| Of My Favorite Things! |
[14 Jan 2008|08:54pm] |
Here are the rules:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random
The first article title on the page is the name of your band.
http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3
The last four words of the very last quote is the title of your album.
http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days/
The third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.
Using your favorite graphics program combine these three elements to design your album cover and post the result.
**********
Now, I only partially followed the rules. Generally speaking, I decided I could declare a mulligan at any point and start over, but then everything else gets rolled from scratch as well (e.g. if the picture wasn't cool enough to merit use I'd dump the works and start with a new random band name). This allowed me to add a little quality control while still keeping the finished covers truly random.
Here they are, in the order completed:
Not too bad for a first attempt. Also not too good.
Similar title scheme as the previous one. Need to break free from this bold/not bold sans-serif business.
Still not too showy with the fonts. That's the problem with basing these off cool photos, you don't want to shit all over them with raging text.
OR DO WE?
Still trying to break free of the small print sans-serif business most of these photos evoke, to mixed success.
But this one deserved it. All three random elements really came together.
NIBBOLA
And sometimes shitting all over a photo with text is exactly what you do.
This one is okay, if a little difficult to read.
This cover is the only one not entirely random, as I turned down about three majestic naturescapes (too easy!) before finding this shot. I kind of like my attempt at creating a band logo, although, once again, a simple bold/not bold sans-serif would probably have been more evocative (and less dated).
Off to do some more.
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| Black Sun Festival Post Mortem |
[13 Aug 2007|07:11pm] |
Miscellaneous debris:
- Stromkern have matured into one hell of a live band. Dan contributes quite a bit with his "man I can't believe I'm getting away with this" guitar heroics, but honestly every member utterly commands their corner of the stage.
- Apparently goth fashion has turned to gas masks and vinyl haz-mat suits.
- The Gothsicles have become absolutely incredible, they literally pulled me from hungover torpor into being ready to follow them and rock. Plus they're also quite skilled at being awesome people.
- On that note: me, Brian, and unlimited free alcohol make a dangerous combination. I'm not sure he or I would survive an extended Gothsicles/Stochastic Theory tour, and I'm not entirely joking.
- I've got to admit the goth/industrial scene has earned my respect. I've never attended a festival where the performers were treated so well and individual musicians were so free of bullshit attitude. Everyone was cool, everyone was friendly, and the crowds were great. It truly was an honor to be part of such an incredible and well-run event, a fact which I was sure to impart upon the organizers before we left. This is the way rock and roll should be.
- Balls.
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| Thursday Night, 8:35 PM |
[09 Aug 2007|08:34pm] |
Tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn I am going to haul down to Milwaukee, squeeze my balls onto a plane pending acceptance by overzealous airport security, and finally fly out to the state of my birth where I will play guitar at a goth music festival full of fashion-challenged north easterners with MySpace names containing the prefix "DJ". So goth is this enterprise that the festival is named neither Gray Sun nor Dark Sun, but instead—oh yes, they did—Black Sun.
"What could this be?" you say. "Is it 1998?"
No, my friend, it is
SALISBURY DOES CONNECTICUT
Look out.
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| at least it isn't raining oh shi |
[28 Mar 2007|11:52am] |
The company I work for just moved from Madison to Verona. Previously I had my own corner office with large windows and lamps that provided a cozy glow once the sunshine faded. I now have an open-backed cubicle in what is essentially a call center with linoleum floors. Garish overhead fluorescents mix with a hissing noise-cancellation system to create a disorienting, drowsy environment that isn't particularly conducive to concentration. The new meeting room has open piping on one wall and a drainage grate at the lowest point of the floor, and roach traps and mice droppings transform the kitchen into a vermin jungle best not braved. The bathroom has water leaking all over the floor and the toilet is stained with the ghosts of a thousand splashbacks.
Wish me luck on my job interview this afternoon.
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| ROVING PARTY 3/24 (all caps serious business) |
[23 Mar 2007|09:38pm] |
sup internet kru
To celebrate stepping one year closer to the Old Country Buffet Senior Citizen's discount I'm organizing a portable party tomorrow (Sat night) in celebration of the splendor that is me.
Because I'm now older, you see.
The plan is a bar/club crawl downtown where we will amass a large group of people and invade drinking establishments of our choosing and annex them as principalities of Penington Nation. This is what is commonly referred to as an inside joke, but the point is an assload of people will be publicly drinking.
We'll be meeting up at the Miduro between 9:30 and 10:30 Saturday night, 3/24, look for my smiling, slightly more older mug. Come armed with those deep, important questions for I will be dispensing pearls of invaluable knowledge gleamed from the sagacity earned over my extended lifetime.
Anyway, should be a good time. Bring yourself, bring a friend. I was initially hesitant to open this up to THE INTERNET but what the hell, I could do with some more crazy shit in my life.
See you there.
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| True Tales of Romance and Seduction |
[16 Mar 2007|11:08am] |
I had a date of sorts last night. We were at a bar and in the middle of the whole "getting to know each other" process which was tripping along a little more stiltedly than I preferred.
A sprightly fiddle and jug country tune started playing over the speakers, the kind that would be the perfect soundtrack to a sped-up chase scene involving bearded hillbillies in long underwear.
I gave her a look of surprise, pointed up towards the backwoods melody dancing above our heads, and with utmost sincerity I said, "This happens to be my lovemaking music."
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| "Hang on baby and let me reach for the HP" |
[27 Feb 2007|02:47pm] |
In preparation for the release of the seventh and final Harry Potter book, I decided to reread the entire series from the very beginning. After my first reading session I scoured my bedside stand, trying to find something to use as a bookmark. No slips of paper were present, however, nor any cards or receipts. Nothing appropriate.
But then I moved my reading lamp aside and saw it, daring me.
Which explains--honest!--why the item tracking my progress through the magical and delightful school year at Hogwart's is a wrapped and sealed Durex Ultra-Sensitive latex condom.
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| You Have Been Forewarned |
[17 Feb 2007|02:43pm] |
I will attempt to relay this morning's events as accurately as possible, for which I apologize.
I was at the gym, walking up to two identical machines in the weight room. One had a portable bench undeneath the bar, and there was an older man milling about with a bowling ball build and gray hair speckled with white.
"Are either of these machines taken?" I asked.
"Just this one," he said as he lay down on the bench.
I moved to the open machine and started to do my thing, pulling myself up to the bar to work my triceps. After I completed one set I couldn't help but notice that his horizontal position stretched his tiny shorts to display what appeared to be the world's smallest erection, the fabric tented about an inch like the big top for a flea circus.
I stared for a split second, shocked, and then ripped my gaze away. I tried to bleach that image from my brain with my second set, keeping my eyes firmly entrenched on the wall in front of me.
The man next to me completed his set about the same time I did, and as I stood there, keeping my eyes anywhere but between his legs, he proceeded to one-up his grotesque mini-cock by lifting one leg off the bench and farting loudly, the sound an airy thunderclap. Rolling with the momentum, the man then whipped his other leg around and let loose another long, flappy emission of gas that powered him into a vertical postion.
Twice stunned I stood there, staring, and his eyes met mine before I could turn away. The moment was barely a second long but hung there in time, my brain scrambling for something to say, something to do, anything at all to address this awkward turn of events. Before any course of action bubbled to the surface, however, the man cut me off at the pass.
He did not make a good-natured joke, or sheepishly say some tension-draining comment. No, instead he stood up, pointed to the leather surface he has just farted himself off of, and said the following, no trace of humor to be found in his voice:
"Do you want to use the bench?"
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| Valentine's Day |
[14 Feb 2007|05:52pm] |
The great Macaroni and Cheese Quest of 2007 was completed Monday night at approximately 6:45 PM.
Macaroni and cheese was a delicious staple of my childhood, refueling me for many a Saturday afternoon's agenda of bug catching and hedge exploring. Even in college I was happy to call it an infrequent but still regular dinner, developing a fondness for the spiral-shaped variety. Just out of college I was introduced to the Velveeta shells and cheese upgrade, and I realized I had been previously been drinking grape juice when fine wine was readily available.
In other words, I enjoyed me some macaroni and cheese.
Sometime in my mid 20's, however, there was an unwelcome development as I began to find that it simply wasn't hitting the macaroni and cheese spot anymore. It would seem like a delicious dinner idea yet in reality I'd find the flavor vaguely distasteful after about half a bowl, and the ensuing carb-packed sensation didn't exactly complete the experience on a high note. I found myself caught in a loop where I'd swear off macaroni and cheese forever only to get hit by a craving months later, causing me to attempt, and inevitably fail, to enjoy this once-king of bachelor dining.
It was a vicious cycle that consumed much of my upper 20's. Every four months or so Macaroni and cheese would re-enter my life only to break my heart.
Several weeks ago I decided that this delicate dance of drama had gone on long enough and it was finally time to address this macaroni and cheese-shaped hole in my life. I was to embark on a quest, I declared, a quest to rediscover the macaroni and cheese of my youth, to reach back through time and discover at what critical point my split with macaroni and cheese occurred, for only then could I find a way to reconcile the separate paths that have driven us towards opposite horizons. I had to start with the present and carefully feel my way back through history.
I wasted no time in this quest and promptly sat down with a bowl of Velveeta shells and cheese, determined to savor it like fine wine.
Three quarters of a bowl later--the remains congealed into a solid clump of carbohydrates that vaguely resembled a pancreas--I recalled that grape juice had suited me just fine as a kid. Strike one.
After waiting a week or so to properly cleanse my system, I prepared the spiral-shaped macaroni and cheese, complete with added powder and butter, the latter in such heart-clogging volumes as to virtually guarantee sweeping vistas of flavor. I fondly recalled my carefree college days and lifted the spoon up to my mouth.
Halfway through the pile of noodles that managed to somehow be both undercooked and mushy, I remembered that my college palate had been fried from a constant stream of Mountain Dew and sugared candy. Strike two.
Monday night I stepped up to the bat for what would be macaroni and cheese's final chance, the result of which would be either the reignition of our love affair or the irreversible death of a beautiful thing long gone. There was no middle ground, and so I took no chances as I purchased the plain-noodled standard macaroni and cheese dinner I so enjoyed as a child, identical down to the very brand. I stared my childhood straight in the face as I tooke a deep breath and scooped up the first violent orange bite.
You can never go home again.
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| Books I Have Yet to Write |
[26 Jan 2007|11:51am] |
I manage quality assurance at a small software company, and last December I created a series of test cases for a project we were working on. We make software for librarians, so all of the cases were fake books.
Dull so far, I know. Stay with me.
I reviewed the cases a couple days ago and wondered if anyone else in the company was remotely amused by the titles of my fake books.
A random sampling:
But That Child Punched Me First
Death by Doughnuts: Delicious
Elbow Greased: a Love Story
The Fastest Turtle (Still Wasn't Fast Enough)
Gremlins Ruined My Christmas Celebration
I Never Noticed Her Adam's Apple
Pantsed by Penguins
She Danced Away Her Dysentery
The Waiter Was a Muppet
Zero Gravity Restrooms and You
I should have titled one Staving Off Boredom While On the Clock.
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| Auld Lang Sigh |
[25 Jan 2007|05:41pm] |
I realize I'm a month late for year end roundups but 2006 was monumental enough to justify some form of proper kiss off.
Barring the dark years of middle school when life was an endless cycle of prison-like hallways and Machiavellian social brutality, 2006 was probably one of the most difficult years of my life. Dubbing it as such is terribly reductive and dismissive of the positives, of course, but I've got to admit this is the first time I've ever identified with the hoary chestnut of "being glad to see this year go."
Most of the injustices served up by 2006 were the result of my troubled relationship with D, an Australian transplant with a visa on the verge of expiring. She returned from a visit home in January with eight months left and a massive decision to make, and thus began the reckless funhouse ride that plunged down more than it went up. Constant tension was the order of the day, and summer was in essence cancelled when she decided in early July that she wasn't going to seek visa renewal. From then it was on again, off again mixed emotions until Halloween, when I hugged her farewell and she climbed onto a bus and out of the country. The dissolution of a serious, life-mate-contending relationship is difficult enough when it ends on its own accord. Far worse, as it turns out, is the attempt to achieve some sense of closure with a great relationship that simply ends.
Also of note is 2006 was the year that saw me accomplish virtually nothing in regard to my overall creative game plan, a fact which bothers me a immensely. I started the year with such promise, working on my project on a nightly basis, pounding down the roadblocks and reveling in the sheer act of creation. Then March rolled around, and suddenly I found myself too preoccupied with other things, and all forward momentum stumbled to a halt. I'd pick at the project here and there, but I was adrift and unable to gain back any direction over the rocky summer and emotionally draining fall. For someone accustomed to constantly producing some kind of creative output, waddling through such a state of unproductivity* was disorienting and frightening.
The good news is as much as those two issues cast a sickly pallor over everything else that happened in 2006, some good things did occur.
I did share some excellent experiences with those close to me. Two great friends of mine got married, and I was lucky enough to be able to participate in the astonishingly touching ceremony. I had a wonderful day of fattening food, ribbon-winning livestock, and nausea-inducing metallic dervishes at the State Fair. Some of my closest friends and I earned sunburns and water park exhaustion at the Wisconsin Dells. I was able to help my then-girlfriend finish on time her mosaic-based entry for Cows On Parade, and she returned the favor by assisting me in renovating, painting, and mosaicing* a coffee table in my living room.
And, of course, there were the nights and days of sheer excess and fun, of drinking and carousing and creating the legends that have entered our own personal mythologies. Mancamping alone resulted in at least a dozen catch phrases entering into our slang ("Plenty of room in Big Bill's bed," as they say). My liver may be a little worse for the wear, but I wouldn't trade those experiences for anything.
Finally, I've also managed to pick up the scattered pieces of my life in the wake of hurricane D. I've increased the amount of time I spend in the gym and have also cut back on empty calories like chips and soda, and the result is the healthiest and fittest state I've ever been in. I've gotten back on track with my creative project and have finally been making real progress, which also contributes greatly to my mental health. Perhaps most importantly, I've also made peace with D's departure, and while I still feel her absence I have been able to move on and return to my usual, relatively healthy state of mind.
I also consider myself lucky that the worst year I've experienced so far involved nothing more than a breakup with a serious girlfriend and unproductivity*, both relatively benign in the overall scheme of things. My family and my friends are all in good health and in decent places in their lives. Losing D was difficult but she's still alive and doing well, and we can continue our connection in a different form through friendship. All in all, everything has turned out okay.
2006 was a bitch but I made it through just fine. Roll on 2007.
*Not actually real words. Shut up.
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| Mancamping |
[18 Sep 2006|05:09pm] |
Epic.
The weekend of mancamping was epic.
Pure chaos and excess stretched over two days in which seven buddies left the girlfriends and wives home and got ridiculously drunk at a cabin in a trailer park of sorts. Fueled by a sense of removal from the normal world of actions carrying consequences (as well as over $200 in liquor), it was only inevitable that the weekend would result in a veritable cornucopia of morally questionable stories.
Most of which I'm not going to share with strangers on the internet.
One of the humor highlights, however, occured on Saturday night. I was leaving the wedding we had crashed to check on Mike who was laying in a drunken stupor on the lawn. Just as he was asking me not to make good on my threat to pee on him, a guy entered our peripheral vision and started crossing the parking lot to enter the bar. It was dark, and in my half-blind state I thought he might be one of our crew.
"Hey!" I shouted, "You look like one of ours! Who are you?!"
There was a momentary pause as the guy stopped, his face a shadow as he sized us up. Finally he spoke, his words escaping in a low, terse drawl. "I ain't one of yours."
Undeterred, I asked," Yeah, well then who are you? What's your name?"
"Dale," he said.
"I'm Bill. Are you going to the wedding?"
"No, just the bar," he said. And then it came out, a deep, grumbling shot that bordered on threat: "You got any more questions?"
Somewhat disarmed at the sudden menace in his tone, I combed through my hazy brain for something that would ease the tension.
"Just one." A brief pause, then: "Are you bringing sexy back?"
He pulled down his hat, turned to enter the bar, and muttered out, "Yep."
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| JOWLING |
[05 Sep 2006|01:37pm] |
JOWLING
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| Haircut and a Hat |
[27 Jun 2006|02:12pm] |
I decided not to style my hair this morning as I had an early appointment to get it cut, but etiquette demanded that I not foist my untamed locks upon the virgin eyes of the world, and so I found myself searching throughout my condo for some kind of hat under which I could stuff my unruly tresses.
I was for one brief second sorely tempted when I spotted my bicycle helmet out of the corner of my eye.
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| Salisbury vs. the Germans |
[21 Jun 2006|06:04pm] |
The Background:
Uwe Boll is quite possibly the worst director operating in mainstream cinema today, if by "mainstream cinema" you mean "movies so terrible they will undoubtedly pick up a derisive cult following." His preferred genre of mutilation is the cinematic adaptation of video games; Boll's recent roll of tripe includes House of the Dead, Alone in the Dark, and Bloodrayne, with adaptations of Dungeon Siege and Postal in the works.
His movies bomb both critically and commercially, and yet they keep coming, because he is funded via German tax laws that reward investments in film.
From Wikipedia.org:
"The law allows investors in German-owned films to write off 100% of their investment as a tax deduction; it also allows them to invest borrowed money and write off any fees associated with the loan. The investor is then only required to pay taxes on the profits made by the movie; if the movie loses money, the investor gets a tax writeoff."
Or, as the man himself put it:
"Maybe you know it but it's not so easy to finance movies in total. And the reason I am able to do these kind of movies is I have a tax shelter fund in Germany and if you invest in a movie in Germany you get basically fifty percent back from the Government."
The Challenge:
Finally weary of the (deserved) constant criticism his movies have received, Boll has recently decided to challenge his critics "To Put Up Or Shut Up" and fight Ewe Boll.
As worded in his press release:
""Towards the end of the filming of Postal the five most outspoken critics will be flown into Vancouver and supplied with hotel rooms. As a guest of Uwe Boll they will be given the chance to be an extra/stand-in in Postal and have the opportunity to put on boxing gloves and enter a BOXING RING [emphasis in the original] to fight Uwe Boll. Each critic will have the opportunity to bring down Uwe in a 10-bout match. There will be five matches planned over the last two days of the movie. Certain scenes from these boxing matches will become part of the Postal movie. All five fights will be televised on the Internet and will be covered by international press."
The Prank:
Like most who read Boll's challenge I rolled my eyes, made a few snide comments, and then prompty moved on. Unlike most, however, it was pointed out that I might actually be eligible to strap on some shiny shorts and get in the ring, as BollBashers.com features a comment of mine from a messageboard I frequent:
"I can't possibly be the only one amused by the fact that there's this completely talentless buffoon of a director who foists execrable cinematic adaptations of computer games upon the public, and--here's the best part--Hollywood can't stop him. Due to his German investors not even dismal box office receipts can keep him from bringing his predictably appalling vision of Dungeon Siege to a multiplex near you. Fucking Dungeon Siege, people. Uwe Boll is awesome; it's like he's exploiting a bug in the system of life."
I have nothing to do with the site and I'm not entirely sure how they happened upon my comment, but a plan immediately began to take form in my brain: I could try to become one of the five boxing critics and then get "Oak Tree" ScaryMike to pretend to be me. I could possibly take the guy myself but Mike is a bodybuilder who eats babies and studies various martial arts. Uwe Boll would be converted to German paste within the first round.
Oak Tree agreed, of course, and we were ready to spring this prank upon the world at large. We'd get a free trip to Vancouver, appear in a terrible movie, and kick Uwe Boll's ass; that's three boxes checked off the list of life right there.
The Let Down:
Unfortunately, of course, the high lasted only as long as it took to read the fine print of the press release:
"[applicants] must also submit to a physical to prove they are a healthy male between 140 and 190 pounds."
There is too much muscle on my man of Scary to be contained in a mere 190 pounds. A 190 pound weight limit probably isn't enough to cover his genitalia, much less the rest of him. German deception was afoot and the deck was being stacked.
Another dream dashed.
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| A.M. Autopilot |
[15 Jun 2006|09:56am] |
I was driving my car to work this morning while sleepily listening to NPR. The topic, I believe, was Ethanol gas.
"As consumers we Amercians have a large appetite," said the expert on the topic. "We like big cars, we like big houses..."
Without thinking I gleefully shouted, "I like big butts!"
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| The Elevator: A Tale in Three Parts |
[08 Jun 2006|10:28am] |
It was about three months ago that the experience of entering the elevator and farting struck me as interesting. It wasn't the fact that this was an unusual experience for me, but instead the realization that this was merely another occurrence in a pattern of behavior. I had farted in that elevator many, many times before and I most likely would continue to do so in the foreseeable future. This elevator was for farting.
The elevator in question happened to be the elevator in my girlfriend's apartment building, and I often enter the elevator after having spent an extended period of time with her. As I am a gentleman, I refrain from sharing my gift of gas with her, so I tend to have the better part of a day corked up inside me by the time I climb into the elevator to depart. I don't always have gas, of course, and I occasionally get the chance to let off a little steam in her bathroom, but all too often I enter the elevator and utterly exhale the moment the doors completely close, my body deflating as it expunges all the gas built up while imbedded in girl territory.
I made the mistake of telling my girlfriend about this once.
I believe I used the word "fartervator."
*******
Last Saturday night my girlfriend and I decided to have a quiet evening at her place which necessitated a solo run down to my car for a few things. I left her apartment, ducked into the elevator, and was immediately prevented from farting by the presence of a fat, middle-aged woman, her thin tank top doing little to support the pendulous breasts that reached down to her gut. Her wet hair was dripping on the floor, as if she had just climbed out of the pool.
She didn't have any floors selected, so as I pressed the ground floor button I asked, "Just riding the elevator, eh?"
She shook her head and said, almost apologetically, "I'm from Wisconsin."
The doors closed and we began our descent.
She clarified, "No no, I'm from Virginia. My family's from Wisconsin."
"Oh yeah?"
She replied with a torrent of slurred speech, incomprehensible but earnest. Reasonable diction did surface long enough for her to say, "I've been drinking a little bit," which she punctuated by lifting her hand and measuring the tiniest amount of air with her fingers.
"I can see that," I said. "Is your family in this apartment building?"
Her speech broke out into a gallop: "Yeah but if you could call me a cab I got lots of money I need a hotel I've got lots of money."
"Why don't you just stay with your family?"
She got that apologetic look on her face again and said, "They don't like it when I've been drinking."
I was still digesting this dark turn in the conversation when she implored me again, "I've got lots of money I just need someone to call me a cab I need a hotel room I've got lots of money."
"I, uh, don't have a cell phone," I lied, really hoping nobody would call me as I glanced at the floor light. This was the longest elevator ride ever.
"Please please I just need a hotel room I've got lots of money," she repeated. She looked so desperate I almost felt bad, but the last thing I wanted to do was get involved in some unhealthy family drama and ship her away from the only people who knew where she was.
"Sorry, no cell phone," I repeated as the elevator doors opened, ground floor reached. "Sorry."
I left the elevator as quickly as I could, and glanced back as the doors closed and consumed her apologetic expression.
After I farted and retrieved the items I needed from my car, I skipped the elevator and took the stairs back up.
*******
A half hour later I had to run back down to retrieve yet another forgotten item from my car (glasses this time) and I decided to brave the elevator, assuming that she couldn't possibly still be in there riding wherever the fates took her.
I was partially right: the elevator was thankfully empty, but once the doors opened on the ground floor my heart sank as I saw her unmistakable form in the hallway, relocated presumably because the elevator smelled like gas. She had her butt to the wall as she bobbed her upper body up and down, as if doing little six inch vertical crunches.
"Uh, hello," I said as I passed by her.
She looked up at me, her form fat like melting ice cream and her face yet again apologizing for the alcoholic sins of the world, and she said, "I'm working out."
*******
On Sunday afternoon D and I entered the elevator as a means of departing to downtown for a bite to eat. Present already was a mother with her two small kids, and the elevator opened on the sixth floor to let in a little girl wearing an enormous trucker hat. So far this was a fairly typical elevator experience that was not all that interesting. What made this incident unusual was what happened next: as the doors sealed shut the overhead lights flickered and then went black, leaving us with only the dim glow of the floor selection buttons.
We were all a bit surprised by this, as we hung there, the elevator not moving.
The mother pressed the other floor buttons, but nothing happened.
I pressed the door open button, but nothing happened.
The trucker hatted girl pushed the emergency button, and then something happened: the silence was shattered by a terrifying klaxon that sounded like a fire truck being raped.
It was at this point that the two littlest kids started to cry.
I tried to get a good grip on the elevator doors to force them open, but there wasn't a decent place to lock my fingers. D tried to help me, but it became immediately apparent that force would not free us.
Both the girl with the enormous trucker hat and I pulled out our cell phones, but a lifetime of severe warnings against calling 911 trivially crippled me in judging whether or not the current situation was emergency enough. Thankfully, the girl in the enormous trucker hat solved my dilemma by calling the authorities first.
Once we were assured that the proper authorities were alerted we all began trying to calm the little kids down. The mother repeatedly whapped them on their backs as if she were trying to burp them, which was odd as the last thing the situation called for was little kid burps. D and I asked them if they had gone swimming, to try to get their minds off things. The trucker hatted girl contributed by repeatedly triggering the emergency klaxon.
It was about five minutes in when it suddenly occurred to me I was suspended six stories up in a dangling box that was having technical difficulties. I could feel the elevator gently swaying back and forth, one cable all that stood between us and a terrifying plummet.
I decided to think about something else.
At about the ten minute mark it was starting to get noticeably warm and stuffy in the small, enclosed box. D and I were busy reassuring the kids for the fifth time that we'd be out soon when we were interrupted by someone on the outside hollering us an update: "The firemen are on their way. They're not here yet, but they're coming as fast as they can. You'll be out soon."
That lifeline from the outside world was quite possibly the most wonderful thing I have ever heard. Apparently the mother didn't entirely agree as she shouted, "Well tell them to hurry up as it's getting hot and there are kids in here."
After ten more minutes of futile attempts to force the door open (what else was there to do?) the guy outside gave us another welcome update: "The firemen just arrived and they're coming up the stairs as we speak!"
We cheered limply. The air was growing unbearably hot and stale.
Finally we heard the firemen outside the door, calling to us, making sure they were on the right floor and we were okay. Once this was accomplished, we could hear the sounds of their footsteps trailing off down the hall.
The littlest kid turned to his mother and asked, "Are they going to shoot us?"
And then, a few seconds later, power in the elevator went out completely, the floor button lights dimming to nothing. A low humming that were weren't previously aware of gave way to silence, noticeable only in its deafening absence.
We all waited, each privately wondering if recent developments were good or bad, until with the audible wrench of heavy machinery the door slid open, fluorescent hall light casting our saviors in halos. "Everybody come out now, slowly," the most wonderful fireman in the world said, "One at a time now."
I stepped back and let everyone else out first, gentleman that I am. As I joined D in the hallway, we thanked the firemen and awkwardly stood around in case they needed anything else from us, like paperwork or worship.
Six flights of stairs later it felt fantastic to step out into the sunlight and lift my arms towards the wide open sky. We got in D's car and drove away from the scene, still a little dazed, some small part of us still in that elevator.
She turned to me at some point and unknowingly tied the events together with one simple statement.
"Well it's a good thing nobody farted in there."
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salisbury's journal