The LawDog Files.

Buy it now at Amazon here. 

LawDog is a friend of mine. He has led a career in rural Texas law enforcement (he still does), just as I have, and he tells a great yarn. Almost twenty years ago, he started posting humorous posts online about encounters on the job. They were always crowd-pleasers.  Since then, I've been part of a literal crowd of people, demanding that he put a book together.

He's finally done it.

The LawDog Files is an easy-reading collection of short stories which were written, edited, and compiled by LawDog. Most are very funny. But as we sometimes find, those who can write humor can write a helluva sad story well, as well.

LawDog is one of the best writers that I know, and for a measly $4.99, you can instantly download his book to your Kindle or Kindle Ap on your phone. It takes seconds, and gives you fun reading for little commitment.  (I feel very smug when I find myself having to wait in an area with no cell reception, and I've got an anthology sitting on my phone to read while I wait.)

Larry Correia, author of the very fun, New York Times Best-Seller List series Moster Hunter, Inc, not only implores you to buy the book, but he wrote the forward to the book.  Larry knows and loves a good story, and is telling you: this is a bunch of them.

Go buy one. You'll be glad that you did. I loved every story, and can't wait for him to get the next book put out.

This is what class looks like.

Longtime online pal Marko Kloos is so classy, he even apologizes for being a little rude when he correctly identifies a rude individual.

Winning a Hugo, up to now, has always been very valuable for a science fiction writer.

If you're like many of us, you want to find a magical story that will divert you from the drudgery of reality, without having to wade through the crap. Just give me the good stuff. So, it's incredibly alluring to see that list posted up on the wall of your local book store with the Hugo winners by year. I've been guilty of having perused the list, found a title that I haven't yet read, and pulled it off the shelf and immediately gone to the cash register. It's that simple: I didn't have to read the slush pile.

I know that I'm not the only one. As do smart people like... well, like Marko Kloos.

Marko, however, found himself in a very weird situation. He had written a very compelling page-turner, which would have found itself in the running for a Hugo anyway-- but which was pushed to the short-list by an unsavory person.

Vox Day, AKA Theodore Beale, is not a person I would invite into my home. He is racist. He is misogynistic. He was expelled from the Science Fiction Writer's Association because of his attacks on fellow writers based upon their race and gender. He is bitter. The funny thing is, the man can write. If he weren't so obnoxious, he probably would have won something by now. But there are lines which you cannot cross without having some backlash, and he crossed them. He will never win an award in science fiction.

To make up for this, Beale/Day came up with a scheme: pack the nominations. Campaign on fairness! Your favorite writers have no chance to win, through no fault of their own! Though they have wrought the best stories, their only sin is that they are white males!  The P.C.-minded establishment wants a multicultural field of nominees, at the expense of Quality! Hell, it sounds good. We all just want the best writing. Who cares what color or gender the author is? We all hate reverse discrimination, because it's just another kind of discrimination, right?

When I saw that online pal and best-selling author Larry Correia was being labeled as a racist (!) and misogynist himself, I began to think, Yeah, I can understand why you'd get ticked about these things. Larry's a good man. Larry is not a racist. He may be a conservative, but he's not a woman-hater. Larry's writings depict strong woman characters, multiple cultures in his good guys... anyway, you get the picture.  So Larry's corner started up a little group called the Sad Puppies. And frankly, I was on board.

Then Vox Day starts up the Rabid Puppies. He endorses a group of authors for Hugo nominations, and they get short-listed. Marko Kloos was one of the authors.

For a few days, it was heady times at Castle Frostbite. Think about this: You're nominated for the Hugo --one of the most well-known awards in your profession*-- and word is that you've got a very good chance of winning it. Heinlein won that award. Asimov won that award. Clark. Le Guin. Dick. Niven. Haldeman. Gibson. Card. Those are the giants on whose shoulders you will get to stand. I'm not gonna lie: I'm giddy just knowing a guy who gets to have his name mentioned in the same lists as those people.

The same rocket ship badge that is on every paperback of Stranger In A Strange Land could be on your books.

But then comes the crashing reality, which is that people would associate your nomination with the unsavory person who put your name on a list that he advocated be nominated.

Some stains you can never wash clean of.

So Marko, faced with that situation, quit. He pulled his book Lines Of Departure out of the running.
He took his ball (which he was winning with), and went home to Castle Frostbite.

Drop the mic.

He'll write more. And we'll get to read it. But when he takes the awards, it will be on his terms, and not via some shady deal co-opted by a shady jerk.  Hey, Vox? Marko was never your kind of people.
______________________
*Though, apparently, not really as critically-judged as you might hope. "Hugo Award nominees and winners are chosen by supporting or attending members of the annual World Science Fiction Convention, or Worldcon..." LawDog writes on his disappointment about the process.

I've got a little something for you. It's right here in my pocket...

When we say that the art of writing letters is in decline, we need reference points. I would submit that this one, a letter from a freedman to his former master who offered him a job, sufficiently makes most modern-day attempts seem feeble by comparison.

Awesome. Not enough, but awesome.

I love a movie grill. I can combine my dinner with my movie, and have a beer with my popcorn, and make it back home to the sitter without taking all night.

Down in Austin, one of the best of them is the Alamo Drafthouse. Now, I've never been to the Alamo Drafthouse, before. But I know that they are made of win. How? Why, I know this because, not only do they kick out a teenage girl who couldn't stop texting during her movie, but when she called to make a complaint, they posted her profanity-laced voicemail on YouTube, and on their blog. (Cussing bleeped, but it's clear what she's saying.)

My only complaint? They evidently ejected her with her aforementioned phone intact.

I get down to Austin a fair bit, and the next time I do, I'm getting a beer and a movie at the Austin Drafthouse, at one of their five convenient locations.

Thursday afternoon thoughts.

--Why is the ATF SWAT team responding to a cop shooting at Virginia Tech? That's a local crime.

-- I'm surprised that I've only seen 29 of these 100 so-called cult movies. And some of them seem strange for "cult movies." Piranha? (saw it in the theatre as a kid) Superstar? Really? (Never saw it. Am I missing something?) How many have y'all seen? You'd be amazed at the gaps in my moviewatching history.

--Folks are worked up about the fires in the Chevy Volt electric that sometimes occur from the batteries a week or two after a major crash. This is worse than a gasoline-powered cars why, exactly? I've been to some humdingers of some fires after petrol-powered autos cracked up, and sometimes the driver have had trouble getting out* after the wreck.

--I was chatting with Stingray and Vine the other evening, and we agree that this is one of the best examples of the "mashup" genre of music that we've ever seen. As I've mentioned, Joan Jett was an early love of mine, and this "fanfaroff" guy (if he's the producer of the mashup) does a nice job of matching the hooks of some popular music. I can't figure in the RATM contribution in the bit, though.

--Appropos of nothing, what kind of computer is that with the faux wood cabinet used by the Eurythmics at 1:05 of this mashup vidjo, right after it is declared that it's Hammer Time?

--My geeky friend Susan (whose daddy really was a rocket scientist in the 50's and 60's, when they got to do cool stuff) pointed out this T-shirt as one she'd like to wear every seven years. I pointed out that someone who wore such a shirt had best know the ins and outs of what it entailed, and pointed her to this informative short documentary.

--That fanfaroff guy really does seem to have something.

______________________________________
*No, not because "the seat belt trapped them." Usually it was because of injuries sustained in the wreck, which a seat belt would have helped to prevent, along with doors and windows failing to open after the wreck.

Space. I can't help that I love it.

Today I listened to a broadcast of RadioLab, in which they did several quick audio essays about space.

Look, I know that it's pushing it a bit to say that the Constitution authorizes our government to spend my money on space exploration. But I love that we're doing some of it. The very last story in the one-hour show is about trying to get private companies to explore space.

The first one was about the meaning that, Ann Druyan, widow of Carl Sagan, puts into the golden record that she directed the production of, just before it was launched with Voyager. I have to admit, her story got to me.

It's a quick hour, divided up into short essays, if you'll give it a listen.

Necessary evils.

Every once in a while you run across a piece of bureaucracy that is not only needed, but which does its job pretty well.

I called TCLEOSE today with a couple of questions about my peace officer's license, and was struck yet again by how courteous and helpful their small staff always is in helping me with finding out the information that I need. I've heard that their staff is around 20 people, managing the licensing, credentials, and certificates for:

74,913 Peace Officers
283 Reserve Licensees
24,047 Jailers
2,366 Temporary Jailers
8,843 Telecommunicators
940 Temporary Telecommunicators

By my calculator's count, that's 111,392 police, jailer, and telecommunicator licenses that they keep up with. (Note: many of those licenses are redundant. It's not uncommon for a jailer to go to police academy and get his peace officer's license carried, and then also to occasionally work as a telecommunicator as well.)

Every time that I've talked to those people, they were able to get me the information that I needed, and were pleasant. Not just "human," but genuinely pleasant to deal with.

Look, so long as we're going to be licensing peace officers and jailers and the ilk, we'd better have training requirements and such. And if we're going to do that, then we've got to have people administering the licensing. So isn't it nice that these people, paid by taxpayers' dollars and licensing fees, are actually doing a decent job of it?

I may actually send an attaboy letter to their director, I'm so impressed.

Remember: The News Media Are Smarter Than You, And You Suck.

LabRat knocks one out of the park, on the amusing situation in which a media feeding frenzy on Sarah Palin causes shark-brained journalists to feed on each other... and themselves.

More amazing than we are capable of imagining.

Tamara said, in comments: "As the saying goes, 'The universe is not only stranger than we imagine; it's stranger than we can imagine.'"

Proof of this, courtesy of The Onion, is Mitch:

"The identical processes that have given us the remarkable camouflage of the stick insect and the magnificent plumage of the bird-of-paradise have, it would seem, also given us a man who cannot scramble an egg," University of Pennsylvania biologist Ann Goldwyn-Ross said. "Despite evolution's emphasis on the inheritance and replication of advantageous traits, a man walks among us today who sweats profusely in any temperature and went to see Anger Management in theaters twice."

That's some good stuff, right there.

Team effort.

Yesterday, 155 passengers and crew all managed to live, after their skilled and calm pilot, Chesley B. "Sully" Sullenberger, managed to set his Airbus A320 into the Hudson River when both engines choked on birds during climb out from LaGuardia Airport.

As good a job as Sullenberger did (he's probably the most celebrated man in the 5 boroughs tonight), he frankly was doing his job. What's impressive is how well everyone else did to pitch in and save his passengers, crew, and Sullenberger himself. Coast Guard vessels were there, lickety split. FDNY, the traditional heroes of New York, were on scene. And, too, there were commuter ferries that rushed to the scene, and participated effectively in rescue. Almost like they had been training to do that all along. *

Oh. Wait. They do train to do that. NYPD also showed up on scene, and rescued more than one person with their divers.

The water was 32 and a half degrees. The ambient air temp was 20 degrees. People waded through water that would crystalize but for that half a degree, and perhaps some brine from the sea. Thank Gawd for that half degree; this would have been pretty messy if there had been an inch of ice on the river.

Who else? Well, there were some pretty impressive design considerations that had to have come into play. Somewhere, there's a team of aeronautical engineers who are toasting each other, and rightly so. The plane floated long enough to get everyone out. That's amazing. Traditional logic for a long time was that these things sunk. The doors came open immediately upon landing. Design? Good crew training? Both? I don't know. But it saved lives to get people off the plane. Small rafts were deployed. Good job, there.

Those flight attendants are more than just waiters to serve you drinks and show you how to use an O2 mask. They used to be called "stewards," meaning, "one who attends to the needs of another." If they opened the doors, deployed rafts, and helped evacuate the plane, then they did exactly that, and apparently did it pretty well.

While everyone raises a glass to the pilot, remember to toast the other heroes and she-roes who went to work on the Hudson on January 15th, 2009. Damned good work, that.

________________________________________________________________
*Check out the doings of this ferry captain Brittany Catanzaro. Youngest ferry captain for New York Waterway (19 years old.) First female ferry captain on the Hudson. I think of what I was doing at 19, and I have to be pretty impressed. I wasn't given that kind of responsibility.

We don't watch a lot of sports in my house.

"Who's that?" my wife asked as I finished my coffee in front of a television screen depicting a dark-haired woman crying.

"Danica Patrick," I said. "She races Indy cars, and just proved that she's not Anna Kournikova."

"Because she won, even though she's a hot chick?" my wife inquired, watching the screen. Well, at least that part was obvious.

"Yeah, and even though both of them have posed for the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue. It's too bad she'd crying, though; it's bad for the image. But then again, I'll bet a lot of guys cried the first time they won an Indy race. Turns out, though, that it's not only the first big race she's won, but it's the first Indy race that a woman has won."

"So she caught some flack for posing in swimsuits?"

"Yeah, people said that she was just trying to get by on her looks. But, hell-- she's marketing herself, and there was a lot of interest in her, and..."

"...And she was the best person on the track today. So she was a young, attractive woman in her 20's --looking as hot as she was ever going to look-- who chose to pose for pictures in a swimsuit?" My wife asked. "Good for her."

"I'm so glad we see things the same way."

I may be paraphrasing some of the above.

"And have fun!"

Per Terrierman by way of LabRat, I have just read one of the coolest disclaimers of all time.

The joys of savoring.

As I sit here, I'm having trouble typing without rubbing my palms together [which position was generally frowned upon in my sophomore typing class (where I met my still close personal friend Bill The Almost Accountant.)].

See, I have a thick slice of ham on my large cast iron skillet, and I can hear it sizzling and and smell it. Said slice was carved off of the Giant Ham Of Doom. The GHoD was given to me for Christmas, and has lived in the bottom of the refrigerator. Originally, we planned to cook it and use the ham bone for our New Year's Day black eyed peas, but we just didn't get it in the oven early enough. See, it takes eight hours to cook a 24 lb ham. I have no idea what this bad boy cost, but one would start by pricing a large porcine animal.

The meat's incredible.

Almost ready.

I'm as excited as this girl.

Eerie, ain't it?

- - - -

Of course, one needs a fine beverage to wash down this (succulent, juicy, tender) dish with. No, not a beer. A: too early in the day, and B: They frown upon me showing up for work (as I am scheduled to do in a couple of hours) reeking of IPA.

No, it's Coffee Time.

And I'm not just throwing down a cuppa cheap mud.

I am drinking the Real Thing.

Regular readers of this blog know that I have a certain... uh... relationship with coffee. My own beloved mother commented on this blog that I had an unhealthy obsession with it. "Coffee" is probably the most-used post tag on this blog. Yet until this week, I had been appreciating something less than what this brew could fully be. I was as a car afficianado appreciating the superb renditions of Hondas out there (quality cars to be sure, but there is a point beyond which they cannot exceed), or a shotist waxing poetic about the wonders of his Uberti clone. I was ignorant of what lay beyond.

Oh, I had heard of greater lands. Friends and bloggers whispered in my ear of coffee presses and fresh-roasting. But I had an $11 handy grinder, and I bought good Starbucks beans, and why should I listen to them?

[Fie on't? Oh fie, fie 'tis an unweeded Garden...]

To think of the portion of my life that I have wasted, with my parched lips unannointed by this nectar that I have decocted in my own kitchen.

Why is this method not more popular? Answer: It takes time, and attention.

Last year, I upgraded to a quality burr grinder.

This Christmas, I received from Holly and Dad a chambord French press coffee maker. I uncharacteristically read the instructions, and found that, although it takes significantly more effort to make a pot of coffee, the results are spectacular.

Then, on New Years Eve, Mom-- the same lady who accused me of having an unhealthy obsession with the Dark Brew Of Happiness-- gave me a Fresh Roast Plus 8 Coffee Bean Roaster. Put a couple of scoops of green Colombian Valencia beans into it, dial it up for 6 minutes, and let it turn those bad beans brown.

While it's roasting, double-filter a couple of pints of tap water and get that to boiling.

Grind the roasted beans in the burr grinder on Coarse setting.

Pour the whole batch into the chambord.

When the water's boiling or just below, pour it over the coffee in the French press.

Stir with a plastic spoon.

Cover and let sit for four minutes.

Slowly press the straining plate down to the bottom of the coffee pot.

Turn the strainer to the front of the spout, and pour a cup.

I haven't managed to go from cold green bean to cuppa coffee in less than 20 minutes, but I'm trying.

One of the most amazing things about this method is that the last cup is better than the first. Also, it's far, far, far, far, farfarfarfarfarfar more caffiene-rich than regular drip or espresso.

Dammit. I am so frickin' ruined. I feel like the main character in a certain fictional movie discussed over breakfast in Reservoir Dogs; nothing will ever feel as good again.

It's like my first cup of coffee.

Two minor insights.

I just noticed that one of the Christmas recordings that we listen to a lot includes dark comedy by two different gay guys. What does that say, I wonder? About the genre? About those who like it? We (my wife and I) aren't homophobic. But then, I did notice it, and now I've commented on it, so what does that mean? And now that I'm asking about that... (You realize of course that this inane game could go on for ever.)

One of the guys is in Act Two here, which puts my wife and I into tears of laughter about Christmas traditions.


Then also, I just realized that I have a minor crush on Breda, that good-looking pistol-packing librarian who gets excited about her local brewery having obtained a brewer from Stone Brewing Company, whose I.P.A. I happen to be swilling the very minute that I'm typing these words.

Oh, get over the shock. She just warms my heart, that's all. I'm not obsessing over her, or anything. She's just admirable.

Baby, it's cold outside.

Yeah, I know that you northerners crack up when a Texan talks about cold as if he knew what he was talking about. But I've been cold before. One fall, I was hunting with Dad up on Wolf Creek Pass near Pagosa Springs, CO, when I noticed that my rifle action was frozen solid from the snow and refreezing, meaning that I couldn't have even shot at the elk that I was trying to hunt. No amount of effort on my part was at that point capable of thawing the action, and believe me-- I tried. That same day, Dad caught a touch of frostbite, even though he was a seasoned hunter. I don't mean "caught a chill," or "got the shivers;" I mean that flesh crystallized.

So, I've been cold before. Maybe not Jack London-esque, your-spittle-crackles-as-it-freezes-in-mid-air, so-we-might-as-well-use-the-Kelvin-scale-kind-of-cold, but still-- I've experienced damned well below freezing, in the open air, for long periods of time type of cold.

It's cold today. The temp says 28... now make that 21degrees Fahrenheit out, and the wind, though now dropping, had been flirting with a steady 25 mph most of the day, gusting a good 35 or so on occasion.

Just right for a nice hot cup of coffee.

Which I spilled.

On the seat of my cruiser.

Damn.

Did I mention that it's windy?

On the plus side, my winter clothing is still packed away somewhere in a storage unit that I packed during our July move, and after I complained a bit, my PD sent my uniform parka and liner combo to finally have my patches and name stitched on them, so I don't have a uniform coat.

Oh. Wait. That wasn't the plus side.

Uh, the fact that the only pressed shirts I had ready this morning were short-sleeved? No... that's not it.

Ooh! I've got it. This is big news, for me anyway:

Somebody makes a set of underwear worth the $15.00 US that they're asking for it, and it doesn't even come from Victoria's Secret. Seriously.

My wife heeded my whining request[s], and picked up some long underwear for me last week. She said, "I didn't know which you would want, so I got you some old school (waffle weave) and some new crap. Tell me now if you don't like the look of the new stuff because it cost a fortune, and I've got the receipt, so I can take it back."

Look carefully in that admonition, and you'll find in it that glowing sparkle: It's Love.

So I said that I would try the Remington licensed long underwear. She rolled her eyes and said, "Of course you'd choose the expensive crap. Why did I even suspect you'd go for the cheap stuff?" (Still more Love.)

Now, I know that the same folks that button-rifled and headspaced the 26" stainless steel fluted heavy barrel to my old Remington Model 700 Sendero .300 Winchester Magnum (which I later sold to a retired Texas Ranger when I was in a pinch for cash) are not the same people that manufactured these long-handles. I fully understand how licensed products work, and, as a rule, I avoid them. Usually, it involves a very prominent logo on outerwear. I don't like wearing ANYONE's logo on my outerwear, unless I'm paid to advertise for them. But I especially don't like wearing gun companies' logos on my outer wear. Several reasons:

1. See above.
2. I don't like looking like a wanna-be, who is thrilled to associate himself with anything gun-related.
3. I'm a private person about my lifestyle choices.
4. Why mark myself as a possible gun-toter, when I'm trying to blend in long enough to ruin Mr. Bad Guy's day?
5. Often it's overpriced ordinary merchandise that I could get for a good deal less if it didn't have the logo, and could then also wear to a wider variety of activities.

But licensed underwear... Hmmm... Reasons 1 through 4 are dispensed with by the very fact that I wear it under my outerwear (hence, like, you know-- the name. Underwear, dig?). And because they don't get the benefits of those who want to sport the logo, maybe the licensing company has to actually spring for quality.

Did they ever. Wow. Even wet with coffee, it keeps me warm. Never overheats. Never gaps. Sits close to the skin while never binding. Never hinders movement. Very thin.

I'm getting more. This stuff is great. It's way better than old polypro, and it kicks waffle-weave's butt.

I tend to judge people by the company they choose to keep.

And, as such, I maintain that my online pal Larry Correia is a peach.

Larry is the coolest reformed accountant around, and he obviously surrounds himself with very cool people.