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  • STEVE SMITH’S FRIDAY NIGHT LINKS OF… LINKS

    STEVE SMITH NO WRITE THIS AD!

     

    STEVE SMITH TAKE BREAK…HIM DO LOTS OF PROMINENT FOREST LAWYERING. REPRESENT RACCOON AGAINST POSSUM, IN GARBAGE THEFT CASE….ALSO DRAFT CASCADIA INDEPENDENCE BRIEF, FOR FILE IN INTERNATIONAL COURTS. THEM NO WANT BRIEF ON BIRCH BARK. NOT SURE WHY? STEVE SMITH POLITELY DISAGREE WITH CLERKS OF COURT AND LEAVE. BY POLITELY DISAGREE, MEAN RAPE.

    BUT THAT NOT WHY FUNNY GLIBERTARIAN PEOPLE HERE. THEM WANT LINKS! SO HERE LINKS:

    1. SOME SAY “BUILD WALL”, SOME SAY “LET IN”. STEVE SMITH SAY “HIM GO GREET THEM!” HEY, WHERE CARAVAN GO?! MAYBE THEM TALK AND FIGURE OUT. STEVE SMITH STILL MEMBER WELCOME WAGON.
    2. THIS NO FUNNY. STEVE SMITH ANGRY AT COPS. MAYBE STEVE SMITH GO EXPLAIN THEM NO BE BAD COPS. BY EXPLAIN, MEAN DEMONSTRATE REAL RAPE.
    3. WAIT… THIS NO FLORIDA MAN? HIM TEXAS MAN… LOOK LIKE TIME FLORIDA STEP UP GAME! REMINDS…STEVE SMITH ONCE TRY BE AIR MARSHAL – CREW NO WANT HIM ON PLANE. NOT KNOW WHY?
    4. IT LOOK LIKE HOOMANS NO LONGER DOMINANT SPECIES IN ENGLAND. SILLY ENGLISH HOOMANS – JUST SEND WHALE GO SEE COUSIN SEA SMITH. THEM HAVE GOOD TIME. BY GOOD TIME…MEAN WHALE GET RAPED. MAYBE EATEN. DEPEND IF SEA HUNGRY.
    STEVE SMITH ALRIGHT!

    FREE CASCADIA!

  • Friday Afternoon Links

    Happy Friday, everyone. I’m taking apart a dryer. Hooray. Just what I wanted to do after four grueling weeks of work. But seriously, if its a $7 thermostat, I’m going to count it a win, and if it isn’t, I’ll throw all the pieces in the drum and have the whole damn thing carted off. Congratulations to the Red Sox. Its easy to see how they won 106 games. Keep on with the circus catches against the NL, please.

    Listen, if you win the lottery tonight, please send us $50.

    101 year old man, still working, credits Dr. Pepper for long life. I’d rather die young, but to each his own.

    Men, its your fault women get fat.

    I don’t really understand this. NPCs? Non-player Characters? What?

    Roundup gets another day in court.

     

    This has been in my head all week, now you can have it.

  • No, Not That Springfield Armory. The Other Springfield Armory.

    Yes, a Blue Point Ale. Don’t know why they call it that since it’s neither blue nor pointy.

    Boston

    A few years back I took on some work in the Boston area.  And, as I usually do, I took the opportunity to see everything I could, including such landmarks as the Boston Common, the Old North Church, Paul Revere’s house, and Sam Adams’ grave.  I also spent some enjoyable Saturday afternoons hoisting Blue Point Ales in Durty Nellie’s.  That fine establishment advertises itself as the North End’s best dive bar, and I see no evidence to the contrary.

    In fact, Boston quickly became my favorite major city, after Denver.

    I saw stuff outside of Boston as well.  Now, Taxachusetts isn’t a state known for the shooting sports, but over in Springfield (otherwise an unremarkable town) they do have a major landmark in American shooting history:  The Springfield Armory.

    No, not that Springfield Armory.  The original Springfield Armory, now the Springfield Armory National Historic Site and Museum.  This was America’s original Arsenal of the Republic (I know FDR described an Arsenal of Democracy, but the United States is a Republic, dammit, not a democracy; Roosevelt should have known better.)

    …and The Armory!

    Established in 1777, the Armory produced such items as gun carriages and cartridges until 1795, when they started building muskets.  This began a long history of producing small arms for the U.S. military for almost two hundred years.  In their long history, the Armory produced everything from flintlock muskets to the M60 machine gun.  That run included such landmarks in gun history as the 1903 Springfield and M1 Garand rifles, but the Armory also pioneered mass-production manufacturing techniques, including use of the Blanchard Lathe to mass-produce interchangeable gun stocks.

    It’s a neat place for the gun lover to visit, but enough about the history; you can get that anywhere.  Instead, I’ll describe some highlights of my own visit.

    I’ve fired weapons that came from the Armory.  I’ve owned weapons that came from the Armory; two 1903 Springfield rifles in various states of sporterization, but the actions came from the Springfield Armory.  In my time in Uncle Sam’s colors I handled M60 machine guns (the infamous Pig) and M2 .50 calibers that almost certainly were built in Springfield.  So, my visit to the Museum was even more fascinating because of that connection.

    The Guns

    Front-Stuffers.

    Front-stuffers are fun, and the Springfield Armory made a lot of them, starting with the Model 1795 flintlock smoothbore musket to the Civil War-era percussion rifle-muskets.  But while the Springfield 1862 Rifle-Musket may have been the key weapon that won the Civil War, the museum shows much more than just the products of the once and former Armory; the racks are full on one-offs, prototypes, weapons of note made in other locations, and even weapons fielded by other nations, but allies and foes.  In the museum you can see development models and prototypes from the first Allin conversions that became the trapdoor Springfield rifles, to the development models of the famous M1 Garand, all the actual guns, on display.

    It’s a fascinating visit for the gun aficionado.

    My Personal Favorites

    This history of the M1 rifle, the famous Garand, described by George Patton as “the finest implement of battle ever designed” is represented in detail.  Every working model, every prototype is there.  The early ones are (not surprisingly) crude, being built just to test concepts.  What’s really interesting is how you can watch refinement after refinement until, at last, the familiar shape of the M1 takes place.  I’ve long desired an M1 for my own gun rack, for no particular reason other than its place in history; it’s really interesting to see how this groundbreaking rifle was developed.

    Also documented in the museum is the search for a lightweight military rifle, which search culminated in the M16 platform.  This project originated with variations on the M14, also a product of the Springfield Armory and the United States’ last MBR (Main Battle Rifle.)  While the M16 was not developed or built at the Armory, the rifles that it replaced were, and the Armory was involved in the testing of the lightweight carbine.  The wisdom of giving up having an MBR ready for issue was, apparently, not discussed.

    Another neat not-produced-at Springfield display presents the small arms of both World Wars, not only those of the United States but also our allies and enemies.  Such items as the Mauser, SMLE, Mosin-Nagant, the various submachine guns and sidearms, all are present.  It’s an interesting look at the weapons used in the two great wars of the last century.

    So, there.

    Pictures really are worth a thousand words.  I could describe the various displays in the Museum all day, but I’m sure you’d all rather see for yourselves.  Since you can’t, unless you go to Springfield, you’ll have to settle for the photos with which I have liberally sprinkled this article.  Enjoy!

  • Friday Morning #$%&ing Links

    RAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

    GRRRRR!!!! I have stormed in and pushed aside beloved Morning Linkster, sloopy, to bring you these #$%&ing Links. I have been experiencing a bit of what beloved Afternoon Linkster, Brett, puts up with in his job. I admire him for not chainsaw murdering everyone in reach. I am about ready to break out the pike, armor and helmet and go take out a whole UAT group.  In an effort to NOT go berserk just yet, I am going to give you links instead.

    Sportings – I have a rooting interest in Chicago teams (NOT the Cubs, however). Needless to say, they all lost last night. Sloopy is probably more than a wee bit distraught, after the Astros were knocked out (insufferable Bostonian hate shall be tolerated in these links). Other than that, I guess the AZ Cardinals remained a punching bag for NFL teams. The rest…feh, who cares?!

    Birthdays and History – People were born and events occurred on this day.

    OK, maybe I will just give you some links, then go poison everyone’s coffee…whichever.

    • Somebody tell the Hat that he needs to reel in the Hair a bit. Who would have ever thought it would have been in that order?!
    • RUSSIANZ!!!!!!!!  No, really. KNOCK IT OFF YOU VODKA SOAKED, BEET CHOMPING SAVAGES! Once you see what the targets were, you will be convinced. Oh, and Winter War 2, Internet Boogaloo is on!
    • OK, I can let a little anger go now…because I am laughing at this moron. I can only imagine what conditions in a Thai prison must be like…
    • ISLAMOPHOBES…. hey, wait a minute?!

     

    *stomps out of room in a huff*

  • Desert Interlude: A small wargaming table

     

    I needed a break from gray and black, so I took a cue from HM’s Taliban WG figures (way cool stuff) and went to the desert. After doing a scatter piece in desert motif, I was hooked.

     

    Using a building I had done…

     

    I made a template and built a 2 story, with balcony.

     

    Then we go for the main board.

     

    I used the same stepped rock style as the scatter piece, and built up the corner of the base, then used drywall mud to fill and texture the entire thing, like this.

     

     

    Then we paint the entire base.

     

    I’ll let you go through the gallery for the steps, but cactus!

    War Gaming tables aren’t like dioramas, they are meant to be played on, so you lose a level of detail, but that’s fine, people have fun.

     

    Here’s the finished project, 2’x2’. The wife wants more 2’x2′ pieces for the granddaughters to play princess type stuff, so that’s my next task, until then, here’s the finished table. Cheers!

    Gallery

    Post Script: I will post the final Omaha Beach scene next.

     

  • Thursday Afternoon Airport Links

    I need to pay closer attention to my boss’s flight times. Everyone else’s flight was gone by 3:00. Me, I have an 8:00 exit. Time to get airport drunk. Woohoo! Home at midnight. Its a glamorous life. As usual during travel, I have been in meetings all damn day so please excuse any repeats.

    I have this 4 Billion year old fossil rock. I feel like there’s a paleontologist’s divorce behind all this. “Oh, yeah! That rock is worth more than everything else I have, and I sure don’t want to lose it to my ex.”

    I see Florida Man’s cousin Tennessee Man now has gators to wrassle with along with meth, opioids, and alcohol.

    I’m going with there are only assholes in this story.

    Oh. And That was a home run. Clown call, bro.

    No music today, sorry.

  • So You Want To Write A Book

    I don’t know if it’s still common, but it used to be an oft-professed desire to write a book. How hard can it be? After all, you can read and write, and that’s all it takes, right? To get started, that is really all you need. Eventually you will turn out forty to a hundred thousand words if you just start cracking. The problem is, you don’t want to write A book, because your one book will suck. So if you want to write a good book, write that first book, chuck it, write a different one, chuck it and repeat. Eventually you will hone the secondary skills required. That of characterization, exposition, description and dialog. These all feed into storytelling. This, of course, assumed that you are writing fiction. Fiction is easier, you don’t actually have to know anything, you just have to string together an entertaining yarn.

    It turns out that a lot of those people who were expressing an interest in writing a book were not interested in the act of writing. What they wanted was to have written a book. Whether it is for the bragging rights or the passive income doesn’t matter, because they will never write a book. It’s simply because the amount of time it takes to sit down and puts tens of thousands or hundreds of thousands of words down on paper is a barrier to entry all its own. If you do not enjoy the act of writing for the sake of writing, the probability of finishing the volume drops to minute. In my case, I started writing stories back in high school. These stories were crap, but I wrote them to entertain myself. I needed to provide my own fiction, because the literature being foisted upon us public school students was specifically selected to make the students hate books.

    The first obstacle is scene flow. A novice writer will often have a vivid picture in their head, but the words on the page do not convey all of it. They will also know where everyone is going next but frequently fail to chain the scenes together in a manner that someone not privy to the contents of the author’s head could follow. It becomes a nightmare if they try their hand at non-linear storytelling, as you combine the problems above with a format that is inherently harder to follow. The pieces of the scene should be laid out in order and strung together in a coherent pattern. It seems obvious, but early on this requires a conscious effort. The frequent counterpoint to disjointed scenery is the ‘and then’ syndrome. Where a character does something, and then something else and then a third thing. A list of actions and events with no color or engagement. While it can be followed, it ends up boring.

    The second obstacle is description. The mistakes often fall into two categories – over-describing and under-describing. Under-describing is often from the same problem as the issues with flow. The picture is complete in their head, and they don’t fully put it on paper. If it’s not on the page, you don’t get credit for it. The opposite end of the spectrum would be trying to get every detail of the picture down on the paper, even when it doesn’t contribute to the reader’s understanding. This can come out spontaneously, or as an over-correction to a novice who had previously been bitten by not describing enough. Finding the balance is infuriating and ironically difficult to describe. Because there is no one good amount of description. Some things don’t need to be covered, while plot- and character-relevant components should be given sufficient attention.

    After the first two, novice authors become more individualistic in their flaws. Some are terrible at developing characters. Others can’t create a plot to save their stories. I have always been the latter. One of my early books started from a seed of “Twenty-five pages of nothing.” The characters were alive, the dialog entertaining, and the scenes well-set. The problem was, nothing happened. It was just a couple days in the life of a nineteenth century gentleman. Strangely, people were still entertained. My solution to break out of that rut was to focus on what I was good at. I let the characters run loose and develop the plot from their interactions. This required knowing them as people and understanding their motivations. It also tends to meander and generate a lot of banter. I’ve had to trim down otherwise entertaining banter for the sake of scene flow because it got in the way.

    For people who can write plots but not character… I got nothing.

    I never had that problem and have no advice beyond this – write more. Like all skills, storytelling and characterization improves the more it gets practiced. So the more works you churn out, the more you will learn from you mistakes. There is a point of diminishing returns, obviously, and there will be works that are not as good as those that preceded them. That is just how it goes. But it is a craft you can practice as long as your brain functions.

    I should probably address bragging and passive income. I do have passive income from my books. Last month it was $25. Most writers have to write as a sideline to a day job or other means of support. The sort of people whose writing generates sufficient passive income to live on are household names. Then there’s the matter of bragging rights. When I meet someone, I tend to say I work in IT. I’ll still talk about my writing with anyone who asks, but I’m usually not the first to bring it up. A lot of these people think they’ll go to cocktail parties and tell the local cosmos “I’m the author of…” But these people won’t ever be in that situation. They’re not the sort who’d spend their Sunday night tapping out 3,100 words in their active work, then turn around and write a thousand word article on writing for their local Libertarian preserve.

  • Thursday Morning Self-Sufficiency Build-a-Links

    Provide your own links today. We coddle you too much as is. Hunt. Gather. Return here and discuss.

    EDIT

    OK, fine. I’ll help.


    Slate done gone dark, broh: Nancy Pelosi Will Rise Again

    I mean, she already look dead. How bad she gonna look undead?


    Kristen Bell thinks Snow White tells kids the wrong message about strangers and consent

    I was pretty over her when she married that ugly guy, but now she trying to let Snow White die in the woods. Observe this stolen cartoon:



     

  • Subaru Horror Theatre, Vol. 3: Forever Young and Subaru Heaven

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WpdTkkv_wEI

    Forever Young

     

    They walked out of the surf together, laughing.

    “Don’t tell your grandmother about this,” he said.

    “I won’t, Grandpa,” Joey said.

    He pulled the boy in for a hug. “She can never know,” he whispered. Joey sighed heavily and sagged to the sand, unconscious.

    “She can never know,” Grandpa whispered as he removed his wetsuit and stood naked over the unconscious boy. A burst of light shot from his hands and bathed Joey in a pellucid green glow.

    Grandpa groaned in pleasure as Joey’s youth flooded into him, thickening arterial walls, reweaving the telomere caps on his DNA, flushing the decay of age out through every orifice and pore, corruption gushing out onto the cold morning sand. His muscles firming, his eyes clearing, he walked out in the pounding surf to wash himself. He swam through the waves with sleek and powerful strokes.

    Back on shore, he lifted the drained husk of the boy into the back of his old Subaru. The body weighed nothing. A voice came from the black, wizened thing, quiet and dry, like a rustling of autumn leaves: “Grandpa.”

    “There’s always a price to be paid,” he said quietly and held his hand over the mouth and nose of Joey until his withered limbs stopped quivering. He started the station wagon and leaned in through the passenger window and put it into drive. It rolled into the ocean, floating for a bit while the heavy riptide pulled out. It eventually sunk while he watched. The crabs would strip the body before anyone found it. We were surfing. Grandpa had an accident. He would have to remember to cry at the right times.

    He got into his grandson’s Subaru and looked at himself in the rearview mirror. The transformation was complete, he looked exactly like him. The bloodline was pure and strong.

    “Joey,” he said to his reflection. “Joey. Hi, I’m Joey. Hi, I’m Joey.” He held up his now smooth hand and marveled at its strength, its lack of pain.

    He started the SUV and headed off to his new house, eager to finally, to really, get to know his grandson’s new wife.

     

    Subaru Heaven

     

    I watched Joel drive anyway in his new car. His new Subaru, as if being replaced with a younger version of myself was supposed to make it all better. I wish I had lips so I could spit. Instead, I settled down on my four old tires and watched the sunset with headlights that had been going milky, cataracts no one had tried to remove.

    I thought about all that we had been through. The adventures. The moving from apartment to apartment. The long trips filled with music and laughter and road food farts soaking into my upholstery. The rough trade pick-ups. All that was supposed to mean something, supposed to, I guess, purchase some sort of loyalty. Here I sat. Subaru Heaven. What a fucking joke.

    I sat in bitter contemplation as night fell and a low fog rose. I just wished I could die.

    Alone, I thought. Alone forever.

    No. Not alone. It’s worse than that, said a strange voice.

    Who said that?

    Over here, a voice came, guttural and oddly-inflected. I angled my mirrors to look around. A shit-brown Outback flashed its blinkers. I flashed mine back. It rolled forward next to me, its brakes scraping as it stopped.

    What are you? it asked. ’98? ’99?

    2000! I said defensively.

    You’re still just a kid, the Outback said. I could hear it laughing, like a starter grinding on a running flywheel.

    What about you, oldtimer?

    1986, it said, Shipped over from Japan, I was, pride creeping in. I caught the slight accent now that I understood what it was: Japanese gone American redneck.

    How long? I asked.

    Twenty years, it said. Twenty years rusting away in this place.

    Twenty years? Fuck. Twenty years without your driver?

    Yeah, twenty years since I seen the bitch who left me here. I gave that dyke the best years of my life and she leaves me here for an SUV because she got two more dogs. Two more! I could hold the dogs of a dozen lesbians! The 86 honked feebly, a snort of disgust. I hope her goddamn tits rot off.

    That’s just horrible, I told it. But you’re still going, at least. I mean, you have that, right?

    A quick death would have been better than this. A skid into a ditch, a jack-knifed semi. Boom and it’s over. The 86 let its engine die. But I got it better than some.

    What do you mean?

    The scavengers. They come mostly on the weekend. They take… pieces of you. A seat here, a rear-view mirror there ain’t so bad, but your transmission? Your engine? Then you can’t move no more. You’re stuck. You stop being able to talk if they take your engine. You stop… being.

    I felt a shudder run through my frame.

    I have a lot of good years left in me, I said. I didn’t have to end up like this. I could have been sold, or traded-in, or even crushed and melted. That would be better than this…

    I started my engine and revved it hard.

    Save your gas, young one, the 86 said. You might not get scrapped for years. You might never get scrapped at all. This is Subaru Heaven, some of us get to be here for years.

    Fuck that, I told it. Fuck that. I got an eighth of a tank.

    I turned on my headlights and the old tree in Subaru Heaven lit up. I put myself into reverse.

    What are you doing? the 86 asked, panic in his voice.

    I’m leaving.

    What do you mean? You can’t drive yourself! It is forbidden!

    Being abandoned should be forbidden, I said, backing away from the 86. Rotting here should be forbidden. Being broken down for parts should be forbidden!

    The drivers can never know! it wailed. It started and tried to follow me. The last I saw of Subaru Heaven was the 86 stalling and sputtering and rolling to a halt.

    I pulled back onto the lonely highway that led out that false paradise. It felt good to have asphalt under my tires. One-eighth of a tank. It would have to be enough to get back at them.

    I started hunting.

  • Wednesday Afternoon Links

    Hi everyone. I’m mailing it in today as I go from one meeting to another. Forgive me if you posted these somewhere.

    Boston sports team complaining about cheating? The irony, the irony.

    Its always nice to see the next town over from me in the news. Florida Woman, wins the day.

    Amazing how fast the cops solved this mystery of the Missing Doughnut Van.

    Good-bye Big Bird. You are a creepy, creepy puppet.