I'm pretty sure pinmaking is a lost art, although I don't have any data to back up that argument. So I was pretty stoked to find a great selection of old pins at some store in San Francisco.
1. An old Bronco, for myself, since I need to start building my Bronco-related wardrobe and plus I can't really remember what it looks like SINCE IT'S STILL AT THE MECHANIC AND I'M DYING INSIDE
2. Minnesota, for Junes, because that's where she lives. FOR NOW.
3. A Steelers helmet, for Anne. Because she works down at the smelting plant.
4. Georgia, for me.
5. Canada/USA, for Sandy. Because she's both those things.
6. A school bus, for Chad. Because he seems to really like children.
NOT PICTURED: A pterodactyl, for Joe, and an eagle holding a bottle of whiskey, for me. Cuz it matches.
I apologize if your home state/defining personal detail was not available in pin form.
About five years ago, mired in debt and without the ability to secure even the most undesirable credit card, a Realtor friend of a friend told me I should buy a condo. "You're throwing your money down the toilet," she said of my rent.
I told her that the likelihood of me being approved for a mortgage of the size necessary to buy an apartment in DC was slim to none. She disagreed, and the next week I had been approved for $300k.
At this point I had about $10k in credit card debt, $25k in student loan debt, owed the IRS some money, and had about $200 in the bank.
All this is to say that I'm not especially surprised at the current economic flim-flam. (I was luckily outbid for the apartment I wanted, which is why I am currently not homeless.)
Anyway. Ana sent along this tidbit a couple days ago:
Baja fresh now offers an Aztec chocolate chip cookie. Quetzaqotal would be proud. Que viva la raza!!
Um. It's Quetzalcoatl. BURN
Sister sends along this, showing that Goldfish has already been blog-sposeed two years ago, and in a more convincing manner:
And finally, Junes gets topical:
Looks like the ol' scanner could use a wipe-down.
Finally, Frizzesh Fizzootball continues its two-week destruction streak, despite forgetting to fix the fact that one of its best players had face surgery.
After perusing my upcoming roadtrip itinerary, Junes (aka Dana Junior aka the great chocolate heiress) texts me today:
Junes: I noticed saint paul wasnt included in your itinerary. Me: Actually i looked into it and then realized that you live in scandinavia Junes: No passport? Me: Hate white people Junes: Not a lot of pigment with the nords.
Also in the last week Ana has realized that she enjoys a) Blue Moon and b) Jager Bombs.
Next step: whiny baby voice, perhaps collars fully popped joining kickball league.
Last year's Sunday Funday Whiskey and Gun Day was pretty awesome, but it was a bare-bones event. We had a table, some stuff to shoot, and some guns. That was it. There were no mascots, no explosions, no vehicles flipping over--aside from some well-framed poses, it was basically just people shooting guns at things. We were determined to change all that with the second incarnation, and we did.
First, we had to bring Dana back from Thailand so she could be at this year's festivity. I don't know how many of you are well-versed in extradition treaties, but drug jails are a real hassle. Red tape as far as the eye can see! But it all worked out and we shoved her in the back seat and tried to take pictures:
We warmed up by shooting "skeet," which I think is how they spell it. It may be "sqeit." You know that gun jargon. Cryptic as hell.
After we had killed all the sqeits, it was time for the real purpose of the whole weekend: to put the stuff we bought on a couch and shoot it over and over again. Here's the whole gang before we got started. A rag-tag bunch, ha ha ha!
Oh wait! Joe decided that since it seems that I can't have a phlog without a lobster in it, he would bring one along and make it the mascot of the day. Meet Lobster Nicole Smith:
Then I took a picture of myself looking tough with a "thirty-eight special," which is named after a band. The only thing I hit after taking this picture was the side of the hill. Darned close-range killing machines. No good for target practice. Unless you're targeting something from one foot away, execution-style.
Looking at what you've just shot is alot more fun than you might think.
And yes, that is a tub of Country Crock. I was raised on that shit.
Two hours later, the couch was dirty and shotten!
And I laid down in front of it even though it was totes gross. Continuity comes at a price, people.
Part two of the evening involved drinking fancy beer and sitting around a fire trying to be funny. In short, what America was made for. Greg's pretty good at it.
A smart thing to do at this point in time is to take some four-wheelers out for a spin in the woods. Joe and Dana put on "helmets" (I'm spelling it phonetically) before going out for what they said was a safety precaution. Your insurers thank you, Joe and Dana!
Anyway, Joe has been tempting fate and laughing at God for way too long, so Jesus decided that it was time to give him a wake-up call! By "wake-up call" I mean "ATV rolling over on top of you and your life hanging in the balance," of course. It didn't totally wake him up, though, because he could still walk, kind of.
That's our Joe. Last year: setting face on fire. This year: risking spinal injury. Next year: coma. FOR OUR AMUSEMENT.
Later, Ana got suited up for a spin around the rink:
And then the next day Katie bought a Kitten from the Kountry Store.
BONUS BONUS BONUS WE BLEW UP A TV AND IT'S ON VIDEO
Joe and Matt running away might be the best part of the thing.
PS: My camera died right after I got back.
PPS: Katie got this great one of me practicing perfect gun safety after I executed a can of whipped cream:
PPPS: Katie sent a video of me shooting a jug of soda and then dancing. It's probably the best thing ever.
