Showing mine over here, boss!

OK - I'm going to stop thinking about this post and just DO it, before it turns into one of those many things I put off far too long. Here was my task:

I was thinking it would be cool to make a meme about favorite childhood toys with pictures and descriptions. I found pretty much everything on Ebay and google images.

I'm going to preface this by pointing out that I was a rural only child. It's not like I didn't have toys - I did (I think) - but I don't remember playing much with them. If I wasn't walking around in the woods with a childhood dog, I mostly remember being holed up somewhere with a book. But...there were a few.

Remember this?



This game ROCKED. Now, there's wasn't much of a point to Hungry Hungry Hippos. You controlled the Hippo's mouth and tried to get your hippo to eat more marbles than anyone else's hippo. But it was cool. I mean, it has marbles. And hippos.

But for sheer parental annoyance...who remembers this one?



Oh, yes. You do. Now, this was only mildly fun, since I've always had about zero artistic talent. But it had pegs. And lights. So it was cool. And I'm fairly sure both of my parents still have scars on their feet from stepping on the pegs.

And then there were these.



I was born in 78. So I was the perfect age to be an utter little Star Wars dweeb. I had dozens of these things. And their ships. And their vehicles. The age of my greatest obsession happened to coincide with the age at which children like to have toys in the bath.

So yeah, I've been naked with Ewoks. And Admiral Akbar. And all the rest of them.

The Rock from Iraq

So I'm having a nice glass of this merlot stuff and chilling out. It's a no-run day for me. When I started running a lot this summer, I tried to go every day, but that gets very rough on my poor ankle, so after two running days, I try to skip one.

See, I actually DID manage to get hurt in Iraq. Oh no - no actual "wounding" for me. And I'm very thankful for that.

Toward the end of our tour, we moved to Camp Happy. Camp Happy was a safe place, compared to our previous location. It was so safe that we were allowed to run around the inside perimeter of the camp. So I did.

My good efforts were rewarded by me being attacked by a rock. I'm out there, trotting slowly along, then SNAP! - a rock leaps up, trips me, and hurls me to the ground.

The embarassing part? This happened at the foot of a guard tower. I was laying in the dirt, starting to feel my ankle in a very bad way and thinking about having a good cry, when I heard a chirpy little voice.

"Ma'am? Ma'am, are you okay?" It was a friendly private from the guard tower.

Shit, I thought. Now I can't cry.

"Don't call me, ma'am - I'm a sergeant." I took a deep breath (not crying, not crying, not crying). "Yeah. I'm just going to drag my broke ass over to the aid station." (So far away I could barely see the building)

"Are you sure you don't need me to call someone, sergeant?" Goddam polite, helpful, useful soldiers.

"No, thanks. I'll make it. Thanks for coming down, private." I trudged off, dutifully not crying.

I'd so viciously wrenched my right ankle that by the time the medics x-rayed it, they were amazed it wasn't broken. After walking all the way to the aid station on it, I was amazed it wasn't broken.

It healed nicely (no lost mission time for Abby!), but they had hinted there might be some ligament damage. I don't know about all that, but I do know that if I pound it several miles on the pavement for three or four days in a row, it hurts. So I don't do that.

It IS a little embarassing that a badly twisted ankle is my war wound, but it beats most of the alternatives. And it gives me an excuse to sit around and drink wine every couple of evenings.

And to blog. And I'm working on a post...Hammer tagged me, and so I'm collecting some images....

Laundry load-out

I'm having a slightly hostile day here. But I did manage to accomplish LAUNDRY! Which bummed me out, but I'm having one of those days when EVERYTHING bums me out, so...whatever. It'll pass.

Anyway, I thought y'all might enjoy an image of my laundry preparations.



Yep. That's ten days worth of Bad Dog laundry (plus towels, I only do those every OTHER trip) packed up and ready to go.

What? Oh, you have a question?

Abby, what else do you drive around with? I mean, there's a bunch of crap there in your Jeep. What's up with that?

Oh. Well, there's the red and black toolbag. That has all my get-out-of-a-bad spot stuff. Winch cable, towstrap, treestrap, ratchet straps, bungee cords, zip ties, hatchet, chemlights, etc.

We also have the green plastic case of cheap handtools. My husband tends to steal my tools, so I bought a cheap set of ratchets, etc at WalMart and I hide them in the Abbymobile.

There's a tent - big enough for two friendly people or me and Casey. Semper Paratus.

Also, binoculars, a birdbook, two flashlights, Olay Daily Facial Wipes, a big bottle of water, Off! bug spray, a Tshirt I can put on to run in someplace if I've been running in a sports bra, a blaze orange hunting vest, a one-size-fits-all belt slide holster, and half a bag of Jolly Ranchers wedged under the driver's seat.

You just never know.

Hold on - another question?

Abby, you're a gun nut! Don't you have a truck/trunk gun?

Nope. I drive on and off base all the time and that's one rule I don't play around with. If I'm carrying, I carry. If I'm on a road trip, I just toss a pistol on the passenger seat and throw a shirt over it. That's why the generic belt slide.

More on the movie issue

I detected a little disbelief when I was referencing Mr. Abby's weird-ass taste in film in a recent post. Of course he likes all the stupid guy movies, but that's not the disturbing part. Nor, really, are the foreign films about family dynamics and food. I don't get the obsession, but I'm down with ethnic cooking flicks.

No - the weird part is when he brings home something utterly off-the-damn wall. Long ago and far away, when we were dating, he went to the base video store. Now, there ain't a lot of options at the CAMP HANSEN, OKINAWA video store. But he came back with a weird one.

Ever hear of "Passion in the Desert?" I still cannot fathom why he picked it. Even weirder, we watched the entire thing. I endured it - he seemed to really enjoy it.

It's a mystery.

Story Time! INS

Several years ago, when I was newly released from God's Blessed Marine Corps, I worked as a security guard Up North. The company I worked for had a contract to provide armed security at federal buildings, and that's what I did.

Soon after I was hired, before I started my climb Up The Ranks of security guards, I got called to fill in at the Immigration and Naturalization Service for a week since their normal guard was...I dunno, fishing or something.

Yes, this was shortly pre-9/11. INS is now called [pause for Google search] US Citizenship and Immigration Services. Whatever.

This was the setup. It was an office in a small building in an office park. This was where people in all stages of the immigration process came to get forms, file paperwork, follow up on paperwork, have interviews, etc etc.

It was Hell on Earth.

The office opened, I believe, at 0800. People would start lining up before 0700. People do not go the INS by themselves. They take their entire families. We had zillions of hispanic immigrants, of course. This particular metropolitan area also has zillions of Somali refugees. And many, many southeast Asians.

OK. So we're getting the scene set. By the time the doors opened, there were eight billion people there. The average group size was...four people. The instant the doors opened, they formed a pretty good line (it's worth noting that orderly lines are a western european concept. Truly. Apparently standing patiently in line with the assumption that the que will progress in an orderly manner requires a leap of faith most folks from the developing world can't quite make).

Do not think for a second you could get out of line to pee or go out and have a smoke or whatever. If the guy behind you wasn't feeling kind (and remember - random kindness toward strangers is also a phenomenon largely confined to the western world), you were headed to the back.

Most of the line was out in the hallway. Once you got through the big double door, it continued through one of those maze-type things. After the maze, you'd see an INS employee in an elevated cage who would hear your issue or take your form, then give you a number and direct you to a seating area.

My job was to occasionally stick my head out in the hall and make sure the masses were behaving. Also, I was encouraged to offer them forms to fill out. Once they got inside, I was to act disapproving and scold them if they spoke too loudly, because that annoyed the INS employees.

The INS employees. The singlest rudest group of fuckheads I ever encountered in government. I seriously questioned the morality of returning to my post after the first day, since I felt like I was participating in great wrongness.

OK. If you work at INS, you have to speak to the public. I'm familiar with the public, and they can be really really annoying, but if it's part of your job, you have to treat the public in a civil manner.

Also, if you work at INS, a lot of the public you have to speak with will not have the greatest command of the spoken english language. It's just the way it works. Actual immigrants (you know, adults?) frequently never gain mastery of the english language. Their children do, but it's asking a lot of a 40-year old guy from Senegal.

So the INS employees were rude. Very rude. And the part that rubbed me wrong was that they were gratuitously rude to people who didn't speak much english, and over whom they had much power.

Listen - that ain't right. If your life sucks, yell at your spouse or your dog. Or quit your job, change your name and open a bar on the beach in Mexico. Do not take out your frustrations on a defenseless group of people that it is your duty to serve.

Asswipes.

Picture this. There's a man and a woman and she's carrying a baby and they have a 12-year old boy with them. They wait in line for five hours (I'm not shitting you) to get to the window, where some fat cow sighs in irritation (because, you know, she's like a GS-7 making 40 grand a year to sit on her ass and hand out paper numbers and it's just so damn hard) and shouts "what do you want?"

The man is holding a letter, and he holds it out and says "Buenos dias," then looks at the boy, who says "yes ma'am. My father got this letter and it's telling him his greencard is about to expire and he sent in the extension paperwork and the money and he has this proof and they haven't sent him a new one and-"

Then the cow grabs the paperwork and peers at it.

"He hasn't got the new one?"

"No. And he sent the money and-"

"Have you moved?"

The boy translates, the father speaks, the boy answers the cow.

"Yes, we moved last-"

"Well, that's why. They won't forward green cards."

The boy and the father and the mother confer, then look at the cow.

"We did not know. How does my father get his new card? He sent the money and-"

"It doesn't matter. If you moved then they destroyed it. You'll have to send another application."

"But the money-"

"That's too bad. Fill out this form and send it again."

Now, I understand that this entire system is fucked beyond belief. The employees who deal with the public are only a small part of the total problem. People send off these forms, which they fill out with great trouble and care, along with checks and money orders, and hear nothing. For months. Sometimes for years. And if they go to an "information office," they get treated like shit. For trying to do the right thing.

That ain't right. Listen - the vast majority of the rest of the world is all jacked up. You put an immigrant from some shithole like Somalia or El Salvador into a line with rude government functionaries, he's scared shitless. I mean, we're talking about people from places where just about any government flunky can disappear you. And I mean the BIG "disappear." They're not going to argue, they're not going to raise hell. They're going to go home with a duplicate form and get the best english speaker in their little community to help fill it out, then they'll either send a check or a money order representing an assload of money. And they'll do it again and again.

INS got away with this rudeness and incompetance precisely because they were bullying people who are used to being bullied. I know lots of rude government employees, but I've never seen one approach that level with any American.

And we all know why. Americans will only stand for so much of that shit, no matter how downtrodden we are. While working the same job, I occasionally filled in at Social Security Administration offices. I've seen poor people, hookers and 80-year-old codgers stand up and demand to talk to someone in charge. I've also escorted a few of the out of the building (usually gently) for exersizing their God-given right as Americans to not take any shit off of government flunkies.

Working with INS was one of the very, very few times I've ever felt ashamed to be working for the U.S. Government.

Oh yes...I did have a tiny sense of revenge, though. See, Mr. Abby is an immigrant citizen. And he lost his naturalization certificate. I dunno - it was there, then we moved, and it wasn't. So he had to get a new one.

So he changed into civilian attire and went down to the INS office. He stood in the line for several hours. Then he got up to the information cage. And the cow spoke rudely. And somewhere after the part when he slapped his ID card down in front of her, identified himself and began giving an impromptu class on common courtesy, and before the part where he went over the counter and tore her head off, a supervisor materialized and offered assistance.

Good for Mr. Abby. But not so good for everyone else.

We have a serious damn problem with immigration in this country. If we can't handle the routine paperwork for people who are doing things the right way, we don't have a prayer of coming up with a solution. And if we cannot treat those people who are here lawfully with common human decency, I doubt we have the bureaucratic dedication to really fix any of it.

Customer service is a simple thing, but it's a huge thing.

Training my Outlook

I recently kicked my Army email account to the curb, since we're working toward a point where both the Army and I can agree on the fact that I'm like...you know...OUT.

I have a Google (Gmail) account. So I set it up to work with Outlook, since I'm not afraid of Outlook and the interface beats the heck out of the internet mail crap. I also set up spell-check, because although I type very quickly, I also type like a total chimp.

I forgot how annoying "training" your Outlook is. The stupid dictionary keeps trying to fix my spelling.

It doesn't like "ain't." Had to add that to the dictionary. Also confusing are "Garand," and "Mauser." More dictionary additions. And there's no way I'm dealing with email that doesn't understand "fucktard," "shitweasel" or "goatfuckery."

It's a process.

Casey update III

Vet visit today. Although the doc declined to put a name to the issue, he implied it was likely allergies. She got a steroid shot, which already appears to be taking the edge off the itch. We've got a two-week course of antibiotics which, if it makes an impact, will be extended to four weeks.

They're both being hysterical right now. I suppose that's because I'm making them venison and rice, and since I have to give it time to cool, they're fairly sure they're starving to death.

Regular visitors

It makes me smile when I realize someone is reading here. Hammer has been dropping by recently. He runs a highly entertaining place, and I encourage you to go visit.

I shall now add him to the pathetically small blogroll.

Why? Because depicting male cattle as having udders seems to piss him off as much as it does me.

Radios, Jeeps, and Lileks

Lileks is amazing. I was fortunate enough to live in his territory recently, and I got to enjoy him in the paper as well as on the net. If you don't read him regularly, you should.

Anyway, today he's talking about satellite radio. Now, the Lileks family seems to be in a slightly different financial position than the Bad Dog family - that is, they can buy all sorts of cool shit. Good for them. Wiring my house for anything other than floorlamps is a little beyond us, but the satellite radio discussion got me thinking.

I bought my Jeep when I was overseas. Several vehicle manufacturers have some sort of contract with the Army and Air Forces Exchange Service (tool of Satan) to sell vehicles to deployed servicemembers. The prices are very good. You can select exactly what you want and have it waiting for you when you get back stateside. As an added bonus, you don't finance anything until you get back, but you can send money the whole time you're deployed.

I ordered mine while particating in a program that grants some servicemembers in Iraq a four-day pass to Qatar. Mr. Abby was in Qatar at the time, so that rocked. Also, my location was not the sort of place that had an AAFES vehicle sales representative.

So we sat down with the car guy and ordered the Jeep. Mr. Abby did the research to find out that this was, indeed, a fabulous deal, and talked me into getting the Rubicon model (it's the expensive one, and I was dithering about the few grand separating it from the others. Mr. Abby more or less, said, "just shut up and get the nice one. It'll hold resale value. And you deserve it." He rocks).

One of the options available was satellite radio. I was already appalled by the amount of money we were talking about, and I passed on it. I like local radio, I thought. Actually, I don't - I hate "radio personalities" - but I like the idea of local radio, particularly since I live in hurricane country. I dislike the idea of evacuating by road and instead of local updates on which roads are clogged, getting mass-produced patter from some yahoo in Oklahoma.

Fast-forward. I have (and adore) my Jeep. I keep a CD in the player at all times, since my local stations seem to descend frequently into fart-joke-and-sound-effect hell.

My satellite TV recently started feeding me Sirius satellite radio on a bunch of the channels. And I've started listening to it. Since I hate TV but like background noise, it's FABULOUS. There's an "old country music" channel. An "alternative country music" channel. And something called "Radio Margaritaville" that's very cool.

If I had it to do again, I think I'd get the satellite radio in the Jeep. In fact, if our next move is to the boondocks (and most of the working options really do involve the middle of nowhere), I might still pony up for it.

Good stuff, that magic radio from space. Worth looking into.

Oh, an aside about AAFES car sales. They don't manufacture the vehicle until shortly before you're planning to take delivery. So you can make changes in what you want. As we were getting ready to leave the sales place, I asked the guy a question. Things were getting a little rough where I was.

"Hey, not to be morbid or anything, but if I get blown to hell, can he cancel the order without penalty?"

"Oh yes! We'd never be difficult about something like that!"

"Cool. One more. I ordered a stick. If...umm...well, say I lose an arm or a leg. Can we change it to an automatic?"

God bless the salesman, he didn't even blink.

"Sure. They won't build the vehicle until spring."

Good to know.

Weird-ass movie

I've been married for more than five years, but Mr. Abby and I have been together for about seven. Or ten thousand. Whatever, take your pick.

Like most married couples, there's absolutely nothing I enjoy that he doesn't hate, and likewise.

So a trip to the video store is always a little weird. I haven't been helpful lately, because since I came back from Iraq, I insist uon only watching happy movies. Romantic comedies are great. Action is fine as long as it isn't thoughtful. And him? The man likes war movies, movies with ninjas, and, very oddly, foreign films with subtitles based on famous works of literature, or which involve food (Like Water For Chocolate, Tortilla Soup, etc). And movies with lots of fart jokes. 'Cause he's a guy.

Anyway, we went to the video store the other day. And found something we agreed might be entertaining - Barnyard.

The plot? It was fine. Noble cattle hold the line and defend the farm against evil coyotes who want to eat the chickens. And the cattle beat the shit out of the coyotes. Which is cool, because in our household we have no problem with violence in support of the community. And it had Sam Elliott. Singing.

However...the male cows had udders. And walked upright. Now, this was one of those movies where all the animals walked upright (and since they were talking animals, we were prepared to be a little flexible).

But the bulls had "man voices" (see above reference to Sam Eliott). And obviously, gender roles were very important to whoever made this movie. So what the hell was up with the udders????

Now, I've spent a little time around livestock. I am aware that male bovine genitalia is not necessarily something one would want to feature prominently in an animated film.

But all the other animals, although they were obviously male or female, had no genitalia. Which, I think, is pretty standard for a kids' film. So why did the male cattle have udders? I don't get it, and it annoyed the shit out of both of us for the duration of the movie.

One further note - I don't really care for these movies that vilify predators. Madagascar was one of these, too. Meat eaters gotta eat, too. If I ever made an animated film, it would be one where the happy wolf family spends weeks selecting just which whiny deer to "cull from the herd."

This idiotic state

I've said it before. If you live in Florida, and if you have children, you're probably going to lose one or two of them. If they survive the alligators and crazed child murderers, and manage to dodge the random gunfire, they're probably going to be run over.

See, in Florida, apparently, children are not taught to look both ways before crossing the street. I've been out of the area for almost half the time we've lived here and I can still clearly recall seeing no fewer than ten news stories about children being run over in the Bay Area.

And we're not usually talking about little kids, either. I can think of at least four cases in which high school aged kids have been fatally run down in broad daylight.

Now, this is just generally a social failing. Of course parents should teach their children to look both ways. However, it's something I feel entirely comfortable saying that schools should also cover.

Jesus Christ - they taught me to look both ways before crossing the street and I grew up on dirt roads.

And if you never teach children to look both ways, those who aren't run down grow into adults who don't know they should look both ways. And you get news stories like this.

So, to recap. If you live in Florida and you have children, there's a pretty good chance something horrible will happen to at least one of them. So you should probably have three or four. It's socially unacceptable to give children handguns in today's litigous society, but Florida is absolutely crawling with violent child sex predators. So lessons in screaming for help, running away and testicle kicking are in order. Keep your children away from fresh water, and they probably won't fall victim to alligators. Stay away from shady areas and teach your kids to duck to minimize random gunfire's threat.

And above all - teach them to look both ways before stepping out in traffic. People here cannot drive. At all. Teach your children to trust nothing - not crosswalks, not crossing guards, not looking in just one direction on one-way streets.

It's a scary world out there. If you can't move your family to South Dakota (a very nice place), much education is in order.

Good Information

LawDog has a post up on avoiding identity theft.

Lots of good information. And if you're not already reading LawDog fairly regularly for your recommended daily allowance of small-town Texas law enforcement insight, well, you're just wrong.

Waiting for Santa

Waiting for Gun Santa, that is. Remember when we talked about my M9 pistol a week or so ago? I ordered it today from my friendly local dealer.

I love my friendly local dealer. Action Aquatics on Gandy Blvd, if you're interested. Problem is, they're an FFL/SCUBA shop, so they don't stock many guns. They have to order everything.

Sigh. So my new gun should be in Wednesday.

The end of the road...

for Christopher Gay.

They got him.

Over on the other side of the state, in a place called Volusia County. Maybe he was headed for Dayonta Beach (David Allan Coe is playing there in March, at Bike Week).

I don't think he was heading over to do independent research on the 2000 presidential election vote counting nighmare, although apparently Volusia County was pivotal in that whole fiasco.

Oh well - another one bites the dust.

Happy happy joy!

A few weeks ago, Mr. Abby and I were the victims of online fraudsters. I noticed a bogus charge on our debit card. Fortunately, we have the World's Greatest Bank, and they fixed the problem instantly. Returned the 74.95, canceled the card, put the smack down on the fraudsters.

Problem is, we then needed NEW CARDS.

Which has taken TIME. The cards finally showed up in the mail early this week, but NO PIN numbers. Grrr... Now, while this has been going on, we've been either operating:
A) Out of the account in Florida to which my pay is deposited. As most of you know, I'm currently not WORKING, so nobody is depositing any pay there. It's not much of an account
B) With checks from the other bank. Not very many places take checks these days. Try writing a check at your local urban gas station. Good luck with that.
C) By depositing checks from the useful bank into the Florida bank. This worked, but it was a giant pain in the ass.

Today the PINs showed up! Yea! We can spend the money we have and it's not an eight-step process.

Happy happy happy!

If you're not following this news story...

you're just WRONG.

Christopher Gay's cross-country escape has been like...some kind of white trash epic.

So this dude's gettin moved by the prison system from Texas from Alabama. Somehow, he escapes in South Carolina. He stole a truck when he escaped. It seems he then went to Tennessee, where he stole an 18-wheeler, which he drove to Alabama to visit his dying mother,

After that, he (it seems) returned to Tennessee, where he stole a tour bus belonging to Crystal Gayle. Now he seems to be in Florida. How do we know he's in Florida?

He showed up at some "speedway" in Lakeland. A "speedway," is apparently a place where the sort of people who enjoy NASCAR hang out. Some real sharp guy who runs the speedway decided Mr. Gay did not seem to be who he said he was - he was claiming to be there to pick up Tony Stewart. So Mr. Gay took his stolen tour bus and left the area. The Florida cops are now looking for him.

Yet more proof that just about everything tacky, absurd and sad eventually ends up here. Because Florida is the land of tacky, absurd and sad.

But this - this seriously sounds like a David Allan Coe song.

Giving Up

OK - I surrender. Casey's reopened her hotspot like twice. And she's working on another one. We've got a vet appointment. I'm going to get this dog FIXED if I have to sell Mr. Abby to do it.

I wonder if we're going to end up shaving her? If we do, we'd better do the whole dog. Because shaving the back half would be really dumb-looking. And I refuse to keep her in this licky collar for the rest of her life.

For all my nurses out there

Abby's Mom is a nurse. And she throws me a little nurse traffic from time to time.

So this one's for the nurses. Xavier rocks. He's a nurse. And he's damn proud to be a nurse-who-happens-to-be-a-man.

He also includes a fabulous product option for all of you who have sons who might want to be nurses.

Enough with the hysterics, already!

So I've had CCN on for a couple of hours. And, apparently, the issue that has us all worked up today is "Bush okays killing Iranians plotting against Iraq."

It seems we're supposed to talk about this. Perhaps, we're even supposed to debate it.

Sigh...we've talked before about Iran and the fact that they're
A) Not just some innocent country that happens to be next door. Iran is not Canada.
B) Killing our soldiers.

I did a google search on this, because I don't want to be the one who talks about things we don't talk about. I'm not, so I will. Let's try to do this quickly, though.

Iran is chock full of Shiites. That aligns Iran with Al Sadr and the Mahdi Militia. That ties Iran to anti-Iraqi and anti-Coalition activities in heavily Shiite areas. MMMkay? We're talking about the city of Najaf, of Karbala, certain (but not all) part of Baghdad.

(We face different enemies and influences in our more Sunni areas - other parts of Baghdad, Ramadi, Tikrit, etc. We can talk about Sunni extremism - Al Qaeda and a certain great big rich country that rhymes with Paudi Bapabia - some other time.)

Iran contributes materials and know-how to build certain types of IEDs. If you go to the DoD News Release page and look for those releases that involve IEDs that kill two or more American soldiers (particularly soldiers in vehicles, where that is noted), a significant number of those were caused by the type of IED that comes from Iran. If you conducted this search, you would note the phenomenon really kicked off in late summer/early fall 2005.

There are different kinds of violence in Iraq. Most of my tour was spent in an area that was largely Sunni. There was lots of violence. There were lots of IEDs. But they were a different kind of IED. They could still kill you, but you had to be pretty unlucky if you were in an armored vehicle.

Not so with the Iranian-made specials in largely Shiite areas. These are bombs that are specifically developed to kill Americans by defeating vehicle armor.

Iranian influence is not just "unhelpful." We need to be clear about this. That would be like...the Canadian government using intermediaries to give money to a U.S. political candidate aligned with Canada. This is different. This is like the Canadian government working through intermediaries to kill...I dunno...Republican party members in Iowa. Or democratic get-out-the-vote people in Kansas City.

Not that they would. Canadians seem nice enough.

We've got to remember - Iran is not our friend. Iran is not neutral. Iran is not a country we "deal with" the same way be deal with Canada over fishing disputes. Iran is a country that expends its efforts to KILL OUR SOLDIERS.

And personally, I think CNN needs to freakin' stop it. I want my President to be all about killing people who kill our soldiers.

Sorry

I hate these things. I think they're like the funny emails people forward that you've already seen 87 times. But sometimes I can't help it.

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Milady the Right Reverend Abby the Fiendish of Witchampton Under Buzzard Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

Heh. It was the either the "buzzard" or the "fiendish" that made me smile.

Abby's Mom Update

This has been a process, not a series of events, so I haven't talked about Mom's Full Frontal Assault on Breast Cancer for a while.

Today she's having her fourth chemo treatment. Of eight. Which means she's HALFWAY THROUGH.

The treatments are two weeks apart. She has them on Thursday. She feels fine on Thursday and Friday. Then, very late Friday night or very early Saturday morning, the Giant Curtain of Feeling Like Shit descends. She describes it as the "world's worst hangover."

Saturday is the worst day, and she feels puny Sunday as well. It starts getting better Monday, and with the exception of little flashes of nausea, is good to go by the middle of the week.

Her hair is gone, which she's handled amazingly well. Not saying the loss was easy, but she was prepared and now, in fact, often masquerades as a redhead. She's working after the bad days, although due to the nature of her work, shortened shifts.

When this all started, she called me and told me we "had some bad news." I couldn't think of anything to say other than, "Oh, shit, Mom..."

But she went on the offensive immediately. No dicking around trying to find the most gentle treatment. They couldn't find a tumor...maybe it was only one breast... She wanted no part of the dithering. Mom's tough and she's busy and she has plans, so off with both breasts. Hell yeah, let's do the chemo. Let's be done with this, Mom said.

And now she's halfway there. More than halfway, really, when you consider the surgery and recovery time that preceded the chemo. I try to help by sharing what experience I have in dealing with things that suck. Divide it up into little pieces. Make a note of each one. You're an eigth done, that means you're 12.5% of the way there.

Well, now she's halfway. It's a long run, or a helluva long walk with a heavy pack she can't pass off and can't drop for even a second, but now she's at the part where all she's gotta do is turn around and walk back.

I'm immensely proud of her. For a lot of reasons. But the way she's handled this whole thing - it's something else. Go, Mom.

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...