Showing posts with label It IS TOO all about me. Show all posts
Showing posts with label It IS TOO all about me. Show all posts
Jan 20, 2013
Enhancing my cowboy wall
A couple of neat Christmas gifts are finally in place. The tin Winchester and S&W signs come courtesy of two fine young men who have finally discovered that Gramps is essentially a 10-year-old kid who just got home from Roy Rogers picture show.
Dec 30, 2012
A fire-free funk
The little gas burner, running about half-speed, issues a hissy warmth, and the thermometer on my desk registers 72 degrees. I shouldn't be cold enough to require a jacket over a sweater over a shirt, all topped by my blaze orange hunting cap.
My wood fire is dying, down to a few smoldering embers, marking my hours of depression on a dead winter night. On the other side of the big window it approaches zero,
Still, 72 degrees? Such a swelter would have moved my ancient Gaelic fathers to throw wide the door to the thatched-roof drystone hut.
---
About once a week the ashes pile high, and you must haul them out. There is no workaround. You let the fire expire, get the special shovel, and carry it three times across the room, out the door, and along the deck. A deft toss deposits them in a pile.
Meanwhile, you briefly live like most other civilized Americans, with fossil-fuel heat, available at the twist of a knob. If you're me, you hate it. There is something inherently, atavisticly, wrong with comfort so easily won.
A thousand generations of human experience calls it good to loll by fire light and fire warmth. Hearthside is where a man bathes in a feeling of competence; he has mastered nature's cold by personal sweat, personal creativity. How do we praise highly enough that first human who reasoned that if he piled his wood around the fire pit he had a wind break, the first faint conceptualization of a house?
---
I could do that man, or woman, more honor by getting up from the goddam computer and taking care of the fireless fireplace right now. But it's still dark, and the magic of the propane fairy is marginally more attractive than stumbling around in the outside night, dumping the dross and assembling kindling and squaw wood for a fresh blaze. I'll do it after sunrise, a couple of hours off. By eight o'clock three or four large, dry, oak splits will be combustifying happily, and life will again be balanced.
Still, 72 degrees? Such a swelter would have moved my ancient Gaelic fathers to throw wide the door to the thatched-roof drystone hut.
It must be as Yogi said: "Half of this game is 90 per cent mental."
About once a week the ashes pile high, and you must haul them out. There is no workaround. You let the fire expire, get the special shovel, and carry it three times across the room, out the door, and along the deck. A deft toss deposits them in a pile.
Meanwhile, you briefly live like most other civilized Americans, with fossil-fuel heat, available at the twist of a knob. If you're me, you hate it. There is something inherently, atavisticly, wrong with comfort so easily won.
A thousand generations of human experience calls it good to loll by fire light and fire warmth. Hearthside is where a man bathes in a feeling of competence; he has mastered nature's cold by personal sweat, personal creativity. How do we praise highly enough that first human who reasoned that if he piled his wood around the fire pit he had a wind break, the first faint conceptualization of a house?
---
I could do that man, or woman, more honor by getting up from the goddam computer and taking care of the fireless fireplace right now. But it's still dark, and the magic of the propane fairy is marginally more attractive than stumbling around in the outside night, dumping the dross and assembling kindling and squaw wood for a fresh blaze. I'll do it after sunrise, a couple of hours off. By eight o'clock three or four large, dry, oak splits will be combustifying happily, and life will again be balanced.
Dec 24, 2012
Brass Monkey Report
Christmas Eve day dawns just as I remember the season from my extreme youth. That was before Ayn Rand and Ronald Reagan warmed up the globe in order to flood the homes of women, children, and minorities in Newark and Miami.
One of those stubborn, damnable Arctic high pressure systems has clamped its fat and frozen behind on the northern plains. If the 30-day forecast is any guide at all we'll remember this December/January as the two moons of the shrivled scrotum.
One of those stubborn, damnable Arctic high pressure systems has clamped its fat and frozen behind on the northern plains. If the 30-day forecast is any guide at all we'll remember this December/January as the two moons of the shrivled scrotum.
Dec 21, 2012
Even Amazon still loves me
I've ordered from Amazon maybe three times, total, but they keep on humpin' even though by now they've written me off as a 2012 seasonal sucker. This morning's in-box was at last free of pitches for their Bavarian village snow globes and so forth.
But the Amazing database remembers that I'm weird for one-inch, high-grade, cloth-backed, sanding belts which are again on sale and, to boot, qualify for Free Shipping (!).
Guys, I'm just a tinkerer. I mean, if I had contract with Bushmaster to polish assault rifle parts I'd be more likely to lunge at today's irresistible offer. But the ten-pack I bought last year lasts me quite a while, and I'll let you know when the stash gets low.
---
And on the subject of internet commerce, here's a plug for the Laptop Battery Store. I needed a fresh one for the old MacBook. The LBS price was right ($55) and It was in my hands on the third day after the order -- even with the cheapest ($6) USPS shipping option.(And if you're reading this, it works fine.)
But the Amazing database remembers that I'm weird for one-inch, high-grade, cloth-backed, sanding belts which are again on sale and, to boot, qualify for Free Shipping (!).
Guys, I'm just a tinkerer. I mean, if I had contract with Bushmaster to polish assault rifle parts I'd be more likely to lunge at today's irresistible offer. But the ten-pack I bought last year lasts me quite a while, and I'll let you know when the stash gets low.
---
And on the subject of internet commerce, here's a plug for the Laptop Battery Store. I needed a fresh one for the old MacBook. The LBS price was right ($55) and It was in my hands on the third day after the order -- even with the cheapest ($6) USPS shipping option.(And if you're reading this, it works fine.)
Nov 19, 2012
Banging with Gramps
The Great Annual Clan Pheasant Shoot-At is history, and Camp Jiggleview has reverted to its genteel semi-squalid quietude. It is now inhabited by a mere six legs (one biped plus New Dog Libby) compared to about 40 at the peak.
This gathering of armed citizens and their aristocratic dogs has been going on for close to 20 years. Its motto is something like search and destroy prior to grins over unhealthy food and a certain small ration of good whiskey.
Every annual session leaves a special memory. This year it came from our friend Dan who shared the Camp J Transient Officers Quarters with my son, grandson, and four-leggers Ruby and Storm. Dan suffered a minor thumb cut Thursday -- something about a small mishap with the action of his OU gun. Over Friday morning coffee he told me he would be leaving early because the wound had been badly exacerbated. I asked for details.
Well, I was rearranging dogs in the sleeping bag and ...
And if that doesn't perfectly capture the flavor of these things, nothing does.
---
One more, almost as good.
I have an intricate range box, the product of my late father's creative mind and careful workmanship. When my youngest heir and assign, age 17, opened it he found a three-screw Ruger Single-Six, a Colt Huntsman, and a GI Colt 1911A1.
I allowed as how we still had enough daylight to run back out to the countryside for a spot of handgun practice and asked him to pick a pistol. Whereupon: "Let's just take the whole box."
Is that a well-trained lad or what?
Nov 6, 2012
Travis McGee votes
I am Travis McGee today and a committed, decided voter, convinced that the oval I blacken makes a difference.
It is vainglorious, but it is good for the soul to scour the rust from the tin-plate armour, adjust the cookpot helmet, mount my pathetic Rocinante, swaybacked, galled and, like me I fear, something of a redundancy in this Brave New World.
I am off to tilt me the Hell out of a quasi-American Windmill. May my bent lance lodge between the blades -- stopping them cold -- of narcissism, revenge, contrived drama, and a lust for those glorious days when Lenin was still respectable, the days when all that was deemed good was deemed collective. Collective planning. Collective work. Collective reward. Collective guilt. Or, as the Windmill huffs it: "Forward." Or, sometimes, "You didn't build this."
Which is to say that I take my little vote seriously, almost ceremoniously. I will shower and closely shave, dress neatly, and enter the polling place as a first sergeant enters the company barracks.
But sadly I will still be thinking of the corollary decision. Against the sitting ruler, certainly, but for whom?
My state is close. The historically best poll calls it His Ineptness by five, meaning I should feel free to cast an honest libertarian vote. Other polls have it closer. Meaning that I should choose the quasi-Republican.
I suspect the decision won't come until the pencil hovers over the paper. I may or may not report it, but you'll be able to figure it out if you happen to be around Smugleye-on-Lake voting central.
If for Mr. Johnson, I'll walk out whistling a happy tune as I stride off to round up a few election-gathering supplies for this evening.
If for Mr. Romney, I'll slink home, futilely trying to persuade myself that I am a hero of the fighting retreat, but feeling badly in need of another shower.
It is vainglorious, but it is good for the soul to scour the rust from the tin-plate armour, adjust the cookpot helmet, mount my pathetic Rocinante, swaybacked, galled and, like me I fear, something of a redundancy in this Brave New World.
I am off to tilt me the Hell out of a quasi-American Windmill. May my bent lance lodge between the blades -- stopping them cold -- of narcissism, revenge, contrived drama, and a lust for those glorious days when Lenin was still respectable, the days when all that was deemed good was deemed collective. Collective planning. Collective work. Collective reward. Collective guilt. Or, as the Windmill huffs it: "Forward." Or, sometimes, "You didn't build this."
Which is to say that I take my little vote seriously, almost ceremoniously. I will shower and closely shave, dress neatly, and enter the polling place as a first sergeant enters the company barracks.
But sadly I will still be thinking of the corollary decision. Against the sitting ruler, certainly, but for whom?
My state is close. The historically best poll calls it His Ineptness by five, meaning I should feel free to cast an honest libertarian vote. Other polls have it closer. Meaning that I should choose the quasi-Republican.
I suspect the decision won't come until the pencil hovers over the paper. I may or may not report it, but you'll be able to figure it out if you happen to be around Smugleye-on-Lake voting central.
If for Mr. Johnson, I'll walk out whistling a happy tune as I stride off to round up a few election-gathering supplies for this evening.
If for Mr. Romney, I'll slink home, futilely trying to persuade myself that I am a hero of the fighting retreat, but feeling badly in need of another shower.
Oct 22, 2012
Ammunition shortage, politics, and other Mad Monday mIscellenia
1. I cleaned out the local WalMart supply of bulk-pack .22 long rifle hollow points yesterday. Which is to say I bought one pack, Federals, at $19.97 plus tax, and consider myself lucky to get that. My WalMart has hired a rarity, a personable sporting goods clerk. I asked about the dearth of .22s. She said there's a run on the stuff, that when she re-orders it can take three weeks to get any at all, and it disappears in a day or two.
(This large, pretty woman is especially treasurable compared to the usual Wally munchkins whose default response to any question is a shrug and a grunt. I came perilously close to proposing marriage.)
The mania to buy ammunition is, of course, a vox pop phenomena, better than any other poll.The people say His Ineptness will be swept into power again, carrying a valise full of greater flexibility.
2. Joe Scarborough and his supporting cast are having quite a party down in a Florida cafe this morning, setting the scene for the debate-like teevee program tonight. A lot of parents were in the place, getting their existence validated by waving their hands and babies at the teevee cameras. Joe and Mika each held some racially balanced kids. It was cute for a couple-three minutes, then not. I knelt before the porcelain throne, brushed my teeth, and switched to a C-Span channel where...
3. C-Span was interviewing college kids about the great issues to be decided this evening. Back to the throne. Look, dammit, kids are in college to learn something about grown-up life. By definition they're a few years shy of knowing what the Hell they're talking about . Giving them teevee time to advise adults on adult topics is presumptuous at best, but "stupid" is a more accurate term. (There are a few exceptions, of course, but I've already talked too much about my grandsons.)
4. The Sunday gun auction was astounding. Fine classic handguns at prices phenomenally greater than I and my comrades are willing to pay, even in Bernanke's Federal Reserve Cartoons. (More anon, assuming any ambition remains after my light-heavyweight bout with leaves. Damn, I love trees, but my adoration fades every October when I rediscover the annoyance of living downwind from 400 acres of them.
(This large, pretty woman is especially treasurable compared to the usual Wally munchkins whose default response to any question is a shrug and a grunt. I came perilously close to proposing marriage.)
The mania to buy ammunition is, of course, a vox pop phenomena, better than any other poll.The people say His Ineptness will be swept into power again, carrying a valise full of greater flexibility.
2. Joe Scarborough and his supporting cast are having quite a party down in a Florida cafe this morning, setting the scene for the debate-like teevee program tonight. A lot of parents were in the place, getting their existence validated by waving their hands and babies at the teevee cameras. Joe and Mika each held some racially balanced kids. It was cute for a couple-three minutes, then not. I knelt before the porcelain throne, brushed my teeth, and switched to a C-Span channel where...
3. C-Span was interviewing college kids about the great issues to be decided this evening. Back to the throne. Look, dammit, kids are in college to learn something about grown-up life. By definition they're a few years shy of knowing what the Hell they're talking about . Giving them teevee time to advise adults on adult topics is presumptuous at best, but "stupid" is a more accurate term. (There are a few exceptions, of course, but I've already talked too much about my grandsons.)
4. The Sunday gun auction was astounding. Fine classic handguns at prices phenomenally greater than I and my comrades are willing to pay, even in Bernanke's Federal Reserve Cartoons. (More anon, assuming any ambition remains after my light-heavyweight bout with leaves. Damn, I love trees, but my adoration fades every October when I rediscover the annoyance of living downwind from 400 acres of them.
Oct 8, 2012
Reloading dope
Namely me.
My buddy P is getting more interested in shooting. His son bought a .30-06 bolt gun a while back, and P decided he'd like one himself. Prosperous enough, he still gags the idea of spending a buck every time the hammer falls. (Me too.) So he decided to sit at the feet of a guy who started assembling cartridges back in the Nixon years. An expert.
Namely me.
Yeah. Right.
Now, I can generally get through a reloading session without too much fuss. The components are on hand and decently organized. The gear is robust and trustworthy. My usual loads -- especially for the only really noble calibers, .30-06, .45ACP, and .45 Colt -- are well-tested, as are the procedures which begin with an attitude: At the bench, the only proper mindset is that of a paranoid old-maid aunt. The fact of the matter is that a high-pressure accident does hide under your bed, just waiting to snatch out your eyeballs. Fear is good.
I go into my didactic mode and lecture my friend about all of this, including that line I stole from P.O. Ackley, "You see a man with a rabbit's foot hanging over his loading bench, run like Hell."
---
We got started on two boxes of bright, once-fired Remington brass.
The competent old pro cleverly noticed that the primers weren't coming out. Dang, I thought I replaced the broken decap pin. Double-dang, I was sure there were still some spares is the drawer. Time out while I found the proper sized panel nail to sub for the real thing. We proceeded through the lubing and sizing steps for a few rounds, me doing and explaining before turning it over to P. HIs first couple of strokes went well. About the third there was a snap. You don't want to hear a snap in my press. Rub noises are okay. Not snaps. Stop everything. Take a look. Curse.
My first -ever stuck case. I thought it was something you smugly read about,a mishap afflicting only lesser mortals. Another timeout. P is getting dubious about this whole thing. It takes a few minutes to cut a dowel and hammer out the case. And that process drives the expanding ball into it. Hacksaw the brass apart and pry out the ball while discussing causes.
Fortunately, P is an engineer and has no trouble understanding the possibility of a shell holder at the loose end of manufacturing tolerance and a rim at the tight end. But still...
I fool around a little longer, finding another holder which, though identically numbered by the RCBS folks, seems tighter than original. And just to be safe we swab out the die body, roll the cases across the pad again, and swipe a smidgen more goop inside the mouths.
The rest of the operation goes better, and we end with 39 cases prepped and primed, ready for Lesson Two, scheduled for this evening, wherein your expert will explain and demonstrate the fine art of not blowing up a rifle. Load selection, powder measuring, checking with a flashlight, bullet seating. Etc. What could possibly go wrong?
Probably nothing because, on reflection, I concluded all the gods were bored last week, held a meeting, and, just for shits and grins, decided it would be amusing to humiliate that guy who keeps boasting about his really cool reloading shack and the nice rounds he produces.
Unless, of course, they're really feeling vindictive and decide that if one torture session is good, two would be even more fun.
We'll see. And I think I do have a rabbit's foot around here somewhere.
EDIT to update: Taku-Wakan give good medicine tonight. Smooth like papoose behind.
My buddy P is getting more interested in shooting. His son bought a .30-06 bolt gun a while back, and P decided he'd like one himself. Prosperous enough, he still gags the idea of spending a buck every time the hammer falls. (Me too.) So he decided to sit at the feet of a guy who started assembling cartridges back in the Nixon years. An expert.
Namely me.
Yeah. Right.
Now, I can generally get through a reloading session without too much fuss. The components are on hand and decently organized. The gear is robust and trustworthy. My usual loads -- especially for the only really noble calibers, .30-06, .45ACP, and .45 Colt -- are well-tested, as are the procedures which begin with an attitude: At the bench, the only proper mindset is that of a paranoid old-maid aunt. The fact of the matter is that a high-pressure accident does hide under your bed, just waiting to snatch out your eyeballs. Fear is good.
I go into my didactic mode and lecture my friend about all of this, including that line I stole from P.O. Ackley, "You see a man with a rabbit's foot hanging over his loading bench, run like Hell."
---
We got started on two boxes of bright, once-fired Remington brass.
The competent old pro cleverly noticed that the primers weren't coming out. Dang, I thought I replaced the broken decap pin. Double-dang, I was sure there were still some spares is the drawer. Time out while I found the proper sized panel nail to sub for the real thing. We proceeded through the lubing and sizing steps for a few rounds, me doing and explaining before turning it over to P. HIs first couple of strokes went well. About the third there was a snap. You don't want to hear a snap in my press. Rub noises are okay. Not snaps. Stop everything. Take a look. Curse.
My first -ever stuck case. I thought it was something you smugly read about,a mishap afflicting only lesser mortals. Another timeout. P is getting dubious about this whole thing. It takes a few minutes to cut a dowel and hammer out the case. And that process drives the expanding ball into it. Hacksaw the brass apart and pry out the ball while discussing causes.
Fortunately, P is an engineer and has no trouble understanding the possibility of a shell holder at the loose end of manufacturing tolerance and a rim at the tight end. But still...
I fool around a little longer, finding another holder which, though identically numbered by the RCBS folks, seems tighter than original. And just to be safe we swab out the die body, roll the cases across the pad again, and swipe a smidgen more goop inside the mouths.
The rest of the operation goes better, and we end with 39 cases prepped and primed, ready for Lesson Two, scheduled for this evening, wherein your expert will explain and demonstrate the fine art of not blowing up a rifle. Load selection, powder measuring, checking with a flashlight, bullet seating. Etc. What could possibly go wrong?
Probably nothing because, on reflection, I concluded all the gods were bored last week, held a meeting, and, just for shits and grins, decided it would be amusing to humiliate that guy who keeps boasting about his really cool reloading shack and the nice rounds he produces.
Unless, of course, they're really feeling vindictive and decide that if one torture session is good, two would be even more fun.
We'll see. And I think I do have a rabbit's foot around here somewhere.
EDIT to update: Taku-Wakan give good medicine tonight. Smooth like papoose behind.
Sep 25, 2012
Beer
If you can't get the malty good stuff my neighbor makes, or the excellent porter from my son-in-law's basement brewery, try the Marzen from the Leinenkugel family plant up in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin. A six-pack came my way as a gift last week. It's new to me, and I'm impressed.
It's a middling-dark brew in the light heavyweight class that feels substantial on the tongue. Comfortable in the mouth, you might say, and I think that's because the Leinenkugels have learned restraint with hops.
Leading to my morning rant. Brewers of the world: You can not improve mediocre beer by tripling the hops. (I'm thinking mainly of Sam Adams here.)
I omit discussion of those who train the horse to go in a brown bottle, toss in some cherry syrup or lemon peels, and call their ad agency.
It's a middling-dark brew in the light heavyweight class that feels substantial on the tongue. Comfortable in the mouth, you might say, and I think that's because the Leinenkugels have learned restraint with hops.
Leading to my morning rant. Brewers of the world: You can not improve mediocre beer by tripling the hops. (I'm thinking mainly of Sam Adams here.)
I omit discussion of those who train the horse to go in a brown bottle, toss in some cherry syrup or lemon peels, and call their ad agency.
Sep 18, 2012
Domestica -- ammo and other incendiaries
-- The wood faerie returneth. My cup of renewable, sustainable biomass fuel runneth -- rilly rilly runneth -- over. My city man has just delivered a small load of bucked elm locust and plans to bring another. The stuff is unsplittable, but I can cut it short and burn it like chunks of coal. I am this morning grateful to the administration of my village, Smugleye-on-Lake.
-- September song: With the windows still open to a light breeze, a small fire furnishes a corner of warm comfort amidst all the fresh air.
--Maybe the good mood is a hangover from the long evening in Reloading Central. The Redding B3 powder measure -- a sturdy cast-iron '40s or '50s relic -- is back online and throws IMR 3031 in dependable charges. Besides...
--The Pacific case trimmer, of similar vintage and brutishness, has been tidied up and is ready to work as soon as I find pilots in .223, 257, 6mm*, .357, and .45. I've never used it, and there was bonus delight in finding that standard RCBS shell holders work fine. Besides...
-- Several hundred rounds of brass have been resorted into several containers which match one another in size, style, and color. Enough of this kind of neat-freak compulsion and I'll be ready for a Better Homes and Gardens spread. Disclaimer: it happens seldom. To wit:
-- The living quarters are a disaster. When BH&G is finished in the loading shack, a visit from the Hoarders film crew is more than possible. Example:It is not gracious to use the Stihl chain saw manual as a trivet. Gotta find my apron.
---
*That's .244 in real money, by jingo.
-- September song: With the windows still open to a light breeze, a small fire furnishes a corner of warm comfort amidst all the fresh air.
--Maybe the good mood is a hangover from the long evening in Reloading Central. The Redding B3 powder measure -- a sturdy cast-iron '40s or '50s relic -- is back online and throws IMR 3031 in dependable charges. Besides...
--The Pacific case trimmer, of similar vintage and brutishness, has been tidied up and is ready to work as soon as I find pilots in .223, 257, 6mm*, .357, and .45. I've never used it, and there was bonus delight in finding that standard RCBS shell holders work fine. Besides...
-- Several hundred rounds of brass have been resorted into several containers which match one another in size, style, and color. Enough of this kind of neat-freak compulsion and I'll be ready for a Better Homes and Gardens spread. Disclaimer: it happens seldom. To wit:
-- The living quarters are a disaster. When BH&G is finished in the loading shack, a visit from the Hoarders film crew is more than possible. Example:It is not gracious to use the Stihl chain saw manual as a trivet. Gotta find my apron.
---
*That's .244 in real money, by jingo.
Aug 30, 2012
Serendipity in .30-06
So whaddya do when you've had three magazines for a Remington 760 in .30-06 rattling around in the miscellaneous box for years? You haven't been able to locate a buyer of sufficient taste and discernment to own a 760 (or anything else in that action family) in a proper caliber. Or at least you can't find one anxious to acquire your mags at anything near a fair price.
You despair, of course. Unless you're of my cheerily optimistic persuasion. Then you wait for a fine1963 production model to pay an unexpected visit to your quarters. And wait. And wait. Years.
But eventually it happens, at least to those of us who lead clean lives, devoid of impure thoughts.
T' hee. I'm looking at it now. At a very fair price it is mine. MINE! Including the vintage Redfield 3x9 on that tank-like Redfield mount. And with enough clips* to handle 21 rampaging terrorists before having to fumble individually with any of these noble rounds.
(Pictures possible if and when I find the three-volt Cockroach by Canon.)
Among the beauties of the Second Amendment is this: Here in the Land of the Free, it is not forbidden to buy a rifle primarily because you already own a magazine or so for it. Bless the Founders.
Funny, it didn't start out to be a particularly good day.
---
*Oh hush. I'm just trying to temper tautology.
You despair, of course. Unless you're of my cheerily optimistic persuasion. Then you wait for a fine1963 production model to pay an unexpected visit to your quarters. And wait. And wait. Years.
But eventually it happens, at least to those of us who lead clean lives, devoid of impure thoughts.
T' hee. I'm looking at it now. At a very fair price it is mine. MINE! Including the vintage Redfield 3x9 on that tank-like Redfield mount. And with enough clips* to handle 21 rampaging terrorists before having to fumble individually with any of these noble rounds.
(Pictures possible if and when I find the three-volt Cockroach by Canon.)
Among the beauties of the Second Amendment is this: Here in the Land of the Free, it is not forbidden to buy a rifle primarily because you already own a magazine or so for it. Bless the Founders.
Funny, it didn't start out to be a particularly good day.
---
*Oh hush. I'm just trying to temper tautology.
Aug 20, 2012
Gearing up
I've never even handled a Commie rifle. While there are tragedies in my life, this is not one of them. The freer markets of the world have produced all the firearms a guy could ever need or even want. On the other hand, Dunham's Sports down Spencer way is overstocked on 91/30s and peddling them at $99.99 (a $30 savings!)
What an ugly rifle. Only the Brits (for sure) and the French (possibly )could have offended the eye so grotesquely. Still, it seemed to do its work adequately for all ranks and brilliantly in correct hands like those of White Death Simo (who used a variant). It's hard to argue with the one-man-and-a-rifle combination which dispatched invading Communists at the rate of 5.05 per day that cold winter when the main contestants (Nazis vs. Brits and Frogs) mostly contented themselves by making ominous honking noises at one another.
I have only a reading knowledge of the 7.62/54R, but I'm prepared to accept that it works like a .308 Winchester or, with finiken loadings, the .30-06. The accuracy reports are all over the place, and I suspect getting a natural tack driver involves a bit of luck.
So, if I can bestir myself to make the trip, I'll look down bores, rattle actions, and try to get the Lady on my side. Then I would have to look hard at the possibilities of stripping away the ugly; a better stock for sure, and maybe it's possible to grind off that magazine box to create an elegant single. Find proper cover, then go to work. One shot, one zombie, executed with great style.
---
This is a mere velliety. and the odds of adding Boris to my stock of atavistic bolt actions are less than 50-50. They would be lower yet except that there is a Goodwill store right close to Dunham's, and with the next equinox just a month away, it's time to round out my fall fashion ensemble.
What an ugly rifle. Only the Brits (for sure) and the French (possibly )could have offended the eye so grotesquely. Still, it seemed to do its work adequately for all ranks and brilliantly in correct hands like those of White Death Simo (who used a variant). It's hard to argue with the one-man-and-a-rifle combination which dispatched invading Communists at the rate of 5.05 per day that cold winter when the main contestants (Nazis vs. Brits and Frogs) mostly contented themselves by making ominous honking noises at one another.
I have only a reading knowledge of the 7.62/54R, but I'm prepared to accept that it works like a .308 Winchester or, with finiken loadings, the .30-06. The accuracy reports are all over the place, and I suspect getting a natural tack driver involves a bit of luck.
So, if I can bestir myself to make the trip, I'll look down bores, rattle actions, and try to get the Lady on my side. Then I would have to look hard at the possibilities of stripping away the ugly; a better stock for sure, and maybe it's possible to grind off that magazine box to create an elegant single. Find proper cover, then go to work. One shot, one zombie, executed with great style.
---
This is a mere velliety. and the odds of adding Boris to my stock of atavistic bolt actions are less than 50-50. They would be lower yet except that there is a Goodwill store right close to Dunham's, and with the next equinox just a month away, it's time to round out my fall fashion ensemble.
Aug 1, 2012
Miserycom
Ladies and Gentlemen, I rant, briefly but wholeheartedly. Mediacom.
If you have a choice in the matter of high-speed internet connection and Mediacom is one of them, choose another. Move heaven and earth to choose another. Perhaps you will be fortunate enough to discover a provider which does not consider it a great personal favor to dependably deliver the cable signal for which you pay handsomely.
Since the choices around here are limited, I shall spend too much of tomorrow morning at the local Miserycom office, begging and pleading and groveling in hopes that someone there is (a) capable of and (b) cares enough to fix the expensive fubared SOB so that it stays fixed for a while.
This TMR report comes to you via a wussy neighborhood wireless signal, the oft-used rescue vessel for which I thank all the gods plus its rightful owner. Believe me, if you're on the Good Ship Mediapop, you need a life boat.
If you have a choice in the matter of high-speed internet connection and Mediacom is one of them, choose another. Move heaven and earth to choose another. Perhaps you will be fortunate enough to discover a provider which does not consider it a great personal favor to dependably deliver the cable signal for which you pay handsomely.
Since the choices around here are limited, I shall spend too much of tomorrow morning at the local Miserycom office, begging and pleading and groveling in hopes that someone there is (a) capable of and (b) cares enough to fix the expensive fubared SOB so that it stays fixed for a while.
This TMR report comes to you via a wussy neighborhood wireless signal, the oft-used rescue vessel for which I thank all the gods plus its rightful owner. Believe me, if you're on the Good Ship Mediapop, you need a life boat.
Jul 24, 2012
Living on the south side of a big lake sometimes has charm enough to make up for the tourist hordes. A stiff wind across the bay gives Camp J a current temperature of 76 against the official government reading of 87. May it so blow through the next two days -- a period of duelling weather prophecies.
One official gummint "point" forecast says the heat will subside Thursday. The other one predicts 90-plus until Friday. Gee, it really surprises a guy when his government disagrees with itself.
(I live on the border between two NWS forecast offices, and they're always bickering between themselves about the cusp forecast.)
One official gummint "point" forecast says the heat will subside Thursday. The other one predicts 90-plus until Friday. Gee, it really surprises a guy when his government disagrees with itself.
(I live on the border between two NWS forecast offices, and they're always bickering between themselves about the cusp forecast.)
Jul 11, 2012
My Pants Fell Down (and other laments)
1. A vast lethargy has overcome Camp J and all who inhabit it. As Commandant, I can take comfort only in the fact that I seem to recline, motionless, a little less than New Dog Libby. And it isn't even hot.
2. Today's duty Wranglers were well-fitted when new, and my mirror image (full-frontal disgust) reveals no substantial chassis changes. Further, the belt fastens in the same hole as it has for a very long time. Further further, the jeans were barely burdened. A thin sheaf of small bills, the Buck Squire 501, and one pair of 14-inch Diamond channel-locking pliers. Yet my pants fell on the short walk from the shop bench to the hose bib. Only reliable elastic on my shorts prevented revelation of gross cleavage to revolted passers-by. (Boxers or briefs? None of your damned business.) I conclude that my butt is shrinking. I am unable to assign meaning to the fact.
3. The wardrobe malfunction occurred as I was fixing a hose connection. The outrage leading to the entire incident was almost -- but, alas, not quite -- enough to get my heart started. Upon investigation I discovered the washer inside the plastic 37-function nozzle from WalMart (I suppose) was likewise plastic. Meaning that after one months use it would seal fluids only at and above the viscosity level of hot asphalt. Replacing it with a Luddite's rubber, I tried to work up enough ill-will to avenge myself by finding the guy who decided that melted Sprite bottles could be turned into sealing washers and shoot him. Couldn't.
4. And that made me feel guilty about something else. This is but the second post of July, A.D. 2012. Meaning I have gone days and days without trying to ridicule the Court of His Ineptness, without sprinkling even a little scorn on the 535 congresssslugs and zoning administrators and like vermin. What a sad dereliction of muh sworn duty.
To bring this all together, I must note that meaningful social comment here in the Age of AmSoc requires deep feelings of hatred and bile combined with a willingness to engage in what, in other circumstances, would be unforgivable lapses into vulgar, thoughtless, and cruel means of expression.
Guys, I just can't do it lately, so I'm all like WTF!? Is my reservoir of noble muckraking venom in my ass which, as I mentioned above, seems to be shrinking?
(If so, does Obamacare cover it?)
2. Today's duty Wranglers were well-fitted when new, and my mirror image (full-frontal disgust) reveals no substantial chassis changes. Further, the belt fastens in the same hole as it has for a very long time. Further further, the jeans were barely burdened. A thin sheaf of small bills, the Buck Squire 501, and one pair of 14-inch Diamond channel-locking pliers. Yet my pants fell on the short walk from the shop bench to the hose bib. Only reliable elastic on my shorts prevented revelation of gross cleavage to revolted passers-by. (Boxers or briefs? None of your damned business.) I conclude that my butt is shrinking. I am unable to assign meaning to the fact.
3. The wardrobe malfunction occurred as I was fixing a hose connection. The outrage leading to the entire incident was almost -- but, alas, not quite -- enough to get my heart started. Upon investigation I discovered the washer inside the plastic 37-function nozzle from WalMart (I suppose) was likewise plastic. Meaning that after one months use it would seal fluids only at and above the viscosity level of hot asphalt. Replacing it with a Luddite's rubber, I tried to work up enough ill-will to avenge myself by finding the guy who decided that melted Sprite bottles could be turned into sealing washers and shoot him. Couldn't.
4. And that made me feel guilty about something else. This is but the second post of July, A.D. 2012. Meaning I have gone days and days without trying to ridicule the Court of His Ineptness, without sprinkling even a little scorn on the 535 congresssslugs and zoning administrators and like vermin. What a sad dereliction of muh sworn duty.
To bring this all together, I must note that meaningful social comment here in the Age of AmSoc requires deep feelings of hatred and bile combined with a willingness to engage in what, in other circumstances, would be unforgivable lapses into vulgar, thoughtless, and cruel means of expression.
Guys, I just can't do it lately, so I'm all like WTF!? Is my reservoir of noble muckraking venom in my ass which, as I mentioned above, seems to be shrinking?
(If so, does Obamacare cover it?)
Jun 14, 2012
Adventures in shopping
It's a 20-mile round trip to the big city, population about 4,200.
I go there as seldom as possible, about once a month, when New Dog Libby's supply of Purina Dog Chow in an Old Roy bag gets low. While I'm at it, I do my "big" grocery shopping, a little at WalMart, most of it at a medium-box store.
It's never a particularly happy day. Virtually every trip to consumerville reveals at least one jaw-dropper. This time, at Wally's, I discovered that it is perfectly possible to buy a jug of "Sugar-Free Imitation Honey."
A man could buy that and still be permitted to vote, and if that doesn't explain the Decline of the West better than Spengler, I'll kiss your arse at high noon in a field of clover and give you an hour to buzz up a film crew.
I go there as seldom as possible, about once a month, when New Dog Libby's supply of Purina Dog Chow in an Old Roy bag gets low. While I'm at it, I do my "big" grocery shopping, a little at WalMart, most of it at a medium-box store.
It's never a particularly happy day. Virtually every trip to consumerville reveals at least one jaw-dropper. This time, at Wally's, I discovered that it is perfectly possible to buy a jug of "Sugar-Free Imitation Honey."
A man could buy that and still be permitted to vote, and if that doesn't explain the Decline of the West better than Spengler, I'll kiss your arse at high noon in a field of clover and give you an hour to buzz up a film crew.
Jun 6, 2012
Dagnabbit it all anyhow
With the libertarian roof job all but done, I had planned to spend the afternoon playing in the reloading shack -- maybe cooking up a new .45 ACP load l've been thinking about.
Still up on the rooftop, on my way to the ladder, I casually wiggled the chimney. It wiggled a little too much. With a good heave-ho, it wiggled right in two.
Already the materials are laid out for what could be a complete replacement from the stove on up. I am unhappy. I am not going to start right away. I am going to lie down and read a book and pout myself into a nap.
Still up on the rooftop, on my way to the ladder, I casually wiggled the chimney. It wiggled a little too much. With a good heave-ho, it wiggled right in two.
Already the materials are laid out for what could be a complete replacement from the stove on up. I am unhappy. I am not going to start right away. I am going to lie down and read a book and pout myself into a nap.
Jun 5, 2012
Hello, fellow liberterroristists
Jiggety-jig after a four-day sortie to the bluffs overlooking the Illinois SSR, including a three-hour reconnaissance, trans-Mississippi, behind enemy lines, on Obamastan's western flank. We patrolled unarmed in hopes that, if captured, we could sell the story that we were innocently attending a ceremonial occasion marking the bestowal of of high school diplomas. (The Iowa high school chose the slave state venue for reasons not volunteered to the undersigned.)
I hereby report that the graduates themselves seemed unobjectionable, but certain of the attending families call into question the usefulness of public education; for that matter, any education at all. If these mommies and daddies are any guide, their sons and daughters will, by now, have spent the bulk of their graduation gift cash on neck tattoos and whoopee cushions.
Upon reporting back to Camp J, the undersigned declined for some 20 hours to power up any, repeat any, telescreen or cumpuscreen, so I don't know what the Hell is going on in the world lately. Frankly, I'm not too anxious for you to tell me as I concentrate on the subversive task at hand -- repairing a roof leak without the sanction of a zoning variation which would permit me to apply for a building permit which would, in turn, grant me permission to staunch thr drip which is, quite inconveniently, directly above my bed pillow.
(s)
T. Undersigned
I hereby report that the graduates themselves seemed unobjectionable, but certain of the attending families call into question the usefulness of public education; for that matter, any education at all. If these mommies and daddies are any guide, their sons and daughters will, by now, have spent the bulk of their graduation gift cash on neck tattoos and whoopee cushions.
Upon reporting back to Camp J, the undersigned declined for some 20 hours to power up any, repeat any, telescreen or cumpuscreen, so I don't know what the Hell is going on in the world lately. Frankly, I'm not too anxious for you to tell me as I concentrate on the subversive task at hand -- repairing a roof leak without the sanction of a zoning variation which would permit me to apply for a building permit which would, in turn, grant me permission to staunch thr drip which is, quite inconveniently, directly above my bed pillow.
(s)
T. Undersigned
Jun 1, 2012
Me and Elizabeth Warren
Liz and I don't have much in common, but we've each been caught lying about our proud American Indian ancestry.
In my case the embarrassment was minimal even though it was compounded by claiming another bogus kinship.
When I was wee, the adults in my clan would remark about our descent from Daniel Boone and the strain of Cherokee in our blood. I accepted it as gospel and bragged of it as we played cowboys and Indians on the Des Moines River bluffs.
Years later I learned the myth was understandable, but phony. We had a very weak relationship to Dan'l's wife, Rebecca Bryan, but barring some seriously immoral hankie-pankie in them thar Appalachian hills, his DNA flowed down a different crick.
And an18th Century liaison contributed a drop of Indian blood -- maybe Cherokee -- only to a branch that an uncle or cousin or something married into.
I learned to live with shame of mere Irishness (polluted with a contribution here and there of some northern European strains). Anyway, I never planned to capitalize on my Indianity to help me capture the U.S. Senate seat belonging by divine right to the Kennedys of Massachusetts or their acolytes.
Not so for poor Ms. Warren, one of President Obama's favorite Regulators and a member of the Harvard faculty and governing class. It seems that when she applied to be a Harvard teacher the university was anxious to hawk a diverse faculty. Liz went along with the gag. "Me diverse. Heap Injun."
That turned out to be heap fib, and she got caught. Worse for her, she ducked and dodged like Bill (I never touched that woman) Clinton, and turned a small problem into a big one. It may or may not be enough to help keep the less-objectionable Scott Brown in the Kennedy seat.
We can only hope.
In my case the embarrassment was minimal even though it was compounded by claiming another bogus kinship.
When I was wee, the adults in my clan would remark about our descent from Daniel Boone and the strain of Cherokee in our blood. I accepted it as gospel and bragged of it as we played cowboys and Indians on the Des Moines River bluffs.
Years later I learned the myth was understandable, but phony. We had a very weak relationship to Dan'l's wife, Rebecca Bryan, but barring some seriously immoral hankie-pankie in them thar Appalachian hills, his DNA flowed down a different crick.
And an18th Century liaison contributed a drop of Indian blood -- maybe Cherokee -- only to a branch that an uncle or cousin or something married into.
I learned to live with shame of mere Irishness (polluted with a contribution here and there of some northern European strains). Anyway, I never planned to capitalize on my Indianity to help me capture the U.S. Senate seat belonging by divine right to the Kennedys of Massachusetts or their acolytes.
Not so for poor Ms. Warren, one of President Obama's favorite Regulators and a member of the Harvard faculty and governing class. It seems that when she applied to be a Harvard teacher the university was anxious to hawk a diverse faculty. Liz went along with the gag. "Me diverse. Heap Injun."
That turned out to be heap fib, and she got caught. Worse for her, she ducked and dodged like Bill (I never touched that woman) Clinton, and turned a small problem into a big one. It may or may not be enough to help keep the less-objectionable Scott Brown in the Kennedy seat.
We can only hope.
May 25, 2012
A slice of wildlife
In one of my AP gigs I was given a half-day a week of "enterprise" time to produce a Midwest outdoor column. Of the hundred or so that hit the wire, I remember only a few in detail. One of them is a longish piece on how to find and kill a wild turkey. It was well-received, though I suspect it discouraged many would-be hunters with its long exposition of the expensive gear and Leatherstocking wilderness skills necessary to take a gobbler.
I'm glad I wrote that in pre-internet days. I would be embarrassed if it were commonly available today.
That point occurred to me a few minutes ago when my peripheral vision caught a movement just outside the big south window. A grand-daddy strolled by, glanced at me, strutted around the house to the mulch pile, and, careless of all concern, rooted around in the decaying leaves for whatever turkey goodies might be squiggling there. It's getting so common that I didn't even reach for the camera. More tellingly, New Dog Libby didn't bother to bark.
A similar column today would be short; "Get a sling shot. Sit quietly on your deck. Pretty soon one will walk by. Shoot it."
I'm glad I wrote that in pre-internet days. I would be embarrassed if it were commonly available today.
That point occurred to me a few minutes ago when my peripheral vision caught a movement just outside the big south window. A grand-daddy strolled by, glanced at me, strutted around the house to the mulch pile, and, careless of all concern, rooted around in the decaying leaves for whatever turkey goodies might be squiggling there. It's getting so common that I didn't even reach for the camera. More tellingly, New Dog Libby didn't bother to bark.
A similar column today would be short; "Get a sling shot. Sit quietly on your deck. Pretty soon one will walk by. Shoot it."
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