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Monday, October 26, 2009

I Haven’t Forgotten You

image

It’s just been a very busy day compounded by a migraine complete with the whole nausea bit. My favorite kind.

The headache is mostly gone now, leaving me feeling, as usual, as if I had been kicked through a cement wall into a Sarah Palin fund raiser.

I’m taking pictures of the birdhouses, once I get them cataloged and priced they’ll be posted for your buying enjoyment, I’m trying to make that tonight. We’ll see how that goes. I may just end up on the couch watching Heroes, in which case you’ll just have to wait another day, I’m not risking a migraine reflash.

If you don’t get in on this batch, there will be more (figure about two weeks – I’m waiting on a wood shipment).

I’m also waiting for a woodturning air filtration helmet. I’m almost positive that this latest headache was triggered by me breathing a modest amount of either oak dust or rosewood dust – both of which are irritants and can cause respiratory problems. I run very good dust collection while turning and sanding, and all of my woodworking equipment is hooked up to a cyclone dust/chip collector – but no system is 100% perfect, especially when it comes to a lathe. By the time I finished up in the shop last night I knew I had sucked in way too much dust.

I hate standard air masks, they’re hot and uncomfortable and they make my safety glasses fog up – and after years of wearing a gas mask under uncomfortable conditions, I just plain have an aversion to the damned things.

Accordingly, I’ve ordered a professional woodturner’s filtration helmet with a powered air supply. Actually, I ordered it two weeks ago via express delivery (those of you who bought the first batch of birdhouses paid for it, thank you very much). It arrived two days later. Smashed. Looks like it left the warehouse that way. The distributor is sending me a new one, which should be here tomorrow. Safety first, you know.

Just keeping you in the loop.


Update: Not happening tonight. Camera batteries died a couple of pictures into the process. I thought I had a fully charged spare, but what I actually had was a fully discharged spare. Sigh. Tomorrow, for sure.

Sunday, October 25, 2009

Privet Carrier…

…not for hire!

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So stop asking, damn your eyes!

 

Saw this parked in the lot in front of Home Depot in Anchorage.  I was lucky to get a clear picture, just moments before it had been surrounded by screaming bikini clad hotties trying to hire the vehicle and its driver, an impressive man in a very large pair of overalls (and not much of anything else – unless “chest and back pelt” could be considered apparel) .

Ah, the sights of Anchorage. What a marvelous place.

Where I’ve Been All Weekend…

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…in the shop, making your birdhouses.

 

The light colored ones are made from sassafras, the reddish colored ones are made from aromatic red cedar, and the dark ones are made from American walnut. Some are simple, and some are fiendishly complex.  As you can see, there is a variety of styles, colors, and accent woods.

There will be more soon.

I need to take pictures of this batch, catalog and price them, before I can put up a post for you to buy them. I’d hoped to have that done today, but it’s not happening.  I’ve been in front of the lathe all day, I’m now tired and hungry. I’m going to eat my dinner and go a watch a movie with my wife.

I’ll take pictures and have a post up tomorrow with these in more detail.

Best Lawnmower Add EVAH!

I don't know why, but I really want this lawnmower.

Friday, October 23, 2009

Die, Outlook Die!

OK, that’s it.

I’ve had with this damned piece of Microsoft bloatware.

I eradicated Symantec’s resource sucking piece of shit Internet “Security” system from my system months ago (replacing it with the full paid version of AVG, which is teh awesome) and I deleted the stinking Norton anti-spam toolbar from Outlook – and yet every time the program starts, there it is again. It’s like the zombie COM extension that will not die.  Additionally, Outlook manages to forget my configuration at least every other restart, requiring that I go back in and turn on my reading pane, and move things around the way I like them.  And more than anything the program is just a giant bloated resource sucking hog.  I’ve had it.

I’m thinking about switching over to Mozilla’s Thunderbird, but I’m open to suggestions.

Please make some.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Ask Stonekettle Station – It’s a Doozy, A Crazy Crazy Doozy

Did Obama bail out the auto industry so he could track you on On-Star?

Yes.

Yes, that’s it exactly.

Teh Eevil Communist Obama Of Eevil is sitting in the National Command Post right now, tracking you. Because, see there is nothing more vital to the Democrats than following you…to the liquor store. Yes.

Now, go take your medicine.

Thursday Update

You'll have to be satisfied with the Santana videos today (and seriously, the Smooth video? Yeah, I could watch that all day. What? I like the, uh, guitar).

I was in the shop last night until midnight.

Turning your birdhouses.

Then I faced a decision, sleep or write something for you.

Like I said, watch the Santana videos.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

You Better Change Your Evil Ways, Baby.

For some reason, Carlos has been in my head all day.

There are worse things in life, trust me.



Now, it's in your head too.

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Update: Apparently I must now listen to my entire Santana collection. In case you were wondering that's about 26 albums, 196 tracks give or take.

Breakfast of Champions

This morning I stopped to get coffee.

I suppose I need to expound on that at bit.

This morning on my way to work, I stopped at the Quick Mart on base to get a cup of coffee (for those of you just joining us, I’m currently working for the US Air Force on Elmendorf Air Force Base, I’ll be there for about another year, then I’m going back to being retired). Now, these days I usually drink decaf, but this morning I had a dozen meetings and I was very tired – I felt like I needed to be heavily caffeinated, preferable intravenously if at all possible. I had damned near fallen asleep while waiting to get on base – the lines were extra long today (You can always tell when the military is manning the gates and not the lean mean donut eating machine rent-a-cops, the military actually checks IDs and looks in your car – this takes longer, hence the line. The rent-a-cops mostly shoot the shit with each other and dream about being real police). Just inside the back gate, there’s a small mini mart type store, the coffee there is fairly decent – so I stopped to get a cup of something called “Columbian Energy Blend.” Which, when I type it, sounds like something that would get you five years in a spiffy orange jumpsuit.

I took the cup up to the register.

In line ahead of me were an Airman, a Marine, and a Soldier.

I realized that I was looking dead into the face of a joke:

The Wingwiper had a poppy seed bagel and a bottle of cranberry juice.

The Jarhead had a bag of beef jerky and a soda.

The Squid (me) had a large black cup of thick bitter coffee.

And the GI had two chili cheese dogs, with onion, and a large energy drink.

“Breakfast of Champions,” I said

The Airman ignored me.

The Marine nodded curtly, gave me the once over, and said,“Morning, Sir.”

The Soldier grinned, and said “We’ve got an eight mile run this morning, I need the carbs. I’m hungover as fuck.”


An eight mile run on a hangover with a stomach full of chili cheese dog?

Damn, I miss those days.


What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever eaten for breakfast?

Monday, October 19, 2009

A (pointless in retrospect) Conversation With My Child

Me (calling from work, after my son texted me letting me know he was home safe from school): How was your day?

Son: Fine.

Me: Study for two hours. Math. Science.

Son: OK.

Me: Two more things.

Son: Yeah?

Me: Go to the big chest freezer, get out the whole chicken.

Son: uh…

Me: Whole frozen chicken. Says “Whole Chicken” on the label. It’s on top. Looks sort of like a big bowling ball at this point.  Get it.

Son: uh…

Me: (sigh) are you at the freezer?

Son: Yeah.

Me: Really?

Son: No.

Me: Go there now.

Son: (thump, bump, bang, slam, shuffle, shuffle [freezer is in the garage, it requires movement from the couch] bump bump thump [and I finally hear the correct door open over the phone]) OK.

Me: …

Son: …

Me: …

Son: …

Me: …

Son: …

Me: Open. The. Lid.

Son: OK.

Me: Do you see it?

Son: uh…

Me: (sigh) Chicken. Whole. Frozen. Chicken. On. Top. Looks. Like. A. Bowling. Ball.

Son: Oh…riiiight.

Me: Get it.

Son: OK.

Me: Go to the kitchen.

Son: OK.

Me: Wait!

Son: What?

Me: Close the freezer lid.

Son: It is!

Me: Really?

Son: …no.

Me: Close it.

Son: (Foomp!)

Me: Go to the kitchen.

Son: OK

Me: Wait!

Son: What?

Me: Take the chicken.

Son: …right.

Me: (with the patience of Job) Are you in the kitchen?

Son: uh huh.

Me: Really?

Son: No.

Me: Go there now. Don’t stop anywhere else. Try to concentrate. Kitchen

Son: OK

Me: Wait!

Son: What?

Me: Take the chicken.

Son: OK

Me: Are you there?

Son: Yes.

Me: Put the chicken in the microwave.

Son: OK…bye

Me: Wait!

Son: What?

Me: Push “Defrost”

Son: …

Me: Push. The. Button. Marked. “Defrost.”

Son: …

Me: …On the microwave.

Son: OK

Me: Set the timer for 30 minutes.

Son: …

Me: Push three. Zero. Zero. Zero.

Son: (Freep beep) OK

Me: Two more zeros

Son: (beep beep) OK

Me: Push “Start.”

Son: OK

Me: Is it started?

Son: uh huh.

Me: I can’t hear it. Are you sure?

Son: Yes.

Me: Good. Now go turn on the dishwasher. You forgot to run it last night. There are no clean plates for dinner. (It’s the boy’s job to clean up after dinner).

Son: OK.

Me: Did you start the dishwasher?

Son: Yes.

Me: Really?

Son: I’m doing it.

Me: Wait!

Son: What?

Me: Put a soap tablet in it.

Son: OK

Me: Did you do it?

Son: Yes.

Me: Really?

Son: I’m doing it now.

Me: I didn’t hear the dishwasher door open and close.

Son: (Whump!)

Me: I didn’t hear the cabinet door open and close (where the soap tablets are stored)

Son: (Thump!)

Me: Wrong order.

Son: What?

Me: PUT SOAP IN THE DISHWASHER NOW!

Son: OK (Thump! Whump!)

Me: Turn it on.

Son: It is.

Me: Turn. It. On.

Son: I meant I’m doing it now.

Me: Is it on?

Son: Yes.

Me: Remember, study. Math. Science. Two hours. Then you can go over to (friend)’s house. Study first.

Son: OK.

Me: Have a good afternoon. See you tonight.

Son: OK

 

 

I’m home now.

 

You know, I’ll bet he didn’t study either.

Loyalty

What does a writer owe his or her readers?

Anything?

Other than words, I mean.

If you’re a novelist, do you owe your readers anything other than words on paper? The readers buy your books, which hopefully puts money in your pocket – but is it anything beyond a simple business arrangement? They pay, you write. Period. Do you owe them access too?  In the old days, back before the Internet directly connected writers and readers, fans might write authors a letter, and the novelist might correspond – Alice Sheldon was famous for her correspondence with fans - as James Tiptree Jr, she didn’t feel she owed them her real identity. She wrote thousands of letters to other writers, to fans, to people she hated and admired. Some authors are famously reclusive, never responding to fans either in person or via letter.  I think that’s OK. I don’t think they owe the reader anything beyond that.

What about columnists and newspaper reporters?

Sure, they’ve always connected to their readers via easily ignored letters to the editor. Writing for magazines and news media seems much less personal than writing novels and short stories – though upon occasion I find myself connecting to a columnist, say like Leonard Pitts, a columnist for the Miami Herald that I particularly enjoy, or Dr. Jerry Pournelle who used to write a column in the now defunct Byte Magazine (he’s also a novelist and blogger and owner of Chaos Manor, quite possibly the worst formatted site in the history of the Internet. I love Pournelle’s writing, but his site makes my brain hurt).  Do these folks owe their loyal readers anything other than the weekly column and the occasional response to angry letters?

I don’t think they do, owe their readers anything beyond words.

Traditional media isolates the writer and separates him or her from the reader to a great extent. Most people understand that – and in Science Fiction, Horror, and Mystery genres that’s where the conventions came from, at least to some extent, a desire for a closer and more personal connection between fans and creators. And if a writer chooses to attend one of those conventions, well, he or she had better be at least somewhat accessible to the fans. But outside of that venue? Not so much.

But what about blogging?

Blogging is a different form of writing. It’s much more intimate. By design, it directly connects reader and writer on a personal and informal level – at least for the most common form of content and comment enabled blogging.  Do bloggers owe their readers something beyond mere words? Do bloggers owe their readers friendship, or at least what passes for friendship on the web – i.e. the emerging virtual relationships that are taking root in this rapidly evolving world wide community we call the Internet? Do bloggers owe their readers loyalty? After all, readers show up day in and day out, they read the good posts and the bad posts and the posts where you were hysterically funny and the posts where you were just too damned tired to do anything other than put up a picture of your stupid cat. Again. They offer advice and wish your family happy birthday and Merry Christmas, they send you email correcting your spelling and pointing out the stupid little errors you make in a sincere effort to help you look a little less stupid. They try to pick you up when you’re feeling blue and they knock you down a peg when you’re a little too full of yourself. They connect to other readers on your site and sometimes, if you’re very lucky, they form a community.

Do you owe them anything? Do you owe them loyalty, the ones who come back and stick with you through the good times and the bad?

I guess what I’m asking here is this: when do readers become more than just words on a screen? Ever?

Do you owe long time readers your loyalty? Or do you throw them over like a shallow high school cheerleader ditching her friends for a new boy when new readers come along?

Do you, the blogger, the writer, owe your readers anything? Beyond the words?

I think you do.

Unlike traditional media, I think the maturing and yet still evolving medium of blogging is a collaborative effort between writer and readers. No money exchanges hands. Rarely, if ever, does a blogger make a living from blogging. There’s no payoff to blogging. The only reason to do it at all, unless you’re nothing but a narcissistic bastard, is that interaction with the readers. Their comments become part of the article you wrote, sometimes – again, if you’re very lucky - their comments become the most interesting part of the post altogether and take you and your readers in directions you never imagined when you hacked out the piece in the first place.

If you do it right, you, the blogger, become little more than a catalyst for something much larger than yourself.

As most of you know, this hasn’t been the best of weeks for me, online. 

And it got me thinking about loyalty and what a blogger owes his long time and faithful readers.

I think he owes them loyalty in kind.

For those of you who come back here time and again, for those of you who read Stonekettle Station on my good days and on my bad days, and for all of you who offered your support and advice and sympathy and friendship this last week, thank you.

Thank you.

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Birdhouses

I’ve got a large number of requests for turned birdhouses. Really, it blows my mind - in a good way.

The number of requests for turned birdhouses has not yet, however, exceeded the number of requests that I drop dead due to my genderfailing.  If only I had a dollar… what? Oh, yeah, sorry, never mind. But someday I am going to figure out how to profit from the Die Sexist Pig Die! meme. I swear. Even if I have to wear a Leia Biki… What? Oh, right, sorry again.

Anyway, the birdhouses.

Yes.

There will be many.

Soon.

Later this week.

Be patient, it’ll be worth it.

Flu Shots

We had to into town for a couple things today.

We decided to swing by the clinic and see if we could get flu shots for my son and myself (my wife got hers at work last week).  I can get them free through the military or VA, but I’m never in the neighborhood and never have enough time to stand in line.  I’d rather just pay the $25 and get it done.

And with the pig flu scare, most places are actually out of the regular vaccine (and the swine flu vaccine is rare and non-existent so we haven’t even tried to get that), and the few times I’ve stopped by the base clinic or the VA, they’ve been out.

So, we dropped into the Palmer clinic today.

Sure, said the receptionist, we’ve got the shot.

We’ll take two, says we.

The son and I went in the back and rolled up our sleeves and the shot guy asked if we wanted the H1N1 vaccine too. Buwah? I thought we were out of that here in the Valley? Nope, they just got in 20 doses.  Hot damn, we’ll take it – and I had the guy go tell my wife in the waiting room. She joined us a minute later.

The son and I got the shot for the seasonal crud, and all three of us got the Flu-Mist version of the hiney swiney flu vaccine.

I’ve never had the Flu-Mist inhaler vaccine before. People have told me that it tastes horrible. They must have have gotten the rotten egg and gasoline variant, the stuff I had today tasted vaguely fruity and was gone in a second with no aftertaste. Easiest inoculation ever.

So, I’m now flu-proof. Woot!

Which, of course, means I’ll probably get strep throat or pink eye or something…

 

How about you people? Do you get the flu shot every year? Have you gotten yours this year? What about the swine flu inoculation? Do you think it ought to be mandatory?

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Attention Screechy Monkeys

You can stop sending me hate mail now.

I apologized once, I'm not going to do it again.

You're wasting your precious time, time you could be spending sucking up to famous science fiction authors and rubbing up against each other in self-righteous anger. Please, go there, do that, and leave me the hell alone. I'm not reading your silly nonsense, I don't give a flying fuck about your opinion of me, and it is very unlikely that your uber feminist frothy man-hating bullshit will change my outlook on life in any way whatsoever - an outlook, by the way, that is not what you think it is. You've made a value judgement about me based solely on my gender and you continue to do so - this makes you hypocrites and bigots of the highest caliber.

Maybe you ought to take a long look in the mirror before you take a poke at me.


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For those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, don't worry about it. I'm not going to link to the issue or give the site in question any more traffic or attention. Suffice it to say that I'm getting a large amount of hate mail from a bunch of perpetually offended man hating feminists with an all consuming case of penis envy.

In case you haven't noticed it, I'm taking a break from the Internet for a couple of days. This entire incident has pissed me off and left me feeling depressed and angry for reasons I'd rather not go into at the moment. I need a break. I'm taking one.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Changes

Over on GiantMidgets, Eric is talking about GoogleWave.

Wave is supposed to change the world, change how people interact, change how communications and work get done.

I doubt it will change much of anything.

But the hoopla over GoogleWave got me thinking about something I noticed earlier today at the gas station – and that’s this: more often than not, it’s the little things, not the big things that change our lives.

Rarely does big shiny technology have much impact on how we live our lives. 

No, it’s almost always the little technology, the almost unnoticed technology, that alters the very fabric of how we live. It’s subtle, it creeps in on little cat feet and before you know it, the way you live is different – and you don’t even notice.

Computers and the Internet and cell phones are an obvious example. So are portable music players with an entire radio station’s library of songs onboard and no moving parts.

But debit cards are a far more subtle and pervasive example of what I’m talking about.

I needed to get some things from the store this morning and I decided to take the Jeep instead of my truck.  We just had a lot of work done to the Jeep and I wanted to see how it drove. The snow is coming, it’ll be falling within the next two weeks, and that means my wife will have to put the convertible away and drive the Jeep and I wanted to make sure it was ready.  It was, and in fact we probably should have had this work done a while back, it drives like it did when it was new – which was about eighteen years ago now. On the way home I pulled into the gas station, I figured I’d fill up the tank so it would be ready when my wife needed it, because I’m a really cool husband like that.

Here’s the thing, I don’t have any idea how much gas I put in.

Twenty something dollars? Fifteen? Seventeen dollars and forty three cents? I dunno.

I don’t put gas in the Jeep much anymore, I don’t know how much it takes without paying attention. I didn’t get a receipt. I never do. And it doesn’t matter. It’ll show up on my electronic bank statement – and in fact it already has. My wife can download it into Quicken, along with the week’s transactions. I don’t care what the exact amount is.

That wasn’t true before debit cards.

Remember?

You’d watch the pump like a hawk, eyes tracking those little numbers as they whirled past the glass, slowing down, slowing down, and then squeezing the handle just so in order to get an even number. Exactly ten dollars, exactly twenty. So you could hand the guy in the glass both or behind the counter the exact right sized bill.  Or if you were writing a check, it made it a hell of a lot easier to balance the register if you got gas in exact multiples of ten.  You didn’t do this with anything else, just gas.

Nobody does that any more (hell, who writes checks? For gas, I mean?)

Well, mostly nobody.

Watch the next time you’re getting gas.  You can tell who still pays the old fashioned way, just by watching how they pump their gas.

It’s more than that. Ten years ago you had to make sure to fill up within a certain time frame, or know where the 24-hour gas stations were. You had to plan around it. Now? Most of the places I fill up aren’t even manned.  It’s just an automated gas kiosk in the corner of some parking lot.  It’s always open. Why wouldn’t it be? I don’t need to plan around filling up my tank.

You can tell which generation somebody was born in by who they ask for information.  Old people ask somebody else. Young people ask the Internet.  It never occurs to the older generation to Google it, it never occurs to the younger generation not to. Woman accuse men of never stopping to ask for directions, with MapQuest on my GPS enabled Internet phone, I don’t need to.

I don’t think the Internet itself changed people’s lives as profoundly as we expected, but search engines did.

Personally, I use Google to find the 24 hour gas stations.

What little things do you notice?

Monday, October 12, 2009

Happy Annie Veri Sorry

My wife and I met in Pensacola when I was stationed there as an Instructor at the Naval Technical Training Center.

At the time I was the king of really, really lousy relationships. Really.

Think I’m kidding?

In no particular order, I’d been involved with a self-destructive alcoholic, an self-destructive obsessive compulsive, a self-destructive hypochondriac, a pathological liar, and a faithless bitch who managed to get herself pregnant while engaged to me all the while loudly claiming that she was still a virgin (just for the record the father wasn’t me, it was half the Marine barracks, a couple of Seabees, and a Tijuana horse act). Those were the highlights. I wasn’t any better at the casual date – in fact my so-calling ‘dating’ life was an ongoing comedy of errors that resembled a Ben Stiller movie, i.e. not funny and more than a little mean, just for meanness sake. My dating life could be best summed up by that sound the Titanic made as it slowly and inexorably ground down the side of the iceberg, ripping open its guts in a scree of tearing metal, freezing water, and impending doom. Hell, I once went out with a girl who, during dinner, mentioned that she had to be home by 8:00PM so she could get ready for her real date - see that guy couldn’t pay for dinner but he was really hot, so this way she got a good dinner with me, and got to go clubbing with a really hot guy later. And she was the kind of girl who couldn’t figure out why I might be insulted when she dropped that little gem of gold digging logic in the middle of the main course. As I recall, she ended up taking a taxi home.

Remember that Zevon song? Lawyers, Guns, and Money? Like that, only without the joy.

By the time I met the woman who would become my wife, I had basically sworn off relationships of any kind, forever. No dating. No nothing. Kiss my ass.

Bitter? You have no idea.

But I had a friend, a woman I worked with as a volunteer on the weekends at the USO, who just would not leave me alone. She swore she knew a girl who was perfect for me. She pestered me for weeks about it. She kept on about it every single time I saw her, like one of those little yappy dogs. Yap yap yap. It was driving me insane.

A blind date? With my track record? Sure, what could possibly go wrong?

Tell me about her, I said. Well, replied my friend, she’s really nice! Nice? Uh no thanks. Idi Amin in drag, no doubt. Nice girls are the absolute worst.

But my friend just wouldn’t leave me the hell alone and finally I gave in and agreed to call the girl. I fully expected it to be a disaster of about 9.98 on the shitty-date-O-meter. She’d be crazy (because, as you know, all woman are psycho), she’d have hygiene issues and terminal BO, or talk to invisible friends, or bring along her husband who was out on parole, or be a Soviet spy, or some goddamned thing.

The only reason I agreed to the date was so I could get it over with and so I could say, “See? I told you so, now shut up. No really, shut up or I will hit you in the head with a shovel and feed your body to the alligators. Shut up.”

Things didn’t work out exactly as I expected.

It was literally love at first sight. I kid you not. She was the most amazing woman I’d ever met.

And she liked me.

As of today, we’ve been married 18 years.

I’m taking the day off. See you tomorrow.

Friday, October 9, 2009

Bitter Irony

I was at the base Exchange on Elmendorf Air Force Base today.

I stopped by after work to pick up a few things.

I followed a guy into the parking lot. He was driving a newer model foreign made SUV. I’d seen this particular vehicle around base before. In fact I’d followed it through the gate last Tuesday morning. Something about the vehicle made it stand out and when I followed it through the gate and I asked the guard whether the person driving it was military or a civilian. She looked confused, then confessed that she had no idea despite the fact that she had examined the driver’s ID and, supposedly, glanced at the driver not more the fifteen seconds before and despite that fact that it is her job to notice such things, guarding as she is one of America’s military bases – just another reason why, in my military opinion, we should have Marines at the gate and not half assed, don’t give a shit, ten-sandwich eating out of shape rent-a-cops, but then nobody asked me.

Why did I ask about this vehicle? What caught my eye and made it stand out? Why would I care if the driver was military or a civilian?

It was the bumper stickers.

One said “It’s an Obamanation!”

Now you could take that a number of ways. I’ve seen the term “Obamanation” used by both pro-Obama and vehemently anti-Obama people.

However, the other bumper sticker cleared up any ambiguity. It said simply: “Fuck Obama.”

The reason I wondered if the driver was military or civilian was that if the driver was military, he was in gross violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice – specifically Article 88, Contempt Towards Officials.

If he was military, I fully intended to give his First Shirt a call and have him straightened out. He’s welcome to think what he likes, he’s not allowed to express such sentiments regarding the Commander In Chief. Period. Don’t like it? Don’t join the military. Don’t swear the oath. When you hold up your right hand you agree to abide by the law, rules, and regulations of the military, which includes certain limitations on your freedoms. Either your word is good or it’s not. And if it’s not, you are accountable. Period.

If he was a civilian, well that’s a whole other ball of wax – and not much I could do about it.

Tuesday I didn’t have time to run him down and find out.

But today I ran into him in the parking lot of the base exchange.

I parked next to him.

He was a civilian.

Some type of contractor, a construction type, I gathered from his apparel. Probably one of the yahoos constructing the new F-22 hangers, if I had to guess.

He caught me looking at the bumper stickers.

“You really think that’s appropriate on a military base?” I asked.

“How so? I have a right to say what I think!”

“Not saying you don’t. But do you think that’s appropriate given that he’s is the Commander In Chief?”

“He’s not the CINC, he’s nothing but a usurper (he pronounced it “err-serper”). It’s a damned disgrace, what he’s doing to this country,” he said angrily.

Ah, a birther I guessed (but kept to myself, really didn’t feel like dealing with the fanatical crazies today).

As I started to walk away he said, “The sooner the military tosses him out the better. We need to take back America.”

The sooner the military tosses him out…?

Oh Christ on a crutch, not only a birther, but a revolutionary.

“Don’t hold your breath,” I told him.

He snorted in agreement – I don’t think he caught that my sarcasm was directed at him, and not the supposed dithering forces of righteous revolution.

Somebody has been watching way too much Glenn Beck.

And like Beck, they are neither capable of critical thought, nor understanding America’s military.

Beck, of course, in addition to his own acidic vomitus, was regurgitating columnist John Perry who penned a rightwing extremist screed in Newsmax calling for a resolution to the “Obama Problem.”

Will the day come when patriotic general and flag officers sit down with the president, or with those who control him, and work out the national equivalent of a "family intervention," with some form of limited, shared responsibility?

Imagine a bloodless coup to restore and defend the Constitution through an interim administration that would do the serious business of governing and defending the nation. Skilled, military-trained, nation-builders would replace accountability-challenged, radical-left commissars. Having bonded with his twin teleprompters, the president would be detailed for ceremonial speech-making.

Military intervention is what Obama's exponentially accelerating agenda for "fundamental change" toward a Marxist state is inviting upon America. A coup is not an ideal option, but Obama's radical ideal is not acceptable or reversible.

I’d give you a link to the original story, but the post has been taken down. Apparently calling for revolution and military juntas in the US are just a little far beyond the pale for even a rightwing blowhole like NewsMax. A PDF copy of the original post, however, is available here.

Beck and Perry weren’t the only ones calling for a military led revolution, Jim Quinn from The War Room with Quinn & Rose on Clear Channel called on troops to “run for your life, get out, this guy [Obama} is going to get you killed.” He went on to say, " Discussing health care reform, you have got to say no to this, and if they push this through, you need to riot in the streets. You need to riot in the streets. Our country was built on revolution and it's about time we took it back.”

Michael Savage of the Savage Nation keeps talking about revolution, “We're going to have a revolution in this country.” Savage is particularly concerned about how “the white male” is being discriminated against in America. (I shit you not, it’s a common theme with Savage, how Da Man is keeping Whitey down. Retch).

Hell, even kicked in the head one too many times Chuck Norris jumped up on the revolutionary bandwagon, “How much more will Americans take? When will enough be enough? And, when that time comes, will our leaders finally listen or will history need to record a second American Revolution? We the people have the authority according to America's Declaration of Independence." (Chuck is not real clear on the difference between the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution and which one forms the basis of law in this country and which one is little more than an interesting historical document. He also doesn’t seem to grasp that a majority of we the people elected the current President.)

Hannity, Limbaugh, Beck, Savage, Quinn, my friend in the parking lot – all of them have watched one too many of Chuck’s movies, I suspect, where countries are overthrown, the girl bedded, and democracy triumphant in a flurry of mano e mano fisticuffs in just under 90 minutes.

But see, reality isn’t a Chuck Norris movie. And the military is nothing like Hollywood.

We swear our oath to the Constitution of the United States and to obey the orders of the President. Quinn, Limbaugh, Hannity, Beck, and Savage have no idea what that means. But Norris served in the military, the Air Force to be precise – hell, that’s where he learned to fight. He was the Air Force’s Veteran of the Year in 2001. He really ought to know better.

Monday, Secretary of Defense Robert Gates summed up the American military’s role very, very precisely. He said, (I’m paraphrasing here) our job is to give the President the very best advice we can. But once the decision is made, our job is to carry out his orders. Period.

And that’s it exactly.

Our job is to advise the President to the best of our abilities, experience, knowledge, and training in military matters. But once the President gives the order, whether we agree with it or not, our job is to march forward smartly. Period.

Anyone who has taken the oath should damned well know that.

It’s ironic that these super patriots, these men who think they are the only true Americans – Limbaugh, Beck, Quinn, Savage, Norris, and their followers – would advocate a military coup in this country in order to overthrow the duly elected, democratically elected, majority elected President. It’s ironic that these so-called patriots would turn the United States into nothing more than some third world shithole where monthly revolutions and military juntas are a way of life – all while beating the drum of American patriotism. It’s ironic that they would wave the American flag and a copy of the Constitution while advocating deposing a president they call a communist and a Marxist and a dictator in order to bypass the Constitutionally designated electoral process and install their own leader – exactly the same way the dictator Saddam Hussein came to power, exactly the way the Communist Joseph Stalin came to power, exactly the same way the Marxist Fidel Castro came to power.

It’s ironic that these men who wave the Constitution as a rallying cry seem not to have actually read it – otherwise they’d be familiar with the constitutional process for removing a president from office. (Hint: It doesn’t involve a military coup). Or maybe they have, and realize that they have no grounds for their claim, leaving only revolution to get their way and impose their will on the American people – that’s not irony, that’s hypocrisy, but I digress. Again.

And it’s ironic that they would call upon us military folks to uphold our oath to the Constitution, when they clearly have so little respect for it themselves, and even less respect for honor, moral courage, and duty.

And it’s just plain pitifully ironic that the Grand Old Party of the Republic has been reduced to this.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Question

How will I die?
Your Result: You will die while saving someone's life.

The most noble of all deaths. Your rewards will be great in the next life. You are most definitely a humanitarian. If not currently, you will be. To give one's life is a precious moment that will be remembered by friends and family for many decades.

You will die in a car accident.

You will die while having sex.

You will die in your sleep.

You will die in a nuclear holocaust.

You will be murdered.

You will die of boredom.

You will die from a terminal illness.

How will I die?
Quiz Created on GoToQuiz

What's the deal with "you will die in a nuclear holocaust?" If that's true for even one person, shouldn't that be true for pretty much all of us?

Nuclear holocaust, not exactly a personal disaster. Just sayin'

Latest from the Shop: Birdhouses

Update: The mystery wood (birdhouse #4) is solved.

Update: All the birdhouses are sold.  More will be available shortly.


 

I meant to post this two days ago.

Between the Microsoft Malfunction and the fact that I was so dog tired last night, I didn’t get around to it until today. You understand.

 


As I mentioned previously, birdhouses are a fun project on the lathe.

They’re fairly easy, depending on how fancy you make them. They are a good way to practice turning skills, both basic and advanced skew work (the skew being the hardest of the lathe techniques to master, at least in my not so humble opinion), spindle turning, and face turning. And they are a good way to introduce kids to the lathe.

 

I start with the wood, of course.

Birdhouses 002

You can use whatever you’ve got laying around. That’s a large 4” thick slab of American walnut, some Brazilian rosewood, tigerwood, babinga, bloodwood, and some mahogany.  None of it looks like much, but it cleans up real nice. Trust me.

I cut the wood into 4”x4” pieces, six to eight inches long. Drill a 1” hole with a Forstner bit in the middle of one side (this will become the opening, the door, in the front of the birdhouse) on the drill press – it’s a whole lot easier to hold the blank steady on the press when it’s still a rectangle. Then I spindle mount the blank on the lathe between a spur drive (a spike with a ring of teeth around it, that allows the motor to turn the blank) and a live center (a pivot inside a bearing that supports the non-drive end of the turning) - and rough turn it to a cylinder.  I cut a dovetail on what will be the bottom end so that I can securely mount it in a heavy duty dovetail chuck (that shiny silver jobber in the picture, sort of like the Terminator’s oven mitt).

Like so: (note for you turners: the live center in the right hand picture is only there temporarily to ensue that I get the blank exactly centered in the chuck before cranking it down tight):

Blackberry 040 Blackberry 041

I then core out the middle of the blank using a large Forstner bit mounted in the tailstock:

Blackberry 044 Blackberry 045

You can already see in the above pictures that the wood is pretty spectacular. And it should be, it’s Amboyna.  Amboyna comes from the Narra tree, Pterocarpus Indicus, which grows in Southeast Asia – with the most prized trees growing on the Andaman Islands in the Bay of Bengal. The wood is extremely rare and very, very expensive with some (burled) cuts costing as much as $500/board foot. Wood like that is usually used for master crafted musical instruments. 

This isn’t one of those pieces.

It’s a straight non-burled chunk I got out of a cast-off bin along with some other odd sized pieces.  It was cracked and split, but enough remained to make a decent little project like a birdhouse out of – a really expensive birdhouse. Whatever bird takes up residence in this house is going to be the cock of the walk, just saying.

Anyway.

Next I reverse mount the piece on a friction chuck – which is a fancy way of saying that I push it firmly onto a wooden block mounted in the chuck:

Blackberry 046

Then I start shaping it with a gouge and skew.  Usually I have no idea what the final shape will look like.

Blackberry 047 Blackberry 048

One thing.

It is very, very, very, very, very important to measure the depth of the interior hollow correctly. Mark it on the outside of the turning. Pay attention.

So, you know, you don’t ruin a really expensive and unique piece of wood.

Very important.

Very.

Blackberry 049

Yeah.

I misjudged by about a millimeter.

Sigh.

 

 

 

Well, it’s an easy fix.

birdhouses 004

 

Oh, settle down, I’m just kidding.

 

No way I was throwing out that piece of wood. In addition to being unique, spectacular, and – did I mention? – expensive, it was an ever lovin’ bitch to turn. The wood is incredibly dense and hard and difficult.

Contrary, I think is the word I’m looking for here, contrary.

So, I cut off the bottom and glued in a piece of Brazilian rosewood – which I thought was a nice compliment, color wise, and is about the same density. Then I glued the finial back on:

Blackberry 050 Blackberry 052

 

Blackberry 053

Doesn’t look like much, does it?

Just wait.

 

Next I turn the perches.  Those are about the size of a matchstick.

When I mentioned birdhouses in the last post, I got an email from a guy claiming to be an “old school” turner. He chided me for saying I turned the perches on my Delta 46-525. He thought I might be exaggerating. The 525 is a fairly big lathe, designed for industrial shops – Old School suggested that I was really turning those perches on a mini lathe.  Why would I exaggerate about such things? Old School didn’t say, but I took him to mean that I was fibbing in order to impress Saw Dust Groupies, you know, that band of hot chicks who follow middle aged wood turners around hoping to sleep with them and bear their children.  Well, the chicks and the fame and glory.

Yeah.

For the record, I really do turn the little bitty perches on the 525.

 Birdhouses 005 Birdhouses 004Birdhouses 006

I never went to the old school, I didn’t know I couldn’t. Sorry.

 

The caps get turned from whatever contrasting wood I have on hand, in this case birch burl, rosewood, and tigerwood.

 

birdhouses 007

Remember the Amboyna? Here it is with a cap of and perch of Brazilian rosewood, finished in walnut oil:

birdhouses 008

Pretty, isn’t it? The picture doesn’t do it justice at all. The wood is amazing, I really wish I had more of it.

This one is not for sale. I’m sending it to my Dad. He’s an avid birdwatcher and my folks’ backyard is filled with birdhouses and feeders. I think he’ll like it.

 

This next one is also not for sale. Or rather it’s already been sold, this one is going to Stonekettle Station regular and UCFer, Janiece. It’s South American Bocate, a yellow and black striped wood taken from the Cordia tree. It’s a dense and very fragrant fruitwood. Capped with Brazilian Rosewood and finished in walnut oil.

birdhouses 009

 


 

The following pieces are for sale.  Each one is numbered. There are six of them. First come, first served, note in the comments section which one you want by number. Again first person to comment gets the piece. One each. If they don’t all go, you may have two or more. I’ll let you know when.

I know, I know. Different time zones and such, unfair. Yep. I wish it were different, but life is sometimes cruel in the willy nilly wild and woolly world of wood turned birdhouses.  Besides, I’ll be making more shortly. Please, no pushing, no shoving, no throwing of panties on the stage.

(Snark aside – I will have more available soon, probably next weekend)

Prices are set by the cost of the wood.

Shipping is $10 for all pieces – which is a bargain from Alaska. Shipping will be via USPS, unless you specify otherwise. And otherwise will cost you more.

 

__________________________________________________

#1 – White Birch, Cherry and Tigerwood. Tall, very light.

The body is birch, the cap is cherry, with tigerwood inlay.

Price: $30

birdhouses 010

 

__________________________________________________

#2 – Bocote and Birch Burl Cap

Price: $40

birdhouses 011

 

__________________________________________________

#3 – Bocote and Tigerwood Cap

Price: $35

birdhouses 012

 

__________________________________________________

#4 Mystery wood Orange Agate and Spalted Birch Heartwood Cap.

Honestly, I have no idea what the body of this piece is made out of.  I got the wood out of the turning blank bin from a hardwood supplier in Anchorage. It came in with a consignment of odd pieces from South America but nobody had any idea what it was. Neither do I.  My good friend and regular reader, fellow wood turner and expert of exotic hardwoods, Beastly, might know.  If he figures it out, I’ll make an update.

It’s Orange Agate, a wood cut from the jungles of Peru. It is hard as a rock, fragrant and quite beautiful with amazing grain and figure.

(Thanks to Beastly for identifying it).

Price: $40

birdhouses 013

 

__________________________________________________

#5 – White Birch and Rosewood

I really like this one.  I like the contrast between the woods. This is a small house, with a teardrop shaped door. Just because I felt like experimenting with door shapes. In the future I may do ovals and other teardrops.

Price: $25

birdhouses 014

 

__________________________________________________

#6 – Bocote and Rosewood

Price: $35

birdhouses 015

 

__________________________________________________

 

All the birdhouses are finished in walnut oil – a non-toxic, bird safe natural oil. The houses are decorative, however they are suitable for hanging outdoors and for use by nesting small birds – BUT they will age and weather over time, unless you oil them once a season.  Additionally, NOTE: They cannot be opened for cleaning – I’m working on a design that will allow you to remove the cap for cleaning, but I’m not there yet. If you need to clean these, you’ll have to pull the old nest out in pieces through the opening with a pair of needle nosed pliers. It’s perfectly doable and not really a problem, I just like you to know what you’re buying up front.

 

As always, I prefer payment via Paypal, but I’ll consider other methods as long as we work it out via email first.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Apparently…

…all I’m going to do tonight is surf the internet for funny videos.

Hey, it was just one of those days, I’m fried.

So, have some Lewis Black. Holy hell, this guy cracks me up.

(NOT SAFE FOR WORK, just sayin')



This guy's routine is like one of my rants, only on video.

I Have Not The Words

Really.

Sunday, October 4, 2009

Things That Ought To Be A Hanging Offense

Die, Microsoft Die!

Is there anything more likely to make a blood vessel in my head swell and explode than the message “Program is not responding?”

No there is not.

I swear to all that is holy, it ought to be legal to kill a random stranger from a rooftop with a high powered rifle every damned time you get that message.

Program is not responding.

Thanks.

Thanks for stating the obvious, Microsoft. And really, thanks for nothing.

No shit the program is not responding, you dolts. I can see that it’s not responding. I can see the program has frozen for no apparent reason other than activation of the mysterious Microsoft subroutine Check_For_Unsaved_Work_If_Yes_CRASHMOTHERFUCKERCRASH! The fact that I’m pounding on the keyboard in a bloody-eyed rage tipped me off. The message is really not necessary, unless you are actually trying to induce an aneurism in my head the size of the Hindenburg fireball.

I got it.

The program is not responding. Yeah.

You want to impress me with Windows 7?

Include a phone number I can dial from my non-Windows Based phone that sends high amperage electric shocks directly to Bill Gates’ balls – also at the same time have a message pop up on his screen saying “Your Testicles Are On Fire! – JUST IN CASE YOU WONDERED WHAT THAT FUCKING PAIN WAS, BILL!”

Hey! There’s an idea, what if we made everybody who worked at Microsoft wear the special taser electrode underwear? You know, I’d be a whole lot less likely to come unhinged and embark on a multi-state homicidal rampage if I knew that every time a program ceased responding for no apparent reason whatsoever a random Microsoft employee was getting about ten thousand volts straight in the privates. Zzzzzzt!

Wait.

Don’t do it. Just stop right there. Take your hands off the keyboard. Step away from the comment box.

Because there is one thing that I find more aggravating than Microsoft.

And that would be the inevitable comment recommending that I switch to penguin based operating systems or to that one with the apples.

Really, just don’t. People who offer helpful suggestions that aren’t actually helpful and in reality are just another way of saying “Bawahahahaha! Mine is better than yours. See? I told you so” should be soaked in gasoline, loaded in a large artillery piece and fired flaming into North Korea.

I’m already pissed enough. The entire pictorial of this weekend’s shop work, i.e. the birdhouses, is gone in a cloud of petulant electrons. My urge to commit violence is running about 9.6 at the moment, all I need is a target. Really think about it.

Better for all of us if I take out my ire on that guy who drives too slow in the fast lane – because, next to Bill Gates* and the troop of brain damaged baboons running Microsoft, driving too slow in the fast lane should be number one when it comes to hanging offenses.

Pictures tomorrow.

Maybe.


*Yes, I know Bill doesn’t actually run MS any more. I don’t care I still want to set his crotch on fire.

It's Always Something

Took the Jeep in to get the winter tires put on and an alignment.

Got a call from the shop.

It's going to need $2000 worth of repairs. U-joints and pitman arms and various and sundry. Yes, it's got damned near 300,000 miles on it.

But still, Arrgh!

It's cheaper than a new vehicle I suppose. But damn, $2000. Ouch!

Saturday, October 3, 2009

Ask Stonekettle Station

“When your sending a vibe at a girl what does it mean if you feel like your goin to vomit (sic)”

Well there are a number of answers to this one.

1) it means that you realize that you’re damned near illiterate and it makes you sick to your stomach.

2) it means that the girl you’re sending the vibe at is wearing vibe reflective clothing and your nauseating pervert waves are bouncing straight back at you. Honest to God, man, now you know why all the woman around you vomit continuously in your presence. Turn that shit off. (Dude, I’m totally serious - remember Niven’s Law: Never fire a laser at a mirror).

3) You thought you sent your girl the movie Vibes starring Jeff Goldblum and Cyndi Lauper, but belatedly realized that you sent her Vibe starring Sinbad. The sudden mental B-movie image of a Goldblum/Lauper/Sinbad mashup caused your stomach to clench tighter than Roman Polanski’s butt cheeks in a California prison shower and the thought of your girl thinking you wanted to watch a Sinbad movie with her makes your bowels turn to water like Jessica Simpson with a major case of the herbal colon blow.

4) You have swine flu. You're going to die.

Pick the answer that most suits your particular vibe.

Just In Case You Were Wondering

Yes.

I am in the shop, making your damned birdhouses.

I’m not goofing off, I just came in to get a cup of coffee.

You’re welcome.

 

What?

Yes, I’m taking pictures.

Yes, I’ll post them later.

Now, stop whining, I hate that. Go watch Stargate Universe on Hulu or something.

Friday, October 2, 2009

What It Looks Like Out My Back Window

Pioneer Peak 003

Yeah, that’s snow alright.

2000 feet down Pioneer Peak and coming fast.

Man, I am not ready for winter.

But I admit that I love the view of snow capped mountains at sunset.

The Obligatory Roman Polanski Post

Saw a guy wearing a “Free Polanski!” T-shirt today.

Are people actually defending this scumbag?

Seriously?

You have got to be kidding me.

Let us review, shall we?

He raped a 13 year old girl.

He was a 44 year old sexual predator who planned his crime with deliberation in order to rape a 13 year old child. He drugged her. Then he sodomized her, repeatedly, orally, anally, and then vaginally.

He admitted this in court. He is not “Roman Polanski, alleged pedophile and child rapist.” He is “Roman Polanski, pedophile, child rapist, and complete fucking scumbag who fled justice when it appeared that he might actually have to pay for his crimes.”

And he’s spent the last 30 years avoiding paying for those crimes.

He’s spent the last 30 years living his life, walking about like he was a normal human being and not the child raping scumbag that he is.

He finally got caught.

And people are actually defending him.

People are actually saying that because he is such a great director his crimes should just be excused.

Excused? We should just excuse rape because this guy makes movies?

At the risk of repeating myself, you’ve got to be kidding me.

Half of Hollywood is up in arms, outraged at Polanski’s arrest. These people have lost their Goddamned minds. Oh, sure, I can understand somebody like Woody Allen – you know, the guy who screwed around on his wife with his step daughter, and then eventually married the girl after being divorced by her irate mother. Then there’s Whoopie Goldberg, who seems to think that there’s a difference between rape, and “rape-rape” – one wonders if she would make such a fine distinction if she was the victim. But the real prize goes to Debra Tate, sister of Polanski’s deceased wife, actress Sharon Tate. Tate said that “the rape was consensual.” Consensual rape? The mind boggles at the shear size of the oxymoron. Tate apparently does understand the concept of statutory rape, but thinks it's OK when Polanski does it. When the Manson Family came to slaughter her pregnant sister, I have to wonder if Debra Tate considered that consensual too?

I don’t give a shit what movies this scumbag has made. I don’t care what prizes he’s won.

Roman Polanski is an admitted rapist and sexual predator.

He belongs in jail with the other child molesters.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Oops

Turns out you’re not getting a post tonight either.

My son and I were out in the shop – and I lost track of time.

My son has recently been expressing interest in learning how to turn.

This tickles me.

Tonight he was learning basic techniques. Such as using a forstner bit in the tailstock chuck to hollow out birdhouse bases.  As I said yesterday, turned birdhouses are a great way to learn to use a wood lathe, they incorporate all the basic techniques of both spindle and face turning.

Lathe

It is now late and I am very tired.

Good night.