Give me just a minute, here.

I need a few seconds for an exercise of your mind, and I'm seriously asking you to devote your attention to the task for about a minute.

_ _ _

--Think of the most vibrant, most energetic young man or woman you know.
--Think of their earnest dedication to what they believe in, whether or not it's popular with others.
--Think of how exceptional they are. How they seem, to you, to stand out in a crowd of their peers.
--Think about their smile. Think about their voice.
--Think about the leadership that they are learning to display.
--Think about how this young man or woman that you're considering represents everything that is good and right about our society, and how important it is that he or she gets to help shape our future.
--Think about how much he or she means to his or her loved ones. How irreplaceable this young person, in the prime of his life, is to his family and friends.
--Think of how many of us know young men and women like that --the young lions of our world-- whom we expect to go on to lead this nation as they grow older.
--Think about these important young people, and realize: it is from this pool of our citizens that we ask to die in the service of our nation.

If your special someone is not in harm's way, think about all of those who are the special someones of others, who are. And realize that those others love their serviceman just as you love your young person. And here we come to the hardest part: imagining what it would be like to find out that your loved one has been killed in service of his nation. It's so painful to consider, that it seems unfathomable, yet I'm asking you to do it, for just a minute. Consider the profundity of the sacrifice. The depth of the pain.

Please remember those who fell and are falling, for our nation. At least for today.

Remember.

The most useless crop we harvest.

Here in N. Texas, the wheat is just now turned gold, with the heavy heads on the stalks pointing like armies of weather vanes the direction of the wind. In a week or so, farmers in air-conditioned combines with iPods jacked into the stereo systems will come along and cut, thresh, and truck away the sweet yellow kernels, to be ground and processed into HoHos, microwave pizza crusts, and Chef Boyardee Spaghetti-O noodles.

God bless America.

But for every farmer harvesting a few sections* of wheat, there are a thousand or more clerks, cops, and pole dancers harvesting their own crops in their front yards. While occasionally that crop may contain edibles such as dandelions, onion, nettle, rye, and clover, it is typically wasted by either being left on the ground or bagged and discarded. Sure, some hippies and Martha Stewart wanna-bes may actually compost it, but for the most part, it's a wasteful proposition.

I speak, of course, to the issue of grass.

The American Dream seems to include owning a home. We pity those who must reside in multi-family dwellings, unless they're penthouse apartments with names like "Phillip Drummond" on the mail box, or with a manservant named Mr. French. But there's a catch. If you want the house and a yard, you must tend the grounds. There is thus a running joke among home owners that they all gave up their weekends when they purchased a house.

Pity most the house renter, who does not even enjoy the privileges of ownership, but must keep up the house and yard that he occupies. As a renter, he is not likely to feel that it is worth investing in higher-quality lawn maintenance equipment, and thus he toils in the yard with substandard, often badly used and abused, mowers and trimmers.

I am now a house renter. And I found in the back yard, after some searching amongst waist-high weeds, an old mower. I bent my back toward the task of making it run, but after an afternoon, many calories, and all of my vocabulary of curse words had been expended, I admitted defeat; I could not get it to stay running.

So we bought a used mower, for $20. I mowed the yard a few times with it, but really-- we got what we paid for it. It too failed.

And finally, with weeds and grass getting to an embarrassing level (we do have Code Enforcement in this town, and I was about to become the object of its attention), I said to my wife: "Enough. I'm a grown-ass man. I don't need anyone else's second-hand mowers. Not anymore." And I went to Sears, and bought a Craftsman Easy Walk push mower with a new Briggs & Stratton 6.75hp 4 stroke engine ("NOTE: Not to be sold in California!") with a mere 21" cutting blade, but with rear-wheel-drive variable speed self-propulsion, optional bagging/mulching/side-discharge, self-cleaning feature with hookup for the hose to the deck, and (wow!) electric key start with pull-cord backup. Complete with recharger cord for the on-board battery, dust-free grass-catching bag, and a quart of oil to put into it. With a moment's hesitation, I bought the 3 year warranty. I'm hard on lawn mowers.

It didn't last the day.

I got that bad boy running with the first little turn of the key. I slew weeds and grass alike in all directions, until I went through a particularly arduous chunk of heavy green, and... "CHUNK."

I backed out, cleared the blades, dumped the grass in the full bag (why the hell was I bagging this? My wife had visions of a compost pile...), and turned the key. It merrily spun away, without catching. I checked the spark plug wire. I spun it again. I checked the blade. Was it bent that way before? Heck, I don't know. I took it off, and pounded it flatter. I put it back on. It still didn't start. "It's not supposed to be this hard," I thought as the ninety-something degree sun beat down on my dusty, sweaty back. And then it struck me: it's not that hard. I bought this bad boy today. At a reputable retail joint.

I loaded the mower and it's accouterments into the back of the car. I drove back into town. I went to the register at Sears, and told them what happened. Their eyes widened. "Do you have your receipt?" they asked. Of course I did. "We'll send some guys out to your car to get the mower," they said. "Do you want cash or credit?"

"I want a mower," I responded. "And frankly, I have to believe that this was a fluke. Just give me another one of the same kind."

I was out of there in 10 minutes, with a new mower. I'll say this for Sears-- they back their Craftsman line, with no questions. That kind of service is probably what's keeping Sears' head above water.

I'm charging the battery fully now. We'll see how this goes.


_________________________
*A "section" is a unit of land that is 1 mile square, and is composed of 640 acres. ** Thus, if we know that a mile is 5280 feet long, we can easily derive the square footage of an acre ((5280^2)/640). It would be a better world if everyone knew these things.

_________
**Edited to remove incorrect statement.

Posted in haste.

Among those things not my fault:

That:

--The girl you met at the bar who gave you a ride to her house ditched you, afoot and drunk.

--Your wife, who is unlicensed, has no driver's license, yet you let her drive your car home because you got drunk at the party. (That's two citations, folks.)

--Your buddy offered you a job at 3:00AM, after you had tied one on. He then gave you a couple of shots as a "hair of the dog" before you went to work. At a construction site. At 4:00AM.

--The three dogs that YOU bought, and which YOU brought into a housing development community (read: suburbia), and which YOU refuse to train at all, bark raucously at every little bunny and night jogger and low-flying jet that passes by after midnight, causing complaints by your neighbors. Legitimate complaints.

--Your dog keeps jumping or digging under your fence, and getting out.

--You don't like that we read to you, as to a child, the Americans With Disabilities rights notification at the jail during book-in, even though you could read it yourself, you say.

--You find the handcuffs uncomfortable, despite the fact that I have loosened them twice, and carefully double-locked them each time.

--You find that the back seat cage in a patrol car is cramped and uncomfortable.

--You don't believe that there was any reason to being pulled over because you were doing nothing wrong, and this is harassment... even though you have NO taillights, and are driving a black car at night.

--Every cop you've every met (and there have been a lot of them) was "dirty," and you don't like any of us.

--My race doesn't match yours, and you're willing to bet that was the reason I pulled you over. At night. At 100mph closing speed.

--The law states that you shall perform value X, and you displayed behavior of value (n - X).

Xavier

Anybody else notice how varied Xavier's interests are? His breadth of knowledge is damned wide, too.

Seriously. The guy's a trauma specialist nurse. He's a former sailor from the old navy. He's a bicyclist and a bicycle collector and enthusiast. He does saltwater fish. He raises and runs his dog. He's a fan and, from what I'm seeing, something of a student, of astronomy. He collects and shoots an impressive collection of firearms, old and new. He's a 2nd Amendment activist. He's a powerful advocate of CCW. He gives of his time to help when others are in need (such as going to help during the Katrina debacle). He writes well, which means he reads. He philosophizes. He does his own major home repair. He takes his responsibilities as a father and husband seriously. He also moderates at least one firearm discussion board.

I'm beginning to feel a little touch of inferiority, here.

Not to leave the elder daughter out, she went shooting, too.

I took my elder daughter out shooting last Sunday, with .22 rifle.

We're still just having fun, not being serious about anything except safety, but I'm slowly slipping in some lessons on position, and sights.

She shot a lot with my old Remington bolt rifle, which is scoped nowadays. She enjoyed using a scoped firearm for the first time. After she had loaded and unloaded about 50 rounds through it, shooting metal pipes and steel swinging targets, I pressed her for time, telling her to bolt it and fire a little faster. Then I gave her my late grandfather's tired old Marlin, with the open iron sights. As I've said, those aren't the best sights in the world, but she was surprised (and I was not) that she was able, when pressed to shoot faster, to make hits faster and more reliably with the iron sighted rifle.

On the way home, we picked flowers for her mother. (It was Mother's day.)

Fun shooting steel.

Despite my sore back, I accompanied my father over to the Dallas Pistol Club stop-plate match on Sunday.


Stop plate matches are fun for people who like to shoot a lot. The shooter goes to 5 stages, where 5 plates are laid out in different patterens at different distances. At each stage, the shooter fires 5 strings, on the clock. Makeup shots for misses are allowed. Except for learners and those shooting .22s who start with pistol in hand, the shooter starts with a holstered pistol, with hands up above the shoulders. 5 stages with 5 strings at 5 targets means 125 rounds, if you shoot it clean. Nobody shoots it perfectly clean all the time. The only thing that differentiates a "stop plate" match from a simple "plate match" is that the last plate shot is pre-designated by the red stem holding it up. Otherwise, the shooter may shoot the plates in any order he pleases.

.45 acp race guns are very popular, with race holsters that use magnets to retain the pistols in a drop position, well outside of the belt. N frame .357s of 7 and 8 round capacity are also popular, because the brass is easy to pick up.

I shot a Glock 19.

Hey-- why not?

I carried it in a fairly-close-fitting Fobus pancake holster, and shot Winchester white box out of it. The reduced radius of the shorter slide was noticible, but not too bad. I carry a Glock on duty, and figured that the slight handicap of the smaller gun might offset a little the fact that I was shooting a minor caliber.

The only problem with this was that my giant hands kind of overlap some on grip if I'm not very careful, and slide can bite the webbing of my hand a little, when I'm in a hurry.
Dad shot with his old post WWII '40s era Colt 1911, and practiced "slow is smooth and smooth is fast." Here we see him in mid-draw:

Dad's old pistol did let us know that it was time to replace the old recoil spring, though, when it failed a few times to completely go back into battery. An easy and cheap fix, and it gave Dad the opportunity to practice his failure drill. :)

All in all, we had a grand time.

Cranky.

Due to relative physical inactivity over the last few months, my body has gotten to feeling a bit neglected. We all like to be left alone sometimes, but after awhile, we want someone to come throw us a ball and take us for a walk. And, like a terrier who's been left at home alone one too many times in a week and in return decides to pee in your bed, my back decided to knot up on me.

Starting Friday, it was so tight that I could barely stand upright. No pain while lying down or sitting, but the latissimus dorsi in my lumbar region simply did not want to see me standing erect, and gave me to understand that, while the tightness was just a warning shot across the bow, further attempts to get active would result in Pain.

I puttered about my weekend activities, having coffee with my brother, meeting my friend Paula the SculptureLady for dinner, and shooting a plate match with my dad. But always, always, the tightness and growing imminent threat of pain. Actually, I'll just have to admit that sore aching was indeed occurring, which I'll have to grant counts as pain. Technically.

But I was trying to put it off. I put it off because I get this about once a year, and after a few days, it usually goes away without intervention. But my wife got tired of watching me creak around making old man sounds, and told me to check on a chiropractor today.

_ _ _
I appreciate that a chiropractor can do great things for an ailing back. My late uncle was a doctor of chiropractic, who on one occasion provided me with a treatment. I was to leave for my vacation in 4 hours, and I was in a bad way. A disc had displaced enough that I was in serious pain, even while sitting. My uncle saw me on zero notice, manipulated my back for about 45 minutes, and sent me on my way, with my pain gone. At the very least, my vacation was saved. So I know that it can be done.

Then, too, are the guys that are in it for the long haul. The return visit and the recurring appointment is all they're interested in. My wife, after a significant car crash, decided just to have herself checked out. I encouraged her to do so, not wanting her to miss a subtle injury if she had been hurt. Insurance would cover the cost. After her third frustrating visit of leaving the "injury clinic" and telling them repeatedly "I'm not actually feeling any pain, thank you. The treatments are nice, but I just want to be released with the assurance that I'm not injured," I accompanied her to the office, and we put our foot down-- there would be no more treatments without a diagnosis. (Ending treatment before medically recommended would of course have meant that we would have to pay, instead of the insurance, we were told.) The medical doctor gave the nod, and finally my wife was free-- and she'd never even been injured to begin with. The cost went to over $1000.
_ _ _

So this morning I walked into a conveniently local chiropractic clinic to see about the possibility of a quick back manipulation. Oh, heavens, no. That would take an appointment for one-- no, two-- weeks distant. Well, I thought as I leaned over the counter-- I'm glad I'm not in any real pain (ache). I asked about the cost. Did I have insurance? Oh, sure. Blue Cross. The lady behind the counter worked it up and cheerfully informed me that my first visit would be $176 with insurance, but $182 without. Future visits could be discounted without insurance, at only $46 per visit.

As my eyes glazed over, I noticed that this woman was wearing scrubs.
The woman behind her, pasting labels onto manila folders and doing some kind of billing tasks on a computer, was wearing scrubs.
Why do simple office clerks wear scrubs in doctors' offices, hospitals, veterinary clinics, dentist's offices, and, I now see, chiropractic offices? Seriously...? What's the point? Why can't they just dress professionally, and leave the attire of medical professionals to the medical people? Why do I have to read the little tag (that's always flipped over backwards anyway) to read the 4 point type under their name to learn that they are either a D.O. or a D.C. (Heh. Don't make the mistake of calling the former the latter, mm'kay?) or an LVN or an RN or a PA or a professional toilet backup maintenance specialist? Look, I understand that the days of the cap and pin with white uniforms and white hosiery is gone for nurses, and that the white lab coat is on its way out for doctors, but can't we just agree that the person making my appointments and swiping my credit card is an office clerk, and not a Medical Professional? There is nothing wrong with being "just a clerk." Nothing at all. This world would stop running without them. But let's not put on airs and call them medical staff; they're not.

I came out of my fog to hear the chirpy clerk-in-scrubs ask if a Thursday afternoon would be sufficient, two weeks from now. Fine. As she filled out an appointment card, she told me that I would be assessed a penalty charge for failing to notify them that I was cancelling the appointment with less than 24 hours' notice. Well, at least she got that part right-- my plan was to cancel in a couple of days, as soon as my back pain tightness subsided.

"Sir, while you're here, do you mind if I photocopy your driver's license and insurance card?" the chipper clerk asked me as I turned away to hobble toward the door.

I stopped and turned around just enough to make eye contact with her. "Yes. I do," I said evenly, and went out the door.

Eh. I think my tightness is beginning to subside, anyway.

Bah.

Fun with kids' education

My 9 year-old daughter has a report that she has to give orally tomorrow on James K. Polk. She's been making note cards all week.

As her history-inspired daddy, I must help her in conveying what a dastard Polk was, yet also how beneficial he was in contributing to this nation's imperialist expansion manifest destiny.

Also, I get to burn her a song onto CD to play for her presentation, the greatness of They Might Be Giants playing "James K. Polk."

I hope they don't mind that it's followed by "Istanbul (Not Constantinople)," "The Sun Is A Mass Of Incandescent Gas," "Particle Man," and "Fish Heads." ;)

'Cause it's educational.

Hello, you're on Candid Camera.

As I was watching Bill O'Reilley (I'm not much of a fan, BTW) go into meltdown here, I thought, "It must suck to have cameras on you all the time at work, documenting your every faux pas."

Then I thought, "Oh yeah. I do*."





____________
*See subsection (d), which effectively puts cameras in just about every patrol car, and body mics on every officer.