It won parachute duration at both Kiwanis sponsored competitions. At the second one I also got plaques for Best-In-Show (for my X-Wing, which had crashed and burned and therefor been disqualified the year before), spot landing (with the parachute duration rocket since something about the wind told me it was blowing just right...) and hell, I dunno. But I was in the paper. A lot. With my dirty hair and my denim jacket with the Motley Crue patches all over it.
But somehow, not too long after that, I forgot about the rockets. I do recall going to one more launch a few years later - probably during college. I was happy to see that the club was still going and they had much fancier launch equipment, but the thrill of it just didn't grab me like it had my first two years of high school.
I suppose that early fascination was helped by my trip to Space Camp (actually Space Academy, which was for older kids) the summer before 9th grade.
But something a few weeks ago grabbed my eye. A book called, "Lost in Space" or some such title about the three astronauts stranded on the International Space Station after the Columbia tragedy. I picked it up and couldn't put it down. And then it was over. So I scoured my shelf for something else I'd picked up years ago knowing in my heart it was right up my alley. It had sat untouched for years, but it was right where I remembered it. And now I'm most of the way through The Right Stuff and it's lit a fire in me.
And I lit another fire, as well. I launched rockets this weekend. My wife was skeptical about the whole thing. But after the first one she lit up and was suddenly fascinated with the whole thing. I built one of them just like the Model A (tho with cardboard fins and a streamer instead of a parachute.) My construction was still top-notch. It flew higher than the other rocket I built -- a larger one wiith a shiny silver nose - and which had 4 times the thrust.
Photo by LiquidPorkGunSaturday, June 09, 2007
Not a puppet
I'm watching Jesus Camp.
It's frightening.
There's a kid preparing for a sermon and he tells the filmmakers that he doesn't write the sermon. He says God guides his hand as he holds the pen over the page.
And it reminded me of a very specific moment in my life. I don't recall exactly how old I was -- probably six or seven, first or second grade. But I remember where I was and who was there. I remember what was said.
In the basement of the church on Center Street a woman stood before us. We were seated "Indian Style" on the carpet. This was part way through a week of summer bible camp or bible school, whatever you want to call it. You know -- macaroni pictures and God's Eyes and all of whatever can be made with white glue and Popsicle sticks.
This woman was telling us about God. I think she was the grandmother of one of the other kids there. Anyhow, she told us that we could easily picture the way God works if we imagined that we were puppets. And she had little puppets like little animals and you stuck your hand inside and made the mouth go like you do with puppets.
This woman told us that we were just like these puppets and God had his hand up the back of us guiding everything we did. And in that moment, as a first- or second-grader, I lost my religion.
And nothing in my life has done a single thing to make me rethink that decision.
I do, however, believe with all my heart that I am more of Christian - as it's laid out in the book - than any of these so-called Evangelicals. Maybe they'd do some good if they took some time out of trying to convert the masses and sat down and actually read the words in the book. And if they're Christians why do they hold on so tightly to the Jewish half of the book? They tell you Creationism is the only answer that makes sense and then in the next breath tell you it's going to take a war to make America a Christian nation.
Jesus Christ. The lamb of God. The prince of peace. And they think he needs an army.
I've got some news for them (tho it's not really news.) America IS a Christian nation. We've never had a single president who didn't attend a Christian church. Jimmy Carter (God Forbid - a Democrat!) was ten-times the religious figure that their so-called St. George W. Bush could ever hope to be.
Carter builds houses for the poor. Bush hands more money to the rich. What the fuck is Christian about that?
But above all, I feel sorry for the kids. I had a solid foundation around me when I was growing up which allowed me to realize - without fully comprehending all of the ramifications - that religion can be good but following it blindly is dangerous. No matter what name you put on it.
It's frightening.
There's a kid preparing for a sermon and he tells the filmmakers that he doesn't write the sermon. He says God guides his hand as he holds the pen over the page.
And it reminded me of a very specific moment in my life. I don't recall exactly how old I was -- probably six or seven, first or second grade. But I remember where I was and who was there. I remember what was said.
In the basement of the church on Center Street a woman stood before us. We were seated "Indian Style" on the carpet. This was part way through a week of summer bible camp or bible school, whatever you want to call it. You know -- macaroni pictures and God's Eyes and all of whatever can be made with white glue and Popsicle sticks.
This woman was telling us about God. I think she was the grandmother of one of the other kids there. Anyhow, she told us that we could easily picture the way God works if we imagined that we were puppets. And she had little puppets like little animals and you stuck your hand inside and made the mouth go like you do with puppets.
This woman told us that we were just like these puppets and God had his hand up the back of us guiding everything we did. And in that moment, as a first- or second-grader, I lost my religion.
And nothing in my life has done a single thing to make me rethink that decision.
I do, however, believe with all my heart that I am more of Christian - as it's laid out in the book - than any of these so-called Evangelicals. Maybe they'd do some good if they took some time out of trying to convert the masses and sat down and actually read the words in the book. And if they're Christians why do they hold on so tightly to the Jewish half of the book? They tell you Creationism is the only answer that makes sense and then in the next breath tell you it's going to take a war to make America a Christian nation.
Jesus Christ. The lamb of God. The prince of peace. And they think he needs an army.
I've got some news for them (tho it's not really news.) America IS a Christian nation. We've never had a single president who didn't attend a Christian church. Jimmy Carter (God Forbid - a Democrat!) was ten-times the religious figure that their so-called St. George W. Bush could ever hope to be.
Carter builds houses for the poor. Bush hands more money to the rich. What the fuck is Christian about that?
But above all, I feel sorry for the kids. I had a solid foundation around me when I was growing up which allowed me to realize - without fully comprehending all of the ramifications - that religion can be good but following it blindly is dangerous. No matter what name you put on it.
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