Cults and Music

I never did care for anything resembling a cult of any kind. Religion, philosophy, mechanics.

But it’s the cult of personality which probably rustles my jimmies the most. This was my biggest (not only) complaint about our last President, Obama, and it’s my biggest (not only) complaint against our current President, Trump. 

Best friend Scott and I saw Living Color perform this song at the Cotton Bowl in Dallas in October of 1989. We were seniors in high school. They were opening for the Rolling Stones. (At the time, we thought that if we didn’t seize the chance to see them perform, we would never get an opportunity again. It never would have occurred to us that, 30 years later, the Stones still perform on tour.)  

Brass Against The Machine does a solid cover, with featured guest vocalist Mazz Swift shredding the solo on an electric violin. 

https://youtu.be/WwsevGDRNAc 

Legal Fiat.

It's time we talked about "fiat."

Fiat is Latin for "let it be done."  

Merriam-Webster's first definition of the word is thus:

"1. a command or act of will that creates something without or as if without further effort According to the Bible, the world was created by fiat."

It is used in discussions of policy to further the discussion without getting bogged down in detail.
Basically, it means, "For the purposes of this discussion, we will assume that I have a waved a magic wand, and X has occurred."

Back when I was in  high school debate, we used fiat for all of our proposed plans to solve a topic.   An example would be, say, if the topic was on how to solve illegal immigration in the United States. The affirmative team would propose a plan, such as rounding up all the immigrants, or putting up a wall, or putting a border guard every fifty feet along the border, or whatnot, and the negative team would attack Significance, Harms, Inherency, Topicality, and Solvency (which was easily remembered by a lovely little acronymn) on the plan. Or, the defense could grant that the plan would work, but that there would be SUCH a disadvantage (such as lost cheap labor, or a shortage of cultural exchange (see: cheap taco stands)), that the plan wouldn't be worth it.

At no time, though, could the negative side attack that the plan could actually be effected. For the purposes of our discussion, the plan was put in place by fiat.

So here we are in the gun control debate, and everyone seems to believe that fiat is actually a workable thing.

"We will make it against the law to possess semi-automatic magazine-fed rifles!" would be the surprisingly-well-worded battlecry of the fiat-using gun banner.

Okay.  Let's pretend that passes, and federal law makes it illegal to own such a gun:
--There will be VIGOROUS attack on the law in the lower courts, and then the appellate courts, and then in the Supreme Court.  Let's pretend that the SCOTUS also upholds the law.
--Then, let's pretend that the executive branch mobilizes to enforce the law. How? Um, they'll put out public service announcements demanding that guns be turned in, else those with the guns will suffer severe federal penalties, with time in prison.
--And let's suppose that the good, law-abiding citizens of the U.S. do turn in their guns. Because they are law-abiding.
--And let's suppose that, everytime that they're caught with such a gun, a bad, non-law-abiding person goes to prison.
--And let's suppose that the prisons are able to take the influx of new prisoners.
--And let's suppose that a large quantity of guns remain in the public hands, against the law.
--How will the federal authorities, assisted I suppose by state and local police, get those firearms? 
--Will an order be given to go house-to-house? I assure you, the local cops aren't doing that. No, they will not.
--And remember that SCOTUS which affirmed the ban? They're NOT going to affirm a house-to-house search and arrest.
--And remember how all those good, law-abiding people turned in their guns? Just kidding. You just created a felony criminal class out of OTHERWISE good, law-abiding people. Now, they're legal-neutrals.
--And remember those actual bad guys, who don't follow the rules, and keep their guns, because, you know-- they're criminals? They're going to do what they want.

Fiat is a device for philosophy. Not for improving the nation that you have now.

While Fiats can be a lot of fun, they don't always work.

Photo by Tamara Keel. (Cropped.)

How would you like to die?

Living well is best. Dying well is next best. Living badly is worst.

On Valentine's Day of this year, a horrible person murdered 17 people at Stoneman Douglas High School in Florida, kicking off an enormous clash about gun control, almost immediately.

The murderer was 19 a years old man, and had been identified as a dangerous person before. In fact, friends and counselors had called the FBI about him. He slipped through. It happens. He committed these crimes, and no one else is blame.

During the murders, there were heroes. A coach who shielded the bodies of children as he died. A 15 year-old ROTC student who held the door to get more kids evacuated out of the building. There were others.

One of those heroes was not School Resource Officer Scot Peterson, who "took a position" outside a door of the building where 900 students were, and listened to the shooting continue for four minutes. To make this clear: this man was an armed, sworn deputy, who was made aware of shooting in a school, where his primary duty was to see to the safety of students there, and he did nothing.

There are those who would argue that a man with a pistol has little to no chance against a man with a working AR-15. As a rule of thumb, it is true that any rifle is superior in a gunfight to any service pistol. And I could argue right back that in a majority of the cases in which a shooter was confronted by armed response, the shooter has either given himself up, or killed himself, ending the killing in either instance, for the vast majority of the cases.

But the odds are not the issue. The duty is. Each shot is potentially a student dying. Each moment's delay can mean yet another mother's child being taken. It is imperative to not-walk-but-run toward the sound of that gunfire, and stop the killing.

This deputy has trained with his weapon for over twenty years. If he hadn't settled this in his head beforehand, he was criminally negligent in his duties.

Some might say that the issue was his training. Back when I went to police academy in 1994, the training was to form a perimeter, and wait for SWAT. Certainly a single officer wasn't supposed to go in alone. (I clearly remember sitting in the back of the classroom, and thinking that this was a hill that I would die upon; I would take whatever write-ups they cared to throw at me, but I was going in.) The massacre at Columbine High School in 1998 changed that doctrine forever. The doctrine since the turn of the century has been to go in hard and fast and take the shooter out. We are specifically trained to step over and past the wounded, to rapidly close distance with the shooter, and take him out without any warning. This is as it should be. It is not a secret. It is how you help the bleeding and those yet unwounded.  How could a man or woman assigned to the duty of being a School Resource Officer not have studied this topic?

It is rare in one's life that one can recognize such an important crossroads, illuminated so clearly as this one.  One could absolutely guard one's own life, forsaking his moral duty to act, and die several decades later in one's bed, aware for the remainder of his life that he was living the life of a coward. One could swallow one's fear, and attack the killer, and fail. This would be horrible, because it would mean that one didn't stop the killer. But it's a worthy death, to die in the attempt to stop the murder of children. In fact, if an officer stopped the killer, but the officer was killed as well in the engagement, that is not a failure.  It is sub-optimal, but the goal was achieved: the killer was stopped. Dying while SAVING the lives of children is so much more preferable than dying of old age, after failing to even try. I am not suggesting that one should martyr one's self; I'm simply saying that one should fear the long life of a coward, rather than the quick and worthy death of a peacekeeper.  

My excellent friend and colleague LawDog said it better, here.

I was discussing this with friends recently, and one good friend cautioned (correctly, of course) not to give the impression that one should hope to find such an event occur. I agreed, but shared the following:

Back when I was a rookie working evening shift, I caught my first Sexual Assault case. My chief happened to drop by the police department at that time, and he took it off my hands. I had been flustered and out of my depth. My chief at the time was an expert at such cases. He said afterwards, “I am sorry that the event occurred, but I am so glad that it happened when and where I could do something about it.” He had skills that the average beat cop did not. He applied those skills to take care of the problem (the actor got 20 years, IIRC). I probably would have muffed it.

Living well is best. Dying well is next best. Living badly is worst.

Choose wisely. And train.

Late October. I won't tell you.

This month has thus far been pretty good, but I won't tell you about it.

--I could tell you about the three-day whistle-stop tour of Blogorado 5, where I had the best time with (roommate) A.D. and JPG and Gay Cynic and Tamara and FarmGirl and FarmFam and Old NFO and Stingray and Scribbler and DirtSailor and ERDoc and Scribbler and all the rest, but I won't. We had a great time.

--I could tell you about the drunk who wanted to fight me but I wouldn't let him, or the other drunk who called me an asshole the whole way to the jail and all through book-in, but I won't.

--I could tell you about the wrecks that I worked wearing each my fireman and my police hats, but I won't.

--I could tell you about the injury, and the recovery, and the costs, but I won't.

--I could tell you about the house repairs and the cars, and the expenses and such, but I won't.

--I suppose that I could tell about the kids, and their accomplishments, failures, and lessons learned, and their doings at the school and in their clubs... but I won't.

--I could talk about new laws and politics and such, but I  won't.

--Work squabbles I never much have written about. And still won't.

--I could talk about gun projects and successes and failures, but I won't.

--I could talk about the busy family weekend coming up, but I won't right here and now.  Maybe later.

It is a good month, and there are drawbacks and successes. But I shall choose to see that things are getting Better and Better.

Take what you will from it, I guess.

The history of our national day of giving thanks is disputed.

It has become fashionable lately for people with (Midnight Oil's "Beds Are Burning" playing on infinite repeat) to tell us that Thanksgiving is a terrible celebration of the massacre of the trans-historic indigenous peoples of North America. There's quite the movement afoot to banish the holiday, or to reinvent it as a day of sorrow and atonement.

Hey, if that's all you've got in your box, then I guess it's going to rattle around a bit.

If you're an atheist, then the question arises: to whom are you giving thanks? Certainly not to God. Okay then: how about just appreciating how you got the things for which you may count among your blessings? Somebody likely helped you get there. Thank them. If you did it all by yourself, thank the person in your mirror. Saying "thank you" is polite.

I've always liked the way that William Bradford looked at Thanksgiving: as a celebration of capitalism as a way to get through the harsh winters. It seems that before, the Plymouth Bay Colony had tried collectivism of corn, and that hadn't worked out; the hardest workers got no more than the shirkers, and they had almost starved the year before. So when they tried the concept of working for one's self, and trading for whatever was needed, the colony flourished.

It is interesting to note that some of the colonists worked for the local Indians, planting and such, to get their seed corn. I've heard one reference to them working "as slaves" for the indigenous people, but slaves don't generally get to walk away with any profit for their labors. This was an exchange of labor for commodity. That yellow seed corn was truly their specie.

Here at Better And Better, we try to see the optimistic side of things*. So on this day of Thanks Giving, I'm asking you all to simply see what is good in your life, and spend at least part of the day loving that.

______________________________
*We've also been known to fail at this, on occasion.

That which should be viral, but isn't.

I have printed LabRat's Rules For Relating and posted them on the wall at my PD. Then I promptly pulled them down.
They absolutely deserve attribution, but with attribution, I would shortly be "outed" as a blogger. (The guys I work with are nothing if not tenacious.)

I've similarly considered printing them in small pring, and handing them out to Select Customers as a public service.

At any rate, go read, and know that LabRat is wise beyond her years.

Tell the truth. Tell the truth. Tell the truth.

(Click to embiggen.)

When I commented on how much I loved this hanging plaque made by my friend and sculptor Paula Blincoe Collins, she gave it to me as a gift. Given that this is her stock and trade, it was actually a pretty valuable gift, just monetarily. But more important to me is the sentiment, which has a lot of meaning for me. I had a scoutmaster who once said that you have to say something three times to a person before they fully get what you're saying to them. I've spent a lot of time telling people to tell the truth.

The fired clay plaque, which has the texture of lace pressed into the face of it, holds a place of honor on my mantlepiece, but I've been seriously considering hanging it up at work.

The border.

I don't ask much from our Federal Government. Actually, I ask LESS from it. Our Fed.gov gets up in people's business when it has no right to do so, a vast majority of the time. As such, it spends citizen's money without generating new income, without a compelling reason.

But there are a few things that our Fed.gov IS expected to do. Such as this little ditty:

"The United States shall guarantee to every State in this Union a Republican Form of Government, and shall protect each of them against Invasion; and on Application of the Legislature, or of the Executive (when the Legislature cannot be convened) against domestic Violence." (Art. IV, Sec. 4, USC)

Now, there are those who would claim "well, there's not an official invasion going on at our border." Okay-- it's just domestic violence, then. Hey, I don't believe that the average immigrant that illegally crosses the border into the U.S. is violent. The vast majority of the violence committed by illegal border-crossers is committed by smugglers. And, for better or worse, they're smuggling in what our Federal Government declared war on, back in 1986.

Now, we've Declared War On A Noun.

And, the Other Side (the drug dealers) are coming into our country, illegally, to sell their wares.

And, our federal government, the guys who Declared War On A Noun (that aforementioned ware that's being smuggled in), doesn't consider this an invasion?

Think about what would happen if other opponents in other wars came into our country in an organized fashion. Think about what happened the last time a semi-organized group of Mexicans came into our country to commit felonies against U.S. citizens.

Look, I'm not asking that our federal government commit to a punitive expedition. I'm just asking that we see more done to secure the borders, rather than suing the states that are trying to do it themselves.

Over at Tam's place, she's commented on the situation, and there's an interesting interaction going on in her comments. Her libertarian-minded friend Shootin' Buddy is of the mind that the folks along the border should handle the problem themselves. "If you choose to live near the bear cage, don't complain about the smell. They clean the cage, or they can whine."

Funny thing-- they're trying to do just that, and are being threatened with federal suit by the same feds that have a duty to handle this.

And U.S. border residents aren't afraid to defend their turf; they're just afraid of their own government for attacking them when they do so. My friend Art, who goes by DesertRat in those comments on Tam's post, lives in the Big Bend region of Texas. As he says in the comments about Shootin' Buddy's derision of people US Citizens along the border: "Nuthin' more helpful than someone who doesn't know sheep dip from wild honey about other folks' problems."

Art's not asking for a handout. He doesn't expect the Nanny Government to hold his hand. But he'd like to see the same government that tells him it's now a felony to drive his pickup across the Rio at a convenient crossing for an evening across the border, do something to stem the flow of illegals threatening legal citizens.

The Bureau of Land Management has put up some very helpful signs on southern AZ BLM lands, to help would-be hikers and campers stay away from the problem, though.


We cops who work in the border states have been getting notice for the past year that the cartels are putting pressure on their mules not to give up their loads without a fight. Last week, direct threats were made to the Nogales, AZ police that they would be shot at if they worked too hard at stopping smuggled shipments.

My partner and I caught an undocumented alien this weekend, who lied about who he was, where he lived, where he was from. Due to state and federal law, I couldn't even run his fingerprints to see if he was a wanted criminal. All we had him on was a simple traffic ticket: No driver license. It wasn't until I had spent 2 hours researching and calling in database searches (IAQs) that we finally identified him as a person living under an alias, which made him un-accountable for his prior offenses. This made him guilty of "Fail To Identify," it finally got us a Class B misdemeanor, which allowed us to put an ICE hold on him, so that he couldn't bond out, to change his name for the fifth time in two years. Part of living in a society of laws is being accountable for your actions. When you're here illegally, you're not.

In Arizona, their new law makes it a jailable misdemeanor for a documented alien not to carry their papers, or a state jailable misdemeanor to be an undocumented alien. This allows them to quickly and easily put an ICE hold on them, for deportation. It also allows them to run the guy's fingerprints through the state system.

I wish we had that law. It would save a lot of time. It also would be fairer to the citizens that I arrest who ARE documented, who have to actually account for their misdeeds.

Training, with firearms. (Pt. I)

Over the years, I've taught a few people to shoot. While I've shot untold thousands of rounds of pistol and rifle fire over the years, and snapped at least as many more dryfire practice shots, I don't take it upon myself to teach a lot of people to shoot.

Why? Because, frankly, it's a lot of trouble to do right, and I'll be damned if I'll do it wrong.

I finally settled on teaching the most basics:

• Safety
• Sight Picture
• Safety
• Trigger Control
• Safety
  

If I had a dollar for every time that I've quick-sketched something like this

during my safety lecture... well, I could buy a couple more boxes of ammo.

Frankly, if my student can recite and explain and demonstrate The Four Rules of gun safety, can demonstrate that they understand and can implement a good sight picture and trigger squeeze, then my work is done, for a beginner. I'll let them shoot and shoot with just attention given to those issues before we move on to Reloads, Positions, and Presentation (intermediate) and Speed With Accuracy (advanced). I suppose that expert falls into shooting on the move and at moving targets, and perhaps shooting accurately with specialty guns (like pocket pistols).

Oh, sure, I cheat up on myself a little. I start my beginner students with a proper general stance, so that they get used to how to hold the firearm correctly. But I don't dither over the details when we start. Frankly, this is where a quality air rifle or .22 rimfire rifle is mandatory, in my opinion. Sure, your student may plan only to shoot a pistol, but they will get sight picture and trigger squeeze a lot faster if you have them plunk a few rounds into the target at about 5 yards with a light long gun that will not recoil and punish them for holding it wrong.

Soon enough, you point out how much better that they do with their cheek to the comb, and they get that. Soon enough, you point out how much better they do with the butt firmly in the pocket of their shoulder, and they'll get that, too. With the rimfire or airgun, they learn with a carrot, rather than a stick. This is a Good Thing.

Then comes the fun of rimfire handgun shooting, and a good, accurate, long-barreled (5" minimum) revolver or semi-auto is the best tool. A Browning Buckmark 6" or a heavy-barreled Ruger (any mark) or a S&W M19 or a longer-barreled Kit Gun are just outstanding in this role. Moving on to reactive targets makes all the difference. Students soon find their own reward for shooting better, and then the training becomes infectious, and you couldn't stop the train if you tried.

This is how I've done it quite a few times. And it works.

Sure, I've had some errors. And, following the rules of trial and error, I seem to have learned as much from my mistakes as through my successes.

My very first student, who was (and still is) my best friend Scott Minke, was not wearing eye protection. This was obviously my fault entirely. The instructor is the range safety officer, and part of safety is seeing to basic safety equipment (How had I remembered ear protection but not eye protection?). Scott, a natural athlete, was doing so well with a borrowed Browning Buckmark .22 LR that we quickly moved on to centerfire pistol. On his very first magazine (possibly his first shot?) of firing a Series 70 Mark IV 1911 Colt .45 acp, a primer gave way, and burned, burning, and unburnt Unique powder spewed from the back of the chambered round. Most of this was contained within the pistol, but some of it was flung out upon recoil, and a fleck found its way into Scott's eye. Fortunately, Scott wasn't permanently injured, but the shooting session was over. It easily could have been far worse, and I've remembered that basic lesson ever since.

Another lesson that I've learned is to NOT let my students start too far away from the targets. This lesson is one that I neglected to follow early on, because I wanted to shoot, too. Three to seven yards just isn't much fun when you're interested in your groups at 25 yards. But your student learns little when he or she doesn't get feedback instantly. And there is a hidden lesson here: don't abandon your post. If you're focused on doing your own shooting, then you're not acting as a good instructor, nor as a good RSO for your newbie. Leave that to another time. I'm afraid that I probably wasted a lot of valuable time and a fair amount of ammunition before I got that one through my head.

That first time that I went out to teach, my father had cautioned me with a rule that I'd practiced, but never really thought about before: "Don't let guns dangle. When not shooting, reholster, case them, or put them down." This helps prevents violations of the Four Rules, and makes for a safer range.

Come Monday, I finally take a class that I've been meaning to take for some years: the TCLEOSE Police Firearms Instructor course. I've been a trained Range Safety Officer for years, but this course has eluded me to take. It's only 40 hours, but that week's worth of training requires that my shift be covered by another officer while I'm getting paid to basically have fun burning up the department's ammunition. Add to that the fact that I wasn't even eligible to take the class until I first had three years' experience and an instructor's license (another 40 hour course, see above for problems), and you can see how much of a pain it is to get a supervisor to sign off on taking this. (And tempting as it was to take this course on my own dime, that really ruins it for everyone. Start down the slippery slope of paying for your own training, and departments will expect you to pick up the tab for your mandated in-service training before long. Not Good.) At any rate, this is an opportunity that I've waited for, and I'm pretty pleased. But I'm also taking it seriously.
Stay tuned for Part II.
__________________________
(I'd like to note right now that Blogger's spellchecker doesn't recognize "rimfire," "centerfire," or "reholster." Huh.)

Looking back.

When I went off to Methodist Youth Summer Camp in early August of 1983, I was 11.

I had already gone to Boy Scout summer camp at Sid Richardson Scout Ranch the month or two before. It had been a long week of hiking, canoeing, and sweating. More significantly, however, it had been my first week away from home.

At Boy Scout camp, I remember going to my tent one evening, and crying. I still can recall hearing my best friend, then and now, remarking on it to someone (his father?), who said, "Leave him alone." Fabric walls don't stop even gentle words of concern. Grateful for the time alone and yet embarrassed that my sobs hadn't been effectively muffled by the Coleman sleeping bag, I stopped, and by and by joined the rest of the troop for supper.

It wasn't so much that I was a Mama's Boy (I'm fairly certain that I was) that drove me to cry "I want my Mama" into my sleeping bag, as the fact that I was away for the first significant time while my parents were beginning the separation that would eventually lead to their divorce. While I later felt that things actually got better for us kids after the divorce (Dad was very attentive as a divorced father, meaning that we actually seemed to see more of him afterwards), it was a time of Change, and a boy who is uncertain during change seeks his Mama. She wasn't there. Only boys and good men who volunteered as Scoutmasters and Assistant Scoutmasters were there.

The next month (or the next-- a quarter century has obscured some facts), I went off to Church Camp. It was way up at Lake Texoma, and we all gathered at a large regional church to get on the high-capacity vans to go. My father took me up there, and as I waited to get on the van, he handed me a paperback book. He asked me if I was nervous about the time away, and I said that I was not. (I felt that I was past that weak point, so long ago, about a month or two before.) He told me that a lot of boys were not used to leaving their families for any time when they were eleven years old, and somehow managed to compliment me for being mature enough to deal with it. I felt embarrassed, a little-- I should be mature enough. Just look at me: about 5'11" to 6'00" tall, eleven years old. Probably about 170 lbs. I was man-sized, in most cultures. [But still a boy.]

I got on the bus, and had an enjoyable ride with kids that I would get to know over the next 7 days. It's amusing that I still can remember some of the songs that we listened to on the radio; they tended heavily toward the Eurithmics. When I arrived at church camp, I found that our "cabins" were kind of bungalows spaced widely about the camp. I was in one with a group of 7 other boys of widely different cultures. I was neither the center point of our group, nor the outcast. I was an island unto myself; I was approachable, but discrete.

Well, a bit of loneliness almost set in, one night, when I opened my paperback (I think I was supposed to be studying a text for vespers, or something), and found an inscription from my Dad. I can't recall if it said anything more than "To Matt, Love, Dad." But does it matter? That's about the only part that matters in any inscription I've ever read: Who, why, and from whom. I seem to recall that he dated it. The paperback was a thick one, and had a painting of D.D. Harriman looking wistfully up at the stars with a spaceship in the background. It was The Past Through Tomorrow, a compilation of stories by Robert A. Heinlein.

I started with the first one, "Life Line." I was hooked.

My reading of Heinlein's works continued, with me consuming all that I could find in the school libraries (almost exclusively juveniles, but I found, inexplicably, a ratty hardcover copy of I Will Fear No Evil, which was racy stuff for a rural junior high school library). I kept it up long after the man died (I remember that hollow feeling, standing in Fultz's News when the counterman told me he had passed), and long after I had come to the conclusion that he was an idealist and a Dirty Old Man.

I don't doubt that a lot of my current philosophies have been influenced by a science fiction writer who died 21 years ago, and with whom I disagree about 1/3 of the time.

It's funny where you get your beginnings.

Ultimate freedom.

A friend of mine took his life this week.

He was in his mid-thirties. No one really realized that he was in that place.

Very few people that I've talked to about this seem to share my belief that it was his life to take, if he so chose.

Look, I think suicide is selfish, sure. But we all do selfish things every day, don't we? We order pizza instead of opening a can of generic beans and a can of corn. We pay extra for a car with air conditioning. We get higher thread count sheets because, dammit, it feels good. My obsession with better beverages (coffee, beer, and scotch) is almost legendary. We are selfish beings. That's not inhuman. In fact, it's the very essence of living a human life. And part of one's life is one's death.

We all have a debt to pay. No one escapes. How and when you pay it is ultimately your decision.

If I can't die peaceably in my bed at a very advanced age with a recently-finished book at my bedside, then I hope to die falling toward my vanquished foe. But I will ultimately make decisions about the manner and the timing of my death.

Don't be too quick to judge those who gave it all up. It was theirs first. As long as they don't endanger others with their actions, and don't shirk real responsibilities, then I'm okay with it, I guess, on a personal level.

Professionally, of course, I will do my duty to attempt to stop suicide when I can. That's the job.

My friend was single and had no kids. We remember his life this week. I'm sorry I didn't know that he was in such need. I would certainly have tried to help him.

But I'll respect his decision. I won't grieve that. I'll grieve that he got in the well that he felt he couldn't climb out of.

Wish for the new year.

Tonight, I'm going to patrol around my little town, and do what I'm able to do to keep the peace.

On this, the last evening of 2008, I wonder how many others are considering doing the same, for themselves? For, instead of a contemplative pint and perhaps a celebratory kiss of the neighbor near them, it's pretty common to see folks who take this passage of the year as a challenge to remove reason from the equation, through the magic of ancient biochemistry.

Why are we so very reluctant to be alone with our own thoughts?

Even sober, we demand to be distracted from ourselves. Car radios and iPods while driving (with DVDs and video games in the back for the kiddies). Perhaps a quick cell call to someone. If worse comes to worse, even a book on the highway. (Done it. Seen it done.) At home, there's the TV, the DVDs, the music, the InterWeb, the books, magazines, and whatnot. We feel the need to be outside of our own head.

Peace is a damned hard quality to find, within. Yet we claim to hope to find it, or even enforce it (!) without. Interesting.

Hamas is firing rockets into Israeli kindergartens even as the Israeli cabinet meets to discuss the immediate cessation of airstrikes in Gaza, and then claims that the Israelis refuse offers of peace and truce. This isn't even particularly good theatre; Hamas doesn't want peace. Firing rockets 28 miles into a town over the horizon isn't tactically very useful, but it certain pisses off the folks that you'd like portray publicly as your oppressors, eh wot? Very much the same as walking a bomb into a marketplace. It causes retaliation, which is actually what you want. Even that rather ineffective idjit Che Guevara knew that.

I'm drinking today, but only coffee, and lots of it. The warmth and the pleasant buzz of the caffeine go well with this sunny, bright, cool and breezy winter day.

I have regrets from this past year. I regret getting B's in graduate classes that I could certainly have obtained A's in. I regret putting on about 15 pounds that I shall have to cut this spring. I regret some things I've said, and some opportunities that I missed. I've yelled at my kids louder than I should have, and I've failed to give them time when I should have done so.

But I have some things that I'm glad of. I still look down at the daisies, rather than up at 'em. I bought, renovated, and moved into an old house that looks fairly decent these days. I've advanced myself to within two classes and a thesis of my Masters degree, while working. I put a few bad guys in jail, as well as some good guys who just weren't acting right, and I treated them all professionally. (Every one. Even the ones that potentially endangered my family.) I've watched my kids grow, and have taken a pretty strong part in making them grow. My elder daughter can do 25 perfect push ups (she's beginning to practice fingertip push ups), can disassemble and reassemble firearms, and reads voraciously, sometimes in the quiet company of her surprising array of friends. My younger daughter has learned to read, calls her best friend daily, and shows manners. I had something to do with all of that. That gives me peace, friends.

My new year's resolution will be to obtain more peace. Eliminating regrets is one way. But my friend John Shirley says that eliminating desire is another. That's a tall order, right there. And my need for an early Webley .455 is great.

May you have a happy new year. And may peace be with you.

Devices.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lost an icon.

We lost the best pinup girl who was ever pinned up, yesterday.

Bettie Page's appeal, to me at least, was not in her portrayal as a dominatrix or such. It was the fact that she genuinely appeared to be having fun. Nothing is sexier, to my simple mind, than a lady having fun. Whether or not people judge her for the rather pedestrian act of taking her clothes off before a camera, it's indisputable that the most stable point in her life was when she was employed to do just that.

Some might have a chicken/egg quandry as to whether that period drove her later unsettled life or if her troubles drove her to posing. I wouldn't bother. In a time when models were already attempting to melt cameras with sultry glares, Bettie was smiling. You get the feeling that you would have liked this person.

Oh look. Free money.

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

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

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

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

PawPaw reminds us...

...that "'Specialization is for insects.'"

I think we need to toss in to his list "Changing a tire."

Perhaps we should add in:
--Give a concise report of the meaning and subtext of a novel, and
--Handle weapons safely and competently.

Years ago, we would have said that these are things a man should be able to do. Nowadays, I believe that the bar has moved to encompass all adults.

Can your kids do these things? If not, why not? What's your schedule and method to train them to do them? Don't expect your school to do it-- if they cover a third of the items on the lists, you should count yourself lucky.

Deep night maunderings.

It's cold and dry and getting colder. Not a breath of wind, and the sky is not just devoid of clouds-- it appears devoid of even air. The full moon illuminates the landscape, but the air refracts so little that the stars appear in strong relief against the black sky behind them.

The porch lights of the houses out on the prairie seem each to be more significant, and promise that humanity and warmth are inside there. You can see the discrete points from a long way off, tonight.

Parked in the dark, by the road, with my lights out, I've watched cats and a ringtail from the creek scurry cross the silvered blacktop, just by light of the moon. I could easily patrol all night with my lights off, so well do my eyes gather the moon and starlight.

It's now Christmas eve.

I love it when it's like this.

I hope y'all find what you're looking for, this Christmas. And if you don't, I hope that you'll find hope and courage in the symbolic reset of the coming new year.

For the first time in my life, I don't think I want anything this Christmas. I'm married to the woman I love. I have two girls that I would love even if they weren't beautiful and smart and funny and cooler than I ever was. I have a family I love and get to see, and I have a snug place to hang my hat and lay my head. I have a job that pays the bills and feels rewarding.

I have dreams. I have aspirations. Hell, I even have gripes and find shortcomings. And of course I have yearnings for specific items.

But I think that, if I stop and think about it, I'm pretty happy. That doesn't mean inert and idle. But it means that I'm ahead of where I've been at many, many points in my life. You ever met a person who didn't know how to take a compliment? Tell them that they look nice in an outfit or with their hair just so, and they'll argue with you. I think that I, and a lot of other folk, lose track of how to see when they're happy, and accept that we are.

New perspectives.

My pals have run with a pretty darned good idea. (If I do say so, myself.)

Please go read a tale told from three viewpoints, this time starting at my buddy LawDog's beginning.

Then, as before, go read Ambulance Driver's part.

Finally, nurse-lady Babs brings it home.

Folks, I don't mind telling you that that Miss Babs' piece broke me down a little.

Shoot, I dunno.

Uh, gee, I don't actually know Massachusetts licensing law. And I don't know about your state's licensing issues for commercial drivers and ambulances and the like. Hell, Ambo Driver would likely know as much or more.

But I think that I would just go to the source, and ask the Massachusetts Registry of Motor Vehicles about it. (Note: While I should stab myself 28 times in head with a spoon if I were to desire Texas to be anything like Massachusetts, I do think that it's high time that this state got off its duff and administered driver licensing and vehicle registration through the same office. It can be done! Put it all under TXDOT, and realize economies of scale.)

From what I can see, you're looking at a mandatory suspension of your driver license for a conviction of Driving Under the Influence, with a hefty reinstatement fee required. We here at Better & Better Central are very much in favor of the Automatic License Revocation program developed in this state.

That said, we are also in favor of not paying for your damned welfare check, or for your room and board at the Graybar Motel, so check into the possibility of something called an Occupational License. I'll just bet that you've got 'em in Massachusetts. Occupational licenses let you drive to work, and on the job. They have strict guidelines as to when you can drive.

I'm highly in favor of Occupational Licenses, because they let you maintain your livelihood, at no expense to me, and with minimal danger to me. Most people (with a few notable exceptions) won't drink and drive on the job. Especially ambulance drivers. They run a little too closely with the cop crowd, and also rub elbows with the firefighters and docs and nurses, who often have no sense of humor about such things. So ambo drivers, while by reputation a rowdy bunch, generally do their beer-swillin' after hours, which we here at B&B Central are utterly fine with... so long as you're not driving drunk.

Look into it. Save your job. Stay off welfare. And check out Sam Adams' new Imperial Lager-- it's awesome.

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.