Green Hell

The Beat Goes On?

The wife's grandson turns three in a few days, and has expressed an interest in learning guitar. For my part, I'd have preferred that he express an interest in Karate, boxing, or shooting (if a kid's old enough to walk unassisted, he's old enough for a BB gun...) but it's ultimately none of my business. I don't believe in choosing children's interests for them -- it only leads to resentment later in life.

So we bought a him a guitar: a kiddie-size, Yamaha classical acoustic. I was leaning towards something less prissy, but the clerk at the music store reminded us that steel strings aren't very gentle on young fingers, and I had to agree. I'd quite forgotten that I was fourteen going-on fifteen when I began playing, and that teenagers have higher thresholds of pain than toddlers. Steel strings, however, are just what the doctor ordered insofar as building finger strength is concerned. Therefore, I hope his parents will buy him a standard acoustic once his calluses develop.

Anyhoo, we packed it up and sent it aloong its merry way. Needless to say, the strings were a tad ratty (they always are: for whatever perverse reason, it never occurs to most people to wash their hands before pawing the axes at the local music store), so we tossed in an extra set. Luckily, the store had ball-ended strings.I can't imagine a young child stringing a classical acoustic the old-fashioned way -- most of 'em have trouble learning to tie their shoes... As I've mentioned, it's a Yamaha; so if the kid sticks with it, it'll keep him occupied until he's ten or twelve.

Here's a shot of Yours Truly tuning it up. See? I do have a heart...



But for some reason, I felt like Gulliver the entire time...

"Speak, Speak, Thou Fearful Guest!"

     Here's the mail I mentioned in a 2006 or 2007 post.

     I've had a touch of writer's block of late (What else is new?), and thusly decided to recharge my batteries by doing something which, if not exactly useful, is infintely preferable to vegetating. As I was working on the byrnie, the wife suggested photographing it. (God, but I love 'er! She's the only woman I've ever met who actually considers my eccentricities "cool.")

     "Hey, dear! Ya wanna learn a few basic quarterstaff moves?"
     "Really! Can I? That would be awesome!"

     Although mail isn't at all difficult to make, it's time-consuming and labor intensive. The process is simple -- if tedious: Wind several feet of 14 gauge steel wire around a 3/8" dowel. Slip the coil off the dowel, and saw or otherwise cut it into rings. (You Bruce Lee-types can practice your "Tae Kung Jitsu" chops, if you like. You won't accomplish Jack Shit insofar as cutting the coils is concerned, but it's gotta be a worthwile form of hand conditioning, right?...) File the burrs off each ring so that the ends butt together neatly, and close with two pairs of pliers. Hang four closed links on one open link, then close it. Make a few dozen of these "butterflies," then connect them with additional open rings. Keep going until you have something wearable.

    To reiterate: It's a tedious process -- but I've found that consuming large quantities of beer whilst cranking up Cirith Ungol and other get-a-life '80s metal bands (Fates Warning, Omen, etc.) on the ol' ghetto blaster is rather an effective mood enhancer/ennui buster. (So is peyote, incidentally -- but don't be surprised if the finished product ends up looking as if Salvador Dali or M.C. Escher had designed it...)



On active steed, with lance and blade,
The light-arm’d pricker plied his trade,--
Let nobles fight for fame;

Let vassals follow where they lead,
Burghers to guard their townships bleed,
But war’s the Borderer’s game.

Their gain, their glory, their delight,
To sleep the day, maraud the night,
O’er mountain, moss and moor;

Joyful to the fight they took their way,
Scarce caring who might win the day,
Their booty was secure.

-- Sir Walter Scott, "Marmion"

     As I mentioned in my '06 or '07 post, mail is an effective defense -- to a certain extent. After steeling myself with a substantial tranfusion of poor, ol' John Barleycorn's blood, I field tested the (then sleeveless) haburgeon by ramming one of my large collection of sharp, pointy objects into my chest. To my delight, the mail held. To my sorrow, the gap between the rings allowed 1/4" or so of blade to pass through. It might have been my imagination, but I swear I could almost feel the point grating against my breastbone. I also had an immense, black, blue and purple bruise to show for it.

     Lesson #1: Don't test your armor by stabbing yourself whilst plastered, numbnuts!
     Lesson #2: YOU may think your latest exercise in handicraft is jes' da shee-yawt. The laws of  
                      physics, physiology, etc., however, may very well beg to differ with you -- and painfully  
                      so, at that.



     As you can see from the closeup photo, 20+ pounds of linked steel makes for a tough, flexible, barrier 'twixt one's delicate hide and the naughty, perpetually out-of-sorts malcontents who specialize in breaching the delicate hides of the unwary. Be that as it may, mail has its limits -- said limits amply demonstrated by empirical observation, in my case.
     "Wull feck me daid!" says I, reaching for the betadine, iodine, alcohol, and hydrogen peroxide. "AC 5 is as overrated as Pauline Reage, Anais Nin or that 'Marquis de Shah-day' baysturd! Gawddam 'at Gary Gygax! Soon as I sober up, I'm'on' stomp a mudhole in 'at sumbitch's 'ace,' an' walk 'at sucker dry!"

    Oops! Did I say that out loud? Must be all the banana peels I smoked this morning...

     Now where was I? Oh, yeah! Mail's inherent limitations (which, as Clint Eastwood hath us assuréd, a man's got to know): Although it defeats slashes (especially from short swords and daggers), it's vulnerable to thrusts; said vulnerability increasing with the mass of the thrusting weapon and the strength of the wielder. It offers no protection against blunt trauma. Ergo, a sufficiently powerful drawcut will inflict bruises -- and perhaps even fractures -- whether or not it draws blood. For this reason, mail is no defense at all against mass weapons (maces, clubs, flails, morning stars, etc.). Moreover, the "long-haired sons of the northern world" discovered in short order that mail -- even the top-shelf variety with riveted links -- is an axeman's wet dream: the demonically perfect combination of mass, leverage and cutting edge handily sunders the links and drives them into the very flesh and bone they were meant to protect; fairly guaranteeing a septic wound.