The deck is his world now. But cats and select passers-by still get barked at.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
My buddy
Still Master of all he surveys.
The deck is his world now. But cats and select passers-by still get barked at.
The deck is his world now. But cats and select passers-by still get barked at.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Mexico blames US for high Mexican crime rate
And if that isn't ridiculous enough, their reason takes the cake.
According to a coalition of Mexican mayors, Mexico's crime rate is so high because the United States...
wait for it...
is deporting too many criminal Mexicans back to Mexico!
So just as everything else bad about Mexico is supposedly our fault, now they claim that their crime rate is too high because we send too many of their own criminally-inclined citizens back to them.
And predictably, their solution is to demand that we stop deporting Mexicans convicted of serious crimes in our country. All we in America need to do to make Mexico nice again (as if it ever was) is just accept and keep all of their scum.
Bear in mind that ten percent of Mexico's population is already here in our country, most all of them illegally. And now Mexico is insisting that the worst of them should become our problem forever, not theirs.
I'll give the Mexicans credit for one thing: their chutzpah is unrivaled.
Border security now. Create a DMZ. Clear a 100 mile wide buffer zone. Place land mines. Establish free-fire zones. And deport every illegal who is presently here instead of giving them and their anchor babies American citizenship. How do we do this? It's simple.
1. Make it illegal to hire or rent to illegals and penalize those who knowingly do it.
2. Aggressively pursue those who fraudulently use someone else's identity or false social security numbers.
3. Don't allow illegals to open bank accounts, get drivers licenses, or wire money.
4. Streamline the deportation process. Remove the illegals immediately and schedule their hearings in US embassies in their country instead of letting them languish here.
5. Deport every illegal who is arrested for any criminal offense.
6. Require proof of citizenship for all students in our schools.
7. Deport any illegal who goes to an American hospital seeking free medical treatment.
8. Punish those who are deported and return by incarcerating them in Joe-Arpaio-style prison camps in the desert. Make re-entry after deportation a felony with mandatory prison sentences.
9. No automatic citizenship for baby illegals. Birthright citizenship only for children of actual US citizens.
10. Make English the law of the land. No government documents, television shows, radio broadcasts, or newspapers printed in Spanish.
Good fences make good neighbors, and if we had a good fence on our southern border, it would go a long ways towards keeping illegals and drugs out, and American guns and money in.
But lest you think that I'm just mean, allow me to be the first one to call for compassionate relief measures to aid Mexico after the devastating mudslides that have reportedly killed numerous Mexicans. I propose that we send them a thousand replacement Mexicans immediately. ICE should be able to find that many before lunch.
According to a coalition of Mexican mayors, Mexico's crime rate is so high because the United States...
wait for it...
is deporting too many criminal Mexicans back to Mexico!
So just as everything else bad about Mexico is supposedly our fault, now they claim that their crime rate is too high because we send too many of their own criminally-inclined citizens back to them.
And predictably, their solution is to demand that we stop deporting Mexicans convicted of serious crimes in our country. All we in America need to do to make Mexico nice again (as if it ever was) is just accept and keep all of their scum.
Bear in mind that ten percent of Mexico's population is already here in our country, most all of them illegally. And now Mexico is insisting that the worst of them should become our problem forever, not theirs.
I'll give the Mexicans credit for one thing: their chutzpah is unrivaled.
Border security now. Create a DMZ. Clear a 100 mile wide buffer zone. Place land mines. Establish free-fire zones. And deport every illegal who is presently here instead of giving them and their anchor babies American citizenship. How do we do this? It's simple.
1. Make it illegal to hire or rent to illegals and penalize those who knowingly do it.
2. Aggressively pursue those who fraudulently use someone else's identity or false social security numbers.
3. Don't allow illegals to open bank accounts, get drivers licenses, or wire money.
4. Streamline the deportation process. Remove the illegals immediately and schedule their hearings in US embassies in their country instead of letting them languish here.
5. Deport every illegal who is arrested for any criminal offense.
6. Require proof of citizenship for all students in our schools.
7. Deport any illegal who goes to an American hospital seeking free medical treatment.
8. Punish those who are deported and return by incarcerating them in Joe-Arpaio-style prison camps in the desert. Make re-entry after deportation a felony with mandatory prison sentences.
9. No automatic citizenship for baby illegals. Birthright citizenship only for children of actual US citizens.
10. Make English the law of the land. No government documents, television shows, radio broadcasts, or newspapers printed in Spanish.
Good fences make good neighbors, and if we had a good fence on our southern border, it would go a long ways towards keeping illegals and drugs out, and American guns and money in.
But lest you think that I'm just mean, allow me to be the first one to call for compassionate relief measures to aid Mexico after the devastating mudslides that have reportedly killed numerous Mexicans. I propose that we send them a thousand replacement Mexicans immediately. ICE should be able to find that many before lunch.
A Mini day at the range
So I took my new (to me) Mini-14 GB out to the range today to get it properly zeroed and see what it would do. It came with no magazine, but luckily I have a dozen new in-the-wrap Ramline universal mags that fit the Mini as well as the AR-15 and the old Armalite AR-180 that I'd originally bought the mags for. I sold the Armalite a few years ago but wisely kept the mags after the rifle's buyer declined to buy them as well.
Like it's big brother, the M-14, and it's grandfather, the Garand, the Mini has nice, solid feel to it that only comes from a wood stock. The two-stage trigger breaks crisply and cleanly and pretty delightfully lightly, but there's virtually no take-up in the first stage, and to be honest, I'd personally prefer a bit more. But the peep sights are sized about right for what this rifle's made to do, and the rear adjusts for windage and elevation easily using a bullet tip as a tool. It didn't take long to get it right on at 50M, and it only needed the smallest tweak to zero it at 100M. Firing from a bench, as I must do at this range, I rested the rifle on my range bag and found that it grouped nicely with my own 55-grain reloads at 100M. turning my attention to the paper plate I'd put up at 200M, I was pleased to see the rifle put 24 rounds of 24 fired on the paper plate. Could I have gotten better groups with my AR-15s or Garands? Probably. (With my M-1A? Definitely.) But this isn't a match rifle--I bought it intending it to be a camping gun/truck gun/all-around beater brush rifle and plinker.
That being the case, I'm now confident that it'll hold "minute of bad guy" well past 200M if need be. I didn't try to heat it up and see what effect that has on it's group size; I know that it'll only go downhill, but this isn't a weapon designed to put down suppressing fire--it's a varmint rifle and plinker that was modified slightly in the GB version to fill a police and security role.
These rifles also have a bit of a personal draw to me as well. A government agency that I worked for briefly a couple of decades ago issued me one of these and I'd always enjoyed shooting them even despite the lead instructor's best--and failed--attempts to convert me to shooting right-handed (I'm a proud southpaw and always will be) that resulted in nothing but sore arms and chest muscles from punishment push-ups--first for me alone, and then for the rest of my class--until finally he gave up and let me shoot left-handed. (I went on to place as the third-highest shooter in that class, but that's another story for another time.)
Bottom line: This Ruger Mini-14 GB is a quality shooter. It's light, reliable, aesthetically pleasing in a way that no black rifle will ever be, and more than accurate enough to do the job that it was intended to do. New 20-round factory mags are a bit pricey when compared to AR mags, and spare parts are harder to come by (Thanks, Ruger!) but with firearms, as with anything else, you have to take the bad with the good. And I'm happy to take this rather shopworn GB into the Lair's armoury.
Oh--and for those of you wanting a hint on the inbound replacement for the Browning, let me say just this: It's lighter, and while it can benefit from a tripod, it doesn't require one. It also doesn't have that damnable headspace issue to deal with. Guesses will be entertained, especially if they're entertaining.
Like it's big brother, the M-14, and it's grandfather, the Garand, the Mini has nice, solid feel to it that only comes from a wood stock. The two-stage trigger breaks crisply and cleanly and pretty delightfully lightly, but there's virtually no take-up in the first stage, and to be honest, I'd personally prefer a bit more. But the peep sights are sized about right for what this rifle's made to do, and the rear adjusts for windage and elevation easily using a bullet tip as a tool. It didn't take long to get it right on at 50M, and it only needed the smallest tweak to zero it at 100M. Firing from a bench, as I must do at this range, I rested the rifle on my range bag and found that it grouped nicely with my own 55-grain reloads at 100M. turning my attention to the paper plate I'd put up at 200M, I was pleased to see the rifle put 24 rounds of 24 fired on the paper plate. Could I have gotten better groups with my AR-15s or Garands? Probably. (With my M-1A? Definitely.) But this isn't a match rifle--I bought it intending it to be a camping gun/truck gun/all-around beater brush rifle and plinker. That being the case, I'm now confident that it'll hold "minute of bad guy" well past 200M if need be. I didn't try to heat it up and see what effect that has on it's group size; I know that it'll only go downhill, but this isn't a weapon designed to put down suppressing fire--it's a varmint rifle and plinker that was modified slightly in the GB version to fill a police and security role.
These rifles also have a bit of a personal draw to me as well. A government agency that I worked for briefly a couple of decades ago issued me one of these and I'd always enjoyed shooting them even despite the lead instructor's best--and failed--attempts to convert me to shooting right-handed (I'm a proud southpaw and always will be) that resulted in nothing but sore arms and chest muscles from punishment push-ups--first for me alone, and then for the rest of my class--until finally he gave up and let me shoot left-handed. (I went on to place as the third-highest shooter in that class, but that's another story for another time.)
Bottom line: This Ruger Mini-14 GB is a quality shooter. It's light, reliable, aesthetically pleasing in a way that no black rifle will ever be, and more than accurate enough to do the job that it was intended to do. New 20-round factory mags are a bit pricey when compared to AR mags, and spare parts are harder to come by (Thanks, Ruger!) but with firearms, as with anything else, you have to take the bad with the good. And I'm happy to take this rather shopworn GB into the Lair's armoury.
Oh--and for those of you wanting a hint on the inbound replacement for the Browning, let me say just this: It's lighter, and while it can benefit from a tripod, it doesn't require one. It also doesn't have that damnable headspace issue to deal with. Guesses will be entertained, especially if they're entertaining.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Bike riding can get expensive
Since it was so nice out today, I took another bike ride, this time going up along the Shenandoah River. The leaves are just starting to turn here, so it's nice and scenic...except for the "No Trespassing" and "Keep Out" signs which now adorn more trees than not between the roadway and the river. And many of them are printed in Spanish too, which has been made necessary by the large number of mostly-illegal latinos who turn up here every week-end from neighboring Maryland and Virginia.
And before anyone gets on me about race, let me be perfectly clear--it's about conduct, specifically the incredible quantity of trash that the latinos typically leave behind. Lots of people camp and picnic along the river here, but when groups of white or black picnickers are here, they don't leave behind the piles of trash that these latinos always seem to dump: Fish guts, empty food containers and beer bottles, dirty diapers...you name it, the latinos always seem to dump it by the truckload whenever they come out here. And every week, the landowners or county work crews clean it up, only to have more latinos (or the very same ones) come back again next week-end and leave more messes. Now you add this to the fact that they never bother to get fishing licenses or respect our fishing laws, and factor in the fact that they've been known to pull knives on locals who comfront them or otherwise try to document their behavior, and you can see why many of us here are calling out to ICE to save us.
Oh, and the signs don't work either. On my ride today I saw two separate groups of latinos having picnics on privately-owned riverside parcels that are clearly marked "Keep Out". They really just don't care.
OK, that rant aside, my ride was about a fourteen-mile round trip, but it was made quite a bit more challenging by numerous steep hills that really taxed me even in my bike's highest gear settings. I finally terminated the outbound leg at the flea market near Harpers Ferry. After years of coming here with Lagniappe pretty regularly, I'd sworn that I would not patronize this flea market again after they posted a HUGE sign announcing a new "No dogs" policy. That is, of course, their right, but if they don't want my buddy there, then they can do without my money as well.
This time though, I made an exception because it was hot and I needed water. So I went in just as far as the concession stand and bought a couple of bottles. It was as I was on the way back out through the parking lot that I saw them--the couple unloading the rifles from their car trunk, obviously about to take them into the market.
OK, this warranted a closer look, "no-dog" policies or not. "Hi! what'cha got there?" I asked.
It turned out that they had five long guns that they were trying to sell. Four were basic flea market fare--an old .22 rifle, two single-barrel shotguns, and a beat-up .270 without a bolt or sights. It was the fifth one that got my attention as soon as I saw that distinctive Ruger buttstock.
"Lemme take a look at that one," I said casually.
"It's a Sturm Ruger Company gun," the guy said.
Yeah, I knew what it was. It was obvious even with the confederate flag stickers that someone had plastered on the stock and on the receiver. It was a rifle that I'd wanted to add to my collection for about as long as I've been shooting.
"What do you want for it?" I asked, trying to sound only marginally interested.
"We're hoping to get three fifty for it," he replied.
I almost dropped my bike. That's about half what this thing's worth and they're darned hard to find at any price these days. Must...sound...disinterested...
"It's awful beat up," I pointed out.
Yes, yes it was, he agreed. But he was sure that one of the dealers in there would buy it from him.
"It's missing it's magazine," I added.
Yep. But someone'll have one for it somewhere.
I shook the operating rod. "Seems to have a bit of slop in here," I pretended.
"Well you know...it's used," he replied. "What do you want to give me for it?"
I offered him $275. He said that he'd try to shop it around inside first. I pretended to think about it for a minute, then offered him $300. He accepted, we shook on it and headed to the flea market's ATM so I could get the cash. (Yeah, I know...candy-bar lunches for the next few weeks...again.)
Cash turned over, I had to hunt around to find a case for my new acquisition. After all, I'd ridden here on a bike. No joy, though. I combed the show and there wasn't a single rifle case available. I had to settle for a sling, which I installed on the rifle back at the concession stand. Then I rode the seven miles back with the rifle slung across my back, just waiting to ride past the police car that I'd never see otherwise.
Forty minutes later, I got back home with it. I hadn't run across the police, but I had gotten a few funny looks. But this is Vest Virginia, after all. With hunting season coming, surely I couldn't be the only guy riding around on a mountain bike with a rifle.
So here's my new baby. The stickers have been removed, restoring it's dignity. The stock definitely needs some refinishing, but winter's coming and I'll have the time. What do you think? Did I do ok for three hundred bucks? According to Ruger's Serial Number table, it was made in 1995 and it's barrel has the faster 1-in-7 twist.
Hell, it was worth it, just for the bike ride back. But next time I go out riding, I'm leaving my wallet behind.
And before anyone gets on me about race, let me be perfectly clear--it's about conduct, specifically the incredible quantity of trash that the latinos typically leave behind. Lots of people camp and picnic along the river here, but when groups of white or black picnickers are here, they don't leave behind the piles of trash that these latinos always seem to dump: Fish guts, empty food containers and beer bottles, dirty diapers...you name it, the latinos always seem to dump it by the truckload whenever they come out here. And every week, the landowners or county work crews clean it up, only to have more latinos (or the very same ones) come back again next week-end and leave more messes. Now you add this to the fact that they never bother to get fishing licenses or respect our fishing laws, and factor in the fact that they've been known to pull knives on locals who comfront them or otherwise try to document their behavior, and you can see why many of us here are calling out to ICE to save us.
Oh, and the signs don't work either. On my ride today I saw two separate groups of latinos having picnics on privately-owned riverside parcels that are clearly marked "Keep Out". They really just don't care.
OK, that rant aside, my ride was about a fourteen-mile round trip, but it was made quite a bit more challenging by numerous steep hills that really taxed me even in my bike's highest gear settings. I finally terminated the outbound leg at the flea market near Harpers Ferry. After years of coming here with Lagniappe pretty regularly, I'd sworn that I would not patronize this flea market again after they posted a HUGE sign announcing a new "No dogs" policy. That is, of course, their right, but if they don't want my buddy there, then they can do without my money as well.
This time though, I made an exception because it was hot and I needed water. So I went in just as far as the concession stand and bought a couple of bottles. It was as I was on the way back out through the parking lot that I saw them--the couple unloading the rifles from their car trunk, obviously about to take them into the market.
OK, this warranted a closer look, "no-dog" policies or not. "Hi! what'cha got there?" I asked.
It turned out that they had five long guns that they were trying to sell. Four were basic flea market fare--an old .22 rifle, two single-barrel shotguns, and a beat-up .270 without a bolt or sights. It was the fifth one that got my attention as soon as I saw that distinctive Ruger buttstock.
"Lemme take a look at that one," I said casually.
"It's a Sturm Ruger Company gun," the guy said.
Yeah, I knew what it was. It was obvious even with the confederate flag stickers that someone had plastered on the stock and on the receiver. It was a rifle that I'd wanted to add to my collection for about as long as I've been shooting.
"What do you want for it?" I asked, trying to sound only marginally interested.
"We're hoping to get three fifty for it," he replied.
I almost dropped my bike. That's about half what this thing's worth and they're darned hard to find at any price these days. Must...sound...disinterested...
"It's awful beat up," I pointed out.
Yes, yes it was, he agreed. But he was sure that one of the dealers in there would buy it from him.
"It's missing it's magazine," I added.
Yep. But someone'll have one for it somewhere.
I shook the operating rod. "Seems to have a bit of slop in here," I pretended.
"Well you know...it's used," he replied. "What do you want to give me for it?"
I offered him $275. He said that he'd try to shop it around inside first. I pretended to think about it for a minute, then offered him $300. He accepted, we shook on it and headed to the flea market's ATM so I could get the cash. (Yeah, I know...candy-bar lunches for the next few weeks...again.)
Cash turned over, I had to hunt around to find a case for my new acquisition. After all, I'd ridden here on a bike. No joy, though. I combed the show and there wasn't a single rifle case available. I had to settle for a sling, which I installed on the rifle back at the concession stand. Then I rode the seven miles back with the rifle slung across my back, just waiting to ride past the police car that I'd never see otherwise.
Forty minutes later, I got back home with it. I hadn't run across the police, but I had gotten a few funny looks. But this is Vest Virginia, after all. With hunting season coming, surely I couldn't be the only guy riding around on a mountain bike with a rifle.
So here's my new baby. The stickers have been removed, restoring it's dignity. The stock definitely needs some refinishing, but winter's coming and I'll have the time. What do you think? Did I do ok for three hundred bucks? According to Ruger's Serial Number table, it was made in 1995 and it's barrel has the faster 1-in-7 twist.
Hell, it was worth it, just for the bike ride back. But next time I go out riding, I'm leaving my wallet behind.
Dishonorable Mention: Kams Taxi of Charles Town WV
So yesterday at about 1:30 PM, I stop off at the local 7-11 to get a paper and a cup of coffee. As I pull into the lot, I notice that the one handicapped parking spot is occupied, not by a car, but by a silver Toyota taxicab belonging to Kams Taxi , a local cab company. The driver is sitting in the cab and a passenger is in the back seat, and the car is completely obstructing the handicapped spot.
Now I don't lay claim to needing the spot. In fact, despite missing a leg, I refuse to use those spots as I can get around quite well even on a bad day. However I have not forgotten the day when I did need them, or the many actual disabled people that I've met during my own rehab who really do need those spots. As a result, I don't think too highly of selfish scumbags who cavalierly zip into those parking places just because it's convenient for them.
So I parked my vehicle and walked into the store, stopping to give a nasty look at the Kams driver--an older prune-faced white woman. I looked at her, then looked up at the Handicapped Parking Only sign that was right in front of her cab. Then I walked on, making sure that she was able to get a good look at my prosthetic leg, which wasn't hard as I was wearing cargo shorts. I said nothing to her, because quite frankly, some people just aren't worth talking to.
This should have been the end of it, but a minute later, as I'm standing in line in the store, the cab's female passenger came inside and loudly accosted me while I waited in line.
"The driver wants to know if you have a handicapped parking pass," she announced.
"What does that matter?" I asked. "If I do or if I don't, it still doesn't excuse her being in that spot."
She then started rambling non-stop about how they both looked at my car and didn't see a handicapped placard so I have no right to complain that they were in that spot. I merely pointed to my nice plastic leg, which is visible for all to see. She yelled: "Well I'm sorry that you're handicapped, but you deserve it for being such a nasty person. God bless you!" And with that very Christian demonstration of kindness, she stormed back out of the store and hopped into the waiting cab. The cab driver then jammed the car into reverse and bolted back without looking, very nearly slamming into another car that was approaching the handicapped spot. Both vehicles had to brake sharply to prevent the collision that the Kams driver nearly caused, but the cab driver didn't stick around to apologize--she just sped off.
Oh--and the woman in the car that the Kams cab nearly clobbered? A real handicapped woman who got out of her car with a walker. She wasn't amused, either.
You can't make drama like this up, folks.
So for rudely and inconsiderately taking up a handicapped parking spot, and for sending a passenger into a store to pick a fight over the driver's conduct, and for operating her vehicle without due care and nearly causing a totally preventable crash, I am awarding Kams Taxi Dishonorable Mention here...and I'm also forwarding a complaint to the county licensing commission and the Sheriff's Department.
And if you found this story because you were trying to look up the phone number to Kams Taxi, take my advice and get a ride from someone else. That Kams driver could easily get you killed, either by crashing or by picking fights with people that she doesn't know anything about.
Oh, and a bit of follow-up investigating suggests that the woman driving the cab was none other than Dottie, the actual owner of that two-cab company. Not impressive. Not impressive at all.
And to be fair, I delayed a bit before posting this to give Dottie or someone else at Kams a chance to respond to my private complaint letter, but as it appears that a response isn't going to be coming any time soon...
Now I don't lay claim to needing the spot. In fact, despite missing a leg, I refuse to use those spots as I can get around quite well even on a bad day. However I have not forgotten the day when I did need them, or the many actual disabled people that I've met during my own rehab who really do need those spots. As a result, I don't think too highly of selfish scumbags who cavalierly zip into those parking places just because it's convenient for them.
So I parked my vehicle and walked into the store, stopping to give a nasty look at the Kams driver--an older prune-faced white woman. I looked at her, then looked up at the Handicapped Parking Only sign that was right in front of her cab. Then I walked on, making sure that she was able to get a good look at my prosthetic leg, which wasn't hard as I was wearing cargo shorts. I said nothing to her, because quite frankly, some people just aren't worth talking to.
This should have been the end of it, but a minute later, as I'm standing in line in the store, the cab's female passenger came inside and loudly accosted me while I waited in line.
"The driver wants to know if you have a handicapped parking pass," she announced.
"What does that matter?" I asked. "If I do or if I don't, it still doesn't excuse her being in that spot."
She then started rambling non-stop about how they both looked at my car and didn't see a handicapped placard so I have no right to complain that they were in that spot. I merely pointed to my nice plastic leg, which is visible for all to see. She yelled: "Well I'm sorry that you're handicapped, but you deserve it for being such a nasty person. God bless you!" And with that very Christian demonstration of kindness, she stormed back out of the store and hopped into the waiting cab. The cab driver then jammed the car into reverse and bolted back without looking, very nearly slamming into another car that was approaching the handicapped spot. Both vehicles had to brake sharply to prevent the collision that the Kams driver nearly caused, but the cab driver didn't stick around to apologize--she just sped off.
Oh--and the woman in the car that the Kams cab nearly clobbered? A real handicapped woman who got out of her car with a walker. She wasn't amused, either.
You can't make drama like this up, folks.
So for rudely and inconsiderately taking up a handicapped parking spot, and for sending a passenger into a store to pick a fight over the driver's conduct, and for operating her vehicle without due care and nearly causing a totally preventable crash, I am awarding Kams Taxi Dishonorable Mention here...and I'm also forwarding a complaint to the county licensing commission and the Sheriff's Department.
And if you found this story because you were trying to look up the phone number to Kams Taxi, take my advice and get a ride from someone else. That Kams driver could easily get you killed, either by crashing or by picking fights with people that she doesn't know anything about.
Oh, and a bit of follow-up investigating suggests that the woman driving the cab was none other than Dottie, the actual owner of that two-cab company. Not impressive. Not impressive at all.
And to be fair, I delayed a bit before posting this to give Dottie or someone else at Kams a chance to respond to my private complaint letter, but as it appears that a response isn't going to be coming any time soon...
Saturday Western
Today's clip comes from the western Sabata, with Lee Van Cleef as Sabata, a gun for hire, and William Berger as Banjo, his deadly competition.
That Linda Veras looks pretty good, too.
That Linda Veras looks pretty good, too.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Sometimes, procrastination is a good thing.
There is a story that's been around for a long time about how President Franklin Delano Roosevelt used to deal with people that made him angry. He'd sit down at his desk in the evenings and knock out a letter to these people, telling them what he really thought of them, and then he'd address the envelope and put in in his desk drawer. The next day, or the day after that, he'd have cooled off and he'd destroy the letters. He never sent them. It was just stress-relief for him.
The story came to light after a newly-hired aide, unfamiliar with the President's stress-relief habit, found some of the addressed envelopes containing the letters one day and, like a good aide, mailed them.
I remember the story because, a few weeks ago, I came across an ad for a new gun which I thought would have made the perfect replacement for my Browning 1919, which is on it's way to a new owner as we speak. The price for the newer gun was low enough to make anyone's eyes bug out, and I fired off a reply within hours of it being posted, making an offer conditional on receiving pictures and a paper trail on the weapon. Then, hearing nothing from the poster, I sent another letter the next day, stating that I'd definitely take it. Another day went by, during which I heard nothing, and then the ad was pulled down from the site on which it was listed, suggesting that it had sold to someone even quicker than myself, or that the seller had decided that he was asking far too little for it. In any matter, I was rather pissed at the lack of courtesy in his not replying and letting me know that it wasn't available because I'd spent the better part of three days repeatedly checking my e-mail and wondering.
Vexed, I penned a short but snark-filled e-mail to the poster lecturing him about common courtesy. I was actually about to send it from my work station when a supervisor came into my office, causing me to hastily file the letter under "drafts" and close it out before he saw it. This particular supervisor would frown on my tending to personal business at work and he's extremely anti-gun to boot.
Needless to say, I didn't get back to it right away, which turned out to be a damned good thing. About a week later, I suddenly got an e-mail from the poster telling me that the original buyer had backed out on him and offering it to me at the same price. Oh, Hell yes!
So as I write this, the deal's done, and I'm soon to be the proud owner of something really freaking cool. And I owe it all to my anti-gun boss--who will stroke out and die when he finds out--and to my lack of follow-though in regards to my nasty e-mail...an e-mail which I've just deleted unsent from my work "draft" folder.
So now the countdown begins...come on, NFA Branch!
The story came to light after a newly-hired aide, unfamiliar with the President's stress-relief habit, found some of the addressed envelopes containing the letters one day and, like a good aide, mailed them.
I remember the story because, a few weeks ago, I came across an ad for a new gun which I thought would have made the perfect replacement for my Browning 1919, which is on it's way to a new owner as we speak. The price for the newer gun was low enough to make anyone's eyes bug out, and I fired off a reply within hours of it being posted, making an offer conditional on receiving pictures and a paper trail on the weapon. Then, hearing nothing from the poster, I sent another letter the next day, stating that I'd definitely take it. Another day went by, during which I heard nothing, and then the ad was pulled down from the site on which it was listed, suggesting that it had sold to someone even quicker than myself, or that the seller had decided that he was asking far too little for it. In any matter, I was rather pissed at the lack of courtesy in his not replying and letting me know that it wasn't available because I'd spent the better part of three days repeatedly checking my e-mail and wondering.
Vexed, I penned a short but snark-filled e-mail to the poster lecturing him about common courtesy. I was actually about to send it from my work station when a supervisor came into my office, causing me to hastily file the letter under "drafts" and close it out before he saw it. This particular supervisor would frown on my tending to personal business at work and he's extremely anti-gun to boot.
Needless to say, I didn't get back to it right away, which turned out to be a damned good thing. About a week later, I suddenly got an e-mail from the poster telling me that the original buyer had backed out on him and offering it to me at the same price. Oh, Hell yes!
So as I write this, the deal's done, and I'm soon to be the proud owner of something really freaking cool. And I owe it all to my anti-gun boss--who will stroke out and die when he finds out--and to my lack of follow-though in regards to my nasty e-mail...an e-mail which I've just deleted unsent from my work "draft" folder.
So now the countdown begins...come on, NFA Branch!
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Whack Woman Wednesday, Pt. 2
I'm a day or two late on this one, but Obama's illegal alien aunt is still frosting me.
It's bad enough that she came into our country on a tourist visa and overstayed it deliberately, ignoring an order to leave by a judge of our courts and moving into a public housing apartment intended for Americans AND applying for--and getting--social security payments despite never having worked a day in her life here or contributing dollar one into our government coffers, but now she's giving interviews in which she says that we owe her just because she managed to get here, and furthermore, we're lousy because we haven't done enough for her.
Yeah. That'll happen...
But if that's not already enough to make every American madder than a legless Ethiopian watching a donut roll down a hill, she gives another interview in which she insists again that we owe her just because we're who we are.
And she's not only unremorseful, she's gloating.
Yeah...if you're here illegally and related to a Democrat!
It's bad enough that she came into our country on a tourist visa and overstayed it deliberately, ignoring an order to leave by a judge of our courts and moving into a public housing apartment intended for Americans AND applying for--and getting--social security payments despite never having worked a day in her life here or contributing dollar one into our government coffers, but now she's giving interviews in which she says that we owe her just because she managed to get here, and furthermore, we're lousy because we haven't done enough for her.
But again, it's not her fault. She was an innocent victim of our system.
"If I come as an immigrant, you have the obligation to make me a citizen." Those are the words from 58-year-old Zeituni Onyango of Kenya in a recent exclusive interview with WBZ-TV.
Onyango is the aunt of President Barack Obama. She lived in the United States illegally for years, receiving public assistance in Boston.
Aunt Zeituni, as she has come to be known, first surfaced in the public light in 2008, in the final days of the Presidential election. Then-candidate Obama said that he was not against the possible deportation of his aunt. "If she has violated laws, then those laws have to be obeyed," he told CBS's Katie Couric. "We are a nation of laws."
Onyango had violated the law, and she knew it.
"I knew I had overstayed" she told WBZ-TV's Jonathan Elias when the two sat down one-on-one.
For two years Onyango said she lived in a homeless shelter, before she was assigned public housing despite thousands of legal residents also awaiting assistance. "I didn't take any advantage of the system. The system took advantage of me."I guess the system just magically filled out those applications for public housing and welfare assistance in her name, and signed her signatures, too. I mean, she says that she didn't ask for it, so someone else must have filled out those applications, filed them, and appeared when summoned.
"I didn't ask for it; they gave it to me. Ask your system. I didn't create it or vote for it. Go and ask your system," she said unapologetically.
In 2004 a judge ordered Zeituni Onyango out of the country, but she never left. She stayed, hiding in plain sight. In 2005 she attended her nephew's swearing in as the junior Senator of Illinois. In 2008 she was invited to, and traveled to D.C. for President Obama's inauguration.Yeah, right. Obama didn't know where she was, yet somehow he managed to get invitations to her to attend both of those high-profile events. So we're supposed to believe anything else that she says now? I'm thinking not.
However her nephew, she says, never pulled any strings for her.
"Listen. Obama did not know my whereabouts."
Onyango hired a top immigration lawyer from Cleveland to help fight her case. We asked how she afforded that lawyer, when she claimed poverty.OK, I'm all about turning to God for help, but I'm not aware of His keeping top-tier law firms on retainer. I do know that He tells us to respect and obey government authority though, and that would seem to include the federal judge who, in 2004, told her to leave our country.
"When you believe in Jesus Christ and almighty God, my help comes from heaven," she responded.
When asked about cutting in line ahead of those who have paid into the system she answered plainly, "I don't mind. You can take that house. I will be on the street with the homeless."And that's in large part because most of us resent paying your every bill for all these years while an actual American family in need goes without that apartment. So let's do as she dares us and take that house. And while we're at it, let's stop paying her so-called "disability" payments, too.
"To me America's dream became America's worst nightmare," she said adamantly. "I have been treated like public enemy number one."
Yeah. That'll happen...
She is still living in South Boston public housing, unemployed, and collecting about $700 a month in disability, she says. And now, Zeituni Onlyango is in this country legally.Yeah, just like he never knew where she was. Right.
In May 2010, Onyango's case went back before the same judge who ordered her out of the country in 2004. This time she was granted asylum in the United States.
Did her nephew, the President of the United States influence that immigration judge? "No influence at all, from nobody, from nowhere," Onyango said.
But if that's not already enough to make every American madder than a legless Ethiopian watching a donut roll down a hill, she gives another interview in which she insists again that we owe her just because we're who we are.
President Barack Obama’s aunt says she has no reason to apologize for accepting public housing and other government assistance even though she hasn’t contributed to the system.So even though her nephew tells the world that we're not a Christian nation, this woman has no problem invoking God over and over again to buttress her illegal actions and outright theft of American tax dollars.
Zeituni Onyango said in an interview with WBZ-TV that the United States is supposed to follow the teachings of Jesus Christ.
"This country is owned by almighty God," she said in her first interview since being granted asylum in May. "You people who preach Jesus Christ, almighty God, and the rest of it, you are here to help people, help the poor, help other countries and help women. That’s what the United States is supposed to do."
And she's not only unremorseful, she's gloating.
"It’s a great country," she said of the U.S. "It’s nice to live here. You can do whatever you want when you live here."
Yeah...if you're here illegally and related to a Democrat!
Whack Woman Wednesday, Pt. 1
Yep. Today I'm just writing about Whacky Women...and not the good kind.
I'll start with this one--Martena Clinton.
Looks pretty whiny, doesn't she? It's even more ridiculous when you realize that she did something stupid, went home, called the Washington Post, then arranged to meet them back down where she did the stupid thing, put her black party dress back on, and stood and posed for the picture and the accompanying story that was supposed to make America feel sorry for her and angry at the US Secret Service and Washington DC Police Department. And now it's backfiring onto both her and the Washington Post.
Basically, it all began on Saturday when Clinton drove down from her home in Randallsville, MD to attend a meeting of the Congressional Black Caucus at the Washington Convention Center where Obama was scheduled to speak. She parked her car outside the auditorium and ran inside like a good little racist Democrat, only to return later and find that her car was gone. Turns out that it, along with several other cars, had been relocated a few blocks as a security precaution related to Obama's visit. With help of her fellow racist friend Gardine Tiggle, she eventually found her car, just like everyone else presumably did.
Now most people would just accept that, but not Martena Clinton. She is entitled to...well...to something. So she arranged the press conference and posed for the story, and admitted proudly that she'd parked her car in a handicapped spot near the convention center because she didn't want to be late and possibly miss even a minute of the program.
Of course she's not handicapped. She's able-bodied and doesn't have a handicapped placard. But since her husband does, she decided that she automatically gains the right to use it for her own purposes, too, even when he's not with her, as was the case Saturday night. So screw any real handicapped people, because, dammit...Martena Clinton is not going to walk an extra block and miss out on seeing even a few seconds of Obama.
Well Martena got her 15 minutes of fame, only it's not from people sympathizing with her and bashing the mean old police...it's from regular decent people and handicapped-rights organizations, who are outraged that she'd so flagrantly abuse her husband's disabled parking placard and even have the nerve to admit it as if she'd done nothing wrong. The Washington Post, her collaborator on this stupid stunt, got hundreds of angry comments about her conduct, and the city has reportedly been called upon to issue Martena a ticket for parking illegally in that spot--a $250 ticket in DC.
Now I won't hold my breath on her getting one, since it happened in DC, a Democrat-controlled city, and since she's an active supporter of the Democrats.
And how do I know this last fact, you ask? Well it's simple. Thanks to the wonders of the internet, it took me about thirty seconds to discover that Martena Clinton of 18 Vivian Vale Court, Randallstown, MD, 21133, gave a hundred dollars to help elect at least one Democrat to office back in 2006. So now if you're still incensed at Martena's selfishness and her belief that she's more deserving of handicapped parking spots than any mere wheelchair-bound cripple is, you have her address and can drop her a letter explaining how life is supposed to work.
I'll start with this one--Martena Clinton.
Looks pretty whiny, doesn't she? It's even more ridiculous when you realize that she did something stupid, went home, called the Washington Post, then arranged to meet them back down where she did the stupid thing, put her black party dress back on, and stood and posed for the picture and the accompanying story that was supposed to make America feel sorry for her and angry at the US Secret Service and Washington DC Police Department. And now it's backfiring onto both her and the Washington Post.Basically, it all began on Saturday when Clinton drove down from her home in Randallsville, MD to attend a meeting of the Congressional Black Caucus at the Washington Convention Center where Obama was scheduled to speak. She parked her car outside the auditorium and ran inside like a good little racist Democrat, only to return later and find that her car was gone. Turns out that it, along with several other cars, had been relocated a few blocks as a security precaution related to Obama's visit. With help of her fellow racist friend Gardine Tiggle, she eventually found her car, just like everyone else presumably did.
Now most people would just accept that, but not Martena Clinton. She is entitled to...well...to something. So she arranged the press conference and posed for the story, and admitted proudly that she'd parked her car in a handicapped spot near the convention center because she didn't want to be late and possibly miss even a minute of the program.
Of course she's not handicapped. She's able-bodied and doesn't have a handicapped placard. But since her husband does, she decided that she automatically gains the right to use it for her own purposes, too, even when he's not with her, as was the case Saturday night. So screw any real handicapped people, because, dammit...Martena Clinton is not going to walk an extra block and miss out on seeing even a few seconds of Obama.
Well Martena got her 15 minutes of fame, only it's not from people sympathizing with her and bashing the mean old police...it's from regular decent people and handicapped-rights organizations, who are outraged that she'd so flagrantly abuse her husband's disabled parking placard and even have the nerve to admit it as if she'd done nothing wrong. The Washington Post, her collaborator on this stupid stunt, got hundreds of angry comments about her conduct, and the city has reportedly been called upon to issue Martena a ticket for parking illegally in that spot--a $250 ticket in DC.
Now I won't hold my breath on her getting one, since it happened in DC, a Democrat-controlled city, and since she's an active supporter of the Democrats.
And how do I know this last fact, you ask? Well it's simple. Thanks to the wonders of the internet, it took me about thirty seconds to discover that Martena Clinton of 18 Vivian Vale Court, Randallstown, MD, 21133, gave a hundred dollars to help elect at least one Democrat to office back in 2006. So now if you're still incensed at Martena's selfishness and her belief that she's more deserving of handicapped parking spots than any mere wheelchair-bound cripple is, you have her address and can drop her a letter explaining how life is supposed to work.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
My Mom...
It's her birthday today.
Happy Birthday, Ma.
It's also the eve of a trip that she's going on with some of her fellow little old ladies...a trip where they'll spend days driving incredibly badly in traffic, and sitting in restaurants for hours during the peak meal times, sipping coffee and perhaps splitting one dessert four ways, much to the annoyance of some poor waitress.
But that's my Mom. And here she is with her little Red Hat posse.
Happy Birthday, Ma. From me and Lagniappe.
Happy Birthday, Ma.
It's also the eve of a trip that she's going on with some of her fellow little old ladies...a trip where they'll spend days driving incredibly badly in traffic, and sitting in restaurants for hours during the peak meal times, sipping coffee and perhaps splitting one dessert four ways, much to the annoyance of some poor waitress.
But that's my Mom. And here she is with her little Red Hat posse.
Happy Birthday, Ma. From me and Lagniappe.
Saturday morning western
In this clip from "A Fistful of Dollars", we find out why you shouldn't shoot at a mule's feet...and if you do, why you should apologize.
Friday, September 17, 2010
In Alaska, another GOP sore loser.
I've honestly about had it with the Republican Party, Inc., better known as the GOP. First, Ronald Reagan showed them the way, and the party and the country did great. Then they moved left and became a lite version of the Democrats and the good days were over.
Then along came Speaker Newt Gingrich and the Contract with America, and the conservatism that he and a handful of others offered re-energized both the party and America and brought us all prosperity again. But like the Jews who kept shrugging Moses off no matter how many miracles he showed them, the Republican mainstream ignored the message, eschewing conservatism for the same liberal crap that the Dems were selling, and we got a Dem-controlled House and Senate again as a result...and Obama to boot.
And despite the calls of much of the country for a return to the conservative principles of lower taxes, smaller government and less regulation--principles that reflect the ideas of our nation's founders--the GOP has continued it's drift to the left. Finally, the people who still care began to unite and work together, coalescing under the banner of the Tea Party movement, and they recruited and supported conservative candidates in several electoral races this year. They've grown powerful enough that they've helped show several incumbent politicians the door, and in other races, they've pushed conservative candidates to victory in primary races. This is literally the people of America speaking and trying to take back control of the government from the elitists who nowadays seem to confuse appointment to elected office with some sort of coronation. But now we're seeing an ugly side to things that should be showing us promise; instead of accepting the will of the people and going along with it, Republican election losers are starting to throw temper tantrums and working to ruin races for the People's candidates that beat them out in the primaries.
In Delaware, Republican Congressman Mike Castle--a long-time congressman known as one of the most liberal Republican members in the House--was going for the Joe Biden's old Senate seat until he was trounced soundly by Tea Party favorite and outspoken conservative Christine O'Donnell. Castle pretty much sank his own campaign in the end by going totally negative against O'Donnell instead of trying to convince the voters that his ides and experience were better for the state. He created a backlash that clearly boosted O'Donnell in the last days, according to exit polls. (Sarah Palin also pushed hard for O'Donnell, and that sure didn't hurt.) But once the race was over, he had a duty to concede and get behind O'Donnell and help spur the party on to victory. Instead, he increased the tempo and the vitriol of his attacks on her, e-mailing out even more vicious personal attacks against her. He's clearly trying to sabotage her chances and throw the race to the Democrat--ultra-liberal Chris Coons--out of pure spite. And the GOP leadership doesn't appear to be doing much to stop him. But then they didn't want O'Donnell to win, either--they preferred to bank on a liberal Republican who might vote with the party some of the time (he voted with the Dems about 60% of the time when he was in the House) instead of working to elect a firebrand willing to try to lead the party back to the right where it belongs.
And now up in Alaska we have another sore loser. Moderate Republican Senator Lisa Murkowski--appointed to the seat by her father when he left the senate and became Governor of the state--was just beaten by attorney Joe Miller, again with the support of Sarah Palin. And like Castle, rather than get over it, and work for overall victory for the party, Murkowski has just announced that she's going to run in the general election as a write-in candidate. WTF? Does she really think that she's going to come back and win the seat back after a majority of the voters told her to hit the road? Nope. This is more spite. She knows that all her campaign will do is divide the Republican voting bloc and siphon off so many votes for Miller that the Democrat will walk away with the senate seat. Again, this is just a bitter, immature, spoiled brat trying to get even with everyone who gave her the boot by throwing that race--and possibly control of the entire Senate--to the Democrats just out of pique.
Like many others in America, I was plenty pissed last time around when the GOP leadership endorsed and worked for liberal Dede Scozzafava in New York's 23rd District Congressional race instead of actual conservative Doug Hoffman, but I got over it, hoping that the GOP would see the error of their ways and stop running liberal candidates who don't reflect the principles of the party's base--or working-class America's for that matter. I gave the GOP another chance, but watching the way that they're letting Castle and Murkowski trash the rightful Republican candidates, I'm not so sure that I can stay with them any more.
So GOP guys...if/when you read this, know that you won't be getting any more money from me, nor will you be getting any support for GOP candidates just because they are GOP candidates. My support will be going exclusively towards the conservatives in the race, and if you want my support (and money) then you'd best come forward with the best conservative and work hard to get him/her elected. And in the meantime, if you don't do something quick in Delaware and Alaska to muzzle your spoiled brats Castle and Murkowski, you'll get--and deserve--the blame for another six years of Harry Reid as Senate Majority Leader. And that won't happen without a cost to you.
Then along came Speaker Newt Gingrich and the Contract with America, and the conservatism that he and a handful of others offered re-energized both the party and America and brought us all prosperity again. But like the Jews who kept shrugging Moses off no matter how many miracles he showed them, the Republican mainstream ignored the message, eschewing conservatism for the same liberal crap that the Dems were selling, and we got a Dem-controlled House and Senate again as a result...and Obama to boot.
And despite the calls of much of the country for a return to the conservative principles of lower taxes, smaller government and less regulation--principles that reflect the ideas of our nation's founders--the GOP has continued it's drift to the left. Finally, the people who still care began to unite and work together, coalescing under the banner of the Tea Party movement, and they recruited and supported conservative candidates in several electoral races this year. They've grown powerful enough that they've helped show several incumbent politicians the door, and in other races, they've pushed conservative candidates to victory in primary races. This is literally the people of America speaking and trying to take back control of the government from the elitists who nowadays seem to confuse appointment to elected office with some sort of coronation. But now we're seeing an ugly side to things that should be showing us promise; instead of accepting the will of the people and going along with it, Republican election losers are starting to throw temper tantrums and working to ruin races for the People's candidates that beat them out in the primaries.
In Delaware, Republican Congressman Mike Castle--a long-time congressman known as one of the most liberal Republican members in the House--was going for the Joe Biden's old Senate seat until he was trounced soundly by Tea Party favorite and outspoken conservative Christine O'Donnell. Castle pretty much sank his own campaign in the end by going totally negative against O'Donnell instead of trying to convince the voters that his ides and experience were better for the state. He created a backlash that clearly boosted O'Donnell in the last days, according to exit polls. (Sarah Palin also pushed hard for O'Donnell, and that sure didn't hurt.) But once the race was over, he had a duty to concede and get behind O'Donnell and help spur the party on to victory. Instead, he increased the tempo and the vitriol of his attacks on her, e-mailing out even more vicious personal attacks against her. He's clearly trying to sabotage her chances and throw the race to the Democrat--ultra-liberal Chris Coons--out of pure spite. And the GOP leadership doesn't appear to be doing much to stop him. But then they didn't want O'Donnell to win, either--they preferred to bank on a liberal Republican who might vote with the party some of the time (he voted with the Dems about 60% of the time when he was in the House) instead of working to elect a firebrand willing to try to lead the party back to the right where it belongs.
And now up in Alaska we have another sore loser. Moderate Republican Senator Lisa Murkowski--appointed to the seat by her father when he left the senate and became Governor of the state--was just beaten by attorney Joe Miller, again with the support of Sarah Palin. And like Castle, rather than get over it, and work for overall victory for the party, Murkowski has just announced that she's going to run in the general election as a write-in candidate. WTF? Does she really think that she's going to come back and win the seat back after a majority of the voters told her to hit the road? Nope. This is more spite. She knows that all her campaign will do is divide the Republican voting bloc and siphon off so many votes for Miller that the Democrat will walk away with the senate seat. Again, this is just a bitter, immature, spoiled brat trying to get even with everyone who gave her the boot by throwing that race--and possibly control of the entire Senate--to the Democrats just out of pique.
Like many others in America, I was plenty pissed last time around when the GOP leadership endorsed and worked for liberal Dede Scozzafava in New York's 23rd District Congressional race instead of actual conservative Doug Hoffman, but I got over it, hoping that the GOP would see the error of their ways and stop running liberal candidates who don't reflect the principles of the party's base--or working-class America's for that matter. I gave the GOP another chance, but watching the way that they're letting Castle and Murkowski trash the rightful Republican candidates, I'm not so sure that I can stay with them any more.
So GOP guys...if/when you read this, know that you won't be getting any more money from me, nor will you be getting any support for GOP candidates just because they are GOP candidates. My support will be going exclusively towards the conservatives in the race, and if you want my support (and money) then you'd best come forward with the best conservative and work hard to get him/her elected. And in the meantime, if you don't do something quick in Delaware and Alaska to muzzle your spoiled brats Castle and Murkowski, you'll get--and deserve--the blame for another six years of Harry Reid as Senate Majority Leader. And that won't happen without a cost to you.
Sometimes it pays to be nice.
Sorry for the light blogging--just been off doing other things and spending time with Lagniappe.
But yesterday I made it out to the range to test-fire a few weapons. This range is remote and way out in the boonies, and on weekdays I can usually count on having it to myself. Usually. This time, as I came off the two-track rut-road into the firing area, I encountered two SUV's and four guys who'd unpacked enough gun stuff to suggest that they were about to host a gun show. And my first thought was, of course, unprintable.
They looked at me, clearly not happy to see an interloper, and I looked at them. Their vehicles were already parked such that I couldn't park mine in the regular area so I pulled in off to the side. One of them did offer to move his truck, but I was already parked by then so I thanked him and declined. I noticed that they were shooting AR's and combat shotguns, and one guy had a portable bench set up and he was shooting a nice tactical bolt gun of some sort. They also had Sig pistols, and cases of ammo sitting on the ground. Definitely some serious shooters with deep pockets here.
As they shot at their IPSC targets, which they'd set up on almost every bit of free space on the rifle range, I just tossed a couple of orange detergent bottles onto the pistol berm. I then causally unfolded the stock of my Uzi, inserted a magazine, and sighted the submachine gun on the first plastic bottle. As usual, when the subgun began chattering, all the other shooters stopped to stare. Automatic weapons are usually good for that. Fortunately the gun was now functioning correctly (thanks to the phone consult with the guys at Vector) and it tossed the orange bottle all over the berm with burst after burst of aimed fire. I swapped magazines and went after the other bottle, and it too was torn apart by streams of 9mm bullets. I had the other shooters' full attention now.
After firing half a dozen 32-round magazines, I was pretty confident that the gun was now fully functional again. The other guys had resumed shooting, but as I walked back to my truck with the still-smoking Uzi, I saw one of them looking at me. Being a gun guy, I extended the courtesy that gun guys the country over are almost expected to extend to one another: "Care to give it a try?"
I didn't have to ask twice. My new friends came over, loaded up some empty magazines, and after a bit of instruction on the gun, they took turns shooting the targets and filming each other. It wasn't long before we were all swapping guns with each other and talking firearms. I threw an old 5-gallon propane tank out on the rifle range, and me and another guy went shot-for-shot on it, he with his new Sig 556 sporting an EOTech sight, and me with my Rock River AR and it's Aimpoint. Each hit made the tank ring and moved it around a bit as we traded and compared guns and sight systems. (The Sig is nice, but it's sure heavy for a 5.56 rifle.) But in the end, we decided that the tank wasn't moving enough, so I got out my Springfield '03A3 and laid into it with some tracer rounds that I'd loaded for my Browning MG last year. Whereas the little 5.56 rounds nudged the steel tank target, those .30-06 rounds seriously kicked it around with each hit. And the bright red tracers just made it a bit neater to watch as they ricocheted off the tank--it was like the 4th of July.
We shot together for about an hour, then they packed up to leave. They'd already told me that they didn't want any of their brass, so I was already in hog heaven looking at all of the .308 and 5.56 cases on the ground, but I was totally unprepared when they stopped by my truck on the way out and each handed me a couple of boxes of ammunition that they hadn't shot up. I told them that they didn't have to do that, because the 9mm that we shot in the Uzi was cheap junk that I'd bought for pennies a round back in the day, but they insisted, and drove off leaving me with quite a bit more 9mm and .40 ammo than I'd even come out here with, and that in addition to the .50 can of spent rifle cartridges that I collected from along the firing line--enough to feed my reloading press for weeks.
I've said it before and I'll say it again--there's few people as decent as your typical gun people, and it never hurts to offer to share your toys.
But yesterday I made it out to the range to test-fire a few weapons. This range is remote and way out in the boonies, and on weekdays I can usually count on having it to myself. Usually. This time, as I came off the two-track rut-road into the firing area, I encountered two SUV's and four guys who'd unpacked enough gun stuff to suggest that they were about to host a gun show. And my first thought was, of course, unprintable.
They looked at me, clearly not happy to see an interloper, and I looked at them. Their vehicles were already parked such that I couldn't park mine in the regular area so I pulled in off to the side. One of them did offer to move his truck, but I was already parked by then so I thanked him and declined. I noticed that they were shooting AR's and combat shotguns, and one guy had a portable bench set up and he was shooting a nice tactical bolt gun of some sort. They also had Sig pistols, and cases of ammo sitting on the ground. Definitely some serious shooters with deep pockets here.
As they shot at their IPSC targets, which they'd set up on almost every bit of free space on the rifle range, I just tossed a couple of orange detergent bottles onto the pistol berm. I then causally unfolded the stock of my Uzi, inserted a magazine, and sighted the submachine gun on the first plastic bottle. As usual, when the subgun began chattering, all the other shooters stopped to stare. Automatic weapons are usually good for that. Fortunately the gun was now functioning correctly (thanks to the phone consult with the guys at Vector) and it tossed the orange bottle all over the berm with burst after burst of aimed fire. I swapped magazines and went after the other bottle, and it too was torn apart by streams of 9mm bullets. I had the other shooters' full attention now.
After firing half a dozen 32-round magazines, I was pretty confident that the gun was now fully functional again. The other guys had resumed shooting, but as I walked back to my truck with the still-smoking Uzi, I saw one of them looking at me. Being a gun guy, I extended the courtesy that gun guys the country over are almost expected to extend to one another: "Care to give it a try?"
I didn't have to ask twice. My new friends came over, loaded up some empty magazines, and after a bit of instruction on the gun, they took turns shooting the targets and filming each other. It wasn't long before we were all swapping guns with each other and talking firearms. I threw an old 5-gallon propane tank out on the rifle range, and me and another guy went shot-for-shot on it, he with his new Sig 556 sporting an EOTech sight, and me with my Rock River AR and it's Aimpoint. Each hit made the tank ring and moved it around a bit as we traded and compared guns and sight systems. (The Sig is nice, but it's sure heavy for a 5.56 rifle.) But in the end, we decided that the tank wasn't moving enough, so I got out my Springfield '03A3 and laid into it with some tracer rounds that I'd loaded for my Browning MG last year. Whereas the little 5.56 rounds nudged the steel tank target, those .30-06 rounds seriously kicked it around with each hit. And the bright red tracers just made it a bit neater to watch as they ricocheted off the tank--it was like the 4th of July.
We shot together for about an hour, then they packed up to leave. They'd already told me that they didn't want any of their brass, so I was already in hog heaven looking at all of the .308 and 5.56 cases on the ground, but I was totally unprepared when they stopped by my truck on the way out and each handed me a couple of boxes of ammunition that they hadn't shot up. I told them that they didn't have to do that, because the 9mm that we shot in the Uzi was cheap junk that I'd bought for pennies a round back in the day, but they insisted, and drove off leaving me with quite a bit more 9mm and .40 ammo than I'd even come out here with, and that in addition to the .50 can of spent rifle cartridges that I collected from along the firing line--enough to feed my reloading press for weeks.
I've said it before and I'll say it again--there's few people as decent as your typical gun people, and it never hurts to offer to share your toys.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Another bike ride
I hit the C&O Canal towpath on my new bike again today. This time I got on at Harpers Ferry, (just prior to mile marker 61) and rode up to Antietam Creek (mile marker 69.4) for a total ride of approx. 17 miles. Not bad for a second trip ever, eh?
Started out with a wildlife encounter of sorts as I was leaving Harpers Ferry. As I was coasting slow along the left side of the trail watching the river, I heard a distinctive sound that I've not heard since my Colorado days: the rattle of a rattlesnake. Apparently I'd gotten a bit to close for Br'er Snake's comfort and he was warning me off. Naturally, me being me, I stopped, turned around, and went back to look for the critter, but to no avail. As I was searching the area, two hikers walked up and asked what I was looking for. They seemed genuinely curious and willing to help look, however, when I told them that it was a rattlesnake just off the trail's edge, they made themselves scarce pretty quickly.
Back on the ride, I pedaled up along the Potomac River, watching it go from rock-choked whitewater to a calm, placid and wide river in the space of a couple of miles.
As I rode, I recalled the last time I'd been up this way--it was October 11, 2008, and I'd hiked it with Lagniappe up to Dargan's Bend, walking about half the distance that I rode today. I'll always remember that day as "the day of the thousand squirrels" because it seems that Lagniappe was spotting one of the tree-rats every few minutes and bolting off into the woods in pursuit. He never caught one, but I yelled my voice hoarse calling him back umpteen million times. Still, we sure had fun that day. And of course I know the exact date because I'd blogged it.
The ride took a bit under two hours, with a rest stop at Antietam Creek and another one at Dargan's Bend on the return trip. Did I mention that I really like this new bike?
After the ride, I went home, got Lagniappe, and brought him back to Harpers Ferry because Sharon, the owner of the Swiss Miss ice cream shop--Lagniappe's patron and benefactor ever since we first moved here--wanted to see him. So I got him up in the truck, took him back there, and she gave him a couple more ice cream cones and a burger. Sharon's given this dog literally dozens of ice cream cones over the years, and I can't take him anywhere near Harpers Ferry without him going ape because he identifies the place with Sharon and her cones. Here they are together.
If you ever get to Harpers Ferry, look her up and tell her that Lagniappe and I referred you. And you won't be sorry--she has the best soft-serve and custard that you'll find anywhere around these parts.
All in all, a great day.
Started out with a wildlife encounter of sorts as I was leaving Harpers Ferry. As I was coasting slow along the left side of the trail watching the river, I heard a distinctive sound that I've not heard since my Colorado days: the rattle of a rattlesnake. Apparently I'd gotten a bit to close for Br'er Snake's comfort and he was warning me off. Naturally, me being me, I stopped, turned around, and went back to look for the critter, but to no avail. As I was searching the area, two hikers walked up and asked what I was looking for. They seemed genuinely curious and willing to help look, however, when I told them that it was a rattlesnake just off the trail's edge, they made themselves scarce pretty quickly.
Back on the ride, I pedaled up along the Potomac River, watching it go from rock-choked whitewater to a calm, placid and wide river in the space of a couple of miles.
As I rode, I recalled the last time I'd been up this way--it was October 11, 2008, and I'd hiked it with Lagniappe up to Dargan's Bend, walking about half the distance that I rode today. I'll always remember that day as "the day of the thousand squirrels" because it seems that Lagniappe was spotting one of the tree-rats every few minutes and bolting off into the woods in pursuit. He never caught one, but I yelled my voice hoarse calling him back umpteen million times. Still, we sure had fun that day. And of course I know the exact date because I'd blogged it.
The ride took a bit under two hours, with a rest stop at Antietam Creek and another one at Dargan's Bend on the return trip. Did I mention that I really like this new bike?
After the ride, I went home, got Lagniappe, and brought him back to Harpers Ferry because Sharon, the owner of the Swiss Miss ice cream shop--Lagniappe's patron and benefactor ever since we first moved here--wanted to see him. So I got him up in the truck, took him back there, and she gave him a couple more ice cream cones and a burger. Sharon's given this dog literally dozens of ice cream cones over the years, and I can't take him anywhere near Harpers Ferry without him going ape because he identifies the place with Sharon and her cones. Here they are together.
If you ever get to Harpers Ferry, look her up and tell her that Lagniappe and I referred you. And you won't be sorry--she has the best soft-serve and custard that you'll find anywhere around these parts.
All in all, a great day.
Obama goes to Pentagon on 9/11 to defend Islam
Of course he just had to show up and put in a few words on behalf of his favorite religion on a day when the rest of America was remembering the victims.
Sorry, but I honestly believe that Barack Obama has no business being anywhere near the Pentagon on this day, not until he repudiates and condemns his friend and political ally Bill Ayers, a man who once tried to do exactly what the 9/11 terrorists did on that very spot and who is still unrepentant to this very day...and still a member of Obama's inner circle.
So on this day, I do not welcome Barack Obama into the gathering of Americans trying to commemorate this tragedy. Until he publicly condemns his own long-time associate who bombed the same building in 1972, he has no right to stand on that hallowed ground and soak up the moment for his own self-aggrandizement.
Sorry, but I honestly believe that Barack Obama has no business being anywhere near the Pentagon on this day, not until he repudiates and condemns his friend and political ally Bill Ayers, a man who once tried to do exactly what the 9/11 terrorists did on that very spot and who is still unrepentant to this very day...and still a member of Obama's inner circle.
So on this day, I do not welcome Barack Obama into the gathering of Americans trying to commemorate this tragedy. Until he publicly condemns his own long-time associate who bombed the same building in 1972, he has no right to stand on that hallowed ground and soak up the moment for his own self-aggrandizement.
Saturday Western
In this clip from the 1968 movie Hang 'Em High, Marshal Jed Cooper confronts Reno, one of the vigilantes who erroneously hanged him.
Then he goes to have a steak.
Then he goes to have a steak.
Friday, September 10, 2010
On the ninth anniversary, let us not forget...
On September 11, 2001, the New York City Police Department lost 23 officers who died trying to save others in the World Trade Center.
Often overlooked is the fact that the New York/New Jersey Port Authority lost 37 of theirs.
Memorial to the Thirty-Seven.
They could probably all have made it to safety, but like their brothers in the New York City Police and Fire Departments, they ran back into those towers to save other people. It's that instinct to put the safety of other first that makes a cop or a firefighter...and sometimes that instinct costs them their lives. But on September 11, 60 police officers gave up their lives so that other might live, as did 343 Firefighters.
Let us never forget.
Let us also recall how the Saudi murderers drew no distinction among their victims.
The victims at the Pentagon crash site ranged from Asia Cottom, a schoolgirl just 11 years old, to 69 year old Retired Master Sergeant Max Beilke, a veteran of Korea and the last soldier out of Vietnam.
In fact, the dead included 8 children: 5 on American 77 ranging in age from 3 to 11, 3 on United 175 ages 2, 3, and 4. The youngest victim was a 2 year-old child on Flight 175, the oldest an 82 year-old passenger on Flight 11. In the buildings, the youngest victim was 17 and the oldest was 79. The dead were men and women, Black, White, Asian and Hispanic, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist and Atheist alike. The overwhelming majority were Americans, but the citizens of over 90 countries were ultimately represented among the dead. Our enemy didn't care about any of this, however. Our enemy saw their victims not as men, women, or children, not as black or white, but simply as Americans. They attacked us indiscriminately as Americans, and when this is over it will be as Americans that we will have ultimately triumphed over their kind.
Often overlooked is the fact that the New York/New Jersey Port Authority lost 37 of theirs.
Memorial to the Thirty-Seven.
They could probably all have made it to safety, but like their brothers in the New York City Police and Fire Departments, they ran back into those towers to save other people. It's that instinct to put the safety of other first that makes a cop or a firefighter...and sometimes that instinct costs them their lives. But on September 11, 60 police officers gave up their lives so that other might live, as did 343 Firefighters.
Let us never forget.
Let us also recall how the Saudi murderers drew no distinction among their victims.
The victims at the Pentagon crash site ranged from Asia Cottom, a schoolgirl just 11 years old, to 69 year old Retired Master Sergeant Max Beilke, a veteran of Korea and the last soldier out of Vietnam. In fact, the dead included 8 children: 5 on American 77 ranging in age from 3 to 11, 3 on United 175 ages 2, 3, and 4. The youngest victim was a 2 year-old child on Flight 175, the oldest an 82 year-old passenger on Flight 11. In the buildings, the youngest victim was 17 and the oldest was 79. The dead were men and women, Black, White, Asian and Hispanic, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist and Atheist alike. The overwhelming majority were Americans, but the citizens of over 90 countries were ultimately represented among the dead. Our enemy didn't care about any of this, however. Our enemy saw their victims not as men, women, or children, not as black or white, but simply as Americans. They attacked us indiscriminately as Americans, and when this is over it will be as Americans that we will have ultimately triumphed over their kind.
Thanks, Pal.
Thanks a lot.
Today I took Lagniappe out for a ride, just because he's been penned up in the house for so long. He was so excited when I told him that he could come down the stairs to the door--he hasn't been out in a few weeks now because he just can't walk well enough any more. Even today he couldn't get up in my truck without help, but hey--what are friends for? I got him up there and I took him along to run a few errands. He loves to ride and he never ceases watching everything and everyone around us.
At lunch time, I went to a little place with an outdoor patio that allows dogs, so he was able to come lay beside me and partake of a few morsels. While there, I ran across a nice young lady that I've been trying to chat up. Of course she's heard about Lagniappe and wanted to meet him, but she was a bit apprehensive when she got near him. "He won't bite me, will he?"
No, I assured her. he won't.
But Lagniappe, sensing her uncertainty, snapped at her hand as she reached out tentatively to pet him. Then as she recoiled, he barked at her, pretty much putting her to flight.
Now I know that this is just him playing. He could have easily had her hand if he'd meant to bite her, and he didn't even get up from the ground when he barked. He frequently does this with people that he senses aren't comfortable around him and it seems to amuse him, but dammit, dog...I'm trying to close a deal here and you're not helping when you literally chase her off.
A few minutes passed as she talked to me from a distance, and then she came closer to try again with him. This time however, he was Mr. Nice and he not only let her pet him, but he gave her more than a few kisses.
Dammit, twice, dog...now you're jumping ahead of me! I can't win, here.
I was so peeved at him that I almost didn't take him for ice cream afterwards.
Damn dog.
Today I took Lagniappe out for a ride, just because he's been penned up in the house for so long. He was so excited when I told him that he could come down the stairs to the door--he hasn't been out in a few weeks now because he just can't walk well enough any more. Even today he couldn't get up in my truck without help, but hey--what are friends for? I got him up there and I took him along to run a few errands. He loves to ride and he never ceases watching everything and everyone around us.
At lunch time, I went to a little place with an outdoor patio that allows dogs, so he was able to come lay beside me and partake of a few morsels. While there, I ran across a nice young lady that I've been trying to chat up. Of course she's heard about Lagniappe and wanted to meet him, but she was a bit apprehensive when she got near him. "He won't bite me, will he?"
No, I assured her. he won't.
But Lagniappe, sensing her uncertainty, snapped at her hand as she reached out tentatively to pet him. Then as she recoiled, he barked at her, pretty much putting her to flight.
Now I know that this is just him playing. He could have easily had her hand if he'd meant to bite her, and he didn't even get up from the ground when he barked. He frequently does this with people that he senses aren't comfortable around him and it seems to amuse him, but dammit, dog...I'm trying to close a deal here and you're not helping when you literally chase her off.
A few minutes passed as she talked to me from a distance, and then she came closer to try again with him. This time however, he was Mr. Nice and he not only let her pet him, but he gave her more than a few kisses.
Dammit, twice, dog...now you're jumping ahead of me! I can't win, here.
I was so peeved at him that I almost didn't take him for ice cream afterwards.
Damn dog.
Thursday, September 09, 2010
I'm just saying...
Now that whack-job "pastor" Terry Jones has allegedly scrapped his plan to burn a Koran or two on 9/11 at the request of just about everybody, we now have the Olympic-class assholes over at the Westboro baptist "church" saying that they are going to burn a few, just for the attention.
And in keeping with the tenets of their "religion of peace", numerous radical 12th century goat-rapers (muslims) have sworn to kill whoever does this sort of thing.
OK, much as I hate muslim terrorists, I'm willing to take the position that if a few of them go all suicide-bomber and take out the whole inbred Phelps/Roper clan at Westboro, we can just let that one slide, provided, of course, that there are no survivors on either side.
And in keeping with the tenets of their "religion of peace", numerous radical 12th century goat-rapers (muslims) have sworn to kill whoever does this sort of thing.
OK, much as I hate muslim terrorists, I'm willing to take the position that if a few of them go all suicide-bomber and take out the whole inbred Phelps/Roper clan at Westboro, we can just let that one slide, provided, of course, that there are no survivors on either side.
Motivation and Priorities...
Once again some bubba named Josh Moore from my state makes the news, this time for waging a campaign against Microsoft and the Xbox people because they banned him from playing their on-line video games over the name of his town.
Perhaps this is why he's still unemployed.
Apparently he's so dedicated to his on-line world that he participates in competitions with other couch-potato wanna-be heroic men, and when he was suddenly deprived of the ability to waste so much job-seeking time, he went to the town's mayor and and the local media as well and begged them to help him get back into his on-line fantasy world. Maybe if he'd asked the mayor or the local news to help him find a job...
29 years old, sitting at home playing expensive video games all day and not working, and when he finally gets the world to pay attention to him for fifteen minutes, he begs not for a job or a better life, but "more video games, dude!"
I therefore nominate Josh Moore "Dorfman of the Month" for September, 2010
Microsoft Corp. and the chief rules enforcer for Xbox Live are apologizing to a small Wayne County town and a 26-year-old gamer accused of violating the online gaming service's code of conduct by publicly declaring he's from Fort Gay -- a name the company considered offensive.Now that's all well and cute, and Microsoft is apologizing to Josh Moore, but I have to point out the obvious here--this loser Moore is UNEMPLOYED and he's just sitting around all day playing VIDEO GAMES.
The town's name is real. But when Josh Moore tried to tell Seattle-based Microsoft and the enforcement team at Xbox Live, they wouldn't take his word for it. Or Google it. Or check the U.S. Postal Service website for a ZIP code.
Instead, they suspended his gaming privileges for a few days until Moore could convince them the location in his profile, "fort gay WV,'' wasn't a joke or a slur: It's an actual community of about 800 residents, along West Virginia's border with Kentucky.
"At first I thought, 'Wow, somebody's thinking I live in the gayest town in West Virginia or something.' I was mad. ... It makes me feel like they hate gay people,'' said Moore, an unemployed factory worker who plays shooters like Medal of Honor, Call of Duty and Ghost Recon under the gamertag Joshanboo.
"I'm not even gay, and it makes me feel like they were discriminating,'' said Moore, who missed a key Search and Destroy competition because of last week's brief suspension. His team lost.
Angry and incredulous, Moore contacted customer service.
"I figured, I'll explain to them, 'Look in my account. Fort Gay is a real place,''' Moore reasoned. But the employee was unreceptive, warning Moore if he put Fort Gay back in his profile, Xbox Live would cancel his account and keep his $12 monthly membership fee, which he'd paid in advance for two years.
"I told him, Google it -- 25514!'' Moore said, offering up the town's ZIP code. "He said, 'I can't help you.'''
Mayor David Thompson also tried to intervene, but with little success. He told WSAZ-TV, which first reported the dispute, that he was informed the city's name didn't matter. The word "gay,'' he was told, was inappropriate in any context.
"It was so inappropriate for them, they wouldn't even say the word,'' Thompson told the AP Wednesday. "They said, 'that word.' It's beyond me. That's the name of our town! It's appalling. It's a slap in our face.''
Fort Gay has been a community since 1789, when 11 people tried to establish a settlement at the junction of the Tug and Big Sandy rivers, across from what is now Louisa, Ky. It was incorporated as Cassville in 1875 but was simultaneously known as Fort Gay until 1932, when town leaders changed it to the latter for good.
Perhaps this is why he's still unemployed.
Apparently he's so dedicated to his on-line world that he participates in competitions with other couch-potato wanna-be heroic men, and when he was suddenly deprived of the ability to waste so much job-seeking time, he went to the town's mayor and and the local media as well and begged them to help him get back into his on-line fantasy world. Maybe if he'd asked the mayor or the local news to help him find a job...
29 years old, sitting at home playing expensive video games all day and not working, and when he finally gets the world to pay attention to him for fifteen minutes, he begs not for a job or a better life, but "more video games, dude!"
I therefore nominate Josh Moore "Dorfman of the Month" for September, 2010
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
Yo! Cool submarine stuff here!
For some reason, my latest post on the USS Torsk isn't showing up on anyone else's blog list as new content. But it is new, and pretty damned impressive even if I do say so myself, so please scroll down and check it out.
Monday, September 06, 2010
USS Torsk
As promised, a detailed posing on my visit to the USS Torsk in Baltimore's Inner Harbor.
USS Torsk,(SS423). 311 feet long and displacing 1,500 tons, she typically had a crew of 81 men--10 officers and 71 enlisted. Laid down in June, 1944, she was finished in December that year and she put to sea for the first time on New Year's Eve. She made two War Patrols before the Japanese surrender, and sank the last two Japanese combat vessels of the wars. After being overhauled and extensively modified in 1951, she remained in service until her decommissioning in 1968. Now she's on display in Baltimore's Inner Harbor.
The way below: a doorway cut into the pressure hull leading into the aft torpedo room. Damn, I wish that they wouldn't do this to these old warriors.
Aft torpedo room. Four tubes firing to the rear in addition to the six firing forward gave these boats a bite from each end.
Not an exit? But of course it is. That's the real entrance into this compartment--the one that everyone should have to use to get down here.
The starboard (right) maneuvering controls that direct power from the #1 and #3 diesel engines to the electric motors or the batteries. There's another set-up just like this on the right side of the maneuvering room.
A lathe. Necessary because when something breaks at sea--and things will break--new things have to be made from scratch...and it might be something important, like engine parts.
Looking aft, this is the after engine room, with two of the sub 's four Fairtbanks-Morse 10-cylinder engines. Originally made for railroad locomotives, each one turns a generator which in turn provides power to the boat's electric motors or to the batteries for later submerged use. The two big cylinders (one above each engine) are the air intakes. Note that most people who worked in these spaces on these boats suffered some degree of permanent hearing loss due to the almost-constant noise and lack of any sound-proofing or hearing protection.
A close-up view of the upper crankshaft inside one of the engines.
This is a fuel oil purifier. There is one to the rear of each engine. They purify the fuel (duh!) via centrifugal force, spinning it to remove sea water and other impurities.
Oh, look--a hatch that opens. Heck, it may not be part of the tour but it's not secure and to me, that's as good as an invite.
Not sure what these are other than they're below the main deck and aft of the two after engines. I suspect that these are two of the generators, but perhaps someone with more knowledge can fill us in.
Port side engine control panel.
The two forward engines.
An engine exhaust controller.
Hatch from forward engine room. The big thing to the left (port) side is a freshwater evaporator which distilled fresh water from sea water.
Awww...the best parts of these museum vessels are always posted off-limits...and locked. Why it's almost as if they don't trust me to stay out. (Actually this was not here when the boat was operational. It's an enlarged hatch used to remove the batteries from the aft battery deck. Where the batteries once were, it's all storage space now. But this railing should be gone and six more bunks should be here.)
Racks.(Otherwise known as bunks) There were typically two on the boat for every three man, so sailors got to share, one sleeping while the other was on duty. My nephew, The Spud, thinks that this would be a cool place to sleep. He doesn't realize that that there was only one set of sheets per bunk and they got washed once a week. Sailors also showered once a week, so those bunks would have a pretty unique smell to them by the end of a week.
The Enlisted Mess, where sailors ate and off-duty seamen played cards or just hung out.
The Enlisted Galley, where food was prepared for all of the enlisted seamen aboard. One of the benefits of submarine duty was that you got the best food...but there was no such thing as "carry out".
Many systems in the boat are dependent on compressed air. Here's where the air was controlled. And this area's been completely redone due to the modifications that came with the fleet snorkel rebuild--the sub was given the ability to suck in outside air while submerged, allowing it to run underwater on the diesels instead of just the electric motors...of course that was sometimes more theoretical at first, especially when waves kept closing the flapper valve on the snorkel for a few seconds, causing the diesels to suck enough air out of the boat to make everyone's ears pop.
Here's the snorkel control panel. It's right next to the ladder leading up to the conning tower.
Hatch up to the conning tower--the small room where the periscopes are actually viewed (they don't actually extend down into the control room like you see in all the old war movies). Most museum boats don't let you up there these days due to liability concerns. Very sad.
My three favorite toys on fleet submarines--the noisemakers. The green one is the dive klaxon, used to tell the crew to perform the functions needed to dive the boat. A well-trained crew could have the boat at 65 feet in less than 35 seconds after this was thrown. Nowadays, it's good for making other boat visitors jump and hit their heads on things.
The yellow one is for General Quarters, and the red one--my fav because it makes the most obnoxious noise--is the Collision warning horn. Note how each has a different shape so that you can tell them apart in the dark. I've found that they still work on about half of the fleet boats that I've visited, although the Silversides, in Muskegon, Michigan has muted theirs recently. The ones on Lionfish in Massachusetts are still plenty loud though, as are the ones on Cod in Cleveland. I always try 'em out on the boats and act suitably innocent if/when boat staff are about.
These two big wheels control the bow and stern planes. Each would have been manned by one sailor.
Here's the wheel for the bow planes, and that map table? It houses the ship's compass, which is visible through a grass window in the table. And that panel on the back right? (under the label "Xmas Tree") is the Christmas Tree--a board with a red and a green light for every hatch and vent on the boat. That tells the control room whether or not the boat is safe to dive. In theory, the boat is not supposed to be dived with any of them still showing red, but in wartime, when a few seconds could mean the difference between safety and a direct hit from a dive-bomber, the boat would begin to dive the moment the dive horn sounded, and eighty-five men would have to trust that each of them assigned to close something off did his job quickly and correctly the first time.
Here's the ship's helm, or steering wheel. (There's another one in the conning tower.) Note the little TV screen that gives a view of what the periscope sees. That's not original World War Two gear, but it's handy nonetheless.
The passage through Officer Country. To either side are the rooms for the boat's officers, each about the size of a modern home's half-bath. Only the captain gets his own room; the others all double up and the three most junior officers triple-bunk.
The Officers' Wardroom. Note the nice china. Quite a step up from the Enlisted Mess, eh?
The Forward Torpedo Room, with it's six big bronze torpedo tubes, appearing ready for inspection, but alas, gated off to prevent said inspection by folks like me.
Here's the forward escape trunk. Tempting exit, but they made us use the stairs instead.
Riding high in the water. Here you can see the distinctive and unusual paint scheme as well as the post upper torpedo tube door, the port anchor and the bow plane rigged for surface running. This plane would drop down prior to diving to enable the sub to move vertically underwater.
Close-up of the sail, heavily modified by the Fleet Snorkel Program conversion she completed in 1952. This it the only American sub surviving with this particular modification.
Top of the sail, taken from inside the adjacent aquarium. Cost of this shot: $50.00 admission for two.
The top of the sail really could use a bit of straightening up...and the removal of all that bird doo.
The deck's in shit shape, too. Teakwood's rotted or gone, and of course there's another one of those accursed holes in the pressure hull to accommodate fat tourists who can't manage simple ladders.
Still flying Old Glory...and no doubt wishing that she could cast off and go give America's enemies another shellacking.
Additional info on USS Torsk.
Torsk Home Page
NPS Torsk History
Torsk Wikipedia
And if you still want more sub stuff, read my earlier posts on USS Cod in Cleveland.
USS Torsk,(SS423). 311 feet long and displacing 1,500 tons, she typically had a crew of 81 men--10 officers and 71 enlisted. Laid down in June, 1944, she was finished in December that year and she put to sea for the first time on New Year's Eve. She made two War Patrols before the Japanese surrender, and sank the last two Japanese combat vessels of the wars. After being overhauled and extensively modified in 1951, she remained in service until her decommissioning in 1968. Now she's on display in Baltimore's Inner Harbor.
The way below: a doorway cut into the pressure hull leading into the aft torpedo room. Damn, I wish that they wouldn't do this to these old warriors.
Aft torpedo room. Four tubes firing to the rear in addition to the six firing forward gave these boats a bite from each end.
Not an exit? But of course it is. That's the real entrance into this compartment--the one that everyone should have to use to get down here.
The starboard (right) maneuvering controls that direct power from the #1 and #3 diesel engines to the electric motors or the batteries. There's another set-up just like this on the right side of the maneuvering room.
A lathe. Necessary because when something breaks at sea--and things will break--new things have to be made from scratch...and it might be something important, like engine parts.
Looking aft, this is the after engine room, with two of the sub 's four Fairtbanks-Morse 10-cylinder engines. Originally made for railroad locomotives, each one turns a generator which in turn provides power to the boat's electric motors or to the batteries for later submerged use. The two big cylinders (one above each engine) are the air intakes. Note that most people who worked in these spaces on these boats suffered some degree of permanent hearing loss due to the almost-constant noise and lack of any sound-proofing or hearing protection.
A close-up view of the upper crankshaft inside one of the engines.
This is a fuel oil purifier. There is one to the rear of each engine. They purify the fuel (duh!) via centrifugal force, spinning it to remove sea water and other impurities.
Oh, look--a hatch that opens. Heck, it may not be part of the tour but it's not secure and to me, that's as good as an invite.
Not sure what these are other than they're below the main deck and aft of the two after engines. I suspect that these are two of the generators, but perhaps someone with more knowledge can fill us in.
Port side engine control panel.
The two forward engines. 
An engine exhaust controller.
Hatch from forward engine room. The big thing to the left (port) side is a freshwater evaporator which distilled fresh water from sea water. 
Awww...the best parts of these museum vessels are always posted off-limits...and locked. Why it's almost as if they don't trust me to stay out. (Actually this was not here when the boat was operational. It's an enlarged hatch used to remove the batteries from the aft battery deck. Where the batteries once were, it's all storage space now. But this railing should be gone and six more bunks should be here.)
Racks.(Otherwise known as bunks) There were typically two on the boat for every three man, so sailors got to share, one sleeping while the other was on duty. My nephew, The Spud, thinks that this would be a cool place to sleep. He doesn't realize that that there was only one set of sheets per bunk and they got washed once a week. Sailors also showered once a week, so those bunks would have a pretty unique smell to them by the end of a week.
The Enlisted Mess, where sailors ate and off-duty seamen played cards or just hung out.
The Enlisted Galley, where food was prepared for all of the enlisted seamen aboard. One of the benefits of submarine duty was that you got the best food...but there was no such thing as "carry out".
Many systems in the boat are dependent on compressed air. Here's where the air was controlled. And this area's been completely redone due to the modifications that came with the fleet snorkel rebuild--the sub was given the ability to suck in outside air while submerged, allowing it to run underwater on the diesels instead of just the electric motors...of course that was sometimes more theoretical at first, especially when waves kept closing the flapper valve on the snorkel for a few seconds, causing the diesels to suck enough air out of the boat to make everyone's ears pop.
Here's the snorkel control panel. It's right next to the ladder leading up to the conning tower.
Hatch up to the conning tower--the small room where the periscopes are actually viewed (they don't actually extend down into the control room like you see in all the old war movies). Most museum boats don't let you up there these days due to liability concerns. Very sad.
My three favorite toys on fleet submarines--the noisemakers. The green one is the dive klaxon, used to tell the crew to perform the functions needed to dive the boat. A well-trained crew could have the boat at 65 feet in less than 35 seconds after this was thrown. Nowadays, it's good for making other boat visitors jump and hit their heads on things.The yellow one is for General Quarters, and the red one--my fav because it makes the most obnoxious noise--is the Collision warning horn. Note how each has a different shape so that you can tell them apart in the dark. I've found that they still work on about half of the fleet boats that I've visited, although the Silversides, in Muskegon, Michigan has muted theirs recently. The ones on Lionfish in Massachusetts are still plenty loud though, as are the ones on Cod in Cleveland. I always try 'em out on the boats and act suitably innocent if/when boat staff are about.
These two big wheels control the bow and stern planes. Each would have been manned by one sailor.
Here's the wheel for the bow planes, and that map table? It houses the ship's compass, which is visible through a grass window in the table. And that panel on the back right? (under the label "Xmas Tree") is the Christmas Tree--a board with a red and a green light for every hatch and vent on the boat. That tells the control room whether or not the boat is safe to dive. In theory, the boat is not supposed to be dived with any of them still showing red, but in wartime, when a few seconds could mean the difference between safety and a direct hit from a dive-bomber, the boat would begin to dive the moment the dive horn sounded, and eighty-five men would have to trust that each of them assigned to close something off did his job quickly and correctly the first time.
Here's the ship's helm, or steering wheel. (There's another one in the conning tower.) Note the little TV screen that gives a view of what the periscope sees. That's not original World War Two gear, but it's handy nonetheless.
The passage through Officer Country. To either side are the rooms for the boat's officers, each about the size of a modern home's half-bath. Only the captain gets his own room; the others all double up and the three most junior officers triple-bunk.
The Officers' Wardroom. Note the nice china. Quite a step up from the Enlisted Mess, eh?
The Forward Torpedo Room, with it's six big bronze torpedo tubes, appearing ready for inspection, but alas, gated off to prevent said inspection by folks like me.
Here's the forward escape trunk. Tempting exit, but they made us use the stairs instead.
Riding high in the water. Here you can see the distinctive and unusual paint scheme as well as the post upper torpedo tube door, the port anchor and the bow plane rigged for surface running. This plane would drop down prior to diving to enable the sub to move vertically underwater.
Close-up of the sail, heavily modified by the Fleet Snorkel Program conversion she completed in 1952. This it the only American sub surviving with this particular modification.
Top of the sail, taken from inside the adjacent aquarium. Cost of this shot: $50.00 admission for two.
The top of the sail really could use a bit of straightening up...and the removal of all that bird doo.
The deck's in shit shape, too. Teakwood's rotted or gone, and of course there's another one of those accursed holes in the pressure hull to accommodate fat tourists who can't manage simple ladders.
Still flying Old Glory...and no doubt wishing that she could cast off and go give America's enemies another shellacking.
Additional info on USS Torsk.
Torsk Home Page
NPS Torsk History
Torsk Wikipedia
And if you still want more sub stuff, read my earlier posts on USS Cod in Cleveland.
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