Live video.

Thirteen years ago, Ambulance Driver and I, along with BabsRN, did a little compilation post, called "Perspectives.". Ambulance Driver, ever the consummate performer, now wants to read it aloud, and I've agreed to do it with you. Babs has declined to read, but Jennifer has agreed to read Babs' part aloud. We're doing this on the Facebook Live platform tomorrow morning at 09:00 Central. (GMT -5) If you know Ambulance Driver's real name and know how to find him on Facebook, this is really easy. If you don't, then I don't know what to do for you. After 13.5 years, I'm probably pulling back the curtain a little. We'll see. I think that AD started this as a little treat for people staying at home.

Hit Tam's tip jar.

Friend Tamara busted her collarbone the other night. This puts a kink in her ever-increasing schedule of activities, in her career as a "self-unemployed gun writer."

Y'all may notice that I haven't got a tip jar on my blog, here. That isn't because I believe it is gauche; it is simply because I do not believe that I am providing enough of a service to accept money for, here.

Tamara, on the other hand, provides excellent technical writings on pistols, shotguns, and even the odd rifle. Her historical perspective is particularly good on firearms, although she applies it to other topics as well. Her _Sunday Smith_ occasional column is a treasure.  Why is it so good? Because Tamara Keel is a professional freelance gun writer. In a world where we find people declaring themselves to be gunwriters as they fill articles with dreck, it is a pleasure to read an informed opinion on firearms. Tamara is a professional reader, who also does the work, putting in hundreds or even thousands of rounds a weeks, and attending high-level classes in the field.

All this, and now she has medical bills, too.

If Tam or I were in town, wouldn't you buy dinner? I know that I would. It's impossible to walk out of a cheap greasy spoon diner without having dropped $20 or $30, after tip, for a  meal for two. Do me a favor, please, and go to Tamara's site, and click on the yellow PayPal button on the right side of the screen, and put in what you would've spent on dinner for our friend. If not for her, please do it for me. She has given a lot of free entertainment, over the years.

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.

Ray.

The week before last, on Monday, the Tribe started blowing up my phone. I got the word that Ray Carter, AKA Gay Cynic (of Northwestern Free Thinker), had been sent home from the hospital for hospice care. He was given about two weeks to live. I called Ray, and told him that I was coming on the weekend. He said that he looked forward to it. He seemed in good spirits. We texted and emailed through Wednesday, but I had to work on Wednesday and Thursday, and was so busy, I wasn't even getting by enough to see my father in a rehab hospital, where he was mending from an infection in his ankle. (And still is.)

I flew up to Seattle on Friday, 27 May. I arrived tired and with a headache, and checked into my room as quickly as I could, and sent Ray texts to let me know when he was ready to receive a visitor. After a few hours, I sent some to his mother, but got no response. Finally I called her, left a message, and was called back: "He's not doing well. He took a turn yesterday, and he's not really able to receive visitors just now." I told her that I didn't want to be a burden, but that I would come over in the morning, after calling ahead.

The next morning, I called, and Ray's mother said that he wasn't doing well, but maybe a visitor would help. I arrived at his house on a lovely street, full of flowers, at about 8:30AM. I was let in, and waited in his room to meet Ray. I met his brother Tim, who was very nice. When Ray came into his room where I waited, he was lethargic from the OxyContin and Oxycodone that he was receiving to ease the pains from end-stage liver failure. But he was there. We talked as he lay in his bed. He swung his feet off the bed and said, "Let's go." He wanted to sit in the living room.

Under an afghan on the couch, Ray fielded all kinds of questions that I had about his early life. I've known this guy for over 7 years, and I really didn't know his origins. He had wanted to be a police officer, but felt that a gay cop at that time (the early '80s) would never receive backup. He had worked as a night security guard at a college, and as a dispatcher. He had been an office worker. He had sold electric cars and bikes. He had worked for the Second Amendment Foundation. Throughout the talk, his mother and brother filled in what Ray couldn't say. Ray fell asleep often, and then grew cold and had to go to bed.

I excused myself, and got lunch, and spent a couple of hours at the Pike's Market. I bought fruit from a stand where the vendors used sharp knives to hand slices of peaches to passers-by. Some years ago, Ray had led my family though the market, and an attractive Asian gent handed each of us slices of peach. He was probably about 21. My then-14 1/2-year-old daughter was grinning and blushing as she accepted the peach, obviously quite taken with the looks of this guy. I then realized that behind her, Ray had a very similar expression as he stood back a bit to appraise the bounty of the fruit stand, before accepting his own complimentary slice. I laughed at the memory of this.

I didn't find the coffee shop where I had gone with Ray down on the Market, some years back. He had to use the restroom, and since I was in line, he handed me a $10 and asked me to order for him what in my family has come to be known as the "Ray Carter Special." It's an accomplishment when an order for a drink can make a downtown Seattle barista's eyes widen, but apparently asking for 8 shots of espresso over ice in a to-go cup will do just that.  I did find a nice coffee shop in the Moore Hotel, and ordered a latte, which came to me with coffee art on it.

I went back to Ray's house a little bit depressed. It is a lonely thing, to go alone to a place where you had enjoyed yourself with family and friends.

Ray looked better. He was awake and sitting up on the couch. A new crocheted afghan was laying across his lap, sent by our friend Bonnie. He liked the flowers that I had brought from the Market. His sister-in-law and niece were there, too. We talked some more. He sat on his recently-delivered hospital bed.. He fell asleep. I talked into the night with his brother and mother, and then went to the motel.  The family wanted to know about Blogorado-- they said that Ray always lit up when he talked about it, and looked forward to it, year 'round. I knew that they weren't of my political bent, but it was important to me that they know that this was a group of people from different walks of life who loved each other as a chosen family.

In the morning, I bought a cup of coffee from a bikini coffee hut, and went back to Ray's house. I was met at the door by his brother Tim, who told me that Ray had passed away in the morning at about 3:30 AM. I was fine, and entered, and said nothing, and then realized that I had owed Ray a lot of hugs sent by friends, which I hadn't really given him. In our group, no one gets away without a hug, but that's for leaving, or maybe initial greeting. I'd sat in bed with Ray, and held his hand, and gripped his arm, but I hadn't wrapped him up. I started to mention this to his family, and for some reason my voice cracked.

My friend Zercool had sent me an email that he had tried to send to Ray, and had asked me to read it to him when I could. I had failed there, too. So I read him what Zercool had sent me to say to him. I didn't do well. In fact, I blubbered a bit. But I got the words out over Ray's remains.

I hugged his family and left to SEATAC, playing Grateful Dead's "Box Of Rain" on the rental car stereo from my iPhone. I'm not a Grateful Dead fan, but this song spoke to me, as it was written by one of their band members, for his father who was on his deathbed. I played it on repeat, and sniveled a bit as I drove through the softly-falling Seattle rain. And then I came back home to north Texas.

Ray Carter was a good man, who cared more about family and friends than anything. He was a man with eternal optimism, who went by the moniker of "Gay Cynic." We are all --even his political adversaries-- diminished by his passing. I'm glad that I got to see him one last time.

Blogorado... 7? I think???

I went up to Colorado on Thursday, and came back on Monday. I had a great time.


My wife, who did not go, thinks that all we did was talk guns and shoot guns and be manly men, or something.


She doesn't realize that I participate in more hugs in that weekend than I do for the rest of the year.


I ate well. I communed with friends, old and new.


I enjoyed watching my friends' successes, and joked with them about their insubstantial failures.


Yeah, we shot at dynamite, and we shot a bowling ball mortar, and we blew up a car and a kitchen appliance. But mostly, it was about The Exchange.


Farewell, my tribe. Until next we meet.

Deletion

I deleted some online contacts, today. One was Byron Quick. Byron passed away a few years ago. He was a nurse, and a Georgia cracker, and had been a fellow staff member at www.TheFiringLine.com, and at www.TheHighRoad.org. I hunted with Byron, and took meals with Byron, and was his guest, once. I miss his company.

Another was William Bligh-Glover, MD. I wrote here of his passing. I never met him. Still I thought of him as a friend.

Another was Jason Pittman. Jason and I were students in grade school through high school, together. His mother was my teacher. His father was an assistant scoutmaster of my troop. Jason, I am given to understand, fell into drugs and depression (who knows which caused the other), and he took his own life. He had been an Eagle Scout.

The day after his father was buried, I watched my Chief, a friend, delete his father from his cell phone, saying that it was silly to keep it in there. I shook my head, not sure that I could do such a thing with such a cavalier attitude. But I don't think (looking back) that he did it without thought. A photo or a note or a subscription to or a social media "friendship" does not a relationship make. You carry that in your heart. It is not a flag, that you wave.

I don't believe in ghosts. I wish that I did. But I've got some of these people's transferred personalities stored within my wetware*, and so I guess that they live on. In the meantime, this picture reminds me of an adventure in Georgia with my friends. I think that Tamara was already gone, but I don't recall who took this picture. JPG or John may recall. That's Byron in the middle.

_____________________________

*If I could, would I be stored as a RAM AI, like Neuromancer? If I were simply a ROM AI, I would want to be deleted, like Dixie Flatline. 

Blogorado the ?th I've lost track. (6th, I think.)

I didn't have much time this trip, so I raced northwest, visited, and then raced back. There just wasn't enough time. But I was honored to be able to ferry a friend who otherwise wouldn't have been able to make it.
I roomed again with my great friend Ambulance Driver. There are a few people in this world that become one of your best friends the first time you meet them. One for me was my old patrol partner, P. Another is Ambulance Driver.
I didn't get enough time to shoot. And that what I shot wasn't great. I kept getting distracted from what I was going to do. I didn't spend anywhere nearly enough time with my good friend Gay Cynic.


I didn't spend anywhere NEARLY enough time with my gracious hosts, Farm Mom, Farm Dad, and Farm Girl. I got in some good breakfast time with Tam and the Nerds.


I didn't hang out much with my Dad and his wife, because we see each other all the time. PhlegmFatale I got to chat with a fair bit. AEPilot bought me a lovely hat. And he provided a LOT of food. Thanks, man!


Old NFO took Spear and Gunsmith Jason to shoot on Sunday morning, but didn't invite me. He sends me good coffee, but he doesn't invite me for the early morning rifle frivolity. Hm. I made coffee at the range again. Because dammit, I like a little coffee at the range.


DanielS arrived with his lovely wife, who was a maven of the open range, cooking burgers.


And others. We had a good time. We'll do it again, I hope.


Then, there was ChristinaLMT and SciFi and SciFi Wife and... I'm missing people.

More coffee. The high-end stuff.

After my last post, Old NFO sent me a pound in two packages of Kona coffee. I reiterate: NOT "Kona Blend", but 100% Kona.

I have been making it in the French Press, with filtered water. I have shared it with my family but little.

My wife tilted her head and squinted and asked "Why are people sending you coffee?" I smiled and told her that it was because I'm such a big deal, which made her roll her eyes. In truth, I don't know why I'm blessed to receive such blessings, and I know that I don't really deserve such friends and friendly gestures.

[Raised cup] Here is to you, Old NFO. Until the next time that we can share a pot of coffee on the range or at our friends' place.

Lines Of Departure

So, my friend Marko Kloos today celebrates the release of the second book in his science fiction trilogy. In his first big release, Terms Of Enlistment, Marko introduced us to the not-too-distant future world in which Earth is colonizing as fast as it can, and needs extra-terrestrial Terran military to assist in this (and to quell the riots back home on a rapidly-deteriorating Earth.).


Now, his protagonist is a veteran, who has relationships in the military, and takes the next step in his career as an off-world soldier.


I've read a couple of chapters today, and it's smart writing that reads easily.


I hear that one might should keep an eye out for certain characters that we may know, too.


One of the joys of having a Kindle and an Amazon account is being able to instantly download Lines Of Departure for $4.99.


Marko is a good writer, who can do that magical thing, wherein he conjures up characters out of whole cloth, and keeps them true to their nature. When one questions whether a book is plot-driven or character-driven, the answer ideally should be "both," because the nature of the characters develop the plot. Marko Kloos writes plots, with characters whom you know, after awhile.


In this one, his spacefaring soldiers address 80-foot-tall alien invaders who are taking over planets that Terrain colonists have been terraforming. For starters.


Go read.

For all these things, we give thanks.

Too much food. A genuine feast.
9 people around a long table, telling stories.
An olive tray.
Deviled eggs.
A well-baked turkey.
HUGE salad tossed by my brother.
A second pan of rebaked potatoes, with too much butter and sour cream and bacon and cheese and chives.
Rolls and bread baked by The 11 Year Old In The House, with guests fighting to take some of the few remainders home.
Dressing. Gravy.
Cider. Coffee.
Green bean casserole.
Pie, pie, cake, muffins, bars, pie.... I'm missing something, but that's 6 deserts, and the muffins actually stole the show, strangely. Mini pecan muffins with too much butter.

All with a broken oven in our house.

I'm missing some stuff.

I got a call from a good friend at the end of dinner.

It's tempting to feel sorry for those who don't have what we had. But today, I just give thanks for the blessing of riches. I have a family. I have friends that I think of like family. Even my kids have friends that I think of like family. If that's not a thing to give thanks for, I don't know what is.

I've got to start taking in Thanksgiving orphans. We had too much. But it was wonderful.

My desk.

I don't recall if I had mentioned it, by my friend Rabbit gave me one of my very favorite cups, recently.

I'm betting that it confuses 'em her at the office.

Let them wonder. :)

And we're back. Monday.

--My home machine caught a little virus. I fought it, thought that I won, and finally went Slash And Burn, and used the recovery discs to reset my hard drive to factory settings. Man, I wish I'd created the recovery disk when I bought it. For $30, I was able to get the discs sent pretty quickly to me from Acer. Apparently, that's cheap, these days.

--Today is the birthday Leonhard Euler, who among other things came up with the most simple equation to utilize the mathematical constants e, i, pi, 1, and zero. A trig professor I had once offered a free A for the semester to anyone who could write a proof for that identity. I checked out 3 books on the subject, and went to work. A week later, I got tired-head, and quit. I got a C in that class.
--As our greatest generation fades away, I cannot stress enough how important it is that we view such pieces as this amazing video, and realize that Granddad and Great Granddad were young, once.
Also, to help us remember what it was like to see an end to a war.

--A company called Myriad is arguing that a patent should be issued for its isolation of the BRCA1 gene. I'm a fan of patents for medical discovery and processes, because that creates the profit motive which stimulates new R&D. But you can't patent nature. Myriad did not create this gene-- they simply discovered its bounds. This is akin to patenting a star which one found in a telescope. Name it, sure. But it ain't yours to charge usage fees for me looking at it, after you point it out.

--High of 87 degrees here today. Humid.

--I heard a "Welfare Concern" call go out over the radio, of a topless woman walking down the highway before dawn. I'll bet that got some response from the cops in her area. But  what were they going to do? It's not illegal to be topless in public in Texas. Maybe they were going to call her a traffic hazard. Or use the tired threat of Disorderly Conduct. (Behavior others might find to be offensive.)

--The Eleven Year-Old In The House had a birthday sleepover this weekend, and invited 5 other 11 year-olds to the house. As a buffer, The Fourteen Year-Old In The House invited her best friend over for a sleepover, as well. We had 5 pizzas, lots of soda, a birthday pie, some spooky kid movies, and Just Dance 4. There may or may not be an MP4 extant which documents my own entry into the dance-off that occurred in my living room. The Nentendo Wii declared me to be the loser of that event. There was also a stationary bicycle sprint race, which I won (I had to redeem myself somehow.).  The girls then held (I'm not kidding, here) a spelling bee and a geo trivia quiz tournament. Then they played "Slender Man." I didn't know what this was, and one of the girls whipped out an iPad to show me the creepy first-person game derived from the apparently ancient (by Internet standards) meme. How did I miss this? The girls played a version that involved notes left around the house, as they played hide and seek.

--I fell off the wagon with regard to my little diet, this weekend. Before that, I was losing about a pound a day. I'm back, though.

--Tax day. We had some complications, but filed about a month ago. We got $1000 back, which went directly into debt abatement. My wife is irritated that the refund isn't bigger. I'm irritated that we made a no-interest loan to the federal government for so long.

--That $150 riding mower that I bought a couple of months ago is working like a house afire. The guy that I bought it from said that he felt that it cut too rough. He must be picky; it is made of win, from what I can see.

--Due to work conflicts, I may have to miss the NRA convention this year, and it's in Houston. I has a sad. I mostly want to see my friends.

--Flirting with the statewide Child Protective Services intake lady over the phone is just another little service that I perform for people with soul-crushing-yet necessary jobs. I'm afraid that I do discriminate based on gender, though. Sorry.

--I talked to a CPS investigator today who said that her job was way better than teaching, for her. I told her about my friend who told me that he found combat in Afghanistan to be less stressful than teaching urban high school kids. But then I've got friends who should always be teachers. It takes all kinds.

--I've been watching my carbs. I can't express how much I want a PBJ and a bag of Cheetos, right now.





 

Tuesday Random Thoughts.

--This morning, just before my alarm went off, my daughters got me up, and the coffee was ready. They were watching a movie on World War II. They made witty, funny conversation as I drove them to school. These, friends, are the good times. I never thought that rearing a 14 year old and a 10 year old would be this easy.

--My 14 year old got her class ranking yesterday. She's in the top 5%. All but one of her close friends are in the top 10%, including the girl ranked #1, who commented last night that, after maths, they should study for the upcoming Spanish quiz. My daughter laughed and asked why she would want to study for a class that she has a 99 average in, when we had plans to go visit with friends at Fuzzy Taco's Shop? That's my girl.

--I FINALLY got my dad and his wife's Christmas present installed yesterday. A pecan tree, with a bonus nectarine tree planted. I've never seen nectarines around here, but peaches and plums and apricots do fine here. At the very least, it will bloom pretty for them. I put it across from their entry/exit door. I'm very embarassed that I was this late. I had wanted to plant a pecan from Womack Nursery, but they were completely out of their amazing Podsednik variety, which yields nuts that go 20/lb, and are the size of Grade A Medium hen's eggs. I put the pecan tree to the southwest side of their house, to provide shade for the house. Such things really make a yard more comfortable.

--I sent in my new order for another custom holster to Michael's Custom Holsters. I'd been sitting on the fence about whether to get a K-frame holster, or another J-frame holster. I've been wearing one of Mike's J-frame holsters for over two years, and I decided to get a second one, in black this time, for admin days and training days. This one will have no exposed stitching, which is very different for me.

--I've been meaning to put up a review of that holster. Maybe this next post...

--I also sent pics of a beautiful old S.D. Myres (El Paso) floral carved holster that Rabbit gave me (to Dad, really). I finally got that to Dad last night. Check it out:

 

That's a good half-century old. Looks good on a K-frame 4", like a M64:

 

While I'm not a fan of cut-aways on holsters for trigger guards, this is a classic style that is distinctive of about a quarter century of holster design.

--It's so damned humid, I finally turned on the air conditioner yesterday. It was about 80 degrees, with a brisk wind blowing the Gulf air into us. Other Texans are not pleased with this turn of the weather. Right now it's quite windy, with gusts making moaning sounds outside occasionally, humid as hell, with the barometer dropping:

This is restive weather.

--Oh, good. Marko got my payment.

--By the way, those homicides by gun type charts (which show rifles OF ALL TYPES only are used in 4% of all homicides)? They include lawful shootings by police and citizens.

--When an interplanetary bounty hunter points a blaster at you, you shoot him the first chance you get, without waiting for him to shoot first. End of discussion. I can't believe that there's any confusion about whether Greedo shot at Han. If in fact he did, then Solo took a huge unnecessary risk. I

--The weather finally turned. Ah. Finally rain.



Don't cubbyhole me, part n + 1

I was visiting Texas' capitol city, Austin, for the second time this week. The first was to see my close friend be sworn into service as a Texas Department Of Public Safety State Trooper.* This second time, was to visit family.

Saturday, while my wife and kids went shopping, I went to get a cuppa with an online friend/old high school acquaintance. In the Austin fashion, I got a hug coming and going.  The coffee at the White Rabbit Coffee House was very, very good, and I asked them about their roaster. They sent me to Texas Coffee Traders, at 1400 E 4th St.

That's a rough part of town, but sometimes, the rough parts are where the innovation is...

...and this was definitely the case, here. I arrived, and found them busy, but not too busy to help me. Ron showed me around, and even gave me a quick tour of their roasting facilities. I got to see how they load up 66 lb batches of green coffee beans,

...and put them into one of their hot-air roasters...

...to make perfectly roasted beans.

They even have some awesome museum pieces, that look ready to be put into service. Note the old drum roaster:

Also, check out the old high-volume coffee grinder:

Honestly, these would need a fair bit of cleanup to get to the standards that they have. But I'll bet that they could do it.

So I bought a pound of their excellent Ethiopian Sidamo and half a pound of Costa Rica Cafe Monteverde each in water-processed and "Natural".

I also picked up some coffee-making/bar supplies (stirring spoons, measuring glasses), and was pleased to be rung up by their nice staff.

With my brown paper bag full of incredible-smelling goodness, I headed out. I stopped to take a picture of the front of the place, and apologized to a customer whom I captured petting the shop cat. I asked if if it was okay to put the picture on the blog. She laughed, said it was fine, and invited me to sit with her boyfriend and herself for a bit, at a table in front of the roast house.

After an hour of chatting, Jessica and Vincent and I were treated by RC (the business owner) to some holiday caramel popcorn before he locked the gates. During the last hour, I had explained that I didn't actually have anything against the independent businesswoman who had attempted to open negotiations for her private itinerant business. I listened to their personal views of the world, and found them quite loving. I learned that they were both artists and musicians. When my wife called to tell me to remember to find a "White Elephant" gift for the family exchange, Vincent ran to his car to bring me some art. I said, "I couldn't give fine art as a white elephant." He laughed and said "this isn't very good art, though!"

One piece? It was so completely inaccessible to my narrow brain, that I absolutely had to give it as a white elephant. Another, I'm putting up on the mantle. It's pretty damn good. Come by my house, and I'll show it to you. Vincent is actually a pretty eclectic, capable artist. I don't know about his rapping. It's not a genre that I'm a huge fan of.

We talked about the pleasure of making the days of strangers, and I thanked them for inviting me to join them. I mentioned an occasion (witnessed by Don Gwinn) where people gave me free cupcakes in the streets of downtown St. Louis. Vincent asked what I was in St. Louis for, and I told him that I was there for an NRA convention. "Holy shit!" he exclaimed.  There had been a similar statement when they learned what I do for a living.

We went our separate ways with hugs. I took my art, and was smiling.

I dropped by the HEB grocery store, and stopped to sample some ham presented by Tamara, a nice lady. I asked about where the jalapeno dip was, and she shut down her booth to take me to it. We chatted along the way, and she told me that I was a blessing to her day. Well, hell, she was to mine, too. I hugged this woman and was damned happy for it.

Tamara, whom I requested permission to blog.**

She and Vince and Jessica, and Kendra-- they made my day. Hell, they might have made my Christmas, whatever that may mean.

Love your neighbors, friend. They're Real People. You can be the best part of their day.

___________________
*More on that later.
**NOT Tamara K, referenced here often.

Tam's nose.

I'll tell you something about Tam: we need her more than she needs us*.

So here's the thing: Tamara has got a touch of basal cell carcinoma in her nose. And as much as that sucks, it sucks way worse when you don't have health insurance. Which she does not.

I don't know what the Moh's procedure costs to remove a chunk of your body and stitch it back up into a recognizable feature again, but it seems like you can't ask for a tissue at a hospital without it taking a severe hit on your yearly budget. Genuine surgery is dammit expensive to be paying out of pocket.

Here's the bleg: Tamara has a tip jar on her blog. It's easy to use. I've used it before. If you click on it, you can donate directly to Tamara, with no middle man. Think of it this way: if she were in town, wouldn't you take her out for dinner and perhaps a beverage? What's dinner run, these days, at a place where you don't bus your own tables? $25? $30?


On the upper right side of Tam's page.

 Please just put it into the tip jar instead, this time.










____________________________________
*I've been knowing Tamara Keel for about 13 years online, and about 9 years in meatspace. I am proud to call her my friend. Tamara refers to herself as a "self-unemployed" online writer. I get a lot of pleasant time reading her excellent writing at her View From The Porch, and the superb museum blog that is Cosmoline And Rust, but also her side projeccts, which also include being an online network presence for S.W.A.T. magazine. Tam comments sharply on the state of our republic, on firearms trends and lore, and on life from the viewpoint of a curmdgeonly woman from the south who has transplanted herself to the heart of Indianapolis. She is a valued part of the blogosphere, and of the firearms community. She is as critical of thoughtless conservatives as she is of thoughtless liberals. She frequently will give my profession a kick in the pants, and that's a fact.

Blogorado 4-- why I suck.

I suck because I didn't spend enough time talking to FarmDad, or FarmMom.

I suck because I didn't get all that ammo that I brought out properly for people to use.

I suck because I never got around to sighting in OldNFO's rifle, as I had promised on the phone to do.

I suck because I didn't get ANY pictures for you.

I suck because I never shot the .50 BMG this time. Nor the muzzle-loaders.

I suck because I didn't do enough to set up nor tear down the range.

I suck because I didn't get more face time time chatting with Jay G, or Sal, or FarmGirl.

I suck because, having chipped it into the waxing madness I didn't leave any cash for expenses for our gracious hosts. And that I forgot this year completely. (I suck so sorrowfully for that one.)

I suck because I still owe the Nerds for a second hot/red/steak/cheese New Mexican burrito.

I suck because I didn't spend more time with my dad and Holly.

I suck because I didn't manage to keep my footing when a Stingray jumped on my back.
I suck because I didn't chat more with GayCynic.

Or Weer'd and his wife. Or SciFi. Or Mrs. SciFi. Or Speer's friend (and ours, too, now) Jason. Or Rennaisance Man, or Wing. Or Evyl Robot, or Jennifer. (No, WeeBot, I didn't forget you. It's just that I got enough time with you. ;) )

I got in some good chatting with Ambulance Driver, whom I roomed with and drove up with in caravan.

I got in some good chatting with Tam, whom I insisted ride with me a couple of times, and whom I sat with at breakfast a couple of times.

I suck because I don't remember some of the more memorable lines that caused literal spit-takes around the campfire, to share here. But I remember the reactions.
I suck because one of the only ones that I do remember laughing at was kinda dark, and kinda harshing a friend's mellow, and because I just grinned at it again. ("Hey! The sun is shining!" "Oh, you have wondered over to the wrong group, here.")

I suck because I did not remember Farmgirl's brother T's name right off. And he's a good guy.
I suck because I didn't chat more with Christina LMT more. Nor with AEPilotJim.

I suck because I didn't have more one-on-one chats with LawDog, and Phlegmmy-- some of my best friends. We spoke in groups, and that exchange was awesome. But sometimes you feel like you miss out on one-on-one chats.

I suck because I've missed someone, here.

Three days among my friends is not enough. 

Lunchtime musings

--I'm doing a background check on an applicant tomorrow (Okay-- later today). He used to be police in a town an hour and a half away. I figured that I could use some help (and a road buddy). My father (still a badge-carrying cop) will be along to help provide some perspective.

--One of my favorite days at work was when I needed a backup, and it was my dad who arrived. I don't even remember the call, but I remember him arriving. Another time, we both ran hot to assist a trooper who had an arrestee run away from him. Dad knew a backroad shortcut and arrived first, just before I did. It then rained cops for about 5 minutes before we left. It wasn't that big a deal (the arrestee was intoxicated, and had run down the interstate), but it was fun seeing the old man in his plain investigator's car and plain clothes beat all the young uniforms with lights and siren to the scene.

--I will be batching it this week. Elder daughter is at band camp, and my wife is taking the week off and driving my younger daughter down to the in-laws in Austin. Prediction: the house will be even easier to keep up alone than with all three others. I know, that's a bold statement, but I stand by it. Please don't tell my wife that I said that.

--I went to go see Batman with my old college roommate a week ago, but he stopped me down when he realized that I hadn't seen the first and second parts of this trilogy. He sat me down and we watched the second on on blue-ray DVD. I have to admit that it was pretty good drama, actually. I then borrowed his DVD of the first of the trilogy, and watched it at home. Quite good movie-watching.

--Shortly thereafter, I began seeing this image making the rounds, from The Dark Knight graphic novel of a few years back:

But wait. Commissioner Gordon uses guns. And Batman uses projectile weapons propelled by springs and compressed air. His Batmobile uses cannon. He uses chemical weapons. He punches people in the head and blows things up. There were several times in the movies where simple, direct surgical shots by a good guy would have saved the day. So the issue is with the propulsion of projectiles by the expansion of gasses created by oxidation? (And what kind of shotgun is that? It sort of looks like a double barrel, but with a metal fore-end. And where is the third shell coming from? Are those the old British 2.5" shells, or are they the newer 2" tactical shells?)  Good movies are about escaping reality. Some anti-gun advocates are using Batman as their poster-boy, now. Uh, the guy is obsessed with bats, wears a cape and bulletproofed rubber suit, and is a DC comic superhero who was traumatized as a child. He's a movie hero; not a real one.

--My mother fixed her inoperative computer by herself. She is so irritated that she had caused the problem (she "flipped the wrong switch"), that she's having trouble seeing that she solved it herself, too. I call it a win. She's irritated about a lost hour of cussing.

--My old partner, now at a bigger agency, is being sent through police academy again. The treat everyone like young raw recruits, regardless of experience or age. Man, I'm not sure that I could put up with some of the stuff he's going through. On the up side, he's getting paid to go through a 5 month fitness program, and will come out of this in the best shape of his adult life. He's been running and doing CrossFit for months to prepare for this. I've said it before: they're getting a helluva good new guy.

--I didn't get him the dinner that I promised him, in time. I had told him that if he got hired, I would have him over for Beef Wellington. We haven't done that, yet. Maybe after.

--To those in distress: When you think back over your life, don't maunder. Yeah, you've done some things that you're not proud of. Maybe you're not quite the person that you'd hoped to be. But those things that you did, they don't have to define you, for rest of your life. Sure, own them, but don't act like you're marked for life because of them. Every day you have the opportunity to begin a new journey. For goodness' sake, don't work yourself into a frantic fit thinking about how your life is tragic. Change gears.

"My mind is in a state But all I need to do is change my paceAnd I know there's fear to face But happiness is firm in its embrace"

--We helped some people this week.
--We could have done more.
--We'll do better.

--Back to work. May peace be with you.
- - -

Friday afternoon this and that.

--I bathed a cat today. He didn't care for it. I didn't care for it. But we put up with the necessity of it, without hurting each other. Call it a win.

--My fire chief called me in for a meeting. I kind of thought that I would be receiving an ass-chewing about something that I did at the structure fire that I had gone to with him a couple of weeks ago. Instead, he just took me around to show me different types of structures and ask me what I saw about their construction that could cause problems with firefighting. He seemed pretty happy with my knowledge of construction. Thank you, high school Industrial Arts teacher.

--The fire chief loaned me a book on understanding construction for fire fighters. I believe that I'd like to get pretty good at this. Maybe, down the road, there's an arson investigator in me waiting to get out.

----T is for Tom Waits. That's good enough for me:

I will never think of Tom Waits the same again. MAYBE I can see Cookie Monster the same.

--My partner, who has become one of my dearest friends, resigned to start his career with a much larger agency. His opportunities for advancement will be rife. He will succeed. But I've mixed feelings about it. Mostly selfishly. He rode shotgun with me his last couple of shifts. Someday I'll go ride out with him, too.

--I would absolutely watch this movie. If you've never watched an entire episode or two of Dora The Explorer, this is probably going to be lost on you.

--I remember hearing this on the local public radio station about 18 years ago. It introduced me to Le Mystere De Voix Bulgares ("The Mystery Of Bulgarian Voices", the national choir of that old country), which is good cultural music. It is terrible that THIS is the song of theirs that stuck in my head. But there it is. Earworm warning!!!

When they're speaking of "Ramaya," they are referencing a 1975 hit by a Mozambiquan artist named Afric Simone, who toured in the Communist Bloc countries during that time. He was a very early beat-boxer, and it is his music that is sampled at the end of this.

--I know of no good method for selectively killing dallis grass other than digging it up. That's a shame. Oof.

--My old college roommate Bill was doing training in Colorado Springs. He ended up a refugee from the Waldo Canyon Fire. He told me to check the weather at Garden Of The Gods National Park the other day. 40 mph sustained winds, 101 degrees temperature, 2 percent relative humidity. A perfect storm for wildfires. I feel for those guys putting out the fires up there; it's a tenderbox, in an oven, packed with accelerant. And they put on protective clothing (hopefully not full bunker gear!) and climb mountains with heavy tools, to work 16 hour days, cutting, raking, and such. Thanks to them. No thanks, if I were offered the job. Not even in my prime.

The Lost Week.

Occasionally, we have a week that went away with little to show for it, and little regret for that, either.

Two or three months ago, I made reservations at the local hostel near Phlegmmy's, to enjoy a weekend at her now Almost-World-Famous Phlegmfest. Either my calender or my reckoning was off, because I was scheduled to work that weekend, which I only realized a week or two before the date. I had just gotten a memo from my Human Resources person at work, informing me and my boss that I was no longer accruing vacation time, as I had maxed out at 360 hours. Also, I still had 56 of my 80 use-it-or-lose-it holiday hours left on the books, to be burnt no later than September 30th. This gave me some leverage to get a weekend off, and my supervisor was kind enough to make it happen.

As we were down to one car for the weekend, and that one sans air conditioning, my bride declined to attend the event. So it was that I called Ambulance Driver, en route from Louisiana, and caught a ride with him and Katy Beth.

It was remarked upon by someone that the 120 year old renovated B&B that some of us were staying at during the weekend may have quaint and rustic, but also seemed to be designed (with its hardwood floors and tin ceiling and transoms and brick walls and such) to magnify the acoustics of amorous endeavors. Thus it was rather ironic that I should have drawn the most remote of the upstairs rooms for my solitary chaste self.

We shot at LawDog's club range on Saturday (a write-up of the Mustang Pocketlite later), and discovered that some fathers don't parent their kids at the range. Another patron of the range, intent on showing off to his buddy, corralled his 7 year old son only once, that I saw... when the boy ran some 15 to 20 feet forward of the firing line during a hot range. The boy then continually ran among us as we unpacked firearms, spraying us with volleys from his very real-looking electric MP5K sub machine gun toy. This made us twitchedy. In fact, Stingray found himself raising his voice at me about TIME TO GO! YOU SAID AN HOUR! IT'S BEEN AN HOUR AND A HALF! And pointed at his watch, inquiring if I in fact knew how to use one of these. Stingray is not a noted fan of juvenile humans. (Katy Beth is a noted exception.)  We left, and enjoyed good cheer again for the departure.  (It's a decent range. But Annoying Kid was Really Annoying.)

While I was driving us back, I whipped into the drive-through a Braum's for some ice cream for AD, KB, and me. This of course was the only thing that made us immune to this beautiful piece of marketing by Dairy Queen, just moments later:

(Click to embiggen.) (Photo Credit: Ambo Driver.)

Well played, Dairy Queen. 

The next day, I went to training in Addison, TX, for a silly court officer class. In our small department, all the patrolmen have to do a monthly or bi-monthly rotation as bailiff, and we all serve municipal warrants. I was NOT looking forward to this school, even though it was held at a rather nice hotel. Actually, the classes were pretty good, and I got some ideas for skip tracing and for grants that I'll import to my regular job. The food was superb, too. I called my wife and asked her to take a day off of come join me. When I got out of class the third day, she and I went to a movie. Moonrise Kingdom, which I'd never heard of before, was actually a nice dry comedy that gave some nice tastes of what summer Scout camp was like. It's set in 1965, and even though it's got some big names, it seems to be something of an art house flick.  My wife and I gave it two thumbs up. 

When I got home on Wednesday evening, it was storming. I got the fire page that a house was burning, and I went in and suited up, still wearing my business casual work outfit from training. We fought that fire for hours, but we lost it. 

Though I crossed the threshold of it pulling a hose to attack flames within, I certainly wouldn't claim that I made an "interior attack" on a fire, because there was blue sky above me while I did it.

The next day, I had lunch with Mr. Fixit, a firefighter and Texas lawman his own self, whom I'd spoken with on the phone several times before, but never met. It's embarrassing to be late to meet a guy for the first time. It's more embarrassing to discover that you've forgotten your wallet for lunch and have to beg off of him. It's MORE embarrassing to afterwards discover that your best slacks were badly split open, from the events of the night before.

Friday, I went with my partner to do some work on a grant that we received, and assisted my coworkers in the briefest possible way on a warrant that they put together on a child molester. (Always a satisfying thing to do.)  Then, leisure man that I am, I went to go see Promethius. I was very impressed. Go see it in 3D. Go see it in the theater. Do not do any research about it. Don't let anyone tell you anything about it. I will only say that it is a science fiction flick with an easy-to-follow plot, that it is visually stunning, and that it has some scary scenes in it.

After the movie I had some beers with Scott, and we debated yet again the issue of the contents of a classic martini (which neither of us drank).

Today, I dropped off my elder daughter to go on her youth mission trip (she was so excited that she couldn't sleep last night) and my wife took my younger daughter to stay with her grandmother down in Austin.

Beers tomorrow night with my partner. One might almost wonder if I ever work. :)

What a great week.

And we're back.

St Louis was quite impressive. I liked it. As a matter of fact, I woke up there this morning, and we drove back just now.

I collected a lot of interesting stuff.

Meeting more of my people was great.

But right now? I've got to go to work.