Filthie's Mobile Fortress Of Solitude

Filthie's Mobile Fortress Of Solitude
Old World Solutions To New Age Sewage Problems

Thursday, 19 January 2017

Filthie's Antique Chit Show


I have gun fever again. A hundredn'twennyfive years ago our ancestors were transitioning from muzzle loading front-stuffing black powder guns to suppository guns that load from the rear - or the breach! At first they were ultra-manly, ultra-retro single shot cartridge guns with graceful lines that appealed to our forefathers - and today they appeal to their great and great-great grandsons. Specifically, I have fallen in love with the Martini-Henry chambered for the obsolete 577/450 round.

There are certain challenges in making these old guns live again... a feasibility
study is underway as we speak.

My great grandfather may have carried a rifle just like this in his youth. Family lore has it that he was a bit of a scoundrel. It was a common scam of the peasant class in Edmonton, England in those days: you took The King's Shilling (Enlistment) not once - but twice! I dunno how that worked but in the days without computers, one could apparently enlist under one name and then later, do it again under another and you could even get away with it for awhile. He probly got an extra squid, or a bob or a farthing a week under the scam until the bean counters caught up him. Apparently he was even remanded in the Tower of London whilst he awaited the Judge's pleasure in court! The story goes that he got off lightly because of the grinding poverty in his family and community - and was sentenced to a lenient couple years of back breaking public service hard labour rather than prison. That was a good deal for cons in those days and he worked his sentence off and flew straight after that. My uncle even showed us a picture of him once - he had jet black hair, a ridiculous Victorian era mustache and a happy look to him. We marveled as we looked at it - I have his nose and jaw line and ape-like austrolapithacene brow line. (At least I did - too many years of soft living and good food have rounded me out a bit)...


In any event I am scouring the internet and curio/relic stores and pricing out dies, sourcing brass,  bullet moulds and all that junk - and I end up getting side tracked by all the other cool junk and antique floatsam and jetsam of people long gone from our world.

I love old tins. These are Ovaltine Energy Tablets and Gorges Grouse decided to help himself
and gobbled the lot!
Now he's stuck to the ceiling and the Missus is poking at him with a broom handle and
trying to get him down because she wants to go to China-Mart! It's gonna
take a putty -knife to peel him down from there! Hopefully the tablets wear off

Serves him right I suppose. Thankfully all is not lost: I was able to procure some Nigger Hair Pipe Tobacco, some Snake Oil From Mars, and some camphorated radioactive toothpaste for Chicken Mom. Why, I am finding useful gifts for all my internet friends! Rest assured, I will find something that is just perfect for you too!

I'm finishing up in Fort Mac today and driving home... it's been pretty quiet. The oil boom has gone bust and tough times are on the way. I may not get off the ground with this project but even so - it has been a great way to pass the time!

Have a good Thursday and watch out for falling Grouse.  :)

Wednesday, 18 January 2017

Last Day In Fort Mac - No Ravens Today...

Oh sure, there's tons of ravens around but none of the singers I have been running into earlier this week. I saw one today up on a lamp post that just squawked and pooped on my head and flew away without any song notes or sound effects.

Hmpfff! That's better!


I went out to take a friggin' walk by the friggin' reservoir,
A-wishin' for a friggin' quid to pay my friggin' score,
My head it was a-achin' and my throat was parched and dry,
And so I sent a little prayer, a-wingin' to the sky.

And there came a friggin' raven and he walked upon the waves,
And I said, "A friggin' miracle!" and sang a couple staves
Of a friggin' churchy ballad I had learned when I was young.
The friggin' bird took to the air, and spattered me with dung.

I fell upon my friggin' knees and bowed my friggin' head,
And said three friggin' Aves for all the friggin' dead,
And then I got upon my feet and said another ten.
The friggin' bird burst into flame --- and spattered me again.

The burnin' bird hung in the sky just like a friggin' sun.
It seared my friggin' eyelids shut, and when the job was done,
The friggin' bird flashed cross the sky just like a shootin' star.
I ran to tell the friggin' priest --- he bummed my last cigar.

I told him of the miracle, he told me of the Rose,
I showed him bird shit in my hair, the bastard held his nose.
I went to see the bishop but the friggin' bishop said,
"Go home and sleep it off, you sod --- and wash your friggin' head!"

Then I came upon a friggin' wake for a friggin' rotten swine,
By the name of Jock O'Leary and I touched his head with mine,
And old Jock sat up in his box and raised his friggin' head.
His wife took out a forty-four, and shot the bastard dead.

Again I touched his head with mine and brought him back to life.
His smiling face rolled on the floor, this time she used a knife.
And then she fell upon her knees, and started in to pray,
"It's forty years, O Lord," she said, "I've waited for this day."

So I walked the friggin' city 'mongst the friggin' halt and lame,
And every time I raised 'em up, they got knocked down again,
'Cause the love of God comes down to man in a friggin' curious way,
But when a man is marked for love, that love is here to stay.

And this I know because I've got a friggin' curious sign;
For every time I wash my head, the water turns to wine!
And I gives it free to workin' blokes to brighten up their lives,
So they don't kick no dogs around, nor beat up on their wives.

'Cause there ain't no use to miracles like walkin' on the sea;
They crucified the Son of God, but they don't muck with me!
'Cause I leave the friggin' blind alone, the dyin' and the dead,
But every day at four o'clock, I wash my friggin' head!

Nobody Is, Kid. Nobody Is....

You weren't born to be mistreated
And you weren't born to be misguided
You were born to be loved
You were born to be loved

Years ago when my estranged daughter cut us out of her life, she did it in a way that left pretty much everyone in the family broken hearted and angry. This is what queers do if you disagree with them, and this is why people hate and loathe them even if they are no longer permitted to say so in public. I don't care about any of that; I will speak my mind as I see fit. It was a painful learning experience for me as well: there are times when taking crap off people - even family - just isn't right and you have to stand up, stick to your guns and most importantly - make sure they stick to theirs if they want to get stupid about it. Words are like bullets, and this old bastard no longer has any intentions of standing around while shitlibs shoot at his feet and demand that he dance to their tune.

For several years I didn't know if my daughter was alive or dead until one day I decided to put my grief and anger and hurt aside and start studying queers scientifically and clinically. I found a closed, passworded forum where parents of troubled homos could speak honestly and freely about their kids and problems without the usual screeching lynch mobs of social justice warriors, politically correct scolds and censors. It has since been found and shut down but I talked to some really great people and they helped me out during a tough time in my life. One lady was a surgeon at some posh clinic in NYFC with an estranged gay son. Another was a full bull colonel in the army and others were just working bums like me. I was shocked to learn that queers in these situations pretty much all act alike. Who woulda thunk it? Stereotypes arise for a reason I guess - but these people predicted my daughter's behaviour patterns and coached me on how to deal with her years before we even coined the terms for social justice warriors, the snowflake generation and cry bullies. One of them told me that it was okay to be worried sick about my daughter and suggested that I could track her and keep tabs on her through this wonderful new thing called the internet. (I was flabbergasted - doing so didn't even occur to me). So I did a web search and poked around and found her blogs and lord - after that I wished I hadn't. You get to see how manipulative, deceitful an deluded these kids are and it left me in a state of complete despair. When she found out I was doing that she scrubbed herself off the internet completely and shuttered her blogs - I think she was deeply embarrassed and ashamed - and she damned well should have been, but that's water under the bridge. 6 or 7 years worth now.

She has a little art blog now - I'm pretty sure it's hers, I just found it - where she posts her work anonymously and yaks with her friends and it is all very harmless (if not a little bizarre) for the most part. She probably doesn't know I've found it. And - like me, she likes to post music once in awhile. Apparently she likes the crooners too.

You weren't born to be mistreated
And you weren't born to be misguided
You were born to be loved
You were born to be loved

Reading your kids is like looking in a fun-house mirror; there's a cadence to her words and a logic to her flow of thought that looks exactly like mine and it makes me smile... and then will it change radically away from any perspective I might have and sometimes it's delightful. Other times, not so much. There was a time I wished by all the stars that we could share life's rocky road or at least have our paths run parallel but that isn't going to happen. There's too much time and space between us. She has her fate, it lies far from ours and it still leaves me a little bummed out sometimes. It serves me right, I shouldn't be reading her stuff. Maybe a part of her looks back on what happened and regrets the way things turned out? I hope so, because I know I do. Perhaps we still have that in common at least. That'll have to be good enough.

Nobody is 'born to anything' in our country,  our lives and fates are what WE make of them. 2017 lies directly ahead! One foot in front of the other, Filthie! As for you - play the cards you're dealt with courage and humour. And most of all...

Don't look back.

Have a good Hump-Day all. I'm off to work!

Tuesday, 17 January 2017

Fort Mac Shipyards

The chinook continues, +5C today. I will take it!!!
This is the Clearwater River that feeds into the Athabasca and is right
beside Ft. Mac.

Another musical raven. This one was smaller than the one I
met yesterday and sounded like a buggered up
pinball or pachinko machine. He just sat up there, clinking, tinkling and plinking
to himself.
They are homely birds that sound wonderful.

The Radium Scout has been a landmark around Ft. Mac forever. I think
it used to be part of the town's lifeline back in the day
when Ft. Mac was accessible only by river boat and bush planes.

I dunno what this one does. Another river boat?

What a wonderful job working on this boat must have been.
It looks like it was assembled by pikers like us - and probably was.
As you can imagine, Alberta's maritime tradition isn't on
par with a coastal province.

The Fort Mac shipyards open up to the public in May. It might be worth a motorcycle trip once the seasons change and the ice comes off the roads.

Oh dammit. Lunch is over - back to work! Have a great Tuesday, all!

A Man's Rifle Shouldn't Be Uglier Than The Man Himself

These were the words of visiting scholar emeritus, Gorges Grouse upon seeing my range rifle which I now call "Robbie".

That's the Robinson Armament XCR-L Keymod Designated Marksman Rifle.

I admit Robbie is pretty damned ugly to look at. This gun drove me crazy trying to work up a load for it and I was seriously starting to despair until last weekend. Behold: powder charge in grains on the left, group size on the right, all fired at 100 yards.

2.250" OAL
IMR 3031 

23.7 GR 1.018"
23.9 GR 0.177" (FLUKE)
24.1 GR 1.156"
24.3 GR 0.671"
24.5 GR 0.393" FLUKE?
24.7 GR 0.396"

That's a chit house Nosler bulk bullet burning progressively larger doses of IMR 3031 gun powder! That is accuracy darn near worthy of a United States Marine, never mind a gun club stubfart like Yours Truly! I'm trying not to get excited because sometimes flukes happen and maybe I just had a lucky day on the range. I am going to repeat this test ASAP to confirm the results before I get officially happy about it.

I got taken into the boards on another blog for this gun - some of the folks saw no reason for owning a high capacity semi-auto and I didn't make a stink about it because most of them were elderly seniors that didn't know what they were talking about or what is involved.

I admit that part of the reason for me owning this gun is as it's value as a raised middle finger to the liberals that infest the gov't and the RCMP. I don't trust those a-holes farther than I can throw them and you shouldn't either. Sadly - our RCMP are now easily as or more corrupt than any other police force in North America. But the real reason I own a high cap gas gun is actually because of one of these:

This WAS my gun. A heart stopping elegant Ruger No.1 single shot
in .25-06.
A "once in a lifetime" gun that outshot guns costing three times as much.

Back in 1999 I found a sweet Ruger No. 1 on the used gun rack. I was new to the sport and Baloney Bob helped me wring it out and work up a load for it: An 85 grain Nosler BT on 58 grains of IMR4350! I still remember the load to this day. For range work I dropped that down to 54 grains and that beast would print group after group after group .75 MOA (3/4" groups at 100 yards) or less, all day long. For years, I shot that gun and impressed even Baloney Bob with it. Soon I was shooting better than he was. For 14 years, pound after pound of gunpowder went down that gun's gullet and finally, one day... the groups started opening up. The velocities fell off. A trip to the gunsmith and a look with the bore scope confirmed the worst: I had burned the throat out on the old girl. Oh sure, you can rebarrel them and I seriously thought about it - but that's a crap shoot. There is no guarantee that your new barrel would shoot as well as the old one. I gave it to Flapz' son and bought a black rifle for my range work. .223 is cheap to shoot and cheaper to reload - and if I ever burn the barrel on Robbie I will just loosen the bolt at the front of the receiver, pull and twist - and slide the barrel out and pitch it in the garbage! Reverse that procedure to install a new one. No gunsmith required! A new one is only $600.00. Cheap brass, cheap bullets, easy to reload, and fun to shoot - all that, plus: guns like Robbie offend liberals and stupid people! Ya gotta love it! Plus - on top of all that - it is a lot easier to say goodbye to a mass produced gas gun like Robbie than it is for a faithful and handsome gentleman's gun like the big Ruger. My heart broke when the gunsmith gave me the bad news about that gun and I still feel a twinge of sadness when I think about it. BAH! Old men and their toys!

Getting back to Gorges and his comments about how a rifle shouldn't be uglier n' its contraire:

The full length rifles are going cheap at Tradex Canada for $500.00 and up!
In the manly 577/450 black powder round!
The full length service rifles are a lot friendlier and easier on the shoulder
than these carbines are.
If I can find a good one at a reasonable price I may consider it. The
brass is obsolete and has to be fabbed by hand from brass 24 guage

Be still my beating heart.
Tradex has these in .50-70 but they are all in pretty rough shape.
If I can find a good one at a reasonable price...I may go with this instead.

Now that Robbie seems to be coming along, another manly single shot rifle is definitely in the works. (I need to be properly equipped for when I go on safari in Africa with world famous author and adventurer, WL Emery). But in a nutshell, that is my gun strategy: a gun designed for a high rate of fire for range and play - and a friendly, gentlemanly single shot for duties in the field and around the campfire. Rest assured I WILL find another single shot, it may or may not be uglier than I am... but shopping and hunting is half the fun.

See ya at the range.

The Irishman's Dilemma

So, you're left with the classic Irishman's Dilemma...

"Do I eat the potato now - or do I let it ferment and drink it later...?"
- Mallory Archer

I'm not Irish but to be honest - I'm stumped by that one too...

Monday, 16 January 2017

Off To Fort Mac...

Home of Big Oil.

Apparently Cow Cnut   Hanoi Jane   Jane Fonda was up here telling everyone why they should stop raping the environMINT and all find new jobs... presumably in Hollywood where they could prostitute themselves to the leftist cause the way she and Neil Young have. Surprisingly, the old bitch got out without getting pelted with rotten tomatoes.


This is the morning sun rising on the hotel beside the gas
station at Deadwater

The prestigious BW Bandy Bed N' Breakfast by Boyle -
and a nice sunrise

We're chinoking up here in koobasaw country. Temps are all over the board this time of year in northern Alberta, we can easily get sub -30C in Jan/Feb but today the truck says +2C and I am just a smidge south of Fort Mac.

This little bugger was hopping around beside the roadside pissoire
a half mile from town.

Actually he wasn't that small. This guy would have prolly been a smidge smaller than King Charlie Of Coopville. Unlike crows that caw, ravens have a deep melodic 'croak'. Folk tales and hogwash from my ancestors have it that these birds can mimic like parrots do and I could well believe it - this guy hopped around beside my truck and trilled like a cell phone. You can tell by the way he acts that he cons the truckers and travellers for treats on a regular basis.

Welp - the road calls! Have yourselves a great Monday.