It just keeps getting worse...

You ever been in an old, midwestern-style barn? The kind with a hayloft with a wooden floor? You ever been on the main floor of one of those barns while barn cats were playing in the loft?

It makes a certain sound. A scurrying, scrabbling sound. With the occasional thump.

I'm hearing that same sound right now, but I'm not in a barn, and it sure ain't cats. I know what's in our attic/crawlspace, but I've never heard it before. Fucking rats. Having a goddam rat rugby match up there.

I saw one run along the top of the fence one night shortly after we moved in. I had a repairman up in the attic/crawlspace once, and he pointed out the presence of rat shit. And Sparky killed one in a twisted incident last summer that involved shrieking children and me standing in driveway with a P22 and a Surefire, dripping sweat and ready to open fire.

I'm sure they've been around, but they've stayed appropriately under the radar. Until tonight.

I don't have a fear of rats. But I sure as shit don't like them. I really don't like the fact that it sounds like they're large and lively and plentiful eight feet above my head.

I have less than a week left here. There's nothing we can do about them, and the landlord isn't going to take any action. I'm just going to sit here and cringe and hope the leaking, weak ceiling doesn't collapse and dump a torrent of rats into my lap in the next 100 hours.

EDIT TO ADD: Oh, yes - I am having a very hard time resisting the urge to be the Worst Wife Ever. Mr. Abby is sleeping the sleep of the jetlagged, but I am sorely tempted to wake him up, explain the situation, and whine until he goes up the ladder with a flashlight. I won't - I'm not that mean - but that doesn't mean I don't kind of want to...

Useful Information

I've learned a couple of very valuable things in the recent past. I figure it's a public service to share them.

Item #1 - Courtesy of Mr. Abby - Buy two carwashes, don't extend one. At the local do-it-yourself carwash, it's $1.75 for four minutes. It's 25 cents for each additional 30 seconds. If you've got a lot of washing to do, let the time run out and buy another wash.

I had no idea. I figured it had to be a better deal to just keep adding quarters. That's what I get for not doing the math.

Item #2 - Courtesy of some dude who called into a local radio station - Pantyhose stretched over a sponge do a bangup job of removing lovebug guts without damaging your paint. It's true. It's not a miracle - you still need to apply elbow grease, but it works. It works really really well on glass.

Lovebugs are a Florida phenomenon from hell. It's common to see motor homes on the highway here that are almost entirely black on the front. It's almost impossible to scrape enough of them off to be safe using only gas station squeegees. But the pantyhose thing was a dandy trick when I removed their guts today. Gut removal is important - for some reason, they're particularly hard on vehicle paint.

There you go - hope you learned something. Take a second and do the math at your local carwash, and there's a good use for the old pantyhose the dogs clawed a run into.

The immigration thing

I came home the other day and noticed that this immigration bill issue is the big news.

I read Hugh Hewitt's breakdown by section.

Complex does not even begin to describe it. Hugh points out, among other items of interest, the vast amount of paperwork mandated by this bill and the distinct lack of funding or personnel increases to handle it. That's always a recipe for stunning, spectacular failure.

The immigration debate makes me scratch my head. I cannot fathom why we haven't secured the southern border - it strikes me a basic responsibility of government and I'm quite certain that it's another one of those problems that should be solvable if we used the throw huge amounts of money at it solution.

The Border Patrol is woefully understaffed. It seems there's authorization and money for it to grow, but it's just not happening. I wonder why not...

There's a helpful online outline of the Border Patrol Agent hiring process. An excerpt:

If you pass the written test, your name will be placed on an inventory. The inventory is maintained in score order by geographic location regardless of when you took the test. Referral for a position in a selected geographic location is dependent on the scores of the applicants that are available on the inventory when a list is issued. If you are selected, you will be sent a tentative selection package. That package will explain the further requirements for forms submission, the oral interview with a panel of Border Patrol Agents, medical and vision examination, drug test, background investigation, etc., which will need to be satisfactorily completed before a firm offer of employment can be made.

I'm counting about 14 weeks to get from Step 1 through Step 4 of the process as they outline it. And there are more steps. I'm thinking that might be part of the problem. How much time do you want to put into getting hired into a position that pays $35,595 and for which you have to relocate (with no reimbursement)?

I don't have a idea for fixing the entire immigration problem. I recognize we've got people in this country illegally, and we need to find ways to either normalize their status or get them out. Although it's convenient for business and, at the far end, consumers, to have a pool of super-cheap labor, it's not worth the cost in security, and it's not right to place desperate people in a position of doing our nation's bitch work for far less than we'd pay Americans.

It's not right to put anyone through what some folks I know went through to get here illegally. The "coyotes' who smuggle people across are vicious, evil people. The crossing is not easy - people die lost in the desert. Getting here is not cheap - these immigrants sell everything they own, sell their bodies, sell their futures into indentured servitude, to get here.

We have to find a way to do this better. Step one is closing that goddam border. Step two is unfucking the process to come here and work legally.

We've got to hold our representatives' feet to the fire on securing that border. There's money involved - so they're not going to want to do it effectively or decisively. But we have to remember that the border isn't just a "Mexican issue," it's a security issue. Undocumented workers are a problem that pales in comparison to what we need to worry about coming across that border.

Our elected officials chuckle about our provincial concern with undocumented workers and take campaign contributions from companies and people who profit from that cheap labor. They spend months crafting bills that placate us and provide loopholes big enough to drive a Ryder truck through. At the same time, the next group of terrorist savages may well be slinking across that stretch of empty desert, from Nogales up to Tuscon, from Tuscon into Vegas, with far worse intent than picking oranges and sending money back home.

Canine reading lists

A couple weeks ago, I was throwing Jack's retrieving toy into the lake. Between tosses, he noticed a bird wandering around about 30 yards away. He prompty sat down, stared at it, and trembled with excitement.

Because I'm a bad person, I said, "go get it!" with the same inflection I use when I send him after his throw toy. He took off, the bird saw him coming and departed the ground well before there was any danger. He returned to me looking quite bummed.



I explained that the bird he'd chased was an ibis, and not the sort of bird he'd ever be expected to hunt, and that the point of being a bird dog is not to actually catch live birds.

Little did I know he would take this as a hint he needed to study up.



I snapped the picture, then took the book away. This is my super-good bird book, and I wasn't leaving it in reach of puppy teeth. If he wants to study more, I think I have an old paperback guide he's welcome to use.

Another pointer

Once, I quoted Bill Whittle, and one of the readers I sent there responded, "I was interested, then I saw the part about being a reformed liberal on the sidebar...."

[sigh]

So many of us were much more liberal before 3,000 of us died. Some of us are still "liberal," in the classic sense - I count myself among them.

It's not about "liberal," and it's not about "conservative." If you've been paying attention, you know that. It's about those of us who buy into the Dream, and those who disparage it. You know where I stand.

Go see Bill. He'll break it down. You can read my favorite of his essays, but you should read his most recent.

AFTERNOTE: If you're one of the three people who don't know about Bill Whittle...brew some coffee and click over. It will take a while, but please, please, read the whole thing. It's worth it, I swear.

Heads up

I don't think I have many readers who aren't alreadly aware on this one - Rachel Lucas is back.

For those who don't know, this is the phenomenal woman whose blog made it clear to me that people liked to read about guns and dogs. She's also one of the blogs I read when I didn't know what "blog" meant.

So, for my three readers who haven't checked in already, go forth.

Hoooly shit...

At long last, it arrives from the CMP.

There is nothing we will be able to tell you until we input all orders ahead of yours into our system. You will recieve an email letting you know your order has been received; a second email from our order processing dept that your order has been processed; and a third email from our packing/shipping dept with a tracking number for your order/orders.

Your customer ID # is xxxxx. This is where all of your information is stored. You are registered with cmp/estore. Also your email password is (xxxxxx). That is today's date with the first and last initials of your name. Let me know if you are able to log in.
Thank you and have a great day.

Well, how 'bout that? Now, the question is - will this go down before or after the move? Not mine, the ship has already sailed on that - but will Mr. Abby be able to bring me a carbine?

Who knows. But at least the order got there.

A note for all my fellow Floridians - Priority mail, from Tampa, FL to Anniston, AL, sent the 26th of April (Thursday afternoon)...arrives the 2nd of May (Wednesday).

Nice job, USPS. (That part was sarcastic).

Go, CMP, go! As I understand it, there's a small and beseiged staff trying desperately to get orders out. Best of luck, y'all. Hurry on that one to Tampa.

Conversations from a gas station

Gas gets steadily more affordable as one leaves the Florida Keys, passes through Miami, crosses Alligator Alley, and procedes north on I75. One does not want to buy much more at $3.35/gallon than necessary, when 50 miles down the road it will be $3.19.

That's why, today, I found myself in pretty serious need of gas on the Alley (that's the empty stretch of 75 that crosses from Miami to Naples). So I stopped at the Mobil station on the Indian reservation.

I gassed up, used the bathroom (it smelled), then wandered into the store for water, cigarettes and a snack. As soon as I walked in, a guy stepped up to me. A very large, bald, muscular, intimidating guy. Did I mention he was really big?

To my deep, sincere and heartfelt relief, he smiled. "I like your bumpersticker," he growled, with some very heavy accent. "The one about Israel."

I have an "I support Israel" sticker on my Jeep.

"Oh," said I. "Thanks." I grabbed my water and a snack (which I am not confessing the specifics of because it's pathetic) and got in line. The very large man was in front of me, with a small boy maybe eight years old.

He smiled again. I think he realized he'd scared the bejesus out of me.

"I'm from Israel," he said.

"That's cool," I answered. "I've never been there, but someday I'd like to go." I would, and it seemed like an appropriate response.

"What's the other sticker, the one with the knife?" he asked.

"An Army combat action badge," I answered. It's not much - it basically says, something unfortunate happened to me and I didn't run screaming, but I'm proud of it.

He smiled again and left, and the cashier rang up my stuff, which came to a little over $6.

"Were you in Iraq?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said. And the bill magically decreased to $5. "Hey, thanks." I smiled, she smiled. That's an awkward moment, but an appreciated one.

As I walked out the door, the small boy who belonged to the large man came running up to me.

"My Dad said you should take his card." He held out a business card.

Huh? I took the card, thanked the boy (who ran away), and headed back to the Jeep. As I walked, I glanced down.

I, apparently, had encountered Mr. Mike Lee Kanarek, chief instructor at this place.

According to his biography, I was entirely correct to be very happy he approved of my bumpersticker.

Between the ages of 6 and 18, Mike studied judo and then karate until joining the IDF at age 18 in 1985. After serving three years as a Special Forces member in Orev Golani (one of the most elite commando units in the IDF) where he was extensively trained in KAPAP among other combative methodologies and technologies, Mike was honorably discharged as an outstanding soldier.

It goes on from there.

Now, this is the internet, and it's hard to tell for sure how much truth is in anything out there, but since Mr. Kanarek is, if nothing else, a large and intimidating man, I will officially err on the trusting side. He gets an impressed daaamn from me.

And other than being big and scary, he was a very polite man, and the boy who was with him (I assume his son) also appeared polite and well-mannered.

We're home!

I have picked up the Pack and returned to Bad Dog Central. There seems to have been much news out there in the world, and I may come back later to talk more about it.

(Or maybe not - Mr. Abby returns tomorrow and so I must make the house look as though responsible people, not squatters, live here)

Anyway, I shall leave you with a final image from the Keys - a Road-Tripping Jeep, it seems, is a Happy Jeep. It even seemed to like being a drying rack for my beach towel.



I didn't notice that guy in the background when I took the picture, but I think it's entirely possible he's peeing in the mangroves. How tacky.

From Marathon

I wandered into a bar earlier today and ended up drinking with some Big Pine Key locals. Beards down their chests, all six of 'em, and not eight teeth among the group. One of them said he'd caught the "Keys disease" six years ago.

I'm not all about the toothlessness, but I see how one can come down with that "Keys disease."

Today was Critter Day.



You have no idea how many backroads on Big Pine I drove down before I saw that guy. They are quite cute, and quite small. But that was the afternoon. In the morning, I took a tour. (Yes, I am the hopeless tourista)



Yep. I went to the Turtle Hospital at Marathon. Pretty cool.

And finally, a picture of your author, in the always-weird-looking Aunt Jemima headgear, on Seven-mile bridge. My first night here, I had a couple beers with some biker-tourist corporate types from St. Louis. One of them said he'd "seen God" on the Seven-mile bridge. I dunno about all that, but it is a nice view.



OK. That's it. My wireless tonight is provided by Porky's Seafood and BBQ in Marathon, so I'm going to let y'all go and have a beer (or two). I'll get back to comments and such in a couple of days.

Outtakes

We'll be quick here, since I'm stealing wireless in a grocery store parking lot.



Oh yes, it's a beautiful thing. Show me anyone who doesn't love a tiki bar, and I'll show you a humorless bastard. And this one was a combination tiki bar/treehouse. I don't think it gets any cooler than that.

This sign got me all hopeful.



But alas, no key deer yet. I intend to spent tonight driving up and down Big Pine Key with my brights on - eventually I'll spot one.

See y'all in a day or two with another update!

I screwed up the puppy

and Mr. Abby is going to kill me when he gets home.

I did not know it was possible to turn a dog into a night owl, but it seems I have. The past couple of nights, Jack's been running wild at 0200, 0300, even 0330. He's jumping on the bed, off the bed, trying to get Sparky to play, making that weird let's-play "yerp!" noise...

Two nights ago I was dozing around 0350 and woke up to him viciously shaking his toy camel and whacking it against the bed. Last night, after I turned out the light and tried to explain to him that "this is the time when we all shut up and sleep," he wandered into the living room, retrieved his bone, and proceeded to gnaw loudly on it.

Of course, now he's sacked out on the floor.

Good lord. Anyway, now is the time when I pack their trash for their trip to Crazy Uncle Buddy's.

More carbine madness

Since I'm on the subject...

You may have noticed I haven't posted anything gleeful about the CMP M1 carbines. I'm actually kinda bummed right now. Let's wallow in my bummedness for a while, shall we?

I sent my paperwork with a check, Priority, from Tampa to Alabama, on Thursday, April 26 in the afternoon.

Now, since it hasn't been returned, I'm certain it didn't get there Friday.

It took the fine folks at the CMP until Friday, 11 May to open all the mail they received on the 30th (more than 3000 pieces). They sent out confirmation emails. I didn't get one (sonuvabitch ratbastard Florida mail).

Now they're working their way through the pile they got on the 1st. Estimates say they should have all that open by the end of this week. Still, no email for Abby.

(Yes, since you mention it, I would like some cheese with my whine)

Note to self - next time, spend the extra dollar for delivery confirmation.

Since I sent a check, I'm keeping an eye on the bank. If it clears and I don't have an email, I'll assume my handwriting was too crappy for them to decipher and I'll call. Until then, though, I wait.

And whiiiiiine.....

Range report

Well. Huh. That works.

I trooped out and got one of the trusty Osama targets. I think they're tacky, but they're also HUGE, which helps when you really have no idea where you're going to shoot.



OK. I could work that. My point of aim was the middle of Osama's beard. So I fiddled around with the windage and elevation knobs.



As you can see, we're getting closer. I have always been too conservative with my sight adjustments. I ran out one of the Blue Guy targets. Around this time, I started have ejection issues - so forgive some of my groups, as I occasionally had to pop a casing out of the chamber. I'll be taking a look at that later this evening.



That's at 25 and then 50. So I adjusted down, and ran it back out. Then I burned through another 20 rounds or so, with one right windage adjustment. The results were satisfactory.



Now I have to figure out this extraction thing. I'm hoping a good shot of oil will fix it - I got to the range before I realized I was shooting bone dry. I've got a couple specific things to look at - I don't think it's going to be a big problem.

That little red dot was cool - made shooting with both eyes open a simple thing.

In summary:
Plainfield M1 Carbine - $175
New extractor - $3.35
Composite stock - $43.01
Ultimak rail - $87
UTG 1x32 CQB Quick Aim Dot optic - $40
Total: $348.86

That is, of course, not accounting for shipping or the time I spent working on the bolt rebuild. Hint - if you ever think about doing anything with your M1 Carbine bolt, buy the bolt tool.

Carbine Tomfoolery

The World's Cheapest Optic showed up on my doorstep, so I put it on.

[giggles in a creepy manner]

It's got a little dot that glows! How cool is that? And it can be a red dot, or a green dot! I can choose!

(This is the part where all my readers who are into 21st century optics roll their eyes, I'm sure. That's alright, I'm okay with being the last one to the party.)

And yes - I did have to put the battery in and turn it onto figure out which end of the optic was the front and which was the back. I'm down with being an idiot, but I do choose to do as much of that as possible in the privacy of my own home.

I have things to do today, but I'm pretty sure I'll be able to scoot up to the range and put a few rounds through it, just to ensure I've got everything clamped down.

Packin' my bag

I was kicking around Bad Dog Central recently, being bored. I don't have much time left in Florida, my husband's out of town, and pretty soon I'll be rejoining the ranks of people-who-have-jobs.

So...what to do, what to do?

Funds were tight, so I went out in the yard and dug up a few Kruggerands.

- Hey, get out of my yard! I wasn't being literal! There's nothing back there but dog shit! -

Sorry about that.

Anyway, I freed up some funds. Kicked most into the "general getting through the next month" fund. And pocketed a little.

The Bad Dogs have a short reservation with Crazy Uncle Buddy. I have several Florida road maps. My fishing bum/boat drink clothes are in my leather bag. The only shoes I'm taking are sandals.

Tomorrow (correction - later today) I clean the house and lay mines. Wednesday, I drive south.

How far south, Abby?

As far as I can go.

Well, without having to get on a raft. I'd like to see Cuba, but I'm going to settle for Key West on this trip.

[gasp]

I have calm dogs. It was not easy. I took Jack for a ride to the park. Then I threw his retrieving toy into the lake. Many times. Then we walked to the Dog Park, and he played wildly. I came home, changed, grabbed Casey, and we ran/sprinted/jogged (repeat as necessary) around the park. Brought her back, took Sparky. He, of course, wanted to race from mailbox to mailbox - apparently the pee-mail was just that good today.

Now I've got the Tigers game on, my feet hurt, and I'm thinking about supper. But at least the dogs are all sacked out.

What Abby learned today: taking a wet lab to the sandy dog park, then home, entirely negates the fact that I ran the vacuum earlier in the day.

Driven to distraction

I keep clicking over to CNN, hoping for some news on our three missing guys.

And I find this: Iraqi insurgents warn: Stop search for U.S. troops

Hey, insurgents, fuck you.

We will search for them. We have, according to The Man, about 4,000 people doing nothing right now except searching for our three missing. We will search, and, eventually, we will find them. And bring them home.

That's what our military does. We have a standing task force and one of the best forensic labs on earth dedicated to finding and bringing home our missing. Such is our committment to the task. Where, I wonder, is its equivalent in the Muslim world? What does that say about the value of a life here, and there?

We are going to find them. If not today, then tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then someday. Today would be best.

You insurgent bastards, if you had a glimmer of logic through all that death-crazed haze in your brains, will not have harmed them. The smart thing to do would be turn them loose and let us pick them up on a roadside. But if that was too much, if your twisted death-loving minions couldn't not kill prisoners...then do yourselves a favor, and put the unmolested bodies out in the open so we can pick them up and bring them home.

You hear us talk about how thing we're stretched, and yet within 48 hours we can put 4,000 warriors on the street to find our guys.

That's the difference between us and you. You revel in a culture of death and misery, killing women and children and noncombatants to perpetuate a squalid chaos.

We recognize that the very least we owe every man and woman in uniform is a committment to get them home. Because each and every man and woman in uniform is valuable and in that uniform of their own free will, and keeping that promise is a matter of trust.

We waiver a lot in the United States, and often on things we shouldn't. But we don't waiver on this. We don't ask politicians for permission to do what we've promised we will. We don't do the cruel calculus of whether or not our people are worth it.

We're going to find them.

A sordid tale

The next time some simpering do-gooder tells you the world would be a safer place if we all melted our firearms down and made a great big steel bunny statue...tell them this story.

BRANDON - Willie Tarpley Jr. knew this much about his ex-wife's new boyfriend: The man was a convicted sex offender and Tarpley didn't want his children anywhere near him.

So Saturday night at about 8, Tarpley, 46, drove to his old house, grabbed one of his samurai swords, a katana, out of the garage and threatened to use the 42-inch blade to cut off the boyfriend's head.

Ok. Seems logical so far. Bad, but logical. Now, Mr. Tarpley did not cut off the boyfriend's head, but after the boyfriend tried to flee by car and hit Mr. Tarpley's Corvette...

...Tarpley reached into the open car window and plunged his sword into Alexander's body, Hillsborough County sheriff's spokeswoman Debbie Carter said.

Into his armpit. Which, if we're talking about a whopping long sharp blade, will pretty much do the trick. And it did. And remember, the victim was a registered sex offender, who apparently targeted the young.

Records show that Alexander was convicted in Polk County in 2000 of lewd and lascivious battery on a person under 16. Alexander was 18 at the time.

But I know my readers, and you, like me, are now wondering why Mr. Tarpley was running around with a katana. I mean, Florida is the Gunshine State. And this whole affair sounds pretty redneck. So why did Mr. Tarpley have a sword? Well, turns out Mr. Tarpley was one of those folks who has a little problem should he try to buy guns...

Tarpley himself is a registered sex offender, as is his wife.

Oh. Gracious. Well, for a convicted sex offender, he seemed mighty judgemental. Perhaps, though, it was one of those "lesser" offenses. You know, maybe one of those he-was-20-she-was-16 type things.

In 1988, Tarpley and his wife were convicted in a high-profile case concerning a woman who once worked for Willie Tarpley as a nude dancer. The Tarpleys were accused of kidnapping the woman, beating her, gluing her eyelids and genitalia shut and tattooing a four-letter word on her forehead...

Or maybe not. Good lord, that's pretty fucking horrifying. Can it get any damn weirder?

Duh. It's Florida. Of course it can get weirder. And it does.

Willie Tarpley was injured in a motorcycle accident in the early 1980s and lost his right leg. He wears a prosthetic limb and is skilled in martial arts.

Remember, folks, guns don't kill people. Peg-legged stripper-torturing ninjas with katanas kill people.

Yipee!

A big shout-out to commenter Angus Lincoln, who tested out my email link for me. Not only did I apparently install it correctly, I also have it routing into my Outlook with my regular mail. These small victories are good for my self-esteem.

Dude - your dog rocks.

That was a nice distraction from tonight's baseball game, which has the Twins beating the beejesus out of the Tigers. It's currently 16-4, and it's not over yet.

New doo-hickey

In our ongoing quest to learn more about this magical "blog," we have added an EMAIL LINK over on the sidebar.

I know - the excitement is overwhelming.

I did have to set up a new email account, so I'll try to remember to check it occasionally. If you have a gripe, a question, or want to send me novel and exciting offers for prescription meds, get down with your bad selves.

"Be safe"

It became the standard parting line when I was in Iraq. If we met other CA soldiers somewhere, when we parted ways, someone would say, "be safe." When my soldiers would run a mission without our truck, the last thing I'd say was, "be safe." When my truck would roll out without them (meetings and such), as I grabbed my gun to leave the tent, either the veterinarian or the specialist would always say, "be safe." When the vet would fly up to a meeting, "be safe."

It was a caution - don't do anything you don't have to do that might get you killed. It was a reminder - wear your eye protection, watch your ass. And it was a little bit of a prayer - be lucky, beat the odds, don't be in the bad place at the bad time.

Be careful isn't what you want to say - sometimes careful won't get the job done. Good luck isn't it either - luck alone will not save your ass when it's finally your turn.

Mr. Abby's rolling around Iraq right now. The guy he's traveling with - well, suffice it to say nobody wants that guy getting killed on his watch, so no unit is going to hang them out in the wind. But it's a dangerous place, and a random one. So every time I talk to him, I say, "I love you. Be safe."

There are three warriors missing right now in my old stomping grounds. Thousands are combing the canal roads and tall grass and the scary places to find them.

I hope against hope they find the missing, alive and defiant. And I hope that the searchers manage to be careful, lucky and ready. I hope they manage to be safe, and to bring our missing back.

Mother's Day

Shout out to Abby's Mom. She's working this weekend, tending to the medical emergencies of Barry County.

Last year, I sent flowers from Fort Bragg on Mother's Day, and was happy because I figured the coming year would be less worrisome for her. And it was, until evil Mr. Cancer came calling in the fall.

She's spent the past six months kicking Cancer's ass. It hasn't been a gentle ass-kicking, either. She dragged Cancer out in the street by the scruff of the neck and has been kicking him down the sidewalk. He got in a couple good licks, but surgery in about a month will drive the last nail into his coffin.

This in the middle of working, running the local Humane Society, and keeping track of me and the rest of the goofballs of the family.

So a toast to Abby's Mom - may this coming year finally cut you some slack. I love you. Happy Mother's Day!

Marines

are the sort of people who take their reponsibility to protect their communities very seriously. And, for many, that doesn't stop when they leave the Corps.

FRANCONIA, N.H. -- New Hampshire authorities said yesterday that they will not press charges against a former Marine who stepped into a deadly shooting and killed a 24-year-old high school dropout who had moments earlier fatally shot a police officer.

Bravo, Mr. Floyd! Mr. Floyd is also raising a son who will not shirk his responsibilities to the community.

The elder Floyd drove his Tahoe into a spot between McKay and Kenney as a shield and told his son, who is in his late teens, to run to the officer's cruiser and radio for help.

The story is worth a read - this shooting seems to be a culmination of years of drama, involving Olympic skiers.

Packs

I am not a canine professional, but I have spent a little bit of time around just a few dogs. I "get" the pack concept in theory, but watching it all play out is a constant source of bemusement.

Growing up, we always had only housedog at a time. The only exception were the Bullmastiff Years, but then we had a son and his mother, so that was pretty much a non-issue.

When I got Casey back in 2000, she was the only dog in the house. She knew I outranked her, but she was pretty sure she outranked the loser housemate I had at the time (she was right - she did). When we moved in with Mr. Abby, she tolerated him, but as he was neither female nor canine, she wasn't really concerned.

Sparky came to live with us about seven months later. At the time, he was a year old, and (for about five days) un-neutered.

Sparky tried for about ten minutes to establish some sort of position in the pack, and lost every attempt. Mr. Abby was unwilling to let him be the household Alpha Male, despite Sparky's habit of standing on his chest and barking in his face. Casey made it very clear that Sparky was merely an annoyance to her.

So there he sat, at the bottom of the pecking order, for years. He's not really into other dogs, so he didn't seem to mind. We go to the Dog Park, and he's the one hanging out at the picnic table with the people.

But then came Jack.

Casey reminds him quite frequently of his excessively junior status. And he seems cool with that. Not that it would make much difference if he wasn't. Sparky, however, has to work to keep his position. He's definitely Senior to Jack, but since Sparky weighs nine pounds, making this point sometimes requires a Laying On Of Teeth.

But he's hanging in there. And I'm rooting for him. Sparky is little and cute, but he's going on seven years old. It's nice to see him bossing another dog around.

The Dog Park is a great place to watch this pack dynamic in action. Casey is obsessed with dominance, to the point that I have occasionally removed her from the park when she's laying down too much whup-ass. She'll ensure every dog in the park knows she's Alpha Bitch, and most of them seem to get the picture fairly quickly.

Jack is trying to figure it out. He loves to play, and he loves to play rough. But he'll flop right over on his back the instant another dog feels like putting him there. Then, of course, he bounces back up to play some more. I think he'll do well in groups, and I'm going to keep ensuring he gets lots of time with other dogs.

Cage match!

I try. I really do. I page through the news, read the other folks, I find something that interests me, and I start a post about it. But people, it's really hard to concentrate on anything in my house these days.

Because, it never takes take long before I have this next to me:



Is that not the most horrifying picture of a damn puppy you've ever seen? It's all in good fun, it seems. But it never goddam stops. Oh, it sometimes pauses for a second:



But then they're back at it:



Somebody's eventually going to get an eye chewed out.



Swear to God, I'm about 36 hours from just dropping them at Crazy Uncle Buddy's with a blank check and running away to the Bighorns. Casey could come with me.

Housekeeping

I just washed a bunch of underwear and a pair of my favorite shorts in a bucket. I thought briefly about taking a picture of the drying process, but you'll just have to conjure up your own imagine of my 550 cord clothesline that runs the length of the living room.

I wash everything in the bucket, give it a good wring and shake in the shower, then hang it between the two A/C vents. You could call it "ghetto," but I like to think of it as "expeditionary."

I can do it for pretty much any garment, although I usually don't do long pants. Handled correctly, I won't have to make a laundromat trip until right before Mr. Abby gets home.

Although, it has gotten simpler since I remembered to pick up clothespins. Before that, I used paper clamps and chip clips, and that was ghetto.

OK. The Tigers game is almost over, and I'm off to the range.

Phase II

I just ordered the World's Cheapest Red Dot Tacticool Optic. Seriously - I spared every expense and ordered the fourth one down on this site.



That, folks, is how we know Abby isn't a Mall Ninja. Mall Ninjas buy the good shit.

No lectures, please. The Uber-Tactical M1 Carbine Project exists strictly to entertain me. If the zombies show up, please rest assured I won't be manning the barricades with a rifle I've built using the cheapest bits available.

The rail, however, was not a cost-saving measure. It's the only object I've found that would enable me to play these games with the carbine. Still, at $90, it didn't induce any cringing. I promised a picture.

As I mentioned, it went on with no issues. The Ramline stock didn't have any structures that required sanding/removal/alteration. The instructions said to not let the rail touch the receiver or the barrel band, so I scooted it a couple millimeters forward of the receiver and cranked the screws tight.

It doesn't interfere with the iron sights, although unless I track down the right mount, they'll be useless once I put an optic on. I think. It sure looks that way.

It seems secure, although we'll have to wait and see if it stays in place once I start shooting. The M1 carbine is not exactly a kicks-like-a-government-mule type of weapon, but the test will be interesting.

OK. Further updates once I get the optic.

Today's major achievement

Was finding a dress for MC's upcoming wedding. Jesus God, I hate shopping for grownup clothes.

So that's a win.

Now I've got hysterical pets, because in their mind, we have entered the Activity Time of the day. Off to the Dog Park, then a walk, then another walk.

Yipee!

Well, that solves the old what-shall-Abby-do-today question; the Ultimak rail arrived!

This means, of course, I need to clear off my Expeditionary Gunsmith's Bench (that is, the coffee table), roll out my Non-Marring Bench Mat (that is, an old towel), and see if I can find enough tools to get this particular job done without a trip to the Storage Unit of Sadness.

Alas, I still don't have an optic to put on once I get the rail mounted. But I'm sure one will turn up, so I will charge forward!

Pics and doubtlessly hilarious tales of my non-handiness to follow.

UPDATE: That didn't even rate its own entry. I thought I'd have some cutting to do on the inside of the compositie stock, but that wasn't the case. Too simple.

Rope. Tree. Assembly required.

Kiddie porn is not a laughing matter. It's only because I think we can all agree that folks who "enjoy" said product ought to be drug out in the road and shot that I'm comfortable sharing this.

Dude's a scumbag, and this is the weirdest lead I've seen on a local news story in a while:

According to his wife, Donald M. Payne, Jr. doesn’t even like children.

I'm really not sure how to take that.

Funny

You know what's fun? When I look at the blogroll and think, "hey - I haven't checked that one in the past day or so!" THEN I go to said blog, and there's something entertaining.

Today, it's Hammer.

Favorite excerpt:

11. Watching lifetime, LMN, Oxygen, or any of the sundry estrogen charged television channels is gay...

I have to keep pointing this out to Mr. Abby. "Honey, there is never, ever going to be anything you want to watch on WE."

In other news, if you can't tell, I'm working my way through a pot of coffee, so things could get a little hysterical and incoherent later. You've been warned.

Idiots and video games

Student held in off-campus apartment shooting

At first I thought, oh no! How terrible! How awful!

Then I heard this part:

One of the wounded men, returning home with a bloody bandage on his left shoulder, said the dispute started Monday night when he and the other victims accused Brooks of stealing a Sony Playstation console and game.

[spit]

Video game enthusiasts.

[spit]

I seriously stopped giving a shit about this story the instant I heard some video game system was involved.

The fact that our culture is producing grown men who give a shit about video games... It's tied into a lot, I think. Video games suggest pasty, weak, pudgy, soft young men with whiny voices.

You know the guys I'm talking about. The mere sight dragging his pale, flabby self around the grocery store, stocking up on energy drinks and salty snacks, makes me foam at the mouth.

Can't even hack it as a real 19-year old, spends his time fucking with video games.

See - I'm foaming at the mouth now, I can't write, because I can't string that much foul language together.

If there's a straight 19-year-old guy in America who's not in some sort of single-sex environment, and he's trying to do anything other than get laid in his off-time, that guy just ain't right.

Listen - you're 19. You chase girls to try to get laid. You work on your car to impress girls to try to get laid. You lift weights to look hot to get laid. You hang out on beaches and at bars and in bookstores to try to find a chick who likes you so you can get laid. You go to work so you can buy shit and try to get laid. You study so you can get good grades and get a decent job and make money to buy more shit and get laid.

Get it? That's what 19 year old guys should be doing. Hell, if you're gay and you're 19, I'm assuming you're doing something very similar.

I've been fortunate enough to know some very fine young men in the 18-22 age bracket. Not a single one of them would ever have sat around playing video games if there was a snowball's chance in Hell of running across some ass somewhere. The ones who might have were to a man anemic in all senses of the word.

Any boy who's regularly playing video games after he reaches, say, 14 or so...ought to be snatched up and sent to some Young Man Re-Education camp, run by, say, lumberjacks. Or rodeo cowboys.

I blame the lack of quality father figures.

Now I'm going to go spit again.

Fort Dix

I really don't have much to say about the recently-revealed plot by a bunch of savages to massacre soldiers at Ft. Dix.

They're out there, people. There are the major leaguers. They have the nice membership cards and they've been to the real nice training camps in Afghanistan, Pakistan, the Bekaa Valley. They've probably got baseball caps that say "I waged jihad in Chechnya/Najaf/Algeria." They might be Sunni (Al Qaeda) or Shiite (Hezbollah, etc). We can think of it as the American and National League of Terror.

Problem is, they've also got bush leaguers. Guys without enough talent, enough training. Guys who just need some seasoning. Guys who want to get noticed by a scout. Guys with nothing but ambition.

This group fucked up. They got stupid. They talked outside of school, used services outside their network. Dumb mistakes. But remember - we also got lucky.

No matter what anyone would like to believe, the threat is not gone. There are literally thousands of these evil bastards out there in the world who want to kill Americans. Hell, by their standards, these assholes were being honorable - at least they were targeting American warfighters.

We're having a war, whether we like it or not. We choose to fight them over there, and because they are not equipped (yet) with planes and ships and missiles, we can pretend, for the most part, that the entire war is there.

But there is just one battlefield. The war is wherever they think they can get to us.

Incidentally, I've been to Fort Dix. It's a dismal place. The only thing more depressing than spending time at Fort Dix would be getting shot by a bunch of yahoos waging My First Holy War while you were there.

Sometimes

you wish you could make a visitor come back, so you could tell them what they wanted to know, because once in a while, you get the feeling it might be important.

New shit

So I went out and bought me some new shit this afternoon. My saucepan is the tool of Satan. We broke our trusty glass one a few months back, and tried a super-cheap replacement from the PX.



Yes. Its coating is flaking off. That was obviously not working. So I went to Target. Of course, they had a beautiful saucepan for $40. That's a little more than I want to spend on my macaroni and cheese pan, to be honest. But they also had what looked like a nice one for $20.



That oughta work.

I have also noticed a funky odor from my wrist in recent days. It dawned on my that perhaps the watch that I run and swim in was the culprit. So I took it off and smelled it. A new band, it seemed, was sorely needed. Fortunatly, my taste in watchbands is not extravagent, and for like 4 bucks I got the one you can see attached to my watch.



Why yes, the old one is standing there on its own. I guess it was time to send it to the Great Wrist In The Sky.

OK. I promise this is the last post about super-boring shit for a while. I keep watching the news, and eventually it will spark some reaction beyond overwhelming rage and despair.

The calm before the storm

Cousin R called last night and pretty much hollered at me for insufficient puppy
picture posting.

Well, Cousin R, here you are. A moment of relative calm this morning.



Oh yes, he looks mellow. But just ten minutes later he and Sparky were engaged in a high intensity bark-yap-and-chase evolution around the living room.

Absurdity in poses, though, is what he does best.



No. He has no shame.

Smokin'

So there I was, opening the back door to let the Bad Dogs out this morning. I sniffed. What the Hell? And I blinked.

It seems that since North Florida and South Georgia are on fire, today's prevailing winds have blown all the smokes into Tampa.

I was going to give y'all a cranky post on the subject, since I was planning on heading to the beach getting some sun today. Then I realized that's a stupid thing to bitch about, so I won't.

I shall instead contemplate how I'm going to entertain myself today. I have to buy a dress here pretty soon for an upcoming event, but I don't feel the motivation to hit the mall today. Perhaps the range?

Kansas and its Guardians

Bad Dog hearts go out to the residents of Greensburg, Kansas. That's some pretty serious total devastation.

I saw the governor interviewed on CNN yesterday. She sounded pretty good.

"Kansans are resilient," she said, echoing a depiction of Midwesterners offered by other state and federal officials in the wake of the devastation.

"We have an opportunity to rebuild an entire rural community," Sebelius said, adding that the "eyes of America are on us."

I don't know many Kansans, but I'm betting these folks are pretty capable.

But I did have to wonder, when she hinted that because there's a war in Iraq, and there are Kansas National Guardsmen there, there aren't enough trucks and humvees available for disaster recovery.

OK. As of 2006, the Kansas Army National Guard was authorized more than 7,000 soldiers, and the Air National Guard more than 2,200. Hmmm...let's page through the report and see what else we've got...$224,844,522 worth of vehicles. Now, I know that Kansas has a bunch of tanks, but looking at the table (page 73), we see that tanks and other weapons systems are not included that $200 million-plus.

We also see that the combined Army and Air National Guard in Kansas is staffed at slightly more than 79%...which translates into 7,851 bodies in uniform (also on page 73).

Now, an exact number of vehicles is not broken down for us. But we know we're not counting weapons systems, and I'm guessing we're not counting construction equipment, either.

Now, the good governor tells us that half their shit is in Iraq. I don't believe her, since National Guard equipment tends to be old, green, and lack armor. The vast majority of the vehicles in Iraq are "stay behind" equipment. You train on your unit's equipment, then you go to Iraq and fall in on the equipment the unit before you used. When it's broke or worn out, new equipment comes directly into theater.

I'm not disputing that some of their shit is in Iraq (or some other, more rear location in theater). But I dispute that half of their too-outdated-for-the-regular-Army trucks are there (the Guard does not, traditionally, get anything even resembling the latest and greatest gear in the rear).

And although the governor did not say that half of their people were gone, even if they were, it would still leave 3,925 uniformed individuals in the state.

News reports tell us Greensburg has a population of 1,500. The state could give each citizen a uniformed battle buddy, still have one soldier (or airman) driving a truck around to support each resident, and still have 925 other Guardsmen to man the phones at the armory and do officer things.

But this seems to be a theme for Governor Sebelius. This is an excerpt from an article published 17 April.

Kansas Gov. Kathleen Sebelius says she fears deployments of Kansas National Guard troops and equipment could hurt the state’s ability to react to disasters on the homefront.

Her remarks this week, which were similar to ones she had made in the past, came as more governors criticized Washington’s use of Guard members in the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. National Guard personnel are under the dual command of the president and the governor in their home state.

Hmm...I started out this post in sheer annoyance at the governor. And I still think she's stretching it - her people should be sufficient for this disaster.

But not for something much bigger, hey?

This is something we need to keep in mind as we continue to work our Guard so hard downrange. That's not really what the Guard is for, and perhaps we need to think about that as we dicker about expanding our active duty forces.

I knew a Guardsman once when I lived in Minnesota. He was an officer, but he'd been a Regular Army enlisted man during Desert Storm. He liked the military, but he liked Minnesota even more. He loved being in the Guard, because he loved the idea of being able to help Minnesotans. He absolutely relished jokes about someday being called up to invade North Dakota (this was during a particularly vicious period in the Great Walleye and Pheasant Disagreement of the early ought-somethings).

He was called up and sent to Bosnia in...2002? Once he got back, and as I was leaving, he was seriously contemplating resigning his commission. He was a Minnesota National Guardsman to serve Minnesota, and he felt he'd done his time in the sand.

It's fortunate that many of our Guardsmen choose to continue to serve, even in the face of continuing combat deployments. But that's not really why we keep them around. And we should be careful not to ignore their actual purpose, because when our homes are blown down, or our streets flooded, we'd all be awfully happy to see our hometown Guard guys pull up in the big trucks full of fresh water.

The National Guard takes a lot of shit from just about every other organization on the military totem pole, but we should occasionally remember that they are, as they like to say, "twice the citizen."

Vultures

I don't get it. Last fall we tried to get rid of a mattress, and it very nearly required major political intervention. See, to drop things at the Authorized Blessed Official City Dump, you need to present a current Tampa Trash and Water bill. We rent, and that's the one bill the landlord takes care of.

When I tried to ditch the mattress, it was a nightmare. One of our neighbors finally took pity on us and took it in with his utility bill (probably because he was tired of it being on the curb).

So I called this morning and explained the situation, and, in an oddly helpful moment, the Big Pieces of Trash man said, "OK. I wrote down your address. Just put it at the curb tonight with the rest of your trash and we'll get it tomorrow."

Mr. Abby had, in the meantime, squared away the flight issue and was at home changing into suitable flying attire (this is another post in and of itself). So we backed his truck up to the curb and put the damn thing out. I grabbed a Sharpie and wrote "I DON'T WORK" on both sides, and added, "scheduled for removal 5/8/07."

Then I took him to the airport. I got home, and it's gone.

I cannot imagine who on earth would want our dead refrigerator, but I hope whoever took it gets whatever they're hoping for out of it.

Preachers Gone Wild

I don't know what the Hell is going on around here.

Pastor Facing Charge Of Battery On Man.

The man said he awoke to find his pants and underwear pulled down to his knees, his shirt pulled up to his neck and Smart straddling him while kissing his chest, records state.

Well, yes. I guess I can see how this is maybe not what you expect from your pastor. Not that I have a pastor, but I know lots of people who do, and this doesn't seem to be the expectation.

But when men of the cloth go wild, it's apparently not always about sex. Sometimes, it's about crack.

Anton agreed to be searched and the officer noticed a plastic baggie with 16 rocks of crack cocaine in Anton’s left shirt pocket, the affidavit states.

Well, the general consensus seems to be that everybody likes crack. Apparently, preachers are included.

It's always something

After Mr. Abby failed to leave on Saturday, we decided to go out and celebrate Cinco De Mayo in a suitably...rowdy fashion. A good time was had by all.

Sunday morning found us bleary-eyed and whining. What sounded good, thought Mr. Abby, was a nice cold Gatorade. So he grabbed a couple out of the fridge...and they were piss-warm.

The refrigerator has been getting wobby the last few weeks. It's a re-conditioned mosel we bought last summer when the World's Most Disgusting Fridge (provided by the landlord) went tits-up in a foul puddle of rusty water.

So we spent yesterday afternoon/evening hunting down the World's Cheapest Used Refrigerator from the classifieds. And picking it up. And driving it home. And removing doors and shuffling fridges. All while hungover. And it was hot. And the A/C is out in Mr. Abby's pickup.

Ugh.

So it's ugly. And it's old. But it's reasonably clean (let's hear it for BLEACH!), and it seems to be functional.

All I need is...22 days. Well, Mr. Abby will be here, so we really need about 54 days.

Now I have Dead Fridge in the back of Mr. Abby's truck, and he took my Jeep to work. I have to figure out how to get rid of the damn thing, which will require phone calls to the Tampa Department of Shit You Want to Get Rid Of. I will have to get a Voucher. Then I will have to take it to the Designated Solid Waste Big Stuff Place. And I will wait in line, and fill out Papers.

You know, when I was a little kid out in the boondocks, we didn't have trash pickup. We had a dump. And a burning barrel. Dad burned the household trash, and when the barrel was full, we'd drive it and whatever large crap we had to the dump. We usually used the tractor and trailer, as Dad and Grampa had long ago cut a tractor trail that connected our property to the dump.

The dump was in the woods, on some land owned by a relative. I could cut through the woods just south of the it and end up at my grandparents' house. I did that a lot.

The distant relative sold the land. There's a fairly high-dollar housing development on it now, named Fox Run Rolling Hills or something equally stupid. The homeowners there are easy to spot, since they're the ones driving their nice shiny cars 5 miles an hour on the dirt road so as not to raise dust.

My Grampa died, and Gramma moved to an apartment in town. Their old house has been demolished. But my Aunt and her husband live on the property in a house they built. My other Aunt and her husband live on the hill next door, in a house they built. You don't even have to walk up the road to get from one house to the other, because years ago my Grampa built a huge set of stone steps going up the hill, with stone terraced gardens on the bank between the steps and the road. That's all overgrown with the wild pea plants he planted, but the steps are still there.

The folks in the housing development live on top of our old family dump. They get stuck in the snow all winter long because the dirt roads are way down on the county's plowing list. They spend the month of November cringing in terror, because my family and our old neighbors never got on board with civilization coming to Irving Township, and continue to chase whitetail deer where they always have.

We did make a family concession when Gramma moved to town, and it's no longer a ritual for everyone who gets a deer to take it over there and hang it from the clothesline pole.

The relative I mentioned a few posts ago, my Dad's cousin, who used to own the dump property and lost most of it in a divorce, staged his great standoff with the Michigan State Police from the front door of his trailer on the couple acres he retained. His daughter and her retarded son live on the same couple of acres, in a small and tidy trailer that the police do not visit.

Sometimes I miss "home," but mostly the home I remember, not the home that's there now. Except when I have a refrigerator to get rid of, and as I navigate phone trees and dicker with civil servants, I can only dream of put-putting out in the woods with the tractor and just leaving it at the dump.

Flexibility

So - we got Mr. Abby packed. Then we made a couple of stops and I dropped him at the airport.

We've done this a few times before, so he got dropped at the curb with a kiss and a reminder, "wear your protective eyewear and stay out of the first vehicle!"

I turned around, made another stop, and came home. I opened the door, let the dogs out, and fed them. I was just settling in to watch the Derby, then run and make a Publix trip. You know, all the good shit I do when he's gone.

The phone rang.

"Hey, honey. Change of plans. Can you get me at the airport?"

So I turned around, hopped in the Jeep, and picked him up.

Seems that the flight that was going to carry them from point A to point B was already running behind. This would have made it highly unlikely that their connection at Point C would have worked. Missing the connection at point C would have totally screwed up point D, and they would've arrive at Point E with only moments to spare, and their bags already a day behind them.

This, of course, would have meant that they'd probably have had to proceed from point E to point F without their bags. Point F is also a short stop, and they really really needed their gear to take from point F to point G.

So they scrapped points D and E, and they'll try again soon.

This means, of course, that I have a husband again, and a big pile of baggage, and a healthy supply of hysterical phone calling going on.

But, it also means the dogs got a big old fun group walk.

This is one of those "Semper Gumby" occasions. Gotta love that. Since I have him around another...well, however long, I think I'm going to drag him out for pizza and beer.

Unacceptable

How often do you hear a government employee refer to his agency and facilities thusly:

"For anybody that reads that report and doesn't listen to me talk about it for two hours, this looks like a hellhole run by a bunch of idiots," Armstrong said.

That is the director of Animal Services for Hillsborough County, which Tampa and the surrounding communities.

It's a pretty damning description of the way the shelter facilities are run here, which isn't a big surprise.

The only interaction we ever had with them is when Casey escaped from Mr. Abby while I was gone. Their system worked well in that case and he got her back shortly after the Dog Cops picked her up. Apparently, we were lucky.

It's good this report is getting some publicity. Public animal welfare is difficult, particulary in urban areas (more so in Florida, I'm sure, which is populated largely by savages), but I'm pretty sure the county can do better than an 82% euthenasia rate.

Controlled hysteria

I'm about to stick Mr. Abby on another airplane, so he's in the end stage of packing. His job requires an odd combination of corporate-style crap and, like, hanging out at the war, so the packing is always an adventure.

"Have you seen my dress shoes?"

"Yeah, under the bed."

"Do we have an extra pair of ballistic glasses?"

"Bottom desk drawer, on the left."

And it goes on.

Please rest assured that it's been an insane week here. I'm not intentionally blowing the blog off. I anticipate return to normal excessive posting very soon. Please bear with us.

Meanwhile, there's a black puppy burrowing through Mr. Abby's carryon, looking for something to steal. I must intervene.

grumbling...

Not only was I up at a decent hour, but I just finished ironing.

[pauses for gasps to die down]

I wouldn't do this for just anyone. I've got a retirement to go to, and I'll tell you about it later.

In other news, Jack's incision has healed, so we can hit the beach today. Which is good, because mere walks don't cut it, and the boredom of retricted activity has driven him nuts. He's shredded three catalogs and a roll of toilet paper in the past 36 hours. That's ok - nothing I can't fix by wearing him out.

OK. Gotta finish my smoky treat and hit the road.

I'm about useless

today. Sorry about that. I've got two long, blathering posts that were embarassing in their lack of coherence, so they're in draft form in the hope I can save them later.

I did lunch with some friends and have sort of "function" to attend this evening. Meanwhile, I'm due to run around the park, so I'm going to go knock that out.

I'll try to get back later and get y'all something meaty. In the meantime, go pet your dogs or clean your guns. Or both!

Waiting, patiently

For the M1 carbine fairy.

(Imagine with me for a moment, if you will, exactly what the M1 carbine fairy would look like...)

Anyway. It went Priority on Thursday, but I didn't worry about delivery confirmation, so I simply assume it arrived in a timely manner. Monday afternoon, the CMP guys posted the picture of their mail.



And they said there were an additional three tubs sitting on the floor.

[sigh]

And yes, I did open the imagine and zoom in on it to see if I could spot my envelope. No luck - the resolution was too low. Yeah, I'm a freak.

Of course, some evil lucky ratbastards are getting the "we've opened your order and we're dealing with it so don't call and bug us" email. I, not surprisingly, have not.

[sigh] (and these are whiny, bummed sighs today)

I'd actually just be thrilled if this shows up before I head to Texas. I'm really not sure how likely that is. But it WOULD make things simpler, so we can probably be safe in the assumption it WON'T work out that way.

Food

Listen, people. About this tainted food supply thing...

The general consensus is that due to dilution, this isn't going to kill anybody.

The U.S. meat process is a little questionable. We feed things to the animals we eat that I'm not entirely nuts about ingesting. "Organic" and "free-range" meats are probably the way to go, for safety's sake. Even better is wild game.

But most of us can't afford to eat like that, or lack the time and commitment required to fill the freezer with wildlife.

And that's okay. Really. Our food supply is the best and safest in the world.

Millions of people buy their food in places like this.



Then again, places like that do their own meat cutting to order right in front of you.



I'm not saying we shouldn't keep an eye on our food supply, folks, but it's good to remember that many people around the world manage to survive by eating things that are nowhere near our "acceptable level of sanitation."

A little knowledge

Can be a terrible thing. Sparky recently learned he can "play" with Jack. Mostly, this consists of Sparky antagonizing him, then, while yapping, darting under some object Jack can't get beneath. Sparky then yaps while Jack furiously tries to fit under the bed, or the coffee table, or the lawn chair. Then Sparky runs out the other side, nips the puppy, and races away yapping. Jack, of course, whines, yips and growls throughout.

How fun, you say! How cute!

I woke up this morning far too early. I stay up late and I sleep late. Don't hate me - I'll have a job again soon. I love - love love love - that period in the morning that involves waking up slowly.

This morning I woke when a yapping yorkie dashed across my chest and dove for cover on the right side of my torso. Then a black face and paws appeared directly to my left, and a pink tongue lolled in my face.

"Grrr....yap! Yap yap!" said Sparky.

"Yip! Woof! Rarrrrgh rarrrgh," replied Jack.

"Shut the fuck up and go away," suggested Abby.

So Sparky launched himself off the bed and raced around to Jack's side to bark at him. As Sparky leaped to safety (again) and landed on my legs, Jack suddenly realized that he, too, is capable of jumping entirely onto the bed. Onto my face.

After some thorough cursing, I flung both dogs off the bed and trudged out into the living room. Then dashed back into the bedroom for some clothes when I noticed the Cubans still working on my windows.

After finding some garments, I tried again. The Boys were sitting on the floor, looking innocent. Casey was stretched out on the couch, and appeared to be enjoying my irritation. I think she believes it serves me right for not letting her be an only dog. She's probably right.

Pardon our dust

OK. Yesterday's musing sent me over to the blogroll/link list. I love to put things in folders, so I set up some sub-categories and moved some folks around. I've got some more site to add, and I'll see if the catgories are really working for me. A work in progress.

In other news, you'll see I was forced to remove the AKC Outdoor Series squeaker toys from the Product Endorsement list. I hated to do it, but I recently purchased another full-sized squirrel that Sparky killed in minutes. I can't be out here telling you these things last for weeks - apparently, the first ones I bought were abnormal in their toughness.

The original review remains in the archives, because they are good toys, but I don't feel comfortable pushing them on you anymore.

Huh.

From CNN - Snake-brandishing woman gets house arrest

This is exactly what it sounds like. Girlfriend held off the fuzz by brandishing five (no shit, five) venomous snakes.

Officers were trying to prevent the despondent woman from harming herself with a hunting knife when the confrontation took place October 25, police said.

Jackson picked up two western diamondback rattlesnakes, a pigmy rattlesnake and two copperheads to try to keep police from taking her into custody, authorities said.

Jackson, who was raising the snakes for laboratories, received several bites during the standoff and was taken to a hospital after police subdued her with a stun gun.

Wow. I mean...damn. I wouldn't do that. I find snakes...frightening. I don't kill them, I just wish they'd wear bells or orange flags or something. I hate being startled. I hate most of all being startled by a snake.

Then again, if you're brandishing them, you're not being startled, are you?

On the downside of this, you get bitten by the snakes. And they take your snakes away.

On the positive side, it's better, apparently, to hold off the coppers with reptiles than with a rifle.

I have a relative (NOT immediate family) who held off some Michigan State Troopers for a while with a rifle. They took his rifle away and he spent a not-insignificant period of time in prison. Pointing a gun at the cops is a serious felony. Pointing a snake appears to be...a little gentler in terms of repercussions.

Keep this in mind the next time you have a stand off with your local law enforcement agency.

(Disclaimer: We actually approve most highly of cops and don't think you should engage in any standoffs with them. If you must, we recommend using non-venemous snakes, because after all is said and done, everybody can have a good laugh about blue racers. Not so with the green mambas)

Local news update

I know y'all love this stuff. And even if you don't, I'm pretty sure my Mom does, so learn to cope.

To kick things off, it currently reads 88 degrees on the local news site. I can confirm "hotter'n Hell" from my recently completed afternoon run (3 miles today).

In cheery news, we have: Man Found Dead In Burned Car.

Detectives say they have learned Jones was highly intoxicated from drinking all day Sunday. It appears he passed out in the car and died after a fire started in the engine compartment, police said.

Moral of the story: Do not pass out in a crappy car. Best to take a cab or just pass out in a gutter near the bar. A ticket for drunken vagrancy beats a fiery death ten times out of ten.

Next we have some national news happening locally: Iraq Conflict Converges On MacDill.

While he's here, Bush will confer the President's Volunteer Service Award on Daniel Middaugh, 16, of Riverview, an East Bay High School sophomore who has done extensive volunteer work for charitable agencies.

Bush then will participate in a briefing by officers of Central Command, which has its headquarters at the base.

After the briefing, he will speak to a gathering of military officers of the nations involved in the military coalition fighting in Iraq.

Alas, not much controversy with this. I passed a "protest" on a nearby intersection that consisted of about eight people (hey - it was hot). Only on of them even had a cranky sign - the others were all holding signs that said "PEACE" and "Support the Troops - Bring Them Home Alive." Moral of the story - there's no controversy in agreeing with that kind of sign AND the president. I want 'em all back alive, too.

More on the perils of parked cars in the Bay area...Body Found In Vehicle Identified. It was, incidentally, a "badly decomposed" body.

The car was covered with a tarp and had been inoperable for some time. Serrano-DeJesus’ family members found him after they uncovered the tarp to see why a foul odor was emanating from it.

There are no signs of trauma or foul play, authorities said. Serrano-DeJesus was reportedly addicted to crack cocaine and did not report to his job on April 13. His wife reported him missing three days later.

I'm not sure there's a moral in this one. Perhaps...if your husband has gone missing, look in the car that has a tarp on it?

Until next time, folks, watch yourselves around parked cars.

Name dropping

I woefully neglect my blogroll, which is pretty unorganized to start with. One of these days I'll get around to updating it, perhaps even dividing it usefully so my dog readers aren't routed off into gun nut sites and the reverse.

But I DO like to link to folks who read and comment here. It's a community, and it's entirely possible that I may stumble across something really cool.

So...recently I've been dropping in on Bonnie. She's been doing a personal fitness blog for a while (her motivation level frightens me), but has just recently started being a Squeaky Wheel in Search of Grease. She strikes me as appropriately cynical and distrustful of authority figures, so drop by and check her out.

Then we have commenter aepilot_jim, who runs Confessions of a Gun-Toting Seagull. I love his blog and read there frequently, but he's using MySpace, which frightens me. One of these days I'll register there so I can harass him directly in his comments section.

I'm so Small Time, I'm all about the linkage. If you comment here regularly and I don't link to you, it's not because I don't love you - it's because my ADD kicked in and I wandered away to pet a dog or something.

This blogging thing is fun, and I'm all about helping my readers find MORE sites to suck up their valuable time. Bad Dogs and Such - contributing to the national lack of productivity one link at a time.

Under siege

The stucco project from Hell is still not finished. Yesterday they were around the other side of the the house, futzing with the window frames. Today they're on my side, futzing with the windows.

Must remember to not walk around house without clothes on.

Once this window futzing is complete (please, please, let it be today), then perhaps they'll paint. Then, I hope, they'll leave.

The dogs haven't been too insane about multiple short guys jabbering in Spanish right outside the window. Once round of barking when they first started, but now they're just sulking. In an hour or two, though, the guys should be around back, which will mean I'll have to greatly reduce potty breaks and just-hanging-out-in-the-yard time.

Less than a month left for Abby in this Hellhole, my friends. There are no words for my glee.

Sign me up

For the clinical trial.

Now, I'm not a Cosmo-type gal, but I enjoy picking between sizes 6 and 8 rather than 10 and 12. I put in some effort to be able to do that, though.

I'd love to be able to put in less effort, though. Effort sucks. And this pill...

...the animals also ate around a third less food than they normally would.

But that's not the primary draw...

The hormone-releasing pill has so far only been given to female monkeys and shrews who displayed more mating behaviour and ate less.

Now, of course, it can't just be the Fun Skinny More Sex pill, so they have to issue a disclaimer:

a psychologist said low-libido was usually caused by relationship issues.

Well, duh. But the pill that might make it possible to overlook the fact that the man in your life has spent the last nine hours on the couch giggling at his own farts?

If this shit actually works out, it'll be the fastest drug in history to be FDA approved and to be entirely covered by every insurance plan in America.

Then, of course, two years after approval, we'll learn it causes eyelid cancer and excessive hair growth on the elbows. But know what? Nobody will give a damn.

Good job, British scientists!

Oh, how I'd love it

LeeAnn asked me what I thought about the concept of some sort of compulsory national service, perhaps similar to what Israel does.

Oh, man - would that ever be fabulous. A system that required every able-bodied, non-retarded American citizen to serve 24 continuous months sometime between the age of 18 and 25.

Very few things make me smile way down deep inside like the thought of all the useless young sniveling shits in our country getting their entitled whine on in front of some of my old NCOs. It's a picture in my head, but it makes me feel warm and fuzzy.

Imagine...(and we can insert the instrumentals from the Beatles tune here)...the impact on journalism, if those reporting on the military actually knew anything about what they were talking about.

Imagine the impact on national policy if we knew we had millions of trained, available Americans - and that our own sons and daughters were most definitely among them.

Imagine the social repercussions of sending every young American to live under the supervision of sergeants for a couple of years. Think that would have an impact on crime rates?

Imagine the impact on firearms legislation if everyone learned how deadly a service rifle is - and isn't. Imagine the Brady campaign trying to spew misinformation in a country where everyone knew what an "automatic" really is.

Imagine the impact on our foreign policy if many, many Americans had the opportunity to travel to the places our servicemembers go - even in peacetime.

Imagine the impact on our national level of obesity of subjecting even 10% of that age cohort to MCRD Parris Island or San Diego.

Imagine the impact on race relations of having every American spend at least eight weeks living in a squad bay with members of every race and belief system on the planet.

I think it would be great. Amazing. Wonderful. I think it would fill the gap so lacking in our country - providing a definitive break between childhood and adulthood. I think that time with sergeants would imart a great national lesson in the fine art of learing to shut the fuck up and deal with it.

Alas, I couldn't support it. A few reasons.

It'd be a great social program, but I'm not sure it would have a positive national defense impact. Eight zillion fat, whiny kids who aren't going to be around long enough to train to do much of anything useful these days? Expensive.

I won't go too far down the "I don't want to serve with draftees," road. I don't want to slight any of those who've gone before, been drafted, and served with great honor and distinction. But we've put a lot of time and money into a creating an all-volunteer force that works amazingly well. That's a lot to risk.

It might work, practicality-wise, to simply train them and turn them loose again, subject to quarterly musters for accountability, serving out their term as a sort of "marginally capable reserve." But I think that would negate a lot of the social benefits.

But mostly, I find it slightly un-American. Philosophically, if this country is worth defending, it will always find its own defenders. In times of extreme peril, I suppose a draft can be justified. But fundamentally, the America I'm madly in love with is a place where one ought to be left the hell alone to do as one wishes as long as no innocent bystanders or farm animals are injured.

Compulsory service just rubs me wrong.

I would love to see more opportunities for service, both military and civilian. I would love to see more encouragement for young men and women to do their part. Service is a fundamental way of saying, this is my country and society and I am responsible for it. I would love to see more young Americans step up to the plate, because I think they're doing a piss-poor job of it right now. I think their parents, educators and adult influences are doing a piss-poor job of instilling that sense of responsibility.

But I don't think we can force it. Tempting though it might be.

It's very easy to agree on what everyone "ought" to do. But it's an entirely different thing to make that what everyone is "required" to do.