On this Veterans Day, here’s a reminder of war as seen through modern eyes:
We will remember them.
Category: Traditions
MIA
Spot the missing part(s):
Begging the question: what is Schrodinger’s Swiss Army Knife?
Well, that would be the above, which contains every possible mini-tool except for the implement in its title.
And Victorinox is now party to this silliness.
I’m just glad I already possess a number of the original knives, all of which contain one or more blades.
And anyone who thinks that a Swiss Army knife could be used as a weapon is a fucking moron.
Mind you, that razor-sharp mini-saw would sure leave a mark if dragged across some scrote’s face…
Just sayin’.
Missing Comfort
As any fule kno, I am partial to the occasional visit to a pub. [pause to let laughter die down]
But not just any pub. I have strict rules for places which charge me far too much for the pleasure of indulging myself, because if I am going to be hit with a $7 (or more) tab for a single beer (!!!), the establishment had better offer me more than just a pint. Here’s a short list of necessities:
Decent beer. Any bar in the U.S. which doesn’t give me a choice of at least three British-ale equivalents won’t see me after a single awful American beer, and never again as well. (Curiously, I find Mexico’s Negra Modelo to be the closest thing to a decent ale, although I do have to pour it from glass to glass a few times to get rid of the appalling and excessive fizz.) If they serve Fuller’s London Pride or Boddington’s, then we can be friends and they can be assured of a follow-up visit (or two, or three). And if the beer isn’t up to snuff, they’d damn well better have a decent selection of single-malts or gins, or else it’s to the door I’ll be heading.
No loud music. I’ve talked before about my hatred for this piece of modernism, whereby the acceptable noise of drunken people having a good time has to be drowned out by music — any kind of music, really, not just the revolting thumpa-thumpa of hip-hop — as though the background noise of simple conversation and occasional laughter are somehow incompatible with drinking pleasure.
Loud TV programs. I can live with this if a.) it’s a “sports” bar or b.) there’s a big game being played (e.g. Bears vs. Packers or Chelsea vs. Arsenal). But if I walk into a bar and there’s a large-screen TV showing ESPN’s SportsCenter (i.e. people talking about sport instead of playing it), I turn around and walk out. Don’t even get me started if it’s CNN, Fox News or (gawd help us) Oprah Winfrey (I had to endure that once — client lunch, so I had no control — and it took me days to recover).
A foot-rail at the bar counter. This may seem a strange one, but it’s a critical part of drinking that’s too often overlooked. Note this otherwise-excellent setup (in a private house, withal):
But the Arrow Of Accusation points to the missing piece, and the whole pub is ruined by the glaring omission.
It’s a simple thing, really. I (and many others) actually prefer to drink standing up, and especially around the bar counter, where space is at a premium. It’s the one time I don’t mind being in a crowd, because I am in the company of people with a common goal, that of getting a good buzz on and enjoying life, and I far prefer a crowded bar to a nearly-empty one, which is depressing. If one is enjoying the company of a lady, standing close to her bar stool makes the whole activity more intimate, too. But if you’re going to stand, you must have a rail to rest a foot on, because otherwise you get tired of standing. (I don’t know why that it, but it’s a fact nevertheless.) Look at this place:
That picture simply screams out that I’ll be there till closing time, or later (don’t ask; I’m still banned from The Blue Cow which, needless to say, served about five excellent ales — all of which I sampled extensively — and had a brass foot-rail).
Decent decor. I hate modernist interior design, as all my Readers know well, but while I prefer the traditional pub style, it doesn’t have to be that. Here’s the inside of the fantastic Randolph’s Bar at the Warwick Hotel in Manhattan:
…and yes of course it has a foot-rail at the counter. And yes, I have been tossed out of that place too, several times, but always gently as I used to be a frequent guest there (hi, Carlo!). On each of those occasions, the company was excellent and much disposed towards trying to finish all the Scotch in the place, but the atmosphere and decor did no harm to the attempt, either.
Here’s yet another of my favorite haunts, the Coq d’Or at the Drake Hotel in Chicago (where I do not have a tempestuous history, albeit not for lack of trying):
It’s a little hard to see (bottom left), but yes, there is a foot-rail, and it’s brass.
All this bar talk is making me thirsty. And now, if you’ll excuse me, my post-birthday hangover needs a little TLC and that gin isn’t going to drink itself.
Vanishing Point
I have spoken often of my distaste for much of modern life, and here’s just one more thing to make me want to pack a picnic lunch and an assault rifle, and go find a tall building somewhere.
Sadly, the end of the manual transmission is near, and the unfortunate truth is few people will miss it. Most young adults don’t know how to drive a vehicle with a manual transmission, and they aren’t interested in learning. Many modern automatics offer better fuel efficiency and quicker acceleration than their manual counterparts. Porsche now delivers 75% of its 718 and 911 sports cars with automatic transmissions. The new C8 Corvette is only available with one. When the stick shift loses Porsche and Corvette buyers, you know it’s quickly heading for the rearview mirror.
But it gets worse.
In the future, cars won’t only be automatics; it appears they’ll increasingly be automated, electric vehicles. The satisfying throbbing of the exhaust and the pleasure of driving will also become victims of progress. Traveling in a personal vehicle will be as exciting as riding in an elevator with windows.
And this guy adds his take, talking about
the dystopian future in which you’ll sit passively in your computer-driven car with government-mandated speed limits and instantly-revocable travel permissions programmed in.
In the next year or so I’ll be needing to get a new car because the old Tiguan has north of 115,000 miles under its belt. Don’t be surprised if I get something with a stick shift (assuming I can find one, and even if it does limit my choices), if for no other reason than to shake my fist at the Empire.
And just let some future asshole government mandate “smart” guns with chips embedded so that they can be “controlled” by some central source — essentially, the same principle as automated cars.
At that point, my prospective trip up to the rooftops won’t just be a joke anymore.
Different Time
I sense that people I speak to are getting tired of me excusing excesses of my youth by saying, “It was a different time.”
Granted, the difference between then and now (for so many things) is vast, but not much compared to, say, my earlier life and the late Victorian- or even Edwardian eras. Now that was a jump.
What brought this all to mind is the story of former King Juan Carlos of Spain:
His passion for exclusive sports, from hunting and shooting to skiing and yacht-racing, has been matched only by the vigour with which he has pursued women, clocking up roughly 5,000 sexual partners, according to a historian called Amadeo Martinez Ingles, who, in a recent book, dubbed him ‘an authentic royal stud’ and ‘sexual predator’ whose list of best-known conquests ‘represents the tip of a monumental sexual iceberg’.
During one short spell at military academy in his early 20s, Juan Carlos seduced 332 different women, according to Ingles, whose research drew on confidential reports compiled by spies of the country’s former dictator, General Franco.
He has described the tally as ‘good for any actor specialising in porn films — four per week’. At the height of the King’s romantic career, a ‘passionate period’ between 1976 and 1994, Ingles reckons he bedded 2,154 women.
Even in his so-called ‘winter period’ of 2005 to 2014, when he was aged between 67 and 76 and supposedly slowing down, the King’s libido seems to have remained as unchecked as that of his namesake, the legendary seducer Don Juan, allowing him to squire another 191 mistresses.
Hey, great work if you can get it. Of course, this Evil Womaniser And Seducer once turned Spain from a fascist dictatorship into a parliamentary democracy but that’s just, like, Ancient History, Dude.
Men in positions of power seldom lack for female attention — ’twas ever thus — and let’s be honest, the king of a Mediterranean country… Grace Kelly, anyone? The higher the rank, the classier the totty.
And his latest — last? one hopes not — squeeze probably epitomizes the type, being a commoner who married into royalty herself: the wonderfully-named Corinna, Prinzessin zu Sayn-Wittgenstein, a Danish chick who married up (and up again) before finally ending up in the bed of the old Spanish goat.
I know, I know: who cares about outdated political constructs like royalty, anyway? Of course it’s not important. But an average of four women per week for over forty years? Even for those different times, that’s impressive.
Waffen Durch Plastik
Yeah, I’ve noticed this alarming development too:
Taking a look at some of the most popular firearms companies, I was honestly a bit shocked to see how the synthetic/polymer/laminate wood stocks have come to dominate the market. The vast majority of Ruger, Remington and Savage rifles and shotguns are stocked in something other than walnut. The Winchester Model 70 maintains a walnut stock advantage, as does the lineup of Winchester lever-action rifles, but synthetic-stocked lever-actions are popping up regularly these days; Marlin and Henry being two examples which come quickly to mind.
This bullshit is something I’ve bemoaned ever since I was first able to hold a gun. Here’s why:
A well-sealed walnut stock will actually stand up well to most hunting situations, though they aren’t as rigid or easy to produce as a synthetic stock. While the mass-produced stocks are created by machinery, the higher-end walnut stocks are finished by hand. Custom stocks are a work of art, and to watch a classically trained stockmaker hand-carve a stock is like watching Michelangelo work. Names like Ralf Martini, Todd Ramirez, D’Arcy Echols, Mark Renmant and JJ Perodeau, just to name a few, can make the stock of your dreams. And I firmly believe that, like a fine watch, everyone should own at least one gun with a stock they are truly proud of.
That’s part of it, but not all of it. I love the feel of a wooden stock in my hands, a feeling that is entirely absent when I hold a piece of fucking plastic. Wood is warm, it feels natural and somehow seems to form a bond between gun and man in a way that some synthetic material just… doesn’t.
And I don’t buy this “wood warps and pushes the barrel out of register” bullshit. I’ve shot rifles in some pretty damn extreme conditions (African heat and Wisconsin cold, not to mention Scotland windy and wet) and I have never experienced that, in any rifle. I suppose it could happen, if the stock is too tight against the metal (which it shouldn’t be to begin with); I’ve just never noticed it.
Frankly, I think the clue to this nonsense lies in here:
Those [wood] stocks—even the blanks from which they are made—are not cheap. The custom walnut stock is extremely labor-intensive, and the highly figured walnut, which was much more common a century ago, has become a rarity. Many of the hardwood stocks in use today are rather plain looking, and the figured stocks come at a premium, for certain.
Much easier, cheaper and more “efficient” (fuck, I’m starting to hate that word) just to pour some polymer crap into a mold and screw the rifle action in, ten seconds’ work and all done.
Bah.
I have only two rifles with Tupperware stocks — my Marlin 880SQ and 882SSV rimfire rifles — simply because Marlin doesn’t offer those two models with wood stocks, and it’s a long-term project of mine to replace the soulless black plastic with wood, one day, even though the stocks will probably end up costing me more than the original rifles themselves.
Compare the above with the rifle below, and tell me I’m wrong.
Let’s not even GO here:
(I note, by the way, that fine shotguns seldom come with PoliGrip stocks, so that’s all I need to say about that.)
I know: yelling about this is like moaning about the wind-tunnel shape of modern cars — it’s pointless, and as a trend, plastic stocks are no doubt here forever.
But I’ll tell you this (and it’s a promise): the day that new rifles are ONLY offered with plastic stocks is the day I stop buying new rifles altogether.