#brass nozzles

[therealdill1]

Minneapolis Natural Stone Pavers Front Yard

Summertime image of a sizable, full-sun, stone water fountain in a front yard in the Mediterranean.

[zyroxan]

Minneapolis Natural Stone Pavers Front Yard

Summertime image of a sizable, full-sun, stone water fountain in a front yard in the Mediterranean.

[whatwillheidiwatneyeattoday]

Minneapolis Natural Stone Pavers Front Yard

Summertime image of a sizable, full-sun, stone water fountain in a front yard in the Mediterranean.

[ghostsinmyramen]

Minneapolis Natural Stone Pavers Front Yard

Summertime image of a sizable, full-sun, stone water fountain in a front yard in the Mediterranean.

[jacob-allan]

Minneapolis Natural Stone Pavers Front Yard Summertime image of a sizable, full-sun, stone water fountain in a front yard in the Mediterranean.

[danakaterine]

Traditional Landscape - Driveway An example of a huge traditional full sun front yard stone landscaping in spring.

[raajrajasharma]

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[okengineers]

Precision Turned Brass Components Manufacturer

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[fadingtimetravelqueen]

Spray Nozzle Water Gun Brass High Pressure Direct Spray

https://rb.gy/bw841

[gobcorend]

"It was a pleasure to burn. It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history."

-- Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

[andreai04]

How do you get so empty? he wondered. Who takes it out of you?

It was a pleasure to burn.

It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history.

Books were only one type of receptacle where we stored a lot of things we were afraid we might forget. There is nothing magical in them, at all. The magic is only in what books say, how they stitched the patches of the universe together into one garment for us.

[modmad]

so i know gears is charlie chaplin modern times, and i know buster keaton famously failed the roof jump (googling suggests movie is 3 ages? search me if i could remember tho). but whom and what was that fire truck stunt?

understandable! it's Harold Lloyd in Girl Shy (1924), and in this particular stunt he was knocked unconscious because the brass nozzle of the fire hose bounced off the road while the truck was moving and hit him in the head! yikes! there are many great silent comedians but Lloyd is right up there with Chaplin and Keaton, and I thought I should give his films their rightful place in the bizarre dreamscapes in TPoH

[user-needs-a-username]

The Hearth and the Salamander

It was a pleasure to burn. It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strode in a swarm of fireflies. He wanted above all, like the old joke, to shove a marshmallow on a stick in the furnace, while the flapping pigeon-winged books died on the porch and lawn of the house. While the books went up in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned dark with burning.

I really like this book, so I thought I’d share it. It just came back to me and now I want to reread it!

Here’s the link to a pdf if anyone wants to read it with me.

[secondgenerationnerd]

Mind telling me more about Collin?

Of course!

So Colin is legally an orphan, but if you ask him, he'll say he's got a bunch of moms and dads. "Even better, they chose to love me."

He's severely dsylexic. He found that audiobooks and working with people one on one helps

His powers stem from being kidnapped and tortured by Bane and Scarecrow, who injected him with Bane's venom. While he can focus this and use the venom to change into a behemoth. He goes by Abuse and has custom brass knuckles with the name.

However, a consequence of these powers is a lot of chronic pain. Like a deep burning pain in his bones and joints. He gets flare up that leave him incapacitated for days.

The first time he experienced one of these around his teammates, they all found little ways to help. If he didn't want to be alone, they'd help him to the couch. Watch tv with him, help him with eating or drinking, including him in the conversation. If he wants to be alone, they'll periodically check in, but leave him be.

Their parents? They make damn sure he's got good pain meds, someone checks on him every hour, helps him to the bathroom and with bathing if they need to. But they always ask him what he needs.

The first christmas as a team, he got so many presents--not just toys and games, but brand new clothes and decorations for his room, school supplies, audiobooks, videogames. He kept stopping to blink away tears. He hugged every parent there for a solid minute each afterwards.

Because of some truly horrific foster parents, he knows how pto read people better than some of the Bats. If the team meets someone knew, one look from Colin determines how they proceed.

He will always call people on their bullshit. Like he isn't afraid to tell Damian he's being a douche nozzle and to shut up so whoever can speak.

He's one of the the first friends that makes Damian feel like a true kid.

Colin gets along well with all the families, but Roy is definitely his favorite.

He is the Bi-King of their team. Definitely helped Jon with the bi-confusion.

He is catholic, like Milagro, but don't mistake his faith for your ignorance. He is surrounded by a lot of people with different beliefs and ideals. He knows what a bad person acts like and it has nothing to do with who they worship or who they love

[uncaaj]

Fanfic: The Cuppatronic 3000 (Wallace and Gromit)

READ NOW ON AO3!

The chimes of the old mahogany grandfather clock in the sitting room broke through the gentle clattering of my knitting needles. One bong, two bong, three bong sounded before the clock resumed its normal ticking, its brass pendulum swinging to and fro without a care. The Pavlovian response to that particular sequence of bells moistened my chops for a particular set of biscuits we bought yesterday at the shops. I set my latest project (Scarf? Jumper? Too soon to tell) down on the arm of my chair and slid all four paws upon the floor. My master was in the basement tinkering away and therefore was too far or too engrossed in his project to hear the clock chiming for the grandest of all simple British pleasures. Thus it was I who made tracks to the door in the hall with soft pawsteps upon the rug to alert him.

Once in position, I relaxed onto my haunches and threw the door open. There down the stairway was my companion, Wallace, leaning against a cylindrical device as tall as him, splicing wires together behind a rivet-bordered control panel.

I knocked on the door just as Wallace jumped backwards with a yelp. Poor boy must’ve caught a stray spark. It was par for the course with his inventing. You never knew who would hurt who first. 

He met my gaze above him and I waved. “Oh, Gromit!” he greeted. “Is it tea time already?” I nodded and gestured my head toward the kitchen. Just as I was about to pad away to begin preparation, he stopped me with a whistle. “No, no, you needn’t bother this time. I shall take it upon myself to prepare tea today.” He straightened his tie and brushed down his green knitwear vest with confidence. 

I cocked my head and gave him a skeptical raise of the brow, to which he responded with a nod.

“Now, I realize I’m not as adept a cook as you are.” That was an understatement. “And I know that in most matters culinary, you are the foremost expert.” It felt nice to be acknowledged. “However, I have a machine that will allow even me to brew the perfect cup of tea every time, and if that’s the case, just think of the time it will save you!”

I was even more suspicious now. But it was a deep-seated curiosity that drove my paws down those cold stone steps so I could behold with my own eyes the machine my master had spent the day creating.

Wallace shut the control panel and screwed it into place as I sat once more at the foot of it. The creation would likely fit into where our refrigerator currently occupied, though I’d have to stop Wallace from replacing it with this machine if he began to get ahead of himself. It was fully cylindrical apart from a dome top making it look like the pillarbox down the street. A riveted sign under the top edge of the machine read, “Wallace’s Cuppatronic 3000.” The control panel had dials labeled “Temperature,” “Milk,” “Time,” and “Sugar.” An indentation below the control panel was just big enough for a teacup to slot into, and a nozzle pointed down upon its topside, likely to dispense something or other into the vessel of choice placed inside. I walked around to see three separate clear reservoirs in a row labeled “Water,” “Milk,” and “Sugar” along with a slot labeled “Teabag.” The process and purpose of this machine was becoming clear to me.

“Shall I tell you how it works?” Wallace asked. I would indulge him. Explaining his inventions to others was his favorite part of inventing, after all. Wallace flipped a switch and the aforementioned signs lit up clear as the familiar sound of water boiling tickled my ears. “All you need to do is top up your ingredients as I’ve done, dial in your recipe, and the machine dispenses the perfect cup.” A green light came on to indicate the water was now ready to go. “Now I don’t have a recipe, nor do I know which one you use for our tea, but I’m sure a few simple samples will get us there. Care to be my assistant, lad?” Usually, I was hesitant to play test subject, but unlike the other times, this invention seemed unlikely to kidnap, brainwash, or otherwise inconvenience, so I nodded in agreement. “Righto, let’s begin. I suppose the best way to start is with all dials bang in the middle.”

Wallace turned the dials accordingly and pressed the button labeled “Start.” An unseen voice began to speak suddenly and my ears stuck straight up in surprise. “Two lumps, three tablespoons milk, two minutes.”

“I may have forgotten to mention the Cuppatronic speaks,” said Wallace. “I obtained the necessary voice synthesis chip on our outing yesterday.” So that’s where he disappeared to while I was left with the shopping. The machine whirred to life and I braced myself for a leaky hose or an unshielded wire to throw a spanner in the works as was often to happen. But as those two minutes wore on and Wallace walked over to a nearby workbench to retrieve a teacup, I wondered if for once, I was fretting over nothing. The Cuppatronic hissed as the water inside boiled and converted the loose tea inside into my favorite afternoon beverage. Wallace placed the teacup under the nozzle just as a tan liquid began to stream into it, filling the white ceramic vessel until the stream slowed to drips and a bell dinged. 

“Enjoy your tea,” said the machine in its metallic approximation of an English voice. I had half a mind to say thank you for the simple fact that it had worked perfectly. It was fantastic.

“Ha-ha!” Wallace cheered. “All according to plan!” He gingerly removed the cup from its perch and held it up to his nose. The steaming mug wrapped him and me in the familiar aroma of darjeeling comfort and he took a sip. Almost immediately, the giddy smile left him to be replaced by disappointment. He took another sip and smacked his lips together. “I say,” he declared, “I think this recipe needs adjusting.” He set the teacup down on the workbench and I took it for myself to try the concoction. The heavy amount of milk and sugar blanketed my tongue and I couldn’t hide my own displeasure. It was certainly tea, and it was good for someone, but not for us.

Wallace rubbed his chin then retrieved a clipboard and pencil. “I’ve crossed that combination off the list. That leaves 11 more combinations to test.”

My ears straightened and my eyes widened. 11?? This was to be a long afternoon.

+++

Just as I predicted, it did take a rather long time to test the flavor of every single dial combination on the Cuppatronic. Mathematically, Wallace was being kind with his estimation of 11, for as each new combination was tried, he came up with a new combination not previously accounted for. By the time we had gotten to this point in time, we each had a pile of cups and saucers next to us on the floor, some empty and stained in brown, most half-full after we both realized we couldn’t sustain finishing a cup for each test. At this point, we had refilled the sugar, and milk tanks once over and the teabags thrice over, and there was only one more adjustment to test, the last hurdle on this extremely long race.

As the machine settled to stillness, it said once more, “Enjoy your tea.” I rolled my eyes and drew my fill from the cup before handing the rest to Wallace. “Buck up, lad,” he encouraged, “we’ll have scaled the mountain after this.” Indeed, the mountain of tea would be scaled, and I would switch to coffee permanently. I took a sip of fizzy water and swished it around in my mouth before swallowing it down. I needed the clearest palate to pick up on every nuance if we were ever to put this to bed. I raised the cup to my face and looked down at the tea, the same shade of tan as all the others. As I tipped the cup and the liquid hit my tongue, all the pieces slid into place. At last, it was what I was used to. Not too milky, just sweet enough to pique the palate, but with a strong foundation of darjeeling. It was just like I was used to, just like I made it for us every day.

And yet, as I looked back up to see my master’s reaction, apparently it wasn’t quite enough.

Wallace tapped a finger repeatedly on the cup, staring into it as if an answer were floating atop that was waiting to be deciphered. I set my cup down and walked over to look inside as well. Seeing nothing but a beige abyss, I turned to Wallace, placing my hands on my hips. I wanted him to tell me what he really sought to accomplish with this machine.

“I don’t know, lad,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingertips. “I’ve about worn out my mouth for this. The recipe is perfect. It just doesn’t taste the same. …Maybe the tea should brew at 98 degrees rather than 99.”

That was it. We would be here all night if I were to enable this a moment longer. I shook my head and took the cup from his hands. He stuttered, caught between words, clearly at his wit’s end. As if I couldn’t tell. “What do you suppose is missing, then?” Wallace griped.

It was time for me to show him what I knew all along. I took his hand and led him back upstairs and to the kitchen. I sat him down at the breakfast nook and held up one finger, instructing him to wait right there. The kettle was standing vigil upon the stove and once I made my way to it, I lifted it and sloshed the water around. There was enough for my purposes, so I set it back on a burner and turned it on to high. Next, I opened a drawer to the right of the stove and pulled out a little black book, my treasured recipes. The pages flew by in a flurry as I turned to the recipe I wanted and held it out to Wallace. 

“What’s this, Gromit?” he inquired, delicately taking the book from me. I tapped the recipe, and gave him a wink. I led the horse to the water and now he had to drink, so I returned to the stove and began doing another breed’s job, retrieving teabags and sugar from the cabinet, and milk from the fridge. This supply thankfully was kept out of the basement during our previous exploits. As I methodically performed the same actions I had done for many a teatime before, a Formula 1 pit crew for hot beverages, Wallace read the recipe to himself, as if I were cueing his actions with mine.

“Brew for two minutes and 24 seconds at 98 degrees.” The kettle began to whistle, and I lifted it off the burner before dousing the heat with the turn of a knob.

“Fill three quarters of the mug and brew for three minutes and 24 seconds.” I deposited the teabag in the cup and filled it, guided by my muscle memory.

“Once brewed, add two and a half teaspoons milk, one sugar lump. Serve immediately with biscuits and cheese.” Wallace looked up. I leaned against the counter and crossed my arms. “Gromit, what are you playing at? This is the same recipe as we just tried, to the letter! What makes this different?” I tapped the top of the page then the bottom of the page, telling him he hadn’t yet seen what I wanted him to. Rolling his eyes, he returned to reading while I turned back to finish the cup, never breaking the count of time in my mind.

“The Perfect Tea,” he mumbled, “Revision number…23?” The number sputtered from his throat like a car kicking over on a cold day. Ah, now he was starting to see. With each day and each mug, I’d notice Wallace’s reactions, such as how when he didn’t like it that day, he’d stare at the mug as if it yelled at him, and if it was especially good, his ears would perk up. And each time, I’d make a change, aiming to perfect the cup for next time. It had been years since I’d made the last change.

As I lifted the teabag out with a spoon and delicately added the milk and sugar, I knew the kicker was coming.

“Always remember, the loving touch is important. No matter how hard of a day you’ve had, whether an invention has blown a hole in the roof again, whether a killer robot or penguin or former Bake-O-Lite girl is after you, when all is quiet and normal, you are sharing tea with the most important person in your life whom you couldn’t imagine being without. So put that love and gratitude into each cup and enjoy every moment with Wallace, your master.”

I gave the cup a final stir, and took it into my hand. Wallace put the book upon the table, mouth agape. I held the cup out to him and he swallowed before taking it from me. He looked down upon it, then to me. I nodded. He lifted it to his mouth and drew a small sip. The way his eyes lit up with sparks confirmed my theory. What a machine could never ever provide, the care, attention, and devotion of a living being, had made all the difference. He wanted to save me time with the Cuppatronic but this was always time well spent.

Wallace stood up and approached me slowly. I held my hand out to ask how it tasted, though I already knew the answer. He just needed to tell me. Wallace grabbed the hand and pulled me into a hug. As we stood embraced in the kitchen, he said, “Well done, lad. It’s perfect.” That was all I needed to hear.

Though we could not communicate through the same avenues, the message always found its way to its destination. Quirky though he may be and even misguided at times, there was no other master I would rather have, and a dog’s word is worth its weight in gold.

“Thank you, Gromit,” said Wallace.

You’re welcome, old boy.

BOOM!

We tensed in each other’s arms at the sudden explosion, and resulting echoing crunch of wood and brick collapsing onto the floor. We looked at each other, thoroughly broken out of our moment of sentimentality, then I let all fours carry me toward the basement like a rocket. I flew down the stairs and skidded to a halt upon landing at the bottom. I stood up at my full height and just stared.

The understated chrome dome was gone from the machine, while a frayed hose spraying steaming water from the opening onto the floor, and sparking wires dotted the gaping cavity that remained.

While we were in the kitchen and I was enlightening Wallace, the Cuppatronic had, for lack of a better phrase, blown its top, obsoleting itself as if it knew what was happening upstairs.

Wallace’s footsteps approached behind me and I turned to see him at the top of the stairs, eyes wide and hand over his mouth. After a moment, he removed it slowly and exclaimed, “Oh, crackers!” He swallowed, no doubt searching for something to say to the debacle in front of him. Finally, he snapped his fingers. “I knew I should have used a band clamp for the hot water line instead of a spring clamp.”

Before my paw could meet my forehead, the doorbell rang. Upon opening it, a short and squat older lady in a bonnet and apron was at our doorstep, looking slightly cross. A wagon containing the top in question was in her tow.

“Oh, hello, Mrs. Mulch,” Wallace greeted with a grimacing yet polite smile.

Mrs. Mulch huffed. “I have something what landed in my garden that I believe belongs to you.” She then pulled the wagon with great effort until the plastic wheels clattered against our stoop and the dent the top had taken, no doubt from its impact upon the dirt, became evident. 

All we could do was show the poor madam our teeth, graciously take what was ours off her hands and apologize profusely. Such was life with my dear master, and every moment was, like our daily teatime, time well spent.

[bonfire-at-the-crossroads]

I’ve spent the last two afternoons scrubbing and polishing candlesticks. These are just a few of the brass ones I’ve been collecting from auctions over the last year - in preparation for Maddie’s Big Fat Irish Wedding on Sunday.

The silver ones? All stashed into the big oak chest in the living room - and I will guess there are at least 75 of these…..

Filthy, stinky work which cramps my fingers, stains my nails, and breaks my back (it’s done standing in the bathroom where I can rinse them down with the shower nozzle)

But they are bright and cheery now - which is more than can be said for me.