Travis McGee at the Inauguration

Nothing short of new dance routine by Chookie McCall could have lured Trav to The Dubliner on any day of any year -- particularly this morning  when his gnarled elbows would have brushed a gaggle of self-styled journalists. MSNBC chose to, ahem, "cover" the inauguration from the place.

Wouldn't they just.

How they love high-polish hip and the beautiful people who make it glitter, especially in a contrived ethnic atmosphere, in this case Irish. My ass. It's as Irish as lutefisk.

I grant The Dubliner one point. It's five o'clock girl flock tends toward sleek young loveliness whose chatter sounds -- from a distance --  enchanting. Closer, you learn that it concerns shopping.  Let it pass. Step away, sigh at the waste, and recall your Bierce; ...all too human to impute unlikely virtues to the cute.

The men, so to speak, put you in mind of a 10-year fraternity reunion attended by Countess Mara neckties attached to those alumni whose MasterCard's would still bear the expense.

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Did you ever notice that Travis didn't often use vulgar words?

Thrust into that crowd, I think he would have made an exception. Four letters, maybe 11. Then he'd have backed out the door, turned, and walked no more than 15 strides to the next-door Irish Times.

Hugh's place is a little seedy, but its political ops and hustlers tend to have honest Irish surnames and, often enough, fresh brogues. Among the still sober, conversation is generally a witty and bipartisan exploration of why things are still so FUBAR. The unsober (due to fairly priced Guinness and Jamison) tend to say hardly anything, at most a cynical grunt. That's a rhetorical approach a guy can quickly learn to love.

Besides, The Irish Times often features semi-talented (at worst) live Irish performers. They do rebel music with a loud flourish suggesting that disdain for the goddam English usurpers is alive and well. So tell me Sean O'Farrell where the gatherin is to be .. with me PIKE upon me shoulder at the RISIN' of the MOON.

The other place gives you something like a tape of  Mel Torme singing Danny Boy. I'll bet Mika swoons.

Enhancing my cowboy wall

A couple of neat Christmas gifts are finally in place. The tin Winchester and  S&W signs come courtesy of two fine young men who have finally discovered that Gramps is essentially a 10-year-old kid who just got home from Roy Rogers picture show.

Milspeak

We're sending a company of National Guard troops to Afghanistan. A helpful public relations officer told us what they'll be doing there. Unfortunately, some members of the public are not well-versed in the dialect spoken by the military literati. As a public service the TMR offers a translation of  "A release from the Iowa National Guard (which) states the company’s mission is... 

-- to  “increase the combat effectiveness of United States and coalition forces (usual cant, either obvious or meaningless)

--  by removing physical obstacles, (Bulldozing stuff down while in the vicinity of armed people who hate you.)

-- identifying and reducing minefields and explosive devices  (Shitting pants while in possession of a metal detector in the vicinity of armed people who hate you.)

-- executing mobility missions, (Driving to the PX through crowds containing armed people who hate you.)

-- emplacing barriers (Piling up dirt between you and some of the armed people who hate you.)

--constructing protective positions (Digging fox holes)

--and performing infantry missions (Shooting at armed people who hate you with the strong suspicion that they will shoot back.) 

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Good luck ladies and gentlemen. Stay safe.  I mean it.

Well, at least that's settled

I'm indebted to my MSM pal Hans for a final resolution to "What's an assault rifle?"

The AR15, usually black and always ugly, is leading in all the polls that measure assaultiveness. Hans isn't buying, and neither is our mutual MSM pal Dave who raised the subject on Facebook. Each has had it up to  >here< with cant about "assault rifles."

They agree, as do most of us, that assaultiveness is a matter of purpose, not tools. Which is to say that my Remington 514 becomes an assault rifle the moment I get to feeling a little assaultory.

Hans modestly suggests that the nomenclature problem goes away with good intent-recognition software. A guy could legally run around with an AR15 (or Bazooka or tactical nuke) as long as the program cleared him of assaultitarian motives.

Course, the system would have to incorporate an active RF transmitter and be permanently attached to the toter. No problem these days. His Ineptness just  executively orders the chips implanted in our innards. You know, like they do on Guernseys and Lhasa Apsos.