I've let the fire go out because it's time to haul ashes. Propane is keeping the place warm enough, but it is just not right.
Like the air on a 747. You can breathe it, but it cloys. The odor is wrong. The feel is wrong. It's making me cranky. It's making me think all this modern surliness results from the demise of the oaken fire.
EDIT: Ashes hauled. Propane off. Blaze kindled. The world is a lovely place.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 21, 2011
Water is not wet enough to prevent dehydration, and after an arduous three-year study the European Union has written a law to clamp you in gaol if you claim otherwise.
Joel has the details of this particular idiocy.
Joel has the details of this particular idiocy.
888888 post
About three "real" essays rest in my blogger "save" box, but damned if I can get motivated to call up any one of them and batter it into some semblance of readable coherence.
Maybe I'm demoralized because, unless I misconstrue her, Ron Paul has lost Tam.
(Remember Lyndon Johnson at the height of his Asian diplomacy and Vietnam War fubar fest? Remember the night Grandpa Walter of CBS called him on it? Remember Lyndon moaning, "If I've lost Cronkite, I've lost the country?" History rhymes.)
Or maybe my synapses are discommoded from messing around with a bunch of non-organic electrons. To wit:
I have sybaritic dreams of stepping out of the shower into an 88-degree chamber on winter's most evil day and to do it without heating up the entire house. So I finally got round to installing the beautiful old Arvin heater.
When I got the plasterboard* out I found the light switch didn't need to be disturbed, but the little box for the existing duplex outlet was too busy for the tie-in. The replacement double box is still tight and -- to come to the point of this whine -- it's in a cramped corner requiring left-handed work. Ladies and gentlemen, I am fully entitled to bitch about having to screw screws and wire nuts and wrap tape in such a sinister manner.
Anyway, it's all done now, and perhaps I'll be able to improve my mood by persuading myself that all that left-handed agony will strengthen my weak-hand shooting.
I'll let you know.
---
*AKA "sheet rock" and "wall board" and "the world's most obnoxious construction material." In a properly run nation it would be outlawed.
Maybe I'm demoralized because, unless I misconstrue her, Ron Paul has lost Tam.
(Remember Lyndon Johnson at the height of his Asian diplomacy and Vietnam War fubar fest? Remember the night Grandpa Walter of CBS called him on it? Remember Lyndon moaning, "If I've lost Cronkite, I've lost the country?" History rhymes.)
Or maybe my synapses are discommoded from messing around with a bunch of non-organic electrons. To wit:
I have sybaritic dreams of stepping out of the shower into an 88-degree chamber on winter's most evil day and to do it without heating up the entire house. So I finally got round to installing the beautiful old Arvin heater.
When I got the plasterboard* out I found the light switch didn't need to be disturbed, but the little box for the existing duplex outlet was too busy for the tie-in. The replacement double box is still tight and -- to come to the point of this whine -- it's in a cramped corner requiring left-handed work. Ladies and gentlemen, I am fully entitled to bitch about having to screw screws and wire nuts and wrap tape in such a sinister manner.
Anyway, it's all done now, and perhaps I'll be able to improve my mood by persuading myself that all that left-handed agony will strengthen my weak-hand shooting.
I'll let you know.
---
*AKA "sheet rock" and "wall board" and "the world's most obnoxious construction material." In a properly run nation it would be outlawed.
Nov 19, 2011
Well, Uncles are supposed to be avuncular
I don't know what set Uncle off, though it looks like a case of misusing the internet. Meaning he may have spent too much time reading the iron-clad conclusions of the uninformed while unsolaced by ancient Irish Whiskey.
But I'm glad something tripped his trigger.
I especially liked the suggestion to gun-terminology pedants:
Yeah, I know a silencer doesn’t completely silence a gun. But the guy who invented the things called them silencers. He gets dibs. And you don’t.
This could even be extended to suggest that if you slip up and call a magazine a clip you are not automatically sentenced to dinner with Barbara Boxer.
The rest is good, too, including most of the comments.
H/T Joel.
But I'm glad something tripped his trigger.
I especially liked the suggestion to gun-terminology pedants:
Yeah, I know a silencer doesn’t completely silence a gun. But the guy who invented the things called them silencers. He gets dibs. And you don’t.
This could even be extended to suggest that if you slip up and call a magazine a clip you are not automatically sentenced to dinner with Barbara Boxer.
The rest is good, too, including most of the comments.
H/T Joel.
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