To the reader:

The following visually and textually recounts an act of boisterous, Southern youth. As most boys raised in the quasi-rural elements of small town Southern culture, I participated in my share of the destruction of my own and others' private property—not to mention public property. As a young man of twenty-six (currently in January 2006), I like to hope that my minor misdemeanors have passed into the collective anecdotal property of the community, placing me beyond the reach of any actual legal repercussions that would naturally result from present-day engagement of such activities.

I was a boy once, and I lived as boys desire—that is, with a degree of wantonness as suited my character. I am a man now and would not dare engage in such behavior. I still don't see this as any reason to disown the perfect splendor of a boy's inventive reverie.

However, while I don't believe that I should disown such acts, I believe that an apology is appropriate. I apologize for setting fire to that parking lot island. Our intention wasn't to burn the pine straw at the outset. That was more or less accidental.

I was sixteen. While reason and justice would not absolve me from the crime, perhaps some empathy on the reader's behalf will—in remembrance of his or her own young recklessness. 

James Clinton Howell, January 2006 

During the summer of 1997, I hatched an ingenious plan. I wanted to make a vinyl LP fly and possibly explode in flight. Why? If you have to ask, you’re evidently not stocked on testosterone.

Nathan Baer and I collaborated on the effort. The final design is the result of our genius. The idea is to cut a vinyl LP to the label, ensuring that you have four equal sections. Then, take a propane torch and melt the vinyl that’s just on the edge of the label. When the vinyl is pliable, twist it into a forty-five degree angle. Do this for all four sections.

Now, take two model rocket engines and glue them to two opposite wings. Make sure that the igniting end of the engines face along the downward slope of each respective wing. Congratulations: you now have the potential to seriously hurt yourself and even your friends.

To fully execute this device, you must take a model rocket launcher and split the central wire in half. Put two fuses inside the igniting ends of the model rocket engines. Put one alligator clip from the launcher onto one of the ends of one of the fuses, and do the same with the other alligator clip. Then, take an appropriate length of copper wire and connect the remaining ends of both fuses. You now have a complete electrical circuit.

Provided that you neither set one of the engines off prematurely, nor used a cheap glue that will send one of the engines flying toward your face because of the fast revolutions of the record (as happened to me the first time we tried this), you will be able to fly this beast.

I have some photographs from the third time that Nathan and I tried to successfully launch this thing. As I just mentioned, the first time, we used cheap glue. The first rocket flew off and I nearly had my brain knocked out. The second rocket went more in the direction of my nads, so I just ran around a lot instead of performing a full-frontal hit-the-deck maneuver.

The second time, Nathan and I went out to our chosen location with Paul Chesser. Our chosen location is a fairly public place in Aiken, so I’m not identifying it precisely. Let’s just say that it has a large parking lot.

Unlike the first time, we really invested in some serious glue. The rockets held, but, unfortunately, we couldn’t synchronize the engines’ ignition. We were trying to launch the record from a model rocket launch base, which has a yard-long metal rod sticking straight up. Since only one of the engines fired, the record just sort of scrambled up the rod, then sank as the engine fizzled out. For the second engine, we put it on the ground of the parking lot. It ran fifty feet along the ground, hit a FOX, and the shrapnel scattered past our bare feet.

For fun—and this is why the location is not specifically disclosed—we used the third engine that came in the pack on one of the parking lot islands. This parking lot island only had dry pine straw on it, instead of shrubbery. It burned all night long.

This brings us to the event featured in the photographs.

Nathan finishes applying the glue for the first model.

Nathan inspects the first model.

The remains of the first record's failure.

Nathan Baer holds aloft the third specimen before launch.

I—a mere boy of sixteen—sit proud with my invention.

Here were our three spectators for the evening: Drew Schneider, Mackie All, and Paul.

Here we see pre-launch record.

Let me explain some of its features. First, there’s the penny super-glued onto the label. Second, there is my old G. I. Joe action figure for Snowjob. For extra kicks, we wanted to send him spinning bloodily to his doom. It’s not possible to see given the fuzziness of the picture, but the penny glued to the label was glued tails up. This is to ensure that Snowjob would have as bad of luck as possible.

Nathan prepares to fire the first engine.

And there it goes!

Pandemonium, chaos, fear, and disconcerted chatter ensues.

Nathan tinkers with the connection after the first rocket fires.

Drew, of course, wanted to try. So Nathan set to work repairing the connection so Drew could press the launch button and fire the second engine.

And there it goes again!

Further engagement.

It’s not completely apparent from this picture, but, after Drew first fired the engine, the record lifted, hit the ground, then changed directions after hitting the ground—heading straight for Drew. Had Drew not been a very limber goal-keeper on the South Aiken High School soccer team, he may not have reacted in time to save his head.

Yes, I’m serious.

Having used up all of our engines, we fondly retired the record.

And what of Snowjob, you ask?

Completely murdered.

Nathan gloats over the remains.

And here I am, dancing with Snowjob’s severed corpse.

Where is this device today?

On the wall of my library, of course. Just look where I’m pointing.

The kindled effects of our venture.

This page is in the memory of Hieronymous Bush—as opposed to the painter Hieronymous Bosch—who was the lone tenant of the above-photographed parking lot island before we sent him to the Hell that his namesake was so fond of capturing on canvas.

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Note: All photographs displayed on this web page are copyrighted to James Clinton Howell. They may not be used for personal or professional purposes without the express consent of their owner.

Web design for Adilegian copyrighted 2006 James Clinton Howell.