Best of my old blog #9 Bus Goddess

So I'm sitting on the preternaturally (don't really know if its the right word, but who the hell cares?) late bus last night, riding home after a long and insane day as an Increased Income Facilitator, and this girl gets on a few stops after. We're talking about a complete knockout here, utterly breath-takingly gorgeous, and not in the boozy "I see big boobs" sort of way. Like a painting, like a sculpture, like a song. That kind of beautiful.

She sits down in front of me, and as she gracefully slides into the seat, she flips this insanely thick, shiny chestnut hair to one side, revealing the nape of her neck (much like the Japanese, I consider the nape of the neck as an erogenous zone) and this tiny shell-like ear, complete with perhaps five piercings along the top curve.

I swear to you, I was so focused on her that I heard the rings tinkling as she tucked one loose strand behind her ear.

Without meaning to, I found myself imagining lying next to this girl (who in all likelihood is way to young. Icelandic girls tend to mature way to early for their own good, leaving the male population stuck between biology screaming "IMPREGNATE HER NOW!!!" and society bitchslapping them back into line with "SHE'S ONLY 17!!!!") on cool sheets and tickling the rings, listening to them tinkle together as we drift off to sleep.

This incident illustrates two things:

One, while I'm doing my damnedest to get over my romance crutch, I'm not out of the woods yet.

It's not that I'm against romance, or even that I disbelieve in it, it's just that I tend to focus on it too much, especially when I shouldn't. Thanks to some helpful talks with a good friend, I've begun to understand that I was using the romantic urge, and the "I want more than just sex" as an excuse to not even try to get sex, or flirting, or whatever. So now, I'm trying not to look for love, just for friendship and sex (which are not mutually exclusive, at least not always...but that's another blog) and I'll see what happens in the romance department later. But little romantic flashes like with Bus Goddess #14, not to confused with Bus Goddess #3 the incredibly sexy Korean/Icelandic women I see every now and then on my way up to Breiðholt, are proof that I'm still at least a little hooked on the romance.

And two, this illustrates that I am a dirty old perverted bus-riding ear-fetishist who wants to tickle the ears of a sculpture, a painting, or a song.

Ugh.

Best of my old blog #8 Poetry

Just read over yesterday's blog. That just sucked. Going to try to do better today, but don't hold your breathe.

Like most of my blogs, this one starts with me sitting on my couch in comfy clothes. I'm not terribly hung-over, surprise surprise considering how heavily I hit the bola (that's spiked punch to you English-speaking folks, and spody to you Cascadians) at Sindri's 25^th last night. That went ok, some decent joking, a little flirting, but not too much, and right in the middle of the party, IT SNOWED!!!!!

Big-time fluffy whiteness abounds! Joy!

So I went out in many layers of warm stuff and played in it on my way to the market to pick up dinner stuff. I've started making a habit of cooking something very yummy on Sundays, inviting whoever happens to come to mind to eat it with me. Makes up for the lack of family in a way, not to mention greases the wheels of karma. Sadly my guest of (dis)honor wasn't able to make it. I invited Helga to make up for yet another drunken proposition! I seriously don't get this. I lived with the girl for the better part of a year and a half, and kept my cool (generally) the whole time. She moves out, and suddenly, my drunken ass can't stop trying to get in her pants. I suck. I just need to figure out why I'm doing this so I can knock it the fuck off.

So here I sit, food roasting away in the oven, Ladysmith Black Mambazo on the stereo, chillin. I just don't have much to say today, or, more truthfully, all the things I can think of writing about would require a level of effort that I just can't be assed to rise to.

Therefore, as certain friends have been pushing me to, and as I have nothing better to do, I shall expose the world to more of my pathetic attempts at poetry, just because some people (you know who you are and you are to blame!) seem to like it.

Start things off with something I wrote when I was only 16, traveling through Cali for the first time…

Mojave

In the hard
drought of winter
Immobile Joshua
stands witness
to my wilted heart
my dry-leaf voice
(dead leaves rustling on sand)
rolling across this old man's land.

Immobile Joshua
standing sentinel
guarding the land of the sun.
I am an interloper here
(with my withered old soul)
falling ever and ever into the desert.

And how these
crowded whisper clutch
(in my traveling mind)
known only to a child of dust,
and the arid god's disciple.

Joshua standing in ecstasy…

Wrote this one about an ex, when I got back from Iceland the first time…

For "Curls"

This morning I found three brown hairs
nestled in the pocket of an old leather coat
long unworn.
And I remember how they had lain against my chest
on that rainy night when we huddled at the bus-stop
my hands too shy to brave the passing headlights and
stay, cupping your cool breast.

Later, I remember how it felt when the waters came,
your gasps and pants and shy invulnerable shudders,
that night we played at Genesis.
How I pressed inside you, shaking as the tide rose to my ragged breathe.
That glory will not leave me, and I will not renounce it,

but for your asking…

And just to be absolutely sure to bore the crap out of you, dear perturbed reader…

Protection

I will hold you beloved
wrap the iron wings of a
mother's shawl about your thin shoulders,
the adamantine love of the unshattered home
and no king shall stand against you
and never a blade shall bite,
and Death shall have no dominion here.

There it is dear reader, I shall provide generous shots of insulin to counteract the vaemi (not really translatable, but has to do with sickeningly sweet and/or maudlin things) and promise to keep my crap poems away from the blog for a while now.

Sorry.

Best of my old blog #7 My career as a lust object

Interesting day today.

I started things off by not going to work. After yesterday's tummy-aches, headaches, twitches and stomach flips, I decided that I better off taking a little me time, even if it meant dealing with my self-inflicted home-from-work guilt.

Despite guilt, despite the nigh-overwhelming urge to clean the kitchen and do laundry, run to the bank, run to the Social Services offices (which are always closed whenever I have any free time) and generally appease the guilt by making productive use of the day, I persevered and managed to spend the hours between waking up and now doing absolutely nothing but chatting on MSN.

(I know, I know, I recently vowed to cut down on that, and I have after work and such, but I figured a sick/lazy day means I can do as I like.)

The chatting was not only entertaining but rather enlightening. Entertaining because it was an old and dear friend I was chatting with, one that will shortly be coming to the Lava Lump (aka Iceland), and she is always fun to chat with. Enlightening because it led to the realization that if I was an even remotely attractive woman, I'd probably be working in the "porn" industry.

What's that I hear out there? Gasps and groans and general "wtf"-ness from my legions of adoring sweaty blogodytes?*

Well, see, she is planning on staying here for a bit, but, thanks to her rather international life style, she'll have a bitch of time getting a work permit for any "normal" job. SO I mentioned, in all seriousness, the option that she try to find some modeling work.

Now, my sweet little friend does not look like a "model". She's tiny, for starters, even by Asian standards. But she also happens to be the single most photogenic person I have ever met. There has, quite simply, never been a bad picture taken of her. Basically, she's perfect for photographic modeling.

She liked this idea, so we began to try hitting Icelandic web-sites to find her a gig.

No luck. None at all. There is simply not an agency in all of Iceland looking for models that are not taller than, say, me. And I'm 180cm/5'11", meaning that they are looking for stick thin (which my friend is, admittedly, although she comes by it naturally, sans enemas, puking, or starvation) Amazons.

Until we came across ">this .

For those of you who don't speak Icelandic, it's an ad from a local adult entertainment business looking for models for short erotic videos. They go on and on about it not being "porn" so I'm inclined to take their word for it.

Anyway, if you get hired, you go in, roll around a set for a bit, either scantily clad or full-on nekkid, whichever floats your proverbial boat, then consult with the film-crew over the editing (no shots you don't approve) and then four hours later, BAMM! 100,000ISK in your pocket and 50% of the take on the pay-for-play video on the website.

My friend kinda laughed it off. Not her cup of kink, apparently. I, on the other hand, was just jealous. I can't even begin to imagine getting paid that much money for that little effort! I'd jump at that opportunity so fast there'd be sonic boom.

This same company routinely pays women 20,000ISK to make recordings of themselves reading prepared scripts. Yet another opportunity I would jump at, but to my knowledge, only one of my perpetually broke-ass friends has ever taken advantage of the phone-sex gravy train.

I don't get it. I really don't. I'm jealous as hell of people who could make a quick buck (I'm not talking about making a career of it, mind) off something like this.

I've bought this up with friends before, and the general response, from those not of the "Sex makes the baby Jesus cry" persuasion is that they'd be too embarrassed. "Oh God! What if someone went on there and heard/saw me!" seems to sum it up.

Which I don't get. I mean, which is more embarrassing, the fact that you were ballsy enough to put yourself out there (even in quasi-anonymity like with the readings) or the fact that you're paying money to listen to women read stories about sex you're obviously not having?

So I'm jealous of people who have these opportunities, but don't take them. I mean, I can't do that sort of thing. Not because I'm shy. I'm not. Nor because I have some sort of moral objection to it. Simply because the only facets of the adult entertainment industry that would hire me would be something along the lines of "Middle Aged Bear Monthly" or "Hairy Beast". In other words, something that's less than likely to pay well, and very likely run by some guy with a sack full of roofies and a can of Crisco© in his van.

If I wanted that, then I'd just go to one of the bars down by the harbor.

Other than despairing at my thwarted career as a soft-core porn star, the only other thing I've gotten up to today is walking a few blocks through the sadly melting snow to make soup for and generally coddle the Eidles, who has recently had the Evil Tonsils of Infected Doom removed. She seems to be recovering nicely, and as television has stopped hating us, I think I'll take this opportunity to end this silly thing for the time being. See y'all tomorrow…

*I know there are actually no more than two or three of you, but humor me, my ego is in ruins after I realized that no one will pay to look at me nekkid.

Best of my old blog #6 No Gods/No Master Cards

Gas mask-$50 at an army surplus store

Second hand motor cross armor- $50 dollars at a second hand store

Can of black spray-paint- shoplifted

Can of red spray-paint- shoplifted

4'x2.5' piece of 1.5 inch plywood- dumpster dived

Duct-tape, screws and webbing to complete shield- shoplifted

First aid kit- $25

Empty Thunderbird bottles- $1.50 in deposits

3' length of rubber hose to siphon gasoline from the tanks of SUVs- shoplifted

Torn lengths of crappy Gap© clothing- looted

Disturbing the peace, use of an incendiary device, and "political disruption"-$3000 fine and 1 year in jail.

Taking to the streets to defend your liberty by any means necessary- PRICELESS!

There are some things money can't buy, for everything else there's the No Gods!/No Masters! Card.

Best of my old blog #5

Been thinking, obsessing more like on material things, work and money.

See, I've always been rather proud of the fact that almost all the furnishings, appliances, hell, even the majority of the clothes I own are gifts, or second-hand, or salvaged. I still am. But lately I've found myself getting all obsessed about a new kitchen, a dryer, new bed, all that some kind of stuff.

Just a few years ago, I was content to live in a single room, with a hot-plate for cooking, no phone (not even a cell), no TV, no nothing.

Add to that my constant obsessing about money, or more to the point, my lack of it, and you have me turning into something I don't like.

Thankfully, every now and again, you get a wake up call. Mine came tonight, when I went to see my Social Services client. He's a sweet guy, mid forties, paranoid schizophrenic, and I've worked with him for going on 7 years now.

He has nicer stuff than me. He has a brand new bike I'd kill for, nice antique or just plain expensively comfortable furniture, and a computer that is just about the most astounding thing ever, even though it's a Mac. He owns his apartment, which could be quite nice if he ever gets around to finishing the "remodel" he's been working on for the last 7 years.

He has most of the things I think I want, but he can't stop there. Hell, he's never ridden the bike; he hasn't even taken it out. He has no clue how to use the massive computer he bought, mostly it sits gathering dust. He has like five old-fashioned wooden radios, because they "give better sound". It goes on and on and on.

He just keeps buying stuff because he's convinced that only the best is good enough, and that if he has the best, he'll somehow be able to accomplish things he can't seem to do on his own. He bought a 100,000 ISK gold plated Mont Blanc pen because he though it would allow him to write a book he's been trying to write forever.

He honestly believes that having the right stuff will fix all his problems.

He's in debt up to his eyebrows.

"So what? He's crazy!" you say?

True, but in this regard no more crazy than a lot of us, including me of late. One of the weirdest things about this so-called life is that we've been taught to look for our salvation in line to the cash register. Well, no more. I'll find non-monetary solutions to my needs, as much as can. I'm done; get me off this hamster wheel.

As for work, apparently after my ultimatum yesterday, my boss's boss is talking to her boss about whether or not I'll get my way.

My boss's boss talking to her boss. Yes, hierarchal structures are so much more efficient, that's why there everywhere. Sure.

Smell my sarcasm!

Either way, after this month or the next, I'll be done paying off my existence bill (otherwise known as taxes) and can therefore at least drop a few mornings of work. Anything to keep me sane (ish), to hell with the added poverty. I'm not ashamed of being poor; I'm not ashamed of being working class. I'm ashamed I started thinking like a yuppie. Solidarity forever, comrades!

We're not fighting the man, we're just into fisting!

Best of my old blog #4 Rvk Bar Guide 1.0

Hang out with freinds and chat: Belly's or Cafe Vin

Hang out with friends and sing along to silly troubadors: Celtic Cross

Try to hook up while looking like Indy Royalty: Sirkus or Kaffibarinn

Rock out in a sardine can: Bar 11

Dance: Cafe Kultura, Kofan Tomasar Fraendi, (depends on who's DJing, and neither of them are as good as the old Spotlight, 22, or Thompson.)

Rock out to live music: Kaffi Amsterdam

Chill to live music: Kaffi Rosenburg

Cougar hunt*: Viktor

Take your life into your own hands: Langibarrin**

Try to look "hip og kul" while swilling over-priced cocktails and searching the crowd for a "celebrity" to attempt to seduce in hopes that fame is infectious: Oliver

Be annoyed by yuppies who couldn't get in to Oliver: Barinn

Pick up random drunk people for sex: Glaumbar or Kaffi Kosy (if you swing that way).

Be picked up on by late-middle-aged shit-faced men and women: The Dubliner

Snort coke and feel superior to poor people: Q-barinn, Rex, Thorvaldsen

Act like a diva while caging drinks off drunk businessmen/servicemen/non-Indy foriegners/FM-hnakkar: Pravda, Hresso, Angelo's, Olstofan, and Vegamot.

Discuss literature, politics, or art with the Icelandic art mafia: Naestibar.

Watch teenage girls get hammered and try to act "grown-up": Prikid, Solon, Nelly's, Pravda, Glaumbar.

Have a great meal and a beer in the least pretentious bar in town: Vitabarinn

Get hammered with other alchoholics, and possible play darts: Grandrokk

Have 15 year-olds offer to blow you for a large beer: Hverfisbarinn

Have 14 year olds drunk off their asses on landi and vanilla drops offer to blow you for a pack of cigarettes: Hlemmur.

Have Thai men treat you with great hostility and suspicion because white guys keep coming in and offering their girlfreinds/sisters/cousins money for sex while spoiling the kareoke by being drunken asses: Kaffisettrid.

*For those unfamiliar with this term, it means to go out and find reasonably attractive older women, hopefully on the rather desperate side, for sex and free drinks.
**Or whatever its currently called...

Best of my old blog #3 Punk Pride and Prejudice

I swear, with a little work, maybe some meditation, a couple of brain teasers, some weird South American psychotropic herb, and I could be a psychic.

I was thinking about what I would discuss in the blog today, as I trudged down to the bus-stop, only to have inspiration jump up and bite me on my punk-rock booty.

There's a disabled woman, Down's syndrome I think, who is nearly always on the perpetually early #19 bus with me in the mornings. Generally, we hardly notice each other. But today, thanks in no small part to the newly trimmed and magnificent mohawk of me, she stood there gaping at me, chin down to the sidewalk, utterly baffled by my haircut.

It continued like this. I stopped to pick up smokes and a juice at the gas-station on my way to work. The cashier looked at me as if I was covered in freshly-skinned puppies, and the old guy who pumps the gas, washes the windows, and generally does all the grunt work, gave me a bewildered look that defies my skills at description.

Now, I don't find my mohawk all that shocking. It's rather short, is back to my natural mousy-brown hair-color, and is neatly trimmed and styled. Not at all hard-core, but enough to let me feel like myself. I just don't see it as any sort of big deal.

But apparently to some people it is. Like the Arts and Crafts teacher I share a room with when I'm helping the kids out in the computer lab.

As soon as she arrived, she very politely, with the sort of courtesy usually encountered when dealing with cops who know a supervisor is watching, informed me that she found my haircut "ugly" and that "people like us, who are role-models, should be more presentable". I proceeded to inform her that I thought I was being a role model, by showing kids that it's ok to be themselves, and also that people who don't look like typical "role-models" can still be a positive force in the lives of others.

Of course, that was the diplomatic, polite response.

This is what I was really thinking:

What the holy Jeebus fuck? Here I am, in a nice pair of black jeans, fitted T-shirt, nicely trimmed hair and beard, and YOU are giving me shit? You? In your seven layers of frumpy woolen old-lady clothing swathing your fat-assed complacent form? You with the crumbs of your breakfast still clustering around the corner of your mouth, with VISIBLE FUMES of your cheap-ass French hooker perfume rising from you in waves? You who seem to think it perfectly expectable to refer to another person as "ugly", when you yourself look a bit like the Wicked Witch of the West's fat older sister? You are a "role model"? You who cannot be assed to shut the fuck up but instead prattle on and on even once it becomes clear that NO ONE can be buggered to listen to you anymore? You who shove your face into other people's personal space, reeking of cheap scent and covered in crumbs with a mouthful of biscuit still half-masticated in your gullet? You who disrupt and interrupt classes so you can pull kids away from class for your pet projects? You who show considerably less "professional courtesy" towards others, constantly making snide comments about the other teachers and staff behind their backs, SOMETIMES TO THE KIDS, than my Anarchist ass? Just what the fuck are you thinking?

Of course, she wasn't thinking. Just like the grandmother of one of our after-school kiddies, who, when walking into the place for the first time and encountering Jason washing up in the kitchen and my mohawked self vacuuming exclaimed into her cell-phone that she couldn't be at the right place there was some kólsvartur rísí (coal-black giant) washing dishes and a dópistí (drug-addict, junky) cleaning the floors.

The nice thing about working these sorts of shit jobs is that generally, those with any say in the matter are just so thrilled with the fact that they have a competent employee that they could care less what said employee looks like. Now if only that enlightened self-interest would find its way into other corners of the sadly narrow-minded populace…

Best of my old blog #2 Evil Upstairs

Remember what I said about life being dull?

Spoke too soon.

Way too soon.

Woke thirsty this morning, stumbled out to the kitchen to get a drink, only to be confronted by the sight of my pantless upstairs neighbor stumbling around the hall, after he came home drunk of his fucking ass, walked into our apartment and started to try to climb in bed with the roomy and Eidles!

As I write, he's passed out in front of his door on the second floor landing.

Now, as weird as it may have been for my roomy to have to kick some drunk assholes head to get his attention and get him out of his room, the really weird thing is that my reaction to this smacked of "Not again!?"

I mean, back when the Frenchy was sharing the apartment with me, and I slept in the room Ragnar's in now, I was once awakened to pounding Norwegian death metal being played at the highest volume possible directly through the fucking floor, and the sight of strawberry skyr (a kind of Icelandic yoghurt) spilled all over the hallway and filling the shoes of Frenchy's current gentleman caller.

The reason for this you ask?

Well, The Upstairs Neighbor of Doom and Frenchy had had a thing, which she had broken off. He comes home shitfaced, stumbles upon the fact that someone forgot to lock the door (a sadly common occurrence, as we smoke outside) walks uninvited into the apartment, sees them getting it on, and takes the most childish revenge ever.

After the cussing out I gave him, he had to be really drunk to pull that shit this morning. I'm seriously considering throwing a bucket of water over his drunken ass, or coating embarrassing bits of him in hair-removal lotion, or possible handcuffing him to a tree and leaving him pantless in the front yard with a sign that says "Do Me!" around his neck.

The stupid fucking prick.

I mean, if its not his drunk-ass friends throwing pebbles at his windows and shouting for him to wake up from the garden at all hours of the night, not his wild midweek parties that always include both loud obnoxious electronica at 2am and a "jam session" on his assorted instruments, not party debris littering the yard which he never fucking cleans up, then its either him, or in one very awkward case, his naked fling, invading my apartment.

Yup, you read that right. Shortly after the Skyr –Puntur- Incident, his lady-friend-for-the-evening apparently got lost on her way to the bathroom, walked down the stairs, into my apartment, into my room, and crawled, butt-naked, into my bed, where she proceeded to steal all the covers and snore loudly, leaving me to spending the night on the couch in my own apartment while she slept it off.

It was almost worth it to see the look on her face the next day.

Almost.

So as I am found of making declarations about my future behavior on this blog (no more drunken big-mouthedness of me, no more drunk blogging, etc…) I hereby make another: REMEMBER TO LOCK THE FUCKING DOOR!

The Infamous "Yule-Log" Post

(To those easily offended by juvenile toilet humor, please read on, as I will so enjoy the shock and outrage you vent on my comments…you've been warned!)

So, I'm slowly becoming aware of a new holiday tradition. It starts roughly 3-4 days after I come back to the E.S.H. in December. Never other times, like the last time I was back for my sister's wedding. Just in December.

I've taken to referring to this tradition as "The Yule Logs".

Basically, couple of days after I get home, I start dropping tree-trucks in the can. I mean huge! HUGE! Coiled in the bowl like the rare Corn-backed Constrictor. Shits so unimaginably big that one is afraid to flush them for fear of making them angry, let alone fear of causing an unbelievably horrific plumbing fiasco. Poop of such prodigious size that one performs a little involuntary hop when standing up from the throne because you suddenly weigh so much less your leg muscles overcompensate!

What the exactafuck is going on here? I mean, it's not like Yankee Chow is renowned for its high fiber content and ease of digestion!

I have my theories of course. One is that whenever I come back, I start scarfing Altoids© The Curiously Strong Mints, which apparently contain Sorbitol, which apparently causes excessive poop.

So I have my sparkling fresh breathe to blame for my overactive ass.

Ain't life odd?

Best of my old blog #1

My only little survey
Current mood: geeky
Category: Quiz/Survey

So I've seen and filled out dozens of these "scene" surveys over the past months, but the "scenes" are always the same. You get your Goth, your Emo, your "Punk", Hip-hop/Rap, Redneck, Rock, Pop, Prep, Jock…all the same ol' stuff. So here's a survey for people not quite so easily categorized:..:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

Folkster:

[x] You loved "Oh Brother Where Art Thou"

[x] You knew the lyrics to all the songs in "Oh Brother"

[ ] You could play all the songs in "Oh Brother"

[x] You play at least two musical instruments

[x] You know what a bandolin is.

[x] You know that there are two kinds of dulcimers

[x] Autoharps are cool

[ ] You can your own fruits and vegetables

[x] You own at least one pair of bib overalls

[ ] You're still a bit pissed at Dylan for "going electric"

[ ] You'll never forgive Nirvana for messing with "In the Pines"

[x] Banjo and fiddle players steal the limelight from everyone else

[x] Banjo and fiddle players are kinda hot though

[x] More people should yodel

[ ] Square dancers are the hottest!

Total:10

SCA-Geek:

[x] You know what SCA stands for

[ ] You totally look down on those Renaissance Fair losers

[x] You think swords are cool

[x] You'd really like to learn to play the lute

[ ] You dream of being royalty

[ ] The History Channel is your favorite

[x] You could live on turkey legs and mead

[x] Hose and tunics are very flattering on men

[x] You made your own chain-mail

[x] You've had to explain to the emergency-room doctor that "We were sword-fighting and it got out of hand."

[ ] You've used the term "m'lady" or "m'lord" in bed

[ ] You've been hit on by a jester or a serving wench

[ ] You own at least three pieces of Celtic jewelry

[x] You'd love to speak Gaelic

[ ] Belly dancers are the hottest!

Total:8

Hillbilly:

[x] You object to being called a redneck

[x] You call a creek a "crick"

[x] Anything in the distance is "over yonder"

[x] Ain't nothing wrong with moonshine

[x] The banks are out to getcha

[x] The EPA is out to getcha

[x] The New World Order is out to getcha

[x] You wear bib overalls, and like it

[ ] Ain't nothing wrong with pickled eggs

[ ] Who needs eelectricidy?

[ ] You don't have dogs, ya got some hounds though

[ ] Shoes are for winter

[ ] You ain't prejudiced, ya just wanna be left alone

[ ] That girl over in the next holler is the hottest!

Total:8

Science-geek:

[x] You hate it when people forget about the Second Law of Thermodynamics!

[x] You've made model rockets before

[x] Bonus points for making your own engines

[x] Various activities involving vinegar and baking soda where your favorite games as a kid

[x] You've competed in Science Bowl

[x] Discovery Channel is your favorite

[x] You like to make passionate love to a cast-member on "Mythbusters"

[x] You get upset at the results on "Mythbusters" because the experiments are set up wrong

[x] You tried to invent things as a kid

[ xxx] Bonus points if you ever tried to put wings on your bike, caused an electrical fire, or forced the evacuation of a classroom thanks to chemistry.

[x] You owned/own a microscope

[x] You're parents bought you a subscription to National Geographic, Popular Science/Mechanics, or Smithsonian

[x] Explosions are cool

[x] Carry from "Mythbusters" is the hottest!

Total:16

Now, because we aren't cookies, and hence do not fit cookie-cutter definitions, post your top two results in descending order!