Rocketry

So speaking of rockets, want to bond with your kids? Share a hobby? Do father-son things? Me too! I thought we would try model rockets 'cause the kid likes space. He loves to sit and ponder various goings-on in the solar system such as why there are gaps in Saturn's rings. Needless to say, I spend a lot of time on the internet researching answers to these questions - 'cause although I can operate a motor vehicle, plug in a microphone, and sometimes build a little fort, when it comes to anything academic I have been fortunate enough to have flushed anything more complicated than comparison shopping down the toilet. It was during one of these comparison shopping internet escapades that I saw an ad for a local hobby shop that carried model rockets.

So we go to the hobby shop. And well, uh.. We discover that it's basically some kind of Mecca for geeks. There's your standard computer geek, the model train geek, the RC whatever (don't you dare call it 'remote control') geek, and God knows what other kinds of geeks all clustered under one roof. It's frightening, really, and we shuffle off to the rocket part of the store trying to avoid being fallen over or maybe lit on fire by other shoppers. Upon arriving at the rocket aisle, the kid starts announcing the advertised heights that each different rocket is capable of achieving.

Kid: '1000 feet, 1100 feet, oh look poppa this one goes 2000 feet!!'
Me: 'Mmmhmmm.'

All the while, I am scanning the same model packages as he is, looking for something that says 'Assembles in 10 minutes'. No dice. After a lengthy exchange between the kid and myself, we decided to compromise, which is a good word to know when you're five. We get the rocket that goes 1100 feet, and assembles in about an hour. Now we need, lets see, glue, engines, and a bunch of other... oh, okay, I see, this comes with a launch pad - that's nice - I mean for $30 you'd hope.

Total bill out the door: $45
Dad of the weekend: Priceless

Right? Right. Okay, so we go home and proceed to open the package at the table and read the instructions. The kid, of course, wants to help - and who can blame him - but after reading through the instructions it seems as if making even the tiniest mistake will cause the rocket to veer off course or even disintegrate mid-flight, so I take on the majority of the putting-together part while he dances around me kicking the table at the most inopportune times.

Kid: 'Is it ready yet?'
Me: 'Almost, we have to let this part dry first.'
Kid: 'What does flammable mean?'
Me: 'It means that it can catch on fire.'
Kid: 'What does inflammable mean?'
Me: 'The same thing. English is just weird that way. Where are you seeing that?'
Kid: 'All over the packages and stuff.'

Cheery. So I find a few things for him to do while the rocket dries - including reading about the science behind how it works and how to operate the launcher, and then we're off to the park. According to the instructions, we should find a place that's at least 25'x25' to launch this baby to ensure safety. I figure the back field of an elementary school should do just fine, so we go and set up our launch pad in the middle of a patch of dirt, and point the rocket upwards, and hook up the lau- . . . heyyyy,

Me: 'Stop dancing around that launcher.'
Kid: 'But I want to launch it!'
Me: 'You can, just wait until I am done hooking it up and we do a count down, or you'll accidentally launch it up poppa's shirt.'
Kid: (maniacal laughter)

So I hook up the little alligator clips - while keeping a reeeel close eye on the kid, and then back off, and we do the countdown:

Us: 'Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Blastoff!!'
Rocket: 'SSSSHOOOOOOOOM!!!!!'
Kid: 'Where did it go?'
Me: 'I don't know, I think, lets see... Oh, okay. See that little black spot up there?'
Kid: 'Yeah..(?)'
Me: 'That's it, and.. it's.. drifting.. over those, houses there, and... Okay, so we need to go to the car - right now.'
Kid: 'Okay.'

So we hastily pack up the launch pad and accessories, and beat it to the car to go look for the rocket. We drive around about where it should have landed, but don't see it. I get out of the car, talk to a few people, and look in a few back yards, but it's nowhere to be found. Kid distraught. 25'x25' my ass. Second trip to the hobby shop imminent.

'Okay', I say. 'This time we're going to use the big park next to the school, and we'll just have to wait until there's no people where we are launching it, okay?' So we go back to geek central, get another rocket, and we're on our way. This time, the kid picks out something called the 'Sizzler' which goes 2000 feet according to the package. He's excited. I am a little hesitant, but figure that we have a lot of room to work with in the park. I decide to get all prudent and write my cell number on the side of the rocket, so that if it gets lost, then maybe someone will call us. That's thinkin' now, ain't it?

Second rocket, plus new rocket engines: $25
Dad of the afternoon: Priceless. Right?

Two beers later the rocket is all assembled and also no one has managed to glue their fingers together yet, so we let it dry for a few and then head out to the park. We pick a little corner of the park to set-up in, and angle the rocket ever-so-slightly towards the center of the park, figuring it will land in a nice little sea of green grass, and we'll have the added bonus of being able to tell if anyone (other than us) is in danger.

Us: 'Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Blastoff!!'
Rocket: 'SSSSHOOOOOOOOM!!!!!'
Kid: 'Where did it go?'
Me: 'I don't know, I think, lets see... Oh, okay. See that little black spot up there?'
Kid: 'Yeah..(?)'
Me: 'That's it, and.. it's, wow, that went a LONG way didn't it?'
Kid (jumping up and down): 'Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!'
Me: 'We better start running.'
Kid: 'Yeah!'

And we run across the whole park, length-wise, and lose sight of the rocket along the way. And it's not in the park. And we look, and we look, and finally cross over to the adjacent grade school where we had (ironically) launched the first rocket, and then we see it. Well, part of it anyway - here it is:
As you can see the nose part and parachute had separated from the body at some point, and one of the fins was broken.

Kid (disheartened): 'It's all broken.'
Me: 'I know, we-'
Kid (missing the irony): 'Hey look, at least we still have the phone number part.'
Me: 'We sure do. . .'

So, back to the geek-shop we go. How hard can this be? This time we park and walk in and go to the rocket aisle, and now I'm looking for the biggest, slowest hunk of crap I can find. Preferably something indestrucable too. No more balsa wood for me.

Me: 'Hey [name-of-kid], what about this one??'
Kid: 'It doesn't say how high it will go. . .'
Me: 'Oh but look, it's huge and it has two space shuttles attached to the sides! That's like three rockets in one!'
Kid: 'Yeah!!!'

Oh, I'm sure there is a special circle of hell given to deceivers, but I'm already on that list on account of Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, an imaginary person (Fred) who has periodic gastrointestinal issues, and who knows what else, so I figure it's worth the gamble. So we get the rocket and our make plans to head back to the stupid fucking park.

Third rocket, plus another six-pack: $25
Dad: Whatever.

So I'm a wiz at putting together rockets now, and despite the fact that this one had attachments and complicated things I let the little guy help out too. Hell, why not. And we go to the stupid park, and hook up the stupid rocket, and wait for the stupid people to get out of the stupid way. I point it vaguely 'up'. And we wait. And there's this lady. An elderly lady walking this little dog that is really too small to be allowed, and they're both shaking as they walk. Slo w l y. Nice.

Kid: 'When can we launch the rocket?'
Me: 'We have to wait for that lady there to pass...'
Kid: 'That's a really little dog.'
Me: ' I know.'
Kid: 'Is it trying to poop?'
Me: 'I don't know, probably, hey, umm, I spy with my little eye, something that is - '
Kid: 'Poppa, we already played that game.'
Both of us: ...
Kid (when the lady is now 8 feet away): 'Poppa, why are old people so slow?'
Me (burying my head in my arms): '[name-of-kid], just, shut up.'

And after what seemed like an eternity, seriously, the old lady rounds the corner and we do a countdown and launch the rocket:

Us: 'Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Blastoff!!'
Rocket: 'SSSSHOOOOOOOOM!!!!!'
Kid: 'Where did it go?'
Me: 'I don't know, I think, lets see... Oh, okay. See that little black spot up there?'
Kid: 'Yeah..(?)'
Me: 'That's it, and.. it's, it's landing. on. that. house. over. there...'
Kid (jumping up and down): 'Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!'
Me: 'We better start running.'
Kid: 'Yeah!'

So we go over to the house, and I can actually see the rocket this time, and both shuttles that it carried up along with it. On someone's roof. Wayyyy up there. I scrounge around and find a big long stick, and then pause for a moment. I better ask the homeowner if this is okay... *Bing Bong* a little kid looks through the glass at the side of the door, gets a terrified look on his face, and then runs away. Doh! I deftly hide the big stick behind my back. Door opens, homeowner seems somewhat concerned about the situation, but ultimately agrees to let us fish for the rocket. We fish. We retrieve! It's in one piece! The score is now:

Rockets: 2
Us: 1

So I figure, hey, we can do this, right?. Now, instead of 'vaguely up' I decide to try the ever-so-slightly angled towards the center of the park trick again, figuring, once again, that the rocket and shuttles will splash down nicely in a sea of velvety green grass. Hah!

Us: 'Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Blastoff!!'
Rocket: 'SSSSHOOOOOOOOM!!!!!'
Kid: 'Uh oh.'
Me: 'Oh. Shit.'

As it turns out, this rocket is much heavier than the others we launched, and it seems to have weighed down the little metal launching stick as it took off, meaning that what was maybe once a 5-degree angle has now turned into a 35-degree angle. It's almost surreal to watch, as the rocket, with rugged (and sharp) plastic tip crosses the entire park at roughly head level, headed for a basketball game on the other side. It must be about 400 yards to the basketball court, so they aren't going to hear a word I shout - so I just get to sit and watch this all in slow motion and hope that no-one gets impaled. To make matters worse, the parachute has decided not to deploy and help us out. It's basically a missile at this point.

From the basketball court: 'HEADS!!!'
Me: 'We better start running.'
Kid: 'Yeah!'

Looking up, I see ten ball-players flat on the pavement and a basketball rolling slowly along, somewhere in the center of the court. It's a long walk to the basketball court. Long walk. With twenty eyes wondering why you might have almost put them out. Long ass walk. Looks like most of the players are kids. Looks like their parents are there too. Awesome. I cling to my 5-year old for support, hoping that if I look like I'm playing the ignorant part of 'fun dad' instead of 'vengeful negligent jerk' that I won't be stoned to death. After some awkward apologies and small talk, we retrieve the rocket from the other side of the court (it had apparently hit a fence and finally fallen). It was still in one piece, still with both shuttles attached too - they never deployed.

Kid: 'We can go and launch it again an-'
Me: 'Hey, [name-of-kid], how would you like to have a fish tank?'
Kid (jumping up and down): 'Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!'
Me: 'Let's go to the pet store. . .'

For sale: One tried and true rocket with two shuttles. Smells vaguely of sulfur. $3

New song

So I made this new song. It's a parody of Colbie Caillat's 'Bubbly' - and because the original was so damn cheerful, mine has a more macabre demeanor to it. You can click it over on the right hand side there if you'd like to listen to it. Comments always appreciated :).

Cheers,

School Lunch?

Did they fix the school lunch program, and no one bothered to tell us? Chicken soft tacos? Pizza Hut? You have a choice - no, three choices today? There's a menu?? And it's not a bunch of little squares on a sheet of goldenrod?? And you're in Kindergarten?? The hell you say!

I had the pleasure of attending five different schools during my K-6 years, and the school lunch program was the same at every single one, and as I recall went something like this (shout out if you remember this too):
1) Everyone lines up by the door alphabetically, meaning that the same kids got screwed every single day. Not that I'm bitter about it or anything. . . :)
2) You all tromp down the hall and join 400 other kids waiting in line for lunch. Your teacher, on the other hand, runs off someplace to smoke or drink - or who knows what else. . .
3) You get up to the front of the line, take a plastic tray and proceed down an assembly line of cafeteria workers, each one more surley than the last, who then slop little piles of either different colored sludge or canned vegetables onto your tray with a little clicky ice-cream scoop. There is no 'choosing'. Did you want the 'dinner roll' with the little bubble? Too bad. Next!
4) You hope, in vain, to avoid getting cigarette ash in your corn this time.
5) And fail.
6) And then sit down at a table, pick at your sludge, and hope the milk that was left sitting in a crate next to the radiator since this morning hasn't curdled yet.

All through this you never once saw an adult eating any of the food that was being served, and usually there was a rule that you had to take one bite of everything on your plate before you were allowed to throw it away. Didn't like the cole slaw last time? Too bad! Take another bite this week - and we'll know if you just try to push it around with your fork! We're watching you!

Lunches did get slightly better in junior high and highschool as I think people started realizing that there were a few students who had begun to develop critical reasoning skills (i.e. if I can't tell what it is, then perhaps I shouldn't place it in my mouth...), so these students were placated with omnipresent hamburgers. Those still weren't very good, but thanks to McDonalds everyones expectations had already been lowered to the point where they became acceptable. I'm jealous of the new school lunch program. Damn. . . Though, every now and then, I do get a little craving for that old-school 'mashed potatos and turkey gravy' where the gravy came from that big can. . . Yeah, that was alright. . .

Dora the Sexplorer

Warning: The following, like most everything else here, is not suitable for children (children who are literate anyway). . .


They loooove Dora. I haaaate Dora. I want to kiiiill Dora. With a haaaammer. You can only sit and watch the same idiotic, mind-numbing Dora the Explorer episodes over and over for so long before your mind starts to wander and make up its own story behind the characters and what they are doing. I finally cracked at the 55th showing of 'Dora's Magic Box', so here I am. . .

For those who don't already have their own little private Dora-hell, the real show airs on Nickelodeon, and usually goes something like this:
Dora has some shit to do or somewhere she needs to go and so she does, and she always has two landmarks along the way, with the third place as her destination. She'll use a map to help plan a route and get there. Dora travels with a talking monkey named Boots, meets Swiper (a fox) somewhere along the way, sometimes succeeds at saying 'Swiper no Swiping' three times, and sometimes not at which point Swiper successfully swipes stuff from Dora or Boots and hides it. Dora and Boots then always find the hidden stuff. Dora has dozens of stupid friends, and with their help always succeeds in overcoming the obstacles during the show. Dora sometimes speaks Spanish, especially to some of her friends that don't speak English, and then every character that was on today's episode sings the god-forsaken 'We Did it' song at the end except for Swiper - unless Swiper did something positive in the episode, like the time where he rescued a lost baby fox. Lastly, Dora asks viewers what their favorite part was, and she and Boots then proceed to tell the viewer which part of the adventure she most enjoyed. Hurl.

In my head, it goes more like this:

Dora was born into a poor family in small Mexican village someplace, and was brought into the world of sex, drugs, and prostitution early-on, chiefly as a result of not being able to run quite as fast as her cousin Diego. Like the rest of the world, Diego quickly tired of this cheery little bitch and decided to trade her to a local pimp for that nifty watch he now wears, plus a half-gallon of ice cream.

The pimp of my show is Tiko, of course. Tiko is always cruising around in his car, or a boat, or a plane, perhaps a rocket ship - who knows, and always seems to own at least one of everything. He is a pimpy little guy fo shizzle, and a snazzy dresser to boot, and he was glad to trade his Mexican-made Rollecks to Diego for a nice little piece like Dora.

After the trade, the first thing Tiko had to do was make sure to get a monkey on Dora's back because although she couldn't run very fast, she could be counted on to sing assinine songs unless heavily medicated, and this frustrated her Johns, err - I mean Jose's, to no end. The monkey, unfortunately, needed one hand free at almost all times for one reason or another, so he kept slipping off her back and was relegated to the role of 'guy in the corner for little to no reason with only one hand usually showing'.

Not easily defeated, Tiko enlisted the help of 'backpack' who is now an almost permanant fixture on Dora's back, along with 'map'.

'Backpack' is a veritable treasure trove of anything that helps Dora turn tricks faster, and is also has a 'star pouch' so that if and when Dora catches stars, she can put them in the pouch. The stars have different varieties and names, much like LSD does (Blue Cheer, Looney Tunes, etc.)

'Map' functions mostly as a humiliation tool for Tiko to remind Dora where her place is should she start thinking about taking off. 'What's my name?!?' he asks. 'Say it AGAIN!' he demands. That's right bitch, take it! Oh, wait, he doesn't say that... I'm getting ahead of myself, heh. . .

That's Dora's friend Benny to the right there. Benny is lame. Benny would be Dora's best customer if he could get it up at all, but he can't. He does have a hot-air balloon, but still manages to get outwitted by most office supplies. He ain't no Tiko. The best job he can manage is 'fluffer'. He's also insanely jealous of the Big Red Chicken (not pictured) because Benny would otherwise be the most well-hung character on the show. . .

And this fellow is Swiper. He smaller than the big red cock, err - I mean chicken, but he's a kinky little fucker who always wears a mask during sex. He lives on 'Blueberry Hill', and whether or not it was intentional, it fits in perfectly with the Louis Armstrong song. He'll wait for the opportune moment and then take Dora and her stupid monkey by surprise, mostly coming from behind. Mostly.

And lastly we have the band. Bow-chicka-bow-wow, bow-chicka-bow-wow. Tiko bought these guys to follow Dora around and play upbeat porno-style music to keep the clients happy. They certainly look happy, don't they? Personally, I think they have been dipping into Dora's star pouch.

Anyhoo, it's a lame little fantasy for sure, but it beats the hell out of actually having to process the show yet again, and the next time I have to see 'Dora's Magic Box' I have a feeling that the plot will sicken a bit :).

Incidentally, if you are repulsed by this latest blog entry, but have managed to make it this far despite that fact, then I would like to take this opportunity to assure you that I am not the person who invented this: :) Comments?

Sex Ed

I was reminiscing about sex ed the other day. I went to many different schools growing up, and each one taught their own sex ed class - none of which were as informative as watching 'Bonfire of the Panties' in Bob's basement growing up (who's Bob?). I can remember at almost every school though, that there were two or three students who quietly disappeared when it was sex ed time - presumably to go and visit the library and learn more about puppies or ice cream or something, and I never quite understood what the big deal was. Looking back now, I can understand that these were the kids whose parents didn't sign their permission slip and they were either too honest or too dense to fake it - but I still can't understand why. . .

Don't get me wrong, I'm not here to tell you what to do with your kids as far as sex ed goes, I couldn't care less. Mine will probably go just so I don't have to hear about it from anyone else later, but I fully expect them to actually learn about sex by watching pornos or in the back seat of a car with a box of condoms and a local floozy - in other words, the way that nature intended. That's really the only place to learn anyway - 'cause much like math, reading, grammar, science, and etiquette, public schools can't teach sex ed to save their lives either...

This is what all of us 10 and 11 year old boys had hoped sex ed was going to be like:






Eliza Dushku, brought into the classroom, hair all in a tussle, and just waiting to show us all of the special wonders that go with sexual relations. Many, many times if possible. We had, after all, gotten over the embarrassment of giving the stupid permission slips to our parents, and listened to them stutter haltingly over something in an inane attempt to smooth over the situation ('Don't you go ahhh.. Don't you be getting no girls pregnant now. But, wait, don't get gay either! Not-that-we-won't-love-you-if-you-are...') - thanks guys, that helped! What I'm trying to say is that we put in our dues. We had earned Eliza, or at lease a torrid, bawdy afternoon with her. We could almost see her, surrounded by nothing but steam, waiting. . .

And this must be parents' greatest fear - that little Billy will discover exactly what all the moaning at night has been about, and that the vibrator in the drawer isn't really for daddy's sore neck, and in fact, that sex might actually be fun! No! Better to keep them in the dark until college, because mixing your first alcohol, first independence, and first real social function on the first weekend of college with other horny teens is bound to produce some exceptionally wise choices :).

Anyhoo, back to the point, I can't fathom why anyone would worry about the above, because despite our best jockeying for who was going to have first dibs with Eliza, when we came back in from recess we were greeted with this instead:


You can imagine how that pink smudgy thing in the center there aroused our loins to such a state that maintaining a seated position was mighty challenging for those with any endowment whatsoever. And this is the best it ever got! Usually, in most schools, you didn't even get a flesh-colored smudgy - you would have to settle for a district-approved cut-away diagram photocopied on goldenrod and looking as if it had been hand-drawn by Charles Schultz on his death bed. Also note how there are lines pointing to the bladder, anus, and other various anatomical features that have nothing to do with any legitimate attempt to reproduce. Side note: This could very well be the source of some peoples infatuation with orifices and fluids not traditionally associated with sex, but I digress... The diagram of the male anatomy is similarly presented, only we get to memorize where the vas deferens and prostate are - arguably important for sex, yes, but girls, when is the last time you cared about how to spell vas deferens, or where it was located?

So while we were there, nursing our swollen boners and deciding which circle was going to be the ovary, do you think that someone would tell us anything that actually had to do with sex? No! Never once did I hear that the penis should be placed in the vagina, or that there would be a little tickle-that-felt-like-a-sneeze-only-better that would let you know when your business was done, or that condoms were available at any local drug store (much less how to use one!). No! What we got was an afternoon spent understanding the female period, which was both uncomfortable for the girls, and disgusting for the guys - and forced all of us to stare in random non-eye-contact directions until class was over at which point we all turned in our papers with virtually nothing filled out on the little blank lines and were all summarily flunked. By the next day, no one could tell you what a vas deferens was, much less what it was for, and the only person who could spell it was a girl who didn't even go to the sex ed that day. This is sex ed in public schools. This is the big fear, the big lie. For all of you about to hold your kids back from what can best be described as a farcical journey into Latin spelling, I salute you - just do it for the right reasons - and for heaven's sake, buy the kid a DVD!

The Treadmill Saga

The following takes place several years ago, following the purchase of a treadmill at a local sporting goods store. . .

10:00 : Went to U-Haul. Tried to get a moving truck with a ramp and a dolly, because it would be easier and cheaper (surprisingly) than renting a pickup truck and dolly.

10:15 : The inbred idiots in line in front of me are finally gone in their $19.95 a day moving truck, the kind that I want to get too.

10:16 : Clerk informs me that they are out of $19.95 a day moving trucks,but they have some brand new ones that are the same size that he will rent me for $29.95. Figured that it wasn't worth it, so asked for a pickup truck and a dolly.

10:20 : Picking my nose.

10:25 : I went out to the parking lot to do the damage inspection for the truck. I marked up the whole sheet, so as to avoid a fight later about whether or not I made that particular scratch on the bumper. Clerk didn't seem to care.

10:30 : Waiting to turn left on Aurora.

10:35 : On my way in the truck. It smells funny inside.

10:50 : Arrived at Sports Authority. After some humming and hawing, they decide to get my treadmill out from the back. They were surprised that they still had one. Noticed a 'free home delivery and installation' package advertised for treadmills. Didn't even want to know. Figured I had the situation in hand anyway.

11:00 : Talked Bob into helping me load the treadmill into the U-Haul truck. Damn that thing was heavy. Noted that the box had 'Warning, fragile electronic equipment inside' writing all over it. Noted that I had forgotten get the dolly. Crap.

11:10 : On the highway, headed for home. Beginning to wonder whether or not I can handle the 300+ pound box, which is absolutely huge.

11:15 : Arrived home. Tried to move treadmill out of pickup bed. Open tailgate is about 1/4 inch higher than the bottom of the bed. There is no way I can slide the damn box out.

11:20 : Finally done trying to strong arm it out of the pickup. Arms shaking and back hurts. Remembered something about levers from physics class. Retrieved two shovels from the garage.

11:21 : Managed to work shovels under one end of the box. Shovel heads look like they will make excellent steel feet to help the box slide over the inner tailgate ledge. Hauled back and shoved.

11:22 : Treadmill box on driveway, remarkably still upright.

11:23 : Start to work the box towards the door of the house. Wet sidewalk is amazing in its ability to hold a box fast, yet make the soles of your shoes extra-slippery.

11:30 : Opened the door to the house, took off coat and threw keys on the couch. Proceeded to work box into the doorway.

11:31 : Box wedged tight. Cant move box, can't close door, can't get keys. Looks grim.

11:32 : Box magically moves far enough inside to close door. Get keys and start up truck.

11:35 : Re-fuel truck.

11:40 : Returned truck to U-Haul.

11:45 : Waiting to turn left on Aurora.

11:50 : Cut off four people. Gave everyone in sight the finger. Escort doesn't move very fast anymore.

12:00 : At home. Debating whether to try to move the box out of the livingroom, or not. Figure that my wife would kill me if I left it there.

12:15 : Ecountered another lovely obstacle - the lip of the floor running into the laundry room. Found out I can deadlift 200 pounds, even with my weak back. Better than I thought I could do.

12:20 : Box in place. Want to make sure I didn't break anything inside. Search begins for an exacto knife.

12:21 : Tried to cut box open with scissors. Ha ha ha ha ha ha.. That was cute.

12:24 : Decide to use my little knife that I found in the Escort. Worked great!

12:30 : Saw the words 'Space Saver' inside the box. Space saver my ass. You could fold the treadmill up and store it in, say, a two car garage - provided that you could find a way to move it.

The Video

So I made this video for Youtube:



It's a video for that 'Hey There Vagina' parody off on the right hand panel there. The video was shot with one of these doohickeys:



which you can get for like $100 at Amazon, and seems fine for YouTube to me I guess. I don't know much about making videos, but this was kinda fun so thought I would share. Hope you enjoy it!