Jeff Gamso writes about victim's rights and includes a few links, one of which I listed below. This is a worthy read and brings up another important flaw in our legal system.
Because If the Victim Doesn't Say "Throw the Book at Him," Who Will?
The Untouchables
On May 5, 2011 around 9:00 AM the Pima County, Arizona Sheriff's SWAT team served a search warrant at the home of 26 year old ex-marine and Iraqi war veteran Jose Guerena. Police SWAT team members shot Jose 60 times while his wife and four year old son hid in a nearby closet. The SWAT team refused to give Jose medical treatment for over an hour, allowing him to bleed to death. Jose's four year old son walked out of the house past his father's body. If Pima County sounds familiar to anyone, here's why: Sheriff Dupnik's criticism of political 'vitriol' resonates with public
This looks like murder to me. Beat and Release has written an entire series on this shooting, and it's worth reading. Here are the links:
SWAT Audio Is Out
Various Guerena Links
Let's Talk About Pima County Again
Guerena Analysis - Part 1 - Sgt. Krygier
Guerena Analysis - Part 2 - Mrs. Guerena
Guerena Analysis - Part 3 - Mrs. Guerena
Guerena Analysis - Part 4 - Mrs. Guerena
Guerena Analysis - Final Analysis
Finally, at the end of the line we have Fred who writes about the plight of the American male.
A Polity of Castrati: Soprano Nation
Monday, May 30, 2011
Cirque du Soleil Alegria
Some months ago my brother Big Mike let it drop that Cirque du Soleil Alegria (def. as joy, cheer, happiness) was coming to Toledo and wondered if I'd like to go. Naturally, I accepted. I'd never seen Cirque but from what little I'd heard it was not a show to be missed without good reason, such as death or perhaps imminent death. As things turned out Main Lady did not share my enthusiasm and scheduled herself to be out of town that day. She, along with Flopsy and Cottontail, headed South to attend Mopsy's graduation. Mopsy is now a doctor and writes PhD after her name. That makes three doctors in the family; Main Lady, Mopsy and Cottontail. This is strong evidence that the familial environment has an impact on the educational achievements of an entire generation. Naturally I present evidence that refutes this theory, seeing that both my parents attained baccalaureate degrees as did my brothers Shotgun Bob, Big Mike and California Dave, and yet I am non-degreed. Big Mike has inferred that this is due to a distinct lack of intelligence on my part while my dear mother counters that Big Mike cannot outrun a load of rock salt as discharged from a twelve gauge double.
As usual, whenever Big Mike does anything he does it right. Nothing is left to chance, no obstacle remains intact and quality takes precedence over monetary considerations while remaining distinctly subservient to sound judgment. As a result of no small amount of social engineering coupled with a detailed knowledge of The Huntington Center, Big Mike obtained four tickets to the Saturday matinee show and reserved the best seats in the house - we were seated in the first row just off the floor and slightly stage right. Truly a magnificent accomplishment on his part.
Since Main Lady was out of town, I determined to take Mom along with me to Cirque. She'd enjoy the show and the four of us could have a nice dinner right afterward. Mike invited his own mother along, a handsome woman of saintly patience, benevolence and omnipresent fortitude whom I shall henceforth refer to as Mrs. Martini, and yes, it has everything to do with London Dry. All well and good, but as a belligerent tightwad once said, The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft agley, which can be rephrased as: There's no use cursing over spilled bourbon. Between the purchase of tickets and the rising of the curtain, I accepted a job in Memphis and moved into Shotgun Bob's house (at Bob's insistence) where I was slowly driven around the bend by The Girl, and where I finally came down with bronchitis that unsurprisingly developed into pneumonia. Desperate to suppress my own id1 in the face of a rapidly weakening super-ego, I collected my meager belongings and moved to a hotel in Memphis located about five minutes from my office, thus relieving myself of a one hour commute every morning and evening as well as the stress induced by living with someone (that would be The Girl) who would enjoy pushing me under a slowly moving freight train. I booked a flight home the week after I arrived in Memphis and I refused to cancel the festivities even if I had to attend Cirque in an oxygen tent.
The week of my trip home I'm still among the living, but only just. My lungs sound like the Franciscan All Boy's Junior High School Bagpipe Ensemble playing Nearer My God to Thee. The sawbones at the local ER wanted to stuff me in the hospital for 24 hours while he cured my breathing problems, but I declined and he mistrusted the look in my eye. Instead of complacently packing my hospital pajamas and checking in for a short stay, I obtain a nebulizer and the requisite medication to go along with it. The sawbones prescribes more steroids and another bottle of antibiotics before he kicks his most recent ingrateful habitué to the curb. The next day I pack three pounds of prescription drugs and one change of clothes before heading to the airport.
The airport in Memphis, Tennessee is a refreshing change from the norms of Detroit or Chicago. For one thing the people who work at Memphis International Airport (MEM) act like they are actually glad to see airline passengers, and they do this well enough to fool everyone passing through the gates, including a cynical curmudgeon like me. I get about half way through the official TSA security process before it occurs to me that I'm getting special treatment. The TSA agents help me with my carry-on luggage and point me to an area where I can sit and tie my shoes. It suddenly hits me that I'm an old person, or at least they believe I'm an old person. Possibly my illness has removed the spring from my step. More likely fifty years of clean living are beginning to catch up to me. Pardon me while I refresh my morning Manhattan. Having missed dinner, I stop for a sandwich after I locate the correct gate for my flight. The food is good and so is the service, which surprises me. Normally the culinary nightmares served up in a US airport would give Excellent Rachmaninoff a severe case of indigestion, but this is good stuff and the staff is nice. I'm flying Delta, and I make my flight without incident.
Big Mike both planned and handled logistics for our evening, which allowed everyone else to relax and enjoy themselves without worry. The four of us arrive at The Huntington Center in Mike's Chrysler 300, and since Mike has bothered to learn the area beforehand we don't have to search for parking. Our seats, as I may have mentioned earlier, are nothing short of stellar.
Cirque du Soleil is a circus for adults, although children will be absolutely enthralled by the performance as well. All the music is live and all the acts are very well rehearsed. We were treated to clowns that were actually funny as they supplemented their slapstick clown act with stand up comedy. The ringmaster spoke a few lines in French and was costumed as a potbellied, humpbacked gnome - he and his assistants strongly reminded me of the figures in The Garden of Earthly Delights, by Hieronymus Bosch. We saw trapeze artists who worked without a net, acrobatic dancers and contortionists. The headliner consisted of a pair of oriental women contortionist-acrobats who were magnificent, and I should add that as a rule I do not enjoy watching contortionists. Another man performed a series of acrobatics on a set of pylons, finishing his act by balancing on one hand while he slowly rotated his body 360 degrees starting from a dead stop. I'd never seen this achieved before, and the amount of strength that it takes to hold yourself on one hand for several minutes is nothing short of phenomenal. The finale was a group of eight men who performed high bar gymnastics thirty feet off the ground and who were supplemented by two men on a trapeze about ten feet under the high bar performers. The gymnasts would perform standard dismounts and the trapeze artists would catch the gymnasts one at a time as they dismounted the high bars. All of these men were big fellows; I estimated their weight at over 175 pounds each, meaning that the catchers were handling a very significant amount of weight during the catch and subsequent swing. It's also worth noting that all the performers (I suspect all; certainly the majority) did double duty as stage hands, whether it was spotting other performers, changing sets or providing a distraction to the audience. All the performers worked all the time, which I find admirable. I would give Cirque du Soleil five stars out of five. It is truly a show that is not to be missed if at all possible.
We adjourned from the Hunting Center and had dinner at Manhattan's in downtown Toledo, which I will review separately (click here). One thing we could all agree on was that the show was truly magnificent.
I went home and after two sessions with my nebulizer was able to fall asleep. I finally got a decent night's sleep, the first in several days. Any of you out there who have had to deal with sleep deprivation know that it's a pain the royal venochie, and the only real cure is time in the sack.
The next day was Sunday, and for literary reasons I must confess that I've always wanted to win the lottery. So a week or so ago when I was cleaning out my wallet I found a six months old lottery ticket that turned out to be a winner. One hundred and fifty dead presidents were now causing my mother's favorite son to develop a distinct list to starboard, so the only thing to do was lighten the load a bit. Now then, at our church is a nice couple who are very prolific, having some five daughters and two sons with the oldest son being recently engaged to a very nice lady, so for social purposes the family is ten in number. In spite of the fact that they are excellent people (they picked me up at DTW at 11:00 PM) they don't get invited out too often. For one thing, the kids eat. For another, there are a lot of them, so the cost tends to mount up a little. Since I have a free meal coming courtesy of the Ohio lottery and Divine Intervention, I take Mr. and Mrs. Prolific and the entire tribe out to lunch, and for fair measure and good value I invite the pastor and his wife to come with us. Mom comes along as well - you didn't think I'd leave her behind, did you?. We settle on Shorty's True American Roadhouse for lunch, mainly because we all enjoy barbecue. I'll review Shorty's in a separate post (click here). Everyone enjoyed themselves and had a great lunch, and Sunday night the train wreck started.
I've been taking my medication like a good little boy, which is likely a huge part of the problem. The sawbones is feeding me steroids in tablet form labeled Prednisone. Check the side effects (my own comments in parenthesis):
I board the plane and it's a sauna inside. The ground crew refuses to provide us with A/C and the plane develops a mechanical failure. We sit and sweat while the Captain calls AAA (or whatever the hell they call to fix the plane) and we finally disembark for a short time. We board again an hour later only to discover that while we've been sitting on the ground a storm system has moved in and we can't take off until it passes. We sit on the tarmac for three hours, then return to the dock. It seems we need a new captain, ours being unsuitable for some reason, and it will take three hours for our nice new captain to arrive. One of the passengers is a licensed commercial pilot, and I suggest that the airline slip him a few hundred to sit in the pilot's chair and get us to Memphis. I'm ignored. Delta offers us food vouchers so I organize a dinner among strangers in a nearby Mexican restaurant and three of us (me, Jill and Tim) have a nice time and interesting conversation. At 9:55 PM we board the plane and start taxing around DTW. I have a crazy idea we're actually going to taxi to Memphis, but I think that may be from lack of sleep. I start to ask the nice lady sitting next to me about the feasibility of taxiing to Memphis, and I catch myself. Do not ask goofy questions of people, Jack. The TSA loves smart asses like you - loves to hook them up to a Taser and make them do the funky chicken. I shut up, and pretty soon we're in the air. We touch down in Memphis sometime the next day. I don't look at the time until I hit my hotel room and discover it's two o'clock in the morning. I don't even remember if I went to work the next day.
And that's my trip. The sanity check I got from being at home among friends and family was worth every minute of misery at DTW, and if you don't believe me then you just try living in a house where one half of the adult population wants nothing more than to see you imitate the frog doing the backstroke in the pool. It tends to wear an old man down.
Footnotes:
As usual, whenever Big Mike does anything he does it right. Nothing is left to chance, no obstacle remains intact and quality takes precedence over monetary considerations while remaining distinctly subservient to sound judgment. As a result of no small amount of social engineering coupled with a detailed knowledge of The Huntington Center, Big Mike obtained four tickets to the Saturday matinee show and reserved the best seats in the house - we were seated in the first row just off the floor and slightly stage right. Truly a magnificent accomplishment on his part.
Since Main Lady was out of town, I determined to take Mom along with me to Cirque. She'd enjoy the show and the four of us could have a nice dinner right afterward. Mike invited his own mother along, a handsome woman of saintly patience, benevolence and omnipresent fortitude whom I shall henceforth refer to as Mrs. Martini, and yes, it has everything to do with London Dry. All well and good, but as a belligerent tightwad once said, The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft agley, which can be rephrased as: There's no use cursing over spilled bourbon. Between the purchase of tickets and the rising of the curtain, I accepted a job in Memphis and moved into Shotgun Bob's house (at Bob's insistence) where I was slowly driven around the bend by The Girl, and where I finally came down with bronchitis that unsurprisingly developed into pneumonia. Desperate to suppress my own id1 in the face of a rapidly weakening super-ego, I collected my meager belongings and moved to a hotel in Memphis located about five minutes from my office, thus relieving myself of a one hour commute every morning and evening as well as the stress induced by living with someone (that would be The Girl) who would enjoy pushing me under a slowly moving freight train. I booked a flight home the week after I arrived in Memphis and I refused to cancel the festivities even if I had to attend Cirque in an oxygen tent.
The week of my trip home I'm still among the living, but only just. My lungs sound like the Franciscan All Boy's Junior High School Bagpipe Ensemble playing Nearer My God to Thee. The sawbones at the local ER wanted to stuff me in the hospital for 24 hours while he cured my breathing problems, but I declined and he mistrusted the look in my eye. Instead of complacently packing my hospital pajamas and checking in for a short stay, I obtain a nebulizer and the requisite medication to go along with it. The sawbones prescribes more steroids and another bottle of antibiotics before he kicks his most recent ingrateful habitué to the curb. The next day I pack three pounds of prescription drugs and one change of clothes before heading to the airport.
The airport in Memphis, Tennessee is a refreshing change from the norms of Detroit or Chicago. For one thing the people who work at Memphis International Airport (MEM) act like they are actually glad to see airline passengers, and they do this well enough to fool everyone passing through the gates, including a cynical curmudgeon like me. I get about half way through the official TSA security process before it occurs to me that I'm getting special treatment. The TSA agents help me with my carry-on luggage and point me to an area where I can sit and tie my shoes. It suddenly hits me that I'm an old person, or at least they believe I'm an old person. Possibly my illness has removed the spring from my step. More likely fifty years of clean living are beginning to catch up to me. Pardon me while I refresh my morning Manhattan. Having missed dinner, I stop for a sandwich after I locate the correct gate for my flight. The food is good and so is the service, which surprises me. Normally the culinary nightmares served up in a US airport would give Excellent Rachmaninoff a severe case of indigestion, but this is good stuff and the staff is nice. I'm flying Delta, and I make my flight without incident.
Big Mike both planned and handled logistics for our evening, which allowed everyone else to relax and enjoy themselves without worry. The four of us arrive at The Huntington Center in Mike's Chrysler 300, and since Mike has bothered to learn the area beforehand we don't have to search for parking. Our seats, as I may have mentioned earlier, are nothing short of stellar.
Cirque du Soleil is a circus for adults, although children will be absolutely enthralled by the performance as well. All the music is live and all the acts are very well rehearsed. We were treated to clowns that were actually funny as they supplemented their slapstick clown act with stand up comedy. The ringmaster spoke a few lines in French and was costumed as a potbellied, humpbacked gnome - he and his assistants strongly reminded me of the figures in The Garden of Earthly Delights, by Hieronymus Bosch. We saw trapeze artists who worked without a net, acrobatic dancers and contortionists. The headliner consisted of a pair of oriental women contortionist-acrobats who were magnificent, and I should add that as a rule I do not enjoy watching contortionists. Another man performed a series of acrobatics on a set of pylons, finishing his act by balancing on one hand while he slowly rotated his body 360 degrees starting from a dead stop. I'd never seen this achieved before, and the amount of strength that it takes to hold yourself on one hand for several minutes is nothing short of phenomenal. The finale was a group of eight men who performed high bar gymnastics thirty feet off the ground and who were supplemented by two men on a trapeze about ten feet under the high bar performers. The gymnasts would perform standard dismounts and the trapeze artists would catch the gymnasts one at a time as they dismounted the high bars. All of these men were big fellows; I estimated their weight at over 175 pounds each, meaning that the catchers were handling a very significant amount of weight during the catch and subsequent swing. It's also worth noting that all the performers (I suspect all; certainly the majority) did double duty as stage hands, whether it was spotting other performers, changing sets or providing a distraction to the audience. All the performers worked all the time, which I find admirable. I would give Cirque du Soleil five stars out of five. It is truly a show that is not to be missed if at all possible.
We adjourned from the Hunting Center and had dinner at Manhattan's in downtown Toledo, which I will review separately (click here). One thing we could all agree on was that the show was truly magnificent.
I went home and after two sessions with my nebulizer was able to fall asleep. I finally got a decent night's sleep, the first in several days. Any of you out there who have had to deal with sleep deprivation know that it's a pain the royal venochie, and the only real cure is time in the sack.
The next day was Sunday, and for literary reasons I must confess that I've always wanted to win the lottery. So a week or so ago when I was cleaning out my wallet I found a six months old lottery ticket that turned out to be a winner. One hundred and fifty dead presidents were now causing my mother's favorite son to develop a distinct list to starboard, so the only thing to do was lighten the load a bit. Now then, at our church is a nice couple who are very prolific, having some five daughters and two sons with the oldest son being recently engaged to a very nice lady, so for social purposes the family is ten in number. In spite of the fact that they are excellent people (they picked me up at DTW at 11:00 PM) they don't get invited out too often. For one thing, the kids eat. For another, there are a lot of them, so the cost tends to mount up a little. Since I have a free meal coming courtesy of the Ohio lottery and Divine Intervention, I take Mr. and Mrs. Prolific and the entire tribe out to lunch, and for fair measure and good value I invite the pastor and his wife to come with us. Mom comes along as well - you didn't think I'd leave her behind, did you?. We settle on Shorty's True American Roadhouse for lunch, mainly because we all enjoy barbecue. I'll review Shorty's in a separate post (click here). Everyone enjoyed themselves and had a great lunch, and Sunday night the train wreck started.
I've been taking my medication like a good little boy, which is likely a huge part of the problem. The sawbones is feeding me steroids in tablet form labeled Prednisone. Check the side effects (my own comments in parenthesis):
Difficulty sleeping (yeah... check); feeling of a whirling motion (without benefit of liquor ingestion - I can deal with this); increased appetite (I am HUNGRY!); increased sweating (from all the exercise with my knife and fork); indigestion (over eating); mood changes (true - I am snappish and disagreeable, not that most people would notice); nervousness (I'm vibrating at high speed).So no sleep for yours truly Sunday night or Sunday morning. Sunday afternoon finds me in Detroit Metro making my way past the TSA folks, all of whom are downtown Detroit natives and each and every one of whom hates whitey. If you're offended by this, rest assured that I am as well. That's why I wrote about it.
I board the plane and it's a sauna inside. The ground crew refuses to provide us with A/C and the plane develops a mechanical failure. We sit and sweat while the Captain calls AAA (or whatever the hell they call to fix the plane) and we finally disembark for a short time. We board again an hour later only to discover that while we've been sitting on the ground a storm system has moved in and we can't take off until it passes. We sit on the tarmac for three hours, then return to the dock. It seems we need a new captain, ours being unsuitable for some reason, and it will take three hours for our nice new captain to arrive. One of the passengers is a licensed commercial pilot, and I suggest that the airline slip him a few hundred to sit in the pilot's chair and get us to Memphis. I'm ignored. Delta offers us food vouchers so I organize a dinner among strangers in a nearby Mexican restaurant and three of us (me, Jill and Tim) have a nice time and interesting conversation. At 9:55 PM we board the plane and start taxing around DTW. I have a crazy idea we're actually going to taxi to Memphis, but I think that may be from lack of sleep. I start to ask the nice lady sitting next to me about the feasibility of taxiing to Memphis, and I catch myself. Do not ask goofy questions of people, Jack. The TSA loves smart asses like you - loves to hook them up to a Taser and make them do the funky chicken. I shut up, and pretty soon we're in the air. We touch down in Memphis sometime the next day. I don't look at the time until I hit my hotel room and discover it's two o'clock in the morning. I don't even remember if I went to work the next day.
And that's my trip. The sanity check I got from being at home among friends and family was worth every minute of misery at DTW, and if you don't believe me then you just try living in a house where one half of the adult population wants nothing more than to see you imitate the frog doing the backstroke in the pool. It tends to wear an old man down.
Footnotes:
- The id provides the impulse to pound the snot out of some jerk who desperately needs it. The ego evaluates the situation and provides a workable plan to achieve the somewhat impulsive goals set by the id, while the super-ego will often override or modify the plan according to the learned dictates of personal ethics and society.
Restaurant Review: Manhattan's
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| Manhattan's |
Manhattan's
1516 Adams Street; Toledo, Ohio
(419) 243-6675
Mon - Fri: Lunch 11:00 am; Mon - Sat: Dinner 5-10 pm
Sunday Brunch 10am - 2pm
After Cirque du Soleil the four of us repaired to Manhattan's for dinner. I'd never eaten there before, but judging from the menu we were all in for an excellent dinner. On arrival, I observed that the portents were somewhat spotty.
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| Martini at Manhattan's |
For openers the hostess couldn't find our reservation and seemed somewhat reluctant to believe we actually had a reservation. After a lengthy consultation with Big Mike she reluctantly seated us on the left side of the restaurant, explaining that she would be our server. Not good, I thought, but I was still in high spirits from Cirque. We ordered drinks and I was pleased to note the martini was good. Mrs. Martini and I decided on the prime rib. I hadn't had steak in a while and prime rib is usually a good choice. Big Mike had the salmon and Mom had a salad. Then the waiting started. The waitress / hostess vanished, and 40 minutes later had not reappeared. I flagged down a bus boy who summoned the manager, a twenty something man dressed in Levi's and a black tee shirt. Now, I don't insist that the manager of an upscale restaurant dress in a tuxedo, but seeing the manager dressed in jeans and a tee shirt does not inspire confidence. I explained that we wanted our dinner, and in short order we were served.
The prime rib was a bust. The cut was thin, mine had about six ounces of fat attached to it and both were overcooked. I'd ordered medium, but it arrived very well done and was a poor cut of meat into the bargain. By way of contrast Big Mike's salmon was a real work of art and was cooked to perfection. Likewise, Mom's salad was excellent.
The service at Manhattan's is lousy. Our hostess / waitress didn't know how to wait tables and there were very few other options, the place being decidedly short staffed. The prices are high, which I don't mind. I enjoy fine dining and I'm willing to pay for it, but in my opinion Manhattan's is not fine dining. It might like to be, but it misses the mark by a wide margin both for the poor service and for the poor quality of the prime rib. However, note that the quality of the food varies widely. Mike's salmon was superb and mom's salad was very good. If they fixed the steak and the service, Manhattan's would be on my short list for fine dining.
- Ambiance: 6 (pleasant, quiet - the manager should look dress the part)
- Service: 2 (very, very poor)
- Food: 5-9 (quality varies widely)
Total: 4
Restaurant Review: Shorty's True American Roadhouse
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| Shorty's on Monroe Street |
Shorty's True American Roadhouse
5111 Monroe St; Toledo, OH 43623
(419) 841-9505
Sun - Thr: 11am - 10 pm
Fri - Sat: 11 am - 11 pm
I've been in Memphis for the last month or so, and am now an official Yankee conny-sewer of real Southern barbeque. That is to say, I'm something of an experienced gourmand of barbeque ribs in all three styles; wet, dry and muddy. So I'm here to tell you that while the barbeque at Shorty's True American Roadhouse doesn't suck pond scum, telling anyone in the Memphis area that Shorty's has good barbeque is a lot like telling the Toledo Blade's food critic that he ought to try reviewing Wendy's. That may be an unfortunate choice of words. A better explanation might be to say that while Shorty's is not the McDonald's of barbeque, it certainly qualifies as the Wendy's.
The good news about Shorty's is that they can accommodate a reservation for 14 for lunch on the outdoor patio. The bad news is the service (your mileage may vary) and the food. Shorty's menu touts barbeque ribs, pulled pork and brisket among other things, and they offer the pulled pork "Memphis Style" which translates into a pulled pork sandwich with cole-slaw on top. Now, I live in Memphis. I've been all over Memphis eating barbeque, and the only place in Memphis that serves pulled pork topped with cole-slaw is Tops Bar-B-Q which really is the McDonald's of barbeque. I ate at Tops once, and once was enough. What can I say? I was hungry and I didn't know any better.
Our server made the obligatory greetings and took our orders before vanishing into the back. The food arrived in fairly good time, and that's when the problems started. I ordered half a rack of ribs and the first thing I noticed was that my half rack was the same size as the one-third rack delivered to the person sitting next to me. When we pointed this out to the waiter and explained that my half-rack was a little short, the waiter started an argument. The silly SOB argued that I had half a rack in front of me, but that he'd exchange it for a different half rack. He vanished with my plate, only to return ten minutes later with the identical rack still on the plate and delivered it with a smart ass remark. Well, screw him. If I wanted an argument I could have phoned a neurotic ex-girlfriend. I decided to take it out of his gratuity. I'll give credit where it's due though; our waiter was quick to refill our drinks as needed. Then we waited forever for the check, and when the genius finally decided it was time to put in another appearance we were about to get up and walk out. A check was produced and given to me after three requests. The clown is not hard of hearing so much as he is dense. I noted that an 18% gratuity had been added, and was calculated on the total including tax. Since do I provide a tip on the government's gratuity? This is stable dressing. I used a pen to make an adjustment to the bill, crossing out the gratuity and applying some public school education to the final amount due. Then we waited for the waiter to show up and claim the bill. After 20 minutes he had failed to appear, so I took the bill up to the front desk where our waiter immediately hustled over to run the credit card. After a quick glance he complained about the lack of a gratuity, and I assured him I was leaving it in cash. Which is true. I got my credit card back and left the little bozo 10% in cash, which was about 5% more than he deserved.
I'm not impressed with Shorty's. The place has gone downhill, both with food quality, portions and service. I like the outdoor patio, but with the quality of the food being what it now is and the lousy service, I doubt I'll be back.
- Ambiance: 7 (outdoor patio)
- Service: 3 (don't argue with the customer; don't be slow with the check)
- Food: 3 (Think Wendy's, not McDonald's)
Rating: 4
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Missing Cat
Missing Cat Alert
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| Dante in the Sun |
- He was last seen in the area of Flanders Road just South of the Michigan State line. The nearest intersection would be Flanders and Indian Ridge.
- He is a neutered male with all his claws intact.
- He has a full complement of jungle skills. He was living off game he could catch when I adopted him in Florida, and he enjoys the out of doors. He'd often disappear for a few days at a time in Florida, although he hasn't done so since he moved to Sylvania.
- He's a bit cautious about making friends with strangers. Fear keeps you alive, you see.
- He is carrying a chip under his hide.
If anyone finds him, please send me some email and I'll be around to collect the little varmint as soon as possible.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
My Life: Stress, Seeking Relief
Tuesday, 5/10 I felt ill at work and so left a little early. My throat and lungs have a nasty, tingly feeling that might indicate I've caught something. I hope not, but the portents are not favorable to return to work the next morning as usual.
Wednesday, 5/11 I have a fever and general lack of energy. I opt to remain home at chez Shotgun until such time as these annoying symptoms abate. I begin taking ibuprofen sans whiskey, which means I must face the certain hell of three ill-behaved hounds, a 12 year old who is clearly in the wrong home and The Girl whose unbridled hatred of my mother's favorite son is becoming apparent to everyone, even Shotgun Bob, unanesthetized.
Thursday, 5/12 My fever switches on and off all day. I'm too sick to work and not miserable enough to consult a witch doctor. I remain in my personal quarters as much as possible, ignoring the hounds, Flounder and The Girl.
Friday, 5/13 My fever travels up and down all day, so I remain at home. Pressure and stress from The Girl cause me to ignore my illness and move my residence from chez Shotgun to Extended Stay America. My illness is becoming more severe and my energy level is at an all-time low. In spite of my fever or perhaps because of it, I set up a moving day for Saturday. If I remain, I'll eventually snap and say something honest and truthful to The Girl about graceful human behavior and not rummaging through her dinner salad like it was a sock drawer. Around 1:00 PM I conclude I must seek professional help, and I'm not talking about a hit man. I go to urgent care at Walgreen drugs to consult with a nursing practitioner. I'm seen by an assistant and passed through triage to the nurse practitioner, a nice, polite Southern lady who prescribes a steroid, an antibiotic and a cough suppressant. In retrospect, I think the cough suppressant is the thing that gets me in trouble as I stop coughing and so fail to expel the disgusting fluid collecting in my lungs. This fluid prevents my asthma medication from reaching the lower part of my lungs, so any and all asthma attacks I suffer are now untreated. Not good. Then, as I attempt to pay for my medication I'm told that my health insurance has been cancelled as of 3/31/11. I find this a little hard to believe, as my insurance is through COBRA and the company has been cashing my premium checks in a very consistent manner. I get about four hours sleep due to illness and stress. Without insurance, who will treat my condition should I get worse?
At 12:30 AM (one half hour after midnight) I'm awoken from a troubled sleep by Shotgun Bob and The Girl trying to get the dogs in from the pool area. The lights are on and both idiots are taking turns yelling, trying to get Pork Chop and Big Blue to come inside. Neither will go out and catch the thrice damned dog, but will alternate bellowing in a loud voice to get the dog to do what it won't: come inside. When I first woke up I looked at the clock and concluded I'd overslept and that it was after 12 noon. I fail to get back to sleep until after 5:00 AM. I get a total of about four or five hours sleep and feel like five miles of bad road.
Saturday, 5/14 I move into Extended Stay America. My fever comes and goes and my breathing is terrible. I have chills and am disoriented from lack of sleep. What I really need is a keeper.
In all the time I've stayed at chez Shotgun, The Girl has instigated a conversation with me exactly twice. As I depart The Girl comes out to the driveway long enough to castigate me for not saying good-bye. She says it's very irritating to her, and notes that I've done it before. Being a gentleman, I offer an apology - which is neither acknowledged nor accepted. Shotgun Bob is somewhat embarrassed, I think.
The noise of my own lungs keeps me awake. My fever comes and goes. I get about four hours sleep.
Sunday, 5/15 My fever is gone and I'm feeling better during the morning. The stress of living at chez Shotgun has vanished, but is replace by the problem with my health insurance. I unpack and take life easy. As the day wears on I feel worse. Again, 4 to 5 hours sleep due to breathing problems and stress.
Monday, 5/16 I'm still too sick to work. I resolve my health insurance. A helpful voice on the phone tracks down the error to an incompetent accounting department and sees that the error is fixed. I feel better. That night I'm kept awake by the idiot next door who is yakking away in some foreign language. The entire hotel is as quiet as a graveyard at midnight except for this asshole, who either doesn't know that this is a shared space or doesn't care. I pound on the wall and he shuts up as fast as if I'd thrown a light switch. The noise of my own lungs keeps me awake, so at 11:30 PM I rouse myself and head for the ER. I can't get a full breath and my lungs are making more noise than a pair of hot teenagers wrestling over a bra that won't come undone.
I go to St Francis Hospital (5959 Park Avenue; Memphis, TN 38119-5198) which is a big, big mistake. I'm examined briefly by a nurse who fails to listen to my chest and then I'm told to wait in the waiting room for an indefinite time. Only one treatment room is open and there are three people ahead of me. I wait an hour and decide that this is bullshit. For one thing, I see signs all over the place stating that this hospital is part of some kind of State funded public medical care program that makes everyone - regardless of race, color, religious beliefs, immigration status or sexual orientation - entitled to medical attention even if they can't pay for it. Moreover, the hospital doesn't ask me about my health insurance or my ability to pay. I leave, heading for Methodist LeBonheur Germantown Hospital (7691 Poplar Avenue, Germantown, TN 38138). It's rather different.
The ER staff at the Methodist hospital is the opposite of St. Francis. I'm greeted pleasantly by a nurse as soon as I walk in, and the medical staff seizes me before I complete my paperwork, explaining that "You can do that later; they really don't need it right now anyway." I'm examined by two nurses and stuck with a single needle which is turned into a cute little faucet that they can use for deposits or withdrawals. They say I'm sick, but they can fix that. Maybe.
I stay until 10:30 AM the next day, have three nebulizer treatments (maximum number allowable), three chest x-rays along with an MRI on my lungs and extensive blood work. I receive several shots and am eventually discharged with two prescriptions and the news that a spot on my lung is likely pneumonia. I call in sick.
Tuesday, 5/17 Between getting some breakfast and picking up my prescriptions and calming mom down, I fall asleep about 3:00 in the afternoon. Shotgun Bob thoughtfully wakes me up at 5:00 to see if I'm okay. It turns out I am. I go back to sleep at 9:00 PM and wake up naturally at 6:00 in the morning on Wednesday. I'm disoriented, forgetting to do routine things. For instance, I forgot to pack myself a lunch and I left my briefcase in the trunk of my car.
Wednesday, 5/18 I'm here at work. I don't accomplish a damned thing, but I do get paid.
Welcome to America.
Wednesday, 5/11 I have a fever and general lack of energy. I opt to remain home at chez Shotgun until such time as these annoying symptoms abate. I begin taking ibuprofen sans whiskey, which means I must face the certain hell of three ill-behaved hounds, a 12 year old who is clearly in the wrong home and The Girl whose unbridled hatred of my mother's favorite son is becoming apparent to everyone, even Shotgun Bob, unanesthetized.
Thursday, 5/12 My fever switches on and off all day. I'm too sick to work and not miserable enough to consult a witch doctor. I remain in my personal quarters as much as possible, ignoring the hounds, Flounder and The Girl.
Friday, 5/13 My fever travels up and down all day, so I remain at home. Pressure and stress from The Girl cause me to ignore my illness and move my residence from chez Shotgun to Extended Stay America. My illness is becoming more severe and my energy level is at an all-time low. In spite of my fever or perhaps because of it, I set up a moving day for Saturday. If I remain, I'll eventually snap and say something honest and truthful to The Girl about graceful human behavior and not rummaging through her dinner salad like it was a sock drawer. Around 1:00 PM I conclude I must seek professional help, and I'm not talking about a hit man. I go to urgent care at Walgreen drugs to consult with a nursing practitioner. I'm seen by an assistant and passed through triage to the nurse practitioner, a nice, polite Southern lady who prescribes a steroid, an antibiotic and a cough suppressant. In retrospect, I think the cough suppressant is the thing that gets me in trouble as I stop coughing and so fail to expel the disgusting fluid collecting in my lungs. This fluid prevents my asthma medication from reaching the lower part of my lungs, so any and all asthma attacks I suffer are now untreated. Not good. Then, as I attempt to pay for my medication I'm told that my health insurance has been cancelled as of 3/31/11. I find this a little hard to believe, as my insurance is through COBRA and the company has been cashing my premium checks in a very consistent manner. I get about four hours sleep due to illness and stress. Without insurance, who will treat my condition should I get worse?
At 12:30 AM (one half hour after midnight) I'm awoken from a troubled sleep by Shotgun Bob and The Girl trying to get the dogs in from the pool area. The lights are on and both idiots are taking turns yelling, trying to get Pork Chop and Big Blue to come inside. Neither will go out and catch the thrice damned dog, but will alternate bellowing in a loud voice to get the dog to do what it won't: come inside. When I first woke up I looked at the clock and concluded I'd overslept and that it was after 12 noon. I fail to get back to sleep until after 5:00 AM. I get a total of about four or five hours sleep and feel like five miles of bad road.
Saturday, 5/14 I move into Extended Stay America. My fever comes and goes and my breathing is terrible. I have chills and am disoriented from lack of sleep. What I really need is a keeper.
In all the time I've stayed at chez Shotgun, The Girl has instigated a conversation with me exactly twice. As I depart The Girl comes out to the driveway long enough to castigate me for not saying good-bye. She says it's very irritating to her, and notes that I've done it before. Being a gentleman, I offer an apology - which is neither acknowledged nor accepted. Shotgun Bob is somewhat embarrassed, I think.
The noise of my own lungs keeps me awake. My fever comes and goes. I get about four hours sleep.
Sunday, 5/15 My fever is gone and I'm feeling better during the morning. The stress of living at chez Shotgun has vanished, but is replace by the problem with my health insurance. I unpack and take life easy. As the day wears on I feel worse. Again, 4 to 5 hours sleep due to breathing problems and stress.
Monday, 5/16 I'm still too sick to work. I resolve my health insurance. A helpful voice on the phone tracks down the error to an incompetent accounting department and sees that the error is fixed. I feel better. That night I'm kept awake by the idiot next door who is yakking away in some foreign language. The entire hotel is as quiet as a graveyard at midnight except for this asshole, who either doesn't know that this is a shared space or doesn't care. I pound on the wall and he shuts up as fast as if I'd thrown a light switch. The noise of my own lungs keeps me awake, so at 11:30 PM I rouse myself and head for the ER. I can't get a full breath and my lungs are making more noise than a pair of hot teenagers wrestling over a bra that won't come undone.
I go to St Francis Hospital (5959 Park Avenue; Memphis, TN 38119-5198) which is a big, big mistake. I'm examined briefly by a nurse who fails to listen to my chest and then I'm told to wait in the waiting room for an indefinite time. Only one treatment room is open and there are three people ahead of me. I wait an hour and decide that this is bullshit. For one thing, I see signs all over the place stating that this hospital is part of some kind of State funded public medical care program that makes everyone - regardless of race, color, religious beliefs, immigration status or sexual orientation - entitled to medical attention even if they can't pay for it. Moreover, the hospital doesn't ask me about my health insurance or my ability to pay. I leave, heading for Methodist LeBonheur Germantown Hospital (7691 Poplar Avenue, Germantown, TN 38138). It's rather different.
The ER staff at the Methodist hospital is the opposite of St. Francis. I'm greeted pleasantly by a nurse as soon as I walk in, and the medical staff seizes me before I complete my paperwork, explaining that "You can do that later; they really don't need it right now anyway." I'm examined by two nurses and stuck with a single needle which is turned into a cute little faucet that they can use for deposits or withdrawals. They say I'm sick, but they can fix that. Maybe.
I stay until 10:30 AM the next day, have three nebulizer treatments (maximum number allowable), three chest x-rays along with an MRI on my lungs and extensive blood work. I receive several shots and am eventually discharged with two prescriptions and the news that a spot on my lung is likely pneumonia. I call in sick.
Tuesday, 5/17 Between getting some breakfast and picking up my prescriptions and calming mom down, I fall asleep about 3:00 in the afternoon. Shotgun Bob thoughtfully wakes me up at 5:00 to see if I'm okay. It turns out I am. I go back to sleep at 9:00 PM and wake up naturally at 6:00 in the morning on Wednesday. I'm disoriented, forgetting to do routine things. For instance, I forgot to pack myself a lunch and I left my briefcase in the trunk of my car.
Wednesday, 5/18 I'm here at work. I don't accomplish a damned thing, but I do get paid.
Welcome to America.
Everyone Into the Pool!
I don't know how many people will remember the good old first person shooter games Quake and Doom by Id software. I loved 'em - nothing like chainsawing an imp or pinkie to perk up your day. One thing you had to look out for was the ubiquitous toxic pool that was that nice, distinctive green color. Kind of like the one below.
This is the pool at Chez Shotgun. I'm told that this is not a toxic spill of some sort, nor is there a HAZ-MAT suit that I can borrow. I was actually told nothing at all, Shotgun Bob having a notable lack of humor where the pool is concerned. Directing my attention to the small portion of a mad scientist laboratory that I'm told is connected to the pool, I discretely inquired if the filter were working. It wasn't. Worse, no one seemed able to decipher the actual workings of the device.
Clearly water from the pool enters via an underground pipe, but just what happens after that is uncertain. The valve at the top of the ball is questionable, and the previous owner left no documentation behind. Still and all, the local fauna are able to enjoy the pool even if the primary inhabitants are not.
This frog, for instance, is working on the backstroke. An unusual choice for a frog, but I'm sure he has his reasons.
This is the pool at Chez Shotgun. I'm told that this is not a toxic spill of some sort, nor is there a HAZ-MAT suit that I can borrow. I was actually told nothing at all, Shotgun Bob having a notable lack of humor where the pool is concerned. Directing my attention to the small portion of a mad scientist laboratory that I'm told is connected to the pool, I discretely inquired if the filter were working. It wasn't. Worse, no one seemed able to decipher the actual workings of the device.
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| Atomic Fulmination System |
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| Frog Doing Backstroke |
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Cons: Jehova's Witneses
Back in the bad old days when I was a young, virile stud muffin - (Mad Jack waits for the cacophony of catcalls, derisive howls and jejune cries of cough:BullShit!:cough to die down) – as I was saying, back in the bad old days I taught ballroom dancing. Check out Dancing with the Stars or the Ohio Star Ball on PBS. That was me many years ago. I got out and found another line of work when I started getting old. I knew when to leave the party, you see.
Of course most of the ballroom dance professionals that I knew from back then have all retired, moved on or been put in jail for fraud. That's the other half of the ballroom dance business that you don't hear much about. Old ladies, lifetime courses, trials and lawsuits, bad payroll checks and egotistical prima donnas aspiring to become the next USBC American Style Ten Dance Champion. Few make it. Those that aren't prima donnas are busy grabbing all the money they can before departing for an extended vacation in Florida. Why Florida? Check the civil law. Basically any civil suite in any other State stops at the Florida border.
I reminisce about all this because the other day I was talking to Main Lady, who found an interesting flyer on her doorstep.
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| Down South Camp Meetin' |
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| Location of the Main Tent - Alfredo's Dance Studio |
You see, I used to know Alfredo. He was busy pushing old ladies around the floor at the Arthur Murray Dance Studio in Toledo (now closed) while I was working for a competitor. Al's a real charmer with a thick Spanish accent and an extroverted personality. He's married they say, his second wife being an ex-student. The first wife caught Al and the second wife practicing the horizontal bop in the back room at "Alfredo's Studio of Dance!" late one night and turned the whole session into the cat fight tango. Although the first wife didn't promise to drop him with a deer rifle, she refused to give him one more chance so Al married the other woman.
I always kind of wondered whatever happened to Alfredo. Now I know. Well, I guess there's always room for a good confidence man in a cult, which is what the Jehovah's Witnesses are (and if I've offended anyone rest assured it's intentional). The Witnesses took a hard run at my mother and ran into a solid wall – honesty. You see, in order to cheat or deceive someone, the target or 'mark' must have a little larceny in their own heart. Mom has none, and so could not be converted. Impressed with mom's estate and nice home, the Witnesses tried again, bringing out the first string this time. I ran them off, stopping short of a first hand look at the hereafter courtesy of Colonels Smith and Wesson. I am, after all, not stupid.
I can kind of see Alfredo in the role of minister, especially in a cult like the Witnesses. There's plenty of money floating around and as I remember it, Al tends to do well in front of a crowd. He's got the right ethics for it, I'll tell you that.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Happy Mother's Day
My mother was born in 1925 to a very wealthy family. They had oil money, and plenty of it. Mom's father was a chemist who knew how to crack petroleum. The family had their own oil wells, refinery, gas stations and truck line. Mom's grandfather owned four airplanes and taught himself to fly. Then the great depression came along and wiped the family wealth away in a very short time. Mom's father (my maternal grandfather) lost his job when the refinery closed, and discovered that the demand for industrial chemists was as low as the stock market. Mom's family lost their home and were forced to move in with their maternal parents; my maternal great grandparents. Mom's father was given a job by a relative who was the general manager at a local department store: dishwasher. He could have made the chemist a clerk, but it's said that there might have been a little resentment there, coupled with a vindictive spirit. Sadly the chemist had a weak heart from a childhood bout with rheumatic fever and his heart couldn't keep up with the physical labor required. He worked that job until it killed him several years later. My mother is about 12 years old when her father dies at home.
Mom's mother became the sole breadwinner for the family. Her options were limited due to societal prejudice against women in the workplace. She taught herself to play the piano (a job requirement back then) and became an elementary school teacher, like her mother before her. My great grandmother taught nine students of various ages in a one room school house. My grandmother taught third grade, and in 30 years of teaching she only had to paddle three students. I had a chance to watch her teach once, and she worked hard at it. The students were busy every single minute they were in her classroom.
In the middle of all this mom and her three sisters graduated high school and put themselves through college. I'm devoting one sentence to four years of hard work and very frugal living, but all four managed to achieve a baccalaureate degree, and one continued to get her master's degree. Mom graduated and eventually became a high school teacher, teaching business subjects at a local high school. The school used to give mom the problem students because mom never had trouble with them. I asked her about this once and she replied that she treated the students with respect and courtesy, and they responded to that. Mom was also something of a holy terror. On one occasion there was a fight in the hallway between two girls, and when one girl would not quit fighting mom tossed her to the floor and pinned her, then held her there until she settled down.
Eventually mom got married and a few years later a cute little baby arrived. We'll skip most of the era immediately following this happy event, as the joys of raising a low maintenance, intellectually gifted and talented child will strain the willing suspension of disbelief to the point of spontaneous fracture, the backlash of which has been known to cause permanent injury to the cerebral cortex and is still the source of several ongoing liability cases.
I have a lot to thank my mother for, but today I'm going to thank her for teaching me to read. Thanks to mom's time, effort and devotion I could read and write before I started elementary school, and in spite of the school's determination to make me conform I continued to learn to read, mainly through the efforts of my mother and my maternal grandmother. Neither of these women were afraid to call a spade a spade, and when an egotistical pseudo-pedagogue employed by the public school system wrongfully criticized an essay I wrote, both women tactfully stated that the critic had delusions of mediocrity.
If it hadn't been for my mother I'd never have learned to read past the first grade level, and that's the truth. Thanks mom. You done real good.
Mom's mother became the sole breadwinner for the family. Her options were limited due to societal prejudice against women in the workplace. She taught herself to play the piano (a job requirement back then) and became an elementary school teacher, like her mother before her. My great grandmother taught nine students of various ages in a one room school house. My grandmother taught third grade, and in 30 years of teaching she only had to paddle three students. I had a chance to watch her teach once, and she worked hard at it. The students were busy every single minute they were in her classroom.
In the middle of all this mom and her three sisters graduated high school and put themselves through college. I'm devoting one sentence to four years of hard work and very frugal living, but all four managed to achieve a baccalaureate degree, and one continued to get her master's degree. Mom graduated and eventually became a high school teacher, teaching business subjects at a local high school. The school used to give mom the problem students because mom never had trouble with them. I asked her about this once and she replied that she treated the students with respect and courtesy, and they responded to that. Mom was also something of a holy terror. On one occasion there was a fight in the hallway between two girls, and when one girl would not quit fighting mom tossed her to the floor and pinned her, then held her there until she settled down.
Eventually mom got married and a few years later a cute little baby arrived. We'll skip most of the era immediately following this happy event, as the joys of raising a low maintenance, intellectually gifted and talented child will strain the willing suspension of disbelief to the point of spontaneous fracture, the backlash of which has been known to cause permanent injury to the cerebral cortex and is still the source of several ongoing liability cases.
I have a lot to thank my mother for, but today I'm going to thank her for teaching me to read. Thanks to mom's time, effort and devotion I could read and write before I started elementary school, and in spite of the school's determination to make me conform I continued to learn to read, mainly through the efforts of my mother and my maternal grandmother. Neither of these women were afraid to call a spade a spade, and when an egotistical pseudo-pedagogue employed by the public school system wrongfully criticized an essay I wrote, both women tactfully stated that the critic had delusions of mediocrity.
If it hadn't been for my mother I'd never have learned to read past the first grade level, and that's the truth. Thanks mom. You done real good.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
My Life: An amusing dinner
Last Thursday night we all assembled for supper around 6:45. Normally we eat at 6:00 but The Girl was cooking and so dinner was a little late. I was forewarned that we were having hamburgers with hash brown potatoes on the side. I have no objection here, as I can skip the bun and the hash browns, me being on a low carb diet and all.
Flounder loaded her plate with two hamburgers, half a pound of hash brown potatoes and a side order of ketchup (an approved public school lunch vegetable). My brother gave the prayer before supper and two tenths of a second after 'Amen' Flounder fell to with all the enthusiasm of a hungry bulldog on top of a full dish of Alpo - curbed only by recent instruction in table manners by The Girl, who is prone to eat her salad with her hands. I studied the centerpiece, a random arrangement of three plastic flowers placed cunningly adjacent to the salt and pepper shakers. I noted that the pepper shaker was almost full, while the salt shaker was three quarters empty and was resting on its side. I idly speculated if my observance could be used to convict me of being a pessimist, and if so did it really matter. I surmised my observation could be used in such a fashion but only if I admitted it in front of impeccable witnesses. Otherwise I could go into denial. I continued my wool gathering, speculating that the spilled salt would be certain to bring someone bad luck, and that I might be caught in the fall out. The television in the living room blared away unheeded by three of the four people at the table, tuned in to some nameless reality show involving a dysfunctional extended family, one or more of whom were being removed from the family domicile by the local constabulary amidst a tirade that is best described as Tyrone Theater (credit to Beat and Release). I winced inwardly - Shotgun Bob and The Girl are supposed to be setting a good example for this impressionable twelve year old, and they leave this kind of trash on TV? Just as Tyrone was being cuffed and stuffed I was distracted by Flounder, and not because she was throwing food to the dogs.
"You know I like my potatoes." Flounder proclaimed around a mouthful of hash browns. I noted that having food in her mouth mitigates her thick Southern accent.
"That's nice." The Girl responded, a bit absent-mindedly.
"My Momma is a good cook. She has her own special spices for potatoes." Flounder continued.
"I see." Said The Girl, beginning to pay attention.
"These came out of a bag, didn't they?" Flounder asked.
The Girl starts doing a slow burn. In fact, she is rendered speechless. The Girl finally wrestles her temper to the floor and pins it.
"Yes, they did." The Girl responded through clenched teeth.
"My Momma always does hers up fresh. She's a real good cook." Flounder continued unabated.
I successfully stopped myself from laughing out loud. Shotgun Bob was barely successful. I couldn't think of a thing to say to change the subject without starting up a nice chain reaction of some sort. See what a good example I'm setting? Note my self-control? My generous, kind and goodhearted nature? I could have something about some people being too lazy to cook, but I didn't.
Anyway, the meal ended a little early that night. Just as well, I suppose.
Flounder loaded her plate with two hamburgers, half a pound of hash brown potatoes and a side order of ketchup (an approved public school lunch vegetable). My brother gave the prayer before supper and two tenths of a second after 'Amen' Flounder fell to with all the enthusiasm of a hungry bulldog on top of a full dish of Alpo - curbed only by recent instruction in table manners by The Girl, who is prone to eat her salad with her hands. I studied the centerpiece, a random arrangement of three plastic flowers placed cunningly adjacent to the salt and pepper shakers. I noted that the pepper shaker was almost full, while the salt shaker was three quarters empty and was resting on its side. I idly speculated if my observance could be used to convict me of being a pessimist, and if so did it really matter. I surmised my observation could be used in such a fashion but only if I admitted it in front of impeccable witnesses. Otherwise I could go into denial. I continued my wool gathering, speculating that the spilled salt would be certain to bring someone bad luck, and that I might be caught in the fall out. The television in the living room blared away unheeded by three of the four people at the table, tuned in to some nameless reality show involving a dysfunctional extended family, one or more of whom were being removed from the family domicile by the local constabulary amidst a tirade that is best described as Tyrone Theater (credit to Beat and Release). I winced inwardly - Shotgun Bob and The Girl are supposed to be setting a good example for this impressionable twelve year old, and they leave this kind of trash on TV? Just as Tyrone was being cuffed and stuffed I was distracted by Flounder, and not because she was throwing food to the dogs.
"You know I like my potatoes." Flounder proclaimed around a mouthful of hash browns. I noted that having food in her mouth mitigates her thick Southern accent.
"That's nice." The Girl responded, a bit absent-mindedly.
"My Momma is a good cook. She has her own special spices for potatoes." Flounder continued.
"I see." Said The Girl, beginning to pay attention.
"These came out of a bag, didn't they?" Flounder asked.
The Girl starts doing a slow burn. In fact, she is rendered speechless. The Girl finally wrestles her temper to the floor and pins it.
"Yes, they did." The Girl responded through clenched teeth.
"My Momma always does hers up fresh. She's a real good cook." Flounder continued unabated.
I successfully stopped myself from laughing out loud. Shotgun Bob was barely successful. I couldn't think of a thing to say to change the subject without starting up a nice chain reaction of some sort. See what a good example I'm setting? Note my self-control? My generous, kind and goodhearted nature? I could have something about some people being too lazy to cook, but I didn't.
Anyway, the meal ended a little early that night. Just as well, I suppose.
Friday, April 29, 2011
My Life:Foster Kids
It seems that my brother Shotgun Bob and his wife, The Girl have decided to become foster parents. The reasoning behind this escapes me, but suffice to say that it amuses Shotgun Bob to contribute to society in this fashion, and, ever the avid hunter, the addition of a foster child stifles the incessant whining of The Girl for yet another new thing in the house, thus bagging two birds with a single shot.
Make what you want of my somewhat uncharitable comment about The Girl, but as I write this Casa Shotgun holds three overweight cats and three large dogs, one of which is overweight and the other borderline. Overweight, that is. The castle also has a foster child, also overweight. I live in a house of fat people.
Since I use aliases for everyone when I write, I'm very tempted to snatch up a few for the foster kid. Hillbilly Helen, Hog Trough Hannah, Trailer Park Trixie, or maybe just plain Fat Girl. All have a certain appeal to them. I'll refrain from bestowing a name just now... cut to the scene in Animal House where Bluto is naming the pledges.
Flounder is 12 years old, will be 13 in a month or so and hasn't been raised. She has no table manners beyond shoveling in bio-degradable items she likes (sugar, caffeine and colors not found in nature) and refusing anything the resembles real food. "I don't like that." is common. She is selfish and finds it very difficult not to be the center of attention. The other day when Yours Truly, Shotgun Bob, The Girl and Flounder all had dinner over at their neighbor's house, Flounder's abhorrent behavior surfaced. I thought Shotgun Bob was going to blow a fuse, but evidently some kind soul had thoughtfully removed his fuses and substituted pennies and .45 casings, so the temper held. Happily the neighbors, Trucker Tom and his wife Betty are very experienced parents and - get this - they know Flounder's family, either directly or by reputation. They handled the situation beautifully.
Then Shotgun Bob made two more interesting discoveries. It seems that Flounder's grades at public school (Jack hits the spittoon with a vengeance) are Bs and Cs, with one D (math). Old Shotgun expected much worse and so did I. The second discovery is that Flounder has been out of paper for about two months. Paper, you know... like notebook paper. Flounder's solution was to cadge a sheet here and there, listen to the lectures and memorize everything on the board. That's right, memorize. How many of you mental giants reading this drivel could pull that one off? Because I couldn't. Not on the best day I ever had. Flounder admitted this as casually as anyone else would talk about shopping for groceries or what they had for breakfast this morning. What else would she do? In the same conversation, Flounder admitted that her math teacher, Mister Fairy, called her a retard. I'd like five minutes alone with Mister Fairy, but I'd settle for three.
And so it goes. No one has taught the child table manners, how to react to teasing or compliments, how to share or be helpful. Shotgun Bob and The Girl finally had a business meeting about the state of Flounder and made a few decisions. No more Facebook, for instance. Flounder's older cousin (16, which is prime marrying age in Tennessee) likes to pose in her underwear on Facebook. Many of Flounders Facebook friends are older males, 15 and up. Shotgun Bob put his foot down.
For my part I waited until Flounder needed a little cheering up at the dinner table, then asked if she could read. When Flounder timidly affirmed that she could, I stated that her reading skill would indicate that she could write. So, when the school year is up in 21 days, she could write about her racially prejudice math teacher.
Flounder lit up like the fourth of July at the White House.
We shall see, but I'm betting that the kid writes something.
Make what you want of my somewhat uncharitable comment about The Girl, but as I write this Casa Shotgun holds three overweight cats and three large dogs, one of which is overweight and the other borderline. Overweight, that is. The castle also has a foster child, also overweight. I live in a house of fat people.
Since I use aliases for everyone when I write, I'm very tempted to snatch up a few for the foster kid. Hillbilly Helen, Hog Trough Hannah, Trailer Park Trixie, or maybe just plain Fat Girl. All have a certain appeal to them. I'll refrain from bestowing a name just now... cut to the scene in Animal House where Bluto is naming the pledges.
Kent Dorfman: Uh, what's my Delta Tau Chi name?Flounder. Flounder's mother is drying out right now, and so far as I know she'll be in the State funded dry cleaning system for a while. Flounder's father decided he couldn't raise her - she 'got all up in his face', according to the social worker. So the stupid hillbilly called the welfare people to come and get her. None of the relatives will take her in. The paternal grandparents who live within five miles of Casa Shotgun refuse to give out their phone numbers. Just think about that one for a minute. We have their address, but they refuse to give their granddaughter their phone number.
Bluto: Dorfman, I've given this a lot of thought. From now on, your name is Flounder.
Kent Dorfman: [Pause] Flounder?
Flounder is 12 years old, will be 13 in a month or so and hasn't been raised. She has no table manners beyond shoveling in bio-degradable items she likes (sugar, caffeine and colors not found in nature) and refusing anything the resembles real food. "I don't like that." is common. She is selfish and finds it very difficult not to be the center of attention. The other day when Yours Truly, Shotgun Bob, The Girl and Flounder all had dinner over at their neighbor's house, Flounder's abhorrent behavior surfaced. I thought Shotgun Bob was going to blow a fuse, but evidently some kind soul had thoughtfully removed his fuses and substituted pennies and .45 casings, so the temper held. Happily the neighbors, Trucker Tom and his wife Betty are very experienced parents and - get this - they know Flounder's family, either directly or by reputation. They handled the situation beautifully.
Then Shotgun Bob made two more interesting discoveries. It seems that Flounder's grades at public school (Jack hits the spittoon with a vengeance) are Bs and Cs, with one D (math). Old Shotgun expected much worse and so did I. The second discovery is that Flounder has been out of paper for about two months. Paper, you know... like notebook paper. Flounder's solution was to cadge a sheet here and there, listen to the lectures and memorize everything on the board. That's right, memorize. How many of you mental giants reading this drivel could pull that one off? Because I couldn't. Not on the best day I ever had. Flounder admitted this as casually as anyone else would talk about shopping for groceries or what they had for breakfast this morning. What else would she do? In the same conversation, Flounder admitted that her math teacher, Mister Fairy, called her a retard. I'd like five minutes alone with Mister Fairy, but I'd settle for three.
And so it goes. No one has taught the child table manners, how to react to teasing or compliments, how to share or be helpful. Shotgun Bob and The Girl finally had a business meeting about the state of Flounder and made a few decisions. No more Facebook, for instance. Flounder's older cousin (16, which is prime marrying age in Tennessee) likes to pose in her underwear on Facebook. Many of Flounders Facebook friends are older males, 15 and up. Shotgun Bob put his foot down.
For my part I waited until Flounder needed a little cheering up at the dinner table, then asked if she could read. When Flounder timidly affirmed that she could, I stated that her reading skill would indicate that she could write. So, when the school year is up in 21 days, she could write about her racially prejudice math teacher.
Flounder lit up like the fourth of July at the White House.
We shall see, but I'm betting that the kid writes something.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Restaurant Review: Kings Palace Cafe
Kings Palace Cafe
162 Beale Street
Memphis, TN 38103
901-521-1851 phone
I'm in Memphis, Tenneesee right now and have been for about a week. I was overdue for a night on Beal Street, so last Saturday I decided to brave the tourist crowd and get some good food, liquor and a double helping of down and dirty blues music. As usual, Beal Street satisfied almost every craving.
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| Beal Street on Saturday Night |
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| King's Palace |
I ordered the shrimp and crawfish etouffee and a Sam Adams, which is on tap. Now you would think that a beer from the tap should arrive right away. Mine didn't. Let me tell you up front that your service experience is guaranteed to be better than mine, because the service I got sucked pond scum. I give the service a solid 2 out of 10, and if I hadn't seen other people being waited on promptly I'd cross The Palace off my list of places to go on Beal, no matter how much I liked the food. The food does sort of make up for the service, though. The etouffee is some of the best you'll have on Beal Street. It's spicy but not too overbearing. Keep in mind that I enjoy spicy food, and food that Main Lady thinks is too hot is mild by my standards. So if you burn easily, take my word for it and order something a little tamer.
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| Etouffee |
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| House Band with a Guest |
But this is Memphis, Tennessee and we're on Beal Street.
The guy was introduced as Denny from Moscow, and he blew the room away. The man played so well and so clean that the drummer had and ear to ear smile and the bass player was helping adjust the sound on the piano - turning it up a little. Denny's playing was so clean that I think it's likely he is actually a formally trained concert pianist who likes solid jazz and plays it as a hobby. Denny played a jazz standard (the title escapes me as I write) and he played it up tempo, in an almost rag-time style with very clean notes. Best of all, he was so tight with the other two musicians that you couldn't tell he'd never sat in with them before.
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| Denny from Moscow |
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| Alley Club |
And that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
My Life: The Zoo
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| Big Blue, Pork Chop and NoBuddyDown |
Buddy really and truly likes everything and everyone. Buddy greets strangers like the source for food and attention that they are - imagine a Marco's pizza delivery man arriving with a stack of pizzas at an afternoon pool party full of hungry teenagers. Big Blue can be a bit standoffish, and will bark with authority at strangers until they have been proven friendly, after which time he's happy to be petted and played with. Due to his size (XXXL) he has a tendency to knock people over, but that just makes them easier to reach with the old tongue. Pork Chop always follows Big Blue's lead, having been raised by Big Blue you see. So, if Big Blue barks, Pork Chop will sound off as well. Like, for instance, at 2:30 in the morning when some stupid critter walks around the pool area causing Big Blue to offer a standard "Halt! Who goes there?" and Pork Chop to sound the call to general quarters, thus setting of a chain reaction involving Buddy and culminating in Shotgun Bob trying to get Big Blue and Pork Chop to stand down without leaving the confines of his bed. The Girl slept through the whole thing. I did not.
Shotgun Bob and The Girl have decided that they want to be foster parents. I don't know why they want to do this, but it's a laudable thing to do and Lord knows that there are more children than good homes. Hell, there are more children than mediocre homes. After filling out countless forms and passing extensive background checks, they are cleared for take off. Then I showed up. Since I'm living in the guest suite of Chez Shotgun I must pass a background check as well. The Welfare Lady will arrive this evening with the paperwork for said check and Shotgun Bob cautions me not to make jokes about drug use, DUI violations and halfway houses. I assure him I will refrain. Shotgun Bob informs me that this is the Welfare Lady's second visit to their happy home and the first visit did not go as smoothly as everyone would have liked.
Oh?
Shotgun Bob's house is an open air design. The master bedroom suite is on the West side and a second master suite is on the East, along with three other bedrooms. The center of the house is a living room, informal dining room and a very informal auxiliary area. The auxiliary area is large, and is separated from the living area by an ornate three foot fence and gate which prevents dog intrusion into the living room and dining area. Both master bedroom suites have a door connecting them to the auxiliary area, as well as a second door to connect them to the rest of the house. So far, this arrangement has worked well, mainly because Big Blue can't jump over barriers. He can climb, but he can't jump. I imagine that Pork Chop hasn't learned how to jump the fence and Buddy doesn't because his master doesn't want him to.
It is a little known fact (it's a skeleton that's been walled up in the closet if you want the truth) that Big Blue is a somewhat sensitive creature, and for one reason or another Big Blue does not like or trust people of color. Okay... bluntly? Big Blue hates black people. That's it. Period. And if Big Blue were an eight pound pocket rat, this would be cute. He isn't. He's well over 150 pounds and seven feet tall standing on his hind feet.
Shotgun Bob wasn't home when the Welfare Lady showed up for an inspection tour last week, but Big Blue and the boys were. That left The Girl to manage the entire tour by herself. The Girl is pretty good with people and only fair with animals. Like dogs, for instance. So The Girl confined the three dogs to the auxiliary area before the Welfare Lady came in the front door, which is really what saved the bacon.
Cutting right to the chase, the Welfare Lady is black and is afraid of dogs. I may have mentioned that Big Blue does not react well to black people. That day was no exception. Big Blue saw the Welfare Lady as an intruder and a danger to hearth, home and family and he was not going to take this kind of thing lying down. Big Blue went off and started trying to climb over the fence, barking threats and (for all I know) insults in dog language. Since Big Blue identified this as a threat, Pork Chop decided to assert himself as well. He was an eighty pound Bulldog and he meant business. Buddy saw the Welfare Lady as a friend he wasn't close enough to, and so he started trying to climb the fence too, barking a welcome message. The Welfare Lady bravely stood her ground.
Now Big Blue is big, but he is not the sharpest knife in the drawer. So he continued to bark and try his best to get over the wall, but Pork Chop had other ideas. Pork Chop had deduced that the door to the West master bedroom suite led to another door which led to the house - and to the Welfare Lady. Pork Chop applied his nose to the door and got it open, and in a trice was on the good side of the fence where he could fulfill his honor bound doggy duty of protecting the house and The Girl. The Girl snatched him up by his collar in the nick of time.
I gather that the Welfare Lady didn't stay much longer, but she did return for her second appointment. She was late, but she showed. The dogs were confined to the back yard.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
My Life: Memphis
I am now gainfully employed.
This means I can stop dumpster diving, cadging drinks off the irregulars when I'm down at the bar and sponging off my relatives. Truly a happy day for us all!
Some months ago my brother told me his company was looking for a few good men and since they hadn't found any, he thought I should throw my hat into the ring. I did so, and promptly forgot all about it. Three weeks ago the company called and wanted an updated copy of my resume along with a telephone interview. The resume was easy - I just changed the date. The interview was easy as well - I just neglected to mention a few of my... ah,habits features, such as my morning snort, my August years and my somewhat odd sense of humor.
The thing about this job is that the company, The Big Corporation, just bought out their largest competitor and so needs to expand their IT staff, but since The Big Corporation uses a fairly arcane database engine and language employees are in short supply. Add to this the size of the data tables, some of which are over one petabyte, and they don't dare hire anyone right out of college. Hence The Big Corporation snatched me up with the understanding I'd learn the language as I go along. Truly an unusual opportunity.
For the uninitiated, 1024 Kilobytes = 1 Megabyte; 1024 Megabytes = 1 Gigabyte; 1024 Gigabytes = 1 Terabyte; 1024 Terabytes = 1 Petabyte; 1024 Petabytes = 1 Exabyte. Really, really huge. See? The first mainframe I ever worked on had 3 to 4 Gigabytes of storage - it was an IBM 3090 connected to an entire building of burnt out dumb terminals. End of digression.
The Big Corporation is in Memphis, Tennessee. On Wednesday I packed up my gear and headed South, stopping in Columbus Ohio to see my brother Big Mike. This may have been a mistake in some ways. While Mike offers excellent hospitality, I don't think he's entirely human - he can't be and drink the way he does. I showed up at Big Mike's around 6:00 PM, threw my gear in his spare bedroom and accepted his offer of a drink. One large Manhattan later Mike took me out to dinner at a four and a half star restaurant where we had a fantastic meal and a bottle of red wine. When we got back to Mike's house I was offered a little Scotch as an after dinner drink. I declined, being far too deep in my cups from the wine.
I had intended to get up early the next morning and get a good start. I woke up early, but I was so hung over and tired out that an early start was difficult. I got on the road at 9:30 with a ten hour drive in front of me. Naturally my satellite navigation device went belly up, so I had to rely on a map. This was fine until I hit Kentucky.
The very best thing the State of Kentucky ever contributed to civilization as we know it is Bourbon. I have no doubt that the men who laid out the highway system in Kentucky were sampling the various brands of bourbon every single day they were at work. You see, the highways in Kentucky have no numbers; they have names. Great long names that will not fit easily on highway signage or official maps. Worse, not everyone has accepted Kentucky's system as absolute gospel, so while the sign may read "The Tom Moore Wild Turkey and Kerry Krumplecan Scenic Highway" the map may proclaim 34W. This causes some confusion for the traveler (that would be me), who has no navigator and has to drive the car, read the road signs and look at the map, all at 70 mph in traffic. This causes stress.
I got completely lost once and stopped to ask directions which were provided by another traveler who knew the way to the highway I was looking for. I'm thankful for that, as I'd never have found it otherwise.
Six hours into my arduous trip hunger forced me to stop for some road food. This was yet another opportunity to shoot myself in the foot. It turns out that any food that is cooked South of the infamous Mason Dixon line requires extra grease be added to it. This fatback additive plays merry hell with the digestive tract of each and every stressed out Yankee who is desperate enough to eat it. I am no exception.
I arrived at Shotgun Bob and The Girl's house in Memphis, Tennessee around 9:00 PM, local time. Shotgun Bob's neighbor Barbecue John and Barbecue John's wife Tammy-Rae were in attendance and we all had a drink together before dinner. I turned in early, being more than a little fatigued from the road. I vaguely remember something Shotgun Bob told me just before I hit the sack. "I get up at 6:00, so be forewarned. I'm building fence tomorrow and I need to get an early start." So naturally I was up at six and hard at work by 7:30.
I lasted until 1:30 in the afternoon. Shotgun Bob is erecting 560 feet of board fence which will contain his dog pack. He's got a great dane, a golden retriever and an American bulldog. All are nice dogs but they need a large space to run around in. There are also three cats, all of whom live indoors. It's something of a zoo.
Shotgun Bob rented a two man post hole auger and recruited some help from work. One guy showed up, which was good. We got all the holes dug and several posts set. The man in question, Little Mike, is a good friend and generally great company but he really is small. So when he partnered up with my mother's favorite son, I had to do most of the work. And let me tell you, that auger is a real gut buster.
Still and all we got all the holes dug and Shotgun Bob got half the fence posts set on Sunday. Good work.
My first day at the new job was Monday, April 04, 2011. I'll write more later on.
This means I can stop dumpster diving, cadging drinks off the irregulars when I'm down at the bar and sponging off my relatives. Truly a happy day for us all!
Some months ago my brother told me his company was looking for a few good men and since they hadn't found any, he thought I should throw my hat into the ring. I did so, and promptly forgot all about it. Three weeks ago the company called and wanted an updated copy of my resume along with a telephone interview. The resume was easy - I just changed the date. The interview was easy as well - I just neglected to mention a few of my... ah,
The thing about this job is that the company, The Big Corporation, just bought out their largest competitor and so needs to expand their IT staff, but since The Big Corporation uses a fairly arcane database engine and language employees are in short supply. Add to this the size of the data tables, some of which are over one petabyte, and they don't dare hire anyone right out of college. Hence The Big Corporation snatched me up with the understanding I'd learn the language as I go along. Truly an unusual opportunity.
For the uninitiated, 1024 Kilobytes = 1 Megabyte; 1024 Megabytes = 1 Gigabyte; 1024 Gigabytes = 1 Terabyte; 1024 Terabytes = 1 Petabyte; 1024 Petabytes = 1 Exabyte. Really, really huge. See? The first mainframe I ever worked on had 3 to 4 Gigabytes of storage - it was an IBM 3090 connected to an entire building of burnt out dumb terminals. End of digression.
The Big Corporation is in Memphis, Tennessee. On Wednesday I packed up my gear and headed South, stopping in Columbus Ohio to see my brother Big Mike. This may have been a mistake in some ways. While Mike offers excellent hospitality, I don't think he's entirely human - he can't be and drink the way he does. I showed up at Big Mike's around 6:00 PM, threw my gear in his spare bedroom and accepted his offer of a drink. One large Manhattan later Mike took me out to dinner at a four and a half star restaurant where we had a fantastic meal and a bottle of red wine. When we got back to Mike's house I was offered a little Scotch as an after dinner drink. I declined, being far too deep in my cups from the wine.
I had intended to get up early the next morning and get a good start. I woke up early, but I was so hung over and tired out that an early start was difficult. I got on the road at 9:30 with a ten hour drive in front of me. Naturally my satellite navigation device went belly up, so I had to rely on a map. This was fine until I hit Kentucky.
The very best thing the State of Kentucky ever contributed to civilization as we know it is Bourbon. I have no doubt that the men who laid out the highway system in Kentucky were sampling the various brands of bourbon every single day they were at work. You see, the highways in Kentucky have no numbers; they have names. Great long names that will not fit easily on highway signage or official maps. Worse, not everyone has accepted Kentucky's system as absolute gospel, so while the sign may read "The Tom Moore Wild Turkey and Kerry Krumplecan Scenic Highway" the map may proclaim 34W. This causes some confusion for the traveler (that would be me), who has no navigator and has to drive the car, read the road signs and look at the map, all at 70 mph in traffic. This causes stress.
I got completely lost once and stopped to ask directions which were provided by another traveler who knew the way to the highway I was looking for. I'm thankful for that, as I'd never have found it otherwise.
Six hours into my arduous trip hunger forced me to stop for some road food. This was yet another opportunity to shoot myself in the foot. It turns out that any food that is cooked South of the infamous Mason Dixon line requires extra grease be added to it. This fatback additive plays merry hell with the digestive tract of each and every stressed out Yankee who is desperate enough to eat it. I am no exception.
I arrived at Shotgun Bob and The Girl's house in Memphis, Tennessee around 9:00 PM, local time. Shotgun Bob's neighbor Barbecue John and Barbecue John's wife Tammy-Rae were in attendance and we all had a drink together before dinner. I turned in early, being more than a little fatigued from the road. I vaguely remember something Shotgun Bob told me just before I hit the sack. "I get up at 6:00, so be forewarned. I'm building fence tomorrow and I need to get an early start." So naturally I was up at six and hard at work by 7:30.
I lasted until 1:30 in the afternoon. Shotgun Bob is erecting 560 feet of board fence which will contain his dog pack. He's got a great dane, a golden retriever and an American bulldog. All are nice dogs but they need a large space to run around in. There are also three cats, all of whom live indoors. It's something of a zoo.
Shotgun Bob rented a two man post hole auger and recruited some help from work. One guy showed up, which was good. We got all the holes dug and several posts set. The man in question, Little Mike, is a good friend and generally great company but he really is small. So when he partnered up with my mother's favorite son, I had to do most of the work. And let me tell you, that auger is a real gut buster.
Still and all we got all the holes dug and Shotgun Bob got half the fence posts set on Sunday. Good work.
My first day at the new job was Monday, April 04, 2011. I'll write more later on.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Range Report: Ruger LCP
When I talked to Big Mike the other day about going out to the range, I informed him that I'd cleaned and oiled all my hardware and so was only bringing two pistols. No worries, Mike informed me. I could shoot his new pistol, a Ruger LCP. This is a brand new, just out of the box with barely 50 rounds through it pocket pistol in .380.
The pistol is small, being 5.16 inches long, 3.60 inches high and 0.82 inches thick. It's also very light, officially 9.4 ounces. So, what with summer coming on, if you're the type that can't find just the right pistol for your Speedo swimwear, this pistol is definitely on your short list. Even if you just want a pocket pistol, I'd still put this one on your short list. Here's what we found during our unscientific range test.
The LCP has a steel slide and a steel barrel. The rest of the gun is made from synthetic glass filled nylon, which accounts for the light weight. As I said, the gun is small. Here are a few photos to illustrate that point.
Mike doesn't have hands; he has chow hooks. He finds a full size automatic, such as his top of the line Kimber, very comfortable to hold. Okay, who wouldn't? Here are a few photos of Mike holding the LCP.
Note the two finger grip. The pistol is so small that Mike's ring finger wants to overlap. Here's another photo:
Now you see it, now you don't. We put it next to the Kimber .45 for comparison, along with .380 and .45 auto ammunition. Note the slide position on the Ruger.
The LCP holds six in the clip and one in the chamber. It's a double action only autoloader, and there is no safety on it (much like you would expect from a revolver). The slide does not lock back when the last bullet is fired as most autoloaders do. To load the LCP you put the clip in and slingshot the slide - the LCP won't chamber a round successfully if you simply work the slide back and forward. You must pull the slide all the way back and let it slam forward, and you must do this in one fluid movement. The gun is particular about this.
The LCP isn't particularly stiff or hard to load. It's small, and the size is what makes it somewhat difficult to bring the LCP in battery without catching the meat of your hand between the moving parts of the gun. That being the case, I could not envision carrying this pistol without a round in the chamber; the very last thing you'd want is to have to draw your pistol and screw around trying to get a round up the pipe.
Once in battery, you'll squint down the barrel and notice that there isn't much by way of sights. I'm not too surprised by this, as the pistol is designed to be carried in your pocket and having adjustable sights would only provide something to catch on your clothing or holster. The LCP has a long, smooth trigger pull. It isn't overly stiff, as I've noticed with a number of double action autoloaders, but it isn't the smooth ball bearing pull you'll find on a Colt Python. I found it adequate for the job at hand. Both of us were able to hold the pistol on target and actually do pretty well with it, all things considered.
All of the shots are on the paper, and given the lighting, age and decrepitude of the shooters, I'm not going to entertain many complaints about my performance here. Besides, no one knows my real identity.
For those of you who haven't shot one, the .380 has a nasty snap to it. People think that because it isn't a .45 or .357 it doesn't kick much. They're wrong. The LCP has no weight to soak up any of the recoil, so when I torched the first shot off the gun slammed back into the web of my hand and hurt like billy be damned. I adjusted my grip and tried again, with similar results. I ran ten shots through the LCP, and it took me five to decide how to hold on to it, and another five to decide what to do about the lack of sights. I finally resorted to pointing and shooting rather than sighting in on the target, and my score began to improve. While your mileage may vary, my own best results happened when I simply ignored the sights and concentrated on pointing the little gun at the target and pulling the trigger.
The good news about this pistol is that Ruger didn't compromise. The goal was a small pocket pistol in .380, and Ruger achieved that goal very nicely. The LCP is finely machined with no sharp edges or any protrusions to catch in your clothing or in a holster. It has no safety; like a revolver you just point it and pull the trigger. Some people will argue that .380 is light for self-defense. My rejoinder to that argument is that you can buy special .380 self-defense ammunition. You now have a pistol the size of a .25 auto that packs a lot more punch than that feeble little bullet.
Both Mike and I agreed that the LCP should be carried with a round in the chamber and should be in some sort of holster, the danger being that the you might snag the trigger while putting the gun in your pocket and thus do yourself a mischief.
I like the Ruger LCP and will probably end up buying one for concealed carry.
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| Ruger LCP |
The pistol is small, being 5.16 inches long, 3.60 inches high and 0.82 inches thick. It's also very light, officially 9.4 ounces. So, what with summer coming on, if you're the type that can't find just the right pistol for your Speedo swimwear, this pistol is definitely on your short list. Even if you just want a pocket pistol, I'd still put this one on your short list. Here's what we found during our unscientific range test.
The LCP has a steel slide and a steel barrel. The rest of the gun is made from synthetic glass filled nylon, which accounts for the light weight. As I said, the gun is small. Here are a few photos to illustrate that point.
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| Big Mike holding a standard size Kimber 1911 .45 |
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| Ruger LCP |
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| Ruger LCP |
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| Ruger LCP |
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| Ruger LCP .380 and Kimber 1911 .45 |
The LCP holds six in the clip and one in the chamber. It's a double action only autoloader, and there is no safety on it (much like you would expect from a revolver). The slide does not lock back when the last bullet is fired as most autoloaders do. To load the LCP you put the clip in and slingshot the slide - the LCP won't chamber a round successfully if you simply work the slide back and forward. You must pull the slide all the way back and let it slam forward, and you must do this in one fluid movement. The gun is particular about this.
The LCP isn't particularly stiff or hard to load. It's small, and the size is what makes it somewhat difficult to bring the LCP in battery without catching the meat of your hand between the moving parts of the gun. That being the case, I could not envision carrying this pistol without a round in the chamber; the very last thing you'd want is to have to draw your pistol and screw around trying to get a round up the pipe.
Once in battery, you'll squint down the barrel and notice that there isn't much by way of sights. I'm not too surprised by this, as the pistol is designed to be carried in your pocket and having adjustable sights would only provide something to catch on your clothing or holster. The LCP has a long, smooth trigger pull. It isn't overly stiff, as I've noticed with a number of double action autoloaders, but it isn't the smooth ball bearing pull you'll find on a Colt Python. I found it adequate for the job at hand. Both of us were able to hold the pistol on target and actually do pretty well with it, all things considered.
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| Ruger LCP Results at 15 Feet |
For those of you who haven't shot one, the .380 has a nasty snap to it. People think that because it isn't a .45 or .357 it doesn't kick much. They're wrong. The LCP has no weight to soak up any of the recoil, so when I torched the first shot off the gun slammed back into the web of my hand and hurt like billy be damned. I adjusted my grip and tried again, with similar results. I ran ten shots through the LCP, and it took me five to decide how to hold on to it, and another five to decide what to do about the lack of sights. I finally resorted to pointing and shooting rather than sighting in on the target, and my score began to improve. While your mileage may vary, my own best results happened when I simply ignored the sights and concentrated on pointing the little gun at the target and pulling the trigger.
The good news about this pistol is that Ruger didn't compromise. The goal was a small pocket pistol in .380, and Ruger achieved that goal very nicely. The LCP is finely machined with no sharp edges or any protrusions to catch in your clothing or in a holster. It has no safety; like a revolver you just point it and pull the trigger. Some people will argue that .380 is light for self-defense. My rejoinder to that argument is that you can buy special .380 self-defense ammunition. You now have a pistol the size of a .25 auto that packs a lot more punch than that feeble little bullet.
Both Mike and I agreed that the LCP should be carried with a round in the chamber and should be in some sort of holster, the danger being that the you might snag the trigger while putting the gun in your pocket and thus do yourself a mischief.
I like the Ruger LCP and will probably end up buying one for concealed carry.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Sylvania Township Government: Less is better
I thought the Sylvania Township Trustees might learn something about the township and the people they are supposed to be representing. Maybe, maybe not. Here are two stories from the Toledo Blade:
Refuse pickup on agenda in Sylvania Twp.; Trustees schedule vote after postponement
Board rejects townshipwide trash pickup
The real question is: Why are we even wasting time with this? Reading a little further reveals that:
What a jerk.
Kevin isn't alone. The Lucas County Commissioners have the same idea. Check the link if you want: Countywide trash plan touted; Gerken invites residents, officials to vote with wallets
People that live in townships do so to escape government. They want less civilization, not more. The Lucas County Commissioners understand this and they don't care. They want everyone under their greasy thumb. Me, I'm voting against it.
Refuse pickup on agenda in Sylvania Twp.; Trustees schedule vote after postponement
Trustee Kevin Haddad, who made unified trash and recyclables collection a key part of his election campaign...That's it. Kevin Haddad can't seem to understand that Sylvania Township residents will handle refuse collection as the individual household sees fit; not as Kevin Haddad desires. I think the other two might understand this concept a little better than Kevin. Here are the results courtesy of The Blade:
Board rejects townshipwide trash pickup
When he ran for Sylvania Township trustee in 2009, Kevin Haddad made townshipwide collection of trash and recyclables a cornerstone of his campaign.
But as debate came to a head on the subject last week, with a trash-collection firm's price to provide such a service due to expire, Mr. Haddad promised to never revisit the subject if his colleagues on the township board voted it down.
Trustees John Jennewine and Neal Mahoney soon tested that promise by forming the 2-1 majority against the idea.I've got news for Kevin Haddad: He wasn't elected because of his ideas about trash collection. He was elected because Kevin Haddad was slightly less objectionable than the alternatives. Slightly less. My congratulations to John and Neal for making a wise decision.
The real question is: Why are we even wasting time with this? Reading a little further reveals that:
Previous township boards rejected townshipwide trash collection, but Mr. Haddad said he revived the idea because he had become weary of being awakened most mornings by garbage trucks on township roads and of having to cart his own recyclables to drop-off stations.The emphasis is mine. So let me get this straight. Maybe it's just me, I'm a little fucked up here... Just because Haddad's beauty sleep is being disturbed, the rest of the world should roll over and capitulate to whatever hair brained scheme this oxygen thief comes up with to allow Himself to rest unmolested by people earning a living until a suitable hour. Would 10:30 AM suit your royal benevolence?
What a jerk.
Kevin isn't alone. The Lucas County Commissioners have the same idea. Check the link if you want: Countywide trash plan touted; Gerken invites residents, officials to vote with wallets
"You decide. We do not have the authority to force you to do this. Nor do we want to," Mr. Gerken said. "We've got an opportunity that I haven't seen here in 20 years, with the city of Toledo willing to change the way they do business. That opens opportunities for our suburban communities, villages, and townships."What Gerken means is that regretfully we do not have the authority... I keep getting visions of Barone Sanitation.
People that live in townships do so to escape government. They want less civilization, not more. The Lucas County Commissioners understand this and they don't care. They want everyone under their greasy thumb. Me, I'm voting against it.
Sylvania School Levy
They're at it again. The Sylvania public school system went into an apoplexy when the voters defeated a property tax increase in the last election, and that was when The Anointed One was on the ticket. Here's the latest from The Blade:
Sylvania school board to kick off levy campaign with rallySylvania school board to kick off levy campaign with rally
This property tax was defeated once, and once should have been enough. That the school board has the audacity to bring it up again when they think that the opposition - property owners in Sylvania - will have a poor turnout is unscrupulous.
The school system doesn't need more money. The employees need to get along with a little less, and if they don't like that they can always seek employment elsewhere. Many property owners are retired and living on a pension that doesn't go very far these days. Other property owners are suffering from the lousy economy. Money is scarce. It's time our elected officials realized that even those who are willing to pay just do not have the money.
I'm voting against this levy, and I encourage everyone else to do the same.
Sylvania school board to kick off levy campaign with rallySylvania school board to kick off levy campaign with rally
Having persuaded its employees to give up $1.4 million in pay and having cut spending by a further $5 million for the upcoming school year, the Sylvania Board of Education now has six weeks to persuade district voters to change their minds about a tax levy they rejected in November.Clearly cutting pay, benefits and school spending is not going to cause the schools to close. Instead, it's going to force the school system to live within the means of the tax paying property owner. This isn't a bad idea.
This property tax was defeated once, and once should have been enough. That the school board has the audacity to bring it up again when they think that the opposition - property owners in Sylvania - will have a poor turnout is unscrupulous.
The school system doesn't need more money. The employees need to get along with a little less, and if they don't like that they can always seek employment elsewhere. Many property owners are retired and living on a pension that doesn't go very far these days. Other property owners are suffering from the lousy economy. Money is scarce. It's time our elected officials realized that even those who are willing to pay just do not have the money.
I'm voting against this levy, and I encourage everyone else to do the same.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Film Review: Limitless
Limitless
Rated: PG 13
Running Time: 105 min
Genres: Mystery | Thriller
Starring:
Bradley Cooper as Eddie Morra
Robert De Niro as Carl Van Loon
Abbie Cornish as Lindy
Andrew Howard as Gennady
Anna Friel as Melissa
Johnny Whitworth as Vernon
Tomas Arana as Man in Tan Coat
Robert John Burke as Pierce
Darren Goldstein as Kevin Doyle
Ned Eisenberg as Morris Brandt
T.V. Carpio as Valerie
Richard Bekins as Hank Atwood
I want a new drug
One that won't make me sick
One that won't make me crash my car
Or make me feel three feet thick
- Huey Lewis And The News
Watching The Lincoln Lawyer put me in the mood to see another film, and since I'd seen the previews for this one somewhere and it didn't look too awful bad, I thought I might roll the dice again. Turns out I pick better films than I do ponies. I'm writing this review with a few spoilers, but I will not spoil the finish.
I took in the Tuesday night 9:20 PM show at a local theater attached to a shopping mall (Westfield Franklin Park Mall if it matters, and I don't think it does). I picked the week day late show because I thought the crowd would be sparse. Fat chance. As soon as I walked into the theater I considered walking out again. The place was packed with people who do not have to get up for work tomorrow morning. They understand such terms as vitamin b-40, deuce deuce and can use the word shizzle in a sentence without having to think about it. They put their feet up on the seats in front of them. Talking on their cell phone and carrying on a normal conversation during a movie is normal behavior for these people. Truly, they do not understand the value of a quiet theater. The alternative to Limitless is Red Riding Hood, and I'm just not in the mood for a werewolf movie. I remained seated, resolving to tough it out.
The plot for Limitless involves a writer who accepted an advance that, like most writers who are foolish enough to do such things, he should have declined. Now Ernest Hemingway has a bad case of writer's block and associated disorders such as alcohol abuse, and it looks like someone else will win the Pulitzer this year. Next year isn't looking too good either. Then his girlfriend kicks him to the curb.
In a scene reminiscent of something out of Alice in Wonderland, Our Hero is ambulating down the sidewalk and runs into the Mad Hatter, who invites him to the tea party where he is given a little pill with some fairly simple instructions: Eat me! And he does, mainly because if he doesn't there will be no film.
Now think: If a pot smoking total waste of space that you used to know and haven't seen in over ten years bumps into you on the sidewalk and hands you some story about working for a huge pharmaceutical company and gives you a free sample of something that is due to go on the market in a year or two with a somewhat cavalier explanation about FDA approval and brain receptors, would you actually swallow any of this? No? Me neither.
Turns out the little pill jumps Our Hero's IQ from a very shaky 105 to about 200. "Red hot damn on a Saturday night!", says Our Hero. "I gotta get me some more of this mental go go juice!" And he does. Now naturally since one pill is good, five may be better, and so it's down the hatch and off we go to conquer the world with an IQ of about eight zillion. All this happens in the first 30 minutes of the film, so having got down to business the filmmaker has to stay there or risk failure. That means there have to be a few obstructions, otherwise everyone would all live happily ever after. We begin by getting rid of a few people who would only cause trouble later on. Then we learn that you can't run the family sedan on nitromethane and not have it suck up a value or throw a rod when you drop the hammer at five grand for the eighth time in one evening.
I think I'm going to leave it at that. You can see the film for yourself and enjoy it or not as the case may be. What I found more interesting than the film was the audience.
In the film Our Hero is someone that almost everyone in the audience can identify with. He isn't wealthy, he's unemployed and his woman has just kicked him to the curb for reasons that everyone can agree with. He lives in a messy apartment and he's behind on his rent. He's unshaven, unkempt and having spent the entire advance, dead broke. One pill changes all that.
One pill turns him into someone that everyone would like to be. He's smarter than everyone else, he has ambition and drive to succeed. He wins at poker, then he moves on to win at the stock market. He doesn't expend much effort to do this, either. Listening to a foreign language is enough for him to learn to speak it. Watching martial arts movies is enough to give him the fighting skills to bust a few heads during a confrontation on the subway. He becomes a sort of super man.
The audience was dead quiet through the whole thing. They watched, and I believe they spent their time imagining what they might do if they ever found the right pill. Side effects wouldn't matter, the length of your life would not be a factor. Live half as long but twice as well? Just tell me this: can I kick that up to a factor of five or six?
Limitless is a great film. I found it entertaining and it ends well. In fact, the ending is worth sitting though the film even if you don't especially care for it. I'd give it four out of five stars and I consider it a good value at regular price admission, and a real bargain at matinee prices.
Rated: PG 13
Running Time: 105 min
Genres: Mystery | Thriller
Starring:
Bradley Cooper as Eddie Morra
Robert De Niro as Carl Van Loon
Abbie Cornish as Lindy
Andrew Howard as Gennady
Anna Friel as Melissa
Johnny Whitworth as Vernon
Tomas Arana as Man in Tan Coat
Robert John Burke as Pierce
Darren Goldstein as Kevin Doyle
Ned Eisenberg as Morris Brandt
T.V. Carpio as Valerie
Richard Bekins as Hank Atwood
I want a new drug
One that won't make me sick
One that won't make me crash my car
Or make me feel three feet thick
- Huey Lewis And The News
Watching The Lincoln Lawyer put me in the mood to see another film, and since I'd seen the previews for this one somewhere and it didn't look too awful bad, I thought I might roll the dice again. Turns out I pick better films than I do ponies. I'm writing this review with a few spoilers, but I will not spoil the finish.
I took in the Tuesday night 9:20 PM show at a local theater attached to a shopping mall (Westfield Franklin Park Mall if it matters, and I don't think it does). I picked the week day late show because I thought the crowd would be sparse. Fat chance. As soon as I walked into the theater I considered walking out again. The place was packed with people who do not have to get up for work tomorrow morning. They understand such terms as vitamin b-40, deuce deuce and can use the word shizzle in a sentence without having to think about it. They put their feet up on the seats in front of them. Talking on their cell phone and carrying on a normal conversation during a movie is normal behavior for these people. Truly, they do not understand the value of a quiet theater. The alternative to Limitless is Red Riding Hood, and I'm just not in the mood for a werewolf movie. I remained seated, resolving to tough it out.
The plot for Limitless involves a writer who accepted an advance that, like most writers who are foolish enough to do such things, he should have declined. Now Ernest Hemingway has a bad case of writer's block and associated disorders such as alcohol abuse, and it looks like someone else will win the Pulitzer this year. Next year isn't looking too good either. Then his girlfriend kicks him to the curb.
In a scene reminiscent of something out of Alice in Wonderland, Our Hero is ambulating down the sidewalk and runs into the Mad Hatter, who invites him to the tea party where he is given a little pill with some fairly simple instructions: Eat me! And he does, mainly because if he doesn't there will be no film.
Now think: If a pot smoking total waste of space that you used to know and haven't seen in over ten years bumps into you on the sidewalk and hands you some story about working for a huge pharmaceutical company and gives you a free sample of something that is due to go on the market in a year or two with a somewhat cavalier explanation about FDA approval and brain receptors, would you actually swallow any of this? No? Me neither.
Turns out the little pill jumps Our Hero's IQ from a very shaky 105 to about 200. "Red hot damn on a Saturday night!", says Our Hero. "I gotta get me some more of this mental go go juice!" And he does. Now naturally since one pill is good, five may be better, and so it's down the hatch and off we go to conquer the world with an IQ of about eight zillion. All this happens in the first 30 minutes of the film, so having got down to business the filmmaker has to stay there or risk failure. That means there have to be a few obstructions, otherwise everyone would all live happily ever after. We begin by getting rid of a few people who would only cause trouble later on. Then we learn that you can't run the family sedan on nitromethane and not have it suck up a value or throw a rod when you drop the hammer at five grand for the eighth time in one evening.
I think I'm going to leave it at that. You can see the film for yourself and enjoy it or not as the case may be. What I found more interesting than the film was the audience.
In the film Our Hero is someone that almost everyone in the audience can identify with. He isn't wealthy, he's unemployed and his woman has just kicked him to the curb for reasons that everyone can agree with. He lives in a messy apartment and he's behind on his rent. He's unshaven, unkempt and having spent the entire advance, dead broke. One pill changes all that.
One pill turns him into someone that everyone would like to be. He's smarter than everyone else, he has ambition and drive to succeed. He wins at poker, then he moves on to win at the stock market. He doesn't expend much effort to do this, either. Listening to a foreign language is enough for him to learn to speak it. Watching martial arts movies is enough to give him the fighting skills to bust a few heads during a confrontation on the subway. He becomes a sort of super man.
The audience was dead quiet through the whole thing. They watched, and I believe they spent their time imagining what they might do if they ever found the right pill. Side effects wouldn't matter, the length of your life would not be a factor. Live half as long but twice as well? Just tell me this: can I kick that up to a factor of five or six?
Limitless is a great film. I found it entertaining and it ends well. In fact, the ending is worth sitting though the film even if you don't especially care for it. I'd give it four out of five stars and I consider it a good value at regular price admission, and a real bargain at matinee prices.
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