From my friend John, via email:
From comments at The Bleat:
"When I was (briefly) at The AP in N'Awlins, the New York desk came back and came back and came back at the sportswriter prior to the Super Bowl. over and over. "what is the temperature and winds on the field?" finally got the copy accepted with "68 degrees, half-mile winds, variable." this is, of course, about the Superdome."
---
I am of the opinion that that selfsame New York editor is also assigned to supervise all reports dealing with firearms.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 11, 2015
Hey Amigo. Let's see whose gun is loudest.
De Voto on the Battle of Palo Alto where Taylor's young artillery officers mowed down Mexican troops by the the score, perhaps unnecessarily:
"That the Mexican troops faced such fire and stayed on the field is ample evidence they were good troops. (but) Few of them, here or later, could shoot straight. Government policy, taking account of revolutions, had forbidden the citizenry to bear arms."
(Ahem, Mr. Obama.)
---
As I've opined before, you have to love De Voto for a lot of reasons. Another one, referring to future CinC Taylor on the same battlefield near Matamoros in 1846:
"...he had no nerves and nothing recognizable as intelligence, he was afraid of nothing, and he was too unimaginative to know when he was being licked, which was fortunate since he did not know how to maneuver troops. Add to this a dislike of military forms and procedures and a taste for old clothes and you have a predestinate candidate for the Presidency."
---
Bernard De Voto, The Year of Decision 1846, Little-Brown 1942 pp. 189-190
"That the Mexican troops faced such fire and stayed on the field is ample evidence they were good troops. (but) Few of them, here or later, could shoot straight. Government policy, taking account of revolutions, had forbidden the citizenry to bear arms."
(Ahem, Mr. Obama.)
---
As I've opined before, you have to love De Voto for a lot of reasons. Another one, referring to future CinC Taylor on the same battlefield near Matamoros in 1846:
"...he had no nerves and nothing recognizable as intelligence, he was afraid of nothing, and he was too unimaginative to know when he was being licked, which was fortunate since he did not know how to maneuver troops. Add to this a dislike of military forms and procedures and a taste for old clothes and you have a predestinate candidate for the Presidency."
---
Bernard De Voto, The Year of Decision 1846, Little-Brown 1942 pp. 189-190
Feb 2, 2015
Milton Friedman and the .177 Assault Rifle
In a little town about 25 miles down the road, this guy and two buddies walk into this other guy's yard. We don't know why. The guy in the house steps out and shoots him in the arm. There's a call to the cops, then a trip to the emergency room. It's broad daylight, about 11 a.m.
The shooter gets charged with assault. We know nothing more of the shot guy, but "treated and released" is a good guess because "... .177 caliber air rifles" don't usually create major trauma*, although some are notorious for huge magazine capacities.
On-line court records help put little stories like this in perspective. Each man has, while still in his early 30s, earned a rap sheet filling more than a screen. It's mostly idiotic driving, but your occasional theft, burglary, and assault charges lard the records, and it is fair to suggest that both have been on quite cordial terms with ethanol products.
The shooting earns these few words of mention because I have just been idly browsing the Friedmans' "Free to Choose." Milton and his woman note a valid community interest in restricting liberty for those few persons who are not "responsible."
And isn't that a difficult line to draw?
I submit, however, that the sane folks of a community might fairly judge anyone earning two or three legitimate busts every year as irresponsible. They might also be permitted to supervise the dippydoos a little more closely such as, for instance, taking away their BB guns and using miscreant knees as fulcrums to turn them into croquet hoops.
Sounds cruel. "Oh God!! Vigilantism!" Maybe so, but if Skidmore folks had tried it much earlier in his life, Ken McCoy might have lived to a ripe old age.
---
*You need to be careful, though, remembering that it's all fun and games until someone puts an eye out.
The shooter gets charged with assault. We know nothing more of the shot guy, but "treated and released" is a good guess because "... .177 caliber air rifles" don't usually create major trauma*, although some are notorious for huge magazine capacities.
On-line court records help put little stories like this in perspective. Each man has, while still in his early 30s, earned a rap sheet filling more than a screen. It's mostly idiotic driving, but your occasional theft, burglary, and assault charges lard the records, and it is fair to suggest that both have been on quite cordial terms with ethanol products.
The shooting earns these few words of mention because I have just been idly browsing the Friedmans' "Free to Choose." Milton and his woman note a valid community interest in restricting liberty for those few persons who are not "responsible."
And isn't that a difficult line to draw?
I submit, however, that the sane folks of a community might fairly judge anyone earning two or three legitimate busts every year as irresponsible. They might also be permitted to supervise the dippydoos a little more closely such as, for instance, taking away their BB guns and using miscreant knees as fulcrums to turn them into croquet hoops.
Sounds cruel. "Oh God!! Vigilantism!" Maybe so, but if Skidmore folks had tried it much earlier in his life, Ken McCoy might have lived to a ripe old age.
---
*You need to be careful, though, remembering that it's all fun and games until someone puts an eye out.
Jan 23, 2015
Further Communiques from the War on Drugs
But first I need to tell you about my Jewish Mother. It was a brief relationship but responsible for about the only health legend I fully accept.
We were living in Guilford. I was working in New Haven. The Peter Principle intruded, and I was ordered to report daily to 50 Rock in Manhattan for several weeks of "executive training." At first, the most efficient way of getting there was by bus. Kiss the wife good bye and ruffle the kids' hair about 6 a.m. Monday, then brave the depot diesel fumes until the driver slammed the door and embarked for Gotham.
(So I already know a little about Hell. The American bus is Cosmic punishment for not being rich. But this once it profited me.)
My seat mate was undeniably Jewish and almost certainly a mother. That sort of thing shows, and not too subtly, a certain comfortable heft, authoritarian ways of expression, and an iron will to make younger people do things for their own good.
About the time we hit the Throgs Neck bridge, she noticed my sniffle. From her handbag came a pill bottle, "C" tabs. I'd given smaller ones to sick ponies.
"Take six."
I suppose my eyebrows raised, but one does not defy Mama. "It will stop your cold. But only if you take six."
I decided it was best to comply as a wise man would when, for instance, confronting Harry Callahan in one of his moods. I was grateful for enough dregs in the cardboard cup to wash them down.
It made my day. Glowing health blessed my first week on a large Big Apple expense account. In the many ensuing years, I've popped hundreds of big Cs immediately after soiling the first tissues. It has usually worked.
---
I hope it does this morning. I don't have time for a goddam cold, and I don't favor plan B, a trip to the pharmacy counter to stand in line for a DEA investigation of my background, lifestyle, political beliefs, and propensity to repurpose pseudophedrine for fun and profit. (Strictly as an aside, that might also be a Homeland Security, TSA, NSA, et al. investigation. Like you, I live in a province with a fusion center. )
Criminalizing the private purchase of Sudafed came here about ten years ago. My buddy the sheriff tells me it has slightly reduced the number of Mom and Pop meth operations in ramshackle old farm buildings. The number of idiots screwing up their lives is about the same, however, because Mexico has been proud to fill the manufacturing and distribution vacuum.
In other words, we exported the good-paying jobs.
We were living in Guilford. I was working in New Haven. The Peter Principle intruded, and I was ordered to report daily to 50 Rock in Manhattan for several weeks of "executive training." At first, the most efficient way of getting there was by bus. Kiss the wife good bye and ruffle the kids' hair about 6 a.m. Monday, then brave the depot diesel fumes until the driver slammed the door and embarked for Gotham.
(So I already know a little about Hell. The American bus is Cosmic punishment for not being rich. But this once it profited me.)
My seat mate was undeniably Jewish and almost certainly a mother. That sort of thing shows, and not too subtly, a certain comfortable heft, authoritarian ways of expression, and an iron will to make younger people do things for their own good.
About the time we hit the Throgs Neck bridge, she noticed my sniffle. From her handbag came a pill bottle, "C" tabs. I'd given smaller ones to sick ponies.
"Take six."
I suppose my eyebrows raised, but one does not defy Mama. "It will stop your cold. But only if you take six."
I decided it was best to comply as a wise man would when, for instance, confronting Harry Callahan in one of his moods. I was grateful for enough dregs in the cardboard cup to wash them down.
It made my day. Glowing health blessed my first week on a large Big Apple expense account. In the many ensuing years, I've popped hundreds of big Cs immediately after soiling the first tissues. It has usually worked.
---
I hope it does this morning. I don't have time for a goddam cold, and I don't favor plan B, a trip to the pharmacy counter to stand in line for a DEA investigation of my background, lifestyle, political beliefs, and propensity to repurpose pseudophedrine for fun and profit. (Strictly as an aside, that might also be a Homeland Security, TSA, NSA, et al. investigation. Like you, I live in a province with a fusion center. )
Criminalizing the private purchase of Sudafed came here about ten years ago. My buddy the sheriff tells me it has slightly reduced the number of Mom and Pop meth operations in ramshackle old farm buildings. The number of idiots screwing up their lives is about the same, however, because Mexico has been proud to fill the manufacturing and distribution vacuum.
In other words, we exported the good-paying jobs.
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