Special for Holloween...

Also, courtesy of Commenter S:

Nothing says "get outa my parking space" quite like it...

The Secret Lair is Electrified!

Busy morning, and it's gonna be a busy afternoon so this'll probably be the only post of the day.  Shit-shoveling early, followed by a quicky labor gig that fell into my lap.  Followed by a trip to the Lair to try out/burn up my brand new inverter!

This one's much cooler than the one I blew up.  It's got read-outs for volts in and amps out, and it's got some serious protection against short circuits.  When I got it plugged in, it promptly told me my battery bank was putting out between 13.5 and 14.1 volts - depending on sunlight, of course - and that's a good volt better than when I started diddling with those batteries.  Got the cabin circuits plugged in to the inverter, and everything I can turn on works great! 

Now I need to get some more lamps in there, and I'll bring a power saw down to see whether that extra 500 watts will put me over the top with small power tools.

Happy!

This has been a triumph of the scrounging art, even if I do say so myself.  The only major component I bought new is the inverter, and that's only because the one I did scrounge blew up over a little thing like a dead short.  No sense of humor at all. 

The solar panels - six ancient 45-watt jobs - came from an abandoned cattle-watering station.  The batteries came from Landlady's old set and were supposed to go to the recycler.  I rejuvenated three of the best four by alligator-clipping a solar panel directly to each one, throwing 18 volts across them, and leaving them out in the desert sun for three weeks.  The charge controller got obsoleted out of Landlady's old system.  I did try to scrounge wire, but it turned out the wire W's friend had torn out of a demolished house had sat out too long and was corroded.  So I did use all new Romex.  All the outlets, breakers and switches came from demolition jobs, and the lighting fixtures will all be scrounged from RVs.

Now I've got to build a rack for the panels and a cover for the batteries, and then it's back to plumbing.  Gotta get the septic system in before things start to freeze.  I'm running out of time.

Adventures in "Eco-Living"

Via Lewlew, here's an LA Times article by a California lady with a post-mortem on her two-year experiment with something she calls "eco-living."

Okay, that word makes me want to go find a hippie to punch.  But some of the things she briefly outlines here make sense.  Some (A "water wall?") not so much.  And her conclusions indicate she's not being either starry-eyed or all "ew!" about getting down and dirty with gray water and composting toilets.  I enjoyed it.

It started with gray water, then escalated to chickens, composting toilets and rain barrels. I'm talking about the two years I've spent transforming my humble California bungalow into a test case for sustainable living — an experience that's cost me hundreds of hours of my time and thousands of dollars, an endeavor that has tested the limits of not only my checkbook but also my sanity — and my DIY skills.

 Hm.  Having gained some experience with a lot of these things myself, maybe I should write something like this for the blog.  Yes?

On Comments...

On this date, 28 October 2010, for the first time in the history of TUAK, I removed a comment.  I've pulled spam before, but that doesn't count.  I've been called names before: Those comments are still here.  There have been comments with which I very seriously disagreed:  Those comments are still here.  Either I don't care, or I think it's kinda funny.

But this is still my blog, and I still get to decide what words appear on it, and some guy I never heard of posted something I just don't want to be associated with.  It had to do with yesterday's Afghanistan post.  I'm not even sure I understood what he was getting at, but I looked at it from a couple of different directions and decided I couldn't find an interpretation I didn't find offensive.  So it's gone.

But it leaves me thinking maybe I should clarify something.  I've often said things here that were critical of this country's foreign policy, particularly military policy.  Sometimes that gets the goat of a passing conservative, and that's fine.  But I want to be clear on something.  I'm not in favor of any of the country's current military adventures, but this should not be taken as meaning that I wish harm to American soldiers.  I don't believe I've ever said any such thing here.  I consider them misled and misused, but I don't wish them harm.  So if something I said here gives you the impression that's my opinion, don't post comments agreeing with me.  Okay?

Comments regarding politicians and/or bureaucrats and anything having to do with ropes and lampposts, of course, remain completely welcome.

That's all I wanted to say.

Hm. Newfie?

In reply to the earlier post in which I speculated about Little Bear's Daddy, Commenter S suggested that maybe a Newfoundland snuck into the love shack.  My first thought was negative - Newfies are very large and very hairy.  LB's just kinda large and hairy. 

Still - Mutt.  Who knows?

I went looking for Newfie images, and ran into this:

Except for the brown eyes and excessive hair, that's Little Bear!

Yes, I know.  I'm obsessing. 

She did it AGAIN!

Click is a cat.  Cats can be vewy, vewy quiet when it suits their purpose.

But what purpose could she serve by bringing Little Bear food?  He's a big boy!  He's perfectly capable of catching his own rodents.  And eating them outside.

I've mentioned before that on two separate occasions Click has brought rabbits into the Interim Lair.  Both were promptly consumed, fur and fingernails, by Little Bear.  Now, as a reasonably intelligent pack-member, Click is perfectly capable of figuring out that if she brings rabbits into the Lair and leaves them on the floor, they will be eaten by others.  Similar things have happened in the past.  So if she's killing rabbits and bringing them into the Lair, only to have Little Bear eat them, at some point I have to conclude that that was her intention.

She's very motherly toward Little Bear.  She always has been.  Just this morning, while dressing, I watched them on my bed as she held down his head - which alone is bigger than she is - and gave it a very determined bath.  She plays with him.  She disciplines him when he gets too rough.  She lies with him when he's tied out and unhappy.  And - I am forced to assume - every now and then she feeds him.

Yes, it happened again last night.  I was sitting at my reading bench, which perforce means my back is to the animals.  At that time of the evening they're in Terminal Nap Mode and normally all is silent.  But I was disturbed by a rather moist crunching sound.

It's not unfamiliar.

I looked around.  Little Bear stood up somewhat guiltily from where he had been crouched over a rat the size of a frickin' squirrel.  Or I should say, about three-quarters of one.  Pool of blood.  Viscera.  Big mess.  Y'know, I'm pretty sure if that thing had been there when we all retired to the Lair for the evening, I'd have noticed.  But Click, as I said, can be very quiet.  At least this time it wasn't a cat-door-destroying rabbit.

It's been a year since she did this.  That I know of - what goes on when I'm asleep is anybody's guess.  Oh, sure - she goes through mouse-catching binges.  I don't really mind that.  But rabbits and big rats are too much.  And do they clean up after themselves?  Well, I guess they have to keep Uncle Joel around for something.

And yes, I do worm him monthly. 

Ack! C-C-COLD!

Private to Landlady - bring warm this weekend.  Please.

One More Month!

Actually I missed this announcement by one day.  Forgive me.

One month from yesterday, America will have been liberating Afghanistan exactly as long as Russia spent brutally invading it.  We can beat the Russkis' record!  Yes!  We!  Can!

On the genetics of Little Bear...

I've been wondering lately, just exactly who LB's daddy is.

His mother, based entirely on sparse photographic evidence since we've never met, is about equal parts German Shepherd and Doberman.  She is quite simply one of the ugliest dogs I've ever seen.  But she must have a great personality, because there's substantial evidence her two male packmates found her irresistable.  She had a huge litter of twelve, only nine of which survived.  But those nine could have come from any nine random litters of large dogs you care to seek.

Now:  Here are the known facts.  Little Bear is large and thick, but not freakishly so.  In his adolescence he showed signs of becoming a very homely guy because his proportions kept changing at random and never in a particularly organized way.  But now he has physically matured to a rather handsome dog.  Who doesn't look a single thing like any of his possible or definite parents.

Here's the line-up.  This is the mom:

Here's a possible dad:

And here's another possible dad:
   
 

Little Bear has bits of some, no sign of others.  He's black with just a bit of white on his chest and belly, which could be a sign of Border Collie genes.  He holds his tail high like the Akita but not that curled, and his muzzle is about that broad but longer.  In fact his snout is shepherd-like, though his brow slopes more than a shepherd's.  His chest and shoulders are very broad, similar to the Akita.  His fur is longer than a Shepherd, Dobie or Akita, but not as long as the Border Collie.  He's bigger than either dad, but that could come from Mom.  He has an absurd flag on his tail which doesn't seem to imitate any of the above breeds. His ears are completely floppy, which only matches an unaltered Dobie.   He's jowlier than any of them.  He's very energetic and playful, but also obedient (usually) and intelligent (not always obviously) and doesn't need your attention every second though he loves to get it.

He's a mutt, no doubt about it.  I like mutts, and I'm especially fond of this one.  I had hoped, once he stopped changing, to have some prayer of nailing down who the mutt's father is.  But I've pretty much given up on that hope.

The question I keep asking myself: Is it possible for a puppy to get parts of both dads?  Because I didn't think that could happen.  Or maybe (I'm beginning to consider this most likely) there are just more breeds in the mix than I know.

Poor, Poor ATF!

So neglected!  So frustrated!  So...(snort) heheheheheh...

Here's an article you ought to read.  It's from the Washington Post, and its writers are terribly concerned about the frantic need to do something about F-Troop's antiquated record-keeping, understaffing and lack of official management.  Yeah, my heart bleeds.

Here's a hint, Sari and James.  I note it's something you left out of your reportage on the poor, sad, bleeding ATF.  There's a reason the "gun lobby" turned so viciously on these selfless public servants.  It's a reason you'd have found quite easy to unearth, had it occurred to you to try.  It's not a secret.

Go out from your ivory tower and find yourself the most "law-abiding," non-slavering, apolitical gun owner you can find.  Don't worry; just throw a SIG over the fence first and he won't hurt you.  Then ask him his opinion of the lantern-jawed heroes of the ATF.

Er...stand back a bit first.  What you will find is that, though he has probably never met an actual ATF agent in the flesh, he hates, hates, HATES the ATF.  With a smoldering, resentful passion, he hates it and everything having to do with it.  And he has gone to some lengths to break its legs and stake it out in the sun without water.

Ask him the reason for that.  Then do a little digging on the history of the ATF, and of the way it treats American citizens when it's not crippled.

You could start with "Operation Show Time."

H/T to Sipsey Street

More hassles in off-grid land...

Sunday at M's Dome the generator, securely strapped to the Jeep's trailer, worked just fine.  Monday when I took it down to the Lair it wouldn't start at all.  I noticed a strong smell of gasoline and it looked as though gas had poured right out through the air filter onto the trailer's boards.

Pulled the spark plug - soaked.  Cleaned the plug, ran the engine through the empty hole to clear fumes out of the cylinder, put it together again - still wouldn't start.

So I'm thinking its bouncy ride back home unseated the carb needle, flooding the whole shebang.  Which means I've got to remove and fix the carb before this thing will be doing anything.  Bother: I really could use some power tools at the Lair.  Guess I'm back to cordless.

It's beginning to look a lot like winter around here.  Yesterday the wind blew all day, and I mean a grit-in-your-face, lean-over-or-fall-over wind.  Cloudy, cold.  Finally got a little bit of rain after dark.  Today dawned shiny and still and it still isn't the least bit cloudy.  But the wind came back up around 2 this afternoon and it never did warm up.  Warning signs.

Rifle, Battle, the extreme customization of.

The other evening I was sitting on the porch of Landlady's Meadow House with Landlady and M, where we were discussing pink rifles.

Stop laughing.

My personal take on the phenomenon of pink rifles is that I don't find pink AR-15s at all jarring. In fact they've pretty much been elevated to the level of commodity by now. You've got your Barbie ARs:

And your Hello Kitty ARs:

...and I don't find them the least bit odd.  ARs have always been kinda toy-like.  Hell, the first nickname they picked up, back in the sixties, was "Mattel Toy."

AKs, on the other hand, are almost deliberately ugly, in a fearsome kinda way.  It suits their intended clientele...

...who, whatever his other virtues, is almost guaranteed not to be a nice man.  Conventionally speaking.  Is rifle.  Is not supposed to be safe.  And whatever your experiences with this guy, "safe" is probably not going to be an option.

Oh, sure - sometimes a banana-republic potentate will get a misguided idea for customizing an AK...

...but that's just bad taste, expected in anybody named Uday.  It's still ugly, and nothing like cute.  AKs don't do cute.

Which is why the phenomenon of the pink AK has always seemed delightfully incongruous to me.

Let's face it, one of these things is not like the other.

But still, to each his own.  If there were no possibility of a pink AK, there could be no Kalashnikitty.

And would the world not be an immeasurably poorer place in which to live?

And yet...surely these things can be taken too far for anyone's taste.  For example - and the thing which got all this simmering in my diseased brain - I give you this:

No, your eyes aren't deceiving you.  That's a gold-plated or painted SKS with an aftermarket magazine and some sort of tartan fabric stock covering.  And it...is...just...wrong.

That's all I was trying to say.

I simply can't express...

...The myriad reasons and ways in which this is a bad idea...



Weer'd World has a veritable cavalcade of Mall Ninja videos including my personal fave, Mr. Elite Fighting Team Guy. It's all guaranteed to rot your brain right down to your toes, and make you think maybe some parents should be a bit more discerning as to who they let live in their basements.

The thing I find scary and embarrassing about exhibitions like this is that I once dreamed I was of being Mr. HSLD without the inconvenience of undergoing the necessary training, which would only have pointed out for all the world to see that - physically, mentally, morally and emotionally - I'm incapable of ever becoming any such thing. It was just a boy-dream. Fortunately, back then there was no YouTube on which to humiliate myself for all time and I eventually grew out of it.

But I did love my useless gadgets and imaginary tactics.

"I'm a gun owner, but...

Robb over at Sharp as a Marble points out that activist-type gun owners don't really need activist-type antigunners as opponents.  Gun owners, like any other beleagured minority, carry their own opposition with them wherever they go.  This one's all afraid of what will happen in Florida if open-carry activists start getting ink.

I am establishment when it comes to guns. I support Florida's concealed-weapons law and the Stand Your Ground law. I cheered when the Supreme Court overturned the gun ban in Washington, D.C. I'll be heading for the gun range this weekend.
Liberals think I'm the unholy spawn of Charlton Heston and Marion Hammer.
But this is too much.

Yeah, sure.  I support laws giving me a privilege to carry a gun as long as I pay the fee, hide the gun, and act like I'm ashamed of it.  Except for when I don't support those laws.  Which is always.  And I don't care what "Liberals" think I am.

And to be perfectly honest, I think "open-carry movements" like the recent flurry in California really are kinda silly. "Look at me! I'm legally carrying an open handgun! Of course it's unloaded, because anything else would be illegal. I'm a law-abiding citizen! A good guy! See? So abandon your entire legislative history and pass laws in my favor!" Sorry, that just wasn't going anywhere. So I might make a point similar to that of the writer, if we were really in agreement. Doesn't mean I'd work against them.

But he gives himself away in the very next para:

These guys conduct open carry demonstrations, where they stand around like exhibitionists, exposing their weaponry for all to see. What would Freud think?

Freud?  Dude.  He might, but didn't, think something like "A fear of weapons is a sign of retarded sexual and emotional maturity."  But after that crack, it hardly matters what Freud thought about anything. When you get snide allusions to exhibitionists exposing themselves, you're reading something from the more bigoted side of anti-gun punditry: People who don't just think gun owners are wrong, they think (or want you to think) they're sick.

There's a word for someone writing the "I'm a gun owner BUT" kind of article who resorts to Fractured Freud Jokes. And the word is...

Liar.

Heh. Serendipity!

The battery on the Jeep is getting awfully weak.  I keep meaning to replace it.  Plus the fact that I never take trips of more than 14 miles' duration, and those are rare, means the battery only gets a good charge when I think to raise the hood and put the charger on it.  This is the Jeep's third winter with an underperforming battery, so it's a wonder the thing works at all.

Saturday, I helped M load the generator on the Jeep trailer, and he took it to his Dome.  He needed it to run the cement mixer and a chop saw.  Since he really prefers to walk, he left the jeep, trailer and generator there overnight.  I think maybe he left something on.

So Sunday Landlady and I joined him in working on the Great Retaining Wall Project.  Maybe three hours later, tired and happy to be done for the day, we all loaded into the Jeep.

Which wouldn't start, of course.  Wouldn't even crank.  Battery deader than I've ever seen it.

Normally this would have freaked me out.  There's no electricity at the Dome yet.  My great fear has always involved the Jeep stranding me somewhere in the boonies, with no way to get it back out.  I've always wanted one of those charger/compressor boxes you can just leave onboard, in case of tire or battery problems.  But they're spendy and I can always think of other things to spend surplus cash on.  In this case, of course, there was no big problem.

You've figured out the fix already, haven't you? 8^)

Yup.  Hike back to the Jeep with a battery charger.  Hook it to the battery and generator.  Start the generator.  Go take a little walky with the boys.  Give them a nice Jeep ride home.

It's back, safe and sound.

Lord, I thank thee that I am not as other men...

...Extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even as these bitter clingers...

What to get the mall ninja who has everything?

I am totally not making this up.

The Sale of the Hi-Point - or Things that Make Josh Sugarmann Sad

In our last exciting episode, M had found himself tasked to legally and profitably dispose of a Hi-Point .380 pistol. In the name of his self-esteem and sanity, he was motivated to do this as expeditiously as possible.

Somehow - and he didn't say how - he made contact with a person who was very anxious to own it. He made arrangements to meet this person at the periphery of the parking lot of a local shopping center. Unfortunately upon arriving at this location, he found that a street-paving project had pretty much closed off access to the lot. Unable to contact his principal, he wormed his way into the lot anyway.

The area, said M, was crawling with traffic cops busily interfering with what little traffic could get past the construction. So his arrival did not go unnoticed.

Now, M is a gentle, mild, ordinary-looking fellow who is not used to drawing the attention of the Forces of Law and Order:

...so imagine his surprise when two of the city's finest coincidentally decided to join him in aimlessly occupying that corner of the parking lot.  In their unmarked car, they undoubtedly expected that their presence would go unremarked.  They might have considered their attire, however:

The transaction M anticipated was locally as legal as breathing.  But still, not the sort of thing you necessarily want to indulge in with two tacticops sitting so unobtrusively in a car right behind you.  So M picked up his cell phone to call the buyer and find a new venue.  His phone showed four signal bars, but informed him he had no service.  It did this three times. 

Undeterred, M did what anyone would have done in a situation like this.  He exited his truck, walked up to the unmarked police car containing two tense, armored cops, asked the cops if they had some sort of cellphone jammer going on and if so could they please turn it off because he was trying to make a call.  They informed him they possessed no such device.  On the fourth attempt, his phone worked fine.

But by that time the buyer had shown up.  So ... M went ahead and sold him the pistol.  The cops did not interfere - or offer a higher price.

To M's mild displeasure, the cops accompanied his truck out of the lot, giving him a bad moment or two.  But then they turned a different way and apparently lost all interest.

The End.

But for me, Tokyo would have been eaten by a giant mechanical fire-breathing monster. That flies.

Prove I'm wrong.



This was such a bizarre thing to say on television that I assume it was taken out of context for the purpose of the obviously hostile video - I can't find a transcript on the tubz, but no doubt if something exculpatory is in there it'll show up. Still, this is 70-year-not-young Harry Reid we're talking about and he's been getting kinda gaffe-prone, so who knows? He may really have said that. In which case he should be happy he's so obviously near death, because that way he won't be living it down as long as Inconvenient Al's been living down taking the lead in inventing the Internet.