At What Point Do You Stop Collecting Things?

I mean, really, at what point do you stop collecting things? Is it when you can't even rationalize it to yourself anymore, or is it when the A&E film crew comes banging on your front door? Shit, who is knocking on the door? False alarm. It was just my subconscious mind playing tricks on me in an attempt to make me see how dangerously close I hover to hoarder status. Screw you, subconscious, that ruse ain't gonna work. Right now I'm staring at four turntables in various states of disrepair, heaps of albums and laserdiscs, no less than three typewriters, and boxes upon boxes of comic books, most of which I have never and will never read. There might even be a flat cat under all this mess. *elbow nudge to all the Hoarders watchers (inside joke y'all). Ugh. I've fallen under the spell of the unwanted and forgotten. I have to remember that just because no one else wants this shit anymore, it's not my job to provide it safe quarters. But for realsies, this shit is pretty fucking cool. I got a German made Dual CS-431 turntable that just needed a needle for a measly five bucks. Gimme, gimme, gimme. Another Dual, a CS-1257 that is a fucking mechanical conundrum, for another five bucks. Aaaaand it has an intact Ortfon stylus, I might ad. Gimme that, too. And albums? Yep, tons of 'em. All cheap, all in fair condition, and mostly jazz and big band. I'm in a jazz and big band mood as of late, me thinks it's due to my love of trombones and stand up bass. Daaaaaaaaammmit. I forgot about the VHS tapes. Did you know that they are like $.75 apiece and on some straight up BOGO status most of the time? Yup, rocking some Ninja Turtles, Ghostbusters, Monty Python, all that back in the day shit on VHS. Fuck netflix. It's too instant. Analog4lyf, son! Anyways, I guess the point I was trying to make was that, to answer my own question from before, you never stop collecting. Never stop until you die beneath an avalanche of pointless garbage. On a related note, you want comics? I got you. Mountains of mid-eighties commons. You pay me for a flat rate box, I fill it with bagged and boarded comics, I send them to you. Free. Of. Charge. (other than flate rate shipping, that is) Holla atcha boy. I'll be in the junk dungeon poking the insides of this Dual turntable with a screwdriver.

Go ahead audiophiles, cry about it. I replaced an Ortofon cartridge with a NuMark. I'm a rebel. 

One day, I'll figure out how to fix this one. Stabbing its guts with a screwgie* ain't working.

I use this typewriter to keep my precious Laserdisc collection from toppling over.

Yeah. VHS. Killin' it with this shit. I'm always kind, and I always rewind.

Ninja Turtles #2-5. Mint. Jealous? Don't be. They could be yours for the cost of postage.

Boxes of this shit. C'mon man, just say you want some fucking comics!

*elbow nudge to all the No Country For Old Men watchers. 

A Good 'ol Craigslist Adventure

When you get a text message asking if you want to go cut up a tree, you shouldn't really think too hard about it. The only real response should be; "Gas up the saws, boys, it's adventure time." Now, I guess to preface this adventure and to explain why I was so hyped about it, I should say that my friend and I have been searching all summer for a tree to cut up and split. I couldn't really explain why though. I think it simply boils down to the desire to play with chainsaws, swing axes, and feel like a real goddamn lumberjack. In the end, doesn't everyone want to feel like a lumberjack? No? Explain the resurgence of flannel then. That's what I thought. Anyways, I grabbed my trusty Stihl MS-310 chainsaw, a ziplock back of shitty but useable chains, a forestry axe, a Nalgene full of water and hopped in the truck. I was off to Norfolk to meet up with my buddy so we could run this chainsaw through some lumber on a random undeveloped parcel of land in a very nice subdivision.

Taking a break. This guy was so thirsty, he was eyeballing a random half full Gatorade that someone abandoned on the lot.

The first order of business was to cut the twenty foot trunk in to manageable rounds. This feat is easier said than done. It took a few tanks of gas, a couple of sessions of file sharpening the blade, and an electric winch to finally subdue the nefarious gum trunk. Also, sidenote, cutting a 20" trunk with an 18" bar is not as easy as it sounds. Especially when you cut from the top, roll the trunk to finish the cut, and the two cuts never line up. I blame the saw. My calibrated eye never steers me wrong. Never. Had to be mechanical failure of some sort.

Rotating the tree with the winch

After all the hooplah, I can tell you with utmost certainty that the funnest part of being a lumber jack is running the saw. Splitting rounds with a maul is for the birds, man. Also, when you don't have the equipment to split 20" rounds, you have to get the rounds into the back of your truck. And when your truck is pointlessly lifted, it is very hard to get them into the truck. However, being the badasses that we are, we got that shit done. You never realize how heavy a tree is until you have it cut into segments and loaded into a truck. My truck has a payload capacity of 1.25 tons. I think my springs touched the frame today. Not good. Not good at all. All in all, I would call this adventure Great Success. One more thing to cross off the bucket list. But next time, we are gonna up the ante. I am gonna bring a tree down. That is the Holy Grail of lumberjacking. Mark my words, readers: I am going to fell a tree if it's the last thing I do. Hopefully it won't end up being the last thing I do.

Loaded up. Super sketchy. I don't think I've ever maxed out the suspension on this truck before.

That's a good angle for truck right? Looks fast, like it's gonna take off like a fucking rocketship. 

P.S. I just realized that this adventure isn't even over. I have a truck full of wood that needs to be split, stacked, and dried. Goddammit. Anyone want to split some wood? It's fun as shit. I'd go so far as to say it's even more fun than whitewashing a fence. Seriously. Grab an axe and come on down, we'll make it a party. All the water you can drink, too! Right out of the garden hose!

The Short Course Student Template

I think that we have all taken some kind of short course at some point in our lives. It's usually a course that you have no interest in, is scheduled on the two nicest weekend days of the perceivable future, is required by some kind of higher authority, and is generally regarded as a way to make you pay for some puppet to force feed you common sense information you should already know. I've taken SDV100 (College Success Skills), a course that took two days to teach me that I could kick failure in the nuts and ride the Pegasus of  Success as a prerequisite for graduation from TCC, I've taken court mandated driver improvement classes, I've attended HR crash courses on how to avoid slapping the asses of the unwilling and how to refrain from slur laden water cooler talk, and most recently, I took a motorcycle safety course which, although informative, was still a weekend of DMV required captivity. I have noticed that no matter the course, no matter the information being delivered, the classes always seem to be formed using some kind of magical universal student template. Almost as if when the classes were being assembled on the great cosmic chessboard, that Microsoft Office paperclip with googly eyes reared his stupid fucking head and said, "Hey! I see you are trying to assemble a dynamic group of students who are forced to participate in the same mundane course. May I help you with that?" Fuck you paper clip. Why you gotta do me like this? Googly-eyed Paperclip, explain to me why, aside from the regular Joe, these four students have to be in every course?

Front Row Teacher Talker: This person finds a comfy seat right at the front of the class and gets real chummy with the instructor. They attempt to delay class by forcing the teacher endure an empty and sad pseudo-friendship. During breaks, they cling to the teacher in hopes that their undying and instant adoration will be reciprocated. I'm sure that 93% of front row teacher talkers attempt to friend the teacher on Facebook before the class is even completed.

Story Guy: This guy has a story for EVERYTHING. It doesn't matter what it is, Story Guy will step up to the plate with a story that is barely relevant, not entertaining, and mildly brain numbing. I get it, in 1987, you drove to Pasadena on a Vespa and bought pistachios from a street vendor wearing a hat made from old Budweiser cans. Now can we get back to learning about motorcycle helmet construction? Thanks.

The Back Row Teacher: Back Row Teacher already knows the content. Back Row Teacher knows everything. Back Row Teacher knows everything but how to avoid court mandated courses and how to shut the fuck up. They live and breathe the phrase "well, in my experience..." Hmm. Fascinating. With credentials like that, you would think that you would be getting paid to be in this classroom rather than paying for the pleasure.

The Cryptic Bragger: Oh, you know the Cryptic Bragger. They are the ones who weave and intertwine self praise into seemingly benign questions or anecdotes. During a lecture in SDV100 about financial responsibility, one student raised her hand and said "I know that having a few credit accounts is good for your credit. I personally have a $2000 line of credit at Eddie Bauer." Congrats. You can now pay 23% interest on moccasins and flannel shirts. Idiot. They just don't have the foresight to know that we are all snickering at what they perceive to be accomplishments. "I ain't never took no motorcycle class. Taught myself. I'm pretty good on two wheels, mang. On my second bike now. The first one? Oh, I crashed it like a year ago. I'm just here 'cause I got caught with no license." Nice. You clearly don't need to be here.

Look, I know that we all can't be perfect human beings. I'm not asking for that. Just realize that when a group of adults is forced to give up a weekend to attend some form of short course, all they want to do is keep their heads down, press on, and get through the course as fast as possible. Personal anecdotes, arguing with the teacher, trying to pat yourself on the back though cleverly disguised stories and answers, and trying to engage the teacher in witty banter is just holding the whole class up. I can't speak for everyone in class but when you keep me in a short course longer than I need to be, I am mustering every bit of psychokinetic ability that I have in an attempt to make you spontaneously combust right where you sit. General rule for a short course: "Shut the fuck up, listen, and let's get through this." Easy. Goddammit stop talking to the fucking teacher!

Proper Short Course form. Heads down. Mouths closed. Don't be the ass-tard that ruins it for everyone.

The Seed of Doubt and the Fruit of Disappointment

Well folks, I fucked it up. Fucked it up royal. I had a Sony SL-5400 in my hands, felt its weight, caressed its faux wood panels, popped the tape mech a few times, then I choked. Unwilling to take a chance on this mechanized piece of happiness, I put it back on the shelf of the thrift store with the promise of return. Why? Still reeling from the $3 loss I took on the last Betamax I bought (which turned out to be DOA), I wanted to test the SL-5400 for proper playback prior to purchase lest I get burned again. I didn't have a test tape. I didn't have a test tape and I had the arrogance to think that I was the only dead format collector in town and that the SL-5400 would wait for me. Wrong. Fucking wrong. Now it's gone.

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Betamax –
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Betamax –
Nameless here for evermore.
~E.A Poe (from his lost book Lamentation of Dead Formats)

Never again will I hesitate when faced with the opportunity to own a Betamax player. Never again. I sowed the seed of doubt and harvested the fruit of disappointment. 

Oh, SL-5400 you made me feel whole now I exist as an empty husk again.

Sharpening Your Implements

I am certain that there once existed a core set of skills that were passed down generationally to ensure the survival and well being of all subsequent peoples. By my lifetime, most of the more practical core skills have been lost in translation. One such skill: sharpening implements. Axes, knives, chisels, and the like should require occasional sharpening. Should. I've generally regarded such things as disposable and I've been hucking them in the garbage as they see the end of their usable sharpness. That's what trickled down to my generation; use it, destroy it, pitch it. Nah, nah, nah, muthafucka, I'm breaking the cycle. So, filled with a sudden swell of DIY spirit, I picked up my trusty Harbor Freight axe, some files, a honing stone, and my 1955 copy of the Popular Mechanics DIY Encyclopedia Volume S and headed to the garage. The DIY Encyclopedias contain all the knowledge in the world. True story, bro.

Knowledge. Raw and Unfettered

I chucked the axe in the vice and went to work. Following the book as best I could with what sharpening and honing tools I had on hand, I proudly brought my axe to an edge fine enough to easily cut paper drawn across it. I should also mention that sharpening axes in your garage at 5pm must not be a common activity. Most of my neighbors who enjoy afternoon walks seemed to look at me more strangely than they usually do when they saw me intently filing away at my axe blade. Waving while testing the blade edge with my thumb didn't seem to alleviate concerns. Oh, well. They'll see. When the world ends and I am standing proudly with my tinfoil hat, my axe, and a shopping cart full of antique DIY encyclopedias, they will beg to partake in the knowledge I have kept from the prying telepathic minds of invading alien overlords. 

Taking some swings at the test stump/ Stump Drinking Game arena