On a Wing and a Whim

Fuzzy Pictures and bribes - good news!

2013-06-05T23:51:00.000-05:00

If Teddy Roosevelt had been a crane wrangler instead of a Rough Rider and later President of the United States, he would have modified his famous philosophy of foreign policy with the statement, “Walk softly and carry a big worm”… mealworm, that is because there’s just nothing in this big bad world that compares with the magical persuasive power of a mealworm when you want to coax a crane chick into doing something unnatural like following the trike.

It's that time of year again - whooping crane chicks are hatching, and learning to move their fuzzy little butts to follow a trike around and around!

They're kinda reverse-malamutes: they start brown and grow up to be white, where malamutes start white with cinnamon color and grow up to get nice dark top coats. Both puppies and chicks are very, very cute.

Check out Operation Migration for good news of the fuzzy and peeping variety. Operation Migration - In The Field

Taking the Star Road

2013-05-23T11:04:00.000-05:00

Calmer Half published his first fiction book last week, Take The Star Road, and it's been the strangest feeling to watch it spread its wings and fly up the Amazon bestseller list. On the one hand, it's fascinating from a watching-data point of view to watch the interplay of quantity and velocity of sales with listings, and to see how readers react and review, on blog and on amazon. It's like watching a slow-motion unfolding of a flower, to see the way that reviews spread from a few sites to, one book-reading length of time later, spreading across the blogs.

Please understand, I am very grateful to all the readers who have taken a chance on an unknown author and tried him, whether they finished the book or not, much less left a review or told a friend about it. The willingness to try and unknown first-book author is a gift I do not hold lightly! I am also fascinated by how they see it; after going 'round and 'round with revisions and reviews, watching my Calmer Half learning techniques and trying them out, I have long since become unable to see the story for the ghosts of the past five versions between the words on the page and myself. To watch people seeing the final product with fresh eyes is like playing tourist with visiting friends; it makes the old home city exciting and new again.

I've also found myself laughing at the disconnect between information addiction and reality. We all know reality doesn't move at internet speed (except when it does), and the volume of information out there doesn't mean that things are happening quickly. There is no useful data to be gained by checking sales more than once a day, because sales happen at the rate they happen, and in books, you're dealing with a product that will take consumers anywhere from a night to two weeks to find the time to read and react to (longer, if they're busy and there's another book ahead in the queue. Perhaps we shouldn't have released so close to Larry Correia's release of Warbound, but Take The Star Road was ready to launch.) I can't hurry reality, no matter how much I want to know if this bird will dive or fly. The smartest thing to do, all authors agree, is to not read reviews (as they're for readers by readers, not for authors by readers), not check sales, and concentrate on the next book. I know this. I react to this sage advice about as well as I do to a low-carb diet; by sneaking emergency chocolate out of the chocolate cache after dinner, and peeking at sales and reviews anyway.

Ah, well. Due to waiting too long and then not doing well at emergency planting when I was still in a brace, (the plants were getting rootbound,) everything but the eggplant, asparagus, and mint has died or failed to thrive, and the eggplant is iffy. On the other hand, the basil, thyme, dill, and rosemary indoors are leaning toward the sun from the window and doing just fine. That will have to do for things growing this year, and at least we'll have herbs and a book. The time I save gardening,(other than contemplating whether I should mow the mint with the yard as a precautionary measure; it's the mad scientist of herbs, out for world domination) I can spend lining up words with all the care of a Rube Goldberg contraption. The description of the next book won't write itself, and I still need to choose cover art and buckle down on getting the print version of the first out. It's going to be an adventure, both across the stars in the story and from day to day in the writer's household.

Cleanup

2013-04-19T16:50:00.004-05:00

For the first time in weeks, I can hold a broom or a mop handle. This is awesome, and sorely needed. Unfortunately, released to "brace as needed" is not the same as fully healed, and the floors, well, they're so dirty you'd think they hadn't been swept or mopped in weeks.

Solution: for every room I sweep, and every room I mop, I get a glass of mead and some internet time. This encourages me to finish each room, and to take a rest break afterward. On the downside, this means after a few rooms, I've really lost all motivation to get up out of this chair and go do another. On the other hand, I think the injured limb is about done for the day anyway.

Now for a very weird fact: did you know down here in the south, land of 8 inch long pine needles, they bundle those pine needles together and sell them as "pine straw bales"? My mind, it is well and truly blown. According to the gent who showed them to me, as well as gave me prices for renting a tiller, "They're mostly used on flowerbeds, ma'am. The birds will also steal more of the wheat straw for building their nests."

It's a whole different world down here. I'll think I've got a handle on the culture, and then I stumble onto something like that, where "everybody knows" but a transplanted Alaskan.

P.S. J. R. Shirley - Lydia Bailey is on the way. Thanks for the recommendation!

A Good Day

2013-04-17T21:17:00.001-05:00

The plane has passed her annual, and is waiting at the hangar, ready to fly.

The doc released me from the splint, provisionally, dependent on good behavior and progress in physical therapy.

A Ladies Love Taildraggers volunteer called, reminding me of their annual fly-in coming up.

After work, I found a bag of chocolates waiting all gooshy-warm in the car from a day in the sunshine. (I love my husband.)

It's a good day.

Hope you're all having a good day, too!

A Few Good Men - Good Read

2013-04-05T15:29:00.000-05:00

I realized I've been selfishly keeping a book all to myself that I oughta share with y'all, because you'll like it. It has explosions, and political machinations, hilarious one-liners and jailbreaks, aerial battles, a pig in a dress, a dog named Goldie (the blonde of the dog world if ever there was one), misguided idealists, subversives on the side of right, central planning's consequences, unhappy merchants, confusion, chaos, and glorious fun. A Few Good Men, by Sarah Hoyt.

If John Ringo's March Upcountry was a retelling of Xenophon's Anabasis, then this? This is America, 1774-1778... From the initial inevitable (now that we look back) first clashes to the troops on the move. We don't get all the way to the end of the revolution. Although, given it starts with a jailbreak, you'd be forgiven for thinking it was the French Revolution there for a few chapters - pretty dicey on which way it'd fall on human nature versus human planning and reaching for something better. (I'll have to ask Jenny, of Cradle of Liberty, what she thinks - because the more of our revolution I learn, the more messy it becomes, full of humans and political pressures and cultures of the day, and the more nods to it I see in this book.)

This is a book that takes the idea that "the one right farm boy turned hero will automatically rule the kingdom well", and blows it into flaming chunks. It centers around a tyrant's son who stumbles out of solitary as an almost unintended aside to someone else's jailbreak, to find his father dead, his brother recently assassinated, and himself now the heir to a city-state. His household, the only people he can trust not to want him dead, needs him to take the reigns of power to keep the place from being carved up by the ruling cabal. Even they, though, aren't what they seem; they're riddled with rebels who are looking for a time and place to start a glorious new republic.

Luce's inability to be the tyrant his father was creates a power vacuum, and there are many, many forces and factions rushing to break the stasis and the status quo to seize it. Even his allies may prove as dangerous as his enemies... and his enemies are very dangerous indeed.

That only covers the first few chapters, and doesn't even start to get to the pig in a dress. You'll have to figure that one out yourself, by reading it. But beware - woven in with all the action, there are a couple places where she should have put Class IV beverage alerts in there!

Ebook option at Amazon (linked above), and all formats at Baen Webscriptions. First 10 chapters free here. Enjoy!

Due Up

2013-03-23T02:26:00.000-05:00

Down here in the Lower 48, it's easy to forget that people die. Death is an abstract, a mention in the news, a statistic of car crashes and hysterical-sounding news articles trying to score cheap political points.

In Alaska, death is like the bad weather - always potent, always possible, leaving traces all around you. Death is the remains of an airplane you fly over in a marsh, the warnings of bear activity, the history of a used car you're looking to buy. ("It was his car, when he went up the mountain and didn't come back." The woman said, facing north toward a spot unseen but known by heart. Her arms, folded across her chest, tightening for a moment until her knuckles stood taut against the skin. "I haven't started it... it hasn't been run in three years.") It's in the smoke you breath from the forest fires in July, in the hair-raising powdery dry and sulfurous scent of volcanic ash pelting on your windscreen as you coast the last hundred feet toward the shelter of home, too late to outrun the blast wave by two blocks. It's in the friends who were there, and are no longer, the stories that try so hard to fill in the holes left by the people now gone. The flat tone a man uses when he says "That pass is aluminum coated."

But the distance is an illusion, and no amount of distance can protect from the way you hear the wobble in a tightly-controlled voice when they say "I don't know if you heard..." And then reality, no longer protected by your ignorance, cuts all the cross-connections, the complex web of community and friendship, the possibilities and the we'll-talk-later, the email not yet answered, the might have been, should have done, and the sheer brutal finality that steals your breath away and leaves you falling, stunned, sitting down like a dropped marionette.

Damn, I miss Ted. I miss them all, gone before me now. Too many friends lost, too many wakes held and ashes spread, too many searches ending in an accident report, and worse the ones where it was a sudden illness, a driver who didn't look before turning. (Damnit Ook, who's going to make the waitresses at Sushi Sushi laugh until they're leaking tears at your wasabi face now?)

Worse, still, with the way that death seems to be ignored right out of the culture here, is the lack of a that time and space to grieve, and to be able to share the person, to make them come alive in memories. It's like we should never mention them, for fear that death could come alive. Let me share with you some of the amazing beauty, the wildness, the breath-stealing beauty of a land that will kill you, taken by a man who I barely got to know before he, too, was gone.

Due Up, the website of Shaun Lunt

Because you should know such men lived, that they may live on after their death.

Blue Skies and Tailwinds, Ted

2013-03-09T10:23:00.000-06:00

Rainy Pass, Mystic Pass, and Lake Clark Pass always scared me, somewhere deep in my backbrain. Lark Clark, especially, as I'd seen the weather go from severe clear when we decided to turn around to packed solid with cloud before we made the turn north. And now Rainy Pass has one more patch on her aluminum coat, and three more lives to her tally. Because sometimes, even the best, brightest, most skilled, and luckiest men can't make it out.

And Ted Smith was among the best, filled with love and laughter, mischief and wisdom, in a giant teddy bear of a man with a feral grin. He requested assignment as a patrol officer to the worst part of town, because he loved to be down where he could make a difference. If he wasn't volunteering for the Department of Natural Resources' gun quals (he loved driving the four-wheeler towing the bear target. What, you thought you got to shoot a stationary bullseye when the reason you carry guns is for a kill-defending grizzly or mad momma moose?) or teaching anyone and everyone with the slightest interest how to defend themselves, he was working on his plane or a motorcycle, sharing long breakfasts with the airport, military, and police communities (he knew everyone, it seemed, and never met someone who wasn't immediately either a friend or sent off with their oversize ego quite deflated), and plotting how to get back into a helicopter. (He loved airplanes, but his heart really belonged to rotaries, not seized-wing.)

My IA has never been a man to settle for "good enough for government work", and when Ted brought his plane in for wind damage, it turned into one of those annuals that goes on and on, disassembling and inspecting until all evidence of shoddy prior repairs by others were removed and all was repaired to better than factory for structural and safety standards (with an upgrade or two as long as we're in there.) So in the background of my photos, as my plane came together piece by piece, so too did his plane. He used to tell me that I needed to update more often, and gave the most hilarious send up of an innocent expression, claiming "It's so I can check on my plane, you know."

In the meantime, he'd show up with a motorcycle and a second helmet, and an infectious grin. "Could you help me by testing the back seat, to see if it's comfortable enough for my wife?" And off we'd go. (The first motorcycle seat made me hobble after getting off 50-odd miles later; that one was promptly rejected as no-good for the love of his life.) As the snow fell, he'd insist on giving me a ride home from the shop, and on the way, we'd chat about life, the universe, his hopes and dreams for his kids, the adventures he and his wife had gone through, and the way they had coped with deployments and different shifts, raising kids and surviving hardships.

Not that we could get away with much; my personal torturer, ahem, physical therapist, worked with his wife. Which led to the occasional description of hilarity we'd been up to (punctuated with grunts of pain), followed by a crack of laughter and knowing looks between women, and sometimes valuable advice I could carry back. "No, no, we really ought to skedaddle this weekend, and stay clear; she wants to contemplate remodeling..."

When my fiance came up to see me, I promptly introduced him to the two most important men in Alaska - Ted and my IA were like surrogate fathers, greeting my Calmer Half with friendly grins and a thoughtful, weighing eye as to whether we'd be a good fit. I was highly amused that, through the gun community, they'd already corresponded... and they were highly amused, in that way of men who see a delightful irony coming long before I did, that after all the years of growing up to be a civilian, I was going to marry a vet.

When I headed down, Ted would not stand to see me go on the long journey without a gun (neither could my fiance, but he wasn't there to give me looks over a coffee mug), and ganged up with my IA to make it gentle, persuasive, thoughtful, and utterly unable to refuse... and so we ended up at the range, test-firing his M6 to make sure I could fire it well should I need to use it.

The last time I saw him, was a hug after he and J had escorted me up the Alcan to just shy of the border. He waggled his wings and called godspeed on the radio, as they headed back to Anchorage and I to Canada, headed to the Lower 48. We kept in touch, but the emails were sparser - he was always busy, always finding something to fill his days with more laughter, mischief, delight, and adventure, and I was learning to settle into married life, a new job, a new state, and put into practice advice on marriage he'd given.

Blue skies and tailwinds, Ted, and may we yet meet again when I head west...

Dragon Leatherworks Gunbelt, Take 1

2013-02-22T12:33:00.002-06:00

Calmer Half was graciously sent a Dragon Leatherworks gunbelt to wear and review. He made approving noises and tugging motions, trying to bend the thick leather, and set about getting a buckle on it for review. He'll come up with something thoughtful, profound, and accurate later, I'm sure.

I, on the other hand, after pulling it out of the box, handled it a bit, examined the fasteners of much sturdiness, and finally summed up my initial impression as follows:

"This thing has more leather than my last miniskirt!"

A plush life

2013-02-21T20:27:00.000-06:00

I can be as dense as granite, especially when exhausted and out of caffeine. However, when my brother calls me about half an hour after the last meeting of the day, and mentions in a Very Urgent manner that one of his little spawn is having a birthday in three days, I get the hint. This is the man who knows I barely remember my own birthday, and presents are a sporadic if ever sort of thing from sheer lack of memory. Something, somewhere, probably went wrong, and a little reminding means Aunt Wing can fill in the gap with presents. "What does she want for her birthday, brother mine?"

"She wants legos. And an alligator." He paused a moment, and added reflectively, "My wife won't let me get alligator steaks." Clearly, that discussion had not gone well for him.

"Legos. Got it."

So on to the internet, to the Great South American River of 2-day shipping. And because I'd said legos, being contrary, the first thing I looked for was alligators.

Did you know you can buy a 41" stuffed plushie alligator, with 2-day shipping, for under thirty bucks? It was a hard decision; legos not only encourage budding engineers, but also would be mines underfoot for soft arches of bare feet in the dark. Revenge!

But no, no, over a yard of stuffed animal would be overkill enough, and not inflict collateral damage on my sister in law or other feet. Maybe G-d has a point in this leaving vengeance in his hands.

His name is Swampy.

He has become a bone of contention between the battling bright little things, and I think I may have set the bar for expected amounts of overkill when the next one marks another year of growth. *facepalm* Ah, well. I expect he'll call to remind me in time.

Long Road Home

2013-02-09T16:56:00.002-06:00

Several months ago, Zercool put up a post, stating "It can't hurt to ask..." for a guy looking for a specific M1. The one issued to the gent's father in the service, and turned back in going on fifty years ago. Like many a marine, his father still had the serial number memorized.

That was a long shot, I thought, though we checked the safe just in case. No joy, and I'm afraid I didn't really give it much thought. There are lots of long shots in this world, and the odds on this one were insane.

But not hopeless.

edited to add: Sorry, thought it was Zercool's dad. But no, he just passed the request on for a gent. Still does not impact the awesomeness one tiny bit. Go! See!

A little too much honesty in Science

2013-02-09T08:28:00.001-06:00

"The compound exploded in solution, it exploded on any attempts to touch or move the solid, and (most interestingly) it exploded when they were trying to get an infrared spectrum of it."

...

Stirring speeds varied wildly depending on ambient music. Tech with dubstep predisposition banned after 4th breakage. #OverlyhonestMethods (@BadPhysics)

I really can't do justice to the latest post at Teddy's Rat Lab. Seriously, just Go Read The Whole Thing.

But save your keyboard! Put down your coffee before you go.

Life isn't antiseptic

2013-01-31T16:24:00.000-06:00

My housemate recently had the kids for an extended time, and while The Boy thought this was awesome, The Teen Girl appeared to have mixed feelings. Mainly, she thinks our bathroom is unutterably grossly dirty.

Fine, I'll grant you, I only clean the toilet and mop the floor every other week, and the war vs. the soap scum in the shower is a "every other shower, tackle another section", not "spend all day scrubbing once a week" sort of deal. There gets to be a light layer of dust every now and then, and when there does, I clean the sink and counters. A little dust never killed anyone, and if I'm too damned tired after a week of working over fifty hours, I'm going to spend time reading blogs and with my husband, not kneeling on rebuilt knees and scrubbing tiles. If a little mold comes up on the shower curtain, it gets bleached and left until I get to scrubbing that section of the shower.

Now, I was born and raised before the fad of hand-sterilizer gels and anti-biotic everything really found its legs and started to run. My chickenpox vaccination was playing with a friend with chicken pox, and a week of misery and chicken soup. I've run barefoot most of the summer, out in the woods, and swum in ponds and lakes where you couldn't see six inches down. My mother is an ex-pat of a place where you whitewash the house once a year to cover the latest layer of mold, and saw nothing at all abnormal about messy, muddy, and slightly bloody children turn up starving twice a day all glorious summer. (Once I discovered the adult side of the library, I often turned up a lot cleaner and slightly less ravenous from sitting cramped at the base of the library shelves, reading everything that I was "too young" to check out.)

Calmer Half is from Africa, and has been all over that continent.

The Teen Girl, though, is of a generation that thinks "anti-bacterial facial tissues" are normal, and everyone should carry a bottle of hand sanitizer with them at all times, like some pagan charm against all illness.

The week before, when she knew she'd be subjected to this duress, she took a swab of the bathroom and used it for an example for biology class. When she brought the petri dish home from school and whipped it out with great ceremonial unwrapping from the plastic, she gave many warnings of the container wasn't to be opened, for it would smell a stink so foul as to make the heavens cry. I smiled. "Of course. Biology is messy."

She presented the evidence of my misdeeds to me, in petri form. I raised an eyebrow, then grinned. "Hey, cool! It's a monoculture mold!" I was completely unsurprised at the mold - after all, I fight it on the shower curtain pretty regularly. I was surprised that it was such a consistent monoculture, no hint of anything else there.

"But..but... it colonized the control side of the dish!"

"Yeah, that's pretty interesting - you can see how it grew on radial lines."

"But... It's disgusting! I showed it to the whole class and they were disgusted by the bathroom being so gross! The boys even went eeew!"

"Heh. Why don't you go show it to Calmer Half?"

"I don't think he'd take it as well as you did."

"Oh, I find it pretty amusing. Go on, go show him." I chivvied her down the stairs, and leaned back with a grin. She returned, pouting, crestfallen, and completely floundering at the lack of adult reaction (amusement does NOT count) to the repellant drama of the mold culture. Then she stormed off to go "properly clean the bathroom" with all proper drama and bleach. I know the biology teacher was amused; she sent the girl home with lab goggles, an apron, and rubber gloves. I didn't argue because hey, clean bathroom.

Calmer Half came up the stairs, to get another cuppa. The man who knows all too well what gangrene looks like, and what cholera smells like, cocked an ear to the teenage sturm und drang coming from the bathroom, and smiled at me. I shrugged and grinned, and he grinned back. Then he made a fresh mug of tea for me, as well as one for himself. Life is good, but not antiseptic.

Giving parts of myself away

2013-01-25T00:01:00.001-06:00

The topic of blood donation is going 'round the blogs, and Calmer Half has already noted that he's had to stop at over a hundred units, because the American Red Cross is scared of African blood cooties.

I'm afraid I'm not even sitting on the fence on this one, I'm on the other side and leaving a dust cloud as I peel rubber in a retreat. When I was younger, I thought I'd try anything twice - the first time for adventure, the second to confirm if it was an isolated incident or how that normally is.

The first time I donated blood, after stabbing me three times in the left arm, the nurse stabbed me in the right arm and said "Oh, I can't get the needle in. It's on top of the vein. Hold still and I'll go get somebody else." That hurt like... well, later, I'd find out it was about like a shoulder right after you reset the dislocated joint. But I was young and didn't know that yet, nor had a vocabulary foul enough to properly express it yet. I got out of there before the juice kicked in, because I fainted about two hundred feet away.

The second time, I warned them that the most luscious-looking spots for the vampires, on both arms, have valves in that exact spot. The nurse, even when warned, nodded, smiled, and stuck me through the valve. And then wiggled the needle around when the blood didn't flow, while I found myself mentally cataloging her ancestry, present worth, and future prospects over the screaming bone-deep pain radiating up my arm. Then she decided it wasn't working, tossed the half-full bag, and took a full pint out of the other arm. Through the other valve. The juice that time was guava, and my body wasn't having any of this placating: it rejected everything out of every orifice about five minutes after I stood up. I still avoid guava juice, though not as strenuously as I avoid blood drives.

Which is why I signed up for organ donation when I got a driver's license, and signed up today for bone marrow donation. You can't pay me enough to get me to donate blood a third time, so I'll focus on the ones I can do, and leave the rest to you.

Flat Tires and Thinking ahead

2013-01-19T11:41:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, picked up a nail in the tire (and it predictably went flat.) Calmer Half, who was driving, quickly decided that we were pulling over and searching for the source of that oh-so-familiar thup-thup-thup noise despite the lack of any tactile feedback you expect from a flat. (Note: I was most emphatically not arguing with his decision. You might even call it enthusiastic agreement.)

I am creaky, and disinclined to do more work on the side of a road with no shoulder and cars whizzing by mere feet away than necessary - but I've learned to work around this (it isn't the first time I've had flat tires since getting banged up.) Calmer Half, on the other hand, had a sudden stark look on his face when he realized that he hasn't had a flat tire since being crippled. He suddenly didn't know if he could physically do something that used to be routine. (Driving in Africa, including the bush. I think his youth probably had more tire changes than some mechanics...)

I hate that feeling. I hate seeing it on his face even more. No matter how used to being in constant low-level pain you get, no matter how much life settles into a new normal and you just recalibrate "fine" so life goes on, sometimes reality cuts you wide open with the realization that it's not all good, you're not fine, and what used to be a minor annoyance could now be a major complication. As inured to the slings and arrows of everyday life as I can be, seeing that look on his face cut me to the heart. But I had a plan...

When I was young and full of ignorance and energy, I thought that old folks (like my father) were crafty, devious, treacherous, cunning, and wise because they'd lived long enough to learn all the tricks. Now I realize that it's not age; it's learning to overcome problems with cunning, thinking around the problem, replaying it until you can see where to divert it before it even becomes a problem. It comes because you learn to work around limitations, and complications, small children and second lieutenants, bad nights with little rest and screaming joints from a change in the weather. Some people can grow old without growing wise because nothing ever radically changes their life. Other grow old without growing wise because they give up and let others dictate their limitations. But watch out for old sergeants, officers with gray hair, and mothers of teenagers!

I opened the trunk, and pointed out that I stashed in there not only the spare tire, but also two different cans of fix-a-flat (who plans for the spare tire not being bad?), and an air compressor powered off the cigarette lighter (mostly used for filling the airplane tires.)

Since mechanics hate working on tires with the slime from fix-a-flat on the inside, we started with the air compressor. The tire filled - and if it was slow, well, neither of us had to be kneeling on the January asphalt and fumbling with lug nuts. We could hear the air hissing out, but filled to near-max pressure (not all the way), it was plenty to get the car a mile to the mechanics, and for them to drive it around to the shop's lift.

While the mechanic behind the desk protested that "Oh, it'd have been fine if you needed to use fix-a-flat, ma'am"... The mechanic who actually drove the car around got a grin as wide as his ponytail was long when I told him we'd just hit it with the compressor so he didn't have to deal with the slime. And when they handed the keys back, he told me it was indeed a nail, and there was no charge.

I *heart* Gateway Tire & Auto. And having three different methods of backup. But most of all, I *heart* the look on Calmer Half's face when he realizes that it doesn't matter if he no longer can do something with youth, enthusiasm, and brute force: we already have old age, cunning, and technology laid in to make it even easier than it originally was.

Sets my little heart at ease, that look does...

Destiny

2013-01-04T21:37:00.000-06:00

You know, I wonder whether most of these myths get started because writers feel squeamish about not having control–that they clutch at whatever they can to give them the illusion of control, or at whatever explanation gives them that illusion.
...
Another way to deal with the lack of control is to cling to someone who will save you. Hence all the agent myths. If you can’t control your own destiny, then find someone who can and hand over everything to them.
-Joe Vasicek

Suddenly, after decades of dealing with people of the most outlandish beliefs and far-left politics, slavish adherence to gun-control and environmental myths, and blind eyes to the misbehavior of their "elites"...

It makes sense now.

If you can’t control your own destiny, then find someone who can and hand over everything to them. And if someone else crosses your path who is completely outside your world, who exists in the self-assured belief that they control their own destiny... either they must be an elite that you can hand your destiny over to, or they are a threat to your entire world, because they challenge your deepest beliefs, your basest fears, and your ego.

And if the person you've handed control over to is a little crazy, and greedy, corrupt, misogynist, inclined to party on the nation's dime... well, they're still the one who will save you, so you turn a blind eye to their shortcomings and still trust in them - because there's no one else, and you believe you can't do it.

So when that vet, or that neighbor, or that other economist, or that immigrant from a country where they've already tried socialism and seen its murderous logic at its fullest, tells you that you and you alone are responsible for your own destiny, and you have failed yourself, your community, your family, and your nation by handing that control over - when they mock your belief in your betters, and point out how the people you trust to make it all better never will, just by existing, then they become a threat to your ego, your worldview, your sanity, your culture, and your religion.

It's not baseless hatred for the NRA - it's fear. It's fear that strikes at their root of who they are, and they respond to that fear with the same hatred self-assured people who protect and defend their own destiny reserve for terrorists who blow up skyscrapers and insane, evil beings who choose to slaughter their schoolmates for revenge, glory, and power.

That's why we are "the domestic terrorists." Because we terrify them with our freedom, our independence. We shame them. We mock them, just by existing. We defy all the myths, do not follow any of the rules, pay no attention to our betters, and nothing bad happens to us.

Worse yet, we win. And we keep winning. And no matter how much they try to get their elite to punish us, to force us to capitulate, we keep on existing, unashamedly, and pushing back. So hold your head high, my friends, and when you run across not just a neighbor who disagrees with you politically, but one who screams "you have blood on your hands because you own a gun / don't believe in global warming / are a capitalist pig"... look at them as the small and terrified soul that they are, and pity them. They're screaming out of fear, because we shatter their myths with the casual arrogance of Godzilla rampaging across Tokyo merely by living our own lives.

You are responsible for yourself, and your destiny is in your own hands. Own it, in all the glory and all the pain that will come - it is only one life, but it is yours, and it is up to you to live it.

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
Invictus,
by William Ernest Henley

The Best Part of Working Christmas Eve...

2012-12-24T15:14:00.001-06:00

...is being able to walk up to your subordinates, look 'em in the eyes, and say, "Hey! Go home now! Merry Christmas!"

Y'all have a good one, you hear?

Friends...

2012-12-13T20:12:00.000-06:00

Friends help you move. A good friend comes over after her bedtime, helps capture the injured and oozing cat that has escaped and is running around the inside of your vehicle, and holds and calms the cat all the way to the vet and back. And then helps medicate your cat with antibiotics for the next few days.

...Nah, still doesn't outrank washing a freshly-skunked cat. Though he and I have had a few more rounds about whether my blood should be inside or outside in the struggle to medicate him than we ever did in the skunk incident.

Today, we settled on an excellent compromise - I doze in a chair, and I get a lapfull of purring fur that drains all the tension out of me. I move, I get told to let him out (not a chance, when he's still healing). I medicate him, I get told I'm a dirty rotten no-good scoundrel, and he wants nothing further to do with me. Cash on the table says we have the exact same negotiation tomorrow.

I love that little ball of obstinacy.

PS - apologies for the mostly-broken state of the free ice cream machine; work is running me flat-out right now. I'll be back in January, when year-end is over and things trend more toward sane.

The Answer to the Question Of Doom

2012-12-08T11:40:00.001-06:00

Gentlemen! There is a way to not lose dramatically when ambushed with the Question Of Doom. You know, the one that starts so mildly, and ends so badly. "Do these

make my

look fat?"

Yes, I know you all winced, dove for cover, or ran upon reading that. Come back, or fail to learn the way to escape this ambush!

First, take a deep, calming breath. No, go get a beer. That'll help overcome your aversion therapy more. This is one ambush where trying to avoid answering is the wrong answer. (As you already know.)

Do NOT focus upon the female assets and their fatness or lack thereof. (I know, I hear you cry you already learned that, and are showing each other the scars to prove it.) DO FOCUS on the Article Of Clothing. Make sure you are noticed to be scrutinizing the article of clothing.

Examine the article of clothing as if it exists totally independent of the female body part: the ass does not exist. Compare it to other articles of clothing. Then pronounce judgement upon the article of clothing, and upon it and it alone. Do not show fear. Do not hesitate. Who dares, wins.

For example, for an already-bought pair of pants that do not look bad: "Do these pants make my ass look fat?" "Hmm. No, I think they look fine."

For an article of clothing being tried on at the store, prior to buying, that is Not Good. "Do these pants make my ass look fat?" "Hmm. Those particular pants are not very flattering. Don't worry, dear; I know you'll find something you like."

For an already-bought article of clothing that is Not Good: "Does these pants make my ass look fat?" "I know you love them, dear, but I think it's time to retire them. Why don't you try the black pair instead with that outfit?"

Understand, there are times that ever The Right Answer will not save you - and that's because you have encountered a moment when, instead of taking you by the hand and leading you into a minefield all unthinking, she actually, truly, wants to have a fight - and this was her declaration of war. Any accusatory response that comes out of her mouth in response is likely to be a non-issue, a distracting flanking attack while she readies her main verbal guns.

That's when it's time for "I love you, dear. What's really wrong, and how can we fix it together?"

Now excuse me, I need to go ready the mini-gun and double-check my fields of fire for the femininity that may want revenge at the spilling of their secrets. They scratch and bite; I shoot. Don't worry, I'll be back.

Rifle Info Bleg

2012-11-22T11:03:00.000-06:00

I was incredibly lucky in my choice of parents and friends - my first experiences with rifles were fun, exciting, and happy memories that left me convinces that shooting is awesome, and blackpowder is the coolest thing ever.

However, I cannot remember the models of the blackpowder, bb, and various .22's that I shot as a kid - the only one that sticks in my mind is the one I now own, a CZ 452 that shoots better than I can. I adore it enough I've had no interest in finding another, so I remain ignorant of how other manufacturers and models rate.

So, I ask you, oh internet brain trust: what other .22LR bolt-action guns are wonderful for introducing young men and women to the joy of putting holes in tins and jugs, bringing home hares for supper, defending the garden from all invaders, and providing recoil therapy?

Thank you!

Herbs, rice, and isn't that nice?

2012-11-16T19:48:00.000-06:00

Minor setbacks in the household: the basil grew too large for the pot, and is now dead of the frost. The cutting did grow roots, but died when transplanted into the old basil pot. That won't stop me from having basil! Ten days after plucking the dead cutting out, I have seedlings sprouting from the potting soil. It may take a while, but I'll have fresh basil soon.

The rosemary plant, on the other hand, has decided that sunlight, an occasional watering, and hydration via the dregs of cold tea mugs is the perfect recipe for doubling in size. We're going to have to start making more Greek dishes in self-defense. Perhaps I should scout for a sunny enough spot for a little meyer lemon tree...

I've heard about golden rice for years - the rice genetically modified to prevent birth defects / death from malnutrition in places where people mainly live on rice. I've heard lots of hope from folks who work with the developing world, and lots of screaming about how all genetic modifications are inherently evil from the "science is settled" crowd. I bet that it was either going to disappear into the black hole of aid projects that return little or get banned for scaring the environmentalism jihadis.

I was wrong - bags of it are now on sale in Costco, at a price point between basic white rice and organic white rice. The future is awesome. And delicious!

Tonight's project: drilling a couple holes in the kitchen trash bin, about three inches up the side, to permanently take care of the way the trash bag will poof out from the sides and need to be burped when I start putting garbage in.

Edited to add: I'm sorry, I forgot Blogger now strips out paragraph breaks. Fixed!

Another Year, Another Flight for the Future

2012-11-08T17:20:00.001-06:00

Operation Migration is on the wing again, leading a fresh batch of juvenile whooping cranes on their first migration to winter breeding grounds.

This year, you can follow their path down on a live cam (recorded segments also available, for when they've landed for the night / are waiting out weather.) Daily updates are also posted at their blog: In The Field With Operation Migration.

This is not going to be a one-time effort, not a click "like" on facebook and be done, but an effort of decades to rebuild and regain a species that was almost lost. So watch a while, learn a little bit about it, and remember that sometimes things take far longer than internet news cycles - but with dedication, determination, love and pure hard work, we can build a brighter future.

Grins and giggles

2012-11-02T21:49:00.000-05:00

This made me laugh. Hope it makes you smile, too!

HOUSTON, Texas (Oct. 24, 2012) Vice Adm. Mark W. Skinner, principal military deputy to the Assistant Secretary of the Navy (Research, Development and Acquisition), returns a salute to Navy divers at the Downtown Aquarium during Houston Navy Week.

Source:http://www.flickr.com/photos/usnavy/8136087673/ U.S. Navy photo by Chief Mass Communication Specialist Steve Carlson/Released.

HOUSTON (Oct. 22, 2012) Explosive Ordnance Disposal 3rd Class Jered Johnston, assigned to Explosive Ordnance Disposal Unit (EODU) 3, waves to a child at the Houston Aquarium during Houston Navy Week.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/usnavy/8118950582/U.S. Navy photo by Mass Communication Specialist Seaman Michael Achterling/Released

All Hallow's Eve AAR

2012-11-01T13:54:00.002-05:00

Officially, trick-or-treat was from 6pm to 8pm. I came home early, as Calmer Half is sick and not feeling up to facing the hordes. I was ready with the good candy, under the theory that too much is far better than running short, and if I'm planning for leftovers, I want candy I'll view as a treat.

It was a good year, and I met all the kids I've glimpsed up and down the street, as well as as quite a few from surrounding streets. My first visitors, right at 6, were my neighbors across the street. Their little monkey has just learned to walk, and he was toasty warm and utterly content in his costume. No interest in the candy, but great delight in holding onto the house and standing up, followed by four full steps toward the stairs before coordination gave out.

For those who worry too much about helicopter parents - I had lots of unescorted older kids, unescorted kids in groups with at least one older kid, and most of the mothers or fathers who came up to the door were with kids younger than six, or single female children. One packs of zombies and grim reaper(popular this year) had a mom watching from halfway down the driveway, and two dads with flashlights out in the street. I felt like teasing one dad that his jacket was not doing a good job of covering his holster, but settled for a grin and a wave.

Quite a lot of little monsters later, I found two women escorting a girl, all three in matching medieval fantasy princess costumes. I asked the narrowed eyes under the glitter-laden hair "And what are you?" Her - probably mother and probably aunt beamed.

A very grumpy voice responded, "I'm a ghost!"

I nodded sagely. "A very sparkly ghost. You have fun!" After inspecting me carefully to see if I was making fun of her, a small smile cracked through the scowl.

Eight o'clock came and went, and other porch lights on the street turned off. I kept mine on, because this is when the fun really begins. Now you get the children who are out of breath, running hard to hit every last house and stretch out the fun until the very last second of trick or treat is over. Kids with masks abandoned, costumes pulled up and unzipped for speed and cool air under all the fake fur and extra layers, panting out "Trick or treat! Thank you!" at the door.

About 8:30, as I was contemplating whether it was safe to wander off to the basement, the doorbell rang. One last pack of kids, accompanied by two moms, had clearly bailed out of a van where dad was patiently waiting. As I proffered the bowl of candy to "trick or treat!", the oldest boy looked at me with a hopeful expression as the others studied the candy. "One or two, ma'am?"
It took a second for me to understand, then I grinned. "How about three?"
"Really?"
"Really! As long as your mom doesn't mind." I looked up to catch a very motherly grin. With a look like it was early Christmas, they actually didn't dive into the bowl. They paused, considered, and weighed their options, moving m&m's, snickers, reeses, and such around to carefully consider when they could take three whole pieces of candy.
Then there was a cry of utter delight from one of the youngest girls. "At last! A twix!" She picked it up with the biggest grin of the night. "Mom, I finally got a twix bar!"
I considered. "Hmm. Let's see if there's another in here." We stirred the candy bowl, and one of the boys put a milky way bar back as another snickers bar came to light. "Wait a moment, let's check the rest of the bag." I brought out the quarter-full mixed candy bag, emptying it into the bowl.
"Oh, there's another one!" She glowed with happiness, and another boy hurriedly swapped something as well. "Thank you!" Belatedly, the rest of the pack joined in on the "thank you" chorus, though one muffled by the chocolate just crammed into their mouth. Mom #2, Mom#1, and I shared a grin, and I bowed to them. "You're welcome. Happy Halloween!"

All in all, a good night for getting to know neighbors, and getting called ma'am and told thank you a lot. The kids will be all right.

Odds and Ends and Observations

2012-10-28T21:20:00.000-05:00

1. My husband is quite happy to be a curmudgeonly stick in the mud, content in his way of the world. This is why God paired him with an Alaskan goth geek pilot - we are talking about the same sense of humor that made platypus, after all.

So this weekend, while at an Italian restaurant, I pushed him far, far outside his comfort zone. I pointed out that the Italians do not eat with their forks upside down like Brits do, and it'd be far better to try to eat Italian food the way Americans and Italians do.

After some thought, he flipped the fork over, and had the most endearingly awkward attempt to eat neatly with the fork held correctly. It would have worked better if he hadn't tried to pile two square inches of entree on each forkful, but the sheer determination when every fiber of his being was going "This isn't proper!" was quite endearing and amusing.

He gave up after two forkfuls.

On a related note, I now understand why the Brits are so attached to toast with everything, and eating everything with fork and knife. It's so they can cut a backstop at the end of the tines to try to hold food for long enough that it will reach their mouth, despite the utterly impractical notion that they should put the food on the backside of the fork.

Clearly, I need to get him to hold a fork correctly, as any proper American can, so he doesn't need or miss toast in the low-carb diet.

2. Never, ever, let a South African who knows his cheese loose near the Whole Foods cheese counter. Especially not when a very enthusiastic cheese-geek is manning the counter and eager to talk with someone else who knows "Continental" cheeses fairly unknown in the US. Most especially not when the person who is supposed to function as the control on the budget is hurting badly enough they're having trouble staying upright and conscious. We've spent less on a winery tour.

Oh, well, it's a very tasty haul. Diet? What's that?

3. One of the joys of registering Libertarian is that almost nobody bothered sending me their junkmail. (When I registered undecided, everybody sent political junkmail, trying to sway me. Libertarian, though, is so far from the current "moderate" that nobody figures I'm worth swaying by spamming. That's fine by me. I wonder if registering Green Party would do the same?)

4. A wonderful benefit of early voting: I now neither have to listen nor care until the votes are tallied. The whipped-up sound and fury of the whole monkey show is utterly ignorable, leaving more time for finding better things to do and think.

5. Stand up comics have a harder job than it seems. Facing down a sea of subordinates who are starting Another Work Day, informing them of updates and safety reminders, then motivating them is hard work. Strangely, it seems to go better when I wing it than when I'm handed lines to say.

Repeatedly telling them that I'd rather they ask questions than make assumptions, and that it's always okay to stop me and ask something, has led to a much higher than expected level of quality (expected for their point on the learning curve, to be precise). It also means doing a fifteen-minute job takes forty-five minutes, as people see me out on the floor and start flocking with questions. This is good. This is good. Keep repeating that and remain calm and cheery. Yaaaaargh!

6. I like military men. I can speak Army, and pidgin Air Force, but Marines, well, we'll have to resort to civilian for a mutual language. My company likes hiring vets and reserve, and I get on well with them. However, there's definitely been a few moments lately where the guys with plenty of gray in their clipped hair are turning a very sharp glare and tongue on the young guys with lots of...enthusiasm... and reminding them not-so-gently that I am a lady, not one of the guys, and that language is definitely never appropriate in the civilian workplace. It's relatively easy to reign in the subordinates, but it's harder when the, ah, enthusiastic language and stories are coming from higher up the chain.

7. When someone tries to complain about a boss's character and approach to life, apparently a blank look and "Well, of course. He's a helicopter pilot!" is not the expected response. Clearly, my subordinates need to know more helicopter pilots. After your first couple, it's a whole lot harder to get your feathers ruffled by 'em. (And you look on their antics with a fond grin, a wish to send them off on a motorcycle road trip to use up their reserve of mayhem, and to feed 'em grilled meat and beer by a bonfire. I mean, helicopter pilots. Of course they're crazy!)

PMR-30 Round Count

2012-10-11T23:06:00.001-05:00

For Matthew, of Straightforward In A Crooked World, who wants a real-world test across all platforms of .22LR and .22Mag:

Blogorado:

.22 WMR
400 rounds, 40 grain CCI Maxi-Mag, no problems after I learned to how to double-check I've seated my rounds fully, and that I'm prone to not seating them right when trying to load with thick gloves on. So, no ammo failures, just a shooter failure.

.22 WMR
50 rounds, 30 grain CCI VR Max, 2 failure to eject the brass, whatever you call that, I'll look up the term tomorrow. (Someone dropped that box in as replacement for shooting my ammo. Very nice of them, and now I know that the manual was right when it emphatically stated I shouldn't use low-grain ammo. Also, I know that loading pointy polymer tips pricks my thumb even through thick gloves; hollowpoint hurts less.)

I think I need to clean the gun tomorrow, too.