The things we do.

My wife and I shop for food. We shop for clothes. We prepare meals for ourselves and for the family. We help prepare lunches for the kids. We clean up after meals. We oversee our children's cleanup of the house. We direct our children in matters of hygiene. We tutor our kids in schoolwork. We take our kids to school. We do home maintenance. We go to our jobs for our paychecks. We pay our home bills. We obtain and distribute cell phones to the family. We buy and distribute gifts. We put together family get-togethers. We put together vacations. We visit the doctor. We take our kids to the dentist. We attend recitals and concerts and competitions and meets and matches and contests. We attend to sick kids. We fight (verbally). We laugh. We discuss. We watch shows together. We garden. We sleep together (in snoring repose). We tend to animals. We eat together. We deal with the everyday problems and surprises and expected drudgery of life, when living with another person.

I'm missing something.

Oh, yeah. We also occasionally have sex, as married people will do.

If the amount of time that we spent on this last thing were even one half of 1% of our time together, I think that we would be a very unusual married couple, after 15 years of marriage. I certainly could not characterize that as being an identifier of the state of wedlock.

If it's teh ghey seks that makes opponents afraid of gay marriage, then I submit that they have a seriously skewed view of what a marriage actually is.

I'm not much of a joiner. But maybe there are things worth standing shoulder to shoulder about, regardless of whether you're concerned about being regarded as just doing what the others are doing.

If you hadn't realized that I believe in equal rights for all, then you haven't been paying much attention to me.



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.
- - -

Random Tuesday Morning Thoughts.

--The house lights were flickering all last week. The lights would dim, then suddenly brighten. I had the power company send out a guy to check the supply, and he showed me that the power coming to the meter was solid. I called out an electrician, and the guy fixed the loose screws to the common/neutral line in my breaker box in about 5 minutes flat.

--Two days later, we realized that my fancy double convection oven doesn't light up, power up, or anything, anymore. I've thrown every breaker, but that's not the issue. Need to check power to the oven, but my multimeter is dead. We're hoping that there's a fuse in the oven that I don't (yet) know about.

--Remember how I needed to get that furnace vented so that I could run it? Well, I finally got an HVAC guy to come help me. Turns out that the double-walled stovepipe stuff that I had wouldn't mate to the extant stuff, so I don't feel too badly about not being able to do it. The guy who did it for me used some skills that I was unfamiliar with heretofore. He offered to help me for free. I gave him $100. It's the holidays, and he's out of work.  Now I've got heat. That furnace is amazing.

--We had been heating the house on colder nights with the application of space heaters. This kills me, because they're 1000 to 1200 watt money-burning machines, as opposed to natural gas in the furnace. But here was another thing that I wasn't really aware of until the heat was connected: I felt like a bit of a failure. Maslow's Hierarchy Of Needs puts "Shelter," and "Warmth" as pretty basic needs, and I felt like I had failed my family in that respect, until the heat was turned on. Here in Texas, the winters are pretty mild, and with the insulated attic, it was pretty comfortable in the house, until, at last, it wasn't. It's funny how you don't realize that something is really bothering you, until it's fixed, sometimes. Like an irritating noise that's just insinuated itself into the background, so that you're shouting over it.

--The tile is 2/3 done. My wife is irritated that I'm such a perfectionist. But she's not doing it on the night that I work. We should have it grouted and sealed by Christmas.

--Last night I dropped by the house for lunch, and found that my wife an the girls had put up a Christmas tree. We hadn't bothered, with the living room floor in such disarray. My wife said that the lack of a tree was her own source of angst about being a bad parent. Funny what chews at you. It hadn't bothered me, much.

--Both of the girls have strung Christmas lights in their bedrooms. It's charming, but I couldn't sleep with those on. At least they don't twinkle.

--We had amazing fog last night, as the warm rains left water on the ground and cold front rolled in. I had a lady ask me about how to get to Amarillo, and I told her to just stop and spend the night in Wichita Falls. Visibility is miserable, and the weather only gets worse as you get to the Panhandle. She said that she and her beau were pressing on. I wished them the best of luck.

--Someone dropped off a bunch of .30-'06 cases at the PD for whoever wants them. Most of them have been reloaded before, and some probably several times. I shall have to check the casewall thickness before using them. I think I got about 90 of them, mixed headstamps. I'm going to throw charges and load a bunch of .35 Whelen. I've got an itch to get back to shooting that, again.

Oops.

Last night my wife and I ran some errands together, and dropped by the local gettin' place.  When I say "local," I mean to say that everyone in town goes to this store, and that it's kind of an informal gathering spot. One of the cashiers made some light joke about "I wish y'all would quit coming by my house all the time unannounced. Last time I barely got the guns and drugs hid in time." For some reason, this guy brings up my job whenever I come in off duty. He knows that I know that he's a pretty straight arrow, and to the best of my knowledge he's not had any problems with the law.

His co-worker then teased me that she had seen my mother (who is my next door neighbor) the other day, and that Mom had all kinds of bad stuff to reveal about me. Also clearly a joke. She finished with something to the extent of: "Oh yeah. She and I sure brought up old times!"

Good-naturedly, I responded, also tongue in cheek: "Old times? I didn't know you were on her caseload from before she retired from CPS."

Instantly, she ducked her head into her shoulders, turned her back toward her co-worker, and said, wide-eyed and sotto voce, "Is that where I knew her from? You know, that was all a big misunderstanding, and we got that straightened out, and they finally closed that case on me, you know..."

I quickly said that I had just been joking, but she kept talking, "I never realized that, the whole time we were talking..."

Cue the crickets.

I explained quickly that my mother had never discussed cases with me, and I fled the store. I found my wife halfway to the car, already. She turned to me, and we exclaimed, in sing-song unison: "Awk-ward!"

And we left.

Thin lines: You're doing it wrong.

During the Crimean War, on October 25, 1854, 'wayyyyy out on the southwestern tip of the Crimean Peninsula, the British Army had a little fight on their hands. Pulling back repeatedly, the Brits held the port of Balaclava, but their forces were meager, and they were in no state to fight.

Placed in charge of the port's security was the 93rd Highland Regiment, with some help from the Royal Marines. They were In Grave Trouble. The Russian forces were coming hard and fast, and vastly outnumbered the British defense force. The Brits had already pulled back, spiking their guns before the oncoming Cossacks, and now found themselves with nothing behind them but Balaclava and the cold Black Sea, as a force of 2500 Russian cavalry advanced hard upon them.

Sir Colin Campbell, a man who thought of his men like family, spread his forces in a line two deep, between the oncoming Russian mounted force and the port that they were charged with defending. He told them that there was no retreat. He told them that they would die where they stood, if need be. The message was clear: hold the line.

Now, standard doctrine would be to place the men four deep, so that there was some redundancy. But Campbell didn't have many men (a bare few hundred), and if he were to put up a proper defensive line without being flanked immediately, he had to spread them thinner. If any man fell, or ran away, he left a hole in the line that would allow the oncoming cavalry to penetrate the line and overwhelm his comrades. They depended on each other to each do his own part, to prevent the enemy from overrunning the port.

The men held. They fired three volleys at the fast-moving Russian cavalry. British Journalist William H. Russell, watching from a nearby high point, later wrote that the only thing between Balaclava and the rapidly-approaching Russian cavalry was "a thin red streak tipped with a line of steel," meaning the 93rd Regiment (wearing the red uniform jackets of the era).

The Russians checked their charge, and turned back. Some have said that they thought that it must be a trap, because their apparent opposition was so thin. Others have claimed that the fierce fighting of the 93rd stopped them. The truth probably falls somewhere in between, but it is clear that without the courage of the men to stand their ground and fight, maintaining their Thin Red Line, they would not have carried the day.

The term "Thin Red Line" took on the meaning of that vastly-important role that sheer grit and determination, even when unsupported by much tangible substance, plays in preventing civility from being overrun by the barbarians at the gate.

The term was, at some time in the late 20th century, applied to the force of police officers who serve to prevent crime and anarchy in our society. As the police traditionally wear blue, this application of the term became known as "The Thin Blue Line."

All well and good. I like the concept. Often our job, as police officers serving our society, is simply to patrol, and be seen, and stand by, being ready, should it come to it, to intervene. It is appropriate that in a free society the line of police be thin, as this is not a police state. The important thing is not to let your society down, by letting the "fight" against crime and anarchy go unserved. Skip patrols, fail to perform investigations and make important arrests, and the line is broken; the criminals break through, and society can become overrun. We are there to protect our society.

But it's true that among society are an officer's fellow police officers. If police fail to take action against dangerous criminals, then it is certainly true that they put their fellow officers at greater risk. To that extent, the concept of the Thin Blue Line also means protecting your fellow police.

THE "THIN BLUE LINE" DOES NOT MEAN THAT WE COVER UP FOR EACH OTHER.

There seems to be a fairly common public perception that "The Thin Blue Line" is a code of protection at all costs, by the police and for the police. This perception often seems to include the belief that most if not all officers are wrapped up in a cult-like fraternity that demands allegiance to the badge at all costs, which includes lying for a "brother officer," or tampering with evidence, to prevent other officers getting in trouble.

That's not the case.

An officer who knowingly breaks the law is not a police officer; he's a criminal who happens to have a badge. He's not my "brother," he's someone that we need to get shed of our professional association. The Thin Blue Line concept doesn't mean that I should protect a criminal officer; it means that I should take firm action against him.

If you're a cop, and you've been putting "Thin Blue Line" decals on your car, or images up on your website, or tattoos on your arm, or pins on your lapel, or whatever, consider what the meaning is for you, and what meaning the public at large thinks you're portraying.

While I do very much enjoy the camaraderie of my friends (and family) among the the law enforcement community, I'm not willing to let myself be thought of as intimidating others with my status, or as someone who's trying to be excused from a personal responsibility to abide by the law.

If you're using the term "Thin Blue Line" to mean a code of covert mutual protection among the law enforcement community, I submit that "You keep using that term. I do not think it means what you think it means."

Bringing up Men in an age of sissies.

I've a good friend (let's call him Red) who has married a good woman, with two boys. At ages 12 and 9, they're decent kids, but they've been reared for the previous several years by their mother, alone, and before that, with an ufortunate man. Red's new bride is delighted to see the boys now have a positive male role model, and my buddy Red is more than happy to step in and provide them direction in that role.

Long before Red proposed to her, he began helping the boys. After they got married, he began working in earnest to show them how to grow up to be Men. There are little things, like how to shake hands like a man, and how to wear clothing. Then there were bigger issues, like not coming inside and just sitting on the couch to watch television all day long, simply because it's hot outside. (It's Texas. You can expect triple digit temperatures in the summertime. Drink lots of water, and get back to playing outdoors.)

The younger boy has shown an uncommonly strong love of WebKinz. Okay, says Red. Fine. But try not to be silly about it-- boys at some point shouldn't carry around dolls. And when that doll is a wolf, a boy traditionally names it "Fang," or "Spike," or "Timber"-- not "Jenny." Red isn't trying to impede the boy's creativity, but he does insist that the doll get left home in the boy's room when they're out and about town.

Wailing and gnashing of teeth were observed.

Looks like Red has his work cut out for him.

The other day, Red reported to me that his boys were coming in the house, whining about what to put on an ant bite that each had sustained. He was incredulous. "You could rub some dirt on it," he answered. "If that doesn't work, maybe we could find you some cream for it, from your Mother's bathroom!"

Red isn't intolerant. If the boys grow up to actually be gay, he's fine with that. But he will be DAMNED if he will let them grow up to be wussies.

We have discussed how the world has changed since we were kids. Nowadays, boys are taught that there is zero tolerance for violence, so that even throwing a punch back at someone who has punched them in the face is grounds for expulsion. Boys are taught to cry more readily, and come seeking the ready attention of their mothers, rather than learning to deal with adversity themselves. Red's wife is a very, VERY good mother. She gives her boys lots of mothering. The problem is, they've been receiving double doses of mothering, without much fathering, in the past. Red is trying to overcome that. He figures that he doesn't have much time.

The good news is, the boys have taken to him like a duck to water. They will literally follow him around, doing work with him. They learn lessons from him about telling the truth (this has been an issue with them), treating their mother and other women with respect (also an issue), and speaking plainly. Of course these aren't exclusively the providence of men, but some lessons seem to take better to boys, when taught them by a grown man whom they respect, and who walks the walk. Talk is cheap.

I reckon that Red is just doing what's right, and no more. But because so few seem to do just that, it makes him stand out some. I'm proud to call him my friend.

We've been talking about culturally manly things to do. He takes them fishing, and they do the sports thing. I mentioned that he needs to watch some John Wayne movies with them. Maybe The Cowboys, and The Searchers, and The Sons Of Katie Elder. I like The Wind And The Lion, partially because it's actually a movie about men, rather than just cultures.

Any other ideas I can pass on? Favorite books? Important activities?

I myself was fortunate to have been reared with a definitive positive male role model.

Hugs.

Boys seem to be hugging more than I remember. More than I'm used to, actually.

Not that this is a bad thing.

When I was a kid, a boy hugged his mother, his female relatives, and his dad on special occasions. Girls hugged whoever they wanted, I guess.

For the last few years, I've noticed that it's common for high school and even college-aged boys to give a quick hug when they meet. These hugs are clearly just good fraternal hugs-- I'm not trying to say that there's a creeping androgyny going on-- but they absolutely are unlike anything that occurred in the culture that I grew up in, just 20 years ago.

I'm pretty sure that I've hugged my best friend just twice in the quarter century-plus that we've been best friends, and on both of those occasions, one or both of us had tears in his eyes.

As a police officer, I've noticed that some kids will hug a cop, whom they've met but rarely. As an adult male, I'm reluctant to hug even a little girl. As a man in uniform, I think I'm doubly self-conscious of being hugged. It's sweet. But, you know. I'm not the daddy.

More awkward is the boy who spontaneously hugs me. And the older he gets, the more awkward. Today I had an eleven year old boy walk up to me and hug me before reminding me that we had met once, a year ago. I didn't know what to say, or do with my hands. He was a sweet kid, but. . . at eleven years of age, I was hunting with my dad, and trying to get a kiss from the neighbor girl, and... I don't know-- Hugging the neighborhood cop just out of the blue would NOT have occurred to me. The instance when I met him was in no way traumatic or life-altering, any more than a visit with a grocery clerk would have been so.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Somebody oughta tell 'em.

I found this in my email box this morning:

DHL Worldwide Express
Unit 6/7, Kingsway Interchange
11th AvenueTeam Valley Trading Estate
Gateshead, Tyne & Wear
NE11 0JY

Dear Valued Customer

We wish to re-confirm to you of your certified Bank Draft valued US$600,000.00 deposited by the Heritage International lottery Company here in UK in accordance with the United Kingdom Revenue Inland Commission for immediate delivery to your home destination. You are hereby requested to contact us (DHL COURIER/DELIVERY SERVICE, for onward processing and delivery of your package with us before the expiration of your certified bank draft.

For your information, the Governing board have paid for the Delivery(DHL Standard) Charges, Tax Clearance Certificate from the Inland Revenue office indicating that you certified bank draft is free from Drug/terrorism, and Money laundering or meant to sponsor Terrorist attack in your Country. Note that these funds are freely donated to you to meet with the objective of Human Growth, Educational and Community development in this year 2008.

However, you are directed to furnish us with £400 only being Hardcover Insurance Fee, this is our company's precautionary motive in case of demurrage.

Also you are requested to confirm to us your recent contact information to which your package would be delivered to:1. Full Names: 2. Home Address 3.City 4. Zip 5.Country 6.Telephone No.

Should you expedite action, you are requested to contact our receiving officer;
Rev. Soso Maxwell
Email Address: dhl_uk@mail2uk.com mailto:dhl_uk@mail2uk.com
Tel : +44-703-192-2512
Fax: +44-700-603-5117

You will be given a tracking number, routine way bill and the date of delivery as soon your contact with us to enable you track your package via online.

Yours Faithfully,
Nguyen Christine.
Customer Service Center.
© 2008.

I wonder if my phisherman has heard the news that DHL is shutting down its express shipping?

Well, I'm sure they'll figure it out when greedy idjit email recipients stop sending their personal information to some stranger on the Internet for the promise of the princely sum of $589.04.

It's official.

Reportedly ailing Korean Leader and self-proclaimed semi-deity Kim Jong Ill is not Kim Jong Dead.

Cover your butt.

I've been taking a lot of Identity Theft cases lately.

A family member who works in the Driver's License Bureau of the D.P.S. has recently been railing about the issue of lost identification documents.

If there is a major flood or disaster or you are well-and-truly ripped off, and you have not identification documents, how are you going to prove that you are you?

May I suggest something? Make backups. NOW.

First, go to your most easily-available photocopy machine (I'll suggest the library, but I know most of y'all will use the machine at your job) with your documents, your cards, and a pocketful of change. Make photocopies of your credit cards, front and back. Make copies of your identification cards, front and back. (It's okay to put more than one on a scan.) Make copies of your identification documents, front and back (and inside, as the case may be.). Make copies of your vehicle titles, front and back. Make copies of your long-term insurance polices-- car, house, personal injury, whatever. Make copies of your insurance ID cards.

Stack all of this nicely, put a date on the stacking showing when you copied the documents, and put it into a one-gallon ziplock freezer bag. Seal it.

Now zip that bag into another ziplock bag.

It's a little bulky, but not too bad. It should probably be about the size of my daughter's thinner spiral-wound notebooks for school.

Now, put it in a very safe place, off the ground. Suggestions include:
In the back of a cabinet, behind the Tupperware. In the bottom of the sugar/salt/flour bin in the kitchen.
Between the pages of a large reference book on a shelf.
Inside a safe.
Behind the padding of your gun cabinet.
Inside a can or book safe.
In the back of your freezer. (Note, if a disaster sweeps the area, this may well protect your documents, but it will probably be unpleasant retrieving them.)
NOT in your car. I say again: NOT in your car.

Best is a really secure off-site option. Consider a safe-deposit box. Do you have a close friend or family member who is Utterly Dependable and trustworthy? Consider storing this packet with him or her, in their safe place.

Now, in the TRUE spirit of redundancy ("two is one, and one is none"), make TWO copies of those documents while you're merrily hitting "Print" on your boss's the library's photocopy machine. Make two packets, to be distributed at vastly different locations.

Now, you're going to need some real backup ID. Oh, that other stuff I just talked about? It's important, but do this: go to your local license bureau, and get a state-issued ID card, in addition to your driver's license. Yes, it's a little bit of expense, but trust me, it's easier than dealing with the hassle of not being able to prove who you are. You don't have to do it today-- you can do it the next time you have to go to the licensing office.

Now go get an extra copy of your birth certificate.

Got a school ID you no longer use? Get it.

Got an old expired driver's license in a drawer? That's actually worth something as a secondary (and for a few years, as a primary) form of identification.

Have you gotten a passport, yet? Too expensive? Well, consider the new Passport I.D. card.

You're not one of those people who carries around his or her Social Security Card on their person, are you? STOP that.

Put two or more of these items (I.D. card and Birth Certificate, Social Security Card and Birth certificate, passport and S.S. card) into your identity packets, double-sealed.

You understand that these are important, right? You understand how important it is NOT to leave this stuff out where it can be found, right?

Don't put it in your car.

Oh, and if you're like me, you like to carry a line of credit that you'll never use or even carry on your person. Thus, it makes perfect sense to toss a real (activated, but not active) credit card into the bags, too. I'm tempted to suggest putting some cash in there, but then it starts to become too attractive to raid occasionally, or for the lucky petty thief to take. Yes, this is a type of survival gear, but it is an extremely specific type.

About every six months to a year, you're going to have to update your packets with new copies of expired documents. Sorry. That's just business.

I hope that this most boring task is the most unnecessary one that I suggest you ever do, just like putting on your seat belt, carrying personal insurance, locking your doors, and arming yourself appropriately.

Xavier

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

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

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

Stimulus: Response. Share with me.

Remember when, for a few years in the 1980's, music videos actually would, with some regularity, tell you a story?

No, I never had MTV.

But I saw a few videos back then, which were the years of my teens. I remember enjoying most the ones that at no point showed the musician singing, or did so only in the far background. Oh, the "Money For Nothing" video with Dire Straits shown on one of the background televisions was okay, I suppose. (though that video didn't tell a story-- it just set a mood.)
_ _ _

I am a big one for associating senses with occasions.

Strangely, I recall the lead-in riff from that "Money For Nothing" song best as playing in the background while my best friend Scott and I threw clay birds for each other in the August, getting our shotgunning eye ready for dove season.

The sight of an unearthly-orange cheese doodle receding to a tiny dot as it fell away from me as my girlfriend and I leaned over the rail of the Rio Grande gorge bridge west of Taos in 1992 is one image/memory my wife brought up to me the other day. (I married that girl.)

The smell of the rain up the valley hitting the desert creosote on a hot summer day brings back Alamogordo, NM, 1988.

The sulforous smell of a flare that I pop for traffic direction briefly pops flashes into my head the memories of:
--sitting on the front lawn with my dad and a large brown bag of firecrackers on an Independence Day in the mid-to-late '70s.
--another Boy Scout pounding my back in congratulations as I ejected the case from the little Stevens single-shot .22 at Boy Scout camp, some time in the early eighties. Our patrol had just won the marksmanship award in the only event that I could compete in, with my broken ankle.
--fear of getting caught, playing with a book of matches that I had sneaked out of my baby-sitter's house after school, in the fall of 1977.

The after-image on my retina left by my car strobe suddenly reminds me of my paternal grandmother "Big Mama" touching off a flash cube on top of the Instamatic 110 camera after much cajoling for me and my cousins to "scrunch together" in front of the Christmas tree.

The smell of broken evergreen needles always reminds me of a dozen different childhood Christmases.

The sound of compacting snow usually brings to mind the smell of snow. Please don't ask me to describe it.

The smell of popcorn and freshly-turned animal manure and hay (note to city folk-- Not necessarily a bad smell, unless you're near the carnivores) will inject very powerful circus images in my head.

The smell of clean hair and a whiff of some perfumes, along with perhaps the whiff of school (chalk dust and pencil shavings with floor wax) will sometimes bring back those angst-filled memories of teen interactions with girls. [To quote Rich Lucibella when referring to his love-making and his shooting: "Long periods of shameful failure, interspersed with occasional flashes of brilliance."]

The touch of unplucked feathers brings back memories of going through Dad's game bag when he came back form duck hunting in the early-to-mid '70s.

The sound of locusts always makes me feel hot.

The taste of boiling-hot, percolator-brewed coffee in a metal cup pops numerous camping and hunting memories into my head. (Of course there would be a coffee memory.)

Closed-knit, nappy green carpet evokes immediate memories that low brick rent house that we lived in when I was a young boy. Look down, see dark olive carpet. Look up, see bulls eye central air registers.

When I hear a small engine with a hole in the exhaust system, I'm taken back to numerous jalopies that I drove in my teens and early twenties.

When I feel scratchy crocheted mittens and scarves, I immediately flash back to being overheated from running, with frostbitten fingers and toes, taking my aluminum saucer up the hill to slide down yet again on a snow day, in the sleet and snow as a kid.

_ _ _
You know, I initially started this blog as a reference to a decent little video that I had run across, putting a pretty cool science fiction twist to a modern song by way of simple (today, I mean. Back in 1987, this would have completely blown the minds of professional videographic artists) computer graphics. The concept of stopping the waste of your "life" and going on to find joy is powerfully presented there.

But instead, I've taken you down a short walk down memory lane, regarding the way different stimuli can evoke powerful memories. Please: share with me (in comments) some of the more powerful ones that you've noticed in your life.

Thanksgiving musings, Part 4

Marko writes a commendable piece called "This I Believe." I suspect that Marko will submit his post to This I Believe.org, a superb documentary site which is basically a modern remake of the old 1950s Edward R. Murrow radio project. This site is amazing, and includes thousands of such declarations of personal belief, sorted by topic and author. It also includes the text and audio recordings of the original 1950s archives.

I mentioned in my comments to Marko's post that I've been meaning for some time to submit my own personal essay to This I Believe. But as of yet, I've not done it.

But in looking at it, I looked up a favorite old This I Believe essay, written by Robert A Heinlein, and recorded half a century ago. On this national day of thanks giving, I find that it is as appropriate today as it was for a man born in Missourri 100 years ago. I too believe in Our Noble, Essential Decency.

And that's why we practice.

I've thought of myself as a shotist for awhile. Yes, there are many better than me. But I generally come in at the halfway spot among those who have self-selected to compete in pistol matches, which is a better-than-average group of shooters.

But some days, you just have to accept the lessons taught you by experience. To do so, you have to put your pride away, and look plainly at yourself.

Ouch.

Yesterday was the local multi-department shooting match, and Dad and I shot in it. I shot it first with pistol, and found that I was doing reasonably well, shooting stages clean in okay times. Not blinding speed, but careful, miss-free shooting. Until the last "tie breaker" stage. Pistol empty with slide locked open on a barrel in front of you with a magazine with a single round in it next to it. At the buzzer, pick them up, load the pistol, and shoot the 7" plate that was probably all of 8 yards away. Misses cost 10 seconds on top of your time to shoot.

Well, you can guess.

Man, that will hurt your ego.

But redemption comes cheap, or just for the cost of another entry fee. I loaded up the AR-15, and shot the carbine course.

Murphy lives.

Turned on the Eotech.

Noticed that it was too dim for the bright afternoon, and tapped the up-arrow a few times while nodding to the rangemaster that yes, I was ready to shoot. On the beep, I threw it to my shoulder and... I was looking through a clear sight with no reticle, at the target, with only a front sight.

When this happens, do NOT attempt to turn on the sight. (I think I began to do that.)

Flip up the backup iron sights (BUIS), and just use those for the remainder.

In this case, the sights were flipped to smallest aperture. (seriously suboptimal on a small black target against a dark background, while I was in this sun.). I shot the target twice as required, and ran forward, flipping up the large aperture, leaned through a doorway, double-tapped two plates, turned to the stop plate, and.... Out of ammo.

We had been instructed to down-load magazines to given amounts. This stage required 9 rounds in the magazine, the next stage required 6. I had put the magazine holding 6 rounds into the rifle, in a stage requiring at least 7 to shoot it clean. After fumbling with my pockets for a second (no spare magazines-- 9 rounds maximum for this stage, darn it.), I just shot it with my pistol. Very slight cool factor for the method of solution-- the stop plate was about 15 yards or so off, and the pistol shot was pretty fast. But not that cool.

Before the next stage, I yanked the spare batteries out of hollow of the pistol grip (planning occasionally helps), and put them into the Eotech sight.

Nothing. Well, crap.

The rest of the carbine match went about like that. You know, things like not having properly sling-shot the bolt so that it would seat the round, but rather riding it slowly down, then failing to hit the forward assist. This of course results in a "click" when you want a "bang." Look, I'm letting it all hang out, here. It's shameful. I not only know better, I've known better for decades!

Can I claim complacency? I hardly could see how; complacency usually comes when you're moving along pretty well. Lack of practice? I don't put in a thousand rounds a month, but I do average about 50 to 100 rounds a month out of the AR, and try to make the matches. Fatigue? Naw, I was okay. Sickness? Distraction? Bad ammo? Broken rifle? Nope, not really (cell phone did ring and vibrate in my pocket during two stages, but that's life-- adapt and overcome or die); nope; nope (the rifle ran fine).

Some days, you just suck.

After, I checked the Eotech. Seems that the lithium batteries were, in a way, the problem. The labels on the batteries are a thin layer of plastic, whis is applied with adhesive to hold it to the metal of the outside of the battery. In intense heat, that adhesive will melt, causing it to run. Heat like... oh, say, the trunk of a patrol car that sits in Texas sun all summer long. That adhesive pooled on the battery face against the contact, and then dried on the Eotech battery contact point, making a nice little insulating dab of adhesive that prevented battery function as soon as rattling the Eotech around managed to cause the adhesive to work itself between the contact point and the battery terminal. A judicious scraping with a knife point finally cleared it (harder than I would have thought, as in the 90 degree air the adhesive was pretty gummy), and the 'lectric sight worked again.

This is why I sometimes shoot matches with the BUIS, only.

This is also why I try to shoot matches with the Eotech, only.

This whole exercise is why I practice.

Better to get the crap out of my system at the range, where I'm only red in the face, than on the street, where the costs are so much higher.

But damn, I am not looking forward to other folks seeing my scores when the rangemaster publishes them tomorrow. [/head slung]

I'll admit it. Pride's a motivator.

Single ladies: Act quickly!

Snatch this guy up while there's still time.

What a catch!

Frustrating.

I've got to admit that it feels like a kick in the gut to have people (in comments) think that I"m a part of the jackbooted thuggery. I'm loudly decried in graduate criminal justice classes on terrorism and criminal procedure as being a "damned liberal" for people's rights. I'll bear that badge. But to be told that I don't understand the Constitution or understand the spirit of the amendments to it?

Got to admit-- that's an insult that upsets me.

And then, there's this.

Some gay dudes, I guess they just let they mystery be.

Some guys, they seem to let you know.

Some guys, they kind of go over the top, when they step out of the closet.

My question, posed seriously: Is the average (I know, I know-- it's a "bad word") gay guy offended by this, or proud, or just as completely baffled as I am?

I can accept (even if I don't really understand) that some men dig other men.... but this stuff completely escapes my powers of comprehension. (Especially the video.)

(Not that there's anything wrong with that...)

Hats

I've never been much of a hat-wearer.


I like one when it's cold out, to keep my head warm.

I like one when it's raining, to keep water off my glasses and out of my collar.

I like one when its damnable sunny, to shade my eyes and to keep my brain from frying.

But other than that, I'm not much of a hat-wearer. They generally get too hot for me. Or I'll find that I want to scratch or put my hand on my head (a common enough expression for me), and it's in the way. I tend to take them off when not immediately needing 'em, and then I leave 'em somewhere.

I've never worked for an agency that issued a uniform hat. We generally would have some informal baseball caps made up, which we'd sometimes wear for traffic duty, or the like. Because we're in rural or semi-rural Texas, cowboy hats have been approved. Silverbellies for the winter, and straw for the summer. I just never availed myself.

Well, yesterday I worked a major accident, standing out in the hot sun for an hour, and said, "well, it's not going to get any better 'till about Thanksgiving." When I cleared, I spent my lunch break at the western store. I was surprised to find that I was kind of picky. I don't like a full roll. I don't like a huge brim, 4" or better. I don't like too much mesh around the crown, even though I know it'll make it cooler. I don't like too tall of a crown. I don't want fancy macaroni, if any.

Unfortunately, given my large head and my pickiness, I didn't have a lot of choice. I ended up buying name brand (Resistol), and 8X at that. Much, much more than I really need for a dadgummed hat to wear out on traffic. It was a tad small, but the lady steamed it and stretched it for me before blocking it the way I liked. I got a horsehair brush for my boots as well. I paid the exorbitant bill (at least it was on sale), tipped my hat, and walked out to the car. CLUNK! I banged my hat and head as I got in. After sitting low in the seat, I found that the back of the brim hit the headrest. Oh. I can't wear it in the car. Okay.

_ _ _

When I was a kid, a lot more men wore cowboy hats. Older men wore them because they came from the Time When Men Wore Hats. A lot of younger men wore them, unfortunately, because the late 1970s and early '80s was the era of the Rhinestone Cowboy. Then some men just wore them because it was part of their Texas identity, like a pair of boots.

Nowadays, many real cowboys wear gimme caps. I talked to one today, wearing steel-toed boots, blue jeans (well, some things don't change), a torn t-shirt with axle grease on it, and a nasty gimme cap. We discussed the utility of his $40k pickup and $35k horse trailer, which create a rig that cost more than I paid for the brick city house I live in. He offered to teach me how to rope.

When my granddad was a young man, any man of any means put a hat on when he went out. I don't know why that charms me, but it does. A hat was the most important part of a man's uniform, be he a police officer, a cabbie, a butler, a business man, or a milk delivery man. At present, I think that our hatless society reflects the fact that we are living in the Age Of The Common Man. Our look is blended. I'm no longer shocked to see jeans and T-shirts at church services (even Easter!), anymore. Rock stars perform before thousands in tired old T-shirts and dirty dungarees. Kids speak easily to all adults, without formality. In some ways, it's very good that some of our barriers are broken down. Hats were once routinely handed to the first person of color seen at a restaurant by white folk, because checking them was understood to be their job. But I occasionally desire to see a touch more distinction when I'm referred to by my first name by a sales clerk or a nine year old says "yeah" to an adult.

And I enforce my daughters' use of "sir" and "ma'am," when I'm wearing my "Daddy hat".

Defined by their transportation....

I dropped by the convenience store in the town I work in for soft drink before they closed.

They boy from the previous post was inside, his brand-new truck still sporting paper dealer's tags out front. "Got a truck box ordered yet?" I asked.

"No-- I'm not getting one," he said decisively.

"Where are you going to put your rope, and come-along?" I asked.

"Tow rope behind the seat, and no come-along," he responded. "That truck's never going off-road, ever!" he declared.

"Sometimes the best-laid plans can change," I said wryly.

"Nothing goes in that bed, and that truck never leaves pavement," he restated. "I've got big plans for that truck. I'm gonna lower it, put low-profile tires on it, special rims..."

"Good Gawd. You've going to make a sports truck." I said.

"Yep!" He said gleefully. "Then paint, decals..."

"But nothing goes in the bed, ever. So you get all the drawbacks of a two-seater coupe, without the handling and the milage. What in the hell is the point?" I'm afraid I had trouble concealing my disgust.

I stepped outside with my beverage as he argued his case. I wasn't listening any further. I'm a practical-minded guy. I drive a '97 Civic 4-door, because it's paid for, it drives well, it holds me and the family, and it gets 34+ mpg. The dent in the front left fender really doesn't bother me. It's just a way to get from here to there. I often regret not having my old truck, but only for the things it hauled. I sure don't miss the 12.5 mpg fuel economy that I used to get.

Out front was a guy on a new Honda 600 crotch rocket, of a type that I had some passing familiarity with. (Somewhere I've got a VHS tape with some beautiful video of a motorcycle rider on a bike just like this one, sliding into view in front of my patrol car. The rider had just successfully evaded a colleague of mine when my buddy suffered brake fade and crashed into a pipe-and-rail fence, injuring himself and turning a new Impala into just so much scrap metal. The rider didn't know the area, and I found that he couldn't ride too well with 1.5 million candlepower focused into his facemask as he entered a curve. Sadly, he managed to bond out before the 1st degree felony warrant for parole violation came in. Christopher Stout, I'd love to meet you again....) It too had dealer's plates. He bemoaned the high cost of comprehensive insurance each year, and I was impressed that the yearly amount ran to more than my car would bring. I recalled that when I was going to police academy, I bought a 1978 Honda CB 400 for a coupla hundred dollars cash, and paid liability only for about $20/month. "Yeah, but this could get stolen real easy," he complained.

"Or laid down," I said, thinking wistfully back to my own encounters between hot steel and dirt and gravel and pavement.

"Oh, no!" he responded. "I've never laid it down. I've never put a bike down, ever."

I raised an eyebrow. "That just puts you in the second category of riders*," I said, doubtfully.

"No, I ride responsibly," he said. "I'm 24, married, and a daddy, now. I've got two girls."

"You're going to look me in the eye, and tell me that you've never taken this crotch-rocket into triple digits?" I demanded.

"I have never driven this motorcycle over 70 mph," he lied, while looking me square in the eye.

"Most responsible thing you could do for those girls of yours is to sell this thing back to the dealer, and get yourself into a cage," I said.

"Never! I saved up for a long time to get this bike," he said. I noticed that he didn't have a helmet.

"Good luck with that," I said, and got back into my patrol cage-- er-- car. Hope he's got AD&D insurance.
_ _ _ _

* "There are two kinds of motorcycle riders: Those who have laid their bikes down, and those who will."