Hawsepiper and the Real Model

So, being aware that I'm too goddamn fat and too prone to enjoying fine food, fine whisky and fine sitting on my ass, while I was home, last couple of times, I started building a new boat.

 If you know me in the real world, you know that I used to build skiffs and runabouts in my mom's garage. Some I sold, none I kept. The largest one, I held one of the best boozefests in my party history for a turnover party, where 12 people helped me turn the boat over, w/ blocks and tackle, as I built the hull upside down and spun it over to finish the interior. In the end, that boat was my greatest failure. I ended up chainsawing it to clear space in the garage for my brother to restore a SWEET 1971 Olds Cutlsss 442.
     At any event, in recent memory, I haven't built shit, so I starting building a little boat.

CNC precut panels and assorted materials

Crash Bulkhead and the display cradle (finished in a basic brown paint I had on hand). 

Frames. The sticks at the bottom will be used as supports to rest on the bench when placed, to align the frames

The keel, including shaft, sitting on the Mommobile. Fucker's big for a toy, isn't it!

mounting frames on the keel

aligning in 3 dimensions requires bubble levels, emory boards, superglue and superglue accelerator, and epoxy.

hull, slightly modified off-plan, w/ fantail stern. Thank God some key parts were precut!

hull and stern detail. shaft and stuffing box were a bitch to epoxy in.

frame, sitting to dry. I had to arc my booze nad beer bottles for 12 whole hours while the epoxy was setting. Kept me paying attention. 

Inappropriately Hot Foreign Wife has been enjoying that this work has kept me sober and available during daylight hours, although she has NOT been a big fan of me sneaking out to my Fine work bench in the evenings to 'set one last piece to cure overnight.'
       Such fuckery has not gone unpunished. I got to enjoy sitting and watching her watch Brazilian TV for an hour or two on a couple of occasions, with a 'hey, I was waiting for you and got sucked into this show' after.
 So it goes.

much stuff

Lots of things going on, most of which are not interesting. That's about right for most of us, yes?

         The EL FARO wheelhouse voice recordings were made public. If you can stand to read them, I suggest trying, but be warned, the last few minutes, well,it's an absolute heartbreak, and you may get something in your eyes, chances are- and whatever the court of public opinion may say about the Captain's decision to be where he was when the ship went down, the transcript will surely show you the man himself, who died a hero.

"Captain Davison is the only Master in recent memory who – as far as the evidence can tell – died at his post, on the bridge of his ship, for the sole reason of ensuring that the last remaining crew member under his direct command had a chance of survival. The facts clearly show that Captain Davidson acted with Physical Courage on the morning of October 1st, 2015."

 You can read that op-ed piece HERE. 

 Here's a link to the transcript.

I figure better men then I can comment on this on maritime fora. Regardless, for those so inclined, prayers for the repose of the soul of the captain and his good crew are reasonable.

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 Here on board the HQ, we're dealing with the first true cold snap of the season. I woke up at 2320 to one cargo pump down (gelled fuel, maybe, or whatever, but no pump), and our hydraulics frozen at several key outlets- a capstan and the swing motor on our deck crane. Restoring motion in a limited way is an unpleasant exercise, but after 30 minutes, successful enough to keep working.

Tough night. First of many, I suppose. So it goes.

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I want to share an obituary from a guy who came from a town close to where i grew up. It may be the greatest obituary I've ever read. Certainly made me wish I had met the guy.

Irishman Dies from Stubbornness, Whiskey

Chris Connors died, at age 67, after trying to box his bikini-clad hospice nurse just moments earlier. Ladies man, game slayer, and outlaw Connors told his last inappropriate joke on Friday, December 9, 2016, that which cannot be printed here. Anyone else fighting ALS and stage 4 pancreatic cancer would have gone quietly into the night, but Connors was stark naked drinking Veuve in a house full of friends and family as Al Green played from the speakers. The way he died is just like he lived: he wrote his own rules, he fought authority and he paved his own way. And if you said he couldn't do it, he would make sure he could.

Most people thought he was crazy for swimming in the ocean in January; for being a skinny Irish Golden Gloves boxer from Quincy, Massachusetts; for dressing up as a priest and then proceeding to get into a fight at a Jewish deli. Many gawked at his start of a career on Wall Street without a financial background - but instead with an intelligent, impish smile, love for the spoken word, irreverent sense of humor, and stunning blue eyes that could make anyone fall in love with him.

As much as people knew hanging out with him would end in a night in jail or a killer screwdriver hangover, he was the type of man that people would drive 16 hours at the drop of a dime to come see. He lived 1000 years in the 67 calendar years we had with him because he attacked life; he grabbed it by the lapels, kissed it, and swung it back onto the dance floor. At the age of 26 he planned to circumnavigate the world - instead, he ended up spending 40 hours on a life raft off the coast of Panama. In 1974, he founded the Quincy Rugby Club. In his thirties, he sustained a knife wound after saving a woman from being mugged in New York City. He didn't slow down: at age 64, he climbed to the base camp of Mount Everest. Throughout his life, he was an accomplished hunter and birth control device tester (with some failures, notably Caitlin Connors, 33; Chris Connors, 11; and Liam Connors, 8).

He was a rare combination of someone who had a love of life and a firm understanding of what was important - the simplicity of living a life with those you love. Although he threw some of the most memorable parties during the greater half of a century, he would trade it all for a night in front of the fire with his family in Maine. His acute awareness of the importance of a life lived with the ones you love over any material possession was only handicapped by his territorial attachment to the remote control of his Sonos music.

Chris enjoyed cross dressing, a well-made fire, and mashed potatoes with lots of butter. His regrets were few, but include eating a rotisserie hot dog from an unmemorable convenience store in the summer of 1986.

Of all the people he touched, both willing and unwilling, his most proud achievement in life was marrying his wife Emily Ayer Connors who supported him in all his glory during his heyday, and lovingly supported him physically during their last days together.

Absolut vodka and Simply Orange companies are devastated by the loss of Connors. A "Celebration of Life" will be held during Happy Hour (4 p.m.) at York Harbor Inn on Monday, December 19.

In lieu of flowers, please pay open bar tab.

the return

 Well, I'm back. Another month here on board, and Christmas and the Holidays will come and go while I'm here. So it goes. Part of the job. I'll have Christmas next year.

 I spent very little time online while I was home, other than occasionally trolling people on fecesbook while on the toilet or drinking, so I've got hours of catching up to do.

 Anyhow, I've been enjoying 'Bertstrips' recently. You can see some more examples HERE:  

 I'll be back after I enjoy some fake news and visit pages of the folks who I like to read here in my little corner of the world.

 You should too.

Gearing up

Welp, time to head back north and get to work. I'll be leaving later today, to spend the night at a hotel prior to crew change.

 I'm dealing with my first hangover in years, modest, actually, and almost gone by late morning, but still a great reminder that I'm not as young as I was, and also that I should make sure that it's years before the next one, too. How I managed that is another story for another day, except that it's dumb and boring.

 I haven't worn long pants or anything other than tshirts at home or polo shirts when out (I tend to dress nice. Being fat, it's too easy to cross the line from casual dress to slovenly dress), and shorts, obviously, though it got cool here one night. Must have been 68.
 Something tells me I'm going to miss that.

Home!

I'm at home, decompressing. Back soon. \

Forever Yours, Literally Hitler

It's been a fun week on the internuts. I'm shedding 'friends' on fecesbook like a dog's fur in springtime what with my shitposting and all. It's been a great distraction in my offtime here as I wind down another tour at HAWSEPIPER's Afloat Global HQ/hostel for indigent mariners.

         Very patient friends from my days as a younger, less relentlessly sane man have been shitposting all over the place, themselves. This political season has really brought about feces-slinging in epic proportions by the left, and that includes my leftist leftover college friends, too.

 It took a little while for someone to summon Hitler at the Republican du jour, but once it got started, Hitler has been one busy dead asshole.

 Comparing a Republican politician to Hitler has enjoyed a time-honored tradition among leftists, turns out, since Hitler was actually still alive.  This is actually a twofer- where people Summon Hitler for political shits and grins, generally they also declare the same person as being fascist. It's sort of like finding douchebags in Starbucks. You can find douchebags and you can find a Starbucks, but generally, once you've identified one, you'll take note of the other being there and mention it.

    In the early days, before Literally Hitler, back when mankind's thinking set were not a bunch of under-educated women who studied Women's Studies and Marx, but have  have never read Euclid and the fathers of Western philosophy, summoning Hitler was done specifically and consciously as a shocking act, rather than so much shit-flinging, which is where it stands today.
     Oh, politically, it's all the same stew, I suppose, but I might be more inclined to be offended by a retired combat veteran who parachuted into Anzio calling me names, rather than some midwit twat whose idea of struggle is leaving comments on Huffpo about LuLuLemon not having stretch pants in dumpy sizes. Someone with no skin in the game calling me names is just a joke, far as I'm concerned, and boy don't that piss 'em off too, when they can't get traction by calling you a name they know is a bad name. The whole point is to shock your opponent into silence, thereby 'winning' your argument because your opponent gives up trying to talk sense to your retarded ass.

        At any rate, although calling someone Hitler-like is actually more powerful than the more pervasive and laughable Literally Hitler of today, it's what we have, so it's what I'll deal with.

    As I mentioned above, summoning Hitler has been carried out since Hitler was a pup. FDR himself, the fatherless cocksucker who opened concentration camps in America to imprison Japanese families during the war, FDR was the father of Literally Hitler. FDR might even be the first Shitposter of legendary fame. At this time, Hitler was still alive and the US was not yet at war with Germany.
  

      Since Barry Goldwater's failed Presidential run,, every Republican President has enjoyed many fine opportunities to be accused of being Literally Hitler. That's 52 years, HALF A CENTURY, of Literally Hitler.

       So why doesn't this seem to be working well for Allfather Trump?

   I can hear our generators running in my stateroom here at the HQ. I can't actually HEAR them, unless I focus on it, though. It's not that they're quiet. They're not really. I'm just habituated to the white noise. When I go home, the silence of a house with no generator running is shockingly silent, and the ringing in my ears, fish jumping in my pond, and occasional sound of the air handler kicking on are startling.
   It's the same with cries of fascism and Literally Hitler.

 Trump is Literally Hitler. Mittens Romney of the Magic Underwear fame, the man whose role model was Mr. Rogers (PBUH), was Literally Hitler. (Binders Full of Women FTW!). John McCain? Literally Hitler. Bush Jr, Bush Sr? Literally Hitler, Literally Hitler. Hell, Senator Robert Byrd, an ACTUAL KKK member, got in detail about Bush being Literally Hitler, accusing him of being both the man himself AND Herman Goering! Quite a feat, indeed.
       Ronald Reagan was an especially noisome case of Literally Hitler. Reagan was Literally Hitler for getting the US involved in the forever war in Grenada, which no one can find on a map without help. Reagan was accused of being Hitler more than any other president in US history, as were all the members of his cabinet. We effectively reached Peak Hitler to date with President Reagan, but who can say what tomorrow will hold?

Under Reagan, we achieved Peak Hiter

    After Peak Hitler, there was a plateauing and a decrease in incidents of Summoning Hitler, although the practice by no means went away.

So where are we after 50 something years of Literally Hitler?  Not even the most reviled Ronald Reagan (PBUH) declared the 4th reich. No concentration camps since we kicked Democrat FDR's shameful legacy into the shitheap of history where it belongs. No thousand-year-reich, unless you count the 1,000 years of debt proposed by effete manlet Robert Reich's ideas for how to stimulate the economy by euthanizing it.

   So, despite the fact that after 50+ years of flinging the same old feces during their daily 2-minutes' hate, the shit no longer sticks, leftists are still dropping trou in search of ammo for the next handful, regardless of results. I interpret this to mean that there is no feedback loop, and even though summoning Hitler no longer works as anything but a reverse virtue-signal, allowing the rest of us to tune out the noise-maker preemptively, it's not going to stop. Every election will be the final chance to stop Hitler. Again.

 Jesus Christ.
  Well, I assume that under this will continue. And I don't really mind, even if it's a touch grating. It gives me a great warning that I'm wasting my time trying to fish through a sea of flung shit in search of one piece of corn that might hold value. As such, I can antagonize such people with ease by not disguising my contempt for their tired old conversation stoppers. And, honest, when my fecesbook friends list is counting backwards like a space launch countdown, I know that I'm doing God's work, fucking with these people.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Well everyone, Fuck all those who want to be unhappy about it. I don't begrudge anyone who doesn't want to celebrate Thanksgiving, the same way I didn't want to celebrate the battle of the Boyne and the Orangemen's parades back in my grandparents' country.

 I'm grateful for my wonderful family and friends, to have a good job and the time to enjoy it, for my health and God's many, many gifts to me.

   May God bless and keep you, and although I can't be home with my own family for Thanksgiving this year, I hope you can be, and can enjoy it.

 For my fellow mariners who, like me, will be on watch and moving stuff from A to B, I hope you have a peaceful watch and a hell of a dinner, with time to watch the game if you want it.

     

 I also bought a ham, although I actually like turkey, too.