September 28th 3:35PM
I rock.
Just got done laying out a killer itinerary - it's fairly loose, yet packs in all the sites on my/our "list." I know that this list of what we'll do and when we'll do it won't stand the harsh currents of reality, but it's nice to have a plan in place, even if it goes to hell. It's better than no structure at all - at least this way, we'll know when we're off-track, even if we don't care.
Or something.
I've also got together a pretty complete contact list, for help in finding people's and companies' contact data while we're on the road. My documentation is nearly complete and organized. This may just work out . . .
Anyhow, my woman will be home soon, and I will run this "looks-good-to-me" plan by her, and see how she likes it. We'll see. Now, it's beer-thirty, and I'm off to water the yard and just fuck around in general. See ya.
Stilts hits
Looking over some logs, I see I've gotten about 10 unique hits for stilts searches on this page. If you're one of these folks (or a future version of one of these folks) and have any questions I can help with regarding my stilts, or advice you want to share with which to better mine, , people - it's what the link and this site are here for - communication. Write me, for cryin' out loud. You know, if ya wanna.
September 28th 1:07PM
Yep, I'm too lazy.
I went to a local park, strapped on my equipment, and . . . didn't do much. Unfortunately, my brother was in the middle of something, and I was too impatient to wait for him, so when I went and found a good launchpad for my stilt project, I didn't have the guts to tromp around. I probably wouldn't have anyway, spotter or no spotter.
But, I went. I got up on the stilts, and was reminded of what it was like to use crutches for the first time. I teetered around on the sand-covered lot in exactly one spot, feeling out the balance. It went pretty well, and I managed to develop enough coordination on the spot to hover in one place for dozens of seconds. I consider that a successful preliminary endeavor, if not a rousing success overall. Screw it, my knees are still attached - hooray! Plus, I got some good data and ideas for improving the stilts. Good enough!
Now, I hope to work on our Paris itinerary - I started it the other day, but that's all I did. It definitely needs more work.
September 28th 11:38AM
Better, now.
You'll be happy to know that my love and I have spoken, and cleared the air about yesterday and last night. I know I am. Friday night and Saturday morning sucked. Bleah. But things are better now.
I need to try out my stilts, but I don't have a volunteer to help out or call the paramedics. My wife is away riding her horse, my brother is nurturing his booty-humped PC back to health. Additionally, I have to scout a suitable area that allows me to climb high enough to get on the things, surrounded by grass or sand when/if I fall real good.
I should go get Pat, see if he's up for it - he's been harassing me to try out the stilts as much as I've been harassing him to update his log. Unfortunately, he lives about 30 minutes away, and I'm too lazy to drive that far. Or am I? Hmmm...
September 27th 10:55AM
Romance, defeated.
I'm the first to admit: I'm about as romantic as a dirty sock. But every now and then, I try, which in my ignorant opinion is the essence of romance: effort. It's not necessarily the skill with which you wow your love, it's the trouble you go through to demonstrate the emotion you feel. I guess - what the fuck do I know?
Anyway - my love and I go out to eat last night. It's been a busy week, and we haven't had much time to talk or spend time together. I've been missing her recently, and was looking forward to sharing some stimulating conversation and some affectionate interactions. Shit . . .
I try to hold her hand across the table. No go, sailor, I need that hand to hold my menu. I stifle my opinion that she can easily lay the damn menu on the table and flip through it with a single appendage. You know, because I'm such a romantic.
She looks at me across the table with her pretty green eyes while we discuss the recent death of Robert Palmer, who recently died in Paris, France. She mistakes him for Jim Morrison, a comparison about as off-kilter as Liberace and Marvin Hamlisch. Yeah, they both played the piano, but . . .
Shaking that off, I struggle Onward. Ah, we've now hurriedly ordered appetizers and our meals, within about 4 minutes of each other. I can tell this is going to be relaxed and leisurely. Yeah, like a pie eating contest.
I am now granted the privilege of holding her hand, which I do with real enjoyment. My wife's salad comes, and she starts on it. OK, now pay attention, because some really inane details are about to start leaking out of this story, but they matter, somehow. For some reason, my wife is squeamish about speaking to the wait staff, so she asks me to ask the waitress if she can have some extra ranch to go with her salad, when she brings the appetizers. Immediately upon taking my wife's request to make a request, I spot the blur of our waitress, who is currently sprinting from table to table to the chef's counter and back. I nab the woman's attention with a raised index finger, and ask for the previously mentioned additional ranch dressing. My chivalrous deed done, I gaze back at my lovely, patient wife, who huffs and rolls her eyes at my latest social transgression. I in my blissful ignorance, gape and gesture with upturned hands, soliciting an explanation of my faux pas. "I wanted the ranch when she brings the appetizers." I look around, for what I'm not sure. Maybe I'm looking for the waitress who I've prematurely sent on an errand for the two ounces of dressing. Maybe I'm looking for someone to describe to me how the bloody fuck it matters whether the ranch dressing (for her salad, which she is currently eating, mind you) arrives with the appetizers or travels alone. At any rate, while I'm searching for a clue, the waitress arrives with . . . wait for it . . . our appetizers, and an extra thimble of the much-celebrated ranch dressing.
So it turns out, the ranch, ordered far ahead of its time, appeared at precisely the ideal moment for all involved. Was there happiness at this cosmic condiment crescendo? Were the earlier frictions appeased by the fortuitous convergence of food and optional goop?
Of course not. Not only is my darling sweetheart still as approachable as a hilltop castle under siege, now I'm pissed. While angry, I'm determined not to be aggressively rude. Rather, I simply raise the drawbridge of the Castle Emotion. I'm done trying to be pleasant. I spend the rest of the evening jabbing my onion rings and cheese sticks forebodingly into the array of glops so bountifully provided. When my meal comes, I do the same with my shrimp, wantonly flicking the inedible tailpieces across the table at the rack that holds the dessert menu and salt and peppers shakers.
Fuck it, now I'm angry, and to top it all off, the food sucks. The steak is spongy and overcooked, the fries are undercooked and chalky. Sonofabitch! First my company takes a shit on me, now the food's let me down, too. From the Ranch Incident on, I am careful not to make eye contact or unnecessary conversation with my dinner companion. How fucking pleasant.
Needless to say, as all tortures eventually must, the meal ends. We arrive at home and immediately retreat to our neutral corners. Her, the bedroom, and I, the living room. I stupidly thought we would salvage the remainder of the evening watching a recorded television show we had discussed watching earlier. As time wore on, I sat alone in the living room and it became increasingly clear that my company and our TV show could go fuck ourselves.
I briefly tried to make some amends, heading to the bedroom we still share, but there my stoic partner was not yet ready to cease her television viewing, and I found the noise too much for sleep, so I slunk away to the couch, where I slept until just before sunrise.
Awakened in the room made too cold by the oscillating fan left running all night, I staggered back to bed. I stroked my wife's skin, and massaged her aching back for a period of time, again sending out little white flags from my fingertips. Finally, my hands' energies spent with no kind words heard, I abandoned the bed, and followed the lure of morning coffee.
I sat and read for a while, and thought about how nice it would be to make breakfast for my little darling. I stole away to the grocery store for the things I'd need. I returned, and carefully plotted out the timing of each course's preparation, as my little dove especially dislikes food that is cold from sitting. The last thing to go on the skillet would be the eggs, as they take the least time to cook. Over easy, runny yolks; that's how she likes them.
I start the potatoes - someone's used all the damned
olive oil, so I go with the vegetable oil, adding butter later. Later, the
bacon, which turns out to be cooking too slowly. I turn up the bacon to
coax a faster completion. Flip the potatoes, keep 'em cooking evenly. By
now the bacon's sizzling and popping furiously, and scalds hands and arms
with its molten projectiles. Momentarily intimidated, I curse and wheel
back from the sharp
but fleeting pain. I furrow my brow and wade back into my little battle,
keeping a darting eye on everything to preserve continuity. Finally, the
potatoes are cooked enough to be set aside and simply kept warm. The bacon
is quickly nearing completion, gotta get that off to a plate before it looks
like a burn ward in here. The eggs - ah, the eggs. I quickly get some butter
liquefied in a tiny skillet, and dump the eggs in. Expatriating the bacon
now from the skillet to a paper-lined plate. I separate the two eggs from
one another, and flip 'em. Flawless, going really well. I dump them onto
a plate, and I'm all don . . . except that the eggs are two solid masses
of aborted chicken, not two gooey pools of masterfully managed breakfast
fare. Okay, no problem, I'll just whip up another pair on my still-hot burner.
I get out two more eggs, and bust the yolk on one of them, cursing aloud.
No catastrophe, I've still got most of the dozen left. I carefully extract
one more egg from its shell, into the bowl with its coop-mate. Turn back
from discarding the shell, and now this one's yolk is also
broken and leaking from its nucleus. Damn! Okay, stay calm, get another
fucking egg from the carton, try not to think how many eggs have been wastefully
sacrificed in this simple process. More butter, I need more butter. Reaching
into the refrigerator, I carelessly grab to much of something on the fridge's
door shelf, and pulling back my impatient fist I inadvertently tear off
the shelf's guardrail, breaking the tender little plastic hooks that held
it in place and dumping margarine and sliced cheese onto the floor. Dump
the butter into the skillet, liquefy it again, eggs in too. Going frantically
for another plate, I whip the cabinet door open so hard it bends the bracket
on its metal hinge, and I find that it now won't close properly. Fuck! Jesus
Christ, I'm a complete failure. I manage to get all of the food onto two
plates without slitting my own throat with a cheese grater, go stomping
down the hall to find my wife. With my kitchen damaged, my temper lost and
my wife surely rattled by all the noise and frustration, breakfast is served.
By now I'm too angry to even speak to my wife, much less accompany her to breakfast and make up over the meal I've prepared. All of last night's enmity now restored from embers to hot coals once again, I have to at least try to fix some of the damage I've wrought. Where's my hammer?
I had the best intentions this morning, and it all went straight to Hell anyway. I feel like leaping into oncoming traffic.
Romance. Pfff. Save yourself the trouble.
September 25th 12:49PM
Wow, four days since I've blogged. I suck.
I voted.
Since I will be unable to vote at my polling place on election day, I sent in my absentee ballot a few days ago. I am a bona fide part of the electoral process. I cannot wait to see how this comes out. I hope Gray Davis gets thrown out on his ass. I further hope that Cruz Bustamante gets pounded by my man Arnold.
Davis is such a punk. In my opinion.
Anger Management
I wasted 101 minutes of my precious time the other night, watching something
my wife and I initially mistook for a funny film. "Anger Management"
with Adam Sandler and Jack Nicholson was the beast that dare not speak its
name, a movie so crappy that it is second in crappiness only to "Mr.
Deeds," my least-favorite movie in living memory. How they got Jack
Nicholson to smear this dog shit of a movie on his resume, I'll never know.
Sandler must have naked gayboy circus freak pictures of ol' Jack somewhere,
because I can't imagine how else they could've roped the Old Master into
this disgrace. This movie was so bad, I'm insulted. To make matters worse,
the premise had promise. If anybody could sell a movie mixing explosive
rage and physical comedy, it's Adam Sandler. If anybody could elevate such
a beer-swiggin', belly-laugh popcorn-seller out of utter mediocrity, it's
Nicholson. So when the movie sucked out loud like it does, there's more
than just low quality at work. I've been had. Ripped off. These two could've
really created something, and instead they dropped their pants and crapped
in my DVD player. Sons of bitches. After this movie, I could use
some anger management.
September 21st 8:15AM
It doesn't all suck
One of my favorite things to do is to pick up a marked-down book and find that it would have been a great value at double the price. That's one reason I like my local used bookstore, "The Book Exchange," but don't get quite so excited about the library. At the bookstore, new and old books filter in and out, and when they go out, they usually don't come back, unlike the library. Also, the library won't let you keep them forever. The sensation of playing for keeps, along with a real sense of good fortune in discovery really make a good book a find. So I really enjoy finding, buying and reading a good book. Draw the shades, I'm done for the day.
So when I found "Savoir Flair" by Polly Platt on Amazon.com for around twelve bucks, I was tempted. I ordered it, received it a week later, and since Friday afternoon have read halfway through the pocket-sized paperback. Contrary to the rave reviews at Amazon.com's product listing, I didn't have a book-lover's joyful moment. This book is decidedly okay. It was worth the bargain rate I bought it at, but not much more. If you're interested, let me talk about why:
The book promises to do two things: 1) Help you enjoy France and the French, and 2) Explain the cultural bugaboos and misunderstandings that divide us. This book does both, but neither explosively well. It can't seem to decide whether it wants to be a tourist guidebook, telling you how to get around, or a cultural ambassador, explaining the how's and why's of differing societal dynamics. So, it tips back and forth, creaking from one to the other. Unfortunately, it left me feeling like I'd have been better off buying other books for each of these purposes. I have a Paris guidebook (Rick Steves') that has been everything I could ask for (and much more current - "Savoir Flair" still speaks in "francs," though France has been using Euros for years now). This negates any need I had of a tourist guidebook, effectively devaluing half of this book entirely! In fairness, I admit that if I didn't have another guidebook, Platt's would have been some help. There is good advice on where to buy subway and museum tickets, and how to escape the airports and get to your hotel. Unfortunately, a reader has to wonder how current (and therefore reliable) this information is, due to the outdated content.
So, I scan quickly through the tour guide portions, and settle into the explanations of how people behave and think differently. These are described largely in anecdotes from other writers, rather than Polly's firsthand accounts. This is forgivable in moderate quantities, but the quips and stories from other writers become tiresome - I like to hear from the author, not quotes from other books and magazines I should have bought.
Further, the book provides "Tips," each followed by an explanation of varying length. Many of these explanations (in the aforementioned anecdotal form) are unnecessarily long, or unnecessary altogether. For example, after two hair-raising pages of warnings about how Parisian drivers are homicidal/suicidal and that a pedestrian there is taking his life in his hands, the reader is presented with: "Savoir Flair Tip No. 33 - Don't cross the street at a light unless all other traffic has stopped." This is followed by two additional pages supporting this ingenious "Tip." What's next, 5 pages on "Look both ways before crossing?" Sheesh. Some tips are worth noting, but didn't require such substantiation. I guess it would look kind of flimsy to simply state a piece of advice with some documentation to give it legitimacy, but I could have done without some of them.
Anyway, I'll continue on reading the book, as it has had some good insights. Unfortunately, my bookworm heart does not rejoice at this acquisition, but simply nods and grunts. As well, it could be worse...
September 18th 7:00AM
Teeth out, feel better
Got my wisdom teeth out Wednesday afternoon, and my face is on the mend. Instead of staying home the next day, as my dental doc advised, I felt pretty good so I thought I'd do my boss a big favor and show up for work on the day I had requested off. I must have dicked up his carefully laid plans to cover my absence, because he seemed to meet my offer to work with more irritation than appreciation. Ah well. Maybe reliability is overrated.
The Big Trip is coming up, and I have yet to plan a day's events there. I'm sure we could find plenty to do spontaneously, but I'd like to have some planned stuff - some organization would certainly be a good thing. I must give this planning a higher priority than I have recently.
Work
Ah, but there's a dark cloud hanging over everyone I work with. We started out as sort of a happy-go-lucky band of merry misfits. Well, misfits we may remain, but there's no doubt that the overall state of mind at my division is sinking to a less happy, less lucky, less enjoyable level. It's my opinion that everyone there has at least one big desire that's not being met, and we've all been there long enough for that unmet want to start to chafe. For some it may be respect, others money, others power, others just a yearning to see things done a different way. Everyone there can feel it. Whether they speak of it directly or not, the effects of this psychological wet blanket are plain to see. No one seems to have the inclination and ability to counteract this pall, so it will be interesting to see how things continue. Will someone quit? Get fired? Throw a raging fit at the drop of a hat? Will workplace attitudes or performance simply slowly sink to unacceptable levels? Once that happens, it's only a hop, skip and a "fuck you" before someone points the finger of blame at someone else for something that didn't get done, and then - it's on. Something vocationally disruptive will happen, I assure you. I think this cycle has already begun, almost imperceptibly slowly, but begun, I assure you.
It's a very interesting proposition, I think. I hope that if something happens it doesn't happen during my absence. This is the type of thing a person would rather witness than hear about second-hand. Call me morbid, accuse me of a bad attitude, but you'd be wrong. I've been watching these dynamics twist and rise and fall for over three years now - if there's going to be a hiccup or worse, I want to have an eyewitness account.
I wish things would get better, that my department and my company would straighten out and fly right, developing something of the potential I know we have. Since I can't make that happen, all I can do is watch and witness. And blog.
September 15th 7:00PM
Finally!
Finished the WWII book "Is Paris Burning?" about occupied France (mainly Paris) and its liberation in 1944. Excellent book, I enjoyed reading it. Took me forever. I must re-read it soon.
I gotta go get my wisdom teeth yanked Wednesday afternoon - I should have had it done weeks ago, but well, you know the story... This time, for sure.
On Sunday, I ordered the book I mentioned in my last blog entry. Should be here this week. I expect to enjoy it. Twelve bucks or so, if you're wondering.
The 9th Circuit Court of Appeals acted to block the recall here. How foolish and unjust. As the inimitable Bill O'Reilly pointed out, this court didn't seem to have a problem with the same voting machines that sparked the action when said voting machines were used to vote in Gray Davis. And before you think I'm just singing O'Reilly's song, I had the same view before I heard him mention it. "I don't let anybody rent space in my head." (I've always liked that saying.) I trust and hope that this act will be overturned, as are so many of the court's findings.
September 13th 2:00
Some more preparations for the trip
Doing a couple of things today in preparation for the big trip, now only weeks away. Jumpin' catfish, I am excited.
I am writing in this blog "the hard way," using Internet Explorer's native FTP functionality to upload files and Notepad to edit the HTML. This, to anticipate blogging via Internet cafe where Dreamweaver and other apps aren't available. So far, so good.
Also, I counted in French on the way back from the Barnes and Noble in Stockton. I got up around 340 (trois cent quarante). It was good practice.
At the bookstore, I was looking for a book that was recommended in different places, "Savoir Flair." It is supposed to present and/or discuss different cultural dynamics in a way that enlightens travelling Americans. I didn't buy it online, because I enjoy visiting the bookstore, and I didn't want to wait for it to be shipped. Unfortunately, they don't stock it, so the large, effeminate, friendly Hispanic man behind the counter offered to ship it there. I declined. I can order it online as far as that goes.
Instead, a sucker for the bargain books, I picked up Henry David Thoreau's "Walden and Other Writings." I'm only 3 pages into the first chapter, and already I'm impressed. He talks modestly about himself, and how people waste their days working so hard to do things that never seem to add up to anything (things like working for a living). I'm not explaining it really well, but it strikes a chord within me, and I identify with it. I'm looking forward to reading this one. For six bucks, obviously a steal.
I also picked up "Learn to Read Music" by Harry and Michael Baxter, for seven bucks. If it delivers what it promises, the price paid will be among the best moneys I've ever spent. However, with my current schedule and priorities, this one will be relegated to the "read it someday" shelf. At this point in my life, I must reassess my prioirities if I'm going to finish reading the books I've set aside for myself; If I don't read more often or live longer, I'll never make it.
Well, this took a while to complete in Notepad, but not too bad. Now, to upload and see if it looks well enough.
September 12th 6:35PM
Goodbye, Johnny Cash
Today we say goodbye to a Country Music legend. I'm not the biggest country fan, but it's not for a lack of exposure. My mom loved that stuff, largely because its sentiments were part of her, like music's a part of life. Johnny Cash did (at least) one thing I respected early and deeply: he played music like pouring his blood into it. He came right out and said it, sometimes clever, sometimes plain, but never pretentious or contrived. That's the essence of what an artist does - conveys feeling. Sure, some of them "sell out" and convey a feeling of excitement to a car commercial or something similar, but that's what it's about, and Johnny Cash did that as well as anyone. Loneliness, commitment, love, hate, yearning, disappointment, it's all there. Raw and pure, his music wasn't especially fancy, but it was clear and honest.
Here's to ya pal. Rest in peace.
September 12th 12:59PM
Dead Dog
I saw a dog on the side of the road on the way in to work today, obviously the victim of high-speed impact. He was a big one, and had a gorgeous coat - long, thick, luxurious-looking hair, auburn and black. Looked like a komodo dragon wearing a mink coat.
September 10th 12:59PM
Slip of the tongue
Alors! My French study has really slipped lately. I have found damn little time to study new chapters, and our departure date is closing fast. Plus, in trying to use my skills, I find that I cannot conjugate my way out of a wet paper bag. I must stop emphasizing new material so much and focus on review. There is so much I can do and say with the information I've already covered, if I'd only master it.
Bill Maher is a funny sonofagun.
Bill Maher has a website, and a blog! I often find his views to be unreasonably left-wing, but he is funny as hell. Very sharp, concise cynical humor - my favorite flavor!! Check him out.
September 10th 6:40AM
Dreaming of Paris
I took with me today my Paris guidebook with which to start planning the days of our trip. I left the house, and found out I packed the wrong one. I actually took the 2002 edition. The 2003 is much better - it has color maps of the center of the city and the subway system "le Metro." So, I got up this morning to start some of the pre-trip chores, like putting together a list of phone numbers we might need over there. I'm afraid I've gotten more blogging done than list-making, but oh well.
I've made myself a list-buddy on a French/English e-mail list. She speaks better English than I do French, but so far I'm doing pretty well. God knows I need the practice! It's helping.
Register to vote.
You heard me. Yes, you. Unless you're a convicted felon, do it. Vote for whatever crackpot strikes your fancy, but get involved. Spend ten minutes learning about two candidates' views on issues you care about. One issue. Something, please! Our country is slowly withering under a shadow of apathy, and the foxes are in the henhouse. Snap out of it, and get in the fucking game. Have an opinion based on some shred of fact. Please, I'm begging you. This is our country to keep or lose.
Oh, and vote Republican. (kidding)
September 7th 3:50PM
This weekend, I/we:- Supported our country by doing what the President said we should do: spend money. We bought clothes (so as to go undercover in Paris - we don't want to look like ugly Americans, although we won't be fooling too many people in that tourist town), groceries, pet products, miscellaneous stilt parts, and some other stuff I cannot remember now that the beer is flowing.
- Cleaned the place up.
- Had great sex (this is part of the "we" portion of the weekend; I can only hope you believe me).
- Had a great time with my mother-in-law, who, I may not have mentioned, makes some screamin' good fried chicken.
Now, blogging, browsing, and hopefully, some français. Salut!
September 6th 4:20PM
Where did the time go?
Has it been three days already? Seems like yesterday that I blogged. Clearly not. Oh well, it could be worse... I could be this guy or this guy. They haven't blogged in at least as long as I have. Then again, they're usually more interesting, so I guess it's a push. Heh.
I wish John Bizarre would update his site, but at least he was considerate enough to post a notice that things would stagnate for a few weeks. Awful sporting of him.
Yet more hot stilt action
Got some belts "customized," and screwed to the top of the stilts, for holding the top of the calf in place. I've two velcro straps for holding the ankle in place, but those aren't going to work long term, I'm afraid. They strap horizontally around the ankle, above the foot, and don't allow the wearer to pick up the feet with enough control - too much slippage. I imagine I will screw two shoes to the tops of the footpads, and lace up every time I use the stilts. I was hoping for a more "one size fits all" solution, but I don't guess anyone else is going to use these silly things anyway.
Finally, I screwed a shoe to the bottom of each stilt, resolving the "what the hell am I going to put on the bottom of these things" controversy. It's all done, except for the device that holds the wearer's feet on the footpads.
I must admit, I took the stilts out with the intention of going for a test-drive, but chickened out. I climbed onto a ladder and prepared to strap and buckle in, but as I did, I could quit vividly picture myself in the hospital within 30 minutes, so I backed out to regroup, and try again when I have a safer environment, better foot support, and some knee and elbow pads.
Wussy. But at least I can still walk. I'm not up for tearing off my leg at the knee or worse, and blowing my trip to Europe next month.
God, I'm jazzed about that.
September 3rd 12:53PM
More stilts
Here's
a link to the footrests
on the stilts. If you've had too much stilt information already, tough doodie.
It's going to get worse before it gets better. I haven't built many things,
and I'm happy with the way this is turning out so far. Besides that, when
I was looking for pics/diagrams to help me decide on an approach to make
them, I would have liked to see these kinds of shots. So, maybe somebody
might benefit from it.
It could happen. If it does, and let me know if it helped...
September 2nd 7:45PM
Stilt pics
Here are the stilts I've started building. After this photo was taken, we added foot pads and support for them. I still have to put non-skid material on the bottom, and figure out how to lash the thing to the upper calf. Velcro, buckles . . . should be interesting.
September 2nd 12:45PM
Costumes
Searching the Web for costume ideas, mostly all I'm finding is bedsheet ghosts and Goodwill-clothed hoboes. I did find one pretty damn cool costume - the guy built a nine foot "wolf/mech" construct, complete with electronics! Bad ass! He's made some other stuff, too.
September 2nd 7:49AM
Oh crap, I feel like God.
Wait . . .
I've got that the wrong way 'round. I hit the beer nice and solid last night, and am "enjoying" the effects this morning. This must be what it feels like to have worms.
I also made beaucoup progress on my stilts/costume project, I'm a little proud to say. Pictures are coming. It worked out pretty well so far, thanks to my wife for all her help. More soon.
September 1st 8:30AM
New month, new page, new entry.
I have officially decided I'm not running this morning. This, I vow.
Halloween is coming.
Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. Every year, I want to do something odd and fun for Halloween, preferably something that makes my neighbors uncertain about me and frightens little children. Something like a Haunted House or grandiose costume. Every year I have the desire to do this, and every year I don't. Every November first, I regret having done nothing. Will this year be the same?
Probably.
But it's September first now, and hope still seeps forth. I have my mind on a costume, something large, using stilts to intimidate Trick-or-Treaters. I have already done some preliminary Web searches and looked at some other peoples' plans. There are good ideas, but none perfect.
- One plan recommends using 2x2 pine for the main piece. That would be lighter than 2x4 and make for a longer night of scaring and howling, but that hardly seems sturdy or steady enough for my chubbiness. It does offer a good idea: using cross-cut tennis balls for the heels of the things.
- Another plan advises bolting the little platform of wood to the side of the stilt, but again, that doesn't seem very sturdy. Better, it seems, to use the primary portion of the stilt to bear the weight, and attach a steadying brace to the outer sides of the stilts.
Anyway, that's got me started for the stilts. I'm not surprised at all that I haven't found a plan I want to copy outright - it seems like it would be much more fun to pick from an assortment of good plans (and they are out there) and Frankenstein together my own little creation. How Halloweenish. Anyhow, stilts aren't the end of it - I would like to have an end result that is largely homemade, comparatively inexpensive and dark and sweeping. I'm thinking about using lots of fabric to throw over the outside of the thing, to hide the inner workings. The headpiece should be big, some wooly or demonic mask. Hmmm...