Dartagnan

[From 2007] In my yute, I spent a lot of time in bars.

Of course I was occasionally drunk in them, that’s true; but not all that often. I worked in them, mostly. It’s a different animal, working in bars. People imagine that show business is the same, only better, if you’re on a stage. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Anyway, you had to find a way to pass the time in a bar, without getting loaded, if you were working in there but idle for a time. I learned to play darts. I got pretty good at it. It never hurt that I was six-two with long arms; to the short fellows I appeared to just be leaning over and inserting them in the bulls-eye. I was so very much built to do it that the tip of my nose is exactly the height of the bulls-eye from the floor. When I worked constructing nightclubs, we used to hang dartboards using me for a ruler. Darts were a fun way to pass the time.

My son found my darts, in a little velcro pouch, and was fascinated by them. They have the appearance of weapons to a grade schooler, which they always find compelling. Dad, what do you do with these?

It’s been 15 years since I played at all. I used to like to play a game called Cricket, which has lots of strategery possibilities because you can rack up penalty points that your opponent has to overcome. Any game that allows you to simply win, or crush your opponent to taste, is the game for me. There’s almost always hope in such a game, as there is always a way to change tactics to suit the situation.

The real players don’t play that, they play 501. In 501, you have to simply throw the darts into the little slivers of the board marked with the numbers 1 through 20, with the thin outer ring counting double, the thin ring toward the center triple, and the bulls-eye rings counting 25 or 50 for the very center. You subtract the total of your throws from 501. To finish, you have to end on a double; so, for instance, you could subtract the sum of your throws down to 40, then hit the double 20 at the very top of the board to win. It seems counterintuitive to most onlookers, but the center bullseye is worth less than a triple 20. In 501 you essentially ignore it.

I was good at this game, but I found it boring. It’s the reason you see a list of arithmetic posted next to dart boards, outlining various combinations of throws that will lead to an “out” based on your remaining score. It’s too much like work.

My son wanted to see what playing darts was like. YouTube to the rescue. Here’s a World Championship in 1974. Look at the size of the crowd.



Well before my time, of course. But I tell you, with God as my witness, I would have murdered either one of these guys. I was shocked at how bad they were, even taking into account their rather old-school darts. How could they be competing at such a level?

Like many things, as soon as there’s enough interest — and some money– that which is casual becomes very, very serious. And so, thirty years later, look at how good you have to be to win:



I’m out.

***Ring*** Hello, Pet Sematary Property Management. Sippican Speaking

My friend Gerard at American Digest sent me this video, figuring Zombie Ammo would be right up my alley.

Now, that might seem OK to an ink-stained wretch like Gerard. But of course, Project Management is my forte. One never works on a piecework, retail level when wholesale rates and production processes are available. And remember, “land-clearing” means exactly what it says; no more, no less.



As always, remember kids: Let the machine do the work.

Sippican’s Patented Go/No Go Intertunnel Newspaper Reading Gauge

I hafta read the newspapers now. 

I stopped reading newspapers a while back. Can’t remember exactly when. 1980s, prolly. I remember reading rather a lot of newspapers when I was very young. There were a lot of newspapers in the house. We lived near Boston, and Boston had a lot of newspapers. They were pretty good newspapers, too.

Well, they’re all a joke now, and there aren’t very many of them. Reading the newspapers here in Maine is literally terrifying. The writers are borderline illiterate, innumerate, and not very curious. That strikes me as a bad combo for a newsgatherer. Mark Twain used to write for the newspapers, and so did Benjamin Franklin. We seem to have traded them for girls that make a little heart over their “i” instead of a tittle, and the guy in your grammar school that liked comic books a lot and used to cheat off a C student because he printed big enough to see from one row away.

The Intertunnel isn’t much better. I barely understand about 97 percent of blogs. They inexpertly choose a snippet from one of the aforementioned useless newspapers, and then add their incisive George Bush did it!, or, Obama, what’s up with that?  I honestly don’t understand why people enjoy a slow boil of outrage all day, every day. Whenever I visit a blog, I can always tell who they hate because there are nothing but pictures of them on the blog. You wouldn’t hang pictures of people you hate in every room in your house. Why would you hang them all over your Interhouse?

The dirty little secret is people loved to be outraged. Feel persecuted. The greatest feeling available on the Intertunnel is the harrumph. Me? I’d like to know things. I wouldn’t mind being amused while being edified, either, but the pros aren’t up to the task — they can’t operate an apostrophe, what chance do they have of running a litote up a stump — so I doubt the amateurs are going to manage it.

I’m awfully glad for the Intertunnel, though. Not because it’s generally swell, but because it’s so vast you can cobble together something useful out of it. I’d starve to death without it if I wasn’t able to eat out of the intellectual dumpster it represents. Like any dumpster, you’ve got to pick and choose.

In woodworking, as in many other industries where things are manufactured, workers are often supplied with a simple device to determine if the thing they’re looking at while they’re banging on it or gouging it or smashing at it or whatever is the correct size. In the vernacular, it’s a Go, No Go gauge. When I’m turning a leg for a chair on a lathe, for instance, and it requires a tenon on the end that’s 1/2″ in diameter, I can simply use a 1/2″ crescent wrench as go/no go gauge. If it won’t go over the tenon, the tenon’s still too big. If it goes over the tenon, the tenon’s likely too small now and you can safely throw it away and start over. I’m not sure of how to behave if the tenon is exactly the right size. It’s never come up.

I’ve made my life easier by fashioning various go/no go text gauges that allow me to immediately stop reading or listening to anything that contains certain terms. They are like intellectual tramp stamp tattoos on the southern end of a northbound doofus. Their appearance signals that nothing intelligent will follow and you can stop paying attention that very instant and move on to something more edifying, something closer to the Sorbonne of the Internets –say, cat pictures and animated gifs.

Anyhoo, here’s today’s list of magic Internet markers:

  • Sugary
  • Sustainable
  • Green
  • Meds
  • Access to
  • Cash-strapped
  • Diversity
  • Step up
  • Evolved
  • The help they need
  • Toxins
  • Pumping
  • Fiat currency
  • Bankster
  • Bubble
  • Sheeple
  • Obesity epidemic
  • Give back
  • Racist (rascist is like a neon sign)
  • Fascist (facist is even better)
  • FUD
  • Jackbooted
  • Snowflake
  • Homeland
  • Targeted
  • Healthcare
  • Hater
  • Soros
  • Koch
  • Speak out
  • Multi-tasking
  • Virii

There are many more, I’m ashamed to say. These are just off the top of my head. If I get any crabbier about the whole enchilada, pretty soon maybe I’ll just shout, “It’s in English! Bah!”, and close the browser.

But as lists go, it’s as good as any. I think there’s a zoning law on the Intertunnel that requires me to make it a Top Ten list, but I refuse to cater to popular tastes. That’s probably why I can buy a Snickers bar with my Google Ad money every three months.  Fun-size, not one of those huge things, they’re expensive.

Now, if you decide to use my patented go/no go reading gauge, what you do with the extra four hours a day you save by closing the browser when you see these terms is entirely up to you. Perhaps you can use some of it to tune in tomorrow when I’ll defame women writers with hyphenated names and men who shave their heads while sporting a Van Dyke.

Love, Love Me Don’t

I dearly love seeing people making things.

It’s jarring to see the juxtapositions of fine and heavy work. Half-way through, the thing already looks like a delicate instrument, and then all of a sudden guys with hammers and nails and drills and files start whaling on the thing like it owes them money when it gets to their work station.

Hofner is a German company, of course. Their info page ominously notes Beijing along with Bavaria now, so one wonders what everyone in the video is doing for work now. Their violin bass is simply known as The Beatle Bass where I’m from. Paul McCartney played one and that’s that. You can dry your tears with a kleenex after xeroxing something you read on your iPhone after googling it  if you don’t like it. Get a coke out of the frigidaire; you’ll feel better.

I’ve played rather a lot of electric basses in my day. I’ve owned a few, too –a no-name mess hand-me-down from my brother I took apart to try to refinish and couldn’t reassemble; a four-hundred-pound Peavey that my lower back still talks about; a G&L P-bass (there’s that generic thing again) I still own; a Pedulla fretless that sounded amazing, even with me playing it, that gave me an aneurysm trying to sing and play at the same time and that I eventually sold to buy food; and a graphite-plastic Steinberger that I rigged to spin in a circle like a propeller. I liked the Steinberger best — it was good in a fight, and since it didn’t have any wooden parts, you only had to tune it every January 12th.

So besides all the stuff I’ve owned, I’ve played Fenders galore, and Rickenbackers, and Ibanezes, and all sorts of other electric doghouses. And without question, a Hofner Beatle Bass is the worst musical instrument of any kind I’ve ever encountered. Paul McCartney said he only bought one because he couldn’t afford a Fender, and the thing looked about the same upside-down. I don’t know what everyone else’s excuse is.

Month: June 2012

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