Back in January I noted an internet+live auction of 500 guns in Aurelia -- classics, oddballs, plain junk.
Cleaning up bookmarks this morning I ran across the final sale prices. Some of you may find it interesting.
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Feb 29, 2012
Feb 28, 2012
Dear CNN, Fox, and MSNBC
Even devoted political freaks are tired of it. Our tolerance for drama contrived from the flimsiest "analysis" has been exceeded. And we haven't even come to the big primaries yet.
Why don't you send all your anchors and common taters home for a while? After the votes are counted, tell us who won. Meanwhile put up some old Daffy Duck cartoons. See if we can tell the difference.
Why don't you send all your anchors and common taters home for a while? After the votes are counted, tell us who won. Meanwhile put up some old Daffy Duck cartoons. See if we can tell the difference.
How not to use a gun
Taking the report at face value, we have a good little lesson for people just beginning to study the use of firearms for self-defense.
When you stand at your third-story window, high above the belligerent nincompoop yelling and stomping your car, you are probably well short of the standard that justifies shooting. This is one of the cases where calling the cops seems more reasonable. You can always keep the 10-22 handy in case the idiot follows through on his threat to kick in your door.
The accused claims he shot to scare, usually a bad idea, and didn't mean to hit the deceased in the chest. So maybe it's also an opportunity to sketch for your student the path of a bullet flying at much of an angle fromline of sight horizontal. "She's gonna throw high, Bro."
When you stand at your third-story window, high above the belligerent nincompoop yelling and stomping your car, you are probably well short of the standard that justifies shooting. This is one of the cases where calling the cops seems more reasonable. You can always keep the 10-22 handy in case the idiot follows through on his threat to kick in your door.
The accused claims he shot to scare, usually a bad idea, and didn't mean to hit the deceased in the chest. So maybe it's also an opportunity to sketch for your student the path of a bullet flying at much of an angle from
The storm of death redux again
This is about the first excuse of the winter for the official mommydotguv weather forecasters to predict death and disaster. So far, I am amazed at the rhetorical restraint the NWS is showing. Reduced to a "takeaway" (what an odious word), the weather guys and gals seem to be advising me that I have a reasonable chance of surviving the next 72 hours. Ordinarily their red headlines make me wonder if my will needs changing.
This makes me feel good but also like a citified wuss. I don't really need to do much. Keep a few splits of oak handy to the fireplace. Kick New Dog Libby out of the soft chair closest to said fireplace. Decide whether to go with chili, spaghetti sauce, or barbecue pork loin in the crock pot. Move the more dependable truck out into a clear area of the yard. (The truck is insured but the camper isn't, so the fall of an ice-laden oak branch thereon would be financially inconvenient.)
A couple-three hundred miles west of me, where the storm is worse, lives a a better man. This guy -- an obvious survivalist -- got ready by positioning the 4x4 pickup, prepping his team of horses, getting his cows in a cuddly place, and -- I swear it's true -- hoping his shoulder pain lets up enough so he can go riding his colt through the wintry Armageddon. Ride 'em, Cowboy.
(sigh) Comparatively, Jinglebob makes me feel like I should be wearing white bucks, lime green slacks, a pink silk shirt, and a yellow ascot, standing around a country club bar, bitching about the servant problem.
This makes me feel good but also like a citified wuss. I don't really need to do much. Keep a few splits of oak handy to the fireplace. Kick New Dog Libby out of the soft chair closest to said fireplace. Decide whether to go with chili, spaghetti sauce, or barbecue pork loin in the crock pot. Move the more dependable truck out into a clear area of the yard. (The truck is insured but the camper isn't, so the fall of an ice-laden oak branch thereon would be financially inconvenient.)
A couple-three hundred miles west of me, where the storm is worse, lives a a better man. This guy -- an obvious survivalist -- got ready by positioning the 4x4 pickup, prepping his team of horses, getting his cows in a cuddly place, and -- I swear it's true -- hoping his shoulder pain lets up enough so he can go riding his colt through the wintry Armageddon. Ride 'em, Cowboy.
(sigh) Comparatively, Jinglebob makes me feel like I should be wearing white bucks, lime green slacks, a pink silk shirt, and a yellow ascot, standing around a country club bar, bitching about the servant problem.
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