That blurry nonsense up there might look like an out of focus piece of colored crap to you, but to me, it can only mean two things: it’s almost September, and some idiot put a camera on a pole again and is broadcasting Burning Man live over the Internet.
We here at Logical Point (which is a secret underground bunker in Manitoba, Canada, and not a chapter in Robert’s Rules of Order) will be live-blogging Burning Man through this stupid, shaky, blurry video feed intermittently throughout the week, usually for only a few minutes at a time, and mainly to make fun of the ravers, the stinky hippie drum circles, and this guy. At least until something more interesting comes along.
That current something more interesting? I’ma play some Sim City, yo. Seacrest out and stuff.
First, I got featured on Freshly Pressed for my camping post, which made my mailbox explode. It was an interesting surprise, and the hit counter continues to spin like in the Looney Tunes reels when the wolf bursts through the chimney after being expelled from the cooking pot when the steam builds up from the fire built by the pigs. Via the cuckoo clock.
Second, I have no idea what to do with all this newfound attention. If you’re here reading this, thanks for visiting. I generally update at least once a day, unless I’m off dripping mucous all over other people at a group campout in the woods.
Third, I can’t stop thinking about the cat in the little cat tent I used to illustrate the camping post. That tent has a closable flap, with Velcro seals and little string ties to raise the flap. My question is:
Who’s going to seal a cat in a tiny tent like that?
Would that be a good idea? Do cats like being shut up in tiny, enclosed spaces with no way to get out except through, well, punching and tearing? Maybe if the cat needed some privacy, I could see that, cats like to go off for quiet time by themselves, but then you’d face the next problem, which is that cats have no thumbs and therefore can’t work the little strings that tie the flap, and they also probably haven’t figured out Velcro, so it’s not very likely that they’ll be sealing themselves shut, either.
WHO IS THIS TENT FOR? Or maybe that is a normal sized tent and that cat is GINORMOUS. In any case, if I was a cat I’d write a letter of complaint to the manufacturer. If I had thumbs, that is.
Next item: this is the second straight camping trip which ended in sadness and sickness. But not nearly as much dust this time.
Fifthly, VIEWER MAIL. Reader “Dennis” from “California” posits:
I hate to say this, but your new found popularity is probably simply due to having a picture of a cat on your post. Perhaps this is an opportunity for SCIENCE! Start using more cat pictures, say about every third post, and see how it affects your post-by-post ratings (as measured by comment counts and cross linking)
Well Dennis, I’m willing to go there if you’re willing to provide the Venn Diagrams. Set the Crazy Machine to “infinity,” Doctor, and let’s Cat It Up….
(note: the fourth item was cleverly hidden.)
Sore throat, packing, sore throat, packing, cough drops (the mediciney kind, makes your throat numb for a whole hour), packing, driving, random ear/sinus pain, sore throat, driving, getting lost, earhurt, tent building activities, food, beer, talk, beer, talk, SORE THROAT, go to sleep.
Wake on two hours sleep, sniffle, cough, coffee, eat cereal, blow nose, walk around, drain sinuses, eat lunch, beer, wash dishes, stuff kleenex up nose, nap, more stuff up nose, try to breathe, nap, wake up not breathing, nap, drain, replace kleenex, find iPod, DJ for naked people, dinner, whisky, change clothes, blow nose, sniffle, cough, take Ambien, sleep. But not before Ambien Walrus visits and makes a few suggestions, like “you should get in your car and drive around!” Ignore Ambien Walrus, sleep.
Sleep fitfully for 12 hours, wake up way past noon, miss breakfast, forget to drink coffee, try to get up, curse the sunlight, lay on table, groan, move to lawn, groan, go back to tent, sleep, groan, cough, shiver, fever, take ibuprofen, cough, shiver, blanket, sleep, get up before darktime, stare at food, groan, find out you’ve had another shift added to DJ list: “11PM – ???”; consider career as jedi and/or Ambien Walrus, complain to no one in particular, beer, chocolate, improbable comeback, mood improving, fever gone, (there may or may not have been dancing at this point), spin superhits of the Super 70s, “naked guy from hot tub thanks you for the Golden Earring,” thank them for their support by playing Mark E. Smith shouting over German techno, beer, talk, chocolate, klowns, talk, whisky, sleep.
Drive home. Sleep. Think about how much fun it is camping with friends.
Because they had this guy…
and his pal this guy…
…and they both knew how to fix stuff, and make American stoves work in the American wilderness using good-old American know-how and get-it-done and thar-she-blows and god knows what else and sure they dressed funny, because who wears that shirt?, but you’d go to sleep in your sweaty, burlap sack of a tent that weighed nine hundred pounds and took a team of five men three hours to assemble, grunting and yelling at each other the entire time, and when you woke up in the morning that guy would have bacon and coffee waiting for you on that magnificent American Stove.
And that’s why the ’60s were more awesome than you, Justin Bieber. Way, way more awesome.
The stove I’m so excited about is broken, it turns out. But I’m still stupid excited about it. Because you know why? Here’s why: the part that’s broke (the pump assembly seals are toast) hasn’t been changed since the ’30s, that’s why, and Coleman still sells every part on this stove in their catalog. So now the stove costs $17 instead of $7, but I mark that as a bargain for an otherwise bulletproof piece of equipment made by highly underpaid and overworked Polish immigrants in a sweatshop in the middle of Kansas for like the last 973 years.
Because I bought a printer last year they probably don’t even make ink cartridges for anymore. Fuck you, Canon.