The way things are.

How are things? The general consensus is: "Not great."

A quarter of the nation is unemployed, thanks to a novel virus causing international lockdowns for social distancing.

Large cities are powderkegs of "protesters" and police clashing.

Cultural wars are in full swing. We have strong evidence (hell, let's just say "confirmation") of outside influence by international online arsonists who are fomenting hate and discontent on social media.

The President says that he does not trust:
The news media.
Scientists and doctors.
Our nation's intelligence services.
Our nation's criminal justice system.

The Left is cast as being full-bore socialists who want to tear down free enterprise, and get rid of the police.
The Right is being portrayed as racist, war-mongering, radical conservative, gun-obsessed zealots who care nothing for the nation's environment.

Police are being portrayed as focused on killing or at least hurting people of color whenever they can get away with it, who totally would get away with it, if The Left let down their guard.

Every use of force by police is now suspect to the public eye, if there is not a long history of the actor being a dangerous criminal, and there is not beautiful video of the event, depicting the recipient of police force committing indisputably heinous crimes (i.e., not just against police) when the police step in and expertly execute maneuver which stops the crime.

Police are assumed to be part of an inherently racially unjust system.

Because of this, people have taken to the streets in demonstrations which have repeatedly become riots. People will en masse block highways, blocking other people, to "raise awareness" of their issue. (This, to me, is akin to punching out a random old woman to raise awareness about breast cancer.)

People are stressed.

Listen to me: 

WE WILL GET THROUGH THIS.  

We as police will adjust some of the things we can, and the public will have to understand what we cannot adjust.

A vaccine is coming, and the greatest nation on the planet will get back to work again.

The current dumbass President will leave office, and another dumbass President will assume the role.

Do not get worked up over what someone says over the Internet-- chances are, they're just some Russian 'bot trying to goad you into a position of rage, to contribute to our chaos.

I and my brothers and sisters in blue will continue to try. And dammit, we'll try to do better. We have to.

I am sorry for our collective Troubles, and I will take a drink when they are past. For now, the liquor cabinet remains shut, because we have work to do.

If you can, try to be understanding of that idiot neighbor of yours, and do something kind.
If you can, let that comment box with the flashing cursor in it go unfilled with furious text.
If you can, send a little olive branch to that person that you used to think well of, before finding that they were just a little over on the Other Side on some divisive issue or another.

When It's Time To Gracefully Withdraw From Driving

Maryville P.D. had to clean up an ugly situation, caused by an elderly person who momentarily got confused, and struck 9 cars. Somehow, no one was hurt. The video's pretty impressive. 

Every year or two, I end up bringing a confused old man or woman into a meeting with his or her family, and we have a conversation about the eventual necessities of maturation. I have a talk that I've created, in which I reference how, when I was 11, I had to come to grips with the fact that I had to wear glasses. At  35, I realized that I couldn't run like I could when I was 25. As I advance into my 40s, I'm realizing that I'm soon going to need reading glasses.  Many people need canes as they get older, because falling could cause them to break a hip, or worse.  This is about accepting stages in life. Usually they will have similar experiences, and I encourage them to tell me about them.

My interactive talk is usually planned at 10 minutes, but tends to run more like an hour. Often there are tears from those involved. (Not from me. Not while in uniform.)

I get the elderly driver to turn over his or her keys, and promise not to drive again, unless cleared by a doctor.

I then inform the Texas Department of Public Safety Driver Improvement and Compliance Bureau that we need a Medical Advisory Board for this person, and I detail and include copies of call sheets for the calls for service which brought me to this conclusion. I have found elderly people lost and unable to find their way home in a town which they grew up in. I have found people with their foot on the accelerator as they chugged their car forward into another car, unable to figure out why their brake wasn't working. I have found people that had no idea that they were driving on a flat tire, having hit a bridge abutment and sideswiped another car. There is a point where a confused driver looks a LOT like an impaired driver. They can be very dangerous. And I have to be the instrument of the state which starts the process of taking this driver out from behind the wheel.

But here's the thing-- ANYONE can request this.
Just as anyone can call in a reckless driver, anyone can request that a person with medical impairment or simple old age be examined. Texans can fill out and mail in this form. If you have an elderly driver that you're worried about, here's further information from Texas Department Of Transportation.

Other states will have similar provisions, if you look.
Sometimes it takes a family member or loved one to put it all together. If Great Aunt Myrtle has had fender benders and senior moments in Brockway, Ogdenville, and North Haverbrook, the local constabulary probably won't have clued to it. But you know it.

Time to utilize one of the most powerful tools that a citizen has in managing the government: the Open Records Request. Get copies of the incident reports and/or crash reports involving Aunt Myrtle, and compile them into a time line, which you send to the licensing bureau, pleading for them to gently relieve Aunt Myrtle of her license. If they're like me, they won't tell her who sent them. Let the government folk be the heavies. Oftentimes, seniors won't listen to family begging them to stop driving, but they will abide by the licensing authorities's decision.

Remember, you're not taking away their driving-- you're helping to save them, and other people, from a dangerous situation. 

Minor Bleg:

If each of y'all could, please take a minute to kick in $5 toward the West disaster. Better make it $10, to cover for that other slacker. I've checked, and this is legit. It took me literally less than 2 minutes (and I'm slow) to donate some cash to a fund that will help that city rebuild.

While some people died, a LOT of people are horribly injured, or simply  lost their houses and livelihoods. They've got supplies for now. What they need is liquid cash.


http://westdonations.com/donate/

Gimme a hand, here:

I'm trying to find a blog. One of the writers in the blogosphere wrote a couple of years ago a story about his past that beautifully illustrated the illusion of doing good with other people's money. He wrote about how, as a teenaged churchgoer, he had joined the church early, and took part in his church's decision-making process. When they had all but decided not to fund a foreign mission, he related, he gave a spirited speech that shamed those who voted against funding the mission, and moved the congregation to vote to spend the money, not yet budgeted. He had been quite proud of himself. Afterwards, one of the church elders took him to lunch, and asked him how much extra he himself planned to contribute to the missionary fund. He, a broke teenager, mumbled that he was kind of short for cash just then. That's when the Dutch uncle of an elder pointed out that it was one thing to have good intentions with other people's money, but that it wasn't genuine charity, and at some point you had to put up or shut up.

I know he's just a degree of separation away.

Help me, friends, to find this blog. I want to print it and present it to a couple of people in my graduate Public Administration class, quite badly. :)

And we get us some autumn for Halloween.

I worked a couple of extra duty Halloween gigs this weekend, and found myself in the weather a bit. Some of my compadres were under-prepared, having not put on long underwear. No, the temperature didn't get much below 45 while we were out, but the wind kicks up out here on the plains.  We saw long durations where the wind did not flag below 15 mph, and mostly kept up over 20.

As I was watching the parents taking their kids to get some candy, I lamented the cool weather, a bit. Look, I may be extremely married, but I am permitted to ogle the young mothers who often like to put on risqué Halloween costumes each year. Sadly, when the wind blows this fresh, they are suddenly reminded of their need for propriety.

That's not to say that I didn't see a few costumes that made me furrow my brow a bit. I saw no less than three girls under 10 that were wearing bustiers, on Friday. Hey, mom? An 8 year-old slutty pirate is NOT a good costume.

I saw several little boys wearing police costumes with badges appointing them officers of the jurisdiction of Toyland. One of them had a toy '03A3 Springfield, which I thought was interesting. I saw three little boys wearing gangster outfits, and two had little plastic M1921 Thompsons without cooling fins, one in black, and the other in white.

I saw a little boy in a western sheriff costume with his double buscadero rig turned backwards, so that he would have to cross-draw his silver SAA capguns, Rex Allen style. I wondered if the kid kid's parents kid's grandparents had been fans of the singing cowboy, and decided that it was more likely that his rig just slid around on him while he was getting into and out of the car.

Firefighter costumes with plastic axes were quite popular this year. Iron Man was still a draw, as were Batman, Superman, and the ever-popular ninja, in all colors. I saw girls be fairies, cheerleaders, unicorns, kitty cats, Supergirl (in all-pink), and witches. I saw no cross-dressing, and saw no crossing of traditional roles, which was kind of sad, but not unexpected; our little town is pretty provincial.

My elder daughter went to marching band competition, and I sent along a bunch of Hot Hands for her to put into her pockets. I sent some extra to give to some of her friends, if she wanted. They were apparently a hit.

The leaves are still largely on the trees outside. Due to the freeze warnings this weekend, I brought in the Meyer lemon tree that we had growing on the back patio, and put it in the sun room. Given that the pot that it is in is ceramic, and that the ~60 gallons of dirt in it is moist, my estimate is 400 lbs of very fragile load that I had to bring in. I panted a bit. We put some rocks in the dirt around the tree to keep it from appearing attractive for the cats.

The leaves outside are still mostly green and on the trees. It's a beautiful day.

Random Wednesday Thoughts. Day after V[F]D.

--I'm older than I've ever been. And now I'm even older.

--There was a "BuyCot" yesterday, as you may have heard. Folks wanted to boycott Starbucks on Valentine's Day for going hands-off on gun-carriers and refusing to impose more restrictions than the state laws already did. Gunnies around the web decided to show support for Starbucks by giving their business. When I went in to get my wife a Great Big 'Un* coffee drink and myself a pound of coffee, I noticed a couple of middle-aged guys sitting about the place wearing vests, and unwinding with their coffee. I'll bet good money that I wasn't the only armed guy in the joint. While Starbucks reports their shares were "flat" yesterday, I'll bet that their revenues for the day took a little jump. But I don't expect them to volunteer such information. If I were Starbucks, I'd be of the exact same position that they've been taking, lately: "Look, we make and serve coffee. Don't drag us into that battle." That's all I want.  

--Valentine's Day was yesterday. I heard more backlash over it ("It's just a corporate-induced holiday to sell things and make the fat cats money!", "It's a damned quid pro quo by the women, who expect the man to do something for them if they expect the women to be physically affectionate!") than I ever had before.

--My 13 year old daughter came home with two carnations yesterday. One was from her girl friend, but another was from a boy. She insists that he's "just a friend," and it's true that he hangs with her circle of girl friends a lot, but still, it's her first flower from a boy. She reported that another one of her friends received from her boyfriend a necklace with a diamond and ruby pendant on it. These kids are in 8th grade. I explained to my daughter that if she received such a gift from a boy, she would be returning it.

--My 13 year old had made home-made chocolate truffles in four flavors to give to her friends at school. She then made cute origami boxes with separators and lift-off lids to give them in. That kid's got skills.

--My 9 year old daughter made dinner last night. She pulled out her Mollie Katzen cookbook the other night and  reported that she was making the meal, and we were all expected to attend. So, after school yesterday, she set about to making a hearty soup (she modified the vegetable soup to be vegetable beef soup, because she likes meat), a Mediterranean salad, and a rich chocolate desert. She then set our table thusly:

That kid's got skills, too**. Very good soup. I am told that the soup was better this morning, but I was not left so much as a bite.

--I didn't get to finish my bowl of soup. I got a fire page during dinner. It was an alarm at an apartment complex, and those can be nothing, or very, very nasty. I got up and said, "I'll probably be right back," I said. "No, you won't," my wife said. "But go, anyway." She smiled at me. I got there in time to gear up and jump on the engine. This was the first time that I had ridden in what is traditionally the Captain's seat, front right. As I got in, the air horn went crazy. The driver mildly informed me that I was stomping on the horn button on the floor. I moved my foot off in a hurry. The mechanical siren cranked up, LOUDLY, with us still in the firehouse bay. I had moved my foot to another button. How many buttons were there, anyway? (Three, it turns out.) Given the size of my fire boots, the best thing for me to do was to try to tuck my feet up under my seat, which is how I rode to the call. At each intersection, I called out traffic conditions to my side, and tapped the air horn briefly. It was only as I arrived on scene that I realized that I had forgotten to put on the headset.

The fire alarm was inconsequential. It was my first run.

--After going home and getting the girls to bed, I got toned out for another pair of calls. I went back to the station, and found that most of the apparatus and all of the crew were gone to the calls. I checked in on the radio, and was advised to stand by at the station, in case we received another call. I hung out with a lonely brush truck for an hour, while the other guys worked a wreck several miles out of town, and staged for a police call just out of town (but in our fire district). Here I was: a guy that barely knew where the bathroom was (literally, I had to ask last week. I just hadn't needed to use it before, there), and yet I was the sole guy with the penultimate piece of apparatus in the city (there was also a tanker) there to answer fire calls. I laughed at myself (I know I've got a LOT to learn, and don't take myself too seriously). But it made me feel good to be there for the city, if something DID happen. Like a gun of minor caliber ready in a closet or a drawer. Not ideal. Probably not even adequate. But serviceable, and a hell of a lot better than nothing. This is why I volunteer.

--If you're shocked to read that a rookie volunteer firefighter would be given such a responsibility, don't be. That's how lots of volunteer fire departments are. By area, most of our nation's land is served by VFDs

--I've made a vow to myself to be the slowest, most careful apparatus driver in the department.

--I'm waiting for the mail. I have a small paper presentation due in class today, and the text book that I'm referencing for it, which I ordered a week ago, hasn't arrived. I know that it's been en route for two days. If it doesn't arrive by the time I finish this post, I've got to download it on my Kindle, and effectively pay for the same book twice. That galls me. My fault, though. My class starts in three hours. Better hurry, Matt!

--Just checked the mail again. The book has arrived. (And Matt is again rewarded for procrastination, which might not be best.) Got to run.





_________________________________
*I refuse to use their silly terms for size. A big iced mocha is served in a cup that is closer to a quart than to twenty ounces, so "vente" is just stupid. As a bonus, I got to watch the barrista flinch when I said it. I liked it so much, I ordered a second one. Damn, but those things are tasty. My bride liked her afternoon coffee pick-me-up  more than the two dozen tulips that I brought to her office.

**Yes, I see the error in the place setting. No, I didn't see it last night. Not sure I would have said anything.

The connections

I keep pointing this out, because it's so damned amazing: most of my friends I know because of modern communications.

I believe in my friends' willpower and intense dedication to do right, and to come together, sometimes to do great things, and sometimes just to have great times. All because they moved some pixels around on a screen, hit SEND, and caused some pixels to move around on other person's screens.

I converse with extremely smart people on a fairly regular basis, with no other passcode or birthright than that I send them an email and they write back. How amazing. I've been doing this for a quarter of a century.

See now the brief lecture of Jim Gilliam, who had the same epiphany but on a MUCH more significant level. While I may owe my social life to the Internet, Jim owes his physical life to it.

A Worrisome Gap, Indeed.

I didn't serve.

I should have. I regret that I didn't. I believe that I would have made a good serviceman. But for whatever reason, I did not.

I now attempt to serve my little community as a patrolman. I don't kid myself about what the job is, and I get paid, so I refuse to accept praises beyond my actual worth.

But every serviceman who signs up for the armed forces of this nation puts himself or herself at risk of being put in harm's way. Yes, even the pogues and the REMFs and the supposedly non-combat support personnel. All may be sent into a hostile country, wearing our nation's uniform. And in truth, our D.O.D. is famous for taking a physicist or an engineer, handing him a rifle, and telling him to march in the front of the line instead of plying his preferred trade. Guys that sign up for easy duty might not get it. That's the risk. They've all got that in common.

But we who do not serve don't often think about those who do, unless someone close to us is in the military. Even now, with our servicemen and women scattered around the globe on two and a half fronts, we forget. Yes, we do.

So I find that the words of Admiral Mike Mullen (head of Joint Chiefs Of Staff) hit home when he describes a gulf between our military and the nation that it serves. He said that we who are on the outside are more and more failing to grasp what those on the inside are experiencing, and what their needs are.

"This is important, because a people uninformed about what they are asking the military to endure is a people inevitably unable to fully grasp the scope of the responsibilities our Constitution levies upon them," he said.

Our jobs on the home front are varied, but we all have a duty to this nation. The first duty, it would seem, is to remember.

Maybe, in between the pouring of drunks back into their houses or into jail cells this three-day weekend, I can remind one or two citizens of why we have the holiday weekend. Because frankly, it's easier to forget than it should be.

David Benke.

When it is Go Time, you must have your decision made, already.

David Benke, a math teacher and track coach, had several points to his advantage yesterday when a crazy man* was shooting children at a Littleton high school: he could run, and he could think, and he had at some point made up his mind to do what needed doing. In this story at CNN, Mr. Benke mentions being conscious of how long it took the guy to rack a round in after each shot. He launched his 6'5" frame into the guy, disarmed him, and held him. Yeah, yeah, others helped, and that's good. But who shall bell the cat? Who's first?

Why, it's the person who already decided before it all came down. If you will keep it in your head that you are a sheepdog rather than a sheep, then you are a lot closer to winning than some might think, even when apparently "unarmed."

There are some things worse than dying. I'm glad that David Benke didn't get hurt, but he would still have been a role model if he hadn't been successful in his attempt to stop the attempted murderer.

You are the first responder. Act accordingly.
___________________________
*Whose name I'll not bother mentioning here. He gets no glamour from me.

Olfactory masculinity.

Brett & Kate McKay bring us a list of 15 smells that are associated with Manliness. I don't know about the bowling alley, and I never knew my grandfathers, but the rest is spot-on.

I think I might consider adding the smell of a working automotive garage, with axle grease, solvent, and fresh tires. Oh, and an old-style tire store. I think also that I associate the mixed smells of gasoline and broken earth, perhaps with perspiration, as a manly smell.

Now, I know that some will protest that there's nothing inherently masculine about sawdust or shooting, or gasoline and broken earth or the like. That's certainly true. My wife the sculptor uses our table saw as much or more than me, and can weld (another manly smell?), while I can't. She mows our lawn as well, and I shoot with too many women to count.

But I associate some of these smells with men of my youth, and I can't ever release that. As long as I don't treat women inappropriately because of my associations, I believe that I can accept that about myself.

Thinking about communicating.

I had some good conversation with John Shirley, tonight. This was meatspace conversation, rather than those silly texts that we exchange or chats by phone. I've always liked that guy, but lately we've been pretty damned tight. Not a bad friend to have, that one. I've been proud to call him a friend for some time, now. If you follow his writings at Wandering Thoughts, then you know his life since returning from Afghanistan. If not, then I would submit that it's worth reading him to know him.

John said the other day that he looks at my dad as a father figure, and I felt no jealousy. Just understanding. His father passed on a few years ago, and I really would rather not have to try to think of what pain that passing cost him. I'm pleased to think of John like a brother. I have a brother, and love the man dearly. But my brother and I are victims of age disparity, and we have very different interests. He's a better man than most, and I have nothing but pleasure when we speak. It's just that, due to our different interests, we don't speak a whole lot.

On speaking: isn't this an odd time? I call my pals across the hundreds of miles, and it costs.... nothing. I could talk to John via phone in Georgia, and my plan has it paid for. I have spoken to Tamara, Claire, Cranky Professor, LawDog, Peter, Marko, Ambulance Driver, Don Gwinn, Roberta X (briefly), and Stingray (of the Atomic Nerds), all of whom live a hundred miles or more away from me, without spending an extra dime. My house phone gives me free long distance, and my cell phone, with 1400 minutes a month, is free long distance. Shoot, calling AT&T, I don't even use those minutes. Remember when the beauty of email was that you could stay in touch without costly long distance charges? Now, that's not an issue. Yet we text and email regularly. It's the modern equivalent of letter writing, I think. Paper mail may yet go the way of paper newspapers. (And make no mistake; their days are numbered.) I remember having to beg permission to talk to my high school girlfriend, who lived 8 miles north of me; it was long distance. I remember my best friend's father being furious when my best friend and I talked for an hour, our freshman year in college; "For the price of that phone call, you could have gotten a round-trip bus ticket from A&M to UT to visit!" He had griped to my buddy.

We can now just call who we want, and have good conversations with good people. Our world isn't limited to bogus "localities,' as defined by the phone companies.

You. Reader: do me a favor. Call someone whom you've either never physically met, or who matters to you, and just chat for a minute or twenty. It may be the most important conversation of your week. Or your life.

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.

Devices.

As a youngster, if you had asked me to define "device," I would have uttered a definition that was synonymous with "contraption." And indeed, Merriam-Webster agrees with me. Sort of.

Definition 1 for M.W.'s entry for Device includes: "a piece of equipment or a mechanism designed to serve a special purpose or perform a special function," which meets the contraption-concept that I had in mind back when.

But I ran into two other uses that vary greatly from that view, in my mind.

The first is with regard to symbolic devices on uniforms. They are mentioned in the last definition listed in Merriam Webster: "3: an emblematic design used especially as a heraldic bearing." Get a bronze star with a V for valor? That gold V is a device. Even though it's simply gold thread sewn into a ribbon, it's a device.

Then I started work as a cop, and found that *I* was a device, when I wrote a citation for TRC §544.004, (Compliance With Traffic Control Device), the device most often disregarded was me. Whenever I directed traffic and pointed one way and traffic went another way, that was my cite.

Felt funny, being a "device." Then I thought about it: I had always known that a tidy uniform was important to convey professionalism and any possible sense of authority to the public that I was serving. Indeed, a well-pressed uniform and polished boots did as much for my job's credibility as all the training and professionalism that I could utilize. Once I got that through my head, it was a whole lot easier to think of myself as a "device." Go back to "emblematic design used especially as a heraldic bearing." I may not be that, but many times I'm surely a symbol, when in uniform, more than I am perceived as a man. This symbolic status allows me to serve better, I think. I've known for a long time that lots of folks can't see beyond it and thus can't perceive me as a person beyond the empty shell of my office, to my detriment.

But there can be some favorable outcomes of this; most people, when coming to an intersection with a recognizable cop in it with his hand held up, palm out toward them, will stop without questioning who the hell he thinks he is to tell them to do that. Thus, traffic can get redirected, accidents get avoided or cleared, and people again move smoothly about their daily lives.

I'm tempted to launch into further riffing on the social mandate for government authority, but I just bored myself a little, and I even bore me, then you've got to be snoozin'. 'Sides. Plato and Hobbes said it first and better, anyway.

Want a giggle? This weekend I found a 5 page paper that I submitted to my Philosophy 301 class, my first semester of my freshman year at U.T. at Austin. The title: "Life Sucks And Then You Die." I got an A on the paper, and the course, and changed my major to Philosophy. It would have been so much better for me if Dr. Papas had just flunked me. :)

Nicest people you'll ever meet...

"You know, snuff film actors and crew are the best folks you'll ever meet..."

Don exposes his idealistic position that all people are basically good, throughout the world.

Use this pink AR-15 to fight breast cancer.

Online pal Larry Correia watched his mother in-law go through the treatment for the cancer. Cancer of the breast.

Guys, think about how unhappy you would be if a certain symbol of your manhood were in danger of being removed. Now picture how unhappy you'd be if that was an outwardly visible (in shape) symbol of your masculinity, and it were threatened. Over half a million people a year die from breast cancer, and a whole lot more are cut on or poisoned to survive it.

So Larry, good guy that he is, says, "I have to do something." So he commissioned this very nice rifle to be built. It's a Stag 15, and if Larry says the work is good, then it's good.

Larry and his guys are auctioning this pretty off for $5 a ticket. $5 clams. 499 pennies plus the one you snag from the Give-A-Penny-Take-A-Penny tray at the grocery store. A sawbuck. 1/4 of the most typical denomination given you by the ATM. Well under the price of a McNastyburger Meal with large fries and large coke.

If you don't have an AR, you should buy a raffle ticket.

If you don't have a pink AR, you should buy a raffle ticket.

If you have a pink AR, but you know someone in your life who really needs a pink AR, then you should buy a raffle ticket.

If you HATE GUNS, and believe that no one should have an AR of any kind, then you should buy a LOT of raffle tickets, to take this Evil Pink Rifle Of Death out of the hands of those who would willingly... uh, shoot it or sumpin'.

As a matter of fact, without regard to your gun situation, you really need to buy several raffle tickets, because it goes toward breast cancer research. And it will. Larry is the type of man who will donate everything, and then empty his pockets to add more. And he'll send it all in.

Go HERE to find out more.

The raffle winner will be announced in October, but don't, don't, DON'T let it go 'til then, because it will be too late. And you won't get your pink rifle, and will miss your funnest chance to Nip Breast Cancer In The Bud.*

_______________________________

*(I really should be writing tag lines.)

Harvest time.

We tend to associate the term with autumn, but it's now harvest time on the north Texas prairie. Quarter-million dollar combines churn through the fields, taking up to 45 bushels an acre of golden grain. In an area where wheat fields are routinely several hundred acres apiece, there's some serious Wonder Bread potential going on around here.

I stopped a grain hauler for a minor equipment violation, and as men who are a little bored of an afternoon will do, we got to chatting.

"What're y'all doing with all that wheat straw that I'm seeing baled out in the fields?" I asked him. "Surely there's no nutrition in it for hay?"

"Naw-- it wouldn't make very good feed," he guffawed. "It's the damndest thing, though-- we're getting $22 a large square bale for it, plus $12 just to haul it!"

"Okay. . . what are they using it for, then?" I pondered.

"Two things: they use it in mushroom farming, so long as it's clean and never rained on, like this straw," he said, gesturing toward the field of giant square bales next to the road.

"Okayyy.... and?"

"And they've got this plant --you're never gonna believe this-- where they make insulation out of it," he said.

"For what?" I actually was surprised.

"Mobile homes and trailer campers," he said. "Now I know what you're wondering, and I asked the same thing."

"Yeah: isn't that about the most flammable insulation a person could put in their walls?!?" I asked.

"Like I said, I thought the same damn thing. Apparently, they've got this process where they compress it into wafer boards, and affix a fire-proof coating on it, and if a spark ever does get inside, it's so starved for oxygen, it can't burn. They claim that it can last for 8 hours to a wood flame and not catch," he said.

"No kidding. I never would've guessed," I proclaimed.

"Me neither. And for us, it's like selling trash off the ground. This stuff was just cast aside or tilled under, before, and now it's a supplemental crop," he said.

"Does it make any difference with the quality of the earth, now that it's not being tilled under?" I asked.

"Naw. We quit tilling, anyhow, " he said. "We've got this new method that drills the seed in and covers it up. That way, the soil holds water better when it's dry out."

You can learn a lot from a farm trucker, if you'll take the time to listen. I'd never heard this stuff before.

One does what one must.

"Whew, it's muggy," says the kindly older woman behind the counter as I walk up with my to-go cup of coffee.

"I noticed that, too," I say, plunking down my cup on the counter as I reach for my wallet and she shakes her head and walks away from the register. "The thermostat by the coffeemaker reads '76.' Why not turn it down?"

She grabs a broom and comes around the counter, sweeping the floor. "Those girls at night may feel free to change the thermostat, but I'm not going to break the rules. I'll ask the manager for permission to turn it down when she comes in. If those girls at night were working like they ought to, they'd stay warm enough," she sniffs with disdain.

"Why don't you just take your jacket off?" I ask, gesturing to the warmup jacket that she wears unzipped over her uniform shirt. I point to the coffee again with my brows raised, and she dismissively waves me away from the register.

"I, uh, keep my stuff in the pockets," she says, looking carefully away. "I think I'll sweep outside, where it's cooler." The store is empty.

Huh.

Interesting.

I watch her carefully. Blue jeans. Untucked uniform shirt. Light warmup jacket. Wristwatch on left wrist, so I begin to watch her right hip as she moves around while sweeping. I don't see anything. Well, with all that loose clothing, I wouldn't. And maybe she wears it appendix carry. Or cross-draw.

She busies herself sweeping the walk near the front door. I know she can feel me watching her, and I know that it makes her nervous. This is a lady who follows the rules scrupulously. I am pretty sure that this convenience store chain wouldn't allow concealed carry by their employees.

I open my mouth to ask, and then close it.

It's impolite to ask a lady about her underwear. I was just curious, anyway.

I smile and wish her a good morning.

A word on "gouging."

My friend Tamara points out that Indiana has created a law against gasoline price gouging.

While I was at the gas station the other night, the clerk was complaining about the high prices, and how "somebody oughta do something."

Friends, I'm going to say it again: "gouging" is a made-up concept, put forth by people who would prefer to see some socialism.

Do you want a command economy?

Look. If I have a product, you you want that product, and I invested a lot of trouble and money into getting that product, why shouldn't I get to decide what I want to sell it for, in a manner that makes me the most profit?

To say that "the government oughta do sumpin'" is to fail to understand a free economy. You want the oil companies to keep selling? Well, it's got to be profitable for them. Oh, you want our government to subsidize oil companies? Well, shucks-- we've already done that, and that amounts to the same thing, anyway.

It's a global economy. Within a very few years, China will be consuming as much oil as the US. Well, everyone's using oil, and has money to spend to purchase it. That means the price of a gallon of petrol will rise.

Supply stays constant but demand increases: price goes up.
Supply decreases and demand increases: price goes up RAPIDLY.

This is not a new concept, people.

Do we need to work on methods of conservation? Sure.

Do we probably need to make special arrangements in bona fide emergencies? Sure.

But the simple fact that prices have gone up does not constitute an emergency. It just sucks, is all.

That is all.

Hoka hey.

I'm going to die.


And so are you.

And so too will our children die.

From the moment that we leave our mothers' wombs, we are taking the long route to become worm poop.

Nobody gets out of this life alive. Nobody.

If you know in your heart that your religion or belief system has preserved your soul forever, then that's superb, and I know that you'll have plenty of peace of mind when you accept the fact that your body will fail, at some point in the future. You. Will. Be. Dead.

2,365,200,000 looks like a big number, until you realize that it accounts for the average number of seconds that the average man will live in this country. How are you enjoying each of those two-billion-some moments? Good? Constructively?

A second is about how long you will have, to take in what is going on, when the Crisis hits, and you have to start reacting. It may be the most important second of your life, and yet it costs the same as all the others. You got it for the price of your birth. How will you spend it?

In our most recent school shooting, a man entered the front of a lecture hall, and began shooting at students. Most of them died with shots to the head. Most of them, unable to run, hid under their desks. I can already picture how the headshots occured: in modern lecture halls, there's no protection from the desks, and the students pitched forward, trying to get closer the the floor. So the tops of their heads were presented to the shooter.

My good friend Tamara posted a thread a year or so ago called "Ain't Going Out Like That." Tamara has decided that she would rather fight and die or fight and win, than to give her life up to chance. Tamara carries a pistol or three wherever she goes. She has chosen.

Some young people have chosen to obtain a high powered, high dollar college education to propel their careers forward. At most major universities, carrying a firearm is not only cause for expulsion-- it's cause for indictment. These students want to finish with their class, and carrying a gun just doesn't really seem like a worth-while option. I can understand; I was one of those students, and still would be. Why risk your career?

So there you sit. Right with the law. Right with school policy. Your notebook is half-full, your pen is half-empty, and you're trying to pay attention to what that professor is saying, when in walks a Loser who is going to make everyone else pay for his inability to adjust. He has a gun, and you don't. He starts shooting. The aisles are full. The room is a death trap. There's no way out.

And there he is. Picking people off. Maybe you're next. Or maybe chance will smile on you. How many guns does he have? How many bullets? Maybe he has enough for all of you. This can't be allowed to continue.

It's time.

Time to decide-- are you going to dig down and hide among the fallen and hope that you live? Are you going to claw your way to an exit and leave the rest in the lecture hall? How are you going to live with yourself after that?

Planes have fallen from the sky.
Students and worshipers have died in their seats and in the aisles.
Hiding doesn't work.

Today is a good day to die.

If you must die, would you not rather die falling toward your killer, stopping your attack? If you're hit, don't you want to stop him?

Take him down. Yell "Get him!!!" and take him down.

Use books, book bags, fists, keys, knees, elbows, fingerclaws, pens, pencils... but take his ass down. And kill him.

There are worse ways to die, for you, than to die while doing this.

_ _ _

*I am now given to understand that "hokahey" was not Sioux for "today is a good day to die," but rather the Sioux warrior term for the equivalent to "let's roll." That's fine. Go with it.

Burying The Lede, Yet Again. (Armed Citizens Stop Mass Murders)

Jeanne Assam said that she was "acting in her capacity as personal protection security" at the New Life Church, when she stopped a rampant shooter. The 41 year old ex-cop credits her faith in God for giving her the ability to hold steady her pistol while fire on Matthew Murry repeatedly to end his killing.

In an interview on CNN with Larry King, she sat with the pastor of the church, answering inane questions in muted, careful tones.

King: "Why do you have a security guard armed, during church services, on a Sunday?"

The pastor, Brady Boyd, began with "Well, I think it's obvious..." He finished with these telling words:

"Larry, the real story here to me is the fact that the man got 60 feet inside our building, and if he had gotten another hundred feet, there were several hundred people standing in the main rotunda. What she did, when she heard the gunshots-- we're looking at a lady who did not hesitate. When she heard the gunshots, she rushed down the hallway toward the attacker... she was under arms, she had a handgun... this is a hero, we're talking about, I'm sitting next to a real-life heroine, that... I'm tellin' you, this is the bravest woman that I've ever met. She did not flinch, she put her own life at risk. She is not on our staff; she's a volunteer. She's a worshiper at our church, who provides security as a ministry for our church."

Kudos for the pastor for pointing out part the real story. But for some reason, I suspect that some of it was also being obscured.

Matthew Murray had a semi-automatic rifle, two handguns, and supposedly about 1000 rounds of ammo, along with smoke bombs. He had previously been identified as mentally distressed, and had been making threats on a website. He killed five people (mostly in the parking lot), and wounded five others. The pastor's right; if he'd made it into the rotunda, or worse, into the worship area earlier, it would have been a complete massacre but for an armed response.

The pastor states that this is "not the wild west" and says that they have strict guidelines for people carrying at their church, but I gather by the absence of what's said that Miss Assam (yes, she's still available, gentlemen) was not OFFICIALLY a security guard. Oh, she had a permit to carry, and had been a cop for 14 years, but I'm twigging to the fact that she had another full-time job, was not paid to work at the church, and was not uniformed.

That's not a bad thing. I'm not completely sure why they're burying that.

The fact that an armed private citizen stopped a mass murder should be the lead to the story, and should be trumpeted from the rooftops.

But, ho hum. Only 5 killed and 5 injured? Not too interesting. Ridiculously, the story is diminished because she stopped the killing.

If churches are going to be "unarmed citizen zones," I frankly think that they owe it to their worshippers to post armed guards at the outer perimeter of the church as well. If your church doesn't have a disaster plan, ask why not.

I'm a police officer who works patrol. I have a degree in Criminal Justice, and am working on my master's in it. That should give me some credibility to say what you, gentle reader, already know: The police can't get there in time to save you.

I'm so sorry about that fact. Sometimes, we get lucky. And usually, we stop it before it gets to the very worst that it could get to. But generally, we help pick up the pieces.

And whether or not you're the type to give thanks to your God, remember Jeanne Assam. And consider how you'll get your own oxen out of that well, Sabbath or no.