pyrotechnics

i’ve started to notice a curious pattern of behavior in the people men i admire…

“The Real Frank Zappa Book”:

“The Stuff in the Old Garage

“We moved from Monterey to Pacific Grove, a quiet town nearby. I spent my recreational hours building puppets and model planes and making homemade explosives from whatever ingredients I could find. One day, a friend said, ‘See that garage across the street? It’s been locked for years. I wonder what’s inside of there.’

“We burrowed under the side wall. There was a pile of crates, full of fifty-caliber machine-gun bullets. We stole a bunch, removed the bullet heads with pliers, and extracted the ‘gunpowder’ — only it didn’t look like ‘gunpowder,’ it looked like little greenish-black sequins (I think it was called ballistite). It was a member of the smokeless powder family (nitrocellulose) — I’d never seen any of that before. We put it in a toilet-paper tube and stuffed it into a mound of dirt in the middle of a vacant lot and lit it, using gimp for a fuse (that shiny, flat plastic stuff you make key chain holders out of in summer camp). When loosely packed, ballistite produces a shower of little yellowish-orange fireballs.

“The other thing that turned out to be rewardingly explosive was powdered Ping-Pong balls. We used to spend hours filing Ping-Pong balls into dust with a rat-tail file. I got the idea when I read about a guy who escaped from jail by making a bomb out of playing cards. The article said that the playing cards were coated with some kind of cellulose material, and the convict had scraped it all off and accumulated a plasticized dust.

“The casing for the bomb was a toilet-paper roll wrapped with tar tape. He blew his way out of a jail with it, so I thought: ‘There’s a clue here somewhere.’

“How I Almost Blew My Nuts Off

“You used to be able to buy single-shot caps at the hobby store. These were better than the ones on the little rolls because they had more powder in them and made a bigger bang. I spent hours with my X-Acto knife, cutting away the extra paper, saving the trimmed charges in a jar. Along with this, I had another jar full of the semilethal Ping-Pong dust.

“One afternoon I was sitting in our garage — an old rickety one with a dirt floor, like the place with the machine-gun bullets. It was after the Fourth of July and the gutters in our neighborhood were littered with used fireworks tubes. I had collected a few, and was in the process of reloading one of them with my own secret formula.

“I had it propped between my legs, filling it with a layer of this and a layer of that, packing each layer down with the butt end of a drumstick.

“When I got to the layer of single-shot caps, I must have pressed too hard and the charge ignited. It blew a large crater in the dirt floor, blew the doors open, and blew me back a few feet, balls first. Why, I could have almost escaped from jail with that one.”
_____

“Narrow Roads of Gene Land, Vol. 2”:

“Something about the tube in the man’s chest depicted [in an illustration about mosquitoes and malaria] brought back to me certain tubes and a pain in my own chest from 30 years in my past. It reminded me of how in Denmark Hill Hospital once two intern medics armed with a bike-pump-sized syringe, looking somewhat like the proboscis of Olsen’s mosquito, had tried to draw off stale blood pooled in my right lower chest. It was blood flooded there from a wound after the explosion of a homemade bomb. The picture set me squinting in memory again down the pale dunes of my chest, still tented here and there at the time with plasters and bandages, towards a real surreal dreamscape that I shall never forget. Who let those two serious young whisperers loose on my anatomy it is now difficult to imagine; even to me then, a trusting 12 year old, they appeared to not quite know what they were doing and, in so far a I could make it out, it seemed the impossible. With unencouraging vagueness, measuring their distances with handspans and knucklenths out from certain landmarks such as the edge of my ribs, they found their spot. Then — well, imagine using a bike-pump-sized syringe to suck red-tinted junket throught the wall of a rubber hotwater bottle in which, for some reason, the junket has first been allowed to set (that is, to clot in the case of my blood): you will then have an idea of their difficulties. As might be predicted, there would come into the barrel of the syringe a half inch of well-stirred red junket and a quarter inch more of a pink whey, and then nothing — even I could tell that the blood clot and perhaps also some of the lung substance of patient Hamilton had blocked their tube. Twice, I think, and again very like a mosquito looking around on a shirt sleeve for a gap between the threads, the two whisperers pulled up their rig and tried again in another spot, prefacing the new dig with another small but ineffective sting from a smaller syringe, which obviously applied a local anaesthetic to my skin and muscle. This local, however, hardly affected the major pain of the big needle piercing my pleuron. It seems to me now that I must have both witnessing and feeling what it was like to be killed by a rapier thrust several times repeated during that morning. And yet I watched and assessed it all in a rather detached, accepting way, merely longing to see them succeed — if rapier is the word, I had more the spirit that Hamlet had in Shakespeare’s duel, I guess, than that of Laertes….

“Had I stood a few inches more to the right as I tightened the vice holding the bomb I was making in my father’s workshop in 1949, so that shrapnel from its premature explosion entered my left ventricle instead of my right lung, Ilan [Eshel] with little doubt would have found and published most of the ideas for which I am well known, and would have done so to a schedule running no more than a few years later.”

(note: comments do not require an email. ka-boom! (^_^) )

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12 Comments

  1. @luke – “Quite OT but my latest take on you….”

    oh, lord. are you trying to drag me back into that den of unimaginative political correctness?!

    i won’t go, i tell you! i just won’t do it. (~_^)

    (maybe i’ll head over there this evening when i have a little spare time. maybe….)

    Reply

  2. Whee! Hamilton’s Boyhood Bomb Experiment! (I think he, too, had a touch of the “A”.)

    Alex Comfort, who wrote “The Joy of Sex”, blew several of his fingers off while playing with explosives as a kid.

    Schmidt, of Schmidt Telescope fame, did the same.

    I mind the time my Mom ran out into the yard because I was going Owowow! and rolling un the ground due to ill-advised messing around with model rocket motors. I have been known to light a candle to Saint Barbara by placing a .22LR cartridge on the electric stove top with a pot turned over on top of it.

    I remember a time a few years ago when I talked John Donovan and most of his commenters into taking the Pyro Purity Test. We all did right well, and Major Donovan charitably did not include his “work” experiences, as that would have produced an automatic 100% score. (Not only is he a professional third-generation artilleryman, and both Anciently and Honorably a member of the Order of Saint Barbara, his battery was armed with nukes at one time.)

    He keeps a nice little muzzle-loading howitzer in his front yard. 3″ bore, I think it is.

    Reply

  3. Oh, and there was the time I made way too much nitrogen tri-iodide. I got back to my dorm room and there was the Dean of Housing and several other officials standing there, and iodine stains all over in there. It seems that a coupla grams or so of that is way too much. The beaker it was in was pretty much finely pulverized.

    Reply

  4. @justthisguy – “Oh, and there was the time I made way too much nitrogen tri-iodide. I got back to my dorm room and there was the Dean of Housing and several other officials standing there, and iodine stains all over in there. It seems that a coupla grams or so of that is way too much. The beaker it was in was pretty much finely pulverized.”

    ha! you guys. (^_^) while i can appreciate the blowing up of things (as a past-time, of course, not anything violent), i have to admit that it never occurred to me to actually construct such a device myself. must be a guy thing. (~_^)

    Reply

  5. @justthisguy – “Whee! Hamilton’s Boyhood Bomb Experiment! (I think he, too, had a touch of the “A”.)”

    oh, he was definitely on the spectrum. i mean, there’s no way an NT could’ve conceived of inclusive fitness and all that jazz. only an autistic mind could’ve done that.

    he even describes himself as autistic-like, a description which i could’ve written about myself, minus the working out of a fantastic scientific theory and visiting the amazon (~_^):

    “Those who have read my first volume will find that the characteristics of the author apparent before — notably a trait approaching to autism about what most regard as the higher attributes of our own species — have not gone away. In spite of a re-orientation that may have seemed occurring (and was in its small way) in those feelings of change in the late 1970s that I described in the Epilogue to the last volume, readers will soon realize they have still to deal with a person who, for example, believes he understands the human species in many ways better than anyone and yet who manifestly doesn’t understand in any practical way how the human world works — neither how he himself fits in and nor, it seems, the conventions limiting what he is allowed to discuss. He proudly claims to centralize a concept of genetic kinship that he applies not only in biology but in anthropology and sociology: yet if you travel with this man — that is, with me — to the Amazon, you find in the wilds an irresponsible child, almost idiot savant, much more excited to be noticing a cousinship between white Corynostylis flowers in a spray on a high vine in the forest and a low sweet violet flower he knows from the chalk hills of Kent, than by meeting that one-in-ten-thousand man of his own country, culture, and race whom he chances upon in a riverside bar. And in that bar, how much more eagerly I talk to a local man who knows the Corynostylis and who knows of and can describe to me four different qualidades of strychnine vines tangling the branches over the local bay and who can tell me how one has large edible fruits whereas berries of all the rest are lethal and useful only for arrow poison.

    “At the same time, friendly as I may seem to the local naturalist, I still for weeks forget to ask him any of the things he, like everyone, wishes to be asked most — the matters more important to him even than his knowledge of the qualidades of Strychnos and all the rest that he tells me, which he feels to be a slightly trivial hobby, almost a weakness. For months I may fail to ask such a person who helps me whether he is married and has children and what he does for a living.”

    Reply

  6. @luke – “And I just learned how to do site search links! Old dog, new tricks! ;)”

    i meant to mention, in case you don’t know this trick, my favorite google search function is “filetype.”

    for example: “cousin marriage” filetype:pdf

    i’m often looking for academic articles that are available online (i.e. not behind some paywall), and they’re usually pdf files, so i use filetype:pdf a lot. but, you can also search for other extensions: .xls, .ppt, .gif. whatever your heart desires! (^_^)

    Reply

  7. I was talking to the historical re-enactor type guy at the County Museum lately, and he told me that all of the kaboomish things which he and I did in good fun when we were young and dumb would get you a minimum of two years inside in Juvie these days.

    That is just batshit insane.

    Boys just gotta make bombs. (hey, as long as they are small, don’t hurt anybody, and make magnificent loud noises.)

    Reply

  8. As you might have noticed, Ma’am, I am a devotee of Saint Barbara and oh Lord do I love the kaboomishness!

    Hey, Ma’am, you started this! I recommend that you seek cover, which is thicker and denser than concealment.

    Reply

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