The urge to kill neighbors who blast high-decibel rock across the block is understandable. It is not defensible, and a jury in Texas got it right.
Danaher was part of a loud party in the wee hours. Rodriguez got a gun, walked onto Danaher's driveway and, after a long and moronic argument fueled by the demon rum, shot him dead.
He claimed self-defense under the Texas stand-your-ground law. The jury disagreed, even after learning that Danaher and some of his partying pals added their own boozy stupidity to the fracas.
Ladies and Gentlemen, when we initiate a confrontation, intrude on our neighbor's property, and then kill him we are not "standing our ground." We are behaving like an especially stupid asshole who misses the whole point of self-defense statutes.
Their purpose is to permit lethal response to a gratuitous threat of lethal force. It is a doctrine designed to allow you to preserve your life, not your ego.
Nor even your right to be free of 100-decibel juvie music intruding on your sleep. That's a job for the cops.
This guilty verdict should sustain the arguments for stand-your-ground by making the point clearer. It becomes part of the case law, and we ought to cite it freely when ever we are contesting the issue with the dupes of Ste. Sarah.
Jun 14, 2012
Adventures in shopping
It's a 20-mile round trip to the big city, population about 4,200.
I go there as seldom as possible, about once a month, when New Dog Libby's supply of Purina Dog Chow in an Old Roy bag gets low. While I'm at it, I do my "big" grocery shopping, a little at WalMart, most of it at a medium-box store.
It's never a particularly happy day. Virtually every trip to consumerville reveals at least one jaw-dropper. This time, at Wally's, I discovered that it is perfectly possible to buy a jug of "Sugar-Free Imitation Honey."
A man could buy that and still be permitted to vote, and if that doesn't explain the Decline of the West better than Spengler, I'll kiss your arse at high noon in a field of clover and give you an hour to buzz up a film crew.
I go there as seldom as possible, about once a month, when New Dog Libby's supply of Purina Dog Chow in an Old Roy bag gets low. While I'm at it, I do my "big" grocery shopping, a little at WalMart, most of it at a medium-box store.
It's never a particularly happy day. Virtually every trip to consumerville reveals at least one jaw-dropper. This time, at Wally's, I discovered that it is perfectly possible to buy a jug of "Sugar-Free Imitation Honey."
A man could buy that and still be permitted to vote, and if that doesn't explain the Decline of the West better than Spengler, I'll kiss your arse at high noon in a field of clover and give you an hour to buzz up a film crew.
Jun 13, 2012
We love Brownell's and hate statism. So our moral compass is spinning.
I suppose the best we can do is take some cheap pleasure in hoplophobes' horror at this particular taxpayer handout.
I suppose the best we can do is take some cheap pleasure in hoplophobes' horror at this particular taxpayer handout.
Jun 12, 2012
The Stanley Cup
Eight days before the summer solstice, the electric teevee and all the papers are giddy about something called The Stanley Cup. For those of you whose lives have been sufficiently full without knowing what that is, it is a gimcrack given for "hockey," one of the few games in which no one has ever actually seen a goal being scored.
This mistimed irelevancy at least illustrates how badly America has strayed from the Great Cosmic Plan.
God ordained certain seasons, to wit:
June, July, August -- Baseball, with a brief extension permitting the World Series to be played in September.
September, October, November -- Football, again with a special dispensation permitting a contest on New Year's Day which must pit the champion of the Big Ten against some Left Coast pickups.
December, January , and February -- Basketball.
March, April, and May are reserved for sporting romance, the private consummations of which must be neither photographed nor televised. Its public exposure is limited to (a) planning June weddings and (b) bankrupting parents in executing said plans.
Hockey is omitted. It is not an American sport. If Los Angeles insists otherwise it simply verifies the widely held view that it is not an American city.
(If LA remains intransigent on the subject, a trade can be arranged -- the whole damned city and all of its slurbs for a couple of nice quiet lakes in Northwest Ontario. Plus a draft choice to be announced later. Perhaps...).
This mistimed irelevancy at least illustrates how badly America has strayed from the Great Cosmic Plan.
God ordained certain seasons, to wit:
June, July, August -- Baseball, with a brief extension permitting the World Series to be played in September.
September, October, November -- Football, again with a special dispensation permitting a contest on New Year's Day which must pit the champion of the Big Ten against some Left Coast pickups.
December, January , and February -- Basketball.
March, April, and May are reserved for sporting romance, the private consummations of which must be neither photographed nor televised. Its public exposure is limited to (a) planning June weddings and (b) bankrupting parents in executing said plans.
Hockey is omitted. It is not an American sport. If Los Angeles insists otherwise it simply verifies the widely held view that it is not an American city.
(If LA remains intransigent on the subject, a trade can be arranged -- the whole damned city and all of its slurbs for a couple of nice quiet lakes in Northwest Ontario. Plus a draft choice to be announced later. Perhaps...).
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