Goal

Ray guns will almost certainly not, by my reckoning, provide the same satisfying tactile experience as your basic firearm. Regardless of whether or not they can disintegrate an obstacle or even turn it into a chicken, unless their triggers are engineered to have a break-over point in the mechanism.

 Grab yourself a little .22, Interested Party, and seat it into your shoulder. Take aim at your target. Take an easy breath, and as you let it out, pull back on that trigger. Things happen quicker than you can keep up with by now, at least in real-time. The mechanism in the rifle has pecked into the rear of the shell, igniting gunpowder, which launches the bullet right out the end of the barrel and into whatever it was pointed at. At this same point, my old Interested Party, the process has ceased to be analog. That break-over you feel is the moment where the Thing has happened. It is decidedly digital. It is Either-Or. It is a Thing that is either done, or not done.

 What’s this got to do with the price of feet in China? It’s the same sensation I get writing on a keyboard that’s got buckling spring action. It is supremely satisfying in a way that fountain pens are not. Nothing against fountain pens, you understand. I’m a big fan of ‘em. But they offer two entirely different experiences to me — and since I tend to Write From The Hip, I’m convinced they offer two entirely different results.

 Incidentally, I’ll probably be doing some head-scratching on these differences now that they’ve floated to the surface of my thinking. But, in the mean time, I’ll mention a project of mine…

 My grandfather was a WWII veteran. He was a marine and he served in the Pacific Theater. His dress uniform is this green, wool thing, with pins and chevrons and patches. Not only was this uniform worn by someone who once saved the world — but it was worn by someone who saved the world, who was also a direct ancestor of mine that I knew personally. I don’t recall him ever even mentioning his years of service – my grandmother says, despite the Guadalcanal patch on the shoulder, he spent most of his time in China – but once his time was up, he came back to the States and married my grandmother.

 I have the old uniform and my intention is either to build – or have made – a shadow-box to hang on the wall in order to display it. My Dad was drafted and went to Vietnam, and he’s the finest man I know. But my grandfather, who died when I was too young to know him well, saved this whole damned world. And one of the few things I can do is hang his old, moth-eaten uniform on the wall.

 Not much of a contribution on my part, I know. But at least I can ‘splain to my Descendants (and, so, his) one of the things he was a part of.

Purpose

Well now, my old Interested Party, it’s been a while, ain’t it? And how’ve you been keeping, huh? Between the ditches, I hope. As for Yours Truly, I’m steadily learning to see this old world through fresh eyes – specifically the two newish sets of eyes belonging to my Descendants. This has been occurring for me on a daily basis since the Descendants were first responding to it.

So, Interested Party, it turns out the world isn’t old after all. Sometimes the world is six years old, and full of awesome, dangerous stuff. Volcanoes, for example. And scorpions. And cheerleaders. And then again, sometimes the earth is only four years old, and full of wonderful, interesting people. Uncles who hunt deer and then cook ‘em. And cousins who like to play dress-up. And cheerleaders.

These two people are the most Interesting People I have ever met. And I know rather a shitload of very Interesting People. Hell, I am very Interesting People, if I do say so myself.

Right? Right…?

I am their ambassador to this new world. I find myself explaining things like: Everyone is crying because a loved one has died and we’ll all miss her. And that vitamins can help little people grow strong to become big people.

In return, I am rewarded with new insights. You might not have considered, lately, that if little people were little tigers instead, they could eat people to grow strong to become big tigers. Thereby never having to take a vitamin again.

Interested Party, you may (or may not) recall that there are several endeavors in which I excel to the level of Better’n Average. Many of these, I really dig on doing. Some of these, other people even seem to dig on my participation in them. But none of these things equal Who I Am. They are not the nexus of my existence. They are not my reason for being, and they never have been.

Turns out, having these two Descendants has clinched it, my Interested Party. It ain’t glamorous. It ain’t unique. It’s a sentiment that I’m sharing with nearly every warm-blooded creature that has ever procreated throughout the history of, well, history.

In order that you may appreciate the chaotic, kid-filled world I currently inhabit, my old Interested Party, I am going to begin putting asterisks in this post. They will be used to note points at which I had to pause to do one of the following: 1. Holler at * someone for infringing upon the rights of someone else. * 2. Intervene on behalf of someone who hasn’t quite become accustomed to some basic rule of the universe, in general (such as, say, newtonian physics, or various misdemeanor indecent exposures). 3. Scrub the afore-mentioned universe off one or more bodies in the * bathtub. 4. Join in another rousing chorus of the ABC’s song. 5. Help someone over five feet tall, who happens to be much better looking than myself, carry in groceries.

Just in case you were curious. *

So, I came across this * old M-1 wooden stock at the Dog Trade. Ah, the Dog * Trade.
Imagine if you will, Interested Party, that Craigslist was live and in person *. I don’t just mean In Action, like you were watching some demonstration of random transactions * by folks and goods all traveling in a brownian motion on Youtube. You are there, right in the damned middle of it all. * You are part of the equation.

* The Dog Trade isn’t a flea-market – though I reckon there are some similarities. For one, it’s outside, slightly off* the beaten path. And while you might find anything at the Dog Trade, you can always, always, always find* two things in abundance: Critters and guns. If you’re in the market for something with a face and something else to either kill or defend it with – the Dog Trade* is for you.

In many other respects, however, it’s awfully damned close to a flea market. There are, for example, strange odors * that you can’t quite place, and a several that you, regrettably, can. ****

Anyway, that’s where I came across the wooden body of an old M-1. I saw it and thought to myself: Self, that’s kind of interesting. And so I haggled* briefly with the vendor over the price, and bought it.** My thinking was that I could mod it into some sort of prop-version of steampunk kipple to hang on the wall – you know, something cool to look at, but not actually functional.

The Mighty Buzzard, who was accompanying me to this bastion of rural capitalism*, saw it and after I explained my intention he said, “You should turn it into a remote control.”

And so I’m seriously considering it. For one thing, I wouldn’t have to worry about misplacing it. Ever again – and for those of you who are absent minded or who have children, you understand the grave importance of this. Another thing*, of course, being that while I like making things that Only Look Groovine, I much prefer making something that does so while having a purpose.

I bought some tiny little momentary-contact switches a while back and I’m wondering if they might be ideal for such an application. We’ll just have to see how it goes. I’ll keep you posted, my good old Interested Party.

****

Brass and Glass

Here, my Interested Party, is a groovy little hobby magnifying glass I picked up for two bucks. I might keep it more-or-less in tact, or I might just use it in some steampunk project. Not entirely sure just yet. As it stands, it’s kind of handy for the teeth-grittingly detailed work of painting miniatures, but so is the newer styled hobby light at the other end of the house.

Brass and glass

Time will tell.

Kitchen

I have, since I was in gradeschool, been the sort of person who posessed all the requisite skills to clean a kitchen — and I mean really clean it, too. It was a nightly chore. I could get it done quick, and scrubbed well enough so I wouldn’t be sent back in to re-do it. But let me assure you, my old Interested Party, that I have never, ever acquired a full-on passion for cleanliness as such. Cleaning kitchens has always been a chore. And as soon as I was old enough to have a kitchen of my own, I quit doing a damned thing in there that involved soap. At least on a regular basis.

“Germs”, you say? I laugh at germs. I laugh at ‘em to scorn. I was a single male for many years. My immune system is nearly bullet-proof. If I’m ever attacked by a bear, he’d better kill me quick before I bleed on him: Too many of my white-blood cells on him and he’s a goner.

Still, my good old Interested Party, I find that I clean my kitchen these days. I do it without dread or worry or grudge. I find myself just making it clean for no reason I can define.

I blame the Mrs.