The Ultimate Answer to Kings

A group of down-and-out Chicano farmers are struggling to make a living in a patch of New Mexico desert. They raise sheep, they grow beans, they drink to excess, they laugh and screw and murder one another. They and their ancestors have been doing this for 300 years or so, and that’s just sort of the way it is.

Except that’s not the way it’s going to stay, because about 40 years ago somebody passed a law and half the town of Milagro lost all its water rights. Things have been a lot harder since; the only ones left are the ones living on inertia and welfare. Surprise, there’s a land baron who owns pretty much all the land around Milagro, wants their land too, and has no problem getting water and grazing rights. His grandfather started putting the squeeze on the community, he’s still up to it two generations later, and just can’t seem to get rid of the Chicanos.

This next law’s gonna do it, though. A new dam and land conservancy will make property values (and property taxes and user fees) skyrocket. In another ten years the only residents will be the ones cleaning the resorts our villain plans to build.

Except one day Jose Mondragon, who always was kind of a troublemaker, takes it into his head to illegally irrigate his father’s dry old field and plant him some beans…

Between all the sub-plots involving Pacheco’s wayward sow, Herbie Goldfarb the profoundly misplaced VISTA volunteer, the apparently immortal Amatante Cordova whose pistol is bigger than he is, Onofre Martinez’ mysteriously missing arm (the literate one, alas), Pancho Armijo’s insanely oversexed dog Esperanza, Nick Rael’s crazy mother’s habit of pelting his customers with rocks, the gunfight that never happened, the Smoky Bear santo riot, Charley Bloom the cowardly lawyer, and too many more for this poor head to remember, the book sometimes wanders from the plot just a tad. But it’s pretty funny while it’s doing that.

And there’s not a superhero or a lecture in 600 pages, which puts it on my list for pretty darned good freedomista lit.

I think I’m going to name him Bueller.

No, not the puppy. Two mornings running I’m making breakfast or cleaning up after breakfast, look out the kitchen window and see a plump little cottontail working on the grass that grows around my gray-water pool. Just outside the Lair. Just as if there weren’t three big, carnivorous-as-hell dogs hanging around all about me. And he just loiters out there, with not a care in the world. This morning I went outside to dispose of some cans, and he moved out of the way so sluggishly I could have killed him with a rock if I’d wanted to.

Used to be you never, ever saw rabbits near the Lair. No rabbit is ever likely to be a Nobel Laureate in mathematics, but they’re not that dumb. Either this one really is that dumb, or my boys are really, really slowing down.

If all goes according to schedule, the new puppy (puppy name TBD) is due to arrive tomorrow morning or afternoon. If that doesn’t stir things up on the dog front around here, I surely don’t know what would. I like the peace and quiet, but too much of a good thing is just plain bad. I think maybe a few things around here could use a good stir.

Granted that in another six weeks or so if all goes according to plan (and no such thing has gone to plan yet) it’ll all be moot. Soon there’ll be other people here, and other dogs. That will sure as hell stir things up, and I’m coming to the belief that that’ll be good all around. I can’t seem to rouse myself to get much work done anymore, either physical or literary; all I want to do is play with the dogs, read and nap. Even if it’s aggravating as hell at first, the dogs aren’t the only ones around here that need to get their somnolent asses in gear.

So bring it on, Bueller. Let’s see how long you last in our sleepy little desert world after we’ve stirred the pot just a little!

One of my favorite things about the spring is the return of the hummingbirds. We’ve got’em all here: Ruby-throated, Rufous, … oh, who am I kidding? I’m no gorram ornithologist, I just know they’re pretty, they’re dumb as rocks, they’re basically bees with feathers, they entertain me, and they’re pretty. Haven’t seen one around the place yet, but S&L had their feeder up and running last weekend and already had a couple of customers so this morning I decided it was time to get my own going.

Now, you can buy hummingbird nectar, of course, and some folks do. But it’s simple as pie to make your own; all you need is to dissolve some sugar in four times as much water, let it cool, and you’re in. Hummingbirds are drawn to bright color; the first time I bought a feeder I got dive-bombed before I’d even put any nectar in the damned thing. Store-bought nectar has red food coloring in it, and you can do that if you want to. But if the feeder is already bright red that’s good enough; they’ll come. Funny thing; the expensive ones you buy at garden and birding stores and the like are really pretty, with lots of cool filigree and such, but they come in subtle, muted colors and don’t attract birds terribly well. There’s nothing subtle about a hummingbird; all he cares about is bright red or yellow. The cheap dollar-store feeders work best but the crappy plastic doesn’t do UV very well and they come apart in a season or two. If you get an expensive one, use the food coloring.

The trouble with hummingbird nectar, as I learned my very first spring here, is that it’s also the very perfect ant bait. It’s just sugar water, but sugar water is an ant’s idea of heaven. Leave a drop anywhere and they’ll come for miles to drown in it, drown happy. If you offered an ant a delirious, sweaty, sex-filled afternoon with whatever ants use for Milla Jovovich, if only he’d leave your hummingbird feeder alone for that one afternoon, he’d sigh unhappily and turn you down flat. Then he’d stalk purposefully off and drown in hummingbird nectar. Happily.

So when you’re making your nectar and filling the feeder with it, it is vitally important to be very, very neat. Don’t splash that shit around, or you’ll be up to your armpits in the industrious little bastards. After you fill the bottle but before you carry it out to the pole, you wanna wash the outside in warm water, get all that spilled sugar off the outside. Even then you’ll need to clean rafts of dead ants – all of whom died stoned – out of the thing when you go to re-fill it, but at least you can keep the mess to a necessary minimum.

The hummingbirds come here for some sweaty sex of their own, and when they get going the males put on a helluva show. They park their lady loves on a juniper branch, then demonstrate their ardor and skill by flying straight up till you can barely see them, turning around and power-diving toward her; pulling up at the last second, flying straight up, then turning and doing it again. And again. All the time buzzing and chirping like demented … well, hummingbirds. There’s always some alpha male who tries to keep every other hummingbird except his own mate away from the feeder, and I’ve spent hours laughing at the greedy little SOB as he works himself into a hysterical lather diving at all the other birds, all the time they’re getting more and more worked up while queuing for their turn, until finally he gives up his vain efforts and watches helplessly as a cloud of them descend. Seems like he get less of it than anybody.

Sure do love watching the little critters. Last year I had to get a taller pole, because Butch the tomcat worked out a perfect hummingbird-catching protocol. He’d tried running at the feeder from every possible angle, but they’d just hover till he was sailing through the air and then contemptuously flick away at the last second. But he figured out that if he crouched directly under the feeder they’d forget he was there: Then when one was in a perfect position he could spring straight up and he’d snag it every other time or so. Sometimes he lost it on the way down, before he could get his teeth in play, but still all too many very dead hummingbirds were ending up inside the lair. Butch wouldn’t do useful things like catch rats – that was beneath him – but he loved him some hummingbirds. So I got a taller pole, which he considered a terribly dirty trick on my part, and the problem went away. This spring, of course, Butch himself went away so I guess that’s the last of that.

Kinda wish I missed him more than I do, I must admit.

My friend J has his mother and her friend visiting, and he invited me to join them at the range for some loud fun. He brought his Bushy M4 and a new Charles Daly pump 12-gauge, along with a nearly-new wonder-nine that (if I remember correctly) is on semi-permanent loan from H’s mother. J apparently hasn’t spent much time with shotguns; he was very interested to see what a slug will do to a 2X4. Well, J, it blows a hole through it that you can wiggle your finger in, that’s what it does. He’s got a couple of little 38 Special snubbies that he and H carry around their hacienda, and he was starting the ladies out on those for some reason. They were getting a bit discouraged with an inability to hit anything, so I suggested maybe the nine would be a better starter-upper. It’s a S&W, didn’t catch the model, but it’s as heavy as my 1911 and only shoots these little nine millimeter thingies so maybe they won’t flinch so badly and between that and the longer sight radius…yeah, they started hitting the target with that.

Practice has been an issue for me for several months, what with the price of ammo and my extremely limited cash income. Sure I’ve got stored ammo, but that stuff doesn’t breed no matter how tightly you pack it so every time I empty a magazine it feels like I’m donating an organ, y’know? But it must be done; must be done.

BTW…a bit of gory strange on the Click/rodent front this morning. Does anybody know if there’s any significance to a feline practice of leaving two mouse ears on your sitting bench? Nothing else – just the ears. I have to admit that weirded me out just a tiny bit. Maybe it’s … I don’t know, like a prize of some sort?

I do appreciate you folks’ answering my query concerning content. It’s encouraging. TUAK ain’t going anywhere. I’ve also got a line on a new donated camera, so hopefully we’ll be in full-color again soon. Otherwise coming up with $100+ dollars would probably have taken months. Thanks, Unnamed Benefactor!

I was up and down last night with an upset stomach brought on by too much actual food. So this morning’s normal rising time came and went without too much notice taken by me. Magnus and Fritz didn’t mind this very much; Ghost was getting a bit testy about it.

At maybe eight in the morning, a time when I’ve normally been up for three or four hours and usually out of the lair for at least one, Click came in through her little door and started tossing something about. The noise and movement was unusual, so I looked up from my book (Day of the Jackal, Frederick Forsyth) to find Click bouncing a dead – or nearly dead – field mouse off the furniture. I wasn’t the only one paying attention. Magnus looked up from where he had barely stirred all morning – bladder like a cistern, that boy – and roused himself just as Click gave a mightier-than-was-good-for-her toss and momentarily lost the mouse up on my sitting bench. Magnus knew just what that was all about, and apparently decided little Click could use some help retrieving her toy. He surged off the couch, padded to the bench, reached over, and … crunch.

She just looked disgusted and went back outdoors. Later in the morning I found TWO mice drowned in the dogs’ water bucket. One isn’t real unusual, but I never saw two in the same night. The body count rises, heh heh.

BTW, there’s a puppy update! Our new little friend is coming to live with us later this very week, probably Friday. I sent the pet carrier to the city with my weekender neighbors, S&L, and they’ll be bringing him here. It’s the all-black Akita/Shepherd/Doberman(?) mix. Unfortunately no pictures available at present. It was down to two, and the owners decided that, we having traded some emails, the pretty brown & black one was too shy for our purposes. Probably wise; I fear too shy more than too rambunctious. Though my other neighbors D&L recently got a puppy from hell that’s got me re-thinking the wisdom of the whole enterprise. Geez, that little guy has a tightly-wound spring. I hate that. But here we go anyway…

Yeah, excess indulgence in free food is not a good idea. I’m gonna go find a blackboard so I can make myself write that 100 times.

A typical breakfast for me is a pot of oatmeal, or maybe an egg sandwich. Because I eat what I store, my diet is generally very basic and rather bland. It’s what I’ve grown used to. Because I rarely bestir myself to hunt, I’m basically a vegetarian; not by inclination, just by circumstance. Which is why rich food can hit me like a thermonuclear gut bomb.

It happened that I was just cleaning up after some oatmeal this morning when I got a call from my weekender neighbors, S&L. “Had breakfast yet?” The honest answer was yes, but…well, hey. Free food. I was planning to take the boys for a walk up their way anyhow, so let’s go! Yum. French toast, sausage, spicy potatoes, watermelon salad. Gooood stuff.

And that would have been fine, except that I had also been invited to a neighborhood barbeque later in the day. Just got a ride back from that, because I didn’t feel up to walking yet. Steak, bratwurst, potato salad, beer…you get the idea.

“Hey, Joel?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, hey, this is your large colon, dude. Just wanted to give you a heads-up. Is there a bathroom, like, very close?”

“Uh…yeah, there’s one right over there.”

“Okay, my advice would be to run in that direction. Now.”

Sigh. Sure tasted good, though.

Now, I don’t indulge in the sacred herb, myself. In fact as far as I know I don’t know anyone who does. Got nothing against it, ain’t no prude, just never was much exposed to it. My poison was always bourbon.

But I was blogcrawling after Snacky Time and found this on Bill St. Clair’s site. This is just some kinda funny, right here. Was this really on the TV show? I never watched it, so I don’t know.

…Life is skittles and life is beer
I think the lovliest time of the year is the Spring
I do. Don’t you? ‘Course you do.

And Spring means sweating like a pig during the morning Walky, and then waiting for the wind to pick up and blow us all to Kansas. But there I go bitching about weather again.

Got an early start this morning; I meant to water the trees yesterday but forgot, so decided to get it done while I was thinking about it. Lately for some reason my new coffee-maker seems to kill the electrical power just when the brew is finishing up, so while I was re-booting I started the generator and plugged in the well pump. Cistern’s only about half full anyway. Turned on the flow to the meadow hose and let the basin around the apricot tree fill. When I went down to change trees I helped the boys chase a skinny white cow away. The trees are starting to leaf now, and that draws the frigging cows like flies to shit. Nice tender buds.

I’ve recently lost the washing machine to my greedy, avaricious landlady who moved to a place where she could use it. She decided she wanted her own property back; can you believe the nerve? Fortunately my friend I has access to a truck with a lift gate, plus it freed up a hose. I got a new spray nozzle last weekend, and extended the hose to the Lair. The stovetop had gotten so disgusting by the end of the winter that I couldn’t get it clean without flooding the kitchen, so I took it off, propped it on some sawhorses and gave it a good scrub. Now while I was thinking about it I propped open the Jeep’s hood; the coolant has run low again and I can use the hose and the last of the stored coolant to fill it. Also want to blast out the black-water tank before coiling the hose again and setting up the garden sprinkler.

I started a bunch of herb seeds in these little plastic greenhouse thingies from Home Despot, and I’m hoping my landlady will agree to let me clear out some of the strawberry vines that spread like kudzu but never produced any berries. She should be visiting in a week and a half, and I’ll ask her then. If not I’ll see if I can’t amend the soil near the Lair’s gray-water pool and plant them there – assuming they sprout at all, of course. Ol’ black-thumb Joel.

Time for walkies. We’ve been staying away from the roads lately, getting over the winter “let’s just take a quick walk” habit. Climbed the neighboring ridge, crossed it till we got to the cliff-face, then paralleled it for a while till we came to the fence that bisects the ridge. There’s an easy way down there, and a big meadow between the cliff and the wash. Follow the fence to the wash, do a u-turn, and follow the fence back to the cliff. The junipers are high enough and close enough there that there’s lots of shade. I’m doing all right, but the dogs are looking for a chance to cool down a bit. They dig in under the branches and I wait ten or fifteen minutes till their respiration rate falls. It’s true, what I was reading in a book recently: Whole-body sweat is a much better strategy for dumping excess heat than panting is. This is why humans rule the earth and dogs don’t. That and thumbs: dogs will never abandon us while we hold the can-opener monopoly. Up the cliff, which hugging the fence is still an easy climb, over the ridge, down and into our wash, and away home. The boys queue up at the water bucket, and now the big fellas are hiding in the cool of the workshop next to the scriptorium and settling down to their morning snooze.

It always seems to take a good bit of time while it’s going on, but when I get home and look at a clock the total elapsed time is almost always less than an hour; sometimes far less. I’m such a wimp: When we go on a good multi-hour hike my stump is so sore at the end that I’m good for nothing for the rest of the day. That, as much as my natural indolence, is what keeps me from being a serious hiker here in this place that cries to be seriously hiked.

Whew. Now it’s time to start feeling guilty for not being at the build site, pouring concrete. I really, really must get to that, but damn. My back just healed from buying the stuff and getting it here. I’m too old for this shit, but it must be done.

…God-Empress of the Desert Realms. Behold her beauty and despair, ye mortals! Behold her mighty jaws and fear – for the finish of your bathtub.

Click was coming out of her shell for a couple of months before Butch took the Long Trip. She was catching mice and rats again, spending afternoon time down off the loft, and generally getting back to what passes for normal around here.

But other things have changed besides Butch, of course. God-Emperor Kwai Chang Cain set off, condescending to rule heaven (in a truly bizarre event – remind me to tell you about it sometime) and Click’s sister Point (Yes, Point and Click – bite me) disappeared during their six-week sojourn in town last summer. We’ve had a veritable epidemic among the cats until only Click remains. All of this – except for the business about Butch, whom she despised with righteous passion – sent Click into an emotional tailspin that lasted for several months.

But as I said she had been coming around in the past couple of months. Then Butch disappeared, and all was well with her universe. She is now THE cat, she is THAT cat. She has ascended the Topaz Throne, and wants her subjects to know it.

The dogs, as I’ve mentioned, were literally raised by a cat. They love and differdefer to all cats, even Butch, even though Butch hated them all. Okay, toward the end they didn’t exactly differdefer to Butch – they often stopped him from pushing Click around but that’s my point. They would not allow harm to come to their cats when they could help it. Now Click is the only cat. You can imagine how she behaves around the dogs. They are her dogs; her loyal, devoted subjects.

She has also become extremely active at night, and by active I mean viciously predatory. She sleeps all day, becomes active in the evening, disappears after dark and by the time I wake at first light she’s snoozing comfortably in my bed or in the loft. I must then go see (and clean up) what carnage she has wrought – it’s gotten to be a normal morning routine. She and Point used to catch rats daily; they’d behead them and bring the otherwise unmolested bodies into my neighbors’ lair. But Click doesn’t settle for death; she must also have destruction. And dinner. So I don’t pick up rodent bodies, I scoop up heads and tails and entrails and I mop up pools of blood: There’s very little left.

Most commonly, she has the courtesy to confine her slaughter to the bathtub. I don’t know her reasoning for this, but I do appreciate it. The goop goes into a paper towel, and I can just wash body fluids down the drain. Not always, though. When I rise in the morning it’s dark, and I hop about the lair one-legged. I’ve had to learn to do this more carefully: Yesterday morning I managed to hop right into a soggy mass of innards right in front of the toilet, which the day before had been decently contained within a large rat. Can’t say I appreciated that very much.

Nevertheless, I’m happy she’s back. She’s happy, the dogs seem very happy to have her back, and I guess that’s what counts.

When I started blogging here back in the first part of December, I had in mind to post my day-by-day impressions of the ‘gulching life’. There were two problems with this; first, while I’m currently the only one here I’m not the only one involved, and everybody’s very privacy-oriented. They were amused and supportive of my little blog, but also concerned about security. I am too and have tried to keep it always in mind, but there have been posts that I modified or removed after emails flew. There are things going on that you haven’t read about here, and that you won’t. Not mine to share.

Second, most of my day-to-day activity is simply boring to read about. Today I took a walk with the dogs. I finished laying pipe to the barn’s salvaged water heater, then learned that the frigging inlet pipe not only faces the wrong way but is apparently cemented into place with JB Weld, forcing me to do bizarre things with the pipe routing and consequently run out of pipe 99% of the way from the finish line. We’ve finally had three warm days in a row. Jesus, I’m putting myself to sleep.

The fact that, to my surpriseshock, in its brief existence my little blog has actually developed a loyal readership is kind of a problem in that regard. I started this as much as a way to get through the winter as anything else, and never expected much of a readership. We’re not exactly in Lew Rockwell territory, but still quite a few people come here every day. I feel obligated to post every day regardless of whether anything interestingly gulch-related actually occurred. Also, my camera died. So if it seems to you that I’ve been leaning pretty heavily on news links and other blogs for content, well, I have. This was not my original intent, because you probably already know how to read the news. My take on various news items can be a bit…skewed, and I do try to keep it entertaining. But still, there are lots and lots of link blogs out there. You don’t need this one.

So I’m asking those of you who do read here regularly for input. Is the way this has been going of value to you? Do you really care what-all Magnus is up to today? More boring gulch items? Less? Have I been wasting your time? Please respond.

Linky:

Thomas Patrick Destories, a 68-year-old Phoenix man, was booked into Maricopa County jail on suspicion of first-degree murder after he made “incriminating statements,” Phoenix police spokesman Sgt. Andy Hill said.

Doug Georgianni, 51, was shot Sunday night as he operated a photo radar van on a Phoenix freeway and later died at a hospital.

Hill said investigators believe Destories pulled up behind the van and then slowly pulled alongside it and fired a gun multiple times, hitting Georgianni in the driver’s seat. Investigators don’t believe Destories knew Georgianni.
…
Authorities said they found Destories less than 24 hours after the killing because a Department of Public Safety officer recognized the suspect vehicle, a Chevrolet Suburban, in video footage taken by the photo radar camera.
…
“While we don’t know at this time what the motives were for this senseless killing, many have understandably speculated that it was due to anger against the speed cameras,” [Rep. Sam Crump of Anthem] said. “To the extent there is any truth to that, I call on all individuals to reduce the war of words on this topic. Whatever the motives for this crime were, there is absolutely no justification for such a heinous act.”

I quite agree. It’s senseless. I mean, c’mon. He used his own vehicle? And spoke to the cops after he was arrested? Show a little sense, people!

Guess who Our Divinely Anointed Maximum Leader (ODAML) just tapped as head of the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration. Go ahead; guess. Hint: It ain’t L. Neil Smith.

The Detroit auto crowd is, of course, intimately familiar with Mr. Hurley’s MADD antics and have grown to just love him. If, by love, we mean really really despise:

His nomination on Tuesday sent shudders down the spines of everyone who considers motoring a special part of the joy of being American. If his prior record is any indication, we can expect more in the way of arbitrary interference with the way the car companies do business at a moment when they can least afford the burden of bureaucratic meddling.

And drivers can expect a ratcheting up of the low-grade harassment they already endure on a daily basis — in the form of more obnoxious regulations, pullover “safety” checks and very possibly lowered speed limits, ala Claybrook’s 55-mph national limit on federal interstates.

All of this will be imposed on states in the time-honored Washington way: Those that fail to comply will lose vitally needed highway funds.

As the head gauleiter of MADD since March 2005, Hurley led the group — already considered one of the most unreasonable and totalitarian-minded “special interests” in all of D.C. to even new vistas of reactionary Puritanism.

That’s okay, of course: The Obama adminstration already owns the auto industry, so who gives a shit what Detroit thinks? Right?

And ditto about the opinion of every driver in the country. No ticky no washy, America. We’ve got your “highway funds.” Sit, doggy. Roll over. Now beg!

One thing happened during my daughter’s visit that I’d forgotten about until this morning, when I happened to walk down to the short range.

Daughter and AtH wanted to do some shooting while they were here, and brought fun targets with them. Some cute bunny-face paper plates, and a bunch of dollar-store cans of shaving cream. That last one had honestly never occurred to me. Do you know what happens when you shoot a shaving cream can with a rifle? Well…it makes a mess. It makes a big, instantaneous mess. Very entertaining. And the good news – I’m happy to say, since I didn’t know how long the mess was going to last – it does eventually go away on its own, so all you have to clean up is the cans. Though if you have to pick up the cans right away, you’ve got some really, really gooey clean-up in store.

Wish my camera still worked. It’s impressive.

Ghost has two aggressive modes. When he goes down to the meadow and barks, I don’t pay it much mind; he’s very possessive of his territory (a virtue in a watchdog) and sometimes feels the need to express his ownership to the neighboring critters. There may or may not be a specific reason for this; if the coyotes start singing, he’s certain to put on a show but sometimes he does it for no discernible cause.

But then sometimes he shoots himself like an arrow, without making a sound other than the drumming of paws. This means he’s going into battle, and that as a proper nanny I’d damned well better gun up and find out what he’s getting himself into.

Often it’s just cattle. Cattle used to be a problem, because he’d lead the whole pack into battle against the invading hordes and somebody could get hurt. If the cattle didn’t do it, the rancher damned well might if he happened to see or hear it. They may by law and will by inclination shoot cattle-chasing dogs. While in my heart I don’t really blame them for this, it is imperative that they don’t take it into their heads to shoot MY dogs. So when I see bad stuff going down, I really need to get my elderly ass down off the ridge and head off trouble.

This morning I happened to be in a position to see the whole thing go down. We were headed from the barn to the Interim Lair. Ghost saw a couple of cattle in the little triangle of meadow across the road, maybe 300 yards away. He went into Instant Hyperdrive. I swore in irritation, looked again harder, and then started running as best I could. There were three cattle down there, and one was a calf. Momma cows act completely different when there’s a calf involved.

Sure enough, instead of heading off or ignoring the whole brouhaha, as they usually do, a big black cow turned and started heading right at Ghost. Okay, that one’s the mother. Now: Will Ghost have sense enough to realize how much he just bit off? Alternately, can I get within pistol range before he becomes a moist spot on the meadow? Dammit, why didn’t I grab my rifle? This is why I keep it handy.

As it turned out, Ghost had no intention of either giving in to the (now very motivated) cow or getting stomped into a tortilla by her. He was in heaven, dodging and dancing around her while she worked herself into a slobbering, stamping mass of pissed-off beef. If she’d had two brain cells and a synapse hidden somewhere in that thick skull she might have figured out that Ghost wasn’t paying any attention to her baby at all; he was just having fun getting a rise out of her. That wouldn’t stop him from becoming an ex-dog if she got her way, but by that time I and the two BIG dogs were obviously approaching. That was enough opposition to get through to her: She and the second cow bumped the terrified calf and headed for the wash. Ghost ignored my shouts enough to follow, though he didn’t chase. He’d had his fun, and finally came at my call and we went for a walk in the other direction.

Little shithead.

Some call this “Patriots Day” – I’ve never quite figured out what a patriot is, but I’m pretty sure I’m not one. Nevertheless 4/19 is just about the only date I tend not to miss, just because historically things do seem to happen on this date:

1529 – At the Second Diet of Speyer, a group of rulers and independent cities protests the reinstatement of the Edict of Worms, beginning the Protestant movement.

1775 – The Battle of Lexington and Concord begins the American Revolutionary War.

1861 – Baltimore riot of 1861, a pro-Secession mob attacks United States Army troops marching through the city.

1933 – President Franklin D. Roosevelt announces the abandonment of the gold standard.

1943 – The Warsaw Ghetto Uprising begins.

1961 – End of the Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba. (Oops)

1993 – Eighty-one people are slaughtered by fire, gas and gunfire by forces of the Federal Government at the end of the siege of the Branch Davidian building outside Waco, Texas.

1995 – The Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, USA, is bombed, killing 168.

And lots of other stuff. Happy Interesting Times Day!

Yeah, funny mood this afternoon.

I’ve been out wandering
In foggy country
Out where strange things exist
The edge of magic
The edge of science
Meet and merge in the mist

And I’ve come back with a book full of songs
A handful of tactics for righting old wrongs
And all you can say is I’ve been gone too long
You don’t know me at all

I’ve been out wandering
In hidden country
Out where your rejects reside
Where dreams are solid
Where words are fire
Out where the free thinkers hide

And all you tell me is you don’t care
You can’t put a meter on sunlight or air
You’ve got no use for the new world out there
You don’t know us at all

Guess I’ll go back there
With all I’ll get here
All that will help us go on
That country’s growing
With every outcast
You’ll never notice we’re gone

And when you’ve won all those games that you play
You just might see there’s no one left to pay
We’ll have the whole world that you threw away, and
We won’t know you at all

– Leslie Fish

I understand that you enjoy chasing trucks. I really do. I don’t like it, it worries me, I wish you’d stop, but I do understand.

But, dude. Biting the tires – that’s just dumb.

It’s longer than I usually post here, and it’s not at all frivolous. Watch it anyway, then spread it around.

H/T to David Codrea

UPDATE: The article linked in the post immediately below has been expanded and revised. It now contains even more and better lies. The paragraph mentioning military bases is no longer present.

In other news, George Orwell sues the Washington Post for theft of Intellectual Property. Can I call it, or what? 😉