my family is fucking addicted to macgyvering and it’s becoming a problem. every time something in this house breaks, instead of doing the sensible thing of replacing it or calling someone qualified to fix it, we all group around the offending object with a manic look in our eyes and everyone gets a try at fixing it while being cheered on or ridiculed by the rest.
it’s a beautiful bonding activity, but the “creative” fixes have turned our house into a quasihaunted escape room like contraption where everything works, but only in the wonkiest of ways. you need a huge block of iron to turn on the stove. the oven only works if a specific clock is plugged in. the bread machine has a huge wood block just stapled to it that has become foundational to its function. sometimes when you use the toaster the doorbell rings. and that’s just the kitchen.
it’s all fun and games until you have guests over and you have to lay out the rules of the house like it’s a fucking board game. welcome to the beautiful guest room. don’t pull out the couch yourself you need a screwdriver for that, and that metal rod makes the lamp work so don’t move it. it also made me a terrifying roommate in college, because it makes me think i can fix anything with enough hubris and a drill. you want to call the landlord about a leaky faucet? as if. one time my dad made me install a new power socket because we ran our of extension cords
to the people saying this isn’t safe in the tags: my dad has a engineering degree and my brother is a mechanic this is like. state sanctioned macgyvering. safe sane and consensual macgyvering. our house will not burn down. in fact, i think it has made us all better in approaching problems from all angles when they arise, which has served me well in life, especially in high stress situations.
does our hot water switch off every thirty seconds making showers an exiting exercise in counting and resilience? yes. but one time the door of the train toilet broke, trapping me inside, and i went “well i can either succumb to the panic of claustrophobia or do this family-style” and then spent twenty minutes breaking down the lock with my shoelace and the belt i was wearing. so i’ll take the cold water any day
Never have I wanted to see inside a stranger’s home more
I do think that any time people say stupid shit about government research should remember the guy who got the grant to annoy gila monsters and find out what’s in their gross but not dangerous venom. And what he found is the cure to 2-3 of the most common diseases and what might be the cure to like, all modern ailments. Truly gila monster spit is the Spice Melange of 21st century America.
my favorite is shrimp fight club. every time a republican conservative politician tries to hold them up as THE research needs to be stopped example of wasted spending they find out that the pistol shrimp has insane armor and hard offensive impact ability and they immediately go into military fetish mode and drop the entire thing.
while i agree pistol shrimp are anime/metal as hell for being able to absorb a hit that breaks glass from a creature the size of a mouse, there should be an understanding that research often betters the lives of people around the globe in ways that are unseeable and semi-miraculous. some guy took a trip to see camel herders putting moldy bread on their bite wounds and that lead to antibiotics. some guy hung around milk maids until he discovered vaccines. let the children play. pay them to play. you will see how wonderfully easy it is to make the worst things in the world a thing of the past.
if you’ve read any romance or fanfic in the past twenty years (i know you have), you know that there are a certain number of scents associated with hot dudes. you can probably recite the list of Things Men in Fic smell like in your sleep: leather, black pepper, pine, sandalwood, “something uniquely him”, clean sweat, and if the character has ever fucking been within 50 yards of a firearm,something called “cordite”.
here’s the thing.
NO ONE SMELLS LIKE CORDITE.
cordite was a highly specific type of smokeless gunpowder developed in the 1890s by england specifically and used mostly in wwi.
the point is, cordite is so far from universal that no one but the most hardcore gun nerds give a single shit about it. making your Sexy Hero smell like cordite is like naming a cassette-only bootleg live recording from the 1970s as your favorite grateful dead album. everyone at the party hates you immediately and knows you’re doing it for clout. also, it’s just factually… wrong. please stop. i know everyone else is doing it, but you can do the right thing here, i believe in you.
so what do people who are using guns smell like?
well if your story is set before the late 1880s, the smell of a fired gun is black powder, which, unfortunately, smells like seventeen flatulent cows have been shoved in a tire factory. trust me, you do not want your Hot Dude to smell like black powder. it’s b a d.
if your story is set after the late 1880s, guns are using some variety of modern ‘smokeless’ powder – which speaking broadly doesn’t really have a ton of scent when used. it does have some, but it’s sort of non-descript: the best way i can describe it is the sweet, ozone, hot-plate smell of popping your car hood with a warm engine.
people who use guns a lot don’t smell like fired guns all the time anyway, so while those scents might work in a fight scene, they’re not realistic all the time. but there are some things that your Sexy Shootist will smell like basically 24/7 and that’s metal and gun oil. metal you can go and sniff (i recommend non-stainless steel), but if you want a reference, most gun oils have a sharp, organic smell that’s not dissimilar to canola oil but muskier and with a tang overtop. it’s not unlikely leather is in the mix as well due to routine handling of leather equipment and gear. modern gear also tends to have a certain smell although it varies by production country and storage conditions – lots of opportunities there.
in conclusion: gunslingers and hired killers and military folks can be sexy and smell great on page, but i am begging you not to say “cordite” when you mean “gunpowder” ever again. we can do this. we are writers and therefore pedants. i believe in us!
this is a great post i’m so sorry i have to add one of my favourite low-fi indie songs to say that you might well be British or Irish and smell of cordite in the context of ww1 and hard labour:
🙂
this is a fuckin great addition and coincidentally if anyone knows any romance novels about working class irish or scottish folks forced to manufacture cordite for the british empire…. please do tell
@notasapleasure that is a very cool song but would you happen to have the lyrics on hand? I can’t seem to find them
hey buddy, yeah, they’re not even written out in the record sleeve afaik – here you go, transcribed by yours truly from the Les Cox version
I’m living over Scotchdyke By day I’m mixing up the cordite There’s lasses to the left of us and to the right
Drinking with the Irish navvies Fresh off the paddy line Belfast Fair City to Stranraer Through Dumfries and Muirside Towers
Well I hear there’s a war on In a country I don’t know I’m heading up Gretna Green I’m gonna get myself clean With a new job on the go
Seven for the day you know Through the Cotton Inn We’re in Carlisle, it’s six months later It’s five in the morning by the looks of it
Well I’m here, I’m on the road I’m waking up with snow in my eyes There’s three men lying nearby me Who are barely alive
The government-controlled bar Says he can’t shout a drink So wages have gone down the sink And round the riverbend this week
Ah, this isn’t funny When you got no drinks money No food money
Meanwhile Their majesties the King and Queen They’re on the scene
They’ll decide who lives and who thrives Who survives and how many Germans die
Well I couldn’t care less who wins the war…
actually your man doesn’t smell of cordite at all!
The great thing about huge declarations is that the most times you’re ever going to have to deliver on them is ONCE. And even that is vanishingly unlikely. The dishes happen every day. My feet hurt now. The kids need a lift to piano lessons every week. The grenade is hypothetical.
You’d die for me? I’d prefer someone who’d live for me, thanks.
amhrancas 