The Unstoppable: Jonathan Klinger

Go to 365 Days Of A for more old car inspiration. (Photo linked.)

About six weeks ago an important milestone passed and I failed to mark the occasion.  Time to rectify the situation.

On Wednesday October 12th 2011 Jonathan Klinger successfully completed his self imposed challenge of “spending one full year driving a 1930 Model A everywhere I go.” His reasoning?  “Because not everything a person owns should contain a computer.”  That, my friends, is excellent logic.

I wrote about him in February when his experience was roughly halfway complete.  I had no doubt he’d do it.  Why?  Because people in 1930 did it and not all of us have become gutless wimps in the ensuing decades.  Also because it’s obvious from his blog that he’s an incurable optimist.  The very kind of person who can happily churn an antique down the road while ignoring the siren song of heated seats (and car payments).

Whenever I think I’m surrounded by morons (or even when I know I’m surrounded by morons) I take solace in the knowledge that the world has folks that do things both useless and inspiring just because they want to.  I encourage everyone to check out 365 Days of A and give a hearty (if belated) congratulations to a fellow adventurer.

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Hat Tip To The Pro

I installed a home appliance to make my life better.  As I should have expected, it has pissed me off for months on end.  (Note to self: Find an appliance salesman and punch him in the balls…karma requires it.)

It was billed as a dishwasher but I believe it was a test of your home’s plumbing cleverly disguised as a useful appliance.  My home failed this test.  The house came with a dishwasher that didn’t work.  I thought I’d just hook the new dishwasher to the old fittings.  WRONG!  It turns out that the plumbing in my house was a craptacular mess.

The Neanderthals who formerly owned my house had virtually no pride of workmanship but a shitload of spare time.

Rather than a standard sewer hookup they’d jammed a 1/2″ flexible hose into a hacksawed 2″ sewer line.  How did they fill the remaining 1 1/2″ gap?  With silicone.  As near as I can tell Jethro Dipshit in the days of yore jammed most of a tube of silicone into the hole and made a softball sized mess.  If I ever have a time machine I’m going to find that loser and beat him with a plumbing manual.

As for the water-in they’d done something similar.  Two random fittings and a tube of silicone.  Did I mention that the old dishwasher was broke?  I think it committed suicide after witnessing criminally incompetent pluming.

I put in several hours installing a proper sewage line, in line, and power hookup.  I built everything up to code and with the standard fittings.  Then shoved the dishwasher into the appropriate spot, hooked up the fittings.  (Which had matching threads as they should.)  Pridefully turned it on…

…and it leaked.

So I checked every fitting.  It leaked again.  I tried my favorite approach; swearing.  When that didn’t work I re-tightened everything.  It didn’t leak.  Yeah!

It worked for a while.  Then it leaked again.  In frustration I installed a ball valve on the input line, so I could take the dishwasher off-line easily.  Then I rechecked every fitting.  I tried everything: Teflon tape, silicone (in moderation), more swearing.  Finally I got it sealed up.

It worked for a while.  Then it leaked again.

I finally gave up and called a plumber.  He arrived two weeks after the call.  (Man I love having ball valves on various water lines!)

I was shattered.  What kind of man hires a plumber for a dishwasher? I suck!  I expected him to take a standard fitting, use it to hook my standard input line to the standard dishwasher, and do it all in five minutes.  I’d get a huge bill for five minutes work; and I’d justly deserve it.

He expected the same thing.  Instead he announced that my dishwasher was apparently made in bizzaro land and had an unusual fitting.  He tightened it just like I’d done and it leaked just like it always does.  He’s a Godly man so I swore on his behalf.  (I’m thoughtful that way.)

After quite a bit of noodling around he discovered that the brass fitting that came with the dishwasher had a hairline crack.  (I hammered it a bit to make it show in the photo.)

When mankind cannot manage brass threads...we're slowly devolving to losers in mud huts. I'm of the opinion we're well on that path.

I was elated.  A problem identified is on it’s way to a problem solved.  Just replace the brass fitting.  Right?  He tore though his pile of brass bits and announced that none of the 345,834,221 pieces in his truck fit my dishwasher.  So we piled in my car and raced to the hardware store (which was about to close).  They didn’t have it either.

He suggested I contact the manufacturer of my bizzaro dishwasher.  I suggest he load a pistol and shoot me.  We both agreed that my dishwasher must have been made by illegal aliens in Guam on who speak Mongolian, answer the phone (which is unlisted) only on alternate Thursdays, and probably set fire to the tool and die that made my dishwasher the day the last one rolled off the assembly line.  In short the odds of getting the fitting from the supplier was lower than finding an honest politician.

I suggested we stop off at the bar en route back to my house…and leave me there.  He got motivated and attacked the hardware department.  Several unusual objects appeared on the counter.  I bought them all.

Back at my house he soldered some copper together and added some glued together bits of CPVC and installed it.  The next day (let the fittings cure) I opened the ball valve and it worked like a charm.  If I ever have another child I’m naming it after my plumber.

Also, and this is because I want to protect future generations, when this dishwasher finally wears out and I buy a new one (theoretically with “normal” fittings) I’m going to remove the adapter we had to create and bury it in the forest.  I refuse to leave behind anything like the works of the silicone people.

P.S.  As for my plumber.  Huzzah!  Well done sir!

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Larry Correia Hits One Out Of The Park

I’ve tried to keep posts about Occupy Wall Street’s movement in participatory street playgroups to a minimum. I prefer instead to focus on things that are important like tractors, chickens, and turkey sandwiches.

My pragmatic side fears the OWS children (for they are hardly adults) are on the knife edge between ignorable belligerent morons and dangerous belligerent morons. I’d hate to see them overdose on the glory of the media’s dry humping and do something they regret. Better to let them wallow in their own fail and hope they get tired and go home to mommy.

Also I presume they’ve got a short shelf life; at least for 2011. Like dogshit on the lawn they’ll lose relevance as the snow gets deeper.

But Larry Correia was willing to pitch some grade A ridicule in the pinko / hippie movement’s face. “More reasons why the Occupy movement sucks and is lame” is priceless.

First he starts with the most beautiful picture I’ve seen in weeks.  Rather than link to Correia’s version I put it up here and linked it to the New Your Post’s article”Ex-cop boots OWS heckler from congressman’s swearing-in“.

Kevin Hiltunen, a Marine vet and retired NYPD officer, risks getting patchouli and stupidity all over his hands as he escorts a dirty hippie from a Queens High School.

Correia says “The half of America that works for a living is going to print this picture and frame it”.  He’s right.

Then Correia tears the media a new one for trying to equate civilized and purposeful TEA Party events to coddled OWS tantrums:

“Both sides agree that the body politic is unhealthy. The Tea Party solution is the replace the defective parts and put the body on a diet. The OWS solution is to transplant its brain with a cabbage. Then set it on fire.”

A few quotes can’t do it justice.  I implore you to go to Monster Hunter Nation for the whole text.

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Win Win Chicken Trade II

About a month ago I gave away some chickens.  I still had several that needed homes (either the freezer or with someone else who will buy their feed).   I procrastinated because butchering old laying hens is a hassle.

The chickens, perhaps recognizing that I do not run a union shop, produced more eggs than expected.  In fact, they laid so efficiently that I started wondering if I should just keep them another winter.  I even found some new egg buyers and cashed in on the extra supply.  Ka-ching.

But winter is coming and my labor hours are limited. I reluctantly scheduled their day of reckoning for this weekend. Even if they made a profit (which they were) I’d have to butcher them to free up time in for battling snow drifts in January.

At the last minute they got a reprieve.  We found someone who needed chickens! We arranged a trade. The other folks got a couple dozen chickens (who’ve been laying eggs like crazy) and I got a slightly used incubator.

It looks like this:

It looks disturbingly like a very overpriced Styrofoam beer cooler.

It looks like it works.  I’ve been assured it was owned by a little old lady who only drove it on Sundays.  The last I saw of the chickens they looked happy in their new surroundings.  I love it when a deal works for everybody

P.S.  I’m going to ask Santa for an egg turner…and world peace.  I’m betting I might get an egg turner.

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Survivor Chicken

I have been periodically removing chickens from one of my pens.  The goal is to have it empty before winter is in full force.  The traditional method would be to butcher them but I’ve gone wobbly and traded them off instead.  (In my defense the freezer is already full of tasty animals.)

Each time I’ve arranged a trade I’ve grabbed a couple dozen birds, put them in a “travel” cage, and driven off.  It’s not surprising that the chickens don’t volunteer for this procedure.

Chickens are like people in that some are brighter than others.  Mine are free range chickens which puts them in the Mensa/Survivalist chicken league.  They’re only penned at night.  Chickens too stupid to get in the door by sunset face a bleak and dangerous night.  Stupid chickens, like teenagers who miss curfew, tend to get into trouble.

Some chickens might have figured out that none who have entered the “travel” cage have come back.  Though that’s probably beyond the mind of a chicken.  This isn’t to disparage poultry.  Frankly I’m not sure most humans plan beyond next Wednesday.  Despite the biological unlikelihood I have the suspicion that some of my Mensa level worldly wise free ranging hens are clever enough to avoid the barn if they see me putting the “travel” cage in the truck.  I imagine them warily sitting in the forest thinking “The truck box thing is afoot.  I’m staying out of harm’s way.”  Perhaps they try to convince their brethren?  “Hear me sisters!  When the box thing is on the truck…some of us vanish.  I don’t know what’s going on but avoid the box thing.”

I’m not going to go tromping through the forest catching hens.  The fattest laziest birds, the ones that rarely leave the pen, are the first to go.  Unemployed yahoos who sit in the basement playing Nintendo should mark these words; you’re first on the list.

I call those early losers the “welfare birds”.  Good riddance to them.  Weeding out the losers means I’m left with hard working birds that are scratching up their own food part of the day.  Welfare birds are always incredibly easy to catch.  (See above: Nintendo)

After several chicken trades the welfare birds are all gone and I have to schedule my forays for when the pen door is shut and escape is impossible.  Incrementally I wind up grabbing wiser, warier birds.  That’s ok.  I need the exercise.

As for the chickens, life is not fair.  The fleet and agile evade me.  The slow and dumb do not. Every time I reach into their pen and remove a bird, the remaining ones are relatively faster, warier, tougher, stronger, and bordering on cunning.

Today, I caught and traded the last of that group of birds.  The last one could bob and weave like a prizefighter.  Whenever I’d get a hand on it it would explode in a fury of flapping and squawking more suitable to a dragon than a farm animal.

I would up frustrated, sweating, and covered with dust.  I tried talking to it with a calming voice.  “Sheesh bird,  I’m not going to butcher anyone.  I’m taking you to a bigger farm.  Where they’ve got a huge pen and lots of room and plenty of feed…”  I paused.  Everything I said was true yet even I didn’t believe myself.  How jaded have we become?  The bird was unaffected by over thinking.  It took it’s chance and blasted from the pen’s corner.  It careened across my chest, bounced off the netting, whacked into the back of my head and somehow got around me yet again.  Wow!

It took several more tries before I finally nabbed it.  Even when I had a good grip it fought like a champ, squawked enough to terrify the chickens in the other pen and get the roosters crowing, and it made several heroic pecks at my gloved hands.  This was the ninja, killer, assassin, jungle warfare, wilderness survival, Navy SEAL, “don’t turn your back on it for one second”, greatest chicken of all time!

I could only admire it’s moxie.  Before I put it in the “travel” cage I took a picture.  Because heroism, even in a silly bird, is impressive.

This chicken is seriously considering taking out the camerman.

This is what the Blair Witch Project would look like in Chicken-vision.

P.S.  When I got to the destination I had to put them in their new home.  I’ll be darned if the same bird waited until my guard was down and made a break for it right there in the driveway.  I cornered it and got it delivered, but honestly, that chicken totally won my heart.  I almost wanted to take it back home and keep it as “fully retired veteran survival hen”.  Well done!

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Black Friday?

It’s 12:05 am. Officially it’s the day after Thanksgiving.

Time for the first turkey sandwich. (My favorite part of the feast!)

Apparently some people associate this day with shopping. I have no idea why.

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Happy Thanksgiving

We have a great deal for which we should give thanks. Here are a couple of images to put you in the Thanksgiving mood. (I’ve always liked Norman Rockwell’s paintings because they’re the absolute polar opposite of trendy and ironic.)

. . .
Update:

My meager bandwidth just went to near-zero. No images today!

You’ll just have to imagine a Rockwell painting…which isn’t hard. I’m going for a walk in the forest with my yard wookie. (Which is what I should have been doing anyway.)

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

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Starting The Week Off Right

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Lit Candles II

Yesterday I posted a list of small freedoms that make life better and are the canary in our National coal mine.

I noticed that virtually everything on my list, harmless or not, is opposed by somebody somewhere. Possibly for good reasons, often for pathetic reasons. Folks who oppose freedoms, especially small ones, tend to gaggle together into groups that exist for the purpose of inflicting their supposedly superior judgment on my life.  I suppose they’ve got a hollow place that needs to be filled?  (Or is that too harsh?)

At any rate it reminded me of a cartoon from long ago so I found it and posted it below.  This Thanksgiving season (and all seasons) let us celebrate the things they’ve failed to ruin. Then get out there and sniff some daisies.

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Lit Candles

“Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness.”

Since Thanksgiving will soon be upon us I thought I’d make a list of “little” freedoms. Not big freedoms like guns, religion, and speech.  Even the smallest of freedoms make life better and serve as the canary in the coal mine.

  • Coffee escaped the fate of cigarettes. There was a time when coffee was on the informal list of things that were “officially bad”; that list started with heroin and wound up with coffee and cigarettes in a near tie. Cigarettes got hammered. Coffee did not. I’m not sure why. Perhaps Starbucks put lattes in the hands of snobs and Marlboro didn’t. I simply assumed the cigarette banners would go after coffee next; no coffee in offices, anti-coffee billboards, special taxes, second hand caffeine, etc… It never happened. Sadly they kept beating smokers until the poor bastards are bloody pariahs. (Mea culpa: Initially I was in favor of mandatory non-smoking zones in certain restaurants. It became the slippery slope that it led to no-smoking everywhere, just plain hassling a populace, and punitive taxation of an unpopular group.  I regret my initial naiveté and won’t make that mistake again.)  I don’t buy the logic that consenting adults must stand outside in a blizzard lest someone hypothetically sniff the fumes and immediately develop nuclear double secret suable lung cancer.  Airline flights and pre-schools made sense but smoking is now verboten in machine shops, monster truck rallies, bait stops, biker bars, and strip clubs. They went too far!  Suppose I ride helmetless to dive bar called “Grizzlie’s Shithole” and slam tequila shots like an animal while getting a lapdance and gambling the rent money.  We’ve got laws that say that smoking is banned and immoral even in that environment? I wish I’d defended smokers better. Shame on me.  But I did learn my lesson; incrementalism worked on smokers so if a politician tries to get between me and my coffee I’m going DEFCON4 on the son of a bitch instantly.
  • Summer vacation. The only reason kids aren’t complete zombies is summer vacation. Every year some technocrat decides that parking captive children in classrooms should be an un-interrupted money flow. So much easier for everyone except the kids. Educrats don’t care if they rip the soul from a childhood.  I do.  Thank God we’ve got enough humanity to parole kids in the summer sun.
  • Getting a car license with no formal training whatsoever. I sucked when I learned to drive. My parents, who tried hard, were lousy teachers.  I, though meaning well, was a terrible student. Yet I eventually got a license without a single stinking class.  I’ve now driven so far and in so many situations that those initial shaky days are like dim memories of another dimension.  (Note: as an adult I’ve voluntarily taken classes in motorcycle driving. Because I wanted to ride well; not because I was a captive meal ticket. See: Summer vacation.)
  • Accelerators. Nearly every car out there can go faster than the fastest posted speed limit. Have you considered how much this pisses control freaks off? Thank your lucky stars that Ralf Nader and his minions haven’t bolted a governor on your Buick. And don’t think they haven’t considered it.
  • Motorcycles. The car you drive probably has side impact air bags, anti-lock brakes, automatic transmission, and possibly traction control software. If you drive it without the seatbelt about a thousand alarms will go off. In that world, motorcycles are anachronistic. Your car’s door locks engage automatically. I ride without a door. Thank God they haven’t outlawed motorcycles yet. I wear a helmet but some states let you make that choice too; which is a good thing.
  • Chainsaws. Take a good look at a chainsaw. Holy crap, it’s a death machine! It’s designed to cut, tear, and rend.  It (like a gun) will gleefully destroy whatever you apply it to; be it oak or leg.  OSHA must have fits just thinking about them. I’m glad that they haven’t regulated saws out of existence.
  • Beer. In 1919 the 18th amendment outlawed liquor. Bootlegging went from a tax dodge to real crime. By 1929 organized crime was rocking and rolling; that’s the year Al Capone’s men machine gunned their competition in the Valentines Day Massacre. (Update: Check out Carpe Diem for a nifty historic political cartoon.) By 1933 the nation had come to it’s senses and the 21st amendment ended prohibition.  Hmm… Fourteen years from implementing a flawed stupid policy to rectifying their colossal misjudgment.  Not too shabby.  Apparently depression era voters learned from failed policies better than current ones.  (Modern day attempts to change course invariably get shafted by some self-righteous tool.)  Kudos to depression era prohibitionists who started with a honest and clear constitutional amendment.  Kudos to voters who fixed the mess (mostly) with another constitutional amendment. The lesson doo-gooders learned is to obfuscate.  Now prohibitionists slide in low and under the radar.  They do it well.  For example; which constitutional amendment outlaws pot?  Nor do they really want to ban stuff…just maximize the hassles they dish out; thats why cigarette smokers are hounded with regulation and taxed like slaves but not outlawed.)
  • Metric. In 1975 the Metric Conversion Act was signed. America’s central governing authority ordered us to go metric like our vastly superior European counterparts. The American people inexplicably told the government to buzz off!  Yes, metric is superior for just about any purpose but I’m delighted to live in a world where the American people just wouldn’t budge on something as simple as quarts versus liters. How amusingly archaic of us!
  • Hunting. How many Americans hunt? A damn army of them! I didn’t notice a nice clean national number so I picked some random states; Michigan = 686,000, Texas = 650,000, Colorado = 375,000, Minnesota = 500,000. Rhode Island, which is smaller than some back yards in Texas, has the lowest number with 8,250 deer hunters. Pennsylvania tops the list with 1,300,000 (!) deer hunters.  That means every State in America has hordes of privately funded, entirely volunteer folks who will get off the couch and schlep around the cold wet woods earnestly endeavoring to shoot, gut, and eat a 150 pound wild animal. Millions, yes millions, of Americans choose to handle the smelly, repulsive, arduous work of gutting a deer, work hard to do it, and own at least one lethal weapon.  Huzzah!  It’s a miracle that hunters can live in the same world where post modernist hipsters are deconstructing the Simpsons at Starbucks.  Whenever some city based chowderhead is trying to foist green energy regulation and expensive subsidized light rail mass transit on my deeply rural lifestyle I remember that we descend on the forest en masse and hunt.  Me and hundreds of thousands of my neighbors, engaging in a difficult, lethal, athletic, and yet frequently spiritual act of self-reliance!  We don’t just talk the talk; we are out there gunning for Bambi.  Society still has a backbone. God bless America!

On that happy note I’ll end my list.

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