Things are slowly getting back to something resembling normal. The kids are holding up much better than I am. Fortunately, we have support from family and friends that helped get us through the initial shock and the weeks since. It’s been rough.

The thing I focus on now is simplifying life, the house, and, well, as much as I can. It keeps me focused and provides a needed distraction. Organizing the basement, office and garage has taken up a lot of my time. As has consolidating and closing accounts and so on.

While I wouldn’t consider us to have been under quarantine necessarily, I did pretty much eliminate any unnecessary travel for us. As the world is returning to normal (at least where I live), I may have to re-evaluate. Hope all of you are coping with the current situation well.

Oh, and this is a gun blog. To keep myself further occupied, I started a new project:

That’s a Ruger PC Charger in 9mm. It takes Glock magazines. Pros: Sturdy construction; I like the ergonomics; It runs pretty much just like my 10/22.

Cons: No rail or slots on the top of the barrel, which means any BUIS would be short.

I put on a Sig Folding Knuckle to accept an SB pistol brace. The screws that came with the knuckle were junk. The heads came right off while tightening. A trip to Home Depot fixed that. I like the brace quite a lot.

Magpul sling because I have Magpul slings on all of my rifles.

The optic is a Vortex SPARC

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, at the recommendation of another blogger sort. Seems to be a decent sight but it has the same flaw EOTechs have: it shuts off automatically. Not a fan of that one feature. Would rather it stayed on until I turned it off.

The muzzle device is Southern Precision Tooling’s Hu Du because I have those on all of my rifles. And they are awesome.

Anyway

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, it’s bore sighted and hope to get it to the range soon.

We’ve all heard the stories. Governor’s overreaching. Cops arresting people who are paddle boarding alone, driving alone, and generally doing things that threaten no one. However, the cops do turn that into a threatening situation. Here are two ways the .gov has personally impacted me:

When my wife passed, we were out of town. The governor ordered a shutdown of the state and I couldn’t leave because she was in the hospital. Everything is shutdown. All of it. Except for fucking toll booths. I’m no epidemiologist but it seems to me that thousands of people coming into contact with a small group of people over a long time period would do more to spread the disease than people going to the beach. But the state’s gotta get that revenue.

Then

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, once I returned home, I received the most bizarre telephone call. First, some background: When my wife was still alive at the hospital, I asked specifically if they were going to test her for the coronavirus. They told me no because she displayed no symptoms. I couldn’t stay with her at the hospital because of the virus protocol. I could only visit if they called and allowed me. The hospital called and informed me that a CT scan confirmed that she had suffered a collapsed lung due to chest compressions and this put her at risk. As such, they tested her and it came back negative.

Then the call happened. Caller ID identified the number as the Tennessee Department of Health. On the other end of the line was a woman named *redacted* who stated she was a Registered Nurse with the department. She had no sense of social interaction and her speech pattern was so bizarre that I thought it was a robot call. And I hung up on her and blocked the number. She was seriously fucking weird.

Two days later, I receive a letter from *redacted* at the Health Department stating it was urgent that I call them. I called and, sure enough, *redacted* answered the phone. Still incapable of picking up on common human social skills, she inquired about my wife. I informed her she had passed. She oddly offered condolences and informed me that she was part of the team tracking virus related deaths in the state. I told her my wife tested negative for the virus. And she told me that when my wife was tested out of state, that hospital informed the department she had been tested. But didn’t tell them she was negative. I found it very strange.

I’d bet $100 right now that she is counted among the official death toll in Tennessee due to COVID19,

The Mrs. was laid to rest Monday. It’s a relief to have that behind us. Yesterday was the first day we didn’t have a house full of people. Spent time with the kids and letting them help plan our next course of action.

I have received messages from several of you. I will respond to you all at some point but

, for now, I can only move forward.

Thank you for understanding.

Unfortunately, I cannot respond to all of you but know that I “see” you. The outpouring has been amazing. As tincankilla said:

Were real people on the other side of the screen

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, we care.

And that is absolutely true.

Thank you.

On March 20th, my beloved wife and mother of my children, unexpectedly went into cardiac arrest. She had never presented any symptoms prior to then.

On March 21st, her doctor informed me that her brain was no longer functioning and there was no chance of recovery.

On March 22nd, in accordance with her wishes outlined in her living will, I authorized the medical staff to remove life support. She passed away peacefully at 8:48am central time while I held her hand. She will be missed.

March 23rd would have been our 18th anniversary.

The photo is our last family photo taken March 16th.

No blogging for the foreseeable future. I’m sure you will understand.

Over the holidays, the family and I went to NYC. Only occasionally did I get a whiff of piss and sewage. Seems to have cleaned up a bit since my last trip there. And, the only thing I really like about NYC, is the food. Had some good stuff.

My daughter wanted to go because of several pop culture related things. The kids had fun spending their time mostly shopping. Here’s the Freedom Tower:

And the most interesting thing I saw was actually in the Nintendo store. A game boy damaged in the first gulf war that still runs:

Oh, and for those who will ask, I carried a pocket knife and POM pepper spray. Both are legal there.

New kitty demonstrating the exact moment the drugs kicked in:

Still needs a name.

So, Junior got her learner’s permit yesterday. It happened before I knew it.

The May through June timeline at casa de Unc is full of birthdays and, obviously, various holidays. So, most of the last week was spent accordingly. Blogging to resume soon.

And Junior is now of age to get a learner’s permit. Where did that 15 years go?

A conversation I have with my kids often consists of me telling them to shut and lock doors.

“Why are you so picky about us locking the doors?”

“It reduces the likelihood that I’ll have to shoot someone”

Lock your damn doors.

Been busy with kids and family. The good news is that Junior won the 400 in track. And she’s the only freshman on varsity. Proud of her.

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The future is, well, that’s a pretty cool game actually. My son plays it.

To you and yours. Light blogging as I must Brussels some sprouts, collard some greens and pinto some beans. Odd that this year is the first year in a long time where I am not on turkey duty. It has me a little down, actually. I like cooking the turkey.

You guys enjoy and be safe out there.

Took my son to a soccer tournament this weekend. On the way to one of the games, we needed a quick bite. He wanted chicken nuggets from McDonald’s. We had time to sit down so we ate in the restaurant. We walked in and there were about 6 kiosks where people could order without a cashier. They just enter their order on the screen, pay, and it’s delivered to their table. The lines were backed up 2 to 3 deep and consisted of mostly youngsters and millenials. However, the only cashier had no line at all. We walked right up to her, ordered, and got our food.

Not sure why none why they’d wait for a kiosk rather than order from a human.

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I only watched it because when vacationing in Hawaii, we saw the set. My son predicted that we’d see a helicopter in a tree. Because we’d seen that at the set. Predictable movie but the fight scenes were worth it.

An automated pistol magazine loader:

The have an indiegogo here. Currently, I just keep a lot of magazines on hand. At least 50 per gun. I don’t like to load at the range. I like to spend the time shooting. And I have a deal with Junior. I pay her $1 to load a rifle magazine and $0.50 for a pistol magazine. Gives her some spending money and she gets to practice a skill.

My son is learning to cook. We started with Ramen noodles. He sets the pot of water on the stove, turns it on and stares at the pot. And this conversations happens:

Me: There’s an old saying that a watched pot never boils.

Number 2: That literally cannot possibly be true.

Me: Well, sure. But it really relays that it seems like water takes a long time to boil when you’re waiting on it.

Number 2: Then just say that.

He’s not wrong.

I was showing my son how to repair his dirt bike. There was dirt accumulated on the motor and I told him to go get a brush and scrub the dirt off. He comes back with this:

Yup. A hairbrush. I explained to him that he deeded to get a wire bristled brush. He comes back with this:

Yup. The cat brush. I then asked him to get my wrench set. He asked what that was. Somewhere along the way, I forgot to teach him about tools. So, tool class shall commence.

Junior makes an appearance in this piece by Oleg.

My son thought it’d be a good idea to put all of the Amazon Echoes in one room:

When you say the wake word, only one will respond. They communicate with each other, apparently. But using “Simon says” to activate the others was pretty clever, I thought. Never could get all five to go. Only got up to number four.

I got to see this again:

Here’s my son, holding it up:

Dolphins are, pretty much, hyperactive dogs that live in the ocean:

I am sad to report that Tactical Tennis Ball Launcher met an untimely demise. Had my nephew over (first mistake, right?) and he witnessed it in action. Trouble was, this time it only shot about 15 feet. He set about to make it shoot further. He noticed that the seams where the Pringles cans met had separated. Easily remedied with duct tape. He then noticed that there was a a bit of space around the ball and the pringles can. And he correctly figured that was causing the gasses to escape around the ball. So, he used some old wrapping paper to make wadding (smart kid).

Then, we got to work. There was an earth shattering kaboom and we all watched in amazement as the tennis ball traveled about 150 yards. It was pretty sweet. But the force of the blast destroyed the Tactical Tennis Ball Launcher, as it separated into three pieces. Of which my nephew said “well, it’s a proof of concept”.

Man, I wish I had that on video.

For Christmas, my son got Backyard Ballistics: Build Potato Cannons, Paper Match Rockets, Cincinnati Fire Kites, Tennis Ball Mortars, and More Dynamite Devices. So, we first made a tennis ball launcher, because we had all the stuff laying around. It wasn’t tactical enough so we put an angled forward grip on it. And we used bacon duct tape:

Before the Mrs. and I got married, we did the honorable thing and lived in sin for a while. I highly recommend it. But this isn’t a post about that, this is a post about this:

Men aren’t big on decorating. I never was. My old condo had white walls in every room, Berber carpet, and black furniture. Oh, the dining room was oak. One thing noticeably absent (I know this because people came in and said I notice that absent is . . .) from my condo was wall art (no pictures or paintings) and knickknacks (you know, little things that sit on your end tables). All that was on my furniture was lamps, coasters, and the occasional glass. My condo was, to use the phrase of a friend, very Spartan.

Then the soon-to-be Mrs. moves in. Suddenly, my natural habitat was disturbed. I now had on my furniture many knickknacks, such as various framed pictures of people I didn’t know, a basket for remote controls (I stored them in seat cushions), and various ceramic/glass/porcelain things strewn about the house in a seemingly random (though entirely purposeful) fashion. Also, I had wall art: pictures of flowers, more pictures of people I didn’t know, and a painting of this solemn looking boy staring out into the sea. And candles. Lots of candles. Single men don’t have candles, they like to use Mag-Lites and other gizmos when the power goes out. The candles were scented too.

Then the painting started. We spent an entire month painting every room in the condo but one, which we left white. It was my toy room/office. The wife said the white walls made it look like a hotel room. At the time, I was working in public accounting and traveled a lot. So, I found the hotel room look familiar and comfortable.

After the placement of various knickknacks around what was formerly my bachelor pad, me and the soon-to-be Mrs. were watching television. It was winter. I was laying on my black leather couch and the Mrs. was on the matching love seat. I started getting hot. So, I shifted my blanket a bit. Then I was still getting hot, particularly my feet were really warm. I shifted my feet again.

That did the trick, I was comfortable. A minute or two passes and my feet feel as though they are on fire. I re-situated my feet again and all of a sudden from under the blanket erupts a giant fireball. I, understandably shocked that a fireball had just come from my blanket and having watched one too many Discovery Channel specials on spontaneous human combustion, was a bit alarmed. I leapt to my feet (bad move, my socks were on fire), grabbed the blanket and threw it on the floor. Then I jumped up and down like a mad man on the blanket in an effort to extinguish the fire on the blanket and my feet. I then grabbed the blanket, used it to extinguish my feet, and rolled it up with the fire in the middle. The fire was out. By the way, I doubt stop, drop and roll works on feet.

You would think that the love of your life would notice that her soon-to-be husband was on fire. No, she intently watched Friends while I was trying to put myself out. Then I started cussing. She, concerned now, asks What’s wrong?.

I was shocked. She missed the fireball, missed me extinguishing myself, and missed the smell that burning blankets make because she was watching some tired, old repeated joke on Friends.

I instruct her (and by instruct mean yell loudly) that I was on fire. I show her my socks (which are burnt black), I show her the blanket (which was burnt black), and I showed her the armrest of the leather couch which was singed in such a way that the mark looked remarkably like a Christmas tree. Then, she starts laughing hysterically.

You’re probably wondering how my feet caught fire. Actually, you’re also probably wondering why my feet exploded into a fireball. It puzzled me too so I put on my arson investigator’s hat and determined that:

I was laying under a blanket that had little, frilly threads on the end. One of the newly acquired candles mentioned above (an item only recently introduced into the SayUncle habitat) was on the end table by my feet. I had apparently re-arranged my feet and, while shifting, the candle ignited the frilly threads. Then when I noticed my feet were a bit warm, I rearranged in such a fashion to place the end of the blanket under my feet where it smoldered for a bit, burnt my couch, and ignited my socks. When the heat was unbearable, I arranged my feet again at which point the oxygen hit the smoldering cloth and ignited a fireball.

The moral of this story: your future wife may or may not notice that you’re presently on fire. And if she does notice, she may find it funny.

From 2002.

I have a few pet names for my lovely wife, such as sweetie and honey. I also refer to her, at least weekly, as the light nazi. My wife has this superpower to detect wasted electricity almost instantaneously. For example, if I leave a light on and exit the room, she immediately hones in on the room using her bizarre extrasensory capabilities (seriously, the Department of Homeland Security could probably use her to detect unusual electrical fluctuations). Upon her discovery that I am heating the neighborhood or letting the flies out, Im in for a quick reminder to turn out lights and shut doors.

One problem I have with her ability is the fanatical zeal in which she enforces her duties as the sworn protector of home electrical efficiency. Another example: when I am in our office and have the lights on then decide Id like a refreshing beverage, by the time I return from the kitchen the lights are off in the office. Also, in her zeal, she has turned lights off on me while Im still in the room reading. She seems so obsessed with saving that quarter that she occasionally fails to notice that someone is actually benefiting from the use of the electricity in question.

My wife apparently has been saving up all this electricity usage for the holidays. Every year, me and the wife also get into an argument over Christmas decorations. The argument stems from the fact she wants to put the decorations up right after Labor Day. Whereas, I prefer them to be put up about the second week of December. This past weekend, satisfied that she had saved up enough electricity to warrant decorating for the holidays, yours truly wound up doing a lot of work in preparation for the upcoming holidays. Until this past week, the wife and I were the only ones living in our subdivision. We just got a new neighbor so I suppose the new neighbor was the cause of the tackiness that is holiday decorations. Since, other than us, hell be the only one to see them. Unless of course people start driving down a new subdivision to look at houses in the dark.

On Saturday, the wife and I pulled all the holiday knickknacks out of the attic and started decorating the house. I argued about it less this year than ever. I basically said honey, its not even Thanksgiving yet? and she replied with but Thanksgiving is late this year. I shrugged and said Oh. Learned helplessness has finally set in. I can just agree and do it quicker than I can disagree, argue, and wind up doing it anyway. Ah, the holiday spirit.

We put out our Frosty the Snowman salt and pepper shakers, put up our Christmas tree, put a Nativity scene on the mantle, and put out all the other stuff from the eight boxes that were in our attic labeled Christmas. This took up half our day.

Sunday rolls around, and I find out the wife had bought about nine boxes of icicle lights. Yours truly was then taken to task to take said nine boxes of lights (at 300 lights per box) and trim the house with them. A friend came by to help. Fortunately for me, my friend had done this before. I hadnt.

Your average SayUncle is about six feet, one inch tall and weighs about 170 pounds. Your average SayUncle is also lethargic on the weekends. And your average SayUncles natural habitat is some primitive, oblong, leather bedding (commonly referred to as a couch) where the SayUncle stalks its prey, the elusive Sam Adams and the only slightly less-elusive rum and Coke. Your average SayUncle is also poorly equipped for climbing steep inclines, which is a required skill when hanging 2,700 icicle lights. The reason the average SayUncle is so poorly equipped for climbing is because the largely sedentary SayUncle often catches several Sam Adams or rum and Cokes per day on the weekends, in between naps of course. Mind you, the only known SayUncle in existence hasnt lived in its natural habitat since it wed the SayAuntie, who is hell bent on destroying the SayUncles natural habitat.

The friend shows up. We put the ladder up to the house and he climbs up. Then I climb up. I realize in about five seconds that my boots are poorly equipped for walking on the roof. You need something that allows you to bend your ankles. It was also at this point that I realized Id never really used a ladder to climb on a roof before. And that I didnt really know how to get from the roof to the ladder, and subsequently to the ground, safely. After my friends instruction, I figured the whole ladder thing out, climbed down, and put on some sneakers. Then its back up the ladder to discover my friend had already placed one box of lights. Then, I cut myself on the gutters. I refuse to climb down and am content to finish the job while bleeding on the hangers. We then develop a system in which I place the hangers and my friend inserts the icicle lights into the hangers. About three hours later (when its dark, but were working with lights so . . ) were done.

I call the wife. The friend calls his wife. And we all stand around outside looking out over our icicle lights and the lighted garland on the porch. My wife looks me lovingly in the eyes and smiles, shes happy. I look at her and smile. The whole time thinking that we will waste more electricity on these Christmas lights this year than I will waste by leaving lights on for the rest of my life. Also, I hope our only neighbor appreciates the holiday display because I dont think anyone else is going to be driving by our subdivision to look at our lights. I put my arm around my wife and smile again because I know that I’m bleeding on her holiday sweater.

With the light nazi appeased, the SayUncle was allowed briefly to return to his natural habitat before bedtime.

Happy holidays!

From 2003:

There are a few things my loyal readers should know. One of which is that I have a penis. This is not a post about me having a particularly extraordinary penis but a report on how the penis affects thinking and cognition. Penis-bearing beings have several deficiencies but Im only discussing one of those deficiencies today. Apparently, a penis affects visual capabilities, particularly color recognition. A human being with a penis can only distinguish about eight or so colors, even though according to Windows 2000 there are at least 24 million colors (all of which are distinguishable to entities that do not have penises). More interesting is the fact that the amount of time devoted to the penis is inversely proportionate to the number of colors distinguishable. For example, my pup spends a great deal of his time engaging in the following activities:

Showing his penis to our other dog.
Showing his penis to me and the wife.
Sniffing his penis.
Showing his penis to any strangers that may be near.
Licking his penis.
Pointing his penis in the direction of the Sun.

The result of all this attention to his penis is that he only sees in black and white. My conclusion is not based on any scientific evidence but merely the fact that he seems not at all impressed by my 60 inch color television. A friend of mine used to have a Labrador. This Labrador was not particularly smart as he could do only one trick. The command for this trick was Show me your dude and Ill let you guess what followed. Later this Labrador was hit by a car and Im convinced that the reason he was hit by a car was because he was completely blind from showing people his dude all the time (even the neighborhood kids picked up on it).

This past weekend, the wife and I cancelled our vacation (damn SARS!) and decided to spend our time painting the master bedroom and the master bath. I hate painting for two reasons: 1) I dont enjoy it and 2) I suck at it. If youre marriage can survive the painting experience, you will enjoy a long life together. If not, one of you will be dead.

Prior to this weekend, our master bedroom was a color called China Doll. Now, every penis-bearing person reading this is thinking China Doll is not a color, its an oriental figurine or the name of a porn star. See, China Doll is a very, very light shade of brown or possibly a dark shade of white. There is some debate in the scientific world of color evaluation as to what color it really is. We (and by we, I mean the wife) decided that we needed to change from China Doll to Apple Butter. Again, penis-bearing individuals are thinking that Apple Butter is something you put on biscuits or the name of a porn star. Apple Butter is a slightly darker shade of brown (or possibly white, were still not sure) than China Doll.

Also confusing to penis-laden individuals is why there is a need to change one shade of brown (or possibly white) to a slightly different shade of brown (or possibly white). The reason for this is only known to non-penis-laden individuals. After the wife made the first stroke with the roller, I said I cant see the difference and her response was Youre blind.

This time, the wife and I managed to paint two rooms without getting divorced or killing each other. The last time we painted, we were at each others throats the entire time. It got so bad that I pondered whether or not a psychiatrist could convincingly testify in court to the fact that inhalation of paint fumes combined with indistinguishable shades of brown (or possibly white) could cause temporary insanity in particular penis-bearing individuals.

Next up was the bathroom (which was China Doll as well). The new color for the bathroom is Savannah Moss, which again penis-bearing individuals are thinking Thats not a color, thats a fungus in Georgia or a porn star. Savannah Moss is light shade of green (or possibly white). This time, however, I could distinctly see the difference between Savannah Moss and China Doll.

Next weekend, the wife and I need two new porn stars to do the guest rooms.

So simple kids get it

Couple of weekends ago, our neighborhood had a garage sale. We set out to rid our home of various useless crap. Being neighborhood wide, we had hundreds of people come through. Junior gets the brilliant idea that, since these shoppers are in the hood for a long time, some of them must be thirsty and they’ll buy lemonade. She makes up a pitcher and sells out quick at a $1 a pop. On her second pitcher, I introduce some reality:

Me: So, for every lemonade you sell, you know I get fifty cents, right?

Junior: What?

Me: Well, you’re using my water, my lemonade, my cups, my sugar, my table, my chair and you’re on my driveway.

Junior: But I’m doing the work!

Me: With my stuff.

Wife: Oh stop it.

Me: I’m just trying to teach her something.

Junior: Oh.

Me: And you’ve got to pay taxes. I’d figure if you’re selling it for an even dollar 8 cents or so should cover sales tax. Then F&E taxes. And income taxes. Plus you probably need a permit and an inspection to make sure there are no cooties in your lemonade. And you’ll probably have to buy some sort of approved device for maintaining the lemonade at a safe temperature.

Junior: It’s called ICE.

Me: Yeah, but it melts.

Junior: That’s stupid. I’m keeping the money.

Me: Good girl! But you’re still paying me.

Junior: *evil stare*

The kids were, as they often do, having one of their nonsensical arguments. I forgot what it was about but it probably involved stop touching me, get on your side of the couch or some other thing kids have fought about for just about ever. I tell them to knock it off and then, thinking I thought it, I instead said I can’t believe you guys argue about the dumbest crap. Junior then pipes up: You argue about dumb crap too. Thinking she may have heard about my blog, I say Oh do I?

Her: Yes, you argue about dumb crap too.

Me: No I don’t. And don’t say crap.

Her: Oh, yes, you do.

Me: When have I argued about dumb stuff?

Her: Always.

Me: I do not.

Her: Uh huh.

Me: Oh please.

Her: You’re arguing about dumb stuff right now.

Me: Well played, Sparky.

And I laughed hard. I was both taken aback and proud that I was outsmarted by my 7 year-old daughter. Still brings a smile to my face.

Update: Rage comic by Michael: