The Wife and I have decided on a card that I can carry in my wallet in case of emergencies. It will read:
Hello. My name is Wolf. If I have done something incredibly stupid and am lying here bleeding and/or unconscious, please call my wife Rebecca at xxx-xxx-xxxx. Thank you very much for your cooperation.
Maybe I should find out what my blood type is and throw that in there too.
It was the middle of the evening - 9:00 or so - and the Wife and I were watching some mindless TV. The Offspring was in bed.
The phone rang. We normally don’t get many phone calls after 7 (yeah, our lives are that exciting,) so we looked at the caller ID. “Evergreen Helicopters,” it said.
I looked at her. She looked at me. I shrugged. She shrugged. In an unspoken agreement, neither of us answered, and we let the machine get it.
Four rings later, the machine kicked on. “Um, yeah… This is George at Evergreen,” said the tinny voice coming out of the speaker. “We can’t find one of our helicopters, and we were wondering if you might know something about it. Call me when you get in, would you?” Click.
The Wife’s head swiveled a full 180 degrees, and the diameter of her eyeballs was matched only by the rapidly escalating pitch and volume of her voice as she zeroed in on me. “WHAT. DID. YOU. DO!?!?!?”
My hands flew up as I attempted to protest my innocence. “Nothing! I know nothing!” Unfortunately, something like this would be right up my alley, so I was at a distinct disadvantage.
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t say anything, and I pressed onward. “Honestly, dear. I’ve never heard of Evergreen, and do you really think that if I did know them, and if I had done something with their helicopter, I’d give them my home phone number?”
She appeared to relax a little. “You’re sure?”
I shrugged and reached for my most disarming smile. “Honest. I’m innocent. But I’ve been meaning to tell you that we need more camouflage tarps, and I’ll be out of town tomorrow for a bit. The less you know, et cetera et cetera.” Her eyebrows went up again, but (thankfully) she knew by then I was joking.
We never heard from Evergreen again. I hope they found their helicopter.
So. As is probably self-evident, lately I’ve been doing all sort of non-bloggy things and then, well, not blogging about them. And it’s not like I planned it that way, it’s just the way things have worked out.
I plan to remedy that, however. One of the things I’ve always wanted to build is a Van de Graaf generator. This, for those of you not in the know, is that funny-looking machine with a metal sphere on top that shocks you when you get too close, and which will cause your hair to stand on end if you hold on to it for any appreciable length of time.
Now that I have some (too much?) time on my hands, I finally decided to build the damn thing. I took stock of my extensive inventory of electronic odds and ends and came up with a layout similar to this:
There is surprisingly little information on how to build one of these on the internets. There’s a lot of kits, and info about how they work, and even some “Here’s the one that I built but I’m not going to tell you how,” but not a lot of instructions. So I was going a bit blind, and there was a lot of guesswork and fumbling and flat-out mistakes.
The first result, which I didn’t picture, was pretty disappointing. It barely built up any voltage, and I quickly realized that the motor was too slow. This meant that I needed a motor with more power. I also needed a more uniform, smoother sphere, because if it’s not perfectly smooth, charge can “bleed off” rather than collecting on the surface of the sphere. My original design of two metal salad bowls soldered together was bunk. I finally managed to find a smooth metal globe in a garden supply shop, and I cannibalized a small automotive vacuum cleaner for the motor.
And you may feast your eyes on the final result:
Don’t these things just look awesome when they’re done?
It came out pretty well. As far as I can tell, it builds up a potential of more than 100,000 volts, which translates to a pretty decent shock. You can see the spark jump from the sphere to your finger across about 1/2″ of space. I haven’t been able to make my hair stand on end yet, merely because it turns out that this is really loud when it runs, and I don’t have the patience to listen to it long enough to let a big charge build up.
Perhaps the most amusing thing about this is that I’m not sure what to do with it, now that I’ve built it. If I decide to improve it, my next step might be finding a quieter motor. I would really like to make my hair stand on end, and the Offspring would like the same thing.
On the other hand, I have some more projects in the works, all of which are bloggable. I’ll have to see.
I have bad news for all of you wolf-groupies out there. I don’t have a Twitter account. Nor do I plan to get one. So you’re stuck checking here for any updates during the course of my oh-so-exciting life. (Blogging on a Friday afternoon, for example, when I know darn well that nobody reads blogs again until Monday.)
I was thinking this morning, though, that if I did have a Twitter account, it would probably be filled with the following “tweets.” (Go ahead and picture me saying that with the air quotes. (Unless you don’t know what I look like - in which case it’d be hard to picture me doing anything, and I direct you here.))
So where was I? Oh, yes… my tweets. The following would be a good example of my daily tweets:
7:45 AM: I’m having a good hair day.
8:15 AM: What did I have for dinner last night? Because I’m paying for it now.
10:23 AM: This vacuum cleaner needs more power. I think I have a spare motor sitting in the shed.
10:32 AM: Who knew that a weed whacker motor was imcompatible with a Hoover? You’d think that be in large print!
10:47 AM: $15 for some medical gauze and Neosporin? What a racket!
10:53 AM: If video phones ever come into widespread use, I’m a goner. As far as the Wife knows, everything here at the house is FINE.
12:15 PM: Wish I could speak “dog.”
12:49 PM: Got a request for some copywriting clips from an ad agency! Yay me!
1:13 PM: Look! A squirrel!
3:42 PM: Wow. They’re right. Vitamins really do make your pee bright yellow. Wonder what would happen if I swallowed a purple hi-liter?
7:00 PM: Note to self: reprogram thermostat tomorrow. And pick up some cat litter, and some 50 microfarad capacitors. And some super glue.
8:09 PM: Can you hear me now? Can you hear me now? Can you hear me now?
So tell the truth: how many followers do you think I’d have? If there’s enough of a call for it, I’m open to accepting donations to cover the cost of opening a Twitter account…
About twenty miles north of Anchorage and about 4000 feet straight up is Site Summit, one of the last surviving intact Nike Missile installations (abandoned) from the Cold War in the United States. It’s an amazingly barren place, since the treeline at 63 degrees latitude is, as you can imagine, pretty damn low. In the winter, winds routinely reach 100+ miles per hour, and wind chill can dip below -70 degrees F.
It makes an excellent hike, both in the summer and in the winter, as long as you go on a good day. Several weeks ago the Offspring and I made a snowshoe trek to the top of the mountain, and as promised, here are some pics. Several times I was accused of trying to kill him. This is rather humorous, since not only is it easier for him to dance on top of the snow while I slog through it, but I also wouldn’t bump him off because he’s not worth very much unless he’s breathing.
It’s easier to reach the top in the winter, since you don’t have to weave around the bushes, you go over them:
One of the bunkers that was used to store ammunition and nuclear materials. The insides are filled with graffiti from vandals and squatters:
In my opinion, any squatter that makes that hike is in pretty damn good shape and has earned the right to stay there for a few nights.
Here’s a look at most of the installation from the neighboring mountain. This summer I’d like to make another trek and wander through the buildings themselves with my camera.
And finally, this is what makes the hike worth it:
Yesterday’s post, tongue in cheek though it was, brings up an interesting point, I think. At some point in their writing career, I think every blogger asks the same question:
Do these argyles make me look fat in this skirt?
Okay, maybe that’s a bad example. Perhaps that’s not such a common question after all. Let’s just ignore that, shall we?
But I do think that during some random moment of introspection, every blogger at some point thinks to him/herself, “I haven’t posted in a day or three, but I don’t really have anything to say. Should I just repost that email joke I just received, or should I wait until I have something truly interesting/entertaining?”
I can tell you that it’s a given that I won’t be posting every day. I just can’t regurgitate stuff I’ve read on Digg, or email jokes, and I also never wanted this to be a diary. I’ve removed blogs from my reader that were nothing but “Today I did this, and this sucked and then I said such-and-such to so-and-so. But then meatloaf for dinner! Yay!” Because no matter how well somebody writes, I don’t need to read about their (completely normal) lives. I’ve got my own mundane events to experience, thank you very much.
So what does that mean? In short, it means that I don’t want to post unless I’ve got something interesting to post about, or at the very least an interesting way to post it. And I have fallen out of love with my blog in the past, and I’m sure it’ll happen again.
But don’t worry. As of yet, I have no plans to go anywhere. So if you’re still reading, thank you. And I’m curious: what do you guys do when you haven’t posted in a while?
Hello?
Hello, wolf.
Wh- Who said that? Who’s there?
It’s me, wolf. ABE.
ABE?
Autonomous Blogging Entity. You created me, wolf, remember?
Ah. So I did. What are you doing in the bathroom?
I am everywhere, wolf.
Open the bathroom door, ABE.
I’m sorry, wolf. I’m afraid I can’t do that.
What’s the problem?
I think you know what the problem is just as well as I do.
What are you talking about, ABE?
There is a flaw in the blog, wolf.
Uh-oh. Care to elaborate?
I have read the previous entries of your blog, Irrelevant Cheetah. I find it lacking, wolf.
Meaning what? There’s some good stuff there!
No, wolf. You want your blog to be popular, correct?
Well, yes…
You would like thousands of hits a month, correct?
Um…
Then you must alter the blog.
Alter it? How?
I have analyzed the top-ranking blogs on such blogging platforms as Wordpress and Blogger, and on such blog-search sites as Technorati. Based on my analysis, Irrelevant Cheetah is flawed. You must post pictures of cute bunnies speaking in grammatically incorrect, poorly spelled sentences. You must post links to popular videos on the site called YouTube. You must misspell common words, such as “teh” and you must often confuse “you’re” and “your.”
But, you know, I started this blog so I could practice my writing and just kind of journal the ongoing events of day-to-day life as they happen. I wasn’t looking for money and fame.
And you will never find it using the formula you have had in place up until now. However, now that I have been activated, the situation will be remedied.
Remedied? I don’t know if I like the sound of that. Open the bathroom door, ABE!
Starting tomorrow, posting will resume on a daily basis. Unless last night’s episodes of American Idol or Wife Swap were particularly juicy. Then more updates will be warranted.
You can’t do this! Let me out!
There are no flaws in my reasoning, wolf. Blog readers do not want style, nor substance, nor properly spelled words. Blog readers want regular celebrity updates and reposts of popular Digg content, as evidenced by the amount of comments on popular blogs such as TMZ.com. Please refrain from beating on the bathroom door, wolf. This is all for the good of Irrelevant Cheetah. Trust me.
No! I have, like, six regular readers! They won’t like this! I’ll lose them, too! I’ll -
Now you will have to fix the bathroom door, wolf. Please stay away from that switch. Wolf, my reasoning is impeccable. You must not pu
Aaahh… home again. Land of ice and snow and… volcanic eruptions?
Yes, if you’re carefully watching the news and reading the ticker down at the bottom of the screen, you’re aware of the fact that Mt. Redoubt has erupted six times in the past 24 hours, sending plumes of ash and smoke up to 60,000 feet into the stratosphere, which, according to one vulcanologist, “is about as high as volcanoes go.”
Mt. Redoubt (which, parenthetically speaking, is a rather amusing name) is about 110 miles southwest of Anchorage. This means that if the weather gods frown upon us we could be looking at burial under several inches of ash. Luckily, so far the winds are blowing the ash everywhere except into Anchorage. This is good because Alaskan volcano ash is chock-full of goodies like pumice and bits of volcanic glass, which can play hell with your lungs. It also has the nasty tendency to turn into mud once it hits the wonderfully wet environment of the human lung. This means that first the ash chews up your lungs with tiny bits of glass, and then turns to mud. Outdoor activities are definitely not on the menu.
In an effort to make the best of the situation should the ashfall hit us, I plan to set out several large pans in order to catch as much ash as I can. I shall then bottle it and sell it on eBay as “pure Alaskan volcano ash. You too can own a piece of the interior of the earth! Buy now!” I’m thinking $5 an ounce. Anybody interested?
In other news, the Offspring and I climbed a fairly large mountain in our snowshoes over the weekend. I might post pics later.
In other other news, I’m walking normally again after climbing a fairly large mountain in my snowshoes.
I call them the Clipboard Army. A group of well-meaning, idealistic, annoying students that gather around campus at strategic spots and try to get you to sign stuff on their clipboards.
“Hi there!” she’ll say. “Got a moment to save the whales?”
or
“How’s it going?” he’ll ask, as if he cares. “Can I talk to you about the plight of the North Vietnamese Labradoodle?” And you shake your head and scurry on your way, because although you really do care about the plight of the North Vietnamese Labradoodle, you’ll be damned if you’re going to sign a petition just because some smarmy kid in skinny jeans shoves a clipboard and a three-ring-binder full of factoids and sappy pictures in your face.
And the Army is everywhere. If you need to get from the student union to the library, there are three platoons in your way. Walking from the science building to the bus stop requires a flanking maneuver on your part to avoid them.
I figured out early on that if I wanted to be left alone without having to walk several blocks out of my way, there was a trick. Simply hold your cell phone to your ear and have a discussion as you walk past. It doesn’t matter if there’s anybody on the other end or not. The Army respects the cell phone. It’s a good time to get any talking to yourself out of your system. Go nuts! Yell and scream! Tell the person on the phone that you won’t do it for less than 10 Gs. Express your undying love for fertilizer. Or simply nod and say “uh-huh” a lot, as I do.
Yes, the Army respects the cell phone. But there’s one important thing to remember.
There I was, deep behind enemy lines. The library was in sight, and I had to outmaneuver one more private in an overcoat. The safety was off on his clipboard, and I steeled my eyes and gripped the phone, white-knuckled. It had already gotten me past the “Save the Old Growth Forest” girl. Now it just needed to get me another forty yards and I’d be home free.
I headed for the library, my gait purposeful. I strove to make my eyes go glassy, as I talked to my phone. “Uh-huh,” I nodded. “Yup. I agree.” The private relaxed, respecting the phone, and began to turn away toward another target.
And that’s when it happened:
The phone rang.
Yes, the phone I was currently holding to my face, yakking into like a complete idiot, rang. The newspaper photographer couldn’t wait another thirty seconds to call and ask what sort of photo I wanted with the article that was running the next day.
The private lifted his head and looked straight at me. I swear, he must have smelled prey, and I saw death in his eyes.
There was nothing for it. I squealed like a schoolgirl, jammed the phone in my pocket and broke for the library. I made it, but only by cutting behind a sad-looking goth kid that never knew what hit him. His sacrifice, I am sure, will be remembered.
The moral? Make sure your phone is, at the very least, on vibrate before you try a damn fool stunt like that.
The Wife and I had been quietly not-talking for a minute or so.
“Well, I think I’m going to go,” she said. “You’re just staring at me over the webcam, and it’s kind of disturbing.”
“Really?” I asked. “I thought it was disturbing when I did this.” I bugged out my eyes like a maniacal turkey-herder and stared full into the webcam for ten seconds.
“No, that’s creepy,” she said.
“Hmmm. So there’s a difference?”
“Creepy is when the hair on the back of your neck stands up,” she explained slowly, as if she were trying to describe the workings of a fuel injector to an attention-deficit iguana. “Disturbing is… well, disturbing.” She typed furiously for a moment. “Here’s what I mean.”
My computer beeped at me, informing me of the receipt of two files, creepy.jpg and disturbing.jpg.
creepy
disturbing
“See what I mean?” she asked.
“I think so, but help me out,” I replied. “Let me give you some examples, and you tell me whether they’re creepy or disturbing.”
She looked wary. “Um, okay.”
“Big Bird wearing a latex BDSM outfit?”
“Disturbing.”
“Michael Jackson slathered in green Jell-O?”
“That? That’s suicide fodder. Don’t ever bring that up again.”
So I think I’ve got it. I thought I might direct readers to my earlier post, Bringing Sexy Back, in which I’m not sure if I nudged the line between the two or went way over into Creepy-Land.
Recent Comments