The Right to Reasonable Redbox Access Act of 2013

I guess I missed this little gem. Everyone else in the free world got the memo, but I am still scratching my head. Pursuant to the Right to Reasonable Redbox Access Act of 2013, you are guaranteed in your freedom to access a Redbox machine unhindered by obstacle, social convention, or common decency. Here are some of the finer points.

-It shall be noted that Reasonable Access is defined in the context of this law as direct straight line access to a Redbox machine, not to exceed 20 paces from the nearest paved surface upon which a vehicle can be parked. 

-Under no circumstances should a consumer have to cross perpendicular to a lane of traffic when gaining access to a Redbox machine. This includes parking lot throughways even when posted speed limits are below 5mph and properly marked crosswalks are available.

-You may, in the act of accessing a Redbox station, drive in a manner oppositional to the regular flow of traffic. No summons may be issued for driving the wrong way or for parking in a manner that suggests that the driver was driving the wrong way at the time the vehicle was parked, so long as the driver was doing so to gain access to a Redbox station.

-Barriers that limit access to a Redbox machine or station will be deemed unlawful and no consumer shall be bound by such obstacles. Curbs and low barriers may be driven over to gain access should the consumer deem it necessary or when such obstacle puts the Redbox machine beyond the allowable 20 pace limit.

-Loading zones and fire lanes shall be renamed and re-marked as Multi-Use Fire Dept/Redbox Access Lanes, with Redbox access taking highest priority in the event of a double emergency. No emergency vehicle may attempt to disturb, molest, or relocate a vehicle which is being used for the expressed purpose of accessing a Redbox machine.

-Handicap parking zones may be used by consumers accessing a nearby Redbox station, as under the RRRAA2013, not having a desired movie in your hand has been classified a physical handicap.

-No establishment housing a Redbox machine on its premises may deny entry to a consumer based upon standards of dress or appearance. This includes any No Shoes/No Shirts policies. Such policies are considered unlawful when used to deny a consumer reasonable access to a Redbox machine.

And there you have it. In black and white. Go forth, park on curbs, drive the wrong way, stand in a Walmart lobby with no shirt or shoes, it is your right as a 'Murican.

At What Point Do You Stop Collecting Things?

I mean, really, at what point do you stop collecting things? Is it when you can't even rationalize it to yourself anymore, or is it when the A&E film crew comes banging on your front door? Shit, who is knocking on the door? False alarm. It was just my subconscious mind playing tricks on me in an attempt to make me see how dangerously close I hover to hoarder status. Screw you, subconscious, that ruse ain't gonna work. Right now I'm staring at four turntables in various states of disrepair, heaps of albums and laserdiscs, no less than three typewriters, and boxes upon boxes of comic books, most of which I have never and will never read. There might even be a flat cat under all this mess. *elbow nudge to all the Hoarders watchers (inside joke y'all). Ugh. I've fallen under the spell of the unwanted and forgotten. I have to remember that just because no one else wants this shit anymore, it's not my job to provide it safe quarters. But for realsies, this shit is pretty fucking cool. I got a German made Dual CS-431 turntable that just needed a needle for a measly five bucks. Gimme, gimme, gimme. Another Dual, a CS-1257 that is a fucking mechanical conundrum, for another five bucks. Aaaaand it has an intact Ortfon stylus, I might ad. Gimme that, too. And albums? Yep, tons of 'em. All cheap, all in fair condition, and mostly jazz and big band. I'm in a jazz and big band mood as of late, me thinks it's due to my love of trombones and stand up bass. Daaaaaaaaammmit. I forgot about the VHS tapes. Did you know that they are like $.75 apiece and on some straight up BOGO status most of the time? Yup, rocking some Ninja Turtles, Ghostbusters, Monty Python, all that back in the day shit on VHS. Fuck netflix. It's too instant. Analog4lyf, son! Anyways, I guess the point I was trying to make was that, to answer my own question from before, you never stop collecting. Never stop until you die beneath an avalanche of pointless garbage. On a related note, you want comics? I got you. Mountains of mid-eighties commons. You pay me for a flat rate box, I fill it with bagged and boarded comics, I send them to you. Free. Of. Charge. (other than flate rate shipping, that is) Holla atcha boy. I'll be in the junk dungeon poking the insides of this Dual turntable with a screwdriver.

Go ahead audiophiles, cry about it. I replaced an Ortofon cartridge with a NuMark. I'm a rebel. 

One day, I'll figure out how to fix this one. Stabbing its guts with a screwgie* ain't working.

I use this typewriter to keep my precious Laserdisc collection from toppling over.

Yeah. VHS. Killin' it with this shit. I'm always kind, and I always rewind.

Ninja Turtles #2-5. Mint. Jealous? Don't be. They could be yours for the cost of postage.

Boxes of this shit. C'mon man, just say you want some fucking comics!

*elbow nudge to all the No Country For Old Men watchers. 

A Good 'ol Craigslist Adventure

When you get a text message asking if you want to go cut up a tree, you shouldn't really think too hard about it. The only real response should be; "Gas up the saws, boys, it's adventure time." Now, I guess to preface this adventure and to explain why I was so hyped about it, I should say that my friend and I have been searching all summer for a tree to cut up and split. I couldn't really explain why though. I think it simply boils down to the desire to play with chainsaws, swing axes, and feel like a real goddamn lumberjack. In the end, doesn't everyone want to feel like a lumberjack? No? Explain the resurgence of flannel then. That's what I thought. Anyways, I grabbed my trusty Stihl MS-310 chainsaw, a ziplock back of shitty but useable chains, a forestry axe, a Nalgene full of water and hopped in the truck. I was off to Norfolk to meet up with my buddy so we could run this chainsaw through some lumber on a random undeveloped parcel of land in a very nice subdivision.

Taking a break. This guy was so thirsty, he was eyeballing a random half full Gatorade that someone abandoned on the lot.

The first order of business was to cut the twenty foot trunk in to manageable rounds. This feat is easier said than done. It took a few tanks of gas, a couple of sessions of file sharpening the blade, and an electric winch to finally subdue the nefarious gum trunk. Also, sidenote, cutting a 20" trunk with an 18" bar is not as easy as it sounds. Especially when you cut from the top, roll the trunk to finish the cut, and the two cuts never line up. I blame the saw. My calibrated eye never steers me wrong. Never. Had to be mechanical failure of some sort.

Rotating the tree with the winch

After all the hooplah, I can tell you with utmost certainty that the funnest part of being a lumber jack is running the saw. Splitting rounds with a maul is for the birds, man. Also, when you don't have the equipment to split 20" rounds, you have to get the rounds into the back of your truck. And when your truck is pointlessly lifted, it is very hard to get them into the truck. However, being the badasses that we are, we got that shit done. You never realize how heavy a tree is until you have it cut into segments and loaded into a truck. My truck has a payload capacity of 1.25 tons. I think my springs touched the frame today. Not good. Not good at all. All in all, I would call this adventure Great Success. One more thing to cross off the bucket list. But next time, we are gonna up the ante. I am gonna bring a tree down. That is the Holy Grail of lumberjacking. Mark my words, readers: I am going to fell a tree if it's the last thing I do. Hopefully it won't end up being the last thing I do.

Loaded up. Super sketchy. I don't think I've ever maxed out the suspension on this truck before.

That's a good angle for truck right? Looks fast, like it's gonna take off like a fucking rocketship. 

P.S. I just realized that this adventure isn't even over. I have a truck full of wood that needs to be split, stacked, and dried. Goddammit. Anyone want to split some wood? It's fun as shit. I'd go so far as to say it's even more fun than whitewashing a fence. Seriously. Grab an axe and come on down, we'll make it a party. All the water you can drink, too! Right out of the garden hose!

The Short Course Student Template

I think that we have all taken some kind of short course at some point in our lives. It's usually a course that you have no interest in, is scheduled on the two nicest weekend days of the perceivable future, is required by some kind of higher authority, and is generally regarded as a way to make you pay for some puppet to force feed you common sense information you should already know. I've taken SDV100 (College Success Skills), a course that took two days to teach me that I could kick failure in the nuts and ride the Pegasus of  Success as a prerequisite for graduation from TCC, I've taken court mandated driver improvement classes, I've attended HR crash courses on how to avoid slapping the asses of the unwilling and how to refrain from slur laden water cooler talk, and most recently, I took a motorcycle safety course which, although informative, was still a weekend of DMV required captivity. I have noticed that no matter the course, no matter the information being delivered, the classes always seem to be formed using some kind of magical universal student template. Almost as if when the classes were being assembled on the great cosmic chessboard, that Microsoft Office paperclip with googly eyes reared his stupid fucking head and said, "Hey! I see you are trying to assemble a dynamic group of students who are forced to participate in the same mundane course. May I help you with that?" Fuck you paper clip. Why you gotta do me like this? Googly-eyed Paperclip, explain to me why, aside from the regular Joe, these four students have to be in every course?

Front Row Teacher Talker: This person finds a comfy seat right at the front of the class and gets real chummy with the instructor. They attempt to delay class by forcing the teacher endure an empty and sad pseudo-friendship. During breaks, they cling to the teacher in hopes that their undying and instant adoration will be reciprocated. I'm sure that 93% of front row teacher talkers attempt to friend the teacher on Facebook before the class is even completed.

Story Guy: This guy has a story for EVERYTHING. It doesn't matter what it is, Story Guy will step up to the plate with a story that is barely relevant, not entertaining, and mildly brain numbing. I get it, in 1987, you drove to Pasadena on a Vespa and bought pistachios from a street vendor wearing a hat made from old Budweiser cans. Now can we get back to learning about motorcycle helmet construction? Thanks.

The Back Row Teacher: Back Row Teacher already knows the content. Back Row Teacher knows everything. Back Row Teacher knows everything but how to avoid court mandated courses and how to shut the fuck up. They live and breathe the phrase "well, in my experience..." Hmm. Fascinating. With credentials like that, you would think that you would be getting paid to be in this classroom rather than paying for the pleasure.

The Cryptic Bragger: Oh, you know the Cryptic Bragger. They are the ones who weave and intertwine self praise into seemingly benign questions or anecdotes. During a lecture in SDV100 about financial responsibility, one student raised her hand and said "I know that having a few credit accounts is good for your credit. I personally have a $2000 line of credit at Eddie Bauer." Congrats. You can now pay 23% interest on moccasins and flannel shirts. Idiot. They just don't have the foresight to know that we are all snickering at what they perceive to be accomplishments. "I ain't never took no motorcycle class. Taught myself. I'm pretty good on two wheels, mang. On my second bike now. The first one? Oh, I crashed it like a year ago. I'm just here 'cause I got caught with no license." Nice. You clearly don't need to be here.

Look, I know that we all can't be perfect human beings. I'm not asking for that. Just realize that when a group of adults is forced to give up a weekend to attend some form of short course, all they want to do is keep their heads down, press on, and get through the course as fast as possible. Personal anecdotes, arguing with the teacher, trying to pat yourself on the back though cleverly disguised stories and answers, and trying to engage the teacher in witty banter is just holding the whole class up. I can't speak for everyone in class but when you keep me in a short course longer than I need to be, I am mustering every bit of psychokinetic ability that I have in an attempt to make you spontaneously combust right where you sit. General rule for a short course: "Shut the fuck up, listen, and let's get through this." Easy. Goddammit stop talking to the fucking teacher!

Proper Short Course form. Heads down. Mouths closed. Don't be the ass-tard that ruins it for everyone.

The Seed of Doubt and the Fruit of Disappointment

Well folks, I fucked it up. Fucked it up royal. I had a Sony SL-5400 in my hands, felt its weight, caressed its faux wood panels, popped the tape mech a few times, then I choked. Unwilling to take a chance on this mechanized piece of happiness, I put it back on the shelf of the thrift store with the promise of return. Why? Still reeling from the $3 loss I took on the last Betamax I bought (which turned out to be DOA), I wanted to test the SL-5400 for proper playback prior to purchase lest I get burned again. I didn't have a test tape. I didn't have a test tape and I had the arrogance to think that I was the only dead format collector in town and that the SL-5400 would wait for me. Wrong. Fucking wrong. Now it's gone.

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Betamax –
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Betamax –
Nameless here for evermore.
~E.A Poe (from his lost book Lamentation of Dead Formats)

Never again will I hesitate when faced with the opportunity to own a Betamax player. Never again. I sowed the seed of doubt and harvested the fruit of disappointment. 

Oh, SL-5400 you made me feel whole now I exist as an empty husk again.

Sharpening Your Implements

I am certain that there once existed a core set of skills that were passed down generationally to ensure the survival and well being of all subsequent peoples. By my lifetime, most of the more practical core skills have been lost in translation. One such skill: sharpening implements. Axes, knives, chisels, and the like should require occasional sharpening. Should. I've generally regarded such things as disposable and I've been hucking them in the garbage as they see the end of their usable sharpness. That's what trickled down to my generation; use it, destroy it, pitch it. Nah, nah, nah, muthafucka, I'm breaking the cycle. So, filled with a sudden swell of DIY spirit, I picked up my trusty Harbor Freight axe, some files, a honing stone, and my 1955 copy of the Popular Mechanics DIY Encyclopedia Volume S and headed to the garage. The DIY Encyclopedias contain all the knowledge in the world. True story, bro.

Knowledge. Raw and Unfettered

I chucked the axe in the vice and went to work. Following the book as best I could with what sharpening and honing tools I had on hand, I proudly brought my axe to an edge fine enough to easily cut paper drawn across it. I should also mention that sharpening axes in your garage at 5pm must not be a common activity. Most of my neighbors who enjoy afternoon walks seemed to look at me more strangely than they usually do when they saw me intently filing away at my axe blade. Waving while testing the blade edge with my thumb didn't seem to alleviate concerns. Oh, well. They'll see. When the world ends and I am standing proudly with my tinfoil hat, my axe, and a shopping cart full of antique DIY encyclopedias, they will beg to partake in the knowledge I have kept from the prying telepathic minds of invading alien overlords. 

Taking some swings at the test stump/ Stump Drinking Game arena

The Five Dollar Bill and How I Spent It

Five dollars. What does that get you these days? Two Monster energy drinks? A medium fast food combo? Like 53 Arby melts? What if I told you that five dollars bought me a chunk of history? Well believe it readers. Believe with all your heart. I present to you: The Realistic TR-822 8-Track Cassette Player and Recorder aka A Snapshot of the Seventies.

The TR-822 with her cover slipped off for inspection

A bargain if you ask me

Now, you might say to yourself: "Where is this idiot going to get 8-track tapes?". Would it surprise you if I told you I had a few NOS unopened 8-tracks in a box in my garage? Yeah, I know, seems like only something a hoarder would keep on hand but, by some miracle, a regular jamoke like me had such a box. So I unwrapped a James Gang tape, popped her in, and glued my eyes to the twin VU meters in anticipation of some jammin'-ass needle sweepage. Wrong. I heard some whirring from the cavernous recesses of the wooden cabinet but no audio output. Time to get the screwdrivers.

Yeah, right. Nice try.

So, it turned out that something very important was missing in here: the drive belt. This is not rare, rubber belts were never meant to last more than a decade or two. I don't have documentation, but style and build wise, I would guess that this piece of equipment was manufactured in the 1970's or early 1980's, putting it at around 40 years old. In that span of time, the rubber belt that turned the drive wheel inside the machine had become goo. Let me tell you in case you have never had the pleasure, removing the goo is a pain in the ass. Isopropyl alcohol is your best friend when cleaning belt goo from the drive wheel and the motor pulley.

There should be a belt somewhere in this picture. Can you guess where?

Belt goo is some nasty shit

Once cleaned, the pulleys were ready for a new belt. Problem is, I'm not going to order a belt for a five dollar 8-track player. Spending twice the amount you paid for an 8-track player for a single replacement part is idiotic. Even I have my limits. You see, even when they were mint, 8-track players sucked. They have terrible speed and pitch control, the tapes are built like shit, and whatever means of signal reproduction these things use is just terrible. The best case scenario with an 8-track is slightly warbled playback. I just bought the thing because it looked cool, not because it was some kind of audiophile wet dream. So the cheap and easy solution was to rig it up with a standard rubber band. However, the funny thing about rubber bands is that when you don't need one, they are everywhere. When you need one, they are nowhere. No matter, rubber bands are cheap, right? Wrong. I am not going to name names, but I went to a big box office supply store to buy a bag of rubber bands under the false assumption that one could buy rubber bands in units smaller than a one pound bag. Therein lies the rub, kids. This office supply store had only bulk quantities at ten dollars per bag. Conveniently, all of the small bags that would normally line the pegboard wall of rubber bands were out of stock. Note to office supply stores: DON'T PUT BULK MERCHANDISE IN RESEALABLE ZIPLOCK BAGS! So, after "finding" some stray rubber bands, I went back to the task at hand.

The liberated band stretched into place

After reassembling the case, I popped in that James Gang tape, plugged the player into my receiver, and fired this mutha up. Ahhhhhh. Just like I remembered. Pure shit. The James Gang never sounded so terrible. But, for some reason, those sweeping needles coupled with the loud echoing clunk of the track selector banging its way down to the next track still makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. For some people, these shitty tapes were a way of life. Jamming out in the car meant cranking up the volume on your in-dash 8-track player and just rocking out to the warbling sounds of your favorite band. Much respect if you lived through that era. I fixed this beast in your honor. I will subject my ears to this mangled mess of sound as a way of paying my dues just like you did. I won't take Hi-Fi sound reproduction for granted ever again.

Adventures in the Land of Thrift: Travel Edition

Thursday 19SEPT2013: The Sad Realization

I stood amidst a bustling crowd of junk herders buzzing in all directions, grabbing, evaluating, and stashing what treasures they could manage to get their hands on into rickety, rusty, reclaimed shopping carts. I fought my way back to the electronics section and lifted my arms in exasperation at the realization that these vultures have picked clean the bones of the collective Virginia Beach thrift carcass. I had combed the same stores again and again, each time noticing less and less new inventory. I realized then that my treasure wasn't going to be found here. It most likely wasn't going to be found anywhere in Hampton Roads. What was the elusive treasure I was seeking? A Laserdisc player. I needed a Laserdisc player so I could watch the Special Widescreen Edition of Andromeda Strain that I found alone and unwanted in a pile of old opera LPs and Firestone Christmas compilation records. If I was going to have any chance at finding a working Laserdisc player, I was going to have to leave the metropolis. I was going to have to take this show on the road.

Friday 20SEPT2013: One Last Sweep

Goal: Laserdisc player and/or laserdiscs. Wing chair for the reading room.

It was decided that before the great exodus, Pops and I would comb the local outlying thrift stores one last time. I could barely drag myself to each successive store as the weight of constant disappointment was beginning to crush my soul. At the last stop, just as I was about to give up all hope, Pops spotted it. "Oh, man! A Tandy 1400. Those were the shit back in the day!". I glanced at the gray plastic behemoth. Rays of light broke through the clouds, shined through plate glass and illuminated the primitive laptop as the angels above plucked the strings of gilded harps. Well, maybe not, but that shit still made my heart skip a beat. I flipped the lid. Dual floppy drives. Monochrome display. A battery pack reminiscent of Tyco R/C cars. Great success. The lady at the counter said she had placed it on the shelf as a joke with the word "vintage" sprawled across the top in grease pencil thinking that people would see it, chuckle, and move on. Jokes on her. Best $6 I've ever spent. Although, missing it's power adapter, it added one more treasure to the list.

Friday 20SEPT2013: Departure

Goal: VB to Greensboro. Minimal stops. 254 miles.

With some clothes, a Chromebook, and the Tandy 1400LT personal computer in hand, we departed VB for Greensboro, NC. Made one stop along the way at a Goodwill somewhere along 58. Added one promising power adapter (later found to be dead), one Roy Orbison CD, and one Van Morrison CD to inventory. This location was greatly lacking in electronics and furniture. Onward we traveled.

Friday 20SEPT2013: Arrival in Greensboro

Goal: Dinner and sleep.

We arrived at our base of operations, unloaded the cargo, and briefed my brother on the mission. He agreed to provide transport and knowledge of local customs on this quest. An initial scouting of local thrift stores lands us a chair which we plan to collect on Sunday. We also spot one of the greatest pieces of electronics that I have ever seen. Walnut case, brushed aluminum face plates, and covered in buttons, knobs, and dials. We stand perplexed and google the model number. It is some kind of machine that blasts your brain with waves of good energy. I want it but fight the urge. No room in the budget. We return to base and comb Craigslist for treasures. Sleep comes difficult as I find myself dreaming of Laserdiscs.

Saturday 21SEPT2013: First Leg of NC Journey

Goal: Motorcycle exhaust. Greensboro to Concord. 72 miles.

Pops had previously made contact with a man in Concord, NC regarding a full factory exhaust for his motorcycle. It was decided that we would chase this lead first while I struggled to make contact with my first Laserdisc player lead. I had texted, called, called again, and left a message. No response. The plan was to travel to Concord and await contact. After traveling 72 miles with no word from Laserdisc seller #1, we added one complete motorcycle exhaust to the inventory. We departed in the direction of my first lead in hopes that they would call and set up a meeting before we arrived. I was beginning to get annoyed with craigslist.

Saturday 21SEPT2013: The Second Leg

Goal: Laserdisc player and laserdiscs. Concord to Cameron. 83 miles.

83 miles goes slow as fuck when you stare at your phone in pure frustration the whole time. The closer we come to Cameron, the more irrationally angry I get. I text one last time, careful to word the message sans venom and spite. I inform the seller that we will head back to Greensboro. In the meantime, I begin to work lead #2 in Chapel Hill. I email (since seller did not provide any real contact info) that I am interested in the laserdisc player they have listed. They email back to say it's still available. I tell them we will be passing through Chapel Hill in an hour and to email a time and place if they are available for the sale.

Saturday 21SEPT2013: Begin Radio Silence

Goal: Laserdisc player. Cameron to Chapel Hill. 46 miles.

We head towards Chapel Hill and lose all contact with the civilized world. Lead #2 has fizzled out as the seller refuses to email me back. By the time we reach Chapel Hill, lead #2 had to be completely written off. I am butthurt. Butthurt as fuck. It consumes me. My day is ruined.

Saturday 21SEPT2013: Back to Base

Goal: Sleep. Chapel Hill to Greensboro. 51 miles.

Fuck Craigslist. Fuck Craigslist sellers who don't want to sell. As I settle in for the evening, I get an email from the Chapel Hill lead. "Had to step out. Meet up another time?" Fuck off. At 9PM just as I was about to give up all hope for this Laserdisc adventure, lead #1 texts me. Hope is restored. Sleep is difficult as I dream of Laserdiscs and revenge against Chapel Hill lead.

Sunday 22SEPT2013: The Score

Goal: Laserdisc Player and Assorted Laserdiscs. Greensboro to Cameron. 68 miles.

We began the journey to Cameron renewed. Well, I did anyways. I couldn't read the moods of the other adventurers. A fog of lingering disappointment seemed to remain in the air. Hopes were not high among fellow crew members in light of all previous attempts to purchase a player. Despite the odds, the transaction went smoothly. The seller was friendly, had the unit hooked up for testing, had the manual and OG remote, and actually worked for a company that I was employed by years ago. I leveraged this distant familiarity into a $10 discount. We swapped anecdotes about dead technologies, inventoried the movies, and closed the deal. I left Cameron with a Laserdisc player and pile of mixed Laserdiscs. Great success. 

Sunday 22SEPT2013: Triumphant Return

Goal: Pack up goods from home base. Transfer inventory to return vehicle. Cameron to Greensboro. 68 miles.

We returned to home base triumphant. I, myself, was high on success. I had achieved a major goal. I have wanted a Laserdisc player since I was just a wee lad, admiring them on the carpeted shelves of Circuit City during the early to mid nineties knowing that one day I would call one mine. And there I stood, bathed in the light of pure victory, Laserdisc player raised high above the land like a newborn Simba. Dead formats, I love the shit out of you.

Sunday 22SEPT2013: Homeward Bound

Goal: Pick up chair from Goodwill. Return home. Greensboro to VB. 254 miles.

The last order of business was to collect the chair we spotted on day number one. Fortunately, no one wanted it. I barely wanted it but Pops found it to be quite comfortable and at $15, who gives a fuck. We loaded up, strapped down the precious cargo, and headed home. We put miles behind us and grey clouds made way to reveal blue skies, surely a sign from above. "You done good, Adventurers. You done good."

In the end, we covered a shade under 900 miles in our impromptu journey for treasure. I spent some quality time with my brother and Pops and together, we punched adversity in the dick. Nyah, nyah, nyah, Craigslist. I got my fucking Laserdisc player. Go suck an egg. 

The Soft Glow of Burning Filament

Before the advent of liquid crystal displays and non-tactile momentary push switches, the face of home stereo was backlit by soft glowing incandescent light and comprised of banks of sweeping dials, fine tuned to deliver bits of information in its purest analog form. Heavy tuning knobs let you know that with the turn of your wrist, you were affecting some kind of change inside the innards of the walnut encased beast that sat before you. It felt good to use. It wasn't an appliance, it was a masterful creation, an amalgum of thousands of intricate parts that worked in unison to accomplish the singular goal of providing you entertainment. Fuck all these digitally tuned disposable heaps of plastic covered in blinking LEDs and LCD displays. They just don't nurture the same primal comfort of stereo receivers of yore. There is simply something about heated filaments that harkens back to the soft amber glow of dying embers. Campfire trapped in glass. You can keep your harsh, unapologetic beams of digitally conjured photons, I'll be over here fiddlin' with these dials. Analog4Life, son! You think this is a fucking game? Arf, arf, arf arf! (that is a DMX bark and you will go back and read the last lines of this treatise against LED in the raspy voice of DMX).

The Spiraling End of an Era

There was a time in my life when nothing held higher importance than amusement. I refer to that time period as the era of Ballin' Out of Control. An era marked with irresponsible spending and general disregard of anything resembling consequences. Want to buy rounds until you can't afford gas? Fucking do it, what's the problem? Wanna blow a paycheck at Toys R Us on Nerf guns and remote control boats? Do you, son. I mean, what's the point of life if grown men can't have speed boat battles in the apartment complex lake/retention pond? That was 2005. Now is 2013. Mo' money, mo' problems. The most lavish thing I've dropped dollars on lately is an MRI. A ballin'-ass MRI. What happened? I think I missed the memo on the death of the American Dream. Did you get it? Work. Pay bills. Die. The r/c boats didn't make the cut in 2013. Nor did the laughter that came with them. I went to work today, then I paid bills.

Gin: Why Do They Make This Shit?

Goddammit. I have resorted to drinking gin. Been-on-top-of-the-fridge-for-several-years gin. Hmmm. Hold on, let me just take a quick swig. Yep, ok, here is how it is: a nice, sharp, medicinal aroma, starts with a fairly sterile taste of a fermented and distilled pine cone, and ...... well, what can only be described as a hint of isopropyl on the finish. Yes. Very good vintage. Very good indeed. I can feel the firing of synapses coming to a halt. I give it three thumbs up, six stars, and an A for effort. Tastes like shit but is unwavering in it's pursuit of the wholesale murder of brain cells. Good on ya gin, good on ya.

Have You Ever Wondered About the Word "Mart"?

Mart. As in K-mart, Walmart, MiniMart, so on and so forth. Yeah. I was just pondering the word mart today and it intrigued me greatly. I just realized that it is tacked onto a lot of stores' names but I have otherwise never heard the word used in any other context and definitely never on its own. Being as I can't have a cell phone at work, a quick Google wasn't an option so I was left to speculate wildly on the origins of the word "mart". I speculated all day. ALL DAAAAAAAY. The best my feeble mind could do was to attribute it to a colloquial de-evolution of the work market. Market to mark't to mar't to mart. This totally made sense to me. I'm no etymologist so I'm just doing what I can with the sad bit of brain stuffed between my eardrums. But, guess what? I was fucking wrong.

Archaic? Dammit. I'm wish I was gooder at words. Cha' feel?

Gluing Speakers, The Saga of Intergalactic Strife, and the Great VHS Concession of 2013

So, when we left off with the previous blog, I was in the middle of rebuilding a set of Infinity Sterling SS-2002 speakers. Again, I guess I must reiterate that it's not a rebuild in the strictest sense of audiophile standards since I didn't replace capacitors in the crossover or anything and I merely replaced the surrounds on the woofers, but I'll still label it a rebuild. I'm a rebel like that. Unfortunately, I didn't exactly document the gluing process but long story short, the $8 eBay speaker surround kit worked in conjunction with the recommended craft glue to rejuvenate these thrift find speakers. They sound fuggin' amazing. With really bright highs and a nice low end, they actually sound heaps better than the Fisher speakers they sit on top of. Actually, even at a fraction of the size, they weigh about the same as the monstrous 3-way Fishers. And as Boris the Blade would say; weight is a sign of reliability.

Completed Speakers Sitting Atop the Shoulders of Giants

With that completed and out of the way, it was back to the thrift store for me to find more pointless shit that I can hoard in the reading room. But what would occupy my time this go round? I thought long and hard about that. I considered tape decks, 8-track players, laserdisc setups, outdated encyclopedias, but a quick flash in the corner of my eye from a gold colored VHS box set caught my attention and ultimately sealed the deal. BOOM. The Star Wars Trilogy digitally enhanced and remastered in THX sound on VHS. Ugh. VHS. The fucking scourge of cassette based home entertainment. The absolutely abhorrent asshole of analog audio/visual reproduction. But, since I have all but given up on my Betamax quest, I figured why not just bow down before the VCR gods and concede defeat in the VHS/Betamax format war started decades ago. So, in addition to my $2.98 box set, I had to purchase a $6.98 VCR and my foray into the world of Intergalactic Strife had begun. Oh, did I mention that at the age of 28 I have never watched the Star Wars Trilogy? I know, dafuq right? I'll wait while that little tidbit of information sinks in. Never. Watched. Star Wars. Recently, I had watched an unmolested, digital, OG copy of a New Hope (Ya know, the one where Han shoots first?) provided to me by a friend after much guffaw regarding the fact that I had never watched a single frame of Star Wars. So other than that very recent screening of Episode IV, this was my big leap into the Star Wars franchise. 

Without much pomp and circumstance, I spent the weekend watching the Trilogy on the far superior and unerring format of VHS tape (note the sarcasm). I was truly impressed by the movies and how they hold up after all these years. For what it was, for when it was, the practical effects are fucking incredible. So incredible in fact that I found Lucas' digital enhancements to be disgusting and out of place. I see now why people of discerning taste looked upon me with disgust when I told them, quite proudly and arrogantly in fact, that I had never seen Star Wars. I will save you the hassle of reading a whole diatribe on my full Star Wars experience and I will just point out a few things that stuck out in my mind.

1: Luke is a total crybaby in most of Episode IV. 

2: R2D2 poops a third appendage when it's time to really haul ass.

3: Han is a bad motherfucker who is quick with the one liners.

4: Sand People will totally jack your land speeder up and strip it for parts if given the opportunity.

5: People continuously back talk and sass a man that can Force choke you until your trachea collapses.

6: Everyone got a medal of valor except for Chewy at the end of IV and that is bullshit. Total fucking bullshit.

7: Tauntaun guts are nasty but warm.

8: Yoda loves snacks and flashlights and won't hesitate to bust a droid in the face with a walking stick.

9: Luke is a total crybaby during most of his Jedi training.

10: Han is a bad motherfucker who gets cock blocked numerous times in V.

11: Lando Calrissian is the biggest intergalactic pimp to ever live. He also has the best hair in the galaxy. And that cape, c'mon. No one rocks a space cape like L to the Cizzle.

12: Being frozen in carbonite would suck. Like, ruin your day suck.

13: Being unfrozen from carbonite would suck. Like, ruin your day and vision suck.

14: Slave Leia: super smexy.

15: Ewoks are adorable. Even when they die horrible, tragic, violent deaths, they do it adorably. 

16: The Emperor is a big pile of pale yuck butter. What the fuck happened to that guy?

17: Admiral Akbar, you knew that shit was a trap. Didn't you see the meme?

18: I think I would have given up after the first Death Star. Something smaller would probably be easier to defend and have way less exploitable weaknesses.

19: Ewoks beat the shit out of the Imperial Army with rocks and rope. Adorable. Fucking adorable.

20: I want to party with the Ewoks in those badass tree houses.

And that's it, kids. I watched it, I enjoyed it, and although I kind of regret waiting this long to see it, the wait made it that much sweeter. Now, the true question is: leave it there or watch Episodes 1-3? Can you feel the conflict within me?

"You need some new hobbies," said no one ever.

Well, I guess I found myself a new hobby. Yep, I'm gonna try my hand at restoring speakers. Well, not restoring per se, rather just the process of refoaming the woofers on speakers. But this shit is still gonna be heaps fun, son. You might be wondering what drove this sudden urge to just randomly start refoaming speakers, and for good reason I suppose, I mean it is kind of an odd thing to just pick up out of the blue. It comes part and parcel with a sudden unexplained urge to piece together a vintage console stereo system. I'm talking about a full blown, ballin'-ass, woodgrain cabinet, analog dial, warm incandescent lit 70's era stereo component system. Oh yeah, I know, who doesn't want that setup, right? The only problem with building such a setup is the physical deterioration these components suffer at the hands of Father Time. This isn't an issue with the stereo receivers and components as much as it is with the speakers. A blast from some Deoxit on the switches and rheostats, and most components are good to go, but speakers need a little bit more help. The problem with them is the foam surrounds that serve as the speakers suspension become brittle over time and eventually crack and split. I personally blame MC Hammer. It was Hammer Time that blew out all of the woofers that had the misfortune of living through the early nineties. The end goal here is to buy a set of old Bose 501 floor speakers and restore them for my future ballin' console system. I think that they epitomize the the 70's era floor speaker in every way.

Oh yeah, the Bose 501. Sexy. So fuggin' sexy.

They are wood veneered, they have the beige/brown cloth covers, and they just look the part. But before I commit money to a set of 501s and fuck them up beyond belief trying to "learn" on them, I'm gonna experiment on a more modern set of Infinity Sterling SS-2002s that I bought from the Habitat store for $4.99. I am currently waiting on my surround kit to arrive from the nether reaches of eBay, but here is how the project is starting off.

Infinity Sterling SS-2002s. $5 for a pair. A good starting point.

Here is the separation of the foam surround on the woofer.

The 6.5" woofer was carefully coaxed from the speaker.

The old surround was removed from the basket and cone and a bit of isopropyl alcohol was used to remove the old adhesive.

I removed as much adhesive from the cone as I was comfortable with. I was scared to go gnat's ass on it for fear of damaging the cone.

Well, the saga will end here for now. Hopefully when the parts arrive in the mail, everything will go together like it's supposed to. My only fear is that I have to complete this task without shimming the voice coil because I am scared to cut the dust cover from the voice coil. That is the proper way to do it, cut the dust cover off, shim the voice coil so it is perfectly centered, then adhere the new surround. Right way, wrong way, my way. Guess which one I'm gonna choose. To be continued.........

Why Am I Trying To Restore A Beta Player?

What am I doing with my life? I just spent an hour carefully tearing down a Sanyo Betacord VCR that I found at the thrift store in an attempt to figure out why the tape loading mechanism and playback drive are FUBAR. All of that effort was put forth just to find out that a belt had melted on the counter assembly and made a real fucking mess of things inside this unit. On top of that, I just found out that this particular model video cassette recorder is near impossible to find a belt kit for. Seems that every other Sanyo Betacord unit going all the way back to 1979 has a service parts kit available, but for some reason the VCR 4200, made in 1982, does not. But that's not the worst part about this whole purchase/repair/obsession fiasco. The worst part was the sudden realization that for some reason, I am actually dedicating time (and contemplating spending money) trying to repair a Beta tape player made in 1982, just so I can watch recorded episodes of Wishbone and possibly some Ghostwriter. Also, when I consulted YouTube for some visual instruction on disassembling the tape load mech, every narrator and/or Beta enthusiast seems to be, well, to put it nicely, a socially awkward basement nerd. Fuck. I am becoming one of them. One of the Beta enthusiasts. The scary thing is the fact that the $450 professionally refurbished Beta players I found online don't even seem like an unreasonable option to me at the moment. The cost to awesome ratio calculations keep coming back highly favorable of the restored Betamax. So, for now I am going piece this 4200 back together, put it away until I can weigh my options, and then immediately freeze my credit card in a block of ice, lest I end up with a crisp, mint condition, fully refurbished, fully warrantied Beta VCR. Hey, loyal readers, do you have a Beta player you want to get rid of? If you don't, maybe you want to raid your older family members' houses and find me one. Yeah, that seems like something you want to do, right? Find one. Please? (I currently have one pending lead and am scouring EVERY thrift store I can find)

case open

drive motors and belts

I'll never remember how all this shit goes back together anyways

Beta Tapes: How Shall I Play Thee?

So, I have this pile of Beta tapes that are begging to be played. Ok, wait, before I get too deep into this nonsensical story of failure and regret, let me address the readers who may not have heard of Beta tapes. Once upon a time, in a much simpler world, two formats of home video were locked in an epic struggle to become the dominant force in home entertainment. In one corner we had VHS, the bloated, oversized cassette of inferior quality. In the other, we had Beta, a sleek, high quality cassette system capable of near Bluray quality video reproduction. For some reason (most conspiracy theorists blame it on the porn industry's silent endorsement of the VHS format) VHS won the battle and rendered Beta all but obsolete in the realm of cassette based home video.  It was kinda like the Bluray vs. HDDVD format battle of the early millennium but set in the eighties. Got it? On the same page? If you are still lost, consult wikipedia, I have it set as a drop down feature at the top of the page. Ok, so as I was saying, I have all these Beta tapes and no way to play them. This hasn't been an issue to me for neigh on 15 years now. These Beta tapes were filed away deep in my memory and all but forgotten. But, as it so happens, I wandered upon a Beta player at the Habitat for Humanity store today. I walked out of that bish with a Beta player for $3. Three 'murican dollars, y'all. I was so fucking hyped that I sped right home, right past several other thrift establishments, because I was ready to set up this wood grained abomination and watch some Beta tapes. Let me preface this by saying that these are no ordinary tapes. These aren't some stupid movies that I could find on Netflix and load up instantly, these Beta tapes contain elusive programming that are all but extinct. We are talking about Wishbone, dammit. I have nearly every episode of Wishbone recorded on Beta tape, ripped right from WHRO 15. I am dying to see this Jack Russell Terrier give me synopses of books I am too lazy to read. Ever see a dog battle a windmill a la the Man of LaMancha? I have. And I want to see it again. But, as fate would have it, this Beta player is FUBAR. It ate my copy of the Color of Money, too. But I will just write that off as a sacrifice to the gods of video cassette. However, this whole situation has me irrationally upset. I mean, yesterday, not a single fuck could have been given about these Beta tapes. But today? That shit is top priority. I will have a Beta player. And I will have it soon. Get Beta or Die Tryin'. New album me and Fiddy 'bout to drop. Exclusively at Best Buy. Beta tapes: how shall I play thee?

Wait, a McWhat?

Ever heard of a McGangbang? Well if you have, holy shit, why didn't you tell me about this underground sandwich phenomenon? C'mon, I thought we were bros. For those of you who haven't heard of a McGangbang (and don't feel bad because I hadn't either as of May 2013), it is a Dollar Menu Frankenstein mash-up monster sandwich that can be had for the measly pittance of only two American dollars. To achieve such levels of culinary perfection, one must simply visit the nearest McDonald's franchise, order a McDouble and a McChicken off of the Dollar Menu, laterally dissect your McDouble at the union of meat patties, and slip an entire McChicken sandwich betwixt the resulting halves. Boom. Dollar Menunaire, son!

Photo Courtesy of mcdonaldssecretmenu.com

I still can't fathom how this masterpiece of frugal self destruction has flown below my radar for all these years. According to my research, this sandwich had it's own MySpace page dedicated to it. A fucking MySpace page, people. It might as well have been written into scripture with chronological clout like that. A McGanbang. Elegant sandwich, moderately disturbing name. Go forth and assemble these monstrosities en masse, we owe it to the world to spread the word of the McGangbang. I suggest going door to door on mountain bike with McGangbang pamphlets. People seem to be generally receptive of any tri-folded forms of print media.

The Land of Obsolete and Forgotten Things

For as long as I can remember, I have always had a soft spot for things that everyone else cast away as unusable trash. My quest to save obsolete goods started early in life. I can remember shimmying my way up into the attic as a wee lad of five to recover a Sony Turntable that had been packed away and rendered obsolete by the advent of Compact Disc. Oh, it was a glorious feeling, the feeling of rescuing an artifact, I was like a little Indiana Jones recovering precious chunks of history from the hands of evil. Here in my possession was a completely functional piece of electronic equipment that was tossed aside simply because of a technology that was newer and more exciting. After I hooked it up to an old analog stereo receiver, I loaded up an album (a Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass album to be exact) and dropped the needle on that spinning black disc of vinyl. Nothing could match that crackle and pop of the needle tracking dead grooves on it’s way to the first track. Once the needle tracked and fired off the sounds of Herb Alpert’s brass ensemble, I instantly fell in love with vinyl. Still to this day I maintain a record player and a selection of classics on vinyl. Something about the crackle of dust hitting the needle and the variable pitch of a warped record brings me back to a childhood spent watching records turn and turn as they pumped the sound of Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band out of a pair of grotesquely large and out of style Kenwood speakers.

Ol' Herb the Lady Killer

But vinyl was merely a gateway drug for me. It led me to a harder lifestyle of preserving Betamax players and tracking down Beta tapes from any thrift store accessible to a child via BMX bike. Later on in life, when Laser Disc fell out of favor with the techno-snobs, I scooped up a player and as many peripheral goods as I could get. Soon after that I was onto vintage video game systems. Ataris, Sega Master Systems, NES, any old console and game I could put my hands on was happily hoarded away in my room, which at that time served as the Land of Obsolete and Forgotten Things. Even when I got a drivers licence, my car choice was impacted by my desire to save the cast off and unwanted. I bought a 1980 Ford Fairmont Futura that had a date with the crusher. Yep, I rocked out a 1980 Ford Fairmont from the junkyard. Yep, it had a functional 8-track player. Yep, it was a chick repellent. But it was another thing saved from the jaws of destruction.

My old 1980 Ford Fairmont. Photo circa 2002.

I wish I could say that I grew out of this compulsion to save obsolete goods, but you will find my home no better off than my old childhood bedroom. I have a whole room cluttered with old Polaroid Land Cameras, 35mm cameras, video game consoles, typewriters, musty old books from the 30’s, 40’s and 50’s, old comic books, and ac adapters of every possible voltage and current. I can’t drive by a trash pile or a garage sale without having to slow down and visually inventory possible scores and saves. Fuck. I just realized that I am one of those people you see on Hoarders. Well, I guess if you don’t hear from me for a couple of years, send a camera crew, a psychologist, and a crew of shovelers to dig me out of my mountain of saved treasures. How ironic would it be to have been killed by the very items you sought to save from destruction?

Can it be saved?

The Uninspired Idiot's Guide to Misanthropy

Misanthropy isn't very hard. Anyone can be a misanthrope. Even you. Let me show how easy it can be. Step one: open your eyes to the world around you. That's it. Just one sweeping gaze across the endless horizon of humanity should suffice in your efforts towards becoming a misanthrope. If the vast sea of humanity is too much for you to hate as a whole, here are a few subsets you can narrow your focus upon.

1. The Abusers: the kind of people who drive a lifted truck to Walmart, park in a handicap spot, pop a blue placard onto the rearview mirror, hop out, and speedwalk into the store.
2. The Better-Thans: these people drive luxury automobiles, merge into any lane regardless of current occupancy, drive on closed shoulders on the highway (obviously their own personal luxury lanes), and take up two parking spots just for the hell of it. I mean after all, they payed WAY more for their rolling heap of steel than you did, so fuck you.
3. The Chest-Beaters: always making it a point to show that they are in charge, no matter how small the chunk of Earth they are in charge of. 
4. The Fabricators: they always feel the need to look you dead in the eyes and fabricate the wildest stories. Always. 
5. The Loiterers: the seat fillers of Earth. Forever just there, never doing anything. Just standing, gawking at nothing, leaning on poles, holding down the concrete.
6. The Try-Too-Hardsters: always looking for the next hip thing to wear out ad nauseum. They always have to be part of the latest scene, buying their way to cool, and generally leeching off of anything that could be considered a subculture. They are ruining the world one bad sweater and copypasta lifestyle at a time.
7. The Scoot-Abouts: riding scooters everywhere, oblivious to everything. Clogging up traffic on a motorized vehicle that can't even exceed 30mph. No insurance. No licence. No registration. No problem.

You see? Now that's just a start. The tip of the iceberg. You can get as fancy as you want with your misanthropy. Give it a whirl. See what kind of things take the wind out the the sails of S.S. Faith in Humanity. 

Don't Miss This Investment Opportunity

Run to Target, grab all the Pope John Paul candles you can get your mitts on, and wait. Yeah, just kick back and wait for the value to appreciate tenfold. Maybe even twenty or thirtyfold. At less than two dollars a share, these candles are the only stock you should be investing in. What could possibly go wrong with a stockpile of Pope candles? Nothing. But, these are limited edition, you have to act now. I mean, I know the idea of stockpiling candles sounds stupid, but what if some dude in a magical DeLorean rolled up to you in 1987 and told you to stockpile Michael Jordan rookie cards because they would be worth thousands of dollars apiece in the future? You would probably say "Yeah right, spaceman. A piece of cardboard bearing the likeness of a relative nobody in the NBA is going to be worth thousands? Nice try. Go drive your wire covered DeLorean down the block and harass some other jackass.". But that is because it was too soon to appreciate the future value. I am the spaceman (sans DeLorean). I am telling you that once this new Pope gets settled in and all the JP candles have been burned, you and your stockpile are going to be worth a friggin' mint. Seriously, we are talking about Pope before the Pope candles, two Popes back status. Value should start to climb any day now. So I'll see you at the Antiques Roadshow in fifty years, suckas. I'll be the dude with the Radio Flyer full of OG John Paul candles wearing a gold dookie chain and a jacket made out of Benjamin Frankies. I'm gonna be rich!

Have You Ever Seen An Otter Poop?

Well, if you haven't, you are missing out on one of the greatest things ever. Once seen, it can never be unseen. I know that this seems like a strange notion, to be so fascinated by the excremental habits of a water rat creature, but if you have witnessed the phenomenon you know exactly what I'm talking about. I am convinced (keep in mind that I am no biologist) that otters have no means of natural, biological means of waste excretion. They can only poop with the aid of gravity and some good old fashioned shit shaking. It's crazy, they literally have to shake and dance the poop out of their bodies. For real. Wait, hold on. Lemme see if I can pull up some YouTubery so you can stop judging me and my otter crap obsession. Ok, here we go:

See what I'm talking about? Awesome, right? I DARE you to have a conversation about otters without bringing up how they poop. You won't be able to do it, guaranteed, because this factoid is now permanently burned into the trivia cortex of your brain.  Now stop what you are doing and do the otter poopy dance. It will change your life.

Side note: you can see the otter poopy dance in person at the Virginia Aquarium (I'm trying to get free admission with a shameless plug. Shhhhhhh.)

The Uninspired Idiot's Guide to Bargain Bunkers

You know, you don't have to spend heaps of cash to be a well prepared wing nut with a ballin'-ass doomsday bunker. All these people you see on TV with these super reinforced, custom made, tricked out bunkers are just dummies with too much bloody money. You can do this thing on a budget, you just have to be creative with cheaply available resources. Besides, if you are aiming for discretion, having a full construction crew delivering a giant steel reinforced bunker to your property via crane just isn't going to cut it. Solution? Craigslist boats. Yes, Craigslist boats. Think about it. A modern fiberglass hull of suitable size is a water tight enclosure that will already be set up for daily life below the deck planks. A galley, bunks, a manually operated toilet system, fresh water holding tanks, lights, storage, communication systems, it's all right there in an old-ass boat that you can buy from Craigslist any day of the week for peanuts. Fuck, people are GIVING AWAY old boats that no longer run. See where I am going with this? 

First step is acquiring a suitable vessel. I would personally choose a trailerable sailboat somewhere in the 30ft range (this seems to be the size break at which the living quarters really opens up). Most boats this size will feature an inboard engine that most owners do not find to be economically reasonable to replace when they blow up. For this reason, boats with bum engines seem to go for a great price point. Now, once we have us a nice little junk vessel, I would go ahead and fiberglass over any hatches and deck fittings. Since the boat will be buried, they won't be needed and sealing them off is just a good precautionary measure. While we have the glass out, go ahead and build a hatchway tube that will rise to the surface and glass the whole assembly to the hull. In a perfect world, I would have the whole finished hull Line-X coated. That shit is bomb-proof and having the hull sprayed top to bottom would likely run somewhere between one and two thousand dollars (this is a mere luxury and added source of water resistance and hull structure). Now we are ready to bury this sucker.

I don't find it wholly unreasonable to think that one could rent a back-hoe and discreetly dig a 30x10 hole without rousing the suspicions of the neighbors. Remember, good fences make good neighbors. Once the digging task is done, drop the boat in the hole. Plumb a PVC vent tube to the surface, pipe the boat to a well water source, and run a waste tube out to an improvised septic tank, then back fill. Boom, instant doomsday bunker. The finishing touch is to place a fake tree stump over the entrance, and fly a flag from the exposed mast. No one questions the motives of a patriot. No one.