ForbesOnTech

This is Just So Wrong--- Jumping cattle

This is just so wrong on so many levels, i'm hard-pressed to write a caption.

Jumping Cattle? Holy Cow!

Special thanks to my young friend, second-year law school student, Marie Sobieski, for the original idea.- Jim Forbes, 0806/2009.

Fun Incorrect Sea Stories About Old Ironsides from the Days Before the US Navy's Ban on Alcohol aboard Ships-- the USS Constitution's 126,230 Gallon Bender of 1798

( woops! this is an old story and it's about as true as romantic yarns about relationships between sailors and mermaids.  but as the saying goes: the difference between a fable and sea story is simple: one begins"Once upon a time" the other leads with: "No Shit,"--jmf!

 

The U. S. S. Constitution (Old Ironsides), as a combat vessel, carried 48,600 gallons of fresh water for her crew of 475 officers and men. This was sufficient to last six months of sustained operations at sea. She carried no evaporators (i.e. fresh water distillers).

However, let it be noted that according to her ship's log, "On July 27, 1798, the U.S.S. Constitution sailed from Boston with a full complement of 475 officers and men, 48,600 gallons of fresh water, 7,400 cannon shot, 11,600 pounds of black powder and 79,400 gallons of rum.

" Her mission: "To destroy and harass English shipping."Making Jamaica on 6 October, she took on 826 pounds of flour and 68,300 gallons of rum.

Then she headed for the Azores, arriving there 12 November. She provisioned with 550 pounds of beef and 64,300 gallons of Portuguese wine.

On 18 November, she set sail for England. In the ensuing days she defeated five British men-of-war and captured and scuttled 12 English merchant ships, salvaging only the rum aboard each.

By 26 January, her powder and shot were exhausted. Nevertheless, although unarmed she made a night raid up the Firth of Clyde in Scotland. Her landing party captured a whisky distillery and transferred 40,000 gallons of single malt Scotch aboard by dawn. Then she headed home.

The U. S. S. Constitution arrived in Boston on 20 February 1799, with no cannon shot, no food, no powder, no rum, no wine, no whisky, and 38,600 gallons of water.

In case you’re wondering: that’s 126,230 gallons of distilled spirits and 64,300 gallons of wine.

Makes you wonder if the Constitution’s ship’s company was in the mood for strong drink when she birthed in Boston. This also serves to define the phrase “drunk as a sailor”

Thanks to fellow retired technology journalist and one time Lt. USNR  Jim Brinton for this factoid. -- Jim Forbes on 09/04/2009.

Federal Wildlife Officials Want to open Dialog on Restoration of Southern California Steelhead populations-- Trout Politics Return

The federal government wants to put righteous ocean going rainbow trout species (aka “steelhead”) in a stream about seven miles from my house. here

Be still my beating heart.

Catching a steelhead is an Apex experience had by the very few fishermen who yearly wade into icy streams in a mostly vain attempt to land these 8-14 pound trout. The allure of steelhead fishing is hard to resist. They are big fish that test a fisherman’s tackle and resolve from the moment they hit.  Capable of making runs like a runaway freight train, steelhead strip lines, straighten hooks, snap leaders and generally mock any and all attempts by anglers that set out to catch this overgrown relative of the humble rainbow trout.

So what’s not to like about the reintroduction of a sought after sport salmonidae species that’s literally the stuff of fact-based fishing legends?

Apparently if you’re a city or county official, the answer is reintroducing steelhead forces you to clean up riparian habitat, ban certain commercial pesticides and provide physical structures (fish ladders for example) that let steelhead freely migrate from the sea to spawning grounds.

The reaction of some officials here in north San Diego County has been dismissive “ no one remembers catching one” quipped a non-native Californian city councilman in my home town.

That’s not the case in my family; however, where pictures of San Gabriel Rivercaught 26 to 30-inch long steelhead, hanging from a stringer are parts of our photographic family history

Salmon politics in the western US are multi dimensional and complex. Fishermen want access to stocks of healthy fish, but land developers and others who profit from raw land, do not want to burdened with the cost of restoring riparian habitat to conditions that sustain runs of fish such as steelhead (which, unlike their salmon cousins, don’t begin dying off as soon as they reach their natal waters. The mighty steelhead, instead, creates a new generation and then takes off down stream for the ocean, returning occasionally to reproduce and run, yet again).

There was a time in California and the west when our rivers and streams were loaded with uncountable steelhead and salmon.  But that was before widespread development that changed water courses and destroyed spawning beds.

Can today’s streams and rivers be made to support the reintroduction of sustaining  generations of fish such as steelhead and salmon?  Consider the little Guadalupe River that runs by San Jose International Airport and winds through downtown San Jose, CA.

In recent years, following stream clean-up programs and in-class room salmon fry rearing aquaculture programs , the return of salmon spawning runs to the Guadalupe has become a yearly event. 

I don’t even want to think what a king salmon has to go through here. to make it from the open ocean to a spawning bed upstream of downtown San Jose

But I can imagine a sated salmon, spent after spawning, a glass of a fabulous merlot in his fin, happily floating down stream. To die and be consumed by the cultured crustaceans of northern CA.—Jim Forbes 08/22/2009

Battling Tweety Birds-- It's Just so Wrong!

Police in Conneticut last week broke up a bird fighting ring and arrested 19 people who were gambling on the illegal avian battles.

OK, I'm really opposed to animal cruelty but there's a dark humorous side to this story: the birds, which were confiscated were all canaries and finches. battling canaries? You're kidding ne, right?

Be still my twisted mind. Can't you see it now?

A buffed up canary flying at its opponent, landing, then hitting its opponent with soft wings while shouting in a deep Tweety bird voice, "I'm gonna kick your stubby cowardly yellow feathered butt!"

And Fighting finches? I so just don't want to go there.

You can't make this stuff  up; it's just too bizarre, even for me:

Read it yourself: here

It's just so wrong on every level. but I'd bet $50 bet my gangsta hummming birds could kick the canaries' and finches' butt any day of the week. they're so mean and buff they makethe local hawks to flee screaming for respite.--Jim Forbes on 07/28/2009 

Canary fight referee?

Gangster Humming Birds Attack Local Hawk, Cheap Boat Ramp Theater, Local Seal Takes Police Boat on Joy Ride

There’s nothing quite like the absence of sharp pain in your extremities to get you refocused on things such as regular blog posting.

While recuperating from my monumental act of stupidity two weeks ago, I’ve had ample time to watch the world fly by as I sat stupefied in a chair on my front porch.

From my hazy throne over the last two weeks I’ve seen:

Two gangster emerald throated humming birds, repeatedly attack juvenile Coopers hawk gulping water from the 7 gallon stock tank in my rose garden. I’ve always known humming birds are extremely aggressive but to watch them take on and drive away a hawk that’s at least 100 times their size is to gain new insight into Mother Nature’s mysterious box of fun.

Three common fence lizards (aka “blue bellies”) drag scorpion lunches onto my porch and spend up to one hour devouring them live—which involves considerable writhing and jaw readjusting on the lizards’ part. The presence and abundance of scorpions in my front yard is why I never ever go out at night barefoot, anymore. Trust me, “stupid can hurt” and stepping on a scorpion gets your attention, every time.

One of the local red tail hawks tire of being harassed by the local crows, fly way up, circle on a thermal than come plummeting down like God’s own kinetic energy weapon and explode a crow into a soft rain of black feathers. Hawks 1; Crows, 0. Sometimes Mother Nature is wickedly funny.

My peaches are nearly all mature now and I’ve given six boxes of fruit to neighbors, family and friends. I know it’s time to jump on my murderous ATV when MaForbes comes out and declares: “I feel like making a pie, are there any peaches left on the tree?” When the peaches are all gone, it will be apricot cobbler time and my two Royal ‘cot trees are just about ready to pick.

There really is nothing quite like movement induced leg and ankle pain to help you quickly revert to full contact gardening. My bush tomatoes have all been picked clean and as of this week there’s no sign of new flowers so unless they flower again, they’ll get pulled at the end of this week.

My heirloom tomatoes and giant beefsteaks have all begun producing and there are at least three, one pounders ripening in my cages. This is the last year, however. I’ll grow Bush Goliath tomatoes. They’re only goliath-sized when compared to a cherry tomato.

I think I over planted my potato containers. I have a nice sack of about 40 small to medium sized tasty Yukon gold spuds  I believe I should have only planted four or five seed potatoes in each container, not seven or eight.

Penultimately, if you live near a boat launch ramp and are looking for inexpensive theater, I recommend taking a picnic basket and parking near that ramp on a summer holiday weekend. Lots of fun watching people zoom away from the ramp only to discover, one mile away, they forgot to install the drain plugs in their boat, or adequately  charge their batteries. Vessel Assist down here in San Diego seemed particularly busy over the Fourth.

But even funnier twas a seal who last week stole a harbor police boat left idling unmanned dockside. The seal then went for its own little self-directed harbor tour. The police chased, overtook and lay alongside the stolen boat, sent its first wave of boarders over the side and regained control of their vessel The seal was not cited for grand theft boat and was released after a stern warning. The fun loving pinniped was last seen circling the Everingham brothers bait barge.  A good time was had by all; the seal, the harbor police, the film crews and we fishermen who can laugh at the yellowtail thieving bastards.— I’m back. Jim Forbes, 07/07/09.

I was Right; Stupidity Should Hurt--My Murderous ATV

I’m limping proof of the axiom: “stupidity should be painful.”

Last week I started to take my trash containers down to the street. Seated on my ATV, I reached over to pick up the plastic yard trash container with my left hand. Whereupon, forgetting that I have serious left side weakness, I fell off my Kawasaki quad, which promptly returned the love and excellent care I provide it by running me over in low gear.

Lying on the ground I distinctly remember thinking “Uh Oh, this is going to hurt” as the quad’s rear wheel chugged up my left leg, starting at my foot. It hen motored over my left ankle, continuing past my knee and finally coming off my body after it ran over my groin.

At 6 am in the morning no one was awake here at Rancho Bizarro to hear my plaintive bleating “Help, help!”

So I crawled slug-like over to my quad, pulled myself up, used my right leg to mount the quad, sidesaddle and complete my morning chores.

I drove my murderous ATV up on my porch and hobbled through the door to my home office.

I thought “hell, I have pretty good motion in my ankle and knee so nothing’s broken, I’ll just man up and deal with the pain of two strained joints. Besides. I have some Vicodin left from my last injury,”

By last Thursday the pain in my watermelon-sized left foot convinced me to go see my Doc.

My self-diagnosis was wrong; a slender bone on the top of my foot had a hairline crack.

And guess what? There’s not much they can do for such stupidity induced injuries, so a nurse showed me how to use a compression wrapper to girth my foot and told me to put an ice pack on it several times a day.

Oh they also refilled my seriously depleted bottle of Vicodin.

So for the last several days I’ve spent my days watching bad comedies, sniveling, and hobbling around my house with a cane.

The one upside to all this was the bad color combinations on the tie-dyed t-shirts I made yesterday and the fact that a high wheel; Caterpillar DH-5 was mysteriously left on a nearby vacant lot two days ago.

Damn the warning on the side of the bottle ”Do not operate heavy machinery while taking this drug!”

Well duh.

Like I said stupidity should be painful.—Jim Forbes 06/28/2009

Lost balance, Fell of Quad ATV, Running Over My Ankle and Knee-- Paying More Attention to Details, Post Stroke.

Woops. Taking the yard trash down to the street this morning I had an unpleasant reminder of why I should never forget I have a stroke-related condition called “left-side deficit.”

Having mounted my ATV< I drove over to pick up my container of yard trash, reached too far and lost my balance. I instinctively stuck my left leg down to stop the fall and reached with my right hand to the ATV’s right handlebar. I mistakenly grabbed to low and hit the quad’s accelerator paddle giving it a slight goose.

Whereupon I felt the bikes left rear wheel roll over my foot and then my ankle. I had enough presence of mind to throw myself off the Quad and try to keep my left leg straight. Eventually the ATV slowed -- after it rolled over my kneecap.

Whimpering on the ground, I managed to stand. The pain was there, and I quickly wiggled my leg and ankle to make sure nothing was broken.

Meanwhile, my quad has idled away and is pushing against my neighbor’s chain link fence.. I gingerly dragged myself to the ATV, took a side saddle position and reversed back to the yard trash barrel, taking it down to the street, a half mile down my driveway.

I guess I won’t be climbing a ladder this weekend, picking peaches.

But I do have a new supply of pain pills, a nice Irish shillelagh, and some parked heavy equipment I have an inexplicable urge to operate, right after my nap

It’s absolutely true: “that which doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.” And sometimes it makes you more cautious too.—Jim Forbes, 06/19/2009

Recuperating From the Flu, a Nap and Demo 2009 Await.

I feel like a big ass truck ran over me last night. Which is to say I really hate coming down with a cold or the flu.Other than the infrequent heart attack and a wretched stroke i seldom get sick.

Today is the exception. I"m awash in heavy metal llozenges and chugging patent medicine cold/flue remedies like a slack jawed yokel at convention of snake oil salesmen. The truth: right now i'd try anything to feel better, but I hope I'm on the down hill side of symptoms that have robbed me of my humor and willingness to do anything more strenuous than put a DVD in my bedroom television and rest for a couple of hours.

The really good news is that I'll be bright eyed and bush-tailed when at Demo next week. For me going to Demo is much more than staying touch with old friends. It's about seeing new technologies that will influence the entrepreneurial economy in the coming 12 months.

Demo events held during economic downturns are among my personal favorite events. It's when you get to see the most dedicated companies that have already shed excess weight and are in prime condition. And that summarizes what I expect to see next week in Palm Desert.

Enough, already, I'm whipped. A DVD and nap with an old cat awaits.--Jim Forbes on 02/25/2009.

Ready, Aim, Check Fire!-- Preggers Weasel Sighted in Front Yard

Looking down at my front lawn over my morning Folgers’ I felt a chill running down to my comfy fleece-lined boots.

The two huge new 8-inch tall mounds of dirt screamed “warning, ground squirrel, so I unlimbered my pellet rifle, went prone and pushed the  barrel through my ice plant hedge and checked my sight picture.

            Very quickly a small spray of dark brown earth came over the edge of the mound and I slowly squeezed most of the slack out of my trusty Beeman air rifle’s trigger.

            I felt the tension on the trigger creep in just as a tawny brown head popped up behind a second spray of dirt from the offending rodent’s mound. The head kept rising against my scope’s reticule, and then I really focused in, taking my finger off the trigger when I recognized the female brown and white long-tailed weasel rising languidly from the ground.

            “Yeah, Mrs. Weeze,” I quietly cheered, relieved that the mound hadn’t been created by a ground squirrel.

            Ground squirrels are the nemesis of most orchardists here in rural Northern San Diego County. Once a colony gets established, it’s  almost impossible to completely eradicate. And nothing pisses me off more than to have burrowing rodents gnaw through the root balls of several hundred dollars of fruit tree saplings. The good news, squirrels are much easier to head shoot than gophers or voles.

            The even better news: The weasels are back here at Rancho Bizarro South and I know where one of their birthing dens is. Seeing California long-tailed weasels is a rare occurrence. They’re sleek and shy. The thought of Weeze kits romping around my yard like crazed furry inch worms just makes my day.

            I don’t like using poisons on burrowing rodents because of “incidental kills” to upstream predators.

            Truthfully, I’m overjoyed Mother Nature has seen fit to give me a pair of apparently pregnant weasels for natural pest control. And all of this comes at a time when I’m about to set four new avocado trees and two Avalon peaches, all of which are replacements for trees gnawed to death by voles and gophers last year.

            I’ll chose natural predation by weasels over rodent extermination by musketry and poisoned bait any day of the year. Besides, the weasels also really enjoy the occasional meal of fresh rattlesnake from the rose garden outside my office window.  And, that is a very good thing, Martha!

    A smiling Farmer Forbes on 01/08/2009.

           

I Get Frustrated, the Wrench Goes Flying, -- Bambi the Lawn Tractor Gets Her First Spa Day

A mechanical failure late last week on my beloved yard tractor, Bambi, caused me to hurl a ½-inch Craftsman box wrench against my cinder block wall, pull out and hook up my utility trailer and tug Bambi down to the local Deere dealership for a long overdue spa day.

After five years of driveway mechanical maintenance, Bambi needed some serious work. Her primary load-bearing blade spindle was making evil noises and she started shredding drive belts. I spent about three hours tinkering and cursing like an infuriated Celestial before I realized that the best solution to my L100’s problems was to let someone who didn’t throw their heirloom tools when they get really frustrated

So I inched Bambi up the ramp and onto the trailer, cinched her tie downs tight and dropped her off at the local tractor dealership. I had a rough idea how much the needed service work would cost and mentally gulped. About an hour after Bambi was sitting in the dealership’s service bay, my phone rang.  They sservice manager suggested new tubes for the tires, a brake kit, a new seat and mentioned the hairline cracks on my chipped mowing blades.

I live on the safe and thrifty side of cheap, so I agreed them every thing but the brakes tubes and seat. The service manager said “Pick her  in two days.”

I smiled, and added two cans of “FixIt” flat tire repair to my weekly shopping list, checked my bank balances and ordered a replacement seat from an Internbet store front.

The total service/repair bill was less than I had been quoted and as soon as I got Bambi off my trailer yesterday; I shot the leaking tires with “Fixit.” Sixty minutes later my one-acre front lawn was neatly trimmed and Bambi was back in her parking place cooling down. 24 hours later, her rear tires still firmly hold air and I just received an email confirming that my new $55 replacement seat has been shipped to me via UPS.

The decals on Bambi are beginning to peel, but she starts up without using its choke. Five years of happy tractoring in short pants, a tie-dyed t-shirt and aviator sunglasses.  Life at Rancho Bizarro is pretty fine. On some days it’s hard for me to remember the stress of working, missing a deadline because of a major stroke or not having the time or space to plant and maintain big vegetable gardens.

Yes, I sent my lawn tractor to the dealer for a major service. It was worth it.

It’s another boring SPF 45 sunscreen perfect day in rural northern San Diego County.—Jim Forbes 11/19/2008.