OLD AGE AND TREACHERY WILL OVERCOME YOUTH AND SKILL. And on the eighth day God said, "Okay, Murphy, you're in charge!" Anonymous comments will not be posted.
Saturday, April 29, 2017
Rocky Mountain Springtime
Why am I clearing snow off my truck? Took the studded snow tires off too soon. Tire chains are behind the seat where they stay all year.
Posted by Well Seasoned Fool at 6:32 AM 16 comments:
Labels: Colorado weather
Wednesday, April 26, 2017
Military Officer Career Planning
A question for those who have served as military officers. Question follows the scenario.
You laid out a career path as a diversity/social justice/etc specialist with the idea of building credentials to allow a smooth transition to the civilian world built on diligent networking with like minded people. You were very successful in the eight years of the Lightbringer administration and looked forward to eight more successful years with the Shillary administration.
Suddenly, the real warriors are in charge. Are you fucked?
Posted by Well Seasoned Fool at 5:26 PM 12 comments:
Tuesday, April 25, 2017
Doubling Down On Stupid
A Colorado politics rant. Long and windy. You are warned.
Why am I still a registered Democrat? Part of it is knowing your enemy. Mailings and emails keep me up to date on the various ass clowns inhabiting the (P)regressive wing. As an example, this email from a Shillary clone running for governor. I can’t find a single verifiable fact in it.
Subject: PETITION: Protect Colorado's public lands from President Trump
Posted by Well Seasoned Fool at 5:06 PM 6 comments:
Labels: (P)regressives, Colorado Politics
Saturday, April 22, 2017
The Natives Are Restless
Kind of wasted attached to a yuppie scooter. Like the sentiment.
Westbound on I-70 on a Saturday morning. How many are California transplants?
More bad news for the ‘Keep the Bastards Out’ crowd.
What we need is another record breaking Spring blizzard.
Posted by Well Seasoned Fool at 5:36 PM 13 comments:
Labels: low humor
Friday, April 21, 2017
Because I'm The Boss, Damnit
Looking for a good cheese to go with my whine about my part time job. Any recommendations?
My part time employer operates a fleet of Toyota Prius (Prius’?). Our satellite operation is out of a warehouse/industrial park complex with overhead doors at each end of our bay. With judicial positioning, six, possibly seven cars can be parked inside our locked building.
Every car is parked outside because it isn’t “convenient” to work around them as we spend ten minutes or so loading or unloading them.
Much easier to leave them outside in an area well known for hail storms. Our remote unpatrolled location is sooo convenient for thieves with just enough nighttime lighting to make car stripping easier. Gah!
Drivers can’t be trusted to see maintenance is done. Just the daily checks. My notation on my daily driver log that it had 12,000 miles since the last oil change wasn’t appreciated. Seems my ‘boss’ hadn’t read it until after her boss read it.
Must have been a good reason IBM booted her.
Since my mouth has never had a filter, it is very hard to keep quiet. My motivation is to do so is keeping the big shots from making me the manager. No, no, not happening. I’m done herding cats.
Posted by Well Seasoned Fool at 7:12 AM 16 comments:
Thursday, April 20, 2017
Just below a nasty descending corner marked as a 55 mph section. I slow to 65 mph in the Prius on this section.
Colorado Hwy 52 at mm 98.5.
Colorado Hwy 52 at mm 98.5.
A case for reckless abandon for living and driving in Weld County might be a stretch. We did lose a Mitsubishi pickup due to tornado/hail damage a few years ago.
Gutless politicians recklessly spending public funds.
Ok, ok, it is a weak post, alright?
Posted by Well Seasoned Fool at 9:55 AM 22 comments:
Labels: gutless politicians, reckless behavior, wind energy
Saturday, April 15, 2017
Every other year we folks in selected Colorado areas are forced to spend time and money fulfilling ecofreak’s wet dreams. Referring, of course, to having your vehicle’s emissions checked before you renew your license plates.
This is a defacto poor tax in several ways. Poor people drive old, high mileage clunkers. The cost of the test. The time off work as the testing stations aren’t open in the evening hours. The cost of repairs needed to pass the test. Look for the sign and bend over.
Three days ago it was necessary to take the elderly Mitsubishi Might Max in for the test. Having spent years selling used cars, know some tricks. The truck’s test result was near new standards. Caused some questioning looks from the testing personnel.
For once there wasn’t a long line.
The waiting area isn’t palatial or welcoming.
The assembly line.
Didn’t appreciate the test monkey popping the Mitsubishi’s clutch. This was after showing them the location of the catalytic converter, attached to the exhaust manifold, and not under the vehicle in a Mighty Max.
Afterwards, it was mailing a check to the county for $71.72. That is another reason I drive old stuff. Colorado is the only state with a TABOR act and the revenuers find other ways to fund themselves.
Suspicious minds wonder why license plates on newer vehicles are close to a monthly payment. Probably just a coincidence.
The only thing I’ve known to knock down the smog along the I-25 corridor is a brisk West wind.
Oh, WSF, you are full of stinkin thinkin.
Yeah? Bite me.
Posted by Well Seasoned Fool at 4:01 PM 22 comments:
Labels: emission testing
Friday, April 14, 2017
A Tale of Two Malcontents
A trip down memory lane some 50+ years ago and a tale of two reluctant soldiers.
He caught my eye as we waited to board a slow train to Missouri under the watchful eye of two Army NCOs. Newly sworn into the Green Machine, it was off to Ft Leonard Wood, MO, to become trained killers (opps, Army not Marines) one September day in 1963.
About 5’4”, 140 lbs, red hair, map of Ireland face, he radiated surliness. From Boston, he had committed some offense against society on his way through Denver and, as was common in the early 1960’s, a kindly prosecutor suggested he join the Army and all would be forgotten. Little did we know then we would become tight buddies and be in the same units our entire time in the Army.
Our bonding began after I went between cars to smoke a cigarette. Per the PSG (prior service guy who couldn’t make it on the outside) and was “in charge” of our group, this was forbidden. Tom joined me. When the PSG got proddy I offered to throw his sorry ass off the train. Tom offered to help.
The five days spent at the reception center was an eye opener. Picture a grim moderately sloped hillside covered in crushed gravel, about the size of a tennis court, no shelter of any kind, with cut off telephone posts strung across the top. Each post had alphabet letters. Per your last name, you stood in a line behind the appropriate post. All fucking day except for noon chow. Need a latrine? You should have taken care of that before formation. Thirsty? Tough shit. From time to time we were herded to haircuts, to the medical staff, to testing, and were issued our uniforms and such. Then we were trucked to our basic training battalion (and the last time I rode anywhere until after basic).
The reception center was within earshot of the infiltration course. For several hours at night you could hear machine gun fire and explosions.
Leaving the reception area was absolutely forbidden! Tom and I used our free evening hours to explore some of the area.
Basic was basic. Millions have experienced it. My normal response to inter personal conflicts wasn’t approved by the cadre.
Corporal Arnold. “Goddamnit shithead, gut punch them. I get pissed off dealing with bloody noses.”
With the Army running on the alphabet, Tom was in the third platoon and me in the fourth. Both platoons shared the same building after week three when the whole company was relocated after one of the barracks collapsed.( WWII ‘temporary’ barracks)
At the rifle range, the first step was zeroing our rifles. From a standing position in a concrete pipe on end (simulated a fox hole) we fired three single shots at a bulls eye six feet away. For many, including Tom, this was the first time they had ever fired a weapon. I grew up with rifles and was in the NRA Junior program for years. My three holes could be covered with a nickel. Tom struggled with a rifle. After evening chow and before lights out I worked with him on fundamentals. He never got to the expert level but did qualify.
We moved about a mile to AIT, Combat Engineer School, along with about twenty from our basic company. Tom kept a low profile. I didn’t. We did manage a weekend pass. Six of us, four in the back of a pickup with a camper shell, took off to Columbia, MO to chase college girls.
Tom was initially the most successful of our group but her boyfriend and his pals objected. Had to rescue him. The local constabulary suggested we load our sorry asses in whatever vehicle we arrived in and get out of town.
The Daniel Boone hotel also requested we vacate our rooms but didn’t offer a refund.
Our next opportunity for trouble was Fort Dix, NJ as we awaited sea transport to Germany. Tom was from a Boston longshoreman clan and understood shipping.
“The next troop ship sails in eight days. That means eight days of pulling shit details. Let’s go to Boston”.
We returned in time to make the load out for the buses going to the Brooklyn Army Terminal. As the irritated Sergeant read off names and the named person responded, he either directed the individual to a bus or ordered them to a spot near him. Not surprisingly, Tom and I were in the second group.
“Where have you two fuckers been the past few days”, he demanded.
“We’ve been stuck guarding some fucking duck pond, and with no relief. I demand to see the I.G.”!
“Yeah”, said Tom.
Glaring at us, the Sergeant said,
“Get on the fucking bus”.
Which we did.
Whenever we weren’t in a permanent unit, I removed my name tags. In a mob of green uniforms, everyone a slick sleeved Private, it was the rare cadre that would remember your face.
“What is your name, and where is your name tag?”
“Private Anderson, Sergeant. Lost my duffle bag and was given this to wear”.
“OK, Anderson. Tomorrow after formation report to supply for a work detail”.
“Yes, Sergeant”. (Yeah, like that is going to happen)
Aboard the good ship General Maurice Rose, Tom was assigned to the kitchen detail. While he had never been seasick, he managed to puke on a hot grill covered with cooking eggs, and was banished.
The voyage was scheduled for nine days but took fourteen. Why was never explained to we cattle. Those who understood such things explained the ocean state wasn’t conducive to a fast voyage. This landlubber didn’t understand the bow and foredeck underwater wasn’t the usual condition.
Had the trip went as scheduled, my malingering wouldn’t have mattered. On the eleventh day, I was cornered by three pissed off NCO’s. Traveling steerage, they were still assigned supervision of the numerous shit details. I had become an irritant, and needed, in fine Army tradition, instant correction.
One thing I knew before going into the Army, don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time. NCOs can be quite creative in devising attitude corrections. They respect the malcontent who accepts his punishment without whining. Not that they don’t remember you, and watch you a bit more closely than your peers.
Disembarking in Bremerhaven, we stood for three hours in the freezing wind on an open area at the railroad station. Gave Tom and I ample time to deduce a nearby building might be a liquor store, slip away to verify our assumption, and exchange a few US dollars for something called Steinhaeger. Nine hours later, arriving at our final destination, Hanau, Germany we were drunk on our asses.
This didn’t please First Sergeant Richard Nelson or Sergeant First Class James J McGarity Jr. They decided to ship our sorry asses to a three week demolition course in Bavaria with the hope,
“You will blow your asses off and we won’t have to deal with you”.
Nine of us from AIT were assigned to the same float bridge engineer company. Another five or so were in the next door fixed bridge company. This made our transition easier.
Tom and I had a lot of fun in Germany, and got into a lot of mischief. As an example, after winning a drinking contest, we found ourselves at a dispensary being treated for acute alcohol poisoning. Don’t believe the term, stomach pumping. A tube in forced down your gullet, chemicals are introduced, and you puke your guts out, repeatedly. After release, we headed back downtown and resumed partying, but did pace ourselves.
Toward the end of 1965, we got a nice Army wide pay raise, and promotion slots opened up. By 1966, both Tom and I were E-5s. He was a buck sergeant, me a SP 5. I think the First Sergeant’s reasoning was this:
“I take the biggest assholes, put them in charge of the other assholes, and make them responsible for the assholes. Then I can concentrate on just a few assholes. Makes my job easier”.
“I take the biggest assholes, put them in charge of the other assholes, and make them responsible for the assholes. Then I can concentrate on just a few assholes. Makes my job easier”.
After the Army Tom went on to college and then medical school. He became a shrink.
The one thing I’ve always admired about the Marine Corps is the way they go about making each Marine proud to be a Marine. If the Army had an official song in the early 60’s I never heard it. Certainly never learned the lyrics. Keep your boots shined, march in step, and do your job was all that was expected.
Tom struggled with basic soldier shit. I found it to be easy and usually was the guard mount supernumerary, the extra in case someone couldn’t complete their duty. I helped Tom with soldiering, and he helped me with what is today called “anger management”. We had each other’s backs even when we developed other circles of buddies. He was the only person I trusted completely.
Hope this trip down memory lane didn’t bore you, and you got a few laughs.
Posted by Well Seasoned Fool at 10:08 PM 8 comments:
Labels: sad sack soldiers
Wednesday, April 12, 2017
You Can Buy Them Books, But They Just Eat The Covers
0545, I-25, North Chugwater, WY Exit, a roadside pit stop was in order. Off on the service road next to the railroad tracks was a good spot. About 100 yards away was a parked pickup truck with an attached gooseneck trailer. Nothing unusual, many trucks large and small park there to catch some sleep.
About to finish, I hear short, random beeps. Not quite as loud as a truck horn, but they are coming from the parked pickup. Even with a clear sky and full moon, this 72 year old fat body isn’t walking up to another vehicle in a deserted area. On the cell phone, call 911. (Should add the WY 511 number didn’t work)
“911, what is your emergency?
“Not an emergency, but a situation that may be a problem”.
So we discuss what I see, hear, where I’m at, where the vehicle in question is at, etc.
Going North to Wheatland, I see the State Trooper headed South with his gumballs flashing followed by an ambulance running code.
My stop, the Wheatland hospital, is small and I enter by the emergency room. Stop to chat with the nurses. They are listening to the scanner. Lurid nonsense about a jackknifed truck/gooseneck pointed South in the Northbound lanes!!!! Clue them in.
My business at the hospital takes awhile. Going back to I-25 I spot a Wyoming trooper pulling into Arby’s drive through. Stop and have a chat. Tell him my version. He laughs. He was the one making the run.
We drive through his zone at the same time six days a week. Our Prius is noticeable with no wheel covers and a fleet license plate. Don’t need police problems.
Not sorry I made the call. Am sorry the 911 dispatcher didn’t listen and made assumptions. Maybe she was bored?
Posted by Well Seasoned Fool at 6:39 PM 9 comments:
Labels: 911, box of rocks dumb
Friday, April 7, 2017
Things may have changed but back in the day ranchers could buy and administer their own medicine. What they bought for livestock was the same as used in humans in many cases. The human dosages were printed on the labels.
One tough old bird had a nagging cough and decided a penicillin shot as in order. Why see a doctor when his brother in law had penicillin, syringes, and needles? Save a few bucks, no?
Down at the barn he dropped his pants and bent over. The forthcoming bellow would have shamed a bull. Evidently the size of needle and the technique for humans is different than cows. Who knew?
Posted by Well Seasoned Fool at 7:07 PM 10 comments:
Labels: inoculations, low humor, ranch life
Thursday, April 6, 2017
WARNING: Another rambling WSF rant laced with profanity. You should read the folks in the sidebar. Much better informed and much better writers.
Leading up to the Presidential election, I wasn’t a Trump fan. I was an, “Anybody but Shillary” fan.
What has changed? I think President Trump is doing a great job. What a refreshing change to have someone ‘real’ leading the country instead of a poll tested, focus group approved, puppet catering to big donors and/or the donor’s lackeys. He has done more in 100 days than the Lightbringer did in eight years (except to tear down the country).
Is he bold, rude, crude, brash and often outlandish? Yes, and I’m glad for that. What you see is what you get.
In this regard I’m not alone.
A straight report from the Chicago Tribune?
Nervous about him having the nuclear keys? Not me, but the rest of the world is. That is a good thing. They should fear us. Much like when Reagan was in office.
The Fourth Estate? Two descriptions. First, Larry Lambert’s “the corrupt, smug, pugnacious, revolting, elite, lying mainstream media” description.
or BZ’s “American Media Maggots”
sum up much of the Fourth Estate. Were it not for the internet, you would be hard pressed to find any alternative views. Their non stop vicious attacks on President Trump only convinces me he is doing what is best for the country.
As an example of news/opinions you find on the internet you will not see in the MSM.
As one of my sons says about the Fourth Estate, “You can’t Obama my mind”.
The howls coming from the Washington D.C. swamp, and their underhanded maneuvers to undermine the President adds to my conviction he is doing a great job.
He may save our Republic, which is not a ‘democracy’, thankfully, from the downward spiral we have been living with.
The past eight years have put a majority of citizens in a mental state akin to battered spouses who see no way out, IMO. President Trump has awakened the feisty spirit of our nation, long dormant as the (P)regressives have had their way. Now, like abusers called on their shit, they react with anger and denial. Fuck’em.
Being a contrary grumpy old man, the future will bring my criticisms of President Trump. For the moment, I’m a fan. You can be a President Trump supporter and still be all for equal rights and equal opportunities IMO. I do believe that is where he stands.
Being against special rights and special opportunities now days labels you a bigot, homophobe, misogynist, and xenophobe per a small but vocal segment of our population. To them I would advise taking a flying fuck at a rolling donut.
I still remain a Blue Dog Democrat. I loathe the Jeb!/Rowe/Santorium/McCain/Graham Republicans as much as I do the West Coast misandrists Democrats and their soul sisters and eunuchs everywhere.
Posted by Well Seasoned Fool at 4:31 PM 6 comments:
Labels: political rant
Wednesday, April 5, 2017
Your Cows Are Out
Nothing profound in this post. Just WSF being a fool again.
Three days a week I drive by the EJE Ranch South of Kimball, NE. Shaun Evertson writes an interesting blog I follow, and sometimes it brings back memories.
On Monday we were ahead of schedule. Our route, Hwy 71, is a narrow two lane no shoulders heavily traveled road making a North-South link between the Nebraska Panhandle and Northeast Colorado, Interstate 76, Interstate 70, and Hwy 287 into the Oklahoma and Texas Panhandles. If it is blocked for any reason, you are screwed schedule wise.
We decided to map out an alternate route through the prairie West of Hwy 71 on the Weld County gravel roads. Along the way we passed a very large yellow/white cow all on her lonesome. Brought back a memory.
Of all the bad news a stock grower can hear, “You’re cows are out”, ranks near the top.
Some friends had been in a bad wreck and I was visiting when they got that call. We tried shooing the cows with our vehicles and on foot but that wasn’t working. Finally, we had to saddle a horse and I mounted and rounded up the critters. Back at the barn there were many disparaging remarks about my horsemanship.
“How long has it been since you were on a horse?”
“Probably twenty years”.
“Well, don’t give up your day job”. Etc, etc etc.
That ended when I asked the question, “Are your fucking cows in?”
For the record, I was riding a horse by myself before my 4th birthday. My father, bar none, was the best rider I’ve ever seen. Close behind is my sister. Me? I ride like a sack of potatoes tied to the saddle horn. That said, I’m damn hard to buck off.
Back to the cow, the county road she was along is lightly traveled, mainly by the windmill farm maintenance people, so she probably wasn’t in too much danger. A few miles further West there was a herd of similar color – probably where she belonged.
It has been a long time since I’ve been around ranching but I think she was a Charolais breed. Hope she found her way home. Didn’t see a calf.
The route we mapped out I found interesting. Rolling hills, some quite steep, gullies, outcrops of Niobrara shale, missile silos, oil infrastructure, and occasional glimpses of the Pawnee Buttes.
A good sized herd of Pronghorns were bedded down in a protected swale, and catching a few rays one could guess.
Mileage wise about eight miles longer than the Hwy 71 to Hwy 14. Comes out at Raymer. About 20 minute longer time wise. It will be nice to have an option.
Posted by Well Seasoned Fool at 7:30 PM 10 comments:
Labels: loose cows, Prairie, Weld County
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