"I don't make hell for nobody. I'm only the instrument of a laughing providence. Sometimes I don't like it myself, but I couldn't help it if I was born smart."
1st Sgt. Milton Anthony Warden.
"From here to Eternity"
1st Sgt. Milton Anthony Warden.
"From here to Eternity"
"You are in love with intelligence, until it frightens you. For your ideas are terrifying and your hearts are faint. Your acts of pity and cruelty are absurd, committed with no calm, as if they were irresistible. Finally, you fear blood more and more. Blood and time."
The Wisdom of the Ages
"When a young man, I read somewhere the following: God the Almighty said, 'All that is too complex is unnecessary, and it is simple that is needed',"
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Memorial Day Weekend, "The Final (Second) Chapter"
I just had one of those watershed weekends, the type where, at least for a while, everything in one's memory is grouped as "...before whenever" and "...after whenever".
According to appearances, it would seem that, either I was kidnapped by aliens and replaced with a poorly researched "pyscho-droid". Or that the baby Bloggers got through to me and I've thus seen the error of my ways.
Actually, neither are true although the first option is appealing.
I'm still the same difficult asshole as ever.
No, I've just betrayed virtually all my principles:
I've let a legitimate holiday of mourning go by without a peep. That's okay. Capt. Bringdown has had the floor to himself for a quite a while.
But, not only did I take this solemn holiday and recreate, I also drove to an actual "vacation destination" - in a rental car.
The occasion for this apostasy was my lad's band, Modest Mouse, playing a show in Bend.
I've very obliquely referred to my rock-star in the past, obliquely because it seems tacky to trade on celebrity connections.
I'm so over that.
Not really. Well, it's still tacky. I'm just no longer above it.
In point of fact, I simply had a great time, even though seven hours of driving took place in the space of twenty - and I'm a old man who goes to bed at 8:00PM (no shit).
We got to descend on MTV world with full, white-trash entourage including Isaac's two youngest siblings (8 and 7), his next oldest (20) and three various step sibs.
A splendid time was had by all.
The little kids especially thought they'd just died and gone to heaven. Free food, juice and soda. Buttloads of grownups who just think they're cute. And nobody going to bed, ever!
But what, you ask, does any of this have to do with the photos of the gorgeous Kukri gracing this post.
To the wayback machine.
About a million years ago, "The Mouse's" second (and best) album, "Lonesome Crowded West" was released.
An earlier song called "Heart Cooks Brain" (What can I say? The kid's weird) contains the clause "...my heart's the bitter buffalo".
Hence the album-related tour was known as the B.B tour and one of the t-shirts sported a line drawing of the mighty American Bison.
So, to make a long story only slightly longer, Isaac got a tattoo of the mammal in question; on his left boob unless I misremember.
Well, when I sees it, I says; "What a cool tattoo!" and my lad, a few months hence traded a neighbor of his, two hits of ecstasy for the above ink on my own left arm.
So the buffalo ties it all together.
So, for a fella like unto myself; poor as a non-denominational-house-of-worship-mouse but able to make shit, it's always easy to pawn off homemade crap on relations in the spirit of gift-giving.
When the crap in question is what I make, it's a little harder to make the connection. Seriously, my Mom told me she has no more use for any more trench knives.
Okay, I get the point. But I digress.
I was going to make him, Isaac, an Arkansas Toothpick but he said he wanted a Kukri and who am I to dictate.
It's a far better, knife design anyway.
Since I was making up for both a blown-off Christmas and a birthday, I also threw in a knuckleduster as a stocking stuffer.
Like this one.
It was nice. Lots of folks fondled my handiwork and waxed complimentary - and who here don't dig that? Lots of free food and drinkables as mentioned.
And everybody seemed to think I was cool.
I know, it's hard to believe it, but I don't get that very often.
Plus my boy and I had shared a rather ugly period in the interpersonal department a few years back, so it was very nice to have that finally put to bed.
The shank is standard Kuk sized, but with a "Western-sized" handle.
Of the two auxiliary blades that traditionally accompany a Kukri, I eliminated the one which serves as a sharpening steel as this blade is too hard for it to be useful. The remaining small blade is ...just a knife. Useful as the full-sized unit it a bit cumbersome for mustarding your hot dog bun.
The sheath is traditional leather over wood.
Handles are flowering dogwood - moonlighted along with firewood from a clearcut lovingly managed by our own BLM. Lot's of dogwood is available if anyone wants to buy some.
Cast brass bolster and lining; and the blade... wait for it, was forged from the odd-shaped bit of railroad steel pictured at the bottom.
I don't know if I want to show off or if I really am that cheap (I am, of course), but I find it really interesting to beat some seriously random chunk of metal into a discernible shape.
It's a sickness.
Now, since I may have lucked-out and gotten some folks who are "Down with the Mouse" here by accident, I'm going to stir some shit.
Virtually every online bio of my lad says he was born in Issaquah, WA, July, 9 1975.
The date's right but it was Helena, Montana. Isaac, himself has written Wikipedia about this as they seem to be the original "source" - and we'll use the term loosely - for this misconception.
Further, in reference to the straitened circumstances of the lad's boyhood, there is often reference made to "The Shed".
A dilapidated, haphazard structure, built outside of his mother's trailer.
Pictured are two shots of the place in question.
It was brand new at the time of these photos, circa Aug. '94 but still. It's not like you'd store hay in it.
And the trailer:
If, in taking the outdoor shot,, my Mom had turned around, she would have seen the trailer mentioned.
Isaac's stepdad is a landscaper by trade and, even though the house my ex and he occupy began as a mobile home, it doesn't look anything like one. In fact the only place where it is mentioned that it got towed to the spot is in the county tax rolls.
But that's all bullshit, it's a shit box - plain and simple. Sorry, Mike. Kidding to make a point.
During the nine years that I was the Dad, We lived in a trailer as well. The final 2 years at least.It was a 1978 Corinthian, 14 X 70, six years old when I bought it.
It was a trailer, still is. It's still in the same park, now a "55 and older" place. Hey, in eight months or so...that will be me.
But, trailers are crap. A house built to the standards of cars. A "durable good" constructed as a "consumer good".
I just like to jump in every now and then as the guy who is on record as being both "trailer trash" and "a redneck".
Just to keep in real.
And Marko, If you're ever around any real rednecks, you'll only find out after the fact - 'cause your tidy-whiteys would then be doing the office of "hairnet". Unless they do already. In which case, I dunno. Surprise. me.The two "shed" pictures, one interior as well - showing Isaac's older sister - star as well "me Ole Da".
Included, along with the link, to prove my creds (if only by physical similarities in photos taken at wildly different times.
Actually, it's because I recently wrote to one Pat Graham. Apparently he and Isaac were roomies millions of years ago and he has a site where one can submit pics.
I gave him my spiel and attached a picture of Isaac, aged almost two, wearing headphones - when headphones were headphones.
Anyway, I think I came off like some weird stalker (is there any other kind) so I throw this out as my bona fides.
So, bitchin' holiday. Hard as hell to get back in the groove.
And BTW; if you follow the Isaac Brock bio-trail, I'm the "uncle" in the more complete of the stories.
There's a cliffhanger for ya.
And, no. I'm not "Cowboy Dan" but I know him.
That story another time.
Good show. Maybe the best of the boys that I've seen live since the raggedy-ass, shitbox venues back in the day.
And, because pissing into the wind is what I do: Johnny Marr.
Good guy but, too many "rock god" poses on stage, too much pretending the band is his - to the point that Isaac's guitar parts, even some from ten years ago - along with some of Eric's - are now credited to Johnny.
Seriously, J. You're in your forties. Some perspective please or no knucks for you!