Guesting Again!

You can find me today in a special 3 way blog post at My Husband Ate All My Ice Cream, where I'm joined by The Onion for a collaborative post. It's that politics rant I did, and I'll be honest...I'm happy it's hitting a new audience. I was proud of that message...let's talk it out, not scream it out. Speaking of screaming...be sure to scream for that weird Onion Dangerboy Ice Cream and drop on by.

Five Things I Think, 13 June

1) I think there's little as heartbreaking as a sick baby. The red and sad eyes, the lethargy, the wailing that can only be assuaged with children's knock-off brand pain reliever and fever reducer...and even then only staved off until their little immune systems figure it out and kick the invading virus in the metaphoric ass. There wasn't a lot of sleep in the Dangerhouse this weekend, and Friday night plans were wrecked for Wifefish.
That woman can be saintly at times, but I don't know that any Pope canonizes non-catholic women who use the word "fuck" that much. Those Popes are so damned judgmental. But they don't raise babies, so obviously they curse less. It's a vicious cycle.

2) I think that project paint our freaking house has kicked off to a good start. Saturday I went apeshit with a powerwasher, prepping the non-stone portions of the domicile for a new palette. Sunday I mostly hung out with Little Danger while Wifefish began transforming what was pink to a mossy-celery-greenish-taupe (her words) that is much more attractive. I am not allowed to paint, thanks to some mishaps with rollers in our early days. Suffice to say that I am far better at artistic painting than "even coverage". She does allow me to do trimwork at times, but I figure that I'm far better off spending Daddy time than trying to rescue my home decoration pride. I'm willing to let it go.

3) I think there's new fiction up at my fiction blog, continuing the story of Zarkov Barbossa. I really need not let so long go between posts over there. Sometimes that's easier said than done.

4) I think the Tony awards can both entertain and frustrate. I enjoy the whole thing, the pageantry and appreciation of live theatre. I love the presenters, the numbers from the shows that are showcased...it lets me know which soundtracks I should be buying. I am annoyed that, without seeing any of the shows, I can usually predict what shows are going to win. This year was no different. Is it coincidental, or is there a "message" the wing wants to send each year? I really do think they push an agenda sometimes, instead of rewarding the most worthy.
But I still love live theatre. In fact, in a few weeks I'm auditioning for an absolute dream role. More on that later, though...don't want to jinx it.

5) I think I saw something that boggled my mind! There are several nests around the domicile right now...a robin on one side, a hummingbird! on the other, and a sparrow somewhere closeby.
Yesterday, I looked out the window and saw what I thought was the sparrow and its chick, chirping away at each other. The sparrow chirped, and foraged, teaching the chick how to do so. It dipped its head, grabbing some insect or another, and turned around, feeding the chick from its bill...and that's when the younger bird emerged from a bit of greenery, and I noticed the chick was twice its size.
One of the young robins had come down from its nest, thinking the parental chirping was its own dear momma. The sparrow took it under its wing for a while, something I'd never seen. Before I could get the camera outside, the robin had flapped its way back to its own nest, ready for its more appropriate worm diet. The sparrow returned to its own pint-sized progeny. In a house where adoption is held dear, it was a warm moment indeed.
I pointed out the robin nest to Little Danger, and he waved at it, giggling. I held him close, my own tiny sparrow in a dangerous world. Fortunately for him, we're not too keen on a worm diet, though.

Happy Monday, gang...and for those to whom it applies, a Happy Father's Day this week. I'm looking forward to my first.

The Nature of Fear

I didn't really want to get serious around here so soon after the 100th, but life gets heavy on its own schedule. I'll bring some more funny soon, but for now I just want to reflect on something.

I find that I have few fears in life. I have stared down the barrel of a gun, twice in fact, and not flinched. But there are fears that remain: more abstract, but perhaps more universal.

I certainly fear hardship in relationships. I’ve lost friends over stupid shit before, and I fear those interactions gone awry. I fear loss of prosperity, even as I keep in mind that my worst case scenario is far better than most of the world’s best.

And right this moment, I’m gripped by a somewhat irrational fear. I had no idea that you could backslide out of the stages of grief…I have been at “acceptance” with this one for many years, thankful for each day. But now I’m fearful again.

Mom found a lump.

This is a woman who has been fighting Lupus for most of my life, and whipping its ass. She’s a testament to the power of stubborn. Her orneriness has served her where medical science couldn’t figure out what the hell to do next. We’ve been saying goodbye to each other since I was 14. I’ve known an end was coming, and what it would be.

My Dad works the rivers as a towboat captain, and it is not a prideful boast to say he is one of the absolute best at his trade. While I was growing up, he’d be on the boat for a month, and then home for a month. It was a rhythm that led Mom and I to lean on each other quite a bit, to build a bond that I’m truly thankful for.

This is the woman who pinned me down and braided my hair into little blond cornrows once, just because I said she couldn’t. This is the woman who is terrified of bridges. This is the woman who told me I could be anything in the world. This is the woman who had ticklefights with me. This is the woman who grounded me to my room on many occasions. This is the woman who helped with my homework, the one who sang “I Love You A Bushel and a Peck” while rocking me to sleep when I was tiny.

This is the woman who would share Reese’s peanut butter cups with me at 2 am while we discussed religion, morals, and who exactly I wanted to be. This is the woman who was a fantastic artist. This is the woman who has been a realtor, model, cleaning lady, nurses’ aid, salesman, den mother, and most importantly a Mom.

The last time I saw her, I had to hold most of Little Danger’s weight so she could hold him. She looked like a lich, all skeleton and willpower, no physical substance beyond the will to live. She has put some weight on since then, thankfully; she’s gained muscle mass that allows her to again cook for herself and handle what chores she decides to do with an oxygen tank in tow.

Now there’s a chance that some new player has entered the game, that this lump may be something sinister. I’ve just lost two friends to cancer. Maybe I’ve returned to the neighbourhood of fear and anger because I think this is a cosmic insult. Disease, Babalu-Aye, has tried to court her for so many years and been rebuked. Soundly. I doubt that I find any humor if he’s reached into his bag of tricks to introduce her to a new adversary. Maybe I feel like he should just wait.

There is, of course, a perfectly reasonable chance that said lump is benign. But fear is, of course, an impatient master. It calls a tune that you find entirely too easy to dance to. “It’s got a good beat and I can dance to it, Dick…I give it a 9.”

I suppose I’ll just sit here wrapped in this cloak of fear for a bit, while Babalu dances on his crutches and makes his choice. I know I prefer a benign lump of just normal lumpish lumpiness, but the universe tends not to give a crap about our preferences. I’ll hope that the outcome is good, dreading the call that bears the news. It is not an end I shrink from, but the looming unknown. Such is the nature of fear.

BlogCentennial

Well, this is a milestone that surprised me with its arrival. Today is the 100th blog post. I've clicked publish 100 times, and had something to say in at least 5 of those postings. :)

That's a big number.

I'm happy with a lot of the things that have happened here. It thrills me that you come to read these things, to laugh and think with me. I'm so glad to have found some awesome people to read...there are some great writers out there, some wonderful voices amongst the cacophony of the 'net that I love to listen to.

I'm also thrilled that I've kept at this...I have a long history of flash-in-the-pan projects that never reach fruition. I've relaxed into this, and I feel that I'll be around for a while. Hopefully I'll keep bringing the funny.

I'm proud of some of the encouragement I've received, there are some very good writers who've complimented me, and it is only natural to glow when a hero compliments you. I will try like hell to pay that forward.

Now it's time to look forward to the next 100. I am going to start holding forth a bit more. I intend to find a way to get a better layout. In the coming days, I will be putting up a new page that you can visit to see some of my favorite blogs...the sidebar over there would get way too full way too quick if I put them over there.

Celebrate with me, won't you? Have a sip of scotch, a tipple of tequila, a slug of soda, a measure of milk if you prefer. And let's toast together to our next 100. For me, that'll be 100 more posts. What will it be for you? Posts? Days without a cigarette? Consecutive times your significant other doesn't have to do laundry/open their car door/watch bad reality TV? Days that you look in the mirror and say "I like you!"?

Make a goal with me, 100 of something. The only "rule" is it has to be something significant. DO IT. And let's celebrate the centennial when you get there!

A Shocking Tale

I’ve mentioned before that I worked high voltage when I was in the Air Force. We kept the power on, and the airfield lights lit. Our shop was mixed: military and civilian, and the civilian employees were typically the lead on each truck we ran. We had some real characters, too.

Two Six was our short bucket truck, useful for line work, traffic light maintenance, and plenty more. Its other nickname was “the Popemobile”, because it was Carl’s regular truck. Carl was a very, very dedicated Christian. He tithed 15% to his church. When you rode on Two Six, the radio was tuned to the local praise music station all day long, and you kept your expletives to a minimum. He’d park the truck for a 15 minute break in the afternoon to read scripture. Devout.

26 looked a lot like this...only older, and a LOT more green.

Carl himself was soft-spoken, and had a very hard time speaking ill of anyone. He wouldn’t say “shit” if he had a mouthful of it. The other troops made fun of Carl from time to time, but I actually liked working with him. It was an unlikely combination, to be sure, but I liked being paired up with somebody who was so easygoing. Nothing rattled him. Well, nearly nothing.

There was a day that Carl and I worked a line on the west side of the base, a simple bit of maintenance for which we didn’t even have to shut the power off. We were just replacing one insulator on a pole. It was a cake job.

Crash course in high voltage: typical high lines on those wood poles run about 12,460 volts. Thick rubber gloves are proof against 60,000 volts, and the fiberglass arm of a bucket truck is good for 100,000. Theoretically, you’re perfectly safe “working hot”. You just have to avoid touching more than one line at once, or you run the risk of cooking like a freakish human marshmallow. That’s because those lines are out of phase, and bridging two of them makes a short circuit…infinite volts for a moment, also known as “boom”.

Also, it bears mentioning that there is still what’s called a static potential between you in the insulated bucket and the line you’re working on…it has no amperage, but it’s like shuffling your feet across the carpet and grabbing the doorknob…only with about 5000 times more oomph. The hair on your arms starts standing up about 2 feet away from the lines. Feel like an expert now? Good.

So, up we go in the bucket. All of our tools were ready, our gloves were on, hardhats perched on our brows. It was a fine, sunny day. Carl had bent the copper tie-wire (used to literally tie the lines to the insulators) in half over the edge of the bucket, so it would be handy.

As we neared the hot lines, I asked if we were going to use a line hose (thick rubber to protect against incidental contact). Carl looked thoughtful for a moment, then replied.

“No, I think we’ll be OK.”

“Fair enough, Carl. You’re the boss.”

He just grinned at me, and we got ready to work. The insulator was on the middle conductor, and he reached out for it carefully. Just as he was about to grab it, he gasped and jumped back, bouncing off the back of the bucket. The copper tie wire had pulled the static off the line with a mighty ZOT. He grabbed the front of his pants with two gloved hands, like a toddler who needs a potty break.

“Carl, are you OK?” I asked.

“Uh…uh…yeah, yeah, I’m alright. Just got a static shock.” Tears ran slowly out of both of his eyes.

“Where’d it get ya?”

“Uh. Uuhhhhhh…I’d rather not say.”

Needless to say, we used a line hose for the rest of the job.

***

I have to admit, I think the news stories of late inspired me to remember this story. I’ve also gone to Sonic for a hot dog recently…it seems like America has Weiners on the brain for some reason. Maybe it’s the summer weather?

5 Things I Think, June 6th

1) I think my poker skills are getting rusty. I used to play often, now just every now and then. And I haven't made the money in the last 4 tourneys I've played. Saturday night was another shameful defeat, though I did have fun, which is the ultimate goal, I suppose. Still, this is one of those activities that has left me in the field muttering through motionless lips the words "Oiiil caaan".

2) I think I need to write some more fiction. I slowed down on it quite a bit, though admittedly there was that whole "week in the woods" thing, where my hands danced over a djembe instead of a keyboard. I seem to have fallen into a time where I am simultaneously overly busy and getting nothing done, so I may as well create. It helps get the thoughts organized that seem to bounce off my mental walls like so many crazed badgers dipped in rubber.

3) I think it's time to start some wheels turning on two large projects. I'm running a haunted trail this fall, and I need to redesign some scenes to trim what didn't work all that well, and keep the stuff that made wet pants. The other item is the return of a very awesome thing, and it is time to start recruiting my dream team to run it. I am freeing myself of fear, I have learned many lessons during this hiatus I've taken, and will approach it with joy and creativity...like I used to. I'm writing this not to announce it, but to be accountable to it.

4) I think that this week's fight session was a hell of a workout; it was hot as balls out there yesterday. My heart raced and I sweat profusely, but sadly I never really hit my stride. I couldn't maintain constant motion as usual, I kept having to slow down and anchor to catch breath and cool off. At times, my chest heaved so much I thought I was in a Danielle Steele novel. It was nice to be called a professional, though...my dedication to being a Renaissance Man seems to be working out nicely, even if I did make that promise to myself some 20 years ago.

5) I think it shouldn't be this difficult to get a microwave fixed. I have a great thing called an American Homeshield Warranty which has been quite useful over the years. Sadly, they dispatched a Sears technician for the microwave that decided to fry itself. I have yet to see said technician, as they have rescheduled twice now. They are trying to send me a mythical repairman. I think they should hire less leprechauns and unicorns to work on microwaves. It goes without saying that I am displeased with them, and fortunately my service has been re-dispatched, after a week of Sear's bullshit, to a local repair shop. I'd bet $20 it goes smoothly from here. If not, there may be an application of a righteous junkpunt.

Happy Monday, gang, and STAY AWESOME!

A Trip Down Nostalgia Street, vol 9

It’s time, gang, for another stroll down Nostalgia Lane. As Doc Brown sets the Delorean for 1987, we’ll be visiting a very young Dangerboy, having just achieved the teen years. There were a few arcade machines out at the time that could vacuum quarters out of my pockets like a deranged shopvac, and one of them was Rastan.

"To crush your enemies, see them driven before you

and hear the lamentations of their women! "

Rastan was an absolutely sweet side-scrolling hack and slash game featuring some challenging enemies and cool weapons upgrades. Big mace? Check. Battle Axe? Hell yeah. Flaming sword that fucking shoots fireballs??? Oh, hell to the yeah.

The barbarian main character, Rastan, was a blatant rip-off, or homage if you prefer, to Conan the Barbarian. Pixellated pecs and binary biceps flexed as flowing hair waved in the breeze. Had the likeness been any closer, there would have been a bonus maid-banging stage.

By “absolutely sweet”, I mean this bad boy was the definitive “smack it with a sword” game of the 80’s. It had good, strong design, with great graphics for its time and a very well done soundtrack.

If I close my eyes, I can still hear the music, including the frenzied accelerando that signaled a flock of bats coming to gang-rape you, (easily accounting for a third of your health) and the hollow echo of the death howl as the chimera fireballed you for the umpty-fifth time, or you fell into the implausibly deadly water and dissolved like a musclebound Wicked Witch of the West. That “deathcry” sound effect was often followed closely by the distinctive ka-clink-chunk of another dropping quarter.

Enemies were varied: from warriors to lizard men, mantis-men with throwing knives to chimeras, harpies to medusae. All competed to rip chunks out of your health bar, which featured an animated heart beating, complete with recorded pulse that accelerated to a frantic pace as you lost more of that precious health. That was a great innovation, and served to drive your own pulse to quicken.

Bloody Asswhipping: the Home Game.

One of the happiest days of youth was that day I found the port from arcade to Sega Master System. No more did I have to feed endless quarters into the machine at the mall, grinding through paper route earnings like Congress through a federal deficit. I was able to purchase the game and the power of the “press start to continue” option, replacing the quarter drop with an almost negligent thumbpress. Luxury. Addiction. Parental cries of “turn that thing off and go to bed dammit.”

The Master System version got a bit of a re-work, making water more watery and less insta-deathy, along with some other cosmetic changes. They kept the format of each level having 3 stages: outdoor, castle, boss. And some of those bosses were badasses, too…especially the big freakin’ dragon added for this version. (The first time I saw that dragon, I paused the game to let my rear end unclench.) The life bar heart was sadly trimmed, though, leaving the experience a bit lacking in “oh shit” factor, but still a potent hack n’ slash powerhouse.

Rastan was a game that I truly enjoyed, even if it took me forever to master. While playing it, I was no longer a scrawny, nerdy kid…I was a mighty barbarian cleaving my enemies in twain, their corpses littering the gutters of Nostalgia Street.