MacGyver: bunny style
December 19, 2010
Do you have a little MacGyver in you? I do not. I can be handy with normal screwdrivers, hammers, and wrenches, and I have pretty good common sense, but I’m not sure how much of a maker I’d ever be able to be.
If I had enough time, maybe I could think through combining gum wrappers and rubber bands. But under pressure I’m no good. That’s why I’ve always preferred writing when I need to express myself in an erudite way. I’m perfectly good at babbling, but if it should be meaningful, the written word is my game.
The best I can do with regard to coming up with a MacGyverism is what you see above. Take one household pet, my rabbit Robbin, and combine him with the common household bottle opener, and you get the Bottle Bunny Opener.
The Bottle Bunny Opener was actually an awesome present from my friend Rob, in case you were wondering.
The night in bus ride: home from work
December 18, 2010
I was supposed to ride a route from start point to end point and document, but I misunderstood. So instead, I simply got home from work.
I wanted to take the 7 because it picks me up right outside of work and lets me off right outside of home. Unfortunately, I went to this stop which was half a block away from the office in the wrong direction from where the 7 actually stops. At first (second), I thought I’d get on this 50 but there were too many other people getting on.
Besides, a 3 was right behind it, which goes the same way as far as I needed to take it.
So I got on it instead.
There were fewer people. That made me happy.
The 3 and I parted ways at the Metrodome. The poor, deflated Metrodome. Ah, now you’re paying attention. There’s no puff on the top, is there.
Unfortunately, neither the 50 nor the 3 go right to my mid-ride stop, so I had to walk about a quarter mile to get to Sorella for an informal wine tasting.
The wine tasting didn’t really take that long, so I had a while to wait for my transfer, which would now be the 7, or the 22. Either one deposits me satisfactorily close to home. Here comes a 22.
There were a few more people on the 22 …
… including me!
And, home. Astute friends will notice Palmer’s Bar just ahead.
Irrational fear of ???
December 17, 2010
I fear nothing. I used to be terribly afraid of spiders, but then I started living with centipedes. Spiders ain’t nothin’ anymore! There are things that make me uncomfortable, from vaguely to quite, but I’m certain I don’t have any out and out phobias.
The first thing that comes to mind is looking down on water from a high bridge. I’m not afraid of heights and I’m not afraid of water. But when I look over the railing at wide, moving water, I kind of get the creeps.
In particular, I don’t like the Ford Bridge on 46th Street in south Minneapolis that spans the Mississippi River. Twenty-two years ago when I lived here the first time, I lived in a dorm, and that gave me easy access to the bike trails along the Mighty Mississippi. I’d ride down one side and come back on the other. The Ford Bridge was the last convenient crossing, so I used it a lot. I don’t know how my discomfort got started. I theorize that it might have developed on those occasions when I stopped to watch the river. I find moving water, whether it’s a river or the sea, to be hypnotic. But a road bridge vibrates with each passing vehicles, and maybe it was the shakiness combined with not being able to see the floor of the river and imagining how deep it was that got to me. Who knows. But eventually I ceased stopping because I didn’t want to be drawn into contemplating the bottom of the river. Most of the time on other bridges, such as the Hennepin Avenue Bridge in downtown Minneapolis (pictured above, and also spanning the Mississippi Rive), this sensation isn’t as pronounced and if can I keep myself from thinking about it, I can enjoy watching the water flow.
The other thing that makes me nervous is escalators in a crowd. I know exactly the reason behind this one. Six or seven years ago, I went to a baseball game in the old Yankee Stadium and our seats were in the upper deck. We joined the throng of people in gliding up one of the escalators that was available. Only, whether it was because the people already upstairs were blocking the way or because our fellow riders didn’t know which way to go, a bit of a pile-up occurred at the top of the escalator. Many people before us simply stopped immediately upon disembarking and the next thing I knew, the escalator was still moving but there was nowhere to go and we were getting pushed into the people ahead of us and the people behind us were getting fed into us. It was very panic-inducing.
So now, if I have to make an escalator journey in a mass of people, I leave an abnormally large amount of space between me and the people ahead of me. And if I can avoid the escalator altogether in that kind of situation, I will. I’m very glad the new home of the Minnesota Twins, Target Field, has old-fashioned walking ramps and easy access to stairs. I have noticed, though, that there are ushers at the ends of the escalators helping people to keep moving, but a lot of the time, I will take the ramps or the stairs.
My blue world
December 16, 2010
Tonight I met an esthetician. That has nothing to do with my blue door, but I’ve never heard that term before so I’m dwelling on it just a bit.
Esthetician: a specialist in hair removal.
You mean like waxing? Well, yes.
I inherited my blue door five years ago. And since it’s a condo, I am largely powerless to change it, even though I am the vice president of the association. However, prior to today, I had never given it a thought. And when I wake up tomorrow, I won’t also won’t give it a thought. I’m mostly pursuing this tonight to give the iPhone app a test drive. I apologize for the low quality of the content of this entry.
Characters??? lives welcome
December 15, 2010
I am always open to ideas that would let me escape my current life and start a new circumstance. Sure I go on trips, but I haven’t uprooted myself since 1994. So while I work out a plan for moving to London (as friends and longtime readers will know I want to do), I instead like to lose myself in a good flick. There are three whose characters’ situations I empathize with the most.
(The latest: my plan for getting to London has basically become to wait out the crap economy until I can sell my condo and lose less than the 25% that I estimate would be the case in the near future. That, and my rabbit is becoming elderly and though he’s very spunky and healthy, I wouldn’t want to subject him to the stress. I know, convenient excuses for inaction. But I digress.)
It should come as a surprise to no one that I love Bridget Jones. I read the books, I watch the movies over and over and over. I want her life because she is a single career girl (sort of) in London surrounded by good friends. It’s mostly the London part that I want, and I know I’d have three good friends to start (hello, M, S, and D!). I’m a graphic designer and writer, and those skills are pretty portable. Though unlike Bridget, the singleton aspect of my life wouldn’t bother me very much at all.
In that regard, I might be a little more like Frances in “Under the Tuscan Sun.” That character lives out the ultimate version of my fantasy. She sees and she stays. Other than the unacknowledged dissatisfaction with her circumstances after her divorce, there is no preplanning to her hopping off the tour bus and not looking back. If I had the cash, I’d absolutely embrace that kind of spontaneity. I get weepy every time that bird poops on her head and the old woman decides to sell the house to her.
Frances worries that she’ll never find love again, but it isn’t until she stops looking so hard that it comes her way. That’s what I always say. I am quite happy being on my own and am not looking to get hitched (unlike Bridget), but figure someday love might find me in its own time (as Frances eventually accepts).
And why is it that I think I need to go somewhere else to be happy? Just ask Arthur Dent. I suppose to an outsider, my life looks just fine, but I want more. Not in a greedy, materialistic way, but in a way in which I could feel more fulfilled. Because I don’t. And like Arthur, I can’t quite muster the ambition to be better than my just-gettiing-by self. I want better, but good enough is good enough. So why wouldn’t it be fun to have your life/world/universe turned upside down in the space of an hour? I’m sure that in a new situation I would, for a while anyway, be able to become greater than I currently am.
But for now, I settle for feeling it vicariously through these movies.
The day in snow: Blizzard 12-11-10 (photos)
December 13, 2010
It snowed! Here are the photos; check out the few videos, too.
Friday night as the snow started around 10:13pm. If you look closely, you can see rabbit tracks crossing the sidewalk. I think one lives under my neighbor’s stairs.
Time lapse:
Saturday at 9:30am, 11:30am, 1:30pm, 3:30pm;
Sunday morning before and after shoveling. I can’t see too much out my window anymore!
Saturday at 1:30pm 14 inches; at 5:30pm 17.5 inches. That was about the end of the snowfall. Then it got windier.
Saturday afternoon I shoveled an exit trail from my garden level apartment. I did it a second time four hours later. It wasn’t too bad Sunday morning after a few more inches and overnight winds. However, it had to get worse before it could get better as I did a thorough removal from my door area, steps, and walk.
Before and after. I was nice and shoveled my neighbors’ deck and stairs. I figured I could do it tidily myself and minimize the mess below, or be annoyed at having to clean up after them later. I also shoveled my end neighbors’ steps and made a one-shovel-width trail. They’re in Mexico and I bet they’re laughing right now!
Post-shoveling view of my window from the outside.
Fortunately, blowing and drifting worked to my car’s advantage. It wasn’t too much trouble to shovel out my parking space. The drift didn’t go very far underneath.
Around the neighborhood: My immediate street has not been plowed yet as of 9:30pm Sunday (it was vacated by the city years ago, so we have a contract with private plowing). The city made one pass through the side street. Snow emergency routes like Cedar Avenue are in pretty good shape. Drifted snow in a nearby vacant lot.
Views from my nearest MNDOT traffic cameras Saturday afternoon during the storm.
I’ll end with gratuitous rabbit pictures: a neighborhood rabbit frolicked Friday night before the snow started; tracks on a drift in my yard on Sunday.
Signs of spring
December 11, 2010
This evening, as snowfall begins that’s predicted to be the heaviest in ten years, I thought we’d review some signs of spring and both reminisce about and look forward to happier times.
As soon as it hits 50 or 60F (10 or 15C), it’s time to start eating lunch outside. There’s a nice plaza a block away from my office that gets toasty sunshine on clear days. It’s very refreshing to get outside for a little while, especially when you don’t have to spend ten minutes bundling up to do it.
Whose mood isn’t brightened by the first daffodils to show their yellow sunniness, or the gentle fragrance from a lilac bush wafting in the breeze? Lilacs. Look at that snow. Can you believe it will be six months until we smell their sweet scent again?
If you’re a baseball fan like I am, spring means the start of the regular season. This past year that was particularly meaningful as the Minnesota Twins inaugurated their new outdoor park, Target Field. It true that some of the first games were rather chilly, but it was so fantastic to be outside watching a game with 40,000 of my closest friends. And we know that in just a few months we’ll be sweltering in the dog days of summer.
We will finish our little mood-jogger this evening with beer. You figured I’d get around to something beer related, right? Perhaps my personal favorite sign of spring is when the Bell’s Oberon Ale is released. Even its sunny label says good times are ahead, and while we’re at it, let’s fire up the grill. Oberon pairs very nicely with a delicious, juicy steak and grilled veggies.
Ah, spring.
April 1, 2010
Hooli G. An versus the robot
December 10, 2010
And so, the robot quickly spat on the green book. It experienced only a moment of remorse. “I don’t suffer from insanity. I enjoy every minute of it!” it monotoned in a metallic voice. “However, that doesn’t mean that things are going as planned.”
The robot shuffled off. It was winter, so it moved more slowly. This meant Hooli G. An had to wait. The stress was enough to give her a nosebleed. Her one goal was to get to the green book before the acid from the robot’s saliva disintegrated it. Time was of the essence. Up until this point, the plan had seemed well-choreographed, but now she was beginning to conclude it was an irreversible misunderstanding between all parties involved. And really, it might not be just the robot who was insane.
As various scenarios ran through the hooligan’s thoughts, she realized she was having trouble breathing. “I’ve come too far for it to end in asphyxiation,” she opined, ‘but I’m a little unsure … “ and things went black.
When Hooli regained consciousness, her first thought was, a happy pair they made, so beauteously laid beneath the gay illuminations all along the promenade. As lucidity set in, she realized that didn’t make any sense. If she were going to complete the mission and depict herself with anything approaching credibility, she had to shake the cobwebs off fast and get back to the business of saving the green book. Dithering about would not do. The time for jocularity was past. She had to get serious.
Hooli sat up and surveyed her surroundings. Wherever she had been taken, the place was definitely in disrepair. And at least her captors hadn’t tied her up or put her in a straightjacket, she thought thankfully. It was just then that her robot adversary entered the space. Hooli didn’t hesitate to give it a piece of her mind.
“I will not let some two-bit, tin-can robot—who might be insane despite the logic of your programming—cost me this mission,” she ranted. “This whole situation”—she gestured vaguely around the room—”is, I have to admit, somewhat unanticipated. But it is not insurmountable.” The robot meeped non-commitally. Hooli went on. “My whole life, I have been self-supporting. Retrieving the green book is supposed to be my last mission and I’m not going to let you spoil it.”
The lime-green lasers of the robot’s eyes shone into Hooli’s. It appeared to be unfazed by her declarations. It stood there calmly, maddeningly. She didn’t actually know what to do. Hooli furrowed her brows and considered options as quickly as she could, given her puny human brain. When this was over, she’d need therapy for sure.
The rules of her employers were restrictive, that much was certain. But with each passing minute, she believed the guidelines were less and less relevant. Then she saw the hutch against the side wall of the room and, more importantly, spied the green book on the far end. She glanced up to the single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. Insects orbited it like planets around a sun. An idea began to take shape.
Earlier in the day for lunch, Hooli had eaten some Chinese take-out. The fortune cookie had advised, “Don’t eat any Chinese food today or you’ll be very sick!” Robots, of course, didn’t eat food, but they still needed additives in order to maintain their functionality. It was winter and the robot looked stiff. Hooli took her one, her last, chance.
“You haven’t gotten your winter weight robot oil yet, have you?” she wondered with what was, she hoped, an air of nonchalance. “Your joints must be rubbing like a molar on a canker sore.” Once again, the robot meeped non-commitally. “I had a sneaking suspicion,” she said.
Hooli drew in a deep breath. This was her best chance to destroy the robot. “It’s your lucky day, robot, because for some mysterious reason, I happen to have winter weight robot oil with me. It’s right here in this glitzy canister.” She pulled a rhinestone-encrusted object from her bag. She shook it so that the motion caused the myriad of facets to catch and reflect the light from that single lightbulb. The robot was bedazzled. To add to the confusion, she made a finger moustache.
The robot, who had initially looked rather roguish when it had been spitting acid on the green book, now had the air of a crumpled soda can. It was powerless to defy the sparkles coming from Hooli’s blinged-up reusable water bottle.
“Sorry, robot, but you’re going to have to take a rain check on world domination. I know that as a machine, you’re used to dealing with exactitudes, but that’s where I have the upper hand. I am not logical. This is not a tug of war. I’m taking the book. You may not admit to being insane, but I am a lunatic!”
The robot waved its arms rather lamely as Hooli continued to waggle her rhinestone bottle in the light. She grabbed the green book and was pleased to see that the aqueous coating on the cover had slowed the effects of the robot’s acid. She exited via the wrought iron fire escape ladder and gave a satisfied nod of her head once she was clear of the building. Hooli G. An was back in control.
Credits: Phrases and words in bold came from random generators. I went where they took me, for better and for worse. The initial sentence came from here. Subsequent words (other than the “Hooli G. An” name, which was inspired by a friend’s comment elsewhere) were generated here. Alien poster from here. All in all, a fun creative writing exercise.
One thin line
December 8, 2010
This already isn’t going well, because when I was first inspired to write tonight’s entry I had a clear vision of how at least the first one hundred words would go, but then I had to pause to feed the cats (who are always very anxious but hardly ever satisfied) and when I came back to write I couldn’t quite remember anything,
so I sat here for a few minutes trying to recall, but then I finished my glass of crappy Pinot Noir (it was on sale for US$9 minus one additional dollar via a Facebook coupon, so I tried it because I have learned not to discriminate against wine based solely on price, as one of my very favorites is Pepperwood Grove Old Vine Zinfandel which sells for about US$8 per bottle) and decided to switch to Flying Dog Doggie Style Pale Ale which turned out to be lovely indeed even though it didn’t restore my memory—
and really, if anything, at this point in the evening contributed to just the opposite and distracted me even further, which I find to be a slight bit more of an issue as I age, especially the later the drinking goes on—aging sucks—but it did put me in a slightly better frame of mind for writing something, anything, even if I still couldn’t remember what that something was originally going to be, you know, just half an hour earlier,
which is perturbing, because I usually have a really good memory for the details of what has gone on, which any of my friends who have been annoyed by my recollection of facts can tell you, even if such remembering is in conjunction with consuming tasty beverages such as Summit Extra Pale Ale at bowling, karaoke or some such thing, but tonight I sort of lost the plan so I’m thankful that, even after I fed the cats, something jogged my memory a little bit every few minutes so that I could get this far—sort of—
and now have I just realized that I seem to have unintentionally drawn myself as Janeane Garofalo in that superhero movie (with a little bit of Amy Winehouse thrown in for good measure), and I think that’s a good place to stop.
Kelly’s Unnecessary Blog 