tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60888296628906440362024-03-13T14:19:43.617-05:00Stories of the Full Reid - Fly Fishing for the Coordination HandicappedThis is the story of the "Full Reid." A Full Reid means greeting the creek with your face. There is no video or photographic evidence of a full reid by the master, but someday...Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-11620177271321782652021-01-10T18:20:00.002-06:002021-01-10T18:20:53.288-06:00Just another day... <p><span style="font-size: 14px;">I'm a young Airman in the at Clark Air Base in the Philippines. Its 1981.</span></p><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">I got up bright and early as always, threw on the uniform, and went next </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">door to feed the neighbor's cats. He was away on business and I promised to </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">take care of them. I went in the house and immediately smelled gas. I went </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">back out and turned the gas off at the main, called the base civil engineers/fire department from the neighbor's house, +</span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">and went back in to check on the cats. They weren't their ravenous selves. </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">As a matter of fact they didn't get up to greet me. Weren't ever gonna get </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">up again either. I think I feel a pulse on one. I haul it outside and try </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">mouth to mouth on that pussy, but all's I get is fish breath. But he wakes up. Ooops, Ken </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">really loved those cats.</span><div><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">Oh, well, nothing that I can do about it. Went to work and get a letter of </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">counseling for being late. The fire chief had called my shop chief and went ballistic because I risked my life to try to save 3 cats. Get sent out to do the dirty work for the day. </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">At about 10:30, I'm out behind the missile shop, stripping the paint off of</span><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">some white phosphorus warheads, when I hear the sound of three aircraft taking off in </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">formation (hang around aircraft long enough, you can ID the type and number </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">of aircraft by the sound). This is rare. Its the Royal Thai Air Force </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">flying their A-4 Sky Raiders. My shop, with 88,000 lbs of live munitions is </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">at the end of the runway. </span></div><div><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></div><div><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">Right at transition, the lead bird (they take off </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">in a triangle formation) has a major malfunction of the right main gear. It </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">roles up and takes out the right wingman. Wingman ejects. +The guy on the left makes it into </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">the air, but barely.</span><div><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">We are at the bottom of a hill at the end of the runway, uuhh, hmmm. We're </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">on the right if you're taking off. I now have two high performance (work </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">with me now) jet fighters, full of fuel, doing cartwheels at full takeoff</span><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.870588235294118)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14px;">speed heading directly down the hill at me. Okay, time for a break. I casually step inside the </span></span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">missile maintenance bay and close the door. Hey, it could help. Couldn't </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">hurt. Neither can a primal scream or the fetal position, which I proceed to </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">employ. I set off car alarms in a 30 kilometer radius.+ I hear thumps against the two foot thick cement walls of the shop. </span></div><div><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></div><div><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">When the noise stops, I peak outside. There are airplane parts all over the </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">place and the warheads, each filled with 85 pounds of white phosphorous, </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">still in the very flammable paint stripper, are five feet from some flaming </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">JP-4 jet fuel. Okay, an extinguisher will put this out. I role the giant flightline cart </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">over and empty it on the flames. </span></div><div><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></div><div><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">The rest of the shop comes out to help. I get pulled aside as the fire department shows up for the second time in my day. My boss asks me if I'm alright. He's the one that sent me out there to work </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">(and wrote me up for being late). I guess I'm kinda white and purple. My </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">pasty color may have something to do with it, but I get sent home to rest. After he tears up the letter of counselling. </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">The rest of the shop has to do guard duty, as the double fence surrounding </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">the shop has been bowled over by a jet engine and two right wings from two </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">A-4s.</span></div><div><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">I wash off the toxic "Purple K" extinguisher powder and the soot. The </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">uniform (and my underwear) is ruined. Time to go fishing. Not many free </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">afternoons off. I grab my "new" Orvis graphite rod and head over to the</span><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">river where Mr. Aquino, the local barrio chief, had shown me where the fish </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">were (he has an Orvis too, stored in his nipa hut, or grass and bamboo </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">shack). There is a fish in this putrid river that is a cross between a big </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">tilapia and a pirana. Gold and black, but nasty as hell. Have no idea what </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">they're called, but they are a blast on a fly rod and will take a white </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">woolly bugger.</span></div><div><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">The water is up, but there is a laydown out a ways that always holds some </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">fish behind it. I can normally reach it from shore, but the water has </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">increased the distance to about a 75 foot cast. Not within my skills at the </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">time. I talk to a group of about 6 guys with shotguns and rifles. They </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">tell me thats where I should cast to.</span></div><div><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">Oh what the hell, I can wet wade. I go out and wham, I'm into a catfish. </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">They're fun to catch. Another. And another. I must have hit the mother </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.870588235294118)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14px;">load. I bring in one that's about 10 pounds. He put up a tremendous fight. </span></span></div><div><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.870588235294118)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">As I'm removing the hook, he flips and spines me. Not in the hand, but in </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">the abdomen. I go down in the muddy water. This really hurts. Really, </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">really hurts. I literally have to pull him off my stomach. Well, the water </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">isn't the cleanest, time to get out and get this seen too.</span></div><div><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">I get out of the water and try to rinse off on shore. There's a lot of </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">black junk hanging off my legs. Hmmm, its not rotting vegetation, its </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">leeches. Probably 30 or more. Never even felt them. I burn them off with a cigarette. </span></div><div><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">I head back to the car and start back towards base, roadblock. The local </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">constabulary and Army is looking for New Peoples Army (NPA) terrorists. </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">Those guys with the shotguns and rifles. No one can leave the barrio. I </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">walk up to the Lt in charge, with my US ID in hand. He initially waves me </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">off. Then looks at me again. I'm in a muddy white t-shirt and shorts with </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">blood coming out of what looks like a gun shot wound in my belly. There are multiple </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">bleeding sores on my legs, and still a couple of leeches. I have a certain </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">"don't mess with me" look on my face. He accepts my 50 peso donation and </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">lets me through.</span></div><div><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">I get to the base hospital. They clean me up, shoot me full of antibiotics </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.870588235294118)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14px;">that end up killing all of my intestinal flora and fauna, and send me home after 72 hours of IV, </span></span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">in a hospital gown (the recommendation is to burn my clothing).</span></div><div><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">I get home and my fly rod is not in the tube. I've left it next to the </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">river (about 50% of a months pay). Shit. I can't even drink a beer. The </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">docs say that it will interfere with the antibiotics. Time for bed at 8 pm.</span><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">Well, tomorrow is Saturday and at least I don't have to get up and feed the </span><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">cats.</span></div></div>Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-58764586707247508462014-02-06T17:39:00.000-06:002015-10-16T19:51:00.201-05:00TENS Unit Fun - Electroshock Therapy<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span data-reactid=".9r.1:3:1:$comment667300526644570_6673962:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.0" style="background-color: white; line-height: 14.079999923706055px;"><span data-reactid=".9r.1:3:1:$comment667300526644570_6673962:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.0.$end:0:$0:0">This is a repost of something that happened to me a few years back. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14.08px;">Okay, bent over on Friday afternoon to pick up the cat....</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14.08px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14.08px;">SPROINGGGG!! Out goes the low back. Hurt all weekend, then yesterday a.m. I can't move. Go in to the doc and he does some manipulation (osteopath is a cross between a doc and a chiropractor), gives me drugs and sends me home for bed rest. Tells me I can use my TENS unit to help the pain. No problems, I've been here before.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14.08px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14.08px;">For those that have never seen one, a TENS unit is something about the size of an old, fashioned pager with two leads coming out of it. Powered by a 9 volt battery with about 500 milliamps of power, it delivers white noise into your nerves via those two leads. The thing can be set to rise and fall with different frequencies. Each lead has two pads at the end to complete the circuit. Really works, but you have to be careful about how high you set it, it can make you dance a jig. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14.08px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14.08px;">This a.m., I'm feeling a bit better so I decide to head into work. My bride helps me put the TENS unit pads on my back, hook up the wires and turn the thing on. Instant relief. I get in the car (slowly) and start it up. Oh oh! Got heated seats in the car and they're turned on.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14.08px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14.08px;">I remember something from my electronics class, its called induction. Can you say induction? I know you can. What happens is the wires from the heated seats induce an additional current into the wires from my TENS unit. This additional current then goes through the path of least resistance, namely the muscles and nerves of my mid back. Since the TENS is set on pulse, I now have enough current to heat an 80 pound car seat to 90 degrees pulsing through my low back. 500 cold cranking amps from the car battery coursing through my spine. For those keeping track, there are 1000 milliamps in an amp, so this is now 100,000 times stronger than normal. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14.08px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14.08px;">At the turn of the car key (heated seat switch was on), I start to do an impression of a mackerel on the deck of a party boat. I'm kicking the crap out of the underside of my dashboard and trying to reach either the key or the switch for the seats. My car is in neutral and the brake is off. Its rolling down the driveway. I'm holding onto the steering wheel and my movements are translating to the car. I roll out across the lawn with said flopping mackerel behind the wheel. Not good.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14.08px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14.08px;">I am seriously flopping around, arms flailing like an octopus on amphetimines, trying to override the signals going through my body. Imagine driving whilst being tazed. Doesn't work too well. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14.08px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14.08px;">I crank the wheel hard over before I hit my neighbors mailbox, slide through the wet grass and finally pull myself forward in the seat and turn the key off. I think that's what happened. I really wasn't paying much attention. I may have just dumped the clutch. I don't know. I don't care. I was microwaving the hair in my armpits. My fillings were blaring a local FM station. My toes were trying to break through the wingtips. Then, it stopped. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14.08px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14.08px;">Okay, I'm alive. Like someone in a burning building, I know I have to get the hell out of the car. I don't know why. I just know there is intense evil associated with it. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14.08px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14.08px;">I roll out of the car, face down into the wet grass. Finally, gingerly, I pick myself up, and look up. My bride is standing in the doorway with a worried look on her face. She screams "Are you alright?" In a shaky voice, I tell her what happened and she collapses on the porch... Now I think she's fainted with fear and stress, but then she comes around sobbing. Hold on, she not sobbing. She's laughing.... hysterically. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14.08px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14.08px;">I get to my feet. My legs are doing a drunken Jerry Lewis impression. My left arm keeps shooting straight out. My right butt cheek is doing the flamenco. I stagger back up to the porch, step over the insane, cackling lady who's holding out her hand doing a flopping fish impression, go inside and change (of course, we've had thunderstorms all night and I'm covered in muck), return to the car WITH THE TENS UNIT UNPLUGGED AND SITTING IN THE BACK SEAT, start the car and drive to work.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14.08px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="line-height: 14.08px;"><span data-reactid=".9r.1:3:1:$comment667300526644570_6673962:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.0" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14.08px;">You know, sometimes it doesn't pay to go to work in the morning.</span></span>Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-10871387986443391772013-12-23T22:48:00.003-06:002017-11-03T06:54:42.675-05:00The “Big” Tree<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "liberation serif" , serif;">Okay,
traveling around the world in the military, we were not always able
to get a really nice Christmas tree. Some, like the ones we got in
the Philippines, looked up to the Charlie Brown tree as the rich, fat
dude. They had to be flown in by the military on C-5 cargo aircraft,
so were seriously restricted in size, i.e. needles and limbs took up
weight and space.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;">Others
were small because of the space we lived in. In England, because I
was a Master Sergeant, we lived in Mayors' quarters. This meant we
got 800 square feet of living space, vs the standard 750 for a family
of four. Who cares that that 800 square feet was under a four foot
ceiling, we had 50 more square feet than the rest of the folks. The
trees there were from the Knights Who Say Ni Shrubbery Farm. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;">Well,
all good things must come to an end. I retired from the Air Force,
took my fabulous 18,000 a year retirement checks and invested in VHS
tape and Blockbuster Video futures. Luckily, along the way as a fall
back, I got edumakated just in case my investments didn't pay off. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;">So,
I take the rest of my money from my retirement job and build a house.
Not just any house, but one large enough to house my bride's quilt
fabric collection (almost). This house comes with a 14 foot ceiling
in the living room. Wow! Not only can I not touch the ceiling to
change a light bulb, I can't even change the light bulb after
balancing a kitchen chair on top of my 6 foot step ladder. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;">In
the second year of living in this house, my bride and daughter decide
that the five foot tall, cornstalk-thin tree we had the year before
did not adequately fill the space in the living room. We're gonna get
a “big” tree. A tree that you can be proud of. One that would
fill the space in both height and width. One that can hold all the
ornaments from 23 years of traveling around the world. One that would
empty the space in the wallet. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;">The
search began. Lot to lot, tree farm to tree farm. We had to find the
right tree for that space. I put out calls on social media, used
Google Earth, followed around the neighbors' yellow labs, to no
avail. I was never gonna find “that tree.” </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;">And
then it happened. As I was driving to physical therapy (a common
drive for me), I drove by the illegal Christmas tree lot by the gas
station. The city had instituted new licensing rules on the Christmas
tree lots and the SWAT team was closing the place down by proving
that you can indeed cut a tree in half with a minigun. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;">I
waited for the smoke to clear and the EPA to come in and ticket the
cops for spewing so much brass on the ground and made my move. The
woman who had run the place was rumored to grow huge trees
hydroponically in Colorado. Don't know why they would use hydroponics
in Colorado, but they did. I low crawled across the lot and took
cover behind a giant, netted bale of trimmings and looked around.
As I prepared to move out, I noticed a trunk sticking out of the
bale. It wasn't a trimmings bale, it was a tree. <span style="font-size: small;">A big
tree. </span><span style="font-size: small;">T</span><span style="font-size: small;">he fulsomeness of
which could be foretold by the girth of the trunk. </span><span style="font-size: small;">The
wrapping was stretched out like fishnets on Rosie O'Donnel.</span><span style="font-size: small;">
I had found “that tree.” Sniff, sniff. Its a balsam fir. Yes.
“</span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">We
wants it, we needs it. Must have the precious.” </span></span></span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;">
<span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I
drag the tree over to the tree lady who's doing fire sale business
</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">because</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
the noise had drawn in a ton of customers. She sits on the steps of
her trailer with a coin changer on her hip and wads of cash stuffed
in every pocket of her woodworkers apron. </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">She
draws in a huge lungful of smoke from her hand-rolled “cigarette,”
looks at what I've brought and smiles. She lifts her chin slightly to
point out something behind her on the door of the trailer. </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
sign behind her says “Cash Only.” Crap. </span></span></span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #181818;"> <span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
look at the gas station, its got an ATM. Go through my wallet, look
at my cards, do a mental calculation of how much I can get on each
one, and do what I have to do. I tell the EPA guys that the tree lady
dumped a quart of oil out behind her trailer into the storm drain.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;">
<span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">As
the EPA agents try valiantly but futilely to take her into custody, </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I
drag the tree to my station wagon. I'm prepared. I get the log chains
out of the back, slide them under the tree, one forward, one rear,
hook them into the luggage rack </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">on
top of the car </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">on
one end, </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">flop
them over the tree and the car</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
and </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">hook</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
the other end to the back bumper of the fire truck </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">that's</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
there to put out the flames from the minigun. </span></span></span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #181818;"> <span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
tell the volunteer fire captain that that Walmart has a sale on brass
fire poles and the engine takes off. The tree rolls up on top of the
wagon, the fire trucks tires spin on all the minigun brass on the
ground, giving me time to cut the links of the chain with my portable
welder. Locked and loaded, I have my tree. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #181818;"> <span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
pull out onto the highway and head home. The tree acts as a keel in
the wind. I unintentionally change lanes repeatedly and do some cross
country when a gust blows me off the road onto the golf course. Its
amazing how fast old, white guys in plaid pants and parkas can move
when pursued by a whole national forest. I quickly get back up on the
highway when I remember that this is Nebraska where a chainsaw is
mandatory equipment in any vehicle and those golf carts were quickly
approaching.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #181818;"> <span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
pull into my driveway right as my tires finally blow under the
weight. Need a machete to get out to the car. The neighbors gather
round my Pine Parade float and ask when the bowl game starts. I
mention that I need some help getting this son of an Ent into the
house. They start to drift away. I whisper beer and pizza. That does
the trick. The Egyptians hauled in the blocks for the pyramids on the
promise of beer and pizza. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #181818;"> <span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">First,
its getting the tree off the car. Okay, with the blown tires, the car
is just a tad bit lower. We just unhook the chains that hooked
through the roof rack on one side, reverse the process of getting it
up there by pulling on the top ones and Bob's your uncle. Its on the
ground. Unfortunately, its now on top of the neighbor's labs. We
extricate the hounds and, because they're labs, they decide that was
fun and try to get us to throw the tree. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #181818;"> <span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We
now need to get it in the house. Lifting ain't gonna cut it, but
we've got a couple of engineers in the group so we know how to get it
done using all of our engineering skill. Yeah, we've got an HVAC
engineer, an electrical engineer and a computer engineer, but we're
engineers. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #181818;"> <span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We
all remember those old commercials when we were kids where the guys
are pulling the tree out of the woods behind the two-horse team.
We've got a 260 horse team in my bud's Bobcat tractor. We roll the
tree to line it up with the front door, run the rope through the
house and out the back and hook it up to the Bobcat. The Bobcat takes
off down the back hill and the tree moves... fast. CRAP. Some idiot,
uh... engineer.. tied the strap onto the tip of the tree. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #181818;"> <span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
tree opens wide like a cat being thrown into the the tub for a bath.
The trunk grabs some snow and swings sideways, taking out a row of
light-up candy canes in its own mutiny. It shoots up the steps and we
realize we have no way of contacting the Bobcat driver to tell him to
stop. It goes through the door without slowing down, taking out the
side windows in the process. The labs chase after thinking someone is
stealing their stick. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #181818;"> <span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
tree is in the living room when the Bobcat stops. The tip of the tree
catches the sofa and the trunk swings around into the dining room
with the momentum and ends up lodged under the china hutch. It has
formed itself into a giant C-shape, bowed by its anchors under sofa
and great grandma's china. We've lost the cat. The three engineers
assess the situation. The labs pee on the tree.... so do the
engineers. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #181818;"> <span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We
measure the tree as it lays there curled into the fetal position.
Roughly 23 feet. Okay, we can cut off seven feet at the bottom and
use the left over to make pine garlands. Pine garlands large enough
that hopefully my bride won't notice the now wider front door.
Chainsaw comes out just as the Bobcat driver comes in. The guy who's
taken down many trees screams NOOOOOOOO!!!!! Unfortunately, he could
not be heard over the sound of the cheap chainsaw.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #181818;"> <span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">None
of the engineers, not the HVAC, not the electrical, nor even the
computer engineer have to deal with kinetic energy on a day-to-day
basis. The tree had formed a 23 foot long longbow and we had just cut
the cord. The new bottom of the tree swings back towards the
entryway. The cat, we discover, had been hiding in the tree. It flies
out of there, well, like it was shot from a bow. The labs hare off
to catch what they think is a weird black, hairy frisbee. That did
not end well for any of the players.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;">
<span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
tree continues around like break dancer on bad burritos, spewing bits
in its wake. The HVAC guy had been on the chainsa</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">w
and on top of the tree. He does </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">the
Jean Claude Van Damme Volvo truck commercial without the nice music
and pretty ending... a lot faster... with a running chainsaw. </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;">
</span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
electrical engineer tried to grab the tree at it flew past him. </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">He
offered no real resistance and came up short. The tree slams into the
umbrella tree, takes down the plant stand and continues around,
coming to rest in the corner where it was supposed to be set up. I,
the computer engineer, had planned that. </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I
opened a beer. </span></span></span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;">
<span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">After
getting a replacement for the HVAC guy </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">(who
has a new career as an NHL goalie) </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">and
pulling the electrician out from under the curio cabinet, we moved
onto standing up the tree. First, we set the artistic neighbor kid
to painting white Corelware plates to look like the remaining piece
of the wife's </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">delftware
set. As you might guess, the china hutch didn't quite make it. It has
taken “distressed antique” to a new level.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;">
<span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Getting
the now much shorter tree upright was a piece of cake. It stood up
straight quite quickly. Still, there was an issue. It would not fit
in any tree stand. We finally nailed some 2X4's to a 5 gallon bucket,
filled it with sand and stuck the tree in. We then lifted the tree
out, dumped out the sand, put the tree in and put the sand back in.
Goes in much farther when the sand isn't in there. </span></span></span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;">
</span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Wow,
tree is up, now we just have to get the lights on. Electrical
engineer is in charge. He comes up with a brilliant device. A nail
sticking out the side of a 10' 1X1. Lights are up. Brilliant. Plug
them in... none of them work. Didn't think an educated electrical
engineer knew those kind of words. He storms off. I lure him back
with another beer. Hmm, large quantities of beer and 110. What could
possibly go wrong? </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I
leave him to his own devices and have another beer.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;">
</span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Now
its time for the ornaments. However, after a few tries, I find that
the nail on a stick is rubbish for the ornaments. Time for the
ladder. We set up the ladder at the base of the tree. I climb up
with the first box of small ornaments and reach over... and realize
that I can't reach the top of the tree. Granted, we've knocked seven
feet off the bottom of this thing but its still about nine foot
across at the bottom </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">and
only ½ inch at the top.</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
I try to reach out and get a serious lean from the ladder. This is
</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">not
gonna be fun. </span></span></span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;">
<span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Okay,
engineering skills and late night ESPN come in. I remember the guys
on the Americas' cup having the same problem. One guy can knock back
a magnum of champagne.. oops, wrong replay. No, they have to counter
balance a huge boat without going into the drink. Personally, I'm
already into the drink, so this should be fun. </span></span></span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;">
<span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">We
rig up harnesses for the three of us. </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
new guy, who qualified for the job based upon his inability to fit
into an XXL hoodie and the electrical engineer hook themselves onto
the outside of the ladder, I climb up and hook in to the top. I grab
up a delicate, Hungarian glass ornament and lean out.... and it works
brilliantly! I hook in the ornament and lean back in, ending upright.
Wow! This is gonna be perfect.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;">
<span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">We
get into a rhythm. Swing out, hook up, swing back, swig beer, rinse
and repeat. The Philippine capiz shell star and choir boy, the German
hempleman, the English crystal star all up. Swing out, hook up, swing
back, swig beer, swing out, hook up, swing back, swig beer, swing
out, hook up, swig beer, AH</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">YYYEEEEEE</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">!
</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Thump.
</span></span></span></span></span></span>
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #181818;">
</span><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;">Yeah,
timing just a bit off from the new guy. </span></span><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: "liberation" serif , serif;">I
am now impaled on the top of the tree. New guy runs out. Two yellow
labs run in carrying a very pissed off cat gently between them. They
drop the cat and pee on the tree. The electrical engineer hands me
wings and a halo made out of 10 gauge wire and locks the door on the
way out. Think I'm gonna be up here a while. </span></span>
</div>
Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-36346370741424673982013-03-18T17:54:00.001-05:002013-03-18T20:32:37.899-05:00Chumming - The Hard Way<br />
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I was down in Louisiana at Barksdale Air Force Base for schoolin'. The Air Force really believed in edumakin' us, 'cause they could say "Its not our fault he did that, we trained him to these exacting standards." </div>
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I had gone out on our daily run. Nothing stressful, just a couple of miles when I felt my back going south. Old war wound, dontcha know. Knew it was gonna be a bad one and it was. Got hauled to the base hospital by one of my classmates. When I finally was able to claw my way to the reception desk, the NCO behind the counter bypassed the request for a wheelchair and called for a gurney. Evidently, the muscles in my back had spasmed so bad, there was a waterfall effect, i.e. every muscle from my forehead to my ankles had spasmed. I'm told I kinda looked like some weird death camp survivor with a great tan. </div>
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Once I'm done with docs, I learn I get to have physical therapy every afternoon. This takes me out of class, but I'm able to make up the lessons with recorded material. What happens is I go to my 45 minutes of PT and then I have a boat rented on the base lake on a weekly basis (grand total of 27 dollars a week, gas included). I fly fish till dark then go back and study. I get to know the lake pretty well and catch a crap load of fish.</div>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 1.5em;"> One Saturday, one of my classmates asks to come along. He's a bait chucker, but we all have our faults (well, except me. I'm practically perfect in every way). Lake was huge, full of cypress trees and alligators. We needed to unwind and relax and that big chunk of water was a good place to do it. We did some fishing, catching loads of bass and bluegill. Even got an alligator to chase my lure. This was August in Louisiana, so it was hotter than the exhaust of a Missouri </span><span style="line-height: 19.5px;">bootlegger's</span><span style="line-height: 1.5em;"> Chevy. We had just a little liquid refreshment with us, for medicinal purposes don'cha know. </span></span><br />
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One of the sights on the water was the hornets nests hanging from every other cypress tree. These things were as big as basketballs. If you didn't see them, you could always hear them. The buzz went right to your bone like the whine of a dentist's drill. </div>
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As I said, we'd had just a bit of liquid refreshment and my partner convinces me of the hilariously funny idea of knocking one of these things into the water with an oar. The concept was that I would run the motor and he would smack the nest. </div>
<div style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.5em;">
Well, the malted beverage thought long and hard on that one. Did I ever tell you that malted beverage decision making is primarily based on the easiest sound a human can make? That is "shure." The little "good" angel on my shoulder had long since passed out and fallen down the back of my pants. </div>
<div style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.5em;">
So, after much cogitation, I idled the boat in towards one nicely placed nest. My partner stands up in the boat, oar in hand and I'm on the throttle. He's got a swing like a juiced-up ex-San Francisco Giant. He goes into the windup, I twist the throttle hard, the boat jumps forward, my buddy falls back into the boat mid-swing, misses the nest and... the engine stalls. Hmm, the boat drifts under the nest and bumps into the tree, stopping. I guess my driving skills had deteriorated in the heat. The engine is flooded and the nest is two feet over our heads. </div>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 1.5em;"> We quietly used the oar to push against the tree to drift away from the nest. This is rather hard to do when you're flatting yourself in the bottom of the boat and moving at the speed of a three-toed sloth on </span><span style="line-height: 19.5px;">Quaalude</span><span style="line-height: 1.5em;"> We did NOT wanna do anything that would piss off the wasps with a dead engine on the boat.</span></span><br />
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So, on the second pass, I decide to change tactics. We're going in at speed and I'll gun it after the hit. I head in doing about 3 knots (that was "at speed" in this boat), my partner swings the oar and hits a home run (a six pointer for the cricket fans). I gun the motor for all its got and, ..and .... it stalled again. So, there we were, calmly assessing the situation. The nest had exploded like a Martin automatic reel fighting a 150lb tarpon. The hornets,to say the least, were perturbed. The fish, on the other hand, were having a blast. All this food hitting the water at one time caused a feeding frenzy. I thought about casting a line in the middle of the fray (for about 13 nanoseconds) and started pulling on the motor cord. It wasn't working. Just as the hornets had formed into squadrons and made one of those big,black cartoon arrows in the air, the motor coughed to life. My partner was expressing (most vociferously) his desire to find another place to fish,namely in Alaska. I GENTLY raised the rpm's and put the engine in forward.</div>
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We casually vacated the area and had a wonderful discourse on whether we should further deplete our medicinal supply or revert back to our shared Christian Scientist and Mormon roots. Modern medicine won out.</div>
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Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-50177064490694591012012-08-22T06:42:00.005-05:002012-08-22T06:42:44.841-05:00An Oklahoma Kid's first Bow and Arrow set<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16pt;"><span style="color: #444444;">Don’t know who wrote this but the writer has a way with words that makes<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid614"> one visualize being right
there beside him. It's a good, quick read. </span></span></span></b><span style="color: #444444;"><b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
Life as a child growing up in Oklahoma ....<br />
<br />
Around age 10 my dad got me one of those little
badass compound<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid615"> bow
beginner kits. Of course, the first month I went around our land sticking
arrows in anything that could get stuck by an arrow.</span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid615"><b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16pt;">Did you know that a 1955 40 horse Farmall tractor tire will take
six rounds before it goes down? Tough “sumbich”. </span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid615">That
got boring, so being the 10 yr. old Dukes of Hazard fan that I was, I quickly
advanced to taking strips of cut up T-shirt doused in chainsaw gas tied around
the end and was sending flaming arrows all over the place. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid615">One
summer afternoon, I was shooting flaming arrows into a large rotten oak stump
in our backyard. I looked over under the carport and saw a shiny brand new can
of starting fluid (Ether). </span><br />
<br />
<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid615">A
light bulb went off in my head. I grabbed the can and set it on the stump. I
thought that it would probably just spray out in a disappointing manner. Lets
face it, to a 10 yr old mouth-breather like myself, "Ether" really
doesn't "sound" flammable. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid615">So,
I went back into the house and got a 1 pound can of pyrodex (black powder used
for muzzle loader rifles). </span><br />
<br />
<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid615">At this point, I set the
can of ether on the stump and opened up the can of black powder. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid615">My
intentions were to sprinkle a little bit around the (Ether) can but it all
sorta dumped out on me. No biggie, a 1 lb. pyrodex and 16 oz can of (Ether)
should make a loud pop, kinda like a firecracker, you know? </span><br />
<br />
<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid615">You
know what? Screw that! I'm going back in the house for the other can, so
I got a second can of pyrodex and dumped it too. Now we're cookin'. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid615">I
stepped back about 15 ft and lit the 2 stroke arrow. I drew the nock to my
cheek and took aim. As I released I heard a clunk as the arrow launched from my
bow. In a slow motion time frame, I turned to see my dad getting out of the
truck... OH SHOOT! He just got home from work. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid615">So
help me God it took 10 minutes for that arrow to go from my bow to the can. My
dad was walking towards me in slow motion with a WTF look in his eyes. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid615">I
turned back towards my target just in time to see the arrow pierce the starting
fluid can right at the bottom. Right through the main pile of pyrodex and into
the can. Oh shoot!</span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16pt;">When the shock wave
hit it knocked me off my feet. I don't know if it<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid630"> was the actual compression
wave that threw me back or just reflex jerk-back from 235 fricking decibels of
sound. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid630">I caught a half a
millisecond glimpse of the violence during the initial explosion and I will
tell you there was dust, grass, and bugs all hovering about one foot above the
ground for as far as I could see. It was like a little low-to-the-ground layer
of dust fog full of grasshoppers, spiders, and a worm or two. </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
The daylight turned purple. Let me repeat this...
THE COTTON PICKING<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid631">
DAYLIGHT TURNED PURPLE. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid631">There
was a big sweet gum tree out by the gate going into the pasture. Notice I said
"was". That sucker got up and ran off. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid631">So
here I am, on the ground blown completely out of my shoes with my thundercats
T-Shirt shredded, my dad is on the other side of the carport, having what I can
only assume is, a Vietnam flashback: ECHO BRAVO CHARLIE YOU'RE BRINGIN' EM IN
TOO CLOSE!! </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid631"><b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16pt;">CEASE FIRE. DAMN IT CEASE FIRE!!!!! </span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid631">His
hat has blown off and is 30 ft behind him in the driveway. All windows on the
north side of the house are blown out and there is a slow rolling mushroom
cloud about 2000 ft. over our backyard. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid631">There
is a Honda 185 three-wheeler parked on the other side of the yard and the fenders
are drooped down and are now touching the tires. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid631">I
wish I knew what I said to my dad at this moment. I don't know - I know I said
something. I couldn't hear. I couldn't hear inside my own head. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid631">I
don't think he heard me either... not that it would really matter. I don't
remember much from this point on. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid631">I
said something, felt a sharp pain, and then woke up later, felt a sharp pain,
blacked out, woke later....repeat this process for an hour or so and you get
the idea. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid631">I
remember at one point my mom had to give me CPR and Dad screaming "Bring
him back to life so I can kill him again!" Thanks Mom. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid631">One
thing is for sure... I never had to mow around that stump again. Mom had been
bitching about that thing for years and dad never did anything about it. I
stepped up to the plate and handled business. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid631">Dad sold his muzzle
loader a week or so later. I still have some sort of bone growth abnormality,
either from the blast or the beating, or both. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="ecxyiv1228805073ecxyiv499710134ecxmsid631">I
guess what I'm trying to say is, get your kids into archery. It's good
discipline and will teach them skills they can use later on in life. </span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-55532339551749231002012-03-06T13:31:00.010-06:002012-03-06T15:26:06.496-06:00New business opportunitiesHmm, there it is, right in front of me on Google news. "<a href="http://www.pddnet.com/news-spider-silk-that-conducts-heat-as-well-as-metals-030612/">Spider Silk That Conducts Heat as Well as Metals</a>" Wow! This is an organic material. Most don't conduct heat. Who woulda thunk it? Is there a buck to be made? Yes sir re Daddy!<br />So, here's the gist of the story. Researchers in Iowa have found that spider silk, specifically the "drag line," (sounds like a Vegas variety show) which is the main line that a spider uses to attach his web to trees and things, conducts heat. It conducts heat so well that it beats out copper. The only two things that do better are silver and diamond. Cool! <br />Even better, when the silk is under stress (stretched to its max 20% increased limit), it conducts up to 19% better. This is just one more thing that adds to the list of spider silk's amazing properties. So, how can we commercialize this? <br />Well, companies that want to produce spider silk use transgenic goats (hmm, wonder what the GOP's position on that is?). They splice the gene for making spider silk into the goat then milk it. The chemical for the spider silk is in the milk and they squirt it through tiny nozzles to make silk. Really! <br />They started off with hamsters but that wasn't commercially viable. It wasn't that they didn't get enough material from the hamsters, it was a supply and demand issue. See, the people with hands small enough to milk the hamsters unionized and the price went through the ceiling. So, they went to goats. Bigger handles.<br />Now, just thinking about these goats scares the crap out of me. Goats are good climbers anyway. Now they're going to be swinging around like Spiderman? Venomous bites? 8 legs, 120 lbs and hairy? (I think I dated her in high school). <br />Where was I? Oh, yeah, business. Okay, here's the idea. Put this gene into those fainting goats and sell them at Whole Foods. This is what happens:<br />You buy a goat and take it home. When you want dinner, you set out a bed of coals in your BBQ pit. Feed the goat a load of your favorite herbs, onions and garlic. When done, go over to the goat and hollar "Boo!" The goat faints, rolls over on its back, and squirts its load of milk into the air. The milk lands back on the goat and encases it in heat-conducting spider web stuff. Pick up the whole and place this spider web dutch oven into the coals. Cook for three hours.. Bob's your uncle. <br />This is the ultimate in cook-at-home takeout. You can dye your brand into the side of the goat (kinda like those Easter chicks that are dyed blue or pink). Ingredient list is easy... Goat. Stays fresh without refridgeration. Awesome. I'm getting hungry.Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-21246079191366950182012-01-01T11:53:00.005-06:002012-01-01T14:46:29.858-06:00Note to Republican Party Candidates and their policy advisors:Okay, its election season and you're trying to differentiate your campaign from those other, so called “candidates.” Here's a suggestion/policy that you can use to get yourself elected. It is so revolutionary that it will cure the nations ills and make you look like a genius (I know, if you're the policy advisor, this is off times a very difficult job). <br />What is my suggestion? Easy, tell the great unwashed.. uh, the great people of our nation that on your first day in office, you are going to <span style="font-weight:bold;">invade North Korea!</span> Wow! Cool!<br />What's that? You don't think this is a good idea? Of course it is. Think about it. Here are some reasons that its is the one idea that can save the nation, cure many of the ills in our American society, and put the nation back on the track to greatness. <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">1) Popularity:</span> In time of war, especially in the first few weeks, a president's approval numbers skyrocket. Your “honeymoon” period will be marked by patriotic fervor and you can get about anything passed through Congress, ANYTHING! It doesn't matter if it may be slightly “unconstitutional,” it will take years to make it to the Supreme Court and, in the interim, you can have a blast! Don't like the federal reserve? Abolish it. Department of Education... fugetaboutit!<br />And to add to this, you're popularity with the North Koreans will be sky high. They have to love you. Its mandatory (how great is that?). <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">2) Outsourcing:</span> You have a whole new labor pool for outsourcing. You own an extra country with out all those pesky EPA and labor laws. And it has labor unions YOU TOTALLY CONTROL! Wow. Work them 16 hours a day for a bowl of rice and they don't dare backtalk. If those pesky American union leaders give you grief, ship them over to NK and show them how their life is gonna be under your administration. They'll fall into line in a heartbeat. If they don't, hmm, no heartbeat.<br />You can even outsource the liberal left! What? You can't do that! Well, sure you can. Tell the ACLU and the Sierra Club that they're out of a job, they've been outsourced. You reconstitute them over in North Korea where they can learn how other countries do freedom of speech. Neeto! <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">3) Close Down Gitmo:</span> All these liberals want you to close down Gitmo. Go for it. Turn Gitmo into a premo fly fishing resort run by some of your closest buddies. No laws on limits, gambling, prostitution... Its Cuba for heaven's sake. Hey, why are we coddling these terrorists anyway? “Ooooh, you've captured me and now I have to spend the rest of my life on a Caribbean vacation.” You just ship their assess off to North Korea. Now those North Korean bubbas know how to run prison camp and they don't have white sand beaches.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">4) Obesity:</span> The percentage of obese Americans has skyrocketed. You invade North Korea and guess what? You include the North Koreans in you obesity numbers. Instant drop! Talk about your biggest looser! Those folks are surviving on grass clippings and bark. It will be years before their consumption of Big Macs (supersized) and Happy Meals makes a dent in their waistlines. And now for the bonus round, you can ship Michael Moore over there! Let's see how much weight he can lose on a diet of IKEA factory scraps. <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">5) Missile basing:</span> The Europeans and Russkies are giving us crap over where we want to put our missiles. Screw 'em. We can put them in North Korea, pointed right at the Chicoms and Russkies. We're on their border! We can then have our buds in the defense industry make a whole new series of missiles, charge the government the same price as the big ones, but the damn rocket motors only need to be 1/3rd the size! Hell, that's bigger than the Cornhusker Kickback. <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">6) Illegal immigration:</span> Not happening from North Korea. When was the last time you had a North Korean working on your roof. Never! Also, one of the big problems we have with all these illegal immigrants we have in the US right now, is that we ship 'em back home and they're back taking up American jobs in a week and a half. Its a revolving door. New concept is that we ship them to the “country of our choice.” Guess where that is? You got it, North Korea. It'll be years, if ever, till they can make their way back to their home countries and then to our borders. Bonus is that some will stay in North Korea and we'll be able to find some good Mexican food when we go over on a fact finding tour. <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">7) Ethics: </span>Okay, everyone is pointing to those pesky “ethics violations” in your record. They won't let it slide. You know, no one will care after they see North Korea. Hell, even the UN says its the most corrupt society in the world. Those kickbacks you've been getting will pale in comparison to what's going on over there. Another bonus, guess who's gonna be able to pad that nest egg? You got it. Everyone expects graft over there, so you're just “culturally attuned.” cha-Ching!<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">8) Taxes:</span> Well, the Left always keeps whining about more taxes. We need to tax the 1%. Well, who's more “1%” than this 28 year old Kim Chong Un? He owns the friggen country! The tax rate over there is like 100%. Anything we do over there pours right back back into the good old American treasury! We'll. anything thats left after being “culturally attuned.” The “Left thats left” (hey, I'm hearing a new tea party slogan) will have nothing to whine about. You'll have seriously upped the taxes without taking one cent out of any American's pocket. <br /><br />Okay, there might be a little downside to an invasion. North Korea has nukes. But hell, the only way they could use them is ship them out on a truck. Who are they gonna nuke, Seoul? They make a car called a KIA? Really? Killed In Action? If their marketing dweebs can't do any better than that, they deserve it. However, the upside is using good, ol' American companies for “reconstruction.” And our reconstruction teams don't have to eat kimche, they'll be eating good ol' TexMex! That'll knock down the nasty unemployment rate. Winning!<br /><br />So, who's gonna be the first candidate to sign up for the new “Winning” policy?Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-55043193564418635832011-02-06T09:44:00.002-06:002011-03-25T10:40:33.323-05:00Mexican Oysters (stolen from the web)A big Texan stopped at a local restaurant following a day roaming around in Mexico. <br /><br />While sipping his tequila, he noticed a sizzling, scrumptious looking platter being served at the next table. Not only did it look good, the smell was wonderful.<br /><br />He asked the waiter, 'What is that you just served?'<br /><br />The waiter replied, 'Ah senor, you have excellent taste! Those are called Cojones de Toro, bull's testicles from the bull fight this morning. A delicacy!'<br /><br />The cowboy said, 'What the heck, bring me an order.'<br /><br />The waiter replied, 'I am so sorry Senor, there is only one serving per day because there is only one bull fight each morning. If you come early and place your order, we will be sure to save you this delicacy.'<br /><br />The next morning, the cowboy returned, placed his order, and that evening was served the one and only special delicacy of the day. After a few bites, inspecting his platter, he called to the waiter and said, 'These are delicious, but they are much, much smaller than the ones I saw you serve yesterday.'<br /><br />The waiter shrugged his shoulders and replied, 'Yes, Senor, sometimes the bull wins.'Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-70940505652054444902010-09-21T19:07:00.001-05:002010-09-21T19:09:09.935-05:00Fishing DetourI’d heard about this stretch of the Potomac from two people and an old <br />magazine article. It was the kind of place that you hear about, but <br />only in reverent, hushed tones. Twohundredfifty yards of water that <br />are considered the best stretch of river smallmouth fishing on the <br />whole Potomac watershed. Layers of slate, interspersed with softer <br />stone, have been turned on their sides over the millennia. The softer <br />stone has been washed away, leaving ledges of slate near the surface of <br />the river, bordered by deep, narrow channels cut perpendicular to the <br />current. In these channels, the smallies hide, waiting for food to <br />drop into their laps, safe and secure, but accessible by an angler <br />wading out on the slate shelves. These shelves are normally no more <br />than two feet below the surface. <br /> I researched the area and the other clues, it started at a boat <br />ramp and was probably “near” the home of one of the people that let the <br />secret slip, Sharpsburg, MD. This boat ramp was called the starting <br />point of the magic water. This was as close as the clues would get. I <br />looked at topo maps and, finally, geologic surveys that delineated the <br />composition of the underlaying rock strata. This research encompassed <br />geographic information systems and international databases. I found an <br />area that had to be the place that was mentioned. All that Air Force <br />training had paid off. <br /> This morning I hopped in the truck at 0500 and headed to the <br />spot. I figured a 97-mile drive, but the roads aren’t well marked in <br />this area. The road names change at each little hamlet. I estimated I <br />could be on the water by 7:15 a.m. At 8:30 I pulled into the boat <br />ramp. Had some really interesting side trips. I may be able to make a <br />map, but I can’t always follow one. <br /> There is a line painted down the center of the boat ramp. It <br />is, as far as I know, yellow and then red. There may be more colors <br />further down, but I couldn’t see them. The yellow indicates that one <br />should use “caution” if the high water is within the yellow area. If <br />the high water makes it to the red area further up the ramp, then the <br />conditions are “dangerous.” Well this morning, the water was about <br />three feet into the red zone. The water was pounding through and off- <br />color, foam catching in the flooded weeds. Cocoa with whipped cream. <br />The bright spot was that two gentlemen launching their boat confirmed <br />that I’d hit the right spot. The “not so good thing” was that if I <br />tried to wade, I’d end up in the Chesapeake as crab bait. <br /> I quickly determined that discretion is the better part of <br />valor. There was too much brush to cast from shore. I couldn’t wade. <br />I repacked my gear and headed back to Sharpsburg. <br /> In Sharpsburg, I wandered through town. I found a store that <br />had been the Sharpsburg Arsenal, selling antique weapons. The <br />gentleman working there, Tom, was doing so as a favor to the owner. We <br />got to talking and found that we shared some similar passions for <br />fishing and the outdoors and we’d both done time in Uncle Sugar’s Air <br />Force. <br /> Tom said that I shouldn’t try to wade the Potomac under any <br />circumstances. The current on the ledges is difficult when the water <br />is thigh deep. When the water is chest deep, the whorls that form over <br />the holes will slide downstream and knock you off the ledges and suck <br />you down. <br /> He directed me to a bridge in the nearby national park. He <br />said that if I waded that creek, I would be alone and undisturbed. <br />There are holdover stockies in there and some bronzebacks. <br />I followed his directions out of town. Along the road, stone, steel, <br />bronze, and aluminum tablets and monuments were scattered every fifty <br />feet. On each highpoint, cannon stood as mute testimonials to a long <br />ago battle. I turned down a side road and parked in a lot overlooking <br />the bridge and the creek. The creek’s name is Antietam. The bridge is <br />Burnside Bridge, formerly known as Lower Bridge or Rohrback Bridge, <br />scene of the bloodiest fighting in the bloodiest battle in U.S. history. <br /> I kitted up and headed down to the creek. Sycamore and poplar vied <br />with the monuments as silent guardians to the secrets of this stream. <br />At the far end of the bridge is a giant sycamore, three feet across, <br />that was drawn as a sapling in a U.S. Civil War corespondent’s <br />depiction of the battle at the bridge. <br /> I waded wet and slipped into the water. As I moved upstream in the <br />blood-warm current, the sound of the Park Service Ranger describing the <br />battle quickly turned into an anonymous drone, drowned out by the <br />trees. The water here, like the Potomac, was high. The trees dipped <br />their fingertips into the cool wetness, forming tunnels along the <br />banks. The light filtering down through the canopy was that of green <br />leaded glass. The whole effect was that of a serene natural cathedral. <br /> I waded up the stream and a fog clung to the water like a mother’s <br />tear on a cheek. Sounds from roads, other park areas and hiking trails <br />were transformed in this cloak of mist. The mind plays tricks. Voices <br />are heard, sounds, feelings, wrap your mind as the fog wraps the <br />stream. <br /> Halfheartedly, I cast to the errant fish, a rainbow here, a <br />bonzeback there. Withing 100 yards of the bridgethe water reached mid <br />chest and I decided to give the fish a rest. I caught no fish today, <br />not even a nibble. The sun was high and even the fish felt and <br />respected, the quiet, monastic nature of the place. I turned <br />downstream and headed back to the bridge. <br /> Hundreds of men died on that day, September 18, 1862. 500 men from <br />North Carolina and Georgia stopped the whole of the North's 9th Corps <br />for just long enough that the attack on Lee's flank that afternoon did <br />not have the same effects that it would have had in the morning. <br /> I look up from the water, and there, framed in the trees, mirrored <br />in the water is Lower Bridge. Its abuttment has become the apse in the <br />cathedral. At my feet, along the way, I find two bullets and a piece <br />of grape shot. They are mixed in the cobble of the creek bed, they are <br />a part of the whole. I leave them there. <br /> I’ve had the pleasure of fishing in some pretty spectacular places <br />around the globe; a pond run by South Korean Special Forces Senior NCOs <br />filled with trophy sized brown trout, the river Tay in Scotland for <br />Atlantic salmon, the Kern river drainage in the southern Sierra Nevadas <br />for golden trout. Today, I fished and came away changed.Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-31986540383593380142010-07-23T13:47:00.001-05:002010-07-23T13:49:07.831-05:00The KiteWhen I was younger, I really enjoyed flying my kites on the beach at Seaside in California. I had a big kite called a Hawaiian that was a huge dual-control delta wing, 1.5 meters tall and 3 meters across the bottom. It had so much surface that I could launch it in a 5 mph wind and, with an offshore breeze, put a wingtip in the water kick up a rooster tail. At one time, one of these was radar clocked over 90 mph. <br /><br />One day, I went down to the beach and found it empty save my kite-flying mentor Corey. The wind was coming onshore at about 35-45 mph. Corey was sitting on top of a dune in his tuxedo jacket and tails and hot pink shorts, his long blond, trending to grey pony tail flapping in the wind. <br /><br />Cool, I've got the whole beach to myself. I lay the kite down on the dune, pushing the bottom slightly into the sand. I rolled out the twin lines, hooked up the kite on one end and the wrist straps on the other. Slid my hands through the straps, squatted slightly and pulled the lines, bringing the kite upright. Then, elbows at my side, I gave just a quick tug, launching the kite. <br /><br />The kite went straight up, I glanced over at Corey. Corey wrapped his arms around his knees and leaned forward in anticipation. Of what, I didn't know. He had taught me to fly kites, so knew that with my mentor there, all was well. <br /><br />As I said, the kite went straight up. Normally, it will get to the top, reduce the angle of attack and then you start steering it from there. That's normally. Normally is flying a Hawaiian in a 7-15 mph wind. If you're especially daring and have a bunch of mass (i.e. over 200 lbs), you might fly it in an 18 to 20 mph wind. Weighing 125 lbs and flying a Hawaiian in a 35 mph wind is contraindicated in the instructions that hit the garbage, unread and unloved, along with the plastic wrap from the Kevlar lines. <br /><br />The black, red and gold kite continued to rise. 60, 70 then 80 feet off the ground... I had only 100' feet of line. The kite is now at 90 feet and climbing. The straps have tightened around my wrists like a Chinese finger trap. My feet have left the ground. I'm flying. <br /><br />I'm now the weight in a perverted human pendulum. The kite climbs higher and I'm 20, 30 now 40 feet off the ground and swinging forward. I now see that things are going from bad to worse. If I don't release soon, I'll either fly too high and drop to my death or, if I don't get that high, I'll be dragged across Hwy 101. My scream is torn from my throat. <br /><br />I'm directly under the kite, the kite's angle of attack is neutralized, I drop quickly and I slam into the sand like the Great American Hero on his first day in the Super Suit. I'm down, the wind knocked out of me, but down. Oh shit, I'm still moving. <br /><br />I've become a human sled. Acrross dunelets and flotsam, rotting seaweed and chunks of wood. My wrists are still locked in the straps, the kite is pulling ever forward. There is no fence between me and the highway and the Saturday morning tourist traffic. I'm actually going faster. <br /><br />I realize that my struggles to release from the wrist straps have turned the kite. It's now going parallel to the ground, increasing its pull and speed. <br /><br />There's a log in the sand about 40 feet ahead of me. I angle the kite so it will drag me to the log. Maybe I can grab it. 35, 30, 25.. The sand is abrading my stomach, filling my shorts. My eyes are mere slits and I'm spitting sand castles. I look at the log for a place to grab.. Oh shit! <br /><br />Its not a log. Its the rotting carcass of a sea lion. A cloud of flies fills the air and the stench fights its way up my nose, against the wind. I pull in my right arm and rub the wrist strap off against my shoulder, my elbows digging twin furrows in the sand. Wham, the right strap releases and the kite tries to dislocate my left. Without the balanced control lines, the kite spins its death spiral into the ground somewhere near the Pacific Coast Highway. <br /><br />The roar of a passing truck is in my ears. I'm not that close to the road, but I only realize it afterwards. I thought I was gonna be road pizza. I've stopped two feet from the corpse of the sea lion. Flies buzz around my head sensing fresh meat. <br /><br />I take off the other wrist strap and stand up. Corey is standing there on the sand dune, laughing like a hyena. I pick up my kite and follow the trail my body has created in the sand back to where it all began. There's almost 150 feet of drag marks and I've gone more than 250 feet from where I started. <br /><br />I ask Corey why he didn't stop me. He knew what was going to happen. The wind was too strong for that size kite. <br /><br />"Man, sometimes you have to learn from the experience. You have to experience to have a life. 'Sides, it was a hell of a show."Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-41518881968034252102010-07-06T08:12:00.000-05:002010-07-06T08:12:28.687-05:00A Vote For EDS Today Can Help Save Lives!<a href="http://www.celebdirtylaundry.com/2010/07/05/a-vote-for-eds-today-can-help-save-lives/?sms_ss=blogger">A Vote For EDS Today Can Help Save Lives!</a>Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-20714556143598141532009-12-10T17:37:00.010-06:002009-12-11T09:53:15.161-06:00The Snow BlowerOkay, for a fly fisherman, it’s getting close to when I have to pull out a chainsaw just to fish. You just cut a 3 foot circle in the ice and then a 25 foot long, one foot wide slot leading to the circle. Bob's your uncle, you can fly fish in the Winter in Nebraska. <br />But first, you have to get by the blizzards. Yes, I said the ugly word, blizzard.<br />For those of you that have never experienced a blizzard, go to your favorite ski slope at night. When they turn on the snow making machine, place a 50' wide fan behind it and crank it up to hurricane. Now stand there in the -10 degree weather with this in your face for 3 days. This is a blizzard. Wind chills down so low, atoms slow down. The upside, your mother-in-law will stay in West Palm Beach for Christmas instead of camping out in your spare bedroom. <br />Tuesday, we were scheduled to open Nebraska's Donner Party Season with a bit of wind and snow. Everyone makes a mad dash to the grocery store for toilet paper and milk. The only reason I can figure for this important combination is that folks sit around in their snow forts and make cocoa from chocolate-flavored ExLax. Just don't ask about the marshmallows. Really.. Don't. <br />Tuesday morning dawns and I call the snow line for work. SNOW DAY! Bonus. Let’s get the snow blower up to speed. I then remember the fun of using a snow blower in the wind. The snow comes back in your face, covering you from head to foot, you end up looking like the looser in a chainsaw ice block carving contest (I love chainsaws).<br />Hmm, okay, up in the man cave over the garage is a box with a cab for my snow blower. I bought it on Summer clearance sale a couple of years before. I get the thing down and install it. <br />It is a three-sided cab made of clear plastic with a steel tube frame that mounts on the handle bars. You put it on, step into the open back and plow away. Great. I take it out for the first test run that afternoon. Snow has covered my 120' driveway and I clear it away. Wind is at about 5 to 10 mph, snow blows back at me. Nothing, nada. Face is clear. Thing works like a charm. <br />Wednesday... another snow day. The difference being is that the wind has circled around from the North, the isobars tightened up and its howling. Snow's not coming down, its coming sideways. Three to five foot drifts cover my yard with two feet of blown snow over the driveway. <br />This is what my serious snow blowing machine was made for. Nine horse Brigs and Stratton behind a 29" throat, dual stage, six gears forward, two in reverse, power-drive, electric-start monster. Now outfitted with the ever important cab. Bwahahahaha! <br />I start up the driveway, wind swirls, blowing the snow 50 feet into the air. A few crystals make it past the cab, but nothing like it would be without it. I have about 3/4 of the drive done and am making passes up and down. On about the sixth pass, I turn the beast around in the street... and then... just as I pull the lever down to engage the power drive, a 50 mph gust catches the cab from behind. <br />The snow blower is now rocket propelled. It shoots forward, pulling me off my feet. I'm holding onto the handlebars as the monster goes mach snot down the driveway dragging me behind it. I'm now stretched out with my knees and toes making dual tracks in the snow. The Dickies insulated coveralls burst into flame, finally warming my frozen feet. I'm a snow blowing comet! <br />The snow chute on the machine spins like a top. Snow shooting out in all directions, flames out the back, the snow cone maker from Hell has a life of its own. I blast a chunk of snow through the neighbor's window, instantly flocking his Christmas tree. I think I’m flocked too. <br />More comes out the chute, not just snow, but the newspaper. It’s a frozen missile that takes out 17 tobogganers two blocks over. It’s like bowling with a shot put.<br />The crazed ice yacht takes the path of least resistance and whips around the house where the wind has cleared the snow. I crash through the fence, streaming wire like a Rorschach Christmas garland. <br />I then zip through the back yard where the dog does his business. Now the thing has become an instrument of mass destruction. Its shooting out tiny icy B.M.s. <br />The dog is running for its life. I'm afraid he's not going to make it. He then decides it’s a game, circles back and jumps for the snow coming out the top. Snow shoots down his throat, out the back end and writes Froehliche Weihnachten in Chinese characters on the side of the house (he's half dachshund, half Maltese). <br />And finally, as I'm about to crash through the garage, the cab flips over on top of the snow blower. The snow blower glides ever so calmly to a stop, I get to my feet, turn the machine into the wind, flip the cab back up before it can burst into flames from the heat of the motor, dump snow on my smoldering knees (hey, these coveralls look better in charcoal black), examine the pedicure on my toes, wonder where my boots are, and turn off the machine. The dog comes over and looks at me with that look of disappointment only a dog can muster. He pees on my leg. <br />I wheel the snow blower into the garage, wander into the house, and buy a ticket for the Bahamas, one-way. Never again.Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-65828936611748837362009-11-02T10:50:00.000-06:002009-11-02T10:51:56.274-06:00Frank's Fighting Craw on Facebook<object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/TlLNRyAcdqM&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/TlLNRyAcdqM&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object>Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-6923878380870210282009-10-16T07:45:00.002-05:002009-10-16T07:52:25.724-05:00Meandering<span style="color:#cc6600;">The following is an excerpt of a conversation discussing the previous post. It was pulled from the USENet Newsgroup Rec.Outdoors.Fishing.Fly with the authors permission.</span> <br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>Wolfgang:</strong> I recall a day on a stream somewhere in central Pennsylvania, lo these many years ago. There, upon the very bridge once traversed by the three billygoats gruff, stood a clutch of erstwhile fishermen who smelled of strong drink, and the truth was not in them. Eagerly and breathlessly, OH so eagerly and breathlessly, we watched the merry Frankster, standing stolid and steely-eyed in the foam and the froth, casting ever so persistently to the presumed fish which had long ago fled the wobbling shadows of the equally steadfast (and, admittedly, somewhat bloated) forms defiling the very asphalt above.....which latter, if you've ever seen it, you know is a pretty impressive (though not at all pretty) accomplishment.....asphalt ain't all that easy to defile.<br />Anyway, back in those days, the magnificent "bend like an oak or break like a" Reid was already (and justifiably) famous for having repeatedly (and with malice aforethought) pissed in the very face of death.<br />Um.....not real bright, some doubters might suggest, but panache, spelled with a capital.....uh.....whatever that first letter is, to the aficionado. We loved it. We ate it up. We waited with 'bated breath. We giggled in anticipation and elbowed each other in the ribs. We smiled. We laughed. We stank.<br />And then.......<br /><br /><strong>Handyman Mike:</strong> Ah, yes and as I was passing over the mountain in central Pa. I came across 2 souls attempting to coax a trout or two from a small stream. I slowed down and told them there was a storm a-brewing with clap of thunder and bolts of lightning. Haven't heard anything said the souls. Then came the clap of thunder and the bolts of lightning. Climb in the back I tell these 2 souls. So they climbed into the steel flatbed body (not tin}. Wasn't real sure if we were going to get them to the Cherry Run cabin unscathed or fried..........Was a great clave that year for sure..........<br /> <br /><strong>Wolfgang:</strong> Hadn't thought about that day for a long time. I've had many great days on trout streams. Sharing that one on Cherry Run with Mark, catching numerous sparkling brook jewels, ranks high among them. Riding back to the cabin in the back of a truck, dodging lightning bolts, gave the whole experience a certain quotidian comico-mystical quality worthy of treatment by someone like McManus.....or maybe Traver would be a better choice. Yeah, I think so. The bear in the tent would be more in McManus's line.<br />The only disappointment I recall in the trip was that day on the bridge. There we were, with front row seats at a show that promised certain disaster, excruciating physical pain, blood, and general mayhem, and Frank........Frank, the chiseling bastard, did not float down the stream upside-down, Frank did not have a leg broken by a falling tree, Frank did not fracture his skull on a bridge abutment, Frank did not bleed out after perforating a major artery with one of his famous fighting craws, Frank did not disappear in a pool of quicksand. No, Frank lost his bug in a shrubbery and then walked out of the stream unscathed, saying, "next!" <br />I wanted my money back. :(Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-84668627707073136112009-10-14T13:53:00.000-05:002009-10-14T14:14:57.076-05:00Just another dayI was just asked about falling out of the boat last week. "Wasn't that on the Lower Sac?" Naw, went swimming on the White in Arkansas. On the Lower Sac, I got a hook embedded in the node of my trigeminal nerve (which got infected causing excruciating pain and Bells Palsey) on the Lower Sac. Did fall off a cliff on the Rapidan, which wasn't flowing as fast as the water on the Rapid when I slipped in went through a chute. I was savaged by the Savage where I stepped off rock and did a feeding duck routine, which was nothing compared to the flood on the Rapahannock, which rose so fast I almost didn't make it across. We really can't forget Penns, where there have been so many memorable spills, but none really can compare with getting hung by my net over the 60 foot cliff on the Severn. I think that was after the tree fell around me on the Gunpowder. I did have that white water rafting trip on the Madison, sans raft, but I've also done that on the Kern, where the combination of tequila and eggnog nearly got me arrested for chumming. There was that killer catfish and leech combo on the Sacobia River in the Philippines, or the mines on the DMZ in South Korea outside of Gosong. The butt luge down the hill to the Swiss Millstream in Germany rivaled the semi-drowning on the Platte in Colorado. So, no, I didn't fall out of the boat on the Lower Sac.Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-70774286339286187922009-10-08T18:36:00.002-05:002009-10-08T18:39:02.494-05:00I've looked at the White from both sides nowOkay, I'm down to Mountain Home, Arkansas for the FFF Southern Council Conclave. This event is close to, if not exceeding the national convention. I had some classes (i.e. spey casting in case steelhead start running up the Platte River at some time in the near future) and seminars. One thing that was cool, I was videotaped tying my Frank's Fighting Craw. The guy who did it is going to edit it and put it up on UTube in a month or so. <br />Yeh, yeh. Blah, blah, blah.... Come Saturday and after enduring all the camaraderie BS, I needed to go fishing, so it’s off to the North Fork of the White River in Southern Mo. This water looks a lot like Penns. About the same size and flow. Unfortunately, no fish. Nice diversion. On the way back from Missouri, I did see two signs side-by-side. Both had arrows pointing off to the side road. The first one was for a cemetery, the second… a taxidermist. At least they give you options. <br />Okay, Sunday, "bored" meeting in the a.m. and then time to go fishing again. Mark Borserine from Kansas says he wants to go out. Mark is an FFF Certified Casting Instructor and a hell of a fisherman (some guys can cast but not fish). <br />We meet up with Joe, our guide. Joe has an Arkansas jon boat. These are about 18’ long and only about 4’ wide. Really nice and stable. We tool on down the main course of the White River, primarily chuckin’ and duckin’ with a big, pink San Juan worm. This fishing is extremely productive but not really fly fishing IMHO. However, it’s a lot of fun, so we keep at it till the guide wants to go home. He doesn’t like being on the water after dark. Something about unseen logs and alligators. We did catch a bunch of fish in the 14” to 19” range. <br />On Monday, Mark and I have an all-day trip with a fairly famous White River guide on the White. We’ll call him “Eastwood” to protect the innocent. Yes, he is one of the finest guides on the White River, but we don’t want the following to be associated with him.<br />Early on, Eastwood commits two cardinal sins. One, he says that the weather and water conditions are perfect for catching big trout and lots of them. Its overcast and they are running 4 generators at the dam. Secondarily, after we had to duck under a stream-side limb, he mentioned that he’d been guiding for over 11 years and had never lost a client out of the boat. <br />Bwahahahahahahahahaha! He don’t know me very well, do he? I calmly replied “until today.” (cue suspenseful music in the background)<br />We head out and find out that since we’re “good casters,” Eastwood will eschew chuckin’ and duckin’. We will “cast like men!” Okay, here it is Thursday, that was Monday. That being said, casting 8 wt rods with sinking fly lines and weighted flies will stretch out joints that have not been stretched since high school and I am still sore. <br />One of the things that Eastwood boat has is a drag chain. This is a length of rope ending in a heavy chain that drags along the bottom, slowing the drift down river. Well, between a really nice stable platform in the Arkansas jon boat, the drag chain keeping us at the right speed, and finally, some booming 75 foot double hauls with a high speed strip of big fly, I’m finally fishing. <br />And then, then…the quietude was destroyed. I was standing in the front of the boat, minding my own business, as we drifted downriver. Since the chain was attached to the front of the boat, we were going downstream motor first. The running line was a bit stiff and it had tangled a bit in the bottom of the boat, so I was working to clear the tangle. <br />The boat decided to spin a bit, so was out of line with the current about 45 degrees when the drag chain caught on a log and the boat snapped back in line. Basic physics kicked in. See, I was standing above one point on the Earth. Physics says that unless I do something to change that, I will remain at that point, even if the object I’m standing on decides to abandon ship and move to another point in this space/time continuum. One thing that did act upon me was the gunnel, hitting me in the back of the knees. <br />Okay, now I’m airborne, doing a 180 degree spin from the vertical. I then hit the water, the first temp check is done with the back of my neck. Hmm, 52 degrees. Chill. I go under, do a divers turn, think “this will make a great story,” say hi to the 41lb 8 oz trout that was cruising under our boat, and come back up. <br />As I break the surface, I see the side of the boat and an oar handle reaching out to me. I grab at the oar, but it’s too far away. The next thing I know, I’m floating down the river with the oar beside me. Okay, now time for an inventory. I’ve still got the guide’s rod and reel in my hand. The fly has snagged on the gunnel so the line is now screaming like I got a tuna. I reach out and grab the oar. Can’t hurt. I even still have my hat on. <br />Inventory over, its action time. I remember my white water rescue training and put the oar under my left arm, streamward, switch the rod to my right, turn and put my feet together and float downstream, feet up. In this way, I can use the oar as a keel and my feet will bounce off anything that wants to pull me under. Using my arm as a fulcrum, I paddle myself over to shore. <br />Meanwhile, back at the boat, the quick snap had thrown Mark into Eastwood, tangling the two up. Eastwood pushes Mark away and he then tries to reach me with the oar, finally throwing it at me. Mark and Eastwood then try to turn the boat and come after me. Oopsy, the drag chain is still locked on the log. They get free and then head down to get me.<br />I’m about 50 to 75 yards downstream. The water was running at about 15,000 cfs, so I moved fairly quickly. I hand Mark the fly rod, Eastwood is relieved. It’s about 1200 bucks worth of equipment and its his. Oh, granted, he’s happy that I’m safe, but that’s a really nice rod. I can totally understand this. <br />They pick me up, but unfortunately, I’ve no spare clothes. They’re all 15 miles away at the campground. Mark loans me a pair of pants and a shirt. Mark and I are not the same size, so I look like some back country bum with a rope belt.<br />We fish the rest of the day without much luck. Yes, we catch fish, but more on the size that we got with the chuckin’ and duckin’. None of those 7 to 10 pounders we were looking for. <br />Oh well, I was fishing and not working.Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-10702459090551776662009-08-22T19:55:00.001-05:002009-08-22T19:57:35.785-05:00HatEyes are EvilThese are the industrial strength magnifiers that clip to your hat brim. Just flip them down, bobs your uncle, instant magnifiers to tie on that fly. Not cheap crap, but optically ground plastic with a steel frame.<br />The evil downside. I've got a hat from a Pennsylvania <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">flyshop</span> (will be named in the personal injury lawsuit). The hat brim comes <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">pre</span>-curved so it will never work as semi-formal "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">gansta</span>" wear (i.e. pool table flat brim, hat cocked 45 degrees to starboard or port). Due to this severe curve, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">HatEyes</span> will not slide up under the brim of this hat when I'm done tying on fly number 63. No big deal.<br />Okay, scene setter, I'm on a lake, middle of August, bright sunshine, 2 p.m., fish is directly ahead of me to the West, I inch back the fly, twitch, burn, HOLEY CRAP! MY UPPER LIP IS ON FIRE!!! WHAT THE HELL IS THIS? MY NOSE HAIRS BURST INTO FLAME!!! CRAP!! BAD WORD, BAD WORD, BAD WORD!!! ITS THE <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">HATEYES</span>!!! THEY'VE TURNED INTO MAGNIFYING GLASSES AND MY UPPER LIP IS THE ANT NEST!!!<br />I swear to God. I now have two blisters on my upper lip. Each about the size of a pencil eraser and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">slightly</span> square. Think its time to grow a mustache before Monday or I'm gonna take SO much crap at work.<br />Frank Reid<br />(maybe I just say I went to the dermatologist and had a couple of suspicious spots burned off)Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-15250254692028457802009-08-05T07:49:00.003-05:002009-08-05T08:14:55.641-05:00Facebook QuestionairesIf you're on Facebook, you've probably seen these friggen questionaires. People want to know more about you. Well... now they know a bit too much, so, I might have to....<br /><br />If I’ve recently tagged you, please identify yourself the 10 digit number you’ll find on the tag below your dorsal fin. <br /><br />1. Elaborate on your default picture?<br />Came with the frame.<br /><br />2. What's your current state of being?<br />Semi-solid, but can be quite gaseous<br /><br />3. Ever have a near-death experience?<br />Hey, it was only an “attempted murder charge,” or, as they called it in the Philippines, “frustrated homicide.”<br /><br />4. Name an obvious quality you have?<br />Extreme good luck (otherwise, I’d be very, very dead)<br /><br />5. What's the name of the song that's stuck in your head right now?<br />The Crawdad Song as sung by Burl Ives<br /><br />6. Name a celebrity you would marry?<br />HAL 9000<br /><br />7. Who will cut and paste this first?<br />Me! I’m already doing that.... Duh!<br /><br />8. Has anyone ever said you look like a celebrity?<br />Yes, see question 3.<br /><br />9. Do you wear a watch?<br />The watch isn’t the issue. It’s what the watch band is made of.<br /><br />10. Do you have anything pierced?<br />Other people. See question 3.<br /><br />11. Do you like pain?<br />No, but IV Morphine and Valium kick butt!<br /><br />12. Do you like to shop?<br />Only in West Yellowstone, MT. Five fly shops centered on a microbrewery with great Carolina BBQ. I did have to pay for the damages and police barriers. <br /><br />13. What was the last thing you paid for with cash?<br />Concealed carry permit.<br /><br />14. What is your favorite lamp that you own?<br />Lamp, favorite friggen lamp!!!!???? Slowly I turned, step by step... See question 3.<br /><br />15. How many TVs are in your house?<br />Uh uh. You’ve not Mirandized me so you’re not getting an answer to that.1<br /><br />6. What is on your desktop background?<br />Black plastic.<br /><br />17. What is the background on your cell phone?<br />Well, it was originally manufactured in a sweatshop in China using convicts as labor. These convicts were waiting to be organ donors for rich Europeans who didn’t want to wait on their national lists, but that’s neither here nor there. After that, it was shrink wrapped and put in a container ship that was owned by a front company for....<br /><br />18. What was the last movie you watched in theaters?<br />Theaters are for theater, sides, I’ve not been allowed back in a theater since the Papillion incident back in ’73. <br /><br />19. What was the last book you read?<br />ASN.1 Complete by Larmouth<br /><br />20. Do you talk in your sleep?<br />Can’t, per National Security Directive.<br /><br />21. Ocean or pool?<br />Ocean. To easy to spot the bodies at the bottom of the pool<br /><br />22. Did you ever host a party that was busted by the cops?<br />Okay, back to question 3.<br /><br />23. Current Crush?<br />Orange?<br /><br />24. Favorite Color?<br />Orange?<br /><br />25. Window seat or aisle seat?<br />Window with emergency exit. When crashing, I want to climb out on the wing and jump off five feet from the ground. Then I’ll live ‘cause I know I can survive a five foot jump.<br /><br />26. Ever met anyone famous?<br />I’ve told you before, it was a misunderstanding and the restraining order is only valid in California.<br /><br />27. Do you feel that you've had a truly successful life?<br />You would have to decide on which life you’re referring to.<br /><br />28. Do you twirl your spaghetti or cut it?<br />I prefer to stand it on end. <br /><br />29. Ricki Lake or Oprah Winfrey?<br />Hmm, I work for a living, so, with millions of others, I can say... Who?<br /><br />30. Baseball or Football?<br />And what do you have against naked curling?<br /><br />31. How long do your showers last?<br />Fairly quick, though the thundershowers with the big piece of sheet metal for the noise and pelting myself with ice cubes tend to last a bit longer.<br /><br />32. Do you know how to drive a stick?<br />Sticks have neither motors nor legs. You’re on crack.<br /><br />33. Cake or ice cream?<br />Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, .... see question 3.<br /><br />34. Are you self-conscious?<br />More on the level of self aware.<br /><br />35. Have you ever given money to a homeless person?<br />I pay taxes, don’t I?<br /><br />36. Have you been in love?<br />See question 26.<br /><br />37. What is your favorite part of the Day/Night?<br />I prefer dawn or dusk when the guards’ eyes are adjusting to the light.<br /><br />38. Have you ever ridden in an ambulance?<br />Yeh, and they get really pissed when you drive off with one. <br /><br />39. Can you tango?<br />Actually, yes I can. <br /><br />40. Last gift you received?<br />I prefer to give gifts. Hmm, if you tell a German that his meal is a “gift aus Frank,” he’ll run screaming into the night.<br /><br />41. Last sport you played?<br />See item 30. <br /><br />42. What would you like to spend a lot of time doing?<br />Don’t you mean “who?”<br /><br />43. Last wedding attended?<br />My daughter’s.<br /><br />44. Favorite fast food restaurant?<br />Bill’s House of Greyhounds. Talk about your fast food.<br /><br />45. Most hated food?<br />Spaghetti. Due to my eating habits (see item 28), it’s become a diet food for me.<br /><br />46. Can you sing?<br />I didn’t tell ‘em nutin. Nutin, I say! <br /><br />47. Last person that called you?<br />Houdini<br /><br />48. What's your least favorite chore?<br />Paris Hilton. Oh, you said chore. Then, Paris Hilton fits.<br /><br />49. Favorite Drinks?<br />Well, there’s one tall drink of water...<br /><br />50. Have you been on a cruise?<br />How ‘bout, “Have you paid for a cruise?”<br /><br />51. Are you a vegetarian?<br />No, I’ve got reinforced fenders and a scoop shovel.<br /><br />52. Do you believe in Heaven?<br />Who’s version? <br /><br />53. Favorite show?<br />With or without the telescope?<br /><br />54. What jewelry do you wear?<br />Do these electronic bracelets count?<br /><br />55. Are you eating?<br />No, digesting, maybe summarizing. <br /><br />56. Do you eat the stems of broccoli?<br />I feed them to my dog so he gets broccoli farts. Scares the crap out of himself.<br /><br />57. Do you make commitments?<br />No, but I’ve been committed.<br /><br />58. Can you dance?<br />Okay, I see your plan. You’re trying to trip me up after question 39. It’s not going to work. Keep it up, and I’ll see that you’re assembling cell phones in China.<br /><br />59. Would you ever have plastic surgery?<br />Used to. Now I just eliminate the witnesses.<br /><br />60. What do you wear to bed?<br />You’re gonna tell that guy from item 49, aren’t you?<br /><br />61. Have you ever done anything illegal?<br />Charges dropped due to lack of evidence and witnesses. <br /><br />62. Can you roll your tongue?<br />No, but I can yours. Old fashion, cast iron curling irons work best.<br /><br />64. What is your hair color?<br />Uh, platinum blond. Yeah, that’s it. <br /><br />65. Future child's name?<br />Oh Crap!<br /><br />66. Do you snore?<br />I was accused of snoring once. See item 3. <br /><br />67. If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?<br />Let me check the extradition laws and get back to you.<br /><br />68. Do you sleep with stuffed animals?<br />Just a deer mount.<br /><br />69. If you won the lottery, what would you do first?<br />Sign the friggen ticket! 9 times, NINE TIMES I’VE WON THE STUPID THING AND FORGOT TO SIGN THE TICKET!!!<br /><br />70. Gold or silver?<br />Silver swords and golden axes cannot rend this helm of mine, but going to take your castle, with its wenches so divine.<br /><br />71. City, beach or country?<br />See item 67.<br /><br />72. What was the last thing you touched?<br />No fingerprints or DNA, see item 15.<br /><br />73. Where did you eat out last?<br />See item 42.<br /><br />74. What do you want to be when you grow up?<br />Grow up. What, you got some Entwash? You think I’m short, is that it? <br /><br />75. How many siblings do you have?<br />My mom married and buried 3 husbands. I have no idea anymore.<br /><br />76. Do you like your hometown?<br />Now that they’ve closed the prison, its just not that homey any more.<br /><br />78. Speak any languages?<br />A kurve anya pichebe.<br /><br />79. Play any instruments?<br />I just fiddle around... or a square, may haps a decahedron.<br /><br />80. Do you miss your past?<br />The witness protection folks say to forget about it.<br /><br />81. Do you miss anyone?<br />Yes, very, very much. <br /><br />82. Do you like the snow?<br />Arrrghhh!!! Hydrogen Hydroxide, DiHydrogen Monoxide, dihydrogenated oxygen, DHMO.... that’s some nasty crap man... <br /><br />83. Do you believe ex-s can be friends?<br />That’s what I asked the judge. See item 26.<br /><br />84. Have you ever fired a gun?<br />Bwhahahahahahaha!<br /><br />85. Have you felt sad in the past week?<br />The pits of despair.<br /><br />86. Have you ever been back stabbed by a friend?<br />And he didn’t know about the cuirass I wear under the polo shirt.<br /><br />87. Have you ever flunked a test?<br />Rorschach<br /><br />88. Have you ever gotten a detention?<br />Detention? Didn’t you read about item 18?<br /><br />89. What are you going to do after this survey?<br />Hit this ankle bracelet with a taser.<br /><br />90. Last person you texted?<br />Old school texting (pen and paper) to the appeals court.<br /><br />91. Name the people you have been friends with the longest?<br />Didn’t you read item 80?<br /><br />92. How did you get one of your biggest scars?<br />Yah know, you really can “bust a gut” laughing.<br /><br />93. Last person you said "I love you" to?<br />My bride<br /><br />94. What makes you feel better when you are upset?<br />Either booze or exercise. But never, NEVER combine a 5th of scotch with a Bowflex machine unless you have an unlimited supply of ceiling tiles.<br /><br />95. Where is your favorite vacation spot?<br />Watching the moving rocks in Death Valley.<br /><br />96. Do you have a dog?<br />Will at about noon, see item 44.<br /><br />97. Chocolate or regular milk?<br />Now, is this two nouns, one with an adjective? A choice of two adjectives for one noun? You're trying to trip me up again, aren't you. Yah know, that kinda pisses me off.<br /><br />98. If you could die any way?<br />In my sleep like my grandfather, not screaming and wailing like the folks in the bus he was driving.<br /><br />99. Who is your literary Role Model?<br />Smeagol<br /><br />100. Are you ready for the future?<br />I’m ready for anything once I get off this floor. You know how much a taser on the ankle hurts?Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-76699135415574871632009-07-07T22:27:00.002-05:002009-07-07T22:28:32.154-05:00Death of a Quilt HeroNo, it’s not the slow death of cancer or the quick one of using that fat quarter of imported brown batik to clean up after changing the oil in the car (hey, it looked like an oily rag). No, this was “death by Alex Anderson.” <br />Let’s roll back a couple of days. The blushing bride is going out of town, to, surprise, surprise, a quilt show. One of her requests of me was to take some of the 30 plus hours of Simply Quilts reruns that she’s recorded on the Digital Video Recorder (DVR) and transfer them to the DVD Recorder so she can save them to DVD. <br />No problemo, I’m a computer geek. I’ll download them from one system and upload them on another. Whoops, the cable company’s DVR won’t let that happen. The USB port is disabled. <br />Okay, do it the old fashion way. “What’s that Dear? You don’t want the commercials? But, but that means…”<br />“Yes.”<br />“You can’t possibly mean…”<br />“Yes I can.” <br />“I’ve got to WATCH the shows!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”<br />So, I start recording them, one at a time. Without commercials, I’m cutting a half hour show down to between 19 and a half and 23 minutes. <br />Hour two, this isn’t so bad. She’s got a big smile.<br />Hour three, I’ve almost got her commercial breaks timed.<br />Hour four, hey, that technique to hand dye silk is pretty cool. <br />Hour six, oh for Pete’s sake. Will you look at the points on that guest’s quilt? They’ve got to be a quarter inch off each and every one! What was she thinking fussy cutting that stripe fabric on the bias? <br />Hour eight, DON”T LET NANCY KIRK IN FRONT OF A SEWING MACHINE!!! She’s a quilt historian, not a quilter.<br />Hour twelve, Okay Alex, stop smiling and stop talking to me like I’m an idiot. I know the how to use a roller cutter. <br />Hour fifteen….. Getting sucked in… Must stop.. but that technique on the Nigerian quilts is so cool.. <br />Hour seventeen and a half… Alex, look at that hair style. What were you thinking?<br />Hour twenty two.. CRASH!! The door gets kicked in. Five male friends rush into the room and grab me. “It’s an intervention, Frank. It was either you or Brittany Spears and you look better with your head shaved.” “But,,, they’re going to demonstrate Origami quilting!!! Let me goooooo!!!” <br />Now, I’m writing from the drag strip. We’re waiting for the races to start. This being the first week of March in Nebraska, we’ve got a long wait. I said they were friends, didn’t say they were smart. <br />Hmm, I wonder if I can do a cigar silk type quilt out of these wrist bands.Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-4511618014212558772009-07-07T07:50:00.002-05:002009-07-07T07:55:13.361-05:00Stories of the Full Reid gets rave reviewsThe now internationally famous blog "Stories of the Full Reid" gained more accolades today. Writing from Facebook, a site with apparently billions of readers (billions, is that right? Have the staff research that.), internationally famous country star and fly guy, Clark Reid was quoted as saying: <a href="http://www.facebook.com/HonkyTonker?ref=mf">Clark Reid</a> at 7:48am July 7 excellent<br /><br />More breaking news as it occurs, if we hear it, and we're not asleep.Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-79053668121005493372009-07-07T07:36:00.002-05:002009-07-07T07:46:04.423-05:00What Clark said!Breaking News - Blogger Beats Everyone to the Scoop!<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/HonkyTonker?ref=nf">Clark Reid</a> BLOGGING Never before have so many people with so little to say said so much to so few.<br /><br />You heard it here first! Or, kinda first. Well, second, but no one reads the source, even though its got like a billion users...Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-89916504776649949552009-06-23T22:07:00.003-05:002011-03-25T10:41:06.878-05:00The Electric Fence (stolen from the web)This one came to me via a USENet newsgroup. Author unknown.<br /><br />Thought y'all should read this in case you're thinking of installing an electric fence!<br />We have the standard 6ft. fence in the backyard, and a few months ago, I heard about burglaries increasing dramatically in the entire city. To make sure this never happened to me, I got an electric fence and ran a single wire along the top of the fence. Actually, I got the biggest cattle charger Tractor Supply had, made for 26 miles of fence. I then used an 8 ft. long ground rod, drove 7.5 feet into the ground. The ground rod is the key, with the more you have in the ground, the better the fence works.<br />One day I'm mowing the back yard with my cheapo Wal-Mart 6hp Big Wheel push mower. The hot wire is broken and laying out in the yard. I knew for a fact that I unplugged the charger. I pushed the mower around the wire and reached down to grab it, to throw it out of the way. It seems as though I hadn't remembered to unplug it after all.<br />Now I'm standing there, I've got the running lawnmower in my right hand and the 1.7 gigavolt fence wire in the other hand. Keep in mind the charger is about the size of a marine battery and has a picture of an upside down cow on fire on the cover.<br />Time stood still.<br />The first thing I notice is my balls trying to climb up the front side of my body. My ears curled downwards and I could feel the lawnmower ignition firing in the backside of my brain. Every time that Briggs & Stratton rolled over, I could feel the spark in my head. I was literally at one with the engine. It seems as though the fence charger and the lawnmower were fighting over who would control my electrical impulses. Science says you cannot crap and pee at the same time. I beg to differ. Not only did I do both at once, but my bowels emptied 3 different times in less than half of a second. It was a Matrix kind of bowel movement, where time is creeping along and you're all leaned back and "BAM, BAM, BAM" you just crap your pants 3 times; It seemed like there were minutes in between, but in reality it was so close together it was like exhaust pulses from a big block Chevy turning 8 grand. At this point I'm about 30 minutes (maybe 2 seconds) into holding onto the fence wire. My hand is wrapped around the wire palm down so I can't let go. I grew up on a farm so I know all about electric fences... but Dad always had those "piece of crap" chargers made by International or whoever that were like 9 volts and just 'kinda tickled. This I could not let go of.<br />The 8 foot long ground rod is now accepting signals from me through the permadamp Ark-La-Tex river bottom soil. At this point I'm thinking I'm going to have to just man up and take, until lawnmower runs out of gas. Damn!, I think, as I remember I just filled the tank! Now the lawnmower is starting to run rough. It has settled into a loping run pattern as if it had some kind of big lawnmower race cam in it.<br />Covered in poop and pee and with my balls on my chest, I think 'Oh God please let me die... pleeeeze let me die'. But nooooo, it settles into the rough lumpy cam idle nicely and remains there, like a big bore roller cam EFI motor waiting for the go command from its owner's right foot.<br />So here I am in the middle of July, 104 degrees, 80% humidity, standing in my own backyard, begging God to kill me. God did not take me that day... he left me there covered in my own fluids to writhing the misery my own stupidity had created.<br />I honestly don't know how I got loose from the wire... I woke up laying on the ground hours later. The lawnmower was beside me, out of gas. It was later on in the day and I was sunburned. There were two large dead grass spots where I had been standing, and then another long skinny dead spot were the wire had laid while I was on the ground still holding on to it. I assume finally had a seizure and in the resulting thrashing had somehow let go of the wire.<br />Upon waking from my electrically induced sleep I realized a few things.<br />1- Three of my teeth seem to have melted.<br />2- I now have cramps in the bottoms of my feet and my right butt cheek (not the left, just the right).<br />3- Poop and pee when all mixed together, do not smell as bad as you might think.<br />4- My left eye will not open.<br />5- My right eye will not close.<br />6- The lawnmower runs like a sumbitch now. Seriously! I think our little session cleared out some carbon fouling or something, because it was better than new after that.<br />7- My balls are still smaller than average yet they are almost a foot long.<br />8- I can turn on the TV in the Game Room by farting while thinking of the number 4 (still don't understand this!)<br />That day changed my life. I now have a new found respect for things. I appreciate the little things more, and now I always triple check to make sure the fence is unplugged before I mow.<br />The good news, is that if a burglar does try to come over the fence, I can clearly visualize what my security system will do to him, and THAT gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling all over, which also reminds me to triple check before I mow.Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-66503809569807965622009-06-23T22:05:00.003-05:002011-03-25T10:41:31.065-05:00The Squirrel (stolen from the web)I will repost here a couple of stories I didn't write, but have been told are in my style.<br /><br />Neighborhood Hazard (or: Why the Cops Won't Patrol Brice Street Anymore)<br />Author: Daniel Meyer <br />I never dreamed slowly cruising on my motorcycle through a residential neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous! Little did I suspect ... I was on Brice Street - a very nice neighborhood with perfect lawns and slow traffic. As I passed an oncoming car, a brown furry missile shot out from under it and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of me. It was a squirrel, and must have been trying to run across the road when it encountered the car. I really was not going very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid it - it was that close. I hate to run over animals, and I really hate it on a motorcycle, but a squirrel should pose no danger to me. I barely had time to brace for the impact. Animal lovers, never fear. Squirrels, I discovered, can take care of themselves!<br />Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He was standing on his hind legs and facing my oncoming Valkyrie with steadfast resolve in his little beady eyes. His mouth opened, and at the last possible second, he screamed and leapt! I am pretty sure the scream was squirrel for, "Bonzai!" or maybe, "Die you gravy-sucking, heathen scum!" The leap was nothing short of spectacular ... as he shot straight up, flew over my windshield, and impacted me squarely in the chest.<br />Instantly, he set upon me. If I did not know better, I would have sworn he brought 20 of his little buddies along for the attack. Snarling, hissing, and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity. As I was dressed only in a light T-shirt, summer riding gloves, and jeans this was a bit of a cause for concern. This furry little tornado was doing some damage! Picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and leather gloves, puttering at maybe 25 mph down a quiet residential street, and in the fight of his life with a squirrel. And losing...<br />I grabbed for him with my left hand. After a few misses, I finally managed to snag his tail. With all my strength, I flung the evil rodent off to the left of the bike, almost running into the right curb as I recoiled from the throw. That should have done it. The matter should have ended right there. It really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one of the pristinely kept yards and gone on about his business, and I could have headed home. No one would have been the wiser.<br />But this was no ordinary squirrel. This was not even an ordinary pissed-off squirrel. This was an EVIL MUTANT ATTACK SQUIRREL OF DEATH! Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his little hands and, with the force of the throw, swung around and with a resounding thump and an amazing impact, he landed squarely on my back and resumed his rather antisocial and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take my left glove with him! The situation was not improved. Not improved at all. His attacks were continuing, and now I could not reach him.<br />I was startled to say the least. The combination of the force of the throw, only having one hand (the throttle hand) on the handlebars, and my jerking back unfortunately put a healthy twist through my right hand and into the throttle. A healthy twist on the throttle of a Valkyrie can only have one result. Torque. This is what the Valkyrie is made for, and she is very, very good at it. The engine roared and the front wheel left the pavement. The squirrel screamed in anger. The Valkyrie screamed in ecstasy. I screamed in ... well ... I just plain screamed.<br />Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a slightly squirrel-torn-t-shirt, wearing only one leather glove, and roaring at maybe 50 mph and rapidly accelerating down a quiet residential street on one wheel and with a demonic squirrel on his back. The man and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder. With the sudden acceleration I was forced to put my other hand back on the handlebars and try to get control of the bike. This was leaving the mutant squirrel to his own devices, but I really did not want to crash into somebody's tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had not yet figured out how to release the throttle ... my brain was just simply overloaded.<br />I did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little effect against the massive power of the big cruiser. About this time the squirrel decided that I was not paying sufficient attention to this very serious battle (maybe he is an evil mutant NAZI attack squirrel of death), and he came around my neck and got INSIDE my full-face helmet with me. As the faceplate closed partway, he began hissing in my face. I am quite sure my screaming changed intensity. It had little effect on the squirrel, however.<br />The RPMs on The Dragon maxed out (since I was not bothering with shifting at the moment) so her front end started to drop. Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a very raggedly-torn T-shirt, wearing only one leather glove, roaring at probably 80 mph, still on one wheel, with a large puffy squirrel's tail sticking out of the mostly closed full-face helmet.<br />By now the screams are probably getting a little hoarse. Finally I got the upper hand ... I managed to grab his tail again, pulled him out of my helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as I could. This time it worked ... sort-of. Spectacularly sort-of ... so to speak. Picture a new scene. You are a cop. You and your partner have pulled off on a quiet residential street and parked with your windows down to do some paperwork. Suddenly a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a torn T-shirt flapping in the breeze, and wearing only one leather glove, moving at probably 80 mph on one wheel, and screaming bloody murder roars by and with all his strength throws a live squirrel grenade directly into your police car.<br />I heard screams. They weren't mine... I managed to get the big motorcycle under control and dropped the front wheel to the ground. I then used maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a cloud of tire smoke at the stop sign of a busy cross street. I would have returned to fess up (and to get my glove back). I really would have. Really. Except for two things. First, the cops did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned about me at the moment. When I looked back, the doors on both sides of the patrol car were flung wide open. The cop from the passenger side was on his back, doing a crab walk into somebody's front yard, quickly moving away from the car. The cop who had been in the driver's seat was standing in the street and was aiming a riot shotgun at his own police car.<br />So the cops were not interested in me. They often insist to "let the professionals handle it" anyway. That was one thing. The other? Well, I could clearly see shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery from the back seat. But I could also swear I saw the squirrel in the back window, shaking his little fist at me, shooting me the finger ... That is one dangerous squirrel. And now he has a patrol car. A somewhat shredded patrol car ... but it was all his.<br />I took a deep breath, turned on my turn-signal, made a gentle right turn off of Brice Street, and sedately left the neighborhood. I decided it was best to just buy myself a new pair of gloves. And some Band-Aids.Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-51854738084231733102009-04-04T08:31:00.004-05:002011-03-25T10:42:11.609-05:00Fathers Day Dreams (stolen from the web)<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tR6PoUTtZx8/SddhhaidVYI/AAAAAAAAAuI/xht6Lvmg5As/s1600-h/dewalt.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320828711448958338" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 180px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tR6PoUTtZx8/SddhhaidVYI/AAAAAAAAAuI/xht6Lvmg5As/s400/dewalt.jpg" border="0" /></a> Found a new tool that every man needs for his tool box. Come on Fathers Day!!!!!!!<br /><div><br />New Nail Gun, made by DeWALT. It can drive a 16-D nail through a 2 X 4 at 200 yards. This makes construction a breeze, you can sit in your lawn chair and build a fence. Just get your wife to hold the fence boards in place while you sit back, relax with a cold drink and when she has the board in the right place, just fire away. With the hundred round magazine, you can build the fence with a minimum of reloading. After a day of fence building with the new DeWalt Rapid fire nail gun, the wife will not ask you build or fix anything else again. </div>Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6088829662890644036.post-70357539348871106542009-03-04T15:31:00.002-06:002009-03-04T15:36:36.221-06:00Quitting SmokingA couple of years ago I quit smoking. Relapsed, and today, 4 Mar 2009, is my quit day. Thought I would reprise what it was like the last time I did this:<br /><br />April 12th – Quit smoking. It’s a Monday, got my 21 mg patch, life is good. A few craves. Not really that bad.<br /><br />April 13th – Craves are really cranking up. Ripped my shirt pocket getting my cigarettes out. Turned out to be my Palm Pilot so I lit my stylus and all was cool. People around me seem to be crankier than usual.<br /><br />April 14th – Cat walked across my face last night while I was sleeping. Now I’ve got to replace that damned skylight. Got in the car and snorted my upholstery. Smelled like smoke. Pulled a few threads out and put them in the lighter. Ahh, just what I needed. No cigs though.<br /><br />April 15th – It’s my birthday. Fascinated by the candles on the cake. Burning.. nice… Friggen’ drivers in this state are damned idiots. Now I understand road rage. They were in their first week on not smoking. Amazing how easy it is to run an 18-wheeler off the road. Asshole. I flashed him so he could change lanes and he didn’t even bother with a courtesy flash back at me. The team’s secretary quit. Said she wouldn’t put up with my attitude. Family is still supportive but they put the dog in a kennel.<br /><br />April 16th – Wife bought me a carton of cigs today. What’s up with that? I stuffed them in her bra. Told her I was a non-smoker. She packed up the kids and went to her Mom’s on the left coast. Hell, if she won’t support me, good riddance. Man, almost through the week.<br /><br />April 17th – Rained last night. Water came pouring in the skylight onto the bed. Nail gun and that nasty looking avant garde poster the wife bought sure cured that shit. Police showed up. Hey, if a guy wants to stand on his roof in his BVDs and scream at the heavens while shooting nails at passing cars, it’s his God given right. Got out in time to get to work. Found out that they have non-smoking cells at the sheriffs’ department.<br /><br />April 18th – I think the “flatulence phase” is all bullshit. Had nachos and beer last night topped off with some leftover deviled eggs. Doc says I should clean my system out so I had a couple of glasses of Metamucil. No problems that I noticed. Boss finally realized my brilliance and moved me to a private office and out of the cube farm. Very supportive office mates helped me move.<br /><br />April 19th – Kinda jittery. Getting healthy. Guy at the gym told me I was supposed to take off the patches and replace them, not just put on another one. I super glued his sneakers to the Nordic Trac, set it on high then busted off the stop/start button. Friggen, self-righteous, no-neck health nuts. Had time to go to the gym ‘cause I lost my job. I wouldn’t have thrown that damn printer through the window if some inconsiderate asshole would have refilled it with paper when it ran out. Shame to loose the job. New secretary was really hot (in a septuagenarian kinda way). Full Week Done!!! Woo Woo!<br /><br />April 20th – Arm’s in a sling. Gonna sue the grocery store. All’s I did was try to light a damn cinnamon stick and you’d thought I was a mass murderer. Took seven of the bastards to take me down and there’s one bag boy whose gonna walk funny for a while. Asshole lawyer of mine handed back his retainer. Told me I needed help. Screw him. He’s never smoked. Doesn’t know what its like.<br /><br />April 21st – Man, 10 days. Look at my quit meter. I feel so much better now. I’ve learned to ignore the distractions like the banging on my door and the sirens. You know, if you inhale right, tear gas can give you a rush just like a cigarette. I feel like I have superhuman strength…<br /><br />Entered into evidence on this day April 22, 2004 in the case of Maryland against Reid.Frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05250187366498698267noreply@blogger.com0