It's like: feelings (ew), the art of seduction, this american life

the impossible mystery of the sun’s coronal problem revealed

By dusty (March 14, 2008)

Today I flew a kite. Well, I tried to fly a kite. Kites are HARD TO FLY in this digital age. I remember a simpler time, when a kite consisted of a few sticks, some string, and a piece of fabric of some sort. Apparently that time exists no longer.

When we got to the park (we equals two friends and me), the seemingly impossible task of assembling the kites began. Unfortunately, I do not know anyone who works at NASA or any other spacecraft-manufacturing company, so we were left to do this using our own street-hardened, 2.7-GPA brains. After several hours of assemblage, one kite was ready to go. One of us was assigned to man its flight, and the other two began to put together the second kite.

However, a problem immediately reared its head. The kite was missing a crucial support beam, rendering it a useless, mildly-retarded down-syndrome beast of a flying machine. With no plutonium or iron ore stores nearby, we were left to use the knowledge we learned in prison: we fashioned a beam with sticks and fused them together by melting a piece of plastic around the joints with a lighter.

But that didn’t work. At all. It soon became obvious that we would have to give up one of the kites and focus on launching the second (imagine being forced to perform a second-trimester abortion to just one of your unborn baby twins…that is how we felt at that point). It took many attempts, but eventually we were able to get the healthy kite into the air (and for a time, it was roughly 50 feet high). Let me tell you, the sense of accomplishment and glamor felt when successfully launching a 74-inch plastic dragon creature into the air is unparalleled. Now I know what God feels like. And it feels good. Like God, but with an extra ‘o’ and a lowercase ‘g’.

When the doomsday bombs are dropped on this country and the apocalyptic Armageddon sirens are blaring, I won’t be boarding up my house and running to my subterranean nuclear safehouse; no, I will be outside, flying a kite — because when a kite is twisting and flapping freely in the wind, who cares about a nuclear holocaust. You know?

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