Jul 23, 2012
Housekeeping
Joel has moved, and I just got around to fixing up the sidebar here to reflect his new blog address. It's still named The Ultimate Answer to Kings.
Why we're broke, except for Utah
If Utaht you saw the national MasterCard go a little more over limit recently, you were right.
It somehow came to the attention of the National Science Foundation that things can get a little dry in Deseret. Nice catch, and a perfectly good reason to shovel an extra $20 million in "research" money to the considerable spawn of Joseph Smith. Utah tax-troughers are giddy with the intellectual challenge. For instance:
"Most of Utah's precipitation falls as snow. As a result, the project will focus on how changing mountain snowpack affects water supplies for the state's growing communities, officials said."
We anxiously await the results of this research, and I submit that we'll all need Valium to cope with the shock of learning that when it snows more in the mountains, Utah gets more water. Another $20 million might extend our knowledge to undertanding that less snow produces less water.
Please notice the words "focus" in the quotation above and "specifically" in this one:
"It will look specifically at watersheds, infrastructure and technology."
if we parse it out we face a single-minded concentration -- which is the meaning of "focus" in this context -- on mountain snow and equally laser-like aiming at "watersheds, infrastructure, and technology."
A definition or three adds clarity:
--Watersheds: Every gawddam valley and divide in the state, from the beautiful Bear River to the tiniest dry wash down south in the multiwife kingdoms.
--Infrastructure: Farms, roads, power plants, bus stations. buildings, airports, ski lifts, temples, brine shrimp warehouses, railroads, visitors centers.
--Technology: Everything with a 110--volt AC connection and/or a battery. Such an an iPod to message Orrin Hatch that $20 million may not be enough to "focus" on and "look specifically" at all that stuff, so send more money and if you do we might vote for you again.
---
it's a jobs program for a few academics, government "public information" specialists, assorted bureaucrats, and journalists who turn a pretty good buck uncritically passing along thin rewrites of federal, state, and local government gobbledygook headed, "For Immediate Release!"
But, on second thought, perhaps I err. After all, we have the governor's explanation that it is, ta-da, a public/private partnership.
Gov. Gary Herbert said. "This public-private collaboration among so many educational, industry and government partners in tackling a key factor in long-term economic growth and quality of life is another example of our state's can-do approach."
If you want to interpret that as a promise the swag will be divvied up among all varieties of looters, why, I guess I sure won't editorialize against you.
It somehow came to the attention of the National Science Foundation that things can get a little dry in Deseret. Nice catch, and a perfectly good reason to shovel an extra $20 million in "research" money to the considerable spawn of Joseph Smith. Utah tax-troughers are giddy with the intellectual challenge. For instance:
"Most of Utah's precipitation falls as snow. As a result, the project will focus on how changing mountain snowpack affects water supplies for the state's growing communities, officials said."
We anxiously await the results of this research, and I submit that we'll all need Valium to cope with the shock of learning that when it snows more in the mountains, Utah gets more water. Another $20 million might extend our knowledge to undertanding that less snow produces less water.
Please notice the words "focus" in the quotation above and "specifically" in this one:
"It will look specifically at watersheds, infrastructure and technology."
if we parse it out we face a single-minded concentration -- which is the meaning of "focus" in this context -- on mountain snow and equally laser-like aiming at "watersheds, infrastructure, and technology."
A definition or three adds clarity:
--Watersheds: Every gawddam valley and divide in the state, from the beautiful Bear River to the tiniest dry wash down south in the multiwife kingdoms.
--Infrastructure: Farms, roads, power plants, bus stations. buildings, airports, ski lifts, temples, brine shrimp warehouses, railroads, visitors centers.
--Technology: Everything with a 110--volt AC connection and/or a battery. Such an an iPod to message Orrin Hatch that $20 million may not be enough to "focus" on and "look specifically" at all that stuff, so send more money and if you do we might vote for you again.
---
it's a jobs program for a few academics, government "public information" specialists, assorted bureaucrats, and journalists who turn a pretty good buck uncritically passing along thin rewrites of federal, state, and local government gobbledygook headed, "For Immediate Release!"
But, on second thought, perhaps I err. After all, we have the governor's explanation that it is, ta-da, a public/private partnership.
Gov. Gary Herbert said. "This public-private collaboration among so many educational, industry and government partners in tackling a key factor in long-term economic growth and quality of life is another example of our state's can-do approach."
If you want to interpret that as a promise the swag will be divvied up among all varieties of looters, why, I guess I sure won't editorialize against you.
Jul 22, 2012
Seen four, seen 'em all
I'm reminded by my teevee that Ted Turner is not to be totally despised. Flashing through the channels on a brief hydration break, I stopped at TCM because, there on my screen, were Marilyn Monroe AND Jane Russell in some '50s moom pitcher show. Perhaps 90 seconds later I clicked it off in favor of going out again to the mid-day sun where I am sawing an old blackboard into ten-inch squares. They will replace the badly broken tiles under the wood burner.
Close call. Both Jane and Marilyn. Right here in my living room. But the decision stands, a reflection of my character and work ethic. And if any of youse guys mutter something like naaaah or advancing years, I won't like you any more.
---
I'm getting to like "hydrate." It sounds a lot more cool and tactical than "drink."
Close call. Both Jane and Marilyn. Right here in my living room. But the decision stands, a reflection of my character and work ethic. And if any of youse guys mutter something like naaaah or advancing years, I won't like you any more.
---
I'm getting to like "hydrate." It sounds a lot more cool and tactical than "drink."
Oh, what horrific Candy
You haven't seen my three little essays on the Batman massacre. Two of them are in draft, desperately seeking focus. The other one has been dismissed to the ether as utter bullshit.
But you can see this one because it has Candy Crowley in it. I knew Candy Crowley, and if name-dropping doesn't justify a post, nothing does.
Candy was on local teevee, reading news to a medium market. Off duty she occupied her time being an insufferable bitch. Let it be said, however, that she was a gorgeous insufferable bitch, and that would account for Ted Turner calling her up to the majors. She's been there ever since, a nice fit with the CNN view that if it ain't Left it ain't right. And I suppose that helps account for her continued presence, post beauty.
Sic transit hourglass. I mean, just figuratively speaking. But teevee pandering endures forever.
I caught a brief snatch of her this morning as she interviewed John McCain.* She was being shocked and horrified that the Aurora killer was able to purchase (and here her jaw drops, her eyes go wide, and she enunciates ever syllable precisely) six. thou. sand. rounds. of. am.mu.ni.tion. car.tridges. ov. er. the. IN.TER.NET. !
She didn't approve of the drum magazine, either. Or the "bomb-making supplies." Taken altogether, she thought that we must find a way to spy out everyone with 6,000 rounds,** a big jammy magazine, and/or a small tank of propane.
Candy, you twit, did it ever occur to you that you might reserve your public display of injured horror for that which you know something about?
At the simplest level, the internet is the worst possible place to equip yourself for terror. There's a paper trail, the credit card, the IP address, the delivery records. You can get everything you need at WalMart or Farm Fleet Supply. Walk in. Pick up what you need. Pay cash. Walk out.
And the "tear" gas. We need to track people who buy gas or its percursers. I know it may seem a bit tyrannical to put everyone guilty of possessing a gallon of bleach and a quart of ammonia on the no-fly list. But it's for the children.
---
**I don't remember what McCain said. It doesn't matter.
**Put your hands down. They are watching.
But you can see this one because it has Candy Crowley in it. I knew Candy Crowley, and if name-dropping doesn't justify a post, nothing does.
Candy was on local teevee, reading news to a medium market. Off duty she occupied her time being an insufferable bitch. Let it be said, however, that she was a gorgeous insufferable bitch, and that would account for Ted Turner calling her up to the majors. She's been there ever since, a nice fit with the CNN view that if it ain't Left it ain't right. And I suppose that helps account for her continued presence, post beauty.
Sic transit hourglass. I mean, just figuratively speaking. But teevee pandering endures forever.
I caught a brief snatch of her this morning as she interviewed John McCain.* She was being shocked and horrified that the Aurora killer was able to purchase (and here her jaw drops, her eyes go wide, and she enunciates ever syllable precisely) six. thou. sand. rounds. of. am.mu.ni.tion. car.tridges. ov. er. the. IN.TER.NET. !
She didn't approve of the drum magazine, either. Or the "bomb-making supplies." Taken altogether, she thought that we must find a way to spy out everyone with 6,000 rounds,** a big jammy magazine, and/or a small tank of propane.
Candy, you twit, did it ever occur to you that you might reserve your public display of injured horror for that which you know something about?
At the simplest level, the internet is the worst possible place to equip yourself for terror. There's a paper trail, the credit card, the IP address, the delivery records. You can get everything you need at WalMart or Farm Fleet Supply. Walk in. Pick up what you need. Pay cash. Walk out.
And the "tear" gas. We need to track people who buy gas or its percursers. I know it may seem a bit tyrannical to put everyone guilty of possessing a gallon of bleach and a quart of ammonia on the no-fly list. But it's for the children.
---
**I don't remember what McCain said. It doesn't matter.
**Put your hands down. They are watching.
Jul 20, 2012
Colorado
It isn't hugely important , and some people will find it insensitive to bring it up so soon after the Batman massacre. But, since reporters and editors get paid to relay coherent information:
CNN has said several times that the shooter was armed with "an AK-47-type weapon, and a rifle, and two handguns."
---
Mayor Bloomberg is, quite unexpectedly, not worried about an appearance of insensitivity. He was immediately in the papers and on the air with his standard demand that police confiscate the firearms of everyone who did not shoot up a theatre last night.
CNN has said several times that the shooter was armed with "an AK-47-type weapon, and a rifle, and two handguns."
---
Mayor Bloomberg is, quite unexpectedly, not worried about an appearance of insensitivity. He was immediately in the papers and on the air with his standard demand that police confiscate the firearms of everyone who did not shoot up a theatre last night.
Jul 18, 2012
Espresso Justice
And yet another tale of what may happen when impetuous young men meet a wise old philosopher.
"Don't none of you [expletives] move," one of the teens reportedly yelled at the cafe patrons. One "teen" was swinging a gun, the other a bat.
One of the (expletives) in the internet cafe was Sam Williams, 71, philosophically armed with a .380 handgun. He chose to move despite the instructions to the contrary. When he and his pistol quit moving, the 19-year-olds were chastened, not to mention bleeding.
Local officials say they probably won't charge Sam with a crime for protecting himself and other(expletives) people in the cafe. That's good as far as it goes, but I see no mention of either a gold medal or compensating Sam for the expended rounds.
"Don't none of you [expletives] move," one of the teens reportedly yelled at the cafe patrons. One "teen" was swinging a gun, the other a bat.
One of the (expletives) in the internet cafe was Sam Williams, 71, philosophically armed with a .380 handgun. He chose to move despite the instructions to the contrary. When he and his pistol quit moving, the 19-year-olds were chastened, not to mention bleeding.
Local officials say they probably won't charge Sam with a crime for protecting himself and other
Jul 17, 2012
I think Lyle on the Joe Huffman site would be the last to advise a shooter or reloader to depend on intuition. And also the last to advise against ignoring those vague feelings. He paid attention to his own "something feels a little wrong" hunch and avoided a blown Model 94, maybe worse.
It's worth a careful read, especially if you shoot reloads.
It's worth a careful read, especially if you shoot reloads.
Not a gunchick
She's a pretty blonde woman. She's married to a close friend. She thought she would feel safer with a handgun in the house.
Up here on the lake she feels secure enough, but she gets nervous in winter when they return to their gracious old neighborhood in the heart of a big city. There, the Vandals aren't far from the gate.
After chatting about it for years, her husband led me to believe that she now definitely wanted a pistol and enough training to use it in an emergency. He's a veteran hunter but claims he's never fired a handgun. She has never even held one.
So far it sounds like a routine exercise in introducing a neophyte to the world of practical defensive shooting. Ground School 101 to outline the concepts --, practical, legal, moral. Discussion of the available hardware. Hit a good gun shop to let her handle steel and select a few possibles. Then some range time with a pro who knows what he's doing. (EDIT: I don't mean me.)
It was more complicated because Mrs. Pretty is well into her 80s. She thinks she might not be able to kill and would shoot him in the leg. This is not a promising student.
---
Nevertheless I thought about it for a while, then, when the subject came up again, decided to lend my smallest DA, a ported Taurus .357 snubby, on condition that no ammo would be allowed in the same house. She would handle it and dry-fire it for a couple of weeks. The idea was to introduce a bit of reality into whatever mass-media-derived notions she harbored about pistols. Mrs. Pretty's husband, the hunter, would "supervise."
It turned out just as we expected, and the lady is no longer interested in late-life handgun education. Her man returned it to me a few days ago. "She's says it's too heavy but I think she's just afraid of it." We agreed that if she had second thoughts down the line -- unlikely -- we'd put something different in her hands, probably a .22 rimfire, K22-ish.
---
There's no cosmic lesson here, but if anyone cared to interpret the exercise as a reason to teach our daughters about shooting, I would be the last to argue,
Up here on the lake she feels secure enough, but she gets nervous in winter when they return to their gracious old neighborhood in the heart of a big city. There, the Vandals aren't far from the gate.
After chatting about it for years, her husband led me to believe that she now definitely wanted a pistol and enough training to use it in an emergency. He's a veteran hunter but claims he's never fired a handgun. She has never even held one.
So far it sounds like a routine exercise in introducing a neophyte to the world of practical defensive shooting. Ground School 101 to outline the concepts --, practical, legal, moral. Discussion of the available hardware. Hit a good gun shop to let her handle steel and select a few possibles. Then some range time with a pro who knows what he's doing. (EDIT: I don't mean me.)
It was more complicated because Mrs. Pretty is well into her 80s. She thinks she might not be able to kill and would shoot him in the leg. This is not a promising student.
---
Nevertheless I thought about it for a while, then, when the subject came up again, decided to lend my smallest DA, a ported Taurus .357 snubby, on condition that no ammo would be allowed in the same house. She would handle it and dry-fire it for a couple of weeks. The idea was to introduce a bit of reality into whatever mass-media-derived notions she harbored about pistols. Mrs. Pretty's husband, the hunter, would "supervise."
It turned out just as we expected, and the lady is no longer interested in late-life handgun education. Her man returned it to me a few days ago. "She's says it's too heavy but I think she's just afraid of it." We agreed that if she had second thoughts down the line -- unlikely -- we'd put something different in her hands, probably a .22 rimfire, K22-ish.
---
There's no cosmic lesson here, but if anyone cared to interpret the exercise as a reason to teach our daughters about shooting, I would be the last to argue,
Jul 16, 2012
They're coming to take me away, ha ha
I do not hate crazy people. If I did I'd lose half my friends including, possibly enough, myself.
In fact, if you ask me, the trouble with American politics is that we have too few crazy people. Worse, the loonies we have aren't crazy enough.
Rand Paul, for example. He'd rather be president, of course, but he thinks that, at best, he might have to settle for No.2. This accounts for the semi-libertarian lip prints all over the Romney carcass. At least he'd get to live in the Naval Observatory and look through the cool telescopes when ever he wanted. Besides, there would always be Chief Quartermaster to tell him to the split second what time it is, meaning he could swap his Rolex for a semi load of Brylcream, effecting a personal economy. All this is only a little bit nuts. In fact it is quite common across the governing class -- from Obama's outright statists to neoconniest thugs of the Republican "right."
That's why I am supporting Randi, our newest United States senator. And no, it isn't just because she's an attractive woman. It's because I admire spunk, and appointing yourself senator in a wacky American alter-government seems spunky to me. It's also because The Republic of the united States of America occupies ground in that delightful no-man's land where genuine genius mates with stupendous delusion.
These guys are mostly libertarian/ancaps writ large, albeit with a discouraging quotient of Pat Robertson prating. They claim to believe what most of us believe. Pro-gun. Free markets. A little more federalism,, etc.
However, the political philosophical underpinning seems to be a notion that American government(s) were legal up to about 1870 when somebody or something else took over. As nearly as a guy can tell from their site, they served some legal papers on Obama or Holder or one of those guys and thereby became our de jure government .
These guys really like to stick "de jure" into their prose at every possible opportunity. I approve. "De jure" sounds rillyrilly intellectual. I mean it's Latin, and you can't get more intellectual than that. In fact, the news about Randi reminds me I've been meaning to practice my own Latin more religiously.
So postus endus cuz it's time to turn on airem conditionem. Hottern Hellica here, and that's de facto.
t
In fact, if you ask me, the trouble with American politics is that we have too few crazy people. Worse, the loonies we have aren't crazy enough.
Rand Paul, for example. He'd rather be president, of course, but he thinks that, at best, he might have to settle for No.2. This accounts for the semi-libertarian lip prints all over the Romney carcass. At least he'd get to live in the Naval Observatory and look through the cool telescopes when ever he wanted. Besides, there would always be Chief Quartermaster to tell him to the split second what time it is, meaning he could swap his Rolex for a semi load of Brylcream, effecting a personal economy. All this is only a little bit nuts. In fact it is quite common across the governing class -- from Obama's outright statists to neoconniest thugs of the Republican "right."
That's why I am supporting Randi, our newest United States senator. And no, it isn't just because she's an attractive woman. It's because I admire spunk, and appointing yourself senator in a wacky American alter-government seems spunky to me. It's also because The Republic of the united States of America occupies ground in that delightful no-man's land where genuine genius mates with stupendous delusion.
These guys are mostly libertarian/ancaps writ large, albeit with a discouraging quotient of Pat Robertson prating. They claim to believe what most of us believe. Pro-gun. Free markets. A little more federalism,, etc.
However, the political philosophical underpinning seems to be a notion that American government(s) were legal up to about 1870 when somebody or something else took over. As nearly as a guy can tell from their site, they served some legal papers on Obama or Holder or one of those guys and thereby became our de jure government .
These guys really like to stick "de jure" into their prose at every possible opportunity. I approve. "De jure" sounds rillyrilly intellectual. I mean it's Latin, and you can't get more intellectual than that. In fact, the news about Randi reminds me I've been meaning to practice my own Latin more religiously.
So postus endus cuz it's time to turn on airem conditionem. Hottern Hellica here, and that's de facto.
t
Jul 12, 2012
The Honey Trap or, "Why We're Broke"
Iowa again; no apologies.
Even in Hicksville a fellow can find excellent evidence to counter the widely accepted fallacy that government officials are occasionally smart enough to pour piss out of a boot.
I suppose this one caught my attention because a certain number gives me something in common with a big Iowa DNR enterprise. Calculating my income and outgo for last year, I wound up with an operating profit of $4,230.* Coincidentally, so did the DNR owned and operated Honey Creek Resort.
There's one slight difference. I am not in hock for $30 million, meaning I don't have to stick a gun in my neighbors' ribs and lift the interest payment on $30 million from their wallets.
A few years ago DNR commissars got together with dullards in the legislature and Governor Tom Vilsack. There's no hard evidence they were smoking, drinking, or injecting mind-altering substances at the party, but you can be forgiven for harboring suspicion because, collectively, they decided they were experts in the resort business. A flurry of architecting and market studying and public relationing followed. And borrowing.
In 2006 Honey Creek Resort opened its mortgaged doors down on Lake Rathbun, itself a government invention. (The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers ignored the banjos and throttled the unobjectionable little Chariton River. I don't really know why. The best guess seems to be a Corps of Engineers desired to economically stimulate itself by giving the Corps of Engineers something new to manage, but that's a subject for another essay.)
And the Honey joint has been sucking on taxpayers ever since. Even the DNR admits it and in a left-handed way concedes there is no exit strategy. New DNR Boss Chuck Gipp:
Some legislators have argued Honey Creek should be sold. Gipp says the state should keep it. “At this point in time, unless there’s somebody that comes along and is willing to pay what the worth of what that facility is, we’re not going to sell it at 10-cents-on-the-dollar. That would be foolish,”
Mr. Gipp, incidentally, is a conservative small-government Republican. He was in the legislature when the Honey Creek Dacha was approved. He voted to sign my name to the IOU. If he's embarrassed that the asset is now worth 10 per cent of the debt, it doesn't show.
As I say, it's only a little Iowa issue, but, 'course, if you root around in your own state's forays into enterprises requiring several sentient neurons, who knows what you might find. Thirty million here, thirty million there -- pretty soon you're talking about enough money to send a First Lady on a couple-three vacations.
---
*An estimate. If an audit proves it unreliable, I claim the same poetic license His Ineptness gets when he reports, oh, say, the unemployment or inflation statistics.
Even in Hicksville a fellow can find excellent evidence to counter the widely accepted fallacy that government officials are occasionally smart enough to pour piss out of a boot.
I suppose this one caught my attention because a certain number gives me something in common with a big Iowa DNR enterprise. Calculating my income and outgo for last year, I wound up with an operating profit of $4,230.* Coincidentally, so did the DNR owned and operated Honey Creek Resort.
There's one slight difference. I am not in hock for $30 million, meaning I don't have to stick a gun in my neighbors' ribs and lift the interest payment on $30 million from their wallets.
A few years ago DNR commissars got together with dullards in the legislature and Governor Tom Vilsack. There's no hard evidence they were smoking, drinking, or injecting mind-altering substances at the party, but you can be forgiven for harboring suspicion because, collectively, they decided they were experts in the resort business. A flurry of architecting and market studying and public relationing followed. And borrowing.
In 2006 Honey Creek Resort opened its mortgaged doors down on Lake Rathbun, itself a government invention. (The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers ignored the banjos and throttled the unobjectionable little Chariton River. I don't really know why. The best guess seems to be a Corps of Engineers desired to economically stimulate itself by giving the Corps of Engineers something new to manage, but that's a subject for another essay.)
And the Honey joint has been sucking on taxpayers ever since. Even the DNR admits it and in a left-handed way concedes there is no exit strategy. New DNR Boss Chuck Gipp:
Some legislators have argued Honey Creek should be sold. Gipp says the state should keep it. “At this point in time, unless there’s somebody that comes along and is willing to pay what the worth of what that facility is, we’re not going to sell it at 10-cents-on-the-dollar. That would be foolish,”
Mr. Gipp, incidentally, is a conservative small-government Republican. He was in the legislature when the Honey Creek Dacha was approved. He voted to sign my name to the IOU. If he's embarrassed that the asset is now worth 10 per cent of the debt, it doesn't show.
As I say, it's only a little Iowa issue, but, 'course, if you root around in your own state's forays into enterprises requiring several sentient neurons, who knows what you might find. Thirty million here, thirty million there -- pretty soon you're talking about enough money to send a First Lady on a couple-three vacations.
---
*An estimate. If an audit proves it unreliable, I claim the same poetic license His Ineptness gets when he reports, oh, say, the unemployment or inflation statistics.
Jul 11, 2012
F**king deafie?
A deaf man says he was clearing airport security at Louisville when TSA agents (1) robbed him of his candy (2) laughed at him for being deaf and (3) called him a "fucking deafie." He reported it on his blog, then, according to Reason magazine, got to thinking about the TSA's well-known lust for revenge on anyone who questions the way it executes its holy mission and took the post down.
I will suffer all the Godwin jeers anyone cares to hurl in order to pose a question.
In 1938 or so a German Brown Shirt got quite a bang out of taunting Jewish humans as "fucking Juden." In 2012 American TSA agents get off by ridiculing deaf humans as "fucking deafies." What distinguishes the the American from the Nazi?
Reserving the right to edit my views if I'm wrong in taking the report at face value, I hereby withdraw a semi-apology I once wrote for endorsing those who think Thomas Jefferson is spinning in his grave, justifiably screaming, "What's taking you so long?"
I will suffer all the Godwin jeers anyone cares to hurl in order to pose a question.
In 1938 or so a German Brown Shirt got quite a bang out of taunting Jewish humans as "fucking Juden." In 2012 American TSA agents get off by ridiculing deaf humans as "fucking deafies." What distinguishes the the American from the Nazi?
Reserving the right to edit my views if I'm wrong in taking the report at face value, I hereby withdraw a semi-apology I once wrote for endorsing those who think Thomas Jefferson is spinning in his grave, justifiably screaming, "What's taking you so long?"
My Pants Fell Down (and other laments)
1. A vast lethargy has overcome Camp J and all who inhabit it. As Commandant, I can take comfort only in the fact that I seem to recline, motionless, a little less than New Dog Libby. And it isn't even hot.
2. Today's duty Wranglers were well-fitted when new, and my mirror image (full-frontal disgust) reveals no substantial chassis changes. Further, the belt fastens in the same hole as it has for a very long time. Further further, the jeans were barely burdened. A thin sheaf of small bills, the Buck Squire 501, and one pair of 14-inch Diamond channel-locking pliers. Yet my pants fell on the short walk from the shop bench to the hose bib. Only reliable elastic on my shorts prevented revelation of gross cleavage to revolted passers-by. (Boxers or briefs? None of your damned business.) I conclude that my butt is shrinking. I am unable to assign meaning to the fact.
3. The wardrobe malfunction occurred as I was fixing a hose connection. The outrage leading to the entire incident was almost -- but, alas, not quite -- enough to get my heart started. Upon investigation I discovered the washer inside the plastic 37-function nozzle from WalMart (I suppose) was likewise plastic. Meaning that after one months use it would seal fluids only at and above the viscosity level of hot asphalt. Replacing it with a Luddite's rubber, I tried to work up enough ill-will to avenge myself by finding the guy who decided that melted Sprite bottles could be turned into sealing washers and shoot him. Couldn't.
4. And that made me feel guilty about something else. This is but the second post of July, A.D. 2012. Meaning I have gone days and days without trying to ridicule the Court of His Ineptness, without sprinkling even a little scorn on the 535 congresssslugs and zoning administrators and like vermin. What a sad dereliction of muh sworn duty.
To bring this all together, I must note that meaningful social comment here in the Age of AmSoc requires deep feelings of hatred and bile combined with a willingness to engage in what, in other circumstances, would be unforgivable lapses into vulgar, thoughtless, and cruel means of expression.
Guys, I just can't do it lately, so I'm all like WTF!? Is my reservoir of noble muckraking venom in my ass which, as I mentioned above, seems to be shrinking?
(If so, does Obamacare cover it?)
2. Today's duty Wranglers were well-fitted when new, and my mirror image (full-frontal disgust) reveals no substantial chassis changes. Further, the belt fastens in the same hole as it has for a very long time. Further further, the jeans were barely burdened. A thin sheaf of small bills, the Buck Squire 501, and one pair of 14-inch Diamond channel-locking pliers. Yet my pants fell on the short walk from the shop bench to the hose bib. Only reliable elastic on my shorts prevented revelation of gross cleavage to revolted passers-by. (Boxers or briefs? None of your damned business.) I conclude that my butt is shrinking. I am unable to assign meaning to the fact.
3. The wardrobe malfunction occurred as I was fixing a hose connection. The outrage leading to the entire incident was almost -- but, alas, not quite -- enough to get my heart started. Upon investigation I discovered the washer inside the plastic 37-function nozzle from WalMart (I suppose) was likewise plastic. Meaning that after one months use it would seal fluids only at and above the viscosity level of hot asphalt. Replacing it with a Luddite's rubber, I tried to work up enough ill-will to avenge myself by finding the guy who decided that melted Sprite bottles could be turned into sealing washers and shoot him. Couldn't.
4. And that made me feel guilty about something else. This is but the second post of July, A.D. 2012. Meaning I have gone days and days without trying to ridicule the Court of His Ineptness, without sprinkling even a little scorn on the 535 congresssslugs and zoning administrators and like vermin. What a sad dereliction of muh sworn duty.
To bring this all together, I must note that meaningful social comment here in the Age of AmSoc requires deep feelings of hatred and bile combined with a willingness to engage in what, in other circumstances, would be unforgivable lapses into vulgar, thoughtless, and cruel means of expression.
Guys, I just can't do it lately, so I'm all like WTF!? Is my reservoir of noble muckraking venom in my ass which, as I mentioned above, seems to be shrinking?
(If so, does Obamacare cover it?)
Jul 7, 2012
Winchester 1897
We begin with the gun, a Findy Sickle piece, celebrating its 111th birthday this year, born only three years after William Randolph Hearst started the Spanish-American war in order to allow Teddy Roosevelt to become president.
Winchester Model 1897, serial number C158xxx, one of about one million examples of this design from the brain of John M. Browning, PBUH. It is long-tomish with a 32-inch barrel, full choked in 12 gauge. (Boys, ya wanna see my bran' new goose gun?)
I've owned a few of them over the years, generally picked up as lagniappe in multi-gun swaps or from folks who just didn't care to have rusty old guns cluttering the place. I bought them cheap, enjoyed them for a little while, and swapped them off. The only real attraction for me is the connection with my earliest days in the field, the times before I was allowed to carry a gun, that awkward stage when a little boy was trusted to walk along in the line of party-hunting adults as a sort of bi-pedal pheasant flusher, actually cheaper than a good dog because the folks were stuck with feeding me anyway. A fair number of the adults carried Model 97s. The majority, armed only with single-shot H&Rs and the like, were jealous of the six-shot firepower. We bare-handed kids were even more so.
One other thing. I loved the exposed hammer, and I still do -- on any firearm -- despite their snagginess and mostly mythical safety flaws.The ability to see at the briefest glance that the gun is ready or not ready to go bang is part of my personal security blanket.
---
(Isn't that a whole lot of wind about a common old gun, Jim? Especially one pretty well clapped out from a century of rattling around in duck boats and Model-A trunks?)
Yeah, I guess so, but it gives me a chance to bloviate on the transaction which brought her to the Camp J Armory.
We were at Cabela's in the northern Minneapolis slurbs. It's sort of a tradition when the family gathers in St. Cloud. We never buy much, but I do like wandering aisles and marveling at how many thousands of dollars folks are urged to spend in pursuit of the simple outdoor life. (Remind me to report on the absolutely indispensable $75 walking stick one of these days.)
This time, Number Two Grandson and I went directly to the gun section. The first thing catching my eye was the '97, and I idly checked the price tag. Ahem. $99?? I can make a buck on that. Or maybe, at that price, it would be nice to grace the wall under the Maynard Reese (Nine Travelers --Canada Geese 708/950.)
I took it to a clerk who popped the trigger lock so I could see how bad the action was. The forearm was chipped, and its screws to action bar were missing. That's it. It would go bang. I frowned disgustedly anyway. The clerk said, "Maybe we can do something about the price."
Eh? Dicker in a Big Box?? I will be damned.
So I pretended to examine it in greater detail, sighing knowledgeably while finger-tapping the deeper dings.
"Well, if $70 will buy it, I'll take it." Clerk and gun disappear for a couple of minutes.
"Seventy is fine."
He directed me to the computer where I entered the 4473 information, permitting the Cabela's Bureaucratic Compliance Officer to check me out with Eric Holder and, not so incidentally, with all of the credit bureaus. Cabala's is smart. The same information that squares me with the BATFEIEIO justifies me with the usury industry, but I didn't think of that at the time.
The paperwork was cleared and I reached for "money" in the form of Federal Reserve Cartoons. Mr. Clerk stopped me. "Sir, you have been pre-approved for a Cabela's Visa card. "
"No thanks."
"But it comes with a $20 gift certificate."
"Uhhh, does that mean I can deduct the $20 from the price of this gun."
"Yes sir. It does."
"Okay."
And that's how I walked out of a giant super store with a $50* Model 1897 Winchester and a brand new credit card with a limit astronomically high considering my unimpressive personal circumstances. In this narrow matter, I am even smarter than Cabela's because the plastic is and will remain TDY in a forgotten drawer corner.
Minor gunsmithing to ensue, followed by a nostalgic bout of scattering small pieces of toxic lead around the countryside. It's okay. No condors in these here parts.
---
*(Plus, of course, $3.50 for the state which, I am convinced, will use the money to further its efforts to persuade every Minnesota driver he or she is operating the only vehicle on the road.)
Winchester Model 1897, serial number C158xxx, one of about one million examples of this design from the brain of John M. Browning, PBUH. It is long-tomish with a 32-inch barrel, full choked in 12 gauge. (Boys, ya wanna see my bran' new goose gun?)
I've owned a few of them over the years, generally picked up as lagniappe in multi-gun swaps or from folks who just didn't care to have rusty old guns cluttering the place. I bought them cheap, enjoyed them for a little while, and swapped them off. The only real attraction for me is the connection with my earliest days in the field, the times before I was allowed to carry a gun, that awkward stage when a little boy was trusted to walk along in the line of party-hunting adults as a sort of bi-pedal pheasant flusher, actually cheaper than a good dog because the folks were stuck with feeding me anyway. A fair number of the adults carried Model 97s. The majority, armed only with single-shot H&Rs and the like, were jealous of the six-shot firepower. We bare-handed kids were even more so.
One other thing. I loved the exposed hammer, and I still do -- on any firearm -- despite their snagginess and mostly mythical safety flaws.The ability to see at the briefest glance that the gun is ready or not ready to go bang is part of my personal security blanket.
---
(Isn't that a whole lot of wind about a common old gun, Jim? Especially one pretty well clapped out from a century of rattling around in duck boats and Model-A trunks?)
Yeah, I guess so, but it gives me a chance to bloviate on the transaction which brought her to the Camp J Armory.
We were at Cabela's in the northern Minneapolis slurbs. It's sort of a tradition when the family gathers in St. Cloud. We never buy much, but I do like wandering aisles and marveling at how many thousands of dollars folks are urged to spend in pursuit of the simple outdoor life. (Remind me to report on the absolutely indispensable $75 walking stick one of these days.)
This time, Number Two Grandson and I went directly to the gun section. The first thing catching my eye was the '97, and I idly checked the price tag. Ahem. $99?? I can make a buck on that. Or maybe, at that price, it would be nice to grace the wall under the Maynard Reese (Nine Travelers --Canada Geese 708/950.)
I took it to a clerk who popped the trigger lock so I could see how bad the action was. The forearm was chipped, and its screws to action bar were missing. That's it. It would go bang. I frowned disgustedly anyway. The clerk said, "Maybe we can do something about the price."
Eh? Dicker in a Big Box?? I will be damned.
So I pretended to examine it in greater detail, sighing knowledgeably while finger-tapping the deeper dings.
"Well, if $70 will buy it, I'll take it." Clerk and gun disappear for a couple of minutes.
"Seventy is fine."
He directed me to the computer where I entered the 4473 information, permitting the Cabela's Bureaucratic Compliance Officer to check me out with Eric Holder and, not so incidentally, with all of the credit bureaus. Cabala's is smart. The same information that squares me with the BATFEIEIO justifies me with the usury industry, but I didn't think of that at the time.
The paperwork was cleared and I reached for "money" in the form of Federal Reserve Cartoons. Mr. Clerk stopped me. "Sir, you have been pre-approved for a Cabela's Visa card. "
"No thanks."
"But it comes with a $20 gift certificate."
"Uhhh, does that mean I can deduct the $20 from the price of this gun."
"Yes sir. It does."
"Okay."
And that's how I walked out of a giant super store with a $50* Model 1897 Winchester and a brand new credit card with a limit astronomically high considering my unimpressive personal circumstances. In this narrow matter, I am even smarter than Cabela's because the plastic is and will remain TDY in a forgotten drawer corner.
Minor gunsmithing to ensue, followed by a nostalgic bout of scattering small pieces of toxic lead around the countryside. It's okay. No condors in these here parts.
---
*(Plus, of course, $3.50 for the state which, I am convinced, will use the money to further its efforts to persuade every Minnesota driver he or she is operating the only vehicle on the road.)
Jun 29, 2012
To the tune of "Yes We Have No Bananas."
"Hot damn I have beaten Bernanke;
I beat Ben Bernanke today."
---
It's a lovely morning, cool, light overcast, pleasant breeze. So I assigned myself to dawn patrol, just for the delight of being out in the country side. On my way back to Rally Point J I stopped to make a small purchase. On arrival here I tossed the change on the table, one nickel, four pennies. Then, a fresh cup of coffee at hand, i examined the coins of the realm. The nickel automatically went to the nickel jug, repository of coins worth the government advertised price, or nearly so.
Leaving four pennies on which I beat the odds. Three of them were pre-1982, mostly copper, hence worth 2.2 cents each measured against the fraudulent zincs foisted on us early in the reign of the Keynesian Ronald Reagan.
The commodity value bonus on the $1.78 purchase was thus 3.6 cents (.012x3) or slightly more than 2 per cent. And before you start laughing at me, let me state as a fact that the 2 per cent is 20 times greater in one day than Ben is paying for a full year on my savings account. (Yes, Ben. He's just using my bank as a middle man.)
The zinc went into a larger container with dimes and quarters, The Cup of Despair. Periodically it is emptied into a bank account, my Certificate of Concession. (Nominal return is as low as 1/10 of 1 per cent, translating to a loss of about 1.9 per cent per year in purchasing power -- even accepting the official lies about the inflation rate.)
---
Sorting pennies is not something about which a guy should get obsessive, but it's one manner of idling away a minute or two when there's nothing good on the internet. And, over time, it gives you a gloatable feeling of investment wisdom.
Why, just last week I weighed my stash of copper pennies and nickels and discovered I own coinage containing more than eleven pounds of copper. Even in the temporarily depressed metal market that amounts to a whopping $35. Next time I see a cute babe at the end of the bar I'm gonna sidle up and ask her what color car she wants.
.
I beat Ben Bernanke today."
---
It's a lovely morning, cool, light overcast, pleasant breeze. So I assigned myself to dawn patrol, just for the delight of being out in the country side. On my way back to Rally Point J I stopped to make a small purchase. On arrival here I tossed the change on the table, one nickel, four pennies. Then, a fresh cup of coffee at hand, i examined the coins of the realm. The nickel automatically went to the nickel jug, repository of coins worth the government advertised price, or nearly so.
Leaving four pennies on which I beat the odds. Three of them were pre-1982, mostly copper, hence worth 2.2 cents each measured against the fraudulent zincs foisted on us early in the reign of the Keynesian Ronald Reagan.
The commodity value bonus on the $1.78 purchase was thus 3.6 cents (.012x3) or slightly more than 2 per cent. And before you start laughing at me, let me state as a fact that the 2 per cent is 20 times greater in one day than Ben is paying for a full year on my savings account. (Yes, Ben. He's just using my bank as a middle man.)
The zinc went into a larger container with dimes and quarters, The Cup of Despair. Periodically it is emptied into a bank account, my Certificate of Concession. (Nominal return is as low as 1/10 of 1 per cent, translating to a loss of about 1.9 per cent per year in purchasing power -- even accepting the official lies about the inflation rate.)
---
Sorting pennies is not something about which a guy should get obsessive, but it's one manner of idling away a minute or two when there's nothing good on the internet. And, over time, it gives you a gloatable feeling of investment wisdom.
Why, just last week I weighed my stash of copper pennies and nickels and discovered I own coinage containing more than eleven pounds of copper. Even in the temporarily depressed metal market that amounts to a whopping $35. Next time I see a cute babe at the end of the bar I'm gonna sidle up and ask her what color car she wants.
.
Jun 28, 2012
I don't exactly feel sorry for John Boehner, but there is a little twinge of something like sympathy. He just left a podium where he attempted to explain to a group of media personalities that:
The Supreme Court ruled that the health-care law was constitutional. The court did not rule that it was a good idea.
If you can somewhow get a dollar for every time that distinction is made between now and election day, you'll probably wind up with enough money for a Big Gulp and pack of Twinkies.
The Supreme Court ruled that the health-care law was constitutional. The court did not rule that it was a good idea.
If you can somewhow get a dollar for every time that distinction is made between now and election day, you'll probably wind up with enough money for a Big Gulp and pack of Twinkies.
...a fine time to leave me, Lucille
I call my giveadamner "Lucille." In the dark of night she left me, heedless of the demands of this "Momentous Day."
Will the Supreme Court maim Obamacare and guffaw as the bodies pile up outside emergency rooms across this great nation?
The prevailing AmSoc notion is that my health is your responsibility. It is bipartisan. We're quibbling only about whose turn it is to buy this round of lime-flavored hemlock.
Will the Supreme Court maim Obamacare and guffaw as the bodies pile up outside emergency rooms across this great nation?
The prevailing AmSoc notion is that my health is your responsibility. It is bipartisan. We're quibbling only about whose turn it is to buy this round of lime-flavored hemlock.
Jun 27, 2012
Cultural Literacy
The 10 a.m. temperature at Camp J is 80 degrees. We'll hit the predicted 99 in a walk. It is as though all the politically ambitious, seeking all the offices in this great land, had turned to face me, as Muslims to Mecca, and begun delivering their stump speeches.
I am doing the kind of work which should be done in less heated circumstances, so I welcomed a chuckle from my pal John in the GMA, even though it mentions heat, even though he doesn't know where it came from. We salute the author, where ever he or she may be.
---
“Several commenters mistook my use of the microwave as the way all Americans heat water and clucked their tongues in disapproval. I’m happy to report to any of those who’ve returned to the site that I’m quite atypical in this regard.
The standard American way to heat water is to take a pot of water out to our pickup truck, open the hood (what the Brits call a “bonnet”), and lock the pot onto the engine block using a set of latches readily available at any Wal-Mart.
Then we drive around at high speed, reciting the Gospels and firing our shotguns out the window. After reading the Gospel of John for three minutes and sixteen seconds, the water is ready. I hope this puts to rest any confusion.”
I am doing the kind of work which should be done in less heated circumstances, so I welcomed a chuckle from my pal John in the GMA, even though it mentions heat, even though he doesn't know where it came from. We salute the author, where ever he or she may be.
---
“Several commenters mistook my use of the microwave as the way all Americans heat water and clucked their tongues in disapproval. I’m happy to report to any of those who’ve returned to the site that I’m quite atypical in this regard.
The standard American way to heat water is to take a pot of water out to our pickup truck, open the hood (what the Brits call a “bonnet”), and lock the pot onto the engine block using a set of latches readily available at any Wal-Mart.
Then we drive around at high speed, reciting the Gospels and firing our shotguns out the window. After reading the Gospel of John for three minutes and sixteen seconds, the water is ready. I hope this puts to rest any confusion.”
The SWAT raid as circus
I try to keep up. Honest. But the idea of duelling SWAT teams as a 21st Century version of Lions vs. Christians caught me flat-footed. Anyway, St. Cloud beat the Canadians.
I scoured the program for the event called "Raiding the Right Address." No luck
I scoured the program for the event called "Raiding the Right Address." No luck
Jun 25, 2012
New mess mate
I don't think he liked his English teacher too much, but, then, who among us did? He likes guns and boats and can fix things. If that isn't enough rate a spot on the blog roll, I don't know what is.
Welcome Don of Livin' the Dream.
Welcome Don of Livin' the Dream.
Survive!
A certain amount of thought has been invested in the welfare of our warriors in those new-fangled aeroplanes. What if the the dynamic defailorator fails? What if they get shot down? Even if they walk away from the warbird they still gotta eat, right? They have a 1911A1 in their pilot's rompers, right?
But, also right, they can't hit crap with it.
Anyway, that's what the official survival thinkers thought, so enter the service auto as shotgun:
But, also right, they can't hit crap with it.
Anyway, that's what the official survival thinkers thought, so enter the service auto as shotgun:
Approach No. 1, left, is a straightforward loading of tiny shot in a cardboard capsule, heavily crimped with two grooves aft of the case mouth. The point is to preserve the sharp mouth on which the round head spaces. This example is head- stamped Peters .45 A.C. (no "P")
Concept No. 2, center, employs a redesigned case, longer and necked to provide space for the shot. The seal appears to be a waxed or plasticized cardboard disc. The shoulder is abrupt, but still a long way from a precise, tight fit to the chamber stop, and I have a feeling that the engineers were in a bit of a hurry and decided, what the Hell, the extractor will hold it well enough; heresy but most probably workable. This one in head stamped "R A 4."
We'll get to survival round No. 3, right, in a moment, but first an editorial comment on the others: I suppose that if I'd dumped my Corsair in a Samar jungle I'd rather have had a handful of official government shot shells than not have them. On the other hand, I wouldn't have put a lot of faith in their (and my) ability to get me fat on the succulent Basilan flying squirrel. Or much of anything else. Anyone else who has wasted too much time playing with shot loads adapted (maladapted, to be correct) to rifled pistol barrels understands. About the best you can say for the entire line of thought is that if your stalking skills challenge Natty Bumpo's, you might kill something small to eat once in a while.
And now to No. 3. It IS TOO a survival load. It helps you survive the dreaded feeling, "What on God's green earth am I supposed to do with this junk I found while tidying up a shop cabinet last opened before Monica stained her dress?"
Why, I confirm that they'll actually go bang in an old .22 bolt gun and then I'm all like, hmmm. I know, I can glue a .22 Crossman pellet to the front of it and have my own wildcat! The .22 TMR Power Load Special.
I was crushed to discover that I had no .22 pellets but, unstoppable, I subbed a Daisy BB. Even though the prototype you see is the only one in existence, it will soon be tested with full confidence that the .177 projectile will exit the barrel.
Further than that deponent sayeth not.
Jun 23, 2012
Planely speaking
I don't care if all the cool kids are using Instagram. Not me. After careful ratiocination, I conclude it is strictly for squares.
.
Jun 22, 2012
Ruger? Seriously??
It's nice that a gun maker made the market headlines yesterday by bucking the big Dow loss. But to call Southport a maker of "durable goods" is questionable. LCR. LCP. SR9.
Your Friday morning issues briefing
1. Fool that am, I keep thinking about Attorney General Holder in terms of his criminal violations of the nation's firearms laws. It took Joel to remind me that contempt of congress is a state of mind every thinking citizen embraces. Why should Holder be singled out for the honor?..
2. Try a I might, I simply can not tangle my shorts over the plight of a new-hatched intellectual facing an increase in student loan rates. My teevee tells me the average student debt is $26,000. The added 3.4 per cent would thus cost Ms. and Mr. Average Expert in Liberal Arts some $885 per year or $2.42 per day. This could easily be covered by (a) walking one flight up, to Mom's kitchen, and having your coffee there rather than Starbucks or (b) working an extra 22 minutes at the job for which your degree qualifies you. (Translated to piece work that probably amounts to a dozen double burgers with cheese.)
2. Try a I might, I simply can not tangle my shorts over the plight of a new-hatched intellectual facing an increase in student loan rates. My teevee tells me the average student debt is $26,000. The added 3.4 per cent would thus cost Ms. and Mr. Average Expert in Liberal Arts some $885 per year or $2.42 per day. This could easily be covered by (a) walking one flight up, to Mom's kitchen, and having your coffee there rather than Starbucks or (b) working an extra 22 minutes at the job for which your degree qualifies you. (Translated to piece work that probably amounts to a dozen double burgers with cheese.)
Jun 21, 2012
Twisty Ben
Chairman Benjamin Bernanke and all his chubby little Fed elves say they love the twist so much they're going to keep on doing it all year long.
Judging from the hundreds of explanations on the internet, if you don't quite understand Operation Twist you have lot of company. Let me give a shot at explaining, if you please.
The Fed says it will boost the economy by buying back its shorter-term bonds. It will pay for them with "money" it will get for selling longer term bonds. That way it will owe less money soon and more later. It all works out to make its balance sheet look just the same even though it can immediately float more greenbacks (still backed by nothing).
It will help to think of the Fed as just another bank. It lends money and borrows* money. It can be flush or damned near broke, or even secretly bankrupt, a banking-sector Enron.
It might also help to personalize the process. Think of the Fed as yourself, a naughty little brat who ...
--wrote a bunch of post-dated checks which were worthless when you signed them and will be worthless on the imminent due date
--decided to solve your problem by redeeming the soon-to-be bouncing paper with fresh rubber checks, dated further out.
It works just fine if the guys holding your trash are dumb enough to go along with the gag.
Except that if the government catches you, you will go to jail, not because you hung ugly paper but because you are not an official government ugly paper hanger.
Clear now?
---
*The Fed borrowing function is enhanced by its mastery of the printing press, and if that makes you question our historic reverence for Herr Gutenberg, I understand.
Judging from the hundreds of explanations on the internet, if you don't quite understand Operation Twist you have lot of company. Let me give a shot at explaining, if you please.
The Fed says it will boost the economy by buying back its shorter-term bonds. It will pay for them with "money" it will get for selling longer term bonds. That way it will owe less money soon and more later. It all works out to make its balance sheet look just the same even though it can immediately float more greenbacks (still backed by nothing).
It will help to think of the Fed as just another bank. It lends money and borrows* money. It can be flush or damned near broke, or even secretly bankrupt, a banking-sector Enron.
It might also help to personalize the process. Think of the Fed as yourself, a naughty little brat who ...
--wrote a bunch of post-dated checks which were worthless when you signed them and will be worthless on the imminent due date
--decided to solve your problem by redeeming the soon-to-be bouncing paper with fresh rubber checks, dated further out.
It works just fine if the guys holding your trash are dumb enough to go along with the gag.
Except that if the government catches you, you will go to jail, not because you hung ugly paper but because you are not an official government ugly paper hanger.
Clear now?
---
*The Fed borrowing function is enhanced by its mastery of the printing press, and if that makes you question our historic reverence for Herr Gutenberg, I understand.
Jun 20, 2012
The Druid within
The hex continues. An overcast sky again thwarts the plan to lay out a summer solstice sunrise vector on the grounds of Camp J. It would cross the winter line scribed and marked with stones several years ago.
Yeah, I know I could just look it up in the astronomical almanac and plot it with a compass, but that violates the spirit of the thing. The ancient Celtic priests would be displeased.
Oh well, maybe next year.
Which reminds me of a confusing point in the Druidic liturgy. Everything I read directs me to get woaded up and dance naked around an oak tree or stele (something phallic, anyway) on the first day of winter.
But I can't find a similar ritual ordained for the summer solstice when a devout pagan would stand a lesser chance of his personal stele freezing, turning black, and falling off.
Maybe that's why there aren't many Druids anymore.
Oh well, maybe next year.
Which reminds me of a confusing point in the Druidic liturgy. Everything I read directs me to get woaded up and dance naked around an oak tree or stele (something phallic, anyway) on the first day of winter.
But I can't find a similar ritual ordained for the summer solstice when a devout pagan would stand a lesser chance of his personal stele freezing, turning black, and falling off.
Maybe that's why there aren't many Druids anymore.
Jun 19, 2012
Merchanting Death in Bucolia
... and here, from W-T-M-R, your weekend market report! (Sound of 66 wpm Model 15 teleprinter up and out)
--The 8 3/8-inc SW K22, as near-new, in box --$740
--.38 H&R breaktop in ..38SW, very good -- $165
--Marlin Glenfield Model 60 with cheap scope -- $100
-- Hardware store branded .410 single, pretty good -- $105
--Early Marlin 12 gauge pump (Win. 97ish) very rough -- $125
--Winchester 97, worse than the Marlin --$265
--Remington 572 (.22 pump), pretty good -- $355
--Tarted up Ruger 10-22, checkered walnut, near mint, 3 mags -- $265
--Remington 870 3", rib, very good -- $280
--Remington 700 in .270 Win, about unfired, Leupold 3x9 -- $600
---
And that's what some lethal stuff is worth at a country auction in the northern plains.
Your reporter was in the K22 action through the 600s but, in the end, left with all but an even $50 of his wad still apocket while still acquiring enough to keep him busy the rest of the weekend -- sorting, cleaning, planning, gloating.
The swag:
A dandy pair of almost unused ancient Dreml tools -- one of the early rotaries and a 1/3 sheet sander, a tank weighing about three times as much as a modern counterpart.
A nice junk box holding bits, wrenches, and even a brass and rosewood try square.
A draw tow bar to be converted into a combination dethatcher and driveway gravel stirrer-upper.
A hefty scissors jack, unneeded except in the sense that no man can ever have too many jacks.
And, Ta-Da, a mint -- never-sharpened -- CaseXX four-inch hunter from about the '70s or 80s. Did I mention that no man can ever own too many knives?
Jun 18, 2012
Stupid Chinese Person
The AP reports, "In a China awash with fake iPhones, pirated DVDs and knockoff Louis Vuitton bags, rice trader Lin Chunping took fakery to a whole new level: He invented a U.S. bank and claimed he bought it."
Understanding the term "bank" to mean a place where actual wealth is kept and prudently managed, I wonder why Lin went to all the bother of dreaming up a new phony bank.
Why didn't he just buy the Bank of America? Or the United States Federal Reserve System?
Understanding the term "bank" to mean a place where actual wealth is kept and prudently managed, I wonder why Lin went to all the bother of dreaming up a new phony bank.
Why didn't he just buy the Bank of America? Or the United States Federal Reserve System?
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 16, 2012
For the first time in my adult Iowa life...
The Iowa Circus Ringmaster bowed to winner Ron Paul and invited him to take a victory lap in center circle.
No. Wait.
A sample from Polk County GOP co-chair Dave Funk:
“The nominee from Polk County is someone that not only myself but none of the members of my executive committee that I have asked can tell me who that person is,” Funk said, “and to nominate someone who has not been active in local county politics is inappropriate.”
The tortured syntax reflects the shock and awe old party stalwarts felt when a slate of delegates pledged to Dr. Paul carried the day against a "unity" assortment.*
I can't imagine why they were surprised. For a couple of election cycles now, libertarians and their fellow travellers have been rewiring the circuits in the state and county apparatus. Among other things, a Paul enthusiast has become state GOP chairman.
It's a sure bet that tomorrow's news commentary will concentrate on the Paulistas' sneaky lowdown dirty tricks. Like learning the party rules, showing up at meetings, organizing their supporters, working harder, and insisting on their right to frame the debate in their own terms.
If the grassroots Republicans who pay attention to the process disapproved of such tactics, all they had to do was keep endorsing the old GOPers, the small government conservatives who still love ag subsidies, ethanol mandates, American blood in Mideast sand, and even the suspension of whatever Constitutional language is necessary to make the Patriot Act seem a nice warm blanket.
At least Romney was smart enough not to call Paul insane too often. Now we'll see if he smart enough to issue new marching orders to Reince Preibus: "It's going to be a long convention. Let the congressman have his say."
At least Romney was smart enough not to call Paul insane too often. Now we'll see if he smart enough to issue new marching orders to Reince Preibus: "It's going to be a long convention. Let the congressman have his say."
---
*Danged if that doesn't remind me of Tammany Hall and the Daly Machine. About every 20 years those thieves fubared things so badly that even the voters started getting the picture. So they trotted out a "unity" ticket (sometimes, especially in New York, called a "fusion" slate). That means they retired one old grafter among the dozens up for re-election and inked in one man who, for the moment, appeared to be honest.
How many cops does it take...
... to control a cane-armed naked woman who is 80 years old?
In Dorchester County, South Kalinky, the answer is "four" if one of them is willing to shoot her in the back with his Taser.
So, how are these fellows with badges equipped to handle a husky young gang banger? An RPG fire team? Abrams tank? Small tactical nuke?
In Dorchester County, South Kalinky, the answer is "four" if one of them is willing to shoot her in the back with his Taser.
So, how are these fellows with badges equipped to handle a husky young gang banger? An RPG fire team? Abrams tank? Small tactical nuke?
Bunch of old dead white guys
...happened to to tell King John:
No free man shall be seized or imprisoned, or stripped of his rights or possessions, or outlawed or exiled . nor will we proceed with force against him . except by the lawful judgement of his equals or by the law of the land. To no one will we sell, to no one deny or delay right or justice.
Most of us colonials would -- as a matter of courtesy -- not demand that rulers now resident LondonTown pay more attention to this document. None of our business.
But since we've been shedding blood off and on since 1775 in defense of its principles, (or at least so we claim), we allowed to tell our own rulers that they're getting awfully damned John-like lately and, if necessary, we are capable of doing a little Runnymeading of our own.
Happy Magna Carta Day -- one day late.
No free man shall be seized or imprisoned, or stripped of his rights or possessions, or outlawed or exiled . nor will we proceed with force against him . except by the lawful judgement of his equals or by the law of the land. To no one will we sell, to no one deny or delay right or justice.
Most of us colonials would -- as a matter of courtesy -- not demand that rulers now resident LondonTown pay more attention to this document. None of our business.
But since we've been shedding blood off and on since 1775 in defense of its principles, (or at least so we claim), we allowed to tell our own rulers that they're getting awfully damned John-like lately and, if necessary, we are capable of doing a little Runnymeading of our own.
Happy Magna Carta Day -- one day late.
Jun 14, 2012
Texas justice
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.
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.
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...).
Jun 11, 2012
Shrewd Al Sharpton
Romney said there's only a limited amount of money available to hire teachers, cops, and firemen.
That gave Al Sharpton the theme for his daily diatribe. Sarcastically, he just asked if we really wanted to be nation of "fewer firefighters, teachers, and first responders."
Notice the omission of "police officers."
Sharpton knows his audience.
.
That gave Al Sharpton the theme for his daily diatribe. Sarcastically, he just asked if we really wanted to be nation of "fewer firefighters, teachers, and first responders."
Notice the omission of "police officers."
Sharpton knows his audience.
.
Sometimes I wish I hated wrong-way revolvers
Ignore the junk and put your eye on the Smith Model 17, K22 with its 8 3/8-inch barrel.
As much as I'd like to bring her home, I probably won't. According to Mr. Internet, she commands at least $900 and probably quite a bit more. That's enough Federal Reserve Cartoons to gas up the more dependable truck for more than 4,000 miles of adventuring.
Guns draw my attention on three levels. (1) Users, the pieces I expect to shoot --ho-hummers up to some reasonably classic stuff. (cf: 1911A1, for instance) Some of them will help protect me from currency devaluation, but that's not why they're in the vault. (2) Nostalgia, those few guns I grew up with or which otherwise resonate with something strictly personal. (3) Investments, strictly a shield against the money printers.
The K22 -- especially in that barrel length -- is Category 3. You don't cram a near-mint relic into a canvas Uncle Mike and go bashing up and down the ravines. Every scratch brings a grimace. One day of hard field use can turn a thousand-dollar beauty into a 500-dollar thing.
So the Smith-In-The-Safe makes investment sense only in a narrow scenario. The inevitable big devaluation happens earlier than I think it will, bringing on TEOTWAWKI but leaving enough social order intact to support an economy above the subsistence level; leaving, in other words, a a serious market for the utilitarian tool graced with beauty.
Your objection is noted. But a classic like this will increase in value right along with the inflation we experience every day as the methed-up Bernanke elves crank the presses.
Which may be true, but it ignores the reality of liquidity. Recouping the full value of a "collectible" is neither quick nor easy. See any episode about Rick the Pawnbroker.
---
Well of course I'm trying to talk myself out of even going to this auction, Bunkie. But what the Hell. I have nothing else on that day's social calendar. Maybe the crowd will be asleep. If I get lucky, or stupid, I'll let you know. :)
Jun 10, 2012
Sunday Reminesce
This guy was about my age, maybe a little younger, a black man. He was stunningly squared away. I can imagine him stripped to the frame, deburred, hand-fitted and polished out to the 1000-grit level. Then somebody dipped him into hot tanks, and he emerged in flawless blue with gold inlays.
He was probably one Hell of a fighting officer to boot, and I'm positive Lt. Col. Somebody USMC was not thrilled by orders to spend the 1989 Inaugural days serving as military aide to my boss. He would rather have been down at Quantico, drilling a battalion, but if The Corps decided he was more useful as a feudal appendage to a politician, he would damned well execute those orders to the best of his ability.
His job was to lend an aura of importance, glamor, and authority to the governor through the rounds of social hoopla celebrating the formal ascent of George H.W. Bush that January.
So was mine, though in a different sense. A governor must have an "aide" who looks important. (And here I must cast modesty aside and report that, properly motivated, I clean up pretty well for a po boy from the corn fields. Not that I could even approach the officer's presence as, say, a Les Baer custom. I wasn't a Hi-Point, but -- again in comparison -- no better than a humdrum Series 70 with a trigger job.).
Nevertheless, the colonel kept calling me "Sir," thus sending me back to my own military days where I topped out at E5, petty officer second class, equivalent to staff sergeant in the land forces. Nobody called ever me "sir" unless he was trying to sell me a set of sharp civvies on Broadway in San Diego, nothing down, two years to pay.
This sirring was disconcerting. I thought about but decided against whispering to the colonel that "Jim" would do fine. If he would even think of such a thing, his native courtesy would have required him to invite me to address him with similar intimacy, and that was unthinkable. This man could at any instant be called to command 1,000 other men in bloody circumstances. My duty was to look authoritative and to offer the governor political suggestions, preferably not half-assed. And to make sure he knew at all times the location of the nearest toilet.
---
This little memoir came to mind as I was checking some facts about the federal hierarchy. For every federal civilian rank, there is an "assimilated rank" equal to some military pay grade. The comparison is for matters of protocol only. By law and custom no civilian bureaucrat, not even a lofty GS15, (assimilated rank equal to full-bird colonel or Navy four-stripe captain) is authorized to order even a shavetail ensign around.
It applies primarily in social situations and where civilians and military people work together. A GS1 (sweep the floors or type accurately) lives like a private; a GS 15 eats from real china with the gold-braid set.
I've never worked as a civilian for the feds. The colonel probably didn't know or consider that. Most of what he saw was my boss whispering into my ear. (Where is is?) and me whispering back. (Down that hall, second door on the left.) The colonel could plausibly have concluded we were conferring about high matters of state and, as a matter of covering his ass, simply assumed that I held an assimilated rank exceeding his well-earned actual status.
That would have meant nothing in terms of anything in the real world, but it's quite possible he embraced the Matt Helm philosophy of dealing with questionable strangers in nice suits. "It costs nothing to call them 'sir,' and it's just a easy to shoot them if that turns out to be necessary."
---
Hierarchies exist, and I suppose a certain pecking order is necessary even across bureaucratic and professional lines, but I find the system morally bothersome.
The colonel and I never met again, and I sometimes wonder if we could have been pals if we had been introduced in dungarees, sitting in some one's back yard, an egalitarian bowl of ice and bottle of Jack gracing the picnic table.
He was probably one Hell of a fighting officer to boot, and I'm positive Lt. Col. Somebody USMC was not thrilled by orders to spend the 1989 Inaugural days serving as military aide to my boss. He would rather have been down at Quantico, drilling a battalion, but if The Corps decided he was more useful as a feudal appendage to a politician, he would damned well execute those orders to the best of his ability.
His job was to lend an aura of importance, glamor, and authority to the governor through the rounds of social hoopla celebrating the formal ascent of George H.W. Bush that January.
So was mine, though in a different sense. A governor must have an "aide" who looks important. (And here I must cast modesty aside and report that, properly motivated, I clean up pretty well for a po boy from the corn fields. Not that I could even approach the officer's presence as, say, a Les Baer custom. I wasn't a Hi-Point, but -- again in comparison -- no better than a humdrum Series 70 with a trigger job.).
Nevertheless, the colonel kept calling me "Sir," thus sending me back to my own military days where I topped out at E5, petty officer second class, equivalent to staff sergeant in the land forces. Nobody called ever me "sir" unless he was trying to sell me a set of sharp civvies on Broadway in San Diego, nothing down, two years to pay.
This sirring was disconcerting. I thought about but decided against whispering to the colonel that "Jim" would do fine. If he would even think of such a thing, his native courtesy would have required him to invite me to address him with similar intimacy, and that was unthinkable. This man could at any instant be called to command 1,000 other men in bloody circumstances. My duty was to look authoritative and to offer the governor political suggestions, preferably not half-assed. And to make sure he knew at all times the location of the nearest toilet.
---
This little memoir came to mind as I was checking some facts about the federal hierarchy. For every federal civilian rank, there is an "assimilated rank" equal to some military pay grade. The comparison is for matters of protocol only. By law and custom no civilian bureaucrat, not even a lofty GS15, (assimilated rank equal to full-bird colonel or Navy four-stripe captain) is authorized to order even a shavetail ensign around.
It applies primarily in social situations and where civilians and military people work together. A GS1 (sweep the floors or type accurately) lives like a private; a GS 15 eats from real china with the gold-braid set.
I've never worked as a civilian for the feds. The colonel probably didn't know or consider that. Most of what he saw was my boss whispering into my ear. (Where is is?) and me whispering back. (Down that hall, second door on the left.) The colonel could plausibly have concluded we were conferring about high matters of state and, as a matter of covering his ass, simply assumed that I held an assimilated rank exceeding his well-earned actual status.
That would have meant nothing in terms of anything in the real world, but it's quite possible he embraced the Matt Helm philosophy of dealing with questionable strangers in nice suits. "It costs nothing to call them 'sir,' and it's just a easy to shoot them if that turns out to be necessary."
---
Hierarchies exist, and I suppose a certain pecking order is necessary even across bureaucratic and professional lines, but I find the system morally bothersome.
The colonel and I never met again, and I sometimes wonder if we could have been pals if we had been introduced in dungarees, sitting in some one's back yard, an egalitarian bowl of ice and bottle of Jack gracing the picnic table.
Jun 9, 2012
Coming to a Telescreen near you
Technology alert: Intel Inside! That is, inside your living room, a black box atop your teevee, using its facial recognition gizmo to make sure it's you watching, not your cat.
Somehow --without identifying you as an individual person, according to its maker -- it knows what kind of advertisement will be most likely to sucker you in.
You suspish? Imma suspish, even though:
The set-top box pitched by Intel doesn't identify specific people, but it could provide general data about viewers' gender or whether they're adults or children to help target advertising..."
Right. And the first Telescreen probably couldn't yell at Winston Smith in real time that he was fudging on his calisthenics. But by 1984, the G3 or G4 version was a right handy little tool for the Inner Party's NSA, TSA, CIA, etc.
It is one of the horrors of our time that there is really no good way to outlaw technology which is specifically designed and marketed to eliminate places where we are allowed a "reasonable expectation of privacy."
Somehow --without identifying you as an individual person, according to its maker -- it knows what kind of advertisement will be most likely to sucker you in.
You suspish? Imma suspish, even though:
The set-top box pitched by Intel doesn't identify specific people, but it could provide general data about viewers' gender or whether they're adults or children to help target advertising..."
Right. And the first Telescreen probably couldn't yell at Winston Smith in real time that he was fudging on his calisthenics. But by 1984, the G3 or G4 version was a right handy little tool for the Inner Party's NSA, TSA, CIA, etc.
It is one of the horrors of our time that there is really no good way to outlaw technology which is specifically designed and marketed to eliminate places where we are allowed a "reasonable expectation of privacy."
Jun 8, 2012
Being a devout Philistine, I wouldn't reach across the table for a bite of fat duck liver sausage. If someone forced a gob of pay dee foy grass on me, I'd get a doggie bag and save it for catfish bait.
Furthermore -- and even if you could double for the young Marilyn Monroe -- if you put that crap in your mouth and suddenly wished to kiss me, I would delay the pleasure until you wiped out a quart of Lavoris.
So, why do I have this notion that the Constitution of the United States would be well served if someone flew to Berkeley, choked down a piece of diseased duck organ, and waited calmly, a Louisville Slugger in hand, for the first phucking phood cop to approach the table?
---
h/t -- J
Furthermore -- and even if you could double for the young Marilyn Monroe -- if you put that crap in your mouth and suddenly wished to kiss me, I would delay the pleasure until you wiped out a quart of Lavoris.
So, why do I have this notion that the Constitution of the United States would be well served if someone flew to Berkeley, choked down a piece of diseased duck organ, and waited calmly, a Louisville Slugger in hand, for the first phucking phood cop to approach the table?
---
h/t -- J
Jun 6, 2012
Dagnabbit it all anyhow
With the libertarian roof job all but done, I had planned to spend the afternoon playing in the reloading shack -- maybe cooking up a new .45 ACP load l've been thinking about.
Still up on the rooftop, on my way to the ladder, I casually wiggled the chimney. It wiggled a little too much. With a good heave-ho, it wiggled right in two.
Already the materials are laid out for what could be a complete replacement from the stove on up. I am unhappy. I am not going to start right away. I am going to lie down and read a book and pout myself into a nap.
Still up on the rooftop, on my way to the ladder, I casually wiggled the chimney. It wiggled a little too much. With a good heave-ho, it wiggled right in two.
Already the materials are laid out for what could be a complete replacement from the stove on up. I am unhappy. I am not going to start right away. I am going to lie down and read a book and pout myself into a nap.
Jun 5, 2012
Hello, fellow liberterroristists
Jiggety-jig after a four-day sortie to the bluffs overlooking the Illinois SSR, including a three-hour reconnaissance, trans-Mississippi, behind enemy lines, on Obamastan's western flank. We patrolled unarmed in hopes that, if captured, we could sell the story that we were innocently attending a ceremonial occasion marking the bestowal of of high school diplomas. (The Iowa high school chose the slave state venue for reasons not volunteered to the undersigned.)
I hereby report that the graduates themselves seemed unobjectionable, but certain of the attending families call into question the usefulness of public education; for that matter, any education at all. If these mommies and daddies are any guide, their sons and daughters will, by now, have spent the bulk of their graduation gift cash on neck tattoos and whoopee cushions.
Upon reporting back to Camp J, the undersigned declined for some 20 hours to power up any, repeat any, telescreen or cumpuscreen, so I don't know what the Hell is going on in the world lately. Frankly, I'm not too anxious for you to tell me as I concentrate on the subversive task at hand -- repairing a roof leak without the sanction of a zoning variation which would permit me to apply for a building permit which would, in turn, grant me permission to staunch thr drip which is, quite inconveniently, directly above my bed pillow.
(s)
T. Undersigned
I hereby report that the graduates themselves seemed unobjectionable, but certain of the attending families call into question the usefulness of public education; for that matter, any education at all. If these mommies and daddies are any guide, their sons and daughters will, by now, have spent the bulk of their graduation gift cash on neck tattoos and whoopee cushions.
Upon reporting back to Camp J, the undersigned declined for some 20 hours to power up any, repeat any, telescreen or cumpuscreen, so I don't know what the Hell is going on in the world lately. Frankly, I'm not too anxious for you to tell me as I concentrate on the subversive task at hand -- repairing a roof leak without the sanction of a zoning variation which would permit me to apply for a building permit which would, in turn, grant me permission to staunch thr drip which is, quite inconveniently, directly above my bed pillow.
(s)
T. Undersigned
Jun 1, 2012
...and here's to a wholesome June
However, if you had it with wholesome, you can always cry havoc and let something slip.
And then there's Junebug, Travis McGee's disco champion buddy. Wonder what ever happened to her?
Me and Elizabeth Warren
Liz and I don't have much in common, but we've each been caught lying about our proud American Indian ancestry.
In my case the embarrassment was minimal even though it was compounded by claiming another bogus kinship.
When I was wee, the adults in my clan would remark about our descent from Daniel Boone and the strain of Cherokee in our blood. I accepted it as gospel and bragged of it as we played cowboys and Indians on the Des Moines River bluffs.
Years later I learned the myth was understandable, but phony. We had a very weak relationship to Dan'l's wife, Rebecca Bryan, but barring some seriously immoral hankie-pankie in them thar Appalachian hills, his DNA flowed down a different crick.
And an18th Century liaison contributed a drop of Indian blood -- maybe Cherokee -- only to a branch that an uncle or cousin or something married into.
I learned to live with shame of mere Irishness (polluted with a contribution here and there of some northern European strains). Anyway, I never planned to capitalize on my Indianity to help me capture the U.S. Senate seat belonging by divine right to the Kennedys of Massachusetts or their acolytes.
Not so for poor Ms. Warren, one of President Obama's favorite Regulators and a member of the Harvard faculty and governing class. It seems that when she applied to be a Harvard teacher the university was anxious to hawk a diverse faculty. Liz went along with the gag. "Me diverse. Heap Injun."
That turned out to be heap fib, and she got caught. Worse for her, she ducked and dodged like Bill (I never touched that woman) Clinton, and turned a small problem into a big one. It may or may not be enough to help keep the less-objectionable Scott Brown in the Kennedy seat.
We can only hope.
In my case the embarrassment was minimal even though it was compounded by claiming another bogus kinship.
When I was wee, the adults in my clan would remark about our descent from Daniel Boone and the strain of Cherokee in our blood. I accepted it as gospel and bragged of it as we played cowboys and Indians on the Des Moines River bluffs.
Years later I learned the myth was understandable, but phony. We had a very weak relationship to Dan'l's wife, Rebecca Bryan, but barring some seriously immoral hankie-pankie in them thar Appalachian hills, his DNA flowed down a different crick.
And an18th Century liaison contributed a drop of Indian blood -- maybe Cherokee -- only to a branch that an uncle or cousin or something married into.
I learned to live with shame of mere Irishness (polluted with a contribution here and there of some northern European strains). Anyway, I never planned to capitalize on my Indianity to help me capture the U.S. Senate seat belonging by divine right to the Kennedys of Massachusetts or their acolytes.
Not so for poor Ms. Warren, one of President Obama's favorite Regulators and a member of the Harvard faculty and governing class. It seems that when she applied to be a Harvard teacher the university was anxious to hawk a diverse faculty. Liz went along with the gag. "Me diverse. Heap Injun."
That turned out to be heap fib, and she got caught. Worse for her, she ducked and dodged like Bill (I never touched that woman) Clinton, and turned a small problem into a big one. It may or may not be enough to help keep the less-objectionable Scott Brown in the Kennedy seat.
We can only hope.
May 31, 2012
So long, May
A TMR bonus factoid: When she married Sammy Davis jr. on November 13, 1960, interracial marriage was illegal in 31 states.
How Many Poles Does it Take...
Okay, it was the dumbass move of the month, this "Polish death camp" line our dim president threw out. It wasn't a mere "gaffe." He read it from his teleprompter, meaning it was written by experts in demagoguery, edited by even greater authorities on the art of bullshitting voters, and, finally, approved by the handful of high courtiers allowed to walk into the Obama Oval Office without knocking.
None of them, not even His Ineptness himself, had a neuron jiggled by the inherent dangers of an adjective, in this case "Polish."
Politics being the street brawl that it is, Romneyites are within their rights to kick the Obama campaign wedding tackle. True, the mouthpieces of the left are going blue in the face screaming that the GOP should retire to a neutral corner while the Obama seconds sponge him off and apply styptic powder. Wouldn't they just.
It will all die down, leaving His Ineptness with fewer Ski votes this fall. And leaving some of us slack-jawed in amazement at the things the American electorate and its media find crucial.
---
Here's what happened, Bunkie: About 73 years ago a country called Germany, led by a guy called Hitler, had a friend called Russia. Together, they raped a country called Poland. A domestic dispute occurred and Germany wound up running things in Poland. Among the innovations there were "death camps," conceived and operated of the Germans, by the Germans, and for the Germans. The camps wrecked unbelievable horror on millions of innocents who happened to have the wrong religion or the wrong genes or the wrong profession.
Hence "Polish death camps" -- a central event in the defining years of the 20th Century. It was universally understood that the term referred to German evil which, as a matter of Nazi convenience, was perpetrated across its border with Poland. It was simply more efficient to put ovens and torture chambers close to the target demographic.
By 1944 or '45 German guilt was in all the papers. No one qualified to appear in public without a minder thought otherwise. Even many dues-paying members of the teachers' unions knew it and taught it.
Times change. History gets muddled, as do educationists, journalists, and grasping parasites of the political class. And so a great international debate flares over what, not much more than generation ago, would have been a phrase objectionable only to the most anal grammarian at Miss Porter's Country Day School.
Meanwhile, Rome-on-Potomac burns because math is a lot harder than squalling about ethnic insensitivity. (cf: fiat money, debt)
This is not to let His Ineptness off the hook. He has one and only one profession, the politics of power. He and his elite panderers to public opinion of the moment are rewarded beyond Midas dreams to appear Christly at all times to even the looniest understandings held by blocs of the voting public. It's Propaganda 101, Mr. President. You flunked.
Now, as a practical matter, guys nicknamed Ski don't constitute the most important part of your electoral base. But, out of pure human kindness, may I suggest that you don't repeat the error.
For instance, if one of your crack speech writers gives you a draft containing "Negro lynchings," you might want to rephrase.
None of them, not even His Ineptness himself, had a neuron jiggled by the inherent dangers of an adjective, in this case "Polish."
Politics being the street brawl that it is, Romneyites are within their rights to kick the Obama campaign wedding tackle. True, the mouthpieces of the left are going blue in the face screaming that the GOP should retire to a neutral corner while the Obama seconds sponge him off and apply styptic powder. Wouldn't they just.
It will all die down, leaving His Ineptness with fewer Ski votes this fall. And leaving some of us slack-jawed in amazement at the things the American electorate and its media find crucial.
---
Here's what happened, Bunkie: About 73 years ago a country called Germany, led by a guy called Hitler, had a friend called Russia. Together, they raped a country called Poland. A domestic dispute occurred and Germany wound up running things in Poland. Among the innovations there were "death camps," conceived and operated of the Germans, by the Germans, and for the Germans. The camps wrecked unbelievable horror on millions of innocents who happened to have the wrong religion or the wrong genes or the wrong profession.
Hence "Polish death camps" -- a central event in the defining years of the 20th Century. It was universally understood that the term referred to German evil which, as a matter of Nazi convenience, was perpetrated across its border with Poland. It was simply more efficient to put ovens and torture chambers close to the target demographic.
By 1944 or '45 German guilt was in all the papers. No one qualified to appear in public without a minder thought otherwise. Even many dues-paying members of the teachers' unions knew it and taught it.
Times change. History gets muddled, as do educationists, journalists, and grasping parasites of the political class. And so a great international debate flares over what, not much more than generation ago, would have been a phrase objectionable only to the most anal grammarian at Miss Porter's Country Day School.
Meanwhile, Rome-on-Potomac burns because math is a lot harder than squalling about ethnic insensitivity. (cf: fiat money, debt)
This is not to let His Ineptness off the hook. He has one and only one profession, the politics of power. He and his elite panderers to public opinion of the moment are rewarded beyond Midas dreams to appear Christly at all times to even the looniest understandings held by blocs of the voting public. It's Propaganda 101, Mr. President. You flunked.
Now, as a practical matter, guys nicknamed Ski don't constitute the most important part of your electoral base. But, out of pure human kindness, may I suggest that you don't repeat the error.
For instance, if one of your crack speech writers gives you a draft containing "Negro lynchings," you might want to rephrase.
May 30, 2012
It's the law!
Found in the crawl space under the shop. It's decorated my loo for years, a reminder to myself that I am quite the criminal when I test fire .22s in the gun room.
Until the early 1960s, Camp J was a pasture. Land was cheap. Even so near the nice water, even within the village limits, it was economical to reserve grass and burr oaks for the contentment of cows. I suspect the farmer erected the sign to protect his herd from the autumn invasion of bookkeepers and insurance peddlers who might mistake a Guernsey for a grouse.
Until the early 1960s, Camp J was a pasture. Land was cheap. Even so near the nice water, even within the village limits, it was economical to reserve grass and burr oaks for the contentment of cows. I suspect the farmer erected the sign to protect his herd from the autumn invasion of bookkeepers and insurance peddlers who might mistake a Guernsey for a grouse.
Shots Fired!
I'm in my gun-tinkering room. I've reshaped the lips of the Colt Huntsman magazine. I check my work by unloading five fast ones into a big billet of oak. Three minutes and 55 seconds later I'm cuffed up and a cop is reading me my rights.*
I've been ratted out by a geek in Mountain View.
It's the latest Telescreen precursor, called "ShotSpotter, an aural triangulation system made mighty by the magic of communications satellites, the GPS, and warp-speed computing. If it isn't universal yet, it 's not for lack of desire by cops, prosecutors, and the company that owns the system,
Trusted members of the Outer Party visit your neighborhood and nail sensors to utility poles, buildings, and so forth. The gizmos hear a shot and instantly inform the watchers who, again with speed-of-light communications, tell the local cops. The company propaganda boasts location accuracy of within a few yards. It's a real crime-stopper.
So was the Tell-All Tube in the shabby room over the antique shop where Winston boffed Julia.
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The Times superficially reports the usual privacy vs. security debate, which is revealing in itself because, wonder of wonders, the same system can also record conversations.
Sam Sutter, the district attorney in Bristol County, Mass., called ShotSpotter “an extremely valuable tool” that had helped his office bring charges in four nonfatal shootings.
“In my view legally,” he said, “what is said and picked up by the ShotSpotter recording does not have the expectation of privacy because it’s said out in public, and so I think that will turn out to be admissible evidence.”
The company jumps on that PR problem:
James G. Beldock, a vice president at ShotSpotter, said that the system was not intended to record anything except gunshots and that cases like New Bedford’s were extremely rare. “There are people who perceive that these sensors are triggered by conversations, but that is just patently not true,” he said. “They don’t turn on unless they hear a gunshot.”
Very reassuring, James. We are relieved that your bug is so limited that there is no way on earth to tune it to pick up conversation without an announcing gun shot. I hope someone alerts me when your technology advances to that point so I can be careful to say nothing seditious in the public space which I usually refer to as my front yard.
I've been ratted out by a geek in Mountain View.
It's the latest Telescreen precursor, called "ShotSpotter, an aural triangulation system made mighty by the magic of communications satellites, the GPS, and warp-speed computing. If it isn't universal yet, it 's not for lack of desire by cops, prosecutors, and the company that owns the system,
Trusted members of the Outer Party visit your neighborhood and nail sensors to utility poles, buildings, and so forth. The gizmos hear a shot and instantly inform the watchers who, again with speed-of-light communications, tell the local cops. The company propaganda boasts location accuracy of within a few yards. It's a real crime-stopper.
So was the Tell-All Tube in the shabby room over the antique shop where Winston boffed Julia.
---
The Times superficially reports the usual privacy vs. security debate, which is revealing in itself because, wonder of wonders, the same system can also record conversations.
Sam Sutter, the district attorney in Bristol County, Mass., called ShotSpotter “an extremely valuable tool” that had helped his office bring charges in four nonfatal shootings.
“In my view legally,” he said, “what is said and picked up by the ShotSpotter recording does not have the expectation of privacy because it’s said out in public, and so I think that will turn out to be admissible evidence.”
The company jumps on that PR problem:
James G. Beldock, a vice president at ShotSpotter, said that the system was not intended to record anything except gunshots and that cases like New Bedford’s were extremely rare. “There are people who perceive that these sensors are triggered by conversations, but that is just patently not true,” he said. “They don’t turn on unless they hear a gunshot.”
Very reassuring, James. We are relieved that your bug is so limited that there is no way on earth to tune it to pick up conversation without an announcing gun shot. I hope someone alerts me when your technology advances to that point so I can be careful to say nothing seditious in the public space which I usually refer to as my front yard.
May 28, 2012
About a year ago the Indiana Supreme Court ruled that your response to a crooked cop barging into your home should be to roll over and play dead.
The door hit Officer Greg Trimble’s hand and foot as he tried to keep it open and avoid it from hitting him, police said.
A little later she unlocked the door and was cuffed up, charged with interfering with official acts and assaulting a cop.
Sounds to me like the wrong person went to jail, but maybe that's just my notorious Fourth Amendment crankery. Sounds to me like Officer Greg got excited, assaulted the door and, by extension, Cynthia who was in intimate contact with it. Sounds to me like...
--The cops had no warrant to invade Cynthia's home.
--No "hot pursuit" exception to the Fourth Amendment existed because no crime had been committed, or even alleged.
--Some cop public relations REMF has a lot of trouble with kinetic concepts. Most of us will have trouble with the idea that Greg was trying to hold the door open without making contact with it.
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It's a ham-and-egg case, and perhaps Cynthia will pay the two dollars. If so, too bad. It would be nice to see this one hashed out in an atmosphere of Constitutional concern
This idea that police can go where they want, when they want, for good reason or ill -- or none at all -- could be tested in Iowa.
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In Des Moines, Cynthia King and Tavius King cohabited. No other relationship is noted. Cynthia and Tavius fell out, and she booted him from the apartment. Tavius called the cops, proved he once lived there, and wanted them to help him get his clothes. Cynthia came out, announced that this no-good ex-cohabiter was not coming back into her home, and slammed the door, giving one of the police officers an owie.
A little later she unlocked the door and was cuffed up, charged with interfering with official acts and assaulting a cop.
Sounds to me like the wrong person went to jail, but maybe that's just my notorious Fourth Amendment crankery. Sounds to me like Officer Greg got excited, assaulted the door and, by extension, Cynthia who was in intimate contact with it. Sounds to me like...
--The cops had no warrant to invade Cynthia's home.
--No "hot pursuit" exception to the Fourth Amendment existed because no crime had been committed, or even alleged.
--Some cop public relations REMF has a lot of trouble with kinetic concepts. Most of us will have trouble with the idea that Greg was trying to hold the door open without making contact with it.
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It's a ham-and-egg case, and perhaps Cynthia will pay the two dollars. If so, too bad. It would be nice to see this one hashed out in an atmosphere of Constitutional concern
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