Angry Bob

To anyone who is expecting to use a fog machine this holiday:

“…The warning I received, you can take it with however many grains of salt you wish, that the [Fog Solution from Gemmy] that is circulating around us is not specifically too good. It’s suggested that you do stay away from that. Of course it’s your own trip, so be my guest, but please be advised there is a warning on that one OK?” (Woodstock reference for you youngsters)

Kidding aside, I’ve burned through six machines of various makes and models before I realized the only common denominator was the Fog Solution distributed by Gemmy.

Being that this is my first experience with fog machines, I didn’t know they weren’t supposed to blanket half the neighborhood with smoke before they clogged and became ruined.

I just found out from a Walmart employee that there is a massive recall of all Gemmy Fog Solution – it disappeared from the shelves of every store in the Tampa area, Walmart or not.

The last remaining machine I sacrificed for one last test – thinking that (because of the excessive smoke) the Gemmy solution was too thick, I tried a diluted sample of 1 part Gemmy to 3 parts distilled water.

Sorry to say – Instant death.

Stay away from the Brown A.. err the Gemmy Fog Solution!!

You want the truth? Wikicrapia can’t handle the truth. Witness this horrid explanation of the Bumper-WAC program and in particular the launch of Bumper 5.

(correction 02/22/2008: Wikipedia has since made a lame attempt at resolving their abysmal excuse for documentation, mostly through plagiarism)
(update 04/17/2009: It’s improving — slowly)

You want a real description of the Bumper project? This article gives the best account currently available on the Internet.

“But what is this rant all about? ” you say. It is about my attempt to put into historical perspective a recording of the launch of the Bumper 5 that was published by the US Army on a 45 rpm record which I have had in my possession since I was a small child.

This is the culmination of years of dogged scouring of all online resources branching in untold directions that could have resulted in a diatribe that would fill a book. But enough of that, lets get to the meat of this post.

First I must say that this was one of my favorite 45s as a child. The sound effects were terrific! I played it relentlessly on the compact RCA (His Master’s Voice) dark brown Bakelite automatic 45 rpm record player my Mom gave to us. The record is horribly abused, but never-the-less I managed to clean up most of it with modern technology.

One more note before I unleash this to the world: Just after the ignition of the rocket motor you will hear an upward pitching squeal. That is the signature sound of a peroxide fueled rocket.

And now, with no further ado, The Launching of Bumper #5:

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OK, so now I hear those of you who didn’t bother to follow the links above saying “What’s so great about Bumper 5?”

Well, it marks the “first recorded man-made object to reach extraterrestrial space,” and here you will find extensive reading on the role the V-2 played at White Sands and for the US missile endeavor.

The last note is that I’ll gladly provide to anyone the raw wave file rip of the 45 who thinks they may do a better job of cleaning up this recording. More so, I’d love to hear from anyone else who may possess another, cleaner copy of the 45. Graphic scans of the original 45 are also available on request to those interested.

We need more Moms like this one!! Many more……

(Found on the InterTubes)

So now I’m listening to the Allman Brothers Band album “Eat a Peach” and I’m reminded of the fact that there are lyrics to “Mountain Jam.”

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“No there isn’t! ” I’ve heard for years, and I was made to feel like an idiot. But in the back of my mind there were ghostly wisps of words trying to be set free. Many of you already know, but it took me years to divine the truth.

“Mountain Jam” is based on a Donovon song from the sixties called “There is a Mountain.” Duh.

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The lock upon my garden gate’s a snail, that’s what it is.
The lock upon my garden gate’s a snail, that’s what it is.
First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is.
First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is.

Caterpillar sheds his skin to find the butterfly within.
Caterpillar shed his skin to find the butterfly within.
First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is.
First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain.

Oh Juanita, oh Juanita, oh Juanita, I call your name.
Oh, the snow will be a blinding sight to see as it lies on yonder hillside.

Lock upon my garden gate’s a snail, that’s what it is.
The lock upon my garden gate’s a snail, that’s what it is.
Caterpillar sheds his skin to find the butterfly within.
Caterpillar shed his skin to find the butterfly within.

First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is.
First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is.

First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is.
First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is.

I just listened to Warren Zevon’s album “Bad Luck Streak in Dancing School” and was reminded of a time past. A specific and obscure point where time stands still, but dilates both forward and backward.

This exact moment was captured within the confines of a trailer, in a trailer park. What was unique was that this trailer was truly a trailer. It was short and stubby and ready to be hitched and carried away – not the least like its counterparts residing in the adjoining lots. They were of stouter origin. Wider and longer and proclaiming loudly that they were there to stay.

This trailer was different for another reason. It was my home, for now, for this night. It really wasn’t my home, it belonged to another who really didn’t own it either. But it was her home of last resort when she couldn’t find a real home of her own. And now it was my home for the very same reason. It was a bizarre moment, a place mark in time. And Warren Zevon was my background theme I carried on my hip.

I cannot remember how I got there, although I remember who invited me. She’s dead now due to circumstances both within and without my control. My own weaknesses contributed to her death. Such as not being man enough to tell my mother to shut the fuck up and take in this poor child. Two weeks after my last conversation with the girl she is dead.

Mothers response: “Well, its her own fault.” or something like that. It really doesn’t matter what the exact words were. The heartless feeling is just the same. It is the saddest moment in a son’s life when he is forced to the realization that his own mother can be a worthless lump of flesh.

Dilate past: A soul you meet in life’s journey who is more than a friend, but less than a lover even though those boundaries become confused. A way station, a safe harbor, a port in a storm. You both know you need each other desperately, but only temporarily. The need is sincere, but fleeting. Everything gained in the moment, nothing lost in the long term.

Dilate forward: Caitlin’s pure heart is dead. Years pass and after a small, somewhat intimate concert, I chance to thank Mr. Zevon for a very peculiar moment I’ll not forget. I am bowed in his presence and the best I can say is to thank him for carrying me though a rough time. He nods. His band mates exclaim “Well sure”, “That’s why we do it”, and a simple “Thanks.”

Now Warren Zevon is dead too. I’m left with a signed wristband which I’ve subsequently lost and a memory of a dear friend that will die with me.