Editor's Note: Frank was recently sent to the "doctor" to address his increasingly manic episodes of consumerism, destruction, and resurrection. As usual, any names may have been changed to protect local identities.
Wow this sucks even worse than drunk typing...
Seroquel xr is the devil
frank
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Let Yer Freak Flag Fly
[Editor's Note]: Frank used to amuse himself and any cohorts by staying up late and killing time on the campus of the largest public university in Austin. The main flagpole, approximately 60 feet high, was a favorite location. As usual, any names may have been changed to protect local identities.
September 1993
Austin, Texas
One fine late summer evening in the live music capital of the world presents many opportunities for a great deal of fun, granted you are 21 or have a fake id. For some of the rest of us, nightfall means something entirely different: mayhem.
The latest great idea was to get our meager collection of climbing gear together and do a little urban rappelling or climbing. Downtown Austin has many fine buildings to scale and descend, either by fire escape, elevator shaft, roof access stairwells, etc. Likely one-third of the buildings had been deflowered by us without raising any serious alarm or security response [these sorties occurred way before you could get charged with terrorism for trespassing].
Supreme boredom creates monsters. We talked ourselves into a drive to campus for mayhem; my girlfriend had a working vehicle and "Chris" and i had the hardware. So, the 3 stooges went to the "six pack" for some climbing, and the flagpole for some "flagpole flying." [Flagpole flying involves hooking up the steel flag cable to the belay loop at the back of a climbing harness, then having someone on the ground tow you at top speed. Eventually the cable winds up violently, and the rider slams into the flagpole.]
After several rounds of flying, "Chris" slinks off to take a leak. Me and the girlfriend have a few more flights, and wonder what's taking him so long. I'ts not like we were drinking or anything. Probably 25 minutes had elapsed and we finally hear a faint cry of "hey, help!"
We follow the cries to the first building of the six pack, a 5 or 6 story building with large limestone blocks in an offset pattern around the exterior, perfect for some free climbing. "Chris," as it turned out, had climbed most of the way up this building, then ran out of arm strength (he wasn't very good at technical climbing), and jumped down about 20 feet.
The major problem with our immediate situation was that "Chris" landed on a first-floor porch roof made of spanish tile. He was moaning inside of a large crater of shattered terracotta. He thinks he broke both of his ankles, and maybe an arm or wrist. Pussy.
First, we needed to get him to ground level. I gave him a harness, and after 15 minutes of whining, he was ready to tie in. I climbed a tree next to the porch roof and set up 2 pulleys and a figure 8 as a brake. I tied myself to the tree, and was getting the ropes ready for loading.
As i was explaining to "Chris" [who was likely in moderately serious shock by now] that he was to scoot to the edge of the roof and then when i say "go" he would kind of roll of the edge and be lowered to safety, he went ahead and did all of it immediately. The ropes were not ready at all. Not having a brake other than my bare hands, the system behaved like a human pendulum with infinite length of swing.
"Chris" swung from the roof, past the hypothetical nadir below the tree, to about 8 feet up in free space and then fell flat on his back in the grass, letting out a forced screech of "Ungh!F**k!!" My hands took some moderate damage in the form of 2nd degree rope burns, and my girlfriend was cackling hysterically near the truck. I guess i should have just gone with a zip line and achieved the same wipeout. Oops.
We pack up the gear and get zombie "Chris" into the truck and i begin to drive us to the nearest hospital for some medicine. Unfortunately, only the parking lights were turned on, and we were quickly stopped by campus pd. As the cop ran my license, i was fairly nervous due to an unpaid citation for driving without a license [Now an outstanding warrant]. "Chris" was yelling at the cop, "i'm f**king bleeding here you a**hole, we're going to the hospital--" my girlfriend was trying to get him to stfu.
"Please step out of the vehicle..." Weak. Austin jail on a tuesday night, not very busy or intimidating. Within an hour i was bailed out and at the hospital to check on "Chris." Some halfheartedly suicidal dude and i shared a smoke and a bunch of conversation outside, and i stole 2 boxes of tongue depressors, some open-back gowns, and a speculum from the waiting room.
"Chris" was going to be fine, just two severely sprained ankles, a cut wrist, and as soon as he wakes up, a sore ass.
Don't climb shit you shouldn't,
September 1993
Austin, Texas
One fine late summer evening in the live music capital of the world presents many opportunities for a great deal of fun, granted you are 21 or have a fake id. For some of the rest of us, nightfall means something entirely different: mayhem.
The latest great idea was to get our meager collection of climbing gear together and do a little urban rappelling or climbing. Downtown Austin has many fine buildings to scale and descend, either by fire escape, elevator shaft, roof access stairwells, etc. Likely one-third of the buildings had been deflowered by us without raising any serious alarm or security response [these sorties occurred way before you could get charged with terrorism for trespassing].
Supreme boredom creates monsters. We talked ourselves into a drive to campus for mayhem; my girlfriend had a working vehicle and "Chris" and i had the hardware. So, the 3 stooges went to the "six pack" for some climbing, and the flagpole for some "flagpole flying." [Flagpole flying involves hooking up the steel flag cable to the belay loop at the back of a climbing harness, then having someone on the ground tow you at top speed. Eventually the cable winds up violently, and the rider slams into the flagpole.]
After several rounds of flying, "Chris" slinks off to take a leak. Me and the girlfriend have a few more flights, and wonder what's taking him so long. I'ts not like we were drinking or anything. Probably 25 minutes had elapsed and we finally hear a faint cry of "hey, help!"
We follow the cries to the first building of the six pack, a 5 or 6 story building with large limestone blocks in an offset pattern around the exterior, perfect for some free climbing. "Chris," as it turned out, had climbed most of the way up this building, then ran out of arm strength (he wasn't very good at technical climbing), and jumped down about 20 feet.
The major problem with our immediate situation was that "Chris" landed on a first-floor porch roof made of spanish tile. He was moaning inside of a large crater of shattered terracotta. He thinks he broke both of his ankles, and maybe an arm or wrist. Pussy.
First, we needed to get him to ground level. I gave him a harness, and after 15 minutes of whining, he was ready to tie in. I climbed a tree next to the porch roof and set up 2 pulleys and a figure 8 as a brake. I tied myself to the tree, and was getting the ropes ready for loading.
As i was explaining to "Chris" [who was likely in moderately serious shock by now] that he was to scoot to the edge of the roof and then when i say "go" he would kind of roll of the edge and be lowered to safety, he went ahead and did all of it immediately. The ropes were not ready at all. Not having a brake other than my bare hands, the system behaved like a human pendulum with infinite length of swing.
"Chris" swung from the roof, past the hypothetical nadir below the tree, to about 8 feet up in free space and then fell flat on his back in the grass, letting out a forced screech of "Ungh!F**k!!" My hands took some moderate damage in the form of 2nd degree rope burns, and my girlfriend was cackling hysterically near the truck. I guess i should have just gone with a zip line and achieved the same wipeout. Oops.
We pack up the gear and get zombie "Chris" into the truck and i begin to drive us to the nearest hospital for some medicine. Unfortunately, only the parking lights were turned on, and we were quickly stopped by campus pd. As the cop ran my license, i was fairly nervous due to an unpaid citation for driving without a license [Now an outstanding warrant]. "Chris" was yelling at the cop, "i'm f**king bleeding here you a**hole, we're going to the hospital--" my girlfriend was trying to get him to stfu.
"Please step out of the vehicle..." Weak. Austin jail on a tuesday night, not very busy or intimidating. Within an hour i was bailed out and at the hospital to check on "Chris." Some halfheartedly suicidal dude and i shared a smoke and a bunch of conversation outside, and i stole 2 boxes of tongue depressors, some open-back gowns, and a speculum from the waiting room.
"Chris" was going to be fine, just two severely sprained ankles, a cut wrist, and as soon as he wakes up, a sore ass.
Don't climb shit you shouldn't,
Francois (Frank) Dillinger
[ABOUT THE AUTHOR]: Frank Dillinger was born in Oakland, California. He lives and writes in San Antonio, Texas with his wife and son and dog.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Thanks for Understanding, Austin Fire Department
[Editor's Note]: Frank once found a recipe for home-made smoke bombs, and immediately enlisted his older brother "Ben" to be the Beaker to his Prof. Honeydew. The journal was quite charred and reeked of burnt sugar, but the general scene was recreated below. As usual, any names may have been changed to protect local identities.
November 5, 1994
Austin, Texas
Now in a certain book written by a certain anti-establishment hippie, one may find a recipe for some serious homemade smoke bombs (among other invaluable informations). The recipe is simple, four parts [OMIT] and six parts sugar. The dry ingredients are mixed together and carmelized in a saucepan, then the semi-solid goo is decanted to whatever container you want to see destroyed by fire. The mixture burns quite hotly, and the combustion reaction is water-resistant.
One fine fall morning, my brother "Ben" and i skipped college and decided to install a makeshift rope swing at my apartment complex on east Riverside. Most of the residents were ignoring our experiments, but the other kids who should have been in school were very excited for the adventure. We tired of the rope swing fairly quickly, and i mentioned the smoke bomb recipe.
An hour later, we had large quantities of both ingredients, and began cooking. The first batch was ready for trial, and we went back down to the creekbed where the rope swing was, and hey--someone already stole the rope swing! Wonder where they are going to put it...
The first batch was a success, two large muffin smokers erupted into a football-field-sized cloud of dense white smoke. Excitedly we returned to the lab [apartment] to make some more. Emboldened by the initial success, we readied a huge batch, probably close to a pound of dry ingredients.
Now the trickiest part of making these is Patience. I apparently have none. When melting the sugar to homogenize the mixture, too much heat may cause the stuff to ignite! Make sure to use low-med heat-- [At this point the journal becomes unreadable due to a combination of soot, CO2 foam, beer, and what appeared to be refried beans. The remaining narrative was loosely recreated based on Frank's oration.]
So we are cooking up a huge batch in a teflon fry pan on the stove in my girlfriend's apartment on East Riverside. She is at work at the movie theater, where i also work, and so "Ben" and i had a free day pass to mayhem (hence the smoke bombs). I get a little impatient with the melting process and turn up the heat to med-high. Continuous stirring, it's melting nicely. This shade of brown looks too dark, kind of like--Oops, Ignition!
Within 15 seconds the entire one-bedroom apartment is completely full of white smoke. I grab the flaming frying pan and toss it into the sink, and turn on the water full blast. No change, still burning. I grab the wet, scalding pan and run towards the (back) sliding patio door. Droplets of flaming plasma are erupting from the pan and burning my arms and hands, so i chuck the pan out the back door, but someone closed the screen door and the pan lands face down on the carpet.
"Ben" is laughing quite tauntingly, i will get him later. My next sprint was for the fire extinguisher under the kitchen sink. I get the pan put out, but a gargantuan column of white smoke is still streaming from the patio door. "Ben" seems to have made it outside, so i run back in and set up a box fan to blow out the remaining smoke.
Smoke relocated, we survey the damage. Half-melted frying pan, giant puddle of (now solid) plasma goo sitting in a hole in the carpet the size of the kitchen sink, and a blackened patch of the underlying concrete slab. Uh-oh. Looks like we put burned pock marks all over my favourite barcalounger and my girlfriend's Klimt posters, as well.
A quick trip to the dollar store produced cleaning supplies and a small throw rug. Within ten minutes, we had the entire place scrubbed down and basically back to original condition unless one were to look under the new rug or examine the posters too carefully (or take a big whiff of the burned sugar smell). What's that sound in the background? Sirens...
After a very quick debate and a couple of punches, "Ben" and i decide the best course of action is to fess up. We walk down the parking lot where the two fire trucks were pulling in, and told them the Truth. As luck would have it, smoke bombs are legal within the city limits, and we detailed the recipe and showed them where we set them off in the creek (no need to share the apartment fire unless asked, don't push your luck). We even got to ride on the back of the fire truck for a few blocks. Nice.
Spirits soaring, we began the long walk of shame to the movie theater to inform my girlfriend of the recent redecoration of the apartment. "Ben" vanished somewhere along the way, that bastard. Me and the girlfriend broke up about 4 months later.
Don't make smoke bombs Inside,
November 5, 1994
Austin, Texas
Now in a certain book written by a certain anti-establishment hippie, one may find a recipe for some serious homemade smoke bombs (among other invaluable informations). The recipe is simple, four parts [OMIT] and six parts sugar. The dry ingredients are mixed together and carmelized in a saucepan, then the semi-solid goo is decanted to whatever container you want to see destroyed by fire. The mixture burns quite hotly, and the combustion reaction is water-resistant.
One fine fall morning, my brother "Ben" and i skipped college and decided to install a makeshift rope swing at my apartment complex on east Riverside. Most of the residents were ignoring our experiments, but the other kids who should have been in school were very excited for the adventure. We tired of the rope swing fairly quickly, and i mentioned the smoke bomb recipe.
An hour later, we had large quantities of both ingredients, and began cooking. The first batch was ready for trial, and we went back down to the creekbed where the rope swing was, and hey--someone already stole the rope swing! Wonder where they are going to put it...
The first batch was a success, two large muffin smokers erupted into a football-field-sized cloud of dense white smoke. Excitedly we returned to the lab [apartment] to make some more. Emboldened by the initial success, we readied a huge batch, probably close to a pound of dry ingredients.
Now the trickiest part of making these is Patience. I apparently have none. When melting the sugar to homogenize the mixture, too much heat may cause the stuff to ignite! Make sure to use low-med heat-- [At this point the journal becomes unreadable due to a combination of soot, CO2 foam, beer, and what appeared to be refried beans. The remaining narrative was loosely recreated based on Frank's oration.]
So we are cooking up a huge batch in a teflon fry pan on the stove in my girlfriend's apartment on East Riverside. She is at work at the movie theater, where i also work, and so "Ben" and i had a free day pass to mayhem (hence the smoke bombs). I get a little impatient with the melting process and turn up the heat to med-high. Continuous stirring, it's melting nicely. This shade of brown looks too dark, kind of like--Oops, Ignition!
Within 15 seconds the entire one-bedroom apartment is completely full of white smoke. I grab the flaming frying pan and toss it into the sink, and turn on the water full blast. No change, still burning. I grab the wet, scalding pan and run towards the (back) sliding patio door. Droplets of flaming plasma are erupting from the pan and burning my arms and hands, so i chuck the pan out the back door, but someone closed the screen door and the pan lands face down on the carpet.
"Ben" is laughing quite tauntingly, i will get him later. My next sprint was for the fire extinguisher under the kitchen sink. I get the pan put out, but a gargantuan column of white smoke is still streaming from the patio door. "Ben" seems to have made it outside, so i run back in and set up a box fan to blow out the remaining smoke.
Smoke relocated, we survey the damage. Half-melted frying pan, giant puddle of (now solid) plasma goo sitting in a hole in the carpet the size of the kitchen sink, and a blackened patch of the underlying concrete slab. Uh-oh. Looks like we put burned pock marks all over my favourite barcalounger and my girlfriend's Klimt posters, as well.
A quick trip to the dollar store produced cleaning supplies and a small throw rug. Within ten minutes, we had the entire place scrubbed down and basically back to original condition unless one were to look under the new rug or examine the posters too carefully (or take a big whiff of the burned sugar smell). What's that sound in the background? Sirens...
After a very quick debate and a couple of punches, "Ben" and i decide the best course of action is to fess up. We walk down the parking lot where the two fire trucks were pulling in, and told them the Truth. As luck would have it, smoke bombs are legal within the city limits, and we detailed the recipe and showed them where we set them off in the creek (no need to share the apartment fire unless asked, don't push your luck). We even got to ride on the back of the fire truck for a few blocks. Nice.
Spirits soaring, we began the long walk of shame to the movie theater to inform my girlfriend of the recent redecoration of the apartment. "Ben" vanished somewhere along the way, that bastard. Me and the girlfriend broke up about 4 months later.
Don't make smoke bombs Inside,
Francois (Frank) Dillinger
[ABOUT THE AUTHOR]: Frank Dillinger was born in Oakland, California. He lives and writes in San Antonio, Texas with his wife and son and dog.
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