16 December 2006
27 November 2006
11 November 2006
Kerb Score Queen
Insanity has finally infiltrated the Dunne household. Never saw that coming. As most people know Martha is obsessed with Polaroid photography, and I mean crack cocaine style obsessed. She's had a few shows (LINK), sold some work, built a reputation, found her niche/calling/reason to live. Sometimes I dream about how far this could go and I think this stuff could be paying the bills in 20 years time.
The purpose of this post is to announce that today Martha became the proud owner of a free Polaroid photo booth. A what? Yes, that icon of 20th century photo technology that can be found in any self respecting mall/shopping center. We've all used it at one time or another, to have passport photos taken or to pose for cheesy romantic snapshots with our partners. Good times.
She scored the photo booth on a local website that people use to give away stuff they don't want. Idiots.
This photo booth now sits in our porch because it is too wide to bring into the living room, it's future home. Well need to take the bastard apart, haul inside and then put together again, Humpty Dumpty style, in the corner of the room where most normal people would have a television but we don't have a television because we are obviously not like most normal people.
The purpose of this post is to announce that today Martha became the proud owner of a free Polaroid photo booth. A what? Yes, that icon of 20th century photo technology that can be found in any self respecting mall/shopping center. We've all used it at one time or another, to have passport photos taken or to pose for cheesy romantic snapshots with our partners. Good times.
She scored the photo booth on a local website that people use to give away stuff they don't want. Idiots.
29 October 2006
Nearly winter
I'm burdened with the sense that this website, once so pivotal to me, is loosing steam, has sprung a leak, has had its tires shot out. Not true. It still serves as an input for my dreams of triumph over mediocrity and an output for a characteristically morbid desire to leave something behind so that I make a mark, however faint. My energies are invested elsewhere these days (LINK).
The rewards are instant and more fun than a sack of giddy drunk squirrels let loose in your living room. If somebody had of told me, less than 12 months ago, that I would be happier spending my Saturday night pulling a baby around the house in a cardboard box with the belt from a dressing gown than splurging my money getting drunk in a dingy south Minneapolis bar I would have proclaimed “Sir, you are a damn liar.” And that's all there is to the matter. Past notions of a good time have yielded all meaning.
We are on the tipping point of winter. Worthless amounts of snow, almost insulting quantities, covered the car two mornings during the work week. So trivial was the snow thickness and consistency that I bothered not brushing it off the car but instead let it blow off by itself once I was in motion. True validation of joke snow.
Our big oak trees lost their leaves weeks ago but the young oak, but a pup, clings to its foliage now rendered a clay red color. A joy to stand under, alone and lost in positive thought, on a cold blue sky day with a cup of tea in hand. I must check on the young elm that grows too close to our foundation. It poses no threat now but in years to come as its subterranean girth increases it may infiltrate the basement or worse, cause damage to the house. I'll consult my step-father-in-law for advice on moving the elm to safer ground. He'll know, he always does. Our catalpa trees tower over the house. We don't yet understand how, when or if their dried up leaves will fall to earth. Further study is required.
We are on the tipping point of winter. Worthless amounts of snow, almost insulting quantities, covered the car two mornings during the work week. So trivial was the snow thickness and consistency that I bothered not brushing it off the car but instead let it blow off by itself once I was in motion. True validation of joke snow.
Our big oak trees lost their leaves weeks ago but the young oak, but a pup, clings to its foliage now rendered a clay red color. A joy to stand under, alone and lost in positive thought, on a cold blue sky day with a cup of tea in hand. I must check on the young elm that grows too close to our foundation. It poses no threat now but in years to come as its subterranean girth increases it may infiltrate the basement or worse, cause damage to the house. I'll consult my step-father-in-law for advice on moving the elm to safer ground. He'll know, he always does. Our catalpa trees tower over the house. We don't yet understand how, when or if their dried up leaves will fall to earth. Further study is required.
19 October 2006
Smell memory
Cold evening. Leaves cover the ground. Mind free of thought. Darkness comes early and with it silence. Lit a match. Instant flashback to Halloween time long ago in Ireland. Smell memory.
09 October 2006
07 October 2006
17 September 2006
Martha's next show
Instant Gratification (LINK)
Polaroid photography of Martha Duerr
October 2006
Chez Marche Cafe
Main Street, Waupaca, WI 54981
Martha Duerr is a Waupaca, Wisconsin native now living in the Twin Cities where she attended the University of Minnesota, graduating in the Spring of 2003 with a Bachelor of Arts degree in Studio Arts. After a two and a half year stint as a preschool teacher at Fraser School, an inclusive school where children with special needs and children with typical needs learn together in the same classrooms, she embarked upon her current adventure of raising her own daughter. Elise is now six months old and is her mom's model, accomplice, and assistant as she makes art in the backyard and travels the city taking pictures. Martha's current work reflects her love of instant results along with her total rejection of technology. As the world of photography moves forward into the digital age, it only makes sense that Martha would make a contrary motion into the vast world of obscure, increasingly expensive and hard to find films and cameras. This show (Instant Gratification, Chez Marche Cafe, October 3rd to 23rd) showcases one such relic of the photographic past, the Polaroid.
“Polaroid is the new digital.” says Duerr. “No other photo medium so effectively captures slices of life in such a permanent, compact, beautiful way. The image cannot be reproduced in its original form, and neither can the moment it contains. The square framing of my work is meant to accentuate the square image and the photos are mounted directly on the board so as to retain the unique look of the Polaroid complete with its signature white border.”
Instant Gratification will be at the Chez Marche beginning October 3rd and the artist will be present at an opening reception on Saturday October 7th from 3pm to 5pm.
Polaroid photography of Martha Duerr
October 2006
Chez Marche Cafe
Main Street, Waupaca, WI 54981
“Polaroid is the new digital.” says Duerr. “No other photo medium so effectively captures slices of life in such a permanent, compact, beautiful way. The image cannot be reproduced in its original form, and neither can the moment it contains. The square framing of my work is meant to accentuate the square image and the photos are mounted directly on the board so as to retain the unique look of the Polaroid complete with its signature white border.”
Instant Gratification will be at the Chez Marche beginning October 3rd and the artist will be present at an opening reception on Saturday October 7th from 3pm to 5pm.
15 September 2006
Roadkill
I saw a styrofoam cup tumble out of the back of a rubbish truck today. I was driving behind the speeding vehicle. The cup bounced a few times before meeting a brutal death at the front wheel of the car behind me. I saw everything through my rear view mirror. The cup never stood a chance.
A few months back a I saw a suitcase fly out from the back of a pickup truck on the opposite side of the freeway. A side wind or poor packing broke the case free and she took flight. The suitcase hit the ground, burst open and the clothing within scattered itself across three lanes of westbound Interstate 94. Other motorists swerved to avoid lethal trousers and hairdryers that hurled themselves under the wheels of any car in their path. The owner of the suitcase and his passenger looked out their window as their lost belongings danced on the asphalt. They slowed to maybe 60mph and continued to glance back, probably contemplating whether to pull over and try to gather up the items, but that would be suicide. They wouldn't have stood a chance.
A few months back a I saw a suitcase fly out from the back of a pickup truck on the opposite side of the freeway. A side wind or poor packing broke the case free and she took flight. The suitcase hit the ground, burst open and the clothing within scattered itself across three lanes of westbound Interstate 94. Other motorists swerved to avoid lethal trousers and hairdryers that hurled themselves under the wheels of any car in their path. The owner of the suitcase and his passenger looked out their window as their lost belongings danced on the asphalt. They slowed to maybe 60mph and continued to glance back, probably contemplating whether to pull over and try to gather up the items, but that would be suicide. They wouldn't have stood a chance.
11 September 2006
Free stuff
If I want free steel, and I do, I drive to the Ratner Steel plant on Hwy 280 in St. Paul. It's about 3 miles from our house. They have a recycling dumpster full of huge sheets of mild carbon steel. If I could lift them and find a use for them I would.
If I want free bricks, and I do, I drive to any of the loft developments in the twin cities area. Old brick warehouse buildings are being converted into modern and surprisingly not too expensive living spaces. During the transformation from storage facilities to beautiful loft apartments the buildings are punched full of holes so windows can be installed. Those orphaned bricks, each so unique, will be used to build an outdoor fireplace in our garden.
If I want free wood, and I do, I have multiple places I can visit and be sure to leave with bucket loads of 1/4” plywood, oak and pine two by fours or old maple tongue and groove flooring. I never steal, only take what has been thrown away by others. I save. I reclaim. Half the thrill of the score is getting out into the city, treading where many wouldn't, reliving boyhood adventures and generally enjoying the sweetness of a deal. It's not about the money though. I don't know what it's about, yet.
If I want free bricks, and I do, I drive to any of the loft developments in the twin cities area. Old brick warehouse buildings are being converted into modern and surprisingly not too expensive living spaces. During the transformation from storage facilities to beautiful loft apartments the buildings are punched full of holes so windows can be installed. Those orphaned bricks, each so unique, will be used to build an outdoor fireplace in our garden.
If I want free wood, and I do, I have multiple places I can visit and be sure to leave with bucket loads of 1/4” plywood, oak and pine two by fours or old maple tongue and groove flooring. I never steal, only take what has been thrown away by others. I save. I reclaim. Half the thrill of the score is getting out into the city, treading where many wouldn't, reliving boyhood adventures and generally enjoying the sweetness of a deal. It's not about the money though. I don't know what it's about, yet.
08 September 2006
Scanner
The Dunne’s finally bought a scanner. Martha is more of a film photographer than digital photographer so it was an inevitable but long overdue purchase for the young family. I’ve spent the last few days scanning everything ((LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK)) but the kitchen sink and my arse.
I even shelled out for the two year $10 warranty out of fear that the machine would implode mere months into its life at our house. Electronics have a nasty habit for breaking promises of longevity and loyal service. My iPod rolled over and died after only six months. I know it can be fixed but sometimes I just feel like putting it in a vise and ending the pain. Now it waits in purgatory until a time I see fit to take it to the Apple store at the mall. It’s having a good think about what it did.
I even shelled out for the two year $10 warranty out of fear that the machine would implode mere months into its life at our house. Electronics have a nasty habit for breaking promises of longevity and loyal service. My iPod rolled over and died after only six months. I know it can be fixed but sometimes I just feel like putting it in a vise and ending the pain. Now it waits in purgatory until a time I see fit to take it to the Apple store at the mall. It’s having a good think about what it did.
30 August 2006
On a wall in St.Paul
"The world is so cold. Graffiti keeps me warm. Because it is my blanket."
Anonymous graffiti in St.Paul
Anonymous graffiti in St.Paul
26 August 2006
Bruce Lee
In Ireland of the late 1980's, when I was a young and impressionable lad, I was one quarter shareholder in a four man band of thieves/tree climbers/arsonists/vandals/highwaymen. We were driven neither by malice, malevolence or disillusionment with society. We lived for each minute, traveling the length and breadth of our respective neighborhoods by bike and foot; exploring wooded and abandoned places that are now long gone, victims of urban development. We fueled ourselves on sweets bought with stolen money. Mr. Kane never failed to provide for his fellow hooligans. His generosity knew no limits. A strict sugar diet of cola bottles, jaw breakers, 10p bags, cool pops, macaroon bars, fizzlers and white chocolate mice kept us focused, efficient and wild. It’s hard to write this without yearning for real writing skills that would transport all who read this back to those times. But maybe not even Shakespeare could accurately convey what it really felt like to be a young Dublin boy with no aspirations for greatness or regret for failures past. The freedoms we enjoyed will never be had again but we used up every ounce of them when they were ours. We wasted nothing.
The icon you see above is from the Commodore 64 game Bruce Lee. We finished the game together, the only computer game I’ve ever been able to complete. We shared all our ideas, strategies and tricks to achieve a common goal of beating all 20 levels so that Bruce Lee could revel in every bit of the glory that his 8Bit ass deserved. We played for hours on end. It never got boring. We scribbled diagrams on the back of the RTE Guide to explain our plans to each other. When the team bought in on the theory we’d unpause the game and the fury would continue.
I’ve downloaded an emulated version of Bruce Lee for the PC. It’s not the same. My mind is too clogged with work problems involving optimal melt processing of thermoplastic elastomers and the day to day demands and joys of a family man. Focus eludes me.
It’s now Elise’s turn to have absolutely nothing to worry about. Lucky girl (LINK).
I’ve downloaded an emulated version of Bruce Lee for the PC. It’s not the same. My mind is too clogged with work problems involving optimal melt processing of thermoplastic elastomers and the day to day demands and joys of a family man. Focus eludes me.
It’s now Elise’s turn to have absolutely nothing to worry about. Lucky girl (LINK).
09 July 2006
Digital haircut
I got my hair cut today. It had been about two months since my last shearing and so I was now sporting lateral tufts like Krusty the clown and quickly becoming the source of inter-company jokes, probably. An ex-colleague of mine shared some inner circle information on hair etiquette. To effect an image of professionalism one should get their hair cut very frequently (we're talking every three weeks tops). The idea is that a gentleman should always strive to maintain a consistent façade when dealing with business peers. Clients and contemporaries should not be able to detect if your hair actually grows or not and when you do get it cut you basically walk out the door of the barber looking the same as you did when you walked in.
Bollox to that. I am on a strict quin-annual regiment. People know when I come in to work with a new hair cut. Ronald McDonald disappears and a shaved Mr. Dunne digs in for another 10 week afro.
I went to Great Clips today. It's a chain hairdresser. You'll find it in any or every strip mall housing the usual suspects (Starbucks, McDonalds, Leann Chin, Caribou Coffee, Subway, Dress Barn, Home Depot, Target, Best Buy, Rainbow...). It was a Sunday and my usual barber, Pete Lebak, was closed. My afro was at critical mass and I simply couldn't wait until the following Saturday to have the Canadian fix me proper. I had to cave and cave I did. How I will ever explain my disloyalty to Pete I can't say. I'm in for quite the beating.
I walked in the door of Great Clips to what looked like the set of an early 1990's Australian soap opera. One of the stylists who was busy mulletizing a customer approaches the counter, says hello and then asks for my phone number. This regularly happens when I buy something with credit card. The intent of the question is to achieve one of two possible goals:
1. Validate that the given number matches the card holder’s number that the sales assistant is looking at on the screen therefore confirming that I am truly the card owner and have not mugged it from some poor sap. It's a weak method of identity theft prevention in my opinion.
2. Use my number in automated verbal junk mail initiatives that the corporation believes will entice me to spend money at one of their conveniently located establishments. Those tricks never work on a man as sharp as me. As soon as I hear that robot voice it's all over. Sometimes I swear at the machine. It feels no pain. It can’t cry.
Since I had yet to get actually get my $14 hair cut the lady obviously wasn't interested in credit card theft and so Sherlock Holmes here had to assume that late night or early morning solicitation calls were on the menu. I explained that I'd rather not hand over my number as I really hated those phone calls. We don't do that she explains. Turns out that Great Clips intended to use my number to build me a customer profile which records the style of my haircut on each visit so that if I go back a few weeks (or months in my case) later all they have do is punch in my phone number and up pops an entire history of all the haircuts I've ever gotten at Great Clips. I then choose a style from my data base and the job gets done. My phone number is my ID is my key to a digital haircut. Stupid, excessive, efficient, ingenious, American.
I’m going back to the guy who smokes and swears as he rips my hair out with a blunt as hell scissors and gives me no change from whatever fistful of bills I offer him. There are no price lists at Pete Lebak Barber Stylist, there are no manners, his sedentary cancer surviving golden Labrador stinks the place up and in a drawer Pete keeps a photo of the 5lb tumor they pulled out of him a few months back, the dirty magazines are piled high for the elderly customers to read, he tells stories that belong in best selling non-fiction books, he's friends with everyone who thinks like him and those who don't, well... he owns a lot of guns, he's been all over the world, he'll set your heart burning with desire to explore places out west that nobody goes to. He has no computerized systems that guarantee the haircut you get will exactly replicate the one you got last time. No, you get what you get. If he's in a warm mood you'll get a great haircut and leave with stories you wish were tales that narrated your life. If he's hung-over and in a foul mood because he slipped on an icy step and broke three ribs you'll get a shit haircut... That's life.
But the experience will be real, you'll leave no data behind.
Bollox to that. I am on a strict quin-annual regiment. People know when I come in to work with a new hair cut. Ronald McDonald disappears and a shaved Mr. Dunne digs in for another 10 week afro.
I went to Great Clips today. It's a chain hairdresser. You'll find it in any or every strip mall housing the usual suspects (Starbucks, McDonalds, Leann Chin, Caribou Coffee, Subway, Dress Barn, Home Depot, Target, Best Buy, Rainbow...). It was a Sunday and my usual barber, Pete Lebak, was closed. My afro was at critical mass and I simply couldn't wait until the following Saturday to have the Canadian fix me proper. I had to cave and cave I did. How I will ever explain my disloyalty to Pete I can't say. I'm in for quite the beating.
I walked in the door of Great Clips to what looked like the set of an early 1990's Australian soap opera. One of the stylists who was busy mulletizing a customer approaches the counter, says hello and then asks for my phone number. This regularly happens when I buy something with credit card. The intent of the question is to achieve one of two possible goals:
1. Validate that the given number matches the card holder’s number that the sales assistant is looking at on the screen therefore confirming that I am truly the card owner and have not mugged it from some poor sap. It's a weak method of identity theft prevention in my opinion.
2. Use my number in automated verbal junk mail initiatives that the corporation believes will entice me to spend money at one of their conveniently located establishments. Those tricks never work on a man as sharp as me. As soon as I hear that robot voice it's all over. Sometimes I swear at the machine. It feels no pain. It can’t cry.
Since I had yet to get actually get my $14 hair cut the lady obviously wasn't interested in credit card theft and so Sherlock Holmes here had to assume that late night or early morning solicitation calls were on the menu. I explained that I'd rather not hand over my number as I really hated those phone calls. We don't do that she explains. Turns out that Great Clips intended to use my number to build me a customer profile which records the style of my haircut on each visit so that if I go back a few weeks (or months in my case) later all they have do is punch in my phone number and up pops an entire history of all the haircuts I've ever gotten at Great Clips. I then choose a style from my data base and the job gets done. My phone number is my ID is my key to a digital haircut. Stupid, excessive, efficient, ingenious, American.
I’m going back to the guy who smokes and swears as he rips my hair out with a blunt as hell scissors and gives me no change from whatever fistful of bills I offer him. There are no price lists at Pete Lebak Barber Stylist, there are no manners, his sedentary cancer surviving golden Labrador stinks the place up and in a drawer Pete keeps a photo of the 5lb tumor they pulled out of him a few months back, the dirty magazines are piled high for the elderly customers to read, he tells stories that belong in best selling non-fiction books, he's friends with everyone who thinks like him and those who don't, well... he owns a lot of guns, he's been all over the world, he'll set your heart burning with desire to explore places out west that nobody goes to. He has no computerized systems that guarantee the haircut you get will exactly replicate the one you got last time. No, you get what you get. If he's in a warm mood you'll get a great haircut and leave with stories you wish were tales that narrated your life. If he's hung-over and in a foul mood because he slipped on an icy step and broke three ribs you'll get a shit haircut... That's life.
But the experience will be real, you'll leave no data behind.
27 June 2006
Lofts, St. Paul
We moved house this month. We didn't move far, less than one mile but in doing so we crossed over Hwy 280 which marks the Minneapolis/St.Paul border. Confused? We've migrated to a new city but barely broke a sweat in the process. Nice.
St. Paul has a reputation for being boring, too quiet, desolate, pointless... All of these accusations are true but I can't complain about the quality and quantity of early 20th century architecture that I now must explore and learn about. Huge brick warehouses are dotted all around the city, some only a block or two from our new house. Built as department stores, for storage of goods and maybe some light manufacturing, their exterior aesthetics played little or no part in the commercial success or failure of the enterprises within. Customers did not need to be drawn in by fancy glasswork or twisted metal facades or even neon signs which were just appearing at that time. A plain, rectangular brick box with no pretense served its purpose just fine. Kind of interesting how these days it is usually a logo (LINK) that draws in the consuming public. The building type or style is still secondary to what's inside but why has the architecture become so dog ugly, unimaginative, hasty and simply disposable such that nobody will put up a fight when the bulldozers come to knock down a structure that never had any big ambition to make itself a part of the community and a part of peoples lives? I suspect the answer is $.
I took these (LINK) photos on Saturday. You'll note from the photographs that some serious internal construction is under way. These warehouse buildings will not be imploded to make way for crap that none of us need but instead are being respectfully renovated so that they can be rented out as loft space for artists. More info here on the future development (LINK). It's really encouraging so see a move like this being made by the city. They could have let various big name franchise restaurants and coffee shops move in and then squeeze them for more rent and taxes than they will ever get from the artist lofts development. Somebody or maybe a simple majority in the city planning authority put the brakes on greed and chose something better. Good for them. This happens a lot here and I love it.
St. Paul has a reputation for being boring, too quiet, desolate, pointless... All of these accusations are true but I can't complain about the quality and quantity of early 20th century architecture that I now must explore and learn about. Huge brick warehouses are dotted all around the city, some only a block or two from our new house. Built as department stores, for storage of goods and maybe some light manufacturing, their exterior aesthetics played little or no part in the commercial success or failure of the enterprises within. Customers did not need to be drawn in by fancy glasswork or twisted metal facades or even neon signs which were just appearing at that time. A plain, rectangular brick box with no pretense served its purpose just fine. Kind of interesting how these days it is usually a logo (LINK) that draws in the consuming public. The building type or style is still secondary to what's inside but why has the architecture become so dog ugly, unimaginative, hasty and simply disposable such that nobody will put up a fight when the bulldozers come to knock down a structure that never had any big ambition to make itself a part of the community and a part of peoples lives? I suspect the answer is $.
I took these (LINK) photos on Saturday. You'll note from the photographs that some serious internal construction is under way. These warehouse buildings will not be imploded to make way for crap that none of us need but instead are being respectfully renovated so that they can be rented out as loft space for artists. More info here on the future development (LINK). It's really encouraging so see a move like this being made by the city. They could have let various big name franchise restaurants and coffee shops move in and then squeeze them for more rent and taxes than they will ever get from the artist lofts development. Somebody or maybe a simple majority in the city planning authority put the brakes on greed and chose something better. Good for them. This happens a lot here and I love it.
24 June 2006
Swiggin'
I was bathing Elise on Wednesday night. During the course of the bath we often hold a cup of (bath) water to her lips and let her lap the contents out like a dog. She's been trying to grab things lately so I had the hunch that she might be up to job on her own. I filled the cup and held it near her. She reached out, grabbed it (clumsily) and started drinking the water (LINK) all by herself! Hide the booze!
25 May 2006
UC
“United Crushers”, “Urban Celebrities”, “Union Crew” and “Ultra Crack”. You figure it out. Involves Minneapolis graffiti.
18 May 2006
The Golfer
I saw him again tonight. Who did you see? Why, the mysterious weirdo that drives a golf cart at break neck speeds around the neighborhood of course. When the sun goes down this shadowy figure rides like the wind. It’s the second time we’ve crossed paths. I’ve been alone each time. The lack of an alibi or fellow witness is irritating. This fucker exists! His motives are most bewildering. Does he fight crime in this stealth machine? It is the perfect vehicle for such work. It has no lights (of course it doesn’t, who plays golf in the dark for God’s sake?), so appearing as if from nowhere is quite easily accomplished. It is silent because it’s powered by an electric motor, so creeping up on people, like me, is bread and butter stuff.
Perhaps crime fighting is not his game. My perfectly ordinary obsession with Batman (LINK) time and again makes me think that anyone who innocently takes a walk or rides their bike during random hours of darkness is on a mission to clean up this urban death maze.
The Golfer is up to something and this man won’t rest until he finds out what.
Perhaps crime fighting is not his game. My perfectly ordinary obsession with Batman (LINK) time and again makes me think that anyone who innocently takes a walk or rides their bike during random hours of darkness is on a mission to clean up this urban death maze.
The Golfer is up to something and this man won’t rest until he finds out what.
08 May 2006
Acting the maggot
More photos (LINK) of young Elise. She's going to visit her granny this weekend in Wisconsin. Lucky girl. Her folks are going too.
It's such a great time of year to visit The Dairy State. Perfect temperature, no mosquitoes, plenty of outdoor beer drinking, perhaps a stumble through the woods (LINK), possibly a canoe (LINK) trip too, maybe even a big camp fire (LINK) on Fran's land... if I play my cards right.
Straying slightly off the point, here's a little known fact: Martha can count cards. Never take her on in any game of skill. Quite humiliating. And don't get me started on Scrabble. Crushing defeat after crushing defeat. All hail Scrablor!
It's such a great time of year to visit The Dairy State. Perfect temperature, no mosquitoes, plenty of outdoor beer drinking, perhaps a stumble through the woods (LINK), possibly a canoe (LINK) trip too, maybe even a big camp fire (LINK) on Fran's land... if I play my cards right.
Straying slightly off the point, here's a little known fact: Martha can count cards. Never take her on in any game of skill. Quite humiliating. And don't get me started on Scrabble. Crushing defeat after crushing defeat. All hail Scrablor!
21 April 2006
Spring
New baby (LINK), new job (LINK), new house (LINK) and a wedding (LINK) less than two months away. Many a finger in many a pie. Hey, it beats sitting around picking me hole.
“Everyone loves a baby,” as the saying goes. Never thought I’d fall into that category. In fact, I avoided contact with babies all my life. It just didn’t seem right, to be mauling someone else’s chisler, be it sibling, newborn cousin or offspring of life long friend. They appear so delicate that the slightest flick of the wrist or sneaky gust of wind could render the poor child an invalid. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing? But my outlook changed as I got to hold Elise in the minutes after her birth. She seemed ergonomically designed to fit the placement of my arms and the curve of my palms. Supporting her load was near effortless. Our centers of gravity were somehow allied.
And here's how it really went down at the hospital... The birth process was probably the most frightening event I’ve ever witnessed. I tried to play the role of the modern partner, I really did. You know, being there for the big moment, coaching with the breathing and pushing. I was putting in a stellar performance. Man of the match stuff. Then the little head appeared. I was still there, flying the flag, knocking them out of the ballpark and other such sporting metaphors. Suddenly darkness began to wash over me. All the blood from my neck up drained south, rapidly. I felt a dramatic temperature drop in my face. My eyes became heavy as bags of coal. My once confident, possibly cocky words of encouragement turned to gibberish as my brain, having lost all its oxygen rich fuel, gave up the ability to form coherent speech. I managed to blurt something along the lines of “think I pass out now...” at which point a nurse chucked me out the door and gave me a glass of water. The miracle of birth continued without my presence. It waits for no man. But, like a boxer coming out of a daze as the bell summons him out of his corner for another round, I got it together and went back into the room. I’d missed the moment where the baby actually came all the way out and I’d also missed the cutting of the umbilical cord. How long was I out there? Thoughts of letting the team down were pointless and maybe even selfish. The team did just fine without me, maybe my removal was a key move. It wasn’t about me anyway. It was all about Martha and the baby, who was placed in my arms as I stumbled back into the room. End of story.
As a young pup I learned at school that spring is a time for new life. Lambs frolicking in green fields and daffodils in every garden were just a few of the ways in which God blessed us. Personally, I think science makes the grass grow and day turn into night, but if you want a public school education in Ireland you’re obliged to take a heavy dose of Catholicism if you want to get the book learnin’. The last of the snow melted about three weeks ago, heralding the arrival of spring. No sign of any lambs in Minneapolis but in the spirit of rebirth and transformation and in order to move along I felt that trip down memory lane was a necessary bridge in the narrative. I got me a new job is the essence of what I am saying. I threw off the dust of my previous employer. The work visa situation held me captive there for too long. That’s all fixed now and I’m a free agent. I found everything I was searching for and hope to really build something with this (LINK) company.
Spring is great.
“Everyone loves a baby,” as the saying goes. Never thought I’d fall into that category. In fact, I avoided contact with babies all my life. It just didn’t seem right, to be mauling someone else’s chisler, be it sibling, newborn cousin or offspring of life long friend. They appear so delicate that the slightest flick of the wrist or sneaky gust of wind could render the poor child an invalid. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing? But my outlook changed as I got to hold Elise in the minutes after her birth. She seemed ergonomically designed to fit the placement of my arms and the curve of my palms. Supporting her load was near effortless. Our centers of gravity were somehow allied.
And here's how it really went down at the hospital... The birth process was probably the most frightening event I’ve ever witnessed. I tried to play the role of the modern partner, I really did. You know, being there for the big moment, coaching with the breathing and pushing. I was putting in a stellar performance. Man of the match stuff. Then the little head appeared. I was still there, flying the flag, knocking them out of the ballpark and other such sporting metaphors. Suddenly darkness began to wash over me. All the blood from my neck up drained south, rapidly. I felt a dramatic temperature drop in my face. My eyes became heavy as bags of coal. My once confident, possibly cocky words of encouragement turned to gibberish as my brain, having lost all its oxygen rich fuel, gave up the ability to form coherent speech. I managed to blurt something along the lines of “think I pass out now...” at which point a nurse chucked me out the door and gave me a glass of water. The miracle of birth continued without my presence. It waits for no man. But, like a boxer coming out of a daze as the bell summons him out of his corner for another round, I got it together and went back into the room. I’d missed the moment where the baby actually came all the way out and I’d also missed the cutting of the umbilical cord. How long was I out there? Thoughts of letting the team down were pointless and maybe even selfish. The team did just fine without me, maybe my removal was a key move. It wasn’t about me anyway. It was all about Martha and the baby, who was placed in my arms as I stumbled back into the room. End of story.
As a young pup I learned at school that spring is a time for new life. Lambs frolicking in green fields and daffodils in every garden were just a few of the ways in which God blessed us. Personally, I think science makes the grass grow and day turn into night, but if you want a public school education in Ireland you’re obliged to take a heavy dose of Catholicism if you want to get the book learnin’. The last of the snow melted about three weeks ago, heralding the arrival of spring. No sign of any lambs in Minneapolis but in the spirit of rebirth and transformation and in order to move along I felt that trip down memory lane was a necessary bridge in the narrative. I got me a new job is the essence of what I am saying. I threw off the dust of my previous employer. The work visa situation held me captive there for too long. That’s all fixed now and I’m a free agent. I found everything I was searching for and hope to really build something with this (LINK) company.
Spring is great.
09 April 2006
02 April 2006
Back in the game
The honeymoon of unemployment draws to a close one week from today. Scored me a job with Enpath Medical (LINK) so I did. Pretty damn pleased about this new avenue.
In the visuals department, things have been slow but by no means static. Commandeered Martha’s Polaroid 600 camera with mixed results (LINK), she’s the master ((LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK)), checked out some Lego like containers (LINK), took Elise down to the grain elevators one morning ((LINK), (LINK)), finally got to photograph a bricked up electricity substation that always catches me eye (LINK), drew a picture of a few clowns looking at the sun (LINK), blue is me favorite color (LINK), used Google Earth for me own ends (LINK).
Good times.
In the visuals department, things have been slow but by no means static. Commandeered Martha’s Polaroid 600 camera with mixed results (LINK), she’s the master ((LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK)), checked out some Lego like containers (LINK), took Elise down to the grain elevators one morning ((LINK), (LINK)), finally got to photograph a bricked up electricity substation that always catches me eye (LINK), drew a picture of a few clowns looking at the sun (LINK), blue is me favorite color (LINK), used Google Earth for me own ends (LINK).
Good times.
27 March 2006
A few shades off the mark
It’s kudos time. Let’s get that out of the way right now. A friend of mine back in the old country has a really great blog (LINK). Heck of a guy, as they say in The States. I play the role of digital parasite, feeding off the links he posts, siphoning new ideas and inspiration from what floats his boat. Granted, a decent percentage of the external links will lead to sites dealing with web development languages and technologies (XML, XSLT, AJAX, CSS...) that I know fuck all about but there are also a fair quantity of links for the lay man.
He recently posted a link (LINK) related to the subconscious, accidental art of graffiti cover up. The artists being the city workers detailed with slapping mundane concrete shades of paint over vivid and unsanctioned works of public art. I spent a while thinking about what I had read at (LINK). It brought to mind personal observations of this tit for tat relationship between those who paint graffiti and those who try to pretend it never happened. The graffiti temporarily exists, is removed, appears elsewhere and is once again blotted out, all with the end result of the urban surface being forever altered which is exactly what those who run the city have been fighting against. Nobody wins. It’s hard to imagine any civic manager being passionate about coordinating this removal effort. What satisfaction can be taken home from a day’s work when you know that as soon as you go to sleep the graffiti artists begin their shift, providing you with your work for the following day? Tit for tat, back and forth, up and down, profit and loss... cyclic, rhythmic. Those who win are the likes of me, the man who walks the street and drives the freeways noticing fresh graffiti, and counting the days until it is replaced by a rough rectangle that’s three shades different from the surface it tries to mimic.
Mental sustenance and being privy to art mixed with crime mixed with psychological warfare between city government and artist is the reward. It fractures the monotony of the drive to work in the gray dead of winter with bursts of color in unexpected places. The façade of the city approximates the walls of a gallery with a rotating catalog of artists that any museum would be jealous of. The stealth with which Minneapolis removes graffiti seems to feed the problem and nourish the artists. The city is wasting money in trying to defeat something that it perpetuates.
Anyway, here (LINK) are my findings on The Subconscious Art of Graffiti Removal. Hopefully I have added something to the dialogue.
He recently posted a link (LINK) related to the subconscious, accidental art of graffiti cover up. The artists being the city workers detailed with slapping mundane concrete shades of paint over vivid and unsanctioned works of public art. I spent a while thinking about what I had read at (LINK). It brought to mind personal observations of this tit for tat relationship between those who paint graffiti and those who try to pretend it never happened. The graffiti temporarily exists, is removed, appears elsewhere and is once again blotted out, all with the end result of the urban surface being forever altered which is exactly what those who run the city have been fighting against. Nobody wins. It’s hard to imagine any civic manager being passionate about coordinating this removal effort. What satisfaction can be taken home from a day’s work when you know that as soon as you go to sleep the graffiti artists begin their shift, providing you with your work for the following day? Tit for tat, back and forth, up and down, profit and loss... cyclic, rhythmic. Those who win are the likes of me, the man who walks the street and drives the freeways noticing fresh graffiti, and counting the days until it is replaced by a rough rectangle that’s three shades different from the surface it tries to mimic.
Mental sustenance and being privy to art mixed with crime mixed with psychological warfare between city government and artist is the reward. It fractures the monotony of the drive to work in the gray dead of winter with bursts of color in unexpected places. The façade of the city approximates the walls of a gallery with a rotating catalog of artists that any museum would be jealous of. The stealth with which Minneapolis removes graffiti seems to feed the problem and nourish the artists. The city is wasting money in trying to defeat something that it perpetuates.
Anyway, here (LINK) are my findings on The Subconscious Art of Graffiti Removal. Hopefully I have added something to the dialogue.
22 March 2006
Prior Avenue
Martha and Elise (LINK) back on the mean streets of St. Paul today.
You just know they're gonna topple that building any day now. Those plywood windows are a dead give away. A damn shame.
You just know they're gonna topple that building any day now. Those plywood windows are a dead give away. A damn shame.
18 March 2006
Happy St. Patrick's Day
"Top of the morning to ye on this gray, grizzly afternoon. Kent O'Brockman here, live on Main Street, where today everyone is a little bit Irish, except, of course, for the gays and the Italians."
Kent Brockman
For most people I’m sure it was an accordingly messy day commemorating Ireland’s patron saint. God bless you all! Unfortunately I was not able to contribute to the flowing rivers of blood and green vomit this year. Earnestly putting in my hours at the fatherhood trade was I, and it’s worth every second. I’m apprehensive about letting this site transform into a cutesy, egocentric testament to Elise’s affect on our lives. Although the agenda of the blog may be vague there are some unwritten rules that govern its output (no half ass political analyses, no arrogant opinions on matters partially researched, no disclosure of these unwritten rules... oops) but it’s hard to pretend that life will ever be the same again and it is wrong, selfish and even shameful to suppress such delight for the sake of obsessively-compulsively adhering to such daft constraints. Inhibiting any form of organic behavior inevitably leads to problems. Try and kill a worm by chopping him in half, now you’ve got yourself two worms. Build a house too close to a tree and over time those roots will jack your house up and crack your walls good.
So the blog will be whatever it needs to be and that’s that. Phew.
Kent Brockman
For most people I’m sure it was an accordingly messy day commemorating Ireland’s patron saint. God bless you all! Unfortunately I was not able to contribute to the flowing rivers of blood and green vomit this year. Earnestly putting in my hours at the fatherhood trade was I, and it’s worth every second. I’m apprehensive about letting this site transform into a cutesy, egocentric testament to Elise’s affect on our lives. Although the agenda of the blog may be vague there are some unwritten rules that govern its output (no half ass political analyses, no arrogant opinions on matters partially researched, no disclosure of these unwritten rules... oops) but it’s hard to pretend that life will ever be the same again and it is wrong, selfish and even shameful to suppress such delight for the sake of obsessively-compulsively adhering to such daft constraints. Inhibiting any form of organic behavior inevitably leads to problems. Try and kill a worm by chopping him in half, now you’ve got yourself two worms. Build a house too close to a tree and over time those roots will jack your house up and crack your walls good.
So the blog will be whatever it needs to be and that’s that. Phew.
16 March 2006
Family fortunes...
The baby
Elise (LINK) continues to make us happy. Yeah, we'll keep her. A new friend (LINK) of hers is also proving to be a big hit around the joint.
The old man
Junk worthy of a mention. Self storage (LINK) building off University Avenue in St. Paul and some graffiti (LINK).
The mother
Martha (LINK) hasn't been slacking off either. No sir. In fact, she took these (LINK) Polaroids the same day Elise was born. Yeah, nothing like an unemployed man and a pregnant lady (in labor at the time) checking out a trash pile by the train tracks. Wouldn't have it any other way.
Elise (LINK) continues to make us happy. Yeah, we'll keep her. A new friend (LINK) of hers is also proving to be a big hit around the joint.
The old man
Junk worthy of a mention. Self storage (LINK) building off University Avenue in St. Paul and some graffiti (LINK).
The mother
Martha (LINK) hasn't been slacking off either. No sir. In fact, she took these (LINK) Polaroids the same day Elise was born. Yeah, nothing like an unemployed man and a pregnant lady (in labor at the time) checking out a trash pile by the train tracks. Wouldn't have it any other way.
13 March 2006
Hiawatha hump yards
Martha (LINK) and I were down at the Hiawatha hump yards on the day Elise ((LINK), (LINK)) was born. It was nine days past the due date and we were bored as crap loafing around the apartment not so patiently waiting for her to be born, so we hit the streets. Minnesota Commercial Railroad (LINK) uses this yard as storage for empty grain and liquid cars (LINK) and you’ll typically see up to 50 cars there, the same ones for weeks at a time. The longer they sit the more they get attacked by graffiti painting punks. And when there is no rail stock about, the delinquents paint all over (LINK) the yard walls.
12 March 2006
10 March 2006
26 February 2006
Dreams of beans
I ceased shaving two weeks ago. If a man is to be unemployed he should play the part. My work visa expired last Friday and I have to wait a maximum of six weeks until my immigration situation rights itself. This isn’t a big shock, it was only an 18 month visa and I knew from the start that I’d have to face a certain period of downtime.
Prior to reentering the working world it will be obligatory to no longer resemble Rashers Tierney. It’s not that beards are unwelcome or that sporting one would prevent me from being hired. No, the problem is that I am short and don’t fancy being known as the new guy who looks like a garden gnome. I’ll enjoy my bum beard, but when it’s time to work again I’ll have to shear her off. What a perfect opportunity to fulfill a life long dream though? I’m talking about a hot towel shave here.
My dreams last night were strange, such is the nature of dreaming I suppose so there is no reason why this particular dream should be anymore noteworthy than those of Thursday night or Wednesday night... A mysterious figure took me to the top of a stone tower on the edge of the city. Looking down I observed a complete absence of urban sprawl eating into the land, consuming the trees and substituting farms for gas stations and fast food restaurants. Instead of all that crap there was a sudden and definite point where the city ended and the land began. Maybe the city was contained by walls. Or maybe the city had come ready made and was just dropped onto the landscape and prohibited from extending beyond its original size. In an aerial photo the scene might look like a grey and brown version of the Japanese flag. Its perfectly circular perimeter was hard to comprehend. From the top of the tower I was able to see all the way north to the Canadian border, a distance of nearly 300 miles. One vast field of soy beans stretched from here to there. My eyes had a high zoom capability and I was able to see individual soy plants anywhere within that 300 mile expanse. Had there been civilization I would have been able to count freckles on the faces of folks living in Duluth, International Falls, Fargo and other towns, but there were no towns at all, only soy beans.
Our baby is due to be born this week. Today I made building blocks for her from some rough and dirty 2” x 2” oak pallet lumber. The blocks are chunky and deceptively heavy for their size so if I get one flung at me I wouldn’t be surprised to wake up in the hospital. I sliced the boards to produce cubes of 2” side. Each face was then skimmed to liberate the beautiful grain hiding beneath the surface. The rich, dark, almost aristocratic smell of the freshly cut end grain is such a reward.
And so unemployment, tea drinking, beer drinking, photography, woodworking, beard maintenance and eager, possibly amateur parenting will fill my days until mid April rolls around. Good times.
Prior to reentering the working world it will be obligatory to no longer resemble Rashers Tierney. It’s not that beards are unwelcome or that sporting one would prevent me from being hired. No, the problem is that I am short and don’t fancy being known as the new guy who looks like a garden gnome. I’ll enjoy my bum beard, but when it’s time to work again I’ll have to shear her off. What a perfect opportunity to fulfill a life long dream though? I’m talking about a hot towel shave here.
My dreams last night were strange, such is the nature of dreaming I suppose so there is no reason why this particular dream should be anymore noteworthy than those of Thursday night or Wednesday night... A mysterious figure took me to the top of a stone tower on the edge of the city. Looking down I observed a complete absence of urban sprawl eating into the land, consuming the trees and substituting farms for gas stations and fast food restaurants. Instead of all that crap there was a sudden and definite point where the city ended and the land began. Maybe the city was contained by walls. Or maybe the city had come ready made and was just dropped onto the landscape and prohibited from extending beyond its original size. In an aerial photo the scene might look like a grey and brown version of the Japanese flag. Its perfectly circular perimeter was hard to comprehend. From the top of the tower I was able to see all the way north to the Canadian border, a distance of nearly 300 miles. One vast field of soy beans stretched from here to there. My eyes had a high zoom capability and I was able to see individual soy plants anywhere within that 300 mile expanse. Had there been civilization I would have been able to count freckles on the faces of folks living in Duluth, International Falls, Fargo and other towns, but there were no towns at all, only soy beans.
Our baby is due to be born this week. Today I made building blocks for her from some rough and dirty 2” x 2” oak pallet lumber. The blocks are chunky and deceptively heavy for their size so if I get one flung at me I wouldn’t be surprised to wake up in the hospital. I sliced the boards to produce cubes of 2” side. Each face was then skimmed to liberate the beautiful grain hiding beneath the surface. The rich, dark, almost aristocratic smell of the freshly cut end grain is such a reward.
And so unemployment, tea drinking, beer drinking, photography, woodworking, beard maintenance and eager, possibly amateur parenting will fill my days until mid April rolls around. Good times.
21 February 2006
Chislers
"Kids are great. You can teach them to hate the same things you hate and they practically raise themselves, what with the internet and all."
Homer Simpson
Homer Simpson
12 February 2006
Eye in the sky
I discovered Google Earth (LINK) this morning while avoiding housework. First of all, I don't think Google would have built in a "Save Image" option if they didn't want me to export images for my own use, so here (LINK) goes. The intersection of the gray lines is our house. To the north is my playground, the grain elevators and train tracks.
Second of all, good God! Yes, satellite photography has been around since the 1960's and aerial photography since the earliest cameras were taken up in hot air balloons but this technology is something else.
In the space of five minutes I was able to visit all three capital cities of the Axis of Evil. Tehran and Baghdad (still a member of the axis?) were vaster than I had imagined, and particularly close to the ground in terms of average building height, possibly a function of the materials used to build structures in those countries. From an altitude of 5,000m both cities looked like some highly viscous tan colored liquid that had been poured into the desert.
Pyongyang, capital of North Korea was the most intriguing axis city. From above it looks like a decent western city with its parks, stadiums, museums, galleries and a freeway system that Ireland would be lucky to have by the year 2106. But here’s the somber bit, there are virtually no vehicles (LINK) to be found on the People's roads.
Second of all, good God! Yes, satellite photography has been around since the 1960's and aerial photography since the earliest cameras were taken up in hot air balloons but this technology is something else.
In the space of five minutes I was able to visit all three capital cities of the Axis of Evil. Tehran and Baghdad (still a member of the axis?) were vaster than I had imagined, and particularly close to the ground in terms of average building height, possibly a function of the materials used to build structures in those countries. From an altitude of 5,000m both cities looked like some highly viscous tan colored liquid that had been poured into the desert.
Pyongyang, capital of North Korea was the most intriguing axis city. From above it looks like a decent western city with its parks, stadiums, museums, galleries and a freeway system that Ireland would be lucky to have by the year 2106. But here’s the somber bit, there are virtually no vehicles (LINK) to be found on the People's roads.
08 February 2006
The city
For reasons unknown I feel an almost magnetic allure to the gritty, industrial, smoke stack cities of America. Non tourist traps such as Indianapolis, Cleveland, Billings, Trenton, Gary, Detroit, Cheyenne, Bozeman, Milwaukee, Boise, Cincinnati, and Philadelphia have stories to tell.
Minneapolis (LINK), where we live, has a distinctive whiff of grain, oil, grease and human sweat. Less evident these days for sure but downtown buildings like The Lumber Exchange, The Grain Exchange, the freight railroads that criss-cross Minneapolis like slash marks from the paws of a ferocious bear and the grain elevators that make their home without public protest in the midst of residential neighborhoods all point to a past where human effort and the infrastructure of man’s toil; brutalist architecture, came first, conventional aesthetics and appearance second. But time has rusted the steel, yellowed and cracked the paint, crumbled the bricks and rotted the wood. However, beauty has become the by-product, an accident, of a city that doesn’t concern itself with the maintenance of a once unsullied exterior. Do it once, do it right seems to have been the manifesto.
We’ll not discuss the strip mall and fast food franchise (LINK) epidemic that dooms both rural and urban America to an identically and disorientating future. For now cities like Minneapolis are safe as developers have their eyes set on the suburbs whose population’s insatiable appetite for “stuff” perpetuates a spread outwards, not inwards, leaving the heart of the city beating strong, but slowly decaying (LINK), much to my pleasure.
Minneapolis (LINK), where we live, has a distinctive whiff of grain, oil, grease and human sweat. Less evident these days for sure but downtown buildings like The Lumber Exchange, The Grain Exchange, the freight railroads that criss-cross Minneapolis like slash marks from the paws of a ferocious bear and the grain elevators that make their home without public protest in the midst of residential neighborhoods all point to a past where human effort and the infrastructure of man’s toil; brutalist architecture, came first, conventional aesthetics and appearance second. But time has rusted the steel, yellowed and cracked the paint, crumbled the bricks and rotted the wood. However, beauty has become the by-product, an accident, of a city that doesn’t concern itself with the maintenance of a once unsullied exterior. Do it once, do it right seems to have been the manifesto.
We’ll not discuss the strip mall and fast food franchise (LINK) epidemic that dooms both rural and urban America to an identically and disorientating future. For now cities like Minneapolis are safe as developers have their eyes set on the suburbs whose population’s insatiable appetite for “stuff” perpetuates a spread outwards, not inwards, leaving the heart of the city beating strong, but slowly decaying (LINK), much to my pleasure.
03 February 2006
Kitchen tales
We were bored and hungry last night so we got creative in the kitchen. The hunter-gatherer, breadwinner, soon to be sole provider for a young family went to the supermarket and bought ice cream, milk and chocolate biscuits/cookies. I got back to headquarters and Martha fired up the new blender to make a McFlurry for herself and a vanilla milkshake for me.
A sugar buzz and the excitement of watching the kitchen lady so naturally crack recipes too often and too greedily safeguarded by large corporations killed my boredom.
This domestic scene reminded me of my youth, back in the old country (excuse me while I wipe an immigrant tear from my eye), watching with awe as my mam made McDonalds like chips/fries for us kids. She cut those spuds into strips as thin as shoe laces and flash fried them into perfect strands of golden starch and oil. Such an example of selfless devotion can never be forgotten and sits high on my list of ways to be a great parent.
And in a totally unrelated vein here (LINK) is some recent shitehawkery.
A sugar buzz and the excitement of watching the kitchen lady so naturally crack recipes too often and too greedily safeguarded by large corporations killed my boredom.
This domestic scene reminded me of my youth, back in the old country (excuse me while I wipe an immigrant tear from my eye), watching with awe as my mam made McDonalds like chips/fries for us kids. She cut those spuds into strips as thin as shoe laces and flash fried them into perfect strands of golden starch and oil. Such an example of selfless devotion can never be forgotten and sits high on my list of ways to be a great parent.
And in a totally unrelated vein here (LINK) is some recent shitehawkery.
30 January 2006
In response to Chris
Dirty Three, Kreidler, Björk, Múm, Lackluster, Quiet American, Röyksopp, Buck 65, Prefuse 73, Boards of Canada, Low, The Cinematic Orchestra, Kings of Convenience, Quasimoto, Pulp, The Album Leaf, Pan American, Yo La Tengo, Beck, Fourtet, Attica Blues, Pulse Programming, Neil Young, Schneider TM, God Speed You Black Emperor, Erlend Øye, Swod, David Kitt, Labradford, Anti Pop Consortium, Badly Drawn Boy, The Coral, Pole, 90 Degrees South, Timo Maas, Cornelius...
23 January 2006
My world
Detail from late 1800's Wisconsin barn roof (LINK), before the sun went down at the Kurth elevator (LINK), an evil water tower (LINK), a lonesome corner building, its neighbors victims of progress devoid of character (LINK), numbers on a wall near the Pillsbury "A" Mill (LINK), more train graffiti (LINK), that ubiquitous poster (LINK), a business partner down at grain bins (LINK).
17 January 2006
Machine dreams
I’ve been known to buy a lot of crap on t’internet (read with Yorkshire accent) but today’s purchases takes the biscuit. Let’s see what we got.
1. Molded Nylon, 14.5° Pressure Angle, Spur Gear, 32 Pitch, 14 Teeth, 0.438" Pitch Diameter, 0.125" Bore Diameter.
2. Molded Nylon, 14.5° Pressure Angle, Spur Gear Rack, 32 Pitch, 0.1875" Face Width, 12” Length.
3. Trapezoidal Tooth Neoprene Rubber Timing Belt, 0.200" Pitch, Trade Size 160XL, 16" Outer Circle, 0.25" Width.
4. Acetal Timing-Belt Pulley with Aluminum Hub, 1.00" Diameter, 12 Teeth.
And what in the name of Christ would a man need this pile of junk for? Oh, just a little machine that is going to make me a zillionaire. Top secret stuff right now.
1. Molded Nylon, 14.5° Pressure Angle, Spur Gear, 32 Pitch, 14 Teeth, 0.438" Pitch Diameter, 0.125" Bore Diameter.
2. Molded Nylon, 14.5° Pressure Angle, Spur Gear Rack, 32 Pitch, 0.1875" Face Width, 12” Length.
3. Trapezoidal Tooth Neoprene Rubber Timing Belt, 0.200" Pitch, Trade Size 160XL, 16" Outer Circle, 0.25" Width.
4. Acetal Timing-Belt Pulley with Aluminum Hub, 1.00" Diameter, 12 Teeth.
And what in the name of Christ would a man need this pile of junk for? Oh, just a little machine that is going to make me a zillionaire. Top secret stuff right now.
12 January 2006
04 January 2006
Getting close
FINALLY WAS ABLE TO SEND IN THE FUCKIN’ APPLICATION FOR A GOD DAMN MOTHERFUCKIN’ ADJUSTMENT OF STATUS TO PERMANENT FUCKIN’ RESIDENT... EIGHT FUCKIN’ KABILLION PIECE OF SHIT FORMS... ENOUGH PAPER TO BUILD A FUCKIN’ TREE HOUSE... AND DON’T GET ME GOING ON THE INSANE INTANGIBILITY OF THE MYRIAD OF RULES AND REQUIREMENTS... YOU’D NEED A FUCKIN’ LAWYER! WE DID NEED A LAWYER! GOD BLESS THAT BASTARD, WITHOUT HIM WE’D STILL BE TAKING HALF BAKED TOTALLY BOLLOX ADVICE FROM THAT CIRCUS THAT HAS THE GALL TO BE CONSIDERED A FUCKIN’ EMBASSY... AND THEN THERE’S THE SMALL MATTER OF NEARLY $1,500 OF HARD EARNED CASH FUNDING THIS BIZARRE FUCKIN’ PROCESS...
AH FREEDOM, IT’S ALWAYS WORTH IT!
AH FREEDOM, IT’S ALWAYS WORTH IT!
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