Bag Houses

Eric and Brent started the bag house extravaganza. They bought their own box of those giant black trash bags and got to work.

The construction of a bag house involves cutting the bottoms of the trash bags open and duct taping them together to create a long tube (and if you want to be adventurous, some secondary tubes). The next step is key. You need a box fan to fasten the open end of the bag home to. This fan will fill the bags with air and keep the fort in operating condition.

I think the concept came into fruition when Eric and Brent wanted to build an air tunnel to test out a new airplane they had created.

It quickly evolved into a fort though. The first bag home was a scientific research facility, complete with bag shelves.

I wasn’t allowed in, except for a quick guided tour. I guess I deserved it after employing Brent to help me build a fort and then forcing him to stay outside to “shoot the wolves.” I think I had actually convinced him the fort was a vehicle, he was driving it (in his little kid rocking chair), and wolves were approaching.

Whenever the sheets began to rustle, I knew he was trying to enter and I’d yell out “the wolves are coming!”

He still holds this against me (in a non-hostile way).

After seeing what Eric and Brent had done, I wanted in on the bag house fun. We headed out to our local hardware store and loaded up on giant black trash bags and duct tape.

We then decided on the floor plan and began our work. We designed several wings in the bag mansion.

Brent and I regularly discussed making a giant bag dome/fort for water fight purposes.

I had in my mind a giant dome, with a pool in the middle and water dripping from the walls and ceiling. Corridors would be leading off in all directions. This plan would require at least 57 box fans and be a death trap. Water and electrical wires don’t mix.

For the time being, the bag home we had designed would have to do. Because bag homes have the potential for a disastrous collapse if something were to obstruct the stream of air from the box fan, we each carried our own pair of scissors to make an escape hole.

Brent took full advantage of this. Our neighbor was over and wanted to check out our amazing architectural talent, so we reluctantly obliged. This had disaster written all over it – this individual was not well versed in bag home protocol. I exited first and watched as our neighbor struggled in the entrance.

The entrance is tough to navigate because it is filled with a box fan attached to the bag on three sides. So, exiting requires maneuvering out of the one free side. Our neighbor spent too long struggling near the fan which caused the bags to begin to deflate.

Brent decided to act. He whipped out his scissors and cut a Brent-sized hole in the bag behind our neighbor.

He quickly exited and Eric followed. Our neighbor was most of the way free at this point, so she pulled the bag away from the fan and was out. Everything was ruined though. I was mad. The bag that Brent had cut came from the box of trash bags that I had bought, so naturally it was a harder blow to me.

This was the last bag house we made.

Disclaimer: Like most things I write about, you shouldn’t try to repeat this. If you build a bag house you will probably die.

NO!

I visited Brent a few weeks ago and we had big plans of heading out the Long Beach for a surf trip. I was extra excited because I had just got cleared to surf since I was a few months out from my compartment syndrome surgery. We woke up and took the hour+ long trip out the beach. I didn’t bring my new surf board out to NYC, so we had to walk a mile or so to the surf shop to pick up my rental board. I paid the fee and picked up my 45 pound rental board. Everything was going according to plan at this point. We just had to head towards the water and then surfing would commence! Unfortunately things didn’t go as planned.

When we approached the beach I saw a big sign that said “NO” and made a joke about no surfing. But we continued forward and started to make our way over the board walk. Just when Brent was nearing the sand, I heard a guy ask “Where are your tickets?” I looked at him confused and Brent came back up to see what was going on. The beach was charging an entry fee this fine afternoon (something Brent had never seen before in all his weekends spent surfing). It was weird, but we were fine paying the fee. But, oh wait, they had a no credit card policy! Why would we have cash on us…that would be destroyed in the ocean. There really was going to be no surfing!

We talked for about 15 minutes outside the guy’s booth on what our options were to get the needed cash. It seemed our only options were to sell some items off our back or rob strangers – clearly neither seemed like a good idea. So, we spent the next 3 hours walking up and down the beach trying to find any place that was unguarded by the guys in green shirts or that would accept credit cards.

To add insult to injury, we became trapped in some kind of boardwalk festival that made us feel more like we were at the Jersey shore than on a surf trip. Because my rental board weighed so much, Brent and I alternated carrying it. And because it was so wide, I could only carry it over my head (I couldn’t fit it under my arm). I’m pretty sure we jabbed more than a few people with our boards. At one point, we stopped in the middle of the tightly packed boardwalk in disbelief of the situation. We made the option to keep moving forward to try to find an escape path.

We did find one eventually, but it was miles up the beach and there were still no entry points that we could use. So, we made the several mile trip through the streets of Long Beach to the surf shop, dropped off the board, and went to Five Guys. I spent $60 on train fare and the surf board rental – all that so I could carry around an oversized, awkward object for hours like a pack mule.

For the low price of $60, I was able to make this enthralling (non)-surf video!

I also like to call this “Brent riding on a train.”

All the cool kids are doing it

I created a page on Facebook! I’ve been holding off from introducing these stories to my everyday life, where people can judge with their eyes. But now I’ve enabled people (people that I know in the real world…ahhhh!) to track all the tales of bears and robots back to me.

You’re all invited to the party!

There might be some bears at the party. Like this bear. He’s from San Diego. There’s nothing polar about San Diego, Mr. Bear.