The Ultimate Answer to Kings

e-cigarettes are about to be banned in San Francisco. Which, if SF logic holds constant, means e-cigs are about to be handed out free. Because once a practice is declared socially deviant it becomes enshrined as a human right and must thereafter be subsidized.

Hey, don’t look at me. That really seems to be the way it works. I’ve been to San Francisco: It used to be a nice place.

A lineman working with spikes and a belt. Didn’t know anybody still did that.

The place is crawling with them, about the size of small chipmunks. I think of prairie dogs as field-ruining plague-carrying vermin, but around here they’re like yard squirrels.

It’s funny to watch them, though – out in the driveway using the side wall as a blind. When I packed to come here I considered and rejected the idea of bringing those iPhone lenses Big Brother gave me, and regretted the decision my very first full day here. With a long lens and a tripod I could get pics, but really not without. They cavort all over the place at all times except when they detect an outdoor human.

Wish I knew what variety they are. They’re too small to be black-tail, which is the only kind I’m familiar with. So far the Internet isn’t much help.

Willie covering the old Mac Davis guy anthem!

Karl gives us the inside scoop on shotgun speedloading for 3-gun competition.

I see what I’ve been doing wrong now!

This is the only picture you will ever see of Torso Boy in the same room with a Roomba.

And that only because he was outflanked and momentarily surrounded. The next picture, if I’d held the button down, would have been a fat little ginger streak in the lens as he took advantage of my diversionary action on his behalf.

Yes, it’s cleaning day. By, you know, an old hermit’s standards. I wouldn’t expect gleaming walls or anything…

Sometime last year I bought something for my rifle from Midwayusa.com. It was the first and probably only time but also kind of a gift that keeps on giving because now Midway won’t leave me alone. And I don’t complain a lot because sometimes, even though I have no plans to ever buy anything else rifle-related online, I get a link to something entertaining.

For example…how about a cleaning jig and electric toothbrush for your AR?

That’s either the silliest thing I’ve ever seen or a tool I didn’t know I couldn’t live without – if I had an AR. I think that with a clearance price of a hundred bux, I’m gonna go with that first thing. Cool idea, though. I…guess…

Left at quarter past five, found out the Wal-Mart is not in fact open 24/7. Fortunately it opens at six. So I took a walk around to the other end of this big shopping center where there’s a Dunkin’ Donuts. Judging from its early clientele the franchise is headed for the dumpster of history, because I fit right in: A whole bunch of elderly people with nothing better to do before six in the frickin’ ayem than meet at the Dunkin’ fergodsake Donuts joint. And for once I didn’t need to act like anything other than what I am. Yup, I’m old.

Anyway…

Got back about quarter to seven. The trip out is slightly net uphill, plus this morning there was a bit of an outbound headwind so happily coming back is the easy part. This is why I was obsessing a couple of weeks ago over where the hell I hid my backpack. Poor thing’s filthy: I wonder if there are online instructions for cleaning one?

Somebody, I think Coloradohermit, asked about how the bread came out…

Pretty darned good, really. I noted that the texture and crumb were “weird,” and was interested myself in finding out whether weird meant worse. Actually I believe the reduction in altitude solved some longstanding complaints. Love the way it rose, I usually get a noticeable difference in density between the top and bottom of the loaf because it normally doesn’t rise evenly. It has a very pleasant texture – it actually formed a crust, which I’d given up wishing for. Tastes about the same, of course.

And now that the groceries are put away and I’m done dinking around, I’m going to have my hot shower. Hot shower! I’m going to miss them. Think I’m gonna start bugging Ian about fixing the one in the Cave.

Step 1: Leave home and note how you feel about returning.

I’m in a very pleasant room at this moment. It’s 6:00 as I type this sentence. I have coffee before me, breakfast on the griddle, sunshine peeking through a sunroof, some nice writing equipment sitting on a lovely marble-ish island in a – well, very pleasant – great room of a house – hardly a Detroit tracthouse, not really a McMansion, just a nice house in a nice neighborhood on the outskirts of what is probably a nice city.

And I just caught myself studying a calendar of the month of June…

…and then pacing around the lovely kitchen doing elementary arithmetic in my head.

“Let’s see…if I’ve been here nine days, and there’s twelve days to go … that means I’ve been here three-eighths – No! Three-sevenths! Of the total time. Right? Before I can go home.”

Point is I’m not exactly being tortured. I could even be doing a lot more stuff than I’m doing. It’s hot in the middle of the day, sure, ridiculously hot, but it’s not hot at the moment and I could be out getting all the exercise I want. Tomorrow I’ll probably saddle up and go to the stores again because I’ve run out of the “exotic” stuff I bought last week. Not looking forward to it. I’m aware that I’m pissing away time that Claire would be all using for contemplative stuff – she’d have had the answers to half the world’s spiritual conundra neatly tied in a bow by now – but I’m dividing my time between reading old ebooks, watching old movies, staring out windows, alternately messing up and scrubbing the kitchen, and pacing and fretting. I’m like that unhappy monk who knows he’s supposed to be a contemplative but really truly isn’t.

Yes, I’m whining about nothing – but my purpose really isn’t even to whine: I’m happy to be here, happy to be doing a solid for a friend, happy to be experiencing ease and air conditioning and daily hot showers and still to be pining to return to my grubby scrounged hand-made Lair. There have been two other occasions since I got settled into the Gulch where I came to the city, experienced its pleasures, and practically ran screaming back home. My opinion is confirmed: I am where I belong, and how many people can say that? When I was a middle-aged businessman away on travel, I dreaded going home because home sucked. Now I can’t wait, because home is paradise and paradise needs a coat of paint on its new porch roof. I perceive that as success. And it’s well worth three weeks out of my so-busy schedule to re-confirm.

Bake in your own kitchen twice a week for year after year and you’ll get to knowing where everything is so well you’ll stop even thinking about it. That can be a problem if you need to plan on baking in somebody else’s kitchen for a while. First week I was here I bought some bread but I always planned to bake my own when that ran out and so I brought the essential stuff, or the stuff I thought was unlikely to be in the new place. There’s a really nice oven so that was unlikely to be a problem; I bake in an antique and it always works out okay.

So yeah, here were plenty of mixing bowls. I was stumped for a while on a measuring cup, but it turned out I only overlooked the obvious one standing there waving its nonexistent arms at me. Never did find sugar, and we’ll see how that affects the final product. But I had yeast, and my bread pans, and the dough beater I’m familiar with. Totally forgot a cooling rack, but I can improvise that. So off we went…

…and I’m looking forward to tasting it this evening, because the texture of the loaves is kinda weird. Not sure why, probably just a difference in the ovens. Anyway, it’s bread and likely to be a lot more familiar than what I bought last week.

Found this on Oleg Volk’s Livejournal page, which I ended up on while following a rabbit hole involving Leslie Fish, deserts, alternate coffee sources, and misremembered song lyrics.

I did something computer-related! I must be smart!

Uh – this is my ‘pooter…

…and this is the assorted junk that’s always attached to my ‘pooter.

And most of the time I forget it’s even there because it’s poked into various cubbies and orifi in the Official TUAK Desk. Which is not currently present. Among the detritus currently scattered on my friends’ kitchen island is two 1TB Seagate external hard drives. One of them I purchased a couple of years ago, and one was a gift from a Generous Reader, and neither of them has worked properly since the first moment I plugged them into a MacBook. Their read/write status instantly went to Read Only, and that was apparently that. I didn’t give it much thought – truth is I was delighted they still worked at all. You didn’t used to be able to just swap hardware between a PC and a Mac. Continue reading →

I honestly didn’t know that happened here.

Big fat drops of hot water, more or less instantly evaporating on contact. Don’t expect it to ease the heat much, but no doubt it will convert the dry heat to humid heat.

I got a text earlier from Neighbor L, saying there was quite a rainstorm at the Gulch. The south wash apparently ran briefly. I’d have enjoyed checking the new porch roof for leaks at the root, and the new gutter for function. But if this year proceeds as it has there will probably be lots of Monsoon in which to do that.

And if they don’t stay outside Torso Boy’s fence, he’s gonna…

…well, he’s gonna keep chasing them…

…while they contemptuously fly away.

Because he refuses to believe quail can fly. Which only proves they’re evil, I guess.

I went outside for a few minutes and came back to find a new Grand Proposal in my inbox…

Who does this? I know the blog is a sick-but-not-dead communication form and so if a would-be freelancing writer of ‘the psychic powers of cats’-type articles can’t get her schlock published in the big clickbait sites she might get the notion that trolling the internet’s answer to Flea Bottom is an…idea, and so could conceivably end up at TUAK. I get that. But have you heard of this thing called market research, lady? That means more than just “here’s a blog. Get the contact address and send a form letter.” Since she didn’t bother to learn the editor’s name (which is right there on the email address as well as the IRL, so not exactly hidden) she certainly wouldn’t consider it necessary to scan the blog to see if her content might possibly be in any way relevant or appropriate.

And I’m just saying, lady, that given the level of professionalism you have demonstrated this morning I fully understand why Buzzfeed might have rejected your “10 ways the earthworms in your yard are crying out for help” proposal. Just saying.

This is the most exciting thing that will happen to me today. God, I’m so bored.

…that quail are a treasonous danger to the republic, possibly a covert fifth column working for the rabbit (or maybe sparrow, he’s not entirely clear in his messaging) plot to take over the American economy and sap the purity of our precious bodily fluids.

Whatever – they’re dangerous. And allegedly delicious. And jeez, they really are everywhere around here. I think they’re fun to watch, running around with their enormous families of tiny baby quail but he is convinced that they’re a menace to the yard. So be warned, I guess.

No, other than that there’s nothing to report. Sorry. At the dawn of my sixth full day on site I am as bored as a still-sane man can be.

I suggested early on that TB might be unhappy about coming home by the end of our stay here, because once upon a halcyon time he had a fenced yard in which he could safely cavort to his stunted little heart’s content.

Hah! I neglected to consider that the yard was in Wyoming.

It’s a hair after noon, the temperature is comfortably in three figures…

And the precious little snowflake is refusing to leave the air-conditioned interior unless forced outside by hydraulic pressure.

This may be my fault – like all things – because I think he hurt his paws on the asphalt and gravel our first full day here. The leashed walkies taking in the neighborhood may not have been the best possible idea.

As regular readers know, trips to any city are not common with me, and not really all that welcome*. And on those occasions when such visits are unavoidable I find myself acting like I’m visiting a completely foreign country – and in a sense I am. Thing is, when I used to visit actually foreign countries on business, one of my main concerns was to not let my complete lack of people skills lead me into some sort of really embarrassing international incident. I was not always successful**.

Anyway. I just returned from my second expedition into the world of middle class city folk. Yes, unattended I visited a Trader Joe’s.

And you know what? I like to make a big deal about eating cheap, but I have forgotten that when I actually do have to buy food from a store I’m generally paying a lot more than you…

And generally for a lot less.

Since I’m unusually (and serendipititously – you know how I’m always going on about synchronicity?) okay for cash at present, and since I’m separated from my usual enormous pantry of long-term food, I have decided to eat like a regular American to the extent that it’s possible and convenient. I even bought another loaf of bread this morning, though to be honest it was really only because I forgot to pack bread bags (and now I have two, and there’s a perfectly good oven right here, so soon I’ll be able to eat good bread again.) So this morning I set out on a more extensive expedition, later in the morning when the stores would be open. And … it was weird. I’ve always enjoyed Trader Joe’s, a chain I first encountered in California many years ago and which my then-wife had to drag me into because I thought it was hippy-dippy vegan bullshit – and it does kind of pose like that a bit, I mean the word Organic appears a lot, but that’s only a pose and actually there’s really good middle-class packaged food for (relatively) really good prices and it appears that hasn’t changed a whole lot. So I went in with my shopping list, and it was very clean and very friendly and nice but I’ve been a very long time in the boonies and it really does feel like a foreign country. One I’m not especially anxious to move back to. By week after next I’m going to be howling for the desert, is all I’m saying.

But the thing with the bicycle isn’t going to be the big honking deal I was afraid it would be, once my ass stops aching.

ETA: And I think I’m not the only one missing home…

—
*except for showers. Showers are awesome.

**I never actually started a war. But there really are places I would not be welcome to return. I was young.

I give you CForce: It’s Chuck Norris’ water – it empowers you.

No, seriously. We found a bottle of this during a fuel stop on the way to the city.

I was in the very process of throwing the bottle away this morning when I thought, ‘wait, this deserves a moment.’ And yes, there’s actually a web site.

CForce Water comes from a sustainable aquifer deep under Chuck’s Lone Wolf Ranch in Navasota, TX.

Though I wasn’t the person drinking this water I do care about the welfare of the person who was, and so was relieved to learn that this is tap water from Norris’ ranch and not, you know, his … water.

But still. Should I be happy I’m not afflicted with a b-list movie star’s ego and hubris? Or upset that I can’t make a zillion bux just bottling filtered Gulch water and calling it … oh, I’d have to work on a proper name…