Heart Squeeze ...

Somebody does love him ...

Why Do I Do This?

So I never went to bed Sunday night. 

DaBear was sick, and slept most of Sunday away.  I got up Sunday with my own health issues ... I had a sore throat and stiff neck, both of the right side.  The sore throat expressed itself especially when I coughed.  Sunday afternoon I developed throbbing pains on the left side of my face, in the teeth and the cheek.  The pains lasted two hours or so, and only then did that side get stopped up a little; once I was able to sniffle, the pains ceased.

I just never went to bed.  DaBear felt ill Sunday night, and even he was up till almost 2 (reading Dresden books).  I just stayed up, for no good reason --- I wasn't getting anything done in particular, other than the wash.

DaBear got up at 7:30 or so and emailed his boss that he wouldn't be in, then went back to bed.  And still I stayed up.  I was making phone calls, but still ----!

I showered, but instead of going to bed I started fiddling with the computer.

He got back up around 11 and made himself something to eat.  Then I made myself something to eat.

Sometime just before 2pm, I was sleeping in my chair, leaning over in the most awkward positions, and DaBear persuaded me to go lay down.   He woke me up around 6:40pm to eat. 

Now it'a almost 2am.  I finished the wash, filled the dishwasher, made a sh!tload of blog entries, and had a snack ... all since he went to bed at midnight.

I'm taking the car tomorrow, and I have a raft of errands to run.  And, yet, I may not get into bed before 3 --- I have to shower, I think.

<sigh>

This has to change.

Peggy Noonan: A Tragedy Of Errors, And An Accounting

Until this column, Peggy Noonan and I were not in charity; she, a self-professed Catholic and conservative, was worshipping at the Altar of Zero. This is the first column in a long time where she has pulled her tongue off 0bama's boots and turned slightly away from the Altar, and back towards reality.

Now, she's no longer a fave read, but she has redeemed herself, a bit. Maybe the scales are falling from her eyes. And, of course, she says good things about the Marines, and I adore the Marines.

Yayy, Peggy.

=================================================================================================

It is late in the morning one day last December.

A plane is in distress, it's lost one engine and now two and it's going down, and people on the ground hear the sound, look up, say, "That's going awful low," and whip out their cellphones. You could see the pictures they took later on the news.

It sounds like Chesley Sullenburger and US Airways Flight 1549, but that was five weeks later. This was the military jet that went down in San Diego; this was the story that ended badly.

Then this week it took a turn. And looked at a certain way, the San Diego story is every bit as big, and elements of it just as deserving of emulation, as Sully saving all souls when he put down in the Hudson.

It's Dec. 8, 2008, 11:11 a.m., and a young Marine pilot takes off from an aircraft carrier, the USS Abraham Lincoln, on a routine training flight. The carrier is maybe 90 miles southwest of San Diego. Lt. Dan Neubauer is flying an F/A-18 Hornet. Minutes into the flight, he notices low oil pressure in one of the two engines. He shuts it down. Then the light shows low fuel for the other engine. He's talking to air traffic control and given options and suggestions on where to make an emergency landing. He can go to the naval air station at North Island, the route to which takes him over San Diego Bay, or he can go to the Marine air station at Miramar, with which he is more familiar, but which takes him over heavily populated land. He goes for Miramar. The second engine flames out. About three miles from the runway, the electrical system dies. Lt. Neubauer tries to aim the jet toward a canyon, and ejects at what all seem to agree is the last possible moment.

AP

Dong Yun Yoon arrives with his minister the Rev. Daniel Shin at the crash site where his wife, two daughters and mother-in-law were killed.

The jet crashed nose down in the University City neighborhood of San Diego, hitting two homes and damaging three. Four people, all members of a Korean immigrant family, were killed—36-year-old Youngmi Lee; her daughters, Grace, 15 months, and Rachel, 2 months, and her 60-year-old mother, Seokim Kim.

Lee's husband, a grocer named Dong Yun Yoon, was at work. The day after he'd lost his family, he humbled and awed San Diego by publicly forgiving the pilot—"I know he did everything he could"—and speaking of his faith—"I know God is taking care of my family."

His grace and generosity were staggering, but there was growing local anger at the military. Why was the disabled plane over land? The Marines launched an investigation—of themselves. This Wednesday the results were announced.

They could not have been tougher, or more damning. The crash, said Maj. Gen. Randolph Alles, the assistant wing commander for the Third Marine Aircraft Wing, was "clearly avoidable," the result of "a chain of wrong decisions." Mechanics had known since July of a glitch in the jet's fuel-transfer system; the Hornet should have been removed from service and fixed, and was not. The young pilot failed to read the safety checklist. He relied on guidance from Marines at Miramar who did not have complete knowledge or understanding of his situation. He should have been ordered to land at North Island. He took an unusual approach to Miramar, taking a long left loop instead of a shorter turn to the right, which ate up time and fuel.

Twelve Marines were disciplined; four senior officers, including the squadron commander, were removed from duty. Their military careers are, essentially, over. The pilot is grounded while a board reviews his future.

Residents told the San Diego Union-Tribune that they were taken aback by the report. Bob Johnson, who lived behind the Yoons and barely escaped the crash, said, "The Marines aren't trying to hide from it or duck it. They took it on the chin." A retired Navy pilot who lives less than a block from the crash and had formed, with neighbors, a group to push the Marines for an investigation, and for limiting flights over University City, said after the briefing, "I think we're out of business." In a later story the paper quoted a retired general, Bob Butcher, chairman of a society of former Marine aviators, calling the report "as open and frank a discussion of an accident as I've seen." "It was a lot more candid than many people expected."

This wasn't damage control, it was taking honest responsibility. And as such, in any modern American institution, it was stunning.

The day after the report I heard from a young Naval aviator in predeployment training north of San Diego. He flies a Super Hornet, sister ship to the plane that went down. He said the Marine investigation "kept me up last night" because of how it contrasted with "the buck-passing we see" in the government and on Wall Street. He and his squadron was in range of San Diego television stations when they carried the report's conclusions live. He'd never seen "our entire wardroom crowded around a television" before. They watched "with bated breath." At the end they were impressed with the public nature of the criticism, and its candor: "There are still elements within the government that take personal responsibility seriously." He found himself wondering if the Marines had been "too hard on themselves." "But they are, after all, Marines."

By contrast, he says, when the economy came crashing down, "nowhere did we see a board come out and say: 'This is what happened, these are the decisions these particular people made, and this was the result. They are no longer a part of our organization.' There was no timeline of events or laymen's explanation of how a credit derivative was actually derived. We did not see congressmen get on television with charts and eviscerate their organization and say, 'These were the men who in 2003 allowed Freddie and Fannie unlimited rein over mortgage securities.' Instead we saw . . . everybody against everybody else with no one stepping forth and saying, 'We screwed up…'" There is no one in national leadership who could convincingly "assign blame," and no one "who could or would accept it."

This of course is true, but somehow more stinging when said by a serviceman.

The White House this week was consumed by extreme interest in a celebrated radio critic, reportedly coordinating an attack line with antic Clinton-era political operatives who don't know what time it is. For them it's always the bouncy '90s and anything goes, it's all just a game. President Obama himself contributes to an atmosphere of fear grown to panic as he takes a historic crisis and turns it into what he imagines is a grand opportunity for sweeping change. What we need is stabilization—an undergirding, a restrengthening so things can settle and then rise. What we're given is multiple schemes, and the beginning of a reordering of financial realities between the individual and the state.

The Obama people think they are playing big ball, not small ball, and they no doubt like the feeling of it: "We're making history." But that, ironically, was precisely the preoccupation of the last administration—doing it big, being "consequential," showing history. Watch: Within six months, the Obama administration will be starting to breathe the word "legacy."

What they're up to will win and hold support, at least for a while, until the reaction.

But is it responsible? Or is it only vain?

Anyway, all honor this week to the Marines, who were very much the former, not the latter.

Compare And Contrast: GWB and BH0 Vis-a-Vis The Marines

Most Marines are savvy enough to know who's on their side and who isn't.

It is my belief that Barack feels inferior to members of the military --- and rightly so.  The feeling makes him defensive, which, in turn, causes him to hold himself aloof. 

Please note, it's all about feelings.  Acting based solely on feelings is the hallmark of the liberal.

Different Presidents, A Different Marine Corps: Obama Vs Bush

'Nuff said.

Goodness Gracious: I Am Rose's Enlarged Thyroid, Part 2

So, today I went to get my blood drawn. 

I swear, that blood tech drilled a hole in my arm with a dull needle to get the blood out.  It seems that my arm has been sore, right there in the bed of the elbow, since my last blood draw.

I wonder when I did have my blood drawn last?  I need to ask Dr. Glaze and Dr. Dorsett.

First they took the blood, and then I got to pee in the cup.  The peeing was successful this time, as I managed to hold onto the cup as I filled it.  (Last time I gave a urine sample, for the GREX drug test, I dropped the cup in the toilet, and tehn couldn't pee for another 90 minutes.)

So ... now I wait until tomorrow (Friday).  If they don't call tomorrow by noon, I'm calling them.  I know, I know, I'm supposed to wait ... but I can't.

Thank God, we're going to see the Watchmen movie tomorrow.  I'm going to order big food at Alamo Draft House, and indulge myself in Italian sodas.

Goodness Gracious: I Am Rose's Enlarged Thyroid, Part 1

Tuesday, I went to have a venous Doppler test done on my left arm.  Now, I've had a venous Doppler done before, on my legs, to make sure that I didn't have some circulatory side-effect of diabetes.  That test, as I recall, took about thirty minutes.

But the test on my arm took nearly an hour.  I had to strip to the waist and put on a hospital gown (ick).  The radiology tech spent what seemed to be a long time on my neck and the juncture of my shoulder, and then took readings all the way down to my hand.  She left the room briefly, just long enough for me to wipe off the goop (ick) and get back into my bra before she came back in and took more readings, all around the base of my throat, with two scanners of different lengths.

This morning, I got a call from the doctor's office.  The venal flow in my arm is just fine, no bloodclots or anything that would cause pain and/or swelling.

HOWEVER ...

I have an enlarged thyroid.  There is a heterogenous nodule on the left side.

Of course, it's on the left side.  My left leg is the one that's swollen; my left arm is also swollen; something on the left side of my face was swollen a few months ago, the sinus polyp was on the left side.  The filling that fell out of my tooth years ago is on the left side of my mouth.

I freely admit to having a raging case of hypochondria.  I was going to wait until next week to get my lab work done --- the liver panel I requested, a A1C to check the state of my diabetes, a urine test to make sure my bladder infection of a few months ago is truly gone --- but, after the doctor's office called, I decided to beat it in there ASAP, which would be tomorrow (Thursday).

My Daddy had a thyroid condition.  I don't know now what it was ... as I recall, he had to take a pill every day.  Thyroid conditions seem very amenable to treatment.  I am willing this to being an infection, and trying not to obsess ...

Free-Floating Anger

A few years ago, the movie The Core showed static electricity building up and discharging, suddenly, unpredictably, and with horrific consequences, at in electrical superstorms at random sites all over the world. These devastating electrical storms destroyed the Roman Colosseum and San Francisco.

I feel the static emotional electricity building as I type.

It's not a good or a comfortable feeling.

People are mad as hell about the actions of government in the last month, and all that anger is floating above our heads, a malevolent cloud seeking a path --- any path --- to ground.

The Octo-Mom is attracting some of the energy --- the violent and sickly imaginative death threats she and everyone around her have received are above and beyond any rational reaction to her admittedly execrable behavior.

With any luck, some of the destructive potential of this anger will be leached off by Tea Parties --- but I think the Tea Parties will just crank up the anger, especially as people realize the drive-by media have no intention of covering these righteous demonstrations, preferring bobbing around in 0bama's tank and hoping, like the faithful puppy under the family dinner table, that a few pieces of Our Dear Leader's wagyu steak will drop on the floor within their reach.

I'm afraid it's going to get very very bad out there, long before it gets better ...

The Acronym FUBO ...

has gone viral in the conservative pathways of the Internet.

Does this make me racist?

Hmmm ...

Speculation: Obama's First Hundred Days

http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/f-news/2191215/posts

The phrase “a hundred days” was coined by the Compte de Chabrol in 1815, referring to the time between Napoleon’s escape from Elba, and his defeat. Later, it was used to describe the 3-month honeymoon FDR enjoyed in 1933 with Congress, essentially dictating legislation from the Oval Office. Now, for better or for worse, we grade all of our Presidents on their First Hundred Days.

A lot can happen in a hundred days. Empires can be made and lost. It’s worth taking an early look at Obama’s first month to see what the first hundred could bring, even if the trends may be skewed by the learning-curve a one-term Senator might inevitably face in his new job:

- Joe Biden told the Russians we want to “hit the reset button” with them – ignoring a number of recent provocations on their part.

- Hillary Clinton tried showing off her intelligence – literally – by using sensitive information about North Korea as talking points during her current “listening tour” overseas.

- Secretary Gates and Ambassador Holbrooke publicly contradicted each other on what a rapprochement with the Taliban might mean for Pakistan and Afghanistan.

- Obama outsourced the rushed creation of a massive bill to his Party apparatchiks, and got handed a partisan and flawed result, whose final outcome depended on preserving the vote of a badly compromised Roland Burris, and hip-checking Judd Gregg with a Mephistophelian offer of a Cabinet position. In the meantime, the President’s campaign has failed to pay its debts.

- The Attorney General called Americans “cowards” for not addressing issues of race.

- The new Secretary of the Treasury got the Stock Market to plunge by revealing a mortgage bailout plan remarkable only for it’s lack of vision, theme, and details – which seems all too much a reflection of his own tax returns.

- The new Secretary of Transportation suggested a tax on the number of miles driven by car-owners, which the White House almost immediately repudiated.

- Numerous Democrat legislators warned darkly of resurrecting the Fairness Doctrine, which the President declined to support.

To any observer trying to decipher where this Administration is attempting to go, there’s no wonder that the only impression is incoherence and contradiction. Biden and Clinton seem intent on proving to our allies and adversaries that President Obama is not President Bush – but neither of them can say what that means. In the meantime, the Iranians are launching space vehicles, and building nukes. The Russians are flexing their muscle everywhere, and the Taliban is emerging from their caves.

At home, the only industry likely to be stimulated by the recent porkfest will be the lawyers who will file countless suits over whether the Federal government can force States to take money they don’t want, or whether a handwritten insert from a staffer or lobbyist truly constitutes “the intent of Congress” in the making of law.

Al Sharpton and North Carolina’s James Clyborn found new ways to feign outrage – Sharpton alleging a racial slur to the President as the writer of a bill with which he had almost nothing to do, and Clyborn alleging that refusing federal money (and the strings attached) was tantamount to racism. No wonder people are afraid to talk about race when even non-racial issues can turn up “the race card.”

Emboldened by the bailout of bad loans made by bad banks to bad credit risks, groups like ACORN are breaking into foreclosed homes and declaring squatter’s rights. The Stock Market continues to fall. What’s a leader to do?

Predictably, the President has embarked on the one thing he does best – hitting the road, shaking hands, and making promises. In short: he’s campaigning again, but this time Americans are asking for something more than vague promises of “change.” Several appearances have been annoyingly marred by dissent.

Karl Rove comments that, for as disciplined as the Obama campaign may have been in the past, his team is “winging it” on most issues now. In fact, nothing has really changed: no amount of discipline can offset the lack of a substantive message.

The time for campaign rhetoric is past, and the consequences of this lack of discipline and substance keep piling up. A lot can happen in a hundred days. Here’s hoping our President can figure out how to avoid marching all of us to Waterloo before the time is up.

Goodness Gracious! The SKANKiness Of It All!

Goodness Gracious! The HORROR!

We Saw A House Today ...!

... and I love-love-LOVED it!

It's a little small, and in a subdivision where the neighbor's driveway is two long strides away from the side of the house.

But it's got three sides of Texas white stone, it's one-story, it's got a great porch and wonderful columns out front, it's tiled throughout (except in the closets, which are all carpeted), it has a nice wooden deck out back, the interior is painted in these fantastic earth tones of gold and cream and brown and rust that match and harmonize with the cinnamon-colored tile.

The kitchen is a little small, but the sink looks out a windeowr, which I love, and the kitchen plan is open, with a good-sized breakfast nook.

The master bedroom is kinda small, too, and the closet in the bathroom is almost as big as the bathing area. 

And the mail is delivered to a box down the street ---ick!

But, for all that, I could live there.  The front bedroom has two tall windows with rounded tops ... that would have to be my office.

Don't worry ... we know we need to look at other houses.  And our Realtor seems hesitant about showing us houses in Georgetown, where we really want to live.  But, geez, I liked that house!

I'm getting cold feet about moving ... this apartment looked pretty good when we got back.

But we have to move.

We have to.

Customers Are A Mess!

So, I have an informal deal with a company to be their maintenance programmer.  They sell software to a company.  If the purchasing company wants the software modified or customized, or if there's some other problem, the selling company directs the purchasing company to me.

So, last month, my contact at the selling company --- SellDude --- forwards an email to me from ADude.  ADude wants some fundamental changes made in the existing software, and has tried to do it himself; no joy.  In fact, he's introduced an error.

SellDude sends me the email, but I don't get back to SellDude until the next day.  SellDude tells me that ADude is good to go --- has fixed his own issues.

Stupidly, I never get back to ADude.

Last Thursday, ADude sends an email complaining that he hasn't heard from anyone.  Oh, boy.  I call ADude and leave a message including my phone number.

ADude calls me back, and I ascertain what he needs, all the while apologizing profusely for the misunderstanding.  However, I foolishly forget to tell him my rates.

I do the work, and get it back to ADude when I said I would.  Only then do I realize I didn't tell ADude what my rates were.  Stupid Rose!

I email ADude and tell him what my rates are, and that I will invoice him, and ask for his preferred method of payment.

ADude runs to SellDude whining about how he didn't expect to have to pay.  SellDude says, oh, no, Rose is a third-party contractor.  SellDude then forwards these emails to me.

I call SellDude and converse.  I then call ADude and leave a message with a secretary.

Moral of the story: ALWAYS lead with your rates!

Tim Geithner Is A Tax Cheat --- Tell Him So!

Civil disobedience, conservative style!

Tim Geithner, the new Dear Treasury Secretary and Dear IRS Leader, is a tax cheat.



A blogger has put up this site, taxcheatstamps.com, where they're selling self-inking stamps that will slap the words TAX CHEAT! in bold red letters on anything ---- including across Tim Geithner's signature on any greenback issued on his watch.

It's technically illegal to write on US money, but people do it all the time, as it is almost impossible to prove that a particular person defaced a particular bill.  This is a fair writeup of the issues involved.

If you're not worried about 0bama siccing the Secret Service on you, and you're already tired of these 0bama cabinet members who don't know how to pay their taxes, buy yourself a stamp. 

By the way, the tax-cheat Secretary-nominee count is up to 5 now:

1. Wanna-be Commerce Secretary Richardson, who had the decency to withdraw his nomination before it got to committee;
2. Dear Treasury Secretary Geithner, who can't figure out TaxCut;
3. HHS Secretary-Assumptive Dasshole, who had to back away;
4. "Chief Performance Officer" nominee Nancy Killifer, who also had to withdraw;
5. Labor Secretary nominee Hilda Solis' husband, Sam Sayyad, who paid 16-year-old liens February r4th, one day before his wife's Senate hearing.
   

Each one an icky Clintonite. 

These people make me want to shower ...!

Pens!!!

I am a pen freak.

I love ink pens.  I especially love metal fine point gel pens that come in a myriad of colors.

Up until recently, my favorite pens had been, oddly enough, Office Depot's Foray Extra Fine Point gel pens (I would have posted a picture, but after taking a single shot, my camera's battery died).  The eight colors --- black, dark blue, bright blue, green, purple, red, turquoise, and pink --- are vivid, the 0.3mm point is very fine, and allows for teeny-tiny writing.  The grip area of the slender barrel is horizontally ribbed, and not all that comfortable, but not as uncomfortable as you might think.

I've also been enjoying the .5mm needle-pointed Bic Z4+.  Though I have only been able to find the needle-pointed one in black, blue, red, and green, they are a pleasure to write with, as they have a clean writing line, a nicely thickish barrel, and a comfortably padded grip.

And, of course, I like the Pilot Precise Grip Extra Fine needle-point.  It also comes in the four basic colors --- black, blue, green, and red.  It's a fat pen, and features a slip-resistant padded ring that lets me write for hours at a time.

But now I have a new pen love --- the Uniball Signo DX UM-151, seventeen colors, and with a wicked cone-point that doubles as a weapon!  It's a Japanese import even though it's a Uniball product --- the Japanese like their pens to come in fine points and plenty of colors.  The DX UM-151s I now have are .28mm, and ever so fine-lined! I'll post pictures later.

The colors include:  black, blue-black, brown-black, blue, light blue, sky blue, green, emerald green, lime green, red, orange, mandarin orange, pink, pure pink, baby pink, golden yellow, and violet.  They are beautiful, and glide over paper like a dream!

I just love my pens!

This Is A Beautiul Day The Lord Has Made!

This afternoon, I had the car --- I had a beauty shop appointment, and several errands to run.

DaBear woke up late, and so we left late, and we hadn't left the apartment by 9:30am, my appointment time. I called Tuesday, my beautician, and told her I wouldn't be there before 10am. She preferred to reschedule for Wednesday, and I concurred.

Ten minutes later, Tuesday called me back and said one of her customers had called to cancel, and she offered me the lady's 1pm appointment. I accepted, gladly.

Since my morning was suddenly free, I decided to execute my errands. I went to Home Depot, right across from the Lazy E, looking for flower pots, potting soil, and miniature roses, but I found their selection of pots paltry, and their mini roses overpriced.

I left there and went to Office Depot, where I purchased several items. From there, I went to WalMart, where I got house shoes (a pink pair of Dearfoam scuffs and a black version of the pair I bought after the Great Flood, on sale for $6.00), a few mesh cups for my new pens (new pens!), and lined Post-it notes. I stopped at the bank and got some cash money.

Love the Lord, it was a beautiful day. It was a little over seventy degrees, calm and sunny and just glorious. I wound down the window, and was driving along uncrowded roads. I felt so good I picked up the phone and called DaBear and let him know it was a beautiful day the Lord had made!

I was a free agent, accountable to no human being but my husband. I had a car that moved freely, that had a radio and a working air conditioner (which I needed as the day progressed). I could afford to gas up that car, to go to the stores I loved and spend money on things I needed and a few things I just wanted, that I had folding money in my pocket. I had a husband with whom I could share this pleasure in this magnificent day.

I stopped at Walgreens and bought fingernail polish and a blood pressure cuff and an electric razor, and picked up some prescriptions. I bought lottery tickets and ice cream at a convenience store, and picked up a package at the apartment complex office. I hauled my goodies upstairs, dropped them off, then left again to go get my hair done and spend a couple of hours with a friend.

I had a great time at Tuesday's! I left there and drove to JCPenney, where I successfully returned a set of defective sheets I purchased over a year ago. JCPenney properly gave me a refund, which I used to order identical replacement sheets. The replacement sheets now cost less than I paid for the originals, so I came out right-side-up there! Beautiful day!

After that, I stopped at Lowe's, where I was able to find six pots and a big bag of potting soil --- sometime early next week, before the cold front moves in, I will repot my poor plants and make them happy, I hope.

Every day she was home, when I was a child in San Antonio, my mother would listen to KAPE-AM, the black radio station, and to their gospel program. They played this song a lot, sung by Albertina Walker.

"I Know Who Holds Tomorrow"
written by Ira Forest Stanphill

I don't know
About tomorrow ...
I just live
From day
To day.
I don't borrow from
Life's sunshine
For its skies may turn gray ...

Shooting Report

Today I took --- and passed! --- a Basic Pistol I class given by a local training outfit. Now, I grew up in a gun owner's home, but that gun was strictly for home defense --- Daddy fired it twice a year (yes, he fired it into the air --- as far as I know, no one was ever hit), and the rest of the time it lived on the top shelf of the closet in my parents' bedroom.

For various reasons, both cultural and personal, my Daddy never went to a gun range. I have never before been to an outdoor range.

Well, that changed today.

Before going, I had to stop and buy a baseball cap --- it's the first one I've ever owned or worn. I have a big head, and the kind of caps that have the adjustable strap don't work for me --- I have to have the elastic sort.

Maybe a boonie cap would work better? ...

The course was held at an extremely rural location --- an hour's drive east of Austin, on roads that went from eight-lane blacktop to four-lane blacktop to two-lane paved to two-lane gravel to one-lane rutted dirt --- good thing we're currently suffering from "exceptional" drought conditions!

Two dozen head of Longhorns grazed in a pen next to the parking area. The lecture part of the class was held in a nice shack, complete with indoor plumbing <smirk> and a nice kitchen. A gregarious old Lab mix wandered
through the classroom, or sat listening to her Daddy, the lead instructor, talk. She even came outside, and stood well away from the tables but close to the people.

Business is very, very good for this training outfit; in late November, when I first contacted them, they didn't plan to hold a Basic Pistol I class until March 2009; they had two classes today, and apparently have scheduled two for next
Saturday. Both classes were full, and the lead instructor told me he'd had to bring in all his part-time instructors to help. There were six other instructors there, two of them women.

The women in the class got a special sheaf of information intended to allay any case of female jits. I didn't read it closely ... I was there because I wanted to be.

There were about a dozen students in my class, half men and half women. All the women, save one, was there with her husband. Most of the couples were gray-haired, but there was a pair in their mid-twenties, and a male friend of theirs who was about the same age. You could easily tell which woman was genuinely interested, and which was a martyr to the cause.

We had been asked not to bring our gun, if we owned one; in this class no one owned a gun, or, if they did, they didn't admit to it. Apparently, several in the morning class brought their guns, and got them critiqued.

The course lasted a little over three hours, and roughly half of that was spent at a primitive outdoor range consisting of six long wooden tables, firing various types of pistols at metal targets ten to fifteen yards away. I hit some, and missed some. I fired:

• A Springfield XD 9mm (first one I handled);
• A S&W (I think) 1911-style .22 with an electronic sight (which I liked very much!);
• A S&W .38 revolver (which I kinda liked);
• A S&W 9mm (solid kick!);
• and a Glock 17 (which I also liked).

I fired a full magazine (or cylinder) with each pistol --- just enough to whet my appetite! Sadly, I didn't get to fire all the guns that were there.

Durnit!

Not every one there was having a good time. While waiting to fire the .38, I sat next to a lady who had shot two pistols and was done with the whole concept. She and I talked about New Balance athletic shoes (I just bought a new pair, to replace the pair that was destroyed in the Great Apartment Flood Of 2008) for a few minutes, until the instructor with the .38 was free.

I learned:

• No guns, watches, bracelets, or rings at the range (and you know I love my bling);
• The 1911 frame fits my hand;
• Iron sights are difficult to line up;
• Brass is rude;
• This sport is stinky and dirty;
• I can be vain about my hands;
• It's hard to shoot with long nails;
• I could have passed the shooting portion of the CHL today;
• I need to practice lots before I get good at this;
• I have every intention of getting good at this.

I made an acquaintance today at the class; one of the instructors, a woman, was intrigued by my presence and started chatting with me to see where I stood on The Second and guns and the concept of gun ownership as a civil right. In my wonderfully subtle manner, I let it be known that I was not in agreement with the imminent Administration. This instructor's husband --- another instructor, who had the 9mm I fired --- has written a book about the fallacies of the gun control movement.

She has invited me to a women-only firearms class in a different rural location, which I will attend.

I will also be taking Basic Pistol II, if not in early February, then as soon as possible thereafter. I think I can make it to a nearby indoor range week after next ... I now have a ball cap, a rocker patch that says "Basic Practical," and a yen to become a better shooter.

I am Dangerous ...

The Great Flood of 2008

I just realized, I never told this blog the story of The Great Flood of 2008.

December 12, 2008, which was a Friday, was a pretty typical day all day.  I was sitting at my computer, at a desk which was covered with Post-It notes, pens, and manila file folders, when, at a little after 5pm, I called Fuzz at work to discuss dinner.

We had barely exchanged greetings when a strange noise, like heavy rainfall, began in the wall behind me.  That wall is an interior wall, and no rain was forecast nor visible outside the window.  I turned around ...

And water began cascading from the ceiling fan over my head.  And I do mean "cascade."  It was as if I'd turned a faucet full on, except the water was falling from my ceiling and onto my desk, my monitor, and me.

My immediate thought was to blame the doofuses upstairs --- loud college students who tended to come home drunk at 3am and mistake my second-floor door for their third-story one, who were dumb enough to kick and pound on my door until I threatened them with a gun and the police.  I thought they had left the water on and I was receiving the overflow.  I ran out the front door of my apartment and went up the stairs in my slow fashion, my cell phone in one hand dialing the apartment main office and screaming at them to come turn the motherfuckin' water off.

The prissy little twit who answered the phone refused to talk to me until I stopped cussing.  AAARGH!

By the time I hit the landing, the fire alarms started going off.  Before I could get up the stairs to the third floor, the upstairs doofus came out of his apartment asking me what was happening.  I screamed, "Is the water in your apartment?"

"No, I'm dry up here," he replied.  "What's happening?"

I don't know how I replied to that; I was headed back downstairs.  I couldn't figure ot what to do, other than call the apartment's main office and get someone up here to turn off the water.

Our apartment complex has two separate campuses, one lower, down by the main office, and the upper campus, where my apartment is located.  It was 5pm on a Friday, and, I suspect, the staff had been in weekend mode when I called.  When I called back, I was assured that the maintenance person was in the golf cart and on their way.

I called Fuzz, who was on his way home.

For what felt like twenty minutes --- but was probably only five --- I alternated between the apartment and the rail outside the apartment, desperately looking for maintenance's golf cart, calling Fuzz, calling the apartment complex's office, and just screaming my fool head off.  Water was now pouring from every light fixture and sprinkler head in the living room ceiling, as well as in both the smaller bedrooms, which were full of books and papers.  People had come out from the apartments on the other end of my building, as well as people from other buildings, drawn by the fire alarms; they were all staring at me as I roared my anger out at no one in particular.

Finally, the golf cart appeared with two maintenance guys in it, one of them a man I recognized from a recent repair.  "Carlos!" I yelled, "Get in here and turn off this damn water!"

The Austin Fire Department responded to the shorted-out fire alarms.  Brian, Jesus, and a fireman whose name I cannot recall came in and immediately scooped up the computers, monitors, and other electronics and took them into the master bedroom, which was not affected.  They turned off the power in the apartment, and kept moving stuff into the master bedroom.

Right here, let me say that AFD rocks.

And the water kept on falling.

Fuzz showed up, his usual calm self, and got to work packing stuff away into the master bedroom.  The firemen found push-broom-like squeegees and started pushing water out.  I was walking around barefoot, since the ballet-slipper-like houseshoes I had been wearing were slippery when wet, and I was splashing arund in water over my feet and up my ankles.

And the water kept pouring down.

The carpet guy, who spoke excellent English, and the drywall/painter guys, who didn't speak much English at all, showed up and started moving stuff.  We had a set of three metal shelves and four plastic shelves.  Fuzz, the carpet guy, the drywall/painter guys, and the firemen moved the shelves into the driest part of the living room, and then started stacking stuff on said shelves.

The prissy little twit from the apartment main office showed up, looked around, and ran for cover, his tail tucked between his legs.  The apartment maintenance supervisor appeared at some point, as well as a plumber.

Finally, after some forty-five minutes, it was determined that the leak wasn't in the main water system, but in the sprinkler system, and then someone had to figure out how to turn that system off.

It seemed to take fifteen minutes more before the water flow slowed to a trickle. 

The ceiling sheetrock was the consistency of tapioca --- the firemen were worried that it would collapse at any moment.  Yes, the firemen were still around --- since the fire alarms in the building were off, as well as the water to the sprinkler system, they had to stick around in case there was a fire.  And they made themselves useful, pushing water from the parts of the apartment that were flooded out the sliding glass doors and off the balcony, packing stuff out onto the balcony and into the dry parts of the apartment, and being generally useful.  I credit them with stopping the water just three feet outside the master bedroom.

By now, it was nearing seven o'clock, and it was dark outside and in the apartment.  The firemen turned the power back on, and  the plumber started looking for the leak by cutting holes in the sheetrock.  It took a while, and required turning the water back on temporarily, but they finally found it.  The pipe didn't spring a leak; instead, a join in the pipe separated.  The plumber fixed the join and left soon after.

The carpet guy, the drywall/painter guys, and Fuzz had moved all the stuff they could.  Furniture and boxes were on the balcony.  To get useless me out of the way, Fuzz sent me in the car to find a place to stay for the night.  He had to tell me twice, and once I understood what he wanted me to do, I felt so damn useless ... 

All of my shoes were wet ... I don't recall what I wore on my feet when I went down to the car to drive around.

I found a Springhill Suites (a flavor of Marriott) down the road, and checked us in for a night.  When I got back, I packed what clothes I could --- it being Friday, most of our clothes were in the dirty clothes hamper --- and we left around nine-thirty.  The carpet guy had set up a set of four fans and a dehumidifier, and they were going ike gangbusters when we locked the door. 

We came back Saturday morning, and tried to sort through wet stuff.  Talk about demoralizing!  Some of the shelving units were wet, and the stuff on those units was valuable --- Fuzz's collection of football cards had been on the top shelf, directly under the sprinkler head that broke, on the other side of the wall from me.  The thick cardboard box, two feet by three feet big, was wet to the touch.  We opened the box ... and out of the thusands of cards in there, only thirty were wet!

Sunday morning I couldn't stand it any longer, and neither could Fuzz ... we went to Circuit City and bought me an HP portable, the same computer I'm using now to post this blog entry.  I was dying not being able to get my hands on a system of my own for nearly thirty-six hours.  This machine is an HP with an AMD Turion chip and the wide screen.  I'm loving it ... my old portable was on the metal shelf, and was standing in a half-inch of water for several hours before I realized what had happened to the shelf.

Sunday, we came back to the apartment and worked a few hours.  Monday through Wednesday, I kept coming in here so I could watch the apartment while the carpet guy, the drywall/painter guys, and the apartment maintenance supervisor; Fuzz went to work.  I got nothing done, and managed to piss off a client thereby. 

The apartment complex ever so generously offered a rent concession of $200 --- after I asked for it --- which does not represent one week of the rent.  Half of the concession was eaten up by the increase in the electric bill because of the four industrial fans and one dehumidifier that were running in here 24/7 from Friday night to Thursday morning.

The carpet guy came in Thursday and replaced the carpet pad and tacked the carpet back down.  It was supposed to happen on Wednesday, but the carpet wasn't dry enough, and neither was the wall.  The drywall/painter guys came in Wednesday, cut out the bottom of the wall in the library, and let it dry until Thursday.

We weren't able to move back into the apartment for a week; we got back in here the Saturday before Christmas.  And even now, weeks later, the apartment is still a mess --- bags everywhere, even in the unused tub in the second bathroom.  Even now, I'll pick up a bag and find a wet and moldy mess inside.



We're still in the process of making claims against our renter's insurance.  We haven't gotten any money yet ... we're waiting.  Fuzz thinks the insurance company is gonna stiff us ... I'm more hopeful.

On a hopeful note: Fuzz got a call from the insurance company asking when we planned to submit a furniture claim.  Maybe they're just waiting for us to submit the big-ticket items before they cut us a check.

I can hope ...!

With Obama As President, Will Black People Fully Invest In America?

Was watching ESPN, and heard Tony Dungy, the coach of the Indianapolis Colts, said he was thinking of walking away from his multi-million dollar job and working with young men who needed guidance.

Now, Tony Dungy is a philanthropic sort of guy, and he has other, personal reasons to walk away from Indy.  But I've never heard him talk that specifically before.

I've been hearing and reading other black folks who intend to plug in and get more active in the next years.

Obama's presence on the ticket persuaded people who had never voted before to go and exercise their civic duty.  That includes Tyler Perry.

A new renaissance of racial cooperation --- black people and white people both throwing their full weights into the harness to pull this country down the road to Destiny --- is the very embodiment of Dr. King's vision.  Maybe it would take an Obama to pull it off.

Hey, I can dream, too!

My New Year's Resolution ...

.. is to write in my blog every day of 2009. 

Last year, I tried to do the 365 day Blog challenge, and failed.  This year, I will not fail.

Today's mission accomplished.  I'm very, very tired, and am going to bed in the not-too-far-off future.

Happy New Year, to one and all!