Mad Jack's Shack

My Life: Saturday Night with the Oldies

2012-01-30T12:16:00.002-05:00

I no longer think I'm getting old; I know it as fact. When I asked Main Lady what her ideas were for Saturday night, her response was not attending a soirée with a group of Bacchanal devotees dressed in costume, nor did she advocate a quiet evening at home watching a good film on DVD and eating pizza. Her suggestion?

"Why don't we go to the supermarket? I hear they are having a wine and cheese party over at the Anderson's... what do you think?"

I was too tired to argue, and in any event what I thought didn't really matter. As it turned out, this was one of Main Lady's better ideas.

The Wine Bar

To begin with, I really did need to go to the store. I was out of bacon, eggs and sausage. Main Lady said she was low on fresh vegetables, tofu and fat free diary products. Infer whatever you like from this. Anyway, the store looked normal until we got to the wine section. The deal is that you can buy a glass of wine for 0.75¢; they have about half a dozen bottles open. None of these are expensive wines, but they're good enough for table use. The cheese and pastries are free and are served up in abundance. Since Main Lady started the evening with a burr under her saddle (a long story - I would have shot someone by now) I lost no time in skipping the fresh vegetables department in favor of the bar. One glass of red wine later, Main Lady was ready to dance around a little.

Dancing at the Supermarket

One of the local ballroom dance studios was having a free group lesson coupled with a dance party in the cooking class room. I knew the instructor from the bad old days - I hadn't seen him in many years and was glad to see he was still alive and well. Main Lady and I watched the class and enjoyed a little wine and cheese while the lesson was in progress, then we joined in for the general dancing. By the third glass they played a waltz and I danced Main Lady up and around the wine bar and into the canned goods aisle, much to the enjoyment of the regular shoppers.

We spent an hour or so at the supermarket, and a full ten minutes of that was shopping for groceries. When we left, Main Lady was feeling much better, and so was I. Hey, when Momma's happy, everybody is happy!

Robert Burns Dinner in Review (Updated)

2012-01-24T11:48:00.000-05:00

Robert Burns turned 254 last weekend. Robbie was born January 25, 1759 and died on July 21, 1796, reportedly of complications following a tooth extraction. Just think about that for a second. He was an accomplished poet, a learned scholar, a first class rake hell and a vocal sympathizer of the French revolution. Burns was truly without peer, so much so that upon learning of his daughter's engagement to Robert Burns one father fainted dead away.

And so on Seturday, th' fife an' twentieth day ay januar in th' year ay uir laird tois thoosain an' twal, Big Mike, Lash and I made our way over to Barley's Ale House to drink beer, scotch and sample the Haggis. Robert Burns wrote a poem about Haggis which concludes:

Ye Pow'rs wha gie us a' that's gude
Still bless auld Caledonia's brood,
Wi' great John Barleycorn's heart's bluid
In stoups or luggies;
And on our boards, that king o' food,
A gud Scotch Haggis!

- R. Burns

Barley's Ale House Number Two

This is Barley's 13th annual Burns dinner. Big Mike knew about in advance and had been watching his calendar closely, for which Lash and I are very thankful. Tickets for the event were $55 and went on sale two weeks in advance; in three days the event sold out. I think Mike may have obtained the last three tickets available.

Ticket No. 68

I felt I was fortunate to be able to attend at all - my thanks to Big Mike for his attention to the passage of time and important events.

Piping In The Haggis

A Burns dinner isn't what most people would expect - a crowd of people eating haggis (with hesitation, because you'll be told by someone just what the ingredients are and a few of these are illegal in the United States) drinking and socializing. Rather it's a staged event that gradually falls apart under the influence of alcohol. Dinner begins with everyone hauling and stalling around in the bar area, trying to get a drink inside a brewery when the crowd is four deep at the bar. Right out of the blue ~~someone does something unfortunate to a stray cat~~ the bagpipes start up and the haggis is marched through the bar area and into the dining room.

Pipers

Actually, I like bag pipe music and our pipers were quite good. Here they are in Scottish regalia; I wish we could have heard them play a little more often.

Place at the Burns Dinner

Note the Scotch whiskey. Haggis is traditionally served with tatties, neeps and nips, the tatties being potatoes, neeps being turnips and nips referring to a nip of Scotch whiskey. We had three drams of single malt scotch, all different, all excellent in their own way.

Our Emcee

Here's the owner of Barley's who was our host and Master of Ceremonies (emcee) for the evening. I cannot remember his name which is a pity, nor did I get a chance to speak to him at any length, also a pity. The man started Barley's some years ago.

To a haggis...

After the noble haggis is piped in, the poem Address to a Haggis is read. Our emcee did a credible job of reading the poem in the native Scottish dialect, meaning that most of the crowd had little to no idea about the actual content of the poem. After the poem everyone raises their first shot of scotch and toasts the haggis.

Haggis, tatties an' neeps

Haggis is made with a sheep's liver, heart and lungs combined with suet, ground oats, spices and stock, then baked inside a sheep's stomach. You can read about it here if you like. Here's the first course, less the nip which vanished during the toast. Our first scotch was a Glen Moray single malt that was very smooth, and an excellent choice for the first toast.

More poetry was read during the first course, then the next shot of scotch was served and the women were toasted. The fellow making the toast elected to recite a Burns poem rather than try to make something up on the spot, which was a wise decision on his part (see update). He was feeling his scotch by then. Our second scotch was a Bulblair 1997, and was a good deal stronger than the first. Some people at the table sampled this scotch then quietly passed their portion over to a neighbor. I enjoyed the Bulblair, but it isn't for everyone.

Unknown Notable

This lady was an unknown notable (see update). She was introduced as being someone with an important function, but I can't bring her name or title to mind. A pity, that. You can see another shot of her above with the haggis. I kept trying to get a decent photo of her, but this is the best available. I don't think she was having a good time, or perhaps she was angry with her husband over something, but in a room packed full of lubricated celebrants hers was a very singular expression.

Second Course

Here's our second course, which was accompanied by sporadic poetry. The salad is field greens with pickled golden beets, goat cheese, toasted walnuts and sherry vinaigrette topped with a scotch egg. The scotch egg doesn't really top anything; it's just there because, well, this is a Burns dinner. Later on when I had time to reflect on the entire dinner, I realized how appropriate and carefully constructed this salad was. The texture was nice and crunchy, the flavors were sharp without bitterness and I felt refreshed after eating. My compliments to chef Darla.

Brewmaster Angelo Signorino, Jr

Here's Barley's brewmaster, Angelo Signorino, Jr. This is man responsible for the absolutely outstanding beer we drank that evening, Robert Burns Scottish Export Ale. The ale is dry hopped, meaning that the hops are dried and put into the barrel and the ale poured in on top. The barrel is left to sort itself out in the cellar and after a few months it's tapped and drunk with great relish.

Tapping the Firkin

I estimated 75 people in the room, but there may have been 100. I'm lousy at estimates of that sort. Anyway, this is a firkin of the aforementioned Robert Burns Scottish Export Ale in the process of being tapped. The man to the right of Angelo is an honored guest who has attended every single Burns dinner since the very first.

Robert Burns Scottish Export Ale

The firkin holds about nine gallons, all of which was consumed that evening. Combining a 12 ounce beer glass with 9 gallons of brew and filtering it through a little grade school math complete with calculator, I arrived at 96 glasses of Scottish happiness. My estimate of 75 people sounds a little more accurate to me given that everyone was provided one glass and those that were thirsty had one refill. I note that the pitchers were not simply put out on the table, as there was no guarantee that the guests had the necessary social skills to share the pitcher - equally or any other way.

Smoked Pork Chop

Our final course was a smoked bone-in pork chop with sauteed corn and pears and a sage demiglace. Here is where chef Darla really shows her skill. My pork chop was perfect. It was very tender, moist and the flavor was subtle, which is important. The sauce was absolutely first rate. Big Mike and Lash gave similar, unsolicited compliments later on that evening.

By this time our host and emcee was having a little trouble collecting his thoughts while focusing his eyes on his book of poetry and trying to get everyone's attention. Fortunately he got a little help from a pair of entertainers, one with a guitar, who kept the proceedings moving along. He also got help from a guest at the dinner who had his own small book of Burns poetry and volunteered to read a selection or two.

Archie, a native of Scotland

Archie was born and raised in Scotland, a few miles from Robert Burns home town. Ergo, he spoke the native dialect and was very familiar with Burns poetry. Archie began by reading To a Mousie in his native dialect which contains the famous quote, The best laid plans of mice and men. He read several others, including A Red, Red Rose and, I believe, Ye Flowery Banks. By the end of the evening Archie was having trouble getting started and I asked him if he'd been drinking. "Not enough!" Archie replied, draining his glass. Adjusting his glasses, Archie composed himself for another go at it.

Desert

By the time desert was served I was stuffed and in no mood for sweets, but there it was anyway. In truth I'd have been glad of another shot of scotch, but only one was served. Our third shot was a cask strength Laphroag (111.4 proof). The flavor of the first scotch was smooth and very mild; the second was stronger by a good margin. This one would take the chrome off a trailer hitch.

I enjoy the strong flavor of a good scotch, but the Laphroag appeals to a very narrow audience. Anyone with a tender, sensitive palate was going to get scorched, and those of us who were feeling pleasantly relaxed promptly sat up and stopped mumbling. I enjoyed it, but I probably would have enjoyed it more with a small ice cube to chill the liquor and to add a small amount of water to it. My real desire is to buy a bottle and experiment a little, but I'd likely only drink it twice a month at most.

The Burns dinner concluded with a alcoholically enthusiastic rendition of Auld Lang Syne, which was loud enough to drown out everything in a three block radius and every bit as sonorous as any steam driven calliope. As we exited our host reminded us to drive carefully and that the bar was still open.

Our generous host only charged us $55 a plate for this Robert Burns dinner, and my feeling is that he might have broke even on the deal, or perhaps lost a little. I had an excellent time at the Burns supper and I'm planning to go again next year. My hope for next year is that our host was cognizant enough to get Archie's contact information so as to bribe him to return next year and read poetry. I think Archie could be bribed with a combination of money, beer and whiskey.

See you next year, Archie!

Update:
Our host and emcee, the founder of Barley's, is Lenny Kolada. The unknown notable whose image I failed to successfully capture is Lenny's wife Joan, AKA Saint Joan, eponymous founder of Russian Imperial Stout Saint Joan's Revenge. I'm told from a reliable source that she was having a good time that evening and it was fortune that I failed to get a good photo of her.

The gentleman who proposed the toast to the women did not read a Burns poem; he read his own work. He's introduced himself as Kilted Kieth. The quality of his writing is remarkable for its excellence, and so I doff my fedora and raise my morning bourbon glass to him - well done, sir!

Restaurant Review: Barley's Ale House No. 2

2012-01-23T16:16:00.000-05:00

Barley's Ale House No. 2

Barley's Smokehouse and Brewpub

Ale House No. 2

1130 Dublin Road

Columbus, Ohio 43215

(614) 485 - 0BBQ (0227)

Barley's Brewing

Ale House No. 2

Hours

Mon - Thurs 11:00 AM - close (kitchen closes at 10 PM)

Friday 11:00 AM - close (kitchen closes at 11PM)

Saturday noon - close (kitchen closes at 11PM)

Sunday noon - close (kitchen closes at 8:30PM)

I've been to Barley's any number of times. You'll note by the name that this review covers Ale House Number 2, which implies (correctly) that there's a number 1. Both share the Barley name, both are microbreweries, and both are excellent in their own way, but that's where the similarity ends. The other Barley's is downtown and I'll likely write about it later.

Ale

The first thing you have to understand about Barley's is that it isn't just a microbrewery - it's a pub. You get food, drink and friendly camaraderie, and all three are delivered in good portion and fair value. Barley's brewery is one of the very best in the area, and the various beers and ales are truly unique to Barley's. So if you like BudBudLightMickMickLightMillerMillerLightEmGeeDee or Pabst and will not deviate from your established norm, please stay away. You'll only do yourself a mischief and you'll disappoint your parish priest. If, however, you have reached sufficient maturity that you'll keep things from your parents, by all means start at the beginning of the beer list and widen your horizons. Your server can make suggestions if you're feeling overwhelmed.

Seriously, the beer selection at Barley's is extensive and both beer and ale tend to be strong flavors as well as high alcohol content. Any guest beers that Barley's serves fit into this category very nicely. Calculate your consumption at about half of what you'd normally drink.

Beef Brisket

The great secret about Barley's is the Saturday night beef brisket. You'll never find a better brisket, even if you take your search South of the Mason-Dixon line. Barley's starts the brisket preparation Friday morning with a dry rub of spices, then they begin smoking it. By Saturday night the brisket is ready, and if you pass up the brisket you're truly doing yourself a disservice. The rest of the menu is good, and I've had their ribs and can recommend them with confidence to anyone who likes barbecue, but as good as the ribs are they'll never be as good as the brisket. I also recommend the sauerkraut balls and the smokehouse chili.

The service at Barley's is solid. I've never seen the place when it wasn't busy, and I've never had to wait an overly long time for food or drink. One thing that impressed me about Barley's is that the serving staff does not waste time making excuses. I abhor a server that whines to me about the place being busy and the kitchen being backed up; isn't that the goal of any business, to get a lot of customers all the time? Why is it that a busy restaurant is often bad for the individual customer? At Barley's they anticipate a packed dining room and plan accordingly. Servers are generally knowledgeable about the beer selection, although very few can rattle off the entire list of available beers. If in doubt, consult the bartender.

As I mentioned, Barley's is a pub. It's noisy, crowded and it can get hot inside. There are HD TVs so you can watch a game as you're inclined to do so. The crowd at the bar will cheer their favorite team. The noise and the heat can be oppressive to me, and after dinner I've well and truly had enough of having to shout to make myself heard by the person sitting next to me. This situation is not due to poor acoustics or bad construction of some sort, nor is it due to a particularly unruly crowd; it happens when you get a lot of people and beer together at once. My caveat here is that you shouldn't expect a quiet place for dinner.

I like Barley's and I expect to eat there again, next time I'm in Columbus. I'm going to try and arrange a Saturday night brisket dinner.

In summary:

Ambiance: 7
Service: 8
Food: 8 (10 if you have the brisket)

Overall Rating: 8

Restaurant Review: Starliner Diner

2012-01-22T16:51:00.003-05:00

Starliner Diner, Front Entrance

Starliner Diner

5240 Cemetery Road

Hilliard, OH 43026-1501

(614) 529-1198

Starliner Diner

Hours

Tuesday • Wednesday • Thursday

9:00 am - 3:00 pm; 5:00 pm - 9:00 pm

Friday • Saturday

9:00 am - 3:00 pm; 5:00 pm - 9:30 pm

Sunday

9:00 am - 3:00 pm

Closed on Monday

I've eaten breakfast at the Starliner just about every time I spend the night at Big Mike's home in Columbus, and it's become a habit for me - a very pleasant habit and one I hope never to break.

The place derives its name from the Ford Starliner, a fairly hot car Ford produced during the early 1960s. You won't see many Starliners around today because, well, not many were made and those that were made generally got destroyed on the race track. Starliners were noteworthy because you could actually get a tri-power setup for it from Ford, but the manifold and carburetors were delivered in the trunk and you had to install the system yourself, or get an ace mechanic to do it for you - and here my digression ends.

The Starliner is a modest place with two small dining rooms and a bar. The decor is something best described as hot rod art deco down South of the border. The colorful wall hangings, pictures and paintings are not overbearing, and if you've had a long night I suggest you rest your eyes on a menu or a waitress. There's enough space between tables so that you aren't sitting too close to the folks next door, but the place really is packed as tight as it's ever going to get. When you're seated it's best not to rise too quickly, as there is every chance you'll bump into a waitress with a full tray - and we all know where that's going to end up.

The wait staff at the Starliner are professionals, meaning that they make their living waiting tables. The man or woman waiting on you doesn't have her sights set on a new job in six weeks as a dental hygienist, an English teacher or a stockbroker. The concentrate on the customer and take pains to make sure everything is done right the first time and that the customers are comfortable. What impressed me was that the servers, both men and women alike, have developed an energetic, purposeful stride that precludes interruption from obstacles such as children, chairs and other servers. Whatever the waitress is carrying is going to be delivered now, right now - don't interrupt!

The food at the Starliner is excellent. You can have regular old bacon and eggs for breakfast, but I advise against it. Get the huevos rancheros, the breakfast burrito or a Mexican chorizo omelette, and whatever you decide on make sure to get some plantains on the side as they are unusually good.

The only bad part about the Starliner is that the secret is out. The place is packed fifteen minutes after it opens in the morning and it stays busy all day long. This means that if you elect to sleep in you'll have to wait in line for a table. The good news is that it's worth waiting for and the second a table opens up it gets bussed and people get seated. Better still, if you have a large party of six or eight, the Starliner will accommodate you by putting several tables together, it being that kind of place.

The Starliner is not a bastion of fine dining that caters to the discriminating gourmand, complete with live chamber music, a discrete wait staff and indirect lighting. It was designed to be a warm, friendly place offering good food at fair value complemented by above average service. It succeeds at that.

In summary:

Ambiance: 7
Service: 9
Food: 9

Overall Rating: 8

Our Screwed Up Justice System:The Fackelman Deal

2012-01-20T17:17:00.001-05:00

Say you're a fifty something red blooded American male driving your car all by yourself on a two lane blacktop up in Michigan. It's the night season and you're minding your own business. A car full of teenagers approaches you from the opposite direction and one of the little choir boys nails your windshield with a bottle of water. What do you do? I mean ultimately, what do you do after the startled exclamation and the inevitable thoughts about retribution?
On June 15, 2006 the chase was on, and this is what happened as pieced together from various newspaper articles.

As I understand this, a 1998 Pontiac was driven by 17 year old Austin Oberle, and had passengers Charlie Fackelman (junior), Ashley Roth, Carl Ziegler and Stevie L. Beale, all teenagers. Charlie Fackelman threw a plastic water bottle full of liquid at Randy Krell's car, striking the car's windshield. Randy Krell turned his car around and gave chase. Austin Oberle tried to get away from Randy Krell and crashed at high speed. As a result of the crash, Charlie Fackelman was killed and Stevie Beale, an attractive teenage girl and honor student, is paralyzed from the waist down.

Austin Oberle was charged with vehicular manslaughter and felonious driving, which carries a possible prison sentence of 15 years. Oberle pled guilty to felonious driving and negligent homicide, was sentenced and served six months in jail.

Randy Krell was arrested at the crash site, where he was identified by the teenagers as the pursuer. Randy Krell maintained he was not the driver of the car that chased Oberle, that he just happened to be near the crash site and stopped to see if he could help. Randy Krell was convicted in a jury trial of negligent homicide. He served about five months of a nine month jail sentence.

The Monroe County Sheriff said that alcohol was not involved in the accident, but excessive speed did play a factor.

The sentence didn't please father Charlie Fackelman senior, who went after Charlie Krell with a gun. A confrontation occurred but no shots were fired. Fackelman chased Krell around the yard and through neighbor Tom Williams' home, kicking down the front door to get into the home. Williams called the police and Fackelman escaped out the back door and hid. As a result Charlie Fackelman senior was convicted after a jury trial on two counts of felonious assault, one count of home invasion, and one count of gun possession. Charlie is sentenced to serve about six years.

Although Krell entered a plea of not guilty and has continued to maintain his innocence, I think his story of being in the wrong place at the wrong time is a little thin. I think that it's much more likely that Fackelman hit Krell's car with a bottle of water, whereupon Krell pulled a screaming U-turn and headed after Fackelman and company with the intent of getting some payback. I'm thinking a broken nose and some injured pride would have been the worst of it. Things didn't turn out that way, obviously.

I wouldn't have convicted Randy Krell of anything more than, say, aggravated menacing and a few moving violations. Randy Krell wasn't driving the car Fackelman rode in, and Krell didn't strike that car with his own. Krell didn't run Oberle off the road. Austin Oberle was the driver of that car and to him falls responsibility for what he did. The jury didn't see it that way, and Krell was found guilty and served his time.

Charlie Fackelman senior decided he'd like a little vengeance. Perhaps the man is mentally ill as he claims, perhaps not. Either way, Charlie Fackelman had no right to threaten anyone with a gun, nor had he any right to kick down the Williams family's front door and invade their home. If Charlie Fackelman did that to me, I'd have shot him. Fackelman was tried by a jury, and the jury could have found Fackelman not guilty by reason of insanity. The jury didn't. The judge concurred.

I think that commercial media gave Austin Oberle a pass he didn't deserve. It was his driving and poor judgment that killed Charlie Fackelman and paralyzed Stevie Beale. Instead of Oberle, Krell got vilified here. But all that's history.

Today the local bird cage liner screams that Fackelman Avoids Trial on Invasion and Assault

From The Blade: Fackelman had served nearly 3 1/2 years of a 5 3/4 to 20-year prison sentence before the state's highest court ruled in July that repeated references during trial to a psychological evaluation but never entered into evidence violated Fackelman's constitutional rights to confront witnesses.

So the persecutor bitched the trial, Fackelman's ambulance chaser didn't catch the mistake back then, so now the whole business gets appealed up to the Michigan State Supreme Court who drops the ball back in Judge Joseph Costello court. Why couldn't the legal system have settled this the first time around? Now the whole thing has to be tried again, except...

Mr. Simon [Wayne County Assistant Prosecutor Kenneth Simon - MJ] said in court the decision to reach a plea deal with Fackelman instead of taking the case to trial was made, in part, because of the difficulty in reconstructing the 2008 trial as well as the cost and time for preparation and litigation.

What are we paying taxes for? So that both attorneys can screw up and this lunatic gets a walk?

Armchair quarterbacking is easy, and I'm aware of that. In this case Stevie Beale said that she was pleading with Austin Oberle to slow down. He should have listened and gotten into a slow speed chase to the police station, if nothing else. If anyone had a cell phone, and most teens do, they could have called 9-1-1 and had the police meet them on the road somewhere. I can just see Older School or Beat and Release sorting this one out.

On Strike

2012-01-17T17:50:00.000-05:00

I'm on strike today (Wednesday, January 18, 2012) in protest of the Stop Online Piracy Act (SOPA) and Protect IP Act (PIPA). For further information click here: http://sopastrike.com/. Suffice to say that I like freedom, which the government does not like.

CCW: The Light Goes On

2012-01-16T16:31:00.000-05:00

I'll repeat myself yet again. If you feel the need, by all means pack your pistol with you. Your right to do so is guaranteed to you in the Bill of Rights, specifically in the Second Amendment. Not everyone believes the same way I do. Case in point, Main Lady's eldest little darling (Flopsy) stands firmly against guns and all that they (the guns, I would guess) stand for. Now me, being a warm, sensitive man of the '90s (and here I'm referring to that era that began in the Year of Our Lord One Thousand Nine Hundred and Ninety and terminted abruptly at the beginning of the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand - the time span, not my age and not my mileage. Get it?) - as I was saying, a warm, sensitive man of the '90s as well as being considerate and generous into the bargain, I would often instigate a short discussion on gun control with Flopsy, generally referring to some local news item, then I'd suffer the anti-gun tirade in my usual quiet, tolerant manner - then I'd invite Flopsy to go out shooting with Big Mike and I.

Well sir, one fine day Flopsy accepted my invitation, went out to the range with us and proceeded to shoot the hell out of everything downrange, including perforating a standard pistol bulls eye target at fifty fee with Big Mike's .380 sock drawer automatic. Her performance was witnessed by three pseudo macho ass hats, all of whom were full of themselves and all of whom suffered deflated egos. All three of us carefully and studiously ignored them; they tried ignoring Flopsy and failed.

So. That's old history, but the other night Main Lady, Flopsy and I were settling in to watch Masterpiece Theater when Main Lady referred to some kind of shooting item in the news - I don't remember what it was specifically, but I believe it involved an elderly woman successfully defending herself with a firearm. I commented that the anti-gun moonbats would use it to promote even more gun control, which Main Lady questioned. As I remember it, Main Lady was referring to the Brady Bunch.

"Why don't they want us to carry a gun?"

"Because it's the great equalizer." I responded.

There was a long silence while Flopsy and Main Lady looked at each other.

"In any fight, size matters. If it didn't, there wouldn't be weight classes in boxing. So, if your attacker is a six foot six inch Goliath with mayhem on his mind, you won't stand much of a chance against him. But give you a .38 - "

" - and it doesn't matter how big he is." Flopsy concluded.

"Exactly. If you own a firearm it upsets the natural order of things. All of a sudden, we really are all equal."

I didn't push the issue, but I could tell the light suddenly went on.

My Life: Generally...

2012-01-13T17:20:00.002-05:00

Generally speaking, WTF? I've managed to find a couple road blocks over the past week, and I'm beginning to wonder if this is just bad luck or if I'm having trouble adjusting to the new world order.

I buy my health insurance from United Health Care (UHC) via my last headhunter, MoneyGrubbers, Inc. (MGI). I noted that my last health insurance premium to MGI failed to clear the bank in a timely manner, so I call UHC and after navigating their automated telephone response system I finally talk to some obstructive little son of a bitch who calls himself Gary. After a suitably tedious conversation I discover that UHC has quietly canceled my insurance on December 25, 2011 and did so retroactive to October 31, 2011. Gary happily informs me that UHC did this and their actions are compliant with Federal law.

So your health insurance company can just quietly cancel your insurance and not tell you anything? This is too good not to be illegal. I mean, think about it. You think you're insured, you keep sending in your premiums, the checks keep getting cashed, but if you landed in the ER for some reason you'd get shipped off to the charity ward. And let me tell you something, the charity ward isn't pretty. I'd take my chances with my local veterinarian first.

So I called MoneyGrubbers, Inc. and asked the nice girl who answered the phone "What gives?" She didn't know, and this being rather late in December she wouldn't know until next Tuesday, the first business day of 2012. Meanwhile, try not to shoot yourself in the foot and don't play in the highway. When Tuesday rolled around it turned out that I was still covered, and that I was one of fifty that had been quietly canceled without notice, and that all this was due to a mysterious email that UHC received on a Sunday afternoon. That's right, Sunday. Go figure. I asked if this unfortunate condition was due to a disgruntled ex-employee, and MoneyGrubbers, Inc. remained silent.

I have more problems with UHC, as my current health insurance card has the wrong number on it. That means that when I'm involved in a head on collision with some drunken soccer mom in an SUV and knocked unconscious, the ambulance workers will thumb through my wallet, run the insurance card and then dump my non-profit body at the bus station. Why? No insurance, and it isn't likely this one is independently wealthy. Now I've got to get a new card.

I may write my elected officials about this, and then again I may not. It won't do any good and postage stamps are expensive these days. My real point here is that if our government was trying to help the law abiding individual, this kind of behavior would be punishable by incarceration or a public flogging, or both.

I like reading Bill Dietrich's web site. The man retired early, bought a sailboat (Magnolia) and is slowly making his way around the world. I note from reading his site that he suffered a nasty bout of kidney stones while in some foreign port and had to go to the hospital ER. Total cost: $250 (two hundred and fifty US dollars). That's right, just two and a half yards and he walked out a new man. In my own hometown I don't even want to know what the same treatment would cost.

Anyway, Bill got kicked off his host site without warning. Try to find Magnolia's log on line and you'll get redirected to some sleazy site hawking site names and bad security. No forwarding address is provided. Bill's old address was billdietrich.byethost8.com/Magnolia/MagnoliaLog.html which redirects you to http://securesignupoffers.net/index.php?host=billdietrich.byethost8.com, with no sign of Bill or his boat. byethost8 has an address in granola land, surprising no one. I found that I'd saved Bill's email address someway or another, and he emailed me his new site:

http://billdietrich.zxq.net/
http://billdietrich.zxq.net/Magnolia/MagnoliaLog.html

If you'd like to read about real life aboard a sailboat, try reading Bill for a year or two and see if it appeals to you. It kind of does to me, but I'm not likely to ever get there from here. For one thing, Main Lady hates the water.

Worthy Reads

2012-01-04T21:05:00.004-05:00

Here are a few worthy reads that I've stumbled across, one way or another. I found these sites enjoyable, but the average person may not. For all that, the average person is very likely to be offended. The average moonbat may suffer a complex of some sort and require extra sessions of group therapy for the next six months.

First up is that lovable old cactus, Fred Reed, who writes about the good old days back in 1955 and explains why the average high school graduate is dumber than a box of rocks and why the United States isn't doing anything about it.

In 1955

With the regularity of sunrise, editorials raise alarums over the sorry state of schooling in America, wondering year after year why students are so abysmally ignorant. Why the puzzlement? The reasons is that Americans don't want education. They would rather have polio. If they saw education coming down the street, they would crawl into the storm sewers to avoid it, and epoxy the manhole covers down for a better seal.

Then, just when things started to quiet down, Retired Police Officer Beat and Release suddenly puts a few rounds into the air at 3:00 AM and proclaims that he's back in action. Sort of. Check his evaluation of our political candidates and decide for yourself.

Beat and Release

Michele Bachmann? Yeah, I'd bang her until her eyes bled, but I sure as hell wouldn't vote for her.

I discovered Mike-Istan in the middle of my afternoon bourbon, whose blog motto kind of says it all: In God we trust, everybody else keep your hands where I can see them.

Mike admits to being asleep at the switch lately, but he's making up for it. Check out the link to Inevitable.

Inevitable

I've haven't been paying attention with even almost interest to the goings on in Iowa. It's depressing - like watching the paste eaters from grade school stage a production of A Christmas Carol. You know every line, every scene, and how it's going to end. And even though the thing is so familiar you can recite it in your sleep, it is amazing how far below even your lowest expectations the show falls.

Last on my list is a great site put together by Ron Unz, who has put together a huge library on line and absolutely free - but be forewarned. Fred Reed says he knows Unz, and says Unz is a friend. I wonder if Unz knows this? I wonder if Unz has a lawyer?

Unz

This web site is intended to provide an extensive free library of written content to everyone on the Internet, eventually containing a comprehensive collection of high-quality books and periodical issues.

Have fun reading!

My Life: Holidays in Review

2012-01-04T12:26:00.002-05:00

I've concluded that I've managed to survive another holiday season. I'm referring to that segment of the year between December 20th and January 5th which comes around every year and slams into me like the Southbound Orange Blossom Special recycling a 1967 VW stalled out on a railroad crossing at four in the morning. I think my problem is that I lack adequit preparation.

Skipping right past the futility of Christmas shopping and subsequent package wrapping, I'm going to write about the real meat of the situation - critters, relatives and road trips.

Mom has morphed into the cat lady. You know, the eccentric elderly lady that every neighborhood has who keeps 16 cats in her house but who otherwise is nice to the neighborhood children. That lady. Experienced cat people can tell you that oftentimes cats and Christmas trees don't always produce ideal results, and Mom's happy home is no exception.

Zeus the Cat


Mom's Christmas Tree

Some assembly required

Damage was very light, which was nice.

Christmas Cheer!

We had a smaller crowd than usual this year. Main Lady had to stay home and care for her mother, Centenarian, who was unable to withstand the noise and confusion brought on by happily stressed out people under the influence of Mad Jack's manhattans (nobody can drink just one!) seeking to enlighten each other about politics and religion. Our guest list included Uncle Sardonicus, Auntie Annie, 88, Chatelaine, Big Mike, Mom, California Dave and me, Mad Jack. Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail and Que Bee One all stopped by for happy hour. When I asked if they'd like a drink, they declined. Repeated invitations got an assent from Mopsy, who had never sampled a perfect manhattan before, but which condition was soon rectified. The others followed suit, with Que Bee One bringing up the rear. As I remember this, I think Que Bee One spilled something or other and when he apologized for his clumsiness I responded by offering him a manhattan, which he accepted and said he enjoyed.
The original plan for Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail and Que Bee One was that they'd stop and see Mom and I briefly, then continue to visit their biological father (Main Lady's ex). Half way through the first manhattan they were having a very nice time and didn't want to leave, and so were late arriving at their father's house. Mopsy, the responsible one, was supposed to keep them all on schedule and finally appealed to me for help. Hey, they're all having a good time and it looks like the party is getting a glow on, so what's the rush? Have another drink! They finally had to hit the bricks and Mom put dinner on the table.

Christmas Dinner Table

The gold table service and china belonged to my dear old Grandma Bourbon. The service is gold plated and was reserved for special occasions; this is the first time we've actually used it. The china is very delicate and will chip easily.

And so, when desert was finally finished I stepped up to the sink and washed every single cup, dish, saucer, pot, pan, kettle, knife, fork, spoon, ladle, platter, meat rack and container, and then I cleaned every single surface in the kitchen. Auntie Annie and Chatelaine dried the dishes and put things away, and believe me when I say that I was grateful for the help. What I did not know was that a disaster of the first water had taken place during dinner and was belatedly discovered by my brother Big Mike.

You see, we cook the turkey on a smoker, so we enjoy smoked turkey for dinner. This year Mom wanted to add two pork loins to the smoker because people enjoy the smoked pork roast and because you get extra drippings in the pan to make gravy with, which Mom did, in fact, make and which caused me to gain seven pounds from one dinner. Anyway, when the dinner was served we started running short of counter space in the kitchen, so Mom placed one pork roast, still on the rack from the smoker, on top of the clothes dryer. Just temporarily, you understand...

After dinner the pork roast was still there, but it being a nice, juicy pork roast a good portion of the juice had leaked onto the top of the clothes dryer, then pooled along the edge and finally overflowed down the front and dripped onto the seal. Since the door wasn't locked, the juice made its way inside the dryer and into the drum, so that casual observation would only reveal a little spill that could easily be wiped away. The only way to discover the real damage was to open the front door and explore the dryer.

So while I washed dishes, my brother Big Mike discovered the spill, explored the dryer and found copious amounts of roast pork juice hiding in the drum. Mike set to with a will, taking the dryer apart and cleaning everything thoroughly, so by the time I was finished washing and we had put everything away, Mom's clothes dryer was clean and ready to use.

Imagine running the dryer with a load of clothes in it and discovering all that grease the hard way. My thanks to Big Mike for his thorough cleaning of Mom's clothes dryer and averting a natural disaster.

And, speaking of disasters, Main Lady had her very own mess to clean up on Christmas Eve. Behold Centenarian's cat, Angel.

Angel the Cat

Centenarian's Christmas Tree

Busted Star

I didn't get a picture of the box of ornaments that require some repair, but as you can see the star at the top of the tree doesn't quite shine like it used to.

The day after Christmas I spent on recovery, then the next day California Dave and I turned our honkers to the South and put Dave's Avenger under us. We arrived at Big Mike's home in good time and enjoyed his excellent hospitality for several days. Our first excursion was a trip to Nationwide Arena to see the Columbus Blue Jackets play.

Blue Jacket Ice Bunnies

We lost against Calgary, but it was a good game none the less. Next on the agenda was a trip to Black Wing, where we put some lead in the air.

Shooting at Black Wing

I got this score right out of the box with my Ruger Mark II at about 25 feet and using a two handed grip. Mine is the target on the right, and before anyone comments the answer is No, I didn't shoot it at six feet and lie about the distance. I think the difference is in the amount of light at the range. The Bullet Stop (where we usually shoot) is dimly lit, likely for purposes of realism. Black Wing has good lighting.

We went out to dinner at Hyde Park, and Big Mike was generous enough to pick up the bill. No small thing, that - see the review and a picture of the bill here. After dinner I took a very short nap while Mike and Dave played with Mike's stereo system. Then we decided on a board game.

Arkham Horror

We played Arkham Horror, an engaging game but a tad depressing in that players seldom win. In this case I remember distinctly looking at my watch and comparing the time to the state of the game before suggesting that we call it a night. It was 3:00 AM and we were not going to win this one. Big Mike agreed, but California Dave wanted to keep going. A part of this was that Dave really is from California and as such it was only midnight for him. Sanity prevailed and we broke up for the night.

The next day Dave and I headed North for home (me) and the Detroit Metro Airport (Dave). The holiday season was half over and I was still alive.

On the home front I learned that when they came to town Cottontail and Que Bee One brought their two hounds with them, Banana Nose and French Pig. Excellent Rachmaninoff likes the company and has a great time playing with the two dogs, but Banana Nose invariably tears up Rachmaninoff's favorite toy, his stuffed ape. We found cloth and stuffing all over the place. This isn't the first time this has happened either, and if Cottontail and Que Bee One would teach the dog some manners these two dog pound runaways would be a lot more welcome. Anyway, Mopsy provided Excellent Rachmaninoff with a brand new ape which he really likes.

Excellent Rachmaninoff and his new toy

Main Lady and her Three Little Darlings gave Mom a flower around Thanksgiving which is now in bloom and which Mom enjoys.

Mom's Flower

A few days back I wrote about censorship and the availability of undesirable media to minors (click here), and mentioned Lane's Drug Store. I got a real surprise at Centenarian's the other day when I was mixing my afternoon manhattan.

Collector's Item?

What a coincidence! I wonder if this is a collector's item?
I thought about making a few New Year's resolutions and discarded the idea as being a good way to become depressed. I think I'll take next year one day at a time and see what develops.

Restaurant Review: Simms Steakhouse

2012-01-03T15:02:00.004-05:00

The View from Simms Steakhouse

Simms Steakhouse

11911 W 6th Ave

Golden, CO 80401

(303) 237 - 0465

Dinner

Monday - Thursday 5:00 pm to 10:00 pm

Friday and Saturday 5:00 pm to 10:00 pm

Sunday Brunch 10:00 am to 2:00 pm

Sunday Dinner 10:00 am to 9:00 pm

Happy Hour Monday through Friday 4:00 pm to 7:00 pm

Lounge opens daily at 4:00 pm

Simms Steakhouse

I had occasion to travel to Denver, Colorado recently - I wrote about it here: RIP Uncle Ballbat. What I haven't written about was the restaurant my two cousins (BigNewz and Gong) treated us to. Here's the straight skinny on Simms Steakhouse.

At first glance you'd be tempted to believe that Simms Steakhouse is all about the view, and you'd be half right. The view is magnificent, especially at night. I managed to capture a fair photograph here, but it doesn't really do the place justice. The other half of this equation is that the rest of the restaurant lives up to the view. Simms provides the true fine dining experience, and if you're even in the neighborhood I'd encourage you to splurge and enjoy dinner at Simms.

Tables Next to the Window

Entering the Dining Room

Tables Near the Lounge

While there aren't any bad tables at Simms, if you want to be seated next to the window my suggestion is that you make reservations. As you can see there are plenty of tables along side the tall windows, but given the view I'm sure they are in high demand.

In keeping with the fine dining experience, everyone at Simms was glad to see us and very attentive to our comfort. We had a party of eight, seven of whom fell off to admire the restaurant on the way to the table. Little wonder, as I counted three fireplaces, two display cabinets for food and wine and this impressive wine rack (wine wall?).

One of several fireplaces

Wine Wall - What a Rack!

Our waiter introduced himself as Nate, and turned out to be a college graduate who was knowledgeable about the offered fare and not a bit shy about expressing his own opinions. Nate would cheerfully recommend one dish over another, including the specialties of the house. He turned out to be extremely knowledgeable about wine and spirits, and was able to discuss vineyards, weather and years with my cousin BigNewz, who it turns out is quite a wine aficionado. Nate also recommended a different brand of rye when I ordered my usual manhattan. Leobold Bros. produces a rye whiskey that isn't available in Ohio, but since the distillery is local to the Denver area Simms keeps a plentiful supply in the bar. It's a very nice rye, by the way.

Simms Menu

Simms offers a very nice menu with a little something for everyone. On Nate's suggestion BigNewz and I ordered a steak and crab legs, then split both orders. Nate told us that the portions were large, and he was quite correct.

My dinner, an impromptu surf and turf

Our food arrived in good time and with fanfare. The sous chef arrived along with Nate and several servers; the chef insisted that anyone having steak cut into the steak immediately to see that it was properly cooked, because if the steak wasn't done to perfection it would be corrected immediately. Naturally everything was to our liking, but here's my point: This is the essence of service. When you dine out, the new standard is to serve the dinner quickly and depart before the customer can find anything wrong or ask for something else. Presuming that your steak is not done just the way you like it, you'll sit around and wait for the waitress to return and then argue over taking it back to the kitchen. That kind of thing will not happen at Simms. Nate was always, always around when you needed him, and could even answer questions about sports trivia.

The food at Simms is first rate, and I've very seldom been served a comparable dinner. That said, the outstanding qualities of Simms Steakhouse are the service and the ambiance (in no order).

In summary:

Ambiance: 10
Service: 10
Food: 9

Overall Rating: 10

Restaraunt Review: Hyde Park Prime Steakhouse

2012-01-03T12:04:00.004-05:00

Hyde Park Steakhouse Foyer

Hyde Park Prime Steakhouse

6360 Frantz Road; Dublin, Ohio 43017

(614) 717 - 2828

(614) 717 - 2710 (FAX)

Bar Opens Daily At 4:30pm

Happy Hour: Monday - Friday 4:30pm - 6:30pm

Dinner:

Monday - Thursday 5:00pm - 9:30pm

Friday and Saturday 5:00pm - 10:00pm

Closed Sunday (available for private events)

Hyde Park Prime Steakhouse in Dublin

I was fortunate enough to dine at Hyde Park over the Christmas holidays, accompanied by my brothers Big Mike and California Dave. Hyde Park provides a real experience in fine dining, something that Big Mike and I are quick to appreciate. I think that discovering fine dining in Ohio may have set old Dave back on his heels a little, he being from the cultural center of civilization on the West Coast (Los Angeles, Granola Land). By the time after dinner drinks were served I think Dave had adapted pretty well.

Menu at Hyde Park

The very first thing you have to accept at Hyde Park is the service. This is becoming increasingly more difficult as the difference in quality between Hyde Park and the rest of the world steadily increases. You see, when you arrive at Hyde Park the staff really are glad to see you and they really do want to make you comfortable and provide you with a singular experience. This is complimented by their skill set; they really do have the skills to succeed.

We were greeted by the hostess and seated immediately. The floor plan of Hyde Park eliminates poorly situated tables, which is a benefit, but nevertheless the hostess asked us if we'd be comfortable here before we sat down. Upon being seated our waiter introduced himself (Mark) and took our drink order. I ordered a perfect manhattan straight up, specifying they make it just as cold as a banker's heart. A republican banker. California Dave wanted the same thing, but had a few doubts about perfection. When he asked Mark just how a perfect manhattan was made, Mark answered correctly without consulting the bartender - half rye whiskey, half sweet vermouth with a dash of angostura bitters.

Steak, Potatoes Au Gratin, Broccoli with Hollandaise

Perfect Manhattan

After a suitable interval, another server came by to explain the evening dinner specials and left the list with us. Mark took our order shortly after. Big Mike accepted Mark's advice for the wine; J Lohr Hilltop 2007, which was excellent. We each ordered a glass, then about halfway through dinner Big Mike ordered a bottle. I had a steak as did Dave, and Big Mike had lamb chops. The food is excellent, and the portions for the side dishes are enough for two or three people. I have no criticism here as the food is outstanding, but to anyone dining at Hyde Park I would advise that if you have wine, buy the bottle. I would also suggest that you order your steak cooked a little more on the rare side. This is a personal preference that reveals my age. I'm old enough to remember rare steak and raw eggs being consumed without a second thought, which is not the case these days.

J. Lohr Hilltop

At Big Mike's suggestion we had key lime pie for dessert. We elected to divide one piece between the three of us - Mark did the honors, as I was feeling the wine by then and didn't trust myself with such a delicate operation. The key lime pie at Hyde Park is excellent, and the flavor is tart. This is what I expect from a good key lime pie and rarely find, the general public having cultivated tastes that run to straight sugar, which has generally ruined key lime pie in most areas. Desert was accompanied with coffee and followed with a shot of drambuie taken straight up in a brandy snifter.

Our Damages

As you can see, dinner at Hyde Park is not for the faint of heart. Big Mike was generous to a fault and picked up the bill; Dave and I took care of the gratuity. While none of us can afford to eat at Hyde Park all the time, the value of the experience warrants the cost.

Leftovers for Excellent Rachmaninoff

In summary:

Ambiance: 9
Service: 10
Food: 10

Overall Rating: 10

Happy New Year to Police, Fire and EMS

2011-12-30T11:54:00.001-05:00

I want to wish a special Happy New Year to all the police officers and their support people, the fire department and the EMS people. Without your efforts we would not have civilization. Thank you for your time and hard work.

I'm wishing a very special, high priority Happy New Year along with a tip of the old fedora and a hoist of my champagne glass to all the police, fire and EMS people who have to work on New Year's Eve. I know you have other things you'd rather do, and I know about amateur hour. Thank you for your time and effort.

Happy New Year!

2011-12-30T11:48:00.002-05:00

It's going to be 2012 soon. A time to reflect on our accomplishments and rehash the happy times of years past, mark the progress we've made on our five year plan and celebrate with careful moderation the arrival of a new year with new opportunities and challenges...

Pardon me while I refill my glass.

I'm staying home this year with Main Lady and Excellent Rachmaninoff. We'll eat dinner, watch a DVD or two and walk the dog at midnight, by which time ambulation will require some concentration.

My reasons for staying home instead of going out on the town are many, but in summary:

The old dinner, dancing and champagne at midnight packages are more expensive than they used to be, the people more obnoxious and the bands make noise instead of music.
About half the people in the crowd can't wait to get blind drunk and do something hilariously funny, like having their dinner issue an immediate, mandatory return to sender instruction while they are on all fours with their head stuffed into a large plastic plant.
It's a virtual certainty that more than one in this crowd is going to be a drunken, belligerent asshole that wants to start a fight with someone, and it doesn't really matter who. The female counterpart to these scholastic college scholarship winners will first instigate, then encourage, and finally join in.
The police are getting serious about this drunk driving business. Between political pressure from MADD, SADD, GLADD and DADD every single unit on the force is going to be rolling around the city looking for drunk drivers, and when they get caught the drunks are going to jail. I do not want to be in the middle of this fiasco.
This is the official amateur hour. Out of every four people, invariably it will be the drunkest idiot who insists on driving. This fool isn't a safe driver when he's cold sober; when he's half in the bag he becomes more careless than before, and when he's loaded he'll do crazy stuff. Mind you, this fool won't hit anything at all - until he sees me on the opposite side of the four lane blacktop. I really and truly do not want to cash in my chips in a head on collision with a drunk driver in an SUV.

Maybe next year we'll go out. This year we'll stay in.

My Blog: I Still Do Not Understand

2011-12-30T11:20:00.000-05:00

Back in September I started getting comments from a misguided zealot calling himself covnitkepr1, who insisted that I start following his blog. Now I've attracted another one who calls himself Steve Finnell and purports to be from the Hoosier State (Indiana). I've read both blogs and found the same egregious error on each one.

My standard disclaimer here is that I'm a Christian. I'm not a particularly good Christian, and in fact on my best days I aspire to be a pretty much okay kind of Christian. I don't personally advocate saving people from themselves or each other. I've tried to do that sort of thing in the past, and nothing good has ever come of it. Nor do I espouse my religious beliefs at every opportunity. I don't preach, not even to the choir - which is easy since the church I attend doesn't have a choir. I believe that anyone who wants to learn about Christianity can do so, and with very little effort they can find a better source for their information than I'll ever be. I don't even do my very best to attend services every Sunday, although those who look for my on Sunday morning will most often find me in church.

I wrote that to say this: None of that matters. It wouldn't matter if I were an active minister with three PhDs and were accounted to be a world authority on theology, Aramaic and classical Greek. When it comes to Christianity, there is only one single source for Scripture, and that is the Holy Bible. The version really doesn't matter much unless you're a theologian working on your thesis, and then you'll already know more about your subject than most people ever will. The Bible is available to everyone (in the United States anyway) and anyone who can read is able to find answers to scriptural questions in the Bible. All you have to do is read it, but not everyone does. Not even the two Christians who are trying to get me to follow them.

Covnitkepr1's blog is According to the Book. I've read it and I wrote about it here: My Blog: Things I Don't Understand. Steve Finnell's blog is Christian With A View, which I've also read. Both contain the same egregious error: A person must be baptized in order to be saved (born again). This isn't true, and it isn't biblical. No one has to be baptized in order to be saved. The proof of this is the thief on the cross who was saved without being baptized. You don't need to take my word for this, go look it up for yourself (Luke 23:39-43).

I doubt that either of these self-proclaimed good Christians has taken much time to read my curmudgeonly, somewhat caustic ramblings. If they had, I doubt they'd be asking me to follow their blogs, which, by the way, I have no intention of doing.

Merry Christmas!

2011-12-24T11:11:00.001-05:00

I'm taking time off for good behavior. I'll be back around the first part of next year, 2012. In the meantime:

Merry Christmas!
Happy Chanukah!
Happy Kwanza!
Happy Birthday!
Happy Daze!
Happy Hour!
Last call for alcohol!

Air Travel - Losing My Luggage and My Mind

2011-12-23T17:15:00.001-05:00

I've been out of town for a funeral; my Uncle Ballbat passed away and so Mom, Uncle Parsimonious, Aunt Annie and I headed for the mile high city in the great frozen State of Colorado via Delta Airlines and the Detroit Metropolitan Airport, conveniently located a few miles West of downtown Detroit, Michigan. The fun started right after we loaded all our gear into Unc's car and headed North, and I'm right here to tell you that if I have any more fun I just won't be able to stand it.
The short of this essay is this: Uncle Parsimonious is a lousy driver with a dyspeptic attitude, which condition is augmented by his deeply ingrained need to control everything within his immediate sight. I also suspect that he's very likely slipping into some kind of senior citizen la-la land. This made the entire trip interesting, challenging and provided my mother's favorite son with a personal learning and growth experience that likely shaved three weeks off the back of my life. For openers I spent the drive up to Detroit flinching as Uncle Parsimonious weaved through traffic on I-75, and doing my best to ignore his childish tantrums concerning other drivers and their unrealistic expectations about shared space. Since his attitude and personal expectations are not turned off right along with the car's engine, both the Detroit and Denver airports were much more interesting and challenging than I've experienced in previous years. Just getting a boarding pass became a brand new experience.

To give credit where it's due, the automated boarding pass kiosk has a user interface that actually works. I don't know who designed it, but that's one project leader that will never work in the industry again, having shattered the cardinal rule of systems design clearly stating that if a graphic user interface (GUI) really does provide ease of use and correct functionality to the end-user as well as the vendor no more money can be made in prolonging the problem – and thus unemployment will grow, company expenditures will shrink and a small segment of the population will see an improvement in their personal mental health when they use the device in question. Worse, a small portion of that segment will begin to wonder just why other devices cannot be designed in this refreshing, accommodating fashion. TV remotes come to mind. My amalgamation of my television, digital versatile disk (DVD) player and the magic cable box require no less than three separate remote control units that are not on good speaking terms with each other. Sort of like Uncle Parsimonious and the automated boarding pass kiosk. Uncle Parsimonious didn't want to use the kiosk; he wanted warm wear. Naturally he selected the shortest line at the counter. I tried to reason with him.

“Uncle Parsimonious, the helpful customer service people won't speak to you in this line. You can't get served here.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because this line is reserved for first class passengers. See the sign? It says 'First Class', and that isn't us.”

Uncle shuffled over to the next line, which was slightly longer.

“Okay... Uncle Parsimonious, they won't serve you in this line either.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because this line is reserved for business class passengers, which is not us. We're steerage.”

Uncle Parsimonious ignores me, staring straight ahead. I try again.

“Uncle Parsimonious, we aren't flying business class. We're flying economy class. That translates into steerage. We are, effectively, cargo. Baggage. Freight. You know those people on the Titanic that got contained below deck when the watertight doors were slammed shut? The ones that subsequently perished by asphyxiation due to excessive seawater inhalation? That's us. That's how Delta thinks of us. They'd gladly crate us and stuff us into the cargo compartment if ~~not for the United States Constitution~~ regulations permitted.”

Uncle Parsimonious appears not to understand and continues to stand in the line for business class. I shoulder my carry on luggage and remind myself that I am, after all, a reasonably good Christian person and should set an example by my kind and generous actions. Besides, the TSA lurks nearby. Taking the bull by the horns, I stroll over to the automated kiosk and begin the process. Three minutes later I have relieved Uncle Parsimonious of his tickets and obtained boarding passes for all of us. We check two bags and proceed directly to step two, airline passenger security, staffed by the infamous Transportation Security Administration (TSA). As we get into the long line of folks waiting to be x-rayed and groped, Uncle Parsimonious starts making wise cracks. I ignore this behavior for a few minutes, then I contemplate telling him to put a sock in it. Mom is watching, so I try diplomacy.

“Uncle Parsimonious, you have to be careful about what you say here. The people who staff these security checkpoints have no sense of humor, and they are likely to over-react to jokes about cavity searches and constitutional rights.”

“What the hell? They couldn't find their own asses with both hands, let alone a bomb in my tennis shoes.”

“Okay... Look, prior to this cushy government job in the TSA, these people were minimum wage slaves and hard core unemployable. They now have an amount of authority that complements the chip on their shoulder very nicely. What they do not have is a sense of humor.”

Uncle Parsimonious refuses to shut up.

“They're a bunch of ignorant assholes. What the fuck do they think their doing, searching everyone with their wands and x-ray machines. This is a violation of our constitutional rights. I'd like to take these sons of bitches and tell them just what I think of them.”

“So would I. Just not here and not now.”

“These assholes belong in jail - ”

“Look. These guys live for people like you. If you want to cause a fuss and get a Taser shoved up your butt and thrown in jail, go ahead. The rest of us are headed for Colorado. Maybe we'll come visit you when we get back.”

That shut Unc up for a while, but just for a while. He found stuff to grouse about the entire trip, and since Mom was keeping an eye on me I couldn't tell him to stifle himself in so many words. Worse, Uncle Parsimonious rented the car and didn't list anyone else as the driver. That meant that I had to listen to his incessant carping about other drivers the entire time we were in the car, and believe me that can seem like a long time and create a lot of frustration. I managed to survive, and in a week or two I expect my normal, sunny disposition to reassert itself. Meantime, I'm consuming two manhattans an evening and I've doubled my morning ration.

I got through the TSA security checkpoint with a minimum of hassle, but the TSA goons decided to shake Mom down. That's right, my own dear mother, who is 86 years old and has trouble with the idea of shooting coyotes, trapping mice and making unkind remarks about The Anointed One is clearly a suspected terrorist in the eyes of the TSA. These people are idiots, and I'm being generous here, because on the return trip we encountered a family of Arabic heritage, only one of whom spoke any English at all, who refused to remove their shoes and made a fuss about being searched by the TSA. The family was allowed to pass through security unmolested by the TSA's groping hands and suspicious looks. They made a fuss in Arabic while the TSA JBTs stared at them like a pack of hound dogs watching Andy Griffith reruns. I can't even guess at what they were saying to each other, but I'll make a guess at what they were not saying, and it had to do with religious freedom, the combined intelligence of the TSA employees and the quality of security at the airport. Idiots.

We arrived in Colorado after a tedious flight, got the rental car and endured a game of Automobile Dodge 'Em on the way to the hotel. I endured Unc's driving with a bare minimum number of involuntary flinches and successfully squelched some valuable advice about traffic laws, physics laws and pulling out in front of other people in heavy traffic. I allowed a few other drivers to provide examples that Unc should follow.

Bad Weather and Colorado Drivers

The weather wasn't bad for Colorado in the winter. The sky actually cleared for one and a half days, allowing me to get this shot of Table Rock while standing on the sidewalk in Golden, Colorado.

Table Rock

I'll spare anyone reading this a lengthy description of the funeral. Everyone who has been to a funeral will understand, and everyone who hasn't will eventually experience a funeral for themselves, and then they'll understand as well. Suffice to say that the entire procedure took about an hour and they didn't ask anyone from the audience to stand and recite an anecdote about the guest of honor.
Shotgun Bob showed up at the last minute which I thought was admirable. Poor old Bob has had a few financial set backs lately and a last minute air fare from Memphis to Denver doesn't come cheap. Shotgun Bob didn't stay long, explaining that he didn't want to leave The Girl home alone too long. I may explain why later on, and then again I may not. I know, I know - the suspense is killing you, right?

We hung around Denver a couple days and then made our way back to the Denver airport, Delta airline and Detroit. Naturally we had to go through the argument about the ticket kiosk again on the way home. I pointed out the ticket kiosk to Uncle Parsimonious and he immediately went to the first class ticket line. Again, I tried to explain.

“Unc, they won't talk to you in that line. That's for first class passengers, which we are not. We're steerage, remember?”

Aunt Annie interrupted me.

“Uncle Parsimonious feels better talking to people. He isn't comfortable using the machine.”

I tried patience and perseverance. Besides, Mom was watching.

“Unc, they don't have anyone at the counter to serve third class passengers. That's us. We don't rate a person to talk to.”

“I want to talk to real people. I don't like the machine.”

“Uncle Parsimonious doesn't feel comfortable using the machine.” Aunt Annie whined sympathetically. “He feels much more comfortable talking to people.”

I tried again. Patience is a virtue, you know, and I am nothing if not virtuous. Besides, Mom's eyes were on me.

“Well, you can wait there if you like, but they won't serve you. You have to go to the kiosk over here and get our boarding passes. It's real easy – there's a bar code reader and you just swipe your ticket and the screen pops up.”

“I'm sure it is, Jackie.” said my Aunt Annie, resorting to her condescending school teacher voice that has never failed to get on my very last nerve. “But Uncle Parsimonious doesn't feel comfortable using a machine.”

I became exasperated.

“Look, I don't care how he feels, he's got to use the machine. They don't provide - ”

“Alright, you're so goddamned smart, you use the machine!” Uncle Parsimonious yelled at me.

Mom and Aunt Annie were scandalized. Raising your voice in public? Profanity? People will hear and wonder if you grew up on the wrong side of the tracks! Horrors, politicians and indiscretions! For shame, for shame, for shame...

“Okay.” I replied, switching to Mister Helpful Congeniality so fast that even my closest friends would suspect a blown circuit. Mom and Aunt Annie laughed in relief. Uncle Parsimonious was dog housed. I was elevated from guttersnipe to choir boy in a New York minute. I took the tickets from Uncle Parsimonious and managed to get the foolish thing to scan the bar code, checked two bags and headed for the TSA.

Uncle Parsimonious might have complained at the TSA security checkpoint, but no one would have noticed. We were eclipsed by a family of twenty-three Arabs all dressed in dishdashas, only one of whom spoke any English at all and none of whom understood how to handle the x-ray scan machine.

To give credit where it's due, the TSA found a half full bottle of Woodford Reserve in my carry on luggage and insisted on getting rid of it. Since they were going to throw it away (which is heresy of the very worst kind) I objected, and they allowed me to nip around to a local bar where I brightened the day of an airport bartender. Nice, huh?

I'm home. It's Christmas, and my nerves have finally settled down from the time spent with Uncle Parsimonious. My favorite people are coming for Christmas dinner and I intend to enjoy myself, holiday season or not.

Casualties of Time and Effort

2011-12-23T12:05:00.000-05:00

It takes time and effort to write, even if you write poorly. Most bloggers write for their own amusement, self-publishing their Pulitzer quality works at little or no cost and wondering if anyone is reading their literary contributions to the overall quality of civilization as we think it should be. Eventually the author quits, possibly because he's tired of writing or has gone on the wagon and sobered up, thus wondering just what the hell it was he'd actually be doing all this time.

Not me, though. I'm no quitter - just ask the folks down at AA! There are, however, a few recent causalities in the blogosphere that I shall miss reading. They are:

Beat and Release Who states that his new business venture has him working 14 hour days, so he's too busy to write.

Glass City Jungle Whose owner, Lisa Renee, got a real job with real pay and a real boss. Sadly, this job included a real conflict of interest.

Hooda Thunkit's (Dave Zawodny's) Blog Who has gone on an extended hiatus for personal reasons, and before anyone asks the answer is, "No, he's not in the slammer."

Knock and Announce Who just stopped writing.

North Who is taking a break. Likely an extended break.

The S.N.A.F.U. Report Who might have suffered an accident involving a pickup truck, a shotgun, a fifth of whiskey and an Oriental Massage Parlor. Or not...

My thanks to all of you for your enjoyable literary contributions to all those wise enough to read your blog.

Censorship!

2011-12-21T15:50:00.000-05:00

The other day I was wandering around the video store in search of something to rent that would appeal to Main Lady and that I could manage to sit through. Main Lady's tastes run to Out of Africa (1985), A Passage To India and Rabbit-Proof Fence. I enjoy The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974), The Shining and A Clockwork Orange. Is there any wonder why it takes me so long to find a suitable DVD?

As I wandered about in my futile quest for the Holy Grail I noted a boy of about 10 pestering his father over film selection. The precocious little snot wanted to rent an R rated film that incorporated gratuitous sex and violence in conjunction with some poor schmuck in a rubber monster suit. Dad wasn't buying his offspring's arguments, finally stating that no means no. I applauded old Dad for his diligence. Here was one young fellow that was unlikely to clutter the rear seat of a squad car in six years or so.

Being bored, it occurred to me to wonder just why R rated films were displayed within easy reach of someone who was not allowed to watch them, which is easy: Money, that's why. Then I wondered just where a patron would go to find a G or PG rated film, how many there were and even if there were any at all. Back when I was a precocious little snot of ten unbelievably fortunate years we didn't have R rated films, we had the Motion Picture Production Code. We didn't even have DVDs; we had books, some of which could get pretty racy. I remember this one time when I showed Mom something I found on the book rack...

To put things into a little perspective here, let me remind everyone that Mom lived through the great depression. It wasn't any fun, but those who did it learned a few things about hard work and personal responsibility. Mom then put herself through college by working all summer and attending classes the rest of the year. Well sir, one fine day Mom came home from school with a book tucked under her arm that she was required to read for English class. The book was Look Homeward, Angel and her mother took one look at it and wouldn't allow Mom to read it. Mom's old married with three children aunt read it and told Mom what the book was about to Mom could pass her exam - she got a C, which wasn't like her. Mom was 22 years old and attending college when this happened. My point here is that Mom's family continued to look out for the welfare of their children even after the children were adults, which kind of says something about the family. Spiritual and moral well being were important to them, and Mom inherited this characteristic.

Mom taught me to read. The public school system wasn't getting the job done (they failed with my brother Shotgun Bob as well) so when I complained that I wanted to learn to read, Mom naturally started teaching me. She was aided and abetted by her mother, Grandma Schoolteacher, who really did teach elementary school and who did not allow any child to fail anything in her classroom. Hard work and diligence, you see, could make up for most anything. Grandma Schoolteacher taught me to write as well, and then I was turned loose on an unsuspecting public school system. Anyway, having learned to read I would happily devour everything I could get my dirty little hands on, and that's when I discovered the book rack at Lane's Drug Store.

Lane's was a local chain that no longer exists today. If it did, it would be a Walgreen's competitor. Right up front next to the magazine rack there was a moderately sized rack of paperback books all priced at 40 cents or so. So I'd get 50 cents from Mom and buy some good science fiction like Danny Dunn and the Anti-Gravity Paint, The Beast Master and The Eyes of the Overworld. Everything went just fine until one day I was attracted by the cover of a book right at eye level.

Being a little curious about just what a "private hell" might be and why a half naked lady was on the cover, I waited around until Mom came to collect me before showing her the book and asking.

ah-hem.

The offensive volume was removed from my hands and I was escorted out to the car and instructed to wait while Mom went back inside to talk to the manager. I don't know what Mom said, but I couldn't find the book again, Mom wouldn't tell me what it was about and Dad remained quiet when I related the whole business to him over breakfast. Eventually I was told to drop the subject or else.

I don't blame Mom for giving the manager at Lane Drugs a good look at just what "private hell" might be along with a lecture concerning literature that's suitable for public display. What I wonder about is this: If we had more censorship for children, would the quality of the United States eventually increase? I kind of think it might, but censorship would have to extend to advertising and I'm betting that anything that restricted advertising would immediately be challenged under freedom of speech. Not that anything like this would ever actually happen, but what if it did?

My Life: RIP Uncle Ballbat

2011-11-29T16:19:00.001-05:00

It must be something in the water. Just when everything seems to be running along smoothly and my cigarette boat is headed for port with a lucrative cargo - Wham! The howler monkey at the helm tears out the bottom on a derelict that everyone knew was there, but which obstacle that very same everyone had forgotten about.

I had two uncles; Uncle Sardonicus, who I have written about in the past, and a second maternal uncle, Uncle Ballbat, who up until recently lived out in Colorado with his wife, Aunt Quakerlife. Uncle Ballbat passed away last Friday. He was a good man and I saw him a whole lot less than I'd have liked, but Denver, Colorado is 1,200 miles West and one mile up, and that tends to make a difference. Added to that is Uncle Ballbat's health, which precluded any extended travel. Of course now that he's gone I wish I'd made the effort to spend a little more time in Colorado.

The funeral and services will be held in Colorado, so some of the family will be traveling. In a flurry of contradictory orders from a few of my familial Elders and in the face of adversity, I skipped my afternoon bourbon and as a result my common sense departed in a snit. Timing being everything in this world (except money) that's just exactly when Auntie Annie applied her size 13 to the posterior of Uncle Sardonicus and announced to all and sundry that they would be handling all travel arrangements. It was only then that I began to wonder if Xanax, Percocet and bourbon would have any life threatening side effects on my mother's favorite son, and if so, how certain and how severe.
Imagine, if you will, a large crate of two dozen chickens resting in the back of a redneck pickup truck. The crate is constructed of two by fours scavenged from a long forgotten job site and covered in chicken wire affixed to the crate by metal staples. The entire business is covered with a cheap blue plastic tarp of the kind you can buy in any K-Mart South of the Mason-Dixon line. The tarp is holed here and there, and is held in place by lengths of bailing twine that do not seem to have a point of origin nor termination. Atop the crate and separated from it by the thickness of the blue plastic tarp rests a large dog of uncertain heritage. Normally the dog sleeps in the bed of the truck, but his usual position is denied him by the crate full of chickens. It is early June, the sun is warm and a gentle spring breeze makes everyone want to go outside and just lie around, enjoying this Heaven sent respite from the Hell of the past winter.

Are you with me so far? Good.

Eight blocks away is a construction site where a new home is going up. The construction workers are building the frame and are all happy to be back to work outside in nice weather. Working means a regular paycheck, which means that the truck might get paid off this summer, but more importantly it means that the wife will be a wife indeed and the supply of beer and groceries will remain steady and plentiful. The foreman is a little young for his position, but he's a good sort and he's over by his pickup truck congratulating himself on having exactly the right number and length of two by fours needed to complete the house frame. This means there's no emergency run to the lumber yard for one lousy two by four, during which time he's gone the workers will get to drinking beer instead of working and something will get busted or screwed up. But that won't happen today, because this time his calculations are correct and he has just the right amount of material on the job site. Surely the good life has arrived.

Sadly, everyone's happiness is short lived.

Marty Minacious, ten year old terror of central suburbia spots an unwatched two by four leaning next to a saw horse. Although he has no clear idea of just how he'd put such an item to good use, the primal impulse to seize and wield any cudgel shaped implement is strong, and to feel an impulse is to act on it. Quick as a wino scooping up a brand new bottle of Mad Dog 20/20, Marty snatches the two by four and high tails it down the street on his bicycle before the construction crew can arrest him. Marty's fears of notice and subsequent capture are groundless. The crew doesn't notice, and shortly after Marty's departure the foreman will spend thirty minutes vainly searching for the missing wood while the crew ambles around and pretends to help search. After the foreman leaves to make a run to the lumber yard for one lousy two by four, Ron the Man gets a six pack out of his cooler and everyone throws back a cold one. Then Ron pulls out the second six pack and Fred orders the pizza.

Marty rides happily down the street and around the first corner, checking twice for pursuit. Finding none, he tries a "ride by" against a mailbox. This doesn't work out as well as Marty would like, as the two by four is a bit big and heavy for this kind of work. It's easy to smack a mailbox with it while riding past and the damage is satisfying, but Marty comes very close to spilling his bike on the blacktop and he's experienced enough to know that asphalt never forgets. Then Marty sees the pickup truck with the big, blue covered crate in the bed and the sleeping dog on top. Having more of an innate cunning than actual intelligence, Marty makes a few very quiet passes around the truck and ascertains that the large dog is tethered to the truck by a length of very stout chain that precludes Marty being chased down the street by an unfriendly Chopper. Or Killer. Or something. So, seeing a natural opportunity for amusement, Marty quietly parks his bike, tippy-toes over to the rear of the pickup truck, gets a firm grip on the two by four and pounds the living snot out of the cage.

The chickens go ballistic, the dog wakes up and goes nuts and Marty dances away, teasing the dog from a safe distance. Which makes the dog bark and the chickens go ballistic. Then, just when things might settle down, Marty runs up and pounds the living snot out of the cage again. Which makes the chickens go ballistic and the dog bark.

I am the neighborhood resident who works third shift and who sleeps days, and whose bedroom is adjacent to my dumb redneck brother-in-law's pickup truck that broke down this morning right after I told him that he had to get his fat, lazy, ignorant hillbilly butt up off my couch and go find a job. He's been sleeping on my couch and sucking down my beer for three and a half weeks, and yesterday the neighborhood's newest entrepreneur decided that he'd get into the chicken and egg business, so now he's got a crate full of chickens in his truck. He was planning to move his chickens into my back yard and keep them next to the pool, but I was too quick for him. So the crate's on the truck, said crate being guarded by Moondoggie, his coon hound. Anyway, I tossed him out, so Brother-in-law drove my wife to work this morning and then borrowed her car to go get his cousin Chigger, who's phone has been turned off again but who is a mechanic with his own tools and who can presumably fix the truck. What I don't know is that since my wife's car was low on gas, and since brother-in-law doesn't have any money (natch, right?), he's convinced her that it's okay to take my car. My arrest-me-red Ford Mustang Cobra, which has a full tank of premium fuel, a convertible top and a Paxton supercharger.

Good, huh? Can't you just feel the love?

I write this as an illustration of what happens when Uncle Sardonicus is supposedly left to his own devices to arrange airfare, hotel reservations and car rental over the Internet. Auntie Annie is a sort of self-appointed administrative assistant, quality control inspector, union organizer, EPA representative and IRS agent all rolled into one convenient package. Every time Sardonicus accomplishes something, his wife tells him what's wrong with it. No, I'm not kidding. No, I haven't been drinking. That's really the way it works. Information is disbursed to the family on a completely random basis. I think some sort of random number routine has worked its way into the data as well, but I'm still holding out hope.

The funeral is Thursday. I talked to Uncle Sardonicus late last night and when I couldn't find out what time our flight left, I was tempted to start drinking. I didn't, which is very likely just another mistake I'll be making as we make our way to the wilds of the mile high city. When I called Uncle Sardonicus this morning, he was complaining bitterly that the prices kept changing and that he couldn't cancel anything. There doesn't seem to be a cancel feature on Expedia, or Days Inn or Hertz - or anything. I tried an explanation.

"Look, these sites are designed to get you to spend money. They don't want you to cancel anything, they want you to spend more."

"I don't give a [extended expletives and colorful descriptions unsuitable for women and children deleted] about what those [deleted] want, they ought to have a [deleted] cancel button somewhere! Wait, maybe I found it..."

"Unc, I don't think so. I don't really believe there is one."

"[deleted]!!! Those [deleted]! Now I've got another reservation!"

I'm going to skip the rest of the phone call. I don't know how many cars or rooms we've reserved, I only know that since he hasn't got hold of my credit card, I'm not held liable for any of it. I do know that at one point "they" wanted my email address and now my spam filter is getting a work out. "They" also wanted my date of birth, and before I could call a halt to any of this my dear old Mother gave it to Sardonicus, mainly because Mom doesn't have an iniquitous bone in her body and for the life of her, cannot understand why criminals steal things.

The thing that really bothers me is that I'm not 100% certain that we actually have a flight reservation. I guess I'll find out when we get to Detroit Metro.

Uncle Ballbat would have handled this one easily. Uncle Ballbat played on a bush league baseball team, and when little Mad Jack played some ball with Uncle Ballbat the difference between them that plays ball and them that really plays ball was so evident you wouldn't believe it. Fathers and sons all over the neighborhood would play ball, and if some father threw you the ball you'd like as not have to run to catch it because, when you came right down to it, the fathers were all amateurs just like the kids. Not Uncle Ballbat. You could stick your glove out and Uncle would throw the ball up in a lazy arc and it would smack right into the pocket of your glove. Every time. If you got up to bat, Uncle could show you how to stand and hit the ball right out of the park with no effort at all. Uncle Ballbat was one of those guys that was good, but wasn't quite good enough to make the professional league. I don't think it bothered him; he was an engineer and made a good living at it.

I like baseball, and I really wish I'd spent more time with Uncle Ballbat. But like I say, Colorado is a long way off and my own father wasn't keen on letting me off the farm all that often.

Rant: Neighborhood Thugs

2011-11-29T12:54:00.000-05:00

I haven't written lately mainly because I'm pissed off and am very likely leading an interesting life, which I will rant about later on. My rant here has to do with neighborhood thugs, petty thieves and career criminals who have burglarized Chatelaine's home yet again. This is the second time in three months - I wrote about the first occurrence here (My Life: RFI from LEO) and here (My Life: RFI from LEO - Updates). Since then a few decisions have been made.

The first time Chatelaine's home was broken into, the thieves were forced to go in and out the back window, the reason being that Big Mike had installed dead bolts on both front and back doors. This time the thugs decided to do some advanced planning and brought along a crow bar which they used to destroy the back door. Then they tossed the place, and by that I mean they tossed it. Every single thing that could be moved and examined was moved... either out the door or left in the center of the room. They even went into the attic. This happened over the weekend, as Chatelaine had left to visit her son, Big Mike, in his new home in Columbus, Ohio and do a little cleaning for him. When she returned on Monday she discovered that her home was all torn up and the thieves got away with the TV set, a few small odds and ends that they missed the first time, Big Mike's old paintball gun (circa 1955) and a small gold bracelet that she misses for sentimental reasons.

Again, Chatelaine called the police. Again, the police asked her what she would like them to do. Again, Chatelaine explained that since breaking into someone's home and stealing what little they had was a crime (see the Ohio Code here) and since they were detectives, maybe they'd like to come over and detect just who is was that broke into Chatelaine's home (again) and arrest them, extract a confession, charge them with the crime, get a grand jury to indict them, provide them with a public defender, a fair trial and arrange a fine hanging. I, Mad Jack, will cheerfully volunteer to trip the trap on the gallows if the hangman calls in sick that day.

The official response to all this was a good deal less enthusiastic than most of us would like. While it's true that there's enough crime in the city of Toledo to keep all the law officers busy, I'd like to hear about a better response from a Toledo Police Detective than, "Well, what do you expect me to do?" That's obstructive and it isn't going to get the police any new members for their fan club.

When my own dear mother's garage was burglarized the Sylvania Township Police sent a detective over to talk to mom. The man was nice, he spent time showing Mom how to make her home more secure, he talked to me on the phone, and he made it clear that he was concerned about Mom's safety. No, he didn't catch the burglars, but it wasn't for lack of trying and at least he came out and said that a crime had been committed, it was wrong, and the police would do all they could to prevent any further such crimes. And that is one whole helluva lot better than nothing, and it's a damned sight better than some corpulent doughnut muncher asking obstructive, rhetorical questions of a poor old lady who has nothing left to steal, but who now has an alarm system and is also now out $1000 in damages to her house, and who owns a new TV set that she didn't need.

When she reported the crime to her insurance company, the insurance company informed Chatelaine that she would have to get an alarm system installed or they would cancel her homeowner's insurance. Chatelaine has lived in that house for about 40 years, which works out to 480 months of insurance premiums. This is the second claim she's filed.

There are certain industries in the United States that it is impossible to over-regulate, and the insurance industry is right at the top of the list.

Chatelaine now has an alarm system courtesy of ADT, and a few hidden cameras provided by Big Mike. This is all well and good, but what we're really worried about is urban legend. You see, the socioeconomically disadvantaged, informally organized group of unsupervised youth who allegedly perpetrated this crime (AKA scumbags, perps, etc.) may have conducted their thorough search because they believe that Chatelaine is one of those old people who appears to be dirt poor but who actually has several hundred thousand dollars stashed away in the walls of her house, or her mattress, or under the floorboards. Some place that the scumbags failed to look. And, since they searched and didn't find anything like that, the money must be very well hidden, so the next time they show up they'll kick in the door when Chatelaine is at home and persuade her to tell where the money is.

I can just see these putty heads selling the TV, buying a bag of weed and convincing themselves they're right about their story, then trying to decide just who has the, ah, skill set to get Chatelaine to tell where the money is.

My own suggestion involves moving Chatelaine down to Big Mike's house for an extended vacation, removing the ADT signs from around the house and putting the garbage cans out a little early, right along with the box the new TV came in. I'd stay inside the house. I think this might be called entrapment or something, but perhaps not.

It's very likely that I'll take Chatelaine around to the various pawn shops nearby and we'll see if anything turns up. Meantime, we're trying to convince Chatelaine that it may be time to move South to Columbus and find some safe digs.

The Death Penalty and Our Screwed Up Justice System

2011-11-18T18:22:00.000-05:00

In the immortal words of Richard Milhouse Nixon, “Let me make this crystal clear...”

I am not opposed to the death penalty. There are people in this world that, by their own actions, have proven themselves to be sufficiently evil to warrant being taken to a convenient location and, with all due ceremony, shot to death. Their remains should be cremated and the ashes disposed of in a secret location so as to help prevent some twisted form of hero worship or equally despicable martyrdom. What I object to is the current process, from beginning to end.

My objections are best illustrated by the recent execution of Oba Chandler and the sentencing to death of Anthony Sowell, both cases being so screwed up by our system of injustice that it seems incredible.

A crime or crimes that warrant the death penalty is difficult to define, unless you use the good old Potter Stewart definition for pornography, “I know it when I see it.” For a crime to be punishable by death, a dozen or so above average adults have to be able to point to the situation and declare the crime punishable by death. By above average, I mean far and away above average, and I'm talking about intellectually, spiritually and morally. This leaves most legislators in the dust. For all I know, this criteria leaves all politicians scrabbling around in the dust trying vainly to find the right direction to the finish line, but I'm in danger of digressing here. So assemble one or two dozen of these people and show them the crimes, and if they all individually agree that, yes indeed, anyone who could commit such a crime should be sentenced to death, then the ponderous wheels of the justice machine can be reattached to the wagon and we'll move right along to phase two: competence.

I think it's morally repugnant and a crime to execute a mental incompetent. Being mentally competent the perpetrator must be legally sane and have average or better intelligence. Taking the legal definition of sanity first, even if the criminal is mentally ill, and many of them are, the criminal must be able to tell the difference between right and wrong. If, for example, the criminal believes he was forced into killing someone because of a secret mission he was assigned by the C.I.A. and so the killing was justified, the death penalty comes off the table. I would also stipulate that this evaluation must be performed on the accused while he is in an unmedicated state. A mentally ill person can be arrested and medicated against their will before trial, thus providing the justice system with a relatively sane person. This is unacceptable.

Likewise I would not execute anyone who's right at home on the short bus. The accused must have an IQ that is greater than 84, meaning the accused is of average or better intelligence. Anyone with an IQ below 84 on the Terman's Stanford-Binet Fourth Revision Classification IQ Reference Chart is classed as dull, slow or on a par with an average elected official. That's a shot at many (not all) elected officials and I hope they are offended. The argument here is that the criminal might be smart enough to know the difference between right and wrong and to plan the crime or escape detection, but he is considered dull or below average. People like this are extremely easily influenced or manipulated, so I would error on the side of caution. It's better not to execute someone who is not the sharpest knife in the drawer than to kill him and satisfy society's thirst for vengeance.

If the crime and the criminal passes these three tests, is processed through the justice system, is found guilty as homemade sin by a jury of his peers (which is a joke that I'll get started on later, thanks) and is summarily sentenced to death by Hizonner, Hangin' Harry Highminded, a confirmation hearing must occur, and it must be staffed by individuals that have had little or nothing to do with the first trial. My reasoning here is that the criminal is going to be executed, so there's a considerable amount riding on the outcome. Relax the rules of evidence for the defense, give the accused the benefit of the doubt and put intelligent, well educated and even tempered people in the jury box. The confirmation hearing must review the trial, all the evidence presented at trial, evidence excluded from the trial, interview all the witnesses and eventually arrive at a verdict which can be anything from not guilty, guilty but not sentenced to death and guilty with the death sentence intact. If the confirmation hearing ends with the same verdict as the first, then the execution can be scheduled and the normal appeal process started.

We need the appeal process. Without appeals the justice system will be even more screwed up than it already is. The problem is that appeals take too long, but that's easy to fix. In the case of a death sentence, move the criminal to priority one. We the People are paying for this. We pay the police to separate our neighbors when they start a glorified World Wide Wrestling Federation championship on the front lawn at 3:00 AM, we pay them to deal with Shaniqua and Tyrone when they park the family SUV in our driveway and object to the idea of moving it at 7:00 AM on Monday morning when we have to go to work and earn a living, and we pay them to bust the bad guys. What we the people are forgetting is that we also pay for the court system in its entirety. This is the same system that allows an arrogant, ill-willed Judge to ignore a death penalty case until such time as it becomes convenient for his sweet, noble fat ass to hear it. That must change, right along with the prioritization of both attorney's calendars – meaning both prosecutor and the public defender can rearrange everything until this death penalty case is appealed and the appeal is either accepted and the case retried or it's denied, in which case the process continues... but with a difference. The case must continue at priority one. That means we the people have a zero tolerance for wait time.

So what about Oba Chandler and Anthony Sowell? You can look at the Chandler case here, here and here. They say that Chandler invited a mother and her two daughters out on his boat to watch the sunset from the middle of Tampa Bay (Florida). Chandler stripped each girl from the waist down, raped them, tied a cinder block to the neck of each girl and pushed them into the water, one at a time, while they were still alive. The youngest girl was 14 years old. The crime is heinous enough, Chandler passes both the IQ test and the insanity test, but here's the problem: In everything I've read about the case, there is no evidence that states that these three women were with Chandler on his boat at any time. The prosecution cannot, in any way, put Chandler and the three victims together out on the water. That's a reasonable shadow of doubt in my opinion. Yet Chandler was sentenced to death on November 4, 1994, and finally executed on November 15, 2011. That's seventeen (17) years spent on death row, which is cruel and unusual to everyone concerned. If we're going to execute someone, and make no mistake that it is we the people who are funding the execution, then let's get the job done in a reasonable amount of time. Personally, I believe that one year is too long, but given the state of our system today I'd settle for one year on the outside. Furthermore, if the State can't bring a case to trial in one year, the prisoner gets released back into society, his record should be completely erased and he be given a hungry lawyer that specializes in constitutional rights lawsuits – let him sue the judge for violating his constitutional rights. My final complaint about the Chandler case is that if Chandler actually was guilty, which I doubt, this murder would not have been his first. I think it's likely that this crime is the work of a serial killer who may well be still on the loose.

By way of contrast, Anthony Sowell is a serial killer. Again, the crimes are sufficiently heinous (and numerous) to warrant the death penalty. The man passes the IQ test and the sanity test. Sowell couldn't possibly get any guiltier than he already is, but the cost of the trial exceeded $1,000,000 – that's one million United States dollars – just to prove that Sowell is guilty of murder and should be executed. Now the appeal process has started, which will take even more time and cost even more money. This man is a serial killer without any shred of remorse. What else would we the people do except execute him, and by that I mean tomorrow or the next day at the latest.

Our society is made up of a nice cross section of people, which is a good thing. That is, until it comes down to doing a nasty, dirty job. Then society gets pared down to a manageable size. Take execution, for instance. We've tried the hangman's noose, the electric chair, the gas chamber, the firing squad and lethal injection. The only method that the namby-pamby public has the stomach for is lethal injection, and that, if I may say so, is absolutely one of the stupidest ideas ever to come out of Moonbat heaven. Execution isn't supposed to be pretty; it's supposed to be as infallible as we can make it, and it should be quick. Now, to the best of my knowledge, no one has survived a firing squad. The firing squad requires very little by way of specialized equipment, there has never been a shortage of volunteers and the success rate is 100%. If we wanted to get ceremonial and complex about the firing squad, we could, but I think that would be something of a waste. Just put the target up in front of a back stop, make sure the squad is locked and loaded and give the old ready, aim, fire command. That's it. Done deal.

Our justice system is as screwed up as our economy, and I don't see it getting any better. Certainly the legislators don't want to change it. Some of the attorneys might, but they'll be shouted down and incarcerated by the judges. Meantime Chandler was executed and Sowell might not be executed; but if he is, it'll cost a whole lot more money.

As an aside, some years ago Main Lady and I were at a New Year's Eve party with a few friends and a bunch of other people I'd never met. Friends of friends, that kind of thing. We were at a nice restaurant, and I was seated next to a local judge, one who presided over an Ohio obscenity case involving Playboy magazine. It was the worst evening of my life. The man sprayed saliva and food particles whenever he talked, and he had a lot to say. His numerous opinions were uninformed and stupid. He was a crass and odious person. The frightening part was that this miscreant served on the bench for a long time before retiring. We have no defense against this idiot, and we should.

My Mother's Next Quilt

2011-11-17T14:23:00.000-05:00

As some of you may know and others can discover, my own dear mother made a quilt for my younger brother, Shotgun Bob. Having stifled the inevitable whines of the younger sibling (and any of you that has one knows exactly what I'm talking about) mom made his first, then made another quilt for her favorite son, Mad Jack. You can read all about and see the photos here: On Mothers and Quilts. That finished, mom made another quilt for Shotgun Bob's wife, The Girl. Finished with that Herculean effort she's now tackling another quilt, this time for Main Lady.

The quilt isn't finished as yet, but I was so impressed with the colors and the pattern I took a few pictures. Mom would disown me for showing an incomplete work, so please keep it under your (black) hat.

Full Quilt

Quilt Detail

Mom was laying the quilt out for the purposes of measuring it. Dante was willing to help but I think he was intimidated by the size and strangeness of the quilt; he thinks it may not be safe to walk on. Main Lady will be thrilled with the final result.

Film Review: Immortals (2011)

2011-11-16T13:34:00.000-05:00

Immortals (2011)
Rated: R
Running Time: 109 Minutes
Genre(s): Action, Drama, Fantasy

Cast overview, first billed only:
Henry Cavill as Theseus (Our Hero!)
Mickey Rourke as King Hyperion (Our Villain!)
Stephen Dorff as Stavros (Another Villain)
Freida Pinto as Phaedra (Our Virginal Crystal Ball)
Luke Evans as Zeus (Need you ask?)
John Hurt as Old Man (Zeus in Disguise)
Joseph Morgan as Lysander (Our Traitorous Villain)
Anne Day-Jones as Aethra (Hottie)
Greg Bryk as The Monk (Minor Ally to Our Hero!)
Alan Van Sprang as Dareios (Wimp)
Peter Stebbings as Helios (Greek God of Something)
Daniel Sharman as Aries (Actor paid to wear a funny hat that won't stay on)
Isabel Lucas as Athena (Hottie and Goddess)
Kellan Lutz as Poseidon (Divine Water Boy)
Steve Byers as Heracles (or Hercules. Divine Manual Laborer, infamous for completing the following contracts on schedule and arguably under budget:
1) Kill the Nemean Lion
2) Kill the Hydra
3) Capture the Cerynean Stag
4) Cage the Erymanthian Boar
5) Clean the Augean Stables
6) Kill the Stymphalian Birds
7) Claim the Mares of Diomedes
8) Pen the Cretan Bull
9) Seize the girdle of the Amazon Hippolyte
10) Take Geryon's cattle
11) Fetch the golden apples of the Hesperides
12) Impound Cerberus, the hound of hell)

I went to see Immortals late last night. I was restive and the film sounded promising, but so does a genuine $25,000 Rolex watch that you can buy anywhere in New York city for only $20. I was disappointed, and here's why without spoilers.

I thought that given the subject matter of the film I should bone up on the old Greek pantheon before I saw the film. Foolish me. The film bears as much resemblance to Greek mythology as Dianne Fienstein does to U.S. Senator John McCain. The names are there, likely used without permission, and that is where the resemblance stops. The Greek deities do not behave in a Grecian fashion, nor are their identities obvious. Typically, Greek deities spent their time fooling around with each other, fighting about it and taking out their spiteful feelings on various mortals who failed to fly under the radar. No good came of this, at least no good to the mortals who were involved, but it kept the Pantheon amused. This isn't what happens in the film, which is kind of a shame.

The casting is poor, although I don't know what could be done to improve it. Henry Cavill (Theseus) does a fair job, but his nemesis Mickey Rourke (King Hyperion) just isn't up to enough villainy. Hyperion has the right idea, but he lacks motivation and it shows in the deadpan delivery of his lines and a conspicuous lack of casually perverse habits of one sort or another. Rourke / Hyperion just isn't tough enough, and about halfway through the film I started wondering just why one of his henchmen would continue to put up with his loud mouth and infantile demands when a spear could be shoved up his butt and everyone could go home. Then there's Freida Pinto, who floats around masquerading as an oracle attended by three other supposed hotties. We see the four of them obscured by robes that reveal a good deal less than an Islamic ensemble du jour, and topped with inverted waste baskets with elaborate chandeliers glued to them. The head gear won't stay put, so some very careful and creative movement is called for. I'll give the four credit for keeping the foolish things in place.

The sets try and keep up with the costuming, and that's another failure. While the sets are okay, they aren't special. They're better than the costuming, though. For example, Our Hero's army is equipped with uniform round shields, fantastic armor of an unknown style and weightless short swords. During a motivational speech, the army applauds by banging their swords against their shields, which is unfortunate as the silver paint comes off rather easily leaving the army with odd looking round shields after a few bangs. The red plastic shows through, you see.

Speaking of shows, I think the R rating was given because of one sex scene, but it took me a minute to remember this. We have one naked hottie, whom I'll give a 6 on a scale of 1 to 10. She's isn't all that hot, but then neither are the other women in the film. Anyway, Henry Cavill (Our Hero) is about to get lucky and he comes off more than a little gay. The man clearly does not know how to proceed and is uncomfortable when he's in close proximity to a naked woman. Or half naked. Whatever. They could have easily eliminated this scene and everyone would be happier for it - clearly Henry would be a lot happier.

So since the money didn't go into the acting, the costuming, the writing or the sets, where did all that dinero disappear to?

The film stuffs everything, and I mean everything, into computer generated imagery (CGI). Acting, plot, costumes, dialogue, you name it, if it wasn't CGI related the film didn't spend money to do it. Making things a little worse is the fact that, with a few notable exceptions, the CGI wasn't all that great. Good, yes. Great? No. Not even, and I'm being charitable here. The film is a classic catch 22. If you wait for the DVD, the CGI loss is directly proportional to the size of your screen. If you see it at the theater, you've wasted most of your money on the admission.

I'd rate this one at a 2 (two) on a scale of 1 to 10. Try as I might, I find very little to recommend it.

Triple Natural Weekend: Part 2

2011-11-15T18:47:00.000-05:00

I spent most of the triple natural weekend in Columbus visiting my brother Big Mike. During a round of sporting clays I discovered that I am an unrepentant white oppressor and that, as such, Moonbats have stopped inviting me to wine and cheese parties. Well, I don't mind. I'll have another manhattan and assuage my guilt that way.

Next on the agenda was a hockey game followed by dinner and drinking. Prior to last weekend I'd never been to a hockey game and I found this one very informative. By contrast, I've been out drinking before so there weren't any surprises there - surprising no one.

Columbus Blue Jacket Memorabilia

Big Mike has tickets for the Columbus Blue Jackets at Nationwide Arena. Last Saturday was hat night, so we both got a Blue Jacket gimme cap. Not bad, as I had neglected to bring any kind of head gear and the place is as cold as the inside of a Frigidaire.

For those who have not been to Nationwide Area, the place is gigantic. We wound our way through Nationwide's labyrinth and after an interminable ride up the elevator we arrived at the entrance to our seats. Here's the view from the mouth of the access tunnel.


Center

Right Side

Left Side

To get some idea of the proportions, note that the people are the size of termites. Staring out into the vastness of the hockey arena, I felt a little twinge of vertigo. Then I took note of the stairs we were supposed to descend to get to our seats.

Going down...

Clearly, some civil engineer had me mixed up with a mountain goat. The steps are steep, and we were seated in the second row from the edge of the ledge. I descended carefully, least a misstep cause me to fall down the steps and over the non-existent safety railing. The phrase, "Hey, this is bullshit!" crossed my mind a few times during the descent. At the correct row, I had to squeeze past a host of men as large as myself with out losing my balance and going over the rail. Sadly, I didn't make it and fell to an untimely death.

Okay, I'm just kidding. The seats are packed together tighter than steerage on an American Airlines puddle jumper. One way or another, everyone has to figure out where their legs and shoulders are going to go, and then we can all watch the game. But first, our national anthem. Which means we all stand up again, and although I stood up I failed to sing along with O Canada and The Star Spangled Banner. The man next to me managed it, and didn't do badly with The Star Spangled Banner, which is rare.

Finally it was time for hockey. Giving credit where it's due, the Blue Jackets have been getting the snot pounded out of them lately, but tonight looked like it might be a little different. For one thing, the Blue Jackets scored a goal right away. Lights flashed, music played, the scoreboard went nuts and some enterprising individual torched off an imitation cannon. Hot puppies! We're going to win one. Maybe.

Then along about the second period two players agreed to disagree and the game was put on hold for a few minutes.

Game not in Progress

Agree to Disagree

Protracted Disagreement

I note that no one is moving in to break the two up, nor is the rest of the team getting involved. This is pretty mild compared to baseball, where this kind of discussion is likely to clear both benches and involve interested third parties in the stands.

Order Will Be Restored

Order was restored shortly after I got this picture. The general feeling was that the Blue Jackets won that one, but you couldn't really prove it by me - very little damage was done and both these men are professional athletes, which makes a huge difference. For instance:

Big Mike used to play on a softball team (division F as I remember it, but maybe it was G), and on that team was a retired Canadian hockey player. The man used to play for a major Canadian team and had the sports injuries and associated surgery scars to prove it. He was a goalie, and his knees were shot. He wanted to play softball though, and so would take a pain pill or two before the game, said pills augmented by a six pack of beer. Then he'd play softball, but in spite of the pills he still couldn't run, so there was only one choice for him: he hit home runs each time he was at bat. There wasn't any question about what he'd do when he came up to bat. He'd looked at the game and knew that he'd just hit it out of the park, and that would be that. That way he wouldn't have to walk the bases if he didn't want to, and he sure wouldn't have to run them. He just put the ball over the fence. That's how it is with a professional athlete. Mix a pro up in an amateur game and the difference will be apparent to anyone who watches for two minutes. There just isn't any competition.

So in a hockey game, a fight breaks out between two players who drop their sticks, shuck their gloves and have at it. Eventually they quit and are given a time out. The thing I noticed is that no real damage occurred, and although I saw plenty of punches and wrestling around, there wasn't any blood and the match didn't go to ground. So are the fights real? Yes, there are heated tempers, but the fight is a lot more controlled than a casual fan might believe.

So, back to the game.

Not a Hockey Player

Cleanup Crew At Work

Every so often the clean up girls take to the ice and give everyone something to rest their eyes on. The little darlings skate along with the enthusiasm of a future Hollywood starlet about to be discovered, bravely pushing their shovel and looking for a talent scout. I gather that the clean up girls are a new addition, and were recruited to replace the all male crew. This is a definite improvement over a group of guys pushing shovels.

The other part of the show is the pee-wee game, where two groups of kids take to the ice and play a ten minute game. One young man managed to overcome his stage fright and score several goals, which put him in the spotlight later on. I enjoyed watching the kids play and I think it's a good thing for the kids as well, as they get to mix with the pro players in the locker room and meet them.

Broken Window - Look where the spectator is pointing

Repair Crew

A cursory examination of the stadium will reveal that the spectators are protected from injury by a thick sheet of plexiglass topped by a net. Pucks fly all over the place, and one slap shot missed everything but the safety glass - and cracked it badly. The game was called and the repair crew came out and replaced the glass. I gather that this is relatively new, and was precipitated by the death of a spectator who was clipped by a puck.

Final Score

Here's our final score. Big Mike was worried that the Jets would tie the game up, which was justified. The Jets played the final segment without a goalie and were all over the Blue Jackets goal like white on rice, but our team managed to hold them off. Here the official recapitulation if you'd care to look.

I enjoyed the hockey game a great deal. We sat next to a Canadian group who were mercifully well-behaved. The game had a lot of activity in it and featured some of the worst refereeing you can imagine. The referees refused to call obvious fouls committed directly in front of them, and the bias against the Blue Jackets was as blatant and obvious as a Moonbat politician accused of moral turpitude.

We departed for Barley's in downtown Columbus, where we had an excellent dinner and which I'll review in another post.

Triple Natural Weekend: Part 1

2011-11-14T20:33:00.000-05:00

My original plan was to put my car under me and point my nose Southbound early Friday afternoon. Sadly, that plan did not work out. About the time I started packing Mom needed me to go to the store for something or other, then Main Lady called and asked for some help with Centenarian. One of us had to Centenarian-sit while the other ran errands... I elected to run errands, and before anyone gets all sentimental and misty eyed about my mother's favorite son and how helpful, chivalrous and beneficent I am, I encourage you to think again and remember what happens when a woman walks into a store. Women shop, men buy stuff. There's a four hour difference between the two. So I ran the errands, took care of Excellent Rachmaninoff, fed the cats and then waited around for an hour and a half for a stupid, inconsiderate M.D. to call back with a prescription. Which, by the way, the M.D. did not do - the prescription got canceled after due consideration. Finally I got underway, and although I arrived at Big Mike's house later than expected, it was much better late than never.

I got to tour Big Mike's new home, have some excellent Mexican food, drink copious amounts of liquor and go shooting the next day where we shot sporting clays and, at long last, I found out just what I am.

Welcome to Big Mike's House!

It's nice to know that some things don't change. Mike provided me with the same excellent hospitality that he always has, and he's kept his old doormat. I had thought about buying him a new one, maybe a doormat that says "Buzz Off!" but I don't think it would be an improvement over this.

Dining Room

Mike's dining room has hardwood floors and a matching solid oak table that was hand made by Amish craftsmen. The chairs are made of elm wood and the table top is solid oak. No veneer or imitation wood is used anywhere, and if you turn the chairs over you'll see that both sides are finished wood. Needless to say, the table is a perfect match for the floor. I regret that most young people wouldn't understand why a room like this is pleasant or comprehend just why a dining room table and chairs made of solid wood are desirable when plastic or wood veneer is available at a lower cost. This reminds me of Beat and Release who has taken up woodworking as an avocation during his retirement.

View From the Deck

You can walk through the dining room out onto the deck where you immediately become the highest inhabitable point in the neighborhood. I suggested that Mike and I buy a couple cases of beer and sit out on the deck, drinking beer and shooting at the empties. I saw it as a friendly attempt to meet the neighbors, but Mike didn't think the folks next door would react the way I anticipated.

When I was growing up (I was about 12 or 13) some new neighbors moved into the house next door, displacing the odd German family that lived there before them. Shortly after they moved in I heard the sound of gun fire and walked over to investigate. I introduced myself to my new neighbor and his hillbilly buddy, and by way of getting acquainted they invited me to shoot cans and clay pigeons with them - they were, in fact, drinking beer and shooting at the empties. They were great guys, and if not for them I never would have learned to hunt, fish, hike all day over rough terrain (and by that I mean all day at a good clip) and clean the game I bagged.

Big Mike's seen from the Back Yard

The deck is overbuilt and I suspect portions of the home are overbuilt as well. The previous owner, and the man who built the place was, in fact, a builder and lived in his own self-made home.

Saturday saw us headed out to the Black Wing Shooting Center for a round of sporting clays. I dimly remember that Big Mike had somehow convinced me to agree to 100 sporting clays instead of the 50 that I shot before, but I was somewhat inebriated when I agreed to this. Anyway, the course has ten stations with 50 clays, so all you have to do is shoot the same course in reverse, which is fine if you're in shape or you're shooting a .410 or something that doesn't beat you to death. I'm shooting an Orion over and under 12 gauge with target loads and a recoil pad that doesn't work. I'm not in shape.

The sporting clays course at Black Wing is a good one, and is much better than average. It doesn't have any odd shots that you wouldn't see in the field, which is not true for all sporting clay courses. Still, I managed to miss quite a few and although I enjoyed shooting I'll have to practice a little before I try the course again.

I think it was around station 7 on our return pass that I learned a significant fact about my life and my real identity. You see, this infernal station consists of a report pair; one clay being thrown from the left, up and away from the shooter and the second clay is a battue which comes in from the right, towards the shooter. I couldn't seem to hit both birds, and would consistently break one but not the other. This pissed me off no end.

After Big Mike reassembled my shotgun and gave me my bullets back, I informed him that I thought that station should be eliminated or changed as it was damaging to a person's self-confidence, leading to a denigration of a person's self-image. Big Mike tried to ignore me. I persisted.

"Look, if the Moonbats are really in touch with emotions and feelings and such, why don't they come out here and get the station changed? Don't they care about my self-image and self-confidence and so forth?"

"No."

"What? What do you mean, no?"

"No. Is that so hard to understand?"

"Okay, I understand. What I don't understand is why. Why?"

"Because you're one of the great white oppressors."

"I am?"

"You are. You're adult, white and male, and that makes you an oppressor."

"But - "

"Furthermore, being an oppressor means that you must turn over all your wealth to be redistributed properly."

"All of it?"

"All of it. Then you must go and support unsupervised social groups of the economically challenged underclasses and work to oppress the oppressors. And remember to give all your money to these organizations for proper redistribution."

"But then I'd be broke."

"Yes, that's true. But you wouldn't feel guilty about being an oppressor."

"I don't think I'd feel much of anything except cold and hungry."

"Ah, but that's the beauty of the thing. Once you are degraded to a state of impoverishment, the government has a plan for you."

"It do? Ah, I mean - it does?"

"Word up. You must register for various social programs by which you'll receive a portion of the wealth you've given to the government for proper redistribution, minus a handling fee."

"What if I just skip this whole business and keep my money and my guilt."

"You'll be deemed an unrepentant white oppressor. Your photo will be placed on the uncooperative citizen list by The Anointed One's Most Official Sanctified Minions, you'll continue to feel guilty and Moonbats will cease to invite you to wine and cheese parties. Give up the money, damn you!"

"No! It's mine, I'm keeping it and I have a shotgun!"

"That's the attitude of an unrepentant white oppressor."

"That's your attitude as well! You've told me so on many an occasion."

"And?"

"Doesn't that make you an unrepentant white oppressor?"

"Yes."

It seems that I'm an unrepentant white oppressor and there's no hope for me. I don't mind. I'm in good company.

As I remember it, Big Mike ran out of bullets on the last station, so I gave him one of the extras I always keep for such an occasion. I proceeded to out shoot Big Mike on the last station, but he beat me soundly in the final score. I don't mind.

Happy Triple Natural!

2011-11-11T12:10:00.000-05:00

For those of you living in a cave without a Gregorian calendar, connection to the Internet or access to commercial media, you'll never know that today is Triple Natural Day - 11/11/11. See? The odds of throwing an eleven with two six sided dice is 2 in 36, which is something of a long shot. I thought about looking up the odds of living to see the triple natural, presuming a person was born sometime on or before 11/11/11, but then if I went back to year 1 things begin to look a little bleak.

I'm celebrating by heading South to Columbus to visit Big Mike in his new home. Our R&R plan involves food, liquor, firearms and a hockey game. I expect we'll take a slight rest between events; neither of us is as young as we used to be. Certainly I'm not.

My plan is to return home Sunday afternoon, and finish out the evening by watching Masterpiece Theater with Main Lady and Excellent Rachmaninoff. A man could do a whole lot worse than to spend Sunday evening with his woman and his dog.

Cast of Characters

2011-11-10T13:52:00.003-05:00

I've been considering this post for some time. I write about people and provide no easy reference as to their relationships or character, such as it might be. Here's my first attempt at a comprehensive list.

Cast of Characters
Mad Jack	That would be the author of this blog. I'm an old curmudgeon who has been rode hard and put away wet twice too often.
Excellent Rachmaninoff	Main Lady's dog, who is very bright and possibly the best dog East of the Mississippi and North of the Mason-Dixon Line in spite of a few minor behavioral issues involving teeth.
Main Lady	She Who Must Be Obeyed, my S.O., my Main Squeeze, whatever. Main Lady is a licensed clinical psychologist with a professional history of curing patients of whatever mental maladies ails them. Main Lady has three little darlings from her previous marriage: Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail.
Flopsy	Eldest little darling, an avowed and uncompromising Moonbat who accompanied Big Mike and I to the range one day and blasted holes in everything... down range.
Mopsy	The Little Darling in the middle. Mopsy was a union organizer for the first third of her adult life and is now a Physical Therapist. Mopsy is both bright and artistically talented, but is still a Moonbat at heart.
Cottontail	The Youngest Little Darling. Cottontail is a DVM (Doctor of Veterinary Medicene) with a specialty in internal medicene, a vegan vegetarian, animal rights activist, Registered Moonbat and every liberal thing else that you can imagine.
Que Bee One	Cottontail's husband. QB1 is a veterinary surgeon, college football quarterback who is now retired and living off the residuals from his college sports career, which is supplemented from his secondary career in veterinary medicene.
Banana Nose	Doberman owned by Que Bee One and Cottontail.
French Pig	French bulldog owned by Que Bee One and Cottontail. The dog is cute but ill-mannered, and generally causes problems.
Centenarian	Main Lady's mother who is over 100 years old.
Ding Bat	Main Lady's sister. An unemployed artist, she is trecherous and has taken an irrational dislike to Mad Jack, who has never done anything to deserve it. She is married to DC Law.
DC Law	Ding Bat's husband. A beltway lawyer whose sole claim to fame is that he skipped town right ahead of a host of legal papers having to do with a little mix up now known as the Watergate scandal. He's retired.
Uncle Sardonicus	My maternal uncle, Sardonicus loves baseball games and shouting profane personal abuse at both team's coaches and all umpires. This attitude carries over into his political opinions, of which there is no shortage.
Auntie Annie	Wife to Uncle Sardonicus, Annie is Mom's sister. She spent a large portion of her life traveling around the globe, mainly in Spanish speaking countries as she is truly bilingual.
88	Daughter and only child of Uncle Sardonicus and Auntie Annie, she is an accomplished writer and musician (piano). 88 lives in New York city but is good company anyway.
Big Mike	My brother from Columbus, Ohio. Big Mike is an avid hiker, gun owner and political adversary to Moonbats everywhere.
Chatelaine	Big Mike's mom. Chatelaine drinks martinis, is retired and is excellent company. She's one of my favorite people.
Grandma Bourbon	My paternal grandmother. As miserly as Grandpa was, my grandmother didn't hesitate when it came to high living. She drank martinis, loved to entertain and was an excellent and generous hostess.
Grandpa Parsimonious	My paternal grandfather, Grandpa was a real operator. He used to be able to walk around Washington D.C. and tell you who was on the take and how much it would cost to buy him. These were the days when it was him; her stayed at home. I remember him as being wealthy and somewhat miserly.
Shotgun Bob	My brother from Memphis, Tenessee. Shotgun Bob shares his house with three dogs, Big Blue the Great Dane, Rudy / Rudolfo the American Bulldog and NoBuddyDown the Golden Retriever; three cats (Boilermaker, Tucker and AnotherOne) and one foster child. Shotgun Bob is married to The Girl, who also resides at Shotgun Bob's house.
The Girl	Shotgun Bob's wife.
Uncle Ballbat	My maternal uncle, Uncle Ballbat passed away the day after Thanksgiving in 2011. He played minor league baseball, was an elder in his Church and was a general all-around nice guy. I miss him.
Aunt Quakerlife	Mom's sister. A very kind and gentle woman with spiritual faith like the rock of Gibralter.
BigNewz	My Cousin, Uncle Ballbat and Aunt Quakerlife's son. He's a major player in the news business, and by major I really do mean major. He rubs elbows with U.S. Presidents.
BigDeal	BigNewz's wife. She's quiet, thoughtful and hard working.
HappyFlute	My Cousin, Uncle Ballbat and Aunt Quakerlife's daughter. She loves kids, so we don't have much in common. She's a gun owner and avid hunter.
Gong	HappyFlute's husband. An inscrutable oriental, you can never tell what he's thinking.
Mom	My own dear mother who taught me to read and managed to get me raised. Mom is in her 80s, and during a recent Church work day teamed up with the Pastor of our Church. She worked him right into the ground.

And that's that.

November Election Results and Ruminations

2011-11-09T11:54:00.000-05:00

It's all over. There's nothing left but the whistle and the steam, and thankfully the ingredients for a perfect manhattan to settle my nerves.

I'm talking about the recent election in Ohio, where I did not get the results I'd hoped for. Well, why should I be surprised? Most people watch TV, go to the gym regularly and carry as much credit card debt as they can afford interest payments for. Just keep paying that vig, and I can carry you for another month.

Well, let's look at the damages. Here are the elections and issues that I care about, along with my usual insightful commentary:

Toledo Muni Court Judge 1/3/2012
Total
Number of Precincts 234
Precincts Reporting 234 100.0 %
Times Counted 72315/194041 37.3 %
Total Votes 52338
Robert Christiansen 30465 58.21%
John Coble 21873 41.79%

Although I couldn't vote in this election, I wanted John Coble to win this one. I know John personally, and he'd make an excellent judge. He's even tempered, patient and does not discriminate against people who don't have enough money for a lawyer. Sadly, he's also running against the incumbent. I hope John runs for office again, as he's a real credit to the community.

Sylvania Township Trustee
Total
Number of Precincts 40
Precincts Reporting 40 100.0 %
Times Counted 17785/33947 52.4 %
Total Votes 13655
Neal Mahoney 7154 52.39%
Penny J. Levine 4980 36.47%
John Marshall 1024 7.50%
Curt Snapp 497 3.64%

When I read this last night, Levine was out in front by a few hundred votes. Thankfully, Penny J. Levine lost this election. I voted for Curt Snapp, I'd have been happy with John Marshall, but Neal Mahoney is better than Penny Levine will every be. I say this because I saw Levine interact with a potential constituent a little while back, and what I saw revealed Levine's real personality. Levine is abrasive, uncompromising and arrogant. She feels that the current trustees treated her poorly and she's vindictive about that. Anyone speaking to Levine for any length of time might conclude that she isn't too bright, but they'd be mistaken. Levine is bright and she's hard working. What they're picking up on is that Levine is crude, both in her diction and mannerisms. Neal Mahoney was appointed by the other two trustees, so he's little more than a yes-man, but that's better than a vindictive woman with PMS and a can of pepper spray.

11 - Olander Park System Renewal
Total
Number of Precincts 47
Precincts Reporting 47 100.0 %
Times Counted 19242/36922 52.1 %
Total Votes 18817
FOR THE TAX LEVY 13249 70.41%
AGAINST THE TAX LEVY 5568 29.59%

I like the park system, but the cost of labor is much too high, Gary Madryzkowski (the director of the park system) acts like a despot and is as accessible to the Great Unwashed as the current lessee of the big white double wide on Pennsylvania Avenue. The park rangers are swaggering, authoritarian ass holes who are looking for an excuse to intimidate people and beat up anyone who dares to walk off the clearly marked official park path. Therefore, I voted against it.

15 - Lucas County 911 Renewal
Total
Number of Precincts 354
Precincts Reporting 354 100.0 %
Times Counted 126330/295409 42.8 %
Total Votes 121274
FOR THE TAX LEVY 81169 66.93%
AGAINST THE TAX LEVY 40105 33.07%

I voted against this levy, mainly because we're all broke and I don't believe the system will suddenly cease operations if the levy failed to pass. I suppose the obvious question is: Do we need a 9-1-1 system? Maybe, maybe not. Before we had 9-1-1 we had to either call the operator or call the service ourselves, meaning you had to know which jurisdiction you were standing in for the police department. Fire and EMS are county wide, so that's a good deal less of a problem. The services involved seem to believe 9-1-1 is a good idea, and I place a good deal of trust and confidence in professionals so I'll go along with them and say that it's a necessary part of civilization as we'd like to get to know it. Now, can we afford it? No. Hell no.

17 - Lucas County Zoo Renewal
Total
Number of Precincts 354
Precincts Reporting 354 100.0 %
Times Counted 126330/295409 42.8 %
Total Votes 123338
FOR THE TAX LEVY 86524 70.15%
AGAINST THE TAX LEVY 36814 29.85%

This is the only levy I voted for. I did so with the knowledge that I could honestly brag about voting for the zoo, which would make the moonbats think that I had some wonderful, unselfish facet to my personality buried deep inside me, and that I could be salvaged somehow. I also did it because I was certain that the levy would pass in a landslide - which it did - and that I could use my action to irritate Maggie Thurber and maybe provoke a response.

1 - State Issue Judges
Total
Number of Precincts 354
Precincts Reporting 354 100.0 %
Times Counted 126330/295409 42.8 %
Total Votes 117300
NO 70900 60.44%
YES 46400 39.56%

I voted against this one. By the time they hit 70 years old, these antiques should be living the good life in their assisted living condominium in Florida or Arizona, wearing pants with a waistline just under their ribcage, showing each other pictures of their grandchildren and complaining about the government. As it is right now, I think some of these gold card carrying members of the Geritol set sit on the bench in their Depends and dispense justice from the wrong side of Alzheimer's and dementia, bolstered by a martini or three during lunch. They're just rational enough to be perceived as competent, while the truth is miles away.

2 - State Issue SB5
Total
Number of Precincts 354
Precincts Reporting 354 100.0 %
Times Counted 126330/295409 42.8 %
Total Votes 124748
NO 84036 67.36%
YES 40712 32.64%

I voted against SB 5. I actually tried reading it over, but it was too long and complex for me to understand. I don't believe that many of the legislators understand it either. Maybe more importantly, I don't think it would alleviate any of the labor problems Ohio has. What might work would be separate bills, one to prohibit the automatic deduction of union dues from a worker's paycheck, and another which would give Ohio residents the right to work.

3 - State Issue Health
Total
Number of Precincts 354
Precincts Reporting 354 100.0 %
Times Counted 126330/295409 42.8 %
Total Votes 120383
YES 67326 55.93%
NO 53057 44.07%

I voted Yes on this one. Here's an interesting article from Cleveland: Issue 3 Passes By Larger Margin Than Issues 1 And 2 Failed; 66 Percent Of 1.8 Million Votes Counted Favor Issue

Issue 3 is being approved in nearly every Ohio county which has reported tallies so far -- except Lucas County, where it was failing 9,054-8,760.

Right. When I saw the unofficial results last night, it was failing. Evidently the Right Wingnuts voted after they got off work (here I'm implying that the Moonbats don't hold down a job, but collect welfare and food stamps for a living - when they don't hold a public office, that is) and did their part to help stop this from becoming a significant part of the National Debt.

The issue was spurred by H.R. 3590 - The Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act, particularly the federal law’s requirement that everyone carry insurance or pay a penalty if they do not.

Meaning that the way to provide healthcare for everyone is to pass a law that forces them to buy health insurance or face a fine and the possibility of jail time. So if a person doesn't have that extra $1,347 per month for health insurance because they have to pay for food, clothing and shelter, the Federal Government will simply remove money from their paycheck to cover the mandatory fine and send them a registered letter with instructions for reporting to a political reeducation camp if this is first offense, or special work release if this is a second offense. Three strikes and you're out.

The issue does not block the federal health care bill - should it ultimately prevail in the Supreme Court - from going into effect in Ohio. But it would prevent Ohio from enacting a Massachusetts-style health care system.

They mean Taxachusetts, not Massachusetts. If you really want to see what Moonbat government can do to a State, just check out Taxachusetts. The people in Wisconsin finally had enough Moonbat bullshit and made a few changes, all of which were guaranteed to ruin the entire country, starting with the once great State of Wisconsin. Ah... we're still waiting for the sky to fall.

While I'm here, I'll offer the prediction that the United States Supreme Court will fail to render a meaningful decision and that as a result, ObamaCare will become Federal law. I look to the State of Texas to lead the rebellion.

R.I.P.

2011-11-04T23:17:00.000-04:00

The title seems kind of crude and unfeeling, but I can't think of anything else.

A good friend of mine passed away today (Friday, the Fourth day of November in the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Eleven, around 5:45 Ante Meridiem). Rick Cooper played the keyboard at Angelo's Northwood Villa where Main Lady and I went dancing on a fairly regular basis. Two weeks ago I learned that Rick had been diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer about one month prior and decided to fight it. The first round of chemotherapy caused Rick to go into dementia, which he very slowly shook off. His nights were worse than his days, and when he was lucid too much visual stimulation or excitement would send him into fantasy land.

Rick was a real athlete and would have made the world's worst infirm patient. Although he had cancer and a certain amount of dementia, he was still physically capable of getting up and running around. While he was lucid, the decision was made to move from the hospital into hospice. Since the staff at hospice didn't know Rick all that well, it was easy for him to claim that he wasn't in any pain and so didn't need the morphine he'd been receiving at the hospital. His family objected, saying that they could tell he was in pain, but Rick denied it. Rick's plan was to wait until midnight and make a break for it, and to do that he needed to be clear headed - hence the denial of pain and refusal of medication. They caught up with him before he got out the front door and convinced him to come back to bed.

I managed to get up to see Rick three times over two weeks. The plan was for me to call before I drove up, because some days were a whole lot better than others. One day Rick perked right up and recognized me, then lapsed back into a dreamworld. The last time Main Lady and I went up Rick was lucid for the entire two hour visit - we managed to give the rest of the family time to go out and spend some time together, making future plans and trying to deal with Rick's health.

Rick was a very artistic man. He made the sign on the front of his bandstand at the Northwood Villa, shown in the photo below.

Rick at Angelo's Northwood Villa

Main Lady and I enjoyed dancing to Rick's music for about ten years. When we first discovered him he was playing swing, fox trot and the occasional waltz. I craved Latin music and so dropped a couple dead presidents in the snifter and requested a cha-cha. "Which one?" Rick wanted to know.

"Anything but Tea for Two." I replied. "I hate that song - "

"What song?"

"Tea for Two. Don't play it; I can't stand it."

"Tea for Two?"

I wondered if the piano player was deaf.

"Yes, Tea for Two. Don't play that song. Play something else."

"Oh." Rick nodded sagely. "You know, I don't think I know that one. Tea for Two. Doesn't sound familiar to me."

I didn't believe he wouldn't recognize Tea for Two, but I was finished talking about it. I returned to my table where Main Lady grilled me on what we'd been talking about. I suppose some explanation might be required here.

I taught ballroom dancing for ten years. Arthur Murray, Fred Astaire, old widow ladies and lifetime courses, and all I can say is that my students got what they paid for and I never did any of the out and out illegal stuff - although I saw plenty of it. I got out when I turned 31. My point is that dance studios all across the nation used Tea for Two as their standard for cha-cha during dance lessons, so instructors ended up hearing the song four or five times an hour all day long, all week long, all year long - and I was sick of hearing it. The reason dance studios chose that particular song is that the beat is dead easy to hear and it's as consistent as John Philip Sousa playing The Stars and Stripes Forever. Here's Tea for Two; give a listen if you'd like, but don't expect me to join you.

So Rick played cha-cha music. He started out with Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White and segued into Tea for Two, then finished up with something else. The amazing thing was that Rick played it well enough to inspire me to dance, which is really saying something. When I asked him about it later on, Rick feigned ignorance.

"Oh, is that what you call that song. I never knew that!"

"Wise guy. What do you call it?"

Rick shrugged. "I just called it the cha-cha song and let it go at that."

We closed out the club that night. The entire place had been bussed, the floor swept and the wait staff were watching us dance from the relative obscurity of the bar. I finally asked Rick for a good night waltz, and he obliged. After that, Angelo's became a regular habit for us.

Rick Cooper at the Keyboard

Thanks in a large part to Rick's musical abilities, we had several excellent parties at the Northwood Villa. Both Mom and Centenarian like to dance, and Rick was willing and able to accommodate the endless requests for waltz and fox trot, never playing the same song twice. I had Mom's 80th birthday party at the Northwood so I could dance with her, and after that nothing would satisfy Centenarian except having her 100th birthday party there as well. When our Pastor and his wife attended these parties, Rick would honor them by playing a few traditional hymns. Our Pastor is an accomplished musician himself, and he really enjoyed Rick's playing.

Rick actually played his own accompaniment. He'd record the song on disk, playing all the background instruments and percussion from the keyboard, then play the melody live. The only trouble was that when Rick started this process everything worked on 3.5 inch (1.4 Mb) floppy disks. After a few years Rick's collection numbered over one thousand, and the media was getting scarce. I suggested an external hard drive, but Rick held off. I believe the thought of trying to organize all those disks and copy them up to a hard drive was more than a little daunting. Plus, Rick could always find what he was looking for in the stacks.

Rick was able to do all this with nine fingers, having lost the little finger of his right hand in an industrial accident when he worked for General Motors in Detroit. "Someone dropped an engine block on my hand, and I lost the finger. I was lucky I didn't lose the entire hand." Rick explained one night.

Dee (a waitress) and Rick at Angelo's Northwood Villa

Rick spent a large portion of his life in the entertainment industry, and he knew many of the local TV personalities from the 1950s and 60s. He was able to tell us about Clare Cummings, a slight of hand expert who had learned some of his effects from Howard Thurston and who was prone to win quite often at poker. Another man Rick knew was Galen Grindle, who could be somewhat irascible at times. Early in his life Rick worked for the United States Government as a U.S. Navy Frogman, the precursor to the Navy Seals.

Well, Rick passed away quietly in his sleep. Main Lady and I will attend the memorial services, and I hope we'll be invited to the wake - because if Rick had anything to say about it, there would be a wake and people would eat, drink and have a good time, then drive carefully going home.

Film Review: In Time

2011-11-02T10:36:00.000-04:00

In Time (2011)
Rated: PG 13
Running Time: 109 min
Geners: Action | Sci-Fi | Thriller

Cast
Justin Timberlake as Will Salas (Our Hero!)
Olivia Wilde as Rachel Salas (Our Hero's Mother!)
Shyloh Oostwald as Maya
Johnny Galecki as Borel
Colin McGurk as Citizen
Will Harris as Ulysse
Michael William Freeman as Nardin
Jesse Lee Soffer as Webb
Aaron Perilo as Bell
Nick Lashaway as Ekman
William Peltz as Pierre
Ray Santiago as Victa
Matt Bomer as Henry Hamilton
Zuleyka Silver as Pasha
Laura Ashley Samuels as Sagita
Amanda Seyfried as Sylvia Weis (Our Heroine!)
Vincent Kartheiser as Philippe Weis (Our Evil Villain)
Cillian Murphy as The Timekeeper (Our Corrupt Villain)
and a host of others, all of whom are out of time.

I enjoy science fiction, both reading and in film. What I don't like is bad sci-fi, and while In Time doesn't really qualify as bad, it comes pretty close to the bottom in places and I'm not sure it completely decompresses when it starts to surface. Here's why, without spoilers.

I took a one hour seminar a little while back where a published author attempted to explain the process of creating a consistent, believable world. Believe me, it's no small matter. Inconsistencies stick out like a sore tentacle. Take Jurassic Park (1993) for instance. The premise is very promising - giant carnivorous monsters safely trapped on a remote island so the victims can't just run away or dial 9-1-1, a nice jungle environment that provides lots of cover and promise of exotic poisonous plants, and the inevitable selection of nubile females who we all hope will lose critical portions of their clothing. However, a few explanations might be in order. 'Splain just why it is that an otherwise intelligent scientist would build a fifty ton carnivore instead of a five pound herbivore? The food bills alone will bankrupt the project before it gets off the ground. And then why would an otherwise reasonable person completely fail to build an adequate pen for the fifty ton buffalo muncher? Then you can 'splain just why these same brilliant scientific types would build a pack of intelligent carnivores that show signs of more than rudimentary intelligence and are fertile, thus making more of themselves on their own? And then, finally, you can explain why oh why an experienced large game hunter would fail to arm himself and his crew with weapons adequate to the task of dropping any or all of these monsters when some minimum wage slave fails to lock the cage door after pen cleaning time? I'm thinking .50 caliber machine gun here, but feel free to suggest alternatives - just remember that I want a trophy to take home, so you can nix the rocket launcher idea.

In Time is set in the future, and from the medical advances I'm guessing it's a pretty far piece down the road. If you don't expire by suicide or misadventure, you remain at 25 years old forever. Sounds like a pretty good deal, right? Ah, but then you'll have to put up with your mother in law forever. Think about that for a minute, and maybe you'll remember that slip and fall accidents are very common. The insect polluting the utopia is that everyone is given a brand new kind of biological clock, one that counts down. If you want to keep on living, you have to add time to the clock. If your clock hits the magic number, you are said to have timed out and you are dead right there. Blooie! All done. People can transfer time back and forth by holding hands, which enables time as the preferred medium of exchange. So, there is no money anymore. No bucks, yen, baht, gilders, pesos, francs or pounds. Coffee is five minutes, up from three last week.

Money isn't the only thing missing here either. There isn't any chemistry between any of the actors. No one is a good catalyst for another, or maybe it's the director (Andrew Niccol), but it's definitely a lack of something. Individually, these actors should be able to play their assigned parts very well, but they don't. For instance, Vincent Kartheiser should be able to play an evil sociopath with delusions of divinity, but he comes off like a parking valet. Cillian Murphy has a few moments, but he displays no evidence of being bulletproof and his performance is so forgettable that he just doesn't make a good villain. That means our hero doesn't really deserve to win, but since there isn't much stopping him he might as well take one for the team. Or something.

Amidst all this advanced science and stupidity are the sets and costumes. The costuming is dumb, and is virtually indistinguishable from anything you might see today. I'd hoped for more - or less. I got neither. The sets are very good, and easily set the scene for the future. Actually, the sets make for the only really believable part of the world. While we're immersed in this high tech future it's nice to see that a few things have survived the test of time. The model 1911 .45 is still with us, along with standard ammunition. The idea of caseless ammo evidently never work out, nor did energy weapons. Cell phones are still around. Automobiles still exist, but most are a uniform flat black and look like circa 1975 Lincoln Continental limousines.

The real bottom line for On Time is a protest against the evils of capitalism, and it has all the subtlety of an action adventure film that was written, produced and directed by The Brady Bunch. People with several thousand years on their clock behave differently than The Great Unwashed, all of whom are too noble and pure of heart to display any form of class envy. Oh well...

I'd rate the film as a 4 on a scale of 1 to 10, but don't let me dissuade you from seeing it for yourself. As for me, I know for a fact that I should have waited for the DVD on Netflix.

Shameless Plug for Dr. Grumpy

2011-11-01T18:45:00.000-04:00

I started reading Doctor Grumpy in the House. The man purports to be a real medical doctor, which he may well be, but either way the stories he tells are hilarious. Here's an example:

It is never good when the chart begins: "Patient suffered a head injury with intracranial bleeding when a fight broke out at his Bible study group."

Sounds like an elder's meeting at a Southern Baptist church. If you want a few good laughs, here the link: Doctor Grumpy in the House

Hope you enjoy him as much as I do.

Halloween, a Time of Garden Hose Baptism

2011-11-01T18:06:00.000-04:00

Well, they're at it again. This happens every single year and I'm tired of it. The Good People of the First Self-Righteous Church decry Halloween as a Pagan celebration that is seeking to corrupt the morals of our young people, especially young men, by exposing them to the worldliness of the world, which is all they'll allude to. I suspect it's all they can allude to without giving themselves a collective apoplexy, which is what generally happens when you can't see the freight train because of your blind spot.

I'll spare everyone the righteous rant from the pulpit of Pastor Pissfire Pallbox. If you're really all that curious, you can tune in to any television ministry on Sunday and get treated to a first class version. I actually listened to about twenty minutes from one of these ministers and I thought I was watching a re-run of Saturday Night Live. I couldn't believe anyone would take this guy seriously - I think it might have been Jerry Falwell, but I'm a long way from surety here. Anyway, at some point after WWII and before yesterday, the Good Christian People of the U.S. of A. discovered that Halloween gave them something safe to hate and that they could criticize the people who celebrate Halloween without fear of reprisal.

Then, in spite of the separation of Church and State, they took their silly prejudice to the Bored of Education. Now another holiday is being eliminated.

Halloween Parties Vanishing in Some Toledo-Area Schools

Halloween alternatives are being heralded as education-based, time-on-task events with hands-on activities such as candle making and squash-seed counting. But when compared to Halloween parties, autumn-themed events might be viewed, at least by some children, as a way to masquerade the usual school day.

First of all, just what the hell is a 'time-on-task' event? This sounds a lot like the crap that the average programmer/analyst has to listen to from a spineless geek wanna-be who is a living, breathing example of the Peter Principle (or Principal as it applies to the public school system) as suffered through during the weekly project status update meeting. I suspect that grade school children are being prepared by The Capitalistic System for a life in Cube Hell West, where men are mentally castrated so completely that they will refuse to notice the hottie with the big torpedoes in the cube next to them. I'd seriously suspect a conspiracy if the Bored of Education weren't staffed by bureaucrats who can't even come close to mediocrity, even when standing on a bar stool. As things stand today, the concept of a huge "them versus us" plot shatters my willing suspension of disbelief - and I am very imaginative. And the public school has the kids making candles and counting the seeds in a squash? Fall back to a day of fun for the kids.

When I was a child in elementary school and wasn't sitting in the principal's office for ignoring some inane, trivial school rule - okay, scratch that. Back when I was in elementary school, the kids had fun on Halloween. We played games, we dressed in costume, we got all kinds of stuff that was bad for us and at the end of the day we had a big parade where all the kids got to see each other in costume. It was fun. As you can see from my various essays, I was horribly scarred for life by all the pagan ceremony I was forced to participate in. Don't tell Main Lady though - she's a licensed clinical psychologist with a PhD and she hasn't spotted the damage yet.

Now admittedly every mother would like to get a hand made candle from her son or daughter, but let's be reasonable here. This is a girl's assignment. The girls in my class would have come up with pretty, colorful candles that were shaped like flowers, pumpkins and candles. Left to their own devices, the boys would have produced guns, rockets, bombs, skulls, snakes, daggers... well, they would have tried, anyway. Mostly I suspect you'd see a collection of misshapen lumps of paraffin with wicks sticking out of them somewhere. Well, the moms would all be happy anyway.

As far as the children not noticing that they are having a thinly camouflaged normal school day, what else would they think? Even the kids on the short bus are going to get that message, which is as subtle as an evangelist with a bullhorn in the middle of a Beltane festival. I suppose the good part about this is that by the time the little worker bees are old enough to vote, they won't be surprised when the politicos fail to keep the promises made during the campaign.

When I was a child I asked my old pater, the Whiskey Man, what it was he did on Halloween. Before Mom could make him keep quiet, he told me.

The Whiskey Man grew up in a small town in Southern Ohio, and went to a one room school house. He used to ride his horse to school. Upon learning of my interest in the family history, he uncovered a device that was common back in the old days. This was a noise maker. What the kids did back then was to find a long, thin nut and bolt (about six inches long), an empty thread spool and a piece of string (about two feet or so was good). You put the bolt through the spool and secured it with the nut, then took your jack knife and made notches all along the edges of the spool at both ends. Then you tied one end of your string to the spool and wound the rest of the string up, sort of like a yo-yo. Then you gave your good old noise maker to little Mad Jack to play with, who waited with all the patience of a hungry dog within olfactory range of bacon on the stove for night to fall, which it finally did, and who then sneaked up on poor old Grandpa Parsimonious and Grandma Bourbon who were peacefully watching the Ed Sullivan Show in their own living room... and pressed the thread spool against the living room window and pulled the string. I didn't know the old boy was so spry, or would be so upset by a little harmless fun.

I went home directly and told the Whiskey Man what happened, and he laughed and laughed, then made me tell it all over again several times. I note that while he thought my antics amusing, he didn't volunteer many more stories about the bad old days. I did gather that the Halloween celebration was about a week long and involved various theme nights. There was corn cob night, cabbage night and finally there was beggar's night which is when the kids actually knocked on the doors and yelled 'trick or treat'. I think the deal was that the kids spent five or six nights raising hell and showing the homeowners just what they were in for should they fail to cough up a suitable treat on beggar's night.

This kind of behavior was not without peril. One homeowner decided he'd had enough of the Dead End Kid's shenanigans and waited up for them with a revolver. When the little miscreants began vandalizing his home, he turned on the lights and boiled out onto his front lawn where he hurled invective as well as lead. The boys all hit the deck until the shooting stopped, then took to their heels before he could reload and correct his errors in ballistics. Another time they broke into the school house (someone had the audacity to lock the door, so they had to sneak in through the window) and started ringing the bell. This was a traditional school house, complete with bell tower, belfry and a large bell that was used several times a day. The bell was heavy enough to lift one or two children right off their feet as they swung on the bell rope, but the merriment was cut short when the bell got loose and fell out of the belfry, rolled down the roof and landed on the sidewalk right outside the door to the school house. The bell weighed several hundred pounds... but it didn't land on anyone. The Whiskey Man never said just how the bell was reinstalled, but it was and the guilty parties were never found.

The Christians back then are clearly not as good as the ones we have today. No one suggested that the kids not be allowed to go out on beggar's night, or any of the other nights. No one protested the celebration of Halloween in school, or Easter, or Thanksgiving, or Christmas. None of the parents objected to the kids starting the day off by saying the Pledge of Allegiance and the Lord's Prayer. Participation in these two events was mandatory, and by that I really do mean mandatory - they didn't waste a lot of time talking.

Halloween is for the kids. If the good Christian parents of today don't like it, they don't have to participate. Just let the rest of us the hell alone.

Disclaimer: I'm a Christian, but I'm not a good Christian. On my best days I'm pretty good, meaning fair, but that isn't so bad. I celebrate Halloween by giving out candy and apples to the kids who are brave enough to come to Main Lady's front door. Last year I had a kid show up in a red devil costume, complete with pitchfork.

"Look Honey!" I called loudly to Main Lady. "It's the devil himself!" I walked up to the front door and stuck out my mitt.

"Well shake hands," I said. "I've married your sister."

Cat and Mouse, The Sequel

2011-11-01T11:29:00.000-04:00

Back in October cute little Ebony caught herself a snack, which I wrote about here: My Life: Playing Cat and Mouse. The long and short of this is that while Main Lady and Cottontail were over at Centenarian's house caring for her - she isn't doing well, but at 103 years old I'm not surprised - I saw Ebony, the little black cat, carry a mouse from the TV room to a clear area in the foyer where she could play with her new toy to her heart's content. Which she did. Last weekend Mopsy came to town to celebrate the completion of her board examinations (Mopsy is a physical therapist) and help Main Lady with Centenarian. When Mopsy went over to take Excellent Rachmaninoff for a canine constitutional, she found something interesting.

Main Lady's two cats, Ebony and Pumpkin, do not get along with each other. Pumpkin would like to make friends with Ebony, but Ebony won't have it. Since Ebony spent a large portion of her life living on the street, she likely sees Pumpkin as competition and acts accordingly. To keep the peace, the cats are housed in separate rooms, with shared living space being carefully policed by big people carrying rolled up newspapers. So when Mopsy went over to walk the dog, she also let the cats out for a little exercise while she refilled their food and water dishes. Mopsy noted that Ebony was not out running around, but instead was sitting next to her water dish, looking very tall and pleased with herself.

A brief investigation by Mopsy revealed that Ebony had secured a cat toy for herself. Curious about what made this toy so special, Mopsy examined the toy a little more closely. What a nice toy this was! A little cloth mouse, with beady eyes, tiny little claws painstakingly attached to its little feet, and miniscule whiskers on its cute little nose. Mopsy prodded the toy suspiciously, an uneasy thought growing in the back of her college educated mind. You don't suppose...

After the hysterics stopped, Mopsy was able to pick up the deceased rodent using no less than 17 thicknesses of Kleenex and deposit it into the garbage can in the garage. I rewarded Ebony with an extra portion of cat food and let her sit up with Excellent Rachmaninoff and I while we watched a movie.

I don't care if you're a cat person or not. A cat like Ebony is valuable.

November Election

2011-10-28T15:56:00.000-04:00

The up and coming election is providing bloggers and blowhards everywhere with more fodder, grist and cow pie targets then they've seen in four years, so I thought I might just as well throw a few bricks of my own. Here in the gravel pit that is Toledo, Ohio a red hot topic that's certain to start flame wars everywhere is the infamous Senate Bill 5, a carefully crafted document certain to drive Ohio back into the stone age... where some of us would be a lot happier, or rescue Ohio from guaranteed destruction, proving conclusively that there is, indeed, a fate worse than death.

I'm undecided about SB 5, which is an unusual state for me. My inclination is to vote against it, but I haven't really made up my mind as yet. Here's why.
Warning! The following discourse is lengthy, inflammatory and somewhat seditious. Moreover, I present an interminable situation likely to dishearten even the most seasoned drinker.

Consider for a moment the authors of the United States Constitution and the Bill Of Rights. These men were forced to define just what sort of country they wanted to live in - and remember that each one of them had their own opinion and none of them were the sort of men to remain quiet while some other fool was yammering away about nothing. Then they had to modify that definition so as to make everyone equally unhappy, and after that (pay attention, because this is the important part) they somehow managed to neatly quantify all of this into a single document in language that virtually everyone could understand and not misinterpret. And they had to accomplish all this without shooting each other, and with the certain knowledge, right up front, that many people would disagree with their writing and that others would do their absolute best to pervert the intent. Collectively and individually they did a good job with this.

For instance, consider the venerable First Amendment:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

What's so hard to understand here? Even a putz like me can understand the spirit of this amendment, which is the entire point. However the Chicago Police Department and Chicago Mayor Richard Daley either didn't read it or chose to ignore it back in 1968 during the Democratic National Convention.

Then there's my own personal favorite, the Second Amendment:

A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

Even the most rabid Moonbat anti-freedom ~~fascist~~ activist will reluctantly admit, when pressed, that the meaning of the 2A is clear. They just don't like it, that's all, and since they are always right and we are always wrong, the Second Amendment can safely be ignored. Check the anti-freedom laws at the Federal and State levels, then if you like you can try and convince me that the Second Amendment is not being ignored by legislators with the same high handed, authoritarian attitude that Daley had when he dealt with the protestors in 1968.

Okay, eighty six that last. The attitude of The Anointed One and His authoritarian enforcers make Daley appear positively benevolent.

My point here is that the Bill of Rights can be read by anyone with an eighth grade education and the spirit of these rights is easily understood. This means that when the government violates our civil rights, people can, at the very least, understand just what their individual rights are and how these same inviolate rights have been violated by their own elected government, which is comprised of elected officials which have publicly sworn to uphold those rights.

Cut to Am. Sub. S.B. 5 As Passed by the 129th General Assembly. The PDF version of the summary is fifty four (54) pages long. That's the summary, not the actual bill. The bill itself, S.B. 5 As Passed by the Senate - Entire Text, is nine thousand one hundred sixty one (9161) lines. Here's a sample:

Section 6. The General Assembly, applying the principle stated in division (B) of section 1.52 of the Revised Code that amendments are to be harmonized if reasonably capable of simultaneous operation, finds that the following sections, presented in this act as composites of the sections as amended by the acts indicated, are the resulting versions of the sections in effect prior to the effective date of the sections as presented in this act:

An incomprehensible list of items follows this text. I actually tried reading this bill and gave it up after a few hours as a bad job. But none the less, we the Great Unwashed are supposed to vote on this monster and judging from what I've seen so far, I'm willing to bet that half of the Ohio legislators currently sitting in office don't understand what it says, either because they haven't read it or because they tried reading it and gave up.

A long time ago someone or other taught me that if I didn't fully understand what was on the contract, I shouldn't sign it. Some time later on I found myself arguing with a loan officer at a local bank who was trying to explain to me that the contract didn't really mean what was written; it really meant something different. When I offered to alter the writing so as to match the real meaning, relations rapidly deteriorated. I ended up going somewhere else for a loan and was happier for it.

I don't understand S.B. 5. Since I don't understand S.B. 5, I can't possibly understand the ramifications of signing it into law. I do understand this, though.

By their past actions, I understand that my elected officials do not give one final damn about me, my well-being or my civil rights. If these people want S.B. 5 passed, the safest thing to do is vote against it.

Blast From The Past

2011-10-28T00:02:00.000-04:00

I haven't written in a while, mainly because I've been busy with problems that I'll be amused to bore everyone with later on. Meanwhile, to assuage everyone's impatience, here are a few photos I found in a long abandoned dresser drawer. These photos have been digitized from 35mm slides that haven't degenerated too much to use. None were taken by your poor host (just check the framing for Heaven's sake), but I think all of these were taken prior to 1955. I suppose there's a certain historical significance to be found somewhere here. I hope you enjoy them.

This is the way people used to travel when they weren't taking the train or driving the distance. Consider that the interstate highway system was still in the planning stages, so driving from Ohio to Miami, Florida was a real adventure. Add to that the weather you might encounter in the mountains during the winter months and, if you were going to make the trip, you'd better be self-sufficient.

My paternal grandfather, Grandpa Parsimonious, worked for the United States government in the Interstate Commerce Commission, or ICC as it was generally called. Back in those days the U.S. government regulated the trucking industry, and that included regulation of trucking routes. So, if you owned a truck line and wanted to haul freight from, say, Columbus, Ohio to Detroit, Michigan via Ohio Route 315 North, you had to get permission to do so from the ICC. Failure to obtain that permission meant risking the ire of a large government bureaucracy with an evil temper, which often translated into loss of revenue via fines, penalties and equipment being placed out of service by the ICC. It also meant that a competitor might get permission to use that route and so pick up the business that you are now missing out on.

Some people thought that this was a bit heavy handed, but Grandpa Parsimonious worked with it from both sides of the fence (he owned his own trucking company for a while and sold it) and never had a problem. My point is that if you owned a trucking company and if you wanted a proposed route approved for your trucks, it then behooved you to get to know someone from the ICC on a first name basis. Someone who would be glad to see you show up around the holidays - or just any old time at all. Such an owner was Charlie Hoke, pictured below standing in front of a (then) modern aircraft about to take on passengers for a little aerial peregrination to Miami, Florida.

Charlie Hoke

As I explained above, Charlie would have a hard time making ends meet if he didn't have a few friends in the ICC who were willing to help him out occasionally by approving the freight routes that Charlie needed. Such a man was Grandpa Parsimonious, seen below with his wife Grandma Bourbon. The two flew down to Florida once or twice a year and had a great time partying with friends, meaning Grandpa's business friends.

Grandpa Parsimonious and Grandma Bourbon

One place that few people missed seeing was the famous Parrot Jungle. It's gone now, more's the pity, but I was fortunate enough to visit the original Parrot Jungle around 1960 or so. This was an absolutely gorgeous place to tour. I remember it being about 15 acres of carefully cultivated exotic trees and plants that were conducive to the macaws and parrots that lived there. The birds were tame and would sit on your hand and eat sunflower seeds. One attraction was the opportunity to have your picture taken with five parrots sitting on you. The Parrot Jungle didn't charge for this. They provided the birds; you had to provide your own camera and photographer. Here's Grandpa Parsimonious and Grandma Bourbon holding up the parrots.

Grandma Bourbon with Parrots at the Parrot Jungle in Florida

Grandpa Parsimonious with Parrots at the Parrot Jungle in Florida

This is the way things were done back in the old days. One hand washed the other, and I think the country was a little better off for it. I'd like to note that Grandma Bourbon was quite a convivial bon vivant and something of a fashion plate. The dress she's wearing in the photo was considered stylish back then.

Further North in Lexington, Kentucky there was (still is) Tattersalls Saddlebred horse auction. Grandpa Parsimonious liked horses and knew Ed Teater, and so would attend the auction periodically, sometimes taking his son (my father, the Whiskey Man) along with him. One character who never failed to show up is pictured below. I don't know his name, but Grandpa Parsimonious and the Whiskey Man knew him, and not just by sight either.

Tattersall Regular

Note the men in the background. All are wearing hats and coats, and although wearing a topper was de rigueur at that time you only wore your coat when the weather demanded it. Our character has neither.

Tattersall Regular

The fellow cuts quite a figure, and he was featured in some major magazine around 1960 or so. I remember pointing him out to Grandpa Parsimonious, who knew him and told me about him. The man goes barefoot at all times; he's never worn shoes. Although his clothing is old, both he and his clothes are always very clean, as is his hair and beard. Amazing, what?

That's the way things were. Thanks for reading.

My Life: Playing Cat and Mouse

2011-10-17T21:46:00.000-04:00

Since Centenarian is feeling a little under the weather these days, Main Lady is spending time tending to her ~~every whim~~ needs, and at 103 August years the old freighter needs a whole lot less maintenance than most. Certainly a lot less than I would require should Divinity intervene and cause me to attain such a Noble age. Not that I want to, you understand. By the time I turn 103 Social Security, Medicare, Medicaid, Welfare, Workfare, this-ain't-fair and No Child Left Behind will have been combined into one giant fuck up factory and the Republick of the North American Continent will be desperately hawking the very last section of the highway system to whatever Chinese conglomerate they can find that's bored enough to listen to them - well, they have to make payroll somehow, don't they?

As interesting as this rant may sound, none of it came up in a telephone conversation I had with Main Lady the other night. You see, Cottontail came in for the weekend, so last Saturday night Main Lady, Cottontail and Centenarian were all over at Centenarian's home playing a word game that does not involve conquering territory or destroying enemy tokens, and which I therefore (wisely) declined to play. They left me at Main Lady's home to entertain myself as best I could. I had a couple DVDs, a bottle of good whiskey and Excellent Rachmaninoff for company. What more could I ask for? Then I got a surprise.

I settled Excellent Rachmaninoff on the couch and called Main Lady.

"Hello?"

"Hi Sweetie. It's me."

"Oh! I was just thinking about you! I - "

"No. It's me, Jack."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Look, I was wondering if you've been feeding your cats regularly."

"Well, Cottontail fed them both this morning. Hold on and I'll ask her."

What does he mean, did I feed them? Of course I fed them! What does he think I am, anyway? A gun owner or something?

"She says she fed them, Jack."

"Well, the reason I was asking is that I just saw little Ebony run across the floor carrying a mouse."

"What?!"

"I said, the reason - "

"No, I heard you. Well... good. Was it dead?"

"Yes, I think it was quite dead."

"What are you going to do about that?"

"Nothing."

"What do you mean, nothing?"

"Nothing. Ebony has caught herself a little snack, and I see no reason to do anything about it."

"Oh, well - it was probably a toy mouse, wasn't it? One of those little cloth mouses that the cats play with."

"No, this was the real deal."

"Well, I - hold on, Jack."

Cottontail! Ebony caught a mouse and she's eating it!

Oh gross!

"Well, I don't know what to do. I suppose just let her have it."

"Yeah, that's what I suppose as well. Anyway, I'm going to have another drink and walk the dog. Bye now."

click.

I shut the doors to the TV room to keep the dog from stealing Ebony's mouse. Ebony was in the foyer, and by her actions I deduced that the mouse still had some play left in it. Ebony industriously swatted the mouse around, then would carefully walk away pretending not to notice the mouse, then would spin around and hook the mouse with her claw just as it ran for the closet. Great fun!

I suppose I should conclude this little vignette with something suitably philosophical about nature and the way of the world, but nothing suggests itself. Main Lady has a proven mouser, cats are designed to live nicely on one mouse per day, and as a hunter myself I have a great deal of respect for cats.

Here's how!

Ebony the Cat

My Life: Moonbat Central

2011-10-14T10:46:00.000-04:00

There I was, right in the middle of Moonbat Central. Moonbats to the left of me, Moonbats to the right of me, Moonbats sneaking up behind me with all the stealth of a Canadian hockey team headed for their favorite watering hole just after the defeat of a long time rival. I was outnumbered 30 to 1. What could I do? Clearly, fortification was needed. Looking around in desperation I spotted the bar. It was hidden away in a small room in the back, the entrance to which was obscured and effectively blocked by a pack of hoary Moonbats engaged in mutual ~~self-abuse~~ self-admiration.

Maybe I better back up and explain just what I was doing in Moonbat Central and how I came to acquire Big Mike's birthday present. Mike turned 110 last Wednesday, so naturally I had to get him something special.

One way or another, I managed to get invited to the Toledo Press Club's Touchstone Awards. I didn't want to go, but Mom got invited as well and since Mom doesn't do well drinking and driving at night, well, what else could I do? I got my ears lowered and dressed my mother's favorite son out to the nines, then we departed for the Toledo Club.

The Toledo Club got started in 1879. In 1915 the current location was opened to the members. The cost to build this pile is listed at half a million dead presidents, but given the connections the members had I'm willing to bet they got a real deal on construction costs. These days the Toledo Club is one of those places few of the great unwashed see the inside of much less get to enjoy past the time the doorman provides them with the traditional bum's rush. The walls are paneled, museum quality artwork sets off furniture that wouldn't survive unscathed for ten minutes in a four star hotel and all the staff are attractive, female and pleasantly glad to see you. The parking lot has a guard shack, a chain link fence topped with concertina and active 24 hour surveillance (the neighborhood is bad, and by that I mean downtown bad in a city where unemployment in the downtown area hovers around 25%).

The awards event is on the fifth floor, so we get to ride up in an elevator car that was brand new when Tommy Wilson was alive and well and living on Pennsylvania Avenue. Again, wood paneling, nice fixtures and artwork. As soon as I got off the elevator I knew I was in trouble. Moonbats all over the place were showing their teeth and pretending how nice it was to see each other, yakking about The Anointed One in 2012 and His plans to bankrupt the nation by 2014. I waded into the water and got my official name tag from a hottie at the Welcome! table, then I headed for the main room to snatch up some real estate and an alcoholic potable, not necessarily in that order.

According to the official agenda, we were supposed to graze from 6:00 until 7:00, which is when the show would start. I note that this isn't a cocktail party and we aren't having hors d'oeuvres. We graze. Now, I don't graze well. I tend to jump the fence and chase around after the neighbor's cows. Nonetheless, if they could graze I'd give it a try. First, however, a drink was needed.

Muttering something to Mom about needing to see a man about a crap game in the back room, I headed straight for the bar entrance only to have my passage blocked by a Moonbat fully twice my size – and for those of you who know me, No, I'm not kidding, and No, I hadn't been drinking. Yet. That's the whole point about the bar, remember? I stepped aside and allowed the old freighter passage. I stopped again for the trio of aged Moonbats blocking the door, but they shifted position once I dropped a dime on the carpet a few yards away. They pounced, I left them squabbling about the lost and found versus finders keepers.

The drinks at the bar were all twice the normal price. Top shelf scotch was Glenlivet, but I wasn't interested. I wanted a perfect manhattan, and at a place like the Toledo Club I expected the bartender to be able to make one. I was about half right. The bartender was a good deal younger than I am, so I was pleasantly surprised that the expected question wasn't asked (How do you make a manhattan, perfect or otherwise?). Instead, the bartender wanted to know what kind of bourbon to use. When I expressed my preference for rye, the show slammed to a stop. The bar had no rye whiskey. I substituted Maker's Mark and contented myself with an imperfect manhattan. I noted that the proportions the bartender used were one quarter dry vermouth, one quarter sweet vermouth, half bourbon. No bitters were added.

Time to graze, thinks I. Returning to the pasture I made a strafing run at the hog trough, loading up on 18 count shrimp topped with cocktail sauce, scallops wrapped in bacon impaled on toothpicks, a few Swedish meatballs and a selection of wafers with various toppings. I was all set.

The thing I learned about grazing is that you are expected to juggle your drink, your fodder and Moonbat conversation all at the same time, and you must do so without choking on one or throwing the other. Remember, primates and small children throw food. My mother's favorite son does not, even when I overhear Moonbat plans to bankrupt the supposedly overflowing coffers of local business so as to provide remedial education for college bound inner-city youth, all of whom must be admitted to a university of their choice due to various constraints and limitations on admission standards. Put differently, the bar is adjusted so no child will be left behind, the great unwashed is paying their way and truly the good life is just over the next rise. After twenty minutes of this I had no choice.

I jumped the fence.

Blessed solitude at last. I wandered the hallways in search of what I might find, stopping briefly at the Men's room to play the flute. Further down the hall I found a stack of community property. Well, well, well, would you look at this? Just the thing...

Happy Birthday Big Mike

You see before you a beer mug with some interesting news and pictures on the front. I gave it to Big Mike for his birthday, explaining just how I came by such an unusual gift. I was prepared to explain just how Mike would be opposing the Moonbat theory of natural property law by accepting this gift, but he was ahead of me. No surprise there, as Big Mike has a thorough understanding of Moonbat philosophy.

Prior to delivering said gift, I was inspired to create this display so as to underscore the irony of the Toledo Press Club's obdurate position on gun control. Tell me, which is mightier – the pen or the pistol?

My Life: Happy Birthday

2011-10-02T09:08:00.000-04:00

Today is my birthday. I am over 50.

I think I'll celebrate quietly by going out and having a few drinks with dinner, then retiring quietly and either reading or watching a DVD. The idea of tearing around town and doing a bar crawl on my birthday does not appeal to me as it did when I was 12. These days it's quality, not quantity that make life enjoyable.

Tomorrow I'll begin my physical exercise regimen. It's as good a time to begin as any.

Rant: Self Defense

2011-09-30T13:22:00.000-04:00

I'd have thought this article would have come from the local bird cage liner, but it seems I was a bit too quick on the trigger. WTOL News 11, Toledo's self-proclaimed news leader advocates we all surrender meekly to villains, burglars and thieves in the hope that the criminals will let us alone. Here's a link to the article: Violent crimes in Toledo rising, police say residents need plan

I have a plan, thank you so much for your consideration. Here's the part that causes my blood pressure to rise.

Everyone who has read my diatribes before knows I'm a gun owner and solid supporter of the Second Amendment. Those who didn't know that I support the 2A now do. I also support castle doctrine law, meaning that each person has a right to stand and defend themselves by use of whatever force that person deems necessary. Now we'll get along to the article.

Toledo Police claim that violent crime is on the rise, and they are probably right. What gets right on my very last nerve is that the government does not want us, The Great Unwashed, defending ourselves.

Here are a few quotes from the article as made by Lt. David Schmidt who is with the Toledo Police Property Division:

First he [Lt. David Schmidt - MJ] says keep all doors and windows closed and locked, even on a nice night. He advises placing sound makers or alarms on each window or installing an alarm system all together.

If a burglar does get in your home, Lt. Schmidt says always keep a phone at arm's length so you can call 911. He says avoid confrontation.

"Get out. Don't get trapped in your house," said Lt. Schmidt.

So if the noise makers don't scare away the bad guy, I'm supposed to flee from my own home? This is outrageous. Your home, be it a palace on Pennsylvania Avenue or a cardboard box on Cocaine Alley, is your castle. It's your refuge and that concept is protected by the Bill of Rights. The idea of being driven from your home by a violent criminal is repugnant, but having the government, particularly the law enforcement branch of the government, advocate that idea goes beyond the pale.

WTOL barely mentions that you have the right to defend your home from invasion, and little wonder. WTOL is afraid of offending the anti-freedom Moonbats. Here's the one-liner:

And according to Ohio state law, every homeowner has the right to use force to protect themselves and their property.

Nice, huh? Rewritten so as to be in keeping with the anti-freedom advocates at WTOL, this should read: By the way, not to sound like we advocate self-defense or anything, but there's a nasty rumor circulating that Ohio State law says something somewhere about using force of some sort to protect yourself and your property.

"You should always be prepared. Have a rough idea of what you're going to do," said Lt. Schmidt.

Be prepared is right. I have a little more than a rough idea about just what I'd do with a home invader.

Early Warning System

Here's my early warning system and first line of defense. Note the nice white teeth. He's a proven quantity, and any box of dog biscuits that gets through the door is fair game.

Betsy

Betsy is also a proven quantity, the design having seen several wars and any number of skirmishes. She'll eat anything I can fit in the clip.

What really pisses me off here is the part about not getting trapped in your own home. Trapped in my own home?! It's my home. It's where I live.

Calling nine-one-one is fine as far as it goes, but even when you get past the emergency operator and dispatch systems the police are still going to be minutes away. Police know this and they wish it wasn't so, but that's the way things are. If WTOL really wanted to be helpful they'd publish an article on just what a homeowner should do right after the ~~violent criminal~~ misguided choir boy measures his length on the living room carpet and stops leaking and twitching. Now that would be useful.

My Life: More Foster Kids

2011-09-29T10:01:00.001-04:00

As some of you know and others don't, my brother Shotgun Bob and his wife The Girl decided that they would become foster parents. The reasons behind this decision are known only to Divinity, and that includes Shotgun Bob and The Girl. Their first foster child, Flounder, has been returned to the system for being too aggressive with The Girl. I don't know the particulars and no one is talking, but I'm guessing that Flounder threatened physical violence while in the midst of a temper tantrum. Flounder was thrown out of the local YMCA over this kind of behavior, so I'm not all that surprised.

Foster care soon offered a replacement. Two boys and a girl, all related, between the ages of 10 and 15 needed a home. After Shotgun Bob played 20 questions with the social worker, he still had more questions than answers. The current foster parents were contacted via telephone and the three had a conference call. Here's an approximation of the interesting part:

Current Foster Parent (Parent): We'd like to keep them, but we just can't right now. We're headed out of town to visit my aging mother, and she's in Timbuctoo, Mali.

Shotgun Bob (Shotgun): I see. Well, are there any peculiarities or special needs we should know about?

Parent: Oh no, these are category one children.

Social Worker (Worker): Good! Well then, since there's nothing else -

Shotgun: Not so fast, lady. How about odd behavior? Any acting out, temper tantrums, that kind of thing?

Parent: No... but you might want to put a little something on their bedroom door so that you'll know if they get up at night.

Worker: That probably won't be necessary, since these are category one children. Thank you for -

Shotgun: I'm not finished. What do you mean, put a little something on the door?

Parent: Just a little security device or something. It doesn't have to be much, just something to tell you if they get up during the night.

Worker: Okay, since there's nothing else -

Shotgun: Put a sock in it, Worker. Why would anyone be worried if this crew is up and around?

Parent: Well, you wouldn't want to be asleep while they're awake. That's all.

Shotgun: That's all? What do you mean, that's all?

Parent: Worker?

Worker: Yes?

Parent: I'm not keeping these three any longer. They're history. Gone. You either pick them up by five today or I'm calling the police.

::silence while this news is digested::

Shotgun: What's the deal?

Parent: The deal is that they piss all over the house.

Shotgun: What?!

Parent: I said, they piss all over the house. Wherever they feel like taking a piss, they do. On the carpet, in the living room, wherever. I've had it. I'm not keeping them.

Shotgun: Worker, did you know about this?

Worker, simultaneous with Parent: No.
Parent: Yes.

Shotgun: I see. Okay lady, you lied. We're not taking them. No way.

Parent: Hey, I'm not keeping them.

Shotgun: We're not taking them.

Worker: Look, we need a home for these three, and this isn't that big a problem -

::Click!::
::Click!::
Buzzzzzz.....

It wasn't long before foster care came through with another set and persuaded Shotgun Bob to speak to them again. As a result of an extended conversation and an interview, Shotgun Bob and The Girl now have a six year old girl who I'll call Pixie Dust, and an eight year old boy who I'll call Bowser. The dogs (Big Blue, a Great Dane and Rudolpho, an American Terrier) absolutely love Pixie Dust, mainly because she has a ton of energy and likes to run around the pasture while screaming. The dogs give chase, which is great fun. I gather that the father is missing, as in not to be found anywhere missing. The mother is a bipolar schizophrenic who is in the happy house getting tuned up. No other relatives are listed.

Now then. As most of you don't know, I read Momma Fargo's blog, The Boogey Man Is My Friend, on a regular basis and she recently wrote a little something about the trials and tribulations of raising a little girl: Bug Blurbs. The rest of this post is dedicated to Momma Fargo.

It seems that Pixie Dust and Bowser need clothing, so Shotgun Bob and The Girl told them they had to go shopping on Saturday. The kids didn't want to go, preferring to stay at Shotgun Bob's house and play with the dogs, swim in the pool and take life easy. Thinking quickly, Shotgun Bob bribed them by promising a visit to a local amusement park, where they have rides, carnival games and junk food. The kids headed for the car.

The shopping went off without too many hitches. Pixie Dust is easy to please and Bowser accepts anything that looks like jeans and a tee shirt. Then, instead of returning home to dinner and a movie, the tribe rolls into Midway Mayhem. The kids are right at home and clamor onto one ride after another. I think it may have been the merry-go-round that did it – up and down with a nice breeze. Shotgun Bob squinted at Pixie Dust and turned to his wife.

“Have you noticed your ward?” Shotgun asked dryly.

The Girl squinted myopically and finally resorted to binoculars.

“Ah! Oh! Pixie Dust!!!” The Girl is apoplectic, then waves frantically. When the ride ends The Girl corrals Pixie Dust.

“Pixie Dust, where are your panties?”

“I don't have any.”

Happy Birthday!

2011-09-28T20:22:00.000-04:00

Well, it's that time of year again. I wrote about the entire business last year - here's the link to Happy Birthday 2010. Centenarian is one hundred and three years old - that's right, 103. Yes, it's amazing. The next question invariably concerns her well-being, which is fair. Up until a couple months ago, Centenarian was living by herself with regular visits from Main Lady and irregular visits from yours truly, Mad Jack. That has changed.

A couple months ago Centenarian complained that she was tired all the time. She was awake but was too tired to do anything, she was cross with the world and there was little hope for her to actually enjoy life anymore. Well now, this wouldn't have anything to do with her August years, would it? Against my better judgement, Main Lady took Centenarian to the local witch doctor and got her on some brand new monkey dust, and that's where the serious problems started. You see, when it comes to drugs Centenarian's blood is more like virgin spring water than anything else and her tolerance for recreational substances is close to non-existent. Case in point, the woman doesn't drink, and hasn't had anything stronger than a small glass of red wine in fifty years. Maybe longer. So now she's getting some kind of pep pill first thing in the morning, and anyone who has had any experience at all with recreational drugs will tell you that any energy you get that is chemically induced has certain side effects. Paranoia and depression come to mind, as does nervousness and an inability to sleep through the night. After a week or so of these side effects (mainly depression and paranoia) and the same witch doctor prescribed snake oil in the evening to counteract the monkey dust in the morning. How's that for a cocktail?

This went on for a while with Centenarian waking up every two hours during the night, extremely depressed, neurotic, paranoid and talking about suicide. During the day she was always half out of focus, unable to concentrate and has finally graduated to using a walker (she only needed a cane before this, and that only part of the time). Main Lady has been living at Centenarian's house with occasional breaks when Mad Jack Centenarian-sits. This being birthday week, Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail came into town to celebrate and ended up providing some much needed relief. Main Lady holds down a job, you see. Que Bee One stayed home to study for some kind of critter cutter certification, and Ding Bat didn't show - I don't know why and I'm not asking. If Main Lady wants me to know she'll tell me. So, things have been just a little hectic lately.

Anyway, although I haven't said "I told you so" because I'm much older and wiser these days, when this whole thing started I suggested a cup of coffee in the morning, and not the colored water that Main Lady calls coffee either. Follow this with a glass or two of wine at night. This should tend to work, especially since Centenarian doesn't drink anything with caffeine in it and very rarely drinks any wine at all, and even then it's often watered.

Main Lady, being a licensed clinical psychologist and all, had to get this treed and so I got a call last Friday.

"Jack, I think I know what Centenarian's problem is!"

"The mail man won't ring her bell anymore?"

"No, and if you're going to cut up and not take me seriously I'm not going to tell you what I found out."

Anyone who can figure out what my next line was going to be may congratulate me for stifling myself.

"Sorry, Sweetie. What did you find?"

"Well, I skipped the Monkey Dust on Monday, and Centenarian felt better. Then I gave it to her on Tuesday, and she felt worse. I skipped the Monkey Dust again on Wednesday, and she felt better, and I gave it to her on Thursday, and she felt worse."

"Ah-Ha! It's the Monkey Dust!"

"Yes! How did you know?"

"Well, for one thing I never did trust the Monkey Dust. For another, I'm writing this and I want to make myself look perceptive, intelligent and sensitive to the feelings of others."

So Main Lady has nixed the Monkey Dust. The Monkey Dust that Centenarian was taking has a half-life measured in weeks, so even though Main Lady discontinued the medication it's going to be a while before the full effects wear off. After that I hope things will start returning to whatever the hell it is that passes for normal these days.

103.

Who would ever guess?

A few high points of Centenarian's life are:

She was very poor growing up, but never thought of herself as poor.
Her husband, Main Lady's father, played first chair violin in the Arlington Virginia Philharmonic. After he was finished for an evening, he'd trade his tuxedo in for a country style costume and play square dances.
She has outlived two husbands.
She had lunch with First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt, whom she met by chance in Arlington while riding a streetcar. The two ladies were headed in the same direction and discovered they were attending the same event, so Eleanor invited Centenarian to lunch at a restaurant that was close by.
She served as a code breaker during the Vietnam war.
She met President Bill Clinton and First Lady Hillary while attending Church services in Arlington, at a Church she'd attended for many years. She stopped President Clinton in the parking lot and spoke to him for 20 minutes or so while the secret service quietly went nuts. The Clintons were nice to Centenarian and spent a considerable amount of time with her, for which I'm grateful.
She is a beauty contest winner - Miss Virginia.
She is a close relative of actress Jean Rogers who played Dale Arden in Flash Gordon.
She has a Master's degree, but I cannot remember her major. I'll ask and update the post later on.

She has many other accomplishments, but I'm not going to list them here. Time and privacy being what they are just now precludes a detailed biography.

Anyway, once she gets over the effects of the monkey dust, we're taking her out for dinner and dancing. Yes, she can still dance. She and I waltz together, and while we won't beat the folks on Dancing With The Stars! we did get a standing ovation last time we danced down at the club.

Film Review: Killer Elite (2011)

2011-09-28T10:53:00.000-04:00

Killer Elite (2011)
Rated: R
Running Time: 105 min
Genres: Action | Thriller

Cast
Jason Statham as Danny (Our Hero)
Clive Owen as Spike (Primary Villian)
Robert De Niro as Hunter (Our Hero's Hero)
Dominic Purcell as Davies
Aden Young as Meier
Yvonne Strahovski as Anne
Ben Mendelsohn as Martin
Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje as Agent
David Whiteley as MI6 Man
Matthew Nable as Pennock
Lachy Hulme as Harris
Firass Dirani as Bakhait
Nick Tate as Commander B
Bille Brown as Colonel Fitz
Stewart Morritt as Campbell
and a host of others who are generally inimical to Our Hero and his Friends.

I wanted to see this action film because I was in the mood for something that did not require a lot of thinking, that had things blowing up with a nice, loud bang and might have naked women in it. This film satisfies the parameters pretty well, but there's an added attraction that made me glad I went to see it; It's based on a true story. Just how true is up for debate, but after reading about the author I'm inclined to read the book and decide for myself. Here's a film review without spoilers.
The film is about an ex-special forces mercenary type who wisely decides to retire from the business of making mischief in far away places that feature primitive plumbing and lack potable water, air conditioning and penicillin. One thing all these places have in common is ample supplies of petroleum; another thing is that the major industry is not petroleum - it's law enforcement. While Our Hero retired, Our Hero's Hero, Robert De Niro, did not retire and subsequently got himself caught by a fiendishly wealthy screwball Islamic Sultan (or Caliph or something) who wants revenge and is willing to use De Niro as leverage to get it, along with a payment of six zillion dollars in U.S. greenbacks. Faced with the typical carrot and stick gambit, Our Hero comes out of retirement and tears around the world reducing property values and population until De Niro can be sprung. Now then, all that is predictable and expected, but it doesn't quite happen that way. At this point you'll want to sit up and start paying attention because the plot departs from the simple action movie plot that we all know and love, and heads into the treacherous waters of, say, War and Peace.

Aside from a complex but believable plot, the other great thing about the film are the settings. Exotic sports cars and luxury hotels are kept to a bare minimum. Nobody's Ferrari gets trashed and burned. Instead the locales are a series of butt crack third world nations; real cesspools. With one notable exception the de rigueur bevy of red hot women in various states of undress are conspicuously absent as are a lot of other plot devices and action film dressing. For instance, Our Hero has a visible means of support which is a nice twist.

We're also treated to several good fight scenes. Now, anyone who has ever been in a brawl will take one look at this movie hooey and tell you that "It just doesn't work like that" and be done with it. They're right, but that doesn't mean the fight scenes aren't fun to watch anyway. There are also chase scenes that are slightly more realistic and also fun to watch. The nice thing is that none of these things get in the way of the complex plot.

The thing that interested me about this film is that it's purported to be based on a true story. So is The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, and we all know how true that one is. Okay, for those readers who don't know, the film is not even remotely close to anything that ever happened to anyone anywhere ever, in the entire history of the world. The character Leatherface was inspired by Edward Theodore "Ed" Gein from Plainfield, Wisconsin who eventually died in a mental hospital in Madison, Wisconsin in 1984. Ed was nuts. See?

As I was saying, the film is adapted from the book The Feather Men, which is now published as Killer Elite (previously published as The Feather Men), by Sir Ranulph Twisleton-Wykeham-Fiennes, 3rd Baronet of Banbury, Officer of the Order of the British Empire. Reading a little about Sir Fiennes reveals that the man is a true adventurer, ex-SAS and a class A hell raiser. Fiennes once dynamited a singularly unsightly dam that had been erected by a movie company in order to film some meaningless Hollywood drivel. While the townspeople cheered, the SAS was not amused and dealt rather harshly with their bastard child and his accomplices. Anyway, Fiennes wrote the book and says it's true, and if it is then it is. Read it and make up your own mind. Given that Fiennes holds a number of Guinness World Records I'm inclined to buy his book, read it and make up my own mind as to the veracity. I suspect that it's true, for the most part.

The film is rated R, and I think that's a mistake. I'd take it down a notch or maybe two, depending on how I felt that day. I'm giving this film an 8, but that's due to the author. If it wasn't for that, I'd rate it a solid 6 and recommend the DVD version. Like I said, I'm glad I went to see it and I paid full price.

Film Review: Contagion (2011)

2011-09-27T11:32:00.000-04:00

Film Review: Contagion (2011)
Contagion (2011)
Rated: PG-13
Running Time: 106 min
Genres: Drama | Sci-Fi | Thriller

Cast
Gwyneth Paltrow as Beth Emhoff (who dies early)
Tien You Chui as Li Fai (this is the same Tien You Chui who played Officer James Shum in La lingerie and who also played Goh Keung in The Haunted School. Who knew?)
Josie Ho as Li Fai's Sister (Josie Ho! Need I write more?)
Daria Strokous as Irina
Matt Damon as Mitch Emhoff
Monique Gabriela Curnen as Lorraine Vasquez
Griffin Kane as Clark Morrow
Yoshiaki Kobayashi as Japanese Bus Man (finally, after years of directing and abusing actors in the name of art, it is now Yoshiaki's turn in the barrel)
Laurence Fishburne as Dr. Ellis Cheever
John Hawkes as Roger
Jude Law as Alan Krumwiede
Teri McEvoy as School Nurse
Sue Redman as ER Nurse #1
Teri Campbell as ER Nurse #2
Stef Tovar as Dr. Arrington
and a host of others, most of whom die off during the film.

I saw Contagion a few days ago and since then I've gone through three bottles of hand sanitizer and invested in one gross of Latex surgical gloves. If you are interested in developing a good case of mysophobia and a high probability of moving on up to full blown obbsessive compulsive disorder (OCD), then I can highly reccommend this film as a good beginning. Here's why, without spoilers.

No one likes to get sick, with the possible exception of elementary school children faced with another day in prison coupled with a math test given to them in the name of it's for the children by some unholy bitch on a stick single twenty-something Jewish elementary school teacher who hates goyim and males, not necessarily in that order. Otherwise, people hate getting sick. You see, when you get sick you miss work and hence you lose money, and you can just forget about taking those sick days when you're feeling better. Get sick enough and if you have health insurance you'll go to the hospital, where some well-meaning sawbones will run a stainless steel roto-rooter up your fundament just to see how it fits. Of course, if you don't have health insurance you can skip this part and maybe be better off for it. At least, that's how things look in the beginning of Contagion.

The basis for this film is that a weird new virus gets loose in the United States. The virus is airborne and anyone catching it generally expires noisily in public, spouting gibberish while hacking and blowing bloody snot all over the place as their lungs shut down. Nasty stuff. The the completely predictable happens. Civilization breaks down, survivalists scream a final "I told you so!" before diving into their pill boxes, police and fire departments are overwhelmed and the Moonbats belatedly realize how incredibly stupid and ineffective their gun control laws are - right before their GOP neighbor loots their home. Okay, I'm sort of kidding about the Moonbats, but it's implied. Anyway, about 15 minutes of the entire film is devoted to this kind of thing, which is very refreshing since it's been done to death, resurrected and done again several times over. The rest of the film makes sense - and it's a little chilling.

Don't look for a lot of character development here, because there isn't any. The characters exist to tell the story, and the director does a great job with this. It helps that there's a set of outstanding writers involved somewhere as well as solid directing, but my point here is that the story is the main focus. It's a good story, and without hammering away at the point it shows the incompetence of our own government during a protracted crises. The Center for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) gets involved early on and is presented in a fairly good light. The author uses the CDC to educate the audience, during which time we find out that airborne diseases have an incubation period and a replication factor - in other words, the number of people that are likely to become infected by one person before that person either gets well or not, as the case may be. The other thing we learn is that it takes time to construct a cure for this monster, and time is the thing no one has.

On top of this the armed forces get involved, because as some regular army officer with an indecipherable insignia on his collar tells us, "The enemy has suicide bombers. How much of a stretch is it for the enemy to have someone get sick and travel to the U.S.?" Although by the time it's said, everyone on the good side of the bell curve has made the jump and concluded this as a real possibility. Another obvious cliche that isn't used is the unsung hero who develops a cure but is ignored by the incompetent and self-serving government. The film doesn't even go there, and that's nice. What the film does do is get the press involved and shows everyone just how evil the press is, how the First Amendment should actually be modified for everyone's good, and how typewriters are evil. The writers make a pretty good case here, by the way, but don't take my word for it. See for yourself.

The film hangs together very nicely. It's fiction, but if you discount a few small items it's believable fiction. It doesn't go over the top. The tension builds slowly, like a fully loaded freight train rolling out of the yard. By the time everyone realizes the train is a runaway on a collision course with the orphanage it's too late to do much of anything except watch.

I rate this one as a 7 out of 10. You don't have to see it on the big screen, but you'll enjoy it more if you do. It's worth the price of full admission. My only caveat is with the rating. For reasons that I haven't been able to quantify, I'd rate this one an R. I think it was rated PG-13 on a technicality, and it shouldn't have been. And, by the way, this is not a film I'd take Main Lady or her three little darlings to see, but your mileage may vary.

John Coble for Judge

2011-09-22T10:38:00.001-04:00

A good friend of mine, John Coble, is running for office. You can check out his website here, at John Coble for Judge. John is running for Judge at Toledo Municipal Court. He's endorsed by the following organizations:

Lucas County Democratic Party
Teamsters Local 20
Ohio and Vicinity Council of Carpenters
Northwestern Ohio Building and Construction Trades Council
Plumbers, Steamfitters and Service Mechanics Local 50
Carpenters Local 1138

and John is also endorsed by yours truly, Mad Jack. John's a good man. He's fair minded and equitable, he's got a lot of experience with the justice system and he's so honest I'd shoot dice with him over the phone. I believe that John will be an outstanding judge and a real credit to the community.

The current incumbent, Robert Christiansen, has not endorsed John as yet but I'm sure he'll come around.

My Blog: Things I Don't Understand

2011-09-21T18:21:00.000-04:00

I've been getting short, commercialized comments from someone calling himself covnitkepr1, which I suppose translates into something like Covenant Keeper One. The man purports to being a born again Christian and writes one essay a month. His blog is AccordingToTheBook and his one line comments always end with:

I have added myself to follow your blog. You are more than welcome to visit my blog and become a follower as well.

I checked out his blog and found a critical error on page 1. Ain't is always the way?

My first question is easy. Why in the world is this man reading me? While it is certainly true that I'm a Christian, I'm not a particularly good Christian nor am I anything close to the noteworthy or popular Christian man. I'm not likely to show up at a political rally disguised as a Christian protest. I don't blockade abortion clinics, nor do I advocate doing so. I'm not big on saving people from themselves and are more apt to say so and have everyone know that I'm a caustic, curmudgeonly sort rather than remain quiet and have them wonder. The services I attend do not involve amplified music, altar calls, break dancing, snake handling, transmuting wine into blood or jabbering away in tongues that no one can understand. So why me?

Having a dull moment during a temporary bout of sobriety, I pointed my trusty browser at AccordingToTheBook and spent a pleasant ten minutes reading. Here's what I discovered.

On page one, right up front covnitkepr1 lists his chosen steps for anyone desiring to be born again to be born again. Well and good, because it saves the barbaric heathen from having to read the entire Bible cover to cover and then having to ask a local minister - which, by the way, happens a whole lot more often than either Christians or Heathens would like to admit. One problem with this is that covnitkepr1 is less than perfectly correct. See how diplomatic I'm being? This is the influence of Ephesians 4:14-16; speak the truth in love.

So here is what appears and here's what I found:

Believe the Gospel (1 Corinthians 15:1-4) that Jesus died for your sin, was buried, and has risen from the grave. (Mark 16:16) (Romans 10: 9-10)
Confess that Jesus is the Son of God.(Acts 8:37) (Romans10:9-10)
Repent of the sin in your life.(Luke 13:3) (Acts 2:38)
Be baptized into Christ for the forgiveness of your sin. (Acts 2:38) (Mark 16:16) (1 Peter 3:2-10) (Acts 22:16)
Be faithful until death. (Matthew 10:22) (Revelation 2:10)

Number 4 is incorrect. A person does not have to be baptized in order to be born again, or 'saved' as the saying goes. The proof for this is important and exists in the gospel according to Luke, chapter 23 verse 42. In plain English, Jesus was not the only person crucified that day. There were two criminals, neither of whom had been baptized, whose number came up, as did they, each on his own personal cross. Now these two misguided choir boys know that there is only one way they're coming down off that cross, so one of the two looked at Jesus and asked for some help. Jesus assured that little thief that before the day was out both of them would be in Heaven. Here's the Scripture in question, but feel free to look it up for yourself.

Luke 23:39-43

39 Then one of the criminals who were hanged blasphemed Him, saying, "If You are the Christ, save Yourself and us." 40 But the other, answering, rebuked him, saying, "Do you not even fear God, seeing you are under the same condemnation? 41 And we indeed justly, for we receive the due reward of our deeds; but this Man has done nothing wrong." 42 Then he said to Jesus, "Lord, remember me when You come into Your kingdom." 43 And Jesus said to him, "Assuredly, I say to you, today you will be with Me in Paradise."

The reason this is so important is that if you have one foot on the banana peel and one foot in the grave and you feel your purchase slip, you might still have time to yell for help. And, should you do so, help will be forthcoming - baptism or no, good works or none, sins and all. Not that I'm advocating anyone wait until the last minute. I'm just saying that you don't have to be baptized to be saved. And I'm sticking to it.

Just why this misguided zealot would pull my IP address out of the hat is beyond me. And No, I'm not following him.

Hold the Onions, Please...

2011-09-21T13:55:00.000-04:00

Back in February I wrote about Steve Hartsel, the city manager of Hudson, Michigan and his head on collision with the Hudson Machine. You can read about the particulars here:If You Don't Stop It, You'll Go Blind!, but the long and short of it (pun intended) is that a spiteful, lying bitch on a stick accused Steve of pulling his pud in public. The case finally went to trial and on September 15, the jury returned a verdict.

The whole thing started when Steve fired Fire Chief Brian Gerig for insubordination, and city council upheld the dismissal. It turns out that Hudson isn't much different than Chicago in many ways, and Gerig was connected - he had friends in Adrian, Michigan. This led to an accusation and a lot of chicanery on the part of small town government and equally small minded media who seemed intent on giving Steve a fair trial and a fine hanging. The only trouble was, Steve hadn't committed a crime - but maybe that could be fixed. So it begins...

Hudson City Manager Accused of Exposing Himself to Female Motorist Heading to Trial

Hartsel initially told police he had a sandwich in his lap, though later he admitted he was masturbating.

Which is, at best, an exaggeration. At worst, an outright falsehood. When Adrian Michigan Police Officer Walt Fischoff interviewed Steve Hartsel, Walt assured Steve that the complainant wanted an apology, and if Steve would tender same the whole thing would vanish. What Steve did was foolishly act like a wise guy when he was dealing with the police, who coincidentally failed to record the interview. This is never a good idea, and an even worse idea when you're being accused of a crime. Officer Fischoff did, in fact, call Steve back and told him that the entire business had gone the way of the passenger pigeon - which it hadn't.

The trial was postponed twice, during which time Steve was informed that if he continued to fight this charge the prosecutor would take this crime against humanity to a whole new level and charge Steve with a felony. When Steve's attorney started to fold, Steve obtained new a new attorney from Detroit, one who specialized in criminal law, had a good track record and who was willing to take the case. Harold Fried of Fried, Saperstein and Abbatt teamed up with distinguished oratory lawyer Joseph Niskar and told the ~~Persecutor~~ Prosecutor to bring it and pack a lunch.

Reading the local bird cage liner, everyone learns a carefully slanted portion of the real story.

Hudson City Manager To Face Jury in Indecent Exposure Case

No further adjournments are expected in the case that began with Hartsel being charged in January. Adrian police sought a warrant after a woman reported seeing him masturbating while driving a van on on South Main Street near Beecher Street in Adrian on Dec. 22. Trials scheduled in May and June were adjourned. The case is before Judge James E. Sheridan.

The Hudson city council put off a review of the issue and potential disciplinary action until the criminal prosecution is completed.

Note the omission of the word 'alleged'. The woman, name withheld for now, didn't allegedly see him, she reported seeing him. The smart money here is the Hudson city council, who refused to act until the jury was in and the fat lady finished her number. Had they jumped on the band wagon to railroad Steve they would be risking a lawsuit for wrongful dismissal, which probably didn't bother one or two of the council members, but the others were a little more cautious. Of course, maybe they knew something the paper isn't writing about. The fanfare continues with minimal coverage of the trial and maximum coverage of the real truth - thoroughly covered in mud slung by the bird cage liner.

Hudson City Manager Steve Hartsel Trial On Indecent Exposure Charge Begins

The trial began nearly nine months after the complaint of sexual misbehavior on Adrian's South Main Street. Assistant Lenawee County Prosecutor Burke Castleberry told jurors the witness and police confession are overwhelming evidence.

“There's only one logical conclusion here, he's guilty as charged,” Castleberry said in opening statements.

Castleberry is whistling past the graveyard and he knows it. What the paper didn't print is that Castleberry showed a lot of enthusiasm and vitriolic behavior while prosecuting this case. Maybe Castleberry had motivations outside the normal scope of his office.

The witness, Sue Sellers, told the jury she has no doubts about what she saw the afternoon of Dec. 22. She said she stopped for a red light on South Main Street at Beecher Street and happened to glance from her pickup into a van stopped in the lane on her right.

“I couldn't believe what I saw. I looked over and I saw a man with his penis in his hand,” she testified. She glanced over at least five times, she said, going from feelings of shock to anger.

Finally the mysterious witness to the dirty deed is named. One question I immediately had concerned any connection between Sue Sellers and the ex-fire chief, Brian Gerig. As it turns out, Sellers is connected to the machine. That is, if you believe the local scandal sheet.

Sellers was administrative assistant to the Tecumseh city manager until her retirement in April this year.

Well now, imagine that! Sellers was the admin. ass. in nearby Tecumseh. Maybe a little more interesting is that, to the best of my knowledge, Sue Sellers has a tenuous connection to Brian Gerig, that Sellers quietly retired in April of 2011 and lost no time in relocating to Texas with her live in boyfriend.

Another thing that puzzled me about this case was the line of sight involved. Imagine that you're in the driver's seat of a Ford F-150 and you're stopped at a light. A minivan pulls up on your right. How is it possible to see the driver's lap? The real answer is that it isn't possible. I know it, and anyone who doubts me is welcome to line up the vehicles and see (or not) for themselves. As obvious as this is, the judge refused to allow the defense to present this evidence at the trial, calling it mere speculation. It isn't speculation, it's simple physics.

Even without this crucial piece of evidence, the defense was able to rely on inconsistencies in the testimony of the key witnesses, Sue Sellers and Walt Fischoff, along with the testimony of Steve Hartsel who took the stand in his own defense. Another interesting point is that judge James E. Sheridan informed the defense that they would only have 15 minutes for a closing argument instead of the usual 30 minutes, and Sheridan did this just before attorney Joseph Niskar presented his closing arguments. The jury returned a verdict of not guilty in two hours. However, look at the headline from the local scandal sheet. Steve isn't innocent, he isn't not guilty; he's acquitted.

Hudson City Manager Acquitted Of Indecent Exposure Charge

Jurors deliberated less than two hours before returning the verdict in Lenawee County District Court where Hartsel's trial began Tuesday.

“We’re ecstatic that the jury has agreed he's not guilty,” said attorney Joseph Niskar of Detroit. “Hopefully this will be the first day of his new life and he will get his reputation back.”

Niskar said the jury agreed the witness who accused him was wrong.

“She either made a mistake or she lied,” Niskar said. “She did not see Mr. Hartsel exposing himself.”

Hartsel also testified Thursday morning that an Adrian police officer who interviewed him on Dec. 22 was mistaken in believing he had admitted the offense.

Joseph Niskar said it best, but in my opinion Sue Sellers lied. She lied, and once she started down that road there wasn't any way for her to duck out of the legal implications and change her mind. Unfortunately, Steve didn't see the freight train coming. However, once it was clear that he was being railroaded he reacted with a great deal more competence and decisiveness than the opposition expected. Which naturally begs the question about just who the 'they' are that would railroad Steve onto death row if they had the chance. Do I think there is a conspiracy involving the players here, Judge James E. Sheridan, Assistant Lenawee County Prosecutor Burke Castleberry, Adrian Michigan Chief of Police Terrence B. Collins, Sue Sellers and Adrian Michigan Police Officer Walt Fischoff along with a host of others? You bet. Can any of it be proven? Hell no. At least, not all of it. My hope is that the F.B.I. or the D.O.J. will get involved and investigate the blatant inconsistencies in this case, and then, even given the fossilized speed of the wheels of justice, the guilty will be successfully persecuted and thrown under the steamroller where they belong.

The real fallout from this fiasco is that it brought a portion of this local machine into the one thing that can't be tolerated - the light of day. Now that Steve knows he's made political enemies who are as unscrupulous as they are vindictive, he'll conduct himself accordingly.

My congratulations to Steve Hartsel and to his attorneys Joseph Niskar and Harold Fried of the law firm Fried Saperstein Abbatt.

Restaurant Review: Maumee Bay Brewing Company

2011-09-19T16:59:00.000-04:00

Maumee Bay Brewing Company

The Oliver House
27 Broadway; Toledo, Ohio 43604
(419) 243-1302
Mon – Thurs 3 PM - 10 PM
Fri - Sat 3 PM - 11 PM
Closed Sunday
Maumee Bay Brewing Company

Although I've eaten many times at Maumee Bay Brewing I've never given it a review, mainly because I'm lazy. Big Mike and I customarily eat a late lunch at Maumee Bay after shooting at The Bullet Stop, there being few things that go together as nicely as lunch after shooting. In short, Maumee Bay is a micro brewery, producing two products and offering a third that both of us enjoy. So generally, there isn't much of an argument about where we go after we finish shooting. Note that I said generally, because recently things got bad enough that I considered mounting a serious objection to Maumee Bay.

Maumee Bay Brewing Co.

Maumee Bay produces several different kinds of beer and ale that I enjoy, but their stellar product is non-alcoholic: Root beer. For those of you that haven't tried it, take it from me it's worth a special trip to Maumee Bay Brewing Co. just to get a growler of root beer to take home with you. This is brewed on site using a special secret recipe passed along to the Master Brewer by someone or other whose name is unknown to the author. Anyway, we saw it on the menu some months back and decided to try a sample of the root beer. Both of us left with a growler, although mom ended up drinking most of mine. I generally like the India Pale Ale and the Total Eclipse Breakfast Stout. Big Mike favors the Amarillo Brillo.

Amarillo Brillo

India Pale Ale

I'm something of a brass magnet and as such will often find a few spent casings lodged in my clothing. Here are three from either Betsy or Big Nose Kate. I tend to think they were from Betsy, as Kate throws her red hot empties over the partition on the shooter's right side and onto whomever occupies the neighboring booth.

If you haven't sampled these wares, I urge a little caution. None of these brews have a typical alcohol content. The Breakfast Stout is around 9%, and the Brillo is about 8% as is the IPA. By comparison Budweiser is about 5% alcohol - so figure two Buds to one Brillo. Also remember that the police are serious about this drunk driving stuff. Back in the 1950s you might have been turned loose with a warning to 'be more careful', these days you'll be cuffed and stuffed as one more statistic for MADD, SADD, GLADD and DAMM. Do you really want to be a statistic? No? So ends the standard disclaimer.

Cheddar Cheese Beer Soup

This food at Maumee Bay is good. The place serves large portions and the quality is better than average. I've had the French Dip sandwich and various other bar foods, but I'm hooked on the cheddar cheese beer soup. Big Mike usually gets a pretzel which is home made and fired in the oven, but the quality of this item has dropped a little recently. Both of us have eaten and enjoyed the various burgers, which are gigantic and large enough for two or three meals. So, if you're taking your main lady with you, you might want to split most entrees just because of the size. If you're in the mood for desert, be sure to try the root beer float with the local root beer - it is outstanding!

The ambiance at Maumee Bay is nice. It could be a little quieter, but I'm not complaining. The place is advertised as a brew pub, and it succeeds at this. You can come and sit at the bar or get a table, enjoy a conversation with your friends and watch the game on one of four televisions as it pleases you. The room is well lit and the temperature is controlled. I've never found it too hot or too cold, and the tables are far enough apart so that people can sit comfortably. Nor will you find an elite cadre of obnoxious drunks at Maumee Bay; it isn't that kind of place and I don't think the management would tolerate their behavior - although the management is very tolerant of the staff's behavior.

The bad part about the Maumee Bay Brewing Company is the service. When Big Mike and I first started showing up at Maumee Bay, we met Anthony the ace bartender. Anthony took good care of us and we left him a generous gratuity, and all was well with the world. Anthony was happy to see us come in - we're low maintenance, easy to please and generous. Then Anthony left and all that changed. Three weeks ago Big Mike and I arrived at Maumee Bay around 4:00 PM, hungry and thirsty - and we couldn't get anyone to wait on us. I counted five (5, the number between four and six) waitresses who congregated along the bar and not one would so much as look in our direction. Not even when I waved at them. After five minutes of this I decided I'd had enough and walked over to the bar to place our beer order. The bartender was talking to the only other person at the bar and refused to pay any attention to me, even when I announced I'd like a beer. Nope, I was studiously ignored. As I turned away, two wait staff came out of the back. A tall, thin young man announced that he'd wait on us, and he acted like he'd just drawn the short straw. We ordered drinks and food, and explained that we were unhappy about the service and why we were unhappy. He said he'd pass that along to the manager, to which I added that I'd like to speak to the manager personally. Eventually we got our beer, and shortly after that our food order was delivered. The manager didn't show up until after we were served and had a chance to finish lunch. And no, that isn't a coincidence. The manager knows, and I know that people are much more irritable when they're hungry and thirsty, and she was hoping that the edge would be taken off.

The manager (for all I know she is the owner/manager) arrived and listened patiently as we explained just how and why we were unhappy with the service. When she started to defend the bartender, I objected. Waitresses should never ignore a customer, but realistically anyone can be a waitress at the Maumee Bay Brewing Company. It isn't neurosurgery, no experience is necessary and on the job training is provided. The bartender is different. Not everyone can be a bartender. It takes a combination of real skill and personality. Frequently the bartender actually has to run the dining room and provide the final word in customer service. When the bartender willfully ignores paying customers, there is a serious problem. The manager made placating noises and failed to offer us any free drinks or food by way of compensation for the extremely poor service. She did, however, promise to have a talk with her staff and her bartender and correct the problem. On the way out Big Mike wondered if she actually would correct the behavior. I thought it was likely, but I didn't much care. I didn't want to return to Maumee Bay. Mike thought we should try it again, so one week later we did.

I have no idea if the manager fired a bunch of people and hired some new staff or just provided some training, but I can tell you that we did not have the same annoying bartender we had before. The woman behind the bar clearly knew what she was doing, as did our waitress. I would say that the service went from a dead loss to the best you could reasonably expect in a brew pub. I intend to return and see if things remain consistent.

The Entrance to Maumee Bay

I enjoy the Maumee Bay Brewing Company and I intend to continue my patronage. I also recommend it as a place to go and enjoy yourself in a very casual atmosphere. The thing that most people don't know and should know is that their root beer is absolutely outstanding. You won't find any better soft drink East of the Mississippi and North of the Mason-Dixon. I rate the Maumee Bay Brewing Company as follows:

Ambiance: 7
Service: 8 (on my last visit - we'll see what the future holds)
Food: 7 (root beer is a 10)

Overall rating: 7

Rant: TSA Thugs

2011-09-14T09:40:00.000-04:00

In all reasonable probability most people have read the account of Shoshana Hebshi, a Toledo, Ohio area blogger who was seized by The Anointed One's fascist thugs because someone said that she'd been behaving suspiciously on a flight from Denver, Colorado to Detroit, Michigan. Since We the People retain a limited version of the first amendment, Ms. Hebshi wrote about her account; Some Real Shock and Awe - Racially Profiled and Cuffed In Detroit. Forbes magazine summarized the event: Woman shocked by being taken from plane in Detroit. At this point the real question is, What are our elected officials in Washington D.C. going to do about it?

Applaud. The government will applaud the oppressors and congratulate them on a job well done. Outnumbering the criminals at least 100 to 1, government thugs from several branches managed to apprehend and maltreat a middle aged woman and two men, all of whom were later absolved of any wrongdoing. According to the FBI, about 50 similar incidents occurred the same day as Ms. Hebshi was taken prisoner.

Ms. Hebshi contends that the real reason for her arrest was her race. She is dark skinned, being half Arabic and half Jewish. I think she's wrong about this. Ms. Hebshi and the two other men arrested with her (who are of Indian heritage) were arrested and taken prisoner because the government can do so. No more, no less. Government workers enjoy making the monkeys jump. It's fun, it breaks up an otherwise dull day and it's safe - the accused is always outnumbered many to one. Although Ms. Hebshi was arrested because some anonymous bootlicker reported her behavior as suspicious which might have been prompted by her dark skin, the reaction and her treatment by government jack booted thugs was not. They truly didn't care what color, shape or size she was. She was their new rawhide chew toy.

As Shoshana Hebshi probably knows, her elected government weasels are Marcy Kaptur (D), Sherrod Brown (D) and Robert Portman (R). Their silence on this abusive incident is not just deafening, but their failure to decry this abuse not only condones it but enthusiastically encourages the abusers.

We the People of the United States no longer live in a free nation. We haven't lived in anything resembling a free nation for a long time, and it's just now beginning to become so completely evident that it can't be ignored. What is worse is that a surprising number of people approve of being treated this way. They approve of property seizure without due process, suppression and elimination of our civil rights and the militarization of the police force. These are the worthless, the sheep, the sitcom set. Give them revolving credit and a television situation comedy and they are completely quiescent - even when an event like this happens to them.

For my part, I'm going to write to my elected government weasels and see what they intend to do to put a stop to this kind of thing. I don't expect to get a result or a civil reply, but I'll write and protest anyway. For now it's all I can do.

My Life: Dogs and Sunflowers

2011-09-13T12:53:00.000-04:00

I'm posting this for my own amusement and to elicit a response from History Mike, a blogger of some local renown who is own hiatus due (he claims) to a self-imposed work load. You see, History Mike has a fondness for sunflowers and grows his own with some success - that is, when he can keep the puggles out of them long enough. I photographed this while walking Excellent Rachmaninoff through Lincoln Woods.

But first a paid political announcement.

Reward!

Having misplaced my own cat some months back, I thought I might pass this along for anyone in the Lincoln Woods area of Sylvania, Ohio. I plan on conducting my own search for this missing varmint, using Excellent Rachmaninoff's tracking skills coupled with the goodness of whiskey. I figure the cat is likely hiding in someone's back yard along the drainage ditch.

Seriously, though, if you're in the area I'm sure the owners would appreciate your keeping your eyes peeled.

Main Lady pointed me at these sunflowers as we walked Excellent Rachmaninoff the other evening. I returned during the day for a photo. These are the tallest sunflowers I've ever seen, and I kind of wonder if the owner hasn't set some sort of record for sun flower height.

Tall Sunflowers

Note that they reach to the middle of the second floor. Eat your heart out History Mike! Here's a closer view of the flowers.

Sunflowers

These are all from one stalk. I spoke with the owner briefly and she told me that this doesn't happen every year. The plant will grow, but growth is conditional on the squirrels and kids leaving it alone.

Excellent Rachmaninoff

Here's Excellent Rachmaninoff waiting patiently for me to finish fooling around with my camera and get back to the important business of doggie walking. What a good dog!

Restaurant Review: Criteria

2011-09-13T12:17:00.001-04:00

Having written a few restaurant reviews and planning to continue to do so, I though I might write a brief explanation of what I'm looking for when I review a restaurant. Generally speaking, here's what I look for.

Ambiance

Which is defined as:
1. the mood, character, quality, tone, atmosphere, etc., particularly of an environment or milieu: The restaurant had a delightful ambiance.
2. that which surrounds or encompasses; environment.

What kind of ambiance is the restaurant trying to achieve and did the place do so successfully? If the restaurant seeks to provide a fine dining experience as compared to a greasy spoon or a family style restaurant, then this should be obvious. The question then becomes success or failure - is this, in fact, an atmosphere where fine dining can take place as was intended, or is it silver plating over cast iron? My personal preferences tend towards fine dining and successful theme restaurants.
Is there suitable distance between the tables? Keeping the noisy drunks at a safe distance is mandatory. More space is better, and will increase the level of service as the server can move about freely. Large people have enough room to sit and retain their seat without having to rise and allow a fellow diner to make his or her way to the restroom... and back again.
Are the acoustics good? Noise level? Unless there is entertainment, and by this I mean professional entertainment and not the cackling cadre of aged females at the next table, the noise level should permit conversation at the table without having to raise your voice to make yourself heard.
Is the lighting bright enough to read the menu? Light level? I like to see what I'm eating, and I don't want to have to use my flashlight to read the menu.
Is the temperature of the room pleasant? Comfort level? Like most men I'm not bothered by cold, but I know that many women are. This may have something to do with the low cut dress she's wearing, but no matter. No one can enjoy a meal while she is shivering in the chair next to you, so I insist that the place be warm enough for everyone to be comfortable. Likewise, I object to eating in a sauna and will generally leave rather than subject myself to a steam room.
Does the place smell clean? I don't want to detect faulty plumbing in the kitchen or the strong disinfectant from the rest rooms. The place should have a neutral odor about it; not the aftereffects of a toxic spill clean up.
Aesthetic layout of the restaurant - are the kitchen and restroom doors hidden? One thing I detest is having to sit and watch people filing in and out of the rest rooms. Ditto with the kitchen - I truly do not want to know what the man made hell of the kitchen in an oriental restaurant looks like.

Service

The key to great service is anticipation of the customer's needs. The glass isn't half full - it's half empty. Fill it. The other half of this equation is being completely invisible and undetectable until the customer wants something, then magically appearing at the table. Having experienced this, I know it's possible. I also know it's rare.

Is the waitress or waiter initially prompt, at least with a greeting? The minimum requirement is that I be greeted by a server right after I'm seated, even if it's only to acknowledge my presence and reassure me that someone will be with me shortly. My server should stop by to take my drink order within the first three minutes after I'm seated.
Do they have a neat, clean appearance? A dirty apron or a tattooed sleeve are not appropriate. Servers don't have to dress up, but they must be neat and clean, and they must smell clean. Nix the perfume and aftershave.
Is the waitress available when you need them? I should not be forced to look for my server, nor should I have to ask for my waiter to stop by my table.
Does the waitress vanish when not needed? When I'm eating I hate being interrupted. Do not stop around with a bright, perky "Is everything delicious?!" while I have a mouthful of food. If the wait staff isn't needed, they should vanish and neither be seen nor heard.
Did the wait staff correct their mistakes efficiently? Everyone screws up. The real question that marks superior service is not if the wait staff or kitchen screwed up, but how long it took to fix the problem.
Is the wait staff non-intrusive? I'm not interested in my waiter's personal life, nor am I interested in the wait staff's comments about any conversation I'm having. Don't like my views on marriage, children, religion or politics? Too bad.
Was there extra service, such as table preparation or clean up between courses? I enjoy table side preparation, especially if the wait staff put on a good show. In addition to serving, I've had the waitress clean the crumbs from my tablecloth between courses, which is nice and refreshing. Removing the dirty dishes promptly makes dinner enjoyable.

Food

Is the kitchen timely? Yeah, the kitchen gets backed up. It's not my problem. The chef gets paid to handle this kind of problem, so let him.
Are the ingredients good quality? A chef can do almost anything except improve poor quality ingredients. A tough steak is not going to magically improve just because Chef Pierre subjects it to his own special touch and serves it with his secret red wine sauce. It's still going to be sole of Nike covered in red wine sauce.
Is the cooking good quality? The best ingredients in the world can be ruined by an incompetent chef, and the worst part about this is that the chef will never know that he truly does not know what he's doing.
Is the plate attractive? People eat with their eyes. If it looks good, it probably is quite tasty - there are exceptions to this.
Did the chef stop around to greet the diners? It takes a brave chef to do this. The great chefs do, mainly because they're sure of their response. And, should the food not be suitable, the chef will fix it.

Restaurants live or die on service. If I want a successful restaurant, all I have to do is provide mediocre food along with a non-offensive ambience, but I must couple that with outstanding service. So long as the customers are seated comfortably and the food is palatable, I can dazzle them with service and they'll all become regulars.

My Life: RFI from LEO - Updates

2011-09-09T11:04:00.002-04:00

This is an update of my post RFI from LEO. If you haven't done so, I suggest you read the original post before trying to decipher this one.

I don't know the name of the Detective who is handling this case or I'd likely post it. For now I'm just going to refer to him as Dick, as in Dick the Detective. Anyway, Dick is being difficult - very non-committal with a lot of passive aggression. Dick visited Chatelaine's home, listened to the recording on the answering system and provided Chatelaine with some incomplete forms that she would have to fill out before turning the forms in to the Toledo Police Department in Toledo, Ohio and her insurance company. Dick also told Chatelaine that in order to get the phone records from AT&T a judge would have to sign a subpena which takes a lot of time, and likely the judge wouldn't do it anyway, and besides if the people had a block on the phone line the number wouldn't show up. So the whole thing is pretty pointless and Dick didn't see any reason to pursue it. After all, the financial losses were not all that large.

In Ohio this crime is burglary, which is a felony (see 2911.12 [Effective Until 9/30/2011] Burglary). I'd think Dick would want to bust a felon or three, but evidently he doesn't much care. No finger prints have been taken (that I'm aware of), but some mention was made in passing about similar crimes then quickly forgotten. Older School isn't the only one who is putting money on juveniles. Big Mike is offering odds on the people next door. This is a group of three; two boys and a girl, all of whom smoke pot and play loud music, none of whom holds down a regular job. A relative owns the house but is not in residence, so the three are likely staying there rent free. In Big Mike's opinion these three are putty heads and I'm inclined to agree.

AT&T refuses to release the phone records without a subpena. I'm guessing the company just doesn't feel like printing up a report and sending it along to Chatelaine and to the police, as that would mean extra work. Likely two to three minutes worth of work, but work equates to money and profit overrides criminal behavior. I'm betting the IS staff actually charged with doing the work would be happy to help out, but they'll never be consulted.

Last time I spoke with Chatelaine she was pretty discouraged. I told her to buck up, call the Detective back and tell him to write up a subpena and pass it to the judge, or do whatever he had to do to get the phone records. I advised her to play the poor old lady card and see if she could garner a little sympathy. If that didn't work, I suggested that she might ask the Detective how he would feel if it was his own mother whose home was burglarized and the police refused to follow up a solid lead to the criminal.

I reminded Chatelaine that she'd lived in her house for well over forty years, that she has been paying her taxes all those years and this is the first time she's ever asked for anything - and that she is retired and over 65. I also told her, right reason or none, that this kind of thing (subpenas, phone records and all) was nothing new to the police. They did this kind of thing all the time, the judge saw this sort of request regularly and that if she would call Dick and ask about it, it would get done and these felons could get caught. Just from reading various law enforcement blogs I'm betting that if the owner of the phone is taken downtown and questioned for 15 minutes she'll roll over on the other two and the whole business will be put to rest.

As Older School suggested (and which I hadn't thought about) I told Chatelaine that she could certainly go up the ladder to the next level, Dick's boss (Big Dick?) and explain what was going on and see if more time and effort might be expended by the Toledo Police on her behalf. Chatelaine could, in fact, call and write to Chief Navarre and see if he would be willing to help out a poor old lady who'd been robbed of what little wealth she had in the world.

That last may be laying it on a tad thick, but Chatelaine has better judgment than I do about such things.

My sincere thanks to the people of Toledo Talk: RFI from LEO: nana, dell_diva, brainswell, dbw8906, Cisco, Molsonator, upso, TheAssHoleLawyer, Anniecski and IneedCoffee as well as to JR for hosting Toledo Talk. I also wish to thank Older School from the blog The P.O.P. Factor by Older School for his significant contribution.

I'll continue to write about new developments as they occur as well as posting a progress report on a regular basis.

My Life: RFI from LEO

2011-09-07T16:44:00.000-04:00

Request For Information from Law Enforcement Officers

Contrary to popular belief, Big Mike was not assembled from used up people by a Mad Scientist working in a remote laboratory somewhere in Austrian mountains (like this unfortunate). He's the right size, but the resemblance stops there. I support my affirmation with the existence of Big Mike's mother, a kind and goodhearted lady that it has been my privilege to know for almost as long as I've known Mike. In the past I've referred to Mike's mom as Chatelaine and Mrs. Martini as memory and the situation dictated; here I will refer to her as The Victim. You see, someone or several someones broke into Chatelaine's home and burglarized it. The scumbags didn't get away with much since Chatelaine keeps her valuables in a safety deposit box, but they did break in and they did steal.

This crime was committed during the day, in the afternoon. The criminals were forced to use the window since Big Mike had secured the doors with deadbolt locks. The back window was smashed out and the window frame ruined. Loose change was stolen along with a one gallon whiskey bottle filled with pennies - go figure that one out. They didn't take the TV or any electronics.

The chief clue is a message left on the answering machine. A girl called Chatelaine's house when Chatelaine wasn't home, allowed the machine to answer the call, play its message and begin recording. Then we can hear a female say "Okay, she's not home." with two or more males in the background and the phone goes dead.

Chatelaine called the police when the crime was discovered, filled out all the forms that the police and insurance company requested and the crime has been turned over to a Toledo Police detective. Here's the problem: The detective refuses to work the case.

All I know about police detective work I've learned by reading the paper and watching TV, but it seems to me that if a clearly suspicious phone call was made, some sort of record of that call would be available to officialdom - like a police detective, for instance. But maybe I'm wrong about that.

Anyway, getting around to the point here, I know that a certain number of people who read this site are law enforcement officers or affiliated with law enforcement one way or another. So my question is this:

How do we get the police detective to work on this particular case?

If the answer is 'you don't', I'll accept that and move along. Nothing more to see, right? However, all of the people involved are open to suggestions. If anyone isn't comfortable posting, by all means send me some email. We'd all appreciate any help or suggestions you can give us.

Thanks for reading.

My Life: Range Report.

2011-09-06T10:43:00.003-04:00

Last Saturday was range day, and as usual Big Mike got hold of me earlier in the week, interrupting my afternoon siesta with the news he was coming into town for an unscheduled visit and felt inclined to put a few holes in paper. When Big Mike asked me to choose between Cleland's and The Bullet Stop, I naturally chose the closer of the two - Cleland's. Big Mike objected.

"I'd rather go to the Bullet Stop."

"Sure. That's easy."

"I like The Bullet Stop, where people mind their own business."

"Okay, we'll go to the bullet stop."

"I see absolutely no reason to put up with some clown who thinks he's a range officer but who fails to enforce the rules of the range consistently and equitably."

"Well - "

"Why put up with the crap? I don't mind having a range officer, but he could see our groups and observe us shooting, and it isn't like we're going to shoot the target hangers or do something dangerous, like that guy with the revolver that he clearly saw and didn't do a damned thing about."

"Let's go to The Bullet Stop."

"The guy's a dick. I couldn't figure out what his problem was."

"You said it. We'll go to The Bullet Stop."

After another ten minutes Mike wound down and we made plans to go to The Bullet Stop. For those who may read this and be wondering just what got Big Mike all spun up, it's not because he's off his medication. I wrote about our experience at Cleland's Outdoor World here where we encountered a clerical worker who was as dense as he was unfriendly. Clearly Mike was more impressed with the man's incompetence than I was. So it was off to The Bullet Stop.

Shot With My Ruger Mark II Government

I started off with my Ruger, shooting at the target on the left. This was shot at about 25 feet or so. I didn't measure and the light at The Bullet Stop is poor enough to dissuade me from putting my target back any further. Being a little bored with shooting at a standard style target, I printed up a few alternatives. I shot the target on the left with one shot per red bull's eye, slow fire (about one shot every two or three seconds). I didn't do as well as I'd like, but I suppose it isn't too bad.

Beretta Target

Some years ago I bought a Beretta Md. 101 at a gun show. I'd read a review of this pistol by Kim du Toit and resolved that if I ever had the chance I'd add one to my gun safe. Kim was impressed with the trigger pull, which is good on my Beretta but not exceptional. Again, one shot per bull's eye, slow fire at twenty-five feet. The stars are safe and the circles only slightly less so.

Beretta Md. 101 in .22

I've never had this pistol apart and unless I can find some detailed instructions on field stripping and assembly, I'm not likely to strip it down for cleaning. With my luck the recoil spring will get loose and propel several tiny but crucial parts across the room where they will never be found. Anyone who knows anything about field stripping this model feel free to sound off.

I like shooting the Beretta. It's a good deal lighter than my Ruger and has the advantage of an open hammer, which I've always liked. If I had a couple extra clips for it I'd probably shoot it more often.

Llama .22

A number of years ago I bought this Llama pistol from someone. I think I paid about $250 for it. I took it out to the range and ran some ammo through it, mainly to make sure the thing actually would shoot. I was able to hit stuff with it and the gun didn't jam, so I cleaned it and packed it in the back of my gun safe and promptly forgot about it. Until now, anyway. When I unpacked it at the range Big Mike was full of admiration.

"Ah, I see you've brought your Saturday night at the whore house gun."

"No, this is my barbeque gun."

"Is it? Could have fooled me. Besides, it looks like it would go well with your double breasted pin striped purple suit. The one with the gold buttons."

Mike is kidding with me. Main Lady donated that suit to the Salvation Army years ago, and he knows it.

Anyway, my thought was that since neither of us had ever shot this pistol we could use it for a little contest. I produced two targets featuring multicolored balloons and told Mike to take his choice, left side or right side. Mike chose the left side. I then asked if he wanted to shoot first or second, and of course he allowed me to go first.

"After all, it's your pistol."

Here are the results.

Contest Target

As you can see, Big Mike edged me out a little. I was hoping for a better score here, but since I'm too blind to see where my shots are going until I crank the target back, I'm not too disappointed. After all, there are holes on the paper.

On the way out we stopped and talked to the owner for a while. He was glad to see us, probably more so when he learned just why we passed up Cleland's in favor of The Bullet Stop. Although the point that Big Mike made about Mister Customer Service of 2011 that 'serves' Cleland's customers is accurate and may well be the mitigating factor that prompts us to drive out to Graytown, there is something truly refreshing about the owner and the people there: They all mind there own damned business. I like that about The Bullet Stop.

Film Review: Don't Be Afraid of the Dark (2011)

2011-09-01T15:18:00.001-04:00

Don't Be Afraid of the Dark (2011)
Rated: R
Running Time: 99 min
Genres: Horror | Thriller

Cast
Bruce Gleeson as Buggy Driver (Our Buggy Driver)
Edwina Ritchard as Housekeeper (Our Helpful Extra)
Garry McDonald as Blackwood (No Good Local Crazy, Deceased)
Bailee Madison as Sally (Our Heroine)
Katie Holmes as Kim (Our Hero's New Girlfriend/Wife)
Guy Pearce as Alex (Our Hero)
Carolyn Shakespeare-Allen as Airport Cart Driver
Jack Thompson as HarrisJulia Blake as Mrs. Underhill
David Tocci as Workman
Lance Drisdale as Policeman
Nicholas Bell as Psychiatrist
Libby Gott as Nurse
James Mackay as Librarian
Emelia Burns as Caterer
...and a host of others, all of whom should have been killed off but none of whom were.

This is one of the good old straightforward horror movies, no more, no less. People do stupid stuff like split up and investigate on their own, the monsters are good performers and the grand finale is fairly predictable. That doesn't make for a bad film; it just doesn't make a new, innovative and interesting film. Still, the film has some good scenes, it manages to build suspense in all the right places and the pacing is good. Here's the good and the bad, without spoilers.

The good news is that the set is great. The house is just the place to stage a big fight between the Allies and the Huns, and a lot of furniture gets torn up, glass fixtures are busted up all over the place... well, what do you expect? Supernatural battles tend to be hard on the furnishings. Still, there's no structural damage which means that the sequel is probably being produced even as you read this. More good news is that the premise for the film is good, and the monsters are pretty well thought out. Bullets will definitely stop these monsters, as will blunt force trauma. Bright light slows them down considerably. Since the monsters have definite limitations, they have to be sneaky about just how and when they attack. This makes for a good film, as there are few things as bad as an invulnerable monster that fails to just wade in and destroy everything in sight - kind of like Godzilla performing a little urban renewal on downtown Tokyo. Did Godzilla fool around, popping up here and there and playing hide and seek with the victims? No! But then Godzilla is deuced hard to deal with, and these monsters are not. Or at least they shouldn't be.

The victims are a nine year old girl that got put on a plane by her mother to go spend time with her father so that her mother could get on with life after divorce. Dad's girl friend isn't all that thrilled about the new addition to the home. Dad has mixed feelings as well, being an architect in the middle of a big project. All three people are neurotic with extra baggage, and the kid is on medication. Okay so far? Okay. Then the film breaks down.

Your typical horror movie begins with a warning that anyone who is even close to being in their right mind would never ignore. In The Texas Chainsaw Massacre our victims stop for gas somewhere in ~~Ohio~~ Texas and are warned off by the gas station attendant. They ignore that warning along with a few others and predictably they all get buzzed up with a chainsaw. The same sort of thing is true in this film, except in most horror films (Texas Chainsaw Massacre) the victims are all fairly dumb right out of the box. That isn't the case here, as all the victims are introduced as being fairly intelligent, educated and talented people, albeit fashionably disturbed, and all behave in an otherwise reasonable manner. About a third of the way into the film some malcontent noticed that the lead characters would never do the things they're doing and tried to splice in a few scenes to lead up to the series of irrational decisions that get people killed. It doesn't work. Case in point, poor Katie Holmes (Kim) gets stuck playing a whole host of scenes that make a such good case for multiple personality disorder that she'd keep Adler, Ainsworth and Piaget in billable hours for three years. The others don't fair any better, and neither does the film.

As usual, no one thinks to bring a shotgun. Now, given what I learned about the monsters in ten minutes, it would seem that someone would think to produce a firearm of some sort and cut loose. Nope. No chance. Too bad, too, because the film could have developed into a rip roaring good time and the Allies might have won one for a change. But no, no... that would somehow spoil everything. Even a nice terrier would have made a huge difference, but then where's the suspense? Or something. By the time someone thinks to pick up a shovel and use it in it's secondary office, the film is mostly over with.

Like I said earlier, in spite of the inconsistencies (and I really haven't begun to list them all) the film is entertaining. It has some very suspenseful scenes, but these scenes have to be taken on their own without accounting for the characters as we know them. The set is great, and the acting isn't bad. I rate this one as a 6 out of 10 on Mad Jack's Scale of Screen Excellence. It's worth the price of a matinee, but if you wait for the DVD you'll be getting a better deal.

Congratulations!

2011-09-01T12:34:00.000-04:00

My congratulations along with a tip of the old fedora and a hoist of my afternoon bourbon glass to Stephanie M. Lorée over at Scribbler to Scribe. Stephanie is officially a published author as of today (Thursday, September 1, 2011). You can read about it at Officially Published.

Good job, Stephanie.

Rant: Government and Mandatory Evacuation

2011-08-30T14:52:00.000-04:00

I've been reading about the mandatory evacuations ordered by our iron fisted government officials who are ostensibly concerned about public safety, and whose Draconian orders are carried out by enthusiastic police who are concerned about making the sheeple obey orders for their own good. Having lived in Florida and been through a few hurricanes and the inevitable mandatory evacuation orders, I decided to sound off.
In my experience, almost all orders given by the government to the residents are not motivated by a desire to keep people safe. These orders are given primarily to ensure the convenience of the government and the government employees, and secondarily to gratify the egos involved. When you're the Junta it's fun to make the monkeys jump. If you don't believe me, go ask New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg and he'll tell you how right he was to order a mandatory evacuation. Bloomberg is a control freak who won a popularity contest and what he really knows about emergencies and helpful government response wouldn't crowd the head of a pin.

Like I said, the real reason behind a mandatory evacuation is that while we are governed by idiots, the fool on the throne is just smart enough to realize that he isn't alone. There are other dumb people residing in the State and they are all fully capable of doing dumb things. This could be ignored except for the proviso that when some numbskull gets himself into a real jam, the government is going to have to extricate him or the State leader will face the wrath of the news media, all of whom are having a slow day. Two instances that immediately occur to me are locking the keys in the car and snowstorms in Wisconsin.

Some years ago when I was South of the Mason-Dixon line I pulled into a gas station during the afternoon rush hour and filled my tank. The price had just dropped and traffic was extra heavy, and I locked my keys in my car. I know, I'm a genius. The gas station attendant gave me the usual case of the red ass and called the police, who arrived in about ten minutes. The cops unlocked my car (for which I thanked them profusely) and went on their way. My point here is that these men had better things to do then getting my ragged ass out of a sling, but they had standing orders to bail me out anyway. I was glad that they did, but seeing as how it was my own stupidity that got me into this mess, I wouldn't have thought any less of the police if they hadn't rescued me, although not everyone shares my opinion.

On February 5th back in 2008, Wisconsin got a two day snow storm that dumped well over a foot of snow on Dane county, which contains Madison, the State capital. I was living in Madison at the time and we were sent home from work at 3:00 PM. I lived about a mile from work and while I made it home in good shape, I'm a skillful driver, I'm careful to the point of being paranoid and it wasn't an easy drive – I could have easily lost control going down a hill, but skill, experience and quick thinking prevented me from becoming a statistic. Plus I was lucky. Anyway, I hadn't really been watching the weather very closely, but by the time I drove home it was bad and given any choice at all, I would not have driven anywhere in this storm. I had to get home though, so I drove – knowing that I could, if forced, walk the distance. When I watched the news that afternoon I learned that about 2000 motorists headed West on I-90 didn't share my feelings about snowstorms and being stranded. These pinheads took off from Chicago in their four wheel drive SUVs right at the start of one of the worst snowstorms of the year with absolutely no thought in their head except to get to their vacation home in Wisconsin Dells and enjoy the storm in comfort. They could have stayed home. They didn't. Guess who gets to go and rescue them. Now, if I were dumb enough to attempt to travel during a truly monumental blizzard and got stranded on a highway, I'd curse myself and no one else. If anyone were generous enough to bring me some supplies that I should have had with me in the first place, I'd be extremely grateful. Naturally that's not what happened here. The stranded idiots complained that the government didn't do enough for them, that they were cold and miserable and it was the government's fault because the government didn't prevent them from driving on I-90 in the first place, and that they had to walk out into the snow to go to the toilet. Well, what can we say? Life's just hard sometimes. If the government would have just let these fools freeze to death the average intelligence of Chicago would have risen some infinitesimally small fraction of a percentage and their demise would serve as a warning to others. But that's not what happened. What happened was the State spent a small fortune bringing comfort to the idiots (none of whom died) and eventually plowing out the snow and getting the traffic moving again. The fallout from this event was significant and resulted in an official finger pointing and name calling contest, which then led to the official creation of an official document that officially said that somewhere, someone was at fault - Response to Traffic and Public Safety Issues in February 5-6 2008 Winter Storm. Under internal pressure from government workers who were understandably reluctant to take it in the neck for Doyle, he eventually went out on a limb: Stranded on I-90

However, he [WI Gov. Doyle - MJ] says drivers need to consider the weather conditions and avoid travel when it becomes dangerous.

Which is as close as any government official has ever come to stating that we the people might consider thinking about taking responsibility for our own actions. Not actually take responsibility, mind you. Just consider it.

Then there's Irene, the little hurricane that couldn't. Granted that NYC residents aren't used to dealing with hurricanes but they should be used to Bloomberg by now and have learned not to trust the government. My expectations of NY residents are wrong, but ever the optimist I hope that by next week New Yorkers will have drawn different conclusions about government and executive orders.

Bloomberg defends mandatory evacuations during Irene

New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg on Monday defended the city's decision to evacuate more than 370,000 NYC residents from their homes in low-lying regions ahead of what turned out to be Tropical Storm Irene

That's three hundred and seventy thousand people looking for new digs, and most could easily have stayed at home.

There's tons of information on preparedness, but the truth is that the people reading and writing this advice will likely never evacuate unless they, personally, believe that evacuation is in their best interests. That's their own personal best interests. Should these people be unlucky enough to be involved in a disaster of some kind, we might read about them helping the National Guard, but it's unlikely that any of them will really need help. Here's one man who has everything well organized: Hurricane Preparation in Houston by Donald Ray Burger, Attorney at Law

If you are ever ordered to evacuate, for Heaven's sake make up your own mind instead of blindly following along with the crowd. Leaving your home is a major change in your lifestyle and you shouldn't leave that decision to someone else. At least I wouldn't let someone else decide that I should abandon ship. If you do evacuate, you won't be allowed to return to your home just any old time you'd like. You'll have to wait until the government decides it's safe for you to return. They use road blocks to accomplish this in Florida.

The idea of a mandatory evacuation is actually the government stating that someone far removed from your situation and who doesn't know you exist knows far better than you just what is best for you. Screw 'em. Construction is pretty good in the U.S., and your home or apartment will protect you from a whole host of harmful things, including your distant neighbors who may want to share your preparedness. Consider that a common sight in Florida is a hand-lettered sign that reads: You loot, We shoot. You'll see those signs in the neighborhoods where people chose to ignore the orders for mandatory evacuation.

I was listening to National Public Radio yesterday and the twits answering the phone lines failed to screen the callers properly. The Talking Head was taking comments in everyone's grab and go bag, when the whole thing slammed to a stop when one caller finished his short list with "...and a .22 pistol." This was followed by a long dead air space while the Talking Head tried to recover from shock. She then asked what the pistol was for, hunting or protection. When the caller responded with "Both - food supplies will all be gone in a month and people will begin stealing." he didn't last much longer. Then several others called in and mentioned casually that they also carried firearms as a matter of course. One guy said he packed salt, chocolate and a shotgun. Smart man. I'm going to add the salt and chocolate to my bag.