Sustainable SW Blogs

burro break

The Field Lab - Thu, 2017/05/25 - 4:47pm

Shot part three of the YouTube Pepino project today.  Had to use my sheet metal break to do some bending for a chunk of duct work.  The last time I used this was 5 years ago back in the days when Mr. Floppy used to hang out (I think he must have died at least 3 years ago).  Funny thing is...I "break" it out today and just happened to have a new burro on hand almost in the exact same spot.  99,103,62,0,B
Categories: Sustainable SW Blogs

hot battery

The Field Lab - Wed, 2017/05/24 - 3:21pm

Part of my morning routine is to check my battery banks.  Two days ago I discovered one of the 3 batteries left in my dying bank was really hot.  Not good.  Removed it from the bank and placed in out away from everything just in case it decided to go up in flames (or explode)...the main reason I check my batteries daily.  I think it is time to put the new batteries into service and retire this group for good.  Just so happens I shot a video of the switch which will be posted soon.  90,93,54,0,B  Note: my battery set ups are not very pretty and are one step above Frankenstein - but they work for me.  Don't do as I do.
Categories: Sustainable SW Blogs

sibling rivalry...

The Field Lab - Tue, 2017/05/23 - 3:39pm
Well...for some reason Chupa and Manny suddenly decided to fight a lot.  Normally, they get along pretty well and will spar occasionally but yesterday it was relentless.  Apparently they had been going at it for while in the morning before I let them out of the pen.  Both of them were a little bloody.  Throughout the day they went at it a couple more times until Manny hid in the Airstream.  Last night when I was ready to put them back in the pen, I thought Chupa had killed Manny.  He was lying frozen on his back.  I put Chupa in the pen and decided to wait a little while to try to figure out what was going on...Manny didn't appear to have any visible injuries and his eyes were open.

About a half hour later (after doing some digging online) I went out to check him and he was not moving but his eyes were still open.  I turned him back over on his feet and he hopped right up as if nothing had happened.  Seems a fight had induced a state of "tonic immobility" ...a natural state of semi-paralysis that some animals enter when presented with a threat - a defensive mechanism intended to feign death.  It can be induced by humans in various ways and is known as chicken hypnosis - a barnyard parlor thick of sorts.

It was getting dark by this time so I took a chance and put Manny in the pen with Chupa.  They both went calmly into the coop.  This morning I came to let them out and Manny was immobilized on his back again, so I righted him but kept him in the pen for the day.  I let Chupa out but he spent the whole day right next to the pen.  Decided it might be a good idea to provide separate sleeping quarters so I slapped together a makeshift second coop to keep them apart overnight to avoid any early morning conflicts.  For the next week or so they will take turns during the day - one in the pen while the other gets to run around.  The question I try to get video of Chupa "hypnotizing" Manny?  77,84,64,0,B
Categories: Sustainable SW Blogs

a monday matinee...

The Field Lab - Mon, 2017/05/22 - 10:54am

89,92,62, .92"(yesterday),B
Categories: Sustainable SW Blogs

this won't end well...

The Field Lab - Sun, 2017/05/21 - 3:34pm
This has got to be the most pathetic scam email I have ever received.Wrong on so many levels...Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.  Galatians 6:7"Therefore we must call upon God, He has promised to help: therefore let me not think Him to be false or untrue to His promises, for we can not dishonor God more than by not believing or trusting in Him. Therefore let us beware above all things of dishonoring God; and so we must be patient, trusting and most certainly believing that He will deliver us when it seems good to Him, who knows the time better than we ourselves."  Hugh Latimer 1485-1555    
Categories: Sustainable SW Blogs

Ben's little blue bowl...

The Field Lab - Sat, 2017/05/20 - 2:50pm
Made an executive decision yesterday and took Ben's large trough out of service.  Decided it was kind of silly to have so much water sitting out there for just him (and occasionally Javier), especially since I was loosing a lot to evaporation.  Years ago someone gave me a float valve and I thought it might finally be time to try it out.  Ben inspected and approved the new water source as soon as I set it up to fill for the first time.  So far so good.  80,83,71,0,W
Categories: Sustainable SW Blogs

a friday night film

The Field Lab - Fri, 2017/05/19 - 3:11pm

Categories: Sustainable SW Blogs

True Homeowners Insurance

Doug Fine - Thu, 2017/05/18 - 7:51pm


Just before equinox in 2011, I wrote the Dispatch From the Funky Butte Ranch that follows with tongue, I thought, pretty solidly in cheek. I mean, it was ripped from the personal headlines. I really had been denied homeowner’s insurance for like the fourth time in as many months, but mostly I was just joking around about the insane illusion of “insurance” in an vast, multi-dimensional universe.


This was a time in my life, a new father working on my third book, Too High to Fail where I was entering a new phase of my lifelong Hypocrisy Reduction Project. It’s one I’m still in, probably best described as the “No More Toxic Junk In Life” phase.


During this six year period of weekly Dispatches, ideas were forming that I see now have led to the father and human I am now, including guiding much of my work focus. I also notice as I re-read these legacy Dispatches that at this time I tended to go for the laugh line at the expense of, well anything else. Good to see. If anything, we need to laugh more now. To me, still, that’s non-fiction.


Anyway, this Dispatch spoofs the belief systems that keep so many digital age folks calm. Insurance plans. Campaign platforms. Toby Keith concerts. Those sorts of institutions. Volcano sacrifice and Eastern Island statues were earlier era analogues. Here’s the thing. A lot of people took the Dispatch seriously. Thousands.


The collection of words evidently had one genuine and underlying theme that resonated and made it the most-viewed and most-commented-upon of any Dispatch to date. I wish I could find the original replies, maybe post the top three-dozen thoughtful or practical ones. Which is to say, mine was not the only progressive neo-Rugged individualist family thinking about these issues of potential post-globalization survival strategies. Most folks (my family included) sure weren’t rooting for absolutely needing such skills. We just thought their potential necessity was worth discussion. Six years later, the topic keeps coming up in conversation on and off the Funky Butte so, just back in from the morning goat milking, I hereby re-issue it.


I had to do that manually because my agent advised me to take down my older Dispatch archive as we discuss it as a forthcoming book. It’s funny because the song in my office during that discussion had the lyrics, “Give it away, give it away, give it away now.” So I’m at least giving this one away, one of my favorites.


If you feel as though you must show your regard for independent artists by remunerating for this content, please feel free to check out my existing books, a lovely Vermont indie farmer hemp project of which I’m part, my live events, and forthcoming television show (more details on that one coming), and, most importantly of all, as we all retrain to think locally, hemp industry pioneers in your community wherever you live.


Here, then, is one option for a post-collapse respite. I already pretty much live this way. It’s fun. I mean, if modern, petroleum-based globalization keeps working forever, it’s still immensely cool and satisfying to know how to make and shoot a bow and arrow.


Gotta go, Late for homeschool. On matters of bows and arrows, my sons have Inspector Clouseau as a teacher. Thankfully we all have YouTube.


March 8, 2011

True Homeowner’s Insurance


Hands-free, thanks to my new solar-powered smart phone that penetrates the Ridiculously Oversized American Truck (R.O.A.T.’s) vegetable oil haze, I’d spent a good part of the morning on the phone with my beleaguered insurance agent, Roberta. Nearly in tears with domestic and international plan cell phones pressed to her ears, she kept bouncing in a kind of insane modern shuttle diplomacy between me (on my way to an important post-goat milking riverside Frisbee  engagement), the Funky Butte Ranch’s mortgage company’s Wall Street accountants, and the Customer Enraging department of my putative new (and probably last ditch) homeowner’s “insurance” company option, presumably in Bangalore, if not Neptune.


Despite the fact that I had, as she knew all too well, my own problems if some kind of miracle compromise wasn’t reached with some actuarial computers that were clearly already predicting my demise, just because off a few Millennial fire events and associated land slides on the Funky Butte Ranch in recent months, I had a hard time feeling anything but sympathy for Roberta. Today’s international nightmare was just another chapter in my Trying To Keep A Remote, Off-Grid Property Insured As Required Nonsensically By Law Saga.


The previous three months alone had included no fewer than four policy cancellations, one insurance inspector trapped trying to cross my river, and some sort of disagreement in a thousands-of-miles-distant engineering office about how far away the ancient Funky Butte Ranch wood stove is or is not from its nonflammable adobe south wall. In one memorable exchange a few weeks earlier, Roberta had called me and said, “That inspector I told you was on her way? She can’t find the Ranch.


“Oh, that’s no problem,” I reassured her. “Tell her to follow the UPS driver Mary — she usually makes it at least to the top of the driveway, and he’s on his way.”


“It’s just that, well, she’s on the other line in, um, your riverbank, citing some kind of, hold on, let me find it…‘irremediably inaccessible’ clause and is canceling your policy effective immediately via satellite phone. It’s on page 1,463 of your policy.”


I sighed. “Again?”


(Choked up) “I’ll make some calls.”


At issue is the confounding (or obvious) reality (depending on your depth of understanding of the lobbying process) that I can’t have a mortgage without homeowner’s insurance, despite the fact I possess little that will burn and almost nothing anyone would want to steal, unless you count three productive if maddening goats.


The upshot of all this is that, when it comes to companies willing to do business with a law-abiding neo-Rugged Individualist, I’m now down to the homeowner’s insurance equivalent of the guy whispering in the alley to sell you a watch. Forget about offshore — I don’t even recognize their Internet suffix. And yet clearly they have an effective lobbyist on retainer.


All for fake insurance that I have no interest in possessing, on which I never imagine I’ll be claiming let alone collecting, and which significant chunk of change I could be using for more important things like billy goat-related PTSD therapy sessions.


This was why I greeted my visiting Portland friend Bert at the riverbank, after he asked me how it’s going, by saying, “Well, generally feeling blessed, but at this exact moment I’m working to ignore problems with something I’m obligated to own but which doesn’t exist.”


He nodded sympathetically. His very living depends on such bureaucratic hoop-jumping. He’s almost used to it. Plus he’s an economist. He knows the insurance shell game, the math behind it. It is literally inhuman.


(Last time we visited, on his turf, I had been muddy from Oregon Country Fair, and I had to reject his kind offer to wash my water bottle with “those pills that make everything sudsy” by introducing him to the sodium laurel sulfate fear fest, revealing Doc Bronner’s to him, and consoling him when I saw him calculating all the toxics in his home products by giving him my increasingly common, “Don’t worry — you’ll probably be OK — some folks are surprisingly immune to toxins” speech.)


Indeed, it was this illusory notion of “insurance” of any kind on a planet, for crying out loud, where every ocean will one day be a forest and every desert a verdant alpine valley, that once again brought this young man’s springtime fancy to thoughts of post-McGlobalization survival.


It’d been a while since I’d mused so intensely on my prospects following a hypothetical collapse. For all its problems, I’m a fan of our current society’s march toward sustainability (especially with a few regenerative and fair trade tweaks). Plus, I mean, I can’t help but summon the ol’ optimism reserves: I’ve got a healthy family. Clean water. Enough food. It’s not like I have much interest in to visualizing a scenario out of The Road.


But it was two discussions in rapid succession with my PDX Progressive Bubble friend (one of my oldest and closest), punctuated by hyperventilating calls from Roberta every few minutes, that returned me to springtime thoughts of insurance.


The first thread was what you might call the “Prius Route Out of Climate Change” Fallacy. Bert couldn’t quite get his semi-electric marvel up and into the admittedly rugged Forest Service parking lot where we met, so he had to hitch a ride with me in the R.O.A.T. As we bumped those last few hundred yards to our mission critical Disk meeting, I did what you have to do when your buddy has a new car (his second in three years), which is praise it.


Bert told me with some pride, “Yeah, if you average city and highway, I’m getting nearly 30 miles per gallon. I felt I had to get one. Ya know, to do my part.”


Now, even leaving aside contemplation of dynamics like how long one tries to make one’s stuff last and the fact that my 1985 Honda Civic got something like 51 on a bad day (I filled it up just before every Congressional election, I was unable to choke down my response before it leaped out of me: “Oh, yeah, love the hybrids. Smooth and quiet (clearing throat). Can’t help feelin’, though, that many folks that live ‘round these parts kind of believe a faster pace might be necessary in order that ourspecies doesn’t, kind of/ya know, die out.”


I saw from the way that Bert blanched and in fact nearly stumbled into the river, that my longtime compadre had a lot invested (literally) in that not happening, so I tried to console him.


“Oh, don’t worry, the Earth will be fine. It regularly survives asteroids. It can handle Exxon. It’s just the people who might not be able to breathe until it recovers.”


While Bert was processing the idea of something, if true, that he could not buy his way out of, he heard me answer my phone (I have Roberta’s ringtone set to Europe’s “The Final Countdown”) and say, “Dammit. You tell Yuri that I will not pay the premium in cash Euros. And I expect the goat exemption to be in there, as we agreed.”


“Look,” Bert said when I got off the phone and we started tossing the disk (he was so discombobulated from the way the conversation had started that he nearly decapitated a merganser with his first toss). “All this talk about extinction seems to me to be a little out there.”


After diving into the wilderness waterway to retrieve the Wham-O, I decided not to tell Bert that I had polled the professional scientist audience at my most recent live event (at the University of Denver), and a somewhat convincing 100% of those in attendance agreed with me that “it’s best to be planning, just in case.”


And that was the second thread that comprised the current bullfighter’s cape dancing glaringly in front of me and forcing me to dwell on post-apocalyptic survival. I hadn’t wanted that Denver audience of tenure-track post-docs to declare me sane. I desired to be told by climatologists and biologists that I was a “little out there.”


The problem was, even though both my “Reagan was too liberal” neighbors and my “Bob Marley was a light smoker” neighbors agreed completely with the Denver professionals, I felt my recent proposals for preparation were being met with a a kind of resigned inertia. Which is to say, as a fellow always checking in on my own fluctuating prospects for post-collapse survival here on the Funky Butte, I’ve been thus far engaged in a fruitless quest to get the friendlier of my fellow valley denizens to join me in some basic preparation.


What has been somewhat frustrating to me is that these good and intelligent folks don’t have their heads buried in the sand, as many of my urban (read: insurance-believing) friends, perhaps of mental necessity, do. They simply don’t think mobilizing and preparing for the chaos of immediate post-Box Store collapse is worth the effort.


“I just don’t want to live dominated by that level of fear,” my southern valley neighbor Mook, a semi-retired engineer (on whom I’m relying to hook up the shortwave radio equipment you’ll see is integral to my plan) told me a few months ago when I proposed what I believe to be my ultimately reasonable and levelheaded strategy. “If some armed mob comes and wants my garden and chickens and even my life, I figure they can have it.”


“Even your son?” I asked petulantly.


He agreed at least to think about it.


“All I’m saying is let’s plan at least to the level of the Boy Scouts.” I pleaded, feeling a little guilty that I had already played the “Who Will Think of the Children?” card. “Is that too much to ask? Be Prepared.”


“There’s no preparing,” my northern neighbor Blake insisted lazily during a recent soak in some local hot springs, his wife massaging his neck like a scene from the Fantasy Island title sequence. “You prepare for one thing, and another unfolds.”


That was where I disagreed. For evidence, I cited both the original Minuteman and the Vietcong. “Those guys were able to assemble in no time flat, and when the worst happened, they were ready. Were they paranoid? Were they fear based?”


To this point, as I say, I’ve met with a misty veneer of skepticism locally, though that might be the flame retardant the forest service folks are dropping on the latest wildfire. More probably, folks aren’t psyched to rally for post-box store survival drilling because the local hot springs are so dang idyllic and relaxing. Not the most conducive ecosystem to inspire even moderate doses of healthy paranoia. My allies in the valley are all about food independence, but when it comes to basic defense drilling, they act like I should move to Idaho and join the some kind of militia.


Sigh. Well, I might as well lay out the specifics of my simple plan here, to see how it comes across to readers of these Dispatches:


–A dozen or so kindhearted, like-minded families in my valley each get a solar-powered shortwave radio, which runs constantly in each house on an agreed upon bandwidth within easy earshot.


–The members of each household pursue working knowledge of key survival elements, including fire starting, water purification, orienteering, archery and firearms operation and maintenance.


–Each family builds an escape tunnel (or other route as appropriate to surroundings) from its home to an area that includes a non-perishable food and water cache.


–Twice a year all dozen families drill so that, in the (heaven forbid) event of a societal breakdown or other emergency, we can rally to a radio summons within minutes, while the affected family holds off any intruders in the interim.


Those who know me will agree, I think, that I’m as Live and Let Live as the next guy, but I didn’t sleep well for weeks after reading The Road. And that audience response in Denver still terrifies me. Plus, it happens sometimes — the worst-case scenario. That’s why there is an Apache or any tribe: a group of people gets sick of getting messed with and forms a squad of folks they can stand that can rally to face threats. “Cooperate so as to thrive over the long term” is perhaps a gentler way of phrasing it.


I mean, with a few tunnels, some bicycles, and a billion rubles of Soviet armaments, the VC were able to wear down the world’s best armies over the course of three decades. Same with the first American Patriots. Those guys didn’t have homeowner’s insurance. They had their muskets and the response time of their neighbors in case the Worst Happened.


Which it did. The Redcoats started shooting people in town squares. I’m comfortably certain that nine out of ten Minuteman would much rather have been soaking in the Eighteenth Century recreational equivalent of the local hot springs. You can bet they drilled. Exhaustively. Home turf, of course, helps. And we, I lobby my neighbors to (so far) no avail, have that. Maybe I should hire whoever is lobbying for Belarusian homeowner’s insurance companies.


I ask you, readers of this Dispatch: is this overboard? Less than sane? Too time-consuming? Or do the above steps seem like an acceptably small amount of effort to invest in order to at least give me and my friends in the valley some chance of enduring through any instability that might result the minute organic coconuts are no longer on sale at the food co-op? (Lord, may this never happen! Machete all ya want! Hopefully they’ll make more.)


Just a few minutes into our Frisbee consultation, I saw that “investment” was indeed the appropriate word to use by way of describing my Community Survival Plan. Bert, my badly rattled Portland friend, who had, judging by the improving quality of his disk tosses, been thinking a bit about what I had been saying, suddenly brightened and, clearly on more conceptually solid ground for him, told me with the kind of canny lucidity that forces one to pay attention, “You should accept investors. Here. For here.”


“Investors?” I asked. I noticed that he had been reading the Financial Times in his stranded Prius while he awaited V8 rescue.


“At your Ranch. The Funky Ass.”




“Butte. Not only do I recommend that you begin selling some sort of Post-Globalization Collapse Insurance at an annually renewing ten grand a pop to those, say, fifty, or fifteen hundred of those people shrewd enough to recognize themselves as likely Refugees in need of all the clean water and fresh goat milk you’re always going on about. Maybe policy holders could have the right to be employed as indentured Ranch hands,” my MBA-possessing friend advised. “And by the way I’d like a policy.”


I laughed so hard I nearly threw the Frisbee into a nearby Anasazi cliff dwelling. What I loved was the “take a number” orderliness implicit in his vision of collapse. As though it would be a “who’s next?” situation, like at the deli counter. “OK!,” some executive assistant of mine would say from inside her gas mask. “Number six! Harris. Pittsburgh family of three. House torched, family records scattered. One poodle. Can I see your policy, please?”


“Don’t worry,” I told him, holding my guffaw-exhausted gut. “You and your wife and kids can come here if the proverbial S goes D. And you’ll be high up the servant ladder — perhaps orchardists, or household staff. If you really prove yourselves, I might even promote you to goat care.”


“Why are you laughing?” my Frisbee partner and principal financial adviser asked me.


I told Bert I wasn’t sure the Funky Butte Ranch’s forty two acres could employ and feed fifteen hundred former lawyers and economists. (Though I did briefly do the math. The only place I’d as yet been a millionaire was in Laos. But that only translated to $300 or so.)


Now it was Bert’s turn to laugh.


“You don’t understand,” he explained patronizingly amidst an atmosphere of dragonflies and trout who all seemed to be in a slo-mo mood. “We just created a financial product.”

“You mean,” I asked, slowly getting it. “As long as currency continues to mean something, we collect it by playing on people’s greed and fear?”


“Derivatives, futures, the whole shmear.”


The Frisbee bounced off my chest. Wow. Survival Insurance. A cloud parted over a part of my brain. The scales fell from my eyes. Suddenly I completely and for the first time understood the 2008 Financial Crisis, over which journalists tracking down algorithms have been stumbling for three years. It was so simple. The guys who nearly brought the Whole Thing Down were (and now again are) simply salesmen. Nothing more.


I got it now. I wonder how many of them did.


And today’s legal investment structures, from Mutual Funds to Hedge Funds? Pyramid Schemes every one of them. They work as long as significant numbers of people don’t try to collect. Indeed, I now understood every bubble. Every crash is the same: margin calls for liquidity that doesn’t exist.


Wow. Tossing a Frisbee alongside a wilderness river, I came to understand late corporate capitalism. It is people with slightly faster computers selling fake products to suckers.


My pleasure at my long-delayed awakening was short-lived. Almost immediately my pulse quickened, my palms got clammy and my skin began to crawl, as I realized that Bert’s strategy hinged on the reality that a collapse would likely be so catastrophic that few would be around to even try to file claims.


I looked over at my ol’ college chum. His eyes were steely and lucid. As did the creators of collateralized debt obligations, pet rocks, gold and other inherently meaningless products, my shrewd friend had no illusions about his or anyone else’s collecting on this Survival Insurance. There would be no refugees.


Gulp. As though I needed another reason to root against collapse beyond my fondness for coconuts and Netflix.


“The only thing,” Bert said contemplatively, wiping coyote poop off his fresh-from-the-sweatshop sandals. “Is that we’ll have to get people to agree with the idea of living remote.”


“Agree?” I asked, puzzled. “This valley is where I want to be, regardless of what’s going on with the rest of civilization.”


A rainbow coalesced on the alpine horizon, which I felt backed up my point. For this native New Yorker, I dwelled in the Garden of Eden. I know it takes all kinds to overpopulate a world, but c’mon, clean water, no car alarms, lots of rainbows: I wondered how it could possibly be otherwise for any other human.


“Then you can’t lose,” he admitted. But I took Bert’s praise of my lifestyle decisions with a grain of salt, as I had just invited him and his family to survive a post-apocalyptic, and worse, post-Netflix epoch on my Ranch.


As “The Final Countdown” erupted in my jacket pocket, I realized that I had yet another reason to fight a crash: in my recent first Smart Phone purchase I’m betting against any major economic disruption over the next two years. Otherwise I’ll be in violation of my cell phone company’s early termination clause, and subject to a $350 penalty. That’s like a million bucks in Laos.


With a sense of ironic timing sadly lacking in so many in her field these days, my more conventional insurance agent chose that moment to let me know what she thought was some more bad news: Yuri was balking on the goat exemption.


“Sometimes I just want to give up,” Roberta wept.


“Then do I have just the policy for you,” I said, which is something I’ve always wanted to say to, and I tone I’d always wanted to take with, an insurance agent.


Fast forward to two weeks later. Roberta now heads the Mountain/West sales office of my newly-formed Intangible Insurance, Ltd. Bert has resigned his tenure track econ professor position at Portland State to serve as CFO. Our motto?: “If It makes you feel better, how could it hurt?”


If you’re interested in becoming a Refugee/Shareholder, please contact Roberta at Nigerian// And as with any investment, loss of principal, and in this case, life, is always possible.


Postscript: One more note as we leap back into 2017:  I’ve got a bunch of new live events just announced for 2017, in Hawaii, Colorado and New York, with Montana and West Virginia announcements coming soon. Thanks as always for your support.

Hemp Bound is the best book of the year. Read it and revive America through laughter and science.” –Willie Nelson

Doug Fine Live Event Bookings:

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The post True Homeowners Insurance appeared first on Doug Fine.

Categories: Sustainable SW Blogs

RIP Dr. Doug

The Field Lab - Thu, 2017/05/18 - 3:09pm
Categories: Sustainable SW Blogs

bee protest?

The Field Lab - Wed, 2017/05/17 - 5:44pm
When I went to feed Ben this morning I found a swarm of bees in his trough.  That has never happened.  Pretty sure these guys were just passing by and dropped in for a drink and a swim (or perhaps to see what all the internet fuss was about) and not part of my local hive.  They were all gone by the time I had drained it down half way.  Decided it was the perfect excuse to clean out his big bowl.  Ben was quite curious about it once I tipped it up to dry out this evening.  He will be on his little bowl for a couple of days.  90,92,68,0,B
Categories: Sustainable SW Blogs

How YouTube works...

The Field Lab - Mon, 2017/05/15 - 5:14pm
There is no doubt that I got really lucky with the bucket.  Kind of ironic that getting a video to go viral was on my bucket list when I started concentration on my YouTube channel at the beginning of the year.  My 15 minutes of YouTube fame for this shot is just about over now and the media frenzy is fading fast - but I was able to score a little over a thousand bucks in ad revenue for my effort as well as a deal with GoPro worth another thousand (FYI - I didn't get the drone deal I was looking for from them because they are in such high demand right now but they sweetened the deal with $500 cash + a GoPro Hero 5 Black + a Karma Grip).  The reason that YouTube is such a tough nut to crack when it comes to making money is that it takes A LOT OF VIEWS to earn much of anything.  The payout rate at my level of subscribers and popularity is only about twenty five cents per 1,000 monetized views - top channels can make as much as $4 per 1,000 monetized views.  It is also very tricky how YouTube decides what views get counted.  Up until this viral hit, I had only earned about 40 bucks total from all the 27 other videos I have posted so far this year.  To put it in perspective, my channel would need to consistently get about 2,500,000 monetized views per month just to cover my health insurance premium.
Categories: Sustainable SW Blogs

a monday matinee...

The Field Lab - Mon, 2017/05/15 - 10:11am

Categories: Sustainable SW Blogs

grow in grace

The Field Lab - Sun, 2017/05/14 - 1:32pm
2 Peter 3:17 Ye therefore, beloved, seeing ye know these things before, beware lest ye also, being led away with the error of the wicked, fall from your own stedfastness.  18 But grow in grace, and in the knowledge of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. To him be glory both now and for ever. Amen.
Categories: Sustainable SW Blogs

coming soon...

The Field Lab - Sat, 2017/05/13 - 4:27pm
Guess where my GoPro went today.90,94,62,0,B
Categories: Sustainable SW Blogs

a friday night film

The Field Lab - Fri, 2017/05/12 - 3:43pm

Categories: Sustainable SW Blogs

auto care...

The Field Lab - Thu, 2017/05/11 - 6:13pm
Categories: Sustainable SW Blogs

tire delivery

The Field Lab - Wed, 2017/05/10 - 4:02pm
Looks like I have something on my schedule for tomorrow morning at Terlingua Auto.  Along with the new tires I have an extra wheel for a second spare...and I love my new mongo jack.  88,91,62,0,B
Categories: Sustainable SW Blogs

the good bucket

The Field Lab - Tue, 2017/05/09 - 5:22pm
So the bucket went over the 2,000,000 views mark this afternoon and looks like it might make 3,000,000 by tomorrow.  Just so you know...that translates into about $1,000 in ad revenue for TFL.  The video is being shared on a lot of sites now where the views are not counted and monetized by YouTube.  I fully expect that the attention will fade pretty quickly in the next couple of days and the mad rush will be over.  I have also picked up over 3,500 new subscribers to my channel.  So far I have turned down 23 media offers.  The only offer I got that I liked was from GoPro.  In return for giving them a copy of all my raw footage for them to edit and use as they please (while still giving me credit) - I retain full ownership of the footage to use as I wish in the future, it is a non-exclusive agreement that does not involve any revenue sharing with my current video on YouTube, and they will pay me $500 plus give me a new GoPro Hero 5 Black (although I am going to try to sweeten the deal for no cash but a GoPro Karma drone instead with the Hero 5 Black and an extra battery and propellers).  That is a deal I can live with.  91,94,64,0,B      
Categories: Sustainable SW Blogs

a monday matinee...

The Field Lab - Mon, 2017/05/08 - 12:56pm
Due to my last video going viral, the previously scheduled programming for a monday matinee was preempted.  I am a little late today because I decided to shoot a welcome video for the over 1,000 new subscribers.

Categories: Sustainable SW Blogs

seemed appropriate...

The Field Lab - Sun, 2017/05/07 - 9:33am
Isaiah 41:17 When the poor and needy seek water, and there is none, and their tongue faileth for thirst, I the Lord will hear them, I the God of Israel will not forsake them. 18 I will open rivers in high places, and fountains in the midst of the valleys: I will make the wilderness a pool of water, and the dry land springs of water.  
Categories: Sustainable SW Blogs
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