The queen is hot, so get it on...
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Brothers, and Sisters,
I've stumbled into old age files -- a true collaboration.
Durant "in the background" Hapke
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Tiger Top Todd,
Bring the insight, my brother, bring it hot, and smoking.
So, on that, your brain photo of said DH life is quite right on, right on -- a pie slice, thin but tasty, but no hand rolled for me (other then raw fish), I'm all a Camels shorts robot.
Coffee: Black -- Drinks: Neat -- Smokes: Short -- and Stakes: Blue.
Regarding my vanes? That tap of commerce?
It's a bit complex, and evolving, but it's kind of a disappointment management deal.
I woke up once, and found this lame student in the mirror -- the dude was working a con, and everything scared him.
He could make money, but didn't know how to spend it, and just as strange, could not conceive of the value of "now."
One day, while waiting for "what comes next," he "accidently" and without warning, channeled a bit of the outer collective, and wrote an odd theorem on one of those subscription cards that always fall out from between the pages of Playboy -- he had a neat stack of said cards in the bathroom, in a drawer he kept his tooth paste in.
How he happened to have that card at hand?
A women on the card had caught his eye while he was foam grinding his molars before heading off to class, a women sporting green panties and a garter belt -- the kind of women, he would never date, talk to, or even meet.
So he's got a pen in his hand and this sad Jack bird smart lame dude, all worried about his GPA, his blemishes, his car, his hair, his shoes, watch, he writes on this Playboy prescription card the first meaningful thought he'd ever had:
Reality (God) = 00, and 00 = 2.
He read this over and over for the next twenty odd hours. Thought about it, and where it came from -- had he read it? -- heard it? -- dreamt it?
He knew it had meaning, but it all escaped him.
As best he could, he pondered the swell of the women in greens intimidating rack -- the way the straps of her push up laced over her soft shoulders -- the subtle cleft they rendered in that creamy white skin...
Yeah, baby, 00 = 2.
Then I showed up and kicked his lame "insecurity feeder top" ass out of the apartment, I kicked him out of school, and I took the Playboy prescription card with his formula; I know what it means.
So, in short, I slam dance life for a living, brother, and try and remember not to be lame.
Durant "AC" Hapke
PS -- I see a women in green, you can be Jack bird sure I'm buying her a drink -- that's how double zed rolls.
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Brothers, and Sisters,
Not to attach an endless hose of "done this" back on the pipe, but here's a last funk jobber of the mechanism I thought I would share.
I may have mentioned it before, but I built this model while under the influence of Charmed -- yeah, the television show (and a log with bourbon)
That one sister gets all "I have to retire here." However, one of the others is all in the gym, and I'd invite her to my crash crib most sandwich gladly.
And, while I might have reported this a bit back in the day, let me continue with this truth:
I have a hand crank pencil sharpener here (like back in school, it fills with soft dirty shavings), and I'm trusting we'd get around to a point where sister three could work it. Take that handle, and grind it.
Here's a bit of lotion to help you get a nicer grip. Now grind, and sharpen.
Now, the eraser end.
That's it. Turn it. And don't be shy, just bring it!
Push the point, and light a Camel.
Smoking is bad, but oh, just an occasional is no worse then pumping petrol into your ride.
So bring a lighter.
Durant "car wash coupon" Hapke
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I've no idea "D"
What you are saying
I am hoping you do
And not just mouth splayingYour images are killer
Yet I've seen them before
Have you got a collection
I would like more, more, more -
Well D - I'm speechless. So deep. And so deep in pencil sharpener metaphors too. Did MaryAnn from Gilligan's Island help you through adolescence too, or was that before your time?
Love that SNAP art. Wish I had an artistic bone in my body. My son would say "it's tight". I just say my belt is tight.
If there's ever again a SketchUp conference - you sir - I will help pay your ticket. You'll have to give a presentation on your artwork though, and your inspirations.
Tiger Top.
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Brothers, and Sisters,
Bite a big bug and feel the timeless double "Z."
Yeah, that's what it's all about.
My first new construction in a good long long while, but what the heck it's in spired by H.I.M. -- The band so kicks it.
His Infernal Majesty -- yeah, baby, that's the action I built this corps grinder to.
Bring it, and eat a big sandwich.
The moral? Go get some.
Be it.
Be it.
Be the funk.
Be the earl of funk land.
Enjoy a nice bun sandwich, and don't forget to work it.
Durant "flying the flag of victory over darkness" Hapke
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Brothers, and Sisters,
Jack bird turned this hack hog on it's bottom noggin, came up a bit of a worlds fair kind of action.
So I say.
So, Mr. Solo, I was once in a party mode in your neck of the woods.
Great bar food in the big "D," and, brother, like the spice of Dune, the beer did flow.
I was all about hooking with this long lost friend who was an art student at Southern Methenfedimines University, I think something like the "Bob Hope I was on television once theater" or some action, and he got me all turned onto the local fair.
We got some oyster poor boys at a place called the S&D Oyster bar, and I will tell you this, that was the best sandwich I have ever gobbled -- by far, and I've been to New Orleans (that party city is a bit over rated in my book and a lot of grays hide there, the locals know all about this -- kind of like traitors I think).
Now there where nice simple girls walking that campus that said friend referred to as "bowes heads," I thought this was a little Bo Peep kind of a deal, but whatever the case the company was fine, and very fine.
Somehow or another we got to working the city all this way and that, and ended up at the big Mosquito Rodeo, I think it was, and pulled beer from a plastic mug, and put that funky Copenhagen in our lips and gums...
Head rushing?
Like rushing to the can to leak big fluid lung pipe on some rodeo clowns dung crusted jumbo yellow shoes.
I still have a scar.
Durant "I'm tobacco putty" Hapke
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u re crazy lool,
but sometimes u make me droll,
ur imagination isn t to poor,
u should be an aviator,maybe in a day ....
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Durant,
Your language reminds me of Allen Ginsberg or William Burroughs. -
B&S,
CC.
DH
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Nice as ice!
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Brothers, and Sisters,
Jack bird bring it on.
As a fly or flying device -- sadly, without better batteries.
Durant "wind bumper" Hapke
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Brothers, and Sisters,
So, helicopters are the flavor of the day, that and Colt bring the stone age.
For my pose from back in the day, I got a long lost call from "M3" last night, looking for some instructional videos on self lubrication, so I provided.
In the corse of the chat, we pondered back to the stink day.
Found said recollections, so am posting again for those who have missed said experience:
Jack bird bring it.
This friend, "M Cube," we called him (Marvin Michael Moore, was his name, but his mom divorced his spin bucket "D," and took back her maiden action which was something like Morony, but we all said, Moony, hence four M's), who was into Godzilla like a Jack Bird crack monkey (he always talked about an underground Godzilla porno that he claimed to have seen on a trip Spin Daddy took him on to streets of San Francisco China Town -- the big lizard doing it crazy with his scaled fillies -- plowing rock star with his man dragon -- crushing buildings, while radioactive genetic soup sputtered out from the "little brains" nestled between his big stumpy legs, and plasma beams, brought down airliners filled with screaming passengers... Awesome. Never got to check it out though).
Anyway, the M Cube got bit in the finger by Mister Snaps, his sisters cat.
Mr. Snaps was nice, but for some reason on this one day, he had the notion that it was big fun to just throw down, and go WWF on the middle finger of M4's handy hand, and one of the critters big front teeth went on through the nail -- creating a perfectly round hole just above the cuticle -- not that big, but deep, like it was made by Black and Decker. The blood came out slow, and was inky black.
Ouch -- His Morony Mom made him soak it in a paper cup of alcohol -- I remember him kind of sweating, and turning all oatmeal like. Jump back pain.
So it healed after a bit, and we just went on our marry drawing, and bugging his sisters friends way ("Fine little Beth birdie, you want some seeds?").
Then a week or so after the big "chomp" we decided to play a bit of twenty one, shoot a few hoops, here at this drive.
The sun was out, it was blue sky awesome. A few dudes from down the block joined in. It was going killer, I think a few conspiratorial cold ones were had.
The game heats up, I'm getting set to throw -- a set shot from the curb... then whew! What the funk? What is that funky funk funk stink?
I mean I'm smelling stank, stinky stank, stank -- deep thick oder, like death perhaps, or Tokyo crushing lizard bowels, it's all bad, and it's wafting off the ball...
The B-Ball is the funk source...
Your guts want to run, but your head, says "let me take another whiff of that horrid stink," so I put my nose right onto the ball surface, and "mother of God, this thing is totally polluted, the rankest of rank vapor is here."
I flip the ball to Johnny O, and he pulls a snoot full into his head, "Crap! That's awful, so rankin' awful stinky!"
The dude nearly hurls, drops the ball, and lays down on the yard.
The Cube is all, "DH, take the shot!"
Sister Beth, and friends are trickling out to watch us now -- lining there cute young cut off jeans sporting back sides up on the concrete steps.
"Shoot, dude!"
It's important to keep the man hormones pumping.
We toss a few more buckets, but it's hard to keep going as the stink is growing.
I notice the Cubes sisters, squinting, and taking in the air -- still hot of course, but looking a bit like they're illing.
"Jacky, Jack, Jack Bird, Jack, the whole stink action is killing me!"
"What is the story here?"
Then it all unravels...
M Cube drops the ball...
The world comes into sharp focus, and it is crystal...
Marvin Michael Moore Marony, lifts his hand to his face, and sniffs his finger -- "Oh, dude..."
He's instantly copy paper white, staggers forward, and fights off a tumble.
Of corse, he's my Water Clown drawing friend, I head right over to have a look look -- I scope out a bit of weird paste on his middle finger, and as I start to register this, the Cube takes hold of the finger with his other hand, and squeezes -- "Holy mother of Godzilla!"
The little hole on the back of his nail erupts -- I mean like he's jack working a tube of Crest -- a thick train of caky white calk coils out of the fissure, and just keeps coming, and coming, and now it's dropping onto the drive, and down goes the M Cube -- collapsing in a cloud of spooy zoo cage drain stench.
Mom Morony runs out, and 911 gets a jingle.
I hit the shower, and burn through a entire bar of Irish Spring.
So, what happened? The crazy cat tooth, had punctured this funky tube like lining that tendons run threw deep inside the wiggly finger, so this bit of infection got trapped with in (Oh, that's a rotten root), and after simmering in there a good long bit, it built up the necessary "pus fund" to transform the digit into a stinky stew dispenser.
And that it was.
Durant "print it again" Hapke
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Brothers, and Sisters,
I'm all about it, I can't jump back from some new color action. After so much gray, I crave the Jack bird full palette of what can be.
Bring it on, now.
More about recent trip to "Sun City West" and the mosh pit of calamity that unfolded around me. Perhaps some of this color is all desert. I can't make that much sense of any of it.
Flying machines are on it, little gas engines whirling away, choking smoke, spitting sparks, and darting about.
I'm onto a chain-saw action pack next I'm thinking, a full on horny "bring the curves round for service," kind of what if.
Chicks do dig vibrating devices -- penny pony rides out side the grocery store get them all started young -- later, the alien red vibes with all manner of "buzz" ready action calls to them.
Avoiding a deep mechanical relationship is possible, but why?
Our ancestors worked themselves literally to death to bring us the wheel and SketchUp, so we should be willing and happy to fornicate with our creations.
I have a magical feeling about this, a deep sense of self flows through me when I am in the presents of great complex machines.
I want to get it on with them, and lubricate their deep inner truths.
Durant "hand me my tools" Hapke
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@durant hapke said:
Brothers, and Sisters,
So, helicopters are the flavor of the day, that and Colt bring the stone age.
For my pose from back in the day, I got a long lost call from "M3" last night, looking for some instructional videos on self lubrication, so I provided.
In the corse of the chat, we pondered back to the stink day.
Found said recollections, so am posting again for those who have missed said experience:
Jack bird bring it.
This friend, "M Cube," we called him (Marvin Michael Moore, was his name, but his mom divorced his spin bucket "D," and took back her maiden action which was something like Morony, but we all said, Moony, hence four M's), who was into Godzilla like a Jack Bird crack monkey (he always talked about an underground Godzilla porno that he claimed to have seen on a trip Spin Daddy took him on to streets of San Francisco China Town -- the big lizard doing it crazy with his scaled fillies -- plowing rock star with his man dragon -- crushing buildings, while radioactive genetic soup sputtered out from the "little brains" nestled between his big stumpy legs, and plasma beams, brought down airliners filled with screaming passengers... Awesome. Never got to check it out though).
Anyway, the M Cube got bit in the finger by Mister Snaps, his sisters cat.
Mr. Snaps was nice, but for some reason on this one day, he had the notion that it was big fun to just throw down, and go WWF on the middle finger of M4's handy hand, and one of the critters big front teeth went on through the nail -- creating a perfectly round hole just above the cuticle -- not that big, but deep, like it was made by Black and Decker. The blood came out slow, and was inky black.
Ouch -- His Morony Mom made him soak it in a paper cup of alcohol -- I remember him kind of sweating, and turning all oatmeal like. Jump back pain.
So it healed after a bit, and we just went on our marry drawing, and bugging his sisters friends way ("Fine little Beth birdie, you want some seeds?").
Then a week or so after the big "chomp" we decided to play a bit of twenty one, shoot a few hoops, here at this drive.
The sun was out, it was blue sky awesome. A few dudes from down the block joined in. It was going killer, I think a few conspiratorial cold ones were had.
The game heats up, I'm getting set to throw -- a set shot from the curb... then whew! What the funk? What is that funky funk funk stink?
I mean I'm smelling stank, stinky stank, stank -- deep thick oder, like death perhaps, or Tokyo crushing lizard bowels, it's all bad, and it's wafting off the ball...
The B-Ball is the funk source...
Your guts want to run, but your head, says "let me take another whiff of that horrid stink," so I put my nose right onto the ball surface, and "mother of God, this thing is totally polluted, the rankest of rank vapor is here."
I flip the ball to Johnny O, and he pulls a snoot full into his head, "Crap! That's awful, so rankin' awful stinky!"
The dude nearly hurls, drops the ball, and lays down on the yard.
The Cube is all, "DH, take the shot!"
Sister Beth, and friends are trickling out to watch us now -- lining there cute young cut off jeans sporting back sides up on the concrete steps.
"Shoot, dude!"
It's important to keep the man hormones pumping.
We toss a few more buckets, but it's hard to keep going as the stink is growing.
I notice the Cubes sisters, squinting, and taking in the air -- still hot of course, but looking a bit like they're illing.
"Jacky, Jack, Jack Bird, Jack, the whole stink action is killing me!"
"What is the story here?"
Then it all unravels...
M Cube drops the ball...
The world comes into sharp focus, and it is crystal...
Marvin Michael Moore Marony, lifts his hand to his face, and sniffs his finger -- "Oh, dude..."
He's instantly copy paper white, staggers forward, and fights off a tumble.
Of corse, he's my Water Clown drawing friend, I head right over to have a look look -- I scope out a bit of weird paste on his middle finger, and as I start to register this, the Cube takes hold of the finger with his other hand, and squeezes -- "Holy mother of Godzilla!"
The little hole on the back of his nail erupts -- I mean like he's jack working a tube of Crest -- a thick train of caky white calk coils out of the fissure, and just keeps coming, and coming, and now it's dropping onto the drive, and down goes the M Cube -- collapsing in a cloud of spooy zoo cage drain stench.
Mom Morony runs out, and 911 gets a jingle.
I hit the shower, and burn through a entire bar of Irish Spring.
So, what happened? The crazy cat tooth, had punctured this funky tube like lining that tendons run threw deep inside the wiggly finger, so this bit of infection got trapped with in (Oh, that's a rotten root), and after simmering in there a good long bit, it built up the necessary "pus fund" to transform the digit into a stinky stew dispenser.
And that it was.
Durant "print it again" Hapke
I suspect the Coen brothers will want to buy the rights to this story.
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Brothers, and Sisters,
Round 2 -- bring the ice.
I've been mouse slinging colors, and punching "hard" on the "lettered teeth," all for the day gone away.
Samantha got out of the can this past friday last, and did indeed have to make "time" with another of the "law breakers" all Johnny bottled up in said big house.
When viewing porn, Samantha does tend to "back wind" the G on G action, so I'm not thinking this is a big heart ache for the Jack jail bird, rather, I sense a "good reason to party" at play (in conjunction with her roving fingers it would seem), and do what you want to do.
It's a good story, I guess, though not that sure how I really feel about it (I've heard it about twenty times in the last two days -- "I was so scared, it was dark, and she was in my ear saying, 'don't be afraid, just be open, be open, be open,' that's all she would say..." Not sure that is much in the way of demanding, sounds like a bit of a Jack bird "so then I had to," moment).
Still trying to get her to draw me a map of exactly what "it started, and evolved from a lot of kissing, deep kissing," actually means.
She's doing alright though. I'm going to meet said "be open" next week some time.
Durant "file in the cake" Hapke
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Let's not forget even Joyce was mocked by his contemporaries.
- Stinkie - 'Sheesh, deodorant isn't that expensive - Smellystein
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Brothers, and Sisters,
So, it's a strange 3D universe this morning, a strange bed rest ender.
I've got a flying machine bug in my brain, but little time to work on the new -- a bad state, but what?
If I manage some time, perhaps a bit more color, or a blast onto preexisting action.
About life this day... The questions are huge, and the answers way past tiny.
I can't imagine feeling like more of an animal -- a flesh cog in the stupendously complex machine of "space time," that in the end is obscenely simple.
"Boo!" I say to the black crap of the stupid sky.
"Boo, and Boo!" To dirt.
"Eat your Jack selves while your fellow lives of shit dines beside you..."
I should ware a clown suit today -- if I had one, I would. Perhaps I can make up a quick one, or just ware my some plastic bags, and a hat.
I was messing with the 78 last night, and all the signals were crossed.
On Samantha, she will not let up on the entire "I need to see my prison baby," action.
Her time in the can seems to have spun her head in ways I can't get, or at least its given her permission to "act out" in some unexpected and, I'm sorry, in my mind, extra needy manners.
It was the local jail -- not the state pen -- and these women are board, and that sounds a bit like high school, so I have been telling her to just "cool it," for a while, and let the entire episode dissipate a bit.
Perhaps I should make her a little SketchUp Jail cell... That might give her a laugh, or me a punch in the jaw -- either sounds good about now.
Durant "I should play the harmonica" Hapke
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Brothers, and Sisters,
Fire is the word of the day -- strike the Jack bird match and let the "bring it" party begin.
Been messing with all the dials and keys, the results less of a flare up then I'd hoped, but given all that's aflame around me, I'll have to just let it stand.
I'm hitting the road for sure, not for long I hope. Perhaps a day or so, looking for some fresh thoughts along the way, and what? I run short of focus I fear.
What about my brethren here on the boards? Life can get so flat, no?
I've been chasing so hard and so long, but the Jack bird answers always stay just out ahead -- just out of view -- mocking and squealing all the while.
Inspiration... Inspiration and the lettered teeth before me are most Jack Jack bird out of registration.
And my mouse? It searches for the muse. The muse that's mine and most certainly out there in the fog -- out side of my reach.
And what of change?
What of the back drop of human affairs?
I find little here in the now.
My mouse is an ineffective "limp tool" unable of finding a soft hold on the next.
But I am no quitter, I will pack my action, and drive.
Durant "GPS" Hapke
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Durante, you are truly, the Tom Waits of SketchUp, or of this forum at least!!
In honor of your road trip, the Lyrics from Waits' "I'll Be Gone":
Tonight I'll shave the mountain
I'll cut the hearts from pharoahs
I pull the road off of the rise
tear the memories from my eyes
and in the morning I'll be gone
I drink 1000 shipwrecks
tonight I'll steal your paychecks
I paint the sheets across my bed
the birds will all fly from my head
and in the morning I'll be gone
take every dream that's breathing
find every boot that's leaving
shoot all the lights in the cafe
and in the morning I'll be gone
I bet 1000 dollars
I have a french companion
I tie myself below the deck
I pull the rope around my neck
and in the morning I'll be gone
it takes a life to win her
there is a drum of bourbon
800 pounds of nitro
his boots are thunder as he plays
there is a stone inside it
tonight his bones will ride it
I'll need a tent to hide it
and in the morning I'll be gone
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