The Maker is here to give you all the ninja secrets you need.

I remember shooting this a couple of months ago, and being once again surprised at the stuff this boy keeps inside his head. I know, I know, YouTube. Still, for an 11-year-old dude, he impresses me.

So. Click “play” and learn to make your silent secret ninja tee-shirt headwrap.

And because the new video made me think of another he did, I’ve re-posted that one too, so that you can  find out how to do a ninja bow (both with and without a sword.

But more importantly, you will uncover super secret hidden knowledge about any ninja fight you might find yourself in. Because unlike with normal people, there’s no ring, ropes, or bells. (Notice how I just made myself “normal”? That felt pretty awesome.)

In fact, it’s terribly important that you watch the second video through to the end. Otherwise you could have your ignorant ninja head chopped off.

I think.

Maker-Ninja knows all. If you have ninja questions, please post them and I’ll implore him to reveal more of his hidden ninja secret knowledge.

Image by thedalogs on Flickr

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I was only vaguely aware of the rave scene in the late 90′s.

I knew it involved secret parties in abandoned or unused warehouse spaces, basements, and condemned buildings. Invitations were spread via word of mouth on the day of the event, and by that evening a crowd converged to rig lights, steal electricity, and cart in amps and consoles for DJs who would play electronic dance/trance music into the morning hours, so long as the cops didn’t find them.

These clandestine events were heavily associated with club drugs like ecstasy, dancers wearing and using pacifiers (to assuage the need to bite, often experienced by ecstasy users), and lots of black lights and glow sticks. Raves got a fair amount of bad press for good reasons.

The music seemed to have arisen out of the disco, new wave, and punk rock roots of the 80s – Depeche Mode, Kraftwerk, and The Human League, for example. But the sounds were evolving toward pure electronic mixes — think Daft Punk now — designed exclusively for dancing, rather than singing.

And while all of that may have helped give rise to the electronic dance music trends and DJ stars (like Moby) of this decade, raves have most definitely changed.

EDM has fractured into a wealth of interesting styles: Techno, House, Trance, Electro, Hardstyle, and Dubstep, just to name a few. The electronic technology has exploded, and sometimes the draw is just to be able to watch the DJ stitch together a dance mix on the fly in the club.

There are of course monster concerts, with artists like Deadmaus (video below) who rule the arena circuit, playing from behind tables filled with mixers, computer monitors, and hundreds of cables.

But EDM parties and raves have also become smaller, more intimate, and frequently connected to a favorite local DJ who is creating custom mixes both in advance and on the fly during parties. There are lots of venues that cater to the under-21 crowd, and are both drug- and alcohol-free.

Here in NC, I’ve been increasingly aware of the EDM movement because my oldest son — whom I call The First — is making his name known as DJ Stepz.

DJ Stepz getting ready for his gig at the Brewery

He’s 16 years old, and he’s a dubstep DJ. He spends lots money from his summer job on tech, and hours up in his room building mixes and posting them to Soundcloud or Beatport, and linking them to his Facebook page for others to enjoy and remix.

He’s had several gigs now, and has started putting together shows with other bands and DJs.

It started because he naturally gravitated toward the job of creating the playlists and running sound for the Friday night youth group events at our church, but he quickly realized he could do more than just build playlists for parties.

He downloaded some free remixing software, and taught himself to create mixes even before he had a controller. After some careful research, he invested in a Numark Mixtrack and posted his first mixes online. He started hitting up his dad and other musician friends (techhounds, all) for cables, amps, lights, speakers, and other equipment, and pretty soon he had a basic setup.

He played the International Festival at his school, then played a set at The Brewery with some other DJ friends. Most recently he helped create and run a six-band/artist event (he had a set, of course) called Project Noize, which was probably the best-attended show he’s done so far.

Stepz working the crowd at the Brewery

Each time he agonizes over the mistakes and relentlessly makes plans for a bigger, better show next time. During his set at Project Noize, his power went out twice, not because of a breaker overload, but because of the configuration of his equipment (a not infrequent issue with EDM in general). He tracked down the problems, fixed them, and finished his set. I doubt he’ll have a similar problem next time.

When I asked him what the most annoying thing about performing was, he was quick to tell me about carting gear, arranging power, and configuring the sound system. But his friends and fans build him up, he says. He likes it when they enjoy his sets. He also loves meeting other local and semi-local DJs at places like Southland Ballroom and Lincoln Theatre. (That’s me, btw, on the bottom right of the front page of the Lincoln Theatre website — weird seeing it every time I click over.)

But more than anything, he likes it when someone hears his mixes and comes up to him to tell him that they would like to DJ, too. “And I try to tell them some of the things I wish I had known,” he says.

Give it up for DJ Stepz! Go give him a “like” on his Facebook page. He’s an incredible guy.

I could probably get you his autograph.

Stepz at Project Noize

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I was pretty excited when I discovered this list and saw that it began with a time machine.

Or machiene, as the case may be.

I was suddenly thrumming with excitement and ready to take in the long-sought magic and make my move — most likely forward, I decided — in time. Even seeing “wings” next sounded good to me. Time machines and wings are naturally connected!

“House” and “skates” threw me off, however, and I definitely wasn’t ready for “army guys.” And “a logo”? What the hell is going on here?

Cardboard, cardboard, cardboard. What does anyone need with all that? Do they even make cardboard silverware? The “hankerchief” made me want to cry, and I lost interest before laptop. The numbers marched on, however, so I guessed I just wasn’t seeing the whole picture.

Naturally I consulted the Maker, age 11, the sole person living in my house most likely to immediately understand anything marked with time machine, army guys, and… hankies.

Sure enough, he was in the know. “It’s all stuff I want to make,” he acknowledged.

I’m for it.

And I’d like to politely request the time machine remain at the top of the list.

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About ten years ago (more?) my husband got a Coleman 7 x 12 tent for free, in some kind of “be healthy” contest. He took the boys on an overnight to a nearby lake one year, then the tent sat in our garage, waiting.

So we decided to tent camp in the NC mountains last week, you know, since… we have a tent! And the two younger boys were going to be in summer camp for a week. Plus we figured it was cheap. And hey, we’re cheap! Match, match.

And that’s pretty much where we began. We had a tent. No other camping experience or gear.

I told a friend, who politely suggested we’d need more than just a tent for a week in the mountains, so I stopped by his house and picked up a Coleman stove and a giant bin of miscellaneous camping stuff (Thank you, Bazers). I put those in the car, bought an air mattress and some pre-packaged foods we never normally buy (yay for Jello cups! yay for Vienna Sausages!) and we headed out, armed, ignorant, and dangerous. Just like that.

We camped all week at Hanging Rock State Park near Danbury, NC. Any park with three mountain tops and five waterfalls within hiking distance is awesome in my book. And regarding tent camping, here’s what we learned.

1. Never camp near a bath house.

We were there 5 minutes when we realized that everyone — and by this we mean crazy people from the deep south, camping with their six kids, all of whom converse normally at the top of their lungs (i.e., “Edgar, whar’s mah beeel-fold? Did yew touch mah beeel-fold? Cause I don’t wont yew touchin’ my beeel-fold! That’s what’s got mah cache innit and I don’t wont yew messin’ around with MAH MUH-NEY! EDGAR! ARE YEW LISTENIN’ TAH ME??) — is camped near the bath house.

It only cost us $10 to switch to a campsite a quarter mile from the bath house, out of sight, and more importantly, out of earshot, of any other campers. Best $10 we spent on our entire camping vacation.

2. Bears make camping more work.

In NC we have bears. You can’t leave anything with a scent (including toiletries, canned items, etc.) out on tables or in your tent, ever. So we faithfully packed our stuff away in the car after every single meal, dumped our dishwater far from our site, put our trash in the bear-proof bins, and worried about spitting our toothpaste in the woods. And we slept fitfully the first night, waiting for ursine judgement day.

3. Food eaten on the trail is the greatest food you can ever eat.

We hiked every trail at the state park, some of them twice. On the first day we climbed up to the first mountaintop near us (see picture above), popped open a can of Vienna Sausages and ate as if starved, gazing off the edge of the world. I had no idea Vienna Sausages on saltines were so ambrosial. Jesus must love these things. But then we ate cheese sticks and applesauce on top of another ridge, and had peanut-butter roll-ups on top of another mountain, and I realized it all tasted so good because we were so ravenously hungry.

On our last night camping we drove into town, bought a bag of ice and two ice-cream bars, buried the ice cream in the bag of ice, and hiked (quickly) a mile out in the steamy dark to a quiet little spot by a stream on the Mountains to Sea trail we’d found earlier in the day. We spread out a blanket, turned off our lantern, unearthed our ice cream bars, and ate them under the stars. It was ridiculous and romantic, and the ice cream was too soft and drippy and it was wonderful.

4. Hiking in a downpour can still be a great hike.

We were brave, we were intrepid, and I wasn’t about to let a summer storm keep me off the trail. We donned our silly garbage-bag ponchos and took on a serious mountain trek up a rocky, boulder-strewn trail to a beautiful ridge-top. It was like hiking in the middle of a rushing creek-bed; we couldn’t get out of the stream that was our path because the underbrush was so incredibly dense, so we just said hell with it and forged ahead. It was hot out and there was no danger of hypothermia, we were soaked but had good thick wool socks and sturdy boots, and there was FOOD (and water, of course) in my backpack.

Just as we made the top, the rain quit. We stepped out on this huge rocky outcropping and gazed down into a freshly-drenched valley; the sun came out and we felt like we were in on some great miracle of nature.

Lance was standing on the edge looking down when I happened to see a freak fork of lightning arrow down about a hundred yards behind us, and a giant clap of thunder made us both hit the deck, terrified. Once our hearts began beating again, we shared our trail food and felt incredibly, hysterically, gratefully alive. Then the cloud cover moved back in and the rain started up and we descended, but we had our time at the top. Perfect timing, if you ask me.

5. It’s nice to be able to drive into town and get dry.

It rained our first two days. Our old, free tent leaked. Our very good hiking boots and wool socks were soaked. Everything smelled a bit funky. On day three (which was sunny and steamy-hot) we decided to drive down the mountain and find a coin-operated laundromat. Fortunately for us, there was one only 25 minutes away, and — bonus! — it was air-conditioned! Armed with quarters, we stuffed all our clothes, bedding, and even our hiking boots in an industrial-sized dryer, bought an icy-cold Diet Pepsi out of the vending machine, and sat staring into the dryer window at our clothes spinning, mesmerized. We drove back and we were back in camping business, easy as that. Ain’t civilization wunnerful?

6. There are some weird shops in small southern towns.

Our coin-op laundromat was next door to a tobacco-slash-candle shop, no lie. But my personal favorite was the combination bra store and haircut salon. Do you suppose a lot of guys get their hair cut there while their wives, um, browse?

7. Drinking water makes all the difference.

While I’m new at camping, I’m not new to hiking. Over the years I’ve figured out that one of the most important factors in having an excellent hike is carrying enough water with you. Last year we didn’t summit at a mountain we traveled to because we got lost and didn’t have enough water to make it up to the top once we found our path again.

Getting lost on a hike is normal; trail maps and trail signage is never perfect. If you are going on a complicated, half-day or all-day hike, you should allow time for accidental (or intentional) side trips. And that means having plenty of water.

For our longest hike of the week (about 5 or 6 hours, very strenuous) we carried two liters of water each, and it made all the difference. For this mountain, we tried to make sure we reached the top with half our water remaining, and even though we got lost early on, and the climb up was significantly longer than the trail down, we stayed well-hydrated and felt strong the entire way because we had enough water. Well, and we also had those marvelous little Vienna Sausages, heh.

8. People camp with televisions??

Well, smack us on the head. One morning I was hiking up to the bath house and passed a tent-camping couple seated happily in front of a blaring television. I assume it was running off a monstrous battery pack.

I can’t imagine this conversation happening in my family:

Me: Honey, we have to hurry down the mountain! It’s almost time for Glee!

Husband: Oh snap! I forgot to pack the 28-inch flat panel!

On one of the simpler trails we passed a woman about my age, hiking with her dog and playing a transistor radio. I just don’t get it. If you do, please leave me a comment and explain. Or maybe I just don’t want to know.

9. We wished we had brought…

• Bags. Grocery bags, garbage bags, ziplock bags, any kind of bag that would help us organize stuff. We had two or three, but it wasn’t nearly enough.
• Clothespins. For hanging out wet stuff.
• A good knife. I had a tiny pocketknife (thanks, Dad) and a machete (in the Bazer’s bin), but what I really needed was a good, sharp 8-inch knife. For cooking, for cutting rope, etc.
• Butter. Yep, we didn’t think of butter. Which was a real shame, because we brought our favorite, loaded-with-nuts-and-seeds, ridiculously expensive, phenomenally healthy bread. Which was not nearly as good without butter. I bet the people with the television had butter. And a microwave to melt it in.

10. We were SO glad we had…

Other than the stuff we knew to take like good hiking boots and socks, I was thrilled I had bought that air mattress. I don’t think I’ll ever volunteer to sleep on the bare earth again. Also:

• Tent patching stuff. We patched the hell outta our tent. Who knew there were so many teeny — and some not so teeny — holes where water could drip in?
• Bandannas. Mom handed me two of them before we left (they belong to her dog, I’m not kidding) and I was amazed at how many times I used them. They were our washcloths, our food covers, our towels, our napkins, our sunshades, our mud wiper-offers. I tied stuff up in them, swatted bugs with them, and carried them everywhere I went. They dry really quickly. Indispensable.
• Vienna Sausages. But I think I said that already. I’m terrified to buy a can of them now that we’re home. What if they’re really awful? No, I think Vienna Sausages should be saved for mountaintop experiences only.

A most excellent week. I’m already planning my next one.

Top picture: the view from Hanging Rock, where we ate our Vienna Sausages. Image by jarnocan on Flickr.

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Summer’s here and The Maker, nearly eleven, has an entire raft of projects underway.

Recently he disappeared for most of an afternoon and came home walking on these fantastic stilts that he made with his grandpa.

Me: Dude! Those are awesome!

TM: Thanks.

Me: How long did it take you to learn to walk on them?

TM: Three or four tries.

Me: How tall are they?

TM: The brace is eighteen inches.

Me: So what do you plan to do on them??

TM: Probably get past the creek to places I haven’t been.

Me: Oh. (thinking for a moment) Where haven’t you been?

TM: Past the creek.

Me: Well, right. Of course. So you can wade across the creek on those things?

TM: Sure.

Me: Can you go up stairs?

TM: Yup.

Me: What can’t you do on your stilts?

TM: Kick a soccer ball. And I can’t do “no hands” but I can do “one hand.” I hold one stilt in my hand and the other in my elbow pit.

Me: Do you think girls will like your new stilts?

TM: (uninterested) Sure.

Naturally I commandeered the new stilts for my own turn. None of the boys believed I would get up on the first try, but they didn’t know I had spent half my growing up years on stilts.

Stilts!

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It’s possible this was written as a rap.

Whatever it is, I found it folded up and drifting around my kitchen, as I find many odd bits of flotsam and jetsam in this house.

I read it out loud, and found myself giggling. I particularly enjoyed the garbeldy-gook at the end. The Maker is ineffable, buoyant, inexplicable. Oh, and he likes pie; don’t try to convince him otherwise.

Here’s the translation, as it’s hard to read in the photo:

Hi, my name is Seth and I like pie, So you can’t

deny it so just stop trying to make me not like pie

because it is impossible for me to not like pie

cause pie is my life

blebertiedo?

hipapotamonstrositybiltacilatantovela

I located further evidence of the claim in the driveway. In case there were any doubt.

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Stuff like this floats around my house all the time.

I’ll be cleaning out the cat box and see a corner of lime-green paper behind the washing machine. Voila, I learn how to make my own Smoke Bomb. (I keep waiting to find secret love notes to girls, but so far none of those have appeared.)

In case you can’t read it on the photos, I’ll transcribe these two gems for you. Btw, be sure to note the safety directions on the Battery Bomb. (???!!)

Battery Bomb

take a Battery and a clothespin and you clip the clothepin to the Battery then throe it doun. (do only on Grass)

Smoke Bomb

Get a sheet of Paper and scrible chalk on it and Ball it up. Once you step on it it egnites.

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As if there was ever really any doubt.

Nonetheless, I have secured the hardcopy evidence and now I submit it into the loving care of the internets, who will be sure to NEVER FORGET that in fact, I rate.

This also illustrates how cool I am to not only be palindromic (!!) but also up-side-down-ic. Any which way you spin me, I am clearly the wow-est mom ever.

WoWMoM rulez. (Thanks, IceMage, for the lovely certificate.) (Which I deserve.)

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Congratulations to The Maker, age 10, the boy who is first out into the first snow of the season.

(I’m only barely remembering snow from earlier this year.)

At least this year he didn’t put all the snow he could scrape up (which in NC, isn’t all that much) into my freezer. I know I took photos of that, but for whatever reason I couldn’t find them. Probably tagged them with “Wha–?” instead of “snow.” Any rate, these particular snowballs were launched joyfully outside at other people, and thus dispersed in an immediately effective and much more freezer-space-saving way.

Oh, and the glasses are pretty wonderful, don’t you agree? I want me summa those.

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This is how they look, isn’t it? This is the Ubiquitous Suburban Teen Pose.

I mean, not all USTs are quite so gorgeous as the ones I particularly have given birth to, but still. This is how they walk from place to place, clean their rooms, dispense reports on their day, and feed the cats. It is their natural posture, evolutionarily adapted over the 14 minutes it took for the texting phenomenon to grab each child by the scruff and shove a wireless device into their deft hands.

Amazingly, you don’t see many contusions on these USTs. Are they developing virtual rubber bumper car pads, as has been postulated by certain scientific parenting organizations?

Dunno.

But I can tell you that if you want their attention you’ll need to text them, even if you’re standing smack in front of their faces in the kitchen, taking their photograph.

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