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June 29, 2007

Hurry Up and Wait, Part Deux

Well, today was "Draw the Last of the Flight Gear" Day. While popping a pair of new boots, two sand-colored T-shirts, a set of gloves, et cetera into a shopping cart that had never seen actual sunlight, a late-twentysomething A-10 driver eyed my lanky, grey-haired carcass and fished, "Going to the Sandbox?"

"Ummmm -- the periphery of one of 'em, yeah."

"Hauling people or cargo? Or both?"

Heh. Time to play the "My Ops Are Blacker Than Your Ops" game.

"Neither. Gunships."

*eyes opening wider* "Whoa! You're flying Spectre?"

"Nope. Cobras. Goggle stuff."

"Cobras? *Helicopters*?"

"Yeah. I like to get close enough to see the look on their faces."

*blink* "Uhhhhh."

*grin*

New kids. I love it when they go speechless...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

However, karma must equalize, so my payback was that the Cobra I was supposed to fly for recurrent training isn't flyable anymore. Got feelers out to the usual places (there actually *are* a couple of de-mil'ed Cobras with civil registrations out there), but in the meantime, my employer decided -- and rightly so -- that

1. it would be a waste of funds to keep me cooped in a motel here in the scenic South and

2. my scrounging talents would be better utilized at the personal level, rather than electronically.

Yup. I have a mission (and contacts) to obtain some unobtainables. Still working the telecommuting details, but tomorrow this afternoon, I launch into the Danger Zone.

New Jersey.

And KtLW's honeydew list.

I'd almost rather be getting shot at...

Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �

by CW4BillT on Jun 29, 2007

March 20, 2007

Adjutant! Yer fired! It's too bad I don't pay you anything...

...so I can't even have the satisfaction of not giving you a severance check!

It's someone else's birthday today, too.

Princess Crabby's. An even more dangerous one to overlook, as the bomb-damaged interior of my email box amply demonstrates.

All I can offer in atonement, Maggie - is this Dubai picture site.

C'mon Denizens, help a brother out here. I'm in a serious doghouse.

Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �

by Denizens on Mar 20, 2007

January 15, 2007

It was a six hour meeting.

So, I'm a little giddy.

Cassandra, this post's for you.

Cassandra's marmoset, as yet unstuffed.

Just so you know, people *do* poke into the corners over at your place.

Pretty kewl. 'Round here, this is all we have to offer in the way of stuffed critters.

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We return this blog to more serious, if mundane, stuff.

Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �

by John on Jan 15, 2007

November 26, 2006

The Garden Shed of Argghhh!!!

The bits and pieces of the Shed of Argghhh!!!

Raised, finally. I tell ya, sometimes, when I see that deposit from the VA hit the bank I feel a little guilty about the size of it.

Then, I try to build a shed. I'm underpaid. It took us a month of weekends to do what probably should have been a weekend job.

Okay, some of that was inefficient materials handling, I admit it. Moving stuff more times than it needed to be be moved. But some of it you just can't avoid. Picking up the 1.5 tons of gravel and 1.5 tons of topsoil at the store and loading it onto the big cart. Then loading it into the car. Then off-loading it into the garden tractor's trailer. Drive. Off load at work site. Then, one more time, spreading the stuff around when you needed it. Turns out fatboy was lifting a lot more than 1.5 tons, even if it was 50 lbs at a time.

Then you have to dig the hole, to get things roughly level. SWWBO did that. She's good at digging. I watched from the ramparts with a 'Rita.

Then some screwing needed doing, so I went down to the work-site and screwed away. Oh, puh-leeze. Get yer mind outta the gutter. Assembling the frame for the gravel pit foundation.

Then, load in the topsoil and gravel, and get that sucker level. Pound in some rebar through holes in the frames so the thing won't migrate.

That's three weekends worth of work for slugs like us. And that's work to exhaustion.

Comes the Big Weekend. We really can't risk the weather too much more.

There's the shed. It's in boxes too big and heavy to move, so we leave it on the driveway, at the mercy of the elements. Finally, Prodigal Son and His Sweetums arrives, and he and she and SWWBO get pressed into service schlepping the pieces back to the work-site.

All right! Ready to go! The instructions being in the box buried under the others, I sit down to go through the assembly process. This things a snap-together plastic job, shouldn't be too much of a problem, right?

Heh. Farking thing needs to be on either a concrete slab (preferred, but ain't happening) or a 2"x6" framed wood foundation with 3/4" plywood floor. Treated, natch. Sigh.

Off to the Big Orange Boxy Store. Get the lumber, take it to get cut, rent their truck, load their truck, schlep it to the house, unload the truck, return their truck. Then everyone gets pressed into service to schlep the lumber back to the work site. Thus endeth Wednesday. Thursday is Thanksgiving, off to visit family! Come back Friday, too late to get anything done.

Saturday. Lay down the cement tiles to support the frame, get 'em mostly level. Lay out the frame. Start nailing. Get the sides done, start first stringer. Discover that lumber is cut to "rough dimensions," meaning it's going to be roughly 2"x6"x10'. They're pretty good about the 2"x6" part. It's the 10' they're a little sloppy with. Knock apart the frame. Get sawhorses. Get circular saw. Get tape measure. Schlep the damn wood up to where I've got a safe place to put the sawhorses. Measure. Measure again. Cut. Schlep the farking wood back down the yard to the work-site.

Put together the frame. 72 nails later, the Armorer is in agony. But the frame is built and anchored.

The Frame.

SWWBO renews her offer to buy a gun for the Arsenal. Woot! A gun!

Off to the Big Orange Boxy Store to buy a framing nail gun. The Armory now has Airsoft! Hey - it worked that way in Lethal Weapon II, right?

Bangity-bangity-bangity-bang-bang! SWWBO likes the new gun, too.

100 or so nails later, the frame and floor are done. The Arthritis of Argghhh!!! manifests itself in a manner not to be ignored this day. Undaunted, I determine that at least the finagle-danged floor of the shed will get finished on this day. 48 pan-head screws and 8 lag screws later, the floor of the Shed of Argghhh! is complete, and anchored to the frame.

I ponder my next move.

Whatever it is, it's gonna be tomorrow.

Morning dawns. To helk with blogging. I read email, make sure no one is being too naughty in the comments, slug down some coffee, and head for the work-site.

So, of course, it's gusty. And me trying to assemble light plastic panels seemingly suitable for wind-surfing.

I was supervised.

Undaunted, the walls go up. Then, the roof. There's some challenges there. Assembling the roof required the Presence of SWWBO.

SWWBO supervising roof assembly.

But she brought lunch, which was cool. There was some frolic (or disagreement) over who has successfully hunted the Wily French Fry of Argghhh! which made an appearance during lunch.

Finally, the roof of the Shed of Argghhh! is raised! Huzzah!

There were some last minute things that need attending to - like the door handles, shutters and window boxes. An itinerant furry blob was hired for that work.

Then comes the Loading of the Shed.

And finally, the doors close, and the Garden Tractor of Argghhh! sleeps under true cover (vice the deck) for the first time since it joined the motor fleet. The tractor and a buncha other stuff. Hey, that's what goes in sheds, right? Stuff?

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It didn't take long - but the Woodland Gnomes of Argghhh! made themselves at home, too. Loo and all.

Woodland Gnomes of Argghhh!!!

Do your Gnomes need homes? Get 'em right here, from Murray, Castle Worker-in-Metal. This particular home was one that went un-bid upon in the last Project Valour-IT fundraiser, so I ponied up the bucks for the donation and left it where the Gnomes would find it.

No Armorers were pierced or mashed in the making of this post.

Coda.

Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �

by John on Nov 26, 2006

October 2, 2006

On the keeping of secrets

CAPT H points us to Don Sensing - pointing out an artilleryman who can't resist publishing classified information. For shame, Don!*

Of course, it *is* a disease, seemingly. Mebbe it's contaminated spinach or something.. I had to divert my eyes last night as Mike Wallace and 60 Minutes blithely tossed up a slide marked "Secret" as a part of their Woodward interview.

Where I work, we have signs up that say cute things like "Clearance + Need To Know = Access." The Press has decided that Need To Know, as determined by their wants, needs, and ratings desires, trumps Any Other Consideration. Their definition, btw, is not quite how *we* go about classifying information. However, I'm beginning to agree with the Press. I think that all Pentagon and Coalition meetings should have Press presence *and* be put on C-Span, with a special subscriber feed for People In Remote Caves Hiding From Bombs, and all documents sent out as spam emails to whoever wishes to read them.

Heck, I should start up a new blog, completely anonymous of course - spoofing Instanpundit IPs - (no, wait - Kos's!), and just start posting all the Secret and heck, why stop there, Top Secret stuff I've been trusted with through the years up through today and on to tomorrow.

Because apparently, it's, well, like it's okay to do this, judging from all the prosecutions and investigations I see. I just can't *sell* it. To Israel or the Russians. *That* will get you put in jail.

Heh. I don't even talk work with SWWBO, because I can't keep what's classified from what isn't - so it's all in generalities. Technically, right now, saying that I do sometimes classified work is a technical no-no. How ironic if I get canned for that... vice what hasn't happened to boatloads of other people who've done far worse.

All I know is - if this were the world that Representatives Murtha and Pelosi, or Michael Moore or Markos Zuniga *say* it is, or becoming, Bob Woodward and Mike Wallace, and the production crews, and Woodward's publisher would be on their way to the Gulag, to work as drones on Katrina Clean-up crews, while living under tattered canvas, eating only what food they could scavenge for themselves in a savage wilderness. And randomly, one a day would be fed feet first into an industrial chipper, pour le encouragement les autrés.

Oh, wait - that's *my* fantasy. Actually, it isn't that, either. IIRC, it was Saddam's reality. Except for the Katrina clean up part, in case a dazed Kossack, or better yet, DU'er stumbles in from a Technorati search or something, and accuses me of dissing Saddam, because Katrina wasn't his fault and Bush is worse than Saddam and Hurricanes are all Bush's fault (and we Red Staters, too - because if Algore hadn't had the election stolen, Katrina wouldn't have happened...). Okay. I'll stop. I'm out of control, now.

Flash Traffic (extended entry) Follows �

by John on Oct 02, 2006

September 27, 2006

Another never ending post: Immigration this time.

Since John’s said he’s busy doing God’s work and wanted someone to pull in some of the slack around here (wouldn’t hurt if we dusted either) you’re all being subjected to another non-gun pr0n post that never ends. This one is on immigration. You’ve been warned.
ry
(the real stuff is below the fold.)

Flash Traffic (extended entry) Follows �

Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �

by Denizens on Sep 27, 2006

September 22, 2006

Killing the music meme

Because The Armorer decided to skip out on the latest music meme he was tagged with by Cassandra I’ll answer it, and thereby uphold the honor of Castle Argghhh!. (Yeah, we know you’re busy doing God’s work, Boss. That’s why you keep us ankle biters around, on short leashes, right?).

“List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they’re not any good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying now. Post these instructions your site along with your seven (for those of you who, like me can't count, that's all the fingers on one hand, plus two more) songs. Then tag seven other people to see what they’re listening to:”

(songs below the fold)

Flash Traffic (extended entry) Follows �

Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �

by Denizens on Sep 22, 2006

September 19, 2006

ry's got a beef. And in praise of Brothers

(Endless post warning. You've been warned.)
As we’re finding out around here, a brother’s love is a wondrous thing.

It’s no secret that I like Thomas Barnett and his work. I think he’s got a lot of the solutions to the current problems and some of the mid-term ones too in his Felix the Cat Bag of Tricks. I get the guy. I get what he says and why he says them. I get his motivations for his philosophy---as would Alan McLeod (definitely) and Trias (kinda sorta), but not Jack Grant (who would question it on many levels given what it calls for at times). Good guy. Good egg. Man with a heart of gold, most of the time, and the best interests of the world as his star to steer by.

But sometimes, only sometimes, I’d like to take a newspaper and smack him in the back of the head. Why? Well, he supports the kind of thing his brother wrote about neo-cons (me being a neo-con) that is just the usual tawdry list of ‘reasons why conservatives/republican are the devil’ with a neo stuck in front of it. I mean, it’s great that your brother gets that there’s a difference, a slight difference in the stream of things, between neo-cons, real neo-cons and not those who just have the tag hurled at them as an epithet, and neo-libs. That’s great. Having a brother have your back is great thing, and I’m happy for Dr. Barnett to have the backing of his brother. We all need that sometimes. And it’s good that where the distinction between the two was attempted (Writers at the New Republic, call your office!) But……

I wasn’t always a neo-con. At one point I was a crazy anarchist Punk (like mohawks, leather jackets with tons of safety pins in them, and listening to loud dis-harmonic stuff played allegro with bad lyrics by Gello Biafra Punk---though I still attended Mass and school (lettering in track and cross country), never cut my hair all weird and didn't wear the clothes that were part of the scene, and really worried about my Mom being mad. So I wasn’t really Punk. I just tried to be.). Then I woke up in my late teens. That chit just was not going to work and was the epitome of arrogance. Only we, the anointed few, who by listening to the same bands who hand fed us some really watered down philosophy, really knew what was going on and how to run the world? Baloney. We knew spit, less actually, and, worse, we knew it and just didn’t care. It’s just, well, rebellion is cool (though I still didn’t have my first date until I was a junior in HS while most of my punk buddies had lost their virginity by that age. Go figure.) and telling people they didn’t know anything while we of course knew everything made us feel good about ourselves.

So then I stopped that stuff.

I moved onto something else.

Call it isolationist populism. The world’s problems are their own. We had more than enough problems here at home. People matter first, philosophy a distant second. Helping people out is a good thing and the first good thing. Whatever does the job best is the solution regardless of ideological reasons--- though this last bit got modified a bit as I got older and learned more, the process often does matter.

But I differed in a lot of my friends on how to fix those problems. I asked the question: does gov’t intervention really help? Sometimes it did. Lots of times it didn’t. So I wasn’t for reflexive ‘gov’t solves it by throwing money at the problem’ type solutions, like Hillary Care. Growing up on Welfare like I did taught me something hard and true: gov’t programs have to toe a bottom line, but Father Scanal’s charity knew no bounds (and he could be viscous in getting the Parish to help us out); the gov’t would have to follow a schedule of payments regardless of our actual need, but the people my Aunt worked with at Seal Beach Naval Weapons Station or The Strand could be counted on to take collections, loan money, or bring us food whenever we needed it ( Another sign of charity of the Navy: Once some officer brought Disneyland tickets on Armed Forces Day because the guy felt bad that a family that lived no more than 10 miles away had kids that had never been in their entire lives while his kids had been several times. Ociffers. Such a weird lot.).

[If you want the rest of this essay, just hit the "Flash Traffic/Extended Entry" button there and all will be revealed]

Flash Traffic (extended entry) Follows �

Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �

by Denizens on Sep 19, 2006

July 13, 2006

Hey! I'm not fat, I'm embonpoint!

Yeah - that's it!

I often disagree with John Derbyshire of National Review - but I'm with him on this one!

[Enter Husband from left. He has just taken a shower, and is wearing only a towel fixed round his waist.]

Wife [pointing at husband's fairly ample midriff]: What's that?

Husband: That? That's my embonpoint.

W: Your what?

H: Embonpoint. That's my embonpoint.

W: That's not a word.

H: Is so.

W: Well, it's not an English word.

H: If it's in the dictionary, it is. I bet it's in the dictionary.*

W: It's flab, that's what it is.

H: Embonpoint.

W: Flab. Gut. Beer belly. You should get rid of it.

H [feigning outrage]: Get rid of my embonpoint? Never!

W: Om bom pom, phooey. You give it fancy name, doesn't make it beautiful. It's flab. You need to exercise more.

H: No time. Too busy working to support my family.

W [scornfully]: Hah! You worked much harder when we first got married, but didn't have om bom pom. What happened to your six-pack?

H: It's there.

W: Where?

H: Under my embonpoint.

*Oh yeah it *is*... embonpoint.

Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �

by John on Jul 13, 2006

July 1, 2006

Argghhh!

How'd I miss this! Jim, I *knew* you were ill, but damn, fella, this is taking it too far.

Jim Baen is dead.

Little SciFi authors (and we who love to read 'em) have lost a great friend.

Flip side - the Other Side has now been blessed with the arrival to two Dyed-in-the-Wool Curmudgeons, as Jim joins Acidman Over The Rainbow.

How'd I miss this? I've been so busy I haven't been keeping up with my Snarkatron.

Raise a glass my friends - to Army Security Agency Analyst, Greenwich Village Coffee shop manager, but most importantly - A Father of Science Fiction - Jim Baen.

Now is the time at Castle Argghhh! when we dance: In Memoriam.

by John on Jul 01, 2006

April 15, 2006

Argghhh!

Damn damn DAMN! Farking lottery tickets.

Sharp eyes might correlate this datum.

Sigh. It's also kind of sad, to see a life's work like this broken up. There's some rare stuff - stuff we've *never* seen in the US, except as photos, like the two tanks on this page.

Geoff, yer a mean, mean man, to send me this.

You, you, you, POMMY POOFTER B@ST@RD YOU!

We return this blog to it's upright, non-potty-mouth position.

Thank heaven I can't get Down Below for this. I'd be a homeless guy at a Raffles buffet.

Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �

by John on Apr 15, 2006

March 29, 2006

Paying attention, reasons for, #2,354,671

Don't sleep and drive.

Wear your seatbelt.

That is all.

Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �