Music: Disregard the way he looks.

I've heard of Patrick Watson down at Austin's South By Southwest (SXSW) music festival. I never have gotten to see him. Apparently he's one of those performances that needs to be seen live. And he picked a helluva backing band.

Look, I know he looks like he was a weirdo even before he got high to show up for the gig. I do. But they do that stuff live, without production. And the guy in the back uses a bow to play a brass trophy, before playing a musical saw.  They do some fun stuff with very simple miniature modulator amps, too.

Worth a listen*.

___________________________
*Note: The first one's the best, then the second one. The third one's okay.

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.

Remember when...?

Remember when real freedom fighters didn't have to throw themselves under the 11" wheels of police scooters moving at 2 mph* to get attention, like a malingering ball player?

Remember how, back in the early-to-mid 1960s, the folks fighting to stop oppression didn't have to invent oppressive acts? They were attacked by police with truncheons, and firehoses, and dogs, and unstopped mobs with bricks.

Remember how they did not whine to get out of going to jail, because they felt that they were doing the right thing by going to jail?

Remember how real protestors for freedom have really risked everything?

Quit blocking the streets. Grown-ups have things to do. Call us when you've got something real. It's not like there's no way to do so.
________________________________
*Seriously, in one video that I saw of one of the Occupy Wall Street incidents, the scooter was moving so slowly that I was impressed that the bike actually could stay upright.

Just stop it.

My mother and I were talking today about the public reaction to the tenth anniversary of September 11, 2001.

And we're appalled.

"Commemoration" isn't such a distant cousin of a word from "Celebration." It would seem that many have forgotten that there actually is a difference, and that those that know it seem to be blurring the lines pretty heavily.

I get that no documentarian worth his salt would fail to comment on the tenth year passing since our nation suffered an attack that had such ramifications. But the goal of those watching, and the goal of those showing the documentaries seems to be a type of entertainment.

Like a horror movie. "Ooh, it gives me shivers to remember where I was when I heard..."

I'm disgusted, and I'm not participating.

You want to wave our flag? Push to bring back most of our troops from the errands we've sent them on. Push to sunset the Patriot Act for good. Push to fire the TSA. Push to strengthen our borders (still as porous as they were 10 years ago, from what I see.).

But don't use some arbitrary tenth anniversary of the death of our countrymen as a day to be entertained. Do something GOOD for your country for a change, would you, please? We've spent the last 3,652 days dismantling it.

More crazy.

This is a compilation of "best" Black Friday rush vids.

I think one definition of insanity would be to desire to be part of a mindless mob.




Note the woman at 2:12 who, after falling down just inside the doorway of a WalMart, chooses to stay down, risking trampling while she puts back on her wig.

Running before a bunch of charging dumb animals.

I suppose that I could see the sport in such things, maybe. But at least in Pamplona, there's a measure of respect to be had for the bulls and steers.

In this video of the doors opening at a Target early on Black Friday morning, we see that it's the runners who are the animals.

You might be an idiot if...

You just might be everyone's favorite kind of idiot to hate, if you're the type who tips over cars and sets things on fire.... to celebrate your regional sports franchise winning this year's Sooper Series Bowl.

Idiots.

We're breeding our own sports hooligans.

I'm paying for this, WHY, exactly?

Cell phones are not a "human right;" they are a convenience. For that matter, a telephone is a convenience. You might need one to work (in which case, it's tax-deductible), but you don't need one to live.

That's why I'm wondering why, in the name of a Vulcan deity conning a tugboat, my tax dollars are subsidizing cell phones for the poor.

Anyone have an explanation or elucidation, on this net-widening of necessities for the masses.

Well, duh.

U.S. District Judge Stefan Underhill said what we all knew: Cheerleading is not a sport.

As the father of two daughters who was told that the huge bond floated to build a new football stadium would "benefit the girls as much as the boys" in our school district, I've just got to say, someone had to finally admit this.

Where my nose begins.

To a certain guy who griped at me last night:

Look, I'm on your side about you getting to express your joy at the freedoms we enjoy, on Independence Day. I want you to get to go out and do it. But when you moved into a neighborhood that is cheek-and-jowl enough to actually have a Home Owner's Association, you knew what you were getting into.

Don't be surprised when the same cop who gave you a warning about firing off aerial fireworks in your neighborhood last year decides to write you a ticket for conducting random probability arson experiments this year.

The county is afire with mysterious fires and no one to stand up and take responsibility for them. Fine. But in the moderately-heavily populated area you're in, your finely-crafted Chinese or Mexican firework that arcs over the fence to fizzle on someone's roof rather than pop with celebration 100 feet over your yard can mean that your neighbor has to run the risk of losing everything he has. I'm sure YOU're the one who will stand up and say "Oh, my bad. Lemme pick up that insurance deductible for you."

My favorite comment was "The government gives us the tools to celebrate, but won't let us use them."

Huh? I know that my government is redistributing the wealth at mighty high speed, but where, exactly, does one get in on this fireworks distribution program? And how does that work, exactly? Are there race-based initiatives? If so, where do whistling chasers and Black Cats fall in this program?

I'll confess to being dumbfounded by this twisted logic, and I withdrew before I had trouble finding my way to my car from that rabbit hole.

Hope you got a saddle for Christmas.

Because in 3 weeks, we're all promised a pony.

In a fit of irritainment, I just got done listening to an entire radio column in which NPR's senior news commentator Daniel Schorr describe this as "the worst of times," and claims that our deus ex machina --the god who swoops down to rescue imperiled heroes from their plights-- is Barack Obama.

Now, it is true that I know in advance that I will get this when I listen to Schorr. For the last eight years, he's been disgusted with all things Republican, and before that, he expressed disgust with Democrats only when they failed to utilize an opportunity to crush the Republican opposition. (Oh, how could they?!?)

I've rolled my eyes a lot over the last few months, when hearing about how Barry O' is going to Save Us All. But seriously-- it's unseemly when an educated nonagenarian who has been reporting on politics for more than 15 terms utters such silliness. For pay, no less.

You have the right to free speech.

And they have the right to refuse service.

Friends, again, I feel compelled to point out that your right to free speech does not include the right to force others to support your right.

It would seem that a ShopRite decided that they didn't want to make a birthday cake that spelled out three-year-old Adolf Hitler Campbell's full name. They similarly had refused on previous occasions to make a cake with a swastika on it for them.

That's okay-- Wal Mart was happy to oblige them. Before y'all all jump on the boycott bandwagon, remember that ol' Sam Walton probably put out a dictum before he passed on, to the effect of "Don't you dare let a paying customer leave unshucked, just because of a stupid-assed name."

Good on ShopRite. Okay on Wal Mart. A pox on the idjit Campbells.

Oh look. Free money.

Well, that just fixes everything, doesn't it?

My little family is scheduled to receive, two weeks from now, almost as much money as we got in our tax return.

I should shred the check, in accordance with my feelings on the whole silly stunt. (Or actually, make a withdrawal of the cash, because it's being direct deposited to my bank account, and then shred it.)

But no, I'll stick it in my savings, where I put my tax return money last month. So much for an economic stimulus.

Scare tactics and anti-news.

My heart is supposed to go out to Patricia Guererro, because she went from $70k a year to food stamps, and now can't figure out what she's going to do.

She's already burned through her savings to help make ends meet, and is drawing unemployment checks. She has had to take extreme measures to pay for her interest-only mortgage of $2,500 a month. In fact, her mother moved in with her to help pay the bills.

You know what? I am disgusted. Disgusted that she can't do the math, suck it up, and sell the house. No equity? Ditch it anyway. If she moves into a $1000/month apartment, she saves $18,000 a year, right there.

It doesn't say what industry she was in. It may be that the same necessary market correction that's dumping people out of their sub-prime mortgages is also popping the bubble on the west coast that has uneducated security guards making better than $50k.

CNN ran this story, nationwide, as news.

Eek.

Kinda cool, I guess.

A lunar eclipse is going on right over my head this very second.

They don't come around all that often, but they're nowhere nearly as rare as total solar eclipses.

You remember some of 'em. I recall looking at the partial one on the night of May 19-20, 1994, with my Dad, through his binoculars.

I guess the reason we like to watch them is for the same reason that we like to watch dawns and sunsets. There aren't many naturally-occuring celestial incidents that we can view with the naked eye, that we can watch happen over the course of minutes. Not as fast a half-hour sit-com, perhaps, but about as quick as a season finale 2 hour episode.

What would the druids think of our current attention spans?

Just one day. One. Frickin'. Day...

...without idjits at the top of the headlines. That's all I'm asking.

Does anyone else hear hoofbeats?

"And have fun!"

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

"Your problem is not important!"

Tamara references the Brazil-like quality of commercial passenger airline flights in this, the post-09/11/2001 world. (Good call, that. If you've never seen the movie, it makes some hilarious statements about an intrusive government.)

But trust me-- commercial airlines had silliness before that.

Friend and SWAT magazine publisher Rich Lucibella tells the hilarious tale of an airline security type deciding that his Chris Reeve Sebenza lock blade knife was "menacing"-looking. See, there was a time when we could carry pocketknives on planes, and somehow they didn't crash into buildings. As long as the knife was under a given length, you were okay. Rich's admittedly-large pocketknife (Sebenzas are superb tools worth the near half a grand you'll pay for 'em. There's a lot of metal in the blade, which is meant for all manner of "work" which the name translates to.) was within the specs, and should have been passed through, but it was too scary. When it was deemed that the knife should be checked in his already-checked luggage, the security type took the locked-open knife and RAN down the terminal with it, with Rich trailing after begging to just be allowed to close the knife. Which they did all in the name of safety.

Well, Rich tells it better. :)

One of my own surreal moments came in 2000, when I flew out to Oregon to meet up with my wife and kid to do some camping. I bought a super-cheap ticket that took me from the D/FW airport to Portland International by way of Phoenix. (Apparently Northwest Airlines' idea of a straight line was a triangle.) After a short layover, I was soon settling into my window seat next to the door (more leg room, but you have to declare that you'll help people out in case of an emergency. I'm cool with that), watching the Arizona desert recede beneath the wings of the DC-10 out of my porthole, when the pilot mentioned over the PA that we were at 15,000 feet and climbing to our cruising altitude of 30,000, and just now appearing at the foreword port side was a good view of the Grand Canyon, which we would soon be flying over.

Having seen the Grand Canyon for exactly 45 minutes in my life a couple of years before, I wanted to see it now. I plastered my face to that window like a kid at a street side toy store window, and angled to catch a view of the canyon that stopped Vásquez cold in 1540. The chasm is frickin' profound, even at 3 miles high and climbing. I was amazed that it stretched beyond the horizon, the depth from the bottom to the rim was full quarter of my height above the Colorado River within.

The stewardess took up the public address mic, and told us that, for our in-flight enjoyment, the view screens above us would be showing an episode of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire! I of course ignored such tripe, and continued to gawk at one of the world's wonders from my privileged height, squinting against the afternoon sun. The stewardess got back on the P.A., and asked all of the window seat passengers, especially on the left side of the plane, to close their sun visors so that the sunlight didn't interfere with other passengers' viewing of the small LCD viewing screens. I smirked. Nothing doing. I just pushed my fat head and shoulders that were already in front of the window a little closer to block the sun as best I could. But there was no way I was shutting off this view of what I really needed to see.

"Um, sir?" A stewardess was addressing me. "Please close your sun visor, so that other passengers..."

"No." I said. "Not while I can see the Canyon."

There was almost an Incident, before she backed down.

Good. Gawd.

Not a misogynist. NOT.

Look, I probably hold women to higher standards than I do men. They don't have that testosterone poisoning that we do, which makes us want to solve simple problems (e.g.: "The neighbor's dog is crapping in my yard.") with complicated or at least complicating solutions ("I'll settle his hash!" Blam! Blam! Blam! "Is that bullhorn coming from a helicopter?"). Ladies see sex, conflict, and self worth very differently, on the average, than does a man. Usually for the better.

But, boy, when you run across the dumber ones... it'll put you into a spell of the cranky mumblings that people might misinterpret to think that you're judging all women, by the actions of a few.

"Grumble mumble grumble idiot couldn't find her mumble grumble if she used both hands and called Directory Assis... grumble, mumble... "

Exhibit A:

Dumb Woman: "Officer, I'm so glad you stopped."

Me: "Well, it seemed like the thing to do; you kept following me."

DW: "I need to report a Hit and Run."

Me: [Tensing to run out and stop the perpetrator, but then stopping myself.] "Where and how long ago did it happen? You've been following me for over three blocks."

DW: "It was over at that shop? You know, across from the school?"

Me: [After waiting a second for clarification and getting none.] "Which school? There are several. What shop?"

I finally dragged out of her which shop (only by establishing what they sell).

Me: "That's a couple of miles from here. How long ago did this happen?"

DW: "Oh, it was right before I dropped Junior off at school-- say about 7:50? Don't they ring the bell at 8:00? I just know we were running late."

Me: "Ma'am, it's almost 10:30 AM, now. Why are you just now reporting a hit and run, 2.5 hours after it occurred?"

DW: "I had to get Junior to school."

Me: [Putting that aside for the moment and noticing a tightness in my jaw I hadn't noticed earlier that morning.] "So how did this happen? Wait. Let me bring you a piece of paper to draw it out for me."

After I diagrammed the parking lot on one of the sheets of typing paper I always carry on my clip board for just such exigencies, I drew a compass rose to indicate "N" in the corner, labeled the road adjacent, and handed it to her, asking her to show me how the crash occurred. She rotated the clip board around, and around, and around, and asked what the "Z" meant (seriously), and said that she couldn't make heads or tails of the diagram, and didn't know where everything was. I pointed out buildings, parking lot entrances, and streets. I may not be Michelangelo, but I've been drawing crash sketches for a large fraction of my existence on this earth, and I'm pretty competent at it.

I wondered not aloud whether this woman should be driving at all. Ever.

By doing something akin to the Sullivan/Keller exercise ("Yes! That's water, Helen!") where I took my pen and carefully outlined the articles on the sketch while she held the clipboard (that was important, apparently), I actually directed the pen in her hand to items in the parking lot to areas around the property, I got her oriented.

(Now that looks like a snark at Helen Keller. It's not. Helen Keller was one of the smartest people who ever lived. She, even with her being deaf and blind, would have understood the diagram faster, and would have conveyed to me how the crash had occurred more concisely. And, to look at the numerous dings and bits of body damage on this lady's car, would have been a better driver.)

So I established that she had gotten backed into by another car in the parking lot. She then pulled into the spot next to it, and watched the other car begin to back away. She went to great trouble to describe the car, and the kid in the back seat, and even the driver, which was helpful. I asked her the make of the car, but that was an exercise of sheerest optimism. She did, however, finally, as an afterthought, after I had asked twice whether she had it, present me with the license tag number that she had written down.

I asked her what she had done when the other car drove away.

DW: "I called my husband, of course!"

Of course.

Me: "On your cell phone?"

DW: "Yes. I could still see the car driving away, and wanted to know what to do."

Me: "Where did the car go?"

DW: "Oh, it got in line to drop of the kid at the school."

Me: "The kid in the car? He goes to school here in town?"

DW: "Yes."

Me: "And you saw the other car drop off the kid. How long did it take to drop a kid off and leave?"

DW: "Well, because I had to call my husband, I was about 10 places back of her, but it was busy, so I guess about 4 or 5 minutes."

Me: "Tell me again why you didn't call the police?"

DW: "Well, I didn't know what to do. And I didn't have your number."

Me: "You didn't know the number to 911?"

DW: "Well, I didn't think I should, you know..."

Me: "Ma'am, for a Hit & Run in progress, calling 911 is completely appropriate."

Sensing an accident report in my future, I asked for her driver license and insurance document. She produced a card with the name of a man she identified as her husband on it. I noticed the discrepancy between her license address and her insurance, and asked if she had moved recently.

"No, we moved 2 years ago," she said, looking at me like I was a fool for not knowing this.

"Okay, you might want to go notify the D.P.S. of your current address, so that you don't get a citation from someone," I said helpfully. Texas law requires you to notify of change of address within 30 days of moving. No, I had no intention of writing her for it, but someone might, so I thought I would just let her kn...

D.W.: [Aghast] "You're going to give me a ticket?!? I'm the victim! What did I do wrong?!?"

Me: "No, ma'am, I was just..."

D.W.: "I can't believe this! Some horrible person almost kills me, slams into me, and you want to write me a ticket!" she was warming up to the subject, so I raised my voice.

Me: "Ma'am! I am not writing you a citation for anything, here."

She immediately calmed down, and said in a self-satisfied tone, "Well I'm glad you came to your senses," she said tritely. "I'm the victim, after all. If you're not going to write me a ticket any more, may I have my stuff back," she said as she gestured toward the license and insurance card that I still held, forgotten, in my hand.

"Uh, sure. Let me just get your information written down for my report," I said, transcribing quickly. "So you now live at this address?" I referred to the address on the insurance card.

"Nooo." She was completely unable to hide her disgust at my stupidity. "That's my husband's address."

The address was only 5 miles away. "You are estranged from your husband, then?"

"No, we are divorced, for the last 5 years," she said slowly, as if to an idiot child.

"Have you remarried?" I asked. Oh, trust me. I knew it really had no bearing on anything, but I just wanted to know how much I was understanding. Or misunderstanding. Whatever.

D.W.: "No."

Me: [Pondering] "So it was your ex-husband that you called while the other driver drove away, rather than calling 911."

D.W.: "Well, yes. Of course." [Surprised that I hadn't realized that from the start.]

I disengaged as fast as possible.
_ _ _
Exhibit B:

Later that day, I was typing up a report at the P.D. when Dispatch notified me that I had a "Meet Complainant" call at the P.D.

"Uh, I'm right here," I reported. "The door's unlocked."

"She says that she's been parked out front for 10 minutes but can't find anyone," the dispatcher advised. I had been working on paperwork in the office by the front door for half an hour. I opened the door and saw an older woman pensively smoking in a small sedan out front.

"Uh, show me on scene," I told Dispatch.

"There you are!" chided the older woman as she got out of her car.

"How can I help you?" I asked as I held open the front door for her to come into the P.D.

"You can tell me why you arrested my grandson today!" she announced.

"Ma'am, I haven't made an arrest today. And if I'm not mistaken, neither has any other officer with my police department today, because we've had no arrests today. What's your grandson's name?" I asked as I opened a computer browser to the public website to look up the boy's name. "How old is he?" I asked, figuring that it was possible that he wasn't even on the public site, because he was obviously a young teenager, and would be in the juvenile system.

"26," she said.

I was aghast. She went on. "I already paid his tickets with y'all last month! You shouldn't have put him in jail for them!"

"He's in jail for traffic citations?" I asked as the page came up. Yep, Mid-Sized City P.D. had arrested him for warrants issued on unpaid traffic citations out of our city an hour and a half before. Before I looked up his history, I asked if he had been to jail before.

"Oh, my word, yes. Y'all just won't leave him alone! I've had to bail him out 5 times this year. It's not his fault that he gets in trouble-- he has A.D.D."

What do you say to that? I pulled up his history, and saw that A.D.D. had caused him to be arrested for stealing, for driving with a suspended driver's license, for possessing dope, and for driving while intoxicated. Damn those bastard cops, and double-damn the greedy drug companies for charging too much for Ritalin!

I wondered why she was in such a hurry to get him out. "Does he have a job?" I asked.

"Yes!" She said as she beamed proudly. "He starts next week. As a matter of fact, yesterday we got the judge from another charge to postpone his upcoming court appearance so that he could go to work."

"But he's not working now, so..." I began, thinking to suggest that he sit out the tickets for a few days, and also thinking that she would learn that her darling grandson wouldn't just waste away to nothing if he spent a night in hoosegow for his own actions or failures to act.

"A.D.D.! I told you! It's not his fault that he can't keep a job! Plus, with you people always putting him in jail, it's hard for him to keep a job, anyway. He gets depressed," she accused.

"Well," I said, turning around from the computer, "He's never been in our system, so we don't have any information on him. I guess that he just didn't pay his tickets."

"But you put a warrant out for him!" she accused.

"No ma'am, that was the municipal court that issued the warrant, after he failed to appear," I said.

"Well, I'll pay right now for those tickets --but I could swear that I paid for them last month-- so you can let him out," she said, reaching into her purse.

"You'll need to discuss that with the municipal court clerk," I said. "But he can't get out until he's been bonded out at the jail."

"Can't you just call and have him let go?" she asked. "After all-- it's not his fault. I was the one who didn't pay his tickets."

I sat there astounded. "No, ma'am. He has to stay arrested until he posts bond to appear in court, or until a judge orders him released. Aren't you tired of bonding out a 26 year old man?"

She pursed her lips, nodded, and said, "I sure am! Why can't you just leave him alone? Can't you see that it's hard enough on him as it is?"

"I'm sure it is," I said, as I held open the door for her to leave. "Good luck ma'am. Buh bye."

_ _ _
And so on.

My whole day went like that. I had to run over to the municipal court to calm down a mother who was lambasting the court clerk who had the audacity to demand that her own 25 year old son (who was not present) honor the payment plan that he had signed to pay for his citations for driving without driver license, insurance, etc. The fact that her son had a much sought-after professional tradesman's license, a job, and a meth habit didn't seem to make her see why she shouldn't act as the sole point of contact on her little sonny boy's city court case.

I went to knock on the front door of a house where I found a three year-old playing unattended in the street. He was stopping traffic, literally. The mother complained that I was sticking my nose in where it didn't belong, and then got mad at me when I asked for her full name and date of birth, along with the child's. Hell yes, a report was going to be made.

I finished my day with a phone call from a woman who wanted advice on how to get her kid back from her ex-husband. There had been no custody agreement, because they hadn't been officially married. He wanted his car back from her before he would give her back their child. She, who didn't have a driver's license, didn't want to give him the satisfaction. He just wanted the car, she said, so that he could sell it to buy more meth before he went to prison in two weeks. He had an appointment to check himself into custody to serve his 2 year felony sentence, she said.

"Sounds like a civil issue to me," I said. "Consult a family law attorney, and get a property judgement and a custody order." I hung up as fast as I could.
_ _ _

I love women. I think womanhood is admirable, and the best people that I know are women. I love and respect my wife and my mother, among many, many wonderful ladies. I am bringing up two girls who I know will become respectable, great ladies.

But man, did I meet a BUNCH of dingbats, the other day.

I'm not a big sports fan, but...

...I have to wonder: Just what are the scantily-clad young females with pom-poms doing on the playing field at any rate, if not to distract?