I don't know when, exactly, it started.
I do know that by the mid-'80s, any reasonably well-informed Soldier of Fiction reader knew that the British SAS did an annual exercise involving real live bullets flying about as they "rescued" real live members of the royal family sitting amongst cardboard bad guys. This became the de rigueur thing to do for any unit that prided itself on its innate awesomeness and elite-itude. Not having a royal family handy, the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team would happily "rescue" any old visiting VIP's in a live ammo shoot-ex, one-upping the Brits by using NVGs and doing it in the dark.
By the turn of the millennium, civilian attendees at some weekend gun camps were standing next to targets that were being shot at by their fellow weekend gun campers, supposedly to "inure them to incoming fire" or something. At some level, a healthy respect for the business end of a firearm and what it can do to human flesh had been lost.
The world got an awful reminder on the last weekend in June, when a team of elite French para marines turned a public demonstration of a hostage rescue into a "How Many Of The Four Rules Can You Break At Once?" competition, Team Category.
For whatever reason, perhaps dramatic effect, the troop laying down full auto mag dumps from his FAMAS rifle as suppressive fire was doing it right at the crowd. When his first mag, which was full of blanks, ran dry, he dumped it in a fast mag change and slapped a second magazine into the weapon, ripping it off downrange as well.
Only the second magazine wasn't full of blanks.
I've never gotten a close look at the Blank Firing Adaptor on a FAMAS, but apparently it was sturdy enough to cause much of what went downrange to fragment. Even so, 17 people wound up hospitalized for one moment of idiocy.
The Four Rules are devised so that at least two must be broken to put holes in something you don't want to. In this case it was Rule One ("All guns are always loaded,") and Rule Two ("Never let the muzzle cover anything you are not willing to destroy.")
The Four Rules are the Four Rules. No matter how tactical you are.
Sunday, July 06, 2008
Today In History: Holy war, Batman!
The Holy Roman Empire had been minding its own business, ruthlessly crushing uppity Protestants in Germany and otherwise keeping to itself, when some nosy Swedish king just had to play buttinski.
On this day in 1630, Gustavus Adolphus landed with both feet (and a thoroughly modern army) in the middle of what was destined to be known as the Thirty Years' War. What had been a one-sided stomping turned into a bloody see-saw that raged across the continent and largely depopulated Germany. So savage was the conflict that for the next two centuries, Europe reduced war to an almost kabuki-like exercise of ritualized meetings off in conveniently out-of-the-way battlefields.
On this day in 1630, Gustavus Adolphus landed with both feet (and a thoroughly modern army) in the middle of what was destined to be known as the Thirty Years' War. What had been a one-sided stomping turned into a bloody see-saw that raged across the continent and largely depopulated Germany. So savage was the conflict that for the next two centuries, Europe reduced war to an almost kabuki-like exercise of ritualized meetings off in conveniently out-of-the-way battlefields.
What the heck...
The unofficial VFTP motto ("Meat is murder. And murder tastes good.") is now available on a t-shirt.
What a shock...
As predicted, Electric Boobs are a big, big hit with Google.
There is just something very surreal about someone sitting down at a device that is very nearly the pinnacle of human engineering, the triumph of the Post-Industrial Age, connecting to a globe-spanning network of databanks containing the sum total of human knowledge and, able to ask any query they want, typing in the words "Electric Boobs". O brave new world, that has such people in it!
There is just something very surreal about someone sitting down at a device that is very nearly the pinnacle of human engineering, the triumph of the Post-Industrial Age, connecting to a globe-spanning network of databanks containing the sum total of human knowledge and, able to ask any query they want, typing in the words "Electric Boobs". O brave new world, that has such people in it!
Saturday, July 05, 2008
From crazy to commercialized in a quarter century.
In 1982, a lunatic with a dream tied a bunch of weather balloons to an el cheapo Sears lawn chair and flew into history and big trouble with the FAA. In an experiment that had more than a whiff of beer about it, Larry Walters made it to 15,000 feet and square into the airspace of Long Beach Airport before shooting himself down and winding up in some power lines and the national news.
Today, with GPS, corporate sponsorship, and a parachute, an otherwise sane-appearing Oregonian named Kent Couch made it 230 miles and across the Idaho border using a highly refined flying lawnchair. He got applause. Larry Walters, with no parachute, or even a seatbelt, got a $1500 fine.
Today, with GPS, corporate sponsorship, and a parachute, an otherwise sane-appearing Oregonian named Kent Couch made it 230 miles and across the Idaho border using a highly refined flying lawnchair. He got applause. Larry Walters, with no parachute, or even a seatbelt, got a $1500 fine.
Blowout continues!
As always at VFTP, our loss is your gain! Now available for your perusal and purchase is a fine Fowler Custom Knives Fat Boy Tanto. Happy bidding!
Garage sale, part deux.
Over at eBay, I am selling off another knife. This time it's a John Greco bowie. No reserve; auction ends in five days. I know someone can give it a good home.
And I thought the Atlanta PD had PR problems...
While I lived there, the Atlanta Police Department often went out of its way to prove it was a real big city PD with a scandal or two. Now in my first few months here in Indy, the IMPD has come down with a very telegenic case of quis custodiet ipsos custodes, providing a bumper crop of proof that it, too, is almost ready to join the elite ranks of the LAPD or NOPD.
First, three officers get arrested for shaking down drug dealers for money and dope, then a narcotics cop sells a couple of heaters to one of his confidential informants who is also (whoops!) a felon. Now we get a patrolman and his wife running the best little whorehouse in Greenwood. Whee!
First, three officers get arrested for shaking down drug dealers for money and dope, then a narcotics cop sells a couple of heaters to one of his confidential informants who is also (whoops!) a felon. Now we get a patrolman and his wife running the best little whorehouse in Greenwood. Whee!
Chinese internet users up in arms respectfully annoyed over fake photo.
Millions of internet users all over China got all protester-ish about an obviously faked tiger photo. Or at least they did until there was a mysterious outbreak of modems getting run over by tanks.
Today In History: Operation Citadel.
On this day in 1943, German forces in Russia jumped off into the attack in what would go down in history as the largest tank battle ever. Over 2,500 German tanks and 800,000 troops were involved in the attack along a 28-mile front in the Kursk salient. Unfortunately for their plans, the Soviets had been ready and had prepared the battlefield thoroughly. Within days, the German advance had bogged down in belts of minefields, anti-tank gun positions, and Red Army counterattacks. Not until operation Desert Storm almost fifty years later would the world see armored warfare on this scale.
Friday, July 04, 2008
I love to ride my bicycle...
So, I bought a bike today. A cheapie from Wally-World, using the theory that I often used to advise people interested in taking up a new shooting sport: You want to get into shooting sporting clays (or whatever)? Don't blow a mint on a Perazzi. Buy a used Remchesterberg shotgun and see if you like it first. There's nothing worse than blowing a ton on a new hobby and finding you're no good at it or it bores you, and now you're stuck with a gigabuck's worth of gear you don't need. (I also bought a cheapie WalMart bike because I'm poor, but that's a whine for another day...)
Anyway, we took a four mile spin on the Monon Rail Trail and, despite not having been on a pedal bike in, oh, twenty-two years or so, I had a great time. I guess it's true that you never really forget how.
RobertaX did up some steaks & shrooms with corn on the cob and lovely tossed salads for dinner and we watched The Man Who Knew Too Little, which she hadn't seen and I'm always up for watching again. It's a brilliant farce, with one of the cleverest scripts in movie history.
And now I'm going to put myself to bed to the gentle susurrus of fireworks outside, which will lull me to sleep with the soft sounds of Stalingrad in early 1943. It hasn't been a bad Independence Day at all.
Anyway, we took a four mile spin on the Monon Rail Trail and, despite not having been on a pedal bike in, oh, twenty-two years or so, I had a great time. I guess it's true that you never really forget how.
RobertaX did up some steaks & shrooms with corn on the cob and lovely tossed salads for dinner and we watched The Man Who Knew Too Little, which she hadn't seen and I'm always up for watching again. It's a brilliant farce, with one of the cleverest scripts in movie history.
And now I'm going to put myself to bed to the gentle susurrus of fireworks outside, which will lull me to sleep with the soft sounds of Stalingrad in early 1943. It hasn't been a bad Independence Day at all.
The definition of insanity.
Sen. John Warner (Idiot-Va.) is calling for a study on the efficacy of reviving the 55MPH speed limit. He claims that studies show that the National Maximum Speed Limit, or "NMSL" (rhymes with "numbskull") "saved 167,000 barrels of oil a day, or 2 percent of the country's highway fuel consumption, while avoiding up to 4,000 traffic deaths a year".
What he doesn't mention is that the NMSL also bred a generation of scofflaws, turned once-respected highway patrols into revenue-collecting jokes, spawned the radar detector and CB industries, and gave us awful Burt Reynolds/Dom DeLuise movies, C.W. McCall songs, and vanity plates saying "55HAHA" & "PU55Y". I think four thousand human lives per annum is a small price to pay for never having to watch another Cannonball Run with eleven long-hair Friends of Jesus in a chartreuse Microbus.
What he doesn't mention is that the NMSL also bred a generation of scofflaws, turned once-respected highway patrols into revenue-collecting jokes, spawned the radar detector and CB industries, and gave us awful Burt Reynolds/Dom DeLuise movies, C.W. McCall songs, and vanity plates saying "55HAHA" & "PU55Y". I think four thousand human lives per annum is a small price to pay for never having to watch another Cannonball Run with eleven long-hair Friends of Jesus in a chartreuse Microbus.
For a good start to your Independence Day...
...go read the poem "Yanks" that Marko has posted up this morning. If you don't like it, you must be some kind of godless commie hippie.
I woke up in Bizzarro World...
As I usually do, I awoke to the dulcet tones of the TeeWee wafting through Roseholme Cottage. However, this morning something was wrong. This couldn't be the right planet, or maybe the date was wrong; maybe it was 4/1 and not 7/4.
I could swear I heard the Today Show doing an upbeat piece on... on Iraq? And then it segued into, into... that can't be! They can't be saying good things about nuclear power! Maybe I've been wrong about the religious thing after all, but in that case this is a very low key, very understated heaven. More Presbyterian than Baptist.
I could swear I heard the Today Show doing an upbeat piece on... on Iraq? And then it segued into, into... that can't be! They can't be saying good things about nuclear power! Maybe I've been wrong about the religious thing after all, but in that case this is a very low key, very understated heaven. More Presbyterian than Baptist.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Things at which you shouldn't laugh...
...but you do anyway:
Poor Tommy the Geriatricat is running up and down the hall at top speed, pursued by the poo demon. He gives me a panicked glance every time he passes and I'm trying to catch him so I can help him, but I'm laughing so hard that I can hardly breathe. The way he ground loops on the hardwood floor every time he tries to reverse course just puts the cherry on the cake of the whole thing.
Poor Tommy the Geriatricat is running up and down the hall at top speed, pursued by the poo demon. He gives me a panicked glance every time he passes and I'm trying to catch him so I can help him, but I'm laughing so hard that I can hardly breathe. The way he ground loops on the hardwood floor every time he tries to reverse course just puts the cherry on the cake of the whole thing.
I'm answering emails, does it show?
In case you were wondering at the lack of posts.
In other news, I went outside for a cigarette, came back in and sat down to resume typing. Some minutes later, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked down and this horrendous, gigantic, green and yellow and black furry caterpillar had just crested my left boob and was continuing upwards. Towards my face.
I was a bit... um... startled.
The cats may not reappear for a while.
It may be another couple hours until I put up another post. In the meantime, visit Robert's shiny new blog, Blackfork.
In other news, I went outside for a cigarette, came back in and sat down to resume typing. Some minutes later, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked down and this horrendous, gigantic, green and yellow and black furry caterpillar had just crested my left boob and was continuing upwards. Towards my face.
I was a bit... um... startled.
The cats may not reappear for a while.
It may be another couple hours until I put up another post. In the meantime, visit Robert's shiny new blog, Blackfork.
Today In History: Smallest Car Show Ever.
On this day in 1886, Karl Benz unveiled his Patent Motorwagen in Mannheim, Germany.
Attendees of modern car shows wouldn't have recognized the scene. Parking was free, there was no awful traffic around the venue, and not one booth bimbo was hawking car wax by suggestively rubbing a fender.
Attendees of modern car shows wouldn't have recognized the scene. Parking was free, there was no awful traffic around the venue, and not one booth bimbo was hawking car wax by suggestively rubbing a fender.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Go listen to...
...the podcast of everyone's favorite Shooty Whippersnappers, if you haven't already done so. I'm given to understand that some sort of end zone dance re: DC v. Heller is on the menu.
What an afternoon...
1) No sign of the HVAC guys.
2) If I had a dollar for every email I REALLY NEED TO ANSWER RTFN, I could afford to gas up my car twice over. *
3) I'm not a sickly individual, which makes me much crankier on those rare occasions when I actually do feel pooky. Like right now; my head would hurt less if I slammed it in a fire door. Repeatedly.
4) Did I mention that there was still no sign of the HVAC guys?
(Oh, and...
Dear Roomie,
If you're reading this, I've figured out why Tommy wouldn't come out from underneath your bed this morning.
He was scurrying stealthily around the edges of the office. Under your desk. Under your chair. Hug the wall to the food & water dishes. Under my desk... When he went under my desk, I was afraid he might be trying to "stake a claim" to the subwoofer, so I gently nudged his bottom with my toe.
He inched reluctantly to the edge of the shadow of my desk, then made like a black spot of paint on the floor, all hunkered down and two big eyes staring at the ceiling. WTF??? Ah! The ceiling fan. Mighty tomcat does not like the spinny object on the ceiling.
I stood up to turn it off while he was in the room. Deprived of the shelter of me in my chair, he slithered over towards the litterbox, almost running head-first into it because he wouldn't take his eyes off the ceiling. He crouched behind the box until the fan wound down and, once it was safely still, climbed in, did his business, and wandered off down the hall cussing up a storm about strange spinning things on the ceiling.
He's not at all cool with ceiling fans.
Mystery solved,
Yr. Roommate)
_________
* If I haven't answered your email, it's because either I really love you or I thought your question rated a very thoughtful serious answer.
Some emails are easy for me to answer:
"What year was my Smith made?" "1967."
"Does the Blastomatic 2000 suck?" "Yes. Big rocks up off the ground."
It's the tricky ones that give me trouble.
"Wow, Tam, we haven't seen each other in years! How are you doing? I didn't know you had a blog! I love your writing! Are you doing a book? Here's $10 for your tip jar!"
I can't just answer that with a "Yes", so I think to myself "Self, what we will do is finish writing this morning's blog posts, go have a cigarette and a cup of coffee, do this week's LEM column, fold laundry, and then give this missive from a dear friend the attentive and heartfelt answer it deserves." Which means that a month from now I'm curled up in a fetal ball, guilting myself half to death over the bajillion emails I haven't answered. One morning I'm going to do nothing but write people back. It will be easy to tell which morning this is, because I won't post anything on the blog 'til I'm done...
2) If I had a dollar for every email I REALLY NEED TO ANSWER RTFN, I could afford to gas up my car twice over. *
3) I'm not a sickly individual, which makes me much crankier on those rare occasions when I actually do feel pooky. Like right now; my head would hurt less if I slammed it in a fire door. Repeatedly.
4) Did I mention that there was still no sign of the HVAC guys?
(Oh, and...
Dear Roomie,
If you're reading this, I've figured out why Tommy wouldn't come out from underneath your bed this morning.
He was scurrying stealthily around the edges of the office. Under your desk. Under your chair. Hug the wall to the food & water dishes. Under my desk... When he went under my desk, I was afraid he might be trying to "stake a claim" to the subwoofer, so I gently nudged his bottom with my toe.
He inched reluctantly to the edge of the shadow of my desk, then made like a black spot of paint on the floor, all hunkered down and two big eyes staring at the ceiling. WTF??? Ah! The ceiling fan. Mighty tomcat does not like the spinny object on the ceiling.
I stood up to turn it off while he was in the room. Deprived of the shelter of me in my chair, he slithered over towards the litterbox, almost running head-first into it because he wouldn't take his eyes off the ceiling. He crouched behind the box until the fan wound down and, once it was safely still, climbed in, did his business, and wandered off down the hall cussing up a storm about strange spinning things on the ceiling.
He's not at all cool with ceiling fans.
Mystery solved,
Yr. Roommate)
_________
* If I haven't answered your email, it's because either I really love you or I thought your question rated a very thoughtful serious answer.
Some emails are easy for me to answer:
"What year was my Smith made?" "1967."
"Does the Blastomatic 2000 suck?" "Yes. Big rocks up off the ground."
It's the tricky ones that give me trouble.
"Wow, Tam, we haven't seen each other in years! How are you doing? I didn't know you had a blog! I love your writing! Are you doing a book? Here's $10 for your tip jar!"
I can't just answer that with a "Yes", so I think to myself "Self, what we will do is finish writing this morning's blog posts, go have a cigarette and a cup of coffee, do this week's LEM column, fold laundry, and then give this missive from a dear friend the attentive and heartfelt answer it deserves." Which means that a month from now I'm curled up in a fetal ball, guilting myself half to death over the bajillion emails I haven't answered. One morning I'm going to do nothing but write people back. It will be easy to tell which morning this is, because I won't post anything on the blog 'til I'm done...
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