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Leon County Democrat Group

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Gennady Ustinov
Gennady Ustinov

Where To Buy Glyptal Paint



The outstanding all-purpose paint. Although 1201 was originally developed as an insulating paint for electrical applications such as the treatment of coils and armatures, its outstanding resistance to corrosion, moisture, oil, acid, heat, dust and salt spray has made it popular throughout the industry as a Primer, Sealer, Adhesive and Protective Finish. There are literally hundreds of uses for 1201.




where to buy glyptal paint



The Glyptal 1201 is a red, alkyd resin enamel paint that comes in a 1 gal pail. The general purpose paint can be thinned for spray applications and works well as a sealer for screws, pipes, and hydraulic fluid chambers.


Glyptal 1201 is a versatile paint that is used in a variety of areas and numerous industries. This red enamel coating was first developed as an electrical insulation coating. Glyptal was designed for use on coils and other parts of electrical armatures where it provided excellent dielectric properties.


One issue is that paint can stick to the top of the surface texture such as the mill finish or the machined finish of the plate, trapping gas molecules underneath in the crevices. Inside the vacuum, the air bubbles will expand and may cause the paint to come off.


Glyptal tends to wick into the pores of the metal. As a result, paint will not sit on the top of the surface finish trapping tiny but consequential gas bubbles underneath. This solution features low-outgassing characteristics. Our testing of this product in various applications shows no contamination of the product inside of the chamber including silicon ingots for making wafers.


For space simulation, many chambers require a black body or alternatively a heat reflective surface. Cat-a-lac black paint is a common high-emissivity paint that is used inside of a vacuum chamber to absorb radiated heat. Another common black paint is Aeroglaze Z306. Meanwhile, other applications, including space satellites, require reflective surfaces to reduce overheating and prevent other complications while facing the sun during orbit.


Former General Electric trademark for a group of alkyd resins patented in 1914 and first used as a Paint in the 1930s. Glyptal paints are made by heating Phthalic anhydride and Glycerin together. Still available today, glyptal is used in Shellac, varnishes, and paints.


What is the procedure for painting a used engine/gearbox/transmission with glyptal. I would worry about paint adhesion due to oil soaked into the top layers of metal. Is that a concern or is there a foolproof way of cleaning the surfaces sufficiently?


Many people who do transformers just use polyurethane and sometimes use a vacuum chamber to ensure all the air gets out. I dont know many who even use glyptal on transformers these days unless its for high voltage applications, the main reason for using varnish on these transformers seems to be mostly for holding the windings together and stop resonance rather than an electrical insulator.


Anyway, im thinking that glyptal would be an excellent choice for small armatures and simply all that is needed is to dip the armature in the stuff and let the excess drip off, i believe its very thin and flows well, to stop the shaft getting coated you would need to tape it or place heatshrink tube over it.


The materials used for armatures in slot car motors are pretty specialized. Epoxy powder needs to be a very good insulator, tough enough to stand up to tensioning magnet wire, and of course must be heat resistant. The epoxy used for potting armatures is not the stuff you find in the hardware store...being low-viscosity and having a high heat resistance, up to 500-600F. This epoxy of course also needs to be strong enough to keep armatures together under the tremendous stress of spinning really fast, oftentimes extremely fast. It's hard to imagine glyptal being affective as a replacement for either the powder coat or the epoxy...but maybe???


I know glyptal sticks extremley well to surfaces and people paint it on engines because if the heat.Looks like it can withstand 266 degrees F, but if nothing else, i think it would be a great alternative to powder coating the armatures, since thats not so easy to do for most people who dont have the setup.


The biggest problems with alternative coatings is that they can either be too thick or thin, and not do a good job around the top and bottom "corners" of the stacks, where the magnet wire's coating can easily be damaged causing a short. You could try using JB Weld, as it's thick enough not to drip, and once cured is very tough. Even though it has a powdered iron component, it will not conduct electricity and is a good insulator. Getting a suitably thin-but-even coating will probably take some practice (*junk arms are always a good thing for trying this stuff out), but maybe thinning it out a little and applying it with a small artist's brush can help. Once cured, it will withstand temperatures much higher than 266F, maybe twice as high.As for the "setup" to do powder coating, those can be easily home-made, and probably ARE home-made most of the time for slot car motors. It shouldn't cost more than $20 for an aquarium pump and some plumbing parts to come up with a good one. People also use these things for powder coating jewelry and fishing lures, and if you look on YouTube for "fluid bed" and/or "powder coating", you should find some easy examples to build.Alternately, you could try electrostatic powder coating, and Eastwood company sells kits to do this, although they cost some more (*still not crazy-expensive) and coating this way isn't quite as easy or convenient.***The powders for fluid bed and electrostatic coating are different in some ways, and not necessarily interchangeable. If you use electrostatic powders in a fluid bed, you can get a very thick coating that isn't suitable for an armature. Also, most easy-to-find powders for electrostatic coating are polyester and not epoxy. Those are less durable and far less heat-resistant, but probably as good in either regard as glyptal.There are some other powder types that might work also, but I have no experience with them.-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------For "potting" armatures, some regular epoxies can work fine (with practice) on milder arms, just don't use the "quick-setting" types, as those are even less heat-resistant and on a warm armature won't give you enough time to work...maybe gelling in less than a minute. It's also possible that the lacquers used for coating coils would be fine for milder winds. You can probably produce armatures with milder #30 and #29 winds using the above, and also solder the com connections with no problems as well!---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Lastly, always look for possible industrial sources for the epoxy powder and lo-vis/high temp epoxy. They may not be available generally, but if you meet someone, or maybe know someone who knows someone, it's always possible to get small amounts. Good luck!


A catalyzed urethane such as Imron will stick and stand up to the heat. You should also consider using a paint called Glyptal. Beginning in 1925, Glyptal was the liquid research division of General Electric and in 1985 it was spun off as an independent company. For decades, engine builders have used Glyptal paint for the inside of engines to prevent corrosion, hold down bits of sand and casting debris, and help the flow of oil by smoothing out rough cast surfaces.


GLYPTAL 1201 was originally developed as an insulating paint for electrical applications such as the treatment of coils and armatures, its outstanding resistance to corrosion, moister, oil, acid, heat, dust and salt spray has made it popular throughout industry as a primer, sealer, adhesive and protective finish.


SeasonsWile E. Quixote: Reflections on Pete CarrilTelling on the CoachThe Enduring Scott F. Fitzgerald '17SEASONSA student's illusion of predictability comes to an end, in science and in lifeIn the fall of 1969, there were 500,000 american troops in Vietnam. The death of Ho Chi Minh caused only a brief interruption in the 15yearold war. And I, beginning my senior year at Princeton, was faced with the first real challenge to a life of privilege and ease. I was thrown into the national lottery for the draft. It was the first selective-service lottery in the United States since 1942. World War II, of course, had been a "popular" war. My father had been constantly afraid of dying on the beaches of Italy or Sicily, but he had not hesitated to enlist when he came of age, nor had any of his friends. My friends, by contrast, did everything possible to escape military service. They were usually successful. Many got educational deferments simply for being in college. Louis, a quiet boy with a brooding intelligence, had dressed up as a Cherokee Indian for his physical examination, including war paint and feathers, and received a psychiatric release. Others moved to Canada and were sent money from home. But the new lottery seemed a great equalizer of classes and backgrounds. Everyone faced the same odds. Each birth date was to be assigned a number by a toss of the dice. Local draft boards would begin drafting at number one and work their way upward.The drawing took place on December 1 at 8 p.m.. Eastern Standard Time. Only the day before, on a Sunday, I had returned from Thanksgiving vacation and a grand dinner with my parents and brothers and cousins. After dinner, my mother, determined to be gay, placed a bossa nova album on the record player and made all of us dance with her barefoot in the living room. Now, a few evenings later, I sat anxiously with my roommates in our comfortable dormitory room, listening to the radio. The scent of marijuana hung in the air. I imagined millions of other young men, shortorder cooks in hamburger joints and gas station attendants trying to close for the night and other students in their rooms, all listening to their radios. Three hundred and sixtysix capsules were plucked from a cylindrical glass bowl in a government room in Washington, D.C. The first birthday chosen was September 14. I didn't know anyone born on that day, but I felt sorry for the poor devils. My birth date was chosen 280 draws later. I was never called. About a quarter of my classmates ended up in some kind of military service, that year or later.Oddly, I remember that fall as intensely beautiful. Autumn had never been a particularly engaging season in Tennessee, where I had grown up, but here, up along the East Coast, the air was so clear and transparent that you felt you might see to the curve of the earth. I recall often hearing an extraordinary concert from a maple tree outside my dormitory window. Hundreds of birds had decided to roost in that tree for the season. They did not twitter or chirp but instead gave out a continuous drawnout song. When hundreds sang in unison, the sound was an unbroken chorus, with the effect on the hearing like that of a waterfall on the sight, a multitude of tiny droplets combining to make one sweeping flow. The birds stayed until the end of October, then one day were suddenly gone in their migration south.The lottery disturbed me in many ways. I had lived a life of selfimposed blindness, not just the blindness that comes with financial good fortune and social entitlement. There was, of course, the real possibility of being sent to Vietnam and killed. But this outcome was so unimaginable that it never entered my consciousness. I had stood on the sidelines in naive disbelief as my classmates tried to batter down the front door to the Institute for Defense Analysis. I avoided the bonfires. When a young assistant professor sitting next to me at dinner one night lit a match to his draft card and invited us students to join him, I admired his boldness but didn't have a shred of understanding of what he had done. The lottery forced a vast, unwanted world on me, and the sensation was a painful gush of blood through the veins. Particularly distressing was the element of randomness, the uncertainty. I wanted to make decisions. I would go on to graduate school or I wouldn't. I would pursue a particular young woman or I wouldn't. I would leave my bicycle out in the courtyard at night or I would haul it down to the basement.Science, for me, had been a source of certainty. I was a physics major, and physics reduced the world to its irreducible particles and forces. It is a banality to say that science holds a reductionist view of the world, and even a 21year-old knew that life wasn't so simple. But science, especially physics, provides a powerful illusion of simplicity and certainty. Textbooks on physics rarely offer any discussion of the history of the subject, with its wrong turns and prejudices and human passions. Instead, there are Laws. And the Laws seduce with their beauty and precision. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. The gravitational force between two masses varies inversely with the square of the distance between them. Even Heisenberg's quantum Uncertainty Principle, which proclaimed that the future cannot be determined from the past, gave a definite mathematical formula for containing uncertainties, like a soundproof room built around someone who is screaming. More than its purity and grace, physics was Certainty. And Certainty, for reasons of my own temperament and perhaps also my middleclass upbringing, was my ally. Archimedes and Euclid had stood for Certainty. Lucretius had invoked the atomistic theory of the world in order to free humankind from the vagaries of the gods.As a senior, of course, I was required to do a thesis. For some reason that I still cannot fathom, I chose to do an experimental thesis-that is, to build an apparatus for doing an experiment in physics. I had already shown myself completely incompetent in the laboratory. A gadget that I had constructed for my junioryear lab project caught fire because of faulty wiring. The oscilloscope, a standard tool for circuit design, a big metal box covered with knobs for adjusting voltages and currents, baffled me. On the other hand, I was good at theoretical calculations. I loved going from one equation to the next until arriving at the answer, as definite and unassailable as the area of a circle. I loved the cleanliness of pencils and paper. Why I didn't undertake a thesis in theoretical physics I do not know.Perhaps it was my choice of thesis adviser, whom i will call Professor Turgot. There was something about him that I found immensely appealing. He was a big bearlike man, fortyish, beginning to bald, stoopshouldered, whose shirttails always drooped down behind him. He was not at all the absent-minded professor. He could fix me and all I was thinking with one eagle glance. When he lectured in the classroom, he addressed the blackboard rather than his students, as if he were having a private conversation with some mythical being living in the world he had created in equations and diagrams. I knew that this lecturing style was deficient, but it conveyed a lifelong fascination with his subject. I wondered whether I could contain my own passion for science, keep it from thinning out and dispersing for 20 more years, when I would reach the age of Professor Turgot.Professor T was focused, but at the same time he was humble about the limitations of his knowledge. He sometimes confessed his professional blunders, an error in a calculation, a mispositioning of a target in the cyclotron. The rest of our teachers, almost without exception, projected the impression that they had gotten to where they were on a more or less laserlike trajectory. They had a magnificent selfconfidence, which I am sure inspired many of their students. But even I, with my devotion to certainty, did not feel comfortable doing research with such a person. I knew that I made mistakes, and a thesis adviser who did so as well might allow me to graduate with my dignity. After class, Professor T, bulkily slumped against the wall and covered with chalk dust, would sometimes talk to me about his wife. Almost immediately, he began referring to her as Dorothy, so that when I finally met her, at dinner in the Turgots' small house, I felt as if I knew her. None of the other professors ever mentioned their spouses. I asked Professor T to be my thesis adviser. He grinned and said I would be doing an experimental thesis.The laboratory where I began working was a huge cavern of a place, resembling a warehouse more than anything else. The space was filled with natural light, from skylights 30 feet overhead, as in an artist's studio. There was always an odd smell in the lab-not an unpleasant smell-of oil and dry ice. Canisters filled with liquid nitrogen sat on the concrete floor. When opened, these would emit a wonderful hissing noise as the liquid bubbled and evaporated and escaped in thick opaline clouds. Along three walls, stretching for a hundred feet, were tabletops and workbenches, oscilloscopes, boxes of capacitors and resistors, odd pieces of metal, rubber tubing, Geiger counters, notebooks with radioactive decay rates handwritten in neat columns of figures. There were always a few novels by Proust and Gide sitting casually on a lab table. Professor T's wife, Dorothy, was a scholar of French literature. I like to think that she sometimes visited the lab in the evening, to keep her husband company when he worked there after hours.In one corner of the lab, a shower faucet protruded inelegantly from the wall, in case someone accidentally came into bodily contact with a radioactive substance and needed to strip down immediately and wash off. The radiation shower I noted with special interest, as I discovered that I had to confront radioactive atoms on a daily basis. My project was to build a device capable of measuring the radioactive disintegration of excited states of neptunium. Neptunium, discovered in 1940, was the first chemical element produced artificially by humankind. Since its atomic number, 93, was just beyond that of uranium, 92, it was named for Neptune, the planet just beyond Uranus. (Plutonium, at atomic number 94, was named after Pluto.) The idea for my thesis, as it evolved in discussions with Professor T, was that the excited neptunium would be created by bombarding a uranium target in the cyclotron. The disintegrating fragments of the neptunium nuclei, in flight through my apparatus, would cause a gas to scintillate, and these scintillations would be detected by several electronic photomultiplier tubes. By carefully measuring the rate at which neptunium nuclei fragmented, we could learn something about the forces struggling and churning within the atom.As I stumbled along, writing up the specifications of various parts to be made in the machine shop and then respecifying when the parts didn't fit, I was helped by Dave, Professor T's assistant. Dave was indispensable. He thought the undergraduates were "bloody Communists," and he despised the bearded protest marchers, but he was devoted to Professor T and his students, and he was the only person who could get the vacuum pump to behave. A vacuum pump, when working properly, starts out with a coarse, grating sound, like the chug of a locomotive, then graduates to a clicking whine, rising in pitch, and ends with a quiet, smooth hum when a good vacuum has been attained. When there is a leak in the system, the pump never progresses beyond the rough, grating chugs. On a number of occasions, I had to pump all the air out


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