David Vienna's Blog, page 125

Science Fair Failure

Guys… The spring shoes don’t work.

I mean, they might work, but anyone who uses them is pretty much guaranteed to break both ankles in the process.

Plus, our construction plan didn’t work out, so Wyatt suggested we just duct tape the fuck out of it. (He didn’t say it that way, but that’s what he meant.)

Rather than slick-looking spring shoes you might see James Bond use to leap into a second story window, we ended up with janky-ass white trash junkyard shoes that will get you a ride to the emergency room.

They make the wearer so unstable, you can’t even stand in these things. He and I both tried. The springs are just too… well, springy.

The good news is Boone got a valuable lesson in the benefit of failure. We had to back out of the science fair, but he’s just happy and proud that we tried.

I’m an adult. I have a wonderful wife and rad kids. I have a mortgage and pay bills and I exercise...

I’m an adult. I have a wonderful wife and rad kids. I have a mortgage and pay bills and I exercise regularly.

But, I also just got mad at my mouth because I couldn’t fit any crackers in it.

I forgot it was already full of cheese.

If you need a pick-me-up about the inherent goodness of humans...

I’ve been searching for a couple of weeks for large springs—like the kind used in old mattresses—for Boone’s science fair project. He’s building spring shoes and is going to test his friends’ jump height to see if they increase it or not. (I know cockeyed.com did this back in 2002, but I don’t care. Neither does Boone.)

So, I’ve tried hardware stores, auto supply stores, my buddy who makes props—everywhere. No large springs. Finally, I learn they’re called upholstery springs and there’s ONE upholstery supply place in our entire valley.

Their storefront is basically a loading dock, so I go in and told the warehouse manager guy I need four upholstery springs. He showed me some samples and they’re perfect. I’m not done with the story yet, but here’s a pic of them…

He asked why I only need four because they come in packs of 100 and I told him about Boone’s science experiment. He joked about how Nike’s going to want to buy the concept from Boone. Then, I asked how much they were, assuming he was going to say, y’know, $500 for the lot of 100 or whatever (not that buying 100 was an option, I just needed to know where to start my plea to just sell me four).

Then, he handed me the four samples and said, “For science.”

Awesome, right? I thanked him a bunch of times and as I was leaving he said, “If he gets that Nike contract, you guys come to me as your spring distributor.”

So, okay, fun fact. When I was a freshman in high school… let me preface by saying my dad sent me to...

So, okay, fun fact. When I was a freshman in high school… let me preface by saying my dad sent me to a private school and, like a bad organ transplant, it didn’t take. I was miserable, the student body hated me, I hated them, it was awful.

Okay, so, freshman year, I’m deep in my “everything sucks and I’m stuck with these assholes” mentality. My English teacher was a notorious hard-ass, let’s call him Mr. Hargrove. He was the guy every student prayed they didn’t get. And, on top of ALL OF THE SHIT I WAS ALREADY DEALING WITH, I had him for English.

One of the laborious assignments he gave us was to keep a daily journal. Daily! Not monthly or weekly. Fucking daily. Handwritten. And we had to turn it in every quarter and he fucking graded us. He graded us on a fucking journal.

All of my classmates wrote shit like what they did that day or whatever. But, I did not. No, sir. I decided to give the ol’ middle finger to the assignment and do my own shit.

So, for my daily journal entries, over the course of an entire year, I wrote a serialized story about a horde of man-eating slugs that invaded a small mining town. It was graphic, it was ridiculous, it was an epic feat of rebellion.

And Mr. Hargrove loved it.

It wasn’t just the journal. Every assignment he gave us, I tried to shit all over it. Every reading assignment, everyone gushed about how good it was, but I always had a negative take. Every writing assignment, people wrote boring prose, but I wrote cheesy limericks or pulp horror stories.

Then, one day, he read one of my essays to the class as an example of good writing. When a fellow student asked who wrote it, he said, “Some pipsqueak.”

And that’s when I had a revelation. He wanted to fight. And since all the other students were trying to kiss his ass, I was his only challenger.

Mr. Hargrove and I went head-to-head on every assignment, every conversation, every fucking thing. And he ate it up. And so did I.

One day, he read us a column from the Washington Post and asked the class what was wrong with it. Everyone chimed in with their dumbass takes, but I was the one who landed on Mr. Hargrove’s complaint: The reporter had BRAZENLY added the suffix “ize” to a verb.

That night I wrote a jokey letter to the reporter calling him out on the offense in which I added “ize” to every single verb. I gave it to Mr. Hargrove, who by then had become a friendly adversary, for a chuckle and he SENT IT TO THE REPORTER.

And, people… The reporter wrote back. And he said I was an exceptional student. Mr. Hargrove and I had a giggle about that because we both knew I was just being an asshole, but he and the reporter acknowledged I had a point.

And that was it. That was the moment. Not THAT EXACT moment, but that year with Mr. Hargrove taught me I had a knack for writing. And that knack was based in saying “fuck you” to authority. (The irony that someone in a position of authority helped me realize that is not lost on me.)

So, I can say without qualification that Mr. Hargrove is the reason I am now a professional writer. Yes, I do it for a living. And most of my stuff takes authorities of one kind or another to task.

Mr. Hargrove showed me my dissent was valid, my rebellion was righteous, and that killer slugs could bring a city to its knees. Someone just needs to write it.

Proof that my inner child remains: I still cry when I’m tired. And when I’m hungry.

Proof that my inner child remains: I still cry when I’m tired. And when I’m hungry.

running-after-babies:This sounds perfect, even just for the night! therunningmama:I need a break. A...

running-after-babies:

This sounds perfect, even just for the night!

therunningmama:

I need a break. A long weekend. By myself. Alone. Just me.

My stress levels are so high right now. I just want some me time.

I told my wife I needed a weekend alone. I didn’t spring it on her, we planned it out. I booked a campsite and had one of the most low-key important weekends of my life. It was… not life-changing… but, life-affirming.

Just a normal visit to the hardware store with the kids.

Just a normal visit to the hardware store with the kids.

Not that I’d EVER harm my kids, but...

I appreciate that in his books Stephen King is constantly killing children.

davidvienna:The bartender leaned over, resting her wrinkled elbows on the worn wood. “I just want...

davidvienna:

The bartender leaned over, resting her wrinkled elbows on the worn wood. “I just want you to know I’m psychic and I know you are going to be a successful writer.”

I doubted anyone with actual psychic abilities would be manning the bar at a desolate biker outpost on a forgotten highway… But, she did know I wasn’t yet successful.

No one prepared me for the look of disappointment my son gave me when I lost a Fortnite Victory...

No one prepared me for the look of disappointment my son gave me when I lost a Fortnite Victory Royale to some noob.