Green Hell

Self-Pitying Bullshit, Thy Name is "Woman"

‘Ello, loverboy!
(Take a runnin’ jump!)
'Ello, loverboy!
(You give me the ‘ump!)
'Ello, loverboy!
(I wish that you weren’t ‘ere)
'Ello, loverboy!
(Why don’t you disappear?)

--Mike Sarne, “Hello, Loverboy!”

Their wealth is nothing
Not worth the touching
It cannot gain for them
A second more

They are as light
As the mists of morning
That’s all life is
Be ye’ rich or poor

To hell with reason
For another season,
A keg of whiskey, lads,
And beer go leor!

--Trad. Irish tune

One tries to be nice, polite, diplomatic, an’ a’ tha’ shite.

One honestly does.

Human nature being what it is, though, one fails to do so, as often as not.

Scots-Irish nature being what it is; one fails to do so joyously, unrepentantly, and in a meaner-than-an-eastern-diamondback-with-a-bad-case-of-piles kind of way – especially when subjected to some useless POS’s self-pitying (but conscience/responsibility-free) pissing and moaning over the consequences of one of his/her fuckups.

Just call me “Mr. Stereotype.”

And git th’ fuck off’n m’ lawn, afore I blow ye’ fuckin’ haid off’n ye’ shoulders! I done paid good money fer thet-thar grass seed, an’ ye’s fuckin’ it up-like!

To hell with that, though: I’ve other things to discuss.

Whilst perusing my wife’s site, I stumbled across one of the most atrocious, infuriating outpourings of verbal detritus I’ve ever read.

“How atrocious and infuriating, Bean?” asks the Gentle Reader – without even so much as offering to buy me a bag of hot’n’spicy pork rinds in exchange for my almost-supernaturally erudite and insightful comments on the matter.

“Wouldn’t you just love to know, you goofy, skinflint fucker?” screeches I -- scratching my nuts and rewarding my dog with rawhide bones for barking at foreigners, political proselytizers and itinerant laborers.

“Well,” says the Gentle Reader, “If you ain’t gonna tell me, why the hell am I reading this?”

Aaaggh! Backed into a corner, once again! Fuck me runnin’, but you people are clever!

The piece that drove my blood pressure to a record high consisted of the ol’ ball and chain’s response to an email a reader had sent her. In said email, some young “lady” (and I use the term very loosely) was bewailing the fact that a guy she’d “kicked to the curb” some time ago had made something of himself and found a new love interest.

She writes:.

I get so angry when I think about what I threw away. He is very successful now, and is with another woman. She is living my life. The life I was meant to have. I regret ever letting him go. I should have held onto the relationship [rather than] throw it all away.

How can I get him back? How do I make him realize that we were meant to be together?

Maggie’s response:

While reading this message, my thoughts race with uncertainties. When have money, selfishness, and/or someone else’s success become reasons for reconciliation? If this is the case, then, to me, admitting one’s fuck-ups and getting on with life would be a better way to make use of one’s energy.

We trash someone’s life, we throw love away, and because he or she made it to the end of the yellow brick road – without us – we want another “go at it”? Am I the only one who sees something wrong with this picture? Whatever happened to loving, repentant hearts?

At one time, these scorned lovers gave love freely, lived in our homes, and shared our beds, only to be tossed out with yesterday’s garbage. Their prosperity changes our viewpoint – how? They are still the same people: The ones we couldn’t stand to be near; the ones we shirked off; the ones we wanted out of our lives – is this not so?

What establishes their “riches” as our compensation for the misguided manner in which we terminated the relationship? How does one even suppose the “She is living my life” scenario?

Did I mention my thoughts were racing?

So, let us now explore the subject from another perspective, shall we?

How long has the man in question been in his current relationship: Ten months, one year, five years, or perhaps, even longer?

This information was not given in the e-mail I received; however, it is pertinent to this particular relationship’s “equation.”

One may ask why. Therefore, I’ll explain. I’ll start with a question: What led to his “success”?

Could it be that the woman who now shares his life may have given him the necessary moral support, financial assistance, and/or labors by his side? Could it? In other words, is it possible that his current relationship may very well be the “answer” to his success? It appears as if he has, at any rate, found a partner to stand by his side “for better, or for worse” – right? Of course right (Ah, the Fiddler on The Roof reference seems to fit nicely here – don’t you think?).

As unfortunate as it may sound to the woman who wrote me, I must interrupt her visions of grandeur and mention that this man may not wish to return her “affection.” He is almost certainly happy in his current situation.

Normally, I jump at the chance to express my “dig in and never give up” convictions. Generally, however, one of the participants in a nonrelationship (We can have nonrelationships even when two people live in the same house – kinda like feeling alone, but not being alone) professes his or her undying affection; the desire for one’s caress; after repeating, “I love him” or “I love her” over, and over, and over again.

Now Mags was able to respond to the email as she did because she’s a real sweetheart.

I’m not.

Upon reading it, I left a typically foulmouthed masterpiece of denunciatory invective in her “Comments” section. Today, I’d like to elaborate on my own remarks, especially as the kind of shit the lass pulled -- and apparently hopes to pull -- on this poor guy, ties a half-hitch in my dick -- something fierce.

What pissed me off the most was the fact that not once did this broad mention any sense of guilt or remorse over unceremoniously giving the guy the boot. Nor does she express any concern for the effect being dumped might have had on him. Moreover, she doesn’t mention how much she misses him (she almost certainly doesn’t), how much she loved him (ditto), or how badly she misjudged him before handing him his walking papers.

No, the only reason she has her tit in the wringer is because the guy’s gone and made something of himself, and she now realizes that she threw away a meal ticket before she could cash it in.

To which I say, “Tough shit, sister. You had your chance, and you fucked up. Now rock up and fuckin’ deal with it.”

Before I continue, I’ll admit that I’m a tad oversensitive when it comes to situations of this kind. Being dumped sucks – period. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. This being so, I’m almost always in the “dumpee’s” corner – especially when the relationship is “emotionally asymmetrical,” as it were.

Without rehashing too much of my own past, I’ll mention that twenty-odd years ago, I was in this guy’s shoes; and that the experience fucked me up for a long, long time. Ergo, I’m hardly unbiased, and want to get that out of the way immediately.

Luckily for him, though, this young gent probably doesn’t suffer from any form of MDI, and was able to move on to bigger and better things rather quickly. (More power to him, by the way.)

This brings me to my next point. As nearly as I can tell, if the guy’ become a success, he probably always had the potential to do so. If this broad was too obtuse (or self-absorbed) to realize that she had a “diamond in the rough,” then to hell with her. That’s her problem, not his.
Notice that not even once does this bimbo lament lacking the perspicacity to see beneath the surface – only that she “let him go” – as if he was the one itching to “put on his boogie shoes.” (Uh, yeah, sister – just shift the responsibility for saying, “Chuck off, Farley!” onto him, why dontcha?)

As I initially commented: “I don’t want any of [the] readers to think I’m implying that the poor li’l ‘princess’ who couldn’t see the ‘prince’ beneath the ‘frog’ exterior is an utter fuckwit: I want ‘em to know that I’m stating -- unequivocally -- that she’s an utter fuckwit.”

Now let me get this straight: This slag decides that her beau ain’t worth a shit, and sends him packing. The guy then finds a woman who does see something in him, achieves a measure of success – which he then shares with her – and now “Princess PMS” is bitching about the other woman living “the life [she] was meant to have”? Is that it?

That, incidentally, was the straw that broke the camel’s back. By the time I’d finished reading it, the dog was cowering beneath my desk, there were flashing blue lights on the lawn, and Mags and Ma Bean were blazing away at me with full auto tranquilizer guns.

Before I finish yakking up this bile-laden li’l hairball of a piece, let me mention that I know, all too well, the “life I should be living” bit – but from the ”dumpee’s” point of view. I could be wrong, but to my mind, that makes all the difference in the world. I’ve heard other men (and women) who’ve been shoved aside by a significant other express identical sentiments, and I empathize.

They weren’t the ones who chose to terminate their relationships, so seeing another person living out their dreams for the future was insult added to injury, in a way.

End digression.

The parties initiating these breakups, on the other hand, have no right whatsoever to feel this way. Theirs was, after all, the active role. They were the ones who chose to part ways, despite the wishes of their former lovers.

When, therefore, a few months – or years – later, their “castoffs” achieve some measure of happiness and/or success, their assertions to the effect of: “So-and-so is living the life that should have been mine,” ring hollow and false.

As hollow and false as their own hearts.

I reckon I’m just an old-fashioned bastard, but to my way of thinking, relationships aren’t about security, comfort, or social prestige. They’re about love. I can speak only for myself, but personal experience has taught me that when a relationship is based on true love (the “genuine article,” as opposed to lust, infatuation, or any number of other paraphiliae), the rough spots are far more easily negotiated, and the rest is just “gravy.”

I’m not naïve enough to imagine – for even a second – that everyone has the same kind of relationship Maggie and I do. We’ve both faced a number of “ups” and “downs” (some catastrophic and not of our choosing; others purely self-inflicted -- leaving us sadder but wiser) over the years. Neither of us is an angel – and neither of us expects the other to be. We argue, we fight, we get pissed off at one another, we drive each other crazy – and we love each other.

I’ve been a borderline hood since my late teens. Beyond this; dealing, as I have for much of my life, with alternating fits of “adrenaline junkie,” “Damn the torpedoes!” mania/hypomania and near-suicidal depression, and coping with various (often horrific) episodes in my personal life has damn-near beaten materialism, the desire for approval, and the other silly, external bullshit that passes for “motivation” in so many of our species, clean out of me.

In other words:To hell with that pretentious cunt, Warhol, and his “fifteen seconds of fame” – just lemme get outta this fuckin’ parking lot without getting hit by a stray bullet…

Mags (despite some very rocky episodes during her twenties and thirties), on the other hand, has achieved tremendous success in her time. I won’t kick out a dollar figure (that would be callow of me, and the genes of my mother’s aristocratic, Tidewater/Norman ancestors are screaming that only usurers, merchants and other base-born vulgarians openly discuss such distasteful subjects as finance), but I’ll mention that she was able to buy a house, raise two children, and put her ex through six years of medical school – all on her own income.

After a decade and a half of marriage, her ex said (in effect): “This isn’t fun anymore. I’m haulin’ ass.” At this point -- and after doing everything in her power to salvage the relationship, to no avail -- Maggie found herself questioning the validity of every decision she’d ever made, and the true worth of everything she’d ever valued.

Ultimately, we seem to have reached many of the same conclusions.

At present, we’re a typical pair of “starving artists.” We “ain’t got a pot to piss in, or a window to throw it out,” as the old saying goes. We both work part-time, menial jobs for “megacorps.” We do odd jobs (the very rare bit of landscaping, freelance writing, bartending, and selling handmade jewelry and homemade pickles and preserves, working tables at flea markets, etc.) to make ends meet.

We grow scads of veggies on the 3,600-square-foot plot my late, lamented Da left me, and lead a “shamelessly shameful” -- for lack of a better term -- life in our luxurious, four-room (bed, bath, study, and office) suite (read: Ma Bean’s basement, the décor of which is an eclectic mix of Colonial, Celtic, Antebellum Suth’n, Asian, and Medieval European), wherein we earn our keep by maintaining the house and grounds.

The unmitigated disgrace and horror of our existence is, perhaps, best summed up by something Mags -- ever the spontaneous one -- said to me yesterday evening, as we were shelling (English) and stringing (“snow”) peas in the shade of a crape myrtle:

“Honey, I love our life.”

And so do I.

An old Asian proverb runs: “Every step we’ve ever taken was necessary to bring us to where we are,” and I can’t help but agree with the sentiment – for all that some of my Calvinist brothers (God bless every one of them) may disagree. Ultimately, every move -- every decision -- we’ve ever made led us to this.

“But there’s no need for turning back/ for all roads lead to where I stand,” as Don MacLean sang some years ago – and I’m glad to be here. This is the life I’ve chosen, and for once, I’m happy with it, and give thanks to Almighty God for having “covered my six” for as long as he has.

“I love our life.”

Maggie’s words – spoken, as they were, in a happy little girl’s matter-of-fact, off-the-cuff, singsong tone; as if she’d said, “Oh! Look at the lovely butterfly!” and not something more profound, by far – still echo within my mind, as they imply so much more than they literally convey.

And it made sense to me in the very way that half-forgotten words -- spoken decades ago, in the shade of a chapel’s peaked roof, rather than that of a crape myrtle; above the rhythmic sussruss of four-color Biblical scenes, printed on lily-pads of poster board and glued to Popsicle sticks or tongue-depressors, in the stifling, Southern, summer air, rather than the wilder sussruss of wind through pines, magnolias, Bradford pears, peaches, apples, maples, honeysuckle and kudzu – made sense to me.

Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church, and gave himself for it… So ought men to love their wives as their own bodies. He that loveth his wife loveth himself… For this cause shall a man leave his father and mother, and shall be joined unto his wife, and they two shall be one flesh. This is a great mystery: but I speak concerning Christ and the church. Nevertheless, let every one of you in particular so love his wife even as himself; and the wife see that she reverence her husband.
-- Ephesians 5:25-33

I know that scripture is of no private interpretation, but no amount rationalization on my part – for all that I’m a die-hard, male chauvinist of a transplanted, Scottish “thistle”—can purge the “one flesh” bit of its implied reciprocity. If we are, indeed, “one flesh,” it stands to reason that we love “our” life because we love each other.

I add this only because Mags and I have both noted – and on many occasions – that neither of us was exactly what the other was looking for when we met. No plans, no “this should be my life” bullshit: just two people who, for whatever reason, decided to take a chance – and made a metric shitload of decisions in the process.

Let that sink in, Gentle Reader.

In closing – and to the little bloodsucker who emailed Maggie: You are living the life that was meant to be yours – the life you chose, of your own free will.

G’night.

"Bass-Ackwards"

I'm not a bassist -- but I've played one on television many times...

Yeah, that's total bullshit. Ya got me. Can't fault a body for tryin', though, can ya?

In truth, I'm not a bassist, nor have I ever portrayed one on screen or stage. Like many guitarists, though, I own a bass, and occasionally mess around with it. The fact that I only know a dozen or so songs does nothing to deter me, as I have no intention of ever playing bass onstage.

Be that as it may, I do like my inept efforts on the instrument to sound slightly more aesthetically pleasing than, say, a multi-vehicle pileup on I-85. As I don't play it very often, I don't change the strings nearly as often as I do those on my guitars. This, of course, eventually leads to the instrument producing some extremely unpleasant noises the few times a year I deign to plug it into my li'l "pig" of an amp.

And I do mean unpleasant.

Why, when last I took to pluckin' away on the sucker, it souded like an elephant farting whilst submerged in two fathoms of antifreeze.

Embarrassed beyond my ability to express myself, I hurled the instrument to the floor, dragged Maggie out of bed, hooked her to a coffee I.V., and forced her -- at blunderbuss-point -- to drive me to the local music store. I then purchased a new set of strings, wrote a bitter, obscenity-laced, anti-government polemic to my congressman, whacked a mime (apologies to Berke Breathed), and went home to set the world to rights.

I also changed the strings on my bass.

As I had no desire to spend an arm and a leg, I bought the cheapest set I could find -- and was very pleased with 'em when I took 'em out for a "test drive."

The strings in question are Hartke HSB540's. They run $17.99 a pack, and, frankly, sound great. My bass isn't what you'd call "top-of-the-line," (it's a mid-'80s Peavey Fury), but the Hartkes made it sound pretty damned good.

The sound -- even without using signal processors of any kind -- is bright, thick, metallic, and reminiscent of Geddy Lee's 1974-79 sound; or Chris Squire's on the first handful of Yes albums.

In short: I'm a happy camper and satisfied customer.

Just thought I'd pass that along.

E.T., Phone Home!

A cowboy is cussin’
The pinball machine,
A drunk at the bar
Is gettin’ noisy and mean,
Some guy on the phone
Says “I’ll be home soon, dear,”
Rednecks, white socks
and Blue Ribbon beer.

-- Johnny Russell, “Rednecks, White Socks and Blue Ribbon beer.”

I'd never have thought that having a few beers with an old buddy portended the end of civilization as we know it, or possibly the outright destruction of the earth itself -- but then again, I'm not a woman.

On Friday, one of my old cronies from the hell-raisin' days (the early '90s) was in town on business. As luck would have it, he managed to TCB a bit ahead of schedule. Having done so, he rang me up and asked if I'd care to join him for lunch - and a brewski or twoski, of course. As I had the day off and nowhere to be (not to mention that I'd had a bit of a tiff -- over a writing project -- with my significant other that morning), the invitation was especially welcome.

At noon or thereabout, I told the "wimmenfolks" that I was off to the local bar and grill, and that I'd be back in a couple of hours.

Now I'm a guy, and a Southern guy, at that. When I say "a couple of hours," I may literally mean "two hours," but it's more likely that I mean "sometime between now and sundown," even as when I say "the other day..." I might mean anything from "yesterday" to "a fortnight ago."

Women, alas and alack, can be irritatingly literal-minded critters at times.

Before I continue, let me make it perfectly clear that I was at the local watering hole, a mere thirty minutes' walk from my house, in broad daylight --and that I have plenty of witnesses who can corroborate my story. In other words, it ain't like I was busting barstools and/or pool cues over skels' heads in some seedy, disreputable dive; partying with a gaggle of hookers in a sleazy, roadside "No-Tell Motel"; or drunkenly shoving twenties into a stripper's g-string at a titty bar.

I was just out having a few pints with a buddy -- "only this and nothing more," as Poe wrote.

Four hours later...

We both realized that it was getting late, so we phoned our birds and told 'em we'd like to pick them up and spend an evening on the town -- and that's when the effluvium impacted the rotary oscillator.

I'm happy to report that my bro still has the use of one eardrum (Allah is merciful and compassionate...), but I'll probably have to learn sign language. The cast comes off in six weeks, and the resection (surgically removing a woman's work boot from a human colon is, apparently, a touchy operation) was a success.

Naturally, I'm exaggerating a bit, but I was in for a bit of a ball-busting (Good thing I wasn't "rolling commando" -- every little bit of protection helps, after all... And isn't there a certain qigong practice that makes enduring said less of an ordeal? I reckon I'll look into it...) when I got home.

Now by my standards, coming home at 4:00 p.m. -- as opposed to 4:00 a.m.-- is downright responsible, and should have scored me a few "brownie points."

OK -- that, too, is something of an exaggeration, but my point is that I'm not exactly a carbon copy of my late Da when he was my age -- or even of myself during my twenties and thirties. As I’ve stated before, I wasn’t out “painting the town red” or doing anything illegal, and any sinning on my part was confined to the venial, rather than the mortal. Moreover, I wasn’t even hammered when I came home, just mildly buzzed. Granted, swilling beer in a smoky bar and bitching about certain elements of one’s domestic situation is tacky (for all that it’s a time-honored ritual) – but then again, I’m one of those crotch-grabbing, scratching-in-public critters called “males.”

We’re crude.

End of story.

And luckily, this one ends happily; for all that it’s somewhat cautionary in nature.

Being a guy –and having lived as I have for so many years – I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out why my wife and mother were so upset. To me, it simply wasn’t that big a deal. Yeah, so I got to shooting the breeze, “talking shop” and exchanging “war stories” over a few pints with an old buddy I don’t see very often, and consequently lost track of time. Shit happens, right?

Wrong.

While I’ve thus far downplayed the significance of having behaved like an inconsiderate asshole, in the final analysis, I did just that. To be sure, Mags and I were able to “kiss and make up” as it were (we always do), but I really can’t offer a valid defense -- let alone an excuse -- for my behavior. To me, it was a mere trifle, but to her (and to my Ma) it was quite a bit more. Margarita hasn’t known me for very long (we’ve only been together for fourteen months), but she knows quite a bit about me; something I should have considered. As for Ma Bean: Need I even go there?

Admittedly, I’ve cleaned up my act to a great extent since the old days, but I’d imagine that calling in two hours late gave ‘em both cause for concern – especially as I was in the company of one of my hell-raisin’ buddies from a particularly “wooly” part of my life. I’m not that prone to recidivism, but I can neither change my past, nor fault two of the most important people in my life for worrying that I’d suddenly fallen back into old habits.

Having a beer and a chat with a friend –and in a suburban sports bar, at that -- is a far cry from drag-racing on GA 316 while shitfaced, or pulling a switchblade in some wretched, hole-in-the-wall dive, by way of persuading the odd belligerent gobshite to “peddle his papers” elsewhere; but it was enough to worry them – because they actually give a shit about me.

And ultimately, that’s what this rambling narrative is about: giving a shit. Their anger and their worry were the results of their concern for my physical well-being. Given this, I should have cared enough about their emotional well-being to call them and let them know I’d be late. Mea maxima fuckup.

The moral of the story, gents, is this: Just call the wife/girlfriend if you’re out with the boys and will be late for dinner. It won’t kill you, and it doesn’t mean you’re “whipped” – only that you care enough not to worry ‘em to death – even if, like me, you’re not in any immediate danger of “morphing” into an overgrown juvenile delinquent.

Now where the hell did I leave those spiked wristbands and engineering boots?

“Nobody’s gonna take my car…”

Print Media

Be sure to check out this month's issue of The Backwoodsman. In addition to the usual array of interesting reading material, there are two especially noteworthy articles: One on making an authentic Amerind war club, and another on making a fire piston.

As commercially available fire pistons (now all the rage at gun shows) can easily run a hundred smackers or more, the latter article is a real boon to campers, hikers, survivalists, latter-day mountain men, etc.

Why?

Because it shows how to make one from materials that can be purchased from one's local hardware store -- for ten bucks or less!

A Damned Good Restaurant

It sounds like the setup for a really bad joke.

We’ve got an Irishman, a Scots-Irish hillbilly, an Indonesian gal and a Mexican/Italian gal -- all sitting at a table in a Jamaican restaurant.

The only missing elements are a priest, a rabbi, a Polish janitor, an Iranian cabbie – and the gay dude who disappears in a puff of smoke when the rabbi bends over to pick up a quarter lying on the floor…

But seriously, folks…

I don’t usually eat at restaurants. To Maggie’s mind – and my own – they’re a waste of time and money.
Why piss either away when one can have first-class meals at home, after all?

As a general rule, I doconsider eating out a waste of time and money, and am usually quite “underwhelmed” by the mediocre shite served in most of metro Atlanta’s disgustingly overpriced eateries.

Thursday evening, however, I underwent an “attitude adjustment” of sorts, courtesy of my old buddy, John.
He and his lovely gal were in town on business, and stopped by Maison Ridgerunner a couple of days ago. During the course of the visit, John mentioned that he’d found a potentially promising Jamaican restaurant, and suggested that Mags and I join him and the endearingly elfin Mayna for a bite to eat.

And join ‘em we did – to our craws’ eternal gratitude.

The culinary Nirvana in question is yclept “Ocho Rios.” It’s an unpretentious place; serves delicious, no-bullshit Jamaican cuisine, and, by rights, should be at the top of any Roswellian’s or metro-Atlantan’s list of “must try” eateries.

The fare isn’t “fast food” by any stretch of the imagination. The two lovely, charming ladies who run the place will inform the prospective diner that his/her meal may take some time to prepare, but they do so up front. They’re entirely too modest to say so, but the occasional delay exists only because they prepare each meal lovingly, authentically, and correctly -- from scratch and on the spot. In other words: eating at this place is like eating in mama’s kitchen – with a spicy, Caribbean twist.

Four diners, four distinct tastes – and yet we all went home satisfied – and eager for more.

The portions were generous above and beyond the call of duty, and the food itself indescribably delicious. The jerk chicken, curried shrimp and curried goat (Yeah, I'm the one who ordered it. Is anyone actually surprised?) – the latter served in a rich, spicy, green sauce, with thick slices of potato -- were especially noteworthy, and I’m looking forward to trying the oxtail during my next visit.

Entrees are served with the diner’s choice of several sides, including beans and rice, yellow rice, cabbage (also particularly tasty) and fried plantains.

In addition to serving excellent fare, Ocho Rios, being situated along a major traffic artery, is easily accessible. Take Holcomb Bridge Road to Grimes Bridge Road; then turn into the first shopping center on the left, directly across the street from the old Post Office.

Give ‘em a try when next you weary of pizza, burgers and "super-sized" cholesterol bombs, and crave some real food. You won’t be sorry.

Ocho Rios: 1255 Grimes Bridge Road, Roswell (770-992-1551)

Shitstorm

Boom!

The process for treating potassium chloride with sulfuric acid in order to obtain potassium perchlorate can be found in Kurt Saxon’s Granddad’s Wonderful Book of Chemistry, available here.

***

A few years ago, I found myself wondering if sodium chloride (ordinary salt) would yield similar results if subjected to the same treatment. I shot an email to a chemist buddy of mine and was given a big ol’ muthafuckin’ negatory, by way of a reply. Apparently, sodium simply doesn’t have sufficient energy to make the reaction work.

Not terribly surprising, as potassium-based boom-booms and incendiaries are observably more powerful than their sodium-based counterparts.

I just thought I’d add that, lest the Gentle Reader -- perhaps wondering the same thing -- waste his time and money experimenting.

***

I’ve probably mentioned this before, but when working from reprints of older formularies, it’s a good idea to have a copy of Lindsay’s Chemical Cross Reference at hand. The archaic (and downright unscientific, at times) terminology employed in nineteenth and early twentieth century formularies can be very confusing to the modern reader, and Lindsay’s… is a true blessing for the kitchen chemist/closet mad scientist, insofar as clarifying the obscure verbiage is concerned. Owning a copy may very well prevent the Gentle Reader from looking like an utter dipshit when he asks his local pharmacist (or alchemist?) for “spirit of hartshorn” (ammonia) or “soda ash” (sodium carbonate, a.k.a. washing soda).

Snooping

Just yesterday, I was singing the praises of zabasearch. Today, however, finds me in a slightly different frame of mind. My opinion of the site hasn’t changed, mind you. It’s a wonderful resource when it comes to tracking down old army buddies, college roomies, long-lost (and wealthy? Nah, ya wouldn’t stoop that low, would ya?) relatives, deadbeat dads, etc. It also puts quite a bit of power into Joe Sixpack’s hands – and keeps his money in his pocket, as he need no longer pay the extortionate fees demanded by many private investigators.

Be this as it may, I can’t help but think that sites of this sort actually put a barrier of sorts between the would-be sleuth and the real world – by making it too easy to obtain certain kinds of information.

In the “good old days” ((chuckle…)), one had to learn how the big, bad world actually works, if one wanted to procure this or that bit of intel. Dealing with various petty bureaucrats and flunkies was invariably an eye-opening (and frequently chilling) experience – and very much a part of the “game,” as were the fine arts of subtle bribery, pretexting (read: “plausible bullshitting”), “garbology,” physical surveillance, developing one’s “gut,”and so forth.

Technology, alas and alack, has – as is its wont – largely rendered all the aforementioned irrelevant. I’m certainly not knocking the computer’s value as an investigative tool; but I’m convinced that like many other technologies (from the pocket calculator to skates with built-in ankle support), it’s become a crutch of sorts – a substitute for an analytical mind, keen intuition, and so-called “people skills.”

Among the nastier problems confronting the computer-dependent “Dick” is the simple fact that a website can only provide information, not process it.

Ok, so our boy now has names, addresses, phone numbers, etc., at his fingertips. But what now? Granted, in some cases (bill-collecting, for example) one needs little more than that. In others, however (e.g., determining whether or not some gent is shagging a coworker at the local “No-Tell Motel,” or on business trips), the computer is fairly useless – unless hacking, with all its attendant risks, happens to be a part of one’s skill-set.

To the best of my knowledge, a computer can’t evaluate behavior – only catalogue it. It can’t determine, via the instant “feedback” provided by body language, for example, that our philandering gent is hiding something, or a little too eager to finish dinner (the better to start on “dessert” with that new broad in the marketing division ASAP, as likely as not…). Moreover, a computer can’t make the same kind of on-the-spot, “thin slicing” (see Malcolm Gladwell’s Blink) snap decisions a properly trained human can.

I won’t belabor the point any farther, beyond stating that we, as a species, employ technology as a substitute for technique at our own peril. Times change; people don’t…

***

For whatever reason, most PI’s I’ve met fall into one of two categories: the “Simon Pure” type (think: Nicholas Cage in 8mm; or the utter scuzzbucket type (think: any 1940’s film noir gumshoe).

As I was working without a license “back in the day” (I actually billed myself as a “researcher” in order to avoid working for someone else for the requisite three years, for Christ’s sake…), I definitely fell into the latter category, and won’t claim otherwise.

Satisfied?

The “Simon Pure” type is usually a former LEO, a family man (or woman), and -- aside from using old professional connections to obtain information otherwise unavailable to “citizens” -- generally plays by the rules. In short, he runs counter to every “Dick” stereotype in the book, and is essentially a regular guy – with a very interesting job.

The utter scuzzbucket type (in the minority, incidentally), on the other hand, is usually the spittin’ image of my fictional character, McVann: a maladjusted, antisocial, cynical, mercenary, mean-as-hell, “train wreck” of a son of a bitch; a critter that could have leapt into the “real world” from an 1940’s film noir offering on AMC, using the screen of the “glass toilet” as an inter-dimensional portal of sorts.

These fuckers live by the adages: “Rules were meant to be broken” and “It’s better to ask forgiveness than permission,” don’t give a rat’s ass about doing things “by the book,” and are often every bit as familiar with posting bail as with running down bail jumpers.

Stripping the bullshit and Tinseltown glamour away from both archetypes, one finds certain similarities between them. Rather like paparazzi PI’s, whether licensed or unlicensed; pillars of the community or lowlives, are essentially professional stalkers.

Granted, “Simon Pure” dedicates his time to finding missing children, tracking down “deadbeat dads,” the odd bit of bounty hunting, and similarly warm’n’fuzzy, socially acceptable, “feelgood” shite, whereas the utter scuzzbucket dedicates his to seeing an already dark world “through a (two-way, as often as not) glass, darkly.”

In other words: call “Simon Pure” when your ex is behind on his child-support payments, but call the scuzzbucket when you suspect your hubby of banging your sister – for which indignity you feel you’re entitled to a little more “green” than many states’ no-fault divorce laws allow.

Bear in mind, though, that both specialize in sniffing out concrete evidence of man’s inherent propensity towards naughtiness – and never you dare to forget it. A man can’t spot that to which he’s unaccustomed, after all…

A few years ago, I had a few short, but very enlightening email conversations with Col. David Grossman, author of On Violence and On Killing. I don’t buy into his “sheepdog/wolf” personality model -- lock, stock, and barrel -- any more than I buy into my own “Simon Pure/scuzzbucket” model -- lock, stock and barrel – but there’s no doubt that the man’s onto something, and something big, at that.

Grossman’s contention was that most of the order of critter that lowlives of my ilk dub “citizens” are “sheep,” protected from “wolves,” (i.e., criminals, terrorists, etc.) by “sheepdogs” (i.e., cops, soldiers, etc.)

Before I continue, let me make it clear that I have the utmost respect for Col. Grossman. He’s “been there, done that, got the T-shirt,” time and time again, and is both a consummate gentleman and a thinker of the first order. Generally speaking, I think he’s right on the money – but the Devil, as the saying goes, is in the details. This, incidentally, is at the root of my (admittedly minor) disagreement with his method of classifying certain personality types.

Col. Grossman is some years older than I, grew up in a very different world and, as a professional leader, can’t afford to become mired down in minutiae. Moreover, as a professional writer, he must necessarily reduce complex concepts to the “bare bones” level, in order to avoid confusing his readers. As the average reading level in this country (according to a study I recently read) is on the eighth-grade level, that’s a terribly daunting task.

Putting it crudely, Grossman is in the unenviable position of an officer trying to convey the “big picture” to his minutia-oriented grunts/readers as best he can. In order to do so, he must, of necessity, oversimplify to a certain extent – while avoiding the trap of reductionism.

His task (i.e., establishing his paradigm) is, in essence, is a “balancing act,” and one he pulls off with commendable skill. Under identical circumstances, I’d have said “Aww, fuck it! I’ll never be able to explain this stuff to these chowder-heads!” and thrown my research into the roundfile, for the record.

To reiterate, Grossman’s books are “must reads” of the same caliber as Marc MacYoung’s or Gavin de Becker’s, and his model is both damned accurate and well worth studying.

But it ain’t perfect, nor all-encompassing. I’ll admit to having dealt with “sheep,” “sheepdogs” and “wolves” – all of whose behavior dovetailed with Grossman’s observation -- during the course of my misspent life. Consequently, I can vouch for the existence of the three personality types. Unfortunately, Col. Grossman’s animal analogy categorically excludes personalities perhaps better likened to bears, jackals, foxes, wolverines, cats, etc. (Hell, I once jokingly remarked that many of my friends and I are “what happens when the she-wolf gets knocked up by the sheepdog.”)

The model also skirts some very hairy territory – the fact that the “wolf” and the “sheepdog” are both canines. In other words: there’s nearly as much of that which binds them as of that which separates them.

An old cop saying goes: “In order to catch a perp, ya gotta think like a perp.” In the classic tune “Sympathy for the Devil,” The Rolling Stones sang, “Just as every cop is a criminal, and all the sinners saints...” Both claims are fundamentally correct.

Yeah, “Simon’s” activities are perceived as socially acceptable --if not downright laudable -- while scuzzbucket’s are seamy at best, and, frankly, dodgy at worst. Bear in mind, though, that both are essentially employing the same techniques. Whether it’s a “good” Simon Pure-type getting the goods on one of the dreaded “deadbeat dads,” or a “naughty” scuzzbucket digging up evidence of extramarital “wick-dipping,” petty theft rings, or potentially compromising/embarrassing activity on the part of a “high risk” employee, they’re both sufficiently familiar with lowlife behaviors to be able to identify them.

They’re also both near-criminals themselves. Certainly, the scuzzbucket may (generally speaking) may deport himself more like a common thug, while “Simon Pure” still has a good bit of the dutiful, “protect and serve” LEO in his makeup – but both routinely perform patently unlawful acts.

I don’t give a rat’s ass what kind of celluloid silliness Hollywood chooses to crank out; tapping phones without a warrant is illegal. Recording conversations without the prior knowledge of both parties is illegal in most states. Breaking and entering – even for the purpose of obtaining information rather than swag – is illegal. Disguising or (mis)representing oneself as a cop is illegal.

And it doesn’t matter whether the gent engaging in any or all of the aforementioned activities is a public-spirited “good guy” or a mercenary thug – they’re both breaking the law.

For the time being, I’ll bypass both soapbox and high horse, and refrain from moralizing. I’ll also pass on opining whether the practices I’ve mentioned are merely mala prohibita or actually mala in se -- and let the Gentle Reader draw his own conclusions.

Just give the matter some thought.

I’ve been doing just that.

Things Matrimonial

Prior to choosing to spend the rest of my life with one woman (She’ll kill me for this, but I’m reminded of a cartoon I once saw in a copy of Easyrider, during my teens. It depicts a man and a woman standing before the altar, while the caption reads: “Do you, Otis, swear to bang the same hole for, oh, the next fifty years or so?”), I’d never even have entertained the notion of a causal relationship between the condition of the hands and that of the genitalia. Now that I’ve done so, however, I can unhesitatingly and unreservedly state that the simple act of donning an engagement ring results in an immediate, fifty percent reduction in the size of one’s balls.

***

MacYoung was right.
He’s right more often than not, mind you; but he has a nasty tendency to be right at the most inconvenient, inopportune, pain-in-the-ass times.

“Forget everything you think you know, Bean,” says His Furriness, during a recent “Calvinball” phone chat. “From now on, you only need to know two words: ‘Yes, dear.’”

Razzafrackin’, frazzlerackin’ Pictish bastard!

Grrrrrr…

An’ g’night!

Firecrackers!

Note: The following piece is presented solely for information/entertainment purposes. The author assumes no responsibility for would-be pyrotechnists putting this info to use and/or blasting themselves into bloody gobbets thereby.

There are a few inherent drawbacks to living in the "freest country on earth." (I'd love to know what the second freest is, for the record, but I digress...) One of said drawbacks is the fact that making one's own fireworks is a no-no in most of the forty-eight contiguous states.

This wasn't always the case, mind you. From the colonial era until the early twentieth century -- when we began exporting our rather unique (and ever-so-slightly contradictory) notions of "freedom" to the rest of the globe, manuals and formularies on the time-honored art of pyrotechny could be had at any newsstand, for pennies a copy.

Certainly, many of the formulae were sketchy (and some downright dangerous), but the odd gent who decided to try his hand a making a few Fourth of July salutes wasn't even considered eccentric -- let alone a "terrorist," quite unlike his contemporary counterpart.

Ain't "progress" lovely?

Pardon the dripping sarcasm.

On with the show, then.

The ultimate impact of the last century's "progress" upon the typical Georgian is made manifest in his/her need to drive to Tennessee, Alabama, or South Carolina in order to buy halfway decent "boom booms" for New Year's Eve or the Fourth of July. (Ain't it great to have less freedom than the Chinese? Dude, ye' jes' gotta love th' bitter irony...) Admittedly, certain pyrotechnic devices are now legally available in our once-great state, but the selection is limp-dicked at best. Then there's the fact that purchasing them does little or nothing but pour rapidly devaluating greenbacks into the economy of an enemy nation, the leaders of which have actually threatened to nuke California -- within the last fifteen years.

Had the Chinese government threatened Israel, one suspects that necons from coast to coast would long since have imposed a trade embargo a la our crumbling nation's current (and eminently sensible, for the record) sanctions against Cuba, or the phenomenally successful economic "bitch slapping" to which we gleefully and self-righteously subjected Rhodesia and South Africa during the 'seventies and 'eighties, to the ultimate benefit of both nations. (Let freedom -- and yet more dripping sarcasm -- ring, y'all...)

So much for politics and insanity (two words which I'm increasingly inclined to consider synonymous).

As our government assures us that Al Qaeda and other badguys have access to "suitcase nukes," "dirty bombs," and other, truly scary items from the NBC menu, I have little reason to suspect that they'll try to blow up the Lincoln Memorial with really big ol' muthafuckin' firecrackers. Therefore, I'm completely justified in revealing a few items of "forbidden knowledge" that men of my grandfather's ilk took for granted.

The Gentle Reader may know (as did he, to be sure) from bitter and disappointing personal experience, firecrackers made from commercially available and/or homemade black powder suck and give change. Hell, rumor has it that they even accept American Express...

Even those made with smokeless powder leave much to be desired, and ain't anything to write home about, either -- for all that they cost and arm and a leg (metaphorically speaking, of course).

Enter flashpowder. Yep, it's the glossy, silvery stuff one finds in really good firecrackers -- and it's well and rightly different from any gunpowder, whether black or smokeless. During the 1880's, it was deemed (and rightly so) too powerful and unstable for use in conventional firearms. Therefore, nitrocellulose -- for various eminently reasonable and practical reasons -- was chosen, worldwide, as black powder's de facto heir.

For the home pyrotechnist, though, flashpowder's ability to rupture gun-barrels is far less important than its ability to rupture hand-rolled paper cases -- the entire point of making a fucking firecracker, afer all...

Unfortunately, many modern pyrotechnists continue to use potassium- or sodium chlorate-based mixtures when assembling their "party favors." Since this silly, archaic practice often results in death or serious physical injury to the poor (however well-intentioned) fuckwit who "gets in over his head," I'd humbly submit that potassium perchlorate-based mixtures are safer than any chlorate-based mixture, more stable, and actually more effective/powerful, owing to their higher oxygen content. Compare potassium chlorate (KClO3) to potassium perchlorate (KClO4)...

"But Bean!" squalls the Gentle Reader, "Where am I to obtain chlorates or perchlorates? Skinny, balding closet-case, Michael Chertoff, has illegalized them -- the constitutionality of the aforementioned act notwithstanding!"

Let not thine heart be troubled, O disciple of the pyrotechnic faith!

Hie thee unto a garden shop and buy a bag of "soluble potash," then check the label. If it reads "muriate of potash," "murate of potassa" or "potassium muriate," it's the same fucking thing as the so-called "salt substitute" for which you pay a buck or so per ounce at the supermarket -- i.e., potassium chloride (KCl).

I won't give the exact process for converting it into potassium perchlorate, as I learned it from two men -- neither of whom I can ever repay for the knowledge they've passed on to me, and from a very old formulary.

I will mention, however, that sulfuric acid plays a role, and that hydrogen sulfide ("rotten egg gas") is potentially lethal when concentrated.

KCl + H2SO4 ----> KClO4 + H2S

Have fun, and piss on "Cinco de Mayo," me buckos. As Winston Churchill once said of Mohandas Gandhi: "You have no idea of how much it costs us to keep that man in his 'poverty'."

Just think about it -- and keep yer fingers, fer th' love o' God!

Snoopin' Made Easy

Damn, but do I ever wish I'd had access to something of this sort twenty or so years ago (or even more recently...)!

In those days, digging for info was a matter of making long, dreary road trips; endless pilgrimages to various city halls, county courthouses, and other gub'mint facilities; and spinning one's wheels, as often as not.

This is no longer the case, thanks to zabasearch.com. Unlike other "free" online snooping sites, this one yields actual results -- not just "teasers."

Wanna hunt down and beat the shit outta that guy who gave you a wedgie during your freshman year of high school -- long before you took to lifting weights and training in silat, jujutsu and Fairbairn-style CQC six days a week? Wanna find the pukechunk who burned you in a dope deal back in '92, and still owes you fifty bucks (adjusted for inflation)? Wanna have a little "chat" with the asshole who sold you a hot piece (swearing on his mother's grave that it was clean, all the while...) during the dark days of the Clinton regime? Wanna prove that that pompous baw'bag of a county commisioner you so loathe and detest doesn't even live in the ward/district he/she/it represents?

If so, this is your site.

Rip Van Winkel Awakens!

As the Gentle Reader may have noticed, I haven't been posting much, of late.

No, I haven't moved to Tibet and become a monk.

No, I haven't become an international terrorist.

No, I haven't been abducted by UFOs, forced to become a female sasquatch's sex slave, or anything else worthy of fifteen seconds of fame on Coast to Coast AM.

I've just been a tad busy in the garden, racing against time -- and the drought.

The photos are here.

"Hurrah for the Bonny Blue Flag That Bears a Single Star!"

Happy Confederate Memorial Day.

Pro aris et focis, deo vindice, et sic semper tyrannis!