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It's less than a week till Polaris. I'm not sure where the time went but suddenly it's July and the con is days away! I'm looking forward to seeing some great people that I don't see that often and having a chance to hang out with a few wonderful women that I wished I lived closer to. I'll be introducing a friend of mine to his first con, so that will be tons of fun. I am slightly worried though as ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) thefrenchmaid and him might cause a ruckus. I haven't forgotten the last time they saw each other and it was the first time they met and boy were they TROUBLE! Oh yeah and the guest list is pretty darn amazing! I'm beside myself... Claudia Black AND Michelle Forbes, mmmm. Yeah it'll be a good con :D
I got my line edits on Thursday, so I told myself that I would give myself until the end of the long weekend to finish my rough draft, and then whatever I hadn't finished would have to wait. Wait a lot, actually, since I'm going into surgery on the 22nd. So, at a very short 53,612 words -- I have achieved rough draft! Hooray!
I admit, I love fireworks to the depths of my unregenerate twelve-year-old soul. Happy birthday, America!
http://postsecret.blogspot.com/2009/07/sunday-secrets.html  PostSecret is an ongoing community art project where people mail in their secrets anonymously on one side of a postcard.           -----Email Message----- The trick isn't to make something others can relate to; but to allow others to witness what is in fact, a highly private moment.  -----Email Message----- Dear Frank, I am the author of one of this Sunday's secrets. My secret says, "None of the artwork made sense, but being there with you did." I, most regrettably, no longer am with the girl that inspired my secret--things didn't look the same to her as they did to me. However, I persistently try to regain her affection. I do sweet things for her that make me wonder how I ever will be able to top them for the next girl (if there even happens to be a next girl). Frank, if you could only see this secret-inspiring girl. I'm convinced that she is the most beautiful person that I have ever seen. So, I want to thank you for choosing my secret. Although it possibly may have been chosen for its broad appeal, know that you have helped some one on a very personal level. She has already discovered the secret. And that is one more sweet thing with which to win her over.             -----Email Message----- Dear Frank, I have been an avid follower of PostSecret for many years now. When I saw the tattoo a woman got of one of the secrets--"We accept the love we think we deserve"--I knew that I wanted a PostSecret tattoo, as well. I waited patiently every week for the secret that jumped out at me, went to PostSecret events and followed you on Twitter. I found my PostSecret quote, and the funniest part is it was written on the envelope in which their secret was contained, and yet, the minute I read it I knew it was mine. . .   More Secrets & Stories - Follow PostSecret on Twitter. 
http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Pvponline/~3/xRussNq08gY/ http://www.pvponline.com/?p=4787 After posting about my adventures in dry brushing earlier this week, I got an email from Kit over at Reaper Minis. Reaper is the company that Mike and his role-playing group turned us onto since they have an amazing variety and amazing sculptors.
Turns out that Reaper HQ is not that far from where I live now. It’s a stone’s toss from where I attended University and Kit was kind enough to invite me out for a tour of the shop.
Reaper does everything on site, from sculpting the minis, to casting them in pewter, to sorting, packaging, and shipping out internet orders. They make their own paints on-site (after working with Sherman Williams to make the best paint for pewter), as well as brushes and accessories. It’s an amazing operation that’s surprisingly run by fewer people than I thought. They run a tight ship.
In the front of the warehouse is the Asylum shop, a new operation they opened up. Every single mini and accessory that Reaper makes is on the shelves. We were able to not only pick out minis that matched our characters, but accessories like weapon, instrument and even a hat pack. A little snip, some zap-a-gap and you got a new weapon in your dwarf thief’s hand.
One of the Reaper employees went above and beyond to mod-up a couple minis for us, adding a hat to Angela’s gnome bard, and transforming an iron golem into Brian’s battle-axe wielding Warforged Fighter.
My brother is insanely good at this.
We walked out of there with a bunch of stuff that’s made for a wonderful fourth of July painting miniatures. Everyone gave it a shot, even Kris, Ashley, Regean and Angela. We all had a great time. Everyone needs to check out Reapermini.com if you’re interested in this stuff. And if you’re in the area, head over to Denton and check out the Asylum shop. They have painting club on Saturdays.
I will say now, after painting my 4th mini (my dwarf thief Fargrim Sootfoot), that I’ve learned a couple things since my first go at this:
1) The proper tools are ESSENTIAL. Get an assortment of brushes, ceramic palettes, clippers, exacto knives, zap-a-gap glue, sculpty, various base flocking stuff… it’s not as expensive as I thought it would be.
2) Invest in the Reaper paints. I love them. They made a huge difference.
3) Follow the steps and don’t skip ahead. Remove flashing, attach extra parts, prime it, then paint it. Dark first then highlight. Add wash, then when you’re done, flock.
4) Be patient and TAKE…YOUR…TIME. You can rush it and be disappointed or you can slow down and say “I put 30 hours into this.” Fargrim took about 9 hours. It was like time travel. I started to paint, then suddenly it was 9 hours later and my back and shoulders really hurt.
Yeah, I like Dwarves
Relic looks imposing even from behind. Hey-o!
http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/wwdn/~3/alnBVL15Okc/from-the-vault-fireworks.html This was originally written and published on July 5, 2002, which simultaneously feels like years and days ago. When I was growing up, we always spent Fourth of July with my father's aunt and uncle, at their fabulous house in Toluca Lake. It was always a grand affair and I looked forward to spending each Independence Day listening to Sousa marches, swimming in their enormous pool and watching a fireworks show on the back patio. This fireworks display was always exciting because we were in the middle of LA County, where even the most banal of fireworks – the glow worms – are highly illegal and carried severe fines and the threat of imprisonment, should we be discovered by LA's finest. The excitement of watching the beautiful cascade of sparks and color pouring out of a Happy Flower With Report was enhanced by the knowledge that we were doing something forbidden and subversive. Yes, even as a child I was already on my way to being a dangerous subversive. Feel free to talk to any of my middle-school teachers if you doubt me. Each year, the older children, usually teenagers and college-aged, would be chosen to light the fireworks and create the display for the rest of the family. I was Chosen in 1987, three weeks before my fifteenth birthday. The younger cousins, with whom I'd sat for so many years, would now watch me the way we'd watched Tommy, Bobby, Richard and Crazy Cousin Bruce, who always brought highly illegal firecrackers up from Mexico. I was going to be a man in the eyes of my family. This particular 4th of July was also memorable because it was the first 4th that was celebrated post-Stand By Me and at the time I had become something of a mini-celebrity around the family. Uncles who had never talked to me before were asking me to sign autographs for people at work, older cousins who had bullied me for years were proclaiming me “cool,” and I was the recipient of a lot of unexpected attention. I was initially excited to get all this newfound attention, because I'd always wanted to impress my dad's family and make my dad proud, but deep down I felt like it was all a sham. I was the same awkward kid I'd always been and they were treating me differently because of celebrity, which I had already realized was fleeting and bullshit. Looking back on it now, I think the invitation to light fireworks may have had less to do with my age than it had to do with my growing fame . . . but I didn't care. Fame is fleeting . . . but it can get a guy some cool stuff from time to time, you know? I allowed myself to believe that it was just a coincidence. The day passed as it always did. There were sack races, basket ball games and water balloon tosses, all of which I participated in, but with a certain impatience. These yearly events were always fun, to be sure, but they were standing directly between me and the glorious excitement of pyrotechnic bliss. Finally, the sun began to set. Lawn chairs were arranged around the patio, wet swimsuits were traded for warm, dry clothes, and I bid my brother and sister farewell as I joined my fellow firework lighters near the corner of the house. I walked casually, like someone who had done this hundreds of times before. As the sun sank lower and lower, sparklers were passed out to everyone, even the younger children. I politely declined, my mind absolutely focused on the coming display. I wanted to make a big impression on the family. I was going to start out with something amazing, which would really grab their attention. I'd start with some groundflowers, then a Piccolo Pete and a sparkling cone. From then on, I'd just improvise with the older cousins, following their lead as we worked together to weave a spectacular tapestry of burning phosphor and gunpowder for five generations of family. Dusk arrived, the family was seated, and the great display began. Some of the veteran fireworks lighters went first, setting off some cascading fountains and a pinwheel. The assembled audience cheered and gasped its collective approval, and it was my turn. I steeled myself and walked to the center of the large patio, casually kicking aside the still-hot remains of just-fired fountains. Casually, like someone who had done this hundreds of times before. My hands trembled slightly, as I picked up three ground flowers that I'd wound together. My thumb struck flint and released flaming butane. I lit the fuse and became a man. The sparkling fire raced toward the ignition point and rather than following the directions to “LIGHT FUSE, PUT ON GROUND AND GET AWAY,” I did something incredibly stupid: I casually tossed the now-flaming bundle of pyrotechnics on the ground. Casually, like someone who'd done this hundreds of times before. The bundle of flowers rolled quickly across the patio, toward my captive and appreciative audience. Two of the flowers ignited and began their magical dance of colorful fire on the cement, while the third continued to roll, coming to rest in the grass beneath the chair of a particularly old and close-to-death great-great-great aunt. The colored flame which was creating such a beautiful and harmless display on the patio was spraying directly at this particular matriarch, the jet of flame licking obscenely at the bottom of the chair. The world was instantly reduced to a few sounds: My own heartbeat in my ears, the screams of the children seated near my great-great-great aunt and the unmistakable zip of the now-dying flowers on the patio. I don't know what happened, but somehow my great-great-great aunt, who'd managed to survive every war of the 20th century, managed to also survive this great mistake of mine. She was helped to her feet and she laughed. Unfortunately, she was the only one who was laughing. One of my dad's cousins, who was well into his 20s and never attended family gatherings accompanied by the same date, sternly ripped the lighter from my hand and ordered me back to the lawn, to sit with the other children. Maybe I could try again next year, when I was “more responsible and not such a careless idiot." I was crushed. My moment in the family spotlight was over before it had even begun and not even the glow of pseudocelebrity could save me. I carefully avoided eye contact, as I walked slowly, humiliated and embarrassed, back to the lawn, where I tried not to cry. I know the rest of the show unfolded before me, but I don't remember it. All I could see was a mental replay of the bundle of ground flowers rolling across the patio. If that one rogue firework hadn't split off from its brothers, I thought, I would still be up there for the finale, which always featured numerous pinwheels and a Chinese lantern. When the show was over, I was too embarrassed to apologize and I raced away before the patio lights could come on. I spent the rest of the evening in the front yard, waiting to go home. The following year I was firmly within the grip of sullen teenage angst and spent most of the festivities with my face planted firmly in a book -Foundation or something, most likely- and I watched the fireworks show with the calculated disinterest of a 15-year-old. That teenage angst held me in its grasp for the next few years and I even skipped a year or two, opting to attend some parties where there were girls who I looked at, but never had the courage to talk to. By the time I had achieved escape velocity from my petulant teenage years, Aunt Betty and Uncle Dick had sold the house and 4th of July would never happen with them again. The irony is not lost on me, that I wanted so badly to show them all how grown up I was, only to behave more childishly than ever the following years. This 4th of July, I sat on the roof of my friend Darin's house with Anne and the boys and watched fireworks from the high school. Nolan held my hand and Ryan leaned against me as we watched the Chamber of Commerce create magic in the sky over La Crescenta. I thought back to that day, 15 years ago and once again I saw the groundflower roll under that chair and try to ignite great-great-great aunt whatever her name was. Then I looked down at Nolan's smiling face, illuminated in flashes of color. "This is so cool, Wil!” he declared, “Thanks for bringing us to watch this." "Just be glad you're on a roof and not in a lawn chair,” I told him. "Why?" "Well . . . ” I began to tell him the story, but we were distracted by a particularly spectacular aerial flower of light and sparks. In that moment, I realized that no matter how hard I try, I will never get back that day in 1987, nor will I get to relive the sullen years afterward . . . but I do get to sit on the roof with my wife and her boys now and enjoy 4th of July as a step-dad . . . at least until the kids hit the sullen years themselves. Then I'm going to sit them in lawn chairs and force them to watch me light groundflowers. 
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This is most gratifying.
Norinco M-14S "Jayne", Bushnell 3200 10X40mm mildot scope, .308 Win, Winchester 150-grain Power-Points, off bipod, at 200 meters in gusty conditions with occasional light showers. Fifteen rounds fired; one must have gone high over the target. Eight are in the kill box. Five others would have dented the zombie to varying degrees of severity. I am pleased. |
Zombie target headshots at 200 meters. W00t. This is far from spectacular shooting, but it's an encouragingly good start. Now that I have a bunch of fireformed brass for Jayne, the next steps are going to be to procure some 168-grain match bullets and develop a load for the rifle (this step alone should shrink the groupings considerably), improve the rather stiff trigger pull, and shim the gas system. In other words, that picture is my baseline. This is going to be a fun project. The above aside, I had a really good time at EOHC this afternoon. After breakfast at my mother-in-law's with the Horde of Sisters (tm), I zoomed off to the range. The place was full; the club was running a range safety class, with about two dozen people in attendance, which gives me hope for the future. There were a half dozen guys on the rifle range, with some interesting shooting irons; a Tavor TC-21, a PE-90, an AR-15, three M-14's (counting Vera and Jayne), a Yugoslavian M59/66 SKS, a Remington Model 700 VTR, and a couple of K31's. The customary practice of letting the other guys fire a few rounds was in full swing, and I tried the 700 VTR and the K31. The 700 VTR was pretty darn slick; light, handy, comfy, very nice trigger, and the built-in muzzle brake works as advertised. But the K31 blew me away. The Swiss national sport is rifle shooting, which, aside from the generalized Swiss badassedness and impenetrable mountain fortress location, is one of the reasons why they have not been invaded in eight centuries. There's a story about a visiting German general discussing the relative size of the Swiss and German armies with his Swiss counterpart, who asked what the one-million-strong Swiss Army could do against the five-million-strong German army. The reply was "my men will each fire five shots and go home". Unsurprisingly, the Swiss make some spectacular rifles. The K31 I fired was an unremarkable rack grade, unimproved Swiss military surplus beater of a rifle, which meant that the thing was buttery smooth, flawlessly fit and finished, had a trigger to die for, was insanely accurate, and generally was sort of like a large, noisy, historically and mechanically interesting Swiss watch with wood furniture that makes .30-caliber holes in whatever it's shot at. The thought of a K31 in excellent condition gives me goosebumps. When I first stumbled across Michael Z. Williamson's not entirely serious essay The Ten Manliest Firearms, I really didn't get why he'd included the K31 at no.7. Now I do. Now, after five rounds, I am a drooling squeeing K31 fanboy, and want one. Badly. Very badly. Very very badly. Considering putting a tip jar up levels of very very badly wanting. Forgotten about the GP-100, Lee-Enfield and Mosin-Nagant wants for the moment levels of very very badly wanting. It's a real pity that the 7.5mm Swiss round it fires is so expensive (not only due to rarity, but because the Swiss only make it in match grade). Good thing I reload... and that Trade-Ex has them for $240 and up.
 Sometimes I start comics that are supposed to be a whole page, but are only a half page. On a related note, I have so many David Bowie drawings now, so many Ziggys. ( store!)
afternoon = doldrums of creativity words since last report: 1875 word total: 2455 word goal Still 5-7k, looking pretty good. tyop du jour: n/a darling: n/a mean things: A lecture on Wordsworth first thing in the morning. quirks: This werewolf, who still looks not unlike Claudia Black, wears t-shirts that say things like MY DOGMA ATE YOUR KARMA. reason for stopping: Like I said, doldrums. Also, I think it's time to take a cool bath. exercise: Walkies! work outside the box: Provender provided. feline assistance: None, although mirrorthaw is being assisted by the Inspector of Saucepans.
We managed to get back from the farmer's market with only four varieties of cherries, and having spent only about five minutes singing along with the busker who was doing Amazing Grace to the tune of House of the Rising Sun, Blind Boys style. Good times. And now it's just me, a sofa, a laptop, a cup of strawberry peppercorn tea, a Saturday, and forty student manuscripts. Excelsior. (348 miles to Isengard.)
Dear America, So it's been a year since I started to penetrate your depths, and I feel like I'm still getting to know you. It isn't like what we've got is that serious. You're not as clean and wholesome as Back Home. In fact, I can only take you in small spurts, and I'm spending today Back Home, just like I spent her birthday Over There with you. That doesn't mean I don't care, though. After all, you pay the bills (although it costs me $3.00 just to enter you). I'm sure you don't mind that I'm two-timing you with the woman who I've been with since my birth, and no, not my mom, you sick disgusting country, that would be wrong. It takes a lot more than a year to get the maple syrup out of these veins. Besides, your politicians are all two-timing their spouses, so why shouldn't I have my fun back in the land of real freedom? But know that as long as you keep paying me, I'll be there for you at least four days a week, nine months a year. Happy birthday anyway.
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