The Ultimate Answer to Kings

Okay, Joel. No more putting it off. You drilled the holes in the ceiling and the roof yesterday. You’ve assembled the vent pipe. You’ve got all your tools together. You set up the ladder yesterday. Today – no, no, this morning, first thing – you will go up on the roof and install that fucking pipe. Any handyman can do it; you’ve seen guys skipping on roofs with a much steeper pitch than this in their stocking feet. Just do it: Ten minutes and it’s done forever. Just do it: You know you’re going to.

I’ve been in a traffic accident that tore a leg right off, broke two other limbs so that bones were sticking through the skin and broke my head, and I didn’t disgrace myself. I’ve looked down the barrel of a pistol so close I could count the lands and grooves and though I thought shit was going to run down my leg I stayed calm enough to do what I had to. I’ve looked into the sharp, capable teeth of an animal that wanted to tear my throat out and waited calmly until my bullet could kill him cleanly, and felt nothing but sadness for him. I’m not a hero, but I’m not a coward.

So why does a simple thing like a solid roof paralyze me so?

This is my enemy. Going up the ladder isn’t so bad. Transitioning from the ladder to the roof isn’t so bad. Walking across the roof is pretty bad, but I know I can do that. Doing the actual work on the roof is nothing at all. It’s the trip back down, moving from the roof to the ladder, that has made me sit trembling for hours. It’s embarrassing as hell, but that’s the way it is. I don’t know why.

C’mon, you fucking oaf. You’ve readjusted the ladder’s angle a dozen times. You’ve even braced it with concrete blocks, because you know that fear of it shifting will stop you on the way down. You’ve got a hundred times more safeguards than a sensible man would need. Just get it the hell over with.

Okay, you’re near the top. Walking down the slope is harder; I don’t know why. You walk confidently down much steeper slopes every single day when you walk the dogs. Why is a roof so much different?

*sigh* Because a roof isn’t on the ground.

Okay, it’s done. Yes, I know the vent isn’t straight; it will be when the bottom is attached to the water heater. Now: Turn around and go to the ladder. You know you’re going to eventually; you’ve never actually spent the rest of your life sitting on the roof staring at the ladder. Sooner or later you’re going to do it, so this time let’s make it sooner.

Walk slowly, carefully down the slope to the ladder. Take off your tool belt and lay it next to the ladder. Wiggle the ladder; yes, it’s solid no matter what your fear tells you. Go to the left side of the ladder, hanging on tight, so that you can swing your meat foot (Oh, gods!) out over open (I’m gonna fall!) space and then bend (I can’t do this!) your left knee, the one with no muscle at all and not nearly enough cartilage hang on to the ladder let your arms do the work (the ladder’s shaking!) feel for the rung just under the eave you can do this (I can’t!) yes you can feel the rung under your boot now lean forward move your plastic foot off the roof hang on the ladder now you’re safe you’re safe you’re safe grab the tool belt down the ladder right foot on the ground left foot on the ground. Turn from the barn, pick up any random rock from the ground and kiss it like a lover.

God, I hate roofs. Half an hour and two cigarettes later, my hands have almost stopped shaking. But that’s done.

Yup, that’s a half-eaten sandwich. Peanut butter and jelly, to be precise. I eat peanut butter and jelly for lunch frequently. I get bulk deliveries of peanut butter and jelly every few months, courtesy of my landlady. Normally I bake all my own bread.

You might be wondering why I’m sharing pictures of my lunch with you. Well, this is a very unusual sandwich. See, things have been a little crazy around here lately. We had the Great (Continuing) Propane Guy Disaster of Wednesday, which made a lot of additional work. In the middle of filling the Perpetual Trench Next To The Barn, the first of J&H’s pregnant goats decided to have twins while only J was home, causing J to – well, I don’t think “freak out” is too strong. This had a dramatic effect on the way Thursday went, as compared to the way it was scheduled to go. Then yesterday the time came for one of the property stakeholders to arrive; he’s moving in permanently but stayed only overnight because he really only came to pick up the Jeep so he could go get another stakeholder who’s moving in permanently. The weather has been really cloudy and rainy for weeks, causing a chronic shortage of available electrical power from the solar system.

What, you ask in increasingly annoyed perplexity, does any of this have to do with my fricking sandwich? It all has to do with it. Basically, the last half of the week got so nuts I didn’t take time to make bread, but I needed some on hand because I was having a visitor. So Thursday afternoon at the conclusion of the Goat Crisis, during my monthly-or-so trip to town, I did something I never, ever do: I bought a loaf of bread.

Didn’t think anything of it at the time – need bread, buy bread. Right? That’s the way most people do it; it’s arguably the right way to do it. Turns out I didn’t use any of it during the stakeholder’s stay, but I opened the package a while ago to make a sandwich for lunch. I then:

Made the sandwich.

Bit into the sandwich.

Damned near spat my mouthful of the sandwich into the sink.

The peanut butter tasted like peanut butter. The jelly tasted like jelly. The bread tasted like cardboard. Unusually unpalatable cardboard. It’s not Wonder Bread, or the crappy store-brand stuff; I wouldn’t feed that to a guest. It’s a perfectly good loaf of perfectly good middle-class-consumer-grade sandwich bread. And it tasted terrible to me. I may not finish the loaf.

See, I often get to patting myself on the back for the low-tech, no-frills back-to-nature lifestyle I’ve been adopting out here in the boonies. And I also often bitch about some of the inconveniences and discomforts of said lifestyle. It’s actually pretty easy to forget that there are some downright luxurious advantages as well. Like fresh-baked wheat bread with rosemary fresh from the garden, hot out of the oven, dripping with real butter. Yeah, baby.

It’s been well over a year since I bit down on a piece of grocery-store bread, and I don’t suppose there’s really anything wrong with it. It’s just that in that time I’d actually forgotten how much better mine is.

Via the indispensable Iowahawk:

President Obama laid out his case yesterday for committing billions of dollars more to the rescue of General Motors, arguing that the nationalization of the industrial giant was necessary to bolster the foundering U.S. economy. [more]

What could go wrong?

Oh. I’m very sorry I asked.

Feel safe, America.

Feel very safe.

That’s an order.

Via David Codrea’s Gun Rights Examiner…

When I heard that some pastor in some church somewhere was getting a lot of ink (and flak) for setting up an event in which his church-goers should open-carry their handguns to church, I thought, “Well, that’s weird. But an interesting approach.” I didn’t pay much attention, to be honest. Wasn’t against it, just wasn’t very interested.

But then I was directed to the article with the fine print…

People can come into the church wearing their gun as long as the weapon is unloaded and in a secure holster.

a local police officer will provide security at the open carry celebration

I’m guessing the cop’s handgun will be loaded.

What, exactly, is the point of this? Because in my mind it suddenly went from mildly positive/uninteresting to WTF?

Edit: Oops, missed the quote about the cop. Fixed.

Build a politician a fire, and he will be warm for an hour.
Set a politician on fire, and he will be warm for the rest of his life.

…and all anybody can remember of his entire body of work is Kung Fu.

Which is kinda…well…Okay, I remember one really good cowboy outlaw flick where he’s a gang leader or something and they all get shot up at the end. And a bunch of really shitty movies. And a Kung Fu remake far, far more unwatchable than the original. And, er, nothing else. So yeah, Kung Fu.

My favorite Kung Fu moment:

Caine is faced with yet another bunch of racist hillbillies, bent on beating the shit out of him for no apparent reason. He responds, as always, by calmly going into a zenlike flashback.

My older brother shouts at the television, “Clobber him now, Homer! When he comes out of his nod, he’s murder!”

Looks bucolic, doesn’t it? Well, I suppose it is. I mean (snicker) everything came out all right. (snort – chortle – Joel made a funny!)

Yeah, we had our first babies here in the neighborhood this afternoon. Some kinda exciting shit; the only ones who didn’t get worked up about it were the momma and the babies.

I was supposed to go into town today with my neighbor J. And when he called me on the phone, I thought he was telling me he was ready to go. But he said, “Can’t do it right now, Joel, [Insert Goat’s Name] is birthing and I’m here by myself.” And then he hung up.

And I thought, “well gee, I’d like to get in on that, I’ve never seen it before. But he probably doesn’t need me underfoot.”

And then I thought, “How much significance is there to ‘I’m here by myself’? As far as I know, J’s never seen it before either.”

And then I practically threw the dogs into Gitmo and drove the Jeep over to J&H’s as fast as I could. Even so it was nearly over by the time I arrived. So except for moral support and an extra set of hands here and there, there wasn’t a lot for me to do. But sometimes moral support is enough.

It was the goat’s first litter, but she seemed to know more or less what to do. She got them cleaned up, everybody had a bit of a rest, and then they went to feeding, and then everybody fell asleep. There was a lot more drama when my daughter was born.

A beautiful, doomed experiment came to an end…

Leaving images of hopeless, despairing courage…

And of horror.

And yet the still-evolving China that exists today is not the China of 20 years ago. To my surprise, looking back on the quiet despair I felt over the massacre, I find that those young people who died in Tienanmen Square didn’t lose their battle, after all. They won. They didn’t win in any glorious, immediate, startling way. But they did win, and they’re still winning. Trends of 70 years, already in collapse before they began their protests, have continued to reverse themselves and have accelerated their reverse. It’s possible none of what we see in China today would have happened, if not for Tienanmen Square.

China isn’t Libertopia, and probably never will be. But it’s not the same China in which Mao’s “cultural revolution” was possible, either. And that’s not nothing. The people of the April/May/June 1989 protests, which sprung up in hundreds of cities across China though we only remember one, won their fight. They didn’t win it all, but they won a lot. Good for them.

Well, good news and bad news.

Good news: Al the Propane Guy actually showed up early. He installed all the propane line, and it’s all pressure-tested and ready to go, and now I can cover up the frig gosh-darn trench beside the barn that’s been an unwelcome element in my life for nearly a year.

Bad News: Al the Propane Guy actually showed up early. He then told me about yet another thing I have to do with the water heater before he’d agree to leave some actual fucking propane. GAAAAAARRRRRRR!!!

I’m no contractor, as you may have noticed. But I spent two decades – parts of three, actually – as Mr. Prosperous Suburban Man. In that time I’ve installed probably five or six water heaters, here and there; it’s not rocket science. And in all that time I have never – not once – been required to vent the water heater to the outdoors.

Never.

Not once.

I really hate that guy. He could have mentioned it before; he seems to take perverse pleasure in coming all the way out here and then not delivering propane.

Good news: One of the stakeholders is due Friday afternoon, answered his phone on the first try, and agreed to buy and deliver the vent pipe and (yet another) hole saw I need for the installation. So I can have the venting done this weekend.

Bad News: Al the Propane Guy is going on vacation next week, so the earliest I can conceivably hope to finish this Project That Does Not End is the week after. What new legal requirement will I trip over then? Damned if I know: Stay tuned.

Nobody could decide whether the Monsoon came early, or the April rain came late. I’m still not making any bets, but yesterday we didn’t get anything but relatively light clouds and so far this morning it’s gorgeous. Another week of this and we may have to start fighting off Californians.

For walky time we avoided the road entirely, crossed the wash and went up the side of the neighboring ridge where there’s a shallow well and old windmill in the low ground. Seven AM and already getting warm, the boys had a good time hugging the shadows, digging in under junipers every time I paused.

On that note, LB needs to learn not to get quite so much into his work.

Stuff to do today; there’s a pile of trash for the dump right where the big propane tank is supposed to go, feeding gas to the barn. I’ve been told that today the propane guy might show up; the chances of that actually happening are right up there with Al Gore becoming Field Marshal of the Montana Militia, but on the other hand it’s guaranteed if I’m not ready for him. So I’ve got the trash trailer backed up and ready to load, and then I’ll clean out the trench that’s pretty much been weather-filled since I dug it lo these many months ago.

The song in my head ISN’T FROM THE SEVENTIES!

So now it appears that the seventh circuit court has ruled in National Rifle Association Vs. City of Chicago that the second amendment provides no protection to the citizens of Chicago and Oak Park, Illinois from the diktats of their evil rulers. This agrees with January’s second circuit court of appeals decision in Maloney v. Cuomo, and contradicts the April ninth circuit decision in Nordyke v. King which concludes exactly the opposite – in a lengthy, scholarly and interesting decision which then bizarrely ruled in favor of the county that wanted to restrict gun shows.

‘Kay. So all I can say is, WTF?

Y’know what? I don’t even care. All I ask is that the tapeworms who want to disarm the people who live here, when it comes my turn, not send otherwise innocent thugs to do their dirty work for them. I ask them to come to me themselves, and make their demands in person.

So this morning’s walky time was spent going up the wash toward the canyon, now that it’s pretty much dried out from the flood of the weekend before last.

At one point Ghost disappeared into the brush, and Little Bear trotted after. I heard nothing. “They’ll be fine,” I thought, and kept walking up the wash.

Time passed. We continued up the wash. “Uh…they’ll…be fine,” I tried to convince myself. Ghost has never actually liked Little Bear. At all.

More time passed. An imaginary conversation occurred to me:

“Hey, kid! Wanna see something fun?”

“What is it, Uncle Ghost? Tell me! Tell me!”

“Well, you see right over there behind those rocks? Yeah, those rocks; the ones Uncle Joel – er, your daddy – can’t see behind? Right over there’s a whole bunch of really friendly dogs. They like chubby little puppies a lot, especially when they’re nice and juic…I mean, cute. Yeah.”

“Really? Friendly dogs? I’ve never met one of those! Whee! Let’s go!”

“Yeah, you go right ahead, kid. I’m right behind you.”

“Daddy! Daddy! Uncle Ghost showed me some friendly dogs! There were lots of them, and they smiled at me, (They’ve got really big teeth!) and they wanted me to stay for lunch, and … Ooo! Butterfly! … Daddy! Daddy!”

Look! I’m as big as you, Grampa Magnus! ‘Course you’re laying down and I’m standing up, but…Look! I’m as big as you, Grampa Magnus!

..for the song of the day seems to be:

Part of me wails, “Why, oh evil Kami? What sin did I or my ancestors commit against you?” Part of me seeks harmony, acceptance of my foul karma. Perhaps if I embrace it with extraordinary grace I may be reborn as something as exalted as a polyp or even – dare I to dream? – a ringworm.

It’s okay, though. Really, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’ve…got the noose right here…

Okay, so I’m sure you’ve heard all about the “wise Latina woman” comment from last week? The one that instantly became such a big topic-of-the-week that North Korea set off another A-bomb and nobody even noticed? The offhand comment from WAY the HELL back when, which some RNC staffer must have been sitting on just forever, waiting to roll it in like a small stinky but very powerful grenade? The one that goes:

“I would hope that a wise Latina woman with the richness of her experiences would more often than not reach a better conclusion than a white male who hasn’t lived that life.”

Yeah, that one. Well, it isn’t going away.

So Obama, possibly with visions of his very own early-term Nannygate dancing in his head, swung into action Friday to save the day:

“I’m sure she would have restated it,” Obama flatly told NBC News, without indicating how he knew that.

Ew! A bit of AP snark there? Could there be trouble in paradise?

“If you look in the entire sweep of the essay that she wrote, what’s clear is that she was simply saying that her life experiences will give her information about the struggles and hardships that people are going through, that will make her a good judge,” Obama said in the broadcast interview. […]
Obama told NBC that part of the job of a Supreme Court justice is to stand in somebody else’s shoes and that Sotomayor will do that. “That breadth of experience, that knowledge of how the world works, is part of what we want for a justice who’s going be effective,” Obama said.

Uh…yeah. One problem there, Mr. Obananator, sir. To paraphrase David Codrea – oh hell, I’ll quote him.

[S]he didn’t say “good.” She didn’t say “effective.” She said “better.”

…which just really didn’t work out, did it? The stories are about a cedar rat named Shadow. I took it a couple of days ago when we had some sun, and just now sorted it out of the camera.

I don’t know why I do these embarrassing things…

Been seeing a lot of rat (once even a squirrel) incursions in the pantry for some time. Mostly they attacked dog food, which isn’t that big a disaster; the jays eat as much dog food as the boys do, and not much can be done about it. But nobody eats my food except me and my friends (and Magnus, of course.)

So I used my only plastic tub to protect my beans and rice, and moved the flour to a high shelf where I hoped it would be safe till I could get more tubs. I got more earlier in the week, but wasn’t quick enough to save a sack of flour. When I checked it this morning and saw white dust on a black plastic bag protecting a sack of salt from wet, I knew I had trouble.

Sure enough; right in the middle of the @#$%$! sack. Gorram it!

My working flour supply is always stored in a pail, but I didn’t take enough care to protect the stored sacks. Now I’ve got enough plastic tubs, which the rodents don’t seem to bother.

The pantry didn’t used to have these problems, but traffic patterns change. My lair is ‘way off to one corner of the property, and the pantry gets lots of quiet time that the beasties just love. Soon, I hope all this will be moved to the barn, which has lots more traffic. The rickety building we use for the pantry will be reprocessed into its parts, and then…I…will…be…happy.