An AP story on the big bears of Katmai quotes a young lady psychologist on her mind-blowing honeymoon there in Brown Bear Heaven.
“There’s a bear in the water, and there’s a bear coming down the beach ... and then, we were coming in to eat and there was a bear running by, and there were three bears just over there by the river. So, that was amazing to have it so accessible.”
A mis-attribution? Actually, I think that's what the bears said.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 13, 2013
Travis McGee said...
"A truly lazy man is always misunderstood." I qualify in spirit and even grammatically under all three modifiers and the object of the verb. No problem. I'm used to it.
It's when I break the pattern that my fellow Smugleye-On-Lake-ites really get confused. I half-expected someone to call in a dustoff at sunrise when they spotted me stacking firewood and titivating the grounds for all I was worth.
Everything before eight was quiet work, then noisy gear was deployed -- the little blade tractor, leaf blower, power washer. Aside from the firewood and general pretty-up, the driveway is graded; the mailbox approach is rut-free and somewhat leveled, and the moss and grime has been blasted from the seldom-used but highly visible guest-cabin deck. There's more, but I'd sure hate to be accused of bragging.
It's amazing how much a man can accomplish before 10:30 a.m. with a drastically reduced cable television input. And when he decides that Blogger has no authority to demand that he write something every day, before breakfast.
It's when I break the pattern that my fellow Smugleye-On-Lake-ites really get confused. I half-expected someone to call in a dustoff at sunrise when they spotted me stacking firewood and titivating the grounds for all I was worth.
Everything before eight was quiet work, then noisy gear was deployed -- the little blade tractor, leaf blower, power washer. Aside from the firewood and general pretty-up, the driveway is graded; the mailbox approach is rut-free and somewhat leveled, and the moss and grime has been blasted from the seldom-used but highly visible guest-cabin deck. There's more, but I'd sure hate to be accused of bragging.
It's amazing how much a man can accomplish before 10:30 a.m. with a drastically reduced cable television input. And when he decides that Blogger has no authority to demand that he write something every day, before breakfast.
Aug 10, 2013
Travis McGee is sad
He mentioned her more than once. She got him through one lonely night aboard The Busted Flush, balladeering in Spanish with Trio Los Panchos. She made many another 60s pop/jazz star sound like a soloist at the swing choir recital.
RIP, Edie Gorme.
RIP, Edie Gorme.
Aug 7, 2013
Six weeks agoe I cudnt evin spell gunsmith
...Undoubtedly more than you want to know about that First Series Colt Woodsman Match Target that moved in a few weeks ago, the one who didn't bring a magazine along. So sue me.
I mentioned in the second post down that I found an old High Standard HD mag for it, along with a similar empty body. I claimed I could make the follower and find some sort of workable spring.
Half done in less than 45 minutes.
The left follower is the new one. It looked correct and measured correct. Just to make sure, I installed it in the mag with the spring. Works fine.
Two complications remain. A spring could turn up in one of my "miscellaneous" boxes during my next paw-through. If not, almost any from a gun-show-junk .22LR magazine should be adaptable.
The retaining pin will give me more trouble. JMB designed it as slip-in. The groove under the head holds things together by engaging the body tin. There's no lathe here, so I'm leaning toward tapping the hole for a 6-32 machine screw. Might work. Might get a better idea.
The new follower began life as a steering arm from a junked-out Dixon ZTR42 mower. Most of it went to Ken's iron pile, but I squirreled away a few likely looking bits of steel for just such an emergency gun repair. Because I live a pure and virtuous life, the handle happened to be the exact thickness of the factory follower, saving me some tedious surface grinding.
Tools involved: Makita angle grinder. Baldor bench grinder. One-inch vertical belt sander obviously built by a Mattell subsidiary. Twelve-inch muslin polishing wheel on big old 3450 rpm Craftsman table saw motor. Chinese drill press. (Twenty minutes after you drill a hole you want to make another one.) Couple of mill bastards.
Technique: Use the factory part for a pattern. Cut your new one a few thousandths oversize. Trim to fit. (That's what the bastards are for.) Shine her up a little.
I mentioned in the second post down that I found an old High Standard HD mag for it, along with a similar empty body. I claimed I could make the follower and find some sort of workable spring.
Half done in less than 45 minutes.
The left follower is the new one. It looked correct and measured correct. Just to make sure, I installed it in the mag with the spring. Works fine.
Two complications remain. A spring could turn up in one of my "miscellaneous" boxes during my next paw-through. If not, almost any from a gun-show-junk .22LR magazine should be adaptable.
The retaining pin will give me more trouble. JMB designed it as slip-in. The groove under the head holds things together by engaging the body tin. There's no lathe here, so I'm leaning toward tapping the hole for a 6-32 machine screw. Might work. Might get a better idea.
The new follower began life as a steering arm from a junked-out Dixon ZTR42 mower. Most of it went to Ken's iron pile, but I squirreled away a few likely looking bits of steel for just such an emergency gun repair. Because I live a pure and virtuous life, the handle happened to be the exact thickness of the factory follower, saving me some tedious surface grinding.
Tools involved: Makita angle grinder. Baldor bench grinder. One-inch vertical belt sander obviously built by a Mattell subsidiary. Twelve-inch muslin polishing wheel on big old 3450 rpm Craftsman table saw motor. Chinese drill press. (Twenty minutes after you drill a hole you want to make another one.) Couple of mill bastards.
Technique: Use the factory part for a pattern. Cut your new one a few thousandths oversize. Trim to fit. (That's what the bastards are for.) Shine her up a little.
Aug 5, 2013
Tough men, sick cows, and good horses.
At least Jinglebob's horse was nice enough not to break his glasses.
It's a report from the dirty end of the food chain, and you might want to mention it to your city friends who still think their hamburgers originate in Ronald McDonald's back room.
It's a report from the dirty end of the food chain, and you might want to mention it to your city friends who still think their hamburgers originate in Ronald McDonald's back room.
Aug 4, 2013
Open Carry
Being an After-Action Report on the Sioux City loophole where, uncharacteristically, I open carried.
I carried it in a wrong holster, a fine old piece of Bianchi basket-stamped leather built for and home to a Ruger RST4. The pony barrel stuck out a couple of inches, and the high sight made drawing a two-handed comedy. I was no candidate for a Badass-of-the-Show award.
It was the only handy sheath that came close to accommodating the Colt. I used it because we planned to be there for a couple of hours, and I needed both hands free to coon-finger vendor guns while seeking what I really wanted.
(Maybe I was also dreaming of tangible sympathy, the kindness of stangers. Some Christian soul would notice the empty magazine well, empathize with my anguish, and offer me one for a song, of which I have two available, Kumbayah and Wabash Cannon Ball.)
Finding a proper 1st Series Match Target clipazine was the objective. Finding one that would simply work was the fallback aim. Any of you who have performed the drill (Hey, you gotta magazine to fit my old {name-that-gun}?) know it's crucial to have the gun at hand. The vendor's word, even if he's dead honest and dead sure, is not to be taken literally.
The Colt search was fruitless, but I nodded reverently toward the final resting place of John M. Browning for his decision to make the same bullet holder fit both High Standard HDs and his pre-war Colts. A hobby dealer had one and one-half of them. Mister Complete fed eight fast ones faultlessly upon testing last evening. Miss Half needs a follower -- already roughed out from a scrap of steel -- and a spring.
Back to the open-carry theme. Unless I'm in the field it always make me feel a little silly, as though I'm trying to announce that my junk is more impressive than yours.
But not as silly as one portly young fellow should have felt as he strode the aisles with camo leg holster, leather combatish shooting vest, and a tactical quick-open stabber clipped to a pocket of his black cargo pants. The empty holster marred the image. We figured he had spent all his money on tactical accessories and was still saving up for an actual pistol.
I carried it in a wrong holster, a fine old piece of Bianchi basket-stamped leather built for and home to a Ruger RST4. The pony barrel stuck out a couple of inches, and the high sight made drawing a two-handed comedy. I was no candidate for a Badass-of-the-Show award.
It was the only handy sheath that came close to accommodating the Colt. I used it because we planned to be there for a couple of hours, and I needed both hands free to coon-finger vendor guns while seeking what I really wanted.
(Maybe I was also dreaming of tangible sympathy, the kindness of stangers. Some Christian soul would notice the empty magazine well, empathize with my anguish, and offer me one for a song, of which I have two available, Kumbayah and Wabash Cannon Ball.)
Finding a proper 1st Series Match Target clipazine was the objective. Finding one that would simply work was the fallback aim. Any of you who have performed the drill (Hey, you gotta magazine to fit my old {name-that-gun}?) know it's crucial to have the gun at hand. The vendor's word, even if he's dead honest and dead sure, is not to be taken literally.
The Colt search was fruitless, but I nodded reverently toward the final resting place of John M. Browning for his decision to make the same bullet holder fit both High Standard HDs and his pre-war Colts. A hobby dealer had one and one-half of them. Mister Complete fed eight fast ones faultlessly upon testing last evening. Miss Half needs a follower -- already roughed out from a scrap of steel -- and a spring.
Back to the open-carry theme. Unless I'm in the field it always make me feel a little silly, as though I'm trying to announce that my junk is more impressive than yours.
But not as silly as one portly young fellow should have felt as he strode the aisles with camo leg holster, leather combatish shooting vest, and a tactical quick-open stabber clipped to a pocket of his black cargo pants. The empty holster marred the image. We figured he had spent all his money on tactical accessories and was still saving up for an actual pistol.
Aug 2, 2013
Altogether now, kids, "The Itsy-Bitsy Hoplophobe..."
As my friend John of the GMA mocks the anti-gun statists: "Well, whaddya know. They do have a playbook." He found it at the blog of our dependable Robb Allen.
Even the "executive summary" is gagworthy. For instance: "Advocates for gun violence prevention win the logical debate, but lose on more emotional
terms".
Right. After every headline shooting, the antigun forces take to their research cubicles, calmly compile facts and responsible opinions and historical references, then soberly present them to a waiting world in carefully worded white papers. It would be unheard of for them to bawl and snivel all over the teevee audience, beshitting better minds with temper tantrums and crying jags that would get a pre-schooler sent off to the special needs room.
I recommend a read on this. Not that we didn't already know it, but it confirms that the marching orders to the Pelosi crowd order them to go for the gut, and anything like honest understanding be damned.
Even the "executive summary" is gagworthy. For instance: "Advocates for gun violence prevention win the logical debate, but lose on more emotional
terms".
Right. After every headline shooting, the antigun forces take to their research cubicles, calmly compile facts and responsible opinions and historical references, then soberly present them to a waiting world in carefully worded white papers. It would be unheard of for them to bawl and snivel all over the teevee audience, beshitting better minds with temper tantrums and crying jags that would get a pre-schooler sent off to the special needs room.
I recommend a read on this. Not that we didn't already know it, but it confirms that the marching orders to the Pelosi crowd order them to go for the gut, and anything like honest understanding be damned.
Aug 1, 2013
I got the power, Baby
So you wanna go for a ride in my shiny wheels?
---
It's about a magic power washer, a cheapish one from a big box, about seven years old. I used it for a few years. In 2010 or '11 It developed a bad leak somewhere in the important machinery, shrouded in a plastic that would have frustrated Houdini. No pressure. Trashed. I gave it up for lost and stashed it away. I kept meaning to haul it to the landfill.
This afternoon I got to feeling shame over the appearance of two of the Camp Jiggleview VEE-hicles, the command mini-van and the mobile assault wagon carrying my Texsun field headquarters.
Generally, since the death of the washer, I've been counting on precipitation to keep them titivated. It hasn't rained in a month, and some wags have been writing undignified notes on the windshields.
For no logical reason I decided, what the Hell, to hook up the old washer and see what happened. I suppose I figured I'd make a quick guess about the problem and devote 30 minutes, no more, to an attempted fix. My confidence level was zero, and the plan was mostly an excuse to put off a tedious hand-wash.
There is something going on around here, and maybe it's true that all is better when you ignore reality and count on Barry's unicorns to breathe well-being into a man and all he owns. Hook up the hose, plug it in. Instant power washing, as though it was new, and still going strong when I shut down after an hour.
---
I have a Remington 12-gauge 1900 double that has been driving me nuts for two years. Can't make it go bang -- or even click -- despite by-the-book assembly of good parts. I am going to set it exactly where the power washer was and wait two years. I'll let you know
---
It's about a magic power washer, a cheapish one from a big box, about seven years old. I used it for a few years. In 2010 or '11 It developed a bad leak somewhere in the important machinery, shrouded in a plastic that would have frustrated Houdini. No pressure. Trashed. I gave it up for lost and stashed it away. I kept meaning to haul it to the landfill.
This afternoon I got to feeling shame over the appearance of two of the Camp Jiggleview VEE-hicles, the command mini-van and the mobile assault wagon carrying my Texsun field headquarters.
Generally, since the death of the washer, I've been counting on precipitation to keep them titivated. It hasn't rained in a month, and some wags have been writing undignified notes on the windshields.
For no logical reason I decided, what the Hell, to hook up the old washer and see what happened. I suppose I figured I'd make a quick guess about the problem and devote 30 minutes, no more, to an attempted fix. My confidence level was zero, and the plan was mostly an excuse to put off a tedious hand-wash.
There is something going on around here, and maybe it's true that all is better when you ignore reality and count on Barry's unicorns to breathe well-being into a man and all he owns. Hook up the hose, plug it in. Instant power washing, as though it was new, and still going strong when I shut down after an hour.
---
I have a Remington 12-gauge 1900 double that has been driving me nuts for two years. Can't make it go bang -- or even click -- despite by-the-book assembly of good parts. I am going to set it exactly where the power washer was and wait two years. I'll let you know
Jul 31, 2013
Bradley Manning (2)
Manning took an oath and violated it. Pledging to defend the Constitution and obey lawful orders from military superiors is not the equivalent of "I'll get back to you."
Setting aside the wisdom of any given foreign policy or military adventure, state secrets are necessary to implementing those policies. There are sound practical and moral reasons for secrecy. There are none for revealing information about our military plans, abilities, or intent. Nor is there justification for publicizing our own assessment of enemy capabilities.
Manning is probably guilty of doing just that, though he may be sincere in denying intent to release operational information. That he couldn't possibly have read more than a fraction of his huge data dump is proof enough of a cavalier attitude -- at best -- toward the lives of his fellow soldiers, vulnerable in the sand and in the city rubble of the Afghanistan civil war.
Distilled to its essence, the Manning excuse constitutes a true and partially relevant statement: "Our government keeps us in the dark to avoid embarrassing itself by stamping "secret" on every report revealing its blunders. Because citizens have no facts, they are unable to form reasonable judgements."
He violated his oath, he argues, in order to create a debate about over-classifcation for the sole purpose of making politicians and bureaucrats look good. The view that his real motivation was something else -- to be a somebody at long last -- has merit, but the fact is that the debate occurs, a good and useful thing.
The most obvious point concerns the helicopter attack on Afghan civilians. Charitably phrased, it was an error. It may have been something more malign. In any case, who can doubt that the over-riding reason the video became top secret was someone's desire to hide the blunder, in part to protect the military from awkward questions about its tactical competence, in part to keep Afghanis from questioning our devotion to winning their hearts and minds, in sum a cover-our-ass maneuver made possible by governments' self-proclaimed right to declare anything, simply anything, a high state secret for purposes of national security.
Had Manning stopped there, his claim to moral heroism would have been stronger.
(TBC)
Setting aside the wisdom of any given foreign policy or military adventure, state secrets are necessary to implementing those policies. There are sound practical and moral reasons for secrecy. There are none for revealing information about our military plans, abilities, or intent. Nor is there justification for publicizing our own assessment of enemy capabilities.
Manning is probably guilty of doing just that, though he may be sincere in denying intent to release operational information. That he couldn't possibly have read more than a fraction of his huge data dump is proof enough of a cavalier attitude -- at best -- toward the lives of his fellow soldiers, vulnerable in the sand and in the city rubble of the Afghanistan civil war.
Distilled to its essence, the Manning excuse constitutes a true and partially relevant statement: "Our government keeps us in the dark to avoid embarrassing itself by stamping "secret" on every report revealing its blunders. Because citizens have no facts, they are unable to form reasonable judgements."
He violated his oath, he argues, in order to create a debate about over-classifcation for the sole purpose of making politicians and bureaucrats look good. The view that his real motivation was something else -- to be a somebody at long last -- has merit, but the fact is that the debate occurs, a good and useful thing.
The most obvious point concerns the helicopter attack on Afghan civilians. Charitably phrased, it was an error. It may have been something more malign. In any case, who can doubt that the over-riding reason the video became top secret was someone's desire to hide the blunder, in part to protect the military from awkward questions about its tactical competence, in part to keep Afghanis from questioning our devotion to winning their hearts and minds, in sum a cover-our-ass maneuver made possible by governments' self-proclaimed right to declare anything, simply anything, a high state secret for purposes of national security.
Had Manning stopped there, his claim to moral heroism would have been stronger.
(TBC)
Jul 30, 2013
Bradley Manning, Jailbird
My moral compass won't settle down to a cardinal point on the Manning case.
Begin with the boy-man himself, a classic reject by three cultures, America, Wales, and the United States Army. Even his chosen cults, the society of hackers and the community of gay men did not embrace this physical runt with anything approaching his massive emotional needs.
Bradley Manning: The mythical Army misfit called Sad Sack, come to life and writ large, an inept soldier made even more miserable by a an unbelievably bleak personal life, a young man lacking even the wit to mask the manifestations of his dispirited soul from family, chance acquaintances, and Army colleagues.
Unstressed by more responsibility than his personality could bear, Manning might have ambled through a harmless and reasonably contented life. He might have been a salesman of the year, a wheel in a local Kiwanis, president of his neighborhood home owners association -- anything that might have given him an identity short of accountability for arcane secrets to embarrass nations.
Manning did not authorize himself to sit at a computer a few key strokes away from military plans and sensitive letters between diplomats. Some one in authority gave that order, and others refused to countermand it even after he slugged a superior, locked himself in fetal positions, and posted details of his top-secret office on Facebook. So dare we suggest courts-martial of the senior officers responsible for Manning's monstrous misassignment?
---
Nevertheless, he is guilty. He promised the nation he would not broadcast our leaders' nasty secrets, and he broke that promise. We are left to ponder, "How guilty?" And to consider the collateral good from his legally treasonous acts.
(TBC)
Begin with the boy-man himself, a classic reject by three cultures, America, Wales, and the United States Army. Even his chosen cults, the society of hackers and the community of gay men did not embrace this physical runt with anything approaching his massive emotional needs.
Bradley Manning: The mythical Army misfit called Sad Sack, come to life and writ large, an inept soldier made even more miserable by a an unbelievably bleak personal life, a young man lacking even the wit to mask the manifestations of his dispirited soul from family, chance acquaintances, and Army colleagues.
Unstressed by more responsibility than his personality could bear, Manning might have ambled through a harmless and reasonably contented life. He might have been a salesman of the year, a wheel in a local Kiwanis, president of his neighborhood home owners association -- anything that might have given him an identity short of accountability for arcane secrets to embarrass nations.
Manning did not authorize himself to sit at a computer a few key strokes away from military plans and sensitive letters between diplomats. Some one in authority gave that order, and others refused to countermand it even after he slugged a superior, locked himself in fetal positions, and posted details of his top-secret office on Facebook. So dare we suggest courts-martial of the senior officers responsible for Manning's monstrous misassignment?
---
Nevertheless, he is guilty. He promised the nation he would not broadcast our leaders' nasty secrets, and he broke that promise. We are left to ponder, "How guilty?" And to consider the collateral good from his legally treasonous acts.
(TBC)
Jul 29, 2013
The Hayseed Gun Market: Yep, another country auction
I didn't go for the firearms; nothing there I cared to own. My goal was to steal* a power washer. I failed.
Nevertheless, I stuck around and recorded hammer prices for those of you keeping track.
--Thunder Hawk black powder rifle (straight line; plastic stock) $60
--Another one $75
--Hawes SA .22/.22mag, vg/exc $240
--Browning Buck Mark .22 as NIB $400
--Ruger 77, .308 Winchester - laminated wood stock, as new, $440
--Howa 1500 .270 Winchester, fancy laminated stock, cheap scope, as new $525
--Ruger GP 100, .357, scope, as new, $610
--Ruger Super BH, .44 mag., stainless, straight optical scope. as new, $700
--Another one, identical but with magic battery driven Buck Rogers scope, $700
Two 26.5 mm flare pistols (ComBlock? Didn't look closely) @$100
---
I did leave a very few dollars with the clerk, biting on four nice new chairs for the commandant's conference table. The old ones were becoming matted with chocolate lab hair beyond the capacity of any vacuum cleaner. The new ones are, OEM, in a better color, about like chocolate lab hair. Besides they're slightly smaller and on better casters and lend my headquarters a gracile, elegant, air, not to mention smelling much less like a wet chocolate lab.
---
*Since Eric Holder reads my stuff, looking for a way to jail me, by "steal" I mean "get it cheaply." It's like, y'know, Eric, a figure of speech.
Nevertheless, I stuck around and recorded hammer prices for those of you keeping track.
--Thunder Hawk black powder rifle (straight line; plastic stock) $60
--Another one $75
--Hawes SA .22/.22mag, vg/exc $240
--Browning Buck Mark .22 as NIB $400
--Ruger 77, .308 Winchester - laminated wood stock, as new, $440
--Howa 1500 .270 Winchester, fancy laminated stock, cheap scope, as new $525
--Ruger GP 100, .357, scope, as new, $610
--Ruger Super BH, .44 mag., stainless, straight optical scope. as new, $700
--Another one, identical but with magic battery driven Buck Rogers scope, $700
Two 26.5 mm flare pistols (ComBlock? Didn't look closely) @$100
---
I did leave a very few dollars with the clerk, biting on four nice new chairs for the commandant's conference table. The old ones were becoming matted with chocolate lab hair beyond the capacity of any vacuum cleaner. The new ones are, OEM, in a better color, about like chocolate lab hair. Besides they're slightly smaller and on better casters and lend my headquarters a gracile, elegant, air, not to mention smelling much less like a wet chocolate lab.
---
*Since Eric Holder reads my stuff, looking for a way to jail me, by "steal" I mean "get it cheaply." It's like, y'know, Eric, a figure of speech.
Jul 28, 2013
Taking a Chance on Spam
Blogger seems to be doing a better job of trapping spam. So, since we all hate it, we'll try turning comment moderation off.
You really ought to hear it done by Ella Fitzgerald.
Things are mending now
I see a rainbow blending now
We'll have a happy ending now
Taking a chance on love
---
Also, she's beautiful.
You really ought to hear it done by Ella Fitzgerald.
Things are mending now
I see a rainbow blending now
We'll have a happy ending now
Taking a chance on love
---
Also, she's beautiful.
Death Dawn
About that time of day I'm a little sleep-drugged and wobbly. Chore One is to set the Mr. Coffee gurgling. In my altered state, that requires intense concentration
lest I omit the coffee, the filter, or the water. *
In the groggy process this morning something flickered in my port side peripheral vision, maybe twenty yards south of the uncurtained kitchen window, near the pickup. I registered two adolescent rabbits. No big deal; they're all over the place. Then something dark whooshed down from a nearby cottonwood.
The lucky bunny found shelter under the truck. The hapless sibling was last seen squirming in talons a dozen feet up and climbing.
The light was poor so I can't be sure, but I offer odds that the bandit was a rough-legged hawk even though they shouldn't be here in this season. They are scheduled to spend summer in the arctic north, making little hawks, but perhaps the settled science of global cooling offers an explanation.
---
*(I know people who can bound out of bed and instantly whip out a bowline on a bight with the left hand while jotting down differential equations with the right. I hate them.)
Jul 25, 2013
Lazy River Sing Your Song
Even miles and miles above the head of navigation at St. Anthony's Falls, the Mississippi is a substantial river, wide, deep, and fast. We have claimed a 13-mile stretch of it as our own ...
....including Moose Island, a pebble and shingle bar named for a GOOD Dog of treasured memory. This time we made it our lunch stop, premium sausages ludditically cooked (pick up some wood and set it on fire; sorry Mr. Coleman).
A thirteen-mile paddle is by no means a heroic endeavor, but it it often strains ancient muscles and even younger sedentary ones. Not so this trip, even though the evil shape-shifter raven whistled up a goodly wind in our faces.
Wisakedjak held the more powerful magic this day, and his current vanquished the raven wind, permitting what you see -- three canoes and a (barely visible blue) kayak rafted for a free drift down to Clearwater. We actually paddled perhaps one-half of the distance, maybe a little less.
Lazy is good, of course, but there's always one guy who overdoes it. We woke him up when ever it was time for Cokes or sandwiches.
....including Moose Island, a pebble and shingle bar named for a GOOD Dog of treasured memory. This time we made it our lunch stop, premium sausages ludditically cooked (pick up some wood and set it on fire; sorry Mr. Coleman).
A thirteen-mile paddle is by no means a heroic endeavor, but it it often strains ancient muscles and even younger sedentary ones. Not so this trip, even though the evil shape-shifter raven whistled up a goodly wind in our faces.
Wisakedjak held the more powerful magic this day, and his current vanquished the raven wind, permitting what you see -- three canoes and a (barely visible blue) kayak rafted for a free drift down to Clearwater. We actually paddled perhaps one-half of the distance, maybe a little less.
Lazy is good, of course, but there's always one guy who overdoes it. We woke him up when ever it was time for Cokes or sandwiches.
Jul 24, 2013
My latest pome
I be not a ze, nor am I a zir.
My dad took a look and said I ain't her.
So "him" I am stuck with for all of my alls,
a captive of both those imperious balls.
It's pleasant enough for this hillbilly, hence
I harbor no envy for androgenous prince.
Or princess mayhap, depending, you see,
on the position ze chooses when needing to pee.
---
For crying out loud.
My dad took a look and said I ain't her.
So "him" I am stuck with for all of my alls,
a captive of both those imperious balls.
It's pleasant enough for this hillbilly, hence
I harbor no envy for androgenous prince.
Or princess mayhap, depending, you see,
on the position ze chooses when needing to pee.
---
For crying out loud.
Jul 20, 2013
Note from a displaced hilbilly (teaser)
It's called "Big Wood Jack Pine Savage."
You, errrr, drink it.
Stay tuned.
You, errrr, drink it.
Stay tuned.
Jul 17, 2013
More fun with headlines
A guy shouldn't josh about a death, but, but, but...
Please don't hate me; blame the potato-headed Des Moines Register for:
"Missing Tuber's Body Found in Cedar River."
I apologize again, but I can't help it that I yam what I yam
Holy Shorts
For once in my life I'm ahead of the prep curve for a little trip later next week.
--The camper is open and airing out nicely.
--The forgotten stuff in the camper refrigerator is in the trash. It, too, is open to the summer breeze so that I need not wear breathing equipment as I perform the straight-bleach procedure.
-- House-sitter Carrie and her Magic Alsatian are firmly engaged. (Yes, magic. He makes undesirable people disappear.)
-- A seldom used camper locker incubates .22 rimfire ammunition, about 220 rounds in those nice old Winchester plastic boxes. Or maybe I forgot it. Anyway, it picked up a skim of that nasty white oxidation. All is tumbling in corn-cob kibbles as we speak. When shiny it will be repackaged against the possibility that I am ambushed on a lonely road by a reinforced company of the 82nd Airborne. Note to self: Clean and oil the Ruger Standard before departure. (The TMR Legal Review Section advises me to warn you against tumbling live rounds. Freeken lawyers.)
--Most important, I have deployed resources from the almost-rag bag. Tees and other of my delicate underthings which, with luck, have exactly one wearing left despite rents and tears and long-retired elastic. Not meaning to preach, but this is perhaps the most vital travel advice you'll ever receive. Throw them away dirty. You'll be traveling lighter on the trip home...
-- ... Unless of course you stop at out-of-the-way flea markets and swap meets and thrift stores, picking up miscellaneous interesting stuff as you continue your eternal quest for that $12 Artillery Luger. (I, of course, would never indulge in that sort of nonsense.)
--The camper is open and airing out nicely.
--The forgotten stuff in the camper refrigerator is in the trash. It, too, is open to the summer breeze so that I need not wear breathing equipment as I perform the straight-bleach procedure.
-- House-sitter Carrie and her Magic Alsatian are firmly engaged. (Yes, magic. He makes undesirable people disappear.)
-- A seldom used camper locker incubates .22 rimfire ammunition, about 220 rounds in those nice old Winchester plastic boxes. Or maybe I forgot it. Anyway, it picked up a skim of that nasty white oxidation. All is tumbling in corn-cob kibbles as we speak. When shiny it will be repackaged against the possibility that I am ambushed on a lonely road by a reinforced company of the 82nd Airborne. Note to self: Clean and oil the Ruger Standard before departure. (The TMR Legal Review Section advises me to warn you against tumbling live rounds. Freeken lawyers.)
--Most important, I have deployed resources from the almost-rag bag. Tees and other of my delicate underthings which, with luck, have exactly one wearing left despite rents and tears and long-retired elastic. Not meaning to preach, but this is perhaps the most vital travel advice you'll ever receive. Throw them away dirty. You'll be traveling lighter on the trip home...
-- ... Unless of course you stop at out-of-the-way flea markets and swap meets and thrift stores, picking up miscellaneous interesting stuff as you continue your eternal quest for that $12 Artillery Luger. (I, of course, would never indulge in that sort of nonsense.)
Jul 16, 2013
The B-37 and the Coop
No, not this air plane.
.jpg) |
And not this Coop
This One
Who makes his living as a steely blue-eyed reporter for the Catatonic News Network where, last evening, he interviewed Zimmerman Juror B-37 and bombed.
Anderson in Duuhhh Moment No. 1: Did you know what went on out there that night?
Juror B-37: No one knew exactly what went on but (goes on to patiently explain what the evidence led jurors to believe occurred.)
Anderson, later, creating Duuhhh Moment No. 2: Did you know what went on out there that night?
Juror B-37: Look you brain-dead whack job, you need to either seek treatment for your short-term memory loss or stop doing interviews that last more than 40 seconds. It was a stupid question in the first place, but I answered it 'cuz I know I'm in a special-needs studio. Now I'm out of here. No, hold it. Why don't you stop picking your toes long enough to crack a dictionary and look up the meaning of "circumstantial."
Jul 13, 2013
Scoop of the day: Zimmerman rearmed
In the post-verdict evacuations, the most most entertaining -- though least useful -- is the Huffington Post, output, and I really think those silly geese are having a collective coronary event. I proffer as foundation the HuffPo lede headline: Zimmerman is NOT GUILTY ... BUT NOT INNOCENT.
Yes, in huge flaming red, perhaps caused by a burst of legal/journalistic insight. Huff discovers that George Zimmerman wlll get his KelTec 9 back simply because he has never been found gulty of a disqualifying offense.
Yes, in huge flaming red, perhaps caused by a burst of legal/journalistic insight. Huff discovers that George Zimmerman wlll get his KelTec 9 back simply because he has never been found gulty of a disqualifying offense.
The knock-knock jury
By decree of all the news jockeys, I am required to identify this period in American History as "Verdict Watch."
In the latest high-drama instant, the cable channel I have on for background noise has decided the jury is considering manslaughter because it asked the judge to clarify the manslaughter instruction. She responded she will do so only if they clarify what they want clarified.
It is no secret that I find Zimmerman not guilty of any crime. That was the opinion before the trial opened. After doing my damnedest to listen with an open mind, like a juror, nothing changed it. Nor did my conviction that he is morally culpable for bad judgement.
It wouldn't surprise me if jurors are of a similar opinion but looking for a loophole to allow legal punishment for merely stupid acts. Should that principle enter the law, about 90 per cent of us (raising hand) would be hoping for a nice, straight cellie, smaller than outselves.
Since this is one of those famous hard cases which make bad law, I doubt a manslaughter conviction will create a case-law landmark, but it would still be a setback for the moral right to defend yourself, to turn us back into English-like subjects, strictly obligated to wait for the Bobbies as the thug bangs our head on the cobblestones.
In the latest high-drama instant, the cable channel I have on for background noise has decided the jury is considering manslaughter because it asked the judge to clarify the manslaughter instruction. She responded she will do so only if they clarify what they want clarified.
It is no secret that I find Zimmerman not guilty of any crime. That was the opinion before the trial opened. After doing my damnedest to listen with an open mind, like a juror, nothing changed it. Nor did my conviction that he is morally culpable for bad judgement.
It wouldn't surprise me if jurors are of a similar opinion but looking for a loophole to allow legal punishment for merely stupid acts. Should that principle enter the law, about 90 per cent of us (raising hand) would be hoping for a nice, straight cellie, smaller than outselves.
Since this is one of those famous hard cases which make bad law, I doubt a manslaughter conviction will create a case-law landmark, but it would still be a setback for the moral right to defend yourself, to turn us back into English-like subjects, strictly obligated to wait for the Bobbies as the thug bangs our head on the cobblestones.
Jul 5, 2013
Zimmernan again - a drive-by
If Zimmerman doesn't walk, it won't be for lack of prosecutorial effort.
And if the Japanese who harbor no love for their Middle Kingdom neighbors want to create a satirical anti-Chinese anime, all they have to do is cartoonize Dr. Bao and put his words, verbatim, in the balloons.
Sheesh.
And if the Japanese who harbor no love for their Middle Kingdom neighbors want to create a satirical anti-Chinese anime, all they have to do is cartoonize Dr. Bao and put his words, verbatim, in the balloons.
Sheesh.
Jul 4, 2013
Happy Independence Day
In a foul mood I might quibble with Roberta about a little of this and a little of that in her morning take on The Revolution that led to American Independence. Since I'm feeling pretty cheerful, and because it seems to me that she nails 90 per cent, maybe more, of an essence of what we are, I'll just sneak you a sample and suggest the rest is worth a read.
...no luck runs forever and I'm half-convinced we have already passed the point where future historians will draw a line, saying, "Here the Republic ended; here the Empire began."
---
I've gotten away from our older Grand Old Fourth celebrations.
In a way I miss the hot court house lawn and the hotter breath of an overly excited official oration. The 1903 Springfield salutes by the VFW were fun, and "America the Beautiful" from the talent-limited Methodist Church choir was not uninspiring. It was the first patriotism I knew. Some of it stuck, and I still cover my heart when the Flag passes by. And despite decades in the hog-wallow of American misgovernance, I make that salute without the slightest embarrassment.
Because when in the course of human events it becomes apparent that our revolution has been betrayed -- as all revolutions always are -- the core idea remains. The real Stars and Stripes of our nation is the notion of glory in free association among sovereign human beings.
...no luck runs forever and I'm half-convinced we have already passed the point where future historians will draw a line, saying, "Here the Republic ended; here the Empire began."
---
I've gotten away from our older Grand Old Fourth celebrations.
In a way I miss the hot court house lawn and the hotter breath of an overly excited official oration. The 1903 Springfield salutes by the VFW were fun, and "America the Beautiful" from the talent-limited Methodist Church choir was not uninspiring. It was the first patriotism I knew. Some of it stuck, and I still cover my heart when the Flag passes by. And despite decades in the hog-wallow of American misgovernance, I make that salute without the slightest embarrassment.
Because when in the course of human events it becomes apparent that our revolution has been betrayed -- as all revolutions always are -- the core idea remains. The real Stars and Stripes of our nation is the notion of glory in free association among sovereign human beings.
 | |
Salute the Three Percenters, Then and Now |
Jul 3, 2013
Zimmerman
Zimmerman is not looking guilty of murder so far. I offer that after frittering away too many hours watching the trial, from the state's opening vulgarity through Barrister Knock-Knock's greeting to the jury to the Hannity interview.
He's being caught in tiny lies of the sort you and I and Mother Theresa would whip out in a flash to lipstick any incident which turned out badly for us, but his core story still (again, so far) stands. Not even the most rabid anti-Zimmerman, errr, analysts on the teevee can make much of the "inconsistencies."
So the prosecution is left with orts for facts and is hoping, I thiink, to dress the table with two fat capons.
(1) The race bird, of course. The accused is whitish. The dead person is blackish. Ergo malicious racial prejudice. The judge did well to keep the term "racial profiling" out of the arguments, but just plain "profiling" is kosher. She couldn't possibly have barred it without being laughed off the bench. And can any jury, even a knock-knock jury, miss the state's intended meaning?
(2) The emo bird. It isn't hard to believe that prosecutors knew they had a rotten evidentiary case and carefully planned days of relative tedium as stage setting for the great close, parental sobs for such a good boy. Anyone -- any parent, anyway -- understands their grief and wishes to his Heaven that it had not occurred. But their anguish and our empathy have nothing to do with the facts of what happened that night in Sanford. I'm looking forward to seeing the legal artistry each side will use to persuade the jury to believe or disbelieve that.
----
Couple of sidebar notes:
--In the Hannity interview Zimmerman said he never heard of the Florida stand-your-ground law. Very hard to believe. I assume the state will get a few points from this. More generally, you and I face some extra work in explaining that the Zimmerman defense has little, if anything, to do with stand-your-ground. It is a traditional self-defense case.
--The medical examiner's testimony that Zimmerman was not hurt all that badly is going to mislead a fair portion of the GED set. They will understand that a victim must reach some sort of injury threshhold before his right to defend himself kicks in. "Okay. Ya gotta let the guy bang your head on concrete at least seven times and break your nose twice. Then ya gotta ask him nicely to stop before ya can shoot him."
---
EDIT TO ADD: That didn't take long. Out of the gate the state is introducing Zimmerman's criminal justice course records to demonstrate he studied stand-your-ground. Teevee says those transcripts show him with a 1.5 GPA, and suggests defense may have to mount a stupidity response.
He's being caught in tiny lies of the sort you and I and Mother Theresa would whip out in a flash to lipstick any incident which turned out badly for us, but his core story still (again, so far) stands. Not even the most rabid anti-Zimmerman, errr, analysts on the teevee can make much of the "inconsistencies."
So the prosecution is left with orts for facts and is hoping, I thiink, to dress the table with two fat capons.
(1) The race bird, of course. The accused is whitish. The dead person is blackish. Ergo malicious racial prejudice. The judge did well to keep the term "racial profiling" out of the arguments, but just plain "profiling" is kosher. She couldn't possibly have barred it without being laughed off the bench. And can any jury, even a knock-knock jury, miss the state's intended meaning?
(2) The emo bird. It isn't hard to believe that prosecutors knew they had a rotten evidentiary case and carefully planned days of relative tedium as stage setting for the great close, parental sobs for such a good boy. Anyone -- any parent, anyway -- understands their grief and wishes to his Heaven that it had not occurred. But their anguish and our empathy have nothing to do with the facts of what happened that night in Sanford. I'm looking forward to seeing the legal artistry each side will use to persuade the jury to believe or disbelieve that.
----
Couple of sidebar notes:
--In the Hannity interview Zimmerman said he never heard of the Florida stand-your-ground law. Very hard to believe. I assume the state will get a few points from this. More generally, you and I face some extra work in explaining that the Zimmerman defense has little, if anything, to do with stand-your-ground. It is a traditional self-defense case.
--The medical examiner's testimony that Zimmerman was not hurt all that badly is going to mislead a fair portion of the GED set. They will understand that a victim must reach some sort of injury threshhold before his right to defend himself kicks in. "Okay. Ya gotta let the guy bang your head on concrete at least seven times and break your nose twice. Then ya gotta ask him nicely to stop before ya can shoot him."
---
EDIT TO ADD: That didn't take long. Out of the gate the state is introducing Zimmerman's criminal justice course records to demonstrate he studied stand-your-ground. Teevee says those transcripts show him with a 1.5 GPA, and suggests defense may have to mount a stupidity response.
Jul 1, 2013
Reflections on the maddening science of physics
The motivation: Yet another effort to tourist-proof the dock before the Independence Day invasion.
The method: Double the designed load-bearing capacity via 4x4 piles and 2x6 cross pieces, assembled with carriage bolts.
The hypothesis: An ordinarily adept American male can install said carriage bolts -- slightly underwater -- while lying on his belly, manipulating a 9/16" wrench blindly behind a longitudinal stringer.
Conclusion: Under such conditions "righty-tighty, lefty-loosey" becomes quite a challenging notion.
---
The method: Double the designed load-bearing capacity via 4x4 piles and 2x6 cross pieces, assembled with carriage bolts.
The hypothesis: An ordinarily adept American male can install said carriage bolts -- slightly underwater -- while lying on his belly, manipulating a 9/16" wrench blindly behind a longitudinal stringer.
Conclusion: Under such conditions "righty-tighty, lefty-loosey" becomes quite a challenging notion.
---
Jun 30, 2013
A good judge is hard to find.*
if you're looking for one, try Iowa. A guy here named David Wiggins makes his living as a supreme court justice. He keeps beating our primitives over their little statist heads, making the point that constitutions are written for reasons -- even that Fourth Amendment which makes life so inconvenient for cops.
Last week he let a drunk (but not very, .088) driver go because officers had only a sorehead's anonymous tip to justify stopping him.
"To hold otherwise would cause legitimate concern because such tips would let the police stop persons on anonymous tips that might have been called in for vindictive or harassment purposes or based solely on a hunch or rumor."
Thank you, Your Honor.
If you're interested in a a lucid explanation of some constitutional limits on a cop's authority to invade your privacy, the Wiggins opinion in the case (PDF) is worth a read.
This is the same guy who wrote another Fourth Amendment stunner saying that if police stop you for a piddly reason, they need to be damned careful about searching you in hopes of finding an unrelated offense. Wiggins warned them to shape up or face the liklihood of being required to explicitly tell you, "No, you don't have to let me search you for pot just because your dog got off his leash." This is State vs. Pals.
One other reason to like this guy. He earned the hatred of Rick Santorum hard-shells in Iowa by ruling -- along with all six other justices -- that banning gay marriage violated the Iowa Constitution. Santorum's alter-ego in these parts, Bob Vander Platts, saw a fund-raising opportunity and led a successful drive to oust three of those justices.
Wiggins came up for retention one cycle later, and VDP went after him, too, but blew it. Many folks in the Vander Platts pews had become less excitable, allowing Wiggins to make his case that that the process of constitutional law was far more important than the outcome of any given issue. (As an aside, that was the same approach Bork took before an audience of excitable senators, and don't we wish he, also, had carried the day.)
I'm trying to phone His Ineptness to suggest he appoint our Justice Wiggins to oversee all FISA court cases. So far the call goes straight to presidential voice mail. I'm not really angry, though. According to the news he is up to his ears in trying to give Africa seven billion of our dollars so they can have electricity to charge their iPads, and isn't that just what we elected him to do?
---
*You often get the other kind.
Justice Waterman dissented in this recent case, continuing his pattern of telling Officer Fife, "Whatever Barney Wants, Barney Gets." (The Pals case again.) Unfortunately, he's a long way from his retention vote.
Last week he let a drunk (but not very, .088) driver go because officers had only a sorehead's anonymous tip to justify stopping him.
"To hold otherwise would cause legitimate concern because such tips would let the police stop persons on anonymous tips that might have been called in for vindictive or harassment purposes or based solely on a hunch or rumor."
Thank you, Your Honor.
If you're interested in a a lucid explanation of some constitutional limits on a cop's authority to invade your privacy, the Wiggins opinion in the case (PDF) is worth a read.
This is the same guy who wrote another Fourth Amendment stunner saying that if police stop you for a piddly reason, they need to be damned careful about searching you in hopes of finding an unrelated offense. Wiggins warned them to shape up or face the liklihood of being required to explicitly tell you, "No, you don't have to let me search you for pot just because your dog got off his leash." This is State vs. Pals.
One other reason to like this guy. He earned the hatred of Rick Santorum hard-shells in Iowa by ruling -- along with all six other justices -- that banning gay marriage violated the Iowa Constitution. Santorum's alter-ego in these parts, Bob Vander Platts, saw a fund-raising opportunity and led a successful drive to oust three of those justices.
Wiggins came up for retention one cycle later, and VDP went after him, too, but blew it. Many folks in the Vander Platts pews had become less excitable, allowing Wiggins to make his case that that the process of constitutional law was far more important than the outcome of any given issue. (As an aside, that was the same approach Bork took before an audience of excitable senators, and don't we wish he, also, had carried the day.)
I'm trying to phone His Ineptness to suggest he appoint our Justice Wiggins to oversee all FISA court cases. So far the call goes straight to presidential voice mail. I'm not really angry, though. According to the news he is up to his ears in trying to give Africa seven billion of our dollars so they can have electricity to charge their iPads, and isn't that just what we elected him to do?
---
*You often get the other kind.
Justice Waterman dissented in this recent case, continuing his pattern of telling Officer Fife, "Whatever Barney Wants, Barney Gets." (The Pals case again.) Unfortunately, he's a long way from his retention vote.
Jun 27, 2013
Freedom can be disgusting
Not to brag, but I have a strong stomach. That happens when a fellow has a life history of summer camp food, Navy chow, church basement cuisine, and his own cooking.
So I didn't heave yesterday morning when my electric teevee got its jollies showing Bruce and Reggie swapping spit on the Supreme Court steps because the justices said they could get married.
It was a close-run thing. Moist PDAs between or among anyone make me slightly uncomfortable. Civilized humanity invented doors and drapes for a reason, and I am personally attuned to the notion that the queerer the foreplay, the thicker the curtains required.
Teevee producers disagree, of course, and there is that pesky First Amendment, so we're stuck with living-room sodomy, or preludes thereto. Fast work with the remote control is one palliative.
---
The Court is to be congratulated for yesterday's slapdown of the DOMA and Proposition 8. It moderated political control over personal intimacies among free adult Americans. Liberty won, and the legal-political complex left me free to publish my annoyance that freedom can lead to things I find somewhere between distasteful and repugnant.
,
So I didn't heave yesterday morning when my electric teevee got its jollies showing Bruce and Reggie swapping spit on the Supreme Court steps because the justices said they could get married.
It was a close-run thing. Moist PDAs between or among anyone make me slightly uncomfortable. Civilized humanity invented doors and drapes for a reason, and I am personally attuned to the notion that the queerer the foreplay, the thicker the curtains required.
Teevee producers disagree, of course, and there is that pesky First Amendment, so we're stuck with living-room sodomy, or preludes thereto. Fast work with the remote control is one palliative.
---
The Court is to be congratulated for yesterday's slapdown of the DOMA and Proposition 8. It moderated political control over personal intimacies among free adult Americans. Liberty won, and the legal-political complex left me free to publish my annoyance that freedom can lead to things I find somewhere between distasteful and repugnant.
,
Jun 25, 2013
Sorry I haven't spoken with you in a couple of days. The weekend was a bit on the social side, mostly with neighbors. We popped in on one another between thunderstorms and engaged in illuminating chit-chat about how nice it was to be between thunderstorms for a change.
Then there was yesterday when I decide to stay within eye shot of my electric television set and pay attention to the Zimmerman trial. That didn't last long. I caught the prosecution f-bomb lede and the idiotic knock-knock defense joke. Then I doped out the HLN channel approach to coverage -- two minutes of actual courtroom proceedings as fill between inane analysis by their ever-so-pretty analysts who specialize in the segue-to-commercial field of legal journalism. I suppose I could have written something for this space after the nausea bout subsided, but the impulse to communicate was too weak.
This morning I decided to give The Vast Waste Land one more chance before test-firing a large weapon, center mass into the small, cheap flat panel. A gentle wave of fantasy stopped me. I became a news personality and, for a moment, loved it. Every one would have to pay attention to me, even the silken news chicks with their fresh leg waxes. And I would be lavishly paid; with the right agent I might even have negotiated a contract awarding me a bonus, say a brick of .22s for every segment in which I remembered not to pick my nose.
I slowly returned to the world-as-it-actually-is when the thought struck that if I were on teevee with Mika or Gretchen, I would have to pretend that I really, really gave a good goddam about who won the Stanley Cup and how cute it was when everyone on Rush Street decided to celebrate by taking their Rolling Rock outside and fouling Rahm's sidewalks.
Then there was yesterday when I decide to stay within eye shot of my electric television set and pay attention to the Zimmerman trial. That didn't last long. I caught the prosecution f-bomb lede and the idiotic knock-knock defense joke. Then I doped out the HLN channel approach to coverage -- two minutes of actual courtroom proceedings as fill between inane analysis by their ever-so-pretty analysts who specialize in the segue-to-commercial field of legal journalism. I suppose I could have written something for this space after the nausea bout subsided, but the impulse to communicate was too weak.
This morning I decided to give The Vast Waste Land one more chance before test-firing a large weapon, center mass into the small, cheap flat panel. A gentle wave of fantasy stopped me. I became a news personality and, for a moment, loved it. Every one would have to pay attention to me, even the silken news chicks with their fresh leg waxes. And I would be lavishly paid; with the right agent I might even have negotiated a contract awarding me a bonus, say a brick of .22s for every segment in which I remembered not to pick my nose.
I slowly returned to the world-as-it-actually-is when the thought struck that if I were on teevee with Mika or Gretchen, I would have to pretend that I really, really gave a good goddam about who won the Stanley Cup and how cute it was when everyone on Rush Street decided to celebrate by taking their Rolling Rock outside and fouling Rahm's sidewalks.
Jun 22, 2013
Britannia waives the rules
I'm for Women's Lib and equal pay for equal incompetence and all that. But, jayzuss, Ladies, do you leave us Chappies nothing of our grand Nelsonian tradition?
Out: "Here's to our wives and sweethearts."
In: "Here's to our families."
I suppose the jocular Mess Night addendum, "May they never meet," could still be appropriate, but by Jove, Man, it just doesn't sing.
Out: "Here's to our wives and sweethearts."
In: "Here's to our families."
I suppose the jocular Mess Night addendum, "May they never meet," could still be appropriate, but by Jove, Man, it just doesn't sing.
Jun 21, 2013
So many revolutions, so few Marines
We all anxiously await the Obama solution to Brazilian riots. Our vital national security interests pivot on free bus rides in Rio and Sao Paulo, so minding our own business is not an option.
Speaking of His Ineptness, it's hard to dispute this reaction "...pure mush..." to his Brandenburg Gate gig. (The writer is a Thatcherite Brit, so make whatever allowances you care to.)
Obama made it to the White House in large part because of his powerful tent-preacher oratory. His skill seems to be fading.
Personally, I think the only shot he has at burnishing his image is to hire Peggy Noonan.
.
Speaking of His Ineptness, it's hard to dispute this reaction "...pure mush..." to his Brandenburg Gate gig. (The writer is a Thatcherite Brit, so make whatever allowances you care to.)
Obama made it to the White House in large part because of his powerful tent-preacher oratory. His skill seems to be fading.
Personally, I think the only shot he has at burnishing his image is to hire Peggy Noonan.
.
Jun 20, 2013
Ben Bernanke, or, The Prehensile Snout
Ben probably chose unwisely in calling his new Fed policy a "taper." Careless teevee watchers are likely to think he meant "tapir," like a pig, sort of, only uglier, and with a grasping snout and crocodile-resistant hide.
Popular confusion is understandable because Chairman Bernanke is the money part of government. His job is to print enough Federal Reserve Cartoons so presidents and congresspersons can fling great batches of them at voting blocks, mostly around election time. Voters wiggle their snouts in the air, suck up all they can and make an ex by the guy on the ballot who pomises even more.
(Every now and then some spoilsport wlll crack wise about the worth of anything available in infinite quantity. Ben and his bosses will ignore that, proving that this tapir hide also resists logic. Irony, too.)
Anyway, Ben hinted in the vaguest possible way yesterday that he and the other Fed governors might lift he pedal from the metal a silly millimeter or so if the economy perks and if unemployment deperks and the good Lord willing and the creek don't rise and they find Jimmy Hoffa. That rosy result happening, he might print only 65 billion FRCs a month, down from the current funny money run of 85 billion.
Panic ensued. The Dow plunged and, this morning, crossed the 15,000 mark.
In truth, long tradition requires us to call it the psychologically important 15,000 mark because it ends in three zeros. At 14,999.99 is would have been psychologically insignificant.
If you think about it, that says a lot about how stock markets operate. They are designed to be more rational. They would be if it were not for the 2,000-pound white-bearded tapir in the room.
Popular confusion is understandable because Chairman Bernanke is the money part of government. His job is to print enough Federal Reserve Cartoons so presidents and congresspersons can fling great batches of them at voting blocks, mostly around election time. Voters wiggle their snouts in the air, suck up all they can and make an ex by the guy on the ballot who pomises even more.
(Every now and then some spoilsport wlll crack wise about the worth of anything available in infinite quantity. Ben and his bosses will ignore that, proving that this tapir hide also resists logic. Irony, too.)
Anyway, Ben hinted in the vaguest possible way yesterday that he and the other Fed governors might lift he pedal from the metal a silly millimeter or so if the economy perks and if unemployment deperks and the good Lord willing and the creek don't rise and they find Jimmy Hoffa. That rosy result happening, he might print only 65 billion FRCs a month, down from the current funny money run of 85 billion.
Panic ensued. The Dow plunged and, this morning, crossed the 15,000 mark.
In truth, long tradition requires us to call it the psychologically important 15,000 mark because it ends in three zeros. At 14,999.99 is would have been psychologically insignificant.
If you think about it, that says a lot about how stock markets operate. They are designed to be more rational. They would be if it were not for the 2,000-pound white-bearded tapir in the room.
Jun 19, 2013
The birthers return
Okay. It was a silly attack on His Ineptness but the birthers were good for a certain grin factor. How about another one as our president channels JFK at the Brandenburg Gate?
A wag hacks into his teleprompter. Barry is just hitting his demagogic stride, his voice raises as he reads, "Ich bin ein Kenyaner!"
A wag hacks into his teleprompter. Barry is just hitting his demagogic stride, his voice raises as he reads, "Ich bin ein Kenyaner!"
Jun 18, 2013
The Left-Handed Gun
My youngest heir and assign -- who is everything you could possibly want in a lad -- soon becomes a legal adult. He intends to celebrate his emancipation with his first very-own-bought-it-myself-center-fire rifle. A respectful young man, he has been seeking my counsel. (OK, maybe he's just humoring me, but I prefer to think otherwise so never mind.)
It's complicated because he shoots from the wrong side, limiting his selection in bolt guns and sending him in search of pumps and semi-autos. I've been trying to steer him away from autos, apparently not very successfully.
Last evening's exchange was about his newly discovered lust for a Remington Model 8 (!). I understand. It is admittedly a beautiful rifle in a findy sickle sort of way, so an admirable share of Gramps' penchant for tradition remains alive in the blood line.
I suppose that's balanced by an equal ratio of willfulness, so he may actually wind up with one despite my gentle suggestion that this JMB-design is now a better collector than it is a shooter. For instance, you need ammo in the midst of a mulie hunt down in the high Uncompahgre desert. Do you really think you can find a box of .25-.35 at the one-pump gas station, bar, and trading post over on the reservationroad jeep trail?
The discussion continues. I'll see what I can do about pointing him at a Remington 760 or the like while we look hard for a proper wrong-side bolt-action. Wish me luck.
---
I like semi-autos just fine. I also like the ideas of (a) greater field dependability of hand-operated guns and (b) a young man concentrating on careful one-shot marksmanship before he gets too ratatattatty.
---
EDIT: An astute reader questions .25-.35. It's a little obscure but the reference is ".25 Remington (also called .25-.35)..."
It's complicated because he shoots from the wrong side, limiting his selection in bolt guns and sending him in search of pumps and semi-autos. I've been trying to steer him away from autos, apparently not very successfully.
Last evening's exchange was about his newly discovered lust for a Remington Model 8 (!). I understand. It is admittedly a beautiful rifle in a findy sickle sort of way, so an admirable share of Gramps' penchant for tradition remains alive in the blood line.
I suppose that's balanced by an equal ratio of willfulness, so he may actually wind up with one despite my gentle suggestion that this JMB-design is now a better collector than it is a shooter. For instance, you need ammo in the midst of a mulie hunt down in the high Uncompahgre desert. Do you really think you can find a box of .25-.35 at the one-pump gas station, bar, and trading post over on the reservation
The discussion continues. I'll see what I can do about pointing him at a Remington 760 or the like while we look hard for a proper wrong-side bolt-action. Wish me luck.
---
I like semi-autos just fine. I also like the ideas of (a) greater field dependability of hand-operated guns and (b) a young man concentrating on careful one-shot marksmanship before he gets too ratatattatty.
---
EDIT: An astute reader questions .25-.35. It's a little obscure but the reference is ".25 Remington (also called .25-.35)..."
His Teleprompter Speaks
United States of America: The streets and schools are awash in blood, ergo it is my job as your president to advocate strict civilian gun control. In the end, only agents of the duly constituted authority should be armed.
Syria: The streets and schools are awash in blood, ergo it is my job as your president to arm the Syrian civilians in order that they may shoot down agents of the duly constituted authority.
Syria: The streets and schools are awash in blood, ergo it is my job as your president to arm the Syrian civilians in order that they may shoot down agents of the duly constituted authority.
Jun 17, 2013
Drive-by post, mentioning sex
Imagine two old lechers watching MIss Utah answer the queston.
Lecher 1: "Gee, wouldn't you like to (be intimate with) her."
Lecher 2: "Not at the expense of having to converse with her."
---
Early in my First Administration, No.2 will be appointed to high federal office.
Lecher 1: "Gee, wouldn't you like to (be intimate with) her."
Lecher 2: "Not at the expense of having to converse with her."
---
Early in my First Administration, No.2 will be appointed to high federal office.
Jun 16, 2013
Fathers: Tool-using creatures
From the grandfather, b. 1893, to the father, b. 1916, to me; and, God willing, on down line. Forgive a rare mystical moment, but I believe that rock maple has absorbed a good deal of love.
Jun 14, 2013
Celebrate
Flag Day.
Run it up, despite everything.
We're not honoring a government. We're celebrating an aspiration. "Sweet land of liberty" sums it up. Perhaps we'll get there some day.
Run it up, despite everything.
We're not honoring a government. We're celebrating an aspiration. "Sweet land of liberty" sums it up. Perhaps we'll get there some day.
Benghazi again, plus literary advice
A few news operations are keeping the murder-mystery alive, the one about four dead Americans in Libya last September.
W'hoppen?
Our survivors on the ground cabled Washington about what they saw and experienced. None mentioned righteous Islamist outrage over a goofy amateur video hardly anyone except Susan Rice and Hillary Clinton had ever heard of.
Call those reports a set of "facts" reported to the White House, the Department of State, and an assortment of other Beltway centers for advanced white wash technology. (I use the term "facts" with caution but thoughtfully on grounds that they're closer to truth than the Rice performance on Sunday teevee.) Notice how quickly the facts turned into Suzie's odd video story which stood up for a day or two before even Chris Mathews found it untenable.
It all gets too complicated for mere day-by-day journalism, and it shouldn't be too long before the books appear. The first one to focus on the Obama/Clinton cover up should be titled: "When a Fact Hits a Whore House."
W'hoppen?
Our survivors on the ground cabled Washington about what they saw and experienced. None mentioned righteous Islamist outrage over a goofy amateur video hardly anyone except Susan Rice and Hillary Clinton had ever heard of.
Call those reports a set of "facts" reported to the White House, the Department of State, and an assortment of other Beltway centers for advanced white wash technology. (I use the term "facts" with caution but thoughtfully on grounds that they're closer to truth than the Rice performance on Sunday teevee.) Notice how quickly the facts turned into Suzie's odd video story which stood up for a day or two before even Chris Mathews found it untenable.
It all gets too complicated for mere day-by-day journalism, and it shouldn't be too long before the books appear. The first one to focus on the Obama/Clinton cover up should be titled: "When a Fact Hits a Whore House."
Jun 13, 2013
Morning Madness; The Sky is Falling
Grab your bugout bag, we are doomed.
Global Shares Pummeled Dollar Slumps as Rout Gathers Pace
Reuters says stocks are Down this week after having been Up all year long so woe is me. The writer is to be commended for exceptional word choice. In a world where even the dullest list of numbers must convey drama, "Pummeled" and "Slumps" are exquisite verbs, but their magic is overtopped by the ultimate horror of a noun. "Rout." (!)
Cue the teevee footage. Grainy old black and white film of American bread lines in 1931. Starving babies in1969 Biafra. Malnourished Chinese peasants any time from 2,000 B.C. to yesterday. This is it, folks.
So, what happened?
People who trade stocks for a living decided to sell a few of the stocks they have been buying since 2009. They're pocketing some of the cash they've made. It is not much different from you taking a look at that extra Glock you bought during the Bush reign and deciding a $200 profit on a $400 investment is plenty. Sell that puppy. If enough people do it, of course, the later sellers will make less money. The headline would read "Glock Crap Pummeled Plastic Melts in Teutonic Brick Rout."
The actual pistols don't change (nor does the health of Glockenmakers). They go bang today in whatever caliber they used yesterday. Sort of like Pfizer (PFE, NYSE, $28.38 premarket, down about 1 per cent in three days), maker of Viagra. The market isn't saying Viagra won't work anymore. At worst it's saying that profits of the pill may not be as big as they thought yesterday, even though old goats will still keep popping for them, even at $20 a pop.
(A certain economic nostalgia comes to mind, recollection of a time when, I'm told, a double sawbuck would buy it all -- a pound of raw hamburger, two vitamin E tabs, a half-ounce of rhino horn, plus an evening of professional services. And the old dude didn't even have to worry about the dreaded four-hour buzzer. But I digress.)
It is normal to wonder why all the traders' opinions changed so fast, and here Reuters helps us out:
"...there has never been a period when the Fed has started to take back stimulus that has left the markets untouched," said Hans Peterson, global head of investment strategy at Swedish bank SEB. "And this time it is a bigger exercise. We have moved markets from 2009 to 2013 on stimulus and now we are trying to take a step into a world which is more driven by natural growth. That transition will not be easy."
Or: Traders and investors like to trade and invest with Santa Claus money. They're afraid Chairman Bernanke is about to shave off his beard. He won't, of course, but the market panics merely at any hint he might trim it by one or two basis points.
Global Shares Pummeled Dollar Slumps as Rout Gathers Pace
Reuters says stocks are Down this week after having been Up all year long so woe is me. The writer is to be commended for exceptional word choice. In a world where even the dullest list of numbers must convey drama, "Pummeled" and "Slumps" are exquisite verbs, but their magic is overtopped by the ultimate horror of a noun. "Rout." (!)
Cue the teevee footage. Grainy old black and white film of American bread lines in 1931. Starving babies in1969 Biafra. Malnourished Chinese peasants any time from 2,000 B.C. to yesterday. This is it, folks.
So, what happened?
People who trade stocks for a living decided to sell a few of the stocks they have been buying since 2009. They're pocketing some of the cash they've made. It is not much different from you taking a look at that extra Glock you bought during the Bush reign and deciding a $200 profit on a $400 investment is plenty. Sell that puppy. If enough people do it, of course, the later sellers will make less money. The headline would read "Glock Crap Pummeled Plastic Melts in Teutonic Brick Rout."
The actual pistols don't change (nor does the health of Glockenmakers). They go bang today in whatever caliber they used yesterday. Sort of like Pfizer (PFE, NYSE, $28.38 premarket, down about 1 per cent in three days), maker of Viagra. The market isn't saying Viagra won't work anymore. At worst it's saying that profits of the pill may not be as big as they thought yesterday, even though old goats will still keep popping for them, even at $20 a pop.
(A certain economic nostalgia comes to mind, recollection of a time when, I'm told, a double sawbuck would buy it all -- a pound of raw hamburger, two vitamin E tabs, a half-ounce of rhino horn, plus an evening of professional services. And the old dude didn't even have to worry about the dreaded four-hour buzzer. But I digress.)
It is normal to wonder why all the traders' opinions changed so fast, and here Reuters helps us out:
"...there has never been a period when the Fed has started to take back stimulus that has left the markets untouched," said Hans Peterson, global head of investment strategy at Swedish bank SEB. "And this time it is a bigger exercise. We have moved markets from 2009 to 2013 on stimulus and now we are trying to take a step into a world which is more driven by natural growth. That transition will not be easy."
Or: Traders and investors like to trade and invest with Santa Claus money. They're afraid Chairman Bernanke is about to shave off his beard. He won't, of course, but the market panics merely at any hint he might trim it by one or two basis points.
Jun 12, 2013
Calling Paul Wolfowitz
...and all the other neocons to whom God spake about His Divine Plan for a world in the image of Peoria, Illinois:
Isn't it about time you guys started agitating to arm the Turkish rebels? Or at least declare Ankara a no-fly zone?
With the promised wind-down of Afghanistan adventuring, the prospect of minding our own business portends a period of boredom, and we could use the stimulation of training a fresh batch of American kids to get themselves shot while adjudicating tribal and cult snit-fits in the Stans.
i understand that this one gets a little complicated. We love the boss poltician, but the kids in the square seem to favor preserving a pretty workable constitution and not tinkering with a culture which tries to temper Islamist excess.
So what? A nice fresh little war always reminds foreigners how cool we can be about projecting our power.
Besides, it is a great way to give American teevee something to report instead of all this blather about the IRS cheating and NSA spying and Eric Holder running guns and eyeballing reporters, right down to their indictable skivvies.
i understand that this one gets a little complicated. We love the boss poltician, but the kids in the square seem to favor preserving a pretty workable constitution and not tinkering with a culture which tries to temper Islamist excess.
So what? A nice fresh little war always reminds foreigners how cool we can be about projecting our power.
Besides, it is a great way to give American teevee something to report instead of all this blather about the IRS cheating and NSA spying and Eric Holder running guns and eyeballing reporters, right down to their indictable skivvies.
Jun 10, 2013
Tinfoil hattery; why we bother
Some times I wonder why I should care. I'm an Older American. No matter what is taken from me, I can reflect on a life more interesting than ordinary, probably even "happier" than ordinary although that point is impossible to investigate. You see, I lack the talent to know the state of happiness of any of my fellows, not one.
Certainly I'm as adept as anyone else at identifying and classifying apparent happiness as measured by the the usual standards, the wherewithal to consume, the crude wit to identify current fashion and conform, the appearance of intensely satisfying personal relationships, and so forth. Just like Richard Cory who on that calm summer night went home and put a bullet through his happy head.
So, no. Any man's opinion on the pattern of activity in another's neurons is as suspect as a politician's promise. I can know -- and probably only imperfectly -- the state of my own synaptic patterns which produce the range of contentment from a heartfelt smile when I am alone to the ugliest possible frown, also in solitude.
New Dog Libby knows when she's happy. Well-fed, fresh from a Frisbee romp, ears scratched, she is satisfied in the deepest sense of that term. Only a magical Disney epic could endow her with care for what sort of life her grandpuppies would have. This reveals a defining difference between Libby and the man who fills her bowl. He thinks of his posterity. Like any beast, she would find that preposterous. She is a prisoner of the instant moment. Her master and all his fellows are cursed with a notion of foresight, the belief that they can observe current patterns and extrapolate into the future.
It is the curse of despair and hope when I, at least, would often prefer a stick to chase, a banana split, and a sound ear-scratching as I drift into dreamless sleep.
---
In this motley internet neighborhood of disorganized (and unorganizable) libertarians and ancaps, no one is surprised at the staccato new reports of universal spying. Most are on record as simply assuming it exists, that it is destined to exist by the very nature of coercive power, that is, the Power of the drones and command control over the 82nd Airborne, all the Marines, and millions of spies you never heard of, all charged with identifying Crimethink by invading private human thought.
I have no great-grandpuppies yet, but I probably will. With a bit of luck I'll cuddle them, and I'll certainly hope (the curse, again) they have choices in a world neither too brave nor too new, nor ruled by other Controllers of an Inner Party.
Certainly I'm as adept as anyone else at identifying and classifying apparent happiness as measured by the the usual standards, the wherewithal to consume, the crude wit to identify current fashion and conform, the appearance of intensely satisfying personal relationships, and so forth. Just like Richard Cory who on that calm summer night went home and put a bullet through his happy head.
So, no. Any man's opinion on the pattern of activity in another's neurons is as suspect as a politician's promise. I can know -- and probably only imperfectly -- the state of my own synaptic patterns which produce the range of contentment from a heartfelt smile when I am alone to the ugliest possible frown, also in solitude.
New Dog Libby knows when she's happy. Well-fed, fresh from a Frisbee romp, ears scratched, she is satisfied in the deepest sense of that term. Only a magical Disney epic could endow her with care for what sort of life her grandpuppies would have. This reveals a defining difference between Libby and the man who fills her bowl. He thinks of his posterity. Like any beast, she would find that preposterous. She is a prisoner of the instant moment. Her master and all his fellows are cursed with a notion of foresight, the belief that they can observe current patterns and extrapolate into the future.
It is the curse of despair and hope when I, at least, would often prefer a stick to chase, a banana split, and a sound ear-scratching as I drift into dreamless sleep.
---
In this motley internet neighborhood of disorganized (and unorganizable) libertarians and ancaps, no one is surprised at the staccato new reports of universal spying. Most are on record as simply assuming it exists, that it is destined to exist by the very nature of coercive power, that is, the Power of the drones and command control over the 82nd Airborne, all the Marines, and millions of spies you never heard of, all charged with identifying Crimethink by invading private human thought.
I have no great-grandpuppies yet, but I probably will. With a bit of luck I'll cuddle them, and I'll certainly hope (the curse, again) they have choices in a world neither too brave nor too new, nor ruled by other Controllers of an Inner Party.
Jun 7, 2013
Data Mining ("And, While You're At It...")
About my first foray into politics occurred just after I left the Navy and started college in my home town. It was scut work for Sonja Egnes, a female Republican trying for a congressional seat held by a semi-felonious lefty preacher named Myrwin.
The local GOP organization was manned by lame and lazy socialites to whom it had never occurred that a list of eligible voters was a right handy thing to have. The most convenient way to get a partial one was from the local police file of driver licenses, actual carbon copies in file drawers.
I had a decent relationship with the cops. Being a veteran helped. (Sure, a couple of them hated me for being a f------g college puke, but they didn't have the horses to do anything about it.) I asked the chief and he said, "Sure." So I assembled a team of coeds and we went to work on a file of about 15,000 paper licenses, copying by hand names and address of people 21 and up.
(That was the voting age in those days. It was later we decided that barely post-pubes were qualified to act officially on their well-considered opinions about recognizing Red China, containing Communism, supporting farm prices at 90 per cent of parity, and the need for a true two-ocean Navy. But I digress.)
A couple of days into the project, a senior cop got to thinking "my statistics...". Dangerous then, dangerous now. He asked me into his office, poured coffee and, in effect, said" "Y'know, we never go through those things, so there are probably a lot of guys out there driving around on expired licenses. How 'bout you and the girls make a note of them...".
That was cop-think then and it is cop-think now, which we might want to keep in mind as His Ineptness and the Royal Chorus chant the old songs about universal spying for anti-terrorism only!
It's an especially realistic frame of mind when you and the family are at O'Hare, getting ready to fly off to Grandma's for Christmas, and you think you notice the guy in a white shirt and badge let his hand linger an instant too long on your little boy's weenie. He's pretty sure the tyke himself is innocent, but he has to make sure you didn't pack a half-pound of C4 around it.
Of course the perv and his supervisors trot out the security talking point. Purely professional. And only to nab Abdul of Al Queda.
Right. So why do we remember one of the official responses to criticisms of Great Airport Grope? Why, besides foiling (N) airplane explosions, we found (N) marijuana mules/possessors/users and (N) people with warrants out and even one guy with a half-pint of Jim Beam!
Mr. President, do you actually expect us to believe that your 100 per cent lock on citizen's' most private communications can not be re-purposed in less time than it takes for Weiner to unzip? Or will not because of the high honor and respect all federal employees pay to the Fourth Amendment? That you and yours would never, ever, even think of eavesdropping on our phone and email content?
Errr. I know it is ancient history to a politician's attention span, having happened almost two months ago, but what's this about the IRS reading our email, just for shits and grins and to avoid the inconvenience of asking a judge for permission?
---
Oh, the license check requests?
I didn't do it, but I was not heroic, not even noble. I waffled and made excuses, counting on sheer bureaucratic sloth to make the request go away in time, which it did.
Sonja lost.
The local GOP organization was manned by lame and lazy socialites to whom it had never occurred that a list of eligible voters was a right handy thing to have. The most convenient way to get a partial one was from the local police file of driver licenses, actual carbon copies in file drawers.
I had a decent relationship with the cops. Being a veteran helped. (Sure, a couple of them hated me for being a f------g college puke, but they didn't have the horses to do anything about it.) I asked the chief and he said, "Sure." So I assembled a team of coeds and we went to work on a file of about 15,000 paper licenses, copying by hand names and address of people 21 and up.
(That was the voting age in those days. It was later we decided that barely post-pubes were qualified to act officially on their well-considered opinions about recognizing Red China, containing Communism, supporting farm prices at 90 per cent of parity, and the need for a true two-ocean Navy. But I digress.)
A couple of days into the project, a senior cop got to thinking "my statistics...". Dangerous then, dangerous now. He asked me into his office, poured coffee and, in effect, said" "Y'know, we never go through those things, so there are probably a lot of guys out there driving around on expired licenses. How 'bout you and the girls make a note of them...".
That was cop-think then and it is cop-think now, which we might want to keep in mind as His Ineptness and the Royal Chorus chant the old songs about universal spying for anti-terrorism only!
It's an especially realistic frame of mind when you and the family are at O'Hare, getting ready to fly off to Grandma's for Christmas, and you think you notice the guy in a white shirt and badge let his hand linger an instant too long on your little boy's weenie. He's pretty sure the tyke himself is innocent, but he has to make sure you didn't pack a half-pound of C4 around it.
Of course the perv and his supervisors trot out the security talking point. Purely professional. And only to nab Abdul of Al Queda.
Right. So why do we remember one of the official responses to criticisms of Great Airport Grope? Why, besides foiling (N) airplane explosions, we found (N) marijuana mules/possessors/users and (N) people with warrants out and even one guy with a half-pint of Jim Beam!
Mr. President, do you actually expect us to believe that your 100 per cent lock on citizen's' most private communications can not be re-purposed in less time than it takes for Weiner to unzip? Or will not because of the high honor and respect all federal employees pay to the Fourth Amendment? That you and yours would never, ever, even think of eavesdropping on our phone and email content?
Errr. I know it is ancient history to a politician's attention span, having happened almost two months ago, but what's this about the IRS reading our email, just for shits and grins and to avoid the inconvenience of asking a judge for permission?
---
Oh, the license check requests?
I didn't do it, but I was not heroic, not even noble. I waffled and made excuses, counting on sheer bureaucratic sloth to make the request go away in time, which it did.
Sonja lost.
Jun 6, 2013
Overlord
June 6, 1944, on the shingle beaches of Normandy. Not much new can be said after 69 years, but it is meet to remind one another, "Please remember."
Jun 5, 2013
Culture in America
--Sports: Your pharmacist sucks. Mine kicks butt.
-- University of Ohio president fired after media storm for joshing Notre Dame, those damn Catholics. Most damn Catholics I know are blessed with a sense of humor, and many possess the wit to fire back, Thank you Urim Thummin. Now let's go have coffee.
Climate change and penology: ... and I ain't seen the sun shine since I don't know when.
-
-- University of Ohio president fired after media storm for joshing Notre Dame, those damn Catholics. Most damn Catholics I know are blessed with a sense of humor, and many possess the wit to fire back, Thank you Urim Thummin. Now let's go have coffee.
Climate change and penology: ... and I ain't seen the sun shine since I don't know when.
-
Jun 3, 2013
Frank Lautenberg of New Jersey
He wasn't one of us. Srictly as a matter of policy, his tilt toward wealth redstribution and coercive government will not be missed.
But when the lad Lautenberg was 18 he enlisted in the United States Army and served in Europe when Europe was a dangerous place to be. He died as the last serving U.S. senator who fought in that war. Therefore, as a man, Senator Lautenberg rates a salute from me. RIP, Sir.
But when the lad Lautenberg was 18 he enlisted in the United States Army and served in Europe when Europe was a dangerous place to be. He died as the last serving U.S. senator who fought in that war. Therefore, as a man, Senator Lautenberg rates a salute from me. RIP, Sir.
Jun 1, 2013
In case your tail is wet...
I have just the thing because I occasionally go to auctions:
It is a military helicopter tail rotor cover, purchased for a staggering three dollars. I was willing to invest that sum to satisfy curiosity. I'm having a little trouble figuring out a practical use for it. So far the only thing that comes to mind is stacking firewood into a truncated replica of a Celtic stone tower and employing it as a cover.
Naaaah. Too much like work.
But maybe the grin alone is worth the three bucks. I mentioned the McNamara 100,000 a little while ago, but darned if I suspected the Army turned them into chopper pilots.
May 31, 2013
Dutch gun porn alert
If you're passing through northwest Iowa Sunday and have a few hours to spare, you can swing by Rembrandt for a largish gun auction.
I won't be there because I consider the auctioneer a jerk. Besides, there's nothing on the bill that interests me. I note the event simply for the record.
The burg is, in fact, full of Dutch people, but it's not named for the painter. That honor belongs to the two Rembrandt brothers, early settlers who perfected the art of creating copper wire while fighting over a penny.
It's also quite a righteous place where preachers still rail against their lascivious countryman.
I won't be there because I consider the auctioneer a jerk. Besides, there's nothing on the bill that interests me. I note the event simply for the record.
The burg is, in fact, full of Dutch people, but it's not named for the painter. That honor belongs to the two Rembrandt brothers, early settlers who perfected the art of creating copper wire while fighting over a penny.
It's also quite a righteous place where preachers still rail against their lascivious countryman.
May 30, 2013
Ben Bernanke and the Magic of WD40
Your morning lecture today comes courtesy of our old friend Ben Bernanke, the power of applied mythology, and a big broken belt on a John Deere 318 hydrostatic lawn tractor.
The belt broke in mid-mowing yesterday morning, leaving the Camp Jiggleview parade grounds half beautifully clipped and half ugly, looking like an overgrown weed field in which Mary Poppins lurks, ever ready to burst forth singing schmaltz. (It has been wet, and mowing opportunities are infrequent.)
The result was determination to scrap all other plans, immediately replace the belt, and finish the job. Thirteen miles away, the nearest Deere outlet sadly reported no belt in stock. Thirteen miles and three auto parts stores further away, I found one at a marginal farm store, not an OEM product but usable.
While there, I decided to pick up a can of WD40. It was available and on sale! at $6.99 for 12 ounces, at which point I decided not to pick up a can of WD40, even though I like the stuff because (a) the spray can is handy and (b) colorful enough not to get lost in my shop clutter. Those perceived advantages fade at $74 per gallon, even if it really does contain fish oil you spray on a worm to outwit a six-pound bass. Even if has magic molecules to make your date amorous.
The magical stuff is magic because television and the teacher unions have combined to created a population which believes in mysterious potions since chemistry is even harder than math.
WD40 is about half "Stoddard Solvent" which is a geeky way to say "paint thinner." About 15 per cent of it is mineral oil and the rest is inert stuff and CO2 to get it out of the can.
(The figures do not add up to 100 per cent because, just in case I've missed something, one needs to leave a little room for the possible magic molecule which, theoretically, could make fish bite and Julie Andrews hot for your body.)
So, for so long as the miracle elixer goes for eighteen times the price of gasoline, I'll be concocting my own. Fill a pump spray bottle about two-thirds full of diesel. Top it off with SAE 10. The results mimic the magic of the bright blue and yellow can, and the savings can be applied to gray-market .22 ammo.
---
So what's Bernanke got to do with this? Think, Man, think. He's the witch doctor who creates a money-like substance out of thin air, making sure enough of it floats around to persuade Americans that paying $6.99 for about 50 cents worth of goop is a perfectly reasonable transaction. It stimulates the economy.
The belt broke in mid-mowing yesterday morning, leaving the Camp Jiggleview parade grounds half beautifully clipped and half ugly, looking like an overgrown weed field in which Mary Poppins lurks, ever ready to burst forth singing schmaltz. (It has been wet, and mowing opportunities are infrequent.)
The result was determination to scrap all other plans, immediately replace the belt, and finish the job. Thirteen miles away, the nearest Deere outlet sadly reported no belt in stock. Thirteen miles and three auto parts stores further away, I found one at a marginal farm store, not an OEM product but usable.
While there, I decided to pick up a can of WD40. It was available and on sale! at $6.99 for 12 ounces, at which point I decided not to pick up a can of WD40, even though I like the stuff because (a) the spray can is handy and (b) colorful enough not to get lost in my shop clutter. Those perceived advantages fade at $74 per gallon, even if it really does contain fish oil you spray on a worm to outwit a six-pound bass. Even if has magic molecules to make your date amorous.
The magical stuff is magic because television and the teacher unions have combined to created a population which believes in mysterious potions since chemistry is even harder than math.
WD40 is about half "Stoddard Solvent" which is a geeky way to say "paint thinner." About 15 per cent of it is mineral oil and the rest is inert stuff and CO2 to get it out of the can.
(The figures do not add up to 100 per cent because, just in case I've missed something, one needs to leave a little room for the possible magic molecule which, theoretically, could make fish bite and Julie Andrews hot for your body.)
So, for so long as the miracle elixer goes for eighteen times the price of gasoline, I'll be concocting my own. Fill a pump spray bottle about two-thirds full of diesel. Top it off with SAE 10. The results mimic the magic of the bright blue and yellow can, and the savings can be applied to gray-market .22 ammo.
---
So what's Bernanke got to do with this? Think, Man, think. He's the witch doctor who creates a money-like substance out of thin air, making sure enough of it floats around to persuade Americans that paying $6.99 for about 50 cents worth of goop is a perfectly reasonable transaction. It stimulates the economy.
May 28, 2013
Making the Underclass Rowdy
While I'm enduring the fourth straight day of rain, fog, and other symptoms of a world that needs to change its underwear, I'm occupying my time with electronical media.
It's mostly the internet where a little luck on the broker's site will help recoup the cost of those two recent loopholes. So far this morning, the realized Federal Reserve Cartoons compensate for just under 1 per cent of the Colt/Garand outlay, meaning about 120 straight days of such wild speculation will bring me back to even, FRC-wise, assuming Chairman Bernanke doesn't add more afterburners over at the Bureauof Printing and Engraving.
But with the other eye I'm occasionally glancing at C-Span where Brooks Brothers boxers are getting all knotted about the internet "radicalizing" (exclamation points and OMGs) people.
I am sure it does to one degree or another, just like every other mass-communication enhancer in history, going back to the papyrus megaphone. One of the better examples is our own penny press, born in the middle 19th Century (and haven't things gone to Hell since then?).
The internet mimics every other endeavor which makes it easier and easier to prate to more and more people. In other words, like television and public schools, it arms stupid people with information.*
Even Wiki agrees. The penny papers cost about one-fifth the price of the established rags and, to boot, offered a powerful selling point:
Simple vocabulary and diction allowed for lower-class and less educated readers to easily understand.
Now, if this way of thinking appeals to the C-Span hand wringers this morning, the logical debate must consider which to outlaw first, the National Enguirer or the Travis McGee Reader and its ilk. Those lower classes are downright dangerous when they learn about stuff happening over in the next block.
---
*Or words and pictures that seem like information. That's important, but it's a subject for another essay.
It's mostly the internet where a little luck on the broker's site will help recoup the cost of those two recent loopholes. So far this morning, the realized Federal Reserve Cartoons compensate for just under 1 per cent of the Colt/Garand outlay, meaning about 120 straight days of such wild speculation will bring me back to even, FRC-wise, assuming Chairman Bernanke doesn't add more afterburners over at the Bureauof Printing and Engraving.
But with the other eye I'm occasionally glancing at C-Span where Brooks Brothers boxers are getting all knotted about the internet "radicalizing" (exclamation points and OMGs) people.
I am sure it does to one degree or another, just like every other mass-communication enhancer in history, going back to the papyrus megaphone. One of the better examples is our own penny press, born in the middle 19th Century (and haven't things gone to Hell since then?).
The internet mimics every other endeavor which makes it easier and easier to prate to more and more people. In other words, like television and public schools, it arms stupid people with information.*
Even Wiki agrees. The penny papers cost about one-fifth the price of the established rags and, to boot, offered a powerful selling point:
Simple vocabulary and diction allowed for lower-class and less educated readers to easily understand.
Now, if this way of thinking appeals to the C-Span hand wringers this morning, the logical debate must consider which to outlaw first, the National Enguirer or the Travis McGee Reader and its ilk. Those lower classes are downright dangerous when they learn about stuff happening over in the next block.
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*Or words and pictures that seem like information. That's important, but it's a subject for another essay.
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