We at the Bunker wish to apologize for having succumb to the lure of politically motivated posts these past days, a genre we swore at our founding we would not slip into. But tis the season, and I venture even Old Saint Nick might face a roasting in his high season. Our aim here is not a standard, sober analysis of the news, we've heard there are a few places already offering this. This publication is more aimed for the audience looking to creatively kill a few minutes with their laptop on the crapper. That would naturally be the reader on the crapper, not the laptop. The concept would be simpler to convey with the aid of a graphic, alas our meager budget still prohibits a full-time illustrator. We also regret that the Bunker is not available in print form, to serve the role of surrogate in the event your bathroom roll runs out. If you're in such a position right now, we can only assume you are now considering an awkward duck-walk to the kitchen, sans pants, in search of some napkins. We'll wait.
Anyway, to make it up to our more conservative-minded readers or those weary of the past two weeks of national over-seriousness, here is an adventure. A tale, taller than most in these parts. It is a tale of clandestine construction, of drinking, of bowling, of mischief. In any event I hope you enjoy it.
I'm not sure how many of you are familiar with the LebowskiFest phenomenon. That celebration of all that is Jeffrey Lebowski, better known to Achievers the world over as The Dude. If you're not so versed no fear, it is my job to kick you up to speed. It is, in a breath, a bunch of free-wheeling folks getting together to dress in costume, furiously quaff White Russians, bowl poorly, and watch the Greatest Movie Ever. My breaths are long. As each year's gathering grows in size and manic devotion, the costumes mimic the progression, with attendees struggling valiantly to don not just the most artfully done garb, but the most impressively obscure.
At first such obscurity came easily, to be bestowed on the first person with the wherewithal to dress as a red spandex-wrapped nihilist wielding a giant pair of scissors (from the 10-second nightmare montage of the Dude's). Now you can probably find such ilk on a string of Christmas lights at Spenser's novelties. After a few seasons kudos might have been granted to a Liam-clad guest (Jesus' bowling partner). But as the cruel whims of ironic fashion dictate, the landscape was soon to be littered with discarded Liam bowling shirts, with the extra-extra-extra-larges turning up at the garage sales of hipsters from Knoxville to Albuquerque. As with other avenues of irony, the path to obscure (and thus cool) supremacy demands navigating an ever-narrowing array of fashion choices. Fortunately this is a film with oodles of supporting and minor (let me stress that word) characters.
After a night of soul-searching and head-slapping I arrived at the ultimate costume idea. One that had probably* never been done before, the Holy Grail of Dudeian cosplay. The hedge of probably was required, there being no known officiating organization to be in a position to confirm or, uh, disconfirm my suspicion. The fact that there were obvious logistical reasons it had probably never been done before was one I tossed aside, kicked at, and spat upon. I would present myself as one Arthur Digby Sellers, retired writer of 156 episodes of Branded (the bulk of the series). As fans will recall, Mr. Sellers had no lines in the film, he didn't even move. These are common side-effects of being in an iron lung.
Construction of the lung began in earnest. As the thing would need to be mobile, iron was soon ruled out as the primary building material. Cardboard painted silver might do, but it would have looked a bit too junior-high science project for my liking. After some searching I found a stack of 50 gallon plastic drums behind a food packaging warehouse out by the railroad. They still smelled strongly of their previous contents. I would have spent some time looking for ones that had shipped something like honey or licorice, but as I was poking through them, an angry bald man started shouting from a loading dock. There was a clear impression my presence was not welcome. Ten seconds later, my pickup, two white barrels, and yours truly were bouncing over the tracks bound for the workshop. I ended up with one still smeared with vegetable oil and another crusted in something resembling cream of mushroom soup. A hot afternoon of scrubbing with Mr Clean rid them of the visual remains, but the smell of each never really faded.
Before gluing the barrels together I fired up the Skil saw and whacked the ends off, creating something resembling the world's biggest Pringles tube. I cut a hole on the right side for my bowling arm, though I wasn't certain how that bit of acrobatics would play out. The base of the creation came from an old Piggly Wiggly shopping cart I had tired of seeing in a shallow canal near my house each day. On a Saturday I managed, with a few strategic swings of a homemade grappling hook, to raise it from its watery grave. Afterward it was awkwardly ridden home. The belly of my shirt was stained beyond use from the sludge on the handle. Fortunately the thing had landed upside down when the kids abandoned it, sparing the wheels the full brunt of rust they would have endured after years spent fossilizing in the muck. A few blasts of WD40 brought them back to life. The cart was removed from the frame and wheels with the aid of a sawzall, then I bolted the barrel fuselage to the wheeled base. As my head would need to stick out, I added a small platform of plywood, which I covered with an inch of foam rubber. The inside of the barrels was also given a generous helping of cushion. I then coated the whole shebang in spray primer, followed by a lustrous silver. It looked like the tin man's tomb. Then I glued on some various tubes, buttons and medically necessary looking stuff.
To complete the project, the ends were fitted with removable rubber diaphragms, the bottom one with two holes (for the feet) and the top with one (head). It would be impossible to get into on my own, a second pair of hands would be needed to encase me in my tomb.
When the day of the festival rolled around, I tied the beautiful contraption down in the bed of the pickup and picked up my friend, bound for the lanes and history. We secretly unloaded in the back of the parking lot for maximum effect. In a few minutes I was strapped in. More cushioning would have been worth the effort. When I was wheeled into the festivities, you'd think MacArthur had just returned.
The hearty applause, marriage proposals and general wave of approval that followed made the late nights of drunken effort more than worth it. Half the attendants ended up using my lung as a coaster. More than one cigarette was absentmindedly left to burn on the control panel-turned-ashtray, scarring and pitting the silvered plastic shell. This I didn't mind, as I had to rely on my fellow revelers for movement, bar purchases, and ball retrieval. A one gallon Stadium-pal strapped to my nether regions (Google if necessary) provided ample capacity for a full night's merrymaking. Enough wiggle room was engineered in so I would be able to turn my head to sip Caucasians from a twisty straw, as well as hold a bowling ball in my palm. As a full-fledged swing of said ball would have been impossible from within the constraints, the roller assembly used for young children and the hideously disabled was wheeled out. Basically my frames consisted of nudging the assembly imperceptibly to the left or right before rolling the 8 pounder down the tracks to the patiently waiting pins. It was a spectacle that drew roars of approving laughter from the crowd. And a fair score on my part- 158, a personal feat not bested since bowling at a kid's birthday party with the rails up.
Somewhere along the line, the wise idea that I should be a mode of transport was floated. This soon led to my being used to ferry girls around, like a parade float. This I did not mind one tiny bit. I wasn't crazy about the races out in the parking lot soon to follow, but as the whole thing had been my idea I can hardly complain. After a few laps around the light poles, one of the participants slipped and hurled me headlong into a parked Miata, tearing off a mirror. The sight of the dangling wires and busted glass caused the cheering crowd to disappear like a street ball team after a window had been shattered, leaving me to drunkenly plea to the heavens to “get me outta this thing!”. After a few minutes passed and no Miata owner came forward to air a grievance, some participants trickled out to help me back inside. They were all apologetic for so cowardly hanging me out to dry, and needless to say my money was no good the rest of the evening.
By then I was done with the contraption, as an inexplicable claustrophobia was beginning to set in. Plus I think the Stadium-pal may have gotten torn in the antics outside and things were threatening to get messy soon. I was helped out by more hands than were probably necessary, with everyone as eager to participate in my photographed extraction as the Marines raising the flag over Suribachi. More than once I was asked why I smelled like soup.
The prize for best costume was a plaque, along with a bowling ball with the face of the Dude beaming. The plaque hangs proudly in the den, where it generates more pride than any diploma ever could. The ball is packed away somewhere, I use it once in a while when I really want to impress the natives.
And what of the iron lung? We all agreed it was a shame, but no one had the room or desire to actually keep the thing. It was about to be abandoned behind the bowling alley dumpster when some genius had the idea of giving it an explosive funeral. Sometime before dawn it was taken down to the tracks by myself and a hardened core of soused pranksters. After the coast was checked, it was pushed, pulled and finagled onto the tracks just as the whistle of a northbound freight could be heard far off in the pre-dawn stillness. As we waited at the tree line trying not to piss ourselves with laughter, a cruiser was spotted coming toward us from the other side of the tracks. But the officer had other business that night and pulling a huey, leaving us to watch the fireworks. Mischievous overlarge children drooling with excitement, we watched in awe as the twin engine Conrail slammed into the lung at more than fifty, kicking it skyward into the woods like a steel toed boot on a can of Campbell's.
As far as I know, it's still there. Reeking of soup and spilled High Life. A large part of me hopes that it might be right now, providing basic shelter for an underachiever. The bums of the world may have lost, but damned if they don't know how to have a good time.
At least that's what I seem to recall. Though now that I think about it, the whole damned story might well have been nothing but a dream.
*Later investigation would prove this theory wrong
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