Well I’m having one of those days. Nothing horrific. Nothing tragic. Nothing to worry about. Just one of those days.
So, other than this, I’ll likely not be saying much more today.
Well, except a reminder to join us on Facebook for QandO plus (which I also haven’t had time for today).
It’s no secret that I’m a pessimist about the economy, as we travel along our current path, and the danger of a collapse of the currency and financial system, and the possibility of civil disturbance that might follow. Because I occasionally make snarky comments on Twitter and elsewhere about being prepared for 20 days of combat operations, I am occasionally asked about what that actually entails.
Of course, the still-remote possibility of civil unrest isn’t the only reason to be prepared to rough it for a while. There are plenty of earthquakes, floods, fires, hurricanes, tornadoes, and other natural disasters that might require up to several days of living in the pre-industrial era.
So, since I have a couple of hours free this afternoon as I wait for my flight to Albuquerque, I thought I’d jot down a few thoughts.
First off, there’s all sorts of survival lists on the Internet. This is a good one. There’s about 1,000 others available if you simply Google "survival checklist". That’s just a list of items, which is a good start, but here are some other things you might want to think about.
Map out a route away from urban areas, using roads that are off of the main routes of travel. Highways, freeways, etc., may be jammed with traffic, and you’ll be going nowhere fast. Find the little-used back roads. It’ll require a more circuitous route, but your chances of getting caught in traffic while escaping the city are much smaller. Go sooner rather than later, however, or you still might not get out. If you live in, say, Manhattan, and you wait too long, you’re screwed as far as escaping goes.
If you have a diesel vehicle with a towing package, you’ve got a 12-volt generator. If you don’t have a towing package, but have a cigarette lighter or 12-volt vehicle outlet, you’ve still got a generator, but you’ll need a couple of AC converters, like these.
If your vehicle is not diesel-powered, it should be. You should also have a portable generator, of course. It should also be a diesel. Dependence on gasoline is, in general, not good. If you have a diesel, you can, in an emergency, run it on heating oil, kerosene & vegetable oil, lamp oil, or almost any other low-volatility flammable fuel. You can even make your own bio-diesel fuel. Leveraging your future to gasoline is a Bad Thing if civilization collapses.
Get a small travel trailer, and keep it stocked with your survival supplies. One nice thing about travel trailers is that they already have a 30 or 50 gallon water tank. Drain and fill it every couple of months at minimum, and if you have to leave, you can hook up and go in minutes, and you’re already stocked with food and water for several days. Small used travel trailers are cheap, and easily turned into mobile, pre-stocked, survival shelters.
Have lots of honey on hand. Honey doesn’t spoil, so it keeps for ever. Bacteria cannot live in honey. Archeologists once found a huge pot of honey that was a couple of thousand years old. They ate it, found it very yummy, and suffered no ill effects from it. (They later discovered a body preserved in the bottom of the pot.) In a pinch, honey can be used as an antibiotic covering for wounds, though it does raise the chance of further injuries from bears trying to lick the wound.
Also, if you have honey and salt, you can mix them in water to drink when you get diarrhea, which you almost certainly will in the wilderness, and they will keep you hydrated and supplied with electrolytes so you won’t crap yourself to death, which, prior to 1900, was not an uncommon way to die. So, have salt, too.
Speaking of wounds, if things are really bad, and civilization is actually collapsing, you need to head over to CVS or Walgreens and raid the pharmacy. First, take any drug that ends with "cillin". That’ll be an antibiotic. Also, take anything that ends with "codone" or has "codein" in the name. Those’ll be painkillers. Hydrocodone, Oxycodone, Oxycontin…you know what I’m talking about. If you have antibiotics and painkillers, you’ve got a far better chance of surviving an open wound than if you do not. Like, 1000 times better. Use the painkillers sparingly. Don’t get hooked.
Get a copy of the US Army Field Manual 21-76. It’s easy to find. Here it is. Print it out. Read it. Know it. Live it.
Guns. In general, pistols are useless. Sorry, but there’s nothing you can hit with them with any reliability beyond 25 meters, and in combat, beyond 10 feet. At the OK Corral gunfight, 10 guys were jammed into an enclosure about 20 feet square, and two of them walked away without a scratch, after about 50 rounds being fired. You need rifles, and you need more than one. Two guns is one gun, and one gun is no gun. You need at least two rifles per person in the same caliber.
What caliber? Personally, I prefer the 7.62×39 over the 5.56mm/.223 caliber. It’s a harder-hitting round, punches through brush or obstructions more reliably, and is widely available cheaply, as are the weapons which fire it. It’s a better all-round caliber, in my opinion, for hunting or combat, though hopefully you’ll need it for the former, rather than the latter. You cannot go wrong with an SKS rifle in good condition, and you can find a surplus SKS for cheap as dirt. You can also get 1,000 round cases of 7.62×39 cheaply as well. If you want to spend real money on something more modern than the SKS—though, I stress again, the SKS is as fine, accurate, and dependable rifle as you can buy—then spring for a Czech SA Vz58, and you can add all the cool dongles to it. Do not buy an AK-47. For survival purposes, the SKS or Vz58 are superior in every conceivable way. You should assume a combat day will require 100 rounds of ammunition with a semi-automatic rifle (The combat load for the M1 Garand, for example, was 96 rounds per day in WWII). You should have enough ammunition for at least 20 combat days. If you are in, or going to, a big-game area, a surplus Springfield rifle or a Garand are perfect for elk, moose, bear, or other big game. 30-06 ammo is really expensive, however.
Finally, you have to think about your attitude. There’s no easy way to say this, but if things get really bad, like an asteroid wipes out civilization, then you need to be determined and ruthless to survive. Many ethical concepts that are useful in civilized society will be…how does one put this…counter-productive to survival in the state of nature. Many of the survivors you may encounter will be really bad people. Everyone you encounter will be desperate and/or terrified, which will make them extraordinarily dangerous. You will have to keep this uppermost in your mind at all times, and make the appropriate decisions in your dealings with others to ensure your own survival. And that’s all I have to say about that.
In less extreme circumstances, attitude is still everything. Remain calm. Think before you act. Remain positive.
Happily, we do not, for the most part, have to worry about the complete collapse of civilization as a high-order probability. But there is a chance of some natural disaster in which you may need to be ready to go for two weeks or so living roughly. Ensuring you have adequate food, water, and shelter for those two weeks is not survivalist extremism. It’s just good planning, and good planning may save your life, and will certainly make those two weeks more comfortable.
On the other hand, if you’re also prepared for the asteroid’s arrival…well, you’re prepared for that, too.
One of the things I’ve been eternally grateful for is the family I was lucky enough to marry into. For over 3 decades, I’ve been a part of a family that I both admire and respect. They are, to me, the salt of the earth and they represent the type of people who’ve made this nation great.
I’m out here to celebrate the birthday of the matriarch of that clan, my mother-in-law, Mrs. Ruby James Weaver’s 100th birthday.
Here in the Cookson Hills of eastern Oklahoma, the Weavers are well known and loved. I’ve always joked about visiting my “outlaws” instead of in-laws. My mother in law’s maiden name is James and I have two brothers-in-law named Younger. But, as a mentioned, a more all-American family can’t be found. Farmers, ranchers, you name it, they are part of the generation that has helped make this nation the richest and most powerful on earth. And, as you might imagine, some of the last of what was once a very common thing – rugged individualists.
Mrs. Weaver raised 10 kids on, well, not much and did a magnificent job. She has 23 grandchildren, and as she admitted last night, has lost count of the great and great-great grandchildren.
I married the baby of the family. Like I’ve said, I got lucky.
So, to the best mother-in-law in the world and matriarch of one of the finest families I know, happy 100th birthday, Mrs. Weaver.
For the second Sunday in a row, our boxer, Apollo, got loose and attacked Lucius. This time, he got life-threatening injuries from Lucius, who is twice his size, and Apollo had to go into emergency surgery. We had been keeping them separated since last week, but Apollo got loose and went straight for Lucius again.
So, not only do we have to pay about $1600 in vet bills today, we now have to find a new home for Apollo. We can’t have a dog-aggressive dog in the house, no matter how much we love him. And we love him to death.
The vet was a nightmare as well. It was our 1st time there, but we went because they had emergency care on Sundays, and they are much, much closer than the other animal hospital. All I’ll say about that is that we hate them and will never go back to them. The only reason Apollo is still there is because his injuries were so bad, we couldn’t take him to the other animal hospital without endangering his life. We will be going to our regular vet for the post-op checkups.
This is one of the worst days ever.
UPDATE: We changed our mind. Rather than try to get rid of Apollo, we’ve decided to change the other side of the equation and find a new home for Lucius. I suspect it’ll be a lot easier selling an intact, pure-bred, registered Cane Corso male than it will be to find someone who wants an older boxer with impulse control issues. Lucius will be better off as the king of his own castle anyway.
The Kindle edition of my book, Slackernomics, is available for free all weekend to Amazon Prime members. You won’t get it any cheaper than that.
No image portrays the true meaning of Memorial Day like the following image. I posted it last year, and I’ll probably post it every year I draw breath. It best encapsulates the day’s meaning for me.
Freedom isn’t free. And it doesn’t come without a horrendous cost. God bless the fallen. And God comfort their families.
[In memory of SP4 Stuart Lee Barnett, KIA 8/26/70, Republic of Vietnam]
I‘m not really one of those people who goes to events like Salute Our Troops in Las Vegas and spends his time trying to get interviews. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with that, it just isn’t my style. Maybe it should be if I ever want to go anywhere doing this, but its not what I’m comfortable with.
I’m more of an observer. A listener. Oh I talk and laugh and exchange small talk, but for the most part I’m one who likes to sit back and watch the interaction of a group, see what they’re all about and then relate my impressions in writing.
That’s not always as easy as I’d like it to be, but it works for me.
The 3 days and nights I spent in Las Vegas at the Palazzo hotel with our wounded warriors was probably one of the more inspiring and satisfying times I’ve spent in a long time. From the moment I watched them walk into the hotel until I watched them leave 3 days later, I was on a bit of an emotional rollercoaster.
Pride was a dominant emotion. I was extraordinarily proud of how they conducted themselves. The event was very emotional for them as well. You could see the trepidation in their faces when they first got off the busses on day one. A perfectly human reaction. But as they moved through the welcoming crowd, you could see the unease disappear and the wonderful emotion of the moment begin to take hold.
The genuineness of the welcome made the whole experience resonate with the warriors. Remarkably it remained a constant through out the entire visit. It was real. Tangible. The thanks rendered wasn’t perfunctory or pro forma, it was heartfelt and always present.
As I watched the wounded warriors begin to interact with the crowd, I knew they felt it too. I wasn’t just proud of the warriors, I was equally as proud of the crowd.
Over the next few days, as I got to know the personalities within the group, certain things became obvious to me that might have been missed by those who didn’t have the opportunity to spend the time I had with them.
Brotherhood. In this case it’s a generic term that includes the wounded women as well. This small group was a brotherhood who in so many subtle and unthinking ways took care of each other the entire time they were there. It wasn’t a duty. It wasn’t something they had to do. It was what they did. It is who they are. They had a shared experience and shared sacrifice that made them unique. But they also had an entirely human desire to ensure those they had shared that experience with were well taken care of. Nothing was too much for their friend or comrade.
Families. Families by marriage. Families by service. Family by experience. One of the extraordinary things about wounded warriors is they belong to many families and all of them were evident in Las Vegas. All of them were at work as well. It was gratifying to see but not unexpected. Marines checking on other Marines. A wife taking care of her wounded husband. One wounded warrior watching out for another.
Normalcy. One of the more poignant moments for me was overhearing two chaperones talk about a request by one of the wounded. Each of the warriors and their guests had been given a blue t-shirt identifying them as a part of the Salute Our Troops group. One of the wounded had asked if they had to wear them all the time or might take them off. The chaperone relaying the request said, "they just want to be normal, to blend in, to be part of the crowd. They don’t want to stand out". I found that request to be incredibly endearing. They just wanted to again, as much as possible, be normal.
As I watched these young warriors interact with others, another impression hit me – quiet dignity. It was how they handled themselves. Their humbleness. Their gratefulness for what the Armed Forces Foundation, Sheldon Adelson and all the other sponsors were doing for them. None of them took it as their due. None thought they were owed this. All of them showed and expressed their appreciation throughout the week in countless ways.
Humor. As you might expect there was plenty of that. Self-deprecating humor. Ribald humor. Ragging. Among military folks nothing is sacred and lord help you if you start feeling sorry for yourself. These men and women kept each other up, took and delivered shots with the best of them and acted like every Soldier and Marine you’ve ever known. It brought back fond memories of times gone by for me.
Humor was their currency. The night of the Blue Man Group show is a great example. During their show the 3 Blue Men walk through the audience literally moving from arm rest to arm rest as they advance row by row through the theater. At intervals they’ll pause, stare, pick something up from the audience, hold it up and examine it. When they got to our group one of the guys handed a Blue Man his prosthetic leg. The place went wild. It couldn’t have been more perfect.
But the reality of what these fine warriors face never quite left me. I couldn’t forget it. There was a young Marine that who had lost his right leg and wore a prosthesis. He may have been 5′ 4" if you’re being kind, and maybe weighed 100 pounds with rocks in his pocket. He was an infantryman. He tried to bluff his way into a club that night but he wasn’t old enough to get in (not to worry, being a good Marine, he did a recon, gathered intel and got in the next night).
For whatever reason that incident struck me hard. He had lost a leg in combat in service to his country before he was old enough to buy a drink legally. Next year he’ll be legal but he’ll also be medically retired from the Marine Corps. At 21.
When I was at Brooke this past year with Cooking with the Troops, I remember one of the people who worked there standing next to me as we watched the wounded moving through the serving line. He said, "what you have to realize is not one of these young warriors you see are working on their "plan A" anymore." That made an impression on me.
You have to imagine yourself in that situation and wonder how you would have coped with having to come up with a "plan B" at such a young age. All the hopes and dreams you might have harbored about a certain way of life are now radically and totally changed forever.
Yet even understanding that, the most important message I gathered from all of them is they aren’t victims. And please don’t treat them like they are. They’re proud of what they did, what they suffered, even what they’ve sacrificed. They may not like what happened, but they accept it. They understand that what happened to them was a part of the risk of the service they willingly undertook. They knew and understood that risk and yet they volunteered anyway. And since they’ve been wounded, they’ve been dealing with the aftermath . But as one amputee told me, "yeah, this happened to me, but others gave their all". Context. Clarity. Strength.
Not one of them was asking for sympathy, just understanding. These were Soldiers and Marines. They are used to adapting and overcoming. And while they still have much to endure, and many low points to weather, there was no question that the spirit was willing.
As one of the chaperones at the event said as we were quietly sharing a drink and watching the group finish a wonderful dinner, "you don’t have to worry about the next generation and the future of our country. These guys are that future and the future is bright".
I’ve thought about that a lot since he said that. He’s right. They are our next "greatest generation". They stood up. They answered the call and I’ve come to firmly believe that the strength of our nation is to be found in those who serve. If what I saw in Las Vegas is any indication, the future is indeed bright. If nothing else, my time with our wounded heroes made that point crystal clear to me.
It’s been a tough week. A good friend and neighbor died this week after a year long bout with cancer. He put up a hell of a fight.
Then, last night, I learned that milblogger extraordinaire and retired naval aviator Carroll LeFon had been killed when his F21 Kfir fighter jet crashed near the west gate of Naval Air Station Fallon in Nevada.
Lex, as most people knew him, was probably one of the best writers in the milblog community, bar none. A retired Navy Captain and former carrier squadron commander, he loved flying and detested “life in a cube”. After retirement he managed to land a dream job for men of his ilk – flying fighter jets for a civilian company contracted to provide the opposing force for naval aviators at the TOPGUN school. Lex, during his active duty days, had been the Executive Officer at that school.
I had the privilege of meeting Lex at one of the milblog conferences and then, over the years, kept up an on again, off again email relationship with him. I enjoyed our conversations immensely and I was a huge fan of his blog. I mostly lurked because, well, I’m a grunt and that wasn’t my world, but I learned more about naval aviation and aviation in general than I would have ever learned elsewhere. I also enjoyed his slant on other topics as well. He had a large and engaged commenting community, the sign of a healthy and well-loved blog.
The stories in tribute to him are just now starting to come out. There’ll be more as the days go by. He was a heck of a guy, a brilliant writer, a man who loved and adored his family and died doing what he loved best – flying a high performance aircraft.
His last post at the blog was a bit eerie but pretty much stated his philosophy best when it came to what he was doing. He’d had a drag chute malfunction on landing and had to “wrestle snakes”, as he put it, for a bit before finally landing the aircraft safely.
When I taxied back to the line the maintenance guys told me to go away for 10 minutes. Just in case the brakes might, you know: Catch fire. Which they didn’t, so no harm done.
It’s funny how quickly you can go from “comfort zone” to “wrestling snakes” in this business.
But even snake wrestling beats life in the cube, for me at least. In measured doses.
Every fighter pilot out there, in fact every pilot in general, knows that at some point or other they’re going to have to wrestle snakes. And, they also know that the possibility exists that the snakes may, at some point, win.
Yet even knowing that, they’d never trade the opportunity to do what they do for that “cube” of safety.
Lex was a good man doing a necessary and dangerous job training our future naval aviators. He paid the ultimate price. But he did it his way doing what he loved to do.
Fair winds and following seas, CAPT LeFon. You’ll be missed.
Yesterday, on my ride home from work, I decided to go by North County House of motorcycles. While there, I saw a brand new 2010 VFR1200F with the DCT automatic transmission on sale. They’d marked it down from $17,499 to $11,999. So, I traded my FJR1300AE for it on the spot.
This is the only picture I have of it, a crappy cell phone pic the sales guy took just before I geared up and rode off on it. Here’s a professional picture of it:
I didn’t get saddlebags with it, but I put my tailbag on it as soon as I got home.
In short, the VFR1200F has a V-4 powerplant that puts out a peak of 170HP, and weighs approximately 600 lbs—which is about 60 lbs less than my FJR, with 145 peak HP. The performance is noticeably superior. It’s shaft-driven, with the shaft putting power to the rear wheel via a single-sided swingarm. It does the 1/4 in 10.2 seconds @ 136MPH. That’s about as fast as I need.
I had a lots of work to do today, so I only got a chance to ride it to the store and back. So I’ve only got 20 miles on it. I can already tell that there’s a bit of a learning curve for it.
The transmission has an interesting setup. Honda took the dual-clutch transmission they use in their Formula 1 Race cars and fitted it to this motorcycle. So, there’s no clutch. You can can either manually shift using buttons on the hand grip, or you can switch it to an automatic transmission with two modes.
In automatic, there’s a standard Drive mode that short-shifts and is very strongly biased to fuel economy…to the extent that you’re in 6th gear by 40mph. Not very exciting at all. Like a moderately sporty scooter. Then there’s the Sport mode. It’s…the opposite. It shifts at redline. And, while I can’t really use the sport mode much during the break-in period, it is…exciting. Let’s just say you can leave rubber from the rear wheel…in 3rd gear, though with brand-new tires.
You don’t need to know how I know that. Or how badly my pants were soiled.
The main difference is that, unlike the FJR AE model, you don’t have to hit 2,500RPM on the tach before it starts to move. Touch the throttle and it goes. And I mean goes. The performance simply outclasses the FJR in every way…if you want it to.
It’s got lots less wind protection and general cushy comfort than the FJR had, though I knew that going into it. I miss the heated grips, too.
But it’s a stonkin’ great engine. Which is what I was looking for in this case.
My cunning plan is to have both a fancy man’s sporty bike like a VFR or K1300S, and a fancy man’s touring bike, either the R1200RT or K1600GT. So, I guess I’m halfway there.
Now, before I ask this, keep in mind that I’m a National League fan, being a life-long Astros fan, as well as a Dodgers fan. I also like the Rangers and the Tigers, but I’m primarily an NL devotee. As such, I am inclined against the designated hitter, because I grew up watching the National League brand of Baseball, prefer it, and only later developed a taste for AL teams.
But here’s the thing. Albert Pujols is 31 and has a shiny new 10-year contract with the Angels. As of today, Prince Fielder(28) is going home to Detroit for 9 years with the Tigers. That puts them at 41 and 37, respectively, when their contracts are up. Do we really think Pujols will be holding down the first bag at 41? Jeez, will Prince Fielder be able to play first at 31 with his…ahem…physical stature. No, of course not.
But, they can work out big deals in the AL because of the Designated Hitter rule. Even when they can’t play a position any more, big hitting still gives them a place on the roster.
But what NL team can take a risk on long-term contract for a big-hitting position player in his 30s? Doesn’t that force star hitters into the AL, and make the NL a weaker league offensively? I mean, not only do you have the pitcher at bat, but the remaining players are lesser sluggers than the AL guys. Is the NL really all about pitching, or is it just weaker hitting?
There seems to be a bit of a push to make the DH apply to the NL, in order to keep the leagues competitive offensively. The reasoning is that, at this point, everybody but the NL uses the DH, and it’s a bit silly for the two major leagues to play two different brands of baseball. And the DH really does result in a different kind of game. Not only would applying the DH to the NL equalize the game, it would allow sluggers—and teams—more options to keep sluggers kin the game, even when they get a bit too old to hold down a position well.
Could the NL just give in and accept the DH? Should they?