Meet Mamba, one of my brother's fiance's 4.5 rescue dogs.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Friday, November 25, 2011
Me gusta
Over the weekend, I had a chance to attend a hymnfest that was happening at a local church. What's a hymnfest you ask? Well, let's see. Imagine, if you will, Kiss, a Tyrannosaurus rex, 1,000 apple pies, and a year's worth of fireworks all got together for one hour of fun. Now picture the opposite of that.
Boom, Hymnfest.
Bizzaro Hymnfest.
I kid. In reality, it was rather interesting. In all, it was about two hours of history, choir singing, and Lutheran humor followed by an hour-long coffee and cookie session in a church basement. Not bad. Not bad at all.
The highlight of the afternoon came when we were about 15-20 minutes into the program. At that point, we were far enough along into the program that one could gauge how much of the show was remaining by simply looking at the bulletin. I was bolstering my determination to make it through the program when I happened to look at my dear 82-year old grandma sitting next to me; she had begun to slouch in her chair as her breathing leveled out into a nice, sleepy rhythm. My brother and I had spent the morning with my grandma attending church, dining, and playing Rummikub, and even I, in my youthful, energy-filled state, was beginning to droop. I slightly nudged my grandma to make sure that she kept from snoring when she jumped a little and squinted at me.
"Hey, you woke me up!" she joked as she poked me back.
I could not stop laughing. Being in a chapel filled with people dutifully listening to choir music did not help the situation. Those settings only seem to make things 10x more comical. I dry-heaved and snorted for about 5 minutes before my mother shot me a "SHAPE UP, SON" look. Man, it's been 10 years since I've gotten one of those.
All in all, it was a pleasant afternoon. I just had to share that moment with my grandma.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Jake
Boom, Hymnfest.
I kid. In reality, it was rather interesting. In all, it was about two hours of history, choir singing, and Lutheran humor followed by an hour-long coffee and cookie session in a church basement. Not bad. Not bad at all.
The highlight of the afternoon came when we were about 15-20 minutes into the program. At that point, we were far enough along into the program that one could gauge how much of the show was remaining by simply looking at the bulletin. I was bolstering my determination to make it through the program when I happened to look at my dear 82-year old grandma sitting next to me; she had begun to slouch in her chair as her breathing leveled out into a nice, sleepy rhythm. My brother and I had spent the morning with my grandma attending church, dining, and playing Rummikub, and even I, in my youthful, energy-filled state, was beginning to droop. I slightly nudged my grandma to make sure that she kept from snoring when she jumped a little and squinted at me.
"Hey, you woke me up!" she joked as she poked me back.
I could not stop laughing. Being in a chapel filled with people dutifully listening to choir music did not help the situation. Those settings only seem to make things 10x more comical. I dry-heaved and snorted for about 5 minutes before my mother shot me a "SHAPE UP, SON" look. Man, it's been 10 years since I've gotten one of those.
All in all, it was a pleasant afternoon. I just had to share that moment with my grandma.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Jake
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Weight
The man exhaled a quiet, triumphant sigh; his lungs had long
awaited this moment. As the man stood,
he instinctively began to straighten his back. He had learned to pleasantly endure, and now
almost began to expect, the argument he began to hear as his body realigned
itself to the world. No more would he
have to subject it to long hours of odd positions and grueling labor, his mind
struggling to keep itself committed to such detail. He could finally rest. He had finished the house; his father, had he
lived to see this moment, would certainly be proud.
As he dusted off his hands, his wife appeared from inside
the home. “We did it,” spoke the man.
His wife nodded to him and returned inside the house.
As the man entered the house, rather his home, he sat down next to a radio that
was ablaze with unusual activity.
“…nobody knows where
or what this even is. Nothing of this
likeness has ever been reported or even talked about. This is absolutely something out of legend.
Or myth. Or… God knows what.”
“Can you speculate its
direction? Where is this thing headed?”
“It seems to be traveling
in straight line and…”
A strange curiosity began to creep into the man’s recently
forged mental state. The same story was
being broadcast on each station that the man could find. Piecing together the scattered reports, the
man learned that a strange column of light had appeared out of seeming
nothingness. The column of pure, inexplicable
light was methodically tracking its way through nearby townships to the north. Estimates placed the column close to 72 feet
in diameter, yet acknowledged that the sheer luminosity of the column made it
difficult to measure, let alone observe.
As the pillar traveled, it engulfed everything in its path, leaving
nothing behind but scorched earth and debris in its wake.
An uncomfortable weight pressed the man as he walked outside
and to the end of his lane. To the
north, the man could barely begin to see outlines of a strange, swirling cloud
formation. A line of cars caught the
man’s eye on the nearby county road; most made their way north, but a few were
seen making their way freely to the south.
The southerly cars were made even more peculiar by the belongings that
were strapped at every angle to them.
The man returned to his home and began to clean up; the
white paint on his hands masked a few of the cuts and scrapes on his weathered
hands. The house had welcomed the
changes he had brought, but that was not to say that it had not put up some
resistance at times. Splinters,
scratches, and a bruised thumb adorned his hands. He scrubbed and scrubbed until the last
flecks of paint were off of him.
The man returned to his porch, unwilling to glance to the
north. The pit in his throat reminded
him of the distraction that the world had briefly focused on moments before,
but that it was already beginning to grow weary of. There would always be another storm, another
catastrophic sampling of nature to be sought out and found.
The evening drew on.
The man, tired from his long hours, put on his best suit despite having
no plans for the evening. He preheated
the oven to warm up some leftovers from the night before. While he waited, the man returned to his
porch.
The column now roared one-hundred yards from the man’s
home. The man could audibly hear a groan
emit from the churning, radiant beast as it methodically crept towards
him.
As the man finally addressed the column, he hated it. He began to feel every muscle tighten, every
aggressive thought that he had long since buried begin to come forth. Yet the man could not condemn the pillar; a
strange attraction could be found within its terror. The man rose from his chair, a blank look on
his face. Again, he straightened his
back as he had begun to do so many times before. The oven’s timer sang that it was ready.
The remaining travelers that continued to track the light
stood in still in their shock. Since
their banding together, they had not witnessed anything of this scale, this unsettling
inevitability. The light had journeyed
for miles and miles and destroyed anything it touched, yet it had never
encountered another property or structure.
The column now seemed drawn to the home, just as the man now drew
himself closer to the light.
The man stood squarely in his yard, tall in his
determination. A constant, blank glaze
on his face was all that the onlookers could make out.
Slowly, one by one, the onlookers began to wave, to jump, to
yell at the man to move, to get out of the way.
The man stood undeterred; the blank look was all that he betrayed.
A few onlookers began to move down from their observation
point as screams began to quicken in their urgency. No one would be able to reach the man,
despite the strength of their legs or lungs.
When all had seemed final, the man raised a fist. Brows furrowed and legs apart, he began to
yell, to scream at the column. Spittle flew from his mouth as he raged
against the light’s encroachment upon his life.
His home, all that he had built, he argued and fought for, challenging the
light for each inch of ground it swallowed.
And then he was gone.
The light engulfed the lawn, the fence, the porch, and
finally, the home. Room by room, the
column screeched. Efficiently,
systematically the light left nothing to be pieced together following its
aftermath.
The column then began to flicker as it seemed finally
satisfied in its task. The dim roar
faltered, finally ending altogether.
The onlookers took a moment to hold one another, to
make sure that they could do all that they could to help each other out. Then, one by one, they began to disperse. They returned to their houses, their homes, and returned to their lives. No one spoke of the man.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Insipid
Good day, interwebs!
After over a month of not writing down any one of my thoughts, you would think that this would be going a little more expediently. Sadly, however, I have now watched a full twenty minutes of The Simpsons before daring to venture this brilliant opening paragraph. This is what I get for trying to write at home. Bah. I've never even voluntarily watched any of the Simpsons shows. I'm losing my mind.
The past month has been a blur. As I review former posts, it seems like a decade has passed since I was rabidly drooling over the new Thrice album that was to come out in September. A lot has happened since then.
Like Shark Week showing up on Netflix.
While that's great and all, it seems to cheapen the anticipation of Actual Shark Week. The other 51 weeks now lose a certain dark charm by having sharks accessible 24/7.
"This shark's main diet is helicopters and man's desire to ever go near a beach."
Seems legit.
I've now moved on to Anthony Bourdain's "No Reservations." I have dearly missed my friends Bourdain, Zimmern, Alton, and The Soup after having axed cable at the start of this year. I've saved a boat load, sure, but I had nearly forgotten how engrossing these travel-the-world-and-stuff-your-face shows could be. I'd have to pinch myself each morning if my 9-to-5 was to simply eat, drink, and be merry to earn my keep. Well, I'd excel at it for a few weeks before my puns became passé or my liver decided that it didn't want to be pickled alive.
Bourdain just used the word insipid. What a fun word. I, too, shall find a way to slip it in here somewhere...
The argument for Shark Week parallels an argument I heard about baseball earlier this week. As the World Series wrapped up, baseball became the topic of every radio show that I listened to while driving to work. That's quite remarkable considering that we're well into football season.
The argument was made that although baseball interest may be rising in the States, Major League Baseball is not marketing itself as well as other sports leagues (except you NBA. Nobody will ever like you). The argument continued to say that the availability of baseball was hurting it's success. On any given day, one could find three or four games being televised, analysts reviewing past games or bickering about on-base percentages, Little League updates, fantasy statistics, and on and on and on... It was no longer the hallowed time set aside each week to watch your favorite team handle the opposition with skill and precision.
To be honest, it would be nearly impossible to record one week of games and actually look forward to watching them at a later time. At some point, you and I both know that you would come across an outlet that would leak out a score or a grand story of so-and-so's late-game heroics.
It seems to be a theme that can be related with many other situations. Be it food and drink, shark watching, a national past-time, a band (guiiiiilty), or work, I'm stressing moderation. It seems that an excess of what you want has its drawbacks.
Be thankful that we live in a time and place that allows us to have what some online jokesters have adeptly coined First World Problems. The next time your phone takes three seconds (instead of two) to unlock, traffic seems at a standstill, or the reception on your TV shorts out (Yeah. It still happens.), please, keep your cool.
Cheers,
Jacob
Pages:
Children of the Mind - Orson Scott Card
Justice - Michael Sandel
Tunes:
Thrice (naturally) - Major/Minor
And whenever I study, any blues or jazz rock that I can get my hands on.
Go Raiders.
After over a month of not writing down any one of my thoughts, you would think that this would be going a little more expediently. Sadly, however, I have now watched a full twenty minutes of The Simpsons before daring to venture this brilliant opening paragraph. This is what I get for trying to write at home. Bah. I've never even voluntarily watched any of the Simpsons shows. I'm losing my mind.
The past month has been a blur. As I review former posts, it seems like a decade has passed since I was rabidly drooling over the new Thrice album that was to come out in September. A lot has happened since then.
Like Shark Week showing up on Netflix.
While that's great and all, it seems to cheapen the anticipation of Actual Shark Week. The other 51 weeks now lose a certain dark charm by having sharks accessible 24/7.
Seems legit.
I've now moved on to Anthony Bourdain's "No Reservations." I have dearly missed my friends Bourdain, Zimmern, Alton, and The Soup after having axed cable at the start of this year. I've saved a boat load, sure, but I had nearly forgotten how engrossing these travel-the-world-and-stuff-your-face shows could be. I'd have to pinch myself each morning if my 9-to-5 was to simply eat, drink, and be merry to earn my keep. Well, I'd excel at it for a few weeks before my puns became passé or my liver decided that it didn't want to be pickled alive.
Bourdain just used the word insipid. What a fun word. I, too, shall find a way to slip it in here somewhere...
The argument for Shark Week parallels an argument I heard about baseball earlier this week. As the World Series wrapped up, baseball became the topic of every radio show that I listened to while driving to work. That's quite remarkable considering that we're well into football season.
The argument was made that although baseball interest may be rising in the States, Major League Baseball is not marketing itself as well as other sports leagues (except you NBA. Nobody will ever like you). The argument continued to say that the availability of baseball was hurting it's success. On any given day, one could find three or four games being televised, analysts reviewing past games or bickering about on-base percentages, Little League updates, fantasy statistics, and on and on and on... It was no longer the hallowed time set aside each week to watch your favorite team handle the opposition with skill and precision.
To be honest, it would be nearly impossible to record one week of games and actually look forward to watching them at a later time. At some point, you and I both know that you would come across an outlet that would leak out a score or a grand story of so-and-so's late-game heroics.
It seems to be a theme that can be related with many other situations. Be it food and drink, shark watching, a national past-time, a band (guiiiiilty), or work, I'm stressing moderation. It seems that an excess of what you want has its drawbacks.
Be thankful that we live in a time and place that allows us to have what some online jokesters have adeptly coined First World Problems. The next time your phone takes three seconds (instead of two) to unlock, traffic seems at a standstill, or the reception on your TV shorts out (Yeah. It still happens.), please, keep your cool.
Cheers,
Jacob
Pages:
Children of the Mind - Orson Scott Card
Justice - Michael Sandel
Tunes:
Thrice (naturally) - Major/Minor
And whenever I study, any blues or jazz rock that I can get my hands on.
Go Raiders.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
"You have the right to remain SPRAYED IN THE FACE"
Good day, interwebs.
I fired up my computer with all intentions to promptly begin writing. Those intentions evaporated as soon as I noticed Pandora's new format. As I toured the updated site, nostalgic ol' Sum 41, Blink, Zebrahead, and Goldfinger helped keep my feet happily tip-tapping as I began to confuse people sitting nearby. Then Bowling for Soup popped up and quickly shattered my mental vacation. They're the closest thing to having someone hold your head steady as they vomit directly into your ear. Blech.
There have been a few things in the news that have made me shake my head of late.
News broke out about a handful of protesters in New York City that were doused with pepper spray by a rogue officer with an itchy trigger finger. I certainly don't know all the details surrounding this event, so I'll attempt to restrain myself from assuming too much about what happened.
Essentially, there has been a group of protestors - apparently comprised mainly of young, twenty-somethings that have declared war on the bourgeoisie for being rich, fascist pigs, or something along those lines - who have occupied a stretch of territory near Wall Street to hold a week-long gathering. As it so happens, the NYPD were inevitably asked to reinforce what could and could not be done while the protest partied onwards. At some point, the police were setting up a makeshift fence and bumped boundaries with a small section of the protestors. As showed in a video, an officer seems to randomly - and without provocation - douse four or five young ladies as they mill about inside the fence. This scene has prompted an explosion of responses worldwide debating things from the Constitutional rights of the crowd to the demanding of the officer's resignation.
"Would somebody PLEASE stop whoever is playing
that damnable Bowling for Soup?"
Here's my take:
A) It's one officer. I realize that the NYPD has some notoriety for being brash, violent, and thuggish, but one should keep in mind that this is a single officer's action, not the department as a whole. The sheer volume of responses that directly accuse all police in all locations of being brutes that abuse their power is sickening. I don't feel as though someone could claim widespread police brutality from this lone incident. If the police were authorized to use such force to ensure the general tranquility for the rest of the public, then the officer's actions are excusable to a certain degree. Again, I'm not privy to that kind of information, so I can't make that assumption.
I am going to assume that at some point in his career, the officer has been subjected to a battery of verbal assaults from the general public. Frustrated by having the police interrupt their day, John C. Public seems to think that it is fine to lob his frustration at the officer that has confronted them.
It's similar with telemarketers, I guess. People love to tell stories about how they challenged a telemarketer and beat them in a trolling game of logic. Congratulations. That solves nothing. It only makes you look like an ass.
The police also have the lovely task of directly dealing with the portions of society that are usually avoided by others at all possible costs. Officers get it from both sides: sneered at by the public, insulted by frequent offenders, and now accused of being tyrannical agents of the faceless government. Being chastised daily by people is certainly no excuse to randomly start spraying people, but it wouldn't kill us to be civil and respectful to the people charged with upholding our statutes and laws. Is it any wonder that there is enmity between the police and the general public at times?
Again, I don't know the officer. Maybe he is a grade-A d-bag.
B) Someone hacked into the NYPD's records to release the information of the officer that did the spraying. That's concerning. Where's the public outcry for this officer that had this happen to him? "Oh, F that guy and his rights. He's a jerk. We're worried about our Constitutional rights, not his. Who cares if we broke some laws to distribute this man's information. Breakin' laws is a great way to get the support of the police." Double-standards. Sheesh.
C) After cruising their website - the group is called "Occupy Wall Street" - I had a general skepticism towards them. I also realize that I am biased towards the law enforcement in this situation (biased enough to write this, I guess). The group comes off as your average, run-of-the-mill squad in many regards. They do make use of the word 'revolution' a tad much for my taste. They also make it a focus to videotape everyone saying reinforcing phrases such as, "We are the 99th percent," and, "Join us. Join our conversation." There is also a large portion of their website dedicated to show abuses the NYPD has shown some of their members.
(Yes, I had some Conspiracy Juice this morning and a tiny voice in my head is claiming that the pepper spraying is being used a publicity stunt. If that's the case, next time simply hire a bunch of skateboarding cats wearing cute party hats. That's always a crowd-pleaser.)
...go on. You have my attention.
As a twenty-something, I certainly emphasize with some of their points; but not their tactics. The military-esque feel of the march and protest - it all feels like a great way to spend a week with your friends, but not really a stellar way to get your message across. Sure, you can heckle the wealthy or make fresh, exciting promotional videos to gain support, but I feel as though it somewhat reinforces some of animosity between the groups. If I was a wealthy, monocled-and-top-hat-wearing fat-cat and I was getting ribbed by a group of good-for-nothin whippersnappers, I wouldn't stop to hear their points. I would simply rue the fact that I hadn't purchased a warehouse full of 1980's sunglasses to sell to them.
Overall, it's not the most jaw-dropping bit of news out there by a long shot. I'm sorry to report that I was sucked in to a non-story by sensationalist media. Shucks.
In all reality, it's a topic that's incredibly important to some, and I apologize if my light-hearted take failed to address certain points. I realize that there are many sides to this story and I'm sure that I could write plenty more on this. However, this seems to be quite long already. I also hoping to address the new laws dictating drug testing for unemployment or welfare candidates, but that can wait for another day, my friends.
Cheers,
Jacob
Pages:
Xenocide - Orson Scott Card
I'm on a big Card kick again. Empire series was OK, but I'm back to finish book three of Ender's series. Hiphip!
Your Republic Is Calling You - Young-Ha Kim
Korean spies! Eep!
Tunes:
Major/Minor - Thrice
It seriously may be the last music you'll ever need. It's glorious.
I fired up my computer with all intentions to promptly begin writing. Those intentions evaporated as soon as I noticed Pandora's new format. As I toured the updated site, nostalgic ol' Sum 41, Blink, Zebrahead, and Goldfinger helped keep my feet happily tip-tapping as I began to confuse people sitting nearby. Then Bowling for Soup popped up and quickly shattered my mental vacation. They're the closest thing to having someone hold your head steady as they vomit directly into your ear. Blech.
There have been a few things in the news that have made me shake my head of late.
News broke out about a handful of protesters in New York City that were doused with pepper spray by a rogue officer with an itchy trigger finger. I certainly don't know all the details surrounding this event, so I'll attempt to restrain myself from assuming too much about what happened.
Essentially, there has been a group of protestors - apparently comprised mainly of young, twenty-somethings that have declared war on the bourgeoisie for being rich, fascist pigs, or something along those lines - who have occupied a stretch of territory near Wall Street to hold a week-long gathering. As it so happens, the NYPD were inevitably asked to reinforce what could and could not be done while the protest partied onwards. At some point, the police were setting up a makeshift fence and bumped boundaries with a small section of the protestors. As showed in a video, an officer seems to randomly - and without provocation - douse four or five young ladies as they mill about inside the fence. This scene has prompted an explosion of responses worldwide debating things from the Constitutional rights of the crowd to the demanding of the officer's resignation.
"Would somebody PLEASE stop whoever is playing
that damnable Bowling for Soup?"
Here's my take:
A) It's one officer. I realize that the NYPD has some notoriety for being brash, violent, and thuggish, but one should keep in mind that this is a single officer's action, not the department as a whole. The sheer volume of responses that directly accuse all police in all locations of being brutes that abuse their power is sickening. I don't feel as though someone could claim widespread police brutality from this lone incident. If the police were authorized to use such force to ensure the general tranquility for the rest of the public, then the officer's actions are excusable to a certain degree. Again, I'm not privy to that kind of information, so I can't make that assumption.
I am going to assume that at some point in his career, the officer has been subjected to a battery of verbal assaults from the general public. Frustrated by having the police interrupt their day, John C. Public seems to think that it is fine to lob his frustration at the officer that has confronted them.
It's similar with telemarketers, I guess. People love to tell stories about how they challenged a telemarketer and beat them in a trolling game of logic. Congratulations. That solves nothing. It only makes you look like an ass.
The police also have the lovely task of directly dealing with the portions of society that are usually avoided by others at all possible costs. Officers get it from both sides: sneered at by the public, insulted by frequent offenders, and now accused of being tyrannical agents of the faceless government. Being chastised daily by people is certainly no excuse to randomly start spraying people, but it wouldn't kill us to be civil and respectful to the people charged with upholding our statutes and laws. Is it any wonder that there is enmity between the police and the general public at times?
Again, I don't know the officer. Maybe he is a grade-A d-bag.
B) Someone hacked into the NYPD's records to release the information of the officer that did the spraying. That's concerning. Where's the public outcry for this officer that had this happen to him? "Oh, F that guy and his rights. He's a jerk. We're worried about our Constitutional rights, not his. Who cares if we broke some laws to distribute this man's information. Breakin' laws is a great way to get the support of the police." Double-standards. Sheesh.
C) After cruising their website - the group is called "Occupy Wall Street" - I had a general skepticism towards them. I also realize that I am biased towards the law enforcement in this situation (biased enough to write this, I guess). The group comes off as your average, run-of-the-mill squad in many regards. They do make use of the word 'revolution' a tad much for my taste. They also make it a focus to videotape everyone saying reinforcing phrases such as, "We are the 99th percent," and, "Join us. Join our conversation." There is also a large portion of their website dedicated to show abuses the NYPD has shown some of their members.
(Yes, I had some Conspiracy Juice this morning and a tiny voice in my head is claiming that the pepper spraying is being used a publicity stunt. If that's the case, next time simply hire a bunch of skateboarding cats wearing cute party hats. That's always a crowd-pleaser.)
...go on. You have my attention.
As a twenty-something, I certainly emphasize with some of their points; but not their tactics. The military-esque feel of the march and protest - it all feels like a great way to spend a week with your friends, but not really a stellar way to get your message across. Sure, you can heckle the wealthy or make fresh, exciting promotional videos to gain support, but I feel as though it somewhat reinforces some of animosity between the groups. If I was a wealthy, monocled-and-top-hat-wearing fat-cat and I was getting ribbed by a group of good-for-nothin whippersnappers, I wouldn't stop to hear their points. I would simply rue the fact that I hadn't purchased a warehouse full of 1980's sunglasses to sell to them.
Overall, it's not the most jaw-dropping bit of news out there by a long shot. I'm sorry to report that I was sucked in to a non-story by sensationalist media. Shucks.
In all reality, it's a topic that's incredibly important to some, and I apologize if my light-hearted take failed to address certain points. I realize that there are many sides to this story and I'm sure that I could write plenty more on this. However, this seems to be quite long already. I also hoping to address the new laws dictating drug testing for unemployment or welfare candidates, but that can wait for another day, my friends.
Cheers,
Jacob
Pages:
Xenocide - Orson Scott Card
I'm on a big Card kick again. Empire series was OK, but I'm back to finish book three of Ender's series. Hiphip!
Your Republic Is Calling You - Young-Ha Kim
Korean spies! Eep!
Tunes:
Major/Minor - Thrice
It seriously may be the last music you'll ever need. It's glorious.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Heavy Metal Painting
Greetings!
Two posts in the short span of 24 hours?
Holy crap.
I spent the day demolishing a basement and attempting to rebuild and frame new rooms. It was a blast. After we ate supper and wrapped up shop for the evening, I used my newly-found love for crafting things and I returned to the garage to continue the mayhem well into the evening.
On impulse, I selected Dragonforce to accompany me on my mission. I'm fairly certain that I caused the neighbors and random passerbyers quite some confusion as I screamed, sawed, and painted to Dragonforce's sweet, melodic tones. As you cruise through the rest of this note, please feel free to turn up the following link to eleven and pleasantly begin headbanging at your leisure.
COMMENCE INSANITY
I used some leftover materials to fashion a gift for Paul, a roommate that has to put up with the wreckage and construction noise right outside his door. Since he enjoys inviting friends over to play beer pong, I plan on making a neat soccer-themed pong table for him. I sanded down an old section of a shelf and primed it for tomorrow's painting. I hope it ends up looking decent. Regardless, I (roundhouse)kicked open a Rolling Rock, threw my fist up in the air, and majorly rocked out to some intense priming.
Phase one: Primed.
I thought it necessary to wave the brushes in front of the camera for this shot. I'm an idiot.
With the creative juices still flowing, I ventured onto my next project. I've been yakking about carving a chess board since, oh, May, and decided that tonight was as excellent a night as ever to begin practicing on how to go about making a homemade chess board. A few weeks ago, Phill and Seth helped craft a model Lego chess board which turned out fairly well.
It was also kind of fun to spend a Saturday evening playing with Legos. Perhaps I should go out more...The chances of me meeting my dream girl would be substantially higher if I was out and about as opposed to playing with Legos in my kitchen. Hmph.
What's also cool - my dad found a little tin soldier tucked away behind a furnace hot-air return duct. The soldier's in the photo with the Legos. It was a sweet little treasure find, I'll admit.
Anyways, here's a shot of my first ever wood carving. It looks like total ass. If Pinocchio ever had a illegitimate, alcohol-fueled love child with Sorry™ piece, this is what it might look like.
Horrific, right?
It's a start. Try not to pay attention to the crack on his right hip. I kinda sorta chiseled him in half. Perhaps I'll hold off on the Rolling Rocks until after the sawing/chiseling.
Me bottle caps. Me precious, precious bottle caps.
Right. Well then. I'm off to either sleep, p90X (hahahah yeah, right), or watch some Premier League. If you have any artistic suggestions or recommendations, feel free to comment. I could certainly use a hand!
Cheers,
Jacob
Pages:
The Templar Knight - Jan Guillou
Meh. Still...meh.
Tunes:
DRAGONmutha'effinFORCE!!1!
Two posts in the short span of 24 hours?
Holy crap.
I spent the day demolishing a basement and attempting to rebuild and frame new rooms. It was a blast. After we ate supper and wrapped up shop for the evening, I used my newly-found love for crafting things and I returned to the garage to continue the mayhem well into the evening.
On impulse, I selected Dragonforce to accompany me on my mission. I'm fairly certain that I caused the neighbors and random passerbyers quite some confusion as I screamed, sawed, and painted to Dragonforce's sweet, melodic tones. As you cruise through the rest of this note, please feel free to turn up the following link to eleven and pleasantly begin headbanging at your leisure.
COMMENCE INSANITY
I used some leftover materials to fashion a gift for Paul, a roommate that has to put up with the wreckage and construction noise right outside his door. Since he enjoys inviting friends over to play beer pong, I plan on making a neat soccer-themed pong table for him. I sanded down an old section of a shelf and primed it for tomorrow's painting. I hope it ends up looking decent. Regardless, I (roundhouse)kicked open a Rolling Rock, threw my fist up in the air, and majorly rocked out to some intense priming.
With the creative juices still flowing, I ventured onto my next project. I've been yakking about carving a chess board since, oh, May, and decided that tonight was as excellent a night as ever to begin practicing on how to go about making a homemade chess board. A few weeks ago, Phill and Seth helped craft a model Lego chess board which turned out fairly well.
It was also kind of fun to spend a Saturday evening playing with Legos. Perhaps I should go out more...The chances of me meeting my dream girl would be substantially higher if I was out and about as opposed to playing with Legos in my kitchen. Hmph.
What's also cool - my dad found a little tin soldier tucked away behind a furnace hot-air return duct. The soldier's in the photo with the Legos. It was a sweet little treasure find, I'll admit.
Anyways, here's a shot of my first ever wood carving. It looks like total ass. If Pinocchio ever had a illegitimate, alcohol-fueled love child with Sorry™ piece, this is what it might look like.
It's a start. Try not to pay attention to the crack on his right hip. I kinda sorta chiseled him in half. Perhaps I'll hold off on the Rolling Rocks until after the sawing/chiseling.
Right. Well then. I'm off to either sleep, p90X (hahahah yeah, right), or watch some Premier League. If you have any artistic suggestions or recommendations, feel free to comment. I could certainly use a hand!
Cheers,
Jacob
Pages:
The Templar Knight - Jan Guillou
Meh. Still...meh.
Tunes:
DRAGONmutha'effinFORCE!!1!
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Stairway to Failuredom
Greetings!
A conversation about things from the 80's sparked my interest this afternoon. While speaking with a friend as she cut my hair, we discussed different ideas for an 80's party that is coming up in a few weeks.
Let it be known that I'm watching "The Song Remains the Same" while I write. It's a movie chock-full of Led Zeppelin doing what they do best: blowing peoples' minds. Page is strutting around in huge lifted shoes as Plant jiggles by himself off to the side. It's awe-inspiring. Between just the two of them, there's enough chest and head hair to choke a horse.
"Do you feel a draft, James?"
While the Zep isn't permissible for an 80's gig, plenty of other things are still open for use. But this is not what is consuming my brainpower for the afternoon. Instead, I was trying to remember some of my earliest memories from the (gasp) 80's. As strange as it might sound, some of the easiest memories that I could dust off involved regrettable actions on my part. I'm not overwhelmed by the fact that I can't let these things go. I mean, there's little I can do now to change them at this point in time. For some reason or another, I'll share with you all some of my saddest, most embarrassing moments. Bon appetit!
*Side note*
The camera just panned to the audience during Page's solo in "Since I've Been Loving You." Every person had a blank stare and a jaw scraping the floor. It might be the drugs.
1) Psychological Warfare
Growing up with two other brothers, people always ask me if we fought often. The answer: No, not really. However, when my older brother would, inevitably, beat me in a game of knock-out or let's-kick-a-ball-real-far, instead of shaking his hand and commending his brilliant efforts, I'd slink off towards his room. Once there, all blurry-eyed and full of 5-year-old Hulkrage, I'd mess up his bed, drop clothes on the floor, and kick stuff over. Rage subsided, I'd nonchalantly stroll off with a winning grin on my face.
When I spoke to Ben about this, he calmly replied that he never once noticed that I had ever done that. Hmph. I'm just going to have to step it up a notch next time...
2) Dearest Friend, Under the Bus You Go
Each summer, I would get to spend one bliss-filled week at church camp. The week would be filled with chewy, mass-produced meals, awkward "Oh, look a girl! Let's get her to like us by pretending she doesn't exist" tactics, and card games. Lots and lots of card games. One afternoon during recreational time, I was learning how to play Euchre with my friends in our cabin when I noticed some strange kids about to enter the adjacent hallway. From what I recall, these kids were slightly older than us, and being so, were subject to our scorn. While they passed by our open doorway, I spoke a little too loudly to my friend that those kids were "gay (or whatever classy 90's word kids were using back then)." The kids stopped, backed up, and came into the room while asking who had said that. There sat brave little me on the floor, straight-faced and sober, as I slowly raised my finger to point at my friend, Brian. Nothing happened after that, but I still feel shameful for being such a coward. I brought this moment up to Brian a few years back who mentioned that he, too, didn't remember such an event. He is a greater man that I. God Bless you, Sir Brian.
*There was just a backstage moment where some policemen kindly let in a few teenagers through the back door so that they could enjoy the concert. Completely astonished, the kids thank the officers and skip towards the show. That's how legends are made.
3) Open Mouth, Insert Foot
This last one takes place a little more recently than the others. Fresh out of college, I was working nights as a security guard around Omaha. Oh, it was glamorous. I was armed to the teeth with a company Jeep, a shiv-proof vest, and a book of Sudoku puzzles. I was also dating a wonderfully perfect gal at the time. It was a summer filled with moonlit walks, conversations over coffee, outdoors plays, and Chinese food. It was heavenly. There was one downside, however, and that took form as a large and unavoidable crossroad towards mid-August: she went to school in New York. One evening, she carefully trekked into this as-yet-unmentioned territory. My response? Something to the effect of, "Oh, yeah. I'll still write you from time to time and you can be my go-to-gal whenever I'm failing to understand future girlfriends." Single-handedly the dumbest, most asinine thing someone could say in response to that question. A Romeo, I am not.
Geez. This is getting long. Apologies.
Have I learned from my past? I'd like to think so.
Are there more stories of stupid things I've done? But of course.
But that's for future posts.
Go out and do some good, peeps!
Cheers,
Jake
Tunes:
I rediscovered a Mp3 disc that I had made back in 2005 recently. It's packed with Blindside, Jimmy Eat World, Thrice (naturally), Hoobastank, Foo Fighters, Metallica, 311...and some other bands of which I'm not too proud of. Needless to say, I found myself driving the long way home so that I could listen to a few extra songs. Yay!
Pages:
Less Than Zero - Bret Easton Ellis
I tore through this in a matter of hours. It comes recommended, but it can be demoralizing. Picture Catcher in the Rye mixed with Californication.
The Templar Knight - Jan Guillou
Meh. It was a Border's-going-outta-business sale. It'll be a nice little break from anything too heavy.
A conversation about things from the 80's sparked my interest this afternoon. While speaking with a friend as she cut my hair, we discussed different ideas for an 80's party that is coming up in a few weeks.
Let it be known that I'm watching "The Song Remains the Same" while I write. It's a movie chock-full of Led Zeppelin doing what they do best: blowing peoples' minds. Page is strutting around in huge lifted shoes as Plant jiggles by himself off to the side. It's awe-inspiring. Between just the two of them, there's enough chest and head hair to choke a horse.
While the Zep isn't permissible for an 80's gig, plenty of other things are still open for use. But this is not what is consuming my brainpower for the afternoon. Instead, I was trying to remember some of my earliest memories from the (gasp) 80's. As strange as it might sound, some of the easiest memories that I could dust off involved regrettable actions on my part. I'm not overwhelmed by the fact that I can't let these things go. I mean, there's little I can do now to change them at this point in time. For some reason or another, I'll share with you all some of my saddest, most embarrassing moments. Bon appetit!
*Side note*
The camera just panned to the audience during Page's solo in "Since I've Been Loving You." Every person had a blank stare and a jaw scraping the floor. It might be the drugs.
1) Psychological Warfare
Growing up with two other brothers, people always ask me if we fought often. The answer: No, not really. However, when my older brother would, inevitably, beat me in a game of knock-out or let's-kick-a-ball-real-far, instead of shaking his hand and commending his brilliant efforts, I'd slink off towards his room. Once there, all blurry-eyed and full of 5-year-old Hulkrage, I'd mess up his bed, drop clothes on the floor, and kick stuff over. Rage subsided, I'd nonchalantly stroll off with a winning grin on my face.
When I spoke to Ben about this, he calmly replied that he never once noticed that I had ever done that. Hmph. I'm just going to have to step it up a notch next time...
2) Dearest Friend, Under the Bus You Go
Each summer, I would get to spend one bliss-filled week at church camp. The week would be filled with chewy, mass-produced meals, awkward "Oh, look a girl! Let's get her to like us by pretending she doesn't exist" tactics, and card games. Lots and lots of card games. One afternoon during recreational time, I was learning how to play Euchre with my friends in our cabin when I noticed some strange kids about to enter the adjacent hallway. From what I recall, these kids were slightly older than us, and being so, were subject to our scorn. While they passed by our open doorway, I spoke a little too loudly to my friend that those kids were "gay (or whatever classy 90's word kids were using back then)." The kids stopped, backed up, and came into the room while asking who had said that. There sat brave little me on the floor, straight-faced and sober, as I slowly raised my finger to point at my friend, Brian. Nothing happened after that, but I still feel shameful for being such a coward. I brought this moment up to Brian a few years back who mentioned that he, too, didn't remember such an event. He is a greater man that I. God Bless you, Sir Brian.
*There was just a backstage moment where some policemen kindly let in a few teenagers through the back door so that they could enjoy the concert. Completely astonished, the kids thank the officers and skip towards the show. That's how legends are made.
3) Open Mouth, Insert Foot
This last one takes place a little more recently than the others. Fresh out of college, I was working nights as a security guard around Omaha. Oh, it was glamorous. I was armed to the teeth with a company Jeep, a shiv-proof vest, and a book of Sudoku puzzles. I was also dating a wonderfully perfect gal at the time. It was a summer filled with moonlit walks, conversations over coffee, outdoors plays, and Chinese food. It was heavenly. There was one downside, however, and that took form as a large and unavoidable crossroad towards mid-August: she went to school in New York. One evening, she carefully trekked into this as-yet-unmentioned territory. My response? Something to the effect of, "Oh, yeah. I'll still write you from time to time and you can be my go-to-gal whenever I'm failing to understand future girlfriends." Single-handedly the dumbest, most asinine thing someone could say in response to that question. A Romeo, I am not.
Geez. This is getting long. Apologies.
Have I learned from my past? I'd like to think so.
Are there more stories of stupid things I've done? But of course.
But that's for future posts.
Go out and do some good, peeps!
Cheers,
Jake
Tunes:
I rediscovered a Mp3 disc that I had made back in 2005 recently. It's packed with Blindside, Jimmy Eat World, Thrice (naturally), Hoobastank, Foo Fighters, Metallica, 311...and some other bands of which I'm not too proud of. Needless to say, I found myself driving the long way home so that I could listen to a few extra songs. Yay!
Pages:
Less Than Zero - Bret Easton Ellis
I tore through this in a matter of hours. It comes recommended, but it can be demoralizing. Picture Catcher in the Rye mixed with Californication.
The Templar Knight - Jan Guillou
Meh. It was a Border's-going-outta-business sale. It'll be a nice little break from anything too heavy.
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