Why do we "blog," people?
For attention, of course. Is it possible to find a "post" -- or, for that matter, any piece of writing, anywhere, in any medium -- which doesn't announce in one way or another, "See how cool I am?" Not to worry, fellow writers. A sin so universal is no sin at all; like gravity, it is a natural fact, something to which we accommodate ourselves.
But we use and abuse our keyboards for other reasons, causes beyond the human desire for one 15-minute period of personal fame after another.
In this libertarian-ish corner we emphasize mocking authoritarians. Strip the pretentious bastards bare. Lock them in stocks on the village green. Joyfully invite public attention to their warty morals. It is a vital public service.
We have the good fortune to exist under a Constitution which protects our rights to the most forceful speech and gesture from criminal prosecution. This includes you and me calling President Obama ugly names, and it includes Lindsay Stone.
She's the thoughtless bitch who deemed it harmlessly cute to be photographed at The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, flipping off something or someone. The internet made her famous, then infamous, and she slithered under the First Amendment blankie. That's her defense against being arrested, and I glory in the fact that she has it.
At the same time, I would shed no tears if Fortune punished her with a loathsome disease, perhaps severe adult-onset acne. Her attention must be engaged with the notion that some things, however legal, mark her as a thickhead whose taste and judgement ceased developing about the time she was potty trained.
Now, we can do only a little to alter the fact that obnoxious numbskulls exist among us and that the internet gives them power, or at least wide exposure. But we should try. That's where discerning writers come in, encapsulating the concept in a couple dozen words which even Lindsay might one day understand.
It's the difference between lighting up next to a "NO SMOKING" sign, and lighting up next to a "NO SMOKING" sign in a pediatric lung cancer ward. One's rebellious, the other's reprehensible.
.
Nov 20, 2012
As a public service...
...I post the following because the internet is desperately short of cute kitty pictures.
I think this is the sole survivor of a litter thrown by a now-missing black mama in my wildflower/weed patch. It took up residence in the bilge of the long-drydocked pocket cruiser where my daughter found and fed it a few days ago. I continue to subsidize its nutritional needs. Since last night it's been rooted where you see it, near the commandant's quarters deck.
New Dog Libby hissy-fits but is willing, upon command, to stop trying to turn it into lunch.
I'm no cat man, but a good hard-working outside, repeat outside, feline would have some pest control advantages around here so I'll continue the St. Francis routine.
----
And just so no one thinks I've gone completely softheaded and barmy, I still concentrate on more important stuff than cats.
It's another rebuilt 1903 Springfield, someone else's good work from many years ago in the excellent .257 Roberts. it's too seldom shot around here, but Grandson and I blew the cobwebs from the barrel Saturday. Great fun, and it will be worked a little harder in the future.
Lyman. Real men don't have no truck with tilliescopes and laserites.
(Actually, I'm kind of proud of the bench. It's a retired oak entertainment unit banished from the living room when the flat screen electric teevee set arrived. An hour with the saws and drills turned it into a good rifle cleaning and tinkering stand.)
I think this is the sole survivor of a litter thrown by a now-missing black mama in my wildflower/weed patch. It took up residence in the bilge of the long-drydocked pocket cruiser where my daughter found and fed it a few days ago. I continue to subsidize its nutritional needs. Since last night it's been rooted where you see it, near the commandant's quarters deck.
New Dog Libby hissy-fits but is willing, upon command, to stop trying to turn it into lunch.
I'm no cat man, but a good hard-working outside, repeat outside, feline would have some pest control advantages around here so I'll continue the St. Francis routine.
----
And just so no one thinks I've gone completely softheaded and barmy, I still concentrate on more important stuff than cats.
It's another rebuilt 1903 Springfield, someone else's good work from many years ago in the excellent .257 Roberts. it's too seldom shot around here, but Grandson and I blew the cobwebs from the barrel Saturday. Great fun, and it will be worked a little harder in the future.
Lyman. Real men don't have no truck with tilliescopes and laserites.
(Actually, I'm kind of proud of the bench. It's a retired oak entertainment unit banished from the living room when the flat screen electric teevee set arrived. An hour with the saws and drills turned it into a good rifle cleaning and tinkering stand.)
Nov 19, 2012
The Yellow Man's Burden
His Ineptness continues his mission to Asia, and we all praise the wider application of the skills which have brought him -- and the nation -- such acclaim for peacemaking in places like Benghazi and Gaza.
Banging with Gramps
The Great Annual Clan Pheasant Shoot-At is history, and Camp Jiggleview has reverted to its genteel semi-squalid quietude. It is now inhabited by a mere six legs (one biped plus New Dog Libby) compared to about 40 at the peak.
This gathering of armed citizens and their aristocratic dogs has been going on for close to 20 years. Its motto is something like search and destroy prior to grins over unhealthy food and a certain small ration of good whiskey.
Every annual session leaves a special memory. This year it came from our friend Dan who shared the Camp J Transient Officers Quarters with my son, grandson, and four-leggers Ruby and Storm. Dan suffered a minor thumb cut Thursday -- something about a small mishap with the action of his OU gun. Over Friday morning coffee he told me he would be leaving early because the wound had been badly exacerbated. I asked for details.
Well, I was rearranging dogs in the sleeping bag and ...
And if that doesn't perfectly capture the flavor of these things, nothing does.
---
One more, almost as good.
I have an intricate range box, the product of my late father's creative mind and careful workmanship. When my youngest heir and assign, age 17, opened it he found a three-screw Ruger Single-Six, a Colt Huntsman, and a GI Colt 1911A1.
I allowed as how we still had enough daylight to run back out to the countryside for a spot of handgun practice and asked him to pick a pistol. Whereupon: "Let's just take the whole box."
Is that a well-trained lad or what?
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