Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967

And, as since the beginning of time, the standard length of any rope remains... one foot too short. (In the modern era this rule also applies to extension cords and garden hoses)

Sweet, sweet li'l revolvers. Here's mine, 1970 vintage. My late, dear friend "Doxna" bought it new, put less than a box of shells through it. She packed it on a few deer hunting trips, but never fired it again. When she passed about ten years ago, she left it to me. Although I've never shot it, I did have my son pull the bullet from a cartridge and pop the primer with it. So... why on Earth do such a thing? Well, the turn signal brush in his old Toyota pickup steering wheel was worn; the empty .22 case fit over it perfectly and function was restored. That was the only time the hammer was dropped in fifty-five years. Somewhere I have the original receipt. She bought it from a sporting goods store on Clement St, in San Francisco, and as I recall the price with the Hunter holster was something like sixty bucks. Edit: I just remembered... my old pard Half-Breed Pete had one. "Had." Back in the early 70's he was on a multi-day hunting trip on horseback in the Los Padres National Forest. At some point, he reached to adjust his Bearcat holster, and discovered it empty. Oh, NO! He retraced many miles of trail, searching for the missing revolver. No joy. So, unless some fortunate soul just happened along and spotted it, somewhere out in the woods a lump o' rust resides alongside an overgrown trail.

In the Star Wars franchise, the stormtroopers are notoriously poor shots. In fact... they rarely, if ever, hit their target. So, if Ruger decides to call a new model "Stormtrooper," there's an implied expectation that the shooter will always miss. I'm still trying to find out if this is for real or not!

As a long-time Ruger pistol fan, this took me a moment...

Ah is workin' on it. Most o' the stories are done; working on simple illustrations now. By the way ~ thinkin' 'bout putting a picture of the Kappa Phi Delta house on the cover ~ here 'tis~! Hank's room was to the left, on the first floor - I suspect it was originally the "library" in the old mansion; it sported a fireplace. Second floor was the living room, or "front parlor," which had a piano stage. Behind it was the second "parlor," which had another fireplace. Third floor was MY bedroom, originally the master bedroom. Three guys could comfortably share the room, with space for three beds, three dressers, and a sofa in front of the third fireplace. Several people could comfortably be seated at a round table in the bay window. Two more bedrooms were on that floor, along with a bathroom and separate shower room. Fourth floor was "Wynuts" bedroom, sometimes shared. I believe it may have originally been a servant's quarters. At the other end of a landing at the rear of the house was a walk-in attic. We called that the "Chalet Room;" quite rustic, right under the rafters and roof and quite popular. The old place was built in 1904. We leased the house for a whopping $300/month. In 1973, the lease expired. The realtor who owned the place said he did not wish to renew the lease, but said we could continue to rent the place month-to-month, or we could buy it outright for $35,000. We were so insulted that we disbanded the fraternity and bailed. Zillow now has the house valued at $2.4 million, down from a high of $3.5 million in 2022. Hank's room, minus furniture and cat Hank, aka Jim Borton, and Ray Gee Hank impressing the bejabbers out of some sorority gal at one of our "Western Parties..." A young Hardpan... And... Hardpan and Hank years later; mebbe forty years ago. And just for the heck of it, Half-Breed Pete hisself!

The Treasure Hunt The men of Kappa Phi Delta were men of tradition. And, as such, we had many. Of course, not all involved partying; we did have a collective philanthropic bent. We were, after all, a Social and Service fraternity. Consequently, we were both individually and collectively altruistic, benevolent, and magnanimous – to the point of even getting ourselves arrested in the pursuit of such endeavors a time or two. Okay, now that that’s out of the way, back to the “social” part. But again, not all our traditions involved partying, per se. There were competitive ventures! Intramural sports! Inter-fraternity challenges! And even internal team competitions between the Brothers and the Pledges! Elsewhere, we explored the mysteries of the Sneak, an escapade wherein every pledge class would kidnap two of the brothers for a twelve hour period, and the remaining members of the brotherhood body would attempt to pursue and “rescue” them. Great fun. And we never lost a soul. Came close, but we all survived. There was a similar competition between the two groups – the Treasure Hunt. A true team-building exercise. And here’s how it went: The Pledgemaster and his assistant were tasked with organizing the Treasure Hunt. As with the Sneak, the losing team was charged with paying for a fresh and full keg of beer – the “Treasure.” The symbolic Treasure, which was the actual subject of the “hunt,” was an empty beer keg hidden somewhere within the boundaries of Golden Gate Park. Much more practical; hiding the actual full keg would be impractical – the keg would weigh over 150 pounds, making it much more difficult to handle than a 27 pound empty. Besides, the beer would get warm and be shaken up – of which neither situation would be desirable. Next, the PM and his assistant would prepare two separate but parallel in difficulty sets of secret clues. These were similar to the clues used in the Sneak, with each directing to the next, and both sets ultimately leading to the empty, stashed treasure keg – hereafter to be referred to as the “TK.” In timed trial runs the two required nearly identical lengths of time to execute. The contest would be won by whichever team had the more clever, ingenious, and athletic members. Upon recovery of the TK, the successful team would race back to the Kappa Phi Delta house. If the winning team crossed paths with the opposing team en route, they would advise them and the game was over; off to the House to tap the fresh, cold keg, collect payment, and celebrate. If paths did not cross, the Hunt was over after two and one half hours. Interestingly, there was never a failure to find the treasure within the allotted time. A good game indeed! Fall semester 1969 I was a freshman and pledge. Still quiet and somewhat timid at that point, and pretty much clueless. I really don’t remember all that much about our game, other than we the 11th pledge class – won. In fact, I was the one who found the keg! One of the “bossier” guys in our bunch had assumed command and had been barking orders all evening. After chasing clues for the last two hours, we arrived at a wooded section of the park, and whoever the self-appointed General was sent guys off in different directions to search. I was tired, borderline grumpy; I’d had my fill of playing serf, and told myself “Nuts to this!” and in disgust headed off on my own. I came to some sort of a drop-off, and hopped off the edge to the bottom and Py Yimminy, there it was! The TREASURE! An empty Burgermeister keg, right in front of my astonished eyes! When I’d recovered sufficiently to realize what I’d done, I gathered up my twenty-seven pound prize and proudly marched toward the cars where the other fellas were beginning to reassemble. Someone spotted me, gave a shout, and ran over to relieve me of my evidently burdensome load, then somewhat pompously declared that “WE WON!” and carried the trophy to his car. *Grump!* Oh well… a good time was had, and we got to share an evening of boisterous camaraderie – and all the free beer we could drink! But by fall of 1970 Hunt Time, I was a full “Brother,” and pretty much into the swing of things. And all of us active members were determined to not allow some upstart pledge class the opportunity to repeat the Victory of ’69! Nosiree Bob! As I recall, Tom Corbett was the Pledgemaster that semester; as such, he and his assistant – whotheheckever that was – had assured both teams that the clues were challenging, equitable, and bound to be fun. So, after lubricating ourselves sufficiently at the house, we set off at the designated time. Don’t recall that either, but it was late and quite dark. And a jolly time we had! Most of the details of the evening are lost to history. But a few nuggets worthy of mention have settled into my memory and remain after nearly fifty five years. First, I still chuckle at the recollection of one clue ~ hidden somewhere on the Golden Gate Park Golf Course. A pleasant little nine-hole par 3 course near the west end of the park. Somehow, someone figured out that it was likely in one of three spots, and the most likely was the third hole. Well, to hell with decorum! Three guys hopped into Bill “Wynuts” Wyant’s midnight black 2-seat Triumph TR-4A and literally headed out ‘cross country – right across the golf course! OH my, but some groundskeeper was going to be RIGHTOUSLY pissed off come morning! Divots are one thing, but when that little auto zoomed off it was leaving twin rooster-tails of grass on the fairways; I shudder to think of what the greens looked like. But they were successful! My li’l brain retains a spring-water clear image of that little roadster zooming back, literally flying over a hilltop, three grins visible in the moonlight, Wynuts driving, whoever was in the passenger seat triumphantly waving a scrap of paper, and the third gentleman sitting on the top of the rear deck (legs behind the seats), victoriously waving a long-handled pennant with a “3” prominently printed on it. A souvenir! Ah well; I reckon the City of San Francisco could afford a replacement. Who knows… they might’ve even had a supply of ‘em. As an aside, I’ve on occasion pondered whether the fella with the pin flag ever felt a pang of guilt ~ he later went on to become a well-known and decorated police officer and detective in a neighboring city. But moving on, two of the more memorable events involved none other than Hank hisself. That boy was in his prime that night, and in fact found and retrieved the prize hisowndangedself! And no wonder! NOBODY else was brave enough, dumb enough, or drunk enough to venture into the middle of the Buffalo Paddock to fetch back the stainless steel vessel. But I'm quite sure he was at least two of the three. It seems that when Tom and his assistant “planted” it, they simply gave it a “team toss” over the fence and let it roll into the center of the arena – where it came to rest, and was shortly surrounded by a mob of inquisitive bison. Well, we followed the clues to the ultimate destination, and there it was. Gleaming dully in the pale moonlight. With a bunch of forlorn Kappa Phi Delta brothers gazing with bewilderment through the fence, quietly discussing any possible means of recovery. Suddenly, the fence quivered a mite, and Holy Smoke! There he goes! Now, ol’ Bort (Hank) was never known for being fleet of foot. And he had been medically discharged from the Army for bad knees, both of which were pretty much trashed after years of football. In fact, when he got back from Fort Polk, he announced that if he ever again in his life had to go more than ten yards, he’d drive. But there he went! Right over the fence and charged into that herd of buffalo! (I know; properly, they are “bison.” But that night they were BUFFALO!) Without hesitation, ol’ Jimbo hurtled (at moderate speed, at best) into that furry scrum, snatched up the cylinder, and reversed course. I think he actually did manage to put on a bit more speed in his endeavor to make the fence and safety; the mob of critters in hot pursuit may have given him a bit of incentive. In retrospect, I honestly do not believe they intended him any harm; he was fuzzy and hairy enough to have possibly been suspected of being a relative of theirs, and all in all, they were probably just enjoying the game themselves. He made it! Over the fence the keg sailed, followed in short order by himself – just before one of the more ambitious four-wheel-drive fur mountains crashed his wooly noggin into the fence. Victory! And no casualties – yet. Quick… Saddle Up and zoom back to the Kappa Phi Delta house! That should have been the end of the exercise, and nearly was. But there was one more minor misfortune before we could celebrate. As we were making our way East through the park, we had to pass the Park Police Station. And amazingly, just as we neared the facility, some fool – NOT of our party! – managed to crash his car. Right in front of the po-leece station. And with a runaway engine, rear tire spinning and filling the area with smoke, police officers poured out of the station house, all focused on the catastrophe unfolding in front of them. Which was quite fortuitous indeed, as not a single officer noticed when Hank bounced out of the back of the pickup truck he was riding in, and actually skidded and bounced a couple of times on his butt before coming to rest in the middle of the road. Right in front of the Golden Gate Park Police Station. A few guys bailed out and managed to get him loaded back up before we attracted any attention, and we made it back to the house without further incident. Hank was a mite bruised on his bum, but was so well anesthetized by the bottle of Old Crow whiskey he’d been nursing all evening that he experienced little or no pain. He survived, none the worse for the wear, as the saying goes. And we collected from the Thirteenth Pledge Class the price of a nice, fresh, frosty cold keg of Burgermeister. Which we had undoubtedly stolen from the brewery.

Just to clarify, the "spark plug tire inflators" do NOT fill tires with a fuel-air mixture. They use the engine's compression to power a small piston pump that draws in air from outside the engine, not from the combustion chamber, and then compresses and pumps it into the tire. I've had a couple of 'em, 50+ years ago; biggest challenge was using one to fill an 8-man raft. Took a while, but got it done!

A buddy of mine expressed that very concern when I did the same with my then new '84 Ford Ranger. When I bought the truck, it came sans rear bumper. Hank scored a length of 4130 CrMo pipe, 70" long and 4 1/2" diameter, 3/8" walls. We welded 1/2" plugs into the ends, drilled and tapped for a Shraeder valve and an outlet valve. Nice bumper! Extended past the tailgate far enough to use as a step! "You can't DO that, Hardpan!" ol' Stewballs exclaimed. "If you get hit that danged thing will be a BOMB!" Doh! Well, lessee... in this case, we'd be looking at prob'ly a bit less than half a cubic foot of volume. At 150 psi, this bumper would hold mebbe a bit under five cubic feet of compressed air. One of the truck's tires would take approximately 3 cu ft of air at 32 psi. So, as a tank, it would be useful within limits. But! Did not do a Shraeder valve. Rather, used a brass fitting and plumbed in a small 12-volt compressor. Might take a while, but as long as the li'l truck had gas and a working generator, it was good to go. And worked well! But back to the "bomb" issue: A standard oxygen tank, with 1/2" walls, is typically filled to 2,000+ psi; well within the design burst pressure strength of 6,750 psi. With a mere 1/8" less wall thickness, at 150 psi or less I surely was not a bit concerned about my bumper blowing up. IF I got hit hard enough to crack that bumper, I think I'd have more to worry about than a li'l "Hisssss...." Now, perspective: The brackets were 3/8" flat stock, welded to the bumper and secured to the frame with 5/8" Grade 5 bolts and nuts. The frame had one round hole and one elongated hole on each side, to allow angle adjustment. So, one day coming off the Benicia Bridge, I was stopped for an accident. The woman in the Buick behind me was too busy looky-looing to see me and plowed right into that bumper. Her car was crushed to just for'd of the windscreen. If it wasn't totalled, it was damned expensive to repair. Me? Other than a lump on the back of my haid from the rear window, I effected major repairs with four replacement bolts and a rattlecan o' spray paint ~ it hit so hard that the bumper swung through the arc allowed by the elongated hole and sheared half through the original bolts. That gal was PI$$ED~! The same year, I had just parked in a parking structure near the Concord BART structure. Got out, reached inside for my coat and briefcase, and before I could close the door, the rear tires skidded as the truck moved sideways about four inches. I casually closed the door, and as I walked past the gentleman in the business suit who had just "parked" next to me staring aghast at the nice long and deep crease he'd just put in his new Mercedes with the end of my bumper. And I don't remember for sure, but I honestly don't think that I even read that magazine! Still have the ol' beast... but she's "in the weeds," now, retired about 25 years ago. Thinking of restoring her.

Heck... the girl was the show, but I thought the reedster did a fine job.

Reminds me of back in the day when Sassparilla Kid started in T-ball. One li'l kid (not mine!) just could not grasp the concept of running to first base after he hit the ball - which, surprisingly, he actually could do. Whack! And he'd just stand there and grin. Finally, the opposing team's coach would literally pick the kid up and trot off and deposit him on first base. Soon enough, other adults would get with the program and whatever base the kid happened to be on, the nearest parent would grab 'im up, tuck him under an arm, and haul 'im to the next base. It was hilarious! The youngster was three or four games into his "career" before he figured out that free rides weren't part of the program. Then the only issue was making sure he ran in the right direction.

Kinda timely question... Just a few days ago I watched some old Western (golly gee, could it have been a 1968 Bonanaza, Season 10, Episode 2, "Child," with Yaphet Kotto playing the part of Child Barnett, a mysterious ranch hand who helps Hoss after he is wrongly accused of murder...? ) Anyway, the sheriff and his posse of sidewinder townsfolk are pursuing Hoss and Child. They pull into a stage station, and swap their tuckered out horses for fresh stock - trained to harness only. Surprisingly, they actually had a brief discussion about it! And indeed had some difficulties with the critters.

That sailor dude surely appears to be righteously focused. And I wish I had ME a Colt Ace...

Too heavy; pretty sure it's babbit. Dense stuff. Just like a former Secretary of the Interior of the same name.

That's purty much what I figgered it was. Honestly, I've never seen any before, but I do recall when I was a young man listening with horrified fascination to old-timers describing the process of pouring bearings, and using prussian blue and scrapers to "true 'em." We're SO spoiled with our "snap-in" bearing shells! Hm. So, what to do with it ~ desk ornament?

Was rummaging through a bucket of scrap metal tonight, putting together a "care package" for a Boy Scout camp's Metalwork/Blacksmith Merit Badge class. Anyway, at the bottom of the bucket was a partial ingot of something... cast into the face is: JOHN FINN METAL WORK EMPIRE ANTI FRICTION METAL.... Fairly heavy, but seems to be a bit lighter than lead. Anyone know what this stuff is? I have an idea, but might not be old enough to be sure... (Har! ) When I Googled it, the first thing that popped up was a reference to an operation in San Francisco that was at one time a Superfund site interest....

I likes okra ~ 'specially fried okra. And I likes grits with redeye gravy.

Make the jackasses work for it. That might give the lazy bastards pause ~ or a hernia!

I reckon I'd plumb swoon just watchin' that....

Uh... I think I'd rather walk. Hardpan Homey don't do heights!

Hell, in these parts they lock up deodorant and toothpaste. One of our supermarket chains even blocks off the toiletries aisle after eight or nine o'clock.

I ain't sayin' where, but....

There were a couple of omissions... favored hangouts for Kappa Phi Delta men "back in the day."

That's a bummer. He was a character, but made mostly fun music! Mostly... "Que Sera Sera" back in '73 wasn't one of their funnest, but it did lead to rumors of Sly and Doris Day being an "item." Uh... no. Great memories of heading out deer hunting in Otto, my '73 Super Beetle, Woody the Wonder Dog in the back seat, a buddy riding shotgun, and Sly And the Family Stone blaring out of the Blaupunkt. Funky stuff!

Sooo... I packaged up the 55" TCI ROKU TV. Bought it about three weeks ago when the last one died at two years of age. (This time I bought the 'extended warranty!') Anyway, the old dead set worked well until it didn't; crisp, bright picture. The replacement I bought three weeks ago was terrible! Picture was dark and picture quality horrid - fresh, broadcast programs had the appearance of soap operas fifty or more years ago. So, finally I boxed it up and with dread hauled it back to Wally World. Surprisingly painless! The actual return and credit took about five minutes ~ ten minutes later I was checking out with a new replacement. Had to argue with two young worker fellas that no, the old man really does not need help hauling it out and loading it in his truck. For some reason, off in the distance I kept hearing the Twilight Zone theme....