Adaptive Curmudgeon

Yesterday a reader sent me a comment with a question:

Please tell me more about your 3D printer.

I have a 13 year old son who is interested in getting a printer… [clipped for brevity]… suffer analysis paralysis over electronic do dads… [more clipped]

Please set me on a path to learn what to throw money at so the boy can make stuff with melty plastic, metal infused melty plastic, and electronic do dads.

Nerd bloggers like me live for questions like this! I can’t help but make a whole post. I hope it helps.

First of all dispense with analysis paralysis by just getting a printer. Buy it today. No printer is perfect so quit seeking perfection. The good news is basic printers are pretty damn cool. A 13 year old probably isn’t even going to imagine exotic print scenarios they can’t handle.

So just chill out and get a basic user friendly 3d printer. Which printer do I recommend?

I suggest Bambulab A1 Mini Combo or a Bambulab A1 Combo.

There are better printers, there are worse printers. The Bambulab A1 Combo is (in my humble opinion) the sweet spot of “damn good but still not as expensive as more extra gooderer”. Mine has kept me busy for almost 2 years. Your kid won’t outgrow it right away (or ever).

The only difference between the A1 Mini and the A1 is build envelope. That one sided cantilever design looks hinky to me but (aside from build envelope) I’ve never heard complaints about the mini.

If you care most about being cheap and saving desk space the Mini is fine. The regular A1 is better. (Update… I just found out the difference is like $20… don’t even bother with the mini.) You can never ever upgrade the build envelope! (There’s a jumbo sized A2L. Don’t bother, you’re not going to need it.)

Here’s a photo of the Bambulab A1. All images are copied from the Bambulab website:

The photos show the base printer, not the COMBO. I absolutely recommend the “combo”. The combo includes an AMS Lite. Do NOT get a printer without the AMS Lite. (AMS means automatic material system.)

Here’s a photo of the AMS Lite. This is what it looks like with no filament. It will almost always have 4 spools loaded when it’s sitting on your desk. It’ll probably be cheaper to buy it with the printer instead of as an accessory later. If you don’t get it, you’ll wish you had.

The AMS Lite allows the printer to switch between up to 4 filaments in one print. In practice this usually means switching colors. (I mess around with alternate support materials and other nerd things too.) It also means your printer will “poop”. I’m not making that up.

Multiple colors is way cool. It’s a big improvement in printing fun. Don’t buy any printer that doesn’t have multiple filament capacity. Multiple filament stuff like embedding text into an object or adding racing stripes; that’s the shit that a n00b will most notice and appreciate.

I have to admit, Bambulab’s AMS Lite is the dumbest looking AMS I’ve ever seen. But they work, and very reliably so. They also take up a bunch of desk space but it’s worth it! If you want to make a white snowman with black boots and a red hat… AMS is the bomb!

Here’s the links on Amazon: Bambulab A1 Mini Combo (clocking in at $350) and Bambulab A1 Combo (clocking in at $379 on Amazon). Wait… it’s only $20 difference? Forget about the Mini, it’s dumb that it’s only $20 difference. Unless you’re Harry Potter and live in a closet under the stairway get the full sized A1.

You’re almost done with analysis paralysis but there’s a few more hurdles.

First of all, I offered links to Amazon. Check with https://us.store.bambulab.com/ too. You might get a better deal or you might not. Compare both sources and see if you get free shipping or whatever. MAKE SURE YOU’RE LOOKING AT THE COMBO.

One last decision, filament. A printer without filament can’t do a damn thing!

There are a thousand filaments to choose from… all are awesome. You can never have too much filament. Sweet sweet filament…

Where was I? Oh yeah, you have no idea what you want to do so you have no idea what filament to buy. I suggest PLA. It’s the easiest and doesn’t require a dryer. (If you like the printer and want to “expand” to PETG and other neat filaments your next purchase will be a filament dryer. Don’t worry, it won’t be overly expensive.)

I recommend you buy Bambulab brand filament because the spool has an RFID chip that will “tell” the printer what the filament settings ought to be. (Other brands are fine in the future, I don’t recommend it for a beginner.)

Buy at least $100 worth of PLA filament in whatever colors your kid likes. Make sure at least one color is something your wife likes. Filament comes as “refill” or “on the spool”. Buy “on the spool” at first. Save those spools and reuse them with “refills” later.

Filament is addictive. As soon as you buy red to make a racecar, you’re going to wish you’d bought green to make an army jeep. Bambulab uses the “get them addicted” pricing plan. If you buy 4 items you get a 25% discount, buy 6 and you get 30%. Accept your fate and buy no less than 4 spools to get that sweet 25% discount.

You’ll be happy with PLA Basic. That’s not as limiting as it sounds. Maybe buy one in PLA Translucent because translucent is cool. There’s a new thing called PLA Pure which I haven’t tried. It’s (with caveats that are more legal than real) food safe-ish. I wouldn’t bother unless your kid is going to chew on his creations.

Some filaments like PLA Wood and PLA Glow will require swapping nozzles. Don’t go there at first. Stick with the nozzle you’ve got.

4-6 spools is plenty to get started but don’t hesitate to buy more filament in the future. If you print a lot you’ll crave it like Scooby Snacks. Also, when I started I thought PLA was “weak” and I immediately branched into slightly more difficult to use PETG. I’ve since tested PLA and it’s surprisingly tough. Don’t assume PLA is wimpy “beginner junk”.

Exhausted yet? Almost done. Either you or your kid should make an account on https://makerworld.com/. If possible do this before or in conjunction with buying the printer itself and your first hit of crack… I mean filament… Maybe you’ll get extra discounts, maybe not.

Your Bambulab product will want to “phone home” (to the horror of libertarians everywhere). Relax, go with it at first and unplug later if you want. Your kid is not an international expert in engineering who’s building ICBMs in the living room. You can fret about privacy later. Your account in https://us.store.bambulab.com/ and https://makerworld.com/ will get along together. There is also a cell phone software called Handy that your son will have setup faster than you, as a dad, will be able to do.

I recommend having a computer nearby. Any computer will do at first. (Later when your kid is making his own stuff you might want a “good” computer.) Running from cell phone is lame and limiting; even if your kid loves his phone running from a real computer is a better experience. Everything goes through Wi-Fi. There’s no cable connection needed. It’s wise to put the computer where you can babysit the printer while you’re sending it data from the computer. It does have a camera, you can turn it off and/or cover it if you wish.

When the printer arrives give yourself an hour or two to get it set up. It’s easy but don’t rush. The software (on your computer) called Bambu Studio will take 15 minutes or so, assuming you remember the login & password.

After that your son can surf to https://makerworld.com/ to select from a zillion “models”. It’s a nice glide path into the hobby. You can select models that match your printer (A1) and your filament (PLA) and most (not all) are pretty sweet. Start with something small and simple. Don’t freak if something goes wrong, though the simple stuff might work right away.

You are required by law, custom, and etiquette to print a Benchy. Don’t worry if it sucks, you’ll figure it out as you go. You’ll get better with time. Print it, examine it like you know what you’re looking at (even though you don’t), and if you ever get bored… print another.

That’ll overcome analysis paralysis. If your kid turns into Tony Stark you can always upgrade. But that’s probably not going to happen and he will likely be happy with something that’s easy enough to use and good enough to reliably work. (I haven’t gotten bored of mine and I work it like a rented mule.)

I hope that helps.

A.C.

P.S. If your kid is specifically and hard core interested in minifigs (and nothing else), you may have to deal with a different technology called “resin printing”. That’s a whole different animal involving vats of messy fluids. Don’t go there unless he’s limiting his world to minifigs. Ask him if he wants a Warhammer 40K tattoo and seems obsessed with teeny tiny paintbrushes… if so, you may have to consider resin.

P.S. After you’ve had the printer for 1-6 months, take a look at CyberBrick. I built the remote control forklift. I had absurd levels of fun making it. You, as an adult, might be more interested in CyberBrick than your son. Or not. You two can make remote control devices and have friendly in-home robot wars… good clean nerd fun. But wait until your son has had a while to 3d print simple things like keychains and fidget spinners.

I run a 3d printer for fun. I need 3d modeling software to go with it. The two work together.

I make things which never before existed. Even if it’s just a sawhorse jig it’s something I created. Evil cannot create. Good loves to create. That’s a key to understanding life!

A year and a half ago I picked Autodesk Fusion 360 more or less at random for my 3d modeling software. Technically I’m using “Autodesk Fusion 360 For Personal Use”. It’s massive overkill but that’s where I landed after escaping analysis paralysis.

I suffered through the learning curve. Brutal! But I was more or less happy with the software.

My use is well within the “free” personal use category. I’d be willing to upgrade if they had a cheap low end variant. They don’t. Pricing goes from zero to nosebleed in the blink of an eye.

They don’t want small fry like me. They’ve got Microsoft syndrome… chasing offices and schools and “business to business” until they’re intolerable for a normal human. I consider this a red flag. The company either is or wants to be a ward of the State; ask Northrop Grumman and Lockheed Martin about their consumer divisions.

I soon  encountered another complaint. It’s ridiculously cloud based. It’s an absolute bitch if my internet slows (which was happening with some frequency). I’d do something that shouldn’t be hard, like draft a circle, and the whole system would creak like a Soviet field commander dealing with a mandatory meeting of commissars to discuss the monthly toilet paper ration. Drawing a circle does not need to be cloud based!

I was still willing to put up with it. I even updated my broadband with Starlink.

Meanwhile, Microsoft (the ultimate planetary enshittification kings!) phased out Win10. My hardware can’t easily upgrade and more importantly I don’t want to upgrade to WinEnshittify. I don’t need or want anything new from Microsoft but Fusion 360 seems addicted to it for no clear reason. It started whining that my OS was “out of date”. This had no affect on anything; just a warning that warned me about nothing. I got a Mac laptop running as a backup and tried that. It worked fine with Fusion 360 but didn’t fix my underlying situation.

Mac is just like Win, in both instances my hardware is limited to an unsupported OS level. I got a Linux box running but Fusion 360 (with some caveats) is allergic to Linux. I’m not sure why. Fusion 360 is so cloud based it shouldn’t matter how I’m logging on. But… enshittify.

I’ve been busy with real life. I’m not using Fusion 360 much lately. I just started a very simple little project. So of course just now it needed an urgent software upgrade. Predictably the upgrade was convoluted and annoying. Why? Enshittification.

Meanwhile, other parts of the world seem intent on sucking. I keep reading news that Washington State, or perhaps New York, or some other ninnies out there are trying to get their nose into the 3d tent. They’ve been trying to regulate 3d printing since it was invented, as if every machine shop in every town can’t do the equivalent in metal. People who don’t own a drill press have opinions. They don’t like the peasants having 3d printers. Honestly they don’t like peasants having cars, hobbies, families, religion, or fun either. The current general idea is that a magic unicorn verification system will scan all print files lest a printer do crimethink. Sooner or later one of these nimrods will succeed in their unworkable bullshit. Of course they’ll also kneecap their own State’s industry but that never bothers a commie. To commies, failure isn’t just an option, it’s the goal. Look what they’ve done to education.

Putting aside concerns over civil liberties, it’s a huge foolish hassle. Running all files past a grand inquisitor which doesn’t yet exist and probably never will is just plain unworkable. Software will never truly be able to identify if my home designed combination flower pot and carburetor wash basin with add on sexual toy and D&D barbarian mini-fig is or is not crimethink. The ill defined limits of what the hopeless subject is allowed by his overlords is not a solvable geometry problem.

You can’t censor a tool’s ability to do stupid shit and still preserve it’s ability to do useful shit. People who use tools know this. People who can’t do real world things don’t care what they’re doing when they nuke their own societies capabilities. Sorry folks, you can’t auto-detect a CNC machine or a 3d Printer into harmlessness any more than you can detect an equation in a spreadsheet cell and decide its moral content.

None of this hypothetical regulation should affect me. I make simple things like sawhorses in a State that hasn’t (yet?) gone full retard. But Fusion 360 is hopelessly cloud based and some of their customers are in prison states… so then what. Surely there will be some sort of hoop jumping to determine who is and who isn’t within that state; even if it’s just to disallow export to 3d machines for beings of lesser rights. Who knows where it’ll go?

I don’t want to deal with it. The software is already making itself annoying. It’s not inconceivable a cloud based system will eventually bend over and let my designs get probed. If some dweeb in New York thinks my diy trekking pole handle looks like a trigger, I’ll have a whole different level of enshittification.

Time to adapt.

So here I am, downloading new and different software. All because Fusion 360 couldn’t keep it in its pants and neither can government. I predict more bullshit in the future so I might as well switch to local and Linux now. I don’t want to relearn new software but such is the invisible tax of enshittification.

Wish me luck finding something new to run locally on my computer without a Microsoft upgrade. I hope the learning curve isn’t so hard the second time.

A.C.

[This is part 2 of the story of Curmudgeon’s hike. If you’re too lazy to read part 1, the story began when the Curmudgeon got himself a pair of hiking poles and unleashed his presence on an urban park, a place far too civilized for a free thinker such as himself.]

Before he’d completely worn himself out but well after he’d already “overdone it” (many of the Curmudgeon’s exercise schemes alternated between “nothing” and “way too much”) the walking/bike path changed its nature. It dumped him into an upscale urban sector.

This was another alien world to the Curmudgeon. There were delicatessens, microbreweries, and various other businesses that used too many syllables in their name. The Curmudgeon patted his pocket to check his wallet. It was in place and unopened, and he intended to keep it that way. He was in danger! This was a zone where two beers and an appetizer would blow a week’s budget.

The many microbreweries were open for business, yet nobody was coming or going. In the heat of the midday, an oppressive miasma hung over the concrete courtyards. As the Curmudgeon traversed the burning expanses he caught glimpses of hipsters peering from the dark recesses of their air conditioned artificial caverns. Out in the blazing sun, the Curmudgeon hiked alone. He still heard blaring trumpets in his mind; “Gettin’ strong now, gonna’ fly now…”

The Curmudgeon’s idea of an ideal population density was somewhere around that of Death Valley. The dense urban core would’ve freaked him out except for the hot sun. Protected by the harsh conditions, he wouldn’t have to interact with anyone.

Everyone, including the Curmudgeon, knows hipsters cannot bear direct sunlight. It’s an observable fact. Perhaps, as a variant of nerd, their pasty skin never spent enough time outside to acclimate to the environment? The Curmudgeon’s theory was that hipsters are undead; possibly turned that way by over-consumption of social media and expensive IPAs. Despite their position on a scale that included vampires and zombies, they weren’t particularly fearsome. Hipsters seemed about as masculine as a lace doily and they were probably vegan. If a hipster was a vampire, it would just be a sparkly Chad analog swooning over some forgettable girl. A being of immense power and dark knowledge? Impossible!

The Curmudgeon, still living the Rocky montage, wanted nothing to do with them. He presumed the feeling was mutual. The worst risk was that undead hipster traits might be communicable. He’d rather kill and eat one than endure a lecture about recycling only to find himself converted into “the lifestyle”. He shuddered pondering a fate worse than death; desperately fretting over student loans taken out for ill defined purposes, emoting over avocado toast, and putting “product” in his beard!

Alas, he was tempted. The microbreweries had excellent AC. He could feel cool breezes wafting through open doors. It was hot and he’d been moving at a fair clip for a long time. Maybe he needed a drink? The interiors looked so chill and shaded.

No! Don’t give in, climb that next stair!

Sighing, the Curmudgeon encountered actual stairs. He slowed to a walk. He began trudging up.

The trumpets from Rocky began to fade. A new sound emerged.

It was Chuck Mangione, playing Feels So Good. The siren of the hipsters sent sweet, dulcet notes floating toward the Curmudgeon’s cooked mind.

Chuck Mangione didn’t want you to punch a side of beef. He wanted to hand you a glass of sangria. He had air conditioning.

“Join us. It’s cool inside. The seats are padded.”

“Never!” Hissed the Curmudgeon.

“We have WiFi.”

The Curmudgeon began to slow.

On a landing between flights of stairs, he shrugged off his day pack. He slurped lukewarm water greedily. They had ice in there. He wanted ice! The brand new trekking poles slipped from his grip and clattered to the pavement. Stairs continued in two directions. He could go left or right but the only way out was up.

Maybe it was time for a break? He could afford a few drinks. It was so damn hot out. Chuck’s unhurried trumpet called from a microbrew on the left. “Take a load off…” the trumpet soothed.

To the right Maynard Ferguson stepped into the sun. He had seized Gonna Fly Now from Bill Conti! Expanding on the high energy source material he’d turned the dial to eleven. He was doing unnatural things to his trumpet and it responded with notes no trumpet expected to make. He bent the air around him; shattering Mangione’s relaxed vibe.

Maynard wasn’t just doing the Rocky montage, he was doing it hard! Maynard didn’t need to punch a side of beef, because when he blew a note the beef knew it was already pummeled.

The Curmudgeon was momentarily caught between two worlds.

The air conditioned brewery beckoned. Ease and rest and cold beer. “You can always be awesome tomorrow, today you can be just enough.” The hipster trumpet soothed.

The longer cement stairway with Maynard was the opposite. “Do it! Do it now! Get so awesome the antelope have a heart attack when they see you coming!”

The Curmudgeon blinked; sweat stinging his eyes.

“Climb the stair you lazy bitch!” Maynard’s trumpet shrieked.

This was it. The choice we all face. The way we are is the way we do the things we do. The Curmudgeon understood this.

The Curmudgeon scooped up his trekking poles. “Yeeeaaaarrrghhh!” He charged up the stairway; poles held high, aiming right at Maynard’s curly head of hair.

External to his inner thoughts, the Curmudgeon’s exhausted sweaty charge at imaginary soundtracks wasn’t quite so impressive. Within the brew pub, which had no music at all, a hipster looked up from his phone. What he saw worried him. “You think that dude out there is dehydrated?”

Another hipster glanced up from his phone, “Looks like he’s training for an antelope hunt.”

The first shuddered, “Ew.”

They both nodded and returned to doomscrolling.

Outside, the Curmudgeon had worked himself into a real life Rocky montage frenzy. He charged up yet another flight of concrete stairs. He found himself at a train trestle that had been converted to a walking path. He swung his mighty trekking poles at the wooden planks and double-timed across the river. From there he plunged back into the hipsteriffic maze.

Occasionally sighting the river to assure himself he was going toward rather than away from his truck, he blasted through the unknown. He skirted the perimeter of a playground, infested as it was with children, and still hearing trumpets, barged into a construction zone.

There was a chain link fence with a sign; “sidewalk closed”. It was less than concertina wire so the Curmudgeon squeezed himself through a gap in the fencing. Well aware everyone in the city could see him in a blocked off zone, he click clacked his trekking poles straight past heavy equipment, around survey stakes, and down a graded but not yet paved slope. At the end, another section of chain link was strapped to a waist high antique wrought iron railing.

Without pause, the trekking poles were flung over.

Curmudgeon vaulted the wrought iron; exactly like a man his age shouldn’t.

He landed well. He knew he would. The frenzy of Maynard’s trumpet gave him advantage on all athletics checks.

From there he click clacked around a bend and swished right past the other “sidewalk closed” sign. He could see his truck. He was home. The energy surge began to ebb. Bluetooth speakers playing bullshit began to once again penetrate the Curmudgeon’s mental armor.

A young man and his wife, awkwardly managing a toddler and a stroller, watched the Curmudgeon come around the corner from the forbidden zone. The man asked “Can we…”

“Nope.” The Curmudgeon cut the question short. “I did it, but I don’t recommend it.” He waved a pole at the stroller. “Won’t make it.” The Curmudgeon’s breath was coming in deep gasps… he’d be taking an Ibuprofen tonight.

The young dad smiled. “I get it.” His smile showed wisdom surprising in his youth. There’s a lot of things a young dad will soon learn he can no longer do and he seemed ready for it.

He made a little joke. “Gotta’ have trekking poles for the closed section right?”

The Curmudgeon nodded. “Yep, and trumpets.”

He was already halfway to the truck before he realized the trumpet comment would make no sense. He looked back but the young couple was already headed for the little walking bridge. They’d be fine.

Back in the truck, the AC was turned on max and a stashed bottle of cold water was immediately consumed. By the time the Curmudgeon was rolling out of the parking lot and past the Bluetooth speakers, he was already thinking of his next hike.

It was going to be a grand summer.

The Curmudgeon was too easily motivated. His doctor lit a fuse when he innocently mumbled something about “mild walking exercise”. The Curmudgeon ran with it. “Got it doc! Hike a million miles a week or die trying!” The befuddled doctor tried to backpedal. He stammered that “or die trying” was not a phrase spoken in medical facilities. It was pointless. The Curmudgeon was already out the door; a man with a new mission in life.

Weeks later and hundreds of miles away, the Curmudgeon’s truck ground to a halt. He was in a “big city”. He’d availed himself of commercial delights unavailable in his usual rural world. He’d purchased something he’d never seen in an actual store (or real life), had been too uncertain to buy online, and yet had been pondering for years; trekking poles. He’d wanted a set since, years ago, he’d seen an ultralight tent pitched with a pair on a YouTube video. He’d refused the expense until a doctor explained (in the Curmudgeon’s mind) that trekking poles were vital medical equipment.

He stepped out of the truck. Like a kid on Christmas, he stripped the packaging from his new toys. He hefted the poles. Pointy! You could spear a chipmunk with these things! He grabbed his day pack and, ignoring paved walking trails, set out in a straight line directly across the groomed grass of an inner city park.

He belonged in the park like a water buffalo fits belongs in a roller rink. It was a pretty river with steep rocky banks. It was flanked by hiking/biking trails on either side. Assorted rabble clustered around the parking lot near a charming walking bridge over the water. The only one carrying a pack, wielding trekking poles, or carrying water and “supplies” was the Curmudgeon.

The rabble was making noise; plenty of it. The Curmudgeon fumed that “cultural diversity” seems sparse on “cultural” and lacks in “diversity”. He’d give his left nut to hear Handel emitting from one of the many Bluetooth speakers blaring in the vicinity. Would Baroque kill ‘em? Or maybe Amalia Rodrigues singing in beautiful, yet incomprehensible, Portuguese? Why not an instrument or three to slice the air with a pentatonic or even a major scale? Heck, the Curmudgeon would even smile to see some theater kid role playing Diogenes of Sinope. Perhaps the august persona encountering a Big Mac and (being Diogenes) bitching about it? That would be unexpected and therefore diverse! But no, everyone was dressed the same and the music was uniform rhythmic yammering.

Swinging his trekking pooles like a Nordic skier he’d worked up a righteous head of steam only to encounter a sign that said “sidewalk closed”. Was it truly blocked? The Curmudgeon considered anything short of concertina wire to be “wide open for walking”. Then again, he was in a foreign environment. He’d promised himself he’d behave as a guest and avoid anything dramatic. He refrained from tossing the sign in the river, executed a pole assisted about face, and marched for the walking bridge.

On the other side, the blaring music faded in the distance. Electric bicycles of every shape and size zoomed silently by. None were being peddled because, as far as the Curmudgeon was concerned, electric bikes are just scooters without the efficient and cheap gas motors God intended. Meanwhile he was the only walker with trekking poles. He fretted that he stood out. Maybe trekking poles were only appropriate for athletic women wearing spandex? As a bearded geezer, the poles probably made him look pretentious. The nerve of him! He had an urge to kick his own ass.

Then he passed a section of slow moving water and saw his reflection. Instead of a paranoid beardo doofus poser, he saw a man striding like he was doing the Rocky montage. He didn’t look fake and gay, he looked like an aging but motivated persistence hunter working up to running a gazelle to the ground… an act which was absolutely on the Curmudgeon’s bucket list if not probable for him to actually attain.

It was hot and he was sweating more than anyone there (especially the breezy electric bike riders). A spandex clad pair, a man and woman (both built like a sports catalog) jogged by. They gave him a wide berth but didn’t look at him funny. Maybe he was fitting in!

His imagination fired, he began to hear the Rocky theme, Gonna Fly Now. A blaring trumpet section became counterpoint to the click click click of his poles. He strode harder. He was in the zone. He wished there was a side of beef to punch.

More in part 2.

I’m camping. It happens to be in a place that has “some” cell service. I borrowed a WiFi hotspot to see if I could blog from here. If you see this post the answer is technically “yes” but it’s moving like dial up from two decades ago. Oh well, I gave it a shot.

Mrs. Curmudgeon corrects me that I forgot the most America song ever. How did that happen?

Hank Williams Jr.: A Country Boy Can Survive:

I was inspired by Founding Questions. It’s a music blog. OK, the “music blog” thing is an inside joke within an edifice of inside jokes. (Warning, if you’re even remotely woke save just don’t click!)

There’s a discussion of which music is Americana:

 Tom Petty is at least part of my answer to the challenge “Understand this, and you’ll get America.”

It’s a valid thing to consider. Cardi B’s excretable WAP gross to the point of nihilism but it’s “universal“. It doesn’t need or reflect America. It could emerge from Japan, or Brazil, or France, or whatever.

Severian’s example is the Scorpions: “They’re German, but had quite a few American radio hits. They’re not a German band, in my estimation — they’re a metal band made up of Germans.”

Then he hit it out of the park by “noticing” Rammstein.

“They could sing “Heirate Mich” in English, but it would still be German. And yeah, maybe Rammstein isn’t the best example… but on the other hand, maybe they’re the perfect example, because their whole catalog seems to be an attempt to answer the question “Can you rock so fucking hard that it actually turns you gay?”, which is a question that — to this American’s way of thinking, at least — would only occur to Germans.”

After I got off the floor from laughing I watched this:

He’s right! It’s definitely rocking! I have no idea what they’re saying but I think I’m a little bit gay now! It’s not a bad song, I liked it.

Compare that to Judas Priest’s “You’ve Got Another Thing Coming”. It’s by a British band but isn’t identifiably British. The singer is literally gay but it’s the straightest song ever. Also, I see it celebrating capitalism; uncommon in modern America and literally illegal (or nearly) in modern UK.

Severian and his commenters listed several bands/songs inextricably linked to American culture and sensibilities; Tom Petty, Dwight Yoakum, CCR, and John Cougar Mellencamp.

They’re not wrong but ugh… “little pink houses?”… really? It’s so saccharine! There’s too much Bernie Sanders style whining in my diet and my body starts to reject it. I need guitar based fiber for proper digestion. Here’s my list in no particular order.

ZZ Top “Waitin’ For The Bus / Jesus Just Left Chicago”

Commentary: The goal is “get this and you’ll get America”. You either get this or you don’t. Somewhere there’s a Rammstein fan who biologically lacks the ability to get it. I imagine an adjunct professor at a faculty lounge in coastal America, who’s wondering why riding in the bus is so bad. Why not celebrate our green technology, mass transit future… at least for the masses? (He, of course, commutes with an electric bicycle. Duh!) Plus, there’s the religious overtones.

It’s a song for and from America. It couldn’t come out of France or Korea.

Lynrd Skynrd: “Sweet Home Alabama”

Commentary: I played this song and an eagle flew out of my speakers! Any culture will have attachment to home and “kin”, but putting lyrics that tell Neil Young he ought to fuck off… that’s America! (I linked a version with lyrics just so you can enjoy them shitting on Neil.)

Honorable Mention: John Denver: “Take Me Home Country Roads”

Commentary: John Denver is half-muppet. Therefore, his music is pure joy. Despite the lack of America’s jagged iron-willed edge, this song practically brings a tear to my eyes. If I play it in my garage, my motorcycle will spontaneously start. There is no answer but to roll country pavement for the rest of the afternoon. I have to. I can’t help myself. Understand this and you understand America.

Note: This song has a new generational presence. Similarly Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” cannot be avoided. The world yearns for heart; Cardi B’s “gyration simulating the throes of passion” doesn’t fill the void.

Nat King Cole: “Get Your Kicks on route 66”

Commentary: Bobby Troup wrote the song in 1946 but I like Nat’s version. Modern politicians make money avoiding a real world history. Would any of them admit an accomplished and respected black dude played awesome jazz on live TV in 1951. Yet there he is. Nat wasn’t shoveling coal or playing basketball. This is 20 years before the 1971 setting to campaign stories where Joe Biden talks like young black kids had scarcely seen the likes of his pasty self. I guarantee that Nat, a very accomplished musician, wasn’t wondering about the curly golden hairs on some forgettable cracker’s leg.

Ponder the spectrum between Nat King Cole and Cardi B. One human lifetime from glorious piano to “unhinged woman leaking on stage”. Get that and you’ve grokked something about the human condition as well as America.

Further commentary: Route 66 itself went from the greatest thing since sliced bread to nearly irrelevant; not over centuries but within 30 years. That tells you everything you need to know about Americas relationship to built infrastructure.

Bill Conti: Gonna’ Fly Now”: (Rocky’s Training Montage)

Commentary: Soundtrack to a 1977 movie, this is the montage to which all montages are compared (especially this). My high school band in podunk nowhere played this during parades. Marching in the streets blasting Rocky’s training theme with trombones and shit; God damn was that a heady brew!

This isn’t a sniff of Americana, it’s uncorking the bottle and slamming it down!

Every part radiates America! The environment is dirty and economically depressed (Carter era remember?). Is everyone in this poor area whining and groveling like a modern struggle session? Fuck no! The people are supportive of Rocky, Rocky is of the people, and Rocky is too busy preparing to kick ass to fret about policy. Rocky’s not merely a grinder; he isn’t counting reps in an air conditioned gym. He’s getting ready to throw down; punching bags, and meat, and the air. He runs across railroad tracks like a fighter, he doesn’t mince around an oval like a finely tuned athlete.

It also foreshadows a level of violence that will make your TV melt. But the most American part is the absolute lack of malice. It’s aspirational. Angelic voices cry with the spiritual drive to become better. The goal is to righteously and gloriously pummel one’s competition to paste… in a fair fight. Rocky doesn’t want just to win, he wants to be so incredibly awesome that winning is just an aspect of that achievement. He’s not hiring a sniper to take out Apollo Creed. He’s not working on clever tactics. He’s not calculating percentages. He’s not juicing steroids. His simple plan is to punch sides of beef until his awesomeness is unbeatable.

America is still a lot like that. Despite what you see in media (such as voting shenanigans), our core still understands the difference between competitor and opponent. American children can and do destroy opponents at Monopoly and on the same day they will pummel each other at dodgeball; fierce competition but not in anger or fear. That’s how Americans roll. Understand that and you understand America.

Extra Credit: Watch Maynard Ferguson Strangle a trumpet playing “Gonna Fly Now”. What he does to that trumpet is unnatural! The band, because it was the 1970’s, has a flute. A flute?!? Yeah, it’s a flute. You got a problem with flutes? I thought so!

Special Mention: Geography:

Johnny Cash: “I’ve Been Everywhere Man”

Commentary: Scale within just one nation is a thing to understand. Anyone driving across America finds out. Texans are born knowing; as are folks from the heartland and west. Everyone else sits on a plane and knows nothing. Nobody raised in Europe has it in their bones. If you wonder why Johnny Cash didn’t mention Paris you’re the kind of fuckwit that’s trying to make me fund urban light rail with my taxes.

I once slept on the dirt beside my motorcycle on the dusty Winnemucca road.

Special Mention: American Relationship To Authority:

Johnny Paycheck: Take This Job And Shove It

Commentary: He wants to quit and makes no mention of welfare. Corporate bullshit has battered America’s work ethic but it’s still there. Also, the dude chickens out and doesn’t quit; which is very American too.

Sammy Hagar: I Can’t Drive 55

Commentary: The 55 mph limit was my introduction to nanny state bullshit. I’ll never forgive. When Ralph Nader dies (hopefully of natural causes) I will celebrate and he will go to hell. His hell should be a vehicle with no AC and a broken radio going 55 mph across endless Wyoming prairie; forever.

Evil sometimes creates the environment for change for the good. Nader’s crap trained Americans to break speed laws and mock traffic cops. Radar detectors and CBs spontaneously generated. It’s not just vehicle laws. Bill Clinton passed an “assault weapons ban” in 1994, which expired in 2004. His bullshit caused a two decade long buying spree of AR-15 style rifles that may never end.

I spent this weekend on highways with an 80 mph limit. Fuck you Ralph!

The American part is the response. A German might go fast on the Autobahn but America thinks a screaming weirdo in a yellow jumpsuit fighting with cops is the proper response to being bossed around.

In case you were wondering, no EV will inspire good music.

I could go forever but I’ll stop. Y’all have a good rest of the day. Enjoy being in a nation where “y’all” is a word that makes sense only to us.

A.C.

P.S. It bears repeating, fuck Ralph Nader!

I’m dying to work on my boat but can’t until the boat trailer is setup to move the boat to the garage. So I started by cleaning a stall in my garage. It was super mega hot so I about had a stroke sweeping the dirt out.

The trailer was gone so I setup a little workspace to start building out a “cradle” to hold my boat’s oddly shaped hull.

Almost immediately, the tire guys called and I dismantled my workspace and rushed off to get the trailer. The first thing I noticed was that it’s damn near impossible to back up because the rear of the trailer is far too small to be seen over my truck’s tailgate. (It wouldn’t be a problem if it was loaded with a “regular sized” boat but it was empty and my boat is tiny too.)

After a fair amount of swearing I got the trailer backed into the garage stall. That’s when I discovered the center post (which holds a rusty old hand crank winch and a “y” fitting to carry a sailboat’s mast) blocks my tailgate. It’s just inches too close.

I can unbolt the center post and move it back a few inches. But this will bump into the trailer jack.

Lucky for me, I was planning to replace the jack anyway. I even have the part new in the box from ten years ago! Anyone know how a 1,000 pound jack has a 454 pound capacity? It’s irrelevant because my sailboat is only marginally heavier than a canoe.

Pretty soon I’d removed the center post and the jack. The trailer looks a lot more “stripped” now.

The roller only makes sense on a boat with a keel (which most monohull boats have). My boat is odd and doesn’t have a keel. Might as well remove the roller.

There’s a roller on the back. Still don’t need it. That goes too.

The bunks are old and scruffy and set at the wrong height and angle for my boat and are contrary to the hull’s rocker. They go too.

Here’s all the crap I removed.

What’s left is a skeleton. It’ll probably never be that “clean” again.

I decided I might as well take it to the car wash and pressure wash it. Then when it dries I’ll blast on a coat of silver Rustoleum. (It already has a zillion coats of spray-paint, and that’s fine with me because that’s likely why it hasn’t rusted in all these years. In fact the spray paint over the nuts and bolts probably kept them from seizing up.

If the old spray paint saved me some time, I’ll pay it forward to future me.

So nothing is installed or done because I’m trying to do a nice job. Also a storm blew in and there’s no point in washing it only to tow it on my muddy driveway. Plus I’ve got out of town travel coming up so the whole thing is on hold.

Oh well. Things take time and I’m having fun so far.

In retrospect I should have dropped it off and said “just do whatever feels good and if it’s cheap I won’t bitch”. Would have saved me some confusion.

Tire Confusion

I had the weirdest conversations at the tire place. Note, this ain’t Les Schwab, it’s very rural.  (It’s not really a “tires” place. More like “We fix basic shit whenever it’s pretty basic. Tires are simple and round so we do that. Don’t even slow down if you’ve got an EV. We’d probably put a new cord on your table saw if you ask nicely.”*) They also sell fuel, leather gloves, off road diesel, electric fencing insulators, propane, tires, tractor lubricant, ice cream sandwiches, live bait, oil (in gallon containers only), farm seed, hunting licenses, and windshield wipers… it’s like a step back in time to what a “full service gas station” once was. It makes me happy to spend money there.

Anyway I roll up in my hulking one ton diesel, gingerly towing a tiny boat trailer with no boat and temporary magnetic trailer lights zip tied down to the frame. It’s got pathetic little tires which are probably near rotten. They didn’t bat an eye. Love those guys!

So the dude’s like: “If you want, I can just cram tubes in those old tires. It’ll hold for a while.”

I’m cheap but not that cheap. “No, I want fresh tires, and especially I need the wheel bearings packed.”

“Suit yourself. For those peanut tires we can order 4 ply for $37.”

“Cool. About $70, plus labor for the bearing pack? Very reasonable.”

“Or we can do 6 ply for $3 more.”

“Oh heck yeah, do the six ply.”

“Both sides?”

“Yep, thanks.”

“I’ll order it up. Tires will arrive tomorrow. You know we can do tire and rim for $65?”

I was baked in the heat and not thinking well. I should have said yes, but I was out of brain. I stuck with a pair of 6 ply tires. I dropped the trailer where instructed and went off to do other errands.

A couple hours later it dawns on me that I don’t own a spare. Driving around without a spare in a weird tire size increases the odds of unwanted drama. So I call them back.

“It’s me again, I realize I’ll need a spare. So get me two pre-mounted tire and rim combos. $65 each right? Keep the two crappy old tires and I’ll have two useful spares.” I’m trying to stay on a budget but secretly I’m swayed by the idea of shiny new rims; and I really need a spare.

“Can do.”

The next day they call. It’s done. The guy tells me there was only one tire/rim combo to be had so he had to “make do”.

OK fine, it’ll be ugly having one side with a new rim and the other with an old rim (but a fresh tire). But it is what it is. Plus the remaining old tire is now my spare.

When I get there he’s elected for a combination I hadn’t imagined. Both old rims are on the trailer, clad in brand new tires. Leaning against the trailer is a brand new tire/rim set. Just sitting there, gleaming. So I now have three tires and the spare is nicer looking than anything else. Not what I imagined but it’ll do.

Somehow the $65 tire/rim combo has turned into something like $98. Good thing I only got one! Plus now I’ve bought 3 tires instead of 2. But it still was reasonable.

In the end I had no idea what was going to happen, how much it would cost, and why such decisions were made. But it was under $200 and the guy was nice. Who am I to complain? And the bearings are repacked… I think.

A.C.

*I exaggerate about the table saw. Lawn mower? Maybe. Electric stuff? Nope.

I’ve had to deal with many old, shitty, trailers in my life. It is what it is. That said, they’re simple enough that “rebuilding” one is a lot easier than real mechanical work. Here’s what I’ve done so far.

Ball Hitch

The boat trailer has a 1 7/8″ hitch. I think such things are an abomination. I planned on swapping the hitch mechanism on the trailer to 2″.

Everything ought to have a 2″ ball except for the big stuff that’s 2 5/16″. Here’s the deal, if it’s huge and needs a 2 5/16″ ball you damn well know it. If it’s small and wants a 1 7/8″ you don’t have that on your vehicle because nobody does.

However, the part on the trailer was in reasonably good shape. Removing and replacing that part would probably cost $30 and kill a few hours. Besides, I have a cheat code. So I left the trailer as it was.

I highly recommend my cheat code. It’s called “Convert a ball“. With it you can switch between any of the three sizes instantly and without tools. It’s worth every penny. I have the slightly more expensive version that has a little box to hold your balls [insert joke here]. The box is a big deal. If they’re not in a carrying box you’ll lose your unused balls [ugh.. the jokes are too obvious]. I’m going to stop right now; just know the expensive 3 size system with the carrying box is money well spent.

Why do I have a second (spare?) 1 7/8″ ball? I have no idea. Why is the 2″ ball so grody? Because I use it 1000% more than the others.

Everyone should be awesome and roll around in a truck that be setup to tow anything of any size. Unless you’ve got a smaller SUV, then don’t mess around with 2 5/16″ anything. Seriously, you may think your SUV is bad ass but don’t argue with physics.

I assumed the 2″ ball was seized up and sprayed liquid wrench on everything. I probably didn’t need it. With a few taps of the hammer, the locking shaft mechanism worked pretty well. Wow! I wire brushed all the crud off just because I ought to.

Then it was effortless to install the 1 7/8″ ball. I added a generous glob of grease to stave off rust.

Not a big victory but a necessary step in the process.

Trailer Jack

The one on the trailer is absolutely shot. It’s gotta’ go.

I rooted around in my shop and found a new in the box trailer jack. I think I bought it 10 years ago to be installed in this very spot. That I kept it for 10 years and found it when I wanted it is a miracle.

No photos because it ain’t done yet. I’m pretty sure I won’t screw it up.

Tires

The tires held air, which is impressive after all these years. But they’re tiny 4.80-8 pipsqueaks. I could just buy the tires myself and mount on the rough but airtight wheels. But the bearings need repack. I can do repacking but I hate doing it, I always get grease everywhere and I’m never sure I did it correctly. Sometimes it’s best to just pay a dude.

I went to a super-redneck tire place. They’ve always been great and I’m glad I know them. One guy was more than willing to put tubes inside of my crappy old tires and send me on my way. I love that! They know it’s a boat trailer and some boats never go more than 5 miles from home to dock.

Not for me though. I wanted good safe new rubber. There’s weather checking on the tires that doesn’t show up in the photo. I know they’re at least 10 years old and they were probably old before I got them. Plus little 8″ tires spin fast, too fast for my tastes. So to spare me drama and worry, I asked for new tires and no tube.

So that’s what’s happening. If I were a true mechanical stud I’d mount the tires myself, repack right there in my driveway, and just testosterone the whole situation into submission. I didn’t. I’m waiting for the tires to get done. Two cheap ass tires won’t break the bank and $25 for packing is a fair deal.

I don’t have a spare. I tried to explain that to the tire guy and regret it. I over-nerded the poor innocent dude and now he’s got details floating through his brain. I’m not sure what he’ll do. I should have kept my mouth shut. I never quite learn.

I’ll update when the trailer’s back.