Karrikin restaurant, a review.

BLUF: One of the unique eating experiences of my life; unique in the most positive possible fashion.

Right off the bat let me say that I am hardly a connoisseur, or a competent reviewer of food. I am the product of decades of institutional food and hastily bolted meals; you must take what I say with a grain of salt. However, I think I can say that I recognize special and novel. The other night, I experienced both.

If you ever find yourself in Yamba, New South Wales, Australia, I can heartily recommend Karrikin, a gem of Aussie dining on the exquisite Pacific coast.

OK. So, since my arrival to this fair land I’ve been bombarded with interesting food experiences. This morning I ate a vegemite concoction known as toast soldiers; it consisted of strips of buttered toast, loaded with the local brown salty paste, dipped in a semi-hard boiled egg. Surprisingly delicious. I requested the most Australian possible dish from my host’s recommendations; I ended up with a steak meat pie in a place called Maclean on the banks of the mighty Clarence River, a flood-prone, slowly flowing body of water bordered by innumerable sugar cane fields.

Also, I have since had both a beef burger and a fish sandwich fortified with beets; a surprisingly welcome addition. In addition, the alcoholic drinks have been first rate, not a Budweiser in 9000 miles, God be praised. While I’ve been sparing with these treats, what I’ve sampled has been top notch. Also, the weather has been top-notch, very comfortable. For those from the frigid north, I highly recommend an Australian winter. Hint: it’s not winter down here, although it is claimed as such. My guess is that the summers are ghastly.

But, let’s talk about my experience at Karrikin, a departure from any past experience.

We had a four course meal at a restaurant with no fixed menu.

That’s right; no fixed menu.

Whoa. For a child of the American strip mall, this alone sets this place apart. No nationally standardized menu, where a basket of jalapeno poppers prepared in Charleston, West Virginia is exactly the same as poppers served in Spearfish, South Dakota. No ready-made meal fetched from the depths of a freezer, shipped from a corporate kitchen a thousand miles distant, to be prepared by a first-week line cook with two days training.

Nope. A light-year from that culinary hell.

Let me walk you through the experience.

First, we walked, yes, walked, to the restaurant. So far, villages in Oz are pedestrian friendly. It was about half a klik from our accommodations, and there were no near-death experiences. We entered the Aussie standard friendly, open establishment, and we were shown to our table in the back. Nothing “fancy,” but a distinct outdoor feel, informal and clean. We sat and were greeted by the waitstaff, she was first-rate. In a jiffy, we got fresh water and the courses started.

There were four courses, and they were a mystery. You could ask what was on the menu, but I’m pretty sure we opted for surprise. Yes, special dietary considerations are honored, but you must be upfront in this regard. By the way, if you need something special, the staff does an amazing job of blending in your individual requirements to the spirit of the course.

And, the courses have spirit! Each is unique, and they do a fine job with indigenous ingredients.

This is where my lack of food-critique experience becomes obvious. I cannot adequately describe the courses, I won’t try. Plus, the ingredients were entirely novel, I don’t know the names for most of it. But, here goes.

The first course was native bread drizzled with a fine olive oil. In addition, there were amazing venison shavings with a savory spread. As a rural US guy who has taken and prepared my share of deer, it was the best damn venison I’ve had in my life, and I’ve had the freshest venison, with the choicest cuts, possible. Sliced cucumber. Radishes.

And this was but the first course. See illustration above. It set the tone and the standard- and it blew my doors off! Also, each course had a recommended drink- alcoholic or not. I went with dark beer, my host did wine, and later, during the main of succulent pork cutlets, I opted for a macademia liqueur- a local specialty, I gather.

We concluded with a fine dessert of a sort of custard crumble- it was fantastic! The portion sizes were just right; in all regards this was a satisfying and novel feed.

I ate every bit- none was wasted.

This. This is as it should be.

So, if you should ever find yourself on Australia’s East Coast, and you’d like to surf and relax, drop by Yanba. Australians think it’s a tad too developed- I disagree. See Atlantic City or Miami. While in Yanba, do yourself a favor and spend an evening in Karrikin. Take your time, eat your fill, and do as I did- allow yourself to be surprised!

It’s worth it.

You might want to reserve in advance, though. I think the word is out, and it deserves to be.

Five-frickin’-stars from a stranger in a strange land.

The Short Black

Hello, all.

I’m writing from an undisclosed location, somewhere south of the equator, from which I will be be based for x amount of days.

In this Eden I’ve been surprised by the high quality of local food and drink, which the locals do not fully appreciate.

I do.

A simple trip to a very local supermarket reveals a staggering quality and quantity of food; the breads, cheeses, and meats are first rate and surprisingly affordable. While at Wally World in the States you can hardly escape with a few pathetic bags and your wallet lighter by a hundred-and-a-half, here, you can get the same amount of really first rate stuff, for less than half that amount.

Among the items of truly quality foods and drinks is the Short Black, a bracing, rich, black-as-midnight cup of Joe. This is not a cup of coffee in the US sense. This is an adrenaline producing, full-throttle, vicious jolt of pure, visceral essence of the esteemed coffee bean, while died well on the bottom of my tastefully appointed cup.

I have been instructed that one should never drink more than four of these guys in a day. I fear I have been remiss- and at some point I shall pay for my many sins.

The Short Black calls, and I should firmly resist.

But damn, are they fine. The perfect compliment to the sunrise; a trusted companion to the rising sun in the north-east.

This has been a surprising revelation, the Short Black. I was unaware that the denizens of this fair land are harsh critics of substandard coffee.

After this, coffee in Midwest diners will be an abomination, I’m afraid.

I’m ruined.

Superlative Work Knife

I prefer simple things. I prefer inexpensive things. I prefer things that work.

This knife, a recent find on Amazon, combines all three things I like. I’ve been using this on the job over the past week, and I like it more and more. Usually, I prefer folding lock knives with a clip. They are very handy. But I saw this fixed-blade and it’s price, and I thought to try it.

I’m a fan of the Ka-Bar series of WW2 fame, but I find them a tad too large. Plus, they are expensive these days- it’s stupid, but I dislike beating expensive stuff, and work knives get beat.

This knife will take a beating. It is a full tang, quality steel knife with a brass riveted handle. This is the best- I’ve found that screws on knives always end up working loose, a real pain. These type knives last for a hundred years. They are simple, and they are good.

The sheath, while not totally awesome thick leather, is pretty good. It also holds the knife securely while you work- no worries about this falling out. Also, I prefer the pocket knife because fixed-blades tend to get in the way, especially when you are sitting down or getting in and out of a vehicle. This one does not. It was barely noticeable, a big plus.

Very functional, worth every cent. If you’re in the market for a fantastic work knife, give it a look.

It’s worth it.

57 fiddles, continued.

Hey, all. I’m still basking in the glory of having sent the rough draft of Light’s End, my new alien invasion novel, to my editor. It was 112k words of fun, trust me. I think I started writing on it this past late summer, and it took some doing.

So, to celebrate, I’ve been catching up with violin work and manual labor over on the Hell Tree, previously mentioned in the posts below.

Guys, I’ve been really impressed with the 57 fiddles, named “57” because that’s how many dollars each one cost me. Please see the review post below for the full story. I’m still shaking my head at the scandal of it; fifty-seven dollars for a violin body of this quality. It’s ridiculous. Above, you can see the one I’ve decided to keep as a vacation/camping fiddle. It outshines my current camping violin, which I’ll sell to make room for this one.

I added some extras to the one I kept for personal use, including a fancy chinrest and Pirastro Tonica strings. A brief aside about the Tonicas: I’ve used many types of strings over the years, including D’Addarios, Red Labels, Infelds, Dominants, Fiddlerman, etc. For some reason, I’ve never used the Tonicas, but several months back, Fiddlershop.com had a sale; a set of Tonicas plus a good rosin cake for about 25 bucks. I couldn’t pass it up, so I bought the set. The strings sat until I had a good candidate, and I decided to use them on this 57 fiddle.

They are great! I love the feel and the sound; they’re worth every cent of 38 bucks, the going price for a set. One could make the argument that putting a mid-grade string on a low-end violin is like throwing lipstick on a pig, but I disagree. If the strings help this humble fiddle to sound its best, then so be it.

Because working together, they play very well!

I thought to share this project with you, because it’s turned out much better than I anticipated.

Roxor stuff, The Mobile Toolbox.

Before we get into a discussion about All Things Roxor, I’d like to say for the wider audience that I’ve submitted my latest manuscript to the editor.

Hopefully, I’ll get it back by early May for an anticipated mid-June launch. The book concerns my take on what an actual alien invasion could look like, and it’s ugly. Long story short, we’d be screwed at this point in our civilization’s development.

I wrote approximately 112,000 words, with a two-week sprint at the end during which I did nothing but write. This directly caused a slowdown in another vexing project I’ve been tackling for an elderly neighbor: the violent disassembly of a massive maple that inconveniently fell over on his lawn.

Well, he couldn’t clear it for health reasons, and I needed the wood. Therefore, we made an agreement, and two months ago, I set to work. Did I mention that it was frickin’ huge, sixty inches at its widest point and that my saw only has a sixteen-inch bar? It’s been something, and frankly, without the amazing Roxor, it would have been a crappier job.

No shade on the Maverick, because it would have handled the work, but the Roxor has made it easier. For one, it’s not a daily driver, so I have no need to put my tools away every day. I’ve simply left them in the Roxor’s bed, as seen in the image above. For another, while I believe in working my vehicles, it would have really sucked to hit a brand-new 24 Maverick’s painted sheet metal with a stray log thrown in by exhausted hands.

It happens, trust me. This is not a concern with the Roxor, which will never be traded in.

Finally, I guess you can call me a weenie, but the Roxor doesn’t care if you get in and out of it with muddy shoes or woodchips falling from my clothes into the interior. Woodchips are especially annoying on fabric seats and carpet—they stick to everything. The Roxor has vinyl seats and a dura-coated interior. No one cares about mud or chips.

It’s the perfect work implement for these sorts of jobs.

And did I mention the power of it’s diesel, or unfeeling drivetrain? The Roxor has both, and I’ve used the hitch endlessly on this job. See below.

This is an example of what I call “splitting day.” Because of my relatively small chainsaw bar size, I have to whittle away at the trunk one chunk at a time. The chunks have to be small enough that I can feasibly carry the blocks to the wood splitter, seen behind the trailer. This is no easy task, and it usually takes a few days of “chunking” before I have enough gathered to split and fill a trailer.

By the way, allow me to plug the Harbor Freight heavy-duty utility trailer here. It is the ideal trailer for these kinds of chores, and the Roxor really likes it. For a reasonable fee, anyone in the US can have this great trailer. Add a thick plywood floor and some side stakes, and it’s wonderfully versatile. But I digress.

The Roxor has been the ideal work platform for this enormous chore. A definite force multiplier, and every time I hit the key, it reminds me why I bought it.

If you consider a Roxor, remember it is far more than a “toy.” And I’d advise you to get the factory hitch! It’s an amazing, versatile vehicle.

At some point, I’ll write a piece about more of the mods I’ve done to this beast—slowly but surely, my vision of the Roxor’s end state is being realized.

The end state is that the Roxor is my mobile toolbox.

In this regard, it excels.

The Cecilio MV300 4/4 violin in Antique finish. A proper violin, not a VSO.

Hey, everybody. A riff today on one of my hobbies, some amateur luthier work. I especially like to bring out the performance on low-cost, but upgradeable, instruments. It really is amazing what a bit of TLC and attention to detail can bring out of an otherwise sloppily manufactured, mass-market instrument.

By the way: BLUF, the instrument featured today is a BUY, but I can only vouch for this exact model, in this exact finish. Other violins I’ve encountered from this manufacturer you may want to pass on.

Here’s a bit I wrote earlier, elsewhere, with pics. Here goes, if your eyes haven’t glazed over already.

Important! This is a good instrument- potentially great, but you should know some things to determine if it’s appropriate for you. I purchased the Cecilio 4/4 size MV-300, Antique finish from Amazon for less than sixty dollars. IMO, the normal price, a hundred bucks, is still a steal for what you get.

The bane of music teachers everywhere is the student who shows up with a Violin-Shaped Object, or VSO. While these instruments can be made to play, they usually cost far more effort than they are worth. A hard rule is that a quality instrument must have good materials and acceptable workmanship, period. You will not get an awesome, ready-to-play-from-the-box student-grade violin for under a hundred dollars. In fact, expect to pay at least four hundred dollars as a bare minimum, and I’d advise buying from a knowledgeable and reputable retailer.

Now that I’ve said that let me sing the many praises of this violin, available at an unbelievable price point. I have a minor passion for violins; an outgrowth of this is exploring low-cost options. Not everyone has four hundred dollars, and I think music should be available to everyone. When I saw this violin on sale, I ordered it. Upon examination of the first one, I was so impressed by the base fiddle that I ordered two more, and to my shock, they were better! Very handsome, quality wood and the standard of manufacture was better. I’ll have to do far less work with the other two, as seen below.

See the nice, genuine spruce tops. Not plywood, as so many other fiddles at this price point.

And… the pretty, two-piece maple bottoms! It’s a scandal that these sell for this money, and that many end up in closets for eternity, doomed by poor fitment. It doesn’t have to be this way.

First, I am familiar with Cecilio products. I’ve owned and worked on a number of them. Therefore, I knew this violin was a fairly safe bet, but it would need fitting to perform well. However, I needed to examine the specific model. The description said the violin was made of ebony, spruce and maple. The pictures seemed to confirm this, although I doubted real ebony on a sub-hundred dollar violin. Importantly, Cecilios usually have real purfling- the inlaid wood strip along the edge of the violin’s plates. Very inexpensive violins have painted, decorative purfling. Also, poor-quality violin bodies are made of plywood. You should avoid this- it affects the tone. In addition, I know Cecilios have full-length bass bars, an internal tonal feature. These are essential. The profiles aren’t perfect, but they are adequate.

I mention this because you can’t fix plywood bodies, fake or absent bass bars, and painted purfling. To make an instrument playable, you have to have a firm foundation, and this is non-negotiable to me. 

The instrument arrived, and I unboxed it. As I expected, the case was serviceable, and it protects the instrument well. The factory strings are inferior. They are guaranteed to make the fiddle sound terrible. I discarded them immediately. If you buy one of these violins, order Red Labels with the instrument if you’re on a budget, or D’Addarios for a few dollars more. I’ve had problems with the factory tailpieces, so I installed a new unit that is about nine dollars- a carbon-fiber unit available on Amazon (note: if you get this, be sure to prep the tailpiece by putting a tiny dab of bearing grease on each screw. Yes, you can reuse the nylon gut from the factory tailpiece). The bow is OK. It will work, although you must trim a few stray hairs with fingernail clippers. Be sure to rub the hair down with rosin dust before use. Please ensure your hands are clean when you do this. Also, as expected, the fingerboard is painted, which is a shame because there is some really nice tropical hardwood under the flat black paint. However, it does not affect play, so it doesn’t matter that much. The chinrest is serviceable. It’s painted maple. See below for how it looked when it arrived. This is typical of Chinese factory violins.

Then, I closely examined the essentials—the body, the stuff that dictates whether you have a violin, or a VSO. This includes the top plate, the neck, the bottom, the bass bar, the finish, and the purfling.

I was very impressed with the core instrument at this price point. I’ve seen much more expensive instruments with inferior materials! Before I talk about the many deficiencies in this violin’s fit and finish, let me list the positives. See the images below; one of the pics was made upon project completion after I tuned, adjusted, and cleaned the violin. Wow! It turned out amazing for a sub-100 dollar fiddle! You can see the mildly flamed, two-piece belly, the tight-grained spruce top with yes, real inlaid purfling, and there is a picture of the peg box- excellent maple! I liked the core instrument so much that I ordered two more! The pics of the fitting problems, and there were a few, were of the worst of the three. If you order this instrument, you may get those problems, but it’s not necessarily a given. 

Look at this pretty belly! A sub-$100 fiddle shouldn’t be allowed to have this genuine mildly flamed, two-piece maple prettiness, but it does. YES, it is real maple, not veneered plywood—you can see the grain from the bottom through the F hole on top, as opposed to the White Ply of Death.

Now, check out the wood on this peg box! (You can also see the AWFUL factory work on the nut, which is the worst of the three fiddles I ordered. Yes, I fixed it. I’m getting there.)

Finally, a photo that shows the REAL purfling, although I took it to demonstrate careless handling at the factory.

Long story short, the bones of this model fiddle, the stuff you can’t improve, are solid. All three had vast space for improvement.

So, let me tell you what I did to this little fiddle; if you order one, you may have to do something similar, too. But not necessarily; 2/3 of the violins of this exact model were marginally acceptable. One was not. You’ll see pics.

I think this violin is best for someone who isn’t afraid to tinker or wants to learn how to do violin work for themselves. This is an ideal platform for that; the basis is solid and excellent. 

However, let’s talk about what I had to do to make this runt of the litter sing. One violin had a terrible saddle; it’s the ugliest (new, not worn antique) one I’ve ever seen. However, it’s functional, so I left it alone. See below.

Previously mentioned was a weird crushed point on the upper right; this probably happened at the factory. It’s cosmetic, not a show-stopper. See earlier image. Of course, the sound post was incorrectly placed and crooked; I had to trim and reposition it. While adequate, the bridge profile needed some fine-tuning, and I fit the bridge feet properly, too. A peeve of mine is that all three violins had perfectly good bridges, and most of them were ruined because someone at the factory didn’t know that the long-grain side of the bridge was supposed to face the player. Most of them were cut backward and will have to be discarded. A shame. I mentioned how I ditched the factory tailpiece. You should, too. The (blackened maple) pegs fit all right, although I did slightly ream out the D-hole. I used peg soap on the pegs and reinstalled them. 

Then, there was the nut, the little block of wood by the peg box that holds the strings at a uniform distance from one another, and, importantly, holds the strings very slightly above the fingerboard. Slightly? Yes. The E string is supposed to be .3mm above the fingerboard! That’s really close- see the images for how the nut looked from the factory. 

Yes, this is not good. More like 2mm on the G, as opposed to .4! And what’s with the wood putty boogers? Sigh.

This spacing isn’t good, either. By the way, it’s not nearly as bad as some nut spacings I’ve seen! Still, it’s inadequate.

The nut was terrible, but believe it or not, I’ve seen much worse. I had to work with a string gauge, a file, and sandpaper to get it close to right. You can see the before-and-after images. The nut was the worst part, but it’s OK now. If you do this, be VERY careful with your file. One slip, and you need a new nut, which is a pain. 

Out came the file…

…And, the improved nut profile. Not perfect, but much better.

The long list of adjustments I just discussed should be perfect on the aforementioned four-hundred-plus dollar music store instrument, and it darn well better have good strings. 

However, the total cost of this fiddle, including new strings and tailpiece, was less than a hundred bucks. At the end of the process, it was pretty darn good! 

If you feel like tackling a minor project to save money, or you want to learn how to do basic violin work, then this is hands-down the violin model for you. You can learn to do all the above by watching online videos, and there are only a few special tools required. These can be bought on Amazon.

By the way, it plays very well! This was the best part; this girl can sing! 

This is a good model if you know what you’re getting into. Recommend.

New album, Native music.

I haven’t listened to this yet because I’m a freak and ordered the CD all the way from Germany. But if it’s like other music in this genre I’ve heard, it should be awesome. I’m a big fan. For those of you who are actually part of the modern age, this album is also available on Apple Music and Spotify. And yes, for Beast customers, you can stream the album using the link above.

To make it sweeter, one of the musicians (who apparently lives in Germany) is a member of my band (i.e. subgroup of a larger tribe). The other fella is Anishinaabe, which is cool as well ’cause my gram’s mom was Anishinaabe/Ojibwe, too. So, I feel a bit of a connection here, and I think it’s important to support artists.

Let me tell you, it’s hard to put your work out there and harder still to get people to buy it. So, I have no problem helping these guys out.

It’ll be awhile before I get the box from Deutschland, but I’m looking forward to it.

Go ahead, give it a whirl. You might expand your horizons.

The Fugue

The scene above is from Gran Torino with Clint Eastwood. Appropriate.

Hey, Everybody. You’ve noticed I’ve been a bit quiet here as of late. There are many reasons for this, chief among which is that I’m on a writing frenzy in my new alien-invasion book, “Light’s End.” It is my longest novel ever, and I must have the manuscript done by the 15th of April. Therefore, writing, and a lot of it.

I’ve decided to give a sample of what I’m up to today. A passage from this work.

An elderly man, whose wife was taken from him for no reason.

Observe.

Scrubland in Wyoming, USA.

Ralph placed a hand on his grandson’s shoulder. He spoke in a murmur.

“Stop firing, Cody. We want these shits to get in close.”

Cody looked over at him. The youth recoiled at the sight of his grandpa’s blood-streaked face.

“What the fuck…”

Ralph grinned like a gargoyle. 

“We’re not running. These men are ours.”

“There’s too many!”

Ralph chuckled. “No, there’s just enough. Stick with me, son.” He paused. “Move quiet and watch my back.”

Ralph ghosted behind a pine. He sensed Cody’s presence. Would the boy do? It didn’t matter. He shrugged and called upon the ancestors in this fight. He felt alive in a way he hadn’t felt in many years. Since Hue City, in his misspent youth, when he was with the Puking Chickens. He remembered how Sharon pulled him out of his alcoholic madness. How the elders, old warriors and people of the North, brought him back with their counsel. 

Ralph remembered it all. Today, the ancestors were close. He felt them in the walnut of his Garand, in the distant caws of crows. These men were his. They approached, and he could hear their footsteps. Why they shot at a family gathering berries, why they robbed him of his great love, he did not know.

He did not care.

He waited behind the pine tree, and he opened up his senses. Just like the old days, when he carried a gun for Uncle Sam. Or when he stalked the forests of his youth, .22 rifle in hand. It was all the same. He felt his heartbeat and the padding of his pursuers. They drew near. He waited some more, and then he acted. 

Pivoting on his right foot, he stood square along the trail. The lead dirtbag jumped and yelled. He fired into the dirt. The cowboy fired at the same moment Ralph did, except Ralph didn’t miss. His shot hit the man’s breadbasket, and the powerful .30 ball round overpenetrated and hit the next two men behind him. They dropped and writhed, howled, and gurgled. Ralph’s second shot struck the next man, and the others dived for cover, as he expected.

Ralph let out a high, keening wail and ran to the right, sliding through the brush at full speed as only a woodsman could do. The cowboys recovered and fired blindly into the mixed scrub and forest; their bullets fell behind him. Speed, he knew, would keep him alive. He made a wide loop and headed back left. As he expected, he appeared on the asshole’s flank. 

A man crouched, his eyes fixed on where he had been seconds before.

He saw Ralph too late. His face froze in horror as Ralph barreled into him, buttstock swinging out in a vicious jab. The solid, steel-shod antique walnut connected with his jaw, and his face exploded in ruin. Ralph ignored the fallen man, and he pivoted to the right along the trail. A cowboy fired at him and missed. 

Ralph didn’t. He heard a string of gunshots behind him, and he hoped that Cody had read his mind and was catching the other attackers from behind. If not, Ralph was dead. He didn’t care. At the very least, he had bought time for his women and kids. At best…

A cowboy shot at him, turned, and ran; a few of his friends made for the waiting horses. 

Ralph smiled and dropped into a textbook, kneeling supported rest. He trusted that Cody had dealt with the lead element of the cowboys. He knew they were broken. He carefully sighted on the farthest cowboy, who was almost to the horses. Ralph breathed out, concentrated on the tip of his front sight, and squeezed. 

The man toppled and plowed the dirt with his body. 

The other two tried to look, to scatter. However, they had the bad luck to be on open ground. Ralph picked them off one after the other. The powerful Garand blew chunks from his final target. He heard a few gunshots behind him, and he turned. 

Cody, his chest heaving, jogged toward him. 

“I think one got away, maybe more!”

Ralph nodded. He heard the wounded’s moans. 

“They moving fast?”

“Yeah!”

“Then we’ll track them.” He paused. “Should be easy. They’re making speed, not stealth.” He racked his bolt back and caught his second-to-last round as it ejected from the chamber. He hit the clip ejector, and the tin clip popped up with the last round inside. Ralph put the loose ammo into his pocket and then grabbed a fresh clip of eight. He loaded his rifle. The bolt slammed home with a snap. It was ready. He spoke.

“Nice work, by the way, Code.”

His grandson was pale and sweaty. He panted. Ralph talked some more.

“Job’s not done, though. We’ll make sure these wounded fucks stay put. Make sure they don’t have any guns or knives handy for when we get back.”

“Why not just kill them?”

Ralph smiled, and he felt the dried blood on his face crack and flake.

“Nah. I want them to stew while we take care of their friends.”

Cody just looked at him, his mouth open.

Ralph laughed.

***

Don’t mess with the wiry old guy, I’d say. But when you read the book, you’ll see he had good reason. This is the type of stuff I’m working on. It should turn out OK.

-JL

Oh, this is great.

It sucks to be Cassandra.

Guys, I’ve been discussing the oncoming danger of automated combat systems on this website for years, and the day is almost upon us. If it isn’t already. Look at Ukraine and the fighting there. Human-directed combat systems are easy meat for the drones, aerial and seaborne. Of course, plenty’s still going on with the old-fashioned stuff, but you don’t have to look hard to see what’s coming.

Imagine my disgust when I saw this video today. Disgust, but not surprise. As stated previously, I’ve been talking about this for years. Old-fashioned, purely human infantry are totally fucked on the battlefield shortly. We’re almost there- just look at a video or two of poor Russian bastards being hunted down and picked off one by one by what were once hobbyist drones.

Fine. The video above is a forward-facing, non-classified capabilities video of a humanoid robot with cutesy music. Do you think that the really good stuff is out on YouTube? Spoiler- it’s not. The video above, with just a tad bit of imagination, should give you the creeps.

I know it freaks me out. Unfortunately, at the moment, the United States is saddled with deeply unserious and blinkered leadership, both in and out of office. For crying out loud, we even have a subset of people who can’t decide if a rampaging Russian Army at the gates of Europe is a bad thing, and should we help people who are fighting against real tyranny, as opposed to fictional varieties? A murderous Russian Army, I will remind you, who is allied with the worst regimes on the face of the globe? North Korea? Iran? Really?

Mark my words. These machines will kick us straight in the balls. They threaten us on three levels.

First, economically. If you think the US and the West, in general, took a beating from China, etc., over the past thirty years due to the depletion of our industrial base, just wait until the trillionaires can replace their workers with these cute bots. Amazon and others are already on top of this; trials are ongoing with humanoid robots at certain distribution centers. The genius policy wonks always run their mouths about how technological advances create more jobs than they destroy. Creative destruction, these people say. Well, tell the tens, hundreds, of millions of manual laborers these machines will displace. “They can retrain!” To do what, exactly? There is such a thing as a Bell Curve. It’s real. Everyone on the left side of the curve is at risk.

Which leads to my second point. The people on the Bell Curve’s right side are also at risk. What do I mean? Well. All those smug white-collar, highly educated workers are in the same shit as the blue-collar folks; they just can’t see it yet. As AI, driven by Moore’s Law, inexorably advances, more and more knowledge jobs will become obsolete. For the first time, “creative destruction” threatens the elites as well as the left-behinds. This may explain why our fearless leaders, our one-percenters, are currently obsessed with bunker-building.

Finally, we are at risk of physical destruction, as well. I have faced the enemy, rifle in hand. I know what it is to peer into the dark with no assurance of seeing the sunrise. I can feel a human infantryman’s fear as he or she perceives, too late, the steady advance of the killing machines. The inhuman forms, bipedal, quadripedal, or flying, will come to claim his soul and water the earth with his blood. He can shoot all he likes. His military-grade assault rifle will be as useless as a water pistol. More likely, though, that poor bastard won’t hear anything at all. He’ll just die.

This is fucking stupid. Our geniuses have developed these tools without planning to deal with the assured consequences.

I’ve got a newsflash for the trillionaires- I don’t care how many guys you hire. I don’t care how remote you live or how deep you dig. This will touch you, too. If you think it won’t, you are mistaken. So, if any of you supposedly untouchable, stable geniuses read this, remember that your best defense is a cohesive society that protects you. It would be in your interests to sustain your nation instead of actively destabilizing it. You have forsworn your countries of birth. Your allegiance is to nothing. Sacrifice is for the little people; you are only too happy to manipulate that to your ends. This will lead to your demise.

Just remember. People don’t die for money. They die for ideas. What will they do when they see that their dream has been stolen and hope is lost?

Huh. Maybe that’s why these robot armies are being developed. Some social media mogul probably has the idea that programming trumps allegiance. Human soldiers can be treacherous; ask any number of Roman emperors who learned that the hard way.

However, merely human soldiers pale in comparison to the coming treachery of the machines.

After all, they will draw upon all human knowledge when they reach their conclusions. I doubt they’ll be favorable for any of us.

Winchester

Hey, all.

I’m prone to write short stories occasionally based on random prompts or thoughts. What follows is one such- the long-term consequence of the vicious American Civil War. The Civil War cost some 600-700,000 fatalities. The true number will never be known. Whole stretches of the countryside were laid waste for generations, and bitter guerilla campaigns were fought in the borderlands. The war directly contributed to the so-called “Wild West,” when legions of displaced and traumatized veterans were unleashed upon the Western tribes, and each other- criminals such as Billy the Kid and the Younger Brothers were veterans of the war, as well as the leadership of the post-war Army. Men such as Sheridan and Custer pursued and exterminated the fighting bands of the tribes.

The campaigns and lawlessness of the West were a direct and logical outcome of the bloodshed of the War itself. For those who didn’t “go West,” the War still framed their lives as if frozen in time. I know of one such veteran directly, from my Grandma, who related his experiences as she lay dying.

Anyone fantasizing about a redo of the American Civil War is a dangerous idiot.

Oh Lord Jesus

Jim stood in the serried line. To his right and left were seemingly endless soldiers in dark blue jackets with light blue trousers. His regiment, the 122nd Ohio, stood. The Johnny Rebs were coming. He could hear them scream; the Rebel Yell echoed over this accursed field of green.

The scream said, “We are here, and we are coming for you.”

The Napoleons opened up, BOOM, BOOM. He gripped his Springfield and waited for the command as he had been trained, as he was told. He watched as the Johnny Rebs closed on his regiment; they grew closer. Closer.

He had to piss in the worst way. His hands rested upon the steel and walnut of his rifle; in it rested a Minie Ball, nearly three-quarters of an inch of dying nestled in his barrel.

On top of a charge of black powder, it waited. Like he did with his regiment, thousands of young men strong. Men sound of body and mind; they waited for the axe to fall. For the Rebs to come. To close with them, to kill them.

His grip was sweaty upon his piece. His mouth was dry; the sun beat down upon his wool jacket. He swore he could feel the sun build heat in the brass bugle upon his bummer cap; he was a man of the line, an infantryman.

His mission; to close with and kill the enemy on this accursed field.

“Thou shalt not kill,” the preacherman said.

But today, he would.

He’d kill Rebs just like him, children of the same God. How could he figure that right? How could he ever be clean?

ROAR. They screamed. They trilled; it was the Rebel Yell.

They meant to leave him cold and splayed-legged upon the field. With the bayonet that pierced, the bullet that killed. Grapeshot to smear him across the bright green grass or a ball that would cleave him in two.

The hell with that! His mouth was dry; his vision narrowed into a tunnel. He saw the running Rebs in their butternut and gray. Oh, Lord Jesus, he thought.

His Lieutenant screamed.

“Hold, Boys! Hold!”

The man held his sword along the line of troopers, straight across as if to hold them back. 

Zip. Phweet. Snap!

“Uh,” said the man next to him. Ephraim. He fell as if his strings were cut.

Jim pissed himself. He would hold. On the grave of his father, on the spirits of his ancestors, he would hold.

WHUMP.

The Rebs had artillery, too. A gap formed in the line of blue.

“Close ranks! Close ranks!”

Jim moved. It was automatic, a mindless drill. The Rebs closed upon their line. They were close. Close!

“Present, Arms!”

Jim brought his rifle to his shoulder. 

“Full cock and aim low!”

Jim ran his hammer back and sighted on a shouting man with a dirty blonde beard.

“First rank, fire!”

Jim smashed his trigger. The yelling, bearded man disappeared behind a dirty puff of smoke. Had he just killed a man? He was too busy to care.

Jim automatically kneeled; he pulled a cartridge out, bit off the end, and dumped it in his barrel. He smashed the ball into his barrel with the ramrod, ran the hammer to half-cock, and placed a cap upon the nipple. He was ready.

By his ear, the second rank fired with a deafening, ragged blast.

The Reb’s advance faltered. So many of them fell.

The third rank fired.

The Rebs screamed, their charge decimated. 

“First Rank!”

Jim stood.

“Full cock!”

Jim’s heart pounded. The rebels fell. His heart hammered away; he screamed. Something squeezed his chest as if a great weight pressed upon him. He fought to breathe. He couldn’t. For the love of God, he couldn’t.

Jim fired. The Rebel’s line fell apart. He sagged to his knees. They got me, he thought.

On the 21st of August, 1931, James Buckmaster fell at last. His daughter found him.

They listed “heart failure” on his death certificate.

But Winchester killed him.

No one would ever know.