Growing up in North Eastern Minnesota in the 1960s was quite different than anything people who grew up in the 70s and 80s of mainstream America had a chance to experience. And just so any FBI or DHS snoopers are monitoring this let me emphasize now: my father never taught me anything about the use of explosives.
My dad had a thing for blowing shit up. In those days, he would go to the local co-op or hardware store and buy dynamite and blasting caps on a fairly regular basis. He used it to remove stumps on our farm and the neighbors’ farms. He also was very adept at burying the huge glacial rocks that made plowing a field difficult. When he was drilling water wells, he could crack a bedrock shelf with a half stick, and hardly ever blew the casing 300 feet into the air (a totally awesome sight when it did happen).
In 1967, I was 14 and our neighbor Leo came over with his Farmall H tractor. We had two tractors, a Case VAC my dad used and a little Farmall A I puttered around on. It was the 3rd of July. My dad, convinced that indoor plumbing was here to stay, decided to rid the farm of the outhouse his father had built about twenty years earlier. Its important to point out that …
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Fat Jerry
Because you are all procastinators, and have yet to tell us your tale of a Halloween embarrassment, and because Fat Jerry has had a rare senior moment in which he forgot the deadline himself, Fat Jerry has taken it upon himself to extend the deadline one week. …
I blew three fuses this weekend running my AC units on turbo. Yes, its true. While I may bitch about the Hummers crowding the Taconic State Parkway, in the long run, I am a waster. A terrible waster. No thrift to me at all.
Saturday was the culmination of Pride Week: you may have starred or celebrated in a parade near you, or you may have, like me, spent the afternoon keeping the vomit bucket happy, hoping beer would squash your nausea long enough to allow for karaoke (it did, until …
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Growing up in North Eastern Minnesota in the 1960s was quite different than anything people who grew up in the 70s and 80s of mainstream America had a chance to experience. And just so any FBI or DHS snoopers are monitoring this let me emphasize now: my father never taught me anything about the use of explosives. 
“There’s nothing more overrated than a bad fuck, and nothing more underrated than a good shit."—Billy Childish 
Because you are all procastinators, and have yet to tell us your tale of a Halloween embarrassment, and because Fat Jerry has had a rare senior moment in which he forgot the deadline himself, Fat Jerry has taken it upon himself to extend the deadline one week. …
I blew three fuses this weekend running my AC units on turbo. Yes, its true. While I may bitch about the Hummers crowding the Taconic State Parkway, in the long run, I am a waster. A terrible waster. No thrift to me at all. 
Saturday was the culmination of Pride Week: you may have starred or celebrated in a parade near you, or you may have, like me, spent the afternoon keeping the vomit bucket happy, hoping beer would squash your nausea long enough to allow for karaoke (it did, until …
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