Oh shut up

I thought Spiro Agnew had a point that night in Iowa when he blasted guys like Huntley and Brinkley and Cronkite for their "instant analyses" of presidential speeches.  (Full disclosure: I'd been drinking and wasn't even in the Des Moines hall where the veep ranted. I was at Joe's  in Iowa City, recuperating from a  day of reporting the public university industry's  plans to slip another inch into the body of taxpayers. So I had to watch Spiro on Joe's black and white teevee set.)

Spiro hated television news for the wrong reasons.  Because teevee hated his meal ticket, Nixon. Logic dictates that we should hate it is because it is a community of celebrity thespians posing as an information source.

This is never more apparent than on days of high political ceremony.

WASHINGTON (AP) — The American public will get a competing mix of rhetoric and imagery in President Barack Obama's State of the Union address Tuesday, a speech that offers a heavy dose on the economy even as it plays out against a visual backdrop dominated by the current national debate over guns.

Please note the phrases "rhetoric and imagery" and  "visual backdrop."

First lady Michelle Obama will sit with the parents of a Chicago teenager shot and killed just days after she performed at the president's inauguration. Twenty-two House members have invited people affected by gun violence...That confluence of message and symbolism illustrates where Obama is in his presidency following his re-election.

When presidential  speeches deal with large problems, they ought to be analyzed, both instantly and more reflectively.  That's one of the ways we keep ourselves from being flim-flammed. But how the Hell do you analyze the face of an aggrieved mother, one eye teared up with honest grief and the other shining in the glory of being on national television? With Michelle. Herself!

You don't analyze it of course. You just hope your image consultants are correct in predicting that it will persuade x per cent more of x demographic to  jump on your bandwagon.  Or that they're incorrect, if you happen to be on the other side.

The result is a cesspool dunking of logical thought processes -- of sober discussion of what's wrong and what might fix it at what cost. One other result among decent folk is revulsion at the exploitation of ordinary people -- the real and imagined victims -- paraded before the closeup lenses to stir emotion in advancement of a political agenda.

This little essay probably ought to be written tomorrow, after the Obama performance. It is not because the ravenous goat of teevee time-filling has already begun analyzing the president's undelivered monologue. Further, it has the complete lowdown on the rebuttals from Rubio and Paul. Analyses don't get much more instant than that, do they Spiro?


---

As your candidate for president, I offer a partial solution. I shall decline to contribute to a great national psychodrama, the annual posture-fest posing as serious debate about  how America should administer its affairs.  At no time will I address the congress in the presence of television cameras. I will simply obey Article 2, Section 3, of the Constitution of the United States.

He (the president) shall from time to time give to Congress information of the State of the Union and recommend to their Consideration such measures as he shall judge necessary and expedient. 

He need not do it in a Barnum and Bailey extravaganza, in the Big Top. under the lights. He doesn't even have to do it in person. Or annually.

I will do it as often as necessary, in writing with annotated footnotes to verify or explain my factual allegations.  No pictures. None. Copies will be freely available to every citizen -- from crazed bag ladies on down to electronic news personalities and congresspersons.

I guess it is another way of  intoning my own "I have a Dreeeeeeem."  I dream of an America where citizens sit around the coffee tables with policy proposals in front of them, in large type black and white. They quietly read and think and react, "if...then..it follows."

Should they find then "then"  reasonable, they applaud and support me. Should they find it otherwise they deem me full of shit and vote for someone else.

It might help, but, of course, it might not. We should try it anyway, if only to spare ourselves the annual aesthetic embarrassment of nationally televised tears soaking through the first lady's bodice.

Storm Nemo and the Runway Set

A diminutive and lovely American woman in a smart Connecticut home sat out Nemo with her elderly parents. Among other things she waded through deep snow to find and clear furnace vents; she used a pole to shake snow from her service electrical lines and nearby trees.

I wasn't there, more's the pity, but there's no doubt in my mind that she needed no last-minute dash for milk and toilet paper, meaning she was no candidate for a dramatic feature story on the horrors of being  suddenly trapped in her car in a storm well-advertised for days.

With preparations made and immediately necessary actions taken, she seemed to  enjoy her little break from the outside world, laughing and joking her way through white Armageddon, warm, secure, properly fed and I confidently guess, properly wined. After all, she bears an honest Irish surname.

Meanwhile, a million less sentient northeasterners suffered --  out of Perrier, down to the last pound of lox, the electric teevee won't work, that sort of deprivation. Never mind the frantically punched wireless devices seeking word on how much they might get from FEMA as a result of living in a place where it snowed.

Still,  the Irish girl and her like represent a useful cadre of citizens, people with at least a modest ability to see more than two commercials ahead and plan for survival in comfort when nature does what it routinely does.  Their existence suggests a remaining hope for America, even in the age of Mommy Dotguv on whom all  happiness depends. (Please, Your Ineptness, make the Republicans stop causing blizzards.)  It is a cozy thought, so you shouldn't screw it up by reading the news.

---

At New York's Fashion Week, women tottered on 4-inch heels through the snow to get to the tents to see designers' newest collections.

Giggle-snort gun report

Multiple layers of fact checking and editorial oversight  at the New York Times:

Correction: February 2, 2013

An earlier version of this article misstated the type of weapon that President Obama fired in a photo released Saturday by the White House. It was a shotgun, not a rifle.

---

Some years ago a teacher's wife here went public with an anti-gun rant which included a charitable bone to us blasters. Something very like: "No one wants to take away your pistols for shooting skeet..."

The nice old lady didn't work for the New York Times. But she could have.

H/T Roberta.

Loophole report in, mostly, .22 LR

Scads. Hordes. Gobs. That's a former reporter's finely-honed estimate of the Saturday morning crowd size at the 80-table loophole over in Estherville. You could imagine yourself at Phoenix or Las Vegas, trying to (politely) elbow your way to the tables.

We talked with a number of people who probably never would have acted on a vague urge to "get a gun someday" were it not for the antics of Feinstein, Biden, Schumer,  &  Obama, Inc. I wonder if those clowns really know what they have done?

The psychology may be quite simple. Tell an American citizen he can't do some perfectly innocuous thing and he will grin and do it -- if only to remind the government,  "Who the Hell is in charge around here, anyway?"

We didn't notice much traffic in assaultish-looking rifles Only a few  were there, and they met resistance at the $2,000-plus askings.

But my oh my was it a different story with the Glocks and other hi-cap 9mms made of coal tar and Gorilla Glue. They moved out as fast as dealers could fill out 4473s and call NICS. (Note to Diane: These forms and the calls are how we evade the law and loophole most of our guns.) 

At our three tables, we had no truck with the 21st Century.  Two were resplendent  with the work of Genius Jeff, the gunsmith, who displayed an assortment of Lazarused Marlin lever guns, Winchester .22 pumps, and, especially, Stevens single rifles. 

The third, mine, was resplendent with what the unkind might call junk, leftover (or never wanted in the first place) shooty stuff and other items for field and stream jocks. I often set up that way because (a) it generates interesting conversations and (b) it nearly always yields enough small-denomination Federal Reserve Cartoons to finance some pleasant acquisitions. To wit:

The long drink of water is a hi-cap (16 rounds or  more) Remington Speedmaster, probably from the 60s. Didn't need it, but for an amazingly small amount of FRC "money" and a brick of .22s, I couldn't resist something so pretty.

Miss Short is, of course, a Browning Challenger, Belgian, an early piece but I don't know how early yet. Those waggish gnomes of Herstal like to get together, slurp pilsner to excess, and giggle at one another. "Hey! I'm bored. Let's make our serial numbering system even more obscure."

She joined my arsenal for a very modest dowry, but I'm afraid I stretched a sacred rule: "It is a mortal  sin to sell a gun."  I confess to  venal error. The Colt New Police  (.38 Colt /.38 SW) lives elsewhere. I rationalized the trade  --  I could shoot the Colt only by reloading for yet another caliber. Balderdash! Too many diameters already. The Browning will be shot and shot and shot.  I've coveted one for years.

Hmmm. Lots of .22s moved here lately. At least I'm ready for a gopher apocalypse.

Murder math in Chicago

Let me impose on your kindness. I know I'm know I'm giggling in public, a breach of taste and good manners.

Please forgive me. You see, I was just reading about Chicago, the political womb of one Barack Obama, sometimes known as His Ineptness, the lawyer-cum-neighborhood organizer. He is the politician who is, at the moment, busily explaining to us what the Constitution of the United States actually means.

As you have read, Chicago -- actually Cook County which is about the same thing --  lost a murderer the other day. The perp had been serving 60 years in an Indiana pen. Chicago borrowed him so he could be tried on an old "drug and armed violence case." Never mind that the case was closed, dismissed, six years ago. Never mind that Cook County prosecutors told Sherf Tom Dart that no prosecutor or  judge had a yen to talk with the Hoosier convict. But Sherf Tom Insisted, so the killer got a nice ride to Chicago, accompanied by a polite note from Indiana, "Y'all wanna please make sure and send this fella back when you're done with him?"

The sherf lost the paper. Somebody in uniform opened the jailhouse door and wished him  good luck. Hilarity ensued. Somebody caught the crook. Game over?

Not quite. That gradual warming trend for upper Illinois can be attributed to the hot breath of Chicago pols, screaming blame at one another. The sheriff finally admitted he and his troops were guilty of misfeasance, but not too guilty. Budget cuts, don't you know. An outdated computer. A Homeric load of work piled on his poor shoulders.

"It's our fault but we move 100,000 people a day and it's all done with paper," Dart said.

(Gratuitous full-frontal arithmetic follows. Reader discretion is advised.)

So, Sherf, you are telling us that you and your acolytes move the equivalent of the entire population of Cook County every 52 days? (5.2 million divided by 100k). Or that you can move every man, woman, and kid in Illinois  between Spring Training and the All-Star Break?  If you have enough paper, of course.

All that may be unfair to Officer Tom as a person. After all, he works in a mysterious numerical environment where a ward of 200,000 human beings can easily deliver 200,001 votes for Rahm, Daly, & Obama, Inc.

Besides, how could this Indiana killer have been part of "armed violence" in Chicago? Guns were (and generally still are) illegal there prior to McDonald, so he couldn't possibly have been armed. This principle has been carried to the White House whose occupant these days is offering it as a paradigm for America.

A handful of heresy

When I was in the church this morning, saying so long to a long-time acquaintance, I wasn't attending to the official eulogy too closely. I quietly picked up a pew Bible and refreshed my memory of some notable political leaders. David was said to be brave, and Solomon was  deemed wise.

They made me think of modern leaders who were either valiant or wise or both. The man currently residing at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue never crossed my mind.

Until later, that is. Then I heard the instant analysis of His Ineptness's Latino vote-purchase plan. (He calls it immigration reform, a dream pact for hustling politicians as U.S. demographics become  swarthier.)

The consensus opinion is that the inept White House plan differs from the inept senate plan in one major way:  His Ineptness doesn't plan to "secure the borders,"
essentially because, he says, we can't.

Now I'm confused. The full might of our Republic is too flaccid to to keep some ragtag crossers in their own country and out of ours. Yet the same commander -- backed by the same force -- comfortably advises every ayatollah and used-camel hustler turned Islamic president within a thousand miles of Suez on all matters under the sun -- administrative, moral, and military. And he expects to be taken seriously.

I was lucky enough not to think of our departing secretary of state, still being lauded as one of the most brilliant foreign policy thinkers in history. You know, Hillary, the lady who did such a good job carrying advice from His Ineptness to Egypt where things are going so swimmingly. You're just a disrespectful smart-alec If you giggle and say her final directive from Foggy Bottom might well read, "Uhh, it's a little hairy over there and you guys better keep your white  infidel  asses out of Cairo these days."

I mean, What Difference Does It Make?

...and the Travis McGee Reader covers the inauguration

At the the top of the news on this historic morning...

--Valerie Jarrett. No one seems to know exactly what she does for a living. All seems to hinge on one achievement. When Val was a Chicago lawyer, she hired the pre-Obama Michelle. Since then she's been a celebrity and an "advisor" to His Ineptness. So I suppose it's best to think of her as America's First Nanny.

That's good enough for MSNBC.  Joe and Mika pointed the camera at her this morning and wondered about the Second Inept Term.  She recited the litany, immigration gun debt fair middle class balanced approach all in this together. But: "He can't do it alone."

To which one seasoned observer replied: "And for that we may thank our God and all the angels."

--In a related development, the electrical teevee says President Obama is the first two-termer to take his oath of office four times. Last time around the judge bungled the wording, so they had a do-over, just to make sure. This time he had to do it once on Sunday, the Constitutionally mandated official day. He'll do it again today as a extra photo-op.

Leading one cockeyed optimist to speculate: "Look, dammit. This guy has sworn to defend the Constitution four times. Four times, count 'em.  Four, dammit!  Maybe that's enough so he gets the general idea." 

Usually reliable sources, speaking on condition of anonymity, told the TMR, "You're outta your damned gourd." 

More news as developments warrant. Keep it right here.

The Rocky Obama Picture Show

The AP previews His Ineptness's imminent dog and pony extravaganza to erase guns, the primary object of which is to demonstrate that he rilly, rilly,cares:

Obama was to announce the measures Wednesday at a White House event that will bring together law enforcement officials, lawmakers and children who wrote the president about gun violence following last month's shooting of 20 young students and six adults at an elementary school in Newtown, Conn.

I know. Politicians do this sort of thespian crap all the time. But can Providence forgive -- and perhaps even assist -- those of us who quaintly believe that the job of high-policy maker is to engage our intellect rather than our emotions?

The children will be cuter than Hell, and that's what the electric teevee will focus on.

And if that ain't James Madison's own sweet truth I'll kiss Mayor Bloomburg's  arse at the Bushmaster factory gate and let you invite Rachael Maddow to do the commentary. 

Alarums and diversions

Side notes on gun control, Obama style:

--See? He meant it when he told the Russian he would have more flexibility in his second reign. And some guys thought we were being silly and mean and partisan to mention it.

--I just found my first loophole in the New York law limiting handgun magazine capacity   A Hi-Standard Sentinel holds nine "bullets" -- two over the limit.  And what is a double action revolver if it is not a semi-automatic with a slightly awkward trigger pull? Alert Mayor Bloomburg.

-- And speaking of loopholes, perhaps the neatest one in the country is down on the corner of 68th and Halstead in Chicago -- the neighborhood organized by His Ineptness when he was still at the low end of the government pay scale.  The dealer counts your cash but doesn't ask impertinent questions. (If you're on a tight thuggery budget, the same entrepreneur will rent you a piece.)


(h/t for title to Mr. Thurber)

Confiscating your guns and other shooty stuff

What I'm watching for today:

Since I don't think His Ineptness  is politically stupid, I doubt he'll take the supreme political risk of demanding confiscation of all of your guns which might look like assault weapons to, for instance, Governor Cuomo.

If I'm wrong, I suspect it he'll lipstick the pig, making it a "soft "confiscation. A mandatory buyback or some such scheme to get the stuff out of citizens' hands and into the vaults of the Only Ones.*

Magazines are another matter, and he might well look at the fresh New York state  confiscation scheme -- complete with lipstick. Empire staters have a year to sell their high-caps to an officially approved buyer. In 366 days they (a) become subject to government seizure and (b) turn the owners into criminals.

In any case, I think type and degree of what ever confiscation proposals he might make will be a pretty decent guide to how the debate will progress. It would take a very different congress to approve gun confiscation. To a lesser extent, the same is true of magazine seizures.

If the president opts for the most draconian rape of rights guaranteed by the Second Amendment, we'll have most of the evidence we need that he's rather careless about Newtown and other violent horrors -- that he's just play-acting in search of political cover and liberal-base pandering.

---

*Please stop fretting about the buyback cost. It can easily be handled if the Bank of China develops a payday loan office. Alternatively, Attorney General Holder might actually make it profitable, capitalizing on his experience in filling the arsenals of  Mexican drug warlords.

Obama speaks, so to speak

I used to think His Ineptness was only a little more inept than Bush. Wrong. He  is much worse.

I listened as carefully as I could this morning and can not credit this guy with a single syllogism. Not a damn one; not even a credible stab at one.

For the first time in history voters have chosen a man who speaks only in sound bites. We might as well have elected Rick Perry.

---

Vote for me come 2016.  I promise to bullshit around with you only for purposes sof mutual entertainment.

The diversity cliff

Good gawd. I think my electric teevee -- like Tam's car radio -- has been hijacked by a transmitter from Planet Zongo.

Because I've learned from  CNN and MSNBC that National Problem Number One is that we are doomed because His Ineptness, the partially black president, is a racist for appointing adult white males to his cabinet. A diversity cliff.

Among the wailers is Congressman Charlie Rangel who makes Page One by calling the latest cabinet picks "embarrassing as hell."  No, Charlie. The  national  embarrassment is that you still occupy a plush congressional seat instead of the cell next door to  Roddy Blagojevich.

I think Obama did it on purpose. If folks spend all their time thinking about the APL* and the dangle/dimple ratio in high bureaucratic circles, they'll be less likely to stumble across the notion that the trillion-dollar coin may become an everyday necessity for making small purchases.

---

*Average Pigmentation Level

Got a second, Your Ineptness?

Thank you.

There was this other leader, old guy named Churchill.

May, 1940. He and his countrymen look across the channel and notice quite a lot of Nazis suddenly appearing in places where they weren't supposed to be. That gets them thinking about their own cottages in the face of Hun power. And that gets Mr. Churchill thinking about Brit civilians with those awful, nasty guns. And smiling.

"The swift fate of Holland was in all our minds. Mr. Eden had already proposed to the War Cabinet the formation of Local Defense Volunteers, and this plan was energetically pressed. All over the country, in every town and village,  bands of determined men came together armed with shotguns, sporting rifles, clubs and spears."

I mean,  just for whatever the thought is worth to you, Sir, recognizing of course that it could never happen here.

---

"The Battle of Britain," the Bantam reprint, pp 48-49

Makes me sick

The electrical teevee news on CNN and MSNBC was drearier and more banal than usual this morning. So I flipped over to the Fox thigh fest. The theory was that if a guy is going to kill brain cells he might as well try to stir his hormones in compensation. It didn't work very well.  So I shut it all off, got out the check book, and started paying bills, first the health insurance premium.

Now, extreme self-revelation is well and good. Hell, it almost a staple of bloggery, but I'm uncomfortable with it. Readers already know the most intimate facts of  my life -- retired wire service man, political operative, semi-skilled handy man,  a devourer of books with an unhealthy interest in firearms, water sports, and women who manage knees-together allure with bits and pieces of fabric giving a decent scope to a man's imagination.

So I offer my invasion of my own privacy here reluctantly and only in service of larger truth.

 Here's what I spent on health care last year:

About 200 Federal Reserve Cartoons, all out-of-pocket. Broken down, that represents one uninsured prescription renewal, perhaps 30 generic ibuprofen and aspirin tablets, a  partial box of bi-carb,  a few pair of one-dollar reading glasses (1.25 and 1.5 diopters if you must know),  and a modest number of band aids.  Disregarding a spendy surgery -- only partially insured -- to ameliorate a hearing problem years ago, that's a reasonably typical year.

I report this only to claim that I am not a frequent defiler of  the venal healing industry -- either that part of it representing American socialism or its near-relative, my "private" insurance.

My reward? An 18 per cent increase in the already back-breaking premium which has more than doubled in six  years. And if you go by the news, I'm luckier than most.

I talked this over with an insurance expert, an old friend. He said it's complicated (No shit, Sam Spade?) but that if you're looking for a one-word reason, "Obamacare" is accurate. Surprise, isn't it? Who would have thought that free or cheap doctoring for x million more people might require a little extra from people who pay for it?

---

Al Capp used to get big laughs at the expense of ATT when it held a government-protected monopoly on telephone service.  Ma Bell's ambitions were modest, he admitted. She would happily settle for owning all the wealth in the country. And if you want to draw comparisons between that and His Ineptness's new death grip on you, your doctor, and your insurance company, why, it's okay by me.



  

Jesus wept.

And so does the ghost of Thomas Jefferson.

The President of the United States, presiding over what could be a calamity in the American economy, summoned the television cameras  in this hour and advised our congress to have some egg nog and Christmas cookies to improve their attitude.

If that doesn't prove his mental bankruptcy I'll kiss Rudolph's arse under the tree in the White House Blue Room and sign a model release.

--- 

Folks, I can't get too teary-eyed about Warren Buffet forking over a little more every April 15. But I also can't report that higher taxes on anyone will have the tiniest effect on the impending national bankruptcy.*

Not one cent of any new tax extortions will be applied to the deficit or the debt. Any fresh revenue extracted from productive use by private citizens will be used as an excuse to borrow more in order to facilitate vote buying from His Ineptness on down to the lowliest back-benchers in our legislative chambers.

---

 *I don't refer to the made-for-teevee drama which we're calling the  "fiscal cliff."  That's a small pimple on the national butt. The reference is to the long-term, unannounced, devaluation of the United States dollar as a concious, planned policy of the political masters.

Thursday morning thumbnails

I'm working my way up to some major rants. But on this nice winter day TMR is in a preview mode. So here are the trailers::

--1. We already fell off the fiscal cliff. Pedants will insist on knowing just when we tripped. I'm still working it out. The earliest reasonable date in January 20, 1961, when the poseur John F. Kennedy promised the world that the United States of America would be pleased to bankrupt itself to put a Weber grill and a gaggle of Harvard lawyers in every back yard from Vietnam to Kaphukistan. (bear any burden, pay any price et al. oratorical nonsense).  The latest likely date is around the time Bill boffed Monica to celebrate passage of the revised  Community Reinvestment  Act, requiring banks to lend to people who could not  possibly repay and probably wouldn't if they could.

(The fall was often pleasant in in its early years  --  floaty, you might say, something like riding a very good hang glider, rising in vagrant thermals which mask the sure triumph of gravity.  Updrafts are rarer lately, and the descent accelerates, much like Poe's increasingly frantic prose as the Red Death approaches the ballroom door.)

--2.  We become broker by the day because we continue to do incredibly stupid things, large and small. One of the small ones is roiling my psyche lately because I drive by it daily -- a million-plus worth of "trail." It skirts the edge of my village , relatively harmlessly in the highway ditch for a while, then through a patch of wild land purchased by private citizens a decade ago and turned over to the Iowa DNR in order to save it from a housing development. The federal DOT, Iowa DOT, and local taxpayers are now financing a noticeable rape of that land. Some of the greenery will grow back, of course, but not on the paved strip which, by the way, is built to a standard just shy of that required to support Peterbilts. We wouldn't want a road bed failure to endanger the the strolling mom and her perambulator.  The significant point, however, is that hardly anyone actually uses these things.

--3. Kwee 4. The first one moved me to counsel  accumulating copper pennies; the second to acquiring large stocks of ammunition; the third to laying in pints of whiskey for barter. This latest QE persuades me we might as well just drink the whiskey.

The Perils of Pauline

Relax, Pauline. You're not going over the cliff. You are the succulent trough from which our Masters slurp, and they're smart enough -- just barely -- to keep you breathing.  Certainly they'll rip your petticoats and rape you a little bit,  but in due course you'll up and around, fattening yourself for the next episode. Which will end like this one, music at crescendo, another drama under the glaring Kliegs, and the most egregious case of political ham-acting since Marc Antony delivered extemporaneous remarks over the corpse of Caesar.

---

It's fun to watch the posturing, like an evening at Bedlam, but it's too easy to have moments of taking these apes seriously. Resist that. Pay attention to the fine print projected hazily on the scrim:

"What liars these political things be." 

For those lacking time or motivation to follow the link, the historical evidence shows governments as perpetual payday loan clients.  Give them a new dollar and they will spend it, plus some -- $1.04 to $1.80, depending on how you slice and dice the survey data.

The latest gun market report

At a small country auction this morning in Northwest Iowa:

 Mossberg Model 185D-B 20 ga. bolt action, 2 3/4" chamber;  $160

Winchester 3030 Model 94, used very little; $900 and note that this was recent production, routinely available NIB at near half the hammer price.

Marlin Model 19G, 12 ga. pump shot gun w/long barrel;    c. $125

Marlin Model #37 -22 pump rifle; $210.  I dropped out  at $150 due to condition; the butt stock was too trashy.

Colt DA 32  (sic) w/case & US issue holster, was Jim's dad's WWI issue;  $500.  My "sic" was sic.  It was a .32 Colt, an old 4-inch Police Positive,  and undoubtedly a POW rather than an "issue" revolver. The holster was issue but too long for this piece and likely intended for the earlier GI Colt .38.

Colt Huntsman 22 long rifle, auto;  $500. Arguably reasonable, but I considered the condition to be low-average and the price too high for a shooter.

Rohm 22 Magnum Model 66;  $160. Junk in any condition, and this one was about average.

Ruger .22 auto .22 long; $310. A routine Ruger Standard, 6-inch, which are all over the loopholes here at c. $210-220.

---

I believe I mentioned that our agripersons stagger under the load of Obama/Bernanke/Congressslug cash and tend to get somewhat "excitable" when  under the thrall of a good auctioneer offering blue steel. I apologize for the poor characterization and should have written that they get galactically freeken hysterical.  

Arab Spring, Act II

The AP tells us:

A widening dispute between the president and the nation's judiciary is at the center of the uproar over a constitutional declaration placing Morsi above oversight of any kind, including by the courts.

Dang. Democracy in the Middle East fails again, and we are all astounded.

I hate radical solutions, but I fear we must send Susan Rice to Cairo with a page  of talking points.

Personally, I blame the video.

A little gun lust

Next Saturday morning is reserved for a lethal weapons bazaar out in the country, a backwash farm not from from the head waters of Stony Creek where Inkpadutah's band of Wahpekute Dakotas liked to hunt elk when they were not busy killing white people for stealing their land.

Nothing on the auction goes back as far as the ~ 1855 to 1865 period when old Inky was making a pest of himself in these parts. Only the Colt D.A. .38 comes within a long generation of being contemporary. It could be a model as early as 1892 or as late as 1905, the latter only as a USMC variant. It took Colt a long time to get this one right, especially to make the cylinder turn the right way. I owned one decades ago, flimsy lockwork, impossible trigger, and all.

The lineup, with the three that interest me in bold:


GUNS: Mossberg Model 185D-B 20 ga. bolt action, 2 3/4" chamber; Winchester 3030 Model 94, used very little; Marlin Model 19G, 12 ga. pump shot gun w/long barrel; Marlin Model #37 -22 pump rifle; Colt DA 32  (sic) w/case & US issue holster, was Jim's dad's WWI issue; Rohm 22 Magnum Model 66; Ruger 22 long, auto.; Colt Huntsman 22 long rifle, auto; WWI steel helmet; WWI gas mask; 1917 Camp Dodge pic.; 1917 Soldier's Handbook; lrg. military shell

World War 1 is a bit outside my interest, probably because I have never fully shaken the vague notion that Mrs. Wilson may have chosen the wrong side.  Kaiser Bill wasn't really an evil dude, and it might have been useful to have a bunch of snobbish Prussian junkers between us and Joe Stalin in the middle third of the 20th Century.  God knows the Frogs and the Brits weren't all that useful.

Still, the Colt is a bona fide U.S. Military relic, so maybe I'll bid even though it was a miserable design first built for a pipsqueak cartridge. Also, this example is rough.

So is the Colt Huntsman, but I'll try for it anyway. In the first place the one already resident in the local vault is lonely. In the second, it will make my friend K grit his teeth in jealousy again, and that's worth something. :)

The Marlin Model 37 would likewise make good company for the M-38 already in hand. They're fraternal if not identical twins,  and a sweeter little rabbit gun/plinker never existed.

So, we'll see, but I'll show up at Dick's auction prepared to be disappointed. Our agrarians are flush this fall with crop money, drought disaster money, ethanol mandate money and Lord knows what else from the generous hands of His Ineptness and master gardener Tom Vilsack.  This tends to make them excitable at auctions.