Postus interruptus

No posting yesterday here or at Substack, obviously, and likely won’t be a whole lot through the rest of the weekend either, excepting possibly tomorrow night. I had decided last Sunday to more or less take Monday off, at least from Substack, for a Memorial Day grill out with my cousin. Then on Thursday began working on the Friday edition of the Eyrie as usual, getting a bit less than half of it done before learning that night that I’d be having the young ‘un down for the weekend, for the first time in more than a month.

So yeah, today was spent going to pick her up, bringing her back, getting some vittles in her (repeatedly; land sakes, that kid is growing like a weed!), and just generally lying around at our ease together, chit-chatting about this and that, laughing at the cats and their antics, sharing funny and/or remarkable animal memes on our phones, and so forth. In other words, a simply fantastic day all ‘round, one not to be spoiled mucking about with grubby Amerikan politics: Biden’s latest fall, Pelosi’s latest lie, the latest empty threat from Congressional RepubliCONS to get to the bottom of something or other, &c.

I needed this little vacay more than I even knew, I think. Leave it to a young child to remind me of that, eh?

On deck for tomorrow (later today, technically): showing her how to fire, disassemble, and clean what I refer to as my little pocket rocket, the S&W Bodyguard .380, in which I just installed a great new trigger that did much to smooth out the absurdly overlong-throw, squishy, and heavy-pull old plastic one. Big fun, big fun!

Update! Oh yeah, definitely gonna be a little posting tonight; I already found two (2) great vids that absolutely MUST be posted here, so there’ll be that to look forward to if nothing else. Time for our backyard shooting lesson now, back later on tonight, y’all…


Publick Notice

As the more attentive of you may have already noted, I made a cpl of minor changes to the “Allied territory” section over in the right sidebar. To wit: I added a few folks who you might consider worth following on Gab, people who don’t have other permanent links of their own here. No biggie; just wanted to call y’all’s attention to it, and more importantly to them.

The list is by no means all-inclusive—isn’t intended to be, really—so I’ll probably be adding to it as and when. If there’s someone any of you CF Lifers feel I unjustly overlooked, feel free to hip me to ‘em in the comments or via e-mail.

Publick Notice

Been out running around like the proverbial chicken with his proverbial head cut proverbially off all day, only just now getting back home again. So the Friday Eyrie post, while about half-done from working on it some yesterday, is probably gonna be postponed until tomorrow night, I’m thinking—in part because I have a sad, sad duty to perform for a close friend who’s had a bit of a setback. A BIT of…? A good, hard sucker-punch right to the goddamned ‘nads thrown by a MMA champeen in peak form, more like.

Billy, a/k/a Big Country Expat, has asked me to put the word out as best I can that, after a trip most arduous from FLA, he was greeted in the sorry-ass shithole state of Tennessee with some horribly bad tidings, which have rocked him back on his heels considerably. Yes, I know the details. No, I won’t be going into them here; that’s for Billy to do or not do at his own discretion, in his own good time. But take my word for it, it’s bad. About as bad as bad gets, in fact. Trust me, there’s a reason his latest post announcing a two-week hiatus from blogging prominently features an image of a large, green, pear-shaped object, and not Word One else.

More as and when, but in the meantime, your heartfelt prayers for my brother-from-another-mother Billy and the sweet and lovely Gretchen in their time of direst need would surely not go amiss.

Update! Presented without comment; far as I’m concerned, none is necessary.

GREAT song, GREAT arrangement, GREAT vocal performance, no matter the context.

Publick Notice, forsooth!

Last night, I made mention of going through and clearing out all the spambot attempts at registering manifestly bogus user names ( such as alan23x858932, email addy, just to name a fairly typical one), which I’d lately been seeing an uptick in. So I did that, slamming about twenty or so of the wormy little bastards with the “Deny” hammer.

Which seems to have acted as something of a tonic on them, because as of right now, there’s been well over 200 of these midges today, with more coming in about every five or ten minutes. I get “User Approval” notification emails in my CF inbox as and when, so here’s a screengrab of what my Thunderbird trash bin looks like at the moment:


Remember, that ain’t even a tithe of ‘em. I’ve installed another WP plugin, Shield Security, to hopefully help put an end to this unwelcome deluge of pure shite being dumped over my head from the high heavens by these excrescences. Problem is, it also blocks me from posting with MarsEdit; I’m sure there’s a fix for that somewhere in the plugin settings, I just gotta poke around under the hood some and find it.

I swear, some days it just never seems to end.

Update! Christ Almighty, just had to force-delete the fucking Shield Security plugin via FTP after it locked ME out because of, and I quote, “too many access attempts from this IP.” Sometimes, one can only wonder why one even bothers getting out of bed at all.

On the bright side, though, I guess that could be taken as a pretty good indicator that SS is working, no?

Updated update! Calls for a rerun of this venerable classic, I think.

When a single facepalm just ain’t enough


Publick Notice Part the Second

Albeit unrelated to the earlier one: there’s been a sudden YUUUGE influx of bogus attempts at user-registrations, God only knows why. I am about to begin the process of clearing the mess o’ spammage out by denying most if not all of said requests, a process which, while by no means arduous, nonetheless requires no inconsiderable amount of time and hassle to get ‘er done. Just a necessary if annoying part of blog-maintenance nowadays, that’s all.

So anyhoo, if you are in fact a legit hooman bean desirous of registering yourself a CF user name so as to be able to comment only to be caught up as collateral damage in the imminent sweep, please shoot me a kite at the email addy over in the right sidebar and let me know so’s I can get ya fixed up manually.

Update! Y’know, it occurs to me that I should maybe put up some kind of permanent notice restating the above, more or less. Maybe append it to the CF Comments Policy, something like that. We’ll see what I can figger out along those lines, whilst I’m throwing spam-registrants out on their ear, updating plugins, and such-like.

Updated update! Jeez O Pete: no sooner do I finish culling the spam-bots than four more of the lousy bastards pop up in the “New User Approve” plugin’s interface. As the proctologist famously asked of his nurse, is there no end to these assholes?


Publick Notice

Just by way of explanation, the reason posting was so sparse yesterday and the Friday Eyrie went up a day early was an absolutely relentless bout of phantom pains intense enough to rip a shrill, girlish scream from me every 30-45 seconds or so all last night, until the horrible things finally let up around 5:30 this AM.

My GOD, but those pains ain’t no joke. Never have been run through with a K-Bar knife before, but I swear that’s EXACTLY what it felt like was happening to the foot I no longer have. Weird, weird stuff; the sensation feels just as real as it gets, but…you know intellectually that it isn’t, that it couldn’t possibly be. It’s all in your head, but your head is powerless to stop or control it just the same. Ain’t no there there, in a manner of speaking—nothing more than a self-perpetuating feedback loop composed entirely of mental vapor, and nothing whatsoever else.

And yet. Screaming, I remind you, which has never been something I was known for doing a whole lot of, except maybe in boisterous glee. Very, very strange.

So yeah, knowing the chances of getting much of anything done in the condition I was suddenly in, and the Eyrie post having been mostly finished anyway the previous evening, I went ahead and got what I could up there, while I still could. Dragged myself out of bed about noon today, and so far so good. Got a fair-ish bit of stupid deck-clearing crap to get done today, so we’ll see how things go this evening, posting-wise. If I don’t show up, don’t y’all assume it’s because I’m having just too much fun to bother, mmkay?

Daredevil done RIGHT

Evel Knievel shows us the way.

A Sportster, of course, the model he did all those crazy-ass jumps on. Harleys are notoriously difficult to wheelie on, but it’s by no means impossible, as my own Fakebook profile pic demonstrates:


Taken by my then-girlfriend Evelyn, on a visit to her mom; that’s the street one row back from Ocean Blvd where her Myrtle Beach crib was, a mere couple of blocks from the grand old Myrtle Beach Pavilion, long since tragically defunct.

The trouble with wheelies and older, factory H-Ds is multifaceted: excessive weight, lack of power, and a low center of gravity all add up to make the crucial balance-point quite high in comparison with the rice-grinders. The exception to that rule would be the also-long-defunct Buells; as with my extremely-modified 06 Sporty above, with those you actually had to go out of your way to keep the front wheel DOWN. Picking it up and carrying it a ways was almost the default..

Which, with the 06, was definitely the case, to my continual delight. When I romped down hard on the throttle in 1st gear, the front wheel would start to dance lightly as the motor “came on the pipe” and really started making horsepower; hit 2nd, and it would lift off the ground, daring you to keep it up as long as you could. Same in 3rd, incredibly enough.

Even my old boss Goose, who hated all Sportsters with a blazing passion, would jump on mine to give it a good, vigorous flogging now and then, eventually bringing my baby back to the shop not merely “rode hard and put up wet,” but “drenched in sweat, with its tongue hanging out,” as he liked to say.

I swear, it was the most fun bike I ever did build, no foolin’.

So yeah, for a bone-stock Harley, the wheelies can be a real trick. But as this guy shows, it’s always best not to make any assumptions when you’re out on the street.

Yep, that fella definitely knows what he’s about.

Update! Well, how about that: turns out Buell is NOT defunct after all. They’re still available, hand-built bikes orderable directly from the Buell factory.

Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill towards men

Yes, yes, I know that Luke 2:14 quote is typically associated with Christmas. But seems to me it’s perfectly appropriate for Easter as well—or any other time, really. Be that as it may, whether you be a believing Christian or no, I do hope yours is a happy one anyhow. Here, enjoy yourselves a little Beethoven, from the old Charlie Brown Easter special.

The music in the above vid is adapted from dear old Ludwig Von B’s Symphony No 7 in A, Op 92, for those who might not’ve known.

Health issues

No posting today, either here or at the Eyrie, thanks to one of the worst toothaches I ever have had in my life—and believe me, that’s saying something. I swear, the left side of my jaw is so badly swollen I even took a selfie of it for the historical record—one of I think, like, two or perhaps three of the cursed things I’ve bothered to take. It looks as if Mike Tyson had reached all the way down to the bottom of his shoes to land one of his heyday haymakers right square on the button, no foolin’.

My troubles began shortly after I’d arrived back home yesterday from spending the afternoon working on my beloved Focus with some friends of mine, work which will hopefully be completed, to include a happy ending, towards the end of the week. The pain pounced on me all of a sudden-like, speedily escalating until last night became just a brass-plated bitch, wherein mass quantities of Orajel, ibuprofen, warm salt-water rinses, and anything else I could think of were applied, all to little or no avail.

I sure hope somebody got the number of that bus that ran me over, I’ll tell ya that much.

On the brighter side, though, after a couple of touch-and-go weeks in the hospital, my mom was released yesterday and came home. She’s a long way from being all better, of course, but her attitude has improved greatly, she’s responding to treatment again, and the outlook is one hell of a lot better than it was. Heartfelt thanks to all who kindly expressed their concern and offered prayers for the ol’ gal, either here or via personal email.

Yaaay, Precious!

Up now at the AoSHQ Pet Thread: a pic of my beloved cat Precious curled up in my small Revereware saucepan, something she used to do a lot of when she was a kitten but has way outgrown now. Many thanks to KT for posting it.

You ate WHAT update! As I expected (and hoped, admittedly), it didn’t take long before the Chinese-restaurant references started popping up in the comments over at yon Ace Place. Funny as hell, although Precious probably wouldn’t agree.


Testing, testing 1, 2, 3

First post after finally getting around to purchasing a license for the completely wonderful MarsEdit (what can I say, I’ve been a terrible procrastinator my whole damned life, so much so I even got called down for it in a note to my parents from my 1st-grade teacher, bless her heart), which I can’t possibly say enough good things about. Got used to limping along with that irksome WP posting interface for a goodish while there, but now I’m back, baby! Now if I can just remember all my custom macros and shortcuts…

Sincerest and most humble thanks to Barry for the boost. Yippeeeeee!!!


One for Kenny, in honor of his comment here: The Young-Holt Unlimited’s unforgettable 60s soul classic “Wack Wack.”

Update! What the hell, while we’re on the 60s soul music, here’s two more for my old friend, legendary CLT lounge-lizard Mr Roy.

Great stuff, that. Might’s well throw in one of my own personal faves while we’re at it.

Background on Mr Roy: Roy is an elderly, diminutive black fella who also happens to be one of the most dapper men of any age I’ve ever had the privilege of hanging out barside with. Roy is a truly dedicated lover of the good old blues, soul, rockabilly, and zydeco music. To my knowledge, he never missed a BP’s performance at the late, lamented Double Door Inn, even with as loud and rowdy as we were notorious for being.

Every year, without fail, Roy would pile in his pristine Cadillac and make the 12-hour drive down to New Orleans for Jazzfest. Way back when, I made a pact with Roy that I was gonna make that particular trip with him sometime. Alas, the scheduling never worked out for me to be able to do it, to my everlasting regret.

Everybody around town knew and loved Mr Roy. A fixture on the local dive-bar and live-music scene, Roy could reliably be seen sitting on a stool at one bar or another sipping on a Scotch and milk, a bevy of dynamite young white chicks in close and hanging on his every word.

And what words they were, too; he had a store of catchphrases he would toss off, like “Mighty fine, might fine” or “I’m a charming motherfucker!” That one led to years of debate between me and Mr Roy; one night in some gin-joint or other, he declared me a “bad motherfucker,” whereupon I responded in the only way I could think of: “No, Roy, YOU’RE a bad motherfucker!” He shot back, “No, I’m a CHARMING motherfucker, YOU’RE the BAD motherfucker!” I can’t even begin to tell you how flattered I was by that. This good-natured ribbing was taken up again many times after that first night, and we’d both just about kill ourselves laughing when it did, every time.

So popular was Mr Roy and his catchphrases around here that a local artist got a snapshot of Roy, highball glass in hand, which he then did up in the style of those old Shepard Fairey posters—logoed with one of Roy’s notable catchphrases, natch, not “Obey Giant” or any of that later “Hope & Change” malarkey—and did a limited-edition run of them to give away at various local dens of iniquity. I had Mr Roy autograph my copy for me:

Mr Roy
And ain’t it just!

Had to take a photo, because it’s way too big to fit into my scanner. The lighting is all wrong, but hey, don’t hate me ’cause I’m beautiful, aiight?

I referred to Mr Roy in the past tense a couple times above, but having aged out of the bar/live music circuit myself a few years back after the curse of Viking Disease had junked my guitar-playing hands, I really couldn’t say if Roy is still around or not. I sure hope he is; there never was enough like him out there, and once they’re gone, they ain’t coming back. Whether he’s gone or still kicking, his poster will have a position of honor on my living-room wall wherever I may live, for as long as I do.


Moar Substackery

Humble thanks to the handful of folks who have signed up as subscribers to my Substack thang over the last few days. I still don’t have the place looking the way I’d like for it to; near as I can tell, customization options are, shall we say, limited, so it simply ain’t possible to tweak things too very much. As an inveterate tinkerer my whole danged life, with everything from cars to motorcycles to guitars to amps to recipes to websites, you can readily imagine just how severely that chaps my baggy white ass.

It does, however, bring to mind a query: what are y’all’s thoughts on the white text against blue background I’m using there currently? I was hoping to get this Eyrie endeavor of mine to as closely resemble this h’yar websty as I could, but it seems to me that the white text might be kinda hard on older eyes. Do let me know in the comments, please; that at least is simplicity itself to adjust, and I’ll be happy to do so if needed.

There’s also the email-notification-for-subscribers feature to consider, which I haven’t bothered customizing at all yet. Then there’s the multitude of other features, most of which I don’t even know what they are yet, nor what they do.

My original idea for this Substack whoopjamboreehoo was to offer original-content posts there once things get rolling steady, to go up on Mondays and Fridays å la James Kunstler’s joint. I’m less confident about being able to pull that twice-weekly commitment off now than I was, seeing as how I am unwaveringly determined that the dire need to generate some income due to my new status as World’s Greatest One-Legged Blogger (see right sidebar) shall NOT be allowed to infringe on Ye Olde Colde Furye Blogge in any way, shape, or form. I’ve been running this hogwallow for over twenty years now, no way I’ll just let it wither on the vine now. Not on my watch, bub.

On the other hand, though, since the whole idea is to make some dough, I want to provide decent bang for the buck at the Eyrie too, y’know? The benefit would be twofold, I’m thinking, with not only the income potential but the prospect of driving more traffic from there to here and vice the versa figuring into this messy mix.

In the final analysis, the blogging thing entire is about eyeballs and interaction, not money. The free exchange of ideas is the prime motivator, which is as it should be. We on the Dissident Right are sorely beset on all sides by a monstrous, malignant politico-cultural Leviathan; not since the Revolution itself has it been more vital that, as Franklin famously said back then, we all hang together, lest we all hang separately. As the gathering riptide of chaos, dissolution, and collapse threatens to overwhelm and wash away all that we once held dear, those words of wisdom must not be forgotten.


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If you are in fact a legit hooman bean desirous of registering yourself a CF user name so as to be able to comment only to find yourself caught up as collateral damage in one of my irregularly (un)scheduled sweeps for hinky registration attempts, please shoot me a kite at the email addy over in the right sidebar and let me know so’s I can get ya fixed up manually.

ALSO NOTE: You MUST use a valid, legit email address in order to successfully register, the new anti-spam software I installed last night requires it. My thanks to Barry for all his help sorting this mess out last night.

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