Tan me hide when I've died, Clyde

Nothing like good chuckle to lighten an arctic morning.

The kangaroo stomp, at Brigid's place. 

(Besides, it is about the correct length for an internet video -- 12 seconds.)

Sunday Mission

It isn't usually this bad, although it will never win a New Yankee Workshop award for compulsive neatness. Too many late fall projects -- plus the tendency to toss stuff into the shop just because I can't immediately think of a better idea -- have left it in this chaos. I couldn't put my hand on a  two-inch C clamp if my life depended on it. 

And so to work. The Knipco is drinking kerosene, and in a few minutes it should be warm enough to turn to out there.

If I post an "after" picture today, you'll know I was diligent. If not, you can ask me which book I decided I must read immediately.

Ahhhhhh, that's better

For two days the wood stove has been cold, and for no better reason than pure, cussed laziness, the Commandant's Quarters at Camp J (home of the Northern Expeditionary Force) has been heated to 78 degrees with propane, the first time this season the little gas furnace has been on.

It made me feel unmanly. No man ought to secure comfort with no more effort than twisting a knob. So, as of 0906 local, the  flames dance and a ready supply of wood is on the hearh.

Yes,  I feel much manlier.Thank you for asking.

With or without a Glock,

it takes no wild flight of imagination for me to visualize how hideous I would look in a red g-string, so I guess I'll need to continue my non-violent approach to disciplining congressfolk.