Making progress...

I just sent off a signed purchase agreement for our house Up North. The world's greatest tenent not only decided to buy it, he decided to buy it QUICKLY and WITHOUT DRAMA. Have I mentioned how fabulous this guy is?

Other than the annoyance of trying find "legal size" printer paper to print the damn thing out, this has been incredibly painless since we enlisted the aid of the World's Most Useful Real Estate Attorney. He WILL be listed as a product endorsement after all is said and done with this.

Imagine, if you will, that you have a house more than a thousand miles away that you still own. And that although you have a tenant, you make up a monthly difference between his rent and the mortgage that is a constant, evil drain on your fundage.

Then imagine getting rid of this situation. Does this make Abby happy? Oh yes, it does.

More thoughts on Election 08

I wandered by Tamara's place earlier, and this post got me to thinking.

and what's gonna happen to the finger-wagging, lecturing, "Lesser Of Two Evils" voters if this election comes down to McCain v. Edwards or Clinton v. Giuliani, and there is no lesser evil? Are we justified in voting third party then? Or should we just say "screw it", and stay home?

I'm an Independent. That is, I'm not registered with either party. Upside: I get to proudly say, "I'm an Independent!" and I'm not on the party call lists (which doesn't really help, because Mr. Abby is a registered Republican, so they still call). Downside: In most states, including Florida, I can't vote in primaries.

I think most of us can look at the lists of Presidential hopefuls now and see someone we don't hate. The downside of our (mostly) closed primary system is that the True Party Believers pick their party's nominee.

Too often, that leads to each party nominating the candidate who:
A) Spends the most time pandering to their base
B) Has the most disposable income

So how about if we "tuned in" Independents pick a candidate and register with a party? Then we get at least some say in picking the nominee (if we live in Iowa, New Hampshire, South Carolina, etc - this is another major flaw in the primary system. How can someone be "hopeless" after NH and IA? I dunno - but it happens).

I'm not clear on this thought - I'm thinking out loud tonight. But I've had about enough of watching the Democrats nominate the individual who promises to hand out the most money to the "party base," while watching the entire Republican machine spend a zillion dollars to find the guy who can sound most indignant about prayer in school.

We've GOT to be able to make this primary system work better. Any ideas? We're still a ways out, but once I know where I'll be living for the primary season, I think I'm going to look into registering. Which party depends on what I think of the available candidates at that point.

More food for thought.

Best TV Channel - EVER

I'm not into watching any of the network shows - no American Idol, no Deal or No Deal, no CSI Oklahoma City - none of that. I keep CNN on most of the day, until the CONSTANT PRESENCE of Wolf Blitzer starts to make my eyeballs bleed.

Then I switch over to the satellite radio country music feed that comes with this magic satellite TV.

But at some point fairly recently, a new channel showed up. Discovery Health. This channel is fabulous. Like 80% of the programming falls into the Incredibly Fat People and Their Related Issues category. The other 20% consists of shows like Extreme Surgery, and Plastic Surgery Miracles, all of which show incredibly fucked-up people, and detailed operating room footage.

I have no idea why this appeals to me. Actually, I've got a couple, but they're pretty depressing. All the same, I highly recommend Discovery Health. Hours of entertainment.

Names from Karbala

Well, now we have it.

The Department of Defense announced today the death of four soldiers who were supporting Operation Iraqi Freedom. They died Jan 20 in Karbala, Iraq, from wounds sustained when their patrol was ambushed while conducting dismounted operations. The soldiers were assigned to the 2nd Battalion, 377th Parachute Field Artillery Regiment, 4th Brigade Combat Team, 25th Infantry Division, Fort Richardson, Alaska.

Killed were:

1st Lt. Jacob N. Fritz, 25, of Verdon, Neb.

Spc. Johnathan B. Chism, 22, of Gonzales, La.

Pfc. Shawn P. Falter, 25, of Cortland, N.Y.

Pvt. Johnathon M. Millican, 20, of Trafford, Ala.

Yesterday they announced the name of a CA officer:

Capt. Brian S. Freeman, 31, of Temecula, Calif., died Jan. 20 in Karbala, Iraq, of wounds suffered when his meeting area came under attack by mortar and smalls arms fire. Freeman was assigned to the 412th Civil Affairs Battalion, Whitehall, Ohio.

Our Bad Dog hearts go out to the families.

CPT Freeman, as a Civil Affairs Officer, was trained and was in Iraq specifically to facilitate the formation of functional government structures and processes. The infantrymen and their lieutenant were supporting that mission. These men died trying to improve the lives of others, and build a better Iraq.

We hope the Army takes a good look at how things are run down at the Karbala Government Center (or whatever they're calling it now) and takes steps to ensure this doesn't occur again.

I understand our desire to trust Iraqi Security Forces and local governments, and I understand that behaving in accordance with that trust is a way we show we're making progress in Iraq. And I understand the desire to show we're making progress.

However...it is not unknown that the Karbala provincial government is...not entirely on the side of the angels. We must deal with things as they are, not as we wish they were.

Godspeed, soldiers. Good work. We will not drop the ball.

Job Interviews

Once I'm through this process and settle on one of these several options, I'll be talking more about this whole silly process. It's been a long time since I've done a real job interview. And interviews for low-paying hourly service positions are something...well...it's been since high school.

It's interesting. Strangest, I think, is the idea that I, as the applicant, am supposed to pretend I think Kwik E Mart or McWeezel's or KWalMart or whatever is a Great Career Opportunity and that I'm interested in paths of advancement through the organization.

At the same time, the interviewers look at my resume and pretend they think I'm there for any other reason than because I need cash to support my hobbies and am desperate for something to do.

Obviously, I'm just there for a paycheck and I'm going to be gone the instant something better comes knocking. I have no interest in working my way up the Piggly Wiggly foodchain from bagger to district manager.

But at the same time, obviously I am a (reasonably) stable individual who will show up for work, sober, and not rob them blind. I also speak coherent english and bathe on a daily basis.

It's funny, a little, but mostly it's just sad for all involved.

Cookies - Product Endorsement!

OK, so almost everything pisses me off. But NOT THESE. I never even knew such a thing existed, but Mr. Abby is of hispanic descent, and apparently this is one of those things they've been hiding from us gringos.



Apparently the entire "genre" of these cookies are "Maria cookies." Iberia is one brand.

These things are obviously made by people for whom coffee is a way of life. They're just slightly sweet - it's definitely not like eating a package of Chips Ahoy with your coffee. Kind of a much-less-sugar shortbread taste. But they're very crispy. And thin.

The only downside is that the packages don't seal and they go stale fast. I find that problem is most easily solved by eating the entire package fairly quickly. Works for me.

You'll find these in the "ethnic" or "hispanic" section at your supermarket. It's part of the Great Hispanic Plot to hide them from us. Any brand will do, but this is my personal favorite.

grumble grumble...

I'm grumpy this morning. My dogs are annoying me. Politics are annoying me. I had another job interview this morning (followup) that went very well and still managed to annoy me.

Harumph.

I'd go shooting, but there really are other things I should be doing, which (you guessed it) annoys me.

I'm going to go take care of some business and then will post about a product that does NOT annoy me.

State of the Union

Let's just look at a few bits of this, shall we? I'm just going to ignore pretty much everything domestic, because that's all just the part where Bush tries to friendly up to the Democrats rather just dive into the Big Issue(s).

...we cannot fully secure the border unless we take pressure off the border, and that requires a temporary worker program. We should establish a legal and orderly path for foreign workers to enter our country to work on a temporary basis. As a result, they won’t have to try to sneak in, and that will leave border agents free to chase down drug smugglers, and criminals and terrorists.

You know, I'm not going to hold my breath waiting for the federal government to develop a program so simple and quick that desperate people think it's a better alternative than walking across the border. Sometime I'll do a "Story Time" about my week with INS.

...as we continue to diversify our fuel supply, we must also step up domestic oil production in environmentally sensitive ways.

I swear to God - is there anybody who still thinks drilling in Alaska is going to fix our oil issue? Because that's what the above means. Of course, it didn't happen with Republicans controlling both houses, and it won't happen now. Why do Republicans cling to this idea so desperately?

With the distance of time, we find ourselves debating the causes of conflict and the course we have followed. Such debates are essential when a great democracy faces great questions. Yet one question has surely been settled — that to win the war on terror we must take the fight to the enemy.

You know, I don't think the question has been settled.

In the minds of the terrorists, this war began well before September 11th and will not end until their radical vision is fulfilled.

Yep. We've talked about this here before.

To prevail, we must remove the conditions that inspire blind hatred and drove 19 men to get onto airplanes and come to kill us. What every terrorist fears most is human freedom — societies where men and women make their own choices, answer to their own conscience and live by their hopes instead of their resentments. Free people are not drawn to violent and malignant ideologies, and most will choose a better way when they are given a chance. So we advance our own security interests by helping moderates, reformers and brave voices for democracy.

Yes.

On this day, at this hour, it is still within our power to shape the outcome of this battle. So let us find our resolve, and turn events toward victory.

Which would require us to think of something beyond party politics. But what's a little thing like the outcome of a war compared with pandering to the voices of weakness?

A second task we can take on together is to design and establish a volunteer Civilian Reserve Corps. Such a corps would function much like our military reserve. It would ease the burden on the Armed Forces by allowing us to hire civilians with critical skills to serve on missions abroad when America needs them. And it would give people across America who do not wear the uniform a chance to serve in the defining struggle of our time.

What the hell is this about? Seriously - I have no idea what he's talking about.

I don't find this speech anything to be excited about. Jim Webb's rebuttal was...okay. I'm having a hard time feeling anything but despondent when I see any of these people talking.

I was taking it easy on the wine so I could post coherently about this, but it's time for another glass before bed.

Meat for them...

...and now meat for me. I have an excellent bone-in ribeye marinating while the coals get going. I have some peas on the stove. I have a very plesant glass of some sort of red wine (Abby wanders off, looks at bottle). Merlot. With some sort of bull on the label. Happy Bull? Drunken bull? Oh - Dancing Bull.

Whatever. I'm not a big wine drinker, but I do like wine. I've been slowly trying to figure out what I like so I'm not a total retard when people ask me. I think I normally prefer white wine. NOT the sweet kind. I believe the term is "dry."

However, apparently one consumes red wine with red meat. I used another merlot to do a roast a little while ago, and enjoyed the rest of the bottle, so I'm trying this Chipper Bull.

I even have wine glasses. I'd broken our last two over the past year. So I went to Target and got four. This is where Target is great. I'm not a wine snob, but I like to be able to offer someone a glass of wine at my house. These are certainly no display pieces, but they're very presentable, and - check this out - they were $7.99.

OK. I think my coals are ready. More later around the president's speech if I don't get too far into the Perky Bull.

I am SO FREAKIN' brilliant

So the dogs are not currently annoying me. Which is abnormal, since normally at about 1630 they start lobbying for food, activities and attention. How did I pull this off, you ask?

Simple.



This is the "beef neckbone." I get them from Publix at about three bucks for four. Then I roast them in the oven for a while. Then I pass 'em out and enjoy the relative silence.

The bones are sturdy. It takes Casey about an hour to get through one, and she occasionally ends up just burying the really sturdy part. I don't feed them poultry or pork bones (with the exception of the rare ham bone), and I'm very picky about which beef bones I serve. These work well and they're cheap. I recommend them.

Consider that a Product Endorsement. Beef neck bones.

Good stuff

BlackFive has an open letter from Ben Stein. Go forth and read.

Red Hot Poker - Election '08

Oh, God, it's starting.

Let's get this straight RIGHT NOW.

I am not a Republican. Yes, yes, I know. I'm a military type and I'm a gun nut. But that's about it.

I am not a Democrat. Yes, yes, I know. I'm pro-choice and I hug trees. But that's about it.

If the Republican Party disengaged itself from the unholy act of fellatio it's been performing on the religious reactionaries since the 80s, I could grow to like the party. I don't see any sign of that happening.

And the Democrats? Listen - legislation is very rarely the solution to anything. I oppose the nanny state. Wholeheartedly.

However, I am keenly, deeply, personally committed to and interested in the security of our nation. I believe in killing the living shit out of any person, group, nation or entity that threatens the ability of my fellow Americans to live in peace.

I will not support any candidate who advocates cutting and running from Iraq. I will not support any candidate who advocates negotiating with Iran and Syria before those countries put whacking Hezbollah on the table.

But check it out - I am not afraid anyone is going to take my guns in the next eight years. Nor am I afraid that anyone is going to overturn Roe V. Wade and make the missionary position with the lights out and everyone's eyes closed the only legal sexual option.

So, ladies and gentlemen, I think I am the center. I am the great, undecided masses. I vote. I always vote.

So who's my man? Or woman?

I dunno yet. Bill Richardson intrigues me on the Democratic side. McCain and Duncan Hunter intrigue me on the right. Newt Gingrich is a very smart man. Hillary is a very smart woman.

Barack Obama makes my blood run cold. I will never vote for John Kerry. John Edwards has great hair, and that's about it. Dennis Kucinich is always good for a laugh (followed by a shudder). Wes Clark appears to be insane, judging from that weird, ill-advised run he made last time.

Sam Brownback creeps me out. As does Mike Huckabee. Huckabee sounds like a nice guy, but I have that feeling he'd make me wear a house dress and have babies. And then insist they pray in school. Mitt Romney is Mormon, and I'm afraid of Mormons.

Giuliani could be intriguing, but voting for an anti-gun Republican strikes me as about as logical as voting for a democrat who wants to pass weird abortion legislation and drill in ANWR.

And don't talk to me about Ron Paul. That's not gonna happen. Although a general election that was between Al Sharpton and Ron Paul would be a hoot.

More on this as time passes, of course. I advise all the Bad Dog faithful to start doing your homework now. This will be an important election, and it will be in our best interests to force both parties to produce a GOOD, VIABLE, SMART candidate at the end of the primary process.

My Friend (yes, I have at least one)

In case you haven't figured it out, I don't have many friends. I hate most everybody, and our weird military lifestyle makes it difficult to stay in contact with anyone for more than maybe a year. And a year is a pretty long time in this world.

However, I've managed to stay in contact with one friend from the tour I did at Major High Silly Command here before Iraq. We'll call her MC.

MC is a couple years younger than I am. She's an Iraq veteran, and associated with the CA community, although as an intel weasel, not a 38-type CA dork. Her tour was OIF I (the initial invasion).

She currently works in some strange and probably frightening capacity as an intelligence-type contractor in the greater DC area. One of the people quietly manning the wall between us and the screaming hordes.

MC is a person in whom our country has a very significant level of confidence. You know those strange security clearances 17 levels above Top Secret? She has all those.

So you might not want to be aware that she is the World's Worst Motorist. In the two years since she left Tampa, she's managed to rack up so many minor accidents that she's been stripped of any hope of holding a driver's license until she's probably 30. This is someone who we've decided we can trust with pretty much any national security issue you can imagine. However, we cannot trust her to drive to Kwik E Mart.

It's SO BAD that her fiance has been notified that his insurance company intends to drop him immediately following the wedding, since that implied MC will be in close proximity to his motor vehicles.

Anyway, MC is great. She makes me laugh, and she's taken care of me a couple of times when I've pretty much slipped off the edge. She threw my "heading to Iraq" party (a story I'm NOT publicly sharing, but suffice it to say it was epic). And she came to Ft. Bragg before I headed downrange and helped me get my head screwed on straight. She remembered Abby's Mom and sent gifts in the days following her surgery. And she's got a great Dad. I'm sure her Mom is great, too, but I've only met her Dad (for a weekend festival of gun-buying that could be its own story).

So, here's my shout-out to MC. And should you ever find yourself driving around Our Nation's Capitol, and should you see a short chick with long, dark hair and about 750 security badges, and should she be driving...dive for cover.

And did I mention she was once a Hooters Girl? Crazy world.

Mission Top Secret

Sometimes I wish I felt comfortable sharing details about Mr. Abby's job with y'all. But it's not my business to do so - evil eyes may be reading and although he does NOT have a super-secret squirrel job, sometimes Bad People can derive useful intel from seemingly innocuous details.

So suffice it to say he just bopped out the door to drive all day, then turn around and drive home tomorrow. His mission is probably the most absurd one I've heard of in many years. It's not a stupid mission, because it does need doing, but still.

So what does that mean? Well, aside from guaranteeing some sort of household repair crisis, it means I will get to watch the State of the Union and pick my own meal to accompany the same.

Oh - the most absurd mission order I have ever received? From my Marine Corps days...

SSgt O.: Hey, [Abby], I got one for you tonight.
LCpl. Abby: What's that, staff sergeant?
SSgt O.: I need you to go to White Beach at midnight and take a picture of a ship.
LCpl. Abby: Huh?
SSgt O.: We're not supposed to talk about it before it happens. White Beach, ship, midnight.
LCpl Abby: Aye aye, staff sergeant.

It was a ship bound to support our intervention in East Timor, and I'm still not sure why we were acting all weird about it.

M1 carbines - You need one

OK - this is something slightly stronger than a product endorsement. I'm talking today about the M1 carbine. As the title implies, You Need One. And I don't care who you are. You do.

There's a ton of drawn-out info on these fine little weapons, so I'm not going to flog that specific dead horse. You can go here or here to find lots of handy specs and such.



I'm merely going to point out that this is a tremendously fun rifle to shoot (it IS a rifle, even though the round is really a glorified pistol round - see above technical links). It's good for what ails you out to 100 yards (beyond that in the right hands), and can easily be a tackdriver at 50 and 75.

ANYONE can shoot this rifle. It's gentle. It's short (as the term "carbine" would imply). It's semiautomatic. It's tough as nails. It's a great starter centerfire for young shooters. And if the whole world turns to shit around you, it's light and handy. Although the "End of the World As We Know It" crowd might gripe about its perceived lack of stopping power, it serves one well to remember it was good enough for the Screaming Eagles on D-Day.

Without getting too preachy, I firmly believe it behooves all of us to be prepared to defend ourselves and our loved ones should worse come to worse (Hurricane Katrina, Hurricane Andrew, the LA Riots, etc etc). And if you really want to get philosophical, no matter what side of the political spectrum you fall on, you can probably imagine a doomsday scenario.

So get one of these, take it to the range a few times. Buy five 15-round magazines and four 50-round boxes of ammunition. Put these in your closet and hope you never have to take them out. Best case scenario, your decendents will inherit a piece of American history.

What brings this on, you say? A wonderful organization called the Civilian Marksmanship Program has received tens of thousands of these rifles from the U.S. Army. In a month or so, they will be available for purchase (to those who meet certain criteria). Even if you can't purchase from the CMP, this influx should push the open market prices down into the reasonable range.

So go forth and buy an M1 carbine. Or buy two and give one to me.

Well, yes. I already have one. But it's a Plainfield (not by one of the original military contractors). I got it for a song, rebuilt the bolt, and threw a composite stock on it. It's a shooter. I fully intend to purchase one from the CMP when they become available. I'd like to get my hands on a Saginaw carbine (it's a Michigan thing) or a Rock-ola. 'Cause who doesn't want a rifle made by a jukebox manufacturer?

Karbala

Waiting now for the names from this happening.

Five U.S. soldiers were killed and three wounded yesterday while repelling an attack on the Provincial Joint Coordination Center (PJCC) in Karbala, Iraq, military officials reported today.

I know this building, its entrance and its security setup pretty well. I spent a lot of time sitting behind a machine gun on top of a truck in the parking lot, staring out at nothing much.

NBC reported tonight that it was a CA unit that was hit. I'd expect the names out tomorrow.

Many things I could say. I'll skip all that and point out my continuing hope that our national leadership doesn't negate the deaths of these soldiers along with all the others by caving in to our national ADHD and running away. If we want to win, we can. That, and only that, is worth this price.

I'm fairly sure I can guess which Camp or FOB these soldiers were from (it's one of two). If they haven't already, their comrades in arms will be gathering around yet another display of boots and rifles, saluting at the appropriate moments, and getting their minds right to go out and carry on with their missions.

Let's ensure we continue to have their backs.

Ugh...

Wild and crazy night at the gym. I generally dislike running on the treadmill, but it was both dark and rainy, which pretty much rules out the park. I've been wimping out on distance lately, and need to start doing the bridge (5.2) again regularly.

Keep in mind whenever I refer to running, that I am just about the slowest person in the world. When I say "good run," I'm referring to about a 37-minute mile pace.

Productive day

I hate productive days. I've already been useful once today (job interview - yes, it went well. Trust me, at this point I'm applying only for jobs for which I am grotesquely overqualified).

Now I'm going to go be useful again. The Bad Dogs are out of crunchy food and, following the advice of someone who commented here, I'm going to go track down some "sensitive skin" food. Wish me luck...

Oh - useful thing I learned from today's job interview.

I only wear one pair of slacks regularly (actually two, but they're exactly the same pair of pants), and they were dirty. Or wrinkled. Just not what I felt was appropriate. So I dug through the closet for any of the variety of slacks I wore when I last had an office job.

Success! A pair of Eddie Bauer khakis, neatly pressed, no fraying...no stains... I pulled them on... Huh. I guess between the war, the Summer of Discontent and all the running I've started to do, I'm a little smaller than I was.

I could have fit Sparky and a rubber chicken in my size tens. Oh well, the older guy who did the interview didn't ask, "are you wearing someone else's pants?" So I guess it was OK.

If that was my fashion no-no from today, I think I scored a victory by not spilling anything on my white shirt in the time it took to get out of the house and to the interview site. Small victories...

Yes, for those of you wondering, my inability to dress myself probably has played a part in my choice to spend so much time in uniform.

Hey - thanks!

I left a comment over on the Smallest Minority recently. (It's a gun people site, for my readers who may be interested) They very kindly visited my humble home, linked to a certain poop-oriented post, and threw me a few readers.

Thanks. I appreciate that.

I suppose if I commented more on the blogs I read, this might happen more often.

I shall now attempt to engage in good blog manners by adding them to my shockingly small blogroll.

Kiribati

I noticed I got some hits from the Republic of Kiribati after I referred to it in an earlier post. It appeared someone searched for that term and got me.

In that spirit, I feel I should say a couple of words about Kiribati, so that anyone looking for information doesn't totally waste their time.

The Republic of Kiribati is made up of many small islands. One of these islands is called Butaritari. That's the one I visited. Once upon a time, Butaritari was called Makin Island.

Makin Island was the site of one of our first offensive operations in the Pacific during WWII. You can read about that here.

As for the island itself... It's not very large. There's one building next to a dirt strip that serves as an airstrip. The local women who indulged me by stamping my passport wore old shorts, Joe's Garage-style shirts with their names on them, and sandals.

The official tourism site for Kiribati is here. If you have the chance, you should visit. I would.

Casey update II

I know you've all been on pins and needles. I can hear the barking and whining from here.

"Abby," you say, "how is Casey's hotspot?"

Well, here you go!



Yep. It's HEALED! Of course, after healing comes the part where she's got a bald spot. Judging from how her tail healed, I assume it'll be a couple of weeks before the hair grows back and she doesn't look...weird.

Oh yes, by the way, remember that she hates the camera. I had to hold her while Mr. Abby snapped pictures of her rear end for this. Yet another charming moment...

Arts and Crafts

I have an old Argentine .45. It's not technically a 1911 - the design is a little different. It's one of several foreign knock-offs of the famous design. Mine happens to be a Ballester Molina. It's got the Argentine Army markings, and was made in the 40s.

I like it. It's old and it rattles, and it absolutely refuses to feed anything but FMJ. And the sights are traditional GI-style (that is, miniscule). That said, it's stone-cold reliable with FMJ, and it hits where I point it.

My pistol's problem? Rust. The instant we moved to Florida, it started sucking up surface rust. It happens here, what with the humidity, but this particular pistol was impervious to all attempts to rust-proof it. I assume that was related to its age and rough life - any vestige of protective covering (bluing, etc) was loooooong gone.

Rust on firearms makes Baby Jesus cry.

So, not being afraid to charge blindly into the unknown, I ordered a couple of cans of Aluma-Hyde II from Brownell's. I disassembled my pistol well beyond the point I'd ever gone. I stripped EVERYTHING.

I stuck the pieces that were getting painted in the oven to heat them (as suggested with Aluma Hyde). I shook the bejeesus out of the cans. Then I sprayed.



Well, I'm pretty happy with how it turned out. One side of the slide has some texture to it. It's not bad at all, but I do notice. If it bothers me as time goes on, I'll strip the slide and do it again. You can also see on the forward portion of the dustcover where I whacked it before it was entirely cured. Doh!

I haven't taken it to the range since the paint job, but I think I'll do that this week. If this coating holds up well, I'll be very pleased with it.

Primary lesson learned: Plug all pin holes. Even if your gat rattles, a layer of this stuff will add enough thickness to moving parts that, well, it becomes difficult to move them.

Secondary lesson learned: I can do this, but for anything other than a total beater firearm, I'll probably pay a pro in the future. Duracoat looks way better and isn't all that expensive.

But this worked for me on this occasion. Ok, one more picture!

We're back!!

I have returned (yes, again triumphantly) to Bad Dogs Central. An entertaining weekend all the way around.

I had three missions this weekend.

1) Get out of the house. Once in a while, you just gotta leave the Man and the Bad Dogs and hit the road. Best thing about road tripping by yourself? Total control of the radio AND the bathroom/snack break schedule.

2) Check out a Reserve unit in South Florida. Although my Army paperwork is still dorked up beyond belief, I am going to have the opportunity to either be totally free or in the IRR very soon. I wanted to visit the CA battalion here to decide if I wanted to try to re-enlist (and deal with the ensuing paperwork nightmare) in order to drill with them. The conclusion? Nope. The unit seemed good, the people were great, but it's a long-ass way away and, with our pending departure from this humid purgatory, the paperwork involved would NOT be worth it.

3) Visit Auntie M, Cousin M (Auntie's M's daughter) and Baby Cousin. I haven't seen Baby Cousin since June. He's 2 and a half now, and a LIVELY little guy.

So - weather was good, driving was nice. I need to do a couple more of these before we leave here, since there are a couple of places (the Keys, etc) that I have yet to see. I'll have to get that on the schedule.

More thoughtful crap and some totally gratuitous full frontal gun pics later!

Road trip!!!

Ok - we're going off the net for a couple of days.

Sniff around and see if there's an old bone buried for you here somewhere. We shall return shortly.

Fair winds and following seas

to Art Buchwald.

A funny man, and a Marine Corps sergeant, WWII vintage, newspaper variety. Possible proof that coping with the military leads to a highly developed sense of humor.

Story Time! Sparky and the Kittens

Once upon a time, not so long ago, before the DoD moved us to Florida, Mr. Abby and I lived Up North. We had a house, and it had a barn and a couple of ponds (it also had two bathrooms and a washer and dryer. Not that I'm bitter). When we bought the place the owners had horses and dogs and cats.

"Don't worry," they said, laughing. "All the critters are going with us."

Liars. They took the dogs, and the horses, and the emotionally damaged donkey, but they LEFT THE GODDAM CATS. And we're not talking about housecats, either. Or nice cats who lived outside.

We're talking about Barn Cats. They left us an indeterminate number of angry, antisocial Barn Cats. We were never clear on the number, because they were ALL orange. We had at least three. Maybe four, and possibly even five. I don't know. One was very large, at least one was normal sized, and one seemed to be retarded, as it wandered in circles and had crossed eyes.

And had they been "fixed?" Oh no, they had not. Hell, you couldn't even get near them, let alone catch them and take them to the vet.

So there we were, with this fabulous house we'd just purchased, and our two Bad Dogs, and this gang of cats that we were only aware of when we'd enter the barn and they'd go racing up the ladder to the hay mow.

That is, until they started coming in the garage. And peeing in the garage. It was a nice garage, too. Until it started smelling like cat pee. And they'd come in the window if they couldn't sneak through the garage door.

I can hear you asking now, "Abby, you guys are Gun Nuts! Why didn't you just shoot the cats?"

Well, we tried. Problem is, we actually kinda like cats, and couldn't bring ourselves to shoot them. We shot at them occasionally, but somehow, a couple of "expert riflemen" (by various DoD standards) continued missing.

Then the Bad Pups (my stepkids) showed up for the summer. And what did the cats do? They immediately produced a litter of three inbred orange kittens in the barn. And kids loooove kittens.

So we couldn't take advantage of the opportunity to trap at least one adult and the kittens and transport them to the Kitty Gulag.

Weeks passed, and the kittens moved out of the hay mow and took up residence under the mower deck of Mr. Abby's tractor. The kids continued to obsess about them, and we continued to envision the exponential growth of our inbred, garage-peeing cat population.

Have I mentioned that Sparky CANNOT ABIDE cats? Hates 'em. Several times he'd pursued the adult Barn Cats into a tight corner, whereupon the cat would claw his face most viciously, bite him, then escape. We'd already had one close call with him and an infected cat bite.

One afternoon, Mr. Abby took the Bad Pups and went somewhere. I went out the front door to get the mail, and Sparky escaped through it. Being a terrier, he made a beeline for the barn. Where the kittens were.

Shouting, I pursued him. The sounds of kittens yowls, Yorkie snarls and other horrid, animal fight noises were coming from under the tractor. I hit the dirt, reached under the mower deck and extracted Sparky. Noticing he was bloody, I carried him back to the house.

There was blood on his face and blood on his paws, and he was itching to get back in the fight. After ensuring both of his eyes were intact, I tossed him in the front door and turned to face the barn.

Shit. I had a bloody Yorkie, and, I was guessing, a scene of significant carnage awaiting me beneath the tractor. I figured he'd done a number on the still-quite-small kittens. I also knew that this was not something I wanted the kids to come home to. The situation needed to be dealt with, and as I was the closest thing to a responsible adult present, I had to do it.

I trudged toward the barn. I did not want to see what was under the tractor. I didn't want to have to engage in any kitten mercy killing. What I wanted, in fact, was for my Dad to come and Fix The Problem.

Oh well. Dad was 10 hours away. I entered the barn and flopped down on my stomach to look under the tractor. Sometimes, being a grownup sucks.

Three little pairs of eyes peered back at me. I reached under the tractor and scared the kittens out into the open. Where they proceeded to give me filthy cat looks. They were fine. They were licking their bloody little kitten claws.

I shrugged and trudged back toward the house. To examine my Yorkie. Who had LOST A FIGHT WITH KITTENS. I don't think he's ever really recovered.

In the end, the Bad Pups left at the end of summer. We kidnapped the kittens and, in what could be another whole NOVEL of absurdity, kept them sequestered in the house to give them some human contact. One went to live with a co-worker of mine and became the World's Most Spoiled Orange Cat. The other two went to the Kitty Gulag. And the rest? Well, I have to admit, we didn't mention that to the World's Greatest Tenant when he moved in...

Automated Job Applications

So when you're sitting in front of one of those "Apply Here" kiosks and wading through the evil computerized application, is it a BAD THING to look at one of the questions and laugh hysterically?

"What is the total value of employer property you have destroyed or which has been destroyed while you were present?"
A - $0
B - $5-20
C - $21-499
D - $500+

Hmmm...what's the approximate cost of two massively dicked-up M1114s, one M240B and countless other stuff?

I decided that wasn't really what they were talking about and answered A. I'm probably going to Hell.

Teaser

Hey - I just got a comment from an old friend that reminded me of a story. I think tonight I'll brew a pot and tell y'all about Sparky and the Kittens. It's a bloody tale...

Good vibrations

It's shaping up to be an actual Good Day here at BDC. I just managed to shower without having the water go ice cold on me. SCORE! True, I had to use the evil shampoo/conditioner combination stuff, and it's possible I didn't actually wash BOTH armits, but I scrubbed my face and my ass and really, isn't that half the battle?

Those of you with normal hot water heaters...you have no idea. I'm getting ready to head out and about and I'm NOT PISSED OFF. Amazing what NOT being doused with frigid water will do for you.

So I've printed up a few copies of the old resume and made a couple copies of my Form 4 and all that good stuff. I'm going to go out in search of the first menial job that will hire me quickly.

By the time I make my next entry, who knows - I could be the night manager at your local Kwik E Mart.

Oh yes, and I'm also wearing my lucky underpants. They were clean. This is looking so promising I think I'll buy a lottery ticket.

Diversity

So I've noticed I'm starting to get some visitors from out and about around the country.

Welcome!

It's a little weird realizing that people are actually reading this. Weird but cool.

You'll notice a wide variety of topics addressed here. You'll find cute dog pictures, random gun-related stuff, thoughts on our involvement in Iraq, the occasional "back in the day" story, and of course, updates on the health and well being of Abby's Mom.

(Go Mom! 3 rounds of chemo down, 5 to go!)

And I'm getting some comments, which is fun. I'm not sure what to DO with them, and although I feel as though I should reply, I can't always think of anything useful to say. Fortunately, nobody has behaved badly in the comments section thus far, and I've been able to avoid learning how to "block" comments. Please keep up the good work - I'd hate to have to learn how to be mean.

So anyway, welcome to Bad Dogs Central! Sniff around - I hope you find something that smells good enough to roll in!

I want my new TOY!!!

Tonight's irritation is EBAY. I sold an object a couple of days ago and the buyer hasn't paid for it yet. Which is OK, in theory, because they have several days in which to pay. But it's ANNOYING me because that money is earmarked for a new toy (M9 pistol). I won't order the gat till I've got the money in hand.

So I'm grumpy. Harumph. Anyway, here's a pic of what my new toy will look like.

I like the M9. I'm not one of those who think it's the end-all be-all just because it's what the military issues, but it's an easy pistol to shoot well. 9mm ammunition is affordable. And I really wanted to have an example of the sidearm I carried for a year.

One of these days when I'm not poor (or when I find a bunch more crap to sell on FleaBay) I'm going to pick up an Evil Black Rifle that's similar to the M4. Again, so that someday, years down the road, I can say, "this is what Grandma carried in the war."

Now, if only it were legal/financially possible for me to acquire an M240B...

Story Time! Wake Island

Although you might not know it from the last few posts, I don't drink a whole lot. That hasn't always been the case, though.

I washed up on Wake Island once, on the way back from a trip that had involved the Republic of Kiribati and drinking on a C-130 with the remains of WWII Marines. Our mission complete, we needed to fly from Hawaii to Okinawa. You cannot do that directly in a C-130, you need to stop.

And when you need to stop in middle of the Pacific, you stop on Wake Island. We landed in the evening and were to take off the next day.

Wake is a strange place. There are very few people there. There are no natives. I recall a handful of civilians running the airstrip and plenty of ghosts.

Being a small group of Marines (me, the C-130 crew, four honor guard guys and their SNCOIC) with an evening to kill, we commenced to drinking.

Canned beer. And I recall it being phenomenally cheap. Actually, I recall the folks who were stationed at Wake buying most of our beer. I actually ran the pool table in their bar - the only time I've ever done that.

After we consumed a significant quantity of beer, someone pointed out that there was a beautiful lagoon and a BRIDGE outside.

You can see where this is going, can't you?

This is the bridge.


It was dark and warm and the logical thing to do seemed to be to take an armload of beer out, then take off our clothes and jump, one by one, into the water, where we treaded water and drank beers the helpful locals passed down to us.

You know, treading water in a lagoon at night while swigging beer from a can ain't a bad way to kill an evening.

Of course, now whenever I hear someone say "If everybody you knew was jumping off a bridge..." I have to laugh.

I think that picture must have been taken at low tide, since I remember it only being a short distance that a beer had to be dropped. And a side note - there is some degree of fitness involved in treading water while drinking, especially if you keep it up for a while.

Stay tuned

The voices DID remind me a story about Wake Island. I think I'll make a pot of coffee tonight and share that one with y'all.

THAT worked...

Nothing like a bottle of Cutty Sark to make the voices go away. I don't know that I really LIKE that particular Scotch, but it was the cheapest thing not in a plastic bottle. I think I prefer the Walker.

So, now the voices are temporarily gone, and I'm left with a slight headache and an icky, non-specific lower back pain that's probably related to knocking out on the couch, where Mr. Abby gave me a blanket and left me.

But it's a gorgeous day here (again), so I think after the Aleve kicks in I'll go out and about a little.

I know how to make the voices go away...

And it works every time. Bad Dogs Central is OFF the net' for the rest of the evening.

Balls landing...

Ok, so in reference to the earlier hint about a really great job...someone else will find out if that's the case. The government agency in question decided to "go another direction." (bastards)

Now, I've got a couple of other lines in the water, but that was the one I liked the best.

And then there are the voices. I hear them - do you?

Ahh, fukkem! You didn't want to sit inside at a desk and draft text for the rest of your life!

True, that part wasn't so appealing, but the money was good and the location was great!

Boooring...

Come on, I'm a grownup. I'm supposed to have a boring job! I should settle down a little. There's gotta be something...

Why should you settle down? You don't want to settle down. Settled down is halfway to dead. You know what you really want...

No I don't.

Yes, you do. You want to be back on the hairy edge.

But that's not a healthy want! I need to get over that! I need to want to be...a secretary, or a student, or a bureaucrat! And I do! I want to do that! And to come home every day and -

And try to think of something to cook and turn off the news because you feel like a weaseling shit? That's not what you want.

If I try maybe it will be!

No. Remember what it feels like to roll out a gate? Oh yes, you do. Remember auto-pilot, when you're not even in your head anymore, because everything is automatic? Remember what it was like to deal with other people who had a sense of purpose?

But I'm supposed to be thrilled to be back here and working at McDonald's is supposed to sound better!

Says who? Really, says who? You're supposed to NOT want to do something you're good at, and which is really, no bullshit, important? Who the hell is running your life?

I am.

Doesn't sound like it. Whatever happened to "a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do?" Does that only work for one gender? Is it "a woman's gotta do what a woman's gotta do as long as everybody agrees it's the best thing to do?"

I dunno. If everybody else is telling me something, though, doesn't that mean there's a pretty good chance it's right? Anyway, they're all just worried about me.

That's nice. I'm sure they are. But is living one's life in manner to not cause others any concern what we should be doing. Anyway, if everybody else got naked and jumped off a bridge, would you agree it was the right thing to do?

Well, yeah. See there was this one time on Wake Island...

You miss my point. Nevermind. You just think about all that for a while. I'll be back.

Have I mentioned how much I HATE the voices?

Today's depressing picture

So I went to visit my stuff today at the storage unit.

We don't have a lot of stuff, but the stuff we have is stuff we LIKE. I, for instance, like my books. Mr. Abby, for instance, likes his tools. Alas, our books and our tools live in the storage unit.

I'd seriously sell my soul for a garage.

Things Abby Hates

My neighbor has a bird. I don't know what kind of bird. Mr. Abby (who actually talks to the neighbors) has seen it and believes it's some sort of parrot.

It seems to live out on their back porch. And it shrieks. Frequently throughout the day. When I first noticed it, I had a moment of thinking someone was gutting a small child in the street.

Although I dislike children, I was about ready to go investigate and at least insist the gutter conduct his/her business more quietly. But then I listened, and I realized. It was the freaking bird.

Fortunately, being a bird, it shuts the hell up around dusk. But all afternoon...SQWAAAK!!!

I like to watch wild birds. I like to eat birds raised on farms. I think people who have birds as pets should themselves be cooked and eaten. What the Hell kind of pet is a damn bird?

Housekeeping updates

OK - so I switched to the "new better Blogger template" thing, since actual HTML coding was kicking my ass most viciously.

So we've added a sitemeter, since apparently someone other than my Mom (Hi, Mom!) drops by here occasionally.

I'm also working on some links on the left. The good, wholesome places are listed under "Tail Wagging Goodness." I'm issuing fair warning about "stuff to roll in." The only one there right now is Bane, who is often entertaining and occasionally horrifying, but I DO read him regularly. The "buyer beware" warning HAS been issued for anything I put up under that heading.

OK - I just stop cursing at Blogger for the night and go to bed.

Just a LITTLE gloating

You KNOW I hate Florida. But today...today was sunny and it was in the 80s. So you know what I did? Took the top down and drove to the beach.

I laid in the sun and read. It was fabulous.

You all may commence leaving profane comments now.

Oh, stop it. You laugh at me all summer when I'm dodging hurricances.

Getting in JUST under the wire

I almost neglected to wish you all a Happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day! Posting has been, as always, light on the weekend.

We seem to be winning with the hotspot, but I'm not making the mistake I made the other day. The licky collar is going BACK ON before I hit the rack.

Mr. Abby is asleep now...so don't tell him...but I'm letting Casey hang out in his spot on the couch. Shhh...

More fun than...

having my spleen ripped out by weasels. But just barely. As I'm sure you can tell from the body language in this picture, I was just thrilled to put on a stupid motorcycle outfit and go along with Mr. Abby on a motorcycle outing today.

I hate the motorcycle. I hate ALL the motorcycles. Oh, the things I do so my husband will shut up and stop asking me, "when are you going to go riding with me?"

Calling all my winos...

Via Old War Dogs, we learn of a new red wine, the purchase of which benefits the children of our fallen Marines.

Follow the link and you'll even find a review. Me - I don't care what it tastes like - it's a Marine Corps wine! You'll drink it and you'll like it!

Direct link here.

Casey update

Well, we're still at war with the hotspot. She managed, after about 20 hours, to figure out a way to lick around the flower pot. So we were forced to extend it. She looks very stupid now.

Here you can see her trying to escape the camera. Poor girl.

It's looking better, but if I don't see some serious improvement over the weekend, we're going to have to go to the V-E-T.

Sparky is not being helful, and runs around, giggling and insisting that Casey's got "The Mange."

Mauser - it's trippy cool!

You may remember me threatening the liver of my darling husband a few posts back. Please rest assured he's FINE - I have not yet skewered him.

But I COULD.

This here is what we call a Mauser. There are a LOT of "Mausers" out there, since most countries made them in the first part of the 20th century. This one happens to be from Brazil. It's a 30.06. I'm sure I absolutely decimated the collector value by re-bluing and polishing the wood, but it pleases me.

Note that, with bayonet attached, that's a BIG rifle. The tip of the bayonet, with the rifle resting at "order arms," extends slightly past my shoulder.

I pick this one up, and it's SOLID. Hell, it's HEAVY. I imagine carrying one of these every day. Not just carrying one every day the way you do in recruit training, or even today's war, but the way they used to. Every damn day in the mud and cold of European winters. In trenches and on mountainsides and in blowing snow. Or up and down the Andes in some South American banana war. Wiping the sweat out of your eyes with one hand while trying to keep this big damn rifle from tangling in every vine and tree.

But the sights are adjustable waaay out past 800 yards.

Damn. Different weapon for different wars.

That's the fun of old military weapons. Where have they been? The couple of Russian rifles we've got? Stalingrad, maybe? My old Argentine .45? Did the officer who wore it know about the old Nazi resettlement program? Did he drop a dime to the Mossad?

Random gun stuff

I am a devotee of the 1911 style pistol. I have three. I hate double-action pistols, and although three of mine can be fired that way, the only I ever DO fire DA is the snubnose .38.

So I do not love the Glock. I do not HATE the Glock, I just don't own one and I don't shoot them.

And I'm not really into "torture tests" for handguns.

But this - this rocks.

I don't know if I could do this to any of my personally-owned weapons. The rust makes me cringe. But this dude dropped his gat from an airplane, yo. So it's worth a read.

BOHICA

Just got an email from an Army buddy. I don't think she'll mind if I quote it in its entirety.

they just lifted the red line dude, we're fair game now. fuuuuccc***

"Red line" is a term that doubtless has some very specific meaning, but is one that is generally used by Reservists in reference to the "rules" of our mobilization/deployments.

The rules, as they stood, included, but were not limited to, the following.
1 - Thou shalt not be mobilized on actual "go to war" orders for more than 24 months.
2 - Thou shalt not be boots-on-ground in the AOR for more than 365 days (during any ONE mobilization).
3 - Thou shalt not be touched for mobilization for 365 days after getting DE-mobilized.
4 - Thou shalt not have to do more than two mobilizations, or, more than 24 months of active duty time. (This was nice because the Army always screwed around so much that many mobilizations actually lasted like 14 months, and we all knew they couldn't get their crap together enough to pull off a 10 month mob'.)

Of course, it's the military, and there are lots of caveats. And for those who enjoyed such things, waivers were available. And yes, some people do enjoy this stuff - one of the young guys I went to Iraq with had recently completed a tour in Afghanistan. He's either back in Afghanistan already or mobilizing to go again. He likes it. The money's good. And he has certain deep, psychological issues.

Anyway, the Pentagon finally decided that since the last round of Bush-related elections is over, it was time to go ahead and do this.

Until now, the Pentagon's policy on the Guard or Reserve was that members' cumulative time on active duty for the Iraq or Afghan wars could not exceed 24 months. That cumulative limit is now lifted; the remaining limit is on the length of any single mobilization, which may not exceed 24 consecutive months, Pace said.

What we're saying here is that they're rescinding Rule 4. Which sucks, I guess, but a lot of Reservists and Guardsmen have been able to see this one coming. My favorite bit of the article is this.

The fact that some with previous Iraq experience will end up spending more than 24 months on active duty is "no big deal," Chu said, because it has been "implicitly understood" by most that they eventually would go beyond 24 months.

Well, that's true. Military people are not, contrary to the way the media likes to present it, retarded. If there's writing on the wall, we can read it. Sometimes, way before our civilian friends can. And, young guys aside, we tend to be a pessimistic bunch.

In fact, speaking of writing on the wall, let me share with you my absolute favorite photo from Iraq. It speaks TRUTH.



One of the new MND-B commands that came and and took over while we were there decided all this graffiti on the barriers at BIAP was A Bad Thing, and had all the barriers painted. It was a sad surprise one day when we rolled in up there. However, there was new barrier graffiti in short order. Note to general officers - the American Soldier is a grumbly, sarcastic bastard. Attempts to erase evidence of that are doomed to failure.

Oh yeah - the post title - if you don't get it, well...Bend Over, Here It Comes Again.

More on readjusting - (warning - poop-oriented)

So, you say, beyond an understandable aversion to explosions, what else has Abby noticed about readjusting to the Real World?

(or perhaps you don't care, which is cool, but since you're hanging out on my blog for some reason I'm going to tell you anyway)

Toilet paper. Sweet, lovely, American toilet paper.

From early June until mid-January, I lived in the land of the porta-shitter. No flush toilets. All the porta-shitters were blue, and were reasonably well maintained by a small army of Sri Lankans who seemed to be in Iraq for no other reason. But Sri Lankans are an entry of their own, and that's not what I'm writing now.

The porta-shitters were the hottest places on earth during the days. Imagine you've been on a mission all day and somehow were well-hydrated enough that you're still sweat-soaked. You're also wearing all your armor, your helmet and a drop-down holster on your thigh. Your mission is over, and since you made the mistake of eating at the World's Least Sanitary Chowhall, there is an impending Gastric Event.

After your truck is locked down, you scurry to your tent. You drop off your machine gun and M4 and lurch to the line of porta-shitters by the tent. Some good soul with a Sharpie marker had designated one "female only." And it's EMPTY. You tear off your helmet and drop it right outside, then bang inside.

Of course, it's damn near 120 OUTSIDE. How hot do you think it is INSIDE? You realize, as your intestines are tying themselves in knots, that you still have your DAPS (your upper arm armor) on, and there's no way you're getting out of it in this tiny space. So you lurch BACK outside, peel off your armor and drop it on top of your helmet. Then BACK into the porta-shitter.

You are SOL if the shitter takes a mortar round, but Hadji is a terrible shot, and if he managed to pull that one off, well, you reason, everybody's gotta go sometime and at least it would make a funny story for your buddies.

Now you shimmy your trousers down (challenging - remember, they're sweaty and stuck to you, your hands are sweaty, there's a thigh holster in your way and every time you look down to try to figure out what's up with your belt, MORE sweat falls from your forehead onto your fingers).

Ahhhh...sweet relief.

You glance up in horror to located the TP. There's always some in here, but the Sri Lankans clean the things with a pressure washer and occasionally reduce it to a pile of whiteish pulp.

Fortunately, this is not the case today. They cleaned a few hours ago, in the morning cool, and so although the porta-shitter is steamy, the TP is at least dry enough to use.

Of course, it's lowest-bidder USGI TP, and so it's like scratchy tissue paper. No - actually, it's thinner than that. You use HANDFULS of the stuff. The sweat on your hands takes it halfway to "pulp" status the instant you touch it. It's okay, though, you just grab more.

Gasping for air in the steamy lockbox, you struggle your trousers back UP over your sweaty thighs, hitching your holster into place. It's at least 750,000 degrees farenheit in here, and your vision is blurring. You button your pants and lurch OUT, the desert afternoon feeling, for a second, deliciously cool.

You buckle your belt outside, among all the similar closets occupied by your male comrades and the less-speedy (or less-desperate) females. You shrug back into your armor and set your helmet on your head, and wander back to your tent.

Later, after ingesting something local and foul, you will have a night that lasts 300 years and will re-name the porta-shitter the "Blue Closet of Sadness."

And that, my friends, is why TP is a difficult thing to get back on board with. Great handfuls of Charmin are excessive and can, in fact, cause issues with real toilets. Also useful to remember when rejoining humanity - it is necessary to FLUSH a toilet.

Speaking of whipping wildly around...

I don't talk much about the creepy parts of being back from a long year in Iraq. For the most part, it isn't bad. I'm MILES closer to normal than I was when I initially got back. I credit part of that to our unit having moved to a place I call "Camp Happy" a couple months before we left Iraq. Coming straight from our first location to the US wouldn't have been healthy.

But for the most part, I don't do a lot of jumping. I know a car backfiring is just that. Once in a while a speeding vehicle in the corner of my eye will put my heart in my throat, and there was that weird incident with the chair in the road...

For the most part, though, I'm fine.

Today I was stretched out on the couch around 1500, thinking about taking a nap.

BLAM!

I rolled halfway off the couch and froze - what the fuck?

It was DEFINITELY an explosion, and it was reasonably close. (In my limited experience, explosions that are close enough to worry about have a flat sound. The big hollow booms imply the distance for an echo. Your mileage may vary.)

I jumped up (ducking, I noted), and stood a moment. Then I called Mr. Abby.

"You okay?" I asked. He does work at a big fat target.

"Yeah, I'm on my way home. Why?"

"Something just blew up. Close to here. Huh. Well, see you in a few."

There were no sirens. There was no shooting. I stood in the back yard, smoking and wondering if I was totally going crazy. It had been such a familiar Iraq sound. Coulda sworn it sounded like a mortar impacting.

A neighbor a few houses away walked outside and looked at me.

"Hey," he called. "You have power?"

"Yeah - why?"

"Well, this whole side of the road just lost it."

Ahhh...transformer. A transformer blew up. Iraqi transformers blew often (a spectacle, at night).

I exhaled. I am officially Not Totally Insane.

"Nope!" I called cheerfully. "Hope it's back soon for ya!"

Evil supermarket...

...thy name is "Sweetbay."

Once in a while, I require a grocery-type item after 10p.m. OK - quite often, since I'm damn near nocturnal. Tonight I wanted crackers and apples and root beer.

My local Publix closes at 10, and it was 10:15. So off I went to "Sweetbay," a happy grocery store that took over a less-successul Publix and seems to be angling for a slightly snooty demographic. Whatever - you're open late, I'm there.

But Sweetbay drives me INSANE. I cannot for the life of me wrap my head around their aisle arrangement. I went there one night to buy Grape Nuts - you know, that cereal that's like eating gravel? I like it. Anyway, I wandered until I found the cereal aisle. But there were no Grape Nuts. In fact, I noticed as I trooped the cereal line, there was precious little that didn't have loops, marshmallows or free toys inside.

I was befuddled in the truest sense of the word, and was about to give up. In fact, I started wandering away. Then I saw the other side of the aisle. It even had a sign. "Adult cereal." WHAT THE HELL IS "Adult Cereal???" Bran flakes shaped like hookers? With penis-shaped marshmallows?

No - apparently "adult cereal" is gritty stuff that resembles gravel. I found my Grape Nuts.

So tonight I was looking for root beer. I found the soda aisle. And there was Barq's, and there was Mug. No A&W??? How can a damn grocery store not have A&W??? I walked back and forth, building a steady seething rage. Decided to give the Mug a shot, so I grabbed a 12-pack and turned to go...

Yep. You guess it. A&W, other side of the aisle.

You do not even want to hear about trying to figure out which "hispanic" section the tortillas are hidden in. I give up. The worst part of it is, Sweetbay is filling me with self doubt. I stand in the aisles, then whip rapidly around to ensure the item I'm after isn't lurking behind me, dagger in hand. Making me crazy...

Swear to God...

If Mr. Abby makes one more SLLLUUUUURP while drinking coffee or eating cereal on the other end of the couch tonight, I'm going to mount the bayonet on my Mauser and get all World War I on his ass.

Note to any male readers: If you're happily shoveling chow into your mouth and you glance at your wife, and happen to catch her looking at you with a slight detachment and the faintest hint of distaste, and if you ask her, "what?" and she pauses before saying, "oh - nothing,"...if that exact thing happens, she's thinking about running a bayonet through your liver.

Work in Progress

We're trying our hand at HTML editing, as you can see by the first pathetic attempt at a collection of links down below the Archives.

Yes, apparently everyone in the world can build websites from scratch using HTML (whatever the Hell that even is), but please cut me a little slack. I haven't tried to communicate with these here "computers" in their own language since...1993? It was BASIC.

Again, your tolerance is begged. We're learning here.

Maybe I'm just bitter

So I took Mr. Abby for a car ride tonight, to return some movies. I explained my ongoing music issue to him, then proclaimed that he was getting a ride with the "Happy Oldies" CD.

I skipped around from "Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay," to which I'd been listening obsessively earlier. I found one that was happy - "Leader of the Pack." And I figured he'd enjoy that because it has motorcycle sounds, and he's kinda like a slow five-year-old about engine noises (aren't most men?).

Anyway, I assume you're familiar with "Leader of the Pack." Happy music - vroom! vroom! - then her father disapproves of him, and orders them to split up, and, in his grief, he crashes his motorcycle (complete with sound effects) and dies.

Mr. Abby looked at me. "That's happy?"

Well....yeeeeah?

Maybe I just need to buy another Merle Haggard boxed set and a crate of booze and stop trying to be cheery. I don't think it's me.

Update

Casey's hotspot is drying out. She looks phenomenally stupid in her licky colllar, and she knows it. It took her all day to muster the self esteem to go out in the yard. But it's a beautiful day here and so I just spent 15 minutes sitting in the sunshine petting her and telling her she's wonderful.

However, dogs are shallow beasts, and I think she'd really feel better if I made Sparky wear a licky collar, too.

Grasping at straws of sanity

Sometimes things get a little out of control.

1 - a job. I've applied for a great one and I think I've got a chance at it. But it's a government job and the process takes forever. Don't want to commit to anything else big until I know about this one.

1b - a job. Gotta do something. Dog toys don't grow on trees, yo. Mama needs some new toys of her own.

1c - a job. The Forest Service is hiring for some weird writer position on a small island in Alaska. And I've always wanted to go to Alaska. And I'm having this early midlife crisis...

2 - the Marine Corps. They're gonna send us somewhere. Fairly soon. Sounds like it's gonna be somewhere sucky. Don't know for sure until they send orders. Don't know when they'll do that.

3 - the Army. They finally think they might really be done with me. That's great - right? RIIIIGHT? True, I define myself more that way than any other and last time I got out I hated myself every day for it, but everyone who loves me thinks it's GREAT. So it is. RIIIIGHT?

4 - the house. In Minnesota. That we still own. The renter wants to buy it, which is great. But how do we get from the rent-to-own contract to the part where we have money and aren't making mortgage payments? Better figure THAT out... And when is that gonna happen? Because that might be...kinda important.

5 - my dog. She's itchy and her hair keeps falling out. If it weren't for my dog, I'd have changed my name and fled to the islands months ago. DAMN IT - heal thyself, canid!

6 - assorted personal shit I don't feel like detailing here but that gnaws at my brain.

So I found myself driving around today, gritting my teeth again (I swear I have no idea how I have any teeth left) and chainsmoking and taking deep deep breaths to keep from screaming. The radio was NOT helping. Neither was my current favorite driving CD.

(never listen to a custom driving CD when you feel like fleeing your life - unless you really really want to end up in Fort Smith working at a diner under an assumed name)

BUT! But - in one little apparent moment of good judgement back when I made my driving CD, I put a Beach Boys tune (Wouldn't It Be Nice) on it.

So I played it. Then played it again. Then went into PetSmart. Then played it again. Then went into Publix. Then played it again. Then I went home instead of just driving north and shedding my entire existence like a rat snake that's tired of its old skin.

So, since life in general doesn't look like it's going to sort itself out neatly anytime in the near future, I downloaded a bunch of HAPPY oldies tonight. More Beach Boys. The Supremes (the upbeat shit). The Crystals. The Chiffons. All that stuff.

And tomorrow I shall take out the music that makes me want to make excessively rash decisions, and I shall put in the Happy Oldies, and it shall remain in my CD player until I'm not mere fractions of an inch from going totally batshit.

Product Endorsement!

OK - this is a weird one, and it doesn't involve any dog pictures, so you may want to skip it. Unless you're into the internet and live in the middle of nowhere.

There was a post over Christmas about a new type of connectivity up at Bad Dogs (North).

Abby's Mom and Dad live in the boondocks. Now, I don't mean the total, like charter-a-seaplane-to-get-in boondocks, but from the internet connection options, you'd almost think so.

Mom's been using dial-up (Dad does not use the internet) for years now. And, as most of you know, dial-up had just sucked in comparison to the other options out there for quite some time.

And Abby's Mom wanted Real Internet. She wanted to be able to view photos larger than 50k without a ten-minute wait. She'd heard something about these "internet videos" and thought they might be interesting. Mostly, being Abby's Mom, she wanted to be able to rapidly switch between travel sites to find the best deal on plane tickets OUT of the boondocks.

But she was thwarted at every turn. DSL from the phone company? "We're sorry, ma'am, but that's just not available in your area, and won't be anytime soon." Cable internet? Ha! Like there are cables out there?

How about the satellite TV provider? Umm..sorry, not in that location. She thought she had a good lead on a different satellite access system, but alas, the boondocks have oak trees, and they are such healthy oak trees that apparently they block out the line of sight to outer space. Or some such idiocy. It wouldn't work, the technician gently explained, before he drove away.

Abby's Mom was pissed. Highly. By the time Mr. Abby and I made it there for Christmas, she was eyeing Dad's chainsaws and thinking of solving oak tree problem. Dad was quietly pulling me aside and asking if there was anything that could be done "to get that damn internet or whatever in here," since he was starting to get vibes that she might burn the house down and insist on moving somewhere with FIOS.

So we scratched our heads. Then saw it on TV. Sprint/Nextel offered some sort of magic "card" that, when attached to a "computer" would enable the user to get to "the internet" through the magic of something related to cell phones.

So we called them. Well, they had card and some internets, but...(come on, say it with me)...it wouldn't work in the boondocks.

However...Mom has an Alltel phone...so we called Alltel...and then Mom and I went to the Alltel store...

And a week later, after Mr. Abby upgraded her RAM, installed Windows XP instead of Windows Boondocks and added a new graphics card...and after we found a magic adapter so you could plug a PCMCIA broadband card into a desktop expansion slot...we had VICTORY!!!

It's not quite FIOS fast, but it IS a huge step up from dial-up. And it's really not too expensive, when you compare it to a second, dedicated phone line and dial-up subscription. It's a WAY better deal than the satellite providers.

Props to Alltel. If YOU live in the boondocks and want to escape dial-up, it's worth a shot.

Why yes...

that IS a flower pot on my dog's head.

WHAAAT???? We're poor, yo.

And I'm a tree hugger. So we saved money AND recycled.

Some day I'll tell you how, using only duct tape and 550 cord, you can turn old uniform Tshirts into new underpants for the man in your life.

Woe is Dog...Dog is Woe...

Well, here's one I haven't had to do before. Casey developed a "hot spot" on her tail while we were at Bad Dogs (North). This was treated successfully w/ Benadryl and cornstarch. However, when we got back, she began working one up on the left side of her back.

It's been getting worse, and today it finally showed itself - a large patch of raw, hot, apparently itchy as HELL skin. And of course, being a Bad Dog, she was licking it wildly, in the futile Dog Hope that licking would fix the problem.

I brushed the hell out of her. Then, when Mr. Abby got home, we bathed her with special anti-itch/anti-skin bacteria shampoo. Then we cornstarched the spot. And she immediately licked it off. That was okay, since I'd forgotten the peroxide. So I rewashed the affected area, then peroxided it.

Meanwhile, Mr. Abby was at work on the licky-collar. Which she's wearing now, along with a healthy dose of foot powder on the area. We shall see...

She doesn't appear to be able to lick it. She does, however, apppear highly pissed at us.

Ah, shit...

Bad news from Baghdad.

We know the surviving Airman. His wife (also an Air Force NCO) worked with Mr. Abby here in Tampa. I met her husband a couple of times when he came down to visit. He's a very good guy - an EOD tech with a ton of experience. A true, dedicated professional. When I met him, he was working in a R&D type capacity here in the States. Even before he returned to actual EOD field work, he's probably done as much as anyone to keep our folks in the Sandbox alive, by learning how to better handle and mitigate the goddam bombs.

Anyway, he's headed to Germany and, depending on how long he's going to stay there, his wife may or may not join him. They currently live in the DC area and if he heads to Walter Reed, she'll be there. I'll refrain from over-sharing someone else's personal business, but it does look as though he will recover.

I didn't know any of Bill's teammates, but our condolences go out to their families and friends.

If you feel the need, Soldiers' Angels is a fabulous organization that cares for our wounded from the moment they hit the ground in Germany until they're discharged from stateside hospitals. I invite you to give till it hurts - our men and women certainly have.

Since you asked...

Yes, Sparky DID receive a haircut after we returned to the Humid Bog that is FLORIDA.



Fortunately, hair grows BACK. I have GOT to get a job...

Open letter to my MOM

Dear Mom,

Thank you very much for hosting the entire Pack for a fabulous Christmas. Thank you especially for all the thoughtful gifts. About one of those gifts, though... I deeply appreciate that you thought of Sparky and his passion for squeaky toys. I also appreciate that you took the time and expended the effort to find the Orange Dude.
Sparky ALSO enjoys the Orange Dude. In fact, he enjoys it for several hours a day. Normally in the evening when we're both home and trying to watch the news, but often later in the evening when we're trying to eat dinner and chat.

His enjoyment of the Orange Dude is, in fact, so extreme that when we try to TEMPORARILY take it away from him, he yaps and paws at us hysterically. Sometimes he brings Orange Dude to bed, which can be...well, either awkward or amusing, depending on the specific evening.

Did you know that Orange Dude is totally indestructible? No matter how vigorously it's chewed, even if it's passed off to CASEY for some chewing, it JUST KEEPS SQUEAKING.

So, in short, Mom - thank you for the Orange Dude. In response to your thoughtful selection of this toy, I'm already shopping for some Squeaky Slippers that you can wear around the house to amuse Sarge.



Your loving daughter,

Abby

Ahhh...self esteem boost

You know what makes me feel good about myself? Going to the laundromat. For those of you who are still unaware, the Crackhouse does NOT feature laundry facilities. Or even the possibility of such facilities.

So every ten days or so, it's off to the laundromat I go. It's normally an annoying and expensive experience, but it DOES make me glad to be me. For instance:

A - the laundromat makes me feel THIN. Ever observe the normal patrons of your local laundromat?

B - the laundromat makes me feel as though I've made GOOD LIFE CHOICES. That is, I'm not surrounded by squalling brats clutching fast food packages. Further, I'm not surrounded by a pack of squalling brats, EACH OF WHOM LOOKS JUST DIFFERENT ENOUGH that you know that if they all belong to the same woman, they also all belong to different men.

C - the laundromat makes me feel FINANCIALLY SUCCESSFUL. Yeah - I know, it's a stretch but observe:
1. I have actual laundry bags. True, they're Army issue, but at least I'm not toting our dirty clothes in plastic Publix bags.
2. I drive to the laundromat. Nothing more depressing than someone who rides up on a bicycle with the plastic bags on the handlebars.

So, although normally I'm not into inflating MY self-image at the expense of others, the laundromat reminds me that even though I feel that this stage of my life is the "impoverished, white-trash, living under a freeway overpass" stage, it COULD be worse.

You might be an old NCO if...

you're cleaning out your closet and decide to throw away several of the many pairs of combat boots.

But FIRST, you remove the laces and tuck them away in the "gear bin," just in case.

Because, you know, it's so hard to find boot laces here in the USA.

Favorite quote from Christmas

Just for any of you out there who don't know me, I am NOT the Queen of Fashion. Not even close. However, having the Bad Pups around this Christmas forced me to ennunciate something that I think we can ALL agree is a Basic Rule of Fashion.

"If you wore it squirrel hunting this morning, it is NOT acceptable for Christmas Eve!"

Keeping that one basic rule in mind will probably stand us all well in the long run.

Random cool shit

So all the Bad Dog Faithful out there know I have a little...thing for firearms. Most of you also know I have a thing for cool containers and kits. I own an Otter Box, for god's sake. And a Pelican case.

Recently I've noticed an incredibly cool trend of firearms coming from the manufacturers as part of a "kit." This trend seems to include cool packaging. I first ran across this from Smith and Wesson...



How cool is THAT??? Now, to be reasonable, I cannot imagine EVER buying a S&W 500 - it's an insane firearm for anything other than big game hunting - and I can't imagine why ANYONE would buy one with a 2.75-inch barrel. Ouch. Further, after some reading about bear attacks, I'm not really convinced I'm going to shoot my way out of the jaws of a grizzly. However, if you're paranoid, or wealthy enough to spend $1,399 on something that amuses you, well, then, this is IT.

Then today I found THIS, from Mossberg...


Again - wouldn't buy one. 12 gauge shotguns aren't my thing.
Pistol grip shotguns are also not my thing. But for the truly paranoid, this ROCKS. The blued version comes in the OD tube and includes a "Survival in Can" kit. The stainless one comes with sort of folding knife/mulitool in a velcro pouch. I assume the tubes float. I don't see a price on this puppy, but I'd guess at an MSRP around $699.

This trend is fabulous. One of my biggest gripes when I buy a new pistol is the lack of cool packaging. Just a crappy little plastic box with a gun-shaped cutout. I'd get better boxes if I bought cigars. It's a little disappointing when you spend hundreds of bucks on a new toy to not even get a cool Pelican-style case. Maybe it's coming...

Home again...

much to our chagrin, the Bad Dogs and I have returned to Tampa (we brought Mr. Abby home, too). A wonderful Christmas up north.

Tampa is, of course, hot and damp and generally foul. More to follow, but it's New Year's Eve and I have beer to drink.

Merry Christmas from the family!

TEAMWORK is the key to a successful Christmas celebration!



First, Casey must PATROL the Christmas area, ensuring a fire is burning for proper ambience, and securing the living room from roving bands of dog treats.



THEN, Sparky must MODEL his Christmas neckwear, while at the same time warming the legs of one of the Bad Pups (the Bad Dog stepkids).



Finally, all Christmas chew toys must be LICKED into shape. An aside, what Abby learned this Christmas: If the BOXER receives a squeaky moose puppet, it's a BAD IDEA to put the puppet on one's hand, then SQUEAK it. Good way to get one's hand CHOMPED by said boxer.

Oh well. Merry Christmas to all the Bad Dog Faithful! Bonus points for you if you know the song from which the title of this post came!

So sorry...

for the lack of posting recently. We're up at Bad Dogs (North), with the stepkids, having a grand old time. Abby's Mom is progressing with her Full Frontal Assault on breast cancer, and is handling her chemo very well (she's had one round).

Also, posting has been impeded by....well, a picture would describe this best.



See? How can I be expected to work under these conditions?

Testing...

testing...ahem...one...two...three...

we're trying a new connection service from Bad Dogs (North). Real updates to follow shortly. Please stay tuned.