Boom!
The process for treating potassium chloride with sulfuric acid in order to obtain potassium perchlorate can be found in Kurt Saxon’s Granddad’s Wonderful Book of Chemistry, available here.
***
A few years ago, I found myself wondering if sodium chloride (ordinary salt) would yield similar results if subjected to the same treatment. I shot an email to a chemist buddy of mine and was given a big ol’ muthafuckin’ negatory, by way of a reply. Apparently, sodium simply doesn’t have sufficient energy to make the reaction work.
Not terribly surprising, as potassium-based boom-booms and incendiaries are observably more powerful than their sodium-based counterparts.
I just thought I’d add that, lest the Gentle Reader -- perhaps wondering the same thing -- waste his time and money experimenting.
***
I’ve probably mentioned this before, but when working from reprints of older formularies, it’s a good idea to have a copy of Lindsay’s Chemical Cross Reference at hand. The archaic (and downright unscientific, at times) terminology employed in nineteenth and early twentieth century formularies can be very confusing to the modern reader, and Lindsay’s… is a true blessing for the kitchen chemist/closet mad scientist, insofar as clarifying the obscure verbiage is concerned. Owning a copy may very well prevent the Gentle Reader from looking like an utter dipshit when he asks his local pharmacist (or alchemist?) for “spirit of hartshorn” (ammonia) or “soda ash” (sodium carbonate, a.k.a. washing soda).
Snooping
Just yesterday, I was singing the praises of zabasearch. Today, however, finds me in a slightly different frame of mind. My opinion of the site hasn’t changed, mind you. It’s a wonderful resource when it comes to tracking down old army buddies, college roomies, long-lost (and wealthy? Nah, ya wouldn’t stoop that low, would ya?) relatives, deadbeat dads, etc. It also puts quite a bit of power into Joe Sixpack’s hands – and keeps his money in his pocket, as he need no longer pay the extortionate fees demanded by many private investigators.
Be this as it may, I can’t help but think that sites of this sort actually put a barrier of sorts between the would-be sleuth and the real world – by making it too easy to obtain certain kinds of information.
In the “good old days” ((chuckle…)), one had to learn how the big, bad world actually works, if one wanted to procure this or that bit of intel. Dealing with various petty bureaucrats and flunkies was invariably an eye-opening (and frequently chilling) experience – and very much a part of the “game,” as were the fine arts of subtle bribery, pretexting (read: “plausible bullshitting”), “garbology,” physical surveillance, developing one’s “gut,”and so forth.
Technology, alas and alack, has – as is its wont – largely rendered all the aforementioned irrelevant. I’m certainly not knocking the computer’s value as an investigative tool; but I’m convinced that like many other technologies (from the pocket calculator to skates with built-in ankle support), it’s become a crutch of sorts – a substitute for an analytical mind, keen intuition, and so-called “people skills.”
Among the nastier problems confronting the computer-dependent “Dick” is the simple fact that a website can only provide information, not process it.
Ok, so our boy now has names, addresses, phone numbers, etc., at his fingertips. But what now? Granted, in some cases (bill-collecting, for example) one needs little more than that. In others, however (e.g., determining whether or not some gent is shagging a coworker at the local “No-Tell Motel,” or on business trips), the computer is fairly useless – unless hacking, with all its attendant risks, happens to be a part of one’s skill-set.
To the best of my knowledge, a computer can’t evaluate behavior – only catalogue it. It can’t determine, via the instant “feedback” provided by body language, for example, that our philandering gent is hiding something, or a little too eager to finish dinner (the better to start on “dessert” with that new broad in the marketing division ASAP, as likely as not…). Moreover, a computer can’t make the same kind of on-the-spot, “thin slicing” (see Malcolm Gladwell’s Blink) snap decisions a properly trained human can.
I won’t belabor the point any farther, beyond stating that we, as a species, employ technology as a substitute for technique at our own peril. Times change; people don’t…
***
For whatever reason, most PI’s I’ve met fall into one of two categories: the “Simon Pure” type (think: Nicholas Cage in 8mm; or the utter scuzzbucket type (think: any 1940’s film noir gumshoe).
As I was working without a license “back in the day” (I actually billed myself as a “researcher” in order to avoid working for someone else for the requisite three years, for Christ’s sake…), I definitely fell into the latter category, and won’t claim otherwise.
Satisfied?
The “Simon Pure” type is usually a former LEO, a family man (or woman), and -- aside from using old professional connections to obtain information otherwise unavailable to “citizens” -- generally plays by the rules. In short, he runs counter to every “Dick” stereotype in the book, and is essentially a regular guy – with a very interesting job.
The utter scuzzbucket type (in the minority, incidentally), on the other hand, is usually the spittin’ image of my fictional character, McVann: a maladjusted, antisocial, cynical, mercenary, mean-as-hell, “train wreck” of a son of a bitch; a critter that could have leapt into the “real world” from an 1940’s film noir offering on AMC, using the screen of the “glass toilet” as an inter-dimensional portal of sorts.
These fuckers live by the adages: “Rules were meant to be broken” and “It’s better to ask forgiveness than permission,” don’t give a rat’s ass about doing things “by the book,” and are often every bit as familiar with posting bail as with running down bail jumpers.
Stripping the bullshit and Tinseltown glamour away from both archetypes, one finds certain similarities between them. Rather like paparazzi PI’s, whether licensed or unlicensed; pillars of the community or lowlives, are essentially professional stalkers.
Granted, “Simon Pure” dedicates his time to finding missing children, tracking down “deadbeat dads,” the odd bit of bounty hunting, and similarly warm’n’fuzzy, socially acceptable, “feelgood” shite, whereas the utter scuzzbucket dedicates his to seeing an already dark world “through a (two-way, as often as not) glass, darkly.”
In other words: call “Simon Pure” when your ex is behind on his child-support payments, but call the scuzzbucket when you suspect your hubby of banging your sister – for which indignity you feel you’re entitled to a little more “green” than many states’ no-fault divorce laws allow.
Bear in mind, though, that both specialize in sniffing out concrete evidence of man’s inherent propensity towards naughtiness – and never you dare to forget it. A man can’t spot that to which he’s unaccustomed, after all…
A few years ago, I had a few short, but very enlightening email conversations with Col. David Grossman, author of On Violence and On Killing. I don’t buy into his “sheepdog/wolf” personality model -- lock, stock, and barrel -- any more than I buy into my own “Simon Pure/scuzzbucket” model -- lock, stock and barrel – but there’s no doubt that the man’s onto something, and something big, at that.
Grossman’s contention was that most of the order of critter that lowlives of my ilk dub “citizens” are “sheep,” protected from “wolves,” (i.e., criminals, terrorists, etc.) by “sheepdogs” (i.e., cops, soldiers, etc.)
Before I continue, let me make it clear that I have the utmost respect for Col. Grossman. He’s “been there, done that, got the T-shirt,” time and time again, and is both a consummate gentleman and a thinker of the first order. Generally speaking, I think he’s right on the money – but the Devil, as the saying goes, is in the details. This, incidentally, is at the root of my (admittedly minor) disagreement with his method of classifying certain personality types.
Col. Grossman is some years older than I, grew up in a very different world and, as a professional leader, can’t afford to become mired down in minutiae. Moreover, as a professional writer, he must necessarily reduce complex concepts to the “bare bones” level, in order to avoid confusing his readers. As the average reading level in this country (according to a study I recently read) is on the eighth-grade level, that’s a terribly daunting task.
Putting it crudely, Grossman is in the unenviable position of an officer trying to convey the “big picture” to his minutia-oriented grunts/readers as best he can. In order to do so, he must, of necessity, oversimplify to a certain extent – while avoiding the trap of reductionism.
His task (i.e., establishing his paradigm) is, in essence, is a “balancing act,” and one he pulls off with commendable skill. Under identical circumstances, I’d have said “Aww, fuck it! I’ll never be able to explain this stuff to these chowder-heads!” and thrown my research into the roundfile, for the record.
To reiterate, Grossman’s books are “must reads” of the same caliber as Marc MacYoung’s or Gavin de Becker’s, and his model is both damned accurate and well worth studying.
But it ain’t perfect, nor all-encompassing. I’ll admit to having dealt with “sheep,” “sheepdogs” and “wolves” – all of whose behavior dovetailed with Grossman’s observation -- during the course of my misspent life. Consequently, I can vouch for the existence of the three personality types. Unfortunately, Col. Grossman’s animal analogy categorically excludes personalities perhaps better likened to bears, jackals, foxes, wolverines, cats, etc. (Hell, I once jokingly remarked that many of my friends and I are “what happens when the she-wolf gets knocked up by the sheepdog.”)
The model also skirts some very hairy territory – the fact that the “wolf” and the “sheepdog” are both canines. In other words: there’s nearly as much of that which binds them as of that which separates them.
An old cop saying goes: “In order to catch a perp, ya gotta think like a perp.” In the classic tune “Sympathy for the Devil,” The Rolling Stones sang, “Just as every cop is a criminal, and all the sinners saints...” Both claims are fundamentally correct.
Yeah, “Simon’s” activities are perceived as socially acceptable --if not downright laudable -- while scuzzbucket’s are seamy at best, and, frankly, dodgy at worst. Bear in mind, though, that both are essentially employing the same techniques. Whether it’s a “good” Simon Pure-type getting the goods on one of the dreaded “deadbeat dads,” or a “naughty” scuzzbucket digging up evidence of extramarital “wick-dipping,” petty theft rings, or potentially compromising/embarrassing activity on the part of a “high risk” employee, they’re both sufficiently familiar with lowlife behaviors to be able to identify them.
They’re also both near-criminals themselves. Certainly, the scuzzbucket may (generally speaking) may deport himself more like a common thug, while “Simon Pure” still has a good bit of the dutiful, “protect and serve” LEO in his makeup – but both routinely perform patently unlawful acts.
I don’t give a rat’s ass what kind of celluloid silliness Hollywood chooses to crank out; tapping phones without a warrant is illegal. Recording conversations without the prior knowledge of both parties is illegal in most states. Breaking and entering – even for the purpose of obtaining information rather than swag – is illegal. Disguising or (mis)representing oneself as a cop is illegal.
And it doesn’t matter whether the gent engaging in any or all of the aforementioned activities is a public-spirited “good guy” or a mercenary thug – they’re both breaking the law.
For the time being, I’ll bypass both soapbox and high horse, and refrain from moralizing. I’ll also pass on opining whether the practices I’ve mentioned are merely mala prohibita or actually mala in se -- and let the Gentle Reader draw his own conclusions.
Just give the matter some thought.
I’ve been doing just that.
Things Matrimonial
Prior to choosing to spend the rest of my life with one woman (She’ll kill me for this, but I’m reminded of a cartoon I once saw in a copy of Easyrider, during my teens. It depicts a man and a woman standing before the altar, while the caption reads: “Do you, Otis, swear to bang the same hole for, oh, the next fifty years or so?”), I’d never even have entertained the notion of a causal relationship between the condition of the hands and that of the genitalia. Now that I’ve done so, however, I can unhesitatingly and unreservedly state that the simple act of donning an engagement ring results in an immediate, fifty percent reduction in the size of one’s balls.
***
MacYoung was right.
He’s right more often than not, mind you; but he has a nasty tendency to be right at the most inconvenient, inopportune, pain-in-the-ass times.
“Forget everything you think you know, Bean,” says His Furriness, during a recent “Calvinball” phone chat. “From now on, you only need to know two words: ‘Yes, dear.’”
Razzafrackin’, frazzlerackin’ Pictish bastard!
Grrrrrr…
An’ g’night!
