It's our politicians' article of faith that 90 per cent of all those guns murdering women and children in Mexico come from the United States. I mean, don't we hand an M16 to every high school kid in Texas and Arizona?
It occurs, however, that the politicians are wrong. Almost 90 per cent of the crime weapons confiscated by Mexican cops and Federales do not come from the United States. Their cradle language is more likely to be Spanish, Korean, or Chinese.
I post the source with a caution. It's somewhat long and full of number-crunching and other miscellaneous geekery. Admirably so, but you may want to wait until you have a few minutes, a cup of coffee, and an appetite for detailed analysis before clicking here, to STRATFOR.
A sample: According to the GAO report, some 30,000 firearms were seized from criminals by Mexican authorities in 2008. Of these 30,000 firearms, information pertaining to 7,200 of them (24 percent) was submitted to the U.S. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives (ATF) for tracing. Of these 7,200 guns, only about 4,000 could be traced by the ATF, and of these 4,000, some 3,480 (87 percent) were shown to have come from the United States.
That is, Officer Hernandez and his Jefe set aside their powdered enchiladas, look over last month's weapons haul (slipping the especially nice or salable ones into their personal tucker bags) and make two piles. One is for those guns which might have come from the north. The other one is for guns so obviously non-U.S. related that not even a BATF desk pogue would be fooled. They send the data on the former to Washington, salted with just enough possibly non-U.S-loophole weapons to create a veneer of credibility.
It would take only a C+ student of sixth-grade arithmetic to suggest that the 3,840 identified as U.S.-acquired be divided by the 30,000 seized to announce that 87 per cent of of the crime guns in that woebegone country were acquired from non-U.S. sources.
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With 3,000 murders a year in Jaurez alone, doesn't that 30,000 total crime guns seized across the country suggest a certain relaxed attitude toward solving crimes down there? Manana, Senor Jefe
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I'm indebted to my pal Alan for STRATFOR piece.
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 9, 2011
Stupid Brady Tricks
It isn't hard to debate a bill about a citizen's duty to retreat or right to stand his ground in the face of deadly threat. You discuss the tort-reform aspects of it. You consider the definitions of the important terms -- "deadly threat," "reasonable person," and so forth. You search for careful language to confirm the right without creating as many problems as you solve.
But don't waste your breath shooting for honest discourse with the flacks who take a Brady Campaign paycheck. They were all trained in the Jack Parr School of Disputation. "When cornered by logic, try crying and name calling. If that doesn't work, raise your voice, and never, ever, constrain yourself with the dictates of reason."
But don't waste your breath shooting for honest discourse with the flacks who take a Brady Campaign paycheck. They were all trained in the Jack Parr School of Disputation. "When cornered by logic, try crying and name calling. If that doesn't work, raise your voice, and never, ever, constrain yourself with the dictates of reason."
"It's just absolutely crazy," said Brian Malte, a spokesman for the Brady Campaign Against Gun Violence. "It's a license to just start shooting in public. You're basically giving permission to shoot almost anyone and shoot in the public arena and possibly kill or injure an innocent bystander."
I have read that little paragraph several times and can find only one statement of fact amidst the hysteria -- that Malte works for Brady.
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I have read that little paragraph several times and can find only one statement of fact amidst the hysteria -- that Malte works for Brady.
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It's morning in America
7:30 a.m -- Drastic oversleep. Become vertical. Pee and moan about achy back.
7:32 a.m. -- Attempt to read small outside thermometer. Gritty eyes decline to focus. Treat with Visine. Re-look. nine below.
7:34 a.m. -- Perfunctorily scratch dog ears.
7:35 -- Feed fire with oak logs, two small and one large.
7:37 -- Stumble to kitchen. Fire up coffee pot. Tell dog, "Hold it for another sec, eh?" (vulgarity in original statement here omitted)
7;40 -- Let dog out after stern warning not to go running off.
7:40:07 -- Dog goes running off. Step onto deck in stocking feet and "pajamas" and yell. Feel lungs seize up and other bodily parts shrivel. Yell again. Dog returns to deck area, decorates snow. Beats me through the door and to the hearth.
7:42 -- Steal cup of coffee from half-done pot. Spill some of same. Shrug; counter-top disaster anyway.
7:45 -- Slurp enough hot coffee to wash down one aspirin.
7:47 -- Log on to National Weather Service point forecast. Confirms nine below. Perform masochistic act and check Duluth, 200+ miles north, where kids are visiting. Only seven below. Remark the irony to dog who seems not to give a damn.
7:48 -- Slowly, slowly, slowly transform grim mouth-set to semblance of smile at seeing release date of tomorrow, when begins a warmup. One more arctic night, then more than a week of nothing even close to zero, daytime highs above freezing.
7:50 - present -- engage in decision-making process re when or whether to get dressed.
.
7:32 a.m. -- Attempt to read small outside thermometer. Gritty eyes decline to focus. Treat with Visine. Re-look. nine below.
7:34 a.m. -- Perfunctorily scratch dog ears.
7:35 -- Feed fire with oak logs, two small and one large.
7:37 -- Stumble to kitchen. Fire up coffee pot. Tell dog, "Hold it for another sec, eh?" (vulgarity in original statement here omitted)
7;40 -- Let dog out after stern warning not to go running off.
7:40:07 -- Dog goes running off. Step onto deck in stocking feet and "pajamas" and yell. Feel lungs seize up and other bodily parts shrivel. Yell again. Dog returns to deck area, decorates snow. Beats me through the door and to the hearth.
7:42 -- Steal cup of coffee from half-done pot. Spill some of same. Shrug; counter-top disaster anyway.
7:45 -- Slurp enough hot coffee to wash down one aspirin.
7:47 -- Log on to National Weather Service point forecast. Confirms nine below. Perform masochistic act and check Duluth, 200+ miles north, where kids are visiting. Only seven below. Remark the irony to dog who seems not to give a damn.
7:48 -- Slowly, slowly, slowly transform grim mouth-set to semblance of smile at seeing release date of tomorrow, when begins a warmup. One more arctic night, then more than a week of nothing even close to zero, daytime highs above freezing.
7:50 - present -- engage in decision-making process re when or whether to get dressed.
.
Feb 8, 2011
Get on the floor, bitch.
Do it NOW, cuz I don't think that breast pin is registered.
(And please, I am not being a copper bore this time either. I'm being a gold bore, merely noting in passing that copper today passed $4.60 and that your old copper cent is now worth a curly over three zinc pennies.)
The cops in Federal Way, Washington, are embarrassed at a rise in home burglaries. They blame Tim and Ben or whatever for making gold prices go so high. So they aspire to make it much harder to sell your grandma's ugly old cocktail ring if it contains gold, silver, or platinum. To do so you make the dealer take your fingerprints, require him to issue you a check rather than cash, retain the trinket for 45 days, and enter it on a police database.
The city fathers are pushing a state law to that effect, but legislative deliberation is much too slow for them, so they want to enact it locally. Me? I figure that if they get the job done there will be a boom in coin dealerships, pawn shops, and precious metal dealers just outside the city limits. If the state caves in, well, Idaho isn't all that far off.
But guys like us are probably just warped old cynics who have no sympathy for common-sense jewelry control.
Some of you are even worse. I mean you radical malcontents who look at this as a neat way for the gummint to keep track of your wedding band after the tipping point. The tipping point is defined as that instant during which you and I and the Chinese decide to quit going along with the gag that our currency means something.
(And please, I am not being a copper bore this time either. I'm being a gold bore, merely noting in passing that copper today passed $4.60 and that your old copper cent is now worth a curly over three zinc pennies.)
The cops in Federal Way, Washington, are embarrassed at a rise in home burglaries. They blame Tim and Ben or whatever for making gold prices go so high. So they aspire to make it much harder to sell your grandma's ugly old cocktail ring if it contains gold, silver, or platinum. To do so you make the dealer take your fingerprints, require him to issue you a check rather than cash, retain the trinket for 45 days, and enter it on a police database.
The city fathers are pushing a state law to that effect, but legislative deliberation is much too slow for them, so they want to enact it locally. Me? I figure that if they get the job done there will be a boom in coin dealerships, pawn shops, and precious metal dealers just outside the city limits. If the state caves in, well, Idaho isn't all that far off.
But guys like us are probably just warped old cynics who have no sympathy for common-sense jewelry control.
Some of you are even worse. I mean you radical malcontents who look at this as a neat way for the gummint to keep track of your wedding band after the tipping point. The tipping point is defined as that instant during which you and I and the Chinese decide to quit going along with the gag that our currency means something.
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