Minor parenting challenge.

My younger daughter just got back from a week with her aunt. Her aunt is really into eastern cultural knickknacks, and she gave my daughter a cute little figurine display with the critters of the Chinese zodiac affixed to it. "What Chinese sign are you, Daddy?" I was asked. Damfino. I've never bothered to look it up, because my disdain for the whole astrology and zodiac business is pretty deep and broad. But what the hell, let's see.

Oh. Apparently I'm a pig. Oh ho! How ironic.

I'm on record for taking any opportunity to fisk the concept of astrology, so I shan't belabor that theme again here today. (But maybe later, we can point and laugh at astrologists.)

My challenge here is to make clear to my children the stupidity of believing that a person will be imbued with certain traits merely by virtue or damnation of the time of their birth... while not causing them to feel that there is disrespect toward adults in their lives that follow it  (such as a wayward auntie).  Worse, if I push the issue, it becomes an opportunity for rebellion. I don't care to consider a world where my offspring consult their zodiac, be it Chinese or occidental.

Not for sale.

For the longest time, online pal Claire used to have splashed across the masthead of her blog "Hell yes, I'm an American." Sadly, this seems like an odd statement for a resident of Mordor. But I sure as hell can empathize.

I was talking to my good friend Bill The Accountant on the phone the other night. He's realizing that his master's in Accounting isn't going to do him as much good as at the firm he's with as a master's in Taxation. So he's re-enrolled, and is on track to get his second master's in about 18 months, maybe less. I suggested that, with the results of the most recent election, more people than ever will need assistance with tax preparation. He agreed.

Anyway, he was talking about one of his tax professors, who was discussing how the goal of the tax accountant is to ethically represent his client, not by providing a tax statement with the least taxes possible, but by providing a tax statement that is as accurate as possible. A good tax accountant also can provide advice to his client, however.

Bill's professor had a client who came to her and asked about how to avoid the most taxes on his prospective income. He had done a lot of work on a device that he was about to patent, he said, and he expected a great deal of revenue from this patent, as it was in demand, and buyers were waiting in the wings. A price of $4.M was being thrown about. She advised him to move to Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emerates, and give up his United States citizenship and obtain U.A.E. citizenship. You see, there is no income tax in the U.A.E.

He did just that, and saved a ton of money when his patent came in and he sold it.

"I couldn't do that," I told him.

"Sure you could," said Bill, who's no stranger to patriotism, himself. "After you thought about it, you could."

"Give up my birthright, as an American? Throw away my claim as a citizen of the greatest nation this planet has ever seen? I could not," I insisted.

"Look, it's not like the kids would have to give up their citizenship. Just you and your wife," said Bill. "And you could easily come back to visit. Do you realize how you could live over there with four million dollars? All the comforts, with paid help? You couldn't withhold that from your family. Not if you think about it."

"Nope. Not for sale. And if my citizenship were for sale, it would take a helluva lot more than $4 million," I said.

"Yeah, because you'd do it for $20 mil, right?" he jeered.

"I wouldn't even open discussions before they offered $100 million," I said with prim indignance.

"Well, now that we've established that..." he said.

"We're just dickering over the price," I sighed. I suppose it's possible that every man has one. But I didn't say I'd do it. Just think about it.

For all its warts, this nation has been pretty damned good to me. Why would I want to give that up? Men and women have died --in my lifetime-- to protect the way of life that I enjoy here in this nation. Many others have and do risk their lives to do so. Take a hard look at life elsewhere, and think about how good we've got it.

Hell yes, I'm an American.

Pickin' and Grinnin'

My wife and kids and I arose at 06:00 and went with my mom to go pick blueberries again this morning. Mom got a couple of quarts, and my wife and I picked enough to bulge out seven 1-quart storage bags well beyond their normal capacity, plus a pint or so that we ate fresh right away.

My girls picked about a quart of blackberries, too. We froze those, putting them on a pan single-layer and freezing them before bagging them for storage.

We are now set for some pies, cobblers, crisps, muffins, and pancakes, on the blueberry front. Sadly, that constitutes barely a taste, on the blackberry front. I grew up eating blackberry pies during summertime, and without black, I'm blue.

We were pretty hot from our jaunt through the patch in the sun, and were mighty glad that we had been waiting when they opened at 08:00. It was, for the second year in a row, the weekend that the berry farm held a fundraiser for the local VFD, and they had a bounce house, hamburger sale, raffle, and other stuff available to spend your money on for the VFD.

After about an hour, Mom was getting tired and needed a place to sit, and there was a booth to pay a buck and get 4 baseball throws at a strike zone net set about 50 feet from the table. I told Mom to sit in a comfy camp chair there, ostensibly to watch me throw. They had an older radar unit set on a folding table, and a bored guy with a clipboard took down your name and fastest throw. I knew mine wouldn't be much-- I had badly stressed my rotator cuff last winter on a slip on the ice on a slick bridge. But what the heck? A buck ain't much. My first throw was inside, but I was gratified that my last three throws, thrown as hard as I could get 'em, were well inside the strike zone. Yeah, yeah, I know-- it wasn't full regulation distance. But gimme a break-- I never played the game. I was also gratified that my top throw was the fastest on the clip board.

I returned to picking, and chatted with a guy and his son who were nearby. He asked me about the pitching thing. He nodded in agreement when I laughed that it's harder than one might think to get the speed over 50 mph. When our conversation drifted to college days, and the maroon-wearing Aggie found out that I had attended UT Austin for a year, I knew that he would be going to the pitching booth before long*.

When I checked by the booth an hour and a half later, I found that he had taken two turns to try to beat the Teasipper... and had failed. It's a sad day when 51mph takes the cupie doll, friends. But it's my cupie doll, so I'll bear it proudly. :)

__________________________
*I have never understood the fervor with which the Aggies hold up that rivalry.Even stranger, it is oft extended to the friends and family of Texas A&M alumni, against their fellow Texans. People that have never set foot on A&M campus will damn those "'Sips". Meanwhile, most of my friends that attended UT have always sort of viewed A&M as a respectable agricultural and engineering university, with nothing for them to be ashamed of.

Now you're on the incentive program, eh?

According to SiteMeter's crack staff of statistical analysis boffins, this blog is due to blow through the 100 thousand hits mark in about five to seven days.

Let's look at that number: 100,000.00

Okay, so the insignificant last two digits are actually completely gratuitous.

And when I think of how certain other rockstar bloggers got to 100k so much faster than this little scribblings did, I feel kind of silly even marking the event.

But mark it I will. The visitor who achieves my 100 thousandth hit will get to choose the topic of my very next blog entry.

I still want to be...

...a People Of The Gun, like Tamara. I've been asking Jeff almost as long as she has, but haven't yet gotten posted like she has. Star power, bay-bee.

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.

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.

Science.

When I was a boy, I thought that I was going to be a scientist.

What kind? Oh, don't bother me with details. I just knew that I trusted science a lot more than I trusted the strange assumptions that people make. I knew that I could get B's in math without really studying, and so if I really applied myself, I probably could be a math giant. You know, if I really wanted to.

Heh.

That should have been my clue. Math whizzes love math. They study it because, well Hell, why not?

To paraphrase Lazarus Long, if you can't express it mathematically, it ain't science. Thus, all real science requires math chops.

My best friend Scott knew this from an early age, and injected himself into the subset of scientists called "engineers." He got his degree in Aeronautical Engineering at Texas A&M, and in the process discovered that he'd need some computer chops at the same time; he copped a B.S. in Computer Science, as well. He went where the jobs were, and has enjoyed a career as a computer techie (I'm sure I'm using the wrong word, but he's too hardware for "Software Engineer," and too educated to be a simple "Tech."). Scott can righteously call himself a member of the science community. Heck, so can his wife Dawn, a state-recognized higher math teacher. (When you win awards for being the best at something that involves Calculus and the teaching thereof, you get to consider yourself a member of the Scientific Community.)

When I was in college... the second time, I think, I had a small group of friends that simply referred to themselves as "The Group." We would have long discussions, drink beer, and generally waste time. When a topic of Great Import would arise, we would put it before the Scientific Community-- people we trusted and expressed respect for-- to settle the issue. Being included within the S.C. in The Group was an honor; being kicked out of the S.C. was great shame. It was all chuckles, but it referred to our appreciation of true science. We had an anthropology major, a pre-law major, a biochemistry major, me (Gawd knows what I was at that time), an English professor... I can't remember them all.

We thought that we were pretty damned smart, though. And we respected science. There was no higher calling than the establishment of Truth through Facts. This was probably a fairly pure form of amateur philosophy, which many think of as a precursor to religion, but which is actually a precursor to science.

No, really.

Now I'm 35, and getting on in years even to be the grad student of Criminal Justice that I am. I have enough scientific training to smile at the fact that my undergrad degree is called a "Baccalaureate of Science," because Criminal Justice cannot yet be expressed as a study of repeatable cause-and-effect that can properly be demonstrated in mathematical equations. The only exceptions are the very few Criminology courses of evidence collection, like the blood spatter course that I took this past spring. Nonetheless, this fall semester I'm taking a graduate class on Research Methods of Criminal Justice. This is a class that involves the science of research, and is a truly scientific class. Yes, math and logic are highly evident. Yes, it will probably kick my butt. But my vanity about being a member of the Scientific Community and thinking of myself as a Future Scientist won't die. I want very badly to be a possessor of knowledge. So I study.

This doesn't mean that I don't have and give full respect to trades outside of science. I can sit for hours watching a stone or brick mason ply his craft with utter efficiency of motion. The other day I marveled at the proficient skill of a front-end-loader driver (he was operating a Bobcat) as he moved tons of gravel off of a pitched lawn without disturbing the grass. (Side note: All dedicated Bobcat drivers are at least a little bit crazy.) Gunsmiths, machinists, carpenters, drywall construction workers... all these people work with their hands, use their eyes and only the minimum of math for their work, and impress the hell out of me with the good work that they can do but that I can't. Any necessary trade done well gets my respect.

But I remember those days as a young teenager, when Scott and I would grin while conjecturing the exploits of "two young scientists, working on X, discover..."

+ + +

My new online buds Labrat and Stingray, "The Atomic Nerds" link to a page of demonstrations of scientists representin': trade tattoos for the S.C. If you have to go mutilating yourself with ink, this is a pretty cool way to do it.

I just now noticed...

...that Gay Cynic listed me as a recipient of his "Thinking Blogger Award." Thankyee, kind sir. But the compliment sounds a little backhanded, I think:

Better & Better is another blog I follow...common sense, humor, and practical advice appeal to me - what can I say? On the other hand, if I had to read a blog on fashion, I think I'd go slowly mad.

What's that supposed to mean?!?

Is it the green? Or the writing style? Or my sexy outfits?

Heh.

_ _ _

Edit: Looking at it some more, I think what Gay Cynic means, is that my blog is the antithesis of a fashion blog, and is thus appealing to him for its substance. Which is one of the nicer compliments I've gotten, if I'm reading it correctly.

From the SiteMeter report:

Can you figure out what time Tamara linked me?


It would have been even more dramatic if she'd posted before noon.

Heh. My friend's a rockstar.

Mud in the welt,

...spear grass in the laces, crap on the uppers.

It sucks that I'm expected, if I am to appear professional, to maintain sharp creases on my uniform trousers and shirt sleeves, have no spots, and maintain a spit-shine on my boots fit for court, while at the same time I have to chase critters (4-legged and 2-legged) through the brush and mud.

My next house will have a utility slop sink outside or in a shop or in a mud room. At present, I must use my kitchen sink and a vinyl brush to get the mud and crap out of the corners of my uniform boots. This is effective, but causes something of a mess, which makes my wife unhappy. Heck, it makes me unhappy. Then, after my boots dry, they desperately (!) need a good shine.

Occasionally, I can make it into town during daylight hours and hit the jail and get a trustee to shine 'em. Some of 'em are pretty good. Others... not so much. You never know what you're going to get. But for a dollar, it ain't bad.

Lately, I've been dropping my uniforms off at the dry cleaners. When I first started, I never did this. Frankly, I wasn't paid enough, and also, I hadn't fully grasped why those guys that always looked great looked so good. I'm pretty handy with a steam iron and a washing machine, but my very best days pale in comparison to what the couple of better local dry cleaners do to my uniforms. They give a minor discount to cop uniforms (which is smart-- gets cops, who are generally kind of blue-collar, to bring their stuff in, which in the long run brings in more business from themselves and other cops, and from word of mouth. It also puts good guys in badges and uniforms in your shop at unpredictable times all day long, which is very nice to have for a largely cash-oriented business.), and both of the shops I hit are small in-house family-owned businesses. I like supporting such businesses-- the counter lady at each one took to calling me by name the very first time I walked in, and they provide rush service when I need it. I try not to abuse that privilege, though-- they've got a rhythm to maintain, and I'm screwing it up when I ask before 0800 for my order to be ready by 1430. Like those old-timers that I used to notice always looked professional when I started, I figure that I'm making an investment in my overall outlook.

The price I pay is a couple or three of sawbucks a week, and the necessity of being organized enough to drop my stuff off and pick it up in time.

Right now I've got the dryer running on Permanent Press, trying to dry out my vest carrier, which reeked from last night's activities. The ballistic panels are lying in the sun on the back porch, airing out.

I need to move the collar brass and badge and pins and keys to the new uniform, which is just a daily thing, like shaving.

Yeah, it's part of the job. But like cleaning guns after shooting, it's not the fun part.

Devolving.

According to the Truth-Laid Bear Ecosystem, in the last week I went from a Multicellular Microorganism to a Flippery Fish, back down to a Slimy Mollusc.

I don't understand it... I try to better myself-- meet the right people, go to school, and I can't even attain fish status.

Ah well, it's not like I'd get an extra heart chamber or anything.

And if I recall correctly, squids fall within the phylum mollusca, and that would include my all-time favorite animal (well, at least, for the duration of second grade), Architeuthis-- the Giant Squid.

So, FINE. I'd rather be able to lay low Cap'n Nemo's Nautilus than be Finding Nemo, any day of the week.

Oh, and by the way?

I'm in a pretty decent mood for a guy who's working his 10th day in a row and won't see a day off until day 15.

Remember that Legal Issues Of Criminal Justice test that I had last week during my driving school? The one I really wasn't prepared for? (Trust me: I was WAY under-prepared, to my thinking.) The one which, 11 weeks into a 16 week semester, was to be the FIRST grade in that class?

The most notoriously difficult professor in the Criminal Justice Department of my university just returned my test, and I got an A. One of the few.

Haw.

[/gloating]

Just got the match results back.

Out of 24 match participants, I ranked 10th.

Oh well. I'd hoped to make a better showing, but these skills are perishible, and I've not spent much time with either of these guns. (Issue Car-15 and issue G-31)

Little things like getting my El Presidente down below 15 seconds wouldn't hurt. (17.9 seconds. Yikes. A Barney Fife draw'll do that to you every time.)

Carbine portion, I ranked about the same: 5th out of 9.

Dad also came and shot, but he gets a pass, due to recovering from his broken hip (I'll bet cash money that he was the only participant who griped that he'd forgotten his cane.), and also recovering from retina surgery that has disallowed him from shooting for awhile. Come to think of it, he wasn't doing any shooting during the autumn, with that broken hip and all.

Spring's here, and we'll soon be returning heavy metals to the earth at high speed.

Abusing the pride of Detroit

I''ve one more day of Police Tactical Driving School.

Enlightening.

I'm a man. We all pretty well assume that we each shoot better, make love better, and drive better than the next man. Add in that I'm a Texas man, and the situation is a tad exacerbated.
So it's hard on my ego when I'm creaming cones in what appeared to me to be way too much driving course andplenty of time.

We have acres of course set up and 3 minutes to negotiate the thing forwards and backwards. It's a VERY tight course. They gave us 3:00 minutes and 5 cones to complete it. I kept coming in just over, with 1 cone. Then even closer, with two cones. Understand--- everyone had to run it several times to finally pass it.

Finally one of the instructors came up to me while I sat at START. "You an ol' country boy?"

"Yeah. Used to be."

"Then get on it. Shred that thing."

I smoked out a 2:50, with 2 cones.

---------

Surprisingly, Crown Vics aren't just holding their own-- they're turning in the best times. The new Impalas, with their comfy rides an 60/40 weight distribution, are doing pretty badly. We've got good photo evidence that they're regularly lifting at least one tire in hard turns.

The Dodge Chargers have that licked-- they actually will brake the tire that wants to lift. Most of their drivers can't do much with 'em.

We have a Yukon that's doing great, surprisingly.

But it's a couple of 2 to 4 year old Crown Vics that are tearing the course up.

Could be cook, rather then kitchen though, couldn't it? :)

Shameless Exploitation.

Wanna see a picture of LawDog?

They're extremely rare, but I lured him into my house with a cup of decent tea, and swooped in with my camera while he was distracted. I don't even think he noticed, so candid was the shot:

Here he is.