More Songs About Buildings And Food

This is what is known in our household as "The Rig."

"The Rig" came about pretty much by accident and invention. Which is to say I had these things and I made this thing out of them. (This is all just for distraction. The real blog will take place shortly.) The Rig consists of a pizza pan, which we have not baked pizza on for many years, a layer of aluminium foil (to use the Brit verbiage), and a thin-wired cookie rack which we have, in recent memory, used for cooling cookies after baking. I use the rack for the preparation of various things, most recently the baking of frozen empanadas. Today I will be using it for toasting these things called "onion pockets," which are essentially croissants stuffed with broiled onions. These will then be topped with corned beef hash and fried eggs, and there will almost assuredly be a layer of cheese between the components. And, to top the whole affair off, I will be consuming this conflaboration with a pumpkin-flavored ale I picked up on a whim last week. I'm an adult. I can do whatever I want.

Which is what this entry is really about. I have accumulated a problem with a fellow blogger. I am not saying who, because you may or may not read said blogger. But . . . eventually, I have to conclude that some bloggers are lying liars who are telling lies. Sometimes it can be put down to groggy recollection, or dimmed memory, or what have you, but sometimes . . . In the first place, the D-12 Estes rocket engine, in my recollection, was a pretty big motor. So how big was this F-15 model? The only scale he mentioned was 1-24, so unless the things were being strapped under the wings . . . And also, what's this bullshit about not being able to wire the engines to fire at the same time? Electricity moves faster than you do, and I don't care if you count down from fifteen . . . And then, if you had them wired so you both punched your buttons at the same time so that the engines would fire simultanously, what's this crap about the second engine firing after the first engine expired. From the heat of the burning plastic model. Maybe he meant to refer to the ejection charge going off . . . No, wait, that already happened. Or, well, maybe that's what he meant by the second engine. Mmmmmmmmmm no. And what kind of rocket launcher has some kind of cockememe delay built in? Of course it could have been the official, endorsed Estes launcher, but the problem with those was that they were horribly cumbersome and hard to assemble, so I'd think that would've been a part of the story, but the rest of us-- I mean the entire rocketing rest of the world-- figured out pretty early on that the best way was just to wire the neg wire to the neg terminal of a 12 volt battery, then tap the pos wire on the pos terminal and VSHHHHH! Up it goes! And And if this cat was such a sterling model builder, why would he subject a favorite model to such behavior as would guarantee the destruction of the model? And, for the love of God, what kind of idiot looks at a plastic model airplane and thinks for a minute it's gonna fly??? Of course it's gonna cartwheel, of course it's gonna melt, of course there will be an explosion of some sort, and you could've saved all the time and energy by just dousing the goddamned thing with gasoline and tossing a match at it.

I could be wrong. Could be he's just mistaken.

I really hope no one reads this. To that end, I now present, re-printed in it's entirety, a long poem about workshopping poetry over the internet.

INTERNET POETRY WORKSHOP POEM
MacNeel, MacNeel, don't steal my automobile
I'll take you to a cafe, buy you a big fine meal
Your place, my place, souls left and right
scattered about the floor, the folded pages
hold their faces to the floor, rich souls, poor souls,
beggar souls, theives
hanging with the Christ, unintentionally blessed
and remembered, good souls, bad souls
real souls, naugahyde souls, somebody correct me
on the spelling of naugahyde, big souls, small souls
souls that have to be grown into, souls
that smell like a stepped on stink bug, souls
taken down a notch, lifted off the cross
rolled gold souls, lesser souls, souls
I meant to call yesterday, souls calling in old favors, souls
on ice, souls on fire, souls with broken hands, other people's souls
borrowed, but put carefully back where they were when the charade is done
souls that came in the back way
souls that came in from the cold
souls in heat
souls lost and souls found
soles wandering the befouled edens
of California and Pennsylvania, souls
come home and souls abroad, souls
looking for the right words
oh, now I've said too much
souls finding light of heart
of prozac memories and one night stands
souls finding dirt on window panes
looking through at scrapheap sonsabitches
and harlots of fame and fortune
souls looking to buy, sell or trade
the imagined for the unreal
the ideal for the damaged
the broke for the flush
the moved for the unmoveable
the physic for the metaphysic
the revelation for the typo, souls
yearing to breathe
with the huddled masses, yearning
for the wisdom
of the wretched outcast, souls
you get greedy for, want to pop into your mouth
like a small mouse, feel them struggle against your teeth
hope they won't bite your tongue, souls
forever in torment, forever free, I mean very free
and easy, souls
cut to length, overgrown, ripe with fruits
of deception, nude as birth, heavy
with anticipation, souls
as worn as denim, souls as right as rain, souls
as strange as oranges, souls as plump as grapes;
on the internet, no one knows you're a dog.



PS: Hey, it coulda been worse. I coulda called him on the magnifying dick mirror.