Friday, February 21, 2014

Too Much Stuff, And a Request

You know you have too much stuff when you find a black bag filled with firearm magazines that fit several different firearms you're not even sure you still own.

The bag, marked Glock, was found under a box. The box contained, in no special order, a rifle scope, one full fifty round box of Winchester .44 magnum, ditto box of Federal .40, and two nice 1911 mags - one held four rounds of .45 hollow points. Never mind the vintage box of Remington .38 special sold circa 1960. Nice collectable box.

 I need therapy. This lost and found treasure thing happens far too often for my comfort.

Now, may I ask you, my nice readers for a favor? Pretty please.....if you have the time, when you are out and about your chores would you please price check the asking price of a one gallon can of Coleman Camp Fuel. Not the little plastic 32oz bottles, the cans. Even off brands. The fuel is normally sold at Wally World, K-Mart, and almost all hardware and sporting goods stores.

I'd really like to hear from my European and Asian readers too. I know you're out there. And, for my reader in Diego Garcia....what uniform do you wear? Been there and done that, my friend.

My friend Senior checked his local Wal-Mart late this afternoon and said the price was $12.98 here, quite a huge increase in cost over last year.

Thank you all, very much for you time and effort.



Bits and Pieces

My print editions of Adrian's Undead Diary keep me company. Chris Philbrook is a fine writer. If you can tolerate the occasional raunchy word (okay, more than occasional) or two you'll find his series spell-binding. A bit of editorial work and polish and he's ready for the New York Times best seller list. His plans are for an eight part series. We'll see. Amazon, if you're interested.

I've read this story on-line, but will pack book one for tomorrows trip out to the farm. I doubt I'll sleep so the book will make fine company.


As I write a heavy rainstorm pounds the city. Thunder, lightning too. It's February for pete's sake. Where's the snow and ice. Just checked the temperature, seventy-three degrees. Awful.

It's peaceful though. Just stood to brew another pot of coffee. I'm not sure which is 'nicer' as my Little Bit used to say, the thunder or smell of freshly brewed java. Ah, silence, just the steady and heavy slap of rain. Nap time.


Tonight, after I arrive home, I need to pack my bits and pieces for the camping trip. My gear is scattered all about the house and garage, and I think, a few pieces in the attic. I plan to pack light. It's only a one night stay, and I very much doubt I'll sleep. No matter, I will take my sleep system, (remember when we used to call them, sleeping bags) and my pillow. Pillows are important. My pillow. It fits my head and I've slept on rolled shirts and jackets and rocks and bundles of dried brown grass and once on a nice sun bleached cow turd, and trust me, your personal pillow is important when you're as old as me....we thirty year old fellas need tenderness.

When I was a boy we thought pillows were for sissy boys. If we had an old wool blanket and a hat we were set for several nights in the outdoors. Make a hooch from palmetto fans and tree branches, pull together a fire bundle and we were by goodness, slap 'ya dog and momma, ready for the night. Bring on the boogeyman. Now, not so much. I even pack my old leather L. L. Bean house slippers. When I settle in for an evening around the fire I want my work boots off.

In the past my good friends and group members teased me a bit about my slippers. I'd give 'em a look - they'd wince and find something else to occupy their attention as I slipped on my comfort. Since then I've noticed several pair of camp slippers about the Boar's Nest. With age and experience comes intelligence, not to speak of common sense.

I purchased my old slippers in Maine at a local Bean outlet store. They're perfect for camps, hard soles and good rugged tanned leather. Suckers are comfortable. Gives my feet a rest. Not sure which is the most Bean slippers or my chair. I bet when I arrive late tomorrow afternoon one of those boogers will have his butt firmly planted in my chair. Trust me, it will be vacated.


Senior just sent a text. He drove to Georgia for our steaks. He knows of this special meat supplier. Arrived and reported back five steaks, that's five (5) chunks of beef muscle, will cost us just shy of one hundred dollars. I haven't replied but I'm sure the meat is on ice and headed south back to Florida. Lord, grant me patience.

I've received word my friend, Duke is hard at work on targets and target stands. He welds. I shoot. I will bust his work all to hell and gone. Count on it.

Back to gear: need to find my headlights. I've two, somewhere. Or three. Can't remember. Even have a hat one of my younger friends gifted me one Christmas way back has lights in the bill of the cap. Kinda cool. I will wear it even though this young man isn't attending...which is a shame, he's a nice young fella. At sixteen he can shoot the wings off a dung beetle at two hundred yards...with a Mosin Nagant.

One bag, that's all I'll pack and hump. Along with my firearms. I need to choose which sidearm to carry. I plan to run a two gun, if Senior draws one out in his spare time. Rifle, well, maybe the Smith .22, or my Sub-2000 in nine. I shall not waste 5.56. Makes me flinch with every shot...all I think is, there goes another dollar. Screw that happy crappy.

Magazines - gotta find my spare magazines and not forget my range bag. My heavy black sweatshirt. Sorry, I'm using you good people as my note pad.

See that lamp....she's mine. Own two of 'em. They're permanent residents at the Boar's Nest. My chair sits next to it and tomorrow night it will again give me a soft glow and I'll read deep into the darkness.




A Penny Here, A Penny There

And pretty darn soon you've a dollar in your pocket. Folks that know me, I mean really get down to the gut level of my soul know me, aren't surprised when I bend to retrieve a misplaced or lost penny from the ground or floor. The way I look at it I've just found, depending on the coin, four cents.

Here's the thing - not so much of late. The stray Lincolns are have gone into hiding. I've only found three in the last few weeks. (Here, talk amongst yourselves for a moment....gander on the possible reasons for this rare phenomenon. I need to jerk a cup of coffee.)

Ah, better. Bet that got your attention, didn't it. I goofed and posted this sucker before I was finished - hence the coffee.

Back to subject. So lost and dropped coins have become rare....why? Now this is only my humble opinion and like the old but tried and true statement, we all have one, I believe it's simple - people need every single penny they can possibly find. When flush, ah, what's a lousy one cent piece worth to them...chump change. A stray dime, forget about it. Let the bums have it.

Just outside the door to my local market, embedded in the asphalt of their parking lot, I know where a Mercury dime has sat for at least two years. Its two thirds covered. I'm still hard at work to figure out a way to free it with chisel and hammer. It bugs me. But, then again, I'm one of those poor poor victims of this government's ineptness.

Just my two cents.