The Right to Reasonable Redbox Access Act of 2013

I guess I missed this little gem. Everyone else in the free world got the memo, but I am still scratching my head. Pursuant to the Right to Reasonable Redbox Access Act of 2013, you are guaranteed in your freedom to access a Redbox machine unhindered by obstacle, social convention, or common decency. Here are some of the finer points.

-It shall be noted that Reasonable Access is defined in the context of this law as direct straight line access to a Redbox machine, not to exceed 20 paces from the nearest paved surface upon which a vehicle can be parked. 

-Under no circumstances should a consumer have to cross perpendicular to a lane of traffic when gaining access to a Redbox machine. This includes parking lot throughways even when posted speed limits are below 5mph and properly marked crosswalks are available.

-You may, in the act of accessing a Redbox station, drive in a manner oppositional to the regular flow of traffic. No summons may be issued for driving the wrong way or for parking in a manner that suggests that the driver was driving the wrong way at the time the vehicle was parked, so long as the driver was doing so to gain access to a Redbox station.

-Barriers that limit access to a Redbox machine or station will be deemed unlawful and no consumer shall be bound by such obstacles. Curbs and low barriers may be driven over to gain access should the consumer deem it necessary or when such obstacle puts the Redbox machine beyond the allowable 20 pace limit.

-Loading zones and fire lanes shall be renamed and re-marked as Multi-Use Fire Dept/Redbox Access Lanes, with Redbox access taking highest priority in the event of a double emergency. No emergency vehicle may attempt to disturb, molest, or relocate a vehicle which is being used for the expressed purpose of accessing a Redbox machine.

-Handicap parking zones may be used by consumers accessing a nearby Redbox station, as under the RRRAA2013, not having a desired movie in your hand has been classified a physical handicap.

-No establishment housing a Redbox machine on its premises may deny entry to a consumer based upon standards of dress or appearance. This includes any No Shoes/No Shirts policies. Such policies are considered unlawful when used to deny a consumer reasonable access to a Redbox machine.

And there you have it. In black and white. Go forth, park on curbs, drive the wrong way, stand in a Walmart lobby with no shirt or shoes, it is your right as a 'Murican.

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

Adventures in the Land of Thrift: Travel Edition

Thursday 19SEPT2013: The Sad Realization

I stood amidst a bustling crowd of junk herders buzzing in all directions, grabbing, evaluating, and stashing what treasures they could manage to get their hands on into rickety, rusty, reclaimed shopping carts. I fought my way back to the electronics section and lifted my arms in exasperation at the realization that these vultures have picked clean the bones of the collective Virginia Beach thrift carcass. I had combed the same stores again and again, each time noticing less and less new inventory. I realized then that my treasure wasn't going to be found here. It most likely wasn't going to be found anywhere in Hampton Roads. What was the elusive treasure I was seeking? A Laserdisc player. I needed a Laserdisc player so I could watch the Special Widescreen Edition of Andromeda Strain that I found alone and unwanted in a pile of old opera LPs and Firestone Christmas compilation records. If I was going to have any chance at finding a working Laserdisc player, I was going to have to leave the metropolis. I was going to have to take this show on the road.

Friday 20SEPT2013: One Last Sweep

Goal: Laserdisc player and/or laserdiscs. Wing chair for the reading room.

It was decided that before the great exodus, Pops and I would comb the local outlying thrift stores one last time. I could barely drag myself to each successive store as the weight of constant disappointment was beginning to crush my soul. At the last stop, just as I was about to give up all hope, Pops spotted it. "Oh, man! A Tandy 1400. Those were the shit back in the day!". I glanced at the gray plastic behemoth. Rays of light broke through the clouds, shined through plate glass and illuminated the primitive laptop as the angels above plucked the strings of gilded harps. Well, maybe not, but that shit still made my heart skip a beat. I flipped the lid. Dual floppy drives. Monochrome display. A battery pack reminiscent of Tyco R/C cars. Great success. The lady at the counter said she had placed it on the shelf as a joke with the word "vintage" sprawled across the top in grease pencil thinking that people would see it, chuckle, and move on. Jokes on her. Best $6 I've ever spent. Although, missing it's power adapter, it added one more treasure to the list.

Friday 20SEPT2013: Departure

Goal: VB to Greensboro. Minimal stops. 254 miles.

With some clothes, a Chromebook, and the Tandy 1400LT personal computer in hand, we departed VB for Greensboro, NC. Made one stop along the way at a Goodwill somewhere along 58. Added one promising power adapter (later found to be dead), one Roy Orbison CD, and one Van Morrison CD to inventory. This location was greatly lacking in electronics and furniture. Onward we traveled.

Friday 20SEPT2013: Arrival in Greensboro

Goal: Dinner and sleep.

We arrived at our base of operations, unloaded the cargo, and briefed my brother on the mission. He agreed to provide transport and knowledge of local customs on this quest. An initial scouting of local thrift stores lands us a chair which we plan to collect on Sunday. We also spot one of the greatest pieces of electronics that I have ever seen. Walnut case, brushed aluminum face plates, and covered in buttons, knobs, and dials. We stand perplexed and google the model number. It is some kind of machine that blasts your brain with waves of good energy. I want it but fight the urge. No room in the budget. We return to base and comb Craigslist for treasures. Sleep comes difficult as I find myself dreaming of Laserdiscs.

Saturday 21SEPT2013: First Leg of NC Journey

Goal: Motorcycle exhaust. Greensboro to Concord. 72 miles.

Pops had previously made contact with a man in Concord, NC regarding a full factory exhaust for his motorcycle. It was decided that we would chase this lead first while I struggled to make contact with my first Laserdisc player lead. I had texted, called, called again, and left a message. No response. The plan was to travel to Concord and await contact. After traveling 72 miles with no word from Laserdisc seller #1, we added one complete motorcycle exhaust to the inventory. We departed in the direction of my first lead in hopes that they would call and set up a meeting before we arrived. I was beginning to get annoyed with craigslist.

Saturday 21SEPT2013: The Second Leg

Goal: Laserdisc player and laserdiscs. Concord to Cameron. 83 miles.

83 miles goes slow as fuck when you stare at your phone in pure frustration the whole time. The closer we come to Cameron, the more irrationally angry I get. I text one last time, careful to word the message sans venom and spite. I inform the seller that we will head back to Greensboro. In the meantime, I begin to work lead #2 in Chapel Hill. I email (since seller did not provide any real contact info) that I am interested in the laserdisc player they have listed. They email back to say it's still available. I tell them we will be passing through Chapel Hill in an hour and to email a time and place if they are available for the sale.

Saturday 21SEPT2013: Begin Radio Silence

Goal: Laserdisc player. Cameron to Chapel Hill. 46 miles.

We head towards Chapel Hill and lose all contact with the civilized world. Lead #2 has fizzled out as the seller refuses to email me back. By the time we reach Chapel Hill, lead #2 had to be completely written off. I am butthurt. Butthurt as fuck. It consumes me. My day is ruined.

Saturday 21SEPT2013: Back to Base

Goal: Sleep. Chapel Hill to Greensboro. 51 miles.

Fuck Craigslist. Fuck Craigslist sellers who don't want to sell. As I settle in for the evening, I get an email from the Chapel Hill lead. "Had to step out. Meet up another time?" Fuck off. At 9PM just as I was about to give up all hope for this Laserdisc adventure, lead #1 texts me. Hope is restored. Sleep is difficult as I dream of Laserdiscs and revenge against Chapel Hill lead.

Sunday 22SEPT2013: The Score

Goal: Laserdisc Player and Assorted Laserdiscs. Greensboro to Cameron. 68 miles.

We began the journey to Cameron renewed. Well, I did anyways. I couldn't read the moods of the other adventurers. A fog of lingering disappointment seemed to remain in the air. Hopes were not high among fellow crew members in light of all previous attempts to purchase a player. Despite the odds, the transaction went smoothly. The seller was friendly, had the unit hooked up for testing, had the manual and OG remote, and actually worked for a company that I was employed by years ago. I leveraged this distant familiarity into a $10 discount. We swapped anecdotes about dead technologies, inventoried the movies, and closed the deal. I left Cameron with a Laserdisc player and pile of mixed Laserdiscs. Great success. 

Sunday 22SEPT2013: Triumphant Return

Goal: Pack up goods from home base. Transfer inventory to return vehicle. Cameron to Greensboro. 68 miles.

We returned to home base triumphant. I, myself, was high on success. I had achieved a major goal. I have wanted a Laserdisc player since I was just a wee lad, admiring them on the carpeted shelves of Circuit City during the early to mid nineties knowing that one day I would call one mine. And there I stood, bathed in the light of pure victory, Laserdisc player raised high above the land like a newborn Simba. Dead formats, I love the shit out of you.

Sunday 22SEPT2013: Homeward Bound

Goal: Pick up chair from Goodwill. Return home. Greensboro to VB. 254 miles.

The last order of business was to collect the chair we spotted on day number one. Fortunately, no one wanted it. I barely wanted it but Pops found it to be quite comfortable and at $15, who gives a fuck. We loaded up, strapped down the precious cargo, and headed home. We put miles behind us and grey clouds made way to reveal blue skies, surely a sign from above. "You done good, Adventurers. You done good."

In the end, we covered a shade under 900 miles in our impromptu journey for treasure. I spent some quality time with my brother and Pops and together, we punched adversity in the dick. Nyah, nyah, nyah, Craigslist. I got my fucking Laserdisc player. Go suck an egg. 

Have You Ever Wondered About the Word "Mart"?

Mart. As in K-mart, Walmart, MiniMart, so on and so forth. Yeah. I was just pondering the word mart today and it intrigued me greatly. I just realized that it is tacked onto a lot of stores' names but I have otherwise never heard the word used in any other context and definitely never on its own. Being as I can't have a cell phone at work, a quick Google wasn't an option so I was left to speculate wildly on the origins of the word "mart". I speculated all day. ALL DAAAAAAAY. The best my feeble mind could do was to attribute it to a colloquial de-evolution of the work market. Market to mark't to mar't to mart. This totally made sense to me. I'm no etymologist so I'm just doing what I can with the sad bit of brain stuffed between my eardrums. But, guess what? I was fucking wrong.

Archaic? Dammit. I'm wish I was gooder at words. Cha' feel?

"You need some new hobbies," said no one ever.

Well, I guess I found myself a new hobby. Yep, I'm gonna try my hand at restoring speakers. Well, not restoring per se, rather just the process of refoaming the woofers on speakers. But this shit is still gonna be heaps fun, son. You might be wondering what drove this sudden urge to just randomly start refoaming speakers, and for good reason I suppose, I mean it is kind of an odd thing to just pick up out of the blue. It comes part and parcel with a sudden unexplained urge to piece together a vintage console stereo system. I'm talking about a full blown, ballin'-ass, woodgrain cabinet, analog dial, warm incandescent lit 70's era stereo component system. Oh yeah, I know, who doesn't want that setup, right? The only problem with building such a setup is the physical deterioration these components suffer at the hands of Father Time. This isn't an issue with the stereo receivers and components as much as it is with the speakers. A blast from some Deoxit on the switches and rheostats, and most components are good to go, but speakers need a little bit more help. The problem with them is the foam surrounds that serve as the speakers suspension become brittle over time and eventually crack and split. I personally blame MC Hammer. It was Hammer Time that blew out all of the woofers that had the misfortune of living through the early nineties. The end goal here is to buy a set of old Bose 501 floor speakers and restore them for my future ballin' console system. I think that they epitomize the the 70's era floor speaker in every way.

Oh yeah, the Bose 501. Sexy. So fuggin' sexy.

They are wood veneered, they have the beige/brown cloth covers, and they just look the part. But before I commit money to a set of 501s and fuck them up beyond belief trying to "learn" on them, I'm gonna experiment on a more modern set of Infinity Sterling SS-2002s that I bought from the Habitat store for $4.99. I am currently waiting on my surround kit to arrive from the nether reaches of eBay, but here is how the project is starting off.

Infinity Sterling SS-2002s. $5 for a pair. A good starting point.

Here is the separation of the foam surround on the woofer.

The 6.5" woofer was carefully coaxed from the speaker.

The old surround was removed from the basket and cone and a bit of isopropyl alcohol was used to remove the old adhesive.

I removed as much adhesive from the cone as I was comfortable with. I was scared to go gnat's ass on it for fear of damaging the cone.

Well, the saga will end here for now. Hopefully when the parts arrive in the mail, everything will go together like it's supposed to. My only fear is that I have to complete this task without shimming the voice coil because I am scared to cut the dust cover from the voice coil. That is the proper way to do it, cut the dust cover off, shim the voice coil so it is perfectly centered, then adhere the new surround. Right way, wrong way, my way. Guess which one I'm gonna choose. To be continued.........

Why Am I Trying To Restore A Beta Player?

What am I doing with my life? I just spent an hour carefully tearing down a Sanyo Betacord VCR that I found at the thrift store in an attempt to figure out why the tape loading mechanism and playback drive are FUBAR. All of that effort was put forth just to find out that a belt had melted on the counter assembly and made a real fucking mess of things inside this unit. On top of that, I just found out that this particular model video cassette recorder is near impossible to find a belt kit for. Seems that every other Sanyo Betacord unit going all the way back to 1979 has a service parts kit available, but for some reason the VCR 4200, made in 1982, does not. But that's not the worst part about this whole purchase/repair/obsession fiasco. The worst part was the sudden realization that for some reason, I am actually dedicating time (and contemplating spending money) trying to repair a Beta tape player made in 1982, just so I can watch recorded episodes of Wishbone and possibly some Ghostwriter. Also, when I consulted YouTube for some visual instruction on disassembling the tape load mech, every narrator and/or Beta enthusiast seems to be, well, to put it nicely, a socially awkward basement nerd. Fuck. I am becoming one of them. One of the Beta enthusiasts. The scary thing is the fact that the $450 professionally refurbished Beta players I found online don't even seem like an unreasonable option to me at the moment. The cost to awesome ratio calculations keep coming back highly favorable of the restored Betamax. So, for now I am going piece this 4200 back together, put it away until I can weigh my options, and then immediately freeze my credit card in a block of ice, lest I end up with a crisp, mint condition, fully refurbished, fully warrantied Beta VCR. Hey, loyal readers, do you have a Beta player you want to get rid of? If you don't, maybe you want to raid your older family members' houses and find me one. Yeah, that seems like something you want to do, right? Find one. Please? (I currently have one pending lead and am scouring EVERY thrift store I can find)

case open

drive motors and belts

I'll never remember how all this shit goes back together anyways

Beta Tapes: How Shall I Play Thee?

So, I have this pile of Beta tapes that are begging to be played. Ok, wait, before I get too deep into this nonsensical story of failure and regret, let me address the readers who may not have heard of Beta tapes. Once upon a time, in a much simpler world, two formats of home video were locked in an epic struggle to become the dominant force in home entertainment. In one corner we had VHS, the bloated, oversized cassette of inferior quality. In the other, we had Beta, a sleek, high quality cassette system capable of near Bluray quality video reproduction. For some reason (most conspiracy theorists blame it on the porn industry's silent endorsement of the VHS format) VHS won the battle and rendered Beta all but obsolete in the realm of cassette based home video.  It was kinda like the Bluray vs. HDDVD format battle of the early millennium but set in the eighties. Got it? On the same page? If you are still lost, consult wikipedia, I have it set as a drop down feature at the top of the page. Ok, so as I was saying, I have all these Beta tapes and no way to play them. This hasn't been an issue to me for neigh on 15 years now. These Beta tapes were filed away deep in my memory and all but forgotten. But, as it so happens, I wandered upon a Beta player at the Habitat for Humanity store today. I walked out of that bish with a Beta player for $3. Three 'murican dollars, y'all. I was so fucking hyped that I sped right home, right past several other thrift establishments, because I was ready to set up this wood grained abomination and watch some Beta tapes. Let me preface this by saying that these are no ordinary tapes. These aren't some stupid movies that I could find on Netflix and load up instantly, these Beta tapes contain elusive programming that are all but extinct. We are talking about Wishbone, dammit. I have nearly every episode of Wishbone recorded on Beta tape, ripped right from WHRO 15. I am dying to see this Jack Russell Terrier give me synopses of books I am too lazy to read. Ever see a dog battle a windmill a la the Man of LaMancha? I have. And I want to see it again. But, as fate would have it, this Beta player is FUBAR. It ate my copy of the Color of Money, too. But I will just write that off as a sacrifice to the gods of video cassette. However, this whole situation has me irrationally upset. I mean, yesterday, not a single fuck could have been given about these Beta tapes. But today? That shit is top priority. I will have a Beta player. And I will have it soon. Get Beta or Die Tryin'. New album me and Fiddy 'bout to drop. Exclusively at Best Buy. Beta tapes: how shall I play thee?

Wait, a McWhat?

Ever heard of a McGangbang? Well if you have, holy shit, why didn't you tell me about this underground sandwich phenomenon? C'mon, I thought we were bros. For those of you who haven't heard of a McGangbang (and don't feel bad because I hadn't either as of May 2013), it is a Dollar Menu Frankenstein mash-up monster sandwich that can be had for the measly pittance of only two American dollars. To achieve such levels of culinary perfection, one must simply visit the nearest McDonald's franchise, order a McDouble and a McChicken off of the Dollar Menu, laterally dissect your McDouble at the union of meat patties, and slip an entire McChicken sandwich betwixt the resulting halves. Boom. Dollar Menunaire, son!

Photo Courtesy of mcdonaldssecretmenu.com

I still can't fathom how this masterpiece of frugal self destruction has flown below my radar for all these years. According to my research, this sandwich had it's own MySpace page dedicated to it. A fucking MySpace page, people. It might as well have been written into scripture with chronological clout like that. A McGanbang. Elegant sandwich, moderately disturbing name. Go forth and assemble these monstrosities en masse, we owe it to the world to spread the word of the McGangbang. I suggest going door to door on mountain bike with McGangbang pamphlets. People seem to be generally receptive of any tri-folded forms of print media.

Have You Ever Seen An Otter Poop?

Well, if you haven't, you are missing out on one of the greatest things ever. Once seen, it can never be unseen. I know that this seems like a strange notion, to be so fascinated by the excremental habits of a water rat creature, but if you have witnessed the phenomenon you know exactly what I'm talking about. I am convinced (keep in mind that I am no biologist) that otters have no means of natural, biological means of waste excretion. They can only poop with the aid of gravity and some good old fashioned shit shaking. It's crazy, they literally have to shake and dance the poop out of their bodies. For real. Wait, hold on. Lemme see if I can pull up some YouTubery so you can stop judging me and my otter crap obsession. Ok, here we go:

See what I'm talking about? Awesome, right? I DARE you to have a conversation about otters without bringing up how they poop. You won't be able to do it, guaranteed, because this factoid is now permanently burned into the trivia cortex of your brain.  Now stop what you are doing and do the otter poopy dance. It will change your life.

Side note: you can see the otter poopy dance in person at the Virginia Aquarium (I'm trying to get free admission with a shameless plug. Shhhhhhh.)

Man, the Z-Poc Be Scary

I'm not really sure why people automatically assume that a trove of guns is the best commodity to own during a zombie apocalypse. Seems like carrying a ton of guns and ammunition would be more cumbersome than useful, and if I am to believe everything I know from television, comics, and movies, firing guns just attracts mobs of the undead almost instantly. A .22, maybe. It's light, quiet, and a thousand rounds of .22 will fit into a single cargo pocket and weighs nothing. Who is really gonna lug around a shotty and all those huge shells? That won't fit in a bug-out fanny pack. You know what will? Claw hammer. You know what's cheaper and more available than any gun? Claw hammer. Care to speculate on what is a perfectly lethal, yet stealthily silent weapon? If you guessed claw hammer you are a friggin' genius. Yep, when the Z-poc hits, I'm kicking it old school: pointy sticks and claw hammers. I might even acquire a katana or two, who knows? No guns for me though, they don't fit my post apocalyptic utopian agenda. Nope, just me, my stick and bindle, the bug-out fanny pack, a claw hammer, and a chain-mail shark-bite suit. That's all I need. Matter of fact, I think I have some Harbor Freight coupons laying around. I might grab a few more claw hammers for my hammer caches. You can never hide too many hammers strategically about your metropolis. That's a fact that you can take all the way to the bank. (Don't bother looking for them. Even if you wander upon my maps, they are all written in modified Nostradamus code, translated into ubbi-dubbi, and transcribed backwards and upside down. Good luck deciphering that shit, even I can't do it.)

A beautiful hammer in classic hickory, does it get any better?

That's the Shit I Don't Like

Let's all agree to stop doing/participating in the following things, m'kay?

1: Irregardless. No explanation needed, just stop it.
2: "Euro" or "Altezza" style taillights on American pickup trucks. If the vehicle was never manufactured or distributed in Europe, it doesn't need euro taillights. Roger that?
3: Stealing shopping carts and ditching them in neighborhoods. Lazy. This is just lazy. If you steal it, just keep it and reuse it the next time you shop. Stop stealing a new cart every time, it's just stupid.
4: Admission fees at junkyards. Why is this a thing? $2 to peruse junk? Stop! Fair warning, if I pay $2 to get in, $2 worth of shit is coming out of there (in my cargo pockets).
5: ATTEMPTING TO HOT PATCH THE ENTIRETY OF I-264 IN ONE WEEKEND. It can't be done. Reducing the highway to two lanes with little or no warning is not so cool and seems kinda dangerous. Maybe we just fill potholes as they happen and we won't have to fill 1,000 of them in two days.
6: Looking at me like an idiot when I reference Vigo the Carpathian. You know who he is. You get the reference. Stare into his eyes and tell me again that you do not know Vigo the Carpathian.

Image credit goes to crocco.net (thanks google images)

You know what? We might have to call this That's the Shit I Don't Like vol. 1. Let's earmark this idea and come back to it when I can piece my brain back together. Thinking about all the 264 nonsense just made by mind implode. There is more shit we need to collectively stop doing. Tell me what you think we should stop doing! If you say blogging, you are wasting your time. Idiots never quit.

Calculate Your Way to Survival

Seems to me like we are inundated daily with all kinds of shows about survival. Survive with a buddy, survive by yourself, survive the desert, survive the jungle, survive anything. If it has to do with survival, there is a show about it. One thing I have taken from these shows is the immediate and very real need for cordage in emergency situations. Enter the para-cord bracelet. It is a bracelet that is made from roughly eight feet of 550 mil spec parachute cord. The cool thing about the bracelet is that it can be worn everyday, and if needed, can be unraveled easily so that the cord can be utilized for any number of things. You can even separate the inner stranding within the cord to create even more smaller cordage. Cool right? Well, I thought so. So imagine my child-like excitement when I saw para-cord, buckles, and instructions on how to make para-cord bracelets at the store. IMPULSE BUY, MOFOS! I rushed home and tackled this project while enjoying some Full House. Once I had completed my own handmade piece of survival gear, I looked online to see what other people were up to with their para-cord. That's when an Instructables article about para-cord watchbands caught my eye. Me likey. Double utility is always a good thing. A watch and some emergency cordage, could it get any better? With my brain power at the wheelhouse, you know it can. Introducing the para-cord calculator watch!

Oh, yeah. I'm gonna calculate my way to survival with this thing. As far as I know, this is the very first para-corded calculator watch. Numerous spirited Google searches for similar products turned up nothing. Most people are para-cording Swiss Army watches or Casio G-Shocks with barometers and thermometers and altimeters, all forms of utilitarian watches, but no one had the foresight to para-cord a calculator watch. Do you expect me to draw out long division in the sand with a stick under great duress? I don't think so. When roving bands of mad-men put a wooden shank to your throat and demand that you calculate the height of a tree using basic trigonometry, you better be prepared. I know I will be. Then when I'm done calculating, I strike while they are in awe of my post apocalyptic mathematical prowess by unraveling my watch band and choking them all to death with mil spec para-cord. Jackie Chan style. Byaaaah! This is the best idea I have had since Bug-Out Fanny-Packs (tm). "Don't let your back-pack make you a target, conceal your goods in a conveniently located Bug-Out Fanny-Pack!". I'm still fleshing that idea out. 

Lookin' good in the 'hood. calc watch+para cord=WIN

All credit for the original idea and instructions go to Stormdrane over at Instructables. Here is the article I used to learn how to make a paracord watchband.

Shitty Mustaches Are the New Cool

Yes, shitty mustaches are the new cool. You know why? It's because a shitty mustache speaks volumes about the owner of the face upon which it rests. I like to think that my shitty mustache shows the world that I am a hopeful optimist. While this abomination of accrued facial hair might be shitty today, who knows what tomorrow holds? I mean, I could wake up with a glorious Magnum P.I 'stache. You never know. It's all about the grooming though. You have to commit to a shitty mustache. You have to make sure you keep the remaining balance of facial real-estate clean, lest people just assume you are too lazy to shave. They must know that you are really making a concerted effort towards growing a real manly 'stache. Oh, who am I fooling? There is no hope for this damn mustache and it is more tragic than cool. Dammit, I wish I could grow a real mustache.

Memories of a Fecalcentric Youth

It’s always a strange realization when you look back on your childhood and finally come to understand that you were an odd little kid. Actually, looking back on it, I ran with a whole pack of odd little kids who, when assembled, would feed and thrive off each other’s weirdness. So that atmosphere of oddballs, in conjunction with my natural compulsion to do off the wall stuff, meant that my childhood shenanigans were not quite what I imagine other children of similar age doing. Sewer fishing is one notable example of our strange hi-jinks. When I was around the age of 6 or 7, we somehow developed a game that simply entailed breaking the arm off of an action figure, lashing it to kite string, gently lowering it down the vented opening in the manhole cover, and collecting any detritus that would happen to flow by and catch itself on the crooked arm. Once carefully extracted from the sewer, you would swing the arm about your head a-la helicopter rotors, and chase other children. For some reason the game caught like wildfire and soon every boy in the neighborhood was having to explain to his mother why his action figures had no arms and why he smelled like putrid sewer water. Now that I look back, we spent a whole summer obsessed with that sewer. We would lay in the street peering down into the dark caverns of municipal waste water and attempt experiments to determine how fast the water was, or how long it took for things flushed in our homes to reach our subterranean peepshow. So, many a flashlight was absconded with and many a brightly colored Lego block was flushed in hopes that we would be able to see it rush by on the watery interstate of waste. We never saw any of our flushed items, and even if we had, I don’t think we possessed the mathematical wherewithal to even calculate the speed of the water nor the scientific discipline to even care about results. None of that mattered to us and for some reason, it was our greatest hope to one day gain access to the sewer and explore its tunnels for lost treasure and gators, all of which we KNEW was there (we watched way too much Goonies). I can remember breaking at least two broom sticks trying to pry the manhole cover up to unlock the doorway to our adventure. We never did gain access to that subterranean wonder land, but it wasn't due to lack of trying. That was how we spent a whole summer though, watching turds, flushing toys, planning what we would buy with our sewer treasure, and generally being odd kids. Fecalcentric. That his how my brother and I describe our childhood upon retrospective reflection. Yes, fecalcentric.

Bears Have It All Figured Out

Case in point: scratching your back on a tree is friggin' tops. Never judge a bear until you give that a whirl. Also, corrugated metal siding, wall corners, car side mirrors, they all work just as well. So, log off, go outside, and do the wiggly bear dance on a barky tree. It will change your life.

Hey Freud, Tell Me What This Dream Means

I am standing in front of a row house with an ax and a card table. I make a phone call. A pizza delivery man arrives and places a pizza on the card table. For some reason, the pizza is not boxed. I smash the pizza with the ax held sideways so the broad side of the head is smashing the pizza. I call in another pizza from another establishment, and repeat the process. A crowd gathers. I cannot explain how or why I came to be here smashing pizzas with an ax. More people gather. They are beginning to heckle me. This continues for a while until a torrential downpour begins, forcing the crowd to disperse and seek drier venues for their mocking stares. I wash my ax in the gutter, step into a gondola, and float away into the mist of infinity. What the shit would Freud have to say about that dream?

Paying for Clicks

Just have to float a few of these bucks about town, and BAM! instant readership. Or not. Who cares?

If you happen to be here because you found one of these bills, do me a solid and drop me a line. Fuck it, drop me line even if you didn't. Hate the blog? Love the blog? Don't give a shit either way? Let me know!