I miss the days of special ordering microwave carts from O’Sullivan Industries Inc.
Have you ever called your computer a dickfuck? I just did. I’m as mad at my scanner as I am at the DPT (Department of Traffic Enforcement). ((meter maids)) Put the scanner and the computer together and I’m really really angry. Hearing what makes someone angry is as boring as seeing pictures of their vacation. You people don’t care about my problems. You’re upset you can’t make comments. I don’t know why you can’t either. But I have put up some safeguards so I don’t have four hundred comments a day about erectile dysfunction show up here. I wasn’t born knowing any of this and I expect to die really confused. Smart people don’t get angry. Anger is the biggest block to learning. I just punched my scanner bed so hard it no longer functions. I won’t learn, tonight, what I did wrong the first time. There will be no more scanning lessons. If you’re having trouble figuring something out, stop and ask yourself: Am I angry?
If you are, you’re gonna have to calm down before you can get any further. I’m gonna lay down with ice on my fist.
Sean’s building a two story playhouse with a slide and a climbing wall. This was the first days effort. Send me a scan of your drawing Sean and I’ll put it up here.
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photo posted from my iPhone
These two little rusty machines look like toy tractors, but they are gas engine power generators from an older time. Rus bought three to fix up. The concept is, fire the single piston and the heavy steel wheel rotates four or five times until the piston fires again. A single gallon of gas lasts a long time with the delayed firing, and a belt hooked up to the wheel provides power to another instrument.
A close second to woods porn, this specimen was found near the shuttle stop of a large pharmaceutical company in South San Francisco. Stuck out like a throbbing boner on the manicured lawn between the sidewalk and the hedge row. I was cutting across on my way to the train station, heading down to Rusty Sunshine’s to get some country air and escape this rat race city. I wasn’t there twenty minutes when a mangy coyote tried to kill one of Rusty’s good laying hens.
“Keep an eye on ‘im while I get the rifle,” Rusty says. Coyotes come silently. It was the squawking chicken that flew up from under the old Massey tractor that alerted us. This guy wasn’t too scared of me either. I was about fifteen feet away, looking at the bare patches of skin on his flank. “Maybe he has rabies?” I asked myself. I let him get a little further away. I was forcing him back up the hill along the fence line towards Rus.
Rus took a shot from the hill top, I didn’t even hear the report. “I got his foot, because he was limping. Should’ve used longs, these bullets don’t travel well. Would’ve got ‘im in the chest with the other ones.” I caught up with Rusty at the back fence of the riding ring. He had the rifle down at his side and I heard a woman screaming.
It wasn’t the scream of a woman with a .22 short in her. “She has a poodle, she scared him away. Di’nt dare take another shot.”
So much for taking it easy in the country. I few hours later I was at Sean’s in the suburbs. That ain’t no picnic either. I was unprepared for the enormous energy of a four year old who wanted to show me every toy she owned while climbing up my leg. We’re not safe anywhere.
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Over in the Richmond, City of, a bunch of high schoolers gang raped a girl. Pulled a train as they say. When they try to make it sound cool. When you’re a tough guy. Over here in The Richmond District someone keeps stealing the scrap metal I hide in the bushes alongside my house. I get so angry. I have what I call “justice fantasies”. I have a CCTV security camera – I’m going to set up and bust this guy.
The Flagpoles played a show last night and I got so lost in my justice fantasy about the little kid who pulled that knife on me that I ended up getting on the highway before I realized I wasn’t supposed to be on no highway. Doug and the boys riding in the darkness of the box truck called me up in the cab and asked why it was taking so long to get there. I didn’t explain the whole thing. Would’ve been weird: “Got thinking about justifiable murder….spaced out….”
I was going through it in my head, “Should I buy a gun? What if I shot and killed a 15 year old who tried to stab me because his life is so fucked up he doesn’t care? That’d still feel bad. Ok. No gun. A knife of my own? I hate having things clipped onto my belt. Ok. No knife.”
Then it came to me. I’ll be like that transvestite who stepped into a cab some other guy hailed for himself. When he confronted her, she pepper sprayed his face. But not pepper spray. Bear repellant. The strongest stuff out there, sold at REI for backpackers to fight off Grizzlies. That little Mexican boy with fake diamond studs in his ears would be screaming and running into parked cars, clawing at his eyes. He wouldn’t be coming at me saying, “I got Norta at my back.” It would be nonsensical pain induced gibberish about his burning eyes. My cell rang. It was Doug. “Where are we?”
When a group of boys get together, they start throwing rocks at a sign. Or a bottle. Or a girl. I was a boy. I’m a man now. Doesn’t mean I understand how we work.
This is a confused jumble of thoughts, and I beg your pardon for that. I’m trying to rediscover what tough guy means to me in light of recent personal and local news events. Or to ask it another way, “How am I supposed to act?”