Royal Succession to Teddy Kennedy

It is a custom of monarchs to name their own successors, and most of they time they get away with doing so.

So it almost is in Massachusetts where the final act of hypocrisy in one of American history's most hypocritical political lives is underway.

You can read the AP link, but you probably already know the salient facts. Five years ago Sen. Edward M. Kennedy told the folks back home to repeal the law permitting the governor to name a replacement for a senator who dies. And of course, the people obeyed, Teddy being, after all, a Kennedy.

This summer, a dying Senator Kennedy had an epiphany and told the folks back home that his state deserved two voices in the Senate, therefore the governor must be permitted to name the successor to a senator who dies.

And so this morning the folks back home, speaking through a legislature dominated by the Joe Kennedy/Tip O'Neill Democratic machine, plan to "debate" the Kennedy deathbed edict.

Some lonesome and honest soul in that lawmaking body will certainly be rude enough to wonder aloud if the late senator's call from the grave might have the teeniest motivation of a Republican governor in 2004 and a pliant machine Democrat in 2009.

That Bay State Diogenes will then be attacked as a right-wing toady to Rush Limbaugh. He will be pilloried for sullying the Kennedy legacy which, as everyone knows, exemplifies the American virtues of selflessness, decorum, and modesty in all facets of their lives, public and private.

And if that isn't the truth I'll kiss your arse on the quarterdeck of the U.S.S. Constitution and foot the bill for a video uplink to the teevee satellite of your choice.

Domestica redux

Before the hour of eleven this morning a friend I see too seldom came for coffee, the city maintenance man appeared with a load of firewood which he help me unload and stack, a neighbor delivered a quart of Jack Daniels as a bon voyage offering, and best looking woman in this end of town popped in for a visit. So much for the loneliness of bachelorhood, though I concede this was a considerably more social weekday than I'm accustomed to .

The new underarm stuff, maybe?

Veritable Arsenal

This jaunt is not overly planned, but I suspect we're looking at about two or three thousand miles through the barren waste lands of the great American desert. My bestiaries report a land of vipers and sagebrush, grizzly bears and wolves; ethnographic studies reveal a populace quick to retaliate against violent provocation.

So I feel pretty good about things and don't really see a need to be armed to the extent necessary for an excursion down South Halstead Street in Chicago. And since guns get kicked around severely on my camping trips, the prettier ones stay home.

For what it is worth, here's one man's concept of a well-stocked arms locker for a few days on the great prairie and in the Rockies when no hunting is planned.

--For general pleasure and common pest control, the Smith 59, just because I'm comfortable with it, like having 28 rounds easily available in its two magazines, and a few more dings aren't going to set my tear ducts flowing. This will be a fine chance to shoot up all the remaining ancient reloads. I don't worry about the pipsqueak caliber because I figure the odds of trouble are slim.

--In case I'm wrong about that last point, the 20-inch Mossberg 500 with with five rounds of 12 gauge 00 buck in the magazine and five more in the stock band.

--A .22LR semi, maybe the Winchester 74, maybe one of the 10-22s. There is no place like the Wyoming/Montana plains for just plain plinking fun.

That arsenal should be veritable enough, though I'm beginning to flay myself for not planning on a Winchester 94 or a single six. How can a self-respecting man go to the shadow of the Big Horns without a cowboy gun?

The trip starts when you begin stocking the book locker with appropriate reading and research matter. So. for everyone who has been in my house in the past two years: Where are the rest of my Rocky Mountain fur trade books? I warn you that I can be a mean SOB when aroused.