Ed Snowden has told the Guardian that your Officer Friendlies in the NSA just love your private parts and spreading them.
All day they whiz through your emails and PMs and Facebook offerings. Mostly boring stuff like your bank account, potitical contributions, stock investments, family troubles and so forth. Sometimes, though, they find something risible.
Snowden: During the course of their work, (NSA employees) stumble across something that is completely unrelated to their work in any sort of necessary sense, for example, an intimate nude photo of someone in a sexually compromising situation. But they’re extremely attractive.
So what do they do? They turn around in their chair and show a coworker who says, ‘Hey that’s great. Send that to Bill down the way.’ Then Bill sends it to George, who sends it to Tom, and sooner or later this persons whole life has been seen by all of these other people.
The NSA denies such a thing is possible because all their thousands of snoopers are Eagle Scouts who sing in the church choir,
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 15, 2014
James. Clean Up Your Room RIGHT NOW
.. .and do a good job!
The threatened punishment for outright disobedience or a slap-dash effort was severe and credible.
"Or I won't buy bananas this week. "
(Can nine-year-olds today imagine a time when a banana was a special luxury? Of course not. It would come as a shock even to their parents that once upon a time all the United Fruit Company ships were commandeered by Roosevelt to carry war stuff to Churchill and Stalin. The bananas were left to rot in the jungles, and the supply didn't become dependable until a couple years after the war.)
So I cleaned my room. In the process came joy. Under a big pile of something in the closet I found my almost-new first baseman's glove, a treasure lost weeks before.
That didn't change my casual attitude toward housekeeping, but it implanted a valuable lesson. When you notice you've lost a few important things, start tidying your place.
Like yesterday. I noticed I was missing my Buck 501, a favorite little flashlight, the check book, and the old "Eversharp" pencil which, somehow, seems to improve my spelling. (I do not fully reject either animism or a more generalized magic. That pencil harbors a spirit.)
I recalled the results of Mom's banana threat and set out to act like a normal, responsible adult human being. An hour or so later these things were neat and well-organized: The truck cab. A butt pack, nerdy looking but useful as a go bag. The computer bag. The hard-side brief case. Two drawers. All was found, and as a bonus the Ruger RST4 is back where it belongs, locked in the everyday van in case of an irresistible urge to do a little plinking on my way home from town.
This is the place where a guy should specify the moral of his story, which I suppose is "a place for everything and everything in its place, every hour of every day."
But screw it. Compulsiveness is for nerds who think butt packs look cool.
The threatened punishment for outright disobedience or a slap-dash effort was severe and credible.
"Or I won't buy bananas this week. "
(Can nine-year-olds today imagine a time when a banana was a special luxury? Of course not. It would come as a shock even to their parents that once upon a time all the United Fruit Company ships were commandeered by Roosevelt to carry war stuff to Churchill and Stalin. The bananas were left to rot in the jungles, and the supply didn't become dependable until a couple years after the war.)
So I cleaned my room. In the process came joy. Under a big pile of something in the closet I found my almost-new first baseman's glove, a treasure lost weeks before.
That didn't change my casual attitude toward housekeeping, but it implanted a valuable lesson. When you notice you've lost a few important things, start tidying your place.
Like yesterday. I noticed I was missing my Buck 501, a favorite little flashlight, the check book, and the old "Eversharp" pencil which, somehow, seems to improve my spelling. (I do not fully reject either animism or a more generalized magic. That pencil harbors a spirit.)
I recalled the results of Mom's banana threat and set out to act like a normal, responsible adult human being. An hour or so later these things were neat and well-organized: The truck cab. A butt pack, nerdy looking but useful as a go bag. The computer bag. The hard-side brief case. Two drawers. All was found, and as a bonus the Ruger RST4 is back where it belongs, locked in the everyday van in case of an irresistible urge to do a little plinking on my way home from town.
This is the place where a guy should specify the moral of his story, which I suppose is "a place for everything and everything in its place, every hour of every day."
But screw it. Compulsiveness is for nerds who think butt packs look cool.
Jul 12, 2014
The Guns We Need
By "we" I mean Dick Sommers, my grandpa's Uncle George, and me. Maybe you, too, but not necessarily. As Dick told the preacher, some thinks one way, some another.
---
Dick went early to the upper Missouri and crossed the Divide to the Seed-skee-dee and beyond. He trapped his plews, bedded his squaws, and drank his whiskey until he began to gray. He returned to Missouri, married up white, and farmed his plot until he buried her. Then he allowed himself to be talked into guiding an early emigrant train to the Oregon Country.
Except for the kitless preacher, who mooched, Dick's plunder was the slimmest of the lot, barely a burden for two pack horses on the six-month trek. Indian trade truck, kettle, a robe or two, and "a couple of knives, his Hawken, and an over-and-under double with one barrel big enough for bird shot." And a small keg of whiskey.
The best modern analogue is found elsewhere, in good writing about equipping for a serious north woods canoe trip. The better authors remark the primitive red man who set out for a season with his bow, quiver, knife, and maybe a sack of pemmican. "Our equipment is a substitute for his knowledge," they write.
Dick Sommers knew; his main arsenal lived in his head.
---
"Uncle" George lived and killed about a century later. He is my only known ancestor to fall low, a lawyer and incessant office seeker who got hisself elected mayor of Madison, Missouri, twice, and justice of the peace in his old age, a time when he got an idea. He would sue a passel of his relatives to get his legal paws on a small dirt farm northwest of Madison.
The merits of the case are murky, probably lost forever. The larger points are that Leslie, 40, died, George took poison in prison, and the large extended family -- a whole raft of us infested those parts then -- factionated itself like a pack of Sunnis and Shi-ites. All over 111 acres of miserable ground which wouldn't have brought $25 an acre.
Leslie shared a surname with George and was probably a nephew, maybe with some "removeds" and "greats" tossed in. He was 40 to George's 68. He was on the other side of the law suit and pissed off, and aggressive, and, family lore holds, on familiar terms with strong spirits.
On November 13, 1926, they met in downtown Madison. A scuffle happened. George told the jury that being old and weak he was forced to shoot. Two quickies and finisher.
Within a month George was convicted of manslaughter. He appealed, lost, and in 1928 went to prison. Two years or so later, in the infirmary, he found a jar of potassium-something and drank.
So, back to the point. Then as now the media were awful light on interesting details but did report the gun George needed was
"a .32 revolver of the blue steel variety."
Therefore we are certain that whatever his other character flaws, my ancestor George wouldn't be caught dead carrying no whore-house special colored chrome or nickel or some two-tone Brucie gun. A sure-nuf man's man. That's always been a great comfort to me.
---
Me? I figure that the only guns I actually need to face the wild world, including the wild civilized world called cities, are two: A 1911 out of John Moses Browning for carry and an old Savage .22LR over and 20-gauge under for pot meat and general pest control. With an especially sturdy pack mule I'd add a .30-06 to reduce the need for careful stalking, but we're getting pretty close to effete foo-foo-raw here.
I have other stuff, of course, but they're mostly fashion statements, unless I miss my guess.
Ain't no harm in that, I reckon, but, as I may have mentioned, some thinks one way, some another.
---
(Dick will be familiar to A.B. Guthrie readers.)
---
Dick went early to the upper Missouri and crossed the Divide to the Seed-skee-dee and beyond. He trapped his plews, bedded his squaws, and drank his whiskey until he began to gray. He returned to Missouri, married up white, and farmed his plot until he buried her. Then he allowed himself to be talked into guiding an early emigrant train to the Oregon Country.
Except for the kitless preacher, who mooched, Dick's plunder was the slimmest of the lot, barely a burden for two pack horses on the six-month trek. Indian trade truck, kettle, a robe or two, and "a couple of knives, his Hawken, and an over-and-under double with one barrel big enough for bird shot." And a small keg of whiskey.
The best modern analogue is found elsewhere, in good writing about equipping for a serious north woods canoe trip. The better authors remark the primitive red man who set out for a season with his bow, quiver, knife, and maybe a sack of pemmican. "Our equipment is a substitute for his knowledge," they write.
Dick Sommers knew; his main arsenal lived in his head.
---
"Uncle" George lived and killed about a century later. He is my only known ancestor to fall low, a lawyer and incessant office seeker who got hisself elected mayor of Madison, Missouri, twice, and justice of the peace in his old age, a time when he got an idea. He would sue a passel of his relatives to get his legal paws on a small dirt farm northwest of Madison.
The merits of the case are murky, probably lost forever. The larger points are that Leslie, 40, died, George took poison in prison, and the large extended family -- a whole raft of us infested those parts then -- factionated itself like a pack of Sunnis and Shi-ites. All over 111 acres of miserable ground which wouldn't have brought $25 an acre.
Leslie shared a surname with George and was probably a nephew, maybe with some "removeds" and "greats" tossed in. He was 40 to George's 68. He was on the other side of the law suit and pissed off, and aggressive, and, family lore holds, on familiar terms with strong spirits.
On November 13, 1926, they met in downtown Madison. A scuffle happened. George told the jury that being old and weak he was forced to shoot. Two quickies and finisher.
Within a month George was convicted of manslaughter. He appealed, lost, and in 1928 went to prison. Two years or so later, in the infirmary, he found a jar of potassium-something and drank.
So, back to the point. Then as now the media were awful light on interesting details but did report the gun George needed was
"a .32 revolver of the blue steel variety."
Therefore we are certain that whatever his other character flaws, my ancestor George wouldn't be caught dead carrying no whore-house special colored chrome or nickel or some two-tone Brucie gun. A sure-nuf man's man. That's always been a great comfort to me.
---
Me? I figure that the only guns I actually need to face the wild world, including the wild civilized world called cities, are two: A 1911 out of John Moses Browning for carry and an old Savage .22LR over and 20-gauge under for pot meat and general pest control. With an especially sturdy pack mule I'd add a .30-06 to reduce the need for careful stalking, but we're getting pretty close to effete foo-foo-raw here.
I have other stuff, of course, but they're mostly fashion statements, unless I miss my guess.
Ain't no harm in that, I reckon, but, as I may have mentioned, some thinks one way, some another.
---
(Dick will be familiar to A.B. Guthrie readers.)
Jul 10, 2014
New Yahk New Yahk
"Only there," a guy is tempted to say. But who the Hell knows what might be lurking in the pointy little political hackheads of, say, San Francisco?
---
The bill would require that the costumed (street) performers be licensed and go through a background check.
I once endured a long layover at La Guardia and took a shuttle into Manhattan for a looksee. On my way from a lengthy Montana political gig, I wore Levis, a largish buckle on the tooled leather, a snap-button ranch shirt, and "cowboy" boots. (You learn to dress local in that racket.) If, God forbid, I should do it again, "You're busted. You have the right to remain .... The charge is imitating Walt Coogan without a license."
The wit-free councilman ramrodding the dress-code decree is Mickey Mouse. No. Wait. I mean Dan Garodnick. Dan frets because. "There have been a number of troublesome incidents involving costumed figures who try to make a living by charming tourists."
And just what are these egregious acts requiring suspension of probably a half-dozen basic human and Constitutional rights?
As AP has it, "They include a person dressed as Super Mario who was accused of groping a woman. This criminalizes walking Gotham streets dressed up as Joe Biden.
"And an Elmo figure pleaded guilty to disorderly conduct after unleashing an anti-Semitic tirade."
Or, in other words, pretending to be the Rev. Mr. Jesse (Hymietown) Jackson.
---
The bill would require that the costumed (street) performers be licensed and go through a background check.
I once endured a long layover at La Guardia and took a shuttle into Manhattan for a looksee. On my way from a lengthy Montana political gig, I wore Levis, a largish buckle on the tooled leather, a snap-button ranch shirt, and "cowboy" boots. (You learn to dress local in that racket.) If, God forbid, I should do it again, "You're busted. You have the right to remain .... The charge is imitating Walt Coogan without a license."
The wit-free councilman ramrodding the dress-code decree is Mickey Mouse. No. Wait. I mean Dan Garodnick. Dan frets because. "There have been a number of troublesome incidents involving costumed figures who try to make a living by charming tourists."
And just what are these egregious acts requiring suspension of probably a half-dozen basic human and Constitutional rights?
As AP has it, "They include a person dressed as Super Mario who was accused of groping a woman. This criminalizes walking Gotham streets dressed up as Joe Biden.
"And an Elmo figure pleaded guilty to disorderly conduct after unleashing an anti-Semitic tirade."
Or, in other words, pretending to be the Rev. Mr. Jesse (Hymietown) Jackson.
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