Some Denver folks are wetting their stepins because Madonna used a gun in one of her acts. Her defense:
In a statement before beginning the tour, Madonna said she does not condone the use of guns. She said she is using the guns as symbols of intolerance and "the pain I have felt from having my heart broken."
I was about to label that as pure celeb blather. On second thought she has a point.
Now, my heart has been broken here and there, although never in a way that would justify the use of guns. On the other hand, I usually have one handy as -- just as the Material Girl says -- a symbol of intolerance. It symbolizes my intolerance for some subhuman critter who wants to relieve me of my possessions or my life.
'course she stops a stroke shy of fulfillment. If it doesn't work to symbolize, a person can always actualize.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 18, 2012
England reacts!
I often tease Brits, so it's only fair to thank one of them for as good a line as I've seen about the recent debate-like teevee show. Able of England says:
As a 'damn furiner' I had the impression that dear Cindys new job was as a replacement for the O's teleprompter (since last time its absence was all too obvious in effect).
Well said, Sir. And an extra nod for intimating that your politicians are as moronic as ours, or nearly so.
H/T Roberta, comments section.
As a 'damn furiner' I had the impression that dear Cindys new job was as a replacement for the O's teleprompter (since last time its absence was all too obvious in effect).
Well said, Sir. And an extra nod for intimating that your politicians are as moronic as ours, or nearly so.
H/T Roberta, comments section.
Oct 17, 2012
Ick. Never shake hands with a Brit
Over across the pond live the dirty-handed, and this isn't the claim of a Jingo Yank. Their own Royal Radio Station says so.
In a recent UK-wide study, 99% of people interviewed at motorway service stations toilets claimed they had washed their hands after going to the toilet. Electronic recording devices revealed only 32% of men and 64% of women actually did.
Huh? The Sceptred Isle rulers find time and money and motivation to digitally track their subjects' personal sanitary habits? What's next? An electronic usage recorder on English condoms? (A tickling concept, eh wot?)
Oh well. I suppose it's easier than tracking down the thugs who manipulate the LIBOR.
Still, all in all, the next time The Queen extends her hand to me in a reception line, I think I'll just curtsy.
---
H/T Tam
---
Puts me in mind of the last time I visited my healer, two or three years back. Some kind of test was taken and the results said the guy's OK and has just "normal bodily flora" in his juices. I think that is quite an elegant way to report that I'm no germier than average.
In a recent UK-wide study, 99% of people interviewed at motorway service stations toilets claimed they had washed their hands after going to the toilet. Electronic recording devices revealed only 32% of men and 64% of women actually did.
Huh? The Sceptred Isle rulers find time and money and motivation to digitally track their subjects' personal sanitary habits? What's next? An electronic usage recorder on English condoms? (A tickling concept, eh wot?)
Oh well. I suppose it's easier than tracking down the thugs who manipulate the LIBOR.
Still, all in all, the next time The Queen extends her hand to me in a reception line, I think I'll just curtsy.
---
H/T Tam
---
Puts me in mind of the last time I visited my healer, two or three years back. Some kind of test was taken and the results said the guy's OK and has just "normal bodily flora" in his juices. I think that is quite an elegant way to report that I'm no germier than average.
The harem masters square off
Everybody loved the debate. The electric teevee jabberwockies loved it more than most because it had drama and conflict. Well, I agree. I haven't seen anything so exciting since I watched a couple of older parties get riled over a call in patty-cake badminton.
It was a cage fight between eunuchs.
If Eunuch A had cleared his throat and declaimed to Eunuch B , "Sir, you are a lying, pandering sack of yak droppings with an intellect substantially inferior to that of Yogi Bear," I might have become more interested. Either could have said it without straying far from strict truth.
---
The debate was accurately summarized by Dr. Ron Paul some 12 hours before it occurred. He was on CNBC and asked if he expected more substance in Debate 2 than he found in Debate 1. He said "no." Both Romney and Obama would simply promise fatter pick-a-nick baskets in the great Jellystone Park once known as the United States. Good call, Doctor.
Painfully to me, His Ineptness slithered slightly closer to the point at hand when he said something about long-term planning -- where the nation would be in 30 years or so. Unfortunately he uttered it only in a context of green energy -- solar and wind and ethanol mandates, all of those schemes touted by Mother Earth News types 50 years ago. They would flood America with free pixie dust fuel by 1999 . Our troubles would end in a national group hug as Peter, Paul, and Mary grunted 69 choruses of Kumbayah.
So no real points for His Ineptness, just a nod to his mild suggestion that we might want to give a thought to the fate of the nation in the decades after his personal interest in it ends, on January 20, 2013 or the same date in 2017. I mean, Hell, he knows he can fulfill his zillion-dollar book contract in Switzerland or Kenya or someplace.
Fairness requires me to say something equally nice about Governor Romney. His hair stayed in place.
---
It's the debt, Stupid. And the deficits. And Ben's printing press.
It was a cage fight between eunuchs.
If Eunuch A had cleared his throat and declaimed to Eunuch B , "Sir, you are a lying, pandering sack of yak droppings with an intellect substantially inferior to that of Yogi Bear," I might have become more interested. Either could have said it without straying far from strict truth.
---
The debate was accurately summarized by Dr. Ron Paul some 12 hours before it occurred. He was on CNBC and asked if he expected more substance in Debate 2 than he found in Debate 1. He said "no." Both Romney and Obama would simply promise fatter pick-a-nick baskets in the great Jellystone Park once known as the United States. Good call, Doctor.
Painfully to me, His Ineptness slithered slightly closer to the point at hand when he said something about long-term planning -- where the nation would be in 30 years or so. Unfortunately he uttered it only in a context of green energy -- solar and wind and ethanol mandates, all of those schemes touted by Mother Earth News types 50 years ago. They would flood America with free pixie dust fuel by 1999 . Our troubles would end in a national group hug as Peter, Paul, and Mary grunted 69 choruses of Kumbayah.
So no real points for His Ineptness, just a nod to his mild suggestion that we might want to give a thought to the fate of the nation in the decades after his personal interest in it ends, on January 20, 2013 or the same date in 2017. I mean, Hell, he knows he can fulfill his zillion-dollar book contract in Switzerland or Kenya or someplace.
Fairness requires me to say something equally nice about Governor Romney. His hair stayed in place.
---
It's the debt, Stupid. And the deficits. And Ben's printing press.
Oct 16, 2012
Why we're broke
Can't pay our bills, says battery maker A123, so lets all go to bankruptcy court.
You won't be invited, however, because of the distinction between a big creditor with a hot lawyer and a taxpaying chump who probably didn't even know about this particular rat hole.
A123 has been around for about 12 years as the brain child of a professor -cum-business tycoon with ties to China. It has always been a snacker at the public trough, so it isn't wholly a partisan issue,
But, Solyndra-like, it discovered joy of big-time slurping under the Obama administration. The president's DOE handed the company $249 million in 2009. Many more millions were sucked from from local and state tax spenders. (Routing note: The money passes from you to a bureaucrat to a company that doesn't quite know what the Hell it's doing besides scarfing up your personal wealth and having a ball with it.)
A123 promised to create smarter batteries, and possibly it did. But some of them didn't work and had to be recalled. More important, too few private investors believed the proposition was viable enough to risk their own money. Not a problem, mate. We'll just tell a nice green story to Uncle Barack and he'll tell Tim to tell Ben to print a few million more C-notes and give them to us.
We've seen so goddam much of this that it seems almost futile to restate the honest man's premise: If a proposed enterprise holds out a reasonable degree of success, the money to finance it will be available in the free market. If it's a sky-pie ploy to capitalize on politically fashionable adventures, only elected and appointed government officials can be gulled.
I'll bet you're not a bit surprised that the batteries that broke the company are for everyone's favorite cause, ta-da, electric cars.
You won't be invited, however, because of the distinction between a big creditor with a hot lawyer and a taxpaying chump who probably didn't even know about this particular rat hole.
A123 has been around for about 12 years as the brain child of a professor -cum-business tycoon with ties to China. It has always been a snacker at the public trough, so it isn't wholly a partisan issue,
But, Solyndra-like, it discovered joy of big-time slurping under the Obama administration. The president's DOE handed the company $249 million in 2009. Many more millions were sucked from from local and state tax spenders. (Routing note: The money passes from you to a bureaucrat to a company that doesn't quite know what the Hell it's doing besides scarfing up your personal wealth and having a ball with it.)
A123 promised to create smarter batteries, and possibly it did. But some of them didn't work and had to be recalled. More important, too few private investors believed the proposition was viable enough to risk their own money. Not a problem, mate. We'll just tell a nice green story to Uncle Barack and he'll tell Tim to tell Ben to print a few million more C-notes and give them to us.
We've seen so goddam much of this that it seems almost futile to restate the honest man's premise: If a proposed enterprise holds out a reasonable degree of success, the money to finance it will be available in the free market. If it's a sky-pie ploy to capitalize on politically fashionable adventures, only elected and appointed government officials can be gulled.
I'll bet you're not a bit surprised that the batteries that broke the company are for everyone's favorite cause, ta-da, electric cars.
Oct 11, 2012
Maybe it's the long, dark nights
Sometimes when Sitemeter shows an unusual number of hits from an exotic locale, such as Norway, I look a little deeper. This time I found a half-dozen guys (I presume) hitting on May recently.
Of course it could be that some Norwegian social studies teacher assigned a class to look into racial relations in the United States.
Naah, probably not. Most likely some randy little devil caught the old post by mistake and spread the word. Can't say I blame him. :)
Of course it could be that some Norwegian social studies teacher assigned a class to look into racial relations in the United States.
Naah, probably not. Most likely some randy little devil caught the old post by mistake and spread the word. Can't say I blame him. :)
Score one for The Associated Press
A friend and I were debating the flap over the AP photo showing the girl seeming to ogle Romney's butt. That led to a little research on AP caption corrections in general. I stumbled across this one. It is a dated (2010) but neat story of a cut line change on a captured enemy photo once thought to be of the Bataan Death March.
It shows GIs carrying bodies of their comrades, and for years everyone just accepted it was the march. Decades later, a Bataan survivor said the Japs allowed nothing to slow the gory parade. The bodies were left where they lay. He believed the image was of a burial detail at POW Camp O'Donnell where the brutalized victims were taken.
AP did some checking, decided the veteran had a point, and, some 65 years after the fact, rewrote the caption.
It shows GIs carrying bodies of their comrades, and for years everyone just accepted it was the march. Decades later, a Bataan survivor said the Japs allowed nothing to slow the gory parade. The bodies were left where they lay. He believed the image was of a burial detail at POW Camp O'Donnell where the brutalized victims were taken.
AP did some checking, decided the veteran had a point, and, some 65 years after the fact, rewrote the caption.
Oct 10, 2012
Hey, let's fleece Tourist!
News flash: Iowa bureaucrat says tourists spent more than $7 billion in Iowa last year.
About two-thirds of it was the cost of driving around, trying to find a way out. Wait. I made that up, although it is not a totally implausible thought.
But I find the news item important as an illustration of the genius displayed by our official shreikspersons. For instance:
Economic Development Authority Director Debi Durham says travelers are perfect taxpayers because "they come to our communities for a short time and leave billions of dollars behind."
Well said, Debi. Now if we only had a law preventing our own wild and crazy guys from traveling around and spending money in other hip scenes... (I'm thinking of places like Nebraska.)
About two-thirds of it was the cost of driving around, trying to find a way out. Wait. I made that up, although it is not a totally implausible thought.
But I find the news item important as an illustration of the genius displayed by our official shreikspersons. For instance:
Economic Development Authority Director Debi Durham says travelers are perfect taxpayers because "they come to our communities for a short time and leave billions of dollars behind."
Well said, Debi. Now if we only had a law preventing our own wild and crazy guys from traveling around and spending money in other hip scenes... (I'm thinking of places like Nebraska.)
Oct 9, 2012
Something else I didn't build
The Wood Faerie not only brought it one day, that night he cut it, split it, and stacked it. For that I certainly want to thank the Wood Faerie and his advisor, His Ineptness, the president.
The president deserves yet another paean in this regard. By reminding me I don't actually own this little project he saves me from the notion that I have some right to resist any looter who swings buy with a pickup to transfer any or all of the sustainable, renewable biomass from my residence to his.
(Unfortunately, "paean" is always a noun, never a verb, which prevents a fellow from writing that we should have a great national meeting and paean the president. Proper grammar imposes regrettable limits on expression.)
For energy geeks, you're looking at a little more tha two cords, mostly oak, containing roughly 40 million btus of energy, comparable to the heat available from more than six barrels of crude from the Arabs who, oddly, seem to own their oil. At least His Ineptness, has never lectured them on the universal nature of collectivism.
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.
Oct 5, 2012
False prophecy there, AP
Somebody on the AP General Desk may wish he had held off a few minutes. He filed a lede predicting:
With a month to go until the presidential election, the government on Friday issues its September jobs report, expected to show an uptick in the U.S. unemployment rate after employers added only a modest number of jobs.
You've seen that the opposite occurred. The official unemployment rate -- which may or may not be a number related to any earthly reality -- fell to 7.8 per cent, and we were blessed with a few more new jobs than predicted.
It isn't a horrible journalistic mistake. Technically, it is not an error at all because it was true when released and based on quotations from "experts." But it is a useful reminder to keep your salt shaker handy when reading the day's news.
The campaign to re-coronate His Ineptness has to love the new numbers. If nothing else they kill the GOP sloganeering that the current ruler has presided over an 8 per cent or higher unemployment rate since Day One of the Unicorn Administration.
But with Kwee* Three in full assault on the accumulated wealth of American citizens, a fractional rise or fall in number of Americans hired by MacDonald's or the Staten Island Topless Car Wash is damned thin gruel for any claim that happy days are her again.
---
*TMR speak for QE -- Quantitative Easing -- which is a term altogether too pretentious for creating money out of thin air.
With a month to go until the presidential election, the government on Friday issues its September jobs report, expected to show an uptick in the U.S. unemployment rate after employers added only a modest number of jobs.
You've seen that the opposite occurred. The official unemployment rate -- which may or may not be a number related to any earthly reality -- fell to 7.8 per cent, and we were blessed with a few more new jobs than predicted.
It isn't a horrible journalistic mistake. Technically, it is not an error at all because it was true when released and based on quotations from "experts." But it is a useful reminder to keep your salt shaker handy when reading the day's news.
The campaign to re-coronate His Ineptness has to love the new numbers. If nothing else they kill the GOP sloganeering that the current ruler has presided over an 8 per cent or higher unemployment rate since Day One of the Unicorn Administration.
But with Kwee* Three in full assault on the accumulated wealth of American citizens, a fractional rise or fall in number of Americans hired by MacDonald's or the Staten Island Topless Car Wash is damned thin gruel for any claim that happy days are her again.
---
*TMR speak for QE -- Quantitative Easing -- which is a term altogether too pretentious for creating money out of thin air.
Oct 4, 2012
No business like show business
In full fairness, honoring my duty to be an informed citizen, I watched the damned thing, all the way through from Obama's open to Michelle. Honey Pie, it's our anniversary and I wish our clothes and the cameras were off.
All the way from the Romney rejoinder that he sympathized with his opponent's romantic frustration. Very gentlemanly.
All the way to the end when Mitt pinned the poor president for the fifth and final time. (WWF debates have special rules.) He had sort of expected someone to cinch the big championship belt around his middle.That didn't happen until later when all the world -- meaning Fox News, CNN, and MSNBC -- declared Obama the loser.
The story line carried through to the morning hours when a talker on Joe Scarborough's show praised Romney for winning and both of them for engaging in such a meaningful exchange of views, for shunning the cheap shots. For being "two highly intelligent men ... presenting entirely different world views."
Okay. Obama presented a world view of free candy. Romney offered free ice cream. Obama promised to be a more compassionate Romney. Romney promised to be a more efficient Obama.
If there were any "world-view" differences, science has a serious challenge: develop an instrument sensitive enough to detect them.
---
This analysis may be slightly flawed. About 25 minutes in, I walked away from my electric teevee long enough to pop a bowl of corn and pour a sugary drink. Perhaps I missed crucial information.
Maybe Mitt explained the advantage of a revenue-neutral tax scheme for the "rich." Close loopholes and end deductions, but lower rates so the feds would extort precisely the same amount of money.
Maybe His Ineptness had a good retort to Mitt's notation that he had squandered 20 years worth of "tax breaks for big oil" on greenish jobs, i.e., Solyndra and its belly-up brethren.
Maybe one or the other even hinted that we might want to give a thought to Charmin Basic, known to some as the American Dollar.
All the way from the Romney rejoinder that he sympathized with his opponent's romantic frustration. Very gentlemanly.
All the way to the end when Mitt pinned the poor president for the fifth and final time. (WWF debates have special rules.) He had sort of expected someone to cinch the big championship belt around his middle.That didn't happen until later when all the world -- meaning Fox News, CNN, and MSNBC -- declared Obama the loser.
The story line carried through to the morning hours when a talker on Joe Scarborough's show praised Romney for winning and both of them for engaging in such a meaningful exchange of views, for shunning the cheap shots. For being "two highly intelligent men ... presenting entirely different world views."
Okay. Obama presented a world view of free candy. Romney offered free ice cream. Obama promised to be a more compassionate Romney. Romney promised to be a more efficient Obama.
If there were any "world-view" differences, science has a serious challenge: develop an instrument sensitive enough to detect them.
---
This analysis may be slightly flawed. About 25 minutes in, I walked away from my electric teevee long enough to pop a bowl of corn and pour a sugary drink. Perhaps I missed crucial information.
Maybe Mitt explained the advantage of a revenue-neutral tax scheme for the "rich." Close loopholes and end deductions, but lower rates so the feds would extort precisely the same amount of money.
Maybe His Ineptness had a good retort to Mitt's notation that he had squandered 20 years worth of "tax breaks for big oil" on greenish jobs, i.e., Solyndra and its belly-up brethren.
Maybe one or the other even hinted that we might want to give a thought to Charmin Basic, known to some as the American Dollar.
Oct 2, 2012
Further vicarous air adventures
The Evil Empire flight on which my two loved ones were booked has arrived safely in New York City. In just a few hours they will embark on a Sphincter Air flight westward. I figure that at an average over-the-ground speed of 400 knots, they are about an hour away from those protections of the United States Constitution I mentioned.
They of course don't carry phar ahrms, although recent news suggests the Tee Ess Aye might not notice, one way or the other. On the other hand, If you're reading this, Kids, I would caution against being spotted in Bloombergia with sugary drinks in hand. "Step away from the Mountain Dew Ma'am. You have the right to remain...".
They of course don't carry phar ahrms, although recent news suggests the Tee Ess Aye might not notice, one way or the other. On the other hand, If you're reading this, Kids, I would caution against being spotted in Bloombergia with sugary drinks in hand. "Step away from the Mountain Dew Ma'am. You have the right to remain...".
Oct 1, 2012
Still A Long Way Home, eh, Supertramp?
I exhale part of the long-held breath because the author of The World's Greatest Travel Blog is supposed to be on dry land again today. Still in the heart of the Evil Empire, she and her man are at least out of the clutches of the Volga River pirates. According to the schedule, they're just a few hours away from their Aeroflot ride from Red Squaresville to New York .
I always like it when they return to the the remaining, residual protections of the United States Constitution. Too, I suppose any father is somewhat happier when his offspring leave a nation where there is brisk free-market commerce in leftover nuclear devices.
I always like it when they return to the the remaining, residual protections of the United States Constitution. Too, I suppose any father is somewhat happier when his offspring leave a nation where there is brisk free-market commerce in leftover nuclear devices.
Aye! Carrumba! Es no Colt
The guy outbid me and others and was smug at winning the Colt 1901,one of the earliest double-action revolvers in general U.S. military service. Except it wasn't.
Barrel inscription: ".38 Spc or U.S. Service Ctg." No other markings visible.
Those danged Latinos again.
This particular gun seemed tight enough. It probably would discharge a cartridge. Otherwise it scored about 9,5 on the one-to-ten ugly scale. Still, it would have been fun to have on the wall for a price less extravagant than $155. If nothing else I could make up a nice yarn about having had it analyzed by a crack metallurgist who confirmed it was made of melted Arbuckle's cans.
This particular gun seemed tight enough. It probably would discharge a cartridge. Otherwise it scored about 9,5 on the one-to-ten ugly scale. Still, it would have been fun to have on the wall for a price less extravagant than $155. If nothing else I could make up a nice yarn about having had it analyzed by a crack metallurgist who confirmed it was made of melted Arbuckle's cans.
I can't explain the ".38 Spc" except by speculating that the Mexican (or possibly Spanish) gun maker knocked it off after about 1909, by which time everyone still devoted the the . c. .357 diameter bullet gave up on the .38 Long Colt and started chambering these revolver types for .38 Special.
---
A middlin' High Standard HD, 4-inch heavy-barrel version, brought $$320, and I am middlin' regretful I didn't make the other guy pay quite a little more.
---
A middlin' High Standard HD, 4-inch heavy-barrel version, brought $$320, and I am middlin' regretful I didn't make the other guy pay quite a little more.
For the tenth month...
She's a little out of character for this label. Too young, for one thing, and neither glamorous nor alluring in the Garbo/Bacall sense. But since WWCO has recently been trying to feature a womanage named for each new month, it's the best your author can do. She's not even named right. Few girls are called "October," and Ms. Bush earns her place here because she once played an October in a movie.
On the other hand, she's pretty enough in the Hefner usage of the word, and she seems ply her trade with her intimacies left to the imagination. This is about as skinny as she gets.
Next month will be even harder, so if any of youse guys can think of a candidate named November, I'll appreciate a leg up.
On the other hand, she's pretty enough in the Hefner usage of the word, and she seems ply her trade with her intimacies left to the imagination. This is about as skinny as she gets.
Sep 30, 2012
The national casting couch
The first presidential "debate" airs in three days and a wakeup. For some reason it reminds me of a passage in one of W.E.B. Griffin's "The Corps" novels.
A sergeant is herding a batch of Marine recruits from a New York rail station to Parris Island. He explains that they are not to screw around lest he have their asses. That's necessary, but this noncom is one of the petty tyrants who enjoys it too much. His dignity depends on humiliating others. He ends his harangue with the usual "Any Questions?" A recruit raises his hand.
"Why is your hand up, Asshole?" he demands.
"You asked if there were any questions, Sir," the recruit replies.
"I didn't mean it." He turns and stalks off "quite pleased with himself."
----
A desire sings in the soul. Would that vast revelation descend on the American electorate. No matter what His Ineptness says, no matter how Dufus Romney retorts, they do not mean it.
There will be no debate on which aspirant is most likely to competently administer the affairs of the federal government. There will be an audition for the role of father, protector, best friend, jovial uncle, seer, Santa Claus, and spiritual leader.
---
Another line from some old novel or movie sticks with me. An aging starlet walks into a producer's office, lays the audition script on his table, and says: "I want this role and I'll ball anybody I have to to get it." It's a useful concept to keep in mind Wednesday night.
A sergeant is herding a batch of Marine recruits from a New York rail station to Parris Island. He explains that they are not to screw around lest he have their asses. That's necessary, but this noncom is one of the petty tyrants who enjoys it too much. His dignity depends on humiliating others. He ends his harangue with the usual "Any Questions?" A recruit raises his hand.
"Why is your hand up, Asshole?" he demands.
"You asked if there were any questions, Sir," the recruit replies.
"I didn't mean it." He turns and stalks off "quite pleased with himself."
----
A desire sings in the soul. Would that vast revelation descend on the American electorate. No matter what His Ineptness says, no matter how Dufus Romney retorts, they do not mean it.
There will be no debate on which aspirant is most likely to competently administer the affairs of the federal government. There will be an audition for the role of father, protector, best friend, jovial uncle, seer, Santa Claus, and spiritual leader.
---
Another line from some old novel or movie sticks with me. An aging starlet walks into a producer's office, lays the audition script on his table, and says: "I want this role and I'll ball anybody I have to to get it." It's a useful concept to keep in mind Wednesday night.
Sep 29, 2012
Saturday vintage skin show
Inspired by TCM's wee-hours showing of the 1940 "Pride and Prejudice."
I suppose there are those who would question the macho quotient of a guy who thinks Jane Austen was a genius -- and a funny one at that. So be it. If it gets out of hand I'll post a self-portrait shooting an assault rifle or something.
Miss Garson played Elizabeth in the tale, which, on a sub-level, is a fine treatment of what happens in a society which deems it vulgar to earn money but quite refined to marry or inherit someone else's.
The photo is, of course, a promo for some other movie.
I suppose there are those who would question the macho quotient of a guy who thinks Jane Austen was a genius -- and a funny one at that. So be it. If it gets out of hand I'll post a self-portrait shooting an assault rifle or something.
Miss Garson played Elizabeth in the tale, which, on a sub-level, is a fine treatment of what happens in a society which deems it vulgar to earn money but quite refined to marry or inherit someone else's.
The photo is, of course, a promo for some other movie.
Sep 28, 2012
It come a-gusher!
In Merreye Olde, a big-time oil trader named Steve Perkins got smashed, went back to his office and bought about seven million barrels of oil -- price be damned. It happened in the wee hours and woke the snoozy overnight oil markets with a collective WTF?. Reactive panic strained global order desks. "Buy, dammit, buy!"
International oil prices spiked. The market didn't calm until it became apparent that one of the Masters of the Universe screwed up while in a well-oiled state. Steve's company lost millions. He was fired, fined, and invited to seek another profession.
It happened about three years ago, and I didn't catch why it is again timely enough to rate a mention on CNBC this morning while I was trickling charging my nervous system with the first cuppa. But I'm glad it did because it reminded me to be pissed at the lunacy of rational markets when they come under control of irrational men.
It seems to me that there are about three ways to become irrational. One is to be born stupid. Another is become ignorant, generally through intellectual laziness. The third is to get drunk, either on a nice single malt or on daydreams of personal power and riches -- or both.
Now: Since TMR readers are men and women of lively minds who are quite comfortable making logical connections between seemingly disparate events, it is to be expected that some of you will read about oil hustler Steve of perfidious Albion and think about money hustler Ben of our own Federal Reserve System. One shrieks "Buy!" and the other howls "Print!" Each in his own way turns the economies of the world into a game of seven-card no-peek stud played by nincompoops with a deck of 51. Or 53. Everything wild except deuces, jokers, and one-eyed jacks.
I don't feel like typing a long rant on confluence of these lunatic notions, but if you care to, you have my full endorsement. Personally, I'm off to pursue more immediate challenges related to distorting world oil markets by splitting and stacking a fresh load of sustainable, renewable biomass.
I will, however, leave you with a reminder, courtesy of Mr. Grey: "Any sufficiently advanced incompetence is indistinguishable from malice."
International oil prices spiked. The market didn't calm until it became apparent that one of the Masters of the Universe screwed up while in a well-oiled state. Steve's company lost millions. He was fired, fined, and invited to seek another profession.
It happened about three years ago, and I didn't catch why it is again timely enough to rate a mention on CNBC this morning while I was trickling charging my nervous system with the first cuppa. But I'm glad it did because it reminded me to be pissed at the lunacy of rational markets when they come under control of irrational men.
It seems to me that there are about three ways to become irrational. One is to be born stupid. Another is become ignorant, generally through intellectual laziness. The third is to get drunk, either on a nice single malt or on daydreams of personal power and riches -- or both.
Now: Since TMR readers are men and women of lively minds who are quite comfortable making logical connections between seemingly disparate events, it is to be expected that some of you will read about oil hustler Steve of perfidious Albion and think about money hustler Ben of our own Federal Reserve System. One shrieks "Buy!" and the other howls "Print!" Each in his own way turns the economies of the world into a game of seven-card no-peek stud played by nincompoops with a deck of 51. Or 53. Everything wild except deuces, jokers, and one-eyed jacks.
I don't feel like typing a long rant on confluence of these lunatic notions, but if you care to, you have my full endorsement. Personally, I'm off to pursue more immediate challenges related to distorting world oil markets by splitting and stacking a fresh load of sustainable, renewable biomass.
I will, however, leave you with a reminder, courtesy of Mr. Grey: "Any sufficiently advanced incompetence is indistinguishable from malice."
Sep 26, 2012
International macroeconomic query
I'm not getting enough free stuff and wondering if it is okay to go out to the road and protest just as I am. Or do I have to learn to speak Greek or Spanish first?
Sep 25, 2012
How to write a roadie report
A small sample from John MXL, just back from two-wheeling the Appalachian wilds:
My seat is approximately 47 years old. The bike's seat is approximately 22 years old. Before the next long trip one of them is going to be changed. I'm betting on the bike seat.
Wish this man would post more.
My seat is approximately 47 years old. The bike's seat is approximately 22 years old. Before the next long trip one of them is going to be changed. I'm betting on the bike seat.
Wish this man would post more.
The morning mail
I've never registered as an official RNC alumnus, so I don't know how I got on the has-been mailing list there at the Eisenhower Center. Maybe they checked old expense accounts. Maybe they dug into the bar tab archives at the Capitol Hill Club (good place to have a drink with guys in nice suits and the cute interns they brought).
Anyway, they found me and figured out that, as free help, I might pump the Romney GOTV drive by a vote or two.
Friend,
As alumni of the Republican National Committee, you're fully aware of how important volunteer activities are to achieving our goals. And that's why we're asking for your help ... Over the next six weeks we need to reach out to as many potential voters as we can.
Thanks,
Reince Priebus
Chairman, Republican National Committee
Chairman, Republican National Committee
It's nice to be remembered, Reince, and I share your distaste for His Ineptness the President. But no, thanks. Because Mitt, among a few other little things which don't really add up to a GOP interested in small government, free markets, foreign-adventure restraint, or individual sovereignty.
Best,
Jim
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 24, 2012
Hello, Monday
Cheerily in front of a small fire on a 37-degree morning, I attended to Dr. Nancy Snyderman, she of the whip-me shoes and the MSNBC gig.
She praised Mayor Bloomberg for killing the Big Gulp. "That's what leaders do ... it's a matter of public health." Yes. When Americans are fatter than a Somali goat boy the Republic is lost.
So do your part. Find some dude drinking a Dr. Pepper and shoot him. Pour encourager les autres.
---
Over on CNN the newsies offered an insipid campaign analysis. Who's "better" on gun control, Obama or Romney? Not even CNN could root out a difference. They both detest armed proles but, having counted us, find silence expedient. Of course if His Ineptness wins, he'll have a lot more flexibility.
The highlight turned out to be an allegation that Americans, collectively, possessed guns at a rate of 88.8 per hundred. Okay, I'll scarf up that credibility enhancing "point-eight" and merely observe that makes us 11.2 guns-per-hundred shy of the optimum.
---
The motivation to rant hatefully -- meaning usefully --is still low. I dislike being insipid, but, dagnabbit, it's just too hard to hate when you're feeling spiritually obese.
Lessee, among other things...
--K and D delivered a weighty home-grown watermelon last night, and I offered a fine fat "Oktoberfest" Marzen in thanks.
--My oldest friend, resident of one of the large eastern communes for many decades, visited. We continued the political debate begun when we were in junior high, back in the Coolidge administration or thereabouts. As the curtain fell we agreed that things are badly f*cked up. (N.B. He isn't fat, but he's sturdier than a rural Ethopian, so I suppose the good MSNBC doctor could find something horrifying about his Body Mass Index.)
--I'm idling away some spare time with a great rarity -- a readable college text book. Can't remember where I picked up Kent Steckmesser's The Westward Movement ; A Short HIstory, but I'm glad I did. The chapters on the Rocky Mountain fur trade are stunningly well written and exasperatingly free of the usual college-professor mistakes. He's even careful to lay out the evidence that John C. Fremont would be a "whodat?" except for (a) having married the boss's daughter and thereby (b) acquired the money to hire Kit Carson and Tom Fitzpatrick to take his hand and lead him around the American West.
She praised Mayor Bloomberg for killing the Big Gulp. "That's what leaders do ... it's a matter of public health." Yes. When Americans are fatter than a Somali goat boy the Republic is lost.
So do your part. Find some dude drinking a Dr. Pepper and shoot him. Pour encourager les autres.
---
Over on CNN the newsies offered an insipid campaign analysis. Who's "better" on gun control, Obama or Romney? Not even CNN could root out a difference. They both detest armed proles but, having counted us, find silence expedient. Of course if His Ineptness wins, he'll have a lot more flexibility.
The highlight turned out to be an allegation that Americans, collectively, possessed guns at a rate of 88.8 per hundred. Okay, I'll scarf up that credibility enhancing "point-eight" and merely observe that makes us 11.2 guns-per-hundred shy of the optimum.
---
The motivation to rant hatefully -- meaning usefully --is still low. I dislike being insipid, but, dagnabbit, it's just too hard to hate when you're feeling spiritually obese.
Lessee, among other things...
--K and D delivered a weighty home-grown watermelon last night, and I offered a fine fat "Oktoberfest" Marzen in thanks.
--My oldest friend, resident of one of the large eastern communes for many decades, visited. We continued the political debate begun when we were in junior high, back in the Coolidge administration or thereabouts. As the curtain fell we agreed that things are badly f*cked up. (N.B. He isn't fat, but he's sturdier than a rural Ethopian, so I suppose the good MSNBC doctor could find something horrifying about his Body Mass Index.)
--I'm idling away some spare time with a great rarity -- a readable college text book. Can't remember where I picked up Kent Steckmesser's The Westward Movement ; A Short HIstory, but I'm glad I did. The chapters on the Rocky Mountain fur trade are stunningly well written and exasperatingly free of the usual college-professor mistakes. He's even careful to lay out the evidence that John C. Fremont would be a "whodat?" except for (a) having married the boss's daughter and thereby (b) acquired the money to hire Kit Carson and Tom Fitzpatrick to take his hand and lead him around the American West.
Sep 23, 2012
Firepower (a little retro)
A.D. 1866 really wasn't so long ago. Even a Boomer might have heard Grandpa tell stories of the old-timers he knew, guys who were in their prime when White America hadn't quite finished stealing the Redskin West. If he were poor or ludditical, that same pioneer might have lived out his life with a cap and ball rifle, maybe the Model 1861 Springfield he carried home from the War for Southern Autonomy.
But the winds of change were blowing. A few repeaters were on the market in 1866.
That was the year when Washington decided to see if its troopers could swipe the Powder River Country from Red Cloud and his Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho pardners. Turns out they couldn't, though not for lack of trying -- trying in the sense of, say, the Keystone Kops trying to take down a large Mexican drug cartel.
---
Late in July Lieutenant George Templeton led his motley detachment of 29 men, three women and a child out of Fort Reno. Destination: the site the still-unbuilt Fort Phil Kearney, 60 miles northwest along the Bozeman Trail. Among his crew were a civilian named Captain Marr, lately of the Missouri Volunteers, and Army Chaplain David White.
About half way, at Crazy Woman Creek, the rightful owners rose from the their hidden positions and charged the little batch of invaders who were mostly armed with those '61 Springfield's. In the end, all was well, but just by a hair and with a little help from advanced technology. Let Dee Brown make the points:
In the first attack, "Captain Marr, who had a Henry rifle, a sixteen-shooter, used it with wholesome effect on the running Indians, and stopped two of them permanently."
The Sioux withdrew to regroup and charged again. This time they wounded Chaplain White slightly ("more angered than injured"). He mounted a little counter attack of his own and returned to the his lines shouting. "Ravine clear down as far as the creek."
"All seven charges in his pepperbox had gone off at once, killing one Indian and frightening the others into flight."
---000---
"Powder River Country" is a loose descriptor, but it's not too far wrong to think of it as most of northeast Wyoming from the Big Horns almost to the Black Hills.
---
Mostly from "The Fetterman Massacre" by Dee Brown, 1962, ISBN 0-8032-5730-9. Chapter IV.
But the winds of change were blowing. A few repeaters were on the market in 1866.
That was the year when Washington decided to see if its troopers could swipe the Powder River Country from Red Cloud and his Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho pardners. Turns out they couldn't, though not for lack of trying -- trying in the sense of, say, the Keystone Kops trying to take down a large Mexican drug cartel.
---
Late in July Lieutenant George Templeton led his motley detachment of 29 men, three women and a child out of Fort Reno. Destination: the site the still-unbuilt Fort Phil Kearney, 60 miles northwest along the Bozeman Trail. Among his crew were a civilian named Captain Marr, lately of the Missouri Volunteers, and Army Chaplain David White.
About half way, at Crazy Woman Creek, the rightful owners rose from the their hidden positions and charged the little batch of invaders who were mostly armed with those '61 Springfield's. In the end, all was well, but just by a hair and with a little help from advanced technology. Let Dee Brown make the points:
In the first attack, "Captain Marr, who had a Henry rifle, a sixteen-shooter, used it with wholesome effect on the running Indians, and stopped two of them permanently."
The Sioux withdrew to regroup and charged again. This time they wounded Chaplain White slightly ("more angered than injured"). He mounted a little counter attack of his own and returned to the his lines shouting. "Ravine clear down as far as the creek."
"All seven charges in his pepperbox had gone off at once, killing one Indian and frightening the others into flight."
---000---
"Powder River Country" is a loose descriptor, but it's not too far wrong to think of it as most of northeast Wyoming from the Big Horns almost to the Black Hills.
---
Mostly from "The Fetterman Massacre" by Dee Brown, 1962, ISBN 0-8032-5730-9. Chapter IV.
Sep 19, 2012
Vintage home-made gun porn in 12 gauge
In 1913, Taft was president, the Uruguayan Air Force was founded, rapists in Washington decided they had the power to tax your income, and Riverside arms patented my gun.
Chances are it's provenance is common. A Depression farmer sold a couple of fat hogs, , went to town, paid the village hardware merchant about $15, and took her home. After an appropriate period of admiration around the deal table in the kitchen, it went on two nails over the back door with a box of 12-bores handy, probably No. 6, but maybe No. 4. That was about the only ballistics discussion that interested Zeke -- which was best for pheasants, jump-shooing mallards, and discouraging city-slicker strangers messing around the home place.
Sometime later he benefited from the Ever Normal Granary and took his subsidy check back to town for a fancier gun, probably a double, maybe even a pumpgun. The old single moved to the barn for rapid response to rats, foxes, chicken hawks, and skulking strangers.
Every once in a while he noticed the pigeon decorations and brushed them off with a gunny sack. He got along in years, slowed down, didn't get out to the barn much. His kids couldn't be bothered, and the ol' one-shot moldered away until, about Y2K, it turned up at the memorial service most cherished by too many of his survivors -- his estate sale.
It brought $30 from a fool who just likes walnut, however cracked and dinged, and blue steel, however rusted and pitted and scarred. He'll fix her up and shoot her, but mostly he just likes folk-guns and their propensity to stir his muse to perfectly plausible stories of the past.
---
This one was bad enough to demand rule breaking. The metal suffered a wire wheel. The walnut was heavily sanded and linseeded, cracks epoxied, deep dings filled with walnut sanding dust and glue. The innards were scrubbed with gasoline before cursory polishing. For no better reason than whim, the barrel was bobbed to 18 1/4 inches, turning her from full choke to straight pipe.
(Twelve or 14 would have been handier or at least cooler, but our man had a personal connection to Vicki Weaver of Coalville, Iowa, and Ruby Ridge, Idaho. Fear moves him to obey even pointless laws. Wimp.)
Before the final finish --yes, flat black from a rattle can -- the question of sights arose. The solution was "no."
The plausible story of the future is a 3 a.m hipshot requiring minute-of-thug accuracy down his short, dark hallway. Sights would be superfluous, maybe even dangerous, maybe snagging the flap of his union suit.
He knows the odds of any such thing happening are all but prohibitive, but just in case, nothing better at hand...
There is no such thing as a boring gun.
Chances are it's provenance is common. A Depression farmer sold a couple of fat hogs, , went to town, paid the village hardware merchant about $15, and took her home. After an appropriate period of admiration around the deal table in the kitchen, it went on two nails over the back door with a box of 12-bores handy, probably No. 6, but maybe No. 4. That was about the only ballistics discussion that interested Zeke -- which was best for pheasants, jump-shooing mallards, and discouraging city-slicker strangers messing around the home place.
Sometime later he benefited from the Ever Normal Granary and took his subsidy check back to town for a fancier gun, probably a double, maybe even a pumpgun. The old single moved to the barn for rapid response to rats, foxes, chicken hawks, and skulking strangers.
Every once in a while he noticed the pigeon decorations and brushed them off with a gunny sack. He got along in years, slowed down, didn't get out to the barn much. His kids couldn't be bothered, and the ol' one-shot moldered away until, about Y2K, it turned up at the memorial service most cherished by too many of his survivors -- his estate sale.
It brought $30 from a fool who just likes walnut, however cracked and dinged, and blue steel, however rusted and pitted and scarred. He'll fix her up and shoot her, but mostly he just likes folk-guns and their propensity to stir his muse to perfectly plausible stories of the past.
---
This one was bad enough to demand rule breaking. The metal suffered a wire wheel. The walnut was heavily sanded and linseeded, cracks epoxied, deep dings filled with walnut sanding dust and glue. The innards were scrubbed with gasoline before cursory polishing. For no better reason than whim, the barrel was bobbed to 18 1/4 inches, turning her from full choke to straight pipe.
(Twelve or 14 would have been handier or at least cooler, but our man had a personal connection to Vicki Weaver of Coalville, Iowa, and Ruby Ridge, Idaho. Fear moves him to obey even pointless laws. Wimp.)
Before the final finish --yes, flat black from a rattle can -- the question of sights arose. The solution was "no."
The plausible story of the future is a 3 a.m hipshot requiring minute-of-thug accuracy down his short, dark hallway. Sights would be superfluous, maybe even dangerous, maybe snagging the flap of his union suit.
He knows the odds of any such thing happening are all but prohibitive, but just in case, nothing better at hand...
There is no such thing as a boring gun.
In lieu of 911
If I were a guy bent on a little housebreaking or other mayhem, I think I'd stay away from Cindy's lair. You know, Jinglebob's Cindy, out in cow country. :)
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.
New faces
A couple of additions to the blogroll.
Stainles of Sportsfiirngs caught my attention by reporting his pleasure in finding a Skeeter Skelton book. Anyone who likes Skeeter is to be admired even though memories of his gun-journalist home, the old Shooting Times, arouse my disgust with with the current crop of news-stand firearms rags. (My carbon-fiber reinforced polymer is way cooler than your wimpy ol' plastic!)
Welcome, too, to Stephen, an entertaining fellow who seems to be a genial an/cap for all seasons. Guns, food, bikes, camping. All the good stuff.
Edit to add one more good guy: Mojave Desertrat who this morning suggests that the Kate exposure really isn't all that big a deal.
---
I had read a lot of Skelton before hooking up with an AP colleague in Denver who became a mulie hunting buddy. (How ya doing, Bob K.?) A Texan, he knew Skeeter at least slightly, and may (damn a fading memory) may have gone shooting with him a time or two.
Stainles of Sportsfiirngs caught my attention by reporting his pleasure in finding a Skeeter Skelton book. Anyone who likes Skeeter is to be admired even though memories of his gun-journalist home, the old Shooting Times, arouse my disgust with with the current crop of news-stand firearms rags. (My carbon-fiber reinforced polymer is way cooler than your wimpy ol' plastic!)
Welcome, too, to Stephen, an entertaining fellow who seems to be a genial an/cap for all seasons. Guns, food, bikes, camping. All the good stuff.
Edit to add one more good guy: Mojave Desertrat who this morning suggests that the Kate exposure really isn't all that big a deal.
---
I had read a lot of Skelton before hooking up with an AP colleague in Denver who became a mulie hunting buddy. (How ya doing, Bob K.?) A Texan, he knew Skeeter at least slightly, and may (damn a fading memory) may have gone shooting with him a time or two.
Sep 17, 2012
How much does a Kwee cost?
"Quantitative Easing" -- or "QE" -- my butt. The Fed loves the locution because it rings of careful policy crafted by the wisest of the wise.
Wrong, Bunkie. It is a pure and simple dilution of every dollar you have accumulated. It is money-printing.
So "QE" deserves a twee name. I nominate Kwee. As in, "Last week the Fed imposed Kwee 3 on the liquid wealth and productive forces of America."
Kwees are cute, also expensive as Hell. Permit me to take you back about four years, to a TMR report Dec. 4, 2008, when the the federal government was only thinking about bailing out every thuggish and incompetent business in sight.
---
As of the time the Mr. Coffee wheezed itself full today, wholesale gasoline needed to decline just 29/100ths of one cent (about the value of a Pelosi promise) to be below $1 per gallon. And a pound of lead now trades at 45.5 cents.
---
The corresponding prices today are about $3 for wholesale gasoline and around $1 for lead. The difference is what it cost you to permit the politically connected money barons to enjoy all the rewards of capitalism but none of the penalties. 'course if your personal income has doubled or tripled in the past three years and 10 months, you probably aren't all that upset. Show of hands, please?
Pronunciation aid: "kwee" rhymes with "Weimar."
Wrong, Bunkie. It is a pure and simple dilution of every dollar you have accumulated. It is money-printing.
So "QE" deserves a twee name. I nominate Kwee. As in, "Last week the Fed imposed Kwee 3 on the liquid wealth and productive forces of America."
Kwees are cute, also expensive as Hell. Permit me to take you back about four years, to a TMR report Dec. 4, 2008, when the the federal government was only thinking about bailing out every thuggish and incompetent business in sight.
---
As of the time the Mr. Coffee wheezed itself full today, wholesale gasoline needed to decline just 29/100ths of one cent (about the value of a Pelosi promise) to be below $1 per gallon. And a pound of lead now trades at 45.5 cents.
---
The corresponding prices today are about $3 for wholesale gasoline and around $1 for lead. The difference is what it cost you to permit the politically connected money barons to enjoy all the rewards of capitalism but none of the penalties. 'course if your personal income has doubled or tripled in the past three years and 10 months, you probably aren't all that upset. Show of hands, please?
Pronunciation aid: "kwee" rhymes with "Weimar."
Sep 16, 2012
The Sunday Slasher
The very bright lad has some prepper tendencies. In the course of studying one "survival expert" he was persuaded to buy a Mora, hawked as the "best survival knife." A few weeks passed and he found eye and spirit offended by the garish plastic handle and the space-age polymer sheath. He wondered if Gramps might find time to reduce the ugliness. Sure.
About 90 per cent complete, reflecting the notion that a blade is worth little if it can't be controlled, hence the outsize grip with admittedly unattractive palm swells. Looks bad, feels good.
This is the first experiment with a steel butt plate in the Shops of Camp J (tm). The thinking is that a "survival" knife may be called on to function as a crude hammer.
And since we have a butt plate, why not use it to retain four wax-dipped matches, virtually weightless and out of mind until a fire becomes crucial when all easier possibilites are absent?
The plate, hacked from a heavy old gate hinge, is attached, ground to a crude fit on a wheel, then trimmed to the wood profile on a one-inch vertical belt sander. It looks nice polished, but it will rust. If circumstances permit it will be hot-blued, otherwise painted. A question in my mind: Should it be flourescent orange for findability at the cost of ugliness?
Notes and asides:
1. When someone offers you "the best" whazzis, you're being flimflammed. There's no best survival knife, gun, or piccolo. A designer imagines the jobs the tool should do in various situations and builds accordingly. The honest ones will concede that they have created a compromise and not necessarily the optimum one for the situation you might meet.
2. The matches hidden in the handle may or may not work. Moisture might destroy them despite precautions. Swelling might make them impossible to extract. They are a last shot, in extremis, hope. If they added significant weight or complication, they would not exist.
3. The little blade notches weaken it. Heavy prying might easily snap it. Is the risk worth the ease of making a spear? Beats me.
4. I don't disparage knives from Mora. The steel seems proper, and the price is right. I tried to find one of the older laminated blades and couldn't.
5. The knife won't quite float, but it comes close enough to neutral buoyancy that you might be able to snatch it back before it dives to the bottom of Lake Nungusser. Wrist thong through the hole? Awkward but worth thinking about if you're lost in a watery place.
6. I hope the young man never learns the limitations of this thing. Having to "survive" in the woods is almost always a result of bad procedure. My own backwoods misadventures testify to that, in every case reflecting incomplete planning or inattention. The best survival tool is between the ears and should never be stashed between the buttocks.
Sep 15, 2012
G' morning, fellow anarchists
With all the world crises going on, a fellow really ought to get busy with a careful analysis.
But I don't feel like it. Not even a short take on Topless Kate, a crisis that could rekindle the ancient Anglo-Gallic wars. (Since I haven't watched the news about our president this morning, I don't know whether the Frogs and Brits are currently our enemies or allies or what. But I'm pretty sure the last thing we need is the Coldstream Guards assaulting Brest. What a bump in the geopolitical road that would be.)
So I'm just playing with toys, namely a new three-volt cockroach by Nikon. If I get it figured out I'll send y'all some pictures of stuff I didn't build, like the pile of sustainable, renewable biomass, or perhaps the new knife abuilding (by someone who isn't me, of course) for a beloved survivalist grandson.
Or maybe not. I just found a dozen nightcrawlers left over from the last fishing jaunt. Shame to let them go to waste, eh?
But I don't feel like it. Not even a short take on Topless Kate, a crisis that could rekindle the ancient Anglo-Gallic wars. (Since I haven't watched the news about our president this morning, I don't know whether the Frogs and Brits are currently our enemies or allies or what. But I'm pretty sure the last thing we need is the Coldstream Guards assaulting Brest. What a bump in the geopolitical road that would be.)
So I'm just playing with toys, namely a new three-volt cockroach by Nikon. If I get it figured out I'll send y'all some pictures of stuff I didn't build, like the pile of sustainable, renewable biomass, or perhaps the new knife abuilding (by someone who isn't me, of course) for a beloved survivalist grandson.
Or maybe not. I just found a dozen nightcrawlers left over from the last fishing jaunt. Shame to let them go to waste, eh?
Sep 13, 2012
Party time in Dubai
Our friend Joel has been there, and his recollection of riot day is well worth a read. As are the comments, particularly one by "Buck."
There's no particularly sexy money quote, but the entire thing is a useful reminder that our leaders keep dinking around in a culture whose bases they do not understand -- except possibly as a series of crises which they can manipulate for domestic electoral purposes.
See also: Identity group politics.
There's no particularly sexy money quote, but the entire thing is a useful reminder that our leaders keep dinking around in a culture whose bases they do not understand -- except possibly as a series of crises which they can manipulate for domestic electoral purposes.
See also: Identity group politics.
Speaking of goat ropes...
While the Mideast burns, your federal government reminds you that you have an inalienable right to a goat, even if you can't afford it.
A goat enthusiast is capitalizing on the drought which killed much of our nice grass but left some ugly weeds. Forget that icky 24D. Get a goat.
“(Goats) will eat grass but they really prefer things like vines and rose bushes and poison ivy, things that give us problems.” For Iowans who are interested in eco-goats, the federal government has programs to help pay for fencing and watering facilities."
---
I haven't provoked any local bureaucrats lately; shame on me. This may be my chance. Imagine their surprise when I request a special-use (eco-goat) permit from the governors of my village, Smugleye-on-Lake. These are the guys who last achieved statewide recognition by making it a criminal act to feed a stray kittie.
A goat enthusiast is capitalizing on the drought which killed much of our nice grass but left some ugly weeds. Forget that icky 24D. Get a goat.
“(Goats) will eat grass but they really prefer things like vines and rose bushes and poison ivy, things that give us problems.” For Iowans who are interested in eco-goats, the federal government has programs to help pay for fencing and watering facilities."
---
I haven't provoked any local bureaucrats lately; shame on me. This may be my chance. Imagine their surprise when I request a special-use (eco-goat) permit from the governors of my village, Smugleye-on-Lake. These are the guys who last achieved statewide recognition by making it a criminal act to feed a stray kittie.
Well of COURSE I feel like shooting some wogs. And YES, I think the Marines en route to the Shores of Tripoli should be issued live ammo and given permission slips to defend themselves.
Now, if someone will explain just WHICH Egyptians and Libyans and Yemenis need shooting, we'll be ever so grateful.
Meanwhile, I believe I'd tell President Mursi that because of his failure to operate a civilized government we're planning to reduce our annual $1.3 billion Cairo bribe.
Arab Spring. Vive la revolucion. I see no way out for us unless we get busy with high-speed rail.
Now, if someone will explain just WHICH Egyptians and Libyans and Yemenis need shooting, we'll be ever so grateful.
Meanwhile, I believe I'd tell President Mursi that because of his failure to operate a civilized government we're planning to reduce our annual $1.3 billion Cairo bribe.
Arab Spring. Vive la revolucion. I see no way out for us unless we get busy with high-speed rail.
Sep 11, 2012
For some reason I'm not too cheerful this morning. Don't know why. The weather is suburb. I have hunted and gathered about all the renewable, sustainable biomass I'll need for the cold months ahead. A naggy problem with Rusty Red, the F150 wood hauler has been found and fixed at no cost, right here in the Camp J motor pool.
Maybe it's just a piece of undigested roast beef degrading my emotional innards, part of a rump which, by the way, costs upwards of five bucks a pound in these days of drought, the warp-speed money press, and the ethanol mandate.
Aha. That's it, and if I gotta be a little grumpy I have a right to suck away at your happiness, too.
Bernanke is probably about to screw with our money again, and even some of the world's big bankers are going public with warnings. Printing money willy-nilly is a heck of a lot of fun, they admit, but it's a little like Wild Turkey. Too much and you find your soiled self collapsed in the weeds, wondering what the Hell happened.
" we think we will get on-going synchronized QE [quantitative easing]. Central banks will have to print more money and this will continue to drive up inflation expectations."
Yeah, the Fed bosses are meeting this week to decide how much more of your savings account they should steal by tapping the keyboard a few times to create more magic money.
They'll tell us Thursday. All the experts say they will QE3 us. The guru in the above cite says they should do something far more intelligent: nothing. Fat chance.
Maybe it's just a piece of undigested roast beef degrading my emotional innards, part of a rump which, by the way, costs upwards of five bucks a pound in these days of drought, the warp-speed money press, and the ethanol mandate.
Aha. That's it, and if I gotta be a little grumpy I have a right to suck away at your happiness, too.
Bernanke is probably about to screw with our money again, and even some of the world's big bankers are going public with warnings. Printing money willy-nilly is a heck of a lot of fun, they admit, but it's a little like Wild Turkey. Too much and you find your soiled self collapsed in the weeds, wondering what the Hell happened.
" we think we will get on-going synchronized QE [quantitative easing]. Central banks will have to print more money and this will continue to drive up inflation expectations."
Yeah, the Fed bosses are meeting this week to decide how much more of your savings account they should steal by tapping the keyboard a few times to create more magic money.
They'll tell us Thursday. All the experts say they will QE3 us. The guru in the above cite says they should do something far more intelligent: nothing. Fat chance.
Sep 10, 2012
The Smoky Mountain Railroad
We're in the middle of the annual Clay County Fair hype. "The World's Largest County Fair" is interesting enough and I occasionally wander though it. But local radio covers the damn thing with all the scope and intensity usually reserved for something like al Queda landing a regiment or two in Manhattan.
I forgive them for two reasons. First, the summer people are gone and the fair brings a better class of tourists* to the area. True, they say "shucks" a lot and really seem to like corn dogs. On the other hand they generally don't get drunk and vomit on the sidewalks.
Second, the fair is home to the very large Smoky Mountain Railroad model layout. I know there are a few rail fans in the TMR readership, and you can take a peek at it here.
It's probably interesting even to non-buffs for the craftsmanship and historical content. The thanks are due to a great rarity -- a genuinely nice guy who got wealthy in the radio broadcasting business -- the late Ben Saunders of KICD.
---
*Or, as we think of them: "Spending Units"
I forgive them for two reasons. First, the summer people are gone and the fair brings a better class of tourists* to the area. True, they say "shucks" a lot and really seem to like corn dogs. On the other hand they generally don't get drunk and vomit on the sidewalks.
Second, the fair is home to the very large Smoky Mountain Railroad model layout. I know there are a few rail fans in the TMR readership, and you can take a peek at it here.
It's probably interesting even to non-buffs for the craftsmanship and historical content. The thanks are due to a great rarity -- a genuinely nice guy who got wealthy in the radio broadcasting business -- the late Ben Saunders of KICD.
---
*Or, as we think of them: "Spending Units"
Sep 9, 2012
The Sadness of the Federal Reserve Cartoon
The loophole dealer and I suffered an irreconcilable difference of opinion, so the Victory Model lives elsewhere. I am newly stuck with a small but still worrisome quantity of the green paper mentioned in the title.
Still, a good little show. The commerce was not frenetic, just active enough to make me look forward to immediately embracing my pillow.
Still, a good little show. The commerce was not frenetic, just active enough to make me look forward to immediately embracing my pillow.
Sunday catchall, loophole edition
The 50-dollar Winchester 97 has a new home. If my negotiating skills are up to it, the proceeds will cover most of the adoption fees for a 1940s SW Victory Model. it's tight but maximally ratty on the outside.
Previous owner Bubba had a nice big power grinder. He use it to worry off the hammer spur so he could quick-draw from his OshKosh bibbies. While he was at it he lost the lanyard ring.
Another previous owner was a Nebraska sheriff's department .These fellows autographed it in hesitant cursive with an engraving pen and added a warning: "Range Use Only."
The original owner was the U.S. Navy. Hence the attraction. If $200 will do the deal, it's mine. Maybe a tad more. We'll see.
---
It's a pleasant little 60-table show, and the new operator-- a one-man operation -- is learning about promotion as as he goes. All of us local gun freaks are supporting him. We've been without a snow for three or four years, and we miss them.
---
I'm running slow this morning, haven't even showered yet, much less grabbed another box of junk and a couple of bait guns for the table. I blame the pure animal pleasure of setting in front of a little fire on the first really chilly morning of the season.
Life is good .
Previous owner Bubba had a nice big power grinder. He use it to worry off the hammer spur so he could quick-draw from his OshKosh bibbies. While he was at it he lost the lanyard ring.
Another previous owner was a Nebraska sheriff's department .These fellows autographed it in hesitant cursive with an engraving pen and added a warning: "Range Use Only."
The original owner was the U.S. Navy. Hence the attraction. If $200 will do the deal, it's mine. Maybe a tad more. We'll see.
---
It's a pleasant little 60-table show, and the new operator-- a one-man operation -- is learning about promotion as as he goes. All of us local gun freaks are supporting him. We've been without a snow for three or four years, and we miss them.
---
I'm running slow this morning, haven't even showered yet, much less grabbed another box of junk and a couple of bait guns for the table. I blame the pure animal pleasure of setting in front of a little fire on the first really chilly morning of the season.
Life is good .
Sep 8, 2012
It isn't often I wake up with Rachael Maddow, just the occasional Saturday morning when the electrical teevee happens to be on Channel 63 as I click the power button. That usually happens only on mornings of lazy and lethargic grumpiness.
What the Hell.The primary alternative is Fox News, similar lies, only in shorter sentences and smaller words. Not worth the effort of another clicker punch.
So Rachael and I communed for a few minutes as Miss Folger trickle charged my heart. I wasn't too surprised that she was analyzing the Romney and Obama campaigns, nor that she was operating from a V-word base, although she didn't use the word. Takeaway: Republicans hate women.
Then, on a lighter note, she shifted to her closer, the cocktail of the day, mixed on-camera, right before your very eyes, accompanied by the sort of coy giggling you often see in a high school girl about to commit her first venal sin. (That's the sort of thing I always associate with girls who like boys. But I digress.)
Which brings me to my segment closer: The Rachael cocktail is made of cognac, grenadine, lemon juice, and champagne. I submit to you, my fellow Americans, that anyone who accepts political advice from a woman who hustles crap like that should be instantly and permanently disenfranchised.
---
There is nothing like waking up with the Maddow woman to make a guy relish the thought of a nearby loophole.
I'm about packed, taking just enough stuff to justify having a table. The idea is to buy, not sell, so I'll have to listen to other lies today.
"Jim, this gun comes with quite a story behind it...".
As Skeeter Skelton once remarked on the subject. "Great. But how much is it without the story? I already heard a couple-three Rachaelwhoppers today."
What the Hell.The primary alternative is Fox News, similar lies, only in shorter sentences and smaller words. Not worth the effort of another clicker punch.
So Rachael and I communed for a few minutes as Miss Folger trickle charged my heart. I wasn't too surprised that she was analyzing the Romney and Obama campaigns, nor that she was operating from a V-word base, although she didn't use the word. Takeaway: Republicans hate women.
Then, on a lighter note, she shifted to her closer, the cocktail of the day, mixed on-camera, right before your very eyes, accompanied by the sort of coy giggling you often see in a high school girl about to commit her first venal sin. (That's the sort of thing I always associate with girls who like boys. But I digress.)
Which brings me to my segment closer: The Rachael cocktail is made of cognac, grenadine, lemon juice, and champagne. I submit to you, my fellow Americans, that anyone who accepts political advice from a woman who hustles crap like that should be instantly and permanently disenfranchised.
---
There is nothing like waking up with the Maddow woman to make a guy relish the thought of a nearby loophole.
I'm about packed, taking just enough stuff to justify having a table. The idea is to buy, not sell, so I'll have to listen to other lies today.
"Jim, this gun comes with quite a story behind it...".
As Skeeter Skelton once remarked on the subject. "Great. But how much is it without the story? I already heard a couple-three Rachaelwhoppers today."
Sep 7, 2012
The Public Vagina
If we must talk about it, I suppose we have to call it something, and vagina is technically accurate. Furthermore it is more, errr, value-neutral than the four-and-five-letter synonyms of the locker room. So vagina it is as we chart the American future.
Get used to its ubiquity. It has already begun to take root as a base for grammatical compounding. Such as "vagina-gogue," an offering in the National Review (of all places) by Michelle Malkin. She's furious at Code Pink for fielding members dressed up like vaginae. While I can't work myself up to a Malkin level of shrieking neocon rage, I too find it distasteful.
On aesthetic grounds, the costumed Pinkers resemble the female part only in the sense that a Salvador Dali clock resembles a clock. Certainly Dali had a First-Amendment right to draw slack, droopy, off-colored timepieces.
The ladies -- and a man or two, I gather from the news photos -- are similarly protected. Just as Stanley Kubrick was in gluing misshapen codpieces to his young thugs in "A Clockwork Orange." If we want freedom of speech we learn to accept occasional ugliness along with, as in this case, the stupidity of vagina-as-political-tool.
---
The Pinkers and those who, like Malkin, take them seriously represent our failure persuade the masses and their political masters to raise their eyes about three feet -- from the national pelvis to the national brain.
I don't know if abortion is murder in the civil sense. I don't know if it is right or wrong to turn females into a financially protected or privileged class on the basis of their special health-care needs. (Or males for theirs.) I do know that braying politicians are burdened with identical ignorance although they have struck electoral gold in pretending otherwise. Take a poll on "social issues." Count the votes. Plurality equals morality. Morality requires a law.
Mr. Obama, Mr. Romney, and all of your acolytes: The world you aspire to rule is roiled by potential tragedy which might -- just might -- be tamped down by intelligent political effort. The problems are neither vaginal nor penile. They are economic, military, and organizational.
It is undoubtedly a futile dream that between now and November 6 you would elevate your focus, up from the Y to the center of reasoning.
The fact that you won't makes some of us crotchety.
Get used to its ubiquity. It has already begun to take root as a base for grammatical compounding. Such as "vagina-gogue," an offering in the National Review (of all places) by Michelle Malkin. She's furious at Code Pink for fielding members dressed up like vaginae. While I can't work myself up to a Malkin level of shrieking neocon rage, I too find it distasteful.
On aesthetic grounds, the costumed Pinkers resemble the female part only in the sense that a Salvador Dali clock resembles a clock. Certainly Dali had a First-Amendment right to draw slack, droopy, off-colored timepieces.
The ladies -- and a man or two, I gather from the news photos -- are similarly protected. Just as Stanley Kubrick was in gluing misshapen codpieces to his young thugs in "A Clockwork Orange." If we want freedom of speech we learn to accept occasional ugliness along with, as in this case, the stupidity of vagina-as-political-tool.
---
The Pinkers and those who, like Malkin, take them seriously represent our failure persuade the masses and their political masters to raise their eyes about three feet -- from the national pelvis to the national brain.
I don't know if abortion is murder in the civil sense. I don't know if it is right or wrong to turn females into a financially protected or privileged class on the basis of their special health-care needs. (Or males for theirs.) I do know that braying politicians are burdened with identical ignorance although they have struck electoral gold in pretending otherwise. Take a poll on "social issues." Count the votes. Plurality equals morality. Morality requires a law.
Mr. Obama, Mr. Romney, and all of your acolytes: The world you aspire to rule is roiled by potential tragedy which might -- just might -- be tamped down by intelligent political effort. The problems are neither vaginal nor penile. They are economic, military, and organizational.
It is undoubtedly a futile dream that between now and November 6 you would elevate your focus, up from the Y to the center of reasoning.
The fact that you won't makes some of us crotchety.
Sep 6, 2012
Softly, softly, cache monkey
The AP is carrying a rambling but interesting review of Asian monkeyshines. It concentrates on squabbles about which nations own which guano piles in the western Pacific.
It is refreshingly free of explanations that Hillary Rodham is there, on the job, and carrying solutions to Oriental angst such as the Korea-Japan spat over the Dokdo Islands. This strategic treasure in the Sea of Japan is about half-way between the disputants. It is made up of 46 acres of rock which, at last report, was home to a Korean octopus fisherman, his wife, and a handful of ROK cops.
"Korea and Japan have a bitter history (says The Associated Press) ... Thumbing one's nose at Tokyo has long had substantial cache for millions of Koreans.
Uhh, look. A Rocky Mountain fur trapper hid his plews in a cache. A girl I knew in Yokosuka sometimes stuck a flower in her hair. That gave her a certain cachet.
I know. Spell-check is cheaper than an editor.
It is refreshingly free of explanations that Hillary Rodham is there, on the job, and carrying solutions to Oriental angst such as the Korea-Japan spat over the Dokdo Islands. This strategic treasure in the Sea of Japan is about half-way between the disputants. It is made up of 46 acres of rock which, at last report, was home to a Korean octopus fisherman, his wife, and a handful of ROK cops.
"Korea and Japan have a bitter history (says The Associated Press) ... Thumbing one's nose at Tokyo has long had substantial cache for millions of Koreans.
Uhh, look. A Rocky Mountain fur trapper hid his plews in a cache. A girl I knew in Yokosuka sometimes stuck a flower in her hair. That gave her a certain cachet.
I know. Spell-check is cheaper than an editor.
Shooting up the cow pasture
The new Remington 760 got its first workout as a Camp J resident yesterday.
As a matter of biology, I report that even a middlin' load of 125 grains at something like 2900 feet per second makes a guy wish for more padding than one layer of tee-shirt cotton; a .30-06 round from a seven and one-half-pound rifle is tolerable, but it gets your attention. (For comparison, a Garand weighs about ten pounds.)
We fired at 80 yards in K's pasture from an improvised shooting bench -- a log dressed with a Vietnam poncho liner and a horse blanket if you demand precise descriptions -- and produced groups just shy of respectable. That is, a bit over two inches up to a lamentable four-plus. Allow what you will for unfamiliarity and a stiff and fluky crosswind.
Observations: The trigger is fair at best, gritty, creepy, and a bit heavy, even for a "hunting" rifle. Working the action requires an authoritative attitude. If you wimp it, the extractor won't snap over the rim, and you'll lose your trophy terrorist because your rifle is out of battery. To be fair, it's a virtually new rifle, and more rounds might smooth things.
The early Redfield 3x9 reminds me of the difference between excellent optics and the mediocre Oriental crap on most of the scoped rifles around here. Suddenly, your right eye is 20 years old again. On the other hand, I wish it had click stops. I also wish the right-to-left adjustment actually moved the groups left. Oh well, I'll view that as a challenge to my problem-solving skills.
Overall, it's an attractive woman of the kind you take to good restaurants. But you're reluctant to propose marriage.
I think I'll put it on the table at our small local show this weekend, just to see what it's worth as trading stock.The asking price will be exhorbitant as a sop to the deeply held conviction that it is always wrong to sell a gun.
As a matter of biology, I report that even a middlin' load of 125 grains at something like 2900 feet per second makes a guy wish for more padding than one layer of tee-shirt cotton; a .30-06 round from a seven and one-half-pound rifle is tolerable, but it gets your attention. (For comparison, a Garand weighs about ten pounds.)
We fired at 80 yards in K's pasture from an improvised shooting bench -- a log dressed with a Vietnam poncho liner and a horse blanket if you demand precise descriptions -- and produced groups just shy of respectable. That is, a bit over two inches up to a lamentable four-plus. Allow what you will for unfamiliarity and a stiff and fluky crosswind.
Observations: The trigger is fair at best, gritty, creepy, and a bit heavy, even for a "hunting" rifle. Working the action requires an authoritative attitude. If you wimp it, the extractor won't snap over the rim, and you'll lose your trophy terrorist because your rifle is out of battery. To be fair, it's a virtually new rifle, and more rounds might smooth things.
The early Redfield 3x9 reminds me of the difference between excellent optics and the mediocre Oriental crap on most of the scoped rifles around here. Suddenly, your right eye is 20 years old again. On the other hand, I wish it had click stops. I also wish the right-to-left adjustment actually moved the groups left. Oh well, I'll view that as a challenge to my problem-solving skills.
Overall, it's an attractive woman of the kind you take to good restaurants. But you're reluctant to propose marriage.
I think I'll put it on the table at our small local show this weekend, just to see what it's worth as trading stock.The asking price will be exhorbitant as a sop to the deeply held conviction that it is always wrong to sell a gun.
Sep 5, 2012
The bankers and politicians of Europe are as desperate as our own Ben Bernanke and his assistant, Barrack Obama. The Germans, for instance, just finished trying to sell 5 billion Euros in IOUs. Investors left more than 1 billion worth of them on the table.
(You'd think the Germans would be better at printing and peddling funny money, what with all their practice back in the good old Weimar frolic. But I digress.)
German money bosses say they'll try to sell the leftovers later, but it looks to me like the orphan Eurotoons could be destined for the "free"box at the garage sale.
Why not? They're like Bernanke bucks. Renewable biomass.
(You'd think the Germans would be better at printing and peddling funny money, what with all their practice back in the good old Weimar frolic. But I digress.)
German money bosses say they'll try to sell the leftovers later, but it looks to me like the orphan Eurotoons could be destined for the "free"box at the garage sale.
Why not? They're like Bernanke bucks. Renewable biomass.
Paging Ed Newman
How 'bout that? You can buy a gizmo to charge your telephone with tiny little pieces of wood, but "wood" is not good enough for marketeers hustling the Bio-Lite. They insist:
"Fuel (is) Renewable biomass"
Elegance like that shames me. For all these years of timber-felling and and maul-swinging, I've missed the opportunity to sound edgy and hip, aquiver with a passion for keeping Mother Earth all scrubbed up; virginal, you might say, although there's an oxymoron to overcome there.
So I reform and report Camp J is at present supplied with nearly three cords of renewable biomass for thewood renewable-biomass burner.
In fairness, the Bio-Lite copy writer does translate for the benefit of English speakers, confiding to us that "biomass" is "(twigs, pine cones, wood pellets, etc.)"
The gadget costs a hundred-nine bucks, but that includes a thermally actuated electrical output to a USB connection for your mobile i-Whatsis.
If you can live without the "thermoelectric generator (TEG)" you can save about a hundred-twenty-nine bucks with a No.10 can and a set of tin snips. Fueled with renewable biomass, it will boil up your Arbuckles just fine.
H/T to Tam who is hosting a funny discussion on the subject. Some want. Some are skeptical. To each his dag-nab, blue-eyed own.
"Fuel (is) Renewable biomass"
Elegance like that shames me. For all these years of timber-felling and and maul-swinging, I've missed the opportunity to sound edgy and hip, aquiver with a passion for keeping Mother Earth all scrubbed up; virginal, you might say, although there's an oxymoron to overcome there.
So I reform and report Camp J is at present supplied with nearly three cords of renewable biomass for the
In fairness, the Bio-Lite copy writer does translate for the benefit of English speakers, confiding to us that "biomass" is "(twigs, pine cones, wood pellets, etc.)"
The gadget costs a hundred-nine bucks, but that includes a thermally actuated electrical output to a USB connection for your mobile i-Whatsis.
If you can live without the "thermoelectric generator (TEG)" you can save about a hundred-twenty-nine bucks with a No.10 can and a set of tin snips. Fueled with renewable biomass, it will boil up your Arbuckles just fine.
H/T to Tam who is hosting a funny discussion on the subject. Some want. Some are skeptical. To each his dag-nab, blue-eyed own.
Sep 4, 2012
See-Click-Squeal
Oh, ya got trouble, right there in River City, and that starts with Tee and that rhymes with Camaree and that stands for rat out your neighbor.*
Mason City commissars stand proud this morning, glowing with the knowledge that they have made every citizen an instant block captain. Thank you, Smart Phone.
“See-Click-Fix” lets people report quality-of-life issues and request city services though an online and mobile interface. Residents can send in complaints about things like garbage, junk cars, weeds and other neighborhood nuisances.
Which takes the ancient art of back-fence bitching to a high official level. Either keep those damned petunias watered or face the SWAT team. After all, "quality-of-life" is a fairly broad term, isn't it?
I suppose most of you recall the 1984 passage in which Smith's neighbor kid went to the Thought Police to report his father for insufficient adoration of Big Brother. In Mason City now, the little bastard can do it instantly from the comfort of his bean bag chair.
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*For younger readers: Mason City produced Meredeth Wilson who produced 76 Trombones set in a Mason City pseudonymously called River City. Professor Harold Hill blew into town on a moral crusade to get the youngsters out of the pool hall and into band uniforms. He turned out to be a charlatan. His offspring remained and were elected to high city office.
“See-Click-Fix” lets people report quality-of-life issues and request city services though an online and mobile interface. Residents can send in complaints about things like garbage, junk cars, weeds and other neighborhood nuisances.
Which takes the ancient art of back-fence bitching to a high official level. Either keep those damned petunias watered or face the SWAT team. After all, "quality-of-life" is a fairly broad term, isn't it?
I suppose most of you recall the 1984 passage in which Smith's neighbor kid went to the Thought Police to report his father for insufficient adoration of Big Brother. In Mason City now, the little bastard can do it instantly from the comfort of his bean bag chair.
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*For younger readers: Mason City produced Meredeth Wilson who produced 76 Trombones set in a Mason City pseudonymously called River City. Professor Harold Hill blew into town on a moral crusade to get the youngsters out of the pool hall and into band uniforms. He turned out to be a charlatan. His offspring remained and were elected to high city office.
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