Paths to Maturity and the Role of Fireballs, part II
Continued from Part I
Ok, back to this story. When last I left you, I had learned of the non-dairy creamer-fireball secret, but had yet to envision its far flung ramifications. Enter alcohol. You all remember the first time you got drunk, right? It was like a revelation. Everything suddenly became exciting. Sitting around the house was suddenly a party. Jumping off roofs into pools becomes “the coolest” idea ever, lifted from its former rank of “dumbest.” Before I digress into further reminiscing, though, a little theme music, regarding one’s man desire to reach beyond his limitations.
Kind of like those cavemen in Quest for Fire, who, as chance would have it, were doing the same sort of thing I was doing.
The only difference is I didn’t have to wait for lightning to strike in order to get a flame. As we shall see. It’s the summer of 1999, back at my parent’s house which apparently is the staging ground for every mistake of my life. The folks are out of town for a couple of days, which instantly equates to "keg party." The locals are invited. The kegs are rolled in. You’ve seen this movie before. Anyway, the party is going just primo and as the hours wile away, the keg starts to get lighter and lighter. You get to that point where you are trying to get a beer from something that is floating around in a pool of water that your dog wouldn’t drink from. I, intoxicated, captain a mission to acquire money from the party-goers for “another round.” This, as those of you who’ve tried it know, is a futile effort. I’m quite literally able to round up less than $10 from about 45 people. Never a quitter, I start thinking about what on earth can be done with such a small amount of money. As my mind starts racing, I think back, back to when life was simpler, back when I had to entertain myself without alcohol, and WHAM, there it is. A big can of non-dairy creamer, apparition-like, waving about a banner that reads “Happy Joy Fun,” tempting me into my fate. I realize that this is yet another activity that has yet to be enhanced by the empowering effects of alcohol and I hasten to procure the creamer. Minutes later, I’m on top of the trellis/arbor thing in the backyard, staring down at the partygoers 10 feet below me. I set my buddy Matt (hereafter known as “accomplice #1”) to stuff the end of an 18 foot pool sweeper arm with newspaper in preparation for a fireball of epic proportions. He swings the flambeau, lit, into position and I unload the 24 ounce can into the sky and watch fire fly with beer-laden glee.
I mean, could this have gone off with LESS of a hitch? The partygoers were enthralled and placated over the loss of keg beer, and I was Master of Fire. From Neanderthal man’s point of view, this really was the shit. As might be imagined, thanks to the 2 second duration of this event, an encore was requested. How could I but oblige? Minions were sent off in search of yet more creamer and I briefly, oh ever so briefly, enjoyed my position on top of the heap. The creamer quickly arrives and I go into production mode again. This time, the canister is as epic as the fireballs themselves have been. I have no idea how big it really was, but I’m guessing it was at least 60 ounces of greek fire. I desire greatly to ignite the entirety in one ridiculous fireball, but I also understand theatrics and instead decide, in a moment of utter stupidity, to go at it another way. Oh, and by the way, this is the part where I go to the hospital. I recruit Matt’s brother, Nick, who shall be forever remembered as “accomplice #2,” to join me on the trellis. He climbs up as I’m unloading half of the powder into a big pan. So, here’s the “plan”. When I think of plans, I usually think of intelligent ones, thus the quotations. Nick is going to throw out the pan of the powder, thus creating a fireball similar to the one that has already successfully been performed. I, in the pursuit of “self-birthing fire,” am planning on holding the half-full creamer canister and hitting it on the base, so as to punch repeated puffs of powder into the initial flame, thus creating a fireball that will reignite itself ENDLESSLY. In theory, this was only a partially good idea. Practice would prove it to be even less so.
The play by play: Matt is in position with the torch. Nick throws the powder (and, might I add, promptly shuffles WAY out of the way to the other side of the trellis). I scramble into his former spot and start the powdering. Now, I don’t know how familiar you guys are all with fire, but let me tell you something: fire moves really, and I mean REALLY, fast. Especially with fuel of this nature. My hazy memory recalls one, perhaps two, punches on the creamer can before something painful is happening. In detective-style retrospect, I can relate the whole story. The fire, ravenous for the powder (and my soul), chases the first “hit” of it back up to the canister. I’m drunk, though, and am slow to react, so I still hit a second time. The second “hit” immediately ignites right in front of me and I’m, all of a sudden, wreathed in flame. Fire, apparently, hurts, and in momentary shock I drop the canister and try to pull one leg out of the way. I’m wearing a shirt and swim trunks and most of the fire is below me (as the powder is falling), so my legs, below the knees, are really what are hurting me. I obviously can’t pull both out of the way because I will then fall, and I cannot really move out of the way entirely because I’m standing on a tiny wooden beam that is one of the many that make up the interlacing timbers of the arbor that I’m on. Since I don’t happen to be a ninja (yet!), such a quick movement would surely bring me crashing to the bricks below. The moment, frozen:
Note the black arrow, included for your convenience, that points at my right leg. To the right of that you can see my left foot, pulled away from the destroying fire due to a wonderful sensation that was coursing through it. The torch can be seen getting pulled away and if you look on the far, right side of the trellis, you can see Nick cowering in fear of the Great Explosivo. The moment in that picture lasts about 2 seconds before the fuel expires, at which point I grab one of the beams and swing down, making a sprint for the pool. Diving in, I ponder the intense pain running through my lower legs. I look over at the partygoers and realize that the fire has mastered me. Thus does the party descend into decline. Things get extra hazy for me at this point because I request a bottle of Goldschlager (that had somehow found its way into the gathering) from which I literally start pounding until pain, sight, and consciousness are cleared from my frontal lobe. What other events transpired that night are beyond my recollection. The next morning, however, is another story…
Concluded in Part III
Ok, back to this story. When last I left you, I had learned of the non-dairy creamer-fireball secret, but had yet to envision its far flung ramifications. Enter alcohol. You all remember the first time you got drunk, right? It was like a revelation. Everything suddenly became exciting. Sitting around the house was suddenly a party. Jumping off roofs into pools becomes “the coolest” idea ever, lifted from its former rank of “dumbest.” Before I digress into further reminiscing, though, a little theme music, regarding one’s man desire to reach beyond his limitations.
Kind of like those cavemen in Quest for Fire, who, as chance would have it, were doing the same sort of thing I was doing.
 |
| Between this and Hellboy, how has Perlman not won an Oscar? |
The only difference is I didn’t have to wait for lightning to strike in order to get a flame. As we shall see. It’s the summer of 1999, back at my parent’s house which apparently is the staging ground for every mistake of my life. The folks are out of town for a couple of days, which instantly equates to "keg party." The locals are invited. The kegs are rolled in. You’ve seen this movie before. Anyway, the party is going just primo and as the hours wile away, the keg starts to get lighter and lighter. You get to that point where you are trying to get a beer from something that is floating around in a pool of water that your dog wouldn’t drink from. I, intoxicated, captain a mission to acquire money from the party-goers for “another round.” This, as those of you who’ve tried it know, is a futile effort. I’m quite literally able to round up less than $10 from about 45 people. Never a quitter, I start thinking about what on earth can be done with such a small amount of money. As my mind starts racing, I think back, back to when life was simpler, back when I had to entertain myself without alcohol, and WHAM, there it is. A big can of non-dairy creamer, apparition-like, waving about a banner that reads “Happy Joy Fun,” tempting me into my fate. I realize that this is yet another activity that has yet to be enhanced by the empowering effects of alcohol and I hasten to procure the creamer. Minutes later, I’m on top of the trellis/arbor thing in the backyard, staring down at the partygoers 10 feet below me. I set my buddy Matt (hereafter known as “accomplice #1”) to stuff the end of an 18 foot pool sweeper arm with newspaper in preparation for a fireball of epic proportions. He swings the flambeau, lit, into position and I unload the 24 ounce can into the sky and watch fire fly with beer-laden glee.
 |
| Taking hold of the flame. |
I mean, could this have gone off with LESS of a hitch? The partygoers were enthralled and placated over the loss of keg beer, and I was Master of Fire. From Neanderthal man’s point of view, this really was the shit. As might be imagined, thanks to the 2 second duration of this event, an encore was requested. How could I but oblige? Minions were sent off in search of yet more creamer and I briefly, oh ever so briefly, enjoyed my position on top of the heap. The creamer quickly arrives and I go into production mode again. This time, the canister is as epic as the fireballs themselves have been. I have no idea how big it really was, but I’m guessing it was at least 60 ounces of greek fire. I desire greatly to ignite the entirety in one ridiculous fireball, but I also understand theatrics and instead decide, in a moment of utter stupidity, to go at it another way. Oh, and by the way, this is the part where I go to the hospital. I recruit Matt’s brother, Nick, who shall be forever remembered as “accomplice #2,” to join me on the trellis. He climbs up as I’m unloading half of the powder into a big pan. So, here’s the “plan”. When I think of plans, I usually think of intelligent ones, thus the quotations. Nick is going to throw out the pan of the powder, thus creating a fireball similar to the one that has already successfully been performed. I, in the pursuit of “self-birthing fire,” am planning on holding the half-full creamer canister and hitting it on the base, so as to punch repeated puffs of powder into the initial flame, thus creating a fireball that will reignite itself ENDLESSLY. In theory, this was only a partially good idea. Practice would prove it to be even less so.
 |
| Intelligence, personified. |
The play by play: Matt is in position with the torch. Nick throws the powder (and, might I add, promptly shuffles WAY out of the way to the other side of the trellis). I scramble into his former spot and start the powdering. Now, I don’t know how familiar you guys are all with fire, but let me tell you something: fire moves really, and I mean REALLY, fast. Especially with fuel of this nature. My hazy memory recalls one, perhaps two, punches on the creamer can before something painful is happening. In detective-style retrospect, I can relate the whole story. The fire, ravenous for the powder (and my soul), chases the first “hit” of it back up to the canister. I’m drunk, though, and am slow to react, so I still hit a second time. The second “hit” immediately ignites right in front of me and I’m, all of a sudden, wreathed in flame. Fire, apparently, hurts, and in momentary shock I drop the canister and try to pull one leg out of the way. I’m wearing a shirt and swim trunks and most of the fire is below me (as the powder is falling), so my legs, below the knees, are really what are hurting me. I obviously can’t pull both out of the way because I will then fall, and I cannot really move out of the way entirely because I’m standing on a tiny wooden beam that is one of the many that make up the interlacing timbers of the arbor that I’m on. Since I don’t happen to be a ninja (yet!), such a quick movement would surely bring me crashing to the bricks below. The moment, frozen:
Note the black arrow, included for your convenience, that points at my right leg. To the right of that you can see my left foot, pulled away from the destroying fire due to a wonderful sensation that was coursing through it. The torch can be seen getting pulled away and if you look on the far, right side of the trellis, you can see Nick cowering in fear of the Great Explosivo. The moment in that picture lasts about 2 seconds before the fuel expires, at which point I grab one of the beams and swing down, making a sprint for the pool. Diving in, I ponder the intense pain running through my lower legs. I look over at the partygoers and realize that the fire has mastered me. Thus does the party descend into decline. Things get extra hazy for me at this point because I request a bottle of Goldschlager (that had somehow found its way into the gathering) from which I literally start pounding until pain, sight, and consciousness are cleared from my frontal lobe. What other events transpired that night are beyond my recollection. The next morning, however, is another story…
Concluded in Part III
Comments
I think I laughed for about five minutes on this one. Delightful. Brilliant. Other superlatives!
Oh, and I have a sweet pad now - feel free to visit.
-gk