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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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In the earliest days of my prospecting adventures I invented the Bushmaster 2012. A sluice box of sorts, consisting of layers of screen mesh overlaid weeping tile...
Poorly assembled out of duck tape, found timber, etc, it was the best I could do. I'd counselled a female friend, who promised an abundance of power tools, upon showing up to avail myself of them I discovered that most of them seemed to involve "AA" and "AAA" batteries. Oooops. Clearly I had misread the situation. Nonetheless, with hammer and nails and a bit of savoir-faire, the Bushmaster 2012 was assembled...
Despite appearances, it actually worked pretty good, collecting the fine gold out of the Athabasca River, problems I later ran into involved having to completely destroy the box to recover the fine gold from the weeping tile (really, in the end, not a big deal, but it lacked practicality), and the fact that while the gold accumulated in the weeping tile, the diamonds would just slide right off of the screen mesh. Probably I lost millions.
First attempts, not bad, but not good when analyzed in terms of re-usability or the recovery of things other than fine gold...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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5'6", 110 lbs, and she doesn't even slightly pull her punches. I'm in no position to retaliate, driving, in traffic, I can see opportunity a mile away but there's no safe way to wind up, when finally I get a good one in her eyes tear up, she accuses me of hitting her too hard, she's of course under no such restraints.
The game is, of course, "Punch Buggy, no return", for every VW Bug (or modern equivalent) I receive a bruising punch to the shoulder. One doesn't hurt, but try driving through Calgary, downtown, rush hour and see how many you get. I've got a callous. And add to this the hundreds of peripheral rules, an added "Banana Slap" if it's yellow, there's an added "chop" if it's a convertible, and another pinch or punch if it's a vintage bug...
These rules, they're carefully withheld, one needs to enquire after specifically brutal outbreak to find them out, they're then presented as matter of fact and of course I should have known this...
And there are the misidentified cars, she preemptively punches me upon sight of a VW logo, her eyes are better than mine, worse when the car comes to pass, a Jetta, Golf, Lexus even, if the color is right, so many mistakes I'm forced to add in penalties...
These games, they're her revenge for every empty country road and prospecting misadventure I've ever taken her on, and it crosses my mind that if Humbert-Humbert suffered a cross-country road trip with his 14 year old Lolita than he doubtless got what he deserved...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
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Twisted, Saturday night, daughters on a sleepover and I haven't been out forever, head off to Twisted.
I shouldn't have, really, wasn't in the mood, couldn't seem to get in the mood, too much on my mind, and the amusing inanity soon became boring, trite and overdone. Dancing, by myself, with others, a well dressed young black man, forefinger down, beckoning me over, this forefinger thing, I've just noticed it, everyone, it seems, is demonstrating their inner "Alpha Male" with it, the new gesture of "power and arrogance", he's ornamented his with a thick gold ring, making sure it's seen...it seems innocent enough, until he begins squeezing his nipple at me and covering me in imagined milk, licking his lips, there follow increasingly desperate attempts to gain my attention, dancing, my gaze held off into the middle distance, pretending not to see...
...there's the doorman, vampire white, muscular, shorter, an air of brutal savagery about him, he's never seen the sun and something about him, his piercings and tattoos, shaven head, reads "Serial Killer"...
...there's Superman, a T-shirt with the superman logo, dancing, twerking, dancing with his reflection in the mirrored pillar, arousing himself, clutching his engorging member, undoing his shorts to clutch himself closer, only to reveal his Superman underpants...
...and the latin lover, straight, 40 or 50 something, preying upon the drunken girls, lifting his shirt, placing their hands on him, dancing, bending them over then affixing his lips of incredible suction to theirs, some don't resist, too drunk, their friends laugh, take pictures, this will be facebook hell, the story of the "latin" lover disproven by photos that really should ensure she never, ever drinks again...after the photos the friends pull her from the dance floor, latin lover still attached to her mouth, he's not letting go, holding on with his lips, she can't breathe, the friends grow less amused, gently pulling him, harder and then harder, from his prey, men step in, no uncertain pressure, release her from his clutches, he's oblivious, dancing again, looking for another victim, there are abundant choices here...
I'm not in the mood, perhaps made myself a little too regular here, this is a twice a year place at best, that, or perhaps I need merely to up the dosage...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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And this, because I had to try on his sunglasses and for a moment pretend to be that fashionable, and the pun just wrote itself...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
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The first leg of the prospecting vacation (less prospecting, more reconnaissance, too many places to dip a pan and the daughter won't stand for it, no one would, really, it's insane, I know, I know...). Edmonton, Peace River, Grande Prairie, Grande Cache, and then a long dusty wind along the trunk roads back. It's a big country, and these places I've not been for 30 years, awed by the scale of the coal mining, the Oil and Gas development, by the sheer impossibility of prospecting a single region of it, a full 4 months of summer would only touch upon a single area, I have easily a dozen to check...
The rest of the vacation, well, short notes beneath the images...