Okay, so it's more of a fort than a mansion, per se...
I had an interesting day. It actually started with my haircut yesterday, after which I purchased a new machete because my old one was getting really beat-up. I'm sure you know how it is...buy a new machete and you just can't WAIT to test-drive that sucker, right?
Oh, you've never purchased a machete? Never mind then. All you really need to know is that I really wanted to go cut stuff down.
It's a very neat machete. It's double-bladed; has a straight edge on the front side and a jagged sawing blade on the back end. I figured the back end was more decorative than anything else, because I've seen similar blades before and none of them worked very well. Still, worth a shot, right?
Back when I was younger (and a little shorter), I had taken half an acre of straight thicket and thorn bush and riddled it with hallways and rooms, creating a fortress completely inaccessible to anyone who didn't know which key branch to move to enter the hidden passageway (since the outside was completely composed of thorn bushes, the key branch was crucial knowledge) and didn't happen to have a chainsaw at the time. It was glorious. However, I hadn't been inside for the last two years due to bugs and injuries, so I figured today would be a good day to take a machete to the growth inside the fort.
Why is it that only prickly undergrowth, like thistles and thorny vines, like to grow in a space that is already composed of thorn bushes? Not fair.
I was wishing for a weedwhacker by the time I made it to the main chamber, but my machete was cutting through everything nicely. A rather large branch had drooped to the point where it made passage through the fort rather difficult, so I took a few half-hearted swings at it before I decided, just for the heck of it, to try the saw blade out.
One minute later, I had the branch cut out and dragged over to help bolster the defenses on the south wall. I was also excitedly explaining to my dog Max how well the machete worked. After I finished, I cut down a branch for him to chew on to thank him for being such an excellent listener. I had to wake him up to give it to him.
So that was my day. I finished clearing out that fort and I started in on an entirely new one a few hundred yards away, in case the first one is ever breached. I also took a thorn branch to the eye and accumulated several thousand cuts (none from my machete, though--a new first for me!!!). Also, mosquito casualties were in the millions...
Tomorrow, we see if I can cut mosquitoes down in midair. With the machete. Or a weedwhacker. THE WAR IS ON!!!!!!!!!!
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Captain's Log, Day 70: Death and Destruction in the Line of Duty
Ever taken a sledgehammer to a grill?
Yeah, I didn't think so.
This lovely opportunity was given me yesterday, as our family got a new grill and I was ordered to dissemble the old one. The words "by any means necessary" were actually spoken by the short-sighted parental unit, so I suppressed maniacal laughter, took up a sledgehammer, and began gleefully whacking the daylights out of the poor grill.
Thirty minutes later, I was marveling at the grill's structural integrity as I switched from hammer to angle grinder. For those who have not grown up with tools, it's basically a hand-held tool with a composite metal disk that can cut through steel and iron with ease, throwing out a satisfying shower of sparks as it does so. If you ever get the chance to use one, make a great effort to locate a suitable pair of glasses, because my efforts to secure a pair were not great enough, and after 15 minutes of happy sparking, I shot a metal shard into my eye.
After I removed the metal, I returned to the sparking and managed to cut through the rest of the grill without incident. I attempted to save the igniter in the hopes that a new battery would provide me with the trigger mechanism for my Fourth of July cannon, but after seven Band-Aids later, I decided regretfully that it was not to be and threw the pieces of the now-conquered grill into the back of the truck for dumpster disposal later and retired to the barn to get flattened by a horse and spat on by an alpaca.
Why do we even HAVE those things?
Leaving behind some amused animals and nursing some bruised ribs, I returned to the house to catalog injuries and ponder my next move. It came in the form of my old machete, which I managed to dig out of my closet and sharpen up. My dog and I then left for the woods to test it out.
We returned in an hour, leaving in our wake a trail of new forts, shattered forts, and blood trails (mostly from me. Okay, totally from me). I shall leave it to the imagination as to how our time was spent...but I'll give you a hint. IT WAS AWESOME!!! Just...don't ever forget you're holding a machete when you try to swat a mosquito. Yeah, you'll kill the mosquito, but you're going to lose a lot more blood then you would if you just let the mosquito and his entire extended family have dinner. On the other hand, there's the principle of the thing...I'd personally rather lose blood by my own hand than by a stupid bug.
But I digress.
So yeah, this is the first day of my summer...and ironically, the last day before I head over to another college for a one-week summer lab that's scaring the living daylights out of me just thinking about it. Oh well...it's only a week, and after that I can come home and begin planning the epic fireworks display for the Fourth that will make national headlines, either because it's amazingly cool and can be seen from three states, or because the farm vanished and left behind a smoking crater. Or both.
Just kidding.
Maybe.
Watch the skies.
Yeah, I didn't think so.
This lovely opportunity was given me yesterday, as our family got a new grill and I was ordered to dissemble the old one. The words "by any means necessary" were actually spoken by the short-sighted parental unit, so I suppressed maniacal laughter, took up a sledgehammer, and began gleefully whacking the daylights out of the poor grill.
Thirty minutes later, I was marveling at the grill's structural integrity as I switched from hammer to angle grinder. For those who have not grown up with tools, it's basically a hand-held tool with a composite metal disk that can cut through steel and iron with ease, throwing out a satisfying shower of sparks as it does so. If you ever get the chance to use one, make a great effort to locate a suitable pair of glasses, because my efforts to secure a pair were not great enough, and after 15 minutes of happy sparking, I shot a metal shard into my eye.
After I removed the metal, I returned to the sparking and managed to cut through the rest of the grill without incident. I attempted to save the igniter in the hopes that a new battery would provide me with the trigger mechanism for my Fourth of July cannon, but after seven Band-Aids later, I decided regretfully that it was not to be and threw the pieces of the now-conquered grill into the back of the truck for dumpster disposal later and retired to the barn to get flattened by a horse and spat on by an alpaca.
Why do we even HAVE those things?
Leaving behind some amused animals and nursing some bruised ribs, I returned to the house to catalog injuries and ponder my next move. It came in the form of my old machete, which I managed to dig out of my closet and sharpen up. My dog and I then left for the woods to test it out.
We returned in an hour, leaving in our wake a trail of new forts, shattered forts, and blood trails (mostly from me. Okay, totally from me). I shall leave it to the imagination as to how our time was spent...but I'll give you a hint. IT WAS AWESOME!!! Just...don't ever forget you're holding a machete when you try to swat a mosquito. Yeah, you'll kill the mosquito, but you're going to lose a lot more blood then you would if you just let the mosquito and his entire extended family have dinner. On the other hand, there's the principle of the thing...I'd personally rather lose blood by my own hand than by a stupid bug.
But I digress.
So yeah, this is the first day of my summer...and ironically, the last day before I head over to another college for a one-week summer lab that's scaring the living daylights out of me just thinking about it. Oh well...it's only a week, and after that I can come home and begin planning the epic fireworks display for the Fourth that will make national headlines, either because it's amazingly cool and can be seen from three states, or because the farm vanished and left behind a smoking crater. Or both.
Just kidding.
Maybe.
Watch the skies.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Captain's Log, Day 69: Dragon Master
This is a short excerpt from a book I was working on a LONG time ago. I gave up on it after a while, but am considering revisiting the concept. It had some potential.
“Hey, Aaron, what’s up?”
Brown-haired, brown-eyed Aaron
Henderson looked up into the tree he was walking under and saw his best friend
Jason Everett perched on a tree limb ten feet off the ground. “Hmm, that’s a hard
one,” he said dryly, “but I’d have to say that would be you.”
The blond-haired, blue-eyed boy
looked down at him. “Didja bring your swords?
I was hoping we could do a little fighting.”
Aaron shook his head and cursed.
“Dragonsteeth! I got back so late from our last battle that I got strapped by
Henderson for not feeding the horses on time. I was only ten minutes late! He
sold one of them, but he lost the money gambling, so he was in a really bad
mood.”
Jason looked down at him curiously.
“Which one did he sell?”
“Falnir, my favorite. Blast!”
Aaron cursed again. “If only Henderson could have waited for the next race, I know I would’ve won on him!”
Jason shrugged. Aaron was an
exceptional rider, owing partly to the fact that he could somehow communicate
with the horses through his mind, a secret he had only shared with Jason.
“Which horse will you ride in the next race?” he inquired.
“Firetail, unless Henderson sells
him too,” Aaron grumbled.
“Well, good luck to you,” Jason
said. A sly smile spread across his face. “You’re going to need it!”
Aaron growled at the insult and
started shaking the sapling. Jason yelped with surprise—and fell off onto
Aaron, knocking them both to the ground with a thud. Aaron squirmed out from under him and jumped on him, which
started off a wrestling match which ended abruptly when they heard peals of
laughter from behind them. Jason shoved Aaron off of him and stood up.
A party of three men and two women,
the youngest a girl about the boys’ age and all of them on horseback, were
standing behind them, having apparently snuck up on them while they were
wrestling. Aaron got up, brushed the leaves and dirt off himself, and bowed,
Jason following his example. “Good afternoon, sirs and madams,” Aaron said,
hoping that was the right thing to say. “What brings you this far into the
Divide?”
The girl looked at them coolly. “We
are out for a ride. Father wanted to see how his new horse handled. And you?”
“Wrestling,” Jason said, grinning.
He was about to say more when Aaron suddenly walked forward to the horse on
which the lead man was sitting. “Falnir!” he exclaimed excitedly. “How are
you, fellow?” Falnir nickered and shoved his nose into Aaron’s chest. Aaron
laughed and rubbed his neck. The man on his back smiled. “So you’re the hand of
Slagar Henderson,” he remarked. “You take very good care of the horses. I wish
I had a hand that was as good as you.”
Jason stared. The man’s face had
finally clicked. The Governor of
Gatesville! He was the governor of the town on whose outskirts Aaron lived,
and the orphanage was located near the middle of it. No wonder they sounded royal.
“Has Falnir lived up to your
expectations?” Aaron inquired politely.
“Yes. He was very well trained. Was
it you who taught him?”
Aaron flushed and dropped his eyes,
embarrassed to receive such attention. “Yes,” he muttered.
“You have a way with horses,”
Governor Sendic replied. “How old are you?”
“Fifteen, sir,” Aaron stated,
backing away slightly. “I must be going now. It’s almost feeding time for the
horses.”
“Yes, yes. Do not keep them
waiting. Good-bye!” the governor said cordially, as with a light touch he
guided Falnirv away.
“Good-bye!” Jason called out as the
rest of the party turned and rode away as well.
Aaron grinned mischievously as he
saw Jason staring after them. “You’re sweet on the youngest, aren’t you?” he
asked innocently. Jason glared at his friend. “I am not! Shut up!” Aaron smiled
even wider and started chanting, “You’re sweet on the youngest, you’re sweet on
the youngest, you’re sweet on the OOF!”
Jason had lunged forward and
tackled the chanting boy around the legs, bringing them both to the ground.
They started to wrestle again. Suddenly Aaron broke free and jumped to his
feet. “Look at the sun! It’s going down! It really is feeding time for the
horses now.”
Jason grimaced as his stomach
grumbled. “It’s feeding time at the orphanage too! Good thing they’re used to
my nomadic habits, or I’d catch it!”
Aaron groaned. “I will catch it if I’m not back! Good-bye,
Jason!” he yelled as he darted into the woods like a deer.
“Good-bye, Aaron!” Jason called
after him.
After ten minutes of running, Aaron
broke out of the Divide and onto the horse farm on its border. He was panting
hard as he continued running towards the barn, thinking Maybe Henderson isn’t home…..
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Captain's Log, Day 68: I. LIKE. FROGS.
"I can't believe you're actually going to do this!"
I snickered. Shorty had said that at least 5 times within the last three minutes. "Neither do they!" I jabbed a thumb over my shoulder at the couple 30 yards up the riverbank, who had probably been having a nice romantic moment before we had showed up. Now they were watching us intently and trying to pretend that they weren't.
I happen to like frogs. The other day, I'd been wandering around the riverbank when I saw this HUGE storm drain that emptied out into the river. The pipe was probably 15 feet tall from the water, with huge concrete walls protecting it from the bank. And also probably from people like me, who would see the five-pound bullfrogs on the sandbar inside the pipe and feel the need to go catch it. Unfortunately, there was the 15-foot drop to contend with. I could probably survive the fall, but unless I felt like swimming out into the river, there was no way for me to get out.
Fortunately, I had a plan.
"I wonder if there's laws against this?" Shorty mused as I finished knotting the rope.
"What, laws against rappelling down into a storm sewer?" I thought about that for a second. "Probably. But I'm not going in, per se...I'm just going down the wall to that sandbar so I can get that stupid frog!" I tied the rope to the base of the conveniently placed post and straddled the wall. "Alrighty, here goes. Any bets on whether or not I--WHOA!!!"
That last exclamation was due to extreme clumsiness on my part. As I climbed over the wall, I had one hand on the rope and one on the wall. The plan had been to grab the rope with both hands once I let go of the wall...but I kind of, um, slipped, missed my grip on the rope, and slid one-handed down the wall at high velocity.
I picked myself up off the ground and dusted my kiester off. "Made it!"
Shorty was laughing. "Are you okay?"
I examined myself. "Couple of scrapes, nothing too--wow. That's cool."
"What?"
I held up my hand. "Rope burn. I'm impressed. I didn't get this badly burned when I stuck my hand in that fire."
"You did WHAT???"
I doubled over laughing. "Lost a bet a long time ago. Don't ask. Where did that frog go?"
Shorty glared at me. "I'm asking."
I examined the sandbar. "And I'm ignoring you. Completely useless...NOW he moved. That's a retarded frog. Okay, I'm coming back up now..."
Unfortunately for me, there was a slight problem. My right hand was too badly burned to hold onto the rope tightly enough to ascend in the fashion that I'd been planning, and the knots were too small for me to grip with my feet. I began double-knotting all the knots I could reach, then Shorty pulled the rope up and finished the knots at the top.
I glared at the water. "Next time, we bring a boat," I muttered before I grabbed the rope and began ascending. Now that I could grip the rope with my feet, climbing was very easy. At least, until I got near the top and discovered that I had miscalculated with my knots. There was at least three feet of unknotted rope before the top.
I did what any marginally brain-dead person would have. I jumped for it.
Considering I've spent my entire life to date pulling my kiester out of spots like this, or into trees, rafters and other odd, random and interesting places, I thought that it was considerably harder than I thought to pull myself up and over the wall. On the other hand, maybe I was finally gaining some weight! (I hate being this skinny.)
Shorty helped me gather the rope. "Next time, you should use a ladder."
"Agreed," I nodded. "Or a boat. I NEED TO GET THAT FROG!!!!!!!!"
I snickered. Shorty had said that at least 5 times within the last three minutes. "Neither do they!" I jabbed a thumb over my shoulder at the couple 30 yards up the riverbank, who had probably been having a nice romantic moment before we had showed up. Now they were watching us intently and trying to pretend that they weren't.
I happen to like frogs. The other day, I'd been wandering around the riverbank when I saw this HUGE storm drain that emptied out into the river. The pipe was probably 15 feet tall from the water, with huge concrete walls protecting it from the bank. And also probably from people like me, who would see the five-pound bullfrogs on the sandbar inside the pipe and feel the need to go catch it. Unfortunately, there was the 15-foot drop to contend with. I could probably survive the fall, but unless I felt like swimming out into the river, there was no way for me to get out.
Fortunately, I had a plan.
"I wonder if there's laws against this?" Shorty mused as I finished knotting the rope.
"What, laws against rappelling down into a storm sewer?" I thought about that for a second. "Probably. But I'm not going in, per se...I'm just going down the wall to that sandbar so I can get that stupid frog!" I tied the rope to the base of the conveniently placed post and straddled the wall. "Alrighty, here goes. Any bets on whether or not I--WHOA!!!"
That last exclamation was due to extreme clumsiness on my part. As I climbed over the wall, I had one hand on the rope and one on the wall. The plan had been to grab the rope with both hands once I let go of the wall...but I kind of, um, slipped, missed my grip on the rope, and slid one-handed down the wall at high velocity.
I picked myself up off the ground and dusted my kiester off. "Made it!"
Shorty was laughing. "Are you okay?"
I examined myself. "Couple of scrapes, nothing too--wow. That's cool."
"What?"
I held up my hand. "Rope burn. I'm impressed. I didn't get this badly burned when I stuck my hand in that fire."
"You did WHAT???"
I doubled over laughing. "Lost a bet a long time ago. Don't ask. Where did that frog go?"
Shorty glared at me. "I'm asking."
I examined the sandbar. "And I'm ignoring you. Completely useless...NOW he moved. That's a retarded frog. Okay, I'm coming back up now..."
Unfortunately for me, there was a slight problem. My right hand was too badly burned to hold onto the rope tightly enough to ascend in the fashion that I'd been planning, and the knots were too small for me to grip with my feet. I began double-knotting all the knots I could reach, then Shorty pulled the rope up and finished the knots at the top.
I glared at the water. "Next time, we bring a boat," I muttered before I grabbed the rope and began ascending. Now that I could grip the rope with my feet, climbing was very easy. At least, until I got near the top and discovered that I had miscalculated with my knots. There was at least three feet of unknotted rope before the top.
I did what any marginally brain-dead person would have. I jumped for it.
Considering I've spent my entire life to date pulling my kiester out of spots like this, or into trees, rafters and other odd, random and interesting places, I thought that it was considerably harder than I thought to pull myself up and over the wall. On the other hand, maybe I was finally gaining some weight! (I hate being this skinny.)
Shorty helped me gather the rope. "Next time, you should use a ladder."
"Agreed," I nodded. "Or a boat. I NEED TO GET THAT FROG!!!!!!!!"
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Captain's Log, Day 67: Yeah, this is a typical weekend for me...
A picture is worth a thousand words. So what is a video worth?
Maybe a book?
Presenting the first of a series of trailers, detailing the epicness of my weekends and the variety of games played during that time. I give you...Humans Versus Zombies: HvZ trailer!!!!
Maybe a book?
Presenting the first of a series of trailers, detailing the epicness of my weekends and the variety of games played during that time. I give you...Humans Versus Zombies: HvZ trailer!!!!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k58q5bUwNdA
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Captain's Log, Day 66: Useless? Mostly...
"Don't even THINK about it, llama-face!"
Interestingly enough, these words of mine yesterday were actually directed at our alpaca, Maggie, who was moving her jaw in a manner that suggested a sudden emission of expectorate in the near future. The actual llama, Callie, was placidly standing by with a slight smirk on her face. I glared at her. "And yes, llama-face was an insult," I added.
Maggie twisted her head, but I already had my hand up, blocking her muzzle from turning all the way around to point at my face. I could see her contemplating her options, deciding that I already had the drop on her, and acted like she hadn't really wanted to spit at me anyway. She bent down for some hay instead. Callie made a small "Hrrmmm" noise. I wasn't sure if she was laughing at me or Maggie. I stuck my tongue out at both of them and stomped off to get hay for the horses.
Yepp. You guessed it. Mom decided she wanted a llama. But she wanted the llama to have company, and she thought the alpaca was cute, so now we have two full-grown, hair-trigger, spit machines walking around our pasture and hosing us every time we go out there. Mom's argument for keeping them? "But they're cute!"
Ironically, she was also the first to receive an alpaca-style shower. Her enthusiasm is undiminished.
Actually, Mom did have one excellent argument for llama ownership (or at least, it won Dad over): llamas can apparently produce excellent, um, fertilizer for the gardens, if you get my drift. Dad wondered if they would produce more than our needs, to which Mom responded, "Then we can sell it! Maybe make a little business out of it...I know what we can call it! Squirrel's Llama Lumps!"
My sister Squirrel was absolutely mortified, especially when it was suggested that we hand out little bags of "free samples" at my sister Quill's graduation party. "I don't want my name connected with this!" she wailed. I, personally, think Mom might have been kidding...but I wasn't. Free sample, anyone?
Other than fertilizer, I really have no use for a llama. At least you can ride horses; I don't think I could ride a llama, not without getting a face-full of extract of llama. We couldn't even name our llama and alpaca; they came with pre-chosen names, and Mom didn't want to change them because she "didn't want to confuse them."
"You realize, of course, that they don't respond to their current names anyway?" I pointed out, privately hoping to name one of them "Kuzco." I was unaware, at the time, that my hopes would be dashed anyway due to the inconvenient fact that neither of the animals were boys. After I learned their names, I got them mixed up and called the alpaca "Callie" and the llama "Maggie" for a week. Sure enough, they didn't notice.
All I can say now is...if either of those animals hits me with a spitball, I'm firing back. With a supersoaker. BRING IT!!! I DARE YOU!!!!!!
Interestingly enough, these words of mine yesterday were actually directed at our alpaca, Maggie, who was moving her jaw in a manner that suggested a sudden emission of expectorate in the near future. The actual llama, Callie, was placidly standing by with a slight smirk on her face. I glared at her. "And yes, llama-face was an insult," I added.
Maggie twisted her head, but I already had my hand up, blocking her muzzle from turning all the way around to point at my face. I could see her contemplating her options, deciding that I already had the drop on her, and acted like she hadn't really wanted to spit at me anyway. She bent down for some hay instead. Callie made a small "Hrrmmm" noise. I wasn't sure if she was laughing at me or Maggie. I stuck my tongue out at both of them and stomped off to get hay for the horses.
Yepp. You guessed it. Mom decided she wanted a llama. But she wanted the llama to have company, and she thought the alpaca was cute, so now we have two full-grown, hair-trigger, spit machines walking around our pasture and hosing us every time we go out there. Mom's argument for keeping them? "But they're cute!"
Ironically, she was also the first to receive an alpaca-style shower. Her enthusiasm is undiminished.
Actually, Mom did have one excellent argument for llama ownership (or at least, it won Dad over): llamas can apparently produce excellent, um, fertilizer for the gardens, if you get my drift. Dad wondered if they would produce more than our needs, to which Mom responded, "Then we can sell it! Maybe make a little business out of it...I know what we can call it! Squirrel's Llama Lumps!"
My sister Squirrel was absolutely mortified, especially when it was suggested that we hand out little bags of "free samples" at my sister Quill's graduation party. "I don't want my name connected with this!" she wailed. I, personally, think Mom might have been kidding...but I wasn't. Free sample, anyone?
Other than fertilizer, I really have no use for a llama. At least you can ride horses; I don't think I could ride a llama, not without getting a face-full of extract of llama. We couldn't even name our llama and alpaca; they came with pre-chosen names, and Mom didn't want to change them because she "didn't want to confuse them."
"You realize, of course, that they don't respond to their current names anyway?" I pointed out, privately hoping to name one of them "Kuzco." I was unaware, at the time, that my hopes would be dashed anyway due to the inconvenient fact that neither of the animals were boys. After I learned their names, I got them mixed up and called the alpaca "Callie" and the llama "Maggie" for a week. Sure enough, they didn't notice.
All I can say now is...if either of those animals hits me with a spitball, I'm firing back. With a supersoaker. BRING IT!!! I DARE YOU!!!!!!
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Captain's Log, Day 65: WHAT THE HECK WAS I THINKING?????
Stages. Are. Awful.
You'd think someone who regularly comes within millimeters of death on a daily basis would be able to cope with appearing on stage for about two minutes, but apparently not. I get stage fright like nothing else. I'm not entirely sure what was wrong with me to make me decide to do this performance, but I'm guessing it was the chicken.
About an hour before this performance...maybe I should back up. It was a competition/performance; called "the Lip-Sync Competition;" the basic idea was that a person or a group would choose a song, go out on stage in front of approximately a gazillion people, and pretend to sing the said song, typically with actions to accompany it. A panel of judges, dressed up as famous people (in this case, Bruce Wayne, Abe Lincoln and Justin Bieber), would then select one person/group as the winner.
Side note: "Abe Lincoln" was awesome. My favorite quotes from the night (directed at various performances) were:
"As President of the United States, I cannot condone this."
"Will someone PLEASE shoot me now?"
"I hate to have to bring this up, but...four score and seven years ago, that was STILL awful." (Directed at a Justin Bieber song, no less!)
Anyway, an hour before the performance, I was in the cafeteria eating something that resembled chicken when my friend Sean approached me with a proposition. One of the guys in his group would be unable to make the performance, so would I mind filling in?
I said yes. Why I said that, I have no idea.
Thirty minutes later, I learned to my horror that we would be performing on THE OFFICIAL FREAKING STAGE. What would we be singing? "I've Got a Dream" from Tangled. At this point, my dream was that something--ANYTHING--would happen to prevent me from being chased out onto that stage by two of my friends wielding cardboard-and-duct-tape axes (yepp, that's how we decided to enter the stage). I fantasized about fires and lightning strikes until I calmed myself down by deciding that few people would probably be in the audience, due to a swing-dance event that was also going on that night.
Fifteen minutes until curtain, and curiosity overwhelmed my common sense. I joined my friends in sneaking out to the edge of the curtain to take a peek outside. Imagine my terror when I beheld a full auditorium...unbeknownst to me, the swing dance had been pushed back so that everyone could watch the show! I made a quick retreat to the practice room and prayed fervently to whichever saint was the patron of theater that I would not faint or fall off the stage. Or both.
Five minutes to the curtain, now, and I had made several trips to the restroom in an attempt to calm myself down. Didn't work. I confronted Sean to ascertain if he had put anything in my chicken, but he remained annoyingly obscure on the subject. To take my mind off it, he decided that we would make a slight change in our plan. Instead of just being part of the background group, I would now "sing" Flynn Ryder's part as well. I went back to the restroom.
Curtain time! I had a dream, all right...to make it off the stage with dry britches. I don't think I embarrassed myself too badly; at the very least, I did not faint or fall off the stage, although my retreat after our bows may have been a little quicker than was strictly necessary.
Now I must pray to the patron saint of the internet; that none of the pictures taken end up on Facebook...
You'd think someone who regularly comes within millimeters of death on a daily basis would be able to cope with appearing on stage for about two minutes, but apparently not. I get stage fright like nothing else. I'm not entirely sure what was wrong with me to make me decide to do this performance, but I'm guessing it was the chicken.
About an hour before this performance...maybe I should back up. It was a competition/performance; called "the Lip-Sync Competition;" the basic idea was that a person or a group would choose a song, go out on stage in front of approximately a gazillion people, and pretend to sing the said song, typically with actions to accompany it. A panel of judges, dressed up as famous people (in this case, Bruce Wayne, Abe Lincoln and Justin Bieber), would then select one person/group as the winner.
Side note: "Abe Lincoln" was awesome. My favorite quotes from the night (directed at various performances) were:
"As President of the United States, I cannot condone this."
"Will someone PLEASE shoot me now?"
"I hate to have to bring this up, but...four score and seven years ago, that was STILL awful." (Directed at a Justin Bieber song, no less!)
Anyway, an hour before the performance, I was in the cafeteria eating something that resembled chicken when my friend Sean approached me with a proposition. One of the guys in his group would be unable to make the performance, so would I mind filling in?
I said yes. Why I said that, I have no idea.
Thirty minutes later, I learned to my horror that we would be performing on THE OFFICIAL FREAKING STAGE. What would we be singing? "I've Got a Dream" from Tangled. At this point, my dream was that something--ANYTHING--would happen to prevent me from being chased out onto that stage by two of my friends wielding cardboard-and-duct-tape axes (yepp, that's how we decided to enter the stage). I fantasized about fires and lightning strikes until I calmed myself down by deciding that few people would probably be in the audience, due to a swing-dance event that was also going on that night.
Fifteen minutes until curtain, and curiosity overwhelmed my common sense. I joined my friends in sneaking out to the edge of the curtain to take a peek outside. Imagine my terror when I beheld a full auditorium...unbeknownst to me, the swing dance had been pushed back so that everyone could watch the show! I made a quick retreat to the practice room and prayed fervently to whichever saint was the patron of theater that I would not faint or fall off the stage. Or both.
Five minutes to the curtain, now, and I had made several trips to the restroom in an attempt to calm myself down. Didn't work. I confronted Sean to ascertain if he had put anything in my chicken, but he remained annoyingly obscure on the subject. To take my mind off it, he decided that we would make a slight change in our plan. Instead of just being part of the background group, I would now "sing" Flynn Ryder's part as well. I went back to the restroom.
Curtain time! I had a dream, all right...to make it off the stage with dry britches. I don't think I embarrassed myself too badly; at the very least, I did not faint or fall off the stage, although my retreat after our bows may have been a little quicker than was strictly necessary.
Now I must pray to the patron saint of the internet; that none of the pictures taken end up on Facebook...
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Captain's Log, Day 64: Irony, Teamwork and Weight Machines
Oofdaa...I just got done working out. I'm sore, but it's a good sore.
I like working out, but I typically prefer free weights to machines. Dad bought a weight bench a long time ago (back before I knew what it was), and hardly a week goes by where we don't use it...when I'm at home, anyway.
We have bought (somewhat) into the machine concept, though. There was one night, about two years back, where one of those annoying Home-Gym-All-In-One commercials came on. You know what I'm talking about, the one with the annoying guy with his shirt off flexing for the camera and going "You can look like me in just two weeks if you buy this!!" (Side note here; that thing's been in our house for two years and I look nothing like him. Maybe they need a disclaimer.) Mom thought that getting one might be a good idea, since she hates free weights. So, my family and I pile into the truck to head to the city.
I will give the machines this; some of them are pretty cool. While Mom and Dad browsed, I struck up a conversation with one of the guys who worked there. He looked like he could have been the guy in the commercial, except he (thankfully) had his shirt on. The conversation went something like this:
Me: "Do you like these machines?"
Random Store Guy: "Yeah, some of them are pretty cool."
Me: "Do you have a favorite?"
RSG: "Oh sure, that one." *points*
Me: "Any particular workouts you do on it?"
RSG: *mimes picking one up and carrying it* "Yah, I pick them up and put them on trucks."
Well played, random store guy.
The irony of weight machines struck me when Dad, Nemesis and I were trying to get the machine Mom picked out into the house. The stupid thing weighed about 400 pounds. And we had to carry it down two flights of stairs. You have to be a professional weight lifter just to install the thing. Mom tried to help, if standing at the top of the stairs and telling us the blatantly obvious can be considered helping...
Mom: "Be careful!"
Dad: "Yeah, honey, we'll be very careful. Nemesis, watch your corner!"
Me: "OOMPH. Don't worry, I got it. Turn it now?"
Dad: "Yeah, slowl--"
Mom: "Watch out for the painting!"
Dad: "Quill already moved it. Now, boys, slowly turn your end and--"
Mom: "Don't dent the walls!"
*Nemesis moved his end too far and loses control. I threw my hand between the corner and the wall and got my hand smashed as a result. Saved the wall though.*
Mom: "What was that? That sounded bad. Don't wreck the wall!"
Me: "Oww...Nemesis, pick that stupid corner up before I kill you."
Nemesis: "I'm sorry, my hands were sweaty!"
Mom: "Don't hurt yourself!"
Me: "WELL, WHICH IS IT, HOUSE OR HAND? THOSE ARE MUTUALLY EXCLUSIVE GOALS!!"
Mom: "Don't hurt your hand!"
Dad: "To heck with that! Keep your hand there--your hand will heal, the wall won't!"
Well, Dad had his priorities straight. We got the machine down there, knowing that in a week Mom would decide she wanted it out in the haybarn with the other weight equipment. Sure enough, she did. Taking it back up was easier, surprisingly...maybe we just had the routine down.
I thought that store guy had been kidding...maybe he wasn't...
I like working out, but I typically prefer free weights to machines. Dad bought a weight bench a long time ago (back before I knew what it was), and hardly a week goes by where we don't use it...when I'm at home, anyway.
We have bought (somewhat) into the machine concept, though. There was one night, about two years back, where one of those annoying Home-Gym-All-In-One commercials came on. You know what I'm talking about, the one with the annoying guy with his shirt off flexing for the camera and going "You can look like me in just two weeks if you buy this!!" (Side note here; that thing's been in our house for two years and I look nothing like him. Maybe they need a disclaimer.) Mom thought that getting one might be a good idea, since she hates free weights. So, my family and I pile into the truck to head to the city.
I will give the machines this; some of them are pretty cool. While Mom and Dad browsed, I struck up a conversation with one of the guys who worked there. He looked like he could have been the guy in the commercial, except he (thankfully) had his shirt on. The conversation went something like this:
Me: "Do you like these machines?"
Random Store Guy: "Yeah, some of them are pretty cool."
Me: "Do you have a favorite?"
RSG: "Oh sure, that one." *points*
Me: "Any particular workouts you do on it?"
RSG: *mimes picking one up and carrying it* "Yah, I pick them up and put them on trucks."
Well played, random store guy.
The irony of weight machines struck me when Dad, Nemesis and I were trying to get the machine Mom picked out into the house. The stupid thing weighed about 400 pounds. And we had to carry it down two flights of stairs. You have to be a professional weight lifter just to install the thing. Mom tried to help, if standing at the top of the stairs and telling us the blatantly obvious can be considered helping...
Mom: "Be careful!"
Dad: "Yeah, honey, we'll be very careful. Nemesis, watch your corner!"
Me: "OOMPH. Don't worry, I got it. Turn it now?"
Dad: "Yeah, slowl--"
Mom: "Watch out for the painting!"
Dad: "Quill already moved it. Now, boys, slowly turn your end and--"
Mom: "Don't dent the walls!"
*Nemesis moved his end too far and loses control. I threw my hand between the corner and the wall and got my hand smashed as a result. Saved the wall though.*
Mom: "What was that? That sounded bad. Don't wreck the wall!"
Me: "Oww...Nemesis, pick that stupid corner up before I kill you."
Nemesis: "I'm sorry, my hands were sweaty!"
Mom: "Don't hurt yourself!"
Me: "WELL, WHICH IS IT, HOUSE OR HAND? THOSE ARE MUTUALLY EXCLUSIVE GOALS!!"
Mom: "Don't hurt your hand!"
Dad: "To heck with that! Keep your hand there--your hand will heal, the wall won't!"
Well, Dad had his priorities straight. We got the machine down there, knowing that in a week Mom would decide she wanted it out in the haybarn with the other weight equipment. Sure enough, she did. Taking it back up was easier, surprisingly...maybe we just had the routine down.
I thought that store guy had been kidding...maybe he wasn't...
Monday, January 2, 2012
Captain's Log, Day 63: Decisions, decisions...
I'm thinking of getting a book published someday. I've got a couple problems though.
My first issue (besides time, but I don't need help to fix that!) is that I think my writing sucks. I mean, I can pull off short articles and essays, but I think that, once I get past a certain length, it starts kinda sucking. Badly.
My second problem is that I sometimes have a hard time staying motivated. I can understand this, though; part of me thinks that if it's never gonna get published, why bother? Sometimes I gotta write just because I feel like my mind is filling up with ideas and the only way to make them go the heck AWAY is to put them on paper. Or screen. Whichever.
And I have problems with characters, and plots, and whatnot, but I can usually resolve those in a few days, if not hours or minutes. (I did a week writing spree and wrote 53 pages (Microsoft Word, single-space, 1-inch margins, 12pt Times New Roman font--in other words, A FREAKING LOT) of one of my better book ideas. Well, it amuses me anyway. I keep going back and revising and adding to all of them.
Anyway, I'm going to get to the point (yes, finally--don't be sarcastic, that's my job!). I've been considering putting one or more of my books out for general inspection by the world at large, or what I have written so far anyway. These are the choices:
Book Pages Status Personal Rating
A Saga of Warriors--The Winged Ones 42 Completed Crappy
Dragon Master 10 Stalled Kinda lame, but funny
The Blackstar 17 In Progress Promising
Gauntlet 3 Just Started Promising
Wizard's Discovery 53 In Progress Personal Favorite
A Saga of Warriors is modern-day science fiction; Dragon Master is medieval fantasy; The Blackstar is futuristic science fiction; Gauntlet is modern-day science fiction; and Wizard's Discovery is modern-day science fiction/fantasy. Yes, you read that right; that last one is both science fiction and fantasy. Combining those two genres is probably why that book is so fun to write!
Anyway, back to my idea. Like I said, I'd appreciate some feedback on these, so if you want to subject yourself to yet more of my writing, let me know which book you'd like to see placed up on here. There are a few ways to reach me: my email, which is radarmidway@yahoo.com; the comment section under this post; or via Facebook. I'll wait a few days and see what you'd like to check out.
...it just occurred to me...writing is a really weird hobby for a mechanical engineer to take up...
Friday, December 30, 2011
Captain's Log, Day 62: *SPLAT*
So, today I managed to trip over one of my family's two cats. This isn't unusual--the fat one is ALWAYS underfoot. What made this memorable was that it happened at the top of a flight of stairs.
Once I regained consciousness (and finished naming all the constellations filling up my field of vision), my mind began wandering to other, even more amusing, falling incidents. Naturally, this led me to wonder what it would be like to make the most epic fall ever--i.e., out of an airplane. Owing to my probable concussion, I imagined in great detail what it would be like, down to the inevitable discussion I would have with myself as I fell:
So I'm falling out of an airplane. What should I do first?
Open your eyes and quit screaming like a little girl, maybe? Geez, I'm embarrassed to be seen with you!
I think I wet my pants.
No big surprise there.
Okay, seriously, what should I do?
Well, the first thing to do is figure out how you got here...duh.
I think the emergency door malfunctioned. Or maybe the plane exploded. I feel like I'm on fire. AAAAAAAA!!!! I AM on fire!!!!!!!!!!!
Well, "Stop, drop and roll" ain't gonna work here...let's remove what we can and slap out the rest.
So now I'm gonna die in my undies?
Whoa. You're right. Bad mental image there. Never mind, just slap it out. Let's see, we were at 30,000 feet when we started falling, so now we're around...20,000? Terminal velocity, baby!!!!
*WHACK WHACK* OWWW!!! Hey, neat. How fast is that?
Around 120 miles per hour, but I don't know if that takes into account that we're a freaking STICK. You need to eat more.
Hey, don't YOU start with me. I eat like a horse. Besides, wouldn't more weight make me fall faster? Or is that offset by my smaller surface area?
How the heck would I know? Do I look like a rocket scientist?
Well, ONE of us ought to be. WE WENT TO THE SAME FREAKING CLASSES.
Well, maybe if you'd actually paid attention instead of doodling Ironman suit designs on your paper...
Hey, if I'd actually gotten the suit built, we wouldn't HAVE this issue.
What issue?
We're still falling to our death, right?
...oh, right. Gee, this takes forever.
About three minutes, actually. I looked it up once.
You, my friend, need to get a life. And we've used up about 2 minutes of flight time...let's talk survival.
Let's talk PARACHUTE, dammit!
Oh, you have one? Why didn't you MENTION this?
No, I don't. I was wondering if we could do some McGyver thing and make one out of my clothes.
...got a sewing machine? Or duct tape?
Crap. Okay, landing. What should I do?
Well, we have two options. We could try to land on our feet, and then tuck and roll, which will in all likelihood drive our knees through our brain...or we could land flat on our back and try to distribute the impact.
Will that second option save me?
Well...um...no. But it will make a really cool splat.
Why don't we just aim for the haystack?
Oh. Yeah, that works too, I guess. Definitely land on your back then.
Anything else?
Besides hope that you haven't used up your nine lives yet?
Oh, shaddup.
YOU shut up!
NEVER!
*SPLAT*
"Radar, why are you lying at the base of the stairs?"
"Uh, hi, Mom! Just...umm...resting? And not hallucinating at all!!"
"What?"
"Nothing. Nevermind."
Once I regained consciousness (and finished naming all the constellations filling up my field of vision), my mind began wandering to other, even more amusing, falling incidents. Naturally, this led me to wonder what it would be like to make the most epic fall ever--i.e., out of an airplane. Owing to my probable concussion, I imagined in great detail what it would be like, down to the inevitable discussion I would have with myself as I fell:
So I'm falling out of an airplane. What should I do first?
Open your eyes and quit screaming like a little girl, maybe? Geez, I'm embarrassed to be seen with you!
I think I wet my pants.
No big surprise there.
Okay, seriously, what should I do?
Well, the first thing to do is figure out how you got here...duh.
I think the emergency door malfunctioned. Or maybe the plane exploded. I feel like I'm on fire. AAAAAAAA!!!! I AM on fire!!!!!!!!!!!
Well, "Stop, drop and roll" ain't gonna work here...let's remove what we can and slap out the rest.
So now I'm gonna die in my undies?
Whoa. You're right. Bad mental image there. Never mind, just slap it out. Let's see, we were at 30,000 feet when we started falling, so now we're around...20,000? Terminal velocity, baby!!!!
*WHACK WHACK* OWWW!!! Hey, neat. How fast is that?
Around 120 miles per hour, but I don't know if that takes into account that we're a freaking STICK. You need to eat more.
Hey, don't YOU start with me. I eat like a horse. Besides, wouldn't more weight make me fall faster? Or is that offset by my smaller surface area?
How the heck would I know? Do I look like a rocket scientist?
Well, ONE of us ought to be. WE WENT TO THE SAME FREAKING CLASSES.
Well, maybe if you'd actually paid attention instead of doodling Ironman suit designs on your paper...
Hey, if I'd actually gotten the suit built, we wouldn't HAVE this issue.
What issue?
We're still falling to our death, right?
...oh, right. Gee, this takes forever.
About three minutes, actually. I looked it up once.
You, my friend, need to get a life. And we've used up about 2 minutes of flight time...let's talk survival.
Let's talk PARACHUTE, dammit!
Oh, you have one? Why didn't you MENTION this?
No, I don't. I was wondering if we could do some McGyver thing and make one out of my clothes.
...got a sewing machine? Or duct tape?
Crap. Okay, landing. What should I do?
Well, we have two options. We could try to land on our feet, and then tuck and roll, which will in all likelihood drive our knees through our brain...or we could land flat on our back and try to distribute the impact.
Will that second option save me?
Well...um...no. But it will make a really cool splat.
Why don't we just aim for the haystack?
Oh. Yeah, that works too, I guess. Definitely land on your back then.
Anything else?
Besides hope that you haven't used up your nine lives yet?
Oh, shaddup.
YOU shut up!
NEVER!
*SPLAT*
"Radar, why are you lying at the base of the stairs?"
"Uh, hi, Mom! Just...umm...resting? And not hallucinating at all!!"
"What?"
"Nothing. Nevermind."
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Captain's Log, Day 61: Brothers by Birth, Friends by Choice
My brother and I were recently accused of being "weird." I want to set the record straight here--we're not "weird," we're "VERY weird!"
Nemesis and I are definitely brothers, although we both hope no one can guess we're related. If we were movie characters, we'd be Megamind and Minion, or Ironman and JARVIS--or Tom and Jerry, depending on if we're in a cooperative mood or not. When not, the house is in danger of imminent destruction. When we are...well, it still is, but it will be more EPIC!!
Nemesis's got this odd, twisted sense of humor (I don't know where that came from--oh, wait, yes I do. DAD) and also got the gift of poetry from somewhere (no clue there), so many of his jokes are expressed in poetic form, causing my arm to spasm in his direction. (It's mostly accidental and uncontrollable, I swear!) I'm addicted to puns, usually causing him to whack me one too. Between our *awful* jokes, we have a decent boxing match.
We've been partners in crime and destruction since he's been able to walk; no chocolate is safe from us, no tree secure from our missiles (true story). We're both creative and sort of "engineering-minded," so we've been able to come up with some fairly cool stuff, including (but not limited to):
--Lego pistols
--Rubber band guns that can kill grasshoppers long-range
--An extensive intercom/two-way-radio system enabling us to contact each other and spy on anyone in the house
--A pirate treasure, complete with map and code, that we recently stumbled upon and can't remember where the treasure is or what the code was (we did a good job)
--Several forts, outdoors and indoors
--A snow fort covering a 25x30 foot area (and thus was impossible to hold against attackers owing to the hugeness of the interior--we always ended up in the keep. We needed about 20 more defenders)
--A snow rifle that refused to function and was abandoned
--A fleet of paper boats that we set on fire or attached fireworks to (or both) that we launched in a tub of water outside
--A treehouse, complete with all the interior switches and dials to enable it to become an airplane, a spaceship, a submarine, a battleship, an AT-AT, etc...
--A rocket launcher that we mounted on our treehouse and terrified cats with
--About 20 modified Nerf guns (and counting!)
--Around 7 animated Lego music videos to various Michael Jackson, Skillet, and Weird Al Yankovic songs
--A lot more really lame movies that shall never be seen by anyone other than ourselves (hilarious but stupid)
--Several holes in the walls of our house (but don't worry--we know how to spackle)
--A radio transmitter that caught fire one day when we were trying to boost the power and short-circuited it
--A secret handshake that ends in a wrestling match
--Several clubs, some of which the girls were allowed to join
--Several secret hiding spots, including one hidden behind a secret panel in the barn that we can't fit through anymore
--And of course, many epic battles with each other, both on the computer and in person.
Brothers by birth, friends by choice, and mortal enemies every full moon or so. I'd better check on my supply of land mines...
Nemesis and I are definitely brothers, although we both hope no one can guess we're related. If we were movie characters, we'd be Megamind and Minion, or Ironman and JARVIS--or Tom and Jerry, depending on if we're in a cooperative mood or not. When not, the house is in danger of imminent destruction. When we are...well, it still is, but it will be more EPIC!!
Nemesis's got this odd, twisted sense of humor (I don't know where that came from--oh, wait, yes I do. DAD) and also got the gift of poetry from somewhere (no clue there), so many of his jokes are expressed in poetic form, causing my arm to spasm in his direction. (It's mostly accidental and uncontrollable, I swear!) I'm addicted to puns, usually causing him to whack me one too. Between our *awful* jokes, we have a decent boxing match.
We've been partners in crime and destruction since he's been able to walk; no chocolate is safe from us, no tree secure from our missiles (true story). We're both creative and sort of "engineering-minded," so we've been able to come up with some fairly cool stuff, including (but not limited to):
--Lego pistols
--Rubber band guns that can kill grasshoppers long-range
--An extensive intercom/two-way-radio system enabling us to contact each other and spy on anyone in the house
--A pirate treasure, complete with map and code, that we recently stumbled upon and can't remember where the treasure is or what the code was (we did a good job)
--Several forts, outdoors and indoors
--A snow fort covering a 25x30 foot area (and thus was impossible to hold against attackers owing to the hugeness of the interior--we always ended up in the keep. We needed about 20 more defenders)
--A snow rifle that refused to function and was abandoned
--A fleet of paper boats that we set on fire or attached fireworks to (or both) that we launched in a tub of water outside
--A treehouse, complete with all the interior switches and dials to enable it to become an airplane, a spaceship, a submarine, a battleship, an AT-AT, etc...
--A rocket launcher that we mounted on our treehouse and terrified cats with
--About 20 modified Nerf guns (and counting!)
--Around 7 animated Lego music videos to various Michael Jackson, Skillet, and Weird Al Yankovic songs
--A lot more really lame movies that shall never be seen by anyone other than ourselves (hilarious but stupid)
--Several holes in the walls of our house (but don't worry--we know how to spackle)
--A radio transmitter that caught fire one day when we were trying to boost the power and short-circuited it
--A secret handshake that ends in a wrestling match
--Several clubs, some of which the girls were allowed to join
--Several secret hiding spots, including one hidden behind a secret panel in the barn that we can't fit through anymore
--And of course, many epic battles with each other, both on the computer and in person.
Brothers by birth, friends by choice, and mortal enemies every full moon or so. I'd better check on my supply of land mines...
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Captain's Log, Day 60: Finals Week
Let me begin by saying that I cannot take credit for this. This was a funny article my mom found stashed amidst some old school work, and I enjoyed it so much I had to publish it. This is an excellent time to rediscover this too, as I happen to be facing some finals of my own...
Finals Week
And it came to pass that early in the morning of the last day of the semester, there arose a multitude smiting their books and wailing. And there was much weeping and gnashing of teeth, for they were sore afraid. The day of judgment was at hand. For they left undone those things which they ought to have done and had done those things which they ought not to have done. And there was not help for it.
And there were many abiding in their rooms who had kept watch over their books all night, but it availeth not. And there were some who arose smilingly, for they had prepared for themselves the way; and made straight the path of knowledge. And there were wise ones known to some as burners of the midnight oil. But by others they were called the curve-spoilers. And the multitude arose and ate a hearty breakfast.
And they came unto their appointed place, and their hearts were heavy within them. And they came to pass, and some passed not, and others only passed out. And some of them repented their riotous living, and bemoaned their fate, but they had not a prayer.
And at the last hour, there came among them one known as the instructor, he of the diabolical smile, and he passed papers among them and went his way. And many and varied were the questions asked by the instructor, but still more varied were the answers which were given, for some of his teachings had fallen among fertile minds, and others had fallen fallow among the fellows while still others had fallen flat. And there were some who wrote for an hour, others for two, and some who only turned away sorrowfully.
And of those, many offered up a little sacrificial bull, in hopes of pacifying the instructor, for those were the ones who had not a prayer. And when they had finished, they gathered up their belongings and went away quietly, each in his own direction. And each one vowing to himself in this manner: “I shall not pass this way again.” But it is a long road that has no turning.
I.E. May 1970
Finals Week
And it came to pass that early in the morning of the last day of the semester, there arose a multitude smiting their books and wailing. And there was much weeping and gnashing of teeth, for they were sore afraid. The day of judgment was at hand. For they left undone those things which they ought to have done and had done those things which they ought not to have done. And there was not help for it.
And there were many abiding in their rooms who had kept watch over their books all night, but it availeth not. And there were some who arose smilingly, for they had prepared for themselves the way; and made straight the path of knowledge. And there were wise ones known to some as burners of the midnight oil. But by others they were called the curve-spoilers. And the multitude arose and ate a hearty breakfast.
And they came unto their appointed place, and their hearts were heavy within them. And they came to pass, and some passed not, and others only passed out. And some of them repented their riotous living, and bemoaned their fate, but they had not a prayer.
And at the last hour, there came among them one known as the instructor, he of the diabolical smile, and he passed papers among them and went his way. And many and varied were the questions asked by the instructor, but still more varied were the answers which were given, for some of his teachings had fallen among fertile minds, and others had fallen fallow among the fellows while still others had fallen flat. And there were some who wrote for an hour, others for two, and some who only turned away sorrowfully.
And of those, many offered up a little sacrificial bull, in hopes of pacifying the instructor, for those were the ones who had not a prayer. And when they had finished, they gathered up their belongings and went away quietly, each in his own direction. And each one vowing to himself in this manner: “I shall not pass this way again.” But it is a long road that has no turning.
I.E. May 1970
Captain's Log, Day 59: Character Profile--now you know where my insanity comes from
Meet my family! Kinda...not like I'm going to post any pictures up here or anything, but I thought a brief character description would be both enlightening and amusing. (For personal health reasons, this will not be posted until AFTER I get back from Thanksgiving break.)
Dad: Unfortunately, I appear to have inherited his sense of humor; I can admit that it's rather lame, but I think it's also really funny. He's the go-to man as far as fixing stuff is concerned, although he has passed much of his knowledge and his chores off to me at this point. I guess he's also where I get my love of all things mechanical. Considering he's a mechanical engineer and I'm studying to be a mechanical engineer, you could say "like father, like son!" He's also the science/math teacher for our homeschool...let me tell you, you've never done math until you've tried learning trig while your math teacher's playing Aerosmith and doing air guitar. Just sayin'.
Mom: She is the driving force behind our learning, considering that she pretty much organized our entire curriculum and taught most of it. An English major, she is an excellent writer and kinda wishes I was going to major in English instead of engineering. I told her once that I didn't want to take anything "so easy" as English. She got a little annoyed. As the most Italian, she is the most outgoing of our family (Dad the German has perfected his "Do I LOOK like a people person?" face at this point. ). She's also an excellent cook. The best way my family has found to torture me while at college is to call me up and give me the menu for tonight. Evil buggers...I have to eat CAF food!!!
Quill: The next oldest after me, Quill is following the path of the Dark Side (ie, she wants to be an English Major like Mom instead of becoming an engineer like Dad or myself). She absolutely loves reading, which might be how and why she scored a job at our local library. She's read most of the books there already. She also enjoys playing Robin Hood with the rest of her siblings, although we have some discussions--blood not usually involved--on why she can't be Robin Hood (mostly because either Nemesis or I called it first!). She can also cook, although she tends more towards the dessert side of the food spectrum.
Nemesis: Big bundle of evil. If I come home to a booby-trapped room one more time, I may have to retaliate with rockets. Nemesis is incredibly good with math; when playing dominos, we usually just pass our tiles over to Nemesis for him to count. All he has to do is glance at them and he has the number. Scary. He is a Lego enthusiast and has half the world's supply of Legos downstairs. Not only that, Nemesis is really good with a piano and can rhyme anything ("rambunction" and "function" being one of the more impressive combinations) and can beat me at any computer game ever invented, which is a bit embarrassing for me. He's also takes Taekwondo like me, although he's not quite to my belt level yet and I can still kick his butt. Probably a good thing, considering Nemesis's about as tall as I am and outweighs me by about 30 pounds. Please excuse me, I'm gonna go hit the caf again...
Squirrel: The youngest of the family, Squirrel has inherited the combined sweet tooth of everyone in the household and the genius of her brothers at concealing things; a surprise raid of her room once yielded ten hidden stashes of candy, and that was just the stuff we found. She, too, loves cooking, and she is definitely devoted to the sugar stash in the cupboard--if it can't be used in a recipe, the recipe's no good! Squirrel also recently outgrew her older sister, who is decidedly NOT pleased about that, as she is now the shortest person in the family! An art lover, Squirrel's also thinking about a career as a fashion designer; she's good at sewing, but I would never ask her to mend my jeans because they would probably end up with lace on them or something.
Max: He's our golden retriever and definitely a legit part of our family. I'll be the first to admit he's not the smartest dog out there, but he's really friendly and always up for "fetch," or "get the ball and chase me," depending on how he feels that day. In the winter, his favorite games are "snow romps" and "chase the snowblower until Dad turns the nozzle suddenly and buries me;" in the summer, he can be found fishing in the pond (I don't think he's ever caught anything) and rolling in every mud puddle he can find. Max is usually my companion when we go exploring in the woods, but all bets are off if he sees a squirrel--I'm on my own after that.
So, this is my crazy family...gotta love 'em, right? :)
Dad: Unfortunately, I appear to have inherited his sense of humor; I can admit that it's rather lame, but I think it's also really funny. He's the go-to man as far as fixing stuff is concerned, although he has passed much of his knowledge and his chores off to me at this point. I guess he's also where I get my love of all things mechanical. Considering he's a mechanical engineer and I'm studying to be a mechanical engineer, you could say "like father, like son!" He's also the science/math teacher for our homeschool...let me tell you, you've never done math until you've tried learning trig while your math teacher's playing Aerosmith and doing air guitar. Just sayin'.
Mom: She is the driving force behind our learning, considering that she pretty much organized our entire curriculum and taught most of it. An English major, she is an excellent writer and kinda wishes I was going to major in English instead of engineering. I told her once that I didn't want to take anything "so easy" as English. She got a little annoyed. As the most Italian, she is the most outgoing of our family (Dad the German has perfected his "Do I LOOK like a people person?" face at this point. ). She's also an excellent cook. The best way my family has found to torture me while at college is to call me up and give me the menu for tonight. Evil buggers...I have to eat CAF food!!!
Quill: The next oldest after me, Quill is following the path of the Dark Side (ie, she wants to be an English Major like Mom instead of becoming an engineer like Dad or myself). She absolutely loves reading, which might be how and why she scored a job at our local library. She's read most of the books there already. She also enjoys playing Robin Hood with the rest of her siblings, although we have some discussions--blood not usually involved--on why she can't be Robin Hood (mostly because either Nemesis or I called it first!). She can also cook, although she tends more towards the dessert side of the food spectrum.
Nemesis: Big bundle of evil. If I come home to a booby-trapped room one more time, I may have to retaliate with rockets. Nemesis is incredibly good with math; when playing dominos, we usually just pass our tiles over to Nemesis for him to count. All he has to do is glance at them and he has the number. Scary. He is a Lego enthusiast and has half the world's supply of Legos downstairs. Not only that, Nemesis is really good with a piano and can rhyme anything ("rambunction" and "function" being one of the more impressive combinations) and can beat me at any computer game ever invented, which is a bit embarrassing for me. He's also takes Taekwondo like me, although he's not quite to my belt level yet and I can still kick his butt. Probably a good thing, considering Nemesis's about as tall as I am and outweighs me by about 30 pounds. Please excuse me, I'm gonna go hit the caf again...
Squirrel: The youngest of the family, Squirrel has inherited the combined sweet tooth of everyone in the household and the genius of her brothers at concealing things; a surprise raid of her room once yielded ten hidden stashes of candy, and that was just the stuff we found. She, too, loves cooking, and she is definitely devoted to the sugar stash in the cupboard--if it can't be used in a recipe, the recipe's no good! Squirrel also recently outgrew her older sister, who is decidedly NOT pleased about that, as she is now the shortest person in the family! An art lover, Squirrel's also thinking about a career as a fashion designer; she's good at sewing, but I would never ask her to mend my jeans because they would probably end up with lace on them or something.
Max: He's our golden retriever and definitely a legit part of our family. I'll be the first to admit he's not the smartest dog out there, but he's really friendly and always up for "fetch," or "get the ball and chase me," depending on how he feels that day. In the winter, his favorite games are "snow romps" and "chase the snowblower until Dad turns the nozzle suddenly and buries me;" in the summer, he can be found fishing in the pond (I don't think he's ever caught anything) and rolling in every mud puddle he can find. Max is usually my companion when we go exploring in the woods, but all bets are off if he sees a squirrel--I'm on my own after that.
So, this is my crazy family...gotta love 'em, right? :)
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Captain's Log, Day 58: Thanksgiving with My Family! (and all the ensuing craziness)
And now, I shall recount some Thanksgiving Day adventures!
A typical Thanksgiving tale must start on the day before, as that is when the Great Rejoicing starts (NO SCHOOL!!!!!!!!). Since we are going to our grandparents' house the next day, it only makes sense for my siblings and me to go run out into the woods and get as banged up as we can without warranting a trip to the hospital. Also, this is sometimes when we do our annual family watching of "A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving." It's been a tradition in my home for as long as I can remember...
Anyway, after staying up waaay too late to be any kind of ready for early church the next day, we wake up to a very cheerful dad, who takes gleeful pleasure in rousting our kiesters out of our warm beds and into the car. After Mass, we have a light breakfast before piling into the car to go to our grandparents' farm. It's about an hour drive, as a normal person drives; Dad breaks all speed limits, including that of light, Mom naps, I nap, and my siblings either read or play Mad Libs. Seems like every time they do that, they must use the words "warthog," "rototiller," "exploded," and "antidisestablimentarianism," which I would hope they used a shorthand for, else it would take them longer to spell the word than it would take to play the game!
The car ride over, we enter our grandparents' house and make the necessary greetings and small talk before vanishing into the basement. Our cousins are always there before us, and they (predictably) have divided the basement and segregated themselves by gender: boys get one half, girls get the other. Also predictably, the boys' half is larger; they probably started out equally sized, but the boys have been practicing combat maneuvers for a while, causing the girls to retreat due to fear of death by Nerf. My brother and I pick up a couple guns (although sometimes we bring our own, which we prefer--our are MODIFIED!!!!) and enter the fray. I have no idea what the girls left to go do. Probably playing tea party or something equally boring.
And hour afterwards, it's DINNERTIME!!! The segregation continues; the girls get to eat in the living room, the boys in the craft room. Can't fault Grandma for the wisdom of that one; the food fights that occasionally break out amongst my male cousins would quickly prove fatal to anything "nice." As the oldest, it's my job to try to suppress such outbreaks. Fortunately, I've been gifted with a long arm and a good eye; a whack upside the head typically ends a would-be food thrower's attempt. At the least, it scrambles his aim enough that the food ends up on the table somewhere, instead of, say, the wall. Or someone else's face, which would definitely escalate the conflict.
The piranha now having finished inhaling every bit of food in the vicinity, we break for games, typically outside on the haystack. This is usually gender-inclusive, as we do not have the man-power to hold the giant haystack against intruders (not to say we haven't tried). Once the girls gain the top, we put aside animosity and hold a rousing game of tag. Occasionally, we must stop and rescue someone who has fallen down between the bales, but that's not as common of an occurrence as one might think. Of course, my relatives and I have usually had so much pie that we're on a sugar high and are vibrating out of the visible spectrum, thus making any sort of falling extremely difficult, owing to the fact that we can now flap our arms fast enough to fly...
Sometimes, it's warm enough for a kickball game, although a Minnesota November is typically enough to make polar bears migrate south, so that doesn't happen often. We usually stay on the haybales until we can't feel our fingers, toes or kiesters anymore, at which point it's usually time for my family and me to hit the road anyway. So, my siblings and I brush the hay off each other, bid farewell to the relatives, climb into the car and crash before Dad pulls out onto the highway.
After this, we have a light dinner at home and then go to bed early, after vowing to unclog the shower drains of all the hay and dirt tomorrow. Thus ends Thanksgiving with my family!
A typical Thanksgiving tale must start on the day before, as that is when the Great Rejoicing starts (NO SCHOOL!!!!!!!!). Since we are going to our grandparents' house the next day, it only makes sense for my siblings and me to go run out into the woods and get as banged up as we can without warranting a trip to the hospital. Also, this is sometimes when we do our annual family watching of "A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving." It's been a tradition in my home for as long as I can remember...
Anyway, after staying up waaay too late to be any kind of ready for early church the next day, we wake up to a very cheerful dad, who takes gleeful pleasure in rousting our kiesters out of our warm beds and into the car. After Mass, we have a light breakfast before piling into the car to go to our grandparents' farm. It's about an hour drive, as a normal person drives; Dad breaks all speed limits, including that of light, Mom naps, I nap, and my siblings either read or play Mad Libs. Seems like every time they do that, they must use the words "warthog," "rototiller," "exploded," and "antidisestablimentarianism," which I would hope they used a shorthand for, else it would take them longer to spell the word than it would take to play the game!
The car ride over, we enter our grandparents' house and make the necessary greetings and small talk before vanishing into the basement. Our cousins are always there before us, and they (predictably) have divided the basement and segregated themselves by gender: boys get one half, girls get the other. Also predictably, the boys' half is larger; they probably started out equally sized, but the boys have been practicing combat maneuvers for a while, causing the girls to retreat due to fear of death by Nerf. My brother and I pick up a couple guns (although sometimes we bring our own, which we prefer--our are MODIFIED!!!!) and enter the fray. I have no idea what the girls left to go do. Probably playing tea party or something equally boring.
And hour afterwards, it's DINNERTIME!!! The segregation continues; the girls get to eat in the living room, the boys in the craft room. Can't fault Grandma for the wisdom of that one; the food fights that occasionally break out amongst my male cousins would quickly prove fatal to anything "nice." As the oldest, it's my job to try to suppress such outbreaks. Fortunately, I've been gifted with a long arm and a good eye; a whack upside the head typically ends a would-be food thrower's attempt. At the least, it scrambles his aim enough that the food ends up on the table somewhere, instead of, say, the wall. Or someone else's face, which would definitely escalate the conflict.
The piranha now having finished inhaling every bit of food in the vicinity, we break for games, typically outside on the haystack. This is usually gender-inclusive, as we do not have the man-power to hold the giant haystack against intruders (not to say we haven't tried). Once the girls gain the top, we put aside animosity and hold a rousing game of tag. Occasionally, we must stop and rescue someone who has fallen down between the bales, but that's not as common of an occurrence as one might think. Of course, my relatives and I have usually had so much pie that we're on a sugar high and are vibrating out of the visible spectrum, thus making any sort of falling extremely difficult, owing to the fact that we can now flap our arms fast enough to fly...
Sometimes, it's warm enough for a kickball game, although a Minnesota November is typically enough to make polar bears migrate south, so that doesn't happen often. We usually stay on the haybales until we can't feel our fingers, toes or kiesters anymore, at which point it's usually time for my family and me to hit the road anyway. So, my siblings and I brush the hay off each other, bid farewell to the relatives, climb into the car and crash before Dad pulls out onto the highway.
After this, we have a light dinner at home and then go to bed early, after vowing to unclog the shower drains of all the hay and dirt tomorrow. Thus ends Thanksgiving with my family!
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Captain's Log, Day 57: Mozart, I am NOT
It's embarrassing. It really is.
My younger brother Nemesis is a piano master, or he's getting there anyway. My mom and my sisters can handle a piano with proficiency, too, and my dad can sing (sort of--we tend to object to either the lyrics or the moment, or both...for instance, making up new lines to songs during math class. The joys of being homeschooled!). However, I can't carry a tune with both hands and a bucket. Depressing.
That's not to say I haven't tried. I did a little piano before determining I lacked the coordination necessary to hit the stupid keys at the right time. Then I tried trumpet for four years. Mom made me practice in her room, which was probably the furthest from all living areas. I don't think I blame her. After that, I went back to piano for a year, but quickly determined that I had not magically gained the coordination necessary for it. I don't even need to walk into a choir tryout to know that I'm not a singer, either; the expressions on the faces of my immediate family members let me know exactly how good I was on that score.
I still sing, though--I just do it where no one can hear me or the music I'm singing to is turned up loud enough to drown me out. Sometimes both; I don't like listening to my singing either!!
Actually, I was discussing my musical shortcomings with my friend Sammi the other day (we'd been discussing various instruments). I mentioned that my singing wasn't so great, and without missing a beat, she said, "Oh yeah. I heard you in church!"
It's hard to look indignant when you're laughing your head off. Just saying.
Ah yes, I can't even write good songs; annoying, as Nemesis can drop good poetry off the top of his head, and Quill's not far behind. (I may have mentioned this before, but it BUGS ME! I look at some of his poetry and question whether one of us was adopted...) I tried to write a song a few times. It sounded good in my head, but when I put it on paper (or screen--I can't read my own handwriting), it kinda sucked. I deleted it and put it back in my head for better listening.
Now, this does not mean I can't assist my siblings in spoofing songs, of course. We've come up with some great cooperative lyrics that are worthy of Weird Al. Our favorite is probably "Thank God I'm a Country Boy" by John Denver. We may have been a tad harsh towards fiddle-players and farm boys (ironic, considering that we live on a farm). Our favorite verse that we made up:
I'd play my fiddle all day if I could
But my neighbors' got a gun and what they're planning ain't good
Gonna put me underground in a box made of wood...
Thank God I'm a country boy!
Thought Dad was going to pass out after hearing that one, he was laughing so hard. We're glad we could spread some joy this way! I kinda wish I'd been able to join the sibs in singing that, though. Yeah; musically inclined, I am not!
...can't even whistle...
My younger brother Nemesis is a piano master, or he's getting there anyway. My mom and my sisters can handle a piano with proficiency, too, and my dad can sing (sort of--we tend to object to either the lyrics or the moment, or both...for instance, making up new lines to songs during math class. The joys of being homeschooled!). However, I can't carry a tune with both hands and a bucket. Depressing.
That's not to say I haven't tried. I did a little piano before determining I lacked the coordination necessary to hit the stupid keys at the right time. Then I tried trumpet for four years. Mom made me practice in her room, which was probably the furthest from all living areas. I don't think I blame her. After that, I went back to piano for a year, but quickly determined that I had not magically gained the coordination necessary for it. I don't even need to walk into a choir tryout to know that I'm not a singer, either; the expressions on the faces of my immediate family members let me know exactly how good I was on that score.
I still sing, though--I just do it where no one can hear me or the music I'm singing to is turned up loud enough to drown me out. Sometimes both; I don't like listening to my singing either!!
Actually, I was discussing my musical shortcomings with my friend Sammi the other day (we'd been discussing various instruments). I mentioned that my singing wasn't so great, and without missing a beat, she said, "Oh yeah. I heard you in church!"
It's hard to look indignant when you're laughing your head off. Just saying.
Ah yes, I can't even write good songs; annoying, as Nemesis can drop good poetry off the top of his head, and Quill's not far behind. (I may have mentioned this before, but it BUGS ME! I look at some of his poetry and question whether one of us was adopted...) I tried to write a song a few times. It sounded good in my head, but when I put it on paper (or screen--I can't read my own handwriting), it kinda sucked. I deleted it and put it back in my head for better listening.
Now, this does not mean I can't assist my siblings in spoofing songs, of course. We've come up with some great cooperative lyrics that are worthy of Weird Al. Our favorite is probably "Thank God I'm a Country Boy" by John Denver. We may have been a tad harsh towards fiddle-players and farm boys (ironic, considering that we live on a farm). Our favorite verse that we made up:
I'd play my fiddle all day if I could
But my neighbors' got a gun and what they're planning ain't good
Gonna put me underground in a box made of wood...
Thank God I'm a country boy!
...can't even whistle...
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Captain's Log, Day 56: Tricks or Treats (but mostly tricks)
Halloween: the greatest excuse for candy-eating that's ever been invented.
Haha, no, I'm just kidding; there's more to Halloween than just the candy. It's also an excuse for all the nerds to dress up and not be mocked by their fellow humans--or goblins, or ghosts, or amoebas, or whatever...
I was actually thinking about making a costume this year, but I never got around to it. Certain other things (school) got in the way. I did, however, manage to attend a Halloween dance and watched part of it. I saw some pretty impressive getups, including Megamind and Metroman, two plastic green soldiers, Sam Flynn (from Tron), a few minions from Despicable Me, and a mummy who lost all his wrapping midway through the dance. I might add that the number of witches, zombies and princesses was up to its usual standard.
I've had a couple rather decent ideas for Halloween costumes in the past. However, my creative talents were unfortunately curtailed by responsible, wise, and rather stingy parents who refused to both buy the required couple thousand dollars worth of electronics I would have needed or let me use the welder. Sad, I know. I was forced to resort to the Erector set in order to build the cyborg components that I wanted. I was thinking something along the lines of a fully functional robotic arm, complete with hidden weaponry and a targeting visor that could be attached to my head, and maybe a robotic leg too. After about the fourteenth backfire, I was forced to either stop or open myself up to the ridicule of my family, who (I am sure) would have suggested that I go as a disaster victim. On an slightly related note, do not listen to my parents; I did not use up all the band-aids that week. I distinctly remember leaving three, so to whichever one of my siblings did NOT speak up to rescue me from the false accusations...well, I probably already got you back, so don't worry about it.
Anyway, that year I believe I went as Robin Hood. Actually, I think I probably overdid the Robin Hood thing for a few years, but I loved playing with my bow. Fun times...
I do remember one year in particular that stood out in my trick-or-treating memories, and that was the year my mom finally relented and let me and Quill go trick-or-treating by ourselves. Of course, that meant first memorizing a map of the streets (a little ridiculous, considering I had a paper route back then), practicing our yelling (in case someone tried to grab us), taking watches so we could meet back at our house every fifteen minutes, and promising to bring our candy back to Mom for inspection before it could be eaten (Halloween is really the only day out of the year where the rules "Don't talk to strangers" and "Don't take candy from strangers" are deliberately broken, and with great zeal too). I thought the most amusing thing about that whole night was my mom's absolute conviction that someone would try to abduct us; looking back on it, I think no one would have kidnapped an obviously deranged movie star or an extremely trigger-happy Robin Hood (DIE BUSH DIE!!!!!!! *twang*), but hey, better safe than sorry, right?
Needless to say, we returned home safely, leaving a lot of traumatized households in our wake and very hyper from the candy we'd swiped from our parents' handouts ("because," as I explained, "we need energy to go walking that far and we can't eat what we get until Mom inspects it." The way I made it sound, we were traversing the length of the United States when in reality, we had a roaming limit of about two blocks). And despite our parents' valiant efforts to curtail our sugar intake for the next few weeks, I would usually have my candy finished within a few days, with Nemesis a close second. Squirrel's candy would vanish within the same amount of time, but she wasn't usually eating it; she was, instead, stashing it in selected hideouts in her room for easy access in the future. Quill usually was the model of prudence, usually to the point where she still had candy by Valentine's Day or Easter, at with point Nemesis and I would ostentatiously obey Mom's command to "Get rid of it!" which she never really thought through until it was too late and we were having competitions to see how many surfaces we could bounce of off in the shortest amount of time.
Yes, I know how to patch a wall. Why do you ask?
Haha, no, I'm just kidding; there's more to Halloween than just the candy. It's also an excuse for all the nerds to dress up and not be mocked by their fellow humans--or goblins, or ghosts, or amoebas, or whatever...
I was actually thinking about making a costume this year, but I never got around to it. Certain other things (school) got in the way. I did, however, manage to attend a Halloween dance and watched part of it. I saw some pretty impressive getups, including Megamind and Metroman, two plastic green soldiers, Sam Flynn (from Tron), a few minions from Despicable Me, and a mummy who lost all his wrapping midway through the dance. I might add that the number of witches, zombies and princesses was up to its usual standard.
I've had a couple rather decent ideas for Halloween costumes in the past. However, my creative talents were unfortunately curtailed by responsible, wise, and rather stingy parents who refused to both buy the required couple thousand dollars worth of electronics I would have needed or let me use the welder. Sad, I know. I was forced to resort to the Erector set in order to build the cyborg components that I wanted. I was thinking something along the lines of a fully functional robotic arm, complete with hidden weaponry and a targeting visor that could be attached to my head, and maybe a robotic leg too. After about the fourteenth backfire, I was forced to either stop or open myself up to the ridicule of my family, who (I am sure) would have suggested that I go as a disaster victim. On an slightly related note, do not listen to my parents; I did not use up all the band-aids that week. I distinctly remember leaving three, so to whichever one of my siblings did NOT speak up to rescue me from the false accusations...well, I probably already got you back, so don't worry about it.
Anyway, that year I believe I went as Robin Hood. Actually, I think I probably overdid the Robin Hood thing for a few years, but I loved playing with my bow. Fun times...
I do remember one year in particular that stood out in my trick-or-treating memories, and that was the year my mom finally relented and let me and Quill go trick-or-treating by ourselves. Of course, that meant first memorizing a map of the streets (a little ridiculous, considering I had a paper route back then), practicing our yelling (in case someone tried to grab us), taking watches so we could meet back at our house every fifteen minutes, and promising to bring our candy back to Mom for inspection before it could be eaten (Halloween is really the only day out of the year where the rules "Don't talk to strangers" and "Don't take candy from strangers" are deliberately broken, and with great zeal too). I thought the most amusing thing about that whole night was my mom's absolute conviction that someone would try to abduct us; looking back on it, I think no one would have kidnapped an obviously deranged movie star or an extremely trigger-happy Robin Hood (DIE BUSH DIE!!!!!!! *twang*), but hey, better safe than sorry, right?
Needless to say, we returned home safely, leaving a lot of traumatized households in our wake and very hyper from the candy we'd swiped from our parents' handouts ("because," as I explained, "we need energy to go walking that far and we can't eat what we get until Mom inspects it." The way I made it sound, we were traversing the length of the United States when in reality, we had a roaming limit of about two blocks). And despite our parents' valiant efforts to curtail our sugar intake for the next few weeks, I would usually have my candy finished within a few days, with Nemesis a close second. Squirrel's candy would vanish within the same amount of time, but she wasn't usually eating it; she was, instead, stashing it in selected hideouts in her room for easy access in the future. Quill usually was the model of prudence, usually to the point where she still had candy by Valentine's Day or Easter, at with point Nemesis and I would ostentatiously obey Mom's command to "Get rid of it!" which she never really thought through until it was too late and we were having competitions to see how many surfaces we could bounce of off in the shortest amount of time.
Yes, I know how to patch a wall. Why do you ask?
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Captain's Log, Day 55: Game On!
Yeah, I know I'm a little late with this one. Guess what--I'm in COLLEGE. Who would've guessed I'd have to do this much work? Crazy, right?
Anyway, part of the reason that this article is so late is because my small amount of free time has been consumed by a new obsession of mine: intramurals. I decided on a whim to try to put together a team for flag football about a month ago (I believe I may have mentioned that). I will not go into much further detail; to put it in layman's terms, we SUCKED. We won only one game out of six, and that was by forfeit. We had a lot of fun though!
A slightly more successful sport that I tried was soccer. I randomly decided to become a free agent for the various intramural soccer teams, so I got to play almost every night. It was quickly discovered that I lacked the necessary coordination to kick the ball and run at the same time (artificial turf does not taste near as good as regular grass, by the way), so I placed in the goalie position and did much better. I actually contributed to winning several games that way, although I did take a few balls to the face, one from an ex-varsity player. Now that should've ended up on YouTube...talk about hilarious...
And speaking of balls to the face, I just started two more teams; a volleyball team and a dodgeball team. I foresee epicness, especially with dodgeball--I created it exclusively with engineering students. We're gonna get slaughtered, but it will be very amusing!
Now, here's a "sport" I'm never going to play: GOLF. Not unless they change the rules, big-time. My siblings and I found my dad's golf clubs in the garage when we were younger, so we decided we'd try to figure out how golf worked just from studying the equipment. We got the hitting-the-balls-into-holes part right, but we thought that golf was more of a contact sport. Apparently, the temptation to misuse the clubs was just overwhelming. But the duels were fun. It was actually kind of a letdown to find out how "real" golf is played. Frankly, I think everyone would be more happy with our golf--more action!
Hey, I wonder if I could get the intramurals people to offer that as an option...
Anyway, part of the reason that this article is so late is because my small amount of free time has been consumed by a new obsession of mine: intramurals. I decided on a whim to try to put together a team for flag football about a month ago (I believe I may have mentioned that). I will not go into much further detail; to put it in layman's terms, we SUCKED. We won only one game out of six, and that was by forfeit. We had a lot of fun though!
A slightly more successful sport that I tried was soccer. I randomly decided to become a free agent for the various intramural soccer teams, so I got to play almost every night. It was quickly discovered that I lacked the necessary coordination to kick the ball and run at the same time (artificial turf does not taste near as good as regular grass, by the way), so I placed in the goalie position and did much better. I actually contributed to winning several games that way, although I did take a few balls to the face, one from an ex-varsity player. Now that should've ended up on YouTube...talk about hilarious...
And speaking of balls to the face, I just started two more teams; a volleyball team and a dodgeball team. I foresee epicness, especially with dodgeball--I created it exclusively with engineering students. We're gonna get slaughtered, but it will be very amusing!
Now, here's a "sport" I'm never going to play: GOLF. Not unless they change the rules, big-time. My siblings and I found my dad's golf clubs in the garage when we were younger, so we decided we'd try to figure out how golf worked just from studying the equipment. We got the hitting-the-balls-into-holes part right, but we thought that golf was more of a contact sport. Apparently, the temptation to misuse the clubs was just overwhelming. But the duels were fun. It was actually kind of a letdown to find out how "real" golf is played. Frankly, I think everyone would be more happy with our golf--more action!
Hey, I wonder if I could get the intramurals people to offer that as an option...
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Captain's Log, Day 54: Needles and Cookies
I recently came into possession of the developer version of Windows 8.
Even though this is a total win here, I promise I won't spend this whole article talking about it. I think I'd get beat up for that. I will admit that there are a few bugs in the system, but as soon as those get fixed, this new version's gonna rock. It's a good thing that I got it at this point in time, however, because 1) I donated blood for the first time yesterday and wasn't quite prepared for how lethargic that was going to make me, and 2) certain nameless people have taken an interest in beating me up, so I'm not quite operating at full capability, if you get my drift. On the other hand, I kinda asked for that last sparring match, so I guess I deserved that...
Actually, the whole blood donation thing went fairly well, despite the fact that I had several internal panic attacks that, ironically, had nothing to do with the needle or my blood. Apparently, getting strapped to stuff freaks me out. I did a very good job of keeping a straight face, though, to the point of worrying the doc who jabbed me with the needle.
"I know this is your first time...are you certain you're okay?"
"Yepp, I'm fine. Why?"
"Well, I've never seen anyone that un-reactive..."
"It's not that bad. Feels a bit weird, but that's all. I suppose I could freak out if you want...?"
"Noo, that's fine. Are you certain you're okay?"
"Yepp, I'm fine. Shoot, I left my computer off--my phone can't link up to it. Is it okay if I play a game on this thing while I wait?"
"Wow. Um...sure?"
"Thanks!"
It's really hard to play Tank Recon on a smartphone with one hand. Just so you know. I lost miserably. Three times.
Another thing that perplexed the docs was my recovery time. I did get a little dizzy towards the end, so I lay back while the needle got removed. I popped right up as soon as it was bandaged and was escorted over to the snack/drink table. I asked how long I needed to sit here, and on being told 10-15 minutes, glanced at my watch and informed the startled attendant that I had class in 30 minutes and, since I wanted to get lunch first, that I could only spend a maximum time of about two minutes in recovery. I inhaled two cookies and a bottle of water and left exactly two minutes later. I will admit the doc knew what he was talking about when he said I wouldn't be able to work out hard for the next 24 hours--I tried to go running that night and almost passed out after about 30 seconds. Oops.
Anyway, fun times, and I got free cookies, so it's a win in my book; although next time, maybe I'll pretend to pass out or something to make the doc happy. I'm not gonna fall off the bench, though; I have my limits...
Even though this is a total win here, I promise I won't spend this whole article talking about it. I think I'd get beat up for that. I will admit that there are a few bugs in the system, but as soon as those get fixed, this new version's gonna rock. It's a good thing that I got it at this point in time, however, because 1) I donated blood for the first time yesterday and wasn't quite prepared for how lethargic that was going to make me, and 2) certain nameless people have taken an interest in beating me up, so I'm not quite operating at full capability, if you get my drift. On the other hand, I kinda asked for that last sparring match, so I guess I deserved that...
Actually, the whole blood donation thing went fairly well, despite the fact that I had several internal panic attacks that, ironically, had nothing to do with the needle or my blood. Apparently, getting strapped to stuff freaks me out. I did a very good job of keeping a straight face, though, to the point of worrying the doc who jabbed me with the needle.
"I know this is your first time...are you certain you're okay?"
"Yepp, I'm fine. Why?"
"Well, I've never seen anyone that un-reactive..."
"It's not that bad. Feels a bit weird, but that's all. I suppose I could freak out if you want...?"
"Noo, that's fine. Are you certain you're okay?"
"Yepp, I'm fine. Shoot, I left my computer off--my phone can't link up to it. Is it okay if I play a game on this thing while I wait?"
"Wow. Um...sure?"
"Thanks!"
It's really hard to play Tank Recon on a smartphone with one hand. Just so you know. I lost miserably. Three times.
Another thing that perplexed the docs was my recovery time. I did get a little dizzy towards the end, so I lay back while the needle got removed. I popped right up as soon as it was bandaged and was escorted over to the snack/drink table. I asked how long I needed to sit here, and on being told 10-15 minutes, glanced at my watch and informed the startled attendant that I had class in 30 minutes and, since I wanted to get lunch first, that I could only spend a maximum time of about two minutes in recovery. I inhaled two cookies and a bottle of water and left exactly two minutes later. I will admit the doc knew what he was talking about when he said I wouldn't be able to work out hard for the next 24 hours--I tried to go running that night and almost passed out after about 30 seconds. Oops.
Anyway, fun times, and I got free cookies, so it's a win in my book; although next time, maybe I'll pretend to pass out or something to make the doc happy. I'm not gonna fall off the bench, though; I have my limits...
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Captain's Log, Day 53: JARVIS and AIs in General
My computer is talking to me.
This is not an uncommon occurrence. And despite the number of times I may or may not have been slightly delusional in my writings, this is the absolute truth. My computer does speak. And I've named him JARVIS.
The reason for this hearkens back to my first semester of living on a college campus. I had just finished some homework--actually, all of it--and the weekend was starting. I was able to spend a few hours watching Ironman, but after that I got rather bored. I was screwing around with my computer's registery when it suddenly hit me...
Why not program my computer to talk?
I started by...ok, forget that. Suffice it to say, I entered Nerdvana for the next few hours, but now my computer talks like JARVIS. So I named him JARVIS. 'Nuff said. Actually, the fun part was a few weeks later when I installed voice-activation software on the computer; then I could talk to him and he'd talk back and everyone would think I was nuts, but that's another story.
I'm actually kinda contemplating creating an artificial intelligence to conquer the world for me. Think about it...plug an AI into a network connection, let it take over the internet and from there all the networks, and there you go. The only danger is that it would get a big head--er, processor from all the power it wields and tries to defy me, at which point I would either have to resort to a paradox or an EMP bomb to destroy it. Probably an EMP; paradoxes tend to give me a headache, too. Hmm, maybe I'M an AI and someone is using ME to take over the world...
Anyway, JARVIS is running smoothly, and I even gave him a few upgrades, so he's pretty happy at the moment. Now, if only he'd quit beating me at Spades....
This is not an uncommon occurrence. And despite the number of times I may or may not have been slightly delusional in my writings, this is the absolute truth. My computer does speak. And I've named him JARVIS.
The reason for this hearkens back to my first semester of living on a college campus. I had just finished some homework--actually, all of it--and the weekend was starting. I was able to spend a few hours watching Ironman, but after that I got rather bored. I was screwing around with my computer's registery when it suddenly hit me...
Why not program my computer to talk?
I started by...ok, forget that. Suffice it to say, I entered Nerdvana for the next few hours, but now my computer talks like JARVIS. So I named him JARVIS. 'Nuff said. Actually, the fun part was a few weeks later when I installed voice-activation software on the computer; then I could talk to him and he'd talk back and everyone would think I was nuts, but that's another story.
I'm actually kinda contemplating creating an artificial intelligence to conquer the world for me. Think about it...plug an AI into a network connection, let it take over the internet and from there all the networks, and there you go. The only danger is that it would get a big head--er, processor from all the power it wields and tries to defy me, at which point I would either have to resort to a paradox or an EMP bomb to destroy it. Probably an EMP; paradoxes tend to give me a headache, too. Hmm, maybe I'M an AI and someone is using ME to take over the world...
Anyway, JARVIS is running smoothly, and I even gave him a few upgrades, so he's pretty happy at the moment. Now, if only he'd quit beating me at Spades....
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Captain's Log, Day 52: APOCALYPSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I was doodling on my Fluid Mechanics homework the other day, drawing dinosaurs in TIE fighters, when I suddenly wondered...would I manage to survive an apocalypse?
You'd think an mad scientist like myself would be able to avoid death quite easily, especially given the fact that I have an interstellar transport ready to beam me off-planet at a moment's notice (which I accidentally activated the other day upon being startled by a sparrow, so I know that works), but the rest of you might need a little help. I debated about whether or not to publish my Guide to Surviving an Apocolypse or not...see, on the one hand, I'm supposed to be an EVIL mad scientist, and as such I don't want my record sullied by allegations of helpfulness...but on the other hand, ruling the planet isn't as much fun if there is no one to use as test subjects for the new portal gun I'm inventing...
Anyway, here's the compromise. I'm publishing part of my guide. And to counteract that, I'm creating an apocalypse. Enjoy!
Now, there are many different kinds of apocalypse, and they all must be approached differently. Let's start with the most basic: The Giant-Asteroid-Hits-Earth Apocalypse. This is arguably the hardest to counteract, because let's face it, most of you DON'T have interstellar transports ready to beam you off-planet at a moment's notice, and the few of you who did just had their transports destroyed by a bored mad scientist. You really should have put your shields up. Really, the only thing to do is hope the asteroid doesn't hit you and hope that I eventually need test subjects beamed aboard my transport. Good luck!
The second type of catastrophe that may occur is called the Jurassic-Park-Is-No-Longer-A-Movie Apocalypse. My advice? Get some heavy-duty weaponry and hide in some seriously fortified bunkers until I need test subjects. And if this event actually does occur, I apologize in advance for the faulty workmanship that was done on the electric fence that was keeping my dinosaurs in. They were supposed to be guarding my secret fortress...
Another world-ending event is called the Zombie Apocalypse. I think this one would be the most fun, at least for those of you who want to be turned into zombies for the fun of scaring your buddies. Just don't blame me if they get all trigger-happy.
Let's see, where was I...ahh, yes, the Nuclear-Explosion Apocalypse. This is a little tricky due to the randomness of mutation, but basically you hope you're far enough from the blast to not die instantly, but close enough to mutate into something neat to survive the coming wasteland that Earth turns into. Try for Wolverine; he's pretty cool. And I'll mention to my minions to quit playing "Catch" with my stockpile of bombs. They've got good hands, but accidents happen...
Plague Apocalypse: Again, hope that you mutate, instead of die, from the plague. I suppose if you don't want to be adventurous, you could wear some sort of biohazard suit, but that's just cheating...
The-Internet-Develops-Consciousness-And-Turns-On-You Apocalypse: You really should have seen this coming. Try disconnecting your computer, turning off your phone, and never boarding an airplane again. You can try to confuse it with a paradox, but that might just make it mad, so be careful.
Aliens-Take-Over-The-Planet-Destroy-The-World-And-Turn-Humans-Into-Food Apocalypse: Try to prove that you have some sort of useful ability, like cooking or servile labor. This is actually a good type of apocalypse, because it gets rid of all the scum in our society, such as lawyers, pop stars, talk show hosts, and Justin Bieber. And don't worry too much; I'll already have an alliance with said aliens, so I'll be able to continue testing out evil inventions!
I-Take-Over-The-Planet-And-Relocate-Everyone-To-Another-Planet-On-Which-Live-Dinosaurs Apocalypse: This differs from the previously mentioned apocalypse only in how the aforementioned society drains are disposed of. The same survival procedure follows here; find a useful skill such as computer programming or alligator keeper, and you might be promoted from "Dinosaur Fodder" to "Test Subject." And if you really play your cards right, I might make you in charge of stopping the hero who comes to dispose of me. It's a very prestigious line of work, with a long and glorious tradition!
These are just some of the possible world-ending scenarios, but I'm not giving you the full list because that's just too helpful. Anyway, have fun, and watch out for the zombified dinosaurs...I'm missing about 20 of them...
You'd think an mad scientist like myself would be able to avoid death quite easily, especially given the fact that I have an interstellar transport ready to beam me off-planet at a moment's notice (which I accidentally activated the other day upon being startled by a sparrow, so I know that works), but the rest of you might need a little help. I debated about whether or not to publish my Guide to Surviving an Apocolypse or not...see, on the one hand, I'm supposed to be an EVIL mad scientist, and as such I don't want my record sullied by allegations of helpfulness...but on the other hand, ruling the planet isn't as much fun if there is no one to use as test subjects for the new portal gun I'm inventing...
Anyway, here's the compromise. I'm publishing part of my guide. And to counteract that, I'm creating an apocalypse. Enjoy!
Now, there are many different kinds of apocalypse, and they all must be approached differently. Let's start with the most basic: The Giant-Asteroid-Hits-Earth Apocalypse. This is arguably the hardest to counteract, because let's face it, most of you DON'T have interstellar transports ready to beam you off-planet at a moment's notice, and the few of you who did just had their transports destroyed by a bored mad scientist. You really should have put your shields up. Really, the only thing to do is hope the asteroid doesn't hit you and hope that I eventually need test subjects beamed aboard my transport. Good luck!
The second type of catastrophe that may occur is called the Jurassic-Park-Is-No-Longer-A-Movie Apocalypse. My advice? Get some heavy-duty weaponry and hide in some seriously fortified bunkers until I need test subjects. And if this event actually does occur, I apologize in advance for the faulty workmanship that was done on the electric fence that was keeping my dinosaurs in. They were supposed to be guarding my secret fortress...
Another world-ending event is called the Zombie Apocalypse. I think this one would be the most fun, at least for those of you who want to be turned into zombies for the fun of scaring your buddies. Just don't blame me if they get all trigger-happy.
Let's see, where was I...ahh, yes, the Nuclear-Explosion Apocalypse. This is a little tricky due to the randomness of mutation, but basically you hope you're far enough from the blast to not die instantly, but close enough to mutate into something neat to survive the coming wasteland that Earth turns into. Try for Wolverine; he's pretty cool. And I'll mention to my minions to quit playing "Catch" with my stockpile of bombs. They've got good hands, but accidents happen...
Plague Apocalypse: Again, hope that you mutate, instead of die, from the plague. I suppose if you don't want to be adventurous, you could wear some sort of biohazard suit, but that's just cheating...
The-Internet-Develops-Consciousness-And-Turns-On-You Apocalypse: You really should have seen this coming. Try disconnecting your computer, turning off your phone, and never boarding an airplane again. You can try to confuse it with a paradox, but that might just make it mad, so be careful.
Aliens-Take-Over-The-Planet-Destroy-The-World-And-Turn-Humans-Into-Food Apocalypse: Try to prove that you have some sort of useful ability, like cooking or servile labor. This is actually a good type of apocalypse, because it gets rid of all the scum in our society, such as lawyers, pop stars, talk show hosts, and Justin Bieber. And don't worry too much; I'll already have an alliance with said aliens, so I'll be able to continue testing out evil inventions!
I-Take-Over-The-Planet-And-Relocate-Everyone-To-Another-Planet-On-Which-Live-Dinosaurs Apocalypse: This differs from the previously mentioned apocalypse only in how the aforementioned society drains are disposed of. The same survival procedure follows here; find a useful skill such as computer programming or alligator keeper, and you might be promoted from "Dinosaur Fodder" to "Test Subject." And if you really play your cards right, I might make you in charge of stopping the hero who comes to dispose of me. It's a very prestigious line of work, with a long and glorious tradition!
These are just some of the possible world-ending scenarios, but I'm not giving you the full list because that's just too helpful. Anyway, have fun, and watch out for the zombified dinosaurs...I'm missing about 20 of them...
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