Apparently those gullible enough to believe anything a politician says are having a little gas:
http://news.yahoo.com/s/politico/20081208/pl_politico/16292
Shall we burp them now, or wait until they're fully awake from their nappy?
PH
Monday, December 8, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
The Price of Gas and Cigarettes...
I've finally acknowledged that I'm well on my way to becoming an opinionated old fart. I've always been opinionated and admitted it - it's the "old fart" part I've come to terms with. I know I'm on my way, 'cause now I've taken to regaling my kids and younger acquaintances with stories of "how it used to be".
Echoing back from the dim, distant past (circa 1973), I can still hear my dad bitching about gas prices - "If it ever gets to a dollar a gallon, I'm gonna quit drivin'!". My Uncle often threatened the same, adding that he'd quit smoking if cigarettes ever got to a dollar a pack (both still drive. I think my Uncle may have quit smoking - but more likely because he's on oxygen now, because he didn't quit when coffin nails hit 5 cents apiece). At that time gas was 40 to 45 cents a gallon, and cigarettes were 50 cents a pack. Quite a difference from the oft-reported 10-a-gallon/15-a-pack of their younger days.
My kids know that I used to get a dollar a day for lunch money from my mom. 'Cause they've also heard (too many times) how I used to stop every morning on my way to school for a gallon of gas (50 cents by then) and a pack of smokes (still only 50 cents, but we could get generics for 40 plus tax).
Ahhh. The good old days... When a dollar a day could get you to and from school (or the lake, or a buddy's house, or wherever you went when you were supposed to be at school) and feed your budding addiction to nicotine.
Not so anymore.
I don't smoke anymore (worse - I "dip"), so I'm not real up on the price of cowboy killers, but I'm wholly dependent on my gas guzzling van. Last summer when gas hit $2.50 a gallon I discovered that it was fast approaching the time when I literally could not afford to drive back and forth to work every day. Unless I quit dipping, of course. Soon after the point became moot as the price of petrol went over $3.50. Most recently, I went home to Colorado for a visit. I flew instead of driving because it was cheaper! And gas prices were still rising.
WTF!?!?
I continued to tell myself that it couldn't go on. Even if the price remained the same, it couldn't possibly go any higher. I was wrong.
But, I believe in "the system". I know that the vendor will charge whatever the customer will pay - and I felt confident that others besides myself had begun car-pooling, or taking the bus or whatever (the fact that it now was taking only 40 minutes to get to work instead of 45 lends creedence to my supposition: 5 minutes time saved = fewer dumbasses clogging the roads).
Finally I was vindicated - the market could bear no more. I was not suprised to see the costs level off and drop. I wasn't surprised when the price fell a little more. But now I'm a bit baffled by the falling price of dead dinosaurs.
Last week I needed gas but was short on funds and I was SEETHING: I wanted some of that CHEAP GAS dammit - before the price goes back up! I finally topped off at $2.11/gallon. The next day the same station was selling for $2.09. *&^%$%^$@^%$*&%1!
This is all destined to be a story related to grandchildren - how the price of gas fell so much that people could afford to drive again!
My new mantra is it couldn't possibly go any lower. I sure hope I'm wrong. Who knows - maybe I'll be able to afford to start smoking again?
Echoing back from the dim, distant past (circa 1973), I can still hear my dad bitching about gas prices - "If it ever gets to a dollar a gallon, I'm gonna quit drivin'!". My Uncle often threatened the same, adding that he'd quit smoking if cigarettes ever got to a dollar a pack (both still drive. I think my Uncle may have quit smoking - but more likely because he's on oxygen now, because he didn't quit when coffin nails hit 5 cents apiece). At that time gas was 40 to 45 cents a gallon, and cigarettes were 50 cents a pack. Quite a difference from the oft-reported 10-a-gallon/15-a-pack of their younger days.
My kids know that I used to get a dollar a day for lunch money from my mom. 'Cause they've also heard (too many times) how I used to stop every morning on my way to school for a gallon of gas (50 cents by then) and a pack of smokes (still only 50 cents, but we could get generics for 40 plus tax).
Ahhh. The good old days... When a dollar a day could get you to and from school (or the lake, or a buddy's house, or wherever you went when you were supposed to be at school) and feed your budding addiction to nicotine.
Not so anymore.
I don't smoke anymore (worse - I "dip"), so I'm not real up on the price of cowboy killers, but I'm wholly dependent on my gas guzzling van. Last summer when gas hit $2.50 a gallon I discovered that it was fast approaching the time when I literally could not afford to drive back and forth to work every day. Unless I quit dipping, of course. Soon after the point became moot as the price of petrol went over $3.50. Most recently, I went home to Colorado for a visit. I flew instead of driving because it was cheaper! And gas prices were still rising.
WTF!?!?
I continued to tell myself that it couldn't go on. Even if the price remained the same, it couldn't possibly go any higher. I was wrong.
But, I believe in "the system". I know that the vendor will charge whatever the customer will pay - and I felt confident that others besides myself had begun car-pooling, or taking the bus or whatever (the fact that it now was taking only 40 minutes to get to work instead of 45 lends creedence to my supposition: 5 minutes time saved = fewer dumbasses clogging the roads).
Finally I was vindicated - the market could bear no more. I was not suprised to see the costs level off and drop. I wasn't surprised when the price fell a little more. But now I'm a bit baffled by the falling price of dead dinosaurs.
Last week I needed gas but was short on funds and I was SEETHING: I wanted some of that CHEAP GAS dammit - before the price goes back up! I finally topped off at $2.11/gallon. The next day the same station was selling for $2.09. *&^%$%^$@^%$*&%1!
This is all destined to be a story related to grandchildren - how the price of gas fell so much that people could afford to drive again!
My new mantra is it couldn't possibly go any lower. I sure hope I'm wrong. Who knows - maybe I'll be able to afford to start smoking again?
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Who Knew? The Secret Life of Scotch Tape...
I find this both fascinating and disturbing. On the one hand - Wow! Who knew?
On the other hand, you've got people spending oodles of money to develop machines and methods to unravel Scotch tape in a vacuum...
And the next question is???
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20081023/ap_on_sc/sci_scotch_tape_surprise
On the other hand, you've got people spending oodles of money to develop machines and methods to unravel Scotch tape in a vacuum...
And the next question is???
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20081023/ap_on_sc/sci_scotch_tape_surprise
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Investment Opportunities
As many of you know I did not fully avail myself of an "adequate" education - my GED and questionably useful AAS in Criminal Justice hardly qualify me to make the following statements. But here I go anyway...
I'm having a hard time understanding why so many people seem surprised at the state of our economy. Also having difficulty with the people who are casting blame at large corporations and political figures. I guess it goes to show just how "in-tune" the (seemingly) majority of the people in this country are with reality.
I don't know squat about economics. But I do know quite a bit about value. Over the years I've also learned (admittedly the hard way) quite a bit about living within my means.
I would like a new car. I would like to buy a house. I can't afford to do either on my current salary. However (at least until a few weeks ago), it is possible for me to obtain both. Why?
Well - it's NOT because some evil, greedy politician or lending institutuion will give me what I want. It's because too many people in this country have assumed that the asking price is valid. Not enough of us have turned our noses up at artificially inflated "values".
Yes - some evil, greedy politians and lending institutions have told us that it's O.K.; that the assigned value is the true value of the good or service they're hawking. But the bottom line is that we've enabled them to continue to the point where what was once a $9,000 car became a $20,000.00 car or an $80,000.00 house a $200,000.00 house - without qualification.
Not enough of us said "BULLSHEEEIT!" and told them to go fly a kite.
Now those who didn't - those who don't understand supply and demand; those who don't realize things cost what they do simply BECAUSE THEY'LL PAY THE ASKING PRICE, are bitching about who's fault it is now that we're in the crapper and someone's just flushed.
Now they wonder why they have no choice but pay the asking price...
INVESTMENT OPPORTUNITIES:
Here's my top picks for investment opportunities over the next ten years -
http://www.afte.org/aftelinks/aftelinks_ammunition.htm
XOXOXO
PH
I'm having a hard time understanding why so many people seem surprised at the state of our economy. Also having difficulty with the people who are casting blame at large corporations and political figures. I guess it goes to show just how "in-tune" the (seemingly) majority of the people in this country are with reality.
I don't know squat about economics. But I do know quite a bit about value. Over the years I've also learned (admittedly the hard way) quite a bit about living within my means.
I would like a new car. I would like to buy a house. I can't afford to do either on my current salary. However (at least until a few weeks ago), it is possible for me to obtain both. Why?
Well - it's NOT because some evil, greedy politician or lending institutuion will give me what I want. It's because too many people in this country have assumed that the asking price is valid. Not enough of us have turned our noses up at artificially inflated "values".
Yes - some evil, greedy politians and lending institutions have told us that it's O.K.; that the assigned value is the true value of the good or service they're hawking. But the bottom line is that we've enabled them to continue to the point where what was once a $9,000 car became a $20,000.00 car or an $80,000.00 house a $200,000.00 house - without qualification.
Not enough of us said "BULLSHEEEIT!" and told them to go fly a kite.
Now those who didn't - those who don't understand supply and demand; those who don't realize things cost what they do simply BECAUSE THEY'LL PAY THE ASKING PRICE, are bitching about who's fault it is now that we're in the crapper and someone's just flushed.
Now they wonder why they have no choice but pay the asking price...
INVESTMENT OPPORTUNITIES:
Here's my top picks for investment opportunities over the next ten years -
http://www.afte.org/aftelinks/aftelinks_ammunition.htm
XOXOXO
PH
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Palin - Qualified or not?
I (still!) keep hearing and reading about how Governor Palin isn't "qualified" to be VP.
I wondered.
According to this: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vice_President_of_the_United_States, both party's candidates appear to be qualified.
Shut up already.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Whatever Happened to the "Information Superhighway"?
Dammit - he's bugging us again!
Hey. When opportunity knocks...
This is something I feel pretty strongly about. I won't go into a rant because my answer below will illustrate the state of things. If I were to rant, it would be aimed primarily at people my own age (many of whom have roughly the same life-experience, or who are better educated than me and therefore "smarter").
The snippet below is an answer from me to my teenage nephew, who asked me a question that, given my musical background, could probably answer easily. I helped him out a little, but felt compelled to send along the extra free advice. He's smart and talented and I'd hate for him to limit himself by becoming dependent on anyone.
"I don't want to sound like a smart ass - but the last two links I found in less than 30 seconds...
I remember my own youth - I wanted answers and I wanted them now. Today's youth is at a disadvatage because they've been conditioned by society to expect answers. I'm not saying that I won't help you out, and I'm not saying "do it yourself" - but I gotta tell ya - nothing's changed when it comes to taking care of number one.
You're a smarter than average kid. You have the most powerful learning and research tool on the planet right in front of you. But at the moment you're focused on certain things that will only get you so far - even with your smarts, talent, drive, and ambition.
Get a pad and write a short list - 5 items tops - of things you wanna know:
1. Where do kangaroos like to sleep?
2. Does gum really stay in your stomache for 5 years if you swallow it?
3. Can I get the clap from a toilet seat?
4. How much wood would a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck could chuck wood?
5. Where can I get custom gauge bass strings?
MAKE time - 30 minutes a day. Google the questions in your list. You'll be surprised."
KNOWLEDGE IS POWER
PH
Hey. When opportunity knocks...
This is something I feel pretty strongly about. I won't go into a rant because my answer below will illustrate the state of things. If I were to rant, it would be aimed primarily at people my own age (many of whom have roughly the same life-experience, or who are better educated than me and therefore "smarter").
The snippet below is an answer from me to my teenage nephew, who asked me a question that, given my musical background, could probably answer easily. I helped him out a little, but felt compelled to send along the extra free advice. He's smart and talented and I'd hate for him to limit himself by becoming dependent on anyone.
"I don't want to sound like a smart ass - but the last two links I found in less than 30 seconds...
I remember my own youth - I wanted answers and I wanted them now. Today's youth is at a disadvatage because they've been conditioned by society to expect answers. I'm not saying that I won't help you out, and I'm not saying "do it yourself" - but I gotta tell ya - nothing's changed when it comes to taking care of number one.
You're a smarter than average kid. You have the most powerful learning and research tool on the planet right in front of you. But at the moment you're focused on certain things that will only get you so far - even with your smarts, talent, drive, and ambition.
Get a pad and write a short list - 5 items tops - of things you wanna know:
1. Where do kangaroos like to sleep?
2. Does gum really stay in your stomache for 5 years if you swallow it?
3. Can I get the clap from a toilet seat?
4. How much wood would a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck could chuck wood?
5. Where can I get custom gauge bass strings?
MAKE time - 30 minutes a day. Google the questions in your list. You'll be surprised."
KNOWLEDGE IS POWER
PH
Friday, September 26, 2008
All Updated...
Alrighty folks...
I've posted all the old stuff for you to re-read and enjoy or ignore as you wish. I added some of you to a master notification list so that you'd get an email every time I update - that way you won't have to keep checking in.
If you're not interested, or would rather I removed you from the notification list, please let me know & I'll take care of it.
Later.
PH
I've posted all the old stuff for you to re-read and enjoy or ignore as you wish. I added some of you to a master notification list so that you'd get an email every time I update - that way you won't have to keep checking in.
If you're not interested, or would rather I removed you from the notification list, please let me know & I'll take care of it.
Later.
PH
Well... Are You?
My friend Bob sent this one to me. It's supposedly an excerpt from an interview with a youth organization leader by a female reporter - but then again it could be one of those "urban legends". Since I could not verify it's validity, I removed all references to the organization and the people it's supposed to be attributed to.
If it is true, Mr. "Jones" is welcome on my range any day; I'll even pay for the ammo. If it's not true, it still does a fine job of illustrating the way some people think.
Interviewer: "So, Mr. Jones, what are you going to do with these children on this adventure holiday?"
Mr. Jones: "We're going to teach them climbing, canoeing, archery, and shooting."
Interviewer: "Shooting! That's a bit irresponsible, isn't it?"
Mr. Jones: "I don't see why, they'll be properly supervised on the range."
Interviewer: "Don't you admit that this is a terribly dangerous activity to be teaching children?"
Mr. Jones: "I don't see how, we will be teaching them proper range discipline and weapons respect before they even touch a firearm."
Interviewer: "But you're equipping them to become violent killers!"
Mr. Jones: "Well, you're equipped to be a prostitute but you're not one... Are you?"
If it is true, Mr. "Jones" is welcome on my range any day; I'll even pay for the ammo. If it's not true, it still does a fine job of illustrating the way some people think.
Interviewer: "So, Mr. Jones, what are you going to do with these children on this adventure holiday?"
Mr. Jones: "We're going to teach them climbing, canoeing, archery, and shooting."
Interviewer: "Shooting! That's a bit irresponsible, isn't it?"
Mr. Jones: "I don't see why, they'll be properly supervised on the range."
Interviewer: "Don't you admit that this is a terribly dangerous activity to be teaching children?"
Mr. Jones: "I don't see how, we will be teaching them proper range discipline and weapons respect before they even touch a firearm."
Interviewer: "But you're equipping them to become violent killers!"
Mr. Jones: "Well, you're equipped to be a prostitute but you're not one... Are you?"
Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho...
With great sadness I once announced the suspension of my youngest son from school.
What was his crime? Making “malicious threatening comments”.
No shit.
I could hardly believe it myself - my son actually wrote on a piece of paper that he wished the world would blow up. Then, he reportedly stated that he “…hopes the school blows up”.
This is a serious business as far as I’m concerned. I don’t like to think that I’ve failed as a parent by not warning my children of the consequences of verbalizing their pipe dreams.
After all, there were many occasions when I said that I wished my school would blow up. I even sang that old 5th grade staple song, “Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory of the Burning of the School” (to the tune of the Battle Hymn of the Republic). And let’s not forget “Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho” (it’s off to school we go, with hand grenades and razor blades…)
C’MON!!
You remember!
And if you say you don’t, well… You’re a liar.
Now, I acknowledge that my son showed a great lack of discretion. I even acknowledge that the thought of the world, or the school blowing up may be frightening to some people. I even admit that I have apparently failed to teach my son that the right to free speech carries a truckload of responsibility along with it. But the overwhelming reaction brought about by the alarmist thinking of supposedly educated people bothers me somewhat.
What social hysteria must we face now? That guns are running rampant through the streets killing people? That any 13-year-old who wishes the school would blow up is a threat? That all parents are disinterested laggards with no sense of responsibility (uh, in this case that is me)?
Apparently these things are true - I see and hear of it every day.
I wonder when history became so unimportant that though we are required to learn it in school, we are not encouraged to learn from it? That the lessons given are mere window dressing in a curriculum designed for minimum achievement? That modern day dictatorships and totalitarian governments are not compared to their predecessors, nor even branded for what they really are?
From the foggy depths of my not-even-completely-high-school-educated mind, I vaguely remember being taught of alarmist behaviors such as the Salem witch-hunts, McCarthyism, internment camps for Japanese Americans, and masses of people who built bomb shelters in their back yards. I seem to recall guys named Stalin, Hitler, and Mussolini.
And wasn’t there some required reading in there too? – “Future Shock”, “1984”, “Animal Farm”, “Lord of the Flies”?
Try finding any of those books in your school library nowadays.
So what does this all have to do with my son’s admitted faux-paux?
Welcome to the Orwellian future folks. Where your government and educational institutions are more worried about what you say and think than they are about governing and education. Where the media is so powerful that they may dictate public opinion and steer the course of mainstream thought. Where people are not encouraged to have original thoughts or even be dissatisfied.
Where 13-year-old boys can no longer make the mistake of verbalizing their most outrageous fantasies.
These are dangerous times my friends. Watch what you say - and begin guarding your mind as well.
The Thought-Police are just around the corner.
What was his crime? Making “malicious threatening comments”.
No shit.
I could hardly believe it myself - my son actually wrote on a piece of paper that he wished the world would blow up. Then, he reportedly stated that he “…hopes the school blows up”.
This is a serious business as far as I’m concerned. I don’t like to think that I’ve failed as a parent by not warning my children of the consequences of verbalizing their pipe dreams.
After all, there were many occasions when I said that I wished my school would blow up. I even sang that old 5th grade staple song, “Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory of the Burning of the School” (to the tune of the Battle Hymn of the Republic). And let’s not forget “Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho” (it’s off to school we go, with hand grenades and razor blades…)
C’MON!!
You remember!
And if you say you don’t, well… You’re a liar.
Now, I acknowledge that my son showed a great lack of discretion. I even acknowledge that the thought of the world, or the school blowing up may be frightening to some people. I even admit that I have apparently failed to teach my son that the right to free speech carries a truckload of responsibility along with it. But the overwhelming reaction brought about by the alarmist thinking of supposedly educated people bothers me somewhat.
What social hysteria must we face now? That guns are running rampant through the streets killing people? That any 13-year-old who wishes the school would blow up is a threat? That all parents are disinterested laggards with no sense of responsibility (uh, in this case that is me)?
Apparently these things are true - I see and hear of it every day.
I wonder when history became so unimportant that though we are required to learn it in school, we are not encouraged to learn from it? That the lessons given are mere window dressing in a curriculum designed for minimum achievement? That modern day dictatorships and totalitarian governments are not compared to their predecessors, nor even branded for what they really are?
From the foggy depths of my not-even-completely-high-school-educated mind, I vaguely remember being taught of alarmist behaviors such as the Salem witch-hunts, McCarthyism, internment camps for Japanese Americans, and masses of people who built bomb shelters in their back yards. I seem to recall guys named Stalin, Hitler, and Mussolini.
And wasn’t there some required reading in there too? – “Future Shock”, “1984”, “Animal Farm”, “Lord of the Flies”?
Try finding any of those books in your school library nowadays.
So what does this all have to do with my son’s admitted faux-paux?
Welcome to the Orwellian future folks. Where your government and educational institutions are more worried about what you say and think than they are about governing and education. Where the media is so powerful that they may dictate public opinion and steer the course of mainstream thought. Where people are not encouraged to have original thoughts or even be dissatisfied.
Where 13-year-old boys can no longer make the mistake of verbalizing their most outrageous fantasies.
These are dangerous times my friends. Watch what you say - and begin guarding your mind as well.
The Thought-Police are just around the corner.
RIP My Frosty Friend...
I can remember seeing snow for the first time in Nebraska. It started in either the early evening, or on a weekend, because my dad took us out in the back yard to watch it fall. Bundled up, with a pair of my dad's wool socks for gloves, I stood in the middle of the yard looking up into the sky. I don't remember feeling any particular wonder at this phenomena; Mom and Dad had told me what snow was, so I had a pretty good idea what to expect.
If I felt anything at all, it was the happiness common to all kids who have been waiting for it to snow for a long, long time. Tomorrow, dad was going to show us how to make snowballs. He even said we could build a snowman, if there was enough on the ground. It was as I pondered the promise of these upcoming experiences that excitement began to grow.
The next day, there was more snow than I had any right to expect. It was fantastic! As soon as Mom let me outside (We hadn't been living in Nebraska very long when it started to snow. For whatever reason, my sister and I didn't have boots at the time, and to keep our feet dry Mom would put plastic bread bags over our shoes, held up with rubber bands around our legs. This arrangement actually worked quite well as long as you walked very carefully so as not to tear holes in the bags.), I began an intense effort to learn as much about this stuff as I could.
Snow was deep! Snow had weight! When you walked on it, your shoes left tracks! Snow made the ground slippery! Snow tasted just like ice cubes; that is, if you got some from the top. If you dug down closer to the ground, it tasted a little like dirt. Snow made everything look bright and clean and peaceful.
Presumably, you could make things out of it. Things like snowballs, snowmen, and fortresses.
But, no matter how much I considered all those other wonderful facets of snow, I discovered two things that made me wonder what all the fuss was about…
Snow was wet.
Snow was cold.
I've been told that throughout our family my aversion to things wet and cold was already nearly legendary. So saying; I don't think my mom was really very surprised when I'd had quite enough, thank you, and wanted to come back inside. Even so, I was still eager to learn how to make snowballs, and build a snowman. I guess I figured that the stuff would be O.K. in small doses, and it might be different with Dad around.
We didn't start on that snowman until after dinner - and with dark coming early in those Nebraska winters we weren't able to finish him before it was too cold to stay outside. My sister and I were frantic that the snowman had been all built; but he had no eyes, no nose, and no arms. Hell; he didn't even have buttons on his coat, or a scarf to keep him warm!
I guess we expressed enough concern to get Dad worried too, because he stayed out in the back yard and finished old “Frosty" for us. As we watched through the living room window, Mom would make suggestions as to how she thought Frosty should look; what kind of buttons on his coat; what to use for eyes; she even gave us a carrot to give dad to use for Frosty's nose. We would relay these suggestions to Dad, shouting through the glass, and he would look over his shoulder at us for approval (when he came in, he asked mom if she thought he'd never built a snowman before?).
I'm not sure I'd have remembered that snowman so well if someone hadn't killed him.
In the morning, when we looked out in the yard, we saw that some mean-minded soul had come and broken poor Frosty into big pieces that lay scattered around on the snow…
I cried a little, and Mom and Dad tried to cheer me up by promising that we'd build another snowman.
But I could tell that even they knew it just wouldn't be the same.
If I felt anything at all, it was the happiness common to all kids who have been waiting for it to snow for a long, long time. Tomorrow, dad was going to show us how to make snowballs. He even said we could build a snowman, if there was enough on the ground. It was as I pondered the promise of these upcoming experiences that excitement began to grow.
The next day, there was more snow than I had any right to expect. It was fantastic! As soon as Mom let me outside (We hadn't been living in Nebraska very long when it started to snow. For whatever reason, my sister and I didn't have boots at the time, and to keep our feet dry Mom would put plastic bread bags over our shoes, held up with rubber bands around our legs. This arrangement actually worked quite well as long as you walked very carefully so as not to tear holes in the bags.), I began an intense effort to learn as much about this stuff as I could.
Snow was deep! Snow had weight! When you walked on it, your shoes left tracks! Snow made the ground slippery! Snow tasted just like ice cubes; that is, if you got some from the top. If you dug down closer to the ground, it tasted a little like dirt. Snow made everything look bright and clean and peaceful.
Presumably, you could make things out of it. Things like snowballs, snowmen, and fortresses.
But, no matter how much I considered all those other wonderful facets of snow, I discovered two things that made me wonder what all the fuss was about…
Snow was wet.
Snow was cold.
I've been told that throughout our family my aversion to things wet and cold was already nearly legendary. So saying; I don't think my mom was really very surprised when I'd had quite enough, thank you, and wanted to come back inside. Even so, I was still eager to learn how to make snowballs, and build a snowman. I guess I figured that the stuff would be O.K. in small doses, and it might be different with Dad around.
We didn't start on that snowman until after dinner - and with dark coming early in those Nebraska winters we weren't able to finish him before it was too cold to stay outside. My sister and I were frantic that the snowman had been all built; but he had no eyes, no nose, and no arms. Hell; he didn't even have buttons on his coat, or a scarf to keep him warm!
I guess we expressed enough concern to get Dad worried too, because he stayed out in the back yard and finished old “Frosty" for us. As we watched through the living room window, Mom would make suggestions as to how she thought Frosty should look; what kind of buttons on his coat; what to use for eyes; she even gave us a carrot to give dad to use for Frosty's nose. We would relay these suggestions to Dad, shouting through the glass, and he would look over his shoulder at us for approval (when he came in, he asked mom if she thought he'd never built a snowman before?).
I'm not sure I'd have remembered that snowman so well if someone hadn't killed him.
In the morning, when we looked out in the yard, we saw that some mean-minded soul had come and broken poor Frosty into big pieces that lay scattered around on the snow…
I cried a little, and Mom and Dad tried to cheer me up by promising that we'd build another snowman.
But I could tell that even they knew it just wouldn't be the same.
The Real Tragedy of Columbine...
The one subject that seems to keep popping up in these little bits is guns and gun control - not surprising since I am after all, a firearms instructor. It’s an easy subject to expound upon; there’s plenty of ammunition (haha), and it’s sufficiently controversial to get up a real good head of steam.
I have tried recently to shy away from the subject only because I would like to try thinking about other, more pleasant things. As luck would have it, however, circumstances (as well as my miniscule readership) demand that I address this again. So here’s some more: with both barrels.
By now you have all learned of the sad situation at Columbine High School in Littleton, Colorado. As I write, the details are a little sketchy but I have learned enough to make a prediction. As we watch and listen in horror to the developments in this case we will all be subjected to a lengthy discourse in gun control.
Additionally, we will soon be faced with yet another round of defending our personal liberties concerning ownership of firearms. If you watch and listen very carefully, you will see something amazing. That “something” is a not-so-gradual shift in the focus of media coverage from the heinous crimes committed by individuals, to a crystal clear focus of firearms and firearm ownership. If you doubt me, go to the web page of a prominent national news-service provider and check it out. (for legal reasons I don’t want to directly name this provider, but if you put the company’s initials together “C.N.N.” - you should be able to decipher it and find your way to the web page.)
What I found there among the odd bits and pieces of sensationalism was a link to an interactive area that lists all fifty states and the various gun control laws presently in effect for each state. I have to be honest though. I didn’t exactly stumble across this link; I went looking for it, and I would have been surprised to have not found it.
Its presence lends credence to my prediction. Only time will tell if I am wrong.
So let’s take a look at what I’ve theorized, and ask a little question: “What, if anything, do our nation’s gun control laws have to do with the situation in Colorado?” Well if you ask me, NOTHING. There isn’t a law written or established by any other means that prevents me from breaking it. Period.
The only thing that prevents me from breaking the law is my personal integrity. My parents and my mentors instilled that integrity in me. At one time in this great nation SOCIETY dictated to a large degree, the standards by which citizens conducted themselves, and people who violated those standards were held accountable and/or punished according to the principles set forth in our Constitution.
But it just ain’t so anymore.
Oh? What qualifies little old me to say such a thing? You just watch and see.
Before the smoke clears at Columbine High School, we’ll have a group of people telling us that if our gun control laws were tougher, things like this wouldn’t happen. Before dawn on the 21st of April 1999, new gun control laws will be introduced in the House and Senate. Before the end of the week, we’ll be subjected to tearful interviews of victim’s family members lamenting that their children have died at the wrong end of a gun.
Now, before you all gang up on me, DON’T think that I am insensitive to the plight of the victims or their families. DO understand that there isn’t a firearm in the world that is responsible for this tragedy, and DO understand that there isn’t a law in existence that could have prevented it.
From what little I’ve learned, I can already point to one contributing factor. I will be so bold as to point out that according to students at the school, a gang known unofficially as the “Trenchcoat Mafia” exists. I will be so bold to point out that members of this gang were present inside the crime scene, as well as wandering freely about outside the school during the siege. The contributing factor that binds them is SOCIETY’s tolerance of such groups.
I predict that these people will somehow (in the eyes of the media) become victims themselves. A harrowing story from one girl inside the school recounts the laughter of one of the gunmen. As the girl begged for her very life, the gunman reportedly pointed a gun in her face and told her “This is for making fun of me last year.” This is where we will see another shift in focus from the crimes committed - to the victimization of the perpetrators.
We WILL be told, at least once, that this could have all been prevented by stricter gun laws, AND by being nicer to one another. Well… I doubt that either could have prevented this.
I also doubt that I’m wrong, which is unfortunate. To me, it’s far too simple to figure out - that the violence we are forced to live with is caused not by the existence of weaponry, but by the weapon’s irresponsible use. Irresponsible use is accommodated by the weakening moral fiber this nation. The weakening moral fiber of this nation is partly to blame on people who actually believe that writing and passing laws will solve our problems.
Also blame your government (GASP!) for pandering to the whims of a vocal minority. And (here’s the other barrel), blame the rest on the silent majority (that would be us…) who sit and shake their heads, tsk-tsk-ing, to themselves as the power, rights, freedoms, and protections guaranteed to us by our Constitution are taken from the common man.
I will close by saying that my heart is with those most closely affected by this sad event. I will also conclusively state that I pray to God that I am wrong. That what I have predicted will never come to pass.
Because to live in a society that blames the murder of children on inanimate objects - without holding the people who use those objects for violence accountable, well…
That ain’t really living. Is it?
I have tried recently to shy away from the subject only because I would like to try thinking about other, more pleasant things. As luck would have it, however, circumstances (as well as my miniscule readership) demand that I address this again. So here’s some more: with both barrels.
By now you have all learned of the sad situation at Columbine High School in Littleton, Colorado. As I write, the details are a little sketchy but I have learned enough to make a prediction. As we watch and listen in horror to the developments in this case we will all be subjected to a lengthy discourse in gun control.
Additionally, we will soon be faced with yet another round of defending our personal liberties concerning ownership of firearms. If you watch and listen very carefully, you will see something amazing. That “something” is a not-so-gradual shift in the focus of media coverage from the heinous crimes committed by individuals, to a crystal clear focus of firearms and firearm ownership. If you doubt me, go to the web page of a prominent national news-service provider and check it out. (for legal reasons I don’t want to directly name this provider, but if you put the company’s initials together “C.N.N.” - you should be able to decipher it and find your way to the web page.)
What I found there among the odd bits and pieces of sensationalism was a link to an interactive area that lists all fifty states and the various gun control laws presently in effect for each state. I have to be honest though. I didn’t exactly stumble across this link; I went looking for it, and I would have been surprised to have not found it.
Its presence lends credence to my prediction. Only time will tell if I am wrong.
So let’s take a look at what I’ve theorized, and ask a little question: “What, if anything, do our nation’s gun control laws have to do with the situation in Colorado?” Well if you ask me, NOTHING. There isn’t a law written or established by any other means that prevents me from breaking it. Period.
The only thing that prevents me from breaking the law is my personal integrity. My parents and my mentors instilled that integrity in me. At one time in this great nation SOCIETY dictated to a large degree, the standards by which citizens conducted themselves, and people who violated those standards were held accountable and/or punished according to the principles set forth in our Constitution.
But it just ain’t so anymore.
Oh? What qualifies little old me to say such a thing? You just watch and see.
Before the smoke clears at Columbine High School, we’ll have a group of people telling us that if our gun control laws were tougher, things like this wouldn’t happen. Before dawn on the 21st of April 1999, new gun control laws will be introduced in the House and Senate. Before the end of the week, we’ll be subjected to tearful interviews of victim’s family members lamenting that their children have died at the wrong end of a gun.
Now, before you all gang up on me, DON’T think that I am insensitive to the plight of the victims or their families. DO understand that there isn’t a firearm in the world that is responsible for this tragedy, and DO understand that there isn’t a law in existence that could have prevented it.
From what little I’ve learned, I can already point to one contributing factor. I will be so bold as to point out that according to students at the school, a gang known unofficially as the “Trenchcoat Mafia” exists. I will be so bold to point out that members of this gang were present inside the crime scene, as well as wandering freely about outside the school during the siege. The contributing factor that binds them is SOCIETY’s tolerance of such groups.
I predict that these people will somehow (in the eyes of the media) become victims themselves. A harrowing story from one girl inside the school recounts the laughter of one of the gunmen. As the girl begged for her very life, the gunman reportedly pointed a gun in her face and told her “This is for making fun of me last year.” This is where we will see another shift in focus from the crimes committed - to the victimization of the perpetrators.
We WILL be told, at least once, that this could have all been prevented by stricter gun laws, AND by being nicer to one another. Well… I doubt that either could have prevented this.
I also doubt that I’m wrong, which is unfortunate. To me, it’s far too simple to figure out - that the violence we are forced to live with is caused not by the existence of weaponry, but by the weapon’s irresponsible use. Irresponsible use is accommodated by the weakening moral fiber this nation. The weakening moral fiber of this nation is partly to blame on people who actually believe that writing and passing laws will solve our problems.
Also blame your government (GASP!) for pandering to the whims of a vocal minority. And (here’s the other barrel), blame the rest on the silent majority (that would be us…) who sit and shake their heads, tsk-tsk-ing, to themselves as the power, rights, freedoms, and protections guaranteed to us by our Constitution are taken from the common man.
I will close by saying that my heart is with those most closely affected by this sad event. I will also conclusively state that I pray to God that I am wrong. That what I have predicted will never come to pass.
Because to live in a society that blames the murder of children on inanimate objects - without holding the people who use those objects for violence accountable, well…
That ain’t really living. Is it?
POW-MIA: You are Remembered
I am not the child of, or the relative of, or even the passing acquaintance of a Prisoner of War. I cannot claim the loss of a loved one in any war - declared or otherwise. I have been to war, after a fashion (in the Persian Gulf), but I have to be honest and say that I was there at a time and in a place where I was more at risk dying of boredom than from enemy action.
One of my uncles was a U.S. Marine. My Dad served 22 years in the Air Force. I myself spent 20 years in the service of my country, first as a Security Policeman, and then a small arms instructor (Combat Arms instructor). One of my sons is currently a soldier in the U.S. Army.
Is this why I still have the POW bracelet my Mom got for me when I was 8 years old? Is this why I have a POW-MIA license plate on my car? Is this why I nearly became overcome with rage when one of my students whined that they “didn’t wanna be here”? Is it because of tradition or upbringing?
Possibly… But I think it goes a bit deeper than that.
Honestly, the main reason I joined the Air Force back in 1985 was that I was out of work. I wanted to be a highway patrolman back home - just like another of my uncles. I figured that I would do a hitch, maybe two if I liked it, and then take that prior service experience & put it to use somewhere else.
But then something happened.
I raised my right hand and I swore an oath.
Not something one does everyday; and up until I was actually doing it, I hadn’t considered it very much.
I considered it plenty during the act itself’and then continually over the years. Five times I solemnly swore to support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; to bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and to obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me. So help me God.
And I gotta say this: Any man or woman who swears the same without a lump in their throat ought not to be swearing it in the first place.
Not until the second half of my career in the Air Force did I feel so strongly about the plight of the POW, past and present.
I was assigned to work with Basic Trainees and Security Forces students in ‘tech-school’. I found myself in a position to directly influence; to plant the seeds of understanding and belief in young minds.
And if I had my way, it would have been mandatory to begin that influence with these words: “Better people than you and me have given their lives or their freedom to give us the opportunity to be here.”
With this weighing on my mind, I actively sought to discover the fate of my “own” POW. I guess you could call it a personal triumph (he was returned alive in 1973, right about the same time I received my bracelet). Of course, I rejoiced in his safe return - after 7 years of imprisonment under unspeakable conditions, he was reunited with his family and his country.
But once the mystery was solved, I felt somewhat empty… Even though I hadn’t worn my POW bracelet since I was about 9 years old, I’d kept it all those years. Often I had wondered what “my” POW was facing. Was he dead? Was he alive? If so, what might life have been like for him right then?
For the thought of all his suffering, I believe I am a better man.
For him and for all the others; we as individuals, as a people, and as a nation must pay our respect.
I have never faced an enemy in combat. I have never been held captive, or been isolated from my fellow man. I have never been tortured, nor denied basic human necessities. I have never known defeat. I have never been robbed of my dignity. I have never truly known fear or despair.
They have.
For what it’s worth - I will never forget.
One of my uncles was a U.S. Marine. My Dad served 22 years in the Air Force. I myself spent 20 years in the service of my country, first as a Security Policeman, and then a small arms instructor (Combat Arms instructor). One of my sons is currently a soldier in the U.S. Army.
Is this why I still have the POW bracelet my Mom got for me when I was 8 years old? Is this why I have a POW-MIA license plate on my car? Is this why I nearly became overcome with rage when one of my students whined that they “didn’t wanna be here”? Is it because of tradition or upbringing?
Possibly… But I think it goes a bit deeper than that.
Honestly, the main reason I joined the Air Force back in 1985 was that I was out of work. I wanted to be a highway patrolman back home - just like another of my uncles. I figured that I would do a hitch, maybe two if I liked it, and then take that prior service experience & put it to use somewhere else.
But then something happened.
I raised my right hand and I swore an oath.
Not something one does everyday; and up until I was actually doing it, I hadn’t considered it very much.
I considered it plenty during the act itself’and then continually over the years. Five times I solemnly swore to support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; to bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and to obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me. So help me God.
And I gotta say this: Any man or woman who swears the same without a lump in their throat ought not to be swearing it in the first place.
Not until the second half of my career in the Air Force did I feel so strongly about the plight of the POW, past and present.
I was assigned to work with Basic Trainees and Security Forces students in ‘tech-school’. I found myself in a position to directly influence; to plant the seeds of understanding and belief in young minds.
And if I had my way, it would have been mandatory to begin that influence with these words: “Better people than you and me have given their lives or their freedom to give us the opportunity to be here.”
With this weighing on my mind, I actively sought to discover the fate of my “own” POW. I guess you could call it a personal triumph (he was returned alive in 1973, right about the same time I received my bracelet). Of course, I rejoiced in his safe return - after 7 years of imprisonment under unspeakable conditions, he was reunited with his family and his country.
But once the mystery was solved, I felt somewhat empty… Even though I hadn’t worn my POW bracelet since I was about 9 years old, I’d kept it all those years. Often I had wondered what “my” POW was facing. Was he dead? Was he alive? If so, what might life have been like for him right then?
For the thought of all his suffering, I believe I am a better man.
For him and for all the others; we as individuals, as a people, and as a nation must pay our respect.
I have never faced an enemy in combat. I have never been held captive, or been isolated from my fellow man. I have never been tortured, nor denied basic human necessities. I have never known defeat. I have never been robbed of my dignity. I have never truly known fear or despair.
They have.
For what it’s worth - I will never forget.
ORDER!
I don’t know anyone who doesn’t like a little order in his or her life.
Some folks say that we order our lives to assuage our fear of the unknown. I don’t know if this is true, but I do know that the unknown, or the unexpected, can be a royal pain in the butt. Extra effort must be taken to overcome the unexpected, and beat down the unpleasant consequences of this upset in the routine.
I don’t consciously think of myself as organized. But in light of my reactions to the slightest waver in the fabric of existence, I must admit to myself that I am in fact, an orderly person. It may even be fair to say that I thrive on order to a fault. I can tell you almost minute to minute what my daily schedule is (or at least what I think it should be). I can reel it off the top of my head. And despite this, it seems I’ve set myself up for a fall. Because there is no time allotted in my schedule for mistakes (mine or other’s), miscommunications, dead car batteries, sick children, people mowing grass in the firing range impact area (DURING live fire training!!!), or dogs that need to be taken to the vet.
In my utopian bubble there are no such things.
I tend to get a little tense when order is absent. To be truthful, I get more than a little tense - Psychotic would be closer to the mark. I have tried time and again to overcome this behavior, the one thing that I see as my greatest failing.
My antics are sometimes a source of amusement to friends and co-workers. I’ll rant and storm and stomp; usually muttering under my breath, and always performing the diaphragmatic breathing exercise I was taught in stress management class. I wonder what I must look like?
There are plenty of jokes of course; “post office” humor, questions about the view from the top of the water tower, etc… And for the most part it’s harmless in its way, but I wonder what they’d think if they knew for sure what was going on inside me?
I can’t explain what happens when, as a former boss liked to say, people “color outside the lines”. All I know is that things are not as they should be, and it upsets me. Maybe you know the feeling? Adrenaline coursing, pulse rate soaring, absence of rational thought, barely contained rage? Well, maybe you don’t know the feeling. At least I hope not.
The worst part is actually being aware that I’ve taken the jump off the high-dive… I even say to myself, while my mouth is running: “Man, you’re really cookin’ here!.. EASE OFF!” But usually I continue.
It would seem that the problem is my failure to acknowledge disorder. Even though I know perfectly well that the world is an imperfect place. My wife liked to say I had a low stupidity threshold: that is, the more stupid something (or someone) appears to me, the more apt I am to take offense. And “offense” is the perfect word to describe the feeling.
Psychologists will say that my standards are too high - that I hold myself above other people and then demand that they perform to my expectations. And they will be right. My boss said I’m simply arrogant. And he was right. My co-workers say that I’m just wrapped too tight around the axles (whatever that means?), and I suspect that they are right. My kids say that I’m “cranky”. And they are right too.
Things sometimes reach a point where it’s difficult for me to know when I’M right. I guess I’ll just have to buck-up though, and remain aware of my shortcomings. That, and only that, is what makes me tolerable to my friends.
Despite all the trouble I seem to cause myself, however, I still feel like I’m doing the right thing. I DO have friends - and they like me, or at least they respect what I stand for. And no matter how stupid things (or people) seem, and no matter how much I stew about it, there has never been a point where (whether I’m right or wrong) things couldn’t be put right again.
But...
Even now, as I ponder my place in the grand scheme of things, I find that sometimes a little “overboard” behavior can be a good thing. And while I can continue to examine and alter my negative behaviors, that to raise the stupidity threshold may be detrimental.
My arrogance allows me to claim that my angry nature directly effects the positive results I achieve. Pure rationalization, of course, but hey - where would we be without rationalization?
To close this installment I’ll say that, prescribing to one of the tenets of Chaos Theory; that is: the greatest changes take place where all elements are in an excited state. Maybe in order for me to grow emotionally, it’s actually necessary to artificially produce these agitated states. I literally have to be an asshole sometimes in order to succeed (talk about rationalization)!
In the meantime - could we have a little order please???
Some folks say that we order our lives to assuage our fear of the unknown. I don’t know if this is true, but I do know that the unknown, or the unexpected, can be a royal pain in the butt. Extra effort must be taken to overcome the unexpected, and beat down the unpleasant consequences of this upset in the routine.
I don’t consciously think of myself as organized. But in light of my reactions to the slightest waver in the fabric of existence, I must admit to myself that I am in fact, an orderly person. It may even be fair to say that I thrive on order to a fault. I can tell you almost minute to minute what my daily schedule is (or at least what I think it should be). I can reel it off the top of my head. And despite this, it seems I’ve set myself up for a fall. Because there is no time allotted in my schedule for mistakes (mine or other’s), miscommunications, dead car batteries, sick children, people mowing grass in the firing range impact area (DURING live fire training!!!), or dogs that need to be taken to the vet.
In my utopian bubble there are no such things.
I tend to get a little tense when order is absent. To be truthful, I get more than a little tense - Psychotic would be closer to the mark. I have tried time and again to overcome this behavior, the one thing that I see as my greatest failing.
My antics are sometimes a source of amusement to friends and co-workers. I’ll rant and storm and stomp; usually muttering under my breath, and always performing the diaphragmatic breathing exercise I was taught in stress management class. I wonder what I must look like?
There are plenty of jokes of course; “post office” humor, questions about the view from the top of the water tower, etc… And for the most part it’s harmless in its way, but I wonder what they’d think if they knew for sure what was going on inside me?
I can’t explain what happens when, as a former boss liked to say, people “color outside the lines”. All I know is that things are not as they should be, and it upsets me. Maybe you know the feeling? Adrenaline coursing, pulse rate soaring, absence of rational thought, barely contained rage? Well, maybe you don’t know the feeling. At least I hope not.
The worst part is actually being aware that I’ve taken the jump off the high-dive… I even say to myself, while my mouth is running: “Man, you’re really cookin’ here!.. EASE OFF!” But usually I continue.
It would seem that the problem is my failure to acknowledge disorder. Even though I know perfectly well that the world is an imperfect place. My wife liked to say I had a low stupidity threshold: that is, the more stupid something (or someone) appears to me, the more apt I am to take offense. And “offense” is the perfect word to describe the feeling.
Psychologists will say that my standards are too high - that I hold myself above other people and then demand that they perform to my expectations. And they will be right. My boss said I’m simply arrogant. And he was right. My co-workers say that I’m just wrapped too tight around the axles (whatever that means?), and I suspect that they are right. My kids say that I’m “cranky”. And they are right too.
Things sometimes reach a point where it’s difficult for me to know when I’M right. I guess I’ll just have to buck-up though, and remain aware of my shortcomings. That, and only that, is what makes me tolerable to my friends.
Despite all the trouble I seem to cause myself, however, I still feel like I’m doing the right thing. I DO have friends - and they like me, or at least they respect what I stand for. And no matter how stupid things (or people) seem, and no matter how much I stew about it, there has never been a point where (whether I’m right or wrong) things couldn’t be put right again.
But...
Even now, as I ponder my place in the grand scheme of things, I find that sometimes a little “overboard” behavior can be a good thing. And while I can continue to examine and alter my negative behaviors, that to raise the stupidity threshold may be detrimental.
My arrogance allows me to claim that my angry nature directly effects the positive results I achieve. Pure rationalization, of course, but hey - where would we be without rationalization?
To close this installment I’ll say that, prescribing to one of the tenets of Chaos Theory; that is: the greatest changes take place where all elements are in an excited state. Maybe in order for me to grow emotionally, it’s actually necessary to artificially produce these agitated states. I literally have to be an asshole sometimes in order to succeed (talk about rationalization)!
In the meantime - could we have a little order please???
Hot Wheels vs. Matchbox?
Once, I decided that I needed a race track to race my toy cars on. After a few days of bugging daddy, he decided I needed one too. However; he said that instead of buying one at the store, we would make one out of wood.
Imagine my surprise at that! I didn't have a clue as to how we would accomplish this, but I couldn't wait to find out.
I got to go with dad to the lumberyard, where I discovered a world that I had never imagined existed. Stacks of boards reached the ceiling of the sheds out in back of the store. Inside; row upon row of tools, nails, screws, and other items; their purposes unimaginable to me.
As dad began to gather the materials he needed, I started to get suspicious. How was he going to make a race track out of boards and nails? "You'll see." was the answer to my questions; and see I did.
Back at home, he nailed long, thin strips of wood he called "laves" to the sides of the biggest board. The "laves" stuck up above the surface of the big board, making a "U" shape. Then, he nailed another "lave" to the center of the big board, and the "U" became a "W". Just as I started to wonder how he was going to make all the curves and turns and stuff on my race track, he said "There!", and started putting his tools away.
It's hard to say what I was thinking at that moment; it didn't look like any race track I had ever seen. Race tracks are supposed to be round. I knew that. The people on t.v. knew that. Race car drivers certainly knew that. Everybody, as a matter of fact, knew that. Everybody, it seemed, except for daddy.
My poor dad qot a funny look on his face when I tried to explain, and for a minute I thought he was going to get mad. He told me that this race track was better than a round race track. He told me that on this race track, you wouldn't even have to push the cars to make them go!
Still, I was more than a little disappointed; my own Dad had failed me! And even worse, he was trying to cover up his failure by lying!
Imagine my surprise when he elevated one end of the track on a scrap of wood, placed a Hot Wheels car in one of the low places of the "W", and a Matchbox car in the other one, and without even pushing, he let both cars go and they rolled down the track all by themselves!
Looking back, I realize that I learned four very important lessons that day. I learned that lumber yards are very cool places; I learned to have faith in my father; I learned that appearances can be deceiving; and I learned that Hot Wheels are faster than Matchbox cars.
Imagine my surprise at that! I didn't have a clue as to how we would accomplish this, but I couldn't wait to find out.
I got to go with dad to the lumberyard, where I discovered a world that I had never imagined existed. Stacks of boards reached the ceiling of the sheds out in back of the store. Inside; row upon row of tools, nails, screws, and other items; their purposes unimaginable to me.
As dad began to gather the materials he needed, I started to get suspicious. How was he going to make a race track out of boards and nails? "You'll see." was the answer to my questions; and see I did.
Back at home, he nailed long, thin strips of wood he called "laves" to the sides of the biggest board. The "laves" stuck up above the surface of the big board, making a "U" shape. Then, he nailed another "lave" to the center of the big board, and the "U" became a "W". Just as I started to wonder how he was going to make all the curves and turns and stuff on my race track, he said "There!", and started putting his tools away.
It's hard to say what I was thinking at that moment; it didn't look like any race track I had ever seen. Race tracks are supposed to be round. I knew that. The people on t.v. knew that. Race car drivers certainly knew that. Everybody, as a matter of fact, knew that. Everybody, it seemed, except for daddy.
My poor dad qot a funny look on his face when I tried to explain, and for a minute I thought he was going to get mad. He told me that this race track was better than a round race track. He told me that on this race track, you wouldn't even have to push the cars to make them go!
Still, I was more than a little disappointed; my own Dad had failed me! And even worse, he was trying to cover up his failure by lying!
Imagine my surprise when he elevated one end of the track on a scrap of wood, placed a Hot Wheels car in one of the low places of the "W", and a Matchbox car in the other one, and without even pushing, he let both cars go and they rolled down the track all by themselves!
Looking back, I realize that I learned four very important lessons that day. I learned that lumber yards are very cool places; I learned to have faith in my father; I learned that appearances can be deceiving; and I learned that Hot Wheels are faster than Matchbox cars.
Guns Don't Kill
There are many ways to get into trouble talking about guns, especially if you’re fond of such glib sayings as “When in doubt, shoot it out”, and “Shoot the hostage!”... So when the subject comes up I must always respond carefully.
Every once in a while, someone tries to convince me of the error of my becoming a firearm instructor. Some folks are judgmental, although reserved; I suppose they are curious about the job itself as well, but don’t want to admit it. And then there are the shrill people with an open agenda. Invariably it is pointed out how unsafe guns are.
From the uninitiated I hear about “accidental” discharges. These are cited as examples; used in an attempt to persuade me that my profession is not a worthwhile endeavor. The funny thing is that nothing could be farther from the truth.
I can’t even remember how old I was when I first squeezed the trigger of a weapon. It was back on Aunt Bonnie’s farm, and Dad was teaching me to shoot using my cousin’s .22 rifle. I remember the first lesson well because even as I ached to hold that rifle in my hands, I wasn’t allowed to so much as lay a finger on it until I could identify the safety mechanism and explain its operation.
After an eternity (or so it seemed) of demonstrating that I could properly operate the safety, I was led to the kitchen where Dad pulled up the rug by the back door. Underneath was a small hole in the floor - a hole the same diameter as a .22 caliber bullet.
The illustration has served its purpose for many years. In essence, the lesson to be learned was very simple: Shit Happens.
And so it does. Especially if you’re negligent.
Guns, by design and purpose, are inherently dangerous. However the danger lies not in their existence, but in their misuse. Some weapons, like firearms, are mechanical in nature. Some, such as a rock, for instance, are not. The link between them is that they aren’t capable of killing unless set in motion by manipulation of their essential parts.
I spend very little time teaching people to actually fire weapons - I could show a monkey how to do that... My most important lessons are about when, and how, to not fire a weapon. It’s a constant drill that I’m only too happy to perform.
Awareness is the key to all things. We must admit that there are risks in life, no matter what your
occupation or pastime. Every moment is an opportunity for disaster - ignoring or failing to implement practices that reduce or eliminate those risks are grounded in a lack of awareness.
Firearms are simply tools, and the fact that they are designed for the purpose of killing should give the user some important clues as to how they must be handled. And so I say: if the trigger-actuator-nut is faulty, don’t blame the gun.
If we observe the most basic rule of weapon safety, “Treat guns as if they were loaded at all times”, we can see that the potential for an unintentional discharge is greatly reduced. Observe two more: “Never point a gun at anything you don’t intend to shoot”, and “Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to fire”, then we may conclude that there is no such thing as an “accidental” discharge.
Maybe the next time someone tells me that guns are unsafe, I will agree that gas ovens are safer. But you won’t catch me sticking my head into one.
And yes, I’m aware of the contradiction; harping on safety, when what I really do for a living is teach folks more effective methods of killing. But I choose to ensure that my students, who include my wife and kids, don’t get caught short before, during, or after the next Revolution.
Welcome to the Jungle baby...
At least they won’t shoot themselves in the foot, or each other out of ignorance.
Every once in a while, someone tries to convince me of the error of my becoming a firearm instructor. Some folks are judgmental, although reserved; I suppose they are curious about the job itself as well, but don’t want to admit it. And then there are the shrill people with an open agenda. Invariably it is pointed out how unsafe guns are.
From the uninitiated I hear about “accidental” discharges. These are cited as examples; used in an attempt to persuade me that my profession is not a worthwhile endeavor. The funny thing is that nothing could be farther from the truth.
I can’t even remember how old I was when I first squeezed the trigger of a weapon. It was back on Aunt Bonnie’s farm, and Dad was teaching me to shoot using my cousin’s .22 rifle. I remember the first lesson well because even as I ached to hold that rifle in my hands, I wasn’t allowed to so much as lay a finger on it until I could identify the safety mechanism and explain its operation.
After an eternity (or so it seemed) of demonstrating that I could properly operate the safety, I was led to the kitchen where Dad pulled up the rug by the back door. Underneath was a small hole in the floor - a hole the same diameter as a .22 caliber bullet.
The illustration has served its purpose for many years. In essence, the lesson to be learned was very simple: Shit Happens.
And so it does. Especially if you’re negligent.
Guns, by design and purpose, are inherently dangerous. However the danger lies not in their existence, but in their misuse. Some weapons, like firearms, are mechanical in nature. Some, such as a rock, for instance, are not. The link between them is that they aren’t capable of killing unless set in motion by manipulation of their essential parts.
I spend very little time teaching people to actually fire weapons - I could show a monkey how to do that... My most important lessons are about when, and how, to not fire a weapon. It’s a constant drill that I’m only too happy to perform.
Awareness is the key to all things. We must admit that there are risks in life, no matter what your
occupation or pastime. Every moment is an opportunity for disaster - ignoring or failing to implement practices that reduce or eliminate those risks are grounded in a lack of awareness.
Firearms are simply tools, and the fact that they are designed for the purpose of killing should give the user some important clues as to how they must be handled. And so I say: if the trigger-actuator-nut is faulty, don’t blame the gun.
If we observe the most basic rule of weapon safety, “Treat guns as if they were loaded at all times”, we can see that the potential for an unintentional discharge is greatly reduced. Observe two more: “Never point a gun at anything you don’t intend to shoot”, and “Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to fire”, then we may conclude that there is no such thing as an “accidental” discharge.
Maybe the next time someone tells me that guns are unsafe, I will agree that gas ovens are safer. But you won’t catch me sticking my head into one.
And yes, I’m aware of the contradiction; harping on safety, when what I really do for a living is teach folks more effective methods of killing. But I choose to ensure that my students, who include my wife and kids, don’t get caught short before, during, or after the next Revolution.
Welcome to the Jungle baby...
At least they won’t shoot themselves in the foot, or each other out of ignorance.
Grampa
Grampa hardly ever goes outside, and he doesn't watch t.v.. He likes to sit at the table and drink coffee, and listens to Mommy, Daddy, and Grandma talk. He is a quiet man; that is, he rarely speaks; but when he does, his voice is loud and strong.
Grampa smokes cigarettes which he rolls himself. He keeps his tobacco and matches in one shirt pocket; his rolling papers in the other. He never forgets which pocket contains which item. He uses wooden matches, and never puts them out himself if I am near; instead, he offers them so I can blow them out.
I never had the chance to develop any kind of relationship with my father's father. I don't remember ever meeting him again. Grampa passed away when I was six or seven, and we had seen so little of our family that it wasn't even an event that had all that much impact on me.
But now, after all these years, I wonder sometimes what it would have been like to know the man who never forgot to let me blow out the match.
Grampa smokes cigarettes which he rolls himself. He keeps his tobacco and matches in one shirt pocket; his rolling papers in the other. He never forgets which pocket contains which item. He uses wooden matches, and never puts them out himself if I am near; instead, he offers them so I can blow them out.
I never had the chance to develop any kind of relationship with my father's father. I don't remember ever meeting him again. Grampa passed away when I was six or seven, and we had seen so little of our family that it wasn't even an event that had all that much impact on me.
But now, after all these years, I wonder sometimes what it would have been like to know the man who never forgot to let me blow out the match.
My Good Friday
Once, I spent some time filling an office-weenie position which was a good opportunity and a solid stepping stone for my career. I feel like I accomplished at least some of what I set out to do while I was there - and since I know people who can’t say that, I count myself lucky. Additionally, what I learned about myself was well worth all the headaches.
I was to be rewarded for my 21 month tenure in fantasyland with a hitch as an instructor at the prestigious U.S. Air Force Security Forces Combat Arms Apprentice Course, which is where all Combat Arms instructors become… Combat Arms instructors!
I was greatly looking forward to this assignment, but alas, I did speak my mind one day and disparaged the Security Forces (formerly Security Police) career field within earshot of the wrong people. I had long maintained the belief that since I served 10 years as an Air Force Security Policeman I should have license to take pot shots at them whenever I wished.
Apparently my belief was in error.
Open mouth, insert foot, go DIRECTLY back to the Initial Weapons Training teams from whence you came - where you will be suitably saddled with a thankless and demanding job.
HA! - They thought they we're punishing me but I think it turned out to be a favor.
1) I went back to my old team (A-TEAM!) as #2 man. I still did what I used to do before the back office job, but I had a greater say in how things got done and that made me happy.
2) I couldn't have asked for a better team chief. My new boss was a no B.S. kind of guy - but knowledgeable, fun, and liked to kick-ass on the range.
3) A good group of people to work with. No scumbags or slugs, and they were prepared to follow in the direction that my new boss and I decided to take the team.
As if things couldn't get better, I had one of the best days - one of those "icing on the cake" days - of my entire career.
Background first - There was a certain student we had coming to the range for a while who just couldn't seem to get it. On nine separate occasions she had to re-fire in order to squeak by - finally qualifying by no more than one or two rounds. The last time she was out she failed to qualify at all. Since her job required her to be armed (and therefore qualified with her weapon) this was quite serious.
Sound bad? Check this out - every time she failed an attempt at qualification she would cry. Not just shedding tears mind you, but literal heart wrenching sobs.
Needless to say, this unnerved the instructors and her co-workers - and it goes without saying that, considering what we do for a living and why we do it, sympathy was in short supply.
I happened to be present at this 10th (and reportedly last before the powers-that-be relieved her of duty) attempt to get her qualified. All the other guys had her in classes before and were bitching and rolling their eyes. I knew her by reputation and had seen her scores, so I wasn't too optimistic myself.
I can't say if it was just because I was digging being out on the range, or that I was trying to re-educate myself on all the stuff that leaked out of my ears while I was behind a desk… But for some reason I just paid particular attention to this shooter.
She seemed squared away - listened to instruction and paid attention. Good stance and posture - she didn't scrunch her neck over to line up the sights, but brought the pistol straight up to eye level. Shooting arm was locked at the elbow, support arm tucked smoothly under, and support hand in a push-pull grip with the thumbs pointing straight down the left side of the receiver toward the muzzle. No problems on the draw, or with any mechanical functions - good practiced loads, reloads, and recoveries. She performed immediate action for stoppages (both on drills and one actual) instinctively - better than I could have done it myself.
But for all that, she was still missing more than she was hitting. It was obvious that she was jerking the trigger. I heard her block instructor point this out and heard her acknowledge twice, but she continued to lash that trigger. Things were getting frustrating.
After it was apparent that she wasn't going to qualify on the initial attempt I sort of lost interest. I believed I had I.D.'d her problem and her block instructor had as well, but she just wasn't responding. Anyway, as I said, I quit paying so much attention to her.
It was while I was checking out targets to see how everyone else was doing when I noticed what led me to my final analysis, and ultimately, to the happy conclusion of this story.
I saw the usual mix of targets down range - nice tight groups on some, larger groups with the odd flyaway here-and-there on others, "shotgun" effect on the rest - all qualifying scores - except for hers. When I went back & looked I noticed that there were two distinct groups on her target. Roughly 1/3 were hits inside the circle - not a good grouping, but they were hits. The rest were in about a 10" group, low, and to the right.
As I watched the firing, I observed that ALL of her first rounds after the draw (double action) were good hits. ALL of her subsequent rounds (single action) were misses. That's when God smiled upon me and told me all I needed to know.
(After she stopped crying over her initial UQ score of 18) I told her what I thought her problem was, and explained that trigger control is the single most difficult shooting fundamental to master. I told her what was happening on that first round - that she was putting all her effort into making it count because it was the hardest one to squeeze off; that's why they were hits & the rest weren't. I told her I thought that she was jerking the trigger because in single action she wasn't meeting the same resistance in the mechanism as double action - that since she was squeezing and nothing was happening, she'd jerk the trigger just to make the gun go bang!...
So I taught her to take up the slack in the trigger before applying pressure, and incorporated that action into her follow through procedure. I had her dry fire about 20 times, alternating between double & single action so she could get a feel for the difference between the two. Then we set up new targets and away we went.
50 rounds total for the course. 30 hits needed to qualify. 42 hits needed for an “expert” score.
Her previous score for the day was 18. She had failed time after time before, and you could see it on her face - that though she would try her best, she expected to fail again.
But I did see her smile after 20 rounds out of 20 were inside those "magic" circles. By the time 35 hits were recorded I could almost hear the war story that she would tell later on.
As we signed the paperwork to make her EXPERT score of 47 official, she thanked me for all my help, and asked if it would be O.K. to take her target home with her? And oh, by the way - would I mind signing and dating it? So her husband and co-workers would believe that it was really her target?
My pleasure Ma’am.
I was to be rewarded for my 21 month tenure in fantasyland with a hitch as an instructor at the prestigious U.S. Air Force Security Forces Combat Arms Apprentice Course, which is where all Combat Arms instructors become… Combat Arms instructors!
I was greatly looking forward to this assignment, but alas, I did speak my mind one day and disparaged the Security Forces (formerly Security Police) career field within earshot of the wrong people. I had long maintained the belief that since I served 10 years as an Air Force Security Policeman I should have license to take pot shots at them whenever I wished.
Apparently my belief was in error.
Open mouth, insert foot, go DIRECTLY back to the Initial Weapons Training teams from whence you came - where you will be suitably saddled with a thankless and demanding job.
HA! - They thought they we're punishing me but I think it turned out to be a favor.
1) I went back to my old team (A-TEAM!) as #2 man. I still did what I used to do before the back office job, but I had a greater say in how things got done and that made me happy.
2) I couldn't have asked for a better team chief. My new boss was a no B.S. kind of guy - but knowledgeable, fun, and liked to kick-ass on the range.
3) A good group of people to work with. No scumbags or slugs, and they were prepared to follow in the direction that my new boss and I decided to take the team.
As if things couldn't get better, I had one of the best days - one of those "icing on the cake" days - of my entire career.
Background first - There was a certain student we had coming to the range for a while who just couldn't seem to get it. On nine separate occasions she had to re-fire in order to squeak by - finally qualifying by no more than one or two rounds. The last time she was out she failed to qualify at all. Since her job required her to be armed (and therefore qualified with her weapon) this was quite serious.
Sound bad? Check this out - every time she failed an attempt at qualification she would cry. Not just shedding tears mind you, but literal heart wrenching sobs.
Needless to say, this unnerved the instructors and her co-workers - and it goes without saying that, considering what we do for a living and why we do it, sympathy was in short supply.
I happened to be present at this 10th (and reportedly last before the powers-that-be relieved her of duty) attempt to get her qualified. All the other guys had her in classes before and were bitching and rolling their eyes. I knew her by reputation and had seen her scores, so I wasn't too optimistic myself.
I can't say if it was just because I was digging being out on the range, or that I was trying to re-educate myself on all the stuff that leaked out of my ears while I was behind a desk… But for some reason I just paid particular attention to this shooter.
She seemed squared away - listened to instruction and paid attention. Good stance and posture - she didn't scrunch her neck over to line up the sights, but brought the pistol straight up to eye level. Shooting arm was locked at the elbow, support arm tucked smoothly under, and support hand in a push-pull grip with the thumbs pointing straight down the left side of the receiver toward the muzzle. No problems on the draw, or with any mechanical functions - good practiced loads, reloads, and recoveries. She performed immediate action for stoppages (both on drills and one actual) instinctively - better than I could have done it myself.
But for all that, she was still missing more than she was hitting. It was obvious that she was jerking the trigger. I heard her block instructor point this out and heard her acknowledge twice, but she continued to lash that trigger. Things were getting frustrating.
After it was apparent that she wasn't going to qualify on the initial attempt I sort of lost interest. I believed I had I.D.'d her problem and her block instructor had as well, but she just wasn't responding. Anyway, as I said, I quit paying so much attention to her.
It was while I was checking out targets to see how everyone else was doing when I noticed what led me to my final analysis, and ultimately, to the happy conclusion of this story.
I saw the usual mix of targets down range - nice tight groups on some, larger groups with the odd flyaway here-and-there on others, "shotgun" effect on the rest - all qualifying scores - except for hers. When I went back & looked I noticed that there were two distinct groups on her target. Roughly 1/3 were hits inside the circle - not a good grouping, but they were hits. The rest were in about a 10" group, low, and to the right.
As I watched the firing, I observed that ALL of her first rounds after the draw (double action) were good hits. ALL of her subsequent rounds (single action) were misses. That's when God smiled upon me and told me all I needed to know.
(After she stopped crying over her initial UQ score of 18) I told her what I thought her problem was, and explained that trigger control is the single most difficult shooting fundamental to master. I told her what was happening on that first round - that she was putting all her effort into making it count because it was the hardest one to squeeze off; that's why they were hits & the rest weren't. I told her I thought that she was jerking the trigger because in single action she wasn't meeting the same resistance in the mechanism as double action - that since she was squeezing and nothing was happening, she'd jerk the trigger just to make the gun go bang!...
So I taught her to take up the slack in the trigger before applying pressure, and incorporated that action into her follow through procedure. I had her dry fire about 20 times, alternating between double & single action so she could get a feel for the difference between the two. Then we set up new targets and away we went.
50 rounds total for the course. 30 hits needed to qualify. 42 hits needed for an “expert” score.
Her previous score for the day was 18. She had failed time after time before, and you could see it on her face - that though she would try her best, she expected to fail again.
But I did see her smile after 20 rounds out of 20 were inside those "magic" circles. By the time 35 hits were recorded I could almost hear the war story that she would tell later on.
As we signed the paperwork to make her EXPERT score of 47 official, she thanked me for all my help, and asked if it would be O.K. to take her target home with her? And oh, by the way - would I mind signing and dating it? So her husband and co-workers would believe that it was really her target?
My pleasure Ma’am.
Gold Dust Woman
One day, two of my female co-workers (one divorced, one soon to be) were discussing the issue of child-support and I overheard some stuff that kind of pissed me off.
I heard “MAKE HIM PAY!”… In effect, one was giving advice to the other to gouge the father of her child for more than enough money to provide basic necessities. To finance expensive toy and clothing shopping sprees, room decorating, and the finest, most expensive day-care money could buy.
Now, I believe that all children should have toys - preferably as many as they can get - but there IS a limit. I also believe that all children should have plenty of clothes: nice clothes, clothes that are cheerful and colorful. I believe that all children should have a nice place in their home to go to and hang out and do kid stuff. And I believe that all children should have someone to care for them (preferably a parent), but again, there is such a thing as “adequate” day care that doesn’t cost a bazillion dollars.
However, the attitude taken by the “counselor” in this particular situation was one of excess. She was even offering a referral to HER lawyer who had gotten her an “excellent deal”...
I was perturbed. And I said so.
The reply? ”If we were married and got divorced, you couldn’t make enough money to pay me what the court ordered.”
Ooohhhh!
Don’t worry. I didn’t even bat an eyelash (I know you don’t believe that, but it’s true). My reponse: ”If we were married and got divorced, you wouldn’t get a penny from me.”
Ooohhhh!
Was she pissed? Yes. Did she fight back? She tried. But she failed.
Her: You wouldn’t have any choice but pay.
Me: EVERYBODY has a choice.
Her: The court would garnish your wages.
Me: I wouldn’t have a job.
Her: They’d put you in jail.
Me: I win.
Her: Huh?
Cool. Except I really don’t think that way - she just took a wrong turn down the path. What I mean to say is I would never willingly go to jail to get out of taking care of my children. But we hashed that out and started down the path again - this time I took her where I wanted to go:
Me: Not only would you not get a penny from me, you’d never see me again.
Her: That’s good.
Me: Or the kid.
Her: Huh?
Cool. That one rattled her, but she rebounded:
Her: I’d get my baby, the court would give it to me.
Me: True. But then I’d take him/her back.
Her: That’s stupid, they’d just put you in jail, and I get the baby.
Me: I win.
Her: Huh?
Cool. Now, don’t think what you thought before - that I would “win” by going to jail. I wouldn’t. I would win because I wouldn’t go to jail. I wouldn’t get caught - because I don’t need money to live.
It’s true.
If you read the newspaper or watch the news, you know that people who take the baby and run get caught all the time. They get caught because they have subscribed to the same tripe that most of us have been taught to believe.
They believe that they need money to exist.
They believe that they need money to raise a child.
They believe that they need money.
Well, I’ll tell ya - It ain’t true.
Yes, money makes existence and child-rearing a lot easier. It sure does help make us more comfortable. It pays the bills.
But do we need it? I think not.
I like to think that in a desperate situation, I would be resourceful enough to be able to live without money. The trick (and believe me, it’s not really too difficult a trick), is finding a place to live where there aren’t any people around telling you that you need money to live. True enough - I like money. I like my creature comforts. I will not willingly give them up.
But here is the truth: This planet is plenty big enough for me to find a place that nobody else cares about. A place where nobody ever goes. A place undiscovered, or discovered and dismissed as too remote for habitation. A place shunned by humanity.
If the shit ever really hits the fan, don’t look for me around here. ‘Cause I’ll be a bona-fide child of nature. And I won’t be cold or wet - or drenched with sweat from the sun beating down on me.
I’ll have a roof over my head. I won’t be hungry. I may not eat well, or as often as I’d like, but I will eat. I will search for and take advantage of all that God has provided free of charge.
And if I get sick - too sick to live, I will die. But as long as I am healthy, I will live.
And every once in a while I'll think of that woman I left behind. I'll wonder how she's getting along without me and the kid...
And I’ll hope that her gold-digging ass is chapped.
I heard “MAKE HIM PAY!”… In effect, one was giving advice to the other to gouge the father of her child for more than enough money to provide basic necessities. To finance expensive toy and clothing shopping sprees, room decorating, and the finest, most expensive day-care money could buy.
Now, I believe that all children should have toys - preferably as many as they can get - but there IS a limit. I also believe that all children should have plenty of clothes: nice clothes, clothes that are cheerful and colorful. I believe that all children should have a nice place in their home to go to and hang out and do kid stuff. And I believe that all children should have someone to care for them (preferably a parent), but again, there is such a thing as “adequate” day care that doesn’t cost a bazillion dollars.
However, the attitude taken by the “counselor” in this particular situation was one of excess. She was even offering a referral to HER lawyer who had gotten her an “excellent deal”...
I was perturbed. And I said so.
The reply? ”If we were married and got divorced, you couldn’t make enough money to pay me what the court ordered.”
Ooohhhh!
Don’t worry. I didn’t even bat an eyelash (I know you don’t believe that, but it’s true). My reponse: ”If we were married and got divorced, you wouldn’t get a penny from me.”
Ooohhhh!
Was she pissed? Yes. Did she fight back? She tried. But she failed.
Her: You wouldn’t have any choice but pay.
Me: EVERYBODY has a choice.
Her: The court would garnish your wages.
Me: I wouldn’t have a job.
Her: They’d put you in jail.
Me: I win.
Her: Huh?
Cool. Except I really don’t think that way - she just took a wrong turn down the path. What I mean to say is I would never willingly go to jail to get out of taking care of my children. But we hashed that out and started down the path again - this time I took her where I wanted to go:
Me: Not only would you not get a penny from me, you’d never see me again.
Her: That’s good.
Me: Or the kid.
Her: Huh?
Cool. That one rattled her, but she rebounded:
Her: I’d get my baby, the court would give it to me.
Me: True. But then I’d take him/her back.
Her: That’s stupid, they’d just put you in jail, and I get the baby.
Me: I win.
Her: Huh?
Cool. Now, don’t think what you thought before - that I would “win” by going to jail. I wouldn’t. I would win because I wouldn’t go to jail. I wouldn’t get caught - because I don’t need money to live.
It’s true.
If you read the newspaper or watch the news, you know that people who take the baby and run get caught all the time. They get caught because they have subscribed to the same tripe that most of us have been taught to believe.
They believe that they need money to exist.
They believe that they need money to raise a child.
They believe that they need money.
Well, I’ll tell ya - It ain’t true.
Yes, money makes existence and child-rearing a lot easier. It sure does help make us more comfortable. It pays the bills.
But do we need it? I think not.
I like to think that in a desperate situation, I would be resourceful enough to be able to live without money. The trick (and believe me, it’s not really too difficult a trick), is finding a place to live where there aren’t any people around telling you that you need money to live. True enough - I like money. I like my creature comforts. I will not willingly give them up.
But here is the truth: This planet is plenty big enough for me to find a place that nobody else cares about. A place where nobody ever goes. A place undiscovered, or discovered and dismissed as too remote for habitation. A place shunned by humanity.
If the shit ever really hits the fan, don’t look for me around here. ‘Cause I’ll be a bona-fide child of nature. And I won’t be cold or wet - or drenched with sweat from the sun beating down on me.
I’ll have a roof over my head. I won’t be hungry. I may not eat well, or as often as I’d like, but I will eat. I will search for and take advantage of all that God has provided free of charge.
And if I get sick - too sick to live, I will die. But as long as I am healthy, I will live.
And every once in a while I'll think of that woman I left behind. I'll wonder how she's getting along without me and the kid...
And I’ll hope that her gold-digging ass is chapped.
Save the Children!
Just last night we had pizza for dinner, supplied by my favorite local franchise. I have been eating their pizza for a long time now and it still tastes good. I have never before, and do not now, have any complaint with the quality of food or service I’ve ever received from them.
What I’d like to bitch about is their willingness to help defraud the American Public.
As I was happily munching a slice of pepperoni & black olive I spied a coupon: QUICK – it might be something free! I snatched it up and started to melt inside when I read the words “FREE LARGE TOPPING PIZZA” – hallelujah!
But wait, there’s a catch (hell isn’t there always?). Here’s what the coupon said (names changed to protect me from legal battles with large corporations):
“Receive A FREE LARGE SINGLE TOPPING PIZZA when you join An Internet Service Provider
IT’S TIME TO WAKE UP AMERICA!
A Pizza Franchise & An Internet Service Provider (AMERICA’S CLEAN INTERNET PROVIDER) are teaming up in an effort to protect our children.
Why An Internet Provider? 80% of all internet use is pornography! 50% of all teens say they’ve visited porn sites! 62% say it was by accident! HELP stamp out porn on the net! Join An Internet Service Provider and A Pizza Franchise in protecting our children from the dangers of the Internet!”
There’s more… An 800 number to call, and internet site to visit (couldn’t that be dangerous?), and an invitation to ask for An Internet Service Provider’s software at any Pizza Franchise store. Once you sign up – you get a coupon for your free pizza.
Let’s start with the “Why” of this offer. Hmm… I never graduated high school, but even I know enough about business and economics to figure this one out. Do I think for one minute that either one of these companies are really concerned about porn or protecting my children? No. I don’t.
A Pizza Franchise and An Internet Service Provider are businesses. They’re in it for the money. The better they can make themselves look to their customers, the more money they’ll make – what better way to look good than being concerned about your children?
Another issue is this business about being “America’s CLEAN Internet Provider”. Oh, please!
I know enough about software programming to be able to say with authority that “filtering” programs look for words and phrases, even special characters and combinations of characters, that the programmer tells them to. When encountered, the software rejects or denies the operator access to the material. A certain very popular (but unrelated to this story) internet service provider is so frantically family-oriented that they’ve just about perfected the art of filtering, but still, some unwanted stuff gets through. I know because I’m a subscriber.
Now, are the rest of the ISPs asleep at the wheel? Are they not trying hard enough? Or have the eggheads at An Internet Service Provider imagined a few more ways to describe genitalia or the sex act that the rest of us perverts haven’t thought of yet? Maybe what they really mean is that all employees of An Internet Service Provider shower four times a day using anti-bacterial soap? Who knows?
What next? Oh! “80% of all Internet use is pornography!” Dear Lord. Can it be true?
No. It’s a lie that cannot be proven. But it’s no surprise to me that some butthead wants us to think it’s true. Because if there wasn’t something to point at and call a threat then the execs at An Internet Service Provider wouldn’t be getting paid. It’s easier for them to get paid if they can make you think your kids are in danger.
“50% of all teens say they’ve visited porn sites!” Lie. Another BIG lie. Liar, liar, pants on fire – and I again challenge anybody to prove it true. I asked my teens if they’d visited porn sites and they both said no… (yeah, right). Well then they’re in the other 50%, right? Wrong. I also asked them if An Internet Service Provider or A Pizza Franchise or anyone other than me had ever contacted them and asked (“all teens” – remember?). They both said no. What a shocker.
“62% say it was by accident!” Hmmmm… Only 50% have ever been to a porn site but 62% claim it was an accident. Something wrong with that math, but hey…
To be fair, I’m certain there are conscientious teens out there who truly find pornography offensive and would never willingly seek it out. However – and here I will admit that I’m not exactly an Internet guru, but in all my cyber-rambling I have never, ever, accidentally visited a porn site.
I have intentionally visited porn sites (I am not holier-than-thou-art), and though I will concede that it wasn’t difficult to find one, I did have to look around a little. It took conscious effort.
I will also concede that it is possible, even probable, that one can receive links to porn sites by email without soliciting them. Some of these links are cleverly disguised as messages from friends. So if your friend’s name is “Ruby” or “Sasha”, and she is “Anxious to hear from you”, by all means – open and click the link. Sadly, I don’t know Ruby or Sasha…
I do know the email addresses of all my friends, coworkers, and business acquaintances. Gee. All I have to do is delete mail from an address I don’t recognize? Will that actually work? Uh… Yeah.
Oh – by the way, turn off that damned “preview” screen. This will protect sensitive eyes from unwanted attachments (you don’t have to “click” on everything for it to open y’know). It also guards against contracting a computer virus. What? You didn’t know that the preview screen “opens” your email? Tsk, tsk.
Since we’re being fair, let’s look at the other side of the coin – teens who are curious enough to actively seek pornography. Suppose some schmuck asked you if you had visited an Internet porn site. Assuming you is dumb enough to answer “yes”… Well, it was an accident. Of course.
Now I know that most of the people reading this don’t really need me to explain any of it. But I keep hoping that somewhere out there, someone without a clue will visit this page (even by accident – wouldn’t that be swell?) and that they will read the truth it contains, and then smack themselves silly for ever believing that they could team up with A Pizza Franchise and An Internet Service Provider to protect children from the “dangers” of the Internet.
I think we ought to spend more time reflecting on how to protect ourselves against the dangers of false claims. We ought to be a little worried about profits for big business in the name of our children’s safety.
I fear that there are a lot of people out there who are completely bamboozled – people who think that A Pizza Franchise and An Internet Service Provider’s efforts are worthy – even noble.
That frightens me.
Because it just ain’t so. The Internet is not dangerous. Pornography, no matter how bizarre or distasteful, is not dangerous. Ignorance, however, is very dangerous.
Here – let me put your fears to rest. I got your protection right here, and it doesn’t cost a dime.
Educate yourself. Educate your children. Monitor your child’s computer use. Talk to your kids. BE A PARENT (sorry – no free pizza).
Having said all that… The only true and forthright statement on the coupon also happens to be one of my favorite sayings:
“IT’S TIME TO WAKE UP AMERICA!”
What I’d like to bitch about is their willingness to help defraud the American Public.
As I was happily munching a slice of pepperoni & black olive I spied a coupon: QUICK – it might be something free! I snatched it up and started to melt inside when I read the words “FREE LARGE TOPPING PIZZA” – hallelujah!
But wait, there’s a catch (hell isn’t there always?). Here’s what the coupon said (names changed to protect me from legal battles with large corporations):
“Receive A FREE LARGE SINGLE TOPPING PIZZA when you join An Internet Service Provider
IT’S TIME TO WAKE UP AMERICA!
A Pizza Franchise & An Internet Service Provider (AMERICA’S CLEAN INTERNET PROVIDER) are teaming up in an effort to protect our children.
Why An Internet Provider? 80% of all internet use is pornography! 50% of all teens say they’ve visited porn sites! 62% say it was by accident! HELP stamp out porn on the net! Join An Internet Service Provider and A Pizza Franchise in protecting our children from the dangers of the Internet!”
There’s more… An 800 number to call, and internet site to visit (couldn’t that be dangerous?), and an invitation to ask for An Internet Service Provider’s software at any Pizza Franchise store. Once you sign up – you get a coupon for your free pizza.
Let’s start with the “Why” of this offer. Hmm… I never graduated high school, but even I know enough about business and economics to figure this one out. Do I think for one minute that either one of these companies are really concerned about porn or protecting my children? No. I don’t.
A Pizza Franchise and An Internet Service Provider are businesses. They’re in it for the money. The better they can make themselves look to their customers, the more money they’ll make – what better way to look good than being concerned about your children?
Another issue is this business about being “America’s CLEAN Internet Provider”. Oh, please!
I know enough about software programming to be able to say with authority that “filtering” programs look for words and phrases, even special characters and combinations of characters, that the programmer tells them to. When encountered, the software rejects or denies the operator access to the material. A certain very popular (but unrelated to this story) internet service provider is so frantically family-oriented that they’ve just about perfected the art of filtering, but still, some unwanted stuff gets through. I know because I’m a subscriber.
Now, are the rest of the ISPs asleep at the wheel? Are they not trying hard enough? Or have the eggheads at An Internet Service Provider imagined a few more ways to describe genitalia or the sex act that the rest of us perverts haven’t thought of yet? Maybe what they really mean is that all employees of An Internet Service Provider shower four times a day using anti-bacterial soap? Who knows?
What next? Oh! “80% of all Internet use is pornography!” Dear Lord. Can it be true?
No. It’s a lie that cannot be proven. But it’s no surprise to me that some butthead wants us to think it’s true. Because if there wasn’t something to point at and call a threat then the execs at An Internet Service Provider wouldn’t be getting paid. It’s easier for them to get paid if they can make you think your kids are in danger.
“50% of all teens say they’ve visited porn sites!” Lie. Another BIG lie. Liar, liar, pants on fire – and I again challenge anybody to prove it true. I asked my teens if they’d visited porn sites and they both said no… (yeah, right). Well then they’re in the other 50%, right? Wrong. I also asked them if An Internet Service Provider or A Pizza Franchise or anyone other than me had ever contacted them and asked (“all teens” – remember?). They both said no. What a shocker.
“62% say it was by accident!” Hmmmm… Only 50% have ever been to a porn site but 62% claim it was an accident. Something wrong with that math, but hey…
To be fair, I’m certain there are conscientious teens out there who truly find pornography offensive and would never willingly seek it out. However – and here I will admit that I’m not exactly an Internet guru, but in all my cyber-rambling I have never, ever, accidentally visited a porn site.
I have intentionally visited porn sites (I am not holier-than-thou-art), and though I will concede that it wasn’t difficult to find one, I did have to look around a little. It took conscious effort.
I will also concede that it is possible, even probable, that one can receive links to porn sites by email without soliciting them. Some of these links are cleverly disguised as messages from friends. So if your friend’s name is “Ruby” or “Sasha”, and she is “Anxious to hear from you”, by all means – open and click the link. Sadly, I don’t know Ruby or Sasha…
I do know the email addresses of all my friends, coworkers, and business acquaintances. Gee. All I have to do is delete mail from an address I don’t recognize? Will that actually work? Uh… Yeah.
Oh – by the way, turn off that damned “preview” screen. This will protect sensitive eyes from unwanted attachments (you don’t have to “click” on everything for it to open y’know). It also guards against contracting a computer virus. What? You didn’t know that the preview screen “opens” your email? Tsk, tsk.
Since we’re being fair, let’s look at the other side of the coin – teens who are curious enough to actively seek pornography. Suppose some schmuck asked you if you had visited an Internet porn site. Assuming you is dumb enough to answer “yes”… Well, it was an accident. Of course.
Now I know that most of the people reading this don’t really need me to explain any of it. But I keep hoping that somewhere out there, someone without a clue will visit this page (even by accident – wouldn’t that be swell?) and that they will read the truth it contains, and then smack themselves silly for ever believing that they could team up with A Pizza Franchise and An Internet Service Provider to protect children from the “dangers” of the Internet.
I think we ought to spend more time reflecting on how to protect ourselves against the dangers of false claims. We ought to be a little worried about profits for big business in the name of our children’s safety.
I fear that there are a lot of people out there who are completely bamboozled – people who think that A Pizza Franchise and An Internet Service Provider’s efforts are worthy – even noble.
That frightens me.
Because it just ain’t so. The Internet is not dangerous. Pornography, no matter how bizarre or distasteful, is not dangerous. Ignorance, however, is very dangerous.
Here – let me put your fears to rest. I got your protection right here, and it doesn’t cost a dime.
Educate yourself. Educate your children. Monitor your child’s computer use. Talk to your kids. BE A PARENT (sorry – no free pizza).
Having said all that… The only true and forthright statement on the coupon also happens to be one of my favorite sayings:
“IT’S TIME TO WAKE UP AMERICA!”
Fast Cars
Ever since I was old enough to notice, fast cars have been a factor in my life. Not that I have ever actually owned one (all the cars I’ve had have been pigs in that department), so it’s funny that they should seem so important to me.
My first awareness of fast cars came from Saturday morning cartoons; Penelope Pit-Stop, the Hot Wheels, Speed Racer and the Mach 5, Speed Buggy (Room-a-Zoom-Zoom!), and that bitchin’ little red Bug from “Wheelie and the Chopper Bunch” (anyone else remember him?).
Later, there were the prime-timers; Starsky’s LTD, the General Lee, K.I.T.T., McCormick’s “Coyote” and Judge Hardcastle’s black Corvette convertible - all have played a part in my development.
I have owned three potentially fast cars - the first being a ‘62 Dodge Dart that my Dad let me buy when I was 13. I wasn’t old enough to drive yet, but the price was right - $75.00! I suppose he figured it would be a way for me to learn about goal setting & responsibility & shit like that.
Despite being one of the most butt-ugly cars ever manufactured, that Dart had awesome “sleeper” potential. No one in town would ever suspect that the primer covered monstrosity was sporting a 330 cubic inch hemispherical head engine (a failed Chrysler Corp. experiment dumped into early Plymouth Valiants and the occasional Dart) cranking power through a bullet proof 3 speed TorqueFlite tranny. It was the kind of car your Grandma would drive - if your Grandma was from Hell.
I never did actually drive that car though… Dad got tired of it sitting in the driveway, leaking oil & transmission fluid everywhere. I was content to own a car, but working on it was another thing; thinking about fixing it up was cool, but lacking a desire to get all greasy or spend money on it wasn’t. Dad sold it for scrap, and that was that.
Some time later I ran across an excellent deal; a ‘68 Chevy Impala Super Sport for $400.00! I’ll spare you the details about how & why I wound up with it ‘cause that’s a long story in itself – let’s just say I got it, and I was in hog-heaven.
327, dual exhaust, 4 barrel carb (the big, honkin’ Quadrajunk); the whole factory SS package. Except whoever owned it before I did had already driven it through its glory days. By the time I had it for a month, I was convinced it was the same car they used for ideas in the James Bond movies. It could throw an impenetrable smoke screen, and lay an oil slick down like nobody’s business. I sold it for a ridiculous amount - like $100.00 - just to get it out of my sight.
The SS’s replacement was another Grandma’s car, but this one was a real beauty, and another “sleeper”: a 1969 Chrysler New Yorker. I bought it from a real Grandmother for $150.00, and it was in near-pristine condition.
Bottle Green, with what appeared to be the original tires on it, the damn thing even had the factory plastic seat covers. Its dashboard resembled the control panel to some unimaginable spacecraft; so many gauges & idiot lights that you could never figure out what they were all for.
The engine was huge (440 cubes) - it had to be to push that old tuna boat around; and push it around it did. Sitting at a stoplight, you could just floor it and the whole car would twist from the torque. It was so damn heavy that the tires would break loose and spin until they heated up enough to get a little traction. But once you were rolling - man, what ride! I had more fun in that car than I’ve had in any other. That is, until I ripped the transmission out of it trying to show off.
While I cut my driving teeth on these and other odd rejects, my friends drove me crazy with their own fast cars:
One buddy had a 69 GTO that to my knowledge had only been beaten in a race by one other car (a 69 Plymouth Super Bee). Another drove a 74 Dodge 340 Demon that became the 2nd fastest car in town (after the Super Bee) when my other buddy tried to climb a tree in his GTO; which, by the way was replaced by a Pontiac LeMans Grand Sport. A friend’s Mom’s boyfriend drove a 68 Camaro. My own girlfriend’s brother drove a 69 Firebird. The guy that married my girlfriend drove a 68 Firebird.
Then there were the locals - a friend of a friend of a friend that drove the aforementioned 426 Hemi-powered Super Bee. Another guy that drove a massive bright red Road Runner with wicked looking velocity stacks poking up through the hood. A cornucopia of Camaros and Firebirds, Mustangs and Cougars; Muscle-cars and Pony-cars…
But even now, when the means to possess such a machine exists, I still don’t have one. Oh, I’m close - My bright yellow-and-black 79 Camaro only needs a heart-transplant and a few thousand dollars worth of tender loving care for me to experience the bone-jarring, gut-wrenching, adrenaline-pumping rush that I yearn for.
I just wonder if it would be worth it?
I already look cool in my car - I get all kinds of compliments; yet there’s a little sadness when I force myself to admit that what looks like a killer-bee is actually a rotting banana with a six-cylinder under the hood. It’s the same sadness I get when I tell myself that I could blow the doors off a lot of cars on the road - with the right engine, the right tranny, the right suspension… But then again, why on earth would I want to?
Aren’t there more important things for me to worry about? Things like cultivating friendships? Spending time with my family? Furthering my education and professional development? The state of the Union? World hunger?
I am on the razor’s edge of a decision here: Practicality and responsibility vs. More fun than I can imagine.
Tough call…
My first awareness of fast cars came from Saturday morning cartoons; Penelope Pit-Stop, the Hot Wheels, Speed Racer and the Mach 5, Speed Buggy (Room-a-Zoom-Zoom!), and that bitchin’ little red Bug from “Wheelie and the Chopper Bunch” (anyone else remember him?).
Later, there were the prime-timers; Starsky’s LTD, the General Lee, K.I.T.T., McCormick’s “Coyote” and Judge Hardcastle’s black Corvette convertible - all have played a part in my development.
I have owned three potentially fast cars - the first being a ‘62 Dodge Dart that my Dad let me buy when I was 13. I wasn’t old enough to drive yet, but the price was right - $75.00! I suppose he figured it would be a way for me to learn about goal setting & responsibility & shit like that.
Despite being one of the most butt-ugly cars ever manufactured, that Dart had awesome “sleeper” potential. No one in town would ever suspect that the primer covered monstrosity was sporting a 330 cubic inch hemispherical head engine (a failed Chrysler Corp. experiment dumped into early Plymouth Valiants and the occasional Dart) cranking power through a bullet proof 3 speed TorqueFlite tranny. It was the kind of car your Grandma would drive - if your Grandma was from Hell.
I never did actually drive that car though… Dad got tired of it sitting in the driveway, leaking oil & transmission fluid everywhere. I was content to own a car, but working on it was another thing; thinking about fixing it up was cool, but lacking a desire to get all greasy or spend money on it wasn’t. Dad sold it for scrap, and that was that.
Some time later I ran across an excellent deal; a ‘68 Chevy Impala Super Sport for $400.00! I’ll spare you the details about how & why I wound up with it ‘cause that’s a long story in itself – let’s just say I got it, and I was in hog-heaven.
327, dual exhaust, 4 barrel carb (the big, honkin’ Quadrajunk); the whole factory SS package. Except whoever owned it before I did had already driven it through its glory days. By the time I had it for a month, I was convinced it was the same car they used for ideas in the James Bond movies. It could throw an impenetrable smoke screen, and lay an oil slick down like nobody’s business. I sold it for a ridiculous amount - like $100.00 - just to get it out of my sight.
The SS’s replacement was another Grandma’s car, but this one was a real beauty, and another “sleeper”: a 1969 Chrysler New Yorker. I bought it from a real Grandmother for $150.00, and it was in near-pristine condition.
Bottle Green, with what appeared to be the original tires on it, the damn thing even had the factory plastic seat covers. Its dashboard resembled the control panel to some unimaginable spacecraft; so many gauges & idiot lights that you could never figure out what they were all for.
The engine was huge (440 cubes) - it had to be to push that old tuna boat around; and push it around it did. Sitting at a stoplight, you could just floor it and the whole car would twist from the torque. It was so damn heavy that the tires would break loose and spin until they heated up enough to get a little traction. But once you were rolling - man, what ride! I had more fun in that car than I’ve had in any other. That is, until I ripped the transmission out of it trying to show off.
While I cut my driving teeth on these and other odd rejects, my friends drove me crazy with their own fast cars:
One buddy had a 69 GTO that to my knowledge had only been beaten in a race by one other car (a 69 Plymouth Super Bee). Another drove a 74 Dodge 340 Demon that became the 2nd fastest car in town (after the Super Bee) when my other buddy tried to climb a tree in his GTO; which, by the way was replaced by a Pontiac LeMans Grand Sport. A friend’s Mom’s boyfriend drove a 68 Camaro. My own girlfriend’s brother drove a 69 Firebird. The guy that married my girlfriend drove a 68 Firebird.
Then there were the locals - a friend of a friend of a friend that drove the aforementioned 426 Hemi-powered Super Bee. Another guy that drove a massive bright red Road Runner with wicked looking velocity stacks poking up through the hood. A cornucopia of Camaros and Firebirds, Mustangs and Cougars; Muscle-cars and Pony-cars…
But even now, when the means to possess such a machine exists, I still don’t have one. Oh, I’m close - My bright yellow-and-black 79 Camaro only needs a heart-transplant and a few thousand dollars worth of tender loving care for me to experience the bone-jarring, gut-wrenching, adrenaline-pumping rush that I yearn for.
I just wonder if it would be worth it?
I already look cool in my car - I get all kinds of compliments; yet there’s a little sadness when I force myself to admit that what looks like a killer-bee is actually a rotting banana with a six-cylinder under the hood. It’s the same sadness I get when I tell myself that I could blow the doors off a lot of cars on the road - with the right engine, the right tranny, the right suspension… But then again, why on earth would I want to?
Aren’t there more important things for me to worry about? Things like cultivating friendships? Spending time with my family? Furthering my education and professional development? The state of the Union? World hunger?
I am on the razor’s edge of a decision here: Practicality and responsibility vs. More fun than I can imagine.
Tough call…
Dino, Dino, Where Are You Now?
Way back when I was just a tot, someone gave me one of those inflatable dinosaurs you could get for filling up your gas tank at a Sinclair station. I named him Dino, after a famous t.v. dogosaurus.
I'm not sure how long I had him, but I do remember the day I poked a hole in his head while combing his hair. Dad said he might be able to fix Dino, but I guess he wasn't able to 'cause I never saw that dinosaur again.
Years later, however, I was able to give my own son the very same memory.
When I was newly married and living in Colorado, my best friend and I went to Colorado Springs to visit some people we knew. On our way home we stopped for gas at a Sinclair, and wouldn't you know? - they had these very same dinosaurs for sale in their little convenience store. Having lost all my money to my buddy in a drunken poker game the night before, I was in a bit of a dilemma. But since we were such good friends he grudgingly loaned me the $12.00 I needed, and I was able to present my son with his own Dino.
I don't remember how long he had him, but I do remember the day he poked a hole in Dino's head while trying to feed him with a fork. I told him I might be able to fix the hole, but it wasn't to be…
He never saw that dinosaur again.
I'm not sure how long I had him, but I do remember the day I poked a hole in his head while combing his hair. Dad said he might be able to fix Dino, but I guess he wasn't able to 'cause I never saw that dinosaur again.
Years later, however, I was able to give my own son the very same memory.
When I was newly married and living in Colorado, my best friend and I went to Colorado Springs to visit some people we knew. On our way home we stopped for gas at a Sinclair, and wouldn't you know? - they had these very same dinosaurs for sale in their little convenience store. Having lost all my money to my buddy in a drunken poker game the night before, I was in a bit of a dilemma. But since we were such good friends he grudgingly loaned me the $12.00 I needed, and I was able to present my son with his own Dino.
I don't remember how long he had him, but I do remember the day he poked a hole in Dino's head while trying to feed him with a fork. I told him I might be able to fix the hole, but it wasn't to be…
He never saw that dinosaur again.
The Dating Game and My Little Girl
This may now be properly attributed to its true author, W. Bruce Cameron. Thanks "W." - let's grab a brew together sometime.
PH
Here's one I didn't write but wish I did - you may have even seen it before. It came to me by way of Email and is just too good not to post. I wish I knew who wrote it so I could buy him a beer.
"WANNA DATE MY DAUGHTER?
When I was in high school I used to be terrified of my girlfriend's father, who I believe suspected me of wanting to place my hands on his daughter's chest. He would open the door and immediately affect a good-naturedly murderous expression, holding out a handshake that, when gripped, felt like it could squeeze carbon into diamonds.
Now, years later, it is my turn to be the dad. Remembering how unfairly persecuted I felt when I would pick up my dates, I do my best to make my daughter's suitors feel even worse. My motto: wilt them in the living room and they'll stay wilted all night. "So," I'll call out jovially. "I see you have your nose pierced. Is that because you're stupid, or did you merely want to APPEAR stupid?"
As a dad, I have some basic rules, which I have carved into two stone tablets that I have on display in my living room.
Rule One: If you pull into my driveway and honk you'd better be delivering a package, because you're sure as heck not picking anything up.
Rule Two: You do not touch my daughter in front of me. You may glance at her, so long as you do not peer at anything below her neck. If you cannot keep your eyes or hands off of my daughter's body, I will remove them.
Rule Three: I am aware that it is considered fashionable for boys of your age to wear their trousers so loosely that they appear to be falling off their hips. Please don't take this as an insult, but you and all of your friends are complete idiots. Still, I want to be fair and open minded about this issue, so I propose this compromise: You may come to the door with your underwear showing and your pants ten sizes too big, and I will not object. However, in order to assure that your clothes do not, in fact, come off during the course of your date with my daughter, I will take my electric staple gun and fasten your trousers securely in place around your waist.
Rule Four: I'm sure you've been told that in today's world, sex without utilizing a "barrier method" of some kind can kill you. Let me elaborate: when it comes to sex, I am the barrier, and I WILL kill you.
Rule Five: You may feel that we should talk about sports, politics, and other issues of the day in order for us to get to know each other. Please do not do this. The only information I require from you is an indication of when you expect to have my daughter safely back at my house, and the only word I need from you on this subject is "early."
Rule Six: I have no doubt you are a popular fellow, with many opportunities to date other girls. This is fine with me as long as it is okay with my daughter. Otherwise, once you have gone out with my little girl, you will continue to date no one but her until she is finished with you. If you make her cry, I will make YOU cry.
Rule Seven: As you stand in my front hallway, waiting for my daughter to appear, and more than an hour goes by, do not sigh and fidget. If you want to be on time for the movie, you should not be dating. My daughter is putting on her makeup, a process which can take longer than painting the Golden Gate Bridge. Instead of just standing there, why don't you do something useful, like changing the oil in my car?
Rule Eight: The following places are not appropriate for a date with my daughter: Places where there are beds, sofas, or anything softer than a wooden stool. Places where there are no parents, policemen, or nuns within eyesight. Places where there is darkness. Places where there is dancing, holding hands, or happiness. Places where the ambient temperature is warm enough to induce my daughter to wear shorts, tank tops, midriff T-shirts, or anything other than overalls, a sweater, and a goose down parka zipped up to her chin. Movies with a strong romantic or sexual theme are to be avoided; movies which feature chainsaws are okay. Hockey games are okay.
My daughter claims it embarrasses her to come downstairs and find me attempting to get her date to recite these eight simple rules from memory. I'd be embarrassed too - there are only eight of them, for crying out loud!
And, for the record, I did NOT suggest to one of these cretins that I'd have these rules tattooed on his arm if he couldn't remember them (I checked into it and the cost is prohibitive.) I merely told him that I thought writing the rules on his arm with a ball point might be inadequate - ink washes off - and that my wood burning set was probably a better alternative.
One time, when my wife caught me having one of my daughter's would-be suitors practice pulling into the driveway, get out of the car, and go up to knock on the front door (he had violated rule number one, so I figured he needed to run through the drill a few dozen times) she asked me why I was being so hard on the boy. "Don't you remember being that age?" she challenged.
Of course I remember. Why do you think I came up with the eight simple rules?
P.S. I have one more rule...
Rule Nine: For the first date, please come with a sharpened #2 pencil because there will be a test to insure that you are: 1.) Smart enough to graduate from high school AND go to college. 2.) Smart enough to understand rules 1 thru 8!!!"
PH
Here's one I didn't write but wish I did - you may have even seen it before. It came to me by way of Email and is just too good not to post. I wish I knew who wrote it so I could buy him a beer.
"WANNA DATE MY DAUGHTER?
When I was in high school I used to be terrified of my girlfriend's father, who I believe suspected me of wanting to place my hands on his daughter's chest. He would open the door and immediately affect a good-naturedly murderous expression, holding out a handshake that, when gripped, felt like it could squeeze carbon into diamonds.
Now, years later, it is my turn to be the dad. Remembering how unfairly persecuted I felt when I would pick up my dates, I do my best to make my daughter's suitors feel even worse. My motto: wilt them in the living room and they'll stay wilted all night. "So," I'll call out jovially. "I see you have your nose pierced. Is that because you're stupid, or did you merely want to APPEAR stupid?"
As a dad, I have some basic rules, which I have carved into two stone tablets that I have on display in my living room.
Rule One: If you pull into my driveway and honk you'd better be delivering a package, because you're sure as heck not picking anything up.
Rule Two: You do not touch my daughter in front of me. You may glance at her, so long as you do not peer at anything below her neck. If you cannot keep your eyes or hands off of my daughter's body, I will remove them.
Rule Three: I am aware that it is considered fashionable for boys of your age to wear their trousers so loosely that they appear to be falling off their hips. Please don't take this as an insult, but you and all of your friends are complete idiots. Still, I want to be fair and open minded about this issue, so I propose this compromise: You may come to the door with your underwear showing and your pants ten sizes too big, and I will not object. However, in order to assure that your clothes do not, in fact, come off during the course of your date with my daughter, I will take my electric staple gun and fasten your trousers securely in place around your waist.
Rule Four: I'm sure you've been told that in today's world, sex without utilizing a "barrier method" of some kind can kill you. Let me elaborate: when it comes to sex, I am the barrier, and I WILL kill you.
Rule Five: You may feel that we should talk about sports, politics, and other issues of the day in order for us to get to know each other. Please do not do this. The only information I require from you is an indication of when you expect to have my daughter safely back at my house, and the only word I need from you on this subject is "early."
Rule Six: I have no doubt you are a popular fellow, with many opportunities to date other girls. This is fine with me as long as it is okay with my daughter. Otherwise, once you have gone out with my little girl, you will continue to date no one but her until she is finished with you. If you make her cry, I will make YOU cry.
Rule Seven: As you stand in my front hallway, waiting for my daughter to appear, and more than an hour goes by, do not sigh and fidget. If you want to be on time for the movie, you should not be dating. My daughter is putting on her makeup, a process which can take longer than painting the Golden Gate Bridge. Instead of just standing there, why don't you do something useful, like changing the oil in my car?
Rule Eight: The following places are not appropriate for a date with my daughter: Places where there are beds, sofas, or anything softer than a wooden stool. Places where there are no parents, policemen, or nuns within eyesight. Places where there is darkness. Places where there is dancing, holding hands, or happiness. Places where the ambient temperature is warm enough to induce my daughter to wear shorts, tank tops, midriff T-shirts, or anything other than overalls, a sweater, and a goose down parka zipped up to her chin. Movies with a strong romantic or sexual theme are to be avoided; movies which feature chainsaws are okay. Hockey games are okay.
My daughter claims it embarrasses her to come downstairs and find me attempting to get her date to recite these eight simple rules from memory. I'd be embarrassed too - there are only eight of them, for crying out loud!
And, for the record, I did NOT suggest to one of these cretins that I'd have these rules tattooed on his arm if he couldn't remember them (I checked into it and the cost is prohibitive.) I merely told him that I thought writing the rules on his arm with a ball point might be inadequate - ink washes off - and that my wood burning set was probably a better alternative.
One time, when my wife caught me having one of my daughter's would-be suitors practice pulling into the driveway, get out of the car, and go up to knock on the front door (he had violated rule number one, so I figured he needed to run through the drill a few dozen times) she asked me why I was being so hard on the boy. "Don't you remember being that age?" she challenged.
Of course I remember. Why do you think I came up with the eight simple rules?
P.S. I have one more rule...
Rule Nine: For the first date, please come with a sharpened #2 pencil because there will be a test to insure that you are: 1.) Smart enough to graduate from high school AND go to college. 2.) Smart enough to understand rules 1 thru 8!!!"
All Hail Quayle...
When I first wrote this, I incorrectly stated that Dan Quayle served as Vice President during the Reagan administration. As so often in life, irony rings clear when one advises us to educate ourselves, and then proceeds to display their own ignorance. For the record: I do not profess to know much of anything; as stated before, I make most of this junk up. However, I feel a responsibility to admit my mistakes. As penance, I will leave the commentary up, errors and all, and let folks see what they're getting if they decide to actually read the darn thing. If you happen to know Mr. Quayle, please direct him to this page so he can see that other folks do dumb stuff too. Maybe it'll make him feel better.
Recently I ran across a web page filled with quotes from statements made by our former Vice President, the honorable J. Danforth Quayle. At the same time I admit that they are humorous; I also have to admit that they’re a little sad.
Let’s take a look at what we had. A man who held the second highest office in this country who apparently is a buffoon. Did somebody decide that?
It had to be a deliberate act. After all, if anything had happened to President Reagan, Mr. Quayle would have had the keys to the country. I find it difficult to believe that in our enlightened age, where such emphasis is put on education that ANYONE could rise to a position of such responsibility if they were not at least fundamentally literate.
So who did make the decision? Was it the President himself?, a "Make him look stupid so I’ll look better." kind of thing? Was it the Washington "spin doctors" providing the American people a little comic relief?. Or perhaps a smoke screen?. "Give them something to think about other than the truth."?
How about the media?. Could you imagine the network bigwigs meeting for pizza one night and discussing how to go about it?. "That Dan Quayle is too smart for his own good. He makes way too much sense." "Hey! Let’s doctor some video, and get an impressionist to fake his voice. We’ll make him look so stupid nobody will ever think of him as anything but a guy who can’t even spell P-O-T-A-T-O.!"
Well, without creating some corn-fed conspiracy theory, the only alternative is that the man is as illiterate as he was presented to us, and I find that hard to swallow (even in a country that has an educational standard far below most of the rest of the world).
First of all, how would he get started in politics? Now admit it. There are certain "types" of kids who run for class office and student council. Right? Well in my high school those kids wouldn’t have even let old Dan hang out with them, much less run for office.
What about college? Athletes have to maintain a minimum G.P.A.? And lawyers don’t?
Let’s go ahead and give Mr. Quayle the benefit of doubt, (I have to since I’ve never met him. I don’t know that he’s really a dork) and assume that the whole thing was a deliberate act for which he should receive an Academy award. What’s the motive?
Don’t tell me he didn’t have dreams of becoming President himself someday; I automatically rule out a personal agenda.
By order of the President seems plausible; but wouldn’t having such a loser on board make you look bad anyway? Even so, it doesn’t seem possible for the spin doctors to wield the kind of power necessary to make a man look like a total idiot; or at least to perpetuate that image to the extent we saw (everybody has SOME self respect).
That leaves us with the corn fed conspiracy - but again - where is that pesky motive?
Coming to our senses, we realize that we will never answer the first question; "Who decides how smart we are?" And I find that a little frightening. Because no matter how you slice it, it always comes to this:
If Mr Quayle is truly illiterate it surely doesn’t speak well for the education system in our country. And it’s no better now than it was when Dan was a lad in school.
If it was all just an act, then he’s as dumb as if it weren’t. He committed political suicide nearly every time he opened his mouth. And that leads me to wonder how many other dumb guys we have running the country right now?
If it was ordered, then we have a SERIOUS problem with abuse of authority in our government. Today’s relaxed standards of behavior and ethics makes things even worse.
And finally, if the media was tampering with video and audio ten years ago, slandering public officials would be child’s play today. That means we live in a nightmare world where all information is suspect.
I think it’s a crying shame that in a country that claims so much, we have a tendency to be judgmental, and ridicule others without proof. As Americans we have a responsibility to think objectively. Failing that, we have a responsibility to at least educate ourselves enough to be able to acknowledge objectivity.
WE should decide how smart we are.
Recently I ran across a web page filled with quotes from statements made by our former Vice President, the honorable J. Danforth Quayle. At the same time I admit that they are humorous; I also have to admit that they’re a little sad.
Let’s take a look at what we had. A man who held the second highest office in this country who apparently is a buffoon. Did somebody decide that?
It had to be a deliberate act. After all, if anything had happened to President Reagan, Mr. Quayle would have had the keys to the country. I find it difficult to believe that in our enlightened age, where such emphasis is put on education that ANYONE could rise to a position of such responsibility if they were not at least fundamentally literate.
So who did make the decision? Was it the President himself?, a "Make him look stupid so I’ll look better." kind of thing? Was it the Washington "spin doctors" providing the American people a little comic relief?. Or perhaps a smoke screen?. "Give them something to think about other than the truth."?
How about the media?. Could you imagine the network bigwigs meeting for pizza one night and discussing how to go about it?. "That Dan Quayle is too smart for his own good. He makes way too much sense." "Hey! Let’s doctor some video, and get an impressionist to fake his voice. We’ll make him look so stupid nobody will ever think of him as anything but a guy who can’t even spell P-O-T-A-T-O.!"
Well, without creating some corn-fed conspiracy theory, the only alternative is that the man is as illiterate as he was presented to us, and I find that hard to swallow (even in a country that has an educational standard far below most of the rest of the world).
First of all, how would he get started in politics? Now admit it. There are certain "types" of kids who run for class office and student council. Right? Well in my high school those kids wouldn’t have even let old Dan hang out with them, much less run for office.
What about college? Athletes have to maintain a minimum G.P.A.? And lawyers don’t?
Let’s go ahead and give Mr. Quayle the benefit of doubt, (I have to since I’ve never met him. I don’t know that he’s really a dork) and assume that the whole thing was a deliberate act for which he should receive an Academy award. What’s the motive?
Don’t tell me he didn’t have dreams of becoming President himself someday; I automatically rule out a personal agenda.
By order of the President seems plausible; but wouldn’t having such a loser on board make you look bad anyway? Even so, it doesn’t seem possible for the spin doctors to wield the kind of power necessary to make a man look like a total idiot; or at least to perpetuate that image to the extent we saw (everybody has SOME self respect).
That leaves us with the corn fed conspiracy - but again - where is that pesky motive?
Coming to our senses, we realize that we will never answer the first question; "Who decides how smart we are?" And I find that a little frightening. Because no matter how you slice it, it always comes to this:
If Mr Quayle is truly illiterate it surely doesn’t speak well for the education system in our country. And it’s no better now than it was when Dan was a lad in school.
If it was all just an act, then he’s as dumb as if it weren’t. He committed political suicide nearly every time he opened his mouth. And that leads me to wonder how many other dumb guys we have running the country right now?
If it was ordered, then we have a SERIOUS problem with abuse of authority in our government. Today’s relaxed standards of behavior and ethics makes things even worse.
And finally, if the media was tampering with video and audio ten years ago, slandering public officials would be child’s play today. That means we live in a nightmare world where all information is suspect.
I think it’s a crying shame that in a country that claims so much, we have a tendency to be judgmental, and ridicule others without proof. As Americans we have a responsibility to think objectively. Failing that, we have a responsibility to at least educate ourselves enough to be able to acknowledge objectivity.
WE should decide how smart we are.
Cubist Thinking
I teach for a living (I'm a firearms instructor) and I often find it necessary to come up with creative ways to break down barriers to communication. I read a lot on the subject, attend seminars, participate in workshops, etc., etc., etc.; so I know I’m not the only one who’s concerned about how to get my fellow humans to receive the messages I’m sending.
Small businesses, major corporations, even the military establishment, spend vast amounts of money teaching their workers all about communicating with each other, and how to avoid barriers to that communication. Excluding writing skills, most of this education is aimed at an inter-personal level, with some good advice on how and when to conduct various types of meetings.
The goal is optimum efficiency in the workplace, and for the most part the idea seems to work. But I’ve noticed that this education fails to address something.
"Systems" furniture. The stuff that cubicles are made of.
In my workplace we don’t have separate offices, just one big room. In this room the boss has his desk in the middle of the floor and the rest of us (eight in all) surround him. We each have our personal space (whatever room our desk takes up, plus a little extra so you can scoot your chair back), some wall space for "I love me" stuff, and not much more. It’s a little cramped, and sometimes it’s hard to hear someone at the other end of the phone, and there’s not any privacy… But are we unhappy? HELL NO.
We wouldn’t have it any other way. We sit facing in, so we can all see and speak directly to one another. We never have to look for someone, they’re either there or not. The boss commands attention when at his desk, and from his position he can easily conduct a meeting, or chew our asses if necessary, or play his guitar for us, whatever… It’s an open forum. The only barriers we face are the inter-personal ones our leadership pays good money to educate us about and reduce. I couldn’t think of a better arrangement.
However; there are those that would destroy our ideal environment. These individuals seek to install "Systems" furniture in our workplace in order to (as they put it) give us the advantages enjoyed by our corporate contemporaries. These advantages include: our own personal space (see above), some extra wall space for "I love me" stuff (see above), and the added benefit of PRIVACY (which we can already get simply by walking about 20 feet to our tiny "counseling" area which we set aside specifically for this purpose).
Since our working arrangement is quite satisfactory, I wonder why our superiors want to waste the money they’ve spent getting us to communicate more effectively and change it?
I already have enough on my mind at work without having to contend with a piece of furniture. If I don’t get my point across to my students, if they don’t learn what I'm required to teach, the consequences could be their deaths in some far-away land. The only means I have to improve my ability to reach my students is open communication with my fellow instructors, (whose experience and counsel I rely heavily upon) in a place that’s free of physical barriers.
I don’t want to have to call out, or get up and negotiate a maze just to see if someone is at their desk. I don’t want to ask a question and have a disembodied voice answer me. I don’t want to have to check each little cubicle before starting a counseling session to ensure privacy. I like things just the way they are.
I don’t like "Systems" furniture.
I admit that many of you may like it, and I admit that there are valid reasons for installing it, but again; I don’t like it.
Why?
Because aside from the little inconveniences, it’s a physical and psychological barrier that cuts people off from one another and stifles creative conversation that may lead to increased productivity; the antithesis of what it’s supposed to be. It’s also a prime example of someone else telling me what’s good for me, or what I need, creating a mental turmoil that has me seething instead of working.
I’d be willing to bet there are others with similar views. Poll your employees or co-workers. Find out what they think. Don’t take for granted that your office furniture is just "furniture".
If you’re experiencing communication problems, and have "systems" furniture in your workplace I encourage you to weigh its benefits against its costs. After all, one of the greatest advantages of systems furniture is that it’s easy to set up - and to tear down.
Small businesses, major corporations, even the military establishment, spend vast amounts of money teaching their workers all about communicating with each other, and how to avoid barriers to that communication. Excluding writing skills, most of this education is aimed at an inter-personal level, with some good advice on how and when to conduct various types of meetings.
The goal is optimum efficiency in the workplace, and for the most part the idea seems to work. But I’ve noticed that this education fails to address something.
"Systems" furniture. The stuff that cubicles are made of.
In my workplace we don’t have separate offices, just one big room. In this room the boss has his desk in the middle of the floor and the rest of us (eight in all) surround him. We each have our personal space (whatever room our desk takes up, plus a little extra so you can scoot your chair back), some wall space for "I love me" stuff, and not much more. It’s a little cramped, and sometimes it’s hard to hear someone at the other end of the phone, and there’s not any privacy… But are we unhappy? HELL NO.
We wouldn’t have it any other way. We sit facing in, so we can all see and speak directly to one another. We never have to look for someone, they’re either there or not. The boss commands attention when at his desk, and from his position he can easily conduct a meeting, or chew our asses if necessary, or play his guitar for us, whatever… It’s an open forum. The only barriers we face are the inter-personal ones our leadership pays good money to educate us about and reduce. I couldn’t think of a better arrangement.
However; there are those that would destroy our ideal environment. These individuals seek to install "Systems" furniture in our workplace in order to (as they put it) give us the advantages enjoyed by our corporate contemporaries. These advantages include: our own personal space (see above), some extra wall space for "I love me" stuff (see above), and the added benefit of PRIVACY (which we can already get simply by walking about 20 feet to our tiny "counseling" area which we set aside specifically for this purpose).
Since our working arrangement is quite satisfactory, I wonder why our superiors want to waste the money they’ve spent getting us to communicate more effectively and change it?
I already have enough on my mind at work without having to contend with a piece of furniture. If I don’t get my point across to my students, if they don’t learn what I'm required to teach, the consequences could be their deaths in some far-away land. The only means I have to improve my ability to reach my students is open communication with my fellow instructors, (whose experience and counsel I rely heavily upon) in a place that’s free of physical barriers.
I don’t want to have to call out, or get up and negotiate a maze just to see if someone is at their desk. I don’t want to ask a question and have a disembodied voice answer me. I don’t want to have to check each little cubicle before starting a counseling session to ensure privacy. I like things just the way they are.
I don’t like "Systems" furniture.
I admit that many of you may like it, and I admit that there are valid reasons for installing it, but again; I don’t like it.
Why?
Because aside from the little inconveniences, it’s a physical and psychological barrier that cuts people off from one another and stifles creative conversation that may lead to increased productivity; the antithesis of what it’s supposed to be. It’s also a prime example of someone else telling me what’s good for me, or what I need, creating a mental turmoil that has me seething instead of working.
I’d be willing to bet there are others with similar views. Poll your employees or co-workers. Find out what they think. Don’t take for granted that your office furniture is just "furniture".
If you’re experiencing communication problems, and have "systems" furniture in your workplace I encourage you to weigh its benefits against its costs. After all, one of the greatest advantages of systems furniture is that it’s easy to set up - and to tear down.
The Grand Conspiracy
While I was rotting my brain in the smut pages in the early morning hours one Saturday, I received an email begging me to "Read this now!" (sound familiar?). Since it came from a young lady from whom I had recently requested a password to her nude art page, I felt obligated.
After the usual "I don’t normally read these sort of things" garbage, I found that this young lady actually seemed concerned about the accusations of someone claiming to be a former AOL employee. This individual originated a chain letter in which he stated that AOL was invading the privacy of it’s customers by downloading a "cookie" to their computers through automatic software updates. This "cookie" would enable technicians and "Top AOL executives" to access your computer while you were on-line and examine the contents of your hard drive.
I wasn’t able to determine any motive for this practice, because as soon as I got knee-deep in the hoopla I quit reading and went back to my merry research of the female anatomy.
Not 12 hours later, I received another Email from the same young lady that said, to wit: "Never mind, it’s all a hoax!". This letter must have had at least three pages of supporting documentation to prove the "hoax", from many different sources. Of course I felt much better now that I could "Never mind..!"
Now, tell me something? Do people actually believe everything they read? This young lady initially stated that she was outraged, and that she was seriously considering canceling her subscription to AOL (not that I care); then claimed relief that she had been mislead!
What’s the big stink here?
If you’ve been alive during the last twenty years, you have to know that the capability for this particular "cookie" download actually exists. You also have to know that no matter how much you’d like to believe that you are secure (that, for instance, nobody can find out about your financial status; your reading preferences; even your sexual orientation) you are not. Just ask any half-decent Hacker. Electronic eavesdropping and "snooping" has been in existence since the advent of the telegraph, computers just make things easier.
Think about it. You pick up the phone, dial a number, and your TV responds by showing you a movie. Ever order anything by credit card from your computer? Type in your card number, and the screen displays your address, phone number, and even the correct spelling of your name.
Pretty spooky if you ask me. But am I worried? Do I rage against the invasion of my privacy?
Well… If I lived in a vacuum and refused to educate myself I might be. Or if I let the media rule my world and believe everything I read I might be. But the truth of the matter is, I’m not worried in the least.
I try to let good judgment take the place of passionate decision making. I ask myself what the implications of any action (or inaction) may be. I acknowledge technology as a powerful tool to be used for both good and bad. I have educated myself on the basic capabilities of computers, and the "hazards" of connecting to a world-wide system that allows ANYBODY the potential to enter my operating system and files to examine, delete, or possibly destroy them. I have read the terms of service for my Internet access provider and agreed to them, and I have noted all the warnings that occasionally pop up on my screen while on-line.
What do I do?. I have a virus checker, and I don’t store information I don’t wish to share on my computer. That’s about it. Anything else would be of little value (as well as cost prohibitive) to me. And with that, I am satisfied and "secure". I don’t worry about someone downloading damaging or offensive material to my computer; I will not download executable material from anyone I don’t know, and I always run the virus check on anything I do. My kids’ screen names are blocked from most of the web, as well as downloads, and my wife and I monitor their use of the computer.
The whole point of this is that when you participate in a particular activity, it’s YOUR responsibility to educate yourself on the potential drawbacks. You must take certain risks in order to indulge your pastime and minimize the effect of those drawbacks through protective measures.
Truly, there are people and organizations that invade your privacy on a daily basis for a variety of reasons and in many ways. Some are blatant, and some are insidious; some are even diabolical in nature. But the fact is that the general public’s failure to implement protective measures, or implementing those measures without careful thought is the leading cause of claims that "my privacy has been invaded!".
We should all stop worrying about who is reading our mail, and start finding out what we can do about it. Paranoia is a disease running rampant in this country, and the only cure is the use of good judgment.
After the usual "I don’t normally read these sort of things" garbage, I found that this young lady actually seemed concerned about the accusations of someone claiming to be a former AOL employee. This individual originated a chain letter in which he stated that AOL was invading the privacy of it’s customers by downloading a "cookie" to their computers through automatic software updates. This "cookie" would enable technicians and "Top AOL executives" to access your computer while you were on-line and examine the contents of your hard drive.
I wasn’t able to determine any motive for this practice, because as soon as I got knee-deep in the hoopla I quit reading and went back to my merry research of the female anatomy.
Not 12 hours later, I received another Email from the same young lady that said, to wit: "Never mind, it’s all a hoax!". This letter must have had at least three pages of supporting documentation to prove the "hoax", from many different sources. Of course I felt much better now that I could "Never mind..!"
Now, tell me something? Do people actually believe everything they read? This young lady initially stated that she was outraged, and that she was seriously considering canceling her subscription to AOL (not that I care); then claimed relief that she had been mislead!
What’s the big stink here?
If you’ve been alive during the last twenty years, you have to know that the capability for this particular "cookie" download actually exists. You also have to know that no matter how much you’d like to believe that you are secure (that, for instance, nobody can find out about your financial status; your reading preferences; even your sexual orientation) you are not. Just ask any half-decent Hacker. Electronic eavesdropping and "snooping" has been in existence since the advent of the telegraph, computers just make things easier.
Think about it. You pick up the phone, dial a number, and your TV responds by showing you a movie. Ever order anything by credit card from your computer? Type in your card number, and the screen displays your address, phone number, and even the correct spelling of your name.
Pretty spooky if you ask me. But am I worried? Do I rage against the invasion of my privacy?
Well… If I lived in a vacuum and refused to educate myself I might be. Or if I let the media rule my world and believe everything I read I might be. But the truth of the matter is, I’m not worried in the least.
I try to let good judgment take the place of passionate decision making. I ask myself what the implications of any action (or inaction) may be. I acknowledge technology as a powerful tool to be used for both good and bad. I have educated myself on the basic capabilities of computers, and the "hazards" of connecting to a world-wide system that allows ANYBODY the potential to enter my operating system and files to examine, delete, or possibly destroy them. I have read the terms of service for my Internet access provider and agreed to them, and I have noted all the warnings that occasionally pop up on my screen while on-line.
What do I do?. I have a virus checker, and I don’t store information I don’t wish to share on my computer. That’s about it. Anything else would be of little value (as well as cost prohibitive) to me. And with that, I am satisfied and "secure". I don’t worry about someone downloading damaging or offensive material to my computer; I will not download executable material from anyone I don’t know, and I always run the virus check on anything I do. My kids’ screen names are blocked from most of the web, as well as downloads, and my wife and I monitor their use of the computer.
The whole point of this is that when you participate in a particular activity, it’s YOUR responsibility to educate yourself on the potential drawbacks. You must take certain risks in order to indulge your pastime and minimize the effect of those drawbacks through protective measures.
Truly, there are people and organizations that invade your privacy on a daily basis for a variety of reasons and in many ways. Some are blatant, and some are insidious; some are even diabolical in nature. But the fact is that the general public’s failure to implement protective measures, or implementing those measures without careful thought is the leading cause of claims that "my privacy has been invaded!".
We should all stop worrying about who is reading our mail, and start finding out what we can do about it. Paranoia is a disease running rampant in this country, and the only cure is the use of good judgment.
Capitol Murder
I wish I’d been there.
Where? Oh!, well, at the Capitol building.
Why? So I would know. So I would know why two men are dead.
I’ve seen the news and heard the stories, same as you, yet I’m still puzzled. Most folks with my background are asking themselves many of the same questions I ask myself. You want to know the sad part? We find no answers. Knowing what we know, we realize that there’s a good chance those two fellows died at the hands of a terrorist (yes - TERRORIST) because their superiors were more concerned with public relations than they were with security.
Of course, I wasn’t there, and I have no idea what security measures are in effect at the Capitol building. However, with my background I can make highly informed statements as to what those measures should be.
What background? Well, for starters I am a former Security Policeman (just like Officer Chestnut). My job was to secure facilities, areas, and resources against unauthorized access and intrusion. Ten years of sentry and entry control duty will teach you a lot about how bad guys can get in, and what you should do if they succeed. More importantly, it’ll teach you a lot about how to keep bad guys out; or at least make it difficult enough to make ‘em think twice about trying to get in.
Next, I am presently a firearms instructor. My job is to teach people basic and intermediate marksmanship, as well as employment of their weapons should the need arise. I am an expert marksman (at least as far as the Air Force is concerned) with both rifle and pistol.
I’ve never had to fire my weapon in the line of duty (thank God), other than on the firing range, so everything that follows is arguable. Now, back to the "why" of the matter at hand:
My first question is how did the shooter get into the building in the first place?
Yes, I heard that there was no warning. The bad guy pulled a gun and started shooting. However, that doesn’t answer the question. Yes, I heard there was a metal detector in use. I also heard that it was a portable unit, and that the shooter went around it to shoot a guard in the head.
A properly protected entryway would force visitors to follow a defined, well surveilled avenue of approach (preferably using blockades as opposed to visually pleasing velour ropes and brass stanchions) that ended in an entrapment area where they would be subjected to a bodily search using hands-on or electronic means. Security personnel should be protected by physical barriers, (walls, bullet resistant glass, etc.) denying anyone the opportunity to do exactly what the perpetrator did in this case.
I suggest that if had the bad guy been faced with a similarly protected entryway, he would have been caught in the entrapment area, or would not have tried to enter in the first place.
My next question is why were Capitol Police being used as tour guides instead of a security force?
Their jobs are to secure facilities and personnel. Since when did you ever see an armed tour guide? They give those guys guns for a reason y’know…
A sentry’s purpose is to act as a physical and psychological deterrent to people with evil on their minds. His/her duty is to remain alert to possible hostile events or acts that threaten the security of his area of responsibility. In the event of a security breach, the sentry’s duty is to secure the immediate area (using the minimum amount of force necessary to do the job), then sound the alarm. Not to be shot in the head while giving directions to the subway.
Obviously these duties were not performed.
PLEASE NOTE THAT I DID NOT SAY: “THE GUARDS FAILED TO PERFORM THEIR DUTIES”!
Why the disclaimer? Because they weren’t performing sentry duties. They were acting as friggin’ tour guides. These guys were on display for the G.D. Dog & Pony Show. You doubt me?
Well then, here’s my argument:
I watched an interview with Officer Chestnut’s daughter, in which she stated that her dad was permanently assigned to that particular door because "He was really good at handling people." "His bosses were impressed with how professional and friendly he was, so he always worked that door."
Hmmmm…
I’ve worked a few dog & ponies in my time, and I know for a fact that you put people like that out front in order to impress. Not to secure. I’ve seen inexperienced kids put at entry points during official visits just because they looked good. Add that to the ease with which the metal detector could be bypassed, and my best guess is that these guys were more window dressing than security force.
I refuse to comment on the competency of the guards in question, but I will say this: If they had been posted as sentries, they might be alive today. I think it would be safe to say that at least one of those men had a serious bug up his butt about how security is run at the Capitol building. I would wager that at least one of those men had profound doubts as to the effectiveness of the entry control procedure. I would believe beyond doubt that at least one of those men had spoken to his superiors about the vulnerability of his post.
My last question in this monologue: What types of training do Capitol Police receive, and how often is the security force exercised?
Training. The root of all success.
Since I wasn’t there, and I don’t know how the event actually transpired, I’ll try not to armchair this too much. I don’t blame the men at the scene for what happened; but in light of what I’ve seen on the tube, I have to ask some fundamental questions:
Why did the interior guard (Gibson) take the time to warn people in offices up and down the corridor, that there was a gunman in the building before taking any action to stop the intruder? (according to CNN). Was it because he was concerned for their safety? Maybe’. Or was it because that was the first thing he thought of?
If it was the first thing he thought of, then I’d like to point out a possible flaw in the Capitol Police’s training program. Training, as I said before, is the root of all success. Does it guarantee success? No. But it does make the odds for success a hell of a lot better.
I bring this up because I know from personal experience the benefits of proper training. I’ve witnessed officers in action who reacted strictly according to their training and weren't even consciously thinking about what it was they were doing. I once watched an actual police video of a highway patrolman engaged in a gun battle. He’d made a "routine" stop, and the five guys in the car jumped him, tried to take his gun, and pulled guns of their own & started shooting. Guess what the score was? Four dead bad guys, one critically wounded bad guy, and one unscathed (albeit badly shaken) HERO highway patrolman.
The secret of his success? In his own words: "Training." He said that once he felt a hand on his holster he just quit thinking and performed automatically. His department routinely trained their officers for similar situations, and he attributes that training to his survival.
Now, I admit that things could have gone the other way, but the illustration serves it’s purpose. I say there could be a training deficiency in the Capitol Police force because I know that (using the above mentioned sentry’s duties as a model) my first concern is the security of my post.
Here’s a scenario. You be the sentry.
An incident has already occurred, security has been breached. What type of incident doesn't matter in the least. To keep this simple, we'll assume the incident involves an armed gunman - but the highlighted items apply to ANY situation.
(1) You secure the immediate area. Determine (if you can) whether any of the people around you, frozen in disbelief at the sound of gunfire, are parties to the incident. Scream at the top of your voice to "GET THE FUCK DOWN ON THE FLOOR!!!" (Yes. You say it just like that. For some reason profanity will get a person's attention when nothing else will) You do NOT warn your co-workers that there might be a little trouble out here (You heard the shots, so did they: they already know). While you’re doing this you move immediately to cover, preferably positioning yourself between the perceived threat and the lambs you’ve sworn to protect. You might want to start thinking about drawing your sidearm so you can cap any assholes who come through the door trying to kill people.
(2) You assess what you know: Shots fired - people screaming, the shit’s hit the fan. Gunshots came from the other side of the door. Your quick check of the area reveals no immediate threat. What to do? Move under cover if possible, as close to the threat as you can without putting yourself at a disadvantage.
(3) NOW you need to start thinking about reporting the status of your post. I would like to assume that you have a radio. Use it.
(4) Start getting all those scared-shitless people on the floor crawling AWAY from the threat. If no exits are available, have them move to the interior of the building. If this is undesirable, have them find whatever cover they can. If no cover is available, concealment is the next best thing. If there’s neither of the above, you’re all screwed. Hope to God they have sense enough to stay on the floor; but under no circumstance should you worry about it. Keep your attention focused on the threat.
(5) Now you need information. Not exactly what has happened, but what’s happening now. You need to determine where the threat lies. If it’s on the other side of the door, stay on this side. Do not compromise the security of your post. If the threat has been neutralized, you need to maintain security of your immediate area: nobody leaves, nobody comes in (except for security forces, and maybe people escaping the threat. Be alert! Perpetrators will often pose as victims to gain further access or to effect escape. You will remain in this posture until properly identified security personnel have deemed the threat neutralized, or the bad guy penetrates your area.
(6) If the bad guy arrives on scene, you shoot. Shoot to kill. DO NOT STOP SQUEEZING THE TRIGGER UNTIL YOUR WEAPON IS EMPTY (reload and keep squeezing), OR UNTIL THE SON OF A BITCH IS DEAD ON THE FLOOR.
Oh. By the way. All of this needs to be accomplished within 15 seconds or so (give or take the odd second), preferably faster. If you are the first line of security and there’s no warning, make every attempt to proceed directly to step 6.
I will add that NOBODY does any of this without proper training and/or years of experience.
Myself included.
At any rate, I wish I’d been there. Because I want to know how a terrorist (Capitol building + armed asshole = a politically motivated violent act? Not to mention that he was known by the Secret Service as a potential threat) was able to enter a supposedly secure facility and murder two people.
I wish to conclusively state that these are my own opinions. Agree or disagree if you will. I also wish to say that I in no way whatsoever wish to lay blame on the actions or inaction of the two slain officers. Any security professional worth a damn will admit that events beyond control can occur, and may apply in this case.
However, I think that by using good ol’ 20/20 hindsight vision, investigators are going to find some unpleasant truths about the practices and procedures of our federal law enforcement agencies. And once again, fingers will be pointed, words will be heated, heads will roll, but alas - no good will come of it.
Business will continue as usual. Fragile sensibilities will go unoffended. Appearances will be maintained. Good men will die. And you and I will continue to mourn their deaths.
Rest In Peace: Jacob J. Chestnut John Gibson
Where? Oh!, well, at the Capitol building.
Why? So I would know. So I would know why two men are dead.
I’ve seen the news and heard the stories, same as you, yet I’m still puzzled. Most folks with my background are asking themselves many of the same questions I ask myself. You want to know the sad part? We find no answers. Knowing what we know, we realize that there’s a good chance those two fellows died at the hands of a terrorist (yes - TERRORIST) because their superiors were more concerned with public relations than they were with security.
Of course, I wasn’t there, and I have no idea what security measures are in effect at the Capitol building. However, with my background I can make highly informed statements as to what those measures should be.
What background? Well, for starters I am a former Security Policeman (just like Officer Chestnut). My job was to secure facilities, areas, and resources against unauthorized access and intrusion. Ten years of sentry and entry control duty will teach you a lot about how bad guys can get in, and what you should do if they succeed. More importantly, it’ll teach you a lot about how to keep bad guys out; or at least make it difficult enough to make ‘em think twice about trying to get in.
Next, I am presently a firearms instructor. My job is to teach people basic and intermediate marksmanship, as well as employment of their weapons should the need arise. I am an expert marksman (at least as far as the Air Force is concerned) with both rifle and pistol.
I’ve never had to fire my weapon in the line of duty (thank God), other than on the firing range, so everything that follows is arguable. Now, back to the "why" of the matter at hand:
My first question is how did the shooter get into the building in the first place?
Yes, I heard that there was no warning. The bad guy pulled a gun and started shooting. However, that doesn’t answer the question. Yes, I heard there was a metal detector in use. I also heard that it was a portable unit, and that the shooter went around it to shoot a guard in the head.
A properly protected entryway would force visitors to follow a defined, well surveilled avenue of approach (preferably using blockades as opposed to visually pleasing velour ropes and brass stanchions) that ended in an entrapment area where they would be subjected to a bodily search using hands-on or electronic means. Security personnel should be protected by physical barriers, (walls, bullet resistant glass, etc.) denying anyone the opportunity to do exactly what the perpetrator did in this case.
I suggest that if had the bad guy been faced with a similarly protected entryway, he would have been caught in the entrapment area, or would not have tried to enter in the first place.
My next question is why were Capitol Police being used as tour guides instead of a security force?
Their jobs are to secure facilities and personnel. Since when did you ever see an armed tour guide? They give those guys guns for a reason y’know…
A sentry’s purpose is to act as a physical and psychological deterrent to people with evil on their minds. His/her duty is to remain alert to possible hostile events or acts that threaten the security of his area of responsibility. In the event of a security breach, the sentry’s duty is to secure the immediate area (using the minimum amount of force necessary to do the job), then sound the alarm. Not to be shot in the head while giving directions to the subway.
Obviously these duties were not performed.
PLEASE NOTE THAT I DID NOT SAY: “THE GUARDS FAILED TO PERFORM THEIR DUTIES”!
Why the disclaimer? Because they weren’t performing sentry duties. They were acting as friggin’ tour guides. These guys were on display for the G.D. Dog & Pony Show. You doubt me?
Well then, here’s my argument:
I watched an interview with Officer Chestnut’s daughter, in which she stated that her dad was permanently assigned to that particular door because "He was really good at handling people." "His bosses were impressed with how professional and friendly he was, so he always worked that door."
Hmmmm…
I’ve worked a few dog & ponies in my time, and I know for a fact that you put people like that out front in order to impress. Not to secure. I’ve seen inexperienced kids put at entry points during official visits just because they looked good. Add that to the ease with which the metal detector could be bypassed, and my best guess is that these guys were more window dressing than security force.
I refuse to comment on the competency of the guards in question, but I will say this: If they had been posted as sentries, they might be alive today. I think it would be safe to say that at least one of those men had a serious bug up his butt about how security is run at the Capitol building. I would wager that at least one of those men had profound doubts as to the effectiveness of the entry control procedure. I would believe beyond doubt that at least one of those men had spoken to his superiors about the vulnerability of his post.
My last question in this monologue: What types of training do Capitol Police receive, and how often is the security force exercised?
Training. The root of all success.
Since I wasn’t there, and I don’t know how the event actually transpired, I’ll try not to armchair this too much. I don’t blame the men at the scene for what happened; but in light of what I’ve seen on the tube, I have to ask some fundamental questions:
Why did the interior guard (Gibson) take the time to warn people in offices up and down the corridor, that there was a gunman in the building before taking any action to stop the intruder? (according to CNN). Was it because he was concerned for their safety? Maybe’. Or was it because that was the first thing he thought of?
If it was the first thing he thought of, then I’d like to point out a possible flaw in the Capitol Police’s training program. Training, as I said before, is the root of all success. Does it guarantee success? No. But it does make the odds for success a hell of a lot better.
I bring this up because I know from personal experience the benefits of proper training. I’ve witnessed officers in action who reacted strictly according to their training and weren't even consciously thinking about what it was they were doing. I once watched an actual police video of a highway patrolman engaged in a gun battle. He’d made a "routine" stop, and the five guys in the car jumped him, tried to take his gun, and pulled guns of their own & started shooting. Guess what the score was? Four dead bad guys, one critically wounded bad guy, and one unscathed (albeit badly shaken) HERO highway patrolman.
The secret of his success? In his own words: "Training." He said that once he felt a hand on his holster he just quit thinking and performed automatically. His department routinely trained their officers for similar situations, and he attributes that training to his survival.
Now, I admit that things could have gone the other way, but the illustration serves it’s purpose. I say there could be a training deficiency in the Capitol Police force because I know that (using the above mentioned sentry’s duties as a model) my first concern is the security of my post.
Here’s a scenario. You be the sentry.
An incident has already occurred, security has been breached. What type of incident doesn't matter in the least. To keep this simple, we'll assume the incident involves an armed gunman - but the highlighted items apply to ANY situation.
(1) You secure the immediate area. Determine (if you can) whether any of the people around you, frozen in disbelief at the sound of gunfire, are parties to the incident. Scream at the top of your voice to "GET THE FUCK DOWN ON THE FLOOR!!!" (Yes. You say it just like that. For some reason profanity will get a person's attention when nothing else will) You do NOT warn your co-workers that there might be a little trouble out here (You heard the shots, so did they: they already know). While you’re doing this you move immediately to cover, preferably positioning yourself between the perceived threat and the lambs you’ve sworn to protect. You might want to start thinking about drawing your sidearm so you can cap any assholes who come through the door trying to kill people.
(2) You assess what you know: Shots fired - people screaming, the shit’s hit the fan. Gunshots came from the other side of the door. Your quick check of the area reveals no immediate threat. What to do? Move under cover if possible, as close to the threat as you can without putting yourself at a disadvantage.
(3) NOW you need to start thinking about reporting the status of your post. I would like to assume that you have a radio. Use it.
(4) Start getting all those scared-shitless people on the floor crawling AWAY from the threat. If no exits are available, have them move to the interior of the building. If this is undesirable, have them find whatever cover they can. If no cover is available, concealment is the next best thing. If there’s neither of the above, you’re all screwed. Hope to God they have sense enough to stay on the floor; but under no circumstance should you worry about it. Keep your attention focused on the threat.
(5) Now you need information. Not exactly what has happened, but what’s happening now. You need to determine where the threat lies. If it’s on the other side of the door, stay on this side. Do not compromise the security of your post. If the threat has been neutralized, you need to maintain security of your immediate area: nobody leaves, nobody comes in (except for security forces, and maybe people escaping the threat. Be alert! Perpetrators will often pose as victims to gain further access or to effect escape. You will remain in this posture until properly identified security personnel have deemed the threat neutralized, or the bad guy penetrates your area.
(6) If the bad guy arrives on scene, you shoot. Shoot to kill. DO NOT STOP SQUEEZING THE TRIGGER UNTIL YOUR WEAPON IS EMPTY (reload and keep squeezing), OR UNTIL THE SON OF A BITCH IS DEAD ON THE FLOOR.
Oh. By the way. All of this needs to be accomplished within 15 seconds or so (give or take the odd second), preferably faster. If you are the first line of security and there’s no warning, make every attempt to proceed directly to step 6.
I will add that NOBODY does any of this without proper training and/or years of experience.
Myself included.
At any rate, I wish I’d been there. Because I want to know how a terrorist (Capitol building + armed asshole = a politically motivated violent act? Not to mention that he was known by the Secret Service as a potential threat) was able to enter a supposedly secure facility and murder two people.
I wish to conclusively state that these are my own opinions. Agree or disagree if you will. I also wish to say that I in no way whatsoever wish to lay blame on the actions or inaction of the two slain officers. Any security professional worth a damn will admit that events beyond control can occur, and may apply in this case.
However, I think that by using good ol’ 20/20 hindsight vision, investigators are going to find some unpleasant truths about the practices and procedures of our federal law enforcement agencies. And once again, fingers will be pointed, words will be heated, heads will roll, but alas - no good will come of it.
Business will continue as usual. Fragile sensibilities will go unoffended. Appearances will be maintained. Good men will die. And you and I will continue to mourn their deaths.
Rest In Peace: Jacob J. Chestnut John Gibson
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