Fire & Ice

I'm working on a project to entomb my outdoor wood-stove in a dome of solid ice. This involves building up layers of snow and then pouring water on top to expedite the freezing process. When I am happy with the size and quality of the dome I will light a fire in the stove and melt the ice tomb from deep inside its core. It's important to keep busy during the long winter.

History Project

Slide projectors have been on my mind for the past four or five years. I remember when I was a lad I thought it would be a clever idea to take apart my parents projector and use the components to make my own, out of a shoe box. Needless to say it was a disastrous project. Reverse engineering has never been my strong suit. I inherited a collection of old slides from my folks a few years ago. They then sat in a drawer at my house for a few dozen months until I permanently borrowed a slide projector from my mother-in-law. I have the projector set up in the basement and from time to time I will go down into the bowels of the house and beam a few slides onto the wall.

A few years ago I got a projector from the mother-in-law. Last night I set it up in the basement and viewed a few of my parents slides from the 1970's. I came across a street scene in Ireland. I saw that there was a pub in the photo, "The Ensign". What a strange name for a pub.

I used Google to locate the pub and was able to get a present day photo. Turns out the pub is in Monkstown, Co. Cork. Follow this link (LINK) for a spot the difference of the street scene then and now. The limited color palette of the old days is pleasing to the eye compared to the garish tones of today.

The slides are mostly a record of their days before the arrival of multiple offspring. That is a world that I know little about so these slides are an interesting glimpse inside that world. Frozen moments of Ireland in the 1970's confirm a beauty and uniqueness that I can only hope will exist forever.

Ice Meteorites

Found these weird metal objects frozen inside large blocks of ice in my backyard this morning. They either came from space or fell off an airplane. Their purpose I cannot determine.

Tis a fine barn but tis no pool English

The shed dream is coasting gently towards reality. Cormac (the brother) is coming to St. Paul for a week during May of next year. Fran (the step-father-in-law) will be in town for a few days. Between the three of us, and a boatload of cheap beer, we should make some major progress on the resurrection.

I will need to spend the weeks before their arrival clearing out the inside and clearing the outside perimeter of junk and vegetation. We’ll need to be able to get at the foundation to break it up in order to get the bottle jacks under the sill plate.

This is too exciting.

Smokeless in St. Paul

Eight years ago today I stopped smoking. All thanks to Allen Carr. It’s interesting to measure what I have not been missing.

12
Average number of cigarettes I used to smoke every day.

12 x 365 x 8 = 35,040
Number of cigarettes not smoked in the last eight years.

100mm
Approximate length of one cigarette.

35,040 x 100mm = 3,504meters (2.19miles)
Total length of cigarettes not smoked laid end to end.

SHED RESURRECTION, PART 6

It's Friday night and anything could happen in St. Paul, the city that sleeps. I went out to the shed to drink a beer in the cold night air. Drinking beer in cold weather is so satisfying. It intensifies the crispness of the beer. I like that. Truth be told I'd like to be mixing some vodka based cocktails but the wife says liquor makes me do silly things. I've been watching Mad Men (LINK), hence my desire to add olives, limes, cherries... to what I slake me thirst with. Anywho, the point of this story is that when my shed project is complete nobody will be able to prevent me from drinking cocktails in there because the shed will be sovereign Irish territory on which no laws shall exist.

SHED RESURRECTION, PART 5

Rough sketch (LINK) of a layout for the ground floor of the shed starring the Milk Tray Man (LINK) for some unknown reason. Everyone needs a shed, right?

And with that he cracked another beer…

SHED RESURRECTION, PART 4

I just cracked a beer as I am feeling pretty darn smug about recent developments in the shed project. On Saturday I decided that it would make more sense to have a concrete slab poured for the shed floor and foundation rather than trying to deal with creating individual footings as I jack up each side one at a time.

I talked to some concrete contractors today and got verbal approval on my idea of yanking out the wooden floor (which is just lying on top of gravel) and jacking the shed up and placing it on blocks so that the concrete people can come and pour a slab underneath the shed. After the concrete sets I would bolt pressure-treated sill plates to the concrete and drop the shed down onto them. Genius right?

And with that he cracked another beer…

Crafty Cities

American Craft Council announces relocation to Minneapolis... (LINK). I'm very excited to see what this will mean for the Twin Cities.

SHED RESURRECTION, PART 3

I’ve been thinking incessantly about my shed lately. It’s difficult for me to explain how much that building means to me despite its shabby condition and penchant for offering refuge to various forms of urban wildlife (bees, birds, mice, spiders, possums, adolescent mutant ninja turtles…).

It is even harder for me to explain how much more it will mean to me once the resurrection project has been completed. It has always been my dream to have a place that is dedicated entirely to one purpose; making things at my own pace and in my own company. I enjoy being alone sometimes, especially so while making furniture (LINK). I don’t see anything peculiar or wrong about that. Martha has similar leanings. Each to his or her own.

The shed is currently a two-story structure. I don’t know if I should keep it that way or not. Removing the floor between the two levels is kind of appealing. The result would be a squat little building (16’ x 12’) with a 17’ high ceiling. Those proportions, in my mind, conjure up images of small rural churches built from stone.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t in love with this idea but I have to be practical too. An upstairs in a shed comes along once in a lifetime. It should be embraced. It could serve as guest quarters or a place for the kids to play while staying within earshot of me while I work below. Too much possibility can be crippling sometimes. I will continue to mull and noodle over it through the winter months.

SHED RESURRECTION, PART 2

Phase 1-A completed this weekend. Weather was absolutely perfect. I'll burn most of the wood instead of taking it to the dump. I'm feeling good about the whole project. I think it will actually get done.

Shed Resurrection, Part 1

I've finally heeded the advice of Fran "The Wisest Old Bastard in Wisconsin" Rademacher. The shed will not be demolished and a new one built in its place. Instead, it will be saved and given a new soul. It took about three years for me to realize that he was right; the shed has character and to erase and replace that would not be right. Just like women and Englishmen sheds too have complex feelings.

During Thanksgiving in Waupaca a committee will be formed to discuss the mission. Beer will be swallowed and cards will be played while unholy hushed banter will pivot around what is to be done with that shed of mine.

Clara and myself spent some time today doing a site inspection and drafted a list of sequential action items for the committee to review later in the month. See below. Dunne & Daughter, Inc. is new to the building trade so we’ll be relying heavily on the advice of the committee. Fran has plenty of barn building experience from the 1970’s which is a well we may draw from often but more significantly he has a shed of his own. He saved this shed from being reclaimed by nature a few years ago so he is close to the emotion of what this project involves.

The preliminary plan of attack, pending committee approval of course:

Phase 1 - East
A. Demolish and remove add-on section.
B. Create foundation.
C. New sill plate.
D. New studs.

Phase 2 - West
A. Remove double doors.
B. Create foundation.
C. New sill plate.
D. New studs.
E. New door. Don’t need double doors since our cars won’t be kept in the shed.

Phase 3 - North
A. Lift entire side a few inches. Some four-ton screw jacks are on order already.
B. Create foundation.
C. New sill plate.
D. Straighten structure by pulling toward house using cable hoists. It has a nasty lean in it that has to be fixed.
E. Brace east and west ends to permanently hold straight.

Phase 4 - South
A. Lift entire side a few inches using jacks.
B. Create foundation.
C. New sill plate.

Phase 5 - Luxury Items
A. New siding
B. New doors.
C. New windows.
D. Insulation.
E. Electrical.
F. Wood stove.
G. Fridge full of beer.

I'm as excited as fuck about getting started.

THE DREAM

All I want to do is drink and build things out of wood (LINK). That's not such a bad thing is it? Better than hanging around the Orwell shops smoking fags if you ask me.

ANOTHER BOOKCASE

My hands are numb, and I am more than half drunk, so typing is simultaneously laborious and effortless but that’s the way she fuckin’ goes. Life is good for Kevin Dunne/Henry McNamara (LINK). I just came in from the shed after a relatively productive evening of working on a bookcase for an old guy in central Wisconsin (LINK). The cold weather forced me indoors. Not being able to feel my hands is the sign that it’s time to clock out.

My desire to become a furniture maker on my own terms and in my own time is trending in a direction that pleases me immensely. I know this because I was looking at Fran’s bookcase and realized that at approximately 50% completion there was nothing dimensional or aesthetic stressing me out. With each bookcase I build I get a little better and a little more confident in my abilities. It made me think that if I set my mind to achieving a new skill set (such as furniture making) then it can be done. This realization is an important personal development and slowly but surely helps me trade intolerance for patience. Hobbies are more than just something I do in my free time. They feed back into all other areas of my life.

Matrimony

Our great friends Kelley and Dean were married (LINK) last weekend in Madison, WI. Our kids were the flower girls. I've only been to a handful of weddings in my life but this one was a serious contender for the gold medal. Best of luck to them in their lives together.

Night Terrors

We were recently woken by Elise crying at 02:00. Martha went into the kids room to see what the issue was...

Martha: What's wrong, why are you crying?
Elise: There's something in my bed.
Martha: A spider?
Elise: I don't know.
Martha: Was it big?
Elise: Yeah.
Martha: How big?
Elise: Like a bunny.

The Solace of St. Paul, Part 1

Henry McNamara, Irish immigrant and proprietor of a small but successful furniture design shop in Saint Paul, Minnesota, recently huffed, puffed and blew down thirty birthday candles in the company of his wife and two young children. Although he genuinely enjoyed the party and the love he has for his family is infallible, he sees nothing seminal about turning thirty. He felt the same when he turned eighteen, twenty-one, and twenty-five and so considering this trend he will almost certainly demonstrate equal ambivalence toward forty, fifty, sixty and seventy-five and maybe even eighty if he is still around. There are people who believe time stops for them alone so that they, alone, can bask in a numerical milestone that is ironically being shared by millions of others at the exact same moment. Time does not stop or slow for anyone and that comforts Henry inexpressibly.

If Henry is anything he is brutally nostalgic about the very recent past, which he defines as an emotional sphere of events experienced in the last five minutes to forty-eight hours. Lying in bed at night he is frequently brought to the brink of joyous tears as he reflects on, word by word and squeal by squeal, a rambling phone conversation he had that day with his daughters while he was at work. There is something wonderfully delicate about their purity and lack of concern for the meaning of time. His almost-tears are not because he wishes to live perpetually in that moment but because he wants to understand why emotionally significant incidents older than two days, those that fall outside the sphere, tend to quickly fade from memory.

The anxiety is usually put to rest when he reassures himself that these short term memory issues are the result of his vices but whether it is the medically prescribed or the self prescribed ones that are the true root cause he cannot tell, nor does he really care. He has sufficient control over the situation that it needs only minimal and infrequent attention.

Henry empathizes with the type of people that society has labeled as losers. He always has. He always will. He realizes that the unfortunates he empathizes with were once decent souls. In fact, the measure of their souls is probably unchanged but this callously contrasts with their new societal categorization. Henry is acutely aware that whatever sequence of inconvenient events transformed these people could come knocking on his door at any minute.

He secretly enjoys the proximity of the reaper. He even teases it from time to time, like a foolhardy boy pulling on the tail of a dog eating a bone. Some kind of hair trigger discipline pulls him back just at the point where the mutt could snap, every time. He sees the possibility of becoming a loser as opportunity! The idea of being toppled and having to rebuild from rubble is rather appealing to him. Weaknesses in the original architecture could be addressed second time around, better choices could be made, regrets from round one could be turned into conquests in round two…

Henry enjoys these self-hypnotic thought trains that have no origin or destination or sustainable fuel source for that matter. They always run out of steam. This does not depress him one bit. Many things do but this does not, not one bit. Dreaming is human nature. Its purpose is something that not even the smartest of us may ever understand.

The invisible axis that he stands so close to, who’s crossing would govern what he could become reaffirms to Henry that there is reason, fairness, balance and possibly even justice in the world. You just have to be aware of it.

He slugs the last of the tea, now tepid, turns his back on the large window of his workshop and resumes attaching the drawer slides to the cabinet he is building for a new customer. Drinking tea and staring out the window won’t pay the bills he reminds himself.

I Killed It

Today is the day that I officially ended my bitter relationship with the incompetent shit-monkeys at Credo Mobile (LINK). Myself and the wife got our iPhone's last week and we have been patiently waiting on the transfer of our numbers over to AT&T. The transfer was completed today. To fully verify this I used my old phone to try and make a call. Like music to my ears the robotic automated reply informed me that "your account is no longer active".

I was driving at the time, on University Avenue in St. Paul. I hooked a left and turned into the industrial area near our house, where the streets are empty and screams go ignored. I passed some haggard souls making their way back to the halfway house by the train tracks. Poor bastards. Those men are the epitome of the down trodden.

I accelerated up to 50mph, opened the window all the way and with a stone skimming motion I fucked my old phone out the window. It was beautiful. I wish you had of been there. The phone made a very low angle with the asphalt and launched itself upward but the motion was brutally arrested by the kerb against which the phone blew to smither-fucking-eens. Emotions akin to witnessing the birth of my children rushed over me. The moment was that special. Serenity soon followed.

I drove home, kissed my wife, lay on the couch, drank some tea and basked in murderous glory.

Cooking

There are things we do in our own company that should remain private, and for legitimate reasons, outsiders just wouldn’t understand. From time to time (at least weekly) a reckless confidence fueled by alcohol leads me to surmise that my partner will most likely enjoy witnessing one of these acts of depravity first hand. She’d be fuckin’ stupid not to love me for doing this, right?

My lovely wife made some really extraordinary fried egg rolls for dinner last night. Those not devoured spent the night in the fridge. Eighteen hours later whilst seeking an appetizer to supplement my Saturday lunchtime beer I retrieved the cold egg rolls from the fridge. We own no microwave. The oven takes at least 10 minutes to heat up. The broiler sets off the smoke alarms and wakes the sleeping children. Crisis.

Solution. Fill a dirty mug with boiling water. Place two egg rolls into a plastic bag and sink the bag into the mug full of water. The egg rolls are smarter than thought and use their buoyancy to try and escape the mug so a knife, covered in hours old butter, is placed over the rim of the mug thus preventing unwarranted bobbing.

Razor sharp intuition and Q=mcΔt tells me that after approximately three minutes sufficient energy transfer will have taken place so that the egg rolls can be removed from the cooking apparatus and appreciated. The equations prove to be spot on, as per fuckin' usual, and the egg rolls are subsequently eaten.

That’s my life. That's cooking, divorce style.

iPhones For All

Hostage negotiations with the evil Credo Mobile (LINK) were successful. Martha (the fuckin' genius) got us out of our contract, sans ransom. Within an hour of our liberation we joined AT&T and procured an iPhone each. The future starts toady.

Maple Syrup 2009

More news on this later (LINK).

Phone Dicks

Never, never, never get a phone contract with Credo Mobile (LINK). It will be the stupidest thing you ever do. I am two months from the end of a two year contract that has been nothing short of emotionally crippling. I am literally shaking with hate as I write this. What a bunch of fuckin' idiots. Enjoy bankruptcy you worthless fuckin' shit-monkeys.

Father, Daughter, Fire, Popcorn

Spring came to Minnesota this week. The lakes may still have a thin coat of ice on them but spring is here, end o' fuckin' story. Elise and I spent the evening out in the back garden. We both enjoy the occasional outdoor fire in the wood-stove. It's a thing we have together. Some people, namely my brother-in-law, have their garbage piles (LINK) but I have my father and daughter fires.

We made popcorn on the cast iron beast that Fran (LINK) gave me a few years back. Pure fun. I'm thinking that next weekend we'll make pancakes.

Fire has the same mesmeric effect on the young (her) as it does on the old (me). That really interests me. Elise is a typical kid; she is energetic and hard to pin down for any amount of time but once we are sitting by that blazing fire she becomes a philosopher, poet and observer of all things celestial. I love that kid.

Bag of Shite

I'm at home, sick, with a stomach flu that at its height was how I imagined those afflicted with typhoid must feel. Vomiting, diarrhea, sweating, confusion, falling over, talking with spirits were the order of the night. Comical at times, oh yes indeed. I'm on the way back now and should be able to return to work tomorrow.

The kids are in bed and the old lady is out buying thread for a sewing commission so I am feckin' around on the internet. Snow is falling heavily outside. There is nothing, and I repeat nothing, like persistent snow from November to April to lift a man's heart.

Anywho, a couple of links ((LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK)), for the craic.

I almost forgot the good news amid all that feces drenched misery... Next month I will finally, and I repeat finally, own an iPhone (LINK).

Wiggilator

I made a Wiggilator. It's a bunch of springs mounted onto a board. You whack it, it oscillates like crazy, you laugh, it comes to rest, you move on. Soon everyone will want one. I will make millions of dollars. I will take my family out for Chinese food. It will be good.

Book Readin'

The Information Age has taken a heavy toll on my ability to read text in any form and of any significant length. My attention span has been so truncated that I struggle to read the little pieces of paper inside fortune cookies. That's really pathetic. I'm fighting back though. I am making a serious effort to read documents of ever increasing content and complexity. ATM receipts, error messages on machines at work, IKEA furniture assembly instructions, mortgage refinance documents and the occasional book are now being devoured with a hunger not felt since the late 90's and early 00's. That was an era when consuming the entire Foundation series by Issac Asimov in six months was nothing. Also during those years of enlightenment I burned through the works of Hanif Kureishi, John McGahern, Arthur Miller, Patrick Kavanagh and various American authored short story collections.

It's not really an attention span issue that drove me away from books to be honest. I've been thinking about this for a year or so and have made some conclusions. It was an imagination problem. I could no longer attach faces to characters in books, they were just names, and when the book had more than five characters it became impossible to follow the storyline because all the faceless subjects got mixed up in my head. An attempt to read a Douglas Coupland book ended after 25 pages of frustration and complete confusion. I was no longer able to handle excessive detail and side plots and sub plots. I wanted the meat and none of the side crap.

Maybe I have been reading the wrong stuff during these last few years. Perhaps the mental effort that my job often requires (nobody was kind enough to preemptively inform me that the trigonometry, vector mechanics, machine design classes I took at college would ever be put to good use) has rendered my mind spent at the end of the day such that I take more pleasure from kid's books (Spot Goes To The Farm, Spot Loves Mommy, Spot Gets Hammered, Spot Gets Divorced, Spot Is Homeless, Spot Dies... I made up a few of those) than from my own. Hey, maybe I'm just thick and was never meant to read.

No, I'm not thick, just slow at times. Like I said at the start of this rant I have been fighting back. In the last two months I have managed to read more books than I have read in the previous five years.

Recently read: Joe Wilson and His Mates by Henry Lawson, Children of The Bush by Henry Lawson, Introduction to Fluid Mechanics by Fox, McDonald and Pritchard, Born Standing Up by Steve Martin, Mere Anarchy by Woody Allen, Processing: A Programming Handbook for Visual Designers and Artists by Casey Reas and Ben Fry.

Missing Éire

The Wife: Are you homesick?
Me: No, why?
The Wife: You're listening to RTÉ online (LINK) and talking about getting drunk and eating chips in the rain.
Me: Maybe I am.

Basement Shenanigans

The basement is my winter shed. I really need to be down there building a bench and some shelves. Instead I have been making scrap wood collages (LINK). Plenty of time to be whipping up shelves and benches I keep telling myself. Plenty o' time...

Art Shanty Project

Early last Sunday we rolled out from our cosy nest, tossed some breakfast into the spuds and drove out to Medicine Lake which is about two miles from where I work and a good dozen or so miles from our home in St. Paul. Reason? To see the Art Shanty Project ((LINK), (LINK)) which is in its third year now.

We rapped on the door of the first shanty we were able to confirm whose inhabitants were open for business. Elise, with her unique brand of blatant cuteness (pink coat and pink snow boots always do it) befriended the band of out of town hippies (LINK) who are holed up for the next few weeks, on the lake, in a reconstruction of an upturned boat that Ernest Shackleton (LINK) and his pals called home during an ill fated trek to the North Pole. Unlike Ernest the hippies have a well stocked bar, wood-stove and access to infinite fuel, phones and cars to use for voyages into Minneapolis should the bright city lights become more appealing that the blinking stars high above Medicine Lake, Minnesota.

A strange and far flung bunch, none of them local. Canada, Washington, West Virginia, North Carolina, San Francisco were all represented. Elise, being kind of quiet due to her confusion at the situation, was brought to life with a tortilla filled with melted chocolate chips. One of the artists whipped it up for her on the top of the wood-stove. Chocolate being the elixir of shyness, the hippies were soon gathered around our first born as she answered their questions and spun deep yarns of her own.

I'd be a damn liar if I said I wasn't tempted to put my Joseph of Nazareth mad carpentry skills to work on a shanty. Lord only knows I've built a wee hut (LINK) or two in my day. I've frequently caught myself dreaming of a collection of funny little houses dotted around our back garden. Maybe even a few up in the oak tree or the catalpa trees. No, I don't have an ounce of faith in those catalpa tress. The squirrels have cored them out completely. A decent puff of wind would bring them down. The oak tree is a different story. Its strength is not to be questioned. It could handle a hoard of kids for sure. I will continue to refine the blueprints during these long winter months. Winter is when you plan all the cool things you are going to do between May and November, the outside months.

If you live in a part of the world where the lakes are frozen with ice two feet thick for a third of the year, every year, then I think a shanty project should be adopted by your community. Why not? A frozen lake is an opportunity to do things that disturb the insanity and cruelty of an Arctic winter. I'm actually getting into it. It took a few years of teetering on the edge of SAD (LINK) but I have a new attitude, a decent coat, boots and snow pants so I can be outside as much as I so desire even on days like today (-22°C as I type). Winter is opportunity. Native midwesterners (LINK) only see it that way. I just have to catch up on 23 years of not thinking that way.

Next weekend, igloo (LINK) building. I'm not joking.

Our kids

I love this () photo. Taken on October 31st, 2008. Elise and Clara are in their Halloween costumes. Elise is a duck and Clara is a bowling pin. Elise is pushing Clara in the swing that hangs from one of the catalpa tree in our back garden. In the center of the picture the sun is catching the autumn-blessed vines that grow on the side of our house. They are not aware that I am taking their picture.

Think Hard, It’ll Come Back to You

by Woody Allen
(Appeared in The New Yorker, November 10th, 2008)

As health-food stores go, the Hardened Artery is as steady as any. Perusing its pricey nutrients last week in quest of some vitalizing herb or root to flush out a family of free radicals that had built their nest in my chassis, I came vis-à-vis a bottle of red fluid nestled like a krait between the ginseng and the echinacea and sporting the Ray Bradburyish title “Brainiac.” Plucked from its niche, it claimed to be a thirst quencher chockablock with gingko biloba and sundry antioxidants reputed to enhance memory. “Think quick,” the label copy spieled. “Where are your car keys? Cue television game-show music. The mind docs at Function developed Brainiac to help in these situations.” On the label, in letters clearly visible to anyone possessing an electron microscope, followed the sheepish admission that the claims of the miracle apéritif had not yet been examined by the Food and Drug Administration and “the product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease.” Whether it might be used to remove gravy stains or unclog a drain remains untested. Still, this notion of a neuron-recharging elixir brought to mind thoughts of my esteemed colleague Murray Cipher, as he prepared to go out for dinner. Mustn’t be late to the Wasserfiends’ party. Classy crowd. No lungfish caviar tonight. Upward mobility? Vice-presidency for old Murray? Imagine—twenty-four exterminators working under me. Mind-boggling. How do I look? Only great. New necktie should wow ’em, although the pattern of multiple G clefs may be too hip for the room. Searched for the perfect birthday present for Mr. Wasserfiend. Amazing, but Hammacher Schlemmer is the only place in town that carries a Jarvik Heart with a compartment for fish hooks. But, look at this, in my haste to be on time I almost bolted out the door without his gift. Let’s see, where did I put it? Hmm. Was it on the foyer table? Not here in the drawer. Did I leave it in the bedroom? Check my night table—so damn cluttered. Reading lamp, alarm clock, Kleenex, shoe horn, my copy of Hui-Neng’s “Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch.” Glove compartment of the Saab? Better race out and see. Raining. Oh, brother, a scratch on the fender. Damn rabbi on his unicycle. Wait a minute, where are my car keys? Could have sworn I left them in this pocket. No, just some loose change and ticket stubs from the all-black version of Elaine Stritch’ s one-woman show. Did I check my desk? Better go back inside. What’s in the top drawer here? Hmm. Envelopes, my paper clips, a loaded revolver in case the tenant in 2A begins yodelling again. O.K., let’s reconstruct. This morning I drove to Smallbone’s to have my toupee steamed, stopped off at Stebbins’s home to return his arch supports, then to my bagpipe lesson.

Hey, wait a minute, that little starlet I shacked up with who always took melatonin to prevent jet lag when we had sex—she used to nosh some kind of Buck Rogers health snack. Yes, Cranial Pops. Supposed to zap the memory. Could she have even left some in the cupboard? Ah, here—what does it say on the bag? “Untested by Food and Drug Administration—May cause drowsiness in men named Seymour.” I’ll just try a few. Hmm, nice flavor. I love the taste of soy phosphatidylserine. Have some more?

Now, where was I? Oh, yes, of course, I left Mr. Wasserfiend’s gift at the office. My secretary, Miss Facework, to meet me with it at the party. Car keys in gray cashmere cardigan on second hanger in hall closet. Remember the day I bought that cardigan, sixteen years ago. A Tuesday. I was wearing beige slacks and a Sulka button-down oxford shirt. Gray socks. Shoes from Flagg Brothers. Had lunch with Sol Kashflow, the hedge-fund whiz. Sol ordered the halibut with buttered peas and julienne potatoes. His beverage white wine, a ’64 Bâtard-Montrachet, which I recall was a tad fruity. Finished off with lime sorbet and two after-dinner mints—or was it three? Funny thing, he hardly touched his meal. Too excited because Amalgamated Permafrost had just merged with a company that had developed a process to make steel into henbane. To celebrate I got the check. Fifty-six dollars and ninety-eight cents. Hardly worth it, since my langoustines were overcooked.

To the Wasserfiends’ party at last. Just on time. Everybody well dressed. Champagne flowing. Cocktail pianist. “Avalon.” Same song playing that night in Vineyard Haven with Lillian Waterfowl. Slipped out of her bathing suit. Naked goddess. Tore off my clothes with her long nails. Our two bodies straining with desire. Moved in on her like a panther. About to consummate passion, when suddenly my leg cramped. Left calf? No, right. Let out piercing shriek, leaped off her. Hopped around room, face contorted with pain. What struck her so damn funny? Christ, the woman was doubled up with laughter. Accused me of ruining the moment. Schlemiel, she called me, nudnik. Couldn’t run to the phone fast enough to share the story with our friends. Let her rot with her embezzler husband. The man tries to hide six million dollars in small denominations in his shoe.

Brings to mind Hornblow evening. Haven’t thought of it in fifteen years. Watched Effluvia Hornblow baking in her kitchen. Asa Hornblow in the other room bombinating his chums about the Red Sox. They split a doubleheader with the Tigers that day, taking the opener, 6–2, then dropping the nightcap, 4–0. Heard their voices, good old boys arguing balls and strikes. Bent her over the sink to lance my tongue between her smoldering lips. Suddenly necktie caught in the Mixmaster. Switch jammed, wouldn’t turn off. Plug inaccessible behind refrigerator. Kept snapping my head against the marble backsplash. Remember witnessing birth of the great Crab Nebula. Emergency Squad. Taken away in an ambulance. For two weeks could speak only in rhymed couplets, smiled often, plus every ten minutes greased my body for a Channel swim. Hermès tie it was. Sixty-nine ninety-five, and that was then.

Look at Mrs. Wasserfiend sitting there, so elegant. Black Armani dress, simple pearls and those dramatic earrings—two Jivaro shrunken heads with their lips sewn together. Makes me think of Grandma. Always sitting there playing cards with Grandpa. Cheated him blind. Finally he went blind in one eye and she could only cheat half of him. Grandpa very brilliant, spent fifteen years translating “Anna Karenina” into pig Latin. Remember the day Grandpa collapsed, June 8th, 6:16 P.M. Misdiagnosed as dead and embalmed despite his clear ability to shimmy and sing “Rag Mop.” Grandma sold the house and devoted her life to serving God. Applied for sainthood but was turned down because she couldn’t parallel park.

Pianist is playing “You Made Me Love You.” Remember always hearing that song when Mom was pregnant with me. Dad used to sing it to himself in the mirror all day long. Recall Mom giving birth to me in a taxicab. Meter ran four-eighty. Cabbie was Israel Moscowitz. Talkative. Referred to his wife as a fat pot of kasha. Remember my parents expected twins. Crushed when there was only one of me. Couldn’t deal with it. First few years dressed me as twins. Two hats, four shoes. To this day they still inquire about Chester.

Thank you for a wonderful evening, Mrs. Wasserfiend. Oh, and the name you were trying to think of when we were discussing the life of Emily Dickinson before was Bronko Nagurski. Out of there just in time. Cranial Pops starting to wear off. Still, no question I was the hit of the party. Came up with Gouda cheese. Lava soap. Got Leo Gorcey and Julien Sorel. Managed to recite the Philippics verbatim. Recalled the Schrafft’s on Fifty-seventh and Third. Hummed Mousie Powell’s theme song. Got Menachem Schneerson, the Sons of the Pioneers. Gyp the Blood. Now, where the hell did I park my car?

Ouch!

Disclaimer: The injury shown in the photo below is the result of a workplace accident that was 100% my fault. In this country that has more than one million lawyers it might seem tempting to place the blame on my employer and attempt to extract some undeserved quantity of cash. Not the way I operate although I'm positive every Lionel Hutz (LINK) scumbag-type-lawyer in town would love to take this case all the way to the Supreme Court. I'm glad not to have lost the finger and my respect/fear for the wire braiding machines I work with on a daily basis has grown even greater. I really enjoy my job and want to keep it, whether it costs me a few fingers or not.

For a week after the accident I was taking Percocet (LINK) for pain relief. I have to say that I enjoyed it. It provided adequate respite from the ringing pain in the finger but the constipation, fatigue, dizziness, nausea, lightheadedness, headache, euphoria, dry mouth and anxiety gets old kind of fast. Combine all that with a six pack of Pabst and you've got yourself a very emotional one man party. One minute you're up, then next you're asleep for 15 hours. Days slip by. Boredom, idleness and work-absence-guilt kicks in. Party's over, get back to work. And I did.

Lyonsy

Rest in peace Lyonsy. You'll be missed very much by the world. That's all I can say.

Score!

I scored an absolutely obscene amount of old skirting board, door frame, trim and coving today. It's all antique white with just the right amount of decay and chipping. Perfect for furniture making (LINK). Once again the Prospect Park neighborhood (LINK) where we used to live has blessed me. I'm very excited to dig through the pile and start figuring out what I can make. I now have an abundance of materials that should see me through the next three pieces at least. Everything is comin' up Milhouse! And while I'm feeling cocky I suppose I should share the fact that I made three strikes in a row at bowling this morning. They calls that a turkey they do. A feckin' good day. USA! USA! USA!

And now to celebrate... few beers, some Buck65, a few articles from American Craft magazine. Sad, I know, I'm fully aware of that. We all bear a cross.

Wood Pixels

I've wanted to get into the making of wooden pixel art for a few years. Now is as good a time as ever. I transplanted my woodworking operation to the basement of our house since the shed is now a freezer in which no honest man deserves to try and get stuff done. It's winter and it's cold. End of story.

The stairs down to the basement are steep and narrow thus limiting the size of projects that can be accomplished in that secret underground lair of tea and radio and dreaming. It is completely true that I have no clear idea of how I can make the leap from methodically cutting up scrap wood to a finished work. Sometimes the process is as enjoyable and important as the end result. I'm an engineer, not an artist. Striving for absolute uniformity as I cut the little squares imposes self discipline and I like that.

Helix

While working on a helix (LINK) related problem at work today I came across this definition:

"A helix is a curve for which the tangent makes a constant angle with a fixed line. The shortest path between two points on a cylinder (one not directly above the other) is a fractional turn of a helix, as can be seen by cutting the cylinder along one of its sides, flattening it out, and noting that a straight line connecting the points becomes helical upon re-wrapping. It is for this reason that squirrels chasing one another up and around tree trunks follow a helical path."
Wikipedia

The squirrel analogy is 100% true. We have millions of the little shit-monkeys in our back garden and I have often see them do the helical chase around the oak tree.

Squirrel-centric analogies are key to my survival in the modern workplace.

Popperville

Apparently there was some kind of election yesterday here in America. Who knew? St. Paul, my adopted home town, tends to be a bit of a quiet/sedate/unconscious/dead place to live and particularly so as we prepare for another long-drawn-out winter. Major world events often slip by St. Paul without much notice from those that serenely dwell within her leafy enclaves. There are times when I wake up believing that I live in the fictitious town of Popperville (LINK). I’m fine with that. In fact, I aspire to that. My universe is small (family, work, shed and drinking in that order) so I have little free time to keep up with what is going on two towns over, never mind further afield.

But in an effort to wise up and be an informed citizen I’ve done some post-election research on this Obama guy and I like what I see. These are indeed exciting times… if you live anywhere but St. Paul, Minnesota of course.

Crazy Kidz

There are times when I worry that my kids ((LINK), (LINK), (LINK)) are actually and officially insane. No, they just have imaginations sans corners. Must be nice.

The Polaroids are by Martha (LINK) of course.

Oregon

Pictures from Oregon this summer (LINK). That's where Noah and Tegan (Martha's step-brother and his wife) live. What a cool state they live in. Volcanoes, high desert, ancient forests, misty coastal towns, pedestrian friendly cities, good food and beer... What more could a man want?

Kalifornia

Some pictures from our West Coast trip this summer (LINK). Why the fuck did I not take some pictures on the beach at Redwood Forest National Park? Idiot. Beautiful place. The weather was so interesting, and emotional to be honest.

Door

Martha found this amazing old door (LINK) in an alley in our neighborhood. I am in the process of building it into a new closet for our foyer. That's right, the Dunne's have a foyer, not a hall. Hall's are for common folk.

Tiny House 2

Ideas are forming for this next big project. This will be the adult version of the playhouse already built (LINK) for the kids.

Slowly but surely found/donated/salvaged/swiped/whatever building materials are finding their way from the streets into my car and then to the shed, the final holding place for all the beautiful things the city has given to me.

I have pretty much decided on the proportions of the front elevation, 4' x 7'. Not sure on depth yet. Maybe 6'.

Sitting on an idea for a few months before executing it is almost as pleasurable as enjoying the finished project. I am learning patience. Stupid mistakes and the resulting sadness can be avoided this way. Small mistakes still find their way into the job but those are important.

Not with it

Sometime in 2005 we "dropped out" of popular culture. The Dunne's don't own a TV. Correct, there is no television in our house. Again, there is no device within our four walls that contains a cathode ray tube. We are still unsure what was so popular about that culture.

How do we live? Like feckin' animals (LINK)... and we love it.

Erik Otto

We nearly bought some work by Erik Otto ((LINK), (LINK)) this summer on our trip to the west coast. I still need to write a story about the trip because it was bloody fantastic. The hostel in San-San-Sico (as Elise calls it) that we stayed in was one block away from a new gallery where we saw the Otto show.

The quality and originality of the work nearly brought tears to me eyes. I'm weak like that. When you haven't got the words to express how you feel you may as well cry like a girl.

Tiny House 1

I had to build this. I knew the kids would love it and I knew that I would enjoy making it. Elise calls it "The Tiny House". I can fit in there with the two kids, no problem. The inside dimensions are 48" x 48" x 48" which is just enough for the chislers and me.

The whole thing is built from materials found on the streets/in dumpsters/etc.

I recently spent a rainy afternoon in The Tiny House with a cup of tea and the kids. Nice memory. Elise likes to draw all over the walls with her markers. I don't let her draw on the outside or on the window and she is pretty good at following the rules. Homeowners pride I guess.

The back door is actually a basement window that I found in our neighborhood last winter on a snowy evening. I attached it to the frame of the house with self-closing hinges which means we don't have to worry about squirrels getting in and taking over if the door accidently gets left open. Clara refers to squirrels and birds and rabbits as dogs.

Tiny House 2 will hopefully get built this winter. That will be an adult version where me and Martha can hang out. My vision is that I could be in it reading a book, drinking tea (but more likely beer) and watching the snow fall. I need to figure out some kind of non lethal heating system. I have a woodstove that I can use. Maybe I can hook up a radiator to it.

Storage solutions

Here's a snapshot of some ideas bubbling around in my head (LINK) for the next big project, after I get the kitchen cabinet job (LINK) completed. Better get the finger out, winter is around the corner.

While on a recent family excursion to the Bell Museum of Natural History on the U of M campus (LINK) both Martha and I took a shine to some old display cases that housed bones and rocks and the like. The proportions were perfect. I'd like to build something like this for our dining room. The function would be slightly different. Instead of displaying artifacts we would have books mixed in with art objects. My take on what I saw at the museum would be to have three to five individual storage units, each the exact same size but with variations in the materials used and construction method of each.

Stacking Boxes

Not sure where this idea is going or if the concept is even worthy of turning into reality. What you have is a set of different sized boxes all mounted on a pole. Each box can swivel 360°. The pole is secured in a concrete cube for stability.

Back to the drawing board. Comments or suggestions welcome.

Short back and sides

I got a flyer today for a free hair cut at SportsClips (LINK). Odd concept but seems to make solid marketing sense. Only in America...

Craft in Ireland

A very inspiring article in American Craft Magazine (LINK) provided me with some must see things for when we are in Ireland next summer.

Check out the breathtaking woodturning of Liam Flynn (LINK).

Make

Here's (LINK) a story about some furniture I am making for the kitchen. The weather is getting perfect for working up a thirst in the shed.

So many plans so little time! Wait, I have a good 50 or so years in me so there is no reason I can't someday become the full time furniture maker I dream of being.

Yes We Can

It's September 5th 2008. It's 9:15PM, Central Time. It's St. Paul, Minnesota, my beloved new home town. It's the last night of the Republican National Convention. My wife and mother in law went on their bikes to downtown St. Paul to peacefully (hopefully) protest the RNC. A really old man is giving a speech. His name is John McCain. He is a hero for all the wrong reasons. He dropped bombs on villages in Vietnam from the safety of 20,000 feet above the earth and then was stupid enough to get shot down. Martha often preaches the creed of karma. She is never wrong. Nearly everything I have learned in life I have learned from her. I am more serious than a dream-job-ironed-the-night-before-interview-shirt.

Supposedly this speech marks a historical moment. This Irish-American is displaying his indifference to history by turning off the radio, having a fire in the backyard, downing a six pack of beer and crushing beer cans in the vise to see if a perfect collapse of the cylindrical form can be achieved without buckling. I am also listening to old Christy Moore songs (In Zurich, The Lakes of Pontchartrain, Little Musgrave) on my iPod while I stumble in and out of the shed. My beautiful children sleep in their beds without care for the waste of energy taking place in downtown St. Paul. Bless the little clowns!

Andy Goldsworthy

A couple of months ago an extremely important event, possibly sacred even, occurred in my life. I made this crude post (LINK) about a few of the living (or not long dead) artists that create the kind of art that stirs unquantifiable levels of optimism inside of me. I don't understand it and probably never will. Maybe that's the point. When you can see all sides of an object then there is nothing left to generate wonder, so you walk away. The object doesn't seem so big anymore. You move on. The event that took place made me stand still... and I have not moved one inch since. I'm transfixed beyond words. That rarely happens, thank God.

Emmet (LINK) commented on the post with a suggestion that I investigate the work of one Andy Goldworthy (LINK). Emmet's tips are typically the stuff of legend and this one didn't fall short of the mark. What makes the story interesting (to me anyway, not sure about you) is that many weeks later while in Waupaca for the weekend at Fran and Marci's I found myself bored, I think. The kids had gone to bed, everyone else was out. I was tired. I had worked a full day back in the Twin Cities then drove four and a half hours (LINK) from work straight to Waupaca. Working my way through a cold six pack and sitting with the dogs on the couch a DVD on the shelf caught my gaze. An Andy Goldsworthy DVD, Rivers and Tides (LINK) was tucked between all the other DVD's. I put down me beer and slapped it on.

I would only embarrass myself if I tried to further explain what this has all meant to me. Words are too limiting. I can't put the right ones together to create a meaningful whole.

Goldsworthy's divorce from his wife and the breakup of his family (he has four young kids) temporarily soured the art for me. I love my wife and kids so much and would have no idea what to do if ever we became divided. It saddens me to see unhappiness visit anyones door but his family situation is not my business so I have no reason to judge. It was interesting to hear him say on the Rivers and Tides DVD that he enjoyed being alone and then to see him (on same DVD) at his kitchen table oblivious to the kids and pets that were milling around him in a scene of domestic normality. He wore the appearance of an man loosing touch with the mortal world.

Perhaps he just couldn't supply the energy and commitment needed to play a role as a family member. Creating immortal art cannot be easy.

Spud Girl

Once a month or so Martha makes a fantastic potato based dish called "Potatoes O'Brien" (LINK). Elise has renamed it "The Potatoes Are Crying" so I always laugh when I hear that we are having Potatoes O'Brien for dinner. It's the way she says it that makes it so cute. Love that kid.

Craic House

The years fly by don't they? It seems like only yesterday that I had two small kids in the house. Yep, Elise and Clara have flown the nest and decided to move out... to the garden.

I built this shack for them. Actually, that's a poor reflection on my carpentry skills. This is a fine home that any kid would be proud to own. In fact, small adults (such as me) have been known to enjoy a bowl of ice cream or two within those four walls.

And now onto the next project... cutting the feckin' grass.

West Coast 2008

It's nearly time to go on our summer vacation. Excitement is mounting, and it should be. This will be a cool trip (LINK). Take no prisoners, take no shit, take lots of pictures, eat lots of salmon cooked on the fire by Tegan, spend lots of money, build family memories, collect beach glass for a bathroom mosaic back at home, drink lots of beer, avoid starting another wildfire, be a dick, be a nice guy, see it all, eat M&M's in a different time zone, take a piss in a new ocean...

A
Fly from Minneapolis, MN to Portland, OR. See flag A on linked map. Stay three nights in a hostel in the city. Dwell magazine had plenty of great things to say about this city. Let's see if print media can match reality.

B
Drive from Portland to Mount Hood, OR. See flag B on linked map. Camp for three nights, in a tent and not in an air conditioned RV with six bathrooms, a basement, a tennis court, a billiards room... Yes we are insane thinking that all four of us in a small tent is going to be smooth as Baileys on ice. I need some excitement in my life. Surely this experience will fill the void.

C
Drive from Mount Hood to Eugene, OR. This is Noah and Tegan's adopted town. Cause three nights of trouble in a hostel in the city. See flag C on linked map.

D
Drive from Eugene to Redwood National Park, CA. See flag D on linked map. Stay two nights in a hostel right on the beach. See those giant sequoia trees.

E
Drive from Redwood National Park to San Francisco, CA. Spend four nights there in a hostel smack in the middle of the city. Maybe I will get to visit Alcatraz. It's one of those dreams I have that shouldn't really be classed as a dream. To be honest, I'd take a new iPhone over a trip to The Rock. Fly back to little old St. Paul, MN. Resume regular life possibly sporting a new beard picked up on the trip.

Vegetable Garden

These photos were taken when we had just finished building the fence and were getting ready for planting. We built the garden in the spot beside the shed where we used to park the cars. This is a much better use of space. As usual entire job was done with found materials.

I was surprised to learn that a 12' x 14' plot could support all our vegetable needs for so many months. I was even more surprised to realize that you really can taste the difference between something you pull out of the ground and eat right away and something you buy from the shop. Not being snooty, just making an observation.

Clara

Clara has the biggest eyes of anyone I know. They see all.

The Shop

Support (LINK) the arts you bastards!

Better than I

Without sources of inspiration ((LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK)) what's the point?

Each year I try and accomplish a few projetcs (2007: (LINK), (LINK), (LINK)). It's not easy with winter being six months long and my shed not being heated or insulated but it could be worse. At least I have a shed, eh? The project list for 2008 is slightly longer that last year list but that's the idea. Do a little more every year. Ambition.

The other night I started work on a large kitchen cupboard with countertop that will replace four smaller units. When finished she will measure 50" wide x 84" high x 28" deep. I hope to build her using about 90% found or salvaged materials. I have no definitive design requirements other than the need to fit into the 50" x 84" x 28" envelope and provide a decent amount of countertop area for Martha to make bread. I built the bookcase (LINK) last year without a design so I'm sure it will all come together. The trick is to take it easy and stop for frequent tea breaks. It's during the tea drinking that the best ideas come to the furniture maker.

Whatever

Totally forgot what I wanted to say... half drunk... waste of a blog post, waste of your time, wasted, screw it. Hitting the west coast this summer. Washington, Oregon (LINK), California... All good in the 'hood.

Maple syrup

Subconsciously I suppose I always knew that maple syrup came from actual maple trees although the exact conversion process never entered my mind. That has all changed now. Martha's folks own 15 acres of land, a decent portion of it being hardwood forest, outside Waupaca, Wisconsin. We got married on that land and are eternally grateful to all that Fran and Marci did to make the "blessed event" be such a memorable day. We visit that land nearly every time we are in Wauapca. I say nearly because deer hunting season makes it off limits. Downtown Baghdad is a safer (and warmer) place than rural Wisconsin when deer huntin' is open. There may be more bullets flying in Baghdad but in Wisconsin there are guns mixed with beer, cheap beer, the kind of beer that is sold in 30 packs for $12 and drank first thing in the morning by both men and women. Yes, that kind of beer.

At the highest elevation and sitting on the western perimeter of the property Fran built by hand and without electricity a 500sqft shed. That was more than 25 years ago. Over time the shed fell to ruin but a few years ago he began to work on it and it is now a half cabin half workshop. It just might be his pride and joy. Should Fran and Marci ever lose their house to a tornado or be driven from town by a torch wielding angry mob due to their political leanings the shed would make a more than feasible new home, a fresh start. There is no internet or running water but $5,000 would be enough to have a well dug to address the water issue... and the internet, it can go to hell, what has it done for anyone lately? The shed is heated by a wood stove with infinite fuel being provided by naturally downed trees in the woods. The land is quite arable so with Fran's insatiable appetite for drudgerous and back breaking labor I would safely say that a parcel of non wooded land could be tilled, with a shovel of course, to grow enough crops to feed a small army. If the lust for red meat should ever darken the door of Fran and Marci then all they would have to do is pick off a few of the deer that graze on the land. Have you ever had freshly killed venison cooked on an open fire? Holy shit is all I can say.

There are hundreds of maple trees in the woods. There may even be thousands but I can't be sure. It's very possible that Fran has conducted a detailed trees census so he would be far better able to quantify the maple population than this urban reporter. Getting the sap, that once boiled down will become syrup, out of the tree is simple, almost so simple that it is counterintuitive.

Step 1: Bore a 9/16" hole about 3" deep into the trunk of the tree at waist height from the ground.

Step 2: With a hammer beat a metal tap into the hole. The tap is basically a piece of tubing that provides a pathway for the sap to run from the tree. While inserting taps myself, Fran and Pat Mahoney speculated that the Native Americans (Indians) could have used animal bones as taps. If the marrow was removed then the bone would function well as a tap. Depending on the size and condition of the tree multiple taps can be put in one tree. The law of diminishing returns applies though. Sometimes it is better to single tap many young trees than to multi-tap a few mature trees but what the hell do I know?

Step 3: Hang a large plastic bag on the tap so that the liquid sap can be collected in the bag.

Step 4: Retreat to Fran's shed and drink some Beck's beer, light the wood stove, eat thick slices of local cheddar cheese and handfuls of non local tortilla chips, be happy doing nothing other than getting lost in the sounds of wood crackling in the fire and the long and lonesome whistle of a passing freight train.

Step 5: Let nature do its work. The freezing nighttime temperatures and mild daytime temperatures stimulate the sap to run from the trees into the collection bags. It's the freeze-thaw action that only allows maple syrup to made in the winter. No, winter is not over yet. It's a six month season. The sap is nothing like the viscous sticky goo from a Christmas tree. Maple tree sap is pretty much water with a small sugar content. That surprised me but it does explain the 30:1 sap to syrup ratio. I tasted some of the sap to validate all the information that Fran and Mahoney were dispensing. No word of a lie was told that day.

Step 6: Consolidate the sap. The collection bags need to be emptied on an almost daily basis. This involves trudging through the snowy woods with 5 gallon buckets into which the sap is dumped. Once the buckets are full the sap collector (the sap mule) must reverse trudge out of the woods and dump the sap into a storage tank. Some trees produce nearly a gallon of sap per day while others produce fuck all. I think there are 100 tapped trees. I called Marci today and she said they had 300 gallons of sap in the tank! The sap output depends on the age and health of the trees but also on the location of the trees relative to the edge of the woods. This made no sense when Fran said it but I couldn't argue with the facts; the trees deep in the woods were pissing out vast quantities of sap while those on the edge were weeping out only paltry sums of the precious juice. Maybe it is natures attempt to maintain balance with man. If all tress delivered the same amount of sap then there would be no incentive for man to sweat. He would merely have to drive around the edge of the woods and make a journey of a few paces from maple tree to storage tank on back of pickup truck. Nature is smarter than you or I.

Step 7: Boil the sap. This is the end of the line for the weak sugar water that we know as sap. A large outdoor fire is built and a steel pan is set over the fire. The sap is teamed into the pan and boiled. The water content evaporates into the air and the sticky residue, the maple syrup, is emptied into quarter gallon jars. Fran has a 35 gallon boiling pan and from what I have heard it may take 24 hours to boil down all 300 gallons of sap. Two or more shifts of able bodied (but often drunk) adults are needed to manage "the boil". The fire must be kept so hot that the steel pan glows orange. Efficiency is improved by preheating the sap beside the fire so that it does not go to the pan full of ice chunks.

Step 8: Enjoy the fruits of the labor. The maple syrup can now be put on pancakes, used to baste ham, added to stir fry as a natural sweetener or given away as a gift.

I learn something valuable every single time I visit Wisconsin.

Paddy On The Road

Happy St. Patrick's Day to one and all! I hope you all got to quench your thirst and redden your knuckles today, God knows I did. T'was a fine day to be shure, divil a bit of doubt about it.

Actually, I cut my hand at work on a wire braiding machine so the cause of my wounds is not really that exciting. And while I'm in confession mode I might as well tell you I am not drinking today... because I drank all my beer on Saturday and Sunday. Ah feck it, I may as well keep digging my own grave here... I hate cabbage too, can't look at the crap. I'm the worst excuse for an Irishman, ever.

While leaving a moderately upscale St. Paul coffee shop yesterday evening with Martha and the youngsters I grabbed a copy of the Irish Gazette (LINK). It's not a bad free rag at all and does a decent job of communicating reasonably interesting and relevant snippets of information from the old country. Lest we start making comparisons to the New York Times let me make it clear that this publication is dangerously cheesy, but in an innocent and likable kind of way. My favorite section is "News from Ireland" (LINK), not for the content but for the practically derogatory illustrated character that appears at the top of the page.

I call him Paddy O'Shea. Let's enter Paddy's twisted world.

Paddy's house/hut
Shure, tis no more than a thatch cottage. The thatch looks decent but the lack of chimney, door or window is worrying. I know damn well there is a fireplace in there, so how does he deal with the carbon monoxide issue? Is he so tough that he is immune to toxic fumes? Nobody is that tough. Perhaps there is logic to the absence of door or window and the fumes leave the dwelling via those holes. But if that is the case how does he keep the rain and thieves out? The answer is simple but twofold; he has nothing worth stealing and he doesn't give a shite about the rain, it only makes him stronger (but emotionally weaker). No, that can't be it, doesn't add up. I give up. Like Paddy himself, the house is an enigma covered in pig shite.

Paddy's street
Badly paved road or depressing river of mud? Did the British take the road? I can't tell. Those wavy lines imply some kind of rutted mud track suitable only for ass and cart.

Paddy's attire
The quintessential Irish farmer's multipurpose suit. In that suit this man can bale hay, go to mass, fight, converse on ecumenical matters with the parish priest, down a half barrel of stout, dance like a lunatic, flawlessly impersonate Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad (LINK), fix the PTO on a tractor, pick up women, beat women, herd cattle. Wait a second... tailored suit + heroics = James Bond!

Paddy
Standard Irish cap (in the process of being tipped to bid a neighbor/enemy a good day), big hands, twine possibly being used for a belt, full beard, one thick eyebrow, nervous demeanor, shy, legendary tea maker, poet, lover, work machine...

And now back to readin' me paper.

Meat Sweats

I pinched this text from a wikipedia article. I believe it is highly relevant.

Meat Sweats
A term used to describe a well known malady and byproduct of mass animal protein consumption.

Degrees of severity
Meat sweats are generally categorized on a scale of varying degrees starting at third degree, being a mild meat sweat, to a first degree meat sweat being very severe in nature. Generally, pork and chicken dishes will result in third degree meat sweats, depending on the gross amount consumed, and beef will result in a first degree meat sweat. A first degree meat sweat can result in a temporary debilitating condition causing one to feel symptoms of lethargy, depression and severe apathy. The spiciness of the meat consumed, in a counterintuitive outcome, does not necessarily increase amount of meat sweats that one experiences. This may have to do with the nature of meat sweats, which have a base of lipids rather than perspiration.

Meat Sweat Moans
Upon onset of severe cases of Meat Sweats, a hyper audible moaning or wailing sound has been witnessed by several parties. Although it can not be confirmed, many scholars maintain that this wailing is a direct result of mankind's mammalian instinct - and this moan is an innate trait used to warn off predators during time of mass carnal feeding.

The Death of Har-Mar

Martha took this shot of the Har-Mar movie theater (part of the Har-Mar mall) in Roseville one evening this week. It could be the last time we see this place. My feelings are mixed, but not 50/50 mixed, I'm leaning more towards displeasure. Yes, I got engaged there, in an old photo booth to be exact, and I'll miss the place but the building is far from beautiful. Ok, it may even be ugly but what will replace it I am sure will be simply disgusting and because of that I am obliged to mourn the loss of a place that actually stood out from the rest of the strip mall crap. The Har-Mar movie theater had class, not a ton of class but just enough class to get by.

Over the course of the last six months a dedicated team of workers have been methodically disassembling the Har-Mar movie theater. I know this because we go to the Har-Mar mall all the time, they have one of the best Barnes & Noble (LINK) book shops around, and with each visit we note the progress of the job. Now that I think about it I am confused as to why they are working so carefully. Most destruction jobs are brutal and quick. This one is a very special case, very clinical. First they stripped the light fixtures and all the seating out, then the bathroom fixtures, then the popcorn machines, then they rolled up the carpets, then they brought in a digger and broke up the concrete floors to get down to bare earth. Only when a hollow shell remained did they remove the massive (and incredibly tasteless) cheap glass chandelier.

Azure

I'm not sure why Martha doesn't care for this Polaroid that she snapped a few months back. I love it. I absolutely love it. It conjures up distant memories of warmer days, back in September of last year, before the snow and ice came down from Canada and cooped us all up indoors, like frozen shit-monkeys. Like you I am also confused as to what a shit-monkey is or why it seemed all too logical to say that. It is what it is.

I miss my (LINK) shed. It's off limits for now. Not even the 40,000BTU propane heater I bought was able to make it a remotely enjoyable place to be. Winter is really grating on me. Another month or so and it will fade thank God. Perhaps in a few years I will be able to insulate the shed enough for it to hold heat.

To hell with this crap...

iPhone

I'm going to get an iPhone but I'll wait for the 2nd generation model that should be out late 2008. It may be a few dollars cheaper by then and will no doubt be packed with more new features than I know what to do with. The Google Maps feature is what I really need. Anyone who knows me probably has a few stories about how they got in the car with me to go on a simple errand but ended up very, very far from the intended target. Those days will be a thing of the past when my trusty iPhone is at hand. No more trips to the shop, via Nebraska, for me.

To be honest, the only reason I am holding back is that I don't have the money. No, that's not true. I do have the money but I kind of made a deal with Martha that I would have to earn the money I need for it instead of just taking it from our bank account. So if you need your grass cut just give me a call and we can arrange a price. Need the car washed and waxed (LINK)? How about a spit shine on those shoes there sir? Nah, I'm not going to stoop so low that I'm basically panhandling my way to an iPhone. There are legitimate and dignified ways to make dollars and those are the avenues I shall pursue.

On no account does this mean that I will give up my nasty little habit of stealing small change from other peoples cars. Kelley Shea knows what I am talking about. What I finds, I keeps.