Well, obviously...

...they should ban guns some more over there.

I mean, it's worked so well in Chicago!

I know it gets bad around here sometimes...

The other night I could hardly hear myself think over the sound of Christians blowing themselves to Heritage U.S.A. in the local post office.

I had never noticed the sound before, but Travis Smiley opened my ears and my mind!

I wonder what color the sky is in his world?

...and every morning he hitches the horses to the chariot of the sun.

CNN's poll question this AM bugged me:



The only options for "How is the White House handling the oil spill?" are Poor, Fair, and Good. There's no "Why is it the White House's business, again?"

Contrary to Chris Matthews' opinion, we did not elect a national Priest-King, but rather a sort of CEO. Looking at the user's manual for "USA v. 1.1", the only responsibility I see for Barry here is in having his justice department prosecute the offending party if they don't clean up their mess.

Really, it's okay for a sparrow to fall, or even get a little oily, without the Sun King in DC being forced to tend to it.

Would Tom Paine have taken a check from George Trey?

Most places I've lived, newspapers have been exempt from sales tax, due to the First Amendment stricture against the .gov interfering with the freedom of the press. (I note that the existence of the Second Amendment didn't prevent, not only a local sales tax, but a federal excise tax on guns and ammo, but I digress...)

Now the FTC has released a white paper about "reinventing journalism." That's right, the .gov has come right out and expressed interest in "reinventing" one of the very things with which they are Constitutionally prohibited from diddling. They have no more business "reinventing" journalism than they do reinventing religion, or ordering you to put the Third Armored Division up in your guest bedroom for the night.

Of course, it's been a long time since the Bill of Rights was seen as anything other than a soft and absorbent thing by Congress; something prime time television DA's skirt with a wink and a nod so that they can more efficiently catch the bad guys.

So where will the Journalism Stimulus money come from? Well, in addition to borrowing it from the Chinese or just printing it out of thin air, the paper examines additional sources of funds it can use to prop up failing newspapers:

In one section, the FTC looks at licensing the news: having ISPs levy a fee on us that the government then dolls out to its selected news purveyors — call that the internet tax. It’snothing but a tax and it would support incumbents surely. In another section, it examines the aforementioned iPad tax; a tax on the broadcast spectrum; a spectrum auction tax; a tax on ISPs and cell phones; and a tax on advertising (brilliant: taking a cut of the last support of news in America).

Actually, Mr. FTC, for the services that Big Media provided for your boss, it's more customary to just leave a twenty on the bedside table.

On shallowness and vapidity and toenail fungus.

So there's this pair of local podiatrists who have an ad about using a magic new gizmo that gets rid of the heartbreak of toenail fungus. These commercials bother me on a number of levels, and not least because the doctors in question are kinda creepy-looking in their own right.

We see two sets of lower legs on the screen against a blank white backdrop: One obviously belonging to a woman, and the other to a dude. Now, apparently the dude is afflicted with the heartbreak of toenail fungus, because we hear the off-screen voice of the woman say "Eewwww!" with a level of repugnance somewhere between "Is that a booger hanging from your nose?" and "I just found a dead mouse in the silverware drawer."

Next we are treated to a short spiel by Dr. Zombie and Dr. Pornstache about the virtues of their zap-o-tronic Fungus-B-Gone machine, before the image returns to the same four lower limbs. The dude's fungus must have gotten zapped now, because the chick, instead of being repulsed, is making noises like she just fell headfirst into a giant swimming pool full of chocolate-covered strawberries and is rubbing one of her feet up and down the dude's shin in a fashion that indicates that she is within about thirty seconds of decorating her cupcakes right there on screen.

People, if you are dating somebody whose opinion of you is that strongly influenced by whether or not you have toenail fungus, just let them go, because you do not want to be trapped in the same house with that person, especially by some complex legal agreement like a marriage and joint bank accounts.

But at least what the good doctors are pimping is a simple zap-o-tronic type treatment. Had it been from the pharmaceutical industry, the commercial would have featured some stilted, never-happen-in-the-real-world conversation between two actors about the ups and downs of seeing your doctor about a prescription for Sporacil®, while a voiceover explains that, while Sporacil® is successful at mediating the effects of toenail fungus in 56% of test subjects, known side-effects include sudden incontinence, baldness, suicidal thoughts, irritable bowel syndrome, and spontaneous bleeding from the eyeballs; people who use oxygen or ride in elevators should let their doctors know before taking Sporacil®; use only as directed.

You know, were I faced with a choice of toenail fungus or having to wear adult diapers, I think I'd learn to live with the green toenails.

Unpossible.

A man shot three judges dead, injured another three judges and killed himself in a court office in central China Tuesday, state news said.

But... but... China has gun control laws almost as strict as those found at Fort Hood or in Chicago!

Didn't think this one out too well, did you?

Want to get proned out (or maybe even shot!) when answering your phone? Try making one of these Ruger LCR-inspired iPhone holders.

As ideas go, this strikes me as dumber than an acre of fungus.

People have been sparked by jittery po-po for "furtive movements" towards wallets and regular old phones that look nothing like guns, so why would you do something like this, unless your plan for your kids' college tuition revolves around a massive wrongful death settlement from the local government?


(H/T to Unc.)

Eureka!

I have figured out what the ultimate niche for iPad-like devices is!

These are the first gizmos that will let you read comics on the toilet as easily as a newspaper does. It's the forerunner of the dedicated throne room internet gizmo!

And have you ever been doing your business and wondered to yourself "I wonder what the GDP of Venezuela is? It's too bad I don't have Wikipedia in here..." No? That's just me, then? Okay, anyway...

Get one that is humidity-resistant enough, and you could have the whole bathroom reading rack replaced.

How do you get a drummer off your balcony at 4AM?

Let him get drunk enough and he'll get himself off your balcony.

A 21-year-old musician has survived a fall from a New York City balcony in which his head became impaled on a spiked metal fence.

Even before I got to the bottom of the blurb, I somehow knew the dude was a drummer.



(H/T to the Mad Duck.)

Well, at least they phoned it in this year.

Google is cool. It goes out of its way to try and remind people of that. And like any other pretentious California hipster, Google knows that patriotism is uncool.

Do a custom logo for ANZAC Day? Sure! That just shows what a sophisticated cosmopolite you are; how aware of the larger world you are; how you know to get drunk on, not only St. Paddy's Day and Cinco De Mayo, but on Chinese New Year, too!

Do a custom logo for the day when your own nation honors its war dead? Uh... which day is that, again?

My big fat Pennsylvanian credit rating.

Last quarter, Moody's Investor Services declared the debt issued by Harrisburg, Penn., and Woonsocket, R.I., to be junk, or below-investment grade. ...

These ... cities are struggling under the weight of the recession. Residents are unemployed, and without a job, they can't pay their property taxes, which are the foundation of local budgets. And cities' operating expenses continue to soar; pension and debt payments don't go away. And as their credit gets worse, the cost of borrowing for municipal projects -- such as sewer plants and roads -- just gets more expensive.

This may not come as a shock, but despite the fact that it hasn't a major league franchise to its name, Harrisburg has apparently managed to fill a whole island up with athletics-related taxpayer-subsidized stuff. This problem is endemic in cities across America, too.

Here in Indy, they're firing teachers and school bus drivers, but our losing roundball team is catered to like royalty.

Closer to...

This marks my second summer without my Grampa J.

A peaceful man, he was a reluctant recruit in "Mr. Roosevelt's foreign war" some 70 years ago, but he went when his country called. Unlike so many others, he came home and had a long, productive life afterward, finally passing away in 2008.

After his passing, I was on the phone with my mother, who was left with the task, as both the oldest and closest child, of cleaning out the house. "We have his old Army jacket. Do you want it?"

"I... You mean nobody else does? Yes. I'd be honored."

It hangs in my attic now. The shoulders bear the three chevrons over a "T" of a Technical Sergeant and the collar has the brass insignia of the Signal Corps. He was a cook in France during WWII, and I recall with fondness his proud stories of how he'd baked such wonderful cakes and pies for the officers that they'd pulled levers to keep him in their mess. I've thought about ordering a European - African - Middle Eastern Campaign Medal to pin on his jacket... You know, just because.

But at least Grampa J. came back.

It seems strange to me to have one day set aside to remember those who never did come back. Every day, their memories are all around me, too. Old pistols and rifles... Maybe this particular one never left the continental United States, but maybe the kid who used it to learn his unsought trade in boot camp never returned. Other pieces of memorabilia, both from our wars and foreign ones, clutter my desk, united only in the sacrifices they represent.

When you're surrounded by history every day, you tend to think more about those who made it, and especially those who didn't live to see what they'd made.

If you don't think about it on any other day, then on this one, please... remember.

Not gettin' in the groove...

On various extreme target pistols and rifles, it is not uncommon to see grips that are molded to the hand of the individual shooter. Consistency is, after all, accuracy.

But an ISSF shooter rarely has to pull his free pistol from the bottom of a pigpile, nor does a Three-Position Smallbore competitor need to acquire a good-enough firing grip on his Anschutz while unassing a burning Humvee. Hence, I question the utility of highly-molded stuff like this.

Although I could be wrong.

The times, they are a changin'...

Once upon a time, it seemed like 99.9% of spam email consisted of shady mortgage re-fi stuff, Viagra, and Nigerian 419 scams.

Now it seems to consist of fake luxury watch spam, Viagra, and Nigerian 419 scams.

Conclusion: 99% of everybody dumb enough to fall for the bogus re-fi stuff has already been foreclosed on and now they want a shiny fake watch to wear so they can look professional at interviews for a retail gig, which they'll need to keep the Viagra money coming in until their wire transfer gets here from Nigeria.

News'n'such...

"Forty miles off the coast and a mile down is Louisianans' biggest worry..." intoned the voice-over.
"They put Barack on a sub?" mused I...

On the Today Show this morning, a very serious and concerned Lester Holt asked one Ed Overton what the odds of success were for plugging the oil hemorrhage in the Gulf. The reason for Ed's being asked is that he was "Professor Emeritus of Environmental Sciences" at LSU. I blurted at the TeeWee "Environmental Sciences? What the hell is that? He pays grad students to count tree rings or something?"

As it turns out, no. Ed has worked on petrospills for quite some time and is all published and patented and everything, but mostly in the effects of spills, and measuring and quantifying spills and contamination via gas chromatography and et cetera. Which, actually, has about as much to do with plugging high-pressure leaks a mile under water as paying grad students to count tree rings does. But he had a PhD and was handy and lived in Louisiana, so there you go.

Meanwhile, on another segment, dismay and shocked surprise was expressed that the Israelis, who had said that they were going to stop the Gaza convoy for realz and they weren't kidding, stopped the Gaza convoy for realz and they weren't kidding, yo. (In other news, drunk steps across line, is punched in nose by other drunk. Film at 11.)

My life is a string of meaningless coincidences...

I have two pistols which I regularly CCW.

I usually carry the Springfield Armory Professional Model I've had since late '01. I also have an old Colt that I set up to be as similar in the hand as possible (long trigger, flat MSH, three-dot night sights, 20 lpi checkering and whatnot) that I mostly use for a range gun and backup. However, I'd been carrying the Colt for the last few months, after setting the Springer aside for a detailed scrubbing.

This morning, I went up into the attic to unload the Colt and put the Pro back on my hip. Just after I did so, I noticed a copy of the very first issue of Concealed Carry Magazine lying atop a stack of periodicals. For whatever reason, it caught my eye, and I picked it up and thumbed through it.

There on page 15 was an Oleg Volk photo of the very pistol I had just stuck in my holster.

It is, indeed, a small world...

Downsides.

There are distinct downsides to living in Broad Ripple, seeing as how it is the part of Indy where Seth & Jared and Tiffani & Amber all come to get their Public Intox, OWI, and Minor In A Tavern on.

For instance, when you realize that your genius planning has left you bereft of soft drinks at, say, 0430 on a Sunday, thereby forcing you to drive to the store for more fizzy caffeine, you hop in your car and drive down College Avenue...

...but very carefully, because College Avenue between 52nd and Broad Ripple Avenue is a veritable MiG Alley at 0430 on a Sunday, and doubly so on the Sunday of the Big Race. Half the cars on the street are cops. The other half are stopped in the headlights of the cop car, with their occupants yakking on their shoes preparatory to being cuffed and stuffed. It's quite the show...

Staying on the ball.

Federal, state and local governments will use intelligence, expanded community engagement and development programs to help local communities address the radicalization of Americans before they join al Qaeda, Rhodes said.

How about Tea Parties, Mr. Jones? Are we going to make sure people don't get radicalized and join Tea Parties? MSNBC says they're a big threat, you know. Why, they're halfway to being militia terrorist NRA members! Boy Scouts, even! If you leave this unchecked, these people might set off car bombs or, worse, vote Republican.

Wishful thinking...

Maybe I'll use today to answer all the email I didn't answer while I was in TN.

(Maybe pigs will fly, too, but it's good to have goals.)

Weird dreams, Part Two

The night before last, I dreamed I was going someplace with Shootin' Buddy. We were walking down a sidewalk in a kinda run-down urban neighborhood. I remember the sky was clear and blue, and all the vegetation was very green and verdant.

We were passing an out-of-business, vacant service station on our right; not a gas station, but a mechanic's shop, where the service bays came right to the sidewalk. The doors to the bays were open. There were these two dudes coming the other way down the sidewalk and they actually stepped into the street to swing wide around us. Shootin' Buddy was a little ahead of me and to my right, and as they passed him and drew abreast of me, I suddenly got this sinking feeling in my gut, like 'something bad is about to happen right now.'

The dude closer to me starts to say something like "Give it over..." and his shirttail has been brushed back and there's a revolver clearly visible in the front of his waistband. I'm trying to yell something to Shootin' Buddy as I'm pulling my own pistol and just wishing the guy would run away and I don't have a clear view of his partner 'cause he's in the way and he goes for his gat and I'm frozen on the trigger and I reallyreallyreally don't want to shoot this guy why won't he just leave? We're kinda circling, with him stepping to the side and me actually backing into the service bays and he's going to point the gun at me and BANG! BANG!

My own gun surprises me.

And now the bad guy is down and the other bad guy is down and Shootin' Buddy has his pistol in one hand and is on his cell phone and I guess the cops are on the way, and here's where it got really weird the way dreams do, because with no thought to continuity issues, the guy lying there bleeding suddenly has an M16 (A1, Vietnam-era, if you must know,) in one hand and a magazine in the other, and he's laughing at me, and making to load the gun. "Buddy, just drop the gun. Don't make me shoot you again. I'm not kidding."

And apparently he did shoot me because in the next scene I'm in a rehab ward (cleverly filled in from my motorcycle experiences) and everybody was telling me that I was going to be okay and I did okay and all's well that ends well, and then we segued to more normal dream fodder.

That was the first time I've ever had a "frozen on the trigger" dream (that I can recollect, anyway,) and it left me a little rattled, actually.