Desert Cat's Paradise
"The prudent see danger and take refuge, but the simple keep going and suffer for it." - Proverbs 27:12.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
There are times I feel like an awfully lonely voice, and times I wonder intensely why the vast horde of Christendom, including my own (erstwhile) church, seem to be heading off in a different direction, marching to a beat that sounds nothing like the still small voice of my Savior guiding me in a different direction.Comments
So it comes as a breath of fresh air to read and hear of confirmation to what I see and hear. Below the fold (click "read the rest") is an article by a man who hits on several of the points where I have been diverging from the larger body of the church, as well as an area that God has recently been speaking more to me about.
Fellow Christians (and any one else interested), please read on:
(emphasis and interjected commentary mine)
DOING AWAY WITH the CROSS
Exactamente! And my erstwhile pastor has been talking about the apostolic/prophetic calling on his ministry.
HellOO fellow Christians! Go back and read that bold section in the last paragraph again. The nature of the counterfeit is to be AS MUCH LIKE THE REAL THING AS POSSIBLE but still not be the real thing. Danger Will Robinson!!
This is something that God has begun to impress upon me more lately. Not a denial of my worth before my Father, but a need to recognize the utter corruption of my old nature and the need for true and ongoing repentance in order to receive the holiness that is imputed to me solely through Christ.
Lissen up, pretribbers. Your view is on shaky ground biblically. The leaders who have beguiled you with this falsehood do not have your eternal interests at heart. Tremble at what is coming, and repent. Prepare yourself for the bridegroom, because he is very near.
posted by Desert Cat @ 8:26 PM | permalink
Man found near Glenn, Stone dead from gunshot | www.tucsoncitizen.comComments
Not *right* in my neighborhood, but too close. The response of the police leads me to believe it was probably gang-related.
Yes, I heard the shots (I was outside at the time), but with the earplugs I had in and the racket I was making in the backyard, I didn't discern any useful information to give the police, so I did not call 911. Apparently no one else closer to the scene did so either.
posted by Desert Cat @ 12:24 PM | permalink
Wednesday, February 27, 2008Comments
posted by Desert Cat @ 12:38 PM | permalink
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
DailyTech - Temperature Monitors Report Widescale Global CoolingComments
Over the past year, anecdotal evidence for a cooling planet has exploded. China has its coldest winter in 100 years. Baghdad sees its first snow in all recorded history. North America has the most snowcover in 50 years, with places like Wisconsin the highest since record-keeping began. Record levels of Antarctic sea ice, record cold in Minnesota, Texas, Florida, Mexico, Australia, Iran, Greece, South Africa, Greenland, Argentina, Chile -- the list goes on and on.
People, there is no way to avoid it--global warming is *not* an established fact. And any lame-brained efforts to "combat" it are not only doomed to failure (no "carbon offsets" plan has the real potential to have a measureable effect), but could actually increase the speed of our spiral into the next Ice Age.
Labels: society and culture
posted by Desert Cat @ 10:06 PM | permalink
Surprise! Inflation Looking Worrisome - Forbes.comComments
Who are these doofuses, and why are they the slightest bit surprised.
I TOLD you all we were headed for stagflation. I mean anyone, *anyone* with a rudimentary understanding of macroeconomics and who has been paying any attention at all to the recent credit and housing bubble burst and watched the Fed's reaction to it, could have predicted the same. Add to that record high energy prices (in real terms), and you have the double whammy of a 1970's-style energy cost driven recession with a 1980's style real estate and credit crash in one grand flustercluck.
But people persist with their head-in-the-sand dismissiveness.
This too is part of the plan.
Bernanke A Broken Record; Street Erases LossI surely hope he is correct.
Update 2: I am not the only one. Dr. Irwin Kellner, MarketWatch.com's chief economist predicts stagflation.
Update 3: And the fallout from Bernanke? Euro Shoots Over $1.51
Gold Surges More Than 1%
posted by Desert Cat @ 10:09 AM | permalink
Monday, February 25, 2008
Labels: San Pedro homestead
posted by Desert Cat @ 10:07 PM | permalink
Friday, February 22, 2008Comments
posted by Desert Cat @ 11:12 AM | permalink
Thursday, February 21, 2008Comments
posted by Desert Cat @ 8:27 PM | permalink
Brain: "Yeah, the thorns on these branches are pretty sharp."
Hand: "No, I mean OW!!"
Brain: "What, got a little owwie?"
Hand: "Dude, I'm serious. There's something in there and it hurts like hell! Now check it out!"
Brain: "Agh. Fine. Put everything down, get the glove off and let's take a look...hnh, yea there's something embedded in there all right...mmm, nope. Can't get it out with the other hand."
Other hand: "Sorry dude."
Hand: "Get it out! Get it out! AAAgh! Get a tweezers!!!"
Brain: "All right, get a grip. We'll find a tweezers."
Brain: "Rrgh. Dang. Can't get hold of it with the tweezers...keeps slipping...must...grip...harder..."
Hand: "AAAIAIIGHH! GetItOut!GetItOut!GetItOut!GetItOut!GetItOut!"
Brain: "Hmm...might need to do minor surgery...where do I have some razor blades..."
Brain: "Ah, fingernail clippers! That might work. Mm....GOT IT!"
Brain: "Uh...dude, you were not kidding, were you?"
posted by Desert Cat @ 3:10 PM | permalink
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
20 mm rifle (cannon really...)Comments
Comparative bullet sizes--from left to right:
.223, .338, 50BMG, 20MM
And no more kick than a shotgun they say...
Also check out their .50 cal BMG rifles.
posted by Desert Cat @ 11:03 PM | permalink
SurvivalBlog.com: The following is one of those items that widely gets circulated via e-mail, but this one is legitimate and I think that warrants posting to the blog:Comments
'Be prepared should you get this call. Most of us take those summonses for jury duty seriously, but enough people skip out on their civic duty, that a new and ominous kind of fraud has surfaced.
The caller claims to be a jury coordinator. If you protest that you never received a summons for jury duty, the scammer asks you for your Social Security number and date of birth so he or she can verify the information and cancel the arrest warrant. Give out any of this information and bingo; your identity was just stolen.
Read the rest...
posted by Desert Cat @ 9:23 PM | permalink
Daisycat asked me to blog this, via Rodger.Comments
Who are the people who scoff at this? I challenge you to reveal who you are working for.
This is coming. It is prophecied in Revelation. It has been spoken of openly by it's planners to various people in positions of influence. The technology exists today, and the people will demand it, because of the fear that they are fed by those who seek this control.
And both dupes and willing accomplices snort derisively when the light of truth is shined on what is going on right under our noses. Go ahead and snort. You reveal yourself as a member of one of the above two groups when you do.
posted by Desert Cat @ 7:03 PM | permalink
Vox Popoli: Blind from the factsComments
To be honest, I tend to dislike most people prone to boredom, male and female alike. I wish there were 10 more hours in the day to do all the things that I'd like to do, and 10 more lives to investigate all the various opportunity costs I paid along the way. Read a book. Learn your culture. Just shut up and do something.
A hearty Amen! Same here.
Labels: society and culture
posted by Desert Cat @ 6:08 PM | permalink
Aspen Times News for Aspen Colorado - Aspen Times Weekly OpinionComments
There is a great amount of interest in this year’s presidential elections, as everybody seems to recognize that our next president has to be a lot better than George Bush. The Democrats are riding high with two groundbreaking candidates — a woman and an African-American — while the conservative Republicans are in a quandary about their party’s nod to a quasi-liberal maverick, John McCain.
Read The Rest...this is not a bad summary of my concerns. Except that my loathing of Johnny Mac is nearly as deep as my antipathy toward Clinton or Obama.
posted by Desert Cat @ 11:56 AM | permalink
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Last weekend I completed the majority of the roof recoating. Because I worked like a dog until dark, I did not spare any time for photos. This weekend I had just the last couple of strips to apply at the peak.Comments
This is from last week's work, and gives a perfect illustration of the process. On the left is the original roof surface with the old coating cracking due to movements from the underlying mineral roll roofing. In the center is a layer of new elastomeric coating. You can see how it has soaked into the cracks and provides a new temporary seal. In a normal recoating, this would be it, and it wouldn't last more than two years before the roof would need to be recoated again. But as I mentioned last week, I am embedding a polyester membrane in the elastomeric as a reinforcement and "sponge" to hold a much greater quantity of elastomeric. That is what you see on the right--the polyester embedded in another layer of elastomeric.
The polyester membrane consists of a tough woven mesh filled with a fuzzy absorbent material.
Here is a closeup look at the edge of a completed section. Notice how the polyester membrane in combination with the elastomeric provides a much thicker protective layer over the old surface.
In some areas the cracking of the substrate can get pretty extreme. It almost appears as if the old surface has exploded in some areas. That's almost true, except it happens in extremely slow motion. The typical way this is dealt with is to scrape off the burst edges and maybe smear some elastomeric cement (an even thicker version that requires troweling on) over the area before topcoating with elastomeric roof coating. However with the polyester membrane/elastomeric coating system, the coating system provides a new seal to the surface that is much more durable than most other patching methods.
The first step is to pour out a ribbon of elastomeric sufficient to cover the area that is to receive the next strip of poly membrane, and spread it out into a layer that is generous but not puddling.
Then lay out the membrane over this elastomeric layer. Note, this is not yet laid out straight enough.
In order to get the membrane to lay flat without wrinkles it is usually necessary to get down on hands and knees in the midst of the goop and smooth the surface by hand. This is where the thick layers of elastomeric on hands and knees comes from. This membrane is looking pretty good and ready now for the top coat.
Next, pour out another ribbon of elastomeric onto the membrane. This will need to be slightly more than the amount laid down first. The idea is to completely saturate the membrane with elastomeric.
In my experience it takes about 3-4 gallons per 100 square foot to accomplish this. Also the elastomeric needs to be worked around, not just rolled on, to get it thoroughly saturated into the fibers.
This section is done. It fits like a glove to the underlying surface.
In some areas that's a bit of a disadvantage. My brother put a layer of roll roofing over the lower west half of this roof in exchange for some rent reduction. He did a crappy job and I've been paying the price of that mistake for a long time now. However despite the rumples and uneven areas, this new membrane system will provide a solid waterproof surface that should last years longer than a simple recoating would.
Another headache my brother left me was inadequate attention to sealing the lower edge of the new roofing layer. This has permitted water to creep under the gap he left and rot away the supporting wood. I left myself an extra flap of membrane that I will fold over and glue to the soffit with elastomeric. Unfortunately I ran out of daylight by the time I was done and have no photo. When I repaint the trim next, I will paint this flap to match.
Before this project is complete, it will require one more top-coat of elastomeric. For this system to work well, the polyester has to be thoroughly protected from the sun's UV radiation. Up to this point, the process has left portions of the membrane too close to the surface and vulnerable. A final coat will remedy this.
I will take this opportunity to add another ingredient to the elastomeric, a ceramic radiant barrier. This product consists of microscopic hollow ceramic beads cooked up in a specific manner to make them into a highly effective radiant reflector. The effect is to reflect up to 90% of the radiant heat that strikes the roof before it ever gets to the insulation. I have seen claims from some manufactureres that imply that these coatings provide the equivalent of about R-19 thermal resistance to the surface coated. However this is not technically accurate, as R values relate to the resistance to the rate of heat transfer. This product actually blocks the heat, not slow it down.
I have yet to order it, so it may be a couple weeks before I get to this last step.
Next up: repainting the cabinets yet a third time.
UPDATE: One thing I forgot to mention is that the old roof surface needs to be either thoroughly washed by hand or power washed before the first coat goes on. Otherwise the dirt and dust interferes with the bond to the new elastomeric.
Labels: home projects
posted by Desert Cat @ 9:14 PM | permalink
"Me realist, you dumb."Comments
The Man With the Blue Guitar
The man bent over his guitar,
A shearsman of sorts. The day was green.
They said, "You have a blue guitar,
You do not play things as they are."
The man replied, "Things as they are
Are changed upon the blue guitar."
And they said then, "But play, you must,
A tune beyond us, yet ourselves,
A tune upon the blue guitar
Of things exactly as they are."
I cannot bring a world quite round,
Although I patch it as I can.
I sing a hero's head, large eye
And bearded bronze, but not a man,
Although I patch him as I can
And reach through him almost to man.
If to serenade almost to man
Is to miss, by that, things as they are,
Say that it is the serenade
Of a man that plays a blue guitar.
Ah, but to play man number one,
To drive the dagger in his heart,
To lay his brain upon the board
And pick the acrid colors out,
To nail his thought across the door,
Its wings spread wide to rain and snow,
To strike his living hi and ho,
To tick it, tock it, turn it true,
To bang it from a savage blue,
Jangling the metal of the strings...
So that's life, then: things are they are?
It picks its way on the blue guitar.
A million people on one string?
And all their manner in the thing,
And all their manner, right and wrong,
And all their manner, weak and strong?
And that's life, then: things as they are,
This buzzing of the blue guitar.
Do not speak to us of the greatness of poetry,
Of the torches wisping in the underground,
Of the structure of vaults upon a point of light.
There are no shadows in our sun,
Day is desire and night is sleep.
There are no shadows anywhere.
The earth, for us, is flat and bare.
There are no shadows. Poetry
Exceeding music must take the place
Of empty heaven and its hymns,
Ourselves in poetry must take their place,
Even in the chattering of your guitar.
A tune beyond us as we are,
Yet nothing changed by the blue guitar;
Ourselves in the tune as if in space,
Yet nothing changed, except the place
Of things as they are and only the place
As you play them, on the blue guitar,
Placed so, beyond the compass of change,
Perceived in a final atmosphere;
For a moment final, in the way
The thinking of art seems final when
The thinking of god is smoky dew.
The tune is space. The blue guitar
Becomes the place of things as they are,
A composing of senses of the guitar.
It is the sun that shares our works.
The moon shares nothing. It is a sea.
When shall I come to say of the sun,
It is a sea; it shares nothing;
The sun no longer shares our works
And the earth is alive with creeping men,
Mechanical beetles never quite warm?
And shall I then stand in the sun, as now
I stand in the moon, and call it good,
The immaculate, the merciful good,
Detached from us, from things as they are?
Not to be part of the sun? To stand
Remote and call it merciful?
The strings are cold on the blue guitar.
The vivid, florid, turgid sky,
The drenching thunder rolling by,
The morning deluged still by night,
The clouds tumultuously bright
And the feeling heavy in cold chords
Struggling toward impassioned choirs,
Crying among the clouds, enraged
By gold antagonists in air--
I know my lazy, leaden twang
Is like the reason in a storm;
And yet it brings the storm to bear.
I twang it out and leave it there.
And the color, the overcast blue
Of the air, in which the blue guitar
Is a form, described but difficult,
And I am merely a shadow hunched
Above the arrowy, still string,
The maker of a thing yet to be made;
The color like a thought that grows
Out of a mood, the tragic robe
Of the actor, half his gesture, half
His speech, the dress of his meaning, silk
Sodden with his melancholy words,
The weather of his stage, himself.
Raise reddest columns. Toll a bell
And clap the hollows full of tin.
Throw papers in the streets, the wills
Of the dead, majestic in their seals.
And the beautiful trombones -- behold
The approach of him whom none believes,
Whom all believe that all believe,
A pagan in a varnished car.
Roll a drum upon the blue guitar.
Lean from the steeple. Cry aloud,
"Here am I, my adversary, that
Confront you, hoo-ing the slick trombones,
Yet with a petty misery
At heart, a petty misery,
Ever the prelude to your end,
The touch that topples men and rock."
Slowly the ivy on the stones
Becomes the stones. Women become
The cities, children become the fields
And men in waves become the sea.
It is the chord that falsifies.
The sea returns upon the men,
The fields entrap the children, brick
Is a weed and all the flies are caught,
Wingless and withered, but living alive.
The discord merely magnified.
Deeper within the belly's dark
Of time, time grows upon the rock.
Tom-tom, c'est moi. The blue guitar
And I are one. The orchestra
Fills the high hall with shuffling men
High as the hall. The whirling noise
Of a multitude dwindles, all said,
To his breath that lies awake at night.
I know that timid breathing. Where
Do I begin and end? And where,
As I strum the thing, do I pick up
That which momentously declares
Itself not to be I and yet
Must be. It could be nothing else.
The pale intrusions into blue
Are corrupting pallors...ay di mi,
Blue buds of pitchy blooms. Be content --
Expansions, diffusions -- content to be
The unspotted imbecile revery,
The heraldic center of the world
Of blue, blue sleek with a hundred chins,
The amorist Adjective aflame...
First one beam, then another, then
A thousand are radiant in the sky.
Each is both star and orb; and day
Is the riches of their atmosphere.
The sea appends its tattery hues.
The shores are banks of muffling mist.
One says a German chandelier --
A candle is enough to light the world.
It makes it clear. Even at noon
It glistens in essential dark.
At night, it lights the fruit and wine,
The book and bread, things as they are,
In a chiaroscuro where
One sits and plays the blue guitar.
Is this picture of Picasso's, this "hoard
Of destructions," a picture of ourselves,
Now, an image of our society?
Do I sit, deformed, a naked egg,
Catching at Good-bye, harvest moon,
Without seeing the harvest or the moon?
Things as they are have been destroyed.
Have I? Am I a man that is dead
At a table on which the food is cold?
Is my thought a memory, not alive?
Is the spot on the floor, there, wine or blood
And whichever it may be, is it mine?
The earth is not earth but a stone,
Not the mother that held men as they fell
But stone, but like a stone, no: not
The mother, but an oppressor, but like
An oppressor that grudges them their death,
As it grudges the living that they live.
To live in war, to live at war,
To chop the sullen psaltery,
To improve the sewers in Jerusalem,
To electrify the nimbuses--
Place honey on the altars and die,
You lovers that are bitter at heart.
The person has a mould. But not
Its animal. The angelic ones
Speak of the soul, the mind. It is
An animal. The blue guitar--
On that its claws propound, its fangs
Articulate its desert days.
The blue guitar a mould? That shell?
Well, after all, the north wind blows
A horn, on which its victory
Is a worm composing on a straw.
A dream (to call it a dream) in which
I can believe, in face of the object,
A dream no longer a dream, a thing,
Of things as they are, as the blue guitar
After long strumming on certain nights
Gives the touch of the senses, not of the hand,
But the very senses as they touch
The wind-gloss. Or as daylight comes,
Like light in a mirroring of cliffs,
Rising upward from a sea of ex.
That I may reduce the monster to
Myself, and then may be myself
In face of the monster, be more than part
Of it, more than the monstrous player of
One of its monstrous lutes, not be
Alone, but reduce the monster and be,
Two things, the two together as one,
And play of the monster and of myself,
Or better not of myself at all,
But of that as its intelligence,
Being the lion in the lute
Before the lion locked in stone.
What is there in life except one's ideas.
Good air, good friend, what is there in life?
Is it ideas that I believe?
Good air, my only friend, believe,
Believe would be a brother full
Of love, believe would be a friend
Friendlier than my only friend,
Good air. Poor pale, poor pale guitar...
A substitute for all the gods:
This self, not that gold self aloft,
Alone, one's shadow magnified,
Lord of the body, looking down,
As now and called most high,
The shadow of Chocorua
In an immenser heaven, aloft,
Alone, lord of the land and lord
Of the men that live in the land, high lord.
One's self and the mountains of one's land,
Without shadows, without magnificence,
The flesh, the bone, the dirt, the stone.
Poetry is the subject of the poem,
From this the poem issues and
To this returns. Between the two,
Between issue and return, there is
An absence in reality,
Things as they are. Or so we say.
But are these separate? Is it
An absence for the poem, which acquires
Its true appearances there, sun's green,
Cloud's red, earth feeling, sky that thinks?
From these it takes. Perhaps it gives,
In the universal intercourse.
A few final solutions, like a duet
With the undertaker: a voice in the clouds,
Another on earth, the one a voice
Of ether, the other smelling of drink.
The voice of ether prevailing, the swell
Of the undertaker's song in the snow
Apostrophizing wreaths, the voice
In the clouds serene and final, next
The grunted breath serene and final,
The imagined and the real, thought
And the truth, Dichtung und Wahrheit, all
Confusion solved, as in a refrain
One keeps on playing year by year,
Concerning the nature of things as they are.
A poem like a missal found
In the mud, a missal for that young man,
That scholar hungriest for that book,
The very book, or, less, a page
Or, at the least, a phrase, that phrase,
A hawk of life, that latined phrase:
To know; a missal for brooding-sight.
To meet that hawk's eye and to flinch
Not a the eye but at the joy of it.
I play. But this is what I think.
He held the world upon his nose
And this-a-way he gave a fling.
His robes and symbols, ai-yi-yi --
And that-a-way he twirled the thing.
Sombre as fir-trees, liquid cats
Moved in the grass without a sound.
They did not know the grass went round.
The cats had cats and the grass turned gray
And the world had worlds, ai, this-a-way:
The grass turned green and the grass turned gray.
And the nose is eternal, that-a-way.
Things as they were, things as they are,
Things as they will be by and by...
A fat thumb beats out ai-yi-yi.
The world washed in his imagination,
The world was a shore, whether sound or form
Or light, the relic of farewells,
Rock, of valedictory echoings,
To which his imagination returned,
From which it sped, a bar in space,
Sand heaped in the clouds, giant that fought
Against the murderous alphabet:
The swarm of thoughts, the swarm of dreams
Of inaccessible Utopia.
A mountainous music always seemed
To be falling and to be passing away.
It is the sea that whitens the roof.
The sea drifts through the winter air.
It is the sea that the north wind makes.
The sea is in the falling snow.
This gloom is the darkness of the sea.
Geographers and philosophers,
Regard. But for that salty cup,
But for the icicles on the eaves --
The sea is a form of ridicule.
The iceberg settings satirize
The demon that cannot be himself,
That tours to shift the shifting scene.
I am a native in this world
And think in it as a native thinks,
Gesu, not native of a mind
Thinking the thoughts I call my own,
Native, a native in the world
And like a native think in it.
It could not be a mind, the wave
In which the watery grasses flow
And yet are fixed as a photograph,
The wind in which the dead leaves blow.
Here I inhale profounder strength
And as I am, I speak and move
And things are as I think they are
And say they are on the blue guitar.
In the cathedral, I sat there, and read,
Alone, a lean Review and said,
"These degustations in the vaults
Oppose the past and the festival.
What is beyond the cathedral, outside,
Balances with nuptial song.
So it is to sit and to balance things
To and to and to the point of still,
To say of one mask it is like,
To say of another it is like,
To know that the balance does not quite rest,
That the mask is strange, however like."
The shapes are wrong and the sounds are false.
The bells are the bellowing of bulls.
Yet Franciscan don was never more
Himself than in this fertile glass.
From this I shall evolve a man.
This is his essence: the old fantoche
Hanging his shawl upon the wind,
Like something on the stage, puffed out,
His strutting studied through centuries.
At last, in spite of his manner, his eye
A-cock at the cross-piece on a pole
Supporting heavy cables, slung
Through Oxidia, banal suburb,
One-half of all its installments paid.
Dew-dapper clapper-traps, blazing
From crusty stacks above machines.
Ecce, Oxidia is the seed
Dropped out of this amber-ember pod,
Oxidia is the soot of fire,
Oxidia is Olympia.
How long and late the pheasant sleeps...
The employer and employee contend,
Combat, compose their droll affair.
The bubbling sun will bubble up,
Spring sparkle and the cock-bird shriek.
The employer and employee will hear
And continue their affair. The shriek
Will rack the thickets. There is no place,
Here, for the lark fixed in the mind,
In the museum of the sky. The cock
Will claw sleep. Mourning is not sun,
It is this posture of the nerves,
As if a blunted player clutched
The nuances of the blue guitar.
It must be this rhapsody or none,
The rhapsody of things as they are.
Throw away the lights, the definitions,
And say of what you see in the dark
That it is this or that it is that,
But do not use the rotted names.
How should you walk in that space and know
Nothing of the madness of space,
Nothing of its jocular procreations?
Throw the lights away. Nothing must stand
Between you and the shapes you take
When the crust of shape has been destroyed.
You as you are? You are yourself.
The blue guitar surprises you.
That generation's dream, aviled
In the mud, in Monday's dirty light,
That's it, the only dream they knew,
Time in its final block, not time
To come, a wrangling of two dreams.
Here is the bread of time to come,
Here is its actual stone. The bread
Will be our bread, the stone will be
Our bed and we shall sleep by night.
We shall forget by day, except
The moments when we choose to play
The imagined pine, the imagined jay.
-- Wallace Stevens
posted by Desert Cat @ 8:23 PM | permalink
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Shamelessly stolen from IMAO:Comments
G. W. Bush and Bill Clinton ended up at the same barbershop. As they sat there, each being worked on by a different barber, not a word was spoken.
The barbers were both afraid to start a conversation, for fear it would turn to politics. As the barbers finished their shaves, the one who had Clinton in his chair reached for the after shave.
Clinton was quick to stop him saying, 'No thanks, my wife Hillary will smell that and think I've been in a whorehouse.'
The second barber turned to Bush and said, 'How about you?'
Bush replied, 'Go ahead, my wife doesn't know what the inside of a whorehouse smells like.'
posted by Desert Cat @ 11:55 PM | permalink
Here are my "homosexual" cabinets before:Comments
"Horrid awful abominable--are you gay? What kind of colors are those?!" -- Daisy Cat
And after repainting the "pink" with a dustier and more muted shade of "dusty rose":
Frickin' chocolate milk color now. Sheesh.
Maybe third time will be the charm.
Elsewhere on the project, the back bedroom does not have a closet. Last time I had the property appraised I was told that for a room to be considered a bedroom, it needs to have a closet. This bedroom is tiny and hardly has room for a closet. Besides there are two closets in the adjacent bathroom. However I am told nothing about how big the closet needs to be, so in looking around the room, I note there is speck of space behind the door.
Bingo bango bongo, up goes a quick closet frame:
A bit of painter's caulk and a couple coats of paint and I'll be done.
The room hardly misses the space:
It rained yesterday and it was still too wet and cool to go back up on the roof. Finishing the recoating will probably be tomorrow's project.
Labels: home projects
posted by Desert Cat @ 9:17 PM | permalink
Friday, February 15, 2008
"m-m-mrm?", he asked as I approached to take the photo, his eyes just barely open. Then he went back to his nap.
posted by Desert Cat @ 10:47 PM | permalink
Ex-student kills 6, himself, at Illinois university - MarketWatchComments
Oh but heavens to betsy we can't allow students and staff to carry their legal and permitted weapons on campus to defend themselves and their fellow students now!
posted by Desert Cat @ 8:04 AM | permalink
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Vox Popoli: Mailvox: on the Four HorsemenComments
I do not hold myself up as any kind of model. I harbor no ambitions to lead anyone anywhere and my heartfelt desire is to be left alone to pursue my amusements and intellectual activities in peace. What you see may not be the entire picture, but it is a relatively accurate one. Like many, if not most intellectuals, I am an arrogant, cruel and vulgar individual with a few positive attributes that make me tolerable in moderate doses. Age and Jesus Christ have certainly had an ameliorating effect over time, but our relationship with God does not change who we are, it changes what we become. I understand why I tend to put off proper Christians and prissy atheists alike, but I can't say I regret it much, if at all. We are all sundered beings, called by light and tempted by shadow. One minute we nobly rise above our shallow and fallen natures with the aid of a gracious God, the very next we squeal with the ecstatic delight of rolling like swine in our own shit.Read the rest...
Would it surprise anyone for me to say that Vox and Bane increase my faith in my redeemer? They are both broken souls rescued. Yes, more so than any shining paragon of virtue or church-perfect parishioner, these two give me a renewed vision of the true power and glory of my Jesus and a glimmer of awareness of the depths he is willing to descend to save the lost and broken.
Bane is Bane, and yet he has a place at the table of the Lamb of God. Amazing huh? And that is something no amount of virtuous living can earn one on its own. Nope. It cannot! That 'shining paragon of virtue' has no place at that table if he or she is counting on his virtue alone to earn it.
So I'm with Vox on this. I am more comfortable in the company of 'sinners saved by grace' than the presence of the well-churched virtuous. To me the former tend to be more honest about who they are than the latter. And that makes me comfortable with Vox and Bane and people like them, despite their flaws and scars and broken places.
posted by Desert Cat @ 11:21 AM | permalink
Sunday, February 10, 2008
I haven't posted pics lately of my home project. I finished the kitchen painting, both the walls and the cabinets. And my dear beloved Daisycat, the girl of my dreams, declared it to be hideous, an abomination beyond reckoning. She also accused me of being gay for my choice of cabinet colors--a two-toned scheme of a muted pastel purple and dusty rose.Comments
I feel so blessed...
This weekend however the forecast was for highs in the 70's with no chance of rain. So I pulled out of the interior work and clambered up on the roof to do the recoating work. Again, I didn't get photos but since I did not get completely finished I will endeavor to get photos before I finish to illustrate the process.
Descriptively it is as follows. The existing roof consists of mineral roll roofing that has been previously top-coated with what we call "elastomeric roof coating". For those of you in climates where this is unknown, this is a heavy latex paint-like substance that is both thicker and more rubbery than regular latex paint. It soaks into cracks and gaps in the roof surface, providing a fresh waterproof surface, and is capable of flexing with temperature changes once dry.
Unfortunately old roll roofing has a tendency to get crumbly and elastomeric doesn't hold up very long when the underlying substrate is slowly turning back to sand. This is where the polyester membrane that I use comes in. This is a thick, fabric-like material that gets applied over the top of a base layer of elastomeric, followed by another heavy layer of elastomeric. This ends up creating a substantially thicker layer of elastomeric than the usual topcoat that is also reinforced by the fabric. In turn the elastomeric protects the polyester fabric from the effects of the sun. The result is better than a new layer of mineral roll roofing. It is both stronger and more durable than the original roll roofing that it reinforces.
However it is backbreaking and tremendously messy labor. There is really no way to do this effectively without eventually needing to get down on hands and knees in the midst of the elastomeric and fabric to straighten things up and make sure the fabric lays flat for the top coat. Windy weather makes the process commensurately more frustrating.
I had been picking at the thick coat of dried elastomeric for some time already when I took this photo. K asked me once how my hands stayed so clean with all the stuff I do. Well...it depends when I take the photo.
That and the fact that maybe I'm a little bit more obsessive/compulsive about getting cleaned up after work. I do work in an office in a professional setting at my day-job, so having filthy hands just doesn't fit in.
Here's the same hands after a half-hour in the shower with soap and a pumice stone.
Not quite clean yet, but the rest will come off in the next day or so.
Momcat is going to tackle this same process with the roof of their mobile. Whew. At least she has the luxury of being able to spread the work out over any number of days. Still there are some tips and hints I am going to pass along to her to make the process easier.
Labels: home projects
posted by Desert Cat @ 9:22 PM | permalink
Back in October the farm was overrun with poison-furred caterpillars that left nasty welts when brushed up against.Comments
They turned into pupae with a loosely woven cocoon,
and the last time I was there (which was a couple of weeks ago) they were emerging as large numbers of a relatively nondescript moth.
They seemed quite lethargic or dead after a cool night, so I have to wonder if they are making a great mistake in emerging now. Not that I feel that bad about it; after all there were plague-levels of caterpillars last fall and I'm not so eager to see these buggers in such numbers again.
posted by Desert Cat @ 9:00 PM | permalink
Saturday, February 09, 2008
There is a much closer correlation between sunspot activity and climate than the very loose (non-existent?) correlation with atmospheric CO2, and it is looking more like the sun is about to enter one of it's periodic low activity periods. The last one was between 1650 and 1715, known as the "Little Ice Age".Comments
Time to start burning more, not less, fossil fuels.
IBDeditorials.com:-- The Sun Also Sets
posted by Desert Cat @ 9:32 PM | permalink
Friday, February 08, 2008
The night before last the cats were staging drag races across the bed as I was trying to fall asleep. This Lolcat entry hit the funnybone. Jasmine now waits patiently for me to take that damnable CPAP mask off every AM so she can access me without her fur being ruffled by the windy discharge.Comments
CPAP is the alarm cat antidote. Heh.
moar funny pictures
Another good one.
moar funny pictures
posted by Desert Cat @ 10:08 AM | permalink
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
...you have McCain now--your arch nemesis. And Huckabee is his likely VP.Comments
Doesn't Paul look good in comparison?
Too late. Too bad. So sad.
posted by Desert Cat @ 9:15 AM | permalink
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Update: Rachel is taking flak from some quarters over her stance vis-a-vis McCain. Some of it is certainly unwarranted, particularly the egregious name-calling. This is crap we expect from the Daily Kos, not from fellow Republicans. Having said this however, the following is just plain *bait* for flak:
And to me, sitting it out or writing someone in or voting third-party is actually a third evil in itself. If McCain gets the nomination, and you do anything other than voting for him, you are patently giving a vote to Hillary or Barack, whichever is on the ticket. That is what you're doing, there is no way around it, and as such, it's still an unpleasant choice.No, dear, it is most assuredly *not*! In fact this is an infantile accusation that has no basis in reality. McCain is not getting my vote, period. That is already established. Whomever I do vote for will get my vote. My vote for third party Joe simply will *not* result in another vote being added to the tally for either Obama or Clinton. It is nothing less than infantile huffing and pouting to suggest otherwise.
Thank you for your attention to reality.
"I think a vote for McCain IS suicide -- just of the kind that's longer and more drawn out. Like slow poisoning. Or maybe being drawn and quartered by stoned, giant tortoises."--Jeff Goldstein
posted by Desert Cat @ 4:30 PM | permalink
Monday, February 04, 2008
Here is a little more evidence for the abiotic origin of oil:Comments
WorldNetDaily: Discovery backs theory oil not 'fossil fuel'
In a nutshell, if this proves to be true, it means that oil does not have a fossil origin, but is continually created in the earth's mantle as a consequence of non organic chemical processes.
Bye bye "peak oil". :-)
UPDATE: More here.
Labels: society and culture
posted by Desert Cat @ 10:27 PM | permalink
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