NQ3X - Radio Free Raubsville

Oh, my. . . .

2008-06-27T22:51:12Z

This has probably been all over teh Intarwebz sixteen times by now, but I just found it. And boy, am I glad I thought of spamming you lot with it.

Here is a link which guaranteed to annoy everyone within earshot. It's almost as annoying as this site, but not quite - nothing is as annoying as that site.

Have an enjoyable weekend! Stay cool!

Five Things Meme

2008-06-26T15:34:46Z

Quickie this morning, because I really ought to be working. But I can't resist this.

Rules: Post five things you've done that you believe nobody else on your F-list has done. Indulge in remorse if someone calls you out on a listed item.

1. Invaded Puerto Rico. Really. By parachute.

2. Won the CQ WPX Contest, 3rd US Call Area, Low Power/Tribander & Wires division.

3. Fooled 50,000+ people into thinking that dolphins were swimming up the Juniata River toward Lewistown, PA.

4. Watched the sun rise over the Indian Ocean from the beach in Chisimaio.

5. Drank massive amounts of beer with German Landwehr reservists, trying to remember through the drunken haze that the Deutsche word for "tank" is "Panzerkampfwagen".

ktnxbi

Shambling Corpses Update

2008-06-13T18:15:47Z

Okay, kids, I have a couple of minutes to take a breather. Here's the score from the banks of the Delaware River.

Bob: 7

Kass: 261 (did I mention she's got a blunderbuss? Frickin' thing is a hand-held Claymore mine.)

Sebastian: 3

Leopold: 1

Melody: 27

Shambling Corpses: 0

Yes, I'm being beaten by a dog. It's okay, though; you should see her go straight for the throat! Wish I had a video camera; this'd be all over YouTube.

Leopold got in one kick before running upstairs to cower behind the bed and bark encouragement. Sebastian is taking a nap; hell, he's 72 years old in people years - you'd take a nap, too, whippersnapper.

Unfortunately, we're out of powder, so the blunderbuss is out of action. But I managed a sprint to the garage - accompanied by Melody, our official Psycho Bitch Killah, and gathered my WWII kettle hat and a three-gallon jug of petrol.

Why the petrol? O silly people! Do the math - I'm a homebrewer. I've got about 7,251,498 bottles of various types. And I'm Northern Irish. Fancy a cocktail, Mr Molotov?

I knew that you did.

Windrose, that's how you deal with the stink. Hit 'em with petrol bombs before they get within hand-to-hand range. They burn like Bhuddist monks protesting the occupation. (*). Save the ammo for the upwind targets, though. Trust me on this one. Luckily, my central air is still operable - odd that all of our communications hasn't broken down and we still have power - so I've sealed off the house.

Local news has them spreading westward past Allentown. Better batten down the hatches, Britt. Kass is headed your way; she just called me from The Other Britt's - she'll make the rest of the trip cross-country on horseback. Look for the wild Irish broad with a Scottish two-hander strapped on her back. ("You can eat my brain, but you can never take...our FREEDOM!")

I'm on my way to the basement to mix up some napalm. I'll check in later.

* And that, gentle readers, wins the ZombieFest08 Terrible Taste Award!

Um...what?

2008-06-13T14:33:53Z

It’s been an interesting day.

Woke before the dogs for once, before the traffic started on the road outside, even before

kass_rants, and – of course – I had to pee. Into the bathroom I trundle, lift the seat, and do my business.

Now, keep in mind that using the loo means you can look out the window to see our view of the Delaware Canal and River. All it takes is twitching aside the modesty-providing half-curtain and peering out. When standing, you can gaze out over the half-curtain and look at stuff without twitching any curtain at all.

The time of morning I awoke is known in certain circles as begin morning nautical twilight, when the center of the Sun is more than 6° below the horizon but less than 12°. In other words, it’s not quite light, it’s not quite dark. Dusk, don’t you know. It’s hard to see things clearly at BMNT, especially when I hadn’t got my glasses on and was half-asleep. So it took me a few moments to figure out that there were figures visible in the mist on the Canal’s towpath.

It was the work of a moment to fetch my glasses from next the bed and shake the sleep loose. When I dashed back into the lavvie to peer once more from the window, the figures were gone.

“Huh,” I said.

By this time, the hounds had collectively determined that, since Master was up and about, so had they better be, just in case cookies were forthcoming. (Poor doggies; even though Milk-Bonz had never been dispensed prior to 1 PM, they are ever hopeful.) Down the stairs we trundled, I in my customary footwear going “flip, flop, flip, flop,” and doggie claws going “tickety tickety tickety.” This, of course, woke Kass, who immediately grumped about stupid men and dogs and went back to sleep.

Picture: Leashes on dogs and out the back for their morning constitutional. Tendrils of mist in the back yard, dogs snuffling through it, looking for a place to pee. Bodily functions being completed (you don’t have to imagine that in any great detail before lunch). Dogs being distracted by a couple of human figures shuffling out of the trees at the back of the yard.

Normally, when presented with such a situation, Melody would perk up, Sebastian would mutter about the distraction, and Leopold would joyously yip and leap about in anticipation of possible play. This morning, however, they looked at the people with some trepidation.

Alerted by their reticence, I peered more closely at the people, who hadn’t moved since they left the concealment of the trees. They simply stood there, staring at us.

“Come, hounds,” I intoned. “There is breakfast within; let us repair thither.” And they meekly followed me.

Had you ever met my dogs, you would realize that ‘meekly following me’ was a major clue that something was galactically fucked up.

Through the back door, leashes off, water in dish, time to fetch the kibble. Three heaping scoops of ProPlan in the bowls, walk from kitchen toward living room – past the windowed back door, in which a figure materialized.

I jumped approximately fourteen feet, strewing kibble throughout the house like the proverbial gent who cast pearls before swine. “Jumpin’ John The Baptist!” I cried. “Hot diggity!” exulted Leopold, who immediately began to vacuum the kibble with unconcealed glee. “Wstfgl,” grumped Kass, still abed (the slug).

I peered more closely – through the glass, of course – at my back-door visitor. A fish-eyed, blank, motionless stare met my questioning gaze. I waved my hand; no effect. I tapped the glass right in front of his face; again, no effect.

“Go away!” I shouted, waving my hands. “Jehovah’s Witnesses make me break out in conscience!”

This time, there was an effect. The guy's lips parted, and a sort of hiss could be clearly heard through the glass.

I've seen this movie.

I slowly and carefully locked the door, and went upstairs to the master bedroom. The noise I made pulling the locked gun case from beneath the bed was enough to finally arouse Kass.

“What the hell are you playing at?” she asked, sitting bolt upright.

“Not sure yet,” I replied. “I’ll let you know shortly. Stay here. Where the fuck is the key for this thing?”

The key, once found atop the wardrobe, revealed my Remington 1100. The closet produced two boxes of shells and a pair of trousers to cover my absentminded boxer-briefs.

Now the sun’s fully up, we’ll see what’s in store. Kass is downstairs using the bench grinder to put an edge on her old Markland rec sword. I’m rolling cartridges for her blunderbuss; I’ve already put the box of nails next to the cartridge box.

We’re set.

Are you?

Curious? Click here.

CQ WPX CW 2008...

2008-05-26T11:49:24Z

...has come and gone. I can still hear CW; I just heard a bird outside chirp, "599".

Anyway, here's the wrapup. There was an invitation to join K3YD at N3MX's as a multi-op effort, but with family things going on, I decided I'd go Single-Op Unassisted. The thought was to repeat my 2007 performance and win a certificate for Single-Op, Unassisted, Low-Power, Tribander & WIres, USA 3rd Call Area, which I won with my old call (AB3EI) last year. I'm happy to report things are looking good for that goal!

There were a couple of things I wanted to work on this contest. First was Iron Pants; second was band changes. Iron Pants, simply put, is the ability to stay in the chair, operating, even when things are rough. I have a tendency to get frustrated when conditions are really tough, get up, and go do something else. But that's a bad idea. In the first place, if I only make six contacts in an hour, it's still six more contacts than I'd have if I went to the movies. In the second, it permits me to hit the Band Change switch and see what's cooking on other bands if the band I'm on is crappy. I can only pick up on band openings if I'm in front of the radio, not at the drive-in having a Dusty Road sundae (yum!). I picked up some good multipliers that way.

The final tally (before reductions due to busted exchanges) is:

Call: NQ3X
Operator(s): NQ3X
Station: NQ3X

Class: SOAB LP
QTH:
Operating Time (hrs): 18.5

Summary:
Band QSOs
------------
160: 0
80: 3
40: 90
20: 226
15: 42
10: 2
------------
Total: 363 Prefixes = 242 Total Score = 214,896

Club: Frankford Radio Club

This score is more than double last year's score, of which I'm quite proud. It also shows six more hours operating than last year.

I'm still not quite satisfied, however. The contest is a 48-hour affair, in which single-operators can only operate 36 hours. I'd like to take the plunge at going the whole distance. I had intended to make a much greater effort to do that this year, but circumstances prevented it. Next year, perhaps...

73 de NQ3X

A Happy Ending

2008-05-16T00:55:19Z

No, not that kind of happy ending, you guttersnipe.

How about a bit of good news? There’s so much mayhem and sadness in the world, let me improve your day by telling you a story with a happy ending.

We came this close to a fourth dog today.

In case you don’t know, Kass and I are owned by three Greyhounds: Melody, Sebastian and Leopold. We are also trying to get fit by walking briskly morning and evening along the Delaware Canal.

I know; that’s a curious concatenation; bear with me.

Wednesday morning, we partook of our morning constitutional. It was a rather pretty morning, cool but not so cool as to be remarkable, and we enjoyed ourselves immensely. Until we got to the very end, where we came upon a small white dog with brownish-black spots, standing on the verge of the busy road that runs before our house. He was shivering, obviously very frightened, but when we came into view his tail wagged tentatively and his ears perked up.

He was quite friendly, permitting me to walk carefully (and non-aggressively) up to him and firmly grasp his blue collar. Between soothing noises, I waved Kass to our house to fetch the spare leash, and held the dog – who has characteristics of terrier, spaniel and sighthound all at the same time – occupying his attention until she got back.

Clipping the leash to his collar – devoid of tags or other identification, by the by – we walked first to the small deli/store that’s open for breakfast just round the corner from us. No one there recognized our new friend, but they permitted Kass put up a “Found Dog” sign. We also posted signs at a store down the road, just in case the searching owners expanded their search pattern.

Back at the house, we made an attempt to introduce the lost dog to our Greyhounds, to their great ambivalence – and outright distaste on some parts, for some small display of disapproval was voiced, and teeth were snapped. Thankfully, Wednesday was a nice, sunny day, so I set up the wire pen we bought for hound-control at events and bunged New Small Dog therein, with plenty of water and a bowl of food. He fed hungrily, devouring a goodly portion of ProPlan with apparent relish.

Kass and I were worried. New Small Dog was obviously a dog which, were I to use a human-oriented euphemism, could be called “of a certain age.” Had his owners decided he was too old for them? Had he some wasting disease which would cause outrageous vet bills? He seemed spry enough, if a little deaf. We hoped he hadn’t been abandoned, because nothing is more foully reprehensible than turning out a poor, dumb animal that depends on his humans for every need.

At any rate, came lunchtime, and our day was completely screwed. There were orders to go out, RH things to do, etc., and I had spent the entire morning making “Found Dog” signs and placing them while trying to figure out what to do with a stray dog I’d found. Plus, I had to fulfill a promise I’d made to a SCA project.

The project took up most of the afternoon. By the time I arrived back at home, New Small Dog was being attended by Kass and Christina in turns – they had decided that it was a good idea to sit in the nice, warm sun and sew next to the pen with our “prisoner”.

They had taken him to the park through the neighborhood, in hopes that his owner was out and about searching. They had taken Sebastian along for exercise (he’s 11 and needs the exercise). When they arrived at the park, the pups were ensconced in the Little League baseball field and permitted to run loose.

Kass is rather vague on the details, but apparently New Small Dog is gay. He tried on several occasions to hump Sebastian, who at first took great umbrage at being so ill-treated. After the umpteenth attempt, however, Sebastian got it into his head that NSD simply wanted to play – is this where locker-room slapping on the buttocks comes from? Inquiring minds want to know, you manly men – and began romping about, joyfully playing with NSD, or at least playing, hoping that NSD would stop humping long enough to get with the program.

We visited often with NSD during the course of the day and evening. He really is a friendly little fellow, ready with wagging tail and attentive ears. So Kass and I walked him along another route around seven in the evening, again in the hope that his owner would turn up. Again, no joy. We telephoned the SPCA and even the Northampton County 911 Center’s non-emergency line, having heard that some distraught owners call the 911 Center to report lost dogs. No joy at either place, alas.

We were sort of perplexed as to what to do with him for the night, as the Greys obviously had no patience with him. When I remembered we still had the training crate from when we first got the Greys, we had the perfect solution. Perfect! Reassembly of the crate was a matter of moments, a nice soft blanket was placed therein for a comfy mattress, and NSD went right in without complaint.

Here he is - I took this photo so as to have one for 'found' posters:

Don't mind that he looks a bit perplexed - I think he was spooked by the anti-red-eye lamp that flashed just before the shutter snapped.

In fact, not a single whine or complaint came from NSD all the night long. We had braced ourselves for a night of noise, but when I came down this morning, NSD was fast asleep, eyes screwed tight shut. I had to gently rouse him to get him to go outside for his morning ablutions! Like I said, he was being a very good dog, indeed.

That was the problem. I was starting to become attached. Yeah, I know; me no big man, me weak little wimp who like puppy. Big deal. The fact remains that I decided to take NSD to the local SPCA no-kill shelter this afternoon, to nip the thing in the bud.

See, if it were just me, I’d’ve kept NSD. But we already have three dogs who eat quite enough expensive dog food, thank you very much, and who seem to actively dislike NSD, so that’s out.

So I went upstairs to my office after breakfast with a heavy heart. I was definitely not looking forward to taking NSD to an uncertain future at the SPCA; nor was I looking forward to taking him into my home. Suddenly, shortly after lunch – and many episodes of checking on NSD, now ensconced once again in the outdoor pen, in the nice, cool grass – there was a loud commotion downstairs and in the driveway.

A large black SUV had pulled in to the driveway. At first, panic – had Big Brother finally come for me? I never thought anyone would ever read that manifesto about Roswell! Horror! But my panic was premature, for I heard NSD giving joyful voice; I have never heard such sounds come from NSD before, but such a joyful sound is easy to recognize.

I dashed downstairs at top speed. Could it be?

I’m proud as punch to report that it was New Small Dog’s loving owner. She was calling, “Daytona! Daytona!” over and over again – one presumes New Small Dog’s real name is Daytona – and it would be obvious to the most jaded viewer that he was witnessing a joyous, tearful reunion. It turns out Daytona lives just round the corner, and had somehow gained egress via a gap in the fence. Mistress was frantic, driving round and round searching; it was mere chance that we had missed ourselves in passing.

I lifted up Daytona and gently placed him in the rear of the SUV, giving him one final scratch behind his perked-up ears.

He was going home.

I hate memes...

2008-05-01T11:13:36Z

...But this one looked interesting, so I took the plunge.

[Courtesy of baobh ]

Type in "[your name] needs" in the Google search
Bob needs the hash of his PK in order to know which hidden service to be.

Type in "[your name] looks like" in Google search
If Bob looks like Tim, you won't remember him

Type in "[your name] likes" in Google search:
Bob likes watches.

Type in "[your name] says" in Google search:
And Bob (of GL) says Five Guys Burger and Fries, the made-to-order burger joint (with a branch on Montague Street) is going in there.

Type in "[your name] wants" in Google search:
Bob wants to receive a private message (plaintext) from Alice so that no eavesdropper (Eve) may read it.

Type in "[your name] does" in Google search:
Bob does not go gentle into that dark night.

Type in "[your name] hates" in Google search:
Bob hates Andy.

Type in "[your name] goes" in Google search:
Bob goes to the store.

Type in "[your name] loves" in Google search:
Bob loves you!

Type in "[your name] has" in Google search:
Bob has been teaching at the University of Redlands since 1980.

Doo doo doo doo...

2008-04-30T11:24:56Z

Doo doooooo doo doo.

You say it's your birthday!

Doo doo doo doo doo dooooooo doo doo.

Happy Birthday magdalenaaufkdt!

You totally RAWK!

Okay, now I need to rant.

2008-04-19T20:26:31Z

It's been ages and ages since I've posted anything here, because I've been too busy. But I've gotten a bee in my bonnet, and you lot are the unlucky sods who get to receive my prosaic wrath.

Driving this morning with kass_rants, our route required a refueling stop. It's been a couple of weeks since I last purchased fuel; I remarked to SWMBO that $3.27 was up from my last pit stop. That led to an interesting discussion about fuel, biofuels, the effect of biofuel crop diversion on world hunger, and other things. But that's not what I'm upset about.

I'm upset by the shrill twonks who continue to harp on their conspiracy theories surrounding Big Oil, Big Government, and the huge profits that Big Oil is making on the backs of poor drivers. Because those twonks are idiots.

First, Americans pay less per liter of over-the-road petrol than any other First-World nation. By rights, our price per gallon ought to be at the First-World average of ~$5USD, but it's not.

Second, oil companies produce an essential product for what is actually quite a reasonable price. Much of the cost of a gallon of gasoline consists of tax: 18.4 cents per gallon for the Feds; a combined 49.5 cents per gallon for Pennsylvania (plus excise and other taxes I can't seem to find online), and local taxes to make up the rest, minus a pitifully low markup, between $3.27 and the average wholesale gasoline cost of ~$1.50. The filling station owner makes on average 25 cents per gallon.

Let's take a look at what those evil Big Oil companies do to produce a product.

1. Prospect for possible oil-producing areas.
2. Figure out a way to get it out of the ground without doing too much nasty stuff to us or the environment, while fronting hideous amounts of money.
3. Build a refining facility at hideous cost, which is never adjacent to the actual drilling site.
4. Transport the bulk product to a refining site in hideously expensive tankers or pipelines.
5. Refine the bulk product into a vast array of useful distillates with hideously expensive equipment run by highly-trained (and highly-paid) experts.
6. Repackage the product with expensive equipment.
7. Expensively transport the packaged product to a hideously expensive distribution site.
8. Repackage the product again (another expense).
9. Expensively transport the repackaged product to the distribution point.
10. Heavily advertise how excellent is your product - well, these days, the only petroleum advertising I see/read/hear deals with how environmentally responsible the "energy" company is imaging itself, but the economic principle holds. That leads to...
10a. Conduct hideously expensive R&D for new products, preparing for:
i. When the oil runs out, or
ii. When the public good will for oil companies runs out
11. Pump it into the consumer's vehicle.

And then only charge $1.50 for the base unit of the product, making a profit for the shareholders.

That's a business I don't want to be in.

Contrast that with the bottle of imported bottled water I saw in the cooler at the filling station, which was priced at $3.99USD. Imported bottled water sells wholesale for ~15 cents per bottle. Domestic, uncarbonated bottled water was labeled $1.59, and that wholesale cost is less than 10 cents per PET bottle.

Hm. You do the math on the markup differences between the two products, and tell me if you've revised your estimation of Big Oil vs. the people who bottle their own tap water and sell it to you.

Speaking of which, that makes you a complete and utter defined-by-P.T.-Barnum sucker. Hey, I've got a well; howzabout I bottle it and sell it on to you for $1.49? It's charcoal filtered, with a specially-modified mineral content for great taste! (I've got a filter and a softener, after all.) Would you buy it? No? Cheapskate. Then why on God's Green Earth would you buy a bottle of Aquafina? Get a filter and drink your own damn water.

So unless and until you stop buying bottled water, STFU about Big Oil getting fat on gas prices.

Damn Corporate America!

2007-10-19T11:17:18Z

So I try to get on to read my LJ Friends page yesterday afternoon, only to discover that some twat at corporate has decided to block virtually the entire Internet.

Assholes. So much for the "trust" and "family" the VP raved about in Orientation.

I feel violated. I feel like they think I was spending all day on Evercrack (or whatever MMRPG is currently popular) or looking at www.jailbaitsluts.com or something.

What's more, I use the WWW to hunt down accessories that aren't available in the Nissan logistics stream, which can only be had from aftermarket sources. Of course, the server-level filter blocks them all as "shopping" sites.

Of course it blocks LiveJournal and all "blog" sites.

You know what really pisses me off? I can't go to my favorite amateur radio pages - "hobby" - but guess what loads perfectly well?

The SCA's website and Pyracy.com. The two biggest wastes of time which I can imagine, and of course the filter will let me through to them.

Can I find a set of wind deflectors to recommend to my customer? Nope. Can I get to my documents on Google Docs (because they won't pay for MS Office on my work machine, I have to use something else to open essential spreadsheet files)? Nope.

But if I want to type "Yarr!" or figure out where I can go to get hit in the head with a stick by some twit who thinks he knows something about history, I'm golden.

So "Bollocks!" to the management structure of my company. They can go teach their grandmothers to suck eggs. I will be camping in their offices until they fix this.

nq3x @ 2007-10-12T11:33:00

2007-10-12T15:43:39Z

kass_rants just emailed me that she's watching old movies, wrapped in a sploofy warm blanket. Here's one for her. Quite a blast from the past!

Enjoy!

Sheesh.

2007-10-10T15:15:49Z

Okay, it's been a glacial epoch since I updated this. Quel fromage and all that, I'm sure.

So, the thing that got me writing was an official No Shit, There I Was event that happened just now. For the record, I am not making this up.

Since I've been a computer enthusiast since I got my first Tandy TRS80, I get called to put out IT fires here at work. "I can't get onto the network," they cry. "The internet's down," they shout. "My cupholder's broken," they winge. (Okay, that last one never happened, but it makes for a better story, so shut up and keep reading.) Thus, a portion of my work-week is involved in helping people stay productive by reading their private email, amusing blogs, and looking at naughty pictures.

The first fire this morning came just a few moments ago. The general manager rings up my extension wondering why his computer's speakers aren't working. So I trundle over to his office, the US Cavalry coming to save the day.

Mr Graff is in one of the visitor chairs, relaxed and confident, and one of the salesmen is in Graff's chair. "I've checked everything I can think of," says the salesman. "The audio settings are set to speaker, the power LED on the speakers is green, there's nothing in the system tray. I'm flummoxed."

"Move over," I reply.

I shove the chair away - after he removed his sales-dork backside - and hit the deck under the desk. One look at the back of the box, and I have the little problem in hand.

I rise, dusting my hands. "Well, that's sorted, then," I opine.

"What'd you do?"

"Elementary, my dear Doofus," I reply with a blithe wave of my left hand. "I plugged it into the correct jack. Line In does not equal Speaker Out."

On the way out, to the accompaniment of Mr Graff's barely-restrained guffaw - by the way, in case you're interested, it sounded like "Wstfgl" - I patted the crestfallen Doofus on the shoulder, admonishing him to check the simple things first.

I mean to say, Sheesh. People never learn.

nq3x @ 2007-09-07T10:11:00

2007-09-07T14:21:19Z

Now that Current Events have been covered, back to amateur radio.

Steaming up at a high rate of speed is one of the most massive operating events of the year - the CQ World Wide DX contest.

2007 will see a repeat of 2006's operation, where I helped N3MX and K3YD at N3MX's station as a Multi-Two entry. K3YD won't be with us this year, as he will be competing from Bermuda (lucky sod). At present, the N3MX multi crew consists of Steve and I. I'm thinking Multi-Op, Single Transmitter is the best category to enter, but nothing has yet been decided.

Luckily, Steve is pretty well-equipped for a M/S entry. He's got two radios, two amplifiers, enough filtering to allow independent operation, etc. This will allow us to set up Run and Multiplier stations, and presumably do fairly well. More to follow as the weeks progress.

I'm also going to be working on making this blog a better, more-often-updated read. Lord knows I've enough going on in both amateur radio and Real Life that might amuse and delight the discerning reader; it's remembering to actually sit down and write about it that's the problem.

So stand by, kids. Things are going to get a lot more interesting.

Passing of an Era

2007-09-05T14:05:43Z

Many of you know my most-loved career was that of brewer. I have had a love affair with beer, its flavor, its diversity, and its mystery since the early 1990s, when I got my first taste of microbrewed beer courtesy of a college chum's older brother.

Making beer is hard work, but it also has side effects quite pleasing to the ego: doctors, lawyers and merchant chiefs, when speaking to a brewer, pronounce you "cool", and express envy at your daily all-day-long contact with the magical malt beverage.

One of the greatest names in fine beer has heard the Great Landlord in the Sky pronounce "Time, gentlemen" and had his last pint.

From the Associated Press, 30 August 2007:

Michael Jackson, a leading beer critic who praised the brews of Belgium and acknowledged he would never be as famous as "that Michael Jackson," has died. He was 65. Jackson, known as "the beer hunter," died Thursday of a heart attack at his home in west London. His body was found by his house cleaner, said Paddy Gunningham, his long-term partner, on Friday.

She said he had kept writing and traveling, despite suffering from Parkinson's disease, and that he planned to write a book about the ailment.

"He was simply the best beer writer we've ever known," said Tim Hampson, chairman of the British Guild of Beer Writers. "He told wonderful stories about beer, breweries and far away places. He told the story of beer through people, and he was humorous and erudite at the same time," Hampson told the Associated Press.

Jackson especially loved Belgian brews. His books "The Great Beers of Belgium" and "World Guide to Beer" introduced them to many export markets, including the United States.

By identifying beers by their flavors and styles, and by pairing them with particular foods and dishes, Jackson helped give birth to a renaissance of interest in beer and breweries worldwide that began in the 1970s, including the North American microbrewery movement.

His TV documentary series, "The Beer Hunter" - which popularized his nickname - was filmed around the world and shown in 15 countries.

He worked as a beer critic for more than 30 years, writing in newspapers and gastronomic magazines, holding seminars and giving speeches, appearing on U.S. talk shows and writing books about beer and whiskeys published in 18 languages.

Michael Jackson was one of my idols. I recall being all tied up in knots when I heard he would be visiting the small brewery at which I worked in Pennsylvania, USA.

It was 21 March, 2001. I hadn't been brewing all that long. Just long enough to realize that no, he wasn't that MJ, and just long enough to realize exactly how big a deal his visit really was. Needless to say, I was stoked.

Stoked and a little bit scared. I mean, I was a homebrewer turned barely-dry-behind-the-ears pro who had, on date of reference, learned enough about making good beer to be just slightly dangerous. And who was turning up? Only the man who I assumed was the most difficult man in the world to impress. I mean, here's a guy who's tasted everything, beers from one end of the earth to the other. What could our little brewery do, what brew could we place before this man, which could possibly merit a "Feh," of dismissal, much less a favourable nod?

It turned out that Mr Jackson was one of the kindest, most enthusiastic men I have ever had the privilege to meet. While our offerings might not have shattered his world, he had the graciousness to smack his lips several times, and professed to actually enjoy them! I was so nervous that I very nearly collapsed into a pile of empty clothing at this news. I have spent the last few minutes looking at the pictures of this visit. The image at right pictures, from left, Dan Wierback, your correspondent, John "Bud" parsons, and Mr Jackson. (You may click each image for a larger version with notes.)

Though I no longer work in the brewing industry, much less for the brewery at which I met Mr Jackson, the news of his death affects me deeply. His was a name which elicited a certain amount of hero-worship (and a very large amount indeed of career envy). When I heard the news, I immediately ran to the fridge to enjoy a pint of the beer for which he smacked his lips while professing to like "quite a lot indeed" [pictured at left] - for it is still made, presumably to the same recipe he enjoyed - and thanked my God and yours that Michael Jackson walked this Earth for a while, waking people to the wonder of malt beverages.

To read more eulogizing, click here.

What a senseless waste of human life...

2007-08-22T20:06:59Z

...is Michael Vick. There aren't enough stairs on this planet to push him down.

(If you haven't been paying attention, read this.)

I don't often advocate "eye for an eye" punishments, but this jerk deserves it.

What kind of maladjusted brain can allow a person to abuse animals? What kind of sadistic deviant can sleep after perpetuating such cruelty?

Any reasonable person should be sickened by Vick and those who aided and abetted his dogfighting ring. What astounds me utterly is that the NAACP has publicly advocated allowing him back onto the field after his sentence is served.

He should lose his freedom - for a time established by law, at the discretion of the Federal judge, who should feel no twinges of conscience should he decide to increase the penalty - and his entire net worth, based as it is on his fame. Vick as received millions in salary and bonus, as well as lucrative endorsement deals. The good news is that his Falcons contract has a nice clause requiring him to be a good boy, so that money will go poof. Also, only a company staffed by particularly idiotic lumps of tofu would retain him on an endorsement following this, so that money will evaporate. Hope you had a good investment counselor, Mike - oh, wait, that's right; you spent all your money buying dogs to abuse, then betting on the outcome of your cruelty.

I hope God reserves a very special Hell for you, Michael Vick, one where you're forced to drink chicken blood to whet your aggressiveness, then get tossed into a pit to fight. Were I in charge of that Hell, you would lose - every time - so that I could crucify you, electrocute you, and toss your mangled, tortured corpse into the woods for the scavengers to pick apart.

Yeah. Eye for an eye sounds about right.

August NAQP Results for NQ3X

2007-08-21T16:28:46Z

Okay, so it's been a while since my last post. Life has been busy!

Every year, the National Contest Journal sponsors several contests. These include the North American QSO Parties. There are three of each - SSB, CW, and RTTY - held twice each year, in August and January for the SSB/CW contests, and February and July for RTTY.

I love these contests. They're more laid-back than the Big Ones, competition is less intense (at least for me), and it's easy to have a whole raft of fun. Only North American stations count for multipliers, though any station can be worked for points. (See the Rules for further details.) I don't run RTTY, so I don't participate in the RTTY NAQPs; thus, no results for those contests will be found here.

Without further ado, here are my results from the August renditions of NAQP. I think I did rather well, all things considered.

CALLSIGN: NQ3X
CONTEST: NAQP-CW
CATEGORY: SINGLE-OP ALL LOW CW
CLAIMED-SCORE: 18009

CONTEST:       NAQP-SSB
CALLSIGN:      NQ3X
CATEGORY:      SINGLE-OP ALL LOW
CLAIMED-SCORE: 19032
X-SUMMARY:                160m 80m 40m 20m 15m 10m Total
X-SUMMARY:
X-SUMMARY: Valid QSOs:    0   71   93   80    0    0   244
X-SUMMARY:    Total Mults:    0   26   26   26    0    0    78
X-SUMMARY: Total Points:    0   71   93   80    0    0   244

I did better than my 2006 showings in both contests. Of course, I upgraded from General to Extra in the interim, so I had more frequencies to use, and that helped immensely.

Lessons learned:

Call CQ more often. In the 2006 contests, I can't remember calling CQ much at all. Considering my antenna system and location, I talked myself out of it. This year, I decided to try and find if I could run, and it paid off. See, I had forgotten that operators are restricted to 100 watts in NAQP, so while I was still competing with stations like AA3B and K3WW - who have tall towers and lots of gain antennas - I didn't have to compete with legal-limit amplifiers. That allowed me to actually run on clear frequencies, which helped the overall score.
Balance running with S&P. In establishing that I could indeed run stations myself, I forgot in my excitement of discovery that, when rate falls off, it's a good idea to switch back to search-and-pounce to pick up new multipliers. The crucial area of judgment is determining the decision point - in other words, how far should rate drop off before making the tactical switch?
Optimize station antennas. I have, at the moment, one "do-it-all" antenna - my 80m doublet. While this can be tuned on all bands, it's a compromise on all of them. I should install dedicated wires for as many bands as I can while evading kass_rants's detection, especially for the upper bands. Those thoughts will be mused upon in a future LJ post.
Don't worry too much about how the other guys fare. Since I don't have a tall tower in my backyard with enough aluminum bolted to it to build a B52, there's no way I can compete in that league. It's one thing to wistfully want to score like AA3B; it's another to think I score like that without two radios running at once, a couple of towers and beam aerials.
Think harder about operating away from home. K1TTT was offering his extremely well-equipped station, and there are probably a couple of other more local ops I could weasel. Moreover, there are "DX" areas still technically within North America - like the Caymans, Bermuda, and most of the Caribbean - where it might be nice to compete. (Especially for the January iterations!)

That pretty much sums it up. Logs have already been uploaded to Logbook of the World and eQSL, so if we worked, you can confirm that way. I also respond 100% to traditional QSLing; in fact, I've a bunch of cards ready to go out for my own Worked All States purposes.

Things You Need...

2007-07-29T20:47:11Z

...can be found here.

This stuff is for the IT professionals and my ham radio pals.

Ever wanted to rip off some idiot's arm and beat him to death? Stop me if you've heard this one:

My monitor doesn't work.

Or this one: My computer's cupholder is broken.

Or this one: How do I make a dipole?

If you've heard any of these, visit my new Cafepress store and pick up a logo item with our favorite anagram!

That's all I can take...

2007-07-24T15:02:20Z

SCREW HARRY FREAKING POTTER.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

New antennas...?

2007-07-24T00:45:04Z

Like most amateurs, I've a love affair with antennas. I'm perpetually thinking about them, pondering them, wondering if what I've got is really what I need, or what's best for me.

I've got a very nice doublet up at the moment, cut for 75m across the top, fed with 300-ohm balanced line. It works...okay, I guess. It is really hot on 40, but the 20m signal is less than optimal.

So I'm thinking about something new.

There'll be more musing tomorrow.

Radioactivity!

2007-07-16T20:48:28Z

The radio gods did smile upon me this weekend, for I completely saturated myself in RF and beer.

Let me explain.

First, the IARU HF Championships went from 1200UTC Saturday to 1200UTC Sunday. I had a chance to operate in the contest and I took it.

I ended up operating Saturday from beginning to around midnight local. I took an hour for lunch and an hour for dinner, and went to bed when I just couldn't bear it any more. Rolled back into action at 0600 Sunday until the end.

Here's the crucial bits from my Cabrillo file:

CONTEST: IARU-HF
CALLSIGN: NQ3X
CATEGORY: SINGLE-OP ALL LOW MIXED
CLAIMED-SCORE: 57104

	160m	80m	40m	20m	15m	10m	Total
Valid QSOs:	0	28	100	165	13	0	306
Total Mults:	0	13	35	34	4	0	86
Total Points:	0	52	204	387	21	0	664
CW QSOs:	0	28	80	108	12	0	228
SSB QSOs:	0	0	20	57	1	0	78
CW Mults:	0	13	30	24	4	0	71
SSB Mults:	0	0	5	10	0	0	15
CW Points:	0	52	172	240	20	0	484
SSB Points:	0	0	32	147	1	0	180

Lessons learned:

1. Stay in the chair. I attended the Frankford Radio Club's picnic yesterday, where I had the chance to personally thank K3WW and AA3B for the CW Qs on every band. I found out from Chas/K3WW, that he got about an hour's nap in overnight. So he was in the chair ~23 hours of the 24. STAY IN THE DAMN CHAIR, BOB. Gotta keep working on that. Stupid ADHD.

2. I completely missed out on 160. I should have at least hit 160 before going to bed. But in my frazzled state, I didn't think of it. My 160 antenna system isn't very good at all, but I could have at least gotten Zone 8, and possible the HQ mults, which aren't that far from me.

3. I completely missed out on 10. A little bird was perched on my shoulder, whispering, "Hey, dummy! 15 is open to Europe; why not try ten?" So I'd spin a trip through 10 and hear bupkus. Should have spent the twenty minutes I wasted trying to bust the ZF1A pileup trolling 10 instead. At least I could have called CQ. You never know.

4. Don't waste too much time calling DX. Call thrice and, if no QSO, move on. Mark the freq in memory and come back.

5. Call CQ. I didn't call much. See if my train of thought works: I wanted to wait until I had enough mults in the bag to make all of the Zone 8 Qs worth logging. My station consists of 100 watts and wires. Combine that with my Zone 8, of which there were hundreds on the band, doesn't make calling CQ seem worthwhile. The vast majority of the callers would be Zone 8, which makes the vast majority of solicited Qs 1-pointers. So you need a good mult count to make calling CQ worthwhile from a points standpoint. On the other hand, had I spent more time late Saturday night calling CQ on 40 or 80, I could have racked up more points. This is one of the age-old questions about contesting - when to S&P? When to CQ? - that is very difficult to answer, because every situation is different. Add the variables of station, operator skills, and propagation, and there's no way to even give a nutshell beyond what I wrote above about mult totals. And that is just what my gut tells me.

6. Sit at the feet of the masters in FRC and learn. After all, I am young and strong; I should be able to pull the odd all-nighter, right, especially if they can. (Not that they're a bunch of ancient retirees or anything - damn, there's no graceful way to put that, is there?) If I absorb as much of that knowledge as I can, I'll be in a good position to really have some fun.

That's about it, really.

Oh, except the beer comment. Turns out the FRC are lovers of good beer. N3RD, the gracious host, had some sort of Sly Fox
pale ale on tap. Must have been an IPA, 'cos it was too over-the-top hoppy for an American Pale Ale. But it kept the heat off very nicely indeed.

This Weekend's Radioactivity

2007-07-12T15:15:51Z

Okay, that should read "Planned" Radioactivity, but that's neither here nor there. No plan survives initial contact with the enemy, after all.

First up is the IARU HF Championship Contest. That'll keep me busy from 1200UTC Saturday to 1200UTC Sunday. (That's 8AM to 8AM EDT, for those of you unfamiliar with Greenwich Mean Time.) I'm hoping to do fairly well, considering the vagaries of my station, antennas, and location. I have a strategy, and I'm sticking to it. ;)

Second is the Frankford Radio Club picnic on Sunday. The FRC is one of the oldest and most active amateur radio contesting clubs in America. This will be my first attendance at one of their meetings; if I attend one more in 2007, I'll qualify for membership.

More later!

Interesting Meme

2007-07-12T15:07:29Z

From thatpotteryguy comes an interesting meme: List your five favourite song lyrics.

Okay.

1. "It's nice to be liked/But it's better by far to get paid/I know that most of the friends that I have/Don't really see it that way/But if you can give 'em each one wish/How much do you wanna bet?/They'd which success for themselves and their friends/And that would include lots of money"
- Liz Phair, Shitloads of Money

2.

O Freunde, nicht diese Töne!

Sondern laßt uns angenehmere

anstimmen und freudenvollere.

Freude! Freude!

Freude, schöner Götterfunken

Tochter aus Elysium,

Wir betreten feuertrunken,

Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!

Deine Zauber binden wieder

Was die Mode streng geteilt;

Alle Menschen werden Brüder,

Wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt.

                   - Beethoven & Schiller, Ode to Joy. Lyrics to Beethoven, Symphony No. 9, Op. 125, "Choral". If you don't feel like going out and slaying dragons after hearing this, you are absolutely hopeless and I pity you.

3. "Ah, back through the glen I rode again and my heart with grief was sore/For I parted then with valiant men whom I never shall see more/But to and fro in my dreams I go and I'd kneel and pray for you,/For slavery fled, O glorious dead, When you fell in the foggy dew."
    - Traditional Irish. Google the rest of the lyrics to understand the Easter Rising of 1916.

4. "L'homme, L'homme, L'homme armé,/L'homme armé, L'homme armé doibt on douter./On a fait partout crier,/Que chascun se veigne armer d'un haubregon de fer."
    - Wildly popular C15 French tune and lyric used as the cantus firmus of countless polyphonic Mass settings. Also, if you listen carefully to the tune, you'll hear the opening musical phrase of the chorus of Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hears Club Band (the song itself, not the entire album, you ninny).

5. "De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine/Ex audi vocem meam/Fiant aures tue, intende" [etc. Forgive me; I'm working from ten-year-old memorization]
      - Josquin des Prez, De profundis clamavi (Motet a quatre voix). Josquin is praised as the father of modern polyphonic vocal music, as well as the father of "text painting." One listen to this piece will convince you of the rightness of this praise.

Anyway. Eclectic enough? =D

Paws to consider...

2007-07-10T15:34:23Z

...what our four-legged friends require.

Many of you are aware that kass_rants and I are the proud hosts of two retired racing greyhounds. We adopted because we feel honored to save these gracious, noble animals from a death sentence.

There is a no-kill shelter here in the Lehigh Valley, completely supported by donations from the general public. No tax money, no government grants, no public funds at all support the place. Animals in Distress is in the process of raising desperately-needed funds to continue providing care - free care - to hundreds of unwanted, abandoned pets. Often, these animals come to the shelter badly mistreated, ill, or injured. Vets and the volunteer staff turn their charges' lives around.

Consider April. She was, according to the AiD website, "found tied to a tree in a secluded wooded area[.]" She's now ready to be adopted.

While you're at it, if you're a cat person, consider the plight of Ashley. As you can see from the picture, she's had a rough life up to now. Now all she needs is a good home.

I'm not asking you to rush over and adopt a new pet. I'm asking you - begging you - to give a financial lift to the shelter.

Right now, AiD is in the middle of a fundraising campaign. Your donation will help provide food, supplies, and vet care for these poor creatures. Oh, yeah; and, above all, hope.

It doesn't matter where you live. It doesn't matter if you've got pets yourself. Click Animals in Distress and donate something.

Your help is all that keeps these poor orphans alive.

Why can't people just think?

2007-07-06T14:52:48Z

Okay, this is only dimly related to ham radio, but if I don't have a rant I shall explode.

kass_rants was gracious enough to accompany me to the Harrisburg "Firecracker" Hamfest on Wednesday. It was actually pretty lame. I went specifically seeking connectors, antenna wire (Copperweld) and 450Ω balanced feedline. The fleamarket was full of crappy old junk, with a few gems in the way of used transceivers, and no one - no one at all - had anything even remotely like the wire and balanced line I was seeking.

Luckily, there was a nice lady there with four tables full of the various connectors and widgets I needed. So that was a plus.

Rant A: Guitars and amplifiers and MIDI keyboards do not belong at a ham radio fleamarket. Go somewhere else.

Rant B: Nobody wants your old 5.25" floppy drives. How stupid can you be to lug them along to a fleamarket where people will mock you for still having them?

And, finally, Rant C: Children. Or, more accurately, stupid people having children.

Let it be known from the start that I have no beef with kids. Kids are great, kids are fun. I don't have any because I consider myself incapable of responsibly rearing them. So don't think I kill and eat them. (At least, more than once a quarter; mmm - garlic butter sauce...) I have a whacking great beef with people who inflict their children on the general public with no regard for their fellow adult humans.

Consider what happened to kass_rants and I when we stopped in Reading for a bite to eat on the way home from Harrisburg.

We were seeking a Chinese buffet or something similar, but none were to be found. So we opted instead for slabs of roasted/broiled meat and a chain steakhouse which shall remain nameless. The staff were pleasant (indeed, entertaining, but that's another, more boring, story), and the place itself was slightly better than inoffensive. We were off to a good start. The experience actually improved when I discovered a nice microbrewed IPA on tap. For a holiday lunchtime, I was actually rather surprised at a dearth of customers; there were a lot of open tables.

Imagine our surprise when, a short time into our meal, the hostess led a couple with babe in arms to the table immediately next to ours. Now, when I write, "Babe in arms," I mean exactly that: it was no toddler, it was no precocious urchin; it was an infant incapable of speech, save wild screeching which sets one's teeth on edge.

It was obvious to us that the young couple had just spent some time shopping the mall nearby. Thus, the child was tired and cranky. When infants are tired and cranky, they squall. Parents, luckily for them, soon after birth of their waifs find themselves possessed of the ability to tune out the horrid wailing. Unluckily for people like me, we lack this precious ability.

That makes the appalling noise unbearable.

Why do parents think this is acceptable? Why do they think we won't mind? Restaurants have non-smoking sections primarily because secondhand smoke is annoying to people trying to enjoy food. Parents who would sneer at a smoker willingly and cheerfully inflict pollution of another sense on unsuspecting passers-by: a child screaming at decibel levels sufficient to cause envy in jet engines.

When I was a wee bairn, it didn't even occur to my parents to take me out of the house in such a state. If I began to fuss, I was removed from public view. Presumably, parents in the early 1970s considered a keening rug rat embarrassing, an indicator of what it is - poor parenting.

In the early 21st century, it is apparently perfectly acceptable to assault we poor people - who have dared to choose to remain childless ourselves - with sonic fury unknown outside of strip-mine blasting pits and aircraft carrier flight decks.

To gleefully steal a phrase from a wonderful friend, "Cease this douchebaggery, you asscactuses!"

Back To Basics

2007-07-03T21:02:31Z

It has come to my attention that many of my LiveJournal Friends have little knowledge of the primary focus of this LJ - Amateur Radio. Most, if not all, of the amateur radio-related jargon is utterly lost.

Can't say I blame them, really.

Rather than have them yawn and click on someone else's LJ, I've decided to write a short introduction to Amateur Radio - with as little jargon as possible.

Amateur Radio is, first and foremost, a hobby. Practiced by communications and electronics enthusiasts as an avocation, Amateur Radio allows a person to communicate with other radio amateurs all over the world. This process of communication increases the individual amateur's skill and knowledge of communications technology, while advancing the state of the art in communications technology.

Each radio amateur has a unique "call sign", issued by the telecommunications authority of his government after he passes an examination that measures his technical skills and operating competence. For example, my call sign is NQ3X. Each country is assigned a block of letters their government can use to identify licensed transmitting stations (note that this is more than just hams; it also includes broadcast stations and the like). The United States may use call signs beginning with the letters W, A, N and K. Broadcast stations in the USA use W and K; hence, KDKA in Pittsburgh and WLS in Chicago. Amateurs have a number added to their call signs which signify which part of the country the live in. The 3 my call sign indicates I live in either Pennsylvania, Maryland/DC, or Delaware. If it was a 2, I'd be from New York or New Jersey. And so on, all the numbers from 1 to 0 (zero).

Since Surinam was assigned the prefix PZ, we can tell where that amateur was operating. If he were a Canadian, he'd be VE-something. See here for a complete list of prefixes for the entire world.

Amateurs use sophisticated equipment to make contact with other amateurs. This contact is spurred by a variety of reasons, most of which are beyond the scope of this (hopefully) short piece. Suffice it to say, the primary reason is enjoyment.

There are countless areas of interest within amateur radio. Some like to just get on the air and make new acquaintances. Some like to enter on-the-air competitions. Some enjoy practicing for and providing communications support to government and private organizations (like the Red Cross) during emergencies and disasters. Some like to design build electronic widgets. Still others like to have portable communications other than the ubiquitous cell phone for communications with other licensed loved ones.

To use a very basic metaphor, amateur radio is a lot like fishing.

In one facet of amateur radio operation, called "ragchewing," activity is a lot like I used to fish. Walk down to the river and throw in a line. What you catch is what you catch. In amateur radio, a ham will transmit a general message that she's looking for a contact/conversation; whoever hears it and feels like responding can have a chat.

In another, the activity is more focused, like fly-fishing for brook trout. The angler carefully watches the insect activity around where he knows the trout swim, carefully selecting his lure and technique to match the circumstances of the day, thus increasing his chances of landing a lunker. In amateur radio, this describes what we call "DXing". "DX" is short for "distant". When DXing, the ham is trying to contact a faraway amateur, often in a specific place. DXing can be very challenging!

One more, then we'll call it a day. Everyone knows about fishing tournaments, where anglers will attempt to land as many largemouth bass (for example) in a specific amount of time. These anglers use sophisticated techniques and technologies - as well as years of practice - to increase their chances of winning. Radio amateurs have on-the-air contests, where the objective is to contact as many other amateurs as possible in a given amount of time. Like fishing tournaments, where the competition is for a specific kind of fish, ham radio contests focus on different types of contact. Some are DX contests, where the ham contacts as many overseas stations as possible. Others are for a specific geographic area, such as the Canada Day contest I wrote about yesterday, where the objective was to contact as many Canadian hams as possible in 24 hours.

There's a lot more to amateur radio than that. I've just scratched the surface. For a better introduction than mine, see this website.