Global weirding

It's all my fault, of course.

Until yesterday morning I considered my carbon foot print acceptable, but a whim led to catastrophe. You see, that ten-inch willow at the edge of my miniforest was hanging precariously over the lane,  so I thoughtlessly transformed it from a graceful Gore carbon sequesterer and oxygen factory into firewood.

(The intent was good, based on humanitarian concerns. Who knows when it might have come crashing down on a van load of my usual visitors -- nuns, orphans,  girl pole vaulters in uniform. Alas, my judgement about The Greater Good has never been adequate, so the slaying of the willow was just another paver on the road to Hell.)

Not 24 hours later my teevee weather advisers report the results -- an unseasonable spot of 90-degree global warming a hundred miles west-southwest of that poor, murdered willow and a massive winter storm in nearby cowboy country, a mere day's drive straight west.

As soon at this confession hits the wires I will strip, flagellate myself with a cat-o-nine, roll in the nettles, and otherwise make manifest my shame.

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I am doubly at fault because of the immediate social and political environment. My Great Leader just yesterday, just as I was slinging the Stihl,  took time to again explain to me the error of my ways*; my selfish insistance on a warm home, a couple-three thousand calories daily, enough scurrying electrons to power my computer for purposes of anti-government agitation, and even the occasional few dozen carbonized miles in a fossil-powered vehicle.


I suppose I could make a down payment on redemption by planting a new tree. The trouble with that is the deer, who would eat it. We have a rule that Bambi   belongs to the people as a whole,even though the environmental havoc he  wrecks is the personal and inviolable concern of the private citizen. This last point once confused me, so I asked the leaders of our Department of Natural Resources about it. They responded with a crystal clear statement: "Shut up and do what we say."

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*He's not too hot at moral persuasion of Putin, but by God he's Hell on wheels when it becomes time to make callous arseholes like you and me feel guilty.

Gratuitous Parts Porn

This project should have been done in February, but you know how it is. One book leads to another and pretty soon you're left with an inside job when the weather and the cluttered state of your estate logically require outside time.

But it's nagging me. A little voice in my head keeps saying "you ain't got no commanderish pistol yet so you ain't s---."

"But-but-but, I got MOST of a commander..."

"Don't pee down my gun barrel and tell me it's Hoppes No. 9."  (The head voice is  sometimes a bit vulgar.)

So. Caspian has my plastic numbers and the Brown Truck of Glee will appear in due course bearing an in-the-white slide.

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A guy serious about 1911s never passes up a good deal on parts,  or practically any deal at all. Most of what you see represents four or five  years of loophole finds, and there are enough little steelies to outfit the AMT 4 1/4-inch frame and most of the new slide.

I think this one will come in around 350 - 400 Federal Reserve Cartoons. It is no special bargain but a reasonable enough value if my tinkering skills haven't deteriorated too badly.

It will be built loose, not quite as wobbly as the GI version, but close and -- if I don't get too tired of wearing out 400-grit emery --  smoother. Its planned destiny is  belt-riding, sure to go bang every time but not expected to snuff candles at 50 yards every time.

Finish? Likely Mr. Brownell's spray and bake stuff;. Color? Undetermined but probably GI gray unless I decide to impress everyone with my cool tacticality.Then camo.

I love smaller government but...

...on the other hand, if Americans decided to reduce politicians to their  proper roles in our social organization, cheap laughs would be harder to come by. 

The new zoning code for my village, Smugleye-on-Lake, retains the five-foot, side-yard set aside. Nothing unusual about that, nor even about what constitutes the parts of your house that count. Your eaves count.

But not the rain gutters. SoL village nannies actually debated that point. Because they ultimately voted to permit the added four-inch intrusion. I am able to report to you a great victory in the continuing fight for liberty.

Hole in the firewall

A spammer has bored through the Blogger filter. I don't want to moderate or apply the fuzzy word game. For the time being I'll just trash them as they appear, accounting for the deletions you may see.