zomg I'm going to post about guns!
My mother in law has complained that some varmits of the furry persuasion are causing problems with her small garden, and preventing her from planting a larger one.
The only method for vermin extermination which is 99% free of collateral damage (there are some very beautiful birds in the same area) is a manually applied high velocity lead lobotomy. Lead-on! Apply directly to the forehead!
A pellet gun was the first choice, and after some research I found the Crosman Phantom was the best choice for sub-$100 high velocity air guns. If anything, it was a little overpowered for what I was going to use it, but I figured it would get use in more official small game capacities. It was inexpensive, but not super necessary, so I wasn't totally convinced that it was the right way to go. Then I happened upon a post about Aguila Colibris.
After some memory refreshing research on subsonic .22 rounds, I rekindled my interest in these interesting options for a .22. Obviously, the underpowered cartridges wouldn't cycle the actions of semi-auto .22s, but there were other options. Like lever .22s and .22 revolvers.
I've always liked the idea of kit guns. Carrying around a small revolver in .22 for minor pest extermination, and being able to open it up and swap in a .22 shotshell, aforementioned Colibri, CB short, or whatever else. The ability to quickly switch ammo is gone on the lever gun, so that was a count against it, but a boltie or a break-action would be easy enough.
Actually, since we're talking about .22 revolvers, didn't I want a Ruger Single Six type gun? (You can see how quickly this got out of hand.) Being unemployed, there are a few low-cost but functional alternatives (Still being unemployed, these low cost options are still more than the Crossman Phantom.) Plus the single cartridge feed system (feed gate) might be a little fiddly to swap out a single round or keep track of what flavor of .22 is in what spot in the cylinder.
But...
After reading some more reviews and comparisons of the Super Colibris, I found many people saying the Super Colibris were quieter out of rifles than their 1000 fps airguns. If this holds up, I could have most of the things I want for the cost of one box of Super Colibris ($5).
Aguila advises for both the Colibris and the Super Colibris that they not be fired from a rifle for fear of the bullet not making it out of the barrel (ostensibly, the reason for the release of the Super Colibris which came later). Many people reported no problem with the Super Colibris through rifles, so I'm willing to give it a cautious try.
But this means I'll be using one of my existing .22 rifles, which is less than optimal, because both are semi-auto, and there can be some inconsistencies in velocity depending on when the pressure drops during the recoil operation. To be honest, this problem only seems to lead to problems at longer distances (which I don't need yet), but it didn't stop me from rekindling an old idea I had for a slide lock like on the old suppressed spy guns.
A slide lock prevents the recoil operation from taking place, and turns a semi-auto into a single shot in order to prevent gas (and noise) from escaping through the chamber when it opens to load the next round, while eliminating the mechanical noise of the reciprocation of the bolt/slide.
At this point, I'm pretty far off the beaten path, but the challenge of being unemployed seems to be fueling this thought process. If I was still well paid, I would have just bought the Phantom immediately and missed this whole tangent! BOOO-RING!
There are some options for slide locks on 10/22s, but that gun doesn't have much character. Plus, who wants to pay for someone else's product when you can make a something custom yer damn self! I've got a soft spot for that stupid space gun anyway. And while I'm in a fabricating mood, I should figure out a simple way to make a solid trigger bar.
Speaking of the G22, that sucker is SO getting a suppressor. The only question is; will I chop the barrel down to keep the end of the suppressor where the current barrel ends? Hmm... Thinking about it now, that would mean I couldn't keep the front sight on it, and I don't have nearly as much fun shooting with a red dot or scope. But it does look even more spacey with the front sight off... Oh the possibilities...
Wait, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, gardens... Did I mention there's a Savage .22/410 at the local gun shop? Didn't think I'd ever get to see one of those up close. That thing tickles the neat-o part of my brain.
Hahaha! I started this post with the title "Low profile plinker" and by the end of the post I had a tricked out space gun!
Tuesday, July 03, 2012
Monday, July 02, 2012
Friday, June 29, 2012
A good gunny is always a good friend
My search for a proper gun shop (used the yellow pages lol) lead me to a nice place in downtown Lexington that actually had more guns than employees (unlike others). After eyeballing all the pretties I could now buy, one of the clerks asked if I needed help. Being overly eager to make connections at the moment, I chatted him up, and actually found him to be a proper gunny. We discussed laws in California (which he was surprisingly current on), a variety of new guns, gun shop etiquette, some light politics, and generally hit it off. He excused himself to lunch, and asked if I'd like to come along to talk more.
He's actually very well informed about a wide variety of topics, and is a proper libertarian, which meant we couldn't stop agreeing with each other. I could feel my excitement building; this was my first Kentucky friend, and so far, he was going to be a really good one.
He invited me on a range trip the next day, which I gladly accepted. The trip was a terrible bust due to a series of failures, but the driving around meant I got to talk to him more, and we definitely built a stronger foundation for the friendship.
The range we planned on visiting was temporarily closed due to the actions of some idiots causing a fire. Tracers + belt-fed = WTF do you think it equals?! Friggin' FIRE! There was some light joking that they'd have to sell some of their full autos to pay for the fines and fire dept bill. There were actually a few other shooters there who were learning the range was closed too, after hooking up with them, one suggested a nearby range he knew, so we convoyed over only to find it strangely empty. We went to a local outfitters (which I guess is just a shop) and asked about entry or if we could call the owners (who the clerk knew by name) who indicated the range was temporarily closed, and they wouldn't accept day passes. Well gee. Luckily, one of the friends we went with knew of another range, a little closer to the way back. We arrived to discover the range was now a chapel. Must be a Kentucky thing.
Hours and dozens of miles after starting, we gave up on the rifle shooting, and went to a popular local shop and pistol range in Lexington for some consolation shooting.
Luckily, this place hadn't been struck by lightning or been swallowed up by the Earth, and we were able to actually shoot. I shot my friend's Taurus Beretta 92 clone stupidly well, leaving a 1.5 inch group at 7 yards (he doesn't shoot past 7 yards, because he feels that beyond that range, he can probably run. (Fair enough, when in Rome, etc...) I wondered if he felt the responsibility to defend strangers, but didn't ask. There'll be time for that in the countless hypotheticals we gunnies concern ourselves with. Free to do rapid fire, I indulged in what I was only able to test in the desert, and found my accuracy extremely comforting. Carrying a 9 is much easier knowing you can put 10 shots in a fist sized area in seconds.
After shooting, I spent some time perusing the wide selection and even found some nice classic arms. The prices were second only to the selection. Some pieces were very similarly priced to California, but so many others were significantly less than I was able to find. The selection of suppressors was also of much interest to me. A .22 suppressor will be first.
After this, I went to lunch at a steakhouse, and because I had just enjoyed my newfound rights, I open carried from the parking lot to the steakhouse and back again. No one's head exploded, the police didn't draw down on me, and I didn't act like an idiot. In fact, I was overly polite, and even scratched my right ear a few times to make sure the proprietors had the opportunity to see me carrying so they could ask me to return my gun to my car (though I saw no "no guns" sign). Baby steps for now. I believe concealed carry has significant advantages to open carry, but I can't get my permit until I've lived here for 6 months, leaving open carry my only option. I plan on exercising this right more until then.
Overall, I made a good new friend, got an introduction to Kentucky's gun culture, and exercised a new right. I can't wait to see what else Kentucky has in store for me.
He's actually very well informed about a wide variety of topics, and is a proper libertarian, which meant we couldn't stop agreeing with each other. I could feel my excitement building; this was my first Kentucky friend, and so far, he was going to be a really good one.
He invited me on a range trip the next day, which I gladly accepted. The trip was a terrible bust due to a series of failures, but the driving around meant I got to talk to him more, and we definitely built a stronger foundation for the friendship.
The range we planned on visiting was temporarily closed due to the actions of some idiots causing a fire. Tracers + belt-fed = WTF do you think it equals?! Friggin' FIRE! There was some light joking that they'd have to sell some of their full autos to pay for the fines and fire dept bill. There were actually a few other shooters there who were learning the range was closed too, after hooking up with them, one suggested a nearby range he knew, so we convoyed over only to find it strangely empty. We went to a local outfitters (which I guess is just a shop) and asked about entry or if we could call the owners (who the clerk knew by name) who indicated the range was temporarily closed, and they wouldn't accept day passes. Well gee. Luckily, one of the friends we went with knew of another range, a little closer to the way back. We arrived to discover the range was now a chapel. Must be a Kentucky thing.
Hours and dozens of miles after starting, we gave up on the rifle shooting, and went to a popular local shop and pistol range in Lexington for some consolation shooting.
Luckily, this place hadn't been struck by lightning or been swallowed up by the Earth, and we were able to actually shoot. I shot my friend's Taurus Beretta 92 clone stupidly well, leaving a 1.5 inch group at 7 yards (he doesn't shoot past 7 yards, because he feels that beyond that range, he can probably run. (Fair enough, when in Rome, etc...) I wondered if he felt the responsibility to defend strangers, but didn't ask. There'll be time for that in the countless hypotheticals we gunnies concern ourselves with. Free to do rapid fire, I indulged in what I was only able to test in the desert, and found my accuracy extremely comforting. Carrying a 9 is much easier knowing you can put 10 shots in a fist sized area in seconds.
After shooting, I spent some time perusing the wide selection and even found some nice classic arms. The prices were second only to the selection. Some pieces were very similarly priced to California, but so many others were significantly less than I was able to find. The selection of suppressors was also of much interest to me. A .22 suppressor will be first.
After this, I went to lunch at a steakhouse, and because I had just enjoyed my newfound rights, I open carried from the parking lot to the steakhouse and back again. No one's head exploded, the police didn't draw down on me, and I didn't act like an idiot. In fact, I was overly polite, and even scratched my right ear a few times to make sure the proprietors had the opportunity to see me carrying so they could ask me to return my gun to my car (though I saw no "no guns" sign). Baby steps for now. I believe concealed carry has significant advantages to open carry, but I can't get my permit until I've lived here for 6 months, leaving open carry my only option. I plan on exercising this right more until then.
Overall, I made a good new friend, got an introduction to Kentucky's gun culture, and exercised a new right. I can't wait to see what else Kentucky has in store for me.
"It's too complicated, you wouldn't understand."
No, I think we understand plenty.
Now that we've had some opportunity to let the SCOTUS decision impact us directly, get the experts' opinions, get the strategists' opinions, and reconcile all this with our own opinions, I still don't feel particularly positive about the outcome.
People keep telling me that this decision is clever, strategic, even genius, but all I see is a man who preserved the public perception of the court at the expense of the entire country. Save the trickery for something less crucial to the survival of the republic.
Destabilizing the commerce clause, building some precedent (with liberal support) for limiting the overall power of the federal government, and advancing states' rights seems like a pretty sweet deal until you realize that the trade off is short term approval of the federal government to TAX YOU FOR EXISTING.
I appreciate that we have a long game to play here, but a dangerous game is still being played. This administration in particular has been VERY quick to use tricks of its own to expand its power. When you give this administration an inch, it buys guns with stimulus dollars and sends them to Mexican drug cartels who kill hundreds of Mexican citizens and at least one federal border patrol simply to advance gun control. These are NOT the people to whom you hand a dagger because you know you're going to get a sword later. They're just going to stab youin the back while looking you in the eyes soon as their fingers wrap around the handle.
I don't understand the argument that made the integrity of the SCOTUS more important than doing its job. If you ask me, they're one and the same.
If the SCOTUS had come down the way everyone expected (you know, the constitutional way), we would have had plenty of talk about the SCOTUS being overly political, and judicial activism, and all the bobble-headed pundits would have backed Obama the same way they always have. But the citizen of this country would have understood what all the polls said they did:
IT'S STILL UNCONSTITUTIONAL.
So now, instead of all the pundits hating the SCOTUS, all the citizens understand there are NO further checks on federal power.
Congratulations.
You saved the SCOTUS and lost the country.
If we're lucky, the enemies of the constitution will sit on their hands after their big win, Romney will win, the GOP will overturn Obamacare in its entirety, we'll trade some liberal justices for some strict constitutionalists, and we'll start getting this country on track.
But if all of those things don't happen exactly in that order, Roberts just handed Obama the win he needs to rebuild this country in his own image, with total federal control over everything we do, and everything we don't do.
Don't tell me that Obama won't stretch, bend, or break the "rules" in order to get what he wants. Is it beyond him to pack the supreme court? To simply choose not to enforce laws he doesn't like? To appoint unelected and unapproved czars to oversee huge swathes of economic and individual activity? To create labor relations boards under the treasury department, unelected, without congressional approval, appointed by him personally, who report only to him?
To personally oversee a "kill list" which includes American citizens who are to be exterminated by drone strikes without any form of process?
Then don't tell me that this is a win.
This isconservatives Republicans thinking they're clever by exploiting a little-known rule to beat an opponent who cheats.
This is winning the debate when the judges have already been bought by the other team.
This is fighting with finesse, skill, and guile, parrying every blow and eventually putting your opponent into an inescapable submission hold, only for him to pull a boot knife and stab you in the neck.
This is what this party has always done.
This is playing to lose.
Now that we've had some opportunity to let the SCOTUS decision impact us directly, get the experts' opinions, get the strategists' opinions, and reconcile all this with our own opinions, I still don't feel particularly positive about the outcome.
People keep telling me that this decision is clever, strategic, even genius, but all I see is a man who preserved the public perception of the court at the expense of the entire country. Save the trickery for something less crucial to the survival of the republic.
Destabilizing the commerce clause, building some precedent (with liberal support) for limiting the overall power of the federal government, and advancing states' rights seems like a pretty sweet deal until you realize that the trade off is short term approval of the federal government to TAX YOU FOR EXISTING.
I appreciate that we have a long game to play here, but a dangerous game is still being played. This administration in particular has been VERY quick to use tricks of its own to expand its power. When you give this administration an inch, it buys guns with stimulus dollars and sends them to Mexican drug cartels who kill hundreds of Mexican citizens and at least one federal border patrol simply to advance gun control. These are NOT the people to whom you hand a dagger because you know you're going to get a sword later. They're just going to stab you
I don't understand the argument that made the integrity of the SCOTUS more important than doing its job. If you ask me, they're one and the same.
If the SCOTUS had come down the way everyone expected (you know, the constitutional way), we would have had plenty of talk about the SCOTUS being overly political, and judicial activism, and all the bobble-headed pundits would have backed Obama the same way they always have. But the citizen of this country would have understood what all the polls said they did:
IT'S STILL UNCONSTITUTIONAL.
So now, instead of all the pundits hating the SCOTUS, all the citizens understand there are NO further checks on federal power.
Congratulations.
You saved the SCOTUS and lost the country.
If we're lucky, the enemies of the constitution will sit on their hands after their big win, Romney will win, the GOP will overturn Obamacare in its entirety, we'll trade some liberal justices for some strict constitutionalists, and we'll start getting this country on track.
But if all of those things don't happen exactly in that order, Roberts just handed Obama the win he needs to rebuild this country in his own image, with total federal control over everything we do, and everything we don't do.
Don't tell me that Obama won't stretch, bend, or break the "rules" in order to get what he wants. Is it beyond him to pack the supreme court? To simply choose not to enforce laws he doesn't like? To appoint unelected and unapproved czars to oversee huge swathes of economic and individual activity? To create labor relations boards under the treasury department, unelected, without congressional approval, appointed by him personally, who report only to him?
To personally oversee a "kill list" which includes American citizens who are to be exterminated by drone strikes without any form of process?
Then don't tell me that this is a win.
This is
This is winning the debate when the judges have already been bought by the other team.
This is fighting with finesse, skill, and guile, parrying every blow and eventually putting your opponent into an inescapable submission hold, only for him to pull a boot knife and stab you in the neck.
This is what this party has always done.
This is playing to lose.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
I've escaped to Free America
So long California. It's been fun.
We packed up our stuff, tossed the rabbit in the car, and headed for the border.
It was a great relief crossing the Colorado river out of occupied America and into the unknown. While I don't know what exactly is going to happen in Kentucky, I know well enough what will happen if I stay in California.
Ava did alright on the trip. She barely moved the first day, but started to eat, drink, and hop across the back seat to use the litter box on the second day. By the fourth day, she was laying on the comforter between the driver and passenger seats. She has proven to be a unique bunny who doesn't adhere to the usual rabbit behavioral rules.
The Subaru was excellent on the long trip, running all 2500 miles smoothly with the AC on through the heat and ups and down of the road. The ride and seats were easy on us, and according to the MPG tracker in the car, we bested the EPA's highway estimates.
A special thanks must go to David brand Jalapeño Hot Salsa flavor Sunflower Seeds. Those things beat the hell out of caffeine on the long rides.
We took the southern route across the US, what I called the less-scenic route, in order to avoid complications with our cargo and our trip. I was quite wrong about the route being less scenic. I had expected little more than dirt and desert scrub until we hit Arkansas, but there were green pastures, dense forest, green plains to the horizon, and very few spots as ugly southern California. Certainly, Northern California is exquisitely beautiful, but southern California is a desert. Leveled, and paved over, with trees planted on top of it fed by borrowed water. Only New Mexico presented harsh lands, the rest were lush and green and inviting.
Northern Texas was second only to Kentucky, (thankfully) our destination, which only seems to get more breathtaking with each passing day. It really is beautiful here.
After some recovery time, we went to get our licenses, which required a total of 15 minutes from parking in front of the clerks office (downtown with no meters!), walking in, filling out paperwork, getting our pictures taken, and walking out with our licenses. It would take more than 15 minutes to find a parking spot at a California DMV.
I'm still wrapping my head around the small-town-ed-ness of this place. We're living with my Mother-in-law in a somewhat rural area, only 15 minutes from town, but there still isn't an easy way to "pop in" real quick. Assemble your chores for the day, go into town, and come back. Everything is further apart, and requires more of a commitment. Rarely do the roads exceed 55 mph, and I'm finding myself slowly acclimating to simply slowing down a bit. I haven't much to rush about at the moment, but it's still strange for me.
Being Free America, I expected the roads to be paved with Gadsden flags, and a gun shop on every corner, but I had more gun shops in a 10 mile radius in SoCal than I have in a 30 mile radius here. I understand there are fewer people here, but I didn't expect it to be this sparse. I suppose hunting only requires a few good rifles and shotguns, and doesn't need much ammo, but I expected sport shooting to keep the gun shop count high. It may be that I'm not looking in the right spots. Perhaps I should close google maps and crack a yellow pages (they still exist!). My little brother would love to shoot Puma's new PPSH clone in .22, and that doesn't exactly fit in with the type of guns you'd find at the goo' ol' boys' hunting shop.
I had expected some degree of culture shock coming here, in the form of different stores, different food, different accents, and different attitudes, but I've had trouble identifying any negatives in these differences. The stores are similar or the same, the food available matches what we had in SoCal, the southern accents are light and disappointingly sparse, and the attitudes are the kind of polite I tried to represent in SoCal. I do feel the need to adjust my soft polite tone to a louder polite tone, because people seem to have trouble hearing it or seem confused when they do. I've already caught myself matching some pronunciations, but only in response to the same.
More updatessoon when I feel like it. Everything is just slower here, in a good way. Again, I'm having trouble adjusting.
We packed up our stuff, tossed the rabbit in the car, and headed for the border.
It was a great relief crossing the Colorado river out of occupied America and into the unknown. While I don't know what exactly is going to happen in Kentucky, I know well enough what will happen if I stay in California.
Ava did alright on the trip. She barely moved the first day, but started to eat, drink, and hop across the back seat to use the litter box on the second day. By the fourth day, she was laying on the comforter between the driver and passenger seats. She has proven to be a unique bunny who doesn't adhere to the usual rabbit behavioral rules.
The Subaru was excellent on the long trip, running all 2500 miles smoothly with the AC on through the heat and ups and down of the road. The ride and seats were easy on us, and according to the MPG tracker in the car, we bested the EPA's highway estimates.
A special thanks must go to David brand Jalapeño Hot Salsa flavor Sunflower Seeds. Those things beat the hell out of caffeine on the long rides.
We took the southern route across the US, what I called the less-scenic route, in order to avoid complications with our cargo and our trip. I was quite wrong about the route being less scenic. I had expected little more than dirt and desert scrub until we hit Arkansas, but there were green pastures, dense forest, green plains to the horizon, and very few spots as ugly southern California. Certainly, Northern California is exquisitely beautiful, but southern California is a desert. Leveled, and paved over, with trees planted on top of it fed by borrowed water. Only New Mexico presented harsh lands, the rest were lush and green and inviting.
Northern Texas was second only to Kentucky, (thankfully) our destination, which only seems to get more breathtaking with each passing day. It really is beautiful here.
After some recovery time, we went to get our licenses, which required a total of 15 minutes from parking in front of the clerks office (downtown with no meters!), walking in, filling out paperwork, getting our pictures taken, and walking out with our licenses. It would take more than 15 minutes to find a parking spot at a California DMV.
I'm still wrapping my head around the small-town-ed-ness of this place. We're living with my Mother-in-law in a somewhat rural area, only 15 minutes from town, but there still isn't an easy way to "pop in" real quick. Assemble your chores for the day, go into town, and come back. Everything is further apart, and requires more of a commitment. Rarely do the roads exceed 55 mph, and I'm finding myself slowly acclimating to simply slowing down a bit. I haven't much to rush about at the moment, but it's still strange for me.
Being Free America, I expected the roads to be paved with Gadsden flags, and a gun shop on every corner, but I had more gun shops in a 10 mile radius in SoCal than I have in a 30 mile radius here. I understand there are fewer people here, but I didn't expect it to be this sparse. I suppose hunting only requires a few good rifles and shotguns, and doesn't need much ammo, but I expected sport shooting to keep the gun shop count high. It may be that I'm not looking in the right spots. Perhaps I should close google maps and crack a yellow pages (they still exist!). My little brother would love to shoot Puma's new PPSH clone in .22, and that doesn't exactly fit in with the type of guns you'd find at the goo' ol' boys' hunting shop.
I had expected some degree of culture shock coming here, in the form of different stores, different food, different accents, and different attitudes, but I've had trouble identifying any negatives in these differences. The stores are similar or the same, the food available matches what we had in SoCal, the southern accents are light and disappointingly sparse, and the attitudes are the kind of polite I tried to represent in SoCal. I do feel the need to adjust my soft polite tone to a louder polite tone, because people seem to have trouble hearing it or seem confused when they do. I've already caught myself matching some pronunciations, but only in response to the same.
More updates
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Quote of the every form of tyranny
Upon the altar of God I pledge eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man.
~Thomas Jefferson
~Thomas Jefferson
Looking to get into .300 Blackout without breaking the bank?
H&R Handi Rifle break-action .300 AAC BLK $360 MSRP
Did I mention suppressors are legal in Kentucky?
Did I mention suppressors are legal in Kentucky?
"8 rounds is enough if you don't miss!"
You've likely heard this before.
It's the answer to a question you didn't ask.
It comes in a variety of flavors; salted with a drawl of some kind, topped with unbecomingly childish superiority, slathered with disdain, even tastefully prepared with the liberals' favorite spices: ignorance and confidence.
It doesn't matter how you season it. You can't hide the bitter taste of WRONG.
Aside from the fact that you don't know how you're going to be able to perform under the stress of a self defense situation (all you need is ignorance and confidence, then success is sure!), this statement has another problem.
Though I must apologize in advance for the problem I plan to outline. I know that most internet gun arguments use some degree of subjectivity, leading to an animating debate about the topic which eventually devolves into two parties picking up their jousts, climbing on their rocking hobby horses, and rocking endlessly at each other. Sadly, my point is not up for debate, because my point is math.
9 Attackers - 8 Rounds = 1 Attacker
You can only expect to shoot 8 attackers with 8 rounds. Any additional attackers are unlikely to wait patiently while you reload.
There have already been a number of reports of small mobs of blacks getting Justice for Trayvon® by beating white people (or people who they judge by the color of their skin to be white) indiscriminately. Race issues aside, when there are multiple reports of more than 8 people attacking innocent individuals completely randomly, you have to consider the possibility of facing more attackers than you have rounds in your mag(s!)
Pretty unlikely? No argument there. But you don't carry a gun because ever having to use it is "unlikely," you carry because you feel you have a duty to be prepared.
There might have been a semi-convincing argument if the comparison was between 8 rounds of .45 and 10 rounds of 9mm, but we're talking about over double the capacity in a comparably sized pistol. I don't know of any argument that can be made here with a straight face. In a worst case scenario, you can shoot the same amount of people twice and possibly have a couple rounds left over.
So when someone tells you that 8 rounds is enough, or some other flavor of the same, tell them you hope they never get attacked by a high-capacity mob.
It's the answer to a question you didn't ask.
It comes in a variety of flavors; salted with a drawl of some kind, topped with unbecomingly childish superiority, slathered with disdain, even tastefully prepared with the liberals' favorite spices: ignorance and confidence.
It doesn't matter how you season it. You can't hide the bitter taste of WRONG.
Aside from the fact that you don't know how you're going to be able to perform under the stress of a self defense situation (all you need is ignorance and confidence, then success is sure!), this statement has another problem.
Though I must apologize in advance for the problem I plan to outline. I know that most internet gun arguments use some degree of subjectivity, leading to an animating debate about the topic which eventually devolves into two parties picking up their jousts, climbing on their rocking hobby horses, and rocking endlessly at each other. Sadly, my point is not up for debate, because my point is math.
9 Attackers - 8 Rounds = 1 Attacker
You can only expect to shoot 8 attackers with 8 rounds. Any additional attackers are unlikely to wait patiently while you reload.
There have already been a number of reports of small mobs of blacks getting Justice for Trayvon® by beating white people (or people who they judge by the color of their skin to be white) indiscriminately. Race issues aside, when there are multiple reports of more than 8 people attacking innocent individuals completely randomly, you have to consider the possibility of facing more attackers than you have rounds in your mag(s!)
Pretty unlikely? No argument there. But you don't carry a gun because ever having to use it is "unlikely," you carry because you feel you have a duty to be prepared.
There might have been a semi-convincing argument if the comparison was between 8 rounds of .45 and 10 rounds of 9mm, but we're talking about over double the capacity in a comparably sized pistol. I don't know of any argument that can be made here with a straight face. In a worst case scenario, you can shoot the same amount of people twice and possibly have a couple rounds left over.
So when someone tells you that 8 rounds is enough, or some other flavor of the same, tell them you hope they never get attacked by a high-capacity mob.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Break your molds
When I was younger, I told an equally prudent friend that I didn't understand how people could just pick up and move without a serious plan. Now I am that person.
The stress of the move broke, and I spent the day feeling absolutely fantastic. I enjoyed every person I met, enjoyed every cloud in the overcast sky, enjoyed the traffic on the drive home from work, I just felt so free that I couldn't worry myself if I tried.
I hope this keeps up, because I'd love to feel this way every day.
The change isn't a difference in the way I feel about life's "requirements" but a trust in my abilities and a trust that the universe has a way of working things out. I know that I have talent, and I know I can offer the market many things, so I'm just not worried about controlling every aspect of this move and planning for every contingency.
The things I'll need are just waiting for me to show up.
I'll show up, and I'll bring my "A" game, but I'm not going to get caught up worrying about what's going to happen next.
The stress of the move broke, and I spent the day feeling absolutely fantastic. I enjoyed every person I met, enjoyed every cloud in the overcast sky, enjoyed the traffic on the drive home from work, I just felt so free that I couldn't worry myself if I tried.
I hope this keeps up, because I'd love to feel this way every day.
The change isn't a difference in the way I feel about life's "requirements" but a trust in my abilities and a trust that the universe has a way of working things out. I know that I have talent, and I know I can offer the market many things, so I'm just not worried about controlling every aspect of this move and planning for every contingency.
The things I'll need are just waiting for me to show up.
I'll show up, and I'll bring my "A" game, but I'm not going to get caught up worrying about what's going to happen next.
Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!
General Secretary Gorbachev, if you seek peace, if you seek prosperity for the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe, if you seek liberalization: Come here to this gate.
Mr. Gorbachev, open this gate.
Mr. Gorbachev — Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!
It has been 25 years since these words were immortalized.
HotAir has some good links relating to this speech, its impact, and the entire text of the speech.
It's not about the west or the east, it's not about communism and capitalism. It's about freedom. Freedom, understood in a way that has vanished in most of America.
I've never read it before. It's powerful.
Mayor Bloomberg's milkshake
My milkshake brings all the cops to my door,
They're like "Don't sell any more!"
"Drop the popcorn, get down on the floor!"
Bloomberg's got a new nanny-state war.
They're like "Don't sell any more!"
"Drop the popcorn, get down on the floor!"
Bloomberg's got a new nanny-state war.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Understanding How Modern Liberals Think
[direct link]
A long, complete, in-depth analysis of the very root of the way modern liberals think.
Monday, June 11, 2012
Mora Knives
I was excited to see something new on my last trip to the gun show; a small booth of Mora knives. The well endowed Swedish woman in a low cut shirt running the booth was excited when I told her I had heard of Mora knives. I vaguely recalled someone mentioning European Mora knives on a forum and doing some quick research on them. Because I had never seen Mora knives in the US before, the result of my research was dim in my memory, but I remembered it being positive.
After handling a few of the knives and furrowing my brows at the strangely low prices, I decided on the knife that felt best in my hand and had the best overall look. I picked up the Mora 946 for $20.
The blade-to-grip size ratio was smaller than I was used to, but the grip felt so incredibly comfortable and positive that it was my first choice. I prefer a defined finger guard for utility knives, and because this one was added so artfully, it didn't disturb the lines of the grip. The light jimping on the grip was unobtrusive and positive. The actual grip material escaped me, it was rougher than rubber and had a feel more like a rough G10. It slid along your hand at minimum pressure, but as soon as you squeezed it seemed to glue itself to your fingers. Water does not seem to affect your grip on the material at all.
The second aspect that attracted me to this knife was the sheath. Retention is by friction on the handle, which has been quite effective so far. You'll note that the grip enters the sheath the same way most strapless leather sheathes do, this look has been attractive to me lately, and was definitely a plus on this knife. Modern materials with classic styling.
The "loop" on the sheath was actually clip made of the same materials as the sheath. I prefer clips for general use because it's easier to snap them on and off your waistband without playing with your belt. If you don't normally wear belts (like me) you don't have to worry about putting one on just so you can have a fixed blade knife nearby. Note the unfinished injection point in the blue plastic facing the camera. Easily removed or smoothed, and with no functional impact, it's perfectly acceptable on a $20 knife. There are a couple other unfinished edges on the grip, but they fall under the same category. Unobtrusive, reparable, and acceptable.
The clip rotates with a bias in the vertical position. This has aided in comfort when sitting as the knife seems to rotate out of the way on its own, without you needing to "prep" it for sitting. I've read reports of the clip being unsatisfactory due to crouching or sitting pressure pushing the clip up and off of your waist, but have yet to encounter that. From here you can see the button loop which is probably a popular method of carry for the Swedes, but most pants here lack suspender buttons. Still, the design of the clip is such that the button should be kept at the top of the slot by pressure (see the angle of the clip in the above picture).
The last feature I appreciated about this knife was the overall style. The lines of this knife and sheath combo blend beautifully together. Soft curves at the top, and geometric lines at the bottom. Looks were definitely a factor in this purchase. I'll always choose utility over looks, but having both is a definite benefit. It's hard not to appreciate a beautiful design.
The first few things I cut with this knife split easily, and after some slight misuse, I decided to touch up the edge. You probably noticed that this knife has a Scandinavian grind, meaning it has one bevel from the blade width down to the edge of the knife. This simplifies the sharpening process if you use the right tool. I used the wrong tool. I spent a couple hours fighting with the edge using the stones from my Spyderco Sharpmaker. My pocket microscope kept showing slight bevels due to minor inconsistencies in my sharpening process. The failure opportunities are exaggerated by the fact that you must remove steel from a 1/4" bevel as opposed to the 1/16" edge on most double beveled knives. After I switched to a proper whetstone, I started getting the results I wanted. These knives are made for whetstones because the extra long bevel can easily be pressed flat against the stone and drawn back and forth without worry of angle. After about an hour of metal removal to grind past the edge damage, it returned to a facet-free edge that bit easily into light materials along the entire length of the blade. I noted the grind was not perfectly even at the tip, and adjusted my draws to the slightly different angle. The result is an edge at the tip that is a bit thinner, and sharper.
The lesson was learned. Don't chip or deform these edges by letting them touch hard materials, and don't try to shortcut sharpening them by giving them a deeper pass on the sharpener. Grinding past the damage to reestablish the flat single bevel requires a lot of metal removal. Of course, this weakness is also a strength in that sharpening with a basic whetstone is extremely simple. This grind also seems to bite into and slice into materials easier than the double bevels I use. I don't have any hard evidence of this, but the feel of the knife was definitely different. I felt more like I was parting materials than cutting into them. I look forward to using this knife more, and will post any developments.
After coming home with the 946, I did some research on Mora knives to refresh my memory of their performance. Reviews were extremely positive and spoke mainly to the quality of the rolled steel and simplicity of the designs. After finding them somewhat difficult to order online, I decided to go back to the gun show the next day for the single purpose of buying another knife, the Mora 2000, for $40.
The Mora 2000 made a noticeable splash when it came out, so this model seems to have the most reviews and information available online. By comparison, it took me about 30 minutes of research to confirm the model number of the 946. Even then, information is very sparse about the less popular models. I decided to make my second Mora knife this model because it was a flagship of sorts, and because it had a larger blade with a belly and a more blunt tip. The proportions of the blade were more to my liking, but that was as far as preference by appearance went. It's an ugly knife. The grip material is surprisingly positive, and the hard plastic ends don't afford much protection from slipping, though I've yet to slip on the grip material. The pommel is flat, which some claim is good for hammering, but without a guard between the grip and blade, I'll skip that feature.
The sheath keeps the same classic form of friction retention on half the grip, but skips all the style. The sheath feels cheap and thin, but those who have used it longer attest to its strength. It is symmetrical for ambidextrous carry, which gives the sheath an odd profile which (coupled with the partial grip insertion) may increase your ability to carry this all day without worry of someone pointing and screaming "HE'S GOT A KNIIIIIIFE!" (depending on your locale, of course). Ok, I can't avoid the elephant in the room any longer. The color. This color scheme is so close to a standard OD green and coyote/desert brown, but is clearly off by several shades. It looks like dog vomit. But I didn't buy this knife for the looks... obviously.
Leave it to the Swedes. You tell them their blades need two bevels and they add it in the wrong direction. The blade is beveled a little over halfway down the blade. Clearly, the intent here was to provide the cutting benefits of the single bevel without so thick a blade jamming in your cut. I imagine this makes it easier to bite deeply into materials, but have yet to test this. It's a very interesting feature, and certainly adds something unique to the design.
The belt loop is a basic piece of leather with a slit and openings for button carry. I have yet to test this on suspender buttons, but suspect it is meant to offer a quick on/off method for casual carry. Because this is more of an outdoorsman's knife, I understand the reason for a solid loop instead of a clip, and appreciate the quality of leather for the loop material.
The loop is very flexible, which makes it less rigid in carry than the clip on the 946, and makes it more comfortable overall. It's also much thicker than I'd expect for a knife of this price point.
Both sheathes feature drainage holes to prevent the hard plastic from becoming an unintentional canteen. It's a minor feature but strangely lacking from more expensive designs. Another indicator of design by experience. One other small feature both knives have is no ricasso, meaning the cutting edge goes all the way up to the grip. Apart from the unique style, this allows you to do push cuts with minimal arm movement by putting the material up against your grip. This prevents you from swinging your arm through the cut when the knife makes it through the material. More control is always better, and because you're sharpening with a whetstone, there is no noticeable impact to this design decision.
I haven't had much opportunity to try out this knife yet, but that will change once I get to a state which allows you to interact with nature instead of making illegal things like moving branches out of your way.
I very much look forward to comparing these knives to my expensive utility knives. I feel like I've found something that's better than what we have, but didn't catch on for some reason. Unless further testing reveals catastrophic failures in them, these are easily worth more than the $60 I paid for them both. The $20 946 is less than I'd pay for the sheath and grip alone.
It hasn't been my experience that you can find tools that are cheap, good, and reliable, but I'm very open to the possibility.
After handling a few of the knives and furrowing my brows at the strangely low prices, I decided on the knife that felt best in my hand and had the best overall look. I picked up the Mora 946 for $20.
The blade-to-grip size ratio was smaller than I was used to, but the grip felt so incredibly comfortable and positive that it was my first choice. I prefer a defined finger guard for utility knives, and because this one was added so artfully, it didn't disturb the lines of the grip. The light jimping on the grip was unobtrusive and positive. The actual grip material escaped me, it was rougher than rubber and had a feel more like a rough G10. It slid along your hand at minimum pressure, but as soon as you squeezed it seemed to glue itself to your fingers. Water does not seem to affect your grip on the material at all.
The second aspect that attracted me to this knife was the sheath. Retention is by friction on the handle, which has been quite effective so far. You'll note that the grip enters the sheath the same way most strapless leather sheathes do, this look has been attractive to me lately, and was definitely a plus on this knife. Modern materials with classic styling.
The "loop" on the sheath was actually clip made of the same materials as the sheath. I prefer clips for general use because it's easier to snap them on and off your waistband without playing with your belt. If you don't normally wear belts (like me) you don't have to worry about putting one on just so you can have a fixed blade knife nearby. Note the unfinished injection point in the blue plastic facing the camera. Easily removed or smoothed, and with no functional impact, it's perfectly acceptable on a $20 knife. There are a couple other unfinished edges on the grip, but they fall under the same category. Unobtrusive, reparable, and acceptable.
The clip rotates with a bias in the vertical position. This has aided in comfort when sitting as the knife seems to rotate out of the way on its own, without you needing to "prep" it for sitting. I've read reports of the clip being unsatisfactory due to crouching or sitting pressure pushing the clip up and off of your waist, but have yet to encounter that. From here you can see the button loop which is probably a popular method of carry for the Swedes, but most pants here lack suspender buttons. Still, the design of the clip is such that the button should be kept at the top of the slot by pressure (see the angle of the clip in the above picture).
The last feature I appreciated about this knife was the overall style. The lines of this knife and sheath combo blend beautifully together. Soft curves at the top, and geometric lines at the bottom. Looks were definitely a factor in this purchase. I'll always choose utility over looks, but having both is a definite benefit. It's hard not to appreciate a beautiful design.
The first few things I cut with this knife split easily, and after some slight misuse, I decided to touch up the edge. You probably noticed that this knife has a Scandinavian grind, meaning it has one bevel from the blade width down to the edge of the knife. This simplifies the sharpening process if you use the right tool. I used the wrong tool. I spent a couple hours fighting with the edge using the stones from my Spyderco Sharpmaker. My pocket microscope kept showing slight bevels due to minor inconsistencies in my sharpening process. The failure opportunities are exaggerated by the fact that you must remove steel from a 1/4" bevel as opposed to the 1/16" edge on most double beveled knives. After I switched to a proper whetstone, I started getting the results I wanted. These knives are made for whetstones because the extra long bevel can easily be pressed flat against the stone and drawn back and forth without worry of angle. After about an hour of metal removal to grind past the edge damage, it returned to a facet-free edge that bit easily into light materials along the entire length of the blade. I noted the grind was not perfectly even at the tip, and adjusted my draws to the slightly different angle. The result is an edge at the tip that is a bit thinner, and sharper.
The lesson was learned. Don't chip or deform these edges by letting them touch hard materials, and don't try to shortcut sharpening them by giving them a deeper pass on the sharpener. Grinding past the damage to reestablish the flat single bevel requires a lot of metal removal. Of course, this weakness is also a strength in that sharpening with a basic whetstone is extremely simple. This grind also seems to bite into and slice into materials easier than the double bevels I use. I don't have any hard evidence of this, but the feel of the knife was definitely different. I felt more like I was parting materials than cutting into them. I look forward to using this knife more, and will post any developments.
After coming home with the 946, I did some research on Mora knives to refresh my memory of their performance. Reviews were extremely positive and spoke mainly to the quality of the rolled steel and simplicity of the designs. After finding them somewhat difficult to order online, I decided to go back to the gun show the next day for the single purpose of buying another knife, the Mora 2000, for $40.
The Mora 2000 made a noticeable splash when it came out, so this model seems to have the most reviews and information available online. By comparison, it took me about 30 minutes of research to confirm the model number of the 946. Even then, information is very sparse about the less popular models. I decided to make my second Mora knife this model because it was a flagship of sorts, and because it had a larger blade with a belly and a more blunt tip. The proportions of the blade were more to my liking, but that was as far as preference by appearance went. It's an ugly knife. The grip material is surprisingly positive, and the hard plastic ends don't afford much protection from slipping, though I've yet to slip on the grip material. The pommel is flat, which some claim is good for hammering, but without a guard between the grip and blade, I'll skip that feature.
The sheath keeps the same classic form of friction retention on half the grip, but skips all the style. The sheath feels cheap and thin, but those who have used it longer attest to its strength. It is symmetrical for ambidextrous carry, which gives the sheath an odd profile which (coupled with the partial grip insertion) may increase your ability to carry this all day without worry of someone pointing and screaming "HE'S GOT A KNIIIIIIFE!" (depending on your locale, of course). Ok, I can't avoid the elephant in the room any longer. The color. This color scheme is so close to a standard OD green and coyote/desert brown, but is clearly off by several shades. It looks like dog vomit. But I didn't buy this knife for the looks... obviously.
Leave it to the Swedes. You tell them their blades need two bevels and they add it in the wrong direction. The blade is beveled a little over halfway down the blade. Clearly, the intent here was to provide the cutting benefits of the single bevel without so thick a blade jamming in your cut. I imagine this makes it easier to bite deeply into materials, but have yet to test this. It's a very interesting feature, and certainly adds something unique to the design.
The belt loop is a basic piece of leather with a slit and openings for button carry. I have yet to test this on suspender buttons, but suspect it is meant to offer a quick on/off method for casual carry. Because this is more of an outdoorsman's knife, I understand the reason for a solid loop instead of a clip, and appreciate the quality of leather for the loop material.
The loop is very flexible, which makes it less rigid in carry than the clip on the 946, and makes it more comfortable overall. It's also much thicker than I'd expect for a knife of this price point.
Both sheathes feature drainage holes to prevent the hard plastic from becoming an unintentional canteen. It's a minor feature but strangely lacking from more expensive designs. Another indicator of design by experience. One other small feature both knives have is no ricasso, meaning the cutting edge goes all the way up to the grip. Apart from the unique style, this allows you to do push cuts with minimal arm movement by putting the material up against your grip. This prevents you from swinging your arm through the cut when the knife makes it through the material. More control is always better, and because you're sharpening with a whetstone, there is no noticeable impact to this design decision.
I haven't had much opportunity to try out this knife yet, but that will change once I get to a state which allows you to interact with nature instead of making illegal things like moving branches out of your way.
I very much look forward to comparing these knives to my expensive utility knives. I feel like I've found something that's better than what we have, but didn't catch on for some reason. Unless further testing reveals catastrophic failures in them, these are easily worth more than the $60 I paid for them both. The $20 946 is less than I'd pay for the sheath and grip alone.
It hasn't been my experience that you can find tools that are cheap, good, and reliable, but I'm very open to the possibility.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Friday, June 08, 2012
Mr. Rogers Autotuned Remix by PBS Digital Studios
Extremely well done!
The description indicates that PBS Digital Studios will be coming out with more of these
The description indicates that PBS Digital Studios will be coming out with more of these
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Quote of the ugliest of things.
War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse. The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself.
-John Stuart Mill, English economist & philosopher (1806 - 1873)
-John Stuart Mill, English economist & philosopher (1806 - 1873)
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
California steals from 9/11 victims
This is impossible.
This is unfathomable.
This just can't be true.
Who am I kidding?
This is expected.
This is unfathomable.
This just can't be true.
Who am I kidding?
This is expected.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Spyderco's Native knife line
I've written about the Native series before. They are the knives I've found most interesting in the Spyderco line.
The basic design started with the Manix, which featured a well-defined finger choil (between blade and grip), nice G10 grips, an acceptable but standard blade shape in acceptable 154cm steel, and funky ball bearing lock. The screws for disassembly were much appreciated.
Then they refined things with the Native, which featured a misshapen finger choil with uncomfortable sharp edges, the new spear point native style blade in excellent S30V steel, too-slick plastic grips, acceptable pocket clip, the standard strong lock, and aggressive jimping on the blade for your thumb. Rivets were used in this design, presumably to reduce cost. The Native was less expensive than the Manix when it came out, but has risen in value as people discovered the utility. This design actually returned to production after the next knife came out, and is currently available as a very high value low price EDC. It's hard to go wrong with this one.
Then the Native III which kept the overall blade shape and lock, but switched to VG-10 which is a bit too hard for my tastes. The partial serration was appreciated in this design because it left enough plain blade to use for detail work. You'll notice the choil returned to proper shape and gained higher sides to keep your finger safe and add grip. The jimping is reduced, just as grippy, and less visually disruptive to the design. Very well done. The biggest design addition here is the "design in the dark" grip which is significantly more ergonomic than the Native's flat sides. (detail of grip comparison here) The clip is also superior at both holding in place, and easily sliding off. When sliding on, the grip/clip interface tends to bind on your pocket. The blade shape is modified slightly to be wider, and fits with the lines of the knife beautifully. I would like to have one of these in plain blade, but they're hard to find at an acceptable price. This knife has been discontinued.
Next is the Native 4 which is more of a dress knife than a utility blade. The smooth carbon fiber grips look and feel beautiful, but are much too smooth. Notice the return of the Manix's lanyard loop for some reason. The blade design appears to be modified slightly with a dropped tip, still using VG-10. The choil is more elegantly swept back, but this only means less grip to me. Jimping is virtually non-existent. The blade is flat ground (blade body has no additional bevels from back to cutting bevel) which improves the looks somewhat, but reveals what we've already figured out; looks are beating utility on this design. The clip is now totally customizable (left, right, tip down, tip up), but not as good as the Native III's clip. Also notable is the addition of screws instead of rivets, meaning you can take down your Native for a detail cleaning finally. These additions all came at a price, the Native 4 was priced at about double the last two knives. (prices have reduced since release) This knife has been discontinued.
Finally, we come to the most recent evolution of the Native; the Spyderco Native 5. Immediately we can identify many desirable features. The blade shape has returned and retained the flat grind while switching to S35VN (supposedly similar to my preferred S30V). The clip is unfortunately still the new style, but can be set in any configuration. The choil seems to have compromised with the Native 3 and 4, and for some reason features internal jimping. Gladly, the screws remain to allow you to clean this caliber of knife. The G10 grips appear flat, and while better than the Native, aren't nearly as positive as the Native III. I vacillate on this, though. The wide grips of the 3 are great in your hand, but not so much in your pocket. I found myself carrying the Native more because it was less obtrusive in my pocket and was smoother entering and exiting my pocket. I suppose if I was holding the knife more than I was carrying it in my pocket, I'd prefer the 3's grips, but I carry far more than I use, so these G10 grips should be perfect.
While striking the right mix of utility and elegance, the Native 5 clocks in around $150, which makes this knife an extremely great value. The features and design have developed to the point of rivalry with knives over $200. This isn't the Spyderco throwaway you toss in a toolbox and forget about, this is your new Every Day Carry knife. Resting unobtrusively in your pocket, ready and sharp when called upon for utility tasks, sure of grip and totally controllable, prepared for years of reliable service.
This is an idea, a design, a knife worthy of carry.
The basic design started with the Manix, which featured a well-defined finger choil (between blade and grip), nice G10 grips, an acceptable but standard blade shape in acceptable 154cm steel, and funky ball bearing lock. The screws for disassembly were much appreciated.
Then they refined things with the Native, which featured a misshapen finger choil with uncomfortable sharp edges, the new spear point native style blade in excellent S30V steel, too-slick plastic grips, acceptable pocket clip, the standard strong lock, and aggressive jimping on the blade for your thumb. Rivets were used in this design, presumably to reduce cost. The Native was less expensive than the Manix when it came out, but has risen in value as people discovered the utility. This design actually returned to production after the next knife came out, and is currently available as a very high value low price EDC. It's hard to go wrong with this one.
While striking the right mix of utility and elegance, the Native 5 clocks in around $150, which makes this knife an extremely great value. The features and design have developed to the point of rivalry with knives over $200. This isn't the Spyderco throwaway you toss in a toolbox and forget about, this is your new Every Day Carry knife. Resting unobtrusively in your pocket, ready and sharp when called upon for utility tasks, sure of grip and totally controllable, prepared for years of reliable service.
This is an idea, a design, a knife worthy of carry.
The Next "Evolution" of Obama?
Lets just be honest and admit that it was super impressive how president Obama "came out" in support of gay marriage.
I remember it like it was yesterday... [wavy screen here]
He called a televised, joint session of congress, stood at the podium facing his dissenters in the room and in the world, and spoke his convictions clearly. He made an impassioned appeal to the equality of all people, as only he, our first black president, could make. He appealed to our better selves, and challenged us to support each other in the brotherhood of man, instead of finding petty differences to divide ourselves and isolate scapegoats. I particularly liked the part where he said he would make the issue of equality a cornerstone of his presidency, and indicated that he would send multiple recommendations for legislation to the congress for their vote, up or down. He wasn't just going to say words, he was going to take action, and make our politicians go on the record so future generations can look back and see how backward our world view once was.
It truly is a brave new world.
Oh no wait, he mumbled it in passing in an interview, and went home.
But that's alright, I guess. I mean, it was at least impressive to come out in support of gay marriage when public opinion is so against it!
Oh wait, U.S. Acceptance of Gay/Lesbian Relations Is the New Normal
To be honest though, when I first heard this announcement, I was confused. I had always figured most liberals support gay marriage, but traditionally, it gets voted down (with several prominent losses quite recently) leading to a schism between what people blurt to Gallup and what lever they pull behind the curtain. Either way, it was a divisive issue to take up on an election year. It was a very strange move that didn't make political sense to me.
But then I heard about Biden voicing his support for gay marriage and the praise heaped upon him by the LGBLT (lesbian, gay, bacon, lettuce, tomato) community.
Yes, if you ever question what this president is doing, just put yourself in his position and thin your skin so much you could suntan your liver. Then this move makes sense.
But enough of Obama's self-destructive, ham-fisted, poll chasing, lets talk about this exciting new study!
"Pro-Choice" Americans at Record-Low 41%
Gee that graph looks familiar...
So is this the next "evolution" of Obama?
Or do we have to wait until Biden stumbles into some perceived sleight?
Politics that change with the wind?
O brave new world!
I remember it like it was yesterday... [wavy screen here]
He called a televised, joint session of congress, stood at the podium facing his dissenters in the room and in the world, and spoke his convictions clearly. He made an impassioned appeal to the equality of all people, as only he, our first black president, could make. He appealed to our better selves, and challenged us to support each other in the brotherhood of man, instead of finding petty differences to divide ourselves and isolate scapegoats. I particularly liked the part where he said he would make the issue of equality a cornerstone of his presidency, and indicated that he would send multiple recommendations for legislation to the congress for their vote, up or down. He wasn't just going to say words, he was going to take action, and make our politicians go on the record so future generations can look back and see how backward our world view once was.
It truly is a brave new world.
Oh no wait, he mumbled it in passing in an interview, and went home.
But that's alright, I guess. I mean, it was at least impressive to come out in support of gay marriage when public opinion is so against it!
Oh wait, U.S. Acceptance of Gay/Lesbian Relations Is the New Normal
To be honest though, when I first heard this announcement, I was confused. I had always figured most liberals support gay marriage, but traditionally, it gets voted down (with several prominent losses quite recently) leading to a schism between what people blurt to Gallup and what lever they pull behind the curtain. Either way, it was a divisive issue to take up on an election year. It was a very strange move that didn't make political sense to me.
But then I heard about Biden voicing his support for gay marriage and the praise heaped upon him by the LGBLT (lesbian, gay, bacon, lettuce, tomato) community.
Yes, if you ever question what this president is doing, just put yourself in his position and thin your skin so much you could suntan your liver. Then this move makes sense.
But enough of Obama's self-destructive, ham-fisted, poll chasing, lets talk about this exciting new study!
"Pro-Choice" Americans at Record-Low 41%
Gee that graph looks familiar...
So is this the next "evolution" of Obama?
Or do we have to wait until Biden stumbles into some perceived sleight?
Politics that change with the wind?
O brave new world!
Friday, May 25, 2012
Quick info dump
Challenge the premise that the destructive path America's leaders have chosen originates from good intentions. Change the reason, and these actions make grim sense. If I wanted America to fail.
Bill Whittle explains why Han shot first, and why Hollywood must erase that fact.
The debt limit explained in terms of a small family. Funny, short, and accurate.
One of those xtranormal videos of an Atlas Shrugged conversation. Hank Rearden talks to his brother Philip. I really like listening to it.
A powerful reading from Atlas Shrugged, what happened to the Twentieth Century Motor Company?
A clot of over-privileged San Francisco children dressing in black and destroying private property while the police watch and do nothing. Get your blood boiling.
College students get pepper sprayed after trying to storm a Board of Trustees meeting. Great for a laugh. Especially when one of them yells "MEDIC!" like he's trying to put his buddy's guts back into his body.
Bill Whittle explains why love of theory is the root of all evil.
Not sure how you could have missed this one, but if you have, watch this now. It's pure gold. Adam Carolla explains the OWS Generation. He cuts right to the core of the issue; envy.
"Through the desolate summits swept raging intermittent gusts of the terrible arctic wind; whose cadences sometimes held vague suggestions of a wild and half-sentient musical piping, with notes extending over a wide range, and which for some subconscious mnemonic reason seemed to me disquieting and even dimly terrible." - H.P. Lovecraft, At the Mountains of Madness
Was reading this story before bed. I snickered at the idea that a horror story might make it difficult to sleep. Bad idea. Lovecraft is more than horror.
"Whenever I need to 'get away,' I just get away in my mind. I go to my imaginary spot, where the beach is perfect and the water is perfect and the weather is perfect. The only bad thing there are the flies. They're terrible!" -Jack Handey
Run Rabbit Junk
Bill Whittle explains why Han shot first, and why Hollywood must erase that fact.
The debt limit explained in terms of a small family. Funny, short, and accurate.
One of those xtranormal videos of an Atlas Shrugged conversation. Hank Rearden talks to his brother Philip. I really like listening to it.
A powerful reading from Atlas Shrugged, what happened to the Twentieth Century Motor Company?
A clot of over-privileged San Francisco children dressing in black and destroying private property while the police watch and do nothing. Get your blood boiling.
College students get pepper sprayed after trying to storm a Board of Trustees meeting. Great for a laugh. Especially when one of them yells "MEDIC!" like he's trying to put his buddy's guts back into his body.
Bill Whittle explains why love of theory is the root of all evil.
Not sure how you could have missed this one, but if you have, watch this now. It's pure gold. Adam Carolla explains the OWS Generation. He cuts right to the core of the issue; envy.
"Through the desolate summits swept raging intermittent gusts of the terrible arctic wind; whose cadences sometimes held vague suggestions of a wild and half-sentient musical piping, with notes extending over a wide range, and which for some subconscious mnemonic reason seemed to me disquieting and even dimly terrible." - H.P. Lovecraft, At the Mountains of Madness
Was reading this story before bed. I snickered at the idea that a horror story might make it difficult to sleep. Bad idea. Lovecraft is more than horror.
"Whenever I need to 'get away,' I just get away in my mind. I go to my imaginary spot, where the beach is perfect and the water is perfect and the weather is perfect. The only bad thing there are the flies. They're terrible!" -Jack Handey
Run Rabbit Junk
California Screamin'
I'm having difficulty starting this post.
It's not that I lack complaints about California, I have plenty of those, it's just that I'm... exhausted.
I can't muster the ire to castigate the state on the mathematical certainty of its financial (and social) insolvency. I can't squeeze another drop of passion from the turnip that is my love for this state to pummel the high speed train to nowhere. I can't find a single synapse willing to explain how the variety of leeches up and down the food chain drain everything that was great from this state. Worst of all, I can't even bring myself to contemplate how bad the fall will be.
They won. They wore me down. I just don't care anymore. California is theirs. They can have it with all its dysfunction.
I've put in notice at my good-paying job with advancement opportunities, we've paid out of our lease, and we've shipped out the second car. We're moving to Kentucky.
We're not the first to leave, nor will we be the last.
We've been talking about moving for some time, but had no commitment to any state in particular. Kentucky was under consideration because we have some family there, but to be honest, other states were higher in preference. Last Christmas we visited our family in Kentucky, as we have before, but when we landed in California upon our return I got an odd feeling. I thought about it as we disembarked and finally put my finger on it as we rode the escalator down to the baggage claim. I turned to my wife and said, "I think we're moving to Kentucky." She nodded knowingly and said, "I think so too." And that was that. We left our hearts in Kentucky.
Given this revelation, I immediately checked the gun laws in Kentucky, and found them quite to my liking. Many states that would come to mind when discussing freedom have quirky laws about certain things. Kentucky doesn't have any that I have found.
I want to shoot steel targets in my backyard with my suppressed AR. I want use my Microtech UTX-85 to clean my fingernails. I want to own land that costs hundreds of dollars in property taxes, not thousands. I want to be able to defend my family without getting a signed Notice of Intent to Murder form from my attacker. I want strangers to return the greeting offered in passing. I want to drive to work in under an hour. I want to be able to hunt without researching conflicting ordinances and property lines for 6 months. I want to run a business without fear of the state changing my business classification and demanding back taxes while putting a lien on my business and preemptively draining my bank account (and charging me $200 for the privilege).
I don't want to live in fear that some bureaucrat is going to knock on my door with a piece of paper that says an endangered beetle lives on my land, or I use my wood-burning fireplace too much, or someone thinks I'm abusing my kid, or the tool shed I built needs to be inspected, or my birdbath doesn't have a circulation pump and filter, or my sprinklers ran on Thursday instead of Wednesday, or my garden is too large, or my grass isn't green enough, or my dog looks like a "pitbull mix," or my cat has testicles, or my cigar smoke wafted too far, or my kid's lemonade stand doesn't have a permit, or the political sign on my lawn is too large, or the tree across the sidewalk needs to be trimmed, or I can't have a chicken coop, or my pool doesn't have a fence, or my bicycle doesn't have a license, or I can't have people over to my house to discuss religion or politics, or my car is parked on my property in an unapproved fashion. I could keep going, but why bother?
I want to be free. Or at least, more free.
This move is a big shake-up, and I'm going to take advantage by making some other changes. I'm not quite sure what I'm going to do next, but it'll be different. I feel like working with my hands, or for myself, or in a different industry, or all of the above. I don't know what's going to happen, but I know we'll be fine so long as we continue to trust the guidance in our hearts.
Blogging will become more regular (even if I have nothing to blag aboot) as he California job expires. It became uninteresting and unchallenging, and it ruined me for much else by the time I got home. I wasn't kidding about the upward mobility though, by their standards I was a golden boy. They hate to see me leave.
Everyone we've told has been surprisingly supportive. Hints in their speech make me suspect many have heard a similar call but declined to answer.
The stress of this completely out-of-character move may have contributed to the California burnout at the beginning of this post. All my specific concerns have been quelled with trust in guidance, but some deeper part of my brain can't help but worry. It's stressing me out and I can't address it. We move in twenty-something days, and I wish the waiting was over.
I've been playing around with new ideas and practicing the skills I enjoy. I whetted my appetite for fabrication by spending some time at a machine shop working on a project I've enjoyed planning. It's incomplete, but I'm cutting metal and learning fast. Once I get the prototype finalized, I'll toss it up on kickstarter. I think people will want one... or two.
I'm trying to be more productive with the things I like doing. Writing is one of them, so if I'm sticking to my plan, this blog should start getting busy again. Feel free to hold me to it.
I suppose that's it for now. It's terribly late for the morning I have, but I don't care because I finished this post just like I told myself I was going to.
This is the start of something great. Glad you're along for the ride.
It's not that I lack complaints about California, I have plenty of those, it's just that I'm... exhausted.
I can't muster the ire to castigate the state on the mathematical certainty of its financial (and social) insolvency. I can't squeeze another drop of passion from the turnip that is my love for this state to pummel the high speed train to nowhere. I can't find a single synapse willing to explain how the variety of leeches up and down the food chain drain everything that was great from this state. Worst of all, I can't even bring myself to contemplate how bad the fall will be.
They won. They wore me down. I just don't care anymore. California is theirs. They can have it with all its dysfunction.
I've put in notice at my good-paying job with advancement opportunities, we've paid out of our lease, and we've shipped out the second car. We're moving to Kentucky.
We're not the first to leave, nor will we be the last.
We've been talking about moving for some time, but had no commitment to any state in particular. Kentucky was under consideration because we have some family there, but to be honest, other states were higher in preference. Last Christmas we visited our family in Kentucky, as we have before, but when we landed in California upon our return I got an odd feeling. I thought about it as we disembarked and finally put my finger on it as we rode the escalator down to the baggage claim. I turned to my wife and said, "I think we're moving to Kentucky." She nodded knowingly and said, "I think so too." And that was that. We left our hearts in Kentucky.
Given this revelation, I immediately checked the gun laws in Kentucky, and found them quite to my liking. Many states that would come to mind when discussing freedom have quirky laws about certain things. Kentucky doesn't have any that I have found.
I want to shoot steel targets in my backyard with my suppressed AR. I want use my Microtech UTX-85 to clean my fingernails. I want to own land that costs hundreds of dollars in property taxes, not thousands. I want to be able to defend my family without getting a signed Notice of Intent to Murder form from my attacker. I want strangers to return the greeting offered in passing. I want to drive to work in under an hour. I want to be able to hunt without researching conflicting ordinances and property lines for 6 months. I want to run a business without fear of the state changing my business classification and demanding back taxes while putting a lien on my business and preemptively draining my bank account (and charging me $200 for the privilege).
I don't want to live in fear that some bureaucrat is going to knock on my door with a piece of paper that says an endangered beetle lives on my land, or I use my wood-burning fireplace too much, or someone thinks I'm abusing my kid, or the tool shed I built needs to be inspected, or my birdbath doesn't have a circulation pump and filter, or my sprinklers ran on Thursday instead of Wednesday, or my garden is too large, or my grass isn't green enough, or my dog looks like a "pitbull mix," or my cat has testicles, or my cigar smoke wafted too far, or my kid's lemonade stand doesn't have a permit, or the political sign on my lawn is too large, or the tree across the sidewalk needs to be trimmed, or I can't have a chicken coop, or my pool doesn't have a fence, or my bicycle doesn't have a license, or I can't have people over to my house to discuss religion or politics, or my car is parked on my property in an unapproved fashion. I could keep going, but why bother?
I want to be free. Or at least, more free.
This move is a big shake-up, and I'm going to take advantage by making some other changes. I'm not quite sure what I'm going to do next, but it'll be different. I feel like working with my hands, or for myself, or in a different industry, or all of the above. I don't know what's going to happen, but I know we'll be fine so long as we continue to trust the guidance in our hearts.
Blogging will become more regular (even if I have nothing to blag aboot) as he California job expires. It became uninteresting and unchallenging, and it ruined me for much else by the time I got home. I wasn't kidding about the upward mobility though, by their standards I was a golden boy. They hate to see me leave.
Everyone we've told has been surprisingly supportive. Hints in their speech make me suspect many have heard a similar call but declined to answer.
The stress of this completely out-of-character move may have contributed to the California burnout at the beginning of this post. All my specific concerns have been quelled with trust in guidance, but some deeper part of my brain can't help but worry. It's stressing me out and I can't address it. We move in twenty-something days, and I wish the waiting was over.
I've been playing around with new ideas and practicing the skills I enjoy. I whetted my appetite for fabrication by spending some time at a machine shop working on a project I've enjoyed planning. It's incomplete, but I'm cutting metal and learning fast. Once I get the prototype finalized, I'll toss it up on kickstarter. I think people will want one... or two.
I'm trying to be more productive with the things I like doing. Writing is one of them, so if I'm sticking to my plan, this blog should start getting busy again. Feel free to hold me to it.
I suppose that's it for now. It's terribly late for the morning I have, but I don't care because I finished this post just like I told myself I was going to.
This is the start of something great. Glad you're along for the ride.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Urgent and highly important videos
Stereo Skifcha
[direct link]
Longboarding: Let Go
[direct link]
Watch it full screen 720p. You're welcome.
Longboarding Freeride
[direct link]
[direct link]
Longboarding: Let Go
[direct link]
Watch it full screen 720p. You're welcome.
Longboarding Freeride
[direct link]
We don't pass freedom to our children through the bloodstream.
I jumped at the opportunity to take a coworker, his wife, and his 8-year-old daughter to the sooper seekrit desert shooting spot. It would be the first time the adults shot in 10 years, and the first time ever his daughter shot. I was honored to contribute to the event.
The first lesson sat bisected by my front sight as everyone held their breath, not daring to blink and risk missing the show. With the familiar PAT of the 10/22, the can of soda exploded spectacularly to the cheers of the people behind me. I quickly turned to make sure no one was moving to inspect the target, and returned the rifle to the table.
"Ok, Lexi, before we go in front of the table, is anyone touching the table?"
"Uhhh... No!"
"Ok, lets go look at the can."
"It's all exploded!" Lexi said, carefully handling what used to be a can of soda. The body of the can split wide open with the hydrostatic shock of the soda bursting free under the pressure of the tiny .22 bullet. I held up an uninjured can of soda from the same pack, "Lexi, can you make that go back to being like this?" She looked at the mangled wreck in her hand, and at the sand, darkened with diet cola. "I can make the outside go back, but not the inside." I dropped my head to look at the darkened sand for emphasis, "So you can't make it go back to the way it was?" Lexi seemed more concerned this time, and shook her head solemnly. "That's because when you shoot something, you change it forever. You can't take it back. Do you understand?" She looked at what she was holding and nodded. "Good! Now do you want to do it again?" A missing-toothed grin flashed to her face.
I was a little worried when she couldn't physically reach the trigger with her shoulder on the stock, but with the stock over her shoulder and against her father's chest, and her neck craned up to look down the barrel, she fired her first shots at some stacked cans and immediately flitted away back to the car to watch her DVD. Her father explained that he was unsure how much she might shoot, but he'd be quite content with those few shots if that was all he got. Such is the nature of 8-year-olds, I suppose.
A couple cease fires later, she returned to her proud father with her eyes and ears ready. I had recommended one round in the mag at a time when she was starting, but multiple rounds seemed to favor her attention span, and increase the excitement of what she was doing. After a few flights of firing, flitting, and finding her way back, Lexi became much more comfortable with what she was doing, and started to really enjoy herself.
The same should be said for her parents, who shot an array of guns (which had been waiting patiently in their safe for the better part of a decade) with such zeal, they lost track of time and forgot Lexi's snack time. The result was not a verbal reminder, but an emotional one. It was time to go home. Such is the nature of 8-year-olds, I suppose.
Shooting is one of the few things I derive a deep inner joy from teaching. It was certainly a joyful day.
Her father has chosen to bypass the Crickett and go straight for a 10/22 with a short barrel and a youth stock. He wanted something she could grow into, or he could make use of if she had a change of heart. What remained unsaid was how hard it was to bring a kid back from semiautomatic. Her marksmanship will have to come later.
Ohyeahalso, shot the bulldog, which was brilliant. As it turns out, the mojo rear sight was mandatory because of how much I had to raise it. Apparently the importer chop was rough on the barrel. Thankfully, the mojo has a tall setscrew you can use for coarse adjustments before using the dial for fine adjustment. Excellent sight, highly recommended.
The first lesson sat bisected by my front sight as everyone held their breath, not daring to blink and risk missing the show. With the familiar PAT of the 10/22, the can of soda exploded spectacularly to the cheers of the people behind me. I quickly turned to make sure no one was moving to inspect the target, and returned the rifle to the table.
"Ok, Lexi, before we go in front of the table, is anyone touching the table?"
"Uhhh... No!"
"Ok, lets go look at the can."
"It's all exploded!" Lexi said, carefully handling what used to be a can of soda. The body of the can split wide open with the hydrostatic shock of the soda bursting free under the pressure of the tiny .22 bullet. I held up an uninjured can of soda from the same pack, "Lexi, can you make that go back to being like this?" She looked at the mangled wreck in her hand, and at the sand, darkened with diet cola. "I can make the outside go back, but not the inside." I dropped my head to look at the darkened sand for emphasis, "So you can't make it go back to the way it was?" Lexi seemed more concerned this time, and shook her head solemnly. "That's because when you shoot something, you change it forever. You can't take it back. Do you understand?" She looked at what she was holding and nodded. "Good! Now do you want to do it again?" A missing-toothed grin flashed to her face.
I was a little worried when she couldn't physically reach the trigger with her shoulder on the stock, but with the stock over her shoulder and against her father's chest, and her neck craned up to look down the barrel, she fired her first shots at some stacked cans and immediately flitted away back to the car to watch her DVD. Her father explained that he was unsure how much she might shoot, but he'd be quite content with those few shots if that was all he got. Such is the nature of 8-year-olds, I suppose.
A couple cease fires later, she returned to her proud father with her eyes and ears ready. I had recommended one round in the mag at a time when she was starting, but multiple rounds seemed to favor her attention span, and increase the excitement of what she was doing. After a few flights of firing, flitting, and finding her way back, Lexi became much more comfortable with what she was doing, and started to really enjoy herself.
The same should be said for her parents, who shot an array of guns (which had been waiting patiently in their safe for the better part of a decade) with such zeal, they lost track of time and forgot Lexi's snack time. The result was not a verbal reminder, but an emotional one. It was time to go home. Such is the nature of 8-year-olds, I suppose.
Shooting is one of the few things I derive a deep inner joy from teaching. It was certainly a joyful day.
Her father has chosen to bypass the Crickett and go straight for a 10/22 with a short barrel and a youth stock. He wanted something she could grow into, or he could make use of if she had a change of heart. What remained unsaid was how hard it was to bring a kid back from semiautomatic. Her marksmanship will have to come later.
Ohyeahalso, shot the bulldog, which was brilliant. As it turns out, the mojo rear sight was mandatory because of how much I had to raise it. Apparently the importer chop was rough on the barrel. Thankfully, the mojo has a tall setscrew you can use for coarse adjustments before using the dial for fine adjustment. Excellent sight, highly recommended.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Our Deepest Fear
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.-Marianne Williamson
Monday, January 09, 2012
Musics!
Kimbra - "Settle Down" (Official)
[direct link]
RATATAT - MIRANDO
[direct link]
AWOLNATION - "Not Your Fault" (Official)
[direct link]
AWOLNATION - "Sail" (Video is of some guy who is insanely awesome)
[direct link]
[OBLIGATORY DUBSTEP]
Zomboy - Organ Donor
[direct link]
Kimbra's vocal technical skill reminded me of a talent I will miss... RIP Amy.
[direct link]
[direct link]
RATATAT - MIRANDO
[direct link]
AWOLNATION - "Not Your Fault" (Official)
[direct link]
AWOLNATION - "Sail" (Video is of some guy who is insanely awesome)
[direct link]
[OBLIGATORY DUBSTEP]
Zomboy - Organ Donor
[direct link]
Kimbra's vocal technical skill reminded me of a talent I will miss... RIP Amy.
[direct link]
Thursday, January 05, 2012
My Rifle MK2 - Dissipator Conversion
There has been a modification to My Rifle.
For a bit of cash, I had the good folks at RifleGear (right down the street!) do this dissipator conversion.
I wanted to do this to make the rifle more comfortable, more sling-able, and more unique/awesome. I had a few options for accomplishing this. Free floated rail farm aluminum handguards were too damn heavy, and would require a low rail-mounted front sight (I like the classic A2 front sight appearance). Carbon fiber free floated handguards were nice and light and looked great, but cost more to buy than the whole job I wound up going with. They put on a low profile gas block at the original carbine length sight position, and because the front of the M4 profile barrel wasn't wide enough, they had to use a clamp-on front sight instead of just drilling new taper pin holes on a fresh A2 sight. If I had more cash to spend, I would have gotten a barrel without the M4 profile, but it'll have to do for now.
I was surprised that I could definitely feel the difference in balance. It was noticeable, but not enough to be a distraction. I wonder how much it will affect the recoil.
You might notice the rear sight is different. I took a hacksaw and file to the original removable carry handle rear sight, and touched it up with the rattle can. This was because the large screw heads on the right side (it's a lefty) got caught on my clothing, and on the left side, the forward screw head interfered with upward flipping ejection port cover. Chopping it meant I could use it without it getting caught on my clothes or interfering with ejection, while looking sweet. I really like what it does to the profile of the rifle. Eventually there will be a TRS-25 cowitnessing on the newly exposed flattop. The ACOG is nearby, set for rail mount.
Because this modification was not high priority, and I'm a function over form guy, I've done this as inexpensively as possible. I'll post range results when I have them.
For a bit of cash, I had the good folks at RifleGear (right down the street!) do this dissipator conversion.
I wanted to do this to make the rifle more comfortable, more sling-able, and more unique/awesome. I had a few options for accomplishing this. Free floated rail farm aluminum handguards were too damn heavy, and would require a low rail-mounted front sight (I like the classic A2 front sight appearance). Carbon fiber free floated handguards were nice and light and looked great, but cost more to buy than the whole job I wound up going with. They put on a low profile gas block at the original carbine length sight position, and because the front of the M4 profile barrel wasn't wide enough, they had to use a clamp-on front sight instead of just drilling new taper pin holes on a fresh A2 sight. If I had more cash to spend, I would have gotten a barrel without the M4 profile, but it'll have to do for now.
I was surprised that I could definitely feel the difference in balance. It was noticeable, but not enough to be a distraction. I wonder how much it will affect the recoil.
You might notice the rear sight is different. I took a hacksaw and file to the original removable carry handle rear sight, and touched it up with the rattle can. This was because the large screw heads on the right side (it's a lefty) got caught on my clothing, and on the left side, the forward screw head interfered with upward flipping ejection port cover. Chopping it meant I could use it without it getting caught on my clothes or interfering with ejection, while looking sweet. I really like what it does to the profile of the rifle. Eventually there will be a TRS-25 cowitnessing on the newly exposed flattop. The ACOG is nearby, set for rail mount.
Because this modification was not high priority, and I'm a function over form guy, I've done this as inexpensively as possible. I'll post range results when I have them.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Good guys don't wear masks... yet.
It's hard not to appreciate the simplicity of the solution the London rioters employed. One minute they're a bystander fleeing the throng, the next, all identifying features are covered, and they are free to do as they please. We now see Occupy X protesters using here what was proven successful there. As resistance and violence increases, so will the need for anonymity.
We will need it too. It's not usually our style to hide who we are, but if things continue the way they are now, it will become a necessity.
Because what some call vigilantism, others call responsibility.
So buy oversized hoodies and handkerchiefs for each person willing, and keep one set in each vehicle. You could even get track pants, gloves, and shoe covers, but I don't think they're as necessary here as in London, where CCTV can track you from cradle to grave. All this can be shoved into a drawstring backpack (or small regular backpack), so you can enter an unmonitored area, and emerge anonymously with the backpack on UNDER your hoodie.
You may wonder why we should have to be anonymous? The good guys don't wear masks. We're in the right, we're preserving order, we're defending civilization from the barbarians. Right?
Maybe. It depends on which way the political winds are blowing. Right and wrong are now subject to popularity, politics (but I repeat myself), and circumstance, and selective enforcement of law is the new weapon of those in power with an axe to grind.
There may be a time when, as far as our leaders are concerned, we're tromping on the "right" of the people/the minority/the disaffected youth/the unemployed/the union to "petition for redress" their community by burning it down and stealing from it. When the peace-loving gang of Occupy X protesters express their righteous frustration with the economic system by kicking the local business owner in the head as he lay bloody and motionless on the pavement, we would be the ones who "escalated force disproportionately" by responding how any sane human being would.
They will be the poor, huddled masses yearning to breathe free.
We will be the vigilantes, terrorists, escalators, and murderers.
WE will be the ones getting no-knocked four days later when fingered by the liberal down the street after you didn't let him steal what society owed him from the local big screen teevee shop, or after impeding the path of a riot with (gasp) a gun, or worse: after stopping a felony in progress.
With many of our leaders showing support for a movement that has openly called for a violent revolution, we can't expect laws of man or god to be enforced for long.
If good people push back when the mob turns, I don't think there will need to be much fighting. But if there is, who would you be fighting against?
I don't think you're ever going to get in a shootout with the granola-eating, tree-hugging, whale saving, Prius-driving, ponytail-sporting liberal down the street. Our current flavor of liberals aren't willing to die for their beliefs. They're more likely to gather at a book burning or throw bricks from within a crowd (though some might be brave enough to kick an unconscious and pre-beaten capitalist in the back). I don't think you're going to need to do more than send one whizzing over the head of a privileged child with a master's in Neo-Colonialism of Industrialized Capitalist Superpowers by Global Policies of Socio-Economic Oppression (who somehow can't get a job or figure out how a hammer works) who's caught up in the group-think of "The Human Megaphone," in order to send them crying back to their parents' McMansion. The Anarchists might issue a few sucker punches, but they're more about riling up the crowd. Some of the true believers might be convinced to pull a trigger, but if fire is returned, they care more about their foodstamp-fed bodies than their ideology. But unions? They scare me. They've got bodies that will do what they're told, organization, mob tactics, and aren't afraid of dealing out "righteous" violence to get what they say they deserve. And the worst part? Police have a history of letting union violence slide because of the political power behind them.
So when world turns upside-down, and the have-nots have tacit political approval to fight the haves of all shapes and sizes, what do you do after you catch your reflection in the mirror and don't recognize it?
That's entirely up to you and the degree to which you see yourself as belonging to something larger than yourself.
Do you remove your license plates, and drive until you think you're beyond the reach of the ideologies of jealousy and entitlement? (hint: don't stop till you hit Mars)
Do you stand in front of your business or house, say "this is MY line in the sand," and shoot whoever crosses it? (hint: this usually compromises your anonymity)
Do you organize your neighbors, Katrina-style, and barricade entrances to your neighborhood, form a fire brigade, repel rioters, arsonists, and offer no witnesses to police inquiries about the additional ventilation provided to the aforementioned? (hint: "Officer, we have 20 witnesses who say that guy fell on those bullets before he dropped his Molotov cocktail and became engulfed in flames...")
Do you form mobile citizen fire brigades and response teams to enforce the laws the police can't or won't?
Or do you let the practicality of your mind defeat the truth and honor in your heart, and do nothing?
I don't know. Like I said, that part is entirely up to you.
Pray for a future wherein we may enjoy a beer and laugh at our overreaction as we look back on this mental and material preparedness. I'll buy the first round.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Miffed over OnStar tracking? Try cell phone tracking.
I see everyone getting indignant over OnStar tracking your location speed, seat belt status, etc after people requested the service be disabled. But for years cellular providers have been keeping records of your location and your calls, and selling them to the highest bidder in most states, and to law enforcement organizations in all states, without a warrant.
Just keeping this all in perspective...
Just keeping this all in perspective...
Sunday, September 18, 2011
The History channel.
Have you ever watched a History channel show about the lead up to X conflict, or Y situation? Did you find yourself yelling "Wake up, Sheeple™! Don't you see what's coming?!" at the teevee? If so, you should keep in mind that all the key events have been distilled out, and placed in a nice neat line of dominoes in the interest of focus and brevity.
Imagine watching one of those shows that was 30 years long, where each ominous event is noted in under 10 words as it passes on a news ticker at the bottom of the screen, while the main screen shows Charlie Sheen's rants or the new awards show or some wayward starlet's mug shot, or if those things don't strike your fancy, the latest footage from Afghanistan or the recent sports game or the newest tech gadget.
Are your progeny going to say, "Grandpa, we just learned about the global collapse in school, and we couldn't understand why you didn't see it coming." To which you may reply, "Well, little Jenny, it was a different time then. We wanted to keep track of the important things, but other things kept getting in the way. There was the NFL strike, Lindsay Lohan's rehab, decades of baseball stats, arguing on internet forums, video games, the new season of Dexter, iPods, health scares, new electronics, funny cat pictures, internet videos of people hurting themselves, Facebook, new and exciting things that were going to kill us in new and exciting ways, and the pills. So many pills. Have I told you about the pills? Pills for happy, pills for sad. Pills for bored, pills for mad. Pills to treat every affliction, and pills to curb our pill addiction. We had a cure for society's ills, and it was always pills, pills, pills." "Mom! Grandpa's Cat-in-the-Hatting again!"
History is a very interesting thing. Once it's past, we like to comment on it from the comfort of our armchairs. But we refuse to recognize that we're making (or not making!) history every day, and that one day, people in armchairs will look on our history as we looked on our forerunners', and they will comment. What will their comments be?
Imagine watching one of those shows that was 30 years long, where each ominous event is noted in under 10 words as it passes on a news ticker at the bottom of the screen, while the main screen shows Charlie Sheen's rants or the new awards show or some wayward starlet's mug shot, or if those things don't strike your fancy, the latest footage from Afghanistan or the recent sports game or the newest tech gadget.
Are your progeny going to say, "Grandpa, we just learned about the global collapse in school, and we couldn't understand why you didn't see it coming." To which you may reply, "Well, little Jenny, it was a different time then. We wanted to keep track of the important things, but other things kept getting in the way. There was the NFL strike, Lindsay Lohan's rehab, decades of baseball stats, arguing on internet forums, video games, the new season of Dexter, iPods, health scares, new electronics, funny cat pictures, internet videos of people hurting themselves, Facebook, new and exciting things that were going to kill us in new and exciting ways, and the pills. So many pills. Have I told you about the pills? Pills for happy, pills for sad. Pills for bored, pills for mad. Pills to treat every affliction, and pills to curb our pill addiction. We had a cure for society's ills, and it was always pills, pills, pills." "Mom! Grandpa's Cat-in-the-Hatting again!"
History is a very interesting thing. Once it's past, we like to comment on it from the comfort of our armchairs. But we refuse to recognize that we're making (or not making!) history every day, and that one day, people in armchairs will look on our history as we looked on our forerunners', and they will comment. What will their comments be?
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Feel better?
It seemed the area was clear. They must have been keeping the area around their hideout clear of zeds. I did a quick room-to-room search of the building, ignoring the sounds of wet thuds and grunt-screams from that woman in the office. When I was satisfied, I made my way pack to the office. As I rounded the corner I got to watch for a few moments as she wildly stabbed at what used to be her rapist's crotch. It looked as if a small bomb had gone off in his pelvis, all that was left was blood and pulp. The blade rang as it hit bone-- or the concrete beneath. One hundred and two pounds of primal rage focused every fiber of its being on one thing. Face twisted into something never before seen in civilization. I didn't dare interrupt. She became aware of my presence all at once, and jump-slipped backwards into the wall, horrified and confused at what had happened, eyes transfixed on the creation of some demon. As she caught her breath, she managed between gasps for air, "I just-- ... He was-- ... I didn't--... When he--..." I stared at her eyes until she met my gaze. "Feel better?"
She looked at herself, covered in blood and started hyperventilating.
She looked at herself, covered in blood and started hyperventilating.
Aliens
"These people aren't from around here. They moved here from far away. Not even this planet. They float around, bumping into things, playing the part they're supposed to play. Surprised, sad, happy, laugh. They perform these things but they aren't these things. They're empty vessels. Husks occupied by some alien force trying desperately to become human. To feel what the real humans feel, to taste what the real humans taste, to experience what real humans experience. But they can't. Because they're not human. They just want to be real. The lives were always better on the other side of the galaxy, so they came here to become real people, and to live what they thought they should live, instead of realizing that they had all the life they needed where they were. They suffered from the same defect as humans. Envy. Envy so blinding that they couldn't see beyond their flat little non-noses to the truth of reality. The truth that they are who or what they are, and nothing can ever change that. The ironic thing about it is that they would live what they believed were happy lives where they only somewhere else when they formed their opinions. Instead they chase what they can never have, and tell themselves how great their lives are now that they aren't who they were. They see things on television and in magazines and they become those things. Like a child putting on its parents' clothes so it can pretend to be grown up. Or an adult, doing childish things so it can pretend it's not. There's never any satisfaction in these lives. No appreciation. No love. No laughter. No soul. These people have to be something. They can't just be. This would all be understandable -- even excusable -- if these self-propelled sacks of chemicals really were aliens from another planet. But they're not. They're actually magical beings of endless complexities and uniqueness, blessed with life by a random amalgamation of atoms formed in the very stars they hide behind their roofs and their eyelids and their bright lights. Stars so beyond their experience, so unfathomably far, so incomprehensibly large, so impossibly hot that they must avert their gaze from their creators, their gods. They're afraid. They're afraid to acknowledge the miracle of their lives because they're shaken to their core by the thought that they'll have to stop doing all the things they've been pretending were important after they realize how important they themselves are. What they don't understand is that there is only one thing that changes when you realize the greatest truth of your life. Your perspective.
I'm going to change that."
I'm going to change that."
Reasons
Warren turned to Jacobs with a strange look on his weathered face. Fascination? Morbidity? Condescension? Or was it something else? Something I'd never thought of? Once he caught Jacobs's eyes he purposefully drew his Beretta, ejected a 9mm round from its chamber, and caught it in the air, all without breaking eye contact. Warren turned the round in his hands and held it up between himself and Jacobs and spoke, "Don't you see? That's the amazing thing about a bullet. A bullet is a hunk of metal. Nothing more, nothing less. It doesn't care if you've got a badge, backup on radio, a SWAT team, or a helicopter in the air. Hell, it doesn't even care if you command thousands of nuclear bombs. All it does is fly straight, and fly though soft things like us. It is impartial. It has no fear, no remorse, and no respect. It will not deviate because you're a cop, or a soldier, or a child, or a king, or a president, or the Pope, or God him-fucking-self. People like us grow to forget that fact. It's only natural. We get respect, so we think we have the respect of everyone. We get fear, so we think we have the fear of everyone. We get power, so we think we have power over everyone. We forget that it only takes one bullet to end us, and one person to fire it. Body armor can be penetrated, windshields can be shattered, arteries can be opened by a prison shiv made from a fucking plastic spork. You keep going out there and pushing people around like you're invincible, and you're going to give someone a reason to remind you that you ain't. Every civy out there... Every single one... Is capable of ending you. Some more than others. They just need the right reason. 'Some more than others' there too. You don't live as long as I have by putin' on the uniform, walking out that door, and giving people reasons."
Monolith
"You know the difference between you and me? You look up at that building and see a Monolith. A huge, overbearing structure assembled by the will of powerful architects. Representing the unshakable dominance of the kings that commissioned it. Daunting. Intimidating. Invincible. You know what I see? I see people. Simple people with simple jobs. People made of flesh, and muscle, and bone. Fragile people. People who do their job not because they believe in what they are doing, or the ends of their efforts, but because it's their occupation. People easily dissuaded. People easily scared. People easily killed. With those people shuffled off or scared off, the monolith becomes a husk. It may still stand upright and tall, but it is lame. A decaying symbol of a dead power. The shadow of kings."
A bit late.
It was a job well done. He told his superiors they needed another few hours though they'd already cleaned the place out. No one was there, so there was no action, and that makes the door-kickers antsy; so he got a few extra hours so they could have some liberty time to unwind.
It was the fourth raid Black Boot team had been on in the past week. The guys liked all the action, and relished the rush they got from taking out Enemies of the State. Plus they got to enjoy a few choice picks from the collections they confiscated. Sure, it was tough luck for the guys that got raided, since they usually got overwhelmed in bed, and were never taken alive, but the law was the law, and without it there would be chaos.
The Black Boots were sitting around the rural property of the house they'd raided checking out their loot, drinking some beer Martinez snuck in one of the duffel bags, and generally horsing around. He avoided the childishness because he thought it undermined his authority over them. He picked a spot under a large elm tree facing the sunset where the roots formed a natural seat for him. He treated his job with a bit more seriousness than they did. It was hard for him to go after Americans. It helped to think of them as he'd been instructed; as domestic terrorists. But he knew they were just Americans. Americans like his grandfather who stood up to firehoses and dogs to secure his rights. All of his rights, including the right to keep and bear arms. But things were different now. His grandfather wouldn't want to own one of these assault weapons... Would he? He protected his family from the KKK, but those times were gone now. We're more civilized. We have better laws.
He ignored the dirty joke being told behind him, and stared at the low-hanging sun trying to quell the odd feeling he always got after he did his job. He sat with one knee elevated, and his gloved hand on top. Something struck him about the black tactical glove that interrupted the natural scene before him. He took it off and felt the cool air hit his hand as he replaced it on his knee. That was better.
As he drifted closer to a welcome nap, he noticed a small black spot grow from the top of a distant hill below the sunset. Like one of the armadillos that plagued the area struggling up the incline, then stopping at the top to survey the land around him. He idly thought, "That's a big armadillo. How far away is that?" He squinted.
First he saw the flash. He could just barely make it out so near the setting sun. Then he heard the buzz of the bullet. Then he heard the sick slap of impact on flesh behind him. Then he saw the spray of blood and matter hit the back of his naked hand still on his knee. He didn't even have time to change his expression. Then he heard the shot. He stared at his bloodied hand.
It wasn't till the second shot buzzed by him that he was broken from his hypnosis. He clambered around behind the tree, and almost tripped over his machine gun. He struggled a thought. "What the hell?! That can't be Jacobs! What balls he must have to shoot at the Black Boots!" Henry Jacobs was the owner of the property they were enjoying, thought to have fled days before the raid. Officially, he was being raided on suspicion of owning silencer parts, but the truth was that he had been a vocal opponent of theirs for years. There wasn't anything in his file about him being a sniper. As far as they knew, he was just a typical fat slob gun nut. Someone was going to pay for this oversight. He moved his back against the tree but lost his footing in the exposed roots and fell backwards into a sitting position, hitting his head hard.
He was frozen in a minor daze. He saw his teammates running for cover, and their weapons, being systematically cut down. Shot in the chest or head, sometimes straight through cover. Those who could make it to their machine guns returned fire to no effect. They were shot in the head when they exposed themselves to fire. He couldn't process what he was seeing as he watched his men die. Those who were not killed on the first shot were hit in the head, ending them in a bloody show. Jackson was the first to run, and was ended before he could make it 15 feet. The remaining members of the Black Boot squad were cowering behind any cover, refusing to expose the smallest bit of themselves. There was a short reprieve, then the shots began hitting the cover, ripping blindly through to their targets. As he regained himself he began to stand against the tree, a shot ripped through the tree trunk just above his head, showering him with splinters. The pain on his scalp snapped him back into his situation. He was lucid now, he had to think about his men, he had to fight back. He grabbed his sub machine gun, took a deep breath, and stepped out from behind the tree, leveling his gun at the target.
He emptied his sub machine gun at the small shape on the hill, and became enraged when he saw his shots kick up the dust a little more than half way to their target. "Who messed with my gun?!" he thought angrily. "It always hits dead center at the range!" Then he realized that he'd never shot it beyond 100 feet. Then he realized he'd never shot it at anyone who was shooting back. Then he realized he'd never actually shot anyone who wasn't in their bed, 5 feet away. For a brief moment he felt a repressed thought push to escape; then cease its struggle.
They were the Black Boots, they were number one, they were the best. They couldn't be wiped out by one man.
Presently, he realized he was not reloading his gun. He looked down and found his sub machine gun on the ground, and his arms hanging at his side. A cold wind chilled a spot on his chest underneath his vest. "How can I feel the cold through my vest?" He tried to say. He bent forward to inspect the cold spot, but realized he wasn't bending forward, he was falling backwards. The world spun downward, and the tree he was under came into view. After he contemplated this occurrence, and considered previous data, he came to the conclusion he had been shot.
It was strange. He always thought he would go out in a cacophonous chorus of gunfire, bullets ripping through his body as he expended his final rounds and issued a war cry before rushing headlong at his attackers, knife in hand, defiant to the end. Instead he lay backwards on the cool grass among strangely aromatic flowers, his face warmed by the low sun. The world around him lazy. Frozen in serenity. It seemed odd that such violence could happen in such a beautiful place. He was lost in thought now. The rifle issued death with slow, dull thuds. As he listened, the bullet whiz and rifle crack seemed separated and disturbed the peace of the valley; but after a while, the sound seemed almost natural. Like it was the way things were supposed to be. As if it were as common a sound as the birds singing or the wolves howling.
Time lost meaning as he drifted in the sea of grass, pushed gently about by the wind. Then he heard the faintest footsteps approaching, and forced himself back to reality and his suffering to see the man who had taken his life.
The man was small, and looked younger than the 31 years his file indicated. Everything about him was plain except for his sharp eyes. The man was checking the bodies that were once familiar, but he seemed aware he was being watched. The rifle he cradled looked old, like out of a history book. A small scope was mounted awkwardly forward, and looked strange. Through the haze he thought, "We're so much bigger, and better equipped. How could we have been beaten by that gun?" He looked at the insulting rifle, and noticed an engraving on the stock. It was something he'd seen before. Something from the files he had reviewed. It was that flag with the snake that said, "Don't tread on me" under it. Everything seemed suddenly clear.
He fought for a wheezing breath, attracting the man's attention, and rasped, "I think --- I understand."
The man who killed him squinted at the wind as he scanned the horizon, then turned to his quarry.
"It's a bit late for that."
It was the fourth raid Black Boot team had been on in the past week. The guys liked all the action, and relished the rush they got from taking out Enemies of the State. Plus they got to enjoy a few choice picks from the collections they confiscated. Sure, it was tough luck for the guys that got raided, since they usually got overwhelmed in bed, and were never taken alive, but the law was the law, and without it there would be chaos.
The Black Boots were sitting around the rural property of the house they'd raided checking out their loot, drinking some beer Martinez snuck in one of the duffel bags, and generally horsing around. He avoided the childishness because he thought it undermined his authority over them. He picked a spot under a large elm tree facing the sunset where the roots formed a natural seat for him. He treated his job with a bit more seriousness than they did. It was hard for him to go after Americans. It helped to think of them as he'd been instructed; as domestic terrorists. But he knew they were just Americans. Americans like his grandfather who stood up to firehoses and dogs to secure his rights. All of his rights, including the right to keep and bear arms. But things were different now. His grandfather wouldn't want to own one of these assault weapons... Would he? He protected his family from the KKK, but those times were gone now. We're more civilized. We have better laws.
He ignored the dirty joke being told behind him, and stared at the low-hanging sun trying to quell the odd feeling he always got after he did his job. He sat with one knee elevated, and his gloved hand on top. Something struck him about the black tactical glove that interrupted the natural scene before him. He took it off and felt the cool air hit his hand as he replaced it on his knee. That was better.
As he drifted closer to a welcome nap, he noticed a small black spot grow from the top of a distant hill below the sunset. Like one of the armadillos that plagued the area struggling up the incline, then stopping at the top to survey the land around him. He idly thought, "That's a big armadillo. How far away is that?" He squinted.
First he saw the flash. He could just barely make it out so near the setting sun. Then he heard the buzz of the bullet. Then he heard the sick slap of impact on flesh behind him. Then he saw the spray of blood and matter hit the back of his naked hand still on his knee. He didn't even have time to change his expression. Then he heard the shot. He stared at his bloodied hand.
It wasn't till the second shot buzzed by him that he was broken from his hypnosis. He clambered around behind the tree, and almost tripped over his machine gun. He struggled a thought. "What the hell?! That can't be Jacobs! What balls he must have to shoot at the Black Boots!" Henry Jacobs was the owner of the property they were enjoying, thought to have fled days before the raid. Officially, he was being raided on suspicion of owning silencer parts, but the truth was that he had been a vocal opponent of theirs for years. There wasn't anything in his file about him being a sniper. As far as they knew, he was just a typical fat slob gun nut. Someone was going to pay for this oversight. He moved his back against the tree but lost his footing in the exposed roots and fell backwards into a sitting position, hitting his head hard.
He was frozen in a minor daze. He saw his teammates running for cover, and their weapons, being systematically cut down. Shot in the chest or head, sometimes straight through cover. Those who could make it to their machine guns returned fire to no effect. They were shot in the head when they exposed themselves to fire. He couldn't process what he was seeing as he watched his men die. Those who were not killed on the first shot were hit in the head, ending them in a bloody show. Jackson was the first to run, and was ended before he could make it 15 feet. The remaining members of the Black Boot squad were cowering behind any cover, refusing to expose the smallest bit of themselves. There was a short reprieve, then the shots began hitting the cover, ripping blindly through to their targets. As he regained himself he began to stand against the tree, a shot ripped through the tree trunk just above his head, showering him with splinters. The pain on his scalp snapped him back into his situation. He was lucid now, he had to think about his men, he had to fight back. He grabbed his sub machine gun, took a deep breath, and stepped out from behind the tree, leveling his gun at the target.
He emptied his sub machine gun at the small shape on the hill, and became enraged when he saw his shots kick up the dust a little more than half way to their target. "Who messed with my gun?!" he thought angrily. "It always hits dead center at the range!" Then he realized that he'd never shot it beyond 100 feet. Then he realized he'd never shot it at anyone who was shooting back. Then he realized he'd never actually shot anyone who wasn't in their bed, 5 feet away. For a brief moment he felt a repressed thought push to escape; then cease its struggle.
They were the Black Boots, they were number one, they were the best. They couldn't be wiped out by one man.
Presently, he realized he was not reloading his gun. He looked down and found his sub machine gun on the ground, and his arms hanging at his side. A cold wind chilled a spot on his chest underneath his vest. "How can I feel the cold through my vest?" He tried to say. He bent forward to inspect the cold spot, but realized he wasn't bending forward, he was falling backwards. The world spun downward, and the tree he was under came into view. After he contemplated this occurrence, and considered previous data, he came to the conclusion he had been shot.
It was strange. He always thought he would go out in a cacophonous chorus of gunfire, bullets ripping through his body as he expended his final rounds and issued a war cry before rushing headlong at his attackers, knife in hand, defiant to the end. Instead he lay backwards on the cool grass among strangely aromatic flowers, his face warmed by the low sun. The world around him lazy. Frozen in serenity. It seemed odd that such violence could happen in such a beautiful place. He was lost in thought now. The rifle issued death with slow, dull thuds. As he listened, the bullet whiz and rifle crack seemed separated and disturbed the peace of the valley; but after a while, the sound seemed almost natural. Like it was the way things were supposed to be. As if it were as common a sound as the birds singing or the wolves howling.
Time lost meaning as he drifted in the sea of grass, pushed gently about by the wind. Then he heard the faintest footsteps approaching, and forced himself back to reality and his suffering to see the man who had taken his life.
The man was small, and looked younger than the 31 years his file indicated. Everything about him was plain except for his sharp eyes. The man was checking the bodies that were once familiar, but he seemed aware he was being watched. The rifle he cradled looked old, like out of a history book. A small scope was mounted awkwardly forward, and looked strange. Through the haze he thought, "We're so much bigger, and better equipped. How could we have been beaten by that gun?" He looked at the insulting rifle, and noticed an engraving on the stock. It was something he'd seen before. Something from the files he had reviewed. It was that flag with the snake that said, "Don't tread on me" under it. Everything seemed suddenly clear.
He fought for a wheezing breath, attracting the man's attention, and rasped, "I think --- I understand."
The man who killed him squinted at the wind as he scanned the horizon, then turned to his quarry.
"It's a bit late for that."
Response to Mike
Mike, I've got my ass-kicking boots on, and when I read your comments, all I hear is the wah wah wah of Charlie Brown's parents.
You know better than I what thing you wish you were doing. Write it out, break it down into bite-sized chunks, take a knife and carve out at LEAST 3 hours a day to make it happen.
Focus on the goal. Print out a picture of it, and put it on the ceiling above your bed. Getting up is the hardest part. Once you're vertical, it's all down hill from there. Leave your house to accomplish your goal, too many distractions there. Chip away at it every day, until you've made a good dent in it, then reevaluate. Has this been fun for you? Are you still interested in it? Do you look back on what you've accomplished and think, "Fuck yeah." Are you making enough progress each day to get there in time? Or did you realize you hate it, and can't stand wasting time on it? Time for something new.
It doesn't matter what you do. All that matters is that there's a goal, and you're making progress toward it.
It could be as specific as "get this accreditation," or as nebulous as "figure out how to run a business." Try to pick a path that will be versatile if you decide you hate the destination half way through. That way you can salvage some of that spent time.
Because time is your most valuable, and most finite resource.
A note on finding that "thing" that you want/are good at. I was talking to a personal trainer a while ago, he told me about how he never thought he could make enough money to become a private trainer, and how he would go to his office job, and squeeze in time to run up and down the stairs to get some exercise. This struck me because there is no way the thought to run up and down stairs simply for fun would have occurred to me. But this was his "thing," and to him, doing anything else was just crazy. He wound up striking out on his own, with a promise to his wife that if he couldn't make it work in 6 months, he'd drop it. He made it. Literally on the last day of 6 months, through a minor contact he made in passing several months prior. The universe deus ex machina'ed his dream.
The point of that story is, we all have obligations, and there are things we can, and can't do. But if you can carve time for your dreams out of _your_ life, without disrupting the lives of those around you, the only person stopping you is you. I don't have a lot of obligations. I want to be a good husband, brother, son, friend, entrepreneur, and employee. Roughly in that order. My nights are for my wife. My weekends for my friends, family, and wife. My afternoons and evenings for my occupation. My mornings were unclaimed because I was too busy enjoying my lethargy, so they were up on the chopping block.
This last weekend was my first since I decided to pound the pavement till it bleeds, and I spent it with friends and family, and playing Minecraft. I played because I figured I had earned the chance to play a bit. But Sunday night? Regrets. I'm trying to get 4 hours of work in every morning, and I spent about 12 hours (or more, they melt together) playing Minecraft (yes, it's that good), but when I was done, all I had to show for it was a series of logic gates which equated to a combination lock using the in-game equivalent of transistors. I was proud I had accomplished this with no assistance or guide, but after that was done, I realized that I had wasted the equivalent of three (or more) mornings on this. Building things like this for no reason other than to see if you can, is a truly obscene waste of a human being's most valuable resource. I may not be ashamed of my accomplishment, but I'm definitely ashamed of my wasted time.
Of course there is room for leisure, all work and no play makes Jack go on a killing spree, but keep it to a minimum. Save the life of leisure for retirement. Sit on the porch of your mansion, and think back on how you picked yourself up by your bootstraps, and made a better life for yourself, your family, and your generations to come. Think about how your success allowed you to focus on the things that really matter in life. It beats the hell out of rotting in a retirement home, or worse, becoming burden on your family.
If you happen to experience a feeling of loss at the end of your day, don't worry, that's just your drive to succeed sucker punching your contentment. Not everyone has that drive. Consider yourself lucky. Now that you know it's there, and you know it's pissed off at you, you can choose to do one of two things. You can either kill it with sleep, beer, and cheap entertainment, or you can nurse it back to to full strength, put it at your back, and let it push you off the couch, and onto the path to your goal. Confront all the missed opportunities in your life, and instead of letting them hurt you, let them motivate you. They're not failures. They're fuel. Burn them.
And if you think it sucks waking up early for 5 years to become everything you dared dream, then try waking up late 20 years from now with nothing to show for it.
It's all starts in the mirror, man. What do you see when you look?
If you're fine with what you see, then rock on with your mediocre self. Relish your tiny victories over life, and bask in your supremacy over esoterica. Honked at some idiot? Amazing. Told your off your boss? Historic. New high score? Monumental. Level 65 Paladin? Prodigious. Built a combination lock using an in-game equivalent of transistors? You're like a god among men.
But if, in that mirror, you see a world of potential crammed inside a locked safe? Then there's only one thing you can do. Crack it, tame it, and ride it to victory over life.
The best and worst thing about this path is that you're the only one who can get you there, and you're the only one who can keep you going. It's all you. Other people may help, but you can't expect them to do it forever. You have to change yourself.
All of it, from beginning to end and everything in between, depends only on you.
You know better than I what thing you wish you were doing. Write it out, break it down into bite-sized chunks, take a knife and carve out at LEAST 3 hours a day to make it happen.
Focus on the goal. Print out a picture of it, and put it on the ceiling above your bed. Getting up is the hardest part. Once you're vertical, it's all down hill from there. Leave your house to accomplish your goal, too many distractions there. Chip away at it every day, until you've made a good dent in it, then reevaluate. Has this been fun for you? Are you still interested in it? Do you look back on what you've accomplished and think, "Fuck yeah." Are you making enough progress each day to get there in time? Or did you realize you hate it, and can't stand wasting time on it? Time for something new.
It doesn't matter what you do. All that matters is that there's a goal, and you're making progress toward it.
It could be as specific as "get this accreditation," or as nebulous as "figure out how to run a business." Try to pick a path that will be versatile if you decide you hate the destination half way through. That way you can salvage some of that spent time.
Because time is your most valuable, and most finite resource.
A note on finding that "thing" that you want/are good at. I was talking to a personal trainer a while ago, he told me about how he never thought he could make enough money to become a private trainer, and how he would go to his office job, and squeeze in time to run up and down the stairs to get some exercise. This struck me because there is no way the thought to run up and down stairs simply for fun would have occurred to me. But this was his "thing," and to him, doing anything else was just crazy. He wound up striking out on his own, with a promise to his wife that if he couldn't make it work in 6 months, he'd drop it. He made it. Literally on the last day of 6 months, through a minor contact he made in passing several months prior. The universe deus ex machina'ed his dream.
The point of that story is, we all have obligations, and there are things we can, and can't do. But if you can carve time for your dreams out of _your_ life, without disrupting the lives of those around you, the only person stopping you is you. I don't have a lot of obligations. I want to be a good husband, brother, son, friend, entrepreneur, and employee. Roughly in that order. My nights are for my wife. My weekends for my friends, family, and wife. My afternoons and evenings for my occupation. My mornings were unclaimed because I was too busy enjoying my lethargy, so they were up on the chopping block.
This last weekend was my first since I decided to pound the pavement till it bleeds, and I spent it with friends and family, and playing Minecraft. I played because I figured I had earned the chance to play a bit. But Sunday night? Regrets. I'm trying to get 4 hours of work in every morning, and I spent about 12 hours (or more, they melt together) playing Minecraft (yes, it's that good), but when I was done, all I had to show for it was a series of logic gates which equated to a combination lock using the in-game equivalent of transistors. I was proud I had accomplished this with no assistance or guide, but after that was done, I realized that I had wasted the equivalent of three (or more) mornings on this. Building things like this for no reason other than to see if you can, is a truly obscene waste of a human being's most valuable resource. I may not be ashamed of my accomplishment, but I'm definitely ashamed of my wasted time.
Of course there is room for leisure, all work and no play makes Jack go on a killing spree, but keep it to a minimum. Save the life of leisure for retirement. Sit on the porch of your mansion, and think back on how you picked yourself up by your bootstraps, and made a better life for yourself, your family, and your generations to come. Think about how your success allowed you to focus on the things that really matter in life. It beats the hell out of rotting in a retirement home, or worse, becoming burden on your family.
If you happen to experience a feeling of loss at the end of your day, don't worry, that's just your drive to succeed sucker punching your contentment. Not everyone has that drive. Consider yourself lucky. Now that you know it's there, and you know it's pissed off at you, you can choose to do one of two things. You can either kill it with sleep, beer, and cheap entertainment, or you can nurse it back to to full strength, put it at your back, and let it push you off the couch, and onto the path to your goal. Confront all the missed opportunities in your life, and instead of letting them hurt you, let them motivate you. They're not failures. They're fuel. Burn them.
And if you think it sucks waking up early for 5 years to become everything you dared dream, then try waking up late 20 years from now with nothing to show for it.
It's all starts in the mirror, man. What do you see when you look?
If you're fine with what you see, then rock on with your mediocre self. Relish your tiny victories over life, and bask in your supremacy over esoterica. Honked at some idiot? Amazing. Told your off your boss? Historic. New high score? Monumental. Level 65 Paladin? Prodigious. Built a combination lock using an in-game equivalent of transistors? You're like a god among men.
But if, in that mirror, you see a world of potential crammed inside a locked safe? Then there's only one thing you can do. Crack it, tame it, and ride it to victory over life.
The best and worst thing about this path is that you're the only one who can get you there, and you're the only one who can keep you going. It's all you. Other people may help, but you can't expect them to do it forever. You have to change yourself.
All of it, from beginning to end and everything in between, depends only on you.
Lets clear out some of this stuff.
I've got some bits and pieces left over in the back of the fridge.
Simon Sez...
Gee, what could this handy, pocket-sized thing be?
Dollar included for size perspective. Silver included for perspective on the dollar.
Lets unfold it...
Just as I suspected! It's a collection of adhesive-backed address labels with politically thought-provoking statements on them!
I wonder what one could do with these...?
Dollar included for size perspective. Silver included for perspective on the dollar.
Lets unfold it...
Just as I suspected! It's a collection of adhesive-backed address labels with politically thought-provoking statements on them!
I wonder what one could do with these...?
Found this picture on the camera
Aside from being a great picture of Ava, I noticed this picture includes our departed friend, the cable box.
Just seeing it here reminds me of the thing we miss most about it.
The clock.
We just keep looking there, expecting to see the time.
But it's too late...
We'll get over it.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Holy fuckin' shit!
That idiotic high speed rail approved by a majority of the mouth breathers voting citizens with whom I share internment a state, has exceeded its cost projections.
This is far from surprising, as anyone with a memory longer than a goldfish could tell you that every proposal is under estimated so severely you wonder if anyone in Sacramento owns a calculator.
Water is wet, the sun rises in the East, and any cost estimate that comes out of Sacramento must be multiplied by 5 to be repeated with a straight face.
But this is not the development worthy of the painstakingly selected choice of words which comprise the title for this post; the amazing development is that they stopped.
That's right. They reassessed, loudly announced the discovery they knew from the project's voter approval, and actually stopped what they were doing so they could review their ability to continue funding the project!
This is a huge step forward for California (and a revealing view behind the curtain of the fiscal problems California faces), because it used to be that when a project ran belligerently over budget, there was this song and dance about how they need to reign in spending, and reduce overhead, and reevaluate the project, and absolutely nothing official interrupted anything about the project. It just kept chugging along as if the politicians' words carried as much weight against the project as they did outside the political echo chamber. Then, years later, the project would be reevaluated, "discovered" to be horrendously over budget, and the song and dance would start up again.
But they actually stopped this one.
This is a huge step forward for California!
Well, "huge step forward" might be a bit much... Lets just say California ceased its self mutilation for a moment.
I take what I can get. Who wants cake?
This is far from surprising, as anyone with a memory longer than a goldfish could tell you that every proposal is under estimated so severely you wonder if anyone in Sacramento owns a calculator.
Water is wet, the sun rises in the East, and any cost estimate that comes out of Sacramento must be multiplied by 5 to be repeated with a straight face.
But this is not the development worthy of the painstakingly selected choice of words which comprise the title for this post; the amazing development is that they stopped.
That's right. They reassessed, loudly announced the discovery they knew from the project's voter approval, and actually stopped what they were doing so they could review their ability to continue funding the project!
This is a huge step forward for California (and a revealing view behind the curtain of the fiscal problems California faces), because it used to be that when a project ran belligerently over budget, there was this song and dance about how they need to reign in spending, and reduce overhead, and reevaluate the project, and absolutely nothing official interrupted anything about the project. It just kept chugging along as if the politicians' words carried as much weight against the project as they did outside the political echo chamber. Then, years later, the project would be reevaluated, "discovered" to be horrendously over budget, and the song and dance would start up again.
But they actually stopped this one.
This is a huge step forward for California!
Well, "huge step forward" might be a bit much... Lets just say California ceased its self mutilation for a moment.
I take what I can get. Who wants cake?
The Hunter and the Moon
My eyes opened without hesitation. I was lucid, and rested. A good start.
I put on the latest evolution of clothing selected for my pursuit. As I struggled toward my goal in the preceding months, clothing changed more than anything else. Past challenges, mistakes, and successes groomed my accoutrement beyond mere garb, and into nothing short of the purpose built machines of steel and polymer, and of plastic and silicone that I once regarded above simple garments. My clothes were tools. Good tools.
Quietly, I readied my equipment. Silence punctuated only by the backpack's zipper, and the M1A's action closing after one final chamber check. I kissed my dozing wife as I did every morning, and heaped straps onto my shoulders before stepping out into the stillness of a world frozen in the lull between drawn breaths.
The car beeped politely as it unlocked, and clicked gently as the trunk opened. I loaded the trappings of my current task into the eager car, and paused as I drew the trunk near closure. After a moment's hesitation, I slammed the trunk shut, hopped into the driver's seat, and drove off, trying to complete my intrusion upon the quiet as quickly as I could.
The traffic lights seemed to act more reluctantly as they granted me passage to the freeway. Free, at this unnatural hour, to exaggerate their lordship over my movements. The sparsely populated freeway lay before me, its usual cold indifference unchanged. It asks only that I get on and off as quickly as possible, and I do my best to oblige.
After a few curves, and appropriate application of the accelerator, I found myself completely alone on a stretch of the 12 lane freeway. Nothing in front, nothing behind. It felt wrong. Like aberrant actions in dreams; you feel that you must stop and question, but know that you won't be able to. I noticed the radio had been turned off.
I took my exit, and waited at the light. To my right, rows of closed shops leading to a city ready to burst to life. To my left, looming mounds of darkness silhouetted by moonlight. The light changed, and I turned left.
The darkness seemed to accentuate the twists and turns of the mountain highway. The drops off the shoulder had turned from slopes to beautiful valleys into an abyss whose glare hardened as each successful turn denied it of your substance. The will of the darkness pulsed rudely in the back of my mind, where I had banished it long ago. Far away, but never gone.
As the lights of men faded, the sky revealed the brightest of her bounty. Unfathomable gaseous monuments to our slightness deigned to share their light from impossible distances. A lifelong favorite cluster of these gods hovered over my destination. The oldest hunter known to this planet offered his consent before fading into the beginnings of the horizon's glow to leave me to my task.
I turned into the dirt clearing nearest my access point, quieted the car, and stepped out of my shell. As I moved the equipment off the car and on to me, my stomach growled loudly, threatening to expose me at my most silent if I didn't meet its demands. I opened the dense brick of nutrition I had brought along, and bit off a piece. Unlike the protein bars, this seemed to provide filling substance to my stomach, instead of small clumps of slow-release energy. My opponent sated, I adjusted the straps that clung to me, and closed the trunk.
The hunter gone, I now looked to the moon, which drifted imperceptibly toward a smaller mountain -my destination- on the horizon. It shined full, and urged me on with the knowledge that it too would soon be gone, and my magic hour lost. The moon somehow entranced me, and as an unintentional moment lost in contemplation elapsed, a shooting star appeared, and streaked in my intended direction before vanishing forever. Its swan song short, and without echo. But not unnoticed. My face brightened involuntarily at my luck, but my thoughts were still shrouded deep within my mind. I knew they had wished for something.
I put on the latest evolution of clothing selected for my pursuit. As I struggled toward my goal in the preceding months, clothing changed more than anything else. Past challenges, mistakes, and successes groomed my accoutrement beyond mere garb, and into nothing short of the purpose built machines of steel and polymer, and of plastic and silicone that I once regarded above simple garments. My clothes were tools. Good tools.
Quietly, I readied my equipment. Silence punctuated only by the backpack's zipper, and the M1A's action closing after one final chamber check. I kissed my dozing wife as I did every morning, and heaped straps onto my shoulders before stepping out into the stillness of a world frozen in the lull between drawn breaths.
The car beeped politely as it unlocked, and clicked gently as the trunk opened. I loaded the trappings of my current task into the eager car, and paused as I drew the trunk near closure. After a moment's hesitation, I slammed the trunk shut, hopped into the driver's seat, and drove off, trying to complete my intrusion upon the quiet as quickly as I could.
The traffic lights seemed to act more reluctantly as they granted me passage to the freeway. Free, at this unnatural hour, to exaggerate their lordship over my movements. The sparsely populated freeway lay before me, its usual cold indifference unchanged. It asks only that I get on and off as quickly as possible, and I do my best to oblige.
After a few curves, and appropriate application of the accelerator, I found myself completely alone on a stretch of the 12 lane freeway. Nothing in front, nothing behind. It felt wrong. Like aberrant actions in dreams; you feel that you must stop and question, but know that you won't be able to. I noticed the radio had been turned off.
I took my exit, and waited at the light. To my right, rows of closed shops leading to a city ready to burst to life. To my left, looming mounds of darkness silhouetted by moonlight. The light changed, and I turned left.
The darkness seemed to accentuate the twists and turns of the mountain highway. The drops off the shoulder had turned from slopes to beautiful valleys into an abyss whose glare hardened as each successful turn denied it of your substance. The will of the darkness pulsed rudely in the back of my mind, where I had banished it long ago. Far away, but never gone.
As the lights of men faded, the sky revealed the brightest of her bounty. Unfathomable gaseous monuments to our slightness deigned to share their light from impossible distances. A lifelong favorite cluster of these gods hovered over my destination. The oldest hunter known to this planet offered his consent before fading into the beginnings of the horizon's glow to leave me to my task.
I turned into the dirt clearing nearest my access point, quieted the car, and stepped out of my shell. As I moved the equipment off the car and on to me, my stomach growled loudly, threatening to expose me at my most silent if I didn't meet its demands. I opened the dense brick of nutrition I had brought along, and bit off a piece. Unlike the protein bars, this seemed to provide filling substance to my stomach, instead of small clumps of slow-release energy. My opponent sated, I adjusted the straps that clung to me, and closed the trunk.
The hunter gone, I now looked to the moon, which drifted imperceptibly toward a smaller mountain -my destination- on the horizon. It shined full, and urged me on with the knowledge that it too would soon be gone, and my magic hour lost. The moon somehow entranced me, and as an unintentional moment lost in contemplation elapsed, a shooting star appeared, and streaked in my intended direction before vanishing forever. Its swan song short, and without echo. But not unnoticed. My face brightened involuntarily at my luck, but my thoughts were still shrouded deep within my mind. I knew they had wished for something.
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