Joe Biden charges his Secret Service protection detail rent

Is this the same Joe Biden that decries waste in government spending and claims that he and his co-conspirator, Obama, are working to reduce the national debt?

Biden charging Secret Service for cottage rental

So not only are we protecting him, but we're paying him cash for the privilege of doing so?

Personally I agree with Pete Sepp of the National Taxpayers Union, the group that monitors federal spending:

Mr. Sepp also had a thought on what Mr. Biden could do with the rent money he collects from the Secret Service: “Every elected official can do the same thing average Americans can, which is to write a check to the Bureau of the Public Debt to bring down the national debt.”

But that would require class on the part of Joe Biden, so I wouldn't advise holding your breath waiting.

And I think that we all know that if Former President Bush or Vice President Cheney had done this, the lamestream media would be screaming outrage over it. But since it's the Obama Administration...cue the crickets.

Intended consequences

See what happens when you take new shooters out to the range?

They get serious, take classes and pursue CCW permits, reducing the number of likely crime victims in your neighborhood.

NRA Class Day, or: Proud Hillbilly goes to gun school.

They also start their own blogs and make the internet just that much smarter.

Pleased, I am. Now you go take someone shooting.

When art imitates (or predicts) life

Today's Dilbert comic reminded me of something.


This comic reminded me of my own neighbor, a redneck who has boasted that his "survival plan" for bad times is to walk up on other people with a .25 automatic pistol hidden in his hand with the intent of coming away with their survival supplies.

Yep. He's actually said it, and he's joked about it a couple of times since in my hearing as he and his drinking buddies hoot and holler and swill cheap beer out on his driveway every Friday night.

He's also asked me what my plans are on at least one occasion, and I've told him that I don't worry about such things.

Of course I don't worry because I have plenty of food, water, batteries, bottled gas and other things stockpiled in a rotation system that keeps them from going bad. I also don't worry about him because now that I know of his plans, I have a range card made up for my M60 that will put rounds right on the only path through the woods between his property and mine. Another neighbor just down the road--a squared-away friend whom I trust enough to discuss such matters with--also now has the redneck's house covered as well as the road between the redneck's place and his number one pal's house. Should an actual emergency survival situation occur, the moment that either one of them appears with anything in their hands more menacing than a bouquet of flowers will be an interesting and noisy moment indeed here in Upper Dogpatch.

Now that's not to say that I or my "normal neighbor" as (I like to call him) are averse to visitors or loathe to help our decent neighbors in bad times. To the contrary, several of you who read this know where I live and are welcome here and encouraged to stop by if times get that bad. However, the point cannot be overlooked that, in bad times, there really are those who plan to do you and I and everyone else harm, either because it's easier than making their own preparations or because they're just bad people. Consequently, part of any proper survival plan should include contingency plans for dealing with such people when and if they appear, as they undoubtedly will, given enough time. This should include getting at least a rough idea as to who your neighbors are and who else might wind up in your neighborhood if and when things get too bad in their own. And you should also make it a point to stay low profile. Other than my blog readers--most of whom don't know where I live--very few people know what I have in my gun room. The rednecks definitely don't know and hopefully never will. This means having to forego firing a belt of tracer ammo into the sky in New Years Eve, but better that then telling every neighbor for two miles that I have that sort of firepower here, including the 20 year old punk down the street who is known to be a burglar and a thief even when times are good. It also means not advertising the fact that I have enough food and supplies to keep me and my dog and an invited guest or two fed and warm for a couple of months if need be. If people don't know that you have it, they won't be begging you for it or trying to take it once the lights go out and the stores are empty.

The week that my mother was accidentally cool

Yeah, it happened once, years ago.

I had borrowed her car for some reason or another, and as was the norm back then, I took a few of my music cassettes with me to listen to. (If you have to ask what a cassette was, you're too young to read this blog. And stay off my lawn, you damned kids.)

Some days later, I noticed that I couldn't find a particular one. I didn't think much of it at the time, but about a week later, I was back at my mother's place and when I looked in her car, there it was, still in the cassette player. When I asked her about it, she said that she really liked that cassette and that she'd been playing it all week.

"You liked that cassette?" I asked, rather surprised.

She replied that she did. She said that she liked the singer.

I asked if she knew who he was, and she replied that, no, she did not. Apparently she just liked the ballads that comprised much of the tape. Of course when I explained to her who Meatloaf was, and that the name of the cassette was "Bat out of Hell", she immediately changed her opinion and gave the tape back to me.

And so ended her brief bout of coolness. So sad.

But here you go, Ma. Just in case you want to be cool again when you're out bombing around with your Red Hat posse.

Saturday Man Movie

In 1962's Hell is for Heroes, Steve McQueen shows us how World War Two was won.

Look! Up in the sky! It's...just me.

Off to fly on a windy, hazy, way hot day.

And my preferred aircraft was in the shop, so I got this one today.

It's actually newer and nicer than my usual aircraft...and it's got more gadgets. So I spent a few minutes familiarizing myself with this new panel and figuring out how the radios and other important stuff work in this one.
Here's Harpers Ferry, where the Shenandoah River flows into the Potomac. Like I said...hazy.So after I circled the town a couple times and went down to beat up some river rafters (while scrupulously abiding by all applicable FAA limits, because the FAA are our friends and have only our best interests in mind) I headed up the river.

Here's a quarry in Bakerton that I'd love to dive. See the caves in the wall? Old mine tunnels that go back in and down to a depth of 900 feet. They do allow swimming in this quarry but since a diver was killed here in 1994, it's off-limits to diving.

Here are the bridges crossing the Potomac into Shepherdstown.
And here's a dam on the Potomac. This is Dam #4, between Williamsport, MD and Shepherdstown.
On my return to the airport, I engaged in the usual game of "fuddle the tower", which is played by giving your location at 5 miles out, then waiting for the tower guy to call back and ask for your location again when he can't spot you. (Come on guys, they have this new thing called "Radar". You might want to invest in one. Just saying...) When they do spot you, or pretend to, they give you whatever pattern instructions will be the most difficult to set up for based on where you are. Fun!

So I made a couple of practice landings, just to keep current. I wanted to shoot five of them, but I got cut short on my third when a loud voice in my radio announced that "Decoy Zero Five" was at the hold-short requesting back-taxi and immediate departure. I was already cleared for the option but tower called me up on final (because I don't have enough to focus on already on a windy day final approach) and asked me if I planned to make this a full-stop landing. I knew that if I said no, they'd divert me away from the airport as soon as I lifted off again and make me stay outside the five-mile limit until Decoy 05 and any other Decoys that wanted to take off were clear of the field. That could take a while but there was no way that they were going to keep a C-5A idling at the hold-short line while a little Cessna shot touch-and-go approaches. So I told them that it'd be a full-stop, and on touch-down, I turned off onto the first taxi-way and headed back to the barn.

Here's Decoy 05, who started back-taxiing the second that I was clear of the active. Somebody's in a hurry.
But he's also bigger than me and he's probably doing something important, so I'm not arguing.
Bye!
I love the feeling I get after a good day of flying, but it only seems to last until I watch those C-5 Galaxies fly away or I go inside the main terminal building and see all of the pictures of the F-86 Sabre jets that used to fly out of here. Once I see that stuff, I realize that I really didn't do a damn thing by way of comparison.

Now if you'll excuse me, I must now spend an hour or so looking for used F-86 jets for sale on the internet.

Fun at the doctor's office

So I'm in at the doctor's office, and the nurse decides that she needs my weight.

I step up on the scale, and she says "I almost forgot...take everything out of your pockets so we can get an accurate weight."

"Everything?" I ask.

"Everything that's not you other than your clothes," she replies. "You can put your things on that tray table."

I shrug and begin emptying my pockets of "things not me" and placing them on the tray: Wallet, phone, keys, folding knife, Browning Hi-Power, spare magazine for Hi-Power, Smith and Wesson J-Frame revolver, spare speed strip for revolver...oh--and my eyeglasses. Got to get it all, right? I even pulled off my belt and the Hi-Power holster.

The nurse's eyes got big and she took a step back as I began setting pistols on her tray, but then the doctor walked past and without even breaking stride, he said: "All right, a Hi-Power! Nice."

Living in West Virginia, I may be surrounded by banjo-picking, cousin-dating, Democrat-electing rednecks but at least my doctor has the right perspective on firearms.

Victor Burgos--Moron of the Week

OK, when you're wanted by the police, what do you do?
a.) Turn yourself in like a good citizen.
b.) Quietly lie low or leave the area.
c.) Set up a Facebook account bragging that you're in the area and dare the police to find you.

Victor, who would most likely come in second to a box of rocks in any IQ test, chose "c", with predictable results.

A fugitive fool who taunted cops on his Facebook page, "Catch me if you can, I'm in Brooklyn" - has been captured by U.S. marshals.

And guess where.

Victor Burgos was sitting at a computer with his Facebook page open when a task force of marshals and NYPD detectives tracked him down in an apartment on Jefferson St. in Bedford-Stuyvesant.

Burgos, 29, who was born in Brooklyn, was being sought by the upstate Utica Police Department on multiple arrest warrants for domestic violence and harassment of his ex-girlfriend.

"He told us via Facebook to come and get him and we did," Utica police Sgt. Steve Hauck told the Daily News yesterday.

Victor just goes to show that no matter how busy the police are, piss them off enough and they will make time for you, especially if they've already made it known that they'd like a few moments of your time.

Hopefully he'll still be locked up in November, 2012 so that he can't cast a vote for Obama. Anyone that stupid just has to be an Obama supporter.

New and improved ass-kicker

It's finally here. my new foot.

This one is light years ahead of the old one technology-wise. It had a flexible heel as well as toe, and an shock absorber that also flexes laterally to a small degree, giving me a better angle of attack on uneven surfaces. It's got a new vacuum seal valve to ensure a tight fit, and it's slimmer and lighter than the old one. I can go upside someone's head with this one even better than I could with the old model, which is now being retained as a spare.And the fit's a lot better now, too. No more blistering or chafing. This one ROCKS.

Now I've got a week to test it to destruction and see if I can find any weak points in the new system. So what to try for a thoroughly proper test? I've got as few ideas, but my prosthetist probably isn't going to like them. Heh.

Free at last...

We're finally kid-free. Spud has gone on home. It was a fun week, but I won't lie...I'm really savoring the peace and quiet right now.

As for Murphy...well he didn't want to let his new toy boy leave.

He climbed into Spud's grandmother's car trunk four or five times when he saw Spud's stuff being loaded in.Then he got into the car's back seat with Spud, before being pulled out.

Murphy them proceeded to stand on his hind legs and look in through the car's windows at his newfound pal, as if to ask why the boy was in the car but not him.

And as the car was started and Spud rolled down the window to say goodbye to Murphy, Murphy jumped up through the window and had to be removed from the car once again.

Poor dog. Sad dog. Now he's just stuck with me. How will he ever cope?

Police officer meets armed citizen

Forget that fool in Canton, Ohio. Here we have Officer Matt Lyons with the Oceanside Police Department in California. He gets set up by "Jeremy", one of those "open carry" activists who go out carrying an visibly displayed empty pistol to provoke hostile encounters with police officers that they record to post on Youtube. But Officer Lyons doesn't take his bait, and he handles Jeremy in a totally professional manner even while Jeremy is trying to be a dick, undoubtedly hoping to get a rise out of Officer Lyons.
Great job, Officer Lyons. And maybe when Jeremy grows up, he'll find the maturity that leads to a real job that pays enough so that he can afford to buy something better than a crappy Hi-Point pistol that I would not use to weight a fishing line, much less rely on to save my life.

In the meantime, I'll say right here that people like Jeremy don't do our pro-gun cause any good at all. Do me a favor Jeremy, and all the wanna-be Jeremies out there...don't be on my side, ok? You just make it harder for those of us who really do support and work for gun rights for law-abiding citizens.

I'm proud

This morning I took Spud out for another bike ride, this time on the C&O Canal towpath.

He's still a bit scared of the bike, but he made the whole ten miles without complaining, and in pretty good time, too. No pics, because I forgot the camera's memory card, but he did very well indeed.

And no one was more surprised (and pleased) than he.

He can do so much more than he thinks he can. He just needs someone to push him a bit, and more than one week out of the year.

I think Boy Scouts would be perfect for him when he gets home. I'll be working on that from this end.

Buddies...

Until last week, Murphy has always been averse to small boys, probably because of an abuse history that I'm aware of from his past life. Not surprisingly, he wasn't all that wild about our house guest at first either, but that seems to be changing now after a week of Spud's presence.

I took this last night. Both were sound asleep.


And this morning, as I was roughhousing with Spud, Murphy joined in and TOOK HIS SIDE. He's practically the boy's constant companion now.

There is no doubt in my mind now that Spud is safe with Murphy around. Safe from anything that the world threatens.

Good dog.

Paintball!

Last night, a neighbor brought two paintball guns over. Spud, who'd been all excited about the possibility of playing paintball earlier, suddenly decided that he wanted nothing to do with it once the guns arrived.

"I don't want to play," he announced.

"Why?"

"Because it hurts when you get shot."

"Have you ever been shot with a paintball?"

"No."

"Then how do you know it hurts? Get your shoes on and get out there."

So after he put his shoes on--and five shirts, one over the other, despite the 100-degree temperatures--he trooped outside. I let him have a couple of practice shots at the neighbor's free-range feral cats on my yard, and that delighted him (because it's ok to inflict pain...just not to receive it) and then I told him to go take cover because he and I were going to go at it. I let him have a large rock pile on my property for a fort and gave him the best of the guns--a tank-fed semi-auto that was light-years the superior of my hand-pumped, spring-powered gun--and we began.

Of course I did not realize the disparity of the guns until I shot at him and my rounds could not even reach him. As I moved in closer, however, he opened up on me from the cover of the rock pile, and suddenly paint balls were whipping past me with major velocity and coming in bunches. Before I could even find cover, he scored a hit on me. Yow! That stings! Shorts and a T-shirt...not the best choice here.

He was quick to yell "Sorry!" from his rock fort.

"Sorry, Hell!" I replied. "That was a great shot! Now do it again." (I still have the welt from that one as I write this...but it was a good shot and I'm proud of him.)

I could not advance on him across the open area in front of his rock pile because every time that I tried to get close enough to lob one into his hidey-hole, he'd light me up with than damned gas-powered semi. Twice I tried, and twice he drove me back with additional welts. So I started moving from tree to tree across his front and working to outflank him. I'll give him credit--he understands the concept of supressing fire well enough. He made me stay behind cover and kept me from lining up a well-aimed shot at him by barraging me with rounds every time I exposed myself even slightly. But eventually I was able to get around behind him, at which point he threw down his gun and yelled "Don't shoot! I give up!"

Well I could have let it go at that, but me being the nice uncle that I am, I popped him with one shot anyway just to teach him what happens to people who surrender with rounds left instead of fighting and also to show him that it doesn't hurt as much as he thought it would. And true to form, once he got hit and realized that it stings but not all that bad, then he decided that it was fun after all.

And here's the warrior, posing for the picture that he asked me to take, because he was feeling some pride, especially after seeing the paint spots where he'd nailed me four or five times.

Of course, being the good uncle, I sat him down and explained the concepts of cover vs. concealment and fire and maneuver to him. I'm thinking that next time, he won't be so quick to take up a static position that he can't defend all by himself and just let himself get outflanked instead of re-positioning when he realizes that his position is untenable. Gotta teach him right, because one can never know what the future holds, especially with Obama doing his best to ruin this country and plunge us into revolution or anarchy.

Saturday Man Movie

In this clip from Deadline USA (1952), Humphrey Bogart stars as crusading newspaper editor Ed Hutcheson, having a discussion with gangster Tomas Rienzi.
"Cool" doesn't begin to describe Bogie. Hollywood should have just one star of his caliber today. Sadly, they don't.

It's Aquadog!

For a novice swimmer, Murphy has gone just plain crazy when it comes to water. As soon as I get him near the boat landing where I swim him, he begins to cry with anticipation, ans as soon as I open the door, he jumps from the vehicle and runs to the water, jumping in and waiting for me to produce and throw his toy, a squeaky barbell that I got from the dollar store.

And once he goes to get his toy, Murphy brings it to me. I generally have to coerce him into letting go, typically by pulling the toy underwater until his head follows and he lets go. But now he's learned to hold on and take the ducking, and what's crazier is that now he's even going so far as to put his own head under the water completely if I try to conceal the toy from him by submerging it. Several times yesterday, as he was treading water in front of me and waiting for the throw, I held his toy underwater only to have him plunge his whole head under the water and grab it! Since when do dogs do this? I've never had a dog willing to put his own head under water before, but Murphy'll do it in an instant if he thinks that his toy is there. And he's obviously even doing it with his eyes open as I've moved the toy away from him only to have him still locate it and snatch it and bob to the surface with it all proud and happy.

I wish that I had video of this stunt, but my camera's far from waterproof.

When I got this dog, they told me that he was purebred German Shepherd, but now I'm suspecting that he's part Otter!

You can whine, but we're still doing it.

I took the Spud out for a bike ride this morning. Just a short little hop around town to see how he handles a bike. I've been told several times by him and his mom that he's riding a bike at home, but I figure that I'd better see what he can do before taking him out on the C&O canal towpath for a longer ride.

OK, we've got a few things to work on. He doesn't lean in curves at all, he can't shift gears while riding, and he has no concept of simple rules of the road like "stay on the right side, going with the traffic flow". There's clearly not a lot of experience here, despite claims to the contrary. He also announced that he'd had enough when we weren't even four blocks away from my truck yet, obviously expecting me to say "OK, we just hauled these bikes all the way to town to ride for two minutes. We'll go home now."

As if...

I led him all through town, riding about as slow as I could and encouraging him to keep up. He kept asking where the truck was, and I kept telling him that every time that he asked, the ride was going to get longer. And he kept at it so we went quite a bit further than I'd planned. Still, he kept pedaling, despite constantly warning me about how tired he was getting, how many blisters he was getting on his hands, and the fact that he was actually starting to--wait for it--sweat!! Oh Noez!
Apparently that sort of complaining works at home, but it doesn't fly here. He can do this--he just doesn't know it because he's conditioned to quit as soon as he starts breathing a bit fast.

But I led him along for about an hour, covering maybe three or four miles and taking him up and down a few moderate hills. We finally stopped in town on front of the Post Office, at which point he told me that it was actually fun. "That's good," I told him. "This is the half-way point. Now we just have to ride back the way we came."

This got him a bit upset, but he's here now, not at home, and no one cares if he's mad about having to exercise. I told him to get riding again and make a right at the corner, and then I had him make another right, and lo and behold...the truck. Then he was happy.

And then I told him to ride out and back again for this shot, and he got miffed again, because he was sooooooo tired.

But he did it.
He will accomplish things if you don't give in to the whining and refuse to let him quit. And I think way too much of this boy to let him bail out of stuff in the first few minutes just because he wants to.

This is funny on several levels

First of all, we've got a news story about a pretty funny video made by a corrections deputy, who sped up the videos of a prisoner running away inside the jail and added the appropriate music.

The deputy who made it is now in trouble, naturally, because the powers-that-be never seem to have a sense of humor.

Then we have a failed lawsuit brought by a failed deputy who claimed, in part, that other deputies used it to make fun of him after he was seen falling down in the beginning of the video.

Seriously, if you can't take ribbing, law enforcement's probably not for you. That's what police officers, firefighters, soldiers and other cohesive groups do. In fact, the only thing worse is when they don't rib you, because that means that you're not considered part of the team.

Then he actually took offense and claimed that "he experienced racial slurs because of his part-American-Indian heritage.

'You ran after that guy like he stole your land,' Hunter said a correction officer said to him."

Sorry but that was just funny.

Anyway, the whole thing was just pretty damned amusing so I figured I'd share.

Hat tip to Lowering The Bar for this one. And special credit to scumbag Randy Vanauken of Altamont, New York, for his part. He's the prisoner in the yellow jumpsuit who notably didn't get lumped up here like he would have in so many other correctional institutions.

Thursday with the Spud

This morning, since we're looking at triple-digit heat (I blame Al Gore), I rolled the Spud out of bed at dawn and after a quick, nutritious breakfast of ceral and left-over barbecued ribs from last night--and milk--we went out to the shooting range. I gave him choice of the gun room contents and he chose the Armalite AR-7 .22 survival rifle. Before we got there, I quizzed him on the four rules of gun safety and he came up with two right off the bat, and the other two with a little coaching. Not too bad considering that he hasn't been shooting or anywhere near a firearm since Aaron and I took him out last year.His gun handling was safe and his shooting not too bad when he remembered to slow down and aim. TV and movie shooting is such a bad influence on youth today...
In sum though, he followed directions and was very safety conscious and I was proud of him.

So after that, to beat the heat, we drove down to Luray, Virginia to check out the Luray Caverns. Spud had never been in a real cave before so he was pretty excited about it. Here he is, passing through one of the narrow spots. It was quite a nice place with plenty of spectacular formations and a bleddedly cool 54 degrees. Sorry, but my camera doesn't work well in spots like this so it's all you get unless you look at their website linked above.

Then we came back home, stopping off for barbecued ribs at a BBQ stand we spotted along the way. After that fine lunch, it was time to hang out with Murphy and do a bit of reading in the air conditioning.But what's he reading?
Thanks for the suggestion, Aunt Brigid!

We'll be taking Murphy swimming in a bit, then heading back here to find something good to toss on the grill for dinner.

MSNBC's Contessa Brewer: Dumbest talking head ever?

If she's not the dumbest and most unprofessional, she's certainly in the top ten.

Most of the rest are at MSNBC too, of course.
Today she put her hoof squarely into her big mouth by trying to dress down Congressman Mo Brooks (R-AL) after he disagreed with one of her screeds on how Obama saved us from an economic depression. Brooks said that he didn't think so, and Brewer snarkily popped back: "Well do you have a degree in Economics?"
Turns out that the Congressman does. With honors. In addition to his Political Science degree and his Law degree.

You know who doesn't have a degree in Economics? That's right. Contessa Brewer. Just a little B.S. in Broadcast Journalism, per her Wikipedia page. Apparently she slept through the class where they taught that it's not your job to advance your own opinions and then try to belittle the subject of your interview when he responds. There is a reason why he's the one being interviewed and you're the one reading questions.
Contessa Brewer. Catty, mean, openly biased, politically slanted and too stupid for prime time. But just right for MSNBC, though.

Requin Redux

Yesterday I was back in Pittsburg, picking up my nephew, The Spud. He's going to be here for the next week, so be ready for plenty of stories about his visit once I figure out what to do with a 12 year old boy for a whole week.

But yesterday, we tours USS Requin (SS 481) again. Requin is that wonderful old Fleet Boat moored on the Ohio River behind the Carnegie Science Museum. And I took a few more pictures of stuff that I didn't get a chance to properly photograph the last time, either because I forgot or because people were in my way.

Here's Requin's sail, or conning tower. Note the two periscopes visible, the thicker observation scope forward and the thinner attack periscope just behind it.

And here are two more shots of the six bronze torpedo tubes in the forward torpedo room.The bottom two are mostly obscured by decking and hard to see, bu t they're there.Here's my mother rubbing her head after whacking it on the edge of the hatch leading aft from the forward torpedo room...about three seconds after I told her to watch her head. She's clumsy and doesn't listen too well, but I love her anyway.
Now we're back in the Control Room again, having pretty much bypassed Officer's Country due to it being tight quarters and crowded. Here's a shot looking forward along the port (left) side, showing a piece of the forward bow plane control wheel (big gray wheel) and the hull vent opening indicator panel ("Christmas Tree") right above the hull vent opening control levers.


And this gauge here shows the positions of the periscopes, radar mast and snorkel. If you're trying to avoid attention, it's good to know if you've got things raised up far enough to break the surface and leave a wake right above you.

As packed as this vessel is with men and controls, pipes and cables, if they still felt a need to write something down and post it, you know that it was important, like these instructions covering what to do if the conning tower and/or main induction pipes flooded.Notice that it doesn't say "Yell 'Oh my God, we're all gonna drown!'" Personally that would have been my first choice.

And below is the electrical controls for the boat's compass.


And we're back to my favorite fleet boat game again, the alarm controls. This time there was no volunteer guide standing in the control room to keep me from testing them. They still work! (OK, at least the green "dive" alarm does. It also brought the volunteer guide forward from the galley before I could try the other two. "Who is playing with the switches?!"

Low pressure manifold controls on the starboard (right) side.
Here's the boat's radio shack. Look at all of that heavy, bulky equipment, much of which uses vacuum tubes. It's also still a HAM radio set-up that works today at times.

My mother in the galley, holding up a box of detergent. I'm really working hard to resist making any comments about a woman's place. It would just be too easy.
One of the pistons and piston rods of the #3 diesel engine.
Still a wonderful exhibit and a great vessel. I'd love to take it out for a spin just up and down the river for a bit.



If you want to see more, visit my other post here, or go to William Maloney's USS Requin page. His is actually better than mine by a long shot.

Overheard on the drive home.

Spud: "Maybe you should get over in that other lane now."

Me: "Don't be a back seat driver."

Spud: "I'm in the front seat."

Me: "Keep being a wise-ass and you'll be a pedestrian."


Kids...

Sometimes I think I run a deer motel

Because when I look out my window, I see nature. And nature sees me.

It's hot, so she's just lounging. Waiting on the evening corn throw.

It's Monday...so have some Monkees

I always liked these guys back in the day.

Harpers Ferry Sunday

It was a nice day today, so after church, I took Murphy to Harpers Ferry.

Here he is, enjoying the river underneath the Route 340 bridge.
And here he is sitting in the water, waiting (im)patiently for me to throw his toy.
And now he's lying on the floor in the Lewis and Clark exhibit."Come on, man...enough pictures. Let's go get ice cream!"

And he did get his ice cream cone from Sharon at Swiss Miss. Actually he got his cone, and then when I was talking to Sharon, he jumped up and snatched the last half of mine. Damn dog.

It made for a nice afternoon, even with the ice cream theft.

Ride fail

Man, this just isn't my week to work out.

Today I'd planned a nice bike ride from Shepherdstown up the C&O Canal to Williamsport, a distance of roughly 54 miles round trip. I got a late start today but decided to go for it anyway because the temperature is about as low as it's gong to get for at least the nest week, and because I'd heard good things about a pizza place in Williamsport. I figured that I'd ride up, have a pizza and a couple of beers (just to replenish my carbs for energy, of course), then ride back. It seemed like a good plan.

Alas, about 8 miles into the ride, something struck me on the side of the face. I heard and felt a buzzing, and then suddenly the side of my face was on fire. I'd been stung by something.

OK, normally not a big deal, except of course for the fact that I'm allergic to stinging things. Dammit! My choices were simple: Continue the ride and hope that I don't have a reaction, or scratch the ride and seek medical treatment proactively.

On the plus side, I had an epinephrine pen. On the negative side, it was back in my car, eight miles away. (Bonus points if you can guess what's going to be in the pouch of my camelback next ride...)

Well, remembering the last reaction I had about seven year ago, I recalled how it had started out so innocuously that it had taken about an hour and a half by the time that I realized and accepted what was going on, and by then it was getting fairly serious. So I nixed the ride and headed back towards a store that I'd passed about a mile back. (Barron's, a staple for hikers and cyclists on the towpath.) I figured that it made more sense to head there and find a ride back to my car rather than remain on the remote and sparsely-populated tow-path in case things developed.

On the way back to Barron's, I ran into a couple of Park Service volunteers, William "Bud" Cline and his wife, Dell. These two ride back and forth on the towpath on week-ends, assisting people with minor bike repairs and medical needs and acting as eyes and ears for the park rangers. I flagged them down and asked if they could have someone from the Park Service give me a lift back to my car, but when they radioed back and asked, there was no one available in the area. (This is typical of the Park Service...) So the Clines rode back to Barron's with me and when we got there, the new owner, John Tyler, was kind enough to give me a ride back to my car after I fibbed a bit and told him and his wife--a nurse--that I wasn't experiencing any breathing trouble. Fact is, I could already feel the beginnings of some swelling, both in my lips and in the back of my throat, but I didn't want an ambulance at this point, nor did I want to be taken to whatever hospital that they have in those parts. I decided that I could make my own way to Jefferson Memorial in Ranson, especially once I got hold of my epi pen.

So John drove me and my bike back to my vehicle, and I pulled my epi pen out of my ever-present bug-out bag's first aid pocket, set it on the seat beside me, and headed into the hospital, calling them on the phone en route to let them know that I was coming in and why.

On arrival at the hospital, I was third on line to talk to the triage desk nurse, right behind a large woman who wanted to know why she could not bring food up to her friend who was a patient up on the floors, and an old lady who insisted on registering a complaint about the medical helicopters flying too low and noisy over her house. (Seriously! But now I know where she lives, and just wait until I'm aloft with my rental Cessna again...I'll give her "low and noisy".) But the E/R got me right in and evaluated once I got past those two fruitcakes. (The old lady was still complaining to hospital security about the helicopters as I was being taken into the back.)

By this time, it had been about 45 minutes since the sting, and although I had a prominent welt on the side of my face where it had gotten me, the swelling in my lips and throat had already pretty much dissipated. This was just a mild reaction, fortunately, but you can never tell, and I'm sure that had I just kept riding, it would have worsened in direct proportion to the solitude and inaccessibility of my location on the tow path. Better safe than sorry.

So my planned 54 mile ride turned into a nine mile ride, hardly worth the maintenance I'd done on the bike this morning in preparation, but I did at least get a consolation pizza on the way home from the hospital to make me feel better about the steroid shot that I got in my arm--a shot that burned worse than the sting itself.

Oh well...I guess I'll just take Murphy swimming now...after I drink this "medicinal" beer.

Man Movie Fight

In this scene from Pittsburgh (1942), John Wayne and Randolph Scott slug it out in a coal mine...in suits. Among other things, they were fighting over Marlene Dietrich.

Guess they needn't have bothered.

He's sticky, but he sure smells good.

Last night I barbecued some chicken on the grill. Stupidly, I left the BBQ sauce outside on the grill's shelf. Apparently sometime during the night, something knocked it down onto the deck proper, and Murphy, not finding any cats out there this morning, nonetheless had a new "chew toy".

Eventually I walked by the window and saw him contentedly chewing on something held between his paws. I knew that he didn't have any toys out there (because given a chance, all he does is drop them off the deck) so I went outside to see what he had.

It was the plastic BBQ sauce bottle, now with several punctures in it, each of which was oozing spicy honey flavor all over Murphy, who did not seem to mind in the slightest.

He's clean now, but he still smells pretty tasty.

A bad summer for warbirds

Coming on the heels of that beautiful B-17 burning in that Illinois field last month, now we have a P-51D Mustang colliding with a Douglas Skyraider and augering into the ground in Britain.

Fortunately the pilot survived. But the Mustang? Total loss. The Skyraider that it collided with didn't come away unscathed, either.

Very sad.

Now THIS is a pilot!

Watch this footage taken from this F-16's HUD (Heads-Up Display) as this pilot dead-sticks his bird into an emergency landing WITH NO ENGINE.

Lest ye think that's no big deal, F-16s are not Cessnas. They have glide aspects resembling those of concrete blocks. They stay in the air due to massive power and when the power dies, the aircraft ceases to fly. Failing to get a re-start, the only option for the pilot is to eject and kiss a $20 million dollar aircraft goodbye.

But here we have a pilot who manages to keep some flight control and he descends at a high rate sufficient to keep the airspeed high enough to attempt a landing. But he only gets one shot at this. Too short or too long and it's pieces-parts all over the terrain. And to start with, he's at 9,000 feet just seven miles from the airport, so he's got to put that nose down and dive at an insane rate. The little box on the right side of the display shows his altitude dropping off; if it were a dial like in my Cessna, the hands would be spinning like a fan.
Aw, hell. Just read the description here at An Ordinary American, one of my new favorite blogs. He explains what you're seeing better than I can. And here's the video:Notice that the airspeed indicator (in the little box to the left side of the display) shows him still doing 200 knots as he crosses the runway threshold. He touches down and his landing roll stops on the rubber marks where aircraft landing from the other direction touch down--he used every bit of that runway. Just...damn. THAT is flying.

PC whiners protest classic movie in New York.

I guess that New York City has no crime, no homeless or any other problem to get all bent out of shape over, because the only thing that this group of cry-babies could find to protest was a showing of a 50-year old move, Breakfast at Tiffany's, with Audrey Hepburn and George Peppard.

Oh--and Mickey Rooney--the one that really sets them off. Apparently they don't like the way that he plays Mr. Yunioshi, a Japanese photographer, as depicted in this great clip.

"By screening this film, the organizers are sanctioning the racism it contains, and subjecting new audiences (including children and Asian-Americans) to a minstrel show of racist ideology," wrote Ursula Liang, a Bronx woman who organized an online petition last week that has gathered more than 200 signatures.

"It’s 2011. It’s New York. Do we still have to fight the hostile, hurtful world of 1961 Hollywood?" she added.

A little investigative work shows that Ursula Liang, the ringleader behind this protest, is only 37 years old. She wasn't even born when this movie came out and I'm betting that neither were the 200 or so twinks that allegedly signed her on-line "petition". Hell, most of them have probably never even seen this movie. Not that this stops liberals from trying to censor our world and stifle anything that they decide is objectionable. And sadly, it's not the first time that this classic has come under attack recently.

After the film was pulled from the "Ratatouille" film festival in Calif. in 2008 following complaints that it was racist, a saddened Rooney told the Sacramento Bee the criticism "breaks my heart."

"They hired me to do this overboard, and we had fun doing it," he said. "Never in all the more than 40 years after we made it — not one complaint. Every place I’ve gone in the world people say, ‘God, you were so funny.’ Asians and Chinese come up to me and say, ‘Mickey you were out of this world.’"

Don't like it, liberals? Then don't go watch it. But this is America, and last I checked, the rest of us have the right to watch or show pretty much anything that we please.

Just more proof that Freedom is to Liberals as garlic is to vampires. (Freedom for you and me, that is. Liberals still demand as much as they want for themselves.)

WHY was I not there?

I'm thinking that if I don't go do this at least once in my life, I'll have died a failure.

Pamplona Bull Run

I mean, seriously--what's the bull going to do? smash my foot? Tear my leg off? Bah. I've got spares.

And that beer for $4.30US a liter sounds like a good deal, too.

Next year? Anyone wanna join me?
Anyone?
Bueller?
Anyone?

Making gun owners look bad, one legislator at a time

Thank you, Senator Lori Klein.

Supposedly, because a reporter wanted to do a story on her carrying a pistol, first-term Arizona State Senator Lori Klein drew her pistol, engaged the laser sight, and pointed it at the report's chest. But it was ok, she reportedly said, because her finger wasn't on the trigger. And then she blamed the reporter for "sitting down in front of her pistol".

Klein added that during this demonstration, "the reporter came and sat down in the sofa in front of me, placing himself in the line of the laser sight,'' her statement says. Klein said she apologized but let him know he was safe "because I keep my finger out of the trigger guard.''

And she still doesn't seem to get that she did anything wrong.

We, the People, fight for our gun rights, and then along comes one of our public servants who proceeds to validate everything that the anti-gunners say about us. With friends like this, who needs Sarah Brady or the Democrats?

Run fail

I had business this morning near a place that I usually like to run, so after I was done, I went out to put some miles down. By the time that I got there, it was too late in the morning and too hot already but I doubled down on the stupid by trying to add distance on an out-and-back run.

And out-and-back is where you start from one place with a fixed mileage in mind, and run half way, then turn around and come back.

I almost scratched the run due to the heat, but I noticed that about a mile from my start/finish point there was a check point set up for some bike ride and they had water and gator aide that I was pretty sure I could tap on the way back. So with that in mind, and a desire to show those bike riders how it's done, I turned on my motivational music and started running.

Risin' up, back on the street
Did my time, took my chances
Went the distance, now I'm back on my feet
Just a man and his will to survive...

It was hot, but I was running good on the outbound leg. The road I was on was shaded for the most part and it felt good to be out. And the music kept me pumped up and moving.

Come on, baby don't you want to go
Come on, baby don't you want to go
To the same old place, sweet home Chicago...

I'd considered turning back at two miles, depending on how I felt, but I was doing great when I hit the two mile marker, so I just kept going, running in time with the music.

Take my love, take my land
Take me where I cannot stand
I don't care, I'm still free
You can't take the sky from me...

I was starting to feel it at three miles, but my turn point was so close. I just had to make it. So I started singing aloud along with the music.

They say that Richard Cory owns one half of this whole town,
With political connections to spread his wealth around.
Born into society, a banker's only child,
He had everything a man could want: power, grace, and style....

The last half mile was out of the shade, in direct sunlight. By the turn point, I was soaked in sweat and the heat was sapping me. I started heading back, but I knew that I'd over done it. Still, there was only one way back so I just kept running, focusing on the music, which the MP3 player was pulling up at random.

From the halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli
There was never a leatherneck braver, a Daring Dragoon is he
He’ll halt the bold advance of Napoleon’s attack
There ain’t a French or pirate rogue who don’t... know Jack!

I kept passing bike riders, and I knew that I was going to have to hit their check point and beg a refreshment from their coolers of icy cold drinks. There was no doubt in my mind that they'd have one or two to spare.

It was Della and the Dealer and a dog named Jake
and a cat named Kalamazoo
Left the city in a pickup truck
gonna make some dreams come true...

Finally I hit the point where I just couldn't run any more. I had to stop. I'd actually run further the other night, but it was twenty degrees cooler then. This heat had totally sapped me. But I still had to get back. And my running foot...great for running, but not made for walking. As I plodded on slowly back towards the start point (and the bike people and their icy cold drinks!), it really started to dig into my shin bone. The only way to relieve that was...that's right...back into a running pace. I turned the music up and tried to keep pace with it.

Lido missed the boat
That day he left the shack
But that was all he missed
He ain't comin' back

At a tombstone bar
In a juke-joint car he made a stop
Just long enough
To grab a handle off the top..

I'd run as long as I could--maybe a quarter mile or so--then I'd falter to a walk again, and walk until I'd built up a bit more energy and my shin was hurting, at which point I'd step up to a run again. but that bike checkpoint was up ahead...coolers. Cold drinks. Bike chicks in spandex. Screw the heat! Push it!

Up walked a Baptist preachin' southern funky school teacher
She had a line on something heavy but we couldn't reach her
We told her that we needed something that would get us going
She pulled out all she had and laid it on the counter showing
All I had to do was lay my money down and pick it up
The cops came busting in and then we lit out in a pickup truck...

Finally I rounded a bend and saw the parking lot where the bike check point was. I'd been pushing myself just to get there, figuring that once I'd had a chance to get a cold drink and talk to some cute bike girls, I'd be good for the last mile. But when I rounded the bend, all I saw in the distance was an empty parking lot. They'd moved on. And I was out of energy AND options.

Long as I remember The rain been comin' down.
Clouds of myst'ry pourin' Confusion on the ground.
Good men through the ages, Tryin' to find the sun;
And I wonder, Still I wonder, Who'll stop the rain...

That last walk sucked bad. But I finally got to that last quarter mile and I could see my vehicle in the distance. I had water in there, too. Time to finish strong. There had to be something left. Besides, the shade was gone now and I just wanted out of this sun. So I kicked it into a run for the last quarter and gave it every last thing I had.

Sometimes I wonder what'll become of me
There ain't much left of what I used to be
Her love shone on me just like the morning light
But now here I am alone again tonight

Look out my window, it's still rainin'
Look out my window, it's still rainin'

I got to my ride, pulled out a gallon jug of water, and drank the last half of it left. Then I put my radio on and just went over and sat on a stone wall nearby and listened to Laura Ingraham for a while while the sweat just pored out of me. This was good, because as long as you're still sweating, you're ok. It's when the sweating stops that you've got a heat problem.

After about ten minutes, a gal came running down the road from the other direction, going to another vehicle in the lot. She was smoking hot, too. I just had to chat her up, so I told her that it was too hot to run today. She laughed and said that she had started to run but decided that it was too hot so she was going to go back and do yoga instead. I admitted that I hadn't been bright enough to quit, but hey--I'm back now.

She was actually pretty conversant and friendly and we bantered a bit until I swung myself over the wall and she saw my running leg. She stared at it just a bit too long, and then pretty much stopped talking to me. Aw, hell. On second glance, she was fat anyway. And only fruitbats do yoga.

I went back into town for beer. Beer cures all. And no more running in the heat of day from now on.

Mom orders fake alcohol drinks for her kids, calls police when they actually contain alcohol

In today's "News of the Stupid", we have Pamela Bruenning of Longmont, Colorado. Pamela decided to take her three kids ages 8,6 and 1 to Chili's bar and Grill the other day. (And we all know that every adult who goes to Chili's really wants to dine in a room full of kids, right?)

Well Pamela, being a trendy sort of mom, orders "virgin daquiris" for her kids, because it's so much cooler to buy fake adult beverages for them than it is to give them milk of fruit juice or even soda pop. Well surprise, surprise, but the drinks were accidentally made with alcohol like real daquiris. The result: the children took sips, announced that they "tasted bad", and refused to drink any more. Mommy Dearest took a sip, recognized the rum taste immediately, and complained to the manager who apologized, brought over new drinks, and comped the entire meal for everyone.

This should have been the end of it, but the next thing you know, she's calling the police and the media, doing interviews, and hinting at a lawsuit even though the police dismissed it as being a simple mistake, unworthy of criminal charges.

Police used a breath-analysis test on the kids to determine their blood alcohol level, but the readings were negative, police reported. Bruenning said her children successfully completed field sobriety tests.

OK, aside from the question that poses, (how do you get little kids to perform SFTS?)it seems that Pamela is seeing dollar signs now, so she's doing her best to whip up the outrage of anyone who will side with her and no doubt hoping that no one will remember that she's the one who insisted that her pre-teens all get fake alcoholic drinks in the first place at a place that has plenty of other beverages for kids, including regular fruit smoothies (daquiris without alcohol or daquiri mix).


As a side note, Pamela has a profile on Etsy where she twice talks about drinking alcohol in the one paragraph that she uses to introduce herself to the world:

Sometimes I picture myself as an old man in a cigar room with an Old Fashioned, communicating with a general slur and sway. Transparency fascinates me, especially when it's tinted, like pool water. I love fine papers and book binding. I buy way too many pens, & think calligraphy has a certain, "je ne se qua". A good beer, or an even better wine, and a sky full of stars is the best inspiration for anything.

Pamela, it sounds like you're the one with the alcohol problem. Back away from the cameras and consider looking for an AA program instead of a sleazy lawyer.

Saturday Man Movie

Since this one was discussed in the comments last week, I moved it to the head of the Queue. Steve McQueen, as Bullit, doing bad things to a vintage Mustang in 1968.

The Dodge Charger didn't come off too well, either.

This was back when they really made movies. No computer graphics here. Real stunts.

Forced motivation

I don't want to run tonight. I really don't.

But there's only one way to be the best: Train when you feel like it, and train when you don't.

See you in five miles or so. Sigh.

Blues Break

Since I can't think of anything to post today, have some B.B. King and Eric Clapton.

Customers and Customer Service

So tonight I went out to dinner, since a local place was having a special on wings and I wanted to try their wings. As I waited for my food, a woman at a nearby table began to angrily berate her waitress loudly enough that I could overhear the discussion. Her complaint was that the basket of fries that she'd ordered for her family was not big enough. She pointed out angrily that the menu claimed that it was a serving for four people, and she argued loudly that there were clearly not enough fries there for four people.

Thing is, there were only three people at the table: this obese woman, her obese teen daughter, and a five-year old who was well on his way to being obese. And here mom was, arguing that a basket of deep-fried potatoes intended for four adults did not constitute enough food for her and her two children.

So then the manager was summoned over. And I'm thinking that even though this is a totally stupid complaint of the type that has forever kept me out of customer-service-oriented employment due to my inability to refrain from speaking my mind when confronted by such people, the old tenets of customer service should still apply here: Make the customer happy. I mean, I grew up with an understanding of the concept that in business, "the customer is always right". (Archaic, I know...I'm old.) But this twenty-something "manager" appeared genuinely perplexed and stumped as to how to respond. She replied that it wasn't her fault that the menu put out by the corporate office said that the basket contained enough fries for four people, and then she stood there all cow-eyed staring at this woman who was going on and on and on about being ripped off.

And I'm over in my seat thinking "Geez, she's a fat pig but you're a manager with, like, authority. Offer her something else or just ask her what would make her happy. That's just a no-brainer, one would think.

But apparently such is not taught in manager school any more, because she just stood there looking like a deer in the headlights as this woman harangued her loudly in front of the whole restaurant. The manager didn't even try to placate or mollify the woman. Finally, the woman worked herself up into such a fit that she announced to her two fat kids that they were leaving and not paying for the fries. And sure enough, all three of them waddled away while the manager and the waitress just looked at each other in befuddlement.

Now to begin with, the fat woman was wrong to act that way, but managers are paid to manage things like this, and customer satisfaction being important (at least once upon a time), I was embarrassed and ashamed for the two employees who, between them, could not de-escalate this simple situation and make this pig and her two piglets happy. I mean, how hard is it to just give them more fries or offer a substitution?

Pathetic. Pathetic all around. When did it become acceptable to act like that in a public establishment, and when did managers stop working towards keeping even the most unreasonable customers happy? More importantly, what ever happened to basic civility and courtesy? Where did these things go and when did they leave?

Murphy and the cat. (Cat lovers, don't read this.)

My neighbors, otherwise known locally as "the crazy cat people", feed and shelter feral cats in their yard. Most of that cats--and there are literally dozens of them--wind up spending much of their time in my yard and the yards of all of the other neighbors, much to near universal disgust. If these cats are not killing the birds that we feed, they're defecating everywhere, walking on our cars, fighting at night (or making new litters of cats), and generally posing a nuisance and health hazard. But the crazy cat people continue to feed them and tell us all that the cats are "part of nature" and that they (the cats) have rights just like any one of us do.

Yeah, they're pretty much nuts.

Well they're short one cat as of this morning. It was on my deck and I did not see it there when I let Murphy out. But Murphy? He saw it, all right. He saw it and he went for it.

Now there's a cat or two on my deck at least once a day, and they always run and jump off the deck when Murphy goes for them. But this particular cat? Not so bright. This one apparently decided to reason with Murphy and it stood it's ground. Needless to say, it didn't turn out well for the cat, but at least it was quick.

To paraphrase one of the best eulogies of all time: "E's passed on! This parrot cat is no more! He has ceased to be! 'E's expired and gone to meet 'is maker! 'E's a stiff! Bereft of life, 'e rests in peace! E's pushing up the daisies! 'Is metabolic processes are now 'istory! 'E's off the twig! 'E's kicked the bucket, 'e's shuffled off 'is mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin' choir invisible!! THIS IS AN EX-PARROT EX-CAT!!

What would cause a three-to-four pound cat to square off against an 80lb. charging German Shepherd? I'm guessing that Darwin likes cats, too.

Meanwhile, I'm thinking that if my crazy cat neighbors never find out where this cat went, it'll be just fine by me.

Back

So we're back. Good time. And Murphy even had a hot dog too. He walked up to the host as the man sat down with his food and reached out and took the hot dog right off the host's plate.

Dogs...

How Murphy and I are spending our Independence Day.

I went for a bike ride this morning. Just a short one, from Harpers Ferry up to Antietam Creek and back. That 20 miles added to Saturday's 40-mile ride gives me 60 miles ridden this holiday week-end, plus a four mile run on Sunday night.

Now I'm home, I've just picked a couple quarts of wineberries off my bushes, and I'll be taking them and some beer and the M60 over to the neighbor's house for an Independence Day cookout in a bit. Murphy will be coming too, since he loves their dogs and vice-versa. Besides, it's not really a holiday unless your buddy's having a special day too, right?

Happy Independence Day!

And thanks to Ed Rasimus for reminding me to call it that instead of just "the Fourth of July".

Anyway, I was feeling nostalgic, so here--a couple of oldies that talk about exactly what this day means. Back in my day, kids grew up learning this stuff. Today, not so much. Pity.

40 more miles on the bike.

Last week, I reluctantly turned my bike back on the C&O Canal at mile marker 40, wondering as I did so what was beyond.

Well after getting back to the Lair and checking the intertube, I saw that White's Ferry was another four and a half miles down. well I'd never been to White's Ferry before, so today I harnessed up the old bike and set out down the path again from Brunswick (mile marker 55).

I rode back down through Point of Rocks and across the Monocacy Aqueduct in good time and soon reached Mile Marker 40 again. Well with that fifteen miles in the bag, I felt like I could make the return trip again without a problem, so why not add another ten?

I continued.

The canal hit a berm across it shortly after I passed 40 and then it was dry again except for a few small bits. Too bad. Five more miles of pedaling brought me to and a little bit past White's Ferry. (I needed to hit mile marker 35 to make it an "official" twenty miles down.)

Here's the original bridge over the canal leading to the ferry dock. In it's day, this bridge would have been crossed by horse-drawn wagons and Model T and Model A automobiles. Remember that this canal operated until 1922.Now the canal and the bridge are just remains, and a road across the canal bed puts motorists on the ferry.

Here's the store on the Maryland side. Note the flood level markers on the wall up by the top.
Here's the ferry, the General Jubal Early. It's connected to a cable by pulleys and goes back and forth, taking about five minutes a trip. Since there are no bridges for a ways in either direction, lots of locals still use this as part of their daily commute. Cars are $4.00 a trip or $6.00 a round trip.There used to be a hundred ferries crossing the Potomac once. Now this one is the last one left. It's been here since 1782. (A ferry, not this particular diesel-powered boat, just in case any Obama voters happen to be reading this.)
So having come all this way, I rode the ferry across and back. Charge for bicycles: $2.00 each way.
The view back up the river. My SUV is twenty miles away in that direction.

Disembarking the ferry, I headed back up river again. I won't lie, I was starting to feel it by mile 30, and I was really feeling it the last few miles, but I made it. 40 miles in five hours, including the time I spent playing around on the ferry.

I'm worn, but it wouldn't be exercise if it wasn't hard, right?

There is a downside to all of this riding, running and swimming that I've been doing lately: all of my clothes are really starting to get loose.

Saturday Man Movie

Burt Reynolds and Jan Michael-Vincent show us how movie stunts used to be made back before computer graphics in this clip from the 1978 movie Hooper.

Why I carry guns when I hike and camp #2

I've posted on this before (here), and this new story out of Boulder, Colorado gives me reason to post on it again.

Boulder County sheriff's deputies are continuing to investigate a report of a kidnapping near Nederland's Rainbow Lakes, and although new witnesses have come forward, officials have not made an arrest as of Monday morning.

Deputies responded to a report of a kidnapping around 6 p.m. Saturday near the 38000 block of Peak-to-Peak Highway, said sheriff's Cmdr. Rick Brough.
The victims, a 44-year-old man from Berthoud and a 32-year-old woman from Fort Collins, parked their vehicle on Peak-to-Peak highway and began hiking west, Brough said.

While hiking, they were confronted by a white man, who was about 40 years old and armed with a rifle. He was wearing a green army shirt, camouflaged shorts, a floppy army cap, black boots and a black bandanna covering part of his face. He fired a shot from his rifle and tied the couple to trees in the area, Brough said.

The man was able to free himself and ran south to a populated area, where he called police. The woman was released and returned to the vehicle uninjured. The man suffered bruising to his wrists from the restraints and a cut on his leg from falling while escaping from the area, Brough said.

SWAT teams from the Boulder County Sheriff's Office and the Longmont Police Department conducted a search of the area that lasted late into Saturday evening.

Deputies interviewed witnesses on Sunday, but no arrest was made.

And yes, without knowing more, I'm pretty disgusted with this guy who, upon freeing himself, ran off and left the woman who was with him to face whatever all by herself. Where I come from, men fight if they have to to protect those that they care about. But this guy is apparently one of those liberal girly-man types who so infest Colorado these days and I'm sure this his first priority was to get back to his Obama-stickered Volvo just as fast as he could, partner notwithstanding. I hate to brand him a coward without knowing more, but it's kind of hard not to based upon the facts above.

Now when I was out in Boulder for school some years back, I was living in a camper and I usually bedded down in that area at night. I also hiked it extensively during the non-school hours of the week-days. Knowing that area, my guess is that they came close to stumbling on some pot-head's illegal marijuana farm and encountered one of the growers. Everyone with a brain knows how important marijuana is to the wanna-be hippies and sheltered college kids in Boulder and Nederland, and you have to be a fool to traipse around that area unarmed.

When I was there, I was never a fool. I always hiked with a pistol and a German Shepherd, and often with a long gun attached to my pack frame as well if I was going to be ranging away from populated areas. I never go afield without a sidearm at least, usually one of my .357 Magnum revolvers. Any back-country backpacking trip is going to see a fighting rifle on my pack, be it an M1 carbine .357 Magnum or .30-30 lever gun, a Mini-14 or light AR-15, or even a plastic-stocked 1903 Springfield. Heck, I don't even do short hikes locally without a .38 J-frame or a .380 in my pocket. That's just common sense, because you never know who you're going to run into when you're alone in secluded areas and there are bad people out there who prefer such places to engage potential victims. It happens more than most people know. But I know because I've run into that type before, and more than once. I've been unarmed and had to let things play out with them in charge, and I've been armed and able to deter things with a show of strength alone. Human predators size up their would-be prey just like their animal kingdom counterparts do, and even an old one-legged fat guy can be a tough nut to crack if he's got firepower handy and the will to use it, both of which I always have.
In the back-country, 911 response is usually a long ways away, and that's if you can even get a cell signal to call them. So if you're going to be safe, it's on you to take the steps necessary to ensure that you can handle whatever--or whoever--comes along.

FOR SAFE HIKING AND CAMPING, I ALWAYS CHOOSE ONE FROM BOX A AND SOMETIMES ONE FROM BOX B.

BOX A.


BOX B.

Murphy can carry the extra ammo.