The concrete picnic table on the Utulei beach was ugly and uncomfortable, so uncongenial that it simply had to be a relic of United States Navy rule over American Samoa. Nevertheless, I began my working days there, in company with island society, Governor Coleman; his indispensable sidekick and my best island friend, Pete Fanene (RIP); a few traditional chiefs; and assorted bureaucrats, hangers-on and suck-ups of high station and low. The caste system notwithstanding, traditional Polynesia presents itself as a rather egalitarian community.
Gossip circulated. Hangovers were nursed with canned papaya juice and styrofoam cups of lukewarm Nescafe. The governor would hint at what he was thinking about today. His listeners often enough responded with what he should be thinking about when he eases himself into the executive chair behind his acre of desk.
Further description is unnecessary for the reader familiar with the regular morning coffee-shop klatch in every small town and city neighborhood in America. Only the local color differed, palm trees instead of utility poles, coral sand under foot rather than potholed tar, and nearly all the men wearing skirts.
---
The main island of Tutuila lies a little more than 14 degrees south of the Equator, firmly in the realm of the southeast trade winds. Which is to report that it is year-around mild on the skin of a palagi who grew up in the continental roaring 40s, a thousand miles and more from any tempering ocean, where avoiding frostbite was a primary concern for months of every year.
So it took me a while to become accustomed to the occasional picnic-table observation, "cold this morning" as the Samoan man gathered his lava lava closer about his knees and buttoned his aloha shirt to the neck. Lord yes, it must be down to 67 or 68 degrees. Mighty unusual weather for July in the other hemisphere. But near the end of that year-long contract I did get used to it and would agree in classic Heartland understatement, "Yep. A bit nippy."
---
The pleasant recollections dropped full force on me this morning as I tempered the oak fire with a sprinkle of water and threw open some windows and doors to get the temperature of my quarters back down to something under 85.
(Friends complain that my place is often overheated, and perhaps it is. If I feel like defending myself I use the excuse that my blood was thinned by too many hundreds of mornings breakfasting in jungle shade to music of mynah birds.)
But 85 degrees in here is excessive, and even New Dog Libby got grouchy, abandoning the foot of my bed for the cooler wood floor of the kitchen.
I blame a new-found feeling of wealth, untold riches. You see:
The jury-rigged log splitter functions as designed! (A writer is allowed one exclamation point per 10,000 words, and I make no apology for employing this month's quota here.)
It works better, in fact, and in the remaining 10 minutes of daylight after beta testing was completed yesterday, I laid in perhaps four days worth of old cured burr oak, perfectly sized for my small firebox.
By hand, that would be the labor of a couple of hours or more at the added expense of an ibuprofen or two and the occasional wound dressing. The mechanical ease of letting Archimedes' thinking meet my fuel processing needs leads to the rich feeling that I have won a significant battle over the fossil-fuel thugs who enjoy impoverishing humans such as I, citizens who wish merely to retain an acceptable core body temperature even as the winter Alberta wind eyes our homes with evil intent.
---
And to think they laughed when I sat down to play the hydraulics.
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
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 26, 2013
Packrattery to the rescue; interim report
Its engine died a few years go, and the old home-made log splitter* has been a yard decoration ever since while I refined bulky cellulose into fuel with a six-pound maul.
Then, last week, my buddy from down the road, a man who owns an International Harvester M**, stopped by to wonder if we could jury-rig "my"*** splitter to his hydraulics. In theory, a lot of screwing around and head-scratching, but no conceptual problem, just run new hoses from the M's hydraulic pump to the splitter valve.
For one of the few times in my life, "in practice" seems to be hand-in glove with "in theory," better, in fact. For less money than I expected and after only one trip to the farm supply store for hoses, I have test-fitted all of the new plumbing. Result: we're just a few dabs of pipe-thread compound away from beta testing.
(Or, as the NASA Apollo 13 engineer said, "Looks okay to me, Percival. Let's give her a whirl.")
Packrattery? Yes, because it both dishonorable and a pain in the butt to keep running to town. A man is supposed to have the junk he needs..
There were sundry needful items in the box labeled "misc iron pipe stuff" that worked, topped by a lucky find elsewhere. I absolutely had to have a 3/4 to 1/2 reducing ell. None in the aforementioned box, but in desperation I checked another one labeled "odd brass crap." Eureka. (We don't intend to operate it submerged in salt water, so galvanic corrosion should be a minor annoyance at worst.)
If it works I'll post a picture of a big new woodpile. If it doesn't, I'll deny having written this post.
---
*Built in the 60s or 70s by my pals K and B, based on a humongous I-beam salvaged from a road grader and allegedly including parts from a B-29.
**For my urban friends, that's a tractor, the cat's meow of high tech agriculture when introduced in 1939.
***Actually, title still rests with the builders, but I have hopes of negotiating a relatively long-term lease.
Then, last week, my buddy from down the road, a man who owns an International Harvester M**, stopped by to wonder if we could jury-rig "my"*** splitter to his hydraulics. In theory, a lot of screwing around and head-scratching, but no conceptual problem, just run new hoses from the M's hydraulic pump to the splitter valve.
For one of the few times in my life, "in practice" seems to be hand-in glove with "in theory," better, in fact. For less money than I expected and after only one trip to the farm supply store for hoses, I have test-fitted all of the new plumbing. Result: we're just a few dabs of pipe-thread compound away from beta testing.
(Or, as the NASA Apollo 13 engineer said, "Looks okay to me, Percival. Let's give her a whirl.")
Packrattery? Yes, because it both dishonorable and a pain in the butt to keep running to town. A man is supposed to have the junk he needs..
There were sundry needful items in the box labeled "misc iron pipe stuff" that worked, topped by a lucky find elsewhere. I absolutely had to have a 3/4 to 1/2 reducing ell. None in the aforementioned box, but in desperation I checked another one labeled "odd brass crap." Eureka. (We don't intend to operate it submerged in salt water, so galvanic corrosion should be a minor annoyance at worst.)
If it works I'll post a picture of a big new woodpile. If it doesn't, I'll deny having written this post.
---
*Built in the 60s or 70s by my pals K and B, based on a humongous I-beam salvaged from a road grader and allegedly including parts from a B-29.
**For my urban friends, that's a tractor, the cat's meow of high tech agriculture when introduced in 1939.
***Actually, title still rests with the builders, but I have hopes of negotiating a relatively long-term lease.
Sep 10, 2013
The perils of old age
Sometimes you have to feel sorry for frustrating the healers. I visited them today for the first time since about 2010. They greeted me like a team of Draculas. Fresh meat. Certainly this dude needs treatment for something.
An hour later, the patient chemically analysed, questioned, poked, prodded, and palpated, they reached their scientific conclusion. "(Sigh) Come back and see us in a year."
The secret of course is vigorous daily exercise, a strict vegetarian diet, and, as I have mentioned a time or two, dynamic virtue and uncommon purity of thought.
An hour later, the patient chemically analysed, questioned, poked, prodded, and palpated, they reached their scientific conclusion. "(Sigh) Come back and see us in a year."
The secret of course is vigorous daily exercise, a strict vegetarian diet, and, as I have mentioned a time or two, dynamic virtue and uncommon purity of thought.
Aug 31, 2013
Sometimes I worry about me.
Who's the hippie chick of "Clouds Got in My Way?" Can't remember and don't care enough to look it up.
But I'm like that, God save me. Jake could have been comforting me with a slight adaptation, "A Focus is a Sometime Thing."
---
I was up, coffeed, and ambitious at sunrise. Goal-oriented, ya might say. Get that durned shop straightened up for Phase Two of the kitchen beautification project and, at a decent hour when the neighbors are up, put the screaming diamond blade to the slate. For 30 minutes I was Mr. Achievement. Hell, Babbitt would have approached me about joining Rotary.
Then I got to the cluttered bench where I usually do crude metal work. In a far corner, on top of some chain hooks, shone the Combat Commander hammer with strut. I was happier than Betty Furness with a really white wash. Been looking for it ever since I brought the new Commanderish project home, looking in all the wrong places, like the room where I keep gun parts.
A true Rotarian would have smiled, pocketed the hammer assembly, and continued methodically accomplishing the Main Thing, checking off the shop titivation achievements one-by-one on his carefully prioritized list.
Damned clouds. Two minutes later I was at the gun room bench with the Commander parts spread out. It seemed wrong because the other half of my attention was locked on the ugly holes in the kitchen wall. But what pretty steel parts...
I was the starving donkey between two hay stacks. Clearly a decision was called for. So I came in and wrote it up for the furshlugginer internet.
But I'm like that, God save me. Jake could have been comforting me with a slight adaptation, "A Focus is a Sometime Thing."
---
I was up, coffeed, and ambitious at sunrise. Goal-oriented, ya might say. Get that durned shop straightened up for Phase Two of the kitchen beautification project and, at a decent hour when the neighbors are up, put the screaming diamond blade to the slate. For 30 minutes I was Mr. Achievement. Hell, Babbitt would have approached me about joining Rotary.
Then I got to the cluttered bench where I usually do crude metal work. In a far corner, on top of some chain hooks, shone the Combat Commander hammer with strut. I was happier than Betty Furness with a really white wash. Been looking for it ever since I brought the new Commanderish project home, looking in all the wrong places, like the room where I keep gun parts.
A true Rotarian would have smiled, pocketed the hammer assembly, and continued methodically accomplishing the Main Thing, checking off the shop titivation achievements one-by-one on his carefully prioritized list.
Damned clouds. Two minutes later I was at the gun room bench with the Commander parts spread out. It seemed wrong because the other half of my attention was locked on the ugly holes in the kitchen wall. But what pretty steel parts...
I was the starving donkey between two hay stacks. Clearly a decision was called for. So I came in and wrote it up for the furshlugginer internet.
Aug 13, 2013
Travis McGee said...
"A truly lazy man is always misunderstood." I qualify in spirit and even grammatically under all three modifiers and the object of the verb. No problem. I'm used to it.
It's when I break the pattern that my fellow Smugleye-On-Lake-ites really get confused. I half-expected someone to call in a dustoff at sunrise when they spotted me stacking firewood and titivating the grounds for all I was worth.
Everything before eight was quiet work, then noisy gear was deployed -- the little blade tractor, leaf blower, power washer. Aside from the firewood and general pretty-up, the driveway is graded; the mailbox approach is rut-free and somewhat leveled, and the moss and grime has been blasted from the seldom-used but highly visible guest-cabin deck. There's more, but I'd sure hate to be accused of bragging.
It's amazing how much a man can accomplish before 10:30 a.m. with a drastically reduced cable television input. And when he decides that Blogger has no authority to demand that he write something every day, before breakfast.
It's when I break the pattern that my fellow Smugleye-On-Lake-ites really get confused. I half-expected someone to call in a dustoff at sunrise when they spotted me stacking firewood and titivating the grounds for all I was worth.
Everything before eight was quiet work, then noisy gear was deployed -- the little blade tractor, leaf blower, power washer. Aside from the firewood and general pretty-up, the driveway is graded; the mailbox approach is rut-free and somewhat leveled, and the moss and grime has been blasted from the seldom-used but highly visible guest-cabin deck. There's more, but I'd sure hate to be accused of bragging.
It's amazing how much a man can accomplish before 10:30 a.m. with a drastically reduced cable television input. And when he decides that Blogger has no authority to demand that he write something every day, before breakfast.
Aug 1, 2013
I got the power, Baby
So you wanna go for a ride in my shiny wheels?
---
It's about a magic power washer, a cheapish one from a big box, about seven years old. I used it for a few years. In 2010 or '11 It developed a bad leak somewhere in the important machinery, shrouded in a plastic that would have frustrated Houdini. No pressure. Trashed. I gave it up for lost and stashed it away. I kept meaning to haul it to the landfill.
This afternoon I got to feeling shame over the appearance of two of the Camp Jiggleview VEE-hicles, the command mini-van and the mobile assault wagon carrying my Texsun field headquarters.
Generally, since the death of the washer, I've been counting on precipitation to keep them titivated. It hasn't rained in a month, and some wags have been writing undignified notes on the windshields.
For no logical reason I decided, what the Hell, to hook up the old washer and see what happened. I suppose I figured I'd make a quick guess about the problem and devote 30 minutes, no more, to an attempted fix. My confidence level was zero, and the plan was mostly an excuse to put off a tedious hand-wash.
There is something going on around here, and maybe it's true that all is better when you ignore reality and count on Barry's unicorns to breathe well-being into a man and all he owns. Hook up the hose, plug it in. Instant power washing, as though it was new, and still going strong when I shut down after an hour.
---
I have a Remington 12-gauge 1900 double that has been driving me nuts for two years. Can't make it go bang -- or even click -- despite by-the-book assembly of good parts. I am going to set it exactly where the power washer was and wait two years. I'll let you know
---
It's about a magic power washer, a cheapish one from a big box, about seven years old. I used it for a few years. In 2010 or '11 It developed a bad leak somewhere in the important machinery, shrouded in a plastic that would have frustrated Houdini. No pressure. Trashed. I gave it up for lost and stashed it away. I kept meaning to haul it to the landfill.
This afternoon I got to feeling shame over the appearance of two of the Camp Jiggleview VEE-hicles, the command mini-van and the mobile assault wagon carrying my Texsun field headquarters.
Generally, since the death of the washer, I've been counting on precipitation to keep them titivated. It hasn't rained in a month, and some wags have been writing undignified notes on the windshields.
For no logical reason I decided, what the Hell, to hook up the old washer and see what happened. I suppose I figured I'd make a quick guess about the problem and devote 30 minutes, no more, to an attempted fix. My confidence level was zero, and the plan was mostly an excuse to put off a tedious hand-wash.
There is something going on around here, and maybe it's true that all is better when you ignore reality and count on Barry's unicorns to breathe well-being into a man and all he owns. Hook up the hose, plug it in. Instant power washing, as though it was new, and still going strong when I shut down after an hour.
---
I have a Remington 12-gauge 1900 double that has been driving me nuts for two years. Can't make it go bang -- or even click -- despite by-the-book assembly of good parts. I am going to set it exactly where the power washer was and wait two years. I'll let you know
Jul 25, 2013
Lazy River Sing Your Song
Even miles and miles above the head of navigation at St. Anthony's Falls, the Mississippi is a substantial river, wide, deep, and fast. We have claimed a 13-mile stretch of it as our own ...
....including Moose Island, a pebble and shingle bar named for a GOOD Dog of treasured memory. This time we made it our lunch stop, premium sausages ludditically cooked (pick up some wood and set it on fire; sorry Mr. Coleman).
A thirteen-mile paddle is by no means a heroic endeavor, but it it often strains ancient muscles and even younger sedentary ones. Not so this trip, even though the evil shape-shifter raven whistled up a goodly wind in our faces.
Wisakedjak held the more powerful magic this day, and his current vanquished the raven wind, permitting what you see -- three canoes and a (barely visible blue) kayak rafted for a free drift down to Clearwater. We actually paddled perhaps one-half of the distance, maybe a little less.
Lazy is good, of course, but there's always one guy who overdoes it. We woke him up when ever it was time for Cokes or sandwiches.
....including Moose Island, a pebble and shingle bar named for a GOOD Dog of treasured memory. This time we made it our lunch stop, premium sausages ludditically cooked (pick up some wood and set it on fire; sorry Mr. Coleman).
A thirteen-mile paddle is by no means a heroic endeavor, but it it often strains ancient muscles and even younger sedentary ones. Not so this trip, even though the evil shape-shifter raven whistled up a goodly wind in our faces.
Wisakedjak held the more powerful magic this day, and his current vanquished the raven wind, permitting what you see -- three canoes and a (barely visible blue) kayak rafted for a free drift down to Clearwater. We actually paddled perhaps one-half of the distance, maybe a little less.
Lazy is good, of course, but there's always one guy who overdoes it. We woke him up when ever it was time for Cokes or sandwiches.
Jul 17, 2013
Holy Shorts
For once in my life I'm ahead of the prep curve for a little trip later next week.
--The camper is open and airing out nicely.
--The forgotten stuff in the camper refrigerator is in the trash. It, too, is open to the summer breeze so that I need not wear breathing equipment as I perform the straight-bleach procedure.
-- House-sitter Carrie and her Magic Alsatian are firmly engaged. (Yes, magic. He makes undesirable people disappear.)
-- A seldom used camper locker incubates .22 rimfire ammunition, about 220 rounds in those nice old Winchester plastic boxes. Or maybe I forgot it. Anyway, it picked up a skim of that nasty white oxidation. All is tumbling in corn-cob kibbles as we speak. When shiny it will be repackaged against the possibility that I am ambushed on a lonely road by a reinforced company of the 82nd Airborne. Note to self: Clean and oil the Ruger Standard before departure. (The TMR Legal Review Section advises me to warn you against tumbling live rounds. Freeken lawyers.)
--Most important, I have deployed resources from the almost-rag bag. Tees and other of my delicate underthings which, with luck, have exactly one wearing left despite rents and tears and long-retired elastic. Not meaning to preach, but this is perhaps the most vital travel advice you'll ever receive. Throw them away dirty. You'll be traveling lighter on the trip home...
-- ... Unless of course you stop at out-of-the-way flea markets and swap meets and thrift stores, picking up miscellaneous interesting stuff as you continue your eternal quest for that $12 Artillery Luger. (I, of course, would never indulge in that sort of nonsense.)
--The camper is open and airing out nicely.
--The forgotten stuff in the camper refrigerator is in the trash. It, too, is open to the summer breeze so that I need not wear breathing equipment as I perform the straight-bleach procedure.
-- House-sitter Carrie and her Magic Alsatian are firmly engaged. (Yes, magic. He makes undesirable people disappear.)
-- A seldom used camper locker incubates .22 rimfire ammunition, about 220 rounds in those nice old Winchester plastic boxes. Or maybe I forgot it. Anyway, it picked up a skim of that nasty white oxidation. All is tumbling in corn-cob kibbles as we speak. When shiny it will be repackaged against the possibility that I am ambushed on a lonely road by a reinforced company of the 82nd Airborne. Note to self: Clean and oil the Ruger Standard before departure. (The TMR Legal Review Section advises me to warn you against tumbling live rounds. Freeken lawyers.)
--Most important, I have deployed resources from the almost-rag bag. Tees and other of my delicate underthings which, with luck, have exactly one wearing left despite rents and tears and long-retired elastic. Not meaning to preach, but this is perhaps the most vital travel advice you'll ever receive. Throw them away dirty. You'll be traveling lighter on the trip home...
-- ... Unless of course you stop at out-of-the-way flea markets and swap meets and thrift stores, picking up miscellaneous interesting stuff as you continue your eternal quest for that $12 Artillery Luger. (I, of course, would never indulge in that sort of nonsense.)
Jul 1, 2013
Reflections on the maddening science of physics
The motivation: Yet another effort to tourist-proof the dock before the Independence Day invasion.
The method: Double the designed load-bearing capacity via 4x4 piles and 2x6 cross pieces, assembled with carriage bolts.
The hypothesis: An ordinarily adept American male can install said carriage bolts -- slightly underwater -- while lying on his belly, manipulating a 9/16" wrench blindly behind a longitudinal stringer.
Conclusion: Under such conditions "righty-tighty, lefty-loosey" becomes quite a challenging notion.
---
The method: Double the designed load-bearing capacity via 4x4 piles and 2x6 cross pieces, assembled with carriage bolts.
The hypothesis: An ordinarily adept American male can install said carriage bolts -- slightly underwater -- while lying on his belly, manipulating a 9/16" wrench blindly behind a longitudinal stringer.
Conclusion: Under such conditions "righty-tighty, lefty-loosey" becomes quite a challenging notion.
---
Jun 25, 2013
Sorry I haven't spoken with you in a couple of days. The weekend was a bit on the social side, mostly with neighbors. We popped in on one another between thunderstorms and engaged in illuminating chit-chat about how nice it was to be between thunderstorms for a change.
Then there was yesterday when I decide to stay within eye shot of my electric television set and pay attention to the Zimmerman trial. That didn't last long. I caught the prosecution f-bomb lede and the idiotic knock-knock defense joke. Then I doped out the HLN channel approach to coverage -- two minutes of actual courtroom proceedings as fill between inane analysis by their ever-so-pretty analysts who specialize in the segue-to-commercial field of legal journalism. I suppose I could have written something for this space after the nausea bout subsided, but the impulse to communicate was too weak.
This morning I decided to give The Vast Waste Land one more chance before test-firing a large weapon, center mass into the small, cheap flat panel. A gentle wave of fantasy stopped me. I became a news personality and, for a moment, loved it. Every one would have to pay attention to me, even the silken news chicks with their fresh leg waxes. And I would be lavishly paid; with the right agent I might even have negotiated a contract awarding me a bonus, say a brick of .22s for every segment in which I remembered not to pick my nose.
I slowly returned to the world-as-it-actually-is when the thought struck that if I were on teevee with Mika or Gretchen, I would have to pretend that I really, really gave a good goddam about who won the Stanley Cup and how cute it was when everyone on Rush Street decided to celebrate by taking their Rolling Rock outside and fouling Rahm's sidewalks.
Then there was yesterday when I decide to stay within eye shot of my electric television set and pay attention to the Zimmerman trial. That didn't last long. I caught the prosecution f-bomb lede and the idiotic knock-knock defense joke. Then I doped out the HLN channel approach to coverage -- two minutes of actual courtroom proceedings as fill between inane analysis by their ever-so-pretty analysts who specialize in the segue-to-commercial field of legal journalism. I suppose I could have written something for this space after the nausea bout subsided, but the impulse to communicate was too weak.
This morning I decided to give The Vast Waste Land one more chance before test-firing a large weapon, center mass into the small, cheap flat panel. A gentle wave of fantasy stopped me. I became a news personality and, for a moment, loved it. Every one would have to pay attention to me, even the silken news chicks with their fresh leg waxes. And I would be lavishly paid; with the right agent I might even have negotiated a contract awarding me a bonus, say a brick of .22s for every segment in which I remembered not to pick my nose.
I slowly returned to the world-as-it-actually-is when the thought struck that if I were on teevee with Mika or Gretchen, I would have to pretend that I really, really gave a good goddam about who won the Stanley Cup and how cute it was when everyone on Rush Street decided to celebrate by taking their Rolling Rock outside and fouling Rahm's sidewalks.
Jun 16, 2013
Fathers: Tool-using creatures
From the grandfather, b. 1893, to the father, b. 1916, to me; and, God willing, on down line. Forgive a rare mystical moment, but I believe that rock maple has absorbed a good deal of love.
May 9, 2013
Die, Tourist Scum
Let me tell you about dock law. I mean the kind of dock you fish from, and swim.
I have one across the road on the canal. It's a modest little thing. For the privilege I pay the village of Smugleye-on-Lake $100 per annum plus a little to my insurance company for an SOL-required $1 million liability policy.
To get it I had to run a nearly year-long political uprising against the SOL village council which a few years earlier decided "no new docks adjoining city right-of-way." For reasons you would find boring, this was a piece of statist, intrusive, purposeless nonsense.
We won the point. I paid the city extortion, bought the dock sections, and in two days of heavy grunt labor in cold water, installed them. Since then I've raised and lowered the deck three or four times to maintain a convenient height above the fluctuating lake levels. Each shift eats up about a half a day.
The Iowa DNR is not to be denied, either. Until a couple of years ago, little docks like mine were called "Class 1." While you had to endure a bit of senseless paperwork to get the state permit, they were free. Then came a gleam in the collective politico-bureaucrat eye. "Hey, Sidney, if we start calling all the Class 1 docks Class 3 docks we can squeeze a $125 registration fee out of all those rich bassards by the lake." Done. Absolutely nothing in the real, physical world changed except a noticeable reduction in this rich bassard's bank account and a concomitant increase in cash for DNR drones to piss away.
One more thing before I get to the red meat. It isn't my dock. Because it abuts a piece of property which belongs to the village (it shouldn't), every goddam fisher-couple and their six low-average kids from Humboldt, spewing used Pampers and Lil Debbie cake wrappers in their wake, have exactly as much right to it as I do. Yep, I clean up after them Monday mornings.
---
Now I note your sarcastic remark that this doesn't sound like cause to go full-Mencken. In fact, I agree. No throat-slitting is justified, but in a just world I would be permitted, nay encouraged, to hide in the bushes and snipe at their too-tightly- jeaned fat asses with my Daisy Red Ryder just because the slobs are fouling my usufruct.
Because this morning I went down to collect the makings of my first crappie breakfast of the season. I dressed the yellow lead-head jig with a piece of worm, tossed it in, and moved the rod butt toward my handy rod holder, attached to a dock stanchion.
Gone.
What sort of snake-belly SOB goes to a bit of trouble to steal a 50-cent semi-rusty piece of iron? From a usually harmless old guy who, as detailed above, rather heavily inconvenienced himself to enhance your weekend away from the trailer park? Jayzuss. Aren't their any garage sales in your declining neighborhood?
I will dream tonight of catching this spawn of the social cesspool and beating him severely about his nether regions before the grand finale, to wit: Strip and spread-eagle his Bud-Lighted carcass, pour four ounces of high-test gasoline over his pubic hair and light it off while humming the Campfire Girls' arrangement of This Little Light of Mine.
What could be fairer?
---
Otherwise rather pleasant, since you're kind enough to ask. I caught many, but only four were big enough to kill. As God is my witness, God made no better breakfast than eight small crappie filets less than an hour from their spring frolic in 45-degree water to the hot cast-iron. (You fry them in about an inch of butter, just so they don't stick to the pan.)
I have one across the road on the canal. It's a modest little thing. For the privilege I pay the village of Smugleye-on-Lake $100 per annum plus a little to my insurance company for an SOL-required $1 million liability policy.
To get it I had to run a nearly year-long political uprising against the SOL village council which a few years earlier decided "no new docks adjoining city right-of-way." For reasons you would find boring, this was a piece of statist, intrusive, purposeless nonsense.
We won the point. I paid the city extortion, bought the dock sections, and in two days of heavy grunt labor in cold water, installed them. Since then I've raised and lowered the deck three or four times to maintain a convenient height above the fluctuating lake levels. Each shift eats up about a half a day.
The Iowa DNR is not to be denied, either. Until a couple of years ago, little docks like mine were called "Class 1." While you had to endure a bit of senseless paperwork to get the state permit, they were free. Then came a gleam in the collective politico-bureaucrat eye. "Hey, Sidney, if we start calling all the Class 1 docks Class 3 docks we can squeeze a $125 registration fee out of all those rich bassards by the lake." Done. Absolutely nothing in the real, physical world changed except a noticeable reduction in this rich bassard's bank account and a concomitant increase in cash for DNR drones to piss away.
One more thing before I get to the red meat. It isn't my dock. Because it abuts a piece of property which belongs to the village (it shouldn't), every goddam fisher-couple and their six low-average kids from Humboldt, spewing used Pampers and Lil Debbie cake wrappers in their wake, have exactly as much right to it as I do. Yep, I clean up after them Monday mornings.
---
Now I note your sarcastic remark that this doesn't sound like cause to go full-Mencken. In fact, I agree. No throat-slitting is justified, but in a just world I would be permitted, nay encouraged, to hide in the bushes and snipe at their too-tightly- jeaned fat asses with my Daisy Red Ryder just because the slobs are fouling my usufruct.
Because this morning I went down to collect the makings of my first crappie breakfast of the season. I dressed the yellow lead-head jig with a piece of worm, tossed it in, and moved the rod butt toward my handy rod holder, attached to a dock stanchion.
Gone.
What sort of snake-belly SOB goes to a bit of trouble to steal a 50-cent semi-rusty piece of iron? From a usually harmless old guy who, as detailed above, rather heavily inconvenienced himself to enhance your weekend away from the trailer park? Jayzuss. Aren't their any garage sales in your declining neighborhood?
I will dream tonight of catching this spawn of the social cesspool and beating him severely about his nether regions before the grand finale, to wit: Strip and spread-eagle his Bud-Lighted carcass, pour four ounces of high-test gasoline over his pubic hair and light it off while humming the Campfire Girls' arrangement of This Little Light of Mine.
What could be fairer?
---
Otherwise rather pleasant, since you're kind enough to ask. I caught many, but only four were big enough to kill. As God is my witness, God made no better breakfast than eight small crappie filets less than an hour from their spring frolic in 45-degree water to the hot cast-iron. (You fry them in about an inch of butter, just so they don't stick to the pan.)
May 3, 2013
Whatcha been doin', Jim?
Most lately, processing a worn-out, red, cotton flannel shirt.
You probably remember that Travis McGee occasionally remarked on one of his "treasured old (garments)." I'm like that, but when this one came out of the washer last night I noticed that both elbows were out, so I decided not to treasure it anymore.
Fact: An XL Tall shirt will yield a half-dozen gun rags about the size of a handkerchief plus a quart zip-lock bag stuffed with cleaning patches.
It sounds tedious, but it really isn't if you do it during your early morning hour of disgust in front of the cable news channels. I found myself making most of the patches during the content periods and looking more carefully at the screen during the commercials, which are somewhat more coherent.
As a matter of social responsibility, repurposing the flannel is about a wash. I earn carbon credits for reducing the load on my local landfill, but, on the other hand, there is the guilt of unstimulating the economy. The Obama-Bernanke policy holds that I should do my part to alleviate unemployment; that is, take some Federal Reserve Cartoons to the store and purchase rags and patches to maintain my lethal weapons.
--
Then there are K and D, man and woman, traditionally married. They paid a visit yesterday, bearing gifts. D brought her incomparable caramel rolls untouched by shrink wrap. K provided the show and tell, a handful of scrap steel lathed into a complete and, IMO, elegant, system for sizing cast bullets in .355 and .356 for another friend's Helwan. Somewhere in America laid-off machinists and commercial bakers continue to starve.
---
Earlier in the week, just before global warming abated, a lady celebrated her birthday with a fine outdoor party. I didn't know many of the other guests well, so there was the possibility of striving to make conversation. That annoyance did not occur. About half of the men gather downwind from the tables (cigars were involved) and came to a consensus that firearms, archery, the ammunition drought, the deluge of white-tail deer, and the idiocy of politicians were all worthy of serious comment.
---
Besides, the summer machinery is up and running. Both chain saws, both little tractors. Not to mention that the dock is fixed. Holy Moly Mary Marvel. Don't know how much better life can get.
Well, maybe a little.
You probably remember that Travis McGee occasionally remarked on one of his "treasured old (garments)." I'm like that, but when this one came out of the washer last night I noticed that both elbows were out, so I decided not to treasure it anymore.
Fact: An XL Tall shirt will yield a half-dozen gun rags about the size of a handkerchief plus a quart zip-lock bag stuffed with cleaning patches.
It sounds tedious, but it really isn't if you do it during your early morning hour of disgust in front of the cable news channels. I found myself making most of the patches during the content periods and looking more carefully at the screen during the commercials, which are somewhat more coherent.
As a matter of social responsibility, repurposing the flannel is about a wash. I earn carbon credits for reducing the load on my local landfill, but, on the other hand, there is the guilt of unstimulating the economy. The Obama-Bernanke policy holds that I should do my part to alleviate unemployment; that is, take some Federal Reserve Cartoons to the store and purchase rags and patches to maintain my lethal weapons.
--
Then there are K and D, man and woman, traditionally married. They paid a visit yesterday, bearing gifts. D brought her incomparable caramel rolls untouched by shrink wrap. K provided the show and tell, a handful of scrap steel lathed into a complete and, IMO, elegant, system for sizing cast bullets in .355 and .356 for another friend's Helwan. Somewhere in America laid-off machinists and commercial bakers continue to starve.
---
Earlier in the week, just before global warming abated, a lady celebrated her birthday with a fine outdoor party. I didn't know many of the other guests well, so there was the possibility of striving to make conversation. That annoyance did not occur. About half of the men gather downwind from the tables (cigars were involved) and came to a consensus that firearms, archery, the ammunition drought, the deluge of white-tail deer, and the idiocy of politicians were all worthy of serious comment.
---
Besides, the summer machinery is up and running. Both chain saws, both little tractors. Not to mention that the dock is fixed. Holy Moly Mary Marvel. Don't know how much better life can get.
Well, maybe a little.
But I'm probably dreaming, eh? Back to Robert Ardrey so that someday maybe I can write usefully about applying his views on biological imperatives to the current disorder.
Apr 27, 2013
Saturday in Paradise
The second straight day of glorious is upon Smugleye-on-Lake. Yesterday brought not the slightest notion of writing to my ambition reservoir.
There was an annoying drive to DNR headquarters to renew my dock permit -- annoying because it's 15 miles one way and because the Only Woman in the World legally authorized to give me a form to fill out and to take my $125 decided to leave an hour and a-half early.
Otherwise it was a day of progress, mostly in rearranging leaves and getting the world's ugliest pile of logs rearranged into something that looks a little more like a classy redneck's firewood supply..
I'm not going to detail much about the work done because that might lead to mentioning the work still pending. I fear it might remind you of the tale she told you about Augean Stables. (You know who I mean, your high school history teacher, the lady with a mustache and two dresses, one for each semester.)
I'm not thinking much about it myself because it would ruin two joyful feelings. One is that I can still swing the splitting maul after the accident. The other results from cubic miles of fresh indoor air as the big old 1960s GE window fan races on "high" in front of an open pane.
I'm also trying not to remember the prophesy from the NWS seers, namely that March begins again on Wednesday.
There was an annoying drive to DNR headquarters to renew my dock permit -- annoying because it's 15 miles one way and because the Only Woman in the World legally authorized to give me a form to fill out and to take my $125 decided to leave an hour and a-half early.
Otherwise it was a day of progress, mostly in rearranging leaves and getting the world's ugliest pile of logs rearranged into something that looks a little more like a classy redneck's firewood supply..
I'm not going to detail much about the work done because that might lead to mentioning the work still pending. I fear it might remind you of the tale she told you about Augean Stables. (You know who I mean, your high school history teacher, the lady with a mustache and two dresses, one for each semester.)
I'm not thinking much about it myself because it would ruin two joyful feelings. One is that I can still swing the splitting maul after the accident. The other results from cubic miles of fresh indoor air as the big old 1960s GE window fan races on "high" in front of an open pane.
I'm also trying not to remember the prophesy from the NWS seers, namely that March begins again on Wednesday.
Apr 2, 2013
It takes a Smith and Wesson to Beat the Sugar Shack Blues
The main problem here is a feeling like I'm getting to be a liberal hippie with a Gibson knockoff strapped to my 10-speed, looking for a commune and humming something by Joan Baez while dreaming of world peace and free love achieved by eating nuts and berries and crapping in a hole in the ground.
About the only way I can restore psychic balance is by keeping in mind that real maple syrup is getting expensive enough to attract thieves.
That justifies strapping on the SW 645 and threading my macho saddle-leather belt through the slots on the tactical magazine holder -- the one that holds my extra clips back and forth like a real 21st Century ninja rather than up and down like an old Elmer Fudd. I'm cocked and locked on sap-bucket patrol. Come on, Maple Mob, make my day.
---
It was supposed to be lower key than this. I figured two silver maple taps would get me a couple gallons of sap. I'd boil it down to two ounces and check one more thing off the bucket list.
Think about the Guinness tap in a busy Galway pub on Saturday night.
The sap ran free on Day One, and that night I reduced two gallons or so to about a pint of not-yet-syrup. Friends, that stuff is good, even at that thin stage.
So four more taps -- which produced nothing for 48 hours of wrong weather, then, today, better than eight gallons. It's all on the stove now, three burners worth in the three biggest pots I own. The crock pot is pressed into duty as a pre-heater. There's still a gallon of raw material in the refrigerator. And the taps continue to drip. I understand Mary Shelley better now.
It looks like I'll go on this way until Thursday when the weather gets wrong again and the buds get more robust. (The internet tells me budding-tree sap sucks; the season is over.)
TBC, he says as he ambles off to put on a camo sweat shirt and dry fire his big, dangerous pistol. Whistling Kumbayah.
About the only way I can restore psychic balance is by keeping in mind that real maple syrup is getting expensive enough to attract thieves.
That justifies strapping on the SW 645 and threading my macho saddle-leather belt through the slots on the tactical magazine holder -- the one that holds my extra clips back and forth like a real 21st Century ninja rather than up and down like an old Elmer Fudd. I'm cocked and locked on sap-bucket patrol. Come on, Maple Mob, make my day.
---
It was supposed to be lower key than this. I figured two silver maple taps would get me a couple gallons of sap. I'd boil it down to two ounces and check one more thing off the bucket list.
Think about the Guinness tap in a busy Galway pub on Saturday night.
The sap ran free on Day One, and that night I reduced two gallons or so to about a pint of not-yet-syrup. Friends, that stuff is good, even at that thin stage.
So four more taps -- which produced nothing for 48 hours of wrong weather, then, today, better than eight gallons. It's all on the stove now, three burners worth in the three biggest pots I own. The crock pot is pressed into duty as a pre-heater. There's still a gallon of raw material in the refrigerator. And the taps continue to drip. I understand Mary Shelley better now.
It looks like I'll go on this way until Thursday when the weather gets wrong again and the buds get more robust. (The internet tells me budding-tree sap sucks; the season is over.)
TBC, he says as he ambles off to put on a camo sweat shirt and dry fire his big, dangerous pistol. Whistling Kumbayah.
Mar 7, 2013
And now the news closer to home...
You'll understand my March Anxiety to the fullest if you are a parent.
Both primary heirs and assigns are shortly to cross deep salt water. One will explore chocolates, beer, and very large horses. The other will don a nice suit and necktie in defense of the good ol' American way of life. So I've just messaged one of them:
Both primary heirs and assigns are shortly to cross deep salt water. One will explore chocolates, beer, and very large horses. The other will don a nice suit and necktie in defense of the good ol' American way of life. So I've just messaged one of them:
"What are your travel dates? I can't decide whether I prefer having both of my kids beyond the (residual ) protections of the U.S. Constitution at the same time or having the anxiety prolonged by tandemosity."
You can kick the kids out of the house but you can't squeeze the dad out of the parent. Or something aphoric, anyway.
Feb 21, 2013
Sexy me
Some childhood values linger into the mature years. A three-year-old with a cut finger will tour the neighborhood showing off his bandage.
Me? I have a romantic limp. Your place or mine, Baby?
---
It's been 20 days since the power dive on ice, and the charlie horse is still giving me an excuse to carry the Celtic-American assault stick occasionally.
There's no disabling weakness, just pain varying from mild to sit your butt down right now. It seems to be getting better. At least sporadically. Yesterday was pretty comfortable and ibuprofen-free. This morning four tabs seemed like a wonderful idea. Carrying in that arm load of oak last evening was possibly a poor health-care decision.
Travis McGee nailed it. When you hurt yourself, you turn inward, listening hard for all the little signals about the status of the precious and irreplaceable me. So you don't do anything else properly, including your sworn duty.
For instance, I've given Shotgun Joe a complete pass on his directive that you must meet a lethal threat by carrying a double barrel shotgun to the veranda and firing randomly into the air. That's purdey stupid, and I'll be glad when I'm fit enough to comment on it.
Me? I have a romantic limp. Your place or mine, Baby?
---
It's been 20 days since the power dive on ice, and the charlie horse is still giving me an excuse to carry the Celtic-American assault stick occasionally.
There's no disabling weakness, just pain varying from mild to sit your butt down right now. It seems to be getting better. At least sporadically. Yesterday was pretty comfortable and ibuprofen-free. This morning four tabs seemed like a wonderful idea. Carrying in that arm load of oak last evening was possibly a poor health-care decision.
Travis McGee nailed it. When you hurt yourself, you turn inward, listening hard for all the little signals about the status of the precious and irreplaceable me. So you don't do anything else properly, including your sworn duty.
For instance, I've given Shotgun Joe a complete pass on his directive that you must meet a lethal threat by carrying a double barrel shotgun to the veranda and firing randomly into the air. That's purdey stupid, and I'll be glad when I'm fit enough to comment on it.
Feb 8, 2013
'tis the same old shellelagh...
Lately it's been living on its own dedicated nail in the spot handiest to the desk and used from time to achy time in the wake of an aviation accident.
The wheels-up landing from the second step of shop entry stairs scared me for longer than I like being frightened, about 60 seconds, crookedly prone on ice and frozen crushed lime pebbles. That's the time it took to inventory the parts and determine the extent to which the usual processes had been modified by percussion. Inventory complete, I hobbled to the quarters, in fact with part of the kindling I'd just cut cradled in the left arm. The right was busy steadying this veteran carcass on whatever was handy along the way -- a tree, a vehicle, the big garbage can and, finally, the hand rail.
I built the fire, popped some ibuprofen and settled on the couch. To ER or not ER, that is the question. The answer was "not yet, anyway."
That was all a week ago tonight. The bruises have cleared up, the questionable knee again dependable and the elbow fit for lifting. What's left of the mishap is some sort of torn or pulled or otherwise disheveled muscle or tendon. If I were to describe it clinically, scientifically, I'd call it "like, y'know, a charlie horse."
It yields to five count-em-five ibuprofen every morning and, when I'm walking a lot, a little assist from the Irish persuader. I would carry it all the time in hopes of eliciting sincere sympathy. Unfortunately I don't travel in circles like that. ("Humph. Old fart ought to be more careful.")
---
If the reader believes this post is primarily for the purpose of relating a personal mishap, he or she is somewhat mistaken. Like all TMR communications, it is intended to edify. In this case on the matter of Irish weaponry and Irish history.
My shillelagh is phony, pure Midwest Brand X, like a Pakistani pocket knife. It is the stem of a scrub cedar whereas it should be blackthorn or, even more traditional, oak.
In the glory days of Hibernia, no Irish gentlemen would have set out for the pub without his oaken stick. Then came the bloody British looking for women prettier than their own and lumber for their ships. They found both, captured a few our women and all of our trees. This accounts for the blackthorn, the occasional attractive English person, and the fact that many of you have heard of a sailor named Nelson.
Feb 2, 2013
Saturday Wish List
I don't think I'm a compulsive wisher, but sometimes I do get a yen for stuff.
--Like being the first guy at the garage sale to spot the old wood box containing a couple of disassembled GI Colt 1911s and most of an artillery Luger for about five bucks.
--Like having three or four fools linger at my loophole table this weekend -- guys who think that my stratospheric asking prices are really quite fair. And who, of course, are packing enough high-quality trading material to back their judgement.
-- Like having the damned Super Bowl over. Also the post-game analyses and the extended video of the winner's homie thugs getting drunk, puking, and tipping over cars when the teevee lights go on.
Jan 26, 2013
H.L. Mencken on Gun (and everything else) Control
Each year about this time, the Moon of the Shrunken Scrotum, I tend to stay in my lodge, near the fire, and spend time with the old writings. I owe these authors. Without them I would be someone else.
This morning it is H.L. Mencken (1880-1956), one of my primary sources on 21st Century politics. Here he discloses one of the reasons we veer so close to post-constitutional government and pixie dust economics.
He is discussing American literature as it existed in the earliest years of the 20th Century. It was ponderous stuff requiring close attention and patience, but Mencken thought it was important. Or would have been if enough people paid attention. He wasn't optimistic about that.
"In the arts, as in the concerns of every day, the American seeks escape from the insoluble by pretending it is solved. A comfortable phrase is what he craves beyond all things...".
This morning it is H.L. Mencken (1880-1956), one of my primary sources on 21st Century politics. Here he discloses one of the reasons we veer so close to post-constitutional government and pixie dust economics.
He is discussing American literature as it existed in the earliest years of the 20th Century. It was ponderous stuff requiring close attention and patience, but Mencken thought it was important. Or would have been if enough people paid attention. He wasn't optimistic about that.
"In the arts, as in the concerns of every day, the American seeks escape from the insoluble by pretending it is solved. A comfortable phrase is what he craves beyond all things...".
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