DIY Street Fair

I saw two bands at the DIY Street Fair in Ferndale last night. If the DIY website is to be trusted, the name of the first band was 'Outrageous Cherry.' A particularly suggestive title considering both the drummer and bassist appear to be of fetchingly non-consensual ages.


Once you pop the fun don't stop.
(Oh, that's really bad. I actually feel ashamed.)

Then came 'Goober and the Peas.' I don't know how to feel about this one. They were an entertaining act, and yet...


The band thinks less of the crowd for showing up.

Afterwards we stopped in at a bar where they didn't serve my kind. Ordering a beer turned out to be too complex a transaction for me to complete without assistance and since no one had an abacus and there was only one copy of Lenin's summary of Hegelian dialectics to go around, I remained thirsty.


Another Goober advertises his wares.

In conclusion: Someone needs to knock Ferndale down off its high horse. And I'm just the man to do it!

Flo TV

For those so impossibly, hopelessly, helplessly addicted to the pandering, ignorance, falsehood, egotism, and slow-death of television: Now you can take your killer with you!


Durrr... I like TV!

Another 'something' for you to stare vacantly at in the public space while breathing through your mouth and failing to interact with reality. That is when you aren't breaking conversations to stare slack-jawed into your palms, while thumbing a few 'lols,' you fucking twat.

Congratulations.

Touch my Muffins

I expanded my baking pedigree today when I attempted some simple from-scratch muffins. I was only planning to make a loaf of bread, but when I got to the second rising, I thought, "as long as everything's already dirty, why not use this next hour of thumb-twiddling to try something new." Those were my exact thoughts. Verbatim. Note the quotation marks.

But I quickly ran aground when I found I had no baking powder. I had baking soda on hand, but no powder. "What's the difference anyway?" I asked the internet. "Well," says the internet, "baking powder is really just baking soda, but with a palette-neutralizing acidic agent added to enable a steady release of the gases that promote rising; usually cream of tartar."

"But I don't have any cream of tartar, internet-sama. Would lemon-juice work? That's acidic. I've got that!"

"Uh, maybe."

So, I substituted 3/4 of a teaspoon of baking soda, added to the dry mix, and 1 1/2 tablespoons of lemon juice, added to the wet mix, in place of the 1 tablespoon of baking powder called for in the recipe. Then, for a filling, I threw in some raisins and brown sugar. It tasted good as a batter anyway. Let's see what we get:


In the pan.


Out of the pan.


That golden brown booty.

So we may have overshot the rising agent a tad. Still, they taste pretty good. At least my pantomime seems to think so!


I made pastry!


Was there ever any doubt?

They could be sweeter, actually. But what do I want for raisins and brown sugar? Anyway, next time we'll go 1/2 tsp baking soda, 1 tbsp lemon juice, and maybe they don't all come out looking like breast implants.

But what about the bread?


Even my bread looks sexy.

Best tasting loaf yet! Though I need to work on my shaping method. This rolling it up and tucking it under business gives the ends more lift than the middle.


That's going straight to my hips.

Directions of Product (Dollar Store Engrish)

Here's a dollar I won't get back:


The front.


The back.


The kicker.

For the record - and the search engines - these are "YIN'ER BEST CLEANERS CLEANING SPONGES," and the back of the packaging reads as follows:

"
DIRECTIONS OF PRODUCT

THE PRODUCT IS HIGH SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY CLEANING TOILET ARTIELES OF INTERNATIONALIZATION. THERE ARE CHARACTERISTIC: DECONTAMINATION IS POWERFUL. NO BRUISE. DON'T BE STAINED WITH GREASE, IT IS LIKED BY HOUSEWIFES OF THE LLNITED STATES OF AMERICA, JAPAN, THE SOVIET UNION, ITALY ALL THE WORLD.

USE: THE PRODUET IS USED TO WIPE ICEBOX, WASHING MACHINE, ALUMINUM PRODUETS, PLASTICS PRODUCTS, PORCELAIN, GLASS WARE, STAINLESS STEEL PRODUCTS, CLEANING IS EASY.

POINTS OF ATTENTION: BE USED TO RINDS OF SURFACE ROUGH WARE, TOILET STRICTLY PROHIBITED.

"

...and I quote. The dollar spent? Totally worth it!

Simple Neon Arrow

In the course of graphically designing a web page for a new night club that will be opening in Canton, I required an image of a neon sign in the shape of an arrow. After perusing the Google image gallery and finding nothing quite to task I decided to try modeling it in 3d.

I found a very concise tutorial, exactly suited to my level of experience within Blender and, augmenting it a touch here and there to better meet my mind's eye's beholding, put the effort to bed in under an hour.

The result:




...Simple but photo-realistic and exactly what I needed. Note that I made the curve 3-dimensional so as to twist the glass tube toward the backing piece. I think that little detail is what sells the image.

Mosquito in Profile

Late last night I felt a mosquito alight upon my exposed hand - the only portion of skin not hidden beneath quilt or pillow - and work his muzzle deep down into the dermis for a warm draft. And I'm fine with that. Hey, that's what I'm here for! I'm really just a walking, talking, 44oz, blood-flavored Big Gulp, and I accept that fate. I'm not going to spend my whole life begrudging an entire genus of plasma seekers their daily bread, but for the instant of mildest discomfort necessarily associated with the work. Just keep off the face, alright?

As I say, I could feel the rustle and occasional pinch of a mosquito making hay atop my right hand as I lay waiting for sleep. But as time wore on the sensation of being bit, usually a solitary event followed by acute stillness, repeated and increased in frequency. Eventually I lifted my head from the pillow and turned to address my hapless nurse who couldn't find the vein, readying a stern lecture on the evils of taking advantage of others' kindnesses. But what do I find here? Two mosquitos! Side by side, working their little noses into the fleshy buffet of my skin in unison; bearing all the aspect of a two-man team alternately humping away at a hand-pumped railroad car.

Two o'clock in the morning, or no: this was worth a photograph. Carefully I drew back the quilt and sheets and carefully I lifted my hand from the surface of the bed. And to my drinkers' merits they did not stir as I negotiated my camera.

But shooting photos in the dark - and one-handed nonetheless - takes some dialing-in; in the process of which one of my small companions filled his belly to the brim with blood and flitted off in gourmand satisfaction, leaving me but one prima donna to preen in the impromptu shoot.



See the blood reddening his belly? That's me!

Vanity

I'm going to sell prints of this.

Bread without a Bread Pan

I refrained from purchasing a loaf of bread when I went grocery shopping today, despite dire need thereof, resolving instead to conjure some up using my many infernal magics. It was to be my first loaf from scratch and all was coming along well enough until I reached for the bread pan - into which I meant to summon my dark-pastry from the netherworlds below - when I realized that I don't actually own a bread pan.

Well, necessity is the inbred cousin of invention... Have at you kitchen cupboards!



Rise from your grave!

Matching a square pan with sides of a tolerable height to a longer pan of similar dimensions I achieved full bread pan velocity. I rubbed those sides of each pan in margarine which would make contact with the dough, and continued reciting incantations from my book of shadows. The flames of Hades soon rose to an even 400 degrees and a mere thirty minutes later I was manging on one tasty voodoo sandwich.


Fresh from Hell's own Oven!


Cerberus gets the scraps.

This Day in 1981...

By "this day" I mean Sunday before last, and by the trailing ellipsis I mean to say that I was born. Whereas "this day," 2010, I went golfing con mi padre.


'Old Joe Something was a woodsman and he rowed his boat ashore.'

After nine holes and 48 strokes at White Lake Oaks I then proceeded immediately to Bay Court Park for 18 holes and strokes-unspecified of disc golf, yet still con mi padre.


"Everybody get down!"

As you can surely imagine, after twenty-seven holes and two golf-oriented sporting activities I really needed to eat some Mexican food. "To Mexico Lindo!" ...con mi padre y mi madre también.





Now that I had the whole family assembled we retired to la casa for cake-by-Mom.


Just add homemade whipped cream.

And you were there, and you were there, and your little dog too.


Andy, the timid.

Let's open presents! I got a divot repair tool; A crazy prong-ended hand tool whats purpose only my dad knows -- and isn't telling; A deck of cards printed for the website Omega.com featuring - instead of naked ladies - ham radio equipment, capacitors, oscilloscopes, multimeters, and other obscure tech; a good hat; And... wait. What's this behind me here?


"A brand new car!"


No one mention the white Mongoose in the room.

I recover from the blind-side. Dad goes home. My mom and I have a beer and talk about the good-old days, or the lack thereof, or something. I don't recall.


Mi madre con su perro Andy.

Some days later my new license arrives to announce that in four short years I've gone from pudgy, rosy-cheeked stoner, to officer tight-ass, highway patrol.


Me thinks, for soothe, the truth lieth here betwixt.

Easter Weekend - A Retrospective

So, okay... So like... Like...

On Thursday, dad picks me up, we go to the Big Apple for lunch, or dinner, or something.


Linner.

His latkes are over-browned. Somethings always over-browned with him. Then we go disc golfing at Bay Court Park.


Put a shirt on, you dirty hippy!

We drive back to his place in Flat Rock and on a whim he fixes (re-rigs) the yoke on my bike.


Egg whites.

Then he fixes up his own bike and we take a night-time ride with neither helmets nor flashers of any kind.


Safety hazard.

Somehow we survive, watch movies, fall asleep. Next day he washes and vacuums the Focus.


Love of his life.

We gear up and head out for the links. The golfing begins - the golf-golfing, I mean - at Willow Metropark.


Fore. Four! LOOK OUT STUPID!


"They're both mine. I like a wide selection."


Dad swings.


Son swings.


"Someone bring me a cart."

I'm out with a 61, in with a 56. Hang on, math skills required... 117 on a par 71. Best I did was three bogeys. Walking the Willow Park course is not recommended. Eating more than salad before hand is recommended.

Go home, sleep. Wake up, golf more!


Well, first get gas.

Oh and I suppose we'd better eat hardily this time.


No, I'll take a non-illusory eating establishment, thanks.


Hash-browns were over-browned.

Hooah! Let's do this thing! Get some! GET SOME! You hear that Lake Erie Metropark? We got your number, baby! Uh! (Hey is it windy out here?)


Action-shot!


The club house.


The freakin' wind!

Turned out to be 30mph gusting wind with intermittent sprinkling. Great day to golf! (<-- facetiousness) The 18th hole was so windy I couldn't stand still in it to hit the ball! Out with 58. In with 59. 117 again! At least I'm consistent.

Plus, I picked up a par 3, this time... Hit the 5W off the pad. It sails out nice and straight, sets down on the green thirty feet left of the pin. My first putt tops the hill, rolling down and well passed the cup leaving a ten footer, which I sink the hard way -- in the back door, even. (maybe)

Later that night we catch the 6:55p showing of 'How to Train Your Dragon.' Not bad. I'd recommend it.

Next day, home for Easter supper.


Dad and Josh discuss tires, pickup trucks, and how to be Men.


I eat this.

"Say pa!"

"Yes son."

"You know what we haven't done in some time?"

"Golf?"

"Golf."


Nope. Still not sick of it.

After supper, another quick nine at Indian Springs Metropark and I'm in with 54 on a par 35. I was on fire! Sixes for fours all day, one bogey and my first-ever par on a par four. Two on, one up, and one long nail-biter in.

My drives are short, but consistent. My 3W is magic. My putting ain't half bad. Who's up for a quick 18?