....has always been at war with Eastasia

Support your local Telescreen.

Genuflect to your  new "state fusion center." It seeks to know you better than God does.

And, for Heaven's sake, do nothing suspicious.

The Washington Post is doing a series on federal, state, and local police lust to put you, me, and the other  330 million of us under the microscope.

A trip to WalMart (which is cooperating with the snoops) for a bag of rose fertilizer and a gallon of kerosene for your shop heater gets you  -- or in due course will get you -- a place in the database of suspected terrorist ANFO freaks.

"At the same time that the FBI is expanding its West Virginia database, it is building a vast repository controlled by people who work in a top-secret vault on the fourth floor of the J. Edgar Hoover FBI Building in Washington. This one stores the profiles of tens of thousands of Americans and legal residents who are not accused of any crime. What they have done is appear to be acting suspiciously to a town sheriff, a traffic cop or even a neighbor."


The cost is hideous, tens or hundreds of billions; we're in the dark because, of course, telling us what we're paying would alert Osama that we're trying to  catch his acolytes.


So far the universal Telescreen seems to be quite effective in nabbing Sad Sacks with outstanding traffic warrants. And tracking the vacationer who photographs a Staten Island ferry boat.


Folks, the WaPo piece is long. It is worth your time.

And it is actionable if your habits are as suspicious as mine.  At least three times this year I have entered WalMart in the deep dark of late night to purchase munitions to fit my BL22,  (a weapon fully capable of killing at 100 yards). There is no place in the Miniluv database for a lame explanation about disliking crowds. So, from now on, I'll buy the Federal 550 bulk packs at Noon, in the Darkness thereof.

About that foreign weenie...

Every time truth requires me to admit to using a 9mm Eurowimp as my bread and butter piece, I feel compelled to get all defensive about it.

I loopholed the 59 cheap, as it should have been. It was intended to be trading stock, but my vestigial conscience denied permission to foist it off until it could be used as intended. So I disassembled, deburred, throated, and polished the internals. Most significantly I ground enough metal from the frame to permit the trigger to go back far enough to trip the sear every time. This is the truth, and I can still display the tool marks to doubters.

About the time I finished making the damned thing work right,  I got sucked into the high-capacity vortex which was just gathering speed in those days.

"Look,"  I thought,  "with 13 rounds in one magazine, I am  reasonably well covered for any threat I can imagine, even if I can't immediately put my hands on the spare."  


It remains a valid point, even after a guy becomes totally disenchanted with the 9mm as a defense round. (You can hedge your bet with zippy hand loads, and I do.) Besides, I really like shooting the thing.

But the controlling point is that my life has become almost as threat-free as a modern American life can be.  On the rare, all but nonexistent, occasions when I don't t think that Pollyanna-ish view is justified, the pipsqueak goes into the safe, and out comes one of Mr. Browning's (PBUH) 1911s in the decisive .45 ACP.

I do not urge this solution on others.

The uncarried pistol

Out of an essential,  I had to warm up the van and drive a mile to the country convenience store before sunrise this morning.

---

My usual carry pistol is a SW 59, a turn-in by a police department which could not tolerate the criminally slipshod quality. Diligent frobnistication has turned it into a fast, dependable, and accurate defense piece.  It generally lives in the vehicle, as does a purely recreational Ruger RST4.

Yesterday morning I brought them inside for a routine inspection and wipedown. I neglected to put them back.

---

Years ago I spent a three-year career break in some misery, teaching in a high school. Among my burdens was a hard-luck kid of no motivation, a surly attitude, and an explosive rejection of my insistence that everyone, college prep or metal-shop  loafer, should have at least a passing acquaintance with Shakespeare, Dickens, and the elements of civilized speech. His hatred of me apparently was profound.

---

I made my purchase and got into the van. As I started the engine a massively-bearded six-foot-something apparition emerged from behind a black Suburban with something in its right hand. It banged on my window.  It occurred to me that, being unarmed, a speedy drive-off would best satisfy the requirements of prudence.

But this is a small community, my small community, and habits of friendliness die hard. I cracked the window three or four  inches, just enough to communicate. Still, I shifted into gear and held the brake pedal down with the left foot, the right one poised over the accelerator.

Comes the voice:

"Hi Mr. _____________. I had this left over from the box and thought you might want it."


I accepted the rolled Sunday newspaper and said, "Thank you."

I can't imagine the synaptic processes that led to recognition of my old English-hating student.

"Hey, is that you _________ ?

"Yep. Just thought you might like the Sunday  paper, Mr.____________. Merry Christmas."  





 

Set back, relax, and enjoy your flight.

The Iranian-American businessman who forgot to take his loaded  Baby Glock out of his computer bag was a little embarrassed to find it after a flight from Houston. He thought maybe the crack  TSA security operatives ought to be, too. 




 "It's just impossible to miss it, you know. I mean, this is not a small gun," Seif told ABC News. "How can you miss it? You cannot miss it."


But the TSA did miss it, and maybe --- I dunno, just maybe -- I can answer  his question.

Was one of these in the  security queue, motivating the TSA  fellas to lose concentration and squabble quietly over whose turn it was to gape at the pervoscan, or probulate her as a opt-out?  I mean, I'm just askin', here.