Life in Plastic (Styrene, specifically)

Nesting fail.

My swallow friends got this far:

Before he who rules the patio and garage at night halted progress in a spectacular way.

Sometimes it's very difficult being a fan of both birds and cats. They just never, ever mix.

This is McGregor, another feline that came to us when we lived out in the country.17 pounds at his last vet visit. He's a big boy. He arrived as an adult one winter. He obviously needed friends. How long he was on his own is anyone's guess. His coat felt kind of like a shell, it was so matted. There was no getting around taking a pair of scissors and slowly cutting it off, little bit by little bit. He didn't mind the attention, but he looked semi-skinned afterward for awhile. Obviously he's recovered. Wonder if he dreams about his days as a wanderer?  Wonder if he looks for more swallows in the garage these nights. The last one was probably a lot of fun...

You care what I think? Oh pah-leeez!

A guy got a little defensive over my comments on intake/exhaust covers on models a post or so ago. (He didn't make his comments here on my blog where they belong.) I really don't know who he is nor what his models look like, but for some reason this dude came on like he'd been singled out. All I can say to him and anyone else in sight of this word processing is, "Do what makes you happy!" DO NOT build models that are meant to please a grumpy old bastard such as myself. Take me seriously? Who am I? Someone who knows models,likes to write, has opinions, and spends a few bucks each month to keep this little stand open 24/7. And why would I do that? One word: Entertainment. Yours and mine.

Here is something that hangs prominently in my "studio":

It's a Christmas gift from one of my sisters and says it all for me. Anyone who wants to be offended by what I say here about models, keep it in perspective. If you want to let your plastic handiwork define who you are, hang with that artiste crowd. My blog is aimed at a...I don't know...more down-to-earth crowd? Please, God, a more light-hearted crowd?

This incident got me thinking about exactly what I have against sealed aircraft orifices. It's this: Airplanes to me are action machines. Though they regrettably spend most of their lives earthbound, they are most interesting to me barreling down a runway, sucking up their gear, punching through clouds, screaming into the range at 50 feet, slow rolling in front of the crowd...and on and on. So much of their appeal to me is in their movement. Their shape in motion. What kind of movement would you expect from an airplane fitted with dopey covers? Oh, maybe movement provided by a tractor pulling it into a hangar at bedtime. Big whoop. Yes it may be a factual part of its existence, but if you have an option, why portray that configuration? I get drowsy just imagining it.

I feel the same way about folded wings on navy airplanes. Yuk. What a grand way to make an airplane look like some kind of machine. Of course that's what it is, but I want to see it configured for its higher purpose. I mean ready to go, or on its way someplace with covers, and those equally maddening Remove Before Flight ribbons removed. (Oh boy. Now who have I pissed-off?)

God knows there are modelers who are attracted to the airplane asleep presentation. Or airplane on the operating table with panels open and guts exposed. GREAT! Simply don't expect me to give it a second glance on a contest table or in an on-line image gallery. It just goes against my personal grain.

New (attempting to be) residents

Got a pair of these attempting to build a nest in the garage. Took me a while to figure out what the hell they were. Not barn swallows -- had a number of pairs of those build nests in the garage of the old place. Beautiful little birds those. A mob would arrive after we cut the grass in the summer and the huge backyard would become the scene of amazing air shows. Not chimney swifts -- some of those have been zipping around here for the past few summers. Love to watch those little buggers speed overhead. They're medium altitude performers where the barn swallows were low altitude. Really low.

I wish them luck. They'll need to get used to activity below them and a big cat that has the garage and enclosed patio at night. If they make a successful go at it, I'll try to get some pictures.

 

Look at my panel lines!

Friend of mine sent me a link to a recently posted model of an F-16 that demonstrated superbly the trend of many modelers who build something -- doesn't matter what -- simply to demonstrate their prowess at making panel lines appear to leap off the subject. (I should post the link, but I won't. Why be cruel to either the perpetrator OR visitors to my blog? Besides this style of model finishing is anything but rare, more's the pity.) My friend, not a serious modeler, wanted to know, WTF? (Oh, and the icing on the cake so far as I'm concerned, was bright red intake and exhaust covers on said F-16.)

My reply:

Yeah, that's pretty horrible. I've developed a theory about this, and it came to me when I stumbled across a particularly heavy lined set of three view drawings. Could it be that modelers, constantly referring to drawings as their reference material, come to believe they have to make the model look like the drawing? Of course, with a drawing being nothing but lines, what do you do?

I'd love to know what would happen if tomorrow, all the line drawings in the world disappeared and modelers were left with only photos or the actual machines they were miniaturizing to refer to.

I've heard another school of thought that you HAVE to do this sort of thing to a model or it looks too plain...it looks like a model. I say to them, and what the hell does this F-16 look like? You can't possibly tell me "the real thing." To my eyes it looks like a cartoon of a model.

Plus, I really hate intake and exhaust covers. What they say to me is the modeler was too lazy to take care of the seams on the intakes. "They add a little color."  Lame comment. If you want color, build an airliner.

Bottom line: My judgement is take a hammer to that poor F-16 and put it out of its misery.

A death in the family.

15 years ago, we lived in a country setting, surrounded by corn and soy bean fields. I normally would run about four miles a day down mostly empty, straight dirt roads. About a quarter of a mile from the house was a small creek, and on this particular day, I headed out in that direction. I almost reached the creek when I heard a bird squawk I didn't recognize. What the hell was that? I stopped to hear clearly and maybe spot the bird. Out of the weeds emerged a tiny, scrawny, homely black kitten. That's what was making the noise. It came right up to my feet and continued to squawk. Though it looked exactly like what I'd expect a feral kitten to look like, it sure didn't act feral. Though it absolutely did not want to be picked up, neither did it want to let me get away from it. I looked a bit for siblings that may not be so extroverted, but I found none. Could someone just have tossed this little thing out a car window in close to the middle of nowhere and driven off? What other explanation was there? It was anything but afraid of me. Now what? Well, the run ended for the day at a quarter mile, and I walked back home with a black kitten trying it's best to trip me. Meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow it said. I tried to avoid getting tangled with it and said, "You poor wee puss."

I called my wife with a "guess what" story. At the time we had two adult dogs and two adult cats. We were not looking to expand the family and though I couldn't ignore this little black thing (I'm a cat person to the bone, by the way) it was going to be a problem. I did determine it was female. By the time Molly got home from work, she'd christened it, sight unseen, Grace.

Grace imprinted on me the way a duckling does with its mama. It was adorable at first, but got a little annoying after a day and a half. By day two, it was Molly who asked, "Can we keep her?" That was a no-brainer for me.

Though Grace was her name on all the vet records, she remained from day one, "Wee Puss." (Pronounced Poose.) She was da Poose, Pooskin, Wee-wee-wee, Miss th' Poose, Lidda-Wee-Poose and eventually, Spoose. Spoo-ee. I was her person, and she stole my heart. What the hell was her story? What were the odds of our crossing paths the way we did? What if I ran to the west instead of the north that day? She'd probably have been a snack for an owl.

She was never a beauty, but became a sleek, compact little Halloween kind of icon. She and I bonded tightly. My workshop was an upper bedroom of the house and she quickly learned where to find me. The most memorable demonstration of -- devotion? -- she exhibited was the day she climbed the chimney to...I don't know why she did it. Boredom? Had something she needed to tell me? Was damned hungry? I heard her outside my window making a fuss and looked out to see this.

That might not look too notable, until you view a different angle.

Arrow points to the Poose. How in the flyin' you-know-what did she scale that brick?! Straight up! Was she part squirrel? Your guess is as good as mine. I had to get the extension ladder to bring her back to earth. My Poose was something else.

A year or so later, she vanished one night. She and her other cat buds spent the nights outside and by then the four of them would all be waiting on the porch in the morning to come in for breakfast. One morning, she was not there. The next four mornings, she was not there. I was sick. She was MIA and quite likely KIA. There were predators in the neighborhood. I biked up and down the road looking for a dark shape, but found nothing. She was gone, and I was nowhere close to saying good-bye to her -- even if she was present to say good-bye to. Molly and I were resigned to our loss. Then near the end of the fifth day, I spotted my dark shape in our garage. She looked slightly thinner, but made no fuss whatever. Like: Well, yeah, I'm home. This is where I live, remember?

Another mystery never to be solved. She was there on the porch for breakfast every morning afterward until we moved in 2005.

Seven years later, she wore out. They do that, and take chunks of one's heart with them to cat heaven, or wherever they end up. Miss you, Spoose. Thanks for jumping out of those weeds so long ago.

Guest Spot -- Stuka-style

Good friend and frequent commenter here, Tory Mucaro, has the spotlight at the moment.

I've had this kit in my collection for at least 15, possibly closer to 20
years. It was something I had built in my youth, maybe when I was 12-13 years
old. I've always wanted to have another crack at it and when I found one in a
NYC hobby shop (back when there were NYC hobby shops!) I bought it on the spot.
It was part of an estate sale, can't remember what I paid for it but it couldn't
have been very much, maybe $20.

These old Revell 1/32 kits were known for
operating features and removable engine panels with fairly detailed engines. I
decided to build this one straight out of the box, leaving all the operating
features. The canopies slide, propeller turns and engine cowlings come off to
show the decently detailed Jumo engine. This particular aircraft has been
debated for years, was the snake actually red or desert sand colored, was it
painted on both sides, what colors were used in the camouflage, etc. Since
nothing is known with any certainty, I decided to just try to capture the box
art instead of going for historical accuracy. I built it straight out of the
box, as defined by IPMS rules, the only thing that didn't come in the box was
the paint, glue and antennae wire. Even the 40+ year old kit decals were used,
along with a gallon of Solveset to get them to conform to all those
rivets!

I finished it up last Friday, the day before the Mosquitocon show
held annually in Wayne NJ. It placed 3rd in a very highly competitive 1/32
Aircraft category (which included biplanes, prop and jets). I am very proud of
the fact that I was able to build a competitive model from a 40+ year old kit,
going up against several modern click together wonders from Hasegawa and
Tamiya.

Now to figure out where to display this 17 inch wingspan
memory!

Saint Patrick's Day

In the interest of keeping the blog current, and because the day might have a little extra significance for me, I present this post.

I suspect I was named Patrick by my dad's insistence. His mother was pretty solidly Irish, his dad...we really don't know. Apparently among other things, he had native American blood running in his veins; don't know what else for sure. The name Hawkey is common in Cornwall, England, but it has also been suggested it's an Americanization of the Irish "Haughey." Again, don't know and don't really care. My mom is solidly Polish/German.

Dad stressed his Irishness and his kids largely followed suit, however fractional it in fact was. I have a decidedly northern European look, with light skin, freckles and red hair. I look like a resident of Ireland or Scotland. I'm really drawn to the music, that's for sure. I used to make a fuss over my patron saint's day. Certainly did when I reached drinking age.

I think the year was 1982, which would have made me 26. That particular St. Patrick's Day, my buddy Dave and I went to play racquetball. (Remember racquetball? I spent an awful lot of time on racquetball courts back then.) Anyhow, I brought enough money to pay for my half of the court rental, and another three dollars. I did this deliberately. I knew if I brought more, the temptation would be way too great to not stop after just a couple beers afterward. It would be way too easy for me to become a most stereotypical Paddy, drunk on his ass before I got home. I really didn't want that.

So after our shower, Dave says, "Let's go get some beer."

"Fine," I told him, "But I've only got three bucks on me."

"Hell, no problem," he said in a rare demonstration of generosity. "It's on me."

The seeds were sown.

Dave was a big fan of the bar scene in downtown Detroit. Because he was driving, that's where we headed. No doubt we started with beer, but eventually we graduated to Canadian Club. Of course the bars were hoppin' and good times were all around us. At some point I switched to gin, which I was beginning to acquire a taste for. We may have snacked on pretzels or something, but nothing more substantial. As usual, I was the first one to start slowing down -- Dave was three times the night person I was. One more for the road at last call, and back on to I-75 north and home. Miraculously Dave managed to keep the car between the lines and didn't run into anything. How much had we consumed? Significantly more than was required, that I can say with certainy.

Three miles from my place, Dave decided he needed to take a leak. He stopped behind a local mall and headed for a snowbank. Regrettably I was not so drunk as to be passed out. Evidently something in my impaired reptilian brain snapped. I wanted to go home, damn it. I did not want to stop here. I was suddenly and totally pissed-off. While Dave was relieving himself, I exited the car and made for an opening in a wall that divided the mall back alley and an apartment complex. If Dave wasn't going to take me home as fast as I wanted, screw it. I'd get there on my own.

So Dave returns to his empty car and assumes I'm off doing what he had done. Don't know how long he sat there before thinking, where the hell is that guy? He got out, called, called a little louder, and searched a bit. The panic began to rise. What the hell? Where is he? Did he get abducted by aliens? Did he pass out in a snowbank? That could be a very bad thing. Hypothermia is no laughing matter. Foot search revealing nothing, Dave got in his car to continue to search. Where to look? What to look for? A moving figure or a dark shape on the ground?

Meanwhile, fueled by alcohol and anger, I plodded through the apartment complex, eventually emerging on a main artery in the form of a freeway service drive that would take me to my neighborhood. Hands buried in pockets, head down (no hat, of course) I stomped into the wee hours of the morning. Eventually I came to an intersection and looked up to determine my progress. Cold and tired, I stared at the sign illuminated by mercury vapor street lights until it came into focus. To my shock and horror, the cross street name revealed I'd been trucking in the wrong direction for two miles. Are you f*ckin' kidding me? When did I cross the previous mile road?

So while Dave was desperately driving around to logical locations in search of his buddy, I unintentionally foiled him by doing a wrong-way Corrigan routine. Unbelievable. All I could do was turn around and retrace my steps, and basically restart my journey home. What should have been a three mile walk was in fact going to be about seven.

Dave was seriously wondering if he'd in fact had a hand in killing his buddy. He spotted a cop car at a 24-hour restaurant and lied to the officers that he'd spotted some drunk wandering around the main drag and if you see him, you might want to pick him up. They promised they would. Dave had a tiny posse now, at least.

I remember nothing of my stroll other than cold and utter solitude. Not a car, not a person did I see. I also didn't see a big water-filled hole in the ground until I stepped in it and totally soaked one of my shoes in freezing water. Nice. Eventually, I did get to my parent's darkened house around four. I climbed up the stairs to the bedroom I shared with my brother and collapsed on the bed, and was instantly out. The next thing I knew, I was being slammed against the wall by my coat by Dave. Hoping against hope, he entered the house (we never locked doors) and crept upstairs to see if my bed was empty or not. It was not, and he let me know of his displeasure.

"You f*cking idiot! Where were you? Where the f*ck did you go!? I looked everywhere for your stupid ass! Jesus Christ, I thought you were dead! Don't you f*ckin' ever do anything like this to me again! Asshole!"

It was not the time for explanations, but I promised I would never do anything like this again.

The next day I woke to one of those dry-heaving hangovers that makes you swear you'll never sip anything again. NEVER! In fact to this day, the aroma of gin is good for unpleasant flashbacks. I made up with Dave that night and we swapped our separate stories. 

My dad used to say, "The Lord looks out for drunks and idiots." If so, the Lord or somebody must've been watching me that night. Watching and shaking his or her head.

All these years later Dave and I can laugh. All these years later though, the memory of that night and the festive occasion for it remains. And you'll have to excuse me if I don't wear green on March 17, and insist on staying home in the evening. Might even work on a model. The rest of the world? Knock yourselves out!

What you learn from magazines.

"One modeling tip which pays big dividends in assembling a petite model...is simple: If you want a clean model...make sure your hands are clean and that the area you work on is devoid of glue, paint and debris. Every 15 minutes or so, you should stop, get up, wash your hands and dry them thoroughly. Sweat generated from handling pieces of plastic will mark the surface of your model and if your working area is dirty, your hands and fingers will pick up dabs of glue, dirt and paint, all of which will be transferred to your model. Unfortunately, this type of grundge is unwanted and usually appears as a smear on clear canopies or a glob of glue on a seam that would have been better left without undue attention being called to it.

"Another good idea is to keep a piece of paper toweling nearby. This will absorb the sweat from your fingers and will wipe your hands clean without accumulating the dirt from several models, as a rag does. With an absorbent paper towel, you just wipe and throw away."

                                                                                                     --Scale Modeler Vol.4, No.11

                                                                                                                        November 1969

 

Get up every 15 minutes to wash your hands? Does this guy rebuild his motorcycle engines on the same bench he builds his models? I know the only time I sweat on models is when it's 80+ degrees outside. Or maybe I just don't glue, sand, file, paint fast enough or hard enough? Is there a prize for the first guy finished in this guy's world? I should work faster and harder? Is this to be taken seriously or was there a word minimum that had to be met for the article?

Reading these old Scale Modelers, I get the feeling the crew there considered themselves the high-priests and the readership were lost souls. My goodness they took themselves seriously. Wonder what Messrs. Schnepf, Mizrahi, Chivers and Kropff are doing these days? Bet their hands are clean, eh?

A delightful little clip

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U2_DXYieL_o&feature=related

Thank you Oberst Whoever You Are.

More Luftwaffe flavor:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?NR=1&feature=endscreen&v=QpcQWFXkhX0

Nice work...not mine.

http://i425.photobucket.com/albums/pp331/chaldane/Aircraft%20Models/Nimrod-1.jpg

http://i425.photobucket.com/albums/pp331/chaldane/Aircraft%20Models/Nimrod-2.jpg

http://i425.photobucket.com/albums/pp331/chaldane/Aircraft%20Models/Nimrod-3.jpg

 

Corbin H. posted these on Hyperscale yesterday (Feb. 11) in the 1/144th Group Build section. This is the first piece I've seen on-line in a very long time that I've gone back to look at again. To my eyes, Corbin nailed it. Keep in mind this is 1/144th and a vacuform. In 1/72 this would be impressive.The fact that it's a somewhat strange looking airplane in very ordinary (if not boring) markings doesn't detract from it one little bit. If nothing else, maybe it invites the viewer to study the model harder and not be distracted by bright, shiny colors. I just love this gem.

I really like 1/144 scale. I've had a dream of building a serious collection of mostly big airplanes in this scale (with small ones thrown in for size reference) for myself. They'd all be on stands of course -- don't need any 1/144th scale landing gear grief. Goodness knows I've got the kits. Since small-scale pieces other than airliners are not often seen at the modeling forums, when something does appear, I tend to notice. Sadly, what I notice most of the time, is a modeler's willingness to allow the finished piece to look like a small or tiny die-cast model, with all the deep panel lines that go with them. Where are the panel lines on this Nimrod? Where they should be. Not visible.

 Keep posting, Corbin H. You've got one serious fan out here.